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EDITED   BY 
HORACE  E.  SCUDDER 


MRS.  BROWNING 

BY  HARRIET  WATERS   PRESTON 


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COPYRIGHT,    1900,    BY    HOUGHTON,    MIFFLIN    AND  COs 
ALL   RIGHTS    RESERVED 


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EDITOR'S   NOTE 

The  text  followed  in  this  edition  is  that  of  the  latest  comprehensive  English 
edition,  and  as  Mrs.  Browning  sought  to  give  more  than  ordinary  weight  to  cer- 
tain words  and  phrases,  her  italicizing  and  capitalization  have  been  followed.  A 
few  of  her  early  and  merely  experimental  essays  in  versification  have  been  omitted 
from  the  Appendix,  but  it  has  been  thought  advisable  to  reprint  there  certain  prose 
studies  which  disclose,  quite  as  surely  as  the  poetry  written  at  the  same  time,  the 
intellectual  tastes  of  the  writer,  and  give  an  interesting  illustration  of  the  develop- 
ment of  her  mind.  , 

In  accordance  with  the  general  plan  of  the  Cambridge  editions,  the  headnotes  to 
poems  and  groups  of  poems  are  restricted  for  the  most  part  to  biographical  and 
bibliographical  detail,  but  in  the  Notes  and  Illustrations  in  the  Aj)pendix,  the 
editor  of  the  volume  has  taken  the  opportunity  to  make  some  survey  of  those  char- 
acteristics of  Mrs.  Browning's  poetry  and  those  qualities  of  her  mind  which  espe- 
cially distinguish  her.  For  this  she  has  had  recourse  in  some  particulars  to  the 
recently  published  Letters.  Her  own  notes  are  marked  by  brackets.  The  expli- 
catory notes  of  passages  are  mainly  those  contributed  by  Mrs.  Browning  herself  to 
the  successive  volumes  of  her  published  work. 

M.  Icj.  S. 


TABLE   OF   CONTENTS 


PAGE 

BIOGRAPHICAL  SKETCH    .       .       .    xi 
THE  SERAPHIM,  AND  OTHER  POEMS. 

The  Seraphim. 
Part  the  First           ....      1 
Part  the  Second    ....         5 
Epilogue 13 

The  Poet's  Vow. 
Part  the  First,  showing  where- 
fore THE  Vow  WAS  IVIADE  .  .  14 

Part  the  Second,  showing  to  whom 

THE  Vow   WAS  DECLARED  .  .      15 

Part  the  Third,  showing  how  the 
Vow  was  kept      ....        17 

Part  the  Fourth,  showing  how 
Rosalind  fared  by  the  keeping 
OP  the  Vow 18 

Part  the  Fifth,  showing  how  the 

Vow  WAS   BROKEN  ...  19 

The  Romaunt  of  IVIargret         .        .    20 

Isobel's  Child 23 

A  Romance  of  the  Ganges        .        .    29 

An  Island 32 

The  Deserted  Garden  .  .  .34 
The  Soul's  Travelling    ...       35 

Sounds 38 

Night  and  the  Merry  Man  .  .  39 
Earth  and  her  Praisers  .  .  .40 
The   Virgin   Mary    to    the    Child 

Jesus 43 

To  Bettine 45 

Felicia  Hei\l\ns 46 

Memory  and  Hope        .       .       .        .47 

The  Sleep 48 

Man  and  Nature 48 

A  Sea-Side  Walk        ....        49 

The  Sea-Mew 49 

The  Little  Friend    ....        50 

My  Doves 51 

To  Mary  Russell  Mitford     .       .       52 

The  Student 52 

The  Exile's  Return  ...  53 
A  Song  against  Singing      .        .       .53 

Stanzas 54 

The  Young  Queen        .        .       .        .54 


PAGE 

Victoria's  Tears       ....  55 

Vanities 56 

Bereavement 56 

Consolation 56 

A  Supplication  for  Love,  Hymn  I.  57 

The  Mediator,  Hymn  II.         .        .  57 

The  Weeping  Saviour,  Hymn  III.    .  58 

The  Measure,  Hymn  IV.         .        .  58 

Cowper's  Grave 58 

The  Weakest  Thing         ...  60 

The  Pet-Name 60 

'  Since  without  Thee  we  do  no  good  '  61 

Queen  Annelida  and  False  Arcite  61 
The  Complaint  of  Annelida  to  False 

Arcite 65 

POEMS  OF  1844. 
A  Drajvia  of  Exile. 
Scene  —  The  Outer  Side   of  the 

Gate  of  Eden      ....       67 
Scene  —  The   Extremity   of    the 

Sword-glare 72 

Scene  —  A  Wild  Open  Country  .       79 
Sonnets. 
The  Soul's  Expression     .        .       .98 
The  Seraph  and  Poet  ...        98 
On  a  Portrait  of  Wordsworth  by 

B.  R.  Haydon 98 

Past  and  Future  ....  98 
Irreparableness        ....    99 

Tears 99 

Grief 99 

Substitution 99 

Comfort 99 

Perplexed  Music    ....      100 

Work 100 

Futurity 100 

The  Two  Sayings      .        .       .       .100 

The  Look 101 

The  Meaning  of  the  Look     .       .  101 
A  Thought  for  a  Lonely  Death- 
Bed 101 

Work  and  Contemplation  .  .  101 
Pain  in  Pleasure  ....  101 
An  Apprehension  ....  102 
Discontent 102 


VIU 


CONTENTS 


Patience  taught  by  Nature      .      102 
Cheerfulness  taught  by  Reason  .  102 

Exaggeration 103 

Adequacy 103 

To  George  Sand  — A  Desire       .      103 
To  George  Sand  —  A  Recognition    103 

The  Prisoner 103 

Insufficiency 104 

The  Romaunt  of  the  Page  .  .  104 
The  Lay  of  the  Brown  Rosary. 

First  Part 108 

Second  Part 110 

Third  Part 113 

Fourth  Part 115 

The  Mourning  Mother       .        .        .  116 

A  Valediction 117 

Lady  Geraldine's  Courtship     .        .  118 

Conclusion 126 

A  Vision  of  the  Poets        .        .        .  127 

Conclusion 138 

Rhyme  of  the  Duchess  May      .        .  140 

The  Rhyme 141 

Conclusion 148 

The  Lady's  '  Yes  '  .  .  .  .149 
The  Poet  and  the  Bird  .  .  .  149 
The  Lost  Bower       ....      149 

A  Child  Asleep 155 

The  Cry  of  the  Children  .  .  156 
Crowned  and  Wedded  .  .  .  158 
Crowned  and  Buried  .  .  .  160 
To  Flush,  My  Dog  .  .  .  .163 
The  Fourfold  Aspect  .  .  .  164 
A  Flower  in  a  Letter  .  .  .  166 
The  Cry  of  the  Human  .  .  .  167 
A  Lay  of  the  Early  Rose  .  .  169 
Bertha  in  the  Lane         .        .        .      171 

That  Day 174 

Loved  Once 174 

A  Rhapsody  of  Life's  Progress  .  175 
L.  E.  L.'s  Last  Question  .  .  178 
The  House  of  Clouds  ....  179 
Catarina  to  Camoens       .        .       .      181 

A  Portrait 182 

Sleeping  and  Watching  .        .        .      183 

Wine  of  Cyprus 184 

The  Romance  of  the  Swan's  Nest  186 
Lessons  from  the  Gorse  .  .  187 
The  Dead  Pan 188 

POEMS  OF  1850. 

The  Runaway  Slave  at   Pilgrim's 

Point 192 

Hector  in  the  Garden        .        .  .  195 

Sonnets. 

Flush  or  Faunus    ....  196 

Finite  and  Infinite  .        .        .  197 

Two  Sketches          ....  197 


Mountaineer  and  Poet    .        .        .  197 

The  Poet 198 

Hiram  Powers'  '  Greek  Slave  '     .  198 

Life 198 

Love 198 

Heaven  and  Earth        .        .        .      199 

The  Prospect 199 

Hugh  Stuart  Boyd. 
His  Blindness       ....      199 

His  Death 199 

Legacies        ......      200 

Confessions 200 

A  Sabbath  Morning  at  Sea    .        .      201 

The  Mask 202 

Calls  on  the  Heart  .  .  .  203 
Wisdom  Unapplied  ....  204 
Human  Life's  Mystery  .  .  .  205 
A  Child's  Thought  of  God        .       .  206 

The  Claim 206 

A  Dead  Rose 207 

A  Woman's  Shortcomings  .  .  207 
A  Man's  Requirements  .  .  .  208 
A  Year's  Spinning  ....  209 
Change  upon  Change   ....  209 

A  Reed 209 

A  Child's  Grave  at  Florence  .        .  210 

Life  and  Love 211 

A  Denial 212 

Proof  and  Disproof  ....  212 
Question  and  Answer         .        .        .  213 

Inclusions 213 

Insufficiency 214 

SONNETS  FROM  THE  PORTUGUESE  214 

CASA  GUIDl  WINDOWS. 

Part  1 224 

Part  II 242 

AURORA  LEIGH. 
Dedication  to  John  Kenyon  .        .      254 

First  Book 254 

Second  Book 270 

Third  Book 288 

Fourth  Book 306 

Fifth  Book 324 

Sixth  Book 342 

Seventh  Book 360 

Eighth  Book 379 

Ninth  Book 396 

POEMS  BEFORE  CONGRESS. 
Napoleon  III.  in  Italy    .  .      410 

The  Dance 415 

A  Tale  of  Villafranca  .        .        .      416 

A  Court  Lady 417 

An  August  Voice       ....      419 

Christmas  Gifts 420 

Italy  and  the  World      .       .        .      421 


CONTENTS 


IX 


A  Curse  for  a  Nation. 

Prologue 423 

The  Curse    , 423 

LAST  POEjMS. 

Little  Mattie 425 

A  False  Step 426 

Void  in  Law 426 

Lord  Walter's  Wife  ....  427 
blanca  among  the  nightingales  .      428 

My  Kate 430 

A  Song  for  the  Ragged  Schools  of 

London 431 

May's  Love 432 

Amy's  Cruelty 433 

My  Heart  and  I 433 

The  Best  Thing  in  the  World     .      434 

Where  's  Agnes  ? 434 

De  Profundis 436 

A  Musical  Instrument        .        .        .  437 
First  News  from  Villafranca      .      438 
King  Victor  Emanuel  entering  Flo- 
rence, April,  1860  ....      439 
The  Sword  of  Castruccio    Castra- 

CANI 440 

Summing  up  in  Italy         .        .        .      440 

'Died  .  .  .' 441 

The  Forced  Recruit         .        .        .      442 

Garibaldi 442 

Only  a  Curl 443 

A  View  across  the  Roman  Campagna  444 
The  King's  Gift         ....      445 

Parting  Lovers 445 

Mother  and  Poet  ....  446 
Nature's  Remorses  ....  448 
The  North  and  the  South     .        .      450 

TRANSLATIONS. 
Prometheus  Bound      ....  450 
A   Lament   for   Adonis,   from   the 

Greek  of  Bion        ....      468 
Song  of   the   Rose,  attributed   to 

Sappho 470 

From  Theocritus. 

The  Cyclops 471 

From  Apuleius. 

Psyche  gazing  on  Cupid  .        .        .  472 


Psyche  wafted  by  Zephyrus  .  473 
Psyche  and  Pan  ....  473 
Psyche  propitiating  Ceres  .  474 
Psyche  and  the  Eagle  .  .  .  475 
Psyche  and  Cerberus  .  .  .  475 
Psyche  and  Proserpine  .  .  .  475 
Psyche  and  Venus  .  .  .  476 
Mercury  carries  Psyche  to  Olym- 
pus       476 

Marriage  of  Psyche  and  Cupid  .      476 

From  Nonnus. 
How  Bacchus  finds  Ariadne  sleep- 
ing        476 

How  Bacchus  comforts  Ariadne      477 

From  Hesiod. 
Bacchus  and  Ariadne  .        .        .      478 

From  Euripides. 
Aurora  and  Tithonus       .        .        .  479 

From  Homer. 
Hector  and  Andromache     .        .      479 
The  Daughters  of  Pandarus         .  481 
Another  Version   ....      481 

From  Anacreon. 
Ode  to  the  Swallow        .       .        .  481 

From  Heine, 
The  Last  Translation         .       .      482 

APPENDIX. 

I.  Juvenilia. 

The  Battle  of  Marathon. 

Book  1 485 

Book  II 488 

Book  III 492 

Book  IV 496 

An  Essay  on  Mind. 
Analysis  of  the  First  Book    .  499 

Book  1 499 

Analysis  of  the  Second  Book  .  505 
Book  II 506 

II.  Some    Account    of    the    Greek 

Christian  Poets  ....  513 

HI.  Notes  and  Illustrations  .        .      532 


INDEX  OF  FIRST  LINES 
INDEX  OF  TITLES     .       . 


.  543 

546 


BIOGRAPHICAL   SKETCH 

'Elizabeth  Barrett  Moulton  Barrett,  daughter  and  first  child  of  Edward 
Barrett  Moulton  Barrett,  of  Coxhoe  Hall,  native  of  St.  James's  Jamaica,  by  Mary,  late 
Clarke,  native  of  Newcastle-upon-Tyne,  was  borne  March  6th  1806,  and  baptized  10th 
of  February  1808.' 

Such  is  the  entry  in  the  register  of  the  parish  church  of  Kelloe,  a  small  village  in  the 
county  of  Durham,  England,  about  five  miles  south  of  the  Cathedral  town  of  the  same 
name.  The  event  thus  recorded  took  place  at  the  seat  of  the  child's  paternal  uncle, 
Samuel  Barrett  Moulton,  M.  P.,  and  her  unusual  wealth  of  cognomina  was  due  to  the  fact 
that  her  father,  Edward  Barrett  Moulton,  assumed  again  his  mother's  maiden  name  of 
Barrett,  on  inheriting  from  her  father  a  large  estate  in  Jamaica,  where  the  families  of 
both  his  parents  had  been  established  for  two  or  three  generations.  It  was,  however,  as 
plain  Elizabeth  Barrett  that  the  most  remarkably  gifted  woman  of  the  Victorian  era  who 
came  *  before  the  swallow  dares '  upon  the  bleak  Scottish  border  in  the  first  decade  of 
her  century  was  destined  to  become  known  to  the  world. 

The  child  herself  had  no  early  recollections  of  the  north,  for  while  she  was  still  an 
infant,  her  father  purchased  the  beautiful  estate  of  Hope  End  in  Herefordshire,  among 
the  Malvern  Hills,  and  continued  to  reside  there  until  Elizabeth  was  past  twenty.  She 
was  the  eldest  of  eleven  children,  three  girls  and  eight  boys,  who  came  in  rapid  succes- 
sion, and  one,  at  least,  of  her  brothers,  Mr.  Charles  Moulton  Barrett,  about  four  years 
younger  than  herself,  is  yet  living  in  Jamaica. 

It  does  not  appear  that  any  other  member  of  this  numerous  family  showed  marked 
literary  aptitude  or  distinguished  talent  of  any  kind.  The  father  had  the  sort  of  early 
training  and  associations  which  are  implied  in  his  having  been,  for  a  little  while,  at 
Harrow  School,  —  which  he  left  for  the  very  un-English  reason  of  not  liking  to  be 
flogged,  as  fag,  for  burning  his  elder's  toast,  —  and  for  a  short  time  also  at  Cambridge, 
where,  however,  he  took  no  degree,  having  left  the  University  to  be  married  while  still 
an  undergraduate. 

Mr.  Moulton  Barrett  was  proud  of  the  precocious  talent  which  he  soon  detected  in  his 
eldest  child,  and  '  did  his  best,'  as  she  herself  confessed,  '  to  spoil '  her,  by  printing,  at 
his  own  expense,  fifty  copies  of  her  epic,  in  four  books,  on  the  Battle  of  Marathon,  which 
was  completed  at  the  ripe  age  of  thirteen!  This  complacent  father  was,  by  all  accoimts, 
a  peculiarly  despotic  ruler  of  his  own  household,  but  his  clever  child  was  dutifully  and 
even  devotedly  fond  of  him,  and  remained  the  most  submissive  of  his  subjects  up  to  the 
memorable  moment  when  the  strong  will  which  she  had  inherited  from  himself  clashed 
once  for  all  with  his,  and  she  revolted  successfully  from  what  seems  to-day  a  simply 
incredible  stretch  of  his  paternal  power. 

There  is  no  ground  for  regarding  Elizabeth  Barrett's  poetic  genius  as  an  inheritance 
either  from  this  formidable  father,  or  from  the  meek  and  shadowy  mother,  who  died 
soon  after  giving  birth  to  her  eighth  son;  and  in  trying  to  trace  the  genesis  of  her  signal 
endowment,  we  find  ourselves  driven  back  upon  fanciful  speculations  concerning  the 
large  general  influx  of  '  intellectual  day,'  which  appears  to  have  visited  our  planet  in 


xii  ELIZABETH    BARRETT    BROWNING 

the  first  years  of  the  century  now  ending.  More  persons  predestined  to  great  eminence 
in  their  various  lines  were  born  between  1800  and  1810  than  in  all  the  next  six  or  seven 
decades. 

Miss  Barrett  was  almost  entirely  self-educated.  Naturally  she  did  not  go  to  school, 
because  girls  of  her  condition  never  did  go  to  school  at  the  era  of  her  early  maidenhood; 
and  naturally,  too,  we  hear  nothing  about  her  governesses.  What,  indeed,  could  the 
regulation  governess  of  1815,  who  for  twenty  pounds  a  year  taught  her  pupils  to  work 
samplers  and  make  curtseys,  beside  Miss  Austen's  delightful  curriculum  of  '  the  metals, 
semi-metals,  planets,  and  distinguished  philosophers,'  have  done  with  a  child  who  says 
of  herself,  at  that  period :  '  I  wrote  verses,  as  I  dare  say  many  have  done  who  never 
wrote  poems,  very  early,  —  at  eight  years  old  and  earlier.  .  .  .  The  Greeks  were  my 
demigods,  and  haunted  me  out  of  Pope's  Homer,  until  I  dreamed  more  of  Agamemnon 
than  of  Moses,  the  black  pony.'  And  further  on,  in  the  same  rdsumd  of  early  recol- 
lections, furnished  to  Mr.  Richard  Home  when  he  was  compiling  '  A  New  Spirit  of  the 
Age: '  'The  love  of  Pope's  Homer  threw  me  into  Pope  on  the  one  side,  and  into  Greek, 
on  the  other,  and  into  Latin  as  a  help  to  Greek;  and  the  influence  of  all  these  tendencies 
is  manifest  so  long  after  as  in  my  Essay  on  Mind,  a  didactic  poem  written  when  I  was 
seventeen  or  eighteen,  and  early  repented  of,  as  worthy  of  all  repentance.'  The  ambi- 
tious maiden  learned  the  elements  of  Greek  from  her  brother  Edward's  tutor,  Mr.  Mac- 
Swiney,  and  she  kept  up  that  language  to  excellent  purpose  by  readings  with  the  blind 
scholar,  Hugh  Stuart  Boyd,  then  living  at  Malvern,  not  far  from  Hope  End.  Latin  she 
understood  much  less  thoroughly  than  Greek;  and  how  she  acquired  the  modern  Euro- 
pean tongues,  most  of  which  she  could  soon  read  with  fluency,  she  probably  knew  no  better 
than  the  rest  of  us  remember  how  we  learned  to  read  our  own.  The  history  of  Elizabeth 
Barrett's  mental  development  during  the  first  twenty  years  of  her  life  may  be  summed 
up  in  a  very  few  words,  —  Astonishing  avidity  and  aptitude  for  learning,  omnivorous 
reading,  and  no  regular  training  whatsoever. 

For  fifteen  of  these  years  she  was  an  active  child,  roaming,  riding,  and  dreaming  at 
her  own  sweet  will  over  the  fair  acres  of  a  large  estate  in  a  singularly  noble  country. 
But  at  that  critical  age  she  got  an  injury  to  the  spine,  through  attempting,  in  her  impa- 
tience for  a  gallop,  to  saddle  her  pony  unaided;  and  the  long  ensuing  confinement  to  her 
couch  developed  the  seeds  of  that  organic  malady  which  kept  her  a  prisoner  for  twenty 
years  more,  and  an  invalid  always,  until  she  died  at  fifty-five. 

Her  love  of  nature  and  her  love  of  books  had  hitherto  kept  healthful  pace  with  one 
another.  Now  books  became  her  world,  and  she  also  began,  systematically,  and  with  a 
quaintly  conscientious  assiduity,  to  practice  verse-making.  '  Poetry '  —  to  quote  once 
more  from  her  ovfn Recollections  —  *■  became  a  distinct  object  with  me;  an  object  to  read, 
think  and  live  for.'  Her  compositions  remained,  for  what  seems  an  unusually  long  time, 
purely  imitative,  —  as  conventional,  almost,  as  arpeggios  and  five-finger  exercises  to  the 
student  of  the  piano.  The  Essay  on  Mind,  already  mentioned,  in  two  books  comprising 
six  hundred  and  thirty  heroic  couplets,  was  merely,  as  she  herself  was  not  slow  to  per- 
ceive, a  presumptuous  girl's  quavering  echo  of  Pope's  Essay  on  Man.  In  1826,  when 
Elizabeth  was  twenty,  Mr.  Monlton  Barrett  found,  in  Paternoster  Row,  a  publisher  who 
was  willing  to  bring  out  this  curious  production  on  condition  of  the  fond  father's  defray- 
ing something  more  than  half  the  expense.  But  neither  in  the  essay  itself,  nor  in  the  four- 
teen '  occasional '  pieces  that  were  printed  along  with  it,  was  there  any  very  clearly  marked 
originality  either  of  thought  or  expression.  Seven  years  later,  in  1833,  the  patient  scholar 
made  another  diffident  appeal  to  the  public,  with  her  frigid  and  otherwise  faulty  first 


BIOGRAPHICAL   SKETCH  xiii 

translation  of  the  Prometheus  of  ^scbylus,  and  another  score  or  so  of  lesser  pieces,  all  of 
them,  excepting  one  short  and  simple  devotional  hymn,  still  singularly  colorless  and 
tame.  It  was  in  the  interval  between  this  timid  venture  and  the  appearance,  in  1838,  of 
The  Seraphim  and  Other  Poems  that  Elizabeth  Barrett  found  her  true  voice,  in  stanzas  like 
the  following  from  '  The  Poet's  Vow,'  where  thought  and  expression  are  at  last  fused 
in  a  form  as  integral  and  inevitable  as  that  of  a  native  crystal :  — 

Hear  me  forswear  man's  sympathies, 

His  pleasant  yea  and  no, 
His  riot  on  the  piteous  earth 

Whereon  his  thistles  grow  ; — 
His  changfing  love  —  with  stars  above  ; 

His  pride  —  with  graves  below  ! 

The  author  of  these  condensed  lines  had  long  cherished  a  trembling  hope  that  she  was 
a  poet  by  the  grace  of  God.  She  was  henceforth  established  as  such  by  the  verdict  of 
man. 

Her  very  best  work  was  yet  to  be  done,  but  the  broad  scope  of  her  talent  had  been 
fully  manifested,  as  well  as  her  genuine  distinction  of  mind,  fertility  of  invention,  and 
rare  moral  fibre.  A  true  child  of  the  romantic  period,  she  was,  from  first  to  last,  an 
intrepid  idealist.  Hers  was,  above  all  things,  a  religious  nature,  and  she  had  already 
passed  through  a  deep  spiritual  experience.  All  her  life  long,  she  continued  to  confess 
the  tenets  and  even  to  employ  the  phraseology  of  the  rather  strict  school  of  evangelical 
piety  in  which  she  had  been  born  and  bred,  to  dislike  ritual  and  all  artificial  aids  to  the 
conscience,  and  implicitly  to  believe  in  the  direct  message  of  God  to  every  human  soul. 
She  became  a  prophet  and  a  guide  to  her  generation  in  her  poetry,  as  Charles  Dickens 
was  in  his  prose  romances,  through  her  intense  and  unaffected  humanitarianism,  and  her 
fiery  advocacy  of  the  cause  of  all  earth's  poor  and  neglected.  Her  poetical  ear  was  far 
from  perfect,  and  when  once  she  had  outgrown  her  imitative  period,  she  indulged  in 
experiments  and  freaks  of  versification  which  might  never  have  been  attempted  if  her 
early  studies  had  been  less  purely  voluntary,  and  if  she  had  enjoyed  the  advantage,  during 
her  growing  years,  of  the  society  of  living  purists.  But  as  an  offset  to  this  defect  in  her 
organization,  she  had  one  supreme  gift  —  one  which  has  never  been  bestowed  on  any  other 
woman  in  anything  like  the  same  degree  :  she  had  what  the  French  call  la  longue  haleine, 
the  power  of  indefinitely  sustained  creation,  accompanied  by  only  too  great  an  affluence  of 
illustrative  imagery. 

We  have  also,  happily,  the  private  letters  of  Miss  Barrett  written  to  familiar  friends  at 
this  period  —  long,  discursive,  unstudied  letters  which  testify  unconsciously  to  the  per- 
fect sweetness  of  her  womanly  character,  the  warmth  of  her  filial  and  sisterly  affection, 
her  modesty  concerning  her  own  powers,  and  ever  generous  appreciation  of  those  of  others, 
her  cheerful  constancy  in  suffering,  and  the  high  courage  with  which  she  faced  what 
appeared,  for  long,  to  be  an  all  but  certain  fatality.  Word  and  deed  were  remarkably 
consistent  in  her  case.     She  had,  in  the  fullest  sense  of  the  phrase,  a  beautiful  soul. 

In  1832  Mr.  Moulton  Barrett  had  been  forced  by  the  pressure  of  pecuniary  embarras- 
ments,  consequent  on  the  abolition  of  slavery  in  the  British  colonies,  to  sell  Hope  End 
and  remove  his  family,  first  to  Sidmouth  in  Devonshire,  and  subsequently  to  Wimpole 
Street  in  London.  The  climate  of  the  metropolis  was  as  bad  as  possible  for  the  pulmo- 
nary trouble  from  which  Miss  Barrett  suffered;  and  any  benefit  that  might  have  been 
derived  from  a  temporary  removal  to  Torquay  in  1835,  was  worse  than  nullified  by  the 
effects  of  a  terrible  shock  which  the  invalid  received  in  that  place.     Her  favorite  brother 


xiv  ELIZABETH   BARRETT   BROWNING 

Edward,  the  one  nearest  to  herself  in  age,  was  drowned  while  boating,  almost  within 
sight  of  her  window,  and  it  seemed,  for  a  time,  as  though  she  could  not  long  survive 
him.  But  her  brave  spirit  rose,  in  the  end,  above  even  this  cruel  bereavement;  and 
though  closely  confined  to  her  chamber  after  her  sad  return  to  London,  and  often  for 
many  days  together  to  her  bed,  her  mind  seemed  more  active  and  lucid  than  ever  and 
more  productive.  She  became  a  frequent  contributor  to  Blackicoodh  Magazine  and  the 
Athenaeum  newspaper,  as  well  as  to  various  periodicals  which  no  longer  exist:  and  living 
in  the  great  centre  of  English  thought,  even  with  all  the  disadvantages  of  her  fragile 
health,  she  ended  by  making  the  personal  acquaintance  of  certain  men  and  women  of 
light  and  leading:  of  Miss  Mitford  and  Mrs.  Jameson;  of  the  poet  Wordsworth,  who  was 
then  Laureate;  of  Richard  Home  and  Henry  Chorley,  and  her  own  accomplished  and 
even  generous  relative  John  Kenyon;  and  finally,  of  the  great  poet  and  valiant  knight, 
who  was  to  rescue  his  delicate  princess  from  her  long  captivity,  and  add  his  already 
famous  name  to  her  own. 

In  1844  appeared  the  two  volumes  of  Poems  which  have  formed  the  basis  of  all  the 
later  editions  of  Mrs.  Browning's  miscellaneous  works.  They  were  dedicated,  in  an 
eloquent  preface,  to  her  father,  who  had  been,  as  she  said, '  both  public  and  critic  '  to  her 
immature  attempts;  and  beginning  with  the  'Drama  of  Exile,'  they  included,  beside 
most  of  the  pieces  which  had  appeared  in  the  small  volume  of  1838,  several  more 
of  those  by  which  she  will  be  best  and  longest  remembered,  such  as  '  The  Dead  Pan,' 
*  The  Vision  of  Poets,' '  Cowper's  Grave,'  and  that  wildly  romantic  ballad  of  contem- 
porary manners,  '  Lady  Geraldine's  Courtship,'  which  brought  Robert  Browning  to  her 
feet. 

It  was  John  Kenyon,  a  kinsman,  as  has  been  said,  of  the  Barrett  family,  and  also  the 
son  of  a  schoolmate  of  Robert  Browning's  father,  who  encouraged  the  brilliant  young 
author  of  *  Paracelsus,'  '  Sordello,'  '  Pippa  Passes,'  the  'Cavalier  Lyrics,'  and  'A  Blot 
in  the  'Scutcheon,'  to  write  to  the  invalid  lady  (six  years  his  senior),  and  tell  her  how 
much  he  had  admired  'Lady  Geraldine's  Courtship,'  and  other  pieces  in  the  Poems  of 
18J^^.  Nothing  could  have  been  more  unworldly  and  unconventional  than  the  opening, 
upon  either  side,  of  this  famous  correspondence  which,  after  having  been  kept  in  a  small 
cabinet  by  itself  for  fifty  years,  and  treasured  as  a  most  precious  and  sacred  family  posses- 
sion, was  given  to  the  world  in  1899.  '  I  love  your  verses  with  all  my  heart,  dear  Miss 
Barrett,'  .  .  .  wrote  Robert  Browning  in  his  first  letter,  .  .  .  '  the  fresh,  strange  music, 
the  affluent  language,  the  exquisite  pathos,  and  true,  new,  brave  thought;  but  in  thus  ad- 
dressing myself  to  you,  your  own  self  and  for  the  first  time,  my  feeling  rises  altogether. 
I  do,  as  I  say,  love  these  books  with  all  my  heart,  and  I  love  you  too.' 

This  letter  is  dated  January  10,  1845,  and  on  the  next  day  Miss  Barrett  replied:  — 

'  I  thank  you,  dear  Mr.  Browning,  from  the  bottom  of  my  heart.  You  meant  to  give 
me  pleasure  by  your  letter,  and  even  if  the  object  had  not  been  answered  I  ought  still  to 
thank  you.  But  it  is  thoroughly  answered.  Such  a  letter  from  such  a  hand  !  Sympa- 
thy is  dear,  very  dear  to  me;  but  the  sympathy  of  a  poet,  and  of  such  a  poet,  is  the  quint- 
essence of  sympathy  to  me.'  From  this  time  until  their  marriage,  a  year  and  a  half 
later,  the  two  poets  wrote  to  each  other  almost  daily;  becoming  constantly  more  enam- 
ored, as  they  discovered  ever  deeper  and  deeper  sources  of  intellectual  and  spiritual  sym- 
pathy. There  was  naturally  more  of  mutual  admiration  in  the  letters  thus  exchanged 
than  of  mutual  criticism;  but  the  admiration  is  of  a  peculiarly  ingenuous  and  noble  kind, 
and  there  are  some  very  interesting  discussions,  notably  one,  by  the  two  Greek  enthusi- 
asts, of  the  symbolism  of  the  Prometheus,  apropos  of  Miss  Barrett's  first  translation; 


BIOGRAPHICAL   SKETCH  xv 

beside  many  a  luminous  comment  made,  in  passing,  on  the  early  efforts,  especially  of 
Robert  Browning.  The  lady,  on  the  other  hand,  whose  experience  had  hitherto  been 
so  painfully  restricted,  gained  greatly  in  her  knowledge  of  real  life  and  living  men,  by 
daily  association  with  one  of  the  most  distinguished  analysts  of  human  character  and 
motive  that  the  world  has  ever  seen.  On  May  21,  1845,  he  visited  her  for  the  first  time, 
and,  not  long  after,  made  his  first  formal  offer  of  marriage,  which  was  decisively  though 
sorrowfully  refused.  But  these  two  could  no  longer  live  apart;  and  Miss  Barrett's  health 
improved  so  rapidly  during  the  summer  of  1845,  under  the  tonic  of  her  new  happiness, 
that  when  her  lover's  proposal  was  repeated  for  the  third  time,  near  the  end  of  January, 
1846,  she  yielded  a  conditional  assent. 

*  Let  it  be  this  way,  ever  dearest,'  she  wrote.  *  If,  in  the  time  of  fine  weather,  I  am  not 
ill,  iheriy  not  now,  you  shall  decide,  and  your  decision  shall  be  duty  and  desire  to  me  both. 
I  will  make  no  difficulties.' 

The  '  difficulties,'  as  the  event  proved,  were  to  be  made  by  the  lady's  autocratic 
father,  who,  when  asked  to  sanction  his  daughter's  engagement,  instantly  and  peremp- 
torily refused.  The  abundantly  ripe  respective  ages  of  the  suppliants  for  his  blessing  — 
forty  and  thirty-four  —  give  this  action  of  Mr.  Moulton  Barrett's  a  sufficiently  absurd 
air;  but  it  would  be  more  respectable,  or,  at  least,  more  comprehensible,  could  we  sup- 
pose the  sole  motive  of  his  opposition  to  have  been  his  daughter's  condition  of  seemingly 
hopeless  invalidism.  When,  however,  we  find  him  a  few  years  later  prohibiting,  with 
equal  sternness,  the  marriage  of  his  younger  daughter  Henrietta,  whose  health  was  admir- 
able, with  Captain  Surtees  Cook,  we  are  forced  to  seek  in  some  morbid  idiosyncrasy  of 
the  father's  own  the  motive  for  his  extraordinary  conduct.  In  the  latter,  as  in  the 
former  and  more  famous  case,  the  betrothed  pair  were  driven  to  the  undignified  expedi- 
ent of  private  marriage  and  clandestine  evasion. 

Although  both  Robert  Browning  and  Elizabeth  Barrett  had  been  born  and  educated 
nonconformists,  they  were  united  by  the  English  marriage  service,  in  the  parish  church  of 
Saint  Marylebone,  London.  Ever  after  they  had  resolved  to  dispense  with  Mr.  Moulton 
Barrett's  consent,  the  lady  had  been  trying  her  slender  strength  by  short  walks  about  the 
northern  squares,  —  Cavendish,  Manchester,  Portman,  —  in  the  neighborhood  of  her  home. 
She  went  accompanied  by  her  faithful  maid  Wilson,  and  her  equally  faithful  dog  Flush, 
the  gift  of  Miss  Mitford,  and  the  subject  of  a  well-known  poem.  On  the  memorable  day 
of  the  marriage,  she  went  out,  ostensibly  for  her  constitutional,  and  returned  as  usual, 
passed  one  week  more  under  her  father's  roof,  then  left  it  with  the  same  escort  as  before, 
was  joined  by  Robert  Browning  at  the  railway  station,  and  the  wedded  pair  left  quietly 
for  France  that  night,  by  the  Southampton  packet.  Change  of  climate  confirmed  the 
late  improvement  in  the  health  of  the  bride,  and  she  who  had  stood  face  to  face  with 
death  so  long,  had  fifteen  more  years  granted  her,  of  a  comparatively  active  and  varied, 
and  always  busy  life. 

Those  years  were  passed,  for  the  most  part,  in  Italy,  in  the  permanent  home  which 
the  married  pair  presently  made  for  themselves  at  Casa  Guidi  on  the  Piazza  Pitti,  then 
the  Piazza  del  Gran  Duca  in  Florence.  Their  apartment  was  on  the  piano  nobile  of  the 
palace  —  the  floor  which  had  formerly  been  occupied  by  the  proprietor.  It  was  fur- 
nished largely  out  of  the  antiquity-shops  of  Florence;  a  far  happier  hunting-ground 
then  than  now,  when  the  remotest  nooks  of  Tuscany  have  been  thoroughly  explored  for 
*  roba  vecch\^  — and  the  general  aspect  of  the  Browning  interior  became,  in  the  course  of 
a  few  years,  exceedingly  curious  and  picturesque.     On  the  outer  wall  of  Casa  Guidi  may 


xvi  ELIZABETH    BARRETT   BROWNING 

be  seen  to-day  the  memorial  tablet  which  the  affectionate  Italians  asked  the  privilege 
of  inserting  there  after  Mrs.  Browning's  death.     It  bears  the  following  inscription :  ^  — 

qui  scbisse  e  mori 

Elizabbtta  Barrett  Browning 

che  in  cuore  di  donna  concilia va 

scienza  di  dotto  e  sperito  di  poeta 

e  fece  del  suo  verso  aureo  anello 

ERA  Italia  e  Inghilterra 

PONE  QDESTA  LAPIDE 
FiRENZE  GRATA 

1861 

During  the  dubious  period  of  her  courtship  and  betrothal,  Miss  Barrett  had  written 
and  inscribed  to  her  lover  those  sonnets  entitled  '  From  the  Portuguese,'  which  would 
have  given  her  a  place  among  the  first  of  England's  minstrels,  if  she  had  never  written 
anything  else.  In  the  years  immediately  succeeding  her  marriage,  her  dawning  sym- 
pathy with  the  cause  of  Italian  independence,  which  later  she  was  to  embrace  with  so 
consuming  a  passion,  found  voice  in  the  two-part  poem  entitled  Casa  Guidi  WindowSy 
published  in  England  in  1851.  The  only  child  of  Robert  and  Elizabeth  Barrett  Brown- 
ing, Robert  Wiedeman  Barrett  Browning,  was  born  in  Florence  on  the  9th  of  March, 
1849,  and  Mrs.  Browning  immediately  revealed  herself  as  the  most  natural,  tender, 
absorbed,  and  admiring  of  mothers.  A  new  edition  of  her  collected  poems,  which 
appeared  in  1850,  contained  a  complete  re-translation  of  the  Prometheus,  beside  the  beau- 
tiful Portuguese  sonnets,  and  several  others  not  included  in  the  edition  of  1844.  The 
summer  of  1851  was  passed  by  the  Brownings  in  England,  and  the  winter  of  1851-52  in 
Paris.  They  were  thus  present  in  the  French  capital  at  the  time  of  Louis  Napoleon's 
coup  d'etat,  and,  incredible  as  it  seems  at  this  distance  of  time,  and  inconsistent  with  the 
wonted  tenor  of  her  opinions  and  sympathies,  Mrs.  Browning  at  least  warmly  applauded 
that  act  of  high-handed  usurpation.  The  Emperor  Napoleon  III.,  for  such  in  the  course 
of  a  few  months  he  became,  was  always  a  hero  to  the  enthusiastic  Englishwoman,  and  to 
him  she  came  confidently  to  look,  in  later  days,  as  the  only  possible  savior  of  her  beloved 
Italy.  The  winter  of  1855-56  was  again  passed  in  Paris;  and  in  London,  during  the  fol- 
lowing autumn,  Mrs.  Browning  finished,  in  the  house  of  her  cousin  and  friend,  John 
Kenyon,  and  dedicated  to  him  only  a  few  weeks  before  his  death,  her  most  considerable 
work,  Aurora  Leigh,  a  modern  society  novel  in  blank  verse,  with  a  distinctly  social- 
istic purpose. 

But  the  strength  stored  up  in  the  more  genial  climate  of  Italy  always  ebbed  with 
alarming  rapidity  during  Mrs.  Browning's  visits  to  England,  and  these  were  yet  fur- 
ther embittered  to  her  loving  heart  by  the  stubborn  hostility  of  her  father,  who  could 
never  be  induced  to  forgive  the  disobedient  marriage,  and  actually  left  his  daughter's 
name  out  of  his  last  will  and  testament,  when  he  died,  in  1859. 

During  the  last  five  years  of  her  life  Mrs.  Browning  did  not  leave  Italy.  The  time 
was  passed  between  Florence  and  Rome,  with  long  summer  sojourns  in  the  fine  old  hill- 
city  of  Siena.  She  was  all  this  while  becoming  more  deeply  absorbed  in  the  gallant 
struggle  of  the  Italian  nation  for  independence,  which  had  entered  a  new  phase  in  1855, 
when  the  participation  of  Piedmont  in  the  Crimean  war  was  resolved  and  effected;  and 

1  Here  wrote  and  died  Elizabeth  Barrett  Browning,  who  united  to  a  woman's  heart  the  learning  of  a  eavant 
and  the  inspiration  of  a  poet,  and  made  her  verse  a  golden  link  between  Italy  and  England.  This  tablet  was  set 
by  grateful  Florence  in  1861. 

The  author  of  the  inscription  was  the  poet  Tommaseo. 


BIOGRAPHICAL   SKETCH  xvii 

she,  in  common  with  almost  all  good  Italian  patriots,  built  high  hopes  on  the  alliance 
with  France,  and  on  Louis  Napoleon's  intervention  when  hostilities  were  declared  against 
Austria  by  Victor  Emanuel  in  1859.  The  heart-sickening  disappointment  of  these  hopes, 
just  as  victory  and  emancipation  seemed  in  sight,  by  the  summary  conclusion  of  the 
Peace  of  Villafranca,  found  sharp,  not  to  say  fierce  and  distempered  utterance  in  the 
Poems  before  Congress,  which  appeared  in  the  spring  of  1860,  and  were  the  last  of  Mrs. 
Browning's  works  to  be  published  in  her  lifetime. 

There  is  another  subject  also  on  which  it  will  seem  to  many  that  the  originally  fine 
judgment  of  Mrs.  Browning  was  strangely  clouded  in  her  latter  days,  and  the  balance  of 
her  faculties  disturbed.  She  became  engrossingly  interested  in  the  so-called  '  spiritual 
manifestations '  which  were  rife  between  1850  and  1860,  and  was  very  credulous  con- 
cerning them.  Her  strong  native  bias  toward  mysticism,  which  is  very  apparent  in  the 
more  deeply  religious  of  her  early  poems,  had  found  but  slight  support  in  the  form  of 
Protestant  faith  which  she  inherited  and  accepted;  and  the  idea  of  free  and  authorized 
intercourse  between  living  beings  and  departed  souls  laid  strong  hold  of  her  imagination, 
and  was  welcomed  as  promising  to  fill  a  great  void  in  her  spiritual  life.  She  was  making 
few  new  acquaintances  at  this  period,  but  a  stranger  who  came  recommended  as  a  'pow- 
erful medium,'  could  rely  upon  a  welcome,  and  the  most  palpable  charlatanry  in  the  way 
of  spiritual  communications  and  manifestations  could  win  her  grave  attention  and  com- 
pletely mystify  her  subtle  mind.  Robert  Browning  was  far  from  sharing  his  wife's 
views  upon  this  matter,  but  he  revered  her  too  deeply  to  differ  from  her  before  the 
world,  and  it  may  safely  be  said  that  neither  this  nor  any  other  speculative  difference 
ever  did  make  or  could  have  made  a  serious  division  between  them.  From  1859  to  1861, 
moreover,  the  question  of  the  fate  of  Italy  seems  almost  wholly  to  have  displaced  the 
cause  of  the  too  voluble  '  spirits'  in  the  eager  mind  of  the  poetess.  A  score  or  more  of 
short  pieces  written  in  her  last  year,  together  with  a  few  belonging  to  a  much  earlier 
period  which  had  been  withheld  for  private  reasons,  were  collected  by  Robert  Browning 
and  given  to  the  world  under  the  title  of  Last  Poems  during  the  winter  following  his 
wife's  death. 

Although  Mrs.  Browning's  health  had  seemed  so  wonderfully  restored  in  the  early 
part  of  her  wedded  life,  the  organic  trouble  was  always  there,  and  she  was  at  no  time 
strong  enough  to  go  into  general  society.  But  the  married  pair  had  gathered  about  them 
in  their  Florentine  and  Roman  homes  a  small  circle  of  congenial  friends,  mostly  English 
and  Americans,  residing  like  themselves  in  Italy.  The  number  of  our  own  countrymen 
and  women  admitted  into  this  favored  group  seems  large  in  proportion  to  the  whole, 
including  as  it  does  such  names  as  Margaret  Fuller  Ossoli,  Harriet  Beecher  Stowe, 
Harriet  Hosmer,  Kate  Field,  Hiram  Powers,  the  sculptor,  and  his  family  in  Florence; 
William  Story,  the  all-accomplished,  and  his  family  in  Rome.  The  most  intimate  of 
Mrs.  Browning's  English  friends  and  neighbors  in  Florence  was  Miss  Isa  Blagden,  a 
lady  of  fortune  and  distinction,  to  whom  some  of  the  most  interesting  letters  of  both 
poets  are  addressed,  and  who  lived  in  the  Villa  Briochion  i  upon  Bellosguardo,  where  was 
laid  the  highly  wrought  last  scene  of  A  urora  Leigh  ;  and  it  so  happened  that  this  lady 
was  the  only  member  of  their  innermost  circle  who  had  lingered  in  Florence  until  the 
hot  June  of  1861,  when  the  Brownings  returned  from  passing  their  winter  in  Rome. 

1  The  American  lady  to  whom  Miss  Blagden  told  the  story,  to  follow,  of  Mrs.  Browning's  last  night  on  earth, 
assures  me  that  the  villa  on  Bellosguardo,  which  that  lady  rented  and  adorned,  was  habitually  known  in  Florence, 
both  before  and  after  her  occupancy,  as  the  Villa  Bricchieri.  This  seems  a  much  more  probable  name  for  an 
Italian  villa  than  Briochion  ;  but  I  adopt  the  form  used  by  both  ladies  in  their  letters,  and  can  only  suggest  that 
it  may  have  been  some  private  jest  or  little  pedantic  freak  of  theirs  which  led  them  to  give  the  name  a  quasi-Greek 
form. 


xviii  ELIZABETH    BARRETT    BROWNING 

Mrs.  Browning  had  never  completely  rallied  from  the  severe  illness  which  followed  the 
shocks  and  agitations  of  1859  ;  and  now,  both  to  her  husband  and  her  friend,  she  seemed 
so  unnaturally  debilitated,  that  an  attack  of  bronchitis  quite  similar,  apparently,  to  many 
she  had  had  before,  occasioned  them  an  alarm  which  they  could  not  conceal.  With 
her  own  indomitable  spirit,  the  patient  herself  made  light  of  her  case,  and  of  what  she 
called  the  exaggerated  precautions  of  her  two  devoted  nurses;  and  after  a  few  days  of 
acute  suffering,  she  did  indeed  seem  to  have  passed  the  crisis  of  her  disorder,  and  to  be 
doing  well;  so  that  Miss  Blagden,  who  had  been  for  some  days  at  Casa  Guidi,  went 
back,  at  the  earnest  entreaty  of  both  her  friends,  to  her  villa  on  the  hilltop,  for  a  night's 
much  needed  rest.  It  was  to  a  young  American  lady  lately  come  as  a  bride  to  Florence, 
Mrs.  J.  A.  Jackson,  that  she  told,  not  long  after,  the  rather  singular  story  of  her  own 
experience  on  the  night  of  June  29. 

By  the  time  Miss  Blagden  reached  home  every  sensation  of  fatigue  had  vanished;  her 
faculties  were  all  curiously  alert,  and,  unable  even  to  think  of  sleeping,  she  sat  down  at 
her  desk  under  a  pretence  of  writing  letters.  But  the  current  of  her  thoughts  refused  to 
turn.  She  sat  with  pen  suspended,  unconscious  of  the  passage  of  time,  thinking  only  of 
the  solitary  pair  in  the  shadowy  valley  beneath  her  (m  media  umbra  mortis),  cut  off  by 
their  very  greatness  from  the  close  touch  of  common  humanity,  but  so  marvellously 
bound  up  in  one  another,  from  whom  the  dread  stroke  of  uttermost  calamity,  so  often 
threatened,  had  seemingly  been  turned  aside  once  more.  So  the  brief  hours  of  the 
midsummer  night  went  by  until  dawn  began  to  whiten  behind  the  matchless  horizon  of 
Fiesole,  and  the  trees  to  rustle  in  all  the  surrounding  gardens,  when,  stepping  out  upon 
her  balcony  for  a  breath  of  dewy  air,  the  watcher  caught,  far  down  in  the  sleeping 
city,  still  at  that  time  surrounded  by  its  beautiful  old  walls,  the  rattle  of  a  single  pair 
of  wheels  between  high  houses  over  a  stony  pavement. 

With  an  instantaneous  conviction  that  the  cab  was  coming  for  her,  and  that  she  was 
needed  once  more  at  Casa  Guidi,  Miss  Blagden  waited  only  to  hear  the  vehicle  pass  the 
Porta  Romana,  and  begin  the  steep  and  devious  ascent  to  Bellosguardo ;  and  long  before 
it  stopped  at  her  own  gate,  as  she  had  so  surely  known  it  would,  she  was  dressed  to  go 
back,  and  awaiting  it  there.  But  the  message  which  the  cabman  brought  her  was, 
^  La  signora  della  Casa  Guidi  e  morta.' 

H.  W.  P. 


THE   SERAPHIM   AND    OTHER   POEMS 


In  1833,  Miss  Barrett's  first  translation  of 
the  Prometheus  Bound  of  ^schyliis  was  pub- 
lished in  London,  —  along  with  a  score  or  so  of 
miscellaneous  pieces,  but  without  her  name,  — 
by  A.  J.  Valpy,  Red  Lion  Court,  Fleet  Street. 
The  little  volume  fell  dead  from  the  press  — 
receiving'  only  a  few  lines  of  scathing  criticism 
in  the  Athenceum.  The  translator  herself  con- 
fessed a  decade  later  that  her  version  of  the 
great  Greek  drama  had  been  made  in  twelve 
days  and  '  should  have  been  thrown  into  the 
fire  afterward  ;  —  the  only  means  of  giving  it  a 
little  warmth.'  She  did  her  best,  in  fact,  to 
suppress  the  volume,  and  subsequently  executed 
an  entire  new  translation  of  the  Prometheus, 
which  was  included  in  the  edition  of  her 
poems  that  appeared  in  1850,  and  has  ever 
since  kept  its  place  in  the  standard  editions  of 


her  works.  Meanwhile  her  studies  in  ^schy- 
lus  had  suggested  to  the  young  poetess  the 
subject  of  the  Seraphim  —  the  first  original 
work  of  hers  destined  to  obtain  anything  like 
general  recognition.  '  I  thought,'  she  says,  in 
her  own  preface  to  The  Seraphim  and  other 
Poems  (London,  Saunders  J.  Otley,  Conduit 
Street,  1838),  '  that,  had  ^schylus  lived  after 
the  incarnation  and  crucifixion  of  our  Lord 
Jesus  Christ,  he  might  have  turned,  if  not  in 
moral  and  intellectual,  yet  in  poetic  faith,  from 
the  solitudes  of  Caucasus  to  the  deeper  desert- 
ness  of  that  crowded  Jerusalem  where  none  had 
any  pity  ...  to  the  rent  rocks  and  darkened 
sun  ...  to  the  victim  whose  sustaining  thought 
beneath  an  unexampled  agony,  was  not  the 
Titanic,  "  I  can  revenge,"  but  the  celestial  "  I 
can  forgive."  ' 


THE   SERAPHIM 

2(iJ  Se  Opova  nvpoivTi  irapecna<ji.v  Tro\v(J.oxQoi.  "Ayye- 
Aot.  —  Orpheus. 

'  I  look  for  Angels'  songs,  and  hear  Him  cry. ' 

—  Giles  Fletcher. 

PART   THE   FIRST 

\_It  is  the  time  of  the  Crucifixion ;  and  the 
Angels  of  Heaven  have  departed  toivards 
the  Earth,  except  the  two  Seraphim^  Ador 
the  Strong  and  Zerah  the  Bright  One. 

The  place  is  the  outer  side  of  the  shut  Hea- 
venly Gate.l 

Ador.    O  Seraph,  pause  no  more  ! 
Beside  this  gate  of  heaven  we  stand  alone. 
Zerah.    Of  heaven  ! 

Ador.  Our  brother  hosts  are  gone  — 

Zerah.   Are  gone  before. 
Ador.  And  the  golden  harps  the  angels 
bore 
To  help  the  songs  of  their  desire, 
Still  burning  from  their  hands  of  fire, 
Lie  without  touch  or  tone 

Upon  the  glass-sea  shore.  9 


Zerah.    Silent  upon  the  glass-sea  shore  ! 
Ador.     There    the    Shadow    from    the 
throne 
Formless  with  infinity 
Hovers  o'er  the  crystal  sea 

Awfuller  than  light  derived, 
And  red  with  those  primaeval  heats 
Whereby  all  life  has  lived. 
Zerah.    Our   visible  God,   our   heavenly 

seats  ! 
Ador.    Beneath  us  sinks  the  pomp  angel- 
ical, 
Cherub   and   seraph,  powers   and   virtues, 
all, — 
The  roar  of  whose  descent  has  died 
To  a  still  sound,  as  thunder  into  rain. 

Immeasurable  space  spreads  magnified 
With  that  thick  life,  along  the  plane 
The  worlds  slid  out  on.     What  a  fall 
And  eddy  of  wings  innumerous,  crossed 
By  trailing  curls  that  have  not  lost 
The  glitter  of  the  God-smile  shed 
On  every  prostrate  angel's  head  ! 
What  gleaming  up  of  hands  that  fling 

Their  homage  in  retorted  rays, 
From  high  instinct  of  worshipping, 
And  habitude  of  praise  ! 


20 


30 


THE   SERAPHIM   AND    OTHER   POEMS 


Zerah.   Rapidly  they  drop  below  us: 
Pointed  palm  and  wing  and  hair 

Indistinguishable  show  us 
Only  pulses  in  the  air 
Throbbing  with  a  fiery  beat, 
As  if  a  new  creation  heard 
Some  divine  and  plastic  word,  39 

And  trembling  at  its  new-found  being. 
Awakened  at  our  feet. 
Ador.    Zerah,  do  not  wait  for  seeing  ! 
His  voice,  his,  that  thrills  us  so 
As  we  our  harpstrings,  uttered  G'o, 
Behold  the  Holy  in  his  woe  ! 
And  all  are  gone,  save  thee  and  — 
Zerah.  Thee ! 

Ador.    I  stood  the  nearest  to  the  throne 
In  hierarchical  degree, 
What  time  the  Voice  said  Go  ! 
And  whether  I  was  moved  alone        50 
By  the  storm-pathos  of  the  tone 
Which    swept    through   heaven   the   alien 
name  of  woe, 
Or  whether  the  subtle  glory  broke 
Through     my    strong    and    shielding 

wings. 
Bearing  to  my  finite  essence 
Incapacious  of  their  presence. 
Infinite  imaginings 
None  knoweth   save   the   Throned  who 

spoke ; 
But  I  who  at  creation  stood  upright 
And  heard  the  God-breath  move         60 
Shaping   the    words    that   lightened,    '  Be 
there  light,' 
Nor  trembled  but  with  love. 
Now  fell  down  shudderingly, 
My  face  upon  the  pavement  whence  I  had 

towered. 
As  if  in  mine  immortal  overpowered 
By  God's  eternity. 
Zerah.   Let  me  wait !  —  let  me  wait  !  — 
Ador.    Nay,  gaze  not  backward  through 
the  gate  ! 
God  fills  our  heaven  with  God's  own  soli- 
tude 
Till  all  the  pavements  glow: 
His  Godhead  being  no  more  subdued, 
By  itself,  to  glories  low 

Which  seraphs  can  sustain. 
What  if  thou,  in  gazing  so, 
Shouldst  behold  but  only  one 
Attribute,  the  veil  undone  — 
Even  that  to  which  we  dare  to  press 
Nearest,  for  its  gentleness  — 
Ay,  his  love  ! 


70 


How  the  deep  ecstatic  pain  80 

Thy  being's  strength  would  capture  ! 
Without  language  for  the  rapture. 
Without  music  strong  to  come 
And  set  the  adoration  free. 
For  ever,  ever,  wouldst  thou  be 
Amid  the  general  chorus  dumb, 
God-stricken  to  seraphic  agony. 
Or,  brother,  what  if  on  thine  eyes 
In  vision  bare  should  rise 
The     life-fount     whence     his     hand     did 
gather  90 

With  solitary  force 
Our  immortalities  ! 
Straightway  how  thine  own  would  wither, 
Falter  like  a  human  breath. 
And  shrink  into  a  point  like  death, 

By  gazing  on  its  source  !  — 
My  words  have  imaged  dread. 
Meekly  hast  thou  bent  thine  head, 
And  dropt  thy  wings  in  languishment: 
Overclouding  foot  and  face,  100 

As  if  God's  throne  were  eminent 
Before  thee,  in  the  place. 
Yet  not  —  not  so, 

0  loving  spirit  and  meek,  dost  thou  fulfil 

The  supreme  Will. 
Not  for  obeisance  but  obedience. 
Give  motion  to  thy  wings  !     Depart  from 
hence  ! 

The  voice  said  '  Go  ! ' 
Zerah.   Beloved,  I  depart. 
His  will  is  as  a  spirit  within  my  spirit,     no 
A  portion  of  the  being  I  inherit. 
His  will  is  mine  obedience,     I  resemble 
A  flame  all  undefil^d  though  it  tremble; 

1  go  and  tremble.     Love  me,  O  beloved  ! 

O  thou,  who  stronger  art. 
And  standest  ever  near  the  Infinite, 

Pale  with  the  light  of  Light, 
Love  me,  beloved  !  me,  more  newly  made, 

More  feeble,  more  afraid; 
And   let   me   hear  with  mine   thy  pinions 
moved,  120 

As  close  and  gentle  as  the  loving  are. 
That  love  being  near,  heaven  may  not  seem 
so  far. 
Ador.   I  am  near  thee  and  I  love  thee. 
Were  I  loveless,  from  thee  gone. 
Love  is  round,  beneath,  above  thee, 
God,  the  omnipresent  one. 
Spread  the  wing  and  lift  the  brow 
Well-beloved,  what  fearest  thou  ? 
Zerah.   I  fear,  I  fear  — 
Ador.  What  fear  ? 


THE   SERAPHIM 


Zerah.  The  fear  of  earth. 

Ador.     Of   earth,  the   God-created   and 
God-praised  130 

In  the  hour  of  birth  ? 
Where  every  night  the  moon  in  light 
Doth  lead  the  waters  silver-faced  ? 

Where  every  day  the  sun  doth  lay 
A  rapture  to  the  heart  of  all 
The  leafy  and  reeded  pastoral, 
As  if  the  joyous  shout  which  burst 
From  angel  lips  to  see  him  first, 
Had  left  a  silent  echo  in  his  ray  ? 
Zerali.   Of  earth  —  the  God-created  and 
God-curst,  140 

Where  man  is,  and  the  thorn 
Where  sun  and  moon  have  borne 
No  light  to  souls  forlorn: 
Where  Eden's  tree  of  life  no  more  uprears 
Its  spiral  leaves  and  fruitage,  but  instead 
The  yew-tree  bows  its  melancholy  head 
And  all  the  undergrasses  kills  and  seres. 
Ador.   Of  earth  the  weak. 
Made  and  unmade  ? 
Where  men,  that  faint,  do  strive  for  crowns 
that  fade  ?  150 

Where,  having  won  the  profit  which  they 

seek, 
They  lie  beside  the  sceptre  and  the  gold 
With  fleshless  hands  that  cannot  wield  or 

hold, 
And  the    stars    shine   in    their   unwinking 
eyes? 
Zerah.    Of  earth  the  bold. 

Where  the  blind  matter  wrings 
An  awful  potence  out  of  impotence, 
Bowing  the  spiritual  things 
To  the  things  of  sense. 
Where  the  human  will  replies  160 

With  ay  and  no, 
Because  the  human  pulse  is  quick  or  slow. 

Where  Love  succumbs  to  Change, 
With  only  his  own  memories,  for  revenge. 
And  the  fearful  mystery  — 

Ador.  Called  Death  ? 

Zerah.   Nay,  death  is  fearful,  —  but  who 
saith 
*  To  die,'  is  comprehensible. 
What 's  fearf uller,  thou  knowest  well. 
Though  the  utterance  be  not  for  thee. 
Lest  it  blanch  thy  lips  from  glory  —  170 
Ay  !  the  cursed  thing  that  moved 
A  shadow  of  ill,  long  time  ago. 
Across  our  heaven's  own  shining  floor. 
And  when  it  vanished,  some  who  were 
On  thrones  of  holy  empire  there. 


Did  reign  — were  seen  —  were  —  never 
more. 

Come  nearer,  O  beloved  ! 

Ador.   I  am  near  thee.     Didst  thou  bear 
thee 
Ever  to  this  earth  ? 

Zerah.  Before. 

When  thrilling  from  his  hand  along 
Its  lustrous  path  with  spheric  song   181 
The  earth  was  deathless,  sorrowless. 
Unfearing,  then,  pure  feet  might  press 
The    grasses    brightening   with    their 

feet. 
For  God's  own  voice  did  mix  its  sound 
In  a  solemn  confluence  oft 
With  the  rivers'  flowing  round. 
And  the  life-tree's  waving  soft. 
Beautiful  new  earth  and  strange  ! 

Ador.   Hast    thou   seen   it    since  —  the 
change  ?  190 

Zerah.   Nay,  or  wherefore  should  I  fear 
To  look  upon  it  now  ? 
I  have  beheld  the  ruined  things 
Only  in  depicturings 
Of  angels  from  an  earthly  mission,  — 
Strong  one,  even  upon  thy  brow. 
When,  with  task  completed,  given 
Back  to  us  in  that  transition, 
I  have  beheld  thee  silent  stand. 
Abstracted  in  the  seraph  band. 
Without  a  smile  in  heaven. 

Ador.    Then  thou  wast  not  one  of  those 
Whom  the  loving  Father  chose 
In  visionary  pomp  to  sweep 
O'er  Judsea's  grassy  places, 
O'er  the  shepherds  and  the  sheep. 
Though  thou  art  so    tender  ?  —  dim 


200 


miug 


2IO 


All  the  stars  except  one  star 
With  their  brighter  kinder  faces. 
And  using  heaven's  own  tune  in  hymn 

While    deep    response   from    earth's    own 
mountains  ran, 
'  Peace  upon  earth,  goodwill  to  man.' 
Zerah.     'Glory  to  God,'     I    said  amen 
afar. 
And  those  who  from  that  earthly  mission 
are. 
Within  mine  ears  have  told 
That  the  seven  everlasting  Spirits  did  hold 
With  such  a  sweet  and  prodigal  constraint 
The  meaning  yet  the  mystery  of  the  song 
What  time  they  sang  it,  on  their  natures 
strong. 


THE   SERAPHIM   AND   OTHER   POEMS 


That,  gazing  down  on  earth's  dark  stead- 
fastness 220 
And  speaking  the  new  peace  in  promises, 
The  love  and  pity  made  their  voices  faint 
Into  the  low  and  tender  music,  keeping 
The   place  in  heaven  of  what  on  earth  is 
weeping. 
Ador.    '  Peace  upon  earth.'     Come  down 

to  it. 
Zerah.  Ah  me  ! 

I  hear  thereof  uncomprehendingly. 
Peace  where  the  tempest,  where  the  sighing 

is, 
And  worship  of  the  idol,  'stead  of  his  ? 
Ador.   Yea,  peace,  where  He  is. 
Zerah.  He  ! 

Say  it  again. 
Ador.  Where  He  is. 

Zerah.  Can  it  be  230 

That  earth  retains  a  tree 
Whose   leaves,  like    Eden  foliage,  can   be 

swayed 
By  the  breathing  of  his  voice,  nor  shrink 
and  fade  ? 
Ador.   There  is  a  tree  !  —  it  hath  no  leaf 
nor  root; 
Upon  it  hangs  a  curse  for  all  its  fruit: 
Its  shadow  on  his  head  is  laid. 
Por  he,  the  crowned  Son, 
Has  left  his  crown  and  throne. 
Walks  earth  in  Adam's  clay. 
Eve's  snake  to  bruise  and  slay  —      240 
Zerah.    Walks  earth  in  clay  ? 
Ador.    And  walking  in  the  clay  which  he 
created, 
He  through  it  shall  touch  death. 
What    do   I   utter  ?  what   conceive  ?    did 

breath 
Of  demon  howl  it  in  a  blasphemy  ? 
Or  was  it  mine  own  voice,  informed,  dilated 
By  the  seven  confluent  Spirits  ?  —  Speak  — 

answer  me  ! 
Who  said  man's  victim  was  his  deity  ? 
Zerah.    Beloved,  beloved,  the  word  came 
forth  from  thee.  249 

Thine  eyes  are  rolling  a  tempestuous  light 

Above,  below,  around. 
As  putting  thunder-questions  without  cloud, 

Reverberate  without  sound, 
To  universal  nature's  depth  and  height. 
The  tremor  of  an  inexpressive  thought 
Too  self-amazed  to  shape  itself  aloud, 
O'erruns  the  awful  curving  of  thy  lips; 
And   while   thine    hands   are    stretched 
above. 


As  newly  they  had  caught 
Some  lightning  from  the  Throne,  or  showed 
the  Lord  260 

Some  retributive  sword. 
Thy  brows  do  alternate  with  wild  eclipse 
And  radiance,  with  contrasted  wrath  and 
love. 
As  God  had  called  thee  to  a  seraph's  part, 
With  a  man's  quailing  heart. 
Ador.  O  heart  —  O  heart  of  man  ! 
O  ta'en  from  human  clay 
To  be  no  seraph's  but  Jehovah's  own ! 
Made  holy  in  the  taking. 
And  yet  unseparate  270 

From  death's  perpetual  ban. 
And  human  feelings  sad  and  passionate : 
Still   subject    to   the   treacherous   forsak- 
ing 
Of  other  hearts,  and  its  own  steadfast  pain. 
O  heart  of  man  —  of  God  !  which  God  has 

ta'en 
From  out  the  dust,  with  its  humanity 
Mournful  and  weak  yet  innocent  around 

it,    _ 
And  bade  its  many  pulses  beating  lie 
Beside  that  incommunicable  stir 
Of  Deity  wherewith  He  interwound  it.    280 
O  man  !  and  is  thy  nature  so  defiled 
That  all  that  holy  Heart's  devout  law-keep- 
ing, 
And  low  pathetic  beat  in  deserts  wild, 
And  gushiugs  pitiful  of  tender  weeping 
For    traitors    who    consigned   it   to    such 

woe  — 
That  all  could  cleanse   thee    not,  without 

the  flow 
Of    blood,    the     life  -  blood  —  his  —  and 

streaming  so  f 
O    earth    the    thundercleft,    windshaken, 

where 
The   louder   voice   of  *  blood   and   blood ' 

doth  rise. 
Hast  thou  an  altar  for  this  sacrifice  ?       290 

O  heaven  !  O  vacant  throne  ! 
O    crowned    hierarchies    that   wear    your 
crown 

When  his  is  put  away  ! 
Are  ye  unsham^d  that  ye  cannot  dim 
Your  alien  brightness  to  be  liker  him. 
Assume  a  human  passion,  and  down-lay 
Your  sweet  secureness  for  congenial  fears. 
And  teach  your  cloudless  ever-burning  eyes 
The  mystery  of  liis  tears  ? 
Zerah.     I  am  strong,  I  am  strong. 
Were  I  never  to  see  my  heaven  again, 


300 


THE   SERAPHIM 


I  would  wheel  to  earth  like  the  tempest 

rain 
Which  sweeps  there  with  an  exultant  sound 
To  lose  its  life  as  it  reaches  the  ground. 
I  am  strong,  I  am  strong. 
Away  from  mine  inward  vision  swim 
The  shining  seats  of  my  heavenly  birth, 
I  see  but  his,  I  see  but  Him  — 
The  Maker's  steps  on  his  cruel  earth.      309 
"Will  the  bitter  herbs  of  earth  grow  sweet 
To  me,  as  trodden  by  his  feet  ? 
Will  the  vexed,  accurst  humanity, 
As  worn  by  Him,  begin  to  be 
A  blessed,  yea,  a  sacred  thing 
For  love  and  awe  and  ministering  ? 

I  am  strong,  I  am  strong. 
By  our  angel  ken  shall  we  survey 
His  loving  smile  through  his  woeful  clay  ? 

I  am  swift,  I  am  strong, 
The  love  is  bearing  me  along.  320 

Ador.     One  love  is  bearing  us  along. 

PART   THE   SECOND 

Mid-air,  above  Judcea.  Ador  and  Zerah 
are  a  little  apart  from  the  visible  Angelic 
Hosts. 

Ador.     Belovfed  !  dost  thou  see  ?  — 

Zerah.         Thee,  —  thee. 

Thy  burning  eyes  already  are 
Grown  wild  and  mournful  as  a  star 
Whose  occupation  is  for  aye 
To  look  upon  the  place  of  clay 
Whereon  thou  lookest  now. 
The  crown  is  fainting  on  thy  brow 
To  the  likeness  of  a  cloud,  330 

The  forehead's  self  a  little  bowed 
From  its  aspect  high  and  holy. 
As  it  would  in  meekness  meet 
Some  seraphic  melancholy: 
Thy  very  wings  that  latelj'^  flung 
An  outline  clear,  do  flicker  here 
And  wear  to  each  a  shadow  hung. 

Dropped  across  thy  feet. 
In  these  strange  contrasting  glooms 
Stagnant  with  the  scent  of  tombs,    340 
Seraph  faces,  O  my  brother, 
Show  awfully  to  one  another. 

Ador.   Dost  thou  see  ? 

Zerah.  Even  so;  I  see 

Our  empyreal  company, 
Alone  the  memory  of  their  brightness 
Left  in  them,  as  in  thee. 


The  circle  upon  circle,  tier  on  tier, 

Piling  earth's  hemisphere 
With  heavenly  infiniteness, 

Above  us  and  around,  350 

Straining  the  whole  horizon  like  a  bow: 
Their  songful  lips  divorced  from  all  sound, 
A   darkness   gliding    down    their    silvery 

glances,  — 
Bowing  their  steadfast  solemn  countenances 
As  if  they  heard  God  speak,  and  could  not 
glow. 
Ador.   Look  downward  !  dost  thou  see  ? 
Zerah.    And  wouldst    thou    press    thai 
vision  on  my  words  ? 
Doth  not  earth  speak  enough 
Of  change  and  of  undoing. 
Without  a  seraph's  witness  ?    Oceans  rough 
With  tempest,  pastoral  swards  361 

Displaced  by  fiery  deserts,  mountains  ru- 
ing 
The  bolt  fallen  yesterday, 
That  shake  their  piny  heads,  as  who  would 

say 
'  We  are  too  beautiful  for  our  decay '  — 
Shall  seraphs  speak  of  these  things  ?     Let 
alone 
Earth  to  her  earthly  moan  ! 
Voice  of  all  things.   Is  there  no  moan  but 

hers  ? 
Ador.    Hearest  thou  the  attestation 
Of  the  roused  universe  370 

Like  a  desert-lion  shaking 
Dews  of  silence  from  its  mane  ? 
With  an  irrepressive  passion 

Uprising  at  once. 
Rising  up  and  forsaking 
Its  solemn  state  in  the  circle  of  suns. 

To  attest  the  pain 
Of  him  who  stands  (O  patience  sweet!) 
In  his  own  hand-prints  of  creation. 

With  human  feet  ?  380 

Voice  of  all  things.   Is  there  no  moan  but 

ours  ? 
Zerah.   Forms,  Spaces,  Motions  wide, 
O  meek,  insensate  things, 
0  congregated  matters  !  who  inherit, 
Instead  of  vital  powers, 
Impidsions  God-supplied ; 
Instead  of  influent  spirit, 
A  clear  informing  beauty; 
Instead  of  creature-duty, 
Submission  calm  as  rest.  390 

Lights,  without  feet  or  wings. 
In  golden  courses  sliding  ! 


THE   SERAPHIM   AND   OTHER   POEMS 


Glooms,  stagnantly  subsiding, 
Whose  lustrous  heart  away  was  prest 
Into  the  argent  stars  ! 
Ye  crystal  firniamental  bars 
That  hold  the  skyey  waters  free 
From  tide  or  tempest's  ecstasy  ! 
Airs  universal  !  thunders  lorn  399 

That  wait  your  lightnings  in  cloud-cave 
Hewn  out  by  the  winds  !     O  brave 
And  subtle  elements  !  the  Holy 
Hath  charged  me  by  your  voice  with 
folly.i 
Enough,  the  mystic  arrow  leaves  its  wound. 
Return  ye  to  your  silences  inborn. 
Or  to  your  inarticulated  sound  ! 
Ador.    Zerali ! 
Zerah.    Wilt  thou  rebuke  ? 
God    hath    rebuked    me,   brother.     I   am 
weak. 
Ador.   Zerah,  my  brother  Zerah  !  could 
I  speak  409 

Of  thee,  't  would  be  of  love  to  thee. 

Zerah.  Thy  look 

Is  fixed  on  earth,  as  mine  upon  thy  face. 
Where  shall  I  seek  his  ? 

I  have  thrown 
One  look  upon  earth,  but  one. 
Over  the  blue  mountain-lines. 
Over  the  forests  of  palms  and  pines. 
Over  the  harvest-lands  golden, 
Over  the  valleys  that  fold  in 
The  gardens  and  vines  — 

He  is  not  there. 
All  these  are  unworthy  420 

Those  footsteps  to  bear, 
Before  which,  bowing  down 
I  would  fain  quench  the  stars  of  my  crown 
In  the  dark  of  the  earthy. 
Where  shall  I  seek  Him  ? 

No  reply  ? 
Hath  language  left  thy  lips,  to  place 
Its  vocal  in  thine  eye  ? 

Ador,  Ador  !  are  we  come 
To  a  double  portent,  that 
Dumb  matter  grows  articulate  430 

And  songful  seraphs  dumb  ? 
Ador,  Ador  ! 
Ador.  I  constrain 

The  passion  of  my  silence.     None 
Of  those  places  gazed  upon 
Are  gloomy  enow  to  fit  his  pain. 
Unto  Him,  whose  forming  word 
Gave  to  Nature  flower  and  sward, 
^  '  His  angels  he  charged  with  folly.'  —  Job  iv.  18. 


She  hath  given  back  again. 
For  the  myrtle  —  the  thorn. 
For  the  sylvan  calm  —  the  human  scorn.  440 
Still,  still,  reluctant  seraph,  gaze  beneath  ! 
There  is  a  city  — 

Zerah.  Temple  and  tower. 

Palace   and   purple   would   droop    like   a 
flower, 

(Or  a  cloud  at  our  breath) 
If  He  neared  in  his  state 
The  outermost  gate. 
Ador.  Ah  me,  not  so 

In  the  state  of  a  king  did  the  victim  go  ! 
And  Thou  who  hangest  mute  of  speech 
'Twixt  heaven  and  earth,  with  forehead 

yet 
Stained  by  the  bloody  sweat,  450 

God  !  man  !     Thou  hast  forgone  thy  throne 
in  each. 
Zerah.  Thine  eyes  behold  Him  ? 
Ador.  Yea,  below. 

Track  the  gazing  of  mine  eyes. 
Naming  God  within  thine  heart 
That  its  weakness  may  depart 

And  the  vision  rise  ! 
Seest  thou  yet,  beloved  ? 
Zerah.  I  see 

Beyond  the  city,  crosses  three 
And  mortals  three  that  hang  thereon 
'Ghast  and  silent  to  the  sun.  460 

Round  them  blacken  and  welter  and  press 
Staring  multitudes  whose  father 
Adam  was,  whose  brows  are  dark 
With  his  Cain's  corroded  mark,  — 
Who    curse    with    looks.     Nay  —  let    me 

rather 
Turn  unto  the  wilderness  ! 

Ador.    Turn  not !   God  dwells  with  men. 
Zerah.  Above 

He  dwells  with  angels,  and  they  love. 
Can  these  love  ?     With  the  living's  pride 
They  stare  at  those  who  die,  who  hang    470 
In   their    sight   and   die.     They   bear   the 

streak 
Of  the  crosses'  shadow,  black  not  wide. 
To  fall  on  their  heads,  as  it  swerves  aside 
When  the  victims'  pang 
Makes  the  dry  wood  creak. 
Ador.    The  cross  —  the  cross  ! 
Zerah.  A  woman  kneels 

The  mid  cross  under. 
With  white  lips  asunder. 
And  motion  on  each. 
They  throb,  as  she  feels,  48c 


THE    SERAPHIM 


With  a  spasm,  not  a  speech; 
And  her  lids,  close  as  sleep, 
Are  less  calm,  for  the  eyes 
Have  made  room  there  to  weep 
Drop  on  droj)  — 
Ador.  Weep  ?  Weep  blood, 

All  women,  all  men  ! 
He  sweated  it.  He, 
For  your  pale  womanhood 
And  base  manhood.     Agree 
That  these  water-tears,  then,     490 
Are  vain,  mocking  like  laughter: 
Weep  blood  !     Shall  the  flood 
Of  salt  curses,  whose  foam  is  the  darkness, 

on  roll 
Forward,  on  from  the  strand  of  the  storm- 
beaten  years, 
And  back   from  the   rocks  of   the    horrid 

hereafter, 
And  up,  in  a  coil,  from  the  present's  wrath- 
spring. 
Yea,  down   from   the  windows  of   heaven 

opening, 
Deep  calling  to  deep  as  they  meet  on  his 
soul  — 

And  men  weep  only  tears  ? 
Zerah.  Little  drops  in  the  lapse  !  500 

And  yet,  Ador,  perhaps 
It  is  all  that  they  can. 
Tears  !  the  lovingest  man 
Has  no  better  bestowed 
Upon  man. 
Ador.  Nor  on  God. 

Zerah.  Do  all-givers  need  gifts  ? 

If  the  Giver  said  '  Give,'  the  first  motion 

would  slay 
Our  Immortals,  the  echo  would  ruin  away 
The  same  worlds  which  he  made.     Why, 
what  angel  uplifts 

Such  a  music,  so  clear, 
It  may  seem  in  God's  ear  510 

Worth  more  than  a  woman's  hoarse  weep- 
ing ?     And  thus, 
Pity  tender  as  tears,  I  above  thee  would 

speak, 
Thou    woman    that    weepest !    weep    un- 

scorned  of  us  ! 
I,  the  tearless   and   pure,  am  but  loving 
and  weak. 
Ador.     Speak  low,  my  brother,  low,  — 
and  not  of  love 
Or  human  or  angelic  !     Rather  stand 
Before  the  throne  of  that  Supreme  above. 
In  whose  infinitude  the  secrecies 


Of  thine  own  being  lie  hid,  and  lift  thine 

hand 
Exultant,  saying,  'Lord  God,  I  am  wise  ! '  520 
Than  utter  here,  '  I  love.' 

Zerah.  And  yet  thine  eyes 

Do  utter  it.     They  melt  in  tender  light. 
The  tears  of  heaven. 

Ador.  Of  heaven.     Ah  me  ! 

Zerah.     Ador  ! 
Ador.  Say  on  ! 

Zerah.  The  crucified  are  three. 

Beloved,  they  are  unlike. 

Ador.  Unlike. 

Zerah.  For  one 

Is  as  a  man  who  has  sinned  and  still 
Doth  wear  the  wicked  will. 
The  hard  malign  life-energy. 
Tossed  outward,  in  the  parting  soul's  dis- 
dain. 
On  brow  and  lip  that  cannot  change  again. 
Ador.     And  one  — 

Zerah.  Has  also  sinned.  531 

And  yet  (O  marvel  !)  doth  the  Spirit-wind 
Blow  white   those   waters  ?     Death   upon 
his  face 
Is  rather  shine  than  shade, 
A  tender  shine  by  looks  beloved  made: 
He  seemeth  dying  in  a  quiet  place. 
And  less  by  iron  wounds  in  hands  and  feet 
Than  heart-broke  by  new  joy  too  sudden 
and  sweet, 
Ador.     And  one  !  — 
Zerah.  And  one  !  — 

Ador.  Why  dost  thou  pause  ? 

Zerah.  God  !  God  ! 

Spirit  of  my  spirit !  who  movest  540 

Through  seraph  veins  in  burning  deity 
To  light  the  quenchless  pulses  !  — 

Ador.  But  hast  trod 

The  depths  of  love  in  thy  peculiar  nature. 
And  not  in  any  thou  hast  made  and  lovest 
In  narrow  seraph  hearts  !  — 

Zerah.  Above,  Creator  ! 

Within,  Upholder  ! 

Ador.  And  below,  below, 

The   creature's  and   the  upholden's   sacri- 
fice ! 
Zerah.     Why  do  I  pause  ?  — 
Ador.  There  is  a  silentness 

That  answers  thee  enow, 
That,  like  a  brazen  sound  550 

Excluding     others,     doth     ensheathe     us 

round, — 
Hear  it.     It  is  not  from  the  visible  skies 


8 


THE    SERAPHIM   AND    OTHER   POEMS 


Though  they  are  still, 
Unconscious  that  their  own  dropped  dews 

express 
The  light  of  heaven  on  every  earthly  hill. 
It  is  not  from  the  hills,  though  calm  and 
bare 

They,  since  their  first  creation, 
Through  midnight  cloud  or  morning's  glit- 
tering air 
Or  the  deep  deluge  blindness,  toward  the 

place 
Whence  thrilled  the  mystic  word's  creative 
grace,  560 

And  whence  again  shall  come 
The  word  that  uncreates, 
Have  lift  their  brows  in  voiceless  expecta- 
tion. 
It  is  not  from  the  places  that  entomb 
Man's  dead,  though  common  Silence  there 

dilates 
Her  soul  to  grand  proportions,  worthily 
To  fill  life's  vacant  room. 
Not  there:  not  there. 
Not  yet  within  those  chambers  lieth  He, 
A    dead    one    in    his    living    world;    his 
south  570 

And   west  winds   blowing  over  earth  and 

sea. 
And  not  a  breath  on  that  creating  mouth. 
But  now,  —  a  silence  keeps 
(Not  death's,  nor  sleep's) 
The  lips  whose  whispered  word 
Might  roll  the  thunders  round  reverberated. 
Silent  art  thou,  O  my  Lord, 
Bowing  down  thy  stricken  head  ! 
Fearest  thou,  a  groan  of  thine 
Would    make   the   pulse   of   thy   creation 
fail  580 

As   thine   own  pulse  ?  —  would   rend   the 

veil 
Of  visible  things  and  let  the  flood 
Of  the  unseen  Light,  the  essential  God, 
Rush  in  to  whelm  the  undivine  ? 
Thy  silence,  to  my  thinking,  is  as  dread. 
Zerah.    O  silence  ! 

Ador.      Doth  it  say  to  thee  —  the  name, 
Slow-learning  seraph  ? 

Zerah.  I  have  learnt. 

Ador.  The  flame 

Perishes  in  thine  eyes. 

Zerah.  He  opened  his. 

And  looked.     I  cannot  bear  — 

Ador.  Their  agony  ? 

Zerah.    Their  love.     God's   depth   is  in 

them.     From  his  brows  590 


White,  terrible  in  meekness,  didst  thou  see 

The  lifted  eyes  unclose  ? 
He   is   God,   seraph  !     Look   no   more   on 

me, 
O  God  —  I  am  not  God. 

Ador.  The  loving  is 

Sublimed  within  them  by  the  sorrowful. 
In  heaven  we  could  sustain  them. 

Zerah.  Heaven  is  dull. 

Mine   Ador,   to    man's   earth.     The   light 
that  burns 

In  fluent,  refluent  motion 
Along  the  crystal  ocean ; 
The    springing   of  the    golden    harps    be- 
tween 600 
The  bowery  wings,  in  fountains  of  sweet 

sound. 
The  winding,  wandering  music  that  returns 
Upon  itself,  exultiugly  self-bound 
In  the  great  spheric  round 
Of  everlasting  praises ; 
The  God-thoughts  in  our  midst  that  inter- 
vene, 
Visibly  flashing  from  the  supreme  throne 

Full  in  seraphic  faces 
Till  each  astonishes  the  other,  grown 
More    beautiful    with    worship    and    de- 
light—  610 
My  heaven  !  my  home  of  heaven  !  my  in- 
finite 
Heaven-choirs  !    what  are  ye  to  this  dust 

and  death, 
This  cloud,  this  cold,  these  tears,  this  fail- 
ing breath. 
Where  God's  immortal  love  now  issueth 
In  this  man's  woe  ? 
Ador.  His  eyes  are  very  deep  yet  calm. 
Zerah.  No  more 

On  me,  Jehovah-man  — 

Ador.  Calm-deep.     They  show 

A   passion   which   is   tranquil.     They   are 

seeing 
No  earth,  no  heaven,  no  men  that  slay  and 
curse. 
No  seraphs  that  adore;  620 

Their  gaze  is  on  the  invisible,  the  dread, 
The   things   we  cannot  view  or   think    or 

speak. 
Because  we  are  too  happy,  or  too  weak,  — 
The  sea  of  ill,  for  which  the  universe, 
With  all  its  piled  space,  can  find  no  shore, 
With  all  its  life,  no  living  foot  to  tread. 
But  he,  accomplished  in  Jehovah-being, 
Sustains  the  gaze  adown, 
Conceives  the  vast  despair, 


THE   SERAPHIM 


And  feels   the  billowy  griefs   come  up  to 
drown,  630 

Nor  fears,  nor  faints,  nor  fails,  till  all  be 
finished. 
Zerah.   Thus,  do  I  find  thee  thus  ?     My 
undiminished 

And  undiminishable  God  !  —  my  God  ! 

The  echoes  are  still  tremulous  along 

The    heavenly   mountains,    of    the    latest 


song 


Thy  manifested  glory  swept  abroad 
In  rushing  past  our  lips:  they  echo  aye 

'  Creator,  thou  art  strong  ! 
Creator,  thou  art  blessed  over  all.' 
By  what   new  utterance   shall   I   now  re- 
call, 640 
Unteaching  the   heaven-echoes?     Dare   I 

say, 
'  Creator,  thou  art  feebler  than  thy  work  ! 
Creator,  thou   art   sadder  than   thy  crea- 
ture ! 

A  worm,  and  not  a  man. 
Yea,  no  worm,  but  a  curse  ? ' 
I   dare   not  so   mine   heavenly  phrase  re- 
verse. 
Albeit  the  piercing  thorn  and  thistle-fork 

(Whose  seed  disordered  ran 
From  Eve's  hand  trembling  when  the  curse 

did  reach  her) 
Be    garnered    darklier    in    thy   soul,    the 
rod  650 

That   smites   thee  never   blossoming,  and 

thou 
Grief-bearer  for  thy  world,  with  unkinged 

brow  — 
I  leave  to  men  their  song  of  Ichabod : 
I   have    an   angel  -  tongue  —  I   know    but 
praise. 
Ador.   Hereafter  shall  the  blood-bought 
captives  raise 
The  passion-song  of  blood. 

Zerah.  And  loe,  extend 

Our  holy  vacant  hands  towards  the  Throne, 
Crying  '  We  have  no  music' 

Ador.  Rather,  blend 

Both  musics  into  one. 
The  sanctities  and  sanctified  above  660 

Shall  each  to  each,  with  lifted  looks  serene, 
Their  shining  faces  lean. 
And  mix  the  adoring  breath 
And  breathe  the  full  thanksgiving. 

Zerah.  But  the  love  — 

The  love,  mine  Ador ! 

Ador.  Do  we  love  not  ? 

Zerah.  Yea, 


But  not  as  man  shall !    not   with   life  for 

death, 
New-throbbing  through  the  startled  being; 

not 
With  strange  astonished  smiles,  that  ever 

may 
Gush  passionate   like  tears  and   fill   their 

place: 
Nor    yet    with     speechless     memories    of 

what  670 

Earth's  winters  were,  enverduriug  the  green 
Of  every  heavenly  palm 
Whose  windless,  shadeless  calm 
Moves  only  at  the  breath  of  the  Unseen. 
Oh,  not  with  this  blood  on  us  —  and  this 

face, — 
Still,  haply,  pale  with  sorrow  that  it  bore 
In  our  behalf,  and  tender  evermore 
With  nature  all  our  own,  upon  us  gazing  — 
Nor   yet  with    these  forgiving   hands  up- 


raising 


Their     unreproachful     wounds,    alone    to 

bless  !  680 

Alas,  Creator  !  shall  we  love  thee  less 
Than  mortals  shall  ? 

Ador.  Amen  !  so  let  it  be. 

We  love  in  our  proportion,  to  the  bound 
Thine  infinite  our  finite  set  around. 
And  that  is  finitely,  —  thou,  infinite 
And  worthy  infinite  love  !  And  our  delight 
Is,  watching  the  dear  love  poured  out  to 

thee 
From  ever  fuller  chalice.     Blessed  they, 
Who  love  thee  more  than  we  do:  blessed 

we, 
Viewing  that  love  which  shall  exceed  even 

this,  69a 

And  winning  in  the  sight  a  double  bliss 
For  all  so  lost  in  love's  supremacy. 
The  bliss  is  better.     Only  on  the  sad 

Cold  earth  there  are  who  say 
It  seemeth  better  to  be  great  than  glad. 
The  bliss   is   better.     Love    him  more,  O 

man, 

Than  sinless  seraphs  can  ! 
Zerah.     Yea,  love  him  more  ! 
Voices   of  the  Angelic  Multitude.     Yea, 

more  ! 
Ador.  The  loving  word 

Is  caught  by  those  from  whom  we  stand 

apart.  yco 

For  silence  hath  no  deepness  in  her  heart 
Where  love's  low  name  low  breathed  would 

not  be  heard 
By  angels,  clear  as  thunder. 


lO 


THE    SERAPHIM    AND    OTHER   POEMS 


Angelic  Voices.  Love  him  more  ! 

Ador.  Sweet  voices,  swooning  o'er 
The  music  whicli  ye  make  ! 
Albeit  to  love  there  were  not  ever  given 
A  mournful   sound   when   uttered   out   of 

heaven, 
That  angel-sadness  ye  would  fitly  take. 
Of  love  be  silent  now  !  we  gaze  adown 
Upon  the    incarnate    Love  who  wears   no 
crown.  710 

Zerah.     No  crown  !  the  woe  instead 
Is  heavy  on  his  head, 
Pressing  inward  on  his  brain 
With  a  hot  and  clinging  pain 
Till  all  tears  are  prest  away, 
And  clear  and  calm  his  vision  may 
Peruse  the  black  abyss. 
No  rod,  no  sceptre  is 
Holden  in  his  fingers  pale ; 
They  close  instead  upon  the  nail,      720 

Concealing  the  sharp  dole. 
Never  stirring  to  put  by 

The  fair  hair  peaked  with  blood, 
Drooping  forward  from  the  rood 

Helplessly,  heavily 
On  the  cheek  that  waxeth  colder, 
Whiter  ever,  and  the  shoulder 
Where  the  government  was  laid. 
His  glory  made  the  heavens  afraid; 
Will   he    not  unearth    this  cross  from  its 
hole  ?  730 

His  pity  makes  his  piteous  state; 
Will  he  be  uncompassionate 
Alone  to  his  proper  soul  ? 
Yea,  will  he  not  lift  up 
His  lips  from  the  bitter  cup. 
His  brows  from  the  dreary  weight. 
His  hand  from  the  clenching  cross, 
Crying,  '  My  Father,  give  to  me 
Again  the  joy  I  had  with  thee 
Or  ere  this  earth  was  made  for  loss  ?  ' 
No  stir:  no  sound.  741 

The  love  and  woe  being  interwound 

He  cleaveth  to  the  woe; 
And  putteth  forth   heaven's  strength 
below, 

To  bear. 
Ador.    And  that  creates  his  anguish  now. 

Which  made  his  glory  there. 
Zerah.     Shall  it  need  be  so  ? 
Awake,  thou  Earth  !  behold. 
Thou,  uttered  forth  of  old  750 

In  all  thy  life-emotion, 
In  all  thy  vernal  noises, 
In  the  rollings  of  thine  ocean, 


Leaping  founts,  and  rivers  running,  — 
In  thy  woods'  prophetic  heaving 
Ere  the  rains  a  stroke  have  given, 
In  thy  winds'  exultant  voices 
When  they  feel  the  hills  anear,  — 

In  the  firmamental  sunning,       759 

And  the  tempest  which  rejoices 
Thy  full  heart  with  an  awful  cheer. 

Thou,  uttered  forth  of  old 

And  with  all  thy  music  rolled 
In  a  breath  abroad 

By  the  breathing  God,  — 
Awake  !  he  is  here  !  behold  ! 
Even  thou  — 

Beseems  it  good 
To  thy  vacant  vision  dim. 
That  the  deadly  ruin  should, 
For  thy  sake,  encompass  him  ?  770 

That  the  Master-word  should  lie 
A  mere  silence,  while  his  own 

Processive  harmony, 
The  faintest  echo  of  his  lightest  tone, 
Is  sweeping  in  a  choral  triumph  by  ? 

Awake  !  emit  a  cry  ! 
And  say,  albeit  used 
From  Adam's  ancient  years 
To  falls  of  acrid  tears, 
To  frequent  sighs  unloosed,  780 

Caught  back  to  press  again 
On  bosoms  zoned  with  pain  — 
To  corses  still  and  sullen 
The  shine  and  music  dulling 
With  closed  eyes  and  ears 
That  nothing  sweet  can  enter, 
Commoving  thee  no  less 
With  that  forced  quietness 
Than  the  earthquake  in  thy  centre  — 
Thou  hast  not  learnt  to  bear  790 

This  new  divine  despair  ! 
These  tears  that  sink  into  thee, 
These  dying  eyes  that  view  thee. 
This  dropping  blood  from  lifted  rood, 
They  darken  and  undo  thee. 
Thou    canst    not    presently    sustain     this 
corse  — 
Cry,  cry,  thou  hast  not  force  ! 
Cry,  thou  wouldst  fainer  keep 
Thy  hopeless  charnels  deep. 
Thyself  a  general  tomb  800 

Where  the  first  and  the  second  Death 
Sit  gazing  face  to  face 
And  mar  each  other's  breath, 
While  silent  bones  through  all  the  place 
'Neath  sun  and  moon  do  faintly  glisten 
And  seem  to  lie  and  listen 


THE    SERAPHIM 


II 


For  the  tramp  of  the  coming  Doom. 

Is  it  not  meet 
That  they  who  erst  the  Eden  fruit  did 
eat, 

Should  champ  the  ashes  ?  8io 

That  they  who  wrap  them  in  the  thun- 
der-cloud 

Should  wear  it  as  a  shroud, 
Perishing  by  its  flashes  ? 
That  they  who  vexed  the  lion  should  be 

rent  ? 
Cry,  cry,  '  I  will   sustain   my   punish- 
ment, 
The  sin   being   mine;  but   take  away 

from  me 
This  visioned  Dread  —  this  man  —  this 
Deity ! ' 
The  Earth.   I  have  groaned;  I  have  tra- 
vailed: I  am  weary. 
I  am  blind  with  my  own  grief,  and  cannot 

see. 
As  clear-eyed  angels  can,  his  agony,        820 
And  what  I  see  I  also  can  sustain, 
Because   his   power  protects  me  from   his 

pain. 
I  have  groaned;   I  have  travailed:    I  am 

dreary. 
Hearkening  the  thick  sobs  of  my  children's 
heart: 

How  can  I  say  '  Depart ' 
To  that  Atoner  making  calm  and  free  ? 

Am  I  a  God  as  he. 
To  lay  down  peace  and  power  as  willingly  ? 
Ador.   He  looked  for  some  to  pity.   There 
is  none. 
All  pity  is  within  him  and  not  for  him,    830 
His  earth  is  iron  under  him,  and  o'er  him 
His  skies  are  brass. 
His  seraphs  cry  '  Alas  ! ' 
With  hallelujah  voices  that  cannot  weep. 
And  man,  for  whom  the  dreadful  work  is 

done  .  .  . 
Scornful  Voices  from  the  Earth.     If  verily 
this  he  the  Eternal's  son  — 
Ador.   Thou  hearest.     Man  is  grateful. 
Zerah.  Can  I  hear 

Nor  darken  into  man  and  cease  for  ever 
My  seraph-smile  to  wear  ? 

Was  it  for  such,  840 

It  pleased  him  to  overleap 
His  glory  with  his  love  and  sever 
From  the  God-light  and  the  throne 
And  all  angels  bowing  down, 
For  whom  his  every  look  did  touch 
New  notes  of  joy  on  the  unworn  string 


Of  an  eternal  worshipping  ? 

For  such,  he  left  his  heaven  ? 
There,  though  never  bought  by  blood 
And  tears,  we  gave  him  gratitude: 
We  loved   him   there,  though    unfor- 
given.  851 

Ador.       The  light  is  risen 
Above,  around. 
And  down  in  lurid  fragments  flung, 
That   catch   the    mountain  -  peak   and 
stream 

With  momentary  gleam, 
Then    perish   in    the   water   and    the 
ground. 

River  and  waterfall. 
Forest  and  wilderness, 
Mountain  and  city,  are  together  wrung 
Into  one  shape,  and  that  is  shapeless- 
ness;  861 

The  darkness  stands  for  all. 
Zerah.   The  pathos  hath  the  day  undone: 
The  death-look  of  his  eyes 
Hath  overcome  the  sun 
And  made  it  sicken  in  its  narrow  skies. 
Ador.   Is  it  to  death  ?     He  dieth. 
Zerah.  Through  the  dark 

He  still,  he  only,  is  discernible  — 
The  naked  hands  and  feet  transfixed  stark, 
The  countenance  of  patient  anguish  white. 
Do  make  themselves  a  light  871 

More  dreadful  than  the  glooms  which  round 

them  dwell. 
And  therein  do  they  shine. 

Ad(yr.  God  ?  Father-God  ! 

Perpetual  Radiance  on  the  radiant  throne  ! 
Uplift  the  lids  of  inward  deity. 
Flashing  abroad 
Thy  burning  Infinite  ! 
Light  up  this  dark  where  there  is  nought  to 

see 
Except  the  unimagined  agony 
Upon  the  sinless  forehead  of  the  Son  !      880 
Zerah.    God,  tarry  not !  Behold,  enow 
Hath  he  wandered  as  a  stranger. 
Sorrowed  as  a  victim.     Thou 
Appear  for  him,  O  Father  ! 
Appear  for  him,  Avenger  ! 
Appear  for  him,  just  One  and  holy  One, 

For  he  is  holy  and  just  ! 
At  once  the  darkness  and  dishonor  rather 
To  the  ragged  jaws  of  hungry  chaos  rake. 
And  hurl  aback  to  ancient  dust         890 
These  mortals  that  make  blasphemies 
With  their  made  breath,  this  earth  and 
skies 


12 


THE   SERAPHIM   AND    OTHER   POEMS 


That  only  grow  a  little  dim, 
Seeing  their  curse  on  him. 
But  him,  of  all  forsaken, 
Of  creature  and  of  brother, 
Never  wilt  thou  forsake  ! 
Thy  living  and  thy  loving  cannot  slacken 
Their  firm  essential  hold  upon  each  other, 
And  well  thou  dost  remember  how  his  part 
Was  still  to  lie  upon  thy  breast  and  be    901 
Partaker  of  the  light  that  dwelt  in  thee 

Ere  sun  or  seraph  shone; 
And  how  while  silence  trembled  round  the 

throne 
Thou  countedst  by  the  beatings  of  his  heart 
The  moments  of  thine  own  eternity. 

Awaken, 
O  right  hand  with  the  lightnings  !     Again 

gather 
His  glory  to  thy  glory  !     What  estranger. 
What  ill  supreme  in  evil,  can  be  thrust   910 
Between  the  faithful  Father  and  the  Son  ? 
Appear  for  him,  O  Father  ! 
Appear  for  him.  Avenger  ! 
Appear  for  him,  just  One  and  holy  One, 
For  he  is  holy  and  just ! 
Ador.   Thy   face    upturned   toward   the 
throne  is  dark; 
Thou  hast  no  answer,  Zerah. 

Zerah.  No  reply, 

0  unforsaking  Father  ? 

Ador.  Hark  ! 

Instead  of  downward  voice,  a  cry 

Is  uttered  from  beneath.  920 

Zerah.   And   by  a   sharper   sound   than 
death. 

Mine  immortality  is  riven. 
The  heavy  darkness  which  doth  tent   the 

sky 
Floats  backward  as  by  a  sudden  wind: 
But  I  see  no  light  behind, 
But  I  feel  the  farthest  stars  are  all 
Stricken  and  shaken, 
And  I  know  a  shadow  sad  and  broad 

Doth  fall  — doth  fall 
On  our  vacant  thrones  in  heaven.  930 

Voice  from  the  Cross.   My  God,  my  God, 
Why  hast  Thou  me  forsaken  ? 

The  Earth.    Ah  me,  ah  me,  ah  me  !  the 
dreadful  Why  ! 
My  sin  is  on  thee,  sinless  one  !     Thou  art 
God-orphaned,  for  my  burden  on  thy  head. 
Dark    sin,    white     innocence,     endurance 

dread  ! 
Be  still,  within  your   shrouds,  my  buried 
dead; 


Nor   work   with   this    quick  horror  round 

mine  heart. 

Zerah.  He  hath  forsaken  him.     I  perish. 

Ador.  Hold 

Upon  his  name  !  we  perish  not.     Of  old  940 

His  will  — 

Zerah.  I  seek  his  will.     Seek,  seraphim  I 
My  God,  my  God  !  where  is  it  ?     Doth  that 

curse 
Reverberate  spare  us,  seraph  or  universe  ? 
He  hath  forsaken  him. 
Ador.  He  cannot  fail. 
Angel  Voices.   We  faint,  we  droop. 
Our  love  doth  tremble  like  fear. 
Voices  of  Fallen  Angels  from  the  Earth. 
Do  we  prevail  ? 
Or  are  we  lost?     Hath  not  the  ill  we  did 

Been  heretofore  our  good  ?        950 
Is  it  not  ill  that  one,  all  sinless,  should 
Hang  heavy  with  all  curses  on  a  cross  ? 
Nathless,  that   cry  !     With  huddled  faces 

hid 
Within   the  empty  graves  which  men  did 

scoop 
To  hold   more  damned  dead,  we  shudder 
through 
What  shall  exalt  us  or  undo, 
Our  triumph,  or  our  loss. 
Voice  from  the  Cross.  It  is  finished. 
Zerah.  Hark,  again  ! 

Like  a  victor  speaks  the  slain. 
Angel  Voices.    Finished  be  the  trembling 
vain !  960 

Ador.   Upward,  like  a  well-loved  son, 

Looketh  he,  the  orphaned  one. 
Angel    Voices.     Finished   is   the    mystic 

pain. 
Voices    of  Fallen   Angels.    His   deathly 
forehead  at  the  word, 
Gleameth  like  a  seraph  sword. 
Angel  Voices.    Finishecl    is    the    demon 

reign. 
Ador.    His  breath,  as  living  God,  creat- 
eth, 
His  breath,  as  dying  man,  completeth. 
Angel  Voices.  Finished   work  his  hands 
sustain.  969 

The  Earth.   In  mine  ancient  sepulchres 
Where  my  kings  and  prophets  freeze, 
Adam  dead  four  thousand  years, 
Unwakened  by  the  universe's 
Everlasting  moan, 
Aye  his  ghastly  silence  mocking  — 
Unwakened  by  his  children's  knocking 
At  his  old  sepulchral  stone. 


THE    SERAPHIM 


13 


*  Adam,  Adam,  all  this  curse  is 
Thine  and  on  us  yet  !  "  — 
Unwakened  by  the  ceaseless  tears     980 
Wherewith   they  made   his  cerement 

wet, 

*  Adam,  must  thy  curse  remain?'  — 
Starts  with  sudden  life  and  hears 

Through  the  slow  dripping  of  the  caverned 
eaves,  — 
Angel  Voices.   Finished  is  his  bane. 
Voice  from  the    Cross.     Father  !    my 

SPIRIT  TO  THINE  HANDS  IS  GIVEN. 

Ador.    Hear  the  wailing  winds  that  be 
By  wings  of  unclean  spirits  made  ! 
They,  in  that  last  look,  surveyed 
The  love  they  lost  in  losing  heaven,  990 

And  passionately  flee 
With  a  desolate  cry  that  cleaves 
The  natural  storms  —  though  they  are  lift- 
ing 
■God's  strong  cedar-roots  like  leaves. 
And  the  earthquake  and  the  thunder, 
Neither  keeping  either  under, 
Hoar  and  hurtle  through  the  glooms  — 
And  a  few  pale  stars  are  drifting 
Past  the  dark,  to  disappear, 
What  time,  from  the  splitting  tombs       1000 
Gleamingly  the  dead  arise, 
Viewing  with  their  death-calmed  eyes 
The  elemental  strategies. 
To  witness,  victory  is  the  Lord's. 
Hear  the  wail  o'  the  spirits  !  hear  ! 

Zerah.   I  hear  alone  the  memory  of  his 
words. 


EPILOGUE 


My  song  is  done. 
My  voice  that  long  hath  faltered  shall  be 

still. 
The  mystic  darkness  drops  from  Calvary's 

hill  1009 

Into  the  common  light  of  this  day's  sun. 

II 

I  see  no  more  thy  cross,  O  holy  Slain  ! 
I  hear  no  more  the  horror  and  the  coil 

Of  the  great  world's  turmoil 
Feeling  thy  covintenance  too  still,  —  nor  yell 
Of  demons  sweeping  past  it  to  their  prison. 
The  skies  that  turned  to  darkness  with  thy 
pain 

Make  now  a  summer's  day; 


1020 


And  on  my  changed  ear  that  sabbath  bell 
Records  how  Christ  is  risen. 

Ill 

And  I  —  ah  !  what  am  I 

To   counterfeit,  with   faculty   earth-dark- 
ened. 
Seraphic  brows  of  light 

And    seraph     language    never    used    nor 
hearkened  ? 

Ah    me !    what   word    that    seraphs   say, 
could  come 

From  mouth  so  used  to  sighs,  so  soon  to 
lie 

Sighless,  because   then  breathless,   in   the 
tomb  ? 

IV 

Bright   ministers    of   God  and  grace  —  of 

grace 
Because  of  God  !  whether  ye  bow  adown 
In  your  own  heaven,  before  the  living  face 
Of  him  who  died  and  deathless  wears  the 

crown,  1030 

Or  whether  at  this  hour  ye  haply  are 
Anear,  around  me,  hiding  in  the  night 
Of  this  permitted  ignorance  your  light, 

This  feebleness  to  spare,  — 
Forgive    me,    that     mine     earthly    heart 

should  dare 
Shape  images  of  unincarnate  spirits 
And  lay  upon  their  burning  lips  a  thought 
Cold  with  the  weeping  which  mine  earth 

inherits. 
And  though  ye  find  in  such  hoarse  music, 

wrought 
To  copy  yours,  a  cadence  all  the  while    1040 
Of  sin  and  sorrow  —  only  pitying  smile  ! 
Ye  know  to  pity,  well. 


/  too  may  haply  smile  another  day 

At  the  far  recollection  of  this  lay, 

When  God  may  call  me  in  your  midst  to 

dwell. 
To  hear  your  most  sweet  music's  miracle 
And  see  your  wondrous  faces.     May  it  be  ! 
For   his    remembered   sake,  the    Slain   on 

rood, 
Who   rolled  his   earthly   garment   red   in 

blood 
(Treading  the  wine-press)  tliat  the  weak, 

like  me,  1050 

Before  his  heavenly  throne  should  walk  in 

white. 


14 


THE   SERAPHIM   AND   OTHER   POEMS 


Their  mystic  thoughts  to  dole, 
His  steadfast  eye  burnt  inwardly, 
As  burning  out  his  soul. 

VI 

You   would    not    think   that    brow   could 
e'er 

Ungentle  moods  express, 
Yet  seemed  it,  in  this  troubled  world. 

Too  calm  for  gentleness, 
When  the  very  star  that  shines  from  far 

Shines  trembling  ne'ertheless. 

VII 

It  lacked,  all  need,  the  softening  light 

Which  other  brows  supply: 
We  should  conjoin  the  scathed  trunks 

Of  our  humanity. 
That  each  leafless  spray  entwining  may 

Look  softer  'gainst  the  sky. 

VIII 

None  gazed  within  the  poet's  face, 

The  poet  gazed  in  none; 
He  threw  a  lonely  shadow  straight 

Before  the  moon  and  sun. 
Affronting  nature's  heaven-dwelling  creO' 
tures 

With  wrong  to  nature  done: 

IX 

Because  this  poet  daringly, 

—  The  nature  at  his  heart, 
And  that  quick  tune  along  his  veins 

He  could  not  change  by  art,  — 
Had  vowed  his  blood  of  brotherhood 

To  a  stagnant  place  apart. 

X 

He  did  not  vow  in  fear,  or  wrath. 

Or  grief's  fantastic  whim. 
But,  weights  and  shows  of  sensual  things 

Too  closely  crossing  him, 
On  his  soul's  eyelid  the  pressure  slid 

And  made  its  vision  dim. 

XI 

And  darkening  in  the  dark  he  strove 

'Twixt  earth  and  sea  and  sky 
To  lose  in  shadow,  wave  and  cloud, 

His  brother's  haunting  cry: 
The  winds  were  welcome  as  they  swept, 
God's  five-day  work  he  would  accept, 

But  let  the  rest  go  by. 


THE    POET'S   VOW 

'  O  be  wiser  thou, 
Instructed  that  true  knowledge  leads  to  love.' 

—  Wordsworth. 

First  printed  in  the  New  Monthly  Maga- 
zine October,  1836.  The  author  says  in  her 
preface  to  The  Seraphim  and  other  Poems  that 
'  The  Poet's  Vow ' '  was  written  to  enforce  the 
truth  that  the  creature  cannot  be  isolated  from 
the  creature. 


PART  THE  FIRST 

SHOWING     WHEREFORE     THE     VOW    WAS 

MADE 


Eve  is  a  twofold  mystery; 

The  stillness  Earth  doth  keep, 
The  motion  wherewith  human  hearts 

Do  each  to  either  leap 
As  if  all  souls  between  the  poles 

Felt  '  Parting  comes  in  sleep.' 

II 

The  rowers  lift  their  oars  to  view 

Each  other  in  the  sea; 
The  landsmen  watch  the  rocking  boats 

In  a  pleasant  company; 
While  up  the  hill  go  gladlier  still 

Dear  friends  by  two  and  three. 

Ill 

The  peasant's  wife  hath  looked  without 

Her  cottage  door  and  smiled. 
For  there  the  peasant  drops  his  spade 

To  clasp  his  youngest  child 
Which  hath  no  speech,  but   its  hand   can 
reach 

And  stroke  his  forehead  mild, 

IV 

A  poet  sate  that  eventide 

Within  his  hall  alone, 
As  silent  as  its  ancient  lords 

In  the  coffined  place  of  stone. 
When  the  bat  hath  shrunk  from  the  pray- 
ing mionk, 

And  the  praying  monk  is  gone. 


Nor  wore  the  dead  a  stiller  face 

Beneath  the  cerement's  roll: 
His  lips  refusing  out  in  words 


THE   POET'S   VOW 


15 


XII 

He  cried,  '  O  touching,  patient  Earth 

That  weepest  in  thy  glee. 
Whom  God  created  very  good, 

And  very  mournful,  we  ! 
Thy  voice  of  moan  doth  reach  his  throne, 

As  Abel's  rose  from  thee. 

XIII 

'  Poor  crystal  sky  with  stars  astray  ! 

]\Iad  winds  that  howling  go 
From  east  to  west !  perplexed  seas 

That  stagger  from  their  blow  ! 
O  motion  wild  !  O  wave  defiled  ! 

Our  curse  hath  made  you  so. 

XIV 

'  We  !  and  our  curse  !  do  /  partake 

The  desiccating  sin  ? 
Have  /  the  apple  at  my  lips  ? 

The  money-lust  within  ? 
Do   /    human   stand   with    the    wounding 
hand. 

To  the  blasting  heart  akin  ? 

XV 

*  Thou  solemn  pathos  of  all  things 

For  solemn  joy  designed  ! 
Behold,  submissive  to  your  cause, 

A  holy  wrath  I  find, 
And,  for  your  sake,  the  bondage  break 

That  knits  me  to  my  kind. 

XVI 

*  Hear  me  forswear  man's  sympathies, 

His  pleasant  yea  and  no, 
His  riot  on  the  piteous  earth 

Whereon  his  thistles  grow. 
His  changing  love  —  with  stars  above, 

His  pride  —  with  graves  below. 

XVII 

'  Hear  me  forswear  his  roof  by  night, 

His  bread  and  salt  by  day. 
His  talkings  at  the  wood-fire  hearth, 

His  greetings  by  the  way, 
His  answering  looks,  his  systemed  books, 

All  man,  for  aye  and  aye. 

XVIII 

*  That  so  my  purged,  once  human  heart, 

From  all  the  human  rent, 
May  gather  strength  to  pledge  and  drink 
Your  wine  of  wonderment. 


While  you  pardon  me  all  blessingly 
The  woe  mine  Adam  sent. 

XIX 

*  And  I  shall  feel  your  unseen  looks 
Innumerous,  constant,  deep 

And  soft  as  haunted  Adam  once, 
Though  sadder,  round  me  creep,  — 

As  slumbering  men  have  mystic  ken 
Of  watchers  on  their  sleep. 

XX 

'  And  ever,  when  I  lift  my  brow 

At  evening  to  the  sun, 
No  voice  of  woman  or  of  child 

Recording  "  Day  is  done  "  — 
Your  silences  shall  a  love  express, 

More  deep  than  such  an  one.' 


PART    THE   SECOND 

SHOWING    TO    WHOM    THE   VOW    WAS 
DECLARED 


The  poet's  vow  was  inly  sworn, 

The  poet's  vow  was  told. 
He  shared  among  his  crowding  friends 

The  silver  and  the  gold. 
They  clasping  bland  his  gift,  —  his  hand 

In  a  somewhat  slacker  hold. 

II 

They  wended  forth,  the  crowding  friends, 
With  farewells  smooth  and  kind. 

They  wended  forth,  the  solaced  friends, 
And  left  but  twain  behind: 

One  loved  him  true  as  brothers  do, 
And  one  was  Rosalind. 

Ill 

He  said,  *  My  friends  have  wended  forth 
With  farewells  smooth  and  kind; 

Mine  oldest  friend,  my  plighted  bride, 
Ye  need  not  stay  behind: 

Friend,  wed  my  fair  bride  for  my  sake, 

And  let  my  lands  ancestral  make 
A  dower  for  Rosalind. 

IV 

'  And  when  beside  your  wassail  board 

Ye  bless  your  social  lot, 
I  charge  you  that  the  giver  be 


i6 


THE   SERAPHIM  AND   OTHER   POEMS 


In  all  his  gifts  forgot, 
Or  alone  of  all  his  words  recall 
The  last,  —  Lament  me  not.' 


She  looked  upon  him  silently 
With  her  large,  doubtmg  eyes, 

Like  a  child  that  never  knew  but  love 
Whom  words  of  wrath  surprise, 

Till  the  rose  did  break  from  either  cheek 
And  the  sudden  tears  did  rise. 

VI 

She  looked  upon  him  mournfully. 
While  her  large  eyes  were  grown 

Yet  larger  with  the  steady  tears. 
Till,  all  his  purpose  known. 

She  turned  slow,  as  she  would  go  — 
The  tears  were  shaken  down. 

VII 

She  turned  slow,  as  she  would  go. 

Then  quickly  turned  again. 
And  gazing  in  his  face  to  seek 

Some  little  touch  of  pain, 

*  I    thought,'   she   said,  —  but    shook    her 

head,  — 
She  tried  that  speech  in  vain. 

VIII 

*  I  thought  —  but  I  am  half  a  child 

And  very  sage  art  thou  — 
The  teachings  of  the  heaven  and  earth 

Should  keep  us  soft  and  low: 
They  have  drawn  my  tears  in  early  years, 

Or  ere  I  wept  —  as  now. 

IX 

*  But  now  that  in  thy  face  I  read 

Their  cruel  homily, 
Before  their  beauty  I  would  fain 
■     Untouched,  unsoftened  be,  — 
If  I  indeed  could  look  on  even 
The  senseless,  loveless  earth  and  heaven 

As  thou  canst  look  on  me  ! 

X 

*  And  couldest  thou  as  coldly  view 

Thy  childhood's  far  abode. 
Where  little  feet  kept  time  with  thine 

Along  the  dewy  sod. 
And  thy  mother's  look  from  holy  book 

Rose  like  a  thought  of  God  ? 


XI 

'  O  brother,  —  called  so,  ere  her  last 

Betrothing  words  were  said  ! 
O  fellow-watcher  in  her  room. 

With  hushed  voice  and  tread  ! 
Rememberest  thou  how,  hand  in  hand 

0  friend,  O  lover,  we  did  stand. 
And  knew  that  she  was  dead  ? 

XII 

'  I  will  not  live  Sir  Roland's  bride, 
That  dower  I  will  not  hold; 

1  tread  below  my  feet  that  go. 
These  parchments  bought  and  sold: 

The  tears  I  weep  are  mine  to  keep, 
And  worthier  than  thy  gold.' 

XIII 

The  poet  and  Sir  Roland  stood 

Alone,  each  turned  to  each. 
Till  Roland  brake  the  silence  left 

By  that  soft-throbbing  speech  — 
'  Poor  heart ! '  he  cried,  '  it  vainly  tried 

The  distant  heart  to  reach. 

XIV 

'  And  thou,  O  distant,  sinful  heart 

That  climbest  up  so  high 
To  wrap  and  blind  thee  with  the  snows 

That  cause  to  dream  and  die, 
What  blessing  can,  from  lips  of  man. 

Approach  thee  with  his  sigh  ? 

XV 

'  Ay,  what  from  earth  —  create  for  man 

And  moaning  in  his  moan  ? 
Ay,  what  from  stars  —  revealed  to  man 

And  man-named  one  by  one  ? 
Ay,  more  !  what  blessing  can  be  given 
Where     the    Spirits    seven    do    show    in 
heaven 

A  Man  upon  the  throne  ? 

XVI 

'  A  man  on  earth  He  wandered  once, 

All  meek  and  undefiled. 
And    those    who    loved    Him    said    'He 
wept ' — 
None  ever  said  He  smiled; 
Yet  there   might  have  been  a  smile   un- 
seen. 
When  He  bowed  his  holy  face,  I  ween, 
To  bless  that  happy  child. 


THE   POET'S  VOW 


17 


XVII 

*  And  now  He  pleadeth  up  in  heaven 

For  our  humanities, 
Till  the  ruddy  light  on  seraphs'  wings 

In  pale  emotion  dies. 
They  can  better  bear  their  Godhead's  glare 

Than  the  pathos  of  his  eyes. 

XVIII 

*  I  will  go  pray  our  God  to-day 

To  teach  thee  how  to  scan 
His  work  divine,  for  human  use 

Since  earth  on  axle  ran,  — 
To  teach  thee  to  discern  as  plain 
His  grief  divine,  the  blood-drop's  stain 

He  left  there,  Man  for  man. 

XIX 

*  So,  for  the  blood's  sake  shed  by  Him 

Whohi  angels  God  declare, 
Tears  like  it,  moist  and  warm  with  love, 

Thy  reverent  eyes  shall  wear 
To  see  i'  the  face  of  Adam's  race 

The  nature  God  doth  share.' 

XX 

*  I  heard,'  the  poet  said,  *  thy  voice 

As  dimly  as  thy  breath: 
The  sound  was  like  the  noise  of  life 

To  one  anear  his  death,  — 
Or  of  waves  that  fail  to  stir  the  pale 

Sere  leaf  they  roll  beneath. 

XXI 

*  And  still  between  the  sound  and  me 

White  creatures  like  a  mist 
Did  interfloat  confusedly. 

Mysterious  shapes  uuwist: 
Across  my  heart  and  across  my  brow 
I  felt  them  droop  like  wreaths  of  snow, 

To  still  the  pulse  they  kist. 

XXII 

*  The  castle  and  its  lands  are  thine  — 

The  poor's  —  it  shall  be  done. 
Go,  man,  to  love  !     I  go  to  live 

In  Courland  hall,  alone: 
The  bats  along  the  ceilings  cling. 
The  lizards  in  the  floors  do  run, 
And  storms  and  years  have  worn  and  reft 
The  stain  by  human  builders  left 

In  working  at  the  stone.' 


PART    THE   THIRD 

SHOWING     HOW    THE    VOW   WAS    KEPT 

I 

He  dwelt  alone,  and  sun  and  moon 

Were  witness  that  he  made 
Rejection  of  his  humanness 

Until  they  seemed  to  fade; 
His  face  did  so,  for  he  did  grow 

Of  his  own  soul  afraid. 

II 

The  self -poised  God  may  dwell  alone 

With  inward  glorying. 
But  God's  chief  angel  waiteth  for 

A  brother's  voice,  to  sing; 
And  a  lonely  creature  of  sinful  nature 

It  is  an  awful  thing. 

Ill 

An  awful  thing  that  feared  itself; 

While  many  years  did  roll, 
A  lonely  man,  a  feeble  man, 

A  part  beneath  the  whole. 
He  bore  by  day,  he  bore  by  night 
That  pressure  of  God's  infinite 

Upon  his  finite  soul. 

IV 

The  poet  at  his  lattice  sate. 

And  downward  looked  he. 
Three  Christians  wended  by  to  prayers, 

With  mute  ones  in  their  ee; 
Each  turned  above  a  face  of  love 

And  called  him  to  the  far  chapelle 
With  voice  more  tuneful  than  its  bell: 

But  still  they  wended  three. 


There  journeyed  by  a  bridal  pomp, 

A  bridegroom  and  his  dame; 
He  speaketh  low  for  happiness. 

She  blusheth  red  for  shame: 
But  never  a  tone  of  benison 

From  out  the  lattice  came. 

VI 

A  little  child  with  inward  song. 

No  louder  noise  to  dare. 
Stood  near  the  wall  to  see  at  play 

The  lizards  green  and  rare  — 
Unblessed  the  while  for  his  childish  smile 

Which  cometh  unaware. 


i8 


THE   SERAPHIM    AND   OTHER    POEMS 


PART    THE    FOURTH 

SHOWING   HOW   ROSALIND   FARED   BY 
THE   KEEPING   OF   THE    VOW 


In  death-sheets  lieth  Rosalind 

As  white  and  still  as  they; 
And  the  old  nurse  that  watched  her  bed 

Rose  up  with  '  Well-a-day  ! ' 
And  oped  the  casement  to  let  in 
The  sun,  and  that  sweet  doubtful  din 
Which  droppeth  from  the  grass  and  bough 
Sans  wind  and  bird,  none  knoweth  how  — 

To  cheer  her  as  she  lay. 

II 

The  old  nurse  started  when  she  saw 

Her  sudden  look  of  woe: 
But  the  quick  wan  tremblings  round  her 
mouth 

In  a  meek  smile  did  go, 
And  calm  she  said,  '  When  I  am  dead, 

Dear  nurse,  it  shall  be  so. 

Ill 

*  Till  then,  shut  out  those  sights  and  sounds. 

And  pray  God  pardon  me 
That  I  without  this  pain  no  more 

His  blessed  works  can  see  ! 
And  lean  beside  me,  loving  nurse. 
That  thou  mayst  hear,  ere  I  am  worse, 

What  thy  last  love  should  be.' 

IV 

The  loving  nurse  leant  over  her. 

As  white  she  lay  beneath; 
The  old  eyes  searching,  dim  with  life, 

The  young  ones  dim  with  death, 
To  read  their  look  if  sound  forsook 

The  trying,  trembling  breath. 


*  When  all  this  feeble  breath  is  done, 

Vnd  I  on  bier  am  laid. 
My  tresses  smoothed  for  never  a  feast. 

My  body  in  shroud  arrayed, 
Uplift  each  palm  in  a  saintly  calm. 

As  if  that  still  I  prayed. 

VI 

*  And  heap  beneath  :  .mt  head  the  flowers 

You  stoop  so  low  to  pall, 
The  little  white  flowers  from  the  wood 


Which  grow  there  in  the  cool, 
Which  he  and  I,  in  childhood's  games, 
Went  plucking,  knowing  not  their  names. 

And  filled  thine  apron  full. 


VII 

'  Weep  not  !  /  weep  not.     Death  is  strong, 

The  eyes  of  Death  are  dry  ! 
But  lay  this  scroll  upon  my  breast 

When  hushed  its  heavings  lie, 
And  wait  awhile  for  the  corpse's  smile 

Which  shineth  presently. 

VIII 

*  And  when  it  shineth,  straightway  call 

Thy  youngest  children  dear. 
And  bid  them  gently  carry  me 

All  barefaced  on  the  bier; 
But  bid  them  pass  my  kirkyard  grass 

That  waveth  long  auear. 

IX 

*  And  up  the  bank  where  I  used  to  sit 

And  dream  what  life  would  be. 
Along  the  brook  with  its  sunny  look 

Akin  to  living  glee,  — 
O'er  the  windy  hill,  through  the  forest  still, 

Let  them  gently  carry  me. 

X 

*  And  through  the  piny  forest  still. 

And  down  the  open  moorland 
Round  where  the  sea  beats  mistily 

And  blindly  on  the  foreland; 
And  let  them  chant  that  hymn  I  know. 
Bearing  me  soft,  bearing  me  slow. 

To  the  ancient  hall  of  Courland. 

XI 

'  And  when  withal  they  near  the  hall. 

In  silence  let  them  lay 
My  bier  before  the  bolted  door, 

And  leave  it  for  a  day: 
For  I  have  vowed,  though  I  am  proud, 
To  go  there  as  a  guest  in  shroud. 

And  not  be  turned  aAvay.' 

XII 

The  old  nurse  looked  within  her  eyes 
Whose  mutual  look  was  gone; 

The  old  nurse  stooped  upon  her  mouth, 
Whose  answering  voice  was  done; 

And  nought  she  heard,  till  a  little  bird 


THE   POET'S   VOW 


19 


Upon  the  casement's  woodbine  swinging 
Broke  out  into  a  loud  sweet  singing 

For  joy  o'  the  summer  sun: 
*  Alack  !  alack  ! '  —  she  watched  no  more, 

With  head  on  knee  she  \vail6d  sore, 
And  the  little  bird  sang  o'er  and  o'er 

For  joy  o'  the  summer  sun. 


PART    THE    FIFTH 


SHOWING   HOW   THE   VOW    WAS   BROKEN 


The  poet  oped  his  bolted  door 

The  midnight  sky  to  view; 
A  spirit-feel  was  in  the  air 
Which  seemed  to  touch  his  spirit  bare 

Whenever  his  breath  he  drew; 
And  the  stars  a  liquid  softness  had, 
As  alone  their  holiness  forbade 

Their  fallins:  with  the  dew. 

II 

They  shine  upon  the  steadfast  hills, 

Upon  the  swinging  tide, 
Upon  the  narrow  track  of  beach 

And  the  murmuring  pebbles  pied: 
They  shine  on  every  lovely  place. 
They  shine  upon  the  corpse's  face, 

As  it  were  fair  beside. 

Ill 

It  lay  before  him,  humanlike, 

Yet  so  unlike  a  thing  ! 
More  awful  in  its  shrouded  pomp 

Than  any  crowned  king: 
All  calm  and  cold,  as  it  did  hold 

Some  secret,  glorying. 

IV 

A  heavier  weight  than  of  its  clay 

Clung  to  his  heart  and  knee : 
As  if  those  folded  palms  could  strike 

He  staggered  groaningly, 
And  then  o'erhung,  without  a  groan. 
The  meek  close  mouth  that  smiled  alone, 

Whose  speech  the  scroll  must  be. 


THE   WORDS    OF   ROSALIND'S   SCROLL 

*  I  left  thee  last,  a  child  at  heart, 
A  woman  scarce  in  years. 


I  pome  to  thee,  a  solemn  corpse 
Which  neither  feels  nor  fears. 

I  have  no  breath  to  use  in  sighs; 

They  laid  the  dead-weights  on  mine  eyes 
To  seal  them  safe  from  tears. 

'  Look  on  me  with  thine  own  calm  look: 

I  meet  it  calm  as  thou. 
No  look  of  thine  can  change  this  smile, 

Or  break  thy  sinful  vow  : 
I  tell  thee  that  my  poor  scorned  heart 
Is  of  thine  earth  — thine  earth,  a  part: 

It  cannot  vex  thee  now. 

'  But  out,  alas  !  these  words  are  writ 

By  a  living,  loving  one, 
Adown  whose  cheeks,  the  proofs  of  life, 

The  warm  quick  tears  do  run: 
Ah,  let  the  unloving  corpse  control 
Thy  scorn  back  from  the  loving  soul 

Whose  place  of  rest  is  won. 

'  I  have  prayed  for  thee  with  bursting  sob 
When  passion's  course  was  free; 

I  have  prayed  for  thee  with  silent  lips, 
In  the  anguish  none  could  see: 

They  whispered  oft,  "  She  sleepeth  soft  "  — 
But  I  only  prayed  for  thee. 

'  Go  to  !  I  pray  for  thee  no  more : 

The  corpse's  tongue  is  still. 
Its  folded  fingers  point  to  heaven, 

But  point  there  stiff  and  chill : 
No  farther  wrong,  no  farther  woe 
Hath  license  from  the  sin  below 

Its  tranquil  heart  to  thrill. 

'  I  charge  thee,  by  the  living's  prayer. 

And  the  dead's  silentness. 
To  wring  from  out  thy  soul  a  cry 

Which  God  shall  hear  and  bless  ! 
Lest  Heaven's  own  palm  droop  in  my  hand, 
And  pale  among  the  saints  I  stand, 

A  saint  companionless.' 


Bow  lower  down  before  the  throne, 

Triumphant  Rosalind  ! 
He  boweth  on  thy  corpse  his  face, 

And  weepeth  as  the  blind: 
'T  was  a  dread  sight  to  see  them  so. 
For  the  senseless  corpse  rocked  to  and  fro 

With  the  wail  of  his  living  mind. 


20 


THE   SERAPHIM   AND   OTHER   POEMS 


VI 

But  dreader  sight,  could  such  be  seen, 

His  inward  mind  did  lie, 
Whose  long-subjected  humanness 

Gave  out  its  lion-cry, 
And  fiercely  rent  its  tenement 

In  a  mortal  agony. 

VII 

I  tell  you,  friends,  had  you  heard  his  wail, 
'T  would  haunt  vou  in  court  and  mart, 

And  in  merry  feast  until  you  set 
Your  cup  down  to  depart  — 

That  weeping  wild  of  a  reckless  child 
From  a  proud  man's  broken  heart. 

VIII 

O  broken  heart,  O  broken  vow, 

That  wore  so  proud  a  feature  ! 
God,  grasping  as  a  thunderbolt 

The  man's  rejected  nature, 
Smote  him  therewith  i'  the  presence  high 
Of  his  so  worshij)ped  earth  and  sky 
That  looked  on  all  indifferently  — 
A  wailing  human  creature. 

IX 

A  human  creature  found  too  weak 

To  bear  his  human  pain  — 
(May   Heaven's    dear   grace   have  spoken 
peace 

To  his  dying  heart  and  brain  !) 
For  when  they  came  at  dawn  of  day 
To  lift  the  lady's  corpse  away. 

Her  bier  was  holding  twain. 

X 

They  dug  beneath  the  kirkyard  grass. 

For  both  one  dwelling  deep; 
To  which,  when  years  had  mossed  the  stone, 
Sir  Roland  brought  his  little  son 

To  watch  the  funeral  heap: 
And  when  the  happy  boy  would  rather 

Turn  upward  his  blithe  eyes  to  see 

The  wood-doves  nodding  from  the  tree, 
'Nay,  boy,  look  downward,' said  his  father, 

'  Upon  this  human  dust  asleep. 

And  hold  it  in  thy  constant  ken 
That  God's  own  unity  compresses 

(One  into  one)  the  human  many. 
And  that  his  everlastingness  is 

The  bond  which  is  not  loosed  by  any: 
That  thou  and  I  this  law  must  keep, 

If  not  in  love,  in  sorrow  then,  — 


Though  smiling  not  like  other  men. 
Still,  like  them  we  nmst  weep.' 


THE    ROMAUNT    OF    MARGRET 

'  Can  my  affections  find  out  nothing  best, 
But  still  and  still  remove  ?  '  —  Quarles. 

First  printed  in  the  New  Monthly  Magazine, 
July,  1886.  For  this  poem,  as  for  the  preced- 
ing, a  distinct  moral  purpose  was  claimed  by 
the  author,  to  show,  namely,  '  that  the  creature 
cannot  be  sustained  by  the  creature.' 


I  PLANT  a  tree  whose  leaf 

The  yew-tree  leaf  will  suit: 
But  when  its  shade  is  o'er  you  laid. 

Turn  round  and  pluck  the  fruit. 
Now  reach  ni}^  harp  from  off  the  wall 

Where  shines  the  sun  aslant; 
The  sun  may  shine  and  we  be  cold  ! 

0  hearken,  loving  hearts  and  bold. 

Unto  my  wild  romaunt. 

Margret,  Margret. 

II 

Sitteth  the  fair  ladye 
Close  to  the  river  side 
Which  runneth  on  with  a  merry  tone 
Her  merry  thoughts  to  guide: 
It  runneth  through  the  trees. 
It  runneth  by  the  hill, 
Nathless  the  lady's  thoughts  have  found 
A  way  more  pleasant  still. 

Margret,  Margret. 

Ill 

The  niofht  is  in  her  hair 

And  giveth  shade  to  shade. 
And  the  pale  moonlight  on  her   forehead 
white 
Like  a  spirit's  hand  is  laid; 
Her  lips  part  with  a  smile 
Instead  of  speakings  done: 

1  ween,  she  thinketh  of  a  voice, 

Albeit  uttering  none. 

Margret,  Margret. 

IV 

All  little  birds  do  sit 

With  heads  beneath  their  wings: 

Nature  doth  seem  in  a  mystic  dream. 

Absorbed  from  her  living  things: 


THE   ROMAUNT   OF   MARGRET 


21 


That  dream  by  that  ladye 
Is  certes  uupartook, 
For  she  looketh  to  the  high  cold  stars 
With  a  tender  human  look. 

Margret,  Margret. 

V 

The  lady's  shadow  lies 
Upon  the  running  river; 
It  lieth  no  less  in  its  quietness, 
For  that  which  resteth  never: 
Most  like  a  trusting  heart 
Upon  a  passing  faith, 
Or  as  upon  the  course  of  life 

The  steadfast  doom  of  death. 

Margret,  Margret. 

VI 

The  lady  doth  not  move, 
The  lady  doth  not  dream. 
Yet  she  seeth  her  shade  no  longer  laid 
In  rest  upon  the  stream : 
It  shaketh  without  wind, 
It  parteth  from  the  tide, 
It  standeth  upright  in  the  cleft  moonlight, 
It  sitteth  at  her  side. 

Margret,  Margret. 

VII 

Look  in  its  face,  ladye. 

And  keep  thee  from  thy  swound; 
With  a  spirit  bold  thy  pulses  hold 
And  hear  its  voice's  somid: 
For  so  will  sound  thy  voice 
When  thy  face  is  to  the  wall, 
And  such  will  be  thy  face,  ladye. 

When  the  maidens  work  thy  pall. 
Margret,  Margret. 

VIII 

*  Am  I  not  like  to  thee  ?  ' 

The  voice  was  calm  and  low, 
And  between  each  word  you  might   have 
heard 
The  silent  forests  grow; 

*  The  like  may  sway  the  like;  ' 

By  which  mysterious  law 
Mine  eyes   from  thine  and  my  lips   from 
thine 
The  light  and  breath  may  draw. 

Margret,  Margret. 

IX 

*  My  lips  do  need  thy  breath. 

My  lips  do  need  thy  smile, 


And  my  pallid  eyne,  that  light  in  thine 
Which  met  the  stars  erewhile: 
Yet  go  with  light  and  life 
If  that  thou  lovest  one 
In  all  the  earth  who  loveth  thee 
As  truly  as  the  sun, 

Margret,  Margret.' 

X 

Her  cheek  had  wax^d  white 
Like  cloud  at  fall  of  snow; 
Then  like  to  one  at  set  of  sun. 
It  wax^d  red  als6; 
For  love's  name  maketh  bold 
As  if  the  loved  were  near: 
And  then  she  sighed  the  deep  long  sigh 
Which  Cometh  after  fear. 

Margret,  Margret. 

XI 

*  Now,  sooth,  I  fear  thee  not  — 
Shall  never  fear  thee  now  ! ' 
(And  a  noble  sight  was  the  sudden  light 
Which  lit  her  lifted  brow.) 
'  Can  earth  be  dry  of  streams, 
Or  hearts  of  love  ?  '  she  said; 
'  Who  doubteth  love,  can  know  not  love  J 
He  is  already  dead.' 

Margret,  Margret. 

XII 

'  I  have  '  .  .  .  and  here  her  lips 
Some  word  in  pause  did  keep, 
And  gave  the  while  a  quiet  smile 
As  if  they  paused  in  sleep,  — 
'  I  have  ...  a  brother  dear, 
A  knight  of  knightly  fame  ! 
I  broidered  him  a  knightly  scarf 
With  letters  of  my  name 

Margret,  Margret. 

XIII 

'  I  fed  his  gray  goshawk, 

I  kissed  his  fierce  bloodhound, 
I  sate  at  home  when  he  might  come 
And  caught  his  horn's  far  sound: 
I  sang  him  hunter's  songs, 
I  poured  him  the  red  wine. 
He  looked  across  the  cup  and  said, 
/  love  thee,  sister  mine.'' 

Margret,  Margret 

XIV 

IT  trembled  on  the  grass 

With  a  low,  shadowy  laughter; 


22 


THE    SERAPHIM   AND    OTHER  POEMS 


The  sounding  river  which  rolled,  for  ever 
Stood  dumb  and  stagnant  after: 
'  Brave  knight  thy  brother  is  ! 
But  better  loveth  he 
Thy  chaliced  wine  than  thy  chaunted  song, 
And  better  both  than  thee, 

Margret,  Margret.' 

XV 

The  lady  did  not  heed 
The  river's  silence  while 
Her  own  thoughts  still  ran  at  their  will, 
And  calm  was  still  her  smile. 
'My  little  sister  wears 

The  look  our  mother  wore : 
I  smooth  her  locks  with  a  golden  comb, 
I  bless  her  evermore.' 

Margret,  Margret. 

XVI 

*  I  gave  her  my  first  bird 

When  first  my  voice  it  knew; 
I  made  her  share  my  posies  rare 
And  told  her  where  they  grew: 
I  taught  her  God's  dear  name 
With  prayer  and  praise  to  tell. 
She  looked  from  heaven  into  my  face 
And  said,  /  love  thee  welW 

Margret,  Margret. 

XVII 

IT  trembled  on  the  grass 

With  a  low,  shadowy  laughter; 
You  could  see  each   bird  as  it  woke  and 
stared 
Through  the  shrivelled  foliage  after. 

*  Fair  child  thy  sister  is  ! 

But  better  loveth  she 
Thy  golden  comb  than  thy  gathered  flow- 
ers, 
And  better  both  than  thee, 

Margret,  Margret.' 

XVIII 

Thy  lady  did  not  heed 

The  withering  on  the  bough; 
Still  calm  her  smile,  albeit  the  while 
A  little  pale  her  brow: 

*  I  have  a  father  old, 

The  lord  of  ancient  halls; 


An  hundred  friends  are  in  his  court 
Yet  only  me  he  calls. 

Margret,  Margret. 

XIX 

*  An  hundred  knights  are  in  his  court 

Yet  read  I  by  his  knee ; 
And  when  forth   they  go   to  the  tourney- 
show 
I  rise  not  up  to  see: 
'T  is  a  weary  book  to  read, 
My  tryst 's  at  set  of  sun. 
But  loving  and  dear  beneath  the  stars 
Is  his  blessing  when  I  've  done.' 

Margret,  Margret. 

XX 

IT  trembled  on  the  grass 

With  a  low,  shadowy  laughter ; 
And  moon  and  stars  though  bright  a>id  far 
Did  shrink  and  darken  after. 

*  High  lord  thy  father  is  ! 

But  better  loveth  he 
His  ancient  halls  than  his  hundred  friends, 
His  ancient  halls,  than  thee, 

Margret,  Margret.* 

XXI 

The  lady  did  not  heed 

That  the  far  stars  did  fail; 
Still  calm  her  smile,  albeit  the  while  .  .  . 
Nay,  but  she  is  not  pale  ! 
'  I  have  more  than  a  friend 
Across  the  mountains  dim? 
No  other's  voice  is  soft  to  me. 
Unless  it  nameth  him.'' 

Margret,  Margret. 

XXII 

*  Though  louder  beats  my  heart, 

I  know  his  tread  again. 
And    his    fair  plume    aye,    unless    turned 
away. 
For  the  tears  do  blind  me  then: 
We  brake  no  gold,  a  sign 
Of  stronger  faith  to  be, 
But  I  wear  his  last  look  in  my  soul, 
Which  said,  /  love  hut  thee !' 

Margret,  Margret. 

XXIII 

IT  trembled  on  the  grass 

With  a  low,  shadowy  laughter; 


ISOBEL'S    CHILD 


23 


And  the  wind  did  toll,  as  a  passing  soul 
Were  sped  by  church-bell  after; 
And  shadows,  'stead  of  light, 
Fell  from  the  stars  above. 
In  flakes  of  darkness  on  her  face 
Still  bright  with  trusting  love. 

Margret,  Margret. 

XXIV 

'  He  loved  but  only  thee  ! 
That  love  is  transient  too. 
The  wild  hawk's  bill  doth  dabble  still 
I'  the  mouth  that  vowed  thee  true: 
Will  he  open  his  dull  eyes 
When  tears  fall  on  his  brow  ? 
Behold,  the  death-worm  to  his  heart 
Is  a  nearer  thiug  than  thou, 

Margret,  Margret.' 

XXV 

Her  face  was  on  the  ground  — 
None  saw  the  agony; 
But  the  men  at  sea  did  that  night  agree 
They  heard  a  drowning  cry: 
And  when  the  morning  brake, 
Fast  rolled  the  river's  tide, 
With  the  green  trees  waving  overhead 
And  a  white  corse  laid  beside. 

Margret,  Margret. 

XXVI 

A  knight's  bloodhound  and  he 
The  funeral  watch  did  keep; 
With  a  thought  o'  the  chase  he  stroked  its 
face 
As  it  howled  to  see  him  weep. 
A  fair  child  kissed  the  dead, 
But  shrank  before  its  cold. 
And  alone  yet  proudly  in  his  hall 
Did  stand  a  baron  old. 

Margret,  Margret. 

XXVII 

Hang  up  my  harp  again  ! 
I  have  no  voice  for  song. 
Not  song  but  wail,  and  mourners  pale, 
Not  bards,  to  love  belong. 
O  failing  human  love  ! 

O  light,  by  darkness  known  ! 
O  false,  the  while  thou  treadest  earth  ! 
O  deaf  beneath  the  stone  ! 

Margret,  Margret. 


ISOBEL'S    CHILD 

—  '  so  find  we  profit, 
By  losing  of  our  prayers.' 

—  Shakespeare. 


To  rest  the  weary  nurse  has  gone : 
An  eight-day  watch  had  watched  she, 

Still  rocking  beneath  sun  and  moon 
The  baby  on  her  knee, 

Till  Isobel  its  mother  said 

'  The  fever  waneth  —  wend  to  bed, 

For  now  the  watch  comes  round  to  me.' 

II 

Then  wearily  the  nurse  did  throw 
Her  pallet  in  the  darkest  place 
Of  that  sick  room,  and  slept  and  dreamed: 
For,  as  the  gusty  wind  did  blow  u 

The  night-lamp's  flare  across  her  face, 
She  saw  or  seemed  to  see,  but  dreamed. 

That  the  poplars  tall  on  the  opposite  hill, 
The  seven  tall  poplars  on  the  hill. 
Did  clasp  the  setting  sun  until 
His  rays  dropped  from  him,  pined  and  still 

As  blossoms  in  frost, 
Till    he    waned    and    paled,    so    weirdly 

crossed, 
To  the  color  of  moonlight  which  doth  pass 
Over  the  dank  ridged  churchyard  grass.  21 
The  poplars  held  the  sun,  and  he 
The  eyes  of  the  nurse  that  they  should  not 

see 
—  Not   for   a   moment,  the    babe    on   her 

knee, 
Though  she  shuddered  to  feel  that  it  grew 

to  be 
Too  chill,  and  lay  too  heavily. 

Ill 

She  only  dreamed;  for  all  the  while 

'T  was  Lady  Isobel  that  kept 

The  little  baby:  and  it  slept 
Fast,  warm,  as  if  its  mother's  smile,  30 

Laden  with  love's  dewy  weight. 
And  red  as  rose  of  Harpocrate 
Dropt  upon  its  eyelids,  pressed 
Lashes  to  cheek  in  a  sealed  rest. 

IV 

And  more  and  more  smiled  Isobel 
To  see  the  baby  sleep  so  well  — 
She  knew  not  that  she  smiled. 
Against  the  lattice,  dull  and  wild 
Drive  the  heavy  droning  drops, 


24 


THE   SERAPHIM    AND    OTHER   POEMS 


5° 


Drop  by  drop,  the  sound  being  one ;       40 
As  momently  time's  segments  fall 
On  the  ear  of  God,  who  hears  through  all 

Eternity's  unbroken  monotone: 
And  more  and  more  smiled  Isobel 
To  see  the  baby  sleep  so  well  — 
She  knew  not  that  she  smiled. 
The  wind  in  intermission  stops 
Down  in  the  beechen  forest, 

Then  cries  aloud 
As  one  at  the  sorest, 
Self-stung,  self-driven. 
And  rises  up  to  its  very  tops, 
Stiffening  erect  the  branches  bowed, 

Dilating  with  a  tempest-soul 
The    trees    that   with    their    dark   hands 

break 
Through  their  own  outline,  and  heavy  roll 
Shadows  as  massive  as  clouds  in  heaven 
Across  the  castle  lake. 
And  more  and  more  smiled  Isobel 
To  see  the  baby  sleep  so  well;  60 

She  knew  not  that  she  smiled; 
She  knew  not  that  the  storm  was  wild; 
Through  the  uproar   drear  she  could   not 

hear 
The  castle  clock  which  struck  anear  — 
She  heard  the  low,  light  breathing  of  her 
child. 


O  sight  for  wondering  look  ! 
While  the  external  nature  broke 
Into  such  abandonment. 
While  the  very  mist,  heart-rent 
By  the  lightning,  seemed  to  eddy 
Against  nature,  with  a  din,  — 
A  sense  of  silence  and  of  steady 
Natural  calm  appeared  to  come 
From  things  without,  and  enter  in 
The  human  creature's  room. 


70 


VI 

So  motionless  she  sate. 

The  babe  asleep  upon  her  knees, 
You  might  have  dreamed  their  souls  had 

gone 
Away  to  things  inanimate. 
In  such  to  live,  in  such  to  moan;  80 

And  that  their  bodies  had  ta'en  back, 

In  mystic  change,  all  silences 
That  cross  the  sky  in  cloudy  rack. 
Or  dwell  beneath  the  reedy  ground 
In  waters  safe  from  their  own  sound: 
Only  she  wore 


The  deepening  smile  I  named  before, 
And  that  a  deepening  love  expressed; 
And  who  at  once  can  love  and  rest  ? 

VII 

In  sooth  the  smile  that  then  was  keeping  90 
Watch  upon  the  baby  sleeping. 

Floated  with  its  tender  light 
Downward,  from  the  drooping  eyes. 
Upward,  from  the  lips  apart. 

Over  cheeks  which  had  grown  white 
With  an  eight-day  weeping: 
All  smiles  come  in  such  a  wise 

Where  tears  shall  fall  or  have  of  old  — 
Like  northern  lights  that  fill  the  heart 

Of  heaven  in  sign  of  cold.  100 

VIII 

Motionless  she  sate. 
Her  hair  had  fallen  by  its  weight 
On  each  side  of  her  smile,  and  lay 
Very  blackly  on  the  arm 
Where  the  baby  nestled  warm, 
Pale  as  baby  carved  in  stone 
Seen  by  glimpses  of  the  moon 

Up  a  dark  cathedral  aisle: 
But,  through  the  storm,  no  moonbeam  fell 
Upon  the  child  of  Isobel  —  no 

Perhaps  you  saw  it  by  the  ray 
Alone  of  her  still  smile. 

IX 

A  solemn  thing  it  is  to  me 

To  look  upon  a  babe  that  sleeps 

Wearing  in  its  spirit-deeps 
The  undeveloped  mystery 

Of  our  Adam's  taint  and  woe, 
Which,  when  they  developed  be, 

Will  not  let  it  slumber  so; 
Lvinof  new  in  life  beneath  120 

The  shadow  of  the  coming  death, 
With  that  soft,  low,  quiet  breath, 

As  if  it  felt  the  sun ; 
Knowing  all  things  by  their  blooms, 
Not  their  roots,  yea,  sun  and  sky 
Only  by  the  warmth  that  comes 
Out  of  each,  earth  only  by 

The  pleasant  hues  that  o'er  it  run. 
And  human  love  by  drops  of  sweet 

White  nourishment  still  hanging  round 

The  little  mouth  so  slumber-bound:  131 
All  which  broken  sentiency 
And  conclusion  incomplete. 

Will  gather  and  unite  and  climb 
To  an  immortality 


ISOBEL'S    CHILD 


25 


Good  or  evil,  each  sublime, 
Throuofh  life  and  death  to  life  again. 
O  little  lids,  now  folded  fast. 
Must  ye  learn  to  drop  at  last 

Our  large  and  burning  tears  ?         140 
O  warm  quick  body,  must  thou  lie, 
When  the  time  comes  round  to  die, 

Still  from  all  the  whirl  of  years, 
Bare  of  all  the  joy  and  pain  ? 
O  small  frail  being,  wilt  thou  stand 
At  God's  right  hand. 
Lifting  up  those  sleeping  eyes 
Dilated  by  great  destinies. 
To     an     endless    waking  ?     thrones     and 

seraphim, 
Throusfh  the  longf  ranks  of  their  solemni- 
ties,  150 

Sunnino-  thee  with  calm  looks  of  Heaven's 
surprise, 
But  thine  alone  on  Him  ? 
Or  else,  self-willed,  to   tread   the  Godless 

place, 
(God  keep  thy  will  !)  feel  thine  own  energies 
Cold,  strong,  objectless,  like  a  dead  man's 

clasp, 
The   sleepless   deathless   life    within    thee 

grasp,  — 
While    myriad  faces,  like   one    changeless 

face. 
With  woe  not  love's,  shall  glass  thee  every- 
where 
And  overcome  thee  with  thine  own  despair? 


X 


160 


More  soft,  less  solemn  images 
Drifted  o'er  the  lady's  heart 

Silently  as  snow. 
She  had  seen  eight  days  depart 
Hour  by  hour,  on  bended  knees. 

With  pale-wrung  hands  and  prayings  low 
And  broken,  through  which  came  the  sound 
Of  tears  that  fell  against  the  ground. 
Making    sad   stops:  —  'Dear    Lord,    dear 

Lord ! ' 
She  still  had  prayed,  (the  heavenly  word 
Broken  by  an  earthly  sigh) 
— '  Thou  who  didst  not  erst  deny 
The  mother-joy  to  Mary  mild. 
Blessed  in  the  blessed  child 
Which  hearkened  in  meek  babyhood 
Her  cradle-hymn,  albeit  used 
To  all  that  music  interfused 
In  breasts  of  angels  high  and  good  ! 
Oh,  take  not,  Lord,  my  babe  away  — 
Oh,  take  not  to  thy  songful  heaven 


170 


The  pretty  baby  thou  hast  given,  180 

Or  ere  that  I  have  seen  him  play 

Around  his  father's  knees  and  known 

That  he  knew  how  my  love  has  gone 

From  all  the  world  to  him. 

Think,  God  among  the  cherubim, 

How  I  shall  shiver  every  day 

In  thy  June  sunshine,  knowing  where 

The  grave-grass  keeps  it  from  his  fair 

Still  cheeks:  and  feel,  at  every  tread. 

His  little  body,  which  is  dead  190 

And  hidden  in  thy  turfy  fold. 

Doth  make  thy  whole  warm  earth  a-cold  ! 

O  God,  I  am  so  young,  so  young  — 

I  am  not  used  to  tears  at  nights 
Instead  of  slumber  —  not  to  prayer 
With  sobbing  lips  and  hands  out-wrung  ! 
Thou  knowest  all  ray  prayings  were 

'  I  bless  thee,  God,  for  past  delights  — 
Thank  God  !  '     I  am  not  used  to  bear 
Hard   thoughts  of  death;   the  earth  doth 


cover 


200 


210 


No  face  from  me  of  friend  or  lover: 
And  must  the  first  who  teaches  me 
The  form  of  shrouds  and  funerals,  be 
Mine  own  first-born  beloved  ?  he 
Who  tauo^ht  me  first  this  mother-love  ? 
Dear  Lord  who  spreadest  out  above 
Thy  loving,  transpierced  hands  to  meet 
All  lifted  hearts  with  blessing  sweet,  — 
Pierce  not  my  heart,  my  tender  heart 
Thou  madest  tender  !     Thou  who  art 
So  happy  in  thy  heaven  alway. 
Take  not  mine  only  bliss  away  ! ' 

XI 

She  so  had  prayed:  and  God,  who  hears 
Through  seraph-songs  the  sound  of  tears 
From  that  beloved  babe  had  ta'en 
The  fever  and  the  beating  pain. 
And  more  and  more  smiled  Isobel 
To  see  the  baby  sleep  so  well, 

(She  knew  not  that  she  smiled,  I  wis) 
Until  the  pleasant  gradual  thought 
Which  near  her  heart  the  smile  enwrought. 
Now  soft  and  slow,  itself  did  seem 
To  float  along  a  happy  dream. 

Beyond  it  into  speech  like  this. 

XII 

'  I  prayed  for  thee,  my  little  child, 
And  God  has  heard  my  prayer  ! 
And  when  thy  babyhood  is  gone. 
We  two  together  undefiled 
By  men's  repinings,  will  kneel  down 


220 


26 


THE   SERAPHIM   AND  OTHER   POEMS 


Upon  his  earth  which  will  be  fair  230 

(Not  covering  thee,  sweet  !)  to  us  twain, 
And  give  Him  thankful  praise.' 


XIII 

Dully  and  wildly  drives  the  rain: 
Against  the  lattices  drives  the  rain. 

XIV 

*  I  thank  Him  now,  that  I  can  think 

Of  those  same  future  days, 
Nor  from  the  harmless  image  shrink 

Of  what  I  there  might  see  — 
Strange  babies  on  their  mothers'  knee, 
Whose  innocent  soft  faces  might  240 

From  off  mine  eyelids  strike  the  light, 

With  looks  not  meant  for  me! ' 

XV 

Gustily  blows  the  wind  through  the  rain. 
As  against  the  lattices  drives  the  rain. 

XVI 

*  But  now,  O  baby  mine,  together. 

We  turn  this  hope  of  ours  again 
To  many  an  hour  of  summer  weather, 
When  we  shall  sit  and  intertwine 
Our  spirits,  and  instruct  each  other 
In  the  pure  loves  of  child  and  mother !  250 
Two  human  loves  make  one  divine.' 

XVII 

The  thunder  tears  through  the  wind  and 

the  rain. 
As  full  on  the  lattices  drives  the  rain. 

XVIII 

'  My  little  child,  what  wilt  thou  choose  ? 

Now  let  me  look  at  thee  and  ponder. 
What  gladness,  from  the  gladnesses 

Futurity  is  spreading  under 
Thy  gladsome  sight  ?   Beneath  the  trees 
Wilt  thou  lean  all  day,  and  lose 
Thy  spirit  with  the  river  seen  260 

Intermittently  between 

The  winding  beechen  alleys,  — 
Half  in  labor,  half  repose, 

Like  a  shepherd  keeping  sheep, 

Thou,  with  only  thoughts  to  keep 
Which  never  a  bound  will  overpass. 
And  which  are  innocent  as  those 

That  feed  among  Arcadian  valleys 
Upon  the  dewy  grass  ?  ' 


XIX 
The  large  white  owl  that  with  age  is  blind,  270 
That  hath  sate  for  years  in  the  old  tree 
hollow, 
Is  carried  away  in  a  gust  of  wind; 
His  wings  could  bear  him  not  as  fast 
As  he  goeth  now  the  lattice  past; 

He  is  borne  by  the   winds,  the  rains  do 
follow 
His  white  wings  to  the  blast  outflowing. 

He  hooteth  in  going. 
And  still,  in  the  lightnings,  coldly  glitter 
His  round  unblinking  eyes. 


XX 


280 


'  Or,  baby,  wilt  thou  think  it  fitter 

To  be  eloquent  and  wise, 
One  upon  whose  lips  the  air 

Turns  to  solemn  verities 
For  men  to  breathe  anew,  and  win 
A  deeper-seated  life  within  ? 
Wilt  be  a  philosopher. 

By  whose  voice  the  earth  and  skies 
Shall  speak  to  the  unborn  ? 
Or  a  poet,  broadly  spreading 

The  golden  immortalities  290 

Of  thy  soul  on  natures  lorn 

And  poor  of  such,  them  all  to  guard 
From  their  decay,  — beneath  thy  treading. 
Earth's  flowers  recovering  hues  of  Eden,  — 
And  stars,  drawn  downward  by  thy  looks, 
To  shine  ascendant  in  thy  books  ?  ' 

XXI 

The  tame  hawk  in  the  castle-yard, 
How  it  screams  to  the  lightning,  with  its 

wet 
Jagged  plumes  overhanging  the  parapet ! 
And  at  the  lady's  door  the  hound 
Scratches  with  a  crying  sound. 


300 


XXII 

'  But,  O  my  babe,  thy  lids  are  laid 

Close,  fast  upon  thy  cheek, 
And  not  a  dream  of  power  and  sheen 
Can  make  a  passage  up  between ; 
Thy  heart  is  of  thy  mother's  made, 

Thy  looks  are  very  meek. 
And  it  will  be  their  chosen  place 
To  rest  on  some  beloved  face. 

As  these  on  thine,  and  let  the  noise      3  la 
Of  the  whole  world  go  on  nor  drown 

The  tender  silence  of  thy  joys: 
Or  when  that  silence  shall  have  grown 

Too  tender  for  itself,  the  same 


ISOBEL'S   CHILD 


27 


Yearning  for  sound,  —  to  look  above 
And  utter  its  one  meaning,  love, 
That  He  may  hear  his  name.' 

XXIII 

No  wind,  no  rain,  no  thunder  ! 
The  waters  had  trickled  not  slowly, 
The  thunder  was  not  spent  320 

Nor  the  wind  near  finishing; 
Who  would  have  said  that  the  storm  was 
diminishins'  ? 

No  wind,  no  rain,  no  thunder  ! 
Their  noises  dropped  asunder 
From  the  earth  and  the  firmament, 
From  the  towers  and  the  lattices. 

Abrupt  and  echoless 
As  ripe   fruits    on   the   ground   unshaken 
wholly  — 
As  life  in  death  ! 
And  sudden  and  solemn  the  silence  fell,  330 
Startling  the  heart  of  Isobel 

As  the  tempest  could  not: 
Against  the  door  went  panting  the  breath 
Of  the  lady's  hound  whose  cry  was  still. 

And  she,  constrained  howe'er  she  would 
not. 
Lifted  her  eyes  and  saw  the  moon 
Looking  out  of  heaven  alone 

Upon  the  poplared  hill,  — 

A  calm  of  God,  made  visible 

That  men  might  bless  it  at  their  will.  340 

XXIV 

The  moonshine  on  the  baby's  face 

Falleth  clear  and  cold: 
The  mother's  looks  have  fallen  back 

To  the  same  place: 
Because  no  moon  with  silver  rack, 
Nor  broad  sunrise  in  jasper  skies 

Has  power  to  hold 

Our  loving  eyes, 
Which  still  revert,  as  ever  must 
Wonder  and  Hope,  to  gaze  on  the  dust.   350 

XXV 

The  moonshine  on  the  baby's  face 

Cold  and  clear  remaineth; 
The  mother's  looks  do  shrink  away,  — 
The  mother's  looks  return  to  stay, 

As  charmed  by  what  paineth: 
Is  any  glamour  in  the  case  ? 

Is  it  dream,  or  is  it  sight  ? 
Hath  the  change  upon  the  wild 


Elements  that  sign  the  night, 
Passed  upon  the  child  ? 
It  is  not  dream,  but  sight. 


360 


XXVI 


370 


380 


The  babe  has  awakened  from  sleep 

And  unto  the  gaze  of  its  mother, 

Bent  over  it,  lifted  another  — 

Not  the  baby-looks  that  go 

Unaimingly  to  and  fro. 
But  an  earnest  gazing  deep 
Such  as  soul  gives  soul  at  length 

When  by  work  and  wail  of  years 
It  winneth  a  solemn  strength 

And  mourneth  as  it  wears. 
A  strong  man  could  not  brook. 

With  pulse  unhurried  by  fears, 
To  meet  that  baby's  look 

O'erglazed  by  manhood's  tears, 
The  tears  of  a  man  full  grown, 
With  a  power  to  wring  our  own, 
In  the  eyes  all  undefiled 
Of  a  little  three-months   child  — 
To  see  that  babe-brow  wrouo^ht 
By  the  witnessing  of  thought 

To  judgment's  prodigy. 
And  the  small  soft  mouth  unweaned. 
By  mother's  kiss  o'erleaned, 
(Putting  the  sound  of  loving 
Where  no  sound  else  was  moving 

Except  the  speechless  cry) 
Quickened  to  mind's  expression, 
Shaped  to  articulation, 
Yea,  uttering  words,  yea,  naming  woe,     390 

In  tones  that  with  it  strangely  went 

Because  so  baby-innocent, 
As  the  child  spake  out  to  the  mother,  so :  — 

XXVII 

'  O  mother,  mother,  loose  thy  prayer  ! 

Christ's  name  hath  made  it  strong. 
It  bindeth  me,  it  holdeth  me 
With  its  most  loving  cruelty. 

From  floating  my  new  soul  along 

The  happy  heavenly  air. 
It  bindeth  me,  it  holdeth  me  400 

In  all  this  dark,  upon  this  dull 
Low  earth,  by  only  weepers  trod. 
It  bindeth  me,  it  holdeth  me  ! 

Mine  angel  looketh  sorrowful 
Upon  the  face  of  God.^ 

1  For  I  say  unto  you  that  in  Heaven  their  angels  do 
always  behold  the  face  of  my  Father  which  is  in  Hea- 
ven. —  Matt,  xviii.  10. 


28 


THE   SERAPHIM   AND   OTHER   POEMS 


XXVIII 

'  Mother,  mother,  can  I  dream 

Beneath  your  earthly  trees  ? 
I  had  a  vision  and  a  gleam, 

I  heard  a  sound  more  sweet  than  these 
When  rippled  by  the  wind:  410 

Did  you  see  the  Dove  with  wings 

Bathed  in  golden  glisterings 
From  a  sunless  light  behind, 

Dropping  on  me  from  the  sky, 
Soft  as  mother's  kiss,  until 
I  seemed  to  leap  and  yet  was  still  ? 

Saw  you  how  his  love-large  eye 
Looked  upon  me  mystic  calms, 

Till  the  power  of  his  divine 

Vision  was  indrawn  to  mine  ?  420 


XXIX 

*  Oh,  the  dream  within  the  dream  ! 

I  saw  celestial  places  even. 
Oh,  the  vistas  of  high  palms 

Making  finites  of  delight 

Through  the  heavenly  infinite, 
Lifting  up  their  green  still  tops 

To  the  heaven  of  heaven  ! 
Oh,  the  sweet  life-tree  that  drops 
Shade  like  light  across  the  river 
Glorified  in  its  for-ever 

Flowing  from  the  Throne  ! 
Oh,  the  shining  holinesses 
Of  the  thousand,  thousand  faces 

God-sunned  by  the  throned  One, 
And  made  intense  with  such  a  love 
That,  though  I  saw  them  turned  above, 
Each  loving  seemed  for  also  me  ! 
And,  oh,  the  Unspeakable,  the  He, 
The  manifest  in  secrecies 

Yet  of  mine  own  heart  partaker  440 

With  the  overcomino-  look 
Of  One  who  hath  been  once  forsook 

And  blesseth  the  forsaker  ! 
Mother,  mother,  let  me  go 
Toward  the  Face  that  looketh  so  ! 

Through  the  mystic  winged  Four 
Whose  are  inward,  outward  eyes 
Dark  with  light  of  mysteries 

And  the  restless  evermore 
"  Holy,  holy,  holy,"  —  through  450 

The  sevenfold  Lamps  that  burn  in  view 

Of  cherubim  and  seraphim,  — 
Through  the  four-and-twenty  crowned 
Stately  elders  white  around 

Suffer  me  to  go  to  Him  ! 


430 


XXX 

'  Is  your  wisdom  very  wise. 

Mother,  on  the  narrow  earth, 

Very  happy,  very  worth 
That  I  should  stay  to  learn  ? 
Are  these  air-corrupting  sighs  460 

Fashioned  by  unlearned  breath  ? 
Do  the  students'  lamps  that  burn 

All  night,  illumine  death  ? 
Mother,  albeit  this  be  so. 
Loose  thy  prayer  and  let  me  go 
Where  that  bright  chief  angel  stands 
Apart  from  all  his  brother  bands. 
Too  glad  for  smiling,  having  bent 
In  angelic  wilderment 

O'er  the  depths  of  God,  and  brought       470 
Reeling  thence  one  only  thought 
To  fill  his  own  eternity. 
He  the  teacher  is  for  me  — 
He  can  teach  what  I  would  know  — 
Mother,  mother,  let  me  go  ! 

XXXI 

'  Can  your  poet  make  an  Eden 

No  winter  will  undo, 
And  light  a  starry  fire  while  heeding 

His  hearth's  is  burning  too  ? 
Drown  in  music  the  earth's  din,  480 

And  keep  his  own  wild  soul  within 

The  law  of  his  own  harmony  ? 
Mother,  albeit  this  be  so. 
Let  me  to  my  heaven  go  ! 

A  little  harp  me  waits  thereby, 
A  harp  whose  strings  are  golden  all 
And  tuned  to  music  spherical. 
Hanging  on  the  green  life-tree 
Where  no  willows  ever  be. 
Shall  I  miss  that  harp  of  mine  ?  490 

Mother,  no  !  —  the  Eye  divine 
Turned  upon  it,  makes  it  shine; 
And  when  I  touch  it,  poems  sweet 
Like  separate  souls  shall  fly  from  it, 
Each  to  the  immortal  fvtte. 
W^e  shall  all  be  poets  there. 
Gazing  on  the  chief  est  Fair. 

XXXII 

'  Love  !  earth's  love  !  and  can  we  love 

Fixedly  where  all  things  move  ? 

Can  the  sinning  love  each  other  ?  500 

Mother,  mother, 
I  tremble  in  thy  close  embrace, 
I  feel  thy  tears  adown  my  face, 

Thy  prayers  do  keep  me  out  of  bliss  — 


A   ROMANCE   OF   THE   GANGES 


29 


O  dreary  earthly  love  ! 

Loose  thy  prayer  and  let  me  go 

To  the  place  which  loving  is 
Yet  not  sad;  and  when  is  given 
Escape  to  thee  from  this  below, 
Thou  shalt  behold  me  that  I  wait  510 

For  thee  beside  the  happy  Gate, 
And  silence  shall  be  up  in  heaven 

To  hear  our  greeting  kiss.' 

XXXIII 

The  nurse  awakes  in  the  morning  sun, 
And  starts  to  see  beside  her  bed 
The  lady  with  a  grandeur  spread 
Like  pathos  o'er  her  face,  as  one 
God-satisfied  and  earth-undone ; 
The  babe  upon  her  arm  was  dead: 
And  the  nurse  could  utter  forth  no  cry,  — 
She  was  awed  by  the  calm  in  the  mother's 
eyCo  521 

XXXIV 

*  Wake,  nurse  !  '  the  lady  said ; 

'  We  are  waking  —  he  and  I  — 
I,  on  earth,  and  he,  in  sky: 
And  thou  must  help  me  to  o'erlay 
With  garment  white  this  little  clay 
Which  needs  no  more  our  lullaby. 

XXXV 

'  I  changed  the  cruel  prayer  I  made. 

And  bowed  my  meekened  face,  and  prayed 

That  God  would  do  his  will;  and  thus      530 

He  did  it,  nurse  !     He  parted  us: 

And  his  sun  shows  victorious 

The  dead  calm  face,  —  and  /  am  calm. 

And  Heaven  is  hearkening  a  new  psalm. 

XXXVI 

''  This  earthly  noise  is  too  anear. 
Too  loud,  and  will  not  let  me  hear 
The  little  harp.     My  death  will  soon 
Make  silence.' 


And  a  sense  of  tune, 
A  satisfied  love  meanwhile 
Which  nothing  earthly  could  despoil, 
Sang  on  within  her  soul. 


540 


XXXVII 


Oh  you, 
Earth's  tender  and  impassioned  few, 
Take  courage  to  entrust  your  love 
To  Him  so  named  who  guards  above 
Its  ends  and  shall  fulfil  ! 


Breaking  the  narrow  prayers  that  may 
Befit  3'our  narrow  hearts,  away 

In  His  broad,  loving  will.  550 


A    ROMANCE    OF     THE     GANGES 


First  printed  in  Finden's  Tableaux  for  1838. 


Seven  maidens  'neath  the  midnight 

Stand  near  the  river-sea 
Whose  water  sweepeth  white  around 

The  shadow  of  the  tree; 
The  moon  and  earth  are  face  to  face, 

And  earth  is  slumbering  deep; 
The  wave-voice  seems  the  voice  of  dreams 

That  wander  through  her  sleep: 

The  river  floweth  on. 


II 

What  bring  they  'neath  the  midnight,       ic 

Beside  the  river-sea  ? 
They  bring  the  human  heart  wherein 

No  nightly  calm  can  be,  — 
That  droppeth  never  with  the  wind. 

Nor  drieth  with  the  dew: 
Oh,  calm  in  God  !  thy  calm  is  broad 

To  cover  spirits  too. 

The  river  floweth  on. 


Ill 

The  maidens  lean  them  over 

The  waiters,  side  by  side,  20 

And  shun  each  other's  deepening  eyes, 

And  gaze  adown  the  tide; 
For  each  within  a  little  boat 

A  little  lamp  hath  put. 
And  heaped  for  freight  some  lily's  weight 

Or  scarlet  rose  half  shut. 

The  river  floweth  on. 

IV 

Of  shell  of  cocoa  carven 

Each  little  boat  is  made; 
Each  carries  a  lamp,  and  carries  a  flower, 

And  carries  a  hope  unsaid;  31 

And  when  the  boat  hath  carried  the  lamp 

Unquenched  till  out  of  sight, 
The  maiden  is  sure  that  love  will  endure ; 

But  love  will  fail  with  light. 

The  river  floweth  on. 


30 


THE   SERAPHIM   AND  OTHER   POEMS 


Why,  all  the  stars  are  ready- 
To  symbolize  the  soul, 

The  stars  untroubled  by  the  wind. 

Unwearied  as  they  roll;  40 

And  yet  the  soul  by  instinct  sad 
Reverts  to  symbols  low  — 

To  that  small  flame,  whose  very  name 
Breathed  o'er  it,  shakes  it  so  ! 

The  river  floweth  on, 

VI 

Six  boats  are  on  the  river, 

Seven  maidens  on  the  shore. 
While  still  above  them  steadfastly 

The  stars  shine  evermore. 
Go,  little  boats,  go  soft  and  safe,  50 

And  guard  the  symbol  spark  ! 
The  boats  aright  go  safe  and  bright 

Across  the  waters  dark. 

The  river  floweth  on. 

VII 

The  maiden  Luti  watcheth 

Where  ouwardly  they  float: 
That  look  in  her  dilating  eyes 

Might  seem  to  drive  her  boat: 
Her  eyes  still  mark  the  constant  fire, 

And  kindling  unawares  60 

That  hopeful  while,  she  lets  a  smile 

Creep  silent  through  her  prayers. 
The  river  floweth  on. 

VIII 

The  smile  —  where  hath  it  wandered  ? 

She  riseth  from  her  knee, 
She  holds  her  dark,  wet  locks  away  — 

There  is  no  light  to  see  ! 
She  cries  a  quick  and  bitter  cry  — 

'  Nuleeni,  launch  me  thine  ! 
We  must  have  light  abroad  to-night,         70 

For  all  the  wreck  of  mine.' 

The  river  floweth  on. 

IX 

*  I  do  remember  watching 

Beside  this  river-bed, 
When  on  my  childish  knee  was  leaned 

My  dying  father's  head; 
I  turned  mine  own  to  keep  the  tears 

From  falling  on  his  face: 
What  doth  it  prove  when  Death  and  Love 

Choose  out  the  self-same  place  ?  '  80 

The  river  floweth  on. 


'  They  say  the  dead  are  joyful 

The  death-change  here  receiving: 
Who  say  —  ah  me  !  who  dare  to  say 

Where  joy  comes  to  the  living  ? 
Thy  boat,  Nuleeni !  look  not  sad  — 

Light  up  the  waters  rather  ! 
I  weep  no  faithless  lover  where 

I  wept  a  loving  father.' 

The  river  floweth  on. 

XI 

'  My  heart  foretold  his  falsehood  91 

Ere  my  little  boat  grew  dim; 
And  though  I  closed  mine  eyes  to  dream 

That  one  last  dream  of  him, 
They  shall  not  now  be  wet  to  see 

The  shining  vision  go: 
From  earth's  cold  love  I  look  above 

To  the  holy  house  of  snow.' 

The  river  floweth  on. 

XII 

*  Come  thou  —  thou  never  knewest  100 

A  grief,  that  thou  shouldst  fear  one  ! 
Thou  wearest  still  the  happy  look 

That  shines  beneath  a  dear  one: 
Thy  humming-bird  is  in  the  sun, 

Thy  cuckoo  in  the  grove. 
And  all  the  three  broad  worlds,  for  thee 

Are  full  of  wandering  love.' 

The  river  floweth  on. 

XIII 

'  Why,  maiden,  dost  thou  loiter  ? 

What  secret  wouldst  thou  cover?  no 

That  peepul  cannot  hide  thy  boat, 

And  I  can  guess  thy  lover; 
I  heard  thee  sob  his  name  in  sleep, 

It  was  a  name  I  knew: 
Come,  little  maid,  be  not  afraid. 

But  let  us  prove  him  true  ! ' 

The  river  floweth  on, 

XIV 

The  little  maiden  cometh. 

She  cometh  shy  and  slow; 
I  ween  she  seeth  through  her  lids  120 

They  drop  adown  so  low: 
Her  tresses  meet  her  small  bare  feet, 

She  stands  and  speaketh  nought, 
Yet  blusheth  red  as  if  she  said 

The  name  she  only  thoughto 

The  river  floweth  on. 


A   ROMANCE  OF   THE   GANGES 


3^ 


XV 
She  knelt  beside  the  water, 

She  lighted  up  the  flame, 
And  o'er  her  youthful  forehead's  calm 

The  fitful  radiance  came :  —  130 

*  Go,  little  boat,  go  soft  and  safe, 

And  guard  the  symbol  spark  ! ' 
Soft,  safe  doth  float  the  little  boat 
Across  the  waters  dark. 

The  river  floweth  on. 

XVI 

Glad  tears  her  eyes  have  blinded. 

The  light  they  cannot  reach; 
She  turneth  with  that  sudden  smile 

She  learnt  before  her  speech  — 
'  I  do  not  hear  his  voice,  the  tears  140 

Have  dimmed  my  light  away, 
But  the  symbol  light  will  last  to-night, 

The  love  will  last  for  aye  ! ' 

The  river  floweth  on. 

XVII 

Then  Luti  spake  behind  her, 

Outspake  she  bitterly  — 
<  By  the  symbol  light  that  lasts  to-night, 

Wilt  vow  a  vow  to  me  ?  ' 
Nuleeni  gazeth  up  her  face, 

Soft  answer  maketh  she  —  150 

*  By  loves  that  last  when  lights  are  past, 

I  vow  that  vow  to  thee  ! ' 

The  river  floweth  on. 

XVIII 

An  earthly  look  had  Luti 

Though  her  voice  was  deep  as  prayer  — 

*  The  rice  is  gathered  from  the  plains 

To  cast  upon  thine  hair: 
But  when  he  comes  his  marriao^e-band 

Around  thy  neck  to  throw, 
Thy  bride-smile  raise  to  meet  his  gaze,    160 
And  whisper,  —  There  is  one  betrays, 

While  Luti  suffers  woe? 

The  river  floweth  on. 

XIX 

*  And  when  in  seasons  after, 

Thy  little  bright-faced  son 
Shall  lean  against  thy  knee  and  ask 

What  deeds  his  sire  hath  done,  — 
Press  deeper  down  thy  mother-smile 

His  glossy  curls  among, 
View  deep  his  pretty  childish  eyes,  170 


And  whisper,  —  There  is  none  denies^ 
While  Luti  speaks  of  wrong.' 

The  river  floweth  on. 


XX 
Nuleeni  looked  in  wonder. 

Yet  softly  answered  she  — 
'  By  loves  that  last  when  lights  are  past, 

I  vowed  that  vow  to  thee: 
But  why  glads  it  thee  that  a  bride-day  be 

By  a  word  of  ivoe  defiled  ? 
That   a   word   of   wrong   take  the  cradle- 
song  iSo 
From  the  ear  of  a  sinless  child  ? ' 
'  Why  ? '    Luti   said,    and   her   laugh   was 
dread. 
And  her  eyes  dilated  wild  — 
'  That   the  fair   new  love  may  her  bride- 
groom prove. 
And  the  father  shame  the  child  ! ' 
The  river  floweth  on. 

XXI 

*  Thou  flowest  still,  O  river, 

Thou  flowest  'neath  the  moon; 
Thy  lily  bath  not  changed  a  leaf, 

Thy  charmed  lute  a  tune:  190 

He  mixed  his  voice  with  thine  and  his 

Was  all  I  heard  around; 
But  now,  beside  his  chosen  bride, 

I  hear  the  river's  sound.' 

The  river  floweth  on. 


XXII 

'  I  gaze  upon  her  beauty 

Through  the  tresses  that  en  wreathe  it; 
The  light  above  thy  wave,  is  hers  — 

My  rest,  alone  beneath  it: 
Oh,  give  me  back  the  dying  look 

My  father  gave  thy  water  ! 
Give  back  —  and  let  a  little  love 

O'erwatch  his  weary  daughter  ! ' 

The  river  floweth  on. 

XXIII 

'  Give  back  ! '  she  hath  departed  — 

The  word  is  wandering  with  her; 
And  the  stricken  maidens  hear  afar 

The  step  and  cry  together. 
Frail  symbols  ?     None  are  frail  enow 

For  mortal  joys  to  borrow  !  — 
While  bright  doth  float  Nuleeni's  boat. 

She  weepeth  dark  with  sorrow. 

The  river  floweth  on. 


200 


210 


32 


THE   SERAPHIM   AND   OTHER   POEMS 


AN    ISLAND 

'  All  goeth  but  Goddis  will.'  —  Old  Poet. 

First  printed  in  the  New  Monthly  Magazine, 
January,  1837. 


My  dream  is  of  an  island-place 
Which  distant  seas  keep  lonely, 

A  little  island  on  whose  face 
The  stars  are  watchers  only: 

Those  bright   still   stars  !    they  need    not 
seem 

Brighter  or  stiller  in  my  dream. 

II 

An  island  full  of  hills  and  dells, 

All  rumpled  and  uneven 
With  green  recesses,  sudden  swells, 

And  odorous  valleys  driven 
So  deep  and  straight  that  always  there 
The  wind  is  cradled  to  soft  air. 

Ill 

Hills  running  up  to  heaven  for  light 
Through  woods  that  half-way  ran. 

As  if  the  wild  earth  mimicked  right 
The  wilder  heart  of  man: 

Only  it  shall  be  greener  far 

And  gladder  than  hearts  ever  are. 

IV 

More  like,  perhaps,  that  mountain  piece 

Of  Dante's  paradise. 
Disrupt  to  an  hundred  hills  like  these, 

In  falling  from  the  skies; 
Bringing  within  it,  all  the  roots 
Of  heavenly  trees  and  flowers  and  fruits: 


For  —  saving  where  the  gray  rocks  strike 

Their  javelins  up  the  azure, 
Or  where  deep  fissures  miser-like 

Hoard  up  some  fountain  treasure, 
(And  e'en  in  them,  stoop  down  and  hear. 
Leaf  sounds  with  water  in  your  ear,)  — 

VI 

The  place  is  all  awave  with  trees, 
Limes,  myrtles  purple-beaded, 

Acacias  having  drunk  the  lees 
Of  the  night-dew,  faint-headed. 

And  wan  gray  olive-woods  which  seem 

The  fittest  foliage  for  a  dream. 


VII 

Trees,  trees  on  all  sides  !  they  combine 

Their  plumy  shades  to  throw, 
Through  whose    clear    fruit   and   blossom 
fine 

Whene'er  the  sun  may  go. 
The  ground  beneath  he  deeply  stains. 
As  passing  through  cathedral  panes. 

VIII 

But  little  needs  this  earth  of  ours 

That  shining  from  above  her. 
When  many  Pleiades  of  flowers 

(Not  one  lost)  star  her  over. 
The  rays  of  their  unnumbered  hues 
Being  all  refracted  by  the  dews. 

IX 

Wide-petalled  plants  that  boldly  drink 

The  Amreeta  of  the  sky, 
Shut  bells  that  dull  with  rapture  sink. 

And  lolling  buds,  half  shy; 
I  cannot  count  them,  but  between 
Is  room  for  grass  and  mosses  green, 

X 

And  brooks,  that  glass  in  different  strengths 

All  colors  in  disorder, 
Or,  gathering  up  their  silver  lengths 

Beside  their  winding  border, 
Sleep,  haunted  through  the  slumber  hidden, 
By  lilies  white  as  dreams  in  Eden. 

XI 

Nor  think  each  arched  tree  with  each 

Too  closely  interlaces 
To  admit  of  vistas  out  of  reach. 

And  broad  moon-lighted  places 
Upon  whose  sward  the  autlered  deer 
May  view  their  double  image  clear. 

XII 

For  all  this  island's  creature-full, 

(Kept  happy  not  by  halves) 
Mild  cows,  that  at  the  vine-wreaths  pull. 

Then  low  back  at  their  calves 
With  tender  lowings,  to  approve 
The  warm  mouths  milking  them  for  love. 

XIII 

Free  gamesome  horses,  antelopes. 
And  harmless  leaping  leopards, 

And  buffaloes  upon  the  slopes. 
And  sheep  unruled  by  shepherds: 


AN    ISLAND 


33 


Hares,  lizards,  hedgehogs,  badgers,  mice. 
Snakes,  squirrels,  frogs,  and  butterflies. 

XIV 

And  birds  that  live  there  in  a  crowd. 
Horned  owls,  rapt  nightingales, 

Larks  bold  with  heaven,  and  peacocks  proud, 
Self-sphered  in  those  grand  tails ; 

All  creatures  glad  and  safe,  I  deem. 

No  guns  nor  springes  in  my  dream  ! 

XV 

The  island's  edges  are  a-wing 

With  trees  that  overbranch 
The  sea  with  song-birds  welcoming 

The  curlews  to  green  change; 
And  doves  from  half-closed  lids  espy 
The  red  and  purple  fish  go  by. 

XVI 

One  dove  is  answering  in  trust 

The  water  every  minute, 
Thinking  so  soft  a  murmur  must 

Have  her  mate's  cooing  in  it: 
So  softly  doth  earth's  beauty  round 
Lifuse  itself  in  ocean's  sound. 

XVII 

My  sanguine  soul  bounds  forwarder 

To  meet  the  bounding  waves; 
Beside  them  straightway  I  repair, 

To  live  within  the  caves : 
And  near  me  two  or  three  may  dwell 
Whom  dreams  fantastic  please  as  well. 

XVIII 

Long  winding  caverns,  glittering  far 

Into  a  crystal  distance  ! 
Through  clefts  of  which  shall  many  a  star 

Shine  clear  without  resistance. 
And  carry  down  its  rays  the  smell 
Of  flowers  above  invisible. 

XIX 

I  said  that  two  or  three  might  choose 
Their  dwelling  near  mine  own: 

Those  who  would  change  man's  voice  and 
use, 
For  Nature's  way  and  tone  — 

Man's  veering  heart  and  careless  eyes, 

For  Nature's  steadfast  sympathies. 

XX 

Ourselves,  to  meet  her  faithfulness, 
Shall  play  a  faithful  part; 


Her  beautiful  shall  ne'er  address 

The  monstrous  at  our  heart: 
Her  musical  shall  ever  touch 
Something  within  us  also  such. 

XXI 

Yet  shall  she  not  our  mistress  live, 

As  doth  the  moon  of  ocean. 
Though  gently  as  the  moon  she  give 

Our  thoughts  a  light  and  motion: 
More  like  a  harp  of  many  lays, 
Moving  its  master  while  he  plays. 

XXII 

No  sod  in  all  that  island  doth 

Yawn  open  for  the  dead; 
No  wind  hath  borne  a  traitor's  oath; 

No  earth,  a  mourner's  tread; 
We  cannot  say  by  stream  or  shade, 
*  I  suffered  here,  —  was  here  betrayed.' 

XXIII 

Our  only  '  farewell '  we  shall  laugh 

To  shifting  cloud  or  hour. 
And  use  our  only  epitaph 

To  some  bud  turned  a  flower: 
Our  only  tears  shall  serve  to  prove 
Excess  in  pleasure  or  in  love. 

XXIV 

Our  fancies  shall  their  plumage  catch 

From  fairest  island-birds, 
Whose  eggs  let  young  ones  out  at  hatch^ 

Born  singing  !  then  our  words 
Unconsciously  shall  take  the  dyes 
Of  those  prodigious  fantasies. 

XXV 

Yea,  soon,  no  consonant  unsmooth 
Our  smile-tuned  lips  shall  reach ; 

Sounds  sweet  as  Hellas  spake  in  youth 
Shall  glide  into  our  speech : 

(What  music,  certes,  can  you  find 

As  soft  as  voices  which  are  kind  ?") 

XXVI 

And  often,  by  the  joy  without 

And  in  us,  overcome, 
We,  through  our  musing,  shall  let  float 

Such  poems,  —  sitting  dumb,  — 
As  Pindar  might  have  writ  if  he 
Had  tended  sheep  in  Arcady; 


34 


THE   SERAPHIM   AND   OTHER   POEMS 


XXVII 

Or  ^schylus  —  the  pleasant  fields 

He  died  in,  longer  knowing; 
Or  Homer,  had  men's  sins  and  shields 

Been  lost  in  Meles  flowing; 
Or  Poet  Plato,  had  the  undim 
Unsetting  Godlight  broke  on  him. 

XXVIII 

Choose  me  the  cave  most  worthy  choice, 

To  make  a  place  for  prayer. 
And  I  will  choose  a  praying  voice 

To  pour  our  spirits  there: 
How  silverly  the  echoes  run  ! 
Thy  loill  be  done,  —  thy  ivill  he  done. 

XXIX 

Gently  yet  strangely  uttered  words  ! 

They  lift  me  from  my  dream; 
The  island  fadeth  with  its  swards 

That  did  no  more  than  seem: 
The  streams  are  dry,  no  sun  could  find  — 
The  fruits  are  fallen,  without  wind. 

XXX 

So  oft  the  doing  of  God's  will 

Our  foolish  wills  undoetli ! 
And  yet  what  idle  dream  breaks  ill, 

Which  morning- light  subdueth  ? 
And  who  would  murmur  and  misdoubt. 
When  God's  great  sunrise  finds  him  out  ? 


THE    DESERTED    GARDEN 

I  MIND  me  in  the  days  departed. 
How  often  underneath  the  sun 
With  childish  bounds  I  used  to  run 
To  a  garden  long  deserted. 

The  beds  and  walks  were  vanished  quite; 
And  wheresoe'er  had  struck  the  spade. 
The  greenest  grasses  Nature  laid 
To  sanctify  her  right. 

I  called  the  place  my  wilderness. 
For  no  one  entered  there  but  I; 
The  sheep  looked  in,  the  grass  to  espy, 
And  passed  it  ne'ertheless. 

The  trees  were  interwoven  wild, 
And  spread  their  boughs  enough  about 
To  keep  both  sheep  and  shepherd  out, 
But  not  a  happy  child. 


Adventurous  joy  it  was  for  me  ! 
I  crept  beneath  the  boughs,  aud  found 
A  circle  smooth  of  mossy  ground 
Beneath  a  poplar  tree. 

Old  garden  rose-trees  hedged  it  in, 
Bedropt  with  roses  waxen-white 
Well  satisfied  with  dew  and  light 
And  careless  to  be  seen. 

Long  years  ago  it  might  befall. 
When  all  the  garden  flowers  were  trim, 
The  grave  old  gardener  prided  him 
On  these  the  most  of  all. 

Some  lady,  stately  overmuch. 
Here  moving  with  a  silken  noise. 
Has  blushed  beside  them  at  the  voice 
That  likened  her  to  such. 

And  these,  to  make  a  diadem. 
She  often  may  have  plucked  and  twined, 
Half-smiling  as  it  came  to  mind 
That  few  would  look  at  them. 

Oh,  little  thought  that  lady  proud, 
A  child  would  watch  her  fair  white  rose, 
When  buried  lay  her  whiter  brows. 
And  silk  was  changed  for  shroud  ! 

Nor  thought  that  gardener,  (full  of  scorns 
For  men  unlearned  and  simple  phrase,) 
A  child  would  bring  it  all  its  praise 
By  creeping  through  the  thorns  ! 

To  me  upon  my  low  moss  seat. 
Though  never  a  dream  the  roses  sent 
Of  science  or  love's  compliment, 
I  ween  they  smelt  as  sweet. 

It  did  not  move  my  grief  to  see 
The  trace  of  human  step  departed: 
Because  the  garden  was  deserted, 
The  blither  place  for  me  ! 

Friends,  blame  me  not  !  a  narrow  ken 
Has  childhood  'twixt  the  sun  and  sward; 
We  draw  the  moral  afterward. 
We  feel  the  gladness  then. 

And  gladdest  hours  for  me  did  glide 
In  silence  at  the  rose-tree  wall: 
A  thrush  made  gladness  musical 
Upon  the  other  side. 


THE   SOUL'S   TRAVELLING 


35 


Nor  he  nor  I  did  e'er  incline 
To  peck  or  pluck  the  blossoms  white; 
How  should  I  know  but  roses  might 
Lead  lives  as  glad  as  mine  ? 

To  make  my  hermit-home  complete, 
I  brought  clear  water  from  the  spring 
Praised  in  its  own  low  murmuring, 
And  cresses  glossy  wet. 

And  so,  I  thought,  my  likeness  grew 
(Without  the  melancholy  tale) 
To  '  gentle  hermit  of  the  dale,' 
And  Angelina  too. 

For  oft  I  read  within  my  nook 
Such  minstrel  stories;  till  the  breeze 
Made  sounds  poetic  in  the  trees. 
And  then  I  shut  the  book. 

If  I  shut  this  wherein  I  write 
I  hear  no  more  the  wind  athwart 
Those  trees,  nor  feel  that  childish  heart 
Delighting  in  delight. 

My  childhood  from  my  life  is  parted. 
My  footstep  from  the  moss  which  drew 
Its  fairy  circle  round:  anew 
The  garden  is  deserted. 

Another  thrush  may  there  rehearse 
The  madrigals  which  sweetest  are; 
No  more  for  me  !  myself  afar 
Do  sing  a  sadder  verse. 

Ah  me,  ah  me  !  when  erst  I  lay 
In  that  child's-nest  so  greenly  wrought, 
I  laughed  unto  myself  and  thought 
'  The  time  will  pass  away.' 

And  still  I  laughed,  and  did  not  fear 
But  that,  whene'er  was  past  away 
The  childish  time,  some  happier  play 
My  womanhood  would  cheer. 

I  knew  the  time  would  pass  away, 
And  yet,  beside  the  rose-tree  wall. 
Dear  God,  how  seldom,  if  at  all, 
Did  I  look  up  to  pray  ! 

The  time  is  past;  and  now  that  grows 
The  cypress  high  among  the  trees. 
And  I  behold  white  sepulchres 
As  well  as  the  white  rose, — 


When  graver,  meeker  thoughts  are  given, 
And  I  have  learnt  to  lift  my  face. 
Reminded  how  earth's  greenest  place 
The  color  draws  from  heaven,  — 

It  something  saith  for  earthly  pain. 
But  more  for  Heavenly  promise  free, 
That  I  who  was,  would  shrink  to  be 
That  happy  child  again. 


THE    SOUL'S    TRAVELLING 


'  'HSt)  voepovg 

Ueraaai  rapcrou?.'  —  Synesius, 


I  DWELL  amid  the  city  ever. 

The  great  humanity  which  beats 

Its  life  along  the  stony  streets. 

Like  a  strong  and  imsunned  river 

In  a  self-made  course, 

I  sit  and  hearken  while  it  rolls. 

Very  sad  and  very  hoarse 

Certes  is  the  flow  of  souls; 

lufinitest  tendencies 

By  the  finite  prest  and  pent,  lo 

In  the  finite,  turbulent: 

How  we  tremble  in  surprise 

When  sometimes,  with  an  awful  sound, 

God's  great  plummet  strikes  the  ground  ! 

II 

The  champ  of  the  steeds  on  the  silver 
bit. 

As  they  whirl  the  rich  man's  carriage  by; 

The  beggar's  whine  as  he  looks  at  it, — 

But  it  goes  too  fast  for  charity; 

The  trail  on  the  street  of  the  poor  man's 
broom, 

That  the  lady  who  walks  to  her  palace- 
home,  20 

On  her  silken  skirt  may  catch  no  dust; 

The  tread  of  the  business-men  who  must 

Count  their  per-cents  by  the  paces  they  take; 

The  cry  of  the  babe  unheard  of  its  mother 

Though  it  lie  on  her  breast,  while  she  thinks 
of  her  other 

Laid  j^esterday  where  it  will  not  wake; 

The  flower-girl's  prayer  to  buy  roses  and 
pinks 

Held  out  in  the  smoke,  like  stars  by  day; 

The  gin-door's  oath  that  hollowly  chinks 

Guilt  upon  grief  and  wrong  upon  hate;     30 


36 


THE   SERAPHIM   AND   OTHER   POEMS 


The  cabman's  cry  to  get  out  of  the  way; 
The  dustman's  call  clown  the  area-grate; 
The  young  maid's  jest,  and  the  old  wife's 

scold, 
The  haggling  talk  of  the  boys  at  a  stall. 
The  fight  in  the  street  which  is  backed  for 

gold, 
The  plea  of  the  lawyers  in  Westminster 

Hall; 
The  drop  on  the  stones  of  the  blind  man's 

staff 
As  he  trades  in  his   own   grief's  sacred- 

ness, 
The    brothel    shriek,    and    the    Newgate 

laugh, 
The   hum  upon  'Change,  and  the  organ's 

grinding,  40 

(The  grinder's  face  being  nevertheless 
Dry  and  vacant  of  even  woe 
While    the   children's   hearts   are  leaping 

so 
At  the  merry  music's  winding;) 
The  black-plumed  funeral's  creeping  train, 
Long  and  slow  (and  yet  they  will  go 
As  fast  as  Life  though  it  hurry  and  strain  !) 
Creeping  the  populous  houses  through 
And  nodding  their  plumes  at  either  side,  — 
At  many  a  house,  where  an  infant,  new    50 
To  the  sunshiny  world,  has  just  struggled 

and  cried,  — 
At  many  a  house  where  sitteth  a  bride 
Trying  to-morrow's  coronals 
With  a  scarlet  blush  to-day: 
Slowly  creep  the  funerals. 
As  none  should  hear  the  noise  and  say 
'  The  living,  the  living  must  go  away 
To  multiply  the  dead.' 
Hark  !  an  upward  shout  is  sent. 
In  grave  strong  joy  from  tower  to  steeple 

The  bells  ring  out,  61 

The  trumpets  sound,  the  people  shout. 
The  young  queen  goes  to  her  Parliament. 
She  turneth  round  her  large  blue  eyes 
More  bright  with  childish  memories 
Than  royal  hopes,  upon  the  people ; 
On  either  side  she  bows  her  head 

Lowly,  with  a  queenly  grace 
And  smile  most  trusting-innocent. 
As  if  she  smiled  upon  her  mother;  70 

The  thousands  press  before  each  other 

To  bless  her  to  her  face ; 
And  booms  the  deep  majestic  voice 
Through   trump    and   drum,  —  *  May   the 

queen  rejoice 
In  the  people's  liberties  ! ' 


III 

I  dwell  amid  the  city. 
And  hear  the  flow  of  souls  in  act  and  speech, 
For    pomp   or   trade,    for   merrj^make    or 

folly: 
I  hear  the  confluence  and  sum  of  each. 

And  that  is  melancholy  !  80 

Thy  voice  is  a  complaint,  O  crowned  city. 
The    blue   sky   covering   thee   like   God's 
great  pity. 

IV 

O  blue  sky  !  it  mindeth  me 
Of  places  where  I  used  to  see 
Its  vast  unbroken  circle  thrown 
From  the  far  pale-peaked  hill 
Out  to  the  last  verge  of  ocean. 
As  by  God's  arm  it  were  done 
Then  for  the  first  time,  with  the  emotion 
Of  that  first  impulse  on  it  still.  90 

Oh,  we  spirits  fly  at  will 
Faster  than  the  winged  steed 
Whereof  in  old  book  we  read, 
With  the  sunlight  foaming  back 
From  his  flanks  to  a  misty  wrack, 
And  his  nostril  reddening  proud 
As  he  breasteth  the  steep  thunder-cloud,  — 
Smoother  than  Sabrina's  chair 
Gliding  up  from  wave  to  air. 
While  she  smileth  debonair 
Yet  holy,  coldly  and  yet  brightly. 
Like  her  own  mooned  waters  nightly, 
Through  her  dripping  hair. 


Very  fast  and  smooth  we  fly. 

Spirits,  though  the  flesh  be  by; 

All  looks  feed  not  from  the  eye 

Nor  all  hearings  from  the  ear: 

We  can  hearken  and  espy 

Without  either,  we  can  journey 

Bold  and  gay  as  knight  to  tourney,  no 

And,  though  we  wear  no  visor  down 

To  dark  our  countenance,  the  foe 

Shall  never  chafe  us  as  we  go. 

VI 

I  am  gone  from  peopled  town  ! 

It  passeth  its  street-thunder  round 

My  body  which  yet  hears  no  sound, 

For  now  another  sound,  another 

Vision,  my  soul's  senses  have  — 

O'er  a  hundred  valleys  deep 

Where  the  hills'  green  shadows  sleep      120 


100 


I 


4 


THE   SOUL'S   TRAVELLING 


37 


Scarce  known  because  the  valley-trees 
Cross  those  upland  images, 
O'er  a  hundred  hills  each  other 
Watching  to  the  western  wave, 
I  have  travelled,  — I  have  found 
The  silent,  lone,  remembered  ground. 

VII 

I  have  found  a  grassy  niche 

Hollowed  in  a  seaside  hill. 

As  if  the  ocean-grandeur  which 

Is  aspectable  from  the  place,  130 

Had  struck  the  hill  as  with  a  mace 

Sudden  and  cleaving.     You  might  fill 

That  little  nook  with  the  little  cloud 

Which  sometimes  lieth  by  the  moon 

To  beautify  a  night  of  June; 

A  cavelike  nook  which,  opening  all 

To  the  wide  sea,  is  disallowed 

From  its  own  earth's  sweet  pastoral:    " 

Cavelike,  but  roofless  overhead 

And  made  of  verdant  banks  instead  140 

Of  any  rocks,  with  flowerets  spread 

Instead  of  spar  and  stalactite, 

Cowslips  and  daisies  gold  and  white : 

Such  pretty  flowers  on  such  green  sward, 

You  think  the  sea  they  look  toward 

Doth  serve  them  for  another  sky 

As  warm  and  blue  as  that  on  high. 

VIII 

And  in  this  hollow  is  a  seat. 

And  when  you  shall  have  crept  to  it, 

Slipping  down  the  banks  too  steep  150 

To  be  o'erbrows^d  by  the  sheep, 

Do  not  think  —  though  at  your  feet 

The  cliff 's  disrupt  —  you  shall  behold 

The  line  where  earth  and  ocean  meet; 

You  sit  too  much  above  to  view 

The  solemn  confluence  of  the  two: 

You  can  hear  them  as  they  greet, 

You  can  hear  that  evermore 

Distance-softened  noise  more  old 

Than  Nereid's  singing,  the  tide  spent       160 

Joinins;  soft  issues  with  the  shore 

In  harmony  of  discontent. 

And  when  you  hearken  to  the  grave 

Lamenting  of  the  underwave, 

You  must  believe  in  earth's  communion 

Albeit  you  witness  not  the  union. 

IX 

Except  that  sound,  the  place  is  full 
Of  silences,  which  when  you  cull 
By  any  word,  it  thrills  you  so 


That  presently  you  let  them  grow  170 

To  meditation's  fullest  length 
Across  your  soul  with  a  soul's  strength: 
And  as  they  touch  your  soul,  they  borrow 
Both  of  its  grandeur  and  its  sorrow, 
That  deathly  odor  which  the  clay 
Leaves  on  its  deathlessness  alwky. 

X 

Alway  !  alway  ?  must  this  be  ? 

Rapid  Soul  from  city  gone. 

Dost  thou  carry  inwardly 

What  doth  make  the  city's  moan  ?  180 

Must  this  deep  sigh  of  thine  own 

Haunt  thee  with  humanity  ? 

Green  visioned  banks  that  are  too  steep 

To  be  o'erbrows^d  by  the  sheep. 

May  all  sad  thoughts  adown  you  creep 

Without  a  shepherd  ?     Mighty  sea. 

Can  we  dwarf  thy  magnitude 

And  fit  it  to  our  straitest  mood  ? 

O  fair,  fair  Nature,  are  we  thus 

Impotent  and  querulous  190 

Among  thy  workings  glorious, 

Wealth  and  sanctities,  that  still 

Leave  us  vacant  and  defiled 

And  wailing  like  a  soft-kissed  child, 

Kissed  soft  against  his  will  ? 

XI 

God,  God  ! 

With  a  child's  voice  I  cry. 

Weak,  sad,  confidingly  — 

God,  God  ! 

Thou  knowest,  eyelids,  raised  not  always 

up 
Unto    thy   love,    (as   none    of    ours    are) 
droop 
As  ours,  o'er  many  a  tear; 
Thou    knowest,    though    thy    universe    is 

broad. 
Two  little  tears  suffice  to  cover  all: 
Thou  knowest,  Thou  who  art  so  prodigal 
Of  beauty,  we  are  oft  but  stricken  deer 
Expiring  in  the  woods,  that  care  for  none 
Of    those    delightsome    flowers    they   die 
upon. 

XII 

O    blissful    Mouth    which     breathed    the 

mournful  breath 
We  name  our  souls,  self-spoilt  !  —  by  that 

strong  passion  210 

Which  paled  Thee  once  with  sighs,  by  that 

strong  death 


38 


THE   SERAPHIM   AND   OTHER   POEMS 


Which   made    Thee    once    unbreathing  — 

from  the  wrack 
Themselves  have  called  around  them,  call 

them  back, 
Back  to  Thee  in  continuous  aspiration  ! 

For  here,  O  Lord, 
For  here  they  travel  vainly,  vainly  pass 
From  city-pavement  to  untrodden  sward 
Where  the  lark  finds  her  deep  nest  in  the 

grass 
Cold  with  the  earth's  last  dew.     Yea,  very 

vain 
The  greatest  speed  of  all  these  souls  of  men 
Unless  they  travel  upward  to  the  throne  221 
Where  sittest  Thou  the  satisfying  One, 
With  help  for  sins  and  holy  perfectings 
For  all  requirements:  while  the  archangel, 

raising 
Unto  thy  face  his  full  ecstatic  gazing, 
Forgets  the  rush  and  rapture  of  his  wings. 


SOUNDS 

'"H/couo-as  ij  ovK  rjKOvaa^.'  —  ^schylus. 


Hearken,  hearken  ! 
The  rapid  river  carrieth 
Many  noises  underneath 

The  hoary  ocean: 
Teaching  his  solemnity 
Sounds  of  inland  life  and  glee 
Learnt  beside  the  waving  tree 
When  the  winds  in  summer  prank 
Toss  the  shades  from  bank  to  bank, 
And  the  quick  rains,  in  emotion  10 

Which  rather  gladdens  earth  than  grieves. 
Count  and  visibly  rehearse 
The  pulses  of  the  universe 
Upon  the  summer  leaves  — 
Learnt  among  the  lilies  straight 
When  they  bow  them  to  the  weight 
Of  many  bees  whose  hidden  hum 
Seemeth  from  themselves  to  come  — 
Learnt  among  the  grasses  green 
Where  the  rustling  mice  are  seen  20 

By  the  gleaming,  as  they  run, 
Of  their  quick  eyes  in  the  sun; 
And  lazy  sheep  are  browsing  through 
With  their  noses  trailed  in  dew; 
And  the  squirrel  leaps  adown 
Holding  fast  the  filbert  brown ; 
And  the  lark,  with  more  of  mirth 
In  his  song  than  suits  the  earth, 


30 


40 


Droppeth  some  in  soaring  high. 
To  pour  the  rest  out  in  the  sky  ; 
While  the  woodland  doves  apart 
In  the  copse's  leafy  heart, 
Solitary,  not  ascetic. 
Hidden  and  yet  vocal,  seem 
Joining,  in  a  lovely  psalm, 
Man's  despondence,  nature's  calm. 
Half  mystical  and  half  pathetic. 
Like  a  singing  in  a  dream. 
All  these  sounds  the  river  telleth. 
Softened  to  an  undertone 
Which  ever  and  anon  he  swelleth 
By  a  burden  of  his  own, 

In  the  ocean's  ear: 
Ay,  and  ocean  seems  to  hear 
With  an  inward  gentle  scorn, 
Smiling  to  his  caverns  worn. 


II 

Hearken,  hearken  ! 
The  child  is  shouting  at  his  play 
Just  in  the  tramping  funeral's  way; 
The  widow  moans  as  she  turns  aside         50 
To  shun  the  face  of  the  blushing  bride 
While,  shaking  the  tower   of  the  ancient 

church. 
The  marriage  bells  do  swing; 
And  in  the  shadow  of  the  porch 
An  idiot  sits  with  his  lean  hands  full 
Of  hedgerow  flowers  and  a  poet's  skull, 
Laughing  loud  and  gibbering 
Because  it  is  so  brown  a  thing. 
While  he  sticketh  the  gaudy  poppies  red 
In  and  out  the  senseless  head  60 

Where  all  sweet  fancies  grew  instead: 
And  you  may  hear  at  the  self-same  time 
Another  poet  who  reads  his  rhyme, 
Low  as  a  brook  in  summer  air. 
Save  when  he  droppeth  his  voice  adown 
To  dream  of  the  amaranthine  crown 
His  mortal  brows  shall  wear: 
And  a  baby  cries  with  a  feeble  sound 
'Neath  the  weary  weight  of  the  life  new- 
found, 
And  an  old  man  groans,  —  with  his  testa- 
ment 70 
Only  half-signed,  —  for  the  life  that 's  spent; 
And  lovers  twain  do  softly  say. 
As  they  sit  on  a  grave,  '  For  aye,  for  aye  !  ' 
And  f  oemen  twain,  while  Earth  their  mother 
Looks  greenly  upward,  curse  each  other; 
A  school-boy  drones  his  task,  with  looks 
Cast  over  the  page  to  the  elm-tree  rooks; 
A  lonely  student  cries  aloud 


NIGHT   AND   THE   MERRY   MAN 


39 


Eureka  !  clasping  at  his  shroud ; 

A  beldame's  age-cracked  voice  doth  sing  80 

To  a  little  infant  slumbering; 

A  maid  forgotten  weeps  alone, 

Muffling  her  sobs  on  the  trysting-stone ; 

A  sick  man  wakes  at  his  own  mouth's  wail, 

A  gossip  coughs  in  her  thrice-told  tale, 

A  muttering  gamester  shakes  the  dice, 

A  reaper  foretells  goodluck  from  the  skies, 

A  monarch  vows  as  he  lifts  his  hand  to  them; 

A  patriot,  leaving  his  native  land  to  them. 

Cries  to  the  world  against  perjured  state;  90 

A  priest  disserts 

Upon  linen  skirts, 

A  sinner  screams  for  one  hope  more, 

A  dancer's  feet  do  palpitate 

A  piper's  music  out  on  the  floor; 

And  nigh  to  the  awful  Dead,  the  living 

Low  speech  and  stealthy  steps  are  giving, 

Because  he  cannot  hear; 

And  he  who  on  that  narrow  bier 

Has  room  enough,  is  closely  wound  100 

In  a  silence  piercing  more  than  sound. 

Ill 

Hearken,  hearken  ! 
God  speaketh  to  thy  soul, 
Using  the  supreme  voice  which  doth  con- 
found 
All  life  with  consciousness  of  Deity, 

All  senses  into  one,  — 
As  the  seer-saint  of  Patmos,  loving  John 

(For  whom  did  backward  roll 
The  cloud-gate  of  the  future)  turned  to  see 
The  Voice  which  spake.     It  speaketh  now, 
Through  the  regular  breath  of  the  calm 
creation,  m 

Through  the  moan  of  the  creature's  desola- 
tion 
Striking,  and  in  its  stroke  resembling 
The  memory  of  a  solemn  vow 
Which  pierceth  the  din  of  a  festival 
To  one  in  the  midst,  —  and  he  letteth  fall 
The  cup  with  a  sudden  trembling. 

IV 

Hearken,  hearken  ! 
God  speaketh  in  thy  soul, 
Saying,  '  O  thou  that  movest  120 

With  feeble  steps  across  this  earth  of  Mine, 
To  break  beside  the  fount  thy  golden  bowl 

And  spill  its  purple  wine,  — 
Look   up   to   heaven  and   see  how,  like  a 

scroll, 
My  right  hand  hath  thine  immortality 


In  an  eternal  grasping  !  thou,  that  lovest 
The  songful  birds  and  grasses  underfoot. 
And    also    what    change  mars  and   tombs 

pollute  — 
/  am  the  end  of  love  !  give  love  to  Me  ! 
O    thou    that    sinnest,  grace    doth    more 
abound  130 

Than  all  thy  sin !  sit  still  beneath  My  rood. 
And  count  the    droppings  of  My  victim- 
blood, 
And  seek  none  other  sound  ! ' 

V 

Hearken,  hearken  ! 
Shall  we  hear  the  lapsing  river 
And  our  brother's  sighing  ever, 

And  not  the  voice  of  God  ? 


NIGHT   AND    THE    MERRY    MAN 


NIGHT 

'Neath  my  moon  what  doest  thou, 
With  a  somewhat  paler  brow 
Than  she  giveth  to  the  ocean  ? 
He,  without  a  pulse  or  motion. 
Muttering  low  before  her  stands, 
Lifting  his  invoking  hands 
Like  a  seer  before  a  sprite. 
To  catch  her  oracles  of  light: 
But  thy  soul  out-trembles  now 
Many  pulses  on  thy  brow. 
Where  be  all  thy  laughters  clear, 
Others  laughed  alone  to  hear  ? 
Where  thy  quaint  jests,  said  for  fame  ? 
Where  thy  dances,  mixed  with  game  ? 
Where  thy  festive  companies, 
Mooned  o'er  with  ladies'  eyes 
All  more  bright  for  thee,  I  trow  ? 
'Neath  my  moon  what  doest  thou  ? 


10 


THE    MERRY   MAN 

I  am  digging  my  warm  heart 
Till  I  find  its  coldest  part; 
I  am  digging  wide  and  low. 
Further  than  a  spade  will  go. 
Till  that,  when  the  pit  is  deep 
And  large  enough,  I  there  may  heap 
All  my  present  pain  and  past 
Joy,  dead  things  that  look  aghast 
By  the  daylight:  now  't  is  done. 
Throw  them  in,  by  one  and  one  ! 
I  must  laugh,  at  rising  sun. 


so 


40 


THE   SERAPHIM   AND   OTHER   POEMS 


Memories  —  of  fancy's  golden  30 

Treasures  which  my  hands  have  holden, 

Till  the  chillness  made  them  ache; 

Of  childhood's  hopes  that  used  to  wake 

If  birds  were  in  a  singing  strain, 

And  for  less  cause,  sleep  again; 

Of  the  moss-seat  in  the  wood 

Where  I  trysted  solitude; 

Of  the  hill-top  where  the  wind 

Used  to  follow  me  behind, 

Then  in  sudden  rush  to  blind  40 

Both  my  glad  eyes  with  my  hair. 

Taken  gladly  in  the  snare; 

Of  the  climbing  up  the  rocks, 

Of  the  playing  'neath  the  oaks 

Which  retain  beneath  them  now 

Only  shadow  of  the  bough; 

Of  the  lying  on  the  grass 

While  tlie  clouds  did  overpass, 

Only  they,  so  lightly  driven. 

Seeming  betwixt  me  and  Heaven;  50 

Of  the  little  prayers  serene. 

Murmuring  of  earth  and  sin; 

Of  large-leaved  philosophy 

Leaning  from  my  childish  knee ; 

Of  poetic  book  sublime. 

Soul-kissed  for  the  first  dear  time, 

Greek  or  English,  ere  I  knew 

Life  was  not  a  poem  too:  — 

Throw  them  in,  by  one  and  one  ! 

I  must  laugh,  at  rising  sun.  60 

—  Of  the  glorious  ambitions 

Yet  unquenched  by  their  fruitions; 

Of  the  reading  out  the  nights; 

Of  the  straining  at  mad  heights; 

Of  achievements,  less  descried 

By  a  dear  few  than  magnified; 

Of  praises  from  the  many  earned 

When  praise  from  love  was  undiscerned; 

Of  the  sweet  reflecting  gladness 

Softened  by  itself  to  sadness :  —  70 

Throw  them  in,  by  one  and  one  ! 

I  must  laugh,  at  rising  sun. 

What  are  these  ?  more,  more  than  these  ! 

Throw  in  dearer  memories  !  — 

Of  voices  whereof  but  to  speak 

Makes  mine  own  all  sunk  and  weak; 

Of  smiles  the  thought  of  which  is  sweeping 

All  my  soul  to  floods  of  weeping; 

Of  looks  whose  absence  fain  would  weigh 

My  looks  to  the  ground  for  aye;  80 

Of  clasping  hands  —  ah  me,  I  wring 

Mine,  and  in  a  tremble  fling 


Downward,  downward  all  this  paining  ! 
Partings  with  the  sting  remaining, 
Meetings  with  a  deeper  throe 
Since  the  joy  is  ruined  so. 
Changes  with  a  fiery  burning, 
(Shadows  upon  all  the  turning,) 
Thoughts  of  .  .  .  with  a  storm  they  came, 
Them  I  have  not  breath  to  name:  90 

Downward,  downward  be  they  cast 
In  the  pit !  and  now  at  last 
My  work  beneath  the  moon  is  done, 
And  I  shall  laugh,  at  rising  sun. 

But  let  me  pause  or  ere  I  cover 

All  my  treasures  darkly  over: 

I  will  speak  not  in  thine  ears, 

Only  tell  my  beaded  tears 

Silently,  most  silently. 

When  the  last  is  calmly  told,  100 

Let  that  same  moist  rosary 

With  the  rest  sepulchred  be. 

Finished  now  !     The  darksome  mould 

Sealeth  up  the  darksome  pit. 

I  will  lay  no  stone  on  it. 

Grasses  I  will  sow  instead. 

Fit  for  Queen  Titania's  tread; 

Flowers,  encolored  with  the  sun, 

And  at  at  written  upon  none ; 

Thus,  whenever  saileth  by  no 

The  Lady  World  of  dainty  eye, 

Not  a  grief  shall  here  remain, 

Silken  shooh  to  damp  or  stain: 

And  while  she  lisps,  '  I  have  not  seen 

Any  place  more  smooth  and  clean '  .  .  . 

Here  she  cometh  !  —  Ha,  ha  !  —  who 

Laughs  as  loud  as  I  can  do  ? 


EARTH  AND    HER  PRAISERS 


The  Earth  is  old; 
Six    thousand    winters    make    her    heart 

a-cold ; 
The  sceptre  slanteth  from  her  palsied  hold. 
She  saith,  '  'Las  me  8     God's  word  that  I 

was  "  good  " 

Is  taken  back  to  heaven, 
From  whence  when  any  sound  comes,  I  am 

riven 
By  some    sharp   bolt;   and  now  no   angel 

would 
Descend   with   sweet    dew-silence   on  my 

mountains, 


EARTH   AND   HER   PRAISERS 


41 


To  glorify  the  lovely  river  fountains 

That  gush  along  their  side :  10 

I  see  —  O  weary  change  !  —  I  see  instead 
This  human  wrath  and  pride, 

These  thrones  and   tombs,  judicial  wrong 
and  blood, 

And  bitter  words  are   poured   upon  mine 
head  — 

"O  Earth  !  thou  art  a  stage  for  tricks  un- 
holy, 

A  church  for  most  remorseful  melancholy; 

Thou  art  so  spoilt,  we   should   forget  we 
had 

An  Eden  in  thee,  wert  thou  not  so  sad  !  " 

Sweet  children,  I  am  old  !  ye,  every  one. 

Do  keep  me  from  a  portion  of  my  sun.     20 
Give  praise  in  change  for  brightness  ! 

That  I  may  shake  my  hills  in  infiniteness 

Of  breezy  laughter,  as  in  youthful  mirth. 

To    hear    Earth's     sons     and     daughters 
praising  Earth.' 

II 

Whereupon  a  child  began 
With  spirit  running  up  to  man 
As  by  angels'  shining  ladder, 
(May  he  find  no  cloud  above  ! ) 
Seeming  he  had  ne'er  been  sadder 

All  his  days  than  now,  30 

Sitting  in  the  chestnut  grove, 
With  that  joyous  overflow 
Of  smiling  from  his  mouth  o'er  brow 
And  cheek  and  chin,  as  if  the  breeze 
Leaning  tricksy  from  the  trees 
To  part  his  golden  hairs,  had  blown 
Into  an  hundred  smiles  that  one. 


Ill 

*  0  rare,  rare  Earth  ! '  he  saith, 

*I  will  praise  thee  presently; 
Not  to-day;  I  have  no  breath:  40 

I  have  hunted  squirrels  three  — 
Two  ran  down  in  the  furzy  hollow 
Where  I  could  not  see  nor  follow. 
One  sits  at  the  top  of  the  filbert-tree, 
With  a  yellow  nut  and  a  mock  at  me : 

Presently  it  shall  be  done  ! 
When  I  see  which  way  these  two  have 

run, 
When  the  mocking  one  at  the  filbert-top 
Shall  leap  adown  and  beside  me  stop, 

Then,  rare  Earth,  rare  Earth,  50 

Will  I  pause,  having  known  thy  worth, 

To  say  all  good  of  thee  ! ' 


IV 

Next  a  lover,  —  with  a  dream 
'Neath  his  waking  eyelids  hidden, 
And  a  frequent  sigh  unbidden. 
And  an  idlesse  all  the  day 
Beside  a  wandering  stream, 
And  a  silence  that  is  made 
Of  a  word  he  dares  not  say,  — 
Shakes  slow  his  pensive  head:  60 

'  Earth,  Earth  ! '  saith  he, 

*  If  spirits,  like  thy  roses,  grew 
On  one  stalk,  and  winds  austere 
Could  but  only  blow  them  near. 

To  share  each  other's  dew;  — 
If,  when  summer  rains  agree 
To  beautify  thy  hills,  I  knew 
Looking  off  them  I  might  see 

Some  one  very  beauteous  too,  — 

Then  Earth,'  saith  he,  70 

*  I    would    praise  .  .  .  nay,    nay  —  not 

thee  ! ' 


Will  the  pedant  name  her  next  ? 

Crabbed  with  a  crabbed  text 

Sits  he  in  his  study  nook. 

With  his  elbow  on  a  book. 

And  with  stately  crossed  knees, 

And  a  wrinkle  deeply  thrid 

Through  his  lowering  brow. 

Caused  by  making  proofs  enow 

That  Plato  in  '  Parmenides  '  80 

Meant  the  same  Spinoza  did,  — 

Or,  that  an  hundred  of  the  groping 

Like  himself,  had  made  one  Homer, 

Homeros  being  a  misnomer. 

What  hath  he  to  do  with  praise 

Of    Earth    or    aught  ?     Whene'er    the 

sloping 
Sunbeams  through  his  window  daze 
His  eyes  off  from  the  learned  phrase. 
Straightway  he  draws  close  the  curtain. 
May  abstraction  keep  him  dumb  !  90 

Were  his  lips  to  ope,  't  is  certain 
*  Derivatum  est '  would  come. 


VI 

Then  a  mourner  moveth  pale 
In  a  silence  full  of  wail. 
Raising  not  his  sunken  head 
Because  he  wandered  last  that  way 
With  that  one  beneath  the  clay: 
Weeping  not,  because  that  one, 
The  only  one  who  would  have  said 


42 


THE   SERAPHIM   AND   OTHER   POEMS 


'  Cease  to  weep,  beloved  !  '  has  gone    loo 
Whence  returneth  comfort  none. 
The  silence  breaketh  suddenly,  — 
*  Earth,  I  praise  thee  ! '  crieth  he, 
'  Thou  hast  a  grave  for  also  me.' 

VII 

Ha,  a  poet !  know  him  by 
The  ecstasy-dilated  eye, 
Not  uncharged  with  tears  that  ran 
Upward  from  his  heart  of  man; 
By  the  cheek,  from  hour  to  hour, 
Kindled  bright  or  sunken  wan  no 

With  a  sense  of  lonely  power; 
By  the  brow  uplifted  higher 
Than  others,  for  more  low  declining: 
By  the  lip  which  words  of  fire 
Overboiling  have  burned  white 
While  they  gave  the  nations  light: 
Ay,  in  every  time  and  place 
Ye  may  know  the  poet's  face 
By  the  shade  or  shining. 

VIII 

'Neath  a  golden  cloud  he  stands,  120 

Spreading  his  impassioned  hands. 

'  O  God's  Earth  ! '  he  saith,  '  the  sign 

From  the  Father-soul  to  mine 

Of  all  beauteous  mysteries, 

Of  all  perfect  images 

Which,  divine  in  his  divine, 

In  my  human  only  are 

Very  excellent  and  fair  ! 

Think  not.  Earth,  that  I  would  raise 

Weary  forehead  in  thy  praise,  130 

(Weary,  that  I  cannot  go 

Farther  from  thy  region  low,) 

If  were  struck  no  richer  meanings 

From  thee  than  thyself.     The  leanings 

Of  the  close  trees  o'er  the  brim 

Of  a  sunshine-haunted  stream 

Have  a  sound  beneath  their  leaves, 

Not  of  wind,  not  of  wind. 
Which  the  poet's  voice  achieves: 
The  faint  mountains,  heaped  behind,    140 
Have  a  falling  on  their  tops, 

Not  of  dew,  not  of  dew, 
Which  the  poet's  fancy  drops: 
Viewless  things  liis  eyes  can  view, 
Driftings  of  his  dream  do  light 
All  the  skies  by  day  and  night. 
And  the  seas  that  deepest  roll 
Carry  murmurs  of  his  soul. 
Earth,  I  praise  thee  !  praise  thou  me  ! 
God  perfecteth  his  creation  150 


With  this  recipient  poet-passion. 
And  makes  the  beautiful  to  be. 
I  praise  thee,  O  beloved  sign, 
From  the  God-soul  unto  mine  ! 
Praise  me,  that  I  cast  on  thee 
The  cunning  sweet  interpretation. 
The  help  and  glory  and  dilation 
Of  mine  immortality  ! ' 

IX 

There  was  silence.     None  did  dare 
To  use  again  the  spoken  air  160 

Of  that  far-charming  voice,  until 
A  Christian  resting  on  the  hill, 
With  a  thoughtful  smile  subdued 
(Seeming  learnt  in  solitude) 
Which  a  weeper  might  have  viewed 
Without  new  tears,  did  softly  say. 
And  looked  up  unto  heaven  alway 
While  he  praised  the  Earth  — 

'  O  Earth, 
I  count  the  praises  thou  art  worth, 
By  thy  waves  that  move  aloud,  170 

By  thy  hills  against  the  cloud, 
By  thy  valleys  warm  and  green, 
By  the  copses'  elms  between, 
By  their  birds  which,  like  a  sprite 
Scattered  by  a  strong  delight 
Into  fragments  musical, 
Stir  and  sing  in  every  bush; 
By  thy  silver  founts  that  fall. 
As  if  to  entice  the  stars  at  night 
To  thine  heart;  by  grass  and  rush,       180 
And  little  weeds  the  children  pull, 
Mistook  for  flowers  ! 

—  Oh,  beautiful 
Art  thou.  Earth,  albeit  worse 
Than  in  heaven  is  called  good  ! 
Good  to  us,  that  we  may  know 
Meekly  from  thy  good  to  go; 
While  the  holy,  crying  Blood 
Puts  its  music  kind  and  low 
'Twixt  such  ears  as  are  not  dull, 
And  thine  ancient  curse  ! 


190 


*  Praised  be  the  mosses  soft 

In  thy  forest  pathways  oft. 

And  the  thorns,  which  make  us  think 

Of  the  thornless  river-brink 

Where  the  ransomed  tread: 
Praised  be  thy  sunny  gleams, 
And  the  storm,  that  worketh  dreams 

Of  calm  unfinished: 
Praised  be  thine  active  days, 


THE   VIRGIN  MARY   TO   THE   CHILD   JESUS 


43 


And  thy  night-time's  solemn  need,        200 
When  in  God's  dear  book  we  read 

No  7iight  shall  be  therein : 
Praised  be  thy  dwellings  warm 
By  household  fagot's  cheerful  blaze, 
Where,  to  hear  of  pardoned  sin, 
Pauseth  oft  the  merry  din, 
Save  the  babe's  upon  the  arm 
Who  croweth  to  the  crackling  wood: 
Yea,  and,  better  understood, 
Praised  be  thy  dwellings  cold. 
Hid  beneath  the  churchyard  mould,      210 
Where  the  bodies  of  the  saints 
Separate  from  earthly  taints 
Lie  asleep,  in  blessing  bound, 
Waiting  for  the  trumpet's  sound 
To  free  them  into  blessing;  —  none 
Weeping  more  beneath  the  sun. 
Though  dangerous  words  of  human  love 
Be  graven  very  near,  above. 

XI 

*  Earth,  we  Christians  praise  thee  thus. 
Even  for  the  change  that  comes  221 

With  a  grief  from  thee  to  us: 
For  thy  cradles  and  thy  tombs, 
For  the  pleasant  corn  and  wine 
And  summer-heat;  and  also  for 
The  frost  upon  the  sycamore 
And  hail  upon  the  vine  ! ' 


THE     VIRGIN      MARY     TO 
CHILD    JESUS 


THE 


'  But  see  the  Virgin  blest 
Hath  laid  her  babe  to  rest.' 

—  Milton's  Hymn  on  the  Nativity. 


Sleep,  sleep,  mine  Holy  One  ! 
My  flesh,  my  Lord  !  —  what  name  ?     I  do 

not  know 
A  name  that  seemeth  not  too  high  or  low, 

Too  far  from  me  or  heaven: 
My   Jesus,  that  is  best  !   that  word  being 

given 
By  the  majestic  angel  whose  command 
Was  softly  as  a  man's  beseeching  said. 
When   I   and   all   the  earth   appeared   to 
stand 
In  the  great  overflow 
Of    light    celestial    from    his    wings   and 
head.  lo 

Sleep,  sleep,  my  saving  One  ! 


II 

And  art  Thou  come  for  saving,  baby- 
browed 

And  speechless  Being  —  art  Thou  come  for 
saving  ? 

The  palm  that  grows  beside  our  door  is 
bowed 

By  treadings  of  the  low  wind  from  the 
south, 

A  restless  shadow  through  the  chamber 
waving: 

Upon  its  bough  a  bird  sings  in  the  sun. 

But  Thou,  with  that  close  slumber  on  thy 
mouth, 

Dost  seem  of  wind  and  sun  already  weary. 

Art  come  for  saving,  O  my  weary  One  ?  20 

III 

Perchance  this  sleep  that  shutteth  out  the 

dreary 
Earth-sounds    and   motions,  opens  on   thy 
soul 
High  dreams  on  fire  with  God; 
High  songs  that  make  the  pathways  where 

they  roll 
More  bright  than  stars  do  theirs;  and  vi- 
sions new 
Of  thine  eternal  Nature's  old  abode. 
Suffer  this  mother's  kiss. 
Best  thing  that  earthly  is, 
To  glide  the  music  and  the  glory  through, 
Nor   narrow  in  thy  dream  the  broad  up- 
liftings  30 

Of  any  seraph  wing. 
Thus    noiseless,    thus.     Sleep,    sleep,   my 
dreaming  One  ! 

IV 

The  slumber  of  his  lips  meseems  to  run 
Through  my  lips  to  mine  heart,  to  all  its 

shiftings 
Of  sensual  life,  bringing  contrariousness 
In  a  great  calm.     I  feel  I  could  lie  down 
As  Moses  did,  and   die,  —  and   then   live 

most. 
I  am  'ware  of  you,  heavenly  Presences, 
That  stand  with  your  peculiar  light  unlost. 
Each  forehead  with  a  high  thought  for  a 
crown,  40 

Unsunned   i'   the  sunshine  !     I  am   'ware. 

Ye  throw 
No  shade  against  the  wall  !     How  motion- 
less 
Ye  round  me  with  your  living  statuary, 


44 


THE   SERAPHIM   AND   OTHER   POEMS 


While  through  your  whiteness,  in  and  out- 
wardly, 
Continual  thoughts  of  God  appear  to  go. 
Like  light's  soul  in  itself.     I  bear,  I  bear 
To  look  upon  the  dropt  lids  of  your  eyes. 
Though  their  external  shining  testifies 
To  that  beatitude  within  which  were 
Enough  to  blast  an  eagle  at  his  sun:  50 

I  fall  not  on  my  sad  clay  face  before  ye,  — 

I  look  on  his.     I  know 
My  spirit  which  dilateth  with  the  woe 

Of  his  mortality. 

May  well  contain  your  glory. 

Yea,  drop  your  lids  more  low. 
Ye  are  but  fellow-worshippers  with  me  ! 

Sleep,  sleep,  my  worshipped  One  ! 


We  sate  among  the  stalls  at  Bethlehem; 
The  dumb  kine  from  their  fodder  turning 
them,  60 

Softened  their  horned  faces 

To  almost  human  gazes 

Toward  the  newly  Born: 
The   simple   shepherds    from   the   star-lit 
brooks 

Brought  visionary  looks. 
As  yet  in  their  astonied  hearing  rung 

The  strange  sweet  angel-tongue: 
The  magi  of  the  East,  in  sandals  worn. 

Knelt  reverent,  sweeping  round. 
With  long   pale   beards,  their   gifts   upon 
the  ground,  70 

The  incense,  myrrh  and  gold 
These  baby  hands  were  impotent  to  hold: 
So  let  all  earthlies  and  celestials  wait 

Upon  thy  royal  state. 

Sleep,  sleep,  my  kingly  One  ! 

VI 

I  am  not  proud  —  meek  angels,  ye  invest 
New  meeknesses   to  hear   such   utterance 

rest 
On   mortal   lips,  —  '  I   am   not    proud '  — 

not  proud  ! 
Albeit  in  my  flesh  God  sent  his  Son, 
Albeit  over  Him  my  head  is  bowed  80 

As  others  bow  before  Him,  still  mine  heart 
Bows  lower  than  their  knees.     O  centuries 
That  roll  in  vision  your  futurities 
My  future  grave  athwart,  — 
Whose  murmurs  seem  to  reach  me  while  I 
keep 
Watch  o'er  this  sleep,  — 


Say  of  me  as  the  Heavenly  said  — '  Thou 

art 
The  blessedest  of  women  ! '  —  blessedest, 
Not  holiest,  not  noblest,  no  high  name 
Whose   height   misplaced  may   pierce  me 

like  a  shame  90 

When  I  sit  meek  in  heaven  ! 

For  me,  for  me, 
God  knows  that  I  am  feeble  like  the  rest  ! 
I  often   wandered  forth,  more  child  than 

maiden 
Among  the  midnight  hills  of  Galilee 

Whose  summits  looked  heaven-laden, 
Listening  to  silence  as  it  seemed  to  be 
God's  voice,  so  soft  yet  strong,  so  fain  to 

press 
Upon   my   heart    as    heaven   did  on    the 

height. 
And  waken  up  its  shadows  by  a  light, 
And  show  its  vileness  by  a  holiness.  100 

Then  I  knelt   down  most   silent   like   the 

night, 
Too  self-renounced  for  fears. 
Raising   my  small   face   to  the   boundless 

blue 
Whose  stars   did  mix  and  tremble  in  my 

tears : 
God  heard  them  falling  after,  with  his  dew. 

VII 

So,  seeing  my  corruption,  can  I  see 
This  Incorruptible  now  born  of  me. 
This  fair  new  Innocence  no  sun  did  chance 
To  shine  on,  (for  even  Adam  was  no  child,) 
Created  from  my  nature  all  defiled,  no 

This  mystery,  from  out  mine  ignorance,  — 
Nor  feel   the   blindness,   stain   corruption 

more 
Than  others  do,  or  /  did  heretofore  ? 
Can  hands  wherein  such  burden  pure  has 

been. 
Not  open  with  the  cry  '  unclean,  unclean,' 
More  oft  than  any  else  beneath  the  skies  ? 

Ah  King,  ah  Christ,  ah  son  ! 
The  kine,  the  shepherds,  the  abased  wise 

Must  all  less  lowly  wait 

Than  I,  upon  thy  state.  120 

Sleep,  sleep,  my  kingly  One  ! 

VIII 

Art  Thou  a  King,  then  ?     Come,  his  uni- 
verse. 
Come,  crown  me  Him  a  King  ! 

Pluck   rays  from  all  such   stars   as  never 
fling 


TO   BETTINE 


45 


Their  light  where  fell  a  curse, 
And    make    a   crowning    for    this    kingly 

brow  !  — 
What  is  my  word  ?     Each  empyreal  star 
Sits  in  a  sphere  afar 
In  shining  ambuscade: 
The  child-brow,  crowned  by  none,      130 
Keeps  its  unchildlike  shade. 
Sleep,  sleep,  my  crownless  One  ! 

IX 

Unchildlike  shade  !     No  other   babe  doth 
wear 

An  aspect  very  sorrowful,  as  Thou. 

No  small  babe-smiles  my  watching   heart 
has  seen 

To  float  like  speech  the  speechless  lips  be- 
tween. 

No  dovelike  cooing  in  the  golden  air. 

No  quick  short  joys  of  leaping  babyhood. 
Alas,  our  earthly  good 

In  heaven  thought  evil,  seems  too  good  for 
Thee:  140 

Yet,  sleep,  my  weary  One  ! 


And  then  the  drear  sharp  tongue  of  pro- 
phecy. 

With  the  dread  sense  of  things  which  shall 
be  done. 

Doth  smite  me  inly,  like  a  sword:  a  sword? 

That  '  smites  the  Shepherd.'   Then,  I  think 
aloud 

The  words  '  despised,'  — '  rejected,' — every 
word 

Recoiling  into  darkness  as  I  view 
The  Darling  on  my  knee. 

Bright  angels,  —  move  not  — lest  ye  stir  the 
cloud 

Betwixt  my  soul  and  his  futurity  !  150 

I  must  not  die,  with  mother's  work  to  do. 
And  could  not  live  —  and  see. 

XI 

It  is  enough  to  bear 

This  image  still  and  fair. 

This  holier  in  sleep 

Than  a  saint  at  prayer, 

This  aspect  of  a  child 

Who  never  sinned  or  smiled; 

This  Presence  in  an  infant's  face; 

This  sadness  most  like  love,  i6o 

This  love  than  love  more  deep. 

This  weakness  like  omnipotence 

It  is  so  strong  to  move. 


Awful  is  this  watching  place, 
Awful  what  I  see  from  hence  — 
A  king,  without  regalia, 
A  God,  without  the  thunder, 
A  child,  without  the  heart  for  play; 
Ay,  a  Creator,  rent  asunder 
From  his  first  glory  and  cast  away 
On  his  own  world,  for  me  alone  171 

To  hold  in  hands  created,  crying  —  SoN  ! 

XII 

That  tear  fell  not  on  Thee, 
Beloved,  yet  thou  stirrest  in  thy  slumber  ! 
Thou,  stirring  not  for  glad  sounds  out  of 

number 
Which  through  the  vibratory  palm-trees  run 

From  summer-wind  and  bird, 

So  quickly  hast  thou  heard 

A  tear  fall  silently  ? 

Wak'st  thou,  O  loving  One? —  180 


TO  BETTINE 

THE   CHILD-FRIEND    OF    GOETHE 

*  I  have  the  second  sight,  Goethe  ! ' 

—  Letters  of  a  Child. 


Bettine,  friend  of  Goethe, 
Hadst  thou  the  second  sight  — 
Upturning  worship  and  delight 

With  such  a  loving  duty 
To  his  grand  face,  as  women  will. 
The  childhood  'neath  thine  eyelids  still  ? 

II 

—  Before  his  shrine  to  doom  thee. 
Using  the  same  child's  smile 

That  heaven  and  earth,  beheld  erewhile 

For  the  first  time,  won  from  thee 
Ere  star  and  flower  grew  dim  and  dead 
Save  at  his  feet  and  o'er  his  head  ? 

Ill 

—  Digging  thine  heart  and  throwing 
Away  its  childhood's  gold. 

That  so  its  woman-depth  might  hold 

His  spirit's  overflowing  ? 
(For  surging  souls,  no  worlds  can  bound, 
Their  channel  in  the  heart  have  found.) 

IV 

O  child,  to  change  appointed, 
Thou  hadst  not  second  sight  ! 


46 


THE   SERAPHIM   AND   OTHER   POEMS 


What  eyes  the  future  view  aright 

Unless  by  tears  anointed  ? 
Yea,  only  tears  themselves  can  show 
The  burning  ones  that  have  to  flow. 


O  woman,  deeply  loving, 
Thou  hadst  not  second  sig-ht ! 
The  star  is  very  high  and  bright, 

And  none  can  see  it  moving. 
Love  looks  around,  below,  above, 
Yet  all  his  prophecy  is  —  love. 

VI 

The  bird  thy  childhood's  playing 
Sent  onward  o'er  the  sea. 
Thy  dove  of  hope  came  back  to  thee 

Without  a  leaf:  art  laying 
Its  wet  cold  wing  no  sun  can  dry, 
Still  in  thy  bosom  secretly  ? 

VII 

Our  Goethe's  friend,  Bettine, 
I  have  the  second  sight  ! 
The  stone  upon  his  grave  is  white, 

The  funeral  stone  between  ye; 
And  in  thy  mirror  thou  hast  viewed 
Some  change  as  hardly  understood. 

VIII 

Where 's  childhood  ?  where  is  Goethe  ? 
The  tears  are  in  thine  eyes. 
Nay,  thou  shalt  yet  reorganize 

Thy  maidenhood  of  beauty 
In  his  own  glory,  which  is  smooth 
Of  wrinkles  and  sublime  in  youth. 

IX 

The  poet's  arms  have  wound  thee. 
He  breathes  uj^on  thy  brow, 
He  lifts  thee  upward  in  the  glow 

Of  his  great  genius  round  thee,  — 
The  childlike  poet  undefiled 
Preserving  evermore  The  Child. 


FELICIA  REMANS 

TO  L.  E.  L. 

REFERRING  TO  HER  MONODY  ON  THE 
POETESS 

First  published  with  the  title   'Stanzas  on 
the  Death  of  Mrs.  He  mans.' 


Thou  bay-crowned  living  One  that  o'er  the 

bay-crowned  Dead  art  bowing. 
And  o'er  the  shadeless  moveless  brow  the 

vital  shadow  throwing, 
And  o'er  the  sighless  songless  lips  the  wail 

and  music  wedding, 
And   dropping   o'er  the  tranquil  eyes  the 

tears  not  of  their  shedding: !  — 

II 

Take  music   from  the  silent   Dead  whose 

meaning  is  completer. 
Reserve  thy  tears  for  living  brows  where 

all  such  tears  are  meeter. 
And   leave    the    violets    in   the    grass    to     j 

brighten  where  thou  treadest,  1 

No   flowers  for  her  !  no  need  of   flowers, 

albeit  '  bring  flowers  ! '  thou  saidest. 

Ill 

Yes,  flowers,  to  crown  the  '  cup  and  lute,* 
since  both  may  come  to  breaking. 


Or   flowers,   to    greet    the    '  bride 


the 


heart's  own  beating  works  its  aching; 

Or  flowers,  to  soothe  the  '  captive's  '  sight, 
from  earth's  free  bosom  gathered. 

Reminding  of  his  earthly  hope,  then  wither- 
ing as  it  withered: 

IV 

But  bring  not  near  the  solemn  corse  a  type 

of  human  seeming. 
Lay  only  dust's  stern  verity  upon  the  dust 

undreaming: 
And  while  the  calm  perpetual  stars  shall 

look  upon  it  solely, 
Her  sphered  soul  shall  look  on  them  with 

eyes  more  bright  and  holy. 

V 

Nor  mourn,  O  living  One,  because  her  part 

in  life  was  mourning: 
Would    she  have    lost   the   poet's  fire  for 

anguish  of  the  burning  ? 
The  minstrel  harp,  for  the  strained  string  ? 

the  tripod,  for  the  afflated 
Woe  ?    or   the    vision,  for   those   tears    in 

which  it  shone  dilated  ? 

VI 

Perhaps  she  shuddered  while  the  world's 
cold  hand  her  brow  was  wreathing. 

But  never  wronged  that  mystic  breath 
which  breathed  in  all  her  breathing, 


MEMORY   AND    HOPE 


47 


Which  drew,  from  rocky  earth  and  man, 

abstractions  high  and  moving, 
Beauty,  if  not  the  beautiful,  and  love,  if 


not  the  loving. 


VII 

Such    visionings  have  paled  in  sight;   the 

Saviour  she  descrieth, 
And   little  recks   loho   wreathed  the  brow 

which  on  his  bosom  lieth: 
The  whiteness  of  his  innocence  o'er  all  her 

garments,  flowing, 
There  learneth  she  the  sweet  '  new  song  ' 

she  will  not  mourn  in  knowing. 

VIII 

Be  happy,  crowned  and  living  One  !  and  as 

thy  dust  decayeth 
May  thine  own  England  say  for  thee  what 

now  for  Her  it  sayeth  — 
*  Albeit  softly  in  our  ears  her  silver  song 

was  ringing, 
The  foot-fall  of  her  parting  soul  is  softer 

than  her  singing.' 


MEMORY   AND    HOPE 


Back-looking  Memory 
And  prophet  Hope  both  sprang  from  out 

the  ground; 
One,  where  the  flashing  of  cherubic  sword 

Fell  sad  in  Eden's  ward. 
And  one,  from  Eden  earth  within  the  sound 
Of  the  four  rivers  lapsing  pleasantly. 
What  time   the    promise  after   curse  was 
said, 

'  Thy  seed  shall  bruise  his  head.' 

II 

Poor  Memory's  brain  is  wild, 
As  moonstruck  by  that  flaming  atmosphere 
When  she  was  born;  her  deep  eyes  shine 
and  shone 
With  light  that  conquereth  sun 
And  stars  to  wanner  paleness  year  by  year : 
With  odorous  gums  she  mixeth  things  de- 
filed, 
She  trampleth  down  earth's  grasses  green 
and  sweet 
With  her  far-wandering  feet. 


Ill 


She  plucketh  many  flowers. 
Their  beauty  on  her  bosom's  coldness  kill- 
ing; 
She  teacheth  every  melancholy  sound 

To  winds  and  waters  round; 
She  droppeth  tears  with  seed  where  man 

is  tilling 
The  rugged  soil  in  his  exhausted  hours; 
She  smileth  —  ah  me  !  in  her  smile  doth  go 

A  mood  of  deeper  woe. 

IV 

Hope  tripped  on  out  of  sight. 
Crowned  with  an  Eden  wreath  she  saw  not 

wither, 
And   went  a-nodding  through  the  wilder- 
ness 
With  brow  that  shone  no  less 
Than  a  sea-gull's  wing,  brought  nearer  by 

rough  weather, 
Searching   the    treeless  rock  for  fruits  of 

light; 
Her   fair   quick   feet   being   armed    from 
stones  and  cold 
By  slippers  of  pure  gold. 


Memory  did  Hope  much  wrong 
And,  while  she  dreamed,  her  slippers  stole 

away; 
But  still  she  wended  on  with  mirth  unheed- 
ing* 
Although  her  feet  were  bleeding, 

Till  Memory  tracked  her  on  a  certain  day. 
And    with  most  evil  eyes  did   search   her 

long: 
And  cruelly,  whereat  she  sank  to  ground 
In  a  stark  deadly  swound. 

VI 

And  so  my  Hope  were  slain, 
Had  it  not  been  that  Thou  wast  standing 

near  — 
Oh  Thou  who  saidest  '  Live,'  to  creatures 

lying 
In  their  own  blood  and  dying  ! 
For  Thou  her  forehead  to  thine  heart  didst 

rear 
And  make  its  silent  pulses  sing  again, 
Pouring   a   new   light   o'er   her   darkened 
eyne 
With  tender  tears  from  thine. 


48 


THE   SERAPHIM   AND   OTHER   POEMS 


VII 

Therefore  my  Hope  arose 
From  out  her  swomid  and  gazed  upon  thy 

face, 
And,   meeting    there   that   soft    subduing 
look 
Which  Peter's  spirit  shook. 
Sank  downward  in  a  rapture  to  embrace 
Thy  pierced   hands   and   feet  with  kisses 

close, 
And  prayed  Thee  to  assist  her  evermore 
To  '  reach  the  things  before.' 


THE    SLEEP 


'  He  giveth  His  beloved  sleep.' 

—  Psalm  cxxvii.  2. 


Of  all  the  thoughts  of  God  that  are 
Borne  inward  into  souls  afar, 
Along  the  Psalmist's  music  deep. 
Now  tell  me  if  that  any  is. 
For  gift  or  grace,  surpassing  this: 

*  He  giveth  his  beloved  —  sleep  ? ' 

II 

What  would  we  give  to  our  beloved  ? 
The  hero's  heart  to  be  unmoved. 
The  poet's  star-tuned  harp  to  sweep, 
The  patriot's  voice  to  teach  and  rouse, 
The  monarch's  crown  to  light  the  brows  ? 
He  giveth  his  beloved  —  sleep. 

Ill 

What  do  we  give  to  our  beloved  ? 

A  little  faith  all  undisproved, 

A  little  dust  to  overweep, 

And  bitter  memories  to  make 

The  whole  earth  blasted  for  our  sake: 

He  giveth  his  beloved  —  sleep. 

IV 

*  Sleep  soft, '  beloved  !  we  sometimes  say. 
Who  have  no  tune  to  charm  away 

Sad  dreams  that  through  the  eyelids  creep : 
But  never  doleful  dream  again 
Shall  break  the  happy  slumber  when 
He  giveth  his  belovid  —  sleep. 


O  earth,  so  full  of  dreary  noises  ! 
O  men,  with  wailing  in  your  voices  ! 


O  delved  gold,  the  wailers  heap  ! 

0  strife,  O  curse,  that  o'er  it  fall ! 
God  strikes  a  silence  through  you  all. 
And  giveth  his  beloved  —  sleep. 

VI 

His  dews  drop  mutely  on  the  hill. 
His  cloud  above  it  saileth  still. 
Though  on  its  slope  men  sow  and  reap: 
More  softly  than  the  dew  is  shed. 
Or  cloud  is  floated  overhead. 
He  giveth  his  beloved  —  sleep. 

VII 

Ay,  men  may  wonder  while  they  scan 
A  living,  thinking,  feeling  man 
Confirmed  in  such  a  rest  to  keep; 
But  angels  say,  and  through  the  werd 

1  think  their  happy  smile  is  heard  — 

*  He  giveth  his  beloved  —  sleep.' 

VIII 

For  me,  my  heart  that  erst  did  go 
Most  like  a  tired  child  at  a  show, 
That   sees   through   tears    the    mummers 

leap, 
Would  now  its  wearied  vision  close, 
Would  childlike  on  his  love  repose 
Who  giveth  his  beloved  —  sleep. 

IX 

And  friends,  dear  friends,  when  it  shall  be 
That  this  low  breath  is  gone  from  me. 
And  round  my  bier  ye  come  to  weep. 
Let  One,  most  loving  of  you  all. 
Say  *  Not  a  tear  must  o'er  her  fall ! 

*  He  giveth  his  beloved  sleep.' 


MAN  AND  NATURE 

A  SAD  man  on  a  summer  day 

Did  look  upon  the  earth  and  say  — 

'Purple  cloud  the  hill-top  binding; 
Folded  hills  the  valleys  wind  in; 
Valleys  with  fresh  streams  among  you ; 
Streams  with  bosky  trees  along  you; 
Trees  with  many  birds  and  blossoms; 
Birds  with  music-trembling  bosoms; 
Blossoms  dropping  dews  that  wreathe  you 
To  your  fellow  flowers  beneath  you; 
Flowers  that  constellate  on  earth; 
Earth  that  shakest  to  the  mirth 


THE   SEA-MEW 


49 


Of  the  merry  Titan  Ocean, 
All  his  shining  hair  in  motion  ! 
Why  am  I  thus  the  only  one 
Who  can  be  dark  beneath  the  sun  ? ' 

But  when  the  summer  day  was  past, 
He  looked  to  heaven  and  smiled  at  last, 
Self-answered  so  — 

'  Because,  O  cloud, 
Pressing  with  thy  crumpled  shroud 
Heavily  on  mountain  top,  — 
Hills  that  almost  seem  to  drop 
Stricken  with  a  misty  death 
To  the  valleys  underneath,  — 
Valleys  sighing  with  the  torrent,  — 
Waters  streaked  with  branches  horrent,  — 
Branchless  trees  that  shake  your  head 
Wndly  o'er  your  blossoms  spread 
Where  the  common  flowers  are  found,  — 
Flowers  with  foreheads  to  the  ground,  — 
Ground  that  shriekest  while  the  sea 
With  his  iron  smiteth  thee  — 
I  am,  besides,  the  only  one 
Who  can  be  bright  without  the  sun.' 


A   SEA-SIDE   WALK 


We  walked  beside  the  sea 
After  a  day  which  perished  silently 
Of  its  own  glory  —  like  the  princess  weird 
Who,  combating  the  Genius,  scorched  and 

seared. 
Uttered  with   burning  breath,    '  Ho  !  vic- 
tory ! ' 
And  sank  adown,  a  heap  of  ashes  pale : 
So  runs  the  Arab  tale. 

II 

The  sky  above  us  showed 
A  universal  and  unmoving  cloud 
On  which  the  cliffs  permitted  us  to  see 
Only  the  outline  of  their  majesty. 
As   master-minds    when  gazed   at   by   the 

crowd: 
And  shining  with  a  gloom,  the  water  gray 

Swang  in  its  moon-taught  way. 

Ill 

Nor  moon,  nor  stars  were  out; 
They  did  not  dare  to  tread  so  soon  about. 
Though  trembling,  in  the  footsteps  of  the 
sun: 


The  light  was  neither  night's  nor  day's,  but 

one 
Which,  life-like,  had  a  beauty  in  its  doubt. 
And     silence's     impassioned      breathings 

round 
Seemed  wandering  into  sound. 

IV 

O  solemn-beating  heart 
Of  nature  !     I  have  knowledge  that  thou 

art 
Bound    unto    man's    by   cords    he    cannot 

sever; 
And,  what  time  they  are  slackened  by  him 

ever. 
So  to  attest  his  own  supernal  part. 
Still  runneth  thy  vibration  fast  and  strong 
The  slackened  cord  along: 


For  though  we  never  spoke 
Of  the  gray  water  and  the  shaded  rock. 
Dark  wave  and  stone  unconsciously  were 

fused 
Into  the  plaintive  speaking  that  we  used 
Of  absent  friends  and  memories  unforsook; 
And,  had  we  seen  each  other's  face,  we  had 

Seen  haply  each  was  sad. 


THE   SEA-MEW 


AFFECTIONATELY  INSCRIBED   TO  M.   E.  H. 


How  joyously  the  young  sea-mew 
Lay  dreaming  on  the  waters  blue 
Whereon  our  little  bark  had  thrown 
A  little  shade,  the  only  one, 
But  shadows  ever  man  pursue. 

II 

Familiar  with  the  waves  and  free 
As  if  their  own  white  foam  were  he, 
His  heart  upon  the  heart  of  ocean 
Lay  learning  all  its  mystic  motion. 
And  throbbing  to  the  throbbing  sea. 

Ill 

And  such  a  brightness  in  his  eye 
As  if  the  ocean  and  the  sky 
Within  him  had  lit  up  and  nurst 
A  soul  God  gave  him  not  at  first, 
To  comprehend  their  majesty. 


50 


THE   SERAPHIM   AND    OTHER   POEMS 


IV 


We  were  not  cruel,  yet  did  sunder 

His  white  wing  from  the  blue  waves  under, 

And  bound  it,  while  his  fearless  eyes 

Shone  up  to  ours  in  calm  surprise, 

As  deeming  us  some  ocean  wonder. 


We  bore  our  ocean  bird  unto 
A  grassy  place  where  he  might  view 
The  flowers  that  curtsey  to  the  bees, 
The  waving  of  the  tall  green  trees. 
The  falling  of  the  silver  dew. 

VI 

But  flowers  of  earth  were  pale  to  him 
Who  had  seen  the  rainbow  fishes  swim; 
And  when  earth's  dew  around  him  lay 
He  thought  of  ocean's  winged  spray. 
And  his  eye  wax^d  sad  and  dim. 

VII 

The  green  trees  round  him  only  made 
A  prison  with  their  darksome  shade; 
And  drooped  his  wing,  and  mourned  he 
For  his  own  boundless  glittering  sea  — 
Albeit  he  knew  not  they  could  fade. 

VIII 

Then  One  her  gladsome  face  did  bring. 
Her  gentle  voice's  murmuring, 
In  ocean's  stead  his  heart  to  move 
And  teach  him  what  was  human  love : 
He  thought  it  a  strange,  mournful  thing. 

IX 

He  lay  down  in  his  grief  to  die, 
(First  looking  to  the  sea-like  sky 
That  hath  no  waves)  because,  alas  ! 
Our  human  touch  did  on  him  pass. 
And,  with  our  touch,  our  agony. 


THE    LITTLE  FRIEND 

WRITTEN    IN    THE    BOOK    WHICH    SHE 
MADE   AND   SENT   TO    ME 


'  —  TO  5'  rjSi)  e^  o^floA/AWj'  aTre\r]\v6ev.' 

—  Marcus  Antoninus. 


The  book  thou  givest,  dear  as  such. 
Shall  bear  thy  dearer  name; 


And  many  a  word  the  leaves  shall  touch. 
For  thee  who  form'dst  the  same  ! 

And  on  them,  many  a  thought  shall  grow 
'Neath  memory's  rain  and  sun, 

Of  thee,  glad  child,  who  dost  not  know 
That  thought  and  pain  are  one  ! 

II 

Yes  !  thoughts  of  thee,  who  satest  oft, 

A  while  since,  at  my  side  — 
So  wild  to  tame,  —  to  move  so  soft. 

So  very  hard  to  chide: 
The  childish  vision  at  thine  heart. 

The  lesson  on  the  knee; 
The  wandering  looks  which  would  depart, 

Like  gulls,  across  the  sea  ! 

Ill 

The  laughter,  which  no  half-belief 

In  wrath  could  all  suppress: 
The  falling  tears,  which  looked  like  grief. 

And  were  but  gentleness: 
The  fancies  sent,  for  bliss,  abroad. 

As  Eden's  were  not  done  — 
Mistaking  still  the  cherub's  sword 

For  shining  of  the  sun  ! 

IV 

The  sportive  speech  with  wisdom  in  't  — 

The  question  strange  and  bold  — 
The  childish  fingers  in  the  print 

Of  God's  creative  hold: 
The  praying  words  in  whispers  said. 

The  sin  with  sobs  confest; 
The  leaning  of  the  young  meek  head 

Upon  the  Saviour's  breast  ! 

V 

The  gentle  consciousness  of  praise. 

With  hues  that  went  and  came; 
The  brighter  blush,  a  word  could  raise. 

Were  that  —  a  father's  name  ! 
The  shadow  on  thy  smile  for  each 

That  on  his  face  could  fall  ! 
So  quick  hath  love  been,  thee  to  teach. 

What  soon  it  teacheth  all. 

VI 

Sit  still  as  erst  beside  his  feet  ! 

The  future  days  are  dim,  — 
But  those  will  seem  to  thee  most  sweet 

Which  keep  thee  nearest  him  ! 
Sit  at  his  feet  in  quiet  mirth, 


MY   DOVES 


51 


And  let  him  see  arise 
A  clearer  sun  and  greener  earth 
Within  thy  loving  eyes  !  — 

VII 

Ah,  loving  eyes  !  that  used  to  lift 

Your  childhood  to  my  face  — 
That  leave  a  memory  on  the  gift 

I  look  on  in  your  place  — 
May  bright-eyed  hosts  your  guardians  be 

From  all  but  thankful  tears,  — 
While,  brightly  as  you  turn  on  me 

Ye  meet  th'  advancing  years  ! 


MY    DOVES 

'  0  Weisheit !  Du  red'st  wie  eine  Taube  ! ' 

—  Goethe. 

My  little  doves  have  left  a  nest 

Upon  an  Indian  tree 
Whose  leaves  fantastic  take  their  rest 

Or  motion  from  the  sea; 
For  ever  there  the  sea- winds  go 
With  sunlit  paces  to  and  fro. 

The  tropic  flowers  looked  up  to  it, 

The  tropic  stars  looked  down, 
And  there  my  little  doves  did  sit 

With  feathers  softly  brown. 
And  glittering  eyes  that  showed  their  right 
To  general  Nature's  deep  delight. 

And  God  them  taught,  at  every  close 

Of  murmuring  waves  beyond 
And  green  leaves  round,  to  interpose 

Their  choral  voices  fond, 
Interpreting  that  love  must  be 
The  meaning  of  the  earth  and  sea. 

Fit  ministers  !     Of  living  loves 
Theirs  hath  the  calmest  fashion, 

Their  living  voice  the  likest  moves 
To  lifeless  intonation. 

The  lovely  monotone  of  springs 

And  winds  and  such  insensate  things. 

My  little  doves  were  ta'en  away 

From  that  glad  nest  of  theirs 
Across  an  ocean  rolling  gray 

And  tempest-clouded  airs: 
My  little  doves,  who  lately  knew 
The  sky  and  wave  by  warmth  and  blue. 


And  now,  within  the  city  prison, 

In  mist  and  ehillness  pent, 
With  sudden  upward  look  they  listen 

For  sounds  of  past  content, 
For  lapse  of  water,  swell  of  breeze, 
Or  nut-fruit  falling  from  the  trees. 

The  stir  without  the  glow  of  passion, 

The  triumph  of  the  mart, 
The  gold  and  silver  as  they  clash  on 

Man's  cold  metallic  heart. 
The  roar  of  wheels,  the  cry  for  bread,  - 
These  only  sounds  are  heard  instead. 

Yet  still,  as  on  my  human  hand 
Their  fearless  heads  they  lean, 

And  almost  seem  to  understand 
What  human  musings  mean, 

(Their  eyes  with  such  a  plaintive  shine 

Are  fastened  upwardly  to  mine  !)  — 

Soft  falls  their  chant  as  on  the  nest 

Beneath  the  sunny  zone; 
For  love  that  stirred  it  in  their  breast 

Has  not  aweary  grown, 
And  'neath  the  city's  shade  can  keep 
The  well  of  music  clear  and  deep. 

And  love,  that  keeps  the  music,  fills 

With  pastoral  memories; 
All  echoiugs  from  out  the  hills. 

All  droppings  from  the  skies, 
All  Sowings  from  the  wave  and  wind, 
Remembered  in  their  chant,  I  find. 

So  teach  ye  me  the  wisest  part. 

My  little  doves  !  to  move 
Along  the  city-ways  with  heart 

Assured  by  holy  love. 
And  vocal  with  such  songs  as  own 
A  fountain  to  the  world  unknown. 

'T  was  hard  to  sing  by  BabePs  stream  - 
More  hard,  in  Babel's  street: 

But  if  the  soulless  creatures  deem 
Their  music  not  unmeet 

For  sunless  walls  —  let  us  begin. 

Who  wear  immortal  wings  within  ! 

To  me,  fair  memories  belong 
Of  scenes  that  used  to  bless, 

For  no  regret,  but  present  song 
And  lasting  thankfulness. 

And  very  soon  to  break  away. 

Like  types,  in  purer  things  than  they. 


52 


THE    SERAPHIM  AND   OTHER   POEMS 


I  will  have  hopes  that  cannot  fade, 
For  flowers  the  valley  yields; 

I  will  have  humble  thoughts  instead 
Of  silent,  dewy  fields : 

My  spirit  and  my  God  shall  be 

My  seaward  hill,  my  boundless  sea. 


TO    MARY   RUSSELL   MITFORD 

IN   HER   GARDEN 

What  time  I  lay  these  rhymes  anear  thy 

feet, 
Benignant  friend,  I  will  not  proudly  eay 
As  better  poets  use,  *  These  Jiowers  I  lay,' 
Because    I   would    not    wrong   thy   roses 

sweet. 
Blaspheming  so  their  name.     And  yet,  re- 
peat 
Thou,    overleaning    them   this   springtime 

day, 
With  heart  as  open  to  love  as   theirs  to 

May, 
—  *  Low  -  rooted   verse    may   reach    some 

heavenly  heat. 
Even  like  my  blossoms,  if  as  nature-true 
Though  not  as  precious.'     Thou  art  unper- 

plext  — 
Dear  friend,  in  whose  dear  writings  drops 

the  dew 
And   blow   the   natural   airs,  —  thou,  who 

art  next 
To  nature's   self   in  cheering   the  world's 

view,  — 
To  preach  a  sermon  on  so  known  a  text ! 

THE    STUDENT 

'Ti  oZv  TOVTO  Trpbs  (re;  koX  ovSkv  \ey<a  otl  Trpbs  toc 
reOrTjKOTa,  dAA.a  Trpbs  Toi/  ^wi/ra,  Tt  6  enaivos,' — Marcus 
Antoninus. 

'  My  midnight  lamp  is  weary  as  my  soul, 
And,  being  unimmortal,  has  gone  out. 
And  now  alone  yon  moony  lamp  of  heaven, 
Which  God  lit  and  not  man,  illuminates 
These  volumes,  others  wrote  in  weariness 
As  I  have  read  them;  and  this  cheek  and 

brow, 
Whose  paleness,  burnlsd  in  with   heats  of 

thought, 
Would  make  an  angel  smile  to  see  how  ill 
Clay   thrust   from  Paradise  consorts  with 

mind  —  9 

If  angels  could,  like  men,  smile  bitterly. 


'  Yet,  must   my  brow  be   paler !     I   have 

vowed 
To   clip  it  with   the  crown  which  cannot 

fade. 
When  it  is  faded.     Not  in  vain  ye  cry, 

0  glorious  voices  that  survive  the  tongues 
From   whence    was    drawn    your   separate 

sovereignty  — 
For  I  would  reign  beside  you  !     I  would 

melt 
The  golden   treasures  of  my   health   and 

life 
Into    that    name  !     My    lips    are    vowed 

apart 
From   cheerful    words;    mine    ears,   from 

pleasant  sounds; 
Mine  eyes,  from  sights  God  made  so  beau- 
tiful, —  20 
My   feet,  from    wanderings   under    shady 

trees; 
Mine  hands,  from  clasping  of  dear-loving 

friends,  — 
My  very  heart,  from  feelings  which  move 

soft! 
Vowed  am  I  from  the  day's  delightsome- 

ness, 
And  dreams  of  night  !  and  when  the  house 

is  dumb 
In  sleep,  which  is  the  pause  'twixt  life  and 

life, 

1  live  and  waken  thus;  and  pluck  away 
Slumber's  sleek  poppies  from  my   pained 

lids  — 

Goading  my  mind  with  thongs  wrought  by 
herself, 

To  toil  and  struggle  along  this  mountain- 
path  30 

Which  hath  no  mountain-airs;  until  she 
sweat 

Like  Adam's  brow,  and  gasp,  and  rend 
away 

In  agony,  her  garment  of  the  flesh  !  * 

And  so  his  midnight  lamp  was  lit  anew, 
And  burned    till  morning.     But  his   lamp 

of  life 
Till  morning  burned  not  !     He  was  found 

embraced, 
Close,  cold,  and  stiff,  by  Death's  compel- 
ling sleep; 
His  breast  and  brow  supported  on  a  page 
Charkctered  over  with  a  praise  oifame, 
Of  its  divineness  and  beatitude  —  40 

Words  which  had  often  caused  that  heart  to 
throb, 


A   SONG   AGAINST   SINGING 


53 


That  cheek  to  burn;  though  silent  lay  they 

now, 
Without  a  single  beating  in  the  pulse, 
And  all  the  fever  gone  ! 

I  saw  a  bay 
Spring  verdant   from  a  newly  -  fashioned 

grave. 
The  grass  upon  the  grave  was  verdanter, 
That  being  watered  by  the  eyes  of  One 
AVho  bore  not  to  look  up  toward  the  tree  ! 
Others   looked  on  it  —  some,  with   passing 

glance,  49 

Because  the  light  wind  stirred  in  its  leaves ; 
And  some,  mth  sudden  lighting  of  the  soul 
In  admiration's  ecstasy  !  —  Ay  !  some 
Did  wag  their  heads  like  oracles,  and  say, 
*  'Tis  very  well ! '  —  but  none  remembered 
The  heart  which  housed  the  root,  except 

that  One 
Whose  sight  was  lost  in  weeping  ! 

Is  it  thus. 
Ambition,  idol  of  the  intellect  ? 
Shall  we  drink  aconite,  alone  to  use 
Thy  golden  bowl  ?  and  sleep  ourselves  to 

death  — 
To  dream  thy  visions  about  life  ?  O  Power 
That  art  a  very  feebleness  !  — before  61 
Thy  clayey  feet  we  bend  our  knees  of  clay. 
And  round  thy  senseless  brow  bind  diadems 
With  paralytic  hands,  and  shout  '  a  god,' 
With   voices    mortal    hoarse  !      Who    can 

discern 
Th'  infirmities  they  share  in  ?    Being  blind. 
We  cannot  see  thy  blindness :  being  weak, 
We  cannot  feel  thy  weakness:  being  low, 
We  cannot  mete  thy  baseness :  being  unwise, 
We  cannot  understand  thy  idiocy  !  70 


THE  EXILE'S  RETURN 


When  from  thee,  weeping  I  removed, 
And  from  my  land  for  years, 

I  thought  not  to  return,  Beloved, 
With  those  same  parting  tears. 

I  come  again  to  hill  and  lea, 
Weeping  for  thee. 

II 

I  clasped  thine  hand  when  standing  last 

Upon  the  shore  in  sight. 
The  land  is  green,  the  ship  is  fast, 


I  shall  be  there  to-night. 
/  shall  be  there 

No  more  with  thee  ! 


no  longer  we  — 


III 

Had  I  beheld  thee  dead  and  still, 

I  might  more  clearly  know 
How  heart  of  thine  could  turn  as  chill 

As  hearts  by  nature  so; 
How  change  could  touch  the  falsehood-free 
And  changeless  thee. 

IV 

But,  now  thy  fervid  looks  last-seen 

Within  my  soul  remain, 
'T  is  hard  to  think  that  they  have  been, 

To  be  no  more  again  — 
That  I  shall  vainly  wait,  ah  me  ! 
A  word  from  thee. 


I  could  not  bear  to  look  upon 

That  mound  of  funeral  clay 
Where  one  sweet  voice  is  silence  —  one 

Ethereal  brow,  decay; 
Where  all  thy  mortal  I  may  see, 
But  never  thee. 

VI 

For  thou  art  where  all  friends  are  gone 

Whose  parting  pain  is  o'er; 
And  I,  who  love  and  weep  alone, 

Where  thou  wilt  weep  no  more, 
Weep  bitterly  and  selfishly 
For  me,  not  thee. 

VII 

I  know,  Beloved,  thou  canst  not  know 

That  I  endure  this  pain; 
For  saints  in  heaven,  the  Scriptures  show, 

Can  never  grieve  again: 
And  grief  known  mine,  even  there,  would  be 
Still  shared  by  thee. 


A  SONG  AGAINST  SINGING 


TO    E.   J.    H. 


They  bid  me  sing  to  thee, 
Thou  golden-haired  and  silver-voiced  child — 
With  lips  by  no  worse  sigh  than  sleep's 
defiled  — 


54 


THE   SERAPHIM   AND    OTHER    POEMS 


With  eyes  unknowing  how  tears  dim  the 

sight, 
And  feet  all  trembling  at  the  new  delight 
Treaders  of  earth  to  be  ! 

II 

Ah  no  !  the  lark  may  bring 
A  song  to  thee  from  out  the  morning  cloud, 
The  merry  river  from  its  lilies  bowed, 
The  brisk  rain  from   the  trees,  the  lucky 

wind 
That  half  doth  make  its  music,  half  doth 
find,  — 

But  /  —  I  may  not  sing. 

Ill 

How  could  I  think  it  right, 
New-comer  on  our   earth  as,  Sweet,  thou 

art, 
To  bring  a  verse  from  out  a  human  heart 
Made  heavy  with  accumulated  tears. 
And  cross  with  such  amount  of  weary  years 

Thy  day-sum  of  delight  ? 

IV 

Even  if  the  verse  were  said, 
Thou  —  who  wouldst  clap  thy  tiny  hands 

to  hear 
The  wind  or  rain,  gay  bird  or  river  clear  — 
Wouldst,  at  that  sound  of  sad  humanities. 
Upturn  thy  bright  uncomprehending  eyes 

And  bid  me  play  instead. 


Therefore  no  song  of  mine,  — 
But  prayer  in  place  of  singing;  prayer  that 

would 
Commend  thee  to  the  new-creating  God 
Whose  gift  is  childhood's  heart  without  its 

stain 
Of    weakness,     ignorance,    and    changing 
vain  — 
That  gift  of  God  be  thine  ! 

VI 

So  wilt  thou  aye  be  young. 
In  lovelier  childhood  than  thy  shining  brow 
And  pretty  winning  accents  make  thee  now: 
Yea,    sweeter   than  this   scarce   articulate 

sound 
(How  sweet  !)  of  *  father,'  '  mother,'  shall 
be  found 
The  Abba  on  thy  tongue. 


VII 

And  so,  as  years  shall  chase 
Each  other's    shadows,  thou  wilt   less  re- 
semble 
Thy   fellows    of   the   earth   who   toil   and 

tremble. 
Than  him  thou  se^st  not,  thine  angel  bold 
Yet  meek,  whose  ever-lifted  eyes  behold 
The  Ever-loving's  face. 


STANZAS 

I  MAY  sing;  but  minstrel's  singing 
Ever  ceaseth  with  his  playing. 
I  may  smile;  but  time  is  bringing 
Thoughts  for  smiles  to  wear  away  in. 
I  may  view  thee,  mutely  loving; 
But  shall  view  thee  so  in  dying  ! 
I  may  sigh;  but  life's  removing. 
And  with  breathing  endeth  sighing  ! 

Be  it  so  ! 

When  no  song  of  mine  comes  near  thee, 
Will  its  memory  fail  to  soften  ? 
When  no  smile  of  mine  can  cheer  thee. 
Will  thy  smile  be  used  as  often  ? 
When  my  looks  the  darkness  boundeth, 
Will  thine  own  be  lighted  after  ? 
When  my  sigh  no  longer  soundeth. 
Wilt  thou  list  another's  laughter  ? 

Be  it  so  ! 


THE    YOUNG    QUEEN 

'  This  awful  responsibility  is  imposed  upon  me  so 
suddenly  and  at  so  early  a  period  of  my  life,  that  I 
should  feel  myself  utterly  oppressed  by  the  burden, 
were  I  not  sustained  by  the  hope  that  Divine  Provi- 
dence, which  has  called  me  to  this  work,  will  give  me 
strength  for  the  performance  of  it. ' 

—  The  Qaeen's  Declaration  in  Council. 


The  shroud  is  yet  unspread 
To  wrap  our  crowned  dead ; 
His  soul  hath  scarcely  hearkened  for  the 
thrilling  word  of  doom; 
And  Death,  that  makes  serene 
Ev'n  brows  where  crowns  have  been. 
Hath  scarcely  time  to  meeten  his  for  silence 
of  the  tomb. 

IT 

St.  Paul's  king-dirging  note 
The  city's  heart  hath  smote  — 


VICTORIA'S   TEARS 


55 


The    city's   heart  is   struck    with   thought 
more  solemn  than  the  tone  ! 
A  shadow  sweeps  apace 
Before  the  nation's  face, 
Confusing  in  a  shapeless  blot  the  sepulchre 
and  throne. 

Ill 

The  palace  sounds  with  wail  — 
The  courtly  dames  are  pale  — 
A  mdow  o'er  the  purple  bows,  and  weeps 
its  splendor  dim: 
And  we  who  hold  the  boon, 
A  king  for  freedom  won, 
Do  feel  eternity  rise  up  between  our  thanks 
and  him. 

IV 

And  while  all  things  express 
All  glory's  nothingness, 
A  royal  maiden  treadeth  firm  where  that 
departed  trod  ! 
The  deathly  scented  crown 
Weighs  her  shining  ringlets  down; 
But  calm  she  lifts  her  trusting  face,  and 
calleth  upon  God. 

V 

Her  thoughts  are  deep  within  her: 
No  outward  pageants  win  her 
From  memories  that  in  her  soul  are  rolling 
wave  on  wave  — 
Her  palace  walls  enring 
The  dust  that  was  a  king  — 
And  very  cold  beneath  her  feet,  she  feels 
her  father's  grave. 

VI 

And  One,  as  fair  as  she, 
Can  scarce  forgotten  be,  — 
Who  clasped  a  little  infant  dead,  for  all  a 
kino^dom's  worth  ! 
The  mourned,  blessed  One, 
Who  views  Jehovah's  throne, 
Aye  smiling  to  the  angels,  that  she  lost  a 
throne  on  earth. 

VII 

Perhaps  our  youthful  Queen 
Remembers  what  has  been  — 
Her  childhood's  rest  by  loving  heart,  and 
sport  on  grassy  sod  — 
Alas  !  can  others  wear 
A  mother's  heart  for  her  ? 
But  calm  she  lifts  her  trusting  face,  and 
calleth  upon  God. 


VIII 

Yea  !  call  on  God,  thou  maiden 
Of  spirit  nobly  laden. 
And   leave    such   happy  days   behind,  for 
happy-making  years  ! 
A  nation  looks  to  thee 
For  steadfast  sympathy: 
Make  room  within  thy  bright  clear  eyes 
for  all  its  gathered  tears. 

IX 

And  so  the  grateful  isles 
Shall  give  thee  back  their  smiles, 
And  as  thy  mother  joys  in  thee,  in  them 
shalt  thou  rejoice; 
Rejoice  to  meekly  bow 
A  somewhat  paler  brow. 
While  the  King  of  kings  shall  bless  thee  by 
the  British  people's  voice  ! 


VICTORIA'S    TEARS 

'  Hark  !  the  reiterated  clangor  sounds  ! 
Now  murmurs,  like  the  sea  or  like  the  storm, 
Or  like  the  flames  on  forests,  move  and  mount 
From  rank  to  rank,  and  loud  and  louder  roll, 
Tin  all  the  people  is  one  vast  applause.' 

—  Landor's  Gebir. 

'  O  MAIDEN  !  heir  of  kings  ! 

A  king  has  left  his  place  ! 
The  majesty  of  Death  has  swept 

All  other  from  his  face  ! 
And  thou  upon  thy  mother's  breast 

No  longer  lean  adown. 
But  take  the  glory  for  the  rest. 
And  rule  the  land  that  loves  thee  best  !  * 
She  heard,  and  wept  — 

She  wept,  to  wear  a  crown  ! 

They  decked  her  courtly  halls; 

They  reined  her  hundred  steeds; 
They  shouted  at  her  palace  gate, 

'  A  noble  Queen  succeeds  ! ' 
Her  name  has  stirred  the  mountain's  sleep 

Her  praise  has  filled  the  town  ! 
And  mourners  God  had  stricken  deep. 
Looked  hearkening  up,  and  did  not  weep. 
Alone  she  wept, 

Who  wept,  to  wear  a  crown  ! 

She  saw  no  purples  shine. 
For  tears  had  dimmed  her  eyes; 
She  only  knew  her  childhood's  flowers 
Were  happier  pageantries  ! 


S6 


THE    SERAPHIM   AND   OTHER   POEMS 


And  while  her  heralds  played  the  part, 

For  million  shouts  to  drown  — 
*  God  save  the  Queen  '  from  hill  to  mart,  - 
She  heard  through  all  her  beating  heart, 
And  turned  and  wept  — 
She  wept,  to  wear  a  crown  ! 

God  save  thee,  weeping  Queen  ! 

Thou  shalt  be  well  beloved  ! 
The  tyrant's  sceptre  cannot  move, 

As  those  pure  tears  have  moved  ! 
The  nature  in  thine  eyes  we  see, 

That  tyrants  cannot  own  — 
The  love  that  guardeth  liberties  ! 
Strange  blessing  on  the  nation  lies, 
Whose  Sovereign  wept  — 

Yea  !  wept,  to  wear  its  crown  ! 

God  bless  thee,  weeping  Queen, 

With  blessing  more  divine  ! 
And  fill  with  happier  love  than  earth's 

That  tender  heart  of  thine  ! 
That  when  the  thrones  of  earth  shall  be 

As  low  as  graves  brought  down, 
A  pierced  Hand  may  give  to  thee 
The  crown  which  angels  shout  to  see  ! 
Thou  wilt  not  loeep, 

To  wear  that  heavenly  crown  ! 


VANITIES 

'  From  fading  things,  fond  men,  lift  your  desire.' 

—  Drummond. 

Could  ye  be  very  blest  in  hearkening 
Youth's  often  danced-to  melodies  — 
Hearing  it  piped,  the  midnight  darkening 
Doth  come  to  show  the  starry  skies,  — 
To  freshen  garden-flowers,  the  rain  ?  — 
It  is  in  vain,  it  is  in  vain  ! 

Could  ye  be  very  blest  in  urging 
A  captive  nation's  strength  to  thunder 
Out  into  foam,  and  with  its  surging 
The  Xerxean  fetters  break  asunder  ? 
The  storm  is  cruel  as  the  chain  !  — 
It  is  in  vain,  it  is  in  vain  ! 

Could  ye  be  very  blest  in  paling 
Your  brows  with  studious  nights  and  days. 
When  like  your  lamps  your  life  is  failing. 
And  sighs,  not  breath,  are  wrought  from 

praise  ? 
Your  tombs,  not  ye,  that  praise  retain  — 
It  is  in  vain,  it  is  in  vain  ! 


Yea  !  but  ye  could  be  very  blest. 

If  some  ye  nearest  love  were  nearest  ! 

Must  they  not  love  when  lov^d  best  ? 

Must  ye  not  happiest  love  when  dearest  ? 

Alas  !  how  hard  to  feel  again,  — 

It  is  in  vain,  it  is  in  vain  ! 

For  those  ye  love  are  not  unsighing  — 
They  are  unchanging  least  of  all: 
And  ye  the  loved  —  ah  !  no  denying. 
Will  leave  your  lips  beneath  the  pall, 
When  passioned  ones  have  o'er  it  sain 
'  It  is  in  vain,  it  is  in  vain  ! ' 


BEREAVEMENT 

When  some  Beloveds,  'neath  whose  eye- 
lids lay 
The  sweet  lights  of  my  childhood,  one  by 

one 
Did    leave   me   dark    before   the   natural 

sun. 
And  I  astonied  fell  and  could  not  pray,  — 
A  thought  within  me  to  myself  did  say, 
'Is  God  less  God,  that   thou  art   left  un- 
done ? 
Rise,  worship,  bless  Him,  in  this  sackcloth 

spun, 
As   in   that    purple  ! '  —  But   I    answered 

Nay.! 
What  child  his  filial  heart   in  words  can 

loose 
If  he  behold  his  tender  father  raise 
The  hand  that   chastens   sorely  ?   can  he 

choose 
But  sob  in  silence  with  an  upward  gaze  ?  — 
And  my  great  Father,  thinking  fit  to  bruise. 
Discerns   in   speechless   tears  both  prayer 
and  praise. 


CONSOLATION 

All   are    not   taken;    there   are   left  be- 
hind 
Living  Beloveds,  tender  looks  to  bring 
And  make  the  daylight  still  a  happy  thing. 
And  tender  voices,  to  make  soft  the  wind: 
But  if  it  were  not  so  —  if  I  could  find 
No  love  in  all  the  world  for  comforting. 
Nor  any  path  but  hollowly  did  ring 
Where"' dust   to  dust' the   love  from   life 
disjoined, 


THE   MEDIATOR 


57 


And  if,  before  those  sepulchres  unmoving 
I  stood  alone,  (as  some  forsaken  lamb 
Goes   bleating    up    the    moors    in   weary 

dearth,) 
Crying  '  Where  are  ye,  O  my  loved  and 

loving  ? '  — 
I  know  a  Voice  would  sound,  '  Daughter, 

I  AM. 

Can   I   suffice   for   Heaven  and   not   for 
earth  ? ' 


A   SUPPLICATION    FOR   LOVE 

HYMN   J 

'  The  Lord  Jesus,  although  gone  to  the  Father,  and 
we  see  Him  no  more,  is  still  present  Avith  His  Church  ; 
and  in  His  heavenly  glory  expends  upon  her  as  intense 
a  love,  as  in  the  agony  of  the  garden,  and  the  crucifixion 
of  the  tree.  Those  eyes  that  wept,  still  gaze  upon  her.' 
—  Recalled  words  of  an  extempore  Discourse,  preached 
at  Sidmouth,  1833. 

God,  named  Love,  whose  fount  Thou  art, 
Thy    crownless    Church     before     Thee 
stands. 

With  too  much  hating  in  her  heart, 
And  too  much  striving  in  her  hands  ! 

O  loving  Lord  !  O  slain  for  love  ! 

Thy  blood  upon  thy  garments  came  — 
Inwrap  their  folds  our  brows  above. 

Before  we  tell  Thee  all  our  shame  I 

'  Love  as  I  loved  you,'  was  the  sound 
That  on  thy  lips  expiring  sate  ! 

Sweet  words,  in  bitter  strivings  drowned  ! 
We  hated  as  the  worldly  hate. 

The  spear  that  pierced  for  love  thy  side, 
We  dared  for  wrathful  use  to  crave ; 

And  with  our  cruel  noise  denied 
Its  silence  to  thy  blood-red  grave  ! 

Ah,  blood  !  that  speaketh  more  of  love 
Than  Abel's  —  could  we  speak  like  Cain, 

And  grieve  and  scare  that  holy  Dove, 
The  parting  love-gift  of  the  Slain  ? 

Yet,  Lord,  thy  wronged  love  fulfil ! 

Thy  Church,  though  fallen,  before  Thee 
stands  — 
Behold,  the  voice  is  Jacob's  still, 

Albeit  the  hands  are  Esau's  hands  ! 


Hast  Thou  no  tears,  like  those  besprent 
Upon  thy  Zion's  ancient  part  ? 

No  moving;  looks,  like  those  which  sent 
Their  softness  through  a  traitor  s  heart  ? 

No  touching  tale  of  anguish  dear; 

Whereby  like  children  we  may  creep, 
All  trembling,  to  each  other  near. 

And  view  each  other's  face,  and  weep  ? 

Oh,  move  us  —  Thou  hast  power  to  move  — 
One  in  the  one  Beloved  to  be  ! 

Teach  us  the  heights  and  depths  of  love  — 
Give  THINE  —  that  we  may  love  like 
Thee! 


THE   MEDIATOR 


HYMN   II 


'  As  the  greatest  of  all  sacrifices  was  required,  we 
may  be  assured  that  no  other  would  have  suflBced.' — 
Boyd's  Essay  on  the  Atonement. 


How  high  Thou  art  !  our  songs  can  own 
No  music  Thou  couldst  stoop  to  hear  ! 

But  still  the  Son's  expiring  groan 
Is  vocal  in  the  Father's  ear. 

How  pure  Thou  art !  our  hands  are  dyed 
With  curses,  red  with  murder's  hue  — 
But    He    hath    stretched    his    hands    to 
hide 
The   sins   that  pierced   them  from  thy 
view. 

How  strong  Thou  art  !  we  tremble  lest 
The  thunders  of  thine  arm  be  moved  — 

But  He  is  lying  on  thy  breast, 

And    Thou    must    clasp    thy   best    Be- 
loved ! 

How   kind   Thou   art !       Thou   didst  not 
choose 

To  joy  in  Him  for  ever  so; 
But  that  embrace  Thou  wilt  not  loose 

For  vengeance,  didst  for  love  forego  ! 

High  God,  and  pure,  and  strong,  and  kind  ! 

The  low,  the  foul,  the  feeble,  spare  ! 
Thy  brightness  in  his  face  we  find  — 

Behold  our  darkness  only  there  f 


58 


THE    SERAPHIM    AND    OTHER    POEMS 


THE   WEEPING    SAVIOUR 


HYMN    III 


tell 


Whether  His  countenance  can  thee  affright, 
Tears  in  His  eyes  quench  the  amazing  light. ' 

—  Donne. 

When  Jesus'  friend  had  ceased  to  be, 

Still  Jesus'  heart  its  friendship  kept  — 
*  Where  have  ye  laid  him  ?  '  —  '  Come  and 


see 


» ' 


But  ere  his  eyes  could  see,  they  wept. 

Lord  !  not  in  sepulchres  alone 

Corruption's  worm  is  rank  and  free: 

The  shroud  of  death  our  bosoms  own  — 
The  shades  of  sorrow  !     Come  and  see  ! 

Come,  Lord  !  God's  image  cannot  shine 
Where  sin's  funereal  darkness  lowers  — 

Come  !     Turn  those  weeping  eyes  of  thine 
Upon  these  sinning  souls  of  ours  ! 

And  let  those  eyes  with  shepherd  care 
Their  moving  watch  above  us  keep; 

Till  love  the  strength  of  sorrow  wear, 
And,  as  Thou  weepedst,  we  may  weep  ! 

For  surely  we  may  weep  to  know, 
So  dark  and  deep  our  spirits'  stain; 

That,  had  thy  blood  refused  to  flow 
Thy  very  tears  had  flowed  in  vain. 


THE    MEASURE 

HYMN    IV 

'  He  comprehended  the  dust  of  the  earth  in  a  measure  » 

(LH^^blL"*)-  "^•'"^"^  xl. 

'  Thou  givest  them  tears  to  drink    in   a  measure  ' 
(j^^^»^)l.  —  Psalm  Lxxx. 


God  the  Creator,  with  a  pulseless  hand 
Of  unoriginated  power,  hath  weighed 
The  dust  of  earth  and  tears  of  man  in  one 

Measure,  and  by  one  weight : 

So  saith  his  holy  book. 

II 

Shall  we,  then,  who   have  issued  from  the 

dust 
And  there  return,  —  shall  we,  who  toil  for 

dust, 

*  I  believe  that  the  word  occurs  in  no  other  part  of 
the  Hebrew  Scriptures. 


And  wrap  our  winnings  in  this  dusty  life, 
Say  '  No  more  tears.  Lord  God  ! 
The  measure  runneth  o'er  '  ? 

Ill 

Oh,  Holder  of  the  balance,  laughest  Thou  ? 
Nay,   Lord !    be    gentler    to   our   foolish- 
ness, 
For  his  sake  who  assumed  our  dust   and 
turns 

On  Thee  pathetic  eyes 

Still  moistened  with  our  tears. 

IV 

And  teach  us,  O  our  Father,  while  we  weep, 
To  look  in  patience  upon  earth  and  learn  — 
Waiting,   in    that    meek    gesture,    till   at 
last 

These  tearful  eyes  be  filled 
With  the  dry  dust  of  death. 


COWPER'S   GRAVE 


It  is  a  place    where    poets  crowned   may 

feel  the  heart's  decaying; 
It  is  a  place  where  happy  saints  may  weep 

amid  their  praying; 
Yet  let  the  grief  and  humbleness  as  low  as 

silence  languish: 
Earth  surely  now  may   give    her  calm  to 

whom  she  gave  her  anguish. 

II 

O  poets,  from  a  maniac's  tongue  was 
poured  the  deathless  singing  ! 

O  Christians,  at  your  cross  of  hope  a  hope- 
less hand  was  clinging  ! 

O  men,  this  man  in  brotherhood  your  weary 
paths  beguiling. 

Groaned  inly  while  he  taught  you  peace, 
and  died  while  ye  were  smiling  ! 

Ill 

And  now,  what  time  ye  all  may  read 
through  dimming  tears  his  story. 

How  discord  on  the  music  fell  and  dark- 
ness on  the  glory. 

And  how  when,  one  by  one,  sweet  sounds 
and  wandering  lights  departed. 

He  wore  no  less  a  loving  face  because  so 
broken-hearted, 


COWPER'S    GRAVE 


59 


IV 

He  shall  be  strong  to  sanctify  the   poet's 

high  vocation, 
And  bow  the  meekest  Christian  down   in 

meeker  adoration; 
Nor  ever  shall  he  be,  in  praise,  by  wise  or 

good  forsaken, 
Named  softly  as   the    household  name  of 

one  whom  God  hath  taken. 


With  quiet  sadness  and  no  gloom  I  learn 

to  think  upon  him, 
With  meekness  that  is  gratefulness  to  God 

whose  heaven  hath  won  him. 
Who  suffered  once  the  madness-cloud  to 

his  own  love  to  blind  him. 
But    gently   led    the    blind    along   where 

breath  and  bird  could  find  him; 

VI 

And  wrought  within  his  shattered  brain 
such  quick  poetic  senses 

As  hills  have  language  for,  and  stars,  har- 
monious influences: 

The  pulse  of  dew  upon  the  grass  kept  his 
within  its  number, 

And  silent  shadows  from  the  trees  refreshed 
him  like  a  slumber. 

VII 

Wild  timid  hares  were  drawn  from  woods 

to  share  his  home-caresses, 
Uplooking  to  his  human  eyes  with  sylvan 

tendernesses: 
The  very  world,  by  God's  constraint,  from 

falsehood's  ways  removing, 
Its  women  and  its  men  became,  beside  him, 

true  and  loving. 

VIII 

And  though,  in  blindness,  he  remained  un- 
conscious of  that  guiding. 

And  things  provided  came  without  the 
sweet  sense  of  providing, 

He  testified  this  solemn  truth,  while  phrenzy 
desolated, 

—  Nor  man  nor  nature  satisfies  whom  only 
God  created. 

IX 

Like  a  sick  child  that  knoweth  not  his  mo- 
ther while  she  blesses 


And  drops  upon  his  burning  brow  the  cool- 
ness of  her  kisses,  — 

That  turns  his  fevered  eyes  around,  —  *  My 
mother  !  where  's  my  mother  ?  '  — 

As  if  such  tender  words  and  deeds  could 
come  from  any  other  !  — 


The  fever  gone,  with  leaps  of  heart  he  sees 

her  bending  o'er  him, 
Her  face  all  pale  from  watchful  love,  the 

unweary  love  she  bore  him  ! 
Thus    woke   the  poet  from  the  dream  his 

life's  long  fever  gave  him. 
Beneath   those  deep   pathetic  Eyes  which 

closed  in  death  to  save  him. 

XI 

Thus  ?  oh,  not  thus  !  no  type  of  earth  can 

image  that  awaking. 
Wherein   he   scarcely  heard   the  chant  of 

seraphs,  round  him  breaking. 
Or  felt   the  new   immortal  throb  of  soui 

from  body  parted. 
But  felt  those  eyes  alone,  and  knew  —  '  My 

Saviour  !  not  deserted  ! ' 

XII 

Deserted  !     Who  hath   dreamt  that  when 

the  cross  in  darkness  rested. 
Upon  the  Victim's  hidden  face  no  love  was 

manifested  ? 
What  frantic  hands  outstretched  have  e'er 

the  atoning  drops  averted  ? 
What  tears  have    washed  them  from  the 

soul,  that  one  should  be  deserted  ? 

XIII 

Deserted  !    God  could   separate   from   his 

own  essence  rather; 
And  Adam's  sins  have  swept  between  the 

righteous  Son  and  Father: 
Yea,  once,  Immanuel's    orphaned  cry  his 

universe  hath  shaken  — 
It  went  up  single,  echoless,  *  My  God,  I  am 

forsaken  ! ' 

XIV 

It  went  up  from  the  Holy's  lips  amid  his 

lost  creation, 
That,  of  the  lost,  no  son  should  use  those 

words  of  desolation  ! 


6o 


THE   SERAPHIM   AND   OTHER   POEMS 


That  Earth's  worst  phrenzies,  marring 
hope,  should  mar  not  hope's  fruition, 

And  I,  on  Cowper's  grave,  should  see  his 
rapture  in  a  vision. 


THE    WEAKEST   THING 


Which  is  the  weakest  thing  of  all 

Mine  heart  can  ponder  ? 
The  sun,  a  little  cloud  can  pall 

With  darkness  yonder  ? 
The  cloud,  a  little  wind  can  move 

Where'er  it  listeth  ? 
The  wind,  a  little  leaf  above, 

Though  sere,  resisteth  ? 

II 

What  time  that  yellow  leaf  was  green, 

My  days  were  gladder; 
But  now,  whatever  Spring  may  mean, 

I  must  grow  sadder. 
Ah  me  !  a  leaf  with  sighs  can  wring 

My  lips  asunder  ? 
Then  is  mine  heart  the  weakest  thing 

Itself  can  ponder. 

Ill 

Yet,  Heart,  when  sun  and  cloud  are  pined 

And  drop  together. 
And  at  a  blast  which  is  not  wind 

The  forests  wither, 
Thou,  from  the  darkening  deathly  curse 

To  glory  breakest,  — 
The  Strongest  of  the  universe 

Guarding  the  weakest ! 


THE  PET-NAME 

.  .  .  the  name 
Which  from  their  lips  seemed  a  caress.' 

—  Miss  MiTFORD's  Dramatic  Scenes. 

First  printed  under  the  title  of  '  The  Name.' 
This  name,  as  all  the  world  knows  since  the 
publication  of  Mrs.  Browning-'s  most  intimate 
correspondence,  was  the  monosyllable  Ba,  (pro- 
nounced bay). 


I  HAVE  a  name,  a  little  name, 

Uncadenced  for  the  ear, 
Unhonored  by  ancestral  claim, 


Unsanctified  by  prayer  and  psalm 
The  solemn  font  anear. 


II 


It  never  did  to  pages  wove 
For  gay  romance  belong; 
It  never  dedicate  did  move 
As  '  Sacharissa '  unto  love, 
'  Orinda '  unto  song. 


i 


III 


Though  I  write  books,  it  will  be  read 

Upon  the  leaves  of  none. 
And  afterward,  when  I  am  dead. 
Will  ne'er  be  graved  for  sight  or  tread. 

Across  my  funeral-stone. 


IV 


This  name,  whoever  chance  to  call, 

Perhaps  your  smile  may  win: 
Nay,  do  not  smile  !  mine  eyelids  fall 
Over  mine  eyes  and  feel  withal 
The  sudden  tears  within. 


Is  there  a  leaf,  that  greenly  grows 
Where  summer  meadows  bloom. 
But  gathereth  the  winter  snows 
And  changeth  to  the  hue  of  those, 
If  lasting  till  they  come  ? 

VI 

Is  there  a  word,  or  jest,  or  game. 

But  time  incrusteth  round 
With  sad  associate  thoughts  the  same  ? 
And  so  to  me  my  very  name 

Assumes  a  mournful  sound. 

VII 

My  brother  gave  that  name  to  me 
When  we  were  children  twain. 

When  names  acquired  baptismally 

Were  hard  to  utter,  as  to  see 
That  life  had  any  pain. 

VIII 

No  shade  was  on  us  then,  save  one 

Of  chestnuts  from  the  hill ; 
And  through  the  word  our  laugh  did  run 
As  part  thereof:  the  mirth  being  done. 

He  calls  me  by  it  still. 

IX 

Nay,  do  not  smile  !  I  hear  in  it 
What  none  of  you  can  hear,  — 


QUEEN   ANNELIDA   AND   FALSE   ARCITE 


6i 


The  talk  upon  the  willow  seat, 
The  bird  and  wind  that  did  repeat 
Around,  our  human  cheer. 


X 


I  hear  the  birthday's  noisy  bliss, 

My  sisters'  woodland  glee, 
My  father's  praise  I  did  not  miss. 
When  stooping  down  he  cared  to  kiss 

The  poet  at  his  knee,  — 

XI 

And  voices  which,  to  name  me,  aye 
Their  tenderest  tones  were  keeping  — 

To  some  I  never  more  can  say 

An  answer  till  God  wipes  away 
In  heaven  these  drops  of  weeping. 

XII 

My  name  to  me  a  sadness  wears: 
No  murmurs  cross  my  mind  — 
Now  God  be  thanked  for  these  thick  tears 
Which  show,  of  those  departed  years, 
Sweet  memories  left  behind. 

XIII 

Now  God  be  thanked  for  years  enwrought 

With  love  which  softens  yet: 
Now  God  be  thanked  for  every  thought 
Which  is  so  tender  it  has  caught 

Earth's  guerdon  of  regret. 

XIV 

Earth  saddens,  never  shall  remove 

Affections  purely  given; 
And  e'en  that  mortal  grief  shall  prove 
The  immortality  of  love, 

And  heighten  it  with  Heaven. 


'SINCE     WITHOUT      THEE     WE 
DO    NO    GOOD' 

HYMN 

'Lord,  I  cry  unto  thee,  make  haste  unto  me.'  — 
Psalm  cxli. 

'  The  Lord  is  nigh  unto  them  that  call  upon  him.'  — 
Psalm  cxlv. 

'  This  hymn  was  included  among  the  few 
fugitive  pieces  bound  up  with  Miss  Barrett's 
first  and  subsequently  suppressed  translation 
of  the  Prometheus  Bound.'' 

Since  without  Thee  we  do  no  good. 
And  with  Thee  do  no  ill, 


Abide  with  us  in  weal  and  woe,  — 
In  action  and  in  will. 

In  weal,  —  that  while  our  lips  confess 
The  Lord  who  *  gives,'  we  may 

Kemember,  with  an  humble  thought, 
The  Lord  who  '  takes  away.' 

In  woe,  —  that,  while  to  drowning  tears 
Our  hearts  their  joys  resign, 

We  may  remember  loho  can  turn 
Such  water  into  wine. 

By  hours  of  day,  —  that  when  our  feet 

O'er  hill  and  valley  run, 
We  still  may  think  the  light  of  truth 

More  welcome  than  the  sun. 

By  hours  of  night,  —  that  when  the  air 

Its  dew  and  shadow  yields. 
We  still  may  hear  the  voice  of  God 

In  silence  of  the  fields. 

Oh  !  then  sleep  comes  on  us  like  death, 
All  soundless,  deaf  and  deep : 

Lord  !  teach  us  so  to  watch  and  pray. 
That  death  may  come  like  sleep. 

Abide  with  us,  abide  with  us, 

While  flesh  and  soul  agree; 
And  when  our  flesh  is  only  dust. 

Abide  our  souls  with  Thee. 


QUEEN   ANNELIDA    AND    FALSE 
ARCITE 

(modernized   from   CHAUCER) 

First  published  in  The  Poems  of  Geoffrey 
Chaucer  Modernized  (London,  1841).  This 
volume  was  edited  by  R.  H.  Home,  who  con- 
tributed some  of  the  modernizations.  Words- 
worth, who  had  first  sug-g-ested  the  scheme  of 
turning  Chaucer  into  modern  English  verse, 
made  several  contributions,  as  did  also  Leigh 
Hunt.  Tennyson  and  Robert  Browning  were 
invited  to  cooperate  in  the  work,  but  declined. 
Miss  Barrett  executed  the  modernization,  here 
reprinted,  of  Queen  Annelida's  story,  and  gave 
critical  assistance  about  the  whole  compilation. 


O  THOU   fierce  God  of   armies,  Mars   the 

red. 
Who  in  thy  frosty  country  called  Thrace, 


62 


THE    SERAPHIM    AND    OTHER  POEMS 


Within  thy  grisly  temples  full  of  dread, 
Art  honored  as  the  patron  of  that  place, 
With  the  Bellona  Pallas,  full  of  grace  ! 
Be   present;    guide,   sustain   this   song   of 

mine. 
Beginning  which,  I  cry  toward  thy  shrine. 

II 

For  deep  the  hope  is  sunken  in  my  mind. 
In  piteous-hearted  English  to  indite 
This  story  old,  which  I  in  Latin  find. 
Of  Queen  Annelida  and  false  Arcite: 
Since  Time,  whose  rust  can  all  things  fret 

and  bite. 
In  fretting  many  a  tale  of  equal  fame. 
Hath  from  our  memory  nigh  devoured  this 

same. 

Ill 

Thy  favor,  Polyhymnia,  also  deign 
Who,  in  thy  sisters'  green  Parnassian  glade. 
By  Helicon,  not  far  from  Cirrha's  fane, 
Singest  with  voice  memorial  in  the  shade 
Under  the  laurel  which  can  never  fade ; 
Now   grant   my   ship,   that    some    smooth 

haven  win  her  ! 
I  follow  Statius  first,  and  then  Corinna. 

IV 

When  Theseus  by  a  long  and  deathly  war 
The  hardy  Scythian  race  had  overcome, 
He,   laftrel-crowned,    in   his   gold-wrought 

car, 
Returning  to  his  native  city  home, 
The   blissful   people   for   his   pomp  make 

room. 
And  throw  their   shouts    up  to  the    stars, 

and  bring 
The  general  heart  out  for  his  honoring. 

V 

Before  the  Duke,  in  sign  of  victor}^. 

The    trumpets   sound,  and   in   his   banner 

large 
Dilates    the    figure   of   Mars  —  and    men 

may  see. 
In  token  of  glory,  many  a  treasure  charge. 
Many   a  bright   helm,  and   many  a  spear 

and  targe. 
Many  a  fresh  knight,  and  many  a  blissful 

rout 
On  horse  and  foot,  in  all  the  field  about. 

VI 

Hippolyte,  his  wife,  the  heroic  queen 

Of  Scythia,  conqueress  though  conquered, 


With  Emily,  her  youthful  sister  sheen. 
Fair  in  a  car  of  gold  he  with  him  led. 
The  ground  about  her  car  she  overspread 
With  brightness   from  the   beauty  in   her 

face. 
Which  smiled  forth  largesses  of  love  and 

grace. 

VII 

Thus  triumphing,  and  laurel-crowned  thus. 
In  all  the  flower  of   Fortune's   high   pro- 
viding, 
I  leave  this  noble  prince,  this  Theseus, 
Toward  the  walls  of  Athens  bravely  rid- 
ing, — 
And  seek  to  bring  in,  without  more  abid- 
ing* 
Something  of  that  whereof  I  'gan  to  write 
Of  fair  Annelida  and  false  Arcite. 

VIII 

Fierce  Mars,  who  in  his  furious  course  of 

ire, 
The  ancient  wrath  of  Juno  to  fulfil. 
Had  set  the  nations'  mutual  hearts  on  fire 
In  Thebes  and  Argos,  (so  that  each  would 

kill 
Either   with   bloody   spears,)  grew   never 

still  — 
But  rushed   now  here,  now   there,  among 

them  both, 
Till  each  was  slain  by  each,  they  were  so 

wroth. 

IX 

For  when  Parthenopseus  and  Tydeus 
Had  perished  with  Hippomedon,  —  als6 
Amphiaraus  and  proud  Capaneus,  — 
And  when  the  wretched  Theban  brethren 

two 
Were  slain,  and  King  Adrastus  home  did 

go  — 
So  desolate  stood  Thebes,  her  halls  so  bare, 
That  no  man's  love  could  remedy  his  care. 

X 

And  when  the  old  man,  Creon,  'gan  espy 
How  darkly  the  blood  royal  was  brought 

down, 
He  held  the  city  in  his  tyranny. 
And  forced  the  nobles  of  that  regibn 
To  be  his  friends  and  dwell  within  the  town; 
Till  half  for  love  of  him,  and  half  for  fear, 
Those  princely  persons  yielded,  and  drew 

near,  — 


QUEEN   ANNELIDA   AND   FALSE   ARCITE 


63 


XI 


Among  the  rest  the  young  Armenian  queen, 
Annelida,  was  in  that  city  livingo 
She  was  as  beauteous  as  the  sun  was  sheen. 
Her  fame  to  distant  lands  such  glory  giving 
That  all  men  in  the  world  had  some  heart- 


striving 
To  look  on  her.     No  woman,  sooth,  can  be, 
Though  earth  is  rich  in  fairness,  fair  as  she. 

XII 

Young  was  this  queen,  but  twenty  summers 
old. 

Of  middle  stature,  and  such  wondrous 
beauty. 

That  Nature,  self-delighted,  did  behold 

A  rare  work  in  her  —  while,  in  stedfast 
duty, 

Lucretia  and  Penelope  would  suit  ye 

With  a  worse  model  —  all  things  under- 
stood. 

She  was,  in  short,  most  perfect  fair  and 
good. 

XIII 

The  Theban  knight  eke,  to  give  all  their 

due, 
Was  young,  and  therewithal  a  lusty  knight. 
But  he  was  double  in  love,  and  nothing  true, 
Ay,  subtler  in  that  craft  than  any  wight. 
And  with  his  cunning  won  this  lady  bright; 
So  working  on  her  simpleness  of  nature. 
That  she  him  trusted  above  every  creature. 

XIV 

What  shall  I  say  ?     She  loved  Arcite  so, 
That  if  at  any  hour  he  parted  from  her. 
Her  heart  seemed  ready  anon  to  burst  in 

two; 
For  he  with  lowliness  had  overcome  her: 
She  thought  she  knew  the  heart  which  did 

foredoom  her. 
But  he  was  false,  and  all  that  softness  feign- 

I  trow  men  need  not  learn  such  arts  of 
paining. 

XV 

And  ne'ertheless  full  mickle  business 
Had  he,  before  he  might  his  lady  win,  — 
He  swore  that  he  should  die  of  his  distress. 
His   brain   would    madden   with    the   fire 

within  ! 
Alas,  the  M'^hile  !  for  it  was  ruth  and  sin. 


That  she,  sweet  soul,  upon  his  grief  should 

rue; 
But  little  reckon  false  hearts  as  the  true. 

XVI 

And  she  to  Arcite  so  subjected  her, 
That  all  she  did  or  had  seemed  his  of  right : 
No  creature  in  her  house  met  smile  or  cheer. 
Further  than  would  be  pleasant  to  Arcite ; 
There  was  no  lack  whereby  she  did  despite 
To  his  least  will  —  for  hers  to  his  was  bent, 
And  all  things  which  pleased  him  made  her 
content. 

XVII 

No  kind  of  letter  to  her  fair  hands  came. 
Touching  on  love,  from  any  kind  of  wight, 
But  him  she  showed  it  ere  she  burned  the 

same: 
So  open  was  she,  doing  all  she  might. 
That  nothing  should  be    hidden  from  her 

knight. 
Lest   he  for   any  untruth   should    upbraid 

her,  — 
The  slave  of  his  unspoken  will  she  made 

her. 

XVIII 

He  played  his  jealous  fancies  over  her. 
And  if  he  heard  that  any  other  man 
Spoke  to  her,  would  beseech  her  straight  to 

swear 
To  each  word  —  or  the  speaker  had  his  ban ; 
And  out  of  her  sweet  wits  she  almost  ran 
For  fear;  but  all  was  fraud  and  flattery. 
Since  without  love  he  feigned  jealousy. 

XIX 

All  which  with  so  much  sweetness  suffered 

she, 
Whate'er  he  willed  she  thought  the  wisest 

thing; 
And  evermore  she  loved  him  tenderly, 
And  did  him  honor  as  he  were  a  king. 
Her  heart  was  wedded  to  him  with  a  ring. 
So  eager  to  be  faithful  and  intent. 
That  wheresoe'er  he  wandered,  there  it  went. 

XX 

When   she  would   eat   he   stole  away  her 

thought. 
Till  little  thought  for   food,  I  ween,  was 

kept; 
And  when  a  time  for   rest   the    midnight 

broughtj 


64 


THE   SERAPHIM   AND   OTHER   POEMS 


She  always  mused  upon  him  till  she  slept,  — 
When  he  was  absent,  secretly  she  wept; 
And  thus  lived  Queen  Annelida  the  fair. 
For   false    Arcite,    who    worked    her  this 
despair. 

XXI 

This  false  Arcite  in  his  new-fangleness, 
Because  so  gentle  were  her  ways  and  true, 
Took  the  less  pleasure  in  her  stedfastness, 
And  saw  another  lady  proud  and  new, 
And  right  anon  he  clad  him  in  her  hue; 
I  know  not  whether  white,  or  red,  or  green, 
Betraying  fair  Annelida  the  Queen. 

XXII 

And  yet  it  was  no  thing  to  wonder  on. 
Though  he  were  false  —  It  is  the  way  of 

man, 
(Since  Lamech  was,  who  flourished  years 

agone,) 
To  be  in  love  as  false  as  any  can; 
For  he  was  the  first  father  who  began 
To  love  two;  and  I  trow,  indeed,  that  he 
Invented  tents  as  well  as  bigamy. 

XXIII 

And  having  so  betrayed  her,  false  Arcite 
Feign'd  more,  that  primal  wrong  to  justify. 
A  vicious  horse  will  snort  besides  his  bite; 
And  so  he  taunted  her  with  treachery, 
Swearing  he  saw  thro'  her  duplicity, 
And   how  she  was   not   loving,  but  false- 
hearted — 
The  perjured  traitor  swore  thus,  and  de- 
parted. 

XXIV 

Alas,  alas,  what  heart  could  suffer  it, 

For  ruth,  the  story  of  her  grief  to  tell  ? 

What  thinker  hath  the  cunning  and  the 
wit 

To  image  it  ?  what  hearer,  strength  to 
dwell 

A  room's  length  off,  while  I  rehearse  the 
hell 

Suffered  by  Queen  Annelida  the  fair 

For  false  Arcite,  who  worked  her  this  de- 
spair ? 

XXV 

She  weepeth,  waileth,  swooneth  piteously; 
She  falleth  on  the  earth  dead  as  a  stone; 
Her  graceful   limbs  are  cramped   convul- 
sively; 


She  speaketh  out   wild,  as  her  wits  were 

gone. 
No  color,  but  an  ashen  paleness  —  none  — 
Touched  cheek  or  lips;  and  no  word  shook 

their  white, 
But     '  Mercy,    cruel    heart  !     mine     own 

Arcite  ! ' 

XXVI 

Thus  it  continued,  till  she  pin^d  so. 

And  grew  so  weak,  her  feet  no  more  could 

bear 
Her  body,  languishing  in  ceaseless  woe. 
Whereof    Arcite    had    neither    ruth    nor 

care  — 
His  heart  had  put  out   new-green  shoots 

elsewhere; 
Therefore  he  deigned  not  on  her  grief  to 

think. 
And  reckoned  little,  did  she  float  or  sink. 

XXVII 

His  fine  new  lady  kept  him  in  such  narrow 

Strict  limit,  by  the  bridle,  at  the  end 

O'  the  whip,  he  feared  her  least  word  as 

an  arrow,  — 
Her   threatening  made   him,  as  a  bow,  to 

bend, 
And  at  her  pleasure  did  he  turn  and  wend; 
Seeing  she  never  granted  to  this  lover 
A  single  grace  he  could  sing  *  los  '  over. 

XXVIII 

She  drove  him  forth  —  she  scarcely  deigned 

to  know 
That  he  was  servant  to  her  ladyship: 
But,  lest  he  should  be  proud,  she  kept  him 

low. 
Nor  paid  his  service  from  a  smiling  lip : 
She    sent   him   now  to   land,  and   now  to 

ship; 
And  giving  him  all  danger  to  his  fill. 
She  thereby  had  him  at  her  sovereign  will. 

XXIX 

Be  taught  of  this,  ye  prudent  women  all, 
Warn'd  by  Annelida  and  false  Arcite: 
Because  she  chose,  himself,  '  dear  heart '  to 

call 
And  be  so  meek,  he  loved  her  not  aright. 
The  nature  of  man's  heart  is  to  delight 
In    something    strange  —  moreover,   (may 

Heaven  save 
The  wrong'd)  the  thing  they  cannot,  they 

would  have. 


THE   COMPLAINT    OF   ANNELIDA   TO    FALSE   ARCITE       65 


XXX 

Now  turn  we  to  Annelida  again, 

Who  pin^d  day  by  day  in  languishment. 

But   when   she  saw   no   comfort   met   her 

pain, 
Weeping  once  in  a  woeful  unconstraint, 
She  set  herself  to  fashion  a  complaint. 
Which  with  her  own  pale  hand  she  'gan  to 

write, 
And  sent  it  to  her  lover,  to  Arcite. 


THE   COMPLAINT  OF  ANNELIDA 
TO    FALSE   ARCITE 


The  sword  of  sorrow,  whetted  sharp  for 

me 
On  false  delight,  with  point  of  memory 
Stabb'd  so  mine  heart,  bliss-bare  and  black 

of  hue, 
That  all  to  dread  is  turn'd  my  dance's  glee, 
My  face's  beauty  to  despondency  — 
For  nothing  it  availeth  to  be  true  — 
And,  whosoever  is  so,  she  shall  rue 
Obeying  love,  and  cleaving  faithfully 
Alway  to  one,  and  changing  for  no  new. 

II 

I  ought  to  know  it  well  as  any  wight, 

For   I   loved  one  with   all  my   heart   and 

might, 
More  than  myself  a  hundred-thousand  fold, 
And  called  him  my  heart's  dear  life,  my 

knight, 
And  was  all  his,  as  far  as  it  was  right; 
His  gladness  did  my  blitheness  make   of 

old. 
And  in  his  least  disease  my  death  was  told; 
Who,  on    his    side,  had    plighted    lovers' 

plight. 
Me,  evermore,  his  lady  and  love  to  hold. 

Ill 

Now  is  he  false  —  alas,  alas  !  —  although 
Unwronged !    and   acting   such   a  ruthless 

part. 
That  with  a  little  word  he  will  not  deign 
To  bring  the  peace  back  to  my  mournful 

heart. 
Drawn  in,  and  caught  up  by  another's  art. 
Right  as  he  will,  he  laugheth  at  my  pain; 
While  I  —  I  cannot  my  weak  heart  restrain 


From  loving  him  —  still,  aye ;  yet  none  I 

know 
To  whom  of  all  this  grief  I  can  complain. 

IV 

Shall   I  complain  (ah,  piteous  and   harsh 

sound  !  ) 
Unto    my   foe,    who   gave   mine    heart   a 

•  wound, 
And  still  desireth  that  the  harm  be  more  ? 
Now  certes,  if  I  sought   the  whole   earth 

round. 
No  other  help,  no  better  leech  were  found  ! 
My  destiny  hath  shaped  it  so  of  yore  — 
I  would  not  other  medicine,  nor  yet  lore. 
I  would  be  ever  where  I  once  was  bound; 
And  what  I  said,  would  say  for  evermore. 


Alas  !  and  where  is  gone  your  gentillesse  ? 
Where    gone    your   pleasant    words,  your 

humbleness  ? 
Where  your  devotion  full  of  reverent  fear, 
Your  patient  loyalty,  your  busy  address 
To  me,  whom  once  you  called  nothing  less 
Than  mistress,  sovereign  lady,  i'  the  sphere 
O'  the  world  ?     Ah  me  !  no  word,  no  look 

of  cheer, 
Will  you  vouchsafe  upon  my  heaviness  ! 
Alas  your  love  !     I  bought  it  all  too  dear. 

VI 

Now  certes,  sweet,  howe'er  you  be 
The  cause  so,  and  so  causelessly, 
Of  this  my  mortal  agony, 
Your  reason  should  amend  the  failing  ! 
Your  friend,  your  true  love,  do  you  flee, 
Who  never  in  time  nor  yet  degree 
Grieved  you:  so  may  the  all-knowing  he 
Save  my  lorn  soul  from  future  wailing. 

VII 

Because  I  was  so  plain,  Arcite, 
In  all  my  doings,  your  delight 
Seeking  in  all  things,  where  I  might 
In  honor,  —  meek  and  kind  and  free; 
Therefore  you  do  me  such  despite. 
Alas  !  howe'er  through  cruelty 
My  heart  with  sorrow's  sword  you  smite, 
You  cannot  kill  its  love.  —  Ah  me  ! 

VIII 

Ah,  my  sweet  foe,  why  do  you  so 

For  shame  ? 


66 


THE   SERAPHIM   AND  OTHER   POEMS 


Think  you  that  praise,  in  sooth,  will  raise 

Your  name, 
Loving  anew,  and  being  untrue 

For  aye  ? 
Thus  casting  down  your  manhood's  crown 

In  blame. 
And  working  me  adversity, 

The  same 
Who    loves    you    most  —  (O    God,  ♦  thou 
know'st  !) 

Alway  ? 
Yet  turn  again  —  be  fair  and  plain 

Some  day; 
And  then  shall  this,  that  seems  amiss, 

Be  game, 
All  being  forgiv'n,  while  yet  from  heav'n 

I  stay. 

IX 

Behold,  dear  heart,  I  write  this  to  obtain 
Some  knowledge,  whether  I  should  pray  or 

'plaine : 
Which  way  is  best  to  force  you  to  be  true? 
For  either  I  must  have  you  in  my  chain. 
Or  you,  sweet,  with  the  death  must  part  us 

twain ; 
There  is  no  mean,  no  other  way  more  new: 
And,  that  Heaven's  mercy  on  my  soul  may 

rue 
And  let  you   slay  me  outright  with   this 

pain. 
The  whiteness  in  my  cheeks  may  prove  to 

you. 

X 

For  hitherto  mine  own  death  have  I  sought; 
Myself  I  murder  with  my  secret  thought, 
In  sorrow  and  ruth  of  your  unkindnesses  ! 
I  weep,  I  wail,  I  fast  —  all  helpeth  nought, 
I  flee  all  joy  (I  mean  the  name  of  aught), 
I  flee  all  company,  all  mirthfulness  — 
Why,  who  can  make  her  boast  of  more  dis- 
tress 
Than  I  ?     To  such  a  plight  you  have  me 

brought, 
Guiltless  (I  need  no  witness)  ne'ertheless. 

XI 

Shall  I  go  pray  and  wail  my  womanhood  ? 
Compared  to  such  a  deed,  death's  self  were 

good. 
What !    ask   for  mercy,    and    guiltless  — 

where  's  the  need  ? 
A.nd  if  I  wailed  my   life   so,  —  that  you 

would 


Care  nothing,  is  less  feared  than  under- 
stood: 

And  if  mine  oath  of  love  I  dared  to  plead 

In  mine  excuse,  —  your  scorn  would  be  its 
meed. 

Ah,  love  !  it  giveth  flowers  instead  of 
seed  — 

Full  long  ago  I  might  have  taken  heed. 

XII 

And   though   I   had  you  back   to-morrow 

again, 
I  might  as  well  hold  April  from  the  rain 
As  hold  you  to  the   vows  you  vowed  me 

last. 
Maker  of  all  things,  and  truth's  sovereign, 
Where  is  the    truth  of   man,  who  hath  it 

slain. 
That  she  who  loveth  him  should  find  him 

fast 
As  in  a  tempest  is  a  rotten  mast  ? 
Is  that  a  tame  beast  which  is  ever  fain 
To   flee   us  when   restraint   and   fear  are 

past? 

XIII 

Now  mercy,  sweet,  if  I  mis-say;  — 

Have  I  said  aught  is  wrong  to-day  ? 

I  do  not  know  —  my  wit 's  astray  — 

I  fare  as  doth  the  song  of  one  who  weep- 

eth; 
For  now  I  'plaine,  and  now  I  play  — 
I  am  so  'mazed,  I  die  away  — 
Arcite,  you  have  the  key  for  aye 
Of  all  my  world,  and  all  the  good  it  keep- 

eth. 

XIV 

And  in  this  world  there  is  not  one 
Who  walketh  with  a  sadder  moan. 
And  bears  more  grief  than  I  have  done; 
And  if  light  slumbers  overcome  me, 
Methinks  your  image,  in  the  glory 
Of  skyey  azure,  stands  before  me. 
Re-vowing  the  old  love  you  bore  me, 
And  praying  for  new  mercy  from  me. 

XV 

Through  the  long  night,  this  wondrous 
sight. 

Bear  I, 
Which  haunteth  still,  the  daylight,  till 

I  die: 
But  nought  of  this,  your  heart,  I  wis, 

Can  reach. 


A   DRAMA   OF   EXILE 


67 


Mine  eyes  down-pour,  they  nevermore 

Are  dry, 
While  to  your  ruth,  and  eke  your  truth, 

Icry  — 
But,  weladay,  too  far  be  they 

To  fetch. 
Thus  destiny  is  holding  me  — 

Ah,  wretch  ! 
And  when  I  fain  would  break  the  chain. 

And  try  — 
Faileth  my  wit  (so  weak  is  it) 

With  speech. 

XVI 

Therefore    I  end   thus,  since   my  hope  is 

o'er  — 
I  give  all  up  both  now  and  evermore ; 
And  in  the  balance  ne'er  again  will  lay 


My  safet}^,  nor  be  studious  in  love-lore. 
But  like  the  swan  who,  as  I  heard  of  yore, 
Siugeth  life's  penance  on  his  deathly  day. 
So  I  sing  here  my  life  and  woes  away,  — 
Ay,  how  you,  cruel  Arcite,  wounded  sore, 
With  memory's  point,  your  poor  Annelida. 

XVII 

After  Annelida,  the  woeful  queen. 

Had  written  in  her  own  hand  in  this  wise. 

With  ghastly  face,  less  pale  than  white,  I 

ween. 
She  fell  a-swooning;  then  she  'gan  arise, 
And  unto  Mars  voweth  a  sacrifice 
Within  the  temple,  with  a  sorrowful  bear- 
ing, 
And  in  such  phrase  as  meets  your  present 
hearing. 


POEMS    OF    1844 


In  1844  appeared,  Poems.  By  Elizabeth  Bar- 
rett Barrett,  Author  of  The  Seraphim,  etc.  In 
two  volumes.  {London,  Edward  Moxon,  Dover 
Street.)  Thisedition,  the  last  which  bore  Mrs. 
Browning-'s  maiden  name,  was  dedicated  to 
her  father,   and   '  A  Drama  of  Exile  '  was  its 


initial  and  longest  poem.  Her  mind,  as  when 
she  wrote  '  The  Seraphim,'  was  still  preoccupied 
by  the  idea  of  casting  the  stupendous  incidents 
of  the  Christian  story  into  a  form  approxi- 
mating that  of  Greek  tragedy. 


A   DRAMA    OF   EXILE 

'  De  patrie,  et  de  Dieu,  des  pontes,  de  I'Sme 
Qui  s'eleve  en  priant.'  — Victor  Hugo. 

PERSONS 

Christ,  in  a  Vision. 

Adam. 

Eve. 

Gabriel. 

Lucifer. 

Angels,   Eden    Spirits,   Earth    Spirits,   and    Phan- 
tasms. 

Scene.  —  The  outer  side  of  the  gate  of  Eden 
shut  fast  with  cloud,  from  the  depth  of 
which  revolves  a  sword  of  fire  self-moved. 
Adam  and  Eve  are  seen  in  the  distance 
flying  along  the  glare. 

Lucifer,  alone. 

Rejoice  in  the  clefts  of  Gehenna, 

My  exiled,  my  host ! 
Earth  has  exiles  as  hopeless  as  when  a 

Heaven's  empire  was  lost. 


Through  the  seams  of  her  shaken  founda- 
tions. 

Smoke  up  in  great  joy  ! 
With  the  smoke  of  your  fierce  exultations 

Deform  and  destroy  ! 
Smoke  up  with  your  lurid  revenges, 

And  darken  the  face  10 

Of  the  white  heavens  and  taunt  them  with 
changes 

From  glory  and  grace. 
We,  in  falling,  while  destiny  strangles, 

Pull  down  with  us  all. 
Let  them  look  to  the  rest  of  their  angels  ! 

Who  's  safe  from  a  fall  ? 
He   saves   not.      Where 's   Adam  ?     Can 
pardon 

Requicken  that  sod  ? 
Unkinged  is  the  King  of  the  Garden, 

The  image  of  God. 
Other  exiles  are  cast  out  of  Eden,  — 

More  curse  has  been  hurled: 
Come  up,  O  my  locusts,  and  feed  in 

The  green  of  the  world  ! 
Come  up  !  we  have  conquered  by  evil; 

Good  reigns  not  alone: 


20 


68 


POEMS   OF    1844 


/  prevail  now,  and,  angel  or  devil, 
Inherit  a  throne. 

\_In  sudden  apparition  a  watch  of  innum- 
erable Angels,  rank  above  rank,  slopes 
up  from  around  the  gate  to  the  zenith. 
The  Ansel  Gabriel  descends. 
Lucifer.  Hail,  Gabriel,  the  keeper  of  the 
gate  ! 

Now   that    the    fruit   is    plucked,   prince 
Gabriel,  30 

I  hold  that  Eden  is  impregnable 

Under  thy  keeping. 

Gabriel.  Angel  of  the  sin, 

Such  as  thou  standest,  —  pale  in  the  drear 
light 

Which     rounds     the     rebel's    work    with 
Maker's  wrath,  — 

Thou  shalt  be  an  Idea  to  all  souls, 

A  monumental  melancholy  gloom 

Seen  down  all  ages,  whence  to  mark  de- 
spair 

And  measure  out  the  distances  from  good. 

Go  from  us  straightway  ! 

Lucifer.  Wherefore  ? 

Gabriel.  Lucifer, 

Thy  last  step   in   this  place   trod   sorrow 
up.  40 

Recoil  before  that  sorrow,  if  not  this  sword. 
Lucifer.     Angels    are    in  the    world  — 
wherefore  not  I  ? 

Exiles  are  in  the  world  —  wherefore  not  I  ? 

The  cursed  are  in  the  world  —  wherefore 
not  I  ? 
Gabriel.    Depart ! 

Lucifer.     And  where  's  the  logic  of  '  de- 
part '  ? 

Our  lady  Eve  had  half  been  satisfied 

To  obey  her  Maker,  if  I  had  not  learnt 

To   fix   my   postulate    better.     Dost  thou 
dream 

Of  guarding  some  monopoly  in  heaven 

Instead  of  earth  ?     Why,  I  can  dream  with 
thee  50 

To  the  length  of  thy  wings. 

Gabriel.  I  do  not  dream. 

This  is  not  heaven,  even  in  a  dream,  nor 
earth. 

As  earth  was  once,  first  breathed  among 
the  stars, 

Articulate  glory  from  the  mouth  divine. 

To  which  the  myriad  spheres  thrilled  au- 
dibly, 

Touched  like  a  lute-string,  and  the  sons  of 
God 

Said  Amen,  singing  it.     I  know  that  this 


Is  earth  not  new  created  but  new  cursed  — 
This,  Eden's   gate   not   opened   but   built 

up 
With    a    final    cloud    of    sunset.      Do    I 
dream  ?  60 

Alas,  not  so  !  this  is  the  Eden  lost 
By  Lucifer  the  serpent ;  this  the  sword 
(This  sword   alive  with   justice   and  with 

fire) 
That  smote,  upon  the  forehead,  Lucifer 
The   angel.     Wherefore,   angel,   go  —  de- 
part ! 
Enough  is  sinned  and  suffered. 

Lucifer.  By  no  means. 

Here  's  a  brave  earth  to   sin   and   suffer 

on: 
It  holds  fast  still  —  it   cracks   not   under 

curse ; 
It  holds  like  mine  immortal.     Presently 
We  '11  sow  it  thick  enough  with  graves  as 
green  70 

Or  greener  certes,  than  its  knowledge-tree. 
We  '11   have  the   cypress  for  the  tree  of 

life, 
More  eminent  for  shadow:  for  the  rest. 
We  '11  build  it  dark  with  towns  and  pyra- 
mids, 
And   temples,   if   it   please   you:  —  we  '11 

have  feasts 
And  funerals  also,  merrymakes  and  wars. 
Till   blood   and  wine   shall   mix  and   run 

along 
Right  o'er  the  edges.     And,  good  Gabriel 
(Ye  like  that  word  in  heaven),  /  too  have 

strength  — 
Strength  to  behold  Him  and  not  worship 


Hi 


im. 


80 


Strength  to  fall  from  Him  and  not  cry  on 

Him, 
Strength  to  be  in  the  universe  and  yet 
Neither   God   nor   his   servant.     The   red 

sign 
Burnt  on  my  forehead,  which  you  taunt  me 

with, 
Is  God's  sign  that  it  bows  not  unto  God, 
The  potter's  mark  upon  his  work,  to  show 
It  rings  well   to  the  striker.     I  and  the 

earth 
Can  bear  more  curse. 

Gabriel.  O  miserable  earth, 

0  ruined  angel  ! 

Lucifer.  Well,  and  if  it  be  ! 

1  CHOSE  this  ruin ;  I  elected  it  90 
Of  my  will,  not  of  service.     What  I  do, 

I  do  volitient,  not  obedient, 


A   DRAMA   OF   EXILE 


69 


And  overtop  thy  crown  with  my  despair. 
My  sorrow  crowns  me.     Get  thee  back  to 

heaven, 
And  leave  me  to  the  earth,  which  is  mine 

own 
In  virtue  of  her  ruin,  as  I  hers 
In  virtue  of  my  revolt !     Turn  thou  from 

both 
That  bright,  impassive,  passive  angelhood. 
And  spare  to  read  us  backward  any  more 
Of  the  spent  hallelujahs  ! 

Gabriel.  Spirit  of  scorn,  100 

I  might  say,  of  unreason  !     I  might  say. 
That   who   despairs,  acts;   that   who  acts, 

connives 
With  God's  relations  set  in  time  and  space ; 
That  who  elects,  assumes  a  something  good 
Which  God  made  possible;  that  who  lives, 

obeys 
The  law  of  a  Life-maker  .  .  . 

Lucifer.  Let  it  pass  ! 

C^o  more,  thou  Gabriel !     What  if  I  stand 

up 
And  strike  my  brow  against  the  crystal- 
line 
Roofing  the  creatures,  —  shall   I   say,  for 

that. 
My     stature     is     too     high     for     me    to 

stand,  —  no 

Henceforward  I  must  sit  ?     Sit  thou  ! 
Gabriel.  I  kneel. 

Lucifer.   A  heavenly  answer.     Get  thee 

to  thy  heaven. 
And  leave  my  earth  to  me  ! 

Gabriel.  Through  heaven  and  earth 

God's  will  moves  freely,  and  I  follow  it, 
As  color  follows  light.     He  overflows 
The  firmamental  walls  with  deity, 
Therefore   with    love;     his    lightnings  go 

abroad. 
His  pity  may  do  so,  his  angels  must, 
Whene'er  He  gives  them  charges. 

Lucifer.  Verily, 

I    and    my    demons,  who    are    spirits    of 

scorn,  120 

Might  hold  this  charge  of  standing  with  a 

sword 
'Twixt  man  and  his  inheritance,  as  well 
As  the  benignest  angel  of  you  all. 

Gabriel.   Thou  speakest  in  the  shadow  of 

thy  change. 
If  thou  hadst  gazed  upon  the  face  of  God 
This  morning  for  a  moment,  thou  hadst 

known 


That  only  pity  fitly  can  chastise: 
Hate  but  avenges. 

Lucifer.  As  it  is,  I  know 

Something   of   pity.      When   I    reeled   in 

heaven, 
And   my   sword   grew   too   heavy  for  my 

grasp,  130 

Stabbing  through  matter,  which  it  could  not 

pierce 
So  much  as  the  first  shell  of,  —  toward  the 

throne; 
When  I  fell  back,  down,  —  staring  up  as  I 

fell,— 
The   lightnings   holding  open   my  scathed 

lids. 
And  that  thought  of  the  infinite  of  God, 
Hurled  after  to  precipitate  descent; 
When  countless  angel  faces  still  and  stern 
Pressed    out    upon    me    from    the     level 

heavens 
Adown  the  abysmal  spaces,  and  I  fell 
Trampled  down  by  your  stillness,  and  struck 

blind  140 

By  the  sight  within  your  eyes,  —  't  was  then 

I  knew 
How  ye  could  pity,  my  kind  angelhood  ! 
Gabriel.   Alas,  discrowned  one,   by  the 

truth  in  me 
Which   God  keeps   in   me,  I   would   give 

away 
All  —  save  that  truth  and  his  love  keeping 

it  — 
To  lead  thee  home  again  into  the  light 
And  hear  thy  voice  chant  with  the  morning 

stars, 
When  their  rays  tremble  round  them  with 

much  song 
Sung  in  more  gladness  ! 

Lucifer.  Sing,  my  Morning  Star  ! 

Last     beautiful,     last     heavenly,    that     I 

loved !  150 

If  I  could  drench   thy  golden  locks  with 

tears. 
What  were  it  to  this  angel  ? 

Gabriel.  What  love  is. 

And  now  I  have  named  God. 

Lucifer.  Yet,  Gabriel, 

By  the  lie  in  me  which  I  keep  myself, 
Thou  'rt  a  false  swearer.     Were  it  other- 
wise. 
What  dost   thou  here,  vouchsafing  tender 

thoughts 
To    that    earth-angel    or  earth-demon  — 

which. 


70 


POEMS   OF    1844 


Thou  and  I  have  not  solved  the  problem 

yet 
Enough    to    argue,  —  that    fallen    Adam 

there,  — 
That  red-clay  and  a  breath,  —  who  must, 

forsooth,  160 

Live  in  a  new  apocalypse  of  sense, 
With  beauty  and  music  waving  in  his  trees 
And  running  in  his  rivers,  to  make  glad 
His   soul    made   perfect  ?  —  is  it   not   for 

hope, 
A  hope  within  thee  deeper  than  thy  truth, 
Of  finally  conducting  him  and  his 
To  fill  the  vacant  thrones  of  me  and  mine. 
Which   affront    heaven   with    their   vacu- 

ity? 
Gabriel.  Angel,  there  are  no  vacant  thrones 

in  heaven 
To    suit    thy   empty   words.      Glory   and 

life  170 

Fulfil  their  own  depletions;  and  if  God 
Sighed  you  far  from  Him,  his  next  breath 

drew  in 
A  compensative  splendor  up  the  vast, 
Flushing  the  starry  arteries. 

Lucifer.  What  a  change  ! 

So,  let  the  vacant  thrones  and  gardens  too 
Fill  as  may  please  you  !  —  and  be  pitiful, 
As  ye  translate  that  word,  to  the  dethroned 
And  exiled,  man  or  angel.    The  fact  stands. 
That  I,  the  rebel,  the  cast  out  and  down. 
Am   here   and   will   not   go;   while   there, 

along  180 

The    light   to    which   ye   flash    the    desert 

out, 
Flies  your  adopted  Adam,  your  red-clay 
In  two   kinds,  both    being  flawed.     Why, 

what  is  this  ? 
Whose  work  is  this  ?     Whose  hand  was  in 

the  work  ? 
Against  whose  hand  ?     In  this  last  strife, 

methinks, 
I  am  not  a  fallen  angel  ! 

Gabriel.  Dost  thou  know 

Aught  of  those  exiles  ? 

Lucifer.  Ay:  I  know  they  have  fled 

Silent  all  day  along  the  wilderness: 
I   know   they   wear,  for   burden  on   their 

backs, 
The  thought  of  a  shut  gate  of  Paradise,  190 
And  faces  of  the  marshalled  cherubim 
Shining  against,  not  for  them ;  and  I  know 
They    dare    not     look    in    one    another's 

face, — 
As  if  each  were  a  cherub  ! 


Gabriel.  Dost  thou  know 

Aught  of  their  future  ? 

Lucifer.  Only  as  much  as  this: 

That  evil  will  increase  and  multiply 
Without  a  benediction. 

Gabriel.  Nothing  more  ? 

Lucifer.     Why    so    the    angels     taunt ! 

What  should  be  more  ? 
Gabriel.     God  is  more. 
Lucifer.  Proving  what  ? 

Gabriel.  That  he  is  God, 

And  capable  of  saving.     Lucifer,  200 

I  charge  thee  by  the  solitude  He  kept 
Ere  He  created,  —  leave  the  earth  to  God  ! 
Lucifer.     My  foot  is  on  the  earth,  firm 

as  my  sin. 
Gabriel.     I  charge  thee  by  the  memory 
of  heaven 
Ere  any   sin  was   done,  —  leave    earth   to 
God! 
Lucifer.     My    sin    is    on   the   earth,   to 

reign  thereon. 
Gabriel.     I  charge   thee  by   the   choral 
song  we  sang, 
When  up  against  the  white  shore  of   our 

feet 
The  depths  of   the   creation   swelled   and 

brake,  — 
And  the  new  worlds,  the  beaded  foam  and 
flower  2  lo 

Of  all  that  coil,  roared  outward  into  space 
On    thunder-edges,  —  leave    the    earth   to 
God! 
Lucifer.     My    woe   is   on   the   earth,  to 

curse  thereby. 
Gabriel.     I  charge  thee  by  that  mourn- 
ful Morning  Star 
Which  trembles  .  .  . 

Lucifer.  Enough  spoken.  As  the  pine 
In  norland  forest  drops  its  weight  of  snows 
By  a  night's  growth,  so,  growing   toward 

my  ends 
I  drop  thy  counsels.     Farewell,  Gabriel  ! 
Watch    out    thy   service;    I    achieve    my 

will. 
And  peradventure  in  the  after  years,        220 
When   thoughtful    men    shall    bend    their 

spacious  brows 
Upon  the  storm  and  strife  seen  everywhere 
To  ruffle  their  smooth  manhood  and  break 

up 
With  lurid  lights  of  intermittent  hope 
Their  human  fear  and  wrong,  —  they  may 

discern 
The  heart  of  a  lost  angel  in  the  earth. 


A   DRAMA   OF   EXILE 


71 


CHORUS    OF   EDEN    SPIRITS 

(Chanting  from  Paradise,  while  Adam  and 
lEiVEjiy  across  the  Sword-glare.) 

Hearken,  oh  hearken  !  let  your  souls  be- 
hind you 

Turn,  gently  moved  ! 
Our  voices  feel  along  the  Dread  to  find 
you, 

O  lost,  beloved  !  230 

Through  the  thick-shielded  and  strong- 
marshalled  angels. 

They  press  and  pierce: 
Our  requiems  follow  fast  on  our  evan- 
gels, — 

Voice  throbs  in  verse. 
We  are  but  orphaned  spirits  left  in  Eden 

A  time  ago: 
God  gave  us  golden  cups,  and  we  were 
bidden 

To  feed  you  so. 
But  now  our  right  hand  hath  no  cup  re- 
maining. 

No  work  to  do,  240 

The  mystic  hydromel  is  spilt,  and  stain- 
ing 

The  whole  earth  through. 
Most  ineradicable  stains,  for  showing 

(Not  interfused  !) 
That   brighter   colors  were   the  world's 
foregoing, 

Than  shall  be  used. 
Hearken,  oh  hearken  !  ye  shall  hearken 
surely 

For  years  and  years. 
The  noise  beside   you,  dripping   coldly, 
purely, 

Of  spirits'  tears.  250 

The  yearning  to  a  beautiful  denied  you 

Shall  strain  your  powers; 
Ideal  sweetnesses  shall  overglide  you. 

Resumed  from  ours. 
In  all  your  music,  our  pathetic  minor 

Your  ears  shall  cross; 
And   all   good  gifts  shall   mind   you  of 
diviner, 

With  sense  of  loss. 
We    shall   be   near   you   in   your    poet- 
languors 

And  wild  extremes,  260 

What  time  ye  vex  the  desert  with  vain 
angers. 

Or  mock  with  dreams. 


And  when  upon  you,  weary  after  roam- 
ing* 

Death's  seal  is  put, 

By   the   foregone  ye   shall   discern  the 
coming, 

Through  eyelids  shut. 
Spirits  of  the  Trees. 

Hark  !  the  Eden  trees  are  stirring, 
Soft  and  solemn  in  your  hearing  ! 
Oak  and  linden,  palm  and  fir, 
Tamarisk  and  juniper,  270 

Each  still  throbbing  in  vibration 
Since  that  crowning  of  creation 
When  the  God-breath  spake  abroad, 
Let  us  make  man  like  to  God  ! 
And  the  pine  stood  quivering 
As  the  awful  word  went  by, 
Like  a  vibrant  music-string 
Stretched  from  mountain-peak  to  sky; 
And  the  platan  did  expand  279 

Slow  and  gradual,  branch  and  head; 
And  the  cedar's  strong  black  shade 
Fluttered  brokenly  and  grand: 
Grove  and  wood  were  swept  aslant 
In  emotion  jubilant. 
Voice  of  the  same,  hut  softer. 

Which  divine  impulsion  cleaves 
In  dim  movements  to  the  leaves 
Dropt  and  lifted,  dropt  and  lifted, 
In  the  sunlight  greenly  sifted,  — 
In  the  sunlight  and  the  moonlight 
Greenly  sifted  through  the  trees.      290 
Ever  wave  the  Eden  trees 
In  the  nightlight  and  the  noonlight, 
With  a  ruffling  of  green  branches 
Shaded  off  to  resonances, 
Never  stirred  by  rain  or  breeze. 

Fare  ye  well,  farewell  ! 

The  sylvan  sounds,  no  longer  audible. 

Expire  at  Eden's  door. 

Each  footstep  of  your  treading 

Treads  out  some  murmur  which  ye  heard 
before. 
Farewell !  the  trees  of  Eden 

Ye  shall  hear  nevermore. 
Kiver  Spirits. 

Hark  !  the  flow  of  the  four  rivers  — 
Hark  the  flow  ! 

How  the  silence  round  you  shivers. 
While  our  voices  through  it  go, 

Cold  and  clear. 
A  softer  Voice. 

Think  a  little,  while  ye  hear, 
Of  the  banks 


300 


72 


POEMS   OF   1844 


Where  the  willows  and  the  deer  310 

Crowd  in  intermingled  ranks, 
As  if  all  would  drink  at  once 
Where  the  living  water  runs  !  — 

Of  the  fishes'  golden  edges 

Flashing  in  and  out  the  sedges; 
Of  the  swans  on  silver  thrones, 

Floating  down  the  winding  streams 
With  impassive  eyes  turned  shoreward 
And  a  chant  of  undertones,  — 
And  the  lotos  leaning  forward  320 

To  help  them  into  dreams  ! 
Fare  ye  well,  farewell  ! 
The  river-sounds,  no  longer  audible, 

Expire  at  Eden's  door. 

Each  footstep  of  your  treading 
Treads  out  some  murmur  which  ye  heard 
before. 

Farewell  !  the  streams  of  Eden 

Ye  shall  hear  nevermore. 
Bird  Spirit. 

I  am  the  nearest  nightingale 

That  singeth  in  Eden  after  you;        330 

And  I  am  singing  loud  and  true, 
And  sweet,  —  I  do  not  fail. 

I  sit  upon  a  cypress  bough. 
Close  to  the  gate,  and  I  fling  my  song 
Over  the  gate  and  through  the  mail 
Of    the     warden      angels      marshalled 
strong,  — 

Over  the  gate  and  after  you. 
And  the  warden  angels  let  it  pass. 
Because  the  poor  brown  bird,  alas. 

Sings  in  the  garden,  sweet  and  true.  340 
And  I  build  my  song  of  high  pure  notes, 

Note  over  note,  height  over  height. 

Till  I  strike  the  arch  of  the  Infinite, 
And  I  bridge  abysmal  agonies 
With  strong,  clear  calms  of  harmonies,  — 
And   something   abides,  and   something 

floats, 
In  the  song  which  I  sing  after  you. 
Fare  ye  well,  farewell  ! 
The  creature-sounds,  no  longer  audible, 

Expire  at  Eden's  door.  350 

Each  footstep  of  your  treading 
Treads  out  some  cadence  which  ye  heard 
before. 

Farewell  !  the  birds  of  Eden 

Ye  shall  hear  nevermore. 
Flower  Spirits. 

We  linger,  we  linger, 

The  last  of  the  throng. 
Like  the  tones  of  a  singer 

Who  loves  his  own  song. 


370 


We  are  spirit-aromas 

Of  blossom  and  bloom.  360 

We  call  your  thoughts  home,  —  as 

Ye  breathe  our  perfume,  — 
To  the  amaranth's  splendor 

Afire  on  the  slopes; 
To  the  lily-bells  tender, 

And  gray  heliotropes; 
To  the  poppy-plains  keeping 

Such  dream-breath  and  blee 
That  the  angels  there  stepping 

Grew  whiter  to  see: 
To  the  nook,  set  with  moly, 

Ye  jested  one  day  in. 
Till  your  smile  waxed  too  holy 

And  left  your  lips  praying: 
To  the  rose  in  the  bower-place, 

That  dripped  o'er  you  sleeping; 
To  the  asphodel  flower-place, 

Ye  walked  ankle-deep  in. 
We  pluck  at  your  raiment. 

We  stroke  down  your  hair,  380 

We  faint  in  our  lament 

And  pine  into  air. 

Fare  ye  well,  farewell  ! 
The  Eden  scents,  no  longer  sensible, 

Expire  at  Eden's  door. 

Each  footstep  of  your  treading 
Treads  out  some  fragrance  which  ye  knew 
before. 

Farewell !  the  flowers  of  Eden 

Ye  shall  smell  nevermore. 

[^There  is  silence.     Adam   and  Eve 

Jly  on,  and  never  look  back.     Only 

a  colossal  shadow,  as  of  the  dark 

Angel  passing  quickly,  is  cast  upon 

the  Sword-glare. 


Scene.  —  The  extremity  of  the  Sword-glare. 

Adam.    Pausing  a  moment  on  this  outer 

edge  390 

Where    the    supernal   sword-glare  cuts  in 

light 
The    dark    exterior    desert,  —  hast    thou 

strength, 
Beloved,  to  look  behind  us  to  the  gate  ? 
Eve.    Have  I  not  strength  to  look  up  to 

thy  face  ? 
Adam.    We  need  be  strong:  yon  spectacle 
of  cloud 
Which  seals  the  gate  up  to  the  final  doom, 
Is  God's  seal   manifest.      There  seem  to 
lie 


1 


A   DRAMA   OF   EXILE 


73 


A  hundred  thunders  in  it,  dark  and  dead; 
The  unmolten  lightnings  vein  it  motionless ; 
And,    outward    from   its   depth,    the   self- 

moved  sword  400 

Swings  slow  its  awful  gnomon  of  red  fire 
From  side  to  side,  in  pendulous  horror  slow, 
Across  the  stagnant  ghastly  glare  thrown 

flat 
On  the  intermediate  ground  from  that  to 

this. 
The  angelic  hosts,  the  archangelic  pomps, 
Thrones,  dominations,  princedoms,  rank  on 

rank, 
Rising  sublimely  to  the  feet  of  God, 
On  either  side  and  overhead  the  gate. 
Show  like  a  glittering  and  sustained  smoke 
Drawn  to  an  apex.    That  their  faces  shine  410 
Betwixt  the  solemn  clasping  of  their  wings 
Clasped  high  to  a  silver  point  above  their 

heads,  — 
We  only  guess  from  hence,  and  not  discern. 
Eve.     Though  we  were  near  enough  to 

see  them  shine. 
The  shadow  on  thy  face  were  awfuller, 
To  me,  at  least,  —  to  me  —  than  all  their 

light. 
Adam.     What  is  this.  Eve  ?  thou  drop- 
pest  heavily 
In  a  heap  earthward,  and  thy  body  heaves 
Under  the  golden  floodings  of  thine  hair  ! 
Eve.     O    Adam,  Adam  !   by  that  name 

of  Eve  —  420 

Thine  Eve,  thy  life  —  which  suits  me  little 

now. 
Seeing  that  I  now  confess  myself  thy  death 
And    thine    undoer,     as    the     snake    was 

mine,  — 
I  do  adjure  thee,  put  me  straight  away, 
Together  with  my  name  !     Sweet,  punish 

me  ! 
O  Love,  be  just  !  and,  ere  we  pass  beyond 
The  light  cast  outward  by  the  fiery  sword. 
Into  the  dark  which  earth  must  be  to  us. 
Bruise   my  head  with   thy  foot,  —  as    the 

curse  said 
My  seed  shall  the  first  tempter's  !  strike 

with  curse,  430 

As  God  struck  in  the  garden  !  and  as  He, 
Being  satisfied  with  justice  and  with  wrath. 
Did  roll  his  thunder  gentler  at  the  close,  — 
Thou,  peradventure,  mayst  at  last  recoil 
To  some  soft  need  of  mercy.     Strike,  my 

lord! 
/,   also,   after    tempting,    writhe    on    the 

ground, 


And  I  would   feed   on   ashes    from    thine 

hand. 
As  suits  me,  O  my  tempted  ! 

Adam.  My  beloved, 

Mine  Eve  and  life  —  I  have  no  other  name 
For  thee  or  for  the  sun  than  what  ye  are, 
My   utter    life   and    light  !     If   we   have 

fallen,  44 1 

It  is  that  we  have  sinned,  —  we :    God  is 

just; 
And,  since  his  curse  doth  comprehend  us 

both. 
It    must  be   that   his    balance   holds   the 

weights 
Of  first  and  last  sin  on  a  level.     What  ! 
Shall   I    who    had    not    virtue    to    stand 

straight 
Among  the  hills  of  Eden,  here  assume 
To  mend  the  justice  of  the  perfect  God, 
By  piling  up  a  curse  upon  his  curse. 
Against  thee  —  thee  ? 

Eve.         For  so,  perchance,  thy  God    450 
Might   take   thee   into  grace  for  scorning 

me; 
Thy  wrath  against  the  sinner  giving  proof 
Of  inward  abrogation  of  the  sin: 
And  so,  the   blessed   angels    might   come 

down 
And  walk  with  thee  as  erst,  —  I  think  they 

would,  — 
Because  I  was  not  near  to  make  them  sad 
Or  soil  the  rustling  of  their  innocence. 
Adam.     They  know  me.     I  am  deepest 

in  the  guilt, 
If  last  in  the  transgression. 

Eve.  Thou  ! 

Adam.  If  God, 

Who  gave  the  right  and  joyauAce  of  the 

world  460 

Both  unto  thee  and  me,  —  gave  thee  to  me. 
The  best   gift   last,  the  last   sin  was   the 

worst. 
Which  sinned  against  more  complement  of 

gifts 
And  grace  of  giving.    God  !  I  render  back 
Strong  benediction  and  perpetual  praise 
From  mortal  feeble  lips  (as  incense-smoke, 
Out  of  a  little  censer,  may  fill  heaven), 
That  thou,  in  striking  my  benumbed  hands 
And  forcing  them  to  drop  all  other  boons 
Of  beauty  and  dominion  and  delight,  —  470 
Hast  left  this  well-beloved  Eve,  this  life 
Within  life,  this  best   gift   between   their 

palms. 
In  gracious  compensation  ! 


74 


POEMS   OF   1844 


Eve.  Is  it  thy  voice  ? 

Or  some  saluting  angel's  —  calling  home 

My  feet  into  the  garden  ? 

Adam.  O  my  God  ! 

I,  standing  here   between   the   glory  and 
dark,  — 

The  glory  of  thy  wrath  projected  forth 

From  Eden's  wall,  the  dark  of   our   dis- 
tress 

Which   settles   a  step   off    in   that   drear 
world  — 

Lift  up  to  Thee   the  hands  from  whence 
hath  fallen  480 

Only  creation's  sceptre,  —  thanking  Thee 

That  rather  Thou  hast  cast  me  out  with 
her 

Than  left  me  lorn  of  her  in  Paradise, 

With  angel  looks  and  angel  songs  around 

To  show  the  absence  of  her  eyes  and  voice, 

And  make  society  full  desertness 

Without  her  use  in  comfort! 

Eve.  Where  is  loss  ? 

Am  I  in  Eden  ?  can  another  speak 

Mine  own  love's  tongue  ? 

Adam.  Because  with  her,  I  stand 

Upright,  as  far  as  can  be  in  this  fall,        490 

And  look  away  from   heaven  which   doth 
accuse, 

And  look  away  from  earth  which  doth  con- 
vict. 

Into  her  face,  and  crown  my  discrowned 
brow 

Out  of   her  love,  and  put  the  thought  of 
her 

Around  me,  for  an  Eden  full  of  birds, 

And  lift  her  body  up  —  thus  —  to  my  heart. 

And  with  my  lips  upon  her   lips,  —  thus, 
thus,  — 

Do    quicken    and    sublimate    my    mortal 
breath 

Which  cannot  climb   against   the    grave's 
steep  sides 

But  overtops  this  grief. 

Eve.  I  am  renewed.     500 

My  eyes  grow  with  the  light  which  is  in 
thine ; 

The  silence  of  my  heart  is  full  of  sound. 

Hold   me   up  —  so  !      Because   I   compre- 
hend 

This  human  love,  I  shall  not  be  afraid 

Of  any  human  death;  and  yet  because 

I  know  this  strength  of   love,  I   seem  to 
know 

Death's  strength  by  that  same  sign.     Kiss 
on  my  lips, 


To  shut  the  door  close  on  my  rising  soul,  — 
Lest  it  pass  outwards  in  astonishment 
And  leave  thee  lonely  ! 

Adam.  Yet  thou  liest.  Eve,     510 

Bent  heavily  on  thyself  across  mine  arm, 
Thy  face  flat  to  the  sky. 

Eve.  Ay,  and  the  tears 

Running,  as  it  might  seem,  my  life  from 

me. 
They  run  so  fast  and  warm.     Let  me  lie 

so. 
And  weep  so,  as  if  in  a  dream  or  prayer, 
Unfastening,  clasp  by  clasp,  the  hard  tight 

thought 
Which  clipped  my  heart  and  showed  me 

evermore 
Loathed  of  thy  justice  as  I  loathe  the  snake. 
And  as  the  pure  ones  loathe  our  sin.     To- 
day, 
All  day,  beloved,  as  we  fled  across  520 

This  desolating  radiance  cast  by  swords 
Not  suns,  —  my  lips  prayed  soundless    to 

mj'^self, 
Striking    against    each    other  —  'O    Lord 

God!' 
('T  was  so  I  prayed)  '  I  ask  Thee  by  my 

sin, 
And  by  thy  curse,  and   by  thy  blameless 

heavens. 
Make  dreadful  haste  to  hide  me  from  thy 

face 
And  from  the  face  of  my  beloved  here 
For  whom  I  am  no  helpmeet,  quick  away 
Into  the  new  dark  mystery  of  death  !       529 
I  will  lie  still  there,  I  will  make  no  plaint, 
I  will  not  sigh,  nor  sob,  nor  speak  a  word, 
Nor  struggle    to   come  back    beneath  the 

sun 
Where  peradventure  I  might  sin  anew 
Against     thy    mercy    and     his     pleasure. 

Death, 
O  death,  whate'er  it  be,  is  good  enough 
For  such  as  I  am:  while  for  Adam  here, 
No  voice    shall   say   again,   in   heaven  or 

earth, 
It  is  not  good  for  him  to  be  alone.^ 

Adam.     And    was   it   good    for  such   a 

prayer  to  pass. 
My  unkind  Eve,  betwixt  our  mutual  lives  ? 
If  I  am  exiled,  must  I  be  bereaved  ?        541 
Eve.    'T  was  an  ill  prayer:  it  shall   be 

prayed  no  more; 
And  God  did  use  it  like  a  foolishness, 
Giving   no   answer.      Now   my   heart   has 

grown 


A   DRAMA   OF   EXILE 


75 


Too   high    and   strong   for   such  a  foolish 
prayer ; 

Love  makes  it  strong:  and  since  I  was  the 
first 

In  the  transgression,  with  a  steady  foot 

I   will  be  first  to  tread  from  this  sword- 
glare 

Into  the  outer  darkness  of  the  waste,  — 

And  thus  I  do  it. 

Adam.  Thus  I  follow  thee,    550 

As  erewhile   in   the  sin.  —  What  sounds  ! 
what  sounds  ! 

I  feel  a  music  which  comes  straight  from 
heaven. 

As  tender  as  a  watering  dew. 

Eve.  I  think 

That   angels  —  not   those   guarding  Para- 
dise, — 

But  the  love-angels,  who  came  erst  to  us. 

And  when  we  said  '  God,'  fainted  unawares 

Back  from  our  mortal  presence  unto  God, 

(As  if  He  drew  them  inward  in  a  breath) 

His  name  being  heard  of  them,  —  I  think 
that  they 

With   sliding   voices   lean   from   heavenly 
towers,  560 

Invisible  but  gracious.     Hark  —  how  soft  ! 


CHORUS   OF  INVISIBLE   ANGELS 
Faint  and  tender. 

Mortal  man  and  woman, 

Go  upon  your  travel  ! 
Heaven  assist  the  human 

Smoothly  to  unravel 
All  that  web  of  pain 

Wherein  ye  are  holden. 
Do  ye  know  our  voices 

Chanting  down  the  Golden  ? 
Do  ye  guess  our  choice  is, 

Being  unbeholden, 
To  be  hearkened  by  you  yet  again  ? 


57° 


This  pure  door  of  opal 

God  hath  shut  between  us,  — 
Us,  his  shining  people. 

You,  who  once  have  seen  us 
And  are  blinded  new  ! 

Yet,  across  the  doorway, 
Past  the  silence  reaching, 

Farewells  evermore  may, 
Blessing  in  the  teaching, 

Glide  from  us  to  you. 


580 


First  Semichorus. 

Think  how  erst  your  Eden, 
Day  on  day  succeeding, 

With  our  presence  glowed. 
We  came  as  if  the  Heavens  were  bowed 

To  a  milder  music  rare. 
Ye  saw  us  in  our  solemn  treading. 

Treading  down  the  steps  of  cloud. 
While  our  wings,  outspreading  590 

Double  calms  of  whiteness. 

Dropped  superfluous  brightness 
Down  from  stair  to  stair. 
Second  Semichorus. 

Or  oft,  abrupt  though  tender. 

While  ye  gazed  on  space, 
We  flashed  our  angel-splendor 

In  either  human  face. 
With  mystic  lilies  in  our  hands. 
From  the  atmospheric  bands 

Breaking  with  a  sudden  grace,  600 

We  took  you  unaware  ! 

While  our  feet  struck  glories 
Outward,  smooth  and  fair, 

Which  we  stood  on  floorwise, 
Platform ed  in  mid-air. 
First  Semichorus. 

Or  oft,  when  Heaven-descended, 

Stood  we  in  our  wondering  sight 

In  a  mute  apocalypse 

With  dumb  vibrations  on  our  lips 
From  hosannas  ended,  6io 

And  grand  half-vanishings 

Of  the  empyreal  things 
Within  our  eyes  belated. 

Till  the  heavenly  Infinite 

Falling  off  from  the  Created, 

Left  our  inward  contemplation 

Opened  into  ministration. 
Chorus. 

Then  upon  our  axle  turning 

Of  great  joy  to  sympathy, 
We  sang  out  the  morning  620 

Broadening  up  the  sky. 
Or  we  drew 
Our  music  through 
The  noontide's  hush  and  heat  and  shine, 
Informed  with  our  intense  Divine: 
Interrupted  vital  notes 

Palpitating  hither,  thither, 

Burning  out  into  the  aether. 
Sensible  like  fiery  motes. 
Or,  whenever  twilight  drifted  630 

Through  the  cedar  masses. 
The  globed  sun  we  lifted. 
Trailing  purple,  trailing  gold 


76 


POEMS   OF   1844 


Out  between  the  passes 
Of  the  mountains  manifold, 
To  anthems  slowly  sung: 
While  he,  —  aweary,  half  in  swoon 
For  joy  to  hear  our  climbing  tune 
Transpierce  the  stars'  concentric  rings,  — 
The  burden  of  his  glory  flung  640 

In  broken  lights  upon  our  wings. 
[Z'Ae  chant   dies    away    confusedly ,   and 

Lucifer  appears. 
Lucifer.    Now  may  all  fruits  be  pleasant 
to  thy  lips. 
Beautiful  Eve  !    The  times  have  somewhat 

changed 
Since  thou  and  I  had  talk  beneath  a  tree, 
Albeit  ye  are  not  gods  yet. 

Eve.  Adam  !  hold 

My  right  hand  strongly  !     It  is  Lucifer  — 
And  we  have  love  to  lose. 

Adam.  V  the  name  of  God, 

Go  apart  from  us,  O  thou  Lucifer  ! 
And  leave  us  to  the  desert  thou  hast  made 
Out  of  thy   treason.      Bring   no   serpent- 
slime  650 
Athwart  this  path  kept  holy  to  our  tears  ! 
Or  we  may  curse  thee  with  their  bitterness. 
Lucifer.    Curse   freely !   curses   thicken. 
Why,  this  Eve 
Who  thought  me  once  part  worthy  of  her 

ear 
And    somewhat     wiser     than     the     other 

beasts,  — 
Drawing  together  her  large  globes  of  eyes. 
The  light  of  which  is  throbbing  in  and  out 
Their  steadfast  continuity  of  gaze,  — 
Knots  her  fair  eyebrows  in  so  hard  a  knot. 
And  down  from  her  white  heights  of  woman- 
hood 660 
Looks  on  me  so  amazed,  —  I  scarce  should 

fear 
To  wager  such  an  apple  as  she  plucked 
Against  one  riper  from  the  tree  of  life, 
That   she  could   curse   too  —  as  a  woman 

may  — 
Smooth  in  the  vowels. 

Eve.  So  —  speak  wickedly  ! 

I    like    it    best    so.      Let    thy    words    be 

wounds,  — 
For,  so,  I  shall  not  fear  thy  power  to  hurt. 
Trench  on  the  forms  of  good  by  open  ill  — 
For,  so,  I  shall  wax  strong  and  grand  with 

scorn. 
Scorning  myself  for  ever  trusting  thee    670 
As  far  as  thinking,  ere  a  snake  ate  dust, 
He  could  speak  wisdom. 


Lucifer.  Our  new  gods,  it  seems    4 

Deal  more  in  thunders  than  in  courtesies. 
And,  sooth,  mine  own  Olympus,  which  anon 
I  shall  build  up  to  loud-voiced  imagery 
From   all    the   wandering  visions   of    the    | 

world. 
May  show  worse  railing  than  our  lady  Eve     » 
Pours  o'er  the  rounding  of  her  argent  arm.    1 
But  why  should  this  be  ?     Adam  pardoned 
Eve. 
Adam.    Adam  loved  Eve.     Jehovah  par- 
doned both  !  680 
Eve.   Adam  forgave  Eve  —  because  lov- 
ing Eve.  1 
Lucifer.  So,  well.     Yet   Adam  was  un- 
done of  Eve, 
As   both   were   by  the   snake.     Therefore 

forgive, 
In    like  wise,  fellow-temptress,  the   poor 

snake  — 
Who  stung  there,  not  so  poorly  !       \^Aside. 
Eve.  Hold  thy  wrath, 

Beloved  Adam  !  let  me  answer  him ; 
For   this  time  he  speaks  truth,  which  we 

should  hear, 
And  asks  for  mercy,  which  I  most  should 

grant. 
In  like   wise,   as    he    tells    us  —  in    like 

wise  ! 
And  therefore  I  thee  pardon,  Lucifer,      690 
As  freely  as  the  streams  of  Eden  flowed 
When  we  were   happy  by  them.     So,  de- 
part; 
Leave  us  to  walk  the  remnant  of  our  time 
Out  mildly  in  the  desert.     Do  not  seek 
To  harm  us  any  more  or  scoff  at  us, 
Or  ere  the  dust  be  laid  upon  our  face, 
To  find  there  the  communion  of  the  dust 
And  issue  of  the  dust.  — Go  ! 

A  dam.  At  once,  go  ! 

Lucifer.    Forgive  !  and  go  !     Ye  images 

of  clay. 

Shrunk    somewhat   in   the   mould,  —  what 

jest  is  this  ?  700 

What  words  are  these  to  use  ?     By  what  a 

thought 
Conceive  ye  of  me  ?   Yesterday  —  a  snake  ! 
To-day  —  what  ? 

Adam.  A  strong  spirit. 

Eve.  A  sad  spirit. 

Adam.    Perhaps  a  fallen  angel.  —  Who 

shall  say  ! 
Lucifer.    Who  told  thee,  Adam  ? 
Adam.  Thou  !     The  prodigy 

Of  thy  vast  brows  and  melancholy  eyes 


A  DRAMA   OF   EXILE 


77 


Which   comprehend   the   heights  of  some 

great  fall. 
I   think   that   thou   hast   one   day  worn  a 

crown 
Under  the  eyes  of  God. 

Lucifer.  And  why  of  God  ? 

Adam.   It  were  no  crown  else.     Verily,  I 
think  710 

Thou  'rt  fallen  far.     I  had  not  yesterday 
Said  it  so  surely,  but  I  know  to-day 
Grief  by  grief,  sin  by  sin. 

Lucifer.  A  crown,  by  a  crown. 

Adam.   Ay,  mock  me  !  now  I  know  more 
than  I  knew: 
Now  I   know  that   thou  art  fallen  below 

hope 
Of  final  re-ascent. 

Lucifer.  Because  ? 

Adam.  Because 

A  spirit  who  expected  to  see  God 
Though  at  the  last  point  of  a  million  years. 
Could  dare  no  mockery  of  a  ruined  man 
Such  as  this  Adam. 

Lucifer.  Who  is  high  and  bold  —  720 

Be  it  said  passing  !  —  of  a  good  red  clay 
Discovered  on  some  top  of  Lebanon, 
Or  haply  of  Aornus,  beyond  sweep 
Of   the  black   eagle's    wing  !      A  furlong 

lower 
Had  made  a  meeker  king  for  Eden.     Soh  ! 
Is  it  not  possible,  by  sin  and  grief 
(To  give  the  things  your  names)  that  spirits 

should  rise 
Instead  of  fallings  ? 

Adam.  Most  impossible. 

The  Highest  being  the  Holy  and  the  Glad, 
Whoever  rises  must  approach  delight  730 
And  sanctity  in  the  act. 

Lucifer.  Ha,  my  clay-king! 

Thou  wilt  not  rule  by  wisdom  very  long 
The  after  generations.     Earth,  methinks, 
Will  disinherit  thy  philosophy 
For  a  new  doctrine  suited  to  thine  heirs. 
And  class  these  present  dogmas  with  the 

rest 
Of  the  old-world  traditions,  Eden  fruits 
And  Saurian  fossils. 

Eve.  Speak  no  more  with  him. 

Beloved  !  it  is  not  good  to  speak  with  him. 
Go  from  us,  Lucifer,  and  speak  no  more  ! 
We  have  no  pardon  which   thou  dost  not 
scorn,  741 

Nor  any  bliss,  thou  seest,  for  coveting. 
Nor  innocence  for  staining.     Being  bereft, 
We  would  be  alone.  —  Go  ! 


Nothing  more  ? 


Lucifer.  Ah  !  ye  talk  the  same, 

All   of   you  —  spirits  and   clay  —  go,   and 

depart ! 
In  Heaven  they  said  so,  and  at  Eden's  gate, 
And  here,  reiterant,  in  the  wilderness. 
None  saith,  Stay  with  me,  for  thy  face  is 

fair  ! 
None  saith.  Stay  with  me,  for  thy  voice  is 

sweet ! 
And  yet  I  was  not  fashioned  out  of  clay.  750 
Look  on  me,  woman  !     Am  I  beautiful  ? 
Eve.    Thou  hast  a  glorious  darkness 
Lucifer. 

Eve.   I  think,  no  more. 
Lucifer.         False  Heart  —  thou  thinkest 

more  ! 
Thou  canst  not  choose  but  think,  as  I  praise 

God, 
Unwillingly  but  fully,  that  I  stand 
Most  absolute  in  beauty.     As  yourselves 
Were  fashioned  very  good  at  best,  so  we 
Sprang   very   beauteous    from   the   creant 

Word 
Which  thrilled  behind  us,  God  himself  being 

moved 
When  that  august  work  of  a  perfect  shape, 
His  dignities  of  sovran  angelhood,  761 

Swept  out  into  the  universe,  —  divine 
With  thunderous  movements,  earnest  looks 

of  gods. 
And  silver-solemn  clash  of  cymbal  wings. 
Whereof  was  I,  in  motion  and  in  form, 
A  part  not  poorest.     And  yet,  —  yet,  per- 
haps. 
This  beauty  which  I  speak  of,  is  not  here. 
As  God's  voice  is  not  here,  nor  even  my 

crown  — 
I  do  not  know.     What  is  this  thought  or 

thing 
Which  I  call   beauty  ?     Is  it  thought,  or 

thing  ?  770 

Is  it  a  thought  accepted  for  a  thing  ? 
Or    both  ?    or    neither  ?  —  a    pretext  —  a 

word? 
Its  meaning  flutters  in  me  like  a  flame 
Under  my  own  breath :  my  perceptions  reel 
For  evermore  around  it,  and  fall  off, 
As  if  it  too  were  holy. 

Eve.  Which  it  is. 

Adam.    The  essence  of  all  beauty,  I  call 

love. 
The  attribute,  the  evidence,  and  end. 
The  consummation  to  the  inward  sense. 
Of  beauty  apprehended  from  without,      780 
I  still  call  love.    As  form,  when  colorless, 


78 


POEMS   OF    1844 


Is  nothing   to    the    eye,  —  that    pine-tree 

there, 
Without  its  black  and  green,  being  all  a 

blank,  — 
So,  without  love,  is  beauty  undiscerned 
In  man  or  angel.     Angel !  rather  ask 
What  love  is  in  thee,  what  love  moves  to 

thee, 
And  what  collateral  love  moves   on  with 

thee; 
Then  shalt  thou  know  if  thou  art  beautiful. 
Lucifer.   Love  !  what  is  love  ?     I  lose  it. 
Beauty  and  love 
I  darken  to  the  image.    Beauty  —  love  !  790 
[He  fades    away,   while  a   low  music 
sounds. 
Adam.    Thou  art  pale,  Eve. 
Eve.  The  precipice  of  ill 

Down  this  colossal  nature,  dizzies  me: 
And,  hark  !  the  starry  harmony  remote 
Seems  measuring  the  heights  from  whence 
he  fell. 
Adam.   Think  that  we  have  not  fallen  so ! 
By  the  hope 
And  aspiration,  by  the  love  and  faith, 
We  do  exceed  the  stature  of  this  angel. 
Eve.    Happier  we  aire  than  he  is,  by  the 

death. 
Adam.    Or  rather,  by  the  life  of  the  Lord 
God  ! 
How  dim  the  angel  grows,  as  if  that  blast  800 
Of  music  swept  him  back  into  the  dark. 

\_The  music  is  stronger,  gathering  itself 
into  uncertain  articulation. 
Eve.   It  throbs  in  on  us  like  a  plaintive 
heart. 
Pressing,  with  slow  pulsations,  vibrative, 
Its  gradual  sweetness  through  the  yielding 

air, 
To  such  expression  as  the  stars  may  use. 
Most  starry-sweet  and  strange  !  With  every 

note 
That  grows   more    loud,  the    angel  grows 

more  dim, 
Receding  in  proportion  to  approach, 
Until  he  stand  afar,  —  a  shade. 

Adam.  Now,  words. 

SONG  OF  THE   MORNING   STAR   TO 
LUCIFER 

He  fades  utterly  away  and  vanishes,  as  it 
proceeds. 

Mine  orb^d  image  sinks  810 

Back  from  thee,  back  from  thee. 


As  thou  art  fallen,  methinks, 
Back  from  me,  back  from  me. 
O  my  light-bearer. 
Could  another  fairer 
Lack  to  thee,  lack  to  thee  ? 
Ah,  ah,  Heosphoros  ! 
I  loved  thee  with  the  fiery  love  of  stars 
Who  love  by  burning,  and  by  loving  move, 
Too  near  the  throned  Jehovah  not  to  love.  82* 

Ah,  ah,  Heosphoros  ! 
Their  brows  flash  fast  on  me  from  gliding 
cars, 
Pale-passioned  for  my  loss. 
Ah,  ah,  Heosphoros  ! 

Mine  orbfed  heats  drop  cold 

Down  from  thee,  down  from  thee, 
As  fell  thy  grace  of  old 

Down  from  me,  down  from  me. 
O  my  light-bearer, 
Is  another  fairer  830 

Won  to  thee,  won  to  thee  ? 
Ah,  ah,  Heosphoros, 
Great  love  preceded  loss, 
Known  to  thee,  known  to  thee. 
Ah,  ah  ! 
Thou,  breathing  thy  communicable  grace 

Of  life  into  my  light. 
Mine  astral  faces,  from  thine  angel  face. 

Hast  inly  fed. 
And  flooded  me  with  radiance  overmuch  840 
From  thy  pure  height. 
Ah,  ah  ! 
Thou,  with  calm,  floating  pinions  both  ways 
spread, 

Erect,  irradiated, 
Didst  sting  my  wheel  of  glory 
On,  on  before  thee 
Along  the  Godlight  by  a  quickening  touch  ! 

Ha,  ha  ! 
Around,  around  the  firmamental  ocean 
I  swam  expanding  with  delirious  fire  !     850 
Around,  around,  around,  in  blind  desire 
To  be  drawn  upward  to  the  Infinite  — 
Ha,  ha  ! 

Until,  the  motion  flinging  out  the  motion 
To  a  keen  whirl  of  passion  and  avidity, 
To  a  dim  whirl  of  languor  and  delight, 
I  wound  in  gyrant  orbits  smooth  and  white 
With  that  intense  rapidity. 
Around,  around, 

I  womid  and  interwound,  860 

While   all   the   cyclic   heavens   about   me 
spim. 


A  DRAMA   OF   EXILE 


79 


Stars,    planets,    suns,    and    moons    dilated 

broad. 
Then  flashed  together  into  a  single  sun, 
And  wound,  and  wound  in  one: 
And   as   they  wound   I  wound,  —  around, 

around, 
In  a  great  fire  I  almost  took  for  God. 

Ha,  ha,  Heosphoros  ! 

Thine  angel  glory  sinks 

Down  from  me,  down  from  me  — 
My  beauty  falls,  methinks,  870 

Down  from  thee,  down  from  thee  ! 
O  my  light-bearer, 
O  my  path-preparer, 
Gone  from  me,  gone  from  me  ! 
Ah,  ah,  Heosphoros  ! 
I  cannot  kindle  underneath  the  brow 
Of  this  new  angel  here,  who  is  not  thou. 
All    things   are   altered   since    that    time 

ago,— 
And  if  I  shine  at  eve,  I  shall  not  know. 
I  am  strange  —  I  am  slow.  880 

Ah,  ah,  Heosphoros  ! 
Henceforward,  human  eyes  of  lovers  be 
The  only  sweetest  sight  that  I  shall  see. 
With  tears  between  the  looks  raised  up  to 
me. 

Ah,  ah  ! 
When,  having  wept  all  night,  at  break  of 

day 
Above  the  folded  hills  they  shall  survey 
My  light,  a  little  trembling,  in  the  gray. 

Ah,  ah  ! 
And   gazing    on   me,   such   shall   compre- 
hend, 890 
Through  all  my  piteous  pomp  at  morn 

or  even, 
And  melancholy  leaning  out  of  heaven. 
That  love,  their  own  divine,  may  change 
or  end. 
That  love  may  close  in  loss  ! 
Ah,  ah,  Heosphoros  ! 


Scene.  —  Farther  on.     A  wild  open  country 
seen  vaguely  in  the  approaching  night. 

Adam.     How  doth  the  wide  and  melan- 
choly earth 
Gather  her  hills  around  us,  gray  and  ghast, 
And  stare  with  blank  significance  of  loss 
Right  in  our  faces  !  Is  the  wind  up  ? 

Eve.  Nay. 


Adam.     And  yet  the  cedars  and  the  ju- 
nipers 900 
Rock  slowly  through  the  mist,  without  a 

sound. 
And   shapes  which   have   no   certainty  of 

shape 
Drift  duskly  in  and  out  between  the  pines, 
And  loom  along  the  edges  of  the  hills. 
And  lie  flat,  curdling  in  the  open  ground  — 
Shadows  without  a  body,  which  contract 
And  lengthen  as  we  gaze  on  them. 

Eve.  O  life 

Which  is  not  man's  nor  angel's  !     What  is 
this  ? 
Adam.     No  cause  for  fear.     The  circle 
of  God's  life 
Contains  all  life  beside. 

Eve.  I  think  the  earth      910 

Is   crazed  with   curse,  and  wanders  from 

the  sense 
Of   those  first  laws   affixed   to  form   and 

space 
Or  ever  she  knew  sin. 

Adam.  We  will  not  fear: 

We  were  brave  sinning. 

Eve.  Yea,  I  plucked  the  fruit 

With  eyes  upturned  to  heaven  and  seeing 

there 
Our  god-thrones,  as  the  tempter   said,  — 

not  God. 
My   heart,  which    beat   then,  sinks.     The 

sun  hath  sunk 
Out  of  sight  with  our  Eden. 

Adam.  Night  is  near. 

Eve.     And  God's  curse,  nearest.     Let  us 
travel  back 
And  stand  within  the  sword-glare  till  we 
die,  920 

Believing  it  is  better  to  meet  death 
Than  suffer  desolation. 

Adam.  Nay,  beloved  ! 

We  must  not  pluck  death  from  the  Maker's 

hand, 
As  erst  we  plucked   the   apple:   we   must 

wait 
Until    He    gives    death    as    he    gave    us 

life. 
Nor  murmur  faintly  o'er  the  primal  gift 
Because  we  spoilt  its  sweetness  with  our 
sin. 
Eve.     Ah,  ah  !  dost  thou  discern  what  I 

behold  ? 
Adam.     I  see  all.     How  the   spirits   in 
thine  eyes 


8o 


POEMS   OF    1844 


From  their  dilated  orbits  bound  before    930 
To  meet  the  spectral  Dread  ! 

Eve.  I  am  afraid  — 

Ah,  ah  !   the   twilight   bristles   wild    with 

shapes 
Of  intermittent  motion,  aspect  vague 
And  mystic  bearings,  which  o'ercreep  the 

earth, 
Keeping   slow   time    with   horrors   in   the 

blood. 
How  near  they  reach  .  .  .  and  far  !     How 

gray  they  move  — 
Treading  upon  the  darkness  without  feet, 
And   fluttering   on   the    darkness    without 

wings  ! 
Some   run   like   dogs,    with   noses   to   the 

ground; 
Some  keep  one  path,  like  sheep ;  some  rock 

like  trees;  940 

Some  glide  like  a  fallen   leaf;   and  some 

flow  on 
Copious  as  rivers. 

Adam.  Some  spring  up  like  fire : 

And  some  coil  .  .  . 

Eve.         Ah,  ah  !  dost  thou  pause  to  say 
Like  what  ?  —  coil  like  the  serpent,  when 

he  fell 
From  all  the  emerald  splendor  of  his  height 
And  writhed,  and  could  not  climb  against 

the  curse, 
Not    a    ring's    length.      I    am    afraid  — 

afraid  — 
I   think    it    is   God's   will    to    make    me 

afraid,  — 
Permitting  these  to  haunt  us  in  the  place 
Of  his  beloved  angels  —  gone  from  us    950 
Because  we  are  not  pure.     Dear   Pity  of 

God, 
That  didst  permit  the  angels  to  go  home 
And   live   no  more  with  us  who  are    not 

pure, 
Save  us  too  from  a  loathly  company  — 
Almost  as  loathly  in  our  eyes,  perhaps, 
As  we  are  in  the  purest  !     Pity  us  — 
Us  too  !  nor  shut  us  in  the  dark,  away 
From  verity  and  from  stability, 
Or  what  we  name  such  through  the  pre- 
cedence 
Of  earth's  adjusted  uses,  —  leave  us  not  960 
To    doubt    betwixt    our    senses    and    our 

souls. 
Which  are  the  more  distraught  and  full  of 

pain 
And  weak  of  apprehension  ! 

Adam.  Courage,  Sweet ! 


The  mystic  shapes  ebb  back  from  us,  and 

drop 
With  slow  concentric  movement,  each  on 

each, — 
Expressing  wider  spaces,  —  and  collapsed 
In  lines  more  definite  for  imagery 
And  clearer  for  relation,  till  the  throng 
Of  shapeless  spectra  merge  into  a  few 
Distinguishable     phantasms     vague     and 
grand  970 

Which  sweep  out  and  around  us  vastily 
And  hold  us  in  a  circle  and  a  calm. 

Eve.     Strange  phantasms  of  pale  shad- 
ow !  there  are  twelve. 
Thou  who  didst  name  all  lives,  hast  names 
for  these  ? 
Adam.     Methinks  this  is   the  zodiac  of 
the  earth. 
Which  rounds  us  with  a  visionary  dread, 
Responding  with  twelve  shadowy  signs  of 

earth, 
In  fantasque  opposition  and  approach. 
To  those  celestial,  constellated  twelve 
Which  palpitate  adown  the  silent  nights  980 
Under  the  pressure  of  the  hand  of  God 
Stretched   wide   in   benediction.     At    this 

hour, 
Not    a   star    pricketh   the   flat    gloom   of 

heaven : 
But,  girdling  close  our  nether  wilderness, 
The    zodiac  -  figures    of    the    earth    loom 

slow,  — 
Drawn  out,  as  suiteth  with  the  place  and 

time. 
In  twelve  colossal  shades  instead  of  stars, 
Through  which  the  ecliptic  line  of  mystery 
Strikes  bleakly  with  an  unrelenting  scope. 
Foreshowing  life  and  death. 

Eve.  By  dream  or  sense,  990 

Do  we  see  this  ? 

Adam.     Our  spirits  have  climbed  high 
By  reason  of  the  passion  of  our  grief. 
And,  from  the  top  of   sense,  looked  over 

sense 
To  the  significance  and  heart  of  things 
Rather  than  things  themselves. 

Eve.  And  the  dim  twelve  .  .  . 

Adam.     Are  dim  exponents  of  the  crea- 
ture-life 
As  earth  contains  it.     Gaze  on  them,  be- 
loved ! 
By  stricter  apprehension  of  the  sight. 
Suggestions  of  the  creatures  shall  assuage 
The    terror    of    the    shadows,  —  what    is 
known  ! 


1000 


A   DRAMA   OF   EXILE 


8 1 


Subduing  the  unknown  and  taming  it 

From  all   prodigious   dread.     That   phan- 
tasm, there, 

Presents  a  lion,  albeit  twenty  times 

As  large  as  any  lion  —  with  a  roar 

Set  soundless  in  his  vibratory  jaws, 

And  a  strange  horror  stirring  in  his  mane. 

And,  there,  a  pendulous  sbadow  seems  to 
weigh  — 

Good  against  ill,  perchance;  and  there,  a 
crab 

Puts  coldly  out  its  gradual  jhadow-claws. 

Like  a  slow  blot  that  spreads,  —  till  all  the 
ground,  loio 

Crawled  over  by  it,  seems  to  crawl  itself. 

A  bull  stands   horned  here   with  gibbous 
glooms; 

And    a    ram    likewise:     and    a    scorpion 
writhes 

Its   tail  in   ghastly   slime    and  stings   the 
dark. 

This  way  a  goat  leaps  with  wild  blank  of 
beard ; 

And  here,  fantastic  fishes  duskly  float, 

Using   the   calm    for   waters,    while   their 
fins 

Throb  out  quick  rhythms  along  the  shallow 
air. 

While  images  more  human  — 

Eve.  How  he  stands, 

That  phantasm  of  a  man  —  who  is  not  thou  ! 

Two  phantasms  of  two  men  ! 

Adam.  One  that  sustains,      102 1 

And  one  that  strives,  —  resuming,  so,  the 
ends 

Of  manhood's  curse  of  labor.     Dost  thou 
see 

That  phantasm  of  a  woman  ? 

Eve.  I  have  seen; 

But  look  off  to  those  small  humanities 

Which  draw  me  tenderly  across  my  fear,  — 

Lesser  and  fainter  than  my  womanhood, 

Or  yet  thy  manhood  —  with  strange  inno- 
cence 

Set  in  the  misty  lines  of  head  and  hand. 

They   lean   together !      I   woidd   gaze   on 
them  1030 

Longer  and  longer,  till  my  watching  eyes, 

As  the  stars  do  in  watching  anything, 

Should  light  them  forward  from  their  out- 
line vague 

To  clear  configuration. 

[  Two  Spirits,  of  Organic  and  Inorganic 
Nature f  arise  from  the  ground. 

But  what  Shapes 


Rise  up  between  us  in  the  open  space, 
And    thrust    me    into   horror,   back   from 
hope  ! 
Adam.     Colossal   Shapes  —  twin  sovran 
images, 
With  a  disconsolate,  blank  majesty 
Set  in  their  wondrous  faces  !  with  no  look, 
And  yet  an  aspect  —  a  significance  1040 

Of  individual  life  and  passionate  ends, 
Which  overcomes  us  gazing. 

O  bleak  sound, 

0  shadow  of  sound,  O  phantasm  of   thin 

sound  ! 
How  it  comes,  wheeling  as  the  pale  moth 

wheels, 
Wheeling  and  wheeling  in  continuous  wail 
Around  the  cyclic  zodiac,  and  gains  force, 
And  gathers,  settling  coldly  like  a  moth, 
On  the  wan  faces  of  these  images 
We  see  before  us,  —  whereby  modified, 
It    draws    a    straight    line    of    articulate 

song  1050 

From  out  that  spiral  faintness  of  lament. 
And,  by  one  voice,  expresses  many  griefs. 
First  Spirit. 

1  am  the  spirit  of  the  harmless  earth. 
God  spake  me  softly  out  among  the  stars, 

As  softly  as  a  blessing  of  much  worth; 

And  then  his  smile  did  follow  unawares, 
That  all  things   fashioned  so  for  use  and 

duty 
Might  shine   anointed  with   his  chrism  of 
beauty  — 

Yet  I  wail ! 
I  drave  on  with  the  worlds  exultingly,   1060 
Obliquely  down  the  Godlight's  gradual 
fall; 
Individual  aspect  and  complexity 

Of  gyratory  orb  and  interval 
Lost  in  the  fluent  motion  of  delight 
Toward   the   high  ends   of  Being  beyond 
sight  — 

Yet  I  wail  ! 
Second  Spirit. 
I  am  the  spirit  of  the  harmless  beasts. 
Of  flying   things,  and   creeping   things, 
and  swimming; 
Of  all  the  lives,  erst  set  at  silent  feasts, 
That  found  the  love-kiss  on  the  goblet 
brimming,  1070 

And  tasted  in  each  drop  within  the  mea- 
sure 
The  sweetest  pleasure  of  their  Lord's  good 
pleasure  — 

Yet  I  wail ! 


82 


POEMS   OF   1844 


What  a  full  hum  of  life  around  his  lips 
Bore    witness   to   the   fulness    of    crea- 
tion ! 
How  all  the  grand  words  were  full-laden 
ships 
Each  sailing  onward  from  enunciation 
To   separate   existence,  —  and  each  bear- 
ing 
The  creature's   power   of   joying,  hoping, 
fearing  ! 

Yet  I  wail !  1080 

Eve.   They  wail,  beloved  !  they  speak  of 
glory  and  God, 
And   they   wail  —  wail.     That   burden   of 

the  song 
Drops   from   it  like  its  fruit,  and  heavily 

falls 
Into  the  lap  of  silence. 

Adam.  Hark,  again  ! 

First  Spirit. 
I  was  so  beautiful,  so  beautiful. 

My  joy  stood  up  within  me  bold  to  add 
A  word  to  God's,  —  and,  when  his  work 
was  full, 
To  '  very  good  '  responded  '  very  glad  ! ' 
Filtered  through  roses  did  the  light  enclose 

me, 
And  bunches  of  the  grape  swam  blue  across 
me  —  1090 

Yet  I  wail ! 
Second  Spirit. 
I  bounded  with  my  panthers:  I  rejoiced 
In  my  young  tumbling  lions  rolled  to- 
gether: 
My  stag,  the  river  at  his  fetlocks,  poised 
Then   dipped  his    antlers    through    the 
golden  weather 
In  the  same  ripple  which  the  alligator 
Left,  in  his  joyous  troubling  of  the  water  — 

Yet  I  wail  ! 
First  Spirit. 
O  my  deep  waters,  cataract  and  flood, 
What  wordless  triumph  did  your  voices 
render  !  noo 

O   mountain-summits,    where    the    angels 
stood 
And  shook  from   head   and  wing  thick 
dews  of  splendor  ! 
How,  with  a  holy  quiet,  did  your  Earthy 
Accept   that   Heavenly,  knowing  ye  were 
worthy  ! 

Yet  I  wail  ! 
Second  Spirit. 
O  my  wild  wood-dogs,  with  your  listening 
eyes  ! 


My  horses  —  my  ground-eagles,  for  swift 
fleeing  ! 
My  birds,  with  viewless  wings  of  harmon- 
ies. 
My  calm  cold  fishes  of  a  silver  being, 
How  happy  were  ye,  living  and   possess- 
ing, mo 
O  fair  half-souls  capacious  of  full  bless- 


ing ! 


Yet  I  wail ! 
First  Spirit. 
I  wail,  I  wail  !     Now  hear  my  charge  to- 
day. 
Thou  man,  thou  woman,  marked  as  the 
misdoers 
By  God's  sword  at  your  backs  !     I  lent  my 
clay 
To  make  your  bodies,  which  had  grown 
more  flowers: 
And   now,  in   change  for  what  I  lent,  ye 

give  me 
The  thorn  to  vex,  the  tempest-fire  to  cleave 
me  — 

And  I  wail ! 
Second  Spirit. 
I  wail,  I  wail !    Behold  ye  that  I  fasten  1120 
My  sorrow's  fang  upon  your  souls  dis- 
honored ? 
Accursed  transgressors  !  down  the  steep  ye 
hasten,  — 
Your   crown's  weight  on  the  world,  to 
drag  it  downward 
Unto   your   ruin.      Lo  !    my   lions,    scent- 


ing 


The  blood  of  wars,  roar  hoarse  and  unre- 
lenting — 

And  I  wail ! 
First  Spirit. 
I  wail,  I  wail  !     Do  you  hear  that  I  wail  ? 
I  had  no  part  in  your  transgression  — 
none. 
My  roses  on  the  bough  did  bud  not  pale. 

My  rivers  did  not  loiter  in  the  sun;     1130 
I  was   obedient.     Wherefore  in   my  cen- 
tre 
Do   I   thrill   at   this   curse   of   death   and 
winter  ?  — 

Do  I  wail  ? 
Second  Spirit. 
I  wail,  I  wail  !     I  wail  in  the  assault 

Of  undeserved  perdition,  sorely  wounded ! 
My  nightingale  sang  sweet  without  a  fault. 
My  gentle  leopards  innocently  bounded. 
We   were    obedient.     What    is    this    con- 
vulses 


A   DRAMA   OF   EXILE 


83 


Our  blameless   life  with  pangs  and  fever 
pulses  ? 

And  I  wail  !  1140 

Eve.   I  choose    God's    thunder   and   his 
angels'  swords 
To  die  by,  Adam,  rather  than  such  words. 
Let  us  pass  out  and  flee. 

Adam.  We  cannot  flee. 

This  zodiac  of  the  creatures'  cruelty 
Curls  round  us,  like  a  river  cold  and  drear, 
And  shuts  us  in,  constraining  us  to  hear. 

First  Spirit. 
I  feel   your  steps,  O   wandering   sinners, 
strike 
A   sense   of    death   to   me,    and    undug 
graves  ! 
The   heart  of   earth,  once   calm,  is  trem- 
bling like 
The  ragged  foam  along  the  ocean-waves: 
The  restless  earthquakes  rock  against  each 
other;  1151 

The  elements  moan  'round  me  —  '  Mother, 
mother '  — 

And  I  wail ! 
Second  Spirit. 
Your     melancholy    looks     do    pierce    me 
through; 
Corruption  swathes  the  paleness  of  your 
beauty. 
Why  have  ye  done  this  thing  ?     What  did 
we  do 
That  we  should  fall  from  bliss  as  ye  from 
duty? 
Wild  shriek  the  hawks,  in  waiting  for  their 

jesses. 
Fierce  howl  the  wolves  along  the  wilder- 
nesses — 

And  I  wail !  1160 

Adam.    To  thee,  the  Spirit  of  the  harm- 
less earth, 
To    thee,  the    Spirit   of    earth's   harmless 

lives, 
Inferior  creatures  but  still  innocent. 
Be  salutation  from  a  guilty  mouth 
Yet  worthy  of  some  audience  and  respect 
From  you  who  are  not  guilty.     If  we  have 

sinned, 
God  hath  rebuked  us,  who  is  over  us 
To  give  rebuke  or  death,  and  if  ye  wail 
Because  of  any  sufliering  from  our  sin, 
Ye  who  are  under  and  not  over  us,  1170 

Be  satisfied  with  God,  if  not  with  us. 
And  pass  out  from  our  presence  in  such 

peace 
As  we  have  left  you,  to  enjoy  revenge 


Such    as    the    heavens    have    made   you. 

Verily, 
There  must  be  strife  between  us,  large  as 
sin. 
Eve.    No  strife,    mine   Adam  !     Let   us 
not  stand  high 
Upon  the  wrong  we  did  to  reach  disdain. 
Who  rather  should  be  humbler  evermore 
Since  self-made   sadder.      Adam  !    shall  I 

speak 
I     who     spake    once     to     such    a    bitter 
end  —  1 180 

Shall  I  speak  humbly  now  who  once  was 

proud  ? 
I,  schooled  by  sin  to  more  humility 
Than    thou    hast,    O    mine    Adam,  O  my 

king  — 
My  king,  if  not  the  world's  ? 

Adam.  Speak  as  thou  wilt. 

Eve.   Thus,  then  —  my  hand  in  thine  — 
.  .  .  Sweet,  dreadful  Spirits  ! 
I  pray  you  humbly  in  the  name  of  God, 
Not  to  say  of  these  tears,  which  are  im- 
pure — 
Grant  me  such  pardoning  grace  as  can  go 

forth 
From  clean  volitions  toward  a  spotted  will, 
From  the  wronged  to  the  wronger,  this  and 
no  more  !  1190 

I  do  not  ask  more.     I  am  'ware,  indeed. 
That  absolute  pardon  is  impossible 
From  you  to  me,  by  reason  of  my  sin,  — 
And  that  I  cannot  evermore,  as  once, 
With  worthy  acceptation  of  pure  joy. 
Behold  the  trances  of  the  holy  hills 
Beneath   the   leaning   stars,  or   watch  the 

vales 
Dew-pallid  with  their  morning  ecstasy,  — 
Or  hear  the  winds  make  pastoral  peace  be- 
tween 
Two    grassy     uplands,  —  and    the    river- 
wells  1200 
Work  out  their  bubbling  mysteries  under- 
ground, — 
And  all  the  birds  sing,  till  for  joy  of  song 
They    lift    their   trembling  wings  as  if  to 

heave 
The  too-much  weight  of  music  from  their 

heart 
And  float  it  up  the  aether.     I  am  'ware 
That  these  things  I  can  no  more   appre- 
hend 
With  a  pure  organ  into  a  full  delight,  — 
The  sense  of  beauty  and  of  melody 
Being  no  more  aided  in  me  by  the  sense 


84 


POEMS    OF    1844 


Of  personal  adjustment  to  those  heights 
Of  what  I  see  well-formed  or  hear  well- 
tuned,  12 II 
But    rather    coupled    darkly    and    made 

ashamed 
By  my  percipieney  of  sin  and  fall 
In  melancholy  of  humiliant  thoughts. 
But,  oh  !  fair,  dreadful  Spirits  —  albeit  this 
Your  accusation  must  confront  my  soul, 
And  your  pathetic  utterance  and  full  gaze 
Must  evermore  subdue  me,  —  be  content  ! 
Conquer  me  gently —  as  if  pitying  me. 
Not    to    say   loving  !    let    my    tears    fall 

thick  1220 

As  watering  dews  of  Eden,  unreproached ; 
And  when  your  tongues  reprove  me,  make 

me  smooth, 
Not  ruffled — smooth  and  still  with   your 

reproof, 
And  peradveuture  better  while  more  sad  ! 
For  look  to  it,  sweet  Spirits,  look  well  to 

it, 
It  will  not  be  amiss  in  you  who  kept 
The  law  of  your   own  righteousness,  and 

keep 
The  right  of  your  own    griefs    to  mourn 

themselves,  — 
To  pity  me  twice  fallen,  from  that,  and 

this, 
From    joy    of   place,   and    also    right    of 

wail,  1230 

'  I  wail '  being  not  for  me  —  only  '  I  sin.' 
Look  to  it,  O  sweet  Spirits  ! 

For  was  I  not, 
At  that  last  sunset  seen  in  Paradise, 
When  all  the  westering  clouds  flashed  out 

in  throngs 
Of  sudden  angel-faces,  face  by  face. 
All   hushed  and  solemn,  as  a  thought  of 

God 
Held  them  suspended,  —  was  I  not,  that 

hour, 
The  lady  of  the  world,  princess  of  life. 
Mistress   of   feast   and   favor  ?      Could    I 

touch 
A   rose   with   my  white   hand,  but  it   be- 
came 1240 
Redder  at  once  ?     Could  I  walk  leisurely 
Along  our  swarded  garden,  but  the  grass 
Tracked   me   with   greenness  ?      Could   I 

stand  aside 
A  moment  underneath  a  cornel-tree, 
But  all  the  leaves  did  tremble  as  alive 
With  songs  of  fifty  birds  who  were  made 

glad 


Because  I  stood  there  ?     Could  I  turn  to 

look 
With  these  twain  eyes  of  mine,  now  weep- 
ing fast. 
Now  good  for  only  weeping,  —  upon  man. 
Angel,    or   beast,    or   bird,   but    each    re- 
joiced 1250 
Because  I  looked  on  him  ?     Alas,  alas  ! 
And  is  not  this  much  woe,  to  cry  '  alas  !  ' 
Speaking  of  joy  ?     And  is  not   this  more 

shame. 
To   have  made   the  woe  myself,  from  all 

that  joy  ? 
To  have  stretched  my  hand,  and  plucked  it 

from  the  tree. 
And   chosen   it   for   fruit  ?      Nay,   is   not 

this 
Still  most  despair,  —  to  have  halved  that 

bitter  fruit. 
And  ruined,  so,  the  sweetest  friend  I  have. 
Turning  the  Greatest  to  mine  enemy  ? 
Adam.     1  will  not   hear  thee  speak  so. 
Hearken,  Spirits  !  1260 

Our  God,  who  is  the  enemy  of  none 
But  only  of  their  sin,  hath  set  your  hope 
And  my  hope,  in  a  promise,  on  this  Head. 
Show  reverence,  then,  and  never  bruise  her 

more 
With      unpermitted      and      extreme     re- 
proach, — 
Lest,  passionate  in  anguish,  she  fling  down 
Beneath  your  trampling  feet,  God's  gift  to 

us 
Of  sovranty  by  reason  and  freewill, 
Sinning  against  the  province  of  the  Soul 
To  rule  the  soulless.     Reverence  her    es- 
tate, 1270 
And  pass  out  from  her  presence  with  no 
words  ! 
Eve.     O   dearest    Heart,  have   patience 
with  my  heart  ! 
O  Spirits,  have  patience,  'stead  of  rever- 
ence, 
And  let   me   speak,   for,  not  being  inno- 
cent, 
It  little  doth  become  me  to  be  proud. 
And  I  am  prescient  by  the  very  hope 
And  promise   set   upon    me,   that    hence- 
forth 
Only  my  gentleness  shall  make  me  great. 
My  humbleness  exalt  me.     Awful  Spirits, 
Be  witness  that  I  stand  in  your  reproof  1280 
But  one  sun's  length  off  from  my  happi- 
ness— 
Happy,  as  I  have  said,  to  look  around, 


A   DRAMA  OF   EXILE 


85 


Clear  to  look  up  !  —  Aud  now  !  I  need  not 

speak  — 
Ye  see  me  what  I  am;  ye  scorn  me  so, 
Because  ye  see  me  what  I  have  made  my- 
self 
From  God's  best  making  !     Alas,  —  peace 

forgone, 
Love  wronged,  and  virtue  forfeit,  and  tears 

wept 
Upon  all,  vainly  !     Alas,  me  !  alas. 
Who  have  undone  myself,  from   all   that 

best. 
Fairest   and   sweetest,   to    this   wretched- 

est  1290 

Saddest  and  most  defiled  —  cast  out,  cast 

down  — 
What  word  metes  absolute  loss  ?  let  abso- 
lute loss 
Suffice  you  for  revenge.     For  /,  who  lived 
Beneath  the  wings  of  angels  yesterday, 
Wander  to-day  beneath  the  roofless  world: 
/,  reigning  the  earth's  empress  yesterday, 
Put  off  from  me,  to-day,  your   hate  with 

prayers : 
/,  yesterday,  who  answered  the  Lord  God, 
Composed  and  glad  as   singing-birds   the 

sun, 
Mio-ht  shriek  now  from  our  dismal  desert, 

'  God,'  1300 

And  hear  him  make  reply,  '  What  is  thy 

need. 
Thou  whom  I  cursed  to-day  ?  ' 
Adam.  Eve  ! 

Eve.  I,  at  last. 

Who  yesterday  was  helpmate  and  delight 
Unto  mine  Adam,  am  to-day  the  grief 
And  curse-mete  for  him.      And,  so,  pity 

us. 
Ye  gentle  Spirits,  and  pardon  him  and  me, 
And  let  some  tender  peace,  made  of  our 

pain. 
Grow  up  betwixt  us,  as  a  tree  might  grow, 
With  boughs  on  both  sides  !     In  the  shade 

of  which. 
When  presently  ye  shall  behold  us  dead,  — 
For  the  poor  sake  of  our  humility,  13  n 

Breathe  out  your  pardon  on  our  breathless 

lips. 
And  drop  your  twilight  dews  against  our 

brows. 
And  stroking  with  mild  airs  our  harmless 

hands 
Left  empty  of  all  fruit,  perceive  your  love 
Distilling  through  your  pity  over  us, 
And  suffer  it,  self-reconciled,  to  pass  ! 


Lucifer  rises  in  the  circle. 

Lucifer.     Who  talks  here  of  a  comple- 
ment of  grief  ? 
Of  expiation  wrought  by  loss  and  fall  ? 
Of  hate  subduable  to  pity  ?     Eve  ?        1320 
Take  counsel  from  thy  counsellor  the  snake. 
And  boast  no  more  in  grief,  nor  hope  from 

pain, 
My  docile  Eve  !     I  teach  you  to  despond 
Who    taught     you     disobedience.       Look 

around: — 
Earth  spirits  and  phantasms  hear  you  talk 

unmoved. 
As  if  ye  were  red  clay  again  and  talked  ! 
What  are  your  words  to  them  —  your  grief 

to  them  — 
Your  deaths,  indeed,  to   them  ?     Did  the 

hand  pause. 

For  their  sake,  in  the  plucking  of  the  fruit. 

That  they  should  pause  for  you,  in  hating 

you  ?  1330 

Or  will  your  grief  or  death,  as  did    your 

sin. 
Bring  change  upon  their  final  doom  ?     Be- 
hold, 
Your  grief  is  but  your  sin  in  the  rebound, 
And  cannot  expiate  for  it. 

Adam.  That  is  true. 

Lucifer.     Ay,  that   is   true.     The   clay- 
king  testifies 
To   the    snake's   counsel,  —  hear   him  !  — 
very  true. 
Earth  Spirits.    I  wail,  I  wail ! 
Lucifer.  And  certes,  that  is  true. 

Ye  wail,  ye  all  wail.     Peradventure  I 
Could  wail  among  you.     O  thou  universe. 
That  boldest   sin   and  woe,  —  more   room 
for  wail  !  1340 

Distant  Starry  Voice.     Ah,  ah,  Heospho- 

ros  !     Heosphoros  ! 
Adam.    Mark  Lucifer  !    He  changes  aw- 

fully. 
Eve.     It    seems   as   if   he    looked  from 
grief  to  God 
And  could  not  see  him.     Wretched  Luci- 
fer ! 
Adam.    How  he  stands  —  yet  an  angel ! 
Earth  Spirits.  We  all  wail ! 

Lucifer  (after  a  pause).     Dost  thou  re- 
member, Adam,  when  the  curse 
Took  us  in  Eden  ?     On  a  mountain-peak 
Half-sheathed  in  primal  woods  and  glitter- 

ing 
In  spasms  of  awful  sunshine  at  that  hour, 


86 


POEMS    OF    1844 


A  lion  couched,  part  raised  upon  his  paws, 
With  his  calm  massive  face  turned  full  on 

thine,  1351 

And  his  mane  listening.     When  the  ended 

curse 
Left  silence  in  the  world,  right  suddenly 
He  sprang  up  rampant  and  stood  straight 

and  stiff. 
As  if  the  new  reality  of  death 
Were  dashed  against  his  eyes,  and  roared 

so  fierce, 
(Such   thick   carnivorous    passion    in    his 

throat 
Tearing  a  passage  through  the  wrath  and 

fear) 
And  roared  so  wild,  and  smote  from  all  the 

hills 
Such  fast  keen  echoes  crumbling  down  the 

vales  1360 

Precipitately,  —  that  the  forest  beasts, 
One  after  one,  did  mutter  a  response 
Of  savage  and  of  sorrowful  complaint 
Which  trailed  along  the  gorges.     Then,  at 

once. 
He  fell  back,  and  rolled  crashing  from  the 

height 
Into  the  dusk  of  pines. 

A  dam. 
I  heard  the  curse  alone. 

Earth  Spirits.  I  wail,  I  wail  ! 

Lucifer.   That  lion  is  the  type  of  what  I 

am. 
And  as  he   fixed    thee  with  his  full-faced 

hate. 
And  roared,  O  Adam,  comprehending  doom. 
So,  gazing  on  the  face  of  the  Unseen,     13 71 
I  cry  out  here    between  the  Heavens  and 

Earth 
My  conscience  of  this    sin,  this  woe,  this 

wrath. 
Which  damn  me  to  this  depth. 

Earth  Spirits.  I  wail,  I  wail ! 

Eve.   I  wail  —  O  God  ! 
Lucifer.  I  scorn  you  that  ye  wail. 

Who  use  your  petty  griefs  for  pedestals 
To  stand  on,  beckoning  pity  from  without, 
And  deal  in  pathos  of  antithesis 
Of   what  ye  were   forsooth,    and   what   ye 

are;  — 
I  scorn  you  like  an  angel !  Yet,  one  cry  1380 
I,  too,  would  drive  up  like  a  column  erect. 
Marble  to  marble,  from  my  heart  to  heaven, 
A  monument  of  anguish  to  transpierce 
And  overtop  your  vapory  complaints 
Expressed  from  feeble  woes. 


It  might  have  been. 


Earth  Spirits.  I  wail,  I  wail  I 

Lucifer.     For,  O  ye  heavens,  ye  are  my 

witnesses, 
That  /,  struck  out  from  nature  in  a  blot. 
The  outcast  and  the  mildew  of  things  good, 
The  leper  of  angels,  the  excepted  dust 
Under  the  common  rain  of  daily  gifts,  —  1390 
I  the  snake,  I  the  tempter,  I  the  cursed, — 
To  whom  the  highest  and  the  lowest  alike 
Say,  Go  from    us  —  we   have   no  need  of 

thee,  — 
Was  made  by  God  like  others.     Good  and 

fair, 
He   did    create   me  !  —  ask    him,   if    not 

fair  ! 
Ask,  if  I  caught  not  fair  and  silverly 
His  blessing  for  chief  angels  on  my  head 
Until  it  grew  there,  a  crown  crystallized  ! 
Ask,  if  he  never  called  me  by  my  name, 
Lucifer  —  kindly  said  as  '  Gabriel '  —     1400 
Lucifer  —  soft  as  '  Michael ! '  while  serene 
I,  standing  in  the  glory  of  the  lamps. 
Answered  '  my  Father,'  innocent  of  shame 
And  of  the  sense  of  thunder.    Ha  !  ye  think, 
White  angels  in  your  niches,  —  I  repent. 
And  would  tread  down   my  own   offences 

back 
To   service    at   the  footstool  ?  that 's  read 

wrong  ! 
I  cry  as  the  beast  did,  that  I  may  cry  — 
Expansive,  not  appealing  !    Fallen  so  deep. 
Against  the  sides  of  this  prodigious  pit  14 10 
I   cry  —  cry  —  dashing   out   the   hands  of 

wail 
On  each  side,  to  meet  anguish  everywhere, 
And  to  attest  it  in  the  ecstasy 
And  exaltation  of  a  woe  sustained 
Because  provoked  and  chosen. 

Pass  along 
Your  wilderness,  vain  mortals  !  Puny  griefs 
In  transitory  shapes,  be  henceforth  dwarfed 
To  your  own  conscience,  by  the  dread  ex- 
tremes 
Of  what  I  am  and  have  been.     If  ye  have 

fallen. 
It  is  but  a  step's  fall,  —  the  whole  ground 

beneath  1420 

Strewn  woolly  soft  with  promise  !  if  ye  have 

sinned. 
Your  prayers  tread  high  as  angels  !  if  ye 

have  grieved. 
Ye  are  too  mortal  to  be  pitiable. 
The  power  to  die    disproves  the  right   to 

grieve. 
Go  to  !  ye  call  this  ruin  ?     I  half -scorn 


A   DRAMA  OF   EXILE 


87 


The  ill  I  did  you  !  Were  ye  wronged  by  me, 
Hated  and  tempted  and  \indone  of  me,  — 
Still,  what  's  your   hurt  to  mine  of  doing 

hurt. 
Of  hating,  tempting,  and  so  ruining  ? 
Tliis  sword's  Jiilt  is  the  sharpest,  and  cuts 
through  1430 

The  hand  that  wields  it. 

Go  !  I  curse  you  all. 
Hate  one  another  —  feebly  —  as  ye  can  ! 
I  would  not  certes  cut  you  short  in  hate, 
Far  be  it  from  me  !  hate  on  as  ye  can  ! 
I  breathe  into  your  faces,  spirits  of  earth. 
As   wintry  blast  may   breathe    on    wintry 

leaves 
And  lifting  up  their  brownness  show  beneath 
The  branches  bare.     Beseech  you,  spirits, 

give 
To  Eve  who  beggarly  entreats  your  love 
For  her  and  Adam  when  they  shall  be  dead. 
An  answer  rather  fitting  to  the  sin  144 1 

Than   to  the   sorrow  —  as  the   heavens,    I 

trow. 
For  justice'  sake  gave  theirs. 

I  curse  you  both, 
Adam  and  Eve.     Say  grace  as  after  meat, 
After   my  curses  !     May   your   tears   fall 

hot 
On  all  the  hissing  scorns  o'  the  creatures 

here,  — 
And  yet  rejoice  !     Increase  and  multiply. 
Ye  in  your  generations,  in  all  plagues. 
Corruptions,  melancholies,  poverties. 
And   hideous   forms    of   life   and  fears  of 
death,  —  1450 

The  thought  of  death  being  alway  immi- 
nent. 
Immovable  and  dreadful  in  your  life, 
And  deafly  and  dumbly  insignificant 
Of  any  hope  beyond,  —  as  death  itself, 
Whichever  of  you  lieth  dead  the  first. 
Shall  seem  to  the  survivor  —  yet  rejoice  ! 
My  curse  catch  at  you  strongly,  body  and 

soul, 
And  He  find  no  redemption  —  nor  the  wing 
Of  seraph  move  your  way;  and  yet  rejoice  ! 
Rejoice,  —  because  ye  have  not,  set  in  you, 
This  hate  which  shall  pursue  you — thisfire- 
hate  1461 

Which   glares   without,   because   it    burns 

within  — 
Which    kills   from   ashes  —  this   potential 

hate. 
Wherein  I,  angel,  in  antagonism 
To  God  and  his  reflex  beatitudes. 


Moan  ever,  in  the  central  universe. 

With   the    great   woe    of   striving   against 

Love 
And  gasp  for  space  amid  the  Infinite, 
And  toss  for  rest  amid  the  Desertness, 
Self-orphaned  by  my  will,  and  self-elect  1470 
To  kingship  of  resistant  agony 
Toward  the  Good  round  me  —  hating  good 

and  love. 
And  willing  to  hate  good  and  to  hate  love, 
And  willing  to  will  on  so  evermore, 
Scorning   the    past   and  damning    the    to- 
come  — 

Go  and  rejoice  !  I  curse  you. 
[Lucifer  vanishes. 
Earth  Spirits. 
And  we  scorn  you  !  there  's  no  pardon 

Which  can  lean  to  you  aright. 
When  your  bodies  take  the  guerdon 
Of  the  death-curse  in  our  sight,        1480 
Then  the  bee  that   hummeth  lowest  shall 
transcend  you: 
Then  ye  shall  not  move  an  eyelid 

Though   the    stars    look   down    your 
eyes; 
And  the  earth  which  ye  defiled 
Shall  expose  you  to  the  skies,  — 
'  Lo  !  these  kings  of  ours,  who  sought  to 
comprehend  you.' 
First  Spirit. 
And  the  elements  shall  boldly 

All  your  dust  to  dust  constrain. 
Unresistedly  and  coldly 

I  will  smite  you  with  my  rain.  1490 

From  the  slowest  of  my  frosts  is  no  reced- 
ing. 
Second  Spirit. 
And  my  little  worm,  appointed 

To  assume  a  royal  part. 
He  shall  reign,  crowned  and  anointed. 
O'er  the  noble  human  heart. 
Give   him  counsel  against   losing  of   that 
Eden  ! 
Adam.    Do   ye   scorn   us?      Back   your 

scorn 
Toward  your  faces  gray  and  lorn, 

As  the  wind  drives  back  the  rain. 
Thus  I  drive  with  passion-strife,  1500 

I  who  stand  beneath  God's  sun. 
Made  like  God,  and,  though  undone, 
Not  unmade  for  love  and  life. 

Lo  !  ye  utter  threats  in  vain. 
By  my  free  will  that  chose  sin, 
By  mine  agony  within 
Round  the  passage  of  the  fire, 


88 


POEMS   OF    1844 


By  the  pinings  which  disclose 
That  my  native  soul  is  higher 

Than  what  it  chose,  1510 

We  are  yet  too  high,  O  Spirits,  for  your 
disdain  ! 
Ei^e.   Nay,  beloved  !     If  these  be  low, 
We  confront  them  from  no  height. 
We  have  stooped  down  to  their  level 
By  infecting  them  with  evil. 
And  their  scorn  that  meets  our  blow 

Scathes  aright. 
Amen.     Let  it  be  so. 
Earth  Spirits. 
We  shall  triumph  —  triumph  greatly 

When  ye  lie  beneath  the  sward.       1520 
There,  our  lily  shall  grow  stately 
Though  ye  answer  not  a  word, 
And  her  fragrance  shall  be  scornful  of  your 
silence : 
While  your  throne  ascending  calmly 

We,  in  heirdom  of  your  soul, 
Flash  the  river,  lift  the  palm-tree, 
The  dilated  ocean  roll, 
By  the  thoughts  that  throbbed  within  you, 
round  the  islands. 

Alp  and  torrent  shall  inherit 

Your  significance  of  will,  1530 

And  the  grandeur  of  your  spirit 
Shall  our  broad  savannahs  fill; 
In  our  winds,    your   exultations   shall   be 
springing  ! 
Even  your  parlance  which  inveigles. 

By  our  rudeness  shall  be  won. 
Hearts  poetic  in  our  eagles 
Shall  beat  up  against  the  sun 
And  strike   downward   in  articulate  clear 
singing. 

Your  bold  speeches  our  Behemoth       1539 

With  his  thunderous  jaw  shall  wield. 
Your  high  fancies  shall  our  Mammoth 
Breathe  sublimely  up  the  shield 
Of  Saint  Michael    at    God's    throne,  who 
waits  to  speed  him: 
Till   the  heavens'  smooth-grooved  thun- 
der 
Spinning  back,  shall  leave  them  clear, 
And  the  angels,  smiling  wonder. 

With    dropt    looks    from    sphere    to 
sphere. 
Shall  cry  *  Ho,  ye  heirs  of  Adam  !  ye  ex- 
ceed him.' 
Adam.   Root  out  thine  eyes.  Sweet,  from 
the  dreary  ground  ! 


Beloved,  we  may  be  overcome  by  God,  1550 

But  not  by  these. 

Eve.  By  God,  perhaps,  in  these. 

Adam.  I  think,  not  so.     Had  God  fore- 
doomed despair 

He  had  not  spoken  hope.     He  may  destroy 

Certes,  but  not  deceive. 

Eve.  Behold  this  rose  ! 

I  plucked  it  in  our  bower  of  Paradise 

This  morning    as    I  went   forth,   and   my 
heart 

Has  beat  against  its  petals  all  the  day. 

I  thought  it  would  be  always  red  and  full 

As   when  I  plucked  it.     Is  it?  —  ye  may 
see  ! 

I  cast  it  down  to  you  that  ye  may  see,    1560 

All  of  you  !  —  count  the  petals  lost  of  it. 

And  note  the  colors  fainted  !  ye  may  see! 

And  I  am  as  it  is,  who  yesterday 

Grew  in  the  same  place.     O  ye  spirits  of 
earth, 

I  almost,  from  my  miserable  heart. 

Could   here   upbraid   you   for   your   cruel 
heart. 

Which  will  not  let  me,  down  the  slope  of 
death. 

Draw  any  of  your  pity  after  me. 

Or  lie  still  in  the  quiet  of  your  looks. 

As  mj"  flower,  there,  in  mine. 

\_A  bleak  wind,  quickened  with  indistinct 
Human  Voices, spins  around  the  Earth- 
zodiac,  Jilling  the  circle  with  its  pres- 
ence; and  then,  wailing  off  into  the 
East,  carries  the  rose  away  with  it. 
Eve  falls  upon  her  face.  Adam 
stands  erect. 
Adam.  So,  verily,  1570 

The  last  departs. 

Eve.  So  Memory  follows  Hope, 

And  Life  both.     Love  said  to  me,  '  Do  not 
die,' 

And  I  replied,  *  O  Love,  I  will  not  die. 

I  exiled  and  I  will  not  orphan  Love.' 

But  now  it  is  no  choice  of  mine  to  die : 

My  heart  throbs  from  me. 

Adam.  Call  it  straightway  back  ! 

Death's   consummation  crowns   completed 
life. 

Or  comes  too   early.     Hope  being  set  on 
thee 

For  others,  if  for  others  then  for  thee,  — 

For  thee  and  me. 

\_The  wind  revokes  from  the  East,  and 
round  again  to  the  East,  perfumed  by 
the   Eden    rose,   and  full  of  Voices 


A   DRAMA   OF   EXILE 


89 


which  siveep  out  into  articulation   as 
they  pass. 

Let  thy  soul  shake  its  leaves 
To  feel  the  mystic  wind  —  hark  ! 

Eve.  I  hear  life. 

Infant  Voices  passing  in  the  loind. 

O  we  live,  O  we  live  —  1582 

And  this  life  that  we  receive 

Is  a  warm  thing  and  a  new, 

Which  we  softly  bud  into 

From  the  heart  and  from  the  brain,  — 

Something  strange  that  overmuch  is 

Of  the  sound  and  of  the  sight. 

Flowing  round  in  trickling  touches,     1590 

With  a  sorrow  and  delight,  — 

Yet  is  it  all  in  vain  ? 

Rock  us  softly, 

Lest  it  be  all  in  vain. 
Youthful  Voices  passing. 

O  we  live,  O  we  live  — 

And  this  life  that  we  achieve 

Is  a  loud  thing  and  a  bold 

Which  with  pulses  manifold 

Strikes  the  heart  out  full  and  fain  — 

Active  doer,  noble  liver, 

Strong  to  struggle,  sure  to  conquer,   1600 

Though  the  vessel's  prow  will  quiver 

At  the  lifting  of  the  anchor: 

Yet  do  we  striv^e  in  vain  ? 
Infant  Voices  passing. 

Rock  us  softly, 

Lest  it  be  all  in  vain. 
Poet  Voices  passing. 

O  we  live,  O  we  live  — 

And  this  life  that  we  conceive 

Is  a  clear  thing  and  a  fair, 

Which  we  set  in  crystal  air 

That  its  beauty  may  be  plain  !  16 10 

With  a  breathing  and  a  flooding 

Of  the  heaven-life  on  the  whole. 

While  we  hear  the  forests  budding 

To  the  music  of  the  soul  — 

Yet  is  it  tuned  in  vain  ? 
Infant  Voices  passing. 

Rock  us  softly, 

Lest  it  be  all  in  vain. 
Philosophic  Voices  passing. 

O  we  live,  O  we  live  — 

And  this  life  that  we  perceive 

Is  a  great  thing  and  a  grave  1620 

Which  for  others'  use  we  have. 

Duty-laden  to  remain. 

We  are  helpers,  fellow-creatures. 

Of  the  right  against  the  wrong; 

We  are  earnest-hearted  teachers 


Of  the  truth  which  maketh  strong  — 

Yet  do  we  teach  in  vain  ? 
Infant  Voices  passing. 

Rock  us  softly. 

Lest  it  be  all  in  vain. 
Revel  Voices  passing. 

O  we  live,  O  we  live  —  1630 

And  this  life  that  we  reprieve 

Is  a  low  thing  and  a  light. 

Which  is  jested  out  of  sight 

And  made  worthy  of  disdain  ! 

Strike  with  bold  electric  laughter 

The  high  tops  of  things  divine  — 

Turn  thy  head,  my  brother,  after, 

Lest  thy  tears  fall  in  my  wine  ! 

For  is  all  laughed  in  vain  ? 
Infant  Voices  passing. 

Rock  us  softly,        1640 

Lest  it  be  all  in  vain. 

Eve.     I  hear  a  sound  of   life  —  of   life 
like  ours  — 
Of    laughter    and    of    wailing,    of    grave 

speech. 
Of  little  plaintive  voices  innocent, 
Of  life  in  separate  courses  flowing  out 
Like  our  four  rivers  to  some  outward  main. 
I  hear  life  —  life  ! 

A  dam.    And,  so,  th}'  cheeks  have  snatched 
Scarlet   to  paleness,  and  thine  eyes  drink 

fast 
Of   glory   from  full    cups,  and    thy  moist 

lips 
Seem  trembling,  both  of  them,  with  ear- 
nest doubts  1650 
Whether  to  utter  words  or  only  smile. 

Eve.     Shall  I  be  mother  of  the  coming 
life  ? 
Hear  the  steep  generations,  how  they  fall 
Adown  the  visionary  stairs  of  Time 
Like     supernatural     thunders  —  far,     yet 

near,  — 
Sowing  their  fiery  echoes  through  the  hills. 
Am  I  a  cloud  to  these  —  mother  to  these  ? 

Earth  Spirits.     And  bringer  of  the  curse 
upon  all  these. 

[Eve  sinks  down  again. 
Poet  Voices  passing. 

O  we  live,  O  we  live  — 

And  this  life  that  we  conceive  1660 

Is  a  noble  thing  and  high. 

Which  we  climb  up  loftily 

To  view  God  without  a  stain; 

Till,  recoiling  where  the  shade  is, 

We  retread  our  steps  again. 

And  descend  the  gloomy  Hades 


90 


POEMS   OF    1844 


To  resume  man's  mortal  pain. 

Shall  it  be  climbed  in  vain  ? 
Infant  Voices  passing. 

Rock  us  softly, 

Lest  it  be  all  in  vain.  1670 

Love  Voices  passing. 

O  we  live,  O  we  live  — 

And  this  life  we  would  retrieve, 

Is  a  faithful  thing  apart 

Which  we  love  in,  heart  to  heart. 

Until  one  heart  fitteth  twain. 

'  Wilt  thou  be  one  with  me  ?  ' 

'  I  will  be  one  with  thee.' 

'  Ha,  ha  !  —  wc  love  and  live  ! ' 

Alas  !  ye  love  and  die. 

Shriek  —  who  shall  reply  ?  1680 

For  is  it  not  loved  in  vain  ? 
Infant  Voices  passhig. 

Rock  us  softly, 

Though  it  be  all  in  vain. 
Aged  Voices  passing. 

O  we  live,  O  we  live  — 

And  this  life  we  would  survive, 

Is  a  gloomy  thing  and  brief, 

Which  consummated  in  grief, 

Leaveth  ashes  for  all  gain. 

Is  it  not  all  in  vain  ? 
Infant  Voices  passing. 

Rock  us  softly, 


1690 


Though  it  be  all  in  vain. 


[  Voices  die  away. 
Earth  Spirits.     And  bringer  of  the  curse 

upon  all  these. 
Eve.    The  voices  of  foreshown  Humanity 
Die  off;  —  so  let  me  die. 

Adam.  So  let  us  die. 

When  God's  will  soundeth  the  right  hour 
of  death. 
Earth  Spirits.    And  bringer  of  the  curse 

upon  all  these. 
Eve.    O    Spirits  !  by  the  gentleness   ye 
use 
In  winds  at  night,  and  floating  clouds  at 

noon, 
In  gliding  waters  under  lily-leaves. 
In    chirp    of    crickets,   and    the    settling 
hush  1700 

A  bird  makes  in   her  nest  with   feet  and 

wings,  — 
Fulfil  your  natures  now  ! 

Earth  Spirits.  Agreed,  allowed  ! 

We  gather  out  our  natures  like  a  cloud. 
And  thus  fulfil  their  lightnings  !      Thus, 
and  thus  ! 

Hearken,  oh  hearken  to  us  ! 


First  Spirit. 
As  the  storm-wind  blows  bleakly  from  the 

norland. 
As   the    snow-wind   beats    blindly    on   the 

moorland. 
As  the  simoom  drive  shot  across  the  des- 
ert. 
As  the  thunder  roars  deep  in  the  Unmea- 
sured, 
As   the   torrent   tears  the   ocean-world  to 
atoms,  1 7 10 

As  the  whirlpool  grinds  it  fathoms  below 
fathoms. 

Thus,  —  and  thus  ! 
Second  Spirit. 
As  the  yellow   toad,  that  spits  its  poison 

chilly. 
As  the  tiger,  in  the  jungle  crouching  stilly, 
As    the  wild   boar,  with  ragged  tusks   of 

anger, 
As  the  wolf-dog,  with    teeth  of  glittering 

clangor. 
As  the  vultures,  that   scream  against  the 

thunder, 
As  the   owlets,  that   sit  and   moan   asun- 
der. 

Thus,  —  and  thus  ! 
Eve.    Adam  !  God  ! 

Adam.      Cruel,  unrelenting  Spirits  !   1720 
By  the  power  in  me  of  the  sovran  soul 
Whose  thoughts  keep   pace  yet   with   the 

angel's  march, 
I  charge  you  into  silence  —  trample  you 
Down  to  obedience.     I  am  king  of  you  ! 
Earth  Spirits. 

Ha,  ha  !  thou  art  king  ! 
With  a  sin  for  a  crown. 
And  a  soul  undone  ! 
Thou,  the  antagonized. 
Tortured  and  agonized, 
Held  in  the  ring  1730 

Of  the  zodiac  ! 
Now,  king,  beware  ! 
We  are  many  and  strong 
Whom  thou  standest  among,  — 
And  we  press  on  the  air, 
And  we  stifle  thee  back. 
And  we  multiply  where 
Thou  wouldst  trample  us  down 
From  rights  of  our  own 
To  an  utter  wrong —  1740 

And,  from  under  the  feet  of  thy  scorn, 
O  forlorn. 
We  shall  spring  up  like  corn. 
And  our  stubble  be  strong. 


A   DRAMA   OF   EXILE 


91 


Adam.    God,  there  is  power  in  thee  !     I 
make  appeal 
Unto  thy  kingship. 

Eve.  There  is  pity  in  Thee, 

O  sinned  against,  great  God  !  —  My  seed, 

my  seed, 
There  is  hope  set  on  Thee  —  I  cry  to  thee. 
Thou  mystic  Seed  that  shalt  be  !  —  leave 

us  not 
In  agon}'^  beyond  what  we  can  bear,         1750 
Fallen  in  debasement  below  thunder-mark, 
A  mark  for  scorning  —  taunted  and   per- 

plest 
By  all  these  creatures  we  ruled  yesterday. 
Whom  thou,  Lord,  rulest  alway  !     O  my 

Seed, 
Through  the  tempestuous  years  that  rain 

so  thick 
Betwixt  my  ghostly  vision  and  thy  face, 
Let  me  have  token  !  for  my  soul  is  bruised 
Before  the  serpent's  head  is. 

[A  vision  of  Christ  appears  in  the  midst 

of  the  Zodiac,  which  pales  hefore  the 

heavenly   light.      The   Earth   Spirits 

grow  grayer  and  fainter. 

Christ.  I  am  here  ! 

Adam.     This  is    God  !  —  Curse  us  not, 

God,  any  more  ! 
Eve.  But  gazing  so  —  so  —  with  omnific 
eyes,  1760 

Lift    my    soul    upward    till   it   touch   thy 

feet  ! 
Or  lift  it  only,  —  not  to  seem  too  proud^  — 
To  the  low  height  of   some  good   angel's 

feet, 
For  such   to  tread   on  when   he  walketh 

straight 
And  thy  lips  praise  him  ! 

Christ.  Spirits  of  the  earth, 

I  meet  you  with  rebuke  for  the  reproach 
And  cruel  and  unmitigated  blame 
Ye  cast  upon  your  masters.      True,  they 

have  sinned; 
And  true  their  sin  is  reckoned  into  loss 
For    you    the    sinless.      Yet,    your    inno- 
cence 1770 
Which  of  you  praises  ?   since  God  made 

your  acts 
Inherent   in   your   lives,  and   bound   your 

hands 
With  instincts  and  imperious  sanctities 
From  self-defacement.     Which  of  you  dis- 
dains 
These  sinners  who  in  falling  proved  their 
height 


Above  you  by  their  liberty  to  fall  ? 

And   which   of   you  complains  of   loss  by 

them, 
For  whose  delight  and  use  ye  have  your 

life 
And  honor  in  creation  ?      Ponder  it  ! 
This  regent  and  sublime  Humanity,        1780 
Though  fallen,  exceeds  you  !  this  shall  film 

your  sun, 
Shall   hunt   your   lightning    to  its   lair  of 

cloud, 
Turn  back  your  rivers,  footpath  all  your 

seas, 
Lav  flat  vour  forests,  master  with  a  look 
Your  lion  at  his  fasting,  and  fetch  down 
Your  eagle  flying.     Nay,  without  this  law 
Of  mandom,  ye  would  perish,  —  beast  by 

beast 
Devouring,  —  tree  by  tree,  with  strangling 

roots 
And  trunks  set  tusk  wise.     Ye  would  gaze 

on  God 
With     imperceptive     blankness     up     the 


stars. 


1790 


And  mutter,  '  Why,  God,  hast  thou  made 

us  thus  ? ' 
And  pining  to  a  sallow  idiocy 
Staggerif  up  blindly  against  the  ends  of  life, 
Then  stagnate  into  rottenness  and  drop 
Heavily  —  poor,  dead  matter  —  piecemeal 

down 
The  abysmal  spaces  —  like  a  little  stone 
Let  fall  to  chaos.     Therefore  over  you 
Receive  man's  sceptre  !  —  therefore  be  con- 
tent 
To  minister  with  voluntary  grace 
And  melancholy  pardon,  every  rite         1800 
And  function  in  you,  to  the  human  hand  ! 
Be  ye  to  man  as  angels  are  to  God, 
Servants  in  pleasure,  singers  of  delight, 
Suggesters  to  his  soul  of  higher  things 
Than  any  of  your  highest  !     So  at  last, 
He  shall  look  round  on  you  with  lids  too 

straight 
To  hold  the  grateful  tears,  and  thank  you 

well. 
And  bless  you  when  he   prays   bis  secret 

prayers. 
And   praise   you   when   he  sings  his  open 

songs 
For  the  clear  song-note  he  has  learnt  in 

you  18 10 

Of  purifying  sweetness,  and  extend 
Across  your  head  his  golden  fantasies 
Which  glorify  you  into  soul  from  sense. 


92 


POEMS   OF   1844 


Go,  serve  him  for  such  price  !     That  not  in 

vain 
Nor  yet  ignobly  ye  shall  serve,  I  place 
My  word  here  for  an  oath,  mine  oath  for 

act 
To  be  hereafter.     In  the  name  of  which 
Perfect  redemption  and  perpetual  grace, 
I  bless  you  through  the  hope  and  through 

the  peace 

Which  are  mine,  —  to  the  Love,  which  is 

myself.  1820 

Eve.    Speak    on    still,    Christ  !     Albeit 

thou  bless  me  not 

In  set  words,  I  am  blessed  in  hearkening 

thee  — 
Speak,  Christ  ! 

Christ.    Speak,  Adam  !     Bless  the  wo- 
man, man  ! 
It  is  thine  office. 

Adam.  Mother  of  the  world. 

Take  heart  before  this  Presence  !     Lo,  my 

voice. 
Which,  naming  erst  the  creatures,  did  ex- 
press 
(God  breathing   through   my   breath)   the 

attributes 
And  instincts  of  each  creature  in  its  name. 
Floats  to  the    same    afflatus,  —  floats  and 

heaves 
Like  a  water-weed  that  opens  to  a  wave,  — 
A  full-leaved  prophecy  affecting  thee,    183 1 
Out  fairly  and  wide.    Henceforward,  arise, 

aspire 
To  all  the  calms  and  magnanimities. 
The  lofty  uses  and  the  noble  ends. 
The  sanctified  devotion  and  full  work, 
To  which  thou  art  elect  for  evermore, 
First  woman,  wife,  and  mother  ! 

Eve.  And  first  in  sin. 

Adam.   And  also  the   sole  bearer  of  the 
Seed 
Whereby  sin  dieth.  Raise  the  majesties  1839 
Of  thy  disconsolate  brows,  O  well-beloved. 
And  front  with  level  eyelids  the  To-come, 
And  all  the  dark  o'  the  world  !    Rise,  woman, 

rise 
To  thy  peculiar  and  best  altitudes 
Of  doing  good  and  of  enduring  ill, 
Of  comforting  for  ill,  and  teaching  good. 
And  reconciling  all  that  ill  and  good 
Unto  the  patience  of  a  constant  hope,  — 
Rise  with  thy  daughters  !    If  sin  came  by 

thee, 
And  by  sin,  death,  —  the  ransom-righteous- 
ness. 


The  heavenly  life  and  compensative  rest  1850 
Shall  come  by  means  of  thee.  If  woe  by  thee 
Had  issue  to  the  world,  thou  shalt  go  forth 
An  angel  of  the  woe  thou  didst  achieve, 
Found  acceptable  to  the  world  instead 
Of  others  of  that  name,  of  whose  bright 

steps 
Thy  deed  stripped  bare  the  hills.    Be  satis- 
fied; 
Something  thou  hast  to  bear  through  wo- 
manhood, 
Peculiar  suffering  answering  to  the  sin,  — 
Some  pang  paid  down  for  each  new  human 

life, 
Some  weariness  in  guarding  such  a  life,  i860 
Some  coldness  from  the  guarded,  some  mis- 
trust 
From  those  thou  hast  too  well  served,  from 

those  beloved 
Too  loyally  some  treason;  feebleness 
Within  thy  heart,  and  cruelty  without, 
And  pressures  of  an  alien  tyranny 
With  its  dynastic  reasons  of  larger  bones 
And  stronger  sinews.   But,  go  to  !  thy  love 
Shall  chant  itself  its  own  beatitudes 
After  its  own  life-working.      A  child's  kiss 
Set  on  thy   sighing   lips  shall  make    thee 
glad;  1870 

A  poor  man  served  by  thee  shall  make  thee 

rich ; 
A  sick  man  helped  by  thee  shall  make  thee 

strong; 
Thou  shalt  be  served  thyself  by  every  sense 
Of  service   which  thou  renderest.     Such  a 

crown 
I  set  upon  thy  head,  —  Christ  witnessing 
With  looks  of  prompting  love  —  to  keep 

thee  clear 
Of  all  reproach  against  the  sin  forgone. 
From  all  the  generations  which  succeed. 
Thy  hand  which  plucked  the  apple  I  clasp 

close. 
Thy  lips  which  spake  wrong  counsel  I  kiss 
close,  1880 

I  bless  thee  in  the  name  of  Paradise 
And  by  the  memory  of  Edenic  joys 
Forfeit   and   lost,  —  by   that   last   cypress 

tree, 
Gi?een  at  the   gate,  which  thrilled   as  we 

came  out. 
And  by  the  blessed  nightingale  which  threw 
Its  melancholy  music  after  us,  — 
And  by  the  flowers,  whose  spirits  full  of 

smells 
Did  follow  softly,  plucking  us  behind 


A    DRAMA   OF   EXILE 


93 


Back  to  the  gradual  banks  and  vernal  bowers 
And  fourfold  river-courses.  —  Bv  all  these, 
I  bless  thee  to  the  contraries  of  these,     1891 
I  bless  thee  to  the  desert  and  the  thorns, 
To  the  elemental  change  and  turbulence. 
And  to  the  roar  of  the  estranged  beasts. 
And  to  the  solemn  dignities  of  grief,  — 
To  each  one  of  these  ends,  —  and  to  their 

END 

Of  Death  and  the  hereafter. 

Eve.  I  accept 

For  me  and  for  my  daughters  this  high  part 
Which  lowly  shall  be  counted.     Noble  work 
Shall  hold  me  in  the  place  of  garden-rest. 
And  in  the  place  of  Eden's  lost  delight  1901 
Worthy  endurance  of  permitted  pain; 
While  on  my  longest  patience  there   shall 

wait 
Death's  speechless  angel,  smiling  in  the  east, 
Whence  cometh  the  cold  wind.     I  bow  my- 
self 
Humbly  henceforward  on  the  ill  I  did. 
That  humbleness  may  keep  it  in  the  shade. 
Shall  it  be  so  ?  shall  I  smile,  saying  so  ? 

0  Seed  !     O  King  !     O  God,  who  shalt  be 

seed, — 
What  shall  I  say  ?     As  Eden's   fountains 

swelled  1910 

Brightly  betwixt  their  banks,  so  swells  my 

soul 
Betwixt  thy  love  and  power  ! 

And,  sweetest  thoughts 
Of  forgone  Eden  !  now,  for  the  first  time 
Since  God  said  '  Adam,'  walking  through 

the  trees, 

1  dare  to  pluck  you  as  I  plucked  erewhile 
The  lily  or  pink,  the  rose  or  heliotrope. 

So  pluck  I  you  —  so  largely  —  with  both 

hands. 
And  throw  you  forward  on  the  outer  earth. 
Wherein  we  are  cast  out,  to  sweeten  it. 
Adam.     As   thou,  Christ,    to   illume    it, 
boldest  Heaven 
Broadly  over  our  heads. 

[The  Christ  is  gradually  transjigured, 
during  the  following  phrases  of  dia- 
logue^ into  humanity  and  suffering. 
Eve.  O  Saviour  Christ 

Thou  standest  mute  in  glory,  like  the  sun  ! 
Adam.      We    worship    in    thy    silence. 

Saviour  Christ  ! 
Eve.     Thy  brows  grow  grander  with  a 
forecast  woe,  — 
Diviner,  with  the  possible  of  death. 
We  worship  in  thy  sorrow,  Saviour  Christ ! 


1920 


Adam.  How  do  thy  clear,  still  eyes  trans- 
pierce our  souls. 
As  gazing  through  them  toward  the  Father- 
throne 
In  a  pathetical,  full  Deity,  1929 

Serenely  as  the  stars  gaze  through  the  air 
Straight  on  each  other  ! 

Eve.  O  pathetic  Christ, 

Thou   standest   mute   in    glory,    like    the 
moon  ! 
Christ.     Eternity  stands   alway  front- 
ing God; 
A  stern  colossal  image,  with  blind  eyes 
And  grand  dim  lips  that  murmur  evermore 
God,  God,  God  !  while  the  rush  of  life  and 

death, 
The  roar  of  act  and  thought,  of  evil  and 

good. 
The  avalanches  of  the  ruining  worlds 
Tolling    down    space,  —  the   new    worlds' 

genesis 
Budding  in  fire,  —  the    gradual  humming 
growth  1940 

Of   the  ancient  atoms    and  first  forms  of 

earth. 
The  slow  procession  of  the  swathing  seas 
And  firmamental  waters,  —  and  the  noise 
Of  the  broad,  fluent  strata  of  pure  airs,  — 
All  these  flow  onward  in  the  intervals 
Of  that  reiterated  sound  of  —  God  ! 
Which  WORD  innumerous  angels  straight- 
way lift 
Wide  on  celestial  altitudes  of  song 
And  choral  adoration,  and  then  drop       1949 
The  burden  softly,  shutting  the  last  notes 
In  silver  wings.     Howbeit  in  the  noon  of 

time 
Eternity  shall  wax  as  dumb  as  Death, 
While   a   new  voice    beneath   the  spheres 

shall  cry, 
'  God !    why   hast   thou   forsaken   me,  my 

God?' 
And  not  a  voice  in  Heaven  shall  answer  it. 
\_The  transfiguration  is  complete  in  sad- 
ness. 
Adam.     Thy  speech  is  of  the  Heavenlies, 
yet,  O  Christ, 
Awfully  human  are  thy  voice  and  face  ! 
Eve.     My  nature    overcomes   me   from 

thine  eyes. 
Christ.     In  the  set  noon  of  time  shall 
one  from  Heaven, 
An  angel  fresh  from  looking  upon  God,   196c 
Descend  before  a  woman,  blessing  her 
With  perfect  benediction  of  pure  love, 


94 


POEMS   OF    1844 


For  all  the  world  in  all  its  elements, 
For  all  the  creatures  of  earth,  air,  and  sea, 
For  all  men  in  the  body  and  in  the  soul, 
Unto  all  ends  of  glory  and  sanctity. 

Eve.     O  pale,  pathetic  Christ  —  I  wor- 
ship thee  ! 
I  thank  thee  for  that  woman  ! 

Christ.  Then,  at  last, 

I,  wrapping  round  me  your  humanity, 
Which,  being  sustained,  shall  neither  break 

nor  burn  197c 

Beneath  the  fire   of   Godhead,  will   tread 

earth, 
And   ransom   you   and  it,  and  set   strong 

peace 
Betwixt  you  and  its  creatures.     With  ray 

pangs 
I  will  confront  your  sins;  and  since  those 

sins 
Have    sunken  to  all  Nature's   heart  from 

yours. 
The  tears  of   my  clean   soul   shall  follow 

them 
And  set  a  holy  passion  to  work  clear 
Absolute  consecration.     In  my  brow 
Of    kingly    whiteness    shall    be    crowned 

anew 
Your  discrowned  human  nature.     Look  on 

me  !  1980 

As  I  shall  be  uplifted  on  a  cross 
In  darkness  of  eclipse  and  anguish  dread, 
So  shall  I  lift  up  in  my  pierced  hands, 
Not  into  dark,  but  light  —  not  unto  death, 
But  life,  —  beyond  the  reach  of  guilt  and 

grief. 
The   whole    creation.     Henceforth   in   my 

name 
Take  courage,  O  thou  woman,  —  man,  take 

hope  ! 
Your  grave  shall  be  as  smooth  as  Eden's 

sward. 
Beneath    the    steps   of    your    prospective 

thoughts. 
And,  one  step  past  it,  a  new  Eden-gate  1990 
Shall  open  on  a  hinge  of  harmony 
And  let  you  through  to  mercy.     Ye  shall 

fall 
No  more,  within  that  Eden,  nor  pass  out 
Any  more  from  it.     In  which  hope,  move 

on. 
First   sinners    and   first    mourners  !     Live 

and  love,  — 
Doing  both  nobly  because  lowlily  ! 
Live  and  work,  strongly  because  patiently  ! 
And,  for  the  deed  of  death,  trust  it  to  God 


That  it  be  well  done,  unrepented  of, 
And  not  to  loss  !     And  thence,  with  con- 
stant prayers,  2000 
Fasten  your  souls  so  high,  that  constantly 
The  smile  of  your  heroic  cheer  may  float 
Above  all  floods  of  earthly  agonies. 
Purification  being  the  joy  of  pain  ! 

\_The  vision  of  Christ  vanishes.  Adam 
and  Eve  stand  in  an  ecstasy.  The 
Earth-zodiac  pales  away  shade  by 
shade,  as  the  stars,  star  by  star,  shine 
out  in  the  sky;  and  the  following  chant 
from  the  two  Earth  Spirits  (as  they 
sweep  back  into  the  Zodiac  and  disap- 
pear with  it)  accompanies  the  process 
of  change. 
Earth  Spirits. 

By  the  mighty  word  thus  spoken 

Both  for  living  and  for  dying. 
We  our  homage-oath,  once  broken, 
Fasten  back  again  in  sighing. 
And  the  creatures  and  the  elements  renew 
their  covenanting. 

Here,  forgive  us  all  our  scorning;       2010 

Here,  we  promise  milder  duty: 
And  the  evening  and  the  morning 
Shall  re-organize  in  beauty 
A  sabbath  day  of  sabbath  joy,  for  universal 
chanting. 

And  if,  still,  this  melancholy 

May  be  strong  to  overcome  us, 
If  this  mortal  and  unholy 

We  still  fail  to  cast  out  from  us, 
If  we  turn  upon  you,  unaware,  your  own 
dark  influences,  — 

If  ye  tremble  when  surrounded  2020 

By  our  forest  pine  and  palm  trees, 
If  we  cannot  cure  the  wounded 

With    our   gum   trees  and    our   balm 
trees. 
And  if  your  souls  all  mournfully  sit  down 
among  your  senses,  — 

Yet,  O  mortals,  do  not  fear  us  ! 
We  are  gentle  in  our  languor; 
Much  more  good  ye  shall  have  near  us 
Than  any  pain  or  anger. 
And  our    God's   refracted  blessing  in  our 
blessing  shall  be  given. 

By  the  desert's  endless  vigil  203a 

We  will  solemnize  your  passions. 


A   DRAMA   OF   EXILE 


95 


By  the  wheel  of  the  black  eagle 
We  will  teach  you  exaltations, 
When  he  sails  against  the  wind,  to  the  white 
spot  up  in  heaven. 

Ye  shall  find  us  tender  nurses 
To  your  weariness  of  nature, 
And  our  hands  shall  stroke  the  curse's 
Dreary  furrows  from  the  creature, 
Till  your  bodies  shall  lie  smooth  in  death 
and  straight  and  slumberful. 

Then,  a  couch  we  will  provide  you      2040 

Where  no  summer  heats  shall  dazzle, 
Strew^ing  on  you  and  beside  you 
Thyme  and  rosemary  and  basil, 
And  the  yew-tree  shall  grow  overhead  to 
keep  all  safe  and  cool. 

Till  the  Holy  Blood  awaited 

Shall  be  chrism  around  us  running. 
Whereby,  newly-consecrated, 

We  shall  leap  up  in  God's  sunning, 
To  join  the  spheric  company  which  purer 
worlds  assemble: 

While,  renewed  by  new  evangels,        2050 

Soul-consummated,  made  glorious, 
Ye  shall  brighten  past  the  angels. 
Ye  shall  kneel  to  Christ  victorious. 
And  the  rays  around  his  feet  beneath  your 
sobbing  lips  shall  tremble. 
\_The  phantastic  Vision  has  all  passed; 
the   Earth-zodiac   has   broken   like  a 
belt,  and  is  dissolved  from  the  Desert. 
The  Earth   Spirits   vanish,  and   the 
stars  shine  out  above. 


CHORUS    OF    INVISIBLE   ANGELS 

While  Adam  and  Eve  advance  into  the 
Desert,  hand  in  hand 

Hear  our  heavenly  promise 

Through  your  mortal  passion  ! 
Love,  ye  shall  have  from  us. 

In  a  pure  relation. 
As  a  fish  or  bird 

Swims  or  flies,  if  moving,  2060 

We  unseen  are  heard 

To  live  on  by  loving. 
Far  above  the  glances 

Of  your  eager  eyes. 

Listen  !  we  are  loving. 
Listen,  through  man's  ignorances  — 


Listen,  through  God's  mysteries  — 
Listen  down  the  heart  of  things. 
Ye  shall  hear  our  mystic  wings 

Murmurous  with  loving.  2070 

Through  the  opal  door 
Listen  evermore 
How  we  live  by  loving  ! 
First  Semichorus. 

When  your  bodies  therefore 

Reach  the  grave  their  goal, 
Softly  will  we  care  for 

Each  enfranchised  soul. 
Softly  and  unlothly 

Through  the  door  of  opal 

Toward  the  heavenly  people,  2080 

Floated  on  a  minor  fine 
Into  the  full  chaut  divine, 

We  will  draw  you  smoothly,  — 
While  the  human  in  the  minor 
Makes  the  harmony  diviner. 
Listen  to  our  loving  ! 
Second  Semichorus. 

There,  a  sough  of  glory 

Shall  breathe  on  3-ou  as  you  come. 
Ruffling  round  the  doorway 

All  the  light  of  angeldom.  2090 

From  the  empyrean  centre 

Heavenly  voices  shall  repeat, 
'  Souls  redeemed  and  pardoned,  enter, 

For  the  chrism  on  you  is  sweet  !  ' 
And  every  angel  in  the  place 
Lowlily  shall  bow  his  face. 

Folded  fair  on  softened  sounds. 
Because  upon  your  hands  and  feet 

He  images  his  Master's  wounds. 

Listen  to  our  loving  !  2100 

First  Semichorus. 

So,  in  the  universe's 

Consummated  undoing, 
Our  seraphs  of  white  mercies 

Shall  hover  round  the  ruin. 
Their  wings  shall  stream  upon  the  flame 
As  if  incorporate  of  the  same 

In  elemental  fusion; 
And  calm  their  faces  shall  burn  out 
With  a  pale  and  mastering  thought, 
And  a  steadfast  looking  of  desire 
From  out  between  the  clefts  of  fire,  — 
While  they  cry,  in  the  Holy's  name, 

To  the  final  Restitution. 
Listen  to  our  loving  ! 
Second  Semichorus. 

So,  when  the  day  of  God  is 

To  the  thick  graves  accompted, 
Awaking  the  dead  bodies, 


2  1 10 


96 


POEMS   OF   1844 


2120 


2140 


The  angel  of  the  trumpet 
Shall  split  and  shatter  the  earth 

To  the  roots  of  the  grave  — 
Which  never  before  were  slackened  — 
And  quicken  the  charnel  birth 
With  his  blast  so  clear  and  brave 
That  the  Dead  shall  start  and  stand  erect 
And  every  face  of  the  burial-place 
Shall  the  awful,  single  look  reflect 
Wherewith  he  them  awakened. 
Listen  to  our  loving  ! 
First  Semichorus. 

But  wild  is  the  horse  of  Death  ! 
He  will  leap  up  wild  at  the  clamor     2130 
Above  and  beneath. 
And  where  is  his  Tamer 
On  that  last  day, 
When  he  crieth  Ha,  ha  ! 
To  the  trumpet's  blare, 
And  paweth  the  earth's  Aceldama  ? 
When  he  tosseth  his  head, 
The  drear-white  steed. 
And   ghastlily   champeth    the    last   moon- 
ray— 
What  angel  there 
Can  lead  him  away, 
That  the  living  may  rule  for  the  Dead  ? 
Second  Semichorus. 

Yet  a  Tamer  shall  be  found  ! 

One  more  bright  than  seraph  crowned. 

And  more  strong  than  cherub  bold, 

Elder,  too,  than  angel  old, 

By  his  gray  eternities. 

He  shall  master  and  surprise 

The  steed  of  Death. 
For  He  is  strong,  and  He  is  fain. 
He  shall  quell  him  with  a  breath. 
And  shall  lead  him  where  He  will, 
With  a  whisper  in  the  ear, 

Full  of  fear. 
And  a  hand  upon  the  mane, 
Grand  and  still. 
First  Semichorus. 
Through  the  flats  of  Hades  where  the  souls 

assemble 
He  will  guide  the  Death-steed  calm  between 

their  ranks. 
While,  like  beaten  dogs,  they  a  little  moan 

and  tremble 
To  see  the  darkness  curdle  from  the  horse's 
glittering  flanks.  2160 

Through    the   flats    of   Hades   where    the 

dreary  shade  is. 
Up  the  steep   of   heaven  will  the   Tamer 
guide  the  steed,  — 


2150 


Up  the  spheric  circles,  circle  above  circle, 

We  who  count  the  ages  shall  count  the  toll- 
ing tread  — 

Every  hoof-fall  striking  a  blinder  blanker 
sparkle 

From  the  stony  orbs,  which  shall  show  as 
thev  were  dead. 

Second  Semichorus. 

All  the  way  the  Death-steed  with  tolling 
hoofs  shall  travel. 

Ashen-gray  the  planets  shall  be  motionless 
as  stones. 

Loosely  shall  the  systems  eject  their  parts 
coseval. 

Stagnant  in  the  spaces  shall  float  the  pallid 
moons:  2170 

Suns  that  touch  their  apogees,  reeling  from 
their  level, 

Shall  run  back  on  their  axles,  in  wild  low 
broken  tunes. 

Chorus. 

Up  against  the  arches  of  the  crystal  ceil- 
ing, 

From  the  horse's  nostrils  shall  stream  the 
blurting  breath: 

Up   between   the   angels   pale  with  silent 
feeling 

Will  the  Tamer  calmly  lead  the  horse  of 
Death. 

Semichorus. 

Cleaving  all  that  silence,  cleaving  all  that 
glory, 

Will  the  Tamer  lead  him  straightway  to  the 
Throne ; 

'  Look  out,  O  Jehovah,  to  this  I  bring  be- 
fore Thee, 

With    a  hand  nail-pierc6d,  I  who  am  thy 
Son.'  2180 

Then  the  Eye  Divinest,  from  the  Deepest, 
flaming, 

On  the  mystic  courser  shall  look  out  in  fire: 

Blind  the  beast  shall  stagger  where  It  over- 
came him. 

Meek   as    lamb    at    pasture,   bloodless    in 
desire. 

Down  the  beast  shall  shiver,  —  slain  amid 
the  taming,  — 

And,  by  Life  essential,  the  phantasm  Death 
expire. 

Chorus. 

Listen,  man,  through  life  and  death, 
Through  the  dust  and  through  the  breath, 
Listen  down  the  heart  of  things  ! 
Ye  shall  hear  our  mystic  wings        2190 
Murmurous  with  loving. 


A   DRAMA   OF   EXILE 


97 


A  Voice  from  below.    Gabriel,  thou  Ga- 
briel ! 
A  Voice  from  above.    What  wouldst  thou 

with  me  ? 
First  Voice.    I  heard  thy  voice  sound  in 
the  angels'  song, 
And  I  would  give  thee  question. 

Second  Voice.  Question  me  ! 

First  Voice.    Why  have  I  called  thrice  to 
my  Morning  Star 
And  had  no  answer  ?     All  the  stars  are 

out. 
And  answer  in  their  places.     Only  in  vain 
I  cast  my  voice  against  the  outer  rays 
Of  my  Star  shut  in  light  behind  the  sun. 
No  more  reply  than  from  a  breaking  string, 
Breaking  when  touched.     Or  is  she  7iot  my 
star  ?  2201 

Where  is  my  Star  —  my  Star  ?     Have  ye 

cast  down 
Her  glory  like  my  glory  ?    Has  she  waxed 
Mortal,  like  Adam  ?     Has   she   learnt  to 

hate 
Like  any  angel  ? 

Second  Voice.         She  is  sad  for  thee. 
All   things   grow  sadder   to  thee,  one  by 
one. 
Angel  Chorus. 

Live,  work  on,  O  Earthy  ! 
By  the  Actual's  tension. 
Speed  the  arrow  worthy 

Of  a  pure  ascension  !  2210 

From  the  low  earth  round  you. 
Beach  the  heights  above  you: 
From  the  stripes  that  wound  you. 

Seek  the  loves  that  love  you  ! 
God's  divinest  burneth  plain 
Through  the  crystal  diaphane 
Of  our  loves  that  love  you. 
First  Voice.    Gabriel,  O  Gabriel  ! 
Second  Voice.   What  wouldst   thou  with 

me? 
First  Voice.    Is  it  true,  O  thou  Gabriel, 
that  the  crown 
Of  sorrow  which  I  claimed,  another  claims  ? 
That  He  claims  that  too  ? 

Second  Voice.      Lost  one,  it  is  true.     2221 
First  Voice.     That  He  will  be  an  exile 
from  his  heaven, 
To  lead  those  exiles  homeward  ? 

Second   Voice.  It  is  true. 

First  Voice.   That  He  will  be  an  exile  by 
his  will. 
As  I  by  mine  election  ? 

Second  Voice.  It  is  true. 


First  Voice.   That  /  shall  stand  sole  exile 
finally,  — 
Made  desolate  for  fruition  ? 

Second  Voice.  It  is  true. 

First  Voice.   Gabriel  ! 
Second  Voice.  I  hearken. 

First  Voice.  Is  it  true  besides  — 

Aright  true  —  that  mine  orient  Star  will 

give 
Her  name  of  <  Bright  and  Morning-Star ' 
to  Him,  —  2230 

And  take  the  fairness  of  his  virtue  back 
To  cover  loss  and  sadness  ? 

Second  Voice.  It  is  true. 

First  Voice,     t/ntrue,  C/ntrue  !    O  Morn- 
ing Star,  O  Mine, 
Who  sittest  secret  in  a  veil  of  lisrht 
Far  up  the  starry  spaces,  say  —  Untrue  ! 
Speak  but  so  loud  as  doth  a  wasted  moon 
To  Tyrrhene  waters.     I  am  Lucifer. 

\^A  pause.     Silence  in  the  stars. 
All  things  grow  sadder  to  me,  one  by  one. 
Angel  Chorus. 

Exiled  human  creatures. 

Let  your  hope  grow  larger  !         2240 
Larger  grows  the  vision 

Of  the  new  delight. 
From  this  chain  of  Nature's 

God  is  the  Discharger, 
And  the  Actual's  prison 
Opens  to  your  sight. 
Semichorus. 

Calm  the  stars  and  golden 

In  a  light  exceeding: 
What  their  rays  have  measured 

Let  your  feet  fulfil  !  2250 

These  are  stars  beholden 
By  your  eyes  in  Eden, 
Yet,  across  the  desert. 
See  them  shining  still  ! 
Chorus. 

Future  joy  and  far  light 

Working  such  relations, 
Hear  us  singing  gently 

Exiled  is  not  lost ! 
God,  above  the  starlight, 

God,  above  the  patience,  2260 

Shall  at  last  present  ye 

Guerdons  worth  the  cost. 
Patiently  enduring. 

Painfully  surrounded. 
Listen  how  we  love  you, 
Hope  the  uttermost  ! 
Waiting  for  that  curing 
Which  exalts  the  wounded. 


98 


POEMS   OF   1844 


Hear  us  sing  above  you  — 
Exiled,  but  not  lost  !  2270 

\_Tlie  stars  shine  o?i  brightly  while 
Adam  and  Eve  pursue  their  way 
into  the  far  ivilderness.  There  is  a 
sound  through  the  silence,  as  of  the 
falling  tears  of  an  angel. 


SONNETS 

THE  SOUL'S    EXPRESSION 

With    stammering    lips    and    insufficient 

sound 
I  strive  and  struggle  to  deliver  right 
That  music  of  my  nature,  day  and  night 
With  dream  and  thought  and  feeling  inter- 
wound, 
And  inly  answering  all  the  senses  round 
With  octaves  of  a  mystic  depth  and  height 
Which  step  out  grandly  to  the  infinite 
From     the    dark    edges     of    the    sensual 

ground. 
This  song  of  soul  I  struggle  to  outbear 
Through  portals  of  the  sense,  sublime  and 

whole, 
And  utter  all  myself  into  the  air: 
But  if  I  did  it,  —  as  the  thunder-roll 
Breaks  its  own  cloud,  my  flesh  would  per- 
ish there, 
Before  that  dread  apocalypse  of  soul. 


THE    SERAPH    AND    POET 

The  seraph  sings  before  the  manifest 

God-One,  and  in  the  burning  of  the  Seven, 

And  with  the  full  life  of  consummate 
Heaven 

Heaving  beneath  him  like  a  mother's 
breast 

Warm  with  her  first-born's  slumber  in  that 
nest. 

The  poet  sings  upon  the  earth  grave-riven, 

Before  the  naughty  world,  soon  self-for- 
given 

For  wronging  him,  —  and  in  the  darkness 
prest 

From  his  own  soul  by  worldly  weights. 
Even  so, 

Sing,  seraph  with  the  glory  !  heaven  is  high; 

Sing,  poet  with  the  sorrow  !  earth  is  low: 

The  universe's  inward  voices  cry 


*  Amen  '  to  either  song  of  joy  and  woe : 
Sing,  seraph,  —  poet,  —  sing  on  equally  ! 


ON     A    PORTRAIT     OF     WORDS- 
WORTH   BY    B.    R.    HAYDON 

First  printed  in  the  Athenceum,  October  29, 
1842,  as  '  On  Mr.  Haydon's  Portrait  of  Words- 
worth.' 

Wordsworth  upon  Helvellyn  !     Let  the 

cloud 
Ebb  audibly  along  the  mountain-wind, 
Then  break  against  the  rock,  and  show  be- 
hind 
The  lowland  valleys  floating  up  to  crowd 
The  sense  with  beauty.     He  with  forehead 

bowed 
And  humble-lidded  eyes,  as  one  inclined 
Before    the    sovran    thought   of   his    own 

mind. 
And  very  meek  with  inspirations  proud. 
Takes  here  his  rightful  place  as  poet-priest 
^y   the    high    altar,    singing    prayer   and 

prayer 
To  the  higher  Heavens.    A  noble  vision  free 
Our  Haydon's  hand  has  flung  out  from  the 

mist: 
No  portrait  this,  with  Academic  air  ! 
This  is  the  poet  and  his  poetry. 


PAST    AND    FUTURE 

My  future  will  not  copy  fair  my  past 
On  any  leaf  but  Heaven's.     Be  fully  done, 
Supernal  Will  !     I  would  not  fain  be  one 
Who,  satisfying  thirst  and  breaking  fast, 
Upon  the  fulness  of  the  heart  at  last 
Saj^s  no  grace  after  meat.     My  wine  has  run 
Indeed  out  of  my  cup,  and  there  is  none 
To  gather  up  the  bread  of  my  repast 
Scattered  and  trampled;  yet  I  find  some 

good 
In  earth's  green  herbs,  and   streams  that 

bubble  up 
Clear  from  the  darkling  ground,  —  content 

until 
I  sit  with  angels  before  better  food: 
Dear  Christ  !    when  thy  new  vintage  fills 

my  cup. 
This  hand  shall  shake  no  more,  nor  that 

wine  spill. 


SONNETS 


99 


IRREPARABLENESS 

I  HAVE  been  in  the  meadows  all  the  day 
And  gathered  there  the  nosegay  that  you 

see, 
Singing  within  myself  as  bird  or  bee 
When   such    do  field-work    on  a  morn  of 

May. 
But,  now  I  look  upon  my  flowers,  decay 
Has  met  them  in  my  hands  more  fatally 
Because  more  warmly  clasped,  —  and  sobs 

are  free 
To  come  instead  of  songs.     What  do  you 

say, 
Sweet   counsellors,   dear   friends  ?   that   I 

should  go 
Back  straightway  to  the  fields  and  gather 

more  ? 
Another,  sooth,  may  do  it,  but  not  I  ! 
My  heart  is  very  tired,  my  strength  is  low. 
My  hands  are  full  of  blossoms  plucked  be- 
fore. 
Held  dead  within  them  till  myself  shall 

die. 


TEARS 

Thank  God,  bless  God,  all  ye  who  suffer 

not 
More  grief  than  ye  can  weep  for.     That  is 

well  — 
That  is  light  grieving  !  lighter,  none  befell 
Since  Adam  forfeited  the  primal  lot. 
Tears  !  what  are  tears  ?     The  babe  weeps 

in  its  cot, 
The  mother  singing;  at  her  marriage-bell 
The  bride  weeps,  and  before  the  oracle 
Of  high-faned  hills  the  poet  has  forgot 
Such  moisture  on  his  cheeks.     Thank  God 

for  grace. 
Ye   who   weep   only  !     If,   as   some   have 

done, 
Ye  grope  tear- blinded  in  a  desert  place 
And  touch  but  tombs,  —  look  up  !     those 

tears  will  run 
Soon  in  long  rivers  down  the  lifted  face. 
And  leave  the  vision  clear  for  stars  and 

sun. 


GRIEF 

I  TELL  you,  hopeless  grief  is  passionless ; 
That  only  men  incredulous  of  despair, 


Half-taught  in  anguish,  through  the  mid- 
night air 
Beat  upward  to  God's  throne  in  loud  access 
Of  shrieking  and   reproach.     Full  desert- 


ness, 


In  souls  as  countries,  lieth  silent-bare 
Under  the  blanching,  vertical  eye-glare 
Of   the  absolute   Heavens.     Deep-hearted 

man,  express 
Grief    for    thy    Dead    in   silence    like    to 

death  — 
Most  like  a  monumental  statue  set 
In  everlasting  watch  and  moveless  woe 
Till  itself  crumble  to  the  dust  beneath. 
Touch  it;  the  marble  eyelids  are  not  wet: 
If  it  could  weep,  it  could  arise  and  go. 


SUBSTITUTION 

When  some  beloved  voice  that  was  to  you 
Both   sound    and   sweetness,    faileth   sud- 
denly. 
And  silence,  against   which   you  dare  not 

cry, 
Aches  round  you  like  a  strong  disease  and 

new  — 
What  hope  ?  what  help  ?  what  music  will 

undo 
That  silence  to  your  sense  ?     Not  friend- 
ship's sigh. 
Not  reason's  subtle  count;  not  melody 
Of  viols,  nor  of  pipes  that  Fauuus  blew; 
Not  songs  of  poets,  nor  of  nightingales 
Whose    hearts    leap    upward   through   the 

cypress-trees 
To  the    clear   moon;   nor   yet  the  spheric 

laws 
Self -chanted,  nor   the   angels'  sweet    *  All 

hails,' 
Met   in   the    smile  of   God:    nay,  none  of 

these. 
Speak   Thou,  availing   Christ!  —  and  fill 

this  pause. 

COMFORT 

Speak   low  to   me,  my  Saviour,  low   and 

sweet 
From  out  the  hallelujahs,  sweet  and  low 
Lest  I  should  fear  and  fall,  and  miss  Thee 

so 
Who  art  not  missed  by  any  that  entreat. 
Speak  to  me  as  to  Mary  at  thy  feet ! 


lOO 


POEMS    OF    1844 


And  if  no  precious  gums  my  hands  bestow, 
Let  my  tears  drop  like  amber  while  I  go 
In  reach  of  thy  divinest  voice  complete 
In  humauest  affection  —  thus,  in  sooth. 
To  lose  the  sense  of  losing.     As  a  child, 
Whose  song-bird  seeks  the  wood  for  ever- 
more. 
Is  sung  to  in  its  stead  by  mother's  mouth 
Till,  sinking  on  her  breast,  love-reconciled, 
He  sleeps  the  faster  that  he  wept  before. 


PERPLEXED    MUSIC 

AFFECTIONATELY   INSCRIBED    TO   E.   J. 

Experience,  like  a  pale  musician,  holds 
A  dulcimer  of  patience  in  his  hand. 
Whence  harmonies,  we  cannot  understand. 
Of  God's  will  in  his  worlds,  the  strain  un- 
folds 
In  sad-perplexed  minors:  deathly  colds 
Fall  on  us  while  we  hear,  and  countermand 
Our  sanguine  heart  back  from  the  fancy- 
land 
With  nightingales  in  visionary  wolds. 
We  murmur  '  Where  is  any  certain  tune 
Or    measured    music    in    such     notes    as 

these  ? ' 
But  angels,  leaning  from  the  golden  seat, 
Are  not  so  minded ;  their  fine  ear  hath  won 
The  issue  of  completed  cadences. 
And,  smiling  down  the  stars,  they  whisper  — 
Sweet. 


WORK 

What  are  we  set  on  earth  for  ?     Say,  to 

toil; 
Nor  seek  to  leave  thy  tending  of  the  vines 
For  all  the  heat  o'  the  day,  till  it  declines, 
And  Death's  mild  curfew  shall  from  work 

assoil. 
God  did  anoint  thee  with  his  odorous  oil, 
To  wrestle,  not  to  reign;  and  He  assigns 
All  thy  tears  over,  like  pure  crystallines. 
For  younger  fellow-workers  of  the  soil 
To  wear  for  amulets.     So  others  shall 
Take    patience,  labor,  to  their   heart   and 

hand, 
From   thy   hand   and   thy  heart   and   thy 

brave  cheer. 
And  God's  grace  fructify  through  thee  to 

all. 


The  least  flower  with  a  brimming  cup  may 

stand. 
And  share  its  dew-drop  with  another  near. 

FUTURITY 

And,  O  beloved  voices,  upon  which 
Ours  passionately  call  because  erelong 
Ye  brake  off  in  the  middle  of  that  song 
We  sang  together  softly,  to  enrich 
The  poor  world  with  the  sense  of  love,  and 

witch 
The    heart    out    of    things    evil,  —  I   am 

strong, 
Knowing  ye  are  not  lost  for  aye  among 
The    hills,  with   last   year's    thrush.     God 

keeps  a  niche 
In  Heaven  to  hold  our  idols ;  and  albeit 
He  brake  them  to  our  faces  and  denied 
That  our  close  kisses  should  impair  their 

white, 
I  know  we  shall  behold  them  raised,  com- 
plete, 
The  dust  swept  from  their  beauty,  —  glori- 
fied 
New  Memnons  singing  in  the  great  God- 
light. 

THE   TWO    SAYINGS 

Two  sayings  of  the  Holy  Scriptures  beat 

Like    pulses   in   the    Church's    brow   and 
breast; 

And  by  them  we  find  rest  in  our  unrest 

And,  heart  deep  in  salt-tears,  do  yet    en- 
treat 

God's  fellowship  as  if  on  heavenly  seat. 

The   first   is    Jesus    wept,  —  whereon   is 
prest 

Full  many  a  sobbing  face  that   drops   its 
best 

And  sweetest  waters  on  the  record  sweet: 

And  one  is  where  the  Christ,  denied  and 
scorned, 

Looked    upon    Peter.      Oh,    to    render 
plain. 

By    help    of    having    loved   a   little    and 
mourned, 

That  look  of  sovran  love  and  sovran  pain 

Which  He,  who  could  not  sin  yet  suffered, 
turned 

On   him   who    could   reject   but  not   sus- 
tain 1 


SONNETS 


lOl 


THE    LOOK 

The  Saviour  looked  on  Peter.  Ay,  no 
word, 

No  gesture  of  reproach;  the  Heavens  se- 
rene 

Though  heavy  with  armed  justice,  did  not 
lean 

Their  thunders  that  way:  the  forsaken 
Lord 

Looked  only,  on  the  traitor.     None  record 

What  that  look  was,  none  guess;  for  those 
who  have  seen 

Wronged  lovers  loving  through  a  death- 
pang  keen. 

Or  pale-cheeked  martyrs  smiling  to  a 
sword, 

Have  missed  Jehovah  at  th^  judgment- 
call. 

And  Peter,  from  the  height  of  blas- 
phemy — 

'  I  never  knew  this  man  '  —  did  quail  and 
fall 

As  knowing  straight  that  God;  and 
turned  free 

And  went  out  speechless  from  the  face  of 
all. 

And  filled  the  silence,  weeping  bitterly. 


THE    MEANING   OF    THE    LOOK 

I  THINK  that  look  of  Christ  might  seem  to 

say  — 
*  Thou   Peter  !   art   thou   then   a  common 

stone 
Which   I   at   last    must   break    my   heart 

upon, 
For  all   God's   charge  to  his  high  angels 

may 
Guard  my  foot  better  ?     Did  I  yesterday 
Wasli    thy    feet,    my   beloved,   that    they 

should  run 
Quick    to    deny    me    'neath    the    morning 

sun  ? 
And  do  thy  kisses,  like  the  rest,  betray  ? 
The   cock  crows  coldly.  —  Go,  and  mani- 
fest 
A  late  contrition,  but  no  bootless  fear  ! 
For  when  thy  final  need  is  dreariest, 
Thou  shalt  not  be  denied,  as  I  am  here; 
My  voice  to  God  and  angels  shall  attest. 
Because  I  know  this  man,  let  him  he  clear.^ 


A     THOUGHT     FOR     A     LONELY 
DEATH-BED 

INSCRIBED   TO   MY   FRIEND   E.    C. 

If  God  compel  thee  to  this  destiny, 
To  die  alone,  with  none  beside  thy  bed 
To  ruffle  round   with  sobs  thy  last  word 

said 
And  mark  with  tears  the  pulses  ebb  from 

thee,  — 
Pray  then  alone,  '  O  Christ,  come  tenderly  ! 
By  thy  forsaken  Sonship  in  the  red 
Drear  wine-press,  —  by  the  wilderness  out- 
spread, — 
And  the  lone  garden  where  thine  agony 
Fell  bloody   from   thy  brow,  —  by  all  of 

those 
Permitted  desolations,  comfort  mine  ! 
No  earthly  friend  being  near  me,  interpose 
No  deathly  angel  'twixt  my  face  and  thine. 
But  stoop  Thyself  to  gather  my  life's  rose. 
And  smile  away  my  mortal  to  Divine  ! ' 


WORK   AND    CONTEMPLATION 

The  woman  singeth  at  her  spinning-wheel 
A  pleasant  chant,  ballad  or  barcarole; 
She  thinketh  of  her  song,  upon  the  whole, 
Far  more  than  of  her  flax;  and   yet   the 

reel 
Is  full,  and  artfully  her  fingers  feel 
With  quick  adjustment,  provident  control. 
The  lines  —  too  subtly  twisted  to  unroll  — 
Out  to  a  perfect  thread.     I  hence  appeal 
To   the   dear  Christian  Church  —  that  we 

may  do 
Our   Father's    business    in  these   temples 

mirk, 
Thus  swift  and  steadfast,  thus  intent  and 

strong; 
While  thus,  apart  from  toil,  our  souls  pur- 
sue 
Some  high  calm  spheric   tune,  and  prove 

our  work 
The  better  for  the  sweetness  of  our  song. 


PAIN    IN   PLEASURE 

A  Thought   ay  like  a  flower  upon  mine 

heart, 
And  drew   around   it  other  thoughts  like 

bees 


I02 


POEMS   OF    1844 


For  multitude  and  thirst  of  sweetnesses  ; 

Whereat  rejoicing,  I  desired  the  art 

Of  the  Greek  whistler,  who  to  wharf  and 
mart 

Could  lure  those  insect  swarms  from  orange- 
trees. 

That  I  might  hive  with  me  such  thoughts 
and  please 

My  soul  so,  always.     Foolish  counterpart 

Of  a  weak  man's  vain  wishes  !  While  I 
spoke. 

The  thought  I  called  a  flower  grew  nettle- 
rough. 

The  thoughts,  called  bees,  stung  me  to  fes- 
tering: 

Oh,  entertain  (cried  Reason  as  she  woke) 

Your  best  and  gladdest  thoughts  but  long 
enough. 

And  they  will  all  prove  sad  enough  to 
sting  ! 


AN   APPREHENSION 

If  all  the  gentlest-hearted  friends  I  know 
Concentred  in  one  heart  their  gentleness, 
That  still  grew  gentler   till  its  pulse  was 

less 
For  life  than  pity,  —  I  should  yet  be  slow 
To  bring  my  own  heart  nakedly  below 
The  palm  of  such  a  friend,  that  he  should 

press 
Motive,  condition,  means,  appliances. 
My  false  ideal  joy  and  fickle  woe. 
Out  full  to  light  and  knowledge ;  I  should 

fear 
Some    plait    between     the     brows,    some 

rougher  chime 
In  the  free  voice.     O  angels,  let  your  flood 
Of  bitter  scorn  dash  on  me  !  do  ye  hear 
What  /  say  who  bear  calmly  all  the  time 
This  everlasting  face  to  face  with  God  ? 


DISCONTENT 

Light  human  nature  is  too  lightly  tost 
And   ruffled    without   cause,    complaining 

on  — 
Restless  with  rest,  until,  being  overthrown, 
It  learneth  to  lie  quiet.     Let  a  frost 
Or  a  small  wasp  have  crept  to  the  inner- 
most 
Of  our  ripe  peach,  or  let  the  wilful  sun 


Shine  westward  of  our  window,  —  straight 
we  run 

A  furlong's  sigh  as  if  the  world  were  lost. 

But  what  time  through  the  heart  and 
through  the  brain 

God  hath  transfixed  us,  —  we,  so  moved 
before. 

Attain  to  a  calm.  Ay,  shouldering  weights 
of  pain. 

We  anchor  in  deep  waters,  safe  from 
shore. 

And  hear  submissive  o'er  the  stormy  main 

God's  chartered  judgments  walk  for  ever- 
more. 


PATIENCE  TAUGHT  BY  NATURE 

*  O  DREARY  life,'  we  cry,  '  O  dreary  life  !  ' 
And  still  the  generations  of  the  birds 
Sing  through  our   sighing,  and  the  flocks 

and  herds 
Serenely  live  while  we  are  keeping  strife 
With  Heaven's   true   purpose  in   us,  as  a 

knife 
Against  which  we  may  struggle  !     Ocean 

girds 
Unslackened     the     dry     land,    savannah- 
swards 
Un weary  sweep,  hills  watch  unworn,  and 

rife 
Meek  leaves  drop  yearly  from  the  forest- 
trees 
To  show,  above,  the   unwasted   stars  that 

pass 
In  their  old  glory:  O  thou  God  of  old, 
Grant  me  some  smaller  grace  than  comes 

to  these  !  — 
But  so  much  patience  as  a  blade  of  grass 
Grows  by,  contented  through  the  heat  and 
cold. 


CHEERFULNESS   TAUGHT  BY 
REASON 

I  THINK  we  are  too  ready  with  complaint 
In  this  fair  world  of  God's.     Had  we  no 

hope 
Indeed  beyond  the  zenith  and  the  slope 
Of  yon  gray  blank  of  sky,  we  might  grow 

faint 
To  muse  upon  eternity's  constraint 
Round  our   aspirant   souls;   but   since   the 

scope 


SONNETS 


103 


Must  widen  early,  is  it  well  to  droop, 
For  a  few  days  consumed  in  loss  and  taint  ? 
O  pusillanimous  Heart,  be  comforted 
And,  like   a   cheerful  traveller,   take    the 

road. 
Singing  beside    the  hedge.     What   if  the 

bread 
Be  bitter  in  thine  inn,  and  thou  unshod 
To  meet  the  flints  ?     At  least  it  may  be 

said 
*  Because   the  way   is  short,  I  thank  thee, 

God.' 


EXAGGERATION 

We  overstate  the  ills  of  life,  and  take 
Imagination  (given  us  to  bring  down 
The  choirs  of  singing  angels  overshone 
By  God's  clear  glory)  down  our  earth  to 

rake 
The  dismal  snows  instead,  flake  following 

flake, 
To  cover  all  the  corn;  we  walk  upon 
The  shadow  of  hills  across  a  level  thrown, 
And   pant   like  climbers:   near   the   alder 

brake 
We  sigh  so  loud,  the  nightingale  within 
Refuses  to  sing  loud,  as  else  she  would. 
O   brothers,  let  us  leave  the  shame   and 

sin 
Of  taking  vainly,  in  a  plaintive  mood. 
The  holy  name  of  Grief  !  —  holy  herein. 
That  by  the  grief  of  One  came  all   our 

good. 


ADEQUACY 

Now,  by  the  verdure  on  thy  thousand  hills. 
Beloved  England,  doth  the  earth  appear 
Quite  good  enough  for  men  to  overbear 
The  will  of  God  in,  with  rebellious  wills  ! 
We  cannot  say  the  morning-sun  fulfils 
Ingloriously  its  course,  nor  that  the  clear 
Strong  stars  without  significance  insphere 
Our  habitation:  we,  meantime,  our  ills 
Heap  up  against  this  good  and  lift  a  cry 
Against  this  work-day  world,  this  ill-spread 

feast. 
As  if  ourselves  were  better  certainly 
Than  what  we  come  to.     Maker  and  High 

Priest, 
I  ask  thee  not  my  joys  to  multiply,  — 
Only  to  make  me  worthier  of  the  least. 


TO  GEORGE  SAND 

A   DESIRE 

Thou    large-brained   woman    and    large- 
hearted  man. 
Self-called  George  Sand  !  whose  soul,  amid 

the  lions 
Of  thy  tumultuous  senses,  moans  defiance 
And  answers  roar  for  roar,  as  spirits  can: 
I  would  some  mild  miraculous  thunder  ran 
Above  the  applauded  circus,  in  appliance 
Of  thine  own  nobler  nature's  strength  and 

science. 
Drawing  two  pinions,  white    as  wings    of 

swan. 
From  thy  strong  shoulders,  to  amaze  the 

place 
With  holier  light !    that  thou  to  woman's 

claim 
And  man's,  mightst  join  beside  the  angel's 

grace 
Of  a  pure  genius  sanctified  from  blame, 
Till  child  and  maiden  pressed  to  thine  em- 
brace 
To  kiss  upon  thy  lips  a  stainless  fame. 

TO  GEORGE  SAND 

A   RECOGNITION 

True  genius,  but  true  woman  !  dost  deny 
The  woman's  nature  with  a  manly  scorn. 
And  break   away  the  gauds   and   armlets 

worn 
By  weaker  women  in  captivity? 
Ah,  vain  denial !  that  revolted  cry 
Is  sobbed  in  by  a  woman's  voice  forlorn,  — 
Thy  woman's  hair,  my  sister,  all  unshorn 
Floats  back  dishevelled  strength  in  agony, 
Disproving  thy  man's  name:  and  while  be- 
fore 
The  world  thou  burnest  in  a  poet-fire. 
We  see  thy  woman-heart  beat  evermore 
Through   the    large   flame.      Beat   purer, 

heart,  and  higher. 
Till  God  unsex  thee  on  the  heavenly  shore 
Where  unincarnate  spirits  purely  aspire  ! 

THE  PRISONER 

I  COUNT  the   dismal  time  by  months  and 

years 
Since  last  I  felt  the   green   sward   under 

foot. 


I04 


POEMS   OF    1844 


And  the  great  breath  of  all  things  summer- 
mute 
Met  mine  upon  my  lips.     Now  earth  ap- 
pears 
As   strange   to  me   as   dreams  of   distant 

spheres 
Or  thoughts  of  Heaven  we  weep  at.     Na- 
ture's lute 
Sounds  on,  behind  this  door  so  closely  shut, 
A  strange  wild  music  to  the  prisoner's  ears, 
Dilated  by  the  distance,  till  the  brain 
Grows  dim  with  fancies  which  it  feels  too 

fine: 
While  ever,  with  a  visionary  pain. 
Past  the  precluded  senses,  sweep  and  shine 
Streams,    forests,    glades,    and    many    a 

golden  train 
Of  sunlit  hills  transfigured  to  Divine. 


INSUFFICIENCY 

When  I  attain  to  utter  forth  in  verse 
Some  inward  thought,  my  soul  throbs  au- 
dibly 
Along  my  pulses,  yearning  to  be  free 
And  something  farther,  fuller,  higher,  re- 
hearse. 
To  the  individual,  true,  and  the  universe. 
In  consummation  of  right  harmony: 
But,  like  a  wind-exposed  distorted  tree. 
We  are  blown  against  for  ever  by  the  curse 
Which  breathes  through  Nature.     Oh,  the 

world  is  weak  ! 
The  effluence  of  each  is  false  to  all, 
And   what   we   best   conceive   we   fail   to 

speak. 
Wait,  soul,  until  thine  ashen  garments  fall, 
And  then  resume  thy  broken  strains,  and 

seek 
Fit  peroration  without  let  or  thrall. 


THE  ROMAUNT  OF  THE  PAGE 
First  printed  in  Finden's  Tableaux  for  1839. 


A  KNIGHT  of  gallant  deeds 
And  a  young  page  at  his  side, 

From  the  holy  war  in  Palestine 
Did  slow  and  thoughtful  ride, 

As  each  were  a  palmer  and  told  for  beads 
The  dews  of  the  eventide. 


II 
'  O  young  page,'  said  the  knight, 

*  A  noble  page  art  thou  ! 
Thou  fearest  not  to  steep  in  blood 

The  curls  upon  thy  brow;  10 

And  once    in    the  tent,  and   twice  in   the 
fight. 
Didst  ward  me  a  mortal  blow.' 

Ill 

'  O  brave  knight,'  said  the  page, 

*  Or  ere  we  hither  came. 

We  talked  in  tent,  we  talked  in  field, 

Of  the  bloody  battle-game; 
But  here,  below  this  greenwood  bough, 

I  cannot  speak  the  same. 


IV 

*  Our  troop  is  far  behind. 

The  woodland  calm  is  new; 
Our  steeds,  with  slow  grass-muffled  hoofs 

Tread  deep  the  shadows  through; 
And,  in  my  mind,  some  blessing  kind 

Is  dropping  with  the  dew. 


20 


'  The  woodland  calm  is  pure  — 

I  cannot  choose  but  have 
A  thought  from  these,  o'  the  beechen-trees, 

Which  in  our  England  wave. 
And  of  the  little  finches  fine 
Which  sang  there  while  in  Palestine  30 

The  warrior-hilt  we  drave. 

VI 

'  Methinks,  a  moment  gone, 

I  heard  my  mother  pray  ! 
I  heard,  sir  knight,  the  prayer  for  me 

Wherein  she  passed  away; 
And  I  know  the  heavens  are  leaning  down 

To  hear  what  I  shall  say.' 

VII 

The  page  spake  calm  and  high. 

As  of  no  mean  degree; 
Perhaps  he  felt  in  nature's  broad  40 

Full  heart,  his  own  was  free: 
And  the  knight  looked  up  to  his  lifted  eye, 

Then  answered  smilingly  — 

VIII 

*  Sir  page,  I  pray  your  grace  ! 

Certes,  I  meant  not  so 
To  cross  your  pastoral  mood,  sir  page. 

With  the  crook  of  the  battle-bow; 


THE   ROMAUNT   OF   THE   PAGE 


105 


But  a  knight  may  speak  of  a  lady's  face, 
I  ween,  in  any  mood  or  place. 
If  the  grasses  die  or  grow. 


50 


IX 

*  And  this  I  meant  to  say  — 

My  lady's  face  shall  shine 
As  ladies'  faces  use,  to  greet 

My  page  from  Palestine; 
Or,  speak  she  fair  or  prank  she  gay. 

She  is  no  lady  of  mine. 

X 

*  And  this  I  meant  to  fear  — 

Her  bower  may  suit  thee  ill; 
For,  sooth,  in  that  same  field  and  tent. 

Thy  talk  was  somewhat  still:  60 

And  fitter  thy  hand  for  my  knightly  spear 

Than  thy  tongue  for  my  lady's  will  ! ' 

XI 

Slowly  and  thankfully 

The  young  page  bowed  his  head; 
His  large  eyes  seemed  to  muse  a  smile. 

Until  he  blushed  instead. 
And  no  lady  in  her  bower,  pardi^. 

Could  blush  more  sudden  red: 

*  Sir  Knight,  —  thy  lady's  bower  to  me 


Is  suited  well,'  he  said. 


XII 


70 


Beati,  beati,  mortui ! 

From  the  convent  on  the  sea. 

One  mile  off,  or  scarce  so  nigh, 

Swells  the  dirge  as  clear  and  high 

As  if  that,  over  brake  and  lea. 

Bodily  the  wind  did  carry 

The  great  altar  of  Saint  Mary, 

And  the  fifty  tapers  burning  o'er  it. 

And  the  Lady  Abbess  dead  before  it. 

And  the  chanting  nuns  whom  yesterweek 

Her  voice  did  charge  and  bless,  —         81 

Chanting  steady,  chanting  meek, 

Chanting  with  a  solemn  breath. 

Because  that  they  are  thinking  less 

Upon  the  dead  than  upon  death. 

Beati,  beati,  mortui ! 

Now  the  vision  in  the  sound 

Wheeleth  on  the  wind  around; 

Now  it  sweepeth  back,  away  — 

The  uplands  will  not  let  it  stay  90 

To  dark  the  western  sun: 

Mortui !  —  away  at  last,  — 


Or  ere  the  page's  blush  is  past  ! 
And   the  knight   heard  all,  and   the  page 
heard  none. 

XIII 

*  A  boon,  thou  noble  knight, 

If  ever  I  served  thee  ! 
Though   thou   art   a   knight   and   I  am  a 
page. 

Now  grant  a  boon  to  me; 
And  tell  me  sooth,  if  dark  or  bright, 
If  little  loved  or  loved  aright  too 

Be  the  face  of  thy  ladye.' 

XIV 

Gloomily  looked  the  knight  — 
'  As  a  son  thou  hast  served  me. 

And  would  to  none  I  had  granted  boon 
Except  to  only  thee  ! 

For  haply  then  I  should  love  aright. 

For  then  I  should  know  if  dark  or  bright 
Were  the  face  of  my  ladye. 


XV 

*  Yet  it  ill  suits  my  knightly  tongue 
To  grudge  that  granted  boon. 

That  heavy  price  from  heart  and  life 
I  paid  in  silence  down; 

The  hand  that  claimed  it,  cleared  in  fine 

My  father's  fame:  I  swear  by  mine. 
That  price  was  nobly  won  ! 


no 


XVI 

'  Earl  Walter  was  a  brave  old  earl. 

He  was  my  father's  friend; 
And  while  I  rode  the  lists  at  court 

And  little  guessed  the  end. 
My  noble  father  in  his  shroud  120 

Against  a  slanderer  lying  loud, 

He  rose  up  to  defend. 

XVII 

'  Oh,  calm  below  the  marble  gray 

My  father's  dust  was  strewn  ! 
Oh,  meek  above  the  marble  gray 

His  image  prayed  alone  ! 
The  slanderer  lied:  the  wretch  was  brave  : 
For,  looking  up  the  minister-nave, 
He  saw  my  father's  knightly  glaive  130 

Was  changed  from  steel  to  stone. 

XVIII 

*  Earl  Walter's  glaive  was  steel, 
With  a  brave  old  hand  to  wear  it. 


io6 


POEMS   OF   1844 


And  dashed  the  lie  back  in  the  mouth 
Which  lied  against  the  godly  truth 

And  against  the  knightly  merit: 
The  slanderer,  'neath  the  avenger's  heel, 
Struck  up  the  dagger  in  appeal 
From  stealthy  lie  to  brutal  force  — 
And  out  upon  the  traitor's  corse 

Was  yielded  the  true  spirit.  140 

XIX 

'  I  would  mine  hand  had  fought  that  fight 

And  justified  my  father  ! 
I  would  mine  heart  had  caught  that  wound 

And  slept  beside  him  rather  ! 
I  think  it  were  a  better  thing 
Than  murdered  friend  and  marriage  ring 

Forced  on  my  life  together. 

XX 

'  Wail  shook  Earl  Walter's  house ; 

His  true  wife  shed  no  tear; 
She  lay  upon  her  bed  as  mute  150 

As  the  earl  did  on  his  bier: 
Till  —  "  Ride,  ride  fast,"  she  said  at  last, 

"  And  bring  the  aveng^d's  sou  anear  ! 
Ride  fast,  ride  free,  as  a  dart  can  flee, 
For  white  of  blee  with  waiting  for  me 

Is  the  corse  in  the  next  chambere." 

XXI 

*I  came,  I  knelt  beside  her  bed; 

Her  calm  was  worse  than  strife : 
"  My  husband,  for  thy  father  dear. 
Gave  freely  when  thou  wast  not  here       160 

His  own  and  eke  my  life. 
A  boon  !     Of  that  sweet  child  we  make 
An  orphan  for  thy  father's  sake. 

Make  thou,  for  ours,  a  wife." 

XXII 

*I  said,  "My  steed  neighs  in  the  court. 

My  bark  rocks  on  the  brine, 
And  the  warrior's  vow  I  am  under  now 

To  free  the  pilgrim's  shrine; 
But  fetch  the  ring  and  fetch  the  priest 

And  call  that  daughter  of  thine,  170 

And    rule    she   wide   from   my   castle   on 
Nyde 

While  I  am  in  Palestine." 

XXIII 

^In  the   dark  chambere,  if  the  bride  was 
fair. 
Ye  wis,  I  could  not  see. 


But  the  steed  thrice  neighed,  and  the  priest 
fast  prayed. 

And  wedded  fast  were  we. 
Her  mother  smiled  upon  her  bed 
As  at  its  side  we  knelt  to  wed. 

And  the  bride  rose  from  her  knee 
And  kissed  the  smile  of  her  mother  dead, 

Or  ever  she  kissed  me.  iSi 

XXIV 

'  My  page,  my  page,  what  grieves  thee  so. 
That  the  tears  run  down  thy  face  ?  '  — 

'  Alas,  alas  !  mine  own  sister 
Was  in  thy  lady's  case: 

But  she  laid  down  the  silks  she  wore 

And  followed  him  she  wed  before, 

Disguised  as  his  true  servitor. 
To  the  very  battle-place.' 

XXV 

And  wept  the  page,  but  laughed  the  knight, 
A  careless  laugh  laughed  he :  191 

*■  Well  done  it  were  for  thy  sister. 
But  not  for  my  ladye  ! 

My  love,  so  please  you,  shall  requite 

No  woman,  whether  dark  or  bright, 
Unwomaned  if  she  be.' 

XXVI 

The    page   stopped   weeping    and    smiled 
cold  — 

*  Your  wisdom  may  declare 
That  womanhood  is  proved  the  best 
By  golden  brooch  and  glossy  vest  2cx> 

The  mincing  ladies  wear; 
Yet  is  it  proved,  and  was  of  old, 
Anear  as  well,  I  dare  to  hold. 

By  truth,  or  by  despair.' 


XXVII 

He  smiled  no  more,  he  wept  no  more, 

But  passionate  he  spake  — 
'  Oh,  womanly  she  prayed  in  tent. 

When  none  beside  did  wake  ! 
Oh,  womanly  she  paled  in  fight, 

For  one  beloved's  sake  — 
And  her  little  hand,  defiled  with  blood, 
Her  tender  tears  of  womanhood 

Most  woman-pure  did  make  ! ' 

XXVIII 

— '  Well  done  it  were  for  thy  sister, 

Thou  tellest  well  her  tale  ! 
But  for  my  lady,  she  shall  pray 

I'  the  kirk  of  Nydesdale. 


210 


THE   ROMAUNT   OF   THE   PAGE 


107 


Not  dread  for  me  but  love  for  me 

Shall  make  my  lady  pale; 
No  casque  shall  hide  her  woman's  tear  — 
It  shall  have  room  to  trickle  clear  221 

Behind  her  woman's  veil.' 

XXIX 

—  '  But  what  if  she  mistook  thy  mind 

And  followed  thee  to  strife, 
Then  kneeling  did  entreat  thy  love 

As  Paynims  ask  for  life  ?  ' 
— '  I  would  forgive,  and  evermore 
Would  love  her  as  my  servitor, 

But  little  as  my  wife. 

XXX 

*  Look  up  —  there  is  a  small  bright  cloud 
Alone  amid  the  skies  !  231 

So  high,  so  pure,  and  so  apart, 
A  woman's  honor  lies.' 

The     page    looked    up  —  the    cloud    was 
sheen  — 

A  sadder  cloud  did  rush,  I  ween, 
Betwixt  it  and  his  eyes. 

XXXI 

Then  dimly  dropped  his  eyes  away 

From  welkin  unto  hill  — 
Ha  !  who  rides  there  ?  —  the  page  is  'ware. 

Though  the  cry  at  his  heart  is  still:      240 
And   the    page   seeth  all   and   the  knight 

seeth  none, 
Though  banner  and  spear  do  fleck  the  sun. 

And  the  Saracens  ride  at  will. 

XXXII 

He  speaketh  calm,  he  speaketh  low,  — 

'  Ride  fast,  my  master,  ride. 
Or  ere  within  the  broadening  dark 

The  narrow  shadows  hide.' 
'  Yea,  fast,  my  page,  I  will  do  so, 

And  keep  thou  at  my  side.' 


XXXIII 

'  Now  nay,  now  nay,  ride  on  thy  way, 
Thy  faithful  page  precede. 

For  I  must  loose  on  saddle-bow 

My  battle-casque  that  galls,  I  trow. 
The  shoulder  of  my  steed; 

And  I  must  pray,  as  I  did  vow, 
For  one  in  bitter  need. 

XXXIV 

'  Ere  night  I  shall  be  near  to  thee,  — 
Now  ride,  my  master,  ride  ! 


250 


Ere  night,  as  parted  spirits  cleave 

To  mortals  too  beloved  to  leave,  260 

I  shall  be  at  thy  side.' 
The  knight  smiled  free  at  the  fantasy, 

And  ad  own  the  dell  did  ride. 

XXXV 

Had  the  knight  looked  up  to  the  page's  face, 

No  smile  the  word  had  won; 
Had  the  knight  looked  up  to  the  page's  face, 

I  ween  he  had  never  gone: 
Had  the  knight  looked  back  to  the  page's 
geste, 

I  ween  he  had  turned  anon,  269 

For  dread  was  the  woe  in  the  face  so  young. 
And  wild  was  the  silent  geste  that  flung 
Casque,  sword  to  earth,  as  the  boy  down- 
sprung 

And  stood  —  alone,  alone. 

XXXVI 

He  clenched  his  hands  as  if  to  hold 

His  soul's  great  agony  — 
'  Have  I  renounced  my  womanhood. 

For  wifehood  unto  thee, 
And  is  this  the  last,  last  look  of  thine 

That  ever  I  shall  see  ? 


279 


XXXVII 


'  Yet  God  thee  save,  and  mayst  thou  have 

A  lady  to  thy  mind. 
More  woman-proud  and  half  as  true 

As  one  thou  leav'st  behind  ! 
And  God  me  take  with  Him  to  dwell  — 
For  Him  I  cannot  love  too  well. 

As  I  have  loved  my  kind.' 

XXXVIII 

She  looketh  up,  in  earth's  despair. 

The  hopeful  heavens  to  seek; 
That  little  cloud  still  floateth  there, 

Whereof  her  loved  did  speak:  290 

How  bright  the  little  cloud  appears  ! 
Her  eyelids  fall  upon  the  tears. 

And  the  tears  down  either  cheek. 

XXXIX 

The  tramp  of  hoof,  the  flash  of  steel  — 
The  Paynims  round  her  coming  ! 

The    sound    and    sight    have    made     her 
calm,  — 
False  page,  but  truthful  woman; 

She  stands  amid  them  all  unmoved: 

A  heart  once  broken  by  the  loved 

Is  strong  to  meet  the  foeraan.  300 


io8 


POEMS   OF   1844 


XL 

'  Ho,  Christian  page  !  art  keeping  sheep, 
From  pouring  wine-cups  resting  ?  '  — 

'  1  keep  nay  master's  noble  name. 
For  warring,  not  for  feasting; 

And  if  that  here  Sir  Hubert  were. 

My  master  brave,  my  master  dear, 
Ye  would  not  stay  the  questing.' 

XLI 

'  Where  is  thy  master,  scornful  page. 
That  we  may  slay  or  bind  him  ? '  — 

'  Now  search  the  lea  and  search  the  wood, 
And  see  if  ye  can  find  him  !  311 

Nathless,  as  hath  been  often  tried, 

Your  Paynim  heroes  faster  ride 
Before  him  than  behind  him.' 

XLII 

*Give  smoother  answers,  lying  page. 

Or  perish  in  the  lying  ! '  — 
'  I  trow  that  if  the  warrior  brand 
Beside  my  foot,  were  in  my  hand, 

'T  were  better  at  replying  ! '  319 

They  cursed  her  deep,  they  smote  her  low. 
They  cleft  her  golden  ringlets  through; 

The  Loving  is  the  Dying. 

XLIII 

She  felt  the  scimitar  gleam  down. 

And  met  it  from  beneath 
With  smile  more  bright  in  victory 

Than  any  sword  from  sheath,  — 
Which  flashed  across  her  lip  serene. 
Most  like  the  spirit-light  between 

The  darks  of  life  and  death. 

XLIV 

Ingemisco,  ingemisco  !  330 

From  the  convent  on  the  sea, 
Now  it  sweepeth  solemnly, 
As  over  wood  and  over  lea 
Bodily  the  wind  did  carry 
The  great  altar  of  St.  Mary, 
And  the  fifty  tapers  paling  o'er  it. 
And  the  Lady  Abbess  stark  before  it, 
And  the  weary  nuns  with  hearts  that  faintly 
Beat  along  their  voices  saintly  — 

Ingemisco,  ingemisco  !  340 

Dirge  for  abbess  laid  in  shroud 
Sweepeth  o'er  the  shroudless  dead, 
Page  or  lady,  as  we  said. 
With  the  dews  upon  her  head. 
All  as  sad  if  not  as  loud. 


Ingemisco,  ingemisco  I 
Is  ever  a  lament  begun 
By  any  mourner  under  sun. 
Which,  ere  it  endeth,  suits  but  one "? 


THE     LAY    OF    THE    BROWN 
ROSARY 

First  printed  in  Finden's  Tableaux  for  1840 
as,  '  Legend  of  the  Brown  Rosary.' 

FIRST   PART 


*  Onora,  Onora,'  —  her  mother  is  calling, 
She  sits  at  the  lattice  and  hears  the  dew 

falling 
Drop  after  drop  from  the  sycamores  laden 
With  dew  as  with  blossom,  and  calls  home 

the  maiden, 

*  Night  Cometh,  Onora.' 

II 

She  looks  down  the  garden-walk  caverned 

with  trees. 
To  the  limes  at  the  end  where  the  green 

arbor  is  — 
'  Some  sweet   thought  or  other  may  keep 

where  it  found  her, 
While,  forgot  or  unseen  in  the  dreamlight 

around  her, 
Night  Cometh  —  Onora  ! '  10 

III 

She  looks  up  the  forest  whose  alleys  shoot 

on 
Like    the   mute    minster-aisles   when    the 

anthem  is  done. 
And  the  choristers  sitting  with  faces  aslant 
Feel  the  silence  to  consecrate  more  than  the 

chant  — 

*  Onora,  Onora  ! ' 

IV 

And  forward  she  looketh  across  the  brown 

heath  — 
'  Onora,    art    coming  ?  '  —  what   is   it   she 

seeth  ? 
Nought,  nought  but  the  gray  border-stone 

that  is  wist 
To  dilate  and  assume  a  wild  shape  in  the 

mist  — 

*  My  daughter  ! '     Then  over  20 


THE   LAY   OF   THE   BROWN   ROSARY 


109 


The  casement  she  leaneth,  and  as  she  doth 
so 

She  is  'ware  of  her  little  son  playing  be- 
low: 

'  Now  where  is  Onora  ?  '     He  hung  down 
his  head 

And   spake   not,   then   answering   blushed 
scarlet-red,  — 
*  At  the  tryst  with  her  lover.' 

VI 

But  his  mother  was  wroth:  in  a  sternness 
quoth  she, 

*  As  thou  play'st  at  the  ball  art  thou  play- 
ing with  me  ? 

When  we  know  that  her  lover  to  battle  is 
gone, 

And  the  saints  know  above  that  she  loveth 
but  one 
And  will  ne'er  wed  another  ? '  30 

VII 

Then  the  boy   wept   aloud;  't  was  a  fair 

sight  yet  sad 
To  see  the  tears  run  down  the  sweet  blooms 

he  had: 
He   stamped  with   his   foot,    said  —  '  The 

saints  know  I  lied 
Because  truth  that  is  wicked  is  fittest  to 

hide: 
Must  I  utter  it,  mother  ? ' 

VIII 

In    his   vehement    childhood    he    hurried 

within 
And  knelt  at  her  feet  as  in  prayer  against 

sin. 
But  a  child  at  a  prayer  never  sobbeth  as 

he  — 
'  Oh  !  she  sits  with  the  nun  of  the  brown 

rosary. 
At  nights  in  the  ruin  —  40 

IX 

'  The  old  convent  ruin  the  ivy  rots  ofp, 
Where  the  owl  hoots  by  day  and  the  toad 

is  sun-proof. 
Where  no  singing-birds  build  and  the  trees 

gaunt  and  gray 
As  in  stormy  sea-coasts  appear  blasted  one 

way  — 
But  is  this  the  wind's  doing  ? 


X 

'  A  nun  in  the  east  wall  was  buried  alive 
Who  mocked  at  the  priest  when  he  called 

her  to  shrive, 
And  shrieked   such  a   curse,  as  the  stone 

took  her  breath. 
The  old  abbess  fell  backwards  and  swooned 

unto  death 
With  an  Ave  half-spoken. 


50 


XI 


*  I  tried  once  to  pass  it,  myself  and  ray 

hound, 
Till,  as  fearing  the  lash,  down  he  shivered 

to  ground  — 
A    brave    hound,    my    mother  !    a    brave 

hound,  ve  wot  ! 
And  the  wolf  thought  the  same  with  his 

fangs  at  her  throat 
In  the  pass  of  the  Brocken. 

XII 

*  At  dawn  and  at  eve,  mother,  who  sitteth 

there 
With  the   brown  rosary  never  used  for  a 

prayer  ? 
Stoop  low,  mother,  low  !     If  we  went  there 

to  see, 
What  an  ugly  great  hole  in  that  east  wall 

must  be 
At  dawn  and  at  even  !  60 

XIII 

'  Who   meet   there,  my   mother,  at  dawn 

and  at  even  ? 
Who  meet  by  that  wall,  never  looking  to 

heaven  ? 

0  sweetest  my  sister,  what  doeth  with  thee 
The  ghost  of  a  nun  with  a  brown  rosary 

And  a  face  turned  from  heaven  ? 

XIV 

*  Saint  Agnes  o'erwatcheth  my  dreams  and 

ere  while 

1  have  felt  through  mine  eyelids  the  warmth 

of  her  smile; 
But  last  night,  as  a  sadness  like  pity  came 

o'er  her, 
She  whispered  —  "  Say  two  prayers  at  dawn 

for  Onora: 
The  Tempted  is  sinning."  ' 


70 


XV 


'  Onora,  Onora  ! '  they  heard  her  not  com* 
ing, 


no 


POEMS   OF   1844 


Not  a  step  on  the  grass,  not  a  voice  through 

the  gloamhig; 
But  her  mother  looked  up,  and  she  stood 

on  the  floor 
Fair  and  still  as  the  moonlight  that  came 

there  before, 
And  a  smile  just  beginning: 

XVI 

It  touches  her  lips  but  it  dares  not  arise 
To  the  height  of  the  mystical  sphere  of  her 

eyes, 
And  the  large  musing  eyes,  neither  joyous 

nor  sorry. 
Sing  on  like  the  angels  in  separate  glory 
Between  clouds  of  amber;  80 

XVII 

For  the  hair  droops  in  clouds  amber-col- 
ored till  stirred 

Into  gold  by  the  gesture  that  comes  with  a 
word ; 

While  —  O  soft  !  —  her  speaking  is  so  inter- 
wound 

Of  the  dim  and  the  sweet,  't  is  a  twilight 
of  sound 
And  floats  through  the  chamber. 

XVIII 

'  Since  thou  shrivest  my  brother,  fair  mo- 
ther,' said  she, 

'  I  count  on  thy  priesthood  for  marrying  of 
me; 

And  I  know  by  the  hills  that  the  battle  is 
done, 

That  my  lover  rides  on,  will  be  here  with 
the  sun, 
'Neath  the  eyes  that  behold  thee.'      90 

XIX 

Her  mother  sat  silent  —  too  tender,  I  wis. 
Of  the  smile  her  dead  father  smiled  dying 

to  kiss: 
But   the    boy   started  up  pale  with  tears, 

passion- wrought  — 

*  O    wicked    fair    sister,    the    hills    utter 

nought  ! 
If  he  Cometh,  who  told  thee  ?  ' 

XX 

*  I  know  by  the  hills,'  she  resumed  calm 

and  clear, 

*  By   the   beauty   upon   them,   that   he  is 

anear: 


Did  they  ever  look  so  since  he  bade  me 

adieu  ? 
Oh,  love  in  the  waking,  sweet  brother,  is 

true. 
As  Saint  Agnes  in  sleeping  ! ' 


100 


XXI 

Half-ashamed   and   half-softened  the   boy 

did  not  speak. 
And  the  blush  met  the  lashes  which  fell  on 

his  cheek: 
She  bowed  down  to  kiss  him:  dear  saints, 

did  he  see 
Or  feel  on  her  bosom  the  brown  rosary, 
That  he  shrank  away  weeping  ? 


SECOND   PART 

A  bed.     Onora,  sleeping.     Angels,  but 

not  near. 
First  Angel. 

Must  we  stand  so  far,  and  she 

So  very  fair  ? 
Second  Angel. 

As  bodies  be. 
First  Angel. 

And  she  so  mild  ? 
Second  Angel. 

As  spirits  when 

They  meeken,  not  to  God,  but  men. 
First  Angel.  . 

And  she  so  young,  that  I  who  bring 

Good    dreams    for     saintly    children 


might 


III 


Mistake  that  small  soft  face  to-night, 
And  fetch  her  such  a  blessed  thing 
That  at  her  waking  she  would  weep 
For  childhood  lost  anew  in  sleep. 
How  hath  she  sinned  ? 

Second  Angel. 

In  bartering  love ; 
God's  love  for  man's. 

First  Angel. 

We  may  reprove 
The  world  for  this,  not  only  her: 
Let  me  approach  to  breathe  away 
This  dust  o'  the  heart  with  holy  air. 

Second  Angel. 

Stand  off  !     She   sleeps,  and  did   not 
pray.  121 

First  Angel. 

Did  none  pray  for  her  ? 

Second  Angel. 

Ay,  a  child,  — 


THE   LAY   OF   THE   BROWN   ROSARY 


III 


Who  never,  praying,  wept  before: 
While,  in  a  mother  undefiled, 
Prayer  goeth  on  in  sleep,  as  true 
And  pauseless  as  the  pulses  do. 

First  Angel. 

Then  I  approach. 

Second  Angel. 

It  is  not  WILLED. 

First  Angel. 

One  word:  is  she  redeemed? 
Second  Angel. 

No  more  ! 
The  place  is  filled.         [Angels  vanish. 
Evil  Spirit  (in  a  Nun's  garb  by  the  bed). 
Forbear  that  dream  —  forbear  that  dream  ! 
too  near  to  heaven  it  leaned.  130 

Onora  (in  sleep). 
Nay,  leave  me  this  —  but  only  this  !    't  is 
but  a  dream,  sweet  fiend  ! 
Evil  Spirit. 
It  is  a  thought. 
Onora  (in  sleep). 

A  sleeping  thought — most   innocent  of 
good: 
It  doth  the  Devil  no  harm,  sweet  fiend  !  it 

cannot  if  it  would. 
I  say  in  it  no  holy  hymn,  I   do   no   holy 

work, 
I  scarcely  hear  the  sabbath-bell  that  chim- 
eth  from  the  kirk. 
Evil  Spirit. 
Forbear  that  dream  —  forbear  that  dream  ! 
Onora  (in  sleep). 
Nay,  let  me  dream  at  least. 
That  far-off  bell,  it  may  be  took  for  viol  at 

a  feast: 
I  only  walk  among  the  fields,  beneath  the 

autumn-sun, 
With  my  dead  father,  hand  in  hand,  as  I 
have  often  done. 
Evil  Spirit. 
Forbear  that  dream  —  forbear  that  dream  ! 
Onora  (in  sleep). 

Nay,  sweet  fiend,  let  me  go:  140 

I  never  more  can  walk  with  him,  oh,  never 

more  but  so  ! 
For   they   have  tied  my  father's  feet   be- 
neath the  kirkyard  stone. 
Oh,  deep  and  straight  !  oh,  very  straight  ! 

they  move  at  nights  alone: 
And  then  he  calleth  through  my  dreams, 

he  calleth  tenderly, 
*Come    forth,  my   daughter,  my   beloved, 
and  walk  the  fields  with  me  ! ' 
Evil  Spirit. 


Forbear   that  dream,   or  else  disprove  its 

pureness  by  a  sign. 
Onora  (in  sleep). 
Speak  on,  thou  shalt  be  satisfied,  my  word 

shall  answer  thine. 
I  heard  a  bird  which  used  to  sing  when  I  a 

child  was  praying, 
I    see    the  poppies   in  the  corn  I  used  to 

sport  away  in: 
What   shall  I  do  —  tread    down   the  dew 

and  pull  the  blossoms  blowing  ?     150 
Or   clap  my  wicked   hands   to  fright   the 

finches  from  the  rowan  ? 
Evil  Spirit. 
Thou    shalt    do    something    harder    still. 

Stand  up  where  thou  dost  stand 
Among  the  fields  of  Dreamland  with  thy 

father  hand  in  hand. 
And  clear   and  slow  repeat   the  vow,  de- 
clare its  cause  and  kind. 
Which  not  to  break,  in  sleep  or  wake  thou 

bearest  on  thy  mind. 
Onora  (in  sleep). 
I   bear   a  vow  of   sinful   kind,  a  vow  for 

mournful  cause; 
I  vowed  it  deep,  I  vowed   it   strong,  the 

spirits  laughed  applause: 
The    spirits    trailed   along    the   pines    low 

laughter  like  a  breeze, 
While,  high   atween  their   swinging   tops, 

the  stars  appeared  to  freeze. 
Evil  Spirit. 
More  calm  and  free,  speak  out  to  me  why 

such  a  vow  was  made.  160 

Onora  (in  sleep). 
Because  that  God  decreed  my  death  and  I 

shrank  back  afraid. 
Have  patience,  O  dead  father  mine  !  I  did 

not  fear  to  die  — 
I  wish  I  were  a  young  dead  child  and  had 

thy  company ! 
I  wish  I  lay  beside  thy  feet,  a  buried  three- 
year  child. 
And  wearing  only  a  kiss  of  thine  upon  my 

lips  that  smiled  ! 
The  linden-tree  that  covers  thee  might  so 

have  shadowed  twain. 
For  death  itself  I  did  not  fear  —  't  is  love 

that  makes  the  pain: 
Love  feareth  death.     I  was  no  child,  I  was 

betrothed  that  day; 
I  wore  a  troth-kiss  on  my  lips  I  could  not 

give  away. 
How  could  I  bear  to  lie  content  and  still 

beneath  a  stone,  170 


112 


POEMS   OF    1844 


And  feel  mine  own  betrothed  go  by  —  alas  ! 

no  more  mine  own  — 
Go  leading  by  in  wedding  pomp  some  lovely 

lady  brave, 
With  cheeks  that  blushed  as  red  as  rose, 

while  mine  were  white  in  grave  ? 
How  could  I  bear  to  sit  in  heaven,  on  e'er 

so  high  a  throne. 
And   hear  him  sav  to  her  —  to  her  !  that 

else  he  loveth  none  ? 
Though  e'er  so  high  I  sate  above,  though 

e'er  so  low  he  spake. 
As  clear  as  thunder  I  should  hear  the  new 

oath  he  might  take. 
That  hers,  forsooth,  were  heavenly  eyes  — 

ah  me,  while  very  dim 
Some  heavenly  eyes  (indeed  of  heaven  !) 

would  darken  down  to  him  ! 
Evil  Spirit. 
Who  told  thee  thou  wast  called  to  death  ? 
Onora  (in  sleep). 

I  sate  all  night  beside  thee:  180 

The  gray  owl  on  the  ruined  wall  shut  both 

his  eyes  to  hide  thee, 
And  ever  he  flapped    his    heavy  wing  all 

brokenly  and  weak, 
And  the  long  grass  waved  against  the  sky, 

around  his  gasping  beak. 
I  sate  beside  thee  all  the  night,  while  the 

moonlight  lay  forlorn 
Strewn  round  us  like  a  dead  world's  shroud 

in  ghastly  fragments  torn: 
And  through  the    night,  and  through  the 

hush,  and  over  the  flapping  wing. 
We  heard  beside  the  Heavenly  Gate  the 

angels  murmuring: 
We  heard  them  say,  '  Put  day  to  day,  and 

count  the  days  to  seven, 
And  God  will  draw  Onora  up  the  golden 

stairs  of  heaven. 
And   yet   the   Evil   ones   have   leave  that 

purpose  to  defer,  190 

For  if  she  has  no  need  of  Him,  He  has  no 

need  of  her.' 
Evil  Spirit. 
Speak  out  to  me,  speak  bold  and  free. 
Onora  (in  sleep). 
And  then  I  heard  thee  say  — 
I  count  upon  my  rosary  brown  the  hours 

thou  hast  to  stay  ! 
Yet  God  permits    us  Evil   ones  to  put  by 

that  decree. 
Since  if  thou  hast  no  need  of  Him,  He  has 

no  need  of  thee: 
And  if  thou  wilt  forgo  the  sight  of  angels, 

verily 


Thy  true    love    gazing   on   thy  face   shall 

guess  what  angels  be; 
Nor  bride  shall  pass,  save  thee  '  .  .  .  Alas  ! 

—  my  father's  hand  's  a-cold, 
The  meadows  seem  .  .  . 
Evil  Spirit. 
Forbear  the  dream,  or  let  the  vow  be 

told. 
Onora  (in  sleep). 
I  vowed  upon  thy  rosary  brown,  this  string 
of  antique  beads,  200 

By  charnel   lichens  overgrown,  and   dank 

among  the  weeds, 
This  rosary  brown  which  is  thine  own,  — 

lost  soul  of  buried  nun  ! 
Who,  lost  by  vow,  wouldst  render  now  all 

souls  alike  undone,  — 
I  vowed  upon  thy  rosary  brown,  —  and,  till 

such  vow  should  break, 
A   pledge   always    of    living   days    't  was 

hung  around  my  neck  — 
I  vowed  to  thee   on  rosary  (dead  father, 

look  not  so  !), 
/  would  not  thank  God  in  my  weal,  nor  seek 
God  in  my  woe. 
Evil  Spirit. 
And  canst  thou  prove  .  .  . 
Onora  (in  sleep). 
O    love,   my    love  !     I    felt    him    near 


agam 


f 


I  saw  his  steed  on  mountain-head,  I  heard 

it  on  the  plain  ! 
Was    this   no  weal    for   me   to   feel  ?     Is 
greater  weal  than  this  ?  210 

Yet  when  he  came,  I  wept  his  name  —  and 
the  angels  heard  but  his. 
Evil  Spirit. 
Well  done,  well  done  ! 
Onora  (in  sleep). 

Ah  me,  the  sun  !    the  dreamlight  'gins 
to  pine,  — 
Ah  me,  how  dread  can  look   the    Dead  ! 
Aroint  thee,  father  mine  ! 

She  starteth  from  slumber,  she  sitteth  up- 
right, 

And  her  breath  comes  in  sobs,  while  she 
stares  through  the  night; 

There  is  nought;  the  great  willow,  her  lat- 
tice before. 

Large-drawn  in  the  moon,  lieth  calm  on 
the  floor: 

But  her  hands  tremble  fast  as  their  pulses 
and,  free 

From    the    death-clasp,    close    over  —  the 

BROV^^N  ROSARY. 


THE   LAY   OF   THE   BROWN   ROSARY 


"3 


THIRD  PART 


'T  is  a  morn  for  a  bridal ;  the  merry  bride- 
bell  220 

Kings  clear  through  the    greenwood   that 
skirts  the  chapelle, 

And  the  priest  at  the  altar  awaiteth  the 
bride, 

And  the  sacristans  slyly  are  jesting  aside 
At  the  work  shall  be  doing; 


II 

While  down  through  the  wood  rides  that 

fair  company, 
The  youths  with  the  courtship,  the  maids 

with  the  glee. 
Till  the  chapel-cross  opens  to  sight,  and  at 

once 
All  the  maids  sigh  demurely  and  think  for 

the  nonce, 

'  And  so  endeth  a  wooing  ! ' 


III 

And   the   bride    and   the   bridegroom   are 

leading  the  way,  230 

With  his  hand  on  her  rein,  and  a  word  yet 

to  say; 
Her  dropt  eyelids  suggest  the  soft  answers 

beneath, 
And  the  little  quick  smiles  come  and  go 

with  her  breath 

When  she  sigheth  or  speaketh. 


IV 

And   the  tender  bride-mother   breaks   off 

unaware 
From  an  Ave,  to  think  that  her  daughter 

is  fair. 
Till   in   nearing   the  chapel   and  glancing 

before, 
She  seeth  her  little  son  stand  at  the  door: 
Is  it  play  that  he  seeketh  ? 


Is  it  play,  when  his  eyes  wander  innocent- 
wild  240 

And  sublimed  with  a  sadness  unfitting  a 
chHd? 

He  trembles  not,  weeps  not;  the  passion  is 
done. 


And  calmly  he  kneels  in  their  midst,  with 
the  sun 

On  his  head  like  a  glory. 

VI 

'  O  fair-featured  maids,  ye  are  many  ! '  he 

cried, 
'  But  in  fairness  and  vileness  who  matcheth 

the  bride  ? 
O  brave-hearted  youths,  ye  are  many  !  but 

whom 
For  the  courage  and  woe  can  ye  match  with 

the  groom 

As  ye  see  them  before  ye  ?  ' 

VII 

Out  spake  the  bride's  mother, '  The  vileness 

is  thine  250 

If  thou  shame  thine  own  sister,  a  bride  at 

the  shrine  ! ' 
Out  spake  the  bride's  lover,  '  The  vileness 

be  mine 
If  he  shame  mine  own  wife  at  the  hearth 

or  the  shrine 

And  the  charge  be  unproved. 

VIII 

'  Bring  the  charge,  prove  the  charge,  bro- 
ther !  speak  it  aloud: 

Let  thy  father  and  hers  hear  it  deep  in  his 
shroud  ! ' 

— '  O  father,  thou  seest,  for  dead  eyes  can 
see. 

How   she    wears  on   her   bosom  a  BROWN 

ROSARY, 

O  my  father  beloved  ! ' 

IX 

Then  out  laughed  the  bridegroom,  and  out 
laughed  withal  260 

Both  maidens  and  youths  by  the  old  chapel- 
wall: 

*  So  she  weareth  no  love-gift,  kind  brother,' 

quoth  he, 

*  She   may  wear  an   she   listeth   a  brown 

rosary. 

Like  a  pure-hearted  lady.' 


Then  swept   through   the  chapel  the  long 

bridal  train; 
Though  he  spake  to  the  bride  she  replied 

not  again; 


114 


POEMS   OF   1844 


On,  as  one  in  a  dream,  pale  and  stately  she 

went 
Where  the  altar-lights  burn  o'er  the  great 

sacrament, 

Faint  with  daylight,  but  steady. 

XI 

But   her   brother   had  passed   in   between 
them  and  her,  270 

And  calmly  knelt  down  on  the  high-altar 
stair  — 

Of  an  infantine  aspect  so  stern  to  the  view 

That   the   priest   could   not   smile  on   the 
child's  eyes  of  blue 

As  he  would  for  another. 

XII 

He  knelt  like  a  child  marble-sculptured  and 

white 
That  seems  kneeling  to  pray  on  the  tomb 

of  a  knight. 
With  a  look  taken  up  to  each  iris  of  stone 
From  the  greatness  and   death    where   he 

kneeleth,  but  none 

From  the  face  of  a  mother. 

XIII 

'  In  your  chapel,  0  priest,  ye  have  wedded 

and  shriven  280 

Fair  wives  for  the  hearth,  and  fair  sinners 

for  heaven; 
But  this  fairest  my  sister,  ye  think  now  to 

wed. 
Bid   her  kneel   where    she    standeth,   and 

shrive  her  instead: 

O  shrive  her  and  wed  not  ! ' 

XIV 

In  tears,  the  bride's  mother,  —  '  Sir  priest, 
unto  thee 

Would  he  lie,  as  he  lied  to  this  fair  com- 
pany.' 

In  wrath,  the  bride's  lover,  —  *  The  lie 
shall  be  clear ! 

Speak  it  out,  boy  !  the  saints  in  their  niches 
shall  hear: 

Be  the  charge  proved  or  said  not  ! ' 

XV 

Then  serene  in  his  childhood  he  lifted  his 
face,  290 

And  his  voice  sounded  holy  and  fit  for  the 
place, — 

'  Look  down  from  your  niches,  ye  still  saints, 
and  see 


How   she   wears  on   her   bosom  a  brown 

ROSARY  ! 

Is  it  used  for  the  praying  ?  ' 

XVI 

The  youths  looked  aside  —  to  laugh  there 

were  a  sin  — 
And  the  maidens'  lips  trembled  from  smiles 

shut  within. 
Quoth  the  priest,    'Thou  art  wild,  pretty 

boy  !     Blessed  she 
Who  prefers  at  her  bridal  a  brown  rosary 
To  a  worldly  arraying.' 

XVII 

The  bridegroom  spake  low  and  led  onward 
the  bride  300 

And  before  the  high  altar  they  stood  side 
by  side: 

The  rite-book  is  opened,  the  rite  is  begun. 

They  have  knelt  down  together  to  rise  up 
as  one. 

Who  laughed  by  the  altar  ? 

XVIII 

The    maidens   looked  forward,  the  youths 

looked  around. 
The    bridegroom's   eye   flashed   from    his 

prayer  at  the  sound; 
And  each  saw  the  bride,  as  if  no  bride  she 

were. 
Gazing  cold  at  the  priest  without  gesture 

of  prayer. 

As  he  read  from  the  psalter. 

XIX 

The  priest  never  knew  that  she  did  so,  but 

still  3  JO 

He  felt  a  power  on  him  too  strong  for  his 

will: 
And  whenever  the  Great  Name  was  there 

to  be  read. 
His  voice  sank  to  silence  —  that  could  not 

be  said. 

Or  the  air  could  not  hold  it. 

XX 

'  I  have  sinned,'  quoth  he,  *  I  have  sinned, 

I  wot '  — 
And  the  tears  ran  adown  his  old  cheeks  at 

the  thought: 
They  dropped   fast   on   the   book,  but   he 

read  on  the  same. 


THE   LAY   OF   THE   BROWN    ROSARY 


1^5 


And  aye  was  the  silence  where  should  be 
the  Name,  — 

As  the  choristers  told  it. 

XXI 

The  rite-book  is  closed,  and  the  rite  being 

done  320 

They,  who  knelt  down  together,  arise  up  as 

one : 
Fair  riseth  the  bride  —  Oh,  a  fair  bride  is 

she. 
But,  for  all  (think  the  maidens)  that  brown 

rosary, 

No  saint  at  her  praying  ! 

XXII 

What  aileth  the  bridegroom  ?     He  glares 

blank  and  wide; 
Then  suddenly  turning  he  kisseth  the  bride ; 
His  lips  stung  her  with  cold;  she  glanced 

upwardly  mute: 
'  Mine  own  wife,'  he  said,  and  fell  stark  at 

her  foot 

In  the  word  he  was  saying. 

XXIII 

They  have  lifted  him  up,  but  his  head  sinks 
away,  330 

And  his  face  showeth  bleak  in  the  sunshine 
and  ffrav. 

Leave  him  now  where  he  lieth  —  for  oh, 
never  more 

Will  he  kneel  at  an  altar  or  stand  on  a  floor ! 
Let  his  bride  gaze  upon  him. 

XXIV 

Long   and  still  was   her   gaze  while   they 

chafed  him  there 
And  breathed  in  the  mouth  whose  last  life 

had  kissed  her, 
But  when  they  stood  up  —  only  they  I  with 

a  start 
The  shriek  from  her  soul  struck  her  pale 

lips  apart: 

She  has  lived,  and  forgone  him  ! 

XXV 

And  low  on  his  body  she  droppeth  adown  — 

*  Didst  call  me  thine  own  wife,  beloved  — 
thine  own  ?  341 

Then  take  thine  own  with  thee  !  thy  cold- 
ness is  warm 

To  the  world's  cold  without  thee  !  Come, 
keep  me  from  harm 

In  a  calm  of  thy  teaching  ! ' 


XXVI 

She  looked  in  his  face  earnest-long,  as  in 

sooth 
There  were  hope  of  an  answer,  and  then 

kissed  his  mouth. 
And  with  head  on  his  bosom,  wept,  wept 

bitterly,  — 
'  Now,  O  God,  take   pity  —  take   pity   on 

me  ! 

God,  hear  my  beseeching  !  ' 

XXVII 

She   was  'ware  of  a   shadow  that   crossed 

where  she  lay,  350 

She  was  'ware  of  a  presence  that  withered 

the  day: 
Wild  she  sprang  to  her  feet,  —  '  I  surrender 

to  thee 
The    broken   vow's   pledge,    the    accursed 

rosary,  — 

I  am  ready  for  dying  ! ' 

XXVIII 

She  dashed  it  in  scorn  to  the  marble-paved 

ground 
Where  it  fell  mute  as  snow,  and  a  weird 

music-sound 
Crej)t  up,  like  a  chill,  up   the  aisles  long 

and  dim,  — 
As  the  fiends  tried  to  mock  at  the  choristers' 

hymn 

And  moaned  in  the  trying. 

FOURTH    PART 

Onora  looketh  listlessly  adown  the  garden 

walk:  360 

'  I  am  weary,  O  my  mother,  of  thy  tender 

talk. 
I  am  weary  of  the  trees  a-waving  to  and 

fro. 
Of  the  steadfast  skies  above,  the  running 

brooks  below. 
All  things  are  the    same,  but  I,  —  only  I 

am  dreary. 
And,  mother,  of  my  dreariness  behold  me 

very  weary. 

*  Mother,  brother,  pull  the  flowers  I  planted 

in  the  spring 
And  smiled  to  think  I  should  smile  more 

upon  their  gathering: 
The  bees  will  find  out  other  flowers  —  oh, 

pull  them,  dearest  mine. 


ii6 


POEMS    OF   1844 


And  carry  them  and  carry  me  before  Saint 

Agues'  shrine.' 
—  Whereat  they  pulled  the  summer  flowers 

she  planted  in  the  spring,  370 

And  her  and  them  all  mournfully  to  Agnes' 

shrine  did  bring. 

She   looked  up  to  the   pictured  saint  and 
gently  shook  her  head  — 

*  The  picture  is  too  calm  for  me  —  too  calm 

for  me,'  she  said: 

*  The   little   flowers  we   brought  with   us, 

before  it  we  may  lay. 
For  those  are  used  to  look  at  heaven,  —  but 

/  must  turn  away, 
Because  no  sinner  under  sun  can  dare  or 

bear  to  gaze 
On   God's   or   angel's   holiness,   except   in 

Jesu's  face.' 

She  spoke  with  passion  after  pause  — '  And 

were  it  wisely  done 
If  we  who  cannot  gaze  above,  should  walk 

the  earth  alone  ? 
If  we  whose  virtue  is  so  weak  should  have 

a  will  so  strong,  380 

And  stand  blind  on  the  rocks  to  choose  the 

right  path  from  the  wrong  ? 
To  choose  perhaps  a  love-lit  hearth,  instead 

of  love  and  heaven,  — 
A  single  rose,  for  a  rose-tree  which  beareth 

seven  times  seven  ? 
A  rose  that  droppeth  from  the  hand,  that 

f adeth  in  the  breast,  — 
Until,  in  grieving  for  the  worst,  we  learn 

what  is  the  best  ! ' 

Then   breaking   into  tears,  —  *  Dear  God,' 

she  cried,  '  and  must  we  see 
All  blissful  things  depart  from  us  or  ere 

we  go  to  Thee  ? 
We  cannot  guess  Thee  in  the  wood  or  hear 

Thee  in  the  wind  ? 
Our  cedars  must  fall  round  us  ere  we  see 

the  light  behind  ? 
Ay  sooth,  we  feel  too  strong,  in  weal,  to 

need  Thee  on  that  road,  390 

But  woe  being  come,  the  soul  is  dumb  that 

crieth  not  on  "  God."  ' 

Her  mother  could  not  speak  for  tears;  she 

ever  musfed  thus, 
'  The  bees  will  find  out  other  fi^owers,  —  but 

what  is  left  for  us  ?  ' 


But  her  young  brother  stayed  his  sobs  and 

knelt  beside  her  knee, 
— '  Thou  sweetest  sister  in  the  world,  hast 

never  a  word  for  me  ?  ' 
She  passed  her  hand  across  his  face,  she 

pressed  it  on  his  cheek. 
So  tenderly,  so  tenderly  —  she  needed  not 

to  speak. 

The  wreath  which  lay  on  shrine  that  day, 

at  vespers  bloomed  no  more. 
The  woman  fair  who  placed  it  there  had 

died  an  hour  before. 
Both  perished  mute  for  lack  of  root,  earth's 

nourishment  to  reach.  400 

O  reader,  breathe  (the  ballad  saith)  some 

sweetness  out  of  each  ! 


THE   MOURNINCx   MOTHER 

(of  the  dead  blind) 
First  printed  as  '  The  Mournful  Mother.' 


Dost  thou  weep,  mourning  mother. 

For  thy  blind  boy  in  grave  ? 
That  no  more  with  each  other 

Sweet  counsel  ye  can  have  ? 
That  he,  left  dark  by  nature. 

Can  never  more  be  led 
By  thee,  maternal  creature. 

Along  smooth  paths  instead  ? 
That  thou  canst  no  more  show  him 

The  sunshine,  by  the  heat;  10 

The  river's  silver  flowing, 

By  murmurs  at  his  feet  ? 
The  foliage,  by  its  coolness; 

The  roses,  by  their  smell; 
And  all  creation's  fulness, 

By  Love's  invisible  ? 
Weepest  thou  to  behold  not 

His  meek  blind  eyes  again,  — 
Closed  doorways  which  were  folded. 

And  prayed  against  in  vain  —  20 

And  under  which,  sat  smiling 

The  child-mouth  evermore, 
As  one  who  watcheth,  wiling 

The  time  by,  at  a  door  ? 
And  weepest  thou  to  feel  not 

His  clinging  hand  on  thine  — 
Which  now,  at  dream-time,  will  not 

Its  cold  touch  disentwine  ? 
And  weepest  thou  still  ofter, 


A  VALEDICTION 


117 


Oh,  never  more  to  mark  30 

His  low  soft  words,  made  softer 

By  speaking  in  the  dark  ? 
Weep  on,  thou  mourning  mother  ! 

II 

But  since  to  him  when  living, 

Thou  wast  both  sun  and  moon, 
Look  o'er  his  grave,  surviving, 

From  a  high  sphere  alone: 
Sustain  that  exaltation, 

Expand  that  tender  light. 
And  hold  in  mother-passion  40 

Thy  Blessed  in  thy  sight. 
See  how  he  went  out  straightway 

From  the  dark  world  he  knew,  — 
No  twilight  in  the  gateway 

To  mediate  'twixt  the  two,  — 
Into  the  sudden  glory, 

Out  of  the  dark  he  trod, 
Departing  from  before  thee 

At  once  to  light  and  God  !  — 
For  the  first  face,  beholding  50 

The  Christ's  in  its  divine. 
For  the  first  place,  the  golden 

And  tideless  hyaline, 
With  trees  at  lasting  summer 

That  rock  to  songful  sound, 
While  augfels  the  new-comer 

Wrap  a  still  smile  around. 
Oh,  in  the  blessed  psalm  now, 

His  happy  voice  he  tries. 
Spreading  a  thicker  palm-bough,  60 

Than  others,  o'er  his  eyes  ! 
Yet  still,  in  all  the  singing. 

Thinks  haply  of  thy  song 
Which,  in  his  life's  first  springing. 

Sang  to  him  all  night  long; 
And  wishes  it  beside  him. 

With  kissing  lips  that  cool 
And  soft  did  overglide  him, 

To  make  the  sweetness  full. 
Look  up,  O  mourning  mother  !  70 

Thy  blind  boy  walks  in  light: 
Ye  wait  for  one  another 

Before  God's  infinite. 
But  thou  art  now  the  darkest, 

Thou  mother  left  below  — 
Thou,  the  sole  blind,  —  thou  markest, 

Content  that  it  be  so,  — 
Until  ye  two  have  meeting 

Where  Heaven's  pearl-gate  is, 
And  he  shall  lead  thy  feet  in,  80 

As  once  thou  leddest  Ms. 
Wait  on,  thou  mourning  mother  ! 


A   VALEDICTION 

God  be  with  thee,  my  belovM,  —  God  be 
with  thee  ! 
Else  alone  thou  goest  forth. 
Thy  face  unto  the  north. 
Moor   and  pleasance  all  around  thee  and 
beneath  thee 
Looking  equal  in  one  snow; 
While  I,  who  try  to  reach  thee, 
Vainly  follow,  vainly  follow 
With  the  farewell  and  the  hollo, 
And  cannot  reach  thee  so. 
Alas,  I  can  but  teach  thee  ! 
God  be  with  thee,  my  beloved,  —  God  be 
with  thee  ! 

II 

Can   I   teach   thee,    my  beloved,  —  can  I 
teach  thee  ? 
If  I  said,  '  Go  left  or  right,' 
The  counsel  would  be  light, 
The  wisdom,  poor  of  all  that  could  enrich 
thee; 
My  right  would  show  like  left; 
My  raising  would  depress  thee. 
My  choice  of  light  would  blind  thee, 
Of  way  —  would  leave  behind  thee, 
Of  end  —  would  leave  bereft. 
Alas,  I  can  but  bless  thee  ! 
May  God  teach  thee,  my  beloved,  —  may 
God  teach  thee  ! 


Ill 

Can  I  bless  thee,  my  belovM,  —  can  I  bless 
thee? 
What  blessing  word  can  I 
From  mine  own  tears  keep  dry  ? 
What  flowers  grow  in  my  field  wherewith 
to  dress  thee  ? 
My  good  reverts  to  ill; 
My  calmnesses  would  move  thee. 
My  softnesses  would  prick  thee, 
My  bindings  up  would  break  thee, 
My  crownings  curse  and  kill. 
Alas,  I  can  but  love  thee  ! 
May  God  bless  thee,  my  beloved,  —  may 
God  bless  thee  ! 

IV 

Can  I  love  thee,  my  beloved,  —  can  I  love 
thee? 
And  is  this  like  love,  to  stand 


ii8 


POEMS   OF   1844 


With  no  help  in  my  hand, 

When  strong  as  death  I  fain  would  watch 
above  thee  ? 
My  love-kiss  can  deny 
No  tear  that  falls  beneath  it; 
Mine  oath  of  love  can  swear  thee 
From  no  ill  that  comes  near  thee, 
And  thou  diest  while  I  breathe  it, 
And  / —  I  can  but  die  ! 

May  God  love   thee,  my  beloved,  —  may 
God  love  thee  ! 


LADY  GERALDINE'S  COURTSHIP 

A   ROMANCE   OF   THE   AGE 

A  special  interest  attaches  to  this  poem  as 
the  one  which  induced  Robert  Browning-  to 
seek  Miss  Barrett's  acquaiiatance.  She  her- 
self had  been  rather  inclined  to  think  lig-htly 
of  it  because  it  was,  in  some  sense,  written 
to  order,  and  that  Avith  extraordinary  rapidity. 
In  a  letter  to  H.  S.  Boyd,  dated  Aug-ust  1, 1844, 
she  gives  the  following  account  of  its  origin  : 
'  Last  Saturday,  on  its  being-  discovered  that 
my  first  volume  consisted  of  only  208  pag-es, 
and  my  second  of  280  pages,  Mr.  Moxon  uttered 
a  cry  of  reprehension  .  .  .  and  wanted  to  tear 
away  several  poems  from  the  end  of  the  second 
volume,  and  tie  them  on  to  the  end  of  the 
first !  I  could  not  and  would  not  hear  of  this 
because  I  had  set  my  heart  on  having  '  Dead 
Pan '  to  conclude  with.  So  there  was  nothing 
for  it  but  to  finish  a  ballad  poem  called  '  Lady 
Geraldine's  Courtship,'  which  was  lying  by  me, 
and  I  did  so  by  writing  —  i.  e.,  composing,  — 
one  hundred  and  forty  lines  last  Saturday.  I 
seemed  to  be  in  a  dream  all  day.  Long  lixies, 
too,  —  fifteen  syllables  each  !  '  Elsewhere  she 
entreats  Mr.  Boyd  never  to  tell  anybody  in 
what  haste  the  poem  was  written.  Tliis  highly 
colored  rhymed  romance  of  modern  life  proved 
far  more  attractive  to  the  general  reader  than 
some  of  the  more  elaborate  and  more  truly 
artistic  pieces  in  the  edition  of  1844.  It  was 
also  a  special  favorite  both  with  Carlyle  and 
Miss  Martineau. 

A  Poet  writes  to  his  Friend.  Place  —  A  Boom 
in  Wycombe  Hall.  Time  —  Late  in  the  even- 
ing. 


Dear  my  friend  and  fellow  -  student,  I 
would  lean  my  spirit  o'er  you  ! 

Down  the  purple  of  this  chamber  tears 
should  scarcely  run  at  will. 


I  am  humbled  who  was  humble.  Friend, 
I  bow  my  head  before  you: 

You  should  lead  me  to  my  peasants,  but 
their  faces  are  too  still. 

II 

There 's  a  lady,  an  earl's  daughter,  —  she 

is  proud  and  she  is  noble, 
And  she  treads  the  crimson  carpet  and  she 

breathes  the  perfumed  air, 
And  a  kingly  blood  sends  glances  up,  her 

princely  eye  to  trouble. 
And  the  shadow  of  a  monarch's  crown  is 

softened  in  her  hair. 


Ill 

She  has  halls   among   the  woodlands,  she 

has  castles  by  the  breakers, 
She  has  farms  and  she  has  manors,  she  can 

threaten  and  command: 
And  the  palpitating  engines  snort  in  steam 

across  her  acres, 
As  they  mark  upon  the  blasted  heaven  the 

measure  of  the  laud. 


IV 

There    are   none    of  England's   daughters 

who  can  show  a  prouder  presence; 
Upon   princely   suitors'    praying   she    has 

looked  ill  her  disdain. 
She  was  sprung  of  English  nobles,  I  was 

born  of  English  peasants; 
What  was  /  that  I  should  love  her,  save 

for  competence  to  pain  ? 


I  was  only  a  poor  poet,  made  for  singing 
at  her  casement. 

As  the  finches  or  the  thrushes,  while  she 
thought  of  other  things. 

Oh,  she  walked  so  high  above  me,  she  ap- 
peared to  my  abasement. 

In  her  lovely  silken  murmur,  like  an  angel 
clad  in  wings  ! 

VI 

Many  vassals  bow  before  her  as  her  car- 
riage sweeps  their  doorways; 

She  has  blessed  their  little  children,  as  a 
priest  or  queen  were  she: 


LADY   GERALDINE'S    COURTSHIP 


119 


Far  too  tender,  or  too  cruel  far,  her  smile 

upon  the  poor  was, 
For  I  thought  it  was  the  same  smile  which 

she  used  to  smile  on  me. 

VII 

She  has  voters  in  the  Commons,  she  has 
lovers  in  the  palace. 

And,  of  all  the  fair  court-ladies,  few  have 
jewels  half  as  line; 

Oft  the  Prince  has  named  her  beauty  'twixt 
the  red  wine  and  the  chalice: 

Oh,  and  what  was  /  to  love  her  ?  my  be- 
loved, my  Geraldine  ! 

VIII 

Yet  I  could  not  choose  but  love  her:  I  was 

born  to  poet-uses. 
To  love  all  things  set  above  me,  all  of  good 

and  all  of  fair. 
Nymphs  of  mountain,  not  of  valley,  we  are 

wont  to  call  the  Muses; 
And  in  nympholeptic  climbing,  poets  pass 

from  mount  to  star. 

IX 

And  because  I  was  a  poet,  and  because  the 

public  praised  me, 
With  a  critical  deduction  for  the  modern 

writer's  fault, 
I  could  sit  at  rich  men's  tables,  —  though 

the  courtesies  that  raised  me. 
Still  suggested  clear  between  us  the  pale 

spectrum  of  the  salt. 

X 

And  they  praised  me  in  her  presence  — 
'  Will  your  book  appear  this  sum- 
mer ?  ' 

Then  returning'  to  each  other  — '  Yes,  our 
plans  are  for  the  moors. 

Then  with  whisper  dropped  behind  me  — 
'  There  he  is  !  the  latest  comer. 

Oh,  she  only  likes  his  verses  !  what  is  over, 
she  endures. 

XI 

'  Quite  low-born,  self-educated  !  somewhat 

gifted  though  by  nature, 
And  we  make  a  point  of  asking  him,  —  of 

being  very  kind. 
You  may  speak,  he  does  not  hear  you  !  and, 

besides,  he  writes  no  satire,  — 
All  these  serpents  kept  by  charmers  leave 

the  natural  sting  behind.' 


XII 
I  grew  scornfuller,  grew  colder,  as  I  stood 

up  there  among  them, 
Till  as  frost  intense  will  burn  you,  the  cold 

scorning  scorched  my  brow; 
When  a  sudden    silver   speaking,  gravely 

cadenced,  over-rung  them. 
And  a  sudden  silken  stirring  touched  my 

inner  nature  through. 

XIII 

I   looked  upward  and  beheld  her:  with  a 

calm  and  regnant  spirit, 
Slowly  round  she  swept   her  eyelids,  and 

said  clear  before  them  all  — 
'  Have   you   such   superfluous    honor,    sir, 

that  able  to  confer  it 
You  will  come  down.  Mister  Bertram,  as 

my  guest  to  Wycombe  Hall  ?  ' 

XIV 

Here  she  paused ;  she  had  been  paler  at  the 

first  word  of  her  speaking, 
But,  because  a  silence  followed  it,  blushed 

somewhat,  as  for  shame: 
Then,  as  scorning  her  own  feeling,  resumed 

calmly  —  '  I  am  seeking 
More  distinction  than  these  gentlemen  think 

worthy  of  my  claim. 

XV 

*  Ne'ertheless,  you  see,  I  seek  it  —  not  be- 
cause I  am  a  woman,' 

(Here  her  smile  sprang  like  a  fountain  and, 
so,  overflowed  her  mouth) 

'  But  because  my  woods  in  Sussex  have 
some  purple  shades  at  gloaming 

Which  are  worthy  of  a  king  in  state,  op 
poet  in  his  youth. 

XVI 

'  I  invite  you,  Mister  Bertram,  to  no  scene 

for  worldly  speeches  — 
Sir,  I  scarce  should  dare  —  but  only  where 

God  asked  the  thrushes  first: 
And  if  you  will  sing  beside   them,  in  the 

covert  of  my  beeches, 
I  will  thank  you  for  the  woodlands,  —  for 

the  human  world,  at  worst.' 

XVII 

Then  she  smiled  around  right  childly,  then 
she  gazed  around  right  queenly, 

And  I  bowed — I  could  not  answer;  alter- 
nated light  and  gloom  — 


I20 


POEMS   OF   1844 


While  as  one  who  quells  the  lions,  with  a 

steady  eye  serenely, 
She,  with  level  fronting  eyelids,  passed  out 

stately  from  the  room. 

XVIII 

Oh,  the  blessed  woods  of  Sussex,  I  can  hear 
them  still  around  me. 

With  their  leafy  tide  of  greenery  still  rip- 
pling up  the  wind  ! 

Oh,  the  cursed  woods  of  Sussex  !  where  the 
hunter's  arrow  found  me. 

When  a  fair  face  and  a  tender  voice  had 
made  me  mad  and  blind  ! 

XIX 

In  that  ancient  hall  of  Wycombe  thronged 

the  numerous  guests  invited, 
And  the   lovely   London   ladies   trod   the 

floors  with  gliding  feet; 
And  their  voices  low  with  fashion,  not  with 

feeling,  softly  freighted 
All  the  air  about  the  windows  with  elastic 

laughters  sweet. 

XX 

For  at  eve   the  open  windows  flung  their 

light  out  on  the  terrace 
Which  the  floating  orbs  of  curtains  did  with 

gradual  shadow  sweep, 
While   the  swans  upon    the    river,  fed   at 

morning  by  the  heiress. 
Trembled  downward  through  their  snowy 

wings  at  music  in  their  sleep. 

XXI 

And  there   evermore    was  music,  both  of 

instrument  and  singing. 
Till  the  finches  of   the   shrubberies  grew 

restless  in  the  dark; 
But  the  cedars  stood  up  motionless,  each  in 

a  moonlight's  ringing, 
And  the  deer,  half  in  the  glimmer,  strewed 

the  hollows  of  the  park. 

XXII 

And  though  sometimes  she  would  bind  me 

with  her  silver-corded  speeches 
To   commix  my  words  and   laughter  with 

the  converse  and  the  jest, 
Oft  I  sat  apart  and,  gazing  on   the  river 

through  the  beeches, 
Heard,  as  pure  the  swans  swam  down  it, 

her  pure  voice  o'erfloat  the  rest. 


XXIII 

In  the  morning,  horn  of  huntsman,  hoof  of 

steed  and  laugh  of  rider. 
Spread  out  cheery  from  the  courtyard  till 

we  lost  them  in  the  hills, 
While  herself  and   other   ladies,  and   her 

suitors  left  beside  her. 
Went  a-wandering  up  the  gardens  through 

the  laurels  and  abeles. 

XXIV 

Thus,  her  foot  upon  the  new-mown  grass, 

bareheaded,  with  the  flowing 
Of    the   virginal   white   vesture   gathered 

closely  to  her  throat, 
And  the  golden  ringlets  in  her  neck  just 

quickened  by  her  going, 
And  appearing  to  breathe  sun  for  air,  and 

doubting  if  to  float,  — 

XXV 

With  a  bunch  of  dewy  maple,  which  her 
right  hand  held  above  her. 

And  which  trembled  a  green  shadow  in  be- 
twixt her  and  the  skies. 

As  she  turned  her  face  in  going,  thus,  she 
drew  me  on  to  love  her, 

And  to  worship  the  divineness  of  the  smile 
hid  in  her  eyes. 

XXVI 

For  her  eyes  alone  smile  constantlj^;  her 

lips  have  serious  sweetness. 
And  her  front  is  calm,  the  dimple  rarely 

ripples  on  the  cheek; 
But  her  deep  blue  eyes  smile  constantly,  as 

if  they  in  discreetness 
Kept  the  secret  of  a  happy  dream  she  did 

not  care  to  speak. 

XXVII 

Thus  she  drew  me  the  first  morning,  out 

across  into  the  garden. 
And  I  walked  among  her  noble  friends  and 

could  not  keep  behind. 
Spake  she  unto  all  and  unto  me  —  *  Behold, 

I  am  the  warden 
Of  the  song-birds  in  these  lindens,  which 

are  cages  to  their  mind. 

XXVIII 

*  But  within  this  swarded  circle  into  which 

the  lime-walk  brings  us. 
Whence  the  beeches,  rounded  greenly,  stand 

away  in  reverent  fear, 


LADY  GERALDINE'S  COURTSHIP 


121 


I  will  let  no  music  enter,  saving  what  the 

fountain  sings  us 
Which  the  lilies  round  the  basin  may  seem 

pure  enough  to  hear. 

XXIX 

*The  live  air  that  waves  the  lilies  waves 

the  slender  jet  of  water 
Like  a  holy  thought  sent  feebly  up  from 

soul  of  fasting  saint: 
Whereby  lies  a  marble    Silence,  sleeping 

(Lough  the  sculptor  wrought  her), 
So  asleep  she  is  forgetting  to  say  Hush ! 

—  a  fancy  quaint. 

XXX 

*  Mark  how  heavy  white  her  eyelids  !  not 

a  dream  between  them  lingers; 

And  the  left  hand's  index  droppeth  from 
the  lips  upon  the  cheek: 

While  the  right  hand,  —  with  the  symbol- 
rose  held  slack  within  the  fingers,  — 

Has  fallen  backward  in  the  basin  —  yet 
this  Silence  will  not  speak  ! 

XXXI 

*  That  the  essential  meaning  growing  may 

exceed  the  special  symbol. 
Is  the  thought  as  I  conceive  it:  it  applies 

more  high  and  low. 
Our  true  noblemen  will  often  through  right 

nobleness  grow  humble. 
And  assert  an  inward   honor  by  denying 

outward  show.' 

XXXII 

'Nay,  your  Silence,'  said  I,  'truly,  holds 
her  symbol-rose  but  slackly. 

Yet  she  holds  it,  or  would  scarcely  be  a  Si- 
lence to  our  ken: 

And  your  nobles  wear  their  ermine  on  the 
outside,  or  walk  blackly 

In  the  presence  of  the  social  law  as  mere 
ignoble  men. 

XXXIII 

'  Let    the    poets    dream    such    dreaming  ! 

madam,  in  these  British  islands 
'T  is  the  substance  that  wanes  ever,  'tis  the 

symbol  that  exceeds. 
Soon  we  shall  have  nought  but  symbol :  and, 

for  statues  like  this  Silence, 
Shall  accept  the  rose's  image  —  in  another 

case,  the  weed's.' 


XXXIV 

*  Not  so  quickly,'  she  retorted,  —  '  1  con- 
fess, where'er  you  go,  you 

Find  for  things,  names  —  shows  for  actions, 
and  pure  gold  for  honor  clear: 

But  when  all  is  run  to  symbol  in  the  Social, 
I  will  throw  you 

The  world's  book  which  now  reads  dryly, 
and  sit  down  with  Silence  here.' 

XXXV 

Half  in  playfulness  she  spoke,  I  thought, 

and  half  in  indignation; 
Friends,  who  listened,  laughed  her  words 

off,  while  her  lovers  deemed  her  fair: 
A  fair  woman,  flushed  with  feeling,  in  her 

noble-lighted  station 
Near    the    statue's    white    reposing  —  and 

both  bathed  in  sunny  air  ! 

XXXVI 

With  the  trees  round,  not  so  distant  but 

you  heard  their  vernal  murmur. 
And  beheld  in  light  and  shadow  the  leaves 

in  and  outward  move. 
And  the  little  fountain  leaping  toward  the 

sun-heart  to  be  warmer. 
Then  recoiling  in  a  tremble  from  the  too 

much  light  above. 

XXXVII 

'T  is  a  picture  for  remembrance.     And  thus, 

morning  after  morning, 
Did  I  follow  as  she  drew  me  by  the  spirit 

to  her  feet. 
Why,  her  greyhound  followed  also  !  dogs  — 

we  both  were  dogs  for  scorning  — 
To  be  sent  back  when  she  pleased  it  and 

her  path  lay  through  the  wheat. 

XXXVIII 

And  thus,  morning  after  morning,  spite  of 

vows  and  spite  of  sorrow. 
Did   I    follow  at  her  drawing,   while   the 

week-days  passed  along,  — 
Just  to  feed  the  swans  this  noontide,  or  to 

see  the  fawns  to-morrow. 
Or  to  teach  the  hill-side  echo  some  sweet 

Tuscan  in  a  song. 

XXXIX 

Ay,  for  sometimes  on  the  hill-side,  while  we 

sate  down  in  the  gowans. 
With  the  forest  green  behind  us  and  its 

shadow  cast  before, 


132 


POEMS   OF   1844 


And  the  river  running  under,  and  across  it 

from  the  rowans 
A  brown  partridge  whirring  near  us  till  we 

felt  the  air  it  bore,  — 


XL 

There,  obedient  to  her  praying,  did  I  read 

aloud  the  poems 
Made    to    Tuscan    flutes,    or    instruments 

more  various  of  our  own; 
Read  the  pastoral  parts  of  Spenser,  or  the 

subtle  interflowings 
Found  in  Petrarch's  sonnets  —  here  's  the 

book,  the  leaf  is  folded  down  ! 

XLI 

Or  at   times   a   modern   volume,    Words- 
worth's solemn-thoughted  idyl, 

Howitt's   ballad-verse,    or   Tennyson's   en- 
chanted reverie, — 

Or  from  Browning  some  '  Pomegranate,' 
which,  if  cut  deep  down  the  middle. 

Shows  a  heart  within  blood-tinctured,  of  a 
veined  humanity. 

XLII 

Or  at  times  I  read  there,  hoarsely,  some 

new  poem  of  my  making: 
Poets  ever  fail  in  reading  their  own  verses 

to  their  worth, 
For  the  echo  in  you  breaks  upon  the  words 

which  you  are  speaking. 
And   the    chariot    wheels   jar   in  the  gate 

through  which  you  drive  them  forth. 

XLIII 

After,  when  we  were  grown  tired  of  books, 

the  silence  round  us  flinging 
A  slow  arm  of  sweet  compression,  felt  with 

beatings  at  the  breast, 
She  would  break  out  on  a  sudden  in  a  gush 

of  woodland  singing. 
Like  a  child's  emotion  in  a  god  —  a  naiad 

tired  of  rest. 

XLIV 

Oh,  to  see  or  hear  her  singing  !  scarce  I 

know  which  is  divinest, 
For   her   looks  sing   too  —  she    modulates 

her  gestures  on  the  tune. 
And  her  mouth    stirs  with  the  song,  like 

song;  and  when  the  notes  are  finest, 
'T  is  the  eyes   that   shoot  out   vocal  light 

and  seem  to  swell  them  on. 


XLV 

Then  we  talked  —  oh,  how  we  talked  ! 
her  voice,  so  cadenced  in  the  talking, 

Made  another  singing  —  of  the  soul!  a 
music  without  bars: 

While  the  leafy  sounds  of  woodlands,  hum- 
ming round  where  we  were  walking, 

Brought  interposition  worthy-sweet,  —  as 
skies  about  the  stars. 

XLVI 

And  she  spake  such  good  thoughts  natural, 
as  if  she  always  thought  them; 

She  had  sympathies  so  rapid,  open,  free  as 
bird  on  branch. 

Just  as  ready  to  fly  east  as  west,  whichever 
way  besought  them. 

In  the  birchen-wood  a  chirrup,  or  a  cock- 
crow in  the  grange. 

XLVII 

In  her   utmost  lightness  there  is  truth  — 

and  often  she  speaks  lightly, 
Has   a   grace   in    being    gay   which   even 

mournful  souls  approve. 
For  the  root  of  some  grave  earnest  thought 

is  understruck  so  rightly 
As  to  justify  the  foliage  and  the  waving 

flowers  above. 

XLVIII 

And   she   talked   on  —  lue   talked,  rather  ! 

upon  all  things,  substance,  shadow. 
Of  the  sheep  that  browsed  the  grasses,  of 

the  reapers  in  the  corn. 
Of  the  little  children  from  the  schools,  seen 

winding  through  the  meadow. 
Of  the  poor  rich  world  beyond  them,  still 

kept  poorer  by  its  scorn. 

XLIX 

So,  of  men,  and  so,  of  letters  —  books  are 

men  of  higher  stature, 
And  the  only  men  that   speak   aloud   for 

future  times  to  hear; 
So,    of    mankind    in   the    abstract,    which 

grows  slowly  into  nature. 
Yet  will  lift   the  cry  of    'progress,'  as  it 

trod  from  sphere  to  sphere. 


And  her  custom  was  to  praise  me  when  I 
said,  —  '  The  Age  culls  simples, 

With  a  broad  clown's  back  turned  broadly 
to  the  glory  of  the  stars. 


LADY   GERALDINE'S   COURTSHIP 


123 


We  are  gods  by  our  own  reek'ning,  and 
may  well  shut  up  the  temples, 

And  wield  on,  amid  the  incense-steam,  the 
thunder  of  our  ears. 

LI 

*  For  we  throw  out   acclamations  of   self- 

thanking,  self-admiring. 
With,  at  every  mile  run  faster,  —  "  O  the 

wondrous  wondrous  age  !  " 
Little  thinking:  if    we  work  our  SOULS  as 

nobly  as  our  iron. 
Or  if  angels  will  commend  us  at  the  goal 

of  pilgrimage. 

LII 

*  Why,  what  is  this  patient   entrance  into 

nature's  deep  resources 
But  the  child's  most   gradual  learning  to 

walk  upright  without  bane  ! 
When   we   drive    out,  from   the    cloud    of 

steam,  majestical  white  horses. 
Are  we  grreater  than  the  first  men  who  led 

black  ones  by  the  mane  ? 

LIII 

*  If   we   trod   the   deeps   of   ocean,  if   we 

struck  the  stars  in  rising, 
If  we  wrapped  the  globe  intensely  with  one 

hot  electric  breath, 
'T  were  but   power  within  our   tether,  no 

new  spirit-power  comprising, 
And  in  life  we  were  not  greater  men,  nor 

bolder  men  in  death.' 

Liv 

She  was  patient  with  my  talking;  and  I 
loved  her,  loved  her  certes 

As  I  loved  all  heavenly  objects,  with  up- 
lifted eyes  and  hands; 

As  I  loved  pure  inspirations,  loved  the 
graces,  loved  the  virtues, 

In  a  Love  content  with  writing  his  own 
name  on  desert  sands. 


LV 

Or  at  least  I  thought  so,  purely;  thought 

no  idiot  Hope  was  raising 
Any  crown  to  crown  Love's  silence,  silent 

Love  that  sate  alone: 
Out,  alas  !  the  stag  is  like  me,  he  that  tries 

to  go  on  grazing 
With  the    great   deep    gun-wound,   in   his 

neck,  then  reels  with  sudden  moan. 


LVI 

It  was  thus  I  reeled.     I  told  you  that  her 

hand  had  many  suitors; 
But    she  smiles  them  down  imperially  as 

Venus  did  the  waves, 
And  with   such  a  gracious   coldness    that 

they  cannot  press  their  futures 
On    the    present    of   her    courtesy,    which 

yieldingly  enslaves. 

LVII 

And  this  morning  as  I  sat  alone  within  the 

inner  chamber 
With  the  great  saloon  beyond   it,  lost  in 

pleasant  thought  serene. 
For   I   had   been   reading    Camoens,    that 

poem  you  remember, 
Which  his  lady's  eyes  are  praised  in  as  the 

sweetest  ever  seen. 

LVIII 

And  the  book  lay  open,  and  my  thought 
flew  from  it,  taking  from  it 

A  vibration  and  impulsion  to  an  end  be- 
yond its  own, 

As  the  branch  of  a  green  osier,  when  a 
child  would  overcome  it, 

Springs  up  freely  from  his  claspings  and 
goes  swinging  in  the  sun. 

LIX 

As   I  mused  I  heard  a  murmur;  it  grew 

deep  as  it  grew  longer, 
Speakers  using  earnest  language  —  '  Lady 

Geraldine,  you  loould  !  ' 
And  I  heard  a  voice  that  pleaded,  ever  on 

in  accents  stronger. 
As  a  sense  of  reason  gave  it  power  to  make 

its  rhetoric  good. 

LX 

Well  I  knew  that  voice;  it  was  an  earl's,  of 
soul  that  matched  his  station. 

Soul  completed  into  lordship,  might  and 
right  read  on  his  brow ; 

Very  finely  courteous;  far  too  proud  to 
doubt  his  domination 

Of  the  common  people,  he  atones  for  gran- 
deur by  a  bow. 

LXI 

High  straight  forehead,  nose  of  eagle,  cold 
blue  eyes  of  less  expression 

Than  resistance,  coldly  casting  off  the  looks 
of  other  men, 


124 


POEMS   OF   1844 


As  steel,  arrows ;  unelastic  lips  which  seem 

to  taste  possession 
And  be  cautious  lest  the  common  air  should 

injure  or  distrain. 

LXII 

For  the  rest,  accomplished,  upright,  —  ay, 

and  standing  by  his  order 
With  a  bearing   not  ungraceful;    fond  of 

art  and  letters  too; 
Just  a  good  man  made  a  proud  man,  —  as 

the  sandy  rocks  that  border 
A  wild  coast,  by  circumstances,  in  a  regnant 

ebb  and  flow. 

LXIII 

Thus,  I  knew  that  voice,  I  heard  it,  and  I 

could  not  help  the  hearkening: 
In   the  room  I  stood  up  blindly,  and  my 

burning  heart  within 
Seemed  to  seethe  and  fuse  my  senses  till 

they  ran  on  all  sides  darkening, 
And  scorched,  weighed  like  melted  metal 

round  my  feet  that  stood  therein. 

LXIV 

And  that  voice,  I  heard  it  pleading,  for 
love's  sake,  for  wealth,  position, 

For  the  sake  of  liberal  uses  and  great  ac- 
tions to  be  done: 

And  she  interrupted  gently,  '  Nay,  my 
lord,  the  old  tradition 

Of  your  Normans,  by  some  worthier  hand 
than  mine  is,  should  be  won.' 

LXV 

*  Ah,  that  white  hand  ! '  he  said  quickly,  — 

and  in  his  he  either  drew  it 
Or  attempted  —  for  with  gravity  and  in- 
stance she  replied, 
*Nay,  indeed,  my   lord,   this  talk  is  vain, 

and  we  had  best  eschew  it 
And  pass  on,  like  friends,  to  other  points 
less  easy  to  decide.' 

LXVI 

What   he   said  again,    I   know   not:   it   is 

likely  that  his  trouble 
Worked   his  pride  up  to  the   surface,  for 

she  answered  in  slow  scorn, 

*  And  your  lordship  judges  rightly.    Whom 

I  marry  shall  be  noble. 
Ay,  and  wealthy.     I  shall  never  blush  to 
think  how  he  was  born.' 


LXVII 

There,  1  maddened  !  her  words  stung  me. 
Life  swept  through  me  into  fever, 

And  my  soul  sprang  up  astonished,  sprang 
full-statured  in  an  hour. 

Know  you  what  it  is  when  anguish,  with 
apocalyptic  never. 

To  a  Pythian  height  dilates  you,  and  de- 
spair sublimes  to  power  ? 

LXVIII 

From   my   brain   the    soul-wings   budded, 

waved  a  flame  about  my  body, 
Whence  conventions  coiled  to  ashes.    I  felt 

self-drawn  out,  as  man, 
From  amalgamate  false  natures,  and  I  saw 

the  skies  grow  ruddy 
With  the  deepening  feet  of  angels,  and  I 

knew  what  spirits  can. 

LXIX 

I  was  mad,  inspired  —  say  either  !  (anguish 

worketh  inspiration) 
Was  a  man  or  beast  — perhaps  so,  for  the 

tiger  roars  when  speared; 
And  I  walked  on,  step  by  step  along  the 

level  of  my  passion  — 
Oh  my  soul  !  and  passed  the  doorway   to 

her  face,  and  never  feared. 

LXX 

He  had  left  her,  peradventure,  when  my 

footstep  proved  my  coming. 
But   for  her  —  she  half   arose,  then   sate, 

grew  scarlet  and  grew  pale. 
Oh,  she  trembled  !  'tis  so  always   with  a 

worldly  man  or  woman 
In  the  presence  of  true  spirits;  what  else 

can  they  do  but  quail  ? 

LXXI 

Oh,  she  fluttered  like  a  tame  bird,  in  among 

its  forest  brothers 
Far  too  strong  for  it ;  then  drooping,  bowed 

her  face  upon  her  hands ; 
And   I    spake    out  wildly,   fiercely,  brutal 

truths  of  her  and  others: 
/,  she  planted  in  the  desert,  swathed  her, 

windlike,  with  my  sands. 

LXXII 

I  plucked  up  her  social  fictions,  bloody- 
rooted  though  leaf-verdant. 

Trod  them  down  with  words  of  shaming,  — 
all  the  purple  and  the  gold. 


LADY    GERALDINE'S    COURTSHIP 


125 


All  the  '  landed  stakes '  and  lordships,  all 
that  spirits  pure  and  ardent 

Are  cast  out  of  love  and  honor  because 
chancing  not  to  hold. 

LXXIII 

*  For  myself  I  do  not  argue, '  said  I, '  though 

I  love  you,  madam. 
But   for   better   souls   that   nearer   to  the 

height  of  yours  have  trod: 
And  this  age  shows,  to  my  thinking,  still 

more  infidels  to  Adam 
Than  directly,  by  profession,  simple  infidels 

to  God. 

LXXIV 

<Yet,  O   God,'  I  said,  'O  grave,'  I  said, 

O  mother's  heart  and  bosom, 
With  whom  first  and  last  are  equal,  saint 

and  corpse  and  little  child  ! 
We  are  fools  to  your  deductions,  in  these 

figments  of  heart-closing; 
We  are  traitors  to  your  causes,  in   these 

sympathies  defiled. 

LXXV 

*  Learn   more   reverence,  madam,  not   for 

rank    or    wealth  —  that    needs     no 

learning: 
That  comes  quickly,  quick  as  sin  does,  ay, 

and  culminates  to  sin; 
But  for  Adam's  seed,  man  !      Trust  me, 

't  is  a  clay  above  your  scorning, 
With  God's  image  stamped  upon  it,  and 

God's  kindling  breath  within. 

LXXVI 

*  What  right  have  you,  madam,  gazing 

your  palace  mirror  daily. 
Getting  so  by  heart  your  beauty  which  all 

others  must  adore, 
While  you  draw  the  golden  ringlets  down 

your  fingers,  to  vow  gaily 
You  will  wed  no  man  that  's  only  good  to 

God,  and  nothing  more  ? 

LXXXVII 

*  Why,  what  right  have  you,  made  fair  by 

that  same  God,  the  sweetest  woman 
Of  all  women  He  has  fashioned,  with  your 

lovely  spirit-face 
Which  would  seem  too  near  to  vanish  if  its 

smile  were  not  so  human. 
And  your  voice  of  holy  sweetness,  turning 

common  words  to  grace,  — 


LXXVIII 

'  What  right  can  you  have,  God's  other 
works  to  scorn,  despise,  revile  them 

In  the  gross,  as  mere  men,  broadly  —  not 
as  noble  men,  forsooth,  — 

As  mere  Pariahs  of  the  outer  world,  for- 
bidden to  assoil  them 

In  the  hope  of  living,  dying,  near  that 
sweetness  of  your  mouth  ? 

LXXIX 

'  Have  you  any  answer,  madam  ?  If  my 
spirit  were  less  earthly, 

If  its  instrument  were  gifted  with  a  better 
silver  string, 

I  would  kneel  down  where  I  stand,  and 
say  —  Behold  me  !  I  am  worthy 

Of  thy  loving,  for  I  love  thee.  I  am  wor- 
thy as  a  king. 

LXXX 

'  As  it  is  —  your  ermined  pride,  I  swear, 
shall  feel  this  stain  upon  her. 

That  /,  poor,  weak,  tost  with  passion, 
scorned  by  me  and  you  again. 

Love  you,  madam,  dare  to  love  you,  to  my 
grief  and  your  dishonor, 

To  my  endless  desolation,  and  your  impo- 
tent disdain  ! ' 

LXXXI 

More  mad  words  like  these  —  mere  mad- 
ness !  friend,  I  need  not  write  them 
fuller. 

For  I  hear  my  hot  soul  dropping  on  the 
lines  in  showers  of  tears. 

Oh,  a  woman  !  friend,  a  woman  !  why,  a 
beast  had  scarce  been  duller 

Than  roar  bestial  loud  complaints  against 
the  shining  of  the  spheres. 

LXXXII 

But  at  last  there  came  a  pause.     I  stood  all 

vibrating  with  thunder 
Which   my   soul    had   used.     The   silence 

drew  her  face  up  like  a  call. 
Could  you  guess  what  word  she  uttered  ? 

She  looked  up,  as  if  in  wonder, 
With  tears  beaded  on  her  lashes,  and  said  — 

*  Bertram  !  '  —  It  was  all. 

LXXXIII 

If  she  had  cursed  me,  and  she  might  have, 
or  if  even,  with  queenly  bearing 

Which  at  need  is  used  by  women,  she  had 
risen  up  and  said, 


126 


POEMS   OF   1844 


'  Sir,  you  are  my  guest,  and  therefore  I 
have  given  you  a  full  hearing: 

Now,  beseech  you,  choose  a  name  exacting 
somewhat  less,  instead  ! '  — 

LXXXIV 

I  had  borne  it :  but  that  '  Bertram '  —  why, 

it  lies  there  on  the  paper 
A  mere  word,  without  her  accent,  and  you 

cannot  judge  the  weight 
Of  the  calm  which  crushed  my  passion:  I 

seemed  drowning  in  a  vapor; 
And  her  gentleness  destroyed  me  whom  her 

scorn  made  desolate. 

LXXXV 

So,  struck  backward  and  exhausted  by  that 
inward  flow  of  passion 

Which  had  rushed  on,  sparing  nothing,  into 
forms  of  abstract  truth. 

By  a  logic  agonizing  through  unseemly  de- 
monstration. 

And  by  youth's  own  anguish  turning  grimly 
gray  the  hairs  of  youth,  — 

LXXXVI 

By  the  sense  accursed  and  instant,  that  if 

even  I  spake  wisely 
I   spake   basely  —  using   truth,  if  what  I 

spake  indeed  was  true. 
To  avenge  wrong  on  a  woman  —  her,  who 

sate  there  weighing  nicely 
A  poor  manhood's  worth,  found  guilty  of 

such  deeds  as  I  could  do  !  — 

LXXXVII 

By  such  wrong  and  woe  exhausted  —  what 

I  suffered  and  occasioned,  — 
As  a  wild  horse  through  a  city  runs  with 

lightning  in  his  eyes, 
And  then  dashing  at  a  church's  cold  and 

passive  wall,  impassioned. 
Strikes   the  death  into  his  burning  brain, 

and  blindly  drops  and  dies  — 

LXXXVIII 

So  I  fell,  struck  down  before  her  —  do  you 

blame  me,  friend,  for  weakness  ? 
'T  was  my  strength  of  passion  slew  me  !  — 

fell  before  her  like  a  stone; 
Fast  the  dreadful  world  rolled  from  me  on 

its  roaring  wheels  of  blackness: 
When  the  light  came  I  was  lying  in  this 

chamber  and  alone. 


LXXXIX 
Oh,  of  course  she  charged  her  lacqueys  to 

bear  out  the  sickly  burden, 
And  to  cast  it  from  her  scornful  sight,  but 

not  heyond  the  gate; 
She  is  too  kind  to  be  cruel,  and  too  haughty 

not  to  pardon 
Such  a  man  as  I;  't  were  something  to  be 

level  to  her  hate. 

XC 

But  for  me  —  you  now  are  conscious  why, 

my  friend,  I  write  this  letter. 
How  my  life  is  read  all  backward,  and  the 

charm  of  life  undone. 
I  shall  leave  her  house  at  dawn;  I  would 

to-night,  if  I  were  better  — 
And    I    charge  my  soul  to  hold  my  body 

strengthened  for  the  sun. 

XCI 

When  the  sun  has  dyed  the  oriel,  I  depart, 
with  no  last  gazes, 

No  weak  moanings  (one  word  only,  left  in 
writing  for  her  hands). 

Out  of  reach  of  all  derision,  and  some  un- 
availing praises. 

To  make  front  against  this  anguish  in  the 
far  and  foreign  lands. 

XCII 

Blame  me  not.     I  would  not  squander  life 

in  grief —  I  am  abstemious. 
I  but  nurse  my  spirit's  falcon  that  its  wing 

may  soar  again. 
There  's  no  room  for  tears  of  weakness  in  the 

blind  eyes  of  a  Phemius: 
Into  work  the  poet  kneads  them,  and  he  does 

not  die  till  then. 


CONCLUSION 


Bertram  finished  the  last  pages,  while  along 
the  silence  ever 

Still  in  hot  and  heavy  splashes  fell  the  tears 
on  every  leaf. 

Having  ended,  he  leans  backward  in  his 
chair,  with  lips  that  quiver 

From  the  deep  unspoken,  ay,  and  deep  un- 
written thoughts  of  grief. 


A   VISION   OF   POETS 


127 


II 
Soil  !  how  still  the  lady  staudeth  !     'T  is  a 

dream  —  a  dream  of  mercies  ! 
'Twixt  the  purple  lattiee-eurtaius  how  she 

stand eth  still  and  pale  ! 
'T  is  a  vision,  sure,  of  mercies,  sent  to  soften 

his  self-curses, 
Sent  to  sweep  a  patient  quiet  o'er  the  tossing 

of  his  wail. 

Ill 

*  Eyes,'  he  said,    '  now  throbbing    through 

me  !  are  ye  eyes  that  did  undo  me  ? 
Shining   eyes,  like   antique   jewels   set    in 

Parian  statue-stone  ! 
Underneath   that  calm  white  forehead  are 

ye  ever  burning  torrid 
O'er  the  desolate  sand-desert  of  my  heart 

and  life  undone  ?  ' 

IV 

With  a  murmurous   stir  uncertain,  in  the 

air  the  purple  curtain 
Swelleth   in   and  swelleth  out  around  her 

motionless  pale  brows. 
While    the    g-lidiuo-   of  the    river   sends   a 

rippling  noise  for  ever 
Through   the  open  casement  whitened  by 

the  moonlight's  slant  repose. 


Said  he  —  '  Vision  of  a  lady  !  stand  there 

silent,  stand  there  steady  ! 
Now  I  see  it  plainly,  plainly  now  I  cannot 

hope  or  doubt  — 
There,    the    brows    of   mild    repression  — 

there,  the  lips  of  silent  passion, 
Curved   like  an  archer's  bow  to  send   the 

bitter  arrows  out.' 

VI 

Ever,  evermore  the  while  in  a  slow  silence 

she  kept  smiling, 
And  approached  him  slowly,  slowly,  in  a 

gliding  measured  pace; 
With  her  two  white  hands  extended  as  if 

praying  one  offended. 
And  a  look  of  supplication  gazing  earnest 

in  his  face. 

VII 

Said  he  —  '  Wake  me  by  no  gesture,  — 
sound  of  breath,  or  stir  of  vesture  ! 

Let  the  blessed  apparition  melt  not  yet  to 
its  divine  ! 


No  approaching  —  hush,  no  breathing  !  or 
my  heart  must  swoon  to  death  in 

The  too  utter  life  thou  bringest,  O  thou 
dream  of  Geraldine  !  ' 

VIII 

Ever,  evermore  the  while  in  a  slow  silence 

she  kept  smiling. 
But  the  tears  ran   over   lightly  from  her 

eyes  and  tenderly :  — 
'Dost  thou,  Bertram,  trulj-  love  me?     Is 

no  woman  far  above  me 
Found  more  worthy  of  thy  poet-heart  than 

such  a  one  as  /  ?  ' 

IX 

Said  he  —  'I    would    dream  so   ever,  like 

the  flowing  of  that  river. 
Flowing  ever  in  a  shadow  greenly  onward 

to  the  sea  ! 
So,  thou  vision  of  all  sweetness,  princely  to 

a  full  completeness 
Would   my   heart   and   life    flow   onward, 

deathward,  through  this    dream  of 

THEE ! ' 


Ever,  evermore  the  while  in  a  slow  silence 

she  kept  smiling, 
While  the  silver  tears  ran  faster  down  the 

blushing  of  her  cheeks; 
Then  with  both  her   hands  enfolding  both 

of  his,  she  softly  told  him, 
'  Bertram,   if  I  say  I  love  thee,  ...  't  is 

the  vision  only  speaks.' 

XI 

Softened,  quickened  to  adore  her,  on   his 

knee  he  fell  before  her, 
And  she    whispered    low   in   triumph,    'It 

shall  be  as  I  have  sworn. 
Very  rich  he  is  in  virtues,   very  noble  — 

noble,  certes; 
And  I  shall  not  blush  in  knowing  that  men 

call  him  lowly  born.' 


A   VISION    OF    POETS 

On  September  19,  1843,  Miss  Barrett  wrote 
to  her  stanch  friend  and  valued  literary  coun- 
sellor, Hugh  Stuart  Boyd  :  '  I  have  just  fin- 
ished a  poem  of  some  eight  hundred  lines  called 
"A  Vision  of  Poets ;  "  —  philosophical,  allegori- 
cal, anything   but   popular.     It  is  in  stanzas, 


128 


POEMS    OF    1844 


every  one  an  octosyllabic  triplet,  which  you  will 
think  odd,  and  I  have  not  sanguinity  enoug-h 
to  defend.'  Elsewhere  she  explained  that  the 
object  of  the  poem  was  to  indicate  '  the  neces- 
sary relations  of  genius  to  suffering  and  self- 
sacrifice.'  To  Robert  Browning,  at  least,  the 
'  Vision  of  Poets  '  needed  neither  defence  nor 
elucidation.  Words  appear  almost  to  have 
failed  him  for  the  adequate  expression  of  his 
enthusiasm,  when  he  wrote  to  his  fiancee  on 
Sunday  evening,  August  4,  1845 :  '  Let  me 
say  how  perfect,  absolutely  perfect,  are  those 
three  or  four  pages  in  the  Vision  which  present 
the  Poets  :  —  a  line,  a  few  words  and  the  man 
there  —  one  twang  of  the  bow,  and  the  arrow- 
head in  the  white  —  Shelley's  "  white  ideal 
all  statue-blind ' '  is  perfect  —  how  can  I  coin 
words  ?  And  dear  deaf  old  Hesiod,  and  all, 
all  —  are  perfect  —  perfect.' 

'  O  Sacred  Essence,  lighting  me  this  hour. 
How  may  I  lightly  stile  thy  great  power  ? 

Echo.  Power. 

Power !  but  of  whence  ?  under  the  greenwood 

spraye  ? 
Or  liv'st  in  Heaven  ?  saye. 

Echo.  In  Heavens  aye. 

Iki  Heavens  aye  !  tell,  may  I  it  obtayne 
By  alms,  by  fasting,  prayer,  —  by  paine  ? 

Echo.  By  paine. 

Show  me  the  paine,  it  shall  be  undergone  : 
I  to  mine  end  wiU  still  go  on. 
Echo.  Goon.' 

—  Britannia's  Pastorals. 

A  POET  could  not  sleep  aright, 
For  his  soul  kept  up  too  much  light 
Under  his  eyelids  for  the  night. 

And  thus  he  rose  disquieted 

With  sweet    rhymes   ringing   through   his 

head, 
And  in  the  forest  wandered 

Where,  sloping  up  the  darkest  glades, 
The  moon  had  drawn  long  colonnades 
Upon  whose  floor  the  verdure  fades 

To  a  faint  silver:  pavement  fair,  10 

The    antique   wood-nymphs   scarce   would 

dare 
To  foot-print  o'er,  had  such  been  there, 

And  rather  sit  by  breathlessly, 
With  fear  in  their  large  eyes,  to  see 
The  consecrated  sight.     But  he  — 

The  poet  who,  with  spirit-kiss 
Familiar,  had  long  claimed  for  his 
Whatever  earthly  beauty  is, 


Who  also  in  his  spirit  bore 

A  beauty  passing  the  earth's  store,  —        20 

Walked  calmly  onward  evermore. 

His  aimless  thoughts  in  metre  went, 
Like  a  babe's  hand  without  intent 
Drawn  down  a  seven-stringed  instrument: 

Nor  jarred  it  with  his  humor  as, 
With  a  faint  stirring  of  the  grass. 
An  apparition  fair  did  pass. 

He  might  have  feared  another  time, 
But  all  things  fair  and  strange  did  chime 
With  his  thoughts  then,  as  rhyme  to  rhyme. 

An  angel  had  not  startled  him,  31 

Alighted  from  heaven's  burning  rim 
To  breathe  from  glory  in  the  Dim ; 

Much  less  a  lady  riding  slow 

Upon  a  palfrey  white  as  snow. 

And  smooth  as  a  snow-cloud  could  go. 

Full  upon  his  she  turned  her  face, 
'  What  ho,  sir  poet !  dost  thou  pace 
Our  woods  at  night  in  ghostly  chase 

'  Of  some  fair  Dryad  of  old  tales  4c 

Who  chants  between  the  nightingales 
And  over  sleep  by  song  prevails  ?  ' 

She  smiled;  but  he  could  see  arise 
Her  soul  from  far  adown  her  eyes, 
Prepared  as  if  for  sacrifice. 

She  looked  a  queen  who  seemeth  gay 
From  royal  grace  alone.     '  Now,  nay,' 
He  answered,  *  slumber  passed  away, 

'  Compelled  by  instincts  in  my  head 

That  I  should  see  to-night,  instead  $( 

Of  a  fair  nymph,  some  fairer  Dread.' 

She  looked  up  quickly  to  the  sky 
And  spake:  '  The  moon's  regality 
Will  hear  no  praise;  She  is  as  I. 

*  She  is  in  heaven,  and  I  on  earth ; 
This  is  my  kingdom:  I  come  forth 
To  crown  all  poets  to  their  worth.' 

He  brake  in  with  a  voice  that  mourned; 

*  To  their  worth,  lady  ?     They  are  scorned 
By  men  they  sing  for,  till  inurned.  60 


A  VISION   OF   POETS 


129 


*  To  their  worth  ?     Beauty  in  the  mind 
Leaves  the  hearth  cold,  and  love-refined 
Ambitions  make  the  world  unkind. 

*  The  boor  who  ploughs  the  daisy  down, 
The  chief  whose  mortgage  of  renown, 
Fixed  upon  graves,  has  bought  a  crown  — 

*  Both  these  are  happier,  more  approved 
Than  poets  !  —  why  should  I  be  moved 
In  saying,  both  are  more  beloved  ?  * 

*  The  south  can  judge  not  of  the  north,'    70 
She  resumed  calmly ;  '  I  come  forth 

To  crown  all  poets  to  their  worth. 

*  Yea,  verily,  to  anoint  them  all 
With  blessed  oils  which  surely  shall 
Smell  sweeter  as  the  ages  fall.' 

*  As  sweet,'  the  poet  said,  and  rung 

A  low  sad  laugh,  '  as  flowers  are,  sprung 
Out  of  their  graves  when  they  die  young; 

*  As  sweet  as  window-eglantine. 

Some  bough  of  which,  as  they  decline,      80 
The  hired  nurse  gathers  at  their  sign: 

*  As  sweet,  in  short,  as  perfumed  shroud 
Which  the  gay  Roman  maidens  sewed 
For  English  Keats,  singing  aloud.' 

The  lady  answered,  'Yea,  as  sweet  ! 
The  things  thou  namest  being  complete 
In  fragrance,  as  I  measure  it. 

*  Since  sweet  the  death-clothes  and  the  knell 
Of  him  who  having  lived,  dies  well; 

And  wholly  sweet  the  asphodel  90 

*  Stirred  softly  by  that  foot  of  his. 
When  he  treads  brave  on  all  that  is. 
Into  the  world  of  souls,  from  this. 

*  Since  sweet  the  tears,  dropped  at  the  door 
Of  tearless  Death,  and  even  before: 
Sweet,  consecrated  evermore. 

*  What,  dost  thou  judge  it  a  strange  thing 
That  poets,  crowned  for  vanquishing. 
Should  bear  some  dust  from  out  the  ring  ? 


She  ceased:  her  palfrey's  paces  sent 
No  separate  noises  as  she  went; 
'T  was  a  bee's  hum,  a  little  spent. 

And  while  the  poet  seemed  to  tread 
Along  the  drowsy  noise  so  made. 
The  forest  heaved  up  overhead 

Its  billowy  foliage  through  the  air, 
And  the  calm  stars  did  far  and  spare 
O'erswim  the  masses  everywhere; 


no 


Save  when  the  overtopping  pines 

Did  bar  their  tremulous  light  with  lines 

All  fixed  and  black.    Now  the  moon  shines 

A  broader  glory.  You  may  see 
The  trees  grow  rarer  presently; 
The  air  blows  up  more  fresh  and  free: 

Until  they  come  from  dark  to  light. 

And  from  the  forest  to  the  sight  119 

Of  the  large  heaven-heart,  bare  with  night, 

A  fiery  throb  in  every  star. 
Those  burning  arteries  that  are 
The  conduits  of  God's  life  afar,  — 

A  wild  brown  moorland  underneath. 
And  four  pools  breaking  up  the  heath 
With  white  low  gleamings,  blank  as  death. 

Beside  the  first  pool,  near  the  wood, 
A  dead  tree  in  set  horror  stood. 
Peeled  and  disjointed,  stark  as  rood; 


*  Come  on  with  me,  come  on  with  me. 
And  learn  in  coming :  let  me  free 
Thy  spirit  into  verity.' 


100 


Since  thunder-stricken,  years  ago, 
Fixed  in  the  spectral  strain  and  throe 
Wherewith  it  struggled  from  the  blow: 

A  monumental  tree,  alone, 

That  will  not  bend  in  storms,  nor  groan, 

But  break  off  sudden  like  a  stone. 

Its  lifeless  shadow  lies  oblique 
Upon  the  pool  where,  javelin-like, 
The  star-rays  quiver  while  they  strike. 

'  Drink,'  said  the  lady,  very  still  — 
'  Be  holy  and  cold.'     He  did  her  will 
And  drank  the  starry  water  chill. 

The  next  pool  they  came  near  unto 
Was  bare  of  trees;  there,  only  grew 
Straight  flags,  and  lilies  just  a  few 


130 


140 


I30 


POEMS   OF    1844 


Which  sullen  on  the  water  sate 
And  leant  their  faces  on  the  flat, 
As  weary  of  the  starlight-state. 

'  Drink,'  said  the  lady,  grave  and  slow 
*  World's  use  behoveth  thee  to  know.' 
He  drank  the  bitter  wave  below. 


150 


The  third  pool,  girt  with  thorny  bushes 
And  flaunting  weeds  and  reeds  and  rushes 
That   winds    sang    through    in    mournful 
gushes. 


Was  whitely  smeared  in  many  a  round 
By  a  slow  slime ;  the  starlight  swound 
Over  the  ghastly  light  it  found. 

*  Drink,'  said  the  lady,  sad  and  slow  — 

*  World's  love  behoveth  thee  to  know.' 
He  looked  to  her  commanding  so; 

Her  brow  was  troubled,  but  her  eye         160 
Struck  clear  to  his  soul.     For  all  reply 
He  drank  the  water  suddenly,  — 

Then,  with  a  deathly  sickness,  passed 
Beside  the  fourth  pool  and  the  last. 
Where  weights    of    shadow  were    down- 
cast 

From  yew  and  alder  and  rank  trails 
Of  nightshade  clasping  the  trunk-scales 
And  flung  across  the  intervals 

From  yew  to  yew:  who  dares  to  stoop 
Where  those  dank  branches  overdroop,    170 
Into  his  heart  the  chill  strikes  up; 

He  hears  a  silent  gliding  coil. 

The  snakes  strain  hard  against  the  soil, 

His  foot  slips  in  their  slimy  oil. 

And  toads  seem  crawling  on  his  hand. 
And  clinging  bats  but  dimly  scanned 
Full  in  his  face  their  wings  expand, 

A  paleness  took  the  poet's  cheek: 

'  Must   I   drink    here  ?  '    he    seemed    to 

seek 
The  lady's  will  with  utterance  meek:       180 

*  Ay,  ay,'  she  said,  *  it  so  must  be ;  * 
(And  this  time  she  spake  cheerfully) 

*  Behoves  thee  know  Worlds  cruelty.^ 


He  bowed  his  forehead  till  his  mouth 
Curved  in  the  wave,  and  drank  unlotb 
As  if  from  rivers  of  the  south; 

His  lips  sobbed  through  the  water  rank, 
His  heart  paused  in  him  while  he  drank. 
His  brain  beat  heart-like,  rose  and  sank. 

And  he  swooned  backward  to  a  dream     190 
Wherein  he  lay  'twixt  gloom  and  gleam, 
With  Death  and  Life  at  each  extreme: 

And  spiritual  thunders,  born  of  soul 
Not  cloud,  did  leap  from  mystic  pole 
And  o'er  him  roll  and  counter-roll, 

Crushing  their  echoes  reboant 

With  their   own  wheels.     Did  Heaven  so 

grant 
His  spirit  a  sign  of  covenant  ? 


At  last  came  silence.  A  slow  kiss 
Did  crown  his  forehead  after  this; 
His  eyelids  flew  back  for  the  bliss  — 


200 


The  lady  stood  beside  his  head. 
Smiling  a  thought,  with  hair  dispread; 
The  moonshine  seemed  dishevelled 

In  her  sleek  tresses  manifold 
Like  Danae's  in  the  rain  of  old 
That  dripped  with  melancholy  gold: 

But  SHE  was  holy,  pale  and  high 
As  one  who  saw  an  ecstasy 
Beyond  a  foretold  agony. 


210 


*  Rise  up  ! '  said  she  with  voice  where  song 
Eddied     through    speech,    'rise    up;     be 

strong: 
And  learn  how  right  avenges  wrong.' 

The  poet  rose  up  on  his  feet: 
He  stood  before  an  altar  set 
For  sacrament  with  vessels  meet 


And  mystic  altar-lights  which  shine 
As  if  their  flames  were  crystalline 
Carved  flames  that  would   not   shrink 
pine. 


The  altar  filled  the  central  place 

Of  a  great  church,  and  toward  its  face 

Long  aisles  did  shoot  and  interlace, 


OP 


220 


A  VISION   OF   POETS 


131 


230 


And  from  it  a  continuous  mist 

Of  incense  (round  the  edges  kissed 

By  a  yeUow  light  of  amethyst) 

Wound  upward  slowly  and  throbbingly, 
Cloud  within  cloud,  right  silverly, 
Cloud  above  cloud,  victoriously,  — 

Broke  full  against  the  arched  roof 
And  thence  refracting  eddied  off 
And  floated  throuo^h  the  marble  woof 

Of  many  a  fine- wrought  architrave, 
Then,  poising  its  white  masses  brave, 
Swept  solemnly  down  aisle  and  nave 


Where,  now  in  dark  and  now  in  light, 
The  countless  columns,  glimmering  white. 
Seemed  leading  out  to  the  Infinite : 

Plunged  halfway  up  the  shaft,  they  showed 
In  that  pale  shifting  incense-cloud 
Which  flowed  them  by  and  overflowed 


240 


Till  mist  and  marble  seemed  to  blend. 
And  the  whole  temple,  at  the  end, 
With  its  own  incense  to  distend,  — 

The  arches  like  a  giant's  bow 

To  bend  and  slacken,  —  and  below. 

The  niched  saints  to  come  and  go: 

Alone  amid  the  shifting  scene 
That  central  altar  stood  serene 
In  its  clear  steadfast  taper-sheen. 

Then  first,  the  poet  was  aware 
Of  a  chief  angel  standing  there 
Before  that  altar,  in  the  glare. 

His  eyes  were  dreadful,  for  you  saw 
That  they  saw  God ;  his  lips  and  jaw 
Grand-made  and  strong,  as  Sinai's  Law 

They  could  enunciate  and  refrain 

From  vibratory  after-pain. 

And  his  brow's  height  was  sovereign. 

On  the  vast  background  of  his  wings 

Rises  his  image,  and  he  flings 

From  each  plumed  arc  pale  glitterings 

And  fiery  flakes  (as  beateth,  more 
Or  less,  the  angel-heart)  before 
And  round  him  upon  roof  and  floor, 


250 


260 


Edging  with  fire  the  shifting  fumes, 
While  at  his  side  'twixt  lights  and  glooms 
The  phantasm  of  an  organ  booms. 


Extending  from  which  instrument 
And  angel,  right  and  left- way  bent, 
The  poet's  sight  grew  sentient 


270 


280 


Of  a  strange  company  around 

And  toward  the  altar;  pale  and  bound 

With  bay  above  the  eyes  profound. 

Deathful  their  faces  were,  and  yet 
The  power  of  life  was  in  them  set  — 
Never  forgot  nor  to  forget: 

Sublime  significance  of  mouth. 

Dilated  nostril  full  of  youth. 

And  forehead  royal  with  the  truth. 

These  faces  were  not  multiplied 
Beyond  your  count,  but  side  by  side 
Did  front  the  altar,  glorified, 

Still  as  a  vision,  yet  exprest 

Full  as  an  action  —  look  and  geste 

Of  buried  saint  in  risen  rest. 

The  poet  knew  them.     Faint  and  dim 
His  spirits  seemed  to  sink  in  him  — 
Then,  like  a  dolphin,  change  and  swim 


The  current:  these  were  poets  true, 

Who  died  for  Beauty  as  martyrs  do         290 

For  Truth  —  the  ends  being  scarcely  two. 

God's  prophets  of  the  Beautiful 
These  poets  were ;  of  iron  rule, 
The  rugged  cilix,  serge  of  wool. 

Here  Homer,  with  a  broad  suspense 
Of  thunderous  brows,  and  lips  intense 
Of  garrulous  god-innocence. 

There  Shakespeare,  on  whose  forehead  climb 
The  crowns  o'  the  world:  O  eyes  sublime 
With  tears  and  laughters  for  all  time  !    300 

Here  JEschylus,  the  women  swooned 
To  see  so  awful,  when  he  frowned 
As  the  gods  did:  he  standeth  crowned. 

Euripides,  with  close  and  mild 
Scholastic  lips,  that  could  be  wild 
And  laugh  or  sob  out  like  a  child 


132 


POEMS   OF    1844 


Even  in  the  classes.     Sophocles, 

With  that  king's-look  which  down  the  trees 

Followed  the  dark  effigies 

Of  the  lost  Theban.     Hesiod  old,  310 

Who,  somewhat  blind  and  deaf  and  cold, 
Cared  most  for  gods  and  bulls.     And  bold 

Electric  Pindar,  quick  as  fear. 

With  race-dust  on  his  cheeks,  and  clear 

Slant  startled  eyes  that  seem  to  hear 

The  chariot  rounding  the  last  goal. 
To  hurtle  past  it  in  his  soul. 
And  Sappho,  with  that  gloriole 

Of  ebon  hair  on  calmed  brows  — 

O  poet-woman  !  none  foregoes  320 

The  leap,  attaining  the  repose. 

Theocritus,  with  glittering  locks 
Dropped  sideway,  as  betwixt  the  rocks 
He  watched  the  visionary  flocks. 

And  Aristophanes,  who  took 

The  world  with  mirth,  and  laughter-struck 

The  hollow  caves  of  Thought  and  woke 

The  infinite  echoes  hid  in  each. 

And  Virgil:  shade  of  Mantuan  beech 

Did  help  the  shade  of  bay  to  reach  330 

And  knit  around  his  forehead  high : 

For  his  gods  wore  less  majesty 

Than  his  brown  bees  hummed  deathlessly. 

Lucretius,  nobler  than  his  mood. 

Who  dropped  his  plummet  down  the  broad 

Deep  universe  and  said  '  No  God  —  ' 

Finding  no  bottom:  he  denied 
Divinely  the  divine,  and  died 
Chief  poet  on  the  Tiber-side 


By  grace  of  God:  his  face  is  stern 
As  one  compelled,  in  spite  of  scorn. 
To  teach  a  truth  he  would  not  learn. 


340 


And  Ossian,  dimly  seen  or  guessed; 
Once  counted  greater  than  the  rest. 
When  mountain-winds  blew  out  his  vest. 

And  Spenser  drooped  his  dreaming  head 
(With  languid  sleep-smile  you  had  said 
From  his  own  verse  engendered) 


350 


On  Ariosto's,  till  they  ran 
Their  curls  in  one :  the  Italian 
Shot  nimbler  heat  of  bolder  man 

From  his  fine  lids.     And  Dante  stern 
And  sweet,  whose  spirit  was  an  urn 
For  wine  and  milk  poured  out  in  turn. 

Hard-souled  Alfieri;  and  fancy- willed 
Boiardo,  who  with  laughter  filled 
The  pauses  of  the  jostled  shield. 


And  Berni,  with  a  hand  stretched  out 
To   sleek   that   storm.      And,   not   with- 
out 
The  wreath  he  died  in  and  the  doubt        360 

He  died  by,  Tasso,  bard  and  lover, 
Whose  visions  were  too  thin  to  cover 
The  face  of  a  false  woman  over. 

And  soft  Racine;  and  grave  Corneille, 
The  orator  of  rhymes,  whose  wail 
Scarce  shook  his  purple.     And  Petrarch 
pale. 

From    whose    brain-lighted    heart    were 

thrown 
A  thousand  thoughts  beneath  the  sun, 
Each  lucid  with  the  name  of  One. 

And  Camoens,  with  that  look  he  had,       370 

Compelling  India's  Genius  sad 

From  the  wave  through  the  Lusiad,  — 

The  murmurs  of  the  storm-cape  ocean 

Indrawn  in  vibrative  emotion 

Along  the  verse.     And,  while  devotion 

In  his  wild  eyes  fantastic  shone 
Under  the  tonsure  blown  upon 
By  airs  celestial,  Calderon. 

And  bold  De  Vega,  who  breathed  quick 
Verse  after  verse,  till  death's  old  trick     380 
Put  pause  to  life  and  rhetoric. 

And  Goethe,  with  that  reaching  eye 

His    soul    reached    out     from,    far    and 

high. 
And  fell  from  inner  entity. 

And  Schiller,  with  heroic  front 
Worthy  of  Plutarch's  kiss  upon  't. 
Too  large  for  wreath  of  modern  wont. 


A  VISION   OF   POETS 


133 


And  Chaucer,  with  his  infantine 

Familiar  clasp  of  things  divine; 

That  mark  upon  his  lip  is  wine.  390 

Here,  Milton's  eyes  strike  piercing-dim: 
The  shapes  of  suns  and  stars  did  swim 
Like  clouds  from  them,  and  granted  him 

God  for  sole  vision.     Cowley,  there, 

Whose  active  fancy  debonair 

Drew  straws  like  amber  —  foul  to  fair. 

Drayton  and  Browne,  with  smiles  they  drew 
From  outward  nature,  still  kept  new 
From  their  own  inward  nature  true. 

And  Marlowe,  Webster,  Fletcher,  Ben,  400 
Whose  fire-hearts  sowed  our  furrows  when 
The  world  was  worthy  of  such  men. 

And  Burns,  with  pungent  passionings 
Set  in  his  eyes:  deep  lyric  springs 
Are  of  the  fire-mount's  issuings. 

And  Shelley,  in  his  white  ideal, 

All  statue-blind.     And  Keats  the  real 

Adonis  with  the  hymeneal 

Fresh  vernal  buds  half  sunk  between 
His   youthful    curls,   kissed   straight    and 
sheen  410 

In  his  Rome-grave,  by  Venus  queen. 

And  poor,  proud  Byron,  sad  as  grave 
And  salt  as  life;  forlornly  brave. 
And  quivering  with  the  dart  he  drave. 

And  visionary  Coleridge,  who 

Did  sweep  his  thoughts  as  angels  do 

Their  wings  with  cadence  up  the  Blue. 

These  poets  faced  (and  many  more) 

The  lighted  altar  looming  o'er 

The  clouds  of  incense  dim  and  hoar: 


420 


And  all  their  faces,  in  the  lull 

Of  natural  things,  looked  wonderful 

With  life  and  death  and  deathless  rule. 

All,  still  as  stone  and  yet  intense; 

As  if  by  spirit's  vehemence 

That  stone  were  carved  and  not  by  sense. 


But  where  the  heart  of  each  should  beat, 
There  seemed  a  wound  instead  of  it, 
From  whence  the  blood  dropped  to    their 
feet 


Drop  after  drop  —  dropped  heavily 
As  century  follows  century 
Into  the  deep  eternity. 


430 


Then  said  the  lady  —  and  her  word 
Came  distant,  as  wide  waves  were  stirred 
Between  her  and  the  ear  that  heard,  — 

'  World's  use  is  cold,  world's  love  is  vain, 
World's  cruelty  is  bitter  bane, 
But  pain  is  not  the  fruit  of  pain. 

'  Hearken,  O  poet,  whom  I  led 

From  the  dark  wood:  dismissing  dread,  440 

Now  hear  this  angel  in  my  stead. 

'  His  organ's  clavier  strikes  along 
These  poets'  hearts,  sonorous,  strong. 
They  gave  him  without  count  of  wrong,  — 

'  A  diapason  whence  to  guide 

Up  to  God's  feet,  from  these  who  died, 

An  anthem  fully  glorified  — 

'  Whereat  God's  blessing,  Ibarak  (-ti^^) 
Breathes  back  this  music,  folds  it  back 
About  the  earth  in  vapory  rack,  450 

'  And  men  walk  in  it,  crying  "  Lo 
The  world  is  wider,  and  we  know 
The  very  heavens  look  brighter  so: 

' "  The  stars  move  statelier  round  the  edge 
Of  the  silver  spheres,  and  give  in  pledge 
Their  light  for  nobler  privilege: 

' "  No  little  flower  but  joys  or  grieves. 
Full  life  is  rustling  in  the  sheaves, 
Full  spirit  sweeps  the  forest-leaves." 


'  So  works  this  music  on  the  earth, 
God  so  admits  it,  sends  it  forth 
To  add  another  worth  to  worth  — 

'  A  new  creation-bloom  that  rounds 
The  old  creation  and  expounds 
His  Beautiful  in  tuneful  sounds. 


468 


134 


POEMS  OF   1844 


*  Now  hearken  ! '     Then  the  poet  gazed 
Upon  the  angel  glorious-faced 
Whose  hand,  majestically  raised, 

Floated  across  the  organ-keys, 

Like  a  pale  moon  o'er  murmuring  seas,  470 

With  no  touch  but  with  influences : 

Then  rose  and  fell  (with  swell  and  swound 
Of  shapeless  noises  wandering  round 
A  concord  which  at  last  they  found) 

Those  mystic  keys:  the  tones  were  mixed, 
Dim,  faint,  and  thrilled  and  throbbed  be- 
twixt 
The  incomplete  and  the  unfixed: 

And  therein  mighty  minds  were  heard 

In  mighty  musings,  inly  stirred. 

And  struggling  outward  for  a  word:        480 

Until  these  surges,  having  run 
This  way  and  that,  gave  out  as  one 
An  Aphrodite  of  sweet  tune, 

A  Harmony  that,  finding  vent. 
Upward  in  grand  ascension  went, 
Winged  to  a  heavenly  argument. 

Up,  upward  like  a  saint  who  strips 
The  shroud  back  from  his  eyes  and  lips, 
And  rises  in  apocalypse: 

A  Harmony  sublime  and  plain,  490 

Which  cleft  (as  flying  swan,  the  rain,  — 
Throwing  the  drops  off  with  a  strain 

Of  her  white  wing)  those  undertones 
Of  perplext  chords,  and  soared  at  once 
And  struck  out  from  the  starry  thrones 

Their  several  silver  octaves  as 
It  passed  to  God.     The  music  was 
Of  divine  stature;  strong  to  pass: 

And  those  who  heard  it,  understood 
Something  of  life  in  spirit  and  blood,       500 
Something  of  nature's  fair  and  good: 

And  while  it  sounded,  those  great  souls 
Did  thrill  as  racers  at  the  goals 
And  burn  in  all  their  aureoles; 


But  she  the  lady,  as  vapor-bound. 
Stood  calmly  in  the  joy  of  sound. 
Like  Nature  with  the  showers  around: 

And  when  it  ceased,  the  blood  which  fell 

Again,  alone  grew  audible. 

Tolling  the  silence  as  a  bell.  510 

The  sovran  angel  lifted 'high 
His  hand,  and  spake  out  sovranly: 
'  Tried  poets,  hearken  and  reply  1 

'  Give  me  true  answers.     If  we  grant 
That  not  to  suffer,  is  to  want 
The  conscience  of  the  jubilant,  — 

*  If  ignorance  of  anguish  is 
But  ignorance,  and  mortals  miss 
Far  prospects,  by  a  level  bliss, — 

'  If,  as  two  colors  must  be  viewed  520 

In  a  visible  image,  mortals  should 
Need  good  and  evil,  to  see  good,  — 

*  If  to  speak  nobly,  comprehends 
To  feel  profoundly,  —  if  the  ends 

Of  power  and  suffering,  Nature  blends,  — 

'  If  poets  on  the  tripod  must 

Writhe  like  the  Pythian  to  make  just 

Their  oracles  and  merit  trust,  — 

'  If  every  vatic  word  that  sweeps 

To  change  the  world  must  pale  their  lips 

And  leave  their  own  souls  in  eclipse, —   531 

'  If  to  search  deep  the  universe 

Must  pierce  the  searcher  with  the  curse. 

Because  that  bolt  (in  man's  reverse) 

*  Was  shot   to  the  heart  o'  the  wood  and 

lies 
Wedged  deepest  in  the  best,  —  if  eyes 
That  look  for  visions  and  surprise 

'  From  influent  angels,  must  shut  down 

Their  eyelids  first  to  sun  and  moon, 

The  head  asleep  upon  a  stone,  —  540 

'  If  One  who  did  redeem  you  back, 
By  His  own  loss,  from  final  wrack, 
Did  consecrate  by  touch  and  track 


A  VISION    OF   POETS 


135 


*  Those  temporal  sorrows  till  the  taste 
Of  brackish  waters  of  the  waste 

Is  salt  with  tears  He  dropped  too  fast,  — 

*  If  all  the  crowns  of  earth  must  wound 
With  prickings  of  the  thorns  He  found,  — 
If  saddest  sighs  swell  sweetest  sound,  — 

*  What  say  ye  unto  this  ?  —  refuse  550 
This  baptism  in  salt  water  ?  —  choose 
Calm  breasts,  mute  lips,  and  labor  loose  ? 

'  Or,  O  ye  gifted  givers  !  ye 

Who  give  your  liberal  hearts  to  me 

To  make  the  world  this  harmony, 

*  Are  ye  resigned  that  they  be  spent 
To  such  world's  help  ?  ' 

The  Spirits  bent 
Their  awful  brows  and  said  '  Content.' 

Content !  it  sounded  like  Amen 

Said  by  a  choir  of  mourning  men;  560 

An  affirmation  full  of  pain 

And  patience,  —  ay,  of  glorying 

And  adoration,  as  a  king 

Might  seal  an  oath  for  governing. 

Then  said  the  angel  —  and  his  face 
Lightened  abroad  until  the  place 
Grew  larger  for  a  moment's  space,  — 

The  long  aisles  flashing  out  in  light, 
And  nave  and  transept,  columns  white 
And  arches  crossed,  being  clear  to  sight  570 

As  if  the  roof  were  ofP  and  all 
Stood  in  the  noon-sun,  — '  Lo,  I  call 
To  other  hearts  as  liberal. 

'  This  pedal  strikes  out  in  the  air: 
My  instrument  has  room  to  bear 
Still  fuller  strains  and  perfecter. 

'  Herein  is  room,  and  shall  be  room 
While  Time  lasts,  for  new  hearts  to  come 
Consummating  while  they  consume. 


*  What  living  man  will  bring  a  gift 
Of  his  own  heart  and  help  to  lift 
The  tune  ?  —  The  race  is  to  the  swift. 


580 


So  asked  the  angel.     Straight  the  while, 

A  company  came  up  the  aisle 

With  measured  step  and  sorted  smile; 

Cleaving  the  incense-clouds  that  rise. 
With  winking  unaccustomed  eyes 
And  love-locks  smelling  sweet  of  spice. 

One  bore  his  head  above  the  rest 

As  if  the  world  were  dispossessed,  590 

And  one  did  pillow  chin  on  breast. 

Right  languid,  an  as  he  should  faint; 
One  shook  his  curls  across  his  paint 
And  moralized  on  worldly  taint; 

One,  slanting  up  his  face,  did  wink 
The  salt  rheum  to  the  evelid's  brink. 
To  think  —  O  gods  !  or  —  not  to  think. 

Some  trod  out  stealthily  and  slow, 

As  if  the  sun  would  fall  in  snow 

If  they  walked  to  instead  of  fro;  600 

And  some,  with  conscious  ambling  free, 
Did  shake  their  bells  right  daintily 
On  hand  and  foot,  for  harmony; 

And  some,  composing  sudden  sighs 
In  attitudes  of  point-device, 
Rehearsed  impromptu  agonies. 

And  when  this  company  drew  near 
The  spirits  crowned,  it  might  appear 
Submitted  to  a  ghastly  fear; 

As  a  sane  eye  in  master-passion  6ro 

Constrains  a  maniac  to  the  fashion 
Of  hideous  maniac  imitation 

In  the  least  geste  —  the  dropping  low 
O'  the  lid,  the  wrinkling  of  the  brow, 
Exaggerate  with  mock  and  mow,  — 

So  mastered  was  that  company 
By  the  crowned  vision  utterly. 
Swayed  to  a  maniac  mockery. 

One  dulled  his  eyeballs,  as  they  ached  6ig 
With  Homer's  forehead,  though  he  lacked 
An  inch  of  any;  and  one  racked 


136 


POEMS   OF    1844 


His  lower  lip  with  restless  tooth, 
As  Pindar's  rushing  words  forsooth 
Were  pent  behind  it;  one  his  smooth 

Pink  cheeks  did  rumple  passionate 
Like  ^schylus,  and  tried  to  prate 
On  trolling  tongue  of  fate  and  fate ; 

One  set  her  eyes  like  Sappho's  —  or 

Any  light  woman's;  one  forbore 

Like  Dante,  or  any  man  as  poor  630 

In  mirth,  to  let  a  smile  undo 

His  hard-shut  lips ;  and  one  that  drew 

Sour  humors  from  his  mother,  blew 

His  sunken  cheeks  out  to  the  size 
Of  most  unnatural  jollities, 
Because  Anacreon  looked  jest- wise; 

So  with  the  rest:  it  was  a  sight 

A  great  world -laughter  would  requite. 

Or  great  world-wrath,  with  equal  right. 

Out  came  a  speaker  from  that  crowd       640 
To  speak  for  all,  in  sleek  and  proud 
Exordial  periods,  while  he  bowed 

His  knee  before  the  angel  —  '  Thus, 
O  angel  who  hast  called  for  us. 
We  bring  thee  service  emulous. 

*  Fit  service  from  sufficient  soul. 
Hand-service  to  receive  world's  dole. 
Lip-service  in  world's  ear  to  roll 

Adjusted  concords  —  soft  enow 
To  hear  the  wine-cups  passing,  through,  650 
And  not  too  grave  to  spoil  the  show: 

'  Thou,  certes,  when  thou  askest  more, 
O  sapient  angel,  leanest  o'er 
The  window-sill  of  metaphor. 

*  To  give  our  hearts  up  ?  fie  !  that  rage 
Barbaric  antedates  the  age; 

It  is  not  done  on  any  stage. 

*  Because  your  scald  or  gleeman  went 
With  seven  or  nine-stringed  instrument 
Upon  his  back,  —  must  ours  be  bent  ?     660 

*  We  are  not  pilgrims,  by  your  leave; 
No,  nor  yet  martyrs ;  if  we  grieve, 
It  is  to  rhyme  to  —  summer  eve : 


'  And  if  we  labor,  it  shall  be 
As  suiteth  best  with  our  degree. 
In  after-dinner  reverie.' 

More  yet  that  speaker  would  have  said. 
Poising  between  his  smiles  fair-fed 
Each  separate  phrase  till  finished ; 

But  all  the  foreheads  of  those  born  670 

And  dead  true  poets  flashed  with  scorn 
Betwixt  the  bay  leaves  round  them  worn, 

Ay,  jetted  such  brave  fire  that  they, 
The  new-come,  shrank  and  paled  away 
Like  leaden  ashes  when  the  day 

Strikes  on  the  hearth.     A  spirit-blast, 
A  presence  known  by  power,  at  last 
Took  them  up  mutely:  they  had  passed. 

And  he  our  pilgrim-poet  saw 

Only  their  places,  in  deep  awe,  680 

What  time  the  angel's  smile  did  draw 

His  gazing  upward.     Smiling  on. 
The  angel  in  the  angel  shone. 
Revealing  glory  in  benison; 

Till,  ripened  in  the  light  which  shut 
The  poet  in,  his  spirit  mute 
Dropped  sudden  as  a  perfect  fruit: 

He  fell  before  the  angel's  feet. 

Saying,  *  If  what  is  true  is  sweet. 

In  something  I  may  compass  it:  690 

*  For,  where  my  worthiness  is  poor. 
My  will  stands  richly  at  the  door 
To  pay  shortcomings  evermore. 

*  Accept  me  therefore:  not  for  price 
And  not  for  pride  my  sacrifice 

Is  tendered,  for  my  soul  is  nice 

'   *  And  will  beat  down  those  dusty  seeds 
Of  bearded  corn  if  she  succeeds 
In  soaring  while  the  covey  feeds. 

*  I  soar,  I  am  drawn  up  like  the  lark        70c 
To  its  white  cloud:  so  high  my  mark. 
Albeit  my  wing  is  small  and  dark. 

*  I  ask  no  wages,  seek  no  fame : 

Sew  me,  for  shroud  round  face  and  name, 
God's  banner  of  the  oriflamme. 


A  VISION   OF   POETS 


137 


—   710 


*  I  only  would  have  leave  to  loose 
(In  tears  and  blood  if  so  He  choose) 
Mine  inward  music  out  to  use; 

'  I  only  would  be  spent  —  in  pain 
And  loss,  perchance,  but  not  in  vain 
Upon  the  sweetness  of  that  strain; 

*  Only  project  beyond  the  bound 

Of  mine  own  life,  so  lost  and  found, 
My  voice,  and  live  on  in  its  sound; 


*  Only  embrace  and  be  embraced 
By  fiery  ends,  whereby  to  waste, 
And  light  God's  future  with  my  past.' 

The  angel's  smile  grew  more  divine, 
The  mortal  speaking;  ay,  its  shine 
Swelled  fuller,  like  a  choir-note  fine,        720 

Till  the  broad  glory  round  his  brow 
Did  vibrate  with  the  light  below; 
But  what  he  said  I  do  not  know. 

Nor  know  I  if  the  man  who  prayed, 

Rose  up  accepted,  unforbade, 

From  the  church-floor  where  he  was  laid,  — 

Nor  if  a  listening  life  did  run 
Through  the  king-poets,  one  by  one 
Rejoicing  in  a  worthy  son: 

My  soul,  which  might  have  seen,  grew  blind 
By  what  it  looked  on:  I  can  find  731 

No  certain  count  of  things  behind. 

I  saw  alone,  dim,  white  and  grand 
As  in  a  dream,  the  angel's  hand 
Stretched  forth  in  gesture  of  command 

Straight  through  the  haze.    And  so,  as  erst, 
A  strain  more  noble  than  the  first 
Mused  in  the  organ,  and  outburst: 


With  giant  march  from  floor  to  roof 
Rose  the  full  notes,  now  parted  off 
In  pauses  massively  aloof 

Like  measured  thunders,  now  re-joined 
In  concords  of  mysterious  kind 
Which  fused  together  sense  and  mind, 

Now  flashing  sharp  on  sharp  along 
Exultant  in  a  mounting  throng, 
Now  dying  off  to  a  low  song 


740 


Fed  upon  minors,  wavelike  sounds 

Re-eddying  into  silver  rounds, 

Enlarging  liberty  with  bounds:  750 

And  every  rhythm  that  seemed  to  close 
Survived  in  confluent  underflows 
Symphonious  with  the  next  that  rose. 

Thus  the  whole  strain  being  multiplied 
And  greatened,  with  its  glorified 
Wings  shot  abroad  from  side  to  side. 

Waved  backward  (as  a  wind  might  wave 
A  Brocken  mist  and  with  as  brave 
Wild  roaring)  arch  and  architrave. 


Aisle,  transept,  column,  marble  wall. 
Then  swelling  outward,  prodigal 
Of  aspiration  beyond  thrall. 


—  760 


Soared,  and  drew  up  with  it  the  whole 

Of  this  said  vision,  as  a  soul 

Is  raised  by  a  thought.     And  as  a  scroll 

Of  bright  devices  is  unrolled 
Still  upward  with  a  gradual  gold. 
So  rose  the  vision  manifold. 

Angel  and  organ,  and  the  round 

Of  spirits,  solemnized  and  crowned;         770 

While  the  freed  clouds  of  incense  wound 

Ascending,  following  in  their  track, 
And  glimmering  faintly  like  the  rack 
O'  the  moon  in  her  own  light  cast  back. 

And  as  that  solemn  dream  withdrew, 
The  lady's  kiss  did  fall  anew 
Cold  on  the  poet's  brow  as  dew. 

And  that  same  kiss  which  bound  him  first 

Beyond  the  senses,  now  reversed 

Its  own  law  and  most  subtly  pierced        780 

His  spirit  with  the  sense  of  things 
Sensual  and  present.  Vanishings 
Of  glory  with  iEolian  wings 

Struck  him  and  passed:  the  lady's  face 
Did  melt  back  in  the  chrysopras 
Of  the  orient  morning  sky  that  was 

Yet  clear  of  lark  and  there  and  so 
She  melted  as  a  star  might  do, 
Still  smiling  as  she  melted  slow: 


138 


POEMS   OF    1844 


Smiling  so  slow,  he  seemed  to  see  790 

Her  smile  the  last  thing,  gloriously 
Beyond  her,  far  as  memory. 

Then  he  looked  round:  he  was  alone. 
He  lay  before  the  breaking  sun. 
As  Jacob  at  the  Bethel  stone. 

And  thought's  entangled  skein  being  wound, 
He  knew  the  moorland  of  his  swound. 
And    the    pale    pools    that    smeared   the 
ground; 

The  far  wood-pines  like  offing  ships; 

The  fourth  pool's  yew  anear  him  drips,    800 

World's  cruelty  attaints  his  lips. 

And  still  he  tastes  it,  bitter  still; 
Through  all  that  glorious  possible 
He  had  the  sight  of  present  ill. 

Yet  rising  calmly  up  and  slowly 
With  such  a  cheer  as  scorneth  folly, 
A  mild  delightsome  melancholy. 

He  journeyed  homeward  through  the  wood 

And  prayed  along  the  solitude 

Betwixt  the  pines,  '  O  God,  my  God  ! '     810 

The  golden  morning's  open  flowings 

Did  sway  the  trees  to  murmurous  bowings, 

In  metric  chant  of  blessed  poems. 

And  passing  homeward  through  the  wood. 

He  prayed  along  the  solitude, 

'  Thou,  Poet-God,  art  great  and  good  ! 

*  And  though  we  must  have,  and  have  had 
Right  reason  to  be  earthly  sad, 
Thou,  Poet-God,  art  great  and  glad  ! ' 


CONCLUSION 

Life  treads  on  life,  and  heart  on  heart;    820 
We  press  too  close  in  church  and  mart 
To  keep  a  dream  or  grave  apart: 

And  I  was  'ware  of  walking  down 
That  same  green  forest  where  had  gone 
The  poet-pilgrim.     One  by  one 

I  traced  his  footsteps.     From  the  east 
A  red  and  tender  radiance  pressed 
Through  the  near  trees,  until  I  guessed 


The  sun  behind  shone  full  and  round; 
While  up  the  leanness  profound  830 

A  wind  scarce  old  enough  for  sound 

Stood  ready  to  blow  on  me  when 

I  turned  that  way,  and  now  and  then 

The  birds  sang  and  brake  off  again 

To  shake  their  pretty  feathers  dry 
Of  the  dew  sliding  droppingly 
From  the  leaf-edges  and  apply 

Back  to  their  song:  'twixt  dew  and  bird 

So  sweet  a  silence  ministered, 

God  seemed  to  use  it  for  a  word,  840 

Yet  morning  souls  did  leap  and  run 
In  all  things,  as  the  least  had  won 
A  joyous  insight  of  the  sun. 

And  no  one  looking  round  the  wood 
Could  help  confessing  as  he  stood. 
This  Poet-God  is  glad  and  good. 

But  hark  !  a  distant  sound  that  grows, 
A  heaving,  sinking  of  the  boughs, 
A  rustling  murmur,  not  of  those, 

A  breezy  noise  which  is  not  breeze  !         850 
And  white-clad  children  by  degrees 
Steal  out  in  troops  among  the  trees. 

Fair  little  children  morning-bright. 
With  faces  grave  yet  soft  to  sight. 
Expressive  of  restrained  delight. 

Some  plucked  the  palm-boughs  within  reach. 
And  others  leapt  up  high  to  catch 
The  upper  boughs  and  shake  from  each 


A  rain  of  dew  till,  wetted  so, 

The  child  who  held  the  branch  let  go 

And  it  swang  backward  with  a  flow 


860 


Of  faster  drippings.     Then  I  knew 

The  children  laughed;  but  the  laugh  flew 

From  its  own  chirrup  as  might  do 

A  frightened  song-bird ;  and  a  child 
Who  seemed  the  chief  said  very  mild, 
'  Hush  !  keep  this  morning  undefiled.' 

His  eyes  rebuked  them  from  calm  spheres; 

His  soul  upon  his  brow  appears 

In  waiting  for  more  holy  years.  870 


A  VISION   OF   POETS 


139 


I  called  the  child  to  me,  and  said, 
*  What    are   your    palms    for  ? ' 

spread,' 
He  answered,  '  on  a  poet  dead. 


To   be 


*  The  poet  died  last  month,  and  now 

The  world  which  had  been  somewhat  slow 
In  honoring  his  living  brow, 

*  Commands    the    palms;     they    must    be 

strewn 
On  his  new  marble  very  soon, 
In  a  procession  of  the  town.' 

I  sighed  and  said,  '  Did  he  foresee  880 

Any  such  honor  ?  '     *  Verily 
I  cannot  tell  you,'  answered  he. 

*  But  this  I  know,  I  fain  would  lay 
My  own  head  down,  another  day, 
As  he  did,  —  with  the  fame  away. 

*  A  lily,  a  friend's  hand  had  plucked. 
Lay  by  his  death-bed,  which  he  looked 
As  deep  down  as  a  bee  had  sucked, 

*  Then,  turning  to  the  lattice,  gazed 

O'er  hill  and  river  and  upraised  890 

His  eyes  illumined  and  amazed 

*  With  the  world's  beauty,  up  to  God, 
Re-offering  on  their  iris  broad 

The  images  of  things  bestowed 

*  By  the  chief  Poet.     "  God  ! "  he  cried, 

"  Be  praised  for  anguish  which  has  tried, 
For  beauty  which  has  satisfied: 

*  "  For  this  world's  presence  half  within 
And     half     without     me  —  thought     and 

scene  — 
This  sense  of  Being  and  Having  Been.     900 

'  "  I  thank  Thee  that  my  soul  hath  room 
For   Thy  grand  world:    both   guests  may 

come  — 
Beauty,  to  soul  —  Body,  to  tomb. 

*  "  I  am  content  to  be  so  weak: 

Put  strength  into  the  words  I  speak, 
And  I  am  strong  in  what  I  seek. 

'  "I  am  content  to  be  so  bare 

Before  the  archers,  everywhere 

My  wounds  being  stroked  by  heavenly  air. 


'  "  I  laid  my  soul  before  Thy  feet  910 

That  images  of  fair  and  sweet 
Should  walk  to  other  men  on  it. 

'  "  I  am  content  to  feel  the  step, 
Of  each  pure  image :  let  those  keep 
To  mandragore  who  care  to  sleep. 

'  "  I  am  content  to  touch  the  brink 
Of  the  other  goblet  and  I  think 
My  bitter  drink  a  wholesome  drink. 

'  "  Because  my  portion  was  assigned 
Wholesome  and  bitter.  Thou  art  kind,     920 
And  I  am  blessed  to  my  mind. 

'  "  Gifted  for  giving,  I  receive 
The  maythorn  and  its  scent  outgive: 
I  grieve  not  that  I  once  did  grieve. 

'  "  In  my  large  joy  of  sight  and  touch 
Beyond  what  others  count  for  such, 
I  am  content  to  suffer  much. 

'  "  /  knoiv  —  is  all  the  mourner  saith, 

Knowledge  by  suffering  entereth. 

And  Life  is  perfected  by  Death." '  930 

The  child  spake  nobly:  strange  to  hear. 
His  infantine  soft  accents  clear 
Charged  with  high  meanings,  did  appear; 

And  fair  to  see,  his  form  and  face 
Winged  out  with  whiteness  and  pure  grace 
From  the  green  darkness  of  the  place. 

Behind  his  head  a  palm-tree  grew ; 

An  orient  beam  which  pierced  it  through 

Transversely  on  his  forehead  drew 

The  figure  of  a  palm-branch  brown  940 

Traced  on  its  brightness  up  and  down 
In  fine  fair  lines,  —  a  shadow-crown : 

Guido  might  paint  his  angels  so  — 

A  little  angel,  taught  to  go 

With  holy  words  to  saints  below  — 

Such  innocence  of  action  yet 

Significance  of  object  met 

In  his  whole  bearing  strong  and  sweet. 

And  all  the  children,  the  whole  band, 
Did  round  in  rosy  reverence  stand,  950 

Each  with  a  palm-bough  in  his  hand. 


140 


POEMS   OF    1844 


*  And  so  he  died,'  I  whispered.     *  Nay, 
Not  so,'  the  childish  voice  did  say, 

*  That  poet  turned  him  first  to  pray 

*  In  silence,  and  God  heard  the  rest 
'Twixt    the     sun's     footsteps    down    the 

west. 
Then  he  called  one  who  loved  him  best, 

*  Yea,  he  called  softly  through  the  room 
(His     voice     was     weak     yet     tender)  — 

"  Come," 
He  said,  "  come  nearer  !     Let  the  bloom 

*  "  Of  Life  grow  over,  undenied,  961 
This  bridge  of  Death,  which  is  not  wide  — 
I  shall  be  soon  at  the  other  side. 

'  '•'  Come,  kiss  me  !  "     So  the  one  in  truth 
Who  loved  him  best,  —  in  love,  not  ruth. 
Bowed   down   and   kissed   him   mouth  to 
mouth: 

*  And  in  that  kiss  of  love  was  won 
Life's  manumission.    All  was  done: 
The  mouth  that  kissed  last,  kissed  alone. 

*  But  in  the  former,  confluent  kiss,  970 
The  same  was  sealed,  I  think,  by  His, 

To  words  of  truth  and  uprightness.' 

The  child's  voice  trembled,  his  lips  shook 
Like  a  rose  leaning  o'er  a  brook. 
Which  vibrates  though  it  is  not  struck. 

'  And  who,'  I  asked,  a  little  moved 
Yet  curious-eyed,  '  was  this  that  loved 
And  kissed  him  last,  as  it  behooved  ? ' 

*/, '  softly  said  the  child;  and  then 

*  /,'  said  he  louder,  once  again:  980 
'  His  son,  my  rank  is  among  men: 

*  And  now  that  men  exalt  his  name 
I  come  to  gather  palms  with  them. 
That  holy  love  may  hallow  fame. 

*  He  did  not  die  alone,  nor  should 
His  memory  live  so,  'mid  these  rude 
World-praisers  —  a  worse  solitude. 

'  Me,  a  voice  calleth  to  that  tomb 

Where   these    are    strewing    branch    and 

bloom. 
Saying,  "Come  nearer:  "  and  I  come.     990 


'  Glory  to  God  !  '  resumed  he, 

And  his  eyes  smiled  for  victory 

O'er  their  own  tears  which  I  could  see 

Fallen  on  the  palm,  down  cheek  and  chin  : 

*  That  poet  now  has  entered  in 
The  place  of  rest  which  is  not  sin. 

*  And  while  he  rests,  his  songs  in  troops 
Walk  up  and  down  our  earthly  slopes, 
Companioned  by  diviner  hopes.' 

'  But  thou,^  I  murmured  to  engage  1000 

The  child's  speech  farther  —  '  hast  an  age 
Too  tender  for  this  orphanage.' 

'  Glory  to  God  —  to  God  ! '  he  saith : 
'  Knowledge  by  suffering  entereth, 
And  Life  is  perfected  by  Death.' 


RHYME  OF    THE  DUCHESS  MAY 

Despite  the  irritating  iteration  of  the  refrain 
Toll  slowly  —  which  most  people  omit  in  read- 
ing —  the  '  Rhyme  of  the  Duchess  May  '  has 
generally  been  accounted  much  the  best  of  Mrs. 
Browning's  longer  ballads.  Yet  the  author 
herself  did  not  like  it.  On  August  22,  1844, 
she  wrote  as  follows  to  Mr.  Thomas  West- 
wood,  —  a  frequent  and  valued  correspondent ; 
himseK  a  poet  of  some  note,  author  of  Beads 
from  a  Rosary  and  The  Burden  of  the  Bell.  '  It 
is  curious  that  Duchess  May  is  not  a  favorite 
of  mine,  and  that  I  have  sighed  one  or  two 
secret  wishes  toward  its  extirpation  ;  but  other 
writers  beside  yourself  have  signalled  it  out  for 
praise,  in  private  letters  to  me.'  We  gather 
from  a  similarly  deprecatory  allusion  in  a  letter 
to  her  lifelong  friend,  Mrs.  Martin,  that  the 
nonconformist  conscience  of  the  poet  pricked 
her  a  little  on  account  of  the  signal  glorifica- 
tion of  suicide  implied  in  the  denouement  of 
the  Rhyme. 


To  the  belfry,  one  by  one,  went  the  ringers 
from  the  sun, 

Toll  slowly. 
And  the  oldest  ringer  said,  *  Ours  is  music 
for  the  dead 
When  the  rebecks  are  all  done.' 

II 

Six  abeles  i'  the  churchyard  grow  on  the 
north  side  in  a  row, 
Toll  slowly. 


RHYME   OF  THE   DUCHESS    MAY 


141 


And  the  shadows  of  their  tops  rock  across 
the  little  slopes 
Of  the  grassy  graves  below. 

Ill 

On  the  south  side  and   the  west   a  small 
river  runs  in  haste, 
Toll  slowly. 
And,  between  the   river  jflowing   and   the 
fair  green  trees  a-growing, 
Do  the  dead  lie  at  their  rest. 

IV 

On  the  east  I  sate  that  day,  up  against  a 
willow  gray: 

Toll  slowly. 
Through   the    rain   of   willow-branches    I 
could  see  the  low  hill-ranges 
And  the  river  on  its  way. 


There  I  sate  beneath  the  tree,  and  the  bell 
tolled  solemnly. 

Toll  slowly. 
While  the  trees'  and  river's  voices  flowed 
between  the  solemn  noises, — 
Yet  death  seemed  more  loud  to  me. 

VI 

There  I  read  this  ancient  rhyme  while  the 
bell  did  all  the  time 
Toll  slowly. 
And  the  solemn  knell  fell  in  with  the  tale 
of  life  and  sin. 
Like  a  rhythmic  fate  sublime. 


THE  RHYME 

I 

Broad  the  forests   stood  (I  read)  on   the 
hills  of  Linteged, 

Toll  slowly. 
And  three  hundred  years  had  stood  mute 
adown  each  hoary  wood. 
Like  a  full  heart  having  prayed. 

II 
And  the  little  birds  sang  east,  and  the  little 
birds  sang  west, 

Toll  slowly. 
And  but  little  thought  was  theirs  of   the 
silent  antique  years. 
In  the  building  of  their  nest. 


Ill 
Down  the  sun  dropped  large  and  red  on  the 
towers  of  Linteged,  — 
Toll  sloiuly. 
Lance  and  spear  upon  the  height,  bristling 
strange  in  fiery  light. 
While  the  castle  stood  in  shade. 

IV 

There  the  castle  stood  up  black  with  the 
red  sun  at  its  back  — 
Toll  slowly  — 
Like  a  sullen  smouldering  pyre  with  a  top 
that  flickers  fire 
When  the  wind  is  on  its  track. 

V 

And  five  hundred  archers  tall  did  besiege 
the  castle  wall  — 

Toll  slowly. 
And  the  castle,  seethed  in  blood,  fourteen 
days  and  nights  had  stood 
And  to-night  was  near  its  fall. 

VI 

Yet  thereunto,  blind  to  doom,  three  months 
since,  a  bride  did  come  — 
Toll  slowly. 

One  who  proudly  trod  the  floors  and  softly 
whispered  in  the  doors, 

*  May  good  angels  bless  our  home.' 

VII 

Oh,  a  bride  of  queenly  eyes,  with  a  front  of 
constancies : 

Toll  slowly. 
Oh,  a  bride  of  cordial  mouth  where  the 
untired  smile  of  youth 
Did  light  outward  its  own  sighs  ! 

VIII 

'T  was  a  Duke's  fair  orphan-girl,  and  her 
uncle's  ward  —  the  Earl  — 
Toll  slowly  — 
Who  betrothed  her  twelve  years  old,  for 
the  sake  of  dowry  gold. 
To  his  son  Lord  Leigh  the  churl. 

IX 

But  what  time  she  had  made  good  all  her 

years  of  womanhood  — 
Toll  slowly. 
Unto  both  these  lords  of  Leigh  spake  she 

out  right  sovranly, 

*  My  will  runneth  as  my  blood. 


142 


POEMS   OF   1844 


X 

*  And  while  this  same  blood  makes  red  this 

same  right  hand's  veins,'  she  said  — 
Toll  slowly  — 

*  'T  is  my  will,  as  lady  free,  not  to  wed  a 

lord  of  Leigh, 
But  Sir  Guy  of  Linteged.' 

XI 

The  old  Earl  he   smiled  smooth,  then  he 
sighed  for  wilful  youth  — 
Toll  slowly. 
'  Good  my  niece,  that  hand  withal  looketh 
somewhat  soft  and  small 
For  so  large  a  will,  in  sooth.' 

XII 

She  too  smiled  by  that  same  sign,  but  her 
smile  was  cold  and  fine  — 
Toll  slowly. 

*  Little  hand  clasps  muckle  gold,  or  it  were 

not  worth  the  hold 
Of  thy  son,  good  uncle  mine  ! ' 

XIII 

Then  the  young  lord  jerked  his  breath,  and 
sware  thickly  in  his  teeth  — 
Toll  slowly  — 

*  He  would  wed  his  own  betrothed,  an  she 

loved  him  an  she  loathed. 
Let  the  life  come  or  the  death.' 

XIV 

Up  she  rose  with  scornful  eyes,  as  her  fa- 
ther's child  might  rise  — 
Toll  slowly. 
*Thy  hound's   blood,    my  lord   of   Leigh, 
stains  thy  knightly  heel,'  quoth  she, 
'  And  he  moans  not  where  he  lies: 

XV 

*  But  a  woman's  will  dies  hard,  in  the  hall 

or  on  the  sward  '  — 
Toll  slowly. 

*  By  that  grave,  my  lords,  which  made  me 

orphaned  girl  and  dowered  lady, 
I  deny  you  wife  and  ward  ! ' 

XVI 

Unto  each  she  bowed  her  head  and  swept 
past  with  lofty  tread. 
Toll  slowly. 
Ere  the  midnight-bell  had  ceased,  in  the 
chapel  had  the  priest. 
Blessed  her,  bride  of  Linteged. 


XVII 

Fast  and  fain  the  bridal  train  along  the 
night-storm  rode  amain  — 
Toll  slowly. 
Hard  the  steeds  of  lord  and  serf  struck 
their  hoofs  out  on  the  turf. 
In  the  pauses  of  the  rain. 

XVIII 

Fast  and  fain  the  kinsmen's  train  along  the 
storm  pursued  amain  — 
Toll  slowly. 
Steed  on  steed-track,  dashing  off,  —  thick- 
ening, doubling,  hoof  on  hoof, 
In  the  pauses  of  the  rain. 

XIX 

And  the  bridegroom  led  the  flight  on  his 
red-roan  steed  of  might  — 
Toll  slowly. 
And  the  bride  lay  on  his  arm,  still,  as  if 
she  feared  no  harm. 
Smiling  out  into  the  night. 

XX  * 

*  Dost  thou  fear  ? '  he  said  at  last.     '  Nay,* 

she  answered  him  in  haste,  — 
Toll  slowly. 
'  Not  such  death  as  we  could  find  —  only 
life  with  one  behind. 
Bide  on  fast  as  fear,  ride  fast  ! ' 

XXI 

Up  the  mountain  wheeled  the  steed  —  girth 
to  ground,  and  fetlocks  spread  — 
Toll  slowly. 
Headlong   bounds,  and   rocking  flanks,  — 
down  he  staggered,  down  the  banks, 
To  the  towers  of  Linteged. 

XXII 

High  and  low  the  serfs  looked  out,  red  the 
flambeaus  tossed  about  — 
Toll  slowly. 
In  the    courtyard  rose   the  cry,  '  Live  the 
Duchess  and  Sir  Guy  ! ' 
But  she  never  heard  them  shout. 

XXIII 

On  the  steed  she  dropped  her  cheek,  kissed 
his  mane  and  kissed  his  neck  — 
Toll  slowly. 

*  I  had  happier  died  by  thee  than  lived  on, 

a  Lady  Leigh,' 
Were  the  first  words  she  did  speak. 


RHYME   OF   THE   DUCHESS    MAY 


143 


XXIV 

But  a  three   months'   joyaunce  lay  'twixt 
that  moment  and  to-day  — 
Toll  sloivly. 
When  five  hundred  archers  tall  stand  beside 
the  castle  wall 
To  recapture  Duchess  May. 

XXV 

And  the  castle  staudeth  black  with  the  red 
sun  at  its  back  — 
Toll  slowly. 
And  a  fortnight's  siege  is  done,  and,  except 
the  duchess,  none 
Can  misdoubt  the  coming  wrack. 

XXVI 

Then  the  captain,  young  Lord  Leigh,  with 
his  eyes  so  gray  of  blee  — 
Toll  slowly. 
And  thin  lips  that  scarcely  sheathe  the  cold 
white  gnashing  of  his  teeth. 
Gnashed  in  smiling,  absently,  — 

XXVII 

Cried  aloud,  *  So  goes  the  day,  bridegroom 
fair  of  Duchess  May  ! ' 
Toll  slowly. 
'  Look  thy  last  upon  that  sun  !  if  thou  seest 
to-morrow's  one 
'T  will  be  through  a  foot  of  clay. 

XXVIII 

*  Ha,  fair  bride  !  dost  hear  no  sound  save 

that  moaning  of  the  hound  ? ' 
Toll  slowly. 
'  Thou  and  I  have  parted  troth,  yet  I  keep 
my  vengeance-oath, 
And  the  other  may  come  round. 

XXIX 

*  Ha  !  thy  will  is  brave  to   dare,  and  thy 

new  love  past  compare  '  — 
Toll  slowly. 

*  Yet  thine  old  love's  falchion  brave  is  as 

strong  a  thing  to  have, 
As  the  will  of  lady  fair. 

XXX 

*  Peck  on  blindly,  netted  dove  !  If  a  wife's 

name  thee  behove'  — 
Toll  slowly. 

*  Thou  shalt  wear  the  same  to-morrow,  ere 

the  grave  has  hid  the  sorrow 
Of  thy  last  ill-mated  love. 


XXXI 

'  O'er  his  fixed  and  silent  mouth,  thou  and  I 
will  call  back  troth : ' 
Toll  slowly. 

*  He  shall  altar  be  and  priest,  —  and  he  will 

not  cry  at  least 
"  I  forbid  you,  I  am  loth  !  " 

XXXII 

'  I  will  wring  thy  fingers  pale  in  the  gaunt- 
let of  my  mail  : ' 
Toll  slowly. 
' "  Little  hand  and  muckle  gold  "  close  shall 
lie  within  my  hold. 
As  the  sword  did,  to  prevail.' 

XXXIII 

Oh,  the  little  birds  sang  east,  and  the  little 
birds  sang  west  — 
Toll  slowly. 
Oh,  and  laughed  the  Duchess  May,  and  her 
soul  did  put  away 
All  his  boasting,  for  a  jest. 

XXXIV 

In  her  chamber  did  she  sit,  laughing  low  to 
think  of  it,  — 

Toll  slowly. 
'Tower  is   strong   and  will   is  free:    thou 
canst  boast,  my  lord  of  Leigh, 
But  thou  boastest  little  wit.* 

XXXV 

In  her  tire-glass  gaz^d  she,  and  she  blushed 
right  womanly  — 
Toll  slowly. 
She  blushed  half  from  her  disdain,  half  her 
beauty  was  so  plain, 
— '  Oath  for  oath,  my  lord  of  Leigh  ! ' 

XXXVI 

Straight  she  called  her  maidens  in  — '  Since 
ye  gave  me  blame  herein '  — 
Toll  slowly  — 
'That  a  bridal  such  as   mine  should  lack 
gauds  to  make  it  fine. 
Come  and  shrive  me  from  that  sin. 

XXXVII 

*  It  is   three  months  gone   to-day  since  I 

gave  mine  hand  away : ' 
Toll  slowly. 

*  Bring  the  gold  and  bring  the  gem,  we  will 

keep  bride-state  in  them, 
While  we  keep  the  foe  at  bay. 


144 


POEMS   OF   1844 


XXXVIII 

*  On  your  arms  I  loose  mine  hair;  comb  it 

smooth  and  crown  it  fair  '  — 
Toll  slowly. 
*I   would   look   in   purple   pall  from   this 
lattice  down  the  wall, 
And  throw  scorn  to  one  that  's  there  ! ' 

XXXIX 

Oh,  the  little  birds  sang  east,  and  the  little 
birds  sang  west  — 
Toll  slowly. 
On  the  tower  the  castle's  lord  leant  in  silence 
on  his  sword, 
With  an  anguish  in  his  breast. 

XL 

With  a  spirit-laden  weight  did  he  lean  down 
passionate : 

Toll  slowly. 
They  have  almost  sapped  the  wall,  —  they 
will  enter  therewithal 
With  no  knocking  at  the  gate. 

XLI 

Then  the  sword   he  leant  upon,  shivered, 
snapped  upon  the  stone  — 
Toll  slowly. 

*  Sword,'   he  thought,  with  inward  laugh, 

'  ill  thou  servest  for  a  staff 
When  thy  nobler  use  is  done  I 

XLII 

*  Sword,  thy  nobler  use  is  done  !  tower  is 

lost,  and  shame  begun  ! '  — 
Toll  slowly. 
'  If  we  met  them  in  the  breach,  hilt  to  hilt 
or  speech  to  speech. 
We  should  die  there,  each  for  one. 

XLIII 

*If  we  met  them  at   the  wall,  we  should 
singly,  vainly  fall '  — 
Toll  slowly. 
'  But  if  I  die  here  alone,  —  then  I  die  who 
am  but  one, 
And  die  nobly  for  them  all. 

XLIV 

*  Five  true  friends  lie  for  my  sake  in  the 

moat  and  in  the  brake  '  — 
Toll  slowly. 

*  Thirteen  warriors  lie  at  rest  with  a  black 

wound  in  the  breast. 
And  not  one  of  these  will  wake. 


XLV 

*  So,  no  more  of  this  shall  be  !  heart-blood 

weighs  too  heavily '  — 
Toll  slowly. 

*  And  I  could  not  sleep  in  grave,  with  the 

faithful  and  the  brave 
Heaped  around  and  over  me. 

XLVI 

*  Since  young   Clare  a    mother  hath,  and 

young  Ralph  a  plighted  faith '  — 
Toll  slowly. 
'  Since  my  pale  young  sister's  cheeks  blush 
like  rose  when  Ronald  speaks. 
Albeit  never  a  word  she  saith  — 

XLVII 

'These  shall  never  die  for  me:  life-blood 
falls  too  heavily : ' 
Toll  slowly. 

*  And  if  /  die  here  apart,  o'er  my  dead  and 

silent  heart 
They  shall  pass  out  safe  and  free. 

XLVIII 

*  When  the  foe  hath  heard  it  said  —  "  Death 

holds  Guy  of  Linteged  "  '  — 
Toll  slowly, 

*  That  new  corse  new  peace  shall  bring,  and 

a  blessed,  blessed  thing 
Shall  the  stone  be  at  its  head. 

XLIX 

'  Then  my  friends  shall  pass  out  free,  and 
shall  bear  my  memory  '  — 
Toll  slowly. 
'  Then  my  foes  shall  sleek  their  pride,  sooth- 
ing fair  my  widowed  bride 
Whose  sole  sin  was  love  of  me: 


*  With  their  words  all  smooth  and  sweet, 

they  will  front  her  and  entreat '  — 
Toll  slowly. 
'  And  their  purple  pall  will  spread  under- 
neath her  fainting  head 
While  her  tears  drop  over  it. 

LI 

*  She  will  weep  her  woman's  tears,  she  will 

pray  her  woman's  prayers '  — 
Toll  slowly. 

*  But  her  heart  is  young  in  pain,  and  her 

hopes  will  spring  again 
By  the  suntime  of  her  years. 


RHYME   OF   THE   DUCHESS    MAY 


145 


LII 

•Ah,  sweet   May  !    ah,   sweetest  grief  !  — 
once  I  vowed,  thee  my  behef '  — 
Toll  slowly  — 

*  That  thy  name  expressed  thy  sweetness, 

—  May  of  poets,  in  completeness  ! 
Now  my  May-day  seemeth  brief.' 

LIII 

All  these  silent  thoughts  did  swim  o'er  his 
eyes  grown  strange  and  dim  — 
Toll  slowly. 
Till  his  true  men,  in  the  place,  wished  they 
stood  there  face  to  face 
With  the  foe  instead  of  him. 

LIV 

'  One  last  oath,  my  friends  that  wear  faith- 
ful hearts  to  do  and  dare  ! ' 
Toll  slowly. 
'  Tower  must  fall  and  bride  be  lost  —  swear 
me  service  worth  the  cost ! ' 
Bold  they  stood  around  to  swear. 

LV 

'  Each  man  clasp  my  hand  and  swear  by 
the  deed  we  failed  in  there  '  — 
Toll  slowly. 

*  Not  for  vengeance,  not  for  right,  will  ye 

strike  one  blow  to-night  ! ' 
Pale  they  stood  around  to  swear. 

LVI 

'  One  last   boon,  young  Ralph  and  Clare  ! 
faithful  hearts  to  do  and  dare  !  ' 
Toll  slowly. 
'  Bring  that  steed  up  from  his  stall,  which 
she  kissed  before  you  all: 
Guide  him  up  the  turret-stair. 

LVII 

*  Ye  shall  harness  him  aright,  and  lead  up- 

ward to  this  height: ' 
Toll  sloioly. 
'  Once  in  love  and   twice  in  war  hath   he 
borne  me  strong  and  far: 
He  shall  bear  me  far  to-night.' 

LVIII 

Then  his  men  looked  to  and  fro,  when  they 
heard  him  speaking  so  — 
Toll  slowly. 
'  'Las  !  the  noble  heart,'  they  thought,  'he 
in  sooth  is  grief-distraught: 
Would  we  stood  here  with  the  foe  ! ' 


LIX 

But  a  fire  flashed  from  his  eye,  'twixt  their 
thought  and  their  reply  — 
Toll  slowly. 
'  Have   ye  so  much   time  to  waste  ?     We 
who  ride  here,  must  ride  fast 
As  we  wish  our  foes  to  fly.' 

LX 

They  have  fetched  the  steed  with  care,  in 
the  harness  he  did  wear  — 
Toll  slowly. 
Past    the   court   and   through    the   doors, 
across  the  rushes  of  the  floors, 
But  they  goad  him  up  the  stair. 

LXI 

Then  from  out  her  bower  chamb^re  did  the 
Duchess  May  repair: 
Toll  slowly. 

*  Tell  me  now  what  is  your  need,'  said  the 

lady,  *  of  this  steed. 
That  ye  goad  him  up  the  stair  ?  ' 

LXII 

Calm  she  stood;  unbodkined  through,  fell 
her  dark  hair  to  her  shoe : 
Toll  slowly. 
And  the  smile  upon  her  face,  ere  she  left 
the  tiring-glass, 
Had  not  time  enough  to  go. 

LXIII 

'  Get  thee  back,  sweet  Duchess  May  !  hope 
is  gone  like  yesterday  '  — 
Toll  slowly. 
'One  half-hour  completes  the  breach;  and 
thy  lord  grows  wild  of  speech  — 
Get  thee  in,  sweet  lady,  and  pray  ! 

LXIV 

'  In  the  east  tower,  high'st  of  all,  loud  he 
cries  for  steed  from  stall: ' 
Toll  slowly. 
'  "  He  would  ride   as   far,"  quoth  he,  "  as 
for  love  and  victory, 
Though  he  rides  the  castle-wall." 

LXV 

'  And  we   fetch  the   steed  from   stall,   up 
where  never  a  hoof  did  fall '  — 
Toll  slowly. 

*  Wifely  prayer  meets  deathly  need:  may 

the  sweet  Heavens  hear  thee  plead 
If  he  rides  the  castle- wall ! ' 


146 


POEMS   OF   1844 


LXVI 

Low  she  dropped  her  head,  and  lower,  till 

her  hair  coiled  on  the  floor  — 

Toll  slowly. 

And  tear  after  tear  you  heard  fall  distinct 

as  any  word 

Which  you  might  be  listening  for. 

LXVII 

'  Get   thee   in,   thou   soft   ladye  !   here   is 
never  a  place  for  thee  ! ' 
Toll  sloivly. 
*  Braid  thine  hair  and  clasp  thy  gown,  that 
thy  beauty  in  its  moan 
May  find  grace  with  Leigh  of  Leigh.' 

LXVIII 

She  stood  up  in  bitter  case,  with  a  pale  yet 
steady  face: 

Toll  slowly. 
Like  a  statue  thunderstruck,  which,  though 
quivering,  seems  to  look 
Right  against  the  thunder-place. 

LXIX 

And  her  foot  trod  in,  with  pride,  her  own 
tears  i'  the  stone  beside  — 
Toll  slowly. 
'  Go  to,  faithful  friends,  go  to  !  judge  no 
more  what  ladies  do. 
No,  nor  how  their  lords  may  ride  ! ' 

LXX 

Then  the  good  steed's  rein  she  took,  and 
his  neck  did  kiss  and  stroke: 
Toll  slowly. 
Soft  he  neighed  to  answer  her,  and  then 
followed  up  the  stair 
For  the  love  of  her  sweet  look: 

LXXI 

Oh,  and  steeply,  steeply  wound  up  the  nar- 
row stair  around  — 
Toll  slowly. 
Oh,  and  closely,  closely  speeding,  step  by 
step  beside  her  treading 
Did  he  follow,  meek  as  hound. 

LXXII 

On  the  east  tower,  high'st  of  all,  —  there, 
where  never  a  hoof  did  fall  — 
Toll  slowly. 
Out  they  swept,  a  vision  steady,  noble  steed 
and  lovely  lady. 
Calm  as  if  in  bower  or  stall. 


LXXIII 

Down  she  knelt  at  her  lord's  knee,  and  she 
looked  up  silently  — 
Toll  slowly. 
And   he  kissed  her  twice  and   thrice,  for 
that  look  within  her  eyes 
Which  he  could  not  bear  to  see. 

LXXIV 

Quoth  he,  '  Get  thee  from  this  strife,  and 
the  sweet  saints  bless  thy  life  ! ' 
Toll  slowly. 
'  In  this  hour  I  stand  in  need  of  my  noble 
red-roan  steed. 
But  no  more  of  my  noble  wife.' 

LXXV 

Quoth  she,  'Meekly    have  I  done  all  thy 
biddings  under  sun:  ' 
Toll  slowly. 
'  But    by    all    my    womanhood,    which    is 
proved  so,  true  and  good, 
I  will  never  do  this  one. 

LXXVI 

*  Now  by  womanhood's  degree  and  by  wife- 

hood's verity  '  — 
Toll  slowly. 
'  In   this   hour  if   thou  hast   need   of   thy 
noble  red-roan  steed, 
Thou  hast  also  need  of  me. 

LXXVII 

'  By  this  golden  ring  ye  see  on  this  lifted 
hand  pardie  '  — 

Toll  sloivly. 

*  If,  this  hour,  on  castle-wall  can  be  room 

for  steed  from  stall. 
Shall  be  also  room  for  me. 

LXXVIII 

'  So  the  sweet  saints  with  me  be,'  (did  she 
utter  solemnly)  — 
Toll  sloivly. 
'  If  a  man,   this  eventide,    on  this  castle- 
wall  will  ride. 
He  shall  ride  the  same  with  me.' 

LXXIX 

Oh,   he    sprang   up    in    the   selle   and   he 
laughed  out  bitter- well  — 
Toll  slowly. 

*  Wouldst  thou  ride  among  the  leaves,  as 

we  used  on  other  eves. 
To  hear  chime  a  vesper-bell  ? ' 


RHYME   OF   THE   DUCHESS   MAY 


147 


LXXX 

She  clung  closer  to  bis   knee  —  *  Ay,   be- 
neath the  cypress-tree  !  ' 
Toll  slowly. 

*  Mock  me  not,  for    otherwise  than  along 

the  greenwood  fair 
Have  I  ridden  fast  with  thee. 

LXXXI 

'  Fast  I  rode  with  new-made  vows  from  my 
angry  kinsman's  house:  ' 
Toll  slowly. 

*  What,  and  would   vou  men  should   reck 

that  I  dared  more  for  love's  sake 
As  a  bride  than  as  a  spouse  ? 

LXXXII 

*  What,  and  would  you  it  should  fall,  as  a 

proverb,  before  all '  — 
Toll  slowly. 

*  That  a  bride  may  keep  your   side  while 

through  castle-gate  you  ride, 
Yet  eschew  the  castle- wall  ?  ' 

LXXXIII 

Ho  !  the  breach  yawns  into  ruin  and  roars 
up  against  her  suing  — 
Toll  slowly. 
With  the  inarticulate  din  and  the  dreadful 
falling  in  — 
Shrieks  of  doino;  and  undoing^  ! 

LXXXIV 

Twice  he  wrung  her   hands  in  twain,  but 
the  small  hands  closed  again. 
Toll  slowly. 
Back   he  reined   the   steed  —  back,  back  ! 
but  she  trailed  along  his  track 
With  a  frantic  clasp  and  strain. 

LXXXV 

Evermore  the    foemen   pour   through   the 
crash  of  window  and  door  — 
Toll  slowly. 
And  the  shouts  of  Leigh  and  Leigh,  and 
the  shrieks  of  '  kill ! '  and  '  flee  ! ' 
Strike  up  clear  amid  the  roar. 

LXXXVI 

Thrice  he  wrung  her  hands  in  twain,  but 
they  closed  and  clung  again  — 
Toll  slowly. 
While  she  clung,  as  one,  withstood,  clasps 
a  Christ  upon  the  rood, 
In  a  spasm  of  deathly  pain. 


LXXXVII 

She  clung  wild  and  she  clung  mute  with 

her  shuddering  lips  half-shut: 

Toll  slowly. 

Her   head  fallen  as  half   in  swound,  hair 

and  knee  swept  on  the  ground, 

She  clung  wild  to  stirrup  and  foot. 

LXXXVIII 

Back  he  reined  his  steed  back-thrown  on 
the  slippery  coping-stone : 
Toll  slowly. 
Back  the  iron  hoofs  did  grind  on  the  bat- 
tlement behind 
Whence  a  hundred  feet  went  down; 

LXXXIX 

And  his  heel  did  press   and  goad  on   the 
quivering  flank  bestrode  — 
Toll  slowly. 
*  Friends  and  brothers,  save  my  wife  !    Par- 
don, sweet,  in  change  for  life, — 
But  I  ride  alone  to  God.' 

XC 

Straight   as  if    the    Holy   name   had    up- 
breathed  her  like  a  flame  — 
Toll  slowly. 
She  upsprang,  she  rose  upright,  in  his  sella 
she  sate  in  sight, 
By  her  love  she  overcame. 

XCI 

And  her  head  was  on  his  breast  where  she 
smiled  as  one  at  rest  — 
Toll  slowly. 
'  Ring,'  she   cried,    '  O    vesper-bell  in   the 
beechwood's  old  chapelle  — 
But  the  passing-bell  rings  best  ! ' 

XCII 

They  have  caught  out   at   the  rein  which 
Sir  Guy  threw  loose  —  in  vain  — 
Toll  slowly. 
For   the  horse  in  stark   despair,  with   his 
front  hoofs  poised  in  air, 
On  the  last  verge  rears  amain. 

XCIII 
Now  he  hangs,  he  rocks  between,  and  his 
nostrils  curdle  in  — 
Toll  slowly. 
Now   he   shivers   head   and  hoof   and  the 
flakes  of  foam  fall  off, 
And  his  face  grows  fierce  and  thin: 


148 


POEMS   OF   1844 


XCIV 

And  a  look  of  human  woe  from  his  staring 
eyes  did  go: 

Toll  slowly. 
And  a  sharp  cry  uttered  he,  in  a  foretold 
agony 
Of  the  headlong  death  below,  — 

xcv 

And,  'Ring,  ring,  thou   passing-bell,'  still 
she  cried,  *  i'  the  old  chapelle  ! ' 
Toll  slowly. 
Then,    back-toppling,    crashing    back  —  a 
dead  weight  flung  out  to  wrack, 
Horse  and  riders  overfell. 


Oh,  the  little  birds  sang  east,  and  the  little 
birds  sang  west  — 
Toll  slowly. 
And   I   read  this   ancient   Rhyme,  in   the 
churchyard,  while  the  chime 
Slowly  tolled  for  one  at  rest. 

II 

The  abeles  moved  in  the  sun,  and  the  river 
smooth  did  run  — 
Toll  slowly. 
And  the  ancient  Rhyme  rang  strange,  with 
its  passion  and  its  change, 
Here,  where  all  done  lay  undone. 

Ill 

And  beneath  a  willow  tree  I  a  little  grave 
did  see  — 

Toll  slowly  — 
Where   was   graved  —  Here,  undefiled, 
LiETH  Maud,  a  three-year  child, 
Eighteen  hundred  forty-three. 

IV 

Then,  O  spirits,  did  I  say,  ye  who  rode  so 
fast  that  day  — 

Toll  slowly. 
Did  star- wheels  and  angel  wings  with  their 
holy  winnowings 
Keep  beside  you  all  the  way  ? 


Though  in  passion  ye  would  dash,  with  a 
blind  and  heavy  crash  — 
Toll  slowly  — 


Up  against  the  thick-bossed  shield  of  God's 
judgment  in  the  field,  — 
Though  your   heart    and    brain  were 
rash, — 

VI 

Now,  your  will  is  all  unwilled;  now,  your 
pulses  are  all  stilled: 
Toll  slowly. 
Now,  ye  lie  as  meek   and  mild  (whereso 
laid)  as  Maud  the  child 
Whose  small  grave  was  lately  filled. 

VII 

Beating  heart   and   burning  brow,  ye  are 
very  patient  now  — 
Toll  slowly. 
And  the  children  might  be  bold  to  pluck 
the  kingcups  from  your  mould 
Ere  a  month  had  let  them  grow. 

VIII 

And  you  let  the  goldfinch  sing  in  the  alder 
near  in  spring  — 
Toll  slowly. 
Let  her  build  her  nest  and  sit  all  the  three 
weeks  out  on  it. 
Murmuring  not  at  anything. 

IX 

In  your  patience  ye  are  strong,  cold  and 
heat  ye  take  not  wrong  — 
Toll  slowly. 
When  the  trumpet  of  the  angel  blows  eter- 
nity's evangel, 
Time  will  seem  to  you  not  long. 


Oh,  the  little  birds  sang  east,  and  the  little 
birds  sang  west  — 
Toll  slowly. 
And  I  said  in  underbreath,  —  All  our  life 
is  mixed  with  death, 
And  who  knoweth  which  is  best  ? 

XI 

Oh,  the  little  birds  sang  east,  and  the  little 
birds  sang  west  — 
Toll  slowly. 
And   I    smiled   to  think   God's   greatness 
flowed  around  our  incompleteness,  — 
Round  our  restlessness.  His  rest. 


THE   LOST   BOWER 


149 


THE    LADY'S    'YES' 


*  Yes,'  I  answered  you  last  night; 
'  No,'  this  morning,  sir,  I  say: 
Colors  seen  by  candle-light 
Will  not  look  the  same  by  day. 

II 

When  the  viols  played  their  best. 
Lamps  above  and  laughs  below, 

Love  me  sounded  like  a  jest, 
Fit  for  yes  or  fit  for  no. 

Ill 

Call  me  false  or  call  me  free. 
Vow,  whatever  light  may  shine,  ■ 

No  man  on  your  face  shall  see 
Any  grief  for  change  on  mine. 

IV 

Yet  the  sin  is  on  us  both; 

Time  to  dance  is  not  to  woo; 
Wooing  light  makes  fickle  troth. 

Scorn  of  me  recoils  on  you. 


Learn  to  win  a  lady's  faith 
Nobly,  as  the  thing  is  high. 

Bravely,  as  for  life  and  death, 
With  a  loyal  gravity. 

VI 

Lead  her  from  the  festive  boards. 
Point  her  to  the  starry  skies; 

Guard  her,  by  your  truthful  words, 
Pure  from  courtship's  flatteries. 

VII 

By  your  truth  she  shall  be  true. 
Ever  true,  as  wives  of  yore; 

And  her  yes,  once  said  to  you. 
Shall  be  Yes  for  evermore. 


THE    POET   AND   THE    BIRD 


A   FABLE 


Said  a  people  to  a  poet  — '  Go  out  from 
among  us  straightway  ! 
While  we  are    thinking  earthly   things, 
thou  singest  of  divine: 


There  's  a  little  fair  brown  nightingale  who, 
sitting  in  the  gateway, 
Makes  fitter  music  to  our  ear  than  any 
song  of  thine  !  ' 

II 

The  poet  went   out  weeping;  the  nightin- 
gale ceased  chanting: 
'  Now,  wherefore,  O  thou  nightingale,  is 
all  thy  sweetness  done  ?  ' 
— '  I    cannot  sing  my  earthly  things,  the 
heavenly  poet  wanting, 
Whose    highest   harmony   includes    the 
lowest  under  sun.' 

Ill 

The    poet    went   out   weeping,   and   died 
abroad,  bereft  there; 
The  bird  flew  to  his  grave  and  died  amid 
a  thousand  wails: 
And   when  I  last   came   by   the   place,   I 
swear  the  music  left  there 
Was  only  of  the  poet's  song,  and  not  the 
nightingale's. 


THE    LOST   BOWER 

The  scene  of  'The  Lost  Bower'  was  the 
wood  above  the  garden  at  Hope  End,  among  the 
Malvern  Hills,  —  the  beautiful  home  of  Eliz- 
beth  Barrett's  girlhood,  —  and  the  incident 
which  it  relates  was  an  actual  experience  of 
her  juvenile  years. 


In  the  pleasant  orchard-closes, 
'  God  bless  all  our  gains,'  say  we, 
But  '  May  God  bless  all  our  losses ' 
Better  suits  with  our  degree. 
Listen,    gentle  —  ay,    and   simple  !    listen, 
children  on  the  knee  ! 

II 

Green  the  land  is  where  my  daily 
Steps  in  jocund  childhood  played. 
Dimpled  close  with  hill  and  valley. 
Dappled  very  close  with  shade: 
Summer-snow   of   apple-blossoms   running 
up  from  glade  to  glade. 

Ill 

There  is  one  hill  I  see  nearer 

In  my  vision  of  the  rest; 

And  a  little  wood  seems  clearer 


ISO 


POEMS    OF    1844 


As  it  climbeth  from  the  west, 
Sideway   from   the    tree-locked   valley,  to 
the  airy  upland  crest. 

IV 

Small  the  wood  is,  green  with  hazels, 
And,  completing  the  ascent. 
Where  the  wind  blows  and  sun  dazzles, 
Thrills  in  leafy  tremblement. 
Like  a  heart  that  after  climbing  beateth 
quickly  through  content. 


Not  a  step  the  wood  advances 
O'er  the  open  hill-top's  bound; 
There,  in  green  arrest,  the  branches 
See  their  image  on  the  ground: 
You  may  walk  beneath  them  smiling,  glad 
with  sight  and  glad  with  sound. 

VI 

For  you  hearken  on  your  right  hand, 
How  the  birds  do  leap  and  call 
In  the  greenwood,  out  of  sight  and 
Out  of  reach  and  fear  of  all; 
And  the  squirrels  crack  the  filberts  tlirough 
their  cheerful  madrigal. 

VII 

On  your  left,  the  sheep  are  cropping 
The  slant  grass  and  daisies  pale. 
And  five  apple-trees  stand  dropping 
Separate  shadows  toward  the  vale 
Over  which,  in  choral  silence,  the  hills  look 
you  their  '  All  hail  ! ' 

VIII 

Far  out,  kindled  by  each  other. 
Shining  hills  on  hills  arise. 
Close  as  brother  leans  to  brother 
When  they  press  beneath  the  eyes 
Of  some  father  praying  blessings  from  the 
gifts  of  paradise. 

IX 

While  beyond,  above  them  mounted, 
And  above  their  woods  als6, 
Malvern  hills,  for  mountains  counted 
Not  unduly,  loom  a-row  — 
Keepers  of  Piers  Plowman's  visions  through 
the  sunshine  and  the  snow. 


Yet,  in  childhood,  little  prized  I 
That  fair  walk  and  far  survey; 


'T  was  a  straight  walk  unadvised  by 
The  least  mischief  worth  a  nay; 
Up  and  down  —  as  dull  as  grammar  on  the 
eve  of  holiday. 

XI 

But  the  wood,  all  close  and  clenching 
Bough  in  bough  and  root  in  root,  — 
No  more  sky  (for  overbranching) 
At  your  head  than  at  your  foot,  — 
Oh, the  wood  drew  me  within  it  by  a  glamour 
past  dispute  ! 

XII 

Few  and  broken  paths  showed  through 

it, 
Where  the  sheep  had  tried  to  run,  — 
Forced  with  snowy  wool  to  strew  it 
Round  the  thickets,  when  anon 
They,    with    silly    thorn  -  pricked     noses, 

bleated  back  into  the  sun. 

XIII 

But  my  childish  heart  beat  stronger 
Than  those  thickets  dared  to  grow: 
/  could  pierce  them  !  /  could  longer 
Travel  on,  methought,  than  so: 
Sheep    for  sheep-paths !    braver    children 

climb  and  creep  where  they  would 

go. 

XIV 

And  the  poets  wander,  said  I, 
Over  places  all  as  rude: 
Bold  Rinaldo's  lovely  lady 
Sat  to  meet  him  in  a  wood: 
Rosalinda,    like   a   fountain,    laughed   out 
pure  with  solitude. 

XV 

And  if  Chaucer  had  not  travelled 
Through  a  forest  by  a  well, 
He  had  never  dreamt  nor  marvelled 
At  those  ladies  fair  and  fell 
Who  lived  smiling  without  loving  in  their 
island-citadel. 

XVI 

Thus  I  thought  of  the  old  singers 
And  took  courage  from  their  song. 
Till  my  little  struggling  fingers 
Tore  asunder  gyve  and  thong 
Of  the  brambles  which  entrapped  me,  and 
the  barrier  branches  strong. 


THE   LOST   BOWER 


151 


XVII 

On  a  day,  such  pastime  keeping, 
With  a  fawn's  heart  debonair, 
Under-crawling,  overleaping 
Thorns  that  prick  and  boughs  that  bear, 
I  stood  suddenly   astonied  —  I  was   glad- 
dened unaware. 

XVIII 

From  the  place  I  stood  in,  floated 
Back  the  covert  dim  and  close, 
And  the  open  ground  was  coated 
Carpet-smooth  with  grass  and  moss, 
And  the  blue-bell's  purple  presence  signed 
it  worthily  across. 

XIX 

Here  a  linden-tree  stood,  bright'ning 
All  adowu  its  silver  rind; 
For  as  some  trees  draw  the  lightning, 
So  this  tree,  unto  my  mind, 
Drew  to  earth  the  blessed  sunshine  from 
the  sky  where  it  was  shrined. 

XX 

Tall  the  linden-tree,  and  near  it 
An  old  hawthorn  also  grew; 
And  wood-ivy  like  a  spirit 
Hovered  dimly  round  the  two. 
Shaping  thence  that  bower  of  beauty  which 
I  sing  of  thus  to  you. 

XXI 

'T  was  a  bower  for  garden  fitter 
Than  for  any  woodland  wide: 
Though  a  fresh  and  dewy  glitter 
Struck  it  through  from  side  to  side. 
Shaped  and  shaven  was  the  freshness,  as 
by  garden-cunning  plied. 

XXII 

Oh,  a  lady  might  have  come  there. 
Hooded  fairly  like  her  hawk. 
With  a  book  or  lute  in  summer. 
And  a  hope  of  sweeter  talk,  — 
Listenino:  less  to  her  own  music  than  for 
footsteps  on  the  walk  ! 

XXIII 

But  that  bower  appeared  a  marvel 
In  the  wildness  of  the  place ; 
With  such  seeming  art  and  travail, 
Finely  fixed  and  fitted  was 
Leaf  to  leaf,  the    dark-green   ivy,  to   the 
summit  from  the  base. 


XXIV 

And  the  ivy  veined  and  glossy 
Was  enwrought  with  eglantine; 
And  the  wild  hop  fibred  closely. 
And  the  large-leaved  columbine, 
Arch   of   door   and   window  -  mullion,   did 
right  sylvanly  entwine. 

XXV 

Rose-trees  either  side  the  door  were 
Growing  lithe  and  growing  tall, 
Each  one  set  a  summer  warder 
For  the  keeping  of  the  hall,  — 
With  a  red  rose  and  a  white  rose,  leaning, 
nodding  at  the  wall. 

XXVI 

As  I  entered,  mosses  hushing 
Stole  all  noises  from  my  foot; 
And  a  green  elastic  cushion, 
Clasped  within  the  linden's  root, 
Took  me  in  a  chair  of  silence  very  rare  and 
absolute. 

XXVII 
All  the  floor  was  paved  with  glory, 
Greenly,  silently  inlaid 
(Through  quick    motions    made    before 

me) 
With  fair  counterparts  in  shade 
Of    the    fair    serrated   ivy -leaves    which 
slanted  overhead. 

XXVIII 

'  Is  such  pavement  in  a  palace  ?  ' 
So  I  questioned  in  my  thought: 
The  sun,  shining  through  the  chalice 
Of  the  red  rose  hung  without. 
Threw  within  a  red  libation,  like  an  answer 
to  my  doubt. 

XXIX 
At  the  same  time,  on  the  linen 
Of  my  childish  lap  there  fell 
Two  white  may-leaves,  downward  win- 
ning 
Through  the  ceiling's  miracle. 
From  a  blossom,  like  an  angel,  out  of  sight 
yet  blessing  well. 

XXX 

Down  to  floor  and  up  to  ceiling 
Quick  I  turned  my  childish  face, 
With  an  innocent  appealing 


152 


POEMS   OF   1844 


For  the  secret  of  the  place 
To  the  trees,  which  surely  knew  it  in  par- 
taking of  the  grace. 

XXXI 

Where  's  no  foot  of  human  creature 
How  could  reach  a  human  hand  ? 
And  if  this  be  work  of  Nature, 
Why  has  Nature  turned  so  bland, 
Breaking  off   from  other   wild- work  ?     It 
was  hard  to  understand. 

XXXII 

Was  she  weary  of  rough-doing, 
Of  the  bramble  and  the  thorn  ? 
Did  she  pause  in  tender  rueing 
Here  of  all  her  sylvan  scorn  ? 
Or  in  mock  of  Art's  deceiving  was  the  sud- 
den mildness  worn  ? 

XXXIII 

Or  could  this  same  bower  (I  fancied) 
Be  the  work  of  Dryad  strong, 
Who,  surviving  all  that  chanced 
In  the  world's  old  pagan  wrong, 
Lay  hid,  feeding  in  the  woodland  on  the 
last  true  poet's  song  ? 

XXXIV 

Or  was  this  the  house  of  fairies, 
Left,  because  of  the  rough  ways, 
Unassoiled  by  Ave  Marys 
Which  the  passing  pilgrim  prays. 
And  beyond  St.  Catherine's  chiming  on  the 
blessed  Sabbath  days  ? 

XXXV 

So,  young  muser,  I  sat  listening 
To  my  fancy's  wildest  word: 
On  a  sudden,  through  the  glistening 
Leaves  around,  a  little  stirred. 
Came  a  sound,  a  sense  of  music  which  was 
rather  felt  than  heard. 

XXXVI 

Softly,  finely,  it  in  wound  me; 
From  the  world  it  shut  me  in,  — 
Like  a  fountain,  falling  round  me. 
Which  with  silver  waters  thin 
Clips  a  little  water  Naiad  sitting  smilingly 
within. 

XXXVII 

Whence  the  music  came,  who  knoweth  ? 
/know  nothing:  but  indeed 
Pan  or  Faunus  never  bloweth 


So  much  sweetness  from  a  reed 
Which  has  sucked  the  milk  of  waters  at  the 
oldest  river-head. 

XXXVIII 

Never  lark  the  sun  can  waken 
With  such  sweetness  !  when  the  lark, 
The  high  planets  overtaking 
In  the  half-evanished  Dark, 
Casts  his  singing  to  their  singing,  like  an 
arrow  to  the  mark. 


XXXIX 

Never  nightingale  so  singeth: 
Oh,  she  leans  on  thorny  tree 
And  her  poet-song  she  flingeth 
Over  pain  to  victory  ! 
Yet  she  never  sings  such  music, 
sings  it  not  to  me. 


or  she 


XL 


Never  blackbirds,  never  thrushes 
Nor  small  finches  sing  as  sweet. 
When  the  sun  strikes  through  the  bushes 
To  their  crimson  clinging  feet. 
And  their  pretty  eyes  look  sideways  to  the 
summer  heavens  complete. 

XLI 

If  it  were  a  bird,  it  seemed 
Most  like  Chaucer's,  which,  in  sooth. 
He  of  green  and  azure  dreamed. 
While  it  sat  in  spirit-ruth 
On   that  bier  of  a  crowned  lady,  singing 
nigh  her  silent  mouth. 

XLII 

If  it  were  a  bird  ?  —  ah,  sceptic. 
Give  me  '  yea  '  or  give  me  *  nay  '  — 
Though  my  soul  were  nympholeptic 
As  I  heard  that  vir^lay, 
You  may  stoop  your  pride  to  pardon,  for 
my  sin  is  far  away  ! 

XLIII 

I  rose  up  in  exaltation 
And  an  inward  trembling  heat, 
And  (it  seemed)  in  geste  of  passion 
Dropped  the  music  to  my  feet 
Like  a  garment  rustling  downwards — such 
a  silence  followed  it ! 

XLIV 

Heart  and  head  beat  through  the  quiet 
Full  and  heavily,  though  slower: 


THE   LOST   BOWER 


153 


In  the  song,  I  think,  and  by  it, 
Mystic  Presences  of  power 
Had  up-snatched  me  to  the  Timeless,  then 
returned  me  to  the  Hour. 

XLV 

In  a  child-abstraction  lifted, 
Straightway  from  the  bower  I  past, 
Foot  and  soul  being  dimly  drifted 
Through  the  greenwood,  till,  at  last. 
In  the  hill-top's  open  sunshine  I  all  con- 
sciously was  cast. 

XLVI 

Face  to  face  with  the  true  mountains 

I  stood  silently  and  still, 

Drawing  strength   from   fancy's   daunt- 

ings. 
From  the  air  about  the  hill. 
And  from  Nature's  open  mercies  and  most 

debonair  goodwill. 

XLVII 

Oh,  the  golden-hearted  daisies 
Witnessed  there,  before  my  youth. 
To  the  truth  of  things,  with  praises 
Of  the  beauty  of  the  truth; 
And  I  woke  to  Nature's  real,  laughing  joy- 
fully for  both. 

XLVIII 

And  I  said  within  me,  laughiug, 
I  have  found  a  bower  to-day, 
A  green  lusus,  fashioned  half  in 
Chance  and  half  in  Nature's  play, 
And  a  little  bird  sings  nigh  it,  I  will  never- 
more missay. 

XLIX 

Henceforth,  /  will  be  the  fairy 
Of  this  bower  not  built  bv  one ; 
I  will  go  there,  sad  or  merry. 
With  each  morning's  benison, 
And  the  bird  shall  be  my  harper  in  the 
dream-hall  I  have  won. 


So  I  said.     But  the  next  morning, 
( —  Child,  look  up  into  my  face  — 
'Ware,  oh  sceptic,  of  your  scorning  ! 
This  is  truth  in  its  pure  grace  !) 
The  next  morning,  all  had  vanished,  or  my 
wandering  missed  the  place. 


LI 

Bring  an  oath  most  sylvan-holy. 
And  upon  it  swear  me  true  — 
By  the  wind-bells  swinging  slowly 
Their  mute  curfews  in  the  dew, 
By  the  advent   of   the  snowdrop,  by   the 
rosemary  and  rue,  — 

LII 

I  affirm  by  all  or  any. 
Let  the  cause  be  charm  or  chance. 
That  my  wandering  searches  many 
Missed  the  bower  of  my  romance  — 
That  I  nevermore  upon  it  turned  my  mortal 
countenance. 

LIII 

I  affirm  that,  since  I  lost  it. 
Never  bower  has  seemed  so  fair; 
Never  garden-creeper  crossed  it 
With  so  deft  and  brave  an  air, 
Never  bird  sung  in  the  summer,  as  I  saw 
and  heard  them  there. 

LIV 

Day  by  day,  with  new  desire. 
Toward  my  wood  I  ran  in  faith, 
Under  leaf  and  over  brier, 
Through  the  thickets,  out  of  breath; 
Like  the  prince  who  rescued  Beauty  from 
the  sleep  as  long  as  death. 

LV 

But  his  sword  of  mettle  clashed, 
And  his  arm  smote  strong,  I  ween. 
And  her  dreaming  spirit  flashed 
Through  her  body's  fair  white  screen. 
And  the  light  thereof  might  guide  him  up 
the  cedar  alleys  green: 

LVI 

But  for  me,  I  saw  no  splendor  — 
All  my  sword  was  my  child-heart; 
And  the  wood  refused  surrender 
Of  that  bower  it  held  apart, 
Safe  as  (Edipus's  grave-place  'mid  Colonos' 
olives  swart. 

LVII 

As  Aladdin  sought  the  basements 
His  fair  palace  rose  upon. 
And  the  four-and-twenty  casements 
Which  gave  answers  to  the  sun; 
So,  in  'wilderment  of  gazing,  I  looked  up 
and  I  looked  down. 


154 


POEMS   OF   1844 


LVIII 

Years  have  vanished  since,  as  wholly 
As  the  little  bovver  did  then; 
And  you  call  it  tender  folly 
That  such  thoughts  should  come  again  ? 
Ah,  I  cannot  change  this  sighing  for  your 
smiling,  brother  men  ! 

LIX 

For  this  loss  it  did  prefigure 
Other  loss  of  better  good, 
When  my  soul,  in  spirit-vigor 
And  in  ripened  womanhood, 
Fell  from  visions  of  more  beauty  than  an 
arbor  in  a  wood. 

LX 

I  have  lost  —  oh,  many  a  pleasure, 
Many  a  hope  and  many  a  power  — 
Studious  health  and  merry  leisure, 
The  first  dew  on  the  first  flower  ! 
But  the  first  of  all  my  losses  was  the  losing 
of  the  bower. 

LXI 

I  have  lost  the  dream  of  Doing, 
And  the  other  dream  of  Done, 
The  first  spring  in  the  pursuing, 
The  first  pride  in  the  Begun,  — 
First  recoil  from  incompletion,  in  the  face 
of  what  is  won  — 

LXII 

Exaltations  in  the  far  light 
Where  some  cottage  only  is; 
Mild  dejections  in  the  starlight, 
Which  the  sadder-hearted  miss; 
And  the  child-cheek  blushing  scarlet  for 
the  very  shame  of  bliss. 

LXIII 

I  have  lost  the  sound  child-sleeping 
Which  the  thunder  could  not  break; 
Something  too  of  the  strong  leaping 
Of  the  staglike  heart  awake, 
Which  the  pale  is  low  for  keeping  in  the 
road  it  ought  to  take. 

LXIV 

Some  respect  to  social  fictions 
Has  been  also  lost  by  me ; 
And  some  generous  genuflexions, 
Which  my  spirit  offered  free 
To   the    pleasant   old   conventions    of   our 
false  humanity. 


LXV 

All  my  losses  did  I  tell  you. 
Ye  perchance  would  look  away ;  — 
Ye  would  answer  me,  '  Farewell !  you 
Make  sad  company  to-day, 
And  your  tears  are  falling  faster  than  the 
bitter  words  you  say.' 

LXVI 

For  God  placed  me  like  a  dial 
In  the  open  ground  with  power. 
And  my  heart  had  for  its  trial 
All  the  sun  and  a,ll  the  shower: 
And  I  suffered  many  losses,  —  and  my  first 
was  of  the  bower. 

LXVII 

Laugh  you  ?     If  that  loss  of  mine  be 
Of  no  heavy-seeming  weight  — 
When  the  cone  falls  from  the  pine-tree, 
The  young  children  laugh  thereat; 
Yet  the  wind  that  struck  it,  riseth,  and  the 
tempest  shall  be  great. 

LXVIII 

One  who  knew  me  in  my  childhood 
In  the  glamour  and  the  game. 
Looking  on  me  long  and  mild,  would 
Never  know  me  for  the  same. 
Come,     unchanging     recollections,    where 
those  changes  overcame  ! 

LXIX 

By  this  couch  I  weakly  lie  on. 
While  I  count  my  memories,  — 
Through  the  fingers  which,  still  sighing, 
I  press  closely  on  mine  eyes,  — 
Clear  as  once  beneath  the  sunshine,  I  be- 
hold the  bower  arise. 

LXX 

Springs  the  linden-tree  as  greenly, 
Stroked  with  light  adown  its  rind; 
And  the  ivy-leaves  serenely 
Each  in  either  intertwined; 
And  the  rose-trees  at  the  doorway,  they 
have  neither  grown  nor  pined. 

LXXI 

From  those  overblown  faint  roses 
Not  a  leaf  appeareth  shed, 
And  that  little  bud  discloses 
Not  a  thorn's-breadth  more  of  red, 
For  the   winters  and  the  summers  which 
have  passed  me  overhead. 


A   CHILD   ASLEEP 


155 


LXXII 

And  that  music  overfloweth, 
Sudden  sweet,  the  sylvan  eaves: 
Thrush  or  nightingale  —  who  knoweth  ? 
Fay  or  Faunus  —  who  believes  ? 
But  my  heart  still  trembles  in  me  to  the 
trembling  of  the  leaves. 

LXXIII 

Is  the  bower  lost,  then  ?  who  sayeth 
That  the  bower  indeed  is  lost  ? 
Hark  !  my  spirit  in  it  prayeth 
Through  the  sunshine  and  the  frost,  — 
And  the  prayer  preserves  it  greenly,  to  the 
last  and  uttermost. 

LXXIV 

Till  another  open  for  me 
In  God's  Eden-land  unknown. 
With  an  angel  at  the  doorway. 
White  with  gazing  at  his  Throne; 
And  a  saint's  voice  in  the  palm-trees,  sing- 


ing 


All  is  lost 


and  won  ! ' 


A  CHILD  ASLEEP 

First  printed  in  Fiuden's  Tableaux  for  1840 
as  '  The  Dream.' 


How  he  sleepeth,  having  drunken 
Weary  childhood's  mandragore ! 
From  its  pretty  eyes  have  sunken 
Pleasures  to  make  room  for  more; 
Sleeping  near  the  withered  nosegay  which 
he  pulled  the  day  before. 

II 

Nosegays  !  leave  them  for  the  waking; 
Throw   them    earthward    where   they 
grew; 
Dim  are  such  beside  the  breaking 
Amaranths  he  looks  unto: 
Folded  eyes  see  brighter    colors  than  the 
open  ever  do. 

Ill 

Heaven-flowers,  rayed  by  shadows  golden 

From  the  palms  they  sprang  beneath. 
Now  perhaps  divinely  holden. 
Swing  against  him  in  a  wreath: 
We  may  think  so  from  the  quickening  of 
his  bloom  and  of  his  breath. 


IV 

Vision  unto  vision  ealleth 

While  the  young  child  dreameth  on: 
Fair,  O  dreamer,  thee  befalleth 
With  the  glory  thou  hast  won  ! 
Darker  wast  thou  in  the  garden  yestermorn 
by  summer  sun. 

V 

We  should  see  the  spirits  ringing 

Round  thee,  were  the  clouds  away: 
'T  is  the  child-heart  draws  them,  singing 
In  the  silent-seeming  clay  — 
Singing  !  stars  that  seem  the  mutest  go  in 
music  all  the  way. 

VI 

As  the  moths  around  a  taper, 
As  the  bees  around  a  rose. 
As  the  gnats  around  a  vapor, 
So  the  spirits  group  and  close 
Round  about  a  holy  childhood  as  if  drinking 
its  repose. 

VII 

Shapes  of  brightness  overlean  thee, 

Flash  their  diadems  of  youth 
On  the  ringlets  which  half  screen  thee, 
While  thou  smilest  .  .  .  not  in  sooth 
Thy  smile,  but  the  overfair  one,  dropt  from 
some  ethereal  mouth. 

VIII 

Haply  it  is  angels'  duty. 

During  slumber,  shade  by  shade 
To  fine  down  this  childish  beauty 
To  the  thing  it  must  be  made 
Ere  the  world  shall  bring  it  praises,  or  the 
tomb  shall  see  it  fade. 

IX 

Softly,  softly  !  make  no  noises  ! 
Now  he  lieth  dead  and  dumb; 
Now  he  hears  the  angels'  voices 
Folding  silence  in  the  room; 
Now  he  muses  deep  the  meaning   of   the 
Heaven-words  as  they  come. 

X 

Speak  not  !  he  is  consecrated ; 

Breathe  no  breath  across  his  eyes: 
Lifted  up  and  separated 
On  the  hand  of  God  he  lies 
In  a  sweetness    beyond  touching,  held  in 
cloistral  sanctities. 


156 


POEMS   OF   1844 


XI 

Could  ye  bless  him,  father  —  mother, 

Bless  the  dimple  in  his  cheek  ? 
Dare  ye  look  at  one  another 
And  the  benediction  speak  ? 
Would  ye    not  break  out  in  weeping  and 
confess  yourselves  too  weak  ? 

XII 

He  is  harmless,  ye  are  sinful; 
Ye  are  troubled,  he  at  ease; 
From  his  slumber  virtue  winful 
Floweth  outward  with  increase. 
Dare  not  bless  him  !  but  be  blessed  by  his 
peace,  and  go  in  peace. 


THE  CRY  OF  THE  CHILDREN 


'  $€u,  4>ev,  Tt  npoaSepKeaOe  fi'  ofifiaaLV,  reKva.  ;  ' 

—  Medea. 


'  The  Cry  of  the  Children,'  first  published  in 
'Blackwood's  Magazine^  for  August,  1848,  was 
called  forth  by  Mr.  Home's  report  as  assistant 
Commissioner  on  the  employment  of  children 
in  mines  and  factories. 


Do  ye   hear  the  children  weeping,  O  my 
brothers, 
Ere  the  sorrow  comes  with  j'^ears  ? 
They  are  leaning  their  young  heads  against 
their  mothers. 
And  that  cannot  stop  their  tears. 
The    young    lambs    are    bleating    in   the 
meadows. 
The  young  birds  are  chirping  in  the  nest. 
The    young    fawns   are    playing   with   the 
shadows. 
The  young  flowers  are  blowing  toward 
the  west  — 
But   the    young,    young    children,    O    my 
brothers, 
They  are  weeping  bitterly  !  10 

They  are  weeping  in  the  playtime  of  the 
others, 
In  the  country  of  the  free. 


II 


Do  you  question  the  young  children  in  the 
sorrow 

Why  their  tears  are  falling  so  ? 
The  old  man  may  weep  for  his  to-morrow 

Which  is  lost  in  Long  Ago; 


The  old  tree  is  leafless  in  the  forest, 

The  old  year  is  ending  in  the  frost. 
The  old  wound,  if  stricken,  is  the  sorest. 

The  old  hope  is  hardest  to  be  lost:         20 
But    the   young,    young    children,    O    my 
brothers. 
Do  you  ask  them  why  they  stand 
Weeping  sore  before  the  bosoms  of  their 
mothers. 
In  our  happy  Fatherland  ? 

Ill 

They  look  up  with  their  pale  and  sunken 
faces, 
And  their  looks  are  sad  to  see, 
For   the  man's   hoary  anguish  draws  and 
presses 
Down  the  cheeks  of  infancy; 
'  Your  old  earth,'  they  say,  '  is  very  dreary. 
Our  young   feet,'  they   say,    '  are   very 
weak;  30 

Few     paces     have     we     taken,     yet     are 
weary  — 
Our  grave-rest  is  very  far  to  seek: 
Ask  the  aged  why  they  weep,  and  not  the 
children. 
For  the  outside  earth  is  cold. 
And  we  young  ones  stand  without,  in  our 
bewildering, 
And  the  graves  are  for  the  old. 

IV 

*  True,'  say  the  children,  '  it  may  happen 

That  we  die  before  our  time: 
Little    Alice  died   last   year,  her  grave  is 
shapen 
Like  a  snowball,  in  the  rime.  40 

We  looked  into  the  pit  prepared  to  take 
her: 
Was  no  room  for  any  work  in  the  close 
clay  ! 
From  the  sleep  wherein  she  lieth  none  will 
wake  her. 
Crying,  "  Get  up,  little  Alice  !  it  is  day." 
If   you  listen  by  that   grave,  in   sun   and 
shower. 
With  your  ear  down,  little  Alice  never 
cries; 
Could  we  see  her  face,  be  sure  we  should 
not  know  her, 
For  the  smile  has  time  for  growing  in 
her  eyes: 
And   merry   go  her   moments,  lulled   and 
stilled  in 
The  shroud  by  the  kirk-chime.  50 


THE   CRY   OF   THE   CHILDREN 


157 


It    is    good   when    it    happens,'   say    the 
children, 
*  That  we  die  before  our  time.' 

V 

Alas,  alas,  the  children  !  they  are  seeking 

Death  in  life,  as  best  to  have: 
They  are  binding  up  their  hearts  away  from 
breaking, 
With  a  cerement  from  the  grave. 
Go  out,  children,  from  the  mine  and  from 
the  city. 
Sing  out,  children,  as  the  little  thrushes 
do; 
Pluck  your  handfuls  of  the  meadow-cow- 
slips pretty. 
Laugh   aloud,  to   feel   your   fingers   let 
them  through  !  60 

But  they  answer, '  Are  your  cowslips  of  the 
meadows 
Like  our  weeds  anear  the  mine  ? 
Leave   us  quiet   in  the  dark  of   the  coal- 
shadows. 
From  your  pleasures  fair  and  fine  ! 

VI 

*  For  oh,'  say  the  children,  '  we  are  weary, 

And  we  cannot  run  or  leap; 
If   we   cared   for   any   meadows,    it   were 
merely 
To  drop  down  in  them  and  sleep. 
Our  knees  tremble  sorely  in  the  stooping. 

We  fall  vipon  our  faces,  trying  to  go;    70 
And,  underneath  our  heavy  eyelids  droop- 
ing 
The  reddest   flower  would  look  as  pale 
as  snow. 
For,  all  day,  we  drag  our  burden  tiring 

Through  the  coal-dark,  underground; 
Or,  all  day,  we  drive  the  wheels  of  iron 
In  the  factories,  round  and  round. 

VII 

*  For  all  day  the  wheels  are  droning,  turn- 

ing; 
Their  wind  comes  in  our  faces. 
Till  our  hearts  turn,  our  heads  with  pulses 
burning. 
And  the  walls  turn  in  their  places:    80 
Turns  the  sky*  in  the  high  window,  blank 
and  reeling, 
Turns  the  long  light  that  drops  adown 
the  wall, 
Turn  the  black  flies  that  crawl  along  the 
ceiling: 


All  are  turning,  all  the  day,  and  we  with 
all. 
And  all  day  the  iron  wheels  are  droning. 

And  sometimes  we  could  pray, 
"  O   ye  wheels "  (breaking  out   in  a  mad 
moaning), 
«  Stop  !  be  silent  for  to-day  !  "  ' 

VIII 

Ay,  be  silent !     Let  them  hear  each  other 
breathing 
For  a  moment,  mouth  to  mouth  !  90 

Let  them  touch   each  other's    hands,  in  a 
fresh  wreathing 
Of  their  tender  human  youth  ! 
Let  them  feel  that  this  cold  metallic  motion 
Is  not   all  the  life  God  fashions  or   re- 
veals : 
Let  them  prove  their  living  souls  against 
the  notion 
That  they  live  in  you,  or  under  you,  O 
wheels  ! 
Still,  all  day,  the  iron  wheels  go  onward, 

Grinding  life  down  from  its  mark ; 
And  the  children's  souls,  which  God  is  call- 
ing sunward. 
Spin  on  blindly  in  the  dark.  100 

IX 

Now  tell  the  poor  young  children,  O  my 
brothers, 
To  look  up  to  Him  and  pray; 
So  the  blessed   One  who  blesseth  all   the 
others, 
Will  bless  them  another  day. 
They  answer,  '  Who  is  God  that  He  should 
hear  us, 
While  the  rushing  of  the  iron  wheels  is 
stirred  ? 
When  we  sob  aloud,  the  human  creatures 
near  us 
Pass  by,   hearing  not,  or  answer   not  a 
word. 
And  we  hear  not  (for  the  wheels  in  their 
resounding) 
Strangers  speaking  at  the  door:         no 
Is  it  likely  God,  with  angels  singing  round 
Him, 
Hears  our  weeping  any  more  ? 


Two    words,   indeed,  of   praying  we    re- 
member. 
And  at  midnight's  hour  of  harm^ 


158 


POEMS   OF   1844 


"  Our  Father,"  looking  upward  in  the  cham- 
ber, 
We  say  softly  for  a  charm. 
We  know  no  other  words  except  "  Our  Fa- 
ther," 
And   we  think   that,  in   some    pause  of 
angels'  song, 
God  may  pluck  them  with  the  silence  sweet 
to  gather, 
And   hold   both  within    his    right  hand 
which  is  strong.  120 

"  Our  Father  !  "   If  He  heard  us.  He  would 
surely 
(For  they  call  Him  good  and  mild) 
Answer,  smiling  down  the  steep  world  very 
purely, 
"  Come  and  rest  with  me,  my  child." 

XI 

*  But,    no ! '    say    the    children,    weeping 
faster, 
'  He  is  speechless  as  a  stone : 
And    they    tell    us,  of    His  image  is  the 
master 
Who  commands  us  to  work  on. 
Go     to  !  '     say     the     children,  — '  up      in 
Heaven, 
Dark,  wheel-like,  turning  clouds  are  all 
we  find.  130 

Do  not  mock   us;  grief   has  made  us  un- 
believing: 
We  look  up  for  God,  but  tears  have  made 
us  blind.' 
Do  you  hear  the  children  weeping  and  dis- 
proving, 
O  my  brothers,  what  ye  preach  ? 
For  God's  possible  is  taught  by  his  world's 
loving, 
And  the  children  doubt  of  each. 

XII 

And  well   may  the   children  weep   before 
you! 
They  are  weary  ere  they  run; 
They   have  never  seen   the    sunshine,   nor 
the  glory 
Which  is  brighter  than  the  sun.         140 
They  know  the  grief  of  man,  without  its 
wisdom ; 
They  sink  in  man's  despair,  without  its 
calm; 
Are  slaves,  without  the  liberty  in  Christ- 
dom, 
Are  martyrs,   by  the  pang  without  the 
palm: 


Are  worn  as  if   with   age,  yet   unretriev- 
ingly 
The    harvest   of   its  memories  cannot 
reap,  — 
Are  orphans  of  the  earthly  love  and  hea- 
venly. 
Let  them  weep  !  let  them  weep  ! 

XIII 

They  look  up  with  their  pale  and   sunken 
faces. 
And  their  look  is  dread  to  see,  150 

For  they  mind  you  of  their  angels  in  high 
places. 
With  eyes  turned  on  Deity. 
'  How  long,'  they  say,  '  how  long,  O  cruel 
nation, 
Will  you  stand,  to  move  the  world,  on  a 
child's  heart,  — 
Stifle  down  with  a  mailed  heel  its  palpita- 
tion, 
And  tread  onward  to  your  throne  amid 
the  mart  ? 
Our     blood     splashes     upward,    O    gold- 
heaper, 
And  your  purple  shows  your  path  ! 
But   the  child's  sob  in    the  silence  curses 
deeper 
Than  the  strong  man  in  his  wrath.' 


CROWNED    AND    WEDDED 

Queen  Victoria  and  Prince  Albert  of  Saxe- 
Coburg  -  Gotha  were  betrothed  in  October, 
1839,  and  married  February  1,  1840.  This 
poem  was  first  printed  in  the  Athenceum  for 
February  15,  1840,  as  '  The  Crowned  and 
Wedded  Queen.' 


When  last  before  her  people's  face  her  own 
fair  face  she  bent. 

Within  the  meek  projection  of  that  shade 
she  was  content 

To  erase  the  child-smile  from  her  lips, 
which  seemed  as  if  it  might 

Be  still  kept  holy  from  the^  world  to  child- 
hood still  in  sight  — 

To  erase  it  with  a  solemn  vow,  a  princely 
vow —  to  rule; 

A  priestly  vow  —  to  rule  by  grace  of  God 
the  pitiful; 


CROWNED   AND   WEDDED 


159 


Along 


A  very  godlike  vow  —  to  rule  in  right  and 

righteousness 
And   with  the  law  and  for  the  land  —  so 

God  the  vower  bless  ! 

II 

The  minster  was  alight  that  day,  but  not 

with  fire,  I  ween, 
And  long-drawn  glitterings  swept   adown 

that  mighty  aisled  scene ;  10 

The  priests  stood  stolid  in  their  pomp,  the 

sworded  chiefs  in  theirs, 
And  so,  the  collared  knights,  and  so,  the 

civil  ministers, 
And  so,  the  waiting  lords  and  dames,  and 

little  pages  best 
At    holding    trains,  and   legates    so,    from 

countries  east  and  west; 
So,  alien  princes,  native  peers,  and  high- 
born ladies  bright, 
whose    brows    the    Queen's,    now 

crowned,  flashed  coronets  to  light; 
And  so,  the  people  at  the  gates  with  priestly 

hands  on  high 
Which  bring  the  first  anointing  to  all  legal 

majesty; 
And  so  the  Dead,  who  lie  in  rows  beneath 

the  minster  floor. 
There  verily  an   awful   state    maintaining 

evermore:  20 

The  statesman  whose  clean  palm  will  kiss 

no  bribe  whate'er  it  be, 
The  courtier  who  for  no  fair  queen  will  rise 

up  to  his  knee. 
The  court-dame  who  for  no  court-tire  will 

leave  her  shroud  behind. 
The  laureate  who  no  courtlier  rhyme  than 

'  dust  to  dust '  can  find. 
The  kings    and  queens  who  having   made 

that  vow  and  worn  that  crown. 
Descended  unto  lower  thrones  and  darker, 

deep  adown: 
Dieu  et   mon   droit  —  what   is  't  to    them  ? 

what  meaning  can  it  have  ?  — 
The  King  of  kings,  the    right  of  death  — 

God's  judgment  and  the  grave. 
And  when  betwixt  the  quick  and  dead  the 

young  fair  queen  had  vowed, 
The  living  shouted  '  May  she  live  !  Victoria, 

live  ! '  aloud:  30 

And    as    the    loyal    shouts    went    up,    true 

spirits  prayed  between, 
*  The    blessings  happy  monarchs    have   be 

thine,  O  crowned  queen  ! ' 


III 
But    now   before    her    people's   face    she 

bendeth  hers  anew. 
And  calls  them,  while  she  vows,  to  be  her 

witness  thereunto. 
She  vowed    to  rule,  and  in  that  oath  her 

childhood  put  away: 
She  doth  maintain  her  womanhood,  in  vow- 
ing love  to-day. 
O  lovely  lady  !  let  her  vow  !  such  lips  be- 
come such  vows. 
And  fairer  goeth  bridal  wreath  than  crown 

with  vernal  brows. 
O  lovely  lady  !  let  her  vow  !  yea,  let  her 

vow  to  love  ! 
And  though  she  be  no  less  a  queen,  with 

purples  hung  above,  40 

The  pageant  of  a  court  behind,  the  royal 

kin  around. 
And  woven  gold  to  catch  her  looks  turned 

maidenly  to  ground. 
Yet  may  the    bride- veil   hide  from    her  a 

little  of  that  state. 
While  loving  hopes  for  retinues  about  her 

sweetness  wait. 
She  vows  to  love  who  vowed  to  rule  —  (the 

chosen  at  her  side) 
Let  none  say,  God  preserve  the  queen  !  but 

rather.  Bless  the  bride  ! 
None  blow  the  trump,  none  bend  the  knee, 

none  violate  the  dream 
Wherein  no  monarch  but  a  wife  she  to  her- 
self may  seem. 
Or   if   ye    say.    Preserve    the    queen  !    oh, 

breathe  it  inward  low  — 
She    is    a   woman,   and    beloved !  and    't  is 

enough  but  so,  50 

Count   it    enough,  thou    noble  prince  who 

tak'st  her  by  the  hand 
And  claimest  for  thy  lady-love  our  lady  of 

the  land  ! 
And  since,  Prince  Albert,  men  have  called 

thy  spirit  high  and  rare. 
And  true  to  truth  and  brave  for  truth  as 

some  at  Augsburg  were. 
We  charge  thee  by  thy  lofty  thoughts  and 

by  thy  poet-mind 
Which   not    by   glory   and    degree    takes 

measure  of  mankind, 
Esteem  tha.t  wedded   hand   less   dear   for 

sceptre  than  for  ring, 
And  hold  her  uncrowned  womanhood  to  be 

the  royal  thing. 


i6o 


POEMS   OF   1844 


IV 

And  now,  upon  our  queen's  last  vow  what 

blessings  shall  we  pray  ? 
None  straitened   to  a   shallow  crown  will 

suit  our  lips  to-day:  60 

Behold,  they  must   be   free  as   love,  they 

must  be  broad  as  free. 
Even  to  the  borders  of  heaven's  light  and 

earth's  humanity. 
Long  live  she  !  —  send  up  loyal  shouts,  and 

true  hearts  pray  between,  — 
'  The  blessings  happy  peasants  have,  be 

thine,  O  crowned  queen  !  ' 


CROWNED  AND  BURIED 

First  printed  in  the  Athenceum  for  July  4, 
1840,  as  '  Napoleon's  Return.'  On  the  8th  of  the 
same  month  Miss  Barrett  wrote  from  Beacon 
Terrace,  Torquay,  to  H.  S.  Boyd  :  '  The  sub- 
ject of  the  removal  of  Napoleon's  ashes  is  a 
fitter  subject  for  you  than  for  me.  Napoleon 
is  no  idol  of  mine.  I  never  made  a  "  setting 
sun  "  of  him.  But  my  physician  suggested  the 
subject  as  a  noble  one,  and  then  there  was  some- 
thing suggestive  in  the  consideration  that  the 
Bellerophon  lay  on  those  very  bay-waters 
opposite  my  bed.' 


Napoleon  !  —  years   ago,  and   that  great 

word 
Compkct  of  human  breath  in  hate  and  dread 
And  exultation,  skied  us  overhead  — 
An    atmosphere  whose    lightning  was   the 

sword 
Scathing  the  cedars  of  the  world,  —  drawn 

down 
In  burnings,  by  the  metal  of  a  crown. 

II 

Napoleon  !  —  nations,    while    they    cursed 

that  name, 
Shook  at  their  own  curse;  and  while  others 

bore 
Its  sound,  as  of  a  trumpet,  on  before. 
Brass-fronted  legions  justified  its  fame; 
And  dying  men  on  trampled  battle-sods 
Near  their  last  silence  uttered  it  for  God's. 

Ill 

Napoleon  !  —  sages,    with    high   foreheads 

drooped, 
Did  use  it  for  a  problem;  children  small 


Leapt  up  to  greet  it,  as  at  manhood's  call; 

Priests  blessed  it  from  their  altars  over- 
stooped 

By  meek-eyed  Christs;  and  widows  with  a 
moan 

Spake  it,  when  questioned  why  they  sat 
alone. 

IV 

That   name   consumed   the  silence  of  the 

snows 
In  Alpine  keeping,  holy  and  cloud-hid ; 
The  mimic  eagles  dared  what  Nature's  did. 
And  over-rushed  her  mountainous  repose 
In  search  of  eyries :  and  the  Egyptian  river 
Mingled   the   same   word   with   its   grand 

*  For  ever.' 

V 

That  name  was  shouted  near  the  pyramidal 
Nilotic  tombs,  whose  mummied  habitants. 
Packed  to  humanity's  significance, 
Motioned  it  back  with   stillness,  —  shouts 

as  idle 
As   hireling   artists'  work   of   myrrh   and 

spice 
Which  swathed  last  glories  round  the  Ptole- 
mies. 

VI 

The  world's  face  changed  to  hear  it;  kingly 

men 
Came    down   in  chidden   babes'  bewilder- 
ment 
From  autocratic  places,  each  content 
With  sprinkled  ashes  for  anointing:  then 
The  people  laughed  or  wondered  for  the 

nonce. 
To  see  one  throne  a  composite  of  thrones. 

VII 

Napoleon  !  —  even  the  torrid  vastitude 
Of  India  felt  in  throbbings  of  the  air 
That  name  which  scattered  by  disastrous 

blare 
All  Europe's  bound-lines,  —  drawn  afresh 

in  blood. 
Napoleon  !  —  from    the    Russias   west   to 

Spain: 
And  Austria  trembled  till   ye   heard   her 

chain. 

VIII 

And  Germany  was  'ware;  and  Italy 
Oblivious  of  old  fames  —  her  laurel-locked, 


CROWNED   AND   BURIED 


i6i 


High-ghosted  Caesars  passing  uninvoked  — 
Did  crumble  her  own  ruins  with  her  knee, 
To   serve   a   newer:  ay  !    but    Frenchmen 

cast 
A   future    from   them   nobler    than    their 

past: 

IX 

For  verily  though  France  augustly  rose 
With  that  raised  name,  and  did  assume  by 

such 
The   purple    of   the  world,  none    gave    so 

much 
As  she  in   purchase  —  to   speak   plain,  in 

loss  — 
Whose  hands,  toward  freedom    stretched, 

dropped  paralyzed 
To  wield  a  sword  or  fit  an  undersized 


King's  crown  to  a  great  man's  head.     And 

though  along 
Her   Paris'  streets   did  float   on   frequent 

streams 
Of  triumph,  pictured  or  enmarbled  dreams 
Dreamt   right  by  genius  in  a  world  gone 

wrong,  — 
No  dream  of  all  so  won  was  fair  to  see 
As  the  lost  vision  of  her  liberty. 

XI 

Napoleon  !  —  't  was    a   high    name   lifted 

high: 
It  met  at  last  God's  thunder  sent  to  clear 
Our  compassing  and  covering  atmosphere 
And  open  a  clear  sight  beyond  the  sky 
Of   supreme    empire;   this  of   earth's  was 

done  — 
And  kings  crept  out  again  to  feel  the  sun. 

XII 

The  kings  crept  out  —  the  peoples  sat  at 

home, 
And  finding  the  long-invocated  peace 
(A  pall  embroidered  with  worn  images 
Of  rights  divine)  too  scant  to  cover  doom 
Such   as   they    suffered,    cursed    the    corn 

that  grew 
Rankly,  to  bitter  bread,  on  Waterloo. 

XIII 

A  deep  gloom  centred  in  the  deep  repose; 
The  nations  stood  up  mute  to  count  their 
dead : 


And  he  who  owned  the  name  which  vi- 
brated 

Through  silence,  — trusting  to  his  noblest 
foes 

When  earth  was  all  too  gray  for  chivalry, 

Died  of  their  mercies  'mid  the  desert  sea. 

XIV 

0  wild  Saint  Helen  !  very  still  she   kept 

him. 
With  a  green  willow  for  all  pyramid. 
Which  stirred  a  little  if  the  low  wind  did, 
A  little  more  if  pilgrims  overwept  him. 
Disparting  the  lithe  boughs  to  see  the  clay 
Which  seemed  to  cover  his  for  judgment- 
day. 

XV 

Nay,  not  so  long  !     France  kept  her  old 

affection 
As  deeply  as  the  sepulchre  the  corse; 
Until,  dilated  by  such  love's  remorse 
To  a  new  angel  of  the  resurrection. 
She  cried  '  Behold,  thou  England  !  I  would 

have 
The  dead,  whereof  thou  wottest,  from  that 

grave.' 

XVI 

And  England  answered  in  the  courtesy 
Which,   ancient   foes   turned   lovers,   may 

befit: 
'  Take    back   thy   dead  !    and  when   thou 

buriest  it, 
Throw  in  all  former  strifes  'twixt  thee  and 

me.' 
Amen,    mine    England  !    't  is    a   courteous 

claim : 
But  ask  a  little  room  too  —  for  thy  shame  ! 

XVII 

Because  it  was  not  well,  it  was  not  well. 
Nor  tuneful  with  thy  lofty-chanted  part 
Among  the  Oceanides,  —  that  Heart 
To  bind  and  bare  and  vex  with  vulture  fell. 

1  would,  my  noble    England,  men   might 

seek 
All  crimson  stains  upon  thy  breast  —  not 
cheek  ! 

XVIII 

I  would  that  hostile  fleets  had  scarred  Tor- 
bay, 

Instead  of  the  lone  ship  which  waited 
moored 


l62 


POEMS   OF   1844 


Until  thy  princely  purpose  was  assured, 
Then  left  a  shadow,  not  to  pass  away  — 
Not  for  to-night's  moon,  nor  to-morrow's 

sun: 
Green  watching  hills,   ye  witnessed  what 

was  done  ! 

XIX 

But  since  it  was  done,  —  in  sepulchral  dust 
We  fain  would  pay  back  something  of  our 

debt 
To  France,  if  not  to  honor,  and  forget, 
How  through  much  fear  we  falsified   the 

trust  ^ 

Of  a  fallen  foe  and  exile.     We  return 
Orestes  to  Electra  —  in  his  urn. 

XX 

A  little  urn  —  a  little  dust  inside, 

Which  once  outbalanced  the  large   earth, 

albeit 
To-day  a  four-years  child  might  carry  it 
Sleek-browed  and  smiling,  '  Let   the  bur- 
den 'bide  ! ' 
Orestes  to  Electra  !  —  O  fair  town 
Of  Paris,  how  the  wild  tears  will  run  down 

XXI 

And   run    back   in   the    chariot-marks  of 

time, 
When  all  the  people  shall  come  forth  to 

meet 
The  passive  victor,  death-still  in  the  street 
He   rode  through    'mid  the    shouting   and 

bell-chime 
And  martial  music,  under  eagles  which 
Dyed  their  rapacious  beaks  at  Austerlitz  ! 

XXII 

Napoleon  !  —  he   hath  come    again,   borne 

home 
Upon  the  popular  ebbing  heart,  —  a  sea 
Which  gathers  its  own  wrecks  perpetually, 
Majestically  moaning.     Give  him  room  ! 
Room   for   the   dead   in   Paris  !    welcome 

solemn 
And  grave-deep,  'neath  the  cannon-moulded 

column  ! 

XXIII 

There,  weapon   spent    and    warrior   spent 

may  rest 
From  roar  of  fields,  —  provided  Jupiter 
Dare  trust  Saturnus  to  lie  down  so  near 
His  bolts  !  —  and  this  he  may:  for,  dispos- 
sessed 


Of  any  godship  lies  the  godlike  arm  — 
The   goat,   Jove   sucked,  as   likely  to  do 
harm. 

XXIV 

And  yet  .  .  .  Napoleon  !  —  the  recovered 

name 
Shakes  the  old  casements  of  the  world ;  and 

we 
Look  out  upon  the  passing  pageantry, 
Attesting  that   the  Dead  makes  good   his 

claim 
To   a   French   grave,  —  another  kingdom 

won, 
The  last,  of  few  spans  —  by  Napoleon. 

XXV 

Blood  fell  like  dew  beneath  his  sunrise  — 

sooth 
But  glittered  dew-like  in  the  covenanted 
Meridian     light.      He    was    a     despot  — 

granted  ! 
But  the  avrSs  of  his  autocratic  mouth 
Said  yea  i'  the  people's  French;  he  magni- 
fied 
The  image  of  the  freedom  he  denied: 

XXVI 

And  if  they  asked  for  rights,  he  made 
reply 

*  Ye  have  my  glory  ! '  —  and  so,  drawing 
round  them 

His  ample  purple,  glorified  and  bound 
them 

In  an  embrace  that  seemed  identity. 

He  ruled  them  like  a  tyrant  —  true  !  but 
none 

Were  ruled  like  slaves:  each  felt  Napo- 
leon. 

XXVII 

I   do  not  praise   this  man:  the   man  was 

flawed 
For    Adam  —  much    more,   Christ  !  —  his 

knee  unbent, 
His  hand  unclean,  his  aspiration  pent 
Within     a     sword-sweep  —  pshaw  !  —  but 

since  he  had 
The  genius  to  be  loved,  why,  let  him  have 
The  justice  to  be  honored  in  his  grave. 

XXVIII 

I  think  this  nation's  tears  thus  poured  to- 
gether. 
Better  than  shouts.     I  think  this  funeral 


TO   FLUSH,    MY   DOG 


163 


Grander  than   crownings,  though    a   Pope 

bless  all. 
I  think  this  grave  stronger  than  thrones. 

But  whether 
The  crowned  Napoleon  or  the  buried  clay 
Be  worthier,  I  discern  not:  angels  may. 


TO    FLUSH,    MY    DOG 

First  printed  in  the  Athenceum,  July  22, 
1843.  '  This  dog,'  says  the  author,  '  was  the 
gift  of  my  dear  and  admired  friend,  Miss  Mit- 
ford,  and  belongs  to  the  beautiful  race  she  has 
rendered  celebrated  among  English  and  Amer- 
ican readers.  The  Flushes  have  their  laurels 
as  well  as  the  Caesars,  —  the  chief  difference 
(at  least  the  very  head  and  front  of  it)  con- 
sisting, perhaps,  in  the  bald  head  of  the  latter 
under  the  crown.' 


Loving  friend,  the  gift  of  one 
Who  her  own  true  faith  has  run 

Through  thy  lower  nature, 
Be  my  benediction  said 
With  my  hand  upon  thy  head, 

Gentle  fellow-creature  ! 

II 

Like  a  lady's  ringlets  brown. 
Flow  thy  silken  ears  adown 

Either  side  demurely 
Of  thy  silver-suited  breast 
Shining  out  from  all  the  rest 

Of  thy  body  purely. 

HI 

Darkly  brown  thy  body  is, 
Till  the  sunshine  striking  this 

Alchemize  its  dulness. 
When  the  sleek  curls  manifold 
Flash  all  over  into  gold 

With  a  burnished  fulness. 

IV 

Underneath  my  stroking  hand. 
Startled  eyes  of  hazel  bland 

Kindling,  growing  larger, 
Up  thou  leapest  with  a  spring. 
Full  of  prank  and  curveting, 

Leaping  like  a  charger. 

V 

Leap  !  thy  broad  tail  waves  a  light. 
Leap  i  thy  slender  feet  are  bright. 


Canopied  in  fringes; 
Leap  !  those  tasselled  ears  of  thine 
Flicker  strangely,  fair  and  fine 

Down  their  golden  inches. 


VI 

Yet,  my  pretty,  sportive  friend, 
Little  is  't  to  such  an  end 

That  I  praise  thy  rareness; 
Other  dogs  may  be  thy  peers 
Haply  in  these  drooping  ears 

And  this  glossy  fairness. 

VII 

But  of  thee  it  shall  be  said, 
This  dog  watched  beside  a  bed 

Day  and  night  unweary. 
Watched  within  a  curtained  room 
Where  no  sunbeam  brake  the  gloom 

Round  the  sick  and  dreary. 

VIII 

Roses,  gathered  for  a  vase, 
In  that  chamber  died  apace. 

Beam  and  breeze  resigning; 
This  dog  only,  waited  on. 
Knowing  that  when  light  is  gone 

Love  remains  for  shining. 

IX 
Other  dogs  in  thy  my  dew 
Tracked  the  hares  and  followed  through 

Sunny  moor  or  meadow; 
This  dog  only,  crept  and  crept 
Next  a  languid  cheek  that  slept. 

Sharing  in  the  shadow. 

X 

Other  dogs  of  loyal  cheer 
Bounded  at  the  whistle  clear, 

Up  the  woodside  hieing; 
This  dog  only,  watched  in  reach 
Of  a  faintly  uttered  speech 

Or  a  louder  sighing. 

XI 

And  if  one  or  two  quick  tears 
Dropped  upon  his  glossy  ears 

Or  a  sigh  came  double. 
Up  he  sprang  in  eager  haste. 
Fawning,  fondling,  breathing  fast, 

In  a  tender  trouble. 

XII 

And  this  dog  was  satisfied 

If  a  pale  thin  hand  would  glide 


164 


POEMS   OF    1844 


Down  his  dewlaps  sloping,  — 
Which  he  pushed  his  nose  within, 
After,  —  platforming  his  chin 

On  the  palm  left  open. 

XIII 
This  dog,  if  a  friendly  voice 
Call  him  now  to  blither  choice 

Than  such  chamber-keeping, 
'  Come  out  !  '  praying  from  the  door, 
Presseth  backward  as  before, 

Up  against  me  leaping. 

XIV 
Therefore  to  this  dog  will  I, 
Tenderly  not  scornfully. 

Render  praise  and  favor: 
With  my  hand  upon  his  head. 
Is  my  benediction  said 

Therefore  and  for  ever. 

XV 

And  because  he  loves  me  so, 
Better  than  his  kind  will  do 

Often  man  or  woman, 
Give  I  back  more  love  again 
Than  dogs  often  take  of  men, 

Leaning  from  my  Human. 

XVI 

Blessings  on  thee,  dog  of  mine, 
Pretty  collars  make  thee  fine, 

Sugared  milk  make  fat  thee  ! 
Pleasures  wag  on  in  thy  tail, 
Hands  of  gentle  motion  fail 

Nevermore,  to  pat  thee  ! 

XVII 

Downy  pillow  take  thy  head. 
Silken  coverlid  bestead. 

Sunshine  help  thy  sleeping  ! 
No  fly's  buzzing  wake  thee  up, 
No  man  break  thy  purple  cup 

Set  for  drinking  deep  in. 

XVIII 
Whiskered  cats  arointed  flee. 
Sturdy  stoppers  keep  from  thee 

Cologne  distillations; 
Nuts  lie  in  thy  path  for  stones. 
And  thy  feast-day  macaroons 

Turn  to  daily  rations  ! 

XIX 
Mock  I  thee,  in  wishing  weal  ?  — 
Tears  are  in  my  eyes  to  feel 


Thou  art  made  so  straitly, 
Blessing  needs  must  straiten  too, 
Little  canst  thou  joy  or  do. 

Thou  who  lovest  greatly. 

XX 

Yet  be  blessed  to  the  height 
Of  all  good  and  all  delight 

Pervious  to  thy  nature; 
Only  loved  beyond  that  line. 
With  a  love  that  answers  thine. 

Loving  fellow-creature  ! 


THE   FOURFOLD   ASPECT 


When  ye  stood  up  in  the  house 

With  your  little  childish  feet. 
And,  in  touching  Life's  first  shows, 

First  the  touch  of  Love  did  meet. 
Love  and  Nearness  seeming  one. 

By  the  heartlight  cast  before, 
And  of  all  Beloveds,  none 

Standing  farther  than  the  door; 
Not  a  name  being  dear  to  thought, 

With  its  owner  beyond  call; 
Not  a  face,  unless  it  brought 

Its  own  shadow  to  the  wall; 
When  the  worst  recorded  change 

Was  of  apple  dropt  from  bough. 
When  love's  sorrow  seemed  more  strange 

Than  love's  treason  can  seem  now;  — 
Then,  the  Loving  took  you  up 

Soft,  upon  their  elder  knees. 
Telling  why  the  statues  droop 

Underneath  the  churchyard  trees,      20 
And  how  ye  must  lie  beneath  them 

Through  the  winters  long  and  deep. 
Till  the  last  trump  overbreathe  them. 

And  ye  smile  out  of  your  sleep. 
Oh,  ye  lifted  up  your  head,  and  it  seemed  as 
if  they  said 

A  tale  of  fairy  ships 

With  a  swan-wing  for  a  sail; 
Oh,  ye  kissed  their  loving  lips 
For  the  merry  merry  tale  —   29 
So  carelessly  ye  thought  upon  the  Dead  ! 

II 

Soon  ye  read  in  solemn  stories 

Of  the  men  of  long  ago. 
Of  the  pale  bewildering  glories 

Shining  farther  than  we  know; 


10 


THE   FOURFOLD   ASPECT 


165 


Of  the  heroes  with  the  laurel, 

Of  the  poets  with  the  bay, 
Of  the  two  worlds'  earnest  quarrel 

For  that  beauteous  Helena; 
How  Achilles  at  the  portal 

Of  the  tent  heard  footsteps  nigh,        40 
And  his  strong  heart,  half-immortal, 

Met  the  keitai  with  a  cry ; 
How  Ulysses  left  the  sunlight 

For  the  pale  eidola  race 
Blank  and  passive  through  the  dun  light, 

Staring  blindly  in  his  face; 
How  that  true  wife  said  to  Psetus, 
With  calm  smile  and  wounded  heart, 
*  Sweet,  it  hurts  not  !  '     How  Admetus 
Saw  his  blessed  one  depart;  50 

How  King  Arthur  proved  his  mission. 

And  Sir  Roland  wound  his  horn, 
And  at  Sangreal's  moony  vision 
Swords  did  bristle  round  like  corn. 
Oh,  ye  lifted  up  your  head,  and  it  seemed, 
the  while  ye  read. 

That  this  Death,  then,   must  be 

found 
A  Valhalla  for  the  crowned. 
The  heroic  who  prevail: 
None,  be  sure  can  enter  in 
Far  below  a  paladin  60 

Of  a  noble  noble  tale  — 
So  awfully  ye  thought  upon  the  Dead  ! 

Ill 

Ay,  but  soon  ye  woke  up  shrieking. 

As  a  child  that  wakes  at  night 
From  a  dream  of  sisters  speaking 

In  a  garden's  summer-light,  — 
That  wakes,  starting  up  and  bounding, 

In  a  lonely  lonely  bed. 
With  a  wall  of  darkness  round  him, 

Stifling  black  about  his  head  !  70 

And  the  full  sense  of  your  mortal 

Rushed  upon  you  deep  and  loud, 
And  ye  heard  the  thunder  hurtle 

From  the  silence  of  the  cloud. 
Funeral-torches  at  your  gateway 

Threw  a  dreadful  light  within. 
All  things  changed :  you  rose  up  straight- 
way, 

And  saluted  Death  and  Sin. 
Since,  your  outward  man  has  rallied. 

And  your  eye  and  voice  grown  bold; 
Yet  the  Sphinx  of  Life  stands  pallid,     81 

With  her  saddest  secret  told. 
Happy  places  have  grown  holy: 

If  ye  went  where  once  ye  went, 


Only  tears  would  fall  down  slowly. 

As  at  solemn  sacrament. 
Merry  books,  once  read  for  pastime, 

If  ye  dared  to  read  again, 
Only  memories  of  the  last  time 

Would  swim  darkly  up  the  brain.      90 
Household  names,  which  used   to   flut- 
ter 
Through  your  laughter  unawares,  — 
God's  Divinest  ye  could  utter 

With  less  trembling  in  your  prayers. 
Ye  have  dropt  adown  your  head,  and  it 
seems  as  if  ye  tread 

On  your  own  hearts  in  the  path 
Ye  are  called  to  in  His  wrath. 
And  your  prayers  go  up  in  wail 
— '  Dost  Thou  see,  then,  all  our 

loss, 
O  Thou  agonized  on  cross  ?        100 
Ai't  thou  reading  all  its  tale  ?  ' 
So  mournfully  ye  think  upon  the  Dead  ! 

IV 

Pray,  pray,  thou  who  also  weepest. 

And  the  drops  will  slacken  so. 
Weep,  weep,  and  the  watch  thou  keepest 

With  a  quicker  count  will  go. 
Think:  the  shadow  on  the  dial 
For  the  nature  most  undone, 
Marks  the  passing  of  the  trial. 

Proves  the  presence  of  the  sun.  no 

Look,  look  up,  in  starry  passion. 

To  the  throne  above  the  spheres: 
Learn:  the  spirit's  gravitation 

Still  must  differ  from  the  tear's. 
Hope:  with  all  the  strength  thou  usest 

In  embracing  thy  despair. 
Love:  the  earthly  love  thou  losest 

Shall  return  to  thee  more  fair. 
Work:  make  clear  the  forest-tangles 

Of  the  wildest  stranger-land.  120 

Trust:  the  blessed  deathly  angels 

Whisper,  '  Sabbath  hours  at  hand  ! ' 
By  the  heart's  wound  when  most  gory, 

By  the  longest  agony. 
Smile  !     Behold  in  sudden  glory 
The  Transfigured  smiles  on  thee  ! 
And  ye  lifted  up  your  head,  and  it  seemed 
as  if  He  said, 
'  My  BelovM,  is  it  so  ? 
Have  ye  tasted  of  my  woe  ? 
Of    my    Heaven     ye     shall    not 
fail ! '  130 

He    stands    brightly   where    the 
shade  is. 


i66 


POEMS   OF    1844 


With     the   keys   of    Death    and 
Hades, 
And  there,  ends  the  mournful 
tale  — 
So  hopefully  ye  think  upon  the  Dead  ! 


A   FLOWER    IN    A   LETTER 


My  lonely  chamber  next  the  sea 
Is  full  of  many  Howers  set  free 

By  summer's  earliest  duty: 
Dear  friends  upon  the  garden-walk 
Might  stop  amid  their  fondest  talk 

To  pull  the  least  in  beauty. 

II 

A  thousand  flowers,  each  seeming  one 
That  learnt  by  gazing  on  the  sun 

To  counterfeit  his  shining; 
Within  whose  leaves  the  holy  dew 
That  falls  from  heaven  has  won  anew 

A  glory,  in  declining. 

Ill 

Red  roses,  used  to  praises  long, 
Contented  with  the  poet's  song, 

The  nightingale's  being  over; 
And  lilies  white,  prepared  to  touch 
The  whitest  thought,  nor  soil  it  much, 

Of  dreamer  turned  to  lover. 

IV 

Deep  violets,  you  liken  to 

The  kindest  eyes  that  look  on  you, 

Without  a  thought  disloyal; 
And  cactuses  a  queen  might  don 
If  weary  of  a  golden  crown. 

And  still  appear  as  royal. 

V 

Pansies  for  ladies  all,  —  I  wis 

That  none  who  wear  such  brooches  miss 

A  jewel  in  the  mirror; 
And  tulips,  children  love  to  stretch 
Their  fingers  down,  to  feel  in  each 

Its  beauty's  secret  nearer. 

VI 

Love's  language  may  be  talked  with  these; 
To  work  out  choicest  sentences, 
No  blossoms  can  be  meeter; 


And,  such  being  used  in  Eastern  bowers, 
Young  maids  may  wonder  if  the  flowers 
Or  meanings  be  the  sweeter. 

VII 

And  such  being  strewn  before  a  bride, 
Her  little  foot  may  turn  aside. 

Their  longer  bloom  decreeing, 
Unless  some  voice's  whispered  sound 
Should  make  her  gaze  upon  the  ground 

Too  earnestly  for  seeing. 

VIII 

And  such  being  scattered  on  a  grave. 
Whoever  mourneth  there  may  have 

A  type  which  seemeth  worthy 
Of  that  fair  body  hid  below. 
Which  bloomed  on  earth  a  time  ago, 

Then  perished  as  the  earthy. 

IX 

And  such  being  wreathed  for  worldly  feast, 
Across  the  brimming  cup  some  guest 

Their  rainbow  colors  viewing 
May  feel  them,  with  a  silent  start, 
The  covenant,  his  childish  heart 

With  nature  made,  renewing. 

X 

No  flowers  our  gardened  England  hath 
To  match  with  these,  in  bloom  and  breath, 

Which  froni  the  world  are  hiding 
In  sunny  Devon  moist  with  rills,  — 
A  nunnery  of  cloistered  hills, 

The  elements  presiding. 

XI 

By  Loddon's  stream  the  flowers  are  fair 
That  meet  one  gifted  lady's  care 

With  prodigal  rewarding: 
(For  Beauty  is  too  used  to  run 
To  Mitf ord's  bower  —  to  want  the  sun 

To  light  her  through  the  garden). 

XII 

But  here,  all  summers  are  comprised. 
The  nightly  frosts  shrink  exorcised 

Before  the  priestly  moonshine; 
And  every  wind  with  stolid  feet 
In  wandering  down  the  alleys  sweet 

Steps  lightly  on  the  sunshine. 

XIII 

And  (having  promised  Harpocrate 
Among  the  nodding  roses  that 


THE  CRY   OF   THE   HUMAN 


167 


No  harm  shall  touch  his  daughters) 
Gives  quite  away  the  rushing  sound 
He  dares  not  use  upon  such  ground 

For  gardens  brightly  springing,  — 
The  flower  which  grew  beneath  your  eyes, 
Beloved  friends,  to  mine  supplies 

To  ever-trickling  waters. 

A  beauty  worthier  singing  ! 

XIV 

Yet,  sun  and  wind  !  what  can  ye  do 
But  make  the  leaves  more  brightly  show 

THE    CRY    OF    THE    HUMAN 

In  posies  newly  gathered  ? 
I  look  away  from  all  your  best 

First  printed  in  Grahavi's  American  Maga- 
zine, 1842. 

To  one  poor  flower  unlike  the  rest, 

A  little  flower  half-withered. 

I 

XV 

I  do  not  think  it  ever  was 

A  pretty  flower,  —  to  make  the  grass 

Look  greener  where  it  reddened; 
And  now  it  seems  ashamed  to  be 
Alone,  in  all  this  company. 

Of  aspect  shrunk  and  saddened. 

XVI 

A  chamber-window  was  the  spot 
It  grew  in,  from  a  garden-pot. 

Among  the  city  shadows: 
If  any,  tending  it,  might  seem 
To  smile,  't  was  only  in  a  dream 

Of  nature  in  the  meadows. 

XVII 

How  coldly  on  its  head  did  fall 
The  sunshine,  from  the  city  wall 

In  pale  refraction  driven  ! 
How  sadly  plashed  upon  its  leaves 
The  raindrops,  losing  in  the  eaves 

The  first  sweet  news  of  heaven  ! 

XVIII 

And  those  who  planted,  gathered  it 
In  gamesome  or  in  loving  fit, 

And  sent  it  as  a  token 
Of  what  their  city  pleasures  be,  — 
For  one,  in  Devon  by  the  sea 

And  garden  blooms,  to  look  on. 

XIX 

But  SHE  for  whom  the  jest  was  meant. 
With  a  grave  passion  innocent 

Receiving  what  was  given,  — 
Oh,  if  her  face  she  turned  then. 
Let  none  say  't  was  to  gaze  again 

Upon  the  flowers  of  Devon  ! 

XX 

Because,  whatever  virtue  dwells 
In  genial  skies,  warm  oracles 


'  There  is  no  God  '  the  foolish  saith, 

But  none  '  There  is  no  sorrow,' 
And  nature  oft  the  cry  of  faith 

In  bitter  need  will  borrow: 
Eyes,  which  the  preacher  could  not  school, 

By  wayside  graves  are  raised. 
And  lips  say  '  God  be  pitiful,' 

Who  ne'er  said  '  God  be  praised.' 

Be  pitiful,  O  God  ! 

II 

The  tempest  stretches  from  the  steep 

The  shadow  of  its  coming, 
The  beasts  grow  tame  and  near  us  creep, 

As  help  were  in  the  human; 
Yet,    while     the     cloud-wheels     roll    and 
grind. 

We  spirits  tremble  under  — 
The  hills  have  echoes,  but  we  find 

No  answer  for  the  thunder. 

Be  pitiful,  O  God  I 

III 

The  battle  hurtles  on  the  plains. 

Earth  feels  new  scythes  upon  her; 
We  reap  our  brothers  for  the  wains, 

And  call  the  harvest  —  honor: 
Draw  face  to  face,  front  line  to  line, 

One  image  all  inherit,  — 
Then  kill,  curse  on,  by  that  same  sign. 

Clay  —  clay,  and  spirit  —  spirit. 

Be  pitiful,  O  God  ! 


IV 


The 


through 


plague   runs    festering 
town. 
And  never  a  bell  is  tolling. 
And  corpses,  jostled  'neath  the  moon. 

Nod  to  the  dead-cart's  rolling: 
The  young  child  calleth  for  the  cup. 
The  strong  man  brings  it  weeping. 
The  mother  from  her  babe  looks  up, 


the 


1 68 


POEMS   OF   1844 


And  shrieks  away  its  sleeping. 

Be  pitiful,  O  God  ! 

V 

The  plague  of  gold  strikes  far  and  near, 

And  deep  and  strong  it  enters; 
This  purple  chimar  which  we  wear 

Makes  madder  than  the  centaur's : 
Our  thoughts  grow  blank,  our  words  grow 
strange, 

We  cheer  the  pale  gold-diggers. 
Each  soul  is  worth  so  much  on  'Change, 

And  marked,  like  sheep,  with  figures. 

Be  pitiful,  O  God  ! 

VI 

The  curse  of  gold  upon  the  land 

The  lack  of  bread  enforces; 
The  rail-cars  snort  from  strand  to  strand. 

Like  more  of  Death's  White  Horses: 
The  rich  preach  '  rights '  and  '  future  days,' 

And  hear  no  angel  scoffing. 
The  poor  die  mute,  with  starving  gaze 

On  corn-ships  in  the  offing. 

Be  pitiful,  O  God  ! 

VII 

We  meet  together  at  the  feast. 

To  private  mirth  betake  us; 
We  stare  down  in  the  winecup,  lest 

Some  vacant  chair  should  shake  us: 
We  name  delight,  and  pledge  it  round  — 

'  It  shall  be  ours  to-morrow  ! ' 
God's  seraphs,  do  your  voices  sound 

As  sad,  in  naming  sorrow  ? 

Be  pitiful,  O  God  ! 

VIII 

We  sit  together,  with  the  skies, 

The  steadfast  skies,  above  us. 
We  look  into  each  other's  eyes, 

*  And  how  long  will  you  love  us  ?  ' 
The  eyes  grow  dim  with  prophecy. 

The  voices,  low  and  breathless,  — 
*  Till  death  us  part  ! '  —  O  words,  to  be 

Our  best,  for  love  the  deathless  ! 

Be  pitiful,  O  God  ! 

IX 

We  tremble  by  the  harmless  bed 

Of  one  loved  and  departed: 
Our  tears  drop  on  the  lips  that  said 

Last  night  '  Be  stronger-hearted  ! ' 
O  God  —  to  clasp  those  fingers  close, 


And  yet  to  feel  so  lonely  ! 
To  see  a  light  upon  such  brows. 
Which  is  the  daylight  only  ! 

Be  pitiful,  O  God  ! 

X 

The  happy  children  come  to  us 

And  look  up  in  our  faces; 
They  ask  us  '  Was  it  thus,  and  thus, 

When  we  were  in  their  places  ?  ' 
We  cannot  speak;  —  we  see  anew 

The  hills  we  used  to  live  in. 
And  feel  our  mother's  smile  press  through 

The  kisses  she  is  giving. 

Be  pitiful,  O  God  ! 

XI 

We  pray  together  at  the  kirk 

For  mercy,  mercy  solely: 
Hands  weary  with  the  evil  work. 

We  lift  them  to  the  Holy. 
The  corpse  is  calm  below  our  knee. 

Its  spirit,  bright  before  Thee: 
Between  them,  worse  than  either,  we  — 

Without  the  rest  or  glory. 

Be  pitiful,  O  God  ! 

XII 

We  leave  the  communing  of  men, 

The  murmur  of  the  passions. 
And  live  alone,  to  live  again 

With  endless  generations: 
Are  we  so  brave  ?     The  sea  and  sky 

In  silence  lift  their  mirrors. 
And,  glassed  therein,  our  spirits  high 

Recoil  from  their  own  terrors. 

Be  pitiful,  O  God  ! 

XIII 

We  sit  on  hills  our  childhood  wist, 

Woods,  hamlets,  streams,  beholding 
The  sun  strikes  through  the  farthest  mist 

The  city's  spire  to  golden: 
The  city's  golden  spire  it  was, 

When  hope  and  health  were  strongest, 
But  now  it  is  the  churchyard  grass 

We  look  upon  the  longest. 

Be  pitiful,  O  God  ! 

XIV 

And  soon  all  vision  waxeth  dull; 

Men  whisper  '  He  is  dying; ' 
We  cry  no  more  '  Be  pitiful  ! ' 

We  have  no  strength  for  crying; 


A   LAY   OF   THE   EARLY   ROSE 


169 


No  strength,  no  need.     Then,  soul  of  mine, 

Look  up  and  triumph  rather  ! 
Lo,  in  the  depth  of  God's  Divine, 

The  Son  adjures  the  Father, 

Be  pitiful,  O  God  ! 


A   LAY    OF    THE    EARLY    ROSE 

' .  .  .  discordance  that  can  accord.' 

—  Romaunt  of  the  Rose. 

A  ROSE  once  grew  within 

A  garden  April-green, 
In  her  loneness,  in  her  loueness, 
And  the  fairer  for  that  oneness. 

A  white  rose  delicate 
On  a  tall  bough  and  straight: 
Early  comer,  early  comer, 
Never  waiting  for  the  summer. 

Her  pretty  gestes  did  win 

South  winds  to  let  her  in,  10 

In  her  loneness,  in  her  loneness. 
All  the  fairer  for  that  oneness. 

*  For  if  I  wait,'  said  she, 

*  Till  time  for  roses  be. 

For  the  moss-rose  and  the  musk-rose, 
Maiden-blush  and  royal-dusk  rose, 

'  What  glory  then  for  me 

In  such  a  company  ?  — 
Roses  plenty,  roses  plenty 
And  one  nightingale  for  twenty  !  20 

'  Nay,  let  me  in,'  said  she, 

*  Before  the  rest  are  free. 

In  my  loneness,  in  my  loneness, 
All  the  fairer  for  that  oneness. 

'  For  I  would  lonely  stand 

Uplifting  my  white  hand, 
On  a  mission,  on  a  mission. 
To  declare  the  coming  vision. 

*  Upon  which  lifted  sign. 

What  worship  will  be  mine  !  30 

What  addressing,  what  caressing, 
And  what  thanks  and  praise  and  bless- 
ing ! 

'  A  windlike  joy  will  rush 
Through  every  tree  and  bush, 


Bending  softly  in  affection 
And  spontaneous  benediction. 

'  Insects,  that  only  may 

Live  in  a  sunbright  ray. 
To  my  whiteness,  to  my  whiteness. 
Shall  be  drawn  as  to  a  brightness,  —    40 

*  And  every  moth  and  bee 
Approach  me  reverently. 

Wheeling  o'er  me,  wheeling  o'er  me, 
Coronals  of  motioned  glory. 

'  Three  larks  shaU  leave  a  cloud. 
To  my  whiter  beauty  vowed. 

Singing  gladly  all  the  moontide. 

Never  waiting  for  the  suntide. 

'  Ten  nightingales  shall  flee 

Their  woods  for  love  of  me,  50 

Singing  sadly  all  the  suntide. 
Never  waiting  for  the  moontide. 

*  I  ween  the  very  skies 

Will  look  down  with  surprise, 
When  below  on  earth  they  see  me 
With  my  starry  aspect  dreamy. 

*  And  earth  will  call  her  flowers 
To  hasten  out  of  doors, 

By  their  curtsies  and  sweet-smelling 
To  give  grace  to  my  foretelling.'  60 

So  praying,  did  she  win 

South  winds  to  let  her  in, 
In  her  loneness,  in  her  loneness, 
And  the  fairer  for  that  oneness. 

But  ah,  —  alas  for  her  ! 

No  thing  did  minister 
To  her  praises,  to  her  praises, 
More  than  might  unto  a  daisy's. 


No  tree  nor  bush  was  seen 

To  boast  a  perfect  green, 
Scarcely  having,  scarcely  having 
One  leaf  broad  enough  for  waving. 

The  little  flies  did  crawl 

Along  the  southern  wall, 
Faintly  shifting,  faintly  shifting 
Wings  scarce  long  enough  for  lifting. 

The  lark,  too  high  or  low, 
I  ween,  did  miss  her  so, 


70 


lyo 


POEMS   OF    1844 


With  his  nest  clown  in  the  gorses, 

And  his  song  in  the  star-courses.  80 

The  nightingale  did  please 

To  loiter  beyond  seas: 
Guess  him  in  the  Happy  Islands, 
Learning  music  from  the  silence  ! 

Only  the  bee,  forsooth, 

Came  in  the  place  of  both, 
Doing  honor,  doing  honor 
To  the  honey-dews  upon  her. 

The  skies  looked  coldly  down 

As  on  a  royal  crown;  90 

Then  with  drop  for  drop,  at  leisure, 
They  began  to  rain  for  pleasure. 

Whereat  the  earth  did  seem 

To  waken  from  a  dream. 
Winter-frozen,  winter-frozen, 
Her  unquiet  eyes  unclosing  — 

Said  to  the  Rose,  '  Ha,  snow  ! 

And  art  thou  fallen  so  ? 
Thou,  who  wast  enthroned  stately 
All  along  my  mountains  lately  ?  100 

*  Holla,  thou  world-wide  snow  ! 

And  art  thou  wasted  so. 
With  a  little  bough  to  catch  thee, 
And  a  little  bee  to  watch  thee  ? ' 

—  Poor  Rose,  to  be  misknown  ! 
Would  she  had  ne'er  been  blown, 

In  her  loneness,  in  her  loneness, 
All  the  sadder  for  that  oneness  ! 

Some  word  she  tried  to  say. 

Some  no  .  .  .  ah,  wellaway  !  no 

But  the  passion  did  o'ercome  her. 
And  the  fair  frail  leaves  dropped  from  her. 

—  Dropped  from  her  fair  and  mute, 
Close  to  a  poet's  foot, 

Who  beheld  them,  smiling  slowly, 
As  at  something  sad  yet  holy,  — 

Said  '  Verily  and  thus 

It  chances  too  with  us 
Poets,  singing  sweetest  snatches 
While  that  deaf  men  keep  the  watches :  120 

'Vaunting  to  come  before 
Our  own  age  evermore. 


In  a  loneness,  in  a  loneness, 
And  the  nobler  for  that  oneness. 

*  Holy  in  voice  and  heart, 
To  high  ends,  set  apart: 

All  unmated,  all  unmated. 
Just  because  so  consecrated. 

*  But  if  alone  we  be, 

Where  is  our  empery  ?  130 

And  if  none  can  reach  our  stature, 
Who  can  mete  our  lofty  nature  ? 

'  What  bell  will  yield  a  tone, 

Swung  in  the  air  alone  ? 
If  no  brazen  clapper  bringing, 
Who  can  hear  the  chimed  ringing  ? 

'  What  angel  but  would  seem 

To  sensual  eyes,  ghost-dim  ? 
And  without  assimilation 
Vain  is  interpenetratiou.  140 

*  And  thus,  what  can  we  do. 
Poor  rose  and  poet  too, 

Who  both  antedate  our  mission 
In  an  unprepared  season  ? 

'  Drop,  leaf  !  be  silent,  song  ! 

Cold  things  we  come  among: 
We  must  warm  them,  we  must  warm  them, 
Ere  we  ever  hope  to  charm  them. 


'  Howbeit '  (here  his  face 
Lightened  around  the  place. 
So  to  mark  the  outward  turning 
Of  its  spirit's  inward  burning) 

'  Something  it  is,  to  hold 

In  God's  worlds  manifold. 
First  revealed  to  creature-duty. 
Some  new  form  of  his  mild  Beauty. 

'  Whether  that  form  respect 

The  sense  or  intellect. 
Holy  be,  in  mood  or  meadow, 
The  Chief  Beauty's  sign  and  shadow  ! 


150 


160 


'  Holy,  in  me  and  thee. 
Rose  fallen  from  the  tree,  — 

Though  the  world  stand  dumb  around  us, 

All  unable  to  expound  us. 

'  Though  none  us  deign  to  bless, 
Blessed  are  we,  natheless; 


BERTHA   IN   THE   LANE 


171 


Blessed  still  and  consecrated 
In  that,  rose,  we  were  created. 

'  Oh,  shame  to  poet's  lays 
Sung  for  the  dole  of  praise,  — 

Hoarsely  sung  upon  the  highway 

With  that  oholum  da  mihi ! 

*  Shame,  shame  to  poet's  soul 
Pining  for  such  a  dole. 

When  Heaven-chosen  to  inherit 
The  high  throne  of  a  chief  spirit  ! 

Sit  still  upon  your  thrones, 

O  ye  poetic  ones  ! 
And  if,  sooth,  the  world  decry  you, 
Let  it  pass  unchallenged  by  you. 

'  Ye  to  yourselves  suffice. 

Without  its  flatteries. 
Self-contentedly  approve  you 
Unto  Him  who  sits  above  you,  — 

'  In  prayers,  that  upward  mount 
Like  to  a  fair-sunned  fount 
Which,  in  gushing  back  upon  you. 
Hath  an  upper  music  won  you,  — 

'  In  faith,  that  still  perceives 
No  rose  can  shed  her  leaves. 
Far  less,  poet  fall  from  mission. 
With  an  unfulfilled  fruition,  — 

*  In  hope,  that  apprehends 
An  end  beyond  these  ends, 

And  great  uses  rendered  duly 

By  the  meanest  song  sung  truly,  — 

*  In  thanks,  for  all  the  good 
By  poets  understood, 

For  the  sound  of  seraphs  moving 
Down  the  hidden  depths  of  loving,  — 

*  For  sights  of  things  away 
Through  fissures  of  the  clay. 

Promised  things  which  shall  be  given 
And  sung  over,  up  in  Heaven,  — 

*  For  life,  so  lovely-vain. 

For  death,  which  breaks  the  chain, 
For  this  sense  of  present  sweetness. 
And  this  yearning  to  completeness  ! ' 


170 


180 


190 


200 


BERTHA  IN  THE  LANE 


Put  the  broidery-frame  away, 
For  my  sewing  is  all  done: 

The  last  thread  is  used  to-day, 
And  I  need  not  join  it  on. 

Though  the  clock  stands  at  the  noon 

I  am  weary.     I  have  sewn. 

Sweet,  for  thee,  a  wedding-gown. 

II 

Sister,  help  me  to  the  bed. 

And  stand  near  me,  Dearest-sweet. 
Do  not  shrink  nor  be  afraid. 

Blushing  with  a  sudden  heat  ! 
No  one  standeth  in  the  street  ?  — 
By  God's  love  I  go  to  meet. 
Love  I  thee  with  love  complete. 

Ill 

Lean  thy  face  down;  drop  it  in 

These  two  hands,  that  I  may  hold 
'Twixt  their  palms  thy  cheek  and  chin, 

Stroking  back  the  curls  of  gold: 
'T  is  a  fair,  fair  face,  in  sooth  — 
Larger  eyes  and  redder  mouth 
Than  mine  were  in  my  first  youth. 

IV 

Thou  art  younger  by  seven  years  — 
Ah  !  —  so  bashful  at  my  gaze. 

That  the  lashes,  hung  with  tears. 
Grow  too  heavy  to  upraise  ? 

I  would  wound  thee  by  no  touch 

Which  thy  shyness  feels  as  such. 

Dost  thou  mind  me,  Dear,  so  much  ? 

V 

Have  I  not  been  nigh  a  mother 

To  thy  sweetness  — tell  me,  Dear  ? 

Have  we  not  loved  one  another 
Tenderly,  from  year  to  year, 

Since  our  dying  mother  mild 

Said  with  accents  undefiled, 

*  Child,  be  mother  to  this  child  ! ' 

VI 

Mother,  mother,  up  in  heaven. 

Stand  up  on  the  jasper  sea. 
And  be  witness  I  have  given 

All  the  gifts  required  of  me,  — ■ 


172 


POEMS   OF   1844 


Hope  that  blessed  me,  bliss  that  crowned, 
Love  that  left  me  with  a  wound, 
Life  itself  that  turneth  round  ! 

VII 

Mother,  mother,  thou  art  kind. 
Thou  art  standing  in  the  room, 

In  a  molten  glory  shrined 

That  rays  off  into  the  gloom  ! 

But  thy  smile  is  bright  and  bleak 

Like  cold  waves  —  I  cannot  speak, 

I  sob  in  it,  and  grow  weak. 

VIII 

Ghostly  mother,  keep  aloof 

One  hour  longer  from  my  soul, 

For  I  still  am  thinking  of 

Earth's  warm-beating  joy  and  dole  ! 

On  my  finger  is  a  ring 

Which  I  still  see  glittering 

When  the  night  hides  everything. 

IX 

Little  sister,  thou  art  pale  ! 

Ah,  I  have  a  wandering  brain  — 
But  I  lose  that  fever-bale. 

And  my  thoughts  grow  calm  again. 
Lean  down  closer  —  closer  still  ! 
I  have  words  thine  ear  to  fill. 
And  would  kiss  thee  at  my  will. 

X 

Dear,  I  heard  thee  in  the  spring. 

Thee  and  Robert  —  through  the  trees,  - 

When  we  all  went  gathering 

Boughs  of  may-bloom  for  the  bees. 

Do  not  start  so  !  think  instead 

How  the  sunshine  overhead 

Seemed  to  trickle  through  the  shade. 

XI 

What  a  day  it  was,  that  day  ! 

Hills  and  vales  did  openly 
Seem  to  heave  and  throb  away 

At  the  sight  of  the  great  sky : 
And  the  silence,  as  it  stood 
In  the  glory's  golden  flood. 
Audibly  did  bud,  and  bud. 

XII 

Through  the  winding  hedgerows  green. 
How  we  wandered,  I  and  you, 

With  the  bowery  tops  shut  in. 

And  the  gates  that  showed  the  view  ! 

How  we  talked  there ;  thrushes  soft 


Sang  our  praises  out,  or  oft 
Bleatings  took  them  from  the  croft: 

XIII 

Till  the  pleasure  grown  too  strong 

Left  me  muter  evermore, 
And,  the  winding  road  being  long, 

I  walked  out  of  sight,  before. 
And  so,  wrapt  in  musings  fond, 
Issued  (past  the  wayside  pond) 
On  the  meadow-lands  beyond. 

XIV 

I  sate  down  beneath  the  beech 

Which  leans  over  to  the  lane, 
And  the  far  sound  of  your  speech 

Did  not  promise  any  pain; 
And  I  blessed  you  full  and  free, 
With  a  smile  stooped  tenderly 
O'er  the  may-flowers  on  my  knee. 

XV 

But  the  sound  grew  into  word 

As  the  speakers  drew  more  near  — 
Sweet,  forgive  me  that  I  heard 

What  you  wished  me  not  to  hear. 
Do  not  weep  so,  do  not  shake. 
Oh,  —  I  heard  thee,  Bertha,  make 
Good  true  answers  for  my  sake. 

XVI 

Yes,  and  he  too  !  let  him  stand 

In  thy  thoughts,  untouched  by  blamSr 

Could  he  help  it,  if  my  hand 

He  had  claimed  with  hasty  claim? 

That  was  wrong  perhaps  —  but  then 

Such  things  be  —  and  will,  again. 

Women  caimot  judge  for  men. 

XVII 

Had  he  seen  thee  when  he  swore 
He  would  love  but  me  alone  ? 

Thou  wast  absent,  sent  before 
To  our  kin  in  Sidmouth  town. 

When  he  saw  thee  who  art  blest 

Past  compare,  and  loveliest. 

He  but  judged  thee  as  the  rest. 

XVIII 

Could  we  blame  him  with  grave  words. 
Thou  and  I,  Dear,  if  we  might  ? 

Thy  brown  eyes  have  looks  like  birds 
Flying  straightway  to  the  light: 

Mine  are  older.  —  Hush  !  —  look  out  — ■ 


BERTHA   IN   THE   LANE 


173 


Up  the  street !     Is  none  without  ? 
How  the  poplar  swings  about ! 

XIX 

And  that  hour —  beneath  the  beech, 
When  I  listened  in  a  dream, 

And  he  said  in  his  deep  speech 
That  he  owed  me  all  esteem,  — 

Each  word  swam  in  on  my  brain 

With  a  dim,  dilating  pain, 

Till  it  burst  with  that  last  strain. 

XX 

I  fell  flooded  with  a  dark, 

In  the  silence  of  a  swoon. 
When  I  rose,  still  cold  and  stark. 

There  was  night;  I  saw  the  moon 
And  the  stars,  each  in  its  place. 
And  the  may-blooms  on  the  grass 
Seemed  to  wonder  what  I  was. 

XXI 

And  I  walked  as  if  apart 

From  myself,  when  I  could  stand, 
And  I  pitied  my  own  heart. 

As  if  I  held  it  in  my  hand  — 
Somewhat  coldly,  with  a  sense 
Of  fulfilled  benevolence, 
And  a  '  Poor  thing  '  negligence. 

XXII 
And  I  answered  coldly  too, 

When  you  met  me  at  the  door; 
And  I  only  heard  the  dew 

Dripping  from  me  to  the  floor: 
And  the  flowers,  I  bade  you  see. 
Were  too  withered  for  the  bee,  — 
As  my  life,  henceforth,  for  me. 

XXIII 

Do  not  weep  so  —  Dear,  —  heart-warm  ! 

All  was  best  as  it  befell. 
If  I  say  he  did  me  harm, 

I  speak  wild,  —  I  am  not  well. 
All  his  words  were  kind  and  good  — 
He  esteemed  me.     Only,  blood 
Runs  so  faint  in  womanhood  ! 

XXIV 

Then  I  always  was  too  grave.  — 
Like  the  saddest  ballad  suns",  — 

With  that  look,  besides,  we  have 
In  our  faces,  who  die  young. 

I  had  died,  Dear,  all  the  same; 


Life's  long,  joyous,  jostling  game 
Is  too  loud  for  my  meek  shame. 

XXV 

We  are  so  unlike  each  other. 

Thou  and  I,  that  none  could  guess 

We  were  children  of  one  mother, 
But  for  mutual  tenderness. 

Thou  art  rose-lined  from  the  cold, 

And  meant  verily  to  hold 

Life's  pure  pleasures  manifold. 

XXVI 

I  am  pale  as  crocus  grows 

Close  beside  a  rose-tree's  root; 
Whosoe'er  would  reach  the  rose. 

Treads  the  crocus  underfoot. 
/,  like  may-bloom  on  thorn-tree, 
Thou,  like  merry  summer-bee,  — 
Fit  that  I  be  plucked  for  thee  ! 

XXVII 

Yet  who  plucks  me  ?  —  no  one  mourns, 

I  have  lived  my  season  out. 
And  now  die  of  my  own  thorns 

Which  I  could  not  live  without. 
Sweet,  be  merry  !  How  the  light 
Comes  and  goes  !  If  it  be  night, 
Keep  the  candles  in  my  sight. 

XXVIII 

Are  there  footsteps  at  the  door  ? 

Look  out  quickly.     Yea,  or  nay  ? 
Some  one  might  be  waiting  for 

Some  last  word  that  I  might  say. 
Nay  ?  So  best  !  —  so  angels  would 
Stand  off  clear  from  deathly  road. 
Not  to  cross  the  sight  of  God. 

XXIX 

Colder  grow  my  hands  and  feet. 

When  I  wear  the  shroud  I  made, 
Let  the  folds  lie  straight  and  neat, 

And  the  rosemary  be  spread, 
That  if  any  friend  should  come, 
(To  see  thee,  Sweet  !)  all  the  room 
May  be  lifted  out  of  gloom. 

XXX 

And,  dear  Bertha,  let  me  keep 
On  my  hand  this  little  ring, 

Which  at  nights,  when  others  sleep, 
I  can  still  see  glittering  ! 

Let  me  wear  it  out  of  sight. 


174 


POEMS    OF    1844 


In  the  grave,  — where  it  will  light 
All  the  dark  up,  day  and  night. 

XXXI 

On  that  grave  drop  not  a  tear  ! 

Else,  though  fathom-deep  the  place, 
Through  the  woollen  shroud  I  wear 

I  shall  feel  it  on  my  face. 
Rather  smile  there,  blessed  one, 
Thinking  of  me  in  the  sun. 
Or  forget  me  —  smiling  on  ! 

XXXII 

Art  thou  near  me  ?  nearer  !  so  — 

Kiss  me  close  upon  the  eyes. 
That  the  earthly  light  may  go 

Sweetly,  as  it  used  to  rise 
When  I  watched  the  morning-gray 
Strike,  betwixt  the  hills,  the  way 
He  was  sure  to  come  that  day. 

XXXIII 

So,  —  no  more  vain  words  be  said  ! 

The  hosannas  nearer  roll. 
Mother,  smile  now  on  thy  Dead, 

I  am  death-strong  in  my  soul. 
Mystic  Dove  alit  on  cross. 
Guide  the  poor  bird  of  the  snows 
Through  the  snow-wind  above  loss  ! 

XXXIV 

Jesus,  Victim,  comprehending 
Love's  divine  self-abnegation. 

Cleanse  my  love  in  its  self-spending. 
And  absorb  the  poor  libation  ! 

Wind  my  thread  of  life  up  higher. 

Up,  through  angels'  hands  of  fire  ! 

I  aspire  while  I  expire. 


THAT  DAY 


I  STAND   by  the   river  where   both  of   us 

stood. 
And  there  is  but  one  shadow  to  darken  the 

flood; 
And  the  path  leading  to  it,  where  both  used 

to  pass. 
Has  the  step  bvit  of  one,  to  take  dew  from 

the  grass,  — 

One  forlorn  since  that  day. 


II 
The  flowers  of  the  margin  are  many  to  see; 
None  stoops  at  my  bidding  to  pluck  them 

for  me. 
The   bird   in   the   alder   sings   loudly  and 

long,  — 
My  low  sound  of  weeping  disturbs  not  his 
song, 

As  thy  vow  did,  that  day. 

Ill 

I  stand  by  the  river,  I  think  of  the  vow; 
Oh,  calm  as  the  place  is,  vow-breaker,  be 

thou  ! 
I  leave  the  flower  growing,  the  bird  unre- 

proved; 
Would  I  trouble  iliee  rather  than  them,  my 

beloved,  — 

And  my  lover  that  day  ? 

IV 

Go,  be  sure  of  my  love,  by  that  treason  for- 
given; 

Of  my  prayers,  by  the  blessings  they  win 
thee  from  Heaven; 

Of   my  grief  —  (guess   the   length   of  the 
sword  by  the  sheath's) 

By  the  silence  of  life,  more  pathetic  than 
death's  ! 

Go,  —  be  clear  of  that  day  ! 


LOVED  ONCE 


I  CLASSED,  appraising  once. 
Earth's    lamentable    sounds,  —  the   wella- 
day. 

The  jarring  yea  and  nay, 
The  fall  of  kisses  on  unanswering  clay. 
The  sobbed  farewell,  the  welcome  mourn- 
fuller,  — 

But  all  did  leaven  the  air 
With  a  less  bitter  leaven  of  sure  despair 

Than  these  words  — '  I  loved  once.' 

II 

And  who  saith  '  I  loved  ONCE  '  ? 
Not  angels,  — whose  clear  eyes,  love,  love 
foresee. 
Love,  through  eternity. 
And  by  To  Love  do  apprehend  To  Be. 
Not  God,  called  Love,  his  noble  crown- 
name  casting. 


A    RHAPSODY   OF   LIFE'S    PROGRESS 


175 


A  light  too  broad  for  blasting: 
The  great  God,  changing  not  from  ever- 
lasting, 
Saith  never  '  I  loved  once.' 

Ill 

Oh,  never  is  '  Loved  once  ' 
Thy  word,  Thou  Victim-Christ,  misprized 
friend  ! 

Thy  cross  and  curse  may  rend. 
But  having  loved  Thou  lovest  to  the  end. 
This  is  man's  saying  —  man's :  too  weak  to 
move 

One  sphered  star  above, 
Man  desecrates  the  eternal  God-word  Love 

By  his  Xo  More,  and  Once. 

IV 

How  say  ye  '  We  loved  once,' 
Blasphemers  ?      Is    your    earth   not   cold 
enow. 
Mourners,  without  that  snow  ? 
Ah  friends,  and  would  ye  wrong  each  other 

so? 
And  could  ye  say  of  some  whose  love  is 
known, 
Whose  prayers  have  met  your  own, 
Whose    tears   have  fallen  for  you,  whose 
smiles  have  shown 
So  long,  —  '  We  loved  them  once  '  ? 

V 

Could  ye  '  We  loved  her  once ' 
Say  calm  of  me,  sweet  friends,  when  out  of 
sight  ? 
When  hearts  of  better  right 
Stand   in   between   me    and    your   happy 

light  ? 
Or  when,  as  flowers  kept  too  long  in  the 
shade, 
Ye  find  my  colors  fade. 
And  all  that  is  not  love  in  me  decayed  ? 
Such  words  —  Ye  loved  me  once  ! 

VI 

Could  ye  '  We  loved  her  once  ' 
Say  cold  of  me  when  further  put  away 

In  earth's  sepulchral  clay. 
When  mute  the  lips  which  deprecate  to- 

day? 
Not   so  !    not   then  —  least   then  !     When 
life  is  shriven 

And  death's  full  joy  is  given,  — 
Of  those  who  sit  and  love  you  up  in  heaven 

Say  not  '  We  loved  them  once.' 


VII 


Say  never  ye  loved  once: 
God  is  too  near  above,  the  grave  beneath, 

And  all  our  moments  breathe 
Too  quick  in  mysteries  of  life  and  death, 
For  such  a  word.     The  eternities  avenge 

Affections  light  of  rano^e. 
There   comes   no   change    to   justify   that 
change. 

Whatever  comes  —  Loved  once  ! 

VIII 

And  yet  that  same  word  ONCE 
Is  humanly  acceptive.     Kings  have  said, 

Shaking  a  discrowned  head, 
*  We    ruled    once,'  —  dotards,    '  We    once 

taught  and  led,' 
Cripples  once  danced  i'  the  vines,  and  bards 
approved. 
Were  once  by  scornings  moved: 
But  love  strikes  one  hour — love!  Those 
7iever  loved 
Who  dream  that  they  loved  ONCE. 


RHAPSODY     OF 
PROGRESS 


LIFE'S 


'  Fill  all  the  stops  of  life  with  tuneful  breath.' 
—  Poems  on  Man,  by  Coenelius  Mathews. 


We  are  born  into  life  —  it  is  sweet,  it  is 

strange. 
We  lie  still  on  the  knee  of  a  mild  Mystery 

Which  smiles  with  a  change; 
But  we  doubt  not  of  changes,  we  know  not 

of  spaces. 
The   Heavens   seem   as   near  as  our  own 

mother's  face  is, 
And  we  think  we  could  touch  all  the  stars 

that  we  see; 
And  the  milk  of  our  mother  is  white  on 

our  mouth; 
And,  with    small    childish    hands,  we    are 

turning  around 
The  apple  of  Life  which  another  has  found ; 
It  is  warm  with  our  touch,  not  with  sun  of 

the  south,  10 

And  we  count,  as  we  turn  it,  the  red  side 

for  four. 
O  Life,  O  Beyond, 
Thou  art  sweet,  thou  art  strange  ever- 
more ! 


176 


POEMS   OF    1844 


II 

Then  all  things  look  strange  in  the  pure 

golden  aether; 
We  walk  through  the  gardens  with  hands 
linked  together, 
And  the  lilies  look  large  as  the  trees; 
And,  as  loud  as  the  birds,  sing  the  bloom- 
loving  bees, 
And  the  birds  sing  like  angels,  so  mystical- 
fine, 
And   the    cedars    are    brushing   the    arch- 
angels' feet. 
And  time  is  eternity,  love  is  divine,  20 

And  the  world  is  complete. 
Now,  God  bless  the  child,  —  father,  mother, 
respond  ! 
O  Life,  O  Beyond, 
Thou  art  strange,  thou  art  sweet. 

Ill 
Then  we  leap  on  the  earth  with  the  armor 
of  youth. 
And  the  earth  rings  again; 
And    we    breathe    out  '  O    Beauty  ! '    we 

cry  out  '  O  truth  ! ' 
And   the    bloom   of   our   lips    drops    with 

wine, 
And   our   blood   runs    amazed  'neath    the 

calm  hyaline; 
The    earth   cleaves   to   the   foot,   the   sun 
burns  to  the  brain,  —  30 

What  is   this    exultation  ?   and  what   this 

despair  ?  — 
The  strong  pleasure  is  smiting  the  nerves 

into  pain. 
And  we  drop  from  the  Fair  as  we  climb  to 
the  Fair, 
And  we  lie  in  a  trance  at  its  feet; 
And  the  breath  of  an  angel  cold-piercing 
the  air 
Breathes  fresh  on  our  faces  in  swoon. 
And  we  think  him  so  near  he  is  this  side 

the  sun, 
And  we  wake  to  a  whisper  self-murmured 
and  fond, 
O  Life,  O  Beyond, 
Thou  art  strange,  thou  art  sweet  !  40 

IV 

And  the  winds  and  the  waters  in  pastoral 

measures 
Go  winding  around  us,  with  roll  upon  roll. 
Till  the  soul  lies  within  in  a  circle  of  plea- 
sures 
Which  hideth  the  soul: 


And  we  run  with   the  stag,  and  we    leap 
with  the  horse. 

And  we  swim  with   the   fish  through  the 
broad  watercourse, 

And  we  strike  with   the  falcon,  and  hunt 
with  the  hound, 

And  the  joy  which  is  in  us  flies  out  by  a 
wound. 

And  we  shout  so  aloud,  '  We  exult,  we  re- 
joice,' 

That  we  lose  the  low  moan  of  our  brothers 
around:  50 

And   we   shout   so  adeep  down  creation's 
profound. 
We  are  deaf  to  God's  voice. 

And  we  bind  the  rose-garland  on  forehead 
and  ears 
Yet  we  are  not  ashamed. 

And  the  dew  of  the  roses  that  runneth  un- 
blamed 
Down  our  cheeks,  is  not  taken  for  tears. 

Help  us,  God  !  trust  us,  man  !  love  us,  wo- 
man !     '  I  hold 

Thy   small  head  in  my  hands,  —  with  its 
grapelets  of  gold 

Growing  bright  through  my  fingers,  —  like 
altar  for  oath, 

'Neath  the  vast  golden  spaces  like  witness- 
ing faces  60 

That    watch    the   eternity   strong   in   the 
troth  — 
I  love  thee,  I  leave  thee. 
Live  for  thee,  die  for  thee  ! 
I  prove  thee,  deceive  thee. 
Undo  evermore  thee  ! 

Help  me,  God  !    slay   me,  man  !  —  one  is 
mourning  for  both.' 

And  we  stand  up  though  young  near  the 
funeral-sheet 

Which   covers  old  Caesar  and  old   Phara- 
mond. 

And  death  is  so  nigh  us,  life  cools  from  its 
heat. 
O  Life,  O  Beyond,  70 

Art  thou  fair,  art  thou  sweet  ? 


Then  we  act  to  a  purpose,  we  spring  up 
erect : 

We  will  tame  the  wild  mouths  of  the  wil- 
derness-steeds. 

We  will  plough  up  the  deep  in  the  ships 
double-decked. 

We  will  build  the  great  cities,  and  do  the 
great  deeds, 


A   RHAPSODY  OF  LIFE'S    PROGRESS 


177 


Strike  the  steel  upon  steel,  strike  the  soul 

upon  soul, 
Strike  the  dole    on  the  weal,  overcoming 

the  dole. 
Let  the  cloud  meet   the  cloud  in  a  grand 

thunder-roll ! 
*  While   the   eagle   of   Thought   rides   the 

tempest  in  scorn. 
Who  cares  if  the  lightning  is  burning  the 
corn  ?  80 

Let  us  sit  on  the  thrones 

In  a  purple  sublimity, 
And  grind  down  men's  bones 
To  a  pale  unanimity. 
Speed  me,  God  !   serve  me,  man  !     I  am 

god  over  men; 
When  I  speak  in  my  cloud,  none  shall  an- 
swer again; 
'Neath  the  stripe  and  the  bond, 

Lie  and  mourn  at  my  feet ! ' 
O  Life,  O  Beyond, 

Thou  art  strange,  thou  art  sweet  ! 

VI 

Then  we  grow  into  thought,  and  with  in- 
ward ascensions  91 
Touch  the  bounds  of  our  Being. 

We  lie  in  the  dark  here,  swathed  doubly 
around 

With  our  sensual  relations  and  social  con- 
ventions. 

Yet  are  'ware  of  a  sight,  yet  are  '  ware  of 
a  sound 
Beyond  Hearing  and  Seeing,  — 

Are  aware  that  a  Hades  rolls  deep  on  all 
sides 
With  its  infinite  tides 

About  and   above  us,  —  until   the   strong 
arch 

Of  our  life  creaks  and  bends  as  if  ready 
for  falling,  100 

And  through  the  dim  rolling  we  hear  the 
sweet  calling 

Of   spirits    that    speak   in  a    soft   under- 
tongue 
The  sense  of  the  mystical  march: 

And  we  cry  to  them  softly,  '  Come  nearer, 
come  nearer, 

And  lift  up  the  lap  of  this  dark,  and  speak 
clearer, 
And  teach  us  the  song  that  ye  sung  ! ' 

And  we  smile  in  our  thought  as  they  an- 
swer or  no, 

For  to  dream  of  a  sweetness  is  sweet  as  to 
know. 


W^onders  breathe  in  our  face 

And  we  ask  not  their  name;       no 
Love  takes  all  the  blame 
Of  the  world's  prison-place ; 
And  we  sing  back  the  songs  as  we  guess 

them,  aloud, 
And  we  send  up  the  lark  of  our  music  that 
cuts 
Untired  through  the  cloud 
To  beat  with  its  wings  at  the  lattice  Hea- 
ven shuts; 
Yet  the  angels  look  down  and  the  mortals 
look  up 
As  the  little  wings  beat. 
And  the  poet  is  blessed  with  their  pity  or 

hope. 
'Twixt  the   heavens  and   the  earth   can  a 
poet  despond  ?  120 

O  Life,  O  Beyond, 
Thou  art  strange,  thou  art  sweet ! 


VII 

Then  we  wring  from  our  souls  their  appli- 
cative strength. 
And  bend  to   the  cord  the  strong  bow  of 

our  ken, 
And   bringing   our  lives   to   the   level   of 

others. 
Hold  the  cup  we  have  filled,  to  their  uses 

at  length. 
'  Help   me,  God  !    love  me,  man  !     I   am 

man  among  men. 
And  my  life  is  a  pledge 
Of  the  ease  of  another's  !  ' 
From  the  fire  and  the  water  we  drive  out 

the  steam  130 

With  a  rush  and  a  roar  and  the  speed  of  a 

dream ; 
And  the  car  without  horses,  the  car  with- 
out wings. 
Roars  onward  and  flies 
On  its  gray  iron  edge 
'Neath  the  heat  of  a  Thought  sitting  still  in 

our  eyes : 
And  our  hand  knots  in  air,  with  the  bridge 

that  it  flings, 
Two   peaks  far   disrupted   by    ocean   and 

skies, 
And,  lifting  a  fold  of  the  smooth-flowing 

Thames, 
Draws  under  the  world  with  its  turmoils 

and  pothers, 
While  the  swans  float  on  softly,  untouched 

in  their  calms  140 


lyS 


POEMS   OF   1844 


By   humanity's   hum    at   the   root   of   the 

springs. 
And  with  Teachings  of  Thought  we  reach 
down  to  the  deeps 
Of  the  souls  of  our  brothers, 
We  teach  them  full  words  with  our  slow- 
moving  lips, 
'God,'    'Liberty,'    '  Truth,' —  which    they 

hearken  and  think 
And  work  into  harmony,  link  upon  link. 
Till  the  silver  meets  round  the  earth  gelid 

and  dense. 
Shedding  sparks  of  electric  responding  in- 
tense 
On  the  dark  of  eclipse. 
Then  we  hear  through  the  silence  and  glory 
afar,  150 

As  from  shores  of  a  star 
In  aphelion,  the  new  generations  that  cry 
Disenthralled  by  our  voice  to  harmonious 
reply, 

'  God,'  '  Liberty,'  '  Truth  ! ' 
We  are  glorious  forsooth, 
And  our  name  has  a  seat. 
Though  the  shroud  should  be  donned. 

0  Life,  O  Beyond, 

Thou  art  strange,  thou  art  sweet ! 

VIII 

Help  me,  God  !  help  me,  man  !  I  am  low, 

I  am  weak:  160 

Death  loosens  my  sinews  and  creeps  in  my 

veins; 
My  body  is  cleft  by  these  wedges  of  pains 

From  my  spirit's  serene. 
And  I  feel  the  externe  and  insensate  creep 
in 

On  my  organized  clay; 

1  sob  not,  nor  shriek, 
Yet  I  faint  fast  away: 

I  am  strong  in  the  spirit,  — deep-thoughted, 

clear-eyed,  — 
I  could  walk,  step  for  step,  with  an  angel 
beside. 
On  the  heaven-heights  of  truth.         170 
Oh,  the  soul  keeps  its  youth 
But  the  body  faints  sore,  it  is  tried  in  the 

race. 
It  sinks  from  the  chariot  ere  reaching  the 
goal,^ 

It  is  weak,  it  is  cold, 
The  rein  drops  from  its  hold. 
It  sinks  back,  with  the  death  in  its  face. 
On,  chariot  !  on,  soul ! 
Ye  are  all  the  more  fleet  — 


Be  alone  at  the  goal 

Of  the  strange  and  the  sweet  !   i8a 

IX 

Love  us,  God  !  love  us,  man  !  we  believe, 
we  achieve: 

Let  us  love,  let  us  live. 
For  the  acts  correspond; 
We  are  glorious,  and  die: 
And  again  on  the  knee  of  a  mild  Mystery 
That  smiles  with  a  change. 
Here  we  lie. 
O  Death,  O  Beyond, 
Thou  art  sweet,  thou  art  strange  ! 


L.   E.   L.'S   LAST   QUESTION 

'  Do  you  think  of  me  as  I  think  of  you  ?  ' 

{From  her  poem  icritten  during 
the  voyage  to  the  Cape.) 

First  printed  in  the  Athenceum,  January  26> 
1839. 


'  Do  you  think  of  me  as  I  think  of  you, 

My  friends,  my  friends  ?  '  —  She  said  it 
from  the  sea. 

The  English  minstrel  in  her  minstrelsy, 

While,  under  brighter  skies  than  erst  she 
knew,  . 

Her  heart  grew  dark,  and  groped  there  as 
the  blind 

To  reach  across  the  waves  friends  left  be- 
hind — 

'  Do  you  think  of  me  as  I  think  of  you  ?  ' 

II 

It   seemed   not    much   to   ask  —  'as  /  of 

you  ? ' 
We  all  do  ask  the  same;  no  eyelids  cover 
Within    the    meekest    eyes    that    question 

over: 
And  little  in  the  world  the  Loving  do 
But  sit  (among  the  rocks  ?)  and  listen  for 
The  echo  of  their  own  love  evermore  — 
*  Do  you  think  of  me  as  I  think  of  30U  ? ' 

III 

Love-learned   she   had   sung   of  love  and 

love,  — 
And  like  a  child  that,  sleeping  with  dropt 

head 
Upon  the  fairy-book  he  lately  read, 


THE   HOUSE   OF   CLOUDS 


179 


Whatever  household  noises  round  him 
move, 

Hears  in  his  dream  some  elfin  turbu- 
lence, — 

Even  so  suggestive  to  her  inward  sense, 

All  sounds  of  life  assumed  one  tune  of 
love. 

IV 

And    when  the  glory  of  her  dream  with- 
drew, 
AVhen  knightly  gestes  and  courtly  pagean- 
tries 
Were  broken  in  her  visionary  eyes 
By  tears  the  solemn  seas  attested  true,  — 
Forgetting  that  sweet  lute  beside  her  hand. 
She    asked   not,  —  *  Do  you  praise  me,  O 

my  land  ?  ' 
But,  — '  Think  ye  of  me,  friends,  as  I  of 
you  ? ' 


Hers  was  the  hand  that  played  for  many  a 

year 
Love's  silver  phrase  for  England,  smooth 

and  well. 
W^ould  God  her  heart's  more  inward  oracle 
In  that   lone  moment   might   confirm  her 

dear  ! 
For  when  her  questioned  friends  in  agony 
Made  passionate   response,  '  We  think   of 

thee,' 
Her   place   was   in   the  dust,  too  deep  to 

hear. 

VI 

Could  she  not  wait  to  catch  their  answering 

breath  ? 
Was    she    content,    content    with    ocean's 

sound 
Which  dashed  its  mocking  infinite  around 
One  thirsty  for  a  little  love  ?  —  beneath 
Those  stars  content,  where  last   her  song 

had  gone,  — 
They    mute    and    cold  in  radiant    life,  as 

soon 
Their    singer    was    to    be,    in    darksome 

death  ? 

VII 

Bring  your  vain  answers  —  cry,  '  We  think 

of  thee  ! ' 
How  think  ye  of  her  ?  warm  in  long  ago 
Delights  ?  or  crowned  with  budding  bays  ? 

Not  so. 


None  smile  and  none  are  crowned  where 

lieth  she, 
With  all  her  visions  unfulfilled  save  one, 
Her  childhood's,  of  the  palm-trees  in  the 

sun  — 
And  lo  !  their  shadow  on  her  sepulchre  ! 

VIII 

'  Do  ye  think  of  me  as  I  think  of  you  ? ' — 
O  friends,  O  kindred,  O  dear  brotherhood 
Of  all  the  world  !  what  are    we    that  we 

should 
For  covenants  of  long  affection  sue  ? 
Why  press  so  near  each   other  when  the 

touch 
Is  barred  by  graves  ?     Not  much,  and  yet 

too  much 
Is  this  '  Think  of  me  as  I  think  of  you.' 

IX 

But  while  on  mortal  lips  I  shape  anew 

A  sigh  to  mortal  issues,  verily 

Above    the    unshaken    stars    that   see   us 

die, 
A  vocal  pathos  rolls;  and  He  who  drew 
All  life  from  dust,  and  for  all  tasted  death. 
By  death  and  life  and  love  appealing,  saith 
Do  you  think  of  me  as  I  think  of  you  ? 


THE    HOUSE    OF    CLOUDS 

First  printed  in  the  Athenaeum  August  21, 
1841.  On  August  .31,  1843,  Miss  Barrett 
wrote  to  R.  H.  Horue :  '  Mr.  Boyd  told  me 
that  he  had  read  my  papers  on  the  Greek 
fathers  with  the  more  satisfaction  because  he 
had  inferred  from  my  '  House  of  Clouds  '  that 
illness  had  impaired  my  faculties.''  But  to  Mr. 
Boyd  himself  she  wrote  at  about  the  same 
time  with  her  usual  invincible  good  humor 
and  sweet  independence  :  '  With  regard  to  the 
'  House  of  Clouds,'  I  disagree  both  with  you 
and  Miss  Mitford,  thinking  it,  comparatively 
with  my  other  poems,  neither  so  bad  nor  so 
good  as  you  two  account  it.'  And,  in  this  in- 
stance at  least,  her  own  judgment  was  certainly 
sound. 


I  WOULD  build  a  cloudy  House 
For  my  thoughts  to  live  in, 

When  for  earth  too  fancy-loose, 
And  too  low  for  heaven: 

Hush  !  I  talk  my  dream  aloud, 
I  build  it  bright  to  see,  — 


i8o 


POEMS   OF    1844 


I  build  it  on  the  moonlit  cloud 
To  which  I  looked  with  thee. 

II 

Cloud-walls  of  the  morning's  gray, 

Faced  with  amber  column, 
Crowned  with  crimson  cupola 

From  a  sunset  solemn: 
May-mists,  for  the  casements,  fetch, 

Pale  and  glimmering, 
With  a  sunbeam  hid  in  each 

And  a  smell  of  spring. 

Ill 

Build  the  entrance  high  and  proud, 

Darkening  and  then  brightening, 
Of  a  riven  thunder-cloud. 

Veined  by  the  lightning: 
Use  one  with  an  iris-stain 

For  the  door  so  thin, 
Turning  to  a  sound  like  rain 

As  I  enter  in. 

IV 

Build  a  spacious  hall  thereby 

Boldly,  never  fearing; 
Use  the  blue  place  of  the  sky 

Which  the  wind  is  clearing: 
Branched  with  corridors  sublime, 

Flecked  with  winding  stairs, 
Such  as  children  wish  to  climb 

Following  their  own  prayers. 


In  the  mutest  of  the  house 

I  will  have  my  chamber; 
Silence  at  the  door  shall  use 

Evening's  light  of  amber, 
Solemnizing  every  mood. 

Softening  in  degree, 
Turning  sadness  into  good 

As  I  turn  the  key. 

VI 

Be  my  chamber  tapestried 

With  the  showers  of  summer, 
Close,  but  soundless,  glorified 

When  the  sunbeams  come  here 
Wandering  harpers,  harping  on 

Waters  stringed  for  such, 
Drawing  color,  for  a  tune, 

With  a  vibrant  touch. 

VII 

Bring  a  shadow  green  and  still 
From  the  chestnut-forest, 


Bring  a  purple  from  the  hill. 

When  the  heat  is  sorest; 
Spread  them  out  from  wall  to  wall. 

Carpet- wove  around. 
Whereupon  the  foot  shall  fall 

In  light  instead  of  sound. 

VIII 

Bring  fantastic  cloudlets  home 

From  the  noontide  zenith, 
Ranged  for  sculptures  round  the  room, 

Named  as  Fancy  weeneth; 
Some  be  Junos,  without  eyes. 

Naiads,  without  sources. 
Some  be  birds  of  paradise. 

Some,  Olympian  horses. 

IX 

Bring  the  dews  the  birds  shake  off 

Waking  in  the  hedges,  — 
Those  too  perfumed,  for  a  proof. 

From  the  lilies'  edges: 
From  our  England's  field  and  moor. 

Bring  them  calm  and  white  in. 
Whence  to  form  a  mirror  pure 

For  Love's  self-delighting. 


Bring  a  gray  cloud  from  the  east 

Where  the  lark  is  singing, 
(Something  of  the  song  at  least 

Unlost  in  the  bringing) : 
That  shall  be  a  morning-chair, 

Poet-dream  may  sit  in 
When  it  leans  out  on  the  air, 

Unrhymed  and  unwritten. 

XI 

Bring  the  red  cloud  from  the  sun, 

While  he  sinketh  catch  it; 
That  shall  be  a  couch,  —  with  one 

Sidelong  star  to  watch  it,  — 
Fit  for  poet's  finest  thought 

At  the  curfew-sounding; 
Things  unseen  being  nearer  brought 

Than  the  seen,  around  him. 

XII 

Poet's  thought,  —  not  poet's  sigh. 

'Las,  they  come  together  ! 
Cloudy  walls  divide  and  fly 

As  in  April  weather. 
Cupola  and  column  proud. 

Structure  bright  to  see. 


CATARINA   TO    CAMOENS 


i8i 


Gone  !  except  that  moonlit  cloud 
To  which  I  looked  with  thee. 

XIII 

Let  them  !     Wipe  such  visionings 

From  the  fancy's  cartel: 
Love  secures  some  fairer  things, 

Dowered  with  his  immortal. 
The  sun  may  darken,  heaven  be  bowed, 

But  still  unchanged  shall  be,  — 
Here,  in  my  soul,  —  that  moonlit  cloud 

To  which  I  looked  with  thee  ! 


CATARINA  TO  CAMOENS 

(dying  in  his  absence  abroad,  and 
referring  to  the  poem  in  which 
he    recorded    the    sweetness    of 

HER   EYES) 


On  the  door  you  will  not  enter, 
I  have  gazed  too  long:  adieu  ! 
Hope  withdraws  her  peradventure ; 
Death  is  near  me,  —  and  not  you. 
Come,  O  lover, 
Close  and  cover 
These  poor  eyes,  you  called,  I  ween, 
'  Sweetest  eyes  were  ever  seen  ! ' 

II 

When  I  heard  you  sing  that  burden 

In  my  vernal  days  and  bowers, 
Other  praises  disregarding, 

I  but  hearkened  that  of  yours  — 
Only  saying 
In  heart-playing, 
'  Blessed  eyes  mine  eyes  have  been, 
If  the  sweetest  his  have  seen  ! ' 

III 

But  all  changes.     At  this  vesper. 

Cold  the  sun  shines  down  the  door. 
If  you  stood  there,  would  you  whisper 
'  Love,  I  love  you,'  as  before,  — 
Death  pervading 
Now,  and  shading 
Eyes  you  sang  of,  that  yestreen, 
As  the  sweetest  ever  seen  ? 

IV 

Yes.     I  think,  were  you  beside  them, 
Near  the  bed  I  die  upon. 


Though  their  beauty  you  denied  them, 
As  you  stood  there,  looking  down, 
You  would  truly 
Call  them  duly. 
For  the  love's  sake  found  therein, 
*  Sweetest  eyes  were  ever  seen.' 


And  if  you  looked  down  upon  them, 

And  if  they  looked  up  to  you, 
All  the  light  which  has  forgone  them 
Would  be  gathered  back  anew: 
They  would  truly 
Be  as  duly 
Love-transformed  to  beauty's  sheen, 
'  Sweetest  eyes  were  ever  seen.' 

VI 

But,  ah  me  !  you  only  see  me. 

In  your  thoughts  of  loving  man, 
Smiling  soft  perhaps  and  dreamy 
Through  the  wavings  of  my  fan; 
And  unweetiug 
Go  repeating. 
In  your  reverie  serene, 
'  Sweetest  eyes  were  ever  seen  — ' 

VII 

While  my  spirit  leans  and  reaches 

From  my  body  still  and  pale. 
Fain  to  hear  what  tender  speech  is 
In  your  love  to  help  my  bale. 
O  my  poet, 
Come  and  show  it  ! 
Come,  latest  love,  to  glean 
'  Sweetest  eyes  were  ever  seen.' 

VIII 

O  my  poet,  O  my  prophet. 

When  you  praised  their  sweetness  so, 
Did  you  think,  in  singing  of  it. 
That  it  might  be  near  to  go  ? 
Had  you  fancies 
From  their  glances. 
That  the  grave  would  quickly  screen 
'  Sweetest  eyes  were  ever  seen  '  ? 

IX 

No  reply.     The  fountain's  warble 

In  the  courtyard  sounds  alone. 
As  the  water  to  the  marble 
So  my  heart  falls  with  a  moan 
From  love-sighing 
To  this  dying. 


r82 


POEMS    OF    1844 


Death  forerunneth  Love  to  win 
'  Sweetest  eyes  were  ever  seen.' 

X 

Will  you  come  ?     When  I  'm  departed 

Where  all  sweetnesses  are  hid, 
Where  thy  voice,  my  tender-hearted, 
Will  not  lift  up  either  lid. 
Cry,  O  lover. 
Love  is  over  ! 
Cry,  beneath  the  cypress  green, 
'  Sweetest  eyes  were  ever  seen  ! ' 

XI 

When  the  angelus  is  ringing, 

Near  the  convent  will  you  walk, 
And  recall  the  choral  singing 

Which  brought  angels  down  our  talk? 
Spirit-shriven 
I  viewed  Heaven, 
Till  you  smiled  —  '  Is  earth  unclean. 
Sweetest  eyes  were  ever  seen  ?  ' 

XII 

When  beneath  the  palace-lattice 

You  ride  slow  as  you  have  done, 
And  you  see  a  face  there  that  is 
Not  the  old  familiar  one,  — 
Will  you  oftly 
Murmur  softly, 
'  Here  ye  watched  me  morn  and  e'en, 
Sweetest  eyes  were  ever  seen  ! ' 

XIII 

When  the  palace-ladies,  sitting 

Round  your  gittern,  shall  have  said, 

*  Poet,  sing  those  verses  written 

For  the  lady  who  is  dead,' 
Will  you  tremble 
Yet  dissemble,  — 
Or  sing  hoarse,  with  tears  between, 

*  Sweetest  eyes  were  ever  seen  ? ' 

XIV 

*  Sweetest  eyes  ! '  how  sweet  in  fiowings 

The  repeated  cadence  is  ! 
Though  you  sang  a  hundred  poems, 
Still  the  best  one  would  be  this. 
I  can  hear  it 
'Twixt  my  spirit 
And  the  earth-noise  intervene  — 

*  Sweetest  eyes  were  ever  seen  ! ' 

XV 
But  the  priest  waits  for  the  praying, 
And  the  choir  are  on  their  knees, 


And  the  soul  must  pass  away  in 

Strains  more  solemn-high  than  these. 
Miserere 
For  the  weary  ! 
Oh,  no  longer  for  Catrine 
'  Sweetest  eyes  were  ever  seen  ! ' 

XVI 

Keep  my  riband,  take  and  keep  it, 
(I  have  loosed  it  from  my  hair) 
Feeling,  while  you  overweep  it. 
Not  alone  in  your  despair. 
Since  with  saintly 
Watch  unfaintly 
Out  of  heaven  shall  o'er  you  lean 
'  Sweetest  eyes  were  ever  seen.' 

XVII 

But  —  but  now  —  yet  unremov^d 

Up  to  heaven,  they  glisten  fast; 
You  may  cast  away,  Beloved, 
In  your  future  all  my  past: 
Such  old  phrases 
May  be  praises 
For  some  fairer  bosom-queen  — 
'  Sweetest  eyes  were  ever  seen  ! ' 

XVIII 

Eyes  of  mine,  what  are  ye  doing  ? 

Faithless,  faithless,  —  praised  amiss 
If  a  tear  be  of  your  showing, 
Dropt  for  any  hope  of  his  ! 
Death  has  boldness 
Besides  coldness, 
If  unworthy  tears  demean 
'  Sweetest  eyes  were  ever  seen.' 

XIX 

I  will  look  out  to  his  future; 
I  will  bless  it  till  it  shine. 
Should  he  ever  be  a  suitor 
Unto  sweeter  eyes  than  mine. 
Sunshine  gild  them. 
Angels  shield  them. 
Whatsoever  eyes  terrene 
Be  the  sweetest  his  have  seen  ! 


A   PORTRAIT 

'  One  name  is  Elizabeth.'  —  Ben  Jonson. 

I  WILL  paint  her  as  I  see  her. 
Ten  times  have  the  lilies  blown 
Since  she  looked  upon  the  sun. 


SLEEPING   AND   WATCHING 


183 


And  her  face  is  lily-clear, 

Lily-shaped,  and  dropped  in  duty 
To  the  law  of  its  own  beauty. 

Oval  cheeks  encolored  faintly, 
Which  a  trail  of  golden  hair 
Keeps  from  fading  off  to  air: 

And  a  forehead  fair  and  saintly, 
Which  two  blue  eyes  undershine, 
Like  meek  prayers  before  a  shrine. 

Face  and  figure  of  a  child,  — 

Though  too  calm,  you  think,  and  tender, 
For  the  childhood  you  would  lend  her. 

Yet  child-simple,  undefiled, 
Frank,  obedient,  waiting  still 
On  the  turnings  of  your  will. 

Moving  light,  as  all  young  things, 
As  young  birds,  or  early  wheat 
When  the  wind  blows  over  it. 

Only,  free  from  flutterings 

Of  loud  mirth  that  scorneth  measure  — 
Taking  love  for  her  chief  pleasure. 

Choosing  pleasures,  for  the  rest, 
Which  come  softly  —  just  as  she, 
When  she  nestles  at  your  knee. 

Quiet  talk  she  liketh  best. 

In  a  bower  of  gentle  looks,  — 
Watering  flowers,  or  reading  books. 

And  her  voice,  it  murmurs  lowly, 
As  a  silver  stream  may  run. 
Which  yet  feels  (you  feel)  the  sun. 

And  her  smile  it  seems  half  holy, 
As  if  drawn  from  thoughts  more  far 
Than  our  common  jestings  are. 

And  if  any  poet  knew  her. 

He  would  sing  of  her  with  falls 
Used  in  lovely  madrigals. 

And  if  any  painter  drew  her. 
He  would  paint  her  unaware 
With  a  halo  round  the  hair. 

And  if  reader  read  the  poem, 

He  would  whisper  *  You  have  done  a 
Consecrated  little  Una.' 


And  a  dreamer  (did  you  show  him 
That  same  picture)  would  exclaim, 
*  'T  is  my  angel,  with  a  name  ! ' 

And  a  stranger,  when  he  sees  her 
In  the  street  even,  smileth  stilly. 
Just  as  you  would  at  a  lily. 

And  all  voices  that  address  her, 
Soften,  sleeken  every  word, 
As  if  speaking  to  a  bird. 

And  all  fancies  yearn  to  cover 

The  hard  earth,  whereon  she  passes, 
With  the  thymy-scented  grasses. 

And  all  hearts  do  pray  '  God  love  her  I  * 
Ay  and  always,  in  good  sooth, 
We  may  all  be  sure  He  doth. 


SLEEPING   AND   WATCHING 


Sleep  on,  baby,  on  the  floor. 

Tired  of  all  the  playing: 
Sleep  with  smile  the  sweeter  for 

That,  you  dropped  away  in. 
On  your  curls'  full  roundness  stand 

Golden  lights  serenely; 
One  cheek,  pushed  out  by  the  hand. 

Folds  the  dimple  inly: 
Little  head  and  little  foot 

Heavy  laid  for  pleasure, 
Underneath  the  lids  half  shut 

Slants  the  shining  azure. 
Open-soul  in  noonday  sun. 

So  you  lie  and  slumber: 
Nothing  evil  having  done. 

Nothing  can  encumber. 

TI 

I,  who  cannot  sleep  as  well. 

Shall  I  sigh  to  view  you  ? 
Or  sigh  further  to  foretell 

All  that  may  undo  you  ? 
Nay,  keep  smiling,  little  child, 

Ere  the  sorrow  neareth: 
I  will  smile  too  !  patience  mild 

Pleasure's  token  weareth. 
Nay,  keep  sleeping  before  loss: 

I  shall  sleep  though  losing  ! 
As  by  cradle,  so  by  cross, 

Sure  is  the  reposing. 


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POEMS   OF    1844 


III 

And  God  knows  who  sees  us  twain, 

Child  at  childish  leisure, 
I  am  near  as  tired  of  pain 

As  you  seem  of  pleasure. 
Very  soon  too,  by  his  grace 

Gently  wrapt  around  me. 
Shall  I  show  as  calm  a  face, 

Shall  I  sleep  as  soundly. 
Differing  in  this,  that  you 

Clasp  your  playthings,  sleeping, 
While  my  hand  shall  drop  the  few 

Given  to  my  keeping: 
Differing  in  this,  that  I 

Sleeping  shall  be  colder. 
And  in  waking  presently, 

Brighter  to  beholder: 
Differing  in  this  beside  — 

(Sleeper,  have  you  heard  me  ? 
Do  you  move,  and  open  wide 

Eyes  of  wonder  toward  me  ?)  — 
That  while  you  I  thus  recall 

From  your  sleep,  I  solely, 
Me  from  mine  an  angel  shall, 

With  reveille  holy. 


WINE    OF  CYPRUS 

GIVEN  TO  ME  BY  H.  S.  BOYD,  AUTHOR 
OF  '  SELECT  PASSAGES  FROM  THE 
GREEK   FATHERS,'   ETC. 

TO   WHOM    THESE   STANZAS   ARE   ADDRESSED 


If  old  Bacchus  were  the  speaker. 

He  would  tell  you  with  a  sigh 
Of  the  Cyprus  in  this  beaker 

I  am  sipping  like  a  fly,  — 
Like  a  fly  or  gnat  on  Ida 

At  the  hour  of  goblet-pledge. 
By  queen  Juno  brushed  aside,  a 

Full  white  arm-sweep,  from  the  edge. 

II 

Sooth,  the  drinking  should  be  ampler 

When  the  drink  is  so  divine. 
And  some  deep-mouthed  Greek  exemplar 

Would  become  your  Cyprus  wine: 
Cyclops'  mouth  might  plunge  aright  in. 

While  his  one  eye  overleered, 
Nor  too  large  were  mouth  of  Titan 

Drinking  rivers  down  his  beard. 


Ill 

Pan  might  dip  his  head  so  deep  in, 

That  his  ears  alone  pricked  out. 
Fauns  around  him  pressing,  leaping, 

Each  one  pointing  to  his  throat: 
While  the  Naiads,  like  Bacchantes, 

Wild,  with  urns  thrown  out  to  waste, 
Cry,  '  O  earth,  that  thou  wouldst  grant  us 

Springs  to  keep,  of  such  a  taste  ! ' 

IV 

But  for  me,  I  am  not  worthy 

After  gods  and  Greeks  to  drink, 
And  my  lips  are  pale  and  earthy 

To  go  bathing  from  this  brink: 
Since  you  heard  them  speak  the  last  time, 

They  have  faded  from  their  blooms. 
And  the  laughter  of  my  pastime 

Has  learnt  silence  at  the  tombs. 


Ah,  my  friend  !  the  antique  drinkers 

Crowned  the  cup  and  crowned  the  brow. 
Can  I  answer  the  old  thinkers 

In  the  forms  they  thought  of,  now  ? 
Who  will  fetch  from  garden-closes 

Some  new  garlands  while  I  speak. 
That  the  forehead,  crowned  with  roses, 

May  strike  scarlet  down  the  cheek  ? 

VI 

Do  not  mock  me  !  with  my  mortal 

Suits  no  wreath  again,  indeed; 
I  am  sad-voiced  as  the  turtle 

Which  Anacreon  used  to  feed: 
Yet  as  that  same  bird  demurely 

Wet  her  beak  in  cup  of  his. 
So,  without  a  garland,  surely 

I  may  touch  the  brim  of  this. 

VII 

Go,  —  let  others  praise  the  Chian  ! 

This  is  soft  as  Muses'  string. 
This  is  tawny  as  Rhea's  lion, 

This  is  rapid  as  his  spring. 
Bright  as  Paphia's  eyes  e'er  met  us, 

Light  as  ever  trod  her  feet; 
And  the  brown  bees  of  Hymettus 

Make  their  honey  not  so  sweet. 

VIII 

Very  copious  are  my  praises. 
Though  I  sip  it  like  a  fly  ! 
Ah  —  but,  sipping,  —  times  and  places 


WINE  OF  CYPRUS 


'8s 


Change  before  me  suddenly: 
As  Ulysses'  old  libation 

Drew  the  ghosts  from  every  part, 
So  your  Cyprus  wine,  dear  Grecian, 

Stirs  the  Hades  of  my  heart. 

IX 

And  I  think  of  those  long  mornings 

Which  my  thought  goes  far  to  seek. 
When,  betwixt  the  folio's  turnings, 

Solemn  flowed  the  rhythmic  Greek: 
Past  the  pane  the  mountain  spreading, 

Swept  the  sheep's-bell's  tinkling  noise, 
While  a  girlish  voice  was  reading. 

Somewhat  low  for  at's  and  ot's. 


Then,  what  golden  hours  were  for  us  ! 

While  we  sat  together  there. 
How  the  white  vests  of  the  chorus 

Seemed  to  wave  up  a  live  air  ! 
How  the  cothurns  trod  majestic 

Down  the  deep  iambic  lines, 
And  the  rolling  anapaestic 

Curled  like  vapor  over  shrines  ! 

XI 

Oh,  our  ^schylus,  the  thunderous. 

How  he  drove  the  bolted  breath 
Through  the  cloud,  to  wedge  it  ponderous 

In  the  gnarled  oak  beneath  ! 
Oh,  our  Sophocles,  the  royal, 

Who  was  born  to  monarch's  place. 
And  who  made  the  whole  world  loyal 

Less  by  kingly  power  than  grace  ! 

XII 

Our  Euripides,  the  human. 

With  his  droppings  of  warm  tears, 
And  his  touches  of  things  common 

Till  they  rose  to  touch  the  spheres  ! 
Our  Theocritus,  our  Bion, 

And  our  Pindar's  shining  goals  !  — 
These  were  cup-bearers  undying 

Of  the  wine  that  's  meant  for  souls. 

XIII 

And  my  Plato,  the  divine  one, 

If  men  know  the  gods  aright 
By  their  motions  as  they  shine  on 

With  a  glorious  trail  of  light  ! 
And  your  noble  Christian  bishops, 

Who  mouthed  grandly  the  last  Greek  ! 
Though  the  sponges  on  their  hyssops 

Were  distent  with  wine  —  too  weak. 


XIV 

Yet,  your  Chrysostom,  you  praised  him 

As  a  liberal  mouth  of  gold; 
And  your  Basil,  you  upraised  him 

To  the  height  of  speakers  old: 
And  we  both  praised  Heliodorus 

For  his  secret  of  pure  lies,  — 
Who  forged  first  his  linked  stories 

In  the  heat  of  ladies'  eyes. 

XV 

And  we  both  praised  your  Synesius 

For  the  fire  shot  up  his  odes. 
Though  the  Church  was  scarce  propitious 

As  he  whistled  dogs  and  gods. 
And  we  both  pi'aised  Naziauzen 

For  the  fervid  heart  and  speech: 
Only  I  eschewed  his  glancing 

At  the  lyre  hung  out  of  reach. 

XVI 

Do  you  mind  that  deed  of  Ate 

Which  you  bound  me  to  so  fast,  — 
Reading  '  De  Virginitate,' 

From  the  first  line  to  the  last  ? 
How  I  said  at  ending,  solemn 

As  I  turned  and  looked  at  you. 
That  Saint  Simeon  on  the  column 

Had  had  somewhat  less  to  do  ? 

XVII 

For  we  sometimes  gently  wrangled. 

Very  gently,  be  it  said. 
Since  our  thoughts  were  disentangled 

By  no  breaking  of  the  thread  ! 
And  I  charged  you  with  extortions 

On  the  nobler  fames  of  old  — 
Ay,  and  sometimes  thought  your  Porsons 

Stained  the  purple  they  would  fold. 

XVIII 

For  the  rest  —  a  mystic  moaning 

Kept  Cassandra  at  the  gate. 
With  wild  eyes  the  vision  shone  in. 

And  wide  nostrils  scenting  fate. 
And  Prometheus,  bound  in  passion 

By  brute  Force  to  the  blind  stone. 
Showed  us  looks  of  invocation 

Turned  to  ocean  and  the  sun. 

XIX 

And  Medea  we  saw  burning 

At  her  nature's  planted  stake: 
And  proud  (Edipus  fate-scorning 


i86 


POEMS   OF   1844 


While  the  cloud  came  on  to  break  — 
While  the  cloud  came  on  slow,  slower, 

Till  he  stood  discrowned,  resigned  !  — 
But  the  reader's  voice  dropped  lower 

When  the  poet  called  him  blind. 

XX 

Ah,  my  gossip  !  you  were  older, 

And  more  learned,  and  a  man  ! 
Yet  that  shadow,  the  enfolder 

Of  your  quiet  eyelids,  ran 
Both  our  spirits  to  one  level; 

And  I  turned  from  hill  and  lea 
And  the  summer-sun's  green  revel. 

To  your  eyes  that  could  not  see. 

XXI 

Now  Christ  bless  you  with  the  one  light 

Which  goes  shining  night  and  day  ! 
May  the  flowers  which  grow  in  sunlight 

Shed  their  fragrance  in  your  way  ! 
Is  it  not  right  to  remember 

All  your  kindness,  friend  of  mine, 
When  we  two  sat  in  the  chamber. 

And  the  poets  poured  us  wine  ? 

XXII 

So,  to  come  back  to  the  drinking 

Of  this  Cyprus,  —  it  is  well. 
But  those  memories,  to  my  thinking, 

Make  a  better  cenomel ; 
And  whoever  be  the  speaker, 

None  can  murmur  with  a  sigh 
That,  in  drinking  from  that  beaker, 

I  am  sipping  like  a  fly. 


THE  ROMANCE  OF  THE  SWAN'S 

NEST 

'  So  the  dreams  depart, 
So  the  fading  phantoms  flee, 
And  the  sharp  reality 
Now  must  act  its  part.' 

WESTwooD's5ea(?5/rom  a  Rosary. 


Little  Ellie  sits  alone 

'Mid  the  beeches  of  a  meadow, 
By  a  stream-side  on  the  grass. 
And  the  trees  are  showering  down 
Doubles  of  their  leaves  in  shadow 
On  her  shining  hair  and  face. 

II 

She  has  thrown  her  bonnet  by. 

And  her  feet  she  has  been  dipping 


In  the  shallow  water's  flow: 
Now  she  holds  them  nakedly 

In  her  hands,  all  sleek  and  dripping, 
While  she  rocketh  to  and  fro. 

Ill 

Little  Ellie  sits  alone, 

And  the  smile  she  softly  uses 
Fills  the  silence  like  a  speech, 
While  she  thinks  what  shall  be  done, 
And  the  sweetest  pleasure  chooses 
For  her  future  within  reach. 

IV 

Little  Ellie  in  her  smile 

Chooses  —  *  I  will  have  a  lover 
Riding  on  a  steed  of  steeds: 
He  shall  love  me  without  guile. 
And  to  him  I  will  discover 

The  swan's  nest  among  the  reeds. 


'  And  the  steed  shall  be  red-roan. 
And  the  lover  shall  be  noble, 

With  an  eye  that  takes  the  breath: 
And  the  lute  he  plays  upon 

Shall  strike  ladies  into  trouble. 
As  his  sword  strikes  men  to  death. 

VI 

*  And  the  steed  it  shall  be  shod 

All  in  silver,  housed  in  azure. 

And  the  mane  shall  swim  the  wind; 
And  the  hoofs  along  the  sod 

Shall  flash  onward  and  keep  measure, 
Till  the  shepherds  look  behind. 

VII 

*  But  my  lover  will  not  prize 

All  the  glory  that  he  rides  in. 
When  he  gazes  in  my  face : 
He  will  say,  "  O  Love,  thine  eyes 

Build  the  shrine  my  soul  abides  in, 
And  I  kneel  here  for  thy  grace  !  " 

VIII 

*  Then,  ay,  then  he  shall  kneel  low, 

With  the  red-roan  steed  anear  him 
Which  shall  seem  to  understand, 
Till  I  answer,  "  Rise  and  go  ! 

For  the  world  must  love  and  fear  him 
Whom  I  gift  with  heart  and  hand." 


LESSONS    FROM   THE   GORSE 


187 


IX 
*  Then  he  will  arise  so  pale, 

I  shall  feel  my  own  lips  tremble 
With  a  yes  I  must  not  say, 
Nathless  maiden-brave,  "  Farewell," 
I  will  utter,  and  dissemble  — 

"  Light  to-morrow  with  to-day  !  " 


<  Then  he  '11  ride  among  the  hills 
To  the  wide  world  past  the  river, 
There  to  put  away  all  wrong; 
To  make  straight  distorted  wills. 
And  to  empty  the  broad  quiver 
Which  the  wicked  bear  along. 


XI 

Three  times  shall  a  young  foot-page 
Swim  the  stream  and  climb  the  moun- 
tain 
And  kneel  down  beside  my  feet  — 
Lo,  my  master  sends  this  gage, 
Lady,  for  thy  pity's  counting  ' 


« 


What  wilt  thou  exchange  for  it  ?  " 


XII 

*  And  the  first  time  I  will  send 

A  white  rosebud  for  a  guerdon, 
And  the  second  time,  a  glove; 
But  the  third  time  —  I  may  bend 

From  my  pride,  and  answer  —  "  Pardon 
If  he  comes  to  take  my  love." 

XIII 

*  Then  the  young  foot-page  will  run, 

Then  my  lover  will  ride  faster. 
Till  he  kneeleth  at  my  knee: 
"  I  am  a  duke's  eldest  son, 

Thousand  serfs  do  call  me  master, 
But,  O  Love,  I  love  but  thee  ! " 

XIV 

*  He  will  kiss  me  on  the  mouth 

Then,  and  lead  me  as  a  lover 

Through  the  crowds    that   praise   his 
deeds; 
And,  when  soul-tied  by  one  troth, 
Unto  him  I  will  discover 

That  swan's  nest  among  the  reeds.' 

XV 

Little  Ellie,  with  her  smile 
Not  yet  ended,  rose  up  gaily, 

Tied  the  bonnet,  donned  the  shoe, 


And  went  homeward,  round  a  mile. 
Just  to  see,  as  she  did  daily, 

What  more  eggs  were  with  the  two. 

XVI 

Pushing  through  the  elm-tree  copse, 
Winding  up  the  stream,  light-hearted. 
Where  the  osier  pathway  leads. 
Past  the  boughs  she  stoops  —  and  stops. 
Lo,  the  wild  swan  had  deserted, 
And  a  rat  had  gnawed  the  reeds  ! 

XVII 

Ellie  went  home  sad  and  slow. 
If  she  found  the  lover  ever, 

With  his  red-roan  steed  of  steeds. 
Sooth  I  know  not;  but  I  know 

She  could  never  show  him  —  never. 
That  swan's  nest  among  the  reeds  I 


LESSONS  FROM  THE  GORSE 


'  To  win  the  secret  of  a  weed's  plain  heart.' 

—  Lowell. 


First  printed  in  the  Athenceum,  October  23, 
1841. 


Mountain  gorses,  ever-golden. 
Cankered  not  the  whole  year  long  ! 
Do  ye  teach  us  to  be  strong, 
Howsoever  pricked  and  holden 
Like  your  thorny  blooms,  and  so 
Trodden  on  by  rain  and  snow. 
Up   the  hill-side  of  this  life,  as  bleak  as 
where  ye  grow  ? 

II 

Mountain  blossoms,  shining  blossoms, 
Do  ye  teach  us  to  be  glad 
When  no  summer  can  be  had. 
Blooming  in  our  inward  bosoms  ? 
Ye,  whom  God  preserveth  still. 
Set  as  lights  upon  a  hill, 
Tokens    to   the  wintry  earth  that  Beauty 
liveth  still ! 

Ill 

Mountain  gorses,  do  ye  teach  us 
From  that  academic  chair 
Canopied  with  azure  air. 
That  the  wisest  word  man  reaches 
Is  the  humblest  he  can  speak  ? 


1 88 


POEMS    OF   1844 


Ye,  who  live  on  mountain  peak, 
Yet  live  low  along  the  ground,  beside  the 
grasses  meek  ! 

IV 

Mountain  gorses,  since  Linnaeus 
Knelt  beside  you  on  the  sod, 
For  your  beauty  thanking  God,  — 
For  your  teaching,  ye  should  see  us 
Bowing  in  prostration  new  ! 
Whence  arisen,  —  if  one  or  two 
Drops  be  on  our  cheeks  —  O  world,  they 
are  not  tears  but  dew. 


THE    DEAD    PAN 

When  publishing  this  poem,  the  author  ac- 
companied it  with  the  following  note  :  — 

'  Excited  by  Schiller's  Goiter  Griechenlands, 
and  partly  founded  on  a  well-known  tradition 
mentioned  in  a  treatise  of  Plutarch  {De  Orac- 
ulorum  Defectu),  according  to  which,  at  the 
hour  of  the  Saviour's  agony,  a  cry  of  "  Great 
Pan  is  dead  !  "  swept  across  the  waves  in  the 
hearing  of  certain  ruariners,  —  and  the  oracles 
ceased. 

'  It  is  in  all  veneration  to  the  memory  of 
the  deathless  Schiller  that  I  oppose  a  doc- 
trine still  more  dishonoring  to  poetry  than  to 
Christianity. 

'  As  Mr.  Kenyon's  graceful  and  harmonious 
paraphrase  of  the  German  poem  was  the  first 
occasion  of  the  turning  of  my  thoughts  in 
this  direction,  I  take  advantage  of  the  pre- 
tence to  indulge  my  feelings  (which  overflow 
on  other  grounds)  by  inscribing  my  lyric  to 
that  dear  friend  and  relative,  with  the  earnest- 
ness of  appreciating  esteem  as  well  as  of  affec- 
tionate gratitude.' 

Many  passages  in  Mrs.  Browning's  corre- 
spondence (see  Notes  and  Illustrations  at  the 
end  of  this  volume )  testify  to  the  importance 
which  she  herself  attached  to  '  The  Dead  Pan,' 
—  a  poem  which  shows  her  at  her  best  and 
at  her  worst,  exhibiting  in  an  equally  striking 
manner  her  besetting  faults  of  style  and  the 
virile  strength  and  splendor  of  her  imagina- 
tion. It  seems  to  have  been  as  a  distinct  and 
solemn  public  profession  of  Christian  faith 
triumphant  over  pagan  fancy  that  she  insisted 
on  having  it  stand  last  in  the  collection  of  her 
poems  published  in  1844. 


Gods  of  Hellas,  gods  of  Hellas, 
Can  ye  listen  in  your  silence  ? 
Can  your  mystic  voices  tell  us 


Where  ye  hide  ?     In  floating  islands, 
With  a  wind  that  evermore 
Keeps  you  out  of  sight  of  shore  ? 

Pan,  Pan  is  dead. 

II 

In  what  revels  are  ye  sunken 

In  old  Ethiopia  ? 

Have  the  Pygmies  made  you  drunken, 

Bathing  in  mandragora 

Your  divine  pale  lips  that  shiver 

Like  the  lotus  in  the  river  ? 

Pan,  Pan  is  dead. 

Ill 

Do  ye  sit  there  still  in  slumber, 
In  gigantic  Alpine  rows  ? 
The  black  poppies  out  of  number 
Nodding,  dripping  from  your  brows 
To  the  red  lees  of  your  wine. 
And  so  kept  alive  and  fine  ? 

Pan,  Pan  is  dead. 

IV 

Or  lie  crushed  your  stagnant  corses 
Where  the  silver  spheres  roll  on, 
Stung  to  life  by  centric  forces 
Thrown  like  rays  out  from  the  sun  ?  — 
While  the  smoke  of  your  old  altars 
Is  the  shroud  that  round  you  welters  ? 

Great  Pan  is  dead. 


'  Gods  of  Hellas,  gods  of  Hellas ' 
Said  the  old  Hellenic  tongue,  — 
Said  the  hero-oaths,  as  well  as 
Poets'  songs  the  sweetest  sung: 
Have  ye  grown  deaf  in  a  day  ? 
Can  ye  speak  not  yea  or  nay. 

Since  Pan  is  dead  ? 

VI 

Do  ye  leave  your  rivers  flowing 

All  alone,  O  Naiades, 

While  your  drenched  locks  dry  slow  in 

This  cold  feeble  sun  and  breeze  ? 

Not  a  word  the  Naiads  say. 

Though  the  rivers  run  for  aye ; 

For  Pan  is  dead. 

VII 

From  the  gloaming  of  the  oak-wood, 
O  ye  Dryads,  could  ye  flee  ? 
At  the  rushing  thunderstroke,  would 
No  sob  tremble  through  the  tree  ? 


THE   DEAD    PAN 


189 


Not  a  word  the  Dryads  say, 
Though  the  forests  wave  for  aye; 

For  Pan  is  dead. 

VIII 

Have  ye  left  the  mountain  places, 
Oreads  wild,  for  other  tryst  ? 
Shall  we  see  no  sudden  faces 
Strike  a  glory  through  the  mist  ? 
Not  a  sound  the  silence  thrills 
Of  the  everlasting  hills: 

Pan,  Pan  is  dead. 

IX 

O  twelve  gods  of  Plato's  vision, 
Crowned  to  starry  wanderings. 
With  your  chariots  in  procession 
And  your  silver  clash  of  wings  ! 
Very  pale  ye  seem  to  rise. 
Ghosts  of  Grecian  deities, 

Now  Pan  is  dead  ! 

X 

Jove,  that  right  hand  is  unloaded 
Whence  the  thunder  did  prevail. 
While  in  idiocy  of  godhead 
Thou  art  staring  the  stars  pale  ! 
And  thine  eagle,  blind  and  old, 
Roughs  his  feathers  in  the  cold. 

Pan,  Pan  is  dead. 

XI 
Where,  O  Juno,  is  the  glory 
Of  thy  regal  look  and  tread  ? 
Will  they  lay,  for  evermore,  thee 
On  thy  dim,  strait,  golden  bed  ? 
Will  thy  queendom  all  lie  hid 
Meekly  under  either  lid  ? 

Pan,  Pan  is  dead. 

XII 

Ha,  Apollo  !  floats  his  golden 
Hair  all  mist-like  where  he  stands, 
While  the  Muses  hang  enfolding 
Knee  and  foot  with  faint  wild  hands  ? 
'Neath  the  clanging  of  thy  bow, 
Niobe  looked  lost  as  thou  ! 

Pan,  Pan  is  dead. 

XIII 

Shall  the  casque  with  its  brown  iron 
Pallas'  broad  blue  eyes  eclipse. 
And  no  hero  take  inspiring 
From  the  god-Greek  of  her  lips  ? 
'Neath  her  olive  dost  thou  sit, 


Mars  the  mighty,  cursing  it  ? 

Pan,  Pan  is  dead. 

XIV 

Bacchus,  Bacchus  !  on  the  panther 
He  swoons,  bound  with  his  own  vines; 
And  his  Msenads  slowly  saunter, 
Head  aside,  among  the  pines. 
While  they  murmur  dreamingly 
'  Evohe  !  —  ah  —  evohe  !  — 

Ah,  Pan  is  dead  ! ' 

XV 

Neptune  lies  beside  the  trident. 
Dull  and  senseless  as  a  stone; 
And  old  Pluto  deaf  and  silent 
Is  cast  out  into  the  sun: 
Ceres  smileth  stern  thereat, 
'  We  all  now  are  desolate  — 

Now  Pan  is  dead.' 

XVI 

Aphrodite  !  dead  and  driven 
As  thy  native  foam  thou  art; 
With  the  cestus  long  done  heaving 
On  the  white  calm  of  thine  heart  ! 
Ai  Adonis!  at  that  shriek 
Not  a  tear  runs  down  her  cheek  — 

Pan,  Pan  is  dead. 

XVII 

And  the  Loves,  we  used  to  know  from 
One  another,  huddled  lie, 
Frore  as  taken  in  a  snow-storm, 
Close  beside  her  tenderly; 
As  if  each  had  weakly  tried 
Once  to  kiss  her  as  he  died. 

Pan,  Pan  is  dead. 

XVIII 

What,  and  Hermes  ?     Time  enthralleth 
All  thy  cunning,  Hermes,  thus, 
And  the  ivy  blindly  crawleth 
Round  thy  brave  caduceus  ? 
Hast  thou  no  new  message  for  us. 
Full  of  thunder  and  Jove-glories  ? 

Nav,  Pan  is  dead. 

XIX 

Crowned  Cybele's  great  turret 
Rocks  and  crumbles  on  her  head; 
Roar  the  lions  of  her  chariot 
Toward  the  wilderness,  unfed: 
Scornful  children  are  not  mute,  — 
*  Mother,  mother,  walk  afoot, 

Since  Pan  is  dead  ! ' 


igo 


POEMS   OF    1844 


XX 

In  the  fiery-hearted  centre 
Of  the  solemn  universe, 
Ancient  Vesta,  —  who  could  enter 
To  consume  thee  with  this  curse  ? 
Drop  thy  gray  chin  on  thy  knee, 
O  thou  palsied  Mystery  ! 

For  Pan  is  dead. 

XXI 

Gods,  we  vainly  do  adjure  you,  — 
Ye  return  nor  voice  nor  sign  ! 
Not  a  votary  could  secure  you 
Even  a  grave  for  your  Divine: 
Not  a  grave,  to  show  thereby 
Here  these  gray  old  gods  do  lie. 

Pan,  Pan  is  dead. 

XXII 

Even  that  Greece  who  took  your  wages 

Calls  the  obolus  outworn; 

And  the  hoarse,  deep-throated  ages 

Laugh  your  godships  unto  scorn: 

And  the  poets  do  disclaim  you. 

Or  grow  colder  if  they  name  you  — 

And  Pan  is  dead. 

XXIII 

Gods  bereaved,  gods  belated, 
With  your  purples  rent  asunder  ! 
Gods  discrowned  and  desecrated, 
Disinherited  of  thunder ! 
Now,  the  goats  may  climb  and  crop 
The  soft  grass  on  Ida's  top  — 

Now  Pan  is  dead. 

XXIV 

Calm,  of  old,  the  bark  went  onward, 
When  a  cry  more  loud  than  wind 
Pose  up,  deepened,  and  swept  sunward 
From  the  pilSd  Dark  behind; 
And  the  sun  shrank  and  grew  pale. 
Breathed  against  by  the  great  wail  — 

'  Pan,  Pan  is  dead.' 

XXV 

And  the  rowers  from  the  benches 
Fell,  each  shudderin;^  on  his  face, 
While  departing  Influences 
Struck  a  cold  back  through  the  place; 
And  the  shadow  of  the  ship 
Reeled  along  the  passive  deep  — 

'Pan,  Pan  is  dead.' 


XXVI 

And  that  dismal  cry  rose  slowly 
And  sank  slowly  through  the  air. 
Full  of  spirit's  melancholy 
And  eternity's  despair  ! 
And  they  heard  the  words  it  said  — 
Pan  is  dead  —  Great  Pan  is  dead  — 

Pan,  Pan  is  dead. 

XXVII 

'T  was  the  hour  when  One  in  Sion 
Hung  for  love's  sake  on  a  cross ; 
When  his  brow  was  chill  with  dying 
And  his  soul  was  faint  with  loss; 
When   his   priestly  blood   dropped   down- 
ward 
And  his  kingly  eyes  looked  throneward  — 

Then,  Pan  was  dead. 

XXVIII 

By  the  love.  He  stood  alone  in, 
His  sole  Godhead  rose  complete. 
And  the  false  gods  fell  down  moaning 
Each  from  off  his  golden  seat; 
All  the  false  gods  with  a  cry 
Rendered  up  their  deity  — 

Pan,  Pan  was  dead. 

XXIX 

Wailing  wide  across  the  islands, 
They  rent,  vest-like,  their  Divine; 
And  a  darkness  and  a  silence 
Quenched  the  light  of  every  shrine; 
And  Dodona's  oak  swang  lonely 
Henceforth,  to  the  tempest  only: 

Pan,  Pan  was  dead. 

XXX 

Pythia  staggered,  feeling  o'er  her 
Her  lost  god's  forsaking  look; 
Straight  her  eyeballs  filmed  with  horror 
And  her  crispy  fillets  shook 
And  her  lips  gasped,  through  their  foam,, 
For  a  word  that  did  not  come. 

Pan,  Pan  was  dead. 

XXXI 

O  ye  vain  false  gods  of  Hellas, 
Ye  are  silent  evermore  ! 
And  I  dash  down  this  old  chalice 
Whence  libations  ran  of  yore. 
See,  the  wine  crawls  in  the  dust 
Wormlike  —  as  your  glories  must. 

Since  Pan  is  dead. 


THE   RUNAWAY    SLAVE   AT   PILGRIM'S    POINT 


191 


XXXII 

Get  to  dust,  as  common  mortals, 
By  a  common  doom  and  track  ! 
Let  no  Schiller  from  the  portals 
Of  that  Hades  call  you  back, 
Or  instruct  us  to  weep  all 
At  your  antique  funeral. 

Pan,  Pan  is  dead. 

XXXIII 

By  your  beauty,  which  confesses 
Some  chief  Beauty  conquering  you,  — 
By  our  grand  heroic  guesses 
Through  your  falsehood  at  the  True,  — 
We  will  weep  not !  earth  shall  roll 
Heir  to  each  god's  aureole  — 

And  Pan  is  dead. 

XXXIV 

Earth  outgrows  the  mythic  fancies 
Sung  beside  her  in  her  youth, 
And  those  debonair  romances 
Sound  but  dull  beside  the  truth. 
Phoebus'  chariot-course  is  run: 
Look  up,  poets,  to  the  sun  ! 

Pan,  Pan  is  dead. 

XXXV 

Christ  hath  sent  us  down  the  angels; 

And  the  whole  earth  and  the  skies 

Are  illumed  by  altar-candles 

Lit  for  blessed  mysteries; 

And  a  Priest's  hand  through  creation 

Waveth  calm  and  consecration: 

And  Pan  is  dead. 


XXXVI 

Truth  is  fair:  should  we  forgo  it  ? 
Can  we  sigh  right  for  a  wrong  ? 
God  Himself  is  the  best  Poet, 
And  the  Real  is  his  song. 
Sing  his  truth  out  fair  and  full. 
And  secure  his  beautiful  ! 

Let  Pan  be  dead  ! 

XXXVII 

Truth  is  large:  our  aspiration 
Scarce  embraces  half  we  be. 
Shame,  to  stand  in  his  creation 
And  doubt  truth's  sufficiency  !  — 
To  think  God's  song  unexcelling 
The  poor  tales  of  our  own  telling  — 

When  Pan  is  dead  I 

XXXVIII 

What  is  true  and  just  and  honest. 
What  is  lovely,  what  is  pure. 
All  of  praise  that  hath  admonisht, 
All  of  virtue,  —  shall  endure ; 
These  are  themes  for  poets'  uses, 
Stirring  nobler  than  the  Muses, 

Ere  Pan  was  dead. 

XXXIX 

O  brave  poets,  keep  back  nothing, 
Nor  mix  falsehood  with  the  whole  ! 
Look  up  God  ward;  speak  the  truth  in 
Worthy  song  from  earnest  soul: 
Hold,  in  high  poetic  duty, 
Truest  Truth  the  fairest  Beauty  ! 

Pan,  Pan  is  dead. 


POEMS    OF    1850 


In  1850,  four  years  after  Miss  Barrett's 
marriage  to  Robert  Browning-,  a  new  edition 
of  her  poems  appeared  under  the  title  of  Poems 
by  Elizabeth  Barrett  Browning  in  two  volumes, 
London,  Chapman  and  Hall.  This  edition  re- 
tained the  dedication  to  Mr.  Moulton-Barrett 
of  the  edition  of  1S44,  and  contained,  beside 
the  contents  of  the  previous  volumes,  trans- 
lations of  the  Prometheus  Bound  of  ^schylus 
and  the  Lament  for  Adonis  of  Bion,  —  which 
will  be  found  with  other  translations  at  the 
end  of  this  volume,  —  and  the  poems  which 
follow. 


The  first  of  these  poems,  '  The  Runaway 
Slave  at  Pilgrim's  Point,'  was  first  printed  in 
1848  in  The  Liberty  Bell,  the  annual  publication 
issued  for  many  years  and  sold  at  the  National 
Anti-Slavery  Bazaar  held  in  Boston.  '  The 
Runaway  Slave '  was  reprinted  the  following 
year  as  a  pamphlet  for  the  author's  own  use. 
She  says  of  it  in  a  letter  from  Pisa  to  Mr.  Boyd, 
dated  December  21,  1846,  '  I  am  just  sending 
ofF  an  anti-slavery  poem  for  America,  too 
ferocious,  perhaps,  for  the  Americans  to  pub- 
lish: but  they  asked  for  a  poem,  and  shall 
have  it.' 


192 


POEMS   OF   1850 


THE    RUNAWAY   SLAVE   AT 
PILGRIM'S    POINT 


I  STAND  on  the  mark  beside  the  shore 
Of  the  first  white  pilgrim's  bended  knee, 

Where  exile  turned  to  ancestor, 
And  God  was  thanked  for  liberty. 

I  have  run  through  the  night,  my  skin  is  as 
dark, 

I  bend  my  knee  down  on  this  mark: 
I  look  on  the  sky  and  the  sea. 

II 

O  pilgrim-souls,  I  speak  to  you  ! 

I  see  you  come  proud  and  slow 
From  the  land  of  the  spirits  pale  as  dew 

And  round  me  and  round  me  ye  go. 

0  pilgrims,  I  have  gasped  and  run 
All  night  long  from  the  whips  of  one 

Who  in  your  names  works  sin  and  woe  ! 

Ill 

And  thus  I  thought  that  I  would  come 
And  kneel  here  where  ye  knelt  before, 

And  feel  your  souls  around  me  hum 
In  undertone  to  the  ocean's  roar; 

And  lift  my  black  face,  my  black  hand. 

Here,  in  your  names,  to  curse  this  land 
Ye  blessed  in  freedom's,  evermore. 

IV 

1  am  black,  I  am  black. 

And  yet  God  made  me,  they  say: 
But  if  He  did  so,  smiling  back 

He  must  have  cast  his  work  away 
Under  the  feet  of  his  white  creatures, 
With  a  look  of  scorn,  that  the  dusky  fea- 
tures 

Might  be  trodden  again  to  clay. 

V 

And  yet  He  has  made  dark  things 
To  be  glad  and  merry  as  light: 
There  's  a  little  dark  bird  sits  and  sings. 
There  's  a  dark   stream   ripples   out  of 
sight, 
And    the    dark   frogs    chant   in   the   safe 

morass. 
And  the  sweetest  stars  are  made  to  pass 
O'er  the  face  of  the  darkest  night. 

VI 

But  we  who  are  dark,  we  are  dark ! 
Ah  God,  we  have  no  stars  ! 


About  our  souls  in  care  and  cark 

Our  blackness  shuts  like  prison-bars: 
The  poor  souls  crouch  so  far  behind 
That  never  a  comfort  can  they  find 
By  reaching  through  the  prison-bars. 

VII 

Indeed  we  live  beneath  the  sky. 

That  great  smooth  Hand  of  God  stretched 
out 
On  all  his  children  fatherly. 

To  save  them  from  the  dread  and  doubt 
Which  would  be  if,  from  this  low  place. 
All  opened  straight  up  to  his  face 

Into  the  grand -eternity. 

VIII 

And  still  God's  sunshine  and  his  frost, 

They  make  us  hot,  they  make  us  cold. 
As  if  we  were  not  black  and  lost; 

And  the  beasts  and  birds,  in  wood  and 
fold, 
Do  fear  and  take  us  for  very  men: 
Could  the  whip-poor-will  or  the  cat  of  the 
glen 
Look  into  my  eyes  and  be  bold  ? 

IX 

I  am  black,  I  am  black  ! 

But,  once,  I  laughed  in  girlish  glee. 
For  one  of  my  color  stood  in  the  track 

Where  the  drivers  drove,  and  looked  at 
me, 
And  tender  and  full  was  the  look  he  gave  — 
Could  a  slave  look  so  at  another  slave  ?  — 

I  look  at  the  sky  and  the  sea. 


And  from  that  hour  our  spirits  grew 
As  free  as  if  unsold,  unbought: 

Oh,  strong  enough,  since  we  were  two, 
To  conquer  the  world,  we  thought. 

The  drivers  drove  us  day  by  day; 

We  did  not  mind,  we  went  one  way. 
And  no  better  a  freedom  sought. 

XI 

In  the  sunny  ground  between  the  canes. 
He  said  '  I  love  you '  as  he  passed ; 

When  the  shingle-roof  rang  sharp  with  the 
rains, 
I  heard  how  he  vowed  it  fast: 

While  others  shook  he  smiled  in  the  hut. 

As  he  carved  me  a  bowl  of  the  cocoa-nut 
Through  the  roar  of  the  hurricanes. 


THE   RUNAWAY   SLAVE   AT   PILGRIM'S    POINT 


193 


XII 

I  sang  his  name  instead  of  a  song, 
Over  and  over  I  sang  his  name, 
Upward  and  downward  I  drew  it  along 
My     various     notes,  —  the     same,    the 
same  ! 
I  sang  it  low,  that  the  slave-girls  near 
Might  never  guess,  from  aught  they  could 
hear. 
It  was  only  a  name  —  a  name. 

XIII 

I  look  on  the  sky  and  the  sea. 

We  were  two  to  love  and  two  to  pray: 
Yes,  two,  O  God,  who  cried  to  Thee, 

Though  nothing  didst  Thou  say  ! 
Coldly  Thou  sat'st  behind  the  sun: 
And  now  I  cry  who  am  but  one. 

Thou  wilt  not  speak  to-day. 

XIV 

We  were  black,  we  were  black, 

We  had  no  claim  to  love  and  bliss, 
What  marvel  if  each  went  to  wrack  ? 

They  wrung  my  cold  hands  out  of  his. 
They  dragged  him  —  where  ?     I  crawled 

to  touch 
His   blood's   mark    in   the    dust  .  .  .  not 
much, 
Ye  pilgrim-souls,  though  plain  as  this  ! 

XV 

Wrong,  followed  by  a  deeper  wrong  ! 

Mere  grief  's  too  good  for  such  as  I: 
So  the  white  men  brought  the  shame  ere 
long 

To  strangle  the  sob  of  my  agony. 
They  would  not  leave  me  for  my  dull 
Wet  eyes  !  —  it  was  too  merciful 

To  let  me  weep  pure  tears  and  die. 

XVI 

I  am  black,  I  am  black  ! 

I  wore  a  child  upon  my  breast. 
An  amulet  that  hung  too  slack. 

And,  in  my  unrest,  could  not  rest: 
Thus  we  went  moaning,  child  and  mother, 
One  to  another,  one  to  another. 

Until  all  ended  for  the  best. 

XVII 

For  hark  !  I  will  tell  you  low,  low, 

I  am  black,  you  see,  — 
And  the  babe  who  lay  on  my  bosom  so, 

Was  far  too  white,  too  white  for  me; 


As  white  as  the  ladies  who  scorned  to  pray 
Beside  me  at  church  but  yesterday. 

Though  my  tears  had  washed  a  place  for 
my  knee. 

XVIII 

My  own,  own  child  !  I  could  not  bear 
To  look  in  his  face,  it  was  so  white; 

I  covered  him  up  with  a  kerchief  there, 
I  covered  his  face  in  close  and  tight: 

And   he    moaned   and    struggled,   as    well 
might  be. 

For  the  white  child  wanted  his  liberty  — 
Ha,  ha  !  he  wanted  the  master-right. 

XIX 

He   moaned   and   beat  with  his  head  and 
feet. 
His  little  feet  that  never  grew; 
He  struck  them  out,  as  it  was  meet. 

Against  my  heart  to  break  it  through: 
I  might  have  sung  and  made  him  mild, 
But  I  dared  not  sing  to  the  white-faced 
child 
The  only  song  I  knew. 

XX 

I  pulled  the  kerchief  very  close: 

Ho  could  not  see  the  sun,  I  swear. 
More,  then,  alive,  than  now  he  does 

From  between  the  roots  of   the  mango 
.  .  .  where  ? 
I  know  where.     Close  !     A  child  and  mo- 
ther 
Do  wrong  to  look  at  one  another 
When  one  is  black  and  one  is  fair. 

XXI 

Why,  in  that  single  glance  I  had 

Of  my  child's  face,  ...  I  tell  you  all, 

I  saw  a  look  that  made  me  mad  ! 
The  master^  look,  that  used  to  fall 

On  my  soul  like  his  lash  ...  or  worse  ! 

And  so,  to  save  it  from  my  curse, 
I  twisted  it  round  in  my  shawl. 

XXII 

And  he  moaned  and  trembled  from  foot  to 
head, 

He  shivered  from  head  to  foot; 
Till  after  a  time,  he  lay  instead 

Too  suddenly  still  and  mute. 
I  felt,  beside,  a  stiffening  cold : 
I  dared  to  lift  up  just  a  fold. 

As  in  lifting  a  leaf  of  the  mango-fruit. 


194 


POEMS   OF   1850 


XXIII 
.  ha,    ha  ! 


there,   had 


But   my   fruit  . 
been 

(I  laugh  to  think  on  't  at  this  hour  !) 
Your  fine  white  angels  (who  have  seen 

Nearest  the  secret  of  God's  power) 
And  plucked  my  fruit  to  make  them  wine, 
And  sucked  the  soul  of  that  child  of  mine 
As  the  humming-bird  sucks  the  soul  of 
the  flower. 

XXIV 

Ha,  ha,  the  trick  of  the  angels  white  ! 

They  freed  the  white  child's  spirit  so. 
I  said  not  a  word,  but  day  and  night 

I  carried  the  body  to  and  fro, 
And   it  lay  on  my   heart  like  a  stone,  as 

chill. 
—  The  sun  may  shine  out  as  much  as  he 
will: 
I  am  cold,  though  it  happened  a  month 
ago. 

XXV 

From   the   white    man's    house,   and   the 
black  man's  hut, 

I  carried  the  little  body  on; 
The  forest's  arms  did  round  us  shut, 

And  silence  through  the  trees  did  run: 
They  asked  no  question  as  I  went, 
They  stood  too  high  for  astonishment. 

They  could  see  God  sit  on  his  throne. 

XXVI 

My  little  body,  kerchiefed  fast, 

I  bore  it  on  through  the  forest,  on;     . 

And  when  I  felt  it  was  tir^d  at  last, 
I  scooped  a  hole  beneath  the  moon: 

Through  the  forest-tops  the  angels  far, 

With  a  white  sharp  finger  from  every  star. 
Did  point  and  mock  at  what  was  done. 

XXVII 

Yet  when  it  was  all  done  aright,  — 

Earth,     'twixt      me      and     my     baby, 
strewed,  — 
All,  changed    to   black    earth,  —  nothing 
white,  — 
A  dark  child  in  the  dark  !  —  ensued 
Some  comfort,  and  my  heart  grew  young; 
I  sate  down  smiling  there  and  sung 
The  song  I  learnt  in  my  maidenhood. 

XXVIII 

And  thus  we  two  were  reconciled. 

The  white  child  and  black  mother,  thus; 


For  as  I  sang  it  soft  and  wild. 

The  same  song,  more  melodious, 
Rose  from  the  grave  whereon  I  sate: 
It  was  the  dead  child  singing  that. 
To  join  the  souls  of  both  of  us. 

XXIX 

I  look  on  the  sea  and  the  sky. 

Where  the  pilgrims'  ships  first  anchored 
lay 
The  free  sun  rideth  gloriously, 

But  the  pilgrim-ghosts  have  slid  away 
Through  the  earliest  streaks  of  the  morn  : 
My  face  is  black,  but  it  glares  with  a  scorn 

Which  they  dare  not  meet  by  day. 

XXX 

Ha  !  —  in  their  stead,  their  hunter  sons  ! 
Ha,  ha  !  they  are  on  me  —  they  hunt  in 
a  ring  ! 
Keep  off  !  1  brave  you  all  at  once, 

I   throw  off  your  eyes  like  snakes  that 
sting  ! 
You  have  killed  the  black  eagle  at  nest.  I 

think: 
Did  you  ever  stand  still  in  your  triumph, 
and  shrink 
From  the  stroke  of  her  wounded  wing  ? 

XXXI 

(Man,    drop  .  that    stone    you     dared    to 
lift  !  — ) 

I  wish  you  who  stand  there  five  abreast, 
Each,  for  his  own  wife's  joy  and  gift, 

A  little  corpse  as  safely  at  rest 
As  mine  in  the  mangoes  !     Yes,  but  she 
May  keep  live  babies  on  her  knee. 

And  sing  the  song  she  likes  the  best. 

XXXII 

I  am  not  mad:  I  am  black. 

I  see  you  staring  in  my  face  — 
I  know  you  staring,  shrinking  back. 

Ye  are  born  of  the  Washington-race, 
And  this  land  is  the  free  America, 
And  this  mark  on  my  wrist  —  (I  prove  what 
I  say) 
Ropes  tied  me  up  here  to  the  flogging- 
place. 

XXXIII 

You  think  I  shrieked  then  ?    Not  a  sound  - 
I  hung,  as  a  gourd  hangs  in  tlie  sun; 

I  only  cursed  them  all  around 
As  softly  as  I  might  have  done 


HECTOR   IN   THE   GARDEN 


195 


My  very  own  child:  from  these  sands 

Up  to  the  mountains,  lift  your  hands, 

O  slaves,  and  end  what  I  begun ! 

XXXIV 

Whips,  curses;  these  must  answer  those  ! 

For  in  this  Union  you  have  set 
Two  kinds  of  men  in  adverse  rows, 

Each  loathing  each;  and  all  forget 
The  seven  wounds  in  Christ's  body  fair, 
While  He  sees  gapiug  everywhere 

Our  countless  wounds  that  pay  no  debt. 

XXXV 

Our   wounds   are   different.      Your   white 
men 

Are,  after  all,  not  gods  indeed, 
Nor  able  to  make  Christs  again 

Do  good  with  bleeding.      We  who  bleed 
(Stand  off  !)  we  help  not  in  our  loss  ! 
We  are  too  heavy  for  our  cross. 

And  fall  and  crush  you  and  your  seed. 

XXXVI 

I  fall,  I  swoon  !     I  look  at  the  sky. 

The  clouds  are  breaking  on  my  brain; 
I  am  floated  along,  as  if  I  should  die 

Of  liberty's  exquisite  pain. 
In  the  name  of  the  white  child  waiting  for 

me 
In  the  death-dark  where  we  may  kiss  and 

agree. 
White  men,  I  leave  you  all  curse-free 

In  my  broken  heart's  disdain  ! 


HECTOR    IN    THE    GARDEN 

First  printed  in  Blackwood^s  Magazine  for 
October,  1846.  The  colossal  design  in  flower- 
ing annuals  here  described  was  one  of  the  adorn- 
ments of  the  garden  at  Hope  End. 


Nine  years  old  !     The  first  of  any 
Seem  the  happiest  years  that  come: 
Yet  when  /  was  nine,  I  said 
No  such  word  !     I  thought  instead 

That  the  Greeks  had  used  as  many 
In  besieging  Ilium. 

II 

Nine  green  years  had  scarcely  brought  me 
To  my  childhood's  haunted  spring; 
I  had  life,  like  flowers  and  bees, 


In  betwixt  the  country  trees, 
And  the  sun  the  pleasure  taught  me 
Which  he  teacheth  every  thing. 

Ill 

If  the  rain  fell,  there  was  sorrow: 
Little  head  leant  on  the  pane. 
Little  finger  drawing  down  it 
The  long  trailing  drops  upon  it, 

And  the  '  Rain,  rain,  come  to-morrow,* 
Said  for  charm  against  the  rain. 

IV 

Such  a  charm  was  right  Canidian, 
Though  you  meet  it  with  a  jeer  ! 
If  I  said  it  long  enough. 
Then  the  rain  hummed  dimly  off, 

And  the  thrush  with  his  pure  Lydian 
Was  left  only  to  the  ear; 


And  the  sun  and  I  together 

Went  a-rushing  out  of  doors: 

We  our  tender  spirits  drew 

Over  hill  and  dale  in  view. 
Glimmering  hither,  glimmering  thither 

In  the  footsteps  of  the  showers. 

VI 

Underneath  the  chestnuts  dripping. 
Through  the  grasses  wet  and  fair. 
Straight  I  sought  my  garden-ground 
With  the  laurel  on  the  mound, 

And  the  pear-tree  oversweeping 
A  side-shadow  of  green  air. 

VII 

In  the  garden  lay  supinely 

A  huge  giant  wrought  of  spade  ! 
Arms  and  legs  were  stretched  at  length 
In  a  passive  giant  strength,  — 

The  fine  meadow  turf,  cut  finely. 
Round  them  laid  and  interlaid. 

VIII 

Call  him  Hector,  son  of  Priam  ! 

Such  his  title  and  degree. 

With  my  rake  I  smoothed  his  brow, 

Both  his  cheeks  I  weeded  through, 
But  a  rhymer  such  as  I  am, 

Scarce  can  sing  his  dignity. 

IX 

Eyes  of  gentianellas  azure. 
Staring,  winking  at  the  skies: 


196 


POEMS   OF   1850 


Nose  of  gillyflowers  and  box; 
Scented  grasses  put  for  locks, 
Which  a  little  breeze  at  pleasure 
Set  a- waving  round  his  eyes: 

X 

Brazen  helm  of  daffodillies, 

With  a  glitter  toward  the  light; 
Purple  violets  for  the  mouth, 
Breathing  perfumes  west  and  south; 

And  a  sword  of  flashing  lilies, 
Holden  ready  for  the  fight: 

XI 

And  a  breastplate  made  of  daisies, 

Closely  fitting,  leaf  on  leaf; 

Periwinkles  interlaced 

Drawn  for  belt  about  the  waist; 
While  the  brown  bees,  humming  praises, 

Shot  their  arrows  round  the  chief. 

XII 

And  who  knows  (I  sometimes  wondered) 

If  the  disembodied  soul 

Of  old  Hector,  once  of  Troy, 

Might  not  take  a  dreary  joy 
Here  to  enter  —  if  it  thundered. 

Rolling  up  the  thunder-roll  ? 

XIII 

Rolling  this  way  from  Troy-ruin, 

In  this  body  rude  and  rife 

Just  to  enter,  and  take  rest 

'Neath  the  daisies  of  the  breast  — 
They,  with  tender  roots,  renewing 

His  heroic  heart  to  life  ? 

XIV 

Who  could  know  ?     I  sometimes  started 

At  a  motion  or  a  sound  ! 

Did  his  mouth  speak  —  naming  Troy 

With  an  ototototol? 
Did  the  pulse  of  the  Strong-hearted 

Make  the  daisies  tremble  round  ? 

XV 

It  was  hard  to  answer,  often: 
But  the  birds  sang  in  the  tree, 
But  the  little  birds  sang  bold 
In  the  pear-tree  green  and  old, 

And  my  terror  seemed  to  soften 
Through  the  courage  of  their  glee. 


XVI 
Oh,  the  birds,  the  tree,  the  ruddy 

And  white  blossoms  sleek  with  rain  ! 

Oh,  my  garden  rich  with  pansies  ! 

Oh,  my  childhood's  bright  romances  ! 
All  revive,  like  Hector's  body, 

And  I  see  them  stir  again. 

XVII 

And  despite  life's  changes,  chances. 
And  despite  the  deathbell's  toll, 
They  press  on  me  in  full  seeming 
Help,    some   angel  !    stay   this    dream- 
ing ! 

As  the  birds  sang  in  the  branches. 

Sing  God's  patience  through  my  soul  ! 

XVIII 

That  no  dreamer,  no  neglecter 

Of  the  present's  work  unsped, 

I  may  wake  up  and  be  doing. 

Life's  heroic  ends  pursuing, 
Though  my  past  is  dead  as  Hector, 

And  though  Hector  is  twice  dead. 


SONNETS 

FLUSH    OR   FAUNUS 

You  see  this  dog;  it  was  but  yesterday 

I  mused  forgetful  of  his  presence  here, 

Till  thought  on  thought  drew  downward 
tear  on  tear: 

When  from  the  pillow  where  wet-cheeked 
I  lay, 

A  head  as  hairy  as  Faunus  thrust  its 
way 

Right  sudden  against  my  face,  two  golden- 
clear 

Great  eyes  astonished  mine,  a  drooping 
ear 

Did   flap  me  on   either   cheek  to  dry  the 


spray 


I 


I  started  first  as  some  Arcadian 
Amazed  by  goatly  god  in  twilight  grove: 
But  as  the  bearded  vision  closelier  ran 
My  tears  off,  I  knew  Flush,  and  rose  above 
Surprise  and  sadness^  —  thanking  the  true 

Pan 
Who  by  low  creatures  leads  to  heights  of 

love. 


SONNETS 


197 


FINITE   AND    INFINITE 

The  wind  sounds  only  in  opposing  straits, 
The   sea,   beside   the    shore;   man's   spirit 

rends 
Its  quiet  only  up  against  the  ends 
Of  wants  and  oppositions,  loves  and  hates. 
Where,  worked   and  worn   by    passionate 

debates. 
And  losing  by  the  loss  it  apprehends, 
The  flesh  rocks  round  and  every  breath  it 

sends 
Is  ravelled  to  a  sigh.     All  tortured  states 
Suppose     a     straitened     place.      Jehovah 

Lord, 
Make  room  for   rest,  around  me  !    out  of 

sight 
Now  float  me  of  the  vexing  land  abhorred. 
Till  in  deep  calms  of  space  my  soul  may 

right 
Her  nature,  shoot  large  sail  on  lengthen- 
ing cord. 
And  rush  exultant  on  the  Infinite. 


TWO    SKETCHES 

There  can  be  no  violation  of  privacy  now 
in  identifying  the  originals  of  these  two 
sketches  as  the  beloved  sisters  of  the  poetess, 
Henrietta  and  Arabella  Moulton  -  Barrett. 
These  sonnets  appeared  in  Blackwood'' s  Maga- 
zine during  the  summer  of  1847. 


H.  B. 

The  shadow  of  her  face  upon  the  wall 
May   take   your    memory   to   the    perfect 

Greek, 
But  when  you  front   her,  you  would  call 

the  cheek 
Too  full,  sir,  for  your  models,  if  withal 
That  bloom  it  wears  could  leave  you  criti- 
cal, 
And  that  smile  reaching  toward  the  rosy 

streak ; 
For   one    who    smiles    so   has    no  need   to 

speak 
To  lead  your  thoughts  along,  as  steed  to 

stall. 
A  smile  that  turns  the  sunny  side  o'  the 

heart 
On  all  the  world,  as  if  herself  did  win 
By  what  she  lavished  on  an  open  mart  ! 


Let    no   man   call   the   liberal    sweetness, 


sin. 


For   friends   may  whisper   as   they  stand 

apart, 
'  Methinks  there  's  still  some  warmer  place 

within.' 


II 


A.    B. 


Her  azure  eyes,  dark  lashes  hold  in  fee; 
Her  fair  superfluous  ringlets  without  check 
Drop  after  one  another  down  her  neck. 
As  many  to  each  cheek  as  you  might  see 
Green  leaves  to  a  wild  rose;  this  sign  out- 
wardly. 
And  a  like  woman-covering  seems  to  deck 
Her  inner  nature,  for  she  will  not  fleck 
World's  sunshine  with  a  finger.     Sympa- 
thy 
Must  call  her  in  Love's  name  !  and  then,  I 

know, 
She  rises  up,  and  brightens  as  she  should, 
And   lights  her   smile  for  comfort,  and  is 

slow 
In  nothing  of  high-hearted  fortitude. 
To  smell   this  flower,  come  near  it  !  such 

can  grow 
In  that  sole   garden  where    Christ's  brow 
dropped  blood. 


MOUNTAINEER  AND  POET 

The    simple    goatherd   between   Alp   and 

sky. 
Seeing  his  shadow,  in  that  awful  trj^st. 
Dilated  to  a  giant's  on  the  mist. 
Esteems  not  his  own  stature  larger  by 
The  apparent  image,  but  more  patiently 
Strikes  his  staff  down  beneath  his  clenching 

fist. 
While  the  snow-mountains  lift  their  ame- 
thyst 
And  sapphire  crowns  of  splendor,  far  and 

nigh. 
Into  the  air  around  him.    Learn  from  hence 
Meek  morals,  all  ye  poets  that  pursue 
Your  way  still  onward  up  to  eminence  ! 
Ye  are  not  great  because  creation  drew 
Large  revelations  round  your  earliest  sense. 
Nor  bright  because  God's  glory  shines  for 
you. 


198 


POEMS   OF   1850 


THE  POET 

The  poet  hath  the  child's  sight  in  his  breast 
And  sees  all  new.     What  oftenest  he  has 

viewed 
He  views  with  the  first  glory.     Fair  and 

good 
Pall  never  on  him,  at  the  fairest,  best, 
But  stand  before  him  holy  and  undressed 
In   week-day   false    conventions,   such    as 

would 
Drag  other  men  down  from  the  altitude 
Of  primal  types,  too  early  dispossessed. 
Why,  God  would  tire  of  all  his  heavens,  as 

soon 
As  thou,  O  godlike,  childlike  poet,  didst 
Of   daily   and   nightly  sights   of  sun   and 

moon  ! 
And  therefore  hath  He  set  thee  in  the  midst 
Where  men  may  hear  thy  wonder's  cease- 
less tune 
And   praise   his  world   for   ever,  as   thou 

bidst. 


HIRAM 


POWERS' 
SLAVE ' 


GREEK 


The  American  sculptor  Hiram  Powers  and 
his  family  were  among  the  few  intimate  friends 
of  the  Browning's  during  their  first  years  in 
Florence. 

They  say  Ideal  beauty  cannot  enter 

The  house  of  anguish.     On  the  threshold 

stands 
An  alien  Image  with  enshaekled  hands. 
Called  the  Greek  Slave  !  as  if   the   artist 

meant  her 
(That  passionless  perfection  which  he  lent 

her, 
Shadowed   not    darkened   where   the    sill 

expands) 
To  so  confront   man's  crimes  in  different 

lands 
With   man's   ideal    sense.     Pierce   to   the 

centre, 
Art's  fiery  finger,  and  break  up  ere  long 
The  serfdom  of  this  world.     Appeal,  fair 

stone, 
From  God's  pure  heights  of  beauty  against 

man's  wrong  ! 
Catch  up  in  thy  divine  face,  not  alone 
East  griefs  but  west,  and  strike  and  shame 

the  strong. 
By  thunders  of  white  silence,  overthrown. 


LIFE 
First  printed  in  Blackwood^ s  Magazine,  May, 

1847.  y       ^      yi 

Each  creature  holds  an  insular  point  in 
space ; 

Yet  what  man  stirs  a  finger,  breathes  a 
sound, 

But  all  the  multitudinous  beings  round 

In  all  the  countless  worlds  with  time  and 
place 

For  their  conditions,  down  to  the  central 
base, 

Thrill,  haply,  in  vibration  and  rebound. 

Life  answering  life  across  the  vast  pro- 
found, 

In  full  antiphony,  by  a  common  grace  ? 

I  think  this  sudden  joyance  which  illumes 

A  child's  mouth  sleeping,  unaware  may 
run 

From  some  soul  newly  loosened  from  earth's 
tombs : 

I  think  this  passionate  sigh,  which  half- 
begun 

I  stifle  back,  may  reach  and  stir  the  plumes 

Of  God's  calm  angel  standing  in  the 
sun. 


LOVE 

First  printed  in  Blackwood'' s  Magazine,  May, 

1847. 

We  cannot  live,  except  thus  mutually 

We  alternate,  aware  or  unaware. 

The  reflex  act  of  life :  and  when  we  bear 

Our  virtue  outward  most  impulsively. 

Most  full  of  invocation,  and  to  be 

Most  instantly  compellant,  certes  there 

We  live  most  life,  whoever  breathes  most 

air 
And   counts   his   dying  years  by  sun  and 

sea. 
But  when  a  soul,  by  choice  and  conscience, 

doth 
Throw    out     her    full    force    on    another 

soul. 
The  conscience  and  the  concentration  both 
Make  mere  life.  Love.    For  Life  in  perfect 

whole 
And  aim  consummated,  is  Love  in  sooth, 
As  Nature's  magnet-heat  rounds  pole  with 

pole. 


SONNETS 


199 


HEAVEN  AND  EARTH 

'  And  there  was  silence  iu  heaTen  for  the  space  of 
half  au  hour.' 

First  printed  in  Blackwood,  May,  1847. 

God,  who  with  thunders  and  great  voices 

kept 
Beneath  thy  throne,  and  stars  most  silver- 
paced 
Along  the  inferior  gyres,  and  open-faced 
Melodious  angels  round,  canst  intercept 
Music    with    music,  —  yet,    at    will,    has 

swept 
All   back,   all    back    (said   he   in   Patmos 

placed,) 
To  fill  the  heavens  with  silence  of  the  waste 
Which  lasted  half  an  hour  !  Lo,  I  who  have 

wept 
All    day  and  night,  beseech  Thee   by  my 

tears. 
And  by  that  dread  response  of  curse  and 

groan 
Men  alternate  across  these  hemispheres. 
Vouchsafe  us  such  a  half-hour's  hush  alone, 
In  compensation  for  our  stormy  years: 
As  heaven  has  paused  from  song,  let  earth 

from  moan  ! 


THE  PROSPECT 

First   printed  in   Blackwood   with   the   two 
preceding'. 

Methinks  we  do  as  fretful  children  do. 
Leaning  their  faces  on  the  window-pane 
To  sigh  the  glass  dim  with  their  own  breath's 

stain, 
And  shut  the  sky  and  landscape  from  their 

view: 
And  thus,  alas,  since  God  the  maker  drew 
A  mystic  separation  'twixt  those  twain,  — 
The  life  beyond  us,  and  our  souls  in  pain,  — 
We  miss  the  prospect  which  we  are  called 

unto 
By  grief  we  are  fools  to  use.     Be  still  and 

strong, 
O    man,  my  brother  !     Hold   thy  sobbing 

breath. 
And   keep   thy   soul's   large  window  pure 

from  wrong  ! 
That  so,  as  life's  appointment  issueth, 
Thy  vision  may  be  clear  to  watch  along 
The  sunset  consummation-lights  of  death. 


HUGH   STUART  BOYD 

HIS   BLINDNESS 

To  whom  was  inscribed,  in  grateful  affec- 
tion, my  poem  of  '  Cyprus  Wine.'  There 
comes  a  moment  in  life  when  even  gratitude 
and  affection  turn  to  pain,  as  they  do  now 
with  me.  This  excellent  and  learned  man, 
enthusiastic  for  the  good  and  the  beautiful, 
and  one  of  the  most  simple  and  upright  of 
human  beings,  passed  out  of  his  long'  darkness 
through  death  in  the  summer  of  1848  ;  Dr. 
Adam  Clarke's  daughter  and  biographer,  Mrs. 
Smith  (happier  in  this  than  the  absent),  fulfil- 
ling a  doubly  filial  duty  as  she  sat  by  the  death- 
bed of  her  father's  friend  and  hers.  —  E.  B.  B. 

God  would  not  let  the  spheric  lights  ac- 
cost 

This  God-loved  man,  and  bade  the  earth 
stand  oft' 

With  all  her  beckoning  hills  whose  golden 
stufe 

Under  the  feet  of  the  royal  sun  is  crossed. 

Yet  such  things  were  to  him  not  wholly 
lost, — 

Permitted,  with  his  wandering  eyes  light- 
proof. 

To  catch  fair  visions  rendered  full  enough 

By  many  a  ministrant  accomplished 
ghost,  — 

Still  seeing,  to  sounds  of  softly-turned 
book-leaves, 

Sappho's  crown  -  rose,  and  Meleager's 
Spring, 

And  Gregory's  starlight  on  Greek-bur- 
nished eves: 

Till  Sensuous  and  Unsensuous  seemed  one 
thing, 

Viewed  from  one  level,  —  earth's  reapers 
at  the  sheaves 

Scarce  plainer  than  Heaven's  angels  on 
the  wing. 


HUGH    STUART   BOYD 

HIS    DEATH,     1848 

Beloved  friend,  who  living  many  years 
With  sightless   eyes   raised  vainly  to   the 

sun. 
Didst  learn   to   keep   thy  patient  soul  in 

tune 
To  visible  nature's  elemental  cheers  ! 


200 


POEMS   OF   1850 


God   has    not   caught    thee    to  new  hemi- 
spheres 
Because  thou  wast  aweary  of  this  one ;  — 
I   think   thine    angel's   patience    first  was 

done, 
And  that  he  spake  out  with  celestial  tears, 
'  Is  it  enough,  dear  God  ?  then  lighten  so 
This  soul  that  smiles  in  darkness  ! ' 

Steadfast  friend, 
Who  never   didst   my  heart   or  life   mis- 
know. 
Nor    cither's    faults     too    keenly    appre- 
hend, — 
How  can  I  wonder  when  I  see  thee  go 
To   join   the  Dead  found  faithful   to   the 
end? 


HUGH   STUART  BOYD 

LEGACIES 

Three  gifts  the  Dying  left  me,  —  -^schy- 

lus, 
And  Gregory  Nazianzen,  and  a  clock 
Chiming  the  gradual  hours  out  like  a  flock 
Of  stars  whose  motion  is  melodious. 
The  books  were  those  I  used  to  read  from, 

thus 
Assisting  my  dear  teacher's  soul  to  unlock 
The  darkness  of  his  eyes;  now,  mine  they 

mock. 
Blinded  in  turn  by  tears ;  now,  murmurous 
Sad  echoes  of  my  young  voice,  years  agone 
Intoning   from   these   leaves   the    Grecian 

phrase. 
Return  and  choke  my  utterance.     Books, 

lie  down 
In  silence  on  the  shelf  there,  within  gaze; 
And  thou,  clock,  striking  the  hour's  pulses 

on, 
Chime  in  the  day  which  ends  these  parting- 
days  ! 


CONFESSIONS 

I 

Face   to  face  in   my  chamber,  my  silent 

chamber,  I  saw  her: 
God  and  she  and  I  only,  there  I  sat  down 

to  draw  her 
Soul    through    the    clefts    of    confession: 

'  Speak,  I  am  holding  thee  fast, 


As  the  angel  of  resurrection  shall  do  at  the 
last ! ' 

'  My  cup  is  blood-red 
With  my  sin,'  she  said, 
*  And  I  pour  it  out  to  the  bitter  lees. 
As  if  the  angels  of  judgment  stood  over  me 
strong  at  the  last. 
Or  as  thou  wert  as  these.' 

II 

When  God  smote  his  hands  together,  and 

struck  out  thy  soul  as  a  spark         10 

Into  the  organized  glory  of   things,  from 

deeps  of  the  dark,  — 
Say,  didst   thou    shine,    didst   thou   burn, 
didst  thou  honor  the  power  in  the 
form. 
As  the  star  does  at  night,  or  the  fire-fly,  or 
even  the  little  ground-worm  ? 
'  I  have  sinned,'  she  said, 
'  For  my  seed-light  shed 
Has  smouldered  away  from  his  first 
decrees. 
The    cypress    praiseth    the    fire -fly,    the 
ground-leaf  praiseth  the  worm; 
I  am  viler  than  these.' 

Ill 

When  God  on  that  sin  had  pity,  and  did 

not  trample  thee  straight 
With  his   wild  rains  beating  and  drench- 
ing thy  light  found  inadequate;      20 
When  He  only  sent  thee  the  north-wind,  a 

little  searching  and  chill. 
To  quicken  thy  flame  —  didst  thou  kindle 
and  flash  to  the  heights  of  his  will  ? 
'  I  have  sinned,'  she  said, 
'  Unquickened,  unspread. 
My  fire  dropt  down,  and  I  wept  on  my 
knees: 
I  only  said  of  his  winds  of  the  north  as  I 
shrank  from  their  chill, 
What  delight  is  in  these  ? ' 

IV 

When  God  on  that  sin  had  pity,  and  did 

not  meet  it  as  such, 
But  tempered   the  wind  to  thy  uses,  and 

softened  the  world  to  thy  touch. 
At   least   thou   wast   moved   in   thy   soul, 

though  unable  to  prove  it  afar,       30 
Thou  couldst  carry  thy  light  like  a  jewel, 

not  giving  it  out  like  a  star  ? 
'  I  have  sinned,'  she  said, 
*  And  not  merited 


A   SABBATH    MORNING   AT    SEA 


20I 


The  gift  He  gives,  by  the  grace  He 


sees 


The    mine-cave    praiseth    the    jewel,    the 
hillside  praiseth  the  star; 
I  am  viler  than  these.' 


Then  I  cried  aloud  in  my  passion,  —  Un- 
thankful and  impotent  creature, 
To  throw  up  thy  scorn  unto  God  through 

the  rents  in  thy  beggarly  nature  ! 
If  He,  the  all-giving  and  loving,  is  served 

so  unduly,  what  then 
Hast  thou  done  to  the  weak  and  the  false 
and  the  changing,  —  thy  fellows  of 
men  ?  40 

'  I  have  lovedy  she  said, 
(Words  bowing  her  head 
As  the  wind  the  wet  acacia-trees) 
*  I  saw  God  sitting  above  me,  but  I  ...  I 
sat  among  men. 
And  I  have  loved  these.' 


VI 

Again  with  a  lifted   voice,  like   a   choral 

trumpet  that  takes 
The  lowest  note  of   a  viol  that  trembles, 

and  triumphing  breaks 
On  the  air  with  it  solemn  and  clear,  — 
•  Behold  !  I  have  sinned  not  in  this  ! 
Where  I  loved,  I  have  loved  much  and 
well,  —  I  have  verily  loved  not 
amiss. 

Let  the  living,'  she  said,  50 

'  Inquire  of  the  dead. 
In  the  house  of  the  pale-fronted  images. 
My  own  true    dead  will   answer   for   me, 
that  I  have  not  loved  amiss 
In  my  love  for  all  these. 

VII 

'The   least   touch   of   their    hands   in    the 

morning,  I  keep  it  by  day  and  by 

night ; 
Their  least  step  on  the  stair,  at  the  door, 

still  throbs  through  me,  if  ever  so 

light; 
Their   least   gift,  which  they    left   to  my 

childhood,  far   off   in  the   long-ago 

years. 
Is  now  turned  from  a  toy  to  a  relic,  and 

seen  through  the  crystals  of  tears. 
Dig  the  snow,'  she  said, 
'  For  my  churchyard  bed,  60 


Yet   I,  as  I  sleep,  shall  not   fear   to 

freeze. 
If  one  only  of  these  my  beloveds  shall  love 

me  with  heart-warm  tears, 
As  I  have  loved  these  ! 

VIII 

'If    I    angered   any    among    them,   from 

thenceforth  my  own  life  was  sore; 
If  I  fell  by  chance  from  their  presence,  I 

clung  to  their  memory  more: 
Their  tender  I  often  felt  holy,  their  bitter 

I  sometimes  called  sweet; 
And  whenever  their  heart  has  refused  me, 
I  fell  down  straight  at  their  feet. 
I  have  loved,'  she  said,  — 
'  Man  is  weak,  God  is  dread, 
Yet    the    weak    man    dies    with    his 
spirit  at  ease,  70 

Having  poured  such  an   unguent  of   love 
but  once  on  the  Saviour's  feet 
As  I  lavished  for  these.' 

IX 

Go,  I  cried,  thou  hast  chosen  the  Human, 

and  left  the  Divine  ! 
Then,  at   least,  have  the    Human   shared 

with  thee  their  wild-berry  wine  ? 
Have  they  loved  back  thy  love,  and  when 
strangers     approached     thee     with 
blame. 
Have  they   covered    thy  fault   with   their 
kisses,  and  loved  thee  the  same  ? 
But  she  shrunk  and  said 
'  God,  over  my  head. 
Must    sweep    in    the    wrath    of    his 
judgment-seas, 
If  He  shall  deal  with  me  sinning,  but  only 
indeed  the  same  80 

And  no  gentler  than  these.' 


A   SABBATH    MORNING   AT    SEA 

First  printed  in  The  Amaranth,  1839,  as  'A 
Sabbath  on  the  Sea.' 


The  ship  went  on  with  solemn  face ; 
To  meet  the  darkness  on  the  deep, 
The  solemn  ship  went  onward: 
I  bowed  down  weary  in  the  place, 
For  parting  tears  and  present  sleep 
Had  weighed  mine  eyelids  downward. 


202 


POEMS   OF   1850 


II 
Thick  sleep  which  shut  all  dreams  from  me, 
And  kept  my  inner  self  apart 
And  quiet  from  emotion, 
Then  brake  away  and  left  me  free, 
Made  conscious  of  a  human  heart 
Betwixt  the  heaven  and  ocean. 

Ill 

The  new  sight,  the  new  wondrous  sight  ! 
The  waters  round  me,  turbulent. 
The  skies  impassive  o'er  me, 
Calm  in  a  moonless,  sunless  light, 
Half  glorified  by  that  intent 
Of  holding  the  day-glory  ! 

IV 

Two  pale  thin  clouds  did  stand  upon 
The  meeting  line  of  sea  and  sky, 
With  aspect  still  and  mystic: 
I  think  they  did  foresee  the  sun. 
And  rested  on  their  prophecy 
In  quietude  majestic. 


Then  flushed  to  radiance  where  they  stood, 
Like  statues  by  the  open  tomb 
Of  shining  saints  half  risen. 
The  sun  !  —  he  came  up  to  be  viewed, 
And  sky  and  sea  made  mighty  room 
To  inaugurate  the  vision. 

VI 

I  oft  had  seen  the  dawnlight  run 

As  red  wine  through  the  hills,  and  break 
Through  many  a  mist's  inurning; 
But,  here,  no  earth  profaned  the  sun: 
Heaven,  ocean,  did  alone  partake 
The  sacrament  of  morning. 

VII 

Away  with  thoughts  fantastical  ! 
I  would  be  humble  to  my  worth, 
Self-guarded  as  self -doubted: 
Though  here  no  earthly  shadows  fall, 
I,  joying,  grieving  without  earth. 
May  desecrate  without  it. 

VIII 

God's  sabbath  morning  sweeps  the  waves; 
I  would  not  praise  the  pageant  high 
Yet  miss  the  dedicature: 
I,  carried  toward  the  sunless  graves 
By  force  of  natural  things,  —  should  I 
Exult  in  only  Nature  ? 


IX 
And  could  I  bear  to  sit  alone 
'Mid  Nature's  fixed  benignities. 

While  my  warm  pulse  was  moving  ? 
Too  dark  thou  art,  O  glittering  sun. 
Too  strait  ye  are,  capacious  seas. 
To  satisfy  the  loving  ! 

X 

It  seems  a  better  lot  than  so. 

To  sit  with  friends  beneath  the  beech. 
And  feel  them  dear  and  dearer; 
Or  follow  children  as  they  go 

In  pretty  pairs,  with  softened  speech, 
As  the  church-bells  ring  nearer. 

XI 

Love  me,  sweet  friends,  this  sabbath  day  ! 
The  sea  sings  round  me  while  ye  roll 
Afar  the  hymn  unaltered. 
And  kneel,  where  once  I  knelt  to  pray, 
And  bless  me  deeper  in  the  soul. 
Because  the  voice  has  faltered. 

XII 

And  though  this  sabbath  comes  to  me 
Without  the  stoled  minister 
Or  chanting  congregation, 
God's  Spirit  brings  communion.  He 
Who  brooded  soft  on  waters  drear, 
Creator  on  creation. 

XIII 

Himself,  I  think,  shall  draw  me  higher 
Where  keep  the  saints  with  harp  and  song 
An  endless  sabbath  morning. 
And  on  that  sea  commixed  with  fire 
Oft  drop  their  eyelids,  raised  too  long 
To  the  full  Godhead's  burning. 


THE  MASK 


I  HAVE  a  smiling  face,  she  said, 

I  have  a  jest  for  all  I  meet, 
I  have  a  garland  for  my  head 

And  all  its  flowers  are  sweet,  — 
And  so  you  call  me  gay,  she  said. 

II 

Grief  taught  to  me  this  smile,  she  said, 

And  Wrong  did  teach  this  jesting  bold; 
These  flowers  were  plucked  from  garden- 
bed 


CALLS   ON   THE   HEART 


203 


While  a  death-chime  was  tolled: 
And  what  now  will  you  say  ?  —  she  said. 


Ill 


Behind  no  prison-grate,  she  said, 

Which  slurs  the  sunshine  half  a  mile, 

Live  captives  so  uncoraforted 
As  souls  behind  a  smile. 

God's  pity  let  us  pray,  she  said. 


IV 


I  know  my  face  is  bright,  she  said,  — 
Such  brightness  dying  suns  diffuse: 

I  bear  upon  my  forehead  shed 
The  sign  of  what  I  lose, 

The  ending  of  my  day,  she  said. 


If  I  dared  leave  this  smile,  she  said, 
And  take  a  moan  upon  my  mouth. 

And  tie  a  cypress  round  my  head, 
And  let  my  tears  run  smooth, 

It  were  the  happier  way,  she  said. 

VI 

And  since  that  must  not  be,  she  said, 
I  fain  your  bitter  world  would  leave. 

How  calmly,  calmly  smile  the  Dead, 
Who  do  not,  therefore,  grieve  ! 

The  yea  of  Heaven  is  yea,  she  said. 

VII 

But  in  your  bitter  world,  she  said, 
Face-joy  's  a  costly  mask  to  wear; 

'T  is  bought  with  pangs  long  nourished, 
And  rounded  to  despair: 

Grief's  earnest  makes  life's  play,  she  said. 

VIII 

Ye  weep  for  those  who  weep  ?  she  said  — 
Ah  fools  !  I  bid  you  pass  them  by. 

Go,   weep   for   those   whose    hearts    have 
bled 
What  time  their  eyes  were  dry. 

Whom  sadder  can  I  say  ?  she  said. 


CALLS  ON  THE  HEART 


Free  Heart,  that  singest  to-day 
Like  a  bird  on  the  first  green  spray, 
Wilt  thou  go  forth  to  the  world 


Where  the  hawk  hath  his  wing  unfurled 

To  follow,  perhaps,  thy  way  ? 
Where  the  tamer  thine  own  will  bind, 
And,  to  make  thee  sing,  will  blind. 
While   the   little  hip  grows  for   the   free 
behind  ? 

Heart,  wilt  thou  go  ? 

—  *  No,  no  ! 

Free  hearts  are  better  so.' 

II 

The  world,  thou  hast  heard  it  told. 
Has  counted  its  robber-gold, 
And  the  pieces  stick  to  the  hand; 
The  world  goes  riding  it  fair  and  grand. 

While  the  truth  is  bought  and  sold; 
World-voices  east,  world-voices  west. 
They  call  thee.  Heart,  from  thine  early 
rest, 
'  Come   hither,    come    hither   and   be   our 
guest.' 

Heart,  wilt  thou  go  ? 

—  *  No,  no  ! 

Good  hearts  are  calmer  so.' 

Ill 

Who  calleth  thee,  Heart  ?  World's  Strife, 
With  a  golden  heft  to  his  knife ; 
World's  Mirth,  with  a  finger  fine 
That  draws  on  a  board  in  wine 
Her  blood-red  plans  of  life ; 
World's  Gain,  with  a  brow  knit  down; 
World's  Fame,  with  a  laurel  crown 
Which    rustles    most   as  the  leaves    turn 
brown: 

Heart,  wilt  thou  go  ? 

—  '  No,  no  ! 
Calm  hearts  are  wiser  so.' 

IV 

Hast  heard  that  Proserpina 
(Once  fooling)  was  snatched  away 
To  partake  the  dark  king's  seat, 
And  the  tears  ran  fast  on  her  feet 

To  think  how  the  sun  shone  yesterday  ? 
With  her  ankles  sunken  in  asphodel 
She  wept  for  the  roses  of  earth  which 
fell 
From  her  lap  when  the  wild  car  drave  to 
hell. 

Heart,  wilt  thou  go  ? 

—  '  No,  no  ! 

Wise  hearts  are  warmer  so.' 


204 


POEMS  OF   1850 


And  what  is  this  place  not  seen, 
Where  Hearts  may  hide  serene  ? 
*  'T  is  a  fair  still  house  well-kept 
Which  humble  thoughts  have  swept 

And  holy  prayers  made  clean. 
There  I  sit  with  Love  in  the  sun, 
And  we  two  never  have  done 
Singing  sweeter  songs  than  are  guessed  by 
one.' 

Heart,  wilt  thou  go  ? 
—  '  No,  no  ! 
Warm  hearts  are  fuller  so.* 

VI 

O  Heart,  O  Love,  —  I  fear 
That  Love  may  be  kept  too  near. 
Hast  heard,  O  Heart,  that  tale. 
How  Love  may  be  false  and  frail 
To  a  Heart  once  holden  dear  ? 
—  '  But  this  true  Love  of  mine 
Clings  fast  as  the  clinging  vine. 
And  mingles  pure  as  the  grapes  in  wine.' 
Heart,  wilt  thou  go  ? 
— '  No,  no  ! 
Full  hearts  beat  higher  so.' 

VII 

O  Heart,  O  Love,  beware  ! 
Look  up,  and  boast  not  there. 
For  who  has  twirled  at  the  pin  ? 
'Tis   the   World,   between    Death    and 
Sin,  — 
The  World  and  the  World's  Despair ! 
And  Death  has  quickened  his  pace 
To  the  hearth,  with  a  mocking  face, 
Familiar  as  Love,  in  Love's  own  place. 
Heart,  wilt  thou  go  ? 
'  Still,  no  ! 
High  hearts  must  grieve  even  so.' 

VIII 

The  house  is  waste  to-day. 
The  leaf  has  dropt  from  the  spray, 
The  thorn,  prickt  through  to  the  song: 
If  summer  doeth  no  wrong, 
The  winter  will,  they  say. 
Sing,  Heart  !     What  heart  replies  ? 
In  vain  we  were  calm  and  wise. 
If  the  tears  unkissed  stand  on  in  our  eyes. 
Heart,  wilt  thou  go  ? 
— '  Ah,  no  ! 
Grieved  hearts  must  break  even  so.' 


IX 
Howbeit  all  is  not  lost. 
The  warm  noon  ends  in  frost. 
And  worldly  tongues  of  promise 
Like  sheep-bells  die  ofip  from  us 

On  the  desert  hills  cloud-crossed: 
Yet  through  the  silence  shall 
Pierce  the  death-angel's  call. 
And  '  Come  up  hither,'  recover  all. 
Heart,  wilt  thou  go  ? 
— '  I  go  ! 
Broken  hearts  triumph  so.' 


WISDOM  UNAPPLIED 


If  I  were  thou,  O  butterfly, 

And  poised  my  purple  wing  to  spy 

The  sweetest  flowers  that  live  and  die, 

II 

I  would  not  waste  my  strength  on  those. 
As  thou,  —  for  summer  has  a  close, 
And  pansies  bloom  not  in  the  snows. 

Ill 

If  I  were  thou,  O  working  bee, 
And  all  that  honey-gold  I  see 
Could  delve  from  roses  easily, 

IV 

I  would  not  hive  it  at  man's  door, 
As  thou,  —  that  heirdom  of  my  store 
Should  make  him  rich  and  leave  me  poor. 


If  I  were  thou,  O  eagle  proud. 

And  screamed  the  thunder  back  aloud. 

And  faced  the  lightning  from  the  cloud, 

VI 

I  would  not  build  my  eyrie-throne. 
As  thou,  —  upon  a  crumbling  stone 
Which  the  next  storm  may  trample  down. 

VII 

If  I  were  thou,  O  gallant  steed. 
With  pawing  hoof  and  dancing  head. 
And  eye  outrunning  thine  own  speed. 


HUMAN  LIFE'S   MYSTERY 


205 


VIII 


I  would  not  meeken  to  the  rein, 

As  thou,  —  nor  smooth  my  nostril  plain 

From  the  glad  desert's  snort  and  strain. 


IX 


If  I  were  thou,  red-breasted  bird, 
With  song  at  shut-up  window  heard. 
Like  Love's  sweet  Yes  too  long  deferred, 


X 


I  would  not  overstay  delight, 

As  thou,  —  but  take  a  swallow-flight 

Till  the  new  spring  returned  to  sight. 


XI 


While  yet  I  spake,  a  touch  was  laid 
Upon  my  brow,  whose  pride  did  fade 
As  thus,  methought,  an  angel  said,  — 


XII 


'  If  I  were  thou  who  sing'st  this  song. 
Most  wise  for  others,  and  most  strong 
In  seeing  right  while  doing  wrong. 


XIII 


*  I  would  not  waste  my  cares,  and  choose, 
As  thou,  —  to  seek  what  thou  must  lose. 
Such  gains  as  perish  in  the  use. 


XIV 


*  I  would  not  work  where  none  can  win. 
As  thou,  —  halfway  'twixt  grief  and  sin, 
But  look  above  and  judge  within. 


XV 


*I  would  not  let  my  pulse  beat  high, 
As  thou,  —  towards  fame's  regality. 
Nor  yet  in  love's  great  jeopardy. 


XVI 


*  I  would  not  champ  the  hard  cold  bit. 
As  thou,  —  of  what  the  world  thinks  fit, 
But  take  God's  freedom,  using  it. 


XVII 


*  I  would  not  play  earth's  winter  out, 
As  thou,  —  but  gird  my  soul  about. 
And  live  for  life  past  death  and  doubt. 


XVIII 


*  Then  sing,  O  singer  !  —  but  allow. 
Beast,  fly  and  bird,  called  foolish  now, 
Are  wise  (for  all  thy  scorn)  as  thou.' 


HUMAN  LIFE'S  MYSTERY 


We  sow  the  glebe,  we  reap  the  corn, 

We  build  the  house  where  we  may  rest. 
And  then,  at  moments,  suddenly 
We  look  up  to  the  great  wide  sky. 
Inquiring  wherefore  we  were  born, 
For  earnest  or  for  jest  ? 

II 

The  senses  folding  thick  and  dark 

About  the  stifled  soul  within. 
We  guess  diviner  things  beyond. 
And  yearn  to  them  with  yearning  fond; 
We  strike  out  blindly  to  a  mark 

Believed  in,  but  not  seen. 

Ill 

We  vibrate  to  the  pant  and  thrill 
Wherewith  Eternity  has  curled 
In  serpent-twine  about  God's  seat: 
While,  freshening  upward  to  his  feet, 
In  gradual  growth  his  full-leaved  will 
Expands  from  world  to  world. 

IV 

And,  in  the  tumult  and  excess 

Of  act  and  passion  under  sun. 
We  sometimes  hear  —  oh,  soft  and  far, 
As  silver  star  did  touch  with  star, 
The  kiss  of  Peace  and  Righteousness 
Through  all  things  that  are  done. 


God  keeps  his  holy  mysteries 

Just  on  the  outside  of  man's  dream; 
In  diapason  slow,  we  think 
To  hear  their  pinions  rise  and  sink. 
While  they  float  pure  beneath  his  eyes. 
Like  swans  adown  a  stream. 

VI 

Abstractions,  are  they,  from  the  forms 

Of  his  great  beauty  ?  —  exaltations 
From  his  great  glory  ?  —  strong  previsions 
Of  what  we  shall  be  ?  —  intuitions 
Of  what  we  are  —  in  calms  and  storms 
Beyond  our  peace  and  passions  ? 

VII 

Things  nameless  !  which,  in  passing  so. 

Do  stroke  us  with  a  subtle  grace ; 
We  say,  *  Who  passes  ? '  —  they  are  dumb} 


206 


POEMS    OF    1850 


We  canuot  see  them  go  or  come, 
Their  touches  fall  soft,  cold,  as  snow 
Upon  a  blind  man's  face. 

VIII 

Yet,  touching  so,  they  draw  above 

Our  common  thoughts  to  Heaven's  un- 
known ; 

Our  daily  joy  and  pain  advance 

To  a  divine  significance 

Our  human  love  —  O  mortal  love, 
That  light  is  not  its  own  ! 

IX 

And  sometimes  horror  chills  our  blood 
To  be  so  near  such  mystic  Things, 

And  we  wrap  round  us  for  defence 

Our  purple  manners,  moods  of  sense  — 

As  angels  from  the  face  of  God 
Stand  hidden  in  their  wings. 


And  sometimes  through  life's  heavy  swound 
We    grope    for    them,    with    strangled 
breath 

We  stretch  our  hands  abroad  and  try 

To  reach  them  in  our  agony; 

And  widen,  so,  the  broad  life-wound 
Soon  large  enough  for  death. 


A   CHILD'S    THOUGHT   OF    GOD 


They  say  that  God  lives  very  high; 

But  if  you  look  above  the  pines 
You  cannot  see  our  God;  and  why  ? 

II 

And  if  you  dig  down  in  the  mines 
You  never  see  Him  in  the  gold; 
Though  from  Him  all  that 's  glory  shines. 

Ill 

God  is  so  good,  He  wears  a  fold 

Of  heaven  and  earth  across  his  face  — 
Like  secrets  kept,  for  love,  untold. 

IV 

But  still  I  feel  that  his  embrace 

Slides  down  by  thrills,  through  all  things 
made. 
Through  sight  and  sound  of  every  place: 


As  if  my  tender  mother  laid 

On  my  shut  lips  her  kisses'  pressure, 
Half-waking  me  at  night,  and  said 

'  Who  kissed  you  through  the  dark,  dear 


guesser 


9' 


THE    CLAIM 

First  printed   in  the  Athenaeum,  September 
17,  1842,  as  '  A  Claim  on  AUegory.' 


Grief   sate  upon  a  rock   and   sighed  one 
day, 
(Sighing  is  all  her  rest,) 
'  Wellaway,  wellaway,  ah  wellaway  ! ' 
As    ocean   beat    the   stone,    did    she   her 

breast, 
'  Ah  wellaway  !  ah  me  !  alas,  ah  me  ! ' 
Such  sighing  uttered  she. 

II 

A  Cloud  spake  out  of  heaven,  as  soft  as 
rain 
That  falls  on  water,  —  '  Lo, 
The  winds   have  wandered   from  me  !     I 

remain 
Alone  in  the  sky-waste,  and  cannot  go 
To  lean   my   whiteness   on   the    mountain 
blue 
Till  wanted  for  more  dew. 

Ill 

'  The  sun  has  struck   my  brain  to  weary 
peace, 
Whereby  constrained  and  pale 
I  spin  for  him  a  larger  golden  fleece 
Than  Jason's,  yearning  for  as  full  a  sail. 
Sweet  Grief,  when  thou  hast  sighed  to  thy 
mind. 
Give  me  a  sigh  for  wind, 

IV 

'  And  let  it  carry  me  adown  the  west  ! ' 
But  Love,  who  pr5strated 

Lay  at   Grief's    foot,  his  lifted  eyes   pos- 
sessed 

Of  her  full  image,  answered  in  her  stead; 

'  Now  nay,  now  nay  !    she  shall  not   give 
away 

What  is  my  wealth,  for   any    Cloud  that 
flieth: 


A   WOMAN'S    SHORTCOMINGS 


207 


Where  Grief  makes  moan, 

Love  claims  his  own, 
And  therefore  do  I  lie  here  night  and  day, 
And  eke  my  life  out  with  the  breath  she 
sigheth.' 


A   DEAD    ROSE 

First    printed    in    Blackwood's    Magazine, 
October,  1846. 


O  Rose,  who  dares  to  name  thee  ? 
No  longer  roseate  now,  nor  soft  nor  sweet, 
But   pale   and   hard   and   dry    as    stubble 
wheat,  — 
Kept  seven  years  in  a  drawer,  thy  titles 
shame  thee. 

II 

The  breeze  that  used  to  blow  thee 
Between   the   hedgerow  thorns,  and    take 

away 
An  odor  up  the  lane  to  last  all  day,  — 
If   breathing   now,  unsweetened   would 


forgo  thee. 


Ill 


The  sun  that  used  to  smite  thee. 
And  mix  his  glory  in  thy  gorgeous  urn 
Till  beam  appeared  to  bloom,  and  flower 
to  burn,  — 
If  shining  now,  with  not  a  hue  would 
light  thee. 

IV 

The  dew  that  used  to  wet  thee, 
And,   white   first,   grow   incarnadined  be- 
cause 
It  lay  upon  thee  where  the  crimson  was,  — 
If  dropping  now,  would  darken  where  it 
met  thee. 


The  fly  that  'lit  upon  thee 
To  stretch  the  tendrils  of  its  tiny  feet 
Along  thy  leaf's  pure  edges  after  heat,  — 
If    'lighting  now,  would  coldly  overrun 
thee. 

VI 

The  bee  that  once  did  suck  thee, 
And  build   thy  perfumed   ambers   up   his 
hive, 


And   swoon   in   thee   for    joy,    till   scarce 
alive,  — 
If  passing  now,  would  blindly  overlook 
thee. 

VII 

The  heart  doth  recognize  thee, 
Alone,  alone  !   the  heart   doth  smell  thee 

sweet. 
Doth  view  thee  fair,  doth  judge  thee  most 
complete. 
Perceiving   all  those  changes   that   dis- 
guise thee. 

VIII 

Yes,  and  the  heart  doth  owe  thee 
More  love,  dead  rose,  than  to  any   roses 

bold 
Which    Julia    wears    at    dances,   smiling 
cold :  — 
Lie  still  upon  this   heart  which  breaks 
below  thee  ! 


A  WOMAN'S    SHORTCOMINGS 

First  printed  in  Blackwood's  Magazine,  Oc- 
tober, 1846. 


She  has  laughed  as  softly  as  if  she  siglied, 

She  has  counted  six,  and  over. 
Of  a  purse  well   filled   and  a  heart   well 
tried  — 
Oh,  each  a  worthy  lover  ! 
They  '  give  her  time ; '  for  her  soul  must 
slip 
Where   the    world   has   set   the    groov- 
ing; 
She   will   lie   to   none    with   her   fair   red 
lip: 
But  love  seeks  truer  loving. 

II 
She  trembles  her  fan  in  a  sweetness  dumb. 

As  her  thoughts  were  beyond  recalling, 
With  a  glance  for   one,  and  a  glance  for 
some. 
From  her  eyelids  rising  and  falling; 
Speaks  common  words  with  a  blushful  air, 

Hears  bold  words,  unreproving; 
But  her  silence  says  —  what  she  never  will 
swear  — 
And  love  seeks  better  loving. 


2o8 


POEMS   OF   1850 


III 
Go,  lady,  lean  to  the  night-guitar 

And  drop  a  smile  to  the  bringer; 
Then  smile  as  sweetly,  when  he  is  far, 

At  the  voice  of  an  in-door  singer. 
Bask  tenderly  beneath  tender  eyes; 

Glance  lightly,  on  their  removing; 
And  join  new  vows  to  old  perjuries  — 

But  dare  not  call  it  loving. 

IV 

Unless  you  can   think,  when   the  song   is 
done. 
No  other  is  soft  in  the  rhythm; 
Unless  you  can  feel,  when  left  by  One, 

That  all  men  else  go  with  him; 
Unless  you  can  know,  when  unpraised  by 
his  breath. 
That  your  beauty  itself  wants  proving; 
Unless     you    can    swear    '  For     life,    for 
death  ! '  — 
Oh,  fear  to  call  it  loving  ! 


Unless  you  can  muse  in  a  crowd  all  day 

On  the  absent  face  that  fixed  you ; 
Unless  you  can  love,  as  the  angels  may, 
With   the    breadth    of    heaven    betwixt 
you; 
Unless   you   can  dream  that   his   faith   is 
fast. 
Through  behoving  and  unbehoving; 
Unless   you   can   die  when   the   dream   is 
past  — 
Oh,  never  call  it  loving  ! 


A   MAN'S    REQUIREMENTS 

First  printed  in  Blackwood's  Magazine,  Oc- 
tober, 1846. 


Love  me,  Sweet,  with  all  thou  art, 
Feeling,  thinking,  seeing; 

Love  me  in  the  lightest  part, 
Love  me  in  full  being. 

II 

Love  me  with  thine  open  youth 

In  its  frank  surrender; 
With  the  vowing  of  thy  mouth. 

With  its  silence  tender. 


Ill 


Love  me  with  thine  azure  eyes, 
Made  for  earnest  granting; 

Taking  color  from  the  skies, 

Can  Heaven's  truth  be  wanting  ? 


IV 


Love  me  with  their  lids,  that  fall 
Snow-like  at  first  meeting; 

Love  me  with  thine  heart,  that  all 
Neighbors  then  see  beating. 


Love  me  with  thine  hand  stretched  out 

Freely  —  open-minded: 
Love  me  with  thy  loitering  foot,  — 

Hearing  one  behind  it. 

VI 

Love  me  with  thy  voice,  that  turns 

Sudden  faint  above  me; 
Love  me  with  thy  blush  that  burns 

When  I  murmur  Love  me  ! 

VII 

Love  me  with  thy  thinking  soul, 

Break  it  to  love-sighing; 
Love  me  with  thy  thoughts  that  roll 

On  through  living  —  dying. 

VIII 

Love  me  in  thy  gorgeous  airs, 

When  the  world  has  crowned  thee ; 

Love  me,  kneeling  at  thy  prayers. 
With  the  angels  round  thee. 

IX 

Love  me  pure,  as  musers  do. 

Up  the  woodlands  shady: 
Love  me  gaily,  fast  and  true. 

As  a  winsome  lady. 

X 

Through  all  hopes  that  keep  us  brave. 

Farther  off  or  nigher, 
Love  me  for  the  house  and  grave. 

And  for  something  higher. 

XI 

Thus,  if  thou  wilt  prove  me.  Dear, 

Woman's  love  no  fable, 
/  will  love  thee  —  half  a  year  — 

As  a  man  is  able. 


A  REED 


209 


A  YEAR'S   SPINNING 

First  printed  in  Blackwoocfs  Magazine,  Oc- 
tober, 1S46,  as  '  Maude's  Spinning.' 


He  listened  at  the  porch  that  day, 
To  hear  the  wheel  go  ou,  and  on; 

And  then  it  stopped,  ran  back  away, 

While  through  the  door  he  brought  the 

sun: 
But  now  my  spinning  is  all  done. 

II 

He  sat  beside  me,  with  an  oath 

That  love  ne'er  ended,  once  begun; 

I  smiled  —  believing  for  us  both. 
What  was  the  truth  for  only  one: 
And  now  my  spinning  is  all  done. 

Ill 

My  mother  cursed  me  that  I  heard 
A  young  man's  wooing  as  I  spun: 

Thanks,  cruel  mother,  for  that  word,  — 
For  I  have,  since,  a  harder  known  ! 
And  now  my  spinning  is  all  done. 

IV 

I  thought  —  O  God  !  —  my  first-born's  cry 
Both  voices  to  mine  ear  would  drown: 

I  listened  in  mine  agony  — 

It  was  the  silence  made  me  groan  ! 
And  now  my  spinning  is  all  done. 


Bury  me  'twixt  my  mother's  grave, 

(Who  cursed  me  on  her  death-bed  lone) 

And  my  dead  baby's  (God  it  save  !) 
Who,  not  to  bless  me,  would  not  moan. 
And  now  my  spinning  is  all  done. 

VI 

A  stone  upon  my  heart  and  head. 
But  no  name  written  on  the  stone  ! 

Sweet  neighbors,  whisper  low  instead, 
'  This  sinner  was  a  loving  one  — 
And  now  her  spinning  is  all  done.' 

VII 

And  let  the  door  ajar  remain, 
In  case  he  should  pass  by  anon; 

And  leave  the  wheel  out  very  plain,  — 
That  HE,  when  passing  in  the  sun, 
May  see  the  spinning  is  all  done. 


CHANGE  UPON    CHANGE 

First  printed  in  Blackwood'' s  Magazine,  Oc- 
tober, 1S4G. 


Five  months  ago  the  stream  did  flow. 

The  lilies  bloomed  within  the  sedge, 
And  we  were  lingering  to  and  fro, 
Where  none  will  track  thee  in  this  snow, 

Along  the  stream,  beside  the  hedge. 
Ah,  Sweet,  be  free  to  love  and  go  ! 

For  if  I  do  not  hear  thy  foot. 

The  frozen  river  is  as  mute. 

The  flowers  have  dried  down  to  the  root: 
And   why,  since   these   be   changed  since 
May, 

Shouldst  thou  change  less  than  they  f 

II 

And  slow,  slow  as  the  winter  snow 
The  tears  have  drifted  to  mine  eyes; 

And  my  poor  cheeks,  five  months  ago 

Set  blushing  at  thy  praises  so, 
Put  paleness  on  for  a  disguise. 

Ah,  Sweet,  be  free  to  praise  and  go  ! 
For  if  my  face  is  turned  too  pale, 
It  was  thine  oath  that  first  did  fail,  — 
It  was  thy  love  proved  false  and  frail,  — 

And  why,  since  these  be  changed  enow, 
Should  /  change  less  than  thou  f 


A   REED 

First  printed  in  Blackwood^ s  Magazine,  Oc- 
tober, 1846. 


I  AM  no  trumpet,  but  a  reed ; 

No  flattering  breath  shall  from  me  lead 

A  silver  sound,  a  hollow  sound: 
I  will  not  ring,  for  priest  or  king. 
One  blast  that  in  re-echoing 

Would  leave  a  bondsman  faster  bound. 

n 

I  am  no  trumpet,  but  a  reed,  — 
A  broken  reed,  the  wind  indeed 

Left  flat  upon  a  dismal  shore; 
Yet  if  a  little  maid  or  child 
Should  sigh  within  it,  earnest-mild 

This  reed  will  answer  evermore. 


2IO 


POEMS   OF    1850 


III 
I  am  no  trumpet,  but  a  reed ; 
Go,  tell  the  fishers,  as  they  spread 

Their  nets  along  the  river's  edge, 
I  will  not  tear  their  nets  at  all, 
Nor  pierce  their  hands,  if  they  should  fall: 

Then  let  them  leave  me  in  the  sedge. 


A  CHILD'S  GRAVE  AT  FLORENCE 

A.   A.   E.    C. 

BORN  JULY,  1848.     DIED  NOVEMBER,   1 849 

First  printed  in  the  Athenceum,  December  22, 
1849.  Alice  AugustaElizabeth  was  the  daughter 
of  Count  and  Countess  Cottrell.  The  mother, 
to  whom  there  are  many  affectionate  allusions 
in  Mrs.  Browning's  letters,  was  born  Sophia  Au- 
gusta Tulk,  the  daughter  of  an  English  cler- 
gyman. The  father,  Henry  Cottrell,  a  young 
English  artist,  was  member  of  the  household  of 
the  last  Duke  of  Lucca,  and  received  his  title 
from  him. 

Of  English  blood,  of  Tuscan  birth, 
What  country  should  we  give  her  ? 

Instead  of  any  on  the  earth, 
The  civic  Heavens  receive  her. 

And  here  among  the  English  tombs 

In  Tuscan  ground  we  lay  her, 
While  the  blue  Tuscan  sky  endomes 

Our  English  words  of  prayer. 


A  little  child  !  —  how  long  she  lived, 
By  months,  not  years,  is  reckoned: 

Born  in  one  July,  she  survived 
Alone  to  see  a  second. 


10 


Bright-featured,  as  the  July  sun 

Her  little  face  still  played  in, 
And  splendors,  with  her  birth  begun. 

Had  had  no  time  for  fading. 

So,  Lily,  from  those  July  hours, 
No  wonder  we  should  call  her; 

She  looked  such  kinship  to  the  flowers,  — 
Was  but  a  little  taller.  20 

A  Tuscan  Lily,  —  only  white, 

As  Dante,  in  abhorrence 
Of  red  corruption,  wished  aright 

The  lilies  of  his  Florence. 


We  could  not  wish  her  whiter,  —  her 
Who  perfumed  with  pure  blossom 

The  house  —  a  lovely  thing  to  wear 
Upon  a  mother's  bosom  ! 

This  July  creature  thought  perhaps 

Our  speech  not  worth  assuming;  30 

She  sat  upon  her  parents'  laps 

And  mimicked  the  gnat's  humming; 

Said  '  father,'  '  mother '  —  then  left  off. 

For  tongues  celestial,  fitter: 
Her  hair  had  grown  just  long  enough 

To  catch  heaven's  jasper-glitter. 

Babes  !  Love  could  always  hear  and  see 
Behind  the  cloud  that  hid  them. 

'  Let  little  children  come  to  Me, 

And  do  not  thou  forbid  them.'  40 

So,  unforbidding,  have  we  met, 
And  gently  here  have  laid  her. 

Though  winter  is  no  time  to  get 

The  flowers  that  should  o'erspread  her: 

We  should  bring  pansies  quick  with  spring. 

Rose,  violet,  daffodilly, 
And  also,  above  everything, 

White  lilies  for  our  Lily. 

Nay,  more  than  flowers,  this  grave  exacts, — • 
Glad,  grateful  attestations  50 

Of  her  sweet  eyes  and  pretty  acts, 
With  calm  renunciations. 

Her  very  mother  with  light  feet 
Should  leave  the  place  too  earthy. 

Saying  '  The  angels  have  thee,  Sweet, 
Because  we  are  not  worthy.' 

But  winter  kills  the  orange-buds. 

The  gardens  in  the  frost  are. 
And  all  the  heart  dissolves  in  floods. 

Remembering  we  have  lost  her.  60 

Poor   earth,   poor   heart,  —  too   weak,  too 
weak 

To  miss  the  July  shining  ! 
Poor  heart  !  —  what  bitter  words  we  speak 

When  God  speaks  of  resigning  ! 

Sustain  this  heart  in  us  that  faints. 

Thou  God,  the  self-existent ! 
We  catch  up  wild  at  parting  saints 

And  feel  thy  heaven  too  distant. 


LIFE   AND   LOVE 


211 


The  wind  that  swept  them  out  of  sin 

Has  ruffled  all  our  vesture: 
On  the  shut  door  that  let  them  in 

We  beat  with  frantic  gesture, — 

To  us,  us  also,  open  straight ! 

The  outer  life  is  chilly; 
Are  we  too,  like  the  earth,  to  wait 

Till  next  year  for  our  Lily  ? 

—  Oh,  my  own  baby  on  my  knees, 
My  leaping,  dimpled  treasure. 

At  every  word  I  write  like  these, 

Clasped  close  with  stronger  pressure  ! 

Too  well  my  own  heart  understands,  — 
At  every  word  beats  fuller  — 

My  little  feet,  my  little  hands. 
And  hair  of  Lily's  color  ! 


70 


80 


But 


patience.    Love     learns 


God    gives 
strength, 
And  Faith  remembers  promise. 
And  Hope  itself  can  smile  at  length 
On  other  hopes  gone  from  us. 

Love,  strong  as  Death,  shall  conquer  Death, 
Through  struggle  made  more  glorious: 

This  mother  stills  her  sobbing  breath, 
Renouncing  yet  victorious. 

Arms,  empty  of  her  child,  she  lifts 

With  spirit  unbereaven,  — 
*  God  will  not  all  take  back  his  gifts; 

My  Lily  's  mine  in  heaven. 


91 


maternal  rights  serene 


*  Still  mine  ! 

Not  given  to  another  ! 
The  crystal  bars  shine  faint  between 

The  souls  of  child  and  mother.  100 

'  Meanwhile,'  the  mother  cries,  '  content  ! 

Our  love  was  well  divided: 
Its  sweetness  following  where  she  went, 

Its  anguish  stayed  where  I  did. 

*  Well  done  of  God,  to  halve  the  lot, 

And  give  her  all  the  sweetness; 
To  us,  the  empty  room  and  cot,  — 
To  her,  the  Heaven's  completeness. 

'  To  us,  this  grave,  —  to  her,  the  rows 
The  mystic  palm-trees  spring  in;  no 

To  us,  the  silence  in  the  house,  — 
To  her,  the  choral  singing. 


'  For  her,  to  gladden  in  God's  view,  — 

For  us,  to  hope  and  bear  on. 
Grow,  Lily,  in  thy  garden  new, 

Beside  the  Rose  of  Sharon  ! 

'  Grow  fast  in  heaven,  sweet  Lily  clipped 
In  love  more  calm  than  this  is, 

And  may  the  angels  dewy-lipped 
Remind  thee  of  our  kisses  ! 


120 


'  While  none  shall  tell  thee  of  our  tears, 
These  human  tears  now  falling, 

Till,  after  a  few  patient  years. 
One  home  shall  take  us  all  in. 

'  Child,  father,  mother  —  who,  left  out  ? 

Not  mother,  and  not  father  ! 
And  when,  our  dying  couch  about, 

The  natural  mists  shall  gather, 

*  Some  smiling  angel  close  shall  stand 
In  old  Correggio's  fashion,  13a 

And  bear  a  Lily  in  his  hand. 
For  death's  annunciation.' 


LIFE   AND    LOVE 


Fast  this  Life  of  mine  was  dying. 
Blind  already  and  calm  as  death, 

Snowflakes  on  her  bosom  lying 
Scarcely  heaving  with  her  breath. 

II 

Love  came  by,  and  having  known  her 

In  a  dream  of  fabled  lands, 
Gently  stooped,  and  laid  upon  her 
.  Mystic  chrism  of  holy  hands; 

III 

Drew  his  smile  across  her  folded 
Eyelids,  as  the  swallow  dips; 

Breathed  as  finely  as  the  cold  did 
Through  the  locking  of  her  lips. 

IV 

So,  when  Life  looked  upward,  being 
Warmed  and  breathed  on  from  above, 

What  sight  could  she  have  for  seeing. 
Evermore  .  .  .  but  only  Love  ? 


212 


POEMS   OF   1850 


A   DENIAL 


We  have  met  late  —  it  is  too  late  to  meet, 

O  friend,  not  more  than  friend  ! 
Death's  foreconie  shroud  is  tangled  round 

my  feet. 
And  if  I  step  or  stir,  I  touch  the  end. 

In  this  last  jeopardy 
Can  I  approach  thee,  I,  who  cannot  move  ? 
How  shall  I  answer  thy  request  for  love  ? 
Look  in  my  face  and  see. 

II 

I  love  thee  not,  I  dare  not  love  thee  !  go 

In  silence;  drop  my  hand. 
If  thou  seek  roses,  seek  them  where  they 

blow 
In  garden-alleys,  not  in  desert-sand. 

Can  life  and  death  agree. 
That  thou  shouldst  stoop  thy  song  to  my 

complaint  ? 
I  cannot  love  thee.     If  the  word  is  faint, 
Look  in  my  face  and  see. 

Ill 

I  might  have  loved  thee  in  some  former 
days. 
Oh,  then,  my  spirits  had  leapt 
As   now  they   sink,  at   hearing   thy  love- 
praise  ! 
Before  these  faded  cheeks  were  overwept, 

Had  this  been  asked  of  me, 
To  love  thee  with  my  whole  strong  heart 

and  head,  — 
I  should  have  said  still  .  .  .  yes,  but  smiled 
and  said, 
*  Look  in  my  face  and  see  ! ' 

IV 

But  now  .  .  .  God  sees  me,  God,  who  took 
my  heart 
And  drowned  it  in  life's  surge. 
In  all  your  wide  warm  earth  I  have   no 

part  — 
A  light  song  overcomes  me  like  a  dirge. 

Could  Love's  great  harmony 
The  saints  keep  step  to  when  their  bonds 

are  loose, 
Not  weigh   me   down  ?    am   /  a  wife    to 
choose  ? 
Look  in  my  face  and  see  — 


While   I   behold,   as    plain    as    one    who 
dreams. 
Some  woman  of  full  worth, 
Whose   voice,   as    cadenced    as    a    silver 

stream's, 
Shall  prove  the  fountain-soul  which  sends 
it  forth; 
One  younger,  more  thought-free 
And  fair  and  gay,  than  I,  thou  must  forget, 
With  brighter  eyes  than  these  .  .  .  which 
are  not  wet  .  .  . 
Look  in  my  face  and  see  I 

VI 

So  farewell  thou,  whom  I  have  known  too 
late 
To  let  thee  come  so  near. 
Be  counted   happy   while    men   call   thee 

great. 
And  one  beloved  woman  feels  thee  dear  !  — 

Not  I  !  —  that  cannot  be. 
I   am   lost,  I   am   changed,  —  I   must  go 

farther,  where 
The  change  shall  take  me  worse,  and  no 
one  dare 
Look  in  my  face  and  see. 

VII 

Meantime  I  bless  thee.     By  these  thoughts 
of  mine 
I  bless  thee  from  all  such  ! 
I  bless  thy  lamp  to  oil,  thy  cup  to  wine. 
Thy  hearth  to  joy,  thy  hand  to  an  equal 
touch 
Of  loyal  troth.     For  me, 
I  love  thee  not,  I  love  thee  not  !  —  away  ! 
Here  's  no  more  courage  in  my  soul  to  say 
*  Look  in  my  face  and  see.' 


PROOF   AND   DISPROOF 


Dost  thou  love  me,  my  Beloved  ? 

Who  shall  answer  yes  or  no  ? 
What  is  proved  or  disproved 

When  my  soul  inquireth  so. 
Dost  thou  love  me,  my  Beloved  ? 

II 

I  have  seen  thy  heart  to-day. 

Never  open  to  the  crowd. 
While  to  love  me  aye  and  aye 


INCLUSIONS 


213 


Was  the  vow  as  it  was  vowed 
By  thine  eyes  of  steadfast  gray. 


Ill 


Now  I  sit  alone,  alone  — 

And  the  hot  tears  break  and  burn, 
Now,  Beloved,  thou  art  gone, 

Doubt  and  terror  have  their  turn. 
Is  it  love  that  I  have  known  ? 


IV 


I  have  known  some  bitter  things,  — 
Anguish,  auger,  solitude. 

Year  by  year  an  evil  brings. 
Year  by  year  denies  a  good; 

March  winds  violate  my  springs. 


I  have  known  how  sickness  bends, 
I  have  known  how  sorrow  breaks,  — 

How  quick  hopes  have  sudden  ends. 
How  the  heart  thinks  till  it  aches 

Of  the  smile  of  buried  friends. 

VI 

Last,  I  have  known  thee,  my  brave 
Noble  thinker,  lover,  doer  ! 

The  best  knowledge  last  I  have. 
But  thou  comest  as  the  thrower 

Of  fresh  flowers  upon  a  grave. 

VII 

Count  what  feelings  used  to  move  me  ! 

Can  this  love  assort  with  those  ? 
Thou,  who  art  so  far  above  me. 

Wilt  thou  stoop  so,  for  repose  ? 
Is  it  true  that  thou  canst  love  me  ? 

VIII 

Do  not  blame  me  if  I  doubt  thee. 

I  can  call  love  by  its  name 
When  thine  arm  is  wrapt  about  me ; 

But  even  love  seems  not  the  same. 
When  I  sit  alone,  without  thee. 

IX 

In  thy  clear  eyes  I  descried 
Many  a  proof  of  love,  to-day; 

But  to-night,  those  unbelied 

Speechful  eyes  being  gone  away, 

There  's  the  proof  to  seek,  beside. 


Dost  thou  love  me,  my  Beloved  ? 
Only  thou  canst  answer  yes  ! 


And,  thou  gone,  the  proof  's  disproved, 

And  the  cry  rings  answerless  — 
Dost  thou  love  me,  my  Beloved  ? 


QUESTION   AND   ANSWER 


Love  you  seek  for,  presupposes 
Summer  heat  and  sunny  glow. 

Tell  me,  do  you  find  moss-roses 
Budding,  blooming  in  the  snow  ? 

Snow  might  kill  the  rose-tree's  root  - 

Shake  it  quickly  from  your  foot. 
Lest  it  harm  you  as  you  go. 

II 

From  the  ivy  where  it  dapples 
A  gray  ruin,  stone  by  stone. 

Do  you  look  for  grapes  or  apples. 
Or  for  sad  green  leaves  alone  ? 

Pluck  the  leaves  off,  two  or  three  — 

Keep  them  for  morality 

When  you  shall  be  safe  and  gone. 


INCLUSIONS 


Oh,  wilt  thou  have  my  hand.  Dear,  to  lie 

along  in  thine  ? 
As  a  little  stone  in  a  running   stream,  it 

seems  to  lie  and  pine. 
Now  drop  the  poor  pale  hand,  Dear,  unfit 

to  plight  with  thine. 

11 

Oh,  wilt  thou  have  my  cheek.  Dear,  drawn 

closer  to  thine  own  ? 
My  cheek  is  white,  my  cheek  is  worn,  by 

many  a  tear  run  down. 
Now   leave   a  little   space.   Dear,   lest    it 

should  wet  thine  own. 

Ill 

Oh,  must  thou  have  my  soul.  Dear,  com- 
mingled with  thy  soul  ?  — 

Red  grows  the  cheek,  and  warm  the  hand; 
the  part  is  in  the  whole: 

Nor  hands  nor  cheeks  keep  separate,  when 
soul  is  joined  to  soul. 


214 


SONNETS   FROM   THE   PORTUGUESE 


INSUFFICIENCY 
I 

There  is  no  one  beside  thee  and  no  one 

aboYB  thee, 
Thou  standest  alone  as  the  nightingale 

sings  ! 
And  my  words   that   would  praise  thee 

are  impotent  things, 
For    none    can    express    thee    though    all 

should  approve  thee. 
I  love  thee  so,  Dear,  that  I  only  can  love 

thee. 


II 

Say,  what  can  I  do  for  thee  ?  weary  thee, 

grieve  thee  ? 
Lean  on  thy  shoulder,  new   burdens  to 

add? 
Weep  my  tears  over  thee,  making  thee 

sad? 
Oh,  hold  me  not  —  love  me  not  !   let  me 

retrieve  thee. 
I  love   thee  so.  Dear,  that   I  only   can 

leave  thee. 


SONNETS    FROM   THE   PORTUGUESE 


It  was  while  they  were  living  in  Pisa,  soon 
after  their  marriage,  that  Mrs.  Browning  first 
showed  her  husband  that  unique  sheaf  of 
love-poems,  first  published  in  1850  under  the 
title  of  Sonnets  from  the  Portuguese.  Long 
after  his  wife's  death  Robert  Browning  de- 
scribed the  scene  to  Mr.  Edmund  Gosse,  who 
relates  the  tale  in  his  Critical  Kit-Kats,  page  2. 

'  Their  custom  was,  Mr.  Browning  said,  to 
write  alone,  and  not  to  show  each  other  what 
they  had  written.  This  was  a  rvde  which  he 
sometimes  broke  through,  but  she  never.  He 
had  the  habit  of  working  in  a  downstairs  room, 
where  their  meals  were  spread,  while  Mrs. 
Browning  studied  in  a  room  on  the  floor  above. 
One  day,  early  in  1847,  their  breakfast  being 
over,  Mrs.  Browning  went  upstairs,  while  her 
husband  stood  at  the  window  watching  the 
street  till  the  table  should  be  cleared.  He  was 
presently  aware  of  some  one  behind  him,  al- 
though the  servant  was  gone.  It  was  Mrs. 
Browning,  who  held  him  by  the  shoulder  to 
prevent  his  turning  to  look  at  her,  and  at  the 
same  time  pushed  a  packet  of  papers  into  the 
pocket  of  his  coat.  She  told  him  to  read  that, 
and  to  tear  it  up  if  he  did  not  like  it ;  and  then 
she  fled  again  to  her  own  room.' 


It  was  Robert  Browning  who  overruled  his 
wife's  strong  initial  objection  to  making  public 
these  beautiful,  but  singularly  intimate  poems ; 
and  the  fact  furnishes  an  argument  to  those 
who  believe  that  he,  at  least,  would  not  have 
disliked  the  publication  of  the  Love  Letters.  'I 
dared  not,'  he  once  said,  'reserve  to  myself  the 
finest  Sonnets  written  in  any  language  since 
Shakespeare.'  Mrs.  Browning's  reluctance  once 
overcome,  her  first  fancy  was  to  call  the  collec- 
tion Sonnets  translated  from  the  Bosnian  (though 
why  from  one  rather  than  another  of  the 
innumerable  Slavic  dialects,  it  would  be  dif- 
ficult to  guess).  But  they  connected  them- 
selves in  the  husband's  mind  with  another  poem 
for  which  he  had  a  very  special  admiration, 
Caterina  to  Camo'ens  ;  and  he  decreed  that  they 
should  be  called  Sonnets  from  the  Portuguese. 
A  small  edition  was  first  printed  for  private 
circulation,  under  the  supervision  of  Miss 
Mitford,  in  a  slender  volume  entitled  Sonnets 
by  £'.  B.  B.f  with  the  imprint  Reading,  1847, 
and  marked  Not  for  Publication;  but  three 
years  later  the  Sonnets  were  included  in  the 
new  edition  of  Mrs.  Browning's  complete 
works. 


SONNETS 


FROM      THE 
GUESE 


PORTU- 


I  THOUGHT  once  how  Theocritus  had  sung 

Of  the  sweet  years,  the  dear  and  wished- 
for  years. 

Who  each  one  in  a  gracious  hand  ap- 
pears 

To  bear  a  gift  for  mortals,  old  or  young: 


And,  as  I  mused  it  in  his  antique  tongue, 
I  saw,  in  gradual  vision  through  ray  tears. 
The  sweet,  sad  years,  the  melancholy  years, 
Those  of  my  own  life,  who  by  turns  had 

flung 
A  shadow  across  me.     Straightway  I  was 

'ware. 
So  weeping,  how  a  mystic  Shape  did  move 
Behind  me,  and  drew  me  backward  by  the 

hair; 


SONNETS  FROM  THE  PORTUGUESE 


215 


And    a  voice    said    in    mastery,  while    I 

strove,  — 
*  Guess  now  who  holds  thee  ?  '  —  '  Death,' 

I  said.     But,  there. 
The  silver  answer  rang,  —  *  Not  Death,  but 

Love.' 

II 

But  only  three  in  all  God's  universe 
Have   heard  this  word  thou  hast    said,  — 

Himself,  beside 
Thee    speaking,    and   me    listening !    and 

replied 
One  of  us  .  .  .  that  was  God,  .  .  .  and  laid 

the  curse 
So  darkly  on  my  eyelids,  as  to  amerce 
My  sight  from  seeing  thee,  —  that  if  I  had 

died, 
The  deathweights,  placed  there,  would  have 

signified 
Less  absolute  exclusion.     '  Nay    is  worse 
From    God   than   from   all    others,  O   my 

friend  ! 
Men  could  not  part  us  with  their  worldly 

jars. 
Nor  the  seas  change  us,  nor  the  tempests 

bend; 
Our  hands  would  touch  for  all  the  mountain- 
bars: 
And,  heaven  being  rolled  between  us  at  the 

end, 
We  should  but  vow  the  faster  for  the  stars. 


Ill 

Unlike  are  we,  unlike,  O  princely  Heart ! 
Unlike  our  uses  and  our  destinies. 
Our  ministering  two  angels  look  surprise 
On  one  another,  as  thev  strike  athwart 
Their    wings   in    passing.     Thou,    bethink 

thee,  art 
A  guest  for  queens  to  social  pageantries, 
With  gages  from  a  hundred  brighter  eyes 
Than   tears  even  can  make  mine,  to  play 

thy  part 
Of   chief    musician.      What   hast    thou    to 

do 
With  looking  from  the  lattice-lights  at  me, 
A   poor,   tired,  wandering   singer,  singing 

through 
The  dark,  and  leaning  up  a  cypress  tree  ? 
The  chrism  is  on  thine  head,  —  on  mine,  the 

dew,  — 
And  Death  must  dig  the  level  where  these 

agree. 


IV 

Thou  hast  thy  calling  to  some  palace-floor, 
Most  gracious  singer  of  high  poems  !  where 
The  dancers  will  break  footing,  from  the 

care 
Of  watching  up  thy  pregnant  lips  for  more. 
And   dost  thou  lift  this  house's  latch   too 

poor 
For  hand  of  thine  ?  and  canst  thou  think 

and  bear 
To  let  thy  music  drop  here  unaware 
In  folds  of  golden  fulness  at  my  door  ? 
Look  up  and  see  the  casement  broken  in, 
The  bats  and  owlets  builders  in  the  roof  ! 
My  cricket  chirps  against  thy  mandolin. 
Hush,  call  no  echo  up  in  further  proof 
Of  desolation  !  there  's  a  voice  within 
That  weeps  ...  as   thou   must  sing  .  .  . 

alone,  aloof. 


I  LIFT  my  heavy  heart  up  solemnly. 
As  once  Electra  her  sepulchral  urn. 
And,  looking  in  thine  eyes,  I  overturn 
The  ashes  at  thy  feet.     Behold  and  see 
What  a  great  heap  of  grief  lay  hid  in  me, 
And  how  the  red  wild  sparkles  dimly  burn 
Through  the  ashen  grayness.     If  thy  foot 

in  scorn 
Could  tread  them  out  to  darkness  utterly. 
It  might  be  well  perhaps.     But  if  instead 
Thou  wait  beside  me  for  the  wind  to  blow 
The   gray  dust   up,  .  .  .  those   laurels  on 

thine  head, 
O  my  Beloved,  will  not  shield  thee  so, 
That  none  of  all  the  fires  shall  scorch  and 

shred 
The  hair  beneath.     Stand  farther  off  then  ! 


go. 


VI 


Go  from  me.     Yet  I  feel  that  I  shall  stand 
Henceforward  in  thy  shadow.     Nevermore 
Alone  upon  the  threshold  of  my  door 
Of  individual  life,  I  shall  command 
The  uses  of  my  soul,  nor  lift  my  hand 
Serenely  in  the  sunshine  as  before, 
Without  the  sense  of  that  which  I  forbore  — 
Thy  touch  upon  the  palm.    The  widest  land 
Doom  takes  to  part  us,  leaves  thy  heart  in 

mine 
With  pulses  that  beat  double.     What  I  do 
And  what   I   dream   include   thee,  as  the 

wine 


2l6 


SONNETS  FROM  THE  PORTUGUESE 


Must  taste  of  its  own  grapes.     And  when  I 


sue 
God  for   myself,  He   hears   that   name  of 

thine, 
And  sees  within  my  eyes  the  tears  of  two. 

VII 

The  face  of  all  the  world   is  changed,  I 

think, 
Since  first  I  heard  the  footsteps  of  thy  soul 
Move  still,  oh,  still,  beside  me,  as  they  stole 
Betwixt  me  and  the  dreadful  outer  brink 
Of  obvious  death,  where  I,  who  thought  to 

sink, 
Was  caught  up  into  love,  and  taught  the 

whole 
Of  life  in  a  new  rhythm.     The  cup  of  dole 
God  gave  for  baptism,  I  am  fain  to  drink, 
And  praise  its  sweetness,  Sweet,  with  thee 

anear. 
The  names  of  country,  heaven,  are  changed 

away 
For  where  thou  art  or  shalt  be,  there  or 

here; 
And  this  .  .  .  this  lute  and  song  .  .  .  loved 

yesterday, 
(The  singing  angels  know)  are  only  dear 
Because  thy  name  moves  right  in  what  they 

say. 

VIII 

What  can  I  give  thee  back,  O  liberal 
And  princely  giver,  who  hast  brought  the 

gold 
And  purple  of  thine  heart,  unstained,  un- 
told, 
And  laid  them  on  the  outside  of  the  wall 
For  such  as  I  to  take  or  leave  withal. 
In  unexpected  largesse  ?  am  I  cold. 
Ungrateful,  that  for  these  most  manifold 
High  gifts,  I  render  nothing  back  at  all  ? 
Not  so;  not  cold,  — but  very  poor  instead. 
Ask  God  who  knows.     For  frequent  tears 

have  run 
The  colors  from  my  life,  and  left  so  dead 
And  pale  a  stuff,  it  were  not  fitly  done 
To  give  the  same  as  pillow  to  thy  head. 
Go  farther  !  let  it  serve  to  trample  on. 

IX 

Can  it  be  right  to  give  what  I  can  give  ? 
To  let  thee  sit  beneath  the  fall  of  tears 
As  salt  as  mine,  and  hear  the  sighing  years 
Ke-sighing  on  my  lips  renunciative 


Through  those  infrequent  smiles  which  fail 

to  live 
For  all  thy  adjurations  ?     O  my  fears, 
That  this  can   scarce  be  right  !     We   are 

not  peers. 
So  to  be  lovers;  and  I  own,  and  grieve, 
That  givers  of  such  gifts  as  mine  are,  must 
Be    counted   with   the   ungenerous.      Out, 

alas  ! 
I  will  not  soil  thy  purple  with  my  dust. 
Nor   breathe   my   poison   on   thy   Venice- 
glass, 
Nor  give  thee  any  love  —  which  were  un- 
just. 
Beloved,  I  only  love  thee  !  let  it  pass. 

X 

Yet,  love,  mere  love,  is  beautiful  indeed 
And  worthy  of  acceptation.    Fire  is  bright. 
Let  temple  burn,  or  flax;  an  equal  light 
Leaps  in  the  flame   from    cedar-plank   or 

weed: 
And  love  is  fire.     And  when  I  say  at  need 
/  love  thee  .  .  .  mark  !  .  .  .  /  love  thee  —  in 

thy  sight 
I  stand  transfigured,  glorified  aright. 
With  conscience  of  the  new  rays  that  pro- 
ceed 
Out  of   my   face    toward  thine.     There 's 

nothing  low 
In  love,  when   love    the   lowest:   meanest 

creatures 
Who  love  God,  God  accepts  while  loving  so. 
And  what  I  feel,  across  the  inferior  fea- 
tures 
Of  what  I  am,  doth  flash  itself,  and  show 
How  that  great  work   of   Love   enhances 
Nature's. 

XI 

And  therefore  if  to  love  can  be  desert^ 
I  am  not  all  unworthy.     Cheeks  as  pale 
As  these  you  see,  and  trembling  knees  that 

fail 
To  bear  the  burden  of  a  heavy  heart,  — 
This  weary  minstrel- life  that  once  was  girt 
To  climb  Aornus,  and  can  scarce  avail 
To  pipe  now  'gainst  the  valley  nightingale 
A  melancholy  music,  —  why  advert 
To  these  things  ?     O  Beloved,  it  is  plain 
I  am  not  of  thy  worth  nor  for  thy  place  ! 
And  yet,  because  I  love  thee,  I  obtain 
From    that    same    love    this    vindicating 

grace, 


SONNETS  FROM  THE  PORTUGUESE 


217 


To  live  on  still  in  love,  aud  yet  in  vaiu,  — 
To  bless  thee,  yet   renounce   thee   to  thy 
face. 

XII 

Indeed  this  very  love  which  is  my  boast, 
Aud  which,  when  rising  up  from  breast  to 

brow, 
Doth  crown  me  with  a  ruby  large  enow 
To  draw  men's  eyes  and  prove  the  inner 

cost,  — 
This  love  even,  all  my  worth,  to  the  utter- 
most, 
I  should  not  love  withal,  unless  that  thou 
Hadst  set  me  an  example,  shown  me  how, 
When  first  thine  earnest  eyes  with   mine 

were  crossed, 
And  love  called  love.     And  thus,  I  cannot 

speak 
Of  love  even,  as  a  good  thing  of  my  own: 
Thy  soul  hath  snatched  up  mine  all  faint 

and  weak, 
And     placed    it    by    thee    on    a    golden 

throne, — 
And   that   I   love    (O    soul,   we   must   be 

meek  !) 
Is  by  thee  only,  whom  I  love  alone, 

XIII 

And  wilt  thou  have  me  fashion  into  speech 
The  love  I  bear  thee,  finding  words  enough, 
And  hold  the  torch  out,  while  the  winds 

are  rough. 
Between     our     faces,    to    cast     light    on 

each  ?  — 
I  drop  it  at  thy  feet.     I  cannot  teach 
My  hand  to  hold  my  spirit  so  far  off 
From  myself  —  me  —  that  I  should  bring 

thee  proof 
In  words,  of  love  hid  in  me  out  of  reach. 
Nay,  let  the  silence  of  my  womanhood 
Commend  my  woman-love  to  thy  belief,  — 
Seeing  that  I  stand  unwon,  however  wooed, 
And  rend  the  garment  of  my  life,  in  brief, 
Bv  a  most  dauntless,  voiceless  fortitude, 
Lest   one   touch  of   this    heart  convey  its 

grief. 

XIV 

If  thou  must  love  me,  let  it  be  for  nought 
Except  for  love's  sake  only.     Do  not  say 
'  I  love  her  for  her  smile  —  her  look  —  her 

way 
Of     speaking     gently,  —  for     a    trick   of 

thought 


That  falls  in  well  with  mine,  and   certes 

brought 
A  sense  of  pleasant  ease  on  such  a  day  '  — 
For  these  things  in   themselves,  Beloved, 

may 
Be    changed,   or   change    for   thee,  —  and 

love,  so  wrought, 
May  be  unwrought  so.     Neither    love  me 

for 
Thine  own  dear  pity's  wiping  my  cheeks 

dry,  — 
A  creature  might  forget  to  weep,  who  bore 
Thy    comfort    long,    and    lose     thy    love 

thereby  ! 
But  love  me  for  love's  sake,  that  evermore 
Thou  mayst  love  on,  through  love's  eter- 
nity. 

XV 

Accuse  me  not,  beseech  thee,  that  I  wear 
Too  calm  and  sad  a  face  in  front  of  thine; 
For  we    two   look   two  ways,  and   cannot 

shine 
With  the  same  sunlight  on  our  brow  and 

hair. 
On  me  thou  lookest  with  no  doubting  care, 
As  on  a  bee  shut  in  a  crystalline ; 
Since  sorrow  hath  shut  me  safe  in  love's 

divine, 
And   to  spread  wing  and  fly  in  the  outer 

air 
Were  most  impossible  failure,  if  I  strove 
To   fail    so.     But   I   look    on    thee  —  on 

thee  — 
Beholding,  besides  love,  the  end  of  love, 
Hearing  oblivion  beyond  memory; 
As  one  who  sits  and  gazes  from  above, 
Over  the  rivers  to  the  bitter  sea. 

XVI 

And  yet,  because  thou  overcomest  so, 

Because  thou  art  more  noble  and  like  a 
king, 

Thou  canst  prevail  against  my  fears  and 
fling 

Thy  purple  round  me,  till  my  heart  shall 
grow 

Too  close  ajrainst  thine  heart  henceforth  to 
know 

How  it  shook  when  alone.  Why,  conquer- 
ing 

May  prove  as  lordly  and  complete  a  thing 

In  lifting  upward,  as  in  crushing  low  ! 

And  as  a  vanquished  soldier  yields  his 
sword 


2l8 


SONNETS    FROM   THE   PORTUGUESE 


To    one'  who   lifts    him   from   the  bloody 

earth, 
Even  so,  Beloved,  I  at  last  record, 
Here  ends  my  strife.     If   thou   invite  me 

forth, 
I  rise  above  abasement  at  the  word. 
Make  thy  love  larger  to  enlarge  my  worth. 

XVII 

My  poet,  thou  canst  touch  on  all  the  notes 
God  set  between  his  After  and  Before, 
And  strike  up  and  strike  off  the  general 

roar 
Of  the  rushing  worlds  a  melody  that  floats 
In  a  serene  air  purely.     Antidotes 
Of  medicated  music,  answering  for 
Mankind's  forlornest  uses,  thou  canst  pour 
From  thence  into  their   earso     God's   will 

devotes 
Thine  to  such  ends,  and  mine  to  wait  on 

thine. 
How,  Dearest,  wilt  thou  have  me  for  most 

use  ? 
A  hope,  to  sing  by  gladly  ?  or  a  fine 
Sad  memory,  with  thy  songs  to  interfuse  ? 
A  shade,  in  which  to  sing  —  of  palm  or  pine? 
A  grave,  on  which  to  rest  from  singing? 

Choose. 

XVIII 

I  NEVER  gave  a  lock  of  hair  away 
To  a  man,  Dearest,  except  this  to  thee, 
Which  now  upon  my  fingers  thoughtfully, 
I  ring  out  to  the  full  brown  length  and  say 
'  Take  it.'     My  day  of  youth  went  yester- 
day; 
My  hair  no  longer  bounds  to  my  foot's  glee, 
Nor  plant  I  it  from  rose  or  myrtle-tree, 
As  girls  do,  any  more:  it  only  may 
Now  shade  on  two  pale  cheeks  the  mark  of 

tears. 
Taught  drooping  from  the  head  that  hangs 

aside 
Through   sorrow's   trick.     I   thought    the 

funeral-shears 
Would  take  this  first,  but  Love  is   justi- 
fied, — 
Take    it    thou,  —  finding    pure,   from   all 

those  years, 
The  kiss  my  mother   left   here  when  she 
died. 

XIX 
The  soul's  Rialto  hath  its  merchandise; 
I  barter  curl  for  curl  upon  that  mart, 


And  from  my  poet's  forehead  to  my  heart 
Receive   this  lock  which  outweighs   argo- 
sies, — 
As  purply  black,  as  erst  to  Pindar's  eyes 
The     dim     purpureal     tresses     gloomed 

athwart 
The   nine    white    Muse-browSo     For    this 

counterpart,  .  .  . 
The  bay-crown's  shade,  Beloved,  I  surmise, 
Still  lingers  on  thy  curl,  it  is  so  black  ! 
Thus,    with    a    fillet    of    smooth  -  kissing 

breath, 
I  tie  the  shadows  safe  from  gliding  back. 
And  lay  the  gift  where  nothing  hindereth; 
Here  on  my  heart,  as  on  thy  brow,  to  lack 
No  natural  heat   till  mine  grows   cold  in 
death. 

XX 

Beloved,  my  Beloved,  when  I  think 
That  thou  wast  in  the  world  a  year  ago. 
What  time  I  sat  alone  here  in  the  snow 
And   saw  no  footprint,  heard   the   silence 

sink 
No  moment  at  thy  voice,  but,  link  by  link, 
Went  counting  all  my  chains  as  if  that  so 
They  never  could  fall  off  at  any  blow 
Struck  by  thy  possible  hand,  —  why,  thus 

I  drink 
Of  life's  great  cup  of  wonder  !     Wonder- 
ful, 
Never  to  feel  thee  thrill  the  day  or  night 
With  personal  act  or   speech,  —  nor   ever 

cull 
Some  prescience  of  thee  with  the  blossoms 

white 
Thou   sawest   growing !     Atheists    are   as 

dull. 
Who  cannot  guess  God's  presence  out  of 

sight. 

XXI 

Say  over  again,  and  yet  once  over  again. 
That    thou    dost   love    me.     Though   the 

word  repeated 
Should  seem  '  a  cuckoo-song,'  as  thou  dost 

treat  it, 
Remember,  never  to  the  hill  or  plain. 
Valley    and   wood,    without    her    cuckoo- 
strain 
Comes  the  fresh  Spring  in   all  her  green 

completed. 
Beloved,  I,  amid  the  darkness  greeted 
By  a  doubtful  spirit-voice,  in  that  doubt's 
pain 


SONNETS    FROM   THE   PORTUGUESE 


219 


Cry,    '  Speak   once    more  —  thou   lovest  ! ' 

Who  can  fear 
Too  many   stars,  though   each   in   heaven 

shall  roll, 
Too    many    flowers,    though    each     shall 

crown  the  year  ? 
Say  thou  dost  love  me,  love  me,  love  me  — 

toll 
The      silver     iterance  !  —  only     minding, 

Dear, 
To  love  me  also  in  silence  with  thy  soul. 

XXII 

Whex  our  two  souls  stand  up  erect  and 

strong. 
Face   to   face,   silent,    drawing    nigh   and 

nigher, 
Until  the  lengthening  wings  break  into  fire 
At     either     curved    point,  —  what    bitter 

wrong 
Can  the  earth  do  to  us,  that  we  should  not 

long 
Be  here    contented  ?     Think.     In   mount- 
ing higher, 
The  angels  would  press  on  us  and  aspire 
To  drop  some  golden  orb  of  perfect  song 
Into  our  deep,  dear  silence.     Let  us  stay 
Rather  on  earth,  Beloved,  —  where  the  un- 
fit 
Contrarious  moods  of  men  recoil  away 
And  isolate  pure  spirits,  and  permit 
A  place  to  stand  and  love  in  for  a  day. 
With  darkness  and  the  death-hour  round- 
ing it. 

XXIII 

Is  it  indeed  so  ?     If  I  lay  here  dead, 
Wouldst    thou    miss    any    life    in    losing 

mine  ? 
And  would  the  sun  for  thee  more  coldly 

shine 
Because  of  grave-damps  falling  round  my 

head  ? 
I  marvelled,  my  Beloved,  when  I  read 
Thy  thought  so  in  the  letter.    I  am  thine  — 
But  .  .   .  so  much  to  thee  ?     Can  I  pour 

thy  wine 
While    my    hands     tremble  ?     Then    my 

soul,  instead 
Of  dreams  of  death,  resumes  life's  lower 

range. 
Then,   love    me.    Love  !    look    on    me  — 

breathe  on  me  ! 
As  brighter  ladies  do  not  count  it  strange, 
For  love,  to  give  up  acres  and  degree, 


I  yield  the  grave  for  thy  sake,  and  ex- 
change 

My  near  sweet  view  of  Heaven,  for  earth 
with  thee  ! 

XXIV 

Let  the  world's  sharpness,  like  a  clasping 

knife, 
Shut  in  upon  itself  and  do  no  harm 
In  this  close  hand  of  Love,  now  soft  and 

warm. 
And  let  us  hear  no  sound  of  human  strife 
After  the  click  of   the  shutting.     Life  to 

life  — 
I  lean  upon  thee,  Dear,  without  alarm. 
And  feel  as  safe  as  guarded  by  a  charm 
Against  the  stab  of  worldlings,  who  if  rife 
Are  weak  to  injure.     Very  whitely  still 
The  lilies  of  our  lives  may  reassure 
Their  blossoms  from  their  roots,  accessible 
Alone  to  heavenly  dews  that  drop  not  fewer, 
Growing  straight,  out  of  man's  reach,  on 

the  hill. 
God  only,  who  made  us  rich,  can  make  us 

poor. 

XXV 

A  HEAVY  heart,  Beloved,  have  I  borne 
From  year  to  year  until  I  saw  thy  face. 
And  sorrow  after  sorrow  took  the  place 
Of  all  those  natural  joys  as  lightly  worn 
As  the  stringed  pearls,  each  lifted  in   its 

turn 
By  a  beating  heart  at  dance-time.     Hopes 

apace 
Were  changed  to  long  despairs,  till  God's 

own  grace 
Could  scarcely  lift   above  the  world   for- 
lorn 
My  heavy  heart.     Then  thou  didst  bid  me 

bring 
And  let  it  drop  adown  thy  calmly  great 
Deep  being  !     Fast  it  sinketh,  as  a  thing 
Which  its  own  nature  doth  precipitate. 
While  thine  doth  close  above  it,  mediating 
Betwixt  the  stars  and  the  unaccomplished 
fate. 

XXVI 

I  LIVED  with  visions  for  my  company 
Instead  of  men  and  women,  years  ago, 
And  found  them  gentle  mates,  nor  thought 
to  know 
I  A  sweeter  music  than  they  played  to  me. 


220 


SONNETS  FROM  THE  PORTUGUESE 


But  soon  their  trailing  purple  was  not  free 
Of  this  world's  dust,  their  lutes  did  silent 

grow, 
And  I  myself  grew  faint  and  blind  below 
Their   vanishing   eyes.     Then  thou  didst 

come  —  to  be. 
Beloved,  what  they  seemed.     Their  shining 

fronts. 
Their   songs,   their   splendors  (better,   yet 

the  same. 
As  river-water  hallowed  into  fonts), 
Met  in  thee,  and  from  out  thee  overcame 
My  soul  with  satisfaction  of  all  wants: 
Because  God's  gifts  put  man's  best  dreams 

to  shame. 


XXVII 

My  own  Beloved,  who  hast  lifted  me 
From  this  drear  flat  of  earth  where  I  was 

thrown. 
And,  in  betwixt  the  languid  ringlets,  blown 
A  life-breath,  till  the  forehead  hopefully 
Shines  out  again,  as  all  the  angels  see, 
Before    thy    saving    kiss  !     My    own,   my 

own. 
Who   earnest   to  me  when  the  world  was 

gone. 
And  I   who   looked   for  only  God,  found 

thee  ! 
I  find   thee;  I   am  safe,  and  strong,  and 

glad. 
As  one  who  stands  in  dewless  asphodel 
Looks   backward  on    the  tedious  time   he 

had 
In   the   upper   life,  —  so   I,    with    bosom- 
swell. 
Make  witness,  here,  between  the  good  and 

bad. 
That  Love,  as  strong  as  Death,  retrieves  as 

well. 

XXVIII 

My  letters  !  all  dead  paper,  mute  and 
white  ! 

And  yet  they  seem  alive  and  quivering 

Against  my  tremulous  hands  which  loose 
the  string 

And  let  them  drop  down  on  my  knee  to- 
night. 

This  said,  —  he  wished  to  have  me  in  his 
sight 

Once,  as  a  friend :  this  fixed  a  day  in  spring 

To  come  and  touch  my  hand  ...  a  simple 
thing, 


Yet  I  wept  for  it  !  —  this,  .  .  .  the  paper  's 

light  .  .  . 
Said,   Dear,  I  love  thee;  and   I  sank  and 

quailed 
As  if  God's  future  thmidered  on  my  past. 
This  said,  /  am  thine  —  and  so  its  ink  has 

paled 
With  lying  at  my  heart  that  beat  too  fast. 
And  this  .   .  .  O  Love,  thy  words  have  ill 

availed 
If,  what  this  said,  I  dared  repeat  at  last  ! 

XXIX 

I  THINK  of  thee  !  —  my  thoughts  do  twine 

and  bud 
About  thee,  as  wild  vines,  about  a  tree. 
Put   out   broad   leaves,   and  soon  there  's 

nought  to  see 
Except  the   straggling   green  which  hides 

the  wood. 
Yet,  O  my  palm-tree,  be  it  understood 
I    will   not   have   my  thoughts  instead   of 

thee 
Who  art  dearer,  better  !     Rather,  instantly 
Renew    thy   presence;    as    a    strong    tree 

should. 
Rustle  thy    boughs  and  set  thy  trunk  all 

bare. 
And  let  these  bands  of  greenery  which  in- 

sphere  thee 
Drop    heavily    down,  —  burst,    shattered, 

everywhere  ! 
Because,  in  this  deep  joy  to  see  and  hear 

thee 
And  breathe  within  thy  shadow  a  new  air, 
I  do  not  think  of  thee  —  I  am  too  near  thee. 

XXX 

I   SEE   thine  image  through  my  tears  to- 
night. 
And  yet  to-day  I  saw  thee  smiling.     How 
Refer  the  cause  ?  —  Beloved,  is  it  thou 
Or  I,  who  makes  me  sad  ?     The  acolyte 
Amid  the  chanted  joy  and  thankful  rite 
May  so  fall  flat,  with  pale  insensate  brow. 
On  the  altar-stair.     I  hear  thy  voice  and 

vow, 
Perplexed,  uncertain,  since  thou  art  out  of 

sight,  ^ 
As   he,  in   his  swooning   ears,  the    choir's 

Amen. 
Beloved,  dost  thou  love  ?  or  did  I  see  all 
The  glory  as  I  dreamed,  and  fainted  when 
Too  vehement  light  dilated  my  ideal. 


SONNETS  FROM  THE  PORTUGUESE 


221 


For  my  soul's  eyes  ?     Will  that  light  come 


again, 

As  now  these  tears  come  —  falling  hot  and 
real? 

XXXI 

Thou  comest  !  all  is  said  without  a  word. 

I  sit  beneath  thy  looks,  as  children  do 

In  the   noon-sun,  with  souls  that  tremble 

through 
Their  happy  eyelids  from  an  uuaverred 
Yet  prodigal  inward  joy.     Behold,  I  erred 
In  that  last  doubt  !  and  yet  I  cannot  rue 
The    sin  most,  but  the  occasion  —  that  we 

two 
Should  for  a  moment  stand  unmiuistered 
By  a  mutual  presence.     Ah,  keep  near  and 

close. 
Thou  dovelike  help  !  and,  when  my  fears 

would  rise, 
With  thy  broad  heart  serenely  interpose: 
Brood  down  with  thy  divine  sufficiencies 
These  thoughts  which  tremble  when  bereft 

of  those, 
Like  callow  birds  left  desert  to  the  skies. 

XXXII 

The  first  time  that  the  sun  rose  on  thine 

oath 
To  love  me,  I  looked  forward  to  the  moon 
To  slacken  all  those  bonds  which  seemed 

too  soon 
And  quickly  tied  to  make  a  lasting  troth. 
Quick-loving  hearts,  I  thought,  may  quickly 

loathe; 
And,  looking  on  myself,  I  seemed  not  one 
For  such  man's  love  !  —  more  like  an  out- 

of-tune 
Worn  viol,  a  good  singer  would  be  wroth 
To  spoil  his  song  with,  and  which,  snatched 

in  haste, 
Is  laid  down  at  the  first  ill-sounding  note. 
I  did  not  wrong  myself  so,  but  I  placed 
A  wrong  on  thee.     For  perfect  strains  may 

float 
'Neath  master-hands,  from  instruments  de- 
faced, — 
And  great  souls,  at  one  stroke,  may  do  and 

doat. 

XXXIIl 

Yes,  call  me  by  my  pet-name  !  let  me  hear 
The  name  I  used  to  run  at,  when  a  child. 
From  innocent  play,  and  leave  the  cowslips 
piled. 


To  glance  up  in  some  face  that  proved  me 
dear 

With  the  look  of  its  eyes.     I  miss  the  clear 

Fond  voices  which,  being  drawn  and  recon- 
ciled 

Into  the  music  of  Heaven's  undefiled, 

Call  me  no  longer.     Silence  ou  the  bier. 

While  I  call  God  —  call  God  !  —  So  let  thy 
mouth 

Be  heir  to  those  who  are  now  exanimate. 

Gather  the  north  flowers  to  complete  the 
south, 

And  catch  the  early  love  up  in  the  late. 

Yes,  call  me  by  that  name,  —  and  I,  in 
truth. 

With  the  same  heart,  will  answer  and  not 
wait. 

XXXIV 

With  the  same  heart,  I  said,  I  '11  answer 

thee 
As  those,  when  thou  shalt  call  me  by  my 

name  — 
Lo,   the   vain   promise  !  is   the    same,  the 

same, 
Perplexed  and  ruffled  by  life's  strategy  ? 
When  called  before,  I  told  how  hastily 
I  dropped  my  flowers  or  brake  off  from  a 

game. 
To   run  and  answer   with  the   smile  that 

came 
At  play  last  moment,  and  went  on  with  me 
Through  my  obedience.     When  I  answer 

now, 
I  drop  a  grave  thought,  break  from  soli- 
tude; 
Yet  still  my  heart  goes  to  thee  —  ponder 

how  — 
Not  as  to  a  single  good,  but  all  my  good  ! 
Lay  thy  hand  on  it,  best  one,  and  allow 
That  no  child's  foot  could  run  fast  as  this 

blood. 

XXXV 

If  I  leave  all  for  thee,  wilt  thou  exchange 
And  be  all  to  me  ?     Shall  I  never  miss 
Home-talk  and  blessing  and  the  common 

kiss 
That  comes  to  each  in  turn,  nor  count  it 

strange. 
When  I  look  up,  to  drop  on  a  new  range 
Of   walls    and   floors,  another   home   than 

this? 
Nay,  wilt  thou  fill  that  place  by  me  which 

is 


222 


SONNETS    FROM   THE   PORTUGUESE 


Filled  by  dead  eyes  too  tender  to- know- 
change  ? 

That  's  hardest.  If  to  conquer  love,  has 
tried, 

To  conquer  grief,  tries  more,  as  all  things 
prove ; 

For  grief  indeed  is  love  and  grief  beside. 

Alas,  I  have  grieved  so  I  am  hard  to  love. 

Yet  love  me  —  wilt  thou  ?  Open  thine 
heart  wide, 

And  fold  within  the  wet  wings  of  thy  dove. 

XXXVI 

When  we  met  first  and  loved,  I  did  not 

build 
Upon    the    event    with   marble.     Could   it 

mean 
To  last,  a  love  set  pendulous  between 
Sorrow  and  sorrow  ?    Nay,  I  rather  thrilled. 
Distrusting  every  light  that  seemed  to  gild 
The  onward  path,  and  feared  to  overlean 
A  finger  even.     And,  though  I  have  grown 

serene 
And  strong  since  then,  I  think  that  God 

has  willed 
A    still   renewable    fear  .  .  .  O    love,    O 

troth  .  .  . 
Lest  these  enclasped   hands  should  never 

hold, 
This    mutual    kiss  drop  down  between  us 

both 
As  an  unowned  thing,  once  the  lips  being 

cold. 
And   Love,   be   false  !  if  he,  to   keep   one 

oath, 
Must  lose  one  joy,  by  his  life's  star  foretold. 

XXXVII 

Pardon,  oh,  pardon,  that  my  soul  should 

make. 
Of  all  that  strong  divineness  which  I  know 
For  thine  and  thee,  an  image  only  so 
Formed  of  the  sand,  and  fit  to  shift  and 

break. 
It  is  that  distant  years  which  did  not  take 
Thy  sovranty,  recoiling  with  a  blow. 
Have  forced  my  swimming  brain  to  under- 
go 
Their  doubt  and  dread,  and  blindly  to  for- 
sake 
Thy  purity  of  likeness  and  distort 
Thy  worthiest  love  to  a  worthless  counter- 
feit: 
As  if  a  shipwrecked  Pagan,  safe  in  port. 


His  guardian  sea-god  to  commemorate, 
Should    set    a    sculptured    porpoise,    gills 

a-snort 
And  vibrant  tail,  within  the  temple-gate. 

XXXVIII 

First  time  he  kissed  me,  he  but  only  kissed 

The  fingers  of  this  hand  wherewith  I  write; 

And  ever  since,  it  grew  more  clean  and 
white. 

Slow  to  world-greetings,  quick  with  its  '  Oh, 
list,' 

When  the  angels  speak.  A  ring  of  ame- 
thyst 

I  could  not  wear  here,  plainer  to  my  sight, 

Than  that  first  kiss.  The  second  passed  in 
height 

The  first,  and  sought  the  forehead,  and  half 
missed. 

Half  falling  on  the  hair.    O  beyond  meed  1 

That  was  the  chrism  of  love,  which  love's 
own  crown. 

With  sanctifying  sweetness,  did  precede. 

The  third  upon  my  lips  was  folded  down 

In  perfect,  purple  state;  since  when,  in- 
deed, 

I  have  been  proud  and  said,  '  My  love,  my 
own.' 

XXXIX 

Because  thou  hast  the  power  and  own'st 

the  grace 
To  look  through  and  behind  this  mask  of 

me 
(Against  which  years  have  beat  thus  blanch- 

ingly 
With   their  rains),  and   behold  my  soul's 

true  face, 
The  dim  and  weary  witness  of  life's  race,  — 
Because  thou  hast  the  faith  and  love  to  see. 
Through     that    same     soul's     distracting 

lethargy. 
The  patient  angel  waiting  for  a  place 
In  the  new  Heavens,  —  because  nor  sin  nor 

woe. 
Nor  God's  infliction,  nor  death's  neighbor- 
hood. 
Nor    all   which    others    viewing,    turn    to 

Nor  all  which  makes  me  tired  of  all,  self- 
viewed,  — 

Nothing  repels  thee,  .  .  Dearest,  teach 
me  so 

To  pour  out  gratitude,  as  thou  dost,  good  I 


SONNETS   FROM  THE   PORTUGUESE 


223 


XL 

Oh,  yes  !  they  love  through  all  this  world 

of  ours  ! 
I  will  not  gainsay  love,  called  love  forsooth. 
I  have  heard  love  talked  in  my  early  youth, 
And  since,  not  so  long  back  but  that  the 

flowers 
Then   gathered,  smell   still.     Mussulmans 

and  Giaours 
Throw  kerchiefs  at  a  smile,  and  have  no 

ruth 
For  any  weeping.    Polypheme's  white  tooth 
Slips  on  the  nut  if,  after  frequent  showers, 
The  shell   is   over  -  smooth,  —  and  not   so 

much 
Will   turn  the   thing  called  love,  aside  to 

hate 
Or  else  to  oblivion.     But  thou  art  not  such 
A  lover,  my  Beloved  !  thou  canst  wait 
Through  sorrow  and  sickness,  to  bring  souls 

to  touch. 
And  think   it  soon  when  others  cry  'Too 

late.' 


XLI 

I  THANK  all  who  have  loved  me  in  their 

hearts. 
With  thanks  and  love  from  mine.     Deep 

thanks  to  all 
Who  paused  a  little  near  the  prison-wall 
To  hear  my  music  in  its  louder  parts 
Ere  they  went   onward,  each  one    to    the 

mart's 
Or  temple's  occupation,  beyond  call. 
But  thou,  who,  in  my  voice's  sink  and  fall 
When  the  sob  took  it,  thy  divinest  Art's 
Own  instrument  didst  drop  down  at    thy 

foot 
To    hearken    what    I    said    between    my 

LcuiJ/S^    •     •     • 

Instruct  me  how  to  thank  thee  !     Oh,  to 

shoot 
My  soul's  full  meaning  into  future  years. 
That   they  should   lend   it    utterance,  and 

salute 
Love  that  endures,  from  Life  that  disap- 


w^ears 


^ 


XLII 


This  sonnet  was  not  in  the  privately  printed 
collection  of  1847,  which  were  forty-three  in 
all;  but  was  first  inserted  when  the  sonnets 
were  included  among  Mrs.  Browning's  other 
poems  in  1S56. 


♦  My  future  will  not  copy  fair  my  past '  — 
I  wrote  that  ouce ;  and  thinking  at  my  side 
My  ministering  life-angel  justified 
The  word  by  his  appealing  look  upcast 
To  the  white  throne  of  God,  I  turned  at 

last. 
And  there,  instead,  saw  thee,  not  unallied 
To  angels  in  thy  soul !     Then  I,  long  tried 
By  natural  ills,  received  tiie  comfort  fast. 
While  budding,  at  thy  sight,  my  pilgrim's 

staff 
Gave  out  green  leaves  with  morning  dews 

impearled. 
I  seek  no  copy  now  of  life's  first  half: 
Leave  here  the   pages  with   long   musing 

curled. 
And  write  me  new  my  future's  epigraph, 
New  angel  mine,  unhoped  for  in  the  world  ! 

XLIII 

How  do  I  love  thee  ?     Let  me  count  the 

ways. 
I  love  thee  to  the  depth  and  breadth  and 

height 
My  soul  can  reach,  when  feeling   out   of 

sight 
For  the  ends  of  Being  and  ideal  Grace. 
I  love  thee  to  the  level  of  everyday's 
Most  quiet  need,  by  sun  and  candle-light. 
I  love  thee  freely,  aS  men  strive  for  Right; 
I   love  thee    purely,    as   they   turn    from 

Praise. 
I  love  thee  with  the  passion  put  to  use 
In  my  old  griefs,  and  with  my  childhood's 

faith. 
I  love  thee  with  a  love  I  seemed  to  lose 
With  my  lost   saints,  —  I  love    thee  with 

the  breath. 
Smiles,  tears,  of  all  my  life  !  —  and,  if  God 

choose, 
I  shall  but  love  thee  better  after  death. 

XLIV 

Beloved,  thou  hast  brought  me  man}' 
flowers 

Plucked  in  the  garden,  all  the  summer 
through 

And  winter,  and  it  seemed  as  if  they'grew 

In  this  close  room,  nor  missed  the  sun  and 
showers. 

So,  in  the  like  name  of  that  love  of  ours. 

Take  back  these  thoughts  which  here  un- 
folded too, 

And  which  on  warm  and  cold  days  I  with- 
drew 


224 


CASA   GUIDI  WINDOWS 


From  my  heart's  ground.  Indeed,  those 
beds  and  bowers 

Be  overgrown  with  bitter  weeds  and  rue, 

And  wait  thy  weeding ;  yet  here  's  eglan- 
tine, 

Here 's  ivy  !  —  take  them,  as  I  used  to  do 


Thy   flowers,  and  keep  them  where   they 

shall  not  pine. 
Instruct   thine  eyes   to  keep    their   colors 

true, 
And    tell  thy  soul  their  roots  are  left   in 

mine. 


CASA   GUIDI   WINDOWS 


Mr.  and  Mrs.  Browning,  who  had  passed  the 
first  winter  of  their  married  life  at  Pisa, 
moved  on  to  Florence  in  May,  1847.  They 
occupied  for  the  first  two  or  three  months  of 
their  residence  there  an  apartment  in  the  Via 
delle  Belle  Donne,  near  the  Duorao  ;  but  on 
their  return  to  Florence,  after  a  short  visit  to 
Vallombrosa  at  midsummer,  they  installed 
themselves  in  the  palace  on  the  Via  Maggie, 
which  has  ever  since  been  associated  with 
their  names  ;  where  the  Italians  have  placed  a 
tablet  to  Mrs.  Browning's  memory  and  which 
is  now  the  property  of  Mr.  Robert  Barrett 
Browning.  Mrs.  Browning's  first  letter  from 
'  Palazzo  Guidi '  is  dated  May  7,  1847.  The 
windows  of  the  apartment,  which  comprised 
six  rooms  on  the  piano  nobile,  overlooked  the 
then  Piazza  del  Gran  Duca ;  now  the  Piazza 
Pitti,  —  which  was  the  actual  theatre  of  many 
of  the  most  picturesque  events  and  striking 
demonstrations  connected  with  the  abortive 
Italian  revolution  of  1848.  The  first  part  of 
the  poem  was  written  in  that  heroic  year ; 
the  second,  nearly  three  years  later,  in  1851, 
—  the  year  of  its  first  publication  by  Chap- 
man &  Hall.  Mrs.  Browning  is  careful  to 
explain  in  her  preface  to  this  first  edition,  that 
she  has  attempted  '  no  continuous  narrative, 
nor  exposition  of  political  philosophy,'  but 
merely  '  a  simple  story  of  personal  impressions 

CASA   GUIDI   WINDOWS 

A   POEM,   IN  TWO    PARTS 
PART  I 

I  HEARD  last  night  a  little  child  go  sing- 
ing 
'Neath    Casa    Guidi    windows,   by    the 
church, 
O  hella  liberta,  0  bella  !  —  stringing 

The  same  words  still  on  notes  he  went 
in  search 
So  high  for,  you  concluded  the  upspring- 
ing 


whose  only  value  is  in  the  intensity  with  which 
they  were  received,  as  proving  her  warm 
attachment  for  a  beautiful  and  unfortunate 
country.'  She  further  apologizes  for  the  dis- 
crepancy in  tone  between  the  two  parts  of  the 
poem,  which,  she  says,  cannot  be  as  painful 
to  the  reader  as  it  is  to  the  writer  herself  : 
though  she  thinks  it  should  be  accepted  as  a 
guaranty  of  her  sincerity.  Indeed  Part  II. 
shows  a  great,  and  much  too  great,  revulsion 
of  feeling  from  the  facile  sympathy  and  buoy- 
ant enthusiasm  of  Part  I.  Neither  the  optim- 
ism of  1848,  nor  the  pessimism  of  1851,  was 
fully  justified  by  facts ;  but  in  either  case, 
the  writer's  point  of  view  was  more  that  of  an 
artist  than  a  politician ;  of  a  spectator  at  the 
play,  than  of  an  earnest  partisan.  Her  whole- 
souled  adoption  of  the  cause  of  Italian  inde- 
pendence, and  passionate  identification  with 
it,  date  from  a  later  period,  after  she  had  lived 
longer  in  Italy,  and  had  begun  to  know  Ital- 
ians. The  defeat  of  the  patriots  at  Novara 
in  1849,  which  crushed  the  hopes  of  Italy  for 
the  time  being,  and  was  attended  by  peculiarly 
tragical  circumstances,  is  barely  mentioned 
in  Mrs.  Browning's  letters.  The  premature 
peace  of  Villafranca,  ten  years  later,  almost 
broke  her  heart,  and  certainly  shortened  her 
days. 


Of  such  a  nimble  bird  to  sky  from  perch 
Must    leave  the  whole  bush  in  a  tremble 
green, 

And  that  the  heart  of  Italy  must  beat. 
While  such  a  voice  had  leave  to  rise  serene 

'Twixt  church  and  palace  of  a  Florf  nee 
street:  lo 

A  little  child,  too,  who  not  long  hr>'I  been 

By  mother's  finger  steadied  on  his  feet, 
And  still  0  hella  liberta  he  sang. 

Then  I  thought,  musing,  of  the  innumer- 
ous 
Sweet  songs  which  still  for  Italy  outrang 
From  older  singers'  lips  who  sang  not  thus 


CASA   GUIDI   WINDOWS 


225 


Exultingly  and  purely,  yet,  with  pang 

Fast  sheathed  in  music,  touched  the  heart 

of  us 

So  finely  that  the  pity  scarcely  pained. 

I  thought  how  Filicaja  led  on  others,         20 

Bewailers  for  their  Italy  enchained, 
And  how  they  called  her  childless  among 
mothers. 
Widow  of   empires,  ay,  and    scarce  re- 
JPrained 
Cursing  her  beauty  to  her  face,  as  brothers 
Might    a   shamed    sister's,  —  '  Had   she 
been  less  fair 
She  were  less  wretched;' — how,  evoking 
so 
From   congregated   wrong   and   heaped 
despair 
Of  men  and  women  writhing  under  blow. 

Harrowed  and  hideous  in  a  filthy  lair. 
Some  personating  Image  wherein  woe       30 
Was   wrapt   in   beauty   from   offending 
much, 
They  called  it  Cybele,  or  Niobe, 

Or    laid    it   corpse-like   on   a   bier   for 
such. 
Where  all  the  world  might  drop  for  It- 
aly 
Those  cadenced   tears  which   burn    not 
where  they  touch,  — 
*  Juliet  of  nations,  canst  thou  die  as  we  ? 
And  was  the  violet  crown  that  crowned 
thy  head 
So  over-large,  though  new  buds  made    it 
rough. 
It  slipped  down  and  across  thine  eyelids 
dead, 
O   sweet,   fair   Juliet  ? '     Of   such   songs 


enough, 


40 


Too  many  of  such  complaints  !  behold, 
instead, 
Void  at  Verona,  Juliet's  marble  trough: 

As  void  as  that  is,  are  all  images 
Men  set   between   themselves   and   actual 
wrong. 
To  catch  the  weight  of   pity,  meet  the 
stress 
Of  conscience,  —  since  't  is  easier  to  gaze 
Ions' 

On  mournful  masks  and  sad  effigies 
Than  on  real,  live,  weak  creatures  crushed 
by  strong. 

For  me  who  stand  in  Italy  to-day 
Where  worthier  poets  stood  and  sang  be- 
fore, 50 


I  kiss  their  footsteps  yet  their  words  gain- 
say. 
1  can  but  muse  in  hope  upon  this  shore 

Of  golden  Arno  as  it  shoots  away 
Through     Florence'    heart     beneath     her 
bridges  four: 
Bent  bridges,  seeming  to  strain  off  like 
bows 
And  tremble  while  the  arrowy  undertide 
Shoots  on  and  cleaves  the  marble  as  it 
goes. 
And  strikes  up  palace-walls  on  either  side. 
And  froths  the  cornice  out  in  glittering 
rows, 
With  doors   and  windows  quaintly  multi- 
plied, 60 
And  terrace-sweeps,  and  gazers  upon  all. 
By  whom  if  flower  or  kerchief  were  thrown 
out 
From  any  lattice  there,  the  same  would 
fall 
Into  the  river'underneath,  no  doubt, 

It  runs  so  close  and  fast  'twixt  wall  and 
wall. 
How  beautiful !  the  mountains  from  with- 
out 
In  silence  listen  for  the  word  said  next. 
What  word  will   men   say,  —  here    where 
Giotto  planted 
His  campanile  like  an  unperplexed 
Fine  question   Heavenward,  touching   the 
things  granted  70 

A  noble  people  who,  being  greatly  vexed 
In  act,  in  aspiration  keep  undaunted  ? 
What  word   will   God  say?     Michael's 
Night  and  Day 
And  Dawn  and  Twilight  wait   in   marble 
scorn 
Like  dogs  upon  a  dunghill,  couched  on 
clay, 
From  whence  the  Medicean  stamp 's  out- 
worn, 
The  final  putting  off  of  all  such  sway 
By  all  such  hands,  and  freeing  of  the  un- 
born 
In  Florence  and  the  great  world  outside 
Florence. 
Three   hundred    years   his  patient  statues 
wait  80 

In  that  small  chapel  of  the  dim  Saint 
Lawrence : 
Day's  eyes  are  breaking  bold  and  passion- 
ate 
Over  his  shoulder,  and  will  flash  abhor- 
rence 


226 


CASA  GUIDI   WINDOWS 


On   darkness   and  with   level   looks   meet 
fate, 
When  once  loose  from  that  marble  film 
of  theirs; 
The  Night  has  wild  dreams  in  her  sleep, 
the  Dawn 
Is   haggard   as   the    sleepless,    Twilight 
wears 
A  sort  of  horror;  as  the  veil  withdrawn 
'Twixt  the  artist's  soul  and  works  had 
left  them  heirs 
Of   speechless   thoughts  which  would   not 
quail  nor  fawn,  90 

Of  angers  and  contempts,  of  hope  and 
love: 
For  not  without  a  meaning  did  he  place 
The  princely  Urbino  on  the  seat  above 
With  everlasting  shadow  on  his  face, 

While  the  slow  dawns  and  twilights  dis- 
approve 
The  ashes  of  his  long-extinguished  race 
Which  never  more  shall  clt>g  the  feet  of 
men. 
I  do  believe,  divinest  Angelo, 

That  winter-hour  in  Via  Larga,  when 
They  bade  thee  build  a  statue  up  in  snow 
And   straight  that  marvel  of   thine  art 
again  10 1 

Dissolved  beneath  the  sun's  Italian  glow. 
Thine    eyes,    dilated    with    the    plastic 
passion, 
Thawing  too   in   drops  of  wounded    man- 
hood, since. 
To  mock  alike  thine  art  and  indignation. 
Laughed    at   the    palace-window  the    new 
prince,  — 
('Aha  !    this    genius    needs   for   exalta- 
tion, 
When  all 's  said   and   howe'er  the    proud 
may  wince, 
A    little     marble    from     our     princely 
mines  ! ') 
I  do  believe  that  hour  thou  laughedst  too 
For  the  whole  sad  world   and   for   thy 
Florentines,  m 

After   those   few   tears,  which  were   only 
few  ! 
That   as,   beneath   the   sun,   the    grand 
white  lines 
Of    thy  snow-statue   trembled    and    with- 
drew, — 
The  head,  erect  as  Jove's,  being  palsied 
first, 
The  eyelids  flattened,  the  full  brow  turned 
blank, 


The  right-hand,  raised  but  now  as  if  it 
cursed, 
Dropt,  a  mere   snowball,  (till  the   people 
sank 
Their  voices,  though  a  louder  laughter 
burst 
From   the    royal  window)  —  thou   couldst 
proudly  thank  120 

God    and    the    prince    for   promise   and 
presage, 
And  laugh  the  laugh  back,  I  think  verily, 
Thine    eyes   being   purged   by  tears   of 
righteous  rage 
To  read  a  wrong  into  a  prophecy. 

And  measure  a  true  great   man's  heri- 
tage 
Against  a  mere  great-duke's  posterity. 

I  think  thy  soul  said  then, '  I  do  not  need 
A  princedom  and  its  quarries,  after  all; 
For  if  I  write,  paint,  carve  a  word,  in- 
deed. 
On  book  or  board  or  dust,  on  floor  or  wall, 
The  same  is   kept  of   God  who  taketh 
heed  131 

That  not  a  letter  of  the  meaning  fall 

Or  ere    it   touch   and  teach   his  world's 
deep  heart. 
Outlasting,  therefore,  all   your   lordships, 
sir  ! 
So  keep  your  stone,  beseech  you,  for  your 
part. 
To  cover  up  your  grave-place  and  refer 

The  proper  titles;  /  live  by  my  art. 
The  thought  I  threw  into  this  snow  shall 
stir 
This    gazing  people  when  their  gaze  is 
done; 
And  the  tradition  of  your  act  and  mine,  140 
When  all  the  snow  is  melted  in  the  sun, 
Shall  gather  up,  for  unborn  men,  a  sign 
Of   what   is   the   true   princedom,  —  ay, 
and  none 
Shall    laugh    that   day,    except   the  drunk 
with  wine.' 

Amen,  great  Angelo  !  the  day  's  at  hand. 
If  many  laugh  not  on  it,  shall  we  weep  ? 
Much  more  we  must  not,  let  us  under- 
stand. 
Through    rhymers    sonneteering   in   their 
sleep. 
And  archaists  mumbling   dry  bones   up 
the  land, 
And     sketchers      lauding     ruined      towns 
a-heap,  —  150 


CASA   GUIDI   WINDOWS 


227 


Through  all   that  drowsy  hum  of  voices 
smooth, 
The    hopeful  bird  mounts  carolling  from 
brake, 
The  hopeful   child,  with  leaps  to  catch 
his  growth, 
Sings  open-eyed  for  liberty's  sweet  sake: 

And  I,  a  singer  also  from  my  youth, 
Prefer  to  sing  with  these  who  are  awake, 
With  birds,  with  babes,  with  men  who 
will  not  fear 
The  baptism  of  the  holy  morning  dew, 

(i^nd  many  of  such  wakers  now  are  here, 
Complete  in  their  anointed  manhood,  who 
Will  greatly   dare   and  greatlier  perse- 
vere) 161 
Than  join   those  old  thin  voices  with  my 
new. 
And  sigh  for  Italy  with  some  safe  sigh 
Cooped  up  in  music  'twixt  an  oh  and  ah,  — 
X ay,  hand  in  hand  with  that  young  child, 
will  I 
Go  singing  rather,  '  Bella  liherta,^ 

Than,  with  those  poets,  croon  the  dead  or 
cry 
*  Se  tu  men  hella  fossi,  Italia  !  ' 

'Less  wretched  if   less  fair.'      Perhaps 
a  truth 
Is  so  far  plain  in  this,  that  Italy,  170 

Long  trammelled  with  the  purple  of  her 
youth 
Against  her  age's  ripe  activity. 

Sits  still  upon  her  tombs,  without  death's 
ruth 
But  also  without  life's  brave  energy. 

'  Now  tell  us  what  is  Italy  ?  '  men  ask: 
And  others  answer,  '  Virgil^  Cicero, 

Catullus,    Csesar.'      What    beside  ?     to 
task 
The  memory  closer  —  '  Why,  Boccaccio, 

Dante,  Petrarca,'  —  and  if  still  the  flask 
Appears    to   yield   its  wine    by   drops  too 

slow, 180 

'  Angelo,  RafPael,  Pergolese,'  —  all 
Whose    strong  hearts  beat  through  stone, 
or  charged  again 
The  paints  with  fire  of  souls  electrical, 
Or   broke   up   heaven    for   music.      What 
more  then  ? 
Why,  then,  no  more.     The  chaplet's  last 
beads  fall 
In  naming  the  last  saintship  within  ken, 

And,  after  that,  none  prayeth  in  the  land. 
Alas,  this  Italy  has  too  long  swept 


Heroic  ashes  up  for  hour-glass  sand; 
Of  her  own  past,  impassioned  nympholept ! 
Consenting  to  be  nailed  here  by  the  hand 
To   the    very    bay-tree   under   which   she 
stept  192 

A   queen   of   old,  and   plucked   a  leafy 
branch; 
And,  licensing  the  world  too  long  indeed 
To  use  her  broad  phylacteries  to  stanch 
And   stop    her   bloody   lips,  she    takes  no 
heed 
How   one   clear   word    would   draw   an 
avalanche 
Of  living  sons  around  her,  to  succeed 
The     vanished    generations.      Can     she 
count 
These    oil-eaters    with    large    live   mobile 
mouths  200 

Agape  for  macaroni,  in  the  amount 
Of  consecrated  heroes  of  her  south's 

Bright    rosary  ?      The    pitcher    at    the 
fount, 
The  gift  of  gods,  being  broken,  she  much 
loathes 
To   let   the   ground-leaves  of  the  place 
confer 
A  natural  bowl.     So  henceforth  she  would 
seem 
No  nation,  but  the  poet's  pensioner. 
With  alms  from  every  land  of  song   and 
dream. 
While  aye  her  pipers  sadly  pipe  of  her 
Until  their  proper  breaths,  in  that  extreme 
Of  sighing,  split  the  reed  on  which  they 
played:  211 

Of   which,   no   more.     But   never  say  '  no 
more  ' 
To  Italy's   life  !     Her  memories  undis- 
mayed 
Still  argue  '  evermore; '  her  graves  implore 

Her  future  to  be  strong  and  not  afraid; 
Her  very  statues  send  their  looks  before. 

We  do  not  serve  the  dead  —  the  past  is 
past. 
God  lives,  and  lifts  his  glorious  mornings 
up 
Before  the  eyes  of  men  awake  at  last,  219 
Who  put  away  the  meats  they  used  to  sup, 
And  down  upon  the  dust  of  earth  outcast 
The  dregs  remaining  of  the  ancient  cup. 
Then  turn  to  wakeful  prayer  and  worthy 
act. 
The    Dead,    upon    their    awful    'vantage 
ground, 


228 


CASA   GUIDI   WINDOWS 


The  sun  not  in  their  faces,  shall  abstract 
No  more  our  strength;  we  will  not  be  dis- 
crowned 
As  guardians  of  their  crowns,  nor  deign 
transact 
A  barter  of  the  present,  for  a  sound 

Of  good  so  counted  in  the  foregone  days. 
O  Dead,  ye  shall  no  longer  cling  to  us     230 

With  rigid  hands  of  dessicating  praise. 
And   drag   us  backward   by   the   garment 
thus, 
To  stand  and    laud   you  in  long-drawn 
virelays  ! 
We  will  not  henceforth  be  oblivious 

Of  our   own   lives,  because  ye  lived  be- 
fore. 
Nor  of  our  acts,  because  ye  acted  well. 
We   thank   you   that  ye  first  unlatched 
the  door, 
But  will  not  make  it  inaccessible 

By  thankings  on  the  threshold  any  more. 
We  hurry  onward  to  extinguish  hell         240 
With  our  fresh  souls,  our  younger  hope, 
and  God's 
Maturity  of  purpose.     Soon  shall  we 

Die  also  !  and,  that  then  our  periods 
Of  life  may  round  themselves  to  memory 
As  smoothly  as  on  our  graves  the  burial- 
sods. 
We  now  must  look  to  it  to  excel  as  ye. 

And  bear  our  age  as  far,  unlimited 
By  the  last  mind-mark;  so,  to  be  invoked 
By  future  generations,  as  their  Dead. 

'T  is  true  that  when  the  dust  of  death  has 
choked  250 

A  great  man's  voice,  the  common  words 
he  said 
Turn   oracles,    the    common   thoughts    he 
yoked 
Like   horses,  draw  like  griffins:  this   is 
true 
And  acceptable.     I,  too,  should  desire, 
When  men  make  record,  with  the  flowers 
they  strew, 
*  Savonarola's  soul  went  out  in  fire 

Upon    our    Grand-duke's    piazza,    and 
burned  through 
A  moment  first,  or  ere  he  did  expire, 

The  veil  betwixt  the  right  and  wrong,  and 
showed 
How  near  God  sat  and  judged  the  judges 
there,'  —  260 

Upon    the     self-same    pavement    over- 
strewed 


To  cast  my  violets  with  as  reverent  care, 
And   prove  that  all  the   winters  which 
have  snowed 
Cannot  snow  out  the  scent  from  stones  and 
air 
Of  a  sincere  man's  virtues.    This  was  he, 
Savonarola,  who,  while  Peter  sank 

With  his  whole  boat-load,  called  coura- 
geously 
'Wake      Christ,    wake      Christ!' — who, 
having  tried  the  tank 
Of  old  church-waters  used  for  baptistry 
Ere  Luther  came  to  spill  them,  swore  they 
stank;  270 

Who  also  by  a  princely  deathbed  cried, 
'Loose  Florence,  or  God  will  not  loose  thy 
soul  !  ' 

Then  fell  back  the  Magnificent  and  died 
Beneath  the    star-look  shooting  from   the 
cowl, 
Which   turned    to    wormwood-bitterness 
the  wide 
Deep  sea  of  his  ambitions.     It  were  foul 

To  grudge  Savonarola  and  the  rest 
Their  violets:  rather  pay  them  quick  and 
fresh  ! 
The  emphasis  of  death  makes  manifest 
The  eloquence  of  action  in  our  flesh;        280 
And   men  who,  living,  were  but   dimly 
guessed, 
When  once  free  from  their  life's  entangled 
mesh, 
Show  their  full  length  in  graves,  or  oft 
indeed 
Exaggerate  their  stature,  in  the  flat. 
To  noble  admirations  which  exceed 
Most  nobly,  yet  will  calculate  in  that 

But  accurately.     We,  who  are  the  seed 
Of    buried   creatures,   if    we   turned   and 
spat 
Upon  our  antecedents,  we  were  vile. 
Bring   violets    rather.     If   these    had   not 
walked  290 

Their  furlong,  could  we  hope  to  walk  our 
mile? 
Therefore  bring  violets.     Yet  if  we  self- 
baulked 
Stand  still,  a-strewing  violets  all  the  while, 
These  moved   in  vain,  of  whom  we    have 
vainly  talked. 
So   rise  up   henceforth  with   a  cheerful 
smile. 
And   having  strewn  the  violets,  reap   the 
corn. 


CASA   GUIDI   WINDOWS 


229 


And  having  reaped  and  garnered,  bring 

the  plough 
And  draw  new  furrows  'neath  the  healthy 

morn, 
And   plant   the  great  Hereafter  in  this 

Now. 

Of  old  't  was  so.     How  step  by  step  was 
worn,  300 

As  each  man  gained  on  each  securely  !  — 
how 
Each  by  his  own  strength  sought  his  own 
Ideal,  — 
The  ultimate  Perfection  leaning  bright 
From  out  the  sun  and  stars  to  bless  the 
leal 
And  earnest  search  of  all  for  Fair  and 
Right 
Through  doubtful  forms  by  earth  accounted 
real  ! 
Because  old  Jubal  blew  into  delight 
The  souls  of  men  with  clear-piped  melodies. 
If  youthful  Asaph  were  content  at  most 
To  draw  from  Jubal's  grave,  with  listening 
eyes,  310 

Traditionary  music's  floating  ghost 
Into  the  grass-grown  silence,  were  it  wise  ? 
And  was  't  not  wiser,  Jubal's  breath  being 
lost, 
That  Miriam  clashed  her  cymbals  to  sur- 
prise 
The  sun  between  her  white  arms  flung 
apart. 
With  new  glad  golden  sounds  ?  that  Da- 
vid's strings 
O'erflowed  his  hand  with  music  from  his 
heart  ? 
So  harmony  grows  full  from  many  springs, 
And  happy  accident  turns  holy  arto 

You  enter,  in  your  Florence  wanderings,  320 
The  church  of  Saint  Maria  Novella.    Pass 
The  left  stair,  where  at  plague-time  Ma- 
chiavel 
Saw  One  with  set  fair  face  as  in  a  glass. 
Dressed  out  against  the  fear  of  death  and 
hell, 
Rustling  her  silks  in  pauses  of  the  mass. 
To  keep  the  thought  off  how  her  husband 
fell, 
When  she  left  home,  stark  dead  across 
her  feet,  — 
The  stair  leads  up  to  what   the  Orgagnas 
save 
Of  Dante's  dsemons;  yoiv,  in  passing  it, 


Ascend   the  right   stair  from   the   farther 
nave  330 

To  muse  in  a  small  chapel  scarcely  lit 
By  Cimabue's  Virgin,     Bright  and  brave, 
That   picture    was   accounted,  mark,  of 
old: 
A  king  stood  bare  before  its  sovran  grace, 

A  reverent  people  shouted  to  behold 
The  picture,  not   the  king,  and   even  the 
place 
Containing  such  a  miracle  grew  bold. 
Named  the  Glad  Borgo  from  that  beauteous 
face 
Which  thrilled  the  artist,  after  work,  to 
think 
His  own  ideal  Mary-smile  should  stand  340 
So    very    near    him,  —  he,    within    the 
brink 
Of  all  that  glory,  let  in  by  his  hand 

With  too  divine  a  rashness  !     Yet  none 
shrink 
Who  come  to  gaze  here  now;  albeit  'twas 
planned  * 

Sublimely  in  the  thought's  simplicity: 
The  Lady,  throned  in  empyreal  state. 
Minds  only   the  young   Babe  upon   her 
knee, 
While    sidelong    angels    bear    the    royal 
weight, 
Prostrated  meekly,  smiling  tenderly    349 
Oblivion  of  their  wings;  the  Child  thereat 
Stretching  its   hand   like  God.     If   any 
should. 
Because  of  some  stiff  draperies  and  loose 
joints. 
Gaze    scorn   down   from  the  heights  of 
Raffaelhood 
On  Cimabue's  picture,  —  Heaven  anoints 

The  head  of  no  such  critic,  and  his  blood 
The  poet's  curse  strikes  full  on   and   ap- 
points 
To  ague  and  cold  spasms  for  evermore. 
A  noble  picture  !  worthy  of  the  shout 
Wherewith  along  the  streets  the  people 
bore 
Its    cherub-faces    which    the    sun    threw 
out  360 

Until    they    stooped    and    entered    the 
church  door. 
Yet  rightly  was  young  Giotto  talked  about, 
Whom  Cimabue  found  among  the  sheep. 
And  knew,  as  gods  know  gods,  and  carried 
home 
To  paint  the  things  he  had  painted,  with 
a  deep 


230 


CASA   GUIDI   WINDOWS 


And  fuller  insight,  and  so  overcome 

His    chapel  -  Lady    with    a    heavenlier 
sweep 
Of  light:  for  thus  we  mount  into  the  sum 
Of    great    things   known   or    acted.     I 
hold,  too, 
That  Ciniabue  smiled  upon  the  lad  370 

At  the  first  stroke  which  passed  what  he 
could  do, 
Or  else  his  Virgin's  smile  had  never  had 
Such  sweetness  in 't.     All  great  men  who 
foreknew 
Their  heirs  in  art,  for  art's  sake  have  been 
glad, 
And  bent  their  old  white  heads  as  if  un- 
crowned. 
Fanatics  of  their  pure  Ideals  still 

Far  more  than  of  their  triumphs,  which 
were  found 
With  some  less  vehement  struggle  of  the 
will. 
If  old  Margheritone  trembled,  swooned 
And  died  despairihg  at  the  open  sill         380 
Of     other     men's     achievements     (who 
achieved, 
By  loving  art  beyond  the  master),  he 

Was  old  Margheritone,  and  conceived 
Never,  at  first  youth  and  most  ecstasy, 
A  Virgin  like  that  dream  of  one,  which 
heaved 
The  death-sigh  from  his  heart.     If    wist- 
fidly 
Margheritone  sickened  at  the  smell 
Of  Cimabue's  laurel,  let  him  go  ! 

For  Cimabue  stood  up  very  well 
In  spite  of  Giotto's,  and  Angelico  390 

The  artist-saint  kept  smiling  in  his  cell 
The    smile  with    which   he  welcomed    the 
sweet  slow 
Inbreak  of   angels    (whitening   through 
the  dim 
That  he  might  paint  them),  while  the  sud- 
den sense 
Of  Raffael's  future  was  revealed  to  him 
By  force  of   his  own  fair   works'   compe- 
tence. 
The  same  blue   waters    where  the   dol- 
phins swim 
Suggest   the   tritons.      Through   the   blue 
Immense 
Strike  out,  all  swimmers  !  cling  not  in 
the  way 
Of  one  another,  so  to  sink;  but  learn       400 
The    strong   man's    impulse,    catch   the 
freshening  spray 


He  throws  up  in  his  motions,  and  discern 
By  his  clear  westering  eye,  the  time  of 
day. 
Thou,  God,  hast   set   us    worthy   gifts   to 
earn 
Besides  thy  heaven  and  Thee  !  and  when 
I  say 
There  's  room  here  for  the  weakest   man 
alive 
To  live  and  die,  there 's  room  too,  I  re- 
peat. 
For    all   the    strongest   to   live   well,   and 
strive 
Their    own    way,    by    their    individual 
heat,  — 
Like  some  new  bee-swarm  leaving  the  old 
hive,  4IO 

Despite  the  wax  which  tempts  so  violet- 
sweet. 
Then  let  the  living  live,  the  dead  retain 
Their     grave  -  cold     flowers  !  —  though 
honor  's  best  supplied 
By  bringing   actions,  to   prove  theirs   not 
vain. 

Cold  graves,  we  say  ?  it  shall  be  testi- 
fied 
That  living  men  who  burn  in   heart   and 
brain. 
Without  the  dead  were  colder.     If   we 
tried 
To    sink   the   past   beneath   our   feet,   be 
sure 
The  future  would  not   stand.     Precipi- 
tate 
This  old  roof  from  the  shrine,  and,  inse- 
cure, 420 
The  nesting  swallows  fly  off,  mate  from 
mate. 
How  scant  the  gardens,  if  the  graves  were 
fewer  ! 
The  tall  green  poplars  grew  no  longer 
straight 
Whose  tops  not  looked  to  Troy.     Would 
any  fight 
For    Athens,  and   not   swear   by  Mara- 
thon ? 
Who  dared  build  temples,  without  tombs 
in  sight  ? 
Or  live,  without  some  dead  man's  benio 
son  ? 
Or   seek  truth,  hope  for  good,  and  strive 
for  right. 
If,  looking  up,  he  saw  not  in  the  sun 
Some  angel  of  the  martyrs  all  day  long  430 


CASA   GUIDI   WINDOWS 


231 


Stancliug      and     waiting  ?      Your     last 
rhythm  will  need 
Your  earliest  key-note.     Could  I  sing  this 
song, 
If  my  dead  masters  had  not  taken  heed 
To  help  the  heavens  and  earth  to  make  me 
strong, 
As  the  wind  ever  will  find  out  some  reed 
And  touch  it  to  such  issues  as  belong 

To    such    a    frail    thing  ?     None    may 
grudge  the  Dead 
Libations  from  full  cups.    Unless  we  choose 
To   look   back   to   the   hills    behind    us 
spread, 
The  plains  before  us  sadden  and  confuse; 
If  orphaned,  we  are  disinherited.  441 

I  would  but  turn  these  lachrymals  to  use, 
And  pour  fresh  oil   in  from    the  olive- 
grove, 
To  furnish  them  as    new  lamps.     Shall  I 
say 
What  made  my  heart  beat  with  exulting 
love 
A  few  weeks  back  ?  — 

The  day  was  such  a  day 
As   Florence    owes   the   sun.     The    sky 
above, 
Its  weight  upon  the  mountains  seemed  to 
lay, 
And  palpitate  in  glory,  like  a  dove 
Who   has   flown   too   fast,  full-hearted  — 
take  away  450 

The  image  !  for  the  heart  of  man  beat 
higher 
That   daj'^   in   Florence,    flooding    all   her 
streets 
And  piazzas  with  a  tumult  and  desire. 
The  people,  with  accumulated  heats 

And  faces  turned  one  way,  as  if  one  fire 
Both    drew  and   flushed   them,  left    their 
ancient  beats 
And  went  up   towards  the    palace-Pitti 
wall 
To  thank  their  Grand-duke  who,  not  quite 
of  course. 
Had  graciously  permitted,  at  their  call, 
The  citizens  to  use  their  civic  force  460 

To    guard    their    civic    homes.     So,  one 
and  all. 
The    Tuscan    cities    streamed    up    to  the 
source 
Of  this  new  good  at  Florence,  taking  it 
As  good  so  far,  presagef ul  of  more  good,  — 
The  first  torch  of  Italian  freedom,  lit 


To  toss  in  the  next  tiger's  face  who  should 
Approach   too  near   them   in   a   greedy 
fit,— 
The  first  pulse  of  an  even  flow  of  blood 

To  prove  the  level  of  Italian  veins 
Towards    rights    perceived   and    granted. 
How  we  gazed  470 

From    Casa    Guidi    windows    while,    ia 
trains 
Of  orderly  procession  —  banners  raised. 
And     intermittent     bursts    of     martial 
strains 
Which  died  upon  the  shout,  as  if  amazed 
By  gladness  beyond  music  —  they  passed 
on  ! 
The  Magistracy,  with  insignia,  passed,  — 
And  all  the  people  shouted  in  the  sun. 
And  all  the  thousand  windows  which  had 
cast 
A   ripple  of   silks   in   blue   and   scarlet 
down 
(As  if  the  houses  overflowed  at  last) ,       480 
Seemed  growing  larger  with  fair  heads 
and  eyes. 
The  Lawyers  passed,  —  and  still  arose  the 
shout, 
And  hands  broke  from  the  windows  to 
surprise 
Those   grave    calm    brows    with    bay-tree 
leaves  thrown  out. 
The     Priesthood     passed,  —  the     friars 
with  worldly-wise 
Keen  sidelong  glances  from  their   beards 
about 
The  street  to  see  who  shouted ;  many  a 
monk 
Who  takes  a  long  rope  in  the  waist,  was 
there : 
Whereat  the  popular  exultation  drunk 
With  indrawn  *  vivas  '  the  whole  sunny  air. 
While  through  the  murmuring  windows 
rose  and  sunk  491 

A    cloud     of     kerchiefed     hands,  — '  The 
church  makes  fair 
Her  welcome  in  the  new  Pope's  name.' 
Ensued 
The  black  sign  of  the  '  Martyrs '  —  (name 
no  name, 
But  count  the  graves  in  silence).     Next 
were  viewed 
The  Artists;  next,  the  Trades;   and  after 
came 
The  People,  —  flag  and  sign,  and  rights 
as  good  — 
And  very  loud  the  shout  was  for  that  same 


232 


CASA   GUIDI   WINDOWS 


Motto,  '  II  popolo.'     Il  Popolo,  — 
The    word   means   dukedom,  empire,  ma- 
jesty, ^  _  Soo 
And  kings  in  such  an  hour  might  read  it 
so. 
And  next,  with  banners,  each  in  his  degree. 

Deputed  representatives  a-row 
Of  every  separate  state  of  Tuscany: 

Siena's  she-wolf,  bristling  on  the  fold 
Of  the  first  flag,  preceded  Pisa's  hare. 

And  Massa's  lion  floated  calm  in  gold, 
Pienza's  following  with  his  silver  stare, 
Arezzo's     steed     pranced     clear     from 
bridle-hold,  — 
And  well  might  shout  our  Florence,  greet- 
ing there  510 
These,   and   more   brethren.     Last,   the 
world  had  sent 
The    various     children    of     her     teeming 
flanks  — 
Greeks,    English,    French  —  as   if   to   a 
parliament 
Of  lovers  of  her  Italy  in  ranks. 

Each  bearing  its  land's  symbol  reverent; 
At  which  the  stones  seemed  breaking  into 
thanks 
And  rattling  up  the  sky,  such  sounds  in 
proof 
Arose;    the    very   house- walls   seemed   to 
bend; 
The  very  windows,  up  from  door  to  roof. 
Flashed  out  a  rapture  of  bright  heads,  to 
mend  520 

With    passionate     looks    the    gesture's 
whirling  off 
A  hurricane  of  leaves.     Three  hours   did 
end 
While  all  these  passed;  and  ever  in  the 
crowd. 
Rude  men,  unconscious  of   the  tears  that 
kept 
Their  beards  moist,  shouted;  some  few 
laughed  aloud, 
And  none  asked  any  why  they  laughed  and 
wept: 
Friends  kissed  each  other's  cheeks,  and 
foes  long  vowed 
More  warmly  did  it;  two  months'  babies 
leapt 
Right  upward  in   their   mother's   arms, 
whose  black 
Wide    glittering   eyes  looked    elsewhere; 
lovers  pressed  530 

Each    before    either,    neither    glancing 
back; 


And  peasant  maidens  smoothly  'tired  and 
tressed 
Forgot  to   finger   on   their    throats   the 
slack 
Great  pearl-strings;  while    old  blind  men 
would  not  rest, 
But  pattered  with  their  staves  and  slid 
their  shoes 
Along  the  stones,  and   smiled  as   if   they 
saw. 
O  heaven,  I  think  that  day  had  noble  use 
Among  God's  days  !     So  near  stood  Right 
and  Law, 
Both   mutually   forborne !     Law   would 
not  bruise 
Nor   Right   deny,   and   each    in    reverent 
awe  540 

Honored  the  other.     And  if,   ne'erthe- 
less, 
That  good  day's  sun  delivered  to  the  vines 
No  charta,  and   the  liberal  Duke's   ex- 
cess 
Did  scarce   exceed   a   Guelf's   or   Ghibel- 
line's 
In  any  special  actual  righteousness 
Of  what  that  day  he  granted,  still  the  signs 
Are  good  and  full  of  promise,  we  must 
say,  ^ 
When  multitudes  approach  their  kings  with 
prayers 
And  kings  concede  their  people's  right  to 
pray 
Both  in  one  sunshine.     Griefs  are  not  de- 
spairs, 550 
So  uttered,  nor  can  royal  claims  dismay 
When  men  from  humble  homes  and  ducal 
chairs 
Hate  wrong   together.     It   was  well   to 
view 
Those  banners  ruffled  in  a  ruler's  face 
Inscribed,  '  Live  freedom,  union,  and  all 
true 
Brave    patriots   who   are   aided   by  God's 
grace  ! ' 
Nor  was  it  ill  when  Leopoldo  drew 
His  little  children  to  the  window-place 

He  stood  in  at  the  Pitti,  to  suggest 
They  too  should  govern  as  the  people  willed. 
What  a  cry  rose  then  !  some,  who  saw 
the  best,  561 

Declared  his  eyes  filled  up  and  overfilled 
With  good  warm  human  tears  which  un- 
repressed 
Ran  down.     I  like  his  face;  the  forehead's 
build 


CASA   GUIDI   WINDOWS 


233 


Has  no  capacious  genius,  yet  perhaps 
Sufficient  comprehension,  —  mild  and  sad, 
And  careful  nobly,  —  not  with  care  that 
wraps 
Self-loving  hearts,  to  stifle  and  make  mad. 
But  careful  with  the  care  that  shuns  a 
lapse 
Of  faith  and  duty,  studious  not  to  add     570 

A  burden  in  the  gathering  of  a  gain. 
And   so,  God  save   the  Duke,  I  say  with 
those 
Who   that   day   shouted   it;    and   while 
dukes  reign. 
May  all  wear  in  the  visible  overflows 

Of  spirit,  such  a  look  of  careful  pain  ! 
For  God  must  love  it  better  than  repose. 

And  all  the  people  who  went  up  to  let 
Their  hearts  out   to  that  Duke,  as  has 
been  told  — 
Where  guess  ye  that  the  living  people  met, 
Kept  tryst,  formed  ranks,  chose  leaders, 
first  unrolled  580 

Their  banners  ? 

In  the  Loggia  ?  where  is  set 
Cellini's  godlike  Perseus,  bronze  or  gold, 
(How  name   the   metal,  when   the  statue 
flings 
Its  soul  so  in  your  eyes  ?)  with  brow  and 
sword 
Superbly  calm,  as  all  opposing  things, 
Slain  with   the  Gorgon,  were    no   more 
abhorred 
Since  ended  ? 

No,  the  people  sought  no  wings 
From  Perseus  in  the  Loggia,  nor  implored 
An  inspiration  in  the  place  beside 

From  that  dim  bust  of  Brutus,  jagged 
and  grand,  590 

Where  Buonarroti  passionately  tried 

From  out   the  close-clenched  marble  to 
demand 
The  head  of  Rome's  sublimest  homicide. 
Then  dropt    the  quivering   mallet  from 
his  hand. 
Despairing  he  could  find  no  model-stuff 

Of  Brutus  in  all  Florence  where  he  found 
The  gods  and  gladiators  thick  enough. 
Nor  there  !  the  people  chose  still  holier 
ground : 
The   people,    who   are   simple,   blind   and 
rough. 
Know   their  own   angels,  after   looking 
round.  600 

Whom  chose  they  then  ?  where  met  they  ? 


On  the  stone 
Called  Dante's,  —  a  plain  flat  stone  scarce 
discerned 
From  others  in  the  pavement,  —  whereupon 
He  used   to  bring   his  quiet   chair   out, 
turned 
To  Brunelleschi's  church,  and  pour  alone 

The  lava  of  his  spirit  when  it  burned: 
It  is  not  cold  to-day.     O  passionate 

Poor  Dante  who,  a  banished  Florentine, 
Didst  sit  austere  at  banquets  of  the  great  609 
And  muse  upon  this  far-off  stone  of  thine 
And  think  how  oft  some  passer  used  to  wait 

A  moment,  in  the  golden  day's  decline, 
With '  Good  night,  dearest  Dante  ! '  —  well, 
good  night  ! 
/  muse  now,  Dante,  and  think  verily, 
Though   chapelled   in  the  byeway  out   of 
sight, 
Ravenna's     bones     would     thrill     with 
ecstasy, 
Couldst  know  thy  favorite  stone's  elected 
right 
As  tryst-place  for  thy  Tuscans  to  foresee 
Their  earliest  chartas  from.     Good  night, 
good  morn, 
Henceforward,  Dante  !  now  my  soul  is 
sure  62c 

That  thine  is  better  comforted  of  scorn, 
And  looks  down  earthward  in  completer 
cure 
Than  when,  in  Santa  Croce  church  forlorn 

Of  any  corpse,  the  architect  and  hewer 
Did  pile  the  empty  marbles  as  thy  tomb. 
For  now  thou  art  no  longer  exiled,  now 
Best  honored:  we  salute  thee  who  art  come 
Back  to  the  old  stone  with  a  softer  brow 
Than  Giotto  drew  upon  the  wall,  for  some 
Good   lovers   of  our   age   to   track   and 
plough  630 

Their  way  to,  through  time's  ordures  strati- 
fied. 
And  startle  broad  awake  into  the  dull 
Bargello  chamber:    now   thou  'rt    milder- 
eyed,  — 
Now  Beatrix  may  leap  up  glad  to  cull 
Thy  first  smile,  even  in  heaven  and  at  her 
side. 
Like  that  which,  nine  years  old,  looked 
beautiful 
At  May-game.     What  do  I  say  ?     I   only 
meant 
That   tender  Dante  loved   his  Florence 
well. 
While  Florence,  now,  to  love  him  is  content; 


234 


CASA   GUIDI    WINDOWS 


And,  mark  ye,  that  the  piereiugest  sweet 
smell  640 

Of  love's  dear  incense  by  the  living  sent 

To  find  the  dead,  is  not  accessible 
To  lazy  livers  —  no  narcotic,  —  not 

Swung  in  a  censer  to  a  sleepy  tune,  — 
But  trod  out  in  the  morning  air  by  hot 

Quick  spirits  who  tread  iirm  to  ends  fore- 
shown, 
And  use  the  name  of  greatness  unforgot, 

To  meditate  what  greatness  may  be  done. 

For   Dante   sits  in    heaven  and   ye   stand 
here, 
And   more  remains  for  doing,  all  must 
feel,  650 

Than   trysting   on  his  stone  from  year  to 
year 
To  shift  processions,  civic  toe  to  heel. 
The    town's   thanks  to  the  Pitti.     Are  ye 
freer 
For  what  was  felt  that  day  ?  a  chariot- 
wheel 
May  spin  fast,  yet  the  chariot  never  roll. 
But   if   that   da}'    suggested    something 
good, 
And   bettered,  with  one  purpose,  soul  by 
soul,  — 
Better  means  freer.     A  land's  brother- 
hood 
Is  most  puissant:  men,  upon  the  whole, 
Are  what  they  can  be,  —  nations,  what 
they  would.  660 

Will,  therefore,  to  be  strong,  thou  Italy  ! 
Will    to   be    noble  !     Austrian    Metter- 
nieh 
Can  fix  no  yoke  unless  the  neck  agree; 
And   thine  is   like    the  lion's    when  the 
thick 
Dews  shudder  from  it,  and  no  man  would 
be 
The   stroker   of   his    mane,    which   less 
would  prick 
His   nostril   with   a   reed.     When   nations 
roar 
Like  lions,  who  shall  tame  them  and  de- 
fraud 
Of  the  due  pasture  by  the  river-shore  ? 
Roar,    therefore  !    shake   your    dewlaps 
dry  abroad:  670 

The  amphitheatre  with  open  door 

Leads   back  upon  the  benches  who  ap- 
plaud 
The  last  spear-thruster. 


Yet  the  Heavens  forbid 
That  we  should  call  on  passion  to  con- 
front 
The  brutal  with  the  brutal  and,  amid 

This  ripening  world,  suggest  a  lion-hunt 
And  lion's-vengeauce  for  the  wrongs  men 
did 
And  do  now,  though  the  spears  are  get- 
ting blunt. 
We  only  call,  because  the  sight  and  proof 
Of   lion-strength   hurts  nothing;  and  to 
show  680 

A  lion-heart,  and  measure  paw  with  hoof. 
Helps  something,  even,  and  will  instruct 
a  foe 
As    well   as   the  onslaught,  how   to  stand 
aloof: 
Or   else    the    world  gets  past  the  mere 
brute  blow 
Or  given  or  taken.     Children  use  the  fist 
Until  they  are  of  age  to  use  the  brain; 
And  so  we  needed  Csesars  to  assist 

Man's  justice,  and  Napoleons  to  explain 
God's    counsel,    when  a  point  was   nearly 
missed. 
Until  our  generations  should  attain      690 
Christ's  stature  nearer.     Not  that  we,  alas, 

Attain  already;  but  a  single  inch 
Will  raise  to  look  down  on  the  swordsman's 
pass, 
As    knightly    Roland    on    the    coward's 
flinch: 
And,  after  chloroform  and  ether-gas. 

We  find  out  slowly  what  the  bee  and  finch 
Have  ready  found,  through  Nature's  lamp 
in  each. 
How  to  our  races  we  may  justify 
Our  individual  claims  and,  as  we  reach 
Our  own  grapes,  bend  the  top  vines  to 
supply  700 

The  children's  uses,  —  how  to  fill  a  breach 
With  olive-branches,  —  how  to  quench  a 
lie 
With  truth,  and  smite  a  foe  upon  the  cheek 
With     Christ's    most    conquering    kiss. 
Why,  these  are  things 
Worth  a  great  nation's  finding,  to   prove 
weak 
The  '  glorious  arms  '  of  military  kings. 
And  so  with  wide  embrace,  my  England, 
seek 
To  stifle  the  bad  heat  and  fiickerings 
Of  this  world's  false  and  nearly  expended 
fire  ! 
Draw  palpitating  arrows  to  the  wood,  710 


CASA   GUIDI   WINDOWS 


235 


And  twang  abroad  thy  high  hopes  and  thy 
higher 
Resolves,  from  that  most  virtuous  altitude ! 
Till  nations  shall  unconsciously  aspire 
By  looking  up  to   thee,  and   learn  that 
good 
And   glory   are    not   different.     Announce 
law 
By  freedom;  exalt  chivalry  by  peace; 
Instruct  how  clear  calm  eyes  can  overawe, 
And  how  pure  hands,  stretched  simply 
to  release 
A    bond-slave,    will  not   need   a  sword  to 
draw 
To   be  held  dreadful.     O  my  England, 
crease  720 

Thy  purple  with  no  alien  agonies, 

No  struggles  toward   encroachment,  no 
vile  war  ! 
Disband  thy  captains,  change  thy  victories. 
Be  henceforth  prosperous  as  the  angels 
are. 
Helping,  not  humbling. 

Drums  and  battle-cries 
Go  out  in  music  of  the  morning-star  — 
And   soon  we   shall   have  thinkers  in  the 
place 
Of  fighters,  each  found  able  as  a  man 
To  strike  electric  influence  through  a  race, 
Unstayed  by  city-wall  and  barbican.     730 
The  poet  shall  look  grander  in  the  face 
Than   even   of  old  (when  he  of  Greece 
began 
To  sing  '  that  Achillean  wrath  which  slew 

So  many  heroes  ')  —  seeing  he  shall  treat 
The  deeds  of  souls  heroic  toward  the  true. 

The  oracles  of  life,  previsions  sweet 
And    awful    like     divine     swans    gliding 
throug^h 
White  arms  of  Ledas,  which  will  leave 
the  heat 
Of  their  escaping  godship  to  undue 

The    human   medium   with   a   heavenly 
flush.  740 

Meanwhile,  in  this  same  Italy  we  want 

Not  popular  passion,  to  arise  and  crush. 
But  popular  conscience,  which  may  cove- 
nant 
For  what  it  knows.     Concede  without  a 
blush. 
To  grant  the  '  civic  guard '  is  not  to  grant 

The  civic  spirit,  living  and  awake : 
Those  lappets  on  your  shoulders,  citizens. 


Your  eyes  strain  after  sideways  till  they 
ache 
(While  still,  in  admirations  and  amens, 
The   crowd   comes   up  on  festa-days  to 
take  750 

The  great  sight  in)  —  are  not  intelligence, 
Not  courage  even  —  alas,  if  not  the  sign 
Of  something  very  noble,  they  are  nought; 
For  every  day  ye  dress  your  sallow  kine 
With   fringes   down   their  cheeks,  though 
unbesought 
They  loll  their  heavy  heads  and  drag  the 
wine 
And  bear  the  wooden  yoke  as  they  were 
taught 
The  first  day.     What  ye  want  is  light  — 
indeed 
Not  sunlight  —  (ye  may  well  look  up  sur- 
prised 
To    those    unfathomable    heavens    that 
feed  760 

Your   purple  hills)  —  but  God's  light  or- 
ganized 
In  some  high  soul,  crowned  capable    to 
lead 
The   conscious   people,  conscious   and   ad- 
vised, — 
For  if  we  lift  a  people  like  mere  clay. 
It  falls  the  same.     We  want  thee,  O  un- 
found 
And  sovran  teacher  !  if  thy  beard  be  gray 
Or   black,  we   bid   thee  rise  up  from  the 
ground 
And  speak  the  word  God  giveth  thee  to 

Inspiring  into  all  this  people  round, 

Instead  of  passion,  thought,  which  pio- 
neers 770 
All  generous  passion,  purifies  from  sin, 
And    strikes    the   hour    for.     Rise    up, 
teacher  !  here 's 
A  crowd  to  make  a  nation  !  —  best  begin 
By  making  each  a  man,  till  all  be  peers 
Of  earth's  true  patriots  and  pure  martyrs  in 
Knowing   and  daring.     Best  unbar   the 
doors 
Which  Peter's  heirs  keep  locked  so  over- 
close 
They  only  let  the  mice  across  the  floors. 
While  every  churchman  dangles,  as  he  goes, 
The  great  key  at  his  girdle,  and  abhors  780 
In  Christ's  name,  meekly.     Open  wide  the 
house. 
Concede  the  entrance  with  Christ's  liberal 
mind, 


236 


CASA   GUIDI   WINDOWS 


And  set  the  tables  with  his  wine  and  bread. 

What !  '  commune  in  both  kinds  ?  '     In 
every  kind  — 
Wine,  wafer,  love,  hope,  truth,  unlimited. 

Nothing  kept  back.     For  when  a  man  is 
bUnd 
To  starlight,  will  he  see  the  rose  is  red  ? 

A  bondsman  shivering  at  a  Jesuit's  foot  — 
*  Vse  !  mea  culpa  ! '  —  is  not  like  to  stand 

A  freedman  at  a  despot's  and  dispute  790 
His  titles  by  the  balance  in  his  hand, 

Weighing  them  '  suo  jure.'     Tend   the 
root 
If  careful  of  the  branches,  and  expand 

The  inner  souls  of  men  before  you  strive 
For  civic  heroes. 

But  the  teacher,  where  ? 
From  all  these  crowded  faces,  all  alive, 
Eyes,  of  their  own  lids  flashing  themselves 
bare. 
And  brows  that  with  a  mobile  life  contrive 
A  deeper   shadow,  —  may   we   in   no  wise 
dare 
To  put  a  finger  out  and  touch  a  man,  800 
And  cry  '  this  is   the  leader '  ?     What,  all 
these  ! 
Broad  heads,  black  eyes,  —  yet  not  a  soul 
that  ran 
From  God  down  with  a  message  ?     All,  to 
please 
The   donna  waving   measures  with   her 
fan. 
And  not  the  judgment-angel  on  his  knees 
(The  trumpet  just  an  inch  off  from  his 
lips). 
Who  when  he  breathes  next,  will  put  out 
the  sun  ? 

Yet   mankind's   self  were   foundered  in 
eclipse. 
If  lacking   doers,  with  great  works  to  be 
done; 
And  lo,  the  startled  earth  already  dips  810 
Back  into  light;  a  better  day  's  begun; 
And  soon  this  leader,  teacher,  will  stand 
plain. 
And  build  the  golden  pipes  and  synthesize 

This  people-organ  for  a  holy  strain. 
We  hold  this  hope,  and  still   in  all  these 
eyes 
Go  sounding  for   the   deep   look   which 
shall  drain 
Suffused   thought    into   channelled   enter- 
prise. 


Where  is  the  teacher  ?     What  now  may 
he  do. 
Who  shall  do  greatly  ?     Doth  he  gird  his 
waist 
With  a   monk's   rope,  like    Luther?  or 
pursue  820 

The   goat,  like   Tell  ?  or   dry  his  nets   in 
haste, 
Like  Masauiello  when  the  sky  was  blue  ? 
Keep  house,  like  other  peasants,  with  inlaced 
Bare  brawny  arms  about  a  favorite  child. 
And  meditative  looks  beyond  the  door 
(But  not  to  mark  the  kidling's  teeth  have 
filed 
The   green   shoots  of  his  vine  which   last 
year  bore 
Full  twenty  bunches),  or,  on  triple-piled 
Throne-velvets  sit  at  ease  to  bless  the  poor, 
Like  other  pontiffs,  in  the  Poorest 's  name  ? 
The  old  tiara  keeps  itself  aslope  831 

Upon   his   steady    brows  which,  all   the 
same. 
Bend  mildly  to  permit  the  people's  hope  ? 

Whatever  hand  shall  grasp  this  oriflamme, 
Whatever  man  (last  peasant  or  first  pope 

Seeking  to  free  his  country)  shall  appear. 
Teach,  lead,  strike  fire  into  the  masses,  fill 

These    empty   bladders    with    fine    air, 
insphere 
These  wills  into  a  unity  of  will. 

And  make  of  Italy  a  nation  —  dear      840 
And   blessed  be  that  man  !  the    Heavens 
shall  kill 

No  leaf  the  earth  lets  grow  for  him,  and 
Death 
Shall  cast  him  back  upon  the  lap  of  Life 

To  live  more  surely,  in  a  clarion-breath 
Of  hero-music.     Brutus  with  the  knife, 

Rienzi  with  the  fasces,  throb  beneath 
Rome's    stones,  —  and    more    who    threw 
away  joy's  fife 

Like    Pallas,   that   the   beauty  of   their 
souls 
Might  ever  shine  untroubled  and  entire: 

But  if  it  can  be  true  that  he  who  rolls  850 
The  Church's  thunders  will  reserve  her  fire 

For  only  light,  —  from  eucharistic  bowls 
Will  pour  new  life  for  nations  that  expire, 

And  rend  the  scarlet  of  his  papal  vest 
To  gird  the  weak  loins  of  his  countrymen,  — 

I  hold  that  he  surpasses  all  the  rest 
Of  Romans,  heroes,  patriots ;  and  that  when 

He    sat    down   on   the   throne,    he   dis- 
possessed 


CASA   GUIDI   WINDOWS 


237 


The  first  graves  of  some  glory.    See  again, 

This  country-saving  is  a  glorious  thing: 
And  if  a  common  man  achieved  it  ?  well.  861 
Say,  a  rich  man  did  ?  excellent.    A  king  ? 
That  grows  sublime.     A  priest  ?  improb- 
able. 
A  pope  ?  Ah,  there  we  stop,  and  cannot 
bring 
Our   faith   up  to  the  leap,  with  history's 
bell 
So  heavy  round  the  neck  of  it  —  albeit 
We  fain  would  grant  the  possibility 
For  thy  sake,  Pio  Nono  ! 

Stretch  thy  feet 
In  that  case  —  I  will  kiss  them  reverently 
As  any  pilgrim  to  the  papal  seat:  870 

And,  such  proved  possible,  thy  throne  to 
rae 
Shall  seem  as  holy  a  place  as  Pellico's 
Venetian  dungeon,  or  as  Spielberg's  grate 
At  which  the  Lombard  woman  hung  the 
rose 
Of  her  sweet  soul  by  its  own  dewy  weight, 
To  feel  the  dungeon  round  her  sunshine 
close. 
And  pining  so,  died  early,  yet  too  late 
For  what  she  suffered.     Yea,  I  will  not 
choose 
Betwixt   thy   throne.  Pope    Pius,  and    the 
spot 
Marked  red  for  ever,  spite  of  rains  and 
dews,  880 

Where  Two  fell  riddled  by  the  Austrian's 
shot. 
The  brothers  Bandiera,  who  accuse. 
With   one    same    mother-voice   and    face 
(that  what 
They  speak  may  be  invincible)  the  sins 
Of  earth's  tormentors  before  God  the  just, 
Until  the  unconscious  thunderbolt  begins 
To  loosen  in  his  grasp. 

And  yet  we  must 
Beware,  and  mark  the  natural  kiths  and 
kins 
Of  circumstance  and  office,  and  distrust 
The  rich  man  reasoning  in  a  poor  man's 
hut,  890 

The   poet    who    neglects    pure    truth    to 
prove 
Statistic  fact,  the  child  who  leaves  a  rut 
For  a  smoother  road,  the  priest  who  vows 
his  glove 
Exhales  no  grace,  the  prince  who  walks 
afoot. 


The  woman  who  has   sworn   she  will  not 
love. 
And  this  Ninth  Pius  in  Seventh  Greg- 
ory's chair. 

With  Andrea  Doria's  forehead  ! 

Count  what  goes 
To  making  up  a  pope,  before  he  wear 
That   triple  crown.     We  pass   the  world- 
wide throes 
Which  went  to  make  the  popedom,  — 
the  despair  900 

Of   free  men,  good   men,   wise   men;   the 
dread  shows 
Of  women's  faces,  by  the  faggot's  flash 
Tossed  out,  to  the  minutest  stir  and  throb 
O'  the  white  lips,  the  least  tremble  of  a 
lash. 
To  glut  the  red  stare  of  a  licensed  mob; 
The  short   mad    cries   down    oubliettes, 
and  plash 
So  horribly  far  off;    priests,  trained  to  rob, 
And  kings  that,  like  encouraged  night- 
mares, sat 
On     nations'     hearts     most    heavily    dis- 
tressed 
With  monstrous  sights  and  apophthegms 
of  fate  —  910 

We    pass     these    things,  —  because    '  the 
times '  are  prest 
With  necessary  charges  of  the  weight 
Of  all  this  sin,  and  •  Calvin,  for  the  rest. 
Made  bold  to  burn  Servetus.     Ah,  men 
err  ! '  — 
And  so  do  churches  !  which  is  all  we  mean 

To  bring  to  proof  in  any  register 
Of  theological  fat  kine  and  lean: 

So  drive  them  back  into  the  pens  !  re- 
fer 
Old  sins  (with  pourpoint,  '  quotha '  and  '  I 
ween  ') 
Entirely  to  the  old  times,  the  old  times; 
Nor  ever  ask  why  this  preponderant        921 
Infallible   pure    Church    could   set    her 
chimes 
Most  loudly  then,  just  then,  —  most  jubi- 
lant, 
Precisely  then,  when  mankind  stood  in 
crimes 
Full  heart-deep,  and  Heaven's  judgments 
were  not  scant. 
Inquire  still  less,  what  signifies  a  church 
Of  perfect  inspiration  and  pure  laws 

Who  burns  the  first  man  with  a  brim- 
stone-torch, 


238 


CASA   GUIDI   WINDOWS 


And  grinds  the  second,  bone  by  bone,  be- 
cause 
The   times,  forsooth,  are   used   to   rack 
and  scorch !  930 

What  is  a  holy  Church  unless  she  awes 
The  times  down  from  their  sins  ?     Did 
Christ  select 
Such  amiable  times  to  come  and  teach 
Love  to,  and  mercy  ?     The  whole  world 
were  wrecked 
If   every    mere    great   man,  who  lives   to 
reach 
A  little  leaf  of  popular  respect, 
Attained     not     simply    by     some    special 
breach 
In   the   age's    customs,  by  some    prece- 
dence 
In  thought  and  act,  which,  having  proved 
him  higher 
Than   those   he   lived   with,  proved  his 
competence  940 

In  helping  them  to  wonder  and  aspire. 

My  words   are   guiltless  of   the    bigot's 
sense ; 
My  soul  has  fire  to  mingle  with  the  tire 

Of  all  these  souls,  within  or  out  of  doors 
Of  Rome's  church  or  another.     I  believe 
In  one  Priest,  and  one  temple  with  its 
floors 
Of   shining   jasper   gloom'd  at   morn  and 
eve 
By  countless  knees  of  earnest  auditors, 
And  crystal  walls  too  lucid  to  perceive. 
That  none  may  take  the  measure  of  the 
place  950 

And  say  '  So  far  the  porphyry,  then,  the 
flint  — 
To  this   mark   mercy   goes,   and   there 
ends  grace,' 
Though  still  the  permeable  crystals  hint 
At  some  white  starry  distance,  bathed  in 
space. 
I   feel   how   nature's   ice-crusts   keep   the 
dint 
Of  undersprings  of  silent  Deity. 
I  hold  the  articulated  gospels  which 

Show  Christ  among  us  crucified  on  tree. 
I  love  all  who  love  truth,  if  poor  or  rich 
In  what  tliey  have  won  of  truth  posses- 
sively. 960 
No    altars    and    no    hands    defiled    with 
pitch 
Shall  scare  me  off,  but  I  will  pray  and 
eat 


With  all   these  —  taking  leave  to  choose 
my  ewers  — 
And  say  at  last  '  Your  visible  churches 
cheat 
Their  inward  types;  and,  if  a  church  as- 
sures 
Of  standing  without  failure  and  defeat. 
The  same  both  fails  and  lies.' 

To  leave  which  lures 
Of  wider  subject  through  past  years,  — 
behold. 
We  come  back  from  the  popedom  to  the 
pope. 
To  ponder  what  he  must  be,  ere  we  are 
bold  970 

For    what   he    may   be,   with   our    heavy 
hope 
To  trust  upon  his  soul.    So,  fold  by  fold, 
Explore  this  mummy  in  the  priestly  cope. 
Transmitted  through  the  darks  of  time, 
to  catch 
The  man  within  the  wrappage,  and  discern 
How  he,  an  honest  man,  upon  the  watch 
Full  fifty  years  for  what  a  man  may  learn. 
Contrived  to  get  just  there;  with  what 
a  snatch 
Of  old-world  oboli  he  had  to  earn 

The    passage    through;     with    what    a 
drowsy  sop,  980 

To  drench  the. busy  barkings  of  his  brain; 
What  ghosts  of  pale  tradition,  wreathed 
with  hope 
'Gainst  wakeful  thought,  he  had  to  enter- 
tain 
For   heavenly    visions;    and   consent   to 
stop 
The  clock  at  noon,  and  let  the  hour  remain 

(Without  vain  windings-up)  inviolate 
Against  all  chimings  from  the  belfry.     Lo, 
From  every  given  pope  you  must  abate. 
Albeit  you  love  him,  some  things  —  good, 
you  know  — 
Which  every  given  heretic  you  hate,     990 
Assumes  for  his,  as  being  plainly  so. 

A  pope  must  hold  by  popes  a  little,  — 
yes, 
By  councils,  from  Nicaea  up  to  Trent,  — 

By  hierocratic  empire,  more  or  less 
Irresponsible  to  men,  —  he  must  resent 
Each  man's   particular   conscience,  and 
repress 
Inquiry,  meditation,  argument. 

As  tyrants  faction.     Also,  he  must  not 
Love  truth  too  dangerously,  but  prefer 


CASA   GUIDI   WINDOWS 


239 


'  The  interests  of  the  Church '  (because 
a  blot  1000 

Is  better  than  a  rent,  in  miniver)  — 

Submit  to  see  the  people  swallow  hot 
Husk-porridge,  which  his  chartered  church- 
men stir 
Quoting  the  only  true  God's  epigraph, 
*  Feed  my  lambs,  Peter  !  '  —  must  consent 
to  sit 
Attesting   with  his    pastoral    ring    and 
stafi: 
To  such  a  picture  of  our  Lady,  hit 

Off   well   by   artist-angels  (though    not 
half 
As  fair  as  Giotto  would  have  painted  it)  — 
To    such   a   vial,  where    a   dead   man's 
blood  loio 

Runs  yearly  warm  beneath  a  churchman's 
finger,  — 
To  such  a  holy  house  of  stone  and  wood, 
Whereof  a  cloud  of  angels  was  the  bringer 
From   Bethlehem  to   Loreto.     Were   it 
good 
For  any  pope  on  earth  to  be  a  flinger 
Of     stones    against    these    high-niched 
counterfeits  ? 
Apostates  only  are  iconoclasts. 

He  dares  not  say,  while  this  false  thing 
abets 
That  true  thing,  '  This  is  false.'     He  keeps 
his  fasts 
And  prayers,  as   prayer  and   fast  were 
silver  frets  1020 

To  change  a  note  upon  a  string  that  lasts, 

And  make  a  lie  a  virtue.     Now,  if  he 
Did    more    than   this,    higher   hoped,   and 
braver  dared, 
I  think  he  were  a  pope  in  jeopardy. 
Or  no  pope  rather,  for  his  truth  had  barred 
The  vaulting  of  his  life,  —  and  certainly, 
If  he  do  only  this,  mankind's  regard 

Moves    on   from    him   at    once,  to  seek 
some  new 
Teacher   and    leader.     He    is    good    and 
great 
According  to  the  deeds  a  pope  can  do; 
Most  liberal,  save  those  bonds;  affection- 
ate, 103 1 
As  princes  may  be,  and,  as  priests  are, 
true; 
But  only  the  Ninth  Pius  after  eight, 

When  all's  praised  most.     At  best  and 
hopefuUest, 
He  's  pope  —  we  want   a  man  !   his  heart 
beats  warm, 


But,  like  the  prince   enchanted   to   the 
waist, 
He  sits  in  stone  and  hardens  by  a  charm 
Into   the   marble   of    his   throne    high- 
placed. 
Mild  benediction  waves  his  saintly  arm  — 
So,  good  !  but  what  we  want 's  a  perfect 
man,  1040 

Complete  and  all  alive:  half  travertine 
Half   suits    our   need,  and  ill  subserves 
our  plan. 
Feet,   knees,  nerves,  sinews,  energies  di- 
vine 
Were  never  yet  too  much  for  men  who 
ran 
In  such  hard  ways  as  must  be  this  of  thine, 
Deliverer  whom  we  seek,  whoe'er  thou 
art. 
Pope,  prince,  or  peasant  !     If,  indeed,  the 
first. 
The  noblest,  therefore  !  since  the  heroic 
heart 
Within  thee  must  be  great  enough  to  burst 
Those  trammels  buckling   to  the  baser 
part  1050 

Thy  saintly  peers  in   Rome,  who   crossed 
and  cursed 
With  the  same  finger. 

Come,  appear,  be  found, 
If    pope  or  peasant,  come  !   we   hear  the 
cock. 
The  courtier  of  the  mountains  when  first 
crowned 
With   golden   dawn;    and    orient    glories 
flock 
To    meet    the    sun    upon    the    highest 
ground. 
Take  voice  and  work  !  we  wait  to  hear  thee 
knock 
At  some  one  of  our  Florentine  nine  gates, 
On  each  of  which  was  imaged  a  sublime 

Face  of  a  Tuscan  genius,  which,  for  hate's 
And  love's  sake,  both,  our  Florence  in  her 
prime  1061 

Turned    boldly   on    all    comers    to   her 
states. 
As  heroes  turned  their  shields  in  antique 
time 
Emblazoned  with  honorable  acts.     And 
though 
The  gates  are  blank  now  of  such  images, 

And  Petrarch  looks  no  more  from  Nicolo 
Toward   dear   Arezzo,    'twixt   the   acacia- 
trees. 


240 


CASA   GUIDI   WINDOWS 


Nor  Dante,  from  gate  Gallo  —  still  we 
know, 
Despite  the  razing  of  the  blazonries, 

Remains  the  consecration  of  the  shield: 
The  dead  heroic  faces  will  start  out        1071 
On  all  these  gates,  if  foes  should  take  the 
field, 
And  blend  sublimely,  at  the  earliest  shout. 
With   living   heroes  who  will   scorn   to 
yield 
A  hair's-breadth  even,  when,  gazing  round 
about, 
They  find  in  what  a  glorious  company 
They  fight  the  foes  of  Florence.     Who  will 
grudge 
His  one  poor  life,  when  that  great  man 
we  see 
Has  given  five  hundred  years,  the  world 
being  judge. 
To  help  the  glory  of  his  Italy  ?  1080 

Who,  born  the  fair  side  of  the  Alps,  will 
budge. 
When  Dante  stays,  when  Ariosto  stays. 
When  Petrarch  stays  for  ever  ?     Ye  bring 
swords, 
My   Tuscans  ?     Ay,   if   wanted   in   this 
haze, 
Bring   swords:    but   first    bring   souls!  — 
bring  thoughts  and  words, 
Unrusted  by  a  tear  of  yesterday's. 
Yet  awful  by  its  wrong,  —  and  cut  these 
cords. 
And  mow  this   green   lush  falseness  to 
the  roots, 
And   shut   the   mouth  of   hell   below  the 
swathe  ! 
And,  if  ye  can  bring  songs  too,  let  the 
lute's  1090 

Recoverable  music  softly  bathe 

Some    poet's    hand,    that,   through    all 
bursts  and  bruits 
Of  popular  passion,  all  unripe  and  rathe 

Convictions  of  the  popular  intellect. 
Ye  may  not  lack  a  finger  up  the  air, 

Annunciative,  reproving,  pure,  erect. 
To  show  which  way  your  first  Ideal  bare 
The  whiteness  of  its  wings  when  (sorely 
pecked 
By  falcons  on  your  wrists)  it  unaware 
Arose  up  overhead  and  out  of  sight,   noo 

Meanwhile,    let   all   the   far   ends   of   the 
world 
Breathe  back  the  deep  breath  of   their 
old  delight, 


To  swell  the  Italian  banner  just  unfurled. 
Help,  lands  of  Europe  !  for,  if  Austria 
fight. 
The  drums  will  bar  your  slumber.     Had 
ye  curled 
The   laurel   for   your    thousand   artists* 
brows, 
If  these  Italian  hands  had  planted  none  ? 

Can  any  sit  down  idle  in  the  house 
Nor  hear  appeals  from  Buonarroti's  stone 
And   Raffael's   canvas,   rousing   and   to 
rouse?  mo 

Where  's  Poussin's  master  ?     Gallic  Avig- 
non 
Bred  Laura,  and   Vaucluse's  fount   has 
stirred 
The  heart  of  France  too  strongly,  as  it  lets 
Its   little   stream   out    (like  a   wizard's 
bird 
Which  bounds  upon  its  emerald  wing  and 
wets 
The  rocks  on  each  side),  that  she  should 
not  gird 
Her  loins  with  Charlemagne's  sword  when 
foes  beset 
The    country   of   her    Petrarch.     Spain 
may  well 
Be  minded  how  from  Italy  she  caught. 
To   mingle   with    her   tinkling   Moorish 
bell,  1 120 

A  fuller  cadence  and  a  subtler  thought. 
And  even   the  New  World,  the   recep- 
tacle 
Of   freemen,  may   send   glad   men,  as   it 
ought, 
To  greet  Vespucci  Amerigo's  door. 
While  England  claims,  by  trump  of  poetry, 

Verona,  Venice,  the  Ravenna-shore, 
And  dearer  holds  John  Milton's  Fiesole 
Than  Langlaud's  Malvern  with  the  stars 
in  flower. 

And  Vallombrosa,  we  two  went  to  see 
Last  June,  beloved  companion,  —  where 
sublime  1130 

The  mountains  live  in  holy  families, 

And  the  slow  pinewoods  ever  climb  and 
climb 
Half  up  their  breasts,  just  stagger  as  they 
seize 
Some  gray  crag,  drop  back  with  it  many 
a  time. 
And  straggle  blindly  down  the  precipice. 
The  Vallombrosan   brooks  were  strewn 
as  thick 


CASA  GUIDI   WINDOWS 


241 


That    June    day,    knee-deep    with     dead 
beechen  leaves, 
As  Milton  saw  them  ere  his  heart  grew 
sick 
And  his   eyes   blind.     I  think   the  monks 
and  beeves 
Are  all  the  same  too:  scarce  have  they 
changed  the  wick  1140 

On  good  Saint  Gualbert's  altar  which  re- 
ceives 
The  convent's  pilgrims;  and  the  pool  in 
front 
(Wherein  the  hill-stream  trout  are  cast,  to 
wait 
The  beatific  vision  and  the  grunt 
Used  at  refectory)  keeps  its  weedy  state, 
To    baffle    saintly    abbots    who    would 
count 
The  fish  across  their  breviary  nor  'bate 
The  measure  of  their  steps.     O  water- 
falls 
And   forests  !   sound  and   silence  !   moun- 
tains bare 
That   leap  up  peak  by  peak  and   catch 
the  palls  1 150 

Of   purple   and   silver   mist   to  rend   and 
share 
With  one  another,  at  electric  calls 
Of  life  in  the  sunbeams,  —  till  we  cannot 
dare 
Fix  your  shapes,  count  your  number  !  we 
must  think 
Your  beauty  and  your  glory  helped  to  fill 

The  cup  of  Milton's  soul  so  to  the  brink, 
He  never   more   was   thirsty  when  God's 
will 
Had    shattered    to   his    sense    the   last 
chain-link 
By   which   he    had   drawn   from  Nature's 
visible 
The     fresh     well-water.     Satisfied     by 


this. 


1 160 


He     sang     of      Adam's      paradise     and 
smiled, 
Remembering  Vallombrosa.     Therefore 
is 
The   place    divine    to    English   man    and 
child. 
And  pilgrims  leave  their  souls  here  in  a 
kiss. 

For  Italy's    the   whole   earth's    treasury, 
piled 
With  reveries  of  gentle  ladies,  flung 


Aside,  like  ravelled  silk,  from  life's  worn 
stuff; 
With  coins  of  scholars'  fancy,  which,  be- 
ing rung 
On  work-day   counter,  still   sound   silver- 
proof; 
In     short,    with     all     the     dreams     of 
dreamers  young,  1170 

Before  their  heads  have  time  for  slipping 
off 
Hope's  pillow  to  the  ground.     How  oft, 
indeed, 
We  've  sent  our  souls  out  from  the  rigid 
north, 
On   bare   white   feet   which   would  not 
print  nor  bleed. 
To  climb  the  Alpine  passes  and  look  forth, 
Where     booming     low     the     Lombard 
rivers  lead 
To    gardens,    vineyards,    all    a    dream   is 
worth,  — 
Sights,   thou    and   I,    Love,   have    seen 
afterward 
From  Tuscan  Bellosguardo,  wide  awake, 
When,  standing   on   the    actual   blessed 
sward  nSo 

Where  Galileo  stood  at  nights  to  take 
The  vision  of  the  stars,  we  have  found  it 
hard, 
Gazing   upon   the   earth    and    heaven,    to 
make 
A  choice  of  beauty. 

Therefore  let  us  all 
Refreshed  in  England  or  in  other  land. 
By  visions,  with  their  fountain-rise  and 
fall. 
Of  this  earth's  darling,  —  we,    who  under- 
stand 
A  little  how  the  Tuscan  musical 
Vowels   do   round   themselves   as   if   they 
planned  1189 

Eternities  of  separate  sweetness,  —  we, 
Who  loved  Sorrento  vines  in  picture-book. 
Or  ere  in  wine-cup  we  pledged  faith  or 
glee,  — 
Who  loved  Rome's  wolf  with  demi-gods  at 
suck. 
Or  ere  we  loved  truth's  own  divinity,  — 
Who   loved,  in   brief,  the  classic  hill  and 
brook, 
And    Ovid's    dreaming    tales    and   Pe- 
trarch's song. 
Or  ere  we  loved  Love's  self  even,  —  let  us 
give 


242 


CASA   GUIDI   WINDOWS 


The  blessing  of  our  souls  (and  wish  them 
strong 
To  bear  it  to  the  height  where  prayers  ar- 
rive, 

When   faithful    spirits   pray    against   a 
wrong,)  I200 

To  this  great  cause  of  southern  men  who 
strive 

In   God's   name   for   man's  rights,    and 
shall  not  fail. 

Behold,   they   shall   not  fail.     The   shouts 
ascend 
Above  the  shrieks,  in  Naples,  and  pre- 
vail. 
Rows  of  shot  corpses,  waiting  for  the  end 
Of  burial,  seem  to  smile  up  straight  and 
pale 
Into  the  azure  air  and  apprehend 

That    final    gun-flash    from    Palermo's 
coast 
Which  lightens  their  apocalypse  of  death. 
So  let  them  die  !     The  world  shows  no- 
thing lost;  12 lo 
Therefore,    not   blood.     Above   or   under- 
neath, 
What  matter,  brothers,  if  ye  keep  your 
post 
On   duty's   side  ?      As   sword   returns   to 
sheath. 
So  dust  to  grave,  but  souls  find  place  in 
Heaven. 
Heroic  daring  is  the  true  success, 

The  eucharistic  bread  requires  no  leaven ; 
And  though  your  ends  were  hopeless,  we 
should  bless 
Your  cause  as  holy.     Strive  —  and,  hav- 
ing striven. 
Take,  for  God's  recompense,  that  righteous- 
ness ! 


PART   II 

I  wrote  a  meditation  and  a  dream. 

Hearing  a  little  child  sing  in  the  street: 
I  leant  upon  his  music  as  a  theme, 

Till  it  gave  way  beneath  my  heart's  full 
beat 
Which  tried  at  an  exultant  prophecy 

But   dropped   before   the   measure   was 
complete  — 
Alas,  for  songs  and  hearts  !     O  Tuscany, 
O    Dante's    Florence,   is    the    type   too 
plain  ? 


Didst  thou,  too,  only  sing  of  liberty 

As  little  children  take  up  a  high  strain  lo 
With  unintentioned  voices,  and  break  off 

To  sleep  upon  their  mothers'  knees  again  ? 
Couldst  thou  not  watch  one  hour  ?  then, 
sleep  enough  — 
That   sleep   may    hasten   manhood   and 
sustain 
The  faint  pale  spirit  with  some  muscular 
stuff. 

But   we,  who  cannot   slumber   as   thou 
dost, 
We  thinkers,  who  have  thought  for   thee 
and  failed. 
We  hopers,  who  have  hoped  for  thee  and 
lost. 
We  poets,  wandered  round  by  dreams,  who 
hailed 
From    this   Atrides'    roof    (with   lintel- 
post  20 
Which  still  drips  blood,  —  the  worse  part 
hath  prevailed) 
The  fire-voice  of  the  beacons  to  declare 
Troy     taken,     sorrow     ended,  —  cozened 
through 
A  crimson  sunset  in  a  misty  air, 
What  now  remains  for  such  as  we,  to  do  ? 
God's  judgments,  peradventure,  will  He 
bare 
To  the  roots  of  thunder,  if  we  kneel  and 
sue  ? 

From    Casa    Guidi   windows    I  looked 

forth, 

And  saw  ten  thousand  eyes  of  Florentines 

Flash  back  the  triumph  of  the  Lombard 

north,  —  30 

Saw  fifty  banners,  freighted  with  the  signs 

And  exultations  of  the  awakened  earth, 
Float  on  above  the  multitude  in  lines, 

Straight  to  the  Pitti.     So,  the  vision  went. 
And  so,   between    those    populous    rough 
hands 
Raised  in  the  sun,  Duke  Leopold  outleant. 
And  took  the   patriot's  oath  which  hence- 
forth stands 
Among  the  oaths  of  perjurers,  eminent 
To  catch  the  lightnings  ripened  for  these 
lands. 

Why    swear    at    all,   thou   false   Duke 
Leopold  ?  40 

What   need   to    swear  ?      What   need   to 
boast  thy  blood 


CASA   GUIDI   WINDOWS 


243 


Unspoilt  of  Austria,  and  thy  heart  unsold 
Away  from  Florence  ?     It  was  understood 
God  made  thee  not  too  vigorous  or  too 
bold; 
And   men    had    patience    with   thy   quiet 
mood, 
And  women,  pity,  as  they  saw  thee  pace 
Their  festive  streets  with  premature  gray 
hairs. 
We  turned  the  mild  dejection  of  thy  face 
To  princely   meanings,  took  thy  wrinkling 
cares 
For  ruffling  hopes,  and  called  thee  weak, 
not  base.  50 

Nay,  better    light   the    torches   for   more 
prayers 
And  smoke  the   pale   Madonnas  at   the 
shrine. 
Being    still    '  our   poor    Grand-duke,    our 
good  Grand-duke, 
Who   cannot   help   the  Austrian   in   his 
line,'  — 
Than  write  an  oath  upon  a  nation's  book 
For  men  to  spit  at  with  scorn's  blurring 
brine  ! 
Who   dares   forgive   what  none  can  over- 
look? 

For  me,  I  do  repent  me  in  this  dust 
Of  towns  and  temples    which    makes    It- 
aly, — 
I  sigh  amid  the  sighs  which  breathe  a 
gust  60 

Of  dying  century  to  century 

Around  us  on  the  uneven  crater-crust 
Of  these  old  worlds,  —  I  bow  mv  soul  and 
knee. 
Absolve    me,   patriots,    of   my   woman's 
fault 
That  ever  I  believed  the  man  was  true  ! 
These  sceptred  strangers  shun  the  com- 
mon salt. 
And,  therefore,  when  the  general  board  's 
in  view 
And  they  stand  up  to  carve  for  blind  and 
halt. 
The  wise  suspect  the  viands  which  ensue. 
I   much    repent   that,  in  this  time  and 
place  70 

Where   many  corpse-lights    of   experience 
burn 
From  Caesar's  and   Lorenzo's   festering 
race. 
To   enlighten   groping   reasoners,  I  could 
learn 


No  better  counsel  for  a  simple  case 
Than  to  put  faith  in  princes,  in  my  turn. 
Had  all  the   death-piles  of  the  ancient 
years 
Flared  up  in  vain  before  me  ?  knew  I  not 
What  stench  arises  from   some   purple 
gears  ? 
And  how  the  sceptres  witness  whence  they 

got  . 
Their  briar-wood,  crackling  through  the 

atmosphere's  80 

Foul   smoke,  by  princely   perjuries,    kept 
hot? 
Forgive  me,  ghosts  of  patriots,  —  Brutus, 
thou. 
Who  trailest  downhill  into  life  again 
Thy  blood-weighed   cloak,  to   indict  me 
with  thy  slow 
Reproachful   eyes  !  —  for  being  taught  in 
vain 
That,  while  the  illegitimate  Csesars  show 
Of  meaner  stature  than  the  first  full  strain 
(Confessed     incompetent     to     conquer 
Gaul), 
They  swoon  as  feebly  and  cross  Rubicons 

As  rashly  as  any  Julius  of  them  all  !     90 
Forgive,  that  I  forgot  the  mind  which  runs 
Through  absolute  races,  too  unsceptical ! 
I  saw  the  man  among  his  little  sons. 

His  lips  were  warm  with  kisses  while  he 
swore ; 
And  I,  because  I  am  a  woman  —  I, 

Who  felt  my  own  child's  coming  life  be- 
fore 
The  prescience  of  my  soul,  and  held  faith 

liigh,  — 
I  could  not  bear  to  think,  whoever  bore, 
That  lips,  so  warmed,  could  shape  so  cold  a 
lie. 

From    Casa   Guidi   windows    I    looked 

out,  100 

Again  looked,  and  beheld  a  different  sight. 
The  Duke  had  fled  before  the  people's 
shout 
*  Long  live  the  Duke  ! '     A  people,  to  speak 
right. 
Must  speak  as  soft   as  courtiers,  lest  a 
doubt 
Should  curdle  brows  of  gracious  sovereigns, 
white. 
Moreover  that  same  dangerous  shouting 
meant 
Some  gratitude  for  future  favors,  which 
Were  only  promised,  the  Constituent 


244 


CASA   GUIDI   WINDOWS 


Implied,  the  whole  being   subject   to   the 
hitch 
In  'motu  proprios,'  very  incident         no 
To  all  these  Czars,  from  Paul   to   Paulo- 
vitch. 
Wliereat  the  people  rose  up  in  the  dust 
Of  the  ruler's  flying  feet,  and  shouted  still 
And  loudly;  only,  this  time,  as  was  just, 
Not  'Live   the    Duke,'  who  had  fled   for 
good  or  ill. 
But '  Live  the  People,'  who  remained  and 
must. 
The  unrenounced  and  unrenounceable. 
Long  live  the  people  !     How  they  lived  ! 
and  boiled 
And  bubbled  in  the  cauldron  of  the  street: 
How  the  young  blustered,  nor   the  old 
recoiled,  120 

And  what  a  thunderous  stir  of  tongues  and 
feet 
Trod  flat  the  palpitating  bells  and  foiled 
The  joy-guns  of  their  echo,  shattering  it  ! 
How  down  they  pulled  the  Duke's  arms 
everywhere  ! 
How  up  they  set  new  cafd-signs,  to  show 
Where  patriots  might  sip  ices   in   pure 
air  — 
(The  fresh  paint  smelling  somewhat)  !    To 
and  fro 
How    marched    the    civic    guard,    and 
stopped  to  stare 
When  boys  broke  windows  in  a  civic  glow  ! 
How   rebel    songs  were   sung   to    loyal 
tunes,  130 

And  bishops  cursed  in  ecclesiastic  metres: 
How  all  the  Circoli  grew  large  as  moons. 
And  all  the  speakers,  moonstruck,  —  thank- 
ful greeters 
Of  prospects  which  struck  poor  the  ducal 
boons, 
A   mere   free    Press,   and    Chambers !  — 
frank  repeaters 
Of  great  Guerazzi's  praises  —  '  There  's 
a  man. 
The  father  of  the  land,  who,  truly  great. 

Takes  off  that  national  disgrace  and  ban, 
The  farthing  tax  upon  our  Florence-gate, 

And  saves  Italia  as  he  only  can  ! '         140 
How  all  the   nobles  fled,  and  would   not 
wait, 
Because  they  were  most  noble,  —  which 
being  so. 
How  Liberals  vowed  to  burn  their  palaces, 
Because  free  Tuscans  were  not  free  to 
go  ! 


How  grown  men  raged  at  Austria's  wicked- 
ness. 
And  smoked,  —  while  fifty  striplings  in 
a  row 
Marched   straight   to    Piedmont    for    the 
wrong's  redress  ! 
You  say  we  failed  in  duty,  we  who  wore 
Black  velvet  like  Italian  democrats. 

Who  slashed  our  sleeves   like   patriots, 
nor  forswore  150 

The  true  republic  in  the  form  of  hats  ? 
We   chased    the    archbishop    from   the 
Duomo  door. 
We  chalked  the  walls  with  bloody  caveats 
Against  all  tyrants.     If  we  did  not  fight 
Exactly,  we  fired  muskets  up  the  air 

To  show  that  victory  was  ours  of  right. 
We  met,  had  free  discussion  everywhere 
(Except  perhaps  i'  the  Chambers)  day 
and  night. 
We  proved  the  poor  should  be  employed, 
.  .  .  that 's  fair,  — 
And  yet   the  rich  not  worked  for  any- 
wise, —  160 
Pay  certified,  yet  payers  abrogated,  — 

Full  work  secured,  yet  liabilities 
To  overwork  excluded,  —  not  one  bated 
Of  all  our  holidays,  that  still,  at  twice 
Or  thrice  a  week,  are  moderately  rated. 
We  proved  that  Austria  was  dislodged, 
or  would 
Or  should  be,  and  that  Tuscany  in  arms 
Should,  would  dislodge  her,  ending  the 
old  feud; 
And  yet,  to  leave  our  piazzas,  shops,  and 
farms. 
For  the  simple  sake  of  fighting,  was  not 
good —  170 

We    proved    that    also.     '  Did   we    carry 
charms 
Against  being  killed  ourselves,  that  we 
should  rush 
On    killing  others  ?  what,  desert  herewith 
Our  wives    and    mothers  ?  —  was   that 
duty  ?  tush  ! ' 
At  which  we  shook  the  sword  within  the 
sheath 
Like  heroes  —  only  louder;  and  the  flush 
Ran    up  the    cheek    to    meet    the   future 
wreath. 
Nay,  what  we  proved,  we  shouted  —  how 
we  shouted 
(Especially  the  boys  did),  boldly  planting 
That    tree    of  liberty,   whose    fruit    is 
doubted,  180 


CASA   GUIDI   WINDOWS 


245 


Because  the  roots  are  not  of  nature's  grant- 
ing ! 
A  tree  of  good  and  evil :  none,  without  it, 

Grow   gods;    alas   and,   with   it,  men  are 
wanting  ! 

O  holy  knowledge,  holy  liberty, 
O  holy  rights  of  nations  !     If  I  speak 

These  bitter  things  against  the  jugglery 
Of  days  that  in  your  names  proved  blind 
and  weak. 
It  is  that  tears  are  bitter.     When  we  see 
The  brown  skulls  grin  at  death  in  church- 
yards bleak, 
We  do  not  cry  '  This  Yorick  is  too  light,' 
For  death  grows  deathlier  with  that  mouth 
he  makes.  191 

So   with   my   mocking:  bitter   things   I 
write 
Because  my  soul  is  bitter  for  your  sakes, 
O  freedom  !     O  my  Florence  ! 

Men  who  might 
Do  greatly  in  a  universe  that  breaks 

And  burns,  must  ever  know  before  they  do. 
Courage  and  patience  are  but  sacrifice; 

And  sacrifice  is  offered  for  and  to 
Something  conceived  of.     Each  man  pays  a 
price 
For     what     himself     counts     precious, 
whether  true  200 

Or  false  the  appreciation  it  implies. 

But  here,  — no  knowledge,  no  conception, 
nought ! 
Desire  was  absent,  that  provides  great  deeds 
From   out   the  greatness   of  prevenient 
thought: 
And  action,  action,  like  a  flame  that  needs 
A  steady  breath  and  fuel,  being  caught 
Up,  like  a  burning  reed  from  other  reeds. 
Flashed  in  the  empty  and  uncertain  air, 
Then  wavered,  then  went  out.    Behold,  who 
blames 
A   crooked  course,  when  not   a  goal  is 
there  210 

To  round  the  fervid  striving  of  the  games  ? 

An  ignorance  of  means  may  minister 
To  greatness,  but  an  igorance  of  aims 

Makes  it  impossible  to  be  great  at  all. 
So  with  our  Tuscans  !     Let  none  dare  to 
say, 
*  Here  virtue  never  can  be  national; 
Here  fortitude  can  never  cut  a  way 

Between   the   Austrian  muskets,  out  of 
thrall:' 


I  tell  you  rather  that,  whoever  may 

Discern  true  ends  here,  shall  grow  pure 
enough  220 

To  love  them,  brave  enough  to  strive  for 
them, 
And  strong   to  reach  them  though   the 
roads  be  rough: 
That  having  learnt  —  by  no  mere  apoph- 
thegm — 
Not  just  the  draping  of  a  graceful  stuff 
About  a  statue,  broidered  at  the  hem,  — 
Not  just  the  trilling  on  an  opera-stage 
Of  '  libertk  '  to  bravos  —  (a  fair  word. 

Yet  too  allied  to  inarticulate  rage 
And   breathless  sobs,  for   singing,   though 
the  chord 
Were  deeper   than  they  struck   it)  but 
the  gauge  230 

Of  civil  wants  sustained   and  wrongs  ab- 
horred, 
The  serious  sacred  meaning  and  full  use 
Of  freedom  for  a  nation,  — then,  indeed, 

Our  Tuscans,  underneath  the  bloody  dews 
Of  some  new  morning,  rising  up  agreed 
And  bold,  will  want  no  Saxon  souls  or 
thews 
To  sweep   their  piazzas  clear  of  Austria's 
breed. 

Alas,  alas  !  it  was  not  so  this  time. 
Conviction   was   not,    courage  failed,   and 
truth 
Was  something  to  be  doubted  of.     The 
mime  240 

Changed  masks,  because  a  mime.    The  tide 
as  smooth 
In  running  in  as  out,  no  sense  of  crime 
Because  no  sense  of  virtue,  —  sudden  ruth 
Seized  on  the  people:  they  would  have 
again 
Their  good  Grand-duke  and  leave  Guerazzi, 
though 
He  took  that  tax  from  Florence.    *  Much 
in  vain 
He    takes  it    from  the    market-carts,   we 
trow. 
While  urgent  that  no  market-men  remain, 
But  all  march  off  and  leave  the  spade  and 
plough. 
To   die  among   the  Lombards.     W^as  it 
thus  250 

The   dear  paternal    Duke  did  ?     Live  the 
Duke  ! ' 
At  which  the  joy-bells  multitudinous, 
Swept  by  an  opposite  wind,  as  loudly  shook. 


246 


CASA   GUIDI  WINDOWS 


Call   back   the  mild   archbishop   to    his 
house, 
To  bless   the   people    with  his   frightened 
look,  — 
He  shall  not  yet  be  hanged,  you  compre- 
hend ! 
Seize  on  Guerazzi;  guard  him  in  full  view, 
Or  else  we  stab  him  in  the  back,  to  end  ! 
Hub  out  those  chalked  devices,  set  up  new 
The    Duke's  arms,  doff  your   Phrygian 
caps,  and  mend  260 

The  pavement  of  the  piazzas  broke  into 
By  barren  poles  of  freedom:  smooth  the 
way 
For   the  ducal  carriage,  lest   his  highness 
sigh 
'  Here  trees  of  liberty  grew  yesterday  ! ' 
*  Long  live  the  Duke  ! '  —  how  roared  the 
cannonry. 
How  rocked  the  bell-towers,  and  through 
thickening  spray 
Of  nosegays,  wreaths,  and  kerchiefs  tossed 
on  high, 
How  marched  the  civic  guard,  the  people 
still 
Being  good  at  shouts,  especially  the  boys  ! 
Alas,  poor  people,  of  an  unfledged  will  270 
Most  fitly  expressed  by  such  a  callow  voice  ! 

Alas,  still  poorer  Duke,  incapable 
Of  being  worthy  even  of  so  much  noise  ! 

You  think  he  came  back  instantly,  with 
thanks 
And  tears  in  his  faint  eyes,  and  hands  ex- 
tended 
To  stretch   the  franchise  through   their 
utmost  ranks  ? 
That  having,  like  a  father,  apprehended. 

He  came  to  pardon  fatherly  those  pranks 
Played    out    and     now    in    filial    service 
ended  ?  — 
That  some  love-token,  like  a  prince,  he 
threw  280 

To  meet  the  people's  love-call,  in  return  ? 
Well,  how  he  came  I  will  relate  to  you; 
And  if  your  hearts  should  burn,  why,  hearts 
must  burn. 
To  make  the  ashes  which  things  old  and 
new 
Shall   be  washed  clean  in  —  as  this  Duke 
will  learn. 

From  Casa  Guidi  windows  gazing,  then, 
I   saw  and   witness   how  the  Duke  came 
back. 


The  regular  tramp  of  horse  and  tread  of 
men 
Did  smite  the  silence  like  an  anvil  black 
And  sparkless.     With  her  wide  eyes  at 
full  strain,  290 

Our  Tuscan  nurse  exclaimed  '  Alack,  alack, 
Signora  !   these  shall  be  the  Austrians.' 
, '  Nay, 
Be   still,'   I   answered,  'do   not  wake  the 
child  ! ' 
—  For  so,  my  two-months'  baby  sleeping 
lay 
In  milky  dreams  upon  the  bed  and  smiled, 
And  I  thought  '  He  shall  sleep  on,  while 
he  may, 
Through  the   world's   baseness:  not  being 
yet  defiled. 
Why  should  he  be  disturbed  by  what  is 
done  ? ' 
Then,    gazing,    I    beheld    the    long-drawn 
street 
Live  out,  from  end  to  end,   full  in  the 


sun, 


thousand ;    sword 


300 
and 


With      Austria's 
bayonet, 

Horse,  foot,  artillery,  —  cannons  rolling 
on 
Like  blind  slow  storm-clouds  gestant  with 
the  heat 
Of  undeveloped  lightnings,  each  bestrode 
By  a  single  man,  dust-white  from  head  to 
heel. 
Indifferent  as  the  dreadful  thing  he  rode, 
Like  a  sculptured  Fate  serene  and  terrible. 
As  some  smooth  river  which  has  over- 
flowed 
Will  slow  and  silent  down  its  current  wheel 
A  loosened  forest,  all  the  pines  erect,  310 
So  swept,  in  mute  significance  of  storm. 
The    marshalled  thousands;  not  an  eye 
deflect 
To  left  or  right,  to  catch  a  novel  form 

Of  Florence  city  adorned  by  architect 
And  carver,  or  of  Beauties  live  and  warm 
Scared  at  the  casements,  —  all,  straight- 
forward eyes 
And  faces,  held  as  steadfast  as  their  swords. 

And  cognizant  of  acts,  not  imageries. 
The  key,  O  Tuscans,  too  well  fits  the  wards  ! 
Ye  asked  for  mimes,  —  these  bring  you 
tragedies:  320 

For  purple,  —  these  shall  wear  it  as  your 
lords. 
Ye  played  like  children,  —  die  like  inno- 
cents. 


CASA   GUIDI   WINDOWS 


247 


Ye  mimicked  lightnings  with  a  torch.  —  the 
crack 
Of  the  actual  bolt,  your  pastime  circum- 
vents. 

Ye  called  up  ghosts,  believing  they  were 
slack 
To     follow    any    voice     from    Gilboa's 
tents,  .  .  . 

Here  's  Samuel  !  —  and,  so.    Grand-dukes 
come  back  ! 

And  yet,  they  are  no  prophets  though  they 
come : 
That  awful  mantle,  they  are  drawing  close, 
Shall  be  searched,  one  day,  by  the  shafts 
of  Doom  330 

Through    double   folds   now   hoodwinking 
the  brows. 
Resuscitated  monarchs  disentomb 
Grave-reptiles  with  them,  in  their  new  life- 
throes. 
Let   such   beware.     Behold,  the   people 
waits. 
Like  God:  as  He,  in  his  serene  of  might, 
So   they,   in    their   endurance    of    long 
straits. 
Ye  stamp  no  nation  out,  though  day  and 
night 
Ye  tread  them  with  that  absolute  heel 
which  grates 
And  grinds  them  flat  from  all  attempted 
height. 
You  kill  worms  sooner  with  a  garden- 
spade  340 
Than  you  kill  peoples:  peoples  will  not  die; 
The  tail  curls  stronger  when  you  lop  the 
head: 
They  writhe  at  every  wound  and  multiply 
And  shudder  into  a  heap  of  life  that 's 
made 
Thus  vital  from  God's  own  vitality. 

'T  is  hard  to  shrivel  back  a  day  of  God's 
Once  fixed  for  judgment;  't  is  as  hard  to 
change 
The    peoples,    when  they   rise   beneath 
their  loads 
And   heave   them   from   their  backs   with 
violent  wrench 
To  crush  the  oppressor:   for  that  judg- 
ment-rod 's  350 
The  measure  of  this  popular  revenge. 

Meanwhile,  from  Casa  Guidi   windows, 
we 
Beheld  the  armanent  of  Austria  flow 


Into  the  drowning  heart  of  Tuscany: 
And   yet   none   wept,  none    cursed,  or,    if 
't  was  so. 
They   wept   and  cursed  in  silence.     Si- 
lently 
Our   noisy  Tuscans  watched  the  invading 
foe; 
They  had  learnt  silence.     Pressed  against 
the  wall, 
And  grouped  upon  the  church-steps  oppo- 
site, 
A  few  pale  men  and  women  stared  at 
all.  360 

God  knows  what  they  were  feeling,  with 
their  white 
Constrained  faces,  they,  so  prodigal 
Of  cry  and  gesture  when  the  world  goes 
right. 
Or  wrong  indeed.     But  here  was  depth 
of  wrong. 
And   here,    still    water;  they    were    silent 
here; 
And  through  that  sentient  silence,  struck 
along 
That  measured  tramp  from  which  it  stood 
out  clear, 
Distinct   the   sound   and   silence,  like  a 
gong 
At  midnight,  each  by  the  other  awfuller,  — 
While  every  soldier  in  his  cap  displayed 
A  leaf  of  olive.     Dusty,  bitter  thing  !       371 
Was  such  plucked  at  Novara,  is  it  said  ? 

A  cry  is  up  in  England,  which  doth  ring 
The  hollow  world  through,  that  for  ends 
of  trade 
And  virtue  and  God's  better  worshipping, 
We  henceforth  should  exalt  the  name  of 
Peace 
And   leave  those  rusty  wars  that  eat  the 
soul,  — 
Besides    their   clippings  at   our    golden 
fleece. 
I,  too,  have  loved  peace,  and  from  bole  to 
bole 
Of  immemorial  undeciduous  trees        380 
Would  write,  as  lovers  use  upon  a  scroll, 
The  holy  name  of  Peace  and  set  it  high 
Where    none    could   pluck   it   down.      On 
trees,  I  say,  — 
Not   upon   gibbets  !  —  With  the  green- 
ery 
Of  dewy  branches  and  the  flowery  May, 

Sweet  mediation  betwixt  earth  and  sky 
Providing,  for  the  shepherd's  holiday. 


248 


CASA   GUIDI  WINDOWS 


Not  upon   gibbets  !  though  the    vulture 
leaves 
The  bones  to  quiet,  which  he  first  picked 
bare. 
Not  upon  dungeons  !  though  the  wretch 
who  grieves  390 

And    groans   within   less   stirs    the    outer 
air 
Than   any    little    field-mouse    stirs   the 
sheaves. 
Not  upon   chain-bolts  !  though  the  slave's 
despair 
Has  dulled  his  helpless  miserable  brain 
And  left  him  blank  beneath  the  freeman's 
whip 
To  sing  and  laugh  out  idiocies  of  pain. 
Nor  yet  on  starving  homes  !  where  many  a 
lip 
Has  sobbed  itself  asleep  through  curses 
vain. 
I  love  no  peace  which  is  not  fellowship 
And  which  includes  not  mercy.     I  would 
have  400 

Rather  the  raking  of  the  guns  across 

The  world,  and  shrieks  against  Heaven's 
architrave ; 
Rather  the  struggle  in  the  slippery  fosse 

Of  dying  men  and  horses,  and  the  wave 
Blood-bubbling.  .  .  .    Enough   said  !  —  by 
Christ's  own  cross, 
And  by  this  faint  heart  of  my  woman- 
hood, 
Such  things  are  better  than  a  Peace  that 
sits 
Beside  a  hearth  in  self-commended  mood, 
And  takes  no  thought  how  wind  and  rain 
by  fits 
Are   howling   out  of   doors  against  the 
good  410 

Of  the  poor  wanderer.     What  !  your  peace 
admits 
Of   outside   anguish   while    it  keeps   at 
home  ? 
[  loathe  to  take  its  name  upon  my  tongue. 
'T is  nowise  peace:  't  is  treason,  stiff  with 
doom,  — 
'T  is     gagged    despair    and    inarticulate 
wrong,  — 
Annihilated  Poland,  stifled  Rome, 
Dazed  Naples,  Hungary  fainting  'neath  the 
thong, 
And  Austria  wearing  a  smooth  olive-leaf 
On  her  brute  forehead,  while  her  hoofs  out- 
press 
The  life  from  these  Italian  souls,  in  brief. 


O  Lord  of  Peace,  who  art  Lord  of  Right- 
eousness, 421 
Constrain  the  anguished  worlds  from  sin 
and  grief, 
Pierce  them  with  conscience,  purge  them 
with  redress, 
And  give  us  peace  which  is  no  counter- 
feit ! 

But   wherefore   should   we   look   out   any 
more 
From  Casa  Guidi  windows  ?     Shut  them 
straight, 
And  let  us  sit  down  by  the  folded  door, 
And   veil  our   saddened   faces   and,  so, 
wait 
What   next  the    judgment-heavens   make 
ready  for. 
I  have  grown  too  weary  of   these  win- 
dows.    Sights  430 
Come  thick   enough  and  clear  enough  in 
thought. 
Without  the  sunshine;  souls  have  inner 
lights. 
And  since  the  Grand-duke  has  come  back 
and  brought 
This  army  of  the  North  which  thus  re- 
quites 
His  filial  South,  we  leave  him  to  be  taught. 
His    South,    too,    has   learnt    something 
certainly, 
Whereof    the    practice   will   bring    profit 
soon; 
And  peradventure  other  eyes  may  see. 
From.  Casa  Guidi  windows,  what  is  done 

Or  undone.     Whatsoever  deeds  they  be. 
Pope  Pius  will  be  glorified  in  none.  441 

Record   that   gain,  Mazziui  !  —  it   shall 
top 
Some  heights  of  sorrow.     Peter's  rock,  so 
named, 
Shall  lure  no  vessel  any  more  to  drop 
Among    the    breakers.     Peter's    chair    is 
shamed 
Like  any  vulgar  throne  the  nations  lop 
To  pieces  for  their  firewood  unreclaimed,  — 
And,  when  it  burns  too,  we  shall  see  as 
well 
In  Italy  as  elsewhere.     Let  it  burn. 

The  cross,  accounted  still  adorable,      450 
Is    Christ's    cross    only  !  —  if    the  thief's 
would  earn 
Some  stealthy  genuflexions,  we  rebel ; 
And  here  the  impenitent  thief's  has  had  its 
turn, 


CASA   GUIDI   WINDOWS 


249 


As  God  knows;  and  the  people  on  their 
knees 
Scoff  and  toss  back  the  crosiers  stretched 
like  yokes 
To  press  their  heads  down  lower  by  de- 
grees. 
So  Italy,  by  means  of  these  last  strokes, 
Escapes     the    danger    which    preceded 
these, 
Of    leaving    captured    hands     in    cloven 
oaks,  — 
Of     leaving     very     souls     within     the 
buckle  460 

Whence    bodies   struggled    outward,  —  of 
supposing 
That  freemen  may  like  bondsmen  kneel 
and  truckle. 
And  then  stand  up  as  usual,  without  losing 
An  inch  of  stature. 

Those  whom  she-wolves  suckle 
Will  bite  as  wolves  do  in  the  grapple-clos- 


mg 


Of  adverse   interests.     This   at  last   is 
known 
(Thank  Pius  for  the  lesson),  that  albeit 
Among  the  poped  om's  hundred  heads  of 
stone 
Which  blink  down  on  you  from  the  roof's 
retreat 
In  Siena's  tiger-striped  cathedral,  Joan 
And   Borgia  'mid  their   fellows   you  may 
greet,  ^  471 

A  harlot  and  a  devil,  —  you  will  see 
Not  a  man,  still  less  angel,  grandly  set 
With   open   soul   to   render   man   more 
free. 
The  fishers  are  still  thinking  of  the  net. 

And,  if  not  thinking  of  the  hook  too,  we 
Are   counted    somewhat    deeply   in    their 
debt; 
But   that's    a   rare   case  —  so,  by   hook 
and  crook 
They  take  the  advantage,  agonizing  Christ 
By  rustier  nails  than  those  of  Cedron's 
brook,  480 

I'  the  people's  body  very  cheaply  priced,  — 
And  quote  high  priesthood  out  of  Holy 
book, 
While  buying  death-fields  with  the  sacri- 
ficed. 

Priests,      priests,  —  there 's      no      such 
name  !  —  God's  own,  except 
Ye  take  most  vainly.     Through   heaven's 
lifted  gate 


The  priestly  ephod  in  sole  glory  swept 
When   Christ    ascended,   entered   in,   and 
sate 
(With  victor  face  sublimely  overwept) 
At  Deity's  right  hand,  to  mediate. 

He     alone,     He     for     ever.       On    his 
breast  490 

The  Urim  and   the   Thummim,   fed  with 
fire 
From  the  full  Godhead,  flicker  with  the 
unrest 
Of   human  pitiful   heart-beats.     Come  up 
higher. 
All  Christians  !     Levi's  tribe  is   dispos- 
sest. 
That  solitary  alb  ye  shall  admire, 

But  not  cast  lots  for.     The  last  chrism, 
poured  right. 
Was  on  that  Head,  and  poured  for  burial 
And  not  for  domination  in  men's  sight. 
What     are     these     churches  ?     The     old 
temple-wall 
Doth  overlook  them  juggling  with   the 
sleight  500 

Of  surplice,  candlestick  and  altar-pall; 
East  church  and  west  church,  ay,  north 
church  and  south, 
Rome's  church  and  England's,  —  let  them 
all  repent. 
And  make  concordats  'twixt   their  soul 
and  mouth, 
Succeed  Saint  Paul  by  working  at  the  tent. 
Become   infallible    guides    by   speaking 
truth. 
And  excommunicate  their  pride  that  bent 
And  cramped  the  souls  of  men. 

Why,  even  here 
Priestcraft    burns    out,   the   twined   linen 
blazes; 
Not,  like   asbestos,  to  grow  white   and 
clear,  510 

But  all  to  perish  !  —  while  the  fire-smell 
raises 
To  life  some  swooning  spirits  who,  last 
year. 
Lost   breath   and   heart   in   these  church- 
stifled  places. 
Why,  almost,  through  this  Pius,  we  be- 
lieved. 
The  priesthood  could  be  an  honest  thing, 
he  smiled 
So   saintly    while   our    corn  was   being 
sheaved 
For  his  own  granaries  !     Showing  now  de- 
filed 


250 


CASA   GUIDI  WINDOWS 


His    hireling     hands,    a    better    help 's 
achieved 
Than  if  they  blessed  us  shepherd-like  and 
mild. 
False    doctrine,    strangled    by    its   own 
amen,  520 

Dies  in  the  throat  of  all  this  nation.     Who 
Will  speak  a  pope's  name  as  they  rise 
again  ? 
What  woman  or  what  child  will  count  him 
true? 
What  dreamer  praise  him  with  the  voice 
or  pen  ? 
What   man  fight   for   him  ?  —  Pius  takes 
his  due. 

Record  that  gain,  Mazzini  !  —  Yes,  but 
first 
Set  down  thy  people's  faults;  set  down  the 
want 
Of  soul-conviction;   set  down  aims  dis- 
persed, 
And  incoherent  means,  and  valor  scant 
Because  of  scanty  faith,  and  schisms  ac- 
cursed 530 
That   wrench    these    brother-hearts   from 
covenant 
With    freedom    and    each    other.     Set 
down  this. 
And  this,  and  see  to  overcome  it  when 
The  seasons   bring  the  fruits  thou  wilt 
not  miss 
If  wary.     Let  no  cry  of  patriot  men 

Distract  thee  from  the  stern  analysis 
Of  masses  who  cry  only  !  keep  thy  ken 
Clear  as  thy  soul  is  virtuous.     Heroes' 
blood 
Splashed   up    against   thy   noble   brow   in 
Rome;  539 

Let   such   not   blind   thee   to   an   inter- 
lude 
Which  was  not  also  holy,  yet  did  come 
'Twixt   sacramental    actions,  —  brother- 
hood 
Despised  even  there,  and  something  of  the 
doom 
Of    Remus    in    the    trenches.       Listen 
now  — 
Rossi  died  silent  near  where  Caesar  died. 

He  did  not  say  '  My  Brutus,  is  it  thou  ?  ' 
But  Italy  unquestioned  testified 

*  /  killed  him  !  /  am  Brutus.  —  I  avow.' 
At  which  the  whole  world's  laugh  of  scorn 

replied 

*  A  poor  maimed  copy  of  Brutus  ! ' 


Too  much  like,      550 
Indeed,  to  be  so  unlike  !  too  unskilled 

At  Philippi  and  the  honest  battle-pike. 
To  be  so  skilful  where  a  man  is  killed 
Near  Pompey's  statue,  and  the  daggers 
strike 
At  unawares  i'  the  throat.     Was  thus  ful- 
filled 
An  omen  once  of  Michael  Angelo  ?  — 
When  Marcus  Brutus    he  conceived  com- 
plete. 
And  strove  to  hurl  him  out  by  blow  on 
blow 
Upon  the  marble,  at  Art's  thunderheat, 
Till    haply    (some    pre -shadow    rising 

slow  560 

Of  what  his  Italy  would  fancy  meet 

To  be  called  Brutus)  straight  his  plastic 
hand 
Fell   back   before   his   prophet  -  soul,    and 
left 
A   fragment,  a   maimed   Brutus,  —  but 
more  grand 
Than  this,  so  named  at  Rome,  was  ! 

'  Let  thy  weft 
Present   one  woof   and  warp,  Mazzini  ! 
Stand 
With  no   man   hankering  for   a   dagger's 
heft. 
No,  not  for  Italy  !  —  nor  stand  apart. 
No,  not  for   the  Republic  !  —  from   those 
pure 
Brave  men  who   hold   the  level  of   thy 
heart  570 

In  patriot  truth,  as  lover  and  as  doer. 
Albeit  they  will  not  follow  where  thou 
art 
As  extreme  theorist.     Trust  and  distrust 
fewer; 
And  so  bind  strong  and  keep  unstained 
the  cause 
Which  (God's   sign   granted)  war-trumps 
newly  blown 
Shall  yet  annunciate  to  the  world's  ap- 
plause. 

But  now,  the  world  is  busy;  it  has  grown 
A  Fair-going  world.     Imperial  England 
draws 
The  flowing  ends  of  the  earth  from  Fez, 
Canton, 
Delhi     and     Stockholm,     Athens      and 
Madrid,  580 

The  Russias  and  the  vast  Americas, 
As  if  a  queen  drew  in  her  robes  amid 


CASA   GUIDI    WINDOWS 


251 


Her  golden  cincture,  —  isles,  peninsulas, 
Capes,  continents,  far   inland    countries 
Lid 
By  jasper-sands  and  hills  of  chrysopras. 
All  trailing  in  their  splendors    through 
the  door 
Of  the  gorgeous  Crystal    Palace.      Every 
nation, 
To  every  other  nation  strange  of  yore, 
Gives  face  to  face  the  civic  salutation, 
And  holds  up  in  a  proud  right  hand  be- 
fore 590 
That  congress  the  best  work  which  she  can 
fashion 
By  her  best  means.     '  These  corals,  will 
you  please 
To  match  against  your  oaks  ?     They  grow 
as  fast 
Within  my  wilderness  of  purple  seas.'  — 
'  This  diamond  stared  upon  me  as  I  passed 
(As   a   live    god's   eye    from   a   marble 
frieze) 
Alonsr     a     dark     of     diamonds.      Is     it 
classed  ?  '  — 
*  I  wove  these  stuffs  so  subtly  that  the 
gold 
Swims  to  the  surface  of  the  silk  like  cream 
And  curdles   to  fair   patterns.     Ye  be- 
hold ! '  —                                           600 
'  These  delicatest  muslins  rather  seem 
Than  be,  you  think  ?     Nay,  touch  them 
and  be  bold, 
Thouofh  such  veiled  Chakhi's  face  in  Hafiz' 
dream.'  — 
'  These  carpets  —  you  walk  slow  on  them 
like  kings. 
Inaudible  like  spirits,  while  your  foot 
Dips   deep    in   velvet    roses    and    such 
things.'  — 
*  Even   Apollonius    might    commend    this 
flute: 
The  music,  winding  through  the  stops, 
upsprings 
To    make    the    player    very   rich  :    com- 
pute ! ' 
'  Here 's   goblet-glass,   to   take   in   with 
your  wine                                            610 
The   very  sun    its    grapes    were    ripened 
under: 
Drink  light  and  juice  together,  and  each 
fine.'  — 
*This  model  of  a  steamship   moves   your 
wonder  ? 
You  should  behold  it  crushing  down  the 
brine 


Like  a  blind  Jove  who  feels  his  way  with 
thunder. '  — 
'  Here 's  sculpture  !     Ah,  we   live    too  ! 
why  not  throw 
Our  life  into  our  marbles  ?     Art  has  place 

For  other  artists  after  Angelo.'  — 
'  I  tried  to  paint  out  here  a  natural  face ; 

For  nature  includes  Raffael,  as  we  know, 
Not    Baffael    nature.     Will   it    help    my 
case  ?  '  —  621 

'  Methinks  you  will  not  match  this  steel 
of  ours  ! '  — 
*  Nor    you    this    porcelain !     One    might 
dream  the  clay 
Retained  in  it  the  larvse  of  the  flowers, 
They  bud  so,  round  the  cup,  the  old  Spring- 
way.'  — 
*  Nor   you   these   carven   woods,    where 
birds  in  bowers 
With  twisting  snakes  and  climbing  cupids, 
play.' 

O  Magi  of  the  east  and  of  the  west. 
Your   incense,    gold    and   myrrh   are    ex- 
cellent !  — 
What   gifts  for    Christ,  then,  bring   ye 
with  the  rest  ?  630 

Your   hands   have  worked  well:    is   your 
courage  spent 
In  handwork  only  ?     Have  you  nothing 
best, 
Which   generous    souls    may    perfect   and 
present, 
And  He  shall  thank  the  givers  for  ?  no 
light 
Of  teaching,  liberal  nations,  for  the  poor 

Who  sit  in  darkness  when  it  is  not  night  ? 
No  cure  for  wicked  children  ?    Christ,  —  no 
cure  ! 
No  help  for  women  sobbing  out  of  sight 
Because  men  made  the  laws  ?  no  brothel- 
lure 
Burnt  out  by  popular  lightnings  ?     Hast 
thou  found  640 

No  remedy,  my  England,  for  such  woes  ? 
No  outlet,  Austria,  for  the  scourged  and 
bound, 
No  entrance  for  the  exiled  ?  no  repose, 
Russia,  for  knouted  Poles  worked  under- 
ground. 
And   gentle    ladies    bleached   among    the 
snows  ? 
No  mercy  for  the  slave,  America  ? 
No  hope  for  Rome,  free  France,  chivalric 
France  ? 


252 


CASA   GUIDI   WINDOWS 


Alas,  great  nations  have  great  shames,  I 
say. 
No  pity,  O  world,  no  tender  utterance 
Of   benediction,    and   prayers   stretched 
this  way  650 

For  poor  Italia,  baffled  by  mischance  ? 
O  gracious    nations,  give   some   ear   to 
me  ! 
You  all  go  to  your  Fair,  and  I  am  one 

Who  at  the  roadside  of  humanity 
Beseech  your  alms, — God's  justice  to  be 
done. 
So,  prosper  ! 

In  the  name  of  Italy, 
Meantime,  her  patriot  Dead  have  benison. 
They   only   have   done    well;  and,  what 
they  did 
Being  perfect,  it  shall  triumph.     Let  them 
slumber: 
No  king  of  Egypt  in  a  pyramid  660 

Is  safer  from  oblivion,  though  he  number 

Full  seventy  cerements  for  a  coverlid. 
These  Dead  be  seeds  of  life,  and  shall  en- 
cumber 
The  sad  heart  of  the  land  until  it  loose 
The  clammy  clods  and  let  out  the  Spring- 
growth 
In  beatific  green  through  every  bruise. 
The  tyrant  should   take  heed  to   what  he 
doth. 
Since  every  victim-carrion  turns  to  use, 
And  drives  a  chariot,  like  a  god  made  wroth, 
Against   each   piled   injustice.     Ay,  the 
least,  670 

Dead  for  Italia,  not  in  vain  has  died; 

Though  many  vainly,  ere  life's  struggle 
ceased. 
To  mad  dissimilar  ends  have  swerved  aside ; 

Each  grave  her  nationality  has  pieced 
By  its  own  majestic  breadth,  and  fortified 

And  pinned  it  deeper  to  the  soil.    Forlorn 
Of  thanks   be,  therefore,  no  one  of  these 
graves  ! 
Not  Hers,  —  who,  at  her  husband's  side, 
in  scorn. 
Outfaced   the  whistling   shot   and   hissing 
waves, 
Until  she  felt  her  little  babe  unborn     680 
Recoil,  within  her,  from  the  violent  staves 
And    bloodhounds    of    the    world,  —  at 
which,  her  life 
Dropt  inwards  from  her  eyes  and  followed 
it 
Beyond  the  hunters.     Garibaldi's  wife 


And  child  died  so.    And  now,  the  seaweeds 
fit 
Her  body,  like  a  proper  shroud  and  coif, 
And  murmurously  the  ebbing  waters  grit 

The  little  pebbles  while  she  lies  interred 
In  the  sea-sand.     Perhaps,  ere  dying  thus. 
She  looked  up  in  his  face  (which  never 
stirred  690 

From   its   clenched  anguish)    as  to   make 
excuse 
For  leaving  him  for  his,  if  so  she  erred. 
He   well   remembers   that   she   could  not 
choose. 
A  memorable  grave  !     Another  is 
At  Genoa.     There,  a  king  may  fitly  lie, 

Who,  bursting  that  heroic  heart  of  his 
At  lost  Novara,  that  he  could  not  die 

(Though  thrice  into  the  cannon's  eyes  for 
this 
He  plunged  his  shuddering  steed,  and  felt 
the  sky 
Reel     back    between   the   fire -shocks), 
stripped  away  700 

The  ancestral  ermine  ere    the  smoke  had 
cleared. 
And,  naked  to  the  soul,  that  none  might 
say 
His  kingship   covered  what  was  base  and 
bleared 
With  treason,  went  out  straight  an  exile, 
yea. 
An  exiled  patriot.     Let  him  be  revered. 

Yea,  verily,  Charles  Albert  has  died  well ; 
And  if  he  lived  not  all  so,  as  one  spoke, 

The  sin  pass  softly  with  the  passing-bell: 
For   he  was  shriven,  I   think,   in  cannon- 
smoke,  709 
And,  taking  off  his  crown,  made  visible 
A  hero's  forehead.    Shaking  Austria's  yoke 
He  shattered  his  own  hand  and  heart. 
'  So  best,' 
His  last  words  were  upon  his  lonely  bed, 
'  I  do  not  end  like  popes  and  dukes  at 
least  — 
Thank  God  for  it.'     And  now  that  he  is 
dead. 
Admitting  it  is  proved  and  manifest 
That  he  was   worthy,  with   a   discrowned 
head, 
To  measure   heights   with   patriots,  let 
them  stand 
Beside  the  man  in  his  Oporto  shroud. 
And  each  vouchsafe  to  take  him  by  the 
hand,  720 


CASA   GUIDI   WINDOWS 


253 


And  kiss  him  on  the  cheek,  and  say  aloud,  — 
'  Thou,  too,  hast  suffered  for  our  native 
land  ! 
My  brother,  thou  art  one  of  us  !  be  proud.' 

Still,  graves,  when  Italy  is  talked  upon. 
Still,  still,  the  patriot's  tomb,  the  stranger's 
hate. 
Still  Niobe  !  still  fainting  in  the  sun. 
By  whose  most  dazzling  arrows  violate 
Her   beauteous  offspring  perished  !    has 
she  won 
Nothing  but  garlands  for  the  graves,  from 
Fate  ? 
Nothing  but  death-songs  ?  —  Yes,  be  it 
understood  730 

Life  throbs  in  noble  Piedmont  !  while  the 
feet 
Of  Rome's  clay  image,  dabbled  soft  in 
blood, 
Grow  flat  with  dissolution  and,  as  meet. 
Will   soon   be   shovelled   off   like  other 
mud, 
To  leave  the  passage  free  in  church   and 
street. 
And  I,  who   first  took  hope   up  in  this 
song, 
Because  a  child  was  singing  one  .  .  .  be- 
hold, 
The   hope   and    omen   were   not,  haply, 
wrong  ! 
Poets  are   soothsayers   still,  like  those   of 
old 
Who  studied  flights  of  doves;  and  crea- 
tures young  740 
And  tender,  mighty  meanings  may  unfold. 

The  sun   strikes,  through  the  windows, 
up  the  floor; 
Stand  out  in  it,  my  own  young  Florentine, 
Not  two  years  old,  and  let  me  see  thee 
more  ! 
It  grows  along  thy  amber  curls,  to  shine 
Brighter   than    elsewhere.      Now,    look 
straight  before, 
And   fix  thy  brave  blue  English  eyes  on 
mine. 
And  from  my  soul,  which  fronts  the  fu- 
ture so, 
With  unabashed  and  unabated  gaze, 

Teach  me  to  hope  for,  what  the  angels 

know  750 

When  they  smile  clear  as  thou  dost.    Down 

God's  ways 

With  just  alighted  feet,  between  the  snow 


And  snowdrops,  where  a  little  lamb  may 
graze. 
Thou  hast  no  fear,  my  lamb,  about  the 
road, 
Albeit  in  our  vainglory  we  assume 

That,    less     than    we    have,   thou   hast 
learnt  of  God. 
Stand  out,  my  blue-eyed  prophet !  —  thou, 
to  whom 
The  earliest  world-day   light  that   ever 
flowed, 
Through  Casa  Guidi  Windows  chanced  to 
come  ! 
Now  shake  the  glittering  nimbus  of  thy 
hair,  760 

And  be  God's  witness  that  the  elemental 
New  springs  of  life  are  gushing  every- 
where 
To  cleanse  the  watercourses,  and  prevent 
all 
Concrete   obstructions  which   infest  the 
air  ! 
That  earth  's  alive,  and  gentle  or  ungentle 
Motions      within       her,      signify      but 
growth  !  — 
The  ground  swells  greenest  o'er  the  labor- 
ing moles. 

Howe'er  the  uneasy  world  is  vexed  and 
wroth. 
Young  children,  lifted  high  on  parent  souls, 
Look  round  them  with  a  smile  upon  the 
mouth,  770 

And  take  for  music  every  bell  that  tolls ; 
(Who  said  we  should  be  better  if  like 
these  ?) 
But    we    sit   murmuring    for    the    future 
though 
Posterity  is  smiling  on  our  knees, 
Convicting  us  of  folly.     Let  us  go  — 
We  will   trust   God.     The   blank  inter- 
stices 
Men  take  for  ruins.  He  will  build  into 
With     pillared    marbles    rare,    or   knit 
across 
With  generous  arches,  till  the  fane  's  com- 
plete. 
This   world   has   no   perdition,   if   some 
loss.  780 

Such    cheer    I   gather   from   thy  smiling. 
Sweet ! 
The  self-same   cherub-faces   which   em- 
boss 
The  Vail,  lean  inward  to  the  Mercy-seat. 


254 


AURORA   LEIGH 


AURORA   LEIGH 


A   POEM    IN    NINE   BOOKS 


From  the  time  when  Mrs.  Browning'  dashed 
off  the  greater  part  of  '  Lady  Geraldine's  Court- 
ship '  in  response  to  a  demand  from  her  pub- 
lisher for  '  more  copy,'  she  had  cherished  the 
design  of  writing  a  complete  poetical  romance, 
of  which  the  scene  should  be  laid  in  the  present 
time  amid  the  seemingly  unromantic  surround- 
ings of  modern  society.  When,  therefore,  she 
had  become  a  little  wonted  to  married  life  in 
Italy  and  had  delivered  her  soul  of  the  first 
ardent  though  fluctuating  emotions  excited  by 
the  earlier  stages  of  the  Italian  struggle  for 
independence,  she  set  about  the  execution  of 
her  previous  project.  The  narrative  poem  of 
Aurora  Leigh,  her  most  sustained  and  consider- 

DEDICATION 


TO 


JOHN    KENYON,   Esq. 

The  words  '  cousin  '  and  '  friend '  are  con- 
stantly recurring  in  this  poem,  the  last  pages 
of  which  have  been  finished  under  the  hospi- 
tality of  your  roof,  my  own  dearest  cousin  and 
friend  ;  —  cousin  and  friend,  in  a  sense  of  less 
equality  and  greater  disinterestedness  than 
'  Romney '  's. 

Ending,  therefore,  and  preparing  once  more 
to  quit  England,  I  venture  to  leave  in  your 
hands  this  book,  the  most  mature  of  my  works, 
and  the  one  into  which  my  highest  convictions 
upon  Life  and  Art  have  entered ;  that  as, 
through  my  various  efforts  in  Literature  and 
steps  in  life,  you  have  believed  in  me,  borne 
with  me,  and  been  generous  to  me,  far  beyond 
the  common  uses  of  mere  relationship  or  sympa- 
thy of  mind,  so  you  may  kindly  accept,  in  sight 
of  the  public,  this  poor  sign  of  esteem,  grati- 
tude, and  affection  from  —  Your  unf orgetting 

E.  B.  B. 
39  Devonshire  Place  :  October  17,  1856. 

AURORA   LEIGH 

FIRST   BOOK 

Of  writing  many  books  there  is  no  end; 
And  I  who  have  written  much  in  prose  and 

verse 
For  others'  uses,  will  write  now  for  mine,  — 


able  if  not  her  most  symmetrical  and  beautiful 
work,  was  begun  in  Florence,  or  at  the  Baths 
of  Lucca,  in  the  early  fifties,  and  continued 
during  the  summers  of  1855  and  1856,  which  the 
Brownings  passed  in  England,  and  the  inter- 
vening winter,  when  they  were  living  in  Paris, 
in  a  small  apartment  on  the  Rue  du  Colis^e.  It 
was  finally  completed  in  England,  in  the  Lon- 
don house  of  John  Kenyon,  Mrs.  Browning's 
generous  cousin,  and  the  faithful  friend  of  both 
poets,  who  lived  only  a  few  weeks  after  Aurora 
Leiyh  had  received  its  dedication  to  him,  in 
October,  1856.  The  first  edition  appeared  at 
the  Christmas  holidays  of  that  year,  and  bears 
the  imprint  London :  Chapman  &  Hall,  1857. 

Will  write  my  story  for  my  better  self, 
As    when   you   paint   your   portrait   for  a 

friend, 
Who  keeps  it  in  a  drawer  and  looks  at  it 
Long  after  he  has  ceased  to  love  you,  just 
To  hold  together  what  he  was  and  is. 

I,  writing   thus,  am    still   what   men   call 

young; 
I  have  not  so  far  left  the  coasts  of  life       lo 
To  travel  inland,  that  I  cannot  hear 
That  murmur  of  the  outer  Infinite 
Which  unweaned  babies  smile  at  in  their 

sleep 
When  wondered  at  for  smiling;  not  so  far. 
But  still  I  catch  my  mother  at  her  post 
Beside  the  nursery  door,  with  finger  up, 
'  Hush,    hush  —  here  's   too   much  noise  ! ' 

while  her  sweet  eyes 
Leap  forward,  taking  part  against  her  word 
In  the  child's  riot.     Still  I  sit  and  feel 
My  father's  slow  hand,  when  she  had  left 

us  both,  2o 

Stroke  out   my   childish   curls   across   his 

knee. 
And  hear  Assunta's  daily  jest  (she  knew 
He  liked  it  better  than  a  better  jest) 
Inquire  how  many  golden  scudi  went 
To   make    such    ringlets.     O   my    father's 

hand. 
Stroke  heavily,  heavily  the  poor  hair  down. 
Draw,  press  the  child's  head  closer  to  thy 

knee  ! 
I  'm  still  too  young,  too  young,  to  sit  alone. 


FIRST   BOOK 


25s 


I  write.     My  mother  was  a  Florentine, 
Whose  rare  blue  eyes  were  shut  from  see- 
ing me  30 
When  scarcely  I  was  four  years  old,  my 

life 
A  poor  spark  snatched  up  from  a  failing 

lamp 
Which  went  out  therefore.     She  was  weak 

and  frail; 
She  could  not  bear  the  joy  of  giving  life, 
The   mother's   rapture    slew  her.     If   her 

kiss 
Had  left  a  longer  weight  upon  my  lips 
It  might  have  steadied  the  uneasy  breath, 
And  reconciled  and  fraternized  my  soul 
With  the  new  order.     As  it  was,  indeed, 
I  felt  a  mother-want  about  the  world,       40 
And   still    went   seeking,    like    a   bleating 

lamb 
Left   out   at    night    in    shutting    up    the 

fold, — 
As  restless  as  a  nest-deserted  bird 
Grown  chill  through  something  being  away, 

though  what 
It  knows  not.     I,  Aurora  Leigh,  was  born 
To  make  my  father  sadder,  and  myself 
Not  overjoyous,  truly.     Women  know 
The  way  to  rear  up  children  (to  be  just). 
They  know  a  simple,  merry,  tender  knack 
Of  tying  sashes,  fitting  baby-shoes,  50 

And  stringing  pretty  words  that  make  no 

sense. 
And  kissing  full  sense  into  empty  words. 
Which  things  are  corals  to  cut  life  upon, 
Although  such   trifles:    children   learn   by 

such. 
Love's  holy  earnest  in  a  pretty  play 
And  get  not  over-early  solemnized, 
But    seeing,   as    in    a    rose-bush,   Love's 

Divine 
Which  burns  and  hurts  not,  —  not  a  single 

bloom,  — 
Become  aware  and  unafraid  of  Love. 
Such  good   do   mothers.     Fathers  love  as 

well  60 

—  Mine     did,    I    know,  —  but    still   with 

heavier  brains. 
And  wills  more  consciously  responsible, 
And  not  as  wisely,  since  less  foolishly; 
So  mothers  have  God's  license  to  be  missed. 

My  father  was  an  austere  Englishman, 
Who,  after  a  dry  lifetime  spent  at  home 
In  college-learning,  law,  and  parish  talk, 
Was  flooded  with  a  passion  unaware, 


His  whole  provisioned  and  complacent  past 
Drowned  out  from  him  that  moment.     As 

he  stood  70 

In  Florence,  where  he  had  come  to  spend 

a  month 
And  note  the  secret  of  Da  Vinci's  drains, 
He  musing  somewhat  absently  perhaps 
Some  English  question  .  .  .  whether  men 

should  pay 
The  unpopular  but  necessary  tax 
With  left  or  right  hand  —  in  the  alien  sun 
In  that  great  square  of  the  Santissima 
There  drifted  past  him  (scarcely  marked 

enouo^h 
To  move  his  comfortable  island  scorn) 
A   train   of    priestly    banners,    cross    and 

psalm,  80 

The    white-veiled    rose-crowned    maidens 

holding  up 
Tall  tapers,  weighty  for  such  wrists,  aslant 
To  the  blue  luminous  tremor  of  the  air. 
And   letting  drop  the  white  wax  as   they 

went 
To  eat  the  bishop's  wafer  at  the  church; 
From  which  long  trail  of  chanting  priests 

and  girls, 
A  face  flashed  like  a  cymbal  on  his  face 
And  shook  with  silent   clangor  brain  and 

heart. 
Transfiguring  him  to   music.     Thus,  even 

thus, 
He  too  received  his  sacramental  gift         90 
With  eucharistic  meanings;  for  he  loved. 

And  thus  beloved,  she  died.     I  've  heard  it 

said 
That  but  to  see  him  in  the  first  surprise 
Of  widower  and  father,  nursing  me, 
Unmothered  little  child  of  four  years  old. 
His  large  man's  hands  afraid  to  touch  my 

curls. 
As  if  the  gold  would  tarnish,  —  his  grave 

lips 
Contriving  such  a  miserable  smile 
As  if  he  knew  needs  must,  or  I  should  die. 
And  yet  't  was  hard,  —  would  almost  make 

the  stones  100 

Cry  out  for  pity.     There  's  a  verse  he  set 
In  Santa  Croce  to  her  memory,  — 
'  Weep  for  an  infant  too   young  to  weep 

much 
When  death  removed  this  mother  '  —  stops 

the  mirth 
To-day  on  women's  faces  when  they  walk 
With  rosy  children  hanging  on  their  gowns, 


256 


AURORA   LEIGH 


Under  the  cloister  to  escape  the  sun 
That  scorches  in  the  piazza.     After  which 
He  left  our  Florence  and  made   haste  to 

hide 
Himself,    his   prattling   child,    and    silent 

grief,  no 

Among  the  mountains  above  Pelago; 
Because  unmothered  babes,  he  thought,  had 

need 
Of  mother  nature  more  than  others  use, 
And  Pan's  white  goats,  with  udders  warm 

and  full 
Of  mystic  contemplations,  come  to  feed 
Poor    milkless    lips    of   orphans   like    his 

own  — 
Such  scholar-scraps  he  talked,  I  've  heard 

from  friends. 
For  even  prosaic  men  who  wear  grief  long 
Will  get  to  wear  it  as  a  hat  aside 
With  a  flower  stuck   in  't.     Father,  then, 

and  child,  120 

We  lived  among  the  mountains  many  years, 
God's  silence  on  the  outside  of  the  house. 
And  we  who  did  not  speak  too  loud  within, 
And  old  Assunta  to  make  up  the  fire. 
Crossing  herself  whene'er  a  sudden  flame 
Which  lightened  from  the  firewood,  made 

alive 
That  picture  of  my  mother  on  the  wall. 

The  painter  drew  it  after  she  was  dead, 
And  when   the    face  was   finished,  throat 

and  hands. 
Her  cameriera  carried  him,  in  hate  130 

Of  the  English-fashioned  shroud,  the  last 

brocade 
She   dressed   in   at   the  Pitti;  'he    should 

paint 
No  sadder  thing  than  that,'  she  swore, '  to 

wron^ 

Her  poor  signora.'    Therefore  very  strange 
The  effect  was.     I,  a   little    child,  would 

crouch 
For  hours  upon  the  floor  with  knees  drawn 

up, 
And  gaze  across  them,  half  in  terror,  half 
In  adoration,  at  the  picture  there,  — 
That  swan-like  supernatural  white  life 
Just   sailing   upward   from   the    red   stiff 

silk  140 

Which  seemed  to  have  no  part  in  it  nor 

power 
To   keep   it   from    quite   breaking  out  of 

bounds. 
For  hours  I  sat  and  stared.    Assunta's  awe 


And  my  poor  father's  melancholy  eyes 
Still  pointed  that  way.     That  way  went  my 

thoughts 
When  wandering  beyond  sight.     And  as  I 

grew 
In  years,  I  mixed,  confused,  unconsciously, 
Whatever  I  last  read  or  heard  or  dreamed, 
Abhorrent,  admirable,  beautiful, 
Pathetical,  or  ghastly,  or  grotesque,  150 

With   still   that   face  .  .  .  which  did   not 

therefore  change. 
But  kept  the  mystic  level  of  all  forms. 
Hates,  fears,  and  admirations,  was  by  turns 
Ghost,  fiend,  and  angel,  fairy,  witch,  and 

sprite, 
A   dauntless   Muse  who   eyes   a   dreadful 

Fate, 
A  loving  Psyche  who  loses  sight  of  Love, 
A  still  Medusa  with  mild  milky  brows 
All   curdled    and   all   clothed    upon   with 

snakes 
Whose  slime  falls  fast  as  sweat  will;    or 

anon 
Our  Lady   of   the   Passion,    stabbed  with 

swords  160 

Where  the  Babe  sucked;  or  Lamia  in  her 

first 
Moonlighted   pallor,  ere    she    shrunk   and 

blinked 
And  shuddering  wriggled  down  to  the  un- 
clean; 
Or  my  own  mother,  leaving  her  last  smile 
In  her  last  kiss  upon  the  babj^-mouth 
My  father   pushed  down  on  the   bed   for 

that,  — 
Or    my   dead   mother,    without   smile    or 

kiss, 
Buried  at  Florence.     All  which  images. 
Concentred  on  the  picture,  glassed  them- 
selves 
Before  my  meditative  childhood,  as  170 

The  incoherencies  of  change  and  death 
Are  represented  fully,  mixed  and  merged. 
In  the  smooth  fair  mystery  of   perpetual 

Life. 
And    while   I   stared    away   my    childish 

wits 
Upon    my    mother's     picture     (ah,    poor 

child  !), 
My  father,  who  through  love  had  suddenly 
Thrown   off   the   old   conventions,  broken 

loose 
From  chin-bands  of  the  soul,  like  Lazarus, 
Yet  had  no  time  to  learn  to  talk  and  walk 
Or  grow  anew  familiar  with  the  sun,  —  180 


FIRST   BOOK 


257 


Who  had   reached  to  freedom,  not  to  ac- 
tion, lived, 

But  lived  as  one  entranced,  with  thoughts, 
not  aims,  — 

Whom  love  had  unmade  from  a  common 
man, 

But     not     completed     to    an     uncommon 
man,  — 

My  father  taught  me  what  he  had  learnt 
the  best 

Before  he  died  and  left  me,  —  grief  and 
love. 

And,   seeing    we    had    books   among   the 
hills, 

Strong   words   of    counselling    souls   con- 
federate 

With    vocal   pines    and   waters,  —  out   of 
books 

He  taught  me  all  the  ignorance  of  men,  190 

And  how  God  laughs  in  heaven  when  any 
man 

Says    '  Here    I  'm   learned;   this  I  under- 
stand; 

In   that,  I  am  never   caught    at   fault  or 
doubt.' 

He  sent  the  schools  to  school,  demonstrat- 
ing 

A   fool   will   pass   for    such   through   one 
mistake. 

While  a  philosopher  will  pass  for  such. 

Through  said  mistakes  being  ventured  in 
the  gross 

And  heaped  up  to  a  system. 

I  am  like. 

They   tell  me,  my  dear   father.     Broader 
brows 

Howbeit,  upon  a  slenderer  undergrowth  200 

Of     delicate     features,  —  paler,    near    as 
grave ; 

But  then  my  mother's  smile  breaks  up  the 
whole, 

And  makes  it  better  sometimes  than  itself. 

So,  nine  full  years,  our  days  were  hid  with 
God 

Among   his   mountains:    I   was   just   thir- 
teen. 

Still  growing  like  the  plants  from  unseen 
roots 

In   tongue-tied    Springs,  —  and    suddenly 
awoke 

To  full  life  and  life's  needs  and  agonies 

With  an  intense,  strong,  struggling  heart 
beside 

A  stone-dead   father.     Life,  struck   sharp 
on  death,  210 


Makes    awful   lightning.     His   last    word 

was  '  Love  —  ' 
'  Love,  my  child,  love,  love  ! '  —  (then  he 

had  done  with  grief) 
*  Love,  my  child.'     Ere  I  answered  he  was 

gone. 
And  none  was  left  to  love  in  all  the  world. 

There,  ended  childhood.     What  succeeded 

next 
I  recollect  as,  after  fevers,  men 
Thread  back  the  passage  of  delirium. 
Missing  the  turn  still,  baffled  by  the  door; 
Smooth   endless   days,   notched    here   and 

there  with  knives, 
A  weary,  wormy  darkness,  spurred  i'  the 
flank  220 

With  flame,  that  it  should  eat  and  end  it- 
self 
Like  some  tormented  scorpion.     Then   at 

last 
I  do  remember  clearly  how  there  came 
A  stranger  with  authority,  not  right 
(I  thought  not),  who  commanded,  caught 

me  up 
From   old    Assunta's    neck;    how,    with   a 

shriek. 
She  let   me  go,  —  while  I,  with   ears  too 

full 
Of   my  father's  silence  to  shriek   back   a 

word. 
In  all  a  child's  astonishment  at  grief 
Stared  at  the  wharf-edge  where  she  stood 
and  moaned,  230 

My   poor   Assunta,   where    she   stood   and 

moaned  ! 
The  white  walls,  the  blue  hills,  my  Italy, 
Drawn    backward    from    the    shuddering 

steamer-deck. 
Like  one  in  anger  drawing  back  her  skirts 
Which  suppliants  catch  at.     Then  the  bit- 
ter sea 
Inexorably  pushed  between  us  both 
And,  sweeping   up  the  ship  with    my  de- 
spair, 
Threw  us  out  as  a  pasture  to  the  stars. 

Ten  nights   and  days  we  voyaged  on  the 

deep; 
Ten  nights  and  days  without  the  common 

face  340 

Of  any  day  or  night;  the  moon  and  sun 
Cut  off  from  the  green  reconciling  earth, 
To  starve  into  a  blind  ferocity 
And  glare  unnatural;  the  very  sky 


258 


AURORA  LEIGH 


(Dropping  its  bell-net  down  upon  the  sea, 
As  if  no  human  heart  should  'scape  alive) 
Bedraggled  with  the  desolating  salt, 
Until  it  seemed  no  more  that  holy  heaven 
To  which  my  father  went.     All  new  and 

strange ; 
The     universe     turned     stranger,    for     a 

child.  250 

Then,    land  !  —  then,    England  !    oh,    the 

frosty  cliffs 
Looked   cold   upon   me.     Could  I   find   a 

home 
Among  those  mean  red  houses  through  the 

fog? 
And  when  I  heard  my  father's   language 

first 
From  alien  lips  which  had  no  kiss  for  mine 
I    wept   aloud,  then   laughed,  then    wept, 

then  wept, 
And  some  one  near  me  said  the  child  was 

mad 
Through    much    sea-sickness.     The    train 

swept  us  on: 
Was  this  my  father's  England  ?  the  great 

isle? 
The  ground  seemed  cut  up  from  the  fel- 
lowship 260 
Of  verdure,  field  from  field,  as  man  from 

man; 
The  skies  themselves  looked  low  and  posi- 
tive. 
As  almost   you  could  touch   them  with  a 

hand. 
And  dared  to  do  it  they  were  so  far  off 
From  God's   celestial  crystals;   all   things 

blurred 
And   dull   and   vague.     Did    Shakespeare 

and  his  mates 
Absorb    the   light   here  ?  —  not   a   hill   or 

stone 
With  heart  to  strike  a  radiant  color  up 
Or  active  outline  on  the  indifferent  air. 

I  think  I  see  my  father's  sister  stand       270 
Upon  the  hall-step  of  her  country-house 
To  give  me  welcome.     She  stood  straight 

and  calm, 
Her   somewhat   narrow   forehead   braided 

tight 
As  if  for  taming  accidental  thoughts 
From  possible  pulses;  brown  hair  pricked 

with  gray 
By  frigid  use  of  life  (she  was  not  old. 
Although  my  father's  elder  by  a  year), 


A   nose     drawn   sharply,   yet    in    delicate 

lines; 
A  close  mild  mouth,  a  little  soured  about 
The    ends,    through    speaking    unrequited 

loves  280 

Or  peradventure  niggardly  half-truths; 
Eyes  of  no  color,  —  once  they  might  have 

smiled, 
But  never,  never  have  forgot  themselves 
In    smiling;    cheeks,  in  which   was   yet   a 

rose 
Of   perished    summers,   like   a  rose   in   a 

book. 
Kept  more  for  ruth  than  pleasure,  —  if  past 

bloom, 
Past  fading  also. 

She  had  lived,  we  '11  say, 
A    harmless    life,    she    called   a   virtuous 

life, 
A  quiet  life,  which  was  not  life  at  all 
(But    that,  she  had    not   lived  enough   to 

know),  290 

Between  the  vicar  and  the  county  squires, 
The   lord-lieutenant   looking   down   some- 
times 
From  the  empyrean  to  assure  their  souls 
Against   chance    vulgarisms,    and,    in    the 

abyss. 
The  apothecary,  looked  on  once  a  year 
To  prove  their  soundness  of  humility. 
The    poor  -  club    exercised    her   Christian 

gifts 
Of  knitting  stockings,  stitching  petticoats, 
Because  we  are  of  one  flesh,  after  all. 
And  need  one  flannel  (with  a  proper  sense 
Of  difference  in  the  quality)  —  and  still  301 
The  book-club,  guarded  from  your  modern 

trick 
Of  shaking  dangerous  questions  from  the 

crease, 
Preserved  her  intellectual.     She  had  lived 
A  sort  of  cage-bird  life,  born  in  a  cage. 
Accounting    that    to  leap   from   perch   to 

perch 
Was  act  and  joy  enough  for  any  bird. 
Dear  heaven,  how  silly  are  the  things  that 

live 
In  thickets,  and  eat  berries  ! 

I,  alas, 
A  wild  bird  scarcely  fledged,  was  brought 

to  her  cage,  3 10 

And   she    was    there    to   meet   me.     Very 

kind. 
Bring  the  clean  water,  give  out  the  fresh 

seed. 


FIRST   BOOK 


259 


She  stood  upon  the  steps  to  welcome  me, 
Calm,  in  black  garb.      I  clung  about  her 

neck,  — 
Young  babes,  who  catch  at  every  shred  of 

wool 
To  draw   the  new  light  closer,  catch  and 

cling 
Less    blindly.      In   my   ears   my   father's 

word 
Hummed  ignorantly,  as  the  sea  in  shells, 
'  Love,  love,  my  child.'     She,   black  there 

with  my  grief. 
Might   feel    my  love  —  she  was  his  sister 

once  —  320 

I   clung   to   her.     A  moment   she  seemed 

moved. 
Kissed  me  with   cold  lips,  suffered  me  to 

cling, 
And   drew   me   feebly    through    the    hall 

into 
The  room  she  sat  in. 

There,  with  some  strange  spasm 
Of  pain  and  passion,  she  wrung  loose  my 

hands 
Imperiously,  and  held  me  at  arm's  length, 
And    with    two   gray-steel    naked-bladed 

eyes 
Searched  through  my  face,  —  ay,  stabbed  it 

through  and  through, 
Through  brows  and  cheeks  and  chin,  as  if 

to  find 
A     wicked     murderer     in     my     innocent 

face,  330 

If  not  here,  there  perhaps.     Then,  drawing 

breath. 
She  struggled  for  her  ordinary  calm  — 
And   missed   it   rather,  —  told   me  not   to 

shrink. 
As    if    she    had    told    me    not    to   lie    or 

swear,  — 
*  She  loved  my  father  and  would  love  me 

too 
As  long  as  I  deserved  it.'     Very  kind. 

I  understood  her  meaning  afterward; 

She    thought    to    find   my   mother   in   my 

face, 
And  questioned  it  for  that     For  she,  my 

aunt. 
Had     loved     my    father     truly,    as     she 

could,  340 

And  hated,  with  the  gall  of  gentle  souls, 
My  Tuscan  mother  who  had  fooled  away 
A   wise    man   from   wise   courses,  a   good 

man 


From  obvious  duties,  and,  depriving  her, 
His  sister,  of  the  household  precedence, 
Had  wronged  his  tenants,  robbed  his  native 

land, 
And   made   him   mad,   alike   by   life   and 

death. 
In  love  and  sorrowo      She  had  pored  for 

years 
What  sort  of  woman  could  be  suitable 
To  her  sort  of  hate,  to  entertain  it  with,  350 
And  so,  her  very  curiosity 
Became  hate  too,  and  all  the  idealism 
She  ever  used  in  life  was  used  for  hate. 
Till  hate,  so  nourished,  did  exceed  at  last 
The  love  from  which  it  grew,  in  strength 

and  heat. 
And  wrinkled  her  smooth  conscience  with  a 

sense 
Of  disputable  virtue  (say  not,  sin) 
When  Christian  doctrine  was  enforced  at 

church. 

And  thus  my  father's  sister  was  to  me 
My   mother's   hater.     From  that  day  she 

did  360 

Her  duty  to  me  (I  appreciate  it 
In  her  own  word  as  spoken  to  herself). 
Her  duty,  in  large  measure,  well  pressed 

out. 
But  measured  always.     She  was  generous, 

bland, 
More  courteous  than  was  tender,  gave  me 

still 
The  first  place,  —  as  if  fearful  that  God's 

saints 
Would     look     down     suddenly    and     say 

'  Herein 
You  missed  a  point,  I  think,  through  lack  of 

love.' 
Alas,  a  mother  never  is  afraid 
Of  speaking  angerly  to  any  child,  370 

Since  love,  she  knows,  is  justified  of  love. 

And  I,  I  was  a  good  child  on  the  whole, 
A    meek    and   manageable    child.      Why 

not? 
I  did  not  live,  to  have  the  faults  of  life : 
There  seemed  more  true  life  in  my  father's 

grave 
Than  in  all  England.     Since  that  threw  me 

off 
Who  fain  would  cleave  (his  latest  will,  they 

say. 
Consigned  me  to  his  land),  I  only  thought 
Of  lying  quiet  there  where  I  was  thrown 


26o 


AURORA   LEIGH 


Like  sea-weed  on  the  rocks,  and  suffering 
her  380 

To  prick  me  to  a  pattern  with  her  pin, 
Fibre  from  fibre,  delicate  leaf  from  leaf, 
And  dry  out  from  my  drowned  anatomy 
The  last  sea-salt  left  in  me. 

So  it  waso 
I  broke  the  copious  curls  upon  my  head 
In    braids,    because    she    liked    smooth- 
ordered  hair. 
I  left  off  saying  my  sweet  Tuscan  words 
Which  still  at  any  stirring  of  the  heart 
Came  up  to  float  across  the  English  phrase 
As  lilies  {Bene  or  Che  die),  because  390 

She  liked  my  father's   child  to  speak  his 

tongue. 
I  learnt  the  collects  and  the  catechism, 
The  creeds,  from  Athanasius  back  to  Nice, 
The  Articles,  the  Tracts  against  the  times 
(By  no  means    Buonaventure's    '  Prick  of 

Love  '), 
And  various  popular  synopses  of 
Inhuman  doctrines  never  taught  by  John, 
Because  she  liked  instructed  piety. 
I  learnt  my  complement  of  classic  French 
(Kept  pure  of  Balzac  and  neologism)      400 
And  German  also,  since  she  liked  a  range 
Of  liberal  education,  —  tongueS;  not  books, 
I  learnt  a  little  algebra,  a  little 
Of   the    mathematics,  —  brushed  with  ex- 
treme flounce 
The  circle  of  the  sciences,  because 
She  misliked  women  who  are  frivolous. 
I  learnt  the  royal  genealogies 
Of  Oviedo,  the  internal  laws 
Of  the  Burmese  empire,  —  by  how  many 

feet 
Mount  Chimborazo  outsoars  Tenerifife,    410 
What  navigable  river  joins  itself 
To  Lara,  and  what  census  of  the  year  five 
Was  taken  at    Klagenfurt,  —  because  she 

liked 
A  general  insight  into  useful  facts. 
I   learnt    much    music,  —  such    as    would 

have  been 
As  quite  impossible  in  Johnson's  day 
As  still  it  might  be  wished  —  fine  sleights 

of  hand 
And  unimagined  fingering,  shuffling  off 
The   hearer's    soul  throuo-h   hurricanes  of 

notes 
To  a  noisy  Tophet;  and  I  drew  .  .  .  cos- 
tumes 420 
From  French   engravings,  nereids    neatly 
draped 


(With  smirks  of   simmering   godship):    I 

washed  in 
Landscapes     from     nature     (rather     say, 

washed  out). 
I  danced  the  polka  and  Cellarius, 
Spun   glass,  stuffed   birds,   and   modelled 

flowers  in  wax, 
Because    she    liked    accomplishments     in 

girls. 
I  read  a  score  of  books  on  womanhood 
To  prove,  if  women  do  not  think  at  all. 
They   may   teach    thinking    (to  a   maiden 

aunt 
Or  else  the  author), — books  that   boldly 

assert  430 

Their   right  of   comprehending   husband's 

talk 
When  not  too  deep,  and  even  of  answering 
With  pretty  *  may  it  please  you,'  or  '  so  it 

Their  rapid  insight  and  fine  aptitude, 
Particular  worth  and  general   missionari- 

ness, 
As  long  as  they  keep  quiet  by  the  fire 
And  never  say  '  no '  when  the  world  says 

For  that  is  fatal,  —  their  angelic  reach 
Of  virtue,  chiefly  used  to  sit  and  darn, 
And   fatten  household  sinners,  —  their,  in 

brief,  440 

Potential  faculty  in  everything 
Of  abdicating  power  in  it:  she  owned 
She  liked  a  woman  to  be  womanly, 
And    English    women,    she   thanked    God 

and  sighed 
(Some    people    always    sigh    in   thanking 

God), 
Were  models  to  the  universCc,     And  last 
I  learnt   cross-stitch,  because  she  did  not 

like 
To    see    me    wear   the    night    with  empty 

hands 
A-doing  nothing.     So,  my  shepherdess 
Was    something    after    all    (the    pastoral 

saints  450 

Be  praised   for't),    leaning   lovelorn  with 

pink  eyes 
To  match  her  shoes,  when  I  mistook  the 

silks ; 
Her  head  uncrushed  by  that  round  weight 

of  hat 
So  strangely  similar  to  the  tortoise  shell 
Which  slew  the  tragic  poet. 

By  the  way, 
The  works  of  women  are  symbolical. 


FIRST   BOOK 


261 


We  sew,  sew,  prick  our  fingers,  dull  our 

sight, 
Producing  what  ?     A  pair  of  slippers,  sir. 
To  put  on  when  you  're  weary  —  or  a  stool 
To  stumble  over  and  vex  you  .  .  .  '  curse 
that  stool ! '  460 

Or  else  at  best,  a  cushion,  where  you  lean 
And  sleep,  and  dream  of  something  we  are 

not 
But  would  be  for  your  sake.     Alas,  alas  ! 
This  hurts  most,  this  —  that,  after  all,  we 

are  paid 
The  worth  of  our  work,  perhaps. 

In  looking  down 
Those  years  of  education  (to  return) 
I  wonder  if  Brinvilliers  suffered  more 
In  the   water-torture  .  .   .  flood   succeed- 
ing flood 
To  drench  the  incapable  throat  and  split 
the  veins  ...  469 

Than  I  did.     Certain  of  your  feebler  souls 
Go  out  in  such  a  process;  many  pine 
To   a   sick,  inodorous   light;   my  own  en- 
dured: 
I  had  relations  in  the  Unseen,  and  drew 
The  elemental  nutriment  and  heat 
From   nature,  as   earth   feels   the    sun   at 

nights. 
Or  as  a  babe  sucks  surely  in  the  dark. 
I  kept  the  life  thrust  on  me,  on  the  out- 
side 
Of  the  inner  life  with  all  its  ample  room 
For  heart  and  lungs,  for  will  and  intellect. 
Inviolable  by  conventions.     God,  480 

I  thank  thee  for  that  grace  of  thine  ! 

At  first 
I  felt  no  life  which  was  not  patience,  —  did 
The  thing  she  bade  me,  without  heed  to  a 

thing 
Beyond  it,  sat  in  just  the  chair  she  placed, 
With   back    against    the    window,   to   ex- 
clude 
The  sight  of   the  great   lime-tree  on   the 

lawn. 
Which   seemed  to  have  come  on  purpose 

from  the  woods 
To  bring  the  house  a  message, — ay,  and 

walked 
Demurely  in  her  carpeted  low  rooms. 
As   if   I  should   not,  hearkening   my  own 
steps,  490 

Misdoubt     I     was     alive.      I     read     her 

books, 
Was  civil  to  her  cousin,  Romney  Leigh, 
Gave  ear  to  her  vicar,  tea  to  her  visitors. 


And  heard  them  whisper,  when  I  changed 

a  cup 
(I    blushed     for     joy     at     that),  — '  The 

Italian  child. 
For  all  her  blue  eyes  and  her  quiet  ways, 
Thrives  ill  in  England:  she  is  paler  yet 
Than    when  we  came   the  last   time;   she 

will  die.' 

*  Will   die.'     My   cousin,  Romney    Leigh, 

blushed  too, 
With  sudden  anger,  and  approaching  me  500 
Said    low    between     his     teeth,    *  You  're 

wicked  now  ? 
You  wish  to  die  and  leave  the  world  a-dusk 
For  others,  with  your  naughty  light  blown 

out?' 
I  looked  into  his  face  defyingly; 
He  might  have  known  that,  being  what  I 

was, 
'T  was  natural  to  like  to  get  away 
As  far  as  dead  folk  can:  and  then  indeed 
Some  people  make  no  trouble  when  they 

die. 
He  turned   and   went   abruptly,   slammed 

the  door. 
And  shut  his  dog  out. 

Romney,  Romney  Leigh. 
I  have  not  named  my  cousin  hitherto,      511 
And  yet  I  used  him  as  a  sort  of  friend; 
My  elder  by  few  years,  but  cold  and  shy 
And  absent  .  .  .  tender,  when  he  thought 

of  it. 
Which  scarcely  was  imperative,  grave  be- 
times. 
As  well  as  early  master  of  Leigh  Hall, 
Whereof  the  nightmare  sat  upon  his  youth, 
Repressing  all  its  seasonable  delights. 
And  agonizing  with  a  ghastly  sense 
Of  universal  hideous  want  and  wrong      520 
To     incriminate     possession.       When    he 

came 
From  college  to  the  country,  very  oft 
He  crossed  the  hill  on  visits  to  my  aunt, 
With   gifts  of  blue  grapes  from  the  hot- 
houses, 
A  book  in  one  hand,  —  mere  statistics  (if 
I  chanced  to  lift  the  cover),  count  of  all 
The   goats   whose  beards   grow  sprouting 

down  toward  hell 
Against  God's  separative  judgment-hour. 
And  she,  she  almost  loved  him,  —  even  al- 
lowed 
That  sometimes  he  should  seem  to  sigh  my 
way;  530 


262 


AURORA   LEIGH 


It  made  him  easier  to  be  pitiful, 
And  sighing  was  his  gift.     So,  undisturbed, 
At  whiles  she  let  him  shut  my  music  up 
And  push  my  needles  down,  and  lead  me 

out 
To  see  in  that  south  angle  of  the  house 
The   figs   grow   black   as  if   by  a  Tuscan 

rock. 
On  some  light  pretext.     She  would   turn 

her  head 
At  other  moments,  go  to  fetch  a  thing, 
And  leave  me  breath  enough  to  speak  with 

him, 
For  his  sake;  it  was  simple. 

Sometimes  too 
He    would    have    saved     me    utterly,    it 

seemed,  541 

He  stood  and  looked  so. 

Once,  he  stood  so  near, 
He  dropped  a  sudden  hand  upon  my  head 
Bent  down  on  woman's  work,  as  soft  as 

rain  — 
But  then  I  rose  and  shook  it  off  as  fire, 
The  stranger's  touch  that  took  my  father's 

place 
Yet  dared  seem  soft. 

I  used  him  for  a  friend 
Before  I  ever  knew  him  for  a  friend. 
T  was  better,  't  was  worse  also,  afterward: 
We  came  so  close,  we  saw  our  differ- 
ences 550 
Too  intimately.  Always  Romney  Leigh 
Was   looking   for    the   worms,    I   for   the 

gods. 
A  godlike  nature  his;  the  gods  look  down. 
Incurious  of  themselves;  and  certainly 
'T  is  well  I    should  remember,  how,  those 

days, 
I  was  a  worm  too,  and  he  looked  on  me. 

A  little  by  his  act  perhaps,  yet  more 
By  something  in  me,  surely  not  my  will, 
I  did  not  die.     But  slowly,  as  one  in  swoon. 
To  whom  life  creeps  back  in  the  form  of 
death,  560 

With  a  sense  of  separation,  a  blind  pain 
Of   blank   obstruction,   and   a  roar  i'   the 

ears 
Of  visionary  chariots  which  retreat 
As  earth  grows  clearer  .  .  .  slowly,  by  de- 
grees, 
I  woke,  rose  up  .  .  .  where  was  I  ?  in  the 

world; 
For   uses   therefore   I   must   count   worth 
while. 


I  had  a  little  chamber  in  the  house, 
As  green  as  any  privet-hedge  a  bird 
Might  choose  to  build  in,  though  the  nest 

itself 
Could    show  but    dead-brown   sticks    and 

straws;  the  walls  570 

Were    green,    the  carpet  was  pure  green, 

the  straight 
Small  bed  was  curtained  greenly,  and  the 

folds 
Hung  green  about  the  window  which  let  in 
The  out-door  world  with  all  its  greenery. 
You  could  not  push  your  head  out  and  es- 
cape 
A  dash  of  dawn-dew  from  the  honeysuckle. 
But  so  you  were  baptized  into  the  grace 
And  privilege  of  seeing.  .  .  . 

First,  the  lime 
(I    had    enough    there,    of    the  lime,  be 

sure,  — 
My   morning  -  dream   was   often   hummed 

away  580 

By  the  bees  in  it) ;  past  the  lime,  the  lawn, 
Which,  after  sweeping  broadly  round  the 

house. 
Went  trickling  through  the  shrubberies  in 

a  stream 
Of  tender  turf,  and  wore  and  lost  itself 
Among  the  acacias,  over  which  you  saw 
The  irregular  line  of  elms  by  the  deep  lane 
Which  stopped  the  grounds  and  dammed 

the  overflow 
Of  arbutus  and  laurel.     Out  of  sight 
The   lane  was;   sunk  so  deep,  no  foreign 

tramp 
Nor  drover  of  wild  ponies  out  of  Wales  590 
Could  guess  if  lady's  hall  or  tenant's  lodge 
Dispensed  such  odors,  —  though  his  stick 

well-crooked 
Might  reach  the  lowest  trail  of  blossoming 

briar 
Which  dipped  upon  the  wall.     Behind  the 

elms, 
And  through  their  tops,  you  saw  the  folded 

hills 
Striped  up  and  down  with  hedges  (burly 

oaks 
Projecting  from  the   line  to   show   them- 
selves). 
Through  which  my  cousin  Romney's  chim- 
neys smoked 
As  still  as  when  a  silent  mouth  in  frost 
Breathes,    showing   where   the   woodlands 

hid  Leigh  Hall;  600 

While,  far  above,  a  jut  of  table-land. 


FIRST   BOOK 


263 


A  promontory  without  water,  stretched,  — 
You   could   not  catch   it  if  the  days  were 

thick, 
Or  took  it  for  a  cloud;  but,  otherwise, 
The  vigorous  sun  would  catch  it  up  at  eve 
And  use  it  for  an  anvil  till  he  had  filled 
The  shelves  of  heaven  with  burning  thun- 
derbolts, 
Protesting  against  night  and  darkness:  — 

then, 
When  all  his  setting  trouble  was  resolved 
To   a  trance  of  passive   glory,  you  might 
see  610 

In  apparition  on  the  golden  sky 
(Alas,  my  Giotto's  background  !)  the  sheep 

run 
Along  the  fine  clear  outline,  small  as  mice 
That  run  along  a  witch's  scarlet  thread. 

Not  a   grand   nature.     Not   my  chestnut- 
woods 
Of  Vallbmbrosa,  cleaving  by  the  spurs 
To  the  precipices.     Not  my  headlong  leaps 
Of  waters,  that  cry  out  for  joy  or  fear 
In  leaping  through  the  palpitating  pines, 
Like  a  white  soul  tossed  out  to  eternity  620 
With  thrills  of  time  upon  it.     Not  indeed 
My  multitudinous  mountains,  sitting  in 
The  magic  circle,  with  the  mutual  touch 
Electric,    panting    from    their    full    deep 

hearts 
Beneath  the  influent  heavens,  and  waiting 

for 
Communion  and  commission.     Italy 
Is  one  thing,  England  one. 

On  English  ground 
You  understand  the  letter,  —  ere  the  fall 
How  Adam   lived   in   a  garden.     All  the 

fields 
Are  tied  up  fast  with  hedges, nosegay  like; 
The  hills  are  crumpled  plains,  the  plains 

parterres,  631 

The    trees,    round,    woolly,    ready    to    be 

clipped. 
And  if  you  seek  for  any  wilderness 
You  find,  at  best,  a  park.     A  nature  tamed 
And  grown  domestic  like  a  barn-door  fowl, 
Which  does  not  awe  you  with  its  claws  and 

beak, 
Nor  tempt  you  to  an  eyrie  too  high  up, 
But  which,  in  cackling,  sets  you  thinking  of 
Your  eggs  to-morrow  at  breakfast,  in  the 

pause 
Of  finer  meditation. 


Rather  sav. 


640 


A  sweet  familiar  nature,  stealing  in 

As  a  dog  might,  or  child,  to  touch   your 

baud 
Or  pluck  your  gown,  and  humbly  mind  you 

so 
Of  presence  and  affection,  excellent 
For  inner  uses,  from  the  things  without. 

I  could  not  be  unthankful,  I  who  was 
Entreated  thus  and  holpen.     In  the  room 
I  speak  of,  ere  the  house  was  well  awake. 
And  also  after  it  was  well  asleep, 
I  sat  alone,  and  drew  the  blessing  in        650 
Of  all  that  nature.     With  a  gradual  step, 
A  stir  among  the  leaves,  a  breath,  a  ray. 
It  came  in  softly,  while  the  angels  made 
A   place   for    it    beside    me.     The    moon 

came. 
And   swept   my  chamber  clean  of  foolish 

thoughts. 
The    sun   came,  saying,  '  Shall  I  lift   this 

light 
Against  the    lime-tree,  and   you   will   not 

look? 
I  make  the  birds  sing  —  listen  !    but,   for 

you, 
God   never    hears    your   voice,   excepting 

when 
You  lie  upon  the  bed  at  nights  and  weep.' 

Then,   something    moved    me.      Then,    I 

wakened  up  66 1 

More  slowly  than  I  verily  write  now. 
But   wholly,  at   last,    I  wakened,  opened 

wide 
The  window  and  my  soul,  and  let  the  airs 
And  out-door  sights  sweep  gradual  gospels 

in, 
Regenerating  what  I  was.     O  Life, 
How   oft   we   throw   it   off   and   think,  — 

*  Enough, 
Enough   of   life   in   so  much  !  —  here 's  a 

cause 
For  rupture ;  —  herein  we  must  break  with 

Life, 
Or   be   ourselves    unworthy;   here  we  are 

wronged,  670 

Maimed,  spoiled  for  aspiration:    farewell, 

Life!' 
And   so,  as  froward   babes,   we    hide  our 

eyes 
And  think  all  ended.  —  Then,  Life  calls  to 

us 
In  some  transformed,  apocalyptic  voice. 
Above  us,  or  below  us,  or  around: 


264 


AURORA   LEIGH 


Perhaps   we   name    it   Nature's   voice,   or 

Love's, 
Tricking  ourselves,  because  we  are  more 

ashamed 
To  own  our  compensations  than  our  griefs: 
Still,  Life's   voice  !  —  still,  we   make    our 

peace  with  Life. 

And   I,   so  young   then,    was   not   sullen. 

Soon  680 

I  used  to  get  up  early,  just  to  sit 
And  watch   the   morning   quicken   in   the 

gray. 
And  hear  the  silence  open  like  a  flower 
Leaf  after  leaf,  —  and  stroke  with  listless 

hand 
The  woodbine  through  the  window,  till  at 

last 
I  came  to  do  it  with  a  sort  of  love. 
At  foolish  unaware :  whereat  I  smiled,  — 
A  melancholy  smile,  to  catch  myself 
Smiling  for  joy. 

Capacity  for  joy 
Admits     temptation.     It    seemed,     next, 

worth  while  690 

To  dodge  the  sharp  sword  set  against  my 

life; 
To  slip  down  stairs  through  all  the  sleepy 

house, 
As  mute  as  any  dream  there,  and  escape 
As  a  soul  from  the  body,  out  of  doors. 
Glide  through  the  shrubberies,  drop   into 

the  lane, 
And  wander  on  the  hills  an  hour  or  two. 
Then  back  again  before  the  house  should 

stir. 

Or  else  I  sat  on  in  my  chamber  green. 
And    lived    my    life,    and     thought    my 

thoughts,  and  prayed 

My  prayers  without   the  vicar;   read   my 

books,  700 

Without  considering  whether  they  were  fit 

To  do  me  good.     Mark,  there.     We  get  no 

good 
By  being  ungenerous,  even  to  a  book. 
And  calculating  profits,  —  so  much  help 
By  so  much  reading.     It  is  rather  when 
We  gloriously  forget  ourselves  and  plunge 
Soul-forward,  headlong,  into  a  book's  pro- 
found, 
Impassioned   for    its   beauty   and   salt   of 

truth  — 
'T  is   then  we   get  the  right  good  from  a 
book. 


710 


I  read  much.     What  my  father  taught  be 

fore 
From  many  a  volume.  Love  re-emphasized 
Upon  the  self-same  pages:  Theophrast 
Grew  tender  with  the  memory  of  his  eyes. 
And  ^lian  made  mine  wet.     The  trick  of 

Greek 
And  Latin  he  had  taught  me,  as  he  would 
Have  taught  me  wrestling  or  the  game  of 

fives 
If  such  he  had  known,  —  most  like  a  ship- 
wrecked man 
Who   heaps  his  single  platter  with  goats' 

cheese 
And  scarlet  berries ;  or  like  any  man 
Who   loves   but   one,  and   so  gives  all  at 

once,  720 

Because  he  has  it,  rather  than  because 
He   counts   it  worthy.     Thus,   my   father 

gave: 
And  thus,  as  did  the  women  formerly 
By   young   Achilles,  when   they  pinned  a 

veil 
Across  the  boy's  audacious  front,  and  swept 
With    tuneful    laughs    the    silver-fretted 

rocks. 
He  wrapt  his  little  daughter  in  his  large 
Man's  doublet,  careless  did  it  fit  or  no. 

But,  after  I  had  read  for  memory, 

I   read  for   hope.     The  path   my  father's 

foot  730 

Had  trod  me  out  (which  suddenly  broke 
off 

What  time  he  dropped  the  wallet  of  the 
flesh 

And  passed),  alone  I  carried  on,  and  set 

My  child-heart  'gainst  the  thorny  under- 
wood. 

To  reach  the  grassy  shelter  of  the  trees. 

Ah  babe  i'  the  wood,  without  a  brother- 
babe  ! 

My  own  self-pity,  like  the  red-breast  bird. 

Flies  back  to  cover  all  that  past  with 
leaves. 

Sublimest  danger,  over  which  none  weeps. 
When    any   young   wayfaring    soul    goes 

forth  740 

Alone,  unconscious  of  the  perilous  road. 
The  day-sun  dazzling  in  his  limpid  eyes. 
To    thrust    his    own    way,    he    an    alien, 

through 
The   world   of  books  !      Ah,   you  !  —  you 

think  it  fine, 


FIRST    BOOK 


265 


You   clap   hands  —  *  A    fair   day  ! '  —  you 

cheer  him  on, 
As  if  the  worst,  could  happen,  were  to  rest 
Too  long  beside  a  fountain.     Yet,  behold. 
Behold  !  —  the  world  of  books  is  still  the 

world, 
And  worldings  in  it  are  less  merciful 
And    more    puissant.       For    the     wicked 
there  750 

Are  winged  like  angels;  every  knife  that 

strikes 
Is  edged  from  elemental  fire  to  assail 
A  spiritual  life;  the  beautiful  seems  right 
By  force  of  beauty,  and  the  feeble  wrong 
Because  of  weakness;  power  is  justified 
Though  armed  against  Saint  Michael;  many 

a  crown 
Covers  bald  foreheads.     In  the  book- world, 

true, 
There  's  no  lack,  neither,  of   God's  saints 

and  kings, 
That  shake  the  ashes  of  the  grave  aside 
From    their    calm    locks    and    undiscom- 
fited  760 

Look  steadfast  truths  against  Time's  chan- 
ging mask. 
True,  many  a  prophet  teaches  in  the  roads ; 
True,  many  a  seer  pulls  down  the  flaming 

heavens 
Upon  his  own  head  in  strong  martyrdom 
In  order  to  light  men  a  moment's  space. 
But    stay  !  —  who   judges  ?  —  who   distin- 
guishes 
'Twixt    Saul   and   Nahash   justly,  at   first 

sight. 
And  leaves  king  Saul  precisely  at  the  sin, 
To   serve   king   David  ?   who   discerns   at 

once 
The  sound  of  the  trumpets,  when  the  trum- 
pets blow  770 
For  Alaric  as  well  as  Charlemagne  ? 
Who  judges   wizards,   and    can   tell   true 

seers 
From  conjurers  ?  the  child,  there  ?   Would 

you  leave 
That  child  to  wander  in  a  battle-field 
And   push  his  innocent  smile  against   the 

guns; 
Or  even  in  a  catacomb,  —  his  torch 
Grown  ragged  in  the  fluttering  air,  and  all 
The    dark    a-mutter   round    him  ?    not   a 
child. 

I  read  books  bad  and  good  —  some  bad 
and  good 


At  once  (good  aims  not  always  make  good 

books:  780 

Well-tempered  spades  turn  up  ill-smelling 

soils 
In   digging   vineyards    even);    books   that 

prove 
God's  being  so  definitely,  that  man's  doubt 
Grows  self-defined  the  other  side  the  line, 
Made  atheist  by  suggestion;  moral  books, 
Exasperating  to  license;  genial  books. 
Discounting  from  the  human  dignity; 
And  merry  books,  which  set  you  weeping 

when 
The    sun    shines,  —  ay,    and     melancholy 

books. 
Which  make  you  laugh  that  any  one  should 

weep  790 

In  this  disjointed  life  for  one  wrong  more. 

The  world   of  books  is  still   the  world,  I 

write. 
And   both  worlds   have  God's  providence, 

thank  God, 
To  keep  and  hearten:  with  some  struggle, 

indeed. 
Among  the  breakers,  some  hard  swimming 

through 
The  deeps  —  I  lost  breath  in  my  soul  some- 
times 
And  cried    '  God    save  me  if   there 's  any 

God,' 
But,  even  so,  God    saved   me;  and,  being 

dashed 
From  error  on  to  error,  every  turn 
Still   brought   me   nearer   to   the    central 

truth.  80a 

I  thought  so.     All  this  anguish  in  the  thick 
Of  men's  opinions  .  .  .  press  and  counter- 
press, 
Now   up,  now   down,  now  underfoot,  and 

now 
Emergent  ...  all  the  best  of  it,  perhaps, 
But  throws  you  back  upon  a  noble  trust 
And   use  of   your  own   instinct,  —  merely 

proves 
Pure  reason  stronger  than  bare  inference 
At  strongest.    Try  it,  —  fix  against  heaven's 

wall 
The     scaling-ladders    of    school     logic  — 

mount 
Step  by  step  !  — sight  goes  faster;  that  still 
ray  810 

Which  strikes  out  from  you,  how,  you  can- 
not tell. 


266 


AURORA   LEIGH 


And  why,  you  know  not  (did  you  eliminate, 
That  such  as  you  indeed  should  analyze  ?) 
Goes  straight  and  fast  as  light,  and  high  as 
God. 

The  cygnet  finds  the  water,  but  the  man 
Is  born  in  ignorance  of  his  element 
And  feels  out  blind  at  first,  disorganized 
By   sin   i'    the    blood,  —  his    spirit-insight 

dulled 
And  crossed  by  his  sensations.     Presently 
He  feels  it  quicken  in  the  dark  sometimes, 
When,  mark,  be  reverent,  be  obedient,     821 
For  such  dumb  motions  of  imperfect  life 
Are  oracles  of  vital  Deity 
Attesting  the  Hereafter.     Let  who  says 
*  The   soul 's  a  clean   white  paper,'  rather 

say, 
A  palimpsest,  a  prophet's  holograph 
Defiled,  erased  and  covered  by  a  monk's;  — 
The  apocalypse,  by  a  Longus  !  poring  on 
Which  obscene  text,  we  may  discern  per- 
haps 
Some  fair,  fine  trace  of  what  was  written 
once,  830 

Some  upstroke  of  an  alpha  and  omega 
Expressing  the  old  scripture. 

Books,  books,  books  ! 
I  had  found  the  secret  of  a  garret-room 
Piled  high  with  cases  in  my  father's  name. 
Piled  high,  packed  large,  —  where,  creep- 
ing in  and  out 
Among  the  giant  fossils  of  my  past, 
Like  some  small  nimble  mouse  between  the 

ribs 
Of  a  mastodon,  I  nibbled  here  and  there 
At  this  or  that  box,  pulling  through  the  gap. 
In  heats  of  terror,  haste,  victorious  joy,  840 
The  first  book  first.    And  how  I  felt  it  beat 
Under  my  pillow,  in  the  morning's  dark, 
An  hour  before  the  sun  would  let  me  read  ! 
My  books  !     At  last  because  the  time  was 

ripe, 
I  chanced  upon  the  poets. 

As  the  earth 
Plunges  in  fury,  when  the  internal  fires 
Have  reached  and  pricked  her  heart,  and, 

throwing  flat 
The  marts  and  temples,  the  triumphal  gates 
And  towers  of  observation,  clears  herself 
To  elemental  freedom  —  thus,  my  soul,  850 
At  poetry's  divine  first  finger-touch, 
Let  go  conventions  and  sprang  up  surprised, 
Convicted  of  the  great  eternities 
Before  two  worlds. 


What 's  this,  Aurora  Leigh, 
You  write  so  of  the  poets,  and  not  laugh  ? 
Those  virtuous  liars,  dreamers  after  dark, 
Exaggerators  of  the  sun  and  moon, 
And  soothsayers  in  a  tea-cup  ? 

I  write  so 
Of  the  only  truth-tellers  now  left  to  God, 
The  only  speakers  of  essential  truth,        860 
Opposed  to  relative,  comparative. 
And  temporal  truths;  the  only  holders  by 
His  sun-skirts,  through  conventional  gray 

glooms ; 
The  only  teachers  who  instruct  mankind 
From  just  a  shadow  on  a  charnel-wall 
To  find  man's  veritable  stature  out 
Erect,  sublime,  —  the  measure  of  a  man. 
And  that 's  the  measure  of  an  angel,  says 
The  apostle.     Ay,  and  while  your  common 

men 
Lay    telegraphs,    gauge    railroads,    reign, 

reap,  dine,  870 

And  dust  the  flaunty  carpets  of  the  world 
For  kings  to  walk  on,  or  our  president. 
The  poet  suddenly  will  catch  them  up 
With  his  voice  like  a  thunder,  —  '  This  is 

soul, 
This    is   life,  this    word   is   being   said   in 

heaven. 
Here  's   God   down   on  us  !  what   are  you 

about  ?  ' 
How  all   those  workers   start   amid   their 

work. 
Look  round,  look  up,  and  feel,  a  moment's 

space. 
That  carpet-dusting,  though  a  pretty  trade. 
Is  not  the  imperative  labor  after  all.        880 

My  own  best  poets,  am  I  one  with  you. 
That  thus  I  love  you,  —  or  but  one  through 

love? 
Does  all  this  smell   of  thyme    about   my 

feet 
Conclude  my  visit  to  your  holy  hill 
In  personal  presence,  or  but  testify 
The  rustling  of  your  vesture  through  my 

dreams 
With  influent  odors  ?     When  my  joy  and 

pain. 
My  thought  and  aspiration,  like  the  stops 
Of  pipe  or  flute,  are  absolutely  dumb 
Unless  melodious,  do  you  play  on  me       890 
My  pipers,  —  and   if,  sooth,  you   did   not 

blow, 
Would   no  sound  come  ?  or  is  the   music 

mine, 


FIRST   BOOK 


267 


As  a  man's  voice  or  breath  is  called  his  own, 
Inbreathed  by  the  Life-breather  ?   There  's 

a  doubt 
For  cloudy  seasons  ! 

But  the  sun  was  high 
When  first  I  felt  my  pulses  set  themselves 
For  concord;  when  the  rhythmic  turbulence 
Of  blood   and  brain   swept  outward  upon 

words, 
As  wind  upon  the  alders,  blanching"  them 
By  turning  up  their  under-natures  till      900 
They  trembled  in  dilation.     O  delight 
And  triumph  of  the  poet,  who  would  say 
A   man's  mere  '  yes,'  a  woman's    common 

'no,' 
A  little  human  hope  of  that  or  this. 
And  says    the  word  so  that   it  burns  you 

through 
With  a  special  revelation,  shakes  the  heart 
Of  all  the  men  and  women  in  the  world, 
As  if  one  came  back  from   the  dead  and 

spoke. 
With  eyes  too  happy,  a  familiar  thing 
Become  divine  i'  the  utterance  !  while  for 

him  910 

The  poet,  speaker,  he  expands  with  joy; 
The  palpitating  angel  in  his  flesh 
Thrills  inly  with  consenting  fellowship 
To  those  innumerous  spirits  who  sun  them- 
selves 
Outside  of  time. 

O  life,  O  poetry, 
—  Which  means  life  in  life  !  cognizant  of 

life 
Beyond  this  blood-beat,  passionate  for  truth 
Beyond  these  senses  !  —  poetry,  my  life. 
My  eagle,  with   both  grappling  feet   still 

hot 
From    Zeus's  thunder,  who   hast    ravished 

me  920 

Away  from  all  the  shepherds,  sheep,  and 

dogs. 
And  set  me  in  the  Olympian  roar  and  round 
Of  luminous  faces  for  a  cup-bearer. 
To  keep  the  mouths   of  all  the  godheads 

moist 
For  everlasting  laughters,  — I  myself 
Half  drunk  across  the  beaker  with   their 

eyes  ! 
How  those  gods  look  ! 

Enough  so,  Ganymede, 
We  shall  not  bear  above  a  round  or  two. 
We  drop  the  golden  cup  at  Herd's  foot 
And  swoon  back  to  the  earth,  —  and  find 

ourselves  930 


Face-down  among  the  pine-cones,  cold  with 

dew. 
While  the  dogs  bark,  and  many  a  shepherd 

scoffs, 
'  What 's  come  now  to  the  youth  ?  '     Such 

ups  and  downs 
Have  poets. 

Am  I  such  indeed  ?     The  name 
Is  royal,  and  to  sign  it  like  a  queen 
Is  what  I  dare  not,  —  though  some  royal 

blood 
Would  seem  to  tingle  in  me  now  and  then. 
With   sense    of   power   and    ache,  —  with 

imposthumes 
And  manias  usual  to  the  race.     Howbeit 
I  dare  not :  't  is  too  easy  to  go  mad  940 

And  ape  a  Bourbon  in  a  crown  of  straws; 
The  thing  's  too  common. 

Many  fervent  souls 
Strike  rhyme  on  rhyme,  who  would  strike 

steel  on  steel 
If  steel  had  offered,  in  a  restless  heat 
Of  doing  something.     Many  tender  souls 
Have   strung   their  losses    on   a  rhyming 

thread, 
As   children    cowslips:  —  the   more    pains 

they  take. 
The  work  more  withers.     Young  men,  ay, 

and  maids. 
Too    often   sow   their  wild   oats    in   tame 

verse, 
Before   they   sit    down    under    their   own 

vine  950 

And  live  for  use.     Alas,  near  all  the  birds 
Will  sing   at   dawn,  —  and  yet  we  do  not 

take 
The  chaffering  swallow  for  the  holy  lark. 
In  those  days,  though,  I  never  analyzed, 
Not  even  myself.     Analysis  comes  late. 
You  catch  a  sight  of  Nature,  earliest, 
In  full   front   sun-face,   and  your  eyelids 

wink 
And   drop   before   the    wonder  of  't;   you 

miss 
The    form,    through   seeing   the   light.     I 

lived,  those  days, 
And  wrote   because   I  lived  —  unlicensed 

else;  960 

My  heart  beat  in  my  brain.     Life's  violent 

flood 
Abolished  bounds,  —  and,  which  my  neigh- 
bor's  field. 
Which  mine,  what  mattered  ?  it  is  thus  in 

youth  ! 
We  play  at  leap-frog  over  the  god  Term; 


268 


AURORA   LEIGH 


The  love  within  us  and  the  love  without 
Are  mixed,  confounded;  if  we  are  loved  or 

love, 
We    scarce    distinguish:    thus,  with    other 

power; 
Being  acted  on  and  acting  seem  the  same: 
In  that  first  onrush  of  life's  chariot-wheels, 
We  know  not  if  the  forests  move  or  we.  970 

And  so,  like  most  young  poets,  in  a  flush 
Of  individual  life  I  poured  myself 
Along  the  veins  of  others,  and  achieved 
Mere  lifeless  imitations  of  live  verse, 
And  made  the  living  answer  for  the  dead, 
Profaning    nature.      '  Touch   not,   do   not 

taste. 
Nor  handle,'  —  we  're  too  legal,  who  write 

young: 
We  beat   the    phorminx  till  we   hurt  our 

thumbs. 
As  if  still  ignorant  of  counterpoint; 
We  call  the  Muse,  — '  O  Muse,  benignant 

Muse,'  —  980 

As  if  we  had  seen  her  purple-braided  head. 
With   the   eyes   in   it,  start   between   the 

boughs 
As  often  as  a  stag's.     What  make-believe, 
With  so  much  earnest  !    what  effete   re- 
sults 
From  virile  efforts  !  what  cold  wire-drawn 

odes 
From  such  white  heats  !  —  bucolics,  where 

the  cows 
Would  scare   the  writer  if  they  splashed 

the  mud 
In  lashing  off  the  flies,  —  didactics,  driven 
Against  the  heels  of  what  the  master  said; 
And     counterfeiting     epics,     shrill     with 

trumps  990 

A  babe  might  blow  between  two  straining 

cheeks 
Of  bubbled  rose,  to  make  his  mother  laugh; 
And  elegiac  griefs,  and  songs  of  love. 
Like  cast-off   nosegays  picked   up  on  the 

road, 
The  worse  for  being  warm:  all  these  things, 

writ 
On  happy  mornings,  with  a  morning  heart, 
That  leaps  for  love,  is  active  for  resolve. 
Weak    for    art    only.      Oft,    the    ancient 

forms 
Will  thrill,  indeed,  in  carrying  the  young 

blood. 
The    wine-skins,    now   and    then,    a   little 

warped,  1000 


Will  crack  even,  as  the  new  wine  gurgles 

in. 
Spare  the  old  bottles  !  —  spill  not  the  new 

wine. 

By  Keats's  soul,  the  man  who  never  stepped 
In  gradual  progress  like  another  man, 
But,  turning  grandly  on  his  central  self. 
Ensphered  himself  in  twenty  perfect  years 
And   died,  not   young  (the  life  of  a  long 

life 
Distilled  to  a  mere    drop,  falling  like   a 

tear 
Upon  the  world's  cold  cheek   to   make  it 

burn  1009 

For  ever) ;  by  that  strong  excepted  soul, 
I  count  it  strange  and  hard  to  understand 
That  nearly  all  young  poets  should  write 

old, 
That  Pope  was  sexagenary  at  sixteen, 
And  beardless  Byron  academical. 
And  so  with  others.     It  may  be  perhaps 
Such   have    not    settled    long    and    deep 

enough 
In  trance,  to  attain  to  clairvoyance,  —  and 

still 
The  memory  mixes  with  the  vision,  spoils^ 
And  works  it  turbid. 

Or  perhaps,  again, 
In  order  to  discover  the  Muse-Sphinx,   1020 
The  melancholy  desert  must  sweep  round. 
Behind  you  as  before.  — 

For  me,  I  wrote 
False    poems,  like    the  rest,  and   thought 

them  true 
Because  myself  was  true  in  writing  them. 
I  peradventure  have  writ  true  ones  since 
With  less  complacence. 

But  I  could  not  hide 
My  quickening   inner  life    from   those    at 

watch. 
They  saw  a  light  at  a  window,  now   and 

then. 
They  had   not   set  there:  who  had   set  it 

there  ? 
My  father's  sister  started  when  she  caught 
My  soul  agaze  in  my  eyes.     She  could  not 

say  103 1 

I  had  no  business  with  a  sort  of  soul. 
But  plainly  she  objected,  —  and  demurred 
That  souls  were  dangerous  things  to  carry 

straight 
Through  all  the  spilt  saltpetre  of  the  world. 
She   said   sometimes,  *  Aurora,   have   you 

done 


FIRST   BOOK 


269 


Your  task  this  morning  ?   have   you  read 

that  book  ? 
And  are  you  ready  for  the  crochet  here  ?  '  — 
As  if  she  said,  '  I  know  there  's  something 

wrong; 
I   know    I    have    not    ground    you   down 

enough  1040 

To  flatten  and  bake   you  to  a  wholesome 

crust 
For  household  uses  and  proprieties, 
Before  the  rain  has  got  into  my  barn 
And   set   the   grains    a-sprouting.     What, 

you  're  green 
With   out-door    impudence  ?    you    almost 

grow  ?  ' 
To  which  I   answered,  '  Would   she   hear 

my  task, 
And  verify  my  abstract  of  the  book  ? 
Or  should  I  sit  down  to  the  crochet  work  ? 
Was  such  her  pleasure  ?  '     Then  I  sat  and 

teased 
The  patient  needle  till  it  split  the  thread. 
Which   oozed  off   from   it  in  meandering 

lace  105 1 

From  hour  to  hour.     I  was  not,  therefore, 

sad; 
My  soul  was  singing  at  a  work  apart 
Behind   the   wall   of   sense,  as   safe    from 

harm 
As  sings  the  lark  when  sucked  up  out  of 

sight 
lu  vortices  of  glory  and  blue  air. 

And  so,  through  forced  work  and  spontane- 
ous work. 

The  inner  life  informed  the  outer  life. 

Reduced  the  irregular  blood  to  a  settled 
rhvthm, 

Made  cool  the  forehead  with  fresh-sprin- 
kling dreams,  1060 

And,  rounding  to  the  spheric  soul  the  thin, 

Pined  body,  struck  a  color  up  the  cheeks 

Though  somewhat  faint.  I  clenched  my 
brows  across 

My  blue  eyes  greatening  in  the  looking- 
glass, 

And  said  '  We  '11  live,  Aurora  !  we  '11  be 
strong. 

The  dogs  are  on  us  —  but  we  will  not 
die.' 

Whoever  lives  true  life  will  love  true  love. 
I  learnt  to  love  that  England.     Very  oft. 
Before  the  day  was  born,  or  otherwise 
Through  secret  windings  of  the  afternoons, 


I  threw  my  hunters  off  and  plunged  my- 
self 1071 
Among  the  deep  hills,  as  a  hunted  stag 
Will  take   the  waters,  shivering  with  the 

fear 
And  passion  of  the  course.     And  when  at 

last 
Escaped,  so  many  a  green  slope  built  on 

slope 
Betwixt  me  and  the  enemy's  house  behind, 
I  dared  to  rest,  or  wander,  in  a  rest 
Made  sweeter  for  the  step  upon  the  grass. 
And  view  the  ground's  most  gentle  d imple- 
ment 
(As  if  God's  finger   touched   but  did   not 
press  loSo 

In  making  England),  such  an  up  and  down 
Of   verdure,  —  nothing   too   much    up   or 

down, 
A    ripple  of   land;    such    little    hills,    the 

sky 
Can  stoop  to  tenderly  and  the  wheatfields 

climb; 
Such  nooks  of  valleys  lined  with  orchises, 
Fed  full  of  noises  by  invisible  streams; 
And    open   pastures    where   you    scarcely 

tell 
White  daisies  from  white  dew,  —  at  inter- 
vals 
The  mythic  oaks   and   elm-trees  standing 

out 
Self-poised  upon  their  prodigy  of  shade,  — 
I   thought  my   father's   land  was    worthy 

too  109 1 

Of  being  my  Shakespeare's. 

Very  oft  alone. 
Unlicensed;  not  unfrequently  with  leave 
To  walk  the  third  with  Romnev  and  his 

friend 
The  rising  painter,  Vincent  Carrington, 
Whom  men  judge  hardly  as  bee-bonneted. 
Because  he  holds  that,  paint  a  body  well, 
You  paint  a  soul  by  implication,  like 
The  grand  first  Master.     Pleasant  walks  ! 

for  if 
He  said  '  When  I  was  last  in  Italy,'        noo 
It  sounded  as  an  instrument  that  's  played 
Too  far   off  for  the  tune  —  and  yet  it  's 

fine 
To  listen. 

Ofter  we  walked  only  two 
If   cousin    Romney   pleased   to  walk  with 

me. 
We   read,    or  talked,   or  quarrelled,  as  it 

chanced. 


270 


AURORA   LEIGH 


We  were  not  lovers,  nor  even  friends  well- 
matched: 
Say  rather,  scholars  upon  different  tracks, 
And  thinkers  disagreed:  he,  overfull 
Of  what  is,  and  I,  haply,  overbold 
For  what  might  be. 

But  then  the  thrushes  sang, 
And   shook  my  pulses  and  the  elms'  new 

leaves:  im 

At  which  I  turned,  and  held   my   finger 

up. 
And  bade  him  mark  that,  howsoe'er   the 

world 
Went  ill,  as  he  related,  certainly 
The  thrushes  still  sang  in  it.     At  the  word 
His  brow  would  soften,  —  and  he  bore  with 

me 
In  melancholy  patience,  not  unkind. 
While  breaking  into  voluble  ecstasy 
I    flattered    all    the     beauteous     country 

round, 
As  poets  use,  the  skies,   the  clouds,   the 

fields,  1 120 

The  happy  violets  hiding  from  the  roads 
The  primroses  run  down  to,  carrying  gold; 
The  tangled   hedgerows,  where    the    cows 

push  out 
Impatient    horns    and    tolerant    churning 

mouths 
'Twixt  dripping  ash-boughs,  —  hedgerows 

all  alive 
With  birds  and  gnats  and  large  white  but- 
terflies 
Which  look  as  if  the  may-flower  had  caught 

life 
And  palpitated  forth  upon  the  wind; 
Hills,  vales,  woods,  netted  in  a  silver  mist, 
Farms,   granges,   doubled    up   among   the 

hills;  1130 

And  cattle  grazing  in  the  watered  vales, 
And  cottage-chimneys  smoking   from   the 

woods. 
And  cottage-gardens  smelling  everywhere. 
Confused  with  smell  of  orchards.     '  See,'  I 

said, 
*  And   see  !    is   God   not   with   us   on   the 

earth  ? 
And  shall  we  put  Him  down  by  aught  we 

do? 
Who  says  there  's  nothing  for  the  poor  and 

vile 
Save  poverty  and  wickedness  ?  behold  !  ' 
And  ankle-deep  in  English  grass  I  leaped 
And  clapped  my  hands,  and  called  all  very 

fair.  1 140 


In  the  beginning  when  God  called  all  good, 
Even  then  was  evil  near  us,  it  is  writ; 
But  we  indeed  who  call  things  good  and 

fair. 
The  evil  is  upon  us  while  we  speak ; 
Deliver  us  from  evil,  let  us  pray. 


SECOND   BOOK 

Times    followed    one    another.      Came    a 

morn 
I  stood  upon  the  brink  of  twenty  years,^ 
And  looked  before  and  after,  as  I  stood 
Woman  and  artist,  —  either  incomplete. 
Both   credulous   of   completion.     There    I 

held 
The  whole  creation  in  my  little  cup. 
And   smiled   with    thirsty    lips    before    I 

drank 
'  Good  health  to  you  and  me,  sweet  neigh- 
bor mine. 
And  all  these  peoples.' 

I  was  glad,  that  day; 
The  June  was  in  me,  with  its  multitudes  10 
Of  nightingales  all  singing  in  the  dark, 
And  rosebuds  reddening  where  the  calyx 

split. 
I  felt  so  young,  so  strong,  so  sure  of  God  ! 
So  glad,  I  could  not  choose  be  very  wise  ! 
And,  old  at  twenty,  was  inclined  to  pull 
My  childhood  backward  in  a  childish  jest 
To  see  the  face  of  't  once  more,  and  fare- 
well! 
In  which  fantastic  mood  I  bounded  forth 
At   early   morning,  —  would   not   wait    so 

long 

As    even    to    snatch    my    bonnet   by  the 

strings,  20 

But,  brushing  a  green  trail  across  the  lawn 

With  my  gown  in  the  dew,  took  will  and 

way 
Among  the  acacias  of  the  shrubberies, 
To  fly  my  fancies  in  the  open  air 
And  keep  my  birthday,  till  my  aunt  awoke 
To  stop  good  dreams.     Meanwhile  I  mur- 
mured on 
As  honeyed  bees  keep  humming  to  them- 
selves, 
'  The   worthiest   poets  have   remained  un- 
crowned 
Till  death  has  bleached  their  foreheads  to 

the  bone ; 
And  so  with  me  it  must  be  unless  I  prove 
Unworthy  of  the  grand  adversity,  31 


SECOND    BOOK 


271 


And  certainly  I  would  not  fail  so  much. 
What,  therefore,  if  I  crown  myself  to-day 
In  sport,  not  pride,  to  learn  the  feel  of 

it, 
Before  my  brows  be  numbed  as  Dante's 

own 
To  all  the  tender  pricking  of  such  leaves  ? 
Such  leaves  !  what  leaves  ?  ' 

I  pulled  the  branches  down 
To  choose  from. 

'  Not  the  bay  !  I  choose  no  bay 
(The  fates  deny  us  if  we  are  overbold). 
Nor   myrtle  —  which  means   chiefly   love ; 

and  love  40 

Is  something  awful  which   one   dares  not 

touch 
So  early  o'  mornings.     This  verbena  strains 
The  point  of  passionate  fragrance;  and  hard 

This  guelder-rose,  at  far  too  slight  a  beck 
Of  the  wind,  will   toss  about   her  flower- 
apples. 
Ah  —  there  's  my  choice,  —  that  ivy  on  the 

wall. 
That  headlong  ivy  !  not  a  leaf  will  grow 
But  thinking  of  a  wreath.     Large  leaves, 

smooth  leaves. 
Serrated  like  my  vines,  and  half  as  green. 
I  like  such  ivy,  bold  to  leap  a  height  50 

'T  was  strong  to  climb;  as  good  to  grow  on 

graves 
As  twist  about  a  thyrsus;  pretty  too 
(And  that 's  not  ill)  when  twisted  round  a 

comb.' 
Thus  speaking  to  myself,  half  singing  it. 
Because  some  thoughts  are  fashioned  like  a 

bell 
To  ring  with  once  being  touched,  I  drew  a 

wreath 
Drenched,  blinding  me  with  dew,  across  my 

brow. 
And  fastening  it  behind  so,  turning  faced 
.  .  .  My  public  !  —  cousin  Bomney  —  with 

a  mouth 
Twice  graver  than  his  eyes. 

I  stood  there  fixed,  — 
My  arms  up,  like  the  caryatid,  sole  61 

Of  some  abolished  temple,  helplessly 
Persistent  in  a  gesture  which  derides 
A   former    purpose.      Yet   my    blush   was 

flame, 
As  if  from  flax,  not  stone. 

'  Aurora  Leigh, 
The  earliest  of  Auroras  ! ' 

Hand  stretched  out 


I  clasped,  as  shipwrecked  men  will  clasp  a 

hand, 
Indijfferent  to  the  sort  of  palm.     The  tide 
Had   caught   me  at   my   pastime,  writing 

down 
My  foolish  name  too  near  upon  the  sea     70 
Which  drowned  me  with  a  blush  as  foolish. 

'  You, 
My  cousin  !  ' 

The  smile  died  out  in  his  eyes 
And  dropped  upon  his  lips,   a  cold  dead 

weight. 
For   just   a   moment,    '  Here 's   a    book   I 

found  ! 
No  name  writ  on  it  —  poems,  by  the  form; 
Some    Greek     upon     the  margin,  —  lady's 

Greek 
Without   the  accents.     Read  it  ?     Not   a 

word. 
I  saw  at  once  the  thing  had  witchcraft  in  't, 
Whereof   the  reading  calls    up  dangerous 

spirits :  79 

I  rather  bring  it  to  the  witch.' 

'  My  book. 
You  found  it '  .  .  .  . 

'  In  the  hollow  by  the  stream 
That  beech  leans  down  into  —  of  which  you 

said 
The  Oread  in  it  has  a  Naiad's  heart 
And  pines  for  waters.' 

'  Thank  you.' 

'  Thanks  to  you 
My  cousin  !  that  I  have  seen  you  not  too 

much 
Witch,  scholar,  poet,  dreamer,  and  the  rest. 
To  be  a  woman  also.' 

With  a  glance 
The    smile    rose    in    his    eyes    again    and 

touched 
The  ivy  on  my  forehead,  light  as  air. 
I    answered    gravely,   *  Poets   needs   must 

be  90 

Or  men  or  women  —  more  's  the  pity.' 

'Ah, 
But  men,  and  still  less  women,  happily, 
Scarce  need  be  poets.     Keep  to  the  green 

wreath, 
Since    even    dreaming    of    the    stone    and 

bronze 
Brings   headaches,  pretty  cousin,  and   de- 
files 
The  clean  white  morning  dresses.' 

'  So  you  judge  ! 
Because  I  love  the  beautiful  I  must 
Love  pleasure  chiefly,  and  be  overcharged 


272 


AURORA   LEIGH 


For  ease  and  whiteness  !    well,  you  know 

the  world, 
And     only    miss     your    cousin,    't  is    not 

much.  100 

But   learn   this;   I  would  rather  take  my 

part 
With  God's  Dead,  who  afford  to  walk  in 

white 
Yet  spread  his  glory,  than  keep  quiet  here 
And  gather  up  my  feet  from  even  a  step 
For  fear  to  soil  my  gown  in  so  much  dust. 
I  choose  to  walk  at  all   risks.  —  Here,  if 

heads 
That  hold  a  rhythmic  thought,  must    ache 

perforce, 
For  my  part  I  choose  headaches,  —  and  to- 
day's 
My  birthday.' 

'  Dear  Aurora,  choose  instead 
To  cure  them.     You  have  balsams.' 

'  I  perceive. 
The  headache  is  too  noble  for  my  sex.      m 
You  think  the  heartache  would  sound  de- 
center, 
Since  that 's  the  woman's   special,  proper 

ache. 
And  altogether  tolerable,  except 
To  a  woman.' 

Saying  which,  I  loosed  my  wreath, 
And  swinging  it  beside  me  as  I  walked, 
Half-petulant,  half-playful,  as  we  walked, 
I  sent  a  sidelong  look  to  find  his  thought,  — 
As  falcon  set  on  falconer's  finger  may. 
With  sidelong  head,  and  startled,  braving 

eye,  120 

Which  means,  '  You  '11  see  —  you  '11   see  ! 

I  '11  soon  take  flight. 
You  shall  not  hinder.'     He,  as  shaking  out 
His  hand  and  answering '  Fly  then,'  did  not 

speak. 
Except  by  such  a  gesture.     Silently 
We  paced,  until,  just  coming  into  sight 
Of  the  house-windows,  he  abruptly  caught 
At  one  end  of  the  swinging  wreath,  and 

said 

*  Aurora  ! '     There  I  stopped  short,  breath 

and  all. 

*  Aurora,  let 's  be  serious,  and  throw  by 
This  game  of  head  and  heart.     Life  naeans, 

be  sure,  130 

Both  heart  and  head,  —  both  active,  both 

complete. 
And   both   in   earnest.     Men   and   women 

make 


The  world,  as  head  and  heart  make  human 

life. 
Work  man,  work  woman,  since  there 's  work 

to  do 
In   this   beleaguered   earth,  for  head   and 

heart. 
And   thought   can   never  do   the  work  of 

love: 
But  work  for  ends,  I  mean  for  uses,  not 
For  such  sleek  fringes  (do  you  call  them 

ends. 
Still  less  God's  glory  ?)  as  we  sew  ourselves 
Upon  the  velvet  of  those  baldaquins         140 
Held  'twixt  us  and  the  sun.     That  book  of 

yours, 
I  have  not  read  a  page  of;  but  I  toss 
A  rose  up  —  it  falls  calyx  down,  you  see  ! 
The  chances  are  that,  being  a  woman,  young 
And  pure,  with  such  a  pair  of  large,  calm 

eyes. 
You  write  as  well  .  .  .  and  ill  .  .  .  upon 

the  whole. 
As  other  women.     If  as  well,  what  then  ? 
If   even   a    little    better,  .  .  .  still,    what 

then? 
We  want  the  Best  in  art  now,  or  no  art. 
The  time  is  done  for  facile  settings  up     150 
Of  minnow  gods,  nymphs  here  and  tritons 

there; 
The  polytheists  have  gone  out  in  God, 
That  unity  of  Bests.     No  best,  no  God  ! 
And  so  with  art,  we  say.    Give  art's  divine, 
Direct,  indubitable,  real  as  grief, 
Or  leave  us  to  the  grief  we  grow  ourselves 
Divine  by  overcoming  with  mere  hope 
And  most  prosaic  patience.     You,  you  are 

young 
As  Eve  with  nature's  daybreak  on  her  face. 
But  this  same  world  you  are  come  to,  dearest 

COZ,  160 

Has  done  with  keeping  birthdays,  saves  her 

wreaths 
To  hang  upon  her  ruins,  —  and  forgets 
To  rhyme  the  cry  with  which  she  still  beats 

back 
Those  savage,  hungry  dogs  that  hunt  her 

down 
To  the  empty  grave  of  Christ.    The  world  's 

hard  pressed: 
The  sweat  of  labor  in  the  early  curse 
Has  (turning  acrid  in  six  thousand  years) 
Become    the    sweat  of  torture.     Who  has 

time. 
An  hour's  time  .  .  .  think  !  —  to  sit  upon 

a  bank 


SECOND    BOOK 


273 


And  hear  the  cymbal  tinkle  in  white  hands  ? 
When   Egypt  's    slain,  I  say,  let   Miriam 

sing  !  —  171 

Before  —  where  's  Moses  ?  ' 

'  Ah,  exactly  that. 
Where  's  Moses  ?  —  is  a  Moses  to  be  found  ? 
You  '11  seek  him  vainly  in  the  bulrushes, 
While  I  in  vain  touch  cvmbals.     Yet  con- 

cede. 
Such  sounding  brass  has  done  some  actual 

good 
(The  application  in  a  woman's  hand, 
If  that  were  credible,  being  scarcely  spoilt,) 
In  colonizins:  beehives.' 

'  There  it  is  !  — 
You  play  beside  a  death-bed  like  a  child,  iSo 
Yet  measure  to  yourself  a  prophet's  place 
To  teach    the   living.     Xone    of  all   these 

things 
Can  women  understand.     You  generalize 
Oh,    nothing,  —  not    even    grief  !       Your 

quick-breathed  hearts, 
So  sympathetic  to  the  personal  pang. 
Close  on  each  separate  knife-stroke,  yield- 


ing up 


A  whole  life  at  eacii  wound,  incapable 
Of  deepening,  widening  a  large  lap  of  life 
To  hold  the  world-full  woe.     The  human 

race 
To   you   means,  such   a   child,  or   such  a 


man, 


190 


You  saw  one  morning  waiting  in  the  cold. 
Beside  that  gate,  perhaps.     You  gather  up 
A  few  such  cases,  and  when  strong  some- 
times 
Will  write  of  factories  and  of  slaves,  as  if 
Your  father  were  a  negro,  and  your  son 
A  spinner  in  the   mills.     All 's  yours  and 

you. 
All,  colored  with  your  blood,  or  otherwise 
Just  nothing  to  you.    Why,  I  call  you  hard 
To  general  suffering.     Here  's    the  world 

half  blind 
With  intellectual  light,  half  brutalized  200 
With  civilization,  having  caught  the  plague 
In   silks  from  Tarsus,  shrieking  east  and 

west 
Along  a  thousand  railroads,  mad  with  pain 
And  sin  too  !  .   .  .  does  one  woman  of  you 

all 
(You  who  weep  easily)  grow  pale  to  see 
This  tiger  shake  his  cage  ?  —  does  one  of 

you 
Stand  still  from  dancing,  stop  from  string- 
ing pearls, 


And  pine  and  die  because  of  the  great  sum 
Of  universal  anguish  ?  —  Show  me  a  tear 
Wet  as  Cordelia's,  in  eyes  bright  as  yours. 
Because    the  world   is  mad.     You  cannot 

count,  211 

That  you  should  weep  for  this  account,  not 

you! 
You    weep  for  what   you   know.     A   red- 
haired  child 
Sick  in  a  fever,  if  you  touch  him  once. 
Though  but  so  little  as  with  a  finger-tip. 
Will    set     you   weeping;    but    a    million 

sick  .  .  . 
You   could  as  soon  weep  for   the  rule  of 

three 
Or   compound    fractions.     Therefore,    this 

same  world, 
Uncomprehended  by  you,  must  remain 
Uninfluenced  by  you.  —  Women  as  you  are, 
Mere  women,  personal  and  passionate,     221 
You  give  us  doating  mothers,  and  perfect 

wives. 
Sublime  Madonnas,  and  enduring  saints  ! 
We  get  no  Christ  from  you,  —  and  verily 
We  shall  not  get  a  poet,  in  my  mind.' 
'  With  which  conclusion  you  conclude '  .  .  . 

'  But  this, 
That  you,  Aurora,  with  the  large  live  brow 
And  steady  eyelids,  cannot  condescend 
To  play  at  art,  as  children  play  at  swords. 
To  show  a  pretty  spirit,  chiefly  admired  230 
Because  true  action  is  impossible. 
You  never  can  be  satisfied  with  praise 
Which  men  give  women  when  they  judge  a 

book 
Not  as  mere  work    but  as  mere  woman's 

work, 
Expressing  the  comparative  respect 
Which  means   the    absolute  scorn.     "  Oh, 

excellent, 
What  grace,  what  facile  turns,  what  fluent 

sweeps, 
What    delicate    discernment    .   .   .    almost 

thought ! 
The  book  does  honor  to  the  sex,  we  hold. 
Among  our  female  authors  we  make  room 
For  this  fair  writer,  and  congratulate      241 
The  country  that  produces  in  these  times 
Such  women,  competent  to  .   .  .  spell." ' 

'  Stop  there,' 
I  answered,  burning  through  his  thread  of 

talk 
With  a   quick   flame   of   emotion,  — '  You 

have  read 
My  soul,  if  not  my  book,  and  argue  well 


274 


AURORA   LEIGH 


I  would  not   condescend  ...  we  will  not 

say 
To   such   a   kind    of   praise    (a   worthless 

end 
Is  praise  of  all  kinds),  but  to  such  a  use 
Of  holy  art  and  golden  life.    I  am  young,  250 
And    peradventure   weak  —  you    tell    me 

so  — 
Through  being  a  woman.     And,  for  all  the 

rest, 
Take  thanks  for  justice.     I  would  rather 

dance 
At    fairs    on    tight-rope,    till   the    babies 

dropped 
Their  gingerbread  for  joy,  —  than  shift  the 

types 
For  tolerable  verse,  intolerable 
To  men  who  act  and  suffer.     Better  far 
Pursue  a  frivolous  trade  by  serious  means, 
Than  a  sublime  art  frivolously.' 

'You, 
Choose   nobler  work    than  either,  O  moist 

eyes  260 

And  hurrying  lips  and  heaving  heart !    We 

are  young, 
Aurora,    you    and   I.      The   world,  —  look 

round,  — 
The  world,  we  're  come  to  late,  is  swollen 

hard 
With  perished  generations  and  their  sins: 
The  civilizer's  spade  grinds  horribly 
On  dead  men's  bones,  and  cannot  turn  up 

soil 
That 's  otherwise  than  fetid.     All  success 
Proves  partial  failure;  all  advance  implies 
What's   left   behind;    all    triumph,    some- 
thing crushed 
At   the    chariot- wheels ;    all    government, 

some  wrong:  270 

And  rich  men  make  the  poor,  who  curse 

the  rich. 
Who  agonize  together,  rich  and  poor. 
Under  and  over,  in  the  social  spasm 
And  crisis  of  the  ages.     Here  's  an  age 
That   makes    its  own  vocation  !    here   we 

have  stepped 
Across  the  bounds  of  time  !  here  's  nought 

to  see, 
But  just  the  rich  man  and  just  Lazarus, 
And  both  in  torments,  with  a  mediate  gulf. 
Though  not  a  hint   of   Abraham's  bosom. 

Who 
Being  man,  Aurora,  can  stand  calmly  by  280 
And  view  these  things,  and  never  tease  his 

soul 


For  some  great  cure  ?     No  physic  for  this 

grief, 
In  all  the  earth  and  heavens  too  ?  ' 

'  You  believe 
In  God,  for   your  part  ?  —  ay  ?   that  He 

who  makes 
Can  make  good  things  from  ill  things,  best 

from  worst. 
As  men  plant  tulips  upon  dunghills  when 
They  wish  them  finest  ?  ' 

'  True.     A  death-heat  is 
The  same  as  life-heat,  to  be  accurate, 
And  in  all  nature  is  no  death  at  all, 
As   men    account    of    death,    so   long    as 

God  290 

Stands  witnessing  for  life  perpetually. 
By  being  just  God.    That 's  abstract  truth, 

I  know, 
Philosophy,  or  sympathy  with  God: 
But  I,  I  sympathize  with  man,  not  God 
(I  think  I  was  a  man  for  chiefly  this), 
And  when  I  stand  beside  a  dying  bed, 
'T  is  death  to  me.     Observe,  —  it  had  not 

much 
Consoled  the  race  of  mastodons  to  know, 
Before  they  went  to  fossil,  that  anon 
Their   place  would  quicken  with  the  ele- 
phant. 300 
They  were  not  elephants  but  mastodons; 
And  I,  a  man,  as  men  are  now  and  not 
As  men  may  be  hereafter,  feel  with  men 
In  the  agonizing  present.' 

'  Is  it  so,' 
I    said,    '  my    cousin  ?    is    the    world    so 

bad, 
While  I  hear   nothing  of   it   through  the 

trees  ? 
The    world    was    always    evil,  —  but     so 

bad?' 

'  So  bad,  Aurora.     Dear,  my  soul  is  gray 
With  poring  over  the  long  sum  of  ill; 
So  much  for  vice,  so  much  for  discontent, 
So  much  for  the  necessities  of  power,       311 
So  much  for  the  connivances  of  fear. 
Coherent  in  statistical  despairs 
With  such  a  total  of  distracted  life,  .  .  . 
To  see  it  down  in  figures  on  a  page, 
Plain,   silent,    clear,  as   God  sees  through 

the  earth 
The  sense  of  all  the  graves,  —  that 's  ter- 
rible 
For  one  who  is  not  God,  and  cannot  right 
The  wrong  he  looks  on.     May  I  choose  in- 
deed, 


SECOND   BOOK 


275 


But  vow  away  my  years,  my  means,  my 
aims,  320 

Among  the  helpers,  if  there  's  any  help 

In  such  a  social  strait  ?  The  common 
blood 

That  swings  along  my  veins  is  strong 
enough 

To  draw  me  to  this  duty.' 

Then  I  spoke. 

*  I  have  not  stood  long  on  the  strand  of 
life. 

And  these  salt  waters  have  had  scarcely 
time 

To  creep  so  high  up  as  to  wet  my  feet: 

I  cannot  judge  these  tides  —  I  shall,  per- 
haps. 

A  woman  's  always  younger  than  a  man 

At  equal  years,  because  she  is  disal- 
lowed 330 

Maturing  by  the  outdoor  sun  and  air, 

And  kept  in  long-clothes  past  the  age  to 
walk. 

Ah  well,  I  know  you  men  judge  otherwise  ! 

You  think  a  woman  ripens,  as  a  peach. 

In  the  cheeks  chiefly.     Pass  it  to  me  now; 

I  'm  young  in  age,  and  younger  still,  I 
think. 

As  a  woman.     But  a  child  may  say  amen 

To  a  bishop's  prayer  and  feel  the  way  it 
goes, 

And  I,  incapable  to  loose  the  knot 

Of  social  questions,  can  approve,  applaud 

August  compassion.  Christian  thoughts 
that  shoot  341 

Beyond  the  vulgar  white  of  personal  aims. 

Accept  my  reverence.' 

There  he  glowed  on  me 

With  all  his  face  and  eyes.  '  No  other 
help  ? ' 

Said  he  —  'no  more  than  so  ? ' 

'  What  help  ? '  I  asked. 

'  You  'd  scorn  my  help,  —  as  Nature's 
self,  you  say. 

Has  scorned  to  put  her  music  in  my  mouth 

Because  a  woman's.  Do  you  now  turn 
round 

And  ask  for  what  a  woman  cannot  give  ? ' 

'  For  what  she  only  can,  I  turn  and 
ask,'  _  ^      350 

He  answered,  catching  up  my  hands  in  his. 

And  dropping  on  me  from  his  high-eaved 
brow 

The  full  weight  of  his  soul,  —  *  I  ask  for 
love. 


And  that,  she  can;  for  life  in  fellowship 
Through  bitter  duties  —  that,  I  know  she 

can; 
For  wifehood  —  will  she  ?  ' 

'  Now,'  I  said,  '  may  God 
Be  witness  'twixt  us  two  ! '  and  with  the 

word, 
Meseemed  I  floated  into  a  sudden  light 
Above   his   stature,  —  '  am   I   proved    too 

weak 
To   stand    alone,    yet    strong    enough    to 

bear  360 

Such   leaners   on   my   shoulder  ?    poor   to 

think. 
Yet     rich     enough     to    sympathize    with 

thought  ? 
Incompetent  to  sing,  as  blackbirds  can, 
Yet  competent  to  love,  like  him  ?  ' 

I  paused; 
Perhaps    I   darkened,   as    the    lighthouse 

will 
That  turns  upon  the  sea.     '  It 's  always  so. 
Anything  does  for  a  wife.' 

*  Aurora,  dear. 
And  dearly   honored,'  —  he  pressed   in  at 

once 
With    eager    utterance,  —  *  you    translate 

me  ill. 
I  do  not  contradict  my  thought  of  you     370 
Which    is    most    reverent,   with    another 

thought 
Found  less  so.     If  your  sex  is  weak  for 

art 
(And  I,  who  said  so,  did  but  honor  you 
By  using  truth  in  courtship),  it  is  strong 
For  life   and    duty.     Place   your    fecund 

heart 
In    mine,    and    let    us    blossom    for    the 

world 
That   wants   love's   color   in   the   gray  of 

time. 
My  talk,  meanwhile,  is  arid  to  you,  ay. 
Since  all  my  talk  can  only  set  you  where 
You    look    down    coldly    on    the    arena- 
heaps  380 
Of  headless  bodies,  shapeless,  indistinct  ! 
The    Judgment-Angel   scarce    would    find 

his  way 
Through  such  a  heap  of   generalized  dis- 
tress 
To  the  individual  man  with  lips  and  eyes. 
Much  less  Aurora.     Ah,  my  sweet,  come 

down. 
And  hand  in  hand  we  '11  go  where  yours 

shall  touch 


276 


AURORA  LEIGH 


These    victims,  one   by   one  !  till,  one    by 


one, 
The   formless,   nameless    trunk    of    every 

man 
Shall  seem  to  wear  a  head  with  hair  you 

know,  389 

And  every  woman  catch  your  mother's  face 
To  melt  you  into  passion.' 

'  I  am  a  girl,' 
I  answered  slowly ;  '  you  do  well  to  name 
My  mother's  face.     Though  far  too  early, 

alas, 
God's  hand  did  interpose  'twixt  it  and  me, 
I  know  so  much  of  love  as  used  to  shine 
In  that  face  and  another.     Just  so  much; 
No  more  indeed  at  all.     I  have  not  seen 
So  much  love  since,  I   pray   you   pardon 

me, 
As  answers  even  to  make  a  marriage  with 
In  this  cold  land  of  England.     What  you 

love  400 

Is  not  a  woman,  Romney,  but  a  cause: 
You  want  a  helpmate,  not  a  mistress,  sir, 
A  wife  to  help  your  ends,  —  in  her  no  end. 
Your  cause  is  noble,  your  ends  excellent. 
But  I,  being  most  unworthy  of  these  and 

that. 
Do  otherwise  conceive  of  love.     Farewell.' 

*  Farewell,  Aurora  ?  you  reject  me  thus  ?  ' 
He  said. 

'  Sir,  you  were  married  long  ago. 
You  have  a  wife  already  whom  you  love. 
Your  social  theory.     Bless  you  both,  I  say. 
For  my  part,  I  am  scarcely  meek  enough  411 
To  be  the  handmaid  of  a  lawful  spouse. 
Do  I  look  a  Hagar,  think  you  ?  ' 

'  So  you  jest.' 

*  Nay,  so,  I  speak  in  earnest,'  I  replied. 

*  You  treat  of  marriage  too  much  like,  at 

least, 
A  chief  apostle:  you  would  bear  with  you 
A   wife  ...  a  sister  .  .  .  shall  we  speak 

it  out  ? 
A  sister  of  charity.' 

*  Then,  must  it  be 
Indeed    farewell  ?      And    was    I    so    far 

wrong 
In  hope  and  in  illusion,  when  I  took        420 
The  woman  to  be  nobler  than  the  man. 
Yourself  the  noblest  woman,  in  the  use 
And  comprehension  of  what  love  is,  —  love. 
That  generates  the  likeness  of  itself 
Through  all  heroic  duties  ?  so  far  wrong, 


In  saying  bluntly,  venturing  truth  on  love, 
"  Come,   human    creature,   love  and    work 

with  me,"  — 
Instead  of  "  Lady,  thou  art  wondrous  fair. 
And,   where   the  Graces  walk  before,  the 

Muse 
Will  follow  at  the  lightning  of  their  eyes. 
And  where  the  Muse  walks,   lovers   need 

to  creep:  431 

Turn    round   and    love   me,  or   I    die    of 

love."' 

With  quiet  indignation  I  broke  in. 
'  You  misconceive  the  question  like  a  man. 
Who  sees  the  woman  as  the  complement 
Of  his  sex  merely.     You  forget  too  much 
That  every  creature,  female  as  the  male, 
Stands  single  in  responsible  act  and  thought 
As   also   in   birth   and    death.      Whoever 

says 
To  a  loyal  woman,  "  Love  and  work  with 

me,"  440 

Will  get  fair  answers  if  the  work  and  love. 
Being  good  themselves,  are  good  for  her  — 

the  best 
She    was   born   for.     Women   of  a  softer 

mood. 
Surprised  by  men  when  scarcely  awake  to 

life. 
Will  sometimes  only  hear  the  first  word, 

love. 
And  catch  up  with  it  any  kind  of  work. 
Indifferent,  so  that  dear  love  go  with  it. 
I  do  not  blame  such  women,  though,  for 

love. 
They   pick  much  oakum;  earth's    fanatics 

make 
Too  frequently   heaven's  saints.     But   me 

your  work  450 

Is  not  the  best   for,  —  nor  your  love  the 

best. 
Nor  able  to  commend  the  kind  of  work 
For  love's  sake  merely.     Ah,  you  force  me, 

sir. 
To  be  overbold  in  speaking  of  myself: 
I  too  have  my  vocation,  —  work  to  do. 
The  heavens  and  earth  have  set  me  since  I 

changed 
My   father's   face  for  theirs,  and,  though 

your  world 
Were  twice  as  wretched  as  you  represent, 
Most  serious  work,  most  necessary  work 
As  any  of  the  economists'.     Reform,        460 
Make  trade  a  Christian  possibility. 
And  individual  right  no  general  wrong; 


SECOND   BOOK 


277 


Wipe  out  earth's  furrows  of  the  Thine  and 

Mine, 
And  leave  one  green  for  men  to  play  at 

bowls, 
With  innings    for    them    all !  .  .  .  What 

then,  indeed. 
If  mortals  are  not  grreater  bv  the  head 
Than  any  of  their  prosperities  ?  what  then. 
Unless  the  artist  keep  up  open  roads 
Betwixt  the   seen  and   unseen,  —  bursting 

through 
The    best   of   your   conventions    with    his 

best,  470 

The  speakable,  imaginable  best 
God  bids  him  speak,  to  prove  what  lies  be- 
yond 
Both  speech  and  imagination  ?     A  starved 

man 
Exceeds  a  fat  beast:  we  '11  not  barter,  sir, 
The  beautiful  for  barley.  —  And,  even  so, 
I  hold    you  will   not   compass   your  poor 

ends 
Of  barley-feeding  and  material  ease, 
Without  a  poet's  individualism 
To  work  your  universal.     It  takes  a  soul. 
To  move  a  body:  it  takes  a  high-souled 

man,  480 

To  move   the   masses,  even   to   a   cleaner 

stye: 
It  takes  the  ideal,  to  blow  a  hair's-breadth 

off 
The  dust  of  the  actual.  —  Ah,  your  Fouriers 

failed. 
Because  not  poets  enough  to  understand 
That  life  develops  from  within.  —  For  me. 
Perhaps  I  am  not  worthy,  as  you  say, 
Of  work  like  this:  perhaps  a  woman's  soul 
Aspires,  and  not  creates :  yet  we  aspire. 
And  yet  I  '11  try  out  your  perhapses,  sir. 
And  if  I  fail  .  .  .  why,   burn  me  up  my 

straw  490 

Like  other  false  works  —  I  '11  not  ask  for 


grace ; 


Your  scorn  is  better,  cousin  Romney.     I 
Who   love    my   art,    would    never  wish  it 

lower 
To  suit  ray  stature.     I  may  love  my  art. 
You  '11  grant  that  even  a  woman  may  love 

art. 
Seeing  that  to  waste  true  love  on  anything 
Is  womanly,  past  question.' 

I  retain 
The  very  last  word  which  I  said  that  day. 
As   you   the    creaking   of   the  door,  years 

past, 


Which  let  upon  you  such  disabling  news  500 
You  ever  after  have  been  graver.     He, 
His  eyes,  the  motions  in  his  silent  mouth. 
Were  fiery  points  on  which  my  words  were 

caught. 
Transfixed  for  ever  in  my  memory 
For  his    sake,  not  their  own.     And  yet   I 

know 
I  did   not  love  him  .  .  .  nor  he  me  .  .  . 

that 's  sure  .  .  . 
And  what  I  said  is  unrepented  of, 
As  truth  is  always.     Yet  ...  a  princely 

man  !  — 
If  hard  to  me,  heroic  for  himself  ! 
He  bears  down  on  me  through  the  slanting 

years,  510 

The  stronger  for  the  distance.     If  he  had 

loved, 
Ay,     loved     me,    with     that     retributive 

face,  .  .  . 
I  miffht  have  been  a  common  woman  now 
And  happier,  less  known  and  less  left  alone, 
Perhaps  a  better  woman  after  all, 
With  chubby  children  hanging  on  my  neck 
To   keep  me    low  and  wise.     Ah  me,  the 

vines 
That  bear  such  fruit   are  proud  to   stoop 

with  it. 
The   palm    stands    upright  in  a  realm   of 

sand. 


And  I,  who  spoke  the  truth  then,  stand  up- 
right, _  S20 

Still  worthy  of  having  spoken  out  the 
truth. 

By  being  content  I  spoke  it  though  it  set 

Him  there,  me  here.  —  O  woman's  vile  re- 
morse, 

To  hanker  after  a  mere  name,  a  show, 

A  supposition,  a  potential  love  ! 

Does  every  man  who  names  love  in  our 
lives 

Become  a  power  for  that  ?  is  love's  true 
thing 

So  much  best  to  us,  that  what  personates 
love 

Is  next  best  ?     A  potential  love,  forsooth  ! 

I  'm  not  so  vile.  No,  no  —  he  cleaves,  I 
think,  530 

This  man,  this  image,  —  chiefly  for  the 
wrong 

And  shock  he  gave  my  life,  in  finding  me 

Precisely  where  the  devil  of  my  youth 

Had  set  me,  on  those  mountain-peaks  of 
hope 


278 


AURORA   LEIGH 


AH  glittering  with  the  dawn-dew,  all  erect 
And  famished  for  the  noon,  —  exclaiming, 

while 
I   looked   for   empire   and   much   tribute, 

'  Come, 
I  have  some  worthy  work  for  thee  below. 
Come,  sweep  my  barns  and  keep  my  hos- 
pitals, 
And  I  will  pay  thee  with  a  current  coin  540 
Which  men  give  women.' 

As  we  spoke,  the  grass 
Was  trod  in  haste  beside  us,  and  my  aunt. 
With  smile  distorted   by  the  sun,  —  face, 

voice 
As  much  at  issue  with  the  summer-day 
As  if  you  brought  a  candle  out  of  doors. 
Broke  in  with  '  Romney  here  !  —  My  child, 

entreat 
Your  cousin  to  the  house,  and  have  your 

talk, 
If   girls  must  talk  upon   their   birthdays. 

Come.' 

He  answered  for  me  calmly,  with  pale  lips 
That  seemed  to  motion  for  a  smile  in  vain, 
*  The   talk   is    ended,    madam,    where    we 

stand.  55  T 

Your  brother's  daughter  has  dismissed  me 

here; 
And  all  my  answer  can  be  better  said 
Beneath  the  trees,  than  wrong  by  such  a 

word 
Your  house's  hospitalities.     Farewell.' 

With  that  he  vanished.     I  could  hear  his 

heel 
Ring  bluntly  in  the  lane,  as  down  he  leapt 
The  short  way  from  us.  —  Then  a  measured 

speech 
Withdrew  me.     '  What  means  this,  Aurora 

Leigh  ? 
My  brother's  daughter  has   dismissed  my 

guests  ? '  560 

The  lion  in  me  felt  the  keeper's  voice 
Through  all  its  quivering  dew-laps;  I  was 

quelled 
Before  her, — meekened  to   the  child  she 

knew: 
I  prayed   her   pardon,  said   'I   had   little 

thought 
To  give  dismissal  to  a  guest  of  hers. 
In  letting  go  a  friend  of  mine  who  came 
To  take  me  into  service  as  a  wife,  — 
No  more  than  that,  indeed.' 


'  No  more,  no  more  ? 
Pray  Heaven,'  she  answered,  'that  I  was 

not  mad. 
I  could  not  mean  to  tell  her  to  her  face  570 
That  Romney  Leigh  had  asked  me  for  a 

wife. 
And  I  refused  him  ?  ' 

♦Did  he  ask?' I  said; 

♦  I  think  he  rather  stooped  to  take  me  up 
For  certain  uses  which  he  found  to  do 
For   something  called  a  wife.     He    never 

asked.' 

*  What   stufP  ! '  she   answered ;   '  are   they 

queens,  these  girls  ? 
They   must   have   mantles,   stitched   with 

twenty  silks. 
Spread  out  upon  the  ground,  before  they  '11 

step 
One  footstep  for  the  noblest  lover  born.' 
'  But  I  am  born,'  I  said  with  firmness,  '  I, 
To  walk  another  way  than  his,  dear  aunt.' 

'  You  walk,  you  walk  !     A  babe  at  thirteen 

months  582 

Will    walk   as  well   as   you,'  she  cried  in 

haste, 
'  Without  a  steadying   finger.     Why,  you 

child, 
God  help  you,  you  are  groping  in  the  dark, 
For  all  this  sunlight.     You  suppose,  per- 
haps. 
That   you,    sole    offspring   of    an    opulent 

man. 
Are    rich   and   free   to   choose   a  way  to 

walk  ? 
You  think,  and  it 's  a  reasonable  thought. 
That  I,  beside,  being  well  to  do  in  life,  590 
Will  leave  my  handful  in  my  niece's  hand 
When  death  shall  paralyze  these  fingers  ? 

Pray, 
Pray,  child,   albeit  I  know  you   love   me 

not, 
As  if  you  loved  me,  that  I  may  not  die  ! 
For  when  I  die  and   leave  you,  out  you 

go 
(Unless  I  make  room  for  you  in  my  grave), 
Unhoused,  unfed,  my  dear  poor  brother's 

lamb 
(Ah  heaven  !  —  that   pains  !)  —  without  a 

right  to  crop 
A  single  blade  of  grass  beneath  these  trees. 
Or   cast   a  lamb's   small   shadow   on    the 

lawn,  600 

Unfed,  unfolded  !     Ah,  my  brother,  here  's 


SECOND   BOOK 


279 


The    fruit    you   planted   in    your   foreign 

loves  !  — 
Ay,  there  's  the   fruit   he  planted  !   never 

look 
Astonished  at  me  with  your  mother's  eyes, 
For  it  was  they  who  set  you  where  you  are, 
An     undowered     orphan.       Child,     your 

father's  choice 
Of  that  said  mother  disinherited 
His  daughter,  his  and  hers.     Men  do  not 

think 
Of  sons  and  daughters,  when  they  fall  in 

love, 
So  much  more  than  of  sisters;  otherwise  610 
He  would  have  paused  to  ponder  what  he 

did, 
And  shrunk  before  that  clause  in  the  entail 
Excluding  offspring  by  a  foreign  wife 
(The  clause  set  up  a  hundred  years  ago 
By  a  Leigh  who  wedded  a  French  dancing- 
girl 
And  had  his  heart  danced  over  in  return) ; 
But  this   man   shrank   at    nothing,    never 

thought 
Of  you,  Aurora,  any  more  than  me  — 
Your    mother   must   have    been   a   pretty 

thing, 
For   all    the    coarse    Italian    blacks    and 

browns,  620 

To  make    a  good  man,  which  my  brother 

was, 
Unehary  of  the  duties  to  his  house; 
But  so  it  fell  indeed.     Our  cousin  Vane, 
Vane  Leigh,  the  father  of    this    Romney, 

wrote 
Directly  on  your  birth,  to  Italy, 
*'  I  ask  your  baby  daughter  for  my  son, 
In  whom  the  entail  now  merges  by  the  laWo 
Betroth  her  to  us  out  of  love,  instead 
Of  colder  reasons,  and  she  shall  not  lose 
By  love  or  law  from  henceforth,'  —  so  he 

wrote;  630 

A  ofenerous  cousin  was  mv  cousin  Vane. 
Remember  how  he  drew  you  to  his  knee 
The   year  you  came   here,  just   before  he 

died. 
And  hollowed  out  his  hands  to  hold  your 

cheeks. 
And  wished  them  redder,  —  you  remember 

Vane. 
And    now    his    son,    who    represents    our 

house, 
And   holds    the    fiefs   and    manors   in   his 

place. 
To  whom  reverts  my  pittance  when  I  die 


(Except  a  few  books  and  a  pair  of  shawls)j 
The  boy  is  generous  like  him,  and  pre- 
pared 640 
To  carry  out  his  kindest  word  and  thought 
To  you,  Aurora,  Yes,  a  fine  young  man 
Is    Romney  Leigh;   although   the    sun   of 

youth 
Has   shone  too  straight  upon  his  brain,  I 

know, 
And   fevered   him  with   dreams  of   doing 

good 
To  good-for-nothing  people^     But  a  wife 
Will  put  all  right,  and  stroke  his  temples 

cool 
With  healthy  touches.'  .  -  , 

I  broke  in  at  that, 
I  could  not  lift  my  heavy  heart  to  breathe 
Till  then,  but  then  I  raised  it,  and  it  fell 
In  broken  words  like  these  — '  No  need  to 
wait:  651 

The  dream  of  doing  good  to  .  .  .  me,  at 

least. 
Is  ended,  without  waiting  for  a  wife 
To  cool  the  fever  for  him.     We  've  escaped 
That  danger^  —  thank  Heaven  for  it,' 

'  You,'  she  cried, 
'  Have  got  a  fever.  What,  I  talk  and  talk 
An   hour   long   to    you,  —  I   instruct   you 

how 
You  cannot  eat  or  drink  or  stand  or  sit 
Or  even  die,  like  any  decent  wretch 
In    all    this     unroofed     and    unfurnished 
world,  660 

Without  your  cousin,  —  and  you  still  main- 
tain 
There  's  room  'twixt  him  and  you  for  flirt- 
ing fans 
And   running   knots   in   eyebrows  ?      You 

must  have 
A  pattern  lover  sighing  on  his  knee  ? 
You  do  not  count  enough,  a  noble  heart 
(Above    book-patterns)    which     this   very 

morn 
Unclosed  itself  in  two  dear  fathers'  names 
To  embrace  your  orphaned  life  ?     Fie,  fie  ! 

But  stay, 
I  write  a  word,  and  counteract  this  sin.' 

She  would  have  turned  to  leave  me,  but  I 
clung.  670 

'  O  sweet  my  father's  sister,  hear  my  word 

Before  you  write  yours.  Cousin  Vane  did 
well, 

And  cousin  Romney  well,  —  and  I  well 
too. 


28o 


AURORA   LEIGH 


In  casting  back  with  all  my  strength  and 

will 
The  good  they  meant  mec     O  my  God,  my 

God! 
God  meant  me  good,  too,  when  He  hindered 

me 
From  saying  "yes"  this  morning.     If  you 

write 
A  word,  it  shall  be  "  no."     I  say  no,  no  ! 
I  tie  up  "  no  "  upon  his  altar-horns, 
Quite  out  of  reach  of  perjury  !    At  least  680 
My  soul  is  not  a  pauper;  I  can  live 
At  least  my  soul's  life,  without  alms  from 

men ; 
And   if   it  must   be  in   heaven  instead  of 

earth, 
Let  heaven  look  to  it,  —  I  am  not  afraid.' 

She  seized  my  hands  with  both  hers,  strained 

them  fast. 
And   drew  her  probing  and  unscrupulous 

eyes 
Right  through  me,  body  and  heart.     '  Yet, 

foolish  Sweet, 
You  love  this  man.    I  've  watched  you  when 

he  came. 
And  when  he  went,  and  when  we  've  talked 

of  him: 
I  am  not  old  for  nothing;  I  can  tell         690 
The  weather-signs  of  love:    you  love  this 

man.' 

Girls   blush   sometimes   because    they   are 

alive. 
Half  wishing  they  were  dead  to  save  the 

shame. 
The  sudden  blush  devours  them,  neck  and 

brow; 
Thev  have  drawn  too  near  the  fire  of  life, 

like  gnats. 
And  flare  up  bodily,  wings  and  all.     What 

then  ? 
Who  's  sorry  for  a  gnat  ...  or  girl  ? 

I  blushed. 
I  feel  the  brand  upon  my  forehead  now 
Strike  hot,  sear  deep,  as  guiltless  men  may 

feel 
The     felon's    iron,    say,    and    scorn     the 

mark  700 

Of  what  they  are  not.     Most  illogical 
Irrational  nature  of  our  womanhood. 
That  blushes  one  way,  feels  another  way, 
And  prays,  perhaps,  another  !     After  all, 
We  cannot  be  the  equal  of  the  male 
Who  rules  his  blood  a  little. 


For  although 
I  blushed  indeed,  as  if  I  loved  the  man. 
And  her  incisive  smile,  accrediting 
That  treason  of  false  witness  in  my  blush. 
Did   bow  me  downward  like  a  swathe  of 
grass  710 

Below  its  level  that  struck  me,  —  I  attest 
The  conscious    skies    and   all    their   daily 

suns, 
I  think  I  loved  him  not,  —  nor  then,  nor 

since. 
Nor  ever.     Do  we  love  the  schoolmaster. 
Being  busy  in  the  woods  ?  much  less,  being 

poor. 
The  overseer  of  the  parish  ?     Do  we  keep 
Our  love  to  pay  our  debts  with  ? 

White  and  cold 
I  grew  next   moment.     As  my   blood  re- 
coiled 
From  that  imputed  ignominy,  I  made 
My  heart  great  with  it.     Then,  at  last,  I 
spoke,  720 

Spoke  veritable  words  but  passionate. 
Too  passionate  perhaps  .  .  .  ground  up  with 

sobs 
To   shapeless    endings.     She   let    fall    my 

hands 
And  took  her  smile  off,  in  sedate  disgust, 
As     peradventure     she     had     touched    a 

snake,  — 
A  dead  snake,  mind  !  —  and,  turning  round, 

replied, 
'  We  '11     leave    Italian    manners,    if    you 

please. 
I  think  you  had  an  English  father,  child. 
And  ought  to  find  it  possible  to  speak      729 
A  quiet  "yes"  or  "no,"  like  English  girls, 
Without  convulsions.     In  another  month 
We  '11  take  another  answer  —  no,  or  yes.' 
With    that,    she   left   me   in   the   garden- 
walk. 

I  had  a  father  !  yes,  but  long  ago  — 

How  long  it  seemed  that  moment.  Oh,  how 
far, 

How  far  and  safe,  God,  dost  thou  keep  thy 
saints 

When  once  gone  from  us  !  We  may  call 
against 

The  lighted  windows  of  thy  fair  June- 
heaven 

Where  all  the  souls  are  happy,  —  and  not 
one, 

Not  even  mv  father,  look  from  work  or 
play  74c 


SECOND   BOOK 


281 


To  ask,  '  Who  is  it  that  cries  after  us, 
Below  there,  in  the  dusk  ?  '     Yet  formerly 
He  turned  his  face  upon  me  quick  enough. 
If  I  said  '  father.'     Now  I  might  cry  loud ; 
The    little   lark   reached   higfher  with    his 


song 


Than  I  with  crying.     Oh,  alone,  alone,  — 
Not  troubling  any  in  heaven,  nor  any  on 

earth, 
I  stood  there  in  the  garden,  and  looked  up 
The  deaf   blue  sky  that   brings  the  roses 

out 
On  such  June  morning's. 

You  who  keep  account 
Of  crisis  and  transition  in  this  life,  751 

Set  down  the  first  time  Nature  says  plain 


'no' 


To  some  *yes  '  in  you,  and  walks  over  you 
In  gorgeous  sweeps  of  scorn.     We  all  be- 

By    singing    with    the   birds,  and    running 

fast 
With  June  days,  hand  in  hand:  but  once, 

for  all. 
The  birds  must   sing  against  us,  and  the 

sun 
Strike  down  upon  us  like  a  friend's  sword 

caught 
By  an  enemy  to  slay  us,  while  we  read 
The  dear  name  on  the  blade  which  bites  at 

us  !  —  760 

That's  bitter  and  convincing:  after  that. 
We  seldom  doubt  that   something   in  the 

large 
Smooth  order  of  creation,  though  no  more 
Than   haply   a   man's    footstep,  has   gone 

wrong. 
Some  tears  fell  down  my  cheeks,  and  then 

I  smiled, 
As    those  smile  who  have  no  face   in  the 

world 
To    smile    back   to   them.     I    had    lost   a 

friend 
In  Romnev  Leigh ;  the  thing  was  sure  — 

a  friend, 
Who  had  looked  at  me  most  gently  now 

and  then, 
And   spoken  of   my    favorite    books,  '  our 

books,'  770 

With  such  a  voice  !     Well,  voice  and  look 

were  now 
More  utterly  shut  out  from  me,  I  felt, 
Than    even    my    father's.     Romney    now 

was  turned 
To  a  benefactor,  to  a  generous  man, 


Who  had  tied  himself  to  marry  .  .  .  me, 

instead 
Of  such  a  woman,  with  low  timorous  lids 
He  lifted  with  a  sudden  word  one  day, 
And    left,    perhaps,    for    my    sake.  —  Ah, 

self-tied 
By  a  contract,  male  Iphigenia  bound 
At  a  fatal  Aulis  for  the  winds  to  change  780 
(But    loose    him,  they  '11  not   change),  he 

well  might  seem 
A  little  cold  and  dominant  in  love  ! 
He  had  a  right  to  be  dogmatical. 
This  poor,  good  Romney.     Love,  to  him, 

was  made 
A     simple     law -clause.      If     I     married 

him, 
I  should  not  dare  to  call  my  soul  my  own 
Which    so  he  had   bought   and   paid   for; 

every  thought 
And  every  heart-beat   down  there  in   the 

bill; 
Not  one  found  honestly  deductible 
From   any    use    that    pleased    him  !     He 

might  cut  790 

My  body  into  coins  to  give  away 
Among    his    other    paupers;    change   my 

sons, 
While  I  stood  dumb  as  Griseld,  for  black 

babes 
Or  piteous  foundlings ;  might  unquestioned 

set 
My   right   hand  teaching   in    the    Ragged 

Schools, 
My  left  hand  washing  in  the  Public  Baths, 
What  time  my  angel  of  the  Ideal  stretched 
Both  his  to  me  in  vain.     I  could  not  claim 
The  poor  right  of   a  mouse  in  a  trap,  to 

squeal, 
And  take  so  much  as  pity  from  myself.  800 

Farewell,  good  Romney  !    if   I  loved  you 

even, 
I  could  but  ill  afford  to  let  you  be 
So    generous     to    me.     Farewell,    friend, 

since  friend 
Betwixt  us  two,  forsooth,  must  be  a  word 
So  heavily  overladen.     And,  since  help 
Must  come  to  me  from  those  who  love  me 

not, 
Farewell,  all   helpers  —  I  must   help  my- 
self. 
And  am  alone  from  henceforth.  —  Then  I 

stooped 
And   lifted   the  soiled   garland    from   the 
earth, 


282 


AURORA   LEIGH 


And  set  it  on  my  head  as  bitterly  8io 

As  when  the  Spanish  monarch  crowned  the 

bones 
Of  his  dead  love.     So  be  it.     I  preserve 
That  crown  still,  —  in  the  drawer  there  ! 

't  was  the  first. 
The    rest    are   like   it ;  —  those    Olympian 

crowns, 
We  run  for,  till  we  lose  sight  of  the  sun 
In  the  dust  of  the  racing  chariots  ! 

After  that, 
Before  the  evening  fell,  I  had  a  note, 
Which    ran,  — '  Aurora,   sweet    Chaldean, 

you  read 
My  meaning  backward  like  your   eastern 

books, 
While  I  am  from  the   west,  dear.     Read 

me  now  820 

A  little  plainer.     Did  you  hate  me  quite 
But  yesterday  ?     I  loved  you  for  my  part; 
I  love  you.     If  I  spoke  untenderly 
This  morning,  my  beloved,  pardon  it; 
And  comprehend  me  that  I  loved  you  so 
I  set  you  on  the  level  of  my  soul. 
And  overwashed  you  with  the  bitter  brine 
Of   some  habitual  thoughts.     Henceforth, 

my  flower. 
Be  planted  out  of  reach  of  any  such, 
And  lean  the  side  you  please,  with  all  your 

leaves  !  830 

Write  woman's  verses  and  dream  woman's 

dreams; 
But  let  me  feel  your  perfume  in  my  home 
To  make  my  sabbath  after  working-days. 
Bloom  out  your  youth  beside  me,  —  be  my 

wife.' 

I  wrote  in  answer  — '  We  Chaldeans  dis- 
cern 
Still  farther  than  we  read.     I  know  your 

heart, 
And  shut  it  like  the  holy  book  it  is. 
Reserved    for   mild-eyed    saints    to   pore 

upon 
Betwixt  their   prayers  at  vespers.     Well, 

you  're  right, 
I  did  not  surely  hate  you  yesterday;         840 
And  yet  I  do  not  love  you  enough  to-day 
To  wed  you,  cousin   Romney.     Take  this 

word. 
And  let  it  stop  you  as  a  generous  man 
From  speaking   farther.     You  may  tease, 

indeed, 
And    blow    about     my    feelings,    or    my 

leaves, 


And  here  's  my  aunt   will  help    you  with 

east  winds 
And   break   a   stalk,  perhaps,   tormenting 

me; 
But  certain  flowers  grow  near  as  deep  as 

trees. 
And,  cousin,  you  '11  not  move  my  root,  not 

you. 
With  all  your  confluent  storms.     Then  let 

me  grow  850 

Within  my  wayside  hedge,  and  pass  your 

way  ! 
This  flower  has  never  as  much  to  say  to 

you 
As  the  antique  tomb  which  said  to  travel- 
lers, "Pause, 
Siste,  viator." '     Ending  thus,  I  sighed. 

The  next  week  passed  in  silence,  so  the 

next. 
And  several  after:  Romney  did  not  come 
Nor  my  aunt  chide  me.    I  lived  on  and  on, 
As  if  my  heart  were  kept  beneath  a  glass, 
And  everybody  stood,  all  eyes  and  ears. 
To  see  and  hear  it  tick.     I  could  not  sit. 
Nor   walk,  nor   take    a   book,  nor   lay    it 

down,  861 

Nor  sew  on  steadily,  nor  drop  a  stitch. 
And  a  sigh  with  it,  but  I  felt  her  looks 
Still  cleaving  to  me,  like  the  sucking  asp 
To  Cleopatra's  breast,  persistently 
Through  the  intermittent  pantiugs.    Being 

observed. 
When  observation  is  not  sympathy, 
Is  just  being  tortured.    If  she  said  a  word, 
A  '  thank  you,'  or   an  *  if   it   please   you, 

dear,' 
She  meant  a  commination,  or,  at  best,     870 
An  exorcism  against  the  devildom 
Which  plainly  held  me.     So  with  all  the 

house. 
Susannah  could  not    stand  and   twist   my 

hair 
Without  such  glancing  at  the  looking-glass 
To  see  my  face  there,  that  she  missed  the 

plait. 
And    John,  — I   never    sent   my  plate  for 

soup. 
Or  did  not  send  it,  but  the  foolish  John 
Resolved  the  problem,  'twixt  his  napkined 

thumbs. 
Of  what  was  signified  by  taking  soup 
Or    choosing    mackerel.     Neighbors    who 

dropped  in  8S0 

On  morning  visits,  feeling  a  joint  wrong, 


SECOND  BOOK 


283 


Smiled  admonition,  sat  uneasily, 
And  talked,  with  measured,  emphasized  re- 
serve. 
Of  parish  news,  like  doctors  to  the  sick, 
When  not  called  in,  —  as  if,  with  leave  to 

speak. 
They  might  say  something.    Nay,  the  very 

dog 
Would  watch  me  from  his  sun-patch  on  the 

floor. 
In  alternation  with  the  large  black  fly 
Not  yet  in  reach  of  snapping.     So  I  lived. 

A  Roman  died   so;   smeared  with   honey, 

teased  S90 

By  insects,  stared  to  torture  by  the  noon: 
And   many   patient   souls   'neath   English 

roofs 
Have    died   like    Romans.     I,   in   looking 

back, 
Wish  only,  now,  I  had  borne  the  plague  of 

all 
With   meeker   spirits    than   were   rife   at 

Rome. 

For,  on  the  sixth  week,  the  dead  sea  broke 

up, 
Dashed  suddenly  through  beneath  the  heel 

of  Him 
Who  stands  upon   the  sea  and  earth  and 

swears 
Time  shall  be  nevermore.    The  clock  struck 

nine 
That  morning  too,  —  no  lark  was  out  of 

tune,  900 

The  hidden  farms  among  the  hills  breathed 

straight 
Their  smoke  toward  heaven,  the  lime-tree 

scarcely  stirred 
Beneath  the  blue  weight  of  the   cloudless 

Though   still   the   July  air  came    floating 

through 
The  woodbine  at  my  window,  in  and  out, 
With   touches    of    the    out -door   country 

news 
For  a  bending  forehead.     There  I  sat,  and 

wished 
That  morning-truce  of  God  would  last  till 

eve. 
Or     longer.      *  Sleep,'     I     thought,    '  late 

sleepers,  —  sleep, 
And  spare    me   yet   the   burden   of   your 

eyes.'  910 


Then,  suddenly,  a  single  ghastly  shriek 
Tore  upward  from  the  bottom  of  the  house. 
Like   one   who   wakens    in   a   grave    and 

shrieks. 
The  still  house  seepied  to  shriek  itself  alive. 
And   shudder    through    its   passages    and 

stairs 
With  slam  of  doors  and  clash  of  bells.  — 

I  sprang, 
I  stood  up  in  the  middle  of  the  room, 
And  there  confronted  at  my  chamber-door 
A  white  face,  —  shivering,  ineffectual  lips. 

'  Come,  come,'  they  tried  to  utter,  and  I 
went:  920 

As  if  a  ghost  had  drawn  me  at  the  point 
Of  a  fiery  finger  through  the  uneven  dark, 
I  went  with   reeling   footsteps   down   the 

stair. 
Nor  asked  a  question. 

There  she  sat,  my  aunt,  — 
Bolt  upright  in  the  chair  beside  her  bed. 
Whose  pillow  had  no  dint  !  she  had  used 

no  bed 
For  that  night's  sleeping,  yet  slept  well. 

My  God, 
The  dumb  derision  of   that  gray,  peaked 

face 
Concluded  something  grave  against  the  sun. 
Which   filled   the  chamber  with    its   July 
burst  930 

When  Susan  drew  the  curtains  ignorant 
Of  who  sat  open-eyed  behind  her.     There 
She    sat  ...  it    sat  ...  we    said    '  she  ' 

yesterday  .  .  . 
And  held  a  letter  with  unbroken  seal 
As  Susan  gave  it  to  her  hand  last  night: 
All  night  she  had  held  it.     If  its  news  re- 
ferred 
To  duchies  or  to  dunghills,  not  an  inch 
She  'd  budge,  't  was  obvious,  for  such  worth- 
less odds: 
Nor,  though  the  stars  were  suns  and  over- 
burned 
Their  spheric  limitations,  swallowing  up 
Like    wax   the    azure    spaces,    could    they 
force  941 

Those  open  eyes  to  wink  once.     What  last 

sight 
Had  left  them  blank  and  flat  so,  —  draw- 
ing out 
The  faculty  of  vision  from  the  roots, 
As  nothing  more,  worth  seeing,  remained 
behind  ? 


284 


AURORA   LEIGH 


Were   those    the   eyes   that   watched   me, 

worried  nie  ? 
That  dogged  me  up  and  down  the  hours 

and  days, 
A  beaten,  breathless,  miserable  soul  ? 
And  did  I  pray,  a  half-hour  back,  but  so, 
To  escape   the  burden  of  those  eyes  .  .  . 

those  eyes  ?  950 

*  Sleep  late,'  I  said  ?  — 

Why,  now,  indeed,  they  sleep. 
God   answers    sharp    and  sudden  on  some 

prayers, 
And  thrusts  the  thing  we  have  prayed  for 

in  our  face, 
A  gauntlet  with  a  gift  in  't.     Every  wish 
Is  like  a  prayer,  with  God. 

I  had  my  wish. 
To  read  and  meditate  the  thing  I  would, 
To  fashion  all  my  life  upon  my  thought. 
And  marry  or  not  marry.    Henceforth  none 
Could  disapprove  me,  vex  me,  hamper  me. 
Full    ground-room,    in    this    desert   newly 

made,  960 

For  Babylon  or  Baalbec,  —  when  the  breath, 
Now  choked  with  sand,  returns  for  building 

towns. 

The  heir  came  over  on  the  funeral  day. 
And  we  two  cousins  met  before  the  dead. 
With  two  pale  faces.     Was  it  death  or  life 
That  moved  us  ?     When  the  will  was  read 

and  done, 
The  official  guests  and  witnesses  withdrawn, 
We  rose  up  in  a  silence  almost  hard, 
Aixl  looked  at  one  another.     Then  I  said, 
'  Farewell,  my  cousin.' 

But  he  touched,  just  touched 
My  hatstrings,  tied  for  going  (at  the  door 
The  carriage  stood  to  take  me),  and  said 

low,  972 

His    voice    a   little    unsteady   through   his 

smile, 
'  Siste,  viator.' 

*  Is  there  time,'  I  asked, 

*  In    these  last   days  of  railroads,  to  stop 

short 
Like  Caesar's  chariot  (weighing  half  a  ton) 
On  the  Appian  road,  for  morals  ?  ' 

*  There  is  time,' 
He  answered  grave,  *  for  necessary  words. 
Inclusive,  trust  me,  of  no  epitaph  979 

On  man  or  act,  my  cousin.     We  have  read 
A  will,  which   gives  you  all  the  personal 

goods 
And  funded  moneys  of  your  aunt.' 


'  I  thank 

Her  memory  for  it.  With  three  hundred 
pounds 

We  buy,  in  England  even,  clear  standing- 
room 

To  stand  and  work  in.  Only  two  hours 
since, 

I  fancied  I  was  poor.' 

*  And,  cousin,  still 

You  're  richer  than  you  fancy.  Tlie  will 
says, 

Three  hundred  pounds,  and  any  other  sum 

Of  which  the  said  testatrix  dies  possessed. 

I  say  she  died  possessed  of  other  sums.'  990 

'  Dear    Romney,   need    we    chronicle    the 

pence  ? 
I  'm  richer  than  I  thought  —  that 's  evident. 
Enough  so.' 

'  Listen  rather.     You  've  to  do 
With  business  and  a  cousin,'  he  resumed, 
'  And  both,  I  fear,  need  patience.     Here  's 

the  fact. 
The  other  sum  (there  is  another  sum, 
Unspecified  in  any  will  which  dates 
After  possession,  yet  bequeathed  as  much 
And   clearly  as   those  said  three  hundred 

pounds) 
Is  thirty  thousand.     You  will  have  it  paid 
When  ?  .  .  .  where  ?     My   duty   troubles 

you  with  words.'  looi 

He  struck  the  iron  when  the  bar  was  hot; 

No  wonder  if  my  eyes  sent  out  some  sparks. 

'  Pause  there  !  I  thank  you.  You  are  deli- 
cate 

In  glozing  gifts;  —  but  I,  who  share  your 
blood. 

Am  rather  made  for  giving,  like  yourself. 

Than  taking,  like  your  pensioners.  Fare- 
well.' 

He  stopped  me  with  a  gesture  of  calm 
pride. 

'  A  Leigh,'  he  said,  '  gives  largesse  and 
gives  love,  1009 

But  glozes  never:  if  a  Leigh  could  gloze. 

He  would  not  do  it,  moreover,  to  a  Leigh, 

With  blood  trained  up  along  nine  centu- 
ries 

To  hound  and  hate  a  lie  from  eyes  like 
yours. 

And  now  we  '11  make  the  rest  as  clear:  your 
aunt 

Possessed  these  moneys.' 


SECOND    BOOK 


285 


'  You  will  make  it  clear, 
My  cousin,  as  the  honor  of  us  both, 
Or  one  of  us  speaks  vainly  !  that 's  not  I. 
My  aunt  possessed  this  sum,  —  inherited 
From  whom,  and  when  ?  bring  documents, 
prove  dates.' 

*  Why,  now  indeed  you  throw  your  bonnet 

off  1020 

As  if  you  had  time  left  for  a  logarithm  ! 
The  faith 's  the  want.     Dear  cousin,  give 

me  faith, 
And  you  shall  walk  this  road  with  silken 

shoes, 
As  clean  as  any  lady  of  our  house 
Supposed   the   proudest.      Oh,  I    compre- 
hend 
The  whole  position  from  your  point  of  sight. 
I  oust  you  from   your  father's    halls   and 

lands 
And   make  you    poor    by  getting    rich  — 

that 's  laws ; 
Considering    which,    in    common    circum- 
stance, 
You  would  not  scruple  to  accept  from  me 
Some  compensation,  some  sufficiency      103 1 
Of  income  —  that  were  justice;  but,  alas, 
I  love  you,  —  that 's  mere  nature ;  you  re- 
ject 
My  love,  —  that 's nature  also;  and  at  once, 
You  cannot,  from  a  suitor  disallowed, 
A  hand  thrown  back  as  mine  is,  into  vours 
Receive  a  doit,  a  farthing,  —  not  for  the 

world  ! 
That 's  woman's  etiquette,  and  obviously 
Exceeds  the  claim  of  nature,  law,  and  right, 
Unanswerable  to  all.     I  grant,  you  see,  1040 
The  case  as  you  conceive  it,  —  leave  you 

room 
To  sweep  your  ample  skirts  of  womanhood. 
While,  standing  humbly  squeezed  against 

the  wall, 
I  own  myself  excluded  from  being  just. 
Restrained  from  paying  indubitable  debts, 
JBecause  denied  from  giving  you  my  soul. 
That 's  my  misfortune  !  —  I  submit  to  it 
As  if,  in  some  more  reasonable  age, 
'T  would  not  be  less  inevitable.     Enough. 
You  '11  trust  me,  cousin,  as  a  gentleman,  1050 
To  keep  your  honor,  as  you  count  it,  pure. 
Your  scruples  (just  as  if  I  thought  them 

wise) 
Safe  and  inviolate  from  gifts  of  mine.' 
I  answered  mild  but  earnest.     *  I  believe 
In  no  one's  honor  which  another  keeps. 


Nor  man's  nor  woman's.     As  I  keep,  my- 
self. 
My  truth  and  my  religion,  I  depute 
Ko  father,  though  I  had  one  this  side  death, 
Nor  brother,  though   I  had  twenty,  much 

less  you. 
Though  twice  my  cousin,  and  once  Romney 
Leigh,  1060 

To   keep  my  honor   pure.     You  face,  to- 

dav, 
A  man  who  wants  instruction,  mark  me, 

not 
A  woman  who  wants  protection.     As  to  a 

man. 
Show  manhood,  speak  out  plainly,  be  pre- 
cise 
With  facts  and  dates.     My  aunt  inherited 
This  sum,  you  say  '  — 

'  I  said  she  died  possessed 
Of  this,  dear  cousin.' 

'  Not  by  heritage. 
Thank  you:  we're  getting  to  the  facts  at 

last. 
Perhaps  she  played  at  commerce   with  a 

ship 
Which    came    in    heavy    with  Australian 
gold  ?  _  1070 

Or  touched  a  lottery  with  her  finger-end. 
Which  tumbled  on  a  sudden  into  her  lap 
Some  old  Rhine  tower  or  principality  ? 
Perhaps  she  had  to  do  mth  a  marine 
Sub-transatlantic  railroad,  which  pre-pays 
As  well  as  pre-supposes  ?  or  perhaps 
Some  stale  ancestral  debt  was  after-paid 
By  a  hundred  years,  and  took  her  by  sur- 
prise ?  — 
You  shake  your  head,  my  cousin;  I  guess 
ill.' 

'  You  need  not  guess,  Aurora,  nor  deride ; 
The  truth  is  not  afraid  of  hurting  you.   108 1 
You  '11  find  no  cause,  in  all  your  scruples, 

why 
Your  aunt  should  cavil  at  a  deed  of  gift 
'Twixt  her  and  me.' 

'  I  thought  so  —  ah  !  a  gift.' 

'  You  naturally  thought  so,'  he  resumed. 
'  A  very  natural  gift.' 

'  A  gift,  a  gift ! 
Her  individual  life  being  stranded  high 
Above  all  want,  approaching  opulence. 
Too  haughty  was  she  to  accept  a  gift 
Without    some    ultimate   aim:    ah,    ah,    I 
see,  —  1090 


286 


AURORA  LEIGH 


A  gift  intended  plainly  for  her  heirs, 
And  so  accepted  ...  if  accepted  .  .  .  ah, 
Indeed  that  might  be;  I  am  snared  per- 
haps 
Just  so.     But,  cousin,  shall  I  pardon  you. 
If  thus  you  have  caught  me  with  a  cruel 
springe  ? ' 

He  answered  gently,   '  Need  you  tremble 

and  pant 
Like   a   netted   lioness  ?    is  't    my    fault, 

mine. 
That  you  're  a  grand  wild  creature  of  the 

woods 
And   hate  the  stall  built  for   you?     Any 

way, 
Though  triply  netted,  need  you  glare  at 

me  ?  iioo 

I  do  not  hold  the  cords  of  such  a  net; 
You  're  free  from  me,  Aurora  ! ' 

'  Now  may  God 
Deliver  me  from  this  strait !     This  gift  of 

yours 
Was  tendered  .  .  .  when  ?  accepted  .  .   . 

when  ?  '  I  asked. 

*  A   month  ...  a   fortnight   since  ?      Six 

weeks  ago 
It    was    not    tendered;    by    a   word    she 

dropped 
I  know  it  was  not  tendered  nor  received. 
When  was  it  ?  bring  your  dates.' 

'  What  matters  when  ? 
A  half-hour  ere  she  died,  or  a  half-year, 
Secured  the  gift,  maintains  the  heritage 
Inviolable  with  law.     As  easy  pluck       mi 
The  golden  stars  from  heaven's  embroid- 
ered stole 
To  pin  them  on  the  gray  side  of  this  earth, 
As  naake  you  poor  again,  thank  God.' 

'  Not  poor 
Nor    clean    again     from   henceforth,    you 

thank  God  ? 
Well,     sir  —  I      ask     you  —  I    insist     at 

need,  — 
Vouchsafe    the    special   date,   the   special 
date.' 

*The   day   before  her   death-day,'   he  re- 
plied, 

*  The   gift  was  in  her  hands.     We  '11  find 

that  deed. 
And  certify  that  date  to  you.' 

As  one  1120 
Who  has  climbed  a  mountain-height  and 

carried  up 


His   own   heart    climbing,    panting   in  his 

throat 
With  the  toil  of  the  ascent,  takes  breath  at 

last, 
Looks  back   in  triumph  —  so  I  stood  and 

looked. 
'  Dear  cousin  Romney,  we  have  reached  the 

top 
Of   this  steep  question,   and  may   rest,   I 

think. 
But  first,  —  I  pray  you  pardon,  that  the 

shock 
And  surge  of  natural  feeling  and  event 
Has  made  me  oblivious  of  acquainting  you 
That  this,  this  letter  (unread,  mark,  still 

sealed),  1130 

Was    found    enfolded  in   the   poor    dead 

hand: 
That  spirit  of  hers  had  gone  beyond  the 

address. 
Which  could  not  find  her  though  you  wrote 

it  clear,  — 
I   know   your  writing,  Romney,  —  recog- 
nize 
The  open-hearted  A,  the  liberal  sweep 
Of   the    G.      Now  listen,  —  let  us  under- 
stand: 
You  will  not  find  that  famous  deed  of  gift. 
Unless  you  find  it  in  the  letter  here. 
Which,  not  being  mine,  I  give  you  back.  — 

Refuse 
To  take  the  letter  ?  well  then  —  you  and 

i,  1 140 

As  writer  and  as  heiress,  open  it 
Together,  by  your  leave.  —  Exactly  so: 
The    words  in  which  the  noble  offering  's 

made 
Are  nobler  still,  my  cousin;  and,  I  own. 
The   proudest    and     most    delicate    heart 

alive, 
Distracted  from  the  measure  of  the  gift 
By  such  a  grace  in  giving,  might  accept 
Your  largesse  without  thinking  any  more 
Of  the  burthen  of  it,  than  King  Solomon 
Considered,  when  he  wore  his  holy  ring  1150 
Charactered  over  with  the  ineffable  spell. 
How  many  carats  of  fine  gold  made  up 
Its  money-value :  so,  Leigh  gives  to  Leigh  ! 
Or  rather,  might  have  given,   observe,  — 

for  that  's 
The  point  we  come  to.     Here  's  a  proof  of 

gift, 
But  here  's  no  proof,  sir,  of  acceptancy. 

But,  rather,  disproof.     Death's  black  dust, 

being  blown. 


SECOND    BOOK 


287 


Infiltrated  through  every  secret  fold 

Of  this  sealed  letter  by  a  puff  of  fate, 

Dried  up  for  ever  the  fresh-written  ink, 

Annulled  the  gift,  disutilized  the  grace,  1161 

And  left  these  fragments.' 

As  I  spoke,  I  tore 

The  paper  up  and  down,  and  down  and  up 

And   crosswise,  till   it  fluttered    from  my 
hands. 

As    forest-leaves,   stripped    suddenly  and 
rapt 

By  a  whirlwind  on  Valdarno,  drop  again, 

Drop    slow,    and    strew    the    melancholy 
ground 

Before  the  amazfed  hills  .  .  .  why,  so,  in- 
deed, 

I  'm  writing  like  a  poet,  somewhat  large 

In   the   type    of  the  image,  and   exagger- 
ate 1 170 

A  small  thing  with  a  great  thing,  topping 
it:  — 

But  then  I  'm  thinking  how  his  eyes  looked, 
his. 

With  what   despondent  and  surprised  re- 
proach ! 

I    think   the   tears    were    in    them   as   he 
looked ; 

I  think   the  manly  mouth   just   trembled. 
Then 

He  broke  the  silence. 

*  I  may  ask,  perhaps, 

Although   no   stranger  .  .  .  only  Komney 
Leigh, 

Which  means  still  less  .  .  .  than  Vincent 
Carrington, 

Your  plans  in  going  hence,  and  where  you 
go. 

This  cannot  be  a  secret.' 

'  All  my  life  1180 

Is  open  to  you,  cousin.     I  go  hence 

To  London,  to  the  gathering-place  of  souls, 

To    live    mine    straight    out,    vocally,   in 
books; 

Harmoniously  for  others,  if  indeed 

A    woman's    soul,    like    man's,    be     wide 
enough 

To    carry    the    whole    octave     (that 's    to 
prove). 

Or,  if  I  fail,  still  purely  for  myself. 

Pray  God  be  with  me,  Romney.' 

*  Ah,  poor  child, 

Who     fight    against    the   mother's    'tiring 
hand, 

And  choose   the   headsman's  !     May   God 
change  his  world  1190 


For  your  sake,  sweet,  and  make  it  mild  as 

heaven. 
And  juster  than  I  have  found  you.' 

But  I  paused. 
'  And  you,  my  cousin  ?  '  — 

'  I,'  he  said,  —  '  you  ask  ? 
You  care  to  ask  ?     Well,  girls  have  curious 

minds 
And   fain  would   know  the  end  of  every- 
thing, 
Of   cousins  therefore  with   the  rest.     For 

me, 
Aurora,    I  've     my  work ;    you    know   my 

work; 
And,  having  missed  this  year  some  personal 

hope, 
I  must  beware  the  rather  that  I  miss 
No  reasonable  duty.     While  you  sing     1200 
Your   happy   pastorals   of  the  meads  and 

trees. 
Bethink   you    that    I   go   to   impress   and 

prove 
On  stifled  brains  and  deafened  ears,  stunned 

deaf, 
Crushed  dull  with  grief,  that  nature  sings. 

itself. 
And  needs  no  mediate  poet,  lute  or  voice, 
To  make  it  vocal.     While  you  ask  of  men 
Your  audience,  I  may  get  their  leave  per- 
haps 
For  hungry  orphans  to  say  audibly 
"We're    hungry,   see," — for  beaten  and 

bullied  wives 
To    hold    their    unweaned    babies    up    in 

sight,  I2IO 

Whom  orphanage  would  better,  and  for  all 
To  speak  and  claim  their  portion  .  .  .  by  no 

means 
Of  the  soil,  .  .  .  but  of  the  sweat  in  tilling 

Since  this  is  nowadays  turned  privilege. 
To  have  only  God's  curse  on  us,  and  not 

man's. 
Such  work  I  have  for  doing,  elbow-deep 
In    social    problems,  —  as    you    tie    your 

rhymes, 
To  draw  my  uses  to  cohere  with  needs 
And    bring  the  uneven  world   back  to  its 

round. 
Or,    failing    so    much,    fill    up,    bridge    at 

least  1220 

To  smoother  issues  some  abysmal  cracks 
And   feuds  of  earth,  intestine  heats    have 

made 
To  keep  men  separate,  —  using  sorry  shifts 


288 


AURORA   LEIGH 


Of  hospitals,  almshouses,  infant  schools, 
And  other  practical  stuif  of  partial  good 
You  lovers  of  the  beautiful  and  whole 
Despise  by  system.' 

'  /  despise  ?     The  scorn 
Is  yours,  my  cousin.     Poets  become  such 
Through  scorning  nothing.  You  decry  them 

for 
The  good  of  beauty  sung  and  taught  by 

them,  1230 

While  they  respect  your  practical  partial 

good 
As  being  a  part  of  beauty's  self.     Adieu  ! 
When  God    helps  all  the  workers  for  his 

world, 
The  singers  shall  have  help  of  Him,  not 

last.' 

He  smiled  as  men  smile  when  they  will  not 

speak 
Because  of  something  bitter  in  the  thought ; 
And  still  I.  feel  his  melancholy  eyes 
Look  judgment  on  me.     It  is  seven  years 

since : 
I  know  not  if  't  was  pity  or  't  was  scorn 
Has  made  them  so  far-reaching:  judge  it 

ye  1240 

Who  have  had  to  do  with  pity  more  than 

love 
And  scorn  than  hatred.     I  am  used,  since 

then, 
To  other  ways,  from  equal  men.     But  so, 
Even  so,  we  let  go  hands,  my  cousin  and  I, 
And   in    between  us   rushed    the    torrent- 
world 
To  blanch  our  faces  like  divided  rocks, 
And  bar  for  ever  mutual  sight  and  touch 
Except  through  swirl  of  spray  and  all  that 

roar. 


THIRD   BOOK 

*  To-day  thou  girdest  up  thy  loins  thyself 

And  goest  where  thou  wouldest:  presently 

Others  shall  gird  thee,'  said  the  Lord,  '  to 
go 

Where    thou  wouldst  not.'     He  spoke    to 
Peter  thus, 

To  signify  the  death  which  he  should  die 

When  crucified  head  downward. 

If  He  spoke 

To  Peter  then.  He  speaks  to  us  the  same; 

The   word    suits    many   different   martyr- 
doms. 


10 


And  signifies  a  multiform  of  death. 
Although  we  scarcely  die  apostles,  we. 
And  have  mislaid  the  keys  of  heaven  and 
earth. 

For  'tis  not  in  mere  death   that  men  die 

most. 
And,  after  our  first  girding  of  the  loins 
In  youth's  fine  linen  and  fair  broidery 
To  run  up  hill  and  meet  the  rising  sun, 
We  are  apt  to  sit  tired,  patient  as  a  fool, 
While   others    gird    us    with    the   violent 

bands 
Of  social  figments,  feints,  and  formalisms. 
Reversing  our  straight  nature,  lifting  up 
Our   base  needs,  keeping   down  our  lofty 

thoughts,  20 

Head  downward  on  the  cross-sticks  of  the 

world. 
Yet  He  can  pluck  us  from  that  shameful 

cross. 
God,  set   our   feet   low  and   our  forehead 

high, 
And    show    us    how    a  man  was  made  to 

walk  ! 

Leave  the  lamp,  Susan,  and  go  up  to  bed. 
The  room  does  very  well;  I  have  to  write 
Beyond  the  stroke  of  midnight.    Get  away ; 
Your  steps,  for  ever  buzzing  in  the  room, 
Tease  me  like  gnats.     Ah,  letters  !  throw 

them  down 
At  once,  as  I  must  have  them,  to  be  sure, 
Whether  I  bid  you  never  bring  me  such  31 
At  such  an  hour,  or  bid  you.     No  excuse; 
You  choose  to  bring  them,  as  I  choose  per- 
haps 
To  throw  them  in  the  fire.     Now  get   to 

bed, 
And  dream,  if  possible,  I  am  not  cross. 

Why  what  a  pettish,  petty  thing  I  grow,  — 
A  mere  mere  woman,  a  mere  flaccid  nerve, 
A  kerchief  left  out  all  night  in  the  rain, 
Turned  soft  so,  —  overtasked  and  over- 
strained 
And  overlived  in  this  close  London  life  !  40 
And  yet  I  should  be  stronger. 

Never  burn 
Your  letters,  poor  Aurora  !  for  they  stare 
With  red  seals  from  the  table,  saying  each, 
'  Here 's   something   that   you   know   not.' 

Out,  alas, 
'T  is  scarcely  that  the  world  's  more  good 
and  wise 


THIRD   BOOK 


289 


Or  even  straighter  and  more  consequent 

Since  yesterday  at  this  time  —  yet,  again, 

If  but  one  angel  spoke  from  Ararat 

I  should  be  very  sorry  not  to  hear: 

So  open  all  the  letters  !  let  me  read.         50 

Blanche    Ord,  the    writer   in    the  'Lady's 

Fan,' 
Requests  my  judgment  on  .  .  .  that,  after- 
wards. 
Kate  "Ward  desires  the  model  of  my  cloak, 
And     signs    '  Elisha     to     you.'       Pringle 

Sharpe 
Presents    his    work   on   '  Social    Conduct,' 

craves 
A  little  money  for  his  pressing  debts  .  .   . 
From  me,  who  scarce  have  money  for  my 

needs; 
Art's  fiery  chariot  which  we  journey  in 
Being   apt   to  singe  our  singing-robes    to 

holes. 
Although  you  ask  me  for  my  cloak,  Kate 
Ward  !  60 

Here  's   Rudgely   knows    it,  —  editor  and 

scribe ; 
He  's  *  forced  to  marry  where  his  heart  is 

not, 
Because  the  purse  lacks  where  he  lost  his 

heart.' 
Ah,  —  lost  it  because  no  one  picked  it  up; 
That 's  really  loss,  —  (and  passable  impu- 
dence). 
My  critic  Hammond  flatters  prettily, 
And  wants  another  volume  like  the  last. 
My  critic  Belfair  wants  another  book 
Entirely    different,    which   will    sell    (and 

live  ?), 
A  striking  book,  yet  not  a  startling  book, 
The  public  blames  originalities  71 

(You  must   not   pump  spring-water   una- 
wares 
Upon  a  gracious  public  full  of  nerves): 
Good    things,   not    subtle,   new  yet   ortho- 
dox. 
As  easy  reading  as  the  dog-eared  page 
That 's  fingered  by  said  public  fifty  years. 
Since  first   taught   spelling   by  its  grand- 
mother. 
And  yet  a  revelation  in  some  sort: 
That 's    hard,    my    critic    Belfair.     So  — 

what  next  ? 
My     critic     Stokes     objects     to    abstract 
thoughts ;  80 

'  Call  a  man   John,  a  woman   Joan,'  says 

he, 
'  And  do  not  prate  so  of  humanities : ' 


Whereat  I  call  my  critic  simply,  Stokes. 
My  critic  Jobson  recommends  more  mirth 
Because  a  cheerful  genius  suits  the  times, 
And  all  true  poets  laugh  unquenchably 
Like  Shakespeare  and  the  gods.     That 's 

very  hard. 
The    gods   may   laugh,  and   Shakespeare; 

Dante  smiled 
With  such  a  needy  heart  on  two  pale  lips. 
We   cry    '  Weep    rather,    Dante.'     Poems 

are  90 

Men,  if  true  poems:  and  who  dares  exclaim 
At  any  man's  door,  '  Here,  't  is  understood 
The  thunder  fell   last  week  and  killed  a 

wife 
And    scared   a  sickly  husband  —  what    of 

that? 
Get   up,  be   merry,  shout   and   clap  your 

hands. 
Because     a     cheerful     genius     suits     the 

times  — '  ? 
None  says  so  to  the  man,  and  why  indeed 
Should  any  to  the  poem  ?     A  ninth  seal; 
The  apocalypse  is  drawing  to  a  close. 
Ha,  —  this    from    Vincent    Carrington,  — 

'  Dear  friend,  100 

I  want  good  counsel.     Will  you  lend  me 

wings 
To  raise  me  to  the  subject,  in  a  sketch 
I  '11  bring  to-morrow  —  may  I  ?  at  eleven  ? 
A  poet 's  only  born  to  turn  to  use : 
So  save  you  !  for  the  world  .  .  .  and  Car- 
rington.' 
'  (Writ  after.)     Have  you  heard  of  Rom- 

ney  Leigh, 
Beyond  what 's  said  of  him  in  newspapers. 
His  phalansteries  there,  his  speeches  here. 
His    pamphlets,     pleas,    and     statements, 

everywhere  ?  loc 

He  dropped  me  long  ago,  but  no  one  drops 
A  golden  apple  —  though  indeed  one  day 
You    hinted    that,   but    jested.     Well,    at 

least 
You  know  Lord  Howe  who  sees  him  .  .  . 

whom  he  sees 
And  you  see  and  I  hate  to  see,  —  for  Howe 
Stands  high  upon  the  brink  of  theories, 
Observes  the  swimmers  and  cries  "  Very 

fine," 
But  keeps  dry  linen  equally,  —  unlike 
That  gallant  breaster,  Romney.     Strange 

it  is. 
Such  sudden  madness  seizing  a  young  man 
To  make  earth  over  again,  —  while    I  'm 

content 


I2C 


290 


AURORA  LEIGH 


To  make  the  pictures.     Let  me  bring  the 

sketch. 
A  tiptoe  Danae,  overbold  and  hot, 
Both   arms   aflame   to   meet   her   wishing 

Jove 
Halfway,  and  burn  him  faster  down;   the 

face 
And  breasts  upturned   and   straining,  the 

loose  locks 
All  glowing  with  the  anticipated  gold. 
Or  here  's  another  on  the  self-same  theme. 
She  lies  here  —  flat  upon  her  prison-floor. 
The   long   hair  swathed  about  her  to  the 

heel 
Like   wet   seaweed.     You   dimly  see   her 

through  130 

The  glittering  haze  of  that  prodigious  rain. 
Half  blotted  out  of  nature  by  a  love 
As  heavy  as    fate.     I'll  bring  you  either 

sketch. 
I  think,  myself,  the  second  indicates 
More  passion.' 

Surely.     Self  is  put  away. 
And  calm  with  abdication.     She  is  Jove, 
And  no  more  Danae  —  greater  thus.    Per- 
haps 
The  painter  symbolizes  unaware 
Two  states  of  the  recipient  artist-soul, 
One,  forward,  personal,  wanting  reverence. 
Because  aspiring  only.     We  '11  be  calm,  141 
And    know  that,  when   indeed   our   Joves 

come  down, 
We  all  turn  stiller  than  we  have  ever  been. 

Kind    Vincent    Carrington.     I  '11   let   him 

come. 
He   talks  of    Florence,  —  and   may  say  a 

word 
Of   something   as  it  chanced  seven    years 

ago, 
A  hedgehog  in  the  path,  or  a  lame  bird, 
In  those  green  country  walks,  in  that  good 

time 
When  certainly  I  was  so  miserable  .  .  . 
I   seem   to    have   missed    a   blessing  ever 

since.  150 

The  music  soars  within  the  little  lark. 
And  the  lark  soars.     It  is  not   thus  with 

men. 
We   do   not   make   our    places    with    our 

strains,  — 
Content,  while  they  rise,  to  remain  behind 
Alone  on  earth  instead  of  so  in  heaven. 
No  matter;  I  bear  on  my  broken  tale. 


When   Romney  Leigh   and   I  had  parted 

thus, 
I  took  a  chamber  up  three  flights  of  stairs 
Not  far  from  being  as  steep  as  some  larks 

climb, 
And  there,  in  a  certain  house  in  Kensing- 
ton, 160 
Three   years   I   lived   and   worked.      Get 

leave  to  work 
In  this  world  —  't  is  the  best  you  get  at  all; 
For  God,  in  cursing,  gives  us  better  gifts 
Than    men    in     benediction.      God    says, 

'  Sweat 
For  foreheads,'  men  say  '  crowns,'  and   so 

we  are  crowned, 
Ay,  gashed  by  some  tormenting  circle  of 

steel 
Which  snaps  with  a   secret   spring.     Get 

work,  get  work; 
Be  sure  'tis  better  than  what  you  work  to 

get. 

Serene  and  unafraid  of  solitude, 
I  worked  the  short  days  out,  —  and  watched 
the  sun  170 

On  lurid  morns  or  monstrous  afternoons 
(Like  some  Druidic  idol's  fiery  brass 
With   fixed    unflickering   outline    of   dead 

heat. 
From  which  the  blood  of  wretches  pent  in- 
side 
Seems  oozing  forth  to  incarnadine  the  air) 
Push  out  through  fog  with  his  dilated  disk. 
And  startle  the  slant  roofs  and  chimney- 
pots 
With  splashes  of  fierce  color.     Or  I  saw 
Fog  only,  the  great  tawny  weltering  fog 
Involve  the  passive  city,  strangle  it         iSo 
Alive,  and  draw  it  off  into  the  void. 
Spires,  bridges,  streets,  and  squares,  as  if 

a  sponge 
Had  wiped  out  London,  —  or  as  noon  and 

night 
Had  clapped  together  and  utterly  struck 

out 
The  intermediate  time,  undoing  themselves 
In   the    act.     Your    city   poets    see    such 

thingfs 
Not  despicable.     Mountains  of  the  south. 
When    drunk    and    mad   with    elemental 

wines 
They  rend  the  seamless  mist  and  stand  up 

bare. 
Make  fewer  singers,  haply.     No  one  sings. 
Descending  Sinai:  on  Parnassus  mount  191 


THIRD   BOOK 


291 


You  take  a  mule  to  climb  and  not  a  muse 
Except  in  fable  and  figure:  forests  chant 
Their  anthems  to  themselves,  and  leave  you 

dumb. 
But  sit  in  London  at  the  day's  decline, 
And  view  the  city  perish  in  the  mist 
Like  Pharaoh's  armaments  in  the  deep  Red 

Sea, 
The    chariots,  horsemen,  footmen,  all  the 

host, 
Sucked  down  and  choked  to  silence — then, 

surprised 
By  a  sudden  sense  of  vision  and  of  tune,   200 
You  feel  as  conquerors  though  you  did  not 

fight, 
And  you  and  Israel's  other  singing  girls. 
Ay,  Miriam  with  them,  sing  the  song  you 

choose. 
I    worked    with    patience,    which    means 

almost  power: 
I  did  some  excellent  things  indifferently. 
Some  bad  things  excellently.     Both  were 

praised, 
The  latter  loudest.     And  by  such  a  time 
That  I  myself  had  set  them  down  as  sins 
Scarce  worth  the  price  of  sackcloth,  week 

by  week 
Arrived  some  letter  through  the  sedulous 

post,  210 

Like  these  I  've  read,  and  yet  dissimilar. 
With  pretty  maiden  seals,  —  initials  twined 
Of  lilies,  or  a  heart  marked  Emily 
(Convicting  Emily  of  being  all  heart) ; 
Or  rarer  tokens  from  young  bachelors. 
Who  wrote  from   college  with   the   same 

goose-quill. 
Suppose,  they  had   just  been   plucked  of, 

and  a  snatch 
From  Horace,  '  Collegisse  juvat,'  set 
Upon  the  first  page.    Many  a  letter,  signed 
Or     unsigned,     showing     the    writers    at 

eighteen  220 

Had  lived  too  long,  although  a  muse  should 

help 
Their  dawn  by  holding  candles,  —  compli- 
ments 
To  smile  or  sigh  at.     Such  could  pass  with 

me 
No  more  than  coins  from  Moscow  circulate 
At  Paris  :   would  ten  roubles  buy  a  tag 
Of  ribbon  on  the  boulevard,  worth  a  sou  ? 
I  smiled  that  all  this  youth  should  love  me, 

—  sighed 
That  such  a  love  could  scarcely  raise  them 

up 


To  love  what  was  more  worthy  than  my- 
self; 
Then  sighed  again,  again,  less  generously, 
To  think  the  very  love  they  lavished  so  231 
Proved  me  inferior.     The  strong  loved  me 

not. 
And  he  .  .  .  my  cousin  Bomney  .  .  .  did 

not  write. 
I  felt  the  silent  finger  of  his  scorn 
Prick  every  bubble  of  my  frivolous  fame 
As  my  breath  blew  it,  and  resolve  it  back 
To  the  air  it  came  from.     Oh,  I  justified 
The  measure  he  had  taken  of  my  height: 
The  thing  was  plain  —  he  was  not  wrong  a 

line; 
I  played  at  art,  made  thrusts  with  a  toy- 
sword,  240 
Amused  the  lads  and  maidens. 

Came  a  sigh 
Deep,  hoarse    with   resolution,  —  I  would 

work 
To     better     ends,    or     play     in     earnest. 

'  Heavens, 
I  think  I  should  be  almost  popular 
If  this  went  on  ! '  —  I  ripped  my  verses  up. 
And   found   no    blood   upon    the    rapier's 

point; 
The  heart  in  them  was  just  an  embryo's 

heart 
Which  never  yet  had  beat,  that  it  should 

die; 
Just  gasps  of  make-believe  galvanic  life ; 
Mere  tones,  inorganized  to  any  tune.        250 

And  yet  I  felt  it  in  me  where  it  burnt. 
Like  those  hot  fire-seeds  of  creation  held 
In  Jove's  clenched  palm  before  the  worlds 

were  sown,  — 
But  I  —  I  was  not  Juno  even  !  my  hand 
Was  shut  in  weak  convulsion,  woman's  ill. 
And  when  I  yearned  to  loose  a  finger  —  lo. 
The  nerve  revolted.     'Tis  the  same  even 

now: 
This  hand  may  never,  haply,  open  large, 
Before  the  spark  is  quenched,  or  the  palm 

charred. 
To  prove  the  power  not  else  than  by  the 

pain.  260 

It  burnt,  it  burns  —  my  whole  life  burnt 
with  it. 

And  light,  not  sunlight  and  not  torchlight, 
flashed 

My  steps  out  through  the  slow  and  diffi- 
cult road. 


292 


AURORA   LEIGH 


I   had    sfrown    distrustful   of   too  forward 

Springs, 
The  season's  books  in  drear  significance 
Of   morals,   dropping   round   me.     Lively 

books  ? 
The  ash  has  livelier  verdure  than  the  yew; 
And  yet  the  yew  's  green  longer,  and  alone 
Found  worthy  of  the  holy  Christmas  time: 
We  '11  plant  more  yews  if  possible,  albeit  270 
We  plant  the  graveyards  with  them. 

Day  and  night 
I  worked  my  rhythmic  thought,  and  fur- 
rowed up 
Both  watch  and  slumber  with  long  lines  of 

life 
Which  did  not  suit  their  season.     The  rose 

fell 
From  either  cheek,  my  eyes  globed  lumi- 
nous 
Through   orbits  of   blue  shadow,  and  my 

pulse 
Would   shudder   along   the   purple-veined 

wrist 
Like  a  shot  bird.     Youth's  stern,  set  face 

to  face 
With  youth's  ideal:  and  when  people  came 
And   said  '  You  work   too  much,  you  are 
looking  ill,'  280 

I  smiled  for  pity  of  them  who  pitied  me, 
And  thought  I  should  be  better  soon  per- 
haps 
For  those  ill  looks.     Observe  —  '  I,'  means 

in  youth 
Just  I,  the  conscious  and  eternal  soul 
With    all   its    ends,    and    not    the    outside 

life. 
The  parcel-man,  the  doublet  of  the  flesh, 
The  so  much  liver,  lung,  integument. 
Which    make    the    sum    of    '  I '    hereafter 

when 
World-talkers  talk  of  doing  well  or  ill. 
/  prosper  if  I  gain  a  step,  although  290 

A  nail  then  pierced  my  foot:  although  my 

brain 
Embracing  any  truth  froze  paralyzed, 
/prosper:  I  but  change  my  instrument; 
I  break   the  spade  off,  digging   deep   for 

gold. 
And  catch  the  mattock  up. 

I  worked  on,  on. 
Through  all  the  bristling  fence  of  nights 

and  days 
Which  hedges  time  in  from  the  eternities, 
I  struggled,  —  never   stopped  to  note  the 
stakes 


Which  hurt  me  in  my  course.     The  mid- 
night oil 
Would  stink  sometimes;  there  came  some 
vulgar  needs:  300 

I  had  to  live  that  therefore  I  might  work, 
And,  being   but   poor,  I  was  constrained, 

for  life, 
To   work    with    one    hand   for    the    book- 
sellers 
While  working  with  the  other  for  myself 
And  art:   you  swim  with  feet  as  well  as 

hands, 
Or     make    small    way.      I    apprehended 

this,  — 
In   England   no  one   lives   by    verse   that 

lives; 
And,  apprehending,  I  resolved  by  prose 
To  make  a  space  to  sphere  my  living  verse. 
I  wrote  for  cyclopaedias,  magazines,         310 
And  weekly  papers,  holding  up  my  name 
To  keep  it   from  the  mud.     I   learnt   the 

use 
Of  the  editorial  *  we '  in  a  review 
As  courtly  ladies  the  fine  trick  of  trains, 
And  swept   it   grandly  through   the  open 

doors 
As  if  one  could  not  pass  through  doors  at 

all 
Save   so  encumbered.     I  wrote    tales   be- 
side. 
Carved  many  an  article  on  cherry-stones 
To  suit  light  readers,  —  something  in  the 

lines 
Revealing,  it  was  said,  the  mallet-hand,  320 
But  that,  I  '11  never  vouch  for:  what  you 

do 
For  bread  will  taste  of  common  grain,  not 

grapes, 
Although  you  have  a  vineyard   in  Cham- 
pagne; 
Much  less  in  Nephelococcygia 
As  mine  was,  peradventure. 

Having  bread 
For   just    so  many    days,  just   breathing- 
room 
For   body  and  verse,  I  stood  up  straight 

and  worked 
My  veritable  work.     And  as  the  soul 
Which   grows    within  a  child   makes    the 

child  grow,  — 
Or  as  the  fiery  sap,  the  touch  from  God,  330 
Careering  through  a  tree,  dilates  the  bark 
And   roughs  with  scale  and   knob,  before 

it  strikes 
The  summer  foliage  out  in  a  green  flame  — 


THIRD   BOOK 


293 


So  life,  in   deepening  with  me,  deepened 

all 
The  course  I  took,  the  work   I  did.     In- 
deed 
The  academic  law  convinced  of  sin; 
The  critics  cried  out  on  the  falling  off, 
Regretting  the  first  manner.     But  I  felt 
My  heart's  life  throbbing  in  my  verse  to 

show 
It  lived,  it  also  —  certes  incomplete,        340 
Disordered  with  all  Adam  in  the  blood. 
But  even  its  very  tumors,  warts  and  wens 
Still  organized  by  and  implying  life. 

A  lady  called  upon  me  on  such  a  day. 
She   had   the   low  voice  of   your   English 

dames. 
Unused,  it  seems,  to  need  rise  half  a  note 
To  catch  attention, —  and  their  quiet  mood, 
As  if  they  lived  too  high  above  the  earth 
For  that  to  put  them  out  in  anything: 
So  gentle,  because  verily  so  proud;  350 

So  wary  and  afraid  of  hurting  you. 
By  no  means  that  you  are  not  really  vile. 
But  that  they  would  not   touch  you  with 

their  foot 
To  push  you  to  your  place ;  so  self-possessed 
Yet  gracious  and  conciliating,  it  takes 
An  effort  in  their  presence  to  speak  truth: 
You  know  the  sort  of  woman,  —  brilliant 

stuff, 
And  out  of  nature.     '  Lady  Waldemar.' 
She  said  her  name  quite  simply,  as  if   it 

meant 
Not  much  indeed,  but  something,  —  took 

my  hands,  360 

And  smiled  as  if  her  smile  could  help  my 

case. 
And  dropped  her  eyes  on  me  and  let  them 

melt. 
•  Is  this,'  she  said,  '  the  Muse  '  ? 

'  No  sybil  even,' 
I  answered,  *  since  she  fails  to  guess  the 

cause 
Which  taxed  you  with  this  visit,  madam.' 

'Good,' 
She  said;  '  I  value  what 's  sincere  at  once. 
Perhaps  if  I  had  found  a  literal  Muse, 
The  visit  might  have  taxed  me.     As  it  is. 
You  wear  your  blue  so  chiefly  in  your  eyes. 
My  fair  Aurora,  in  a  frank  good  way,     370 
It  comforts  me  entirely  for  your  fame. 
As  well  as  for  the  trouble  of  ascent 
To  this  Olympus.' 

There,  a  silver  laugh 


Ran  rippling  through  her  quickened  little 

breaths 
The  steep  stair  somewhat  justified. 

'  But  still 
Your  ladyship  has  left  me  curious  why 
You   dared   the    risk   of  finding   the    said 

Muse  ? ' 

*  Ah,  —  keep   me,  notwithstanding,  to  the 

point. 
Like  any  pedant  ?     Is  the  blue  in  eyes 
As  awful  as  in  stockings  after  all,  380 

I  wonder,  that   you'd   have   my  business 

out 
Before  I  breathe  —  exact  the  epic  plunge 
In    spite  of  gasps  ?     Well,  naturally   you 

think 
I  've  come  here,  as  the  lion-hunters  go 
To  deserts,  to  secure  you  with  a  trap 
For  exhibition  in  my  drawing-rooms 
On  zoologic  soirees  ?     Not  in  the  least. 
Roar  softly  at  me;  I  am  frivolous, 
I   dare   say;  I   have  played  at  wild-beast 

shows 
Like  other  women  of  my  class,  —  but  now 
I  meet  my  lion  simply  as  Androcles         391 
Met  his  .   .  .  when  at  his  mercy.' 

So,  she  bent 
Her   head,    as   queens   may  mock,  —  then 

lifting  up 
Her  eyelids  with  a  real  grave  queenly  look. 
Which  ruled  and  would  not  spare,  not  even 

herself,  — 
'I   think    you   have   a   cousin: — Romney 

Leigh.' 

'  You  bring  a  word  from  him  ? '  —  my  eyes 

leapt  up 
To  the  very  height  of  hers,  —  '  a  word  from 

him  ? ' 

*  I  bring  a  word  about  him,  actually. 

But  first '  (she  pressed  me  with  her  urgent 
eyes),  400 

'  You  do  not  love  him,  —  you  ? ' 

*  You'  re  frank  at  least 
In  putting  questions,  madam,'  I  replied; 
'  I  love  my  cousin  cousinly  —  no  more.' 

*  I  guessed  as  much.    I  'm  ready  to  be  frank 
In  answering  also,  if  you'll  question  me, 
Or  even  for  something  less.    You  stand  out- 
side. 

You  artist  women,  of  the  common  sex; 
You  share  not  with  us,  and  exceed  us  so 


294 


AURORA   LEIGH 


Perhaps  by  what  you  're  mulcted  in,  your 

hearts 
Being  starved  to  make  your  heads:  so  run 

the  old  410 

Traditions  of  you.     I  can  therefore  speak 
Without  the  natural  shame  which  creatures 

feel 
When  speaking  on  their  level,  to  their  like. 
There  's  many  a  papist  she,  would   rather 

die 
Than  own  to  her  maid  she  put  a  ribbon  on 
To  catch  the  indifferent  eye  of  such  a  man, 
Who  yet  would   count   adulteries   on   her 

beads 
At  holy  Mary's  shrine  and  never  blush;  418 
Because  the  saints  are  so  far  off,  we  lose 
All  modesty  before  them.     Thus,  to-day. 
'T  is  /,  love  Romney  Leigh.' 

'  Forbear,'  I  cried. 
*  If  here  's  no  Muse,  still  less  is  any  saint; 
Nor  even  a  friend,  that  Lady  Waldemar 
Should  make  confessions  '  .  .  . 

'  That 's  unkindly  said : 
If  no  friend,  what  forbids  to  make  a  friend 
To  join  to  our  confession  ere  we  have  done  ? 
I  love  your  cousin.  If  it  seems  unwise 
To  say  so,  it 's  still  foolisher  (we  're  frank) 
To  feel  so.  My  first  husband  left  me  young. 
And  pretty  enough,  so  please  you,  and  rich 

enough,  _  430 

To  keep  my  booth  in  Mayf  air  with  the  rest 
To  happy  issues.     There  are  marquises 
Would  serve  seven  years  to  call  me  wife,  I 

know. 
And,  after  seven,  I  might  consider  it. 
For  there  's  some  comfort  in  a  marquisate 
When  all 's  said,  —  yes,  but  after  the  seven 

years; 
I,  now,  love  Romney.     You  put  up  your 

lip, 
So  like  a  Leigh  !  so  like  him  !  —  Pardon 

me, 
I  'm  well  aware  I  do  not  derogate 
In   loving   Romney  Leigh.     The  name    is 

good,  440 

The  means  are  excellent,  but  the  man,  the 

man  — 
Heaven  help  us  both,  —  I  am  near  as  mad 

as  he. 
In  loving  such  an  one.' 

She  slowly  swung 
Her  heavy  ringlets  till   they  touched  her 

smile, 
As  reasonably  sorry  for  herself, 
And  thus  continued. 


'  Of  a  truth.  Miss  Leigh, 
I  have  not,  without  struggle,  come  to  this. 
I  took  a  master  in  the  German  tongue, 
I  gamed  a  little,  went  to  Paris  twice ; 
But,  after   all,  this  love  !  .  .  .  you  eat  of 

love,  450 

And  do  as  vile  a  thing  as  if  you  ate 
Of  garlic  —  which,  whatever  else  you  eat, 
Tastes  uniformly  acrid,  till  your  peach 
Reminds  you  of  your  onion.   Am  I  coarse  ? 
Well,  love  's  coarse,  nature 's  coarse  —  ah, 

there  's  the  rub. 
We  fair  fine  ladies,  who  park  out  our  lives 
From  common  sheep-paths,  cannot  help  the 

crows 
From  flying  over,  —  we  're  as  natural  still 
As  Blowsalinda.     Drape  us  perfectly 
In  Lyons  velvet,  —  we  are  not,  for  that,  460 
Lay -figures,   look   you:    we   have    hearts 

within. 
Warm,  live,  improvident,  indecent  hearts, 
As  ready  for  outrageous  ends  and  acts 
As  any  distressed  sempstress  of  them  all 
That  Romney  groans  and   toils  for.     We 

catch  love, 
And  other  fevers,  in  the  vulgar  way: 
Love  will  not  be  outwitted  by  our  wit, 
Nor  outrun  by  our  equipages :  —  mine 
Persisted,  spite  of  efforts.     All  my  cards 
Turned  up  but  Romney  Leigh ;  my  German 

stopped  470 

At  germane  Wertherism;  my  Paris  rounds 
Returned    me  from   the  Champs  Elyst^es 

just 
A  ghost,  and  sighing  like  Dido's.     I  came 

home 
Uncured,  —  convicted  rather  to  myself 
Of   being  in   love  ...  in    love  !     That  's 

coarse,  you  '11  say, 
I  'm  talking  garlic' 

Coldly  I  replied: 
'  Apologize  for  atheism,  not  love  ! 
For  me,  I  do  believe  in  love,  and  God. 
I  know  my  cousin:  Lady  Waldemar 
I  know  not :  yet  I  say  as  much  as  this,  — 
Whoever  loves  him,  let  her  not  excuse    481 
But  cleanse  herself,  that,  loving  such  a  man. 
She    may  not   do   it  with   such  unworthy 

love 
He  cannot  stoop  and  take  it.' 

*  That  is  said 
Austerely,  like  a  youthful  prophetess. 
Who  knits  her  brows  across  her  pretty  eyes 
To  keep  them  back  from  following  the  gray 

flight 


THIRD    BOOK 


295 


Of  doves  between  the  temple-columns. 
Dear, 

Be  kinder  with  me;  let  us  two  be  friends. 

I  'm  a  mere  woman,  — the  more  weak  per- 
haps 490 

Through  being  so  proud;  you  're  better;  as 
for  him, 

He  's  best.     Indeed  he  builds  his  goodness 

So  high,  it  topples  down  to  the  other  side 
And  makes  a  sort  of  badness;  there  's  the 

w^orst 
I  have  to  say  against  your  cousin's  best  ! 
And  so  be  mild,  Aurora,  with  my  worst 
For  his  sake,  if  not  mine.' 

'  I  own  myself 
Incredulous  of  confidence  like  this 
Availing  him  or  you.' 

'  And  I,  myself, 
Of  being  worthy  of  him  with  any  love:     500 
In  your  sense  I  am  not  so  —  let  it  pass. 
And  yet  I  save  him  if  I  marry  him ; 
Let  that  pass  too.' 

'  Pass,  pass  !  we  play  police 
Upon  my  cousin's  life,  to  indicate 
What   may    or   may  not    pass?'    I  cried. 

'  He  knows 
What  's  worthy  of  him;  the  choice  remains 

with  him- 
And  what  he  chooses,  act  or  wdfe,  I  think 
I  shall  not  call  unworthy,  I,  for  one.' 

'  'T  is  somewhat  rashly  said,'  she  answered 
slow; 

'  Now  let 's  talk  reason,  though  we  talk  of 
love.  510 

Your  cousin  Romney  Leigh 's  a  monster; 
there. 

The  word 's  out  fairly,  let  me  prove  the 
fact. 

We  '11  take,  say,  that  most  perfect  of  an- 
tiques 

They  call  the  Genius  of  the  Vatican 

(Which  seems  too  beauteous  to  endure  it- 
self 

In  this  mixed  world),  and  fasten  it  for 
once 

Upon  the  torso  of  the  Dancing  Faun 

(Who  might  limp  surely,  if  he  did  not 
dance). 

Instead  of  Buonarroti's  mask:  what  then  ? 

We  show  the  sort  of  monster  Romney 
is,  520 

With  godlike  virtues  and  heroic  aims 

Subjoined  to  limping  possibilities 


Of    mismade    human    nature.     Grant   the 
man 

Twice    godlike,   twice    heroic,  —  still    he 
limps. 

And  here  's  the  point  we  come  to.' 

'  Pardon  me, 

But,    Lady   Waldemar,    the    point 's    the 
thing 

We  never  come  to.' 

'  Caustic,  insolent 

At  need  !     I  like  you  '  —  (there,  she  took 
my  hands) 

'  And  now,  my  lioness,  help  Androcles, 

For  all  your  roaring.     Help  me  !    for  my- 
self 530 

I  would  not  sav  so  —  but  for  him.      He 
limps 

So  certainly,  he  '11  fall  into  the  pit 

A  week  hence,  —  so  I  lose  him  —  so  he  is 
lost  ! 

For  when  he  's  fairly  married,  he  a  Leigh, 

To  a  girl  of  doubtful  life,  undoubtful  birth. 

Starved   out   in   London   till    her   coarse- 
grained hands 

Are  whiter  than  her  morals,  —  even  you 

May  call  his  choice  unworthy.' 

'  Married  !  lost ! 

He  .  .  .  Romney  ! ' 

'  Ah,  you  're  moved  at  last,'  she  said. 

'  These  monsters,  set  out  in  the  open  sun, 

Of  course  throw  monstrous  shadows:  those 
who  think  541 

Awry,    will   scarce   act    straightly.      Who 
but  he  ? 

And  who  but  you  can  wonder  ?     He  has 
been  mad, 

The  whole  world  knows,  since  first,  a  nom- 
inal man. 

He  soured  the  proctors,  tried  the  gowns- 
men's wits. 

With  equal  scorn  of  triangles  and  wine, 

And  took  no  honors,  yet  was  honorable. 

They  '11  tell  you  he  lost  count  of  Homer's 
ships 

In  Melbourne's  poor-bills,  Ashley's  factory 
bills,— 

Ignored  the  Aspasia  we  all  dare  to  praise, 

For  other  women,  dear,  we  could  not  name 

Because  we  're  decent.     Well,  he  had  some 
right  552 

On  his  side  probably;  men  always  have 

Who  go  absurdly  wrong.     The  living  boor 

Who  brews  your  ale  exceeds  in  vital  w^orth 

Dead  Caesar  who  "  stops  bungholes  "  in  the 
cask; 


296 


AURORA   LEIGH 


And  also,  to  do  good  is  excellent, 

For  persons  of  his  income,  even  to  boors: 

I  sympathize  with   all   such   things.     But 

he 
Went  mad   upon   them  .  .  .  madder   and 

more  mad  560 

From   college  times  to  these,  —  as,  going 

down  hill, 
The  faster  still,  the    farther.     You   must 

know 
Your   Leigh   by  heart:    he    has    sown  his 

black  young  curls 
With  bleaching  cares  of  half  a  million  men 
Already.     If  you  do  not  starve,  or  sin. 
You're  nothing  to  him:   pay  the  income- 
tax 
And  break  your  heart  upon  't,  he  '11  scarce 

be  touched; 
But  come  upon  the  parish,  qualified 
For  the  parish  stocks,  and  Romney  will  be 

there 
To  call  you  brother,  sister,  or  perhaps     570 
A  tenderer  name  still.     Had  I  any  chance 
With  Mister  Leigh,  who  am  Lady  Walde- 

mar 
And  never  committed  felony  ?  ' 

'  You  speak 
Too  bitterly,'  I  said,  '  for  the  literal  truth.' 

*  The  truth  is  bitter.     Here  's  a  man  who 

looks 
For  ever  on  the  ground  !  you  must  be  low. 
Or  else  a  pictured  ceiling  overhead, 
Good  painting  thrown  away.     For  me,  I  've 

done 
What     women      may  —  we  're    somewhat 

limited. 
We  modest  women  —  but   I  've   done  my 

best.  580 

—  How  men  are  perjured  when  they  swear 

our  eyes 
Have  meaning  in  them  !  they  're  just  blue 

or  brown. 
They  just  can  drop  their  lids  a  little.    And 

yet 
Mine   did  more,  for   I  read  half   Fourier 

through, 
Proudhon,  Considerant,  and  Louis  Blanc, 
With  various  others  of  his  socialists, 
And,  if  I  had  been  a  fathom  less  in  love. 
Had    cured   myself   with   gaping.     As   it 

was, 
I  quoted  from  them  prettily  enough,        589 
Perhaps,  to  make  them  sound  half  rational 
To  a  saner  man  than  he  whene'er  we  talked 


(For  which  I  dodged  occasion)  —  learnt  by 

heart 
His   speeches   in   the  Commons  and  else- 
where 
Upon  the  social  question;  heaped  reports 
Of  wicked  women  and  penitentiaries 
On  all  my  tables  (with  a  place  for  Sue), 
And  gave  my  name  to  swell  subscription 

lists 
Toward  keeping   up  the  sun  at  nights  in 

heaven. 
And  other  possible  ends.    All  things  I  did, 
Except  the  impossible  .  .  .  such  as  wear- 
ing gowns  600 
Provided   by  the  Ten   Hours'  movement: 

there 
I    stopped  —  we    must    stop    somewhere. 

He,  meanwhile 
Unmoved  as  the  Indian  tortoise  'neath  the 

world. 
Let  all  that  noise  go  on  upon  his  back : 
He  would  not  disconcert  or  throw  me  out, 
'T  was  well  to  see  a  woman  of  my  class 
With  such  a  dawn  of  conscience.     For  the 

heart. 
Made  firewood  for  his  sake,  and   flaming 

up 
To  his  face,  —  he  merely  warmed  his  feet 

at  it: 
Just  deigned  to  let  my  carriage  stop  him 

short  610 

In   park  or   street,  —  he   leaning   on   the 

door 
With  news  of  the  committee  which  sat  last 
On  pickpockets  at  suck.' 

'  You  jest  —  you  jest.' 

'  As  martyrs  jest,  dear  (if  you  read  their 

lives). 
Upon   the   axe  which  kills   them.     When 

all 's  done 
By   me,  .  .  .  for   him  —  you  '11    ask    him 

presently 
The  color  of  my  hair  —  he  cannot  tell, 
Or  answers  "dark"  at  random;  while,  be 

sure. 
He  's  absolute  on  the  figure,  five  or  ten. 
Of  my  last  subscription.     Is  it  bearable,  620 
And  I  a  woman  ? ' 

'  Is  it  reparable, 
Though  /  were  a  man  ?  ' 

*  I  know  not.     That 's  to  prove. 
But,  first,  this  shameful  marriage  ?  ' 

'  Ay  ?  '  I  cried. 
'  Then  really  there 's  a  marriage  ? ' 


THIRD   BOOK 


297 


'  Yesterday 
I  held  him  fast  upon  it.     "  Mister  Leigh," 
Said  I,  "  shut  up  a  thing,  it  makes  more 

noise. 
The  boiling   town  keeps  secrets  ill;    I  've 

known 
Yours  since  last  week.     Forgive  my  know- 
ledge so: 
You  feel  I  'm  not  the  woman  of  the  world 
The  world   thinks;   you   have  borne    with 
me  before  630 

And    used    me   in   your   noble    work,    our 

work, 
And  now  you  shall  not   cast  me  off   be- 
cause 
You're    at    the   difficult    point,   the  join. 

'T  is  true 
Even  I  can  scarce  admit  the  cogency 
Of   such   a  marriage  .  .  .  where   you    do 

not  love 
(Except  the  class),  yet  marry  and  throw 

your  name 
Down  to  the  gutter,  for  a  fire-escape 
To  future  generations  !  't  is  sublime, 
A  great  example,  a  true  Genesis 
Of    the    opening    social    era.     But    take 


heed. 


640 


This    virtuous    act    must    have   a   patent 

weight. 
Or  loses  half  its  virtue.     Make  it  tell, 
Interpret  it,  and  set  it  in  the  light, 
And  do  not  muffle  it  in  a  winter-cloak 
As  a  vulgar  bit  of  shame,  —  as  if,  at  best, 
A    Leicjh    had    made    a   misalliance    and 

blushed 
A    Howard    should    know    it."     Then,    I 

pressed  him  more: 
"He  would  not  choose,"  I  said,  "  that  even 

his  kin,  .  .  . 
Aurora   Leigh,  even  .  .  .  should  conceive 

his  act 
Less  sacrifice,  more  fantasy,"    At  which  650 
He  grew  so  pale,  dear,  ...  to  the  lips,  I 

knew 
I  had  touched  him.     "  Do  you  know  her," 

he  inquired, 
"  My  cousin  Aurora  ?  "    "  Yes,"  I  said,  and 

lied 
(But  truly  we  all  know  you  by  your  books), 
And    so   I    offered   to    come    straight   to 

you. 
Explain  the  subject,  justify  the  cause, 
And  take  you  with  me  to  Saint  Margaret's 

Court 
To  see  this  miracle,  this  Marian  Erie, 


This  drover's  daughter  (she  's  not  pretty, 
he  swears). 

Upon  whose  finger,  exquisitely  pricked    660 

By  a  hundred  needles,  we  're  to  hang  the 
tie 

'Twixt  class  and  class  in  England,  —  thus 
indeed 

By  such   a   presence,  yours   and  mine,  to 
lift 

The    match  up    from  the    doubtful  place. 
At  once 

He  thanked  me  sighing,  murmured  to  him- 
self 

"  She  '11   do   it    perhaps,   she 's   noble,"  — 
thanked  me  twice. 

And  promised,  as  my  guerdon,  to  put  off 

His  marriage  for  a  month.' 

I  answered  then. 

'  I  understand  your  drift  imperfectly. 

You  wish  to  lead  me   to  my  cousin's   be- 
trothed, 670 

To  touch  her  hand  if  worthy,  and  hold  her 
hand 

If  feeble,  thus  to  justify  his  match. 

So  be  it  then.     But  how  this  serves  your 
ends. 

And  how  the   strange    confession  of   your 
love 

Serves   this,  I   have    to  learn  —  I   cannot 
see.' 

She  knit   her    restless    forehead.     'Then,. 

despite, 
Aurora,  that  most  radiant  morning  name. 
You  're  dull  as  any  London  afternoon. 
I  wanted   time,  and   gained   it,  —  wanted 

you, 

And  gain  you  !  you  will  come  and  see  the 

girl  680 

In    whose  most   prodigal    eyes   the   lineal 

pearl 
And  pride  of  all  your  lofty  race  of  Leighs 
Is  destined  to  solution.     Authorized 
By    sight    and    knowledge,    then,    you  '11 

speak  your  mind. 
And   prove   to  Romney,  in  your   brilliant 

way, 
He  '11  wrong  the  people  and  posterity 
(Say    such    a    thing   is    bad    for   me    and 

you. 
And  you  fail  utterly),  by  concluding  thus 
An  execrable  marriage.     Break  it  up. 
Disroot  it  —  peradventure  presently        690. 
We  '11  plant  a  better  fortune  in  its  place. 
Be  good  to  me,  Aurora,  scorn  me  less 


298 


AURORA   LEIGH 


For  saying  the  thing  I  should  not.     Well 

I  know 
I  should  not.     I  have  kept,  as  others  have, 
The  iron  rule  of  womanly  reserve 
In  lip  and  life,  till  now:    I  wept  a  week 
Before   I  came  here.'  —  Ending,  she    was 

pale; 
The  last  words,  haughtily  said,  were  trem- 
ulous. 
This  palfrey   pranced   in   harness,  arched 

her  neck, 
And,  only  by  the  foam  upon  the  bit,         700 
You  saw  she  champed  against  it. 

Then  I  rose. 
*I   love   love:    truth's,  no   cleaner    thing 

than  love. 
I  comprehend  a  love  so  fiery  hot 
It  burns  its  natural  veil  of  august  shame. 
And    stands    sublimely    in    the   nude,    as 

chaste 
As  Medicean  Venus.     But  I  know, 
A  love  that  burns  through  veils  will  burn 

through  masks 
And    shrivel    up    treachery.     What,  love 

and  lie  ! 
Nay  —  go  to  the  opera  !  your  love  's  cur- 
able.' 

*  I  love  and   lie  ? '  she  said  —  *  I  lie,  for- 

sooth ? '  7 10 

And  beat  her  taper  foot  upon  the  floor, 
And  smiled    against   the  shoe,  —  '  You  're 

hard.  Miss  Leigh, 
Unversed   in   current    phrases.  —  Bowling 

greens 
Of  poets  are  fresher  than  the  world's  high- 
ways: 
Forgive  me  that  I  rashly  blew  the  dust 
Which  dims  our  hedges  even,  in  your  eyes. 
And  vexed  you  so  much.     You  find,  prob- 
ably, 
No  evil  in  this  marriage,  —  rather  good 
Of  innocence,  to  pastoralize  in  song: 
You'll  give  the  bond  your  signature,  per- 
haps, 720 
Beneath  the  lady's  work,  —  indifferent 
That   Romney   chose    a  wife   could   write 

her  name, 
In  witnessing  he  loved  her.' 

'  Loved  ! '  I  cried ; 

*  Who  tells   you  that   he  wants  a  wife  to 

love? 
He  gets  a  horse  to  use,  not  love,  I  think: 
There 's   work    for   wives   as   well,  —  and 

after,  straw, 


When  men  are   liberal.     For  myself,  you 

err 
Supposing   power   in    me    to    break    this 

match. 
I  could  not  do  it  to  save  Romney 's  life, 
And  would  not  to  save  mine.' 

'  You  take  it  so,' 
She  said,  *  farewell  then.    Write  your  books 
in  peace,  731 

As  far  as  may  be  for  some  secret  stir 
Now  obvious  to  me,  —  for,  most  obviously. 
In  coming  hither  I  mistook  the  way.' 
Whereat  she  touched  my  hand  and  bent  her 

head, 
And  floated  from  me  like  a  silent  cloud 
That  leaves  the  sense  of  thunder. 

I  drew  breath, 
Oppressed  in  my  deliverance.     After  all, 
This  woman  breaks  her  social  system  up 
For    love,    so    counted  —  the    love    possi- 
ble 740 
To  such,  —  and  lilies  are  still  lilies,  pulled 
By  smutty  hands,  though  spotted  from  their 

white ; 
And  thus  she  is  better  haply,  of  her  kind, 
Than   Romney  Leigh,   who   lives   by  dia- 
grams, 
And  crosses  out  the  spontaneities 
Of  all  his  individual,  personal  life 
With  formal  universals.     As  if  man 
Were  set  upon  a  high  stool  at  a  desk 
To  keep  God's  books  for  Him  in  red  and 

black, 
And   feel    by   millions !      What,   if   even 
God  750 

Were  chiefly  God  by  living  out  Himself 
To  an  individualism  of  the  Infinite, 
Eterne,  intense,  profuse,  —  still   throwing 

The  golden  spray  of  multitudinous  worlds 

In   measure   to    the  proclive    weight   and 
rush 

Of    his    inner    nature,  —  the    spontaneous 
love 

Still    proof    and    outflow    of    spontaneous 
life? 

Then  live,  Aurora. 

Two  hours  afterward. 

Within    Saint    Margaret's    Court    I   stood 
alone, 

Close-veiled.     A  sick  child,  from  an  ague- 
fit,  760 

Whose  wasted  right  hand  gambled  'gainst 
his  left 

With  an  old  brass  button  in  a  blot  of  sun, 


THIRD    BOOK 


299 


Jeered  weakly  at  me  as  I  passed  across 
The   uneven   pavement;    while    a   woman, 


rouofed 


Upon    the    angular   cheek-bones,   kerchief 

torn, 
Thin   dangling   locks,    and    flat   lascivious 

mouth, 
Cursed  at  a  window  both  ways,  in  and  out, 
By  turns  some  bed-rid  creature  and  my- 
self, — 
*  Lie    still  there,  mother  !    liker  the  dead 

dog 
You  '11  be  to-morrow.     What,  we  pick  our 

way,  770 

Fine  madam,  with  those  damnable  small 

feet! 
We  cover  up  our  face  from  doing  good, 
As  if  it  were  our  purse  !     What  brings  you 

here, 
My  lady  ?     Is  't  to  find  my  gentleman 
Who  visits  his  tame  pigeon  in  the  eaves  ? 
Our  cholera  catch  you  with  its  cramps  and 

spasms. 
And  tumble  up  your  good  clothes,  veil  and 

all, 
And   turn  your  whiteness   dead-blue.'      I 

looked  up; 
I  think  I  could  have  walked  through  hell 

that  day, 
And  never  flinched.    '  The  dear  Christ  com- 
fort you,'  780 
I  said,  *  you  must  have  been  most  miser- 
able 
To  be  so  cruel,'  — and  I  emptied  out 
My  purse  upon  the  stones:  when,  as  I  had 

cast 
The  last  charm  in  the  cauldron,  the  whole 

court 
Went   boiling,    bubbling  up,   from   all   its 

doors 
And    windows,    with    a    hideous    wail    of 

laughs 
And  roar  of  oaths,  and  blows  perhaps  .  .  . 

I  passed 
Too    quickly    for    distinguishing  .  .  .  and 

pushed 
A  little  side-door  hanging  on  a  hinge, 
And  plunged  into  the  dark,  and  groped  and 

climbed  790 

The  long,  steep,  narrow  stair  'twixt  broken 

rail 
And   mildewed  wall  that   let   the  plaster 

drop 
To  startle  me  iu  the  blackness.     Still,  up, 

up  ! 


So  high  lived  Romney's  bride.     I  paused 

at  last 
Before  a  low  door  in  the  roof,  and  knocked. 
There    came    an   answer    like   a    hurried 

dove  —  • 

*  So  soon  ?  can  that  be  Mister  Leigh  ?  so 

soon  ? ' 
And,  as  I  entered,  an  ineffable  face 
Met  mine  upon  the  threshold.     '  Oh,  not 

you, 
Not  you  ! '  —  the  dropping  of  the  voice  im- 
plied; 800 
'  Then,  if  not  you,  for  me  not  any  one.' 
I   looked    her  in   the  eyes,   and   held   her 

hands, 
And    said    '  I   am    his    cousin,  —  Romney 

Leigh's; 
And  here  I  come  to  see  my  cousin  too.' 
She  touched  me  with  her  face  and  with  her 

voice, 
This  daughter  of   the   people.     Such  soft 

flowers 
From  such  rough  roots  ?     The  people,  un- 
der there, 
Can  sin  so,  curse  so,  look  so,  smell  so  .  .  . 

faugh  ! 
Yet  have  such  daughters  ? 

Nowise  beautiful 
Was  Marian  Erie.     She  was  not  white  nor 

brown,  810 

But   could   look   either,   like  a  mist    that 

changed 
According   to    being    shone    on    more    or 

less: 
The  hair,  too,  ran  its  opulence  of  curls 
In  doubt  'twixt  dark  and  bright,  nor  left 

you  clear 
To  name  the  color.     Too  much  hair  per- 
haps 
(I  '11  name  a  fault   here)  for  so  small  a 

head, 
Which  seemed  to  droop  on  that  side  and  on 

this, 
As  a  full-blown  rose  uneasy  with  its  weight 
Though    not    a   wind    should    trouble    it. 

Again, 
The    dimple    in    the    cheek    had    better 

gone  820 

With  redder,  fuller  rounds;  and  somewhat 

large 
The  mouth  was,  though  the    milky  little 

teeth 
Dissolved  it  to  so  infantine  a  smile. 
For  soon  it  smiled  at  me ;  the  eyes  smiled 

too. 


300 


AURORA   LEIGH 


But   't  was  as   if   remembering    they  had 

wept, 
And  knowing  they  should,  some  day,  weep 

again. 

We   talked.     She   told   me   all   her   story 

out, 
Which  I  '11  re-tell  with  fuller  utterance, 
As  colored  and  confirmed  in  after  times 
By  others  and  herself  too.     Marian  Erie  830 
Was  born  upon  the  ledge  of  Malvern  Hill, 
To  eastward,  in  a  hut  built  up  at  night, 
To  evade  the  landlord's  eye,  of  mud  and 

turf, 
Still  liable,  if  once  he  looked  that  way, 
To  being  straight  levelled,  scattered  by  his 

foot. 
Like  any  other  anthill.     Born,  I  say ; 
God  sent  her  to  his  world,   commissioned 

right, 
Her  human  testimonials  fully  signed, 
Not   scant    in    soul  —  complete   in   linea- 
ments ; 
But  others  had  to  swindle  her  a  place      840 
To  wail  in  when  she  had  come.     No  place 

for  her, 
By   man's  law  !  born  an  outlaw  was   this 

babe; 
Her  first  cry  in  our  strange  and  strangling 

air. 
When  cast  in  spasms  out  by  the  shudder- 
ing womb, 
Was    wrong   against     the    social   code,  — 

forced  wrong:  — 
What  business  had  the  baby  to  cry  there  ? 

I  tell  her  story  and  grow  passionate. 
She,  Marian,  did  not  tell  it  so,  but  used 
Meek  words  that  made  no  wonder  of  her- 
self 
For   being    so    sad   a   creature.      'Mister 

Leigh  850 

Considered  truly  that  such  things   should 

change. 
They  will,  in  heaven  —  but  meantime,    on 

the  earth. 
There  's  none  can  like  a  nettle  as  a  pink. 
Except  himself.     We're  nettles,  some  of 

us, 
And  give  offence  by  the  act  of  springing 

up; 
And,  if  we    leave   the    damp  side    of  the 

wall, 
The  hoes,  of  course,  are  on  us.'      So  she 

said. 


Her  father  earned  his  life  by  random  jobs^ 
Despised  by  steadier  workmen  —  keeping 

swine 
On  commons,  picking  hops,  or  hurrying  on 
The  harvest  at  wet  seasons,  or,  at  need,  86r. 
Assisting  the  Welsh  drovers,  when  a  drove 
Of  startled  horses  plunged  into  the  mist 
Below  the  mountain-road,  and  sowed   the- 

wind 
With   wandering    neighings.     In   between. 

the  gaps 
Of  such  irregular  work  he  drank  and  slept. 
And  cursed  his    wife    because,  the   pence 

being  out, 
She  could  not  buy  more  drink.     At  which 

she  turned 
(The  worm),  and  beat  her  baby  in  revenge- 
For  her  own  broken  heart.     There  's  not  a 

crime  870. 

But   takes   its   proper  change    out  still  in 

crime 
If  once  rung  on  the  counter  of  this  world: 
Let  sinners  look  to  it. 

Yet  the  outcast  child^ 
For  whom  the  very  mother's  face  forwent 
The   mother's  special  patience,  lived  and 

grew; 
Learnt  early  to  cry  low,  and  walk  alone,, 
With  that  pathetic  vacillating  roll 
Of  the  infant  body  on  the  uncertain  feet 
(The  earth  being  felt  unstable  ground  so 

soon), 
At  which  'most  women's  arms  unclose  at 

once  880. 

With  irrepressive  instinct.     Thus,  at  three, 
This  poor  weaned  kid  would  run  off  from 

the  fold. 
This  babe  would  steal  off  from  the  mother's 

chair, 
And,  creeping  through  the  golden  walls  of 

gorse, 
Would  find  some  keyhole  toward  the  se- 
crecy 
Of  Heaven's  high  blue,  and,  nestling  down, 

peer  out  — 
Oh,    not    to    catch    the    angels    at    their 

games,  — 
She  had  never  heard  of   angels,  —  but   to 

gaze 
She  knew  not  why,  to  see  she  knew  not 

what, 
A-hungering    outward    from    the    barren 

earth  890 

For  something  like  a  joy.     She  liked,  she 

said. 


THIRD    BOOK 


301 


To  dazzle  black  her  sight  against  the  sky, 
For    then,    it    seemed,    some    grand    blind 

Love  came  down, 
And  groped  her  out,  and  clasped  her  with 

a  kiss; 
She  learnt  God  that  way,  and  was  beat  for 

it 
Whenever    she    went    home,  —  yet    came 

again, 
As  surely  as  the  trapped  hare,  getting  free. 
Returns   to   his   form.     This  grand    blind 

Love,  she  said. 
This  skyey  father  and  mother  both  in  one. 
Instructed  her  and  civilized  her  more      900 
Than  even  Sunday-school  did  afterward. 
To  which  a  lady  sent  her  to  learn  books 
And  sit  upon  a  long  bench  in  a  row 
With  other  children.     Well,  she  laughed 

sometimes 
To   see   them   laugh  and  laugh  and  maul 

their  texts; 
But  ofter  she  was  sorrowful  with  noise 
And  wondered  if  their  mothers  beat  them 

hard 
That   ever   they  should   laugh  so.     There 

was  one 
She   loved   indeed,  —  Hose    Bell,    a   seven 

years'  child. 
So  pretty  and  clever,  who  read  syllables  910 
When  Marian    was    at   letters;  she   would 

laugh 
At   nothing  —  hold   your    finger    up,    she 

laughed. 
Then  shook  her  curls  down  over  eyes  and 

mouth 
To  hide  her  make-mirth  from  the  school- 
master: 
And  Hose's  pelting  glee,  as  frank  as  rain 
On    cherry-blossoms,    brightened    Marian 

too, 
To  see  another  merry  whom  she  loved. 
She   whispered  once  (the  children  side  by 

side, 
With  mutual  arms   entwined  about   their 

necks) 

*  Your  mother  lets  you  laugh  so  ?  '     '  Ay,' 

said  Rose,  920 

*  She    lets    me.      She    was    dug   into   the 

ground 
Six   years  since,  I   being   but   a   yearling 

wean. 
Such   mothers   let   us    play   and   lose   our 

time, 
And  never  scold  nor  beat  us  !     Don't  you 

wish 


You  had  one  like  that  ?  '     There,  Marian 

breaking  ofiP 
Looked  suddenly  in  my  face.     '  Poor  Rose,' 

said  she, 
'  I  heard  her  laugh  last  night  in  Oxford 

Street. 
I  'd  pour  out  half  my  blood  to  stop  that 

laugh. 
Poor  Rose,  poor  Rose  ! '  said  Marian. 

She  resumed. 
It  tried  her,  when  she  had  learnt  at  Sun- 
day-school 930 
What  God  was,  what  He  wanted  from  us 

all, 
And   how   in   choosing   sin   we  vexed  the 

Christ, 
To  go  straight  home  and  hear  her  father 

pull 
The  Name  down  on  us  from  the  thunder- 
shelf, 
Then  drink  away  his  soul  into  the  dark 
From  seeing  judgment.     Father,    mother, 

home, 
Were   God   and    heaven  reversed   to  her: 

the  more 
She  knew  of  Right,  the  more  she  guessed 

their  wrong: 
Her  price  paid  down  for  knowledge,  was  to 

know 
The  vileness  of  her  kindred:  through  her 

heart,  940 

Her  filial  and  tormented  heart,  henceforth. 
They  struck  their  blows  at  virtue.    Oh,  't  is 

hard 
To  learn  you  have  a  father  up  in  heaven 
By  a  gathering  certain  sense  of  being,  on 

earth, 
Still  worse  than  orphaned:  't  is  too  heavy 

a  grief. 
The  having  to  thank  God  for  such  a  joy  ! 

And  so  passed  Marian's  life  from  year  to 
year. 

Her  parents  took  her  with  them  when  they 
tramped. 

Dodged  lanes  and  heaths,  frequented  towns 
and  fairs,  949 

And  once  went  farther  and  saw  Manches- 
ter, 

And  once  the  sea,  that  blue  end  of  the 
world, 

That  fair  scroll-finis  of  a  wicked  book,  — 

And  twice  a  prison,  —  back  at  intervals, 

Returning  to  the  hills.  Hills  draw  like 
heaven, 


302 


AURORA   LEIGH 


Aud  stronger  sometimes,  holding  out  their 

hands 
To  pull  you  from  the  vile  flats  up  to  them. 
And   though   perhaps   these  strollers   still 

strolled  back, 
As  sheep  do,  simply  that  they  knew  the  way. 
They  certainly  felt  bettered  unaware 
Emerging  from  the  social  smut  of  towns  960 
To  wipe  their  feet  clean  on  the  mountain 

turf. 
In  which   long   wanderings,  Marian  lived 

and  learned, 
Endured  and  learned.     The  people  on  the 

roads 
Would  stop  and  ask  her  why  her  eyes  out- 
grew 
Her  cheeks,  and  if  she  meant  to  lodge  the 

birds 
In  all  that  hair;  and  then  they  lifted  her, 
The  miller  in  his  cart,  a  mile  or  twain. 
The  butcher's  boy  on  horseback.    Often  too 
The  pedler  stopped,  aud  tapped  her  on  the 

head  969 

With  absolute  forefinger,  brown  and  ringed, 
And  asked  if  peradventure  she  could  read, 
And  when    she   answered  '  ay,'  would  toss 

her  down 
Some  stray  odd  volume  from  his  heavy  pack, 
A    Thomson's     Seasons,    mulcted    of    the 

Spring, 
Or  half  a  play  of  Shakespeare's  torn  across 
(She  had  to  guess  the  bottom  of  a  page 
By  just  the  top  sometimes,  —  as  difficult, 
As,    sitting    on    the    moon,   to    guess    the 

earth  !), 
Or  else  a  sheaf  of  leaves  (for  that  small 

Ruth's 
Small  gleanings)  torn  out  from  the  heart  of 

books,  980 

From  Churchyard  Elegies  and  Edens  Lost, 
From  Burns,  and  Bunyan,  Selkirk,  and  Tom 

Jones,  — 
'T  was  somewhat  hard  to  keep  the  things 

distinct. 
And  oft  the  jangling  influence  jarred  the 

child 
Like  looking  at  a  sunset  fidl  of  grace 
Through    a    pothouse   window    while    the 

drunken  oaths 
Went  on  behind  her.     But  she  weeded  out 
Her   book-leaves,  threw   away  the    leaves 

that  hurt 
(First  tore  them  small,  that  none  should 

find  a  word),  989 

And  made  a  nosegay  of  the  sweet  and  good 


To  fold  within  her  breast,  and  pore  upon 
At  broken  moments  of  the  noontide  glare, 
When  leave  was  given  her  to  untie    her 

cloak 
And  rest  upon  the  dusty  highway's  bank 
From  the  road's  dust:  or  oft,  the  journey 

done. 
Some    city  friend  would  lead   her  by  the 

hand 
To  hear  a  lecture  at  an  institute. 
And  thus  she  had  grown,  this  Marian  Erie 

of  ours,  998 

To  no  book-learning, — she  was  ignorant 
Of  authors,  —  not  in  earshot  of  the  things 
Outspoken  o'er  the  heads  of  common  men 
By  men  who  are  uncommon,  —  but  within 
The  cadenced  hum  of  such,  and  capable 
Of  catching  from  the  fringes  of  the  wing 
Some  fragmentary  phrases,  here  and  there, 
Of  that  fine  music,  —  which,  being  carried 

in 
To  her  soul,  had  reproduced  itself  afresh 
In  finer  motions  of  the  lips  and  lids. 

She  said,  in  speaking  of  it,  *  If  a  flower  1009 
Were  thrown  you  out  of  heaven  at  intervals, 
You  'd  soon  attain   to  a  trick   of  looking 

up,— 
And  so  with   her.'     She   counted  me  her 

years. 
Till  /  felt  old ;  and  then  she  counted  me 
Her  sorrowful  pleasures,  till  I  felt  ashamed. 
She  told  me  she  was  fortunate  and  calm 
On  such  and  such  a  season,  sat  and  sewed. 
With   no    one    to   break   up    her    crystal 

thoughts. 
While    rhymes   from    lovely   poems    span 

around 
Their  ringing  circles  of  ecstatic  tune,     loig 
Beneath  the  moistened  finger  of  the  Hour. 
Her  parents  called   her  a   strange,  sickly 

child. 
Not  good  for  much,  and  given  to  sulk  and 

stare, 
And  smile  into  the  hedges  and  the  clouds. 
And    tremble  if   one  shook  her  from  her 

fit 
By  any  blow,  or  word  even.    Out-door  jobs 
Went   ill  with   her,    and    household   quiet 

work 
She  was  not  born  to.     Had  they  kept  the 

north, 
They  might  have  had  their  pennyworth  out 

of  her. 
Like  other  parents,  in  the  factories 


THIRD    BOOK 


303 


(Your  children  work  for  you,  not  you  for 
them,  1030 

Or  else  they  better  had  been  choked  with 
air 

The  first  breath  drawn) ;  but,  in  this  tramp- 
ing life, 

Was  nothinof  to  be  done  with  such  a  child 

But  tramp  and  tramp.  And  yet  she  knitted 
hose 

Not  ill,  and  was  not  dull  at  needlework; 

And  all  the  country  people  gave  her  pence 

For  darning  stockings  past  their  natural 
age. 

And  patching  petticoats  from  old  to  new. 

And  other  light  work  done  for  thrifty  wives. 

One  day,  said  Marian  —  the  sun  shone  that 

day  —  1040 

Her  mother  had  been  badly  beat,  and  felt 
The  bruises  sore  about  her  wretched  soul 
(That    must    have    been):    she    came    in 

suddenly, 
And  snatching^  in  a  sort  of  breathless  rage 
Her  daughter's  headgear  comb,  let  down 

the  hair 
Upon  her  like  a  sudden  waterfall, 
Then  drew  her  drenched  and  passive  by  the 

arm 
Outside  the  hut  they  lived  in.     When  the 

child 
Could  clear  her  blinded  face  from  all  that 

stream 
Of   tresses  .  .  .  there,  a  man   stood,  with 

beast's  eyes  1050 

That   seemed  as  they  would  swallow  her 

alive 
Complete    in    body    and    spirit,    hair   and 

all,— 
And   burning:   stertorous  breath  that  hurt 

her  cheek. 
He   breathed   so   near.     The  mother  held 

her  tight, 
Saying  hard   between   her    teeth  —  '  Why 

wench,  why  wench. 
The    squire      speaks    to    you    now  —  the 

squire  's  too  good : 
He  means  to  set  you  up  and  comfort  us. 
Be  mannerly  at  least.'     The  child  turned 

round 
And  looked  up  piteous  in  the  mother's  face 
(Be  sure  that  mother's  death-bed  will  not 

want  1060 

Another  devil  to  damn,  than  such  a  look), 
^  Oh,  mother  ! '  then,  with  desperate  glance 

to  heaven, 


'  God,    free    me    from    my    mother,'  she 

shrieked  out, 
'  These  mothers    are  too  dreadful.'     And, 

with  force 
As  passionate  as  fear,  she  tore  her  hands. 
Like  lilies  from  the  rocks,  from  hers  and 

his. 
And  sprang  down,  bounded  headlong  down 

the  steep,  , 

Away  from  both  —  away,  if  possible, 
As  far  as  God,  —  away  !     They  yelled  at 

her. 
As  famished  hounds  at  a  hare.     She  heard 

them  yell;  1070 

She  felt  her  name  hiss  after  her  from  the 

hills. 
Like  shot  from  guns.     On,  on.     And  now 

she  had  cast 
The  voices  off  with  the  uplands.    On.  Mad 

fear 
Was  runninof'   in  her  feet  and  killing  the 

ground ; 
The    white   roads   curled   as   if  she  burnt 

them  up. 
The  green  fields  melted,  wayside  trees  fell 

back 
To  make  room  for   her.     Then  her  head 

grew  vexed; 
Trees,  fields,  turned  on  her  and  ran  after 

her; 
She  heard  the  quick  pants  of  the  hills  be- 
hind, 
Their  keen  air  pricked  her  neck:  she  had 

lost  her  feet,  1080 

Coidd  ruia  no  more,  yet  somehow  went  as 

fast. 
The  horizon  red  'twixt  steeples  in  the  east 
So  sucked  her  forward,  forward,  while  her 

heart 
Kept  swelling,  swelling,  till  it  swelled  so 

big 
It  seemed  to  fill  her  body,  —  when  it  burst 
And    overflowed    the  world  and  swamped 

the  light; 
'  And  now  I   am  dead  and  safe,'  thought 

Marian  Erie  — 
She  had  dropped,  she  had  fainted. 

As  the  sense  returned. 
The   night  had   passed  —  not   life's  night. 

She  was  'ware 
Of     heavy     tumbling    motions,    creaking 

wheels,  1090 

The  driver  shouting  to  the  lazy  team 
That    swung   their   rankling   bells  against 

her  brain, 


304 


AURORA   LEIGH 


While,  through  the  wagon's  coverture  and 
chmks, 

The  cruel  yellow  mornmg  pecked  at  her 

Alive  or  dead  upon  the  straw  inside,  — 

At  which  her  soul  ached  back  into  the 
dark 

And  prayed,  *  no  more  of  that.'  A  wag- 
oner 

Had  found  her  in  a  ditch  beneath  the 
moon, 

As  white  as  moonshine  save  for  the  oozing 
blood. 

At  first  he  thought  her  dead;  but  when  he 
had  wiped  uoo 

The  mouth  and  heard  it  sigh,  he  raised  her 

up, 
And  laid  her  in  his  wagon  in  the  straw, 
And  so  conveyed  her  to  the  distant  town 
To  which  his  business  called  himself,  and 

left 
That  heap  of  misery  at  the  hospital. 

She   stirred;  —  the  place  seemed  new  and 

strange  as  death. 
The  white  strait  bed,  with  others  strait  and 

white. 
Like  graves  dug  side  by  side  at  measured 

lengths, 
And  quiet  people  walking  in  and  out 
With  wonderful  low  voices  and  soft  steps 
And  apparitional  equal  care  for  each,     mi 
Astonished  her  with  order,  silence,  law. 
And  when  a  gentle  hand  held  out  a  cup. 
She  took  it,  as  you  do  at  sacrament, 
Half  awed,  half  melted,  —  not  being  used, 

indeed, 
To    so    much  love  as  makes   the  form  of 

love 
And  courtesy  of  manners.     Delicate  drinks 
And  rare  white  bread,  to  which  some  dying 

eyes 
Were  turned  in  observation.     O  my  God, 
How  sick   we  must  be,  ere  we  make  men 

just  !  II20 

I  think  it  frets  the  saints  in  heaven  to  see 
How  many  desolate  creatures  on  the  earth 
Have  learnt  the  simple  dues  of  fellowship 
And  social  comfort,  in  a  hospital. 
As   Marian    did.     She  lay  there,  stunned, 

half  tranced. 
And  wished,  at  intervals  of  growing  sense. 
She  might  be  sicker  yet,  if  sickness  made 
The  world    so  marvellous  kind,  the  air  so 

hushed. 
And  all  her  wake-time  quiet  as  a  sleep ; 


For  now  she    understood  (as  such  things 

were)  1130 

How  sickness  ended  very  oft  in  heaven 
Among  the  unspoken  raptures:  — yet  more 

sick. 
And    surelier   happy.     Then  she    dropped 

her  lids, 
And,  folding  up  her  hands   as  flowers  at 

night. 
Would  lose  no  moment  of  the  blessed  time. 

She  lay  and  seethed  in  fever  many  weeks. 
But  youth   was    strong  and  overcame  the 

test; 
Revolted  soul  and  flesh  were  reconciled 
And  fetched  back  to  the  necessary  day 
And  daylight    duties.      She    could    creep 

about  1 140 

The  long  bare  rooms,  and  stare  out  drearily 
From  any  narrow  window  on  the  street. 
Till    some  one  who  had   nursed  her   as  a 

friend 
Said  coldly  to  her,  as  an  enemy, 
'  She  had  leave  to  go  next  week,  being  well 

enough ' 
(While  only  her  heart  ached).     'Go  next 

week,'  thought  she: 
'  Next  week  !    how  would   it    be  with  her 

next  week. 
Let  out  into  that  terrible  street  alone 
Among  the  pushing  people,  .  .  .  to  go  .  .  . 

where  ?  ' 

One  day,  the  last  before  the  dreaded  last. 
Among  the  convalescents,  like  herself     1151 
Prepared   to    go    next    morning,    she    sat 

dumb, 
And     heard    half     absently    the     women 

talk,  — 
How    one    was    famished    for   her    baby's 

cheeks, 
'  The    little    wretch   would   know   her  !    a 

year  old 
And   lively,    like   his   father ! '  —  one    was 

keen 
To   get  to  work,  and  fill  some  clamorous 

mouths ; 
And  one  was  tender  for  her  dear  good  man 
Who  had    missed  her    sorely, — and    one, 

querulous  .   .   . 
*  Would  pay  backbiting  neighbors  who  had 

dared  1 160 

To  talk  about  her  as  already  dead,'  — 
And  one  was  proud  .  .  .  '  and  if  her  sweet- 
heart Luke 


THIRD    BOOK 


305 


Had  left  her  for  a  ruddier  face  than  hers 
(The    gossip  would  be  seen  through  at  a 

glance), 
Sweet  riddance  of  such  sweethearts  —  let 

him  hang  ! 
'T  were  good  to  have  been  sick  for  such  an 

end.' 

And  while  they  talked,  and  Marian  felt  the 
worse 

For  having  missed  the  worst  of  all  their 
wrongs, 

A  visitor  was  ushered  through  the  wards 

And  paused  among  the  talkers.  '  When 
he  looked  1170 

It  was  as  if  he  spoke,  and  when  he  spoke 

He  sang  perhaps,'  said  Marian;  '  could  she 
tell? 

She  only  knew '  (so  much  she  had  chron- 
icled, 

As  seraphs  might  the  making  of  the  sun) 

*  That  he  who  came  and  spake  was  Rom- 

ney  Leigh, 
And  then  and  there  she  saw  and  heard  him 
first.' 

And  when  it  was  her  turn  to  have  the  face 
Upon  her,  all  those  buzzing  pallid  lips 
Being   satisfied   with   comfort  —  when   he 

changed 
To  Marian,  saying  *  And  you  ?  you  're  go- 
ing, where  ?  '  —  1 180 
She,  moveless  as  a  worm  beneath  a  stone 
Which    some    one's    stumbling    foot    has 

spurned  aside, 
Writhed    suddenly,   astonished    with    the 

light. 
And,  breaking  into  sobs,  cried  'Where  I 

go? 
None  asked  me  till  this  moment.     Can  I 

say 
Where   /  go,  —  when   it  has  not   seemed 

worth  while 
To  God  Himself,  who  thinks  of  every  one, 
To  think  of  me  and  fix  where  I  shall  go  ?  ' 

*  So   young,'   he    gently    asked  her,    *  you 

have  lost 
Your  father  and  your  mother  ?  ' 

'Both,'  she  said, 

*  Both  lost  !  my  father  was  burnt  up  with 

gin  1 19 1 

Or  ever  I  sucked  milk,  and  so  is  lost. 
My  mother  sold  me  to  a  man  last  month, 
And  so  my  mother 's  lost,  't  is  manifest. 


And   I,  who  fled  from  her   for  miles  and 

miles, 
As  if  I  had  caught  sight  of  the  fire  of  hell 
Through    some    wild    gap    (she    was    my 

mother,  sir). 
It  seems  I  shall  be  lost  too,  presently, 
And  so  we  end,  all  three  of  us.' 

'  Poor  child,' 
He  said,  —  with  such  a  pity  in  his  voice. 
It  soothed  her  more  than  her  own  tears,  — 

'  poor  child  !  1201 

'Tis  simple  that  betrayal  by  mother's  love 
Should  bring  despair  of  God's  too.     Yet  be 

taught, 
He  's  better  to  us  than  many  mothers  are. 
And  children  cannot  wander  beyond  reach 
Of  the  sweep  of  his  white  raiment.    Touch 

and  hold  ! 
And  if   you  weep  still,  weep  where  John 

was  laid 
While  Jesus  loved  him. 

'  She  could  say  the  words,' 
She  told  me,  '  exactly  as  he  uttered  them 
A  year  back,  since  in  any  doubt  or  dark 
They  came  out  like  the  stars,  and  shone  on 

her  1211 

With  just  their  comfort.     Common  words, 

perhaps ; 
The   ministers    in   church    might   say    the 

same ; 
But  he,  he  made  the  church  with  what  he 

spoke,  — 
The  difference  was  the  miracle,'  said  she. 

Then  catching  up  her  smile  to  ravishment. 
She  added  quickly,  '  I  repeat  his  words, 
But  not  his  tones:  can  any  one  repeat 
The  music  of  an  organ,  out  of  church  ? 
And  when  he  said  "  poor  child,"  I  shut  my 

eyes  1220 

To   feel    how    tenderly   his    voice    broke 

through. 
As  the  ointment-box  broke  on  the  Holy  feet 
To  let  out  the  rich  medicative  nard.' 

She  told  me  how  he  had  raised  and  rescued 
her 

With  reverent  pity,  as,  in  touching  grief. 

He  touched  the  wounds  of  Christ,  —  and 
made  her  feel 

More  self-respecting.  Hope  he  called  be- 
lief 

In  God,  —  work,  worship,  —  therefore  let 


us  pray 


t 


And  thus,  to  snatch  her  soul  from  atheism. 


3o6 


AURORA   LEIGH 


And  keep  it  stainless  from    her  mother's 
face,  1230 

He  sent  her  to  a  famous  sempstress-house 
Far  off  in  Loudon,  there  to  work  and  hope. 

With  that  they  parted.     She  kept  sight  of 

Heaven, 
But  not  of  Romney.     He  had  good  to  do 
To  others:  through  the  days  and  through 

the  nights 
She   sewed   and    sewed   and   sewed.     She 

drooped  sometimes. 
And   wondered,   while    along    the    tawny 

light 
She  struck  the  new  thread  into  her  needle's 

eye, 
How  people  without  mothers  on  the  hills 
Could  choose  the  town  to  live  in  !  —  then 

she  drew  1240 

The  stitch,  and  mused  how  Romney's  face 

would  look. 
And  if  't  were  likely  he  'd  remember  hers 
When   they   two  had   their  meeting  after 

death. 


FOURTH   BOOK 

They  met  still  sooner.     'T  was  a  year  from 

thence 
That   Lucy  Gresham,  the  sick  sempstress 

girl, 
Who  sewed  by  Marian's  chair  so  still  and 

quick. 
And  leant  her  head  upon  its  back  to  cough 
More  freely,    when,  the    mistress   turning 

round, 
The  others  took  occasion  to  laugh  out. 
Gave   up   at   last.      Among    the    workers, 

spoke 
A  bold  girl  with  black  eyebrows  and  red 

lips: 
'  You  know  the  news  ?     Who  's  dying,  do 

you  think  ? 
Our  Lucy  Gresham.     I  expected  it  10 

As  little  as  Nell  Hart's  wedding.     Blush 

not,  Nell, 
Thy    curls    be    red    enough    without    thy 

cheeks. 
And,  some  day,  there  '11  be  found  a  man  to 

dote 
On  red    curls.  —  Lucy  Gresham    swooned 

last  night, 
Dropped  sudden  in  the  street  while  going 

home: 


And  now  the  baker  says,  who  took  her  up 

And  laid  her  by  her  grandmother  in  bed. 

He  '11  give  her  a  week  to  die  in.     Pass  the 
silk. 

Let 's  hope  he  gave  her  a  loaf  too,  within 
reach, 

For   otherwise    they  '11  starve  before  they 
die,  20 

That    funny    pair    of    bedfellows  !     Miss 
Bell, 

I'll  thank  you  for  the  scissors.     The  old 
crone 

Is  paralytic  —  that 's  the  reason  why 

Our   Lucy's  thread  went  faster    than  her 
breath, 

Which  went  too  quick,  we  all  know.  Marian 
Erie, 

Why,  Marian  Erie,  you  're  not  the  fool  to 
cry? 

Your   tears  spoil    Lady    Waldemar's  new 
dress, 

You  piece  of  pity  ! ' 

Marian  rose  up  straight. 

And,  breaking  through  the  talk  and  through 
the  work. 

Went   outward,  in   the  face  of   their  sur- 
prise, 30 

To  Lucy's  home,  to  nurse  her  back  to  life 

Or  down  to  death.     She  knew,  by  such  an 
act. 

All   place  and   grace  were   forfeit   in   the 
house. 

Whose  mistress  would  supply  the  missing 
hand 

With  necessary,  not  inhuman  haste. 

And   take  no   blame.     But   pity,  too,  had 
dues: 

She  could  not  leave  a  solitary  soul 

To  founder  in  the  dark,  while  she  sat  still 

And  lavished  stitches  on  a  lady's  hem 

As  if  no  other  work  were  paramount.        40 

'  Why,  God,'  thought  Marian,  '  has  a  miss- 
ing hand 

This  moment;    Lucy   wants  a  drink,   per- 
haps. 

Let    others    miss    me !    never    miss    me, 
God  ! ' 

So  Marian  sat  by  Lucy's  bed,  content 
With    duty,  and    was    strong,  for   recom- 
pense, 
To  hold  the  lamp  of  human  love  arm-high, 
To  catch  the  death-strained  eyes  and  com- 
fort them. 
Until  the  angels,  on  the  luminous  side 


FOURTH    BOOK 


307 


Of  death,  had  got  theirs  ready.     And  she 

said, 
If  Lucy  thanked  her  sometimes,  called  her 

kind,  50 

It  touched  her  strangely.     *  Marian   Erie 

called  kind  ! 
What,  Marian,  beaten  and  sold,  who  could 

not  die  ! 
'T  is  verily  good  fortune  to  be  kind. 
Ah  you,'  she  said,  '  who  are  born  to  such  a 

grace, 
Be  sorry  for  the  unlicensed  class,  the  poor, 
Reduced   to  think   the  best  good   fortune 

means 
That    others,  simply,   should    be    kind   to 

them.' 

From  sleep  to  sleep  when  Lucy  had  slid 

away 
So  gently,  like  the  light  upon  a  hill. 
Of  which  none  names  the  moment  that  it 

goes  60 

Though  all  see  when  't  is  gone,  —  a  man 

came  in 
And  stood  beside  the  bed.     The  old  idiot 

wretch 
Screamed  feebly,  like  a  baby  overlain, 
'Sir,  sir,  you   won't   mistake  me   for    the 

corpse  ? 
Don't  look  at  me,  sir  !  never  bury  me  ! 
Although  I  lie  here,  I  'm  alive  as  you, 
Except   my   legs   and   arms,  —  I   eat    and 

drink 
And  understand,  —  (that  you  're  the  gentle- 
man 
Who  fits  the  funerals  up.  Heaven  speed  you, 

sir), 
And  certainly  I  should  be  livelier  still      70 
If  Lucy  here  .  .  .  sir,  Lucy  is  the  corpse  .  .  . 
Had    worked   more   properly   to   buy    me 

wine; 
But  Lucy,  sir,  was  always  slow  at  work, 
I  shan't  lose  much  by  Lucy.     Marian  Erie, 
Speak   up   and    show   the    gentleman    the 

corpse.' 

And  then  a  voice  said  '  Marian  Erie.'    She 

rose; 
It  was  the  hour  for  angels  —  there,  stood 

hers  ! 
She    scarcely    marvelled    to   see    Romney 

Leigh. 
As  light  November  snows  to  empty  nests, 
As  grass  to  graves,  as  moss  to  mildewed 

stones,  80 


As  July  suns  to  ruins,  through  the  rents. 
As  ministering  spirits  to  mourners,  through 

a  loss. 
As  Heaven  itself  to  men,  through  pangs  of 

death, 
He    came    uncalled    wherever   grief    had 

come. 
'  And    so,'    said    Marian    Erie,    '  we    met 

anew,' 
And  added  softly,  'so,  we  shall  not  part.* 

He  was  not  angry  that  she  had  left  the 

house 
Wherein  he  placed  her.     Well  —  she  had 

feared  it  might 
Have  vexed  him.     Also,  when  he  found  her 

set 
On  keeping,  though  the  dead  was  out  of 

sight,  90 

That  half-dead,  half-alive  body  left  behind 
With  cankerous  heart  and  flesh,  which  took 

your  best 
And  cursed  you  for  the  little  good  it  did 
(Could  any  leave  the  bed-rid  wretch  alone, 
So  joyless  she  was  thankless  even  to  God, 
Much  more  to  you  ?),  he  did  not  say  't  was 

well, 
Yet   Marian  thought  he   did  not   take  it 

ill,  - 
Since    day   by   day   he    came,   and   every 

day 
She  felt  within  his  utterance  and  his  eyes 
A  closer,  tenderer  presence  of  the  soul,    100 
Until  at  last  he  said  'We  shall  not  part.' 

On  that  same  day  was  Marian's  work  com- 
plete: 
She   had   smoothed   the   empty   bed,   and 

swept  the  floor 
Of  coffin  sawdust,  set  the  chairs  anew 
The  dead  had  ended  gossip  in,  and  stood 
In  that  poor  room  so  cold  and  orderly, 
The  door-key  in  her  hand,  prepared  to  go 
As  they  had,  howbeit  not  their  way.     He 
spoke. 

'  Dear  Marian,  of  one  clay  God  made  us 

all. 
And  though  men  push  and  poke  and  pad- 
dle in't  no 
(As  children  play  at  fashioning  dirt-pies) 
And  call  their  fancies  by  the  name  of  facts, 
Assuming  difference,  lordship,  privilege. 
When  all 's  plain  dirt,  —  they  come  back 
to  it  at  last. 


3o8 


AURORA   LEIGH 


The  first   grave-digger   proves    it    with  a 

spade, 
And  pats  all  even.     Need  we  wait  for  this, 
You,  Marian,  and  I,  Romney  ?  ' 

She,  at  that. 
Looked  blindly   in  his   face,  as  when  one 

looks 
Through  driving  autumn-rains  to  find  the 

sky,  1 19 

He  went  on  speaking. 

'  Marian,  I  being  born 
What  men  call  noble,  and  you,  issued  from 
The  noble  people,  —  though  the  tyrannous 

sword, 
Which  pierced  Christ's  heart,  has  cleft  the 

world  in  twain 
'Twixt   class   and  class,  opposing   rich  to 

poor, 
Shall  we  keep  parted  ?     Not  so.     Let  us 

lean 
And  strain  together  rather,  each  to  each, 
Compress    the    red    lips   of    this    gaping 

wound 
As  far   as  two  souls   can,  —  ay,  lean   and 

league, 
I  from  my  superabundance,  —  from  your 

want 
You,  —  joining    in    a   protest    'gainst   the 

wrong  130 

On  both  sides.' 

All  the  rest,  he  held  her  hand 
In  speaking,  which  confused  the  sense  of 

much. 
Her  heart   against  his  words  beat  out  so 

thick, 
They   might  as    well   be    written   on   the 

dust 
Where   some    poor    bird,   escaping    from 

hawk's  beak. 
Has   dropped    and   beats    its    shuddering 

wings,  —  the  lines 
Are  rubbed  so,  —  yet  't  was  something  like 

to  this, 
— '  That   they    two,  standing   at   the  two 

extremes 
Of  social  classes,  had  received  one  seal. 
Been  dedicate   and   drawn   beyond   them- 
selves 140 
To  mercy  and  ministration,  —  he,  indeed. 
Through  what  he  knew,  and  she,  through 

what  she  felt. 
He,  by  man's  conscience,  she,  by  woman's 

heart. 
Relinquishing  their  several  'vantage  posts 
Of  wealthy  ease  and  honorable  toil. 


To  work   with  God    at   love.     And   since 

God  willed 
That  putting  out  his  hand  to  touch  this  ark 
He   found   a   woman's    hand   there,    he  'd 

accept 
The  sign  too,  hold  the  tender  fingers  fast. 
And    say    "  My    fellow  -  worker,    be    my 
wife  !  "  '  X50 

She    told    the    tale    with    simple,    rustic 

turns,  — 
Strong   leaps  of   meaning   in   her   sudden 

eyes 
That  took  the  gaps  of  any  imperfect  phrase 
Of  the  unschooled  speaker:  I  have  rather 

writ 
The  thing  I  understood  so,  than  the  thing 
I  heard  so.     And  I  cannot  render  right 
Her  quick  gesticulation,  wild  yet  soft. 
Self-startled  from  the  habitual  mood   she 

used. 
Half  sad,  half  languid,  —  like  dumb  crea- 
tures (now 
A   rustling   bird,   and    now   a   wandering 
deer,  160 

Or  squirrel  'gainst  the  oak-gloom  flashing 

His  sidelong   burnished  head,  in  just  her 

way 
Of  savage  spontaneity),  that  stir 
Abruptly  the  green  silence  of  the  woods. 
And  make   it   stranger,  holier,  more  pro- 
found; 
As  Nature's  general  heart  confessed  itself 
Of  life,  and  then  fell  backward  on  repose. 

I  kissed  the  lips  that  ended.  — '  So  indeed 
He  loves  you,  Marian  ?  ' 

'  Loves  me  ! '     She  looked  up 
With  a  child's  wonder  when  you  ask  him 

first  170 

Who  made  the  sun  —  a  puzzled  blush,  that 

grew. 
Then  broke  off  in  a  rapid  radiant  smile 
Of   sure   solution.     *  Loves   me  !    he  loves 

all,  — 
And  me,  of  course.     He  had  not  asked  me 

else 
To  work  with  him  for  ever  and  be  his  wife.' 

Her   words   reproved   me.     This   perhaps 

was  love  — 
To  have  its  hands  too  full  of  gifts  to  give, 
For  putting  out  a  hand  to  take  a  gift; 
To  love  so  much,  the  perfect  round  of  love 


FOURTH    BOOK 


309 


Includes,     in      strict     conclusion,      being 
loved;  iSo 

As  Eden-dew  went  up  and  fell  again, 
Enough  for  watering  Eden.     Obviously 
She  had  not  thought  about  his  love  at  all: 
The  cataracts  of  her  soul  had  poured  them- 
selves, 
And  risen  self-crowned  in  rainbow:  would 

she  ask 
Who  crowned  her  ?  —  it  sufficed  that  she 

was  crowned. 
With  women  of  my  class  't  is  otherwise : 
We  haggle  for   the  small   change  of  our 

•      gold, 
And  so  much  love  accord  for  so  much  love, 
R.ialto-prices.    Are  we  therefore  wrong  ?  190 
If  marriage  be  a  contract,  look  to  it  then, 
Contracting  parties  should  be  equal,  just; 
But  if,  a  simple  fealty  on  one  side, 
A  mere  religion,  —  right  to  give,  is  all, 
And  certain  brides  of  Europe  duly  ask 
To  mount  the  pile  as  Indian  widows  do. 
The  spices  of   their  tender   youth  heaped 

up, 
The  jewels  of  their  gracious  virtues  worn, 
More  gems,  more  glory,  —  to  consume  en- 
tire 
For     a    living    husband:     as    the    man's 
alive,  200 

Not  dead,  the  woman's  duty  by  so  much 
Advanced  in  England  beyond  Hindostan. 

I  sat   there  nmsing,  till   she  touched  my 

hand 
With  hers,  as  softly  as  a  strange  white  bird 
She  feared  to  startle    in  touching.     'You 

are  kind, 
But  are  you,  peradventure,  vexed  at  heart 
Because  your  cousin  takes  me  for  a  wife  ? 
I  know  I  am  not  worthy  —  nay,  in  truth, 
I  'm  glad  on  't,  since,  for  that,  he  chooses 

me. 
He  likes  the  poor  things  of  the  world  the 

best;  210 

I  would  not  therefore,  if  I  could,  be  rich. 
It  pleasures  him  to  stoop  for  buttercups; 
I  would  not  be  a  rose  upon  the  wall 
A  queen  might    stop  at,  near  the  palace- 
door. 
To  say  to  a  courtier,  "  Pluck  that  rose  for 

me. 
It 's  prettier  than   the  rest."     O  Romney 

Leigh  ! 
I  'd  rather  far  be  trodden  by  his  foot, 
Than  lie  in  a  great  queen's  bosom.' 


Out  of  breath. 
She  paused. 

'  Sweet  Marian,  do  you  disavow 
The  roses  with  that  face  ?  ' 

She  dropped  her  head 
As  if  the  wind  had  caught  that  flower  of 

her  221 

And  bent  it  in  the  garden,  —  then  looked 

up 
With  grave  assurance.     *Well,  you  think 

me  bold  ! 
But   so  we  all  are,  when  we  're  praying 

God. 
And  if  I  'm  bold  —  yet,  lady,  credit  me. 
That,    since    I   know   myself   for   what   I 

am, 
Much  fitter  for  his  handmaid  than  his  wife, 
I  '11  prove  the  handmaid  and  the  wife  at 

once. 
Serve  tenderly,  and  love  obediently. 
And   be   a   worthier   mate,  perhaps,  than 

some  230 

Who  are  wooed  in  silk  among  their  learned 

books; 
While  I  shall  set  myself  to  read  his  eyes. 
Till   such   grow  plainer   to   me   than   the 

French 
To  wisest  ladies.     Do  you  think  I  '11  miss 
A  letter,  in  the  spelling  of  his  mind  ? 
No  more  than  they  do  when  they  sit  and 

write 
Their  flying  words  with  flickering  wild-fowl 

tails. 
Nor  ever  pause  to  ask  how  many  i's. 
Should  that  be  y  or  i,  they  know  't  so  well: 
I  've  seen  them  writing,  when  I  brought  a 

dress  240 

And  waited,  —  floating  out  their  soft  white 

haiids 
On    shining    paper.     But     they  're    hard, 

sometimes. 
For  all   those    hands  !  — we  've    used   out 

many  nights, 
And  worn  the  yellow  daylight  into  shreds 
Which  flapped  and  shivered  down  our  ach- 
ing eyes 
Till  night  appeared  more  tolerable,  just 
That  pretty  ladies  might  look  beautiful. 
Who  said  at  last  ..."  You  're  lazy  in  that 

house ! 
You  're  slow  in  sending  home  the  work,  — 

I  count 
I  've  waited  near  an  hour  for  't."     Pardon 


me. 


250 


I  do  not  blame  them,  madam,  nor  misprize; 


3IO 


AURORA   LEIGH 


They  are   fair  and  gracious;    ay,  but   not 

like  vou, 
Since  none  but  you  has  Mister  Leigh's  own 

blood, 
Both  noble  and  gentle,  —  and,  without   it 

.  .  .  well. 
They   are   fair,  I   said;   so   fair,  it  scarce 

seems  strange 
That,  flashing  out  in  any  looking-glass 
The  wonder  of  their  glorious  brows  and 

breasts, 
They  're  charmed  so,  they  forget  to  look 

behind 
And  mark  how  pale  we  've  grown,  we  piti- 
ful 
Remainders  of  the  world.    And  so  perhaps 
If   Mister  Leigh  had  chosen  a  wife  from 

these,  261 

She  might,  although  he  's  better  than  her 

best 
And   dearly  she    would    know   it,  steal   a 

thought 
Which  should  be  all  his,  an  eye-glance  from 

his  face. 
To  plunge  into  the  mirror  opposite 
In  search  of  her  own  beauty's  pearl ;  while 

/  .  .  . 
Ah,  dearest  lady,  serge  will  outweigh  silk 
For  winter-wear  when  bodies  feel  a-cold. 
And   I  '11   be  a  true  wife  to    your    cousin 

Leigh.'  269 

Before  I  answered  he  was  there  himself. 
I  think  he  had  been  standing  in  the  room 
And  listened  probably  to  half  her  talk. 
Arrested,  turned    to   stone,  —  as  white    as 

stone. 
Will   tender   sayings    make   men   look   so 

white  ? 
He  loves  her  then  profoundly. 

'  You  are  here, 
Aurora  ?      Here     I     meet     you  ! '  —  We 

clasped  hands. 

*  Even  so,  dear  Romney.     Lady  Waldemar 
Has  sent  me  in  haste  to  find  a  cousin  of 

mine 
Who  shall  be.' 

*  Lady  Waldemar  is  good.' 

'  Here 's   one,    at    least,    who   is   good,'   I 
sighed,  and  touched  280 

Poor  Marian's  happy  head,  as  doglike  she. 
Most  passionately  patient,  waited  on, 
A-tremble  for  her  turn  of  greeting  words; 


'  I  've    sat  a  full   hour  with  your   Marian 

Erie, 
And  learnt  the  thing  by  heart,  —  and  from 

my  heart 
Am  therefore  competent  to  give  you  thanks 
For  such  a  cousin.' 

'  You  accept  at  last 
A  gift  from  me,  Aurora,  without  scorn  ? 
At   last  I  please  you  ? '  —  How  his  voice 

was  changed. 

'  You  cannot  please  a  woman  against  her 

will,  290 

And  once  you  vexed  me.     Shall  we  speak 

of  that  ? 
We  '11  say,  then,  you  were  noble  in  it  all. 
And   I  not   ignorant  —  let   it  pass  !     And 

now 
You  please  me,  Romney,  when  you  please 

yourself; 
So,  please  you,  be  fanatical  in  love. 
And    I  'm   well    pleased.     Ah,  cousin  !    at 

the  old  hall. 
Among  the  gallery  portraits  of  our  Leighs, 
We  shall  not  find  a  sweeter  signory 
Than  this  pure  forehead's.' 

Not  a  word  he  said. 
How  arrogant   men   are  !  —  Even   philan- 
thropists, 300 
Who  try  to  take  a  wife  up  in  the  way 
They  put  down  a  subscription-cheque,  —  if 

once 
She  turns  and  says  '  I  will  not  tax  you  so, 
Most  charitable  sir,'  —  feel  ill  at  ease 
As  though  she  had  wronged  them  somehow. 

I  suppose 
We  women  should  remember  what  we  are, 
And  not  throw  back  an  obolus  inscribed 
With  Caesar's  image,  lightly.     I  resumed. 

'  It  strikes  me,  some  of  those  sublime  Van- 
dykes 

Were  not  too  proud  to  make  good  saints  in 
heaven;  310 

And  if  so,  then  they  're  not  too  proud  to-day. 

To  bow  down  (now  the  ruffs  are  off  their 
necks) 

And  own  this  good,  true,  noble  Marian, 
yours. 

And  mine,  I  '11  say  !  —  For  poets  (bear  the 
word). 

Half-poets  even,  are  still  whole  demo- 
crats, — 

Oh,  not  that  we  're  disloyal  to  the  high, 

But  loyal  to  the  low,  and  cognizant 


FOURTH    BOOK 


3ii 


Of  the  less  scrutable  majesties.     For  me, 
I  comprehend  your  choice,  I  justify  319 

Your  right  in  choosing.' 

'  No,  no,  no,'  he  sighed, 
With  a  sort  of  melancholy,  impatient  scorn. 
As  some  grown  man  who  never  had  a  child 
Puts  by  some  child  who  plays  at  being  a 

man, 
'  You  did  not,  do  not,  cannot  comprehend 
My  choice,  my  ends,  my  motives,  nor  my- 
self: 
Xo  matter  now;  we  '11  let  it  pass,  you  say. 
I  thank  you  for  your  generous  cousinship 
Which   helps    this   present;    I    accept   for 

her 
Your  favorable  thoughts.    We  're  fallen  on 

days, 
We  two  who  are  not  poets,  when  to  wed  330 
Requires  less   mutual  love    than  common 

love 
For  two  together  to  bear  out  at  once 
Upon  the  loveless  many.     Work  in  pairs. 
In  galley-couplings  or  in  marriage-rings. 
The  difference  lies  in   the  honor,  not  the 

work,  — 
And  such  we  're  bound  to,  I  and  she.     But 

love 
(You  poets  are  benighted  in  this  age. 
The  hour 's  too  late  for  catching  even  moths. 
You  've  gnats  instead),  love  !  — love's  fool- 
paradise 
Is  out  of  date,  like  Adam's.    Set  a  swan  340 
To  swim  the  Trenton,  rather  than  true  love 
To  float  its  fabulous  plumage  safely  down 
The  cataracts  of  this  loud  transition-time,  — 
Whose  roar  for  ever  henceforth  in  my  ears 
Must  keep  me  deaf  to  music' 

There,  I  turned 
And  kissed  poor  Marian,  out  of  discon- 
tent. 
The  man  had  baffled,  chafed  me,  till  I  flung 
For  refuge  to  the  woman,  —  as,  sometimes, 
Impatient   of  some  crowded  room's  close 

smell, 
You  throw  a  window  open  and  lean  out  350 
To  breathe  a  long  breath  in  the  dewy  night 
And   cool   your   angry  forehead.     She,  at 

least, 
Was  not  built   up  as  walls  are,  brick   by 

brick, 
Each  fancy  squared,  each  feeling  ranged  by 

line, 
The  very  heat  of  burning  youth  applied 
To  indurate  form  and   system  !  excellent 
bricks, 


A  well-built  wall,  —  which  stops  you  on  the 

road, 
And  into  which  you  cannot  see  an  inch 
Although  you  beat  your  head  against  it  — 

pshaw  ! 

'  Adieu,'  I  said,  '  for  this  time,  cousins 
both,  360 

And,  cousin  Romney,  pardon  me  the  word, 
Be  happy  !  —  oh,  in  some  esoteric  sense 
Of  course  !  —  I  mean  no  harm  in  wishing 

well. 
Adieu,  my  Marian:  —  may  she  come  to  me, 
Dear  Romney,  and  be  married  from   my 

house  ? 
It  is  not  part  of  your  philosophy 
To  keep  your  bird  upon  the  blackthorn  ?  ' 

He  answered,  '  but  it  is.     I  take  my  wife 
Directly  from  the  people,  —  and  she  comes, 
As  Austria's  daughter  to  imperial  France, 
Betwixt  her  eagles,  blinking  not  her  race,  371 
From  Margaret's  Court  at  garret-height,  to 

meet 
And  wed  me  at  Saint  James's,  nor  put  off 
Her  gown  of  serge  for  that.    The  things  we 

do, 
We    do :  we  '11   wear   no   mask,   as   if   we 

blushed.' 
'  Dear  Romney,  you  're  the  poet,'  I  replied, 
But  felt  my  smile  too  mournful   for  my 

word. 
And    turned    and    went.     Ay,    masks,    I 

thought,  —  beware 
Of  tragic  masks  we  tie  before  the  glass. 
Uplifted  on  the  cothurn  half  a  yard         380 
Above  the  natural  stature  !  we  would  play 
Heroic  parts  to  ourselves,  —  and  end,  per- 
haps. 
As  impotently  as  Athenian  wives 
Who  shrieked  in  fits  at  the  Eumenides. 

His  foot  pursued  me  down  the  stair.  '  At 
least 

You  '11  suffer  me  to  walk  with  you  beyond 

These  hideous  streets,  these  graves,  where 
men  alive 

Packed  close  with  earthworms,  burr  uncon- 
sciously 

About  the  plague  that  slew  them;  let  me 

The  very  women  pelt  their  souls  in  mud  390 
At  any  woman  who  walks  here  alone. 
How  came  you  here  alone  ?  —  you  are  ig- 
norant.' 


312 


AURORA   LEIGH 


We  bad  a  strange  and  melancholy  walk: 

The  night  came  drizzling  downward  in 
dark  rain, 

And,  as  we  walked,  the  color  of  the  time, 

The  act,  the  presence,  my  hand  upon  his 
arm, 

His  voice  in  my  ear,  and  mine  to  my  own 
sense. 

Appeared  unnatural.  We  talked  modern 
books 

And  daily  papers,  Spanish  marriage- 
schemes 

And  English  climate  —  was 't  so  cold  last 
year  ?  400 

And  will  the  wind  change  by  to-morrow 
morn  ? 

Can  Guizot  stand  ?  is  London  full  ?  is 
trade 

Competitive  ?  has  Dickens  turned  his 
hinge 

A-pinch  upon  the  fingers  of  the  great  ? 

And  are  potatoes  to  grow  mythical 

Like  moly  ?  will  the  apple  die  out  too  ? 

Which  way  is  the  wind  to-night  ?  south- 
east ?  due  east  ? 

We    talked  on   fast,  while  every  common 

word 
Seemed  tangled  with  the  thunder  at  one 

end, 
And  ready  to  pull  down  upon  our  heads  410 
A  terror  out  of  sight.     And  yet  to  pause 
Were   surelier  mortal:    we   tore    greedily 

All   silence,    all   the    innocent    breathing- 
points. 
As  if,  like  pale  conspirators  in  haste. 
We  tore  up  papers  where  our  signatures 
Imperilled  us  to  an  ugly  shame  or  death. 

I  cannot  tell  you  why  it  was.     'T  is  plain 

We  had  not  loved  nor  hated:  wherefore 
dread 

To  spill  gunpowder  on  ground  safe  from 
fire? 

Perhaps  we  had  lived  too  closely,  to  di- 
verge 420 

So  absolutely:  leave  two  clocks,  they  say, 

Wound  up  to  different  hours,  upon  one 
shelf, 

And  slowly,  through  the  interior  wheels  of 
each, 

The  blind  mechanic  motion  sets  itself 

A-throb  to  feel  out  for  the  mutual  time. 

It  was  not  so  with  us,  indeed:  while  he 


Struck   midnight,  I   kept   striking   six   at 

dawn ; 
While  he  marked  judgment,  I,  redemption- 
day; 
And  such  exception  to  a  general  law 
Imperious  upon  inert  matter  even,  430 

Might  make  us,  each  to  either,  insecure, 
A  beckoning  mystery  or  a  troubling  fear. 

I  mind  me,  when  we  parted  at  the  door, 
How   strange    his    good-night   sounded,  — 

like  good-night 
Beside  a  deathbed,  where  the  morrow's  sun 
Is   sure   to  come  too  late  for  more  good- 
days: 
And  all  that  night  I  thought  ...  *  Good- 
night,' said  he. 

And   so,  a  month   passed.     Let  me  set  it 

down 
At  once,  —  I  have  been  wrong,  I  have  been 

wrong. 
We  are  wrong  always  when  we  think  too 

much  440 

Of    what    we    think    or    are:    albeit   our 

thoughts 
Be  verily  bitter  as  self-sacrifice. 
We  're   no   less   selfish.     If   we   sleep   on 

rocks 
Or  roses,  sleeping  past  the  hour  of  noon 
We  're    lazy.     This    I   write    against   my- 
self. 
I  had  done  a  duty  in  the  visit  paid 
To  Marian,  and  was  ready  otherwise 
To  give    the  witness  of  my  presence  and 

name 
Whenever   she  should  marry.  —  Which,  I 

thought, 
Sufficed.    I  even  had  cast  into  the  scale  450 
An    overweight    of     justice     toward    the 

match ; 
The  Lady  Waldemar  had  missed  her  tool, 
Had   broken   it  in  the  lock   as  being  too 

straight 
For  a  crooked  purpose,  while  poor  Marian 

Erie 
Missed  nothing  in  my  accents  or  my  acts: 
I  had  not  been  ungenerous  on  the  whole, 
Nor  yet  untender;  so,  enough.     I  felt 
Tired,   overworked:    this  marriage    some- 
what jarred; 
Or,  if  it  did  not,  all  the  bridal  noise, 
The  pricking  of  the  map  of  life  with  pins, 
In  schemes  of    .  .  .  'Here  we'll  go,' and 

'  There  we  '11  stay,'  461 


FOURTH   BOOK 


3^3 


And   '  Everywhere    we  '11   prosper    in   our 
love,' 

Was  scarce  my  business :  let  them  order  it ; 

Who   else  should   care  ?     I  threw  myself 
aside, 

As  one  who  had  done  her  work  and  shuts 
her  eyes 

To  rest  the  better. 

I,  who  should  have  known, 

Forereckoued  mischief  !     Where  we  disa- 
vow 

Being   keeper   to    our    brother,   we  're  his 
Cain, 

I  might  have  held  that  poor  child  to  my 
heart 

A   little  longer  !    't  would   have   hurt   me 
much  470 

To  have  hastened  by  its  beats  the  marriage 
day, 

And  kept  her  safe  meantime  from  tamper- 
ing hands 

Or,  peradventure,  traps.     What  drew  me 
back 

From  telling  Romney  plainly  the  designs 

Of  Lady  Waldemar,  as  spoken  out 

To    me  .   .  .  me  ?     Had  I  any  right,  ay, 
right. 

With  womanly  compassion  and  reserve. 

To     break     the    fall     of   woman's    impu- 
dence ?  — 

To  stand  by  calmly,  knowing  what  I  knew. 

And  hear  him  call  her  good  ? 

Distrust  that  word. 

'  There  is  none  good  save  God,'  said  Jesus 
Christ.  481 

If  He  once,  in  the  first  creation-week. 

Called   creatures   good,  —  for  ever,  after- 
ward. 

The  Devil  only  has  done  it,  and  his  heirs. 

The  knaves  who  win  so,  and  the  fools  who 
lose; 

The    word  's    grown    dangerous.      In   the 
middle  age, 

I    think    they  called  malignant   fays  and 
imps 

Good  people.     A  good  neighbor,  even  in 
this. 

Is  fatal    sometimes,  —  cuts  your   morning 
up 

To  mincemeat  of  the  very  smallest  talk,  490 

Then  helps  to  sugar  her  bohea  at  night 

With  your  reputation.    I  have  known  good 
wives, 

As  chaste,  or  nearly  so,  as  Potiphar's; 


And  good,  good  mothers,  who  would  use  a 
child 

To  better  an  intrigue ;  good  friends,  be- 
side 

(Very  good),  who  hung  succinctly  round 
your  neck 

And  sucked  your  breath,  as  cats  are  fabled 
to  do 

By  sleeping  infants.  And  we  all  have 
known 

Good  critics  who  have  stamped  out  poet's 
hope. 

Good  statesmen  who  pulled  ruin  on  the 
state,  500 

Good  patriots  who  for  a  theory  risked  a 
cause. 

Good  kings  who  disembowelled  for  a  tax. 

Good  popes  who  brought  all  good  to  jeop- 
ardy. 

Good  Christians  who  sat  still  in  easy  chairs 

And  damned  the  general  world  for  stand- 
ing up.  — 

Now  may  the  good  God  pardon  all  good 
men  ! 

How  bitterly  I  speak,  —  how  certainly 
The  innocent  white  milk  in  us  is  turned. 
By  much  persistent  shining  of  the  sun  !  — 
Shake      up     the      sweetest     in     us     long 

enough,  510 

With   men,  it   drops    to   foolish  curd,  too 

sour 
To   feed    the    most   untender   of    Christ's 

lambs. 

I  should  have  thought,  —  a  woman  of  the 

world 
Like  her  I  'm  meaning,  centre  to  herself. 
Who  has  wheeled  on  her  own  pivot  half  a 

life 
In  isolated  self-love  and  self-will. 
As  a  windmill  seen  at  distance  radiating 
Its  delicate  white  vans  against  the  sky. 
So  soft  and  soundless,  simply  beautiful. 
Seen   nearer,  —  what   a   roar   and   tear   it 

makes,  520 

How  it  grinds  and  bruises  !  —  if  she  loves 

at  last. 
Her  love  's  a  readjustment  of  self-love. 
No  more,  —  a  need  felt  of  another's  use 
To  her  one  advantage,  as  the  mill  wants 

grain. 
The  fire  wants  fuel,  the  very  wolf  wants 

prey, 
And  none  of  these  is  more  unscrupulous 


314 


AURORA   LEIGH 


Than  such   a   charming  woman  when  she 

loves. 
She  '11  not  be  thwarted  by  an  obstacle 
So  trifling  as  .  .  •  her  soul  is,  .  .  .  much  less 


yours 


f 


Is     God     a     consideration  ?  —  she     loves 
you,  530 

Not  God;  she  will  not  flinch  for  Him  in- 
deed: 
She  did  not  for  the  Marchioness  of  Perth, 
When  wanting  tickets  for  the  fancy  ball. 
She  loves  you,  sir,  with  passion,  to  lunacy; 
She    loves   you    like   her   diamonds    .    .    . 
almost. 

Well, 
A   month  passed  so,  and   then  the  notice 

came, 
On  such  a  day  the  marriage  at  the  church. 
I  was  not  backward. 

Half  Saint  Giles  in  frieze 
Was  bidden  to  meet  Saint  James  in  cloth 

of  gold, 
And,  after  contract  at  the  altar,  pass       540 
To   eat   a   marriage-feast   on    Hampstead 

Heath. 
Of  course  the  people  came  in  uncompelled. 
Lame,  blind,  and  worse  —  sick,  sorrowful, 

and  worse  — 
The  humors  of  the  peccant  social  wound 
All   pressed  out,  poured  down  upon  Pim- 

lico. 
Exasperating  the  unaccustomed  air 
With  a  hideous  interfusion.      You  'd  sup- 
pose 
A  finished  generation,  dead  of  plague, 
Swept  outward  from  their  graves  into  the 

sun. 
The  moil  of   death    upon  them.     What  a 
sight  !  550 

A  holiday  of  miserable  men 
Is  sadder  than  a  burial-day  of  kings. 
They  clogged  the  streets,  they  oozed  into 

the  church 
In  a  dark  slow  stream,  like  blood.     To  see 

that  sight, 
The  noble  ladies  stood  up  in  their  pews, 
Some  pale  for  fear,  a  few  as  red  for  hate, 
Some  simply  curious,  some  just  insolent. 
And  some  in  wondering   scorn,  — '  What 

next  ?  what  next  ?  ' 
These  crushed  their  delicate  rose-lips  from 

the  smile 
That  misbecame  them  in  a  holy  place,      560 
With   broidered  hems  of  perfumed  hand- 
kerchiefs; 


Those  passed  the  salts,  with  confidence  of 

eyes 
And  simultaneous  shiver  of  moir^  silk: 
While  all  the  aisles,  alive  and  black  with 

heads. 
Crawled  slowly  toward  the  altar  from  the 

street. 
As  bruised  snakes  crawl  and  hiss  out  of  a 

hole 
With  shuddering  involution,  swaying  slow 
From  right  to  left,  and  then  from  left  to 

right, 
In  pants  and  pauses.     What  an  ugly  crest 
Of  faces  rose  upon  you  everywhere  570 

From    that    crammed   mass  !    you  did  not 

usually 
See  faces  like  them  in  the  open  day: 
They  hide  in  cellars,  not  to  make  you  mad 
As   Romney    Leigh   is.  —  Faces  !  —  O    my 

God, 
We  call  those,  faces  ?  men's  and  women's 

...  ay, 
And    children's ;  —  babies,   hanging   like  a 

rag 
Forgotten  on  their  mother's  neck,  —  poor 

mouths, 
Wiped  clean  of  mother's  milk  by  mother's 

blow 
Before  they  are  taught  her  cursing.   Faces  ? 

.  .  .  phew, 
We  '11    call    them   vices,    festering  to  de- 
spairs, 580 
Or  sorrows,  petrifying  to  vices:  not 
A  finger-touch  of  God  left  whole  on  them, 
All  ruined,    lost  —  the    countenance    worn 

out 
As  the  garment,  the  will  dissolute  as  the 

act, 
The    passions    loose  and   draggling  in  the 

dirt 
To  trip  a  foot  up  at  the  first  free  step  ! 
Those,  faces  ?  't  was  as  if  you  had  stirred 

up  hell 
To    heave    its    lowest    dreg-fiends    upper- 
most 
In  fiery  swirls  of  slime,  —  such  strangled 

fronts. 
Such  obdurate  jaws  were  thrown  up  con- 
stantly 590 
To  twit  you  with  your  race,  corrupt  your 

blood. 
And    grind   to    devilish    colors    all    your 

dreams 
Henceforth,  —  though,  haply,  you    should 

drop  asleep 


FOURTH   BOOK 


315 


Sy  clink  of  silver  waters,  in  a  muse 
On  Raffael's  mild  Madonna  of  the  Bird. 

I  've  waked  and  slept  through  many  nights 

and  days 
Since  then,  —  but  still  that  day  will  catch 

my  breath 
Like  a  nightmare.     There  are  fatal  days, 

indeed,  598 

In  which  the  fibrous  years  have  taken  root 
So  deeply,  that  they  quiver  to  their  tops 
Whene'er  you  stir  the  dust  of  such  a  day. 

My  cousin  met  me  with  his  eyes  and  hand, 
And    then,    with    just   a    word,  .  .  .  that 

'  Marian  Erie 
Was   coming   with   her    bridesmaids  pre- 
sently,' 
Made  haste  to  place  me  by  the  altar-stair 
Where  he  and  other  noble  gentlemen 
And  high-born  ladies  waited  for  the  bride. 

We  waited.     It  was  early:  there  was  time 
For   greeting   and   the   morning's  compli- 
ment, 609 
And  gradually  a  ripple  of  women's  talk 
Arose  and  fell  and  tossed  about  a  spray 
Of  English  5's,  soft  as  a  silent  hush. 
And,  notwithstanding,  quite  as  audible 
As  louder  phrases  thrown  out  by  the  men. 
— '  Yes,   really,    if   we    need   to   wait    in 

church, 
We    need   to   talk    there.'  —  *  She  ?    't  is 

Lady  Ayr, 
In  blue  —  not  purple  !  that 's  the  dowager.' 
—  '  She    looks   as  young '  —  '  She  flirts  as 

young,  you  mean. 
Why,  if  you  had  seen  her  upon  Thursday 

night. 
You  'd  call  Miss  Norris  modest.'  —  '  You 


agam 


\ 


620 


I  waltzed  with  you  three  hours  back.     Up 

at  six, 
Up    still   at   ten;    scarce    time    to   change 

one's  shoes: 
I  feel  as  white  and  sulky  as  a  ghost. 
So  pray  don't  speak  to  me.  Lord  Belcher.' 

—  'No, 
I  '11  look  at  you  instead,  and  it 's  enough 
While  you  have  that  face.'     'In   church, 

my  lord  !  fie,  fie  ! ' 
—  *  Adair,  you  stayed  for  the  Division  ?  '  — 

'Lost 
By  one.'     '  The    devil   it   is  !      I  'm  sorry 

for  't. 


And  if  I  had  not  promised  Mistress 
Grove '  .  .  . 

'  You  might  have  kept  your  word  to  Liver- 
pool.' 630 

—  'Constituents  must  remember,  after  all, 
We  're  mortal.'  —  '  We  remind  them  of  it.' 

— '  Hark, 
The    bride    comes  !    here  she  comes,  in  a 
stream  of  milk  ! ' 

—  'There?     Dear,   you   are   asleep    still; 

don't  you  know 
The  five  Miss  Granvilles  ?  always  dressed 

in  white 
To  show  they  're  ready  to  be  married.'  — 

'  Lower  ! 
The    aunt    is    at    your    elbow. '  — '  Lady 

Maud, 
Did  Lady  Waldemar  tell  you  she  had  seen 
This    girl    of    Leigh's  ?  '       '  No,  —  wait  ! 

't  was  Mistress  Brookes,  639 

Who  told  me  Lady  Waldemar  told  her  — 
No,  't  was  n't  Mistress  Brookes.'  —  '  She  's 

pretty  ? '  —  '  Who  ? 
Mistress  Brookes  ?     Lady  Waldemar  ?  '  — 

'  How  hot  ! 
Pray  is 't   the    law    to-day  we  're    not   to 

breathe  ? 
You  're  treading  on  my  shawl  —  I   thank 

you,  sir.' 
— '  They   say  the    bride 's   a    mere    child, 

who  can't  read. 
But  knows  the  things  she  shouldn't,  with 

wide-awake 
Great  eyes.     I  'd  go  through  fire  to  look 

at  her.' 
— '  You  do,  I  think.'  —  '  And  Lady  Walde- 
mar 
(You    see    her;    sitting   close  to    Romney 

Leigh.  649 

How  beautiful  she  looks,  a  little  flushed !) 
Has  taken  up  the  girl,  and  methodized 
Leigh's  folly.     Should  I  have  come  here, 

you  suppose, 
Except  she  'd  asked  me  ?  '  —  '  She  'd  have 

served  him  more 
By  marrying  him  herself.' 

'  Ah  —  there  she  comes. 
The  bride,  at  last  ! ' 

'  Indeed,  no.     Past  eleven. 
She  puts  off  her  patched  petticoat  to-day 
And  puts  on  Mayfair  manners,  so  begins 
By  setting  us   to  wait.'  —  *  Yes,  yes,  this 

Leigh 
Was  always  odd;  it 's  in  the  blood,  I  think; 
His  father's  uncle's  cousin's  second  son  660 


3i6 


AURORA   LEIGH 


Was,   was  .  .  .  you   understand    me;  and 
for  him, 

He  's    stark,  —  has    turned    quite   lunatic 
upon 

This   modern  question  of   the  poor  —  the 
poor. 

An  excellent  subject  when  you  're  moder- 
ate; 

You  've  seen  Prince  Albert's  model  lodging- 
house  ? 

Does  honor  to  his  Royal  Highness.    Good  ! 

But  would  he  stop  his  carriage  in  Cheap- 
side 

To  shake  a  common  fellow  by  the  fist 

Whose  name  was  .  .  .  Shakespeare  ?   No. 
We  draw  a  line, 

And  if  we  stand  not  by  our  order,  we      670 

In  England,  we  fall  headlong.     Here 's  a 
sight,— 

A  hideous  sight,  a  most  indecent  sight ! 

My  wife  would  come,  sir,  or  I  had  kept  her 
back. 

By  heaven,  sir,  when  poor  Damiens'  trunk 
and  limbs 

Were  torn  by  horses,  women  of  the  court 

Stood  by  and  stared,  exactly  as  to-day 

On  this  dismembering  of  society. 

With  pretty,  troubled  faces.' 

*  Now,  at  last. 

She  comes  now.' 

*  Where  ?  who  sees  ?  you  push  me,  sir. 

Beyond  the  point  of  what  is  mannerly.    680 

You  're   standing,  madam,  on   my  second 
flounce. 

I  do  beseech  you  .  .  .  ' 

'  No  —  it 's  not  the  bride. 

Half-past  eleven.     How  late.     The  bride- 
groom, mark. 

Gets  anxious  and  goes  out.' 

'  And  as  I  said, 

These  Leighs  !  our  best  blood  running  in 
the  rut  ! 

It 's  something  awful.     We  had  pardoned 
him 

A  simple  misalliance  got  up  aside 

For  a  pair  of  sky-blue  eyes;  the  House  of 
Lords 

Has  winked  at  such  things,  and  we  've  all 
been  young; 

But  here  's  an  intermarriage  reasoned  out, 

A  contract  (carried  boldly  to  the  light     691 

To  challenge  observation,  pioneer 

Good  acts  by  a  great  example)  'twixt  the 
extremes 

Of  martyrized  society,  —  on  the  left 


The  well-born,  on  the  right  the  merest  mob, 
To  treat  as  equals  !  —  't  is  anarchical; 
It  means  more  than  it  says;  't  is  damnable. 
Why,  sir,    we  can't  have  even  our  coffee 

good. 
Unless  we  strain  it.' 

'  Here,  Miss  Leigh  ! ' 

'  Lord  Howe, 
You  're  Romney's  friend.     What 's  all  this 

waiting  for  ?  '  700 

'  I  cannot  tell.  The  bride  has  lost  her  head 
(And  way,  perhaps  !)  to  prove  her  sympathy 
With  the  bridegroom.' 

'  What,  —  you  also,  disapprove  ! ' 

'  Oh,  I  approve  of  nothing  in  the  world,' 
He  answered,  '  not  of  you,  still  less  of  me. 
Nor  even  of  Romney,  though  he  's  worth 

us  both. 
We  're  all  gone  wrong.     The  tune  in  us  is 

lost; 
And  whistling   down   back   alleys   to   the 

moon 
Will  never  catch  it.' 

Let  me  draw  Lord  Howe. 
A  born  aristocrat,  bred  radical,  710 

And  educated  socialist,  who  still 
Goes  floating,  on  traditions  of  his  kind. 
Across  the  theoretic  flood  from  France, 
Though,  like  a  drenched  Noah  on  a  rotten 

deck. 
Scarce  safer  for  his  place  there.     He,  at 

least, 
Will  never  land  on  Ararat,  he  knows. 
To  recommence  the  world  on  the  new  plan; 
Indeed,  he  thinks,  said  world   had  better 

end. 
He  sympathizes  rather  with  the  fish 
Outside,    than   with   the    drowned    paired 

beasts  within  720 

Who  cannot  couple  again  or  multiply,  — 
And  that 's  the  sort  of  Noah  he  is.  Lord 

Howe. 
He  never  could  be  anything  complete. 
Except  a  loyal,  upright  gentleman, 
A  liberal  landlord,  graceful  diner-out. 
And  entertainer  more  than  hospitable. 
Whom  authors  dine  with  and  forget    the 

hock. 
Whatever  he  believes,  and  it  is  much, 
But  nowise  certain,  now  here  and  now  there. 
He  still  has  sympathies  beyond  his  creed  730 
Diverting  him  from  action.     In  the  House, 
No  party  counts  upon  him,  while  for  all 


FOURTH    BOOK 


317 


His  speeches  have  a  noticeable  weight. 
Men   like  his   books   too   (he  has  written 

books), 
Which,  safe  to  lie  beside  a  bishop's  chair, 
At  times  outreach  themselves  with  jets  of 

fire 
At  which  the  foremost  of  the  progressists 
May  warm  audacious  hands  in  passing  by. 
Of  stature  over-tall,  lounging  for  ease; 
Light  hair,  that  seems  to  carry  a  wind  in 

it. 
And  eyes  that,  when  they  look  on  you,  will 

lean  741 

Their  whole  weight,  half  in  indolence  and 

half 
In  wishing  you  unmitigated  good, 
Until  you  know  not  if  to  flinch  from  him 
Or  thank  him.  —  'T  is  Lord  Howe. 

'  We  're  all  gone  wrong,' 
Said  he ;    '  and  Romney,  that  dear  friend 

of  ours, 
Is  nowise  right.     There  's  one  true  thing 

on  earth. 
That 's  love  !  he  takes  it  up,  and  dresses  it, 
And  acts  a  play  with  it,  as  Hamlet  did. 
To  show  what  cruel  uncles  we  have  been,  750 
And  how  we  should  be  uneasy  in  our  minds 
While  he.  Prince  Hamlet,  weds  a  pretty 

maid 
(Who  keeps  us  too  long  waiting,  we  '11  con- 
fess) 
By  symbol,  to  instruct  us  formally 
To  fill  the  ditches  up  'twixt  class  and  class, 
And  live  together  in  phalansteries. 
What  then  ?  —  he 's  mad,  our  Hamlet !  clap 

his  play, 
And  bind  him.' 

'  Ah,  Lord  Howe,  this  spectacle 
Pulls  stronger  at  us  than  the  Dane's.     See 

there"! 
The  crammed  aisles  heave  and  strain  and 

steam  with  life.  760 

Dear  Heaven,  what  life  ! ' 

'  Why,  yes,  —  a  poet  sees; 
Which  makes  him  different  from  a  common 

man. 
I,  too,  see  somewhat,  though  I  cannot  sing; 
I  should  have  been  a  poet,  only  that 
My  mother  took  fright  at  the  ugly  world, 
And  bore  me  tongue-tied.     If  you  '11  grant 

me  now 
That  Romney  gives  us  a  fuie  actor-piece 
To  make  us  merry  on  his  marriage-morn, 
The  fable  's  worse  than  Hamlet's  I  '11  con- 
cede. 


The  terrible  people,  old  and  poor  and 
blind,  770 

Their  eyes  eat  out  with  plague  and  pov- 
erty 

From  seeing  beautiful  and  cheerful  sights, 

We  '11  liken  to  a  brutalized  King  Lear, 

Led  out,  —  by  no  means  to  clear  scores 
with  wrongs  — 

His  wrongs  are  so  far  back,  he  has  for- 
got 

(All 's  past  like  youth) ;  but  just  to  witness 
here 

A  simple  contract,  —  he,  upon  his  side, 

And  Regan  with  her  sister  Goneril 

And  all  the  dappled  courtiers  and  court- 
fools 

On  their  side.  Not  that  any  of  these  would 
say  780 

They  're  sorry,  neither.  What  is  done,  is 
done. 

And  violence  is  now  turned  privilege, 

As  cream  turns  cheese,  if  buried  long 
enough. 

What  could  such  lovely  ladies  have  to  do 

With  the  old  man  there,  in  those  ill-odor- 
ous rags, 

Except  to  keep  the  wind-side  of  him  ? 
Lear 

Is  flat  and  quiet,  as  a  decent  grave; 

He  does  not  curse  his  daughters  in  the 
least: 

Be  these  his  daughters  ?  Lear  is  thinking 
of 

His  porridge  chiefly  ...  is  it  getting  cold 

At  Hampstead  ?     will  the  ale  be  served  in 

pots  ?  791 

Poor  Lear,  poor  daughters  !  Bravo,  Rom- 
ney's  play  ! ' 

A  murmur  and  a  movement  drew  around, 
A  naked  whisper  touched  us.     Something 

wrong. 
What 's  wrong  ?     The  black  crowd,  as  an 

overstrained 
Cord,  quivered  in  vibration,  and  I  saw  .  .  . 
Was   that   his   face  I  saw  ?  .  .  .  his  .  .  . 

Romney  Leigh's  .  .   . 
Which  tossed  a  sudden  horror  like  a  sponge 
Into  all  eyes,  —  while  himself  stood  white 

upon  799 

The  topmost  altar-stair  and  tried  to  speak, 
And   failed,  and   lifted   higher  above    his 

head 
A  letter,   ...  as  a  man  who  drowns  and 

gasps. 


3i8 


AURORA   LEIGH 


'  My  brothers,  bear  with  me  !  I  am  very 
weak. 

I  meant  but  only  good.     Perhaps  I  meant 

Too  proudly,  and  God  snatched  the  circum- 
stance 

And  changed  it  therefore.  There 's  no 
marriage  —  none. 

She  leaves  me,  —  she  departs,  —  she  disap- 
pears, — 

I  lose  her.     Yet  I  never  forced  her  "  ay," 

To  have  her  "  no  "  so  cast  into  my  teeth 

In  manner  of  an  accusation,  thus.  8io 

My  friends,  you  are  dismissed.  Go,  eat 
and  drink 

According  to  the  programme,  —  and  fare- 
well ! ' 

He  ended.  There  was  silence  in  the 
church. 

We  heard  a  baby  sucking  in  its  sleep 

At  the  farthest  end  of  the  aisle.  Then 
spoke  a  man: 

'  Now,  look  to  it,  coves,  that  all  the  beef 
and  drink 

Be  not  filched  from  us  like  the  other  fun. 

For  beer 's  spilt  easier  than  a  woman 's 
lost! 

This  gentry  is  not  honest  with  the  poor; 

They  bring  us  up,  to  trick  us.'  —  *  Go  it, 
Jim,'  820 

A  woman  screamed  back,  —  '  I  'm  a  tender 
soul, 

I  never  banged  a  child  at  two  years  old 

And  drew  blood  from  him,  but  I  sobbed 
for  it 

Next  moment,  —  and  I  've  had  a  plague  of 
seven. 

I  'm  tender;  I  've  no  stomach  even  for 
beef. 

Until  I  know  about  the  girl  that 's  lost, 

That 's  killed,  mayhap.  I  did  misdoubt,  at 
first. 

The  fine  lord  meant  no  good  by  her  or  us. 

He,  maybe,  got  the  upper  hand  of  her 

By  holding  up  a  wedding-ring,  and 
then  ...  830 

A  choking  finger  on  her  throat  last  night, 

And  just  a  clever  tale  to  keep  us  still, 

As  she  is,  poor  lost  innocent.  "Disap- 
pear ! " 

Who  ever  disappears  except  a  ghost  ? 

And  who  believes  a  story  of  a  ghost  ? 

I  ask  you,  —  would  a  girl  go  off,  instead 

Of  staying  to  be  married  ?  a  fine  tale  ! 

A  wicked  man,  I  say,  a  wicked  man  ! 

For  my  part,  I  would  rather  starve  on  gin 


Than   make    my  dinner  on   his   beef   and 

beer.'  —  840. 

At  which  a  cry  rose  up  — '  We  '11  have  our 

rights. 
We  '11  have  the  girl,  the  girl  !    Your  ladies 

there 
Are   married   safely  and   smoothly   every 

day. 
And  she  shall  not  drop  through  into  a  trap 
Because    she  's   poor   and   of   the   people: 

shame  ! 
We  '11  have  no  tricks  played  off  by  gentle- 
folk; 
We  '11  see  her  righted.' 

Through  the  rage  and  roar 
I  heard  the  broken  words  which  Romney 

flung 
Among   the   turbulent    masses,   from    the 

ground 
He    held    still    with    his    masterful    pale 

face,  —  850 

As  huntsmen  throw  the  ration  to  the  pack, 
Who,  falling  on  it  headlong,  dog  on  dog 
In  heaps  of  fury,  rend  it,  swallow  it  up 
With  yelling  hound-jaws,  —  his  indignant 

words, 
His    suppliant   words,    his    most    pathetic 

words. 
Whereof  I  caught  the  meaning  here  and 

there 
By  his  gesture  .  .  .  torn  in  morsels,  yelled 

across. 
And  so  devoured.     From  end  to  end,  the 

church 
Rocked  round  us  like  the  sea  in  storm,  and 

then 
Broke   up   like   the   earth   in   earthquake. 

Men  cried  out  860 

'  Police  '  —  and  women  stood  and  shrieked 

for  God, 
Or  dropped  and  swooned;  or,  like  a  herd 

of  deer 
(For  whom  the  black  woods  suddenly  grow 

alive. 
Unleashing  their  wild  shadows  down   the 

wind 
To  hunt  the  creatures  into  corners,  back 
And  forward),  madly  fled,  or  blindly  fell, 
Trod    screeching   underneath   the   feet  of 

those 
Who  fled  and  screeched. 

The  last  sight  left  to  me 
Was  Romney's  terrible  calm  face  above 
The  tumult  !  —  the  last   sound  was  *  Pull 

him  down  !  870 


FOURTH  BOOK 


319 


Strike  —  kill   him  ! '     Stretching    my   un- 
reasoning arms, 
As  men  in  dreams,  who  vainly  interpose 
'Twixt  gods  and  their  undoing,  with  a  cry 
I  struggled  to  precipitate  myself 
Head-foremost  to  the  rescue  of  my  soul 
In   that    white    face,  .  .  .  till    some    one 

caught  me  back, 
And   so  the  world  went   out,  —  I  felt  no 
more. 

What   followed   was   told  after   by   Lord 

Howe, 
Who  bore  me  senseless  from  the  strangling 

crowd 
In  church   and  street,  and  then   returned 

alone  880 

To  see  the  tumult   quelled.     The  men  of 

law 
Had  fallen  as  thunder  on  a  roaring  fire. 
And  made  all  silent,  —  while  the  people's 

smoke 
Passed  eddying  slowly  from  the  emptied 

aisles. 

Here 's   Marian's    letter,  which   a   ragged 

child 
Brought  running,  just  as  Romney  at   the 

porch 
Looked   out  expectant  of   the  bride.     He 

sent 
The  letter  to  me  by  his  friend  Lord  Howe 
Some  two  hours  after,  folded  in  a  sheet 
On  which  his  well-known  hand  had  left  a 

word.  890 

Here  's  Marian's  letter. 

*  Noble  friend,  dear  saint. 
Be  patient  with  me.  Never  think  me  vile 
Who  might   to-morrow  morning   be  your 

wife 
But   that    I  loved   you  more  than  such  a 

name. 
Farewell,  my  Romney.     Let    me  write  it 

once,  — 
My  Romney. 

'  'T  is  so  pretty  a  coupled  word, 
I  have  no  heart  to  pluck  it  with  a  blot. 
We  say  "  my  God "  sometimes,  upon  our 

knees. 
Who  is  not  therefore  vexed:  so  bear  with 

it  .  .  . 
And  me.     I  know  I  'm  foolish,  weak,  and 

vain :  900 

Yet  most  of  all  I  'm  angry  with  myself 
For  losing  your  last  footstep  on  the  stair 


That  last  time  of  your  coming,  —  yester- 
day ! 
The  very  first  time  I  lost  step  of  yours 
(Its  sweetness  comes  the  next  to  what  you 

speak). 
But  yesterday  sobs  took  me  by  the  throat 
And  cut  me  off  from  music. 

'  Mister  Leigh, 
You  '11    set   me  down    as   wrong  in  many 

things. 
You  've  praised  me,  sir,  for  truth,  —  and 

now  you  '11  learn 
I  had  not  courage  to  be  rightly  true.        910 
I  once  began  to  tell  you  how  she  came, 
The  woman  .  .  .  and  you  stared  upon  the 

floor 
In  one  of  your  fixed  thoughts  .  .  .  which 

put  me  out 
For  that  day.     After,  some  one  spoke  of 

me, 
So  wisely,  and  of  you,  so  tenderly. 
Persuading     me     to     silence      for     your 

sake  .  .  . 
Well,  well  !  it  seems  this  moment  I  was 


wrong 


In   keeping    back   from   telling    you    the 

truth: 
There  might  be  truth  betwixt  us  two,  at 

least, 
If   nothing  else.     And  yet  't  was  danger- 
ous. 920 
Suppose  a  real  angel  came  from  heaven 
To  live  with  men   and   women  !    he  'd  go 

mad, 
If  no  considerate  hand  should  tie  a  blind 
Across  his  piercing  eyes.     'T  is  thus  with 

you: 
You   see    us   too  much  in   your   heavenly 

light; 
I  always  thought  so,  angel,  —  and  indeed 
There  's  danger  that  you  beat  yourself  to 

death 
Against  the  edges  of  this  alien  world, 
In  some  divine  and  fluttering  pity. 

'Yes, 
It    would    be    dreadful   for    a   friend   of 

yours,  930 

To  see  all  England  thrust  you  out  of  doors 
And  mock  you    from  the  windows.     You 

might  say, 
Or   think  (that 's  worse)   "  There  's   some 

one  in  the  house 
I  miss  and  love  still."     Dreadful  ! 

'  Very  kind, 
I  pray  you  mark,  was  Lady  Waldemar. 


320 


AURORA   LEIGH 


She   came   to   see   me    niue   times,  rather 

ten  — 
So  beautiful,  she  hurts  one  like  the  day 
Let  suddenly  on  sick  eyes. 

*  Most  kind  of  all. 
Your  cousin  !  —  ah,  most   like  you  !     Ere 

you  came 
She  kissed  me  mouth  to  mouth:  I  felt  her 

soul  940 

Dip  through  her  serious  lips  in  holy  fire. 
God  help  me,  but  it  made  me  arrogant; 
I    almost   told   her    that    you   would   not 

lose 
By  taking  me  to  wife :  though  ever  since 
I  've  pondered  much  a  certain  thing   she 

asked  .  .  . 
"  He  loves  you,  Marian  ?  "...  in  a  sort 

of  mild 
Derisive  sadness  ...  as  a  mother  asks 
Her   babe,  "  You  '11   touch  that   star,  you 

think  ?  " 

'  Farewell  ! 
I  know  I  never  touched  it. 

'  This  is  worst: 
Babes    grow  and  lose  the  hope  of   things 

above ;  950 

A   silver    threepence    sets    them    leaping 

high  — 
But  no  more  stars  !  mark  that. 

'  I  've  writ  all  night 
Yet   told    you    nothing.     God,  if   I   could 

die. 
And  let  this  letter  break  off  innocent 
Just  here  !     But  no  —  for  your  sake. 

'  Here  's  the  last: 
I  never  could  be  happy  as  your  wife, 
I  never  could  be  harmless  as  your  friend, 
I  never  will  look  more  into  your  face 
Till   God   says  "  Look  ! "     I   charge   you, 

seek  me  not,  959 

Nor  vex  yourself  with  lamentable  thoughts 
That  perad venture  I  have  come  to  grief; 
Be  sure  I  'm  well,  I  'm  merry,  I  'm  at  ease, 
But  such  a  long  way,  long  way,  long  way 

off, 
I  think  yoq  '11  find  me  sooner  in  my  grave, 
And  that 's  my  choice,  observe.     For  what 

remains. 
An  over-generous  friend  will  care  for  me 
And  keep  me  happy  .  .  .  happier  .  .  . 

*  There  's  a  blot  ! 
This  ink  runs  thick  ...  we  light  girls  lightly 

weep  .  .  . 
And  keep  me  happier  .  .  .  was  the  thing  to 

say, 


Than  as  your   wife  I   could  be.  —  O,  my 

star,  970 

My  saint,  my  soul !  for  surely  you  're  my 

soul. 
Through  whom  God  touched  me  !  I  am  not 

so  lost 
I  cannot  thank  you  for  the  good  you  did. 
The   tears   you  stopped,  which   fell   down 

bitterly. 
Like  these  —  the  times  you  made  me  weep 

for  joy 
At    hoping  I  should   learn   to  write  your 

notes 
And  save  the  tiring  of  your  eyes,  at  night; 
And  most  for  that  sweet  thrice  you  kissed 

my  lips 
Saying  "  Dear  Marian." 

'  'T  would  be  hard  to  read, 
This  letter,  for  a  reader  half  as  learn'd ;  980 
But  you  '11  be  sure  to  master  it  in  spite 
Of  ups  and  downs.     My  hand  shakes,  I  am 

blind ; 
I  'm  poor  at  writing  at  the  best,  —  and  yet 
I    tried    to    make    my   ^'s    the  way    you 

showed. 
Farewell.      Christ  love  you.  —  Say  "  poor 

Marian"  now.' 

Poor  Marian  !  —  wanton  Marian  !  —  was  it 

so, 
Or   so  ?     For   days,  her   touching,  foolish 

lines 
We  mused  on  with  conjectural  fantasy. 
As  if  some  riddle  of  a  summer-cloud 
On  which  one  tries  unlike  similitudes       990 
Of  now  a  spotted  Hydra-skin  cast  off, 
And  now  a  screen  of  carven  ivory 
That  shuts  the  heavens'  conventual  secrets 

up 
From  mortals  overbold.     We    sought   the 

sense: 
She  loved  him  so  perhaps  (such  words  mean 

love). 
That,  worked  on  by  some  shrewd  perfidious 

tongue 
(And  then  I  thought  of  Lady  Waldemar), 
She   left   him,   not  to  hurt  him;    or  per- 
haps 
She  loved   one    in  her  class,  —  or  did  not 

love. 
But   mused  upon  her  wild   bad  tramping 

life  1000 

Until  the  free  blood  fluttered  at  her  heart, 
And   black    bread   eaten   by  the   roadside 

hedge 


FOURTH    BOOK 


321 


Seemed  sweeter  than  being  put  to  Romney's 

school 
Of  philanthropical  self-sacrifice 
Irrevocably.  —  Girls  are  girls,  beside, 
Thought   I,  and   like   a   wedding   by  one 

rule. 
You  seldom  catch  these  birds  except  with 

chaff: 
They  feel  it  almost  an  immoral  thing 
To  go  out  and  be  married  in  broad  day, 
Unless     some     winning     special     flattery 

should  1 010 

Excuse  them  to  themselves  for  't,  .  .  .  '  No 

one  parts 
Her  hair  with  such  a  silver  line  as  you, 
One  moonbeam  from  the  forehead  to  the 

crown  !  ' 
Or   else  .  .  .  'You  bite  your  lip  in  such  a 

way 
It  spoils  me  for  the  smiling  of  the  rest,' 
And   so    on.      Then   a  worthless  gaud    or 

two 
To  keep  for  love,  —  a  ribbon  for  the  neck. 
Or  some  glass  pin,  —  they  have  their  weight 

with  girls. 
And  Romney  sought   her  many  days  and 

weeks: 
He  sifted  all  the  refuse  of  the  town,        1020 
Explored  the  trains,  inquired   among   the 

ships, 
And  felt  the  country  through  from  end  to 

end ; 
No  Marian  !  —  Though   I   hinted   what  I 

knew,  — 
A  friend  of  his  had  reasons  of  her  own 
For  throwing  back  the  match  —  he  would 

not  hear: 
The  lady  had  been  ailing  ever  since, 
The  shock  had  harmed  her.      Something  in 

his  tone 
Repressed  me;  something  in  me  shamed  my 

doubt 
To  a  sigh  repressed  too.     He  went  on  to 

say_ 
That,  putting  questions  where  his  Marian 

lodged,  1030 

He  found  she  had  received  for  visitors. 
Besides  himself  and  Lady  Waldemar 
And,    that    once,   me  —  a   dubious    woman 

dressed 
Beyond  us  both:  the  rings  upon  her  hands 
Had  dazed  the  children  when  she  threw 

them  pence; 
*  She  wore  her  bonnet  as  the  queen  might 

hers, 


To  show  the  crown,'  they  said,  —  '  a  scarlet 

crown 
Of  roses  that  had  never  been  in  bud.' 

When  Romney  told  me  that,  —  for  now  and 
then 

He  came  to  tell  me  how  the  search  ad- 
vanced, 1040 

His  voice  dropped:  I  bent  forward  for  the 
rest: 

The    woman    had    been    with   her,  it   ap- 
peared. 

At  first  from  week  to  week,  then  day  by 
day, 

And  last,  't  was  sure  .  .  . 

I  looked  upon  the  ground 

To   escape   the   anguish   of   his  eyes,  and 
asked 

As   low  as  when  you  speak  to  mourners 
new 

Of  those  they  cannot  bear  yet  to  call  dead, 

'  If  Marian  had  as  much  as  named  to  him 

A  certain  Rose,  an  early  friend  of  hers, 

A  ruined  creature.' 

'  Never.'  —  Starting  up 

He   strode    from   side   to   side   about   the 
room,  105 1 

Most    like     some    prisoned     lion    sprung 
awake. 

Who  has  felt  the  desert  sting  him  through 
his  dreams. 

'  What  was  I  to  her,  that  she  should  tell 
me  aught  ? 

A  friend  !  was  /  a  friend  ?    I  see  all  clear. 

Such  devils  would  pull  angels  out  of  hea- 
ven, 

Provided  they  could  reach  them ;  't  is  their 
pride ; 

And  that 's  the  odds  'twixt  soul  and  body 
plague  ! 

The    veriest    slave    who   drops   in   Cairo's 
street 

Cries  "  Stand  off  from  me  "  to  the  passen- 
gers; 1060 

While   these    blotched    souls  are  eager  to 
infect, 

And   blow  their   bad   breath   in  a  sister's 
face 

As  if  they  got  some  ease  by  it.' 

I  broke  through. 

*  Some  natures  catch  no  plagues.     I  've  read 
of  babes 

Found  whole  and  sleeping  by  the  spotted 
breast 

Of  one  a  full  day  dead.     I  hold  it  true. 


322 


AURORA   LEIGH 


As  I  'm  a  woman  and  know  womanhood, 
That   Marian   Erie,   however   lured   from 

place. 
Deceived  in  way,  keeps  pure  in  aim  and 

heart 
As  snow  that 's  drifted  from  the  garden- 
bank  1070 
To  the  open  road.' 

'T  was  hard  to  hear  him  laugh. 
*  The    figure  's    happy.      Well  —  a    dozen 

carts 
And  trampers  will  secure  you  presently 
A  fine  white  snow-drift.     Leave  it  there, 

your  snow: 
'T  will  pass  for  soot  ere  sunset.     Pure  in 

aim  ? 
She  's  pure  in  aim,  I  grant  you,  —  like  my- 
self, 
Who  thought  to  take  the  world  upon  my 

back 
To  carry  it  o'er  a  chasm  of  social  ill, 
And  end  by  letting  slip  through  impotence 
A  single  soul,  a  child's  weight  in  a  soul,  loSo 
Straight  down  the  pit  of  hell !  yes,  I  and 

she 
Have  reason  to  be  proud  of  our  pure  aims.' 
Then  softly,  as  the  last  repenting  drops 
Of  a  thunder-shower,  he  added,  '  The  poor 

child, 
Poor  Marian  !  't  was  a  luckless  day  for  her 
When   first    she    chanced    on   my   philan- 
thropy.' 

He  drew  a  chair  beside  me,  and  sat  down ; 
And  Ij  instinctively,  as  women  use 
Before  a  sweet  friend's  grief,  —  when,  in 

his  ear. 
They   hum    the    tune    of    comfort   though 

themselves  1090 

Most  ignorant  of  the  special  words  of  such, 
And  quiet  so  and  fortify  his  brain 
And  give  it  time  and  strength  for  feeling 

out 
To  reach  the   availing  sense  beyond   that 

sound,  — 
Went  murmuring  to  him  what,  if  written 

here. 
Would  seem  not  much,  yet   fetched   him 

better  help 
Than  peradventure  if  it  had  been  more. 

I  've  known  the  pregnant  thinkers  of  our 

time, 
And  stood  by  breathless,  hanging  on  their 

lips, 


When    some    chromatic    sequence   of   fine 
thought  1 100 

In  learned  modulation  phrased  itself 
To  an  unconjectured  harmony  of  truth: 
And    yet   I  've   been   more   moved,   more 

raised,  I  say. 
By   a    simple    word  ...  a    broken    easy 

thing 
A  three-years'  infant  might  at  need  repeat, 
A  look,  a  sigh,  a  touch  upon  the  palm, 
Which  meant  less  than  '  I  love  you,'  than 

by  all 
The  full-voiced  rhetoric  of  those  master- 
mouths. 

'  Ah,  dear  Aurora,'  he  began  at  last, 

His  pale  lips  fumbling  for  a  sort  of  smile, 

*  Your    printer's    devils    have    not    spoilt 

your  heart:  mi 

That's  well.     And  who   knows   but,  long 

years  ago 
When  you  and  I  talked,  you  were  some- 
what right 
In  being  so   peevish  with   me  ?     You,  at 

least, 
Have  ruined  no  one  through  your  dreams. 

Instead, 
You  've    helped    the    facile   youth   to   live 

youth's  day 
With  innocent  distraction,  still  perhaps 
Suggestive    of    things    better    than    your 

rhymes. 
The   little   shepherd-maiden,   eight    years 

old,  1 1 19 

I  've  seen  upon  the  mountains  of  Vaucluse, 
Asleep  i'  the  sun,  her  head  upon  her  knees, 
The  flocks  all  scattered,  —  is  more  laudable 
Than  any  sheep-dog,  trained  imperfectly. 
Who  bites  the  kids  through  too  much  zeal.' 

'  I  look 
As  if  I  had  slept,  then  ?  ' 

He  was  touched  at  once 
By  something  in  my  face.      Indeed  't  was 

sure 
That  he  and  I,  —  despite  a  year  or  two 
Of  younger  life  on  my  side,  and  on  his 
The   heaping  of   the   years'  work   on   the 

days, 
The  three-hour  speeches  from  the  member's 

seat,  1 130 

The  hot  committees  in  and  out  of  doors. 
The   pamphlets,  '  Arguments,'  '  Collective 

Views,' 
Tossed  out  as   straw  before   sick   houses, 

just 


FOURTH   BOOK 


323 


To  show  one  's  sick  and  so  be  trod  to  dirt 
And  no  more  use,  —  through  this  world's 

underground, 
The  burrowing,  groping  effort,  whence  the 

arm 
And  heart  come  torn,  —  't  was  sure  that  he 

and  I 
Were,  after  all,  unequally  fatigued; 
That  he,  in  his  developed  manhood,  stood 
A  little  sunburnt  by  the  glare  of  life,     1140 
While  I  ...  it  seemed  no  sun  had  shone 

on  me. 
So  many  seasons  I  had  missed  my  Springs. 
My  cheeks  had  pined  and   perished  from 

their  orbs, 
And  all  the  youth- blood  in  them  had  grown 

white 
As  dew  on  autumn  cyclamens:  alone 
My  eyes  and  forehead   answered  for   my 

face. 

He  said,  '  Aurora,  you  are  changed  —  are 
ill!' 

*  Not  so,  my  cousin,  —  only  not  asleep,' 
I  answered,  smiling  gently.     '  Let  it  be. 
You  scarcely  found  the  poet  of  Vaucluse 
As   drowsy   as   the   shepherds.     What   is 

art  1151 

But  life  upon  the  larger  scale,  the  higher. 
When,  graduating  up  in  a  spiral  line 
Of  still  expanding  and  ascending  gyres, 
It  pushes  toward  the  intense  significance 
Of  all  things,  hungry  for  the  Infinite  ? 
Art 's  life,  —  and  where  we  live,  we  suffer 

and  toil.' 

He   seemed   to   sift   me  with   his   painful 
eyes. 

*  You  take  it  gravely,  cousin;  you  refuse 
Your  dreamland's  right  of   common,  and 

green  rest.  1160 

You  break  the  mythic  turf  where  danced 

the  nymphs. 
With  crooked  ploughs  of  actual  life,  —  let 

in 
The  axes  to  the  legendary  woods. 
To  pay  the  poll-tax.     You  are  fallen   in- 
deed 
On  evil  days,  you  poets,  if  yourselves 
Can  praise  that  art  of  yours  no  otherwise; 
And,    if    you    cannot,  .  .  .  better   take    a 

trade 
And  be  of   use:  'twere  cheaper  for  your 
youth.' 


'  Of  use  ! '    I   softly  echoed,  '  there  's  the 

point 
We  sweep  about  for  ever  in  argument,  1170 
Like  swallows  which  the  exasperate,  dying 

year 
Sets  spinning  in   black  circles,  round  and 

round. 
Preparing  for  far  flights  o'er  unknown  seas.  • 
And  we,  where  tend  we  ? ' 

*  Where  ?  '  he  said,  and  sighed. 
'  The  whole  creation,  from  the  hour  we  are 

born, 
Perplexes  us  with  questions.     Not  a  stone 
But  cries  behind  us,  every  weary  step, 
"  Where,  where  ?  "   I  leave  stones  to  reply 

to  stones. 
Enough  for  me  and  for  my  fleshly  heart 
To  hearken  the  invocations  of  my  kind,  1180 
When  men  catch  hold  upon  my  shuddering 

nerves 
And    shriek    "  What   help  ?   what   hope  ? 

what  bread  i'  the  house, 
What  fire  i'  the  frost  ?  "     There  must  be 

some  response. 
Though    mine    fail    utterly.     This    social 

Sphinx 
Who  sits  between  the  sepulchres  and  stews. 
Makes  mock  and  mow  against  the  crystal 

heavens. 
And  bullies  God,  —  exacts  a  word  at  least 
From   each  man  standing  on  the    side  of 

God, 
However  paying  a  sphinx-price  for  it. 
We  pay  it  also  if  we  hold  our  peace,        ngo 
In  pangs  and  pity.     Let  me  speak  and  die. 
Alas,  you  '11  say  I  speak  and  kill  instead.' 
I  pressed  in  there.     '  The  best  men,  doing 

their  best. 
Know  peradventure  least  of  what  they  do: 
Men  usefullest  i'  the  world  are  simply  used; 
The  nail  that  holds  the  wood  must  pierce  it 

first. 
And  He  alone  who  wields  the  hammer  sees 
The  work  advanced  by  the  earliest  blow. 

Take  heart.' 

*  Ah,  if  I  could  have  taken  yours  ! '  he 
said, 

'  But  that 's  past  now.'  Then  rising,  —  '  I 
will  take  1200 

At  least  your  kindness  and  encouragement. 

I  thank  you.  Dear,  be  happy.  Sing  your 
songs. 

If  that 's  your  way  !  but  sometimes  slum- 
ber too. 


324 


AURORA   LEIGH 


Nor  tire  too  much  with  following,  out  of 

breath, 
The  rhymes  upon  your  mountains  of  De- 
light. 
Reflect,  if  Art  be  in  truth  the  higher  life, 
You  need  the  lower  life  to  stand  upon 
In  order  to  reach  up  unto  that  higher; 
And  none  can  stand  a-tiptoe  in  the  place 
He  cannot  stand  in  with  two  stable  feet.  12 10 
Remember    then  !  —  for  Art's   sake,  hold 
your  life.' 

We  parted  so.  I  held  him  in  respect. 
I  comprehended  what  he  was  in  heart 
And  sacrificial  greatness.  Ay,  but  he 
Supposed  me  a  thing  too  small,  to  deign  to 

know: 
He  blew  me,  plainly,  from  the  crucible 
As  some  intruding,  interrupting  fly, 
Not  worth  the  pains  of  his  analysis 
Absorbed  on  nobler  subjects.     Hurt  a  fly  ! 
He  would  not  for  the  world:  he  's  pitiful  1220 
To  flies  even.     '  Sing,'  says  he,  '  and  tease 

me  still, 
If  that 's  your  way,  poor  insect.'     That 's 


your  way 


t 


FIFTH  BOOK 

Aurora  Leigh,  be  humble.     Shall  I  hope 
To  speak  my  poems  in  mysterious  tune 
With   man  and  nature  ?  —  with  the  lava- 
lymph 
That  trickles  from  successive  galaxies 
Still   drop  by  drop   adown   the  finger   of 

God 
In  still  new  worlds  ?  —  with  summer-days 

in  this 
That  scarce  dare  breathe  they  are  so  beau- 
tiful ? 
With    spring's    delicious    trouble    in    the 

ground, 
Tormented  by  the  quickened  blood  of  roots, 
And  softly  pricked  by  golden  crocus-sheaves 
In  token  of  the  harvest-time  of  flowers  ?  n 
With  winters  and  with  autumns,  —  and  be- 
yond 
With  the  human  heart's  large  seasons,  when 

it  hopes 
And  fears,  joys,  grieves,  and  loves  ?  —  with 

all  that  strain 
Of  sexual  passion,  which  devours  the  flesh 
In  a  sacrament  of  souls  ?   with  mother's 
breasts 


Which,    round    the    new-made    creatures 

hanging  there. 
Throb  luminous  and  harmonious  like  pure 

spheres  ?  — 
With  multitudinous  life,  and  finally 
With  the  great  escapings  of  ecstatic  souls,  20 
Who,  in  a  rush  of  too  long  prisoned  flame, 
Their  radiant  faces  upward,  burn  away 
This  dark  of  the  body,  issuing  on  a  world 
Beyond   our    mortal?  —  can   1   speak   my 

verse 
So  plainly  in  tune  to  these  things  and  the 

rest 
That  men  shall  feel  it  catch  them  on  the 

quick 
As  having  the  same  warrant  over  them 
To  hold  and  move  them  if  they  will  or  no. 
Alike  imperious  as  the  primal  rhythm 
Of  that  theurgic  nature  ? —  I  must  fail,  30 
Who  fail  at  the  beginning  to  hold  and  move 
One  man,  —  and  he  my  cousin,  and  he  my 

friend. 
And  he  born  tender,  made  intelligent, 
Inclined  to  ponder  the  precipitous  sides 
Of  difficult  questions;  yet,  obtuse  to  me, 
Of  me,  incurious  !  likes  me  very  well, 
And  wishes  me  a  paradise  of  good. 
Good  looks,  good  means,  and  good  digestion, 

—  ay, 
But  otherwise  evades  me,  puts  me  off 
With  kindness,  with  a  tolerant  gentleness, — 
Too  light  a  book  for  a  grave  man's  read- 
ing !  Go,  41 
Aurora  Leigh:  be  humble. 

There  it  is. 
We  women  are  too  apt  to  look  to  one, 
Which  proves  a  certain  impotence  in  art. 
We  strain  our  natures  at  doing  something 

great. 
Far  less  because  it 's  something  great  to  do. 
Than  haply  that  we,  so,  commend  ourselves 
As  being  not  small,  and  more  appreciable 
To  some  one  friend.     We  must  have  medi- 
ators 
Betwixt   our   highest   conscience   and    the 
judge;  50 

Some  sweet  saint's  blood  must  quicken  in 

our  palms, 
Or  all  the  life  in  heaven  seems  slow  and 

cold: 
Good  only  being  perceived  as  the  end  of 

good. 
And  God  alone  pleased,  —  that 's  too  poor, 

we  think, 
And  not  enough  for  us  by  any  means. 


FIFTH    BOOK 


325 


Ay  —  Romney,  I  remember,  told  me  once 
We   miss   the    abstract  when  we  compre- 
hend. 
We  miss  it  most  when  we  aspire,  —  and  fail. 

Yet,  so,  I  will  not.  —  This  vile   woman's 

way 
Of  trailing  garments  shall  not  trip  me  up: 
I'll    have    no   traffic   with    the    personal 

thought  61 

In   Art's   pure   temple.     Must   I  work  in 

vain. 
Without  the  approbation  of  a  man  ? 
It  cannot  be;  it  shall  not.     Fame  itself. 
That  approbation  of  the  general  race, 
Presents   a   poor   end  (though  the    arrow 

speed 
Shot  straight  with  vigorous  finger  to  the 

white), 
And  the  highest  fame  was  never  reached 

except 
By  what  was  aimed  above  it.     Art  for  art. 
And  good  for  God  Himself,  the  essential 

Good  !  70 

We  '11   keep   our   aims  sublime,  our  eyes 

erect, 
Althougfh  our    woman-hands  should  shake 

and  fail; 
And  if  we  fail  .  .  .  But  must  we  ?  — 

Shall  I  fail  ? 
The    Greeks  said  grandly  in   their   tragic 

phrase, 
*  Let  no  one  be  called  happy  till  his  death.' 
To   which   I   add,  —  Let   no   one    till   his 

death 
Be  called  unhappy.     Measure  not  the  work 
Until  the  day  's  out  and  the  labor  done, 
Then  bring   your   gauges.      If   the   day's 

work  's  scant. 
Why,  call  it  scant;  affect  no  compromise; 
And,    in   that    we   have    nobly    striven    at 

least,  81 

Deal  with  us  nobly,  women  though  we  be. 
And  honor  us  with  truth  if  not  with  praise. 

My   ballads    prospered;    but   the   ballad's 

race 
Is  rapid  for  a  poet  who  bears  weights 
Of   thought   and   golden   image.     He  can 

stand 
Like  Atlas,  in  tlie  sonnet,  —  and  support 
His  own  heavens  pregnant  with  dynastic 

stars ; 
But  then  he  must  stand  still,  nor  take  a 

step. 


'The 

90 


In    that    descriptive    poem    called 

Hills,' 
The  prospects  were  too  far  and  indistinct 
'T  is   true    my   critics   said  *  A    fine  view, 

that ! ' 
The  public  scarcely  cared  to  climb  my  book 
For  even  the  finest,  and  the  public's  right; 
A  tree  's    mere    firewood,   unless   human- 
ized, — 
Which   well  the  Greeks  knew  when  they 

stirred  its  bark 
With    close-pressed   bosoms   of    subsiding 

nymphs. 
And  made  the  forest-rivers  garrulous 
With    babble   of   gods.      For   us,    we   are 

called  to  mark 
A  still  more  intimate  humanity  100 

In  this  inferior  nature,  or  ourselves 
Must  fall  like  dead  leaves  trodden  under- 
foot 
By  veritable  artists.     Earth  (shut  up 
By  Adam,  like  a  fakir  in  a  box 
Left   too  long  buried)  remained  stiff  and 

dry, 
A  mere  dumb  corpse,  till  Christ  the  Lord 

came  down, 
Unlocked  the  doors,  forced  open  the  blank 

eyes. 
And  used  his  kingly  chrism  to  straighten 

out 
The  leathery   tongue  turned  back  into  the 

throat ; 
Since  when,   she  lives,  remembers,  palpi- 
tates no 
In  every  limb,  aspires  in  every  breath, 
Embraces  infinite  relations.     Now 
We  want  no  half-gods,  Panomphaean  Joves, 
Fauns,    Naiads,  Tritons,    Oreads   and   the 

rest. 
To  take  possession  of  a  senseless  world 
To  unnatural  vampire-uses.     See  the  earth, 
The  body  of  our  body,  the  green  earth. 
Indubitably  human  like  this  flesh 
And  these  articulated  veins  through  which 
Our   heart   drives  blood.     There 's   not   a 
flower  of  spring  120 

That  dies    ere  June  but  vaunts  itself  al- 
lied 
By  issue  and  symbol,  by  significance 
And  correspondence,  to  that  spirit-world 
Outside  the  limits  of  our  space  and  time, 
Whereto  we  are  bound.     Let  poets  give  it 

voice 
With  human  meanings,  —  else    they   miss 
the  thought, 


326 


AURORA   LEIGH 


And   henceforth   step    down   lower,   stand 

confessed 
Instructed  poorly  for  interpreters, 
Thrown   out   by   an   easy   cowslip    in   the 

text. 
Even  so  my  pastoral  failed:  it  was  a  book 
Of  surface-pictures  —  pretty,  cold,  and  false 
With  literal  transcript,  —  the  worse  done, 

I  think,  132 

For    being    not    ill-done:    let   me    set   my 

mark 
Against  such  doings,  and  do  otherwise. 
This  strikes  me.  —  If  the  public  whom  we 

know 
Could    catch    me    at    such   admissions,   I 

should  pass 
For  being  right  modest.     Yet  how  proud 

we  are, 
In  daring  to  look  down  upon  ourselves  ! 

The  critics  say  that  epics  have  died  out 
With   Agamemnon    and   the   goat -nursed 
gods;  140 

I  '11  not  believe  it.     I  could  never  deem. 
As  Payne  Knight  did  (the  mythic  moun- 
taineer 
Who  travelled  higher  than  he  was  born  to 

live, 
And   showed    sometimes  the  goitre  in  his 

throat 
Discoursing  of  an  image  seen  through  fog). 
That  Homer's  heroes  measured  twelve  feet 

high. 
They   were   but   men:  —  his    Helen's   hair 

turned  gray 
Like  any  plain  Miss  Smith's  who  wears  a 

front; 
And  Hector's  infant  whimpered  at  a  plume 
As  yours  last  Friday  at  a  turkey-cock.     150 
All  actual  heroes  are  essential  men. 
And  all  men  possible  heroes:  every  age, 
Heroic  in  proportions,  double-faced. 
Looks    backward    and    before,    expects   a 

morn 
And  claims  an  epos. 

Ay,  but  every  age 
Appears  to  souls  who  live  in  't  (ask  Car- 

lyle) 
Most  unheroic.     Ours,  for  instance,  ours: 
The  thinkers  scout  it,  and  the  poets  abound 
Who  scorn  to  touch  it  with  a  finger-tip : 
A    pewter     age,  —  mixed     metal,    silver- 
washed  ;  160 
An   age  of   scum,  spooned  off   the  richer 
past, 


An  age  of  patches  for  old  gaberdines, 

An  age  of  mere  transition,  meaning  nought 

Except  that  what  succeeds  must  shame  it 

quite 
If  God  please.     That  's  wrong  thinking,  to 

my  mind. 
And  wrong  thoughts  make  poor  poems. 

Every  age. 
Through  being  beheld  too  close,  is  ill-dis- 
cerned 
By    those    who  have    not    lived   past    it. 

We  '11  suppose 
Mount      Athos     carved,      as     Alexander 

schemed. 
To  some  colossal  statue  of  a  man.  170 

The  peasants,  gathering  brushwood  in  his 

ear, 
Had  guessed  as  little  as  the  browsing  goats 
Of  form  or  feature  of  humanity 
Up   there,  —  in   fact,   had    travelled    five 

miles  off 
Or  ere  the  giant  image  broke  on  them, 
Full  human  profile,  nose  and  chin  distinct. 
Mouth,  muttering   rhythms  of   silence  up 

the  sky 
And  fed  at  evening  with  the  blood  of  suns ; 
Grand  torso,  —  hand,  that   flung  perpetu- 
ally 
The  largesse  of  a  silver  river  down  180 

To  all   the  country   pastures.     'T  is    even 

thus 
With   times   we    live   in,  —  evermore   too 

great 
To  be  apprehended  near. 

But  poets  should 
Exert  a  double  vision;  should  have  eyes 
To  see  near  things  as  comprehensively 
As  if  afar  they  took  their  point  of  sight. 
And  distant  things  as  intimately  deep 
As  if   they  touched  them.     Let  us  strive 

for  this. 
I  do  distrust  the  poet  who  discerns 
No  character  or  glory  in  his  times,  190 

And  trundles   back  his  soul  five  hundred 

years. 
Past  moat  and  drawbridge,  into  a  castle- 
court, 
To  sing  —  oh,  not  of  lizard  or  of  toad 
Alive  i'  the  ditch   there,  —  't  were  excus- 
able. 
But  of  some  black  chief,  half  knight,  half 

sheep-lifter. 
Some   beauteous   dame,  half   chattel   and 

half  queen. 
As  dead  as  must  be,  for  the  greater  part. 


FIFTH    BOOK 


327 


The  poems  made  on  their  chivalric  bones; 
And    that's    no    wonder:    death    inherits 
death. 

Nay,    if   there 's    room    for   poets   in   this 
world  200 

A  little  overgrown  (I  think  there  is), 
Their  sole  work  is  to  represent  the  age, 
Their  age,  not  Charlemagne's,  —  this  live, 

throbbing  age. 
That  brawls,  cheats,  maddens,  calculates, 

aspires. 
And   spends    more   passion,    more    heroic 

heat, 
Betwixt  the  mirrors  of  its  drawing-rooms, 
Than  Roland  with  his  knights  at  Ronces- 

valles. 
To   flinch   from  modern   varnish,  coat    or 

flounce. 
Cry  out  for  togas  and  the  picturesque, 
Is    fatal,  —  foolish    too.      King    Arthur's 

self  210 

Was  commonplace  to  Lady  Guenever; 
And  Camelot  to  minstrels  seemed  as  flat 
As  Fleet  Street  to  our  poets. 

Never  flinch, 
But  still,  unscrupulously  epic,  catch 
Upon  the  burning  lava  of  a  song 
The  full-veined,  heaving,  double-breasted 

Age: 
That,  when  the  next  shall  come,  the  men 

of  that 
May  touch  the  impress  with  reverent  hand, 

and  say 
'  Behold,  —  behold    the  paps  we  all   have 

sucked  ! 
This    bosom    seems   to   beat   still,    or    at 

least  220 

It  sets  ours  beating:  this  is  living  art. 
Which  thus  presents  and  thus  records  true 

life.' 

What  form  is  best  for  poems  ?     Let   me 

think 
Of   forms   less,  and  the    external.     Trust 

the  spirit. 
As  sovran  nature  does,  to  make  the  form; 
For  otherwise  we  only  imprison  spirit 
And  not  embody.     Inward  evermore 
To  outward,  —  so  in  life,  and  so  in  art 
Which  still  is  life. 

Five  acts  to  make  a  play. 
And  why  not   fifteen  ?   why  not  ten  ?   or 

seven  ?  230 

What  matter  for  the  number  of  the  leaves, 


Supposing    the    tree    lives    and    grows  ? 

exact 
The  literal  unities  of  time  and  place. 
When  't  is  the  essence  of  passion  to  ignore 
Both    time    and   place  ?     Absurd.     Keep 

up  the  fire. 
And  leave  the   generous   flames   to  shape 

themselves. 

'Tis  true  the  stage  requires  obsequiousness 
To  this  or  that  convention;  '  exit '  here 
And  '  enter  '  there ;   the    points   for   clap- 
ping, fixed. 
Like  Jacob's  white-peeled  rods  before  the 


rams, 


240 


And  all  the  close-curled  imagery  clipped 

In  manner  of  their  fleece  at  shearing-time. 

Forget  to  prick  the  galleries  to  the  heart 

Precisely  at  the  fourth  act,  —  culminate 

Our  five  pyramidal  acts  with  one  act 
more,  — 

We  're  lost  so:  Shakespeare's  ghost  could 
scarcely  plead 

Against  our  just  damnation.     Stand  aside; 

We  '11  muse  for  comfort  that,  last  cen- 
tury. 

On  this  same  tragic  stage  on  which  we 
have  failed, 

A  wigless  Hamlet  would  have  failed  the 
same.  250 

And  whosoever  writes  good  poetry, 
Looks  just  to  art.     He  does  not  write  for 

you 
Or  me,  —  for  London  or  for  Edinburgh ; 
He  will  not  suffer  the  best  critic  known 
To  step  into  his  sunshine  of  free  thought 
And  self-absorbed  conception  and  exact 
An  inch-long  swer"ving  of  the  holy  lines. 
If  virtue  done  for  popularity 
Defiles  like  vice,  can  art,  for  praise  or  hire. 
Still  keep   its  splendor   and   remain   pure 

art  ?  260 

Eschew   such    serfdom.     What    the    poet 

writes, 
He  writes:  mankind  accepts  it  if  it  suits. 
And   that's    success:    if   not,    the    poem 'a 

passed 
From  hand  to  hand,  and  yet  from  hand  to 

hand 
Until  the  unborn  snatch  it,  crying  out 
In  pity  on  their  fathers'  being  so  dull, 
And  that 's  success  too. 

I  will  write  no  plays; 
Because  the  drama,  less  sublime  in  this. 


328 


AURORA   LEIGH 


Makes  lower  appeals,  submits  more   me- 
nially, 
Adopts  the  standard  of  the  public  taste  270 
To  chalk  its  height  on,  wears  a  dog-chain 

round 
Its   regal   neck,  and  learns   to  carry  and 

fetch 
The  fashions  of  the  day  to  please  the  day. 
Fawns  close  on    pit   and  boxes,  who  clap 

hands 
Commending  chiefly  its  docility 
And  humor  in  stage-tricks,  —  or  else  indeed 
Gets  hissed  at,  howled  at,  stamped  at  like 

a  dog. 
Or  worse,  we  '11  say.     For  dogs,  unjustly 

kicked. 
Yell,  bite  at  need;  but  if  your  dramatist 
(Being  wronged  by  some  five  hundred  no- 
bodies 280 
Because  their  grosser  brains  most  naturally 
Misjudge  the  fineness  of  his  subtle  wit) 
Shows  teeth  an  almond's  breadth,  protests 

the  length 
Of  a  modest  phrase,  —  '  My  gentle  coun- 
trymen. 
There 's   something   in    it   haply   of  your 

fault,'  — 
Why  then,  besides  five  hundred  nobodies. 
He  '11  have  five  thousand  and  five  thousand 

more 
Against  him,  —  the  whole  public,  —  all  the 

hoofs 
Of  King  Saul's  father's  asses,  in  full  drove, 
And  obviously  deserve  it.     He  appealed 
To  these,  —  and  why  say  more  if  they  con- 
demn, 291 
Than   if   they   praise    him  ?  —  Weep,   my 

iEschylus, 
But  low  and  far,  upon  Sicilian  shores  ! 
For   since  'twas   Athens    (so   I   read   the 

myth) 
Who  gave  commission  to  that  fatal  weight 
The  tortoise,  cold  and  hard,  to  drop  on  thee 
And  crush  thee,  —  better  cover   thy  bald 

head; 
She  '11   hear  the   softest   hum   of   Hyblan 

bee 
Before  thy  loudest  protestation  ! 

Then 
The  risk 's   still  worse   upon   the   modern 
stage.  300 

I  could  not,  for  so  little,  accept  success, 
Nor  would   I   risk  so  much,  in   ease   and 

calm. 
For  manif ester  gains :  let  those  who  prize. 


Pursue  them:  I  stand  off.    And  yet,  forbid 
That  any  irreverent  fancy  or  conceit 
Should  litter  in  the  Drama's  throne-room 

where 
The  rulers  of  our  art,  in  whose  full  veins 
Dynastic  glories  mingle,  sit  in  strength 
And  do  their  kingly  work,  —  conceive,  com- 
mand, 309 
And,  from  the  imagination's  crucial  heat, 
Catch  up  their  men  and  women  all  a-flame 
For  action,  all  alive  and  forced  to  prove 
Their  life  by  living  out  heart,  brain,  and 

nerve. 
Until  mankind  makes  witness,  '  These  be 

men 
As  we  are,'  and  vouchsafes   the   greeting 

due 
To  Imogen  and  Juliet  —  sweetest  kin 
On  art's  side. 

'T  is  that,  honoring  to  its  worth 
The  drama,  I  would  fear  to  keep  it  down 
To  the  level  of  the   footlights.     Dies  no 

more 
The  sacrificial  goat,  for  Bacchus  slain,     320 
His  filmed  eyes  fluttered  by  the  whirling 

white 
Of  choral  vestures,  — troubled  in  his  blood. 
While  tragic  voices  that  clanged  keen  as 

swords. 
Leapt  high  together  with  the  altar-flame 
And  made  the  blue  air  wink.     The  waxen 

mask. 
Which  set  the  grand  still  front  of  Themis' 

son 
Upon  the  puckered  visage  of  a  player,  — 
The  buskin,  which  he  rose  upon  and  moved, 
As  some  tall  ship  first  conscious  of  the  wind 
Sweeps  slowly  past  the  piers,  —  the  mouth- 
piece, where  330 
The  mere  man's  voice  with  all  its  breaths 

and  breaks 
Went   sheathed   in  brass,  and  clashed  on 

even  heights 
Its  phrased  thunders,  —  these  things  are  no 

more, 
Which  once  were.     And  concluding,  which 

is  clear, 
The  growing  drama  has  outgrown  such  toys 
Of  simulated  stature,  face,  and  speech, 
It  also  peradventure  may  outgrow 
The  simulation  of  the  painted  scene. 
Boards,    actors,   prompters,   gaslight,    and 

costume. 
And  take  for  a  worthier  stage  the  soul  it- 
self, 340 


FIFTH    BOOK 


329 


Its  shifting  fancies  and  celestial  lights, 

With  all  its  grand  orchestral  silences 

To  keep  the  pauses  of  its  rhythmic  sounds. 

Alas,  I  still  see  something  to  be  done, 
And  what  I  do  falls  short  of  what  I  see, 
Though  I  waste  myself   on  doing.     Long 

green  days, 
Worn  bare  of  grass  and  sunshine,  —  long 

calm  nights 
From  which  the  silken  sleeps  were  fretted 

out, 
Be  witness  for  me,  with  no  amateur's 
Irreverent  haste  and  busy  idleness  350 

I  set  myself  to  art  !     What  then  ?  what 's 

done  ? 
What 's  done,  at  last  ? 

Behold,  at  last,  a  book. 
If  life-blood  's  necessary,  which  it  is,  — 
(By  that  blue  vein  athrob  on  Mahomet's 

brow. 
Each  prophet-poet's  book  must  show  man's 

blood  !) 
If  life-blood  's  fertilizing,  I  wrung  mine 
On  every  leaf  of  this,  —  unless  the  drops 
Slid  heavily  on  one  side  and  left  it  dry. 
That  chances  often:  many  a  fervid  man 
Writes  books  as  cold  and  flat  as  graveyard 

stones  360 

From  which  the  lichen  's  scraped ;    and  if 

Saint  Preux 
Had  written  his  own  letters,  as  he  might. 
We  had  never  wept  to  think  of  the  little 

mole 
'Neath  Julie's  drooping  eyelid.     Passion  is 
But  something  suffered,  after  all. 

While  Art 
Sets  action  on  the  top  of  suffering: 
The  artist's  part  is  both  to  be  and  do. 
Transfixing  with  a  special,  central  power 
The  flat  experience  of  the  common  man, 
And     turning     outward,    with    a    sudden 

wrench,  370 

Half  agony,  half  ecstasy,  the  thing 
He  feels  the  inmost,  —  never  felt  the  less 
Because   he    sings    it.     Does  a   torch   less 

burn 
For  burning  next  reflectors  of  blue  steel, 
That  he  should  be  the  colder  for  his  place 
'Twixt  two  incessant  fires,  —  his  personal 

life's 
And    that    intense  refraction  which  burns 

back 
Perpetually  against  him  from  the  round 
Of  crystal  conscience  he  was  born  into 


If  artist-born  ?     O  sorrowful  great  gift  380 
Conferred  on  poets,  of  a  twofold  life, 
When  one  life  has  been  found  enough  for 

pain  ! 
We,  staggering  'neath  our  burden  as  mere 

men. 
Being  called  to  stand  up  straight  as  demi- 
gods. 
Support  the  intolerable  strain  and  stress 
Of  the  universal,  and  send  clearly  up, 
With  voices  broken  by  the  human  sob, 
Our   poems   to    find    rhymes    among   the 

stars  ! 
But  soft,  —  a  '  poet '  is  a  word  soon  said, 
A  book 's  a  thing  soon  written.     Nay,  in- 
deed, 390 
The  more  the  poet  shall  be  questionable. 
The  more  unquestionably  comes  his  book. 
And  this  of  mine  —  well,  granting  to  my- 
self 
Some   passion   in   it,  —  furrowing   up    the 

flats. 
Mere    passion   will   not   prove    a   volume 

worth 
Its  gall  and  rags  even.     Bubbles  round  a 

keel 
Mean    nought,  excepting   that   the   vessel 

moves. 
There  's  more  than  passion  goes  to  make  a 

man 
Or  book,  which  is  a  man  too. 

I  am  sad.  399 
I  wonder  if  Pygmalion  had  these  doubts 
And  feeling  the  hard  marble  first  relent, 
Grow  supple  to  the  straining  of  his  arms. 
And  tingle  through  its  cold  to  his  burning 

lip. 
Supposed  his  senses  mocked,  supposed  the 

toil 
Of  stretching  past  the  known  and  seen  to 

reach 
The  archetypal  Beauty  out  of  sight. 
Had  made  his  heart  beat  fast  enough  for 

two. 
And  with  his  own  life  dazed  and  blinded 

him  ! 
Not    so;    Pygmalion    loved, — and   whoso 

loves 
Believes  the  impossible. 

But  I  am  sad:  410 
I  cannot  thoroughly  love  a  work  of  mine, 
Since  none  seems  worthy  of   my  thought 

and  hope 
More  highly  mated.     He   has   shot  them 

down, 


33° 


AURORA   LEIGH 


My  Phoebus  Apollo,  soul  within  my  soul, 

Who  judges,  by  the  attempted,  what 's  at- 
tained. 

And  with  the  silver  arrow  from  his  height 

Has  struck  down  all  my  works  before  my 
face 

While  I  said  nothing.  Is  there  aught  to 
say? 

I  called  the  artist  but  a  greatened  man. 

He  may  be  childless  also,  like  a  man.       420 

I  labored  on  alone.     The  wind  and  dust 
And  sun  of  the  world  beat  blistering  in  my 

face; 
And  hope,  now  for  me,  now  against   me, 

dragged 
My  spirits  onward,  as  some  fallen  balloon. 
Which,  whether  caught  by  blossoming  tree 

or  bare. 
Is  torn   alike.     I  sometimes   touched   my 

aim, 
Or  seemed,  —  and  generous  souls  cried  out 

'  Be  strong. 
Take  courage ;  now  you  're  on  our  level,  — 

now  ! 
The  next  step  saves  you  ! '     I  was  flushed 

with  praise,  429 

But,  pausing  just  a  moment  to  draw  breath, 
I  could  not  choose  but  murmur  to  myself 

*  Is  this    all  ?    all   that 's    done  ?    and    all 

that 's  gained  ? 
If  this  then  be  success,  't  is  dismaller 
Than  any  failure.' 

O  my  God,  my  God, 
O  supreme  Artist,  who  as  sole  return 
For  all  the  cosmic  wonder  of  thy  work, 
Demandest  of  us  just  a  word  ...  a  name, 

*  My  Father  ! '  thou  hast  knowledge,  only 

thou. 
How  dreary  't  is  for  women  to  sit  still, 
On  winter  nights  by  solitary  fires,  440 

And  hear  the  nations  praising  them  far  off, 
Too  far  !  ay,  praising  our  quick  sense  of 

love. 
Our  very  heart  of  passionate  womanhood. 
Which  could  not  beat  so  in  the  verse  with- 
out 
Being  present  also  in  the  unkissed  lips 
And  eyes  undried  because  there  's  none  to 

ask 
The  reason  they  grew  moist. 

To  sit  alone 
And    think   for   comfort    how,    that   very 

night, 
Affianced  lovers,  leaning  face  to  face 


With  sweet  half-listenings  for  each  other's 
breath,  450 

Are  reading  haply  from  a  page  of  ours. 
To  pause  with  a  thrill  (as  if  their  cheeks 

had  touched) 
When  such  a  stanza,  level  to  their  mood, 
Seems  floating  their  own  thought  out  —  '  So 

I  feel 
For  thee,'  —  'And  I,  for   thee:   this  poet 

knows 
What   everlasting    love    is  ! '  —  how,   that 

night. 
Some  father,  issuing  from  the  misty  roads 
Upon   the   luminous    round  of   lamp   and 

hearth 
And    happy   children,   having   caught   up 

first 
The   youngest   there    until   it   shrink   and 
shriek  460 

To   feel   the    cold   chin  prick   its  dimples 

through 
With  winter  from  the  hills,  may  throw  i' 

the  lap 
Of  the  eldest  (who  has  learnt  to  drop  her 

lids 
To   hide   some  sweetness  newer  than  last 

year's) 
Our  book  and  cry,  .  .  .  'Ah  you,  you  care 

for  rhymes; 
So  here  be  rhymes  to  pore  on  under  trees, 
When  April  comes  to  let  you  !     I  've  been 

told 
They  are  not  idle  as  so  many  are. 
But  set  hearts  beating  pure  as  well  as  fast. 
'T  is  yours,  the  book;  I  '11  write  your  name 
in  it,  470 

That  so  you  may  not  lose,  however  lost 
In  poet's  lore  and  charming  reverie. 
The  thought  of  how  your  father  thought  of 

you 
In  riding  from  the  town,' 

To  have  our  books 
Appraised  by  love,  associated  with  love. 
While    we    sit    loveless  !    is   it  hard,  you 

think  ? 
At   least   't  is    mournful.      Fame,   indeed, 

'twas  said, 
Means   simply   love.     It  was   a  man  said 

that: 
And  then,  there  's  love  and  love:  the  love 

of  all 
(To  risk  in  turn  a  woman's  paradox)       480 
Is  but  a  small  thing  to  the  love  of  one. 
You  bid  a  hungry  child  be  satisfied 
With  a  heritage  of  many  corn-fields:  nay, 


FIFTH    BOOK 


33^ 


He  says  he 's  hungry,  —  he  would  rather 

have 
That    little    barley-cake    you    keep    from 

him 
While  reckoning  up  his  harvests.     So  with 

us 
(Here,  Romney,  too,  we  fail  to  generalize) : 
We  're  hungry. 

Hungry  !  but  it  's  pitiful 
To  wail   like   unweaned   babes   and   suck 

our  thumbs 
Because  we  're  hungry.     Who,  in  all  this 

world  490 

(Wherein  we   are  haply  set  to   pray   and 

fast 
And  learn  what  good  is  by  its  opposite), 
Has  never  hungered  ?   Woe  to  him  who  has 

found 
The  meal  enough  !  if  Ugolino  's  full. 
His  teeth  have  crunched  some  foul  unnatural 

thing. 
For  here  satiety  proves  penury 
More  utterly  irremediable.     And  since 
We  needs  must  hunger,  —  better,  for  man's 

love. 
Than  God's  truth  !  better,  for  companions 

sweet, 
Than  great  convictions  !    let   us   bear  our 

weights,  500 

Preferring  dreary  hearths  to  desert  souls. 
Well,  well !   they  say    we  're   envious,  we 

who  rhyme; 
But  I,  because  I  am  a  woman  perhaps 
And  so  rhyme  ill,  am  ill  at  envying. 
I   never   envied    Graham   his    breadth   of 

style, 
Which  gives  you,  with  a  random  smutch  or 

two 
{Near-sighted  critics  analyze  to  smutch). 
Such  delicate  perspectives  of  full  life: 
Nor  Belmore,  for  the  unity  of  aim 
To  which  he  cuts  his  cedarn  poems,  fine  51c 
As   sketchers  do   their  pencils:  nor  Mark 

Gage, 
For  that  caressing  color  and  trancing  tone 
Whereby  you  're  swept   away  and  melted 

in 
The  sensual   element,  which   with  a  back 

wave 
Restores  you  to  the  level  of  pure  souls 
And  leaves    you  with   Plotinus.     None  of 

these. 
For  native  gifts  or  popular  applause, 
I've  envied;  but  for  this,  —  that  when  by 

chance 


Says  some  one,  —  *  There  goes  Belmore,  a 

great  man  ! 
He  leaves  clean  work  behind  him,  and  re- 
quires 520 
No  sweeper  up  of  the  chips,'  ...  a  girl  I 

know. 
Who  answers  nothing,  save  with  her  brown 

eyes. 
Smiles  unaware  as  if  a  guardian  saint 
Smiled  in  her:  —  for  this,  too,  —  that  Gage 

comes  home 
And  lays  his  last  book's  prodigal  review 
Upon  his  mother's  knee,  where,  years  ago, 
He    laid    his   childish   spelling-book    and 

learned 
To  chirp  and   peck   the  letters  from   her 

mouth. 
As  young   birds  must.     '  Well   done,'  she 

murmured  then; 
She    will    not    say  it    now  more    wonder- 

ingl.y-  530 

And  yet  the  last  '  Well  done  '  will  touch 
him  more. 

As  catching  up  to-day  and  yesterday 

In  a  perfect  chord  of  love:  and  so,  Mark 
Gage, 

I  envy  you  your  mother  !  —  and  you,  Gra- 
ham, 

Because  you  have  a  wife  who  loves  you  so, 

She  half  forgets,  at  moments,  to  be  proud 

Of  being  Graham's  wife,  until  a  friend  ob- 
serves, 

'  The  boy  here  has  his  father's  massive 
brow 

Done  small  in  wax  ...  if  we  push  back  the 
curls.' 

Who  loves  me  ?  Dearest  father,  —  mother 
sweet,  —  540 

I  speak  the  names  out  sometimes  by  my- 
self. 

And  make  the  silence  shiver.  They  sound 
strange, 

As  Hindostanee  to  an  Ind-born  man 

Accustomed  many  years  to  English 
speech; 

Or  lovely  poet-words  grown  obsolete. 

Which  will  not  leave  off  singing.  Up  in 
heaven 

I  have  my  father,  —  with  my  mother's 
face 

Beside  him  in  a  blotch  of  heavenly  light; 

No  more  for  earth's  familiar,  household 
use. 

No  more.  The  best  verse  written  by  this 
hand  550 


2>2>^ 


AURORA   LEIGH 


Can  never  reach  them  where  they  sit,  to 

seem 
Well  done  to  them.     Death  quite  unfellows 

us, 
Sets  dreadful   odds  betwixt   the   live  and 

dead, 
And  makes  us  part  as  those  at  Babel  did 
Through  sudden  ignorance  of  a  common 

tongue. 
A  living  Caesar  would  not  dare  to  play 
At  bowls  with  such  as  my  dead  father  is. 

And  yet  this  may  be  less  so  than  appears, 
This   change    and    separation.      Sparrows 

five 
For  just  two  farthings,  and  God  cares  for 

each.  560 

If  God  is  not  too  great  for  little  cares, 
Is  any  creature,  because  gone  to  God  ? 
I  've    seen    some   men,    veracious,    nowise 

mad. 
Who  have  thought  or  dreamed,  declared 

and  testified 
They   heard    the    Dead    a-ticking    like   a 

clock 
Which  strikes  the  hours  of  the  eternities, 
Beside  them,  with  their  natural  ears,  —  and 

known 
That  human  spirits  feel  the  human  way 
And  hate  the  unreasoning  awe  which  waves 

them  off 
From  possible  communion.     It  may  be.  570 
At  least,  earth  separates  as  well  as  heaven. 
For   instance,    I   have   not    seen   Romney 

Leigh 
Full  eighteen  months  .  .  .  add  six,  you  get 

two  years. 
They    say    he 's    very     busy     with    good 

works,  — 
Has  parted  Leigh  Hall  into  almshouses. 
He   made    one   day   an   almshouse   of   his 

heart. 
Which  ever  since  is  loose  upon  the  latch 
For  those  who  pull  the  string.  —  I  never 

did. 

It  always  makes  me  sad  to  go  abroad, 

And  now  I  'm  sadder  that  I  went  to- 
night 580 

Among  the  lights  and  talkers  at  Lord 
Howe's. 

His  wife  is  gracious,  with  her  glossy 
braids. 

And  even  voice,  and  gorgeous  eyeballs, 
calm 


As  her  other  jewels.     If   she  's  somewhat 
cold. 

Who  wonders,  when  her  blood  has  stood  so 
long 

In  the  ducal  reservoir  she  calls  her  line 

By  no  means  arrogantly  ?  she  's  not  proud  j: 

Not  prouder  than  the  swan  is  of  the  lake 

He  has  always  swum  in; — 'tis  her  ele- 
ment; 

And  so  she  takes  it  with  a  natural 
grace,  590 

Ignoring  tadpoles.  She  just  knows  per- 
haps 

There  are  who  travel  without  outriders, 

Which  is  n't  her  fault.  Ah,  to  watch  her 
face, 

When  good  Lord  Howe  expounds  his  the- 
ories 

Of  social  justice  and  equality  f 

'T  is  curious,  what  a  tender,  tolerant  bend 

Her  neck  takes :  for  she  loves  him,  likes  his- 
talk, 

'  Such  clever  talk  —  that  dear,  odd  Alger- 
non ! ' 

She  listens  on,  exactly  as  if  he  talked 

Some  Scandinavian  myth  of  Lemures,      600 

Too  pretty  to  dispute,  and  too  absurd. 

She 's  gracious  to  me  as  her  husband's 
friend. 

And  would  be  gracious  were  I  not  a  Leigh, 

Being  used  to  smile  just  so,  without  her 
eyes. 

On  Joseph  Strangways  the  Leeds  mesmer- 
ist. 

And  Delia  Dobbs  the  lecturer  from  '  the 
States ' 

Upon  the  'Woman's  question.'  Then,  for 
him, 

I  like  him ;  he 's  my  friend.  And  all  the 
rooms 

Were  full  of  crinkling  silks  that  swept 
about 

The  fine  dust  of  most  subtle  courtesies.    610 

What  then  ?  —  why  then,  we  come  home  to 
be  sad. 

How  lovely  One  I  love  not  looked  to- 
night ! 

She  's  very  pretty,  Lady  Waldemar. 

Her  maid  must  use  both  hands  to  twist 
that  coil 

Of  tresses,  then  be  careful  lest  the  rich 

Bronze  rounds  should  slip :  —  she  missed, 
though,  a  gray  hair, 

A  single  one,  —  I  saw  it;  otherwise 


FIFTH   BOOK 


333 


The  woman  looked  immortal.     How  they 

told, 
Those  alabaster  shoulders  aud  bare  breasts, 
On  which  the  pearls,  drowned  out  of  sight 

in  milk,  620 

Were  lost,  excepting  for  the  ruby-clasp  ! 
They    split   the    amaranth    velvet -bodice 

down 
To  the  waist  or  nearly,  with  the  audacious 

press 
Of   full  -  breathed   beauty.      If   the   heart 

within 
Were  half  as  white  !  —  but,  if  it  were,  per- 
haps 
The  breast   were    closer  covered  and  the 

sight 
Less  aspectable  by  half,  too. 

I  heard 
The  young  man  with  the  German  student's 

look  — 
A  sharp  face,  like  a  knife  in  a  cleft  stick, 
Which  shot  up  straight  against  the  parting 

line  630 

So  equally  dividing  the  long  hair,  — 
Say  softly  to  his  neighbor  (thirty-five 
And    mediaeval),    '  Look    that    way,    Sir 

Blaise. 
She  's  Lady  Waldemar  —  to  the  left  —  in 

red  — 
Whom  Komney  Leigh,  our  ablest  man  just 

now. 
Is  soon  about  to  marry.' 

Then  replied 
Sir  Blaise  Delorme,  with  quiet,  priestlike 

voice. 
Too  used  to  syllable  damnations  round 
To  make  a  natural  emphasis  worth  while: 
*Is  Leigh  your  ablest  man  ?  the  same,  I 

think,  640 

Once  jilted  by  a  recreant  pretty  maid 
Adopted    from     the    people  ?       Now,    in 

change. 
He  seems  to  have  plucked  a  flower  from 

the  other  side 
Of  the  social  hedge.' 

'  A  flower,  a  flower,'  exclaimed 
My  German  student,  —  his  own  eyes  full- 
blown 
Bent  on  her.     He  was  twenty,  certainly. 

Sir  Blaise  resumed  with  gentle  arrogance, 
As  if  he  had  dropped  his  alms  into  a  hat 
And  gained    the  right  to  counsel,  — '  My 

young  friend, 
I  doubt  your  ablest  man's  ability  650 


To   get  the  least  good  or  help  meet  for 

him, 
For  pagan  phalanstery  or  Christian  home, 
From  such  a  flowery  creature.' 

'  Beautiful ! ' 
My  student  murmured  rapt,  —  '  Mark  how 

she  stirs  ! 
Just  waves  her  head,  as  if  a  flower  indeed. 
Touched  far  off  by  the  vain  breath  of  our 

talk.' 

At  which  that  bilious   Grimwald  (he  who 

writes 
For  the  Renovator),  who  had  seemed  ab- 
sorbed 
Upon  the  table-book  of  autographs  659 

(I  dare  say  mentally  he  crunched  the  bones 
Of  all  those  writers,  wishing  them  alive 
To  feel  his  tooth  in  earnest),  turned  short 

round 
With  low  carnivorous  laugh,  —  '  A  flower, 

of  course  ! 
She  neither  sews  nor  spins,  —  and  takes  no 

thought 
Of  her  garments  .  .  .  falling  off.' 

The  student  flinched; 
Sir  Blaise,  the  same;  then  both,  drawing 

back  their  chairs 
As  if  they  spied  black-beetles  on  the  floor. 
Pursued  their  talk,  without  a  word  being 

thrown 
To  the  critic. 

Good  Sir  Blaise's  brow  is  high 
And  noticeably  narrow:  a  strong  wind     670 
You  fancy,  might  unroof  him  suddenly. 
And  blow  that  great  top  attic  off  his  head 
So  piled  with  feudal  relics.     You  admire 
His    nose    in  profile,  though  you  miss  his 

chin; 
But,  though  you  miss  his  chin,  you  seldom 

miss 
His  ebon  cross  worn  innermostly  (carved 
For  penance  by  a  saintly  Styrian  monk 
Whose  flesh  was  too  much  with  him),  slip- 
ping through 
Some  unaware  unbuttoned  casualty 
Of  the   under-waistcoat.     With  an  absent 
air  680 

Sir   Blaise  sat  fingering   it  and   speaking 

low. 
While  I,  upon  the  sofa,  heard  it  all. 

'  My  dear  young  friend,  if  we  could  bear 

our  eyes, 
Like  blessedest  Saint  Lucy,  on  a  plate, 


334 


AURORA   LEIGH 


They   would   not   trick    us    into   choosing 

wives, 
As  doublets,  by  the  color.     Otherwise 
Our  fathers  chose,  —  and  therefore,  when 

they  had  hung 
Their  household  keys  about  a  lady's  waist, 
The  sense  of  duty  gave  her  dignity; 
She  kept  her  bosom  holy  to  her  babes,     690 
And,  if  a  moralist  reproved  her  dress, 
'T  was    "  Too   much   starch  !  "  —  and   not 

"  Too  little  lawn  !  "  ' 

'  Now,    pshaw  ! '  returned  the  other  in  a 

heat, 
A   little  fretted  by   being   called   *  young 

friend,' 
Or  so  I  took  it,  — '  for  Saint  Lucy's  sake, 
If  she 's  the  saint  to  swear  by,  let  us  leave 
Our  fathers,  —  plagued  enough  about  our 


sons 


f ' 


(He    stroked    his    beardless    chin)    '  yes, 

plagued,  sir,  plagued: 
The  future  generations  lie  on  us 
As  heavy  as  the  nightmare  of  a  seer ;       700 
Our  meat  and  drink  grow  painful  prophecy : 
I  ask  you,  —  have  we  leisure,  if  we  liked. 
To  hollow  out  our  weary  hands  to  keep 
Your  intermittent  rushlight  of  the  past 
From  draughts  in  lobbies  ?     Prejudice  of 

sex 
And   marriage-law  .  .  .  the    socket  drops 

them  through 
While  we  two  speak,  —  however  may  pro- 
test 
Some  over-delicate  nostrils  like  your  own, 
'Gainst  odors  thence  arising.' 

'  You  are  young,' 
Sir  Blaise  objected. 

'  If  I  am,'  he  said     710 
With  fire,  —  '  though  somewhat  less  so  than 

I  seem, 
The  young  run  on  before,  and  see  the  thing 
That  's  coming.    Reverence  for  the  young, 

I  cry. 
In  that  new  church  for  which  the  world  's 

near  ripe. 
You  '11   have    the   younger   in  the  Elder's 

chair. 
Presiding  with  his  ivory  front  of  hope 
O'er  foreheads  clawed  by  cruel  carrion-birds 
Of  life's  experience.' 

'  Pray  your  blessing,  sir,' 
Sir  Blaise    replied   good-humoredly,  —  '  I 

plucked  719 

A  silver  hair  this  morning  from  my  beard, 


Which  left   me  your   inferior.     Would    I 

were 
Eighteen  and  worthy  to  admonish  you  ! 
If  young  men  of  your  order  run  before 
To  see  such  sights  as  sexual  prejudice 
And   marriage-law  dissolved,  —  in  plainer 

words, 
A  general  concubinage  expressed 
In  a  universal  pruriency,  —  the  thing 
Is  scarce  worth  running  fast  for,  and  you  'd 

gain 
By  loitering  with  your  elders.' 

'  Ah,'  he  said, 
'  Who,  getting  to  the  top  of  Pisgah-hill,  730 
Can  talk  with  one  at  bottom  of  the  view. 
To  make  it  comprehensible  ?     Why,  Leigh 
Himself,  although  our  ablest  man,  I  said, 
Is  scarce  advanced  to  see  as  far  as  this, 
Which  some  are:  he  takes  up  imperfectly 
The    social   question  —  by   one    handle  — 

leaves 
The  rest  to  trail.     A  Christian  socialist 
Is  Romney  Leigh,  you  understand.' 

*  Not  I. 
I  disbelieve  in  Christian-pagans,  much 
As  you  in  women-fishes.     If  we  mix        740 
Two  colors,  we  lose  both,  and  make  a  third 
Distinct  from  either.     Mark  you  !  to  mis- 
take 
A  color  is  the  sign  of  a  sick  brain. 
And  mine,  I  thank  the  saints,  is  clear  and 

cool: 
A  neutral  tint  is  here  impossible. 
The  church,  —  and  by  the  church  I  mean, 

of  course. 
The  catholic,  apostolic,  mother-church,  — 
Draws  lines  as  plain  and  straight  as  her  own 

walls. 
Inside  of  which  are  Christians,  obviously. 
And  outside  .  .  .  dogs.' 

'  We  thank  you.     Well  I  know 
The  ancient  mother-church  would  fain  still 
bite,  751 

For  all  her  toothless  gums,  —  as  Leigh  him- 
self 
Would  fain  be  a  Christian  still,  for  all  his 

wit. 
Pass  that;  you  two  may  settle  it,  for  me. 
You're    slow  in  England.     In  a  month  I 

learnt 
At  Gottingen  enough  philosophy 
To   stock   your   English   schools  for  fifty 

years ; 
Pass  that,  too.     Here   alone,  I   stop    you 
short, 


FIFTH    BOOK 


335 


—  Supposing  a  true  man  like  Leigh  could 

stand 
Unequal  in  the  stature  of  his  life  760 

To  the  height  of  his  opinions.     Choose  a 

wife 
Because  of  a  smooth  skin?  —  not  he,  not 

he! 
He  'd  rail  at  Venus'  self  for  creaking  shoes, 
Unless  she  walked  his  way  of  righteousness: 
And  if  he  takes  a  Venus  Meretrix 
(No  imputation  on  the  lady  there), 
Be  sure  that,  by  some  sleight  of  Christian 

art, 
He  has  metamorphosed  and  converted  her 
To  a  Blessed  Virgin.' 

'  Soft ! '  Sir  Blaise  drew  breath 
As  if  it  hurt  him,  —  '  Soft  !  no  blasphemy, 
I  pray  you  ! ' 

'The  first  Christians  did  the  thing: 
Why  not  the  last  ?  '  asked  he  of  Gottingen, 
With  just  that  shade  of  sneering  on  the  lip 
Compensates  for  the  lagging  of  the  beard, — 
'  And  so  the  case  is.     If  that  fairest  fair 
Is  talked  of  as  the  future  wife  of  Leigh, 
She  's  talked  of  too,  at  least  as  certainly, 
As    Leigh's    disciple.     You   may  find    her 

name 
On    all     his    missions    and    commissions, 

schools, 
Asylums,  hospitals,  —  he  had  her  down,  780 
With  other  ladies  whom  her  starry  lead 
Persuaded    from    their    spheres,    to     his 

country-place 
In  Shropshire,  to  the  famed  phalanstery 
At  Leigh  Hall,  christianized  from  Fourier's 

own 
(In  which  he  has  planted  out  his  sapling 

stocks 
Of  knowledge  into  social  nurseries). 
And  there,  they  say,  she  has  tarried  half  a 

week, 
And   milked   the  cows,  and  churned,  and 

pressed  the  curd. 
And  said  "  my  sister  "  to  the  lowest  drab  789 
Of  all  the  assembled  castaways:  suchcjirls  ! 
Ay,  sided  with  them  at  the  washing-tub  — 
Conceive,  Sir  Blaise,  those  naked  perfect 

arms. 
Round  glittering  arms,  plunged  elbow-deep 

in  suds, 
Like  wild  swans  hid  in  lilies  all  a-shake.' 

Lord    Howe    came    up.     '  What,    talking 

poetry 
So  near  the  image  of  the  unf  avoring  Muse  ? 


That 's  you.  Miss  Leigh:  I  've  watched  you 

half  an  hour 
Precisely  as  I  watched  the  statue  called 
A  Pallas  in  the  Vatican ;  —  you  mind 
The  face,  Sir  Blaise  ?  —  intensely  calm  and 

sad,  800 

As  wisdom  cut  it  off  from  fellowship,  — 
But  that  spoke  louder.     Not  a  word  from 

you  1 
And    these   two   gentlemen   were   bold,  I 

marked. 
And  unabashed  by  even  your  silence.' 

'Ah,' 
Said  I,  '  my  dear  Lord  Howe,  you  shall  not 

speak 
To  a  printing  woman  who  has  lost  her  place 
(The   sweet  safe  corner  of   the  household 

fire 
Behind  the  heads  of  children),  compliments. 
As  if  she  were  a  woman.     We  who  have 

dipt  809 

The  curls  before  our  eyes  may  see  at  least 
As  plain  as  men  do.     Speak  out,  man  to 

man; 
No  compliments,  beseech  you.' 

'  Friend  to  friend, 
Let  that  be.     We  are  sad  to-night,  I  saw 
( —  Good  night,  Sir  Blaise  !  ah,  Smith  —  he 

has  slipped  away), 
I    saw  you  across   the  room,  and   stayed, 

Miss  Leigh, 
To  keep  a  crowd  of  lion-hunters  off. 
With   faces   toward   your   jungle.     There 

were  three; 
A  spacious  lady,  five  feet  ten  and  fat. 
Who  has   the  devil   in   her    (and   there 's 

room) 
For  walking  to  and  fro  upon  the  earth,    820 
From  Chippewa  to  China;  she  requires 
Your  autograph  upon  a  tinted  leaf 
'Twixt  Queen  Pomare's  and  Emperor  Sou- 

louque's. 
Pray  give  it ;    she   has    energies,   though 

fat: 
For  me,  I  'd  rather  see  a  rick  on  fire 
Than  such  a  woman  angry.     Then  a  youth 
Fresh  from  the  backwoods,  green  as   the 

underboughs, 
Asks  modestly.  Miss   Leigh,  to  kiss  your 

shoe. 
And  adds,  he  has  an  epic  in  twelve  parts. 
Which  when  you  've  read,  you  '11  do  it  for 

his  boot:  830 

All  which  I  saved   you,  and   absorb  next 

week 


Z2>^ 


AURORA   LEIGH 


Both   manuscript    and   man,  —  because   a 

lord 
Is  still  more  potent  than  a  poetess 
With  any  extreme  republican.     Ah,  ah. 
You  smile,  at  last,  then.' 

'  Thank  you.' 

'  Leave  the  smile. 
I  '11  lose  the  thanks  for 't,  —  ay,  and  throw 

you  in 
My  transatlantic  girl,  with  golden  eyes, 
That  draw  you  to  her  splendid  whiteness 

as 
The  pistil  of  a  water-lily  draws. 
Adust  with  gold.     Those  girls  across  the 

sea  840 

Are  tyrannously  pretty,  —  and  I  swore 
(She   seemed    to   me   an   innocent,    frank 

girl) 
To  bring  her  to  you  for  a  woman  s  kiss. 
Not  now,  but  on  some  other  day  or  week: 
—  We  '11  call  it  perjury;  I  give  her  up.' 

*  No,  bring  her,' 

'  Now,'  said  he,  '  you  make  it  hard 
To  touch  such  goodness  with  a  grimy  palm. 
I  thought  to  tease  you  well,  and  fret  you 

cross. 
And  steel  myself,  when  rightly  vexed  with 

you, 
For    telling    you    a    thing  to   tease    you 
more.'  850 

<  Of  Romney  ?  ' 

'No,  no;  nothing  worse,' he  cried, 

*  Of   Romney  Leigh  than  what   is  buzzed 

about,  — 
That  he  is  taken  in  an  eye-trap  too. 
Like    many    half    as    wise.     The    thing   I 

"  mean 
Refers  to  you,  not  him.' 

*  Refers  to  me.' 
He  echoed,  —  '  Me  !     You  sound  it  like  a 

stone 
Dropped  down  a  dry  well  very  listlessly 
By  one  who  never  thinks  about  the  toad 
Alive  at  the  bottom.     Presently  perhaps 
You  '11  sound  your  "  me  "  more  proudly  — 


till  I  shrink. 


860 


'  Lord    Howe 's    the   toad,   then,   in    this 
question  ? ' 

*  Brief, 
We  '11  take  it  graver.    Give  me  sofa-room. 
And  quiet  hearing.     You  know  Eglinton, 
John  Eglinton,  of  Eglinton  in  Kent  ?  ' 


'  Is   he  the  toad  ?  —  he  's  rather   like  the 

snail. 
Known  chiefly  for  the  house  upon  his  back: 
Divide  the  man  and  house — you  kill  the 

man; 
That 's  Eglinton  of  Eglinton,  Lord  Howe.' 

He  answered  grave.     '  A  reputable  man, 

An  excellent  landlord  of  the  olden 
stamp,  870 

If  somewhat  slack  in  new  philanthropies, 

Who  keeps  his  birthdays  with  a  tenants' 
dance. 

Is  hard  upon  them  when  they  miss  the 
church 

Or  hold  their  children  back  from  cate- 
chism. 

But  not  ungentle  when  the  ag^d  poor 

Pick  sticks  at  hedge-sides :  nay,  I ' ve  heard 
him  say 

"  The  old  dame  has  a  twinge  because  she 
stoops; 

That 's  punishment  enough  for  felony."  ' 

*  O  tender-hearted  landlord  !  may  I  take 
My  long  lease  with  him,  when   the   time 

arrives  8  So 

For  gathering  winter-fagots  ! ' 

'  He  likes  art, 
Buys  books  and  pictures  ...  of  a  certain 

kind; 
Neglects  no  patent  duty ;  a  good  son  '  .  .  . 

'  To    a    most  obedient  mother.     Born   to 

wear 
His  father's  shoes,  he  wears  her  husband's 

too: 
Indeed   I  've   heard  it' s   touching.     Dear 

Lord  Howe, 
You  shall  not   praise  me  so  against   your 

heart. 
When  I  'm  at   worst  for   praise  and  fag- 
ots.' 

'Be 
Less  bitter  with  me,  for  ...  in  short,'  he 

said, 
'  I  have  a  letter,  which  he  urged  me  so   890 
To  bring  you  ...  I  could  scarcely  choose 

but  yield; 
Insisting  that  a  new  love,  passing  through 
The    hand   of    an   old   friendship,   caught 

from  it 
Some  reconciling  odor.' 

'  Love,  you  say  ? 
My  lord,  I  cannot  love :  I  only  find 


FIFTH   BOOK 


337 


The  rhyme  for  love,  —  and  that 's  not  love, 

nay  lord. 
Take  back  your  letter.' 

*  Pause :  you  '11  read  it  first  ?  ' 

*I  will  not  read  it:  it  is  stereotyped; 
The  same  he  wrote  to,  —  anybody's  name, 
Anne  Blythe  the  actress,  when  she  died  so 

true,  900 

A  duchess  fainted  in  a  private  box: 
Pauline  the  dancer,  after  the  great  joas 
In  which  her  little  feet  winked  overhead 
Like  other  fire-flies,  and  amazed  the  pit: 
Or  Baldiuacci,  Avhen  her  F  in  alt 
Had  touched  the  silver  tops  of  heaven  it- 
self 
With     such    a    pungent     spirit-dart,    the 

Queen 
Laid  softly,  each  to  each,  her  white-gloved 

palms. 
And  sighed  for  joy:  or  else  (I  thank  your 

friend) 
Aurora    Leigh,  —  when    some    indifferent 

rhymes,  910 

Like  those  the  boys  sang  round  the  holy  ox 
On  Memphis-highway,  chance  perhaps  to 

set 
Our  Apis-public  lowing.     Oh,  he  wants, 
Instead  of  any  worthy  wife  at  home, 
A  star  upon  his  stage  of  Eglinton  ? 
Advise  him  that  he  is  not  overshrewd 
In  being  so  little  modest:  a  dropped  star 
Makes    bitter   waters,  says   a   Book   I  've 

read,  — 
And  there  's  his  unread  letter.' 

'  My  dear  friend,' 
Lord  Howe  began  .  .  . 

In  haste  I  tore  the  phrase. 

*  You   mean   your   friend  of   Eglinton,  or 

me  ? '  921 

*  I  mean  you,  you,'  he  answered  with  some 

fire. 

*  A  happy  life  means  prudent  compromise; 
The  tare  runs    through  the  farmer's  gar- 
nered sheaves, 

And    though    the    gleaner's    apron    holds 

pure  wheat 
We  count  her  poorer.     Tare  with  wheat, 

we  cry, 
And  good  with  drawbacks.     You,  you  love 

your  art, 
And,  certain  of  vocation,  set  your  soul 
On  utterance.    Only,  in  this  world  we  have 

made 


(They  say  God  made  it  first,  but  if  He 
did  930 

'T  was  so  long  since,  and,  since,  we  have 
spoiled  it  so, 

He  scarce  would  know  it,  if  He  looked  this 
way, 

From  hells  we  preach  of,  with  the  flames 
blown  out), 

—  In  this  bad,  twisted,  topsy-turvy  world 

Where  all  the  heaviest  wrongs  get  upper- 
most, — 

In  this  uneven,  unfostering  England  here, 

Where  ledger-strokes  and  sword-strokes 
count  indeed, 

But  soul-strokes  merely  tell  upon  the  flesh 

They  strike  from,  —  it  is  hard  to  stand  for 
art, 

Unless  some  golden  tripod  from  the  sea  940 

Be  fished  up,  by  Apollo's  divine  chance, 

To  throne  such  feet  as  yours,  my  prophet- 
ess, 

At  Delphi.  Think,  —  the  god  comes  down 
as  fierce 

As  twenty  bloodhounds,  shakes  you,  stran- 
gles you. 

Until  the  oracular  shriek  shall  ooze  in 
froth  ! 

At  best  't  is  not  all  ease,  —  at  worst  too 
hard: 

A  place  to  stand  on  is  a  'vantage  gained, 

And  here  's  your  tripod.  To  be  plain,  dear 
friend. 

You  're  poor,  except  in  what  you  richly 
give;  _  949 

You  labor  for  your  own  bread  painfully 

Or  ere  you  pour  our  wine.  For  art's  sake, 
pause.' 

I  answered  slow,  —  as  some  wayfaring  man. 
Who  feels  himself  at  night  too  far  from 

home, 
Makes   steadfast   face   against    the   bitter 

wind. 
'  Is  art  so  less  a  thing  than  virtue  is, 
That  artists  first  must  cater  for  their  ease 
Or  ever  they  make  issue  past  themselves 
To  generous  use  ?     Alas,  and  is  it  so 
That  we,  who  would  be  somewhat   clean, 

must  sweep 
Our  ways  as  well  as  walk  them,  and  no 

friend  960 

Confirm    us    nobly,  — "  Leave   results    to 

God, 
But   you,  be   clean  ?  "     What !    "  prudent 

compromise 


33^ 


AURORA   LEIGH 


Makes  acceptable  life,"  you  say  instead, 
You,  you,  Lord  Howe  ?  —  in  things  indif- 
ferent, well. 
For    instance,    compromise    the    wheaten 

bread 
For  rye,  the  meat  for  lentils,  silk  for  serge. 
And  sleep  on  down,  if  needs,  for  sleep  on 

straw; 
But   there,  end   compromise.     I   will   not 

bate 
One  artist-dream   on   straw  or  down,  my 

lord. 
Nor  pinch  my  liberal   soul,  though   I   be 

poor,  970 

Nor  cease  to  love  high,  though  I  live  thus 

low.' 

So  speaking,  with  less  anger  in  my  voice 
Than  sorrow,  I  rose  quickly  to  depart; 
While  he,   thrown   back   upon   the   noble 

shame 
Of  such  high-stumbling  natures,  murmured 

words. 
The   right  words  after  wrong   ones.     Ah, 

the  man 
Is  worthy,  but  so  given  to  entertain 
Impossible  plans  of  superhuman  life,  — 
He  sets  his  virtues  on  so  raised  a  shelf. 
To  keep  them  at  the  grand  millennial  height, 
He  has  to  mount  a  stool  to  get  at  them; 
And,  meantime,  lives  on  quite  the  common 

way,  982 

With  everybody's  morals. 

As  we  passed, 
Lord  Howe  insisting  that  his  friendly  arm 
Should  oar  me  across  the  sparkling  brawl- 
ing stream 
Which   swept   from  room   to  room,  —  we 

'fell  at  once 
On   Lady  Waldemar.     *Miss   Leigh,'  she 

said. 
And   gave  me  such  a   smile,  so  cold  and 

bright. 
As  if  she  tried  it  in  a  'tiring  glass 
And  liked  it,  '  all  to-night  I  've  strained  at 

you  990 

As  babes  at  baubles  held  up  out  of  reach 
By  spiteful  nurses  ("  Never  snatch,"  they 

say). 
And  there  you  sat,  most  perfectly  shut  in 
By  good  Sir  Blaise  and  clever  Mister  Smith 
And   then  our  dear  Lord  Howe  !   at   last 

indeed 
I   almost   snatched.     I  have   a  world    to 

speak 


About  your  cousin's   place   in   Shropshire, 

where 
I  've  been  to  see  his  work  .  .  .  our  work,  — 

you  heard 
I  went  ?  .  .  .  and  of  a  letter  yesterday. 
In  which  if  I  should  read  a  page  or  two 
You   might   feel   interest,   though   you're 
locked  of  course  looi 

In  literary  toil.  —  You  '11  like  to  hear 
Your  last  book  lies  at  the  phalanstery, 
As  judged  innocuous  for  the  elder  girls 
And   younger   women  who   still   care   for 

books. 
We  all  must  read,  you  see,  before  we  live, 
Till  slowly  the  ineffable  light  comes  up 
And,   as   it   deepens,  drowns   the   written 

word,  — 
So  said  your  cousin,  while  we   stood   and 
lelt  1009 

A  sunset  from  his  favorite  beech-tree  seat. 
He  might  have  been  a  poet  if  he  would. 
But  then  he  saw  the  higher  thing  at  once 
And  climbed  to  it.     I  think  he  looks  well 

now, 
Has  quite  got  over  that  unfortunate  .  .  . 
Ah,  ah  ...  I  know  it  moved  you.     Ten- 
der-heart ! 
You  took  a  liking  to  the  wretched  girl. 
Perhaps  you   thought   the   marriage  suit- 
able. 
Who  knows  ?  a  poet  hankers  for  romance, 
And   so  on.     As   for   Romney  Leigh,  't  is 

sure 
He    never   loved    her,  —  never.      By   the 
way,  1020 

You   have    not   heard   of   her?  .  .  .  quite 

out  of  sight, 
And  out  of  saving  ?  lost  in  every  sense  ? ' 

She  might  have  gone  on  talking  half  an 
hour 

And  I  stood  still,  and  cold,  and  pale,  I 
think, 

As  a  garden-statue  a  child  pelts  with  snow 

For  pretty  pastime.     Every  now  and  then 

I  put  in  '  yes '  or  *  no,'  I  scarce  knew 
why; 

The  blind  man  walks  wherever  the  dog 
pulls. 

And  so  I  answered.  Till  Lord  Howe  broke 
in: 

'  What  penance  takes  the  wretch  who  in- 
terrupts 1030 

The  talk  of  charming  women  ?     I,  at  last. 

Must  brave  it.     Pardon,  Lady  Waldemar, 


FIFTH   BOOK 


339 


The  lady  on  my  arm  is  tired,  unwell, 
And  loyally  I  've  promised  she  shall  say 
No   harder   word   this   evening   than  .  .  . 

good-night; 
The  rest  her  face  speaks  for  her.'  —  Then 

we  went. 

And  I  breathe  large  at  home.     I  drop  my 

cloak, 
Unclasp   my   girdle,  loose   the  band   that 

ties 
My  hair  .  .  .  now  could  I  but  unloose  my 

soul  ! 
We   are    sepulchred    alive    in   this   close 

world,  1040 

And  want  more  room. 

The  charming  woman  there  — 
This  reckoning  up  and  writing  down  her 

talk 
Affects  me  singularly.     How  she  talked 
To  pain  me  !  woman's  spite.  —  You  wear 

steel-mail : 
A   woman  takes   a    housewife    from   her 

breast 
And  plucks  the  delicatest  needle  out 
As  't  were  a  rose,  and  pricks  you  carefully 
'Neath  nails,  'neath   eyelids,  in  your  nos- 
trils, —  say, 
A   beast  would  roar  so  tortured,  —  but  a 

man, 
A   human    creature,    must   not,   shall   not 

flinch,  1050 

No,  not  for  shame. 

What  vexes,  after  all. 
Is  just  that  such  as  she,  with  such  as  I, 
Knows   how   to   vex.     Sweet   heaven,   she 

takes  me  up 
As  if  she  had  fingered  me  and  dog-eared 

me 
And  spelled  me  by  the  fireside  half  a  life  ! 
She  knows  my  turns,  my  feeble  points.  — 

What  then  ? 
The   knowledge   of    a   thing    implies    the 

thing; 
Of  course,  she  found  that  in  me,  she  saw 

that. 
Her  pencil  underscored  this  for  a  fault, 
And  I,  still  ignorant.      Shut  the  book  up, 

—  close  !  1060 

And  crush  that  beetle  in  the  leaves. 

O  heart, 
At  last  we  shall  grow  hard  too,  like  the 

rest. 
And  call  it   self-defence   because   we  are 

soft. 


And  after  all,  now  .  .  .  why  should  I  be 

pained 
That   Komney   Leigh,   my  cousin,  should 

espouse 
This   Lady   Waldemar  ?      And,   say,   she 

held 
Her    newly  -  blossomed    gladness    in    my 

face,  .  .  . 
'T  was  natural  surely,  if  not  generous, 
Considering   how,  when   winter  held   her 

fast, 
I  helped  the  frost  with  mine,  and  pained 
her  more  1070 

Than   she    pains    me.      Pains   me  !  —  but 

wherefore  pained  ? 
'T  is   clear  my   cousin   Romney   wants   a 

wife,  — 
So,  good  !  —  The  man's  need  of  the  wo- 
man, here, 
Is  greater  than  the  woman's  of  the  man. 
And  easier  served;  for  where  the  man  dis- 
cerns 
A  sex  (ah,  ah,  the  man  can  generalize, 
Said  he),  we  see  but  one,  ideally 
And  really:  where  we  yearn  to  lose  our- 
selves 
And  melt   like  white  pearls   in   another's 

wine. 
He   seeks  to  double  himself  by  what  he 
loves,  1080 

And  make  his  drink  more  costly  by  our 

pearls. 
At  board,  at  bed,  at  work  and  holiday, 
It  is  not  good  for  man  to  be  alone. 
And  that 's  his  way  of  thinking,  first  and 

last. 
And    thus    my   cousin   Romney    wants   a 

wife. 
But  then  my  cousin  sets  his  dignity 
On  personal  virtue.     If  he  understands 
By  love,  like  others,  self-aggrandizement. 
It  is  that  he  may  verily  be  great 
By   doing   rightly   and   kindly.     Once   he 
thought,  1090 

For  charitable  ends  set  duly  forth 
In     Heaven's     white     judgment-book,    to 

marry  ...  ah, 
We  '11   call   her   name   Aurora  Leigh,  al- 
though 
She  's  changed  since  then  !  —  and  once,  for 

social  ends. 
Poor  Marian  Erie,  my  sister  Marian  Erie, 
My  woodland  sister,  sweet  maid  Marian, 
Whose  memory  moans  on  in  me  like  the 
wind 


340 


AURORA   LEIGH 


Through   ill-shut   casements,   making    me 

more  sad 
Than  ever  I  find  reasons  for.     Alas, 
Poor  pretty  plaintive  face,  embodied  ghost ! 
He  finds  it  easy  then,  to  clap  thee  off     noi 
From  pulling  at  his  sleeve  and  book  and 

pen,  — 
He  locks  thee  out  at  night  into  the  cold 
Away  from  butting  with  thy  horny  eyes 
Against  his  crystal  dreams,  that  now  he  's 

strong 
To  love  anew  ?  that  Lady  Waldemar 
Succeeds  my  Marian  ? 

After  all,  why  not  ? 
He  loved  not  Marian,  more  than  once  he 

loved 
Aurora.     If  he  loves  at  last  that  Third, 
Albeit  she  prove  as  slippery  as  spilt  oil  mo 
On  marble  floors,  I  will  not  augur  him 
Ill-luck  for  that.     Good  love,  howe'er  ill- 
placed, 
Is  better  for  a  man's  soul  in  the  end. 
Than   if  he  loved   ill  what  deserves   love 

well. 
A  pagan,  kissing  for  a  step  of  Pan 
The    wild-goat's    hoof-print   on  the  loamy 

down. 
Exceeds    our   modern   thinker   who    turns 

back 
The  strata  .  .  .  granite,    limestone,    coal, 

and  clay. 
Concluding     coldly    with    '  Here  's    law  ! 

where  's  God  ?  ' 

And  then  at  worst,  —  if  Romney  loves  her 
not,  —  II20 

At  worst  — if  he  's  incapable  of  love. 
Which  may   be  —  then  indeed,  for  such  a 

man 
Incapable  of  love,  she  's  good  enough; 
For  she,  at  worst  too,  is  a  woman  still 
And  loves  him  ...  as  the  sort  of  woman 
can. 

My  loose  long  hair  began  to  burn  and 
creep. 

Alive  to  the  very  ends,  about  my  knees: 

I  swept  it  backward  as  the  wind  sweeps 
flame, 

With  the  passion  of  my  hands.  Ah,  Rom- 
ney laughed 

One  day  .  .  .  (how  full  the  memories  come 
up  !)  1130 

—  *  Your  Florence  fire-flies  live  on  in  your 
hair,' 


He  said,  'it  gleams  so.'      Well,  I  wrung 

them  out. 
My  fire-flies;  made  a  knot  as  hard  as  life 
Of  those  loose,  soft,  impracticable  curls. 
And  then  sat  down  and  thought  .  .  .  '  She 

shall  not  think 
Her  thought  of  me,' —  and  drew  my  desk 

and  wrote. 

'  Dear  Lady  Waldemar,  I  could  not  speak 
With  people  round  me,  nor  can  sleep  to- 
night 
And   not   speak,  after   the   great   news   I 

heard 
Of  you  and  of  my  cousin.     May  you  be  1140 
Most  happy;   and  the  good  he  meant  the 

world 
Replenish  his  own  life.     Say  what  I  say. 
And    let   my    word   be   sweeter   for   your 

mouth. 
As  you  are  you  ...  I  only  Aurora  Leigh.' 
That's  quiet,  guarded:  though  she  hold  it 

Against  the  light,  she  '11  not  see  through  it 

more 
Than  lies  there  to  be  seen.     So  much  for 

pride ; 
And  now  for  peace,  a  little.     Let  me  stop 
All  writing  back  .  .  .  '  Sweet  thanks,  my 

sweetest  friend, 
You  've  made  more  joyful  my  great  joy 

itself.'  1 150 

—  No,  that 's  too  simple  !  she  would  twist 

it  thus, 
'  My  joy  would  still  be  as  sweet  as  thyme 

in  drawers, 
However  shut  up  in  the  dark  and  dry; 
But  violets,  aired  and  dewed  by  love  like 

yours. 
Out-smell  all  thyme:  we  keep  that  in  our 

clothes. 
But  drop  the  other  down  our  bosoms  till 
They   smell   like  — '    .  .  .  ah,   I   see    her 

writing  back 
Just   so.     She  '11  make  a   nosegay  of  her 

words. 
And  tie  it  with  blue  ribbons  at  the  end 
To  suit  a  poet ;  —  pshaw  ! 

And  then  we  '11  have 
The  call  to  church,  the  broken,  sad,  bad 

dream  1161 

Dreamed   out   at   last,    the   marriage-vow 

complete 
With  the  marriage  breakfast;   praying  in 

white  gloves. 


FIFTH   BOOK 


341 


Drawn   off  in   haste   for    drinking   pagan 

toasts 
In  somewhat  stronger  wine  than  any  sipped 
By  gods  since  Bacchus  had  his  way  with 

grapes. 

A  postscript  stops  all  that  and  rescues  me. 
*  You  need  not  write.     I  have  been  over- 
worked, 
And   think   of   leaving    London,    England 

even. 
And  hastening  to  get  nearer  to  the  sun  1170 
Where  men  sleep  better.     So,  adieu.'  —  I 

fold 
And  seal,  —  and   now  I'm  out  of  all  the 

coil; 
I   breathe   now,  I   spring   upward   like    a 

branch 
The   ten-years   school-boy  with  a  crooked 

stick 
May  pull   down  to   his  level  in  search  of 

nuts, 
But    cannot   hold    a   moment.      How    we 

twang 
Back   on   the     blue    sky,    and    assert    our 

height. 
While  he  stares  after  !     Now,  the  wonder 

seems 
That   I    could    wrong    myself   by   such   a 

doubt. 
We  poets  always  have  uneasy  hearts,     1180 
Because  our  hearts,  large-rounded   as  the 

globe, 
Can  turn  but  one  side  to  the  sun  at  once. 
We  are  used  to  dip  our  artist-hands  in  gall 
And  potash,  trying  potentialities 
Of  alternated  color,  till  at  last 
We  get  confused,  and  wonder  for  our  skin 
How  nature  tinged  it  first.     Well  —  here 's 

the  true 
Good  flesh-color;  I  recognize  my  hand, — 
Which  Romney  Leigh  may  clasp  as  just  a 

friend's,  1189 

And  keep  his  clean. 

And  now,  my  Italy. 
Alas,  if  we  could  ride  with  naked  souls 
And  make  no  noise  and  pay  no  price  at  all, 
I  would  have  seen  thee  sooner,  Italy, 
For  still  I  have  heard  thee  crying  through 

my  life. 
Thou  piercing  silence  of  ecstatic  graves. 
Men  call  that  name  ! 

But  even  a  witch  to-day 
Must  melt  down  golden  pieces  in  the  nard 


Wherewith  to  anoint  her  broomstick  ere 
she  rides; 

And  poets  evermore  are  scant  of  gold, 

And  if  they  find  a  piece  behind  the 
door  1200 

It  turns  by  sunset  to  a  withered  leaf. 

The  Devil  himself  scarce  trusts  his  pa- 
tented 

Gold-making  art  to  any  who  make  rhymes, 

But  culls  his  Faustus  from  philosophers 

And  not  from  poets.  '  Leave  my  Job,' 
said  God; 

And  so  the  Devil  leaves  him  without 
pence, 

And  poverty  proves  plainly  special  grace. 

In  these  new,  just,  administrative  times 

Men  clamor  for  an  order  of  merit :  why  ? 

Here  's    black   bread  on  the  table  and  no 


wine  ! 


1210 


At  least  I  am  a  poet  in  being  poor, 
Thank  God.     I  wonder  if  the  manuscript 
Of  my  long  poem,  if  't  were  sold  outright, 
Would  fetch  enough  to  buy  me  shoes  to  go 
Afoot  (thrown  in,  the  necessary  patch 
For  the  other  side  the  Alps)  ?     It  cannot 

be. 
I  fear  that  I  must  sell  this  residue 
Of  my  father's  books,  although  the  Elze- 
virs 
Have  fly-leaves  overwritten  by  his  hand 
In    faded    notes    as    thick   and   fine    and 

brown  1220 

As  cobwebs  on  a  tavsmy  monument 
Of   the  old  Greeks  —  conferenda  hcec  cum 

his  — 
Corrupte  citat  —  lege  potius, 
And  so  on,  in  the  scholar's  regal  way 
Of  giving  judgment  on  the  parts  of  speech, 
As  if  he  sat  on  all  twelve  thrones  up-piled. 
Arraigning    Israel.      Ay,   but    books  and 

notes 
Must  go  together.     And  this  Proclus  too, 
In   these    dear  quaint  contracted   Grecian 

types, 
Fantastically  crumpled  like  his  thoughts  1230 
Which  would  not  seem  too  plain;  you  go 

round  twice 
For  one  step  forward,  then  you  take  it  back 
Because  you're  somewhat  giddy;   there's 

the  rule 
For  Proclus.     Ah,  I  stained   this   middle 

leaf 
With  pressing  in 't  my  Florence  iris-bell, 
Long  stalk  and  all:  my  father  chided  me 


342 


AURORA   LEIGH 


For  that  stain  of  blue  blood,  —  I  recollect 
The   peevish   turn   his    voice    took,  '  Silly 

girls. 
Who  plant  their  flowers  in  our  philosophy 
To  make  it  fine,  and  only  spoil  the  book  ! 
No  more  of  it,  Aurora.'     Yes  —  no  more  ! 
Ah,  blame  of  love,  that 's  sweeter  than  all 

praise  1242 

Of  those  who   love   not !    't  is   so  lost   to 

me, 
I  cannot,  in  such  beggared  life,  afford 
To   lose   my  Proclus,  —  not   for   Florence 

even. 

The  kissing  Judas,  Wolff,  shall  go  instead. 
Who  builds  us  such  a  royal  book  as  this 
To  honor  a  chief -poet,  folio-built, 
And  writes  above  '  The  house  of  Nobody  ! ' 
Who  floats  in  cream,  as  rich  as  any  sucked 
From  Juno's  breasts,  the  broad  Homeric 

lines,  1251 

And,  while  with  their  spondaic  prodigious 

mouths 
They  lap  the  lucent  margins  as  babe-gods. 
Proclaims    them    bastards.      Wolff 's    an 

atheist: 
And  if  the  Iliad  fell  out,  as  he  says. 
By    mere    fortuitous     concourse     of    old 

songs. 
Conclude  as  much  too  for  the  universe. 

That  Wolff,  those  Platos:  sweep  the  upper 

shelves 
As  clean  as  this,  and  so  I  am  almost  rich, 
Which  means,  not  forced  to  think  of  being 

poor  1260 

In  sight  of  ends.     To-morrow:  no  delay. 
I  '11  wait  in  Paris  till  good  Carrington 
Dispose  of  such  and,  having  chaffered  for 
My  book's  price  with  the  publisher,  direct 
All  proceeds  to  me.     Just  a  line  to  ask 
His  help. 

And  now  I  come,  my  Italy, 
My  own  hills  !     Are  you  'ware  of  me,  my 

hills, 
How  I  burn  toward  you  ?  do  you  feel  to- 
night 
The  urgency  and  yearning  of  my  soul. 
As  sleeping  mothers  feel  the  sucking  babe 
And  smile  ?  —  Nay,  not  so  much  as  when 

in  heat  1271 

Vain   lightnings   catch   at    your   inviolate 

tops 
And  tremble  while  ye  are  steadfast.     Still 

ye  go 


Your   own   determined,   calm,    indifferent 

way 
Toward  sunrise,  shade  by  shade,  and  light 

by  light. 
Of  all  the  grand   progression  nought  left 

out. 
As  if  God  verily  made  you  for  yourselves 
And  would   not   interrupt   your   life  with 

ours. 


SIXTH   BOOK 

The  English  have  a  scornful  insular  way 
Of  calling  the  French  light.     The  levity 
Is  in  the  judgment  only,  which  yet  stands, 
For  say  a  foolish  thing  but  oft  enough 
(And   here  's    the    secret    of    a    hundred 

creeds. 
Men  get  opinions  as  boys  learn  to  spell, 
By  reiteration  chiefly),  the  same  thing 
Shall  pass  at  last  for  absolutely  wise. 
And  not  with  fools  exclusively.     And  so 
We    say  the    French   are   light,  as   if  we 

said  10 

The  cat  mews  or  the  milch-cow  gives  us 

milk: 
Say  rather,  cats  are  milked  and  milch-cows 

mew; 
For  what  is  lightness  but  inconsequence. 
Vague  fluctuation  'twixt  effect  and  cause 
Compelled  by  neither  ?     Is  a  bullet  light 
That   dashes  from   the   gun-mouth,  while 

the  eye 
Winks  and  the  heart  beats  one,  to  flatten 

itself 
To  a  wafer  on  the  white  speck  on  a  wall 
A  hundred  paces  off  ?     Even  so  direct. 
So  sternly  undivertible  of  aim,  20 

Is  this  French  people. 

All,  idealists 
Too  absolute  and  earnest,  with  them  all 
The  idea  of  a  knife  cuts  real  flesh; 
And  still,  devouring  the  safe  interval 
Which  Nature  placed  between  the  thought 

and  act 
With  those  two  fiery  and  impatient  souls. 
They  threaten  conflagration  to  the  world. 
And   rush    with   most    unscrupulous  logic 

on 
Impossible  practice.     Set  your  orators 
To    blow    upon    them    with    loud   windy 

mouths,  30 

Through  watchword  phrases,  jest  or  senti- 
ment. 


SIXTH   BOOK 


343 


Which    drive    our    burly    brutal   English 

mobs 
Like  so  much   chaff,  whichever  way  they 

blow,  — 
This  light  French  people  will  not  thus  be 

driven. 
They  turn   indeed,  —  but   then   they  turn 

upon 
Some  central  pivot  of   their  thought  and 

choice, 
And  veer  out  by  the  force  of  holding  fast. 
That 's  hard  to   understand,  for   English- 
men 
Unused  to  abstract  questions,  and  untrained 
To  trace  the  involutions,  valve  by  valve,  40 
In  each  orbed  bulb-root  of  a  general  truth, 
And  mark  what  subtly  fine  integument 
Divides  opposed  compartments.    Freedom's 

self 
Comes  concrete  to  us,  to  be  understood, 
Fixed  in  a  feudal  form  incarnately 
To  suit  our  ways  of   thought  and  rever- 
ence, 
The  special  form,  with  us,  being  still  the 

thing. 
With  us,  I  say,  though  I  'm  of  Italy 
By  mother's  birth  and  grave,  by  father's 

grave 
And  memory;  let  it  be  —  a  poet's  heart  50 
Can  swell  to  a  pair  of  nationalities. 
However  ill-lodged  in  a  woman's  breast. 

And   so   I   am   strong   to  love  this  noble 

France, 
This  poet  of  the  nations,  who  dreams  on 
And  wails  on  (while  the  household  goes  to 

wreck) 
For  ever,  after  some  ideal  good,  — 
Some  equal  poise  of   sex,  some   unvowed 

love 
Inviolate,  some  spontaneous  brotherhood. 
Some  wealth  that  leaves    none   poor   and 

finds  none  tired. 
Some  freedom  of  the  many  that  respects  60 
The  wisdom  of  the  few.     Heroic  dreams  ! 
Sublime,  to  dream  so;  natural,  to  wake: 
And  sad,  to  use  such  lofty  scaffoldings. 
Erected  for  the  building  of  a  church. 
To  build  instead  a  brothel  or  a  prison  — 
May  God  save  France  ! 

And  if  at  last  she  sighs 
Her  great  soul  up  into  a  great  man's  face. 
To  flush  his  temples  out  so  gloriously 
That  few  dare  carp   at   Caesar  for   being 

bald. 


What  then  ?  —  this  Caesar  represents,  not 
reigns,  70 

And  is  no  despot,  though  twice  absolute : 
This  Head  has  all  the  people  for  a  heart; 
This  purple  's  lined  with  the  democracy,  — 
Now  let  him  see  to  it !  for  a  rent  within 
Would  leave  irreparable  rags  without. 

A  serious  riddle:  find  such  anywhere 
Except  in  France ;  and  when  't  is  found  in 

France, 
Be  sure  to  read  it  rightly.     So,  I  mused 
Up  and  down,  up  and  down,  the  terraced 

streets. 
The  glittering  boulevards,  the  white  colon- 
nades 80 
Of  fair  fantastic  Paris  who  wears  trees 
Like  plumes,  as  if  man  made  them,  spire 

and  tower 
As  if  they  had  grown  by  nature,  tossing 

Her    fountains    in    the    sunshine    of    the 

squares. 
As  if  in  beauty's  game  she  tossed  the  dice. 
Or    blew    the    silver    down -balls    of   her 

dreams 
To  sow  futurity  with  seeds  of  thought 
And  count  the  passage  of  her  festive  hours. 

The  city  swims  in  verdure,  beautiful 
As  Venice  on  the  waters,  the  sea-swan.     90 
What   bosky   gardens   dropped    in   close- 
walled  courts 
Like  plums  in  ladies'  laps  who  start  and 

laugh : 
What  miles  of  streets   that  run   on  after 

trees. 
Still  carrying  all  the  necessary  shops. 
Those  open  caskets  with  the  jewels  seen  ! 
And  trade  is  art,  and  art 's  philosophy. 
In  Paris.   There  's  a  silk  for  instance,  there. 
As  worth  an  artist's  study  for  the  folds 
As  that  bronze  opposite  !  nay,  the  bronze 
has  faults,  99 

Art  's  here  too  artful,  —  conscious  as  a  maid 
Who  leans  to  mark  her  shadow  on  the  wall 
Until  she  lose  a  vantage  in  her  step. 
Yet  Art  walks  forward,  and  knows  where  to 

walk; 
The  artists  also  are  idealists. 
Too  absolute  for  nature,  logical 
To  austerity  in  the  application  of 
The  special  theory,  —  not  a  soul  content 
To  paint  a  crooked  pollard  and  an  ass, 
As  the  English  will  because  they  find  it  so 


344 


AURORA   LEIGH 


And   like    it  somehow.  —  There    the    old 

Tuileries  no 

Is  pulling  its  high  cap  down  on  its  eyes, 
Confounded,      conscience  -  stricken,       and 

amazed 
By  the  apparition  of  a  new  fair  face 
In  those  devouring  mirrors.     Through  the 

grate 
Within  the  gardens,  what  a  heap  of  babes, 
Swept  up  like  leaves  beneath  the  chestnut- 
trees 
From  every  street  and  alley  of  the  town, 
By  ghosts  perhaps  that  blow  too  bleak  this 

way 
A-looking  for   their  heads  !    dear   pretty 

babes, 
I  wish  them  luck  to  have  their  ball-play 

out  1 20 

Before  the  next  change.     Here  the  air  is 

thronged 
With   statues   poised   upon  their  columns 

fine, 
As  if  to  stand  a  moment  were  a  feat, 
Against  that  blue  !    What  squares,  —  what 

breathing-room 
For   a   nation    that   runs   fast,  —  ay,  runs 

against 
The   dentist's  teeth   at  the  corner  in  pale 

rows. 
Which  grin  at  progress,  in  an  epigram-. 

I  walked  the  day  out,  listening  to  the  chink 
Of  the  first  Napoleon's  bones  in  his  second 

grave, 
By   victories   guarded    'neath    the   golden 

dome  130 

That  caps  all  Paris  like  a  bubble.     *  Shall 
These   dry   bones   live  ? '     thought    Louis 

Philippe  once, 
And  lived  to  know.     Herein  is  argument 
For  kings  and  politicians,  but  still  more 
For  poets,  who  bear  buckets  to  the  well 
Of  ampler  draught. 

These  crowds  are  very  good 
For  meditation  (when  we  are  very  strong) 
Though  love  of  beauty  makes  us  timorous. 
And  draws  us  backward  from  the  coarse 

■  town-sights 
To  count  the  daisies  upon  dappled  fields  140 
And  hear  the  streams  bleat  on  among  the 

hills 
In  innocent  and  indolent  repose. 
While  still  with  silken  elegiac  thoughts 
We  wind  out  from  us  the  distracting  world 
And  die  into  the  chrysalis  of  a  man, 


And  leave  the  best  that  may,  to  come  of  us. 
In  some  brown  moth.    I  would  be  bold  and 

bear 
To  look  into  the  swarthiest  face  of  things, 
For  God's  sake  who  has  made  them. 

Six  days'  work; 
The  last  day  shutting  'twixt  its  dawn  and 

eve  150 

The  whole  work  bettered  of  the  previous 

five  ! 
Since  God  collected  and  resumed  in  man 
The  firmaments,  the  strata,  and  the  lights, 
Fish,   fowl,   and    beast,   and    insect,  —  all 

their  trains 
Of  various  life  caught  back  upon  his  arm, 
Reorganized,  and  constituted  man. 
The  microcosm,  the  adding  up  of  works,  — 
Within  whose  fluttering   nostrils,  then   at 

last 
Consummating  Himself  the  Maker  sighed, 
As   some  strong   winner  at  the  foot-race 

sighs  160 

Touching  the  goal. 

Humanity  is  great; 
And,  if  I  would  not  rather  pore  upon 
An  ounce  of  common,  ugly,  human  dust, 
An  artisan's  palm  or  a  peasant's  brow, 
Unsmooth,  ignoble,  save  to  me  and  God, 
Than  track  old  Nilus  to  his  silver  roots. 
Or  wait  on  all  the  changes  of  the  moon 
Among  the  mountain-peaks  of  Thessaly 
(Until  her  magic  crystal  round  itself 
For  many  a  witch  to  see  in)  —  set  it  down 
As    weakness,  —  strength    by   no    means. 

How  is  this,  171 

That  men  of  science,  osteologists 
And  surgeons,  beat  some  poets  in  respect 
For   nature,  —  count   nought   common    or 

unclean. 
Spend  raptures  upon  perfect  specimens 
Of  indurated  veins,  distorted  joints, 
Or  beautiful  new  cases  of  curved  spine, 
While  we,  we  are  shocked  at  nature's  fall- 
ing off. 
We  dare  to  shrink   back  from  her   warts 

and  blains, 
We  will   not,  when   she   sneezes,  look   at 

her,  180 

Not  even  to  say  '  God  bless  her '  ?    That 's 

our  wrong; 
For  that,  she  will  not  trust  us  often  with 
Her  larger  sense  of  beauty  and  desire. 
But  tethers  us  to  a  lily  or  a  rose 
And  bids  us  diet  on  the  dew  inside, 


SIXTH    BOOK 


345 


Left  ignorant  that  the  hungry  beggar-boy 
(Who   stares   unseen    against   our    absent 

eyes, 
And  wonders  at   the   gods  that  we  must 

be, 
To  pass  so  careless  for  the  oranges  !) 
Bears  yet  a  breastful  of  a  fellow-world    190 
To  this  world,  undisparaged,  undespoiled, 
And  (while  we  scorn  him  for  a  flower  or 

two. 
As  being,  Heaven  help  us,  less  poetical) 
Contains  himself   both  flowers  and  firma- 
ments 
And  surging  seas  and  aspectable  stars 
And   all  that  we  would  push  him  out   of 

sight 
In  order  to  see  nearer.     Let  us  pray 
God's  grace  to  keep  God's  image  in  repute, 
That  so,  the  poet  and  philanthropist 
(Even  I  and  Komney)  may  stand  side  by 

side,  200 

Because  we  both  stand  face  to  face  with 

men, 
Contemplating  the  people  in  the  rough, 
Yet  each  so  follow  a  vocation,  his 
And  mine. 

I  walked  on,  musing  with  myself 
On  life  and  art,  and  whether  after  all 
A  larger  metaphysics  might  not  help 
Our  phj^sics,  a  completer  poetry 
Adjust  our  daily  life  and  vulgar  wants 
More  fully  than  the  special  outside  plans, 
Phalansteries,  material  institutes,  210 

The  civil  conscriptions  and  lay  monasteries 
Preferred    by   modern   thinkers,    as    they 

thought 
The  bread  of  man  indeed  made  all  his  life, 
And  washing  seven  times  in  the  '  People's 

Baths ' 
Were  sovereign  for  a  people's  leprosy. 
Still   leaving   out   the   essential   prophet's 

word 
That  comes  in  power.    On  which,  we  thun- 
der down. 
We    prophets,    poets,  —  Virtue 's    in    the 

word  ! 
The  maker  burnt   the    darkness  up  with 

his, 
To  inaugurate  the  use  of  vocal  life ;  220 

And,  plant  a  poet's  word  even,  deep  enough 
In  any  man's  breast,  looking  presently 
For  offshoots,  you  have  done  more  for  the 

man 
Than  if  you  dressed  him  in  a  broadcloth 

coat 


And  warmed  his  Sunday  pottage  at  your 

fire. 
Yet  Romney  leaves  me  .  .  . 

God  !  what  face  is  that  ? 
O  Romney,  O  Marian  ! 

Walking  on  the  quays 
And  pulling  thoughts  to  pieces  leisurely. 
As  if  I  caught  at  grasses  in  a  field  229 

And  bit  them  slow  between  my  absent  lips 
And  shred  them  with  my  hands  .  .  . 

What  face  is  that  ? 
What  a  face,  what  a  look,  what  a  likeness  ! 

Full  on  mine 
The  sudden  blow  of  it  came  down,  till  all 
My  blood  swam,  my  eyes  dazzled.     Then 

I  sprang  .  .  . 

It  was  as  if  a  meditative  man 
Were  dreaming  out  a  summer  afternoon 
And  watching  gnats  a-prick  upon  a  pond. 
When  something   floats    up  suddenly,  out 

there, 
Turns  over  ...  a  dead  face,  known  once 

alive  .  .  . 
So  old,  so  new  !  it  would  be  dreadful  now 
To  lose  the  sight  and  keep  the  doubt  of 

this:  241 

He   plunges  —  ha  !   he  has   lost  it   in  the 

splash. 

I  plunged  —  I  tore   the  crowd  up,  either 

side. 
And   rushed   on,  forward,   forward,   after 

her. 
Her  ?  whom  ? 

A  woman  sauntered  slow  in  front, 
Munching  an  apple,  —  she  left  off  amazed 
As  if  I  had  snatched  it:  that 's  not  she,  at 

least. 
A   man   walked   arm-linked   with   a   ladv 

veiled, 
Both  heads  dropped  closer  than  the  need 

of  talk:  250 

They  started;  he  forgot  her  with  his  face, 
And  she,  herself,  and  clung  to  him  as  if 
My   look    were  fatal.     Such   a  stream  of 

folk, 
And  all  with   cares  and  business  of   their 

own  ! 
I  ran  the  whole  quay  down  against  their 

eyes; 
No   Marian;    nowhere    Marian.     Almost, 

now, 
I   could    call   Marian,    Marian,    with    the 

shriek 


346 


AURORA   LEIGH 


Of    desperate   creatures    calling    for    the 

Dead. 
Where   is   she,   was   she  ?    was   she   any- 
where ? 
I  stood  still,  breathless,  gazing,  straining 

out 
In  every  uncertain  distance,  till  at  last    260 
A  gentleman  abstracted  as  myself 
Came  full  against   me,  then  resolved  the 

clash 
In  voluble  excuses,  —  obviously 
Some  learned  member  of  the  Institute 
Upon    his    way    there,    walking,   for    his 

health 
While  meditating  on  the  last  '  Discourse ; ' 
Pinching  the  empty  air  'twixt  finger  and 

thumb. 
From  which  the  snuff  being  ousted  by  that 

shock 
Defiled    his    snow-white    waistcoat    duly 

pricked 
At  the  button-hole  with  honorable  red;    270 
'  Madame,      your      pardon,'  —  there      he 

swerved  from  me 
A  metre,  as  confounded  as  he  had  heard 
That  Dumas  would  be  chosen  to  fill  up 
The  next  chair  vacant,  by  his  '  men  in  us.'' 
Since  when  was  genius  found  respectable  ? 
It    passes   in   its    place,    indeed,  —  which 

means 
The  seventh  floor  back,  or  else  the  hospital: 
Revolving  pistols  are  ingenious  things. 
But  prudent  men  (Academicians  are) 
Scarce  keep  them  in  the  cupboard  next  the 

prunes.  280 

And  so,  abandoned  to  a  bitter  mirth, 

I  loitered  to  my  inn.     O  world,  O  world, 

O   jurists,    rhymers,    dreamers,   what   you 

please. 
We  play  a  weary  game  of  hide-and-seek  ! 
We  shape  a  figure  of  our  fantasy, 
Call  nothing  something,  and  run  after  it 
And  lose  it,  lose  ourselves  too  in  the  search, 
Till  clash  against  us  comes  a  somebody 
Who  also  has  lost  something  and  is  lost. 
Philosopher  against  philanthropist,  290 

Academician  against  poet,  man 
Against    woman,    against   the    living   the 

dead, — 
Then  home,  with  a  bad  headache  and  worse 

jest  ! 

To  change  the  water  for  my  heliotropes 
And  yellow  roses.     Paris  has  such  flowers ; 


But  England,  also.     'T  was  a  yellow  rose. 
By  that  south  window  of  the  little  house. 
My  cousin  Romney  gathered  with  his  hand 
On  all  my  birthdays  for  me,  save  the  last; 
And  then  I  shook  the  tree  too  rough,  too 

rough,  300 

For  roses  to  stay  after. 

Now,  my  maps. 
I  must  not  linger  here  from  Italy 
Till  the  last  nightingale  is  tired  of  song, 
And  the  last  fire-fly  dies  off  in  the  maize. 
My  soul 's  in  haste  to  leap  into  the  sun 
And   scorch   and   seethe   itself   to   a  finer 

mood, 
Which  here,  in  this  chill  north,  is  apt  to 

stand 
Too  stiffly  in  former  moulds. 

That  face  persists. 
It  floats  up,  it  turns  over  in  my  mind. 
As  like  to  Marian  as  one  dead  is  like       310 
The  same  alive.     In  very  deed  a  face 
And  not  a  fancy,  though  it  vanished  so; 
The  small  fair  face  between  the  darks  of 

hair, 
I  used  to  liken,  when  I  saw  her  first. 
To  a  point  of  moonlit  water  down  a  well: 
The  low  brow,  the  frank  space  between  the 

eyes. 
Which    always    had   the   brown,   pathetic 

look 
Of  a  dumb  creature  who  had  been  beaten 

once 
And  never  since  was  easy  with  the  world. 
Ah,  ah  —  now  I  remember  perfectly        320 
Those  eyes,  to-day,  —  how  overlarge  they 

seemed. 
As  if  some  patient,  passionate  despair 
(Like  a  coal  dropped  and  forgot  on  tapes- 
try. 
Which  slowly  burns  a  widening  circle  out) 
Had  burnt  them  larger,  larger.     And  those 

eyes, 
To-day,  I  do  remember,  saw  me  too, 
As  I  saw  them,  with  conscious  lids  astrain 
In  recognition.     Now  a  fantasy, 
A  simple  shade  or  image  of  the  brain. 
Is  merely  passive,  does  not  retro-act,       330 
Is  seen,  but  sees  not, 

'T  was  a  real  face. 
Perhaps  a  real  Marian. 

Which  being  so, 
I   ought    to   write   to  Romney,  '  Marian 's 

here ; 
Be  comforted  for  Marian.' 

My  pen  fell, 


SIXTH    BOOK 


347 


My  hands  struck  sharp  together,  as  hands 

do 
Which  hold  at  nothing.     Can  I  write  to 

him 
A  half -truth  ?  can   I   keep   my  own  soul 

blind 
To  the  other  half,  .  .  .  the  worse  ?     What 

are  our  souls, 
If  still,  to  run  on  straight  a  sober  pace 
Nor  start  at  every  pebble  or  dead  leaf,    340 
They  must  wear  blinkers,  ignore  facts,  sup- 
press 
Six   tenths   of   the   road  ?      Confront   the 

truth,  my  soul  ! 
And  oh,  as  truly  as  that  was  Marian's  face, 
The  arms  of  that  same  Marian  clasped  a 

thing 
.  .  .  Not   hid  so   well   beneath  the  scanty 

shawl, 
I  cannot  name  it  now  for  what  it  was. 

A  child.     Small  business  has  a  castaway 
Like  Marian  with  that  crown  of  prosper- 
ous wives 
At  which  the  gentlest  she  grows  arrogant 
And   says    *  My    child.'      Who    finds    an 
emerald  ring  350 

On  a  beggar's  middle  finger  and  requires 
More  testimony  to  convict  a  thief  ? 
A  child  's  too  costly  for  so  mere  a  wretch ; 
She   filched  it  somewhere,  and  it   means, 

with  her, 
Instead  of  honor,  blessing,  merely  shame. 

I  cannot  write  to  Romney,  '  Here  she  is, 
Here 's  Marian  found  !  I  '11  set  you  on  her 

track: 
I   saw   her   here,   in   Paris,  .  .  .   and   her 

child. 
She  put  away  your  love  two  years  ago. 
But,  plainly,  not  to  starve.     You  suffered 

then ;  360 

And,  now  that  you  've  forgot  her  utterly 
As  any  last  year's  annual,  in  whose  place 
You  've     planted   a    thick-flowering   ever- 
green, 
I  choose,  being  kind,  to  write  and  tell  you 

this 
To   make    you    wholly   easy  —  she 's   not 

dead,     \ 
But  only  .  .  .  damned.' 

Stop  there:  I  go  too  fast; 
I  'm  cruel   like   the     rest,  —  in    haste    to 

take 
The  first  stir  in  the  arras  for  a  rat, 


And    set     my    barking,    biting    thoughts 
upon  't. 

—  A  child  !  what  then  ?     Suppose  a  neigh- 
bor 's  sick,  370 

And   asked   her,    '  Marian,  carry   out   my 
child 

In   this    Spring   air,'  —  I  punish    her   for 
that  ? 

Or  say,  the  child  should  hold  her  round  the 
neck 

For  good  child-reasons,  that  he  liked  it  so 

And  would   not  leave  her  —  she  had  win- 
ning ways  — 

I   brand   her  therefore  that  she  took  the 
chad? 

Not  so. 

I  will  not  write  to  Romney  Leigh, 

For  now  he  's  happy,  —  and   she  may  in- 
deed 

Be   guilty,  —  and   the   knowledge  of    her 
fault 

Would  draggle  his  smooth  time.     But  I, 
whose  days  380 

Are  not  so  fine  they  cannot  bear  the  rain, 

And  who  moreover  having  seen  her  face 

Must  see  it  again,  .  .  .  will  see  it,  by  my 
hopes 

Of  one  day  seeing  heaven  too.     The  police 

Shall  track  her,  hound  her,  ferret  their  own 
soil; 

We  '11  dig  this  Paris  to  its  catacombs 

But  certainly  we  '11  find  her,  have  her  out. 

And   save  her,  if   she    will   or  will  not  — 
child 

Or   no   child,  —  if    a    child,    then   one   to 
save  ! 

The  long  weeks  passed  on  without  conse- 
quence. 390 
As  easy  find  a  footstep  on  the  sand 
The  morning  after  spring-tide,  as  the  trace 
Of   Marian's   feet   between   the    incessant 

surfs 
Of  this  live  flood.     She  may  have  moved 

this  way,  — 
But  so  the  star-fish  does,  and  crosses  out 
The  dent  of  her   small  shoe.     The  foiled 

police 
Renounced  me.     '  Could  they  find   a  girl 

and  child, 
No  other  signalment  but  girl  and  child  ? 
No  data  shown  but  noticeable  eyes  399 

And  hair  in  masses,  low  upon  the  brow, 
As  if  it  were  an  iron  crown  and  pressed  ? 
Friends  heighten,  and  suppose  they  specify: 


348 


AURORA   LEIGH 


Why,  girls  with  hair  and  eyes  are  every- 
where 
In  Paris ;  they  had  turned  me  up  in  vain 
No  Marian  Erie  indeed,  but  certainly 
Mathildes,  Justines,  Victoires,  ...  or,  if 

I  sought 
The  English,  Betsis,  Saras,  by  the  score. 
They  might  as  well  go  out  into  the  fields 
To  find  a  speckled  bean,  that 's  somehow 

specked. 
And  somewhere  in  the   pod.'  —  They  left 
me  so.  410 

Shall  /  leave  Marian  ?  have  I  dreamed  a 
dream  ? 

—  I  thank  God  I  have  found  her  !  I  must 

say 
'Thank  God,'  for  finding  her,  although  'tis 

true 
I  find  the  world  more  sad  and  wicked  for 't. 
But  she  — 

I  '11  write  about  her,  presently. 
My  hand  's  a-tremble,  as  I  had  just  caught 

up 
My  heart  to  write  with,  in  the  place  of  it. 
At   least  you  'd  take  these    letters   to   be 

writ 
At  sea,  in  storm  !  —  wait  now  .  .  . 

A  simple  chance 
Did  all.     I  could  not  sleep  last  night,  and, 

tired  420 

Of    turning    on    my    pillow    and    harder 

thoughts. 
Went  out  at  early  morning,  when  the  air 
Is  delicate  with  some  last  starry  touch, 
To  wander  through  the    Market-place    of 

Flowers 
(The  prettiest  haunt  in  Paris),  and  make 

sure 
At    worst    that   there    were    roses   in   the 

world. 
So  wandering,  musing,  with  the  artist's  eye 
That  keeps  the  shade-side  of  the  thing  it 

loves. 
Half-absent,    whole  -  observing,    while   the 

crowd 
Of    young,    vivacious,   and   black-braided 

heads  430 

Dipped,  quick   as  finches  in  a   blossomed 

tree. 
Among  the  nosegays,  cheapening  this  and 

that 
In     such     a    cheerful    twitter    of     rapid 

speech,  — 
My  heart  leapt  in  me,  startled  by  a  voice 


That   slowly,   faintly,    with   long    breaths 

that  marked 
The  interval  between  the  wish  and  word. 
Inquired    in    stranger's   French,    '  Would 

that  be  much. 
That  branch  of  flowering  mountain-gorse  ?  ' 

—  '  So  much  ? 
Too  much  for  me,  then  ! '  turning  the  face 

round 
So  close  upon  me  that  I  felt  the  sigh       440 
It  turned  with. 

'  Marian,  Marian  ! '  —  face  to  face  — 
'  Marian  !  I  find  you.  Shall  I  let  you  go  ?  ' 
I  held  her  two  slight  wrists  with  both  my 

hands ; 
'  Ah  Marian,  Marian,  can  I  let  you  go  ? ' 
—  She  fluttered  from  me  like  a  cyclamen. 
As  white,  which  taken  in  a  sudden  wind 
Beats  on  against  the  palisade.  —  *  Let  pass,' 
She  said  at  last.     'I  will  not,'  I  replied; 
'  I  lost  my  sister  Marian  many  days. 
And   sought   her   ever   in   my  walks   and 
prayers,  450 

And,   now   I   find   her  ...  do  we   throw 

away 
The  bread  we  worked  and  prayed  for,  — 

crumble  it 
And  drop  it,  .  .  .  to  do  even  so  by  thee 
Whom  still  I  've  hungered  after  more  than 

bread. 
My   sister    Marian  ?  —  can   I    hurt    thee, 

dear  ? 
Then  why  distrust  me  ?     Never    tremble 

so. 
Come  with  me  rather  where  we  '11  talk  and 

live. 
And  none  shall  vex  us.     I  've  a  home  for 

you 
And  me  and  no  one  else.'  .  .  . 

She  shook  her  head. 
'  A  home  for  you  and  me  and  no  one  else 
111  suits  one  of  us:  I  prefer  to  such,         461 
A  roof  of  grass  on  which  a  flower  might 

spring. 
Less  costly  to  me  than  the  cheapest  here; 
And  yet  I  could  not,  at  this  hour,  afford 
A  like  home  even.     That  you  offer  yours, 
I  thank  you.     You  are  good  as  heaven  it- 
self— 
As  good  as  one  I  knew  before.  .  .  .  Fare- 
well.' 
I  loosed  her  hands :  —  'In  liis  name,  no  fare- 
well ! ' 
(She   stood   as   if  I  held  her.)     *  For  his 
sake, 


SIXTH    BOOK 


349 


For  his  sake,  Romney's  !  by  the  good  he 

meant,  470 

Ay,  always  !    by  the    love  he   pressed  for 

once,  — 
And  by  the  grief,  reproach,  abandonment, 
He  took  in  change  '  ,  .  . 

'  He  ?  —  Romney  !  who  grieved  him  f 
Who  had  the  heart  for  't  ?  what  reproach 

touched  him  ? 
Be  merciful,  —  speak  quickly.' 

'  Therefore  come,' 
I  answered  with  authority.  —  '  I  think 
We  dare  to  speak  such  things  and  name 

such  names 
In  the  open  squares  of  Paris  ! ' 

Not  a  word 
She  said,  but  in  a  gentle  humbled  way 
(As  one  who  had  forgot  herself  in  grief) 
Turned  round  and  followed  closely  where 

I  went,  481 

As  if  I  led  her  by  a  narrow  plank 
Across  devouring  waters,  step  by  step; 
And  so  in  silence  we  walked  on  a  mile. 

And  then  she  stopped:  her  face  was  white 
as  wax. 

*  We  go  much  farther  ?  ' 

'  You  are  ill,'  I  asked, 
'  Or  tired  ? ' 

She  looked  the  whiter  for  her  smile. 

*  There  's  one  at  home,'  she  said,  '  has  need 

of  me 
By  this  time,  —  and  I  must  not   let   him 
wait.' 

*  Not  even,'  I  asked,  '  to  hear  of  Bomney 

Leigh  ? '  490 

*  Not  even,'  she  said,  '  to  hear  of   Mister 

Leigh.' 

*  In  that  case,'  I  resumed,  *  I  go  with  you, 
And  we  can  talk  the  same  thing  there  as 

here. 
None  waits   for   me:   I   have   my   day  to 
spend.' 

Her   lips   moved    in   a    spasm    without   a 

sound,  — 
But  then  she  spoke.     '  It  shall  be  as  you 

please; 
And   better    so  —  't  is   shorter   seen   than 

told: 
And  though  you  will   not  find   me  worth 

your  pains. 


That,  even,  may  be  worth   some  pains  to 

know 
For  one  as  good  as  you  are.' 

Then  she  led 
The  way,  and  I,  as  by  a  narrow  plank      501 
Across  devouring  waters,  followed  her. 
Stepping  by  her  footsteps,  breathing  by  her 

breath, 
And  holding  her  with   eyes  that  would  not 

slip; 
And  so,  without  a  word,  we  walked  a  mile, 
And  so,  another  mile,  without  a  word. 

Until  the    peopled  streets    being   all   dis- 
missed, 
House-rows  and  groups  all  scattered  like  a 

flock. 
The  market  -  gardens   thickened,  and    the 

long 
White  walls  beyond,  like  spiders'  outside 

threads,  510 

Stretched,  feeling  blindly  toward  the  coun- 
try-fields. 
Through  half-built  habitations  and  half-dug 
Foundations,   —  intervals      of     trenchant 

chalk 
That  bit  betwixt  the  grassy  uneven  turfs 
Where  goats   (vine-tendrils  trailing  from 

their  mouths) 
Stood  perched  on  edges  of  the  cellarage 
Which  should  be,  staring  as  about  to  leap 
To   find   their   coming  Bacchus.     All   the 

place 
Seemed  less  a  cultivation  than  a  waste. 
Men   work   here,  only,  —  scarce   begin   to 

live:  520 

All 's  sad,  the  country  struggling  with  the 

town. 
Like  an  untamed  hawk  upon  a  strong  man's 

fist, 
That  beats  its  wings  and  tries  to  get  away, 
And  cannot  choose  be  satisfied  so  soon 
To  hop  through  court-yards  with  its  right 

foot  tied. 
The   vintage   plains  and   pastoral   hills  in 

sight. 

We  stopped  beside  a  house  too  high  and 

slim 
To  stand  there  by  itself,  but  waiting  till 
Five    others,    two   on   this   side,  three   on 

that, 
Should   grow   up  from  the    sullen  second 

floor  530 

They  pause  at  now,  to  build  it  to  a  row. 


350 


AURORA   LEIGH 


The  upper  windows  partly  were  unglazed 
Meantime,  —  a   meagre,    unripe    house :    a 

line 
Of  rigid  poplars  elbowed  it  behind, 
And,  just   in  front,  beyond   the  lime  and 

bricks 
That  wronged  the  grass  between  it  and  the 

road, 
A  great  acacia  with  its  slender  trunk 
And  overpoise  of  multitudinous  leaves 
(In  which  a  hundred  fields  might  spill  their 

dew 
And     intense     verdure,     yet     find     room 

enough)  540 

Stood  reconciling  all  the  place  with  green. 
I  followed  up  the  stair  upon  her  step. 
She  hurried  upward,  shot  across  a  face, 
A  woman's,  on  the  landing,  —  '  How  now, 

now  ! 
Is  no  one  to  have  holidays  but  you  ? 
You  said  an  hour,  and  stayed  three  hours,  I 

think. 
And  Julie  waiting  for  your  betters  here  ? 
Why  if  he  had  waked  he  might  have  waked, 

for  me.' 
—  Just  murmuring  an  excusing  word,  she 

passed 
And  shut  the  rest  out  with  the  chamber- 
door,  550 
Myself  shut  in  beside  her. 

'T  was  a  room 
Scarce   larger   than  a  grave,  and  near  as 

bare; 
Two  stools,  a  pallet-bed;  I  saw  the  room: 
A  mouse  could  find  no  sort  of  shelter  in  't. 
Much  less  a  greater  secret ;  eurtainless,  — 
The   window  fixed   you  with  its  torturing 

eye, 
Defying  you  to  take  a  step  apart 
If  peradventure  you  would  hide  a  thing. 
I  saw  the  whole  room,  I  and  Marian  there 
Alone. 

Alone  ?     She  threw  her  bonnet  ofP, 
Then,    sighing  as  'twere  sighing  the  last 

time,  561 

Approached   the   bed,  and   drew   a  shawl 

away: 
You  could   not   peel    a   fruit   you  fear  to 

bruise 
More  calmly  and  more  carefully  than  so,  — 
Nor  would  you  find  within,  a  rosier  flushed 
Pomegranate  — 

There  he  lay  upon  his  back, 
The  yearling  creature,  warm  and  moist  with 
life 


To   the   bottom   of   his   dimples,  —  to  the 

ends 
Of   the   lovely   tumbled    curls    about    his 

face; 
For    since    he    had    been    covered    over- 
much 570 
To  keep  him  from  the  light-glare,  both  his 

cheeks 
Were  hot  and  scarlet  as  the  first  live  rose 
The   shepherd's    heart-blood    ebbed   away 

into 
The   faster   for   his   love.     And   love  was 

here 
As  iustant;  in  the  pretty  baby-mouth. 
Shut    close    as    if    for    dreaming    that    it 

sucked. 
The  little  naked  feet,  drawn  up  the  way 
Of  nestled  birdlings;  everything  so  soft 
And  tender,  —  to  the  tiny  holdfast  hands. 
Which,  closing  on  a  finger  into  sleep,       580 
Had  kept  the  mould  of  't. 

While  we  stood  there  dumb. 
For  oh,  that  it  should  take  such  innocence 
To  prove  just  guilt,  I  thought,  and  stood 

there  dumb,  — 
The  light  upon  his  eyelids  pricked  them 

wide. 
And,  staring  out  at  us  with  all  their  blue. 
As  half  perplexed  between  the  angelhood 
He  had  been  away  to  visit  in  his  sleep. 
And  our  most  mortal  presence,  gradually 
He  saw  his  mother's  face,  accepting  it 
In   change  for  heaven  itself  with  such  a 

smile  590 

As  might  have  well  been  learnt  there,  — 

never  moved. 
But  smiled  on,  in  a  drowse  of  ecstasy, 
So  happy   (half    with   her   and  half   with 

heaven) 
He  could  not  have  the  trouble  to  be  stirred, 
But  smiled  and  lay  there.     Like  a  rose,  I 

said  ? 
As  red  and  still  indeed  as  anv  rose, 
That  blows  in  all  the  silence  of  its  leaves. 
Content  in  blowing  to  fulfil  its  life. 

She  leaned   above    him  (drinking  him   as 

wine) 
In  that  extremity  of  love,  't  will  pass       600 
For  agony  or  rapture,  seeing  that  love 
Includes  the  whole  of  nature,  rounding  it 
To   love  ...  no  more,  —  since  more    can 

never  be 
Than  just   love.     Self-forgot,  cast   out   of 

self, 


SIXTH    BOOK 


351 


And    drowning   in    the   transport   of    the 

sight, 
Her   whole   pale   passionate   face,   mouth, 

forehead,  eyes. 
One  gaze,  she  stood:    then,  slowly   as  he 

smiled 
She  smiled  too,  slowly,  smiling  unaware. 
And  drawing  from  his  countenance  to  hers 
A  fainter  red,  as  if  she  watched  a  flame  610 
And  stood  in  it  aglow.     *  How  beautiful,' 
Said  she. 

I  answered,  trying  to  be  cold. 
(Must    sin   have  compensations,    was   my 

thought. 
As  if  it  were  a  holy  thing  like  grief  ? 
And  is  a  woman  to  be  fooled  aside 
From  putting  vice  down,  with  that  woman's 

toy 
A     baby  ?)  —  *  Ay  !     the     child    is     well 

enough,' 
I  answered.     'If  his  mother's  palms  are 

clean 
They  need  be  glad  of   course  in  clasping 

such; 
But  if  not,  I  would  rather  lay  my  hand,  620 
Were  I  she,  on  God's  brazen  altar-bars 
Red-hot  with  burning  sacrificial  lambs, 
Than   touch   the   sacred   curls  of   such   a 

child.' 

She  plunged  her  fingers  in  his  clustering 

locks. 
As  one  who  would  not  be  afraid  of  fire; 
And  then  with  indrawn  steady   utterance 

said, 
'  My  lamb,  my  lamb  !   although,  through 

such  as  thou. 
The  most  unclean  got  courage  and  approach 
To   God,  once,  —  now   they   cannot,    even 

with  men, 
Find   grace   enough   for   pity    and   gentle 

words.'  630 

*  My  Marian,'  I  made  answer,  grave  and 

sad, 
'  The  priest  who  stole  a  lamb  to  offer  him. 
Was  still  a  thief.     And  if  a  woman  steals 
(Through    God's    own    barrier-hedges   of 

true  love. 
Which  fence  out  license  in  securing  love) 
A  child  like  this,  that  smiles  so  in  her  face. 
She  is  no  mother,  but  a  kidnapper. 
And  he  's  a  dismal  orphan,  not  a  son. 
Whom  all  her  kisses  cannot  feed  so  full 
He  will  not  miss  hereafter  a  pure  home  640 


To  live  in,  a  pure  heart  to  lean  against, 
A  pure  good  mother's  name  and  memory 
To  hope  by,  when  the  world  grows  thick 

and  bad 
And  he  feels  out  for  virtue.' 

'  Oh,'  she  smiled 
With  bitter  patience,  *  the  child  takes  his 

chance; 
Not  much  worse  off  in  being  fatherless 
Than  I  was,  fathered.    He  will  say,  belike. 
His  mother  was  the  saddest  creature  born ; 
He  '11  say  his  mother  lived  so  contrary 
To    joy,   that    even    the    kindest,    seeing 
her,  650 

Grew  sometimes  almost   cruel:    he  '11  not 

say 
She  flew  contrarious  in  the  face  of  God 
With  bat-wings  of   her   vices.     Stole   my 

child,  — 
My   flower  of   earth,  my  only   flower   on 

earth, 
My     sweet,    my    beauty ! '  .  .  .  Up     she 

snatched  the  child. 
And,  breaking  on  him  in  a  storm  of  tears. 
Drew  out  her  long  sobs  from  their  shiver- 
ing roots. 
Until  he  took  it  for  a  game,  and  stretched 
His  feet  and  flapped  his  eager  arms  like 

wings 
And  crowed  and  gurgled  through  his  in- 
fant laugh:  660 
'  Mine,  mine,'  she  said.     '  I  have  as  sure  a 

right 
As  any  glad  proud  mother  in  the  world. 
Who  sets  her  darling  down  to  cut  his  teeth 
Upon  her  church-ring.    If  she  talks  of  law, 
I  talk  of  law  !     I  claim  my  mother-dues 
By   law,  —  the   law    which   now   is   para- 
mount, — 
The  common  law,  by  which  the  poor  and 

weak 
Are  trodden  underfoot  by  vicious  men. 
And  loathed  for  ever  after  by  the  good. 
Let  pass  !     I  did  not  filch,  —  I  found  the 
child.'  670 

*  You  found  him,  Marian  ? ' 

'  Ay,  I  found  him  where 
I  found  my   curse,  —  in    the  gutter,  with 

my  shame  ! 
What  have  you,  any  of  you,  to  say  to  that. 
Who  all  are  happy,  and  sit  safe  and  high. 
And   never   spoke   before   to  arraign   my 

right 
To  grief  itself  ?     What,  what,  .  .  .  being 
beaten  down 


352 


AURORA   LEIGH 


By  hoofs  of  maddened  oxen  into  a  ditch, 
Half-dead,  whole  mangled,  when  a  girl  at 

last 
Breathes,  sees  .  .  .  and  finds  there,  bedded 

in  her  flesh 
Because  of  the  extremity  of  the  shock,    680 
Some  coin  of  price  !  .  .  .  and  when  a  good 

man  comes 
(That 's  God  !  the  best  men  are  not  quite 

as  good) 
And  says  "  I  dropped  the  coin  there:  take 

it  you, 
And  keep   it,  —  it   shall  pay  you  for   the 

loss,"  — 
You  all  put   up   your   finger  —  "  See   the 

thief  ! 
Observe  what  precious  thing  she  has  come 

to  filch. 
How  bad  those  girls  are  !  "    Oh,  my  flower, 

my  pet, 
I  dare  forget  I  have  you  in  my  arms 
And  fly  oft'  to  be  angry  with  the  world, 
And  fright  you,  hurt  you  with  my  tempers, 

till  690 

You  double  up  your  lip  ?     Why,  that  in- 
deed 
Is  bad:  a  naughty  mother  !  ' 

*  You  mistake,' 
I  interrupted;  'if  I  loved  you  not, 
I  should  not,  Marian,  certainly  be  here.' 

*  Alas,'  she  said,  '  you  are  so  very  good; 

And  yet  I  wish  indeed  you  had  never  come 

To  make  me  sob  until  I  vex  the  child. 

It  is  not  wholesome  for  these  pleasure-plats 

To  be  so  early  watered  by  our  brine. 

And  then,  who  knows  ?  he  may  not  like 

me  now  700 

As  well,  perhaps,  as  ere  he  saw  me  fret,  — 
One  's  ugly  fretting  !  he  has  eyes  the  same 
As  angels,  but  he  cannot  see  as  deep. 
And  so  I  've  kept  for  ever  in  his  sight 
A  sort  of   smile  to  please   him,  —  as   you 

place 
\A  green  thing  from  the  garden  in  a  cup. 
To  make  believe  it   grows   there.     Look, 
\  my  sweet. 

My   cowslip-ball  !    we  've    done  with   that 

cross  face, 
And  here 's  the  face  come  back  you  used 
j  to  like. 

Ah,   ah  !    he    laughs  !   he    likes   me.     Ah, 

Miss  Leigh,  710 

You  're    great    and   pure ;    but   were   you 

purer  still,  — 


As  if  you  had  walked,  we  '11  say,  no  other- 
where 

Than  up  and  down  the  New  Jerusalem, 

And  held  your  trailing  lutestring  up  your- 
self 

From  brushing  the  twelve  stones,  for  fear 
of  some 

Small  speck  as  little  as  a  needle-prick, 

White  stitched  on  white,  —  the  child 
would  keep  to  me, 

Would  choose  his  poor  lost  Marian,  like  me 
best, 

And,  though  you  stretched  your  arms,  cry 
back  and  cling. 

As  we  do  when  God  says  it  's  time  to  die 

And  bids  us  go  up  higher.  Leave  us, 
then;  721 

We  two  are  happy.     Does  he  push  me  oft  ? 

He  's  satisfied  with  me,  as  I  with  him.' 

*  So  soft  to  one,  so  hard  to  others  !     Nay,' 
I  cried,  more  angry  that  she  melted  me, 
'  We   make   henceforth   a   cushion  of  our 

faults 
To  sit  and  practise  easy  virtues  on  ? 
I  thought  a  child  was  given  to  sanctify 
A  woman,  —  set  her  in  the  sight  of  all 
The  clear-eyed  heavens,  a  chosen  minister 
To  do  their  business  and  lead  spirits  up  731 
The  difficult  blue  heights.     A  woman  lives. 
Not  bettered,  quickened  toward  the  truth 

and  good 
Through  being  a  mother  ?  .  .  .  then  she  's 

none  !  although 
She  damps   her  baby's  cheeks  by  kissing 

them, 
As  we  kill  roses.' 

'  Kill  !  O  Christ,'  she  said, 
And  turned  her  wild  sad  face  from  side  to 

side 
With     most     despairing     wonder     in    it, 

'  What, 
What  have  you  in  your  souls  against  me 

then, 
All  of  you  ?  am  I  wicked,  do  you  think  ? 
God  knows  me,  trusts  me  with  the  child; 

but  you,  741 

You  think  me  really  wicked  ?  ' 

*  Complaisant,' 
I   answered   softly,   '  to   a   wrong   you  've 

done. 
Because    of    certain    profits,  —  which     is 

wrong 
Beyond  the    first  wrong,  Marian.     When 

you  left 


SIXTH   BOOK 


353 


The   pure    place    and  the    noble  heart,  to 

take 
The  hand  of  a  seducer  *  .  .  . 

'  Whom  ?  whose  hand  ? 
I  took  the  hand  of  '  .  .  . 

Springing  up  erect, 
And   lifting   up    the    child   at    full   arm's 

length, 
As  if  to  bear  him  like  an  oriflamme  750 

Unconquerable  to  armies  of  reproach,  — 
'  By  him,^  she  said,  '  my  child's  head  and 

its  curls, 
By  these  blue  eyes  no  woman  born  could 

dare 
A  perjury  on,  I  make  my  mother's  oath. 
That  if  I  left  that  Heart,  to  lighten  it. 
The    blood   of   mine  was  still,  except  for 

grief  ! 
No  cleaner  maid  than  I  was  took  a  step 
To  a  sadder  end,  —  no  matron-mother  now 
Looks  backward  to  her  early  maidenhood 
Through  chaster  pulses.     I  speak  steadily; 
And   if   I   lie    so,  .  .  .  if,  being  fouled  in 

will  761 

And  paltered  with  in  soul  by  devil's  lust, 
I  dared  to  bid  this  angel  take  my  part,  .  .  . 
Would  God  sit  quiet,  let  us  think,  in  hea- 
ven. 
Nor  strike  me  dumb  with  thunder  ?     Yet 

I  speak: 
He  clears  me  therefore.     What,  "  seduced  " 

's  your  word  ! 
Do   wolves   seduce   a   wandering   fawn  in 

France  ? 
Do  eagles,  who  have  pinched  a  lamb  with 

claws, 
Seduce  it  into  carrion  ?     So  with  me. 
I  was  not  ever,  as  you  say,  seduced,         770 
But  simply,  murdered.' 

There  she  paused,  and  sighed 
With  such  a  sigh  as  drops  from  agony 
To  exhaustion,  —  sighing  while  she  let  the 

babe 
Slide   down   upon    her   bosom    from    her 

arms. 
And  all  her  face's  light  fell  after  him 
Like  a  torch  quenched  in  falling.     Down 

she  sank. 
And  sat  upon  the  bedside  with  the  child. 

But  I,  convicted,  broken  utterly, 

W^ith    woman's    passion    clung   about   her 

waist 
And  kissed  her  hair  and  eyes,  —  '  I  have 

been  wrong,  780 


Sweet  Marian '  .  .  .  (weeping  in  a  tender 

rage)  .  .  . 
'  Sweet  holy  Marian  !     And  now,  Marian, 

now, 
I  '11  use  your  oath  although   my  lips  are 

hard, 
And  by  the  child,  my  Marian,  by  the  child, 
I  swear  his  mother  shall  be  innocent 
Before  my  conscience,  as  in  the  open  Book 
Of  Him  who  reads  for  judgment.     Inno- 
cent, 
My  sister  !  let  the  night  be  ne'er  so  dark 
The  moon  is  surely  somewhere  in  the  sky; 
So  surely  is  your  whiteness  to  be  found   790 
Through  all  dark  facts.     But  pardon,  par- 
don me. 
And  smile  a  little,  Marian,  —  for  the  child, 
If  not  for  me,  my  sister.' 

The  poor  lip 
Just  motioned  for  the  smile  and  let  it  go: 
And   then,    with    scarce  a   stirring  of  the 

mouth. 
As  if  a  statue  spoke  that  could  not  breathe. 
But   spoke    on    calm    between   its   marble 

lips,  — 
'  I  'm  glad,  I  'm  very  glad  you  clear  me  so. 
I  should  be  sorry  that  you  set  me  down 
With  harlots,  or  with  even  a  better  name 
Which  misbecomes   his   mother.     For  the 

rest,  801 

I  am  not  on  a  level  with  your  love. 
Nor  ever  was,   you   know,  —  but  now  am 

worse. 
Because  that  world  of  yours  has  dealt  with 

me 
As  when   the  hard  sea  bites  and  chews  a 

stone 
And   changes   the   first   form  of  it.     I've 

marked 
A  shore  of  pebbles  bitten  to  one  shape 
From  all  the  various  life  of  madrepores; 
And   so,  that   little   stone,    called  Marian 

Erie, 
Picked  up  and  dropped  by  you  and  another 

friend,  Sia 

Was  ground  and  tortured  by  the  incessant 

sea 
And  bruised  from  what  she  was,  —  changed! 

death  's  a  change. 
And  she,  I  said,  was  murdered;  Marian's 

dead. 
What  can   you  do  with  people  when  they 

are  dead 
But,  if  you  are  pious,  sing  a  hymn  and  go; 
Or,  if  you  are  tender,  heave  a  sigh  and  go; 


354 


AURORA   LEIGH 


But  go   by  all  means,  —  and   permit   the 

grass 
To  keep  its  green  feud  up  'twixt  them  and 

you? 
Then  leave  me,  —  let  me  rest.     I  'm  dead, 

I  say, 
And  if,  to  save   the   child  from  death  as 

well,  820 

The  mother  in  me  has  survived  the  rest. 
Why,  that 's  God's  miracle  you  must  not 

tax, 
I'm  not  less  dead  for  that:  I'm  nothing 

more 
But  just  a  mother.     Only  for  the  child 
I  'm    warm,   and    cold,   and   hungry,    and 

afraid. 
And  smell  the  flowers  a  little  and  see  the 

sun, 
And  speak  still,  and  am  silent,  —  just  for 

him  ! 
I  pray  you  therefore  to  mistake  me  not 
And  treat  me  haply  as  I  were  alive; 
For  though  you  ran  a  pin  into  my  soul,  830 
I  think  it  would  not  hurt  nor  trouble  me. 
Here  's  proof,  dear  lady,  —  in  the  market- 
place 
But  now,  you  promised  me  to  say  a  word 
About  .  »  .  a  friend,  who  once,  long  years 

ago, 
Took   God's   place  toward   me,  when   He 

leans  and  loves 
And  does  not  thunder,  .  .  .  whom  at  last 

I  left, 
As  all  of  us  leave  God.     You  thought  per- 
haps 
I  seemed  to  care  for  hearing  of  that  friend  ? 
Now,  judge  me  !    we  have  sat  here  half  an 

hour 
And  talked  together  of  the  child  and  me. 
And  I  not  asked  as  much  as  '  What 's  the 

thing  841 

"  You  had  to  tell  me  of  the  friend  .  .  .  the 

friend  ?  " 
He  's  sad,  I  think  you  said,  —  he  's  sick  per- 
haps ? 
'T  is  nought  to  Marian  if  he  's  sad  or  sick. 
Another  would  have  crawled  beside  your 

foot 
And  prayed  your  words  out.    Why,  a  beast, 

a  dog, 
A  starved  cat,  if  he  had  fed  it  once  with 

milk. 
Would  show  less  hardness.    But  I  'm  dead, 

you  see, 
And  that  explains  it.' 


Poor,  poor  thing,  she  spoke 
And  shook  her  head,  as  white  and  calm  as 

frost  850 

On  days  too  cold  for  raining  any  more, 
But  still  with  such  a  face,  so  much  alive, 
I  could  not  choose  but  take  it  on  my  arm 
And    stroke    the    placid    patience    of    its 

cheeks,  — 
Then  told  my  story  out,  of  Romney  Leigh, 
How,  having  lost  her,  sought  her,  missed 

her  still. 
He,  broken-hearted  for  himself  and  her, 
Had  drawn  the  curtains  of  the  world  awhile 
As  if  he  had  done  with  morning.     There  I 

stopped. 
For  when  she  gasped,  and  pressed  me  with 

her  eyes,  860 

*  And  now  .  .  .  how  is  it  with  him  ?   tell 

me  now,' 
I  felt  the  shame  of  compensated  grief. 
And  chose  my  words  with  scruple  —  slowly 

stepped 
Upon  the  slippery  stones  set  here  and  there 
Across  the  sliding  water.     *  Certainly, 
As  evening  empties  morning  into  night. 
Another  morning  takes  the  evening  up 
With  healthful,  providential  interchange; 
And,  though  he  thought  still  of  her  — ' 

'  Yes,  she  knew, 
She    understood:    she    had   supposed    in- 
deed .  870 
That,  as  one  stops  a  hole  upon  a  flute, 
At  which  a  new  note  comes  and  shapes  the 

tune. 
Excluding    her   would    bring   a   worthier 

in. 
And,  long  ere  this,  that  Lady  Waldemar 
He  loved  so '  .  .  . 

*  Loved,'  I  started,  —  'loved  her  so  ! 
Now  tell  me '  .  .  . 

'  I  will  tell  you,'  she  replied : 
'  But  since   we  're     taking    oaths,    you  '11 

promise  first 
That  he  in  England,  he,  shall  never  learn 
In  what  a  dreadful  trap  his  creature  here. 
Round  whose  unworthy  neck  he  had  meant 

to  tie  880 

The  honorable  ribbon  of  his  name, 
Fell  unaware  and  came  to  butchery: 
Because,  —  I  know  him,  —  as  he  takes  to 

heart 
The  grief  of  every  stranger,  he  's  not  like 
To  banish  mine  as  far  as  I  should  choose 
In    wishing    him    most    happy.     Now    he 

leaves 


SIXTH    BOOK 


355 


To  think  of  me,  perverse,  who  went   my 

way, 
Unkind,   and   left   him,  —  but  if  once    he 

knew  .  .  . 
Ah,  then,  the  sharp  nail  of  my  cruel  wrong 
Would  fasten  me  for  ever  in  his  sight,    890 
Like  some  poor  curious  bird,  through  each 

spread  wing 
Nailed  high  up  over  a  fierce  hunter's  fire, 
To  spoil  the  dinner  of  all  tenderer  folk 
Come    in    by    chance.      Nay,   since    your 

Marian's  dead. 
You  shall  not  hang  her  up,  but  dig  a  hole 
And  bury  her  in  silence  !  ring  no  bells.' 

I  answered  gayly,  though  my  whole  voice 
wept, 

'  We  '11  ring  the  joy-bells,  not  the  funeral- 
bells. 

Because  we  have  her  back,  dead  or  alive.' 

She  never  answered  that,  but  shook  her 

head;  900 

Then  low  and   calm,  as   one  who,  safe  in 

heaven. 
Shall  tell  a  story  of  his  lower  life. 
Unmoved   by    shame   or   anger,  —  so   she 

spoke. 
She  told  me  she  had  loved  upon  her  knees. 
As  others  pray,  more  perfectly  absorbed 
In  the  act  and  inspiration.     She  felt  his 
For  just  his  uses,  not  her  own  at  all,  — 
His  stool,  to  sit  on  or  put  up  his  foot. 
His  cup,  to  fill  with  wine  or  vinegar, 
Whichever  drink  might  please  him  at  the 

chance,  910 

For  that  should  please  her  always:  let  him 

write 
His  name  upon  her  ...  it  seemed  natural ; 
It  was  most  precious,  standing  on  his  shelf, 
To  wait  until  he  chose  to  lift  his  hand. 
Well,  well,  —  I   saw  her  then,  and   must 

have  seen 
How  bright  her  life  went  floating  on  her 

love. 
Like  wicks  the  housewives  send  afloat  on 

oil 
Which  feeds  them  to  a  flame  that  lasts  the 

night. 

To  do  good  seemed  so  much  his  business. 
That,  having  done  it,  she  was  fain  to  think, 
Must  fill  up  his  capacity  for  joy.  921 

At  first  she  never  mooted  with  herself 
If  he  was  happy,  since  he  made  her  so, 


Or  if  he  loved  her,  being  so  much  beloved. 
Who  thinks  of  asking  if  the  sun  is  light, 
Observing  that  it  lightens  ?  who  's  so  bold 
To  question  God  of  his  felicity  ? 
Still  less.     And  thus  she  took  for  granted 

first 
What  first  of  all  she  should  have  put  to 

proof. 
And  sinned  against  him  so,  but  only  so. 
'  What  could  you  hope,'  she  said,  '  of  such 

as  she?  931 

You  take  a  kid  you  like,  and  turn  it  out 
In  some  fair  garden:  though  the  creature 's 

fond 
And  gentle,  it  will  leap  upon  the  beds 
And   break  your  tulips,  bite  your  tender 

trees ; 
The  wonder  would  be  if  such  innocence 
Spoiled    less:    a  garden    is    no    place    for 

kids.' 
And,  by  degrees,  when  he  who  had  chosen 

her 
Brought   in   his   courteous  and   benignant 

friends 
To  spend  their  goodness  on  her,  which  she 

took  940 

So  very  gladly,  as  a  part  of  his,  — 
By   slow    degrees   it   broke    on   her   slow 

sense 
That  she  too  in  that  Eden  of  delight 
Was  out  of  place,  and,  like  the  silly  kid. 
Still   did  most  mischief  where  she  meant 

most  love. 
A  thought  enough  to  make  a  woman  mad 
(No   beast   in   this   but  she  may  well   go 

mad). 
That  saying,  *  I  am  thine  to  love  and  use ' 
May   blow   the  plague   in   her   protesting 

breath 
To  the  very  man  for  whom  she  claims  to 

die,  —  950 

That,   clinging  round   his  neck,  she   pulls 

him  down 
And  drowns  him,  —  and  that,  lavishing  her 

soul. 
She   hales   perdition  on   him.     '  So,  being 

mad,* 
Said  Marian  .  .  . 

'  Ah  —  who  stirred  such   thoughts,  you 

ask? 
Whose  fault  it  was,  that  she  should  have 

such  thoughts  ? 
None  's   fault,    none 's    fault.      The   light 

comes,  and  we  see: 
But  if  it  were  not  truly  for  our  eyes, 


356 


AURORA   LEIGH 


There  would  be  nothing  seen,  for  all  the 

light. 
And  so  with  Marian:  if  she  saw  at  last, 
The    sense    was    in    her,  —  Lady    Walde- 

niar  960 

Had  spoken  all  in  vain  else.' 

'  O  ray  heart, 
O  prophet  in  my  heart,'  I  cried  aloud, 
'  Then  Lady  Waldemar  spoke  ! ' 

'  Did  she  speak,' 
Mused   Marian   softly,    '  or   did   she   only 

sign  ? 
Or  did  she  put  a  word  into  her  face 
And  look,  and   so   impress  you  with  the 

word  ? 
Or  leave  it  in  the  foldings  of  her  gown, 
Like    rosemary   smells    a  movement    will 

shake  out 
When  no  one  's  conscious  ?  who  shall  say, 

or  guess  ? 
One   thing  alone  was  certain  —  from   the 

day  ...  970 

The  gracious  lady  paid  a  visit  first, 
She,  Marian,  saw   things    different,  —  felt 

distrust 
Of  all  that  sheltering  roof  of  circumstance 
Her   hopes  were    building   into  with   clay 

nests: 
Her  heart   was   restless,    pacing    up    and 

down 
And  fluttering,  like  dumb  creatures  before 

storms, 
Not    knowing   wherefore    she    was   ill    at 

ease.' 

*And   still   the   lady   came,'    said   Marian 

Erie, 
'  Much  oftener   than   he   knew   it    Mister 

Leigh.  979 

She  bade  me  never  tell  him  she  had  come. 
She  liked  to  love  me  better  than  he  knew. 
So  very  kind  was  Lady  Waldemar: 
And  every  time  she  brought  with  her  more 

light, 
And  every  light  made  sorrow  clearer  .  .  . 

Well, 
Ah,  well  !  we  cannot  give  her  blame  for 

that; 
'T  would   be   the    same   thing  if   an  angel 

came. 
Whose  right  should  prove  our  wrong.    And 

every  time 
The  lady  came,  she  looked  more  beautiful 
And  spoke  more  like  a  flute  among  green 

trees, 


Until  at   last,  as   one,  whose  heart   being 

sau  ggo 

On  hearing  lovely  music,  suddenly 
Dissolves  in  weeping,  I  brake  out  in  tears 
Before  her,  asked  her  counsel,  —  "  Had  I 

erred 
In    being  too   happy  ?    would  she  set  me 

straight  ? 
For    she,  being  wise  and  good  and  born 

above 
The  flats  I  had  never  climbed  from,  could 

perceive 
If  such  as  I  might  grow  upon  the  hills; 
And  whether  such    poor   herb  sufiiced   to 

grow. 
For    Romney    Leigh    to    break    his    fast 

upon  't,  — 
Or    would    he    pine    on    such,    or    haply 

starve  ?  "  1000 

She  wrapped  me  in  her  generous  arms  at 

once. 
And  let  me  dream  a  moment  how  it  feels 
To  have  a  real  mother,  like  some  girls: 
But  when  I  looked,  her  face  was  younger 

•  .  •  ay. 
Youth  's  too  bright  not  to  be  a  little  hard, 
And  beauty  keeps  itself  still  uppermost, 
That 's  true  !  —  Though  Lady    Waldemar 

was  kind 
She  hurt  me,  hurt,  as  if  the  morning-sun 
Should   smite  us  on  the  eyelids  when  we 

sleep. 
And  wake  us  up  with  headache.     Ay,  and 

soon  loio 

Was  light  enough  to  make  my  heart  ache 

too: 
She  told  me  truths  I  asked  for,  —  't  was  my 

fault,  — 
"  That  Romney  could  not  love  me,  if  he 

would, 
As  men  call  loving:  there  are  bloods  that 

flow 
Together  like  some  rivers  and  not  mix, 
Through    contraries    of    nature.       He    in- 
deed 
Was  set  to  wed  me,  to  espouse  my  class. 
Act  out  a  rash  opinion,  — and,  once  wed, 
So    just    a    man    and    gentle    could    not 

choose 
But  make  my  life  as  smooth  as  marriage- 
ring,  T020 
Bespeak    me  mildly,  keep  me    a  cheerful 

house. 
With  servants,  brooches,  all  the  flowers  I 

liked. 


SIXTH    BOOK 


357 


And  pretty  dresses,  silk   the    whole    year 

round  "... 
At  which  I  stopped  her,  —  "  This  for  me. 

And  now 
For   Aim."  —  She    hesitated,  —  truth  grew 

hard; 
She  owned  "  'T  was  plain  a  man  like  Rom- 

ney  Leigh 
Required  a  wife  more  level  to  himself. 
If  day  by  day  he  had  to  bend  his  height 
To  pick  up  sympathies,  opinions,  thoughts, 
And    interchangfe     the     common    talk    of 

life  1030 

Which   helps    a    man   to   live   as  well   as 

talk, 
His  days  were  heavily  taxed.     Who  buys 

a  staff 
To  fit  the  hand,  that  reaches  but  the  knee  ? 
He  'd  feel  it  bitter  to  be  forced  to  miss 
The  perfect  joy  of  married  suited  pairs, 
Who,    bursting     through    the    separating 

hedffe 
Of  personal  dues  with  that  sweet  eglan- 
tine 
Of  equal  love,  keep  saying,  '  So  we  think. 
It  strikes  us,  —  that 's  our  fancy '  "  —  When 

I  asked 
If  earnest  will,  devoted  love,  employed  1040 
In  youth  like  mine,  would  fail  to  raise  me 

As  two  strong  arms  will   always   raise   a 

child 
To  a  fruit  hung  overhead,  she  sighed  and 

sighed  .  .  . 
"  That  could  not  be,"  she  feared.     "  You 

take  a  pink. 
You  dig  about  its  roots  and  water  it 
And  so  improve  it  to  a  garden-pink. 
But  will  not  change  it  to  a  heliotrope, 
The  kind  remains.     And  then,  the  harder 

truth  — 
This   Romney   Leigh,    so   rash   to  leap   a 

pale, 
So  bold  for  conscience,  quick  for  martyr- 
dom, 1050 
Would  suffer  steadily  and  never  flinch, 
But   suffer   surely   and   keenly,  when   his 

class 
Turned  shoulder   on   him  for   a  shameful 

match. 
And  set  him  up  as  nine-pin  in  their  talk 
To  bowl  him  down  with  jestings."  —  There, 

she  paused. 
And  when  I  used   the   pause  in  doubting 

that 


We    wronged    him    after   all    in  what  we 

feared  — 
"  Suppose  such  things   could  never  touch 

him  more 
In  his  high  conscience  (if  the  things  should 

be) 
Than,  when   the   queen   sits   in   an  upper 

room  1060 

The  horses  in  the  street  can  spatter  her  !  "  — 
A   moment,   hope    came,  —  but    the    lady 

closed 
That  door  and  nicked  the  lock  and  shut  it 

out, 
Observing  wisely  that  "  the  tender  heart 
Which    made    him   over-soft    to   a   lower 

class. 
Would  scarcely  fail  to  make  him  sensitive 
To  a  higher,  —  how  they  thought  and  what 

they  felt." 

'  Alas,  alas  ! '  said  Marian,  rocking  slow 
The  pretty  baby  who  was  near  asleep, 
The  eyelids  creeping  over  the  blue  balls,  — 
'  She  made  it  clear,  too  clear  —  I  saw  the 
whole !  1071 

And   yet  who    knows    if    I    had  seen    my 

way 
Straight  out  of  it  by  looking,  though  't  was 

clear, 
Unless  the  generous  la4y,  'ware  of  this. 
Had  set  her  own  house  all  afire  for  me 
To  light  me  forwards  ?     Leaning  on   my 

face  • 

Her  heavy  agate  eyes  which  crushed  my 

will. 
She  told  me  tenderly  (as  when  men  come 
To  a  bedside  to  tell  people  they  must  die), 
"  She  knew  of  knowledge,  — ay,  of  know- 
ledge knew,  1080 
That  Romney  Leigh    had    loved  her  for- 
merly. 
And  she  loved  him,  she  might  say,  now  the 

chance 
Was  past, — but  that,  of  course,  he  never 

guessed,  — 
For  something  came  between  them,  some- 
thing thin 
As  a  cobweb,  catching  every  fly  of  doubt 
To  hold  it  buzzing  at  the  window-pane 
And  help  to  dim  the  daylight.     Ah,  man's 

pride 
Or  woman's  —  which   is   greatest  ?    most 

averse 
To  brushing  cobwebs  ?     Well,  but  she  and 
he 


358 


AURORA   LEIGH 


Remained  fast  friends;  it  seemed  not  more 

than  so,  1090 

Because  he  had  bound  his  hands  and  could 

not  stir. 
An  honorable  man,  if  somewhat  rash; 
And  she,  not  even  for  Romney,  would  she 

spill 
A  blot  ...  as  little  even  as  a  tear  .  .  . 
Upon  his  marriage-contract,  —  not  to  gain 
A  better  joy  for  two  than  came  by  that: 
For,  though  I  stood  between  her  heart  and 

heaven, 
She  loved  me  wholly."  ' 

Did  I  laugh  or  curse  ? 
I  think  I  sat  there  silent,  hearing  all. 
Ay,  hearing   double,  —  Marian's   tale,    at 

once,  1 100 

And  Romney's  marriage  vow,  '  /  ^11  keep  to 

THEE,' 

Which  means  that  woman-serpent.     Is  it 

time 
For  church  now  ? 

'  Lady  Waldemar  spoke  more,' 
Continued  Marian,  *  but,  as  when  a  soul 
Will  pass  out  through  the  sweetness  of  a 

song 
Beyond  it,  voyaging  the  uphill  road, 
Even  so  mine  wandered  from  the  things  I 

heard 
To  those  I  suffered.     It  was  afterward 
I  shaped  the  resolution  to  the  act. 
For  many  hours  we  talked.     What  need  to 

talk?  II 10 

The  fate  was  clear  and  close;  it  touched 

my  eyes; 
But  still  the  generous  lady  tried  to  keep 
The  case  afloat,  and  would  not  let  it  go. 
And  argued,  struggled  upon  Marian's  side, 
Which    was   not   Romney's !    though   she 

little  knew 
What   ugly  monster   would   take   up   the 

end, — 
What  griping  death  within  the  drowning 

death 
Was  ready  to  complete  my  sum  of  death.' 

I  thought,  —  Perhaps  he  's  sliding  now  the 
ring  II 19 

Upon  that  woman's  finger  .  .  . 

She  went  on: 

'  The  lady,  failing  to  prevail  her  way, 

Upgathered    my    torn    wishes    from    the 
ground 

And  pieced  them  with  her  strong  benevo- 
lence ; 


)> 


And,  as  I  thought  I  could    breathe  freer 

air 
Away  from  England,  going  without  pause. 
Without   farewell,   just   breaking   with   a 

jerk 
The  blossomed  offshoot   from   my  thorny 

life,— 
She  promised  kindly  to  provide  the  means. 
With  instant  passage  to  the  colonies 
And  full  protection,  —  *'  would  commit  me 
straight  1130 

To  one  who    once  had   been  her  waiting- 
maid 
And  had  the  customs  of  the  world,  intent 
On  changing  England  for  Australia 
Herself,  to  carry  out  her  fortune  so. 
For  which  I  thanked  the  Lady  Waldemar, 
As  men  upon  their  death-beds  thank  last 

friends 
Who  lay  the  pillow  straight :  it  is  not  much, 
And  yet  't  is  all  of  which  they  are  capa- 
ble. 
This  lying  smoothly  in  a  bed  to  die. 
And  so,  't  was  fixed;  —  and  so,  from  day  to 
day,  1 140 

The  woman  named  came  in  to  visit  me.' 

Just  then  the  girl  stopped  speaking,  —  sat 

erect. 
And  stared  at  me  as  if  I  had  been  a  ghost 
(Perhaps  I  looked  as  white  as  any  ghost), 
With    large  -  eyed    horror.      *  Does    God 

make,'  she  said, 
'  All    sorts   of    creatures    really,    do    you 

think  ? 
Or  is  it  that  the  Devil  slavers  them 
So  excellently,  that  we  come  to  doubt 
Who  's  stronger.  He  who  makes,  or  he  who 

mars  ? 
I  never  liked  the  woman's  face  or  voice  1150 
Or   ways:    it   made  me  blush  to   look   at 

her; 
It   made  me  tremble  if  she  touched   my 

hand; 
And   when   she  spoke   a  fondling  word  I 

shrank 
As  if  one  hated  me  who  had  power  to  hurt; 
And,  every  time  she  came,  my  veins  ran 

cold 
As  somebody  were  walking  on  my  grave. 
At  last  I  spoke  to  Lady  Waldemar: 
"  Could  such  an  one  be  good  to  trust  ?  "  I 

asked. 
Whereat  the  lady  stroked  my  cheek  and 

laughed 


SIXTH   BOOK 


359 


Her  silver   laugh    (one    must  be    born   to 

laugh,  1 1 60 

To  put  such  music  in  it),  —  "  Foolish  girl, 
Your  scattered   wits   are   gathering    wool 

beyond 
The  sheep-walk  reaches  !  — leave  the  thing 

to  me." 
And   therefore,  half   in  trust,  and  half  in 

scorn 
That  I  had  heart  still  for  another  fear 
In  such  a  safe  despair,  I  left  the  thing. 

'  The  rest  is  short.     I  was  obedient: 
I  wrote  my  letter  which  delivered  him 
From  Marian  to  his  own  prosperities, 
And  followed  that  bad  guide.     The  lady  ? 

—  hush,  1 1 70 

I  never  blame  the  lady.     Ladies  who 
Sit  high,  however  willing  to  look  down, 
Will   scarce    see   lower  than  their   dainty 

feet; 
And  Lady  Waldemar  saw  less  than  I 
With  what  a  Devil's  daughter  I  went  forth 
Along   the    swine's  road,   down  the  preci- 
pice. 
In  such   a   curl  of  hell-foam  caught  and 

choked. 
No  shriek  of  soul  in  anguish  could  pierce 

through 
To   fetch   some   help.     They  say   there  's 

help  in  heaven 
For  all  such  cries.     But  if  one  cries  from 

hell  ...  1 180 

What  then  ?  —  the  heavens  are  deaf  upon 

that  side. 

*  A  woman  .   .  .  hear  me,  let  me  make  it 

plain,  .  .  . 
A    woman  .  .  .  not   a   monster  .  .  .  both 

her  breasts 
Made  right  to  suckle  babes  .  .  .  she  took 

me  off 
A  woman  also,  young  and  ignorant 
And   heavy   with   my   grief,  my  two  poor 

eyes 
Near  washed  away  with  weeping,  till  the 

trees, 
The  blessed  unaccustomed  trees  and  fields 
Ran   either   side  the   train    like   stranger 

dogs 
Unworthy  of  any  notice,  —  took  me  off  1 190 
So  dull,  so  blind,  so  only  half-alive, 
Not   seeing   by   what  road,   nor   by   what 

ship. 


Nor  toward  what  place,  nor  to  what  end  of 

all. 
Men  carry  a  corpse  thus,  —  past  the  door- 
way, past 
The  garden-gate,  the  children's  playground, 

up 
The  green  lane,  —  then  they  leave  it  in  the 

pit, 
To   sleep    and   find   corruption,    cheek    to 

cheek 
With  him  who  stinks  since  Friday. 

'  But  suppose; 
To  go  down  with  one's  soul  into  the  grave. 
To  go  down  half-dead,  half-alive,  I  say,  1200 
And  wake  up  with  corruption,  .  .  .  cheek 

to  cheek 
With  him  who  stinks  since  Friday  !     There 

it  is 
And  that  's  the  horror  of  't.  Miss  Leigh. 

'  You  feel  ? 
You  understand  ?  —  no,  do  not  look  at  me. 
But  understand.     The  blank,  blind,  weary 

way, 
Which  led,  where'er  it  led,  away  at  least; 
The  shifted  ship,  to  Sydney  or  to  France, 
Still    bound,    wherever    else,    to    another 

land; 
The  swooning  sickness  on  the  dismal  sea, 
The  foreign  shore,  the  shameful  house,  the 

night,  1210 

The     feeble     blood,     the     heavy  -  headed 

grief,  .  .   . 
No  need  to  bring  their  damnable  drugged 

cup. 
And  yet  they  brought  it.     Hell 's  so  prodi- 
gal 
Of  devil's  gifts,  hunts  liberally  in  packs, 
Will   kill  no  poor  small  creature  of   the 

wilds 
But  fifty  red  wide  throats  must  smoke  at 

it, 
As  HIS   at   me  .  .  .  when   waking  up  at 

last  .  .  . 
I  told  you  that  I  waked  up  in  the  grave. 

*  Enough     so  !  —  it    is    plain    enough    so. 

True, 
We  wretches  cannot  tell  out  all  our  wrong 
Without  offence  to  decent  happy  folk.    122 1 
I  know  that  we  must  scrupulously  hint 
With   half-words,    delicate     reserves,    the 

thing 
Which  no  one  scrupled  we  should  feel  in 

full. 


360 


AURORA   LEIGH 


Let   pass   the  rest,    then;  only   leave   my 

oath 
Upon  this  sleeping  child,  —  man's  violence, 
Not  man's  seduction,  made  me  what  I  am, 
As  lost  as  ...  I  told    him   I   should   be 

lost. 
When  mothers  fail  us,  can  we  help  our- 
selves ? 
That 's  fatal  !  —  And  you  call  it  being  lost. 
That   down    came    next    day's   noon   and 

caught  me  there,  1231 

Half-gibbering     and    half-raving    on    the 

floor. 
And  wondering  what  had  happened  up  in 

heaven, 
That  suns  should  dare  to  shine  when  God 

Himself 
Was  certainly  abolished. 

'  I  was  mad, 
How   many   weeks,  I    know   not,  —  many 

weeks. 
I  think  they  let  me  go  when  I  was  mad, 
They  feared  my  eyes  and  loosed  me,  as 

boys  might 
A  mad  dog  which  they  had  tortured.     Up 

and  down 
I  went,  by  road  and  village,  over  tracts  1240 
Of  open  foreign  country,  large  and  strange, 
Crossed  everywhere   by  long  thin  poplar- 
lines 
Like     fingers    of    some    ghastly    skeleton 

Hand 
Through  sunlight  and  through  moonlight 

evermore 
Pushed   out  from  hell  itself   to  pluck  me 

back, 
And  resolute  to  get  me,  slow  and  sure; 
While    every    roadside     Christ    upon    his 

cross 
Hung  reddening  through  his  gory  wounds 

at  me. 
And   shook   his  nails  in  anger,  and   came 

down 
To  follow  a  mile  after,  wading  up  1250 

The   low   vines   and   green    wheat,  crying 

"  Take  the  girl  ! 
She  's    none   of   mine    from   henceforth." 

Then  I  knew 
(But   this  is  somewhat   dimmer   than  the 

rest) 
The  charitable  peasants  gave  me  bread 
And  leave  to  sleep  in  straw:  and  twice  they 

tied, 
At    parting,    Mary's    image     round     my 

neck  — 


How   heavy    it    seemed !    as    heavy   as   a 

stone; 
A    woman    has   been   strangled   with   less 

weight: 
I  threw  it  in  a  ditch  to  keep  it  clean 
And   ease  my  breath   a  little,  when  none 

looked;  1260 

I  did  not  need   such  safeguards:  —  brutal 

men 
Stopped  short.  Miss  Leigh,  in  insult,  when 

they  had  seen 
My   face,  —  I    must    have    had  an   awful 

look. 
And  so  I  lived:  the  weeks  passed  on,  — I 

lived. 
'T  was  living  my  old  tramp-life  o'er  again. 
But,  this   time,  in    a    dream,  and   hunted 

round 
By   some   prodigious    Dream-fear   at    my 

back, 
Which  ended  yet:   my  brain  cleared  pre- 
sently; 
And  there  I  sat,  one  evening,  by  the  road, 
I,  Marian  Erie,  myself,  alone,  undone,   1270 
Facing  a  sunset  low  upon  the  flats 
As  if  it  were  the  finish  of  all  time, 
The  great  red  stone  upon  my  sepulchre. 
Which  angels  were  too  weak  to  roll  away. 


SEVENTH   BOOK 

*  The  woman's  motive  ?  shall  we  daub  our- 

selves 
With  finding  roots  for  nettles  ?    't  is  soft 

clay 
And  easily  explored.     She  had  the  means, 
The  moneys,  by  the  lady's  liberal  grace. 
In   trust  for  that  Australian  scheme  and 

me, 
Which  so,  that  she  might  clutch  with  both 

her  hands 
And  chink  to  her  naughty  uses  undisturbed, 
She    served    me     (after    all    it    was    not 

strange, 
'T  was  only  what  my  mother  would  have 

done) 
A  motherly,  right  damnable  good  turn.     10 

*  Well,    after.      There    are   nettles   every- 

where. 

But  smooth  green  grasses  are  more  com- 
mon still; 

The  blue  of  heaven  is  larger  than  the 
cloud; 


SEVENTH    BOOK 


361 


A  miller's  wife  at  Clichy  took  me  in 

And   spent   her   pity   on   me, — made  me 

calm 
And  merely  very  reasonably  sad. 
She  found  me  a  servant's  place  in  Paris, 

where 
I  tried  to  take  the  cast-off  life  again. 
And  stood  as  quiet  as  a  beaten  ass 
Who,   having    fallen     through    overloads, 

stands  up  20 

To  let  them  charge  him  with  another  pack. 

*A  few  months,  so.     My  mistress,  young 

and  light, 
Was  easy  with  me,  less  for  kindness  than 
Because  she  led,  herself,  an  easy  time 
Betwixt  her  lover  and  her  looking-glass. 
Scarce  knowing  which  way  she  was  praised 

the  most. 
She  felt  so  pretty  and  so  pleased  all  day 
She  could  not  take  the  trouble  to  be  cross, 
But   sometimes,  as   I  stooped   to   tie   her 

shoe. 
Would   tap   me    softly   with    her    slender 

foot  30 

Still  restless  with  the  last  night's  dancing 

in't, 
And  say  "  Fie,  pale-face  !  are  you  English 

girls 
All  grave  and  silent  ?  mass-book  still,  and 

Lent? 
And    first  -  communion     pallor    on     your 

cheeks, 
Worn  past  the  time  for 't  ?  little  fool,  be 


gay 


I" 


At    which     she    vanished     like     a    fairy, 

through 
A  gap  of  silver  laughter. 

*  Came  an  hour 
When   all   went   otherwise.     She    did  not 

speak. 
But   clenched  her  brows,  and  clipped  me 

with  her  eyes 
As  if  a  viper  with  a  pair  of  tongs,  40 

Too  far  for  any  touch,  yet  near  enough 
To  view  the  writhing  creature,  —  then  at 

last, 
"  Stand   still   there,  in   the    holy    Virgin's 

name. 
Thou  Marian;  thou  'rt  no  reputable  girl. 
Although  sufficient  dull  for  twenty  saints  ! 
I  think  thou   mock'st  me  and  my  house, 

she  said; 
"  Confess  thou  'It  be  a  mother  in  a  month. 
Thou  mask  of  saintship." 


5> 


*  Could  I  answer  her  ? 
The  light  broke  in  so.     It  meant  that  then, 

that  ? 
I    had    not    thought   of    that,   in   all   my 

thoughts,  50 

Through  all  the  cold,  dumb  aching  of  my 

brow, 
Through  all  the  heaving  of  impatient  life 
Which  threw  me  on  death  at  intervals,  — 

through  all 
The  upbreak  of  the  fountains  of  my  heart 
The  rains  had  swelled  too  lars:e:  it  could 

mean  that  ? 
Did   God   make   mothers    out   of   victims, 

then. 
And  set  such  pure  amens  to  hideous  deeds  ? 
Why  not  ?     He  overblows  an  ugly  grave 
With  violets  which  blossom  in  the  spring. 
And  /  could  be  a  mother  in  a  month  ?      60 
I  hope  it  was  not  wicked  to  be  glad. 
I    lifted    up    my    voice    and    wept,    and 

laughed. 
To  heaven,  not  her,  until  it  tore  my  throat. 
"  Confess,  confess  !  "  —  what  was  there  to 

confess. 
Except  man's  cruelty,  except  my  wrong  ? 
Except  this  anguish,  or  this  ecstasy  ? 
This  shame  or  glory  ?     The  light  woman 

there 
Was  small  to  take  it  in:  an  acorn-cup 
Would  take  the  sea  in  sooner. 

'  "  Good,"  she  cried; 
"Unmarried     and    a     mother,     and     she 

laughs  !  70 

These  unchaste  girls  are  always  impudent. 
Get  out,  intriguer  !    leave   my    house   and 

trot. 
I  wonder  you  should  look  me  in  the  face. 
With  such  a  filthy  secret." 

*  Then  I  rolled 
My  scanty  bundle  up  and  went  my  way. 
Washed  white   with  weeping,   shuddering 

head  and  foot 
With    blind    hysteric    passion,   staggering 

forth 
Beyond    those   doors.     'T  was    natural   of 

course 
She  should  not  ask  me  where  I  meant  to 

sleep; 
I    might    sleep    well   beneath    the    heavy 

Seine,  80 

Like  others  of  my  sort;  the  bed  was  laid 
For  us.     But  any  woman,  womanly, 
Had  thought  of  him  who  should  be  in  a 

month. 


362 


AURORA   LEIGH 


The  sinless  babe  that  should  be  in  a  month, 
And   if   by    chance    he  might  be    warmer 

housed 
Than    underneath    such   dreary    dripping 

eaves.' 

I  broke  on  Marian  there.     '  Yet  she  her- 
self, 

A  wife,  I  think,  had  scandals  of  her  own,  — 

A  lover  not  her  husband.' 

'  Ay,'  she  said, 

*  But  gold  and  meal  are  measured  other- 
wise ;  90 

I  learnt  so  much  at  school,'  said  Marian 
Erie. 

*■  O  crooked  world,'  I  cried,  '  ridiculous 
If  not  so  lamentable  !     'T  is  the  way 
With  these  light  women  of  a  thrifty  vice, 
My  Marian,  —  always  hard  upon  the  rent 
In  any  sister's  virtue  !  while  they  keep 
Their   own   so  darned   and   patched   with 

perfidy. 
That,  though  a  rag  itself,  it  looks  as  well 
Across  a  street,  in  balcony  or  coach, 
As    any    perfect    stuff    might.     For    my 
part,  100 

I  'd  rather  take  the  wind-side  of  the  stews 
Than  touch  such  women  with  my  finger- 
end  ! 
They  top  the  poor  street-walker  by  their 

lie 
And  look   the  better   for   being   so  much 

worse : 
The   devil 's  most  devilish  when   respect- 
able. 
But  you,  dear,  and  your  story.' 

*  All  the  rest 
Is   here,'  she    said,  and   signed   upon   the 

child. 
^I  found  a   mistress-sempstress   who  was 

kind 
And  let  me  sew  in  peace  among  her  girls. 
And    what   was   better   than  to  draw  the 
threads  no 

All  day   and  half   the  night  for  him  and 

him? 
And  so  I  lived  for  him,  and  so  he  lives, 
And   so  I  know,  by  this  time,  God   lives 
too.' 

She  smiled  beyond  the  sun  and  ended  so. 
And  all  my  soul  rose  up  to  take  her  part 
Against    the    world's    successes,    virtues, 
fames. 


*  Come    with   me,   sweetest    sister,'    I   re- 
turned, 
'  And  sit  within  my  house  and  do  me  good 
From  henceforth,  thou  and  thine  !  ye  are 

my  own 
From    henceforth.      I    am   lonely   in    the 
world,  120 

And  thou  art  lonely,  and  the  child  is  half 
An  orphan.     Come,  —  and  henceforth  thou 

and  I 
Being  still  together  will  not  miss  a  friend, 
Nor  he  a  father,  since  two  mothers  shall 
Make  that   up  to  him.     I  am  journeying 

south. 
And  in  my  Tuscan  home  I  '11  find  a  niche 
And  set  thee  there,  my  saint,  the  child  and 

thee. 
And   burn   the  lights  of   love  before   thy 

face. 
And  ever  at  thy  sweet  look  cross  myself 
From  mixing  with   the    world's   prosperi- 
ties; 130 
That  so,  in  gravity  and  holy  calm. 
We    two  may  live    on   toward   the   truer 
life.' 

She  looked  me  in  the  face  and  answered 

not. 
Nor   signed   she  was  unworthy,  nor  gave 

thanks. 
But   took   the    sleeping  child  and  held  it 

out 
To  meet  my  kiss,  as  if  requiting  me 
And  trusting  me  at   once.     And  thus,  at 

once, 
I  carried  him  and  her  to  where  I  live; 
She  's  there  now,  in  the  little  room,  asleep, 
I  hear  the  soft  child-breathing  through  the 

door,  140 

And  all  three  of  us,  at  to-morrow's  break, 
Pass  onward,  homeward,  to  our  Italy. 
Oh,  Romney  Leigh,  I  have  your  debts  to 

pay, 

And  I  '11  be  just  and  pay  them. 

But  yourself  ! 
To  pay  your  debts  is  scarcely  difficult, 
To  buy  your  life  is  nearly  impossible. 
Being  sold  away  to  Lamia.    My  head  aches, 
I  cannot  see  my  road  along  this  dark; 
Nor  can  I  creep  and  grope,  as  fits  the  dark, 
For  these  foot-catching  robes  of   woman- 
hood: 150 
A  man  might  walk  a  little  .  .  .  but  I  !  — 

He  loves 
The  Lamia- woman,  —  and  I,  write  to  him 


SEVENTH    BOOK 


363 


What  stops  his  marriage,  and  destroys  his 

peace,  — 
Or  what  perhaps  shall  simply  trouble  him. 
Until  she  only  need  to  touch  his  sleeve 
With  just  a  finger's  tremulous  white  flame, 
Saying   *  Ah,  —  Aurora   Leigh  !    a    pretty 

tale, 
A  very  pretty  poet !     I  can  guess 
The  motive '  —  then,  to  catch   his   eye  in 

hers 
And  vow  she  does  not  wonder,  —  and  they 

two  160 

To  break  in  laughter  as  the  sea  along 
A  melancholy  coast,  and  float  up  higher. 
In  such  a  laugh,  their  fatal  weeds  of  love  ! 
Ay,  fatal,  ay.     And  who  shall  answer  me 
Fate  has  not  hurried   tides,  —  and  if   to- 
night 
My  letter  would  not  be  a  night  too  late. 
An  arrow  shot  into  a  man  that 's  dead, 
To    prove    a   vain    intention  ?      Would    I 

show 
The  new  wife  vile,  to  make  the  husband 

mad  ? 
No,   Lamia  !    shut   the   shutters,   bar   the 

doors  170 

From  every  glimmer  on  thy  serpent-skin  ! 
I  will  not  let  thy  hideous  secret  out 
To  agonize  the  man  I  love  —  I  mean 
The  friend  I  love  ...  as  friends  love. 

It  is  strange, 
To-day  while  Marian  told  her  story  like 
To  absorb  most   listeners,  how  I  listened 

chief 
To  a  voice  not  hers,  nor  yet  that  enemy's. 
Nor    God's   in   wrath,  .  .  .  but   one   that 

mixed  with  mine 
Long  years  ago  among  the  garden  trees. 
And  said  to  me,  to  me  too, '  Be  my  wife,  180 
Aurora.'     It  is  strange  with  what  a  swell 
Of  yearning  passion,  as  a  snow  of  ghosts 
Might  beat  against  the  impervious  door  of 

heaven, 
I  thought,  '  Now,  if  I  had  been  a  woman, 

such 
As   God   made   women,  to   save   men  by 

love,  — 
By  just  my  love  I  might  have  saved  this 

man, 
And  made  a  nobler  poem  for  the  world 
Than  all  I  have  failed  in.'     But  I  failed 

besides 
In  this ;   and  now  he 's  lost !   through  me 

alone  ! 
And,  by  my  only  fault,  his  empty  house  190 


Sucks  in,  at  this  same  hour,  a  wind  from 
hell 

To  keep  his   hearth  cold,  make  his  case- 
ments creak 

For  ever  to  the  tune  of  plague  and  sin  — 

O  Romney,  O  my  Romney,  O  my  friend. 

My  cousin    and  friend!    my  helper,  when 
I  would. 

My  love,  that  might  be  !  mine  ! 

Why,  how  one  weeps 

When  one  's  too  weary  !     Were  a  witness 

by, 

He  'd  say  some  folly  .  .  .  that  I  loved  the 
man. 

Who   knows  ?  .  .   .  and   make   me    laugh 
again  for  scorn.  199 

At  strongest,  women  are  as  weak  in  flesh. 

As  men,  at  weakest,  vilest,  are  in  soul: 

So,  hard  for  women  to  keep  pace  with  men  ! 

As  well  give  up  at  once,  sit  down  at  once, 

And  weep  as  1  do.     Tears,  tears  !  why  we 
weep  ? 

'T  is  worth  inquiry  ?  —  that  we  've  shamed 
a  life. 

Or   lost   a   love,  or  missed  a  world,  per- 
haps ? 

By  no  means.     Simply,  that  we  've  walked 
too  far, 

Or  talked  too  much,  or  felt  the  wind  i'  the 
east,  — 

And  so  we  weep,  as  if  both  body  and  soul 

Broke  up  in  water  —  this  way.   • 

Poor  mixed  rags 

Forsooth  we  're  made  of,  like  those  other 
dolls  211 

That  lean  with  pretty  faces  into  fairs. 

It  seems  as  if  I  had  a  man  in  me. 

Despising  such  a  woman. 

Yet  indeed. 

To  see  a  wrong  or  suffering  moves  us  all 

To  undo  it   though  we   should  undo  our- 
selves. 

Ay,  all  the  more,  that  we  undo  ourselves  ; 

That's  womanly,  past  doubt,  and  not  ill- 
moved. 

A   natural   movement    therefore,    on    my 
part. 

To  fill  the  chair  up  of  my  cousin's  wife,    220 

And  save  him  from  a  devil's  company  ! 

We  're  all   so,  —  made   so  —  't  is   our  wo- 
man's trade 

To  suffer  torment  for  another's  ease. 

The    world's   male   chivalry  has   perished 
out. 

But  women  are  knights-errant  to  the  last; 


3^4 


AURORA   LEIGH 


And  if  Cervantes   had  been    Shakespeare 

too, 
He  had  made  his  Don  a  Donna. 

So  it  clears, 
And  so  we  rain  our  skies  blue. 

Put  away 
This   weakness.     If,  as  I  have   just   now 

said, 
A  man  's  within   me,  —  let   him   act  him- 
self, 230 
Ignoring    the    poor   conscious    trouble    of 

blood 
That's  called  the  woman  merely.     I  will 

write 
Plain  words  to  England,  —  if  too  late,  too 

late. 
If  ill-accounted,  then  accounted  ill; 
We  '11  trust  the  heavens  with  something. 

'  Dear  Lord  Howe, 
You  '11  find  a  story  on  another  leaf 
Of  Marian  Erie,  —  what   noble    friend  of 

yours 
She  trusted  once,  through  what  flagitious 

means. 
To   what   disastrous    ends ;  —  the    story  's 

true. 
I  found  her  wandering  on  the  Paris  quays, 
A  babe  upon  her  breast,  — unnatural,     241 
Unseasonable  outcast  on  such  snow 
Unthawed  to  this  time.     I  will  tax  in  this 
Your  friendship,  friend,  if  that  convicted 

She 
Be  not  his  wife  yet,  to  denounce  the  facts 
To  himself,  —  but,  otherwise,  to  let  them 

pass 
On  tip-toe  like  escaping  murderers. 
And  tell  my  cousin  merely  —  Marian  lives, 
Is  found,  and  finds  her  home  with  such  a 

friend. 
Myself,  Aurora.    Which  good  news,  "  She  's 


found," 


250 


Will  help  to  make  him  merry  in  his  love: 
I  send  it,  tell  him,  for  my  marriage-gift. 
As  good  as  orange-water  for  the  nerves. 
Or     perfumed     gloves    for     headache,  — 

though  aware 
That  he,  except  of  love,  is  scarcely  sick: 
I  mean  the  new  love  this  time,  .  .  .  since 

last  year. 
Such  quick  forgetting  on  the  part  of  men  ! 
Is  any  shrewder  trick  upon  the  cards 
To  enrich  them  ?  pray  instruct  me  how 't  is 

done: 
First,  clubs,  —  and  while  you  look  at  clubs, 

'tis  spades;  260 


That 's  prodigy.     The  lightning   strikes  a 

man, 
And  when  we  think  to  find  him  dead  and 

charred  .  .  . 
Why,  there   he   is   on   a   sudden,  playing 

pipes 
Beneath  the  splintered  elm-tree  !     Crime 

and  shame 
And  all  their  hoggery  trample  your  smooth 

world, 
Nor  leave  more  foot-marks  than  Apollo's 

kine 
Whose  hoofs  were  muffled  by  the  thieving 

god 
In  tamarisk  leaves  and   myrtle.     I  'm   so 

sad. 
So  weary  and  sad  to-night,  I  'm  somewhat 

sour,  — 
Forgive  me.     To   be   blue   and   shrew  at 

once  270 

Exceeds  all  toleration  except  yours, 
But  yours,  I  know,  is  infinite.     Farewell. 
To-morrow  we  take  train  for  Italy. 
Speak  gently  of  me  to  your  gracious  wife, 
As  one,  however  far,  shall  yet  be  near 
In  loving  wishes  to  your  house.' 

I  sign. 
And  now  I  loose  my  heart  upon  a  page. 
This  — 

*  Lady  Waldemar,  I  'm  very  glad 
I   never   liked   you;    which  you   knew   so 

well 
You  spared  me,  in  your  turn,  to  like  me 

much:  280 

Your  liking  surely  had  done  worse  for  me 
Than  has   your   loathing,  though  the  last 

appears 
Sufficiently  unscrupulous  to  hurt. 
And  not  afraid  of  judgment.    Now,  there  's 

space 
Between  our  faces,  —  I  stand  off,  as  if 
I   judged   a  stranger's   portrait   and  pro- 
nounced 
Indifferently  the  type  was  good  or  bad. 
What  matter  to  me  that  the  lines  are  false, 
I  ask  you  ?  did  I  ever  ink  my  lips 
By  drawing  your  name  through  them  as  a 

friend's,  290 

Or  touch  your  hands  as  lovers  do  ?    Thank 

God 
I  never  did :  and  since  you  're  proved   so 

vile, 
Ay,    vile,    I    say,  —  we  '11    show    it    pre- 
sently, — 
I  'm  not  obliged  to  nurse  my  friend  in  you, 


SEVENTH  BOOK 


365 


Or  wash  out   my   own   blots,  in  counting 

yours, 
Or  even  excuse  myself  to  honest  souls 
Who   seek   to   press   my  lip  or  clasp  my 

palm,  — 
"  Alas,  but  Lady  Waldemar  came  first  !  " 

*  'T  is  true,  by  this  time  you  may  near  me 

so 
That   you  're    my  cousin's  wife.     You  've 

gambled  deep  300 

As  Lucifer,  and  won  the  morning  star 
In   that   case,  —  and   the   noble    house    of 

Leigh 
Must  henceforth  with  its  good  roof  shelter 

you: 
I  cannot  speak  and  burn  you  up  between 
Those  rafters,  I  who  am  born  a  Leigh,  — 

nor  speak 
And  pierce  your  breast  through  Romney's, 

I  who  live. 
His  friend  and  cousin,  —  so,  you  're  safe. 

You  two 
Must  grow  together  like  the  tares  and  wheat 
Till  God's  great  fire.  —  But  make  the  best 

of  time.  309 

^  And  hide  this  letter:  let  it  speak  no  more 

Than  I  shall,  how  you  tricked  poor  Marian 
Erie, 

And  set  her  own  love  digging  its  own  grave 

Within  her  green  hope's  pretty  garden- 
ground,  — 

Ay,  sent  her  forth  with  some  one  of  your 
sort 

To  a  wicked  house  in  France,  from  which 
she  fled 

With  curses  in  her  eyes  and  ears  and 
throat, 

Her  whole  soul  choked  with  curses,  —  mad 
in  short, 

And  madly  scouring  up  and  down  for  weeks 

The  foreign    hedgeless  country,  lone    and 

lost, ^  ^     319 

So  innocent,  male-fiends  might  slink  within 
Remote  hell-corners,  seeing  her  so  defiled. 

*  But   you,  —  you  are  a  woman  and  more 

bold. 
To  do  you   justice,    you  'd   not  shrink    to 

face  .  .  . 
We'll  say,  the  unfledged  life  in  the  other 

room. 
Which,  treading  down  God's  corn,  you  trod 

in  sight 


Of  all  the  dogs,  in  reach  of  all  the  guns,  — 
Ay,  Marian's   babe,  her   poor   unfathered 

child. 
Her  yearling  babe  !  —  you  'd  face  him  when 

he  wakes 
And  opens  up  his  wonderful  blue  eyes: 
You  'd  meet  them  and  not  wink  perhaps, 

nor  fear  330 

God's  triumph  in  them  and  supreme  revenge 
When  righting  his  creation's  balance-scale 
(You  pulled  as  low  as  Tophet)  to  the  top 
Of  most  celestial  innocence.     For  me. 
Who  am  not  as  bold,  I  own  those  infant 

eyes 
Have  set  me  praying. 

'  While  they  look  at  heaven, 
No  need  of  protestation  in  my  words 
Against  the  place  you  've  made  them  !  let 

them  look. 
They  '11  do  your  business  with  the  heavens, 

be  sure:  339 

I  spare  you  common  curses. 

'  Ponder  this ; 
If  haply  you  're  the  wife  of  Romney  Leigh 
(For  which  inheritance  beyond  your  birth 
You  sold  that   poisonous   porridge    called 

your  soul), 
I    charge    you,  be    his   faithful    and   true 

wife  ! 
Keep  warm  his  hearth  and  clean  his  board, 

and,  when 
He  speaks,  be  quick  with  your  obedience; 
Still   grind   your    paltry    wants    and   low 

desires 
To   dust  beneath   his   heel;    though,  even 

thus. 
The  ground  must  hurt  him,  —  it  was  writ 

of  old,  349 

"  Ye  shall  not  yoke  togetlier  ox  and  ass," 
The  nobler  and  ignobler.     Ay,  but  you 
Shall    do    your   part   as  well   as    such   ill 

things 
Can   do  aught   good.     You  shall   not  vex 

him,  —  mark, 
You  shall  not  vex  him,  jar  him  when  he  's 

sad. 
Or   cross   him  when  lie  's   eager.     Under- 
stand 
To  trick  him  with  apparent  sympathies. 
Nor  let  him  see  thee  in  the  face  too  near 
And  unlearn  thy  sweet  seeming.     Pay  the 

price 
Of  lies,  by  being  constrained  to  lie  on  still: 
'T  is  easy  for  thy  sort:  a  million  more    360 
Will  scarcely  damn  thee  deeper. 


366 


AURORA   LEIGH 


*  Doing  which 
You  are  very  safe  from  Marian  and  myself; 
We  '11  breathe  as  softly  as  the  infant  here, 
And  stir  no  dangerous  embers.    Fail  a  point, 
And  show  our  Romney  wounded,  ill-eon- 
tent, 
Tormented  in  his  home,  we  open  mouth. 
And    such   a   noise   will   follow,   the   last 

trump's 
Will  scarcely  seem  more  dreadful,  even  to 

you; 
You  '11  have  no  pipers  after :  Romney  will 
(I  know  him)  push  you  forth  as  none  of  his, 
All  other  men  declaring  it  well  done,       371 
While  women,  even  the  worst,  your  like, 

will  draw 
Their  skirts  back,  not  to  brush  you  in  the 

street. 
And   so   I   warn    you.     I  'm  .  .  .  Aurora 
Leigh.' 

The  letter  written,  I  felt  satisfied. 

The  ashes,  smouldering  in  me,  were  thrown 

out 
By  handf uls  from  me  :  I  had  writ  my  heart 
And  wept  my  tears,  and  now  was  cool  and 

calm; 
And,  going  straightway  to  the  neighboring 

room, 
I  lifted  up  the  curtains  of  the  bed  380 

Where  Marian  Erie,  the  babe  upon  her  arm. 
Both  faces  leaned  together  like  a  pair 
Of  folded  innocences  self-complete. 
Each  smiling  from  the  other,  smiled  and 

slept. 
There  seemed  no  sin,  no  shame,  no  wrath, 

no  grief. 
I  felt  she  too  had  spoken  words  that  night, 
But  softer  certainly,  and  said  to  God, 
Who  laughs  in  heaven  perhaps  that  such 

as  I 
Should  make  ado  for  such  as  she.  —  '  De- 
filed '  389 
I  wrote  ?  '  defiled '  I  thought  her  ?  Stoop, 
Stoop  lower,  Aurora  !  get  the  angels'  leave 
To  creep  in  somewhere,  humbly,  on  your 

knees. 
Within  this  round  of  sequestration  white 
In  which  they  have  wrapped  earth's  found- 
lings, heaven's  elect. 

The  next  day  we  took  train  to  Italy 
And  fled  on  southward  in  the  roar  of  steam. 
The   marriage-bells  of   Romney   must   be 
loud. 


To  sound  so  clear  through  all:  I  was  not 

well, 
And  truly,  though  the  truth  is  like  a  jest, 
I   could   not   choose   but   fancy,   half  the 

way,     ^  400 

I  stood  alone  i'  the  belfry,  fifty  bells 
Of  naked  iron,  mad  with  merriment 
(As  one  who  laughs  and  cannot  stop  him- 
self). 
All  clanking  at  me,  in  me,  over  me. 
Until  I  shrieked  a  shriek  I  could  not  hear. 
And  swooned  with  noise,  —  but  still,  along 

my  swoon. 
Was  'ware  the  baffled  changes  backward 

rang 
Prepared,  at  each  emerging  sense,  to  beat 
And   crash   it   out   with   clangor.     I   was 

weak ; 
I  struggled  for  the  posture  of  my  soul    410 
In  upright  consciousness  of  place  and  time, 
But  evermore,  'twixt  waking  and  asleep. 
Slipped    somehow,   staggered,   caught    at 

Marian's  eyes 
A  moment  (it  is  very  good  for  strength 
To  know  that  some  one  needs  you  to  be 

strong). 
And  so  recovered  what  I  called  myself. 
For  that  time. 

I  just  knew  it  when  we  swept 
Above    the   old    roofs    of    Dijon:    Lyons 

dropped 
A  spark  into  the  night,  half  trodden  out 
Unseen.    But  presently  the  winding  Rhone 
Washed  out  the  moonlight  large  along  his 

banks  421 

Which  strained  their  yielding  curves  out 

clear  and  clean 
To  hold  it,  —  shadow  of  town  and  castle 

blurred 
Upon  the  hurrying  river.     Such  an  air 
Blew  thence  upon  the  forehead  —  half  an 

air 
And   half    a  water — that    I   leaned   and 

looked. 
Then,  turning  back  on  Marian,  smiled  to 

mark 
That   she   looked  only  on  her   child,  who 

slept. 
His  face  toward  the  moon  too. 

So  we  passed 
The  liberal  open  country  and  the  close,  430 
And  shot  through  tunnels,  like  a  lightning- 
wedge 
By  great   Thor-hammers   driven  through 

the  rock. 


SEVENTH    BOOK 


Z^l 


Which,  quivering  through  the  intestine 
blackness,  splits. 

And  lets  it  in  at  once:  the  train  swept  in 

Athrob  with  effort,  trembling  with  resolve, 

The  fierce  denouncing  whistle  wailing  on 

And  dying  off  smothered  in  the  shudder- 
ing dark, 

While  we,  self  -  awed,  drew  troubled 
breath,  oppressed 

As  other  Titans  underneath  the  pile 

And  nightmare  of  the  mountains.  Out,  at 
last,  440 

To  catch  the  dawn  afloat  upon  the  land  ! 

—  Hills,  slung  forth  broadly  and  gauntly 
everywhere. 

Not  cramped  in  their  foundations,  pushing- 
wide 

Rich  outspreads  of  the  vineyards  and  the 
corn 

(As  if  they  entertained  i'  the  name  of 
France), 

While  down  their  straining  sides  streamed 
manifest 

A  soil  as  red  as  Charlemagne's  knightly 
blood. 

To  consecrate  the  verdure.  Some  one 
said 

*  Marseilles  ! '  And  lo,  the  city  of  Mar- 
seilles, 

With  all  her  ships  behind  her,  and  be- 
yond, 450 

The  scimitar  of  ever-shining  sea 

For  right-hand  use,  bared  blue  against  the 
sky! 

That  night  we  spent   between  the  purple 

heaven 
And  purple  water:  I  think  Marian  slept; 
But  I,  as  a  dog  awatch  for   his   master's 

foot. 
Who  cannot  sleep  or  eat  before  he  hears, 
I  sat  upon  the  deck  and  watched  the  night 
And  listened  through  the  stars  for  Italy. 
Those  marriage-bells  I  spoke  of   sounded 

far. 
As  some  child's  go-cart  in  the  street  be- 
neath 460 
To   a   dying  man  who  will    not  pass   the 

day. 
And  knows  it,  holding  by  a  hand  he  loves. 
I  too  sat  quiet,  satisfied  with  death. 
Sat   silent:    I   could   hear    my   own    soul 

speak. 
And  had  my  friend,  —  for   Nature  comes 

sometimes 


And  says,  *  I  am  ambassador  for  God.' 

I  felt  the  wind  soft  from  the  land  of  souls; 

The  old  miraculous  mountains   heaved  in 

sight, 
One  straining  past  another  along  the  shore, 
The  way  of  grand  dull  Odyssean  ghosts,  470 
Athirst   to  drink   the    cool   blue    wine    of 

seas 
And    stare    on    voyagers.     Peak    pushing 

peak 
They  stood:   I  watched,  beyond  that  Tyr- 

ian  belt 
Of  intense  sea  betwixt  them  and  the  ship, 
Down  all  their  sides  the  misty  olive-woods 
Dissolving  in  the  weak,  congenial  moon 
And  still  disclosing  some   brown    convent 

tower 
That  seems  as  if  it  grew  from  some  brown 

rock, 
Or  many  a  little  lighted  village,  dropped 
Like  a  fallen  star  upon  so  high  a  point,  480 
You  wonder  what  can  keep  it  in  its  place 
From  sliding  headlong  with  the  waterfalls 
Which  powder  all  the  myrtle  and  orange 

groves 
With  spray  of  silver.     Thus  my  Italy 
Was   stealing  on   us.     Genoa   broke    with 

day. 
The  Doria's  long  pale  palace  striking  out. 
From  green  hills  in  advance  of  the  white 

town, 
A  marble  finger  dominant  to  ships, 
Seen    glimmering   through   the    uncertain 

gray  of  dawn. 

And  then  I  did  not  think,  *  My  Italy,'      490 
I  thought  •  My  father  ! '     O   my   father's 

house. 
Without    his   presence  !  —  Places   are    too 

much, 
Or  else  too  little,  for  immortal  man  — 
Too   little,    when    love 's    May    o'ergrows 

the  ground; 
Too   much,  when   that   luxuriant   robe  of 

green 
Is  rustling  to  our  ankles  in  dead  leaves. 
'T  is  only  good  to  be  or  here  or  there. 
Because  we  had  a  dream  on  such  a  stone, 
Or  this  or  that,  —  but,  once  being  wholly 

waked 
And  come  back  to  the  stone  without   the 

dream,  500 

We   trip    upon 't,  —  alas,    and   hurt    our- 
selves ; 
Or  else  it  falls  on  us  and  grinds  us  flat. 


368 


AURORA   LEIGH 


The  heaviest   gravestone  on  this   burying 

earth. 
—  But  while  I  stood  and  mused,  a  quiet 

touch 
Fell    light    upon   my    arm,    and,   turning 

round, 
A  pair  of  moistened  eyes  convicted  mine. 
'  What,  Marian !  is  the  babe  astir  so  soon?  ' 

*  He  sleeps,'  she  answered;  '  I  have  crept 

up  thrice, 
And   seen   you    sitting,  standing,    still   at 

watch. 
I  thought   it   did  you  good  till  now,  but 

now '  .  .  .  510 

*  But   now,'  I   said,  '  you  leave   the   child 

alone.' 
'And  you're  alone,'  she  answered,  —  and 

she  looked 
As  if  I   too  were  something.     Sweet   the 

help 
Of  one  we  have  helped  !     Thanks,  Marian, 

for  such  help. 

I  found  a  house  at  Florence  on  the  hill 
Of    Bellosguardo.     'T  is    a    tower    which 

keeps 
A  post  of  double  observation  o'er 
That  valley  of  Arno  (holding  as  a  hand 
The  outspread  city)  straight    toward  Fie- 

sole  519 

And  Mount  Morello  and  the  setting  sun. 
The  Yallombrosan  mountains  opposite. 
Which  sunrise  fills  as  full  as  crystal  cups 
Turned  red  to  the  brim  because  their  wine 

is  red. 
No  sun  could  die  nor  yet  be  born  unseen 
By  dwellers  at  my  villa:  morn  and  eve 
Were  magnified  before  us  in  the  pure 
Illimitable  space  and  pause  of  sky. 
Intense  as  angels'  garments  blanched  with 

God, 
Less  blue  than  radiant.     From  the  outer 

wall 
Of  the  garden,  drops  the    mystic  floating 

gray  ^  530 

Of  olive-trees  (with  interruptions  green 
From  maize    and  vine),  until  'tis  caught 

and  torn 
Upon  the  abrupt  black  line  of  cypresses 
Which  signs  the  way  to  Florence.     Beauti- 
ful 
The  city  lies  along  the  ample  vale. 
Cathedral,  tower  and  palace,  piazza   and 

street. 
The  river  trailing  like  a  silver  cord 


Through  all,  and  curling  loosely,  both  be- 
fore 
And  after,  over  the  whole  stretch  of  land 
Sown  whitely  up   and   down   its   opposite 

slopes  540 

With  farms  and  villas. 

Many  weeks  had  passed. 
No   word   was    granted.  —  Last,  a   letter 

came 
From    Vincent    Carrington:  —  'My   dear 

Miss  Leigh, 
You  've  been  as  silent  as  a  poet  should, 
When  any  other  man  is  sure  to  speak. 
If  sick,  if  vexed,  if  dumb,  a  silver  piece 
Will  split  a  man's  tongue,  —  straight   he 

speaks  and  says 
"  Received  that  cheque."     But  you  !  .  .  . 

I  send  you  funds 
To  Paris,  and  you  make  no  sign  at  all. 
Remember,  I  'm  responsible  and  wait       550 
A  sign  of  you,  Miss  Leigh. 

'  Meantime  your  book 
Is  eloquent  as  if  you  were  not  dumb; 
And  common  critics,  ordinarily  deaf 
To  such  fine  meanings,  and,  like  deaf  men, 

loth 
To  seem  deaf,  answering  chance-wise,  yes 

or  no, 
"  It  must  be  "  or  "  it  must  not "  (most  pro- 
nounced 
When  least  convinced),  pronounce  for  once 

aright : 
You  'd  think  they  really  heard,  —  and  so 

they  do  .  .  . 
The  burr  of  three  or  four  who  really  hear 
And    praise    your    book    aright  :    Fame's 

smallest  trump  560 

Is  a   great   ear-trumpet   for   the    deaf   as 

posts. 
No  other  being  effective.    Fear  not,  friend; 
We  think  here    you  have  written  a  good 

book. 
And  you,  a  woman  !     It  was  in  you,  —  yes, 
I  felt  't  was  in  you :  yet  I  doubted  half 
If  that  od-force  of  German  Reichenbach, 
Which  still  from  female  finger-tips  burns 

blue. 
Could  strike  out   as  our   masculine  white 

heats 
To  quicken  a  man.     Forgive  me.     All  my 

heart 
Is  quick  with  yours  since,  just  a  fortnight 


smce, 


570 


I  read  your  book  and  loved  it. 


Will  you  love 


SEVENTH    BOOK 


369 


My  wife,  too  ?     Here  's  my  secret  I  might 

keep 
A  month  more  from  you  !  but  I  yield  it  up 
Because  I  know  you  '11  write   the   sooner 

for  't, 
Most  women  (of  your  height  even)  count- 
ing love 
Life's  only  serious  business.     Who 's    my 

wife 
That  shall  be  in  a  month  ?    you  ask,  nor 

guess  ? 
Remember  what  a  pair  of  topaz  eyes 
You  once  detected,  turned  against  the  wall, 
That    morning   in   my    London    painting- 
room  ;  s8o 
The  face   half-sketched,  and  slurred;   the 

eyes  alone  ! 
But  you  .  .  .  you   caught   them   up  with 

yours,  and  said 
**  Kate  Ward's  eyes,  surely."  —  Now  I  own 

the  truth: 
I  had   thrown   them  there  to  keep   them 

safe  from  Jove, 
They  would   so   naughtily   find   out   their 

way 
To  both  the  heads  of  both  my  Danaes 
Where   just  it  made  me   mad  to  look   at 

them. 
Such  eyes  !     I  could  not  paint  or  think  of 

eyes 
But    those,  —  and   so   I   flung  them   into 

paint 
And  turned  them  to  the  wall's  care.     Ay, 

but  now  590 

I  've  let  them  out,  my  Kate's:  I  've  painted 

her 
(I  change  my  style  and  leave  mythologies). 
The  whole  sweet  face;  it  looks  upon  my 

soul 
Like  a  face  on  water,  to  beget  itself. 
A  half-length  portrait,  in  a  hanging  cloak 
Like    one    you   wore    once  ;    't  is    a   little 

frayed,  — 
I  pressed  too  for  the  nude  harmonious  arm ; 
But  she,  she  'd  have  her  way,  and  have  her 

cloak  — 
She  said  she  could  be  like  you  only  so, 
And  would  not  miss  the  fortune.     Ah,  my 

friend,  600 

You  '11  write    and  say  she  shall  not  miss 

your  love 
Through    meeting    mine  ?    in    faith,    she 

would  not  change. 
She   has   your  books  by  heart  more  than 

my  words, 


And   quotes   you   up  against  me  till  I  'm 

pushed 
Where,  three  months  since,  her  eyes  were: 

nay,  in  fact. 
Nought  satisfied  her  but  to  make  me  paint 
Your   last   book   folded    in    her    dimpled 

hands 
Instead  of  my  brown  palette  as  I  wished. 
And,  grant  me,  the  presentment  had  been 

newer; 
She  'd  grant  me  nothing:    I  compounded 

for  6io 

The    naming    of    the    wedding  -  day    next 

month. 
And  gladly  too.     'T  is  pretty  to  remark 
How  women  can  love  women  of  your  sort. 
And   tie   their   hearts  with  love-knots   to 

your  feet. 
Grow  insolent  about  you  against  men, 
And  put  us  down  by  putting  up  the  lip, 
As  if  a  man  —  there  are  such,  let  us  own. 
Who  write  not  ill  —  remains  a  man,  poor 

wretch. 
While  you  !  —  Write  weaker  than  Aurora 

Leigh,  619 

And  there  '11  be  women  who  believe  of  you 
(Besides  my  Kate)  that  if  you  walked  on 

sand 
You  would  not  leave  a  foot-print. 

'  Are  you  put 
To   wonder   by    my   marriage,   like    poor 

Leigh  ? 
«  Kate  Ward  !  "  he   said.    "  Kate  Ward  !  " 

he  said  anew. 
"  I  thought "...  he  said,  and  stopped  —  "I 

did  not  think  "... 
And  then  he  dropped  to  silence. 

'  Ah,  he  's  changed. 
I  had  not  seen  him,  you  're  aware,  for  long, 
But  went  of  course.    I  have  not  touched  on 

this 
Through  all  this  letter  —  conscious  of  your 

heart. 
And  writing  lightlier  for  the  heavy  fact,  630 
As  clocks  are  voluble  with  lead. 

*  How  poor, 
To  say  I  'm  sorry  !    dear   Leigh,  dearest 

Leigh. 
In  those  old  days  of  Shropshire  —  pardon 

me  — 
When  he  and  you  fought  many  a  field  of 

gold 
On  what  you  should  do,  or  you  should  not 

do. 
Make  b^ead  or  verses  (it  just  came  to  that). 


370 


AURORA  LEIGH 


I  thought  you  'd  one  day  draw  a   silken 

peace 
Through   a   golden   ring,      I   thought   so: 

foolishly, 
The   event   proved;    for   you   went    more 

opposite 
To  each  other,  month  by  month,  and  year 

by  year,  640 

Until  this  happened.     God  knows  best,  we 

say, 
But  hoarsely.     When  the  fever  took  him 

first. 
Just  after  I  bad  writ  to  you  in  France, 
They  tell  me,  Lady  Waldemar  mixed  drinks 
And  counted  grains,  like  any  salaried  nurse, 
Excepting  that  she  wept  tooo     Then  Lord 

Howe, 
You  're    right    about   Lord    Howe,   Lord 

Howe  's  a  trump. 
And  yet,  with  such  in  his  hand,  a  man  like 

Leigh 
May  lose  as  he  does.    There  's  an  end  to  all. 
Yes,  even  this  letter,  though   this  second 

sheet  650 

May  find  you  doubtful.     Write  a  word  for 

Kate: 
She  reads  my  letters  always,  like  a  wife. 
And  if  she  sees  her  name  I  '11  see  her  smile 
And  share  the  luck.     So,  bless  you,  friend 

of  two  ! 
I  will  not  ask  you  what  your  feeling  is 
At  Florence  with  my  pictures;  I  can  hear 
Your  heart  a-flutter  over  the  snow-hills: 
And,  just  to  pace  the  Pitti  with  you  once, 
I  'd  give  a  half-hour  of  to-morrow's  walk 
With  Kate  ...  I  think  so.     Vincent  Car- 


rington. 


660 


The  noon  was  hot;  the  air  scorched  like  the 

sun, 
And  was   shut  out.     The   closed   persiani 

threw 
Their  long-scored  shadows  on  my  villa-floor, 
And  interlined  the  golden  atmosphere 
Straight,  still,  —  across  the  pictures  on  the 

wall. 
The  statuette  on  the  console  (of  young  Love 
And  Psyche  made  one  marble  by  a  kiss), 
The  low  couch  where  I  leaned,  the  table 

near. 
The  vase  of  lilies  Marian  pulled  last  night 
(Each  green  leaf  and  each  white  leaf  ruled 

in  black  670 

As  if  for  writing  some  new  text  of  fate), 
And  the  open  letter,  rested  on  my  knee, 


But   there    the    lines   swerved,   trembled, 

though  I  sat 
Untroubled,  plainly,  reading  it  again, 
And   three    times.     Well,    he's    married; 

that  is  clear. 
No  wonder  that   he  's  married,  nor  much 

more 
That  Vincent 's  therefore  'sorry.'   Why,  of 

course 
The  lady  nursed  him  when  he  was  not  well. 
Mixed   drinks,  —  unless  nepenthe  was  the 

drink 
'T  was  scarce  worth  telling.     But  a  man  in 

love  680 

Will  see  the  whole  sex  in  his  mistress'  hood, 
The  prettier  for  its  lining  of  fair  rose, 
Although  he  catches  back  and  says  at  last^ 
'  I  'm  sorry.'     Sorry.     Lady  Waldemar 
At   prettiest,   under   the   said    hood,   pre- 
served 
From  such  a  light  as  I  could  hold  to  her 

face 
To  flare  its  ugly  wrinkles  out  to  shame. 
Is   scarce  a  wife  for   Romney,  as  friends 

judge, 
Aurora  Leigh  or  Vincent  Carrington, 
That 's  plain.     And  if  he  's  '  conscious  of 

my  heart'  ...  690 

It   may  be  natural,  though   the  phrase  is 

strong 
(One  's  apt  to  use  strong  phrases,  being  in 

love)  ; 
And  even  that  stuff  of  '  fields  of  gold,'  '  gold 

rings,' 
And  what  he  '  thought,'  poor  Vincent,  what 

he  '  thought,' 
May  never  mean  enough  to  ruffle  me. 
—  Why,  this  room  stifles.    Better  burn  than 

choke; 
Best  have  air,  air,  although  it  comes  with 

fire. 
Throw  open  blinds  and  windows  to  the  noon, 
And  take  a  blister  on  my  brow  instead 
Of  this  dead  weight  !     best,  perfectly  be 

stunned  700 

By  those  insufferable  cicale,  sick 
And  hoarse  with  rapture  of  the  summer- 
heat, 
That  sing,  like  poets,  till  their  hearts  break, 

—  sing 
Till  men  say  '  It 's  too  tedious.' 

Books  succeed, 
And  lives  fail.     Do  I  feel  it  so,  at  last  ? 
Kate  loves  a  worn-out  cloak  for  being  like 

mine. 


SEVENTH   BOOK 


371 


While  I  live  self-despised  for  being  myself, 
And  yearn  toward  some  one  else,  who  yearns 

away 
From  what  he  is,  in  bis  turn.      Strain  a 

step 
For  ever,  yet  gain  no  step  ?     Are  we  such, 
We  cannot,  with  our  admirations  even,    711 
Our  tip-toe  aspirations,  touch  a  thing 
That 's  higher  than  we  ?  is  all  a  dismal  flat. 
And  God  alone  above  each,  as  the  sun 
O'er  level  lagunes,  to  make  them  shine  and 

stink  — 
Laying  stress  upon  us  with  immediate  flame. 
While  we  respond  with  our  miasmal  fog. 
And  call   it  mounting   higher  because  we 

grow 
More  highly  fatal  ? 

Tush,  Aurora  Leigh  ! 
You  wear  your  sackcloth  looped  in  Csesar's 

way,  720 

And  brag  your  failings  as  mankind's.     Be 

still. 
There  is  what 's  higher,  in  this  very  world. 
Than   you   can   live,  or  catch   at.      Stand 

aside 
And  look  at  others  —  instance  little  Kate  ! 
She  '11  make  a  perfect  wife  for  Carrington. 
She  always   has   been   looking  round   the 

earth 
For  something   good  and  green  to  alight 

upon 
And   nestle    into,    with   those  soft-winged 

eyes. 
Subsiding  now  beneath  his  manly  hand 
'Twixt  trembling  lids  of  inexpressive  joy. 
I  Avill  not  scorn  her,  after  all,  too  much. 
That  so  much  she  should  love  me:  a  wise 

man  732 

Can  pluck  a  leaf,  and  find  a  lecture  in  't; 
And  I,  too,  .  .  .  God  has  made  me,  —  I  've 

a  heart 
That  's  capable  of  worship,  love,  and  loss; 
We  say  the  same  of  Shakespeare's.     I  '11 

be  meek 
And   learn   to   reverence,  even   this   poor 

myself. 

The  book,  too  —  pass  it.     '  A  good  book,' 

says  he, 
'  And   you   a  woman.'     I  had  laughed  at 

that,  ^    _  739 

But  long  since.     I  'm  a  woman,  it  is  true; 
Alas,  and  woe  to  us,  when  we  feel  it  most  ! 
Then,  least  care  have  we  for  the  crowns 

and  goals 


And   compliments    on    writing    our    good 

books. 
The  book  has  some  truth  in  it,  I  believe, 
And  truth  outlives  pain,  as  the  soul  does 

life. 
I  know  we  talk  our  Phsedons  to  the  end, 
Through  all  the  dismal  faces  that  we  make, 
O'erwrinkled  with  dishonoring  agony 
From  decomposing  drugs.     1  have  written 

truth. 
And  I  a  woman,  —  feebly,  partially,         750 
Inaptly  in  presentation,  Romney  '11  add, 
Because  a  woman.     For  the  truth  itself. 
That 's  neither  man's  nor  woman's,  but  just 

God's, 
None  else  has  reason  to  be  proud  of  truth: 
Himself  will  see  it  sifted,  disenthralled. 
And  kept  upon  the  height  and  in  the  light, 
As  far  as  and  no  farther  than  't  is  truth ; 
For,  now  He   has   left  off   calling    firma- 
ments 
And   strata,    flowers   and   creatures,   very 
good,  759 

He  says  it  still  of  truth,  which  is  his  own. 

Truth,  so  far,  in  my  book;  the  truth  which 

draws 
Through  all  things  upwards  —  that  a  two- 
fold world 
Must   go   to   a   perfect   cosmos.     Natural 

things 
And  spiritual,  —  who  separates  those  two 
In  art,  in  morals,  or  the  social  drift. 
Tears  up  the  bond   of   nature  and  brings 

death. 
Paints  futile  pictures,  writes  unreal  verse. 
Leads  vulgar  days,  deals  ignorantly  with 

men, 
Is  wrong,  in  short,  at  all  points.     We  di- 
vide 
This  apple  of  life,  and  cut  it  through  the 
pips:  770 

The   perfect    round   which   fitted    Venus' 

hand 
Has  perished  as  utterly  as  if  we  ate 
Both  halves.     Without   the   spiritual,  ob- 
serve. 
The  natural 's  impossible  —  no  form, 
No  motion  :   without  sensuous,  spiritual 
Is  inappreciable,  —  no  beauty  or  power: 
And  in  this   twofold   sphere    the    twofold 

man 
(For  still  the  artist  is  intensely  a  man) 
Holds  firmly  by  the  natural,  to  reach 
The  spiritual  beyond  it,  —  fixes  still         780 


372 


AURORA   LEIGH 


The   type    with   mortal   vision,    to    pierce 

through, 
With  eyes  immortal,  to  the  antitype 
Some   call   the   ideal,  —  better  called  the 

real, 
And  certain  to  be  called  so  presently 
When  things  shall  have  their  names.    Look 

long  enough 
On   any    peasant's   face   here,  coarse   and 

lined. 
You  '11  catch  Antinous  somewhere  in  that 

clay, 
As  perfect  featured  as  he  yearns  at  Rome 
From  marble  pale  with  beauty;    then  per- 
sist, 789 
And,  if  your  apprehension 's  competent. 
You  '11  find  some  fairer  angel  at  his  back, 
As  much  exceeding  him  as  he  the  boor, 
And  pushing  him  with  empyreal  disdain 
For  ever  out  of  sight.     Ay,  Carrington 
Is  glad  of  such  a  creed;  an' artist  must, 
Who  paints  a  tree,  a  leaf,  a  common  stone, 
With  just  his  hand,  and  finds  it  suddenly 
A-piece  with  and  conterminous  to  his  soul. 
Why  else  do  these  things  move  him,  leaf 

or  stone  ? 
The   bird 's   not   moved   that   pecks   at   a 
spring-shoot ;  800 

Nor  yet  the  horse,  before  a  quarry  agraze : 
But    man,    the    twofold    creature,    appre- 
hends 
The  twofold  manner,  in  and  outwardly, 
And  nothing  in  the  world  comes  single  to 

him, 
A  mere  itself,  —  cup,  column,  or   candle- 
stick. 
All  patterns  of  what  shall  be  in  the  Mount; 
The  whole  temporal  show  related  royally, 
And  built  up  to  eterne  significance 
Through  the  open  arms  of  God.     '  There  's 

nothing  great 
Nor  small,'  has  said  a  poet  of  our  day,    810 
Whose  voice  will  ring  beyond  the  curfew 

of  eve 
And  not  be  thrown  out  by  the  matin's  bell : 
And  truly,  I  reiterate,  nothing 's  small  ! 
No  lily-muffled  hum  of  a  summer-bee. 
But  finds  some  coupling  with  the  spinning 

stars ; 
No    pebble   at   your    foot,    but   proves   a 

sphere ; 
No  chaffinch,  but  implies  the  cherubim; 
And    (glancing   on   my   own  thin,  veined 

wrist) 
In  such  a  little  tremor  of  the  blood 


The  whole  strong   clamor  of   a  vehement 

soul  820 

Doth      utter      itself     distinct.        Earth's 

crammed  with  heaven. 
And  every  common  bush  afire  with  God; 
But  only  he  who  sees,  takes  off  his  shoes  — 
The   rest   sit   round   it   and   pluck  black- 
berries, 
And  daub  their  natural  faces  unaware 
More  and  more  from  the  first  similitude. 

Truth,  so  far,  in  my  book  !  a  truth  which 

draws 
From  all  things  upward.     I,  Aurora,  still 
Have  felt  it  hound  me  through  the  wastes 

of  life 
As  Jove  did  lo;  and,  until  that  Hand      830 
Shall  overtake  me  wholly  and  on  my  head 
Lay  down  its  large  unfluctuating  peace, 
The  feverish   gad-fly   pricks    me   up   and 

down. 
It  must  be.      Art  's  the  witness  of  what 

Is 
Behind  this   show.     If  this  world's   show 

were  all, 
Then  imitation  would  be  all  in  Art; 
There,  Jove's  hand  gripes  us  !  —  For   we 

stand  here,  we. 
If  genuine  artists,  witnessing  for  God's 
Complete,  consummate,  undivided  work; 
That  every  natural  flower  which  grows  on 

earth  840 

Implies  a  flower  upon  the  spiritual  side. 
Substantial,  archetypal,  all  aglow 
With    blossoming     causes,  —  not     so    far 

away, 
But   we,  whose   spirit-sense   is   somewhat 

cleared. 
May  catch  at  something  of  the  bloom  and 

breath,  — 
Too  vaguely  apprehended,  though  indeed 
Still  apprehended,  consciously  or  not. 
And   still   transferred    to   picture,   music, 

verse. 
For  thrilling  audient  and  beholding  souls 
By  signs  and  touches  which  are  known  to 

souls.  850 

How  known,  they  know  not,  —  why,  they 

cannot  find. 
So  straight  call  out  on  genius,  say  *  A  man 
Produced   this,'    when   much   rather   they 

should  say 
*  'T  is  insight  and  he  saw  this.' 

Thus  is  Art 
Self-magnified  in  magnifying  a  truth 


SEVENTH    BOOK 


373 


Which,  fully  recognized,  would  change  the 

world 
And  shift  its  morals.     If  a  man  could  feel. 
Not  one  day,  in  the  artist's  ecstasy. 
But  every  day,  feast,  fast,  or  working-day. 
The  spiritual  significance  burn  through   860 
The  hieroglyphic  of  material  shows. 
Henceforward   he  would  paint   the    globe 

with  wings. 
And  reverence  fish  and  fowl,  the  bull,  the 

tree. 
And  even  his  very  body  as  a  man  — 
Which  now  he  counts  so  vile,  that  all  the 

towns 
Make  offal  of  their  daughters  for  its  use. 
On   summer-nights,  when  God   is   sad   in 

heaven 
To   think   what   goes   on   in  his   recreant 

world 
He  made  quite  other;  while  that  moon  He 

made 
To  shine   there,  at   the  first   love's   cove- 
nant, 870 
Shines  still,  convictive  as  a  marriage-ring 
Before  adulterous  eyes. 

How  sure  it  is. 
That,  if  we  say  a  true  word,  instantly 
We  feel  't  is  God's,  not  ours,  and  pass  it 

on 
Like  bread  at  sacrament  we  taste  and  pass 
Nor  handle  for  a  moment,  as  indeed 
We  dared  to  set  up  any  claim  to  such  ! 
And  I  —  my  poem,  — let  my  readers  talk. 
I  'm  closer  to  it  —  I  can  speak  as  well: 
I  '11   say  with    Romney,  that   the   book  is 
weak,  880 

The  range  uneven,  the  points  of  sight  ob- 
scure, 
The  music  interrupted. 

Let  us  go. 
The  end  of  woman  (or  of  man,  I  think) 
Is  not  a  book.     Alas,  the  best  of  books 
Is  but  a  word  in   Art,  which  soon  grows 

cramped, 
Stiff,  dubious-statured  with  the  weight  of 

years, 
And  drops  an  accent  or  digamma  down 
Some  cranny  of  unfathomable  time. 
Beyond  the  critic's  reaching.     Art  itself. 
We  've  called  the  larger  life,  must  feel  the 
soul  890 

Live  past  it.     For  more  's  felt  than  is  per- 
ceived. 
And  more  's  perceived  than  can  be  inter- 
preted, 


And  Love  strikes  higher  with  his  lambent 

flame 
Than  Art  can  pile  the  fagots. 

Is  it  so  ? 
When  Jove's  hand  meets  us  with  compos- 
ing touch, 
And  when  at  last  we  are  hushed  and  satis- 
fied. 
Then  lo  does  not  call  it  truth,  but  love  ? 
Well,  well  !   my  father   was   an    English- 
man : 
My  mother's  blood  in  me  is  not  so  strong 
That  I  should  bear  this  stress  of  Tuscan 
noon  900 

And    keep    my    wits.     The    town,   there, 

seems  to  seethe 
In  this  Medsean  boil-pot  of  the  sun. 
And    all   the   patient    hills   are    bubbling 

round 
As    if    a    prick   would    leave    them   flat. 

Does  heaven 
Keep  far  off,  not  to  set  us  in  a  blaze  ? 
Not    so,  —  let    drag    your    fiery    fringes, 

heaven, 
And  burn  us  up  to  quiet.     Ah,  we  know 
Too  much  here,  not  to  know  what 's  best 

for  peace; 
We  have  too  much  light  here,  not  to  want 

more  fire 
To  purify  and  end  us.     We  talk,  talk,    910 
Conclude  upon  divine  philosophies. 
And  get   the  thanks  of   men  for   hopeful 

books. 
Whereat  we  take  our  own  life  up,  and  .  .  . 

pshaw  ! 
Unless  we  piece  it  with  another's  life 
(A  yard  of  silk  to  carry  out  our  lawn) 
As  well  suppose  my  little  handkerchief 
Would  cover  Samminiato,  church  and  all, 
If  out  I  threw  it  past  the  cypresses, 
As,  in  this  ragged,  narrow  life  of  mine, 
Contain  my  own  conclusions. 

But  at  least 
We  '11  shut  up  the  persiani  and  sit  down, 
And  when  my  head 's  done  aching,  in  the 

cool,  922 

Write  just  a  word  to  Kate  and  Carrington. 
May   joy  be  with  them  !   she  has   chosen 

well. 
And  he  not  ill. 

I  should  be  glad,  I  think, 
Except    for    Romney.     Had    he    married 

Kate, 
I  surely,  surely,  should  be  very  glad. 
This  Florence  sits  upon  me  easily, 


374 


AURORA  LEIGH 


With  native  air  and  tongue.      My  graves 

are  calm, 
And  do  not  too  much  hurt  me.     Marian  's 

good,  930 

Gentle    and   loving,  —  lets    me    hold   the 

child, 
Or    drags    him   up   the   hills    to   find   me 

flowers 
And    fill    these     vases     ere     I  'm     quite 

awake,  — 
My  grandiose  red  tulips,  which  grow  wild, 
Or  Dante's  purple  lilies,  which  he  blew 
To    a    larger    bubble    with    his    prophet 

breath, 
Or  one  of  those  tall  flowering  reeds  that 

stand 
In  Arno,  like  a  sheaf  of  sceptres  left 
But  some  remote  dynasty  of  dead  gods 
To   suck    the   stream   for    ages    and   get 

green,  940 

And  blossom  wheresoe'er  a  hand  divine 
Had  warmed  the  place  with  ichor.     Such 

I  find 
At  early  morning  laid  across  my  bed. 
And  wake  up  pelted  with  a  childish  laugh 
Which    even     Marian's     low    precipitous 

'  hush  ' 
Has  vainly  interposed  to  put  away,  — 
While  I,  with  shut  eyes,  smile  and  motion 

for 
The  dewy  kiss  that 's  very  sure  to  come 
From  mouth  and  cheeks  the  whole  child's 

face  at  once  949 

Dissolved  on  mine,  —  as  if  a  nosegay  burst 
Its  string  with  the  weight  of  roses  over- 
blown. 
And  dropped  upon  me.    Surely  I  should  be 

glad. 
The  little  creature  almost  loves  me  now. 
And  calls  my  name,  '  Alola,'  stripping  off 
The   r's  like    thorns,  to   make   it   smooth 

enough 
To  take  between  his  dainty,  milk-fed  lips, 
God  love  him  !    I  should  certainly  be  glad. 
Except,  God  help  me,  that  I  'm  sorrowful 
Because  of  Bomney. 

Romney,  Romney  !     Well, 
This  grows  absurd  !  —  too  like  a  tune  that 

runs  960 

1'  the  head,  and  forces  all   things  in  the 

world, 
Wind,  rain,  the  creaking  gnat,  or  stuttering 

^^' 
To  sing  itself  and  vex  you,  —  yet  perhaps 

A  paltry  tune  you  never  fairly  liked, 


Some    '  I  'd    be    a    butterfly,'    or    '  C'est 

I'amour: ' 
We  're  made  so,  —  not  such  tyrants  to  our- 
selves 
But  still  we  are  slaves  to  nature.    Some  of 

us 
Are  turned,  too,  overmuch  like  some  poor 

verse 
With  a  trick  of  ritournelle :  the  same  thing 

goes  969 

And  comes  back  ever. 

Vincent  Carrington 
Is  '  sorry,'  and  I  'm  sorry ;  but  he  's  strong 
To   mount  from  sorrow  to  his   heaven  of 

love, 
And  when  he  says  at  moments, '  Poor,  poor 

Leigh, 
Who  '11  never  call  his  own  so  true  a  heart. 
So  fair  a  face  even,'  —  he  must  quickly  lose 
The  pain  of  pity,  in  the  blush  he  makes 
By  his  very  pitying  eyes.     The  snow,  for 

him, 
Has  fallen  in   May   and  finds   the    whole 

earth  warm, 
And  melts  at  the  first  touch  of  the  green 

grass. 
But  Romney,  —  he  has  chosen,  after  all.  980 
I  think  he  had  as  excellent  a  sun 
To  see  by,  as  most  others,  and  perhaps 
Has  scarce  seen  really  worse  than  some  of 

us 
When  all 's  said.     Let  him  pass.     I  'm  not 

too  much 
A  woman,  not  to  be  a  man  for  once 
And  bury  all  my  Dead  like  Alaric, 
Depositing  the  treasures  of  my  soul 
In  this  drained  watercourse,  then  letting  flow 
The  river  of  life  again  with  commerce-ships 
And  pleasure-barges  full  of  silks  and  songs. 
Blow,  winds,  and  help  us. 

Ah,  we  mock  ourselves 
With   talking  of   the    winds;    perhaps   as 

much  992 

With  other  resolutions.  How  it  weighs. 
This  hot,  sick  air  !  and  how  I  covet  here 
The  Dead's  provision  on  the  river-couch, 
With   silver   curtains    drawn   on   tinkling 

rings  ! 
Or  else  their  rest  in  quiet  crypts,  —  laid  by 
From  heat  and  noise ;  —  from  those  cicale, 

say. 
And  this  more  vexing  heart-beat. 

So  it  is: 
•We  covet  for  the  soul,  the  body's  part,  1000 
To  die  and  rot.     Even  so,  Aurora,  ends 


SEVENTH    BOOK 


375 


Our  aspiration  who  bespoke  our  place 
So  far  in  the  east.     The  occidental  flats 
Had   fed   us   fatter,    therefore  ?  we    have 

climbed 
Where  herbage  ends  ?  we  want  the  beast's 

part  now 
And  tire  of  the  angel's? — Men  define  a  man, 
The  creature  who  stands  frontward  to  the 

stars. 
The  creature  who  looks  inward  to  himself, 
The  tool- Wright,  laughing  creature.     'T  is 

enough: 
We  '11  say  instead,  the  inconsequent  crea- 
ture, man,  loio 
For  that 's  his  specialty.   What  creature  else 
Conceives  the  circle,  and    then  walks  the 

square  ? 
Loves  things  proved  bad,  and  leaves  a  thing 

proved  good  ? 
You  think  the  bee  makes  honey  half  a  year. 
To  loathe  the  comb  in  winter  and  desire 
The  little  ant's  food  rather  ?    But  a  man  — 
Note  men  !  —  they  are  but  women  after  all, 
As  women  are  but  Auroras  !  —  there   are 

men 
Born  tender,  apt  to  pale  at  a  trodden  worm. 
Who  paint  for   pastime,  in  their  favorite 

dream,  1020 

Spruce  auto-vestments  flowered  with  crocus- 
flames. 
There  are,  too,  who  believe  in  hell,  and  lie ; 
There  are,  too,  who  believe  in  heaven,  and 

fear: 
There  are,  who  waste  their  souls  in  working 

out 
Life's  problem  on  these  sands  betwixt  two 

tides, 
Concluding,  —  '  Give  us  the  oyster's  part, 

in  death.' 

Alas,  long-suffering  and  most  patient  God, 
Thou  needst  be  surelier  God  to  bear  with 

us 
Than  even  to  have  made  us  !  thou  aspire, 

aspire 
From  henceforth  for  me  !  thou  who   hast 

thyself  1030 

Endured  this  fleshhood,  knowing  how  as  a 

soaked 
And  sucking  vesture  it  can  drag  us  down 
And  choke  us  in  the  melancholy  Deep, 
Sustain  me,  that  with    thee  I  walk   these 

waves, 
Resisting  !  —  breathe  me  upward,  thou  in 

me 


Aspiring  who  art  the  way,  the  truth,  the 

life,  — 
That  no  truth  henceforth  seem  indifferent, 
No  way  to  truth  laborious,  and  no  life, 
Not  even  this  life  I  live,  intolerable  ! 

The  days  went  by.    I  took  up  the  old  days, 

With  all  their  Tuscan  pleasures  worn  and 

spoiled,  104 1 

Like  some  lost  book  we  dropped  in  the  long 

grass 
On  such  a  happy  summer  afternoon 
When  last  we  read  it  with  a  loving  friend, 
And  find  in  autumn  when  the  friend  is  gone, 
The  grass  cut  short,  the  weather  changed, 

too  late, 
And  stare  at,  as  at  something  wonderful 
For  sorrow,  —  thinking  how  two  hands  be- 
fore 
Had  held  up  what  is  left  to  only  one, 
And  how  we  smiled  when  such  a  vehement 
nail  1050 

Impressed  the  tiny  dint   here  which  pre- 
sents 
This  verse  in  fire  forever.     Tenderly 
And  mournfully  I  lived.     I  knew  the  birds 
And  insects,  —  which  looked  fathered   by 

the  flowers 
And  emulous  of  their  hues:  I  recognized 
The  moths,  with  that  great   overpoise   of 

wings 
Which  make  a  mystery  of  them  how  at  all 
They  can  stop  flying:  butterflies,  that  bear 
Upon  their  blue  wings    such   red    embers 

round, 
Thev  seem  to  scorch  the  blue  air  into  holes 
Each  flight  they  take:    and  fireflies,  that 
suspire  1061 

In  short  soft  lapses  of  transported  flame 
Across  the  tingling  Dark,  while  overhead 
The  constant  and  inviolable  stars 
Outburn    those     light-of-love :     melodious 

owls 
(If  music  had  but  one  note  and  was  sad, 
'T  would  sound  just  so),  and  all  the  silent 

swirl 
Of  bats  that  seem  to  follow  in  the  air 
Some   grand  circumference  of  a  shadowy 

dome 
To  which  we  are  blind :  and  then  the  night- 
ingales, 1070 
Which  pluck  our  heart   across   a  garden- 
wall 
(When  walking  in  the  town)  and  carry  it 
So  high  into  the  bowery  almond-trees 


376 


AURORA   LEIGH 


We  tremble  and  are  afraid,  and  feel  as  if 
The  golden  flood  of  moonlight  unaware 
Dissolved  the  pillars  of  the  steady  earth 
And  made  it  less  substantial.    And  I  knew 
The     harmless    opal    snakes,    the    large- 
mouthed  frogs 
(Those    noisy   vaunters   of   their   shallow 

streams); 
And  lizards,  the  green   lightnings  of   the 
wall,  1080 

Which,  if  you  sit  down  quiet,  nor  sigh  loud. 
Will  flatter  you  and  take  you  for  a  stone. 
And  flash  familiarly  about  your  feet 
With  such  prodigious  eyes   in  such  small 

heads  !  — 
I  knew  them  (though  they  had  somewhat 

dwindled  from 
My  childish  imagery),  and  kept  in  mind 
How  last  I  sat  among  them  equally. 
In  fellowship  and  mateship,  as  a  child 
Feels  equal  still  toward  insect,  beast,  and 

bird, 
Before  the  Adam  in  him  has  forgone      1090 
All  privilege  of  Eden,  —  making  friends 
And  talk  with  such  a  bird  or  such  a  goat, 
And  buying   many  a   two-inch-wide  rush- 
cage 
To  let  out  the  caged  cricket  on  a  tree. 
Saying   '  Oh   my  dear   grillino,  were  you 

cramped  ? 
And  are  you  happy  with  the  ilex-leaves  ? 
And  do  you  love  me  who   have   let   you 

go? 
Say  yes  in  singing,  and  I  '11  understand.' 

But  now  the  creatures  all  seemed  farther 

ofie, 
No  longer  mine,  nor  like  me,  only  there,    noo 
A  gulf  between  us.     I  could  yearn  indeed. 
Like  other  rich  men,  for  a  drop  of  dew 
To  cool  this  heat,  —  a  drop  of  the  early 

dew. 
The  irrecoverable  child-innocence 
(Before  the  heart  took  fire  and  withered 

life) 
When  childhood  might  pair  equally  with 

birds ; 
But  now  .  .  .  the  birds  were    grown   too 

proud  for  us, 
Alas,  the  very  sun  forbids  the  dew. 
And  I,  I  had  come  back  to  an  empty  nest. 
Which  every  bird  's  too  wise  for.     How  I 

heard  mo 

My  father's  step  on  that  deserted  ground. 
His  voice  along  that  silence,  as  he  told 


The  names  of   bird  and   insect,  tree   and 

flower. 
And  all  the  presentations  of  the  stars 
Across  Valdarno,  interposing  still 
My  child,'  *  my  child.'     When  fathers  say 

*  my  child,' 
'T  is  easier  to  conceive  the  universe, 
And  life's  transitions  down   the   steps   of 

law. 

I  rode  once  to  the  little  mountain-house 
As  fast  as  if  to  find  my  father  there,      1120 
But,  when  in  sight  of  't,  within  fifty  yards, 
I  dropped  my  horse's  bridle  on  his  neck 
And  paused  upon  his  flank.     The  house's 

front 
Was   cased   with    lingots   of   ripe    Indian 

corn 
In  tessellated  order  and  device 
Of  golden  patterns,  not  a  stone  of  wall 
Uncovered,  —  not  an  inch  of  room  to  grow 
A   vine-leaf.      The   old   porch  had  disap- 
peared; 
And  right  in  the  open  doorway  sat  a  girl 
At  plaiting  straws,  her  black  hair  strained 
away  1130 

To  a  scarlet  kerchief  caught  beneath  her 

chin 
In  Tuscan  fashion, — her  full  ebon  eyes, 
Which  looked  too  heavy  to  be  lifted  so. 
Still  dropped  and  lifted  toward  the  mul- 
berry-tree 
On  which  the  lads  were   busy  with  their 

staves 
In  shout   and    laughter,   stripping    every 

bough 
As  bare  as  winter,  of  those  summer  leaves 
My  father   had   not   changed  for   all  the 

silk 
In  which  the  ugly  silkworms   hide  them- 
selves. 
Enough.      My  horse   recoiled  before   my 
heart;  1140 

I  turned  the  rein  abruptly.     Back  we  went 
As  fast,  to  Florence. 

That  was  trial  enough 
Of  graves.     I  would  not  visit,  if  I  could. 
My  father's,  or  my  mother's  any  more, 
To  see  if  stone  cutter  or  lichen  beat 
So  early  in  the  race,  or  throw  my  flowers. 
Which    could    not    out-smell    heaven    or 

sweeten  earth. 
They  live   too   far   above,   that   I    should 

look 
So  far  below  to  find  them :  let  me  think 


SEVENTH    BOOK 


377 


That  rather  they  are  visiting  my  grave,  1150 
Called  life  here  (undeveloped  yet  to  life), 
And   that    they  drop   upon   me,   now  and 

then, 
For  token  or  for  solace,  some  small  weed 
Least  odorous  of  the  growths  of  paradise, 
To  spare  such  pungent  scents  as  kill  with 

joy- 

My  old  Assunta,  too,  was  dead,  was  dead  — 
O  land  of  all  men's  past  !  for  me  alone, 
It  would  not  mix  its  tenses.     I  was  past, 
It     seemed,    like    others,  —  only    not    in 
heaven.  1159 

And  manv  a  Tuscan  eve  I  wandered  down 
The  cypress  alley  like  a  restless  ghost 
That  tries  its  feeble  ineffectual  breath 
Upon  its  own  charred  funeral-brands  put 

out 
Too  soon,  where  black  and  stiff  stood  up 

the  trees 
Asfainst  the  broad  vermilion  of  the  skies. 
Such   skies  !  —  all   clouds   abolished  in   a 

sweep 
Of  God's  skirt,  with  a  dazzle  to  ghosts  and 

men. 
As  down  I  went,  saluting  on  the  bridge 
The    hem   of   such   before    't  was    caught 

away 
Beyond    the    peaks    of     Lucca.      Under- 
neath, T170 
The  river,  just  escaping  from  the  weight 
Of  that  intolerable  glory,  ran 
In  acquiescent  shadow  murmurously; 
While,  up   beside  it,  streamed   the  festa- 

folk 
With  fellow-murmurs  from  their  feet  and 

fans. 
And  issimo  and  ino  and  sweet  poise 
Of    vowels   in   their   pleasant    scandalous 

talk; 
Returning   from  the    grand-duke's    dairy- 
farm 
Before  the  trees  grew  dangerous  at  eight 
(For  'trust   no  tree    by  moonlight,'   Tus- 
cans say),  1 180 
To  eat  their  ice  at  Donay's  tenderly,  — 
Each  lovely  lady  close  to  a  cavalier 
Who  holds   her  dear  fan  while  she  feeds 

her  smile 
On  meditative  spoonfuls  of  vanille 
And    listens    to  his    hot-breathed  vows  of 

love 
Enough  to  thaw  her  cream  and  scorch  his 
beard. 


'T  was   little  matter.     I  could  pass   them 

Indifferently,  not  fearing  to  be  known. 

No  danger  of  being  wrecked  upon  a  friend. 

And   forced    to   take   an   iceberg   for    an 
isle  !  1190 

The   very   English,   here,  must    wait   and 
learn 

To  hang  the  cobweb  of  their  gossip  out 

To  catch   a   fly.     I  'm    happy.     It  's    sub- 
lime. 

This  perfect  solitude  of  foreign  lands  ! 

To  be,  as  if  you  had  not  been  till  then, 

And  were  then,  simply  that  you  chose  to 
be: 

To  spring  up,  not  be  brought  forth  from 
the  ground, 

Like    grasshoppers   at   Athens,   and    skip 
thrice 

Before  a  woman  makes  a  pounce  on  you 

And   plants   you    in   her    hair  !  —  possess, 
yourself,  1200 

A  new  world  all  alive  with  creatures  new, 

New   sun,   new   moon,    new   flowers,  new 
people  —  ah. 

And   be  possessed  by  none  of   them  !   no 
right 

In   one,  to  call  your   name,  inquire   your 
where. 

Or  what   you  think  of   Mister  Someone's 
book. 

Or  Mister  Other's  marriage  or  decease. 

Or  how  's  the  headache  which  you  had  last 
week. 

Or  why  you  look   so  pale  still,  since  it 's 
gone  ? 

—  Such  most  surprising  riddance  of  one's 
life 

Comes   next  one's  death;    'tis   disembodi- 
ment 1210 

Without    the     pang.       I    marvel,    people 
choose 

To    stand   stock-still   like   fakirs,  till   the 
moss 

Grows  on  them  and  they  cry  out,  self-ad- 
mired, 

*  How  verdant  and  how  virtuous  !  '     Well, 
I  'm  glad ; 

Or  should  be,  if  gi'own  foreign  to  myself 

As  surely  as  to  others. 

Musingf  so, 

I  walked  the  narrow  unrecognizing  streets. 

Where  many  a  palace-front  peers  gloomily 

Through    stony   visors    iron-barred    (pre- 
pared 


378 


AURORA   LEIGH 


Alike,    should    foe    or     lover     pass    that 


way, 


I220 


For  guest  or  victim),  and  came  wandering- 
out 
Upon  the  churches  with  mild  open  doors 
And   plaintive  wail  of   vespers,    where   a 

few, 
Those  chiefly  women,  sprinkled  round    in 

blots 
Upon    the    dusky    pavement,    knelt    and 

prayed 
Toward  the  altar's  silver  glory.     Oft  a  ray 
(I  liked  to  sit  and  watch)  would  tremble 

out, 
Just  touch  some  face  more  lifted,  more  in 

need 
(Of  course  a  woman's),  —  while  I  dreamed 

a  tale 
To  fit  its  fortunes.     There  was   one   who 

looked  1230 

As  if    the  earth  had  suddenly  grown  too 

large 
For   such   a   little   humpbacked   thing   as 

she; 
The  pitiful  black  kerchief  round  her  neck 
Sole  proof   she  had  had  a  mother.     One, 

again, 
Looked  sick   for   love,  —  seemed   praying 

some  soft  saint 
To  put  more  virtue  in  the  new  fine  scarf 
She  spent  a  fortnight's   meals  on,  yester- 
day. 
That  cruel  Gigi  might  return  his  eyes 
From  Giuliana.     There  was  one,  so  old, 
So    old,    to    kneel    grew   easier    than    to 

stand,  —  1240 

So  solitary,  she  accepts  at  last 
Our  Lady  for  her  gossip,  and  frets  on 
Against   the  sinful    world  which    goes   its 

rounds 
In  marrying  and  being  married,  just  the 

same 
As  when  't  was  almost  good  and  had  the 

rio-ht 
(Her  Gian  alive,  and  she  herself  eighteen). 
*  And  yet,  now  even,  if  Madonna  willed, 
She  'd  win  a  tern  in  Thursday's  lottery 
And  better  all  things.     Did  she  dream  for 

nought. 
That,  boiling   cabbage  for   the    fast-day's 

soup,  1250 

It    smelt    like   blessed   entrails  ?    such   a 

dream 
For  nought  ?  would  sweetest  Mary  cheat 

her  so, 


And  lose  that  certain  candle,  straight  and 

white 
As  any  fair  grand-duchess  in  her  teens. 
Which   otherwise   should   flare   here    in  a 

week  ? 
Benigna    sis,    thou    beauteous    Queen    of 

Heaven  ! ' 

I  sat  there  musing,  and  imagining 

Such    utterance    from    such    faces  :    poor 

blind  souls 
That    writhe    toward    heaven    along    the 

devil's  trail,  — 
Who  knows,  I  thought,  but  He  may  stretch 

his  hand  1260 

And   pick   them  up  ?    't  is   written   in  the 

Book 
He   heareth  the  young  ravens  when  they 

cry, 

And  yet  they  cry  for  carrion.  —  O  my  God, 
And  we,  who  make  excuses  for  the  rest, 
We  do  it  in  our  measure.     Then  I  knelt, 
And  dropped  my  head  upon  the  pavement 

too. 
And  prayed,  since  I  was  foolish  in  desire 
Like  other  creatures,  craving  offal-food. 
That  He  would   stop  his  ears    to  what   I 

said, 
And  only  listen  to  the  run  and  beat        1270 
Of  this  poor,  passionate,  helpless  blood  — 

And  then 
I  lay,  and   spoke  not:   but   He   heard   in 

heaven. 

So  many  Tuscan  evenings  passed  the  same. 
I  could  not  lose  a  sunset  on  the  bridge. 
And  would  not  miss  a  vigil  in  the  church. 
And  liked  to  mingle  with  the  outdoor  crowd 
So  strange    and  gay  and  ignorant  of  my 

face, 
For  men  you  know  not  are  as  good  as  trees. 
And  only  once,  at  the  Santissima, 
I  almost  chanced  upon  a  man  I  knew,    1280 
Sir  Blaise  Delorme.    He  saw  me  certainly, 
And  somewhat  hurried,  as  he  crossed  him- 
self, 
The  smoothness  of  the  action,  —  then  half 

bowed, 
But  only  half,  and  merely  to  my  shade, 
I  slipped  so    quick   behind  the    porphyry 

plinth 
And  left  him  dubious  if  't  was  really  I 
Or  peradventure  Satan's  usual  trick 
To  keep  a  mounting  saint  uncanonized. 
But  he  was  safe  for  that  time,  and  I  too; 


EIGHTH    BOOK 


379 


The  argent  angels  in  the  altar-flare         1290 
Absorbed  his  soul  next  moment.    The  good 

man  ! 
In  England  we  were  scarce  acquaintances, 
That  here  in  Florence  he  should  keep  my 

thought 
Beyond  the  image  on  his  eye,  which  came 
And  went:  and  yet  his  thought  disturbed 

my  life: 
For,  after  that,  I  oftener  sat  at  home 
On  evenings,  watching  how  they  fined  them- 
selves 
With  gradual  conscience  to  a  perfect  night, 
Until  the  moon,  diminished  to  a  curve. 
Lay  out  there  like  a  sickle  for  his  hand    1300 
Who  Cometh  down  at  last  to  reap  the  earth. 
At  such  times,  ended  seemed  my  trade  of 

verse; 
I  feared  to  jingle  bells  upon  my  robe 
Before  the  four-faced  silent  cherubim. 
With  God  so  near  me,  could  I  sing  of  God  ? 
I  did  not  write,  nor  read,  nor  even  think. 
But   sat    absorbed    amid   the    quickening 

glooms, 
Most  like  some  passive  broken  lump  of  salt 
Dropped  in  by  chance  to  a  bowl  of  cenomel. 
To  spoil  the  drink  a  little  and  lose  itself,  13 10 
Dissolving  slowly,  slowly,  until  lost. 


EIGHTH  BOOK 

One  eve  it  happened,  when  I  sat  alone. 
Alone,  upon  the  terrace  of  my  tower, 
A  book  upon  my  knees  to  counterfeit 
The  reading  that  I  never  read  at  all. 
While  Marian,  in  the  garden  down  below, 
Knelt   by  the  fountain  I   could  just  hear 

thrill 
The  drowsy  silence  of  the  exhausted  day, 
And  peeled  a  new  fig  from  that  purple  heap 
In  the  grass  beside  her,  turning  out  the  red 
To  feed  her  eager  child  (who  sucked  at  it  10 
With  vehement  lips  across  a  gap  of  air 
As  he  stood  opposite,  face  and  curls  a-flame 
With  that  last  sun-ray,  crying  *  Give  me, 

give,' 
And  stamping  with  imperious  baby-feet, 
We  're  all  born  princes)  —  something  star- 
tled me. 
The  laugh  of  sad  and  innocent  souls,  that 

breaks 
Abruptly,  as  if  frightened  at  itself. 
'T  was  Marian  laughed.     I  saw  her  glance 
above 


In  sudden  shame  that  I  should   hear  her 

laugh, 
And  straightway  dropped  my  eyes  upon  my 

book,  20 

And  knew,  the  first  time,  't  was  Boccaccio's 

tale. 
The  Falcon's,  of  the  lover  who  for  love 
Destroyed  the  best  that  loved  him.     Some 

of  us 
Do  it  still,  and  then  we  sit  and  laugh  no 

more. 
Laugh    yow,  sweet   Marian, — you've    the 

right  to  laugh, 
Since  God  Himself  is  for  you,  and  a  child  ! 
For  me  there  's  somewhat  less,  — and  so  I 

sigh. 

The  heavens  were  making  room  to  hold  the 

night, 
The  sevenfold  heavens  unfolding  all  their 

gates 
To  let  the  stars  out  slowly  (prophesied     30 
In  close-approaching  advent,  not  discerned). 
While  still  the  cue-owls  from  the  cypresses 
Of  the  Poggio  called   and  counted    every 

pulse 
Of  the  skyey  palpitation.     Gradually 
The  purple  and  transparent  shadows  slow 
Had  filled  up  the  whole  valley  to  the  brim, 
And  flooded  all  the  city,  which  you  saw 
As  some  drowned  city  in  some  enchanted 

sea. 
Cut  off  from   nature,  —  drawing  you  who 

gaze, 
With  passionate  desire,  to  leap  and  plunge  40 
And  find  a  sea-king  with  a  voice  of  waves, 
And    treacherous    soft   eyes,  and    slippery 

locks 
You  cannot  kiss  but  you  shall  bring  away 
Their  salt  upon  your  lips.    The  duomo  bell 
Strikes  ten,  as  if   it   struck   ten   fathoms 

down. 
So  deep;  and  twenty  churches  answer  it 
The  same,  with  twenty  various  instances. 
Some  gaslights  tremble  along  squares  and 

streets; 
The  Pitti's  palace-front  is  drawn  in  fire; 
And,  past  the  quays,  Maria  Novella  Place,  50 
In  which  the  mystic  obelisks  stand  up 
Triangular,  pyramidal,  each  based 
Upon  its  four-square  brazen  tortoises, 
To    guard    that  fair   church,  Buonarroti's 

Bride, 
That  stares  out  from  her  large  blind  dial- 
eyes, 


38o 


AURORA   LEIGH 


(Her  quadrant  and  armillary  dials,  black 
With  rhythms  of  many  suns  and  moons)  in 

vain 
Inquiry  for  so  rich  a  soul  as  his. 
Methinks  I  have   plunged,  I  see  it  all  so 

clear  .  .  . 
And,  O  my  heart,  .  .  .  the  sea-king  ! 

In  my  ears 
The  sound  of  waters.     There  he  stood,  my 

king  !  6i 

I  felt  him,  rather  than  beheld  him.     Up 
I  rose,  as  if  he  were  my  king  indeed. 
And  then  sat  down,  in  trouble  at  myself, 
And  struggling  for  my  woman's  empery. 
'T  is  pitiful;  but  women  are  so  made: 
We  '11   die  for  you  perhaps,  —  't  is  proba- 
ble; 
But  we  '11  not  spare  you  an  inch  of  our  full 

height : 
We  '11  have  our  whole  just  stature,  —  five 

feet  four. 
Though  laid  out  in  our  coffins:  pitiful.      70 
—  *  You,  Romney  !  —  Lady   Waldemar   is 
here  ? ' 

He  answered  in  a  voice  which  was  not  his. 

*I  have  her  letter;  you  shall  read  it  soon. 

But  first,  I  must  be  heard  a  little,  I, 

Who  have  waited  long  and  travelled  far  for 
that. 

Although  you  thought  to  have  shut  a  tedi- 
ous book 

And  farewell.     Ah,  you  dog-eared  such  a 
page, 

And  here  you  find  me.' 

Did  he  touch  my  hand. 

Or  but  my  sleeve  ?     I  trembled,  hand  and 
foot,  — 

He  must   have  touched  me.  —  '  Will    you 
sit  ?  '  I  asked,  80 

And  motioned  to  a  chair;  but  down  he  sat, 

A  little  slowly,  as  a  man  in  doubt, 

Upon   the  couch   beside  me,  —  couch  and 
chair 

Being  wheeled  upon  the  terrace. 

'  You  are  come. 

My  cousin  Romney  ?  — this  is  wonderful. 

But  all  is  wonder  on  such  summer-nights; 

And  nothing  should  surprise  us  any  more, 

Who  see  that  miracle  of  stars.     Behold.' 

I  signed  above,  where  all  the  stars  were 

out, 
As  if  an  urgent  heat  had  started  there      90 


A  secret  writing  from  a  sombre  page, 
A  blank,  last  moment,  crowded  suddenly 
With  hurrying  splendors. 

'  Then  you  do  not  know  '  — 
He  murmured. 

'  Yes,  I  know,'  I  said,  '  I  know. 
I  had  the  news  from  Vincent  Carrington. 
And  yet  I  did  not  think  you  'd  leave  the 

work 
In  England,  for  so  much  even,  —  though 

of  course 
You  '11  make  a  work-day  of  your  holiday. 
And  turn  it  to  our  Tuscan  people's  use,  — 
Who  much   need   helping   since  the  Aus- 
trian boar  100 
(So  bold  to  cross  the  Alp  to  Lombardy 
And  dash  his  brute  front  unabashed  against 
The   steep    snow-bosses  of   that   shield  of 

God 
Who  soon  shall  rise  in  wrath  and  shake  it 

clear) 
Came  hither  also,  raking  up  our  grape 
And  olive  gardens  with  his  tyrannous  tusk, 
And   rolling   on   our    maize    with   all   his 
swine.' 

'  You  had  the  news  from  Vincent  Carring- 
ton,' 

He  echoed,  —  picking   up   the  phrase   be- 
yond. 

As  if  he  knew  the  rest  was  merely  talk  no 

To  fill  a  gap  and  keep  out  a  strong  wind; 

•  You  had,  then,  Vincent's  personal  news  ?  ^ 

'His  own,' 

I    answered.     '  All   that   ruined   world  of 
yours 

Seems  crumbling  into  marriage.     Carring- 
ton 

Has  chosen  wisely.' 

*  Do  you  take  it  so  ?  ^ 

He  cried,  '  and  is  it  possible  at  last '  .  .  . 

He  paused   there,  —  and  then,  inward   to 
himself, 

'  Too  much    at  last,  too  late  !  —  yet  cer- 
tainly '  .  .  . 

(And  there  his  voice  swayed  as  an  Alpine 
plank 

That   feels    a    passionate    torrent   under- 
neath) 120 

'The  knowledge,  had  I  known  it  first  or 
last, 

Could  scarce  have  changed  the  actual  case 
for  me. 

And  best  for  her  at  this  time.' 

Nay,  I  thought, 


EIGHTH    BOOK 


381 


He  loves  Kate  Ward,  it  seems,  now,  like  a 

man, 
Because  he  has  married  Lady  Waldemar  ! 
Ah,  Vincent's  letter  said  how  Leigh  was 

moved 
To   hear   that   Vincent  was   betrothed   to 

Kate. 
With  what  cracked  pitchers  go  we  to  deep 

wells 
In  this  world  !     Then  I    spoke,  —  '  I   did 

not  think. 
My   cousin,   you    had    ever   known    Kate 

Ward.'  130 

*  In  fact,  I  never  knew  her.     'T  is  enough 
That  Vincent  did,  and  therefore  chose  his 

wife 
For  other  reasons  than  those  topaz  eyes 
We  've  heard  of.    Not  to  undervalue  them, 
For  all  that.     One  takes  up  the  world  with 

eyes.' 

—  Including   Romney    Leigh,    I    thought 

again, 
Albeit  he  knows  them  only  by  repute. 
How  vile   must  all  men   be   since   he 's  a 

man.  138 

His  deep  pathetic  voice,  as  if  he  guessed 
I  did  not  surely  love  him,  took  the  word; 

*  You  never  got  a  letter  from  Lord  Howe 
A  month  back,  dear  Aurora  ?  ' 

'  None,'  I  said. 

*  I    felt    it   was    so,'    he     replied:    '  yet, 

strange  ! 
Sir   Blaise    Delorme  has   passed   through 

Florence  ? ' 

.  'Ay, 
By  chance  I  saw  him  in  Our  Lady's  church 
(I  saw  him,  mark  you,  but  he  saw  not  me). 
Clean-washed    in     holy    water    from    the 

count 
Of    things    terrestrial,  —  letters,    and    the 

rest; 
He  had  crossed  us  out  together  with  his 

sins. 
Ay,  strange;  but  only  strange  that    good 

Lord  Howe  150 

Preferred  him  to  the  post  because  of  pauls. 
For  me  I  'm  sworn  to  never  trust  a  man  — 
At  least  with  letters.' 

*  There  were  facts  to  tell, 
To  smooth  with   eye   and   accent.     Howe 

supposed  .  .  . 


Well,  well,  no  matter  !  there  was  dubious 

need; 
You  heard  the  news  from  Vincent  Carring- 

ton. 
And  yet  perhaps  you  had  been  startled  less 
To  see  me,  dear  Aurora,  if  you  had  read 
That  letter.' 

—  Now  he  sets  me  down  as  vexed. 
I  think  I  've    draped    myself   in  woman's 

pride  160 

To  a  perfect  purpose.     Oh,  I  'm  vexed,  it 

seems  ! 
My  friend  Lord  Howe  deputes  his  friend 

Sir  Blaise 
To  break  as  softly  as  a  sparrow's  Qg^ 
That  lets  a  bird  out  tenderly,  the  news 
Of  Romney 's  marriage  to  a  certain  saint; 
To  smooth  with  eye  and  accent,  —  indicate 
His  possible  presence.     Excellently  well 
You  've  played  your  part,  my  Lady  Walde- 
mar, — 
As  I  've  played  mine. 

*■  Dear  Romney,'  I  began, 
*  You  did  not  use,  of  old,  to  be  so  like     170 
A  Greek  king  coming  from  a  taken  Troy, 
'T  was  needful  that  precursors  spread  your 

path 
With  three-piled  carpets,  to  receive  your 

foot 
And  dull  the  sound  of  't.     For  myself,  be 

sure, 
Although  it  frankly  grinds  the  gravel  here, 
I  still  can  bear  it.     Yet  I  'm  sorry  too 
To  lose  this  famous  letter,  which  Sir  Blaise 
Has  twisted  to  a  lighter  absently 
To  fire  some  holy  taper:  dear  Lord  Howe 
Writes  letters  good  for  all  things  but  to 

lose;  180 

And  many  a  flower  of  London  gossipry 
Has  dropped  wherever  such  a  stem  broke 

ofe. 
Of   course   I  feel  that,  lonely  among   my 

vines. 
Where  nothing 's  talked  of,  save  the  blight 

again. 
And  no  more  Chianti !     Still  the  letter  's 

use 
As  preparation  .  .  .  Did  I  start,  indeed  ? 
Last  night  I  started  at  a  cockchafer. 
And  shook  a  half-hour  after.     Have   you 

learnt 
No  more  of  women,  'spite  of  privilege. 
Than  still  to  take  account  too  seriously  190 
Of  such  weak  flutterings  ?     Why,  we  like 

it,  sir, 


382 


AURORA   LEIGH 


We  get  our  powers  and   our  effects   that 

way: 
The  trees  stand  stiff  and  still  at  time  of 

frost, 
If   no  wind  tears  them;   but,  let  summer 

come, 
When   trees   are   happy,  —  and   a   breath 

avails 
To  set  them  trembling  through  a  million 

leaves 
In  luxury  of  emotion.     Something  less 
It  takes  to  move  a  woman:  let  her  start 
And  shake  at  pleasure,  —  nor  conclude  at 

yours. 
The  winter's  bitter,  —  but  the  summer's 

green.'  200 

He  answered:  'Be  the  summer  ever  green 
With   you,  Aurora  !  —  though   you  sweep 

your  sex 
With  somewhat  bitter   gusts   from  where 

you  live 
Above  them,  —  whirling  downward   from 

your  heights 
Your  very  own  pine-cones,  in  a  grand  dis- 
dain 
Of  the  lowland  burrs  with  which  you  scatter 

them. 
So  high  and  cold  to  others  and  yourself, 
A  little  less  to  Romney  were  unjust. 
And  thus,  I  would  not  have  you.     Let  it 

pass: 
I  feel  content  so.    You  can  bear  indeed  210 
My  sudden  step  beside  you :  but  for  me, 
'T  would    move    me    sore   to    hear    your 

softened  voice,  — 
Aurora's  voice,  —  if  softened  unaware 
In  pity  of  what  I  am.' 

Ah  friend,  I  thought, 
As  husband  of  the  Lady  Waldemar 
You  're  granted  very  sorely  pitiable  ! 
And  yet   Aurora  Leigh   must   guard   her 

voice 
From  softening  in  the  pity  of  your  case, 
As  if  from  lie  or  license.     Certainly        219 
We  '11  soak  up  all  the  slush  and  soil  of  life 
With  softened  voices,  ere  we  come  to  you. 

At  which  I  interrupted  my  own  thought 
And  spoke   out  calmly,    'Let   us   ponder, 

friend, 
Whate'er  our  state  we  must  have  made  it 

first; 
And   though   the   thing   displease   us,  ay, 

perhaps 


Displease  us  warrantably,  never  doubt 
That  other   states,  thought   possible  once, 

and  then 
Rejected  by  the  instinct  of  our  lives, 
If  then  adopted  had  displeased  us  more 
Than  this  in  which  the  choice,  the  will,  the 

love,  230 

Has  stamped  the  honor  of  a  patent  act 
From  henceforth.     What  we  choose  may 

not  be  good, 
But,  that  we  choose  it,  proves  it  good  for  us 
Potentially,  fantastically,  now 
Or  last  year,  rather  than  a  thing  we  saw, 
And    saw   no  need   for    choosing.     Moths 

will  burn 
Their  wings,  —  which  proves  that  light  is 

good  for  moths, 
Who  else  had  flown  not  where  they  agonize.' 

'  Ay,  light  is  good,'  he  echoed,  and  there 
paused ; 

And  then  abruptly,  ...  *  Marian.  Ma- 
rian 's  well  ?  '  240 

I   bowed   my   head    but   found    no   word. 

'Twas  hard 
To  speak  of  her  to  Lady  Waldemar's 
New  husband.     How  much  did  he  know, 

at  last  ? 
How  much  !  how  little  !  —  He  would  take 

no  sign, 
But  straight  repeated,  —  '  Marian.     Is  she 

well  ? ' 

'  She  's  well,'  I  answered. 

She  was  there  in  sight 
An  hour  back,  but  the  night  had  drawn  her 

home. 
Where  still  I  heard  her  in  an  upper  room, 
Her  low  voice  singing  to  the  child  in  bed, 
Who,  restless  with   the  summer-heat  and 

play  250 

And  slumber  snatched  at  noon,  was  long 

sometimes 
In  falling  off,  and  took  a  score  of  songs 
And  mother-hushes  ere  she  saw  him  sound. 

'  She  's  well,'  I  answered. 

'  Here  ?  '  he  asked. 

'  Yes,  here.' 

He  stopped  and  sighed.     'That   shall   be 

presently. 
But  now  this  must  be.     I  have  words  to 

say, 


EIGHTH    BOOK 


383 


And  would  be  alone  to  say  them,  I  with 

you, 
And  no  third  troubling.' 

*  Speak  then,'  I  returned, 

*  She  will  not  vex  you.' 

At  which,  suddenly 

He    turned    his    face    upon    me    with    its 

smile  260 

As  if   to  crush   me.     'I   have   read   your 

book, 
Aurora.' 

'  You  have  read  it,'  I  replied, 

*  And  I  have  writ  it,  —  we  have  done  with 

it. 
And  now  the  rest  ?  ' 

'  The  rest  is  like  the  first,' 
He  answered,  — ^ '  for   the   book  is   in   my 

heart. 
Lives  in  me,  wakes  in  me,  and  dreams  in 

me: 
My  daily   bread   tastes   of   it,  —  and   my 

wine 
Which  has  no  smack  of  it,  I  pour  it  out, 
It  seems  unnatural  drinking.' 

Bitterly 
I  took  the  word  up;  'Never   waste  your 

wine.  270 

The  book  lived  in  me  ere  it  lived  in  you; 
I  know  it  closer  than  another  does. 
And  how  it 's  foolish,  feeble,  and  afraid. 
And  all  unworthy  so  much  compliment. 
Beseech  you,  keep  your  wine,  —  and,  when 

you  drink. 
Still  wish  some  happier  fortune  to  a  friend, 
Than   even   to  have    written  a  far   better 

book.' 

He  answered  gently,  *  That  is  consequent : 
The  poet   looks   beyond    the  book  he  has 

made. 
Or  else  he  had  not  made  it.     If  a  man    280 
Could  make  a  man,  he  'd  henceforth  be  a 

In  feeling  what  a  little  thing  is  man: 

It  is  not  my  case.     And  this  special  book, 

I  did  not  make  it,  to  make  light  of  it: 

It  stands  above  my  knowledge,  draws  me 

up; 
'T  is   high    to    me.     It    may  be    that   the 

book 
Is  not  so  high,  but  I  so  low,  instead; 
Still  high  to  me.     I  mean  no  compliment: 
I  will   not    say  there    are   not,    young   or 

old, 
Male  writers,  ay,  or  female,  let  it  pass,    290 


Who  '11    write    us    richer    and   completer 

books. 
A  man  may  love  a  woman  perfectly, 
And  yet  by  no  means  ignorantly  maintain 
A  thousand  women  have  not  larger  eyes: 
Enough  that  she  alone  has  looked  at  him 
With  eyes  that,  large  or  small,  have  won 

his  soul. 
And    so,   this    book,    Aurora,  —  so,    your 

book.' 

'  Alas,'  I  answered,  '  is  it  so,  indeed  ?  ' 
And  then  was  silent. 

'  Is  it  so,  indeed,' 
He  echoed, '  that  alas  is  all  your  word  ? '  300 
I  said,  '  I  'm  thinking  of  a  far-o£P  June, 
When  you  and  I,  upon  my  birthday  once. 
Discoursed  of  life  and  art,  with  Doth  un- 
tried. 
I  'm  thinking,  Romney,  how  't  was  morn- 
ing then, 
And  now  't  is  night.' 

'  And  now,'  he  said,  '  't  is  night.' 

'  I  'm   thinking,'   I   resumed,    '  't  is    some- 
what sad. 
That  if  I  had  known,  that  morning  in  the 

dew, 
My  cousin  Romney  would  have  said  such 

words 
On  such  a  night  at  close  of  many  years. 
In  speaking  of  a  future  book  of  mine       31c 
It  would  have  pleased  me  better  as  a  hope, 
Than  as  an  actual  grace  it  can  at  all: 
That 's  sad,  I  'm  thinking.' 

'Ay,'  he  said,  '  'tis  night.' 

*  And   there,'   I   added    lightly,    '  are   the 

stars  ! 
And  here,  we  '11  talk  of  stars  and  not  of 

books.' 
'  You  have  the  stars,'  he  murmured,  —  'it 

is  well: 
Be  like  them  !  shine,  Aurora,  on  my  dark. 
Though  high  and  cold  and  only  like  a  star. 
And  for  this  short  night  only,  —  you,  who 

keep  319 

The  same  Aurora  of  the  bright  June  day 
That  withered  up  the  flowers  before   my 

face, 
And  turned  me  from  the  garden  evermore 
Because  I  was  not  worthy.     Oh,  deserved, 
Deserved  !    that    I,    who    verily   had    not 

learnt 
God's  lesson  half,  attaining  as  a  dunce 


384 


AURORA   LEIGH 


To  obliterate    good  words  with   fractious 

thumbs 
And  cheat  myself  of  the  context,  — /  should 

push 
Aside,  with  male  ferocious  impudence, 
The  world's  Aurora  who  had  conned  her 

part  329 

On  the  other  side  the  leaf  !  ignore  her  so, 
Because  she  was  a  woman  and  a  queen. 
And  had  no  beard  to  bristle  through  her 

song, 
My  teacher,  who   has   taught   me  with  a 

book. 
My   Miriam   whose    sweet    mouth,    when 

nearly  drowned 
I  still  heard  singing  on  the  shore  !     De- 
served, 
That  here  I  should  look  up  unto  the  stars 
And  miss  the  glory  '   .  .  . 

'  Can  I  understand  ?  ' 
I  broke  in.     '  You  speak  wildly,  Romney 

Leigh, 
Or  I  hear  wildlyo     In  that  morning-time 
We  recollect,  the  roses  were  too  red,       340 
The  trees  too  green,  reproach  too  natural 
If  one  should  see  not  what  the  other  saw : 
And  now,  it 's  night,  remember;  we  have 

shades 
In  place  of  colors;  we  are  now  grown  cold. 
And   old,    my    cousin    Romney.       Pardon 

me, — 
I  'm  very  happy  that  you  like  my  book, 
And  very  sorry  that  I  quoted  back 
A  ten  years'  birthday.     'T  was  so  mad  a 

thing 
In  any  woman,  I  scarce  marvel  much 
You  took  it  for  a  venturous  piece  of  spite. 
Provoking  such  excuses  as  indeed  351 

I  cannot  call  you  slack  in.' 

*  Understand,' 
He   answered   sadly,    '  something,    if   but 

so. 
This  night  is  softer  than  an  English  day. 
And   men    may    well   come    hither   when 

they  're  sick. 
To  draw  in  easier  breath  from  larger  air. 
'Tis  thus  with  me;  I  come  to   you,  —  to 

you 
My  Italy  of  women,  just  to  breathe 
My  soul  out  once  before  you,  ere  I  go. 
As  humble  as  God  makes  me  at  the  last  360 
(I  thank  Him),  quite  out  of   the  way  of 

men 
And    yours,    Aurora,  —  like    a    punished 

child. 


His    cheeks   all    blurred   with    tears    and 

naughtiness. 
To  silence  in  a  corner.     I  am  come 
To  speak,  beloved '  .  .  . 

'  Wisely,  cousin  Leigh, 
And  worthily  of  us  both  ! ' 

'Yes,  worthily, 
For  this  time  I  must  speak  out  and  con- 
fess 
That  I,  so  truculent  in  assumption  once, 
So  absolute  in  dogma,  proud  in  aim, 
And  fierce  in  expectation,  —  I,  who  felt  370 
The  whole  world  tugging  at  my  skirts  for 

help, 
As  if  no  other  man  than  I  could  pull. 
Nor  woman  but  I  led  her  by  the  hand. 
Nor  cloth  hold  but  I  had  it  in  my  coat. 
Do  know  myself  to-night  for  what  I  was 
On  that  June  day,  Aurorao     Poor  bright 

day, 
Which  meant  the  best  ...  a  woman  and  a 

rose. 
And  which  I  smote  upon  the  cheek  with 

words 
Until  it  turned  and  rent  me  !     Young  you 

were. 
That  birthday,  poet,  but   you   talked   the 

right :  380 

While  I,  ...  I  built  up  follies  like  a  wall 
To  intercept  the  sunshine  and  your  face. 
Your  face  !  that 's  worse.' 

'  Speak  wisely,  cousin  Leigh.' 

'  Yes,  wisely,  dear  Aurora,  though  too  late; 
But  then,  not  wisely.     I  was  heavy  then, 
And  stupid,  and  distracted  with  the  cries 
Of  tortured  prisoners  in  the  polished  brass 
Of  that  Phalarian  bull,  society. 
Which  seems  to   bellow  bravely  like   ten 

bulls, 
But,  if  you  listen,  moans  and  cries  instead 
Despairingly,    like     victims      tossed     and 

gored  ^  391 

And  trampled  by  their  hoofs.     I  heard  the 

cries 
Too  close:  I  could  not  hear  the  angels  lift 
A  fold  of  rustling  air,  nor  what  they  said 
To  help  my  pity.     I  beheld  the  world 
As     one      great     famishing     carnivorous 

mouth,  — 
A  huge,  deserted,  callow,  blind  bird  Thing, 
With    piteous   open   beak    that   hurt    my 

heart. 
Till  down  upon  the  filthy  ground  I  dropped^ 
And  tore  the  violets  up  to  get  the  worms. 


EIGHTH   BOOK 


38s 


Worms,  worms,  was  all  my  cry:    an  open 
mouth,  401 

A  gross  want,  bread  to  fill  it  to  the  lips, 
No  more.     That  poor  men  narrowed  their 

demands 
To  such  an  end,  was  virtue,  I  supposed, 
Adjudicating  that  to  see  it  so 
Was  reason.     Oh,  I  did  not  push  the  case 
Up   higher,   and   ponder   how   it   answers 

when 
The  rich  take  up  the  same  cry  for  them- 
selves, 
Professing  equally,  —  '*  An  open  mouth, 
A  gross  need,  food  to  fill  us,  and  no  more." 
Why  that 's  so  far  from  virtue,  only  vice  411 
Can  find  excuse  for  't!  that  makes  liber- 
tines. 
And  slurs  our  cruel   streets  from   end  to 

end 
With  eighty  thousand  women  in  one  smile, 
Who  only  smile  at  night  beneath  the  gas. 
The  body's  satisfaction  and  no  more. 
Is  used  for  argument  against  the  soul's, 
Here  too;  the  want,  here  too,  implies  the 

right. 
—  How  dark  I  stood  that  morning  in  the 

sun, 
My  best  Aurora  (though  I  saw  your  eyes). 
When  first  you  told  me  .  .   .  oh,  I  recol- 
lect 421 
The  sound,  and  how  you  lifted  your  small 

hand. 
And  how  your  white  dress  and  your  bur- 
nished curls 
Went   greatening   round   you  in   the   still 

blue  air. 
As  if  an  inspiration  from  within 
Had  blown  them  all  out  when  you  spoke 

the  words. 
Even  these,  —  "  You  will  not  compass  your 

poor  ends 
Of  barley-feeding  and  material  ease, 
Without  the  poet's  individualism 
To  work  your  universal.     It  takes  a  soul 
To  move  a  body,  —  it  takes  a  high-souled 
man  431 

To   move   the   masses,  even   to  a   cleaner 

stye : 
It  takes  the  ideal,  to  blow  an  inch  inside 
The  dust  of  the  actual:  and  your  Fouriers 

failed, 
Because  not  poets  enough  to  understand 
That  life  develops  from  within."     I  say 
Your  words,  —  I  could  say  other  words  of 
yours, 


For  none  of  all  your  words  will  let  me  go; 
Like  sweet  verbena  which,  being  brushed 

against, 
Will  hold  us  three  hours  after  by  the  smell 
In  spite  of  long  walks  upon  windy  hills.  441 
But    these    words    dealt    in    sharper    per- 
fume, —  these 
Were    ever  on    me,  stinging   through  my 

dreams. 
And  saying  themselves  for  ever  o'er  my  acts 
Like  some  unhappy  verdict.  That  I  failed. 
Is  certain.  Stye  or  no  stye,  to  contrive 
The  swine's  propulsion  toward  the  precipice, 
Proved  easy  and  plain.  I  subtly  organized 
And  ordered,  built  the  cards  up  high  and 

higher. 
Till,  some  one  breathing,  all  fell  flat  again; 
In  setting  right  society's  wide  wrong,      451 
Mere  life  's  so  fatal.     So  I  failed  indeed 
Once,  twice,  and  oftener,  — hearing  through 

the  rents 
Of  obstinate  purpose,  still  those  words  of 

yours, 
"  You  will  not  compass  your  poor  ends,  not 

you  !  " 
But  harder  than  you  said  them;  every  time 
Still  farther  from  your  voice,  until   they 

came 
To  overcrow  me  with  triumphant  scorn 
Which  vexed  me  to  resistance.     Set  down 

this 
For  condemnation,  —  I  was  guilty  here;  460 
I  stood  upon  my  deed  and  fought  my  doubt, 
As  men  will,  —  for  I  doubted,  —  till  at  last 
My  deed  gave  way  beneath  me  suddenly 
And    left  me  what   I    am :  —  the    curtain 

dropped. 
My   part   quite    ended,  all   the   footlights 

quenched. 
My  own  soul   hissing  at  me  through    the 

dark, 
I  ready  for  confession,  —  I  was  wrong, 
I  've  sorely  failed,  I  've  slipped  the  ends  of 

life,  468 

I  yield,  you  have  conquered.' 

'  Stay,'  I  answered  him ; 
'  I  've  something  for  your  hearing,  also.  I 
Have  failed  too.' 

'  You  ! '  he  said,  '  you  're  very  great; 
The  sadness  of  your  greatness  fits  you  well: 
As  if  the  plume  upon  a  hero  's  casque 
Should  nod  a  shadow  upon  his  victor  face.' 

I  took  him  up  austerely,  —  '  You  have  read 
My  book,  but  not  my  heart;  for  recollect. 


386 


AURORA   LEIGH 


'T  is  writ  in  Sanscrit,  which  you  bungle  at. 
I  've  surely  failed,  I  know,  if  failure  means 
To  look  back  sadly  on  work  gladly  done,  — 
To  wander  on  my  Mountains  of  Delight,  4S0 
So  called  (I  can  remember  a  friend's  words 
As  well  as  you,  sir),  weary  and  in  want 
Of  even  a  sheep-path,  thinking  bitterly  .  .  . 
Well,  well  !  no  matter.  I  but  say  so  much. 
To  keep  you,  Romney  Leigh,  from  saying 

more, 
And  let  you  feel  I  am  not  so  high  indeed, 
That  I  can  bear  to  have  you  at  my  foot,  — 
Or  safe,  that  I  can  help  you.     That  June 

day, 
Too  deeply  sunk  in  craterous  sunsets  now 
For  you  or  me  to  dig  it  up  alive,  —  490 

To  pluck  it  out  all  bleeding  with  spent  flame 
At  the  roots,  before  those  moralizing  stars 
We  have  got  instead,  —  that  poor  lost  day, 

you  said 
Some    words  as   truthful  as    the  thing  of 

mine 
You  cared  to  keep  in  memory ;  and  I  hold 
If  I,  that  day,  and  being  the  girl  I  was. 
Had  shown  a  gentler  spirit,  less  arrogance. 
It   had   not    hurt   me.      You    will    scarce 

mistake 
The  point  here:  I  but  only  think,  you  see, 
More  justly,  that 's  more  humbly,  of  my- 
self, 500 
Than  when  I  tried  a  crown    on  and  sup- 
posed .  .  . 
Nay,  laugh,  sir,  — I  '11  laugh  with  you  !  — 

pray  you,  laugh, 
I  've  had  so  many  birthdays  since  that  day 
I  've  learnt  to  prize  mirth's  opportunities. 
Which  come  too  seldom.     Was  it  you  who 

said 
I  was  not  changed  ?     the  same  Aurora  ? 

Ah, 
We  could  laugh  there,  too  !  Why,  Ulysses' 

dog 
Knew  him,  and  wagged  his  tail  and  died: 

but  if 
I  had  owned  a  dog,  I  too,  before  my  Troy, 
And  if  you  brought  him  here,  ...  I  war- 
rant you  510 
He  'd  look  into  my  face,  bark  lustily, 
And  live  on  stoutly,  as  the  creatures  will 
Whose    spirits   are  not   troubled    by  long 

loves. 
A   dog   would   never    know   me,   1  'ra    so 

changed, 
Much  less  a  friend  .  .  .  except  that  you  're 
misled 


By  the  color  of  the  hair,  the  trick  of  the 

voice. 
Like  that  Aurora  Leigh's.' 

*  Sweet  trick  of  voice  ! 
I  would  be  a  dog  for  this,  to  know  it  at 

last. 
And  die  upon  the  falls  of  it.     O  love, 

0  best  Aurora  !  are  you  then  so  sad        520 
You  scarcely  had  been  sadder  as  my  wife  ?  ' 

'  Your  wife,    sir  !      I    must   certainly   be 

changed. 
If  I,  Aurora,  can  have  said  a  thing 
So  light,  it  catches  at  the  knightly  spurs 
Of  a  noble  gentleman  like  Romney  Leigh, 
And  trips  him  from  his  honorable  sense 
Of  what  befits  '  .  .  . 

*  You  wholly  misconceive,' 
He  answered. 

I  returned,  —  '  I  'm  glad  of  it. 
But    keep  from   misconception,  too,  your- 
self: 

1  am  not  humbled  to  so  low  a  point,         530 
Not  so  far  saddened.     If  I  am  sad  at  all. 
Ten  layers  of  birthdays  on  a  woman's  head 
Are  apt  to  fossilize  her  girlish  mirth. 
Though  ne'er  so  merry:  I  'm  perforce  more 

wise. 
And  that,  in  truth,  means  sadder.     For  the 

rest. 
Look  here,  sir:  I  was  right  upon  the  whole 
That  birthday  morning.     'T  is  impossible 
To  get    at   men   excepting   through    their 

souls. 
However  open  their  carnivorous  jaws ; 
And  poets  get  directlier  at  the  soul  540 

Than  any  of  your  ceconomists  —  for  which 
You  must  not  overlook  the  poet's  work 
When    scheming  for  the  world's   necessi- 
ties. 
The    soul 's    the   way.     Not    even   Christ 

Himself 
Can  save  man  else  than  as  He  holds  man's 

soul; 
And  therefore  did  He  come  into  our  flesh. 
As  some  wise  hunter  creeping  on  his  knees. 
With  a  torch,  into  the  blackness  of  a  cave. 
To  face  and  quell  the  beast  there  —  take 

the  soul. 
And  so  possess  the  whole  man,  body  and 

soul.  550 

I   said,    so   far,    right,   yes  :    not   farther, 

though : 
We   both   were   wrong   that   June  day  — 

both  as  wrong 


EIGHTH   BOOK 


387 


As  an  east  wind  had  been.     I  who  talked 

of  art, 
And  you  who  grieved  for  all  men's  griefs 

.  .  .  what  then  ? 
We  surely  made  too  small  a  part  for  God 
In  these  things.     What  we  are,  imports  us 

more 
Than    what    we    eat ;    and    life,    you  've 

granted  me, 
Develops  from  within.     But  innermost 
Of  the  inmost,  most  interior  of  the  interne, 
God  claims  his  own.  Divine  humanity       560 
Renewing  nature,  or  the  piercingest  verse 
Pressed  in  by  subtlest  poet,  still  must  keep 
As  much  upon  the  outside  of  a  man 
As   the  very   bowl   in  which   he  dips    his 

beard. 
—  And  then,  .  .  .  the  rest;  I  cannot  surely 

speak: 
Perhaps  I  doubt  more  than   you  doubted 

then, 
If  I  the  poet's  veritable  charge 
Have  borne  upon  my  forehead.     If  I  have, 
It  might  feel  somewhat  liker  to  a  crown. 
The    foolish     green    one     even.  —  Ah,    I 

think,  570 

And  chiefly  when  the  sun  shines,  that  I  've 

failed. 
But    what    then,    Romney  ?     Though   we 

fail  indeed, 
You  ...  I  ...  a    score   of    such    weak 

workers,  .  .  .  He 
Fails  never.     If  He  cannot  work  by  us, 
He  will  work  over  us.     Does  He  want  a 

man. 
Much  less  a  woman,  think   you  ?     Every 

time 
The  star  winks  there,  so  many  souls   are 

born. 
Who  all  shall  work  too.     Let  our  own  be 

calm: 
We  should  be  ashamed  to  sit  beneath  those 

_  stars,  ^  579 

Impatient  that  we  're  nothing.' 

'  Could  we  sit 
Just  so  for  ever,  sweetest  friend,'  he  said, 
*  My  failure  would  seem  better  than  suc- 
cess. 
And  yet  indeed  your  book  has  dealt  with 

me 
More  gentl}-^,  cousin,  than  you  ever  will  ! 
Your  book  brought  down  entire  the  bright 

June  day. 
And  set  me  wandering  in  the  garden-walks. 
And  let  me  watch  the  garland  in  a  place 


You  blushed  so  .  .  .  nay,  forgive  me,  do 

not  stir,  — 
I  only  thank  the  book  for  what  it  taught. 
And  what   permitted.     Poet,  doubt  your- 
self, 590 
But  never  doubt  that  you're  a  poet  to  me 
From  henceforth.    You  have  written  poems, 

sweet, 
Which  moved  me  in  secret,  as  the  sap  is 

moved 
In  still  March-branches,  signless  as  a  stone: 
But  this  last  book  o'ercame  me  like  soft 

rain 
Which  falls  at  midnight,  w^hen  the  tight- 
ened bark 
Breaks  out  into  unhesitating  buds 
And  sudden  protestations  of  the  spring. 
In  all  your  other  books,  I  saw  but  you  : 
A  man  may  sec  the  moon  so,  in  a  pond,  600 
And  not  be  nearer  therefore  to  the  moon. 
Nor   use  the    sight  .  .  .  except   to  drown 

himself: 
And  so  I  forced  my  heart  back  from  the 

sight. 
For  what   had  /,  I  thought,    to   do   with 

her, 
Aurora  .  .  .  Romney  ?     But,  in  this   last 

book. 
You  showed  me  something  separate  from 

yourself, 
Beyond  you,  and  I  bore  to  take  it  in 
And  let  it  draw  me.     You  have  shown  me 

truths, 
O  June-day  friend,  that  help  me  now  at 

night. 
When  June  is  over  !  truths  not  yours,  in- 
deed, 610 
But  set  within  my  reach  by  means  of  you. 
Presented  by  your  voice  and  verse  the  way 
To    take    them    clearest.      Verily    I    was 

wrong ; 
And  verily  many  thinkers  of  this  age. 
Ay,    many     Christian    teachers,    half     in 

heaven, 
Are  wrong  in  just   my  sense  who  under- 
stood 
Our  natural  world  too  insularly,  as  if 
No  spiritual  counterpart  completed  it. 
Consummating  its  meaning,  rounding  all 
To  justice  and  perfection,  line  by  line,     620 
Form  by  form,  nothing  single  nor  alone. 
The  great   below  clenched   by   the    great 

above. 
Shade  here  authenticating  substance  there, 
The  body  proving  spirit,  as  the  effect 


388 


AURORA   LEIGH 


The  cause:  we  meautime  being  too  grossly- 
apt 
To  hold  the  natural,  as  dogs  a  bone 
(Though  reason  and  nature  beat  us  in  the 

face), 
So  obstinately,  that  we  '11  break  our  teeth 
Or  ever  we  let  go.     For  everywhere 
We  're  too  materialistic,  —  eating  clay    630 
(Like  men  of  the  west)  instead  of  Adam's 

corn 
And  Noah's  wine  —  clay  by  handf uls,  clay 

by  lumps, 
Until  we  're   filled  up  to  the  throat   with 

clay. 
And  grow  the  grimy  color  of  the  ground 
On  which  we  are  feeding.     Ay,  materialist 


The   age's   name  is. 


God   Himself,  with 


some. 
Is  apprehended  as  the  bare  result 
Of  what  his  hand  materially  has  made, 
Expressed  in  such  an  algebraic  sign 
Called  God  —  that  is,  to  put  it  otherwise,  640 
They  add  up  nature  to  a  nought  of  God 
And  cross  the  quotient.     There  are  many 

even, 
Whose  names  are  written  in  the  Christian 

Church 
To  no  dishonor,  diet  still  on  mud 
And  splash  the  altars  with  it.     You  might 

think 
The   clay  Christ   laid   upon   their   eyelids 

when, 
Still  blind,  He  called  them  to  the  use  of 

Remained  there  to  retard  its  exercise 
With    clogging    incrustations.      Close    to 

heaven. 
They  see  for  mysteries,  through  the  open 

doors,  650 

Vague  puffs  of  smoke  from  pots  of  earthen- 
ware. 
And   fain   would   enter,  when   their   time 

shall  come. 
With  quite  another  body  than  Saint  Paul 
Has  promised  —  husk  and  chaff,  the  whole 

barley-corn 
Or  where  's  the  resurrection  ?  ' 

*  Thus  it  is,' 
I  sighed.     And  he  resumed  with  mournful 

face, 
'  Beginning  so,  and  filling  up  with  clay 
The  wards  of  this  great  key,  the  natural 

world. 
And  fumbling  vainly  therefore  at  the  lock 
Of  the  spiritual,  we  feel  ourselves  shut  in 


With  all  the  wild-beast  roar  of  struggling 

life,  661 

The  terrors  and  compunctions  of  our  souls, 

As    saints    with   lions,  —  we  who   are   not 

saints. 
And  have  no  heavenly  lordship  in  our  stare 
To    awe    them    backward.     Ay,    we    are 

forced,  so  pent, 
To  judge  the  whole  too  partially,  .  .  .  con- 
found 
Conclusions.     Is  there  any  common  phrase 
Significant,  with  the  adverb  heard  alone. 
The  verb  being   absent,  and  the   pronoun 

out? 
But  we,  distracted  in  the  roar  of  life,      670 
Still  insolently  at  God's  adverb  snatch. 
And  bruit  against  Him  that  his  thought  is 

void. 
His    meaning  hopeless,  —  cry,  that  every- 
where 
The  government  is  slipping  from  his  hand. 
Unless    some    other    Christ    (say  Romney 

Leigh) 
Come  up  and  toil  and  moil  and  change  the 

world. 
Because  the  First  has  proved  inadequate. 
However  we  talk  bigly  of  his  work 
And  piously  of  his  person.     We  blaspheme 
At  last,  to  finish  our  doxology,  680 

Despairing  on  the  earth  for  which  He  died.' 

'  So  now,'  I  asked,  '  you  have  more  hope 
of  men  ?  ' 

'I  hope,'  he   answered.     'I   am  come   to 

think 
That  God  will  have  his  work  done,  as  you 

said, 
And  that  we   need  not  be   disturbed   too 

much 
For  Romney  Leigh  or  others  having  failed 
With  this  or  that  quack  nostrum  —  recipes 
For  keeping  summits  by  annulling  depths. 
For    wrestling    with    luxurious    lounging 

sleeves. 
And  acting  heroism  without  a  scratch,     690 
We    fail,  —  what     then  ?      Aurora,    if    I 

smiled 
To  see  you,  in  your  lovely  morning-pride. 
Try  on  the  poet's  wreath  which  suits  the 

noon 
(Sweet  cousin,  walls  must  get  the  weather 

stain 
Before  they  grow  the  ivy  !),  certainly 
I  stood  myself  there  worthier  of  contempt, 


EIGHTH    BOOK 


389 


Self-rated,  in  disastrous  arrogance, 
As  competent  to  sorrow  for  mankind, 
And  even   their   odds.     A  man  may  well 

despair  699 

Who  counts  himself  so  needful  to  success. 
I  failed:  I  throw  the  remedy  back  on  God, 
And   sit   down  here  beside   you,    in  good 

hope.' 

*  And  yet  take  heed, '  I  answered,  *  lest  we 

lean 
Too  dangerously  on  the  other  side, 
And   so  fail   twice.     Be   sure,  no    earnest 

work 
Of  any  honest  creature,  howbeit  weak, 
Imperfect,  ill-adapted,  fails  so  much, 
It  is  not  gathered  as  a  grain  of  sand 
To  enlarge  the  sum  of  human  action  used 
For  carrying  out  God's  end.     No  creature 
works  710 

So  ill,  observe,  that   therefore  he 's  cash- 
iered. 
The  honest,  earnest  man  must  stand  and 

work, 
The  woman  also  —  otherwise  she  drops 
At  once  below  the  dignity  of  man. 
Accepting     serfdom.       Free     men    freely 

work. 
Whoever  fears  God,  fears  to  sit  at  ease.' 

He  cried:  'True.     After  Adam,  work  was 

curse : 
The  natural  creature   labors,  sweats,  and 

frets.  718 

But,  after  Christ,  work  turns  to  privilege, 
And  henceforth,  one  with  our  humanity, 
f     The  Six-day  Worker  working  still  in  us 
Has  called  us  freely  to  work  on  with  Him 
In  high  companionship.     So,  happiest  ! 
I  count  that  heaven  itself  is  only  work 
To  a  surer  issue.     Let  us  work,  indeed, 
But   no   more    work   as   Adam,  —  nor    as 

Leigh 
Erewhile,  as  if  the  only  man  on  earth, 
Responsible  for  all  the  thistles  blown 
And  tigers  couchant,  struggling  in  amaze 
Against  disease  and  winter,  snarling  on  730 
For  ever  that  the  world 's  not  paradise. 
O  cousin,  let  us  be  content,  in  work. 
To  do  the  thing  we  can,  and  not  presume 
To  fret  because  it 's  little.      'T  will  employ 
Seven  men,  they  say,  to   make  a   perfect 

pin: 
Who  makes  the  head,  content  to  miss  the 

point ; 


Who  makes  the  point,  agreed  to  leave  the 

join: 
And  if  a  man  should  cry  "  I  want  a  pin. 
And  I  must  make  it  straightway,  head  and 

point," 
His  wisdom  is  not  worth  the  pin  he  wants. 
Seven  men  to  a  pin,  —  and  not  a  man  too 

much  !  741 

Seven  generations,  haply,  to  this  world, 
To  right  it  visibly  a  finger's  breadth. 
And  mend  its  rents  a  little.     Oh,  to  storm 
And  say  "  This  world  here  is  intolerable; 
I  will  not  eat  this  corn,  nor  drink  this  wine. 
Nor  love  this  woman,  flinging  her  my  soul 
Without  a  bond  for 't  as  a  lover  should. 
Nor  use  the  generous  leave  of  happiness 
As  not  too  good  for  using  generously  "  — 
(Since  virtue  kindles  at  the  touch  of  joy 
Like    a   man's   cheek   laid    on   a  woman's 

hand,  752 

And  God,  Who  knows  it,  looks  for  quick 

returns 
From  joys)  —  to  stand  and  claim  to  have  a 

life 
Beyond  the  bounds  of  the  individual  man. 
And  raze  all  personal  cloisters  of  the  soul 
To  build  up  public  stores  and  magazines. 
As  if  God's  creatures  otherwise  were  lost, 
The  builder  surely  saved  by  any  means  ! 
To  think,  —  I  have  a  pattern  on  my  nail,  760 
And  I  will  carve  the  world  new  after  it 
And  solve  so  these  hard  social  questions  — 

nay. 
Impossible    social    questions,    since    their 

roots 
Strike  deep  in  Evil's  own  existence  here, 
Which  God  permits  because  the  question  's 

hard 
To  abolish  evil  nor  attaint  free-will. 
Ay,  hard  to  God,  but  not  to  Romney  Leigh  ! 
For  Romney  has  a  pattern  on  his  nail 
(Whatever  may  be  lacking  on  the  Mount), 
And,  not  being  over-nice  to  separate         770 
What 's  element  from  what 's  convention, 

hastes 
By  line  on  line  to  draw  you  out  a  world. 
Without  your  help  indeed,  unless  you  take 
His  yoke  upon  you,  and  will  learn  of  him, 
So  much  he  has  to  teach  !  so  good  a  world  ! 
The  same   the  whole  creation  's  groaning 

for! 
No   rich   nor   poor,  no  gain   nor  loss  nor 

stint; 
No  pottage  in  it  able  to  exclude 
A  brother's  birthright,  and  no  right  of  birth 


390 


AURORA   LEIGH 


The  pottage  —  both  secured  to  every  man, 
And  perfect  virtue  dealt  out  like  the  rest 
Gratuitously,  with  the  soup  at  six,  782 

To  whoso  does  not  seek  it.' 

*  Softly,  sir,' 
I  interrupted,  —  '  I  had  a  cousin  once 
I  held  in  reverence.     If  he    strained   too 

wide. 
It  was  not  to  take  honor,  but  give  help; 
The  gesture  was  heroic.     If  his  hand 
Accomplished  nothing  .  .  .   (well,  it  is  not 

proved) 
That  empty  hand  thrown  impotently  out 
Were  sooner   caught,  I  think,  by  One   in 
heaven,  790 

Than  many  a  hand  that  reaped  a  harvest  in, 
And  keeps  the  scythe's  glow  on  it.     Pray 

you,  then, 
For  my  sake  merely,  use  less  bitterness 
In  speaking  of  my  cousin.' 

'Ah,'  he  said, 
'  Aurora  !  when  the  prophet  beats  the  ass. 
The  angel  intercedes.'  He  shook  his  head  — 
*  And  yet  to  mean  so  well  and  fail  so  foul. 
Expresses  ne'er  another  beast  than  man; 
The  antithesis  is  human.     Hearken,  dear; 
There 's    too   much   abstract  willing,  pur- 
posing, 800 
In   this  poor  world.     We  talk   by  aggre- 
gates, 
And  thijik  by  systems,  and,  being  used  to 

face 
Our  evils  in  statistics,  are  inclined 
To  cap  them  with  unreal  remedies 
Drawn  out  in  haste  on  the  other  side  the 

slate.' 
'  That 's  true,'  I  answered,  fain  to  throw  up 

thought 
And  make  a  game  of 't.     '  Yes,  we  gener- 
alize 
Enough  to  please  you.     If  we  pray  at  all, 
We  pray  no  longer  for  our  daily  bread,  809 
But  next  centenary's  harvests.    If  we  give, 
Our  cup  of  water  is  not  tendered  till 
We  lay  down  pipes  and  found  a  Company 
With    Branches.     Ass    or   angel,  't  is  the 

same : 
A  woman  cannot  do  the  thing  she  ought. 
Which  means  whatever  perfect  thing  she 

can, 
In  life,  in  art,  in  science,  but  she  fears 
To  let  the  perfect  action  take  her  part. 
And  rest  there:  she  must  prove  what  she 

can  do 
Before  she  does  it,  prate  of  woman's  rights, 


Of  woman's  mission,  woman's  function,  till 
The  men  (who  are  prating  too  on  their  side) 

cry,  821 

"  A   woman's  function    plainly  is  ...  to 

talk." 
Poor  souls,  they  are  very  reasonably  vexed; 
They  cannot  hear  each  other  talk.' 

*  And  you. 
An  artist,  judge  so  ?  ' 

'  I,  an  artist  —  yes : 
Because,  precisely,  I  'm  an  artist,  sir. 
And  woman,  if  another  sat  in  sight, 
I  'd  whisper,  —  Soft,  my  sister  !  not  a  word  ! 
By  speaking  we  prove  only  we  can  speak. 
Which  he,  the  man  here,  never  doubted. 

What  830 

He  doubts  is,  whether  we  can  do  the  thing 
With  decent  grace  we  've  not  yet  done  at 

all. 
Now,  do  it;  bring  your  statue,  —  you  have 

room  ! 
He  '11  see  it  even  by  the  starlight  here; 
And  if  't  is  e'er  so  little  like  the  god 
Who  looks  out  from  the  marble  silently 
Along  the  track  of  his  own  shining  dart 
Through  the  dusk  of  ages,  there  's  no  need 

to  speak; 
The   universe  shall   henceforth  speak  for 

you. 
And  witness,  "  She  who  did  this  thing  was 

born  840 

To  do  it  —  claims  her  license  in  her  work." 
And  so  with  more  works.    Whoso  cures  the 

plague. 
Though  twice  a  woman,  shall  be  called  a 

leech: 
Who  rights  a  land's  finances  is  excused 
For  touching  coppers,  though  her  hands  be 

white. 
But  we,  we  talk  ! ' 

'  It  is  the  age's  mood,' 
He  said;  *  we  boast,  and  do  not.     We  put 

up 
Hostelry  signs  where'er  we  lodge  a  day,  — 
Some  red  colossal  cow  with  mighty  paps 
A    Cyclops'   fingers   could   not    strain   to 

milk,  —  850 

Then  bring  out  presently  our  saucerf  ul 
Of   curds.     We  want   more   quiet   in  our 

works. 
More  knowledge  of  the  bounds  in  which  we 

work; 
More  knowledge  that  each  individual  man 
Remains  an  Adam  to  the  general  race, 
Constrained  to  see,  like  Adam,  that  he  keep 


EIGHTH    BOOK 


391 


His  personal  state's  condition  honestly, 
Or  vain   all  thoughts  of  his  to  help   the 

world, 
Which  still  must   be  developed  from  its 

o?ie 
If  bettered  in  its  many.     We  indeed,       860 
Who  think  to  lay  it  out  new  like  a  park, 
We  take  a  work  on  us  which  is  not  man's, 
For  God  alone  sits  far  enough  above 
To  speculate  so  largely.     None  of  us 
(Not   Romney  Leigh)  is    mad  enough   to 

say. 
We  '11  have  a  grove  of  oaks  upon  that  slope 
And  sink  the  need  of  acorns.    Government, 
If  veritable  and  lawful,  is  not  given 
By  imposition  of  the  foreign  hand. 
Nor  chosen  from  a  pretty  pattern-book    870 
Of  some  domestic  idealogue  who  sits 
And  coldly  chooses  empire,  where  as  well 
He  might  republic.     Genuine  government 
Is  but  the  expression  of  a  nation,  good 
Or  less  good  —  even  as  all  society, 
Howe'er    unequal,  monstrous,  crazed    and 

cursed. 
Is  but  the  expression  of  men's  single  lives, 
The  loud  sum  of  the  silent  units.     What, 
We  'd  change  the  aggregate  and  yet  retain 
Each  separate  figure  ?  whom  do  we  cheat 

by  that  ?  880 

Now,  not  even  Romney.' 

'  Cousin,  you  are  sad. 
Did  all  your  social  labor  at  Leigh  Hall, 
And  elsewhere,  come  to  nought,  then  ?  ' 

'  It  was  nought,' 
He  answered  mildlv.     *  There  is  room,  in- 

deed, 
For   statues    still   in   this   large    world  of 

God's, 
But  not  for  vacuums ;  so  I  am  not  sad  — 
Not  sadder  than  is  good  for  what  I  am. 
My  vain  phalanstery  dissolved  itself; 
My  men  and  women  of  disordered  lives 
I  brought  in  orderly  to  dine  and  sleep. 
Broke  up  those  waxen  masks  I  made  them 

wear,  891 

With  fierce  contortions  of  the  natural  face. 
And   cursed    me   for   my   tyrannous   con- 
straint 
In    forcing     crooked     creatures     to     live 

straight ; 
And  set  the  country  hounds  upon  my  back 
To  bite  and  tear  me  for  my  wicked  deed 
Of  trying  to  do  good  without  the  church 
Or  even    the    squires,   Aurora.     Do    you 

mind 


Your  ancient  neighbors  ?     The  great  book- 
club teems 
With  "  sketches,"  "  summaries,"  and  "  last 

tracts  "  but  twelve,  900 

On  socialistic  troublers  of  close  bonds 
Betwixt   the    generous   rich   and   grateful 

poor. 
The    vicar   preached  from '<  Revelations  " 

(till 
The  doctor  woke),  and  found  me  with  "  the 

frogs  " 
On    three    successive    Sundays;    ay,   and 

stopped 
To  weep  a  little  (for  he  's  getting  old) 
That    such    perdition   should    o'ertake   a 

man 
Of  such  fair  acres  —  in  the  parish,  too  ! 
He  printed  his  discourses  "  by  request," 
And  if   your   book    shall  sell  as   his   did, 

then  910 

Your  verses  are  less  good  than  I  suppose. 
The  women  of  the  neighborhood  subscribed, 
And  sent  me  a  copy,  bound  in  scarlet  silk. 
Tooled  edges,  blazoned  with   the   arms  of 

Leigh: 
I  own  that  touched  me.' 

'  What,  the  pretty  ones  ? 
Poor  Romney  ! ' 

'Otherwise  the  effect  was  small: 
I  had  my  windows  broken  once  or  twice 
By  liberal  peasants  naturally  incensed 
At  such  a  vexer  of  Arcadian  peace, 
Who  would  not  let   men  call  their  wives 

their  own  920 

To  kick  like  Britons,  and  made  obstacles 
When   things   went    smoothly   as   a   baby 

drugged, 
Toward  freedom  and    starvation  —  bring- 
ing down 
The   wicked   London   tavern  -  thieves   and 

drabs 
To  affront  the  blessed  hillside  drabs  and 

thieves 
With  mended   morals,  quotha  —  fine  new 

lives  !  — 
My  windows  paid  for  't.     I  was    shot  at, 

once, 
By  an  active  poacher  who  had  hit  a  hare 
From  the  other  barrel  (tired  of   springe- 

ing  game 
So  long  upon  my  acres,  undisturbed,        930 
And  restless  for  the  country's  virtue  —  yet 
He  missed  me) ;  ay,  and  pelted  very  oft 
In  riding  through  the  village.     "  There  he 

goes 


392 


AURORA  LEIGH 


Who  'd  drive  away  our  Christian   gentle- 
folk, 

To  catch  us  undefended  in  the  trap 

He  baits  with  poisonous  cheese,  and  lock 
us  up 

In  that  pernicious  prison  of  Leigh  Hall 

With    all   his   murderers !     Give   another 
name 

And  say  Leigh  Hell,  and  burn  it  up  with 
fire." 

And  so  they  did,  at  last,  Aurora.' 

'  Did  ? ' 

'  You  never   heard   it,  cousin  ?     Vincent's 
news  941 

Came  stinted,  then.' 

'  They  did  ?  they  burnt  Leigh  Hall  ? ' 

*  You  're  sorry,  dear  Aurora  ?     Yes,  indeed. 
They  did  it  perfectly:  a  thorough  work, 
And  not  a  failure,  this  time.     Let  us  grant 
'T  is  somewhat  easier,  though,  to   burn  a 

house 
Than  build  a  system;  yet  that  's  easy  too 
In    a   dream.     Books,    pictures  —  ay,    the 

pictures !     What, 
You  think  your  dear  Vandykes  would  give 

them  pause  ? 
Our   proud   ancestral   Leighs,    with    those 

peaked  beards,  950 

Or  bosoms  white  as  foam  thrown  up  on 

rocks 
From  the  old-spent  wave.     Such  calm  de- 
fiant looks 
They  flared   up  with  !  now  nevermore   to 

twit 
The  bones  in  the  family  vault  with  ugly 

death. 
Not  one  was  rescued,  save  the  Lady  Maud, 
Who  threw  you  down,  that  morning  you 

were  born, 
The  undeniable  lineal  mouth  and  chin 
To  wear  for  ever  for  her  gracious  sake. 
For  which  good  deed  I  saved  her;  the  rest 

went: 
And  you,  you  're  sorry,  cousin.     Well,  for 

me,  960 

With  all  my  phalansterians  safely  out 
(Poor  hearts,  they  helped  the  burners,  it 

was  said. 
And  certainly  a  few  clapped   hands   and 

yelled), 
The  ruin  did  not  hurt  me  as  it  might  — 
As  when  for  instance  I  was  hurt  one  day 
A  certain  letter  being  destroyed.     In  fact, 


To  see  the  great  house  flare  so  .  .  .  oaken 

floors 
Our  fathers  made  so  fine  with  rushes  once 
Before  our  mothers  furbished  them  with 

trains, 
Carved  wainscots,  panelled  walls,  the    fa- 
vorite slide  970 
For  draining  off  a  martyr  (or  a  rogue), 
The    echoing    galleries,   half   a    half-mile 

long, 
And  all  the  various  stairs  that  took  you 

up 
And  took  you  down,  and  took  you  round 

about 
Upon  their  slippery  darkness,  recollect, 
All  helping  to  keep  up  one  blazing  jest  ! 
The   flames    through    all    the    casements 

pushing  forth, 
Like  red-hot  devils  crinkled  into  snakes. 
All  signifying  "  Look  you,  Romney  Leigh, 
We   save    the   people   from   your   saving, 

here,  980 

Yet  so  as  by  fire  !  we  make  a  pretty  show 
Besides  —  and  that 's  the  best  you  've  ever 

done." 
—  To   see  this,  almost  moved   myself  to 

clap  ! 
The  "  vale  et  plaude  "  came  too  with  effect 
When  in  the  roof  fell,  and  the  fire  that 

paused, 
Stunned  momently  beneath  the   stroke  of 

slates 
And   tumbling   rafters,  rose  at   once  and 

roared, 
And  wrapping  the  whole  house  (which  dis- 
appeared 
In  a  mounting  whirlwind  of  dilated  flame), 
Blew  upward,  straight,  its    drift  of   fiery 

chaff  990 

In   the  face  of   Heaven,  which   blenched, 

and  ran  up  higher.' 

'  Poor  Romney  ! ' 

*  Sometimes  when  I  dream,'  he  said, 

*  I  hear  the  silence  after,  't  was  so  still. 

For  all  those  wild  beasts,  yelling,  cursing 
round. 

Were  suddenly  silent,  while  you  counted 
five. 

So  silent,  that  you  heard  a  young  bird  fall 

From  the  top  nest  in  the  neighboring  rook- 
ery. 

Through    edging   over-rashly   toward   the 
light. 

The  old  rooks  had  already  fled  too  far 


EIGHTH    BOOK 


393 


To  hear  the  screech  they  fled  with,  though 

you  saw  looo 

Some  flying  still,  like  scatterings  of  dead 

leaves 
In   autumn-gusts,  seen   dark   against   the 

sky, — 
All   flying,  —  ousted,    like    the    House  of 

Leigh.' 

*  Dear  Romney  ! ' 

'  Evidently  't  would  have  been 
A  fine  sight  for  a  poet,  sweet,  like  you. 
To  make  the  verse  blaze  after.     I  myself, 
Even  I,  felt   something  in  the  grand  old 

trees, 
Which  stood  that  moment  like  brute  Druid 

gods 
Amazed  upon  the  rim  of  ruin,  where, 
As    into   a   blackened    socket,   the    great 
fire  loio 

Had  dropped,  still  throwing  up   splinters 

now  and  then 
To  show  them  gray  with  all  their  centu- 
ries, 
Left  there  to  witness  that  on  such  a  day 
The  House  went  out.' 
'Ah!' 
'  While  you  counted  five, 
I  seemed  to  feel  a  little  like  a  Leigh,  — 
But  then  it  passed,  Aurora.     A  child  cried, 
And  I  had  enough  to  think  of  what  to  do 
With  all  those  houseless  wretches  in  the 

dark, 
And  ponder  where  they  'd  dance  the  next 
time,  they  1019 

Who  had  burnt  the  viol.' 

'  Did  you  think  of  that  ? 
Who  burns  his  viol  will  not  dance,  I  know. 
To  cymbals,  Romney.' 

'  O  my  sweet,  sad  voice  ! ' 
He  cried,  —  '  O  voice  that  speaks  and  over- 
comes ! 
The  sun  is  silent,  but  Aurora  speaks.' 

*  Alas,'  I  said,  '  I  speak  I  know  not  what: 

I  'm  back  in  childhood,  thinking  as  a  child, 
A  foolish  fancy  —  will  it  make  you  smile  ? 
I  shall  not  from  the  window  of  my  room 
Catch    sight   of    those   old   chimneys   any 
more.' 

*  No  more,'  he  answered.     *  If  you  pushed 

one  day  103  c 

Through  all  the  green  hills  to  our  fathers' 
house. 


You  'd  come  upon  a  great  charred  circle, 

where 
The    patient   earth   was    singed   an    acre 

round ; 
With  one  stone  stair,  symbolic  of  my  life. 
Ascending,  winding,  leading  up  to  nought ! 
'T  is  worth  a  poet's  seeing.    Will  you  go  ?  ' 

I  made  no  answer.     Had  I  any  right 

To  weep  with  this  man,  that  I  dared  to 
speak  ? 

A  woman  stood  between  his  soul  and  mine, 

And   waved   us   off    from   touching   ever- 
more, 1040 

With  those  unclean  white  hands  of  hers. 
Enough. 

We  had  burnt  our  viols,  and  were  silent. 

So, 

The  silence  lengthened  till  it  pressed.     I 
spoke. 

To  breathe:    'I  think  you  were  ill  after- 
ward.' 

'  More  ill,'  he  answered,  '  had  been  scarcely 

ill. 
I  hoped  this  feeble  fumbling  at  life's  knot 
Might  end  concisely,  —  but  I  failed  to  die, 
As  formerly  I  failed  to  live,  —  and  thus 
Grew  willing,  having  tried  all  other  ways, 
To  try  just  God's.    Humility  's  so  good, 
When  pride  's  impossible.     Mark  us,  how 

we  make  105 1 

Our  virtues,  cousin,  from  our  worn-out  sins. 
Which    smack  of   them   from  henceforth. 

Is  it  right, 
For  instance,  to  wed  here  while  you  love 

there  ? 
And  yet  because  a  man  sins  once,  the  sin 
Cleaves  to  him,  in  necessity  to  sin, 
That  if  he  sin  not  so  to  damn  himself. 
He  sins  so,  to  damn  others  with  himself: 
And  thus,  to  wed  here,  loving  there,  be- 
comes 
A  duty.     Virtue  buds  a  dubious  leaf      1060 
Round  mortal  brows ;   your   ivy  's   better, 

dear. 
—  Yet  she,  't  is  certain,  is  my  very  wife, 
The  very  lamb  left  mangled  by  the  wolves 
Through  ray  own   bad   shepherding:    and 

could  I  choose 
But   take   her  on  my   shoulder   past   this 

stretch 
Of  rough,  uneasy  wilderness,  poor  lamb. 
Poor    child,    poor    child  ?  —  Aurora,    my 

beloved, 


394 


AURORA   LEIGH 


I  will  not  vex  you  any  more  to-night, 
But,  having  spoken  what  I  came  to  say, 
The  rest  shall  please  you.     What  she  can, 

in  me  —  1070 

Protection,  tender  liking,  freedom,  ease  — 
She  shall  have  surely,  liberally,  for  her 
And  hers,  Aurora.     Small  amends  they  '11 

make 
For  hideous  evils  which  she  had  not  known 
Except  by  me,  and  for  this  imminent  loss. 
This  forfeit  presence  of  a  gracious  friend, 
Which  also  she  must  forfeit  for  my  sake, 
Since,  .  .  .  drop    your    hand    in    mine    a 

moment,  sweet. 
We  're  parting  !  —  Ah,  my  snowdrop,  what 

a  touch, 
As  if   the  wind  had   swept    it    off  !     You 

grudge  1080 

Your  gelid  sweetness  on  my  palm  but  so, 
A   moment  ?      Angry,    that    I    could    not 

bear 
You  .  .  .  speaking,  breathing,  living,  side 

by  side 
With  some  one  called   my  wife  .  .  .  and 

live,  myself  ? 
Nay,  be  not  cruel  —  you  must  understand  ! 
Your  lightest  footfall  on  a  floor  of  mine 
Would    shake  the    house,  my  lintel  being 

uncrossed 
'Gainst  angels:  henceforth  it  is  night  with 

me. 
And  so,  henceforth,  I  put  the  shutters  up : 
Auroras  must  not  come  to  spoil  my  dark.' 

He  smiled  so  feebly,  with  an  empty  hand 
Stretched  sideway  from  me  —  as  indeed  he 

looked  1092 

To  any  one  but  me  to  give  him  help; 
And,  while  the  moon   came  suddenly  out 

full, 
The  double-rose  of  our  Italian  moons. 
Sufficient  plainly  for  the  heaven  and  earth 
(The  stars  struck  dumb  and  washed  away 

in  dews 
Of  golden  glory,  and  the  mountains  steeped 
In  divine  languor),  he,  the  man,  appeared 
So  pale  and  patient,  like  the  marble  man  noo 
A  sculptor  puts  his  personal  sadness  in 
To  join  his  grandeur  of  ideal  thought. 
As  if  his  mallet  struck  me  from  my  height 
Of  passionate  indignation,  I  who  had  risen 
Pale,  doubting  paused  .  .  .  Was  Romney 

mad  indeed  ? 
Had  all  this  wrong  of  heart  made  sick  the 

brain  ? 


Then  quiet,  with  a  sort  of  tremulous  pride, 
'  Go,  cousin,'  I  said  coldly;  *  a  farewell 
Was  sooner  spoken  'twixt  a  pair  of  friends 
In  those  old  days,  than  seems  to  suit  you 

now.  1,10 

Howbeit,  since  then,  I  've  writ  a  book  or 

two, 
I  'm  somewhat  dull  still  in  the  manly  art 
Of  phrase  and  metaphrase.    Why,  any  man 
Can  carve  a  score  of  white  Loves  out  of 

snow. 
As  Buonarroti  in  my  Florence  there, 
And  set   them  on  the  wall  in  some   safe 

shade, 
As  safe,  sir,  as  your  marriage  !  very  good; 
Though  if  a  woman  took  one  from  the  ledge 
To  put  it  on  the  table  by  her  flowers 
And  let  it  mind  her  of  a  certain  friend,  1120 
'T  would  drop  at  once  (so  better),  would 

not  bear 
Her  nail-mark  even,  where  she  took  it  up 
A  little  tenderly,  —  so  best,  I  say : 
For  me,  I  would  not  touch  the  fragile  thing 
And  risk  to  spoil  it  half  an  hour  before 
The  sun  shall   shine   to  melt  it:  leave    it 

there. 
I  'm   plain   at   speech,  direct   in   purpose : 

when 
I  speak,  you  '11  take  the  meaning  as  it  is, 
And  not  allow  for  puckerings  in  the  silk 
By  clever  stitches.    I  'm  a  woman,  sir  —  1130 
I  use  the  woman's  figures  naturally. 
As  you  the  male  license.     So,  I  wish  you 

well. 
I  'm  simply  sorry  for  the  griefs  you  've  had. 
And  not  for  your  sake  only,  but  mankind's. 
This  race  is  never  grateful:  from  the  first, 
One  fills  their  cup  at  supper  with  pure  wine. 
Which  back  they  give  at  cross-time  on  a 

sponge. 
In  vinegar  and  gall.' 

'  If  gratefuller,' 
He  murmured,  *  by  so  much  less  pitiable  ! 
God's  self  would  never  have  come  down  to 

die,  1 140 

Could  man  have  thanked  Him  for  it.' 

*  Happily 
'T  is  patent  that,  whatever,'  I  resumed, 
'You  suffered  from  this   thanklessness  of 

men. 
You  sink  no  more  than  Moses'  bulrush-boat 
When  once  relieved  of  Moses,  — for  you  're 

light, 
You  're  light,  my  cousin  !  which  is  well  for 

you, 


EIGHTH   BOOK 


395 


And  manly.     For  myself,  now  mark  me, 

sir, 
They  burnt  Leigh  Hall;  but   if,  consum- 
mated 
To  devils,  heightened  beyond  Lucifers, 
They  had  burnt,  instead,  a  star  or  two  of 
those  1 150 

We  saw  above  there  just  a  moment  back. 
Before    the    moon   abolished    them,  —  de- 
stroyed 
And  riddled  them  in  ashes  through  a  sieve 
On  the  head  of  the  foundering  universe  — 

what  then  ? 
If  you  and  I  remained  still  you  and  I, 
It  could  not  shift  our  places  as  mere  friends, 
Nor  render  decent  you  should  toss  a  phrase 
Beyond  the  point  of  actual  feeling  !     Nay, 
You  shall  not  interrupt  me:  as  you  said, 
We  're   parting.     Certainly,  not  once    nor 

twice  ri6o 

To-night  you  've  mocked  me  somewhat,  or 

yourself, 
And  I,  at  least,  have  not  deserved  it  so 
That  I  should  meet   it  unsurprised.     But 

now, 


Enough:      we  're     partin 


partm 


O". 


Cousin  Leigh, 
I  wish  you  well  through  all  the  acts  of  life 
And  life's  relations,  wedlock  not  the  least. 
And  it  shall  "please  me,"  in  your  words,  to 

know 
You  yield  your  wife  protection,  freedom, 

ease, 
And  very  tender  liking.     May  you  live 
So   happy   with   her,    Romney,  that  your 

friends  1 170 

Shall  praise  her  for  it  !   Meantime  some  of 

us 
Are  wholly  dull  in  keeping  ignorant 
Of  what  she  has  suffered  by  you,  and  what 

debt 
Of  sorrow  your  rich  love  sits  down  to  pay: 
But  if  't  is  sweet  for  love  to  pay  its  debt, 
'T  is  sweeter  still  for  love  to  give  its  gift. 
And  you,  be  liberal  in  the  sweeter  way, 
You  can,  I  think.    At  least,  as  touches  me, 
You  owe  her,  cousin  Romney,  no  amends: 
She  is  not  used  to  hold  my  gown  so  fast,  nSo 
You  need  entreat  her  now  to  let  it  go; 
The  lady  never  was  a  friend  of  mine, 
Nor   capable  —  I    thought    you    knew   as 

much  — 
Of  losing  for  your  sake  so  poor  a  prize 
As  such  a  worthless  friendship.     Be  con- 
tent, 


Good  cousin,  therefore,  both  for  her   and 

you  ! 
I  '11  never  spoil  your  dark,  nor  dull  your 

noon, 
Nor  vex  you  when  you  're  merry,  or  at  rest: 
You  shall  not  need  to  put  a  shutter  up 
To  keep  out  this  Aurora,  —  though   your 

north  1 1 90 

Can  make  Auroras  which  vex  nobody. 
Scarce  known  from   night,  I  fancied  !  let 

me  add. 
My  larks  fly  higher  than   some  windows. 

Well, 
You  've  read  your  Leighs.  Indeed,  't  would 

shake  a  house. 
If  such  as  I  came  in  with  outstretched  hand, 
Still  warm  and  thrilling  from  the  clasp  of 

one  .  .  . 
Of   one    we   know,  ...  to    acknowledge, 

palm  to  palm. 
As  mistress  there,  the  Lady  Waldemar.' 
'  Now  God  be  with  us  '  .  .  .  with  a  sudden 

clash 
Of  voice  he  interrupted.     '  What  name  's 

that  ?  1200 

You  spoke  a  name,  Aurora.' 

'  Pardon  me ; 
I  would  that,  Romney,  I  could  name  your 

wife 
Nor  wound  you,  yet  be  worthy.' 

'  Are  we  mad  ?  ' 
He  echoed.     *  Wife  !  mine  !  Lady  AYalde- 

mar  ! 
I  think  you  said  my  wife.'     He  sprang  to 

his  feet. 
And  threw  his  noble  head  back  toward  the 

moon 
As  one  who  swims  against  a  stormy  sea, 
Then  laughed  with  such  a  helpless,  hopeless 

scorn, 
I  stood  and  trembled. 

'  May  God  judge  me  so,' 
He  said  at  last,  — '  I  came  convicted  here. 
And    humbled   sorely    if   not   enough.      I 

came,  12  n 

Because  this  woman  from  her  crystal  soul 
Had    shown  me    something  which    a  man 

calls  light: 
Because  too,  formerly,  I  sinned  by  her 
As  then  and  ever  since  I  have,  by  God, 
Through  arrogance  of  nature,  —  though  I 

loved  .  .  . 
Whom  best,  I  need  not  say,  since  that  is 

writ 
Too  plainly  in  the  book  of  iny  misdeeds: 


396 


AURORA   LEIGH 


And  thus  I  came  here  to  abase  myself, 
And  fasten,  kneeling,  on  her  regent  brows 
A   garland    which   I    startled    thence    one 

day  I22I 

Of   her   beautiful   June-youth.     But   here 

again 
I  'm  baftied,  —  fail  in  my  abasement  as 
My  aggrandizement:  there  's  no  room  left 

for  me 
At  any  woman's  foot  who  misconceives 
My    nature,    purpose,     possible      actions. 

What  ! 
Are  you  the  Aurora  who  made  large  my 

dreams 
To  frame  your  greatness  ?  you  conceive  so 

small  ? 
You   stand  so  less    than   woman   through 

being  more 
And   lose    your    natural   instinct    (like   a 

beast)  1230 

Through  intellectual  culture  ?  since  indeed 
I  do  not  think  that  any  common  she 
Would  dare  adopt  such  monstrous  forger- 
ies 
For  the  legible  life  signature  of  such 
As    I,    with    all   my    blots  —  with   all  my 

blots  ! 
At    last,    then,    peerless    cousin,    we    are 

peers  — 
At  last  we  're  even.     Ay,  you  've  left  your 

height. 
And  here  upon  my  level  we  take  hands. 
And  here  I  reach  you  to  forgive  you,  sweet. 
And  that 's  a  fall,  Aurora.     Long  ago    1240 
You  seldom  understood  me,  —  but  before, 
I  could  not  blame   you.     Then,  you  only 

seemed 
So  high  above,  you  could  not  see  below; 
But  now  I  breathe,  —  but  now  I  pardon  ! 

—  nay, 
We  're  parting.     Dearest,  men  have  burnt 

my  house, 
Maligned   my   motives;    but    not    one,    I 

swear. 
Has  wronged  my  soul  as  this  Aurora  has 
Who  called  the  Lady  Waldemar  my  wife.' 

*  Not  married  to  her  !  yet  you  said '  .  .  . 

*  Again  ? 
Nay,  read  the  lines '  (he  held  a  letter  out) 
'  She  sent  you  through  me.' 

By  the  moonlight  there 
I  tore   the    meaning   out  with   passionate 
haste  1252 

Much  rather  than  I  read  it.     Thus  it  ran. 


NINTH  BOOK 

Even   thus.     I   pause   to   write    it    out  at 

length. 
The  letter  of  the  Lady  Waldemar. 

'  I  prayed  your  cousin  Leigh  to  take  you 

this : 
He  says  he  '11  do  it.     After  years  of  love, 
Or  what  is  called  so,  when  a  woman  frets 
And  fools  upon  one  string  of  a  man's  name, 
And  fingers  it  for  ever  till  it  breaks,  — 
He  may  perhaps  do  for  her  such  a  thing. 
And  she  accept  it  without  detriment 
Although    she    should    not   love    him   any 

more.  10 

And   I,   who   do   not   love   him,  nor  love 

Nor  you,  Aurora,  —  choose   you   shall  re- 
pent 
Your  most  ungracious  letter  and  confess. 
Constrained  by  his  convictions  (he  's  con- 
vinced). 
You  've  wronged  me  foully.    Are  you  made 

so  ill. 
You  woman,  to  impute  such  ill  to  me  ? 
We  both  had  mothers,  —  lay  in  their  bosom 

once. 
And  after  all,  I  thank  you,  Aurora  Leigh, 
For  proving  to  myself  that  there  are  things 
I   would    not   do  —  not   for   my    life,    nor 

him. 
Though  something  I  have  somewhat  over- 
done,—  21 
For  instance,  when  I  went  to  see  the  gods 
One  morning  on  Olympus,  with  a  step 
That    shook   the    thunder  from   a  certain 

cloud, 
Committing  myself  vilely.     Could  I  think, 
The  Muse  I  pulled  my  heart  out  from  my 

breast 
To  soften,  had  herself  a  sort  of  heart. 
And  loved  my  mortal  ?     He  at  least  loved 

her,  — 
I  heard  him  say  so:  't  was  my  recompense, 
When,  watching  3,t  his   bedside    fourteen 
days,  30 

He  broke  out  ever  like  a  flame  at  whiles 
Between  the  heats  of  fever,  —  "  Is  it  thou  ? 
Breathe    closer,     sweetest   mouth  ! "    and 

when  at  last. 
The  fever  gone,  the  wasted  face  extinct, 
As  if  it  irked  him  much  to  know  nie  there, 
He  said  "  'T  was  kind,  't  was  good,   't  was 
womanly," 


NINTH    BOOK 


397 


(And  fifty  praises  to  excuse  no  love) ; 
"But  was  the  picture  safe  he  had  ventured 

for  ?  " 
And  then,  half  wandering,  "  I  have  loved 

her  well, 
Although  she  could  not  love  me."  —  "  Say, 

instead,"  40 

I  answered,  "she  does  love  you."  —  'T  was 

ray  turn 
To   rave:    I  would   have    married  him  so 

changed, 
Although  the  world  had  jeered  me  properly 
For  taking  up  with  Cupid  at  his  worst, 
The  silver  quiver  worn  off  on  his  hair. 
"  No,  no,"  he  murmured;  "  no,  she  loves  me 

not; 
Aurora  Leigh  does  better:  bring  her  book 
And  read  it  softly.  Lady  Waldemar, 
Until  I  thank   your   friendship    more    for 

that 
Than    even    for    harder    service."     So    I 

read  50 

Your  book,  Aurora,  for  an  hour  that  day: 
I  kept  its  pauses,  marked  its  emphasis; 
My  voice,  impaled  upon  its  hooks  of  rhyme. 
Not   once  would  _  writhe,  nor   quiver,  nor 

revolt; 
I  read  on  calmly,  —  calmly  shut  it  up, 
Observing,  "  There  's    some   merit   in  the 

book; 
And  yet  the  merit  in 't  is  thrown  away, 
As  chances  still  with  women  if  we  write 
Or  write  not:    we  want   string  to  tie  our 

flowers. 
So  drop  them  as  we  walk,  which  serves  to 

show  60 

The  way  we  went.     Good  morning,  Mister 

Leigh ; 
You  '11  find  another  reader  the  next  time. 
A  woman  who  does  better  than  to  love, 
I  hate;  she  will  do  nothing  very  well: 
Male  poets  are  preferable,  straining  less 
And   teaching   more."     I   triumphed  o'er 

you  both. 
And  left  him. 

'  When  I  saw  him  afterward 
I  had  read  your  shameful  letter,  and  my 

heart. 
He    came    with    health   recovered,    strong 

though  pale. 
Lord  Howe   and   he,  a  courteous   pair  of 

friends,  70 

To  say  what  men  dare  say  to  women,  when 
Their  debtors.     But  I  stopped  them  with 

a  word, 


And  proved  I  had  never   trodden  such  a 

road 
To  carry  so  much  dirt  upon  my  shoe. 
Then,  putting  into  it  something  of  disdain, 
I  asked,  forsooth,  his  pardon,  and  my  own, 
For  having  done  no  better  than  to  love. 
And  that  not  wisely,  —  though  't  was  long 

ago. 
And  had  been  mended  radically  since. 
I  told  him,  as  I  tell  yovi  now.  Miss  Leigh,  80 
And  proved,  I  took  some  trouble  for  his 

sake 
(Because  I  knew  he  did  not  love  the  girl) 
To  spoil   my  hands  with  working   in    the 

stream 
Of   that  poor   bubbling  nature,  —  till  she 

went, 
Consigned  to  one  I  trusted,  my  own  maid 
Who  once  had  lived  full  five  months  in  my 

house 
(Dressed    hair    superbly),    with   a   lavish 

purse. 
To  carry  to  Australia,  where  she  had  left 
A  husband,  said  she.     If  the  creature  lied. 
The    mission   failed:    we    all   do  fail   and 

lie  90 

More  or  less  —  and  I  'm  sorry  —  which  is 

all 
Expected  from  us  when  we  fail  the  most 
And   go   to   church   to    own   it.     What    I 

meant. 
Was  just  the  best  for   him,  and  me,  and 

her  .  .   . 
Best  even  for  Marian  !  —  I  am  sorry  for  't. 
And  very  sorry.     Yet  my  creature  said 
She  saw  her  stop  to  speak  in  Oxford  Street 
To  one  ...  no  matter  !     I  had  sooner  cut 
My    hand  off    (though    't  were   kissed  the 

hour  before. 
And  promised  a  duke's  troth-ring  for  the 

next)  100 

Than  crush  her   silly  head  with  so  much 

wrong. 
Poor    child  !     I    would    have    mended    it 

with  gold. 
Until  it  gleamed  like  Saint  Sophia's  dome 
When    all    the    faithful  troop    to  morning 

prayer: 
But  he,  he  nipped  the  bud  of  such  a  thought 
With  that  cold  Leigh  look  which  I  fancied 

once, 
And  broke  in,  "  Henceforth  she  was  called 

his  wife: 
His  wife  required  no  succor:  he  was  bound 
To  Florence,  to  resume  this  broken  bond; 


398 


AURORA   LEIGH 


Enough  so.  Both  were  happy,  he  and 
Howe,  no 

To  acquit  me  of  the  heaviest  charge  of 
all"  — 

—  At  which  I  shot  my  tongue  against  my 

fly 

And  struck  him :    "  Would  he  carry  —  he 

was  just  — 
A  letter  from  me  to  Aurora  Leigh, 
And  ratify  from  his  authentic  mouth 
My  answer  to  her  accusation  ?  "  —  "  Yes, 
If  such  a  letter  were  prepared  in  time." 

—  He  's   just,    your    cousin,  —  ay,    abhor- 

rently : 
He  'd   wash  his   hands    in   blood,  to  keep 

them  clean,  119 

And  so,  cold,  courteous,  a  mere  gentleman, 
He  bowed,  we  parted. 

'  Parted.     Face  no  more, 
Voice    no   more,  love    no    more  !  —  wiped 

wholly  out 
Like  some  ill  scholar's  scrawl  from  heart 

and  slate,  — 
Ay,  spit  on,  and  so  wiped  out  utterly 
By  some  coarse  scholar  !     I  have  been  too 

coarse, 
Too   human.     Have    we    business,    in    our 

rank, 
With   blood   i'    the    veins  ?     I   will   have 

henceforth  none, 
Not  even  to  keep  the  color  at  my  lip. 
A  rose  is  pink  and  pretty  without  blood: 
Why  not  a  woman  ?     When  we  've  played 

in  vain  130 

The  game,  to  adore,  —  we  have  resources 

still. 
And  can  play  on  at  leisure,  being  adored: 
Here  's  Smith  already  swearing  at  my  feet 
That    I'm    the    typic    She.     Away    with 

Smith  !  — 
Smith  smacks  of  Leigh, — and  henceforth 

I  '11  admit 
No  socialist  within  three  crinolines. 
To  live  and  have  his  being.     But  for  you, 
Though  insolent  your  letter  and  absurd. 
And  though  I  hate  you  frankly,  —  take  my 

Smith  ! 
For  when  you  have  seen  this  famous  mar- 
riage tied,  140 
A  most  unspotted  Erie  to  a  noble  Leigh 
(His  love  astray  on  one  he  should  not  love), 
Howbeit  you  may  not  want  his  love,  be- 
ware, 
You  '11  want  some  comfort.    So  I  leave  you 

Smith, 


Take  Smith  !  —  he  talks  Leigh's  subjects, 

somewhat  worse; 
Adopts  a  thought  of  Leigh's,  and  dwindles 

it; 

Goes  leagues  beyond,  to  be  no  inch  behind; 
Will  mind   you  of   him,  as   a  shoe-string 

may 
Of   a   man:    and    women,  when   they   are 

made  like  you. 
Grow   tender   to   a    shoe-string,   footprint 

even,  150 

Adore  averted  shoulders  in  a  glass, 
And  memories  of  what,  present  once,  was 

loathed. 
And    yet,    you    loathed    not    Romney,  — 

though  you  played 
At  "  fox  and  goose  "  about  him  with  3'our 

soul; 
Pass  over  fox,  you  rub  out  fox,  —  ignore 
A  feeling,  you  eradicate  it,  —  the  act 's 
Identical. 

*  I  wish  you  jo}^,  Miss  Leigh; 
You  've  made  a  happy  marriage  for  your 

friend. 
And  all  the  honor  well-assorted  love 
Derives  from  you  who  love  him,  whom  he 

loves !  i6o' 

You  need  not  wish  me  joy  to  think  of  it; 
I  have  so  much.     Observe,  Aurora  Leigh, 
Your  droop  of  eyelid  is  the  same  as  his, 
And,  but  for  you,  I  might  have    won  his 

love, 
And,  to  you,  I  have  shown  my  naked  heart; 
For  which  three  things,  I  hate,  hate,  hate 

you.     Hush  ! 
Suppose  a  fourth  !  —  I  cannot  choose   but 

think 
That,  with  him,  I  were  virtuouser  than  you 
Without   him:    so   I   hate   you    from    this 

gulf 
And  hollow  of  my  soul,  which  opens  out  170 
To   what,  except  for  you,   had   been   my 

heaven. 
And  is,  instead,  a  place  to  curse  by  !  Love.' 

An  active   kind  of  curse.      I  stood  there 

cursed, 
Confounded.     I  had  seized  and  caught  the 

sense 
Of   the    letter,    with   its   twenty   stinging 

snakes. 
In  a  moment's    sweep  of  eyesight,  and  I 

stood 
Dazed.  —  '  Ah  !  not  married.' 

'  You  mistake/  he  said: 


NINTH   BOOK 


399 


*  I  'm  married.     Is  not   Marian   Erie    my 

Avife  ? 
As  God  sees  things,  I  have  a  wife  and  child; 
And  I,  as  I  'm  a  man  who  honors  God,     iSo 
Am  here  to  claim  them  as  my  child  and 

wife.' 

I  felt  it  hard  to  breathe,  much  less  to  speak. 
Nor  word  of  mine  was  needed.     Some  one 

else 
Was  there  for  answering.     '  Romney,'  she 

began, 

*  My  great  good  angel,  Romney.' 

Then  at  first, 
I  knew  that  Marian  Erie  was  beautiful. 
She  stood  there,  still  and  pallid  as  a  saint. 
Dilated,  like  a  saint  in  ecstasy, 
As  if  the  floating  moonshine  interposed 
Betwixt  her  foot  and  the  earth,  and  raised 
her  up  190 

To  float  upon  it.     '  I  had  left  my  child, 
Who  sleeps,'  she  said,  '  and  having  drawn 

this  way, 
I  heard  you  speaking,   .  .  .  friend  !  —  Con- 
firm me  now. 
You  take  this  Marian,  such  as  wicked  men 
Have  made  her,  for  your  honorable  wife  ?  ' 

The  thrilling,  solemn,  proud,  pathetic  voice. 
He   stretched   his    arms  out   toward   that 

thrilling  voice. 
As  if  to  draw  it  on  to  his  embrace. 

—  *■  I  take  her  as  God  made  her,  and  as  men 
Must  fail  to  unmake  her,  for  my  honored 

wife.'  200 

She  never  raised  her  eyes,  nor  took  a  step, 
But  stood  there  in  her  place,  and  spoke 
again. 

—  *  You  take  this  Marian's  child,  which  is 

her  shame 
In  sight  of  men  and  women,  for  your  child. 
Of  whom  you  will  not  ever  feel  ashamed  ?  ' 

The  thrilling,  tender,  proud,  pathetic  voice. 
He    stepped   on  toward  it,  still  with  out- 
stretched arms. 
As  if  to  quench  upon  his  breast  that  voice. 
— '  May  God  so  father  me,  as  I  do  him. 
And  so  forsake  me,  as  I  let  him  feel        210 
He 's   orphaned   haply.     Here   I  take  the 

child 
To  share  my  cup,  to  slumber  on  my  knee, 
To  play  his  loudest  gambol  at  my  foot. 
To  hold  my  finger  in  the  public  ways, 


Till  none  shall  need  inquire  "  Whose  child 

is  this  ?  " 
The    gesture    saying    so    tenderly    "My 


own 


»  ) 


She  stood  a  moment  silent  in  her  place; 
Then   turning   toward  me  very  slow  and 

cold :  — 
'  And    you,  —  what   say   you  ?  —  will   you 

blame  me  much. 
If,  careful  for  that  outcast  child  of  mine,  220 
I  catch  this  hand  that 's  stretched  to  me  and 

him. 
Nor  dare  to  leave   him  friendless   in  the 

world 
Where  men  have  stoned  me  ?     Have  I  not 

the  right 
To  take  so  mere  an  aftermath  from  life. 
Else  found  so  wholly  bare  ?    Or  is  it  wrong 
To  let  your  cousin,  for  a  generous  bent. 
Put  out  his  ungloved  fingers  among  briars 
To  set  a   tumbling  bird's  nest  somewhat 

straight  ? 
You  will  not  tell    him,  though  we  're    in- 
nocent. 
We  are  not  harmless,  .  .  .  and  that  both 

our  harms  230 

Will  stick  to  his  good,  smooth,  noble  life 

like  burrs. 
Never  to   drop  off  though   he  shakes  the 

cloak  ? 
You  've  been  my  friend :  you  will  not  now 

be  his  ? 
You  've  known  him  that  he  's  worthy  of  a 

friend. 
And  you  're  his  cousin,  lady,  after  all. 
And  therefore  more  than  free  to  take  his 

part, 
Explaining,  since  the  nest  is  surely  spoilt 
And  Marian  what  you  know  her  —  though 

a  wife. 
The  world  would   hardly  understand  her 

case 
Of  being  just  hurt  and  honest;  while,  for 

him,  240 

'T  would  ever  twit  him  with  his   bastard 

child 
And   married    harlot.     Speak,    while    yet 

there  's  time. 
You  would  not  stand  and  let  a  good  man's 

dog 
Turn  round  and  rend  him,  because  his,  and 

reared 
Of  a  generous  breed,  —  and  will  you  let  his 

act, 


400 


AURORA   LEIGH 


Because  it 's  generous  ?  Speak.  I  'm  bound 

to  you, 
And  I  '11  be  bound  by  only  you,  iu  this.' 

The  thrilling,  solemn  voice,  so  passionless, 
Sustained,  yet  low,  without  a  rise  or  fall. 
As  one  who  had  authority  to  speak,  250 

And  not  as  Marian. 

I  looked  up  to  feel 
If   God   stood    near   nae,   and   beheld   his 

heaven 
As  blue  as  Aaron's  priestly  robe  appeared 
To  Aaron  when  he  took  it  off  to  die. 
And  then  I  spoke :  '  Accept  the  gift,  I  say, 
My  sister  Marian,  and  be  satisfied. 
The  hand  that  gives  has  still  a  soul  behind 
Which    will   not    let   it   quail   for   having 

given. 
Though  foolish  worldlings  talk  they  know 

not  what  — 
Of  what  they  know  not.    Romney  's  strong 

enough  260 

For  this:  do  you  be  strong  to  know  he's 

strong: 
He  stands  on  Right's  side;  never  flinch  for 

him. 
As  if  he  stood  on   the  other.     You  '11   be 

bound 
By  me  ?     I  am  a  woman  of  repute; 
No  fly-blow  gossip  ever  specked  my  life ; 
My  name  is  clean  and  open  as  this  hand. 
Whose  glove  there  's  not  a  man  dares  blab 

about 
As  if   he  had  touched  it   freely.     Here  's 

my  hand 
To  clasp  your  hand,  my  Marian,  owned  as 


pure 


269 


As  pure  —  as  I  'm  a  woman  and  a  Leigh  ! 
And,  as  I  'm  both,  I  '11  witness  to  the  world 
That   Romney    Leigh   is    honored   in    his 

choice 
Who  chooses  Marian  for  his  honored  wife.' 

Her  broad  wild  woodland  eyes  shot  out  a 

light, 
Her    smile    was    wonderful  for    rapture. 

'  Thanks, 
My   great   Aurora.'      Forward    then    she 

sprang, 
And  dropping  her  impassioned  spaniel  head 
With  all  its  brown  abandonment  of  curls 
On   Romney's   feet,  we    heard   the    kisses 

drawn 
Through    sobs   upon   the    foot,    upon    the 

ground  —  280 


'  O  Romney  !  O  my  angel  !  O  unchanged 
Though  since  we  've  parted  I  have  passed 

the  grave  ! 
But  Death  itself  could  only  better  thee, 
Not  change  thee  !  —  Thee  I  do  not  thank 

at  all: 
I  but  thank  God  who  made  thee  what  thou 

art, 
So  wholly  godlike.' 

When  he  tried  in  vain 
To   raise    her    to    his    embrace,    escaping 

thence 
As  any  leaping   fawn  from  a   huntsman's 

grasp. 
She  bounded  off  and  'lighted  beyond  reach, 
Before  him,  with  a  staglike  majesty         290 
Of  soft,  serene  defiance,  —  as  she  knew 
He  could  not  touch  her,  so  was  tolerant 
He  had  cared  to  try.    She  stood  there  with 

her  great 
Drowned  eyes,  and  dripping   cheeks,  and 

strange,  sweet  smile 
That  lived  through  all,  as  if   one  held   a 

light 
Across    a   waste   of   waters  —  shook    her 

head 
To  keep  some   thoughts  down   deeper   in 

her  soul,  — 
Then,  white  and  tranquil  like  a  summer- 
cloud 
Which,    having   rained   itself   to   a   tardy 

peace, 
Stands  still  in  heaven   as  if   it  ruled  the 

day,  300 

Spoke  out  again,  —  'Although,  my  gener- 
ous friend, 
Since  last  we  met  and  parted  you  're  un- 
changed. 
And  having  promised  faith  to  Marian  Erie, 
Maintain  it,  as   she  were  not  changed  at 

all; 
And  though  that 's  worthy,  though  that 's 

full  of  balm 
To  any  conscious  spirit  of  a  girl 
Who  once  has  loved  you  as  I  loved  you 

once  — 
Yet  still  it  will  not  make  her  ...  if  she  's 

dead. 
And  gone  away  where  none  can   give   or 

take 
In  marriage  — able  to  revive,  return        310 
And  wed  you  —  will  it,  Romney  ?     Here 's 

the  point, 
My  friend,  we  '11  see  it  plainer:  you  and  I 
Must  never,  never,  never  join  hands  so. 


NINTH    BOOK 


401 


Nay,  let  me  say  it  —  for  I  said  it  first 
To  God,  and  placed  it,  rounded  to  an  oath, 
Far,  far  above  the  moon  there,  at  his  feet. 
As  surely  as  I  wept  just  now  at  yours  — 
We  never,  never,  never  join  hands  so. 
And   now,    be    patient    with   me;    do   not 

think 
I  'm  speaking  from  a  false  humility.         320 
The  truth  is,  I  am  grown  so  proud  with 

grief. 
And   He    has    said   so   often    through   his 

nights 
And  through  his  mornings,  "  Weep  a  little 

still, 
Thou  foolish  Marian,  because  women  must, 
But  do  not  blush  at  all  except  for  sin  "  — 
That  I,  who  felt  myself  unworthy  once 
Of   virtuous   B,omuey   and   his    high-born 

race, 
Have  come  to  learn,  —  a  woman,  poor  or 

rich, 
Despised  or  honored,  is  a  human  soul,      329 
And  what  her  soul  is,  that  she  is  herself. 
Although  she  should  be  spit  upon  of  men, 
As  is  the  pavement  of  the  churches  here, 
Still  good  enough  to  pray  in.     And  being 

chaste 
And  honest,  and  inclined  to  do  the  right, 
And  love  the  truth,  and  live  my  life  out 

green 
And  smooth  beneath  his  steps,  I  should  not 

fear 
To  make  him  thus  a  less  uneasy  time 
Than  many  a  happier  woman.     Very  proud 
You  see  me.     Pardon,  that  I  set  a  trap 
To  hear  a  confirmation  in  your  voice,       340 
Both  yours  and   yours.     It  is  so  good  to 

know 
'T  was  really  God  who  said  the  same  be- 
fore; 
And  thus  it  is  in   heaven,  that  first  God 

speaks. 
And   then    his   angels.      Oh,  it   does    me 

good, 
It  wipes  me  clean  and  sweet  from  devil's 

dirt. 
That  Romney  Leigh  should  think  me  wor- 
thy still 
Of  being  his  true  and  honorable  wife  ! 
Henceforth    I   need   not   say,   on    leaving 

earth, 
I  had  no  glory  in  it.     For  the  rest,  349 

The  reason  's  ready  (master,  angel,  friend, 
Be  patient  with  me)  wherefore  you  and  I 
Can  never,  never,  never  join  hands  so. 


I  know  you  '11  not  be  angry  like  a  man 
(For  you  are  none)  when  I  shall  tell  the 

truth. 
Which   is,    I   do   not   love    you,   Romney 

Leigh, 
I  do  not  love    you.     Ah  well !    catch  my 

hands. 
Miss  Leigh,  and  burn  into  my  eyes  with 

yours  — 
I  swear  I  do  not  love  him.     Did  I  once  ? 
'T  is  said  that  women  have  been  bruised  to 

death 
And  yet,  if  once  they  loved,  that  love  of 

theirs  360 

Could  never  be  drained  out  with  all  their 

blood: 
I  've    heard    such    things   and   pondered. 

Did  I  indeed 
Love  once ;  or  did  I  only  worship  ?     Yes, 
Perhaps,  O  friend,  I  set  you  up  so  high 
Above  all  actual  good  or  hope  of  good 
Or  fear  of  evil,  all  that  could  be  mine, 
I  haply  set  you  above  love  itself, 
And  out  of  reach  of  these  poor  woman's 

arms, 
Angelic    Romney.       What    was     in     my 

thought  ? 
To  be  your  slave,  your  help,  your  toy,  your 

tool.  370 

To  be  your  love  ...  I  never  thought  of 

that: 
To  give  you  love  .  .  .  still  less.     I   gave 

you  love  ? 
I  think  I  did  not  give  you  anything; 
I  was  but  only  yours  —  upon  my  knees, 
All  yours,  in  soul  and  body,  in  head  and 

heart, 
A  creature  you  had  taken  from  the  ground 
Still   crumbling    through   your   fingers    to 

your  feet 
To  join  the  dust   she  came  from.     Did  I 

love, 
Or  did  I  worship  ?  judge,  Aurora  Leigh  ! 
But,  if  indeed  I  loved,  't  was  long  ago  —  380 
So  long  !  before  the   sun  and  moon  were 

made, 
Before  the  hells  were  open,  —  ah,  before 
I  heard  my  child  cry  in  the  desert  night, 
And  knew  he  had  no  father.     It  may  be 
I  'm  not  as  strong  as  other  women  are, 
Who,  torn   and   crushed,  are  not   undone 

from  love: 
It  may  be  I  am  colder  than  the  dead, 
Who,  being  dead,  love   always.     But   for 

me, 


402 


AURORA   LEIGH 


Once  killed,  this  ghost  of  Marian  loves  no 

more, 
No  more  .  .  .  except   the  child  !  ...  no 

more  at  all.  390 

I  told  your  cousin,  sir,  that  I  was  dead; 
And  now,  she  thinks  I  '11  get  up  from  my 

grave, 
And  wear  my  chin-cloth  for  a  wedding-veil, 
And   glide   along   the   churchyard   like    a 

bride 
While  all  the  dead  keep  whispering  through 

the  withes, 
"  You  would  be  better  in  your  place  with 

us, 
You  pitiful  corruption  !  "    At  the  thought. 
The  damps  break  out  on  me  like  leprosy 
Although  I  'm  clean.     Ay,  clean  as  Marian 

Erie  ! 
As   Marian   Leigh,    I   know,   I   were   not 

clean:  400 

Nor  have  I  so  much  life  that  I  should  love, 
Except  the  child.     Ah  God  !  I  could  not 

bear 
To  see  my  darling  on  a  good  man's  knees, 
And  know,  by  such  a  look,  or  such  a  sigh, 
Or  such  a  silence,  that  he  thought  some- 
times, 
"  This  child  was  fathered  by  some  cursed 

wretch"  .  .  . 
For,  Romney,  angels  are  less  tender-wise 
Than  God  and  mothers:  even  you   would 

think 
What   we   think   never.     He   is   ours,  the 

child; 
And    we    would    sooner    vex    a    soul    in 

heaven  410 

By  coupling  with  it  the  dead  body's  thought. 
It  left  behind  it  in  a  last  month's  grave, 
Than,  in  mj'^  child,  see  other  than  .  .  .  my 

child. 
We  only  never  call  him  fatherless 
Who    has   God   and   his  mother.      O    my 

babe. 
My  pretty,  pretty  blossom,  an  ill  wind 
Once  blew  upon  my  breast !  can  any  think 
I  'd  have  another  —  one  called  happier, 
A  fathered   child,  with  father's  love  and 

race 
That 's  worn  as  bold  and  open  as  a  smile,  420 
To  vex  my   darling  when  he 's  asked  his 

name 
And  has   no  answer  ?     What  !   a  happier 

child 
Than   mine,   my    best  —  who   laughed   so 

loud  to-night 


He  could  not  sleep  for  pastime  ?     Nay,  I 

swear. 
By  life  and  love,  that,  if  I  lived  like  some, 
And   loved  like  .  .  .  some,  ay,  loved  you, 

Romney  Leigh, 
As   some   love    (eyes   that   have  wept   so 

much,  see  clear), 
I've   room  for  no   more   children   in   my 

arms, 
My  kisses  are  all  melted  on  one  mouth, 
I  would  not  push  my  darling  to  a  stool   430 
To  dandle    babies.     Here 's   a  hand   shall 

keep 
For  ever  clean  without  a  marriage-ring, 
To  tend  my  boy  until  he  cease  to  need 
One  steadying  finger  of  it,  and  desert 
(Not   miss)  his  mother's   lap,  to  sit  with 

men. 
And  when  I  miss  him  (not  he  me),  I  '11 

come 
And  say  "  Now  give  me  some  of  Romney's 

work, 
To  help  your  outcast  orphans  of  the  world 
And  comfort  grief  with  grief."     For  you, 

meantime. 
Most  noble  Romney,  wed  a  noble  wife,   440 
And  open  on  each  other  your  great  souls  — 
I  need  not  farther  bless  you.     If  I  dared 
But   strain   and   touch   her   in  her   upper 

sphere, 
And  say  "Come  down  to  Romney — pay 

my  debt  !  " 
I  should  be  joyful  with  the  stream  of  joy 
Sent  through  me.     But  the  moon  is  in  my 

X3«C6    •     •    • 

I  dare  not  —  though  I  guess  the  name  he 

loves ; 
I  'm  learned  with  my  studies  of  old  days. 
Remembering  how  he  crushed  his  under- 

lip 
When  some  one  came  and  spoke,  or   did 

not  come.  450 

Aurora,  I  could  touch  her  with  my  hand, 
And  fly  because  I  dare  not.' 

She  was  gone. 

He  smiled  so  sternly  that  I  spoke  in  haste. 

'  Forgive  her  —  she  sees   clearly  for   her- 
self: 

Her  instinct 's  holy.' 

'  I  forgive  ! '  he  said, 

*  I  only  marvel  how  she  sees  so  sure. 

While    others '  .  .  .  there    he     paused  — 
then  hoarse,  abrupt, 

'  Aurora  !  you  forgive  us,  her  and  me  ? 


NINTH    BOOK 


403 


For  her,  the   thing   she   sees,  poor,  loyal 

child, 
If  once  corrected  by  the  thing  I  know,    460 
Had   been  unspoken,  since  she  loves   you 

well, 
Has   leave   to  love  you: — while    for   me, 

alas  ! 
If  once  or  twice  I  let  my  heart  escape 
This   night,  .  .  .  remember,  where  hearts 

slip  and  fall. 
They  break  beside :  we  're  parting  —  part- 
ing —  ah  ! 
You  do  not  love,  that   you  should  surely 

know 
What  that  word  means.     Forgive,  be  tol- 
erant: 
It  had  not  been,  but  that  I  felt  myself 
So  safe  in  impuissance  and  despair, 
I  could  not  hurt  you  though  I  tossed  my 

arms  470 

And  sighed  my  soul  out.     The  most  utter 

wretch 
Will  choose  his  postures  when  he  comes  to 

die. 
However  in  the  presence  of  a  queen; 
And  you  '11    forgive    me    some    unseemly 

spasms 
Which  meant  no  more  than  dying.     Do  you 

think 
I  had  ever  come  here  in  my  perfect  mind 
Unless   I   had   come   here   in   my   settled 

mind 
Bound  Marian's,  bound  to  keep  the  bond 

and  give 
My  name,  my  house,  my  hand,  the  things  I 

could, 
To    Marian  ?      For  even  /  could  give  as 

much:  480 

Even  I,  affronting  her  exalted  soul 
By  a  supposition  that  she  wanted  these. 
Could  act  the  husband's  coat  and  hat  set 

up 
To  creak  i'  the  wind  and  drive  the  world- 
crows  off 
From  pecking  in  her  garden.     Straw  can 

fill 
A  hole  to  keep  out  vermin.     Now,  at  last, 
I  own  heaven's  angels  round  her  life  suffice 
To  fight  the  rats  of  our  society 
Without  this  Bomuey:  I  can  see  it  at  last; 
And  here  is  ended  my  pretension  which  490 
The     most     pretended.      Over  -  proud    of 

course, 
Even  so  !  —  but  not    so  stupid  .  .  .  blind 

.  .  .  that  I, 


Whom    thus  the  great  Taskmaster  of  the 

world 
Has  set  to  meditate  mistaken  work, 
My  dreary  face  against  a  dim  blank  wall 
Throughout  man's  natural  lifetime  —  could 

pretend 
Or  wish  .  .  .  O  love,  I  have  loved  you  !     O 

my  soul, 
I  have  lost  you  !  —  but  I  swear  by  all  your- 
self. 
And  all  you  might  have  been  to  me  these 

years. 
If  that  June  morning  had  not  failed  my 

hope  —  500 

I  'm  not  so  bestial,  to  regret  that  day  — 
This  night  —  this  night,  which  still  to  you 

is  fair ! 
Nay,  not  so  blind,  Aurora.     I  attest 
Those    stars    above    us    which    I    cannot 

ot^t^         •     •     • 

'  You  cannot '  .  .  . 

'  That  if  Heaven  itself  should  stoop, 
Re-mix    the    lots,    and    give    me    another 

chance, 
I  'd    say  "  No   other  ! "  —  I  'd    record  my 

blank. 
Aurora  never  should  be  wife  of  mine." 

'  Not  see  the  stars  ? ' 

'  'T  is  worse  still,  not  to  see, 
To  find  your  hand,  although  we  're  parting, 

dear.  510 

A  moment  let  me  hold  it  ere  we  part; 
And  understand  my  last  words  —  these,  at 

last! 
I  would  not  have  you  thinking  when  I  'm 

gone 
That  Bomney  dared  to  hanker  for   your 

love 
In  thought  or  vision,  if  attainable 
(Which  certainly  for  me  it  never  was). 
And  wished  to  use  it  for  a  dog  to-day 
To  help  the  blind  man  stumbling.      God 

forbid  ! 
And  now  I  know  He  held  you  in  his  palm. 
And    kept     you    open  -  eyed    to    all     my 

faults,  520 

To  save  you  at  last  from  such  a  dreary 

end. 
Believe  me,  dear,  that,  if  I  had  known  like 

Him 
What  loss  was  coming  on  me,  I  had  done 
As   well   in   this   as   He  has.  —  Farewell, 

you 


404 


AURORA   LEIGH 


Who  are  still  my  light,  —  farewell  !     How 

late  it  is : 
I  know  that,  now.    You  've  been  too  patient, 

sweet. 
I   will  but   blow   my  whistle   toward   the 

lane, 
And    some    one    comes  —  the    same    who 

brought  me  here. 
Get  in  —  Good-night.' 

'  A  moment.     Heavenly  Christ  ! 
A  moment.     Speak   once,  Romney.     'T  is 

not  true.  530 

I  hold  your  hands,  I  look  into  your  face  — 
You  see  me  ?  ' 

<  No  more  than  the  blessed  stars. 
Be  blessed  too,  Aurora.     Nay,  my  sweet, 
You  tremble.     Tender-hearted !     Do   you 

mind 
Of  yore,  dear,  how  you  used  to  cheat  old 

John, 
And  let  the  mice  out  slyly  from  his  traps. 
Until  he  marvelled  at  the  soul  in  mice 
Which     took    the     cheese    and    left    the 

snare  ?     The  same 
Dear  soft  heart  always  !     'T  was  for  this  I 

grieved 
Howe's  letter  never  reached  you.     Ah,  you 

had  heard  540 

Of  illness  —  not  the  issue,  not  the  extent: 
My  life,  long  sick  with   tossings    up    and 

down. 
The  sudden  revulsion  in  the  blazing  house, 
The  strain  and  struggle  both  of  body  and 

soul, 
Which  left  fire  running    in   my  veins  for 

blood. 
Scarce  lacked  that  thunderbolt  of  the  fall- 
ing beam 
Which   nicked  me  on   the  forehead   as    I 

passed 
The   gallery-door   with    a    burden.       Say 

heaven's  bolt, 
Not    William    Erie's,    not    Marian's    fa- 
ther's, —  tramp 
And  poacher,  whom  I  found  for  what  he 


was, 


550 


And,  eager  for  her  sake  to  rescue  him, 
Forth  swept  from  the  open  highway  of  the 

world. 
Road-dust  and  all  —  till,  like  a  woodland 

boar 
Most  naturally  unwilling  to  be  tamed. 
He  notched  me  with  his  tooth.     But  not  a 

word 
To  Marian  !  and  I  do  not  think,  besides. 


He  turned  the  tilting  of  the  beam  my  way ; 
And  if   he  laughed,  as  many  swear,  poor 

wretch,  558 

Nor  he  nor  I  supposed  the  hurt  so  deep. 
We  '11  hope  his  next  laugh  may  be  mer- 
rier. 
In  a  better  cause.' 

'  Blind,  Romney  ?  ' 

'  Ah,  my  friend. 
You  '11  learn  to  say  it  in  a  cheerful  voice ; 
I,  too,  at  first  desponded.     To  be  blind. 
Turned  out  of  nature,  mulcted  as  a  man, 
Refused  the  daily  largesse  of  the  sun 
To  humble  creatures  !     When  the  fever's 

heat 
Dropped  from  me,  as  the  flame  did  from 

my  house. 
And  left  me  ruined  like  it,  stripped  of  all 
The  hues  and  shapes  of  aspectable  life, 
A    mere  bare  blind  stone  in  the  blaze  of 

day,  _  570 

A  man,  upon  the  outside  of  the  earth. 
As  dark  as  ten  feet  under,  in  the  grave,  — 
Why,  that  seemed  hard.' 

'  No  hope  ? ' 

'  A  tear  !  you  weep, 
Divine  Aurora  ?  tears  upon  my  hand  ! 
I  've    seen    you    weeping  for    a    mouse,  a 

bird, — 
But,  weep  for  me,  Aurora  ?     Yes,  there  's 

hope. 
Not  hope  of  sight,  —  I  could  be  learned, 

dear, 
And   tell  you  in  what    Greek    and    Latin 

name 
The  visual  nerve  is  withered  to  the  root, 
Though    the    outer  eyes    appear    indiffer- 
ent, 580 
Unspotted   in  their  crystals.     But  there 's 

hope. 
The    spirit,   from    behind    this    dethroned 

sense. 
Sees,  waits  in  patience  till  the  walls  break 

up 
From  which  the  bas-relief  and  fresco  have 

dropped: 
There 's    hope.     The    man    here,  once    so 

arrogant 
And  restless,  so  ambitious,  for  his  part, 
Of  dealing  with  statistically  packed 
Disorders  (from  a  pattern  on  his  nail), 
And   packing   such    things    quite    another 

way,  — 
Is     now     contented.     From     his    personal 

loss  =;qo 


NINTH    BOOK 


405 


He  has  come  to  hope  for  others  when  thej 

lose, 
And    wear   a    gladder    faith    in  what    we 

gain  .  .  . 
Through    bitter    experience,  compensation 

sweet, 
Like  that  tear,  sweetest.     I  am  quiet  now. 
As  tender  surely  for  the  suffering  world. 
But  quiet,  —  sitting  at  the  wall  to  learn. 
Content  henceforth  to  do  the  thing,!  can: 
For,    though   as    powerless,    said   I,  as    a 

stone, 
A  stone  can  still  give  shelter  to  a  worm. 
And    it  is  worth    while  being  a  stone  for 

that :  600 

There  's  hope,  Aurora.' 

'  Is  there  hope  for  me  ? 
For  me  ?  —  and  is  there  room  beneath  the 

stone 
For  such  a  worm  ?  —  And  if  I  came  and 

said  .  .  . 
What  all  this  weeping  scarce  will  let  me 

say, 
And  yet  what  women  cannot  say  at  all 
But  weeping  bitterly  .  .  .  (the  pride  keeps 

up. 
Until  the  heart  breaks    under    it)  ...  I 

love,  — 
I  love  you,  Romney  '  .  .  . 

'  Silence  ! '  he  exclaimed. 
*  A    woman's    pity    sometimes    makes   her 

mad.  609 

A  man's  distraction  must  not  cheat  his  soul 
To  take  advantage  of  it.     Yet,  't  is  hard 
Farewell,  Aurora.' 

'  But  I  love  you,  sir; 
And  when  a  woman  says  she  loves  a  man. 
The  man  must  hear  her,  though  he  love  her 

not. 
Which  .  .  .  hush  !  ...   he    has    leave    to 

answer  in  his  turn; 
She    will    not  surely   blame  him.     As  for 

me. 
You  call  it  pity,  —  think  I  'm  generous  ? 
'Twere    somewhat    easier,    for    a    woman 

proud 
As  I  am,  and  I  'm  very  vilely  proud. 
To  let  it  pass  as  such,  and  press  on  you  620 
Love  born  of  pity,  —  seeing  that  excellent 

loves 
Are     born    so,    often,    nor     the    quicklier 

die,  — 
And  this  would  set  me  higher  by  the  head 
Than  now    I    stand.     No  matter:    let  the 

truth 


Stand  high;  Aurora  must  be  humble:  no, 
My  love  's  not  pity  merely.     Obviously 
I  'm  not  a  generous  woman,  never  was. 
Or  else,  of  old,  I  had  not  looked  so  near 
To  weights  and  measures,  grudging  you  the 

power 
To  give,  as  first  I  scorned  your  power  to 

judge  630 

For  me,  Aurora.     I  would  have  no  gifts, 
Forsooth,  but    God's,  —  and  I    would   use 

them  too 
According  to  my  pleasure  and  my  choice, 
As  He  and  I  were  equals,  you  below. 
Excluded  from  that  level  of  interchange 
Admitting  benefaction.     You  were  wrong 
In  much  ?    you  said  so.     I  was  wrong  in 

most. 
Oh,  most  !     You    only  thought    to  rescue 

men 
By  half -means,  half-way,  seeing  half  their 

wants, 
While  thinking  nothing  of    your  personal 

gain.  640 

But  I,  who  saw  the  human  nature  broad 
At  both  sides,  comprehending  too  the  soul's, 
And  all  the  high  necessities  of  Art, 
Betrayed  the  thing  I  saw,  and  wronged  my 

own  life 
For  which  I  pleaded.     Passioned  to  exalt 
The  artist's  instinct  in  me  at  the  cost 
Of  putting  down  the  woman's,  I  forgot 
No  perfect  artist  is  developed  here 
From  any  imperfect  woman.     Flower  from 

root, 
And    spiritual    from     natural,     grade     by 

grade  650 

In  all  our  life.     A  handful  of  the  earth 
To  make  God's  image  !  the  despised  poor 

earth. 
The    healthy,    odorous    earth,  —  I    missed 

with  it 
The  divine  Breath  that  blows  the  nostrils 

out 
To  ineffable  inflatus,  —  ay,  the  breath 
Which  love  is.     Art  is  much,  but  Love  is 

more. 

0  Art,  my  Art,  thou  'rt  much,  but  Love  is 

more  ! 
Art  symbolizes  heaven,  but  Love  is  God 
And  makes  heaven.     I,  Aurora,  fell  from 

mine. 

1  would  not  be  a  woman  like  the  rest,      660 
A  simple  woman  who  believes  in  love 
And  owns    the    right  of  love  because  she 

loves. 


4o6 


AURORA   LEIGH 


And,  hearing  she  's  beloved,  is  satisfied 
With   what    contents   God:    I    must   ana- 
lyze. 
Confront,  and  question;  just  as  if  a  fly 
Refused  to  warm  itself  in  any  sun 
Till  such  was  in  Leone :  I  must  fret, 
Forsooth,    because     the   month    was    only 

Mav, 
Be  faithless  of  the  kind  of  proffered  love, 
And  captious,  lest  it  miss  my  dignity,       670 
And  scornful,  that  my  lover  sought  a  wife 
To  use  ...  to    use  !      O  Romney,  O  my 

love, 
I  am  changed  since  then,  changed  wholly,  — 

for  indeed 
If  now   you  'd   stoop  so  low  to  take  mj 

love 
And  use  it  roughly,  without  stint  or  spare. 
As  men   use    common    things   with    more 

behind 
(And,  in  this,  ever  would  be  more  behind) 
To  any  mean  and  ordinary  end,  — 
The  joy  would  set  me  like  a  star,  in  hea- 
ven. 
So    high    up,  I    should    shine    because   of 

height  680 

And  not  of  virtue.     Yet  in  one  respect, 
Just  one,  beloved,  I  am  in  nowise  changed: 
I  love  you,  loved  you  .  .  .  loved  you  first 

and  last. 
And  love  you  on  for  ever.     Now  I  know 
I  loved  you    always,  Romney.      She    who 

died 
Knew  that,  and  said  so;  Lady  Waldemar 
Knows  that;  .  .  .  and  Marian.    I  had  known 

the  same. 
Except  that  I  was  prouder  than  I  knew. 
And  not  so  honest.     Ay,  and,  as  I  live, 
I   should   have    died   so,    crushing   in   my 

hand  690 

This  rose  of  love,  the  wasp  inside  and  all, 
Ignoring  ever  to  my  soul  and  you 
Both  rose  and  pain  — except  for  this  great 

loss. 
This  great  despair  —  to  stand  before  your 

face 
And  know  you  do  not  see  me  where  I  stand. 
You  think,  perhaps,  I  am  not  changed  from 

pride 
And  that  I  chiefly  bear  to  say  such  words, 
Because  you    cannot  shame  me  with  your 

eyes  ? 
O    calm,    grand    eyes,    extinguished   in   a 

storm, 
Blown  out  like  lights  o'er  melancholy  seas, 


Though  shrieked  for  by  the  shipwrecked,  — 

O  my  Dark,  701 

My  Cloud,  —  to  go  before  me  every  day 
While  I  go  ever  toward  the  wilderness,  — 
I  would  that  you  could  see  me  bare  to  the 

soul  ! 
If  this  be  pity,  't  is  so  for  myself, 
And  not  for  Romney  !  he  can  stand  alone ; 
A  man  like  him  is  never  overcome: 
No  woman  like  me  counts  him  pitiable 
While  saints  applaud  him.    He  mistook  the 

world ; 
But  I  mistook   my   own   heart,   and  that 

slip 
Was  fatal.     Romney,  —  will  you  leave  me 

here  ?  711 

So  wrong,  so  proud,  so  weak,  so  unconsoled. 
So  mere  a  woman  !  —  and  I  love  you  so, 
I  love  you,  Romney '  — 

Could  I  see  his  face, 
I  wept  so  ?  Did  I  drop  against  his  breast, 
Or  did  his  arms  constrain  me  ?  were  my 

cheeks 
Hot,  overflooded,  with  my  tears  —  or  his  ? 
And  which  of  our  two  large  explosive  hearts 
So  shook  me  ?     That,  I  know  not.     There 

were  words 
That  broke  in  utterance  .  .  .  melted,  in  the 

fire,  —  720 

Embrace,  that  was  convulsion,  .  .  .  then  a 

kiss 
As  long  and  silent  as  the  ecstatic  night, 
And  deep,  deep,  shuddering  breaths,  which 

meant  beyond 
Whatever  could  be  told  by  word  or  kiss. 
But  what  he  said  ...  I  have  written  day 

by  day. 
With  somewhat  even  writing.     Did  I  think 
That  such  a  passionate  rain  would  intercept 
And  dash  this  last  page  ?     What  he  said, 

indeed, 
I  fain  would  write  it  down  here  like  the 

rest, 
To  keep  it  in  my  eyes,  as  in  my  ears,      730 
The  heart's  sweet  scripture,  to  be  read  at 

night 
When  weary,  or  at  morning  when  afraid. 
And  lean  my  heaviest  oath  on  when  I  swear 
That,  when  all 's  done,  all  tried,  all  counted 

here, 
All  great  arts,  and  all  good  philosophies. 
This  love  just  puts  its  hand  out  in  a  dream 
And  straight  outstretches  all  things. 

What  he  said, 
I  fain  would  write.     But  if  an  angel  spoke 


NINTH    BOOK 


407 


In  thunder,  should  we  haply  know  much 

more 
Than  that  it  thundered  ?     If  a  cloud  came 

down  740 

And  wrapped  us  wholly,  could  we  draw  its 

shape. 
As  if  on  the  outside  and  not  overcome  ? 
And  so  he  spake.     His  breath  against  my 

face 
Confused  his  words,  yet  made  them  more 

intense 
(As  when  the  sudden  finger  of  the  wind 
Will  wipe  a  row  of  single  city-lamps 
To  a  pure  white  line  of  flame,  more  lumi- 
nous 
Because  of  obliteration),  more  intense. 
The  intimate  presence  carrying  in  itself 
Complete  communication,  as  with  souls  750 
Who,  having  put  the  body  off,  perceive 
Through  simply  being.   Thus,  't  was  granted 

nie 
To  know  he  loved  me  to  the  depth  and 

height 
Of  such  large  natures,  ever  competent. 
With  grand  horizons  by  the  sea  or  land, 
To    love's  grand   sunrise.     Small    spheres 

hold  small  fires, 
But  he  loved  largely,  as  a  man  can  love 
Who,    baffled   in   his  love,  dares   live  his 

life, 
Accept  the  ends  which  God  loves,  for  his 

own, 
And  lift  a  constant  aspect. 

From  the  day 
I  brought  to  England  my  poor  searching 

face  761 

(An  orphan  even  of  my  father's  grave), 
He  had  loved  me,  watched  me,  watched  his 

soul  in  mine. 
Which   in  me   grew  and    heightened  into 

love. 
For  he,  a  boy  still,  had  been  told  the  tale 
Of  how  a  fairy  bride  from  Italy 
With  smells  of  oleanders  in  her  hair, 
Was  coming  through  the  vines  to  touch  his 

hand ; 
Whereat  the  blood  of  boyhood  on  the  palm 
Made  sudden  heats.     And  when  at  last  I 

came,  770 

And  lived  before  him  —  lived,  and  rarely 

smiled  — 
He  smiled  and  loved  me  for  the  thing  I 

was, 
As   every  child  will   love  the   year's  first 

flower 


(Not  certainly  the  fairest  of  the  year. 
But,  in  which,  the  complete  year  seems  to 

blow), 
The  poor  sad  snowdrop,  —  growing  between 

drifts. 
Mysterious   medium  'twixt  the  plant   and 

frost. 
So  faint  with  winter  while  so  quick  with 

spring, 
And  doubtful  if  to  thaw  itself  away 
With  that  snow  near  it.     Not  that  Romney 

Leigh  780 

Had   loved  me  coldly.     If   I  thought   so 

once, 
It  was  as  if  I  had  held  my  hand  in  fire 
And   shook  for   cold.     But  now  I  under- 
stood, 
For  ever,  that  the  very  fire  and  heat 
Of  troubling   passion  in  him  burned  him 

clear, 
And  shaped,  to  dubious  order,  word  and 

act: 
That,  just  because  he  loved  me  over  all. 
All  wealth,  all  lands,  all  social  privilege. 
To  which  chance  made  him  unexpected  heir. 
And,  just  because  on  all  these  lesser  gifts,  790 
Constrained  by  conscience  and  the  sense  of 


wrong, 


He  had  stamped  with  steady  hand  God's 

arrow-mark 
Of  dedication  to  the  human  need. 
He  thought  it  should  be  so  too,  with  his 

love. 
He,  passionately  loving,  would  bring  down 
His  love,  his  life,  his    best   (because   the 

best). 
His  bride  of  dreams,  who  walked  so  still 

and  high 
Through   flowery  poems  as  through  mea- 
dow-grass. 
The  dust  of  golden  lilies  on  her  feet, 
That  she  should  walk  beside  him  on  the 

rocks  800 

In  all  that  clang  and  hewing  out  of  men. 
And  help  the  work  of  help  which  was  his 

life. 
And  prove  he  kept  back  nothing,  —  not  his 

soul. 
And  when  I  failed  him,  —  for  I  failed  him, 

I, 
And   when  it    seemed   he  had  missed  my 

love,  he  thought 
'  Aurora  makes  room  for  a  working-noon,' 
And  so,    self-girded   with    torn   strips    of 

hope. 


4o8 


AURORA   LEIGH 


Took  up  his  life  as  if  it  were  for  death 

(Just  capable  of  one  heroic  aim), 

And    threw    it    in    the    thickest    of    the 

world,  —  8io 

At  which  men  laughed  as  if  he  had  drowned 

a  dog. 
No   wonder,  —  since    Aurora    failed    him 

first! 
The   morning   and  the   evening  made  his 

day. 

But  oh,  the  night  !  oh,   bitter-sweet  !  oh, 
sweet ! 

0  dark,  O  moon  and  stars,  O  ecstasy 
Of  darkness  !     O  great  mystery  of  love. 
In  which  absorbed,  loss,  anguish,  treason's 

self 
Enlarges  rapture,  —  as  a  pebble  dropped 
In  some  full  wine-cup  overbrims  the  wine  ! 
While   we   two   sat  together,  leaned  that 

night  820 

So    close    my    very    garments   crept  and 

thrilled 
With   strange  electric   life,  and   both  my 

cheeks 
Grew  red,  then  pale,  with  touches  from  my 

hair 
In  which  his  breath  was,  —  while  the  gold- 
en moon 
Was  hung  before  our  faces  as  the  badge 
Of  some  sublime  inherited  despair. 
Since  ever  to  be  seen  by  only  one,  — 
A  voice  said,  low  and  rapid  as  a  sigh, 
Yet   breaking,   I    felt    conscious,    from    a 

smile, 
'  Thank  God,  who  made  me  blind,  to  make 

me  see  !  830 

Shine  on,  Aurora,  dearest  light  of  souls. 
Which  rul'st  for  evermore  both  day  and 

night  ! 

1  am  happy.' 

I  flung  closer  to  his  breast, 
AlS    sword    that,    after    battle,     flings    to 

sheath ; 
And,  in  that  hurtle  of  united  souls. 
The   mystic    motions    which    in    common 

moods 
Are  shut  beyond   our  sense,  broke  in  on 

us, 
And,  as  we  sat,  we  felt  the  old  earth  spin. 
And  all  the  starry  turbulence  of  worlds 
Swing  round  us   in   their  audient  circles, 

till,  840 

If  that  same  golden  moon  were  overhead 
Or  if  beneath  our  feet,  we  did  not  know. 


And  then  calm,  equal,  smooth  with  weights 

of  joy. 
His   voice  rose,  as   some    chief   musician's 

song 
Amid  the  old  Jewish  temple's  Selah-pause, 
And  bade  me   mark  how  we  two  met  at 

last 
Upon    this    moon -bathed   promontory    of 

earth, 
To   give  up  much  on  each  side,  then  take 

all. 
'  Beloved,'   it  sang,  '  we   must   be  here  to 

work;  849 

And  men  who  work  can  only  work  for  men, 
And,  not  to  work  in  vain,  must  comprehend 
Humanity  and  so  work  humanly. 
And  raise  men's  bodies  still  by  raising  souls. 
As  God  did  first.' 

*  But  stand  upon  the  earth,' 
I  said,  '  to  raise  them  (this  is  human  too, 
There  's  nothing  high   which  has  not  first 

been  low; 
My  humbleness,  said  One,  has  made  me 

great  !) 
As  God  did  last.' 

'  And  work  all  silently 
And  simply,'  he  returned, '  as  God  does  all; 
Distort  our  nature  never  for  our  work,    860 
Nor   count   our   right   hands  stronger  for 

being  hoofs. 
The  man  most  man,  with  tenderest  human 

hands. 
Works  best  for  men,  —  as  God  in  Naza- 
reth.' 

He   paused   upon   the  word,  and  then  re- 
sumed: 
'  Fewer  programmes,  we  who  have  no  pre- 
science. 
Fewer  systems,  we  who  are  held  and  do 

not  hold. 
Less  mapping  out  of  masses  to  be  saved. 
By  nations  or  by  sexes.     Fourier  's  void. 
And  Comte  absurd,  —  and  Cabet  puerile. 
Subsist  no  rules  of  life  outside  of  life,      870 
No    perfect    manners     without    Christian 

souls: 
The  Christ  Himself  had  been  no  Lawgiver 
Unless  He  had  given  the  life,  too,  with  the 
law.' 

I  echoed  thoughtfully:    '  The   man,   most 

man. 
Works   best    for   men,  and,   if  most   man 

indeed. 


NINTH    BOOK 


409 


He   gets    his    manhood   plainest  from  his 

soul: 
While  obviously  this  stringent  soul  itself 
Obeys  the  old  law  of  development, 
The  Spirit  ever  witnessing  in  ours, 
And    Love,    the    soul   of   soul,  within   the 

soul,  880 

Evolving  it  sublimely.     First,  God's  love.' 

*  And  next,'  he  smiled,  *  the  love  of  wedded 

souls, 
Which  still  presents  that  mystery's  coun- 
terpart. 
Sweet  shadow-rose,  upon  the  water  of  life. 
Of  such  a  mystic  substance,  Sharon  gave 
A  name  to  !  human,  vital,  fructuous  rose, 
Whose  calyx  holds  the  multitude  of  leaves. 
Loves  filial,  loves  fraternal,  neighbor-loves 
And  civic  —  all  fair  petals,  all  good  scents. 
All  reddened,  sweetened  from  one  central 
Heart  ! '  890 

*  Alas,'  I  cried,  '  it  was  not  long  ago 
You  swore  this  very  social  rose  smelt  ill.' 

*  Alas,'  he  answered,  '  is  it  a  rose  at  all  ? 
The  filial 's  thankless,  the  fraternal 's  hard, 
The  rest  is  lost.     I  do  but  stand  and  think, 
Across  the  waters  of  a  troubled  life 

This  Flower  of  Heaven  so  vainly  overhangs, 
What    perfect   counterpart   would    be    in 

sight 
If   tanks    were  clearer.     Let  us  clean  the 

tubes, 
And  wait  for  rains.     O  poet,  O  my  love,  900 
Since  /  was  too  ambitious  in  my  deed 
And  thought  to  distance  all  men  in  success 
(Till  God  came  on  me,  marked  the  place, 

and  said 
"  Ill-doer,  henceforth  keep  within  this  line, 
Attempting    less    than    others,"  —  and    I 

stand 
And  work  among  Christ's  little  ones,  con- 
tent), 
Come   thou,   my   compensation,    my   dear 

sight. 
My  morning-star,  my  morning,  —  rise  and 

shine, 
And  touch  my  hills  with  radiance  not  their 

own. 
Shine  out  for  two,  Aurora,  and  fulfil        910 
My  falling-short  that  must  be  !  work  for 

two, 
As  I,  though  thus  restrained,  for  two  shall 

love  ! 


Gaze  on,  with  inscient  vision  toward   the 

sun, 
And,  from  his  visceral  heat,  pluck  out  the 

roots 
Of  light  beyond  him.     Art 's  a  service,  — 

mark: 
A  silver  key  is  given  to  thy  clasp. 
And  thou  shalt  stand  unwearied,  night  and 

day, 
And  fix  it  in  the  hard,  slow-turning  wards. 
To  open,  so,  that  intermediate  door 
Betwixt  the  different   planes  of    sensuous 

form  920 

And  form  insensuous,  that  inferior  men 
May  learn  to  feel  on  still  through  these  to 

those, 
And   bless   thy   ministration.     The    world 

waits 
For  help.     Beloved,  let  us  love  so  well. 
Our   work    shall    still   be    better   for   our 

love. 
And  still  our  love  be  sweeter  for  our  work. 
And  both  commended,  for  the  sake  of  each. 
By  all  true  workers  and  true  lovers  born. 
Now  press  the  clarion  on  thy  woman's  lip 
(Love's  holy  kiss   shall  still   keep   conse- 
crate) 930 
And  breathe  thy  fine  keen  breath  along  the 

brass. 
And  blow  all  class- walls  level  as  Jericho's 
Past    Jordan,  —  crying  from    the    top   of 

souls. 
To  souls  that,  here  assembled  on  earth's 

flats. 
They  get  them  to  some  purer  eminence 
Than  any  hitherto  beheld  for  clouds  ! 
What  height  we  know  not,  —  but  the  way 

we  know. 
And  how  by  mounting  ever  we  attain. 
And  so  climb  on.     It  is  the  hour  for  souls, 
That  bodies,  leavened  by  the  will  and  love. 
Be  lightened  to  redemption.     The  world  's 

old,  041 

But  the  old  world  waits    the    time    to  be 

renewed, 
Toward  which,  new   hearts   in   individual 

growth 
Must  quicken,  and  increase  to  multitude 
In  new  dynasties  of  the  race  of  men; 
Developed  whence,  shall   grow   spontane- 
ously 
New  churches,  new  (Economies,  new  laws. 
Admitting  freedom,  new  societies 
Excluding  falsehood:    He  shall   make   all 

new.' 


4IO 


POEMS    BEFORE    CONGRESS 


My  Romney  !  —  Lifting    up    my   hand   in 

his,  950 

As  wheeled  by  Seeing  spirits  toward  the 

east, 
He  turned  instinctively,  where,  faint  and  far. 
Along  the  tingling  desert  of  the  sky, 
Beyond  the  circle  of  the  conscious  hills. 
Were  laid  in  jasper-stone  as  clear  as  glass 
The   first   foundations    of   that   new,  near 

Day 
Which  should  be  builded  out  of  heaven  to 

God. 


He  stood  a  moment  with  erected  brows, 

In  silence,  as  a  creature  might  who 
gazed,  — 

Stood  calm,  and  fed  his  blind,  majestic 
eyes  960 

Upon  the  thought  of  perfect  noon:  and 
when 

I  saw  his  soul  saw,  —  '  Jasper  first,'  I 
said; 

'  And  second,  sapphire  ;  third,  chalced- 
ony; 

The  rest  in  order:  —  last,  an  amethyst.' 


POEMS   BEFORE   CONGRESS 


The  small  volume  entitled  Poems  before 
Congress  (London  :  Chapman  and  Hall,  1860) 
which  appeared  about  a  year  before  Mrs. 
Browning's  death,  was  the  last  of  her  pub- 
lished works  to  receive  her  personal  super- 
vision. Of  the  eight  pieces  which  it  contains, 
the  first,  Napoleon  III.  in  Italy,  is  much  the 
longest  and  most  elaborate ;  but  all  are  dis- 
tinctly and  even  fiercely  controversial :  —  sir- 
ventes,  the  Troubadours  woxdd  have  called 
them,  rather  than  songs ;  and  the  entire  vol- 
ume a  pamphlet,  rather  than  a  collection  of 
poems.  They  were  sharply  criticised,  at  the 
time  of  their  appearance,  for  their  passionate 
one-sidedness  and  reckless  glorification  of  the 
French  emperor ;  while  their  severe  strictures 
on  the  vacillating,  and,  indeed,  hardly  ingen- 
uous policy  of  England  toward  Italy  in  her 
hour  of  supreme  struggle,  were  bitterly  re- 
sented by  Mrs.  Browning's  fellow-countrymen. 
No  apology  for  the  vehemence  of  these  indig- 
nant cries,    need,  however,  be    offered   here, 


other  than  the  author's  own  rather  haughty 
one,  prefixed  to  the  first  edition  of  the  Poems 
before  Congress  and  dated  Rome,  February, 
1860.  '  These  poems  were  written  under  the 
pressure  of  the  events  they  indicate,  after  a 
residence  in  Italy  of  so  many  years  that  the 
present  triumph  of  great  principles  is  height- 
ened, to  the  writer's  feelings,  by  the  disastrous 
issue  of  the  last  movement  witnessed  from 
"  Casa  Guidi  windows "  in  1849.  Yet  if  the 
verses  should  appear  to  English  readers  too 
pungently  rendered  to  admit  of  a  patriotic 
respect  to  the  English  sense  of  things,  I  will 
not  excuse  myself  on  such  grounds,  nor  on  the 
ground  of  my  attachment  to  the  Italian  peo- 
ple, and  my  admiration  for  their  heroic  con- 
stancy and  imion.  What  I  have  written  has 
simply  been  written,  because  I  love  truth  and 
justice,  quand  mhne,  "  more  than  Plato  and 
Plato's  country,  more  than  Dante  and  Dante's 
country,"  more  even  than  Shakespeare,  and 
Shakespeare's  country.' 


NAPOLEON  III.  IN  ITALY 


Emperor,  Emperor ! 

From  the  centre  to  the  shore. 

From  the  Seine  back  to  the  Rhine, 
Stood  eight  millions  up  and  swore 

By  their  manhood's  right  divine 
So  to  elect  and  legislate. 

This  man  should  renew  the  line 
Broken  in  a  strain  of  fate 
And  leagued  kings  at  Waterloo, 
When  the  people's  hands  let  go. 
Emperor 
Evermore. 


10 


II 


With  a  universal  shout 
They  took  the  old  regalia  out 
From  an  open  grave  that  day; 

From  a  grave  that  would  not  close, 
Where  the  first  Napoleon  lay 

Expectant,  in  repose. 
As  still  as  Merlin,  with  his  conquering  face 
Turned  up  in  its  unquenchable  appeal  20 
To    men    and    heroes    of    the    advancing 
race, — 
Prepared  to  set  the  seal 
Of  what  has  been  on  what  shall  be. 
Emperor 
Evermore. 


NAPOLEON   III.   IN   ITALY 


411 


III 

The  thinkers  stood  aside 
To  let  the  nation  act. 
Some  hated  the  new-constituted  fact 
Of    empire,   as    pride    treading   on   their 

pride. 
Some  quailed,  lest  what  was  poisonous  in 
the  past  30 

Should  graft  itself  in  that  Druidic  bough 
On  this  green  Now. 
Some  cursed,  because  at  last 
The  open  heavens  to  which  they  had  looked 

in  vain 
For  many  a  golden  fall  of  marvellous  rain 
Were  closed  in  brass;  and  some 
Wept  on  because  a  gone  thing  could  not 

come ; 
And  some  were  silent,  doubting  all  things 

for 
That  popular  conviction,  —  evermore 

Emperor.  40 

IV 

That  day  I  did  not  hate 

Nor  doubt,  nor  quail  nor  curse. 
I,  reverencing  the  people,  did  not  bate 
My  reverence  of  their  deed  and  oracle, 
Nor  vainly  prate 

Of  better  and  of  worse 
Against  the  great  conclusion  of  their  will. 

And  yet,  O  voice  and  verse, 
Which  God  set  in  me  to  acclaim  and  sing 
Conviction,  exaltation,  aspiration,  50 

We  gave  no  music  to  the  patent  thing, 
Nor  spared  a  holy  rhythm  to  throb  and 

swim 
About  the  name  of  him 
Translated  to  the  sphere  of  domination 

By  democratic  passion  ! 
I  was  not  used,  at  least. 

Nor  can  be,  now  or  then. 
To  stroke  the  ermine  beast 
On  any  kind  of  throne 
(Though    builded   by   a   nation   for   its 
own),  60 

And  swell  the  surging  choir  for  kings  of 
men  — 

'  Emperor 
Evermore.' 

V 

But  now.  Napoleon,  now 
That,  leaving  far  behind  the  purple  throng 
Of  vulgar  monarchs,  thou 


Tread'st  higher  in  thy  deed 
Than  stair  of  throne  can  lead, 
To  help  in  the  hour  of  wrong 
The    broken    hearts    of    nations   to   be 
strong,  —  70 

Now,  lifted  as  thou  art 
To  the  level  of  pure  song. 
We   stand  to  meet   thee  on  these  Alpine 
snows  ! 
And  while  the  palpitating  peaks  break 
out 
Ecstatic  from  somnambular  repose 

With  answers  to  the  presence  and  the 
shout, 
We,  poets  of  the  people,  who  take  part 
With  elemental  justice,  natural  right. 
Join  in  our  echoes  also,  nor  refrain.  79 

We  meet  thee,  O  Napoleon,  at  this  height 
At  last,  and   find   thee    great    enough   to 

praise, 
Receive   the   poet's   chrism,   which   smells 
beyond 
The  priest's,  and  pass  thy  ways ;  — 
An  English  poet  warns  thee  to  maintain 
God's  word,  not  England's:  —  let  his  truth 

be  true 
And  all  men  liars  !  with  his  truth  respond 
To  all  men's  lie.    Exalt  the  sword  and  smite 
On  that  long  anvil  of  the  Apennine 
Where  Austria  forged  the  Italian  chain  in 

view 
Of  seven  consenting  nations,  sparks  of  fine 
Admonitory  light,  91 

Till   men's   eyes   wink   before    convictions 

new. 
Flash  in  God's  justice  to  the  world's  amaze, 
Sublime  Deliverer  !  —  after  many  days 
Found  worthy  of  the  deed  thou  art  come  to 
do  — 

Emperor 
Evermore. 


VI 

But  Italy,  my  Italy, 

Can  it  last,  this  gleam  ? 
Can  she  live  and  be  strong, 

Or  is  it  another  dream 
Like  the  rest  we  have  dreamed  so  long  ? 

And  shall  it,  must  it  be. 
That  after  the  battle-cloud  has  broken 

She  will  die  off  again 

Like  the  rain. 
Or  like  a  poet's  song 

Sung  of  her,  sad  at  the  end 


100 


412 


POEMS   BEFORE   CONGRESS 


Because  her  name  is  Italy,  — 

Die  and  count  no  friend  ?  no 

Is  it  true,  —  may  it  be  spoken,  — 

That  she  who  has  lain  so  still, 
With  a  wound  in  her  breast, 
And  a  flower  in  her  hand, 
And  a  grave-stone  under  her  head, 

While  every  nation  at  will 
Beside  her  has  dared  to  stand. 
And  flout  her  with  pity  and  scorn, 

Saying,  '  She  is  at  rest, 
She  is  fair,  she  is  dead,  120 

And,  leaving  room  in  her  stead 
To  Us  who  are  later  born. 

This  is  certainly  best !  ' 
Saying,  *  Alas,  she  is  fair. 
Very  fair,  but  dead,  —  give  place, 
And  so  we  have  room  for  the  race.' 
—  Can  it  be  true,  be  true, 
That  she  lives  anew  ? 
That  she  rises  up  at  the  shout  of  her  sons. 

At  the  trumpet  of  France,  130 

And  lives  anew  ?  —  is  it  true 

That  she  has  not  moved  in  a  trance. 
As  in  Forty-eight  ? 

When  her  eyes  were  troubled  with  blood 
Till  she  knew  not  friend  from  foe, 
Till  her  hand  was  caught  in  a  strait 
Of  her  cerement  and  baffled  so 

From  doing  the  deed  she  would ; 
And  her  weak  foot  stumbled  across 
The  grave  of  a  king,  140 

And  down  she  dropt  at  heavy  loss. 

And  we  gloomily  covered  her  face  and 
said, 
'We  have  dreamed  the  thing; 

She  is  not  alive,  but  dead.' 

VII 

Now,  shall  we  say 

Our  Italy  lives  indeed  ? 
And  if  it  were  not  for  the  beat  and  bray 
Of  drum  and  trump  of  martial  men. 
Should  we  feel  the  underground  heave  and 
strain, 

Where  heroes  left  their  dust  as  a  seed    150 
Sure  to  emerge  one  day  ? 
And  if  it  were  not  for  the  rhythmic  march 

Of  France  and  Piedmont's  double  hosts. 

Should  we  hear  the  ghosts 
Thrill  through  ruined  aisle  and  arch, 

Throb  along  the  frescoed  wall, 
Whisper  an  oath  by  that  divine 
They  left  in  picture,  book,  and  stone, 

That  Italy  is  not  dead  at  all  ? 


170 


Ay,  if   it   were    not   for   the  tears  in  our 
eyes,  160 

These  tears  of  a  sudden  passionate  joy, 

Should  we  see  her  arise 
From  the  place  where  the  wicked  are  over- 
thrown, 
Italy,  Italy  —  loosed  at  length 

From  the  tyrant's  thrall. 
Pale  and  calm  in  her  strength  ? 
Pale  as  the  silver  cross  of  Savoy 
When  the  hand  that  bears  the  flag  is  brave, 
And  not  a  breath  is  stirring,  save 

What  is  blown 
Over  the  war-trump's  lip  of  brass, 
Ere  Garibaldi  forces  the  pass  ! 

VIII 

Ay,  it  is  so,  even  so. 

Ay,  and  it  shall  be  so. 
Each  broken  stone  that  long  ago 
She  flung  behind  her  as  she  went 
In  discouragement  and  bewilderment 
Through   the    cairns  of  Time,  and  missed 

her  way 
Between  to-day  and  yesterday. 

Up  springs  a  living  man.  180 

And  each  man  stands  with  his  face  in  the 
light 

Of  his  own  drawn  sword, 
Ready  to  do  what  a  hero  can. 

Wall  to  sap,  or  river  to  ford. 
Cannon  to  front,  or  foe  to  pursue. 
Still  ready  to  do,  and  sworn  to  be  true, 

As  a  man  and  a  patriot  can. 

Piedmontese,  Neapolitan, 
Lombard,  Tuscan,  Romagnole, 
Each  man's  body  having  a  soul,  —  190 

Count  how  many  they  stand. 
All  of  them  sons  of  the  land, 

Everv  live  man  there 
Allied  to  a  dead  man  below. 

And  the  deadest  with  blood  to  spare 
To  quicken  a  living  hand 
In  case  it  should  ever  be  slow. 
Count  how  many  they  come 
To  the  beat  of  Piedmont's  drum. 

With  faces  keener  and  grayer  200 

Than  swords  of  the  Austrian  slayer. 
All  set  ao^ainst  the  foe. 
'  Emperor 
Evermore.' 

IX 

Out  of  the  dust  where  they  ground  them; 
Out  of  the  holes  where  they  dogged  them ; 


NAPOLEON   III.    IN    ITALY 


413 


^\ 


Out  of  the  hulks  where  they  wound  them 

In  iron,  tortured  and  flogged  them;     208 
Out  of  the  streets  where  they  chased  them, 
Taxed  them,  and  then  bayonetted  them; 
Out  of  the  homes  where  they  spied  on  them 
Using  their  daughters  and  wives) ; 
►ut  of  the  church  where    they  fretted 
them, 
Rotted  their  souls  and  debased  them, 

Trained  them  to  answer  with  knives, 
Then  cursed  them  all  at  their  prayers  !  — 
Out  of  cold  lands,  not  theirs, 
Where  they  exiled  them,  starved  them,  lied 

on  them; 
Back  they  come  like  a  wind,  in  vain 

Cramped  up  in  the  hills,  that  roars  its 
road  220 

The  stronger  into  the  open  plain. 
Or  like  a  fire  that  burns  the  hotter 

And  longer  for  the  crust  of  cinder. 
Serving  better  the  ends  of  the  potter; 
Or  like  a  restrained  word  of  God, 
Fulfilling  itself  by  what  seems  to  hinder. 
'  Emperor 
Evermore.' 


Shout  for  France  and  Savoy  ! 

Shout  for  the  helper  and  doer.  230 

Shout  for  the  good  sword's  ring, 

Shout  for  the  thought  still  truer. 
Shout  for  tlie  spirits  at  large 
Who  passed  for  the  dead  this  spring, 

Whose  living  glory  is  sure. 
Shout  for  France  and  Savoy  ! 
Shout  for  the  council  and  charge  ! 

Shout  for  the  head  of  Cavour; 
And  shout  for  the  heart  of  a  King 
That 's  great  with  a  nation's  joy  !  240 

Shout  for  France  and  Savoy  ! 

XI 

Take  up  the  child,  Macraahon,  though 

Thy  hand  be  red 

From  Magenta's  dead. 
And  riding  on,  in  front  of  the  troop. 

In  the  dust  of  the  whirlwind  of  war 
Through  the  gate  of  the  city  of  Milan,  stoop 
And  take  up  the  child  to  thy  saddle-bow, 
Nor  fear  the  touch  as  soft  as  a  flower  of 

his  smile  as  clear  as  a  star  ! 
Thou  hast  a  right  to  the  child,  we  say,    250 
Since  the  women  are  weeping  for  joy  as 

they 
Who,  by  thy  help  and  from  this  day, 


Shall  be  happy  mothers  indeed. 
They  are  raining  flowers  from  terrace  and 
roof: 

Take  up  the  flower  in  the  child. 
While  the  shout  goes  up  of  a  nation  freed 

And  heroically  self-reconciled. 
Till  the  snow  on  that  peaked  Alp  aloof 
Starts,  as  feeling  God's  finger  anew. 
And  all  those  cold  white  marble  fires       260 
Of  mounting  saints  on  the  Duomo-spires 

Flicker  against  the  Blue. 

*  Emperor 
Evermore.' 

XII 

Ay,  it  is  He, 
Who  rides  at  the  King's  right  hand  ! 
Leave  room  to  his  horse  and  draw  to  the 
side. 

Nor  press  too  near  in  the  ecstasy 
Of  a  newly  delivered  impassioned  land: 

He  is  moved,  you  see,  270 

He  who  has  done  it  all. 
They  call  it  a  cold  stern  face; 

But  this  is  Italy 
Who  rises  up  to  her  place  !  — 
For  this  he  fought  in  his  youth. 
Of  this  he  dreamed  in  the  past; 
The  lines  of  the  resolute  mouth 
Tremble  a  little  at  last. 
Cry,  he  has  done  it  all  ! 

*  Emperor  280 
Evermore.' 

XIII 

It  is  not  strange  that  he  did  it, 

Though  the  deed  may  seem  to  strain 
To  the  wonderful,  unpermitted. 

For  such  as  lead  and  reign. 
But  he  is  strange,  this  man: 

The  people's  instinct  found  him 
(A  wind  in  the  dark  that  ran 
Through  a  chink  where  was  no  door), 

And  elected  him  and  crowned  him       290 
Emperor 
Evermore. 

XIV 

Autocrat  ?  let  them  scojff. 

Who  fail  to  comprehend 
That  a  ruler  incarnate  of 

The  people  must  transcend 
All  common  king-born  kings; 
These  subterranean  springs 
A  sudden  outlet  winning 


414 


POEMS    BEFORE   CONGRESS 


Have  special  virtues  to  spend.  300 

The  people's  blood  runs  through  him, 
Dilates  from  head  to  foot, 
Creates  him  absolute. 
And  from  this  great  beginning 

Evokes  a  greater  end 
To  justify  and  renew  him  — 
Emperor 
Evermore. 

XV 

What  !  did  any  maintain 

That  God  or  the  people  (think  !)  310 

Could  make  a  marvel  in  vain  ?  — 

Out  of  the  water-jar  there 
Draw  wine  that  none  could  drink  ? 
Is  this  a  man  like  the  rest. 

This  miracle,  made  unaware 

By  a  rapture  of  popular  air. 
And  caught  to  the  place  that  was  best  ? 
You  think  he  could  barter  and  cheat 

As  vulgar  diplomates  use. 
With  the  people's  heart  in  his  breast  ?    320 
Prate  a  lie  into  shape 
Lest  truth  should  cumber  the  road; 

Play  at  the  fast  and  loose 
Till  the  world  is  strangled  with  tape; 
Maim  the  soul's  complete 

To  fit  the  hole  of  a  toad; 
And  filch  the  dogman's  meat 

To  feed  the  offspring  of  God  ? 

XVI 

Nay,  but  he,  this  wonder. 

He  cannot  palter  nor  prate,  330 

Though  many  around  him  and  under. 
With  intellects  trained  to  the  curve. 
Distrust  him  in  spirit  and  nerve 

Because  his  meaning  is  straight. 
Measure  him  ere  he  depart 

With  those  who  have  governed  and  led; 
Larger  so  much  by  the  heart, 

Larger  so  much  by  the  head. 
Emperor 
Evermore.  340 

XVII 

He  holds  that,  consenting  or  dissident. 
Nations  must  move  with  the  time; 

Assumes  that  crime  with  a  precedent 
Doubles  the  guilt  of  the  crime; 

—  Denies  that  a  slaver's  bond, 
Or  a  treaty  signed  by  knaves 

(  Quorum  magna  pars  and  beyond 


Was  one  of  an  honest  name) 
Gives  an  inexpugnable  claim 
To  abolish  men  into  slaves. 

Emperor 

Evermore. 


350 


XVIII 

He  will  not  swagger  nor  boast 

Of  his  country's  meeds,  in  a  tone 
Missuiting  a  great  man  most 

If  such  should  speak  of  his  own; 
Nor  will  he  act,  on  her  side, 

From  motives  baser,  indeed. 
Than  a  man  of  a  noble  pride 

Can  avow  for  himself  at  need;  360 

Never,  for  lucre  or  laurels. 

Or  custom,  though  such  should  be  rife, 
Adapting  the  smaller  morals 

To  measure  the  larger  life. 
He,  though  the  merchants  persuade. 

And  the  soldiers  are  eager  for  strife. 
Finds  not  his  country  in  quarrels 

Only  to  find  her  in  trade,  — 
While  still  he  accords  her  such  honor 

As  never  to  flinch  for  her  sake  370 

Where  men  put  service  upon  her, 

Found  heavy  to  undertake 
And  scarcely  like  to  be  paid: 
Believing  a  nation  may  act 

Unselfishly  —  shiver  a  lance 
(As  the  least  of  her  sons  may,  in  fact) 

And  not  for  a  cause  of  finance. 
Emperor 
Evermore. 


XIX 


380 


Great  is  he 
Who  uses  his  greatness  for  all. 
His  name  shall  stand  perpetually 

As  a  name  to  applaud  and  cherish, 
Not  only  within  the  civic  wall 
For  the  loyal,  but  also  without 

For  the  generous  and  free. 

Just  is  he, 
Who  is  just  for  the  popular  due 

As  well  as  the  private  debt. 
The  praise  of  nations  ready  to  perish       390 
Fall  on  him,  —  crown  him  in  view 

Of  tyrants  caught  in  the  net. 
And  statesmen  dizzy  with  fear  and  doubt ! 
And  though,  because  they  are  many, 

And  he  is  merely  one. 
And  nations  selfish  and  cruel 
Heap  up  the  inquisitor's  fuel 


THE    DANCE 


415 


To  kill  the  body  of  high  intents, 
And  burn  great  deeds  from  their  place, 
Till  this,  the  greatest  of  any,  400 

May  seem  imperfectly  done; 

Courage,  whoever  circumvents  ! 
Courage,  courage,  whoever  is  base  ! 
The  soul  of  a  high  intent,  be  it  known, 
Can  die  no  more  than  any  soul 
Which  God  keeps  by  Him  under  the  throne; 
And  this,  at  whatever  interim. 

Shall  live,  and  be  consummated 
Into  the  being  of  deeds  made  whole. 
Courage,  courage  !  happy  is  he,  410 

Of  w^hom  (himself  among  the  dead 

And  silent)  this  word  shall  be  said : 
—  That  he  mig-ht  have  had  the  world  with 
him. 

But  chose  to  side  with  suffering  men. 

And  had  the  world  against  him  when 
He  came  to  deliver  Italy. 
Emperor 
Evermore. 


THE   DANCE 

Mrs.  Browning  told  Mrs.  Jameson  in  a  letter 
dated  Rome,  February  22, 1860,  that  the  hero- 
ine of  the  poem  called  '  The  Dance '  was  a  cer- 
tain Madame  de  Laiatico. 


You  remember  down  at  Florence  our  Cas- 
cine, 
Where  the  people  on  the  feast-days  walk 
and  drive. 
And,    through  the    trees,   long-drawn    in 
many  a  green  way, 
O'er-roofing    hum  and  murmur   like    a 

hive. 
The  river  and  the  mountains  look  alive  ? 


II 

You   remember   the    piazzone    there,    the 
stand-place 

Of  carriages  abrim  with  Florence  Beau- 
ties, 
Who  lean  and  melt  to  music  as  the  band 
plays. 

Or  smile  and  chat  with  some  one  who 
afoot  is, 

Or  on  horseback,  in  observance  of  male 
duties  ? 


Ill 

'T  is  so  pretty,  in  the  afternoons  of  summer, 
So   many    gracious    faces    brought    to- 
gether ! 
Call  it  rout,  or  call  it  concert,  they  have 
come  here. 
In  the   floating  of   the  fan   and  of   the 

feather, 
To    reciprocate    with    beauty   the    fine 
weather. 

IV 

While  the  flower-girls  offer  nosegays  (be- 
cause they  too 
Go  with  other  sweets)  at  every  carriage- 
door; 
Here,  by  shake  of  a  white   finger,  signed 
away  to 
Some  next  buyer,  who  sits  buying  score 

on  score. 
Piling  roses  upon  roses  evermore. 


And  last   season,  when  the  French   camp 

had  its  station 
In  the  meadow-ground,  things  quickened 

and  grew  gayer 
Through   the   mingling   of   the   liberating 

nation 
With  this  people;  groups  of  Frenchmen 

everywhere. 
Strolling,  gaziug,  judging  lightly  —  '  who 

was  fair.' 

VI 

Then  the  noblest  lady  present  took  upon  her 

To  speak   nobly  from  her   carriage  for 

the  rest: 

'  Pray  these  officers  from  France  to  do  us 

honor 

By  dancing  with  us  straightway.'     The 

request 
Was  gravely  apprehended  as  addressed. 

VII 

And  the  men  of  France,  bareheaded,  bow- 
ing lowly, 
Led  out  each   a  proud   signora   to   the 
space 
Which  the  startled  crowd  had  rounded  for 
them  —  slowly. 
Just  a  touch  of  still  emotion  in  his  face. 
Not  presuming,  through  the  symbol,  on 
the  grace. 


4i6 


POEMS    BEFORE   CONGRESS 


VIII 

There  was  silence  in  the  people:  some  lips 
trembled, 

But  none  jested.     Broke  the  music,  at  a 
glance : 
And  the  daughters  of  our  princes,  thus  as- 
sembled, 

Stepped  the   measure  with   the   gallant 
sons  of  France, 

Hush  !  it  might  have  been  a  Mass,  and 
not  a  dance. 

IX 

And  they  danced  there  till  the  blue  that 
over-skied  us 
Swooned  with  passion,  though  the  foot- 
ing seemed  sedate ; 
And  the  mountains,  heaving  mighty  hearts 
beside  us. 
Sighed  a  rapture  in  a  shadow,    to   di- 
late. 
And  touch  the  holy  stone  where  Dante 
sate. 


X 

Then  the  sons  of  France,  bareheaded,  lowly 
bowing. 
Led  the  ladies  back  where  kinsmen  of 
the  south 
Stood,  received   them;  till,  with   burst  of 
overflowing 
Feeling —  husbands,  brothers,  Florence's 

male  youth. 
Turned  and  kissed  the  martial  strangers 
mouth  to  mouth. 

XI 

And  a  cry  went  up,  a   cry  from  all  that 
people  ! 
—  You  have   heard   a   people  cheering, 
you  suppose, 
For  the  Member,  mayor  .  .  .  with  chorus 
from  the  steeple  ? 
This  was  different:  scarce  as  loud,  per- 
haps (who  knows  ?), 
For  we  saw  wet  eyes  around  us  ere  the 
close. 

XII 

A.nd  we  felt  as  if  a  nation,  too  long  borne 
in 
By  hard  wrongers,  —  comprehending  in 
such  attitude 


That  God  had  spoken  somewhere  since  the 

morning, 
That  men  were  somehow  brothers,  by  no 

platitude,  — 
Cried  exultant  in  great  wonder  and  free 

gratitude. 


A  TALE    OF   VILLAFRANCA 

TOLD     IN    TUSCANY 

First  printed  in  the  Athenceum,  September 

24, 1859. 


My  little  son,  my  Florentine, 

Sit  down  beside  my  knee. 
And  I  will  tell  you  why  the  sign 

Of  joy  which  flushed  our  Italy 
Has  faded  since  but  yesternight; 
And  why  your  Florence  of  delight 

Is  mourning  as  you  see. 

II 

A    great    man    (who    was    crowned    one 
day) 

Imagined  a  great  Deed : 
He  shaped  it  out  of  cloud  and  clay, 

He  touched  it  finely  till  the  seed 
Possessed  the  flower:  from  heart  and  brain 
He  fed  it  with  large  thoughts  humane. 

To  help  a  people's  need. 

Ill 

He  brought  it  out  into  the  sun  — 

They  blessed  it  to  his  face: 
'  O  great  pure  Deed,  that  hast  undone 

So  many  bad  and  base  ! 
O  generous  Deed,  heroic  Deed, 
Come  forth,  be  perfected,  succeed, 

Deliver  by  God's  grace.' 

IV 

Then    sovereigns,    statesmen,    north    and 
south, 

Rose  up  in  wrath  and  fear, 
And  cried,  protesting  by  one  mouth, 

'  What  monster  have  we  here  ? 
A  great  Deed  at  this  hour  of  day  ? 
A  great  just  Deed  —  and  not  for  pay  ? 

Absurd,  —  or  insincere.' 


A   COURT   LADY 


417 


'And  if  sincere,  the  heavier  blow 

In  that  case  we  shall  bear, 
For  where  's  our  blessed  "status  quo," 

Our  holy  treaties,  where,  — 
Our  rights  to  sell  a  race,  or  buy. 
Protect  and  pillage,  occupy, 

And  civilize  despair  ?  ' 

VI 

Some  muttered  that  the  great  Deed  meant 

A  great  pretext  to  sin; 
And  others,  the  pretext,  so  lent, 

Was  heinous  (to  begin). 
Volcanic  terms  of  '  great '  and  '  just '  ? 
Admit  such  tongues  of  flame,  the  crust 

Of  time  and  law  falls  in. 

VII 

A  great  Deed  in  this  world  of  ours  ? 

Unheard  of  the  pretence  is: 
It  threatens  plainly  the  great  Powers; 

Is  fatal  in  all  senses. 
A  just  Deed  in  the  world  ?  —  call  out 
The  rifles  !  be  not  slack  about 

The  national  defences. 

VIII 

And  many  murmured,  '  From  this  source 
What  red  blood  must  be  poured  ! ' 

And  some  rejoined,  '  'T  is  even  worse; 
What  red  tape  is  ignored  ! ' 

All  cursed  the  Doer  for  an  evil 

Called  here,  enlarging  on  the  Devil,  — 
There,  monkeying  the  Lord  ! 

IX 

Some  said  it  could  not  be  explained. 

Some,  could  not  be  excused; 
And  others,  '  Leave  it  unrestrained, 

Gehenna's  self  is  loosed.' 
And  all  cried,  '  Crush  it,  maim  it,  gag  it ! 
Set  dog-toothed  lies  to  tear  it  ragged, 

Truncated  and  traduced  !  ' 


But  He  stood  sad  before  the  sun 
(The  peoples  felt  their  fate). 

'The  world  is  many,  — I  am  one; 
My  great  Deed  was  too  great. 

God's  fruit  of  justice  ripens  slow: 

Men's  souls  are  narrow,  let  them  grow. 
My  brothers,  we  must  wait.' 


XI 

The  tale  is  ended,  child  of  mine, 

Turned  graver  at  my  knee. 
They  say  your  eyes,  my  Florentine, 

Are  English:  it  may  be. 
And  yet  I  've  marked  as  blue  a  pair 
Following  the  doves  across  the  square 

At  Venice  by  the  sea. 

XII 

Ah  child  !  ah  child  !  I  cannot  say 

A  word  more.     You  conceive 
The  reason  now,  why  just  to-day 

We  see  our  Florence  grieve. 
Ah  child,  look  up  into  the  sky ! 
In    this    low   world,   where   great   Deeds 
die. 

What  matter  if  we  live  ? 


A   COURT    LADY 

We  have  Mrs.  Browning's  word  for  it,  that 
the  Court  Lady  was  a  type,  not  an  individual. 
Quite  a  number  of  the  grandes  dames  of  Milan 
in  1859  indulged  in  the  sincere,  if  slightly 
theatrical,  display  of  patriotism  here  described. 

Her  hair  was  tawny  with  gold,  her  eyes 

with  purple  were  dark, 
Her   cheeks'  pale  opal   burnt   with  a  red 

and  restless  spark. 

Never  was  lady  of  Milan  nobler  in  name 

and  in  race; 
Never  was  lady  of  Italy  fairer  to  see  in 

the  face. 

Never   was   lady  on   earth  more    true    as 

woman  and  wife, 
Larger  in  judgment  and  instinct,  prouder 

in  manners  and  life. 

She  stood  in  the  early  morning,  and  said  to 

her  maidens  '  Bring 
That  silken  robe  made  ready  to  wear  at  the 

Court  of  the  King". 

'Bring   me  the  clasps  of   diamond,  lucid, 

clear  of  the  mote. 
Clasp  me  the  large  at  the  waist,  and  clasp 

me  the  small  at  the  throat.  10 


4i8 


POEMS    BEFORE   CONGRESS 


*  Diamonds  to  fasten  the  hair,  and  diamonds 

to  fasten  the  sleeves, 
Laces  to  drop  from  their  rays,  like  a  pow- 
der of  snow  from  the  eaves.' 

Gorgeous  she  entered  the  sunlight  which 
gathered  her  up  in  a  flame, 

While,  straight  in  her  open  carriage,  she 
to  the  hospital  came. 

In  she  went  at  the  door,  and  gazing  from 
end  to  end, 

*  Many  and  low  are  the  pallets,  but  each  is 

the  place  of  a  friend.' 

Up  she  passed  through  the  wards,  and 
stood  at  a  young  man's  bed: 

Bloody  the  band  on  his  brow,  and  livid  the 
droop  of  his  head. 

*  Art     thou    a     Lombard,    my     brother  ? 

Happy  art  thou,'  she  cried. 
And  smiled  like  Italy  on  him:  he  dreamed 
in  her  face  and  died. 


20 


Pale  with   his   passing   soul,  she  went  on 

still  to  a  second: 
He  was  a  grave  hard  man,  whose  years  by 

dungeons  were  reckoned. 

Wounds  in  his  body  were  sore,  wounds  in 

his  life  were  sorer. 
'  Art    thou    a    Romagnole  ? '      Her    eyes 

drove  lightnings  before  her. 

*  Austrian  and  priest  had  joined  to  double 

and  tighten  the  cord 
Able  to  bind  thee,  O  strong  one,  —  free  by 
the  stroke  of  a  sword. 

*  Now  be  grave  for  the  rest  of  us,  using 

the  life  overcast 
To  ripen  our  wine  of  the  present  (too  new) 
in  glooms  of  the  past.' 

Down  she  stepped  to  a  pallet  where  lay  a 

face  like  a  girl's, 
Young,  and  pathetic  with  dying,  —  a  deep 

black  hole  in  the  curls.  30 

*  Art    thou   from    Tuscany,  brother  ?   and 

seest  thou,  dreaming  in  pain, 
Thy  mother  stand  in  the  piazza,  searching 
the  list  of  the  slain  ?  ' 


Kind  as  a  mother  herself,  she  touched  his 
cheeks  with  her  hands: 

'  Blessed  is  she  who  has  borne  thee,  al- 
though she  should  weep  as  she 
stands.' 

On  she   passed  to  a  Frenchman,  his   arm 

carried  off  by  a  ball: 
Kneeling,  —  '  O    more    than  my  brother  ! 

how  shall  I  thank  thee  for  all  ? 

'  Each  of  the  heroes  around  us  has  fought 

for  his  land  and  line. 
But  thou  hast  fought  for  a  stranger,  in  hate 

of  a  wrong  not  thine. 

'  Happy  are  all  free  peoples,  too  strong  to 

be  dispossessed. 
But  blessed  are  those  among  nations  who 

dare  to  be  strong  for  the  rest  ! '      40 

Ever  she  passed  on  her  way,  and  came  to  a 

couch  where  pined 
One  with  a  face  from  Venetia,  white  with 

a  hope  out  of  mind. 

Long  she  stood  and  gazed,  and  twice  she 

tried  at  the  name. 
But  two  great  crystal  tears  were  all  that 

faltered  and  came. 

Only  a  tear  for  Venice  ?  —  she  turned  as  in 

passion  and  loss, 
And  stooped  to  his  forehead  and  kissed  it, 

as  if  she  were  kissing  the  cross. 

Faint  with  that  strain  of  heart  she  moved 

on  then  to  another. 
Stern  and  strong  in  his  death.     '  And  dost 

thou  suffer,  my  brother  ?  ' 

Holding  his  hands  in  hers  :  —  *  Out  of  the 
Piedmont  lion 

Cometh  the  sweetness  of  freedom  !  sweet- 
est to  live  or  to  die  on.'  50 

Holding   his  cold   rough   hands,  —  'Well, 

oh  well  have  ye  done 
In  noble,  noble  Piedmont,  who  would  not 

be  noble  alone.' 

Back  he  fell  while  she  spoke.  She  rose  to 
her  feet  with  a  spring,  — 

'  That  was  a  Piedmontese  !  and  this  is  the 
Court  of  the  King.' 


AN   AUGUST   VOICE 


419 


AN    AUGUST   VOICE 

Una  voce  augusta.'  —  Monitors  Toscano. 


You  'll  take  back  your  Grand-duke  ? 

I  made  the  treaty  upon  it. 
Just  venture  a  quiet  rebuke; 

Dair  Ongaro  write  him  a  sonnet; 
Ricasoli  gently  explain 

Some  need  of  the  constitution: 
He  '11  swear  to  it  over  again, 

Providing  an  '  easy  solution.' 
You  '11  call  back  the  Grand-duke. 

II 

You  '11  take  back  your  Grand-duke  ? 

I  promised  the  Emperor  Francis 
To  argue  the  case  by  his  book, 

And  ask  you  to  meet  his  advances. 
The  Ducal  cause,  we  know 

(Whether  you  or  he  be  the  wronger), 
Has  very  strong  points;  —  although 

Your  bayonets,  there,  have  stronger. 
You  '11  call  back  the  Grand-duke. 

Ill 

You  '11  take  back  your  Grand-duke  ? 

He  is  not  pure  altogether. 
For  instance,  the  oath  which  he  took 

(In  the  Forty-eight  rough  weather) 
He  'd  '  nail  your  flag  to  his  mast,' 

Then  softly  scuttled  the  boat  you 
Hoped  to  escape  in  at  last. 

And  both  by  a  '  Proprio  motu.' 
You  '11  call  back  the  Grand-duke. 

IV 

You  '11  take  back  your  Grand-duke  ? 

The  scheme  meets  nothing  to  shock  it 
In  this  smart  letter,  look, 

We  found  in  Radetsky's  pocket; 
Where  his  Highness  in  sprightly  style 

Of  the  flower  of  his  Tuscans  wrote, 
'These  heads  be  the  hottest  in  file; 

Pray  shoot  them  the  quickest.'     Quote, 
And  call  back  the  Grand-duke. 


You  '11  take  back  your  Grand-duke  ? 

There  are  some  things  to  object  to. 
He  cheated,  betrayed,  and  forsook, 

Then  called  in  the  foe  to  protect  you. 
He  taxed  you  for  wines  and  for  meats 

Throughout  that  eight  years'  pastime 


Of  Austria's  drum  in  your  streets  — 

Of  course  you  remember  the  last  time 
You  called  back  your  Grand-duke  ? 

VI 

You  '11  take  back  the  Grand-duke  ?     ' 

It  is  not  race  he  is  poor  in. 
Although  he  never  could  brook 

The  patriot  cousin  at  Turin. 
His  love  of  kin  you  discern, 

By  his  hate  of  your  flag  and  me  — 
So  decidedly  apt  to  turn 

All  colors  at  the  sight  of  the  Three. 
You  '11  call  back  the  Grand-duke. 

VII 

You  '11  take  back  your  Grand-duke  ? 

'T  was  weak  that  he  fled  from  the  Pitti; 
But  consider  how  little  he  shook 

At  thought  of  bombarding  your  city  ! 
And,  balancing  that  with  this. 

The  Christian  rule  is  plain  for  us; 
...  Or  the  Holy  Father's  Swiss 

Have  shot  his  Perugians  in  vain  for  us. 
You  '11  call  back  the  Grand-duke. 

VIII 

Pray  take  back  your  Grand-duke. 

—  I,  too,  have  suffered  persuasion. 
All  Europe,  raven  and  rook. 

Screeched  at  me  armed  for  your  nation. 
Your  cause  in  my  heart  struck  spurs; 

I  swept  such  warnings  aside  for  you: 
My  very  child's  eyes,  and.  Hers, 

Grew   like   my   brother's  who  died   for 
you. 
You  '11  call  back  the  Grand-duke  ? 

IX 

You  '11  take  back  your  Grand-duke  ? 

My  French  fought  nobly  with  reason,  — 
Left  many  a  Lombardy  nook 

Red  as  with  wine  out  of  season. 
Little  we  grudged  what  was  done  there, 

Paid  freely  your  ransom  of  blood: 
Our  heroes  stark  in  the  sun  there 

We  would  not  recall  if  we  could. 
You  '11  call  back  the  Grand-duke  ? 


You  '11  take  back  your  Grand-duke  ? 

His  son  rode  fast  as  he  got  off 
That  day  on  the  enemy's  hook. 

When  /  had  an  epaulet  shot  off. 
Though  splashed  (as  I  saw  him  afar  —  no, 


420 


POEMS    BEFORE   CONGRESS 


Near)  by  those  ghastly  rains, 
The   mark,  when  you've    washed   him   in 
Arno, 

Will  scarcely  be  larger  than  Cain's. 
You  '11  call  back  the  Grand-duke  ? 

XI 

You  '11  take  back  your  Grand-duke  ? 

'T  will  be  so  simple,  quite  beautiful: 
The  shepherd  recovers  his  crook, 

...  If  you  should  be  sheep,  and  dutiful. 
I  spoke  a  word  worth  chalking 

On  Milan's  wall  —  but  stay, 
Here  's  Poniatowsky  talking,  — 

You  '11  listen  to  him  to-day, 
And  call  back  the  Grand-duke. 

XII 

You  '11  take  back  your  Grand-duke  ? 

Observe,  there  's  no  one  to  force  it,  — 
Unless  the  Madonna,  Saint  Luke 

Drew  for  you,  choose  to  endorse  it. 
/  charge  you,  by  great  Saint  Martino 

And  prodigies  quickened  by  wrong, 
Remember  your  Dead  on  Ticino; 

Be  worthy,  be  constant,  be  strong  — 
Bah  !  —  call  back  the  Grand-duke  !  ! 


CHRISTMAS   GIFTS 


—  Geegoby  Nazianzen. 


The  Pope  on  Christmas  Day 

Sits  in  Saint  Peter's  chair; 
But  the  peoples  murmur  and  say 

'  Our  souls  are  sick  and  forlorn. 
And  who  will  show  us  where 

Is  the  stable  where  Christ  was  born  ?  ' 

II 

The  star  is  lost  in  the  dark; 

The  manger  is  lost  in  the  straw. 
The  Christ  cries  faintly  .  .   .  hark  !  .  .  . 

Through  bands  that  swaddle  and  stran- 
gle- 
But  the  Pope  in  the  chair  of  awe 

Looks  down  the  great  quadrangle. 


Ill 


The  Magi  kneel  at  his  foot, 
Kings  of  the  East  and  West, 


But,  instead  of  the  angels  (mute 

Is  the  '  Peace  on  earth  '  of  their  song), 

The  peoples,  perplexed  and  opprest, 
Are  sighing  '  How  long,  how  long  ? ' 

IV 

And,  instead  of  the  kine,  bewilder  in 

Shadow  of  aisle  and  dome, 
The  bear  who  tore  up  the  children, 

The  fox  who  burnt  up  the  corn. 
And  the  wolf  who  suckled  at  Rome 

Brothers  to  slay  and  to  scorn. 

V 

Cardinals  left  and  right  of  him. 
Worshippers  round  and  beneath. 

The  silver  trumpets  at  sight  of  him 
Thrill  with  a  musical  blast: 

But  tlie  people  say  through  their  teeth, 
'  Trumpets  ?  we  wait  for  the  Last ! ' 

VI 

He  sits  in  the  place  of  the  Lord, 
And  asks  for  the  gifts  of  the  time; 

Gold,  for  the  haft  of  a  sword 
To  win  back  Ro magna  averse, 

Incense,  to  sweeten  a  crime, 

And  myrrh,  to  embitter  a  curse. 

VII 

Then  a  king  of  the  West  said  '  Good  !  — 
I  bring  thee  the  gifts  of  the  time; 

Red,  for  the  patriot's  blood, 
Green,  for  the  martyr's  crown. 

White,  for  the  dew  and  the  rime, 

When  the  morning  of  God  comes  down, 

VIII 

—  O  mystic  tricolor  bright  ! 

The  Pope's  heart  quailed  like  a  man's; 
The  cardinals  froze  at  the  sight, 

Bowing  their  tonsures  hoary: 
And  the  eyes  in  the  peacock-fans 

Winked  at  the  alien  glory. 

IX 

But  the  peoples  exclaimed  in  hope, 
*  Now  blessed  be  he  who  has  brought 

These  gifts  of  the  time  to  the  Pope, 
When  our  souls  were  sick  and  forlorn. 

—  And  here  is  the  star  we  sought. 

To  show  us  where  Christ  was  born  !  ' 


ITALY   AND   THE   WORLD 


421 


ITALY    AND    THE    WORLD 


Florence,  Bologna,  Parma,  Modena: 
When  you  named  them  a  year  ago. 

So  many  graves  reserved  by  God,  in  a 
Day  of  Judgment,  you  seemed  to  know, 

To  open  and  let  out  the  resurrection. 

II 

And  meantime  (you  made  your  reflection 
If  you  were  English),  was  nought  to  be 
done 

But  sorting  sables,  in  predilection 
For  all  those  martyrs  dead  and  gone, 

Till  the  new  earth  and  heaven  made  ready. 

Ill 

And  if  your  politics  were  not  heady, 

Violent,  .  .  .    '  Good,'  you  added,  *  good 

In  all  things  !     Mourn  on  sure  and  steady. 
Churchyard  thistles  are  wholesome  food 

For  our  European  wandering  asses. 

IV 

'  The  date  of  the  resurrection  passes 
Human  foreknowledge:  men  unborn 

Will  gain  by  it  (even  in  the  lower  classes). 
But  none  of  these.     It  is  not  the  morn 

Because  the  cock  of  France  is  crowing. 


*  Cocks  crow  at  midnight,  seldom  knowing 

Starlight  from  dawn-light !  't  is  a  mad 
Poor    creature.'      Here    you    paused,    and 
growing 
Scornful,  —  suddenly,  let  us  add, 
The    trumpet    sounded,    the    graves    were 
open. 

VI 

Life  and  life  and  life  !  agrope  in 

The  dusk  of  death,  warm  hands,  stretched 
out 
For  swords,  proved  more  life  still  to  hope 
in. 
Beyond  and  behind.     Arise  with  a  shout, 
Nation  of  Italy,  slain  and  buried  ! 

VII 

Hill  to  hill  and  turret  to  turret 

Flashing  the  tricolor,  — newly  created 

Beautiful  Italy,  calm,  unhurried, 
Rise  heroic  and  renovated, 

Rise  to  the  final  restitution. 


VIII 

Rise;  prefigure  the  grand  solution 

Of  earth's  municipal,  insular  schisms,  — 

Statesmen  draping  self-love's  conclusion 
In  cheap  vernacular  patriotisms, 

Unable  to  give  up  Judaea  for  Jesus. 

IX 

Bring  us  the  higher  example;  release  us 

Into  the  larger  coming  time : 
And    into   Christ's   broad    garment   piece 
us 

Rags  of  virtue  as  poor  as  crime, 
National  selfishness,  civic  vaunting. 


No  more  Jew  nor  Greek  then,  —  taunting 
Nor    taunted;  —  no    more    England  nor 
France  ! 

But  one  confederate  brotherhood  planting 
One  flag  only,  to  mark  the  advance. 

Onward  and  upward,  of  all  humanity. 

XI 

For  civilization  perfected 

Is  fully  developed  Christianity. 

'  Measure  the  frontier, '  shall  it  be  said, 
'  Count  the  ships,'  in  national  vanity  ? 

—  Count  the  nation's  heart-beats  sooner. 

XII 

For,     though     behind     by    a     cannon    or 
schooner, 
That  nation  still  is  predominant 
Whose    pulse    beats    quickest    in    zeal    to 
oppugn  or 
Succor  another,  in  wrong  or  want. 
Passing   the    frontier  in    love  and    abhor- 
rence. 

XIII 

Modena,  Parma,  Bologna,  Florence, 

Open  us  out  the  wider  way  ! 
Dwarf  in  that  chapel  of  old  Saint  Lawrence 

Your  Michel  Angelo's  giant  Day, 
With   the  grandeur  of  this  Day  breaking 
o'er  us  ! 

XIV 

Ye  who,  restrained  as  an  ancient  chorus, 
Mute  while  the  coryphaeus  spake. 

Hush  your  separate  voices  before  us. 
Sink  your  separate  lives  for  the  sake 

Of  one  sole  Italy's  living  for  ever  ! 


42  2 


POEMS   BEFORE   CONGRESS 


XV 

Givers  of  coat  and  cloak  too,  —  never 
Grudging  that    purple  of   yours  at    the 
best,  — 

By  your  heroic  will  and  endeavor 
Each  sublimely  dispossessed, 

That  all  may  inherit  what  each  surrenders! 

XVI 

Earth  shall  bless  you,  O  noble  emenders 
On  egotist  nations  !     Ye  shall  lead 

The   plough   of   the    world,  and  sow  new 
splendors 
Into  the  furrow  of  things  for  seed,  — 

Ever  the  richer  for  what  ye  have  given. 

XVII 

Lead  us  and  teach  us,  till  earth  and  heaven 
Grow  larger  around  us  and  higher  above. 

Our  sacrament-bread  has  a  bitter  leaven; 
We  bait  our  traps  with  the  name  of  love. 

Till  hate  itself  has  a  kinder  meaning. 

XVIII 

Oh,  this  world:  this  cheating  and   screen- 
ing 
Of   cheats  !  this  conscience  for  candle- 
wicks, 
Not  beacon-fires  !  this  overweening 
Of  underhand  diplomatical  tricks, 
Dared  for  the  country  while  scorned  for 
the  counter  ! 

XIX 

Oh,  this  envy  of  those  who  mount  here, 

And  oh,  this  malice  to  make  them  trip  ! 
Rather   quenching   the    fire   there,  drying 
the  fount  here. 
To  frozen  body  and  thirsty  lip, 
Than  leave  to  a  neighbor  their   ministra- 
tion. 

XX 

I  cry  aloud  in  my  poet-passion, 

Viewing  my  England  o'er  Alp  and  sea. 

I  loved  her  more  in  her  ancient  fashion: 
She  carries  her  rifles  too  thick  for  me 

Who  spares  them  so  in  the  cause  of  a  bro- 
ther. 

XXI 

Suspicion,  panic  ?  end  this  pother. 

The    sword,   kept    sheathless   at    peace- 
time, rusts. 

None  fears  for  himself  while  he  feels  for 
another: 


The  brave  man  either  fights  or  trusts, 
And  wears  no  mail  in  his  private  chamber. 

XXII 

Beautiful  Italy  !  golden  amber 

Warm    with    the    kisses   of    lover   and 
traitor  ! 
Thou  who  hast  drawn  us  on  to  remember, 

Draw  us  to  hope  now:  let  us  be  greater 
By  this  new  future  than  that  old  story. 

XXIII 

Till  truer  glory  replaces  all  glory, 

As  the  torch  grows  blind  at  the  dawn  of 
day; 
And  the  nations,  rising  up,  their  sorry 

And  foolish  sins  shall  put  away. 
As  children  their   toys  when   the   teacher 
enters. 

XXIV 

Till  Love's  one  centre  devour  these  centres 
Of   many   self-loves;    and   the  patriot's 
trick 
To  better  his  land  by  egotist  ventures. 
Defamed  from  a  virtue,  shall  make  men 
sick. 
As  the  scalp  at  the  belt  of  some  red  hero. 

XXV 

For  certain  virtues  have  dropped  to  zero, 
Left  by  the  sun  on  the  mountain's  dewy 
side; 

Churchman's  charities,  tender  as  Nero, 
Indian  suttee,  heathen  suicide. 

Service  to  rights  divine,  proved  hollow: 

XXVI 

And  Heptarchy  patriotisms  must  follow.  — 

National  voices,  distinct  yet  dependent. 
Ensphering   each   other,  as   swallow   does 
swallow. 
With  circles  still  widening  and  ever  as- 
cendant, 
In  multiform  life  to  united  progression,  — 

XXVII 

These  shall  remain.     And  when,  in  the  ses- 
sion 
Of   nations,   the    separate    language    is 
heard. 
Each  shall  aspire,  in  sublime  indiscretion, 
To  help  with  a  thought  or  exalt  with  a 
word 
Less  her  own  than  her  rival's  honor. 


THE   CURSE 


423 


XXVIII 

Each   Christian    nation    shall    take    upon 
her 
The  law  of  the  Christian  man  in  vast: 
The  crown  of  the  getter  shall  fall  to  the 
donor, 
And  last  shall  be  first  while  first  shall  be 
last, 
And  to  love  best  shall  still  be,  to  reign  un- 
surpassed. 


A    CURSE    FOR   A    NATION 

PROLOGUE 

I  HEARD  an  angel  speak  last  night. 

And  he  said  '  Write  ! 
Write  a  Nation's  curse  for  me, 
And  send  it  over  the  Western  Sea.' 

I  faltered,  taking  up  the  .word: 

'  Not  so,  my  lord  ! 
If  curses  must  be,  choose  another 
To  send  thy  curse  against  my  brother. 

'  For  I  am  bound  by  gratitude, 

By  love  and  blood, 
To  brothers  of  mine  across  the  sea, 
Who  stretch  out  kindly  hands  to  me.' 

*  Therefore,'   the    voice    said,    '  shalt    thou 

write 

My  curse  to-night. 
From  the  summits  of  love  a  curse  is  driven, 
As  lightning  is  fi'om  the  tops  of  heaven.' 

*  Not  so,'  I  ansvered.     '  Evermore 

My  heirt  is  sore 
For  my  own  land's  sins:    for  little  feet 
Of  children  bleeding  along  the  street: 

*  For  parked-up  honors  that  gainsay 

The  r'ght  of  way : 
For  almsgiving  through  a  door  that  is 
Not  open  enough  for  two  friends  to  kiss : 

*For  love  of  fjeedom  which  abates 

Beyqnd  the  Straits: 
For  patriot  vi(."tue  starved  to  vice  on 
Self-praise,  s^lf-interest,  and  suspicion: 

'  For  an  oligarchic  parliament. 

And  bribes  well-meant. 


What  curse  to  another  land  assign. 

When  heavy-souled  for  the  sins  of  mine  ? ' 

'  Therefore,'  the    voice   said,    *  shalt   thou 
write 

My  curse  to-night. 
Because  thou  hast  strength  to  see  and  hate 
A  foul  thing  done  within  thy  gate.' 

'  Not  so,'  I  answered  once  again. 
'  To  curse,  choose  men. 
For  I,  a  -woman,  have  only  known 
How   the    heart    melts  and  the   tears  run 
down.' 

'  Therefore,'    the   voice   said,   *  shalt   thou 
write 

My  curse  to-night. 
Some  women  weep  and  curse,  I  say 
(And  no  one  marvels),  night  and  day. 

*  And  thou  shalt  take  their  part  to-night, 

Weep  and  write. 
A  curse  from  the  depths  of  womanhood 
Is  very  salt,  and  bitter,  and  good.' 

So  thus  I  wrote,  and  mourned  indeed. 

What  all  may  read. 
And  thus,  as  was  enjoined  on  me, 
I  send  it  over  the  Western  Sea. 


THE  CURSE 

I 

Because  ye  have  broken  your  own  chain 

With  the  strain 
Of  brave  men  climbing  a  Nation's  height, 
Yet  thence  bear  down  with  brand  and  thong 
On  souls  of  others,  —  for  this  wrong 

This  is  the  curse.     Write. 

Because  yourselves  are  standing  straight 

In  the  state 
Of  Freedom's  foremost  acolyte, 
Yet  keep  calm  footing  all  the  time 
On  writhing  bond-slaves,  —  for  this  crime 

This  is  the  curse.     Write. 

Because  ye  prosper  in  God's  name, 

With  a  claim 
To  honor  in  the  old  world's  sight, 
Yet  do  the  fiend's  work  perfectly 
In  strangling  martyrs,  —  for  this  lie 

This  is  the  curse.     Write. 


424 


LAST    POEMS 


II 
Ye  shall  watch  while  kings  conspire 
Round  the  people's  smouldering  fire, 

And,  warm  for  your  part, 
Shall  never  dare  —  O  shame  ! 
To  utter  the  thought  into  flame 
Which  burns  at  your  heart. 

This  is  the  curse.     Write. 

Ye  shall  watch  while  nations  strive 
With  the  bloodhounds,  die  or  survive, 

Drop  faint  from  their  jaws. 
Or  throttle  them  backward  to  death; 
And  only  under  your  breath 

Shall  favor  the  cause. 

This  is  the  curse.     Write. 

Ye  shall  watch  while  strong  men  draw 
The  nets  of  feudal  law 

To  strangle  the  weak; 
And,  counting  the  sin  for  a  sin, 
Your  soul  shall  be  sadder  within 

Thau  the  word  ye  shall  speak. 

This  is  the  curse.     Write. 

When  good  men  are  praying  erect 
That  Christ  may  avenge  his  elect 

And  deliver  the  earth, 
The  prayer  in  your  ears,  said  low, 


Shall  sound  like  the  tramp  of  g,  foe 
That 's  driving  you  forth. 

This  is  the  curse.     Write. 

When  wise  men  give  you  their  praise, 
They  shall  pause  in  the  heat  of  the  phrase, 

As  if  carried  too  far. 
When  ye  boast   your   own   charters   kept 

true. 
Ye    shall  blush;  for  the   thing   which   ye 


do 
Derides  what  ye  are. 

This  is  the  curse. 


Write. 


When  fools  cast  taunts  at  your  gate, 
Your  scorn  ye  shall  somewhat  abate 

As  ye  look  o'er  the  wall; 
For  your  conscience,  tradition,  and  name 
Explode  with  a  deadlier  blame 

Than  the  worst  of  them  all. 

This  is  the  curse.     Write. 

Go,  wherever  ill  deeds  shall  be  done, 
Go,  plant  your  flag  in  the  sun 

Beside  the  ill-doers  ! 
And  recoil  from  clenching  the  curse 
Of  God's  witnessing  Universe 

With  a  curse  of  yours. 

This  is  the  curse.     Write. 


LAST   POEMS 


TO   'GRATEFUL  FLORENCE,' 

TO    THE    MUNICIPALITY,    HER    REPRESENTATIVE, 
AND    TO    TOMMASEO,    ITS    SPOKESMAN, 

MOST  GRATEFULLY 


The  last  winter  of  Mrs.  Browning-'s  life  was 
passed  at  No.  16  Via  Felice,  now  the  Via  Sistina, 
Rome.  She  died  in  Florence  on  the  evening 
of  June  29,  1861,  leaving-  behind  her  a  short 
list  of  unpublished  poems  which  she  herself 
had  drawn  up,  doubtless  with  a  view  to  an- 
other volume.  A  few  of  these  had  already 
appeared  in  periodicals.  One,  '  De  Profundis,' 
had  been  written  twenty  years  before.  These 
poems  her  husband  brought  out  in  London  in 
the  ensuing  February  (London,  Chapman  and 
Hall,  193  Piccadilly,  1862),  adding  the  transla- 
tions which  here  accompany  them  ;  concern- 
ing which  last  he  says :   '  They  were  intended 


many  years  ago  to  accompany  and  explain  cer- 
tain engravings  after  ancient  Gems,  in  the  pro- 
jected works  of  a  friend  by  whose  kindness 
they  are  now  recovered ;  but  as  two  of  the 
original  series  (the  "  Adonis  of  Bion  and  the 
' '  Song  to  the  Rose  " from  Achilles  Tatius)  have 
subsequently  appeared,  it  is  presumed  that 
the  remainder  may  not  improperly  follow. 
A  single  recent  version  (from  Heine)  is  added.' 
The  words  '  grateful  Florence,'  '  grata 
Firenze,^  in  the  dedication  to  this  last  volume, 
are  a  quotation  from  the  memorial  tablet  to 
Mrs,  Browning's  memory,  insertt^d  in  the  wall 
of  Casa  Guidi  by  the  municipality  of  Florence. 


LITTLE    MATTIE 


425 


LITTLE  MATTIE 

First  printed  in  the  Cornkill  Magazine,  June, 
1861. 


Dead  !     Thirteen  a  month  ago  ! 

Short  and  narrow  her  life's  walk; 
Lover's  love  she  could  not  know 

Even  by  a  dream  or  talk: 
Too  young  to  be  glad  of  youth, 

Missing  honor,  labor,  rest. 
And  the  warmth  of  a  babe's  mouth 

At  the  blossom  of  her  breast. 
Must  you  pity  her  for  this 
And  for  all  the  loss  it  is, 
You,  her  mother,  with  wet  face. 
Having  had  all  in  your  case  ? 


10 


II 

Just  so  young  but  yesternight, 

Now  she  is  as  old  as  death. 
Meek,  obedient  in  your  sight, 

Gentle  to  a  beck  or  breath 
Only  on  last  Monday  !     Yours, 

Answering  you  like  silver  bells 
Lightly  touched  !     An  hour  matures: 

You  can  teach  her  nothing  else. 
She  has  seen  the  mystery  hid 
Under  Egypt's  pyramid: 
By  those  eyelids  pale  and  close 
Now  she  kJaows  what  Rhamses  knows. 

Ill 

Cross  her  quiet  hands,  and  smooth 

Down  her  patient  locks  of  silk, 
Cold  and  passive  as  in  truth 

You  your  fingers  in  spilt  milk 
Drew  along  a  marble  floor; 

But  her  lips  you  cannot  wring 
Into  saying  a  word  more, 

'  Yes,'  or  '  No,'  or  such  a  thing: 
Thoiigh  you  call  and  beg  and  wreak 
Half  your  soul  out  in  a  shriek. 
She  will  lie  there  in  default 
And  most  innocent  revolt. 

IV 

Ay,  and  if  she  spoke,  maybe 
She  would  answer,  like  the  Son, 

*  What  is  now  'twixt  thee  and  me  ?  ' 
Dreadful  answer  !  better  none. 


20 


30 


40 


Yours  on  Monday,  God's  to-day  ! 

Yours,    your    child,    your    blood,    your 
heart. 
Called  .  .  .  you  called  her,  did  you  say, 

'  Little  Mattie  '  for  your  part  ? 
Now  already  it  sounds  strange, 
And  you  wonder,  in  this  change. 
What  He  calls  his  angel-creature, 
Higher  up  than  you  can  reach  her. 


'T  was  a  green  and  easy  world 

As  she  took  it;  room  to  play  50 

(Though  one's  hair  might  get  uncurled 

At  the  far  end  of  the  day). 
What  she  suffered  she  shook  off 

In  the  sunshine;  what  she  sinned 
She  could  pray  on  high  enough 

To  keep  safe  above  the  wind. 
If  reproved  by  God  or  you, 
'Twas  to  better  her,  she  knew; 
And  if  crossed,  she  gathered  still 
'T  was  to  cross  out  something  ill.  69 

VI 

You,  you  had  the  right,  you  thoughtj 

To  survev  her  with  sweet  scorn. 
Poor  gay  child,  who  had  not  caught 

Yet  the  octave-stretch  forlorn 
Of  your  larger  wisdom  !     Nay, 

Now  your  places  are  changed  so, 
In  that  same  superior  way 

She  regards  you  dull  and  low 
As  you  did  herself  exempt 
From  life's  sorrows.     Grand  contempt      70 
Of  the  spirits  risen  awhile. 
Who  look  back  with  such  a  smile  ! 

VII 

There  's  the  sting  of  't.     That,  I  think, 

Hurts  the  most  a  thousandfold  ! 
To  feel  sudden,  at  a  wink, 

Some  dear  child  we  used  to  scold. 
Praise,  love  both  ways,  kiss  and  tease, 

Teach  and  tumble  as  our  own, 
All  its  curls  about  our  knees. 

Rise  up  suddenly  full-grown.  8c 

Who  could  wonder  such  a  sight 
Made  a  woman  mad  outright  ? 
Show  me  Michael  with  the  sword 
Rather  than  such  angels.  Lord  ! 


426 


LAST   POEMS 


A  FALSE   STEP 

Sweet,  thou  hast  trod  on  a  heart. 

Pass ;  there  's  a  world  full  of  men ; 
And  women  as  fair  as  thou  art 

Must  do  such  things  now  and  then. 

Thou  hast  only  stepped  unaware,  — 

Malice,  not  one  can  impute; 
And  why  should  a  heart  have  been  there 

In  the  way  of  a  fair  woman's  foot  ? 

It  was  not  a  stone  that  could  trip, 
Nor  was  it  a  thorn  that  could  rend: 

Put  up  thy  proud  under-lip  ! 

'T  was  merely  the  heart  of  a  friend. 

And  yet  peradventure  one  day 
Thou,  sitting  alone  at  the  glass, 

Remarking  the  bloom  gone  away. 

Where  the  smile  in  its  dimplement  was, 

And  seeking  around  thee  in  vain 

From  hundreds  who  flattered  before. 

Such  a  word  as  *  Oh,  not  in  the  main 

Do    I    hold    thee     less     precious,    but 
more  ! '  .  .  . 

Thou  'It  sigh,  very  like,  on  thy  part, 
'  Of  all  I  have  known  or  can  know, 

I  wish  I  had  only  that  Heart 
I  trod  upon  ages  ago  ! ' 


VOID    IN    LAW 


Sleep,  little  babe,  on  my  knee. 
Sleep,  for  the  midnight  is  chill. 

And  the  moon  has  died  out  in  the  tree, 
And  the  great  human  world  goeth  ill. 

Sleep,  for  the  wicked  agree: 
Sleep,  let  them  do  as  they  will. 
Sleep. 

II 

Sleep,  thou  hast  drawn  from  my  breast 
The  last  drop  of  milk  that  was  good; 

And  now,  in  a  dream,  suck  the  rest, 
Lest  the  real  should  trouble  thy  bloods 

Suck,  little  lips  dispossessed, 

As  we  kiss  in  the  air  whom  we  would. 
Sleep. 


Ill 
O  lips  of  thy  father  !  the  same, 

So  like  !     Very  deeply  they  swore 
When  he  gave  me  his  ring  and  his  name. 

To  take  back,  I  imagined,  no  more  ! 
And  now  is  all  changed  like  a  game. 

Though   the  old  cards   are   used   as   of 
yore  ? 
Sleep. 

IV 

'  Void   in   law,'  said   the    Courts.     Some- 
thing wrong 
In  the  forms  ?     Yet,  '  Till  death  part  us 
two, 
I,  James,  take  thee,  Jessie,'  was  strong. 

And  One  witness  competent.     True 
Such  a  marriage  was  worth  an  old  song. 
Heard  in  Heaven  though,  as  plain  as  the 
New. 
Sleep. 


Sleep,  little  child,  his  and  mine  ! 

Her  throat  has  the  antelope  curve. 
And  her  cheek  just  the  color  and  line 

Which  fade  not  before  him  nor  swerve: 
Yet  she  has  no  child  !  —  the  divine 

Seal  of  right  upon  loves  that  deserve. 
Sleep. 

VI 

My  child  !  though  the  world  take  her  part, 
Saying  *  She  was  the  woman  to  choose; 

He  had  eyes,  was  a  man  in  his  heart,'  — 
We  twain  the  decision  refuse : 

We  .  .  .  weak  as  I  am,  as  thou  art,  .  .  . 
Cling  on  to  him,  never  to  loose. 
Sleep. 

VII 

He  thinks  that,  when  done  with  this  place, 
All 's  ended  !  he  '11  new-stamp  the  ore  ? 
Yes,  Caesar's  —  but  not  in  our  case. 

Let  him  learn  we  are  waiting  before 
The  grave's  mouth,  the  heaven's  gate,  God's 
face. 
With  implacable  love  evermore. 
Sleep. 

VIII 

He  's  ours,  though  he  kissed  her  but  now. 
He  's  ours,  though  she  kissed  in  reply: 
He 's  ours,  though  himself  disavow, 


LORD    WALTER'S   WIFE 


427 


And  God's  universe  favor  the  lie; 
Ours  to  claim,  ours  to  clasp,  ours  below^ 
Ours  above,  ...  if  we  five,  if  we  die. 
Sleep. 

IX 

Ah  baby,  my  baby,  too  rough 

Is  my  lullaby  ?     What  have  I  said  ? 

Sleep  !     When  I  've  wept  long  enough 
I  shall  learn  to  weep  softly  instead, 

And  piece  with  some  alien  stuff 

My  heart  to  lie  smooth  for  thy  head. 
Sleepo 


Two  souls  met  upon  thee,  my  sweet; 

Two  loves  led  thee  out  to  the  sun: 
Alas,  pretty  hands,  pretty  feet, 

If  the  one  who  remains  (only  one) 
Set  her  grief  at  thee,  turned  in  a  heat 

To  thine  enemy,  —  were  it  well  done  ? 
Sleep, 

XI 

May  He  of  the  manger  stand  near 
And  love  thee  !     An  infant  He  came 

To  his  own  who  rejected  Him  here. 

But  the  Magi  brought  gifts  all  the  same^ 

/  hurry  the  cross  on  my  Dear  ! 
My  gifts  are  the  griefs  I  declaim  ! 
Sleep. 


LORD    WALTER'S   WIFE 

This  poem,  to  Mrs.  BrownLag's  deep  chagrin, 
was  rejected  (with  a  thousand  apologies)  by 
Thackeray,  as  editor  of  the  Cornhill  Magazine, 
on  account  of  the  risque  character  of  its  subject. 

*  But  why  do  you  go  ? '  said  the  lady, 
while  both  sat  under  the  yew. 

And  her  eyes  were  alive  in  their  depth,  as 
the  kraken  beneath  the  sea-blue, 

'  Because  I  fear  you,'  he  answered;  —  'be- 
cause you  are  far  too  fair. 

And  able  to  strangle  my  soul  in  a  mesh  of 
your  gold-colored  hair.' 

'  Oh,  that,'  she  said,  '  is  no  reason  !  Such 
knots  are  quickly  undone. 

And  too  much  beautv,  I  reckon,  is  nothino 
but  too  much  sun.' 


'Yet  farewell  so,'  he  answered; — 'the 
sunstroke  's  fatal  at  times. 

I  value  your  husband,  Lord  Walter,  whose 
gallop  rings  still  from  the  limes.' 

'Oh,  that,'  she  said,  'is  no  reason.  You 
smell  a  rose  through  a  fence: 

If  two  should  smell  it,  what  matter  ?  who 
grumbles,  and  where 's  the  pre- 
tence ? '  10 

'  But  I,'  he  replied, '  have  promised  another, 

when  love  was  free. 
To  love  her   alone,  alone,  who  alone  and 

afar  loves  me.' 

'  Why,  that,'  she  said,  '  is  no  reason. 
Love  's  always  free,  I  am  told. 

Will  you  vow  to  be  safe  from  the  head- 
ache on  Tuesday,  and  think  it  will 
hold?' 

'  But  you,'  he  replied,  '  have  a  daughter,  a 
young  little  child,  who  was  laid 

In  your  lap  to  be  pure;  so  I  leave  youi 
the  angels  would  make  me  afraid.' 

'  Oh,  that,'  she  said,  '  is  no  reason.  The 
angels  keep  out  of  the  way; 

And  Dora,  the  child,  observes  nothing,  al- 
though  you  should   please  me  and 

stay.' 

At  which  he  rose  up  in  his  anger,  —  '  Why, 
now,  you  no  longer  are  fair  ! 

Why,  now,  you  no  longer  are  fatal,  but 
ugly  and  hateful,  I  swear.' 


20 


At  which  she  laughed  out  in  her  scorn: 
'  These  men  !  Oh,  these  men  over-^ 
nice. 

Who  are  shocked  if  a  color  not  virtuous  is 
frankly  put  on  by  a  vice,' 

Her  eyes  blazed  upon  him  — '  And  you  I 
You  bring  us  your  vices  so  near 

That  we  smell  them  !  You  think  in  our 
presence  a  thought  't  would  defame 
us  to  hear  ! 

'  What  reason  had  you,  and  what  right,  — 
I  appeal  to  your  soul  from  my  life,  — 

To  find  me  too  fair  as  a  woman  ?  Why. 
sir,  I  am  pure,  and  a  wife. 


428 


LAST   POEMS 


'  Is  the  day-star  too  fair  up  above  you  ?  It 
burns  you  not.     Dare  you  imply 

I  brushed  you  more  close  than  the  star  does, 
when  Walter  had  set  me  as  high  ? 

*  If  a  man  finds  a  woman  too  fair,  he  means 

simply  adapted  too  much 
To  uses  unlawful  and  fatal.    The  praise  !  — 
shall  I  thank  you  for  such  ?  30 

*  Too  fair  ?  —  not  unless  you  misuse  us  ! 

and  surely  if,  once  in  a  while, 
You  attain  to  it,  straightway  you  call  us  no 
longer  too  fair,  but  too  vilco 

*  A  moment,  —  I  pray  your  attention  !  —  I 

have  a  poor  word  in  my  head 
I    must    utter,    though    womanly   custom 
would  set  it  down  better  unsaid. 

'  You  grew,  sir,  pale  to  impertinence,  once 
when  I  showed  you  a  ring. 

You  kissed  my  fan  when  I  dropped  it.  No 
matter  !  —  1  've  broken  the  thing, 

'You  did  me  the  honor,  perhaps,  to  be 
moved  at  my  side  now  and  then 

In  the  senses  —  a  vice,  I  have  heard,  which 
is  common  to  beasts  and  some  men. 

'  Love  's  a  virtue  for  heroes  !  —  as  white  as 

the  snow  on  high  hills, 
And  immortal  as  every  great  soul  is  that 

struggles^  endures,  and  fulfils.        40 

*  I    love    my    Walter    profoundly,  —  you, 

Maude,  though  you  faltered  a  week. 
For  the  sake  of  .  .  .  what  was  it  —  an  eye- 
brow ?     or,  less  still,  a  mole  on  a 
cheek  ? 

*  And    since^  when    all 's    said,  you  're    too 

noble  to  stoop  to  the  frivolous  cant 
About  crimes  irresistible,  virtues  that  swin- 
dle, betray,  and  supplant, 

'  I  determined  to  prove  to  yourself  that, 
whate'er  you  might  dream  or  avow 

By  illusion,  you  wanted  precisely  no  more 
of  me  than  you  have  now. 

*  There  !    Look  me  full    in  the  face  !  —  in 

the  face.     Understand,  if  you  can. 
That  the  eyes  of  such  women  as  I  am  are 
clean  as  the  palm  of  a  man. 


'  Drop  his  hand,  you  insult  him.  Avoid  us 
for  fear  we  should  cost  you  a  scar  — 

You  take  us  for  harlots,  I  tell  you,  and  not 
for  the  women  we  are„  50 

'You  wronged  me:  but  then  I  considered 
.  .  .  there  's  Walter  !  And  so  at 
the  end 

I  vowed  that  he  should  not  be  mulcted,  by 
me,  in  the  hand  of  a  friend. 

'  Have  I  hurt  you  indeed  ?  We  are  quits 
then.  Nay,  friend  of  my  Walter, 
be  mine  ! 

Come,  Dora,  my  darling,  my  angel,  and 
help  me  to  ask  him  to  dine.' 


BIANCA     AMONG     THE 
NIGHTINGALES 


The  cypress  stood  up  like  a  church 

That  night  we  felt  our  love  would  hold. 
And  saintly  moonlight  seemed  to  search 

And  wash  the  whole  world  clean  as  gold; 
The  olives  crystallized  the  vales' 

Broad  slopes  until  the  hills  grew  strong: 
The  iireflies  and  the  nightingales 

Throbbed  each  to  either,  flame  and  song. 
The  nightingales,  the  nightingales  ! 

II 

Upon  the  angle  of  its  shade 

The  cypress  stood,  self-balanced  high; 
Half  up,  half  down,  as  double-made. 

Along-  the  ground,  against  the  sky; 
And  we,  too  !  from  such  soul-height  went 

Such  leaps  of  blood,  so  blindly  driven. 
We  scarce  knew  if  our  nature  meant 

Most  passionate  earth  or  intense  heaven. 
The  nightingales,  the  nightingales  ! 

Ill 
We  paled  with  love,  we  shook  with  love. 

We  kisseid  so  close  we  could  not  vow; 
Till  Giulio  whispered  '  Sweet,  above 

God's  Evor  guaranties  this  Now.* 
And  througl   his  words  the  nightingales 

Drove  str  aight  and  full  their  long  clear 
call 
Like  arrow,    through  heroic  mails, 

And  love  was  awful  in  it  all. 
The  nightin  g-ales,  the  nightingales  ! 


BIANCA  AMONG   THE   NIGHTINGALES 


429 


IV 

O  cold  white  moonlight  of  the  north, 

Refresh  these  pulses,  quench  this  hell ! 
O  coverture  of  death  drawn  forth 

Across  this  garden-chamber  .  .  .  well ! 
But  what  have  nightingales  to  do 

In  gloomy  England,  called  the  free  .  . 
(Yes,  free  to  die  in  !  .  .  .)  when  we  two 

Are  sundered,  singing  still  to  me  ? 
And  still  they  sing,  the  nightingales  ! 


I  think  I  hear  him,  how  be  cried 

'  My   own   soul's    life  ! '    between    their 
notes. 
Each  man  has  but  one  soul  supplied, 

And     that's     immortal.      Though     his 
throat 's 
On  fire  with  passion  now,  to  her 

He  can't  say  what  to  me  he  said  ! 
And  yet  he  moves  her,  they  aver. 

The     nightingales     sing      through     my 
head, — 
The  nightingales,  the  nightingales  ! 

VI 

He  says  to  her  what  moves  her  most. 

He  would  not  naine  his  soul  within 
Her  hearing,  — rather  pays  her  cost 

With  praises  to  her  lips  and  chin. 
Man  has  but  one  soul,  'tis  ordained, 

And  each  soul  but  one  love,  I  add; 
Yet'souls  are  damned  and  love's  profaned; 

These  nigfhtino^ales  will  sing  me  mad  ! 
The  nightingales,  the  nightingales  ! 


VII 

I  marvel  how  the  birds  can  sing. 

There 's  little  difference,  in  their  view. 
Betwixt  our  Tuscan  trees  that  spring 

As  vital  flames  into  the  blue. 
And  dull  round  blots  of  foliage  meant. 

Like  saturated  sponges  here 
To  suck  the  fogs  up.     As  content 

Is  he  too  in  this  land,  't  is  clear. 
And  still  they  sing,  the  nightingales. 

VIII 

My  Native  Florence  !  dear,  forgone  ! 

I  see  across  the  Alpine  ridge 
How  the  last  feast-day  of  Saint  John 

Shot  rockets  from  Carraia  bridge. 
The  luminous  city,  tall  with  fire. 

Trod  deep  down  in  that  river  of  ours. 
While  many  a  boat  with  lamp  and  choir 


Skimmed  birdlike  over  glittering  towers. 
I  will  not  hear  these  nightingales. 

IX 

I  seem  to  float,  we  seem  to  float 

Down  Arno's  stream  in  festive  guise; 
A  boat  strikes  flame  into  our  boat. 

And  up  that  lady  seems  to  rise 
As  then  she  rose.     The  shock  had  flashed 

A  vision  on  us  !     What  a  head, 
What  leaping  eyeballs  !  —  beauty  dashed 

To  splendor  by  a  sudden  dread. 
And  still  they  sing,  the  nightingales. 

X 

Too  bold  to  sin,  too  weak  to  die; 

Such  women  are  so.     As  for  me, 
I  would  we  had  drowned  there,  he  and  I, 

That  moment,  loving  perfectly. 
He  had  not  caught  her  with  her  loosed 

Gold     ringlets     .      .      .     rarer     in     the 
south  .  .   . 
Nor  heard  the  '  Grazie  tanto  '  bruised 

To  sweetness  by  her  English  mouth. 
And  still  they  sing,  the  nightingales. 

XI 

She  had  not  reached  him  at  my  heart 

With  her  fine  tongue,  as  snakes  indeed 
Kill  flies;  nor  had  I,  for  my  part. 

Yearned  after,  in  my  desperate  need. 
And  followed  him  as  he  did  her 

To  coasts  left  bitter  by  the  tide, 
Whose  very  nightingales,  elsewhere 

Delighting,  torture  and  deride  ! 
For  still  they  sing,  the  nightingales. 

XII 

A  worthless  woman;  mere  cold  clay 

As  all  false  things  are:  but  so  fair, 
She  takes  the  breath  of  men  away 

Who  gaze  upon  her  unaware. 
I  would  not  play  her  larcenous  tricks 

To  have  her  looks  !     She  lied  and  stole, 
And  spat  into  my  love's  pure  pyx 

The  rank  saliva  of  her  soul. 
And  still  they  sing,  the  nightingales. 

XIII 

I  would  not  for  her  white  and  pink. 

Though   such   he    likes  —  her   grace  of 
limb. 
Though  such  he  has  praised — nor  yet,  I 
think. 
For  life  itself,  though  spent  with  him, 


430 


LAST   POEMS 


Commit  such  sacrilege,  affront 

God's  nature  which  is  love,  intrude 

'Twixt  two  alBanced  souls,  and  hunt 
Like  spiders,  in  the  altar's  wood. 

I  cannot  bear  these  nightingales. 

XIV 

If  she  chose  sin,  some  gentler  guise 
She  might  have  sinned  in,  so  it  seems: 

She  might  have  pricked  out  both  my  eyes, 
And  I  still  seen  him  in  my  dreams  ! 

—  Or  drugged  me  in  my  soup  or  wine, 
Nor  left  me  angry  afterward: 

To  die  here  with  his  hand  in  mine. 

His  breath  upon  me,  were  not  hard. 
(Our  Lady  hush  these  nightingales  !) 

XV 

But  set  a  springe  for  Mm,  'mio  ben,' 

My  only  good,  my  first  last  love  !  — 
Though  Christ  knows  well  what  sin  is,  when 

He   sees   some   things    done    they  must 
move 
Himself  to  wonder.     Let  her  pass. 

I  think  of  her  by  night  and  day. 
Must  /  too  join  her  .  .  .  out,  alas  !  .  .  . 

With  Giulio,  in  each  word  I  say  ? 
And  evermore  the  nightingales  ! 

XVI 

Giulio,  my  Giulio  !  —  sing  they  so. 
And  you  be  silent  ?     Do  I  speak. 

And  you  not  hear  ?     An  arm  you  throw 
Round  some  one,  and  I  feel  so  weak  ? 

—  Oh,  owl-like  birds  !    They  sing  for  spite, 
They  sing  for  hate,  they  sing  for  doom. 

They  '11    sing    through     death     who    sing 
through  night. 
They  '11  sing  and  stun  me  in  the  tomb  — 
The  nightingales,  the  nightingales  ! 


MY    KATE 


She  was  not  as  pretty  as  women  I  know. 

And  yet  all  your  best  made  of  sunshine  and 
snow 

Drop  to  shade,  melt  to  nought  in  the  long- 
trodden  ways, 

While  she  's  still  remembered  on  warm  and 
cold  days  — 

My  Kate. 


II 

Her  air  had  a  meaning,  her  movements  a 

grace ; 
You  turned  from  the  fairest  to  gaze  on  her 

face: 
And  when  you  had  once  seen  her  forehead 

and  mouth, 
You   saw  as   distinctly  her   soul   and   her 

truth  — 

My  Kate. 

Ill 

Such  a  blue  inner  light  from  her  eyelids 

outbroke, 
You  looked  at  her  silence  and  fancied  she 

spoke: 
When    she    did,  so  peculiar   yet  soft  was 

the  tone, 
Though  the  loudest  spoke  also,  you  heard 

her  alone  — 

My  Kate. 

IV 

I  doubt  if  she  said  to  you  much  that  could 

act 
As  a  thought  or  suggestion:  she  did  not 

attract 
In   the    sense   of   the   brilliant  or  wise:   I 

infer 
'T  was  her  thinking  of   others  made  you 

think  of  her  — 

My  Kate. 

V 

She  never  found  fault  with  you,  never  im- 
plied 

Your  wrong  by  her  right;  and  yet  men  at 
her  side 

Grew  nobler,  girls  purer,  as  through  the 
whole  town 

The  children  were  gladder  that  pulled  at 
her  gown  — 

My  Kate. 

VI 

None  knelt  at  her  feet  confessed  lovers  in 

thrall ; 
They  knelt  more  to  God  than  they  used,  — 

that  was  all: 
If  you  praised  her  as  charming,  some  asked 

what  you  meant, 
But  the    charm  of  her  presence  was  felt 

when  she  went  — 

My  Kate. 


A   SONG   FOR   THE   RAGGED    SCHOOLS    OF   LONDON       431 


VII 

The  weak  and  the  gentle,  the  ribald  and 

rude, 
She  took  as  she  found  them,  and  did  them 

all  good; 
It  always  was  so  with  her  —  see  what  you 

have  ! 
She  has  made  the  grass  greener  even  here 

.  .  .  with  her  grave  — 

My  Kate. 

VIII 

My  dear  one  !  —  when  thou  wast  alive  with 

the  rest, 
I  held  thee  the  sweetest  and  loved  thee  the 

best  : 
And  now  thou  art  dead,  shall  I  not  take  thy 

part 
As  thy  smiles  used  to  do  for  thyself,  my 

sweet  Heart  — 

My  Kate  ? 


A  SONG  FOR  THE  RAGGED 
SCHOOLS  OF  LONDON 

Written  in  Rome 

The  '  Song-  for  the  Rag'ged  Schools '  was  writ- 
ten in  1854  for  the  table  at  a  Charity  Bazaar  in 
London  presided  over  by  Mrs.  Browning-' s  sis- 
ter, Arabella  Moulton  Barrett,  afterward  Mrs. 
Surtees  Cook.  Mr.  Browning-  also  contributed 
a  poem  called  '  The  Twins,'  and  the  two  were 
prmted  with  the  names  of  husband  and  wife, 
in  a  thin  pamphlet,  price  Of/. 

I  AM  listening  here  in  Rome. 

'  England  's  strong,'  say  many  speakers, 
'  If  she  winks,  the  Czar  must  come. 

Prow  and  topsail,  to  the  breakers.' 

'  England 's  rich  in  coal  and  oak,' 
Adds  a  Roman,  getting  moody; 

'  If  she  shakes  a  travelling  cloak, 
Down  our  Appian  roll  the  scudi.' 

'England  's  righteous,'  they  rejoin: 

'  Who  shall  grudge  her  exaltations,         10 

When  her  wealth  of  golden  coin 
Works  the  welfare  of  the  nations  ?  ' 

I  am  listening  here  in  Rome. 

Over  Alps  a  voict  is  sweeping  — 
'  England  's  cruel,  sa  *e  us  some 

Of  these  victims  in  her  keeping  ! ' 


As  the  cry  beneath  the  wheel 

Of  an  old  triumphant  Roman 
Cleft  the  people's  shouts  like  steel. 

While  the  show  was  spoilt  for  no  man,  20 

Comes  that  voice.     Let  others  shout, 
Other  poets  praise  my  land  here: 

I  am  sadly  sitting  out, 

Praying,  '  God  forgive  her  grandeur.' 

Shall  we  boast  of  empire,  where 
Time  with  ruin  sits  commissioned  ? 

In  God's  liberal  blue  air 

Peter's  dome  itself  looks  wizened; 

And  the  mountains,  in  disdain. 

Gather  back  their  lights  of  opal  30 

From  the  dumb  despondent  plain 

Heaped  with  jawbones  of  a  people. 

Lordly  English,  think  it  o'er, 

Csesar's  doing  is  all  undone  ! 
You  have  cannons  on  your  shore. 

And  free  Parliaments  in  London; 

Princes'  parks,  and  merchants'  homes, 
Tents  for  soldiers,  ships  for  seamen,  — 

Ay,  but  ruins  worse  than  Rome's 

In  your  pauper  men  and  women.  4c 

Women  leering  through  the  gas 

(Just  such  bosoms  used  to  nurse  you), 

Men,  turned  wolves  by  famine  —  pass  ! 
Those  can  speak  themselves,  and  curse 
you. 

But  these  others  —  children  small. 

Spilt  like  blots  about  the  city, 
Quay,  and  street,  and  palace- wall  — 

Take  them  up  into  your  pity  ! 


50 


Ragged  children  with  bare  feet. 
Whom  the  angels  in  white  raiment 

Know  the  names  of,  to  repeat 

When  they  come  on  you  for  payment. 


Ragged  children,  hungry-eyed. 
Huddled  up  out  of  the  coldness 

On  your  doorsteps,  side  by  side, 

Till  your  footman  damns  their  boldness. 

In  the  alleys,  in  the  squares, 

Begging,  lying  little  rebels; 
In  the  noisy  thoroughfares, 

Struggling  on  with  piteous  trebles.        60 


432 


LAST   POEMS 


Patient  children  —  think  what  pain 

Makes  a  young  child  patient  —  ponder  ! 

Wronged  too  commonly  to  strain 
After  right,  or  wish,  or  wonder. 

Wicked  children,  with  peaked  chins, 
And  old  foreheads  !  there  are  many 

With  no  pleasures  except  sins, 
Gambling  with  a  stolen  penny. 

Sickly  children,  that  whine  low 

To  themselves  and  not  their  mothers,    70 
From  mere  habit,  —  never  so 

Hoping  help  or  care  from  others. 

Healthy  children,  with  those  blue 

English  eyes,  fresh  from  their  Maker, 

Fierce  and  ravenous,  staring  through 
At  the  brown  loaves  of  the  baker. 

I  am  listening  here'  in  Rome, 

And  the  Romans  are  confessing, 

'  English  children  pass  in  bloom 

All  the  prettiest  made  for  blessing.        80 

^  Angli  angeli!^  (resumed 

From  the  mediaeval  story) 
'  Such  rose  angelhoods,  emplumed 

In  such  ringlets  of  pure  glory  ! ' 

Can  we  smooth  down  the  bright  hair, 
O  my  sisters,  calm,  unthrilled  in 

Our  heart's  pulses  ?     Can  we  bear 
The  sweet  looks  of  our  own  children. 

While  those  others,  lean  and  small, 

Scurf  and  mildew  of  the  city,  go 

Spot  our  streets,  convict  us  all 
Till  we  take  them  into  pity  ? 

'  Is  it  our  fault  ?  '  you  reply, 
'  When,  throughout  civilization, 

Every  nation's  empery 
Is  asserted  by  starvation  ? 

'  All  these  mouths  we  cannot  feed, 
And  we  cannot  clothe  these  bodies.' 

Well,  if  man  's  so  hard  indeed, 

Let  them  learn  at  least  what  God  is  !   100 

Little  outcasts  from  life's  fold. 

The  grave's  hope  they  may  be  joined  in. 
By  Christ's  covenant  consoled 

For  our  social  contract's  grinding. 


If  no  better  can  be  done, 

Let  us  do  but  this,  — -  endeavor 

That  the  sun  behind  the  sun 

Shine  upon  them  while  they  shiver  ! 

On  the  dismal  London  flags. 

Through  the  cruel  social  juggle,  no 

Put  a  thought  beneath  their  rags 

To  ennoble  the  heart's  struggle. 

O  my  sisters,  not  so  much 

Are  we  asked  for  —  not  a  blossom 
From  our  children's  nosegay,  such 

As  we  gave  it  from  our  bosom,  — 

Not  the  milk  left  in  their  cup, 

Not  the  lamp  while  they  are  sleeping. 

Not  the  little  cloak  hung  up 

While  the  coat 's  in  daily  keeping,  —  120 


But  a  place  in  Ragged  Schools, 
Where  the  outcasts  may  to-morrow 

Learn  by  gentle  words  and  rules 
Just  the  uses  of  their  sorrow. 

O  my  sisters  !  children  small, 

Blue-eyed,  wailing  through  the  city 

Our  own  babes  cry  in  them  all: 
Let  us  take  them  into  pity. 


MAY'S  LOVE 


You  love  all,  you  say. 

Round,  beneath,  above  me; 

Find  me  then  some  way 
Better  than  to  love  me, 

Me,  too,  dearest  May  ! 

II 

O  world-kissing  eyes 

Which  the  blue  heavens  melt  to; 
I,  sad,  overwise, 

Loathe  the  sweet  looks  dealt  to 
All  things  —  men  and  flies. 

Ill 

You  love  all,  you  say: 

Therefore,  Dear,  abate  me 

Just  your  love,  I  pray  ! 

Shut  your  eyes  and  hate  me  — 

Only  me  —  fair  I^iay  ! 


MY   HEART   AND    I 


433 


AMY'S  CRUELTY 

Fair  Amy  of  the  terraced  house, 

Assist  me  to  discover 
Why  you  who  would  not  hurt  a  mouse 

Can  torture  so  your  lover. 

You  give  your  coffee  to  the  cat, 
You  stroke  the  dog  for  comiug, 

And  all  your  face  grows  kinder  at 
The  little  brown  bee's  humming. 

But  when  he  haunts  your  door  .  .  .  the  town 
Marks  coming  and  marks  going  .  .  . 

You   seem   to   have    stitched  your  eyelids 
down 
To  that  long  piece  of  sewing  ! 

You  never  give  a  look,  not  you, 
Nor  drop  him  a  '  Good  morning,' 

To  keep  his  long  day  warm  and  blue, 
So  fretted  by  your  scorning. 

She  shook  her  head  — '  The  mouse  and  bee 
For  crumb  or  flower  will  linger: 

The  dog  is  happy  at  my  knee, 
The  cat  purrs  at  my  finger. 

*  But  ^e  ...  to  Jiim,  the  least  thing  given 

Means  great  things  at  a  distance; 
He  wants  my  world,  my  sun,  my  heaven. 
Soul,  body,  whole  existence. 

'  They  say  love  gives  as  well  as  takes ; 

But  I  'm  a  simple  maiden,  — 
My  mother's  first  smile  when  she  wakes 

I  still  have  smiled  and  prayed  in. 

*  I  only  know  my  mother's  love 

Which  gives  all  and  asks  nothing; 
And  this  new  loving  sets  the  groove 
Too  much  the  way  of  loathing. 

'  Unless  he  gives  me  all  in  change, 

I  forfeit  all  things  by  him: 
The  risk  is  terrible  and  strange  — 

I  tremble,  doubt,  .  .  .  deny  him. 

'  He  's  sweetest  friend  or  hardest  foe, 

Best  angel  or  worst  devil; 
I  either  hate  or  .  .  .  love  him  so, 

I  can't  be  merely  civil ! 

*  You  trust  a  woman  who  puts  forth 

Her  blossoms  thick  as  summer's  ? 


You  think  she  dreams  what  love  is  worth. 
Who  casts  it  to  new-comers  ? 

'  Such  love  's  a  cowslip-ball  to  fling, 

A  moment's  pretty  pastime ; 
/  give  ...  all  me,  if  anything, 

The  first  time  and  the  last  time. 

*  Dear  neighbor  of  the  trellised  house, 

A  man  should  murmur  never. 
Though  treated  worse  than  dog  and  mouse, 

Till  doated  on  for  ever  ! ' 


MY  HEART  AND  I 


Enough  !  we  're  tired,  my  heart  and  I. 
We  sit  beside  the  headstone  thus. 
And  wish  that  name  were  carved  for  us. 

The  moss  reprints  more  tenderly 

The  hard  types  of  the  mason's  knife, 
As  heaven's  sweet  life  renews  earth's  life 

With  which  we  're  tired,  my  heart  and  I. 

II 

You  see  we  're  tired,  my  heart  and  I. 
We  dealt  with  books,  we  trusted  men. 
And   in   our   own    blood   drenched    the 
pen. 

As  if  such  colors  could  not  fly. 

We  walked  too  straight  for  fortune's  end. 
We  loved  too  true  to  keep  a  friend; 

At  last  we  're  tired,  my  heart  and  I. 

Ill 

How  tired  we  feel,  my  heart  and  I ! 

We  seem  of  no  use  in  the  world; 

Our  fancies  hang  gray  and  uncurled 
About  men's  eyes  indifferently; 

Our  voice    which   thrilled  you  so,   will 
let 

You  sleep;  our  tears  are  only  wet: 
What  do  we  here,  my  heart  and  I  ? 

IV 

So  tired,  so  tired,  my  heart  and  I  ! 

It  was  not  thus  in  that  old  time 

When  Ralph  sat  with  me  'neath  the  lime 
To  watch  the  sunset  from  the  sky. 

'Dear    love,   you're    looking   tired,'  he 
said; 

I,  smiling  at  him,  shook  my  head: 
'T  is  now  we  're  tired,  my  heart  and  I. 


434 


LAST   POEMS 


So  tired,  so  tired,  my  heart  and  I  ! 

Though  now  none  takes  me  on  his  arm 
To  fold  me  close  and  kiss  me  warm 

Till  each  quick  breath  end  in  a  sigh 
Of  happy  languor.     Now,  alone, 
We  lean  upon  this  graveyard  stone, 

Uncheered,  unkissed,  my  heart  and  I. 

VI 

Tired  out  we  are,  my  heart  and  I. 
Suppose  the  world  brought  diadems 
To  tempt  us,  crusted  with  loose  gems 

Of  powers  and  pleasures  ?     Let  it  try. 
We  scarcely  care  to  look  at  even 
A  pretty  child,  or  God's  blue  heaven, 

We  feel  so  tired,  my  heart  and  I. 

VII 

Yet  who  complains  ?     My  heart  and  I  ? 
In  this  abundant  earth  no  doubt 
Is  little  room  for  things  worn  out: 

Disdain  them,  break  them,  throw  them  by  ! 
And  if  before  the  days  grew  rough 
We     once     were     loved,     used,  —  well 
enough, 

I  think,  we  've  fared,  my  heart  and  I. 


THE  BEST  THING  IN  THE  WORLD 

What  's  the  best  thing  in  the  world  ? 
June-rose,  by  May-dew  impearled; 
Sweet  south- wind,  that  means  no  rain; 
Truth,  not  cruel  to  a  friend ; 
Pleasure,  not  in  haste  to  end; 
Beauty,  not  self-decked  and  curled 
Till  its  pride  is  over-plain; 
Light,  that  never  makes  you  wink; 
Memory,  that  gives  no  pain; 
Love,  when,  so,  you  're  loved  again. 
What 's  the  best  thing  in  the  world  ? 
—  Something  out  of  it,  I  think. 


WHERE'S    AGNES? 


Nay,  if  I  had  come  back  so. 

And  found  her  dead  in  her  grave, 

And  if  a  friend  I  know 

Had  said,  '  Be  strong,  nor  rave : 

She  lies  there,  dead  below: 


II 


'  I  saw  her,  I  who  speak. 

White,  stiff,  the  face  one  blank : 
The  blue  shade  came  to  her  cheek 

Before  they  nailed  the  plank. 
For  she  had  been  dead  a  week.' 


Ill 


Why,  if  he  had  spoken  so, 

I  might  have  believed  the  thing. 

Although  her  look,  although 
Her  step,  laugh,  voice's  ring 

Lived  in  me  still  as  they  do. 


IV 


But  dead  that  other  way. 
Corrupted  thus  and  lost  ? 

That  sort  of  worm  in  the  clay  ? 
I  cannot  count  the  cost. 

That  I  should  rise  and  pay. 


V 


My  Agnes  false  ?  such  shame  ? 

She  ?     Rather  be  it  said 
That  the  pure  saint  of  her  name 

Has  stood  there  in  her  stead, 
And  tricked  you  to  this  blame. 


VI 


Her  very  gown,  her  cloak 
Fell  chastely:  no  disguise. 

But  expression  !  while  she  broke 
With  her  clear  gray  morning-eyes 

Full  upon  me  and  then  spoke. 


VII 


She  wore  her  hair  away 

From  her  forehead,  —  like  a  cloud 
Which  a  little  wind  in  May 

Peels  off  finely:  disallowed 
Though  bright  enough  to  stay. 


VIII 


For  the  heavens  must  have  the  place 
To  themselves,  to  use  and  shine  in, 

As  her  soul  would  have  her  face 
To  press  through  upon  mine,  in 

That  orb  of  angel  grace. 


IX 


Had  she  any  fault  at  all, 

'T  was  having  none,  I  thought  too 
There  seemed  a  sort  of  thrall; 

As  she  felt  her  shadow  ought  to 
Fall  straight  upon  the  wall. 


WHERE  S   AGNES  ? 


435 


X 


Her  sweetness  strained  the  sense 
Of  common  life  and  duty; 

And  every  day's  expense 
Of  moving  in  such  beauty 

Required,  almost,  defence. 


XI 


What  good,  I  thought,  is  done 
By  such  sweet  things,  if  any  ? 

This  world  smells  ill  i'  the  sun 

Though  the  garden-flowers  are  many, 

She  is  only  one. 


XII 


Can  a  voice  so  low  and  soft 
Take  open  actual  part 

With  Right,  —  maintain  aloft 
Pure  truth  in  life  or  art. 

Vexed  always,  wounded  oft  ?  — 


XIII 


She  fit,  with  that  fair  pose 

Which  melts  from  curve  to  curve. 
To  stand,  run,  work  with  those 

Who  wrestle  and  deserve. 
And  speak  plain  without  glose  ? 


XIV 


But  I  turned  round  on  my  fear 

Defiant,  disagreeing  — 
What  if  God  has  set  her  here 

Less  for  action  than  for  Being  ?  — 
For  the  eye  and  for  the  ear. 


XV 


Just  to  show  what  beauty  may. 
Just  to  prove  what  music  can,  — 

And  then  to  die  away 

From  the  presence  of  a  man, 

Who  shall  learn,  henceforth,  to  pray  ? 


XVI 


As  a  door,  left  half  ajar 

In  heaven,  would  make  him  think 
How  heavenly-diflEerent  are 

Things  glanced  at  through  the  chink. 
Till  he  pined  from  near  to  far. 


XVII 


That  door  could  lead  to  hell  ? 
That  shining  merely  meant 


Damnation  ?     What !     She  fell 

Like  a  woman,  who  was  sent 
Like  an  angel,  by  a  spell  ? 

XVIII 

She,  who  scarcely  trod  the  earth. 

Turned    mere     dirt  ?      My    Agnes, 
mine  ! 

Called  so  !  felt  of  too  much  worth 
To  be  used  so  !  too  divine 

To  be  breathed  near,  and  so  forth  I 

XIX 

Why,  I  dared  not  name  a  sin 
In  her  presence  :  I  went  round, 

Clipped  its  name  and  shut  it  in 
Some  mysterious  crystal  sound,  — 

Changed  the  dagger  for  the  pin. 


XX 

Now  you  name  herself  that  word  ? 

O  my  Agnes  !     O  my  saint  ! 
Then  the  great  joys  of  the  Lord 

Do  not  last  ?     Then  all  this  paint 
Runs  off  nature  ?  leaves  a  board  ? 

XXI 

Who 's  dead  here  ?     No,  not  she : 
Rather  I  !  or  whence  this  damp 

Cold  corruption's  misery  ? 

While  my  very  mourners  stamp 

Closer  in  the  clods  on  me. 

XXII 

And  my  mouth  is  full  of  dust 
Till  I  cannot  speak  and  curse  — 

Speak  and  damn  him  .  .  .  '  Blame  's 
just ' ? 
Sin  blots  out  the  universe. 

All  because  she  would  and  must  ? 


un- 


XXIII 


She,  my  white  rose,  dropping  off 
The  high  rose-tree  branch  !  and  not 

That  the  night-wind  blew  too  rough. 
Or  the  noon-sun  burnt  too  hot. 

But,  that  being  a  rose  —  't  was  enough  ! 


XXIV 


Then  henceforth  may  earth  grow  trees  ! 

No  more  roses  !  —  hard  straight  lines 
To  score  lies  out !  none  of  these 

Fluctuant  curves,  but  firs  and  pines. 
Poplars,  cedars,  cypresses  ! 


436 


LAST   POEMS 


DE   PROFUNDIS 

It  was  commonly  supposed,  at  the  time  of 
its  publication,  that  the  poem  '  De  Prof  undis ' 
was  called  forth  by  the  death  of  Mrs.  Brown- 
ing's sister  Henrietta,  —  Mrs.  Surtees  Cook,  — 
which  occurred  only  a  few  months  before  her 
own.  In  reality  it  had  been  written  not  long 
after  the  tragic  death  by  drowning  at  Torquay, 
of  her  brother  Edward,  on  July  11, 1840.  The 
difficulty  which  Mrs.  Browning  experienced, 
for  many  years,  about  making  any  allusion  to 
that  sharp  calamity,  which  nearly  cost  her  her 
own  life,  doubtless  caused  her  to  withhold  from 
publication  almost  to  the  last  these  peculiarly 
intimate  verses. 


The  face  which,  duly  as  the  sun, 
Rose  up  for  me  with  life  begun, 
To  mark  all  bright  hours  of  the  day 
With  hourly  love,  is  dimmed  away,  — 
And  yet  my  days  go  on,  go  on. 

II 

The   tongue    which,  like   a   stream,  could 

run 
Smooth  music  from  the  roughest  stone, 
And  every  morning  with  '  Good  day  ' 
Make  each  day  good,  is  hushed  away,  — 
And  yet  my  days  go  on,  go  on. 

Ill 

The  heart  which,  like  a  staff,  was  one 
For  mine  to  lean  and  rest  upon, 
The  strongest  on  the  longest  day 
With  steadfast  love,  is  caught  away,  — 
And  yet  my  days  go  on,  go  on. 

IV 

And  cold  before  my  summer  's  done. 
And  deaf  in  Nature's  general  tune. 
And  fallen  too  low  for  special  fear. 
And  here,  with  hope  no  longer  here,  — 
While  the  tears  drop,  my  days  go  on. 


The  world  goes  whispering  to  its  own, 
'This  anguish  pierces  to  the  bone;' 
And  tender  friends  go  sighing  round, 
'  What  love  can  ever  cure  this  wound  ? ' 
My  days  go  on,  my  days  go  on. 

VI 

The  past  rolls  forward  on  the  sun 

And  makes  all  night.     O  dreams  begun, 


Not  to  be  ended  !     Ended  bliss. 
And  life  that  will  not  end  in  this  ! 
My  days  go  on,  my  days  go  on. 


VII 


Breath  freezes  on  my  lips  to  moan; 
As  one  alone,  once  not  alone, 
I  sit  and  knock  at  Nature's  door, 
Heart-bare,  heart-hungry,  very  poor, 
Whose  desolated  days  go  on. 


VIII 


I  knock  and  cry,  —  Undone,  undone  ! 
Is  there  no  help,  no  comfort,  —  none  ? 
No  gleaning  in  the  wide  wheat-plains 
Where  others  drive  their  loaded  wains  ? 
My  vacant  days  go  on,  go  on. 


IX 


This  Nature,  though  the  snows  be  down, 
Thinks  kindly  of  the  bird  of  June: 
The  little  red  hip  on  the  tree 
Is  ripe  for  such.     What  is  for  me. 
Whose  days  so  winterly  go  on  ? 


X 


No  bird  am  I,  to  sing  in  June, 
And  dare  not  ask  an  equal  boon. 
Good  nests  and  berries  red  are  Nature's 
To  give  away  to  better  creatures,  — 
And  yet  my  days  go  on,  go  on. 


XI 


/  ask  less  kindness  to  be  done,  — 
Only  to  loose  these  pilgrim-shoon, 
(Too  early  worn  and  grimed)  with  sweet 
Cool  deathly  touch  to  these  tired  feet. 
Till  days  go  out  which  now  go  on. 


XII 


Only  to  lift  the  turf  unmown 
From  off  the  earth  where  it  has  grown, 
Some  cubit-space,  and  say  '  Behold, 
Creep  in,  poor  Heart,  beneath  that  fold. 
Forgetting  how  the  days  go  on.' 


XIII 


What  harm  would  that  do  ?     Green  anon 
The  sward  would  quicken,  overshone 
By  skies  as  blue;  and  crickets  might 
Have  leave  to  chirp  there  day  and  night 
While  my  new  rest  went  on,  went  on. 


A   MUSICAL   INSTRUMENT 


437 


XIV 


From  gracious  Nature  have  I  won 
Such  liberal  bounty  ?  may  I  ruu 
So,  lizard-like,  within  her  side, 
And  there  be  safe,  who  now  am  tried 
By  days  that  painfully  go  on  ? 


XV 


—  A  Voice  reproves  me  thereupon, 
More  sweet  than  Nature's  when  the  drone 
Of  bees  is  sweetest,  and  more  deep 
Than  when  the  rivers  overleap 
The  shuddering  pines,  and  thunder  on. 


God's   Voice,   not 


XVI 

Nature's  ! 


Night   and 
noon 
He  sits  upon  the  great  white  throne 
And  listens  for  the  creatures'  praise. 
What  babble  we  of  days  and  days  ? 
The  Day-spring  He,  whose  days  go  on. 

XVII 

He  reigns  above,  He  reigns  alone; 
Systems  burn  out  and  leave  his  throne; 
Fair  mists  of  seraphs  melt  and  fall 
Around  Him,  changeless  amid  all,  — 
Ancient  of  Days,  whose  days  go  on. 

XVIII 

He  reigns  below.  He  reigns  alone, 
And,  having  life  in  love  forgone 
Beneath  the  crown  of  sovran  thorns. 
He  reigns  the  Jealous  God,     Who  mourns 
Or  rules  with  Him,  while  days  go  on  ? 

XIX 

By  anguish  which  made  pale  the  sun, 
I  hear  Him  charge  his  saints  that  none 
Among  his  creatures  anywhere 
Blaspheme  against  Him  with  despair. 
However  darkly  days  go  on. 

XX 

Take    from    my   head    the    thorn-wreath 

brown  ! 
No  mortal  grief  deserves  that  crown. 
O  siipreme  Love,  chief  misery. 
The  sharp  regalia  are  for  Thee 
Whose  days  eternally  go  on  ! 

XXI 

For  us,  —  whatever 's  undergone. 
Thou  knowest,  wiliest  what  is  done. 


Grief  may  be  joy  misunderstood; 
Only  the  Good  discerns  the  good. 
I  trust  Thee  while  my  days  go  on. 

XXII 

Whatever  's  lost,  it  first  was  won; 
We  will  not  struggle  nor  impugn. 
Perhaps  the  cup  was  broken  here. 
That  Heaven's  new  wine  might  show  more 

clear. 
I  praise  Thee  while  my  days  go  on. 

XXIII 

I  praise  Thee  while  my  days  go  on; 
I  love  Thee  while  my  days  go  on: 
Through  dark  and  dearth,  through  fire  and 

frost. 
With  emptied  arms  and  treasure  lost, 
I  thank  Thee  while  my  days  go  on. 

XXIV 

And  having  in  thy  life-depth  thrown 
Being  and  suffering  (which  are  one), 
As  a  child  drops  his  pebble  small 
Down  some  deep  well,  and  hears  it  fall 
Smiling  —  so  I.     Thy  days  go  on. 


A   MUSICAL   INSTRUMENT 

First  printed  in  the  Cornhill  Magazine,  July, 

1860. 


What  was  he  doing,  the  great  god  Pan, 
Down  in  the  reeds  by  the  river  ? 

Spreading  ruin  and  scattering  ban. 

Splashing   and   paddling  with  hoofs  of   a 
goat. 

And  breaking  the  golden  lilies  afloat 
With  the  dragon-fly  on  the  river. 

II 

He  tore  out  a  reed,  the  great  god  Pan, 
From  the  deep  cool  bed  of  the  river: 
The  limpid  water  turbidly  ran. 
And  the  broken  lilies  a-dying  lay, 
And  the  dragon-fly  had  fled  away. 
Ere  he  brought  it  out  of  the  river. 

Ill 

High  on  the  shore  sat  the  great  god  Pan 

While  turbidly  flowed  the  river; 
And  hacked  and  hewed  as  a  great  god  can, 


438 


LAST   POEMS 


With  his  hard  bleak  steel  at  the  patient 

reed, 
Till  there  was  not  a  sign  of  the  leaf  indeed 
To  prove  it  fresh  from  the  river. 


IV 


He  cut  it  short,  did  the  great  god  Pan, 

(How  tall  it  stood  in  the  river  !) 
Then  drew  the  pith,  like  the  heart  of  a 


man, 
Steadily  from  the  outside  ring. 
And  notched  the  poor  dry  empty  thing 
In  holes,  as  he  sat  by  the  river. 

V 

'This  is  the  way,'  laughed  the  great  god 
Pan 
(Laughed  while  he  sat  by  the  river), 
'  The  only  way,  since  gods  began 
To  make  sweet  music,  they  could  succeed.' 
Then,  dropping  his  mouth  to  a  hole  in  the 
reed. 
He  blew  in  power  by  the  river. 

VI 

Sweet,  sweet,  sweet,  O  Pan  ! 

Piercing  sweet  by  the  river  ! 
Blinding  sweet,  O  great  god  Pan  ! 
The  sun  on  the  hill  forgot  to  die, 
And  the  lilies  revived,  and  the  dragon-fly 

Came  back  to  dream  on  the  river. 

VII 

Yet  half  a  beast  is  the  great  god  Pan, 
To  laugh  as  he  sits  by  the  river. 

Making  a  poet  out  of  a  man: 

The  true  gods  sigh  for  the  cost  and  pain,  — 

For  the  reed  which  grows  nevermore  again 
As  a  reed  with  the  reeds  in  the  river. 


FIRST    NEWS     FROM    VILLA- 
FRANCA 


Peace,  peace,  peace,  do  you  say  ? 

What  !  —  with  the  enemy's  guns  in  our 

ears  ? 
With  the  country's  wrong  not  rendered 
back? 
What  !  —  while  Austria  stands  at  bay 
In  Mantua,  and  our  Venice  bears 
The    cursed    flag    of    the    yellow    and 
black  ? 


II 

Peace,  peace,  peace,  do  you  say  ? 

And    this    the   Mincio  ?     Where 's    the 

fleet. 
And   where 's    the    sea  ?     Are    we    all 
blind 
Or  mad  with  the  blood  shed  yesterday. 
Ignoring  Italy  under  our  feet. 
And  seeing  things  before,  behind  ? 

Ill 

Peace,  peace,  peace,  do  you  say  ? 

What !  —  uncontested,  undenied  ? 

Because  we  triumph,  we  succumb  ? 
A  pair  of  Emperors  stand  in  the  way 

(One  of  whom  is  a  man,  beside). 

To  sign  and  seal  our  cannons  dumb  ? 

IV 

No,  not  Napoleon  !  —  he  who  mused 

At  Paris,  and  at  Milan  spake. 

And  at  Solferiuo  led  the  fight: 
Not  he  we  trusted,  honored,  used 

Our  hopes  and  hearts  for  .  .  .  till  they 
break 

Even  so,  you  tell  us  ...  in  his  sight. 


Peace,  peace,  is  still  your  word  ? 

We  say  you  lie  then  !  —  that  is  plain. 

There  is  no  peace,  and  shall  be  none. 
Our  very  Dead  would  cry  '  Absurd  ! ' 

And  clamor  that  they  died  in  vain. 

And  whine  to  come  back  to  the  sun. 

VI 

Hush  !  more  reverence  for  the  Dead  ! 
They  've  done  the  most  for  Italy 
Evermore  since  the  earth  was  fair. 

Now  would  that  we  had  died  instead, 
Still  dreaming  peace  meant  liberty. 
And  did  not,  could  not,  mean  despair. 

VII 

Peace,  you  say  ?  —  yes,  peace,  in  truth  ! 
But  such  a  peace  as  the  ear  can  achieve 
'Twixt  the  rifle's  click  and  the  rush  of 
the  ball, 
'Twixt  the  tiger's  spring  and  the  crunch  of 
the  tooth, 
'Twixt  the  dying  atheist's  negative 
And  God's  Face  —  waiting,  after  all  ! 


KING  VICTOR  EMANUEL   ENTERING   FLORENCE 


439 


KING  VICTOR  EMANUEL  ENTER- 
ING  FLORENCE,   APRIL,  i860 


King  of  us  all,  we  cried  to  thee,  cried  to 
thee, 
Trampled  to  earth  by   the   beasts   im- 
pure, 
Dragged  by  the  chariots  which   shame 
as  they  roll: 
The  dust  of  our  torment  far  and  wide  to 
thee 
Went  up,  dark'ning  thy  royal  soul. 
Be  witness,  Cavour, 
That  the  King  was  sad  for  the  people  in 
thrall. 
This  King  of  us  all  ! 

II 

King,  we  cried  to  thee  !     Strong  in  reply- 

Thy  word  and  thy  sword  sprang  rapid 

and  sure. 
Cleaving  our  way  to  a  nation's  place. 
Oh,  first  soldier  of  Italy  !  —  crying 

Now  grateful,  exultant,  we  look  in  thy 
face. 
Be  witness,  Cavour, 
That,   freedom's   first    soldier,   the    freed 
should  call 
First  King  of  them  all  ! 

Ill 

This  is  our  beautiful  Italy's  birthday; 
High-thoughted  souls,  whether  many  or 

fewer. 
Bring  her  the    gift,   and   wish  her    the 
good. 
While    Heaven    presents    on    this    sunny 
earthday 
The  noble  King  to  the  land  renewed: 
Be  witness,  Cavour  ! 
Roar,  cannon-mouths  !     Proclaim,  install 
The  King  of  us  all ! 

IV 

Grave  he  rides  through  the  Florence  gate- 
way, 
Clenching  his  face  into  calm,  to  immure 
His  struggling  heart   till  it  half  disap- 
pears; 
If  he  relaxed  for  a  moment,  straightway 
He    would    break    out    into    passionate 
tears  — 


Be  witness,  Cavour  !) 
While  rings  the  cry  without  interval, 
*  Live,  King  of  us  all  ! ' 


Cry,  free  peoples  !     Honor  the  nation 
By  crowning  the  true  man  —  and  none  is 

truer: 
Pisa  is  here,  and  Livorno  is  here, 
And  thousands  of  faces,  in  wild  exultation, 
Burn   over    the    windows    to   feel    him 
near  — 
(Be  witness,  Cavour  !) 
Burn  over  from  terrace,  roof,  window  and 
wall. 
On  this  King  of  us  all. 

VI 

Grave  !     A  good  man  's  ever  the  graver 
For  bearing  a  nation's  trust  secure; 
And  he,  he  thinks  of  the  Heart,  beside, 
Which    broke   for   Italy,   failing   to   save 
her, 
And  pining  away  by  Oporto's  tide : 
Be  witness,  Cavour, 
That  he  thinks  of   his  vow  on  that  royal 
pall. 
This  King  of  us  all. 

VII 

Flowers,  flowers,  from  the  flowery  city  ! 
Such    innocent    thanks    for   a   deed    so 

pure, 
As,  melting  away  for  joy  into  flowers, 
The  nation  invites  him  to  enter  his  Pitti 
And  evermore  reign  in  this  Florence  of 
ours. 
Be  witness,  Cavour  ! 
He  '11  stand  where  the  reptiles  were  used 
to  crawl. 
This  King  of  us  all. 

VIII 

Grave,  as  the  manner  of  noble  men  is  — 
Deeds  unfinished  will  weiffh  on  the  doer: 
And,  baring   his   head   to   those    crape- 
veiled  flags, 
He   bows  to  the   grief   of   the  South  and 
Venice. 
Oh,    riddle    the    last   of   the   yellow  to 
rags, 
And  swear  by  Cavour 
That  the    King  shall  reign  where  the  ty- 
rants fall, 

True  King  of  us  all  ! 


440 


LAST   POEMS 


THE    SWORD    OF    CASTRUCCIO 
CASTRACANI 

'  Questa  e  per  me.'  —  King  Victor  Emanuel. 


When  Victor  Emanuel  the  King 
Went  down  to  his  Lucca  that  day, 

The  people,  each  vaunting  the  thing 
As  he  gave  it,  gave  all  things  away,  — 
In  a  burst  of  fierce  gratitude,  say. 

As  they  tore  out  their  hearts  for  the  King. 

II 

—  Gave  the  green  forest-walk  on  the  wall, 
With   the   Apennine   blue    through   the 
trees ; 
Gave  the  palaces,  churches,  and  all 

The   great   pictures  which   burn  out  of 

these ; 
But   the   eyes   of   the   King  seemed   to 
freeze 
As  he  gazed  upon  ceiling  and  wall. 

Ill 

*  Good,'  said  the  King  as  he  passed. 

Was  he  cold  to  the  arts  ?  —  or  else  coy 
To  possession  ?  or  crossed,  at  the  last 
(Whispered  some),  by  the  vote  in  Savoy  ? 
Shout  !     Love  him  enough  for  his  joy  ! 

*  Good,'  said  the  King  as  he  passed. 


IV 


He 


travelling    the    whole    day    through 
flowers 
And  protesting  amenities,  found 
At  Pistoia,  betwixt  the  two  showers 

Of  red  roses,  the  '  Orphans  '  (renowned 
As  the  heirs  of  Puccini)  who  wound 
With  a  sword  through  the  crowd  and  the 
flowers. 


*  'T  is  the  sword  of  Castruccio,  O  King,  — 
In  that  strife  of  intestinal  hate. 

Very  famous  !  Accept  what  we  bring, 
We  who  cannot  be  sons,  by  our  fate, 
Rendered  citizens  by  thee  of  late, 

And  endowed  with  a  country  and  king. 

VI 

'  Read  !      Puccini    has    willed    that    this 
sword 
(Which  once  made  in  an  ignorant  feud 
Many  orphans)  remain  in  our  ward 


Till  some  patriot  its  pure  civic  blood 
Wipe  away  in  the  foe's  and  make  good, 
In  delivering  the  land  by  the  sword.' 

VII 

Then  the  King  exclaimed  '  This  is  for  me ! ' 
And  he  dashed  out  his  hand  on  the  hilt. 

While  his  blue  eye  shot  fire  openly. 
And  his  heart  overboiled  till  it  spilt 
A  hot  prayer,  —  '  God  !  the  rest  as  Thou 
wilt! 

But  grant  me  this  !  —  This  is  for  me.' 

VIII 

O  Victor  Emanuel,  the  King, 

The  sword  is  for  thee,  and  the  deed. 

And  nought  for  the  alien,  next  spring. 
Nought     for    Hapsburg    and    Bourbon 

agreed  — 
But,  for  us,  a  great  Italy  freed. 

With  a  hero  to  head  us,  —  our  King  ! 


SUMMING  UP  IN  ITALY 

(INSCRIBED   TO   INTELLIGENT   PUBLICS 
OUT   OF   IT) 


Observe  how  it  will  be  at  last. 

When  our  Italy  stands  at  full  stature, 
A  year  ago  tied  down  so  fast 

That  the  cord  cut  the  quick  of  her  na- 
ture ! 
You  '11  honor  the  deed  and  its  scope, 

Then,  in  logical  sequence  upon  it. 
Will  use  up  the  remnants  of  rope 

By  hanging  the  men  who  have  done  it. 

II 

The  speech  in  the  Commons,  which  hits  you 

A  sketch  off,  how  dungeons  must  feel,  — 
The  official  despatch,  which  commits  you 

From    stamping   out   groans   with   your 
heel,  — 
Suggestions  in  journal  or  book  for 

Good  efforts,  — are  praised  as  is  meet: 
But  what  in  this  world  can  men  look  for. 

Who  only  achieve  and  complete  ? 

Ill 

True,  you  've  praise   for  the  fireman  who 
sets  his 
Brave  face  to  the  axe  of  the  flame, 


DIED 


441 


Disappears  in  the  smoke,  and  then  fetches 

A  babe  down,  or  idiot  that 's  lame,  — 
For  the  boor  even,  who  rescues    through 

pity  , 

A  sheep  from  the  brute  who  would  kick 

it: 
But  saviours  of  nations  !  —  't  is  pretty, 
And  doubtful:  they  may  be  so  wicked  : 

IV 

Azeglio,  Farini,  Mamiani, 

Ricasoli,  —  doubt     by     the     dozen  !  — 
here  's 
Pepoli  too,  and  Cipriani, 

Imperial  cousins  and  cozeners  — 
Arese,  Laiatico,  —  courtly 

Of  manners,  if  stringent  of  mouth: 
Garibaldi  !  we  '11  come  to  him  shortly 

(As  soon  as  he  ends  in  the  South). 

V 

Napoleon  —  as  strong  as  ten  armies, 

Corrupt  as  seven  devils  —  a  fact 
You  accede  to,  then  seek  where  the  harm 
is 

Drained  oflp  from  the  man  to  his  act, 
And  find  —  a  free  nation  !     Suppose 

Some  hell-brood  in  Eden's  sweet  green- 
ery. 
Convoked  for  creating  —  a  rose  ! 

Would  it  suit  the  infernal  machinery  ? 

VI 

Cavour,  —  to  the  despot's  desire, 

Who  his  own   thought  so  craftily  mar- 
ries — 
What  is  he  but  just  a  thin  wire 

For  conducting  the  lightning  from  Paris  ? 
Yes,  write  down  the  two  as  compeers, 

Confessing  (you  would  not  permit  a  lie) 
He  bore  up  his  Piedmont  ten  years 

Till  she  suddenly  smiled  and  was  Italy. 

VII 

And   the   King,  with   that    *  stain   on   his 
scutcheon,' 

Savoy  —  as  the  calumny  runs; 
(If  it  be  not  his  blood,  — with  his  clutch  on 

The  sword,  and  his  face  to  the  guns.) 
O  first,  where  the  battle-storm  gathers, 

O  loyal  of  heart  on  the  throne. 
Let   those    keep   the   *  graves  of   their  fa- 
thers ' 

Who  quail,  in  a  nerve,  from  their  own  ! 


VIII 

For   thee  —  through    the    dim    Hades-por- 
tal 
The  dream  of  a  voice  — '  Blessed  thou 
Who   hast   made  all   thy  race   twice    im- 
mortal ! 
No  need  of  the  sepulchres  now  ! 
—  Left  to  Bourbons  and  Hapsburgs,  who 
fester 
Above-ground  with  worm-eaten  souls. 
While  the  ghost  of  some  pale  feudal  jester 
Before  them  strews  treaties  in  holes.' 

IX 

But  hush  !  —  am  I  dreaming  a  poem 

Of  Hades,  Heaven,  Justice  ?     Not  I; 
I  began  too  far  off,  in  my  proem. 

With  what  men  believe  and  deny: 
And  on  earth,  whatsoever  the  need  is 

(To  sum  up  as  thoughtful  reviewers), 
The  moral  of  every  great  deed  is  — 

The  virtue  of  slandering  the  doers. 


'DIED 


{The  Times  Obituary) 


What  shall  we  add  now  ?     He  is  dead. 
And  I  who  praise  and  you  who  blame, 
With  wash  of  words  across  his  name, 
Find  suddenly  declared  instead  — 
*  On  Sunday,  third  of  August,  dead.^ 

II 

Which    stops    the    whole   we    talked    to- 
day. 
I,  quickened  to  a  plausive  glance 
At  his  large  general  tolerance 
By  common  people's  narrow  way. 
Stopped  short    in    praising.     Dead,    they 
say. 

Ill 

And  you,  who  had  just  put  in  a  sort 
Of  cold  deduction  —  '  rather,  large 
Through     weakness     of    the     continent 
marge, 
Than  greatness  of  the  thing  contained  '  — 
Broke  off.     Dead  !  —  there,  you  stood  re- 
strained. 


442 


LAST   POEMS 


IV 

As  if  we  had  talked  in  following  one 

Up    some    long   gallery.      '  Would   you 

choose 
An  air  like  that  ?     The  gait  is  loose  — 

Or  noble.'     Sudden  in  the  sun 

An  oubliette  winks.     Where  is  he  ?   Gone. 

V 

Dead.     Man's  '  I  was  '  by  God's  '  I  am  '  — 
All  hero-worship  comes  to  that. 
High  heart,  high  thought,  high  fame,  as 
flat 

As  a  gravestone.     Bring  your  Jacetjam  — 

The  epitaph  's  an  epigram. 

VI 

Dead.     There  's  an  answer  to  arrest 
All  carping.     Dust 's  his  natural  place  ? 
He  '11  let  the  flies  buzz  round  his  face 

And,  though  you  slander,  not  protest  ? 

—  From  such  an  one,  exact  the  Best  ? 

VII 

Opinions  gold  or  brass  are  null. 
We  chuck  our  flattery  or  abuse, 
Called  Csesar's  due,  as  Charon's  dues, 
I'  the  teeth  of  some  dead  sage  or  fool. 
To  mend  the  grinning  of  a  skull. 

VIII 

Be  abstinent  in  praise  and  blame. 

The  man  's  still  mortal,  who  stands  first, 
And  mortal  only,  if  last  and  worst. 

Then  slowly  lift  so  frail  a  fame, 

Or  softly  drop  so  poor  a  shame. 


THE    FORCED  RECRUIT 

SOLFERINO,    1859 

First  printed  in  the  Cornhill  Magazine,  Oc- 
tober, 1860. 

In    the  ranks  of    the  Austrian  you  found 
him, 

He  died  with  his  face  to  you  all; 
Yet  bury  him  here  where  around  him 

You  honor  your  bravest  that  fall. 

Venetian,  fair-featured  and  slender. 
He  lies  shot  to  death  in  his  youth, 

With  a  smile  on  his  lips  over-tender 
For  any  mere  soldier's  dead  mouth. 


No  stranger,  and  yet  not  a  traitor. 
Though  alien  the  cloth  on  his  breast. 

Underneath  it  how  seldom  a  greater 
Young  heart  has  a  shot  sent  to  rest  ! 

By  your  enemy  tortured  and  goaded 

To  march  with  them,  stand  in  their  file, 

His  musket  (see)  never  was  loaded. 
He  facing  your  guns  with  that  smile  ! 

As  orphans  yearn  on  to  their  mothers. 
He  yearned  to  your  patriot  bands ;  — 

'  Let  me  die  for  our  Italy,  brothers. 
If  not  in  your  ranks,  by  your  hands  ! 

'  Aim  straightly,  fire  steadily  !  spare  me 

A  ball  in  the  body  which  may 
Deliver  my  heart  here,  and  tear  me 

This  badge  of  the  Austrian  away  ! ' 

So  thought  he,  so  died  he  this  morning. 

What  then  ?  many  others  have  died. 
Ay,  but  easy  for  men  to  die  scorning 

The    death-stroke,  who  fought    side  by 
side  — 

One  tricolor  floating  above  them; 

Struck  down  'mid  triumphant  acclaims 
Of  an  Italy  rescued  to  love  them 

And  blazon  the  brass  with  their  names. 

But  he,  —  without  witness  or  honor. 
Mixed,  shamed  in  his  country's  regard, 

With   the    tyrants    who    march    in    upon 
her. 
Died  faithful  and  passive :  't  was  hard. 

'T  was  sublime.     In  a  cruel  restriction 
Cut  off  from  the  guerdon  of  sons. 

With  most  filial  obedience,  conviction, 
His  soul  kissed  the  lips  of  her  guns. 

That  moves  you  ?    Nay,  grudge  not  to  show 

While  digging  a  grave  for  him  here : 
The  others  who  died,  says  your  poet, 
Have  glory,  —  let  him  have  a  tear. 


GARIBALDI 


He  bent  his  head  upon  his  breast 
Wherein  his  lion-heart  lay  sick; 


ONLY   A   CURL 


443 


*  Perhaps  we  are  not  ill-repaid ; 
Perhaps  this  is  not  a  true  test; 
Perhaps  this  was  not  a  foul  trick; 
Perhaps   none    wronged,  and    none   be- 
trayed. 

II 

*  Perhaps  the  people's  vote  which  here 

United,  there  may  disunite, 
And  both  be  lawful  as  they  think; 
Perhaps  a  patriot  statesman,  dear 

For  chartering  nations,  can  with  right 
Disfranchise  those  who  hold  the  ink. 

Ill 

'*  Perhaps  men's  wisdom  is  not  craft; 

Men's  greatness,  not  a  selfish  greed; 

Men's  justice,  not  the  safer  side; 
Perhaps  even  women,  when  they  laughed, 

Wept,  thanked    us    that    the    land    was 
freed, 

Not  wholly  (though  they  kissed  us)  lied. 

IV 

*  Perhaps  no  more  than  this  we  meant, 

When  up  at  Austria's  guns  we  flew, 
And  quenched  them  with  a  cry  apiece, 
Italia  !  —  Yet  a  dream  was  sent  .  .  . 
The  little  house  my  father  knew. 
The  olives  and  the  palms  of  Nice.' 

V 

He  paused,  and  drew  his  sword  out  slow. 
Then  pored  upon  the  blade  intent. 
As  if  to  read  some  written  thing; 

While  many  murmured,  —  *  He  will  go 
In  that  despairing  sentiment 

And  break  his  sword  before  the  King.' 

VI 

He  poring  still  upon  the  blade, 

His  large  lid  quivered,  something  fell. 
'  Perhaps,'  he  said,  '  I  was  not  born 

With    such     fine     brains     to    treat     and 
trade,  — 
And  if  a  woman  knew  it  well. 
Her  falsehood  only  meant  her  scorn. 

VII 

'Yet  through  Varese's  cannon-smoke 
My  eye  saw  clear:  men  feared  this  man 
At  Como,  where  this  sword  could  seal 

Death's  protocol  with  every  stroke: 


And  now  .  .  .  the  drop  there   scarcely 

can 
Impair  the  keenness  of  the  steel. 

VIII 

'  So  man  and  sword  may  have  their  use; 

And  if  the  soil  beneath  my  foot 

In  valor's  act  is  forfeited, 
I  '11  strike  the  harder,  take  my  dues 

Out  nobler,  and  all  loss  confute 

From  ampler  heavens  above  my  head. 

IX 

'  My  King,  King  Victor,  I  am  thine  ! 

So  much  Nice-dust  as  what  I  am 

(To  make  our  Italy)  must  cleave. 
Forgive  that.'     Forward  with  a  sign 

He  went. 

You  've  seen  the  telegram  ? 

Palermo 's  taken,  we  believe. 

ONLY   A    CURL 


Friends  of  faces  unknown  and  a  land 

Unvisited  over  the  sea, 
Who  tell  me  how  lonely  you  stand 
With  a  single  gold  curl  in  the  hand 

Held  up  to  be  looked  at  by  me,  — 

II 

While  you  ask  me  to  ponder  and  say 
What  a  father  and  mother  can  do, 
With  the  bright  fellow-locks  put  away 
Out  of  reach,  beyond  kiss,  in  the  clay 
Where  the  violets  press  nearer  than  you; 

III 

Shall  I  speak  like  a  poet,  or  run 

Into  weak  woman's  tears  for  relief  ? 
Oh,  children  !  —  I  never  lost  one,  — 
Yet  my  arm  's  round  my  own  little  son, 
And  Love  knows  the  secret  of  Grief. 

IV 

And  I  feel  what  it  must  be  and  is. 

When  God  draws  a  new  angel  so 
Through  the  house  of  a  man  up  to  his, 
With  a  murmur  of  music  you  miss. 
And  a  rapture  of  light  you  forgo. 


How  you  think,  staring  on  at  the  door, 
Where  the  face  of  your  angel  flashed  in, 


444 


LAST    POEMS 


That  its  brightness,  familiar  before, 
Burns  off  from  you  ever  the  more 
For  the  dark  of  your  sorrow  and  sin. 

VI 

*God  lent  him  and  takes  him,'  you  sigh; 

—  Nay,  there   let  me  break    with  your 
pain: 
God  's  generous  in  giving,  say  I,  — 
And  the  thing  which  He  gives,  I  deny 

That  He  ever  can  take  back  again. 

VII 

He  gives  what  He  gives.     I  appeal 

To  all  who  bear  babes  —  in  the  hour 
When  the  veil  of  the  body  we  feel 
Rent  round  us,  —  while  torments  reveal 
The  motherhood's  advent  in  power, 


VIII 


And 


the    babe    cries !  —  has   each    of    us 
known 
By  apocalypse  (God  being  there 
Full  in  nature)  the  child  is  our  own, 
Life  of  life,  love  of  love,  moan  of  moan, 
Through  all  changes,  all  times,  every- 
where. 

IX 

He  's  ours  and  for  ever.     Believe, 

O  father  !  —  O  mother,  look  back 
To  the  first  love's  assurance  !     To  give 
Means  with  God  not  to  tempt  or  deceive 
With  a  cup  thrust  in  Benjamin's  sack. 


He  gives  what  He  gives.     Be  content ! 

He  resumes  nothing  given,  —  be  sure  ! 
God  lend  ?     Where  the  usurers  lent 
In  his  temple,  indignant  He  went 

And  scourged  away  all  those  impure. 

XI 

He  lends  not;  but  gives  to  the  end. 

As  He  loves  to  the  end.     If  it  seem 
That  He  draws  back  a  gift,  comprehend 
'T  is  to  add  to  it  rather,  —  amend, 
And  finish  it  up  to  your  dream,  — 

XII 

Or  keep,  —  as  a  mother  will  toys 

Too  costly,  though  given  by  herself, 
Till  the  room  shall  be  stiller  from  noise, 


And  the  children  more  fit  for  such  joys, 
Kept  over  their  heads  on  the  shelf. 

XIII 

So  look  up,  friends  !  you,  who  indeed 
Have  possessed  in  your  house  a  sweet 
piece 
Of  the  Heaven  which  men  strive  for,  must 

need 
Be  more  earnest  than  others  are,  —  speed 
Where  they    loiter,  persist  where  they 
cease. 

XIV 

You  know  how  one  angel  smiles  there : 
Then  weep  not.     'T  is  easy  for  you 
To  be  drawn  by  a  single  gold  hair 
Of  that  curl,  from  earth's  storm  and  de- 
spair. 
To  the  safe  place  above  us.     Adieu. 


A    VIEW 


ACROSS    THE 
CAMPAGNA 

1861 


ROMAN 


Over  the  dumb  Campagna-sea, 

Out  in  the  offing  through  mist  and  rain, 

Saint  Peter's  Church  heaves  silently 
Like  a  mighty  ship  in  pain, 
Facing  the  tempest    with  struggle  and 
strain. 

II 

Motionless  waifs  of  ruined  towers, 
Soundless  breakers  of  desolate  land : 

The  sullen  surf  of  the  mist  devours 

That  mountain-range  upon  either  hand. 
Eaten  away  from  its  outline  grand. 

Ill 

And  over  the  dumb  Campagna-sea 

Where  the  ship  of  the  Church  heaves  on 
to  wreck. 

Alone  and  silent  as  God  must  be. 

The  Christ  walks.     Ay,  but  Peter's  neck 
Is  stiff  to  turn  on  the  foundering  deck. 

IV 

Peter,  Peter  !  if  such  be  thy  name, 

Now  leave  the  ship  for  another  to  steer, 
And  proving  thy  faith  evermore  the  same, 


PARTING   LOVERS 


445 


Come  forth,  tread  out  through  the  dark 

and  drear, 
Since  He  who  walks  on  the  sea  is  here. 


Peter,  Peter  !     He  does  not  speak ; 

He  is  not  as  rash  as  in  old  Galilee : 
Safer  a  ship,  though  it  toss  and  leak, 

Than  a  reeling  foot  on  a  rolling  sea  ! 

And  he  's  got  to  be  round  in  the  girth, 
thinks  he. 

VI 

Peter,  Peter  !    He  does  not  stir; 

His  nets  are  heavy  with  silver  fish; 
He  reckons  his  gains,  and  is  keen  to   in- 
fer 

—  '  The  broil  on  the  shore,  if  the  Lord 

should  wish; 
But  the   sturgeon   goes  to  the   Caesar's 
dish.' 

VII 

Peter,  Peter  !  thou  fisher  of  men, 

Fisher  of  fish  wouldst  thou  live  instead  ? 

Haggling  for  pence  with  the  other  Ten, 
Cheating  the  market  at  so  much  a  head. 
Griping  the  Bag  of  the  traitor  Dead  ? 

VIII 

At  the  triple  crow  of  the  Gallic  cock 

Thou    weep'st   not,    thou,  though    thine 
eyes  be  dazed: 

What    bird    comes   next   in  the   tempest- 
shock  ? 

—  Vultures!  see,  —  as    when    Romulus 

gazed,  — 
To     inaugurate     Rome     for     a    world 
amazed  ! 


THE  KING'S  GIFT 


Teresa,  ah,  Teresita  ! 
Now  what  has  the  messenger  brought  her. 
Our  Garibaldi's  young  daughter. 

To  make  her  stop   short   in   her   sing- 
ing ? 
Will  she  not  once  more  repeat  a 
Verse  from  that  hymn  of  our  hero's. 

Setting  the  souls  of  us  ringing  ? 
Break  off  the  song  where  the  tear  rose  ? 
Ah,  Teresita  ! 


II 

A  young  thing,  mark,  is  Teresa: 
Her  eyes  have  caught  fire,  to  be  sure,  in 
That  necklace  of  jewels  from  Turin, 

Till  blind  their  regard  to  us  men  is. 
But  still  she  remembers  to  raise  a 
Sly  look  to  her  father,  and  note  — 

'  Could  she  sing  on  as  well  about  Ven- 
ice, 
Yet  wear  such  a  flame  at  her  throat  ? 
Decide  for  Teresa.' 

Ill 

Teresa,  ah,  Teresita  ! 
His  right  hand  has  paused  on  her  head  — 
'  Accept  it,  my  daughter,'  he  said; 

'  Ay,  wear  it,  true  child  of  thy  mother  ! 
Then  sing,  till  all  start  to  their  feet,  a 
New  verse  ever  bolder  and  freer  ! 

King  Victor 's  no  king  like  another, 
But  verily  noble  as  ive  are. 
Child,  Teresita  ! ' 


PARTING  LOVERS 

Siena,  iS6o 

I. 

I  LOVE  thee,  love  thee,  Giulio; 

Some  call  me  cold,  and  some  demure; 
And  if  thou  hast  ever  guessed  that  so 
I  loved   thee  .  .  .  well,  the   proof  was 
poor 
And  no  one  could  be  sure. 

II 

Before  thy  song  (with  shifted  rhymes 

To  suit  my  name)  did  I  undo 
The  persian  ?     If  it  stirred  sometimes. 

Thou  hast  not  seen  a  hand  push  through 
A  foolish  flower  or  two. 

Ill 

My  mother  listening  to  my  sleep. 

Heard  nothing  but  a  sigh  at  night,  — 

The  short  sigh  rippling  on  the  deep, 

^\^hen  hearts  run  out  of  breath  and  sight 
Of  men,  to  God's  clear  light. 

IV 

When  others  named   thee,  —  thought  thy 
brows 
Were  straight,  thy  smile  was  tender  — 
'Here 


446 


LAST   POEMS 


He  comes  between  the  vineyard-rows  ! ' 
I  said  not  '  Ay,'  nor  waited,  Dear, 
To  feel  thee  step  too  near. 


I  left  such  things  to  bolder  girls,  — 

Olivia  or  Clotilda.     Nay, 
When  that  Clotilda,  through  her  curls, 

Held  both  thine  eyes  in  hers  one  day, 
I  marvelled,  let  me  say. 

VI 

I  could  not  try  the  woman's  trick: 

Between  us  straightway  fell  the  blush 

Which  kept  me  separate,  blind  and  sick. 
A  wind  came  with  thee  in  a  flush. 
As  blown  through  Sinai's  bush. 

VII 

But  now  that  Italy  invokes 

Her  young  men  to  go  forth  and  chase 
The  foe  or  perish,  —  nothing  chokes 

My  voice,  or  drives  me  from  the  place. 
I  look  thee  in  the  face. 

VIII 

I  love  thee  !     It  is  understood, 
Confest:  I  do  not  shrink  or  start. 

No  blushes  !  all  my  body's  blood 
Has  gone  to  greaten  this  poor  heart. 
That,  loving,  we  may  part. 

IX 

Our  Italy  invokes  the  youth 

To  die  if  need  be.     Still  there  's  room. 
Though   earth   is    strained   with   dead  in 
truth : 
Since  twice  the  lilies  were  in  bloom 
They  have  not  grudged  a  tomb. 

X 

And  many  a  plighted  maid  and  wife 

And  mother,  who  can  say  since  then 
*  My  country,'  —  cannot  say  through  life 
*  My  son,'  *  my  spouse,'  '  my  flower   of 
men,' 
And  not  weep  dumb  again. 

XI 

Heroic  males  the  country  bears,  — 

But  daughters  give  up  more  than  sons: 
Flags  wave,  drums  beat,  and  unawares 


You  flash  your  souls  out  with  the  guns, 
And  take  your  Heaven  at  once. 

XII 

But  we  !  —  we  empty  heart  and  home 

Of  life's  life,  love  !     We  bear  to  think 
You're     gone,  —  to    feel     you     may    not 
come,  — 
To  hear  the  door-latch  stir  and  clink, 
Yet  no  more  you  !  .   .  .  nor  sink. 

XIII 

Dear  God  !  when  Italy  is  one. 

Complete,  content  from  bound  to  bound, 
Suppose,  for  my  share,  earth  's  undone 

By  one  grave  in  't  —  as  one  small  wound 
Will  kill  a  man,  't  is  found. 

XIV 

What  then  ?     If  love's  delight  must  end, 
At  least  we  '11  clear  its  truth  from  flaws. 

I  love  thee,  love  thee,  sweetest  friend  ! 
Now  take  my  sweetest  without  pause, 
And  help  the  nation's  cause. 

XV 

And  thus,  of  noble  Italy 

We  '11  both  be  worthy  f     Let  her  show 
The  future  how  we  made  her  free. 

Not  sparing  life  .  .  .  nor  Giulio, 

Nor  this  .  .  .  this  heartbreak  !     Go^ 


MOTHER  AND  POET 
Turin,  after  News  from  Gaeta,  i86i 

The  mother  was  Laura  Savio  of  Turin,  both- 
poet  and  patriot,  whose  two  sons  were  killed  at 
Ancona  and  Gaeta. 


Dead  !     One  of  them  shot  by  the  sea  in  the 
east, 
And  one  of  them  shot  in  the  west  by  the 
sea. 
Dead  !  both  my  boys  !     When  you  sit  at 
the  feast 
And  are  wanting  a  great  song  for  Italy 
free. 
Let  none  look  at  me  ! 

n 

Yet  I  was  a  poetess  only  last  year. 

And  good  at  my  art,  for  a  woman,  men 
said; 


MOTHER   AND    POET 


447 


But  this  woman,  this,  who  is  agonized  here, 
—  The  east  sea  aud  west  sea  rhyme  on  in 
her  head 
For  ever  instead. 


Ill 
What  art  can  a  woman  be  good  at  ?     Oh, 
vain  ! 
What  art  is  she  good  at,  but  hurting  her 
breast 
With  the  milk-teeth  of  babes,  and  a  smile 
at  the  pain  ? 
Ah  boys,  how  you  hurt  !  you  were  strong 
as  you  pressed. 
And  I  proud,  by  that  test. 

IV 

What  art 's  for  a  woman  ?   To  hold  on  her 
knees 
Both   darlings  !   to  feel   all  their  arms 
round  her  throat. 
Cling,  strangle  a  little  !  to  sew  by  degrees 
And  'broider  the  long-clothes  and  neat 
little  coat; 
To  dream  and  to  doat. 


To   teach   them  ...  It   stings  there  !     I 
made  them  indeed 
Speak  plain  the  word  country.     I  taught 
them,  no  doubt, 
That  a  country  's  a  thing  men  should  die 
for  at  need. 
/  prated  of  liberty,  rights,  and  about 
The  tyrant  cast  out. 

VI 

And  when   their  eyes  flashed  .  .  .  O   my 
beautiful  eyes  !  .  .  . 
/exulted;  nay,  let  them  go  forth  at  the 
wheels 
Of  the  guns,  and  denied  not.    But  then  the 
surprise 
When  one  sits  quite  alone  !     Then  one 
weeps,  then  one  kneels  ! 
God,  how  the  house  feels  ! 

VII 

At  first,  happy  news  came,  in  gay  letters 

moiled 
With    my    kisses,  —  of    camp-life    and 

glory,  and  how 
They   both  loved   me;  and,    soon   coming 

home  to  be  spoiled 


In  return  would  fan  off  every  fly  from  my 
brow 
With  their  green  laurel-bough. 

VIII 

Then  was  triumph  at  Turin:  '  Ancona  was 
free  ! ' 
And  some  one  came  out  of  the  cheers  in 
the  street. 
With  a  face  pale  as  stone,  to  say  something 
to  me. 
My  Guido  was  dead  !    I  fell  down  at  his 
feet. 
While  they  cheered  in  the  street. 

IX 

I  bore  it;   friends  soothed   me;   my  grief 
looked  sublime 
As   the  ransom  of  Italy.     One  boy  re- 
mained 
To  be  leant  on  and  walked  with,  recalling 
the  time 
When   the   first   grew   immortal,  while 
both  of  us  strained 
To  the  height  he  had  gained. 


And  letters    still   came,    shorter,   sadder, 
more  strong, 
Writ  now  but  in  one  hand,  '  I  was  not  to 
faint,  — 
One  loved  me  for  two  —  would  be  with  me 
ere  long: 
And   Viva   V  Italia !  —  he   died   for,  our 
saint. 
Who  forbids  our  complaint.' 

XI 

My  Nanni  would  add,   '  he  was  safe,  and 
aware 
Of  a  presence  that  turned  off  the  balls,  — 
was  imprest 
It  was  Guido   himself,  who  knew  what  I 
could  bear. 
And   how   't  was    impossible,  quite  dis- 
possessed 
To  live  on  for  the  rest.* 

XII 

On  which,  without  pause,  up  the  telegraph- 
line 
Swept    smoothly   the    next   news    from 
Gaeta:  —  Shot. 

Tell  his  mother.  Ah, ah, '  his,'  'their '  mother, 
—  not  '  mine,' 


448 


LAST   POEMS 


No  voice  says  ^My  mother '  again  to  me. 
What  ! 
You  think  Guido  forgot  ? 

XIII 

Are    souls   straight    so   happj  that,  dizzy 
with  Heaven, 
They   drop    earth's   affections,  conceive 
not  of  woe  ? 
I  think  not.     Themselves  were  too  lately 
forgiven 
Through  That  Love  and  Sorrow  which 
reconciled  so 
The  Above  and  Below. 

XIV 

O  Christ  of  the  five  wounds,  who  look'dst 
through  the  dark 
To  the  face  of  thy  mother  !    consider,  I 
pray, 
How  we  common  mothers  stand  desolate, 
mark. 
Whose  sons,  not  being  Christs,  die  with 
eyes  turned  away. 
And  no  last  word  to  say  ! 

XV 

Both  boys  dead  ?  but  that 's  out  of  nature. 
We  all 
Have  been  patriots,  yet  each  house  must 
always  keep  one. 
'Twere  imbecile,  hewing   out   roads   to  a 
wall; 
And,  when  Italy 's  made,  for  what  end 
is  it  done 
If  we  have  not  a  son  ? 

XVI 

Ah,  ah,  ah  !    when   Gaeta  's   taken,    what 
then  ? 
When  the  fair  wicked  queen  sits  no  more 
at  her  sport 
Of   the  fire-balls  of   death  crashing  souls 
out  of  men  ? 
When  the  guns  of  Cavalli  with  final  re- 
tort 
Have  cut  the  game  short  ? 

XVII 

When  Venice  and  Home  keep  their   new 
jubilee. 
When  your  flag  takes  all  heaven  for  its 
white,  green,  and  red, 

When  you  have  your  country  from  moun- 
tain to  sea. 


When  King  Victor  has  Italy's  crown  on 
his  head, 
(And  /  have  my  Dead)  — 

XVIII 

What  then  ?     Do  not  mock  me.     Ah,  ring 
your  bells  low. 
And    burn    your    lights    faintly  !     My 
country  is  there, 
Above  the  star  pricked  by  the  last  peak  of 
snow: 
My  Italy 's  there,  with  my  brave  civic 
Pair, 
To  disfranchise  despair  ! 

XIX 

Forgive  me.     Some  women  bear  children 
in  strength. 
And  bite  back  the  cry  of  their  pain  in 
self-scorn ; 
But  the  birth-pangs  of  nations  will  wring 
us  at  length 
Into  wail  such  as  this  —  and  we  sit  on 
forlorn 
When  the  man-child  is  born. 

XX 

Dead  !     One  of   them  shot  by  the  sea  in 
the  east. 
And  one  of   them  shot  in  the  west  by 
the  sea. 
Both  !  both  my  boys  !     If  in  keeping  the 
feast 
You   want  a  great  song  for  your  Italy 
free. 
Let  none  look  at  me  ! 


NATURE'S   REMORSES 
Rome,  i86i 


Her  soul  was  bred  by  a  throne,  and  fed 
From    the    sucking-bottle    used   in    her 
race 
On  starch   and   water    (for   mother's 
milk 
Which  gives  a  larger  growth  instead), 
And,  out  of  the  natural  liberal  grace. 
Was  swaddled  away  in  violet  silk. 

II 

And  young  and  kind,  and  royally  blind. 
Forth  she  stepped  from  her  palace-door 


NATURE'S   REMORSES 


449 


On  three-piled  carpet  of  compliments, 
Curtains  of  incense  drawn  by  the  wind 
In  between  her  for  evermore 
And  daylight  issues  of  events. 

Ill 

On  she  drew,  as  a  queen  might  do, 
To  meet  a  Dream  of  Italy,  — 

Of  magical  town  and  musical  wave, 
Where  even  a  god,  his  amulet  blue 
Of  shining  sea,  in  an  ecstasy 

Dropt  and  forgot  in  a  Nereid's  cave. 

IV 

Down  she  goes,  as  the  soft  wind  blows. 
To   live    more    smoothly   than   mortals 
can. 
To  love  and   to  reign  as   queen   and 
wife, 
To  wear  a  crown  that  smells  of  a  rose. 
And  still,  with  a  sceptre  as  light  as  a  fan, 
Beat  sweet  time  to  the  song  of  life. 


What  is  this  ?     As  quick  as  a  kiss 

Falls  the  smile  from  her  girlish  mouth  ! 
The  lion-people  has  left  its  lair, 
Roaring  along  her  garden  of  bliss, 

And  the  fiery  underworld  of  the  South 
Scorched  a  way  to  the  upper  air. 

VI 

And  a  fire-stone  ran  in  the  form  of  a  uian, 
Burningly,  boundingly,  fatal  and  fell. 
Bowling  the  kingdom  down  !     Where 
was  the  King  ? 
She  had  heard  somewhat,  since  life  began. 
Of  terrors  on  earth  and  horrors  in  hell. 
But  never,  never  of  such  a  thing. 

VII 

You  think   she  dropped  when  her   dream 
was  stopped, 
When  the  blotch  of  Bourbon  blood  inlay, 
Lividly  rank,  her  new  lord's  cheek  ? 
Not  so.     Her  high  heart  overtopped 
The  royal  part  she  had  come  to  play. 
Only  the  men  in  that  hour  were  weak. 

VIII 

And  twice  a  wife  by  her  ravaged  life, 
And  twice  a  queen  by  her  kingdom  lost, 
She  braved  the  shock  and  the  counter- 
shock 
Of  hero  and  traitor,  bullet  and  knife. 


While    Italy    pushed,    like    a    vengeful 
ghost. 
That  son  of  the  Cursed  from  Gaeta's 
rock, 

IX 

What  will  ye  give  her,  who  could  not  de- 
liver, 
German  Princesses  ?     A  laurel-wreath 
All  over-scored  with  your  signatures, 
Graces,  Serenities,  Highnesses  ever  ? 

Mock  her  not,  fresh  from  the  truth  of 
Death, 
Conscious   of    dignities    higher    than 
yours. 

X 
What  will  ye  put  in  your  casket  shut, 
Ladies  of  Paris,  in  sympathy's  name  ? 
Guizot's    daughter,    what    have    you 
brought  her  ? 
Withered  immortelles,  long  ago  cut 
For  guilty  dynasties  perished  in  shame, 
Putrid  to  memory,  Guizot's  daughter  ? 

XI 

Ah  poor  queen  !  so  young  and  serene  ! 
What  shall  we  do  for  her,  now  hope  's 
done. 
Standing  at  Rome  in  these  ruins  old. 
She  too  a  ruin  and  no  more  a  queen  ? 
Leave   her   that   diadem    made    by   the 
sun 
Turning  her  hair  to  an  innocent  goldo 

XII 

Ay  !  bring  close  to  her,  as  't  were  a  rose, 
to  her, 
Yon  free  child  from  an  Apennine  city 
Singing    for    Italy,  —  dumb    in     the 
place  ! 
Something  like  solace,  let  us  suppose,  to  her 
Given,  in  that   homage  of   w^onder   and 

pity, 

By  his  pure  eyes  to  her  beautiful  face. 

XIII 

Nature,  excluded,  savagely  brooded; 

Ruined   all    queendom    and    dogmas    of 
state: 
Then,  in  reaction  remorseful  and  mild, 
Rescues  the  womanhood,  nearly  eluded. 
Shows  her  what 's  sweetest  in  womanly 
fate  — 
Sunshine  from  Heaven,  and  the  eyes 
of  a  child. 


450 


TRANSLATIONS 


THE    NORTH   AND    THE    SOUTH 

THE   LAST   POEM 

Rome,  May,  i86i 

The  occasion  of  Mrs.  Browning-'s  last  poem 
was  a  visit  of  the  Danish  novelist  Hans  Chris- 
tian Andersen  to  Rome  in  the  spring-  of  1861. 


'  Now  give  us  lands  where  the  olives  grow,' 

Cried  the  North  to  the  South, 
'  Where  the  sun  with  a  golden  mouth  can 

blow 
Blue  bubbles  of  grapes  down  a  vineyard- 
row  ! ' 
Cried  the  North  to  the  South. 

'  Now  give  us  men  from  the  sunless  plain,' 

Cried  the  South  to  the  North, 
*  By  need  of  work  in  the  snow  and  the  rain, 
Made  strong,  and  brave  by  familiar  pain  ! ' 
Cried  the  South  to  the  North. 

II 

'  Give  lucider  hills  and  intenser  seas,' 

Said  the  North  to  the  South. 
'  Since  ever  by  symbols  and  bright  degrees 
Art,  childlike,  climbs   to  the  dear  Lord's 
knees,' 
Said  the  North  to  the  South. 


'  Give  strenuous  souls  for  belief  and  prayer,' 

Said  the  South  to  the  North, 
'  That  stand  in  the  dark  on  the  lowest  stair. 
While  affirming  of  God,  "  He  is  certainly 
there," ' 
Said  the  South  to  the  North. 

Ill 

'  Yet  oh  for  the  skies  that  are  softer  and 
higher  ! ' 
Sighed  the  North  to  the  South; 
For  the  flowers  that  blaze,  and  the   trees 

that  aspire, 
And    the    insects    made    of   a   song    or   a 
fire  ! ' 
Sighed  the  North  to  the  South. 

'  And  oh  for  a  seer  to  discern  the  same  ! ' 

Sighed  the  South  to  the  North; 
'  For  a  poet's  tongue  of  baptismal  flame. 
To   call   the    tree    or    the    flower   by    its 
name  ! ' 
Sighed  the  South  to  the  North. 


IV 

The  North  sent  therefore  a  man  of  men 

As  a  grace  to  the  South; 
And  thus  to  Rome  came  Andersen. 
—  '  Alas,  but  must  you  take  him  again  ?  * 
Said  the  South  to  the  North. 


TRANSLATIONS 


PROMETHEUS    BOUND 


The  translation  which  follows  of  the  Prome- 
theus Bound  of  -^schylus  is  the  revised  version 
first  published  by  Mrs.  Browning-  among  the 
Poems  of  1850.  She  herself  called  it  a  retrans- 
lation  rather  than  a  revision,  and  was  very  se- 
vere in  her  own  strictures  on  the  earlier  version 
which  had  been  published  without  her  name, 
along  with  a  few  occasional  pieces  in  1833. 
The  present  is  undoubtedly  a  much  better  piece 


PERSONS 
Prometheus. 

OCEANUS. 

Hermes. 

Heph^stus. 

lo,  daughter  <7/'Inachus. 

Strength  and  Force. 

Chorus  of  Sea  Nymphs. 


of  work  than  the  ambitious  first  attempt,  which 
the  author  wished  to  have  it  entirely  supersede. 
Yet  a  certain  special  interest  will  always  attach 
to  the  previous  rendering  as  having  been  the 
one  which  Robert  and  Elizabeth  Browning  dis- 
cussed so  fully  in  some  of  the  earlier  letters  of 
their  famous  correspondence.  (Vide  Letters  of 
Robert  and  Elizabeth  Barrett  Browning,  vol.  i. 
pp.  34-46.) 

Scene.  —  Strength  and  Force,  Heph^s- 
TUS  and  Prometheus,  at  the  Rocks. 

Strength.     We  reach  the  utmost  limit  of 
the  earth, 
The  Scythian  track,  the  desert  without  man. 
And  now,  Plephsestus,  thou  must  needs  fulfil 
The  mandate  of  our  Father,  and  with  links 
Indissoluble  of  adamantine  chains 
Fasten  against  this  beetling  precipice 
This  guilty  god.     Because  he  filched  away 


PROMETHEUS    BOUND 


451 


Thine  own  bright  flower,  the  glory  of  plas- 
tic fire, 
And  gifted  mortals  with  it,  —  such  a  sin 
It  doth  behove  he  expiate  to  the  gods,       10 
Learning  to  accept  the  empery  of  Zeus 
And  leave  off  his  old  trick  of  loving  man. 
Hephcestus.  O    Strength    and  Force,  for 
you,  our  Zeus's  will 
Presents  a  deed   for  doing,  no   more  !  — 

but  /, 
I   lack  your   daring,   up  this   storm  -  rent 

chasm 
To  fix  with  violent  hands  a  kindred  god, 
Howbeit  necessity  compels  me  so 
That  I  must  dare  it,  and  our  Zeus  com- 
mands 
With  a  most  inevitable  word.     Ho,  thou  ! 
High-thoughted  son  of  Themis  who  is  sage  ! 
Thee  loth,  I  loth  must  rivet  fast  in  chains  2 1 
Against  this  rocky  height  unclomb  by  man. 
Where  never  human  voice  nor  face  shall 

find 
Out  thee  who  lov'st  them,  and  thy  beauty's 

flower. 
Scorched  in  the  sun's  clear  heat,  shall  fade 

away. 
Night   shall   come    up    with   garniture    of 

stars 
To  comfort  thee  with  shadow,  and  the  sun 
Disperse  with  retrickt  beams  the  morning- 
frosts, 
But  through  all  changes  sense  of  present 

woe 
Shall  vex  thee  sore,  because  with  none  of 
them  30 

There  comes  a  hand  to  free.     Such  fruit  is 

plucked 
From  love  of  man  !  and  in  that  thou,   a 

god. 
Didst  brave  the  wrath  of  gods  and  give 

away 
Undue  respect  to  mortals,  for  that  crime 
Thou  art  adjudged  to  guard    this  joyless 

rock, 
Erect,  imslumbering,  bending  not  the  knee, 
And  many  a  cry  and  unavailing  moan 
To  utter  on  the  air.     For  Zeus  is  stern. 
And  new-made  kings  are  cruel. 

Strength.  Be  it  so. 

Why  loiter  in  vain  pity  ?  Why  not  hate  40 
A  god  the  gods  hate  ?  one  too  who  betrayed 
Thy  glory  unto  men  ? 

Hephcestus.  An  awful  thing 

Is  kinship  joined  to  friendship. 

Strength.  Grant  it  be; 


Is  disobedience  to  the  Father's  word 
A  possible  thing  ?    Dost  quail  not  more  for 
that? 

Hephcestus.  Thou,  at  least,    art   a   stern 
one:  ever  bold. 

Strength.  Why,   if   I  wept,  it    were   no 
remedy  ; 
And  do  not  thou  spend  labor  on  the  air 
To  bootless  uses. 

Hephcestus.  Cursed  handicraft ! 

I  curse  and  hate  thee,  O  my  craft  ! 

Strength.  Why  hate 

Thy  craft  most  plainly  innocent  of  all       51 
These  pending  ills  ? 

Hephcestus.         I  would  some  other  hand 
Were  here  to  work  it  ! 

Strength.  All  work  hath  its  pain, 

Except  to  rule  the  gods.     There  is  none 

free 
Except  King  Zeus. 

Hephcestus.  I  know  it  very  well: 

I  argue  not  against  it. 

Strength.  Why  not,  then, 

Make  haste  and  lock  the  fetters  over  him 
Lest  Zeus  behold  thee  lagging  ? 

Hephcestus.  Here  be  chains. 

Zeus  may  behold  these. 

Strength.  Seize  him:  strike  amain: 

Strike  with  the  hammer  on  each  side  his 
hands  —  60 

Rivet  him  to  the  rock. 

Hephcestus.  The  work  is  done, 

And  thoroughly  done. 

Strength.  Still  faster  grapple  him  ; 

Wedge   him  in  deeper  :  leave  no  inch  to 

stir. 
He 's  terrible  for  finding  a  way  out 
From  the  irremediable. 

Hephcestus.  Here  's  an  arm,  at  least, 

Grappled  past  freeing. 

Strength.  Now  then,  buckle  me 

The    other    securely.      Let   this    wise    one 

learn 
He  's  duller  than  our  Zeus. 

Hephcestus.  Oh,  none  but  he 

Accuse  me  justly. 

Strength.  Now,  straight  through 

the  chest, 
Take  him  and  bite  him  with  the  clenching 
tooth  70 

Of  the  adamantine  wedge,  and  rivet  him. 

Hephcestus.  Alas,  Prometheus,  what  thou 
sufferest  here 
I  sorrow  over. 


Strength. 


Dost  thou  flinch  agfain 


452 


TRANSLATIONS 


And  breathe   groans   for   the    enemies    of 

Zeus  ? 
Beware  lest  thine  own  pity  find  thee  out. 
Hephaestus.  Thou  dost  behold  a  spectacle 
that  turns 
The  sight  o'  the  eyes  to  pity. 

Strength.  I  behold 

A  sinner  suffer  his  sin's  penalty. 
But  lash  the  thongs  about  his  sides. 

Hephaestus.  So  much, 

I  must  do.     Urge  no  farther  than  I  must.  80 

Strength.  Ay,   but   I   will  urge !  —  and, 

with  shout  on  shout, 

Will  hound  thee  at  this  quarry.     Get  thee 

down 
And  ring  amain  the  iron  round  his  legs. 
Hephaestus.   That    work    was    not    long 

doing. 
Strength.  Heavily  now 

Let  fall  the  strokes   upon   the    perforant 

gyves : 
For  He  who  rates  the  work  has   a  heavy 
hand. 
Hephaestus.  Thy  speech  is  savage  as  thy 

shape. 
Strength.  Be  thou 

Gentle  and  tender  !  but  revile  not  me 
For  the   firm   will   and    the    untruckling 
hate. 
Hephaestus.  Let    us   go.     He    is   netted 
round  with  chains.  9c 

Strength.  Here,  now,  taunt  on  !  and  hav- 
ing spoiled  the  gods 
Of  honors,  crown  withal  thy  mortal  men 
Who  live  a  whole  day  out.   Why  how  could 

they 
Draw  off   from   thee    one   single    of    thy 

griefs  ? 
Methinks  the  Daemons  gave  thee  a  wrong 

name, 
*  Prometheus,' which  means  Providence,  — 

because 
Thou  dost  thyself  need  providence  to  see 
Thy  roll  and  ruin  from  the  top  of  doom. 
Prometheus  (alone).  O  holy  ^ther,  and 
swift-winged  Winds, 
And  River-wells,  and   laughter   innumer- 

OUS  100 

Of  yon  sea-waves  !     Earth,  mother  of  us 

all. 
And  all- viewing  cyclic  Sun,  I  cry  on  you,  — 
Behold  me,  a  god,  what   I   endure   from 
gods  ! 

Behold,  with  throe  on  throe. 
How,  wasted  by  this  woe. 


I  wrestle  down  the  myriad  years  of  time  ! 

Behold,  how  fast  around  me. 
The  new  King  of  the  happy  ones  sublime 
Has  flung  the  chain  he  forged,  has  shamed 

and  bound  me  ! 
Woe,  woe  !  to-day's  woe  and  the  coming 
morrow's  1 10 

I  cover  with   one   groan.     And   where   is 
found  me 

A  limit  to  these  sorrows  ? 
And  yet  what  word  do  I  say  ?   I  have  fore- 
known 
Clearly  all  things  that  should  be  ;  nothing 

done 
Comes  sudden  to  my  soul  ;  and  I  must  bear 
What  is  ordained  with  patience,  being  aware 
Necessity  doth  front  the  universe 
With  an   invincible   gesture.     Yet   this 

curse 
Which  strikes  me  now,  I  find  it  hard  to 
brave  119 

In  silence  or  in  speech.     Because  I  gave 
Honor  to  mortals,  I  have  yoked  my  soul 
To  this  compelling  fate.    Because  I  stole 
The  secret  fount  of  fire,  whose  bubbles 

went 
Over  the   ferule's  brim,  and   manward 

sent 
Art's  mighty  means   and  perfect  rudi- 
ment, 
That  sin  I  expiate  in  this  agony. 
Hung  here  in  fetters,  'neath  the  blanch- 
ing sky. 

Ah,  ah  me  !  what  a  sound, 
What  a  fragrance  sweeps  up  from  a  pinion 

unseen 
Of  a  god,  or  a  mortal,  or  nature  between,   130 
Sweeping  up  to  this  rock  where  the  earth 

has  her  bound, 
To  have  sight  of  my  pangs  or  some  guer- 
don obtain. 
Lo,  a  god   in   the   anguish,  a   god   in  the 
chain  ! 

The  god,  Zeus  hateth  sore 
And  his  gods  hate  again. 
As  many  as  tread  on  his  glorified  floor, 
Because  I  loved  mortals  too  much  ever- 
more. 
Alas  me  !  what  a  murmur  and  motion  I 
hear. 

As  of  birds  flying  near  ! 
And  the  air  undersings  140 

The  light  stroke  of  their  wings  — 
And  all  life  that  approaches  I  wait  for  in 
fear. 


PROMETHEUS    BOUND 


453 


Chorus  of  Sea  Nymphs,  1st  Strophe. 

Fear  nothing  !  our  troop 
Floats  lovingly  up 
With  a  quick-oaring  stroke 
Of  wings  steered  to  the  rock, 
Having   softened  the   soul   of  our  father 

below. 
For  the  gales  of  swift-bearing  have  sent  me 

a  sound, 
And  the  clank  of  the  iron,   the  malleted 
blow, 

Smote  down  the  profound  150 

Of  my  caverns  of  old, 
And  struck  the  red  light  in  a  blush  from 

my  brow,  — 
Till  I  sprang  up  unsandalled,  in  haste  to 

behold, 
And  rushed  forth  on  my  chariot  of  wings 
manifold. 

Prometheus.  Alas  me  !  —  alas  me  ! 

Ye  offspring   of   Tethys  who  bore  at  her 

breast 

Many  children,  and  eke  of  Oceanus,  he 

Coiling   still  around  earth  with  perpetual 

unrest  ! 

Behold  me  and  see 

How  transfixed  with  the  fang    160 

Of  a  fetter  I  hang 

On  the  high -jutting  rocks  of  this  fissure 

and  keep 

An  uncoveted  watch  o'er  the  world  and  the 

deep. 

• 
Chorus,  1st  Antistrophe. 

I  behold  thee,  Prometheus;  yet  now,  yet 
now, 

A  terrible  cloud  whose  rain  is  tears 

Sweeps  over  mine  eyes  that  witness  how 
Thy  body  appears 

Hung  awaste  on  the  rocks  by  infrangible 
chains : 

For  new  is  the  Hand,  new  the  rudder  that 
steers 

[The  ship  of   Olympus  through  surge  and 
wind  —  170 

'And  of  old  things  passed,  no  track  is  be- 
hind. 

Prometheus.  Under  earth,  under  Hades 
Where  the  home  of  the  shade  is, 
All  into  the  deep,  deep  Tartarus, 
I  would  he  had  hurled  me  adown. 
;  I  would  he  had  plunged  me,  fastened  thus 
In  the  knotted  chain  with  the  savage  clang. 


All  into  the  dark  where  there  should  be 

none. 
Neither   god  nor   another,  to   laugh   and 
see. 
But  now  the  winds  sing  through  and 
shake  180 

The  hurtling  chains  wherein  I  hang, 
And  I,  in  my  naked  sorrows,  make 
Much  mirth  for  my  enemy. 

Chorus,  2d  Strophe. 

Nay  !  who  of  the  gods  hath  a  heart  so 
stern 
As   to  use  thy  woe  for   a   mock  and 
mirth  ? 
Who   would    not    turn    more    mild   to 
learn 
Thy  sorrows  ?  who  of  the  heaven  and 
earth 

Save  Zeus  ?     But  he 
Bight  wrathf  ully 
Bears  on  his  sceptral  soul  unbent      190 
And  rules  thereby  the  heavenly  seed. 
Nor  will  he  pause  till  he  content 
His  thirsty  heart  in  a  finished  deed ; 
Or  till  Another  shall  appear, 
To  win  by  fraud,  to  seize  by  fear 
The  hard-to-be-captured  government. 

Prometheus.     Yet   even   of  me   he   shall 
have  need. 
That  monarch  of  the  blessed  seed. 
Of  me,  of  me,  who  now  am  cursed 

By  his  fetters  dire,  —  200 

To  wring  my  secret  out  withal 

And  learn  by  whom  his  sceptre  shall 
Be  filched  from  him  —  as  was,  at  first, 

His  heavenly  fire. 
But  he  never  shall  enchant  me 

With  his  honey-lipped  persuasion; 
Never,  never  shall  he  daunt  me 

With  the  oath  and  threat  of  passion 
Into  speaking  as  they  want  me. 
Till  he  loose  this  savage  chain,      210 

And  accept  the  expiation 
Of  my  sorrow,  in  his  pain. 

Chorus,  2d  Antistrophe. 

Thou  art,  sooth,  a  brave  god. 
And,  for  all  thou  hast  borne 

From  the  stroke  of  the  rod. 
Nought  relaxest  from  scorn. 

But  thou  speakest  unto  me 
Too  free  and  unworn; 

And  a  terror  strikes  through  me 


454 


TRANSLATIONS 


And  festers  my  soul  220 

And  I  fear,  in  the  roll 
Of  the  storm,  for  thy  fate 
In  the  ship  far  from  shore  : 
Since  the  son  of  Saturnus  is  hard  in  his  hate 
And  unmoved  in  his  heart  evermore. 

Prometheus.     I  know  that  Zeus  is  stern  ; 
I  know  he  metes  his  justice  by  his  will  ; 
And  yet,  his  soul  shall  learn 
More  softness  when  once    broken   by  this 

ill: 
And  curbing  his  unconquerable  vaunt       230 
He  shall  rush  on  in  fear  to  meet  with  me 
Who  rush  to  meet  with  him  in  agony, 
To  issues  of  harmonious  covenant. 

Chorus.    Remove  the  veil  from  all  things 
and  relate 
The  story  to  us,  —  of  what  crime  accused, 
Zeus  smites  thee  with  dishonorable  pangs. 
Speak  :  if  to  teach  us  do  not  grieve  thy- 
self. 
Prometheus.   The      utterance     of     these 
things  is  torture  to  me, 
But  so,  too,  is  their  silence;  each  way  lies 
Woe  strong  as  fate. 

When  gods  began  with  wrath. 

And   war   rose   up    between    their   starry 

brows,  241 

Some  choosing  to  cast  Chronos   from   his 

throne 
That  Zeus  might  king  it  there,  and  some 

in  haste 
With  opposite  oaths  that  they  would  have 

no  Zeus 
To  rule  the  gods  forever,  —  I,  who  brought 
The  counsel  I  thought  meetest,  could  not 

move 
The  Titans,  children  of  the  Heaven  and 

Earth, 
What  time,  disdaining  in  their  rugged  souls 
My  subtle  machinations,  they  assumed 
It  was  an  easy  thing  for  force  to  take      250 
The  mastery  of  fate.     My  mother,  then, 
Who  is  called  not  only  Themis  but  Earth 

too, 
(Her  single  beauty  joys  in  many  names) 
Did  teach  me  with  reiterant  prophecy 
What  future  should  be,  and  how  conquer- 
ing gods 
Should  not  prevail  by  strength  and  vio- 
lence 
But  by  guile  only.     When  I  told  them  so. 
They  would  not  deign  to  contemplate  the 
truth 


On  all  sides  round  ;  whereat  I  deemed  it 

best 
To  lead  my  willing  mother  upwardly       260 
And  set  my  Themis  face  to  face  with  Zeus 
As  willing  to  receive  her.     Tartarus, 
With  its  abysmal  cloister  of  the  Dark, 
Because  I  gave  that  counsel,  covers  up 
The  antique  Chronos  and  his  siding  hosts. 
And,  by  that  counsel  helped,  the  king  of 

gods 
Hath   recompensed   me  with   these   bitter 

pangs : 
For  kingship  wears  a  cancer  at  the  heart,  — 
Distrust  in  friendship.     Do  ye  also  ask 
What   crime   it   is  for  which  he  tortures 

me  ?  270 

That  shall  be  clear  before  you.     When  at 

first 
He  filled  his  father's  throne,  he  instantly 
Made  various  gifts  of  glory  to  the  gods 
And  dealt  the  empire  out.     Alone  of  men. 
Of  miserable  men,  he  took  no  count. 
But  yearned  to  sweep  their  track  off  from 

the  world 
And  plant  a  newer  race  there.     Not  a  god 
Resisted  such  desire  except  myself. 
/  dared  it !     /  drew  mortals  back  to  light. 
From  meditated  ruin  deep  as  hell  !  280 

For  which  "^r(^g,  I  am  bent  down  in  these 

pangs 
Dreadful  to  suffer,  mournful  to  behold, 
And  I,  who  pitied  man,  am  thought  my- 
self 
Unworthy  of  pity;  while  I  render  out 
Deep  rhythms  of  anguish  'neath  the  harping 

hand 
That  strikes  me  thus  —  a  sight  to  shame 

your  Zeus ! 
Chorus.   Hard  as  thy  chains  and  cold  as 

all  these  rocks 
Is  he,  Prometheus,  who  withholds  his  heart 
From  joining  in  thy  woe.    I  yearned  before 
To   fly   this   sight;    and,   now   I   gaze  on 

it,  290 

I  sicken  inwards. 

Prometheus.  To  my  friends,  indeed, 

I  must  be  a  sad  sight. 

Chorus.  And  didst  thou  sin 

No  more  than  so  ? 

Prometheus.  I  did  restrain  besides 

My  mortals  from  premeditating  death. 
Chorus.    How   didst  thou   medicine    the 

plague-fear  of  death  ? 
Prometheus.    I  set  blind  Hopes  to  inhabit 

in  their  house. 


PROMETHEUS    BOUND 


455 


Chorus.   By  that  gift  thou  didst  help  thy 

mortals  well. 
Prometheus.   I  grave  them  also  fire. 
Chorus.  And  have  they  now, 

Those   creatures   of   a   day,  the  red-eyed 
fire? 
Prometheus.    They  have:  and  shall  learn 
by  it  many  arts.  300 

Chorus.   And   truly  for  such  sins   Zeus 
tortures  thee 
And    will   remit   no   anguish  ?      Is    there 

set 
No  limit  before  thee  to  thine  agony  ? 
Prometheus.   No  other:  only  what  seems 

good  to  HIM. 
Chorus.    And  how  will  it   seem   good  ? 
what  hope  remains  ? 
Seest  thou  not  that  thou  hast  sinned  ?    But 

that  thou  hast  sinned 
It  glads  me  not  to  speak  of,  and  grieves 

thee: 
Then  let  it  pass  from  both,  and  seek  thy- 
self 
Some  outlet  from  distress. 

Prometheus.  It  is  in  truth 

An  easy  thing  to  stand  aloof  from  pain   3 10 
And  lavish  exhortation  and  advice 
On  one  vexed  sorely  by  it.     I  have  known 
All    in    prevision.      By    my    choice,    my 

choice, 
I  freely  sinned  —  I  will  confess  my  sin  — 
And  helping  mortals,  found  my  own  de- 
spair. 
I  did  not  think  indeed  that  I  should  pine 
Beneath   such   pangs    against   such   skyey 

rocks, 
Doomed  to  this  drear  hill  and  no  neighbor- 
ing 
Of  any  life:  but  mourn  not  ye  for  griefs 
I  bear  to-day:  hear  rather,  drooping  down 
To  the  plain,  how  other  woes  creep  on  to 
me,  _  321 

And  learn  the  consummation  of  my  doom. 
Beseech  you,  nymphs,  beseech  you,  grieve 

for  me 
Who  now  am  grieving;  for  Grief  walks  the 

earth, 
And   sits    down   at   the    foot   of   each   by 
turns. 
Chorus.    We  hear  the  deep  clash  of  thy 
words, 

Prometheus,  and  obey. 
And  I  spring  with  a  rapid  foot  away 
From  the  rushing  car  and  the  holy  air, 
The  track  of  birds;  330 


And  I  drop  to  the  rugged  ground  and 
there 
Await  the  tale  of  thy  despair. 

OcEANUS  enters. 

Oceanus.   I  reach  the  bourn  of  my  weary 
road, 
Where  I  may  see  and  answer  thee, 
Prometheus,  in  thine  agony. 
On  the  back  of  the  quick-winged  bird  I 
glode, 
And  I  bridled  him  in 
With  the  will  of  a  god. 
Behold,  thy  sorrow  aches  in  me 

Constrained  by  the  force  of  kin.        340 
Nay,  though  that  tie  were  all  undone, 
For  the  life  of  none  beneath  the  sun 
Would  I  seek  a  larger  benison 

Than  I  seek  for  thine. 
And    thou    shalt    learn   my    words    are 

truth, — 
That  no  fair  parlance  of  the  mouth 

Grows  falsely  out  of  mine. 
Now  give  me  a  deed  to  prove  my  faith; 
For  no  faster  friend  is  named  in  breath 

Than  I,  Oceanus,  am  thine.  350 

Prometheus,   Ha  !  what  has  brought  thee  ? 
Hast  thou  also  come 
To  look  upon  my  woe  ?     How  hast   thou 

dared 
To  leave  the  depths  called  after  thee,  the 

caves 
Self-hewn  and  self-^^oofed  with  spontaneous 

rock. 
To  visit  earth,  the  mother  of  my  chain  ? 
Hast  come  indeed  to  view  my  doom  and 

mourn 
That  I  should  sorrow  thus  ?    Gaze  on,  and 

see 
How  I,  the  fast  friend  of   your  Zeus,  — 

how  I 
The  erector  of  the  empire  in  his  hand. 
Am  bent  beneath  that  hand,  in  this  despair. 
Oceanus.    Prometheus,  I  behold:    and  I 
would  fain  361 

Exhort  thee,  though  already  subtle  enough, 
To  a   better   wisdom.      Titan,  know  thy- 
self. 
And   take   new   softness   to   thy   manners 

since 
A  new  king  rules  the  gods.     If  words  like 

these. 
Harsh  words  and  trenchant,  thou  wilt  fling 

abroad, 
Zeus  haply,  though  he  sit  so  far  and  high. 


456 


TRANSLATIONS 


May  hear  thee  do  it,  and  so,  this  wrath  of 
his 

Which  now  affects  thee  fiercely,  shall  ap- 
pear 

A     mere     child's     sport     at     vengeance. 
Wretched  god,  370 

Rather   dismiss    the   passion   which    thou 
hast. 

And  seek  a  change  from  grief.     Perhaps  I 
seem 

To  address  thee  with  old  saws  and  outworn 
sense,  — 

Yet  such  a  curse,  Prometheus,  surely  waits 

On  lips  that  speak  too  proudly  :  thou,  mean- 
time. 

Art  none  the  meeker,  nor  dost  yield  a  jot 

To  evil  circumstance,  preparing  still 

To  swell  the  account  of  grief  with  other 
griefs 

Than  what  are  borne.     Beseech  thee,  use 
me  then 

For  counsel  :    do   not   spurn   against   the 
pricks,  —  380 

Seeing  that  who  reigns,  reigns  by  cruelty 

Instead   of   right.     And   now,  I   go   from 
hence, 

And  will  endeavor  if  a  power  of  mine 

Can  break  thy  fetters  through.     For  thee, 
—  be  calm, 

And    smooth    thy    words    from     passion. 
Knowest  thou  not 

Of  perfect  knowledge,  thou  who  knowest 
too  much. 

That  where  the  tongue  wags,  ruin  never 
lags  ? 
Prometheus.   I   gratulate   thee  who  hast 
shared  and  dared 

All  things  with  me,  except  their  penalty. 

Enough  so  !  leave  these  thoughts.     It  can- 
not be  390 

That  thou  shouldst  move  Him.   He  may  not 
be  moved; 

And  tJiou,  beware  of  sorrow  on  this  road. 
Oceanus.   Ay  !   ever  wiser  for  another's 
use 

Than  thine  !  the  event,  and  not  the  pro- 
phecy. 

Attests  it  to  me.     Yet  where  now  I  rush, 

Thy  wisdom  hath  no  power    to  drag  me 
back; 

Because  I  glory,  glory,  to  go  hence 

And    win  for  thee   deliverance   from  thy 
pangs, 

As  a  free  gift  from  Zeus. 

Prometheus.  Why  there,  again. 


I  give  thee  gratulation  and  applause.       400 
Thou  lackest   no   goodwill.     But,  as   for 

deeds. 
Do  nought  !  't  were  all  done  vainly;  help- 
ing nought, 
Whatever  thou  wouldst  do.     Rather  take 

rest 
And  keep  thyself  from  evil.     If  I  grieve, 
I  do  not  therefore  wish  to  multiply 
The  griefs  of  others.     Verily,  not  so  ! 
For  still  my  brother's  doom  doth  vex  my 

soul,  — 
My  brother  Atlas,  standing  in  the  west, 
Shouldering  the  column  of  the  heaven  and 

earth, 
A  difficult  burden  !     I  have  also  seen,     410 
And  pitied  as  I  saw,  the  earth-born  one. 
The  inhabitant  of  old  Cilician  caves, 
The   great   war-monster    of    the   hundred 

heads, 
(All  taken  and  bowed  beneath  the  violent 

Hand,) 
Typhon   the    fierce,   who    did    resist    the 

gods. 
And,  hissing  slaughter  from  his  dreadful 

jaws, 
Flash  out  ferocious  glory  from  his  eyes 
As  if  to  storm  the  throne  of  Zeus.    Where- 
at, 
The  sleepless  arrow  of  Zeus  flew  straight  at 

him, 
The  headlong  bolt   of   thunder  breathing 
flame,  420 

And  struck  him  downward  from  his  emi- 
nence 
Of  exultation;  through  the  very  soul. 
It  struck  him,  and  his  strength  was  with- 
ered up 
To  ashes,  thunder-blasted.     Now  he  lies 
A  helpless  trunk  supinely,  at  full  length 
Beside  the  strait  of  ocean,  spurred  into 
By  roots  of  iEtna;  high  upon  whose  tops 
Hephaestus    sits    and    strikes    the   flashing 

ore. 
From  thence  the  rivers  of  fire  shall  burst 

away 
Hereafter,  and  devour  with  savage  jaws  430 
The  equal  plains  of  fruitful  Sicily, 
Such  passion   he   shall    boil    back   in   hot 

darts 
Of  an  insatiate  fury  and  sough  of  flame. 
Fallen    Typhon,  —  howsoever   struck   and 

charred 
By  Zeus's  bolted  thunder.     But  for  thee. 
Thou  art  not  so  unlearned  as  to  need 


PROMETHEUS    BOUND 


457 


My  teaching  —  let  thy  knowledge  save  thy- 
self. 
/  quaff  the  full  cup  of  a  present  doom, 
And  wait  till  Zeus  hath  quenched  his  will  in 
wrath. 
Oceanus.   Prometheus,  art  thou  ignorant 
of  this,  440 

That  words  do  medicine  anger  ? 

Prometheus.  If  the  word 

With  seasonable  softness  touch  the  soul 
And,  where   the  parts  are   ulcerous,  sear 

them  not 
By  any  rudeness. 

Oceanus.  With  a  noble  aim 

To  dare  as  nobly  —  is  there  harm  in  that  ? 
Dost  thou  discern  it  ?     Teach  me. 

Prometheus.  I  discern 

Vain  aspiration,  unresultive  work. 

Oceanus.   Then   suffer   me   to   bear   the 
brunt  of  this  ! 
Since  it  is  profitable  that  one  who  is  wise 
Should  seem  not  wise  at  all. 

Prometheus.        And  such  would  seem  450 
My  very  crime. 

Oceanus.  In  truth  thine  argument 

Sends  me  back  home. 

Prometheus.  Lest  any  lament  for  me 

Should  cast  thee  down  to  hate. 

Oceanus.  The  hate  of  him 

Who  sits  a  new  king  on  the  absolute  throne  ? 

Prometheus.   Beware  of   him,  lest  thine 

heart  grieve  by  him. 
Oceanus.   Thy  doom,  Prometheus,  be  my 

teacher  ! 
Prometheus.  Go. 

Depart  —  beware  —  and    keep   the   mind 
thou  hast. 
Oceanus.   Thy  words  drive  after,  as  I  rush 
before. 
Lo  !   my   four-footed  bird  sweeps  smooth 

and  wide 
The   flats   of    air   with   balanced    pinions, 
glad  460 

To  bend  his  knee  at  home  in  the  ocean- 
stall. 

[Oceanus  departs. 

Chorus^  1st  Strophe. 

I  moan  thy  fate,  I  moan  for  thee, 

Prometheus  !    From  my  eyes  too  ten- 
der. 
Drop  after  drop  incessantly 

The  tears  of  my  heart's  pity  render 
My   cheeks   wet    from    their    fountains 
free; 


Because  that  Zeus,  the  stern  and  cold. 
Whose  law  is  taken  from  his  breast, 
Uplifts  his  sceptre  manifest 

Over  the  gods  of  old.  470 

1st  Antistrophe. 

All  the  land  is  moaning 
With  a  murmured  plaint  to-day; 

All  the  mortal  nations 

Having  habitations 
In  the  holy  Asia 

Are  a  dirge  entoning 
For  thine  honor  and  thy  brothers'. 
Once  majestic  beyond  others 

In  the  old  belief,  — 
Now  are  groaning  in  the  groaning    480 

Of  thy  deep-voiced  grief. 

2d  Strophe. 

Mourn  the  maids  inhabitant 

Of  the  Colchian  land, 
Who  with  white,  calm  bosoms  stand 

In  the  battle's  roar: 
Mourn  the  Scythian  tribes  that  haunt 
The  verge  of  earth,  Mseotis'  shore. 

2d  Antistrophe. 

Yea !  Arabia's  battle-crown. 
And  dwellers  in  the  beetling  town 
Mount  Caucasus  sublimely  nears,  —  490 
An  iron  squadron,  thundering  down 
With  the  sharp-prowed  spears. 

But  one  other  before,  have  I  seen  to  re- 
main 

By  invincible  pain 
Bound  and  vanquished,  —  one  Titan  !  't  was 

Atlas,  who  bears 
In  a  curse  from  the  gods,  by  that  strength 
of  his  own 

Which  he  evermore  wears. 
The  weight  of  the  heaven  on  his  shoulder 
alone, 

While  he  sighs  up  the  stars; 
And  the  tides  of  the  ocean  wail  bursting  their 
bars,  —  500 

Murmurs  still  the  profound. 
And  black  Hades   roars   up   through  the 

chasm  of  the  ground. 
And  the  fountains  of  pure-running  rivers 
moan  low 

In  a  pathos  of  woe. 

Prometheus.   Beseech  you,  think  not  I  am 
silent  thus 


458 


TRANSLATIONS 


Through  pride  or  scorn.     I  only  gnaw  my 

heart 
With  meditation,  seeing  myself  so  wronged. 
For  see — their  honors  to  these  new-made 

gods, 
What  other  gave  but  I,  and  dealt  them  out 
With  distribution  ?     Ay  —  but  here  I  am 

dumb  !  510 

For  here,  I  should  repeat  your  knowledge 

to  you, 
If  I  spake  aught.     List  rather  to  the  deeds 
I  did  for  mortals;  how,  being  fools  before, 
I  made  them  wise  and  true  in  aim  of  soul. 
And  let  me  tell  you  —  not  as  taunting  men, 
But  teaching  you  the  intention  of  my  gifts. 
How,  first  beholding,  they  beheld  in  vain. 
And  hearing,  heard  not,  but,  like  shapes  in 

dreams. 
Mixed  all  things  wildly  down  the  tedious 

time. 
Nor   knew  to  build  a  house   against   the 

sun  520 

With   wickered  sides,  nor  any    woodcraft 

knew. 
But    lived,    like    silly    ants,    beneath   the 

ground 
In  hollow  caves  unsunned.    There,  came  to 

them 
No  steadfast  sign  of  winter,  nor  of  spring 
Flower-perfumed,  nor   of  summer  full  of 

fruit, 
But    blindly    and    lawlessly    they    did    all 

things. 
Until  I  taught  them  how  the  stars  do  rise 
And  set  in  mystery,  and  devised  for  them 
Number,  the  inducer  of  philosophies. 
The  synthesis  of  Letters,  and,  beside,       530 
The  artificer  of  all  things.  Memory, 
That  sweet  Muse-mother.     I  was  first  to 

yoke 
The  servile  beasts  in  couples,  carrying 
An  heirdom  of  man's  burdens  on  their  backs. 
I  joined  to  chariots,  steeds,  that  love  the 

bit 
They  champ  at  —  the  chief  pomp  of  golden 

ease. 
And  none  but  I  originated  ships. 
The  seaman's  chariots,  wandering  on  the 

brine 
With   linen    wings.     And   I  —  oh,    miser- 
able !  — 
Who  did  devise  for  mortals  all  these  arts, 
Have  no  device  left  now  to  save  myself  541 
From  the  woe  I  suffer. 

Chorus.  Most  unseemly  woe 


Thou  sufferest,  and  dost  stagger  from  the 

sense 
Bewildered  !  like  a  bad  leech  falling  sick 
Thou  art  faint  at  soul,  and  canst  not  find 

the  drugs 
Required  to  save  thyself. 

Prometheus.  Hearken  the  rest. 

And  marvel  further,  what  more  arts  and 

means 
I  did  invent,  —  this,  greatest:  if  a  man 
Fell  sick,  there  was  no  cure,  nor  esculent 
Nor   chrism   nor   liquid,  but   for   lack   of 
drugs  550 

Men  pined  and  wasted,  till  I  showed  them 

all 
Those  mixtures  of  emollient  remedies 
Whereby  they  might  be  rescued  from  dis-i 

ease. 
I  fixed  the  various  rules  of  mantic  art, 
Discerned   the    vision   from    the    common 

dream. 
Instructed  them  in  vocal  auguries 
Hard  to  interpret,  and  defined  as  plain 
The    wayside    omens,  —  flights    of   crook- 
clawed  birds,  — 
Showed  which  are,  by  their  nature,  fortu- 
nate. 
And  which  not  so,  and  what  the  food   of 
each,  56a 

And  what  the  hates,  affections,  social  needs. 
Of    all    to    one    another,  —  taught    what 

sign 
Of  visceral  lightness,  colored  to  a  shade. 
May  charm  the  genial  gods,  and  what  fair 

spots 
Commend  the  lung  and  liver.     Burning  so 
The    limbs    encased   in  fat,  and  the  long 

chine, 
I  led  my  mortals  on  to  an  art  abstruse. 
And  cleared  their  eyes  to  the  image  in  the 

fire. 
Erst  filmed  in  dark.     Enough  said  now  of 

this. 
For  the    other   helps    of   man  hid   under- 
ground, 570 
The  iron  and  the  brass,  silver  and  gold. 
Can  any  dare  affirm  he  found  them  out 
Before    me  ?    none,    I   know  !    unless    he 

choose 
To  lie  in  his  vaunt.     In  one  word  learn  the 

whole,  — 
That  all  arts  came  to  mortals  from  Prome- 
theus. 
Chorus.    Give  mortals  now  no  inexpedient 
help. 


PROMETHEUS    BOUND 


459 


I 


Neglecting  thine  own  sorrow.     I  have  hope 

still 
To   see    thee,    breaking    from    the    fetter 

here, 
Stand  up  as  strong  as  Zeus. 

Prometheus.  This  ends  not  thus, 

The    oracular   fate    ordains.      I    must    be 

bowed  5*io 

By  infinite  woes  and  pangs,  to  escape  this 

chain. 
Necessity  is  stronger  than  mine  art. 

Cliorus.    Who  holds  the  helm  of  that  Ne- 
cessity ? 
Prometheus.    The  threefold  Fates  and  the 

unforgfetting-  Furies. 
Chorus.    Is  Zeus  less  absolute  than  these 

are  ? 
Prometheus.  Yea, 

And    therefore    cannot    fly    what    is    or- 
dained. 
Chorus.    What  is  ordained  for  Zeus,  ex- 
cept to  be 
A  king  forever  ? 

Prometheus.  'T  is  too  early  yet 

For  thee  to  learn  it:  ask  no  more. 

Chorus.  Perhaps 

Thy  secret  may  be  something  holy  ? 

Prometheus.  Turn 

To  another  matter:  this,  it  is  not  time     591 
To  speak  abroad,  but  utterly  to  veil 
In  silence.     For  by  that  same  secret  kept, 
I  'scape  this  chain's  dishonor  and  its  woe. 

Chorus,  1st  Strophe. 

Never,  oh  never 

May  Zeus,  the  all-giver. 

Wrestle  down  from  his  throne 

In  that  might  of  his  own 

To  antagonize  mine  ! 

Nor  let  me  delay  600 

As  I  bend  on  my  way 

Toward  the  gods  of  the  shrine 

Where  the  altar  is  full 

Of  the  blood  of  the  bull, 

Near  the  tossing  brine 

Of  Ocean  my  father. 
May  no  sin  be  sped  in  the  word  that  is 
said. 

But  my  vow  be  rather 
Consummated, 
Nor  evermore  fail,  nor  evermore  pine.     610 

1st  Antistrophe. 

'T  is  sweet  to  have 
Life  lengthened  out 


With  hopes  proved  brave 

By  the  very  doubt, 
Till  the  spirit  enfold 
Those  manifest  joys  which  were  foretold. 
But  I  thrill  to  behold 

Thee,  victim  doomed. 
By  the  countless  cares 
And  the  drear  despairs  620 

Forever  consumed,  — 
And   all   because   thou,    who   art   fearless 
now 
Of  Zeus  above. 
Didst  overflow  for  mankind  below 

With  a  free-souled,  reverent  love. 
Ah  friend,  behold  and  see  ! 
What 's  all  the  beauty  of  humanity  ? 

Can  it  be  fair  ? 
What 's  all  the  strength  ?  is  it  strong  ? 

And  what  hope  can  they  bear,  630 

These  dying  livers  —  living  one  day  long  ? 
Ah,  seest  thou  not,  my  friend. 
How  feeble  and  slow 
And  like  a  dream,  doth  go 
This  poor  blind  manhood,  drifted  from  its 
end  ? 
And  how  no  mortal  wranglings  can  con- 
fuse 
The  harmony  of  Zeus  ? 
Prometheus,  I  have  learnt  these  things 
From  the  sorrow  in  thy  face. 

Another  song  did  fold  its  wings  640 

Upon  my  lips  in  other  days, 
When  round  the  bath  and  round  the  bed 
The  hymeneal  chant  instead 

I  sang  for  thee,  and  smiled,  — 
And  thou  didst  lead,  with  gifts  and  vows, 

Hesione,  my  father's  child. 
To  be  thy  wedded  spouse. 

lo  enters. 

lo.    What  land  is  this  ?  what  jjeople  is 
here  ? 
And  who  is  he  that  writhes,  I  see, 

In  the  rock-hung  chain  ?  650 

Now  what  is  the  crime  that  hath  brought 

thee  to  pain  ? 
Now  what  is  the  land  —  make  answer  free — 
Which  I  wander  through,  in  my  wrong  and 
fear? 
Ah  !  ah  !  ah  me  ! 
The  gad-fly  stingeth  to  agony  ! 
O  Earth,  keep  off  that  phantasm  pale 
Of  earth-born  Argus  !  —  ah  !  —  I  quail 

When  my  soul  descries 
That  herdsman  with  the  myriad  eyes 


460 


TRANSLATIONS 


Which    seem,    as    he   comes,    one    crafty 
eye.  660 

Graves  hide   him  not,  though  he   should 
die, 

But  he  doggeth  me  in  my  misery 

From    the   roots   of   death,  on  high  —  on 
high  — 

And  along  the  sands  of  the  siding  deep. 

All  famine-worn,  he  follows  me, 

And  his  waxen  reed  doth  undersound 
The  waters  round 

And  giveth  a  measure  that  giveth  sleep. 

Woe,  woe,  woe  ! 
Where  shall  my  weary  course  be  done  ?  670 
What  wouldst  thou  with  me,  Saturn's  son  ? 
And  in  what  have  I  sinned,  that  I  should 

go 
Thus  yoked  to  grief  by  thine  hand  forever  ? 
Ah  !  ah  !  dost  vex  me  so 
That  I  madden  and  shiver 
Stung  through  with  dread  ? 
Flash  the  fire  down  to  burn  me  ! 
Heave  the  earth  up  to  cover  me  ! 
Plunge  me  in  the  deep,  with  the  salt  waves 
over  me, 
That  the  sea-beasts  may  be  fed  !  680 

0  king,  do  not  spurn  me 

In  my  prayer  ! 
For  this  wandering,  everlonger,  ever- 
more. 

Hath  overworn  me, 
And  I  know  not  on  what  shore 

1  may  rest  from  my  despair. 

Chorus.  Hearest  thou  what  the  ox-horned 

maiden  saith  ? 
Prometheus.   How    could    I    choose   but 
hearken  what  she  saith, 
The  frenzied  maiden? — Inachus's  child? — 
Who  love-warms  Zeus's  heart,  and  now  is 
lashed  690 

By  Herd's  hate  along  the  unending  ways  ? 

lo.   Who  taught  thee  to  articulate  that 
name,  — 
My  father's  ?     Speak  to  his  child 
By  grief  and  shame  defiled  ! 
Who  art  thou,  victim,  thou  who  dost  ac- 
claim 
Mine  anguish  in  true  words  on  the  wide 

air. 
And  callest  too  by  name  the  curse  that  came 
From  Here  unaware. 


To  waste  and  pierce  me  with  its  maddening 
goad? 

Ah  —  ah  —  I  leap  70a 

With  the  pang  of  the  hungry  —  I  bound  on 
the  road  — 

I  am  driven  by  my  doom  — 

I  am  overcome 
By   the   wrath   of  an   enemy  strong   and 

deep  ! 
Are  any  of  those  who  have  tasted  pain, 

Alas  !  as  wretched  as  I  ? 
Now  tell  me  plain,  doth  aught  remain 
For  my  soul  to  endure  beneath  the  sky  ? 
Is  there  any  help  to  be  holpen  by  ? 
If  knowledge  be  in  thee,  let  it  be  said!    710 

Cry  aloud  —  cry 
To  the  wandering,  woeful  maid  ! 

Prometheus.  Whatever  thou  wouldst  learn 
I  will  declare,  — 
No  riddle  upon  my  lips,  but  such  straight 

words 
As  friends  should  use  to  each  other  when 

they  talk. 
Thou  seest  Prometheus,  who  gave  mortals- 
fire. 

lo.  O  common  Help  of  all  men,  known  of 
all, 
O  miserable  Prometheus,  —  for  what  cause 
Dost  thou  endure  thus  ? 

Prometheus.  I  have  done  with  wail 

For  my  own  griefs,  but  lately. 

lo.  Wilt  thou  not  720 

Vouchsafe  the  boon  to  me  ? 

Prometheus.  Say  what  thou  wilt,, 

For  I  vouchsafe  all. 

lo.  Speak  then,  and  reveal 

Who  shut  thee  in  this  chasm. 

Prometheus.  The  will  of  Zeus^ 

The  hand  of  his  Hephaestus. 

lo.  And  what  crime 

Dost  expiate  so  ? 

Prometheus.  Enough  for  thee  I  have  told 
In  so  much  only. 

lo.  Nay,  but  show  besides 

The    limit    of    my    wandering,    and    the 

time 
Which  yet  is  lacking  to  fulfil  my  grief. 

Prometheus.  Why,  not  to  know  were  bet- 
ter than  to  know  729 
For  such  as  thou. 

lo.  Beseech  thee,  blind  me  not 

To  that  which  I  must  suffer. 

Prometheus.  If  I  do, 

The  reason  is  not  that  I  grudge  a  boon. 


PROMETHEUS   BOUND 


461 


lo.  What    reason,   then,    prevents    thy 

speaking  out  ? 
Prometheus.  No  grudging  ;  but  a  fear  to 

break  thine  heart. 
lo.  Less  care  for  me,  I  pray  thee.     Cer- 
tainty 
I  count  for  advantage. 

Prometheus.  Thou  wilt  have  it  so, 

And  therefore  I  must  speak.    Now  hear  — 

Chorus.  Not  yet. 

Give  half  the  guerdon  my  way.   Let  us  learn 

First,  what  the   curse   is   that  befell   the 

maid,  — 
Her   own  voice   telling   her  own  wasting 

woes  :  740 

The  sequence  of  that  anguish  shall  await 
The  teaching  of  thy  lips. 

Prometheus.  It  doth  behove 

That  thou,  Maid  lo,  shouldst  vouchsafe  to 

these 
The  grace  they  pray,  —  the  more,  because 

they  are  called 
Thy  father's  sisters  :  since  to  open  out 
And  mourn  out  grief  where  it  is  possible 
To  draw  a  tear  from  the  audience,  is  a  work 
That  pays  its  own  price  well. 

Id.  I  cannot  choose 

But  trust  you,  nymphs,  and  tell  you  all  ye 

ask. 
In  clear  words  —  though  I  sob  amid  my 

speech  750 

In  speaking  of  the  storm-curse  sent  from 

Zeus, 
And  of  my  beauty,  from  what  height  it  took 
Its  swoop  on  me,  poor  wretch  !    left  thus 

deformed 
And  monstrous  to  your  eyes.    For  evermore 
Around  my  virgin-chamber,  wandering  went 
The  nightly  visions  which  entreated  me 
With  syllabled  smooth  sweetness. —  'Bless- 
ed maid. 
Why  lengthen  out  thy  maiden  hours  when 

fate 
Permits  the  noblest  spousal  in  the  world  ? 
When  Zeus  burns  with  the  arrow  of  thy 

love  760 

And   fain   would    touch    thy   beauty  ?  — 

Maiden,  thou 
Despise  not  Zeus  !  depart  to  Lern^'s  mead 
That 's  green  around  thy  father's  flocks  and 

stalls, 
Until  the  passion  of  the  heavenly  Eye 
Be  quenched  in  sight.'     Such  dreams  did  all 

night  long 
Constrain  me  —  me,  unhappy ! — till  I  dared 


To  tell  my  father  how  they  trod  the  dark 
With  visionary  steps.     Whereat  he  sent 
His  frequent  heralds  to  the  Pythian  fane, 
And  also  to  Dodona,  and  inquired  770 

How  best,  by  act  or  speech,  to  please  the 

gods. 
The  same  returning  brought  back  oracles 
Of  doubtful  sense,  indefinite  response. 
Dark  to  interpret ;  but  at  last  there  came 
To  Inachus  an  answer  that  was  clear. 
Thrown  straight  as  any  bolt,   and  spoken 

out  — 
This  —  *  he  should  drive  me  from  my  home 

and  land. 
And  bid  me  wander  to  the  extreme  verge 
Of  all  the  earth  —  or,  if  he  willed  it  not, 
Should  have  a  thunder  with  a  fiery  eye    780 
Leap  straight  from  Zeus  to  burn  up  all  his 

race 
To  the  last  root  of  it.'     By  which  Loxian 

word 
Subdued,  he  drove  me  forth  and  shut  me  out. 
He  loth,  me  loth,  —  but  Zeus's  violent  bit 
Compelled  him  to  the  deed  :  when  instantly 
My  body  and  soul  were  changed  and  dis- 
traught. 
And,  horned  as  ye  see,  and  spurred  along 
By  the  fanged  insect,  with  a  maniac  leap 
I  rushed  on  to  Cenchrea's  limpid  stream 
And  Lern^'s    fountain-water.     There,   the 
earth-born,  790 

The  herdsman  Argus,  most  immitigable 
Of  wrath,  did  find  me  out,  and  track  me  out 
With  countless  eyes  set  staring  at  my  steps : 
And  though  an  unexpected  sudden  doom 
Drew  him  from  life,  I,  curse-tormented  still, 
Am  driven  from  land  to  land  before  the 

scourge 
The  gods  hold  o'er  me.    So  thou  hast  heard 

the  past. 
And  if  a  bitter  future  thou  canst  tell. 
Speak  on.     I  charge  thee,  do  not  flatter  me 
Through  pity,  with  false  words;  for,  in  my 
mind,  Soo 

Deceiving  works  more  shame  than  tortur- 
ing doth. 

Chorus. 

Ah  !  silence  here  ! 
Nevermore,  nevermore 
Would  I  languish  for 
The  stranger's  word 
To  thrill  in  mine  ear  — 
Nevermore  for  the  wrong-  and  the  woe 
and  the  fear 


462 


TRANSLATIONS 


So  hard  to  behold, 

So  cruel  to  bear, 
Piercing  my  soul  with  a  double-edged 
sword  810 

Of  a  sliding  cold. 

Ah  Fate  !  ah  me  ! 

I  shudder  to  see 
This  wandering  maid  in  her  agony. 

Prometheus.  Grief  is  too  quick  in  thee  and 

fear  too  full  : 
Be  patient  till  thou  hast  learnt  the  rest. 

Chorus.  Speak  :  teach. 

To  those  who  are   sad   already,  it    seems 

sweet. 
By  clear  foreknowledge  to  make  perfect, 

pain. 
Prometheus.  The  boon  ye  asked  me  first 

was  lightly  won,  — 
For  first  ye  asked  the  story  of  this  maid's 

grief  820 

As  her  own  lips  might  tell  it.      Now  re- 
mains 
To  list  what  other  sorrows  she  so  young 
Must  bear  from  Here.     Inachus's  child, 
O  thou  !  drop  down  thy  soul  my  weighty 

words. 
And  measure  out  the  landmarks  which  are 

set 
To  end  rhy  wandering.     Toward  the  orient 

sun 
First  turn  thy  face  from  mine  and  journey 

on 
Along  the  desert  flats  till  thou  shalt  come 
Where    Scythia's    shepherd  peoples  dwell 

aloft. 
Perched  in  wheeled  wagons  under  woven 

roofs,  830 

And  twang  the  rapid  arrow  past  the  bow  — 
Approach  them  not;  but  siding  in  thy  course 
The  rugged  shore-rocks  resonant  to  the  sea, 
Depart  that  country.      On   the  left  hand 

dwell 
The  iron- workers,  called  the  Chalybes, 
Of  whom  beware,  for  certes  they  are  un- 
couth 
And  nowise  bland  to  strangers.   Reaching  so 
The    stream    Hybristes    (well    the    scorner 

called), 
Attempt  no  passage,  —  it  is  hard  to  pass,  — 
Or  ere  thou  come  to  Caucasus  itself,        840 
That  highest  of  mountains,  where  the  river 

leaps 
The  precipice  in  his  strength.     Thou  must 

toil  up 


Those  mountain  -  tops  that  neighbor  with 

the  stars. 
And  tread  the  south  way,  and  draw  near,  at 

last. 
The  Amazonian  host  that  hateth  man. 
Inhabitants  of  Themiscyra,  close 
Upon  Thermodon,  where  the  sea's  rough  jaw 
Doth  gnash  at  Salmydessa  and  provide 
A  cruel  host  to  seamen,  and  to  ships         849 
A  stepdame.     They  with  unreluctant  hand 
Shall  lead  thee  on  and  on,  till  thou  arrive 
Just  where  the  ocean-gates  show  narrowest 
On  the  Cimmerian  isthmus.  Leaving  which. 
Behoves  thee  swim  with  fortitude  of  soul 
The  strait  Mseotis.     Ay,  and  evermore 
That  traverse  shall  be  famous  on  men's  lips. 
That  strait,  called  Bosphorus,  the  horned 

one's  road, 
So  named  because  of  thee,  who  so  wilt  go 
From  Europe's  plain  to  Asia's  continent, 
How  think  ye,  nymphs  ?  the  king  of  gods 

appears  860 

Impartial  in  ferocious  deeds  ?     Behold  ! 
The  god  desirous  of  this  mortal's  love 
Hath    cursed  her  with  these  wanderings. 

Ah,  fair  child, 
Thou  hast  met  a  bitter  groom  for  bridal 

troth  ! 
For  all  thou  yet  hast  heard  can  only  prove 
The  incompleted  prelude  of  thy  doom. 
lo.   Ah,  ah  ! 
Prometheus.    Is 't  thy  turn,  now,  to  shriek 

and  moan  ? 
How  wilt  thou,  when  thou  hast  hearkened 

what  remains  ? 
Chorus.    Besides  the  grief  thou  hast  told 

can  aught  remain  ? 
Prometheus.    A  sea  —  of  foredoomed  evil 

worked  to  storm.  870 

lo.    What  boots  my  life,  then  ?  why  not 

cast  myself 
Down  headlong  from  this  miserable  rock. 
That,  dashed  against  the  flats,  I  may  re- 
deem 
My  soul  from  sorrow  ?     Better  once  to  die 
Than  day  by  day  to  suffer. 

Prometheus.  Verily, 

It  would  be  hard  for  thee  to  bear  my  woe 
For  whom  it  is  appointed  not  to  die. 
Death  frees  from  woe :  but  I  before  me  see 
In  all  my  far  prevision  not  a  bound 
To  all  I  suffer,  ere  that  Zeus  shall  fall    880 
From  being  a  king. 

lo.  And  can  it  ever  be 

That  Zeus  shall  fall  from  empire  ? 


I 


PROMETHEUS    BOUND 


46: 


Prometheus.  Thou,  methinks, 

Wouldst  take  some  joy  to  see  it. 

lo.  Could  I  choose  ? 

/  who  endure  such  pangs  now,  by  that  god  ! 

Prometheus.    Learn  from  me,  therefore, 
that  the  event  shall  be. 

lo.    By  whom  shall  his  imperial  sceptred 
hand 
Be  emptied  so  ? 

Prometheus.    Himself  shall  spoil  himself, 
Through  his  idiotic  counsels. 

lo.  How  ?  declare  : 

Unless  the  word  bring  evil. 

Prometheus.  He  shall  wed; 

And  in   the   marriage-bond   be   joined   to 

grief.  S90 

lo.    A     heavenly    bride  —  or     human  ? 
Speak  it  out 
If  it  be  utterable. 

Prometheus.       Why  should  I  say  which  ? 
It  ought  not  to  be  uttered,  verily. 

lo.  Then 

It  is  his  wife  shall  tear  him  from  his  throne  ? 

Prometheus.    It  is  his  wife  shall  bear  a  son 
to  him, 
More  mighty  than  the  father. 

lo.  From  this  doom 

Hath  he  no  refuge  ? 

Prometheus.  None:  or  ere  that  I, 

Loosed  from  these  fetters  — 

lo.  Yea —  but  who  shall  loose 

While  Zeus  is  adverse  ? 

Prometheus.         One  who  is  born  of  thee: 
It  is  ordained  so. 

Id.  What  is  this  thou  sayest  ? 

A  son  of  mine  shall  liberate  thee  from  woe  ? 

Prometheus.    After  ten  generations,  count 
three  more,  902 

And  find  him  in  the  third. 

lo.  The  oracle 

Remains  obscure. 

Prometheus.      And  search  it  not,  to  learn 
Thine  own  griefs  from  it. 

lo.  Point  me  not  to  a  good. 

To  leave  me  straight  bereaved. 

Prometheus.  I  am  prepared 

To  grant  thee  one  of  two  things. 

lo.  But  which  two  ? 

Set  them  before  me;  grant  me  power  to 
choose. 

Prometheus.    I  grant  it;  choose  now:  shall 
I  name  aloud 
What  griefs  remain  to  wound  thee,  or  what 
hand  910 

Shall  save  me  out  of  mine  ? 


Chorus.  Vouchsafe,  O  god. 

The  one  grace  of  the  twain  to  her  who  prays; 
The   next  to  me;   and   turn  back   neither 

prayer 
Dishonor'd  bv  denial.     To  herself 
Recount  the  future  wanderino^  of  her  feet: 
Then  point  me  to  the  looser  of  thy  chain, 
Because  I  yearn  to  know  him. 

Prometheus.  Since  ye  will. 

Of  absolute  will,  this  knowledge,  I  will  set 
No  contrary  against  it,  nor  keep  back 
A  word  of  all  ye  ask  for.     lo,  first  920 

To  thee  I  must  relate  thy  wandering  course 
Far  winding.     As  I  tell  it,  write  it  down 
In   thy    soul's  book  of   memories.     When 

thou  hast  past 
The   refluent  bound  that  parts  two  conti- 
nents. 
Track  on  the  footsteps  of  the  orient  sun 
In  his  own  fire,  across  the  roar  of  seas,  — 
Fly  till  thou  hast  reached  the  Gorgonaean 

flats 
Beside  Cisthend.     There,  the  Phorcides, 
Three  ancient  maidens,  live,  with  shape  of 

swan. 
One  tooth  between  them,  and  one  common 
eye :  930 

On  whom  the  sun  doth  never  look  at  all 
With  all  his  rays,  nor  evermore  the  moon 
When  she  looks  through  the  night.    Anear 

to  whom 
Are  the  Gorgon  sisters  three,  enclothed  with 

wings. 
With  twisted  snakes  for  ringlets,  man-ab- 
horred: 
There  is  no  mortal  gazes  in  their  face 
And  gazing  can  breathe  on.    I  speak  of  such 
To  guard  thee  from  their  horror.     Ay,  and 

list 
Another  tale  of  a  dreadful  sight;  beware 
The  Griffins,  those  unbarking  dogs  of  Zeus, 
Those  sharp-mouthed  dogs  !  —  and  the  Ari- 
maspian  host  941 

Of  one-eyed  horsemen,  habiting  beside 
The  river  of  Pluto  that  runs  bright  with 

gold : 
Approach  them  not,  beseech  thee  !     Pre- 
sently 
Thou  'It  come  to  a  distant  land,  a  dusky  tribe 
Of  dwellers  at  the  fountain  of  the  Sun, 
Whence  flows  the  river  iEthiops;  wind  along 
Its  banks  and  turn  off  at  the  cataracts, 
Just  as  the  Nile  pours  from  the  Bybline  hills 
His  holy  and  sweet  wave;  his  course  shall 

950 


guide 


464 


TRANSLATIONS 


Thine  own  to  that  triangular  Nile-ground 
Where,  lo,  is  ordained  for  thee  and  thine 
A  lengthened  exile.     Have  I  said  in  this 
Aught  darkly  or  incompletely  ?  —  now  re- 
peat 
The  question,  make  the  knowledge  fuller  ! 

Lo, 
I  have  more  leisure  than  I  covet,  here. 
Chorus.   If  thou  canst  tell  us  aught  that 's 

left  untold, 
Or  loosely  told,  of  her  most  dreary  flight. 
Declare  it  straight:  but  if  thou  hast  uttered 

all, 
Grant  us  that  latter  grace  for  which  we 

prayed,  960 

Remembering  how  we  prayed  it. 

Prometheus.  She  has  heard 

The  uttermost  of  her  wandering.    There  it 

ends. 
But  that  she  may  be  certain  not  to  have 

heard 
All  vainly,  I  will  speak  what  she  endured 
Ere  coming  hither,  and  invoke  the  past 
To  prove  my  prescience  true.   And  so  — to 

leave 
A  multitude  of  words  and  pass  at  once 
To  the  subject  of  thy  course  —  when  thou 

hadst  gone 
To   those   Molossian   plains    which   sweep 

around 
Dodona  shouldering  Heaven,  whereby  the 

fane  970 

Of  Zeus  Thesprotian  keepeth  oracle, 
And,  wonder   past  belief,   where  oaks  do 

wave 
Articulate  adjurations  —  (ay,  the  same 
Saluted  thee  in  no  perplexed  phrase 
But  clear  with  glory,  noble  wife  of  Zeus 
That  shouldst  be,  —  there  some  sweetness 

took  thy  sense  !) 
Thou  didst  rush  further  onward,  stung  along 
The  ocean-shore,  toward  Rhea's  mighty  bay 
And,  tost  back  from  it,  wast  tost  to  it  again 
In  stormy  evolution:  —  and,  know  well,  980 
In  coming  time  that  hollow  of  the  sea 
Shall  bear  the  name  Ionian  and  present 
A  monument  of  lo's  passage  through 
Unto  all  mortals.    Be  these  words  the  signs 
Of  my  soul's  power  to  look  beyond  the  veil 
Of  visible  things.     The  rest,  to  you  and  her 
I  will  declare  in  common  audience,  nymphs. 
Returning  thither  where  my  speech  brake 

ofE. 
There  is  a  town  Canobus,  built  upon 
The  earth's  fair  margin  at  the  mouth  of  Nile 


And  on   the  mound  washed  up  by  it;  lo, 

there  991 

Shall  Zeus  give  back  to  thee  thy  perfect 

mind. 
And  only  by  the  pressure  and  the  touch 
Of  a  hand  not  terrible;  and  thou  to  Zeus 
Shalt  bear  a  dusky  son  who  shall  be  called 
Thence,  Epaphus,  Touched.   That  son  shall 

pluck  the  fruit 
Of  all  that  land  wide-watered  by  the  flow 
Of  Nile ;  but  after  him,  when  counting  out 
As  far  as  the  fifth  full  generation,  then 
Full  fifty  maidens,  a  fair  woman-race,    1000 
Shall  back  to  Argos  turn  reluctantly. 
To  fly  the  proffered  nuptials  of  their  kin. 
Their  father's  brothers.     These  being  pas- 
sion-struck. 
Like  falcons  bearing  hard  on  flying  doves. 
Shall  follow,  hunting  at  a  quarry  of  love 
They  should  not  hunt;  till  envious  Heaven 

maintain 
A  curse  betwixt  that  beauty  and  their  de- 
sire. 
And  Greece  receive  them,  to  be  overcome 
In  murtherous  woman-war,  by  fierce  red 
hands  1009 

Kept  savage  by  the  night.  For  every  wife 
Shall  slay  a  husband,  dyeing  deep  in  blood 
The  sword  of  a  double  edge  —  (I  wish  in- 
deed 
As  fair  a  marriage-joy  to  all  my  foes  !) 
One  bride  alone  shall  fail  to  smite  to  death 
The  head  upon  her  pillow,  touched  with 

love. 
Made  impotent  of  purpose  and  impelled 
To  choose  the  lesser  evil,  —  shame  on  her 

cheeks. 
Than  blood-guilt  on  her  hands  :  which  bride 

shall  bear 
A  royal  race  in  Argos.     Tedious  speech 
Were  needed  to  relate  particulars  1020 

Of  these  things ;  't  is  enough  that  from  her 

seed 
Shall  spring  the  strong  He,  famous  with  the 

bow. 
Whose  arm  shall  break  my  fetters  off.    Be- 
hold, 
My  mother  Themis,  that  old  Titaness, 
Delivered  to  me  such  an  oracle,  — 
But  how  and  when,  I  should  be  long  to 

speak. 
And  thou,  in  hearing,  wouldst  not  gain  at 
all. 
lo.  Eleleu,  eleleu  ! 

How  the  spasm  and  the  pain 


PROMETHEUS    BOUND 


465 


And  the  fire  on  the  brain  1030 

Strike,  burning  me  through  ! 
How  the  sting  of  the  curse,  all  aflame  as  it 
flew, 
Pricks  me  onward  again  ! 
How  my  heart  in  its  terror  is  spurning  my 

breast. 
And  my  eyes,  like  the  wheels  of  a  chariot, 

roll  round  ! 
I  am  whirled  from  my  course,  to  the  east, 

to  the  west. 
In  the  whirlwind  of  frenzy  all  madly  in- 
wound  — 
And  my  mouth  is  unbridled  for  anguish  and 

hate, 
And  my  words  beat  in  vain,  in  wild  storms 
of  unrest. 
On  the  sea  of  my  desolate  fate.   1040 

[lo  rushes  out. 

Chorus.  —  Strophe. 
Oh,  wise  was  he,  oh,  wise  was  he 
Who  first  within  his  spirit  knew 
And  with  his  tongue  declared  it  true 
That  love  comes  best  that  comes  unto 

The  equal  of  degree  ! 
And  that  the  poor  and  that  the  low 
Should  seek  no  love  from  those  above, 
Whose  souls  are  fluttered  with  the  flow 
Of  airs  about  their  golden  height. 
Or  proud  because  they  see  arow  1050 

Ancestral  crowns  of  light. 

Antistrophe. 
Oh,  never,  never  may  ye.  Fates, 

Behold  me  with  your  awful  eyes 

Lift  mine  too  fondly  up  the  skies 
Where  Zeus  upon  the  purple  waits  ! 

Nor  let  me  step  too  near  —  too  near 
To  any  suitor,  bright  from  heaven  : 

Because  I  see,  because  I  fear 
This  loveless  maiden  vexed  and  lad 
By  this  fell  curse  of  Her6,  driven        1060 

On  wanderings  dread  and  drear. 

Epode. 
Nay,  grant  an  equal  troth  instead 

Of  nuptial  love,  to  bind  me  by  ! 
It  will  not  hurt,  I  shall  not  dread 

To  meet  it  in  reply. 
But  let  not  love  from  those  above 
Revert  and  fix  me,  as  I  said, 

With  that  inevitable  Eye  ! 
I  have  no  sword  to  fight  that  fight, 
I  have  no  strength  to  tread  that  path, 
I  know  not  if  my  nature  hath  107 1 


The  power  to  bear,  I  cannot  see 
Whither  from  Zeus's  infinite 
I  have  the  power  to  flee. 

Prometheus.   Yet  Zeus,  albeit  most  abso- 
lute of  will. 
Shall  turn  to  meekness,  —  such  a  marriage- 
rite 
He  holds  in  preparation,  which  anon 
Shall  thrust  him  headlong  from  his  gerent 

seat 
Adown  the  abysmal  void,  and  so  the  curse 
His  father  Chronos  muttered  in  his  fall,  1080 
As   he  fell   from   his  ancient  throne  and 

cursed. 
Shall  be  accomplished  wholly.     No  escape 
From  all  that  ruin  shall  the  filial  Zeus 
Find  granted  to  him  from  any  of  his  gods. 
Unless  I  teach  him.     I  the  refuge  know. 
And  I,  the  means.  Now, therefore,  let  him  sit 
And  brave  the  imminent  doom,  and  fix  his 

faith 
On  his  supernal  noises,  hurtling  on 
With  restless  hand  the  bolt  that  breathes 

out  fire; 
For  these  things  shall  not  help  him,  none 
of  them,  1090 

Nor  hinder  his  perdition  when  he  falls 
To  shame,  and  lower  than  patience :  such  a 

foe 
He  doth  himself  prepare  against  himself, 
A  wonder  of  unconquerable  hate. 
An  organizer  of  sublimer  fire 
Than  glares  in  lightnings,  and  of  grander 

sound 
Than  aught  the  thunder  rolls,  out-thunder- 
ing it. 
With  power  to  shatter  in  Poseidon's  fist 
The  trident-spear  which,  while  it  plagues 

the  sea, 
Dotb  shake  the  shores  around  it.     Ay,  and 
Zeus,  iioo 

Precipitated  thus,  shall  learn  at  length 
The  difference  betwixt  rule  and  servitude. 
Chorus.  Thou  makest  threats  for  Zeus  of 

thy  desires. 
Prometheus.   I  tell  you,  all  these  things 
shall  be  fulfilled. 
Even  so  as  I  desire  them. 

Chorus.  Must  we  then 

Look  out  for  one  shall  come  to  master  Zeus  ? 
Prometheus.    These  chains  weigh  lighter 

than  his  sorrows  shall. 
Chorus.  How  art  thou  not  afraid  to  utter 
such  words  ? 


466 


TRANSLATIONS 


Prometheus.  What  should  7  fear  who  can- 
not die  ? 
Chorus.  But  he 

Can  visit  thee  with  dreader  woe  than  death's. 
Prometheus.  Why,  let  him  do  it !     I  am 
here,  prepared  im 

For  all  things  and  their  pangs. 

Chorus.  The  wise  are  they 

Who  reverence  Adrasteia. 

Prometheus.  Reverence  thou. 

Adore  thou,  flatter  thou,  whomever  reigns, 
Whenever  reigning  !  but  for  me,  your  Zeus 
Is  less  than  nothing.  Let  him  act  and  reign 
His  brief  hour  out  according  to  his  will  — 
He  will  not,  therefore,  rule  the  gods  too  long. 
But  lo  !  I  see  that  courier-god  of  Zeus, 
That  new-made  menial  of  the  new-crowned 
king  :  1 120 

He  doubtless  comes  to  announce  to  us  some- 
thing new. 

Hermes  enters. 

Hermes.  I  speak  to  thee,  the  sophist,  the 
talker-down 
Of  scorn  by  scorn,  the  sinner  against  gods. 
The  reverencer  of  men,  the  thief  of  fire,  — 
I  speak  to  thee  and  adjure  thee  !    Zeus  re- 
quires 
Thy  declaration  of  what  marriage-rite 
Thus  moves  thy  vaunt  and  shall  hereafter 

cause 
His  fall  from  empire.     Do  not  wrap  thy 

speech 
In  riddles,  but  speak  clearly  !     Never  cast 
Ambiguous  paths,  Prometheus,  for  my  feet. 
Since  Zeus,  thou  mayst  perceive,  is  scarcely 
won  1 13 1 

To  mercy  by  such  means. 

Prometheus.  A  speech  well-mouthed 

In  the  utterance,  and  full-minded  in  the 

sense. 
As  doth  befit  a  servant  of  the  gods  ! 
New  gods,  ye  newly  reign,  and  think  for- 
sooth 
Ye  dwell  in  towers  too  high  for  any  dart 
To   carry   a   wound   there  !  —  have  I   not 

stood  by 
While  two  kings  fell  from  thence  ?  and  shall 

I  not 
Behold  the  third,  the  same  who  rules  you 

now. 
Fall,  shamed  to  sudden  ruin  ?  —  Do  I  seem 
To  tremble  and  quail  before  your  modern 
gods  ?  1141 

Far  be  it  from  me  !  —  For  thyself,  depart. 


Re-tread  thy  steps  in  haste.     To  all  thou 

hast  asked 
I  answer  nothing. 

Hermes.  Such  a  wind  of  pride 

Impelled  thee  of  yore  full-sail  upon  these 
rocks. 
Prometheus.  I  would  not  barter  —  learn 
thou  soothly  that  !  — 
My  suffering  for  thy  service.     I  maintain 
It  is  a  nobler  thing  to  serve  these  rocks 
Than  live  a  faithful  slave  to  father  Zeus. 
Thus  upon  scoruers  I  retort  their  scorn,    1150 
Hermes.  It  seems  that  thou  dost  glory  in 

thy  despair. 
Prometheus.  I  glory  ?  would  my  foes  did 
glory  so. 
And   I   stood  by  to  see  them  !  —  naming 

whom, 
Thou  art  not  unremembered. 

Hermes.  Dost  thou  charge 

Me  also  with  the  blame  of  thy  mischance  ? 
Prometheus.  I  tell  thee  I  loathe  the  uni- 
versal gods, 
Who  for  the  good  I  gave  them  rendered 

back 
The  ill  of  their  injustice. 

Hermes.  Thou  art  mad  — 

Thou  art  raving,  Titan,  at  the  fever-height. 

Prometheus.  If  it  be  madness  to  abhor  my 

foes,  1 160 

May  I  be  mad  ! 

Hermes.  If  thou  wert  prosperous 

Thou  wouldst  be  unendurable. 

Prometheus.  Alas ! 

Hermes.  Zeus  knows  not  that  word. 
Prometheus.  But  maturing  Time 

Teaches  all  things. 

Hermes.       Howbeit,  thou  hast  not  learnt 
The  wisdom  yet,  thou  needest. 

Prometheus.  If  I  had, 

I  should  not  talk  thus  with  a  slave  like  thee. 
Hermes.  No  answer  thou  vouchsafest,  I 
believe, 
To  the  great  Sire's  requirement. 

Prometheus.  Verily 

I  owe  him  grateful  service,  —  and  should 

pay  it. 

Hermes.  Why,  thou  dost  mock  me.  Titan, 

as  I  stood  1 170 

A  child  before  thy  face. 

Prometheus.  No  child,  forsooth, 

But  yet  more  foolish  than  a  foolish  child. 
If  thou  expect  that  I  should  answer  aught 
Thy  Zeus  can  ask.  No  torture  from  his  hand 
Nor  any  machination  in  the  world 


PROMETHEUS    BOUND 


467 


Shall  force  mine  utterance  ere  he  loose,  him- 
self? 
These  cankerous  fetters  from  me.    For  the 

rest, 
Let  him  now  hurl  his  blanching  lightnings 

down. 
And  with  his  white-winged  snows  and  mut- 
terings  deep  1179 

Of  subterranean  thunders  mix  all  things, 
Confound  them  in  disorder.     None  of  this 
Shall  bend  my  sturdy  will  and  make  me 

speak 
The  name  of  his  dethroner  who  shall  come. 
Hermes.  Can  this  avail  thee  ?   Look  to  it ! 
Prometheus.  Long  ago 

It  was  looked  forward  to,  precounselled  of. 
Hermes.  Vain  god,  take  righteous  cour- 
age !  dare  for  once 
To  apprehend  and  front  thine  agonies 
With  a  just  prudence. 

Prometheus.  Vainly  dost  thou  chafe 

My  soul  with  exhortation,  as  yonder  sea 

Goes  beating  on  the  rock.     Oh,  think  no 

more  1190 

That  I,  fear-struck  by  Zeus  to  a  woman's 

mind. 
Will  supplicate  him,  loathed  as  he  is. 
With  feminine  upliftings  of  my  hands. 
To  break  these  chains.  Far  from  me  be  the 
thought ! 
Hermes.  I  have  indeed,    methinks,  said 
much  in  vain, 
For  still  thy  heart  beneath  my  showers  of 

prayers 
Lies  dry  and  hard  —  nay,  leaps  like  a  young 

horse 
Who  bites  against  the  new  bit  in  his  teeth, 
And  tugs  and  struggles  against  the  new- 
tried  rein,  — 
Still  fiercest  in  the  feeblest  thing  of  all,  1200 
Which  sophism  is  ;   since  absolute  will  dis- 
joined 
From   perfect   mind  is  worse  than  weak. 

Behold, 
Unless  my  words  persuade  thee,  what  a  blast 
And  whirlwind  of  inevitable  woe 
Must  sweep  persuasion  through  thee  !    For 

at  first 
The  Father  will  split  up  this  jut  of  rock 
With  the  great   thunder   and   the   bolted 

flame 
And  hide  thy  body  where  a  hinge  of  stone 
Shall  catch  it  like  an  arm ;  and  when  thou 
hast  passed  1209 

Along  black  time  within,  thou  shalt  come  out 


To  front  the  sun  while  Zeus's  winged  hound, 
The  strong  carnivorous  eagle,  shall  wheel 

down 
To  meet  thee,  self-called  to  a  daily  feast. 
And  set  his  fierce  beak  in  thee  and  tear  o£B 
The  long  rags  of  thy  flesh  and  batten  deep 
Upon  thy  dusky  liver.     Do  not  look 
For  any  end  moreover  to  this  curse 
Or  ere  some  god  appear,  to  accept  thy  pangs 
On  his  own  head  vicarious,  and  descend 
With  unreluctant  step  the  darks  of  hell  1220 
And  gloomy  abysses  around  Tartarus. 
Then   ponder   this  —  this  threat  is  not   a 

growth 
Of  vain  invention;  it  is  spoken  and  meant; 
King  Zeus's  mouth  is  impotent  to  lie. 
Consummating  the  utterance  by  the  act; 
So,  look  to  it,  thou  !  take  heed,  and  never- 
more 
Forget  good  counsel,  to  indulge  self-will. 
Chorus.  Our  Hermes  suits  his  reasons  to 

the  times; 
At  least   I   think  so,   since  he  bids  thee 

drop 
Self-will  for  prudent  counsel.    Yield  to  him! 
When  the  wise   err,  their  wisdom  makes 

their  shame.  123 1 

Prometheus.   Unto   me   the   foreknower, 

this  mandate  of  power 
He  cries,  to  reveal  it. 
What 's  strange  in  my  fate,  if  I  suffer  from 

hate 

At  the  hour  that  I  feel  it  ? 
Let  the  locks  of  the  lightning,  all  bristling 

and  whitening, 

Flash,  coiling  me  round. 
While  the  aether  goes  surging  'neath  thun- 
der and  scourging 

Of  wild  winds  unbound  ! 
Let  the  blast  of  the  firmament  whirl  from  its 

place  1240 

The  earth  rooted  below. 
And  the  brine  of  the  ocean,  in  rapid  emotion. 

Be  driven  in  the  face 
Of  the  stars  up  in  heaven,  as  they  walk  to 

and  fro  ! 
Let  him  hurl  me  anon  into  Tartarus  —  on  — 

To  the  blackest  degree, 
With   Necessity's   vortices  strangling   me 

down; 
But  he  cannot  join  death  to  a  fate  meant 

for  me  ! 
Hermes.  Why,  the  words  that  he  speaks 

and  the  thoughts  that  he  thinks 
Are  maniacal  !  — add,  1250 


468 


TRANSLATIONS 


If  the  Fate  who  hath  bound  him   should 
loose  not  the  links, 

He  were  utterly  mad. 
Then  depart  ye  who  groan  with  him, 
Leaving  to  moan  with  him,  — 
Go  in  haste  !  lest  the  roar  of  the  thunder 

aneariug 
Should  blast  you  to  idiocy,  living  and  hear- 
ing. 
Chorus.    Change  thy  speech  for  another, 

thy  thought  for  a  new, 
If  to  move  me  and  teach  me  indeed  be 
thy  care  ! 
For  thy  words  swerve  so  far  from  the  loyal 
and  true 
That  the  thunder  of  Zeus  seems  more  easy 
to  bear.  1260 

How  !    couldst  teach   me  to  venture  such 
vileness  ?  behold  ! 
I  choose,  with  this  victim,  this  anguish 
foretold  ! 
I  recoil  from  the  traitor  in  hate  and  dis- 
dain, 
And  I  know  that  the  curse  of  the  treason  is 
worse 

Than  the  pang  of  the  chain. 
Hermes.    Then    remember,    O    nymphs, 

what  I  tell  you  before. 
Nor,  when  pierced  by  the  arrows  that  At^ 
will  throw  you. 
Cast  blame  on  your  fate  and  declare  ever- 
more 
That  Zeus  thrust  you  on  anguish  he  did 
not  foreshow  you. 
Nay,  verily,  nay  !  for  ye  perish  anon      1270 
For  your  deed  —  by  your  choice.     By  no 
blindness  of  doubt. 
No  abruptness  of  doom,  but  by  madness 
alone. 
In  the  great  net  of  At^,  whence  none  com- 
eth  out. 

Ye  are  wound  and  undone. 
Prometheus.  Ay  !  in  act  now,  in  word  now 
no  more, 

Earth  is  rocking  in  space. 
And   the  thunders  crash   up  with  a  roar 
upon  roar. 
And  the  eddying  lightnings  flash  fire  in 
my  face. 
And  the  whirlwinds  are  whirling  the  dust 
round  and  round, 
And  the  blasts  of  the  winds  universal  leap 
free  1280 

And  blow  each  upon  each  with  a  passion  of 
sound. 


And  aether  goes  mingling  in  storm  with 
the  sea. 
Such   a   curse  on  my  head,  in  a  manifest 
dread, 
From   the  hand  of  your  Zeus  has  been 
hurtled  along. 
O  my  mother's  fair  glory  !     O  ^ther,  en- 
ringing 
All  eyes  with  the  sweet  common  light  of 
thy  bringing  ! 
Dost  see  how  I  suffer  this  wrong  ? 


A   LAMENT   FOR  ADONIS 


FROM   THE   GREEK   OF   BION 


I  MOURN  for  Adonis  —  Adonis  is  dead. 
Fair  Adonis  is  dead  and  the  Loves  are 
lamenting. 
Sleep,    Cypris,   no   more   on    thy   purple- 
strewed  bed: 
Arise,  wretch  stoled  in  black;  beat  thy 
breast  unrelenting. 
And  shriek  to  the  worlds,  '  Fair  Adonis  is 
dead  ! ' 

II 

I  mourn  for  Adonis  —  the  Loves  are   la- 
menting. 
He  lies  on  the  hills   in  his  beauty  and 
death; 
The  white  tusk  of  a  boar  has  transpierced 
his  white  thigh. 
Cytherea  grows  mad  at  his  thin  gasping 
breath. 
While  the  black  blood  drips  down  on  the 
pale  ivory,  10 

And  his  eyeballs  lie  quenched  with  the 
weight  of  his  brows, 
The  rose  fades  from  his  lips,  and  upon  them 
just  parted 
The  kiss  dies  the  goddess  consents  not 
to  lose, 
Though  the  kiss  of  the  Dead  cannot  make 
her  glad-hearted: 
He  knows  not  who  kisses  him  dead  in  the 
dews. 


Ill 


I  mourn  for  Adonis  —  the   Loves  are  la- 
menting. 
Deep,   deep    in   the    thigh    is   Adonis's     j 
wound,  I 


A   LAMENT   FOR   ADONIS 


469 


But  a  deeper,  is  Cypris's  bosom  presenting. 
The  youth  lieth  dead  while  his  dogs  howl 
around, 
And   the   nymphs   weep   aloud    from   the 
mists  of  the  hill,  20 

And  the  poor  Aphroditd,  with  tresses  un- 
bound, 
All  dishevelled,  unsandaled,  shrieks  mourn- 
ful and  shrill 
Through  the  dusk  of  the  groves.     The 
thorns,  tearing  her  feet, 
Gather  up  the  red  flower  of  her  blood  which 
is  holy, 
Each  footstep  she  takes;  and  the  valleys 
repeat 
The  sharp  cry  she  utters  and  draw  it  out 
slowly. 
She  calls  on  her  spouse,  her  Assyrian,  on 
him 
Her    own   youth,   while    the    dark   blood 
spreads  over  his  body. 
The  chest  taking  hue  from  the  gash  in 
the  limb,  29 

And  the  bosom,  once  ivory,  turning  to  ruddy. 

IV 
Ah,  ah,  Cytherea  !  the  Loves  are  lamenting. 
She  lost  her  fair  spouse  and  so  lost  her 
fair  smile: 
When  he  lived  she  was  fair,  by  the  whole 
world's  consenting. 
Whose  fairness  is  dead  with  him:  woe 
worth  the  while  ! 
All  the  mountains  above  and  the  oaklands 
below 
Murmur,   ah,   ah,  Adonis  !  the  streams 
overflow 
Aphrodite's  deep   wail  ;  river-fountains  in 

pity 

Weep  soft  in  the  hills,  and  the  flowers  as 

they  blow 
Redden  outward  with  sorrow,  while  all  hear 

her  go 
With  the  song  of  her  sadness  through 

mountain  and  city.  40 


Ah,  ah,  Cytherea  !     Adonis  is  dead, 

Fair   Adonis   is   dead  —  Echo  answers, 
Adonis  ! 
Who  weeps  not  for  Cypris,  when  bowing 
her  head 
She  stares  at  the  wound  where  it  gapes 
and  astonies  ? 
—  When,  ah,  ah  !  —  she  saw  how  the  blood 
ran  away 


And  empurpled  the  thigh,  and,  with  wild 
hands  flung  out, 
Said  with  sobs :  '  Stay,  Adonis  !    unhappy 
one,  stay, 
Let  me  feel  thee  once  more,  let  me  ring 
thee  about 
With  the  clasp  of  my  arms,  and  press  kiss 
into  kiss  ! 
Wait  a  little,  Adonis,  and  kiss  me  again, 
For  the  last  time,  beloved,  —  and  but  so 
much  of  this  51 

That  the  kiss  may  learn  life  from  the 
warmth  of  the  strain  ! 
—  Till  thy  breath  shall  exude  from  thy  soul 
to  my  mouth, 
To  my  heart,  and,  the  love-charm  I  once 
more  receiving 
May  drink   thy  love  in   it  and  keep  of  a 
truth 
That  one  kiss  in  the  place  of  Adonis  the 
living. 
Thou  fliest  me,  mournful  one,  fliest  me  far, 
My   Adonis,   and   seekest    the   Acheron 
portal,  — 
To  Hell's  cruel  King  goest  down  with  a  scar, 
While  I  weep  and  live  on  like  a  wretched 
immortal,  60 

And  follow  no  step  !     O  Persephone,  take 
him. 
My     husband  !  —  thou  'rt    better     and 
brighter  than  I, 
So  all  beauty  flows  down  to  thee :  /  cannot 
make  him 
Look  up  at  my  grief;  there  's  despair  in 
my  cry. 
Since  I  wail  for  Adonis  who  died  to  me  — 
died  to  me  — 
Then,  I  fear  thee  !  —  Art  thou  dead,  my 
Adored  ? 
Passion  ends   like  a  dream   in   the   sleep 
that 's  denied  to  me, 
Cypris  is  widowed,  the  Loves  seek  their 
lord 
All  the  house  through  in  vain.     Charm  of 
cestus  has  ceased 
With  thy  clasp  !  O  too  bold  in  the  hunt 
past  preventing,  70 

Ay,  mad,  thou  so  fair,  to  have  strife  with  a 
beast  ! ' 
Thus  the  goddess  wailed  on  —  and  the 
Loves  are  lamenting. 

VI 

Ah,  ah,  Cytherea  !  Adonis  is  dead. 
She  wept   tear  after  tear  with   the  blood 
which  was  shed, 


470 


TRANSLATIONS 


And  both  turned  into  flowers  for  the  earth's 

garden-close, 
Her  tears,  to  the  windflower;  his  blood,  to 

the  rose. 

VII 

I  mourn  for  Adonis  —  Adonis  is  dead. 
Weep  no  more  in  the  woods,  Cytherea, 
thy  lov^er  ! 
So,  well:  make  a  place  for  his  corse  in  thy 
bed, 
With  the  purples  thou  sleepest  in,  under 
and  over.  80 

He  's   fair   though  a  corse  —  a  fair  corse, 
like  a  sleeper. 
Lay  him  soft  in  the  silks  he  had  pleasure 
to  fold 
When,  beside  thee  at  night,  holy  dreams 
deep  and  deeper 
Enclosed   his   young   life   on   the  couch 
made  of  gold. 
Love  him  still,  poor  Adonis;  cast  on  him 
together 
The   crowns   and   the  flowers:    since  he 
died  from  the  place. 
Why,  let  all  die  with  him;  let  the  blossoms 
go  wither. 
Rain  myrtles  and  olive-buds  down  on  his 
face. 
Rain  the  myrrh  down,  let  all  that  is  best 
fall  a- pining. 
Since   the  myrrh  of   his   life   from   thy 
keeping  is  swept.  90 

Pale  he  lay,  thine  Adonis,  in  purples  reclin- 

The  Loves  raised  their  voices  around  him 
and  wept. 
They  have  shorn  their  bright  curls  off  to 

cast  on  Adonis; 
One  treads  on   his  bow,  —  on  his  arrows, 

another,  — 
One  breaks  up  a  well-feathered  quiver,  and 
one  is 
Bent  low  at  a  sandal,  untying  the  strings. 
And  one  carries  the  vases  of  gold  from 
the  springs, 
While  one  washes  the  wound,  —  and  behind 
them  a  brother 
Fans  down  on  the  body  sweet  air  with 
his  wings. 

VIII 

Cytherea  herself  now  the  Loves  are  lament- 
ing. 100 
Each  torch  at  the  door  Hymenaeus  blew 
out; 


And,    the    marriage-wreath    dropping    its 
leaves  as  repenting. 
No  more  '  Hymen,  Hymen,'  is  chanted 
about, 
But  the  ai  ai  instead  — '  Ai  alas  ! '  is  begun 
For  Adonis,  and   then  follows  'Ai  Hy- 
menseus  ! ' 
The  Graces  are  weeping  for  Cinyris's  son, 
Sobbing  low  each  to  each,  '  His  fair  eyes 
cannot  see  us  ! ' 
Their  wail  strikes  more  shrill  than  the  sad- 
der Dion^'s. 
The  Fates  mourn  aloud  for  Adonis,  Adonis, 
Deep  chanting;  he  hears  not  a  word  that 
they  say:  no 

He  tvould  hear,  but  Persephon^  has  him 
in  keeping. 
—  Cease  moan,  Cytherea  !  leave  pomps  for 
to-day. 
And  weep  new  when  a  new  year  refits 
thee  for  weeping. 


SONG    OF    THE    ROSE 

ATTRIBUTED   TO    SAPPHO 

From  'Achilles  Tatius' 

If  Zeus  chose  us  a  King  of  the  flowers  in 
his  mirth, 
He  would  call  to  the   Rose  and  would 
royally  crown  it; 
For  the  Rose,  ho,  the  Rose  !   is  the  grace 
of  the  earth. 
Is  the  light  of  the  plants  that  are  grow- 
ing upon  it: 
For  the  Rose,  ho,  the  Rose  !  is  the  eye  of 
the  flowers. 
Is  the  blush  of  the  meadows  that  feel 
themselves  fair. 
Is   the   lightning   of    beauty   that   strikes 
through  the  bowers 
On  pale  lovers  who  sit  in  the  glow  un- 
aware. 
Ho,  the   Rose   breathes  of  love  !   ho,  the 
Rose  lifts  the  cup 
To  the  red  lips  of  Cypris  invoked  for  a 
guest  ! 
Ho,   the    Rose,   having   curled    its    sweet 
leaves  for  the  world. 
Takes  delight   in   the  motion  its  petals 
keep  up. 
As  they  laugh  to  the  wind  as  it  laughs  from 
the  west ! 


FROM   THEOCRITUS 


471 


FROM    THEOCRITUS 

THE    CYCLOPS 

(Idyl  XI) 

And  so  an  easier  life  our  Cyclops  drew, 

The  ancient  Polyphemus,  who  in  youth 
Loved  Galatea  while  the  manhood  grew 
Adown  his  cheeks  and  darkened  round 
his  mouth. 
No  jot  he  cared  for  apples,  olives,  roses; 
Love  made  him  mad:  the  whole  world 
was  neglected, 
The  very  sheep  went  backward    to   their 
closes 
From  out  the  fair  green  pastures,  self- 
directed. 
And  singing  Galatea,  thus,  he  wore 
The  sunrise  down  along  the  weedy  shore,  10 
And   pined   alone,    and   felt    the    cruel 
wound 
Beneath    his   heart,  which    Cypris'    arrow 
bore. 
With  a  deep  pang;  but,  so,  the  cure  was 
found ; 
And  sitting  on  a  lofty  rock  he  cast 
His  eyes  upon  the  sea,  and  sang  at  last:  — 
*  O  whitest  Galatea,  can  it  be 

That  thou  shouldst  spurn  me  off  who  love 
thee  so  ? 
More  white  than  curds,  my  girl,  thou  art  to 

see. 

More  meek  than  lambs,  more  full  of  leaping 

glee 

Than  kids,  and  brighter  than  the  early 

glow  20 

On  grapes  that  swell  to  ripen,  —  sour  like 

thee  ! 
Thou    comest   to    me    with    the    fragrant 
sleep. 
And  with  the  fragrant  sleep  thou  goest 
from  me; 
Thou    fliest    .    .    .  fliest,    as    a   frightened 
sheep 
Flies  the  gray  wolf !  —  yet  Love  did  over- 
come me, 
So  long, — I  loved  thee,  maiden,  first  of 
all 
When  down    the  hills  (my  mother  fast 
beside  thee) 
I  saw   thee  stray  to   pluck   the   summer- 
fall 
Of  hyacinth   bells,  and  went  myself  to 
guide  thee: 


And  since  my  eyes  have  seen  thee,  they  can 
leave  thee  30 

No  more,  from  that  day's  light !  But  thou 
...  by  Zeus, 
Thou  wilt  not  care  for  that,  to  let  it  grieve 
thee  ! 
I  know  thee,  fair  one,  why  thou  springest 
loose 
From  my  arm  round  thee.     Why  ?     I  tell 
thee.  Dear  ! 
One  shaggy  eyebrow  draws  its  smudging 
road 
Straight  through  my  ample  front,  from  ear 
to  ear,  — 
One  eye  rolls  underneath;  and  yawning, 
broad 
Flat  nostrils  feel  the  bulging  lips  too  near. 
Yet  .  .  .  ho,    ho  !  —  /,  —  whatever    I    ap- 
pear, — 
Do  feed  a  thousand  oxen  !     When  I  have 
done,  40 

I  milk  the  cows,  and  drink  the  milk  that 's 
best ! 
I  lack  no  cheese,  while  summer  keeps  the 
sun; 
And  after,  in  the  cold,  it 's  ready  prest  ! 

And  then,  I  know  to  sing,  as  there  is  none 
Of  all  the  Cyclops  can,  ...  a  song  of  thee. 
Sweet  apple  of  my  soul,  on  love's  fair  tree, 
And  of  myself  who  love  thee  .  .  .  till  the 

West 
Forgets  the  light,  and  all  but  I  have  rest. 
I  feed  for  thee,  besides,  eleven  fair  does. 
And  all  in  fawn;  and  four  tame  whelps 
of  bears.  50 

Come  to  me.  Sweet  !  thou  shalt  have  all  of 
those 
In  change  for  love  !     I  will  not  halve  the 
shares. 
Leave  the  blue  sea,  with  pure  white  arms 
extended 
To  the  dry  shore;  and,  in  my  cave's  re- 
cess, 
Thou  shalt  be  gladder  for   the   noonlight 
ended,  — 
For  here  be  laurels,  spiral  cypresses. 
Dark  ivy,  and  a  vine  whose  leaves  enfold 
Most  luscious  grapes;    and  here  is  water 
cold. 
The  wooded  ^tna  pours  down  through 
the  trees 
From  the  white  snows,  —  which  gods  were 
scarce  too  bold  60 

To  drink  in  turn  with  nectar.     Who  with 
these 


472 


TRANSLATIONS 


Would  choose  the  salt  wave  of  the  luke- 
warm seas  ? 
Nay,  look    on    me  !     If  I  am    hairy   and 
rough, 
I  have  an  oak's  heart  in  me ;  there  's  a 
fire 
In    these    gray     ashes     which    burns    hot 
enough ; 
And  when  I  burn  for  thee,  I  grudge  the 
pyre 
No    fuel  .  .  .  not   my   soul,  nor   this  one 

eye,— 
Most     precious     thing     I     have,    because 

thereby 
I  see  thee,  Fairest  !     Out,  alas  !     I  wish 
My  mother  had  borne   me   finned   like    a 
fish,  70 

That  I  might  plunge  down  in  the  ocean  near 
thee, 
And  kiss  thy  glittering  hand  between  the 
weeds. 
If  still  thy  face  were  turned;  and  I  would 
bear  thee 
Each    lily    white,  and    poppy  fair   that 
bleeds 
Its  red  heart  down  its  leaves  !  —  one  gift, 
for  hours 
Of  summer,  —  one,  for  winter;  since,  to 
cheer  thee, 
I  could  not  bring  at  once  all  kinds  of  flow- 
ers. 
Even  now,  girl,  now,  I  fain  would  learn  to 
swim. 
If    stranger    in    a    ship    sailed    nigh,    I 

wis,  — 
That  I  may  know  how  sweet  a  thing  it  is 
To  live  down  with  you   in   the  Deep  and 
Dim  !  81 

Come  up,  O  Galatea,  from  the  ocean. 

And,  having  come,  forget  again  to  go  ! 
As  I,  who  sing  out  here  my  heart's  emo- 
tion, 
Could  sit  for  ever.     Come  up  from  be- 
low ! 
Come,  keep  my  flocks  beside  me,  milk  my 
kine,  — 
Come,  press  my  cheese,  distrain  my  whey 
and  curd  ! 
Ah,  mother  !    she  alone  .  .  .  that  mother 
of  mine  .  .  . 
Did  wrong  me  sore  !     I  blame  her  !  — 
Not  a  word 
Of  kindly  intercession  did  she  address       90 
Thine  ear  with  for  my  sake;  and  ne'erthe- 
less 


She    saw  me    wasting,  wasting,  day  by 

day: 
Both  head  and  feet  were  aching,  I  will 
say, 
All  sick  for  grief,  as  I  myself  was  sick. 
O  Cyclops,  Cyclops,  whither  hast   thou 

sent 
Thy  soul  on  fluttering  wings  ?     If  thou 
wert  bent 
On    turning  bowls,  or  pulling    green  and 
thick 
The  sprouts  to  give  thy  lambkins,  —  thou 

wouldst  make  thee 
A  wiser  Cyclops  than  for  what  we  take 
thee. 
Milk  dry  the  present  !      Why  pursue  too 
quick  100 

That  future  which  is  fugitive  aright  ? 
Thy  Galatea  thou  shalt  haply  find,  — 
Or  else  a  maiden  fairer  and  more  kind; 
For  many  girls  do  call   me    through    the 
night. 
And,  as  they  call,  do  laugh  out  silverly. 
/,  too,  am    something    in    the   world,  I 


see 


I ' 


While  thus  the  Cyclops  love  and  lambs  did 

fold, 
Ease  came  with  song  he  could  not  buy  with 

gold. 

FROM   APULEIUS 

PSYCHE   GAZING   ON    CUPID 

(Metamorph.,   Lib.  IV.) 

Then  Psyche,  weak  in  body  and  soul,  put 
on 
The  cruelty  of  Fate,  in  place  of  strength: 
She  raised  the  lamp  to  see  what  should  be 
done. 
And  seized  the  steel,  and  was  a  man  at 
length 
In  courage,  though  a  woman  !     Yes,  but 
when 
The  light  fell  on  the  bed  whereby  she 
stood 
To    view   the    'least'    that  lay  there, — 
certes,  then, 
She  saw  the  gentlest,  sweetest  beast  in 
wood  — 
Even   Cupid's    self,   the    beauteous   god! 
more  beauteous 


PSYCHE  AND   PAN 


473 


For  that  sweet  sleep  across  his  eyelids 
dim. 
The  light,  the  lady  carried  as  she  viewed, 
Did   blush    for   pleasure   as    it    lighted 
him. 
The  dagger  trembled  from  its  aim  undute- 
ous; 
And  she  .  .  .  oh,  she  —  amazed  and  soul- 
distraught. 
And  fainting  in  her  whiteness  like  a  veil, 
Slid  down  upon  her  knees,  and,  shudder- 
ing, thought 
To    hide  —  though     in     her     heart  —  the 

dagger  pale  ! 
She  would  have  done  it,  but  her  hands  did 
fail 
To  hold  the  guilty  steel,  they  shivered 
so,  — 
And  feeble,  exhausted,  unawares  she  took 
To  gazing  on  the  god,  —  till,  look  by  look. 
Her  eyes  with   larger  life  did  fill   and 
glow. 
She    saw    his    golden    head    alight    with 
curls,  — 
She  might  have  guessed  their  brightness 

in  the  dark 
By  that  ambrosial    smell   of    heavenly 
mark  ! 
She  saw  the  milky  brow,  more  pure  than 
pearls, 
The  purple  of  the  cheeks,  divinely  sun- 
dered 
By    the   globed    ringlets,    as   they   glided 

free, 
Some  back,  some  forwards,  —  all  so  radi- 
antly, 
That,  as   she  watched   them   there,  she 

never  wondered 
To  see  the  lamplight,  where  it  touched 
them,  tremble: 
On  the  god's  shoulders,  too,  she   marked 
his  wings 
Shine  faintly  at  the  edges  and  resemble 
A  flower  that 's  near  to  blow.     The  poet 
sings 
And  lover  sighs,  that  Love  is  fugitive; 
And  certes,  though  these    pinions  lay  re- 
posing. 
The  feathers  on  them  seemed  to  stir  and 
live 
As  if  by  instinct,  closing  and  unclosing. 
Meantime  the  god's  fair  body  slumbered 

deep, 
All   worthy   of   Venus,   in    his    shining 
sleep; 


While  at  the  bed's  foot  lay  the  quiver, 
bow. 
And  darts,  —  his  arms  of  godhead.    Psyche 
gazed 
With  eyes  that  drank  the  wonders  in,  — 
said,  —  *  Lo, 
Be    these    my    husband's    arms  ?  '  —  and 
straightway  raised 
An   arrow  from   the    quiver -case,    and 
tried 
Its  point   against   her  finger,  —  trembling 
till 
She    pushed  it  in   too   deeply    (foolish 
bride  !) 
And  made  her  blood  some  dewdrops  small 

distil, 
And  learnt  to  love  Love,  of  her  own  good- 
will. 


PSYCHE  WAFTED  BY  ZEPHYRUS 

(Metamorph.,  Lib.   IV.) 

While  Psyche  wept  upon  the  rock  forsa- 
ken. 
Alone,    despairing,    dreading,  —  gradu- 
ally 
By  Zephyrus  she  was  enwrapt  and  taken 
Still  trembling,  —  like  the  lilies  planted 
high,  — 
Through   all   her   fair  white   limbs.     Her 
vesture  spread, 
Her    very    bosom    eddying    with    sur- 
prise, — 
He  drew  her   slowly  from  the   mountain- 
head, 
And  bore  her  down  the  valleys  with  wet 
eyes, 
And  laid  her  in  the  lap  of  a  green  dell 
As  soft  with  grass  and  flowers   as  any 
nest. 
With  trees  beside  her,  and  a  limpid  well: 
Yet  Love  was  not  far  off  from  all  that 
Rest. 


PSYCHE  AND  PAN 

(Metamorph.,  Lib.  V.) 

The  gentle  River,  in  her  Cupid's  honor, 

Because  he  used  to  warm  the  very  wave, 
Did    ripple   aside,    instead   of   closing   on 
her, 


474 


TRANSLATIONS 


And  east   up    Psyche,  with  a   refluence 
brave, 
Upon  the  flowery  bank,  —  all  sad  and  sin- 
ning. 
Then  Pan,  the  rural  god,  by  chance  was 
leaning 
Along  the  brow  of  waters  as  they  wound. 
Kissing  the  reed-nymph  till  she  sank  to 
ground. 
And  teaching,  without  knowledge    of   the 
meaning, 
To  run  her  voice  in  music  after  his 
Down  many  a   shifting   note;    (the    goats 
around. 
In  wandering  pasture  and  most  leaping 
bliss, 
Drawn    on    to    crop    the    river's   flowery 

hair). 
And  as  the  hoary  god  beheld  her  there. 
The    poor,   worn,    fainting    Psyche  !  — 

knowing  all 
The  grief  she  suffered,  he   did   gently 
call 
Her   name,    and   softly   comfort    her   de- 
spair: — 

'  O  wise,  fair  lady,  I  am  rough  and  rude 
And   yet   experienced  through   my  weary 
age  ! 
And   if   I    read    aright,   as    soothsayer 
should. 
Thy  faltering  steps  of  heavy  pilgrimage. 

Thy  paleness,  deep  as  snow  we  cannot  see 
The  roses   through,  —  thy  sighs  of   quick 

returning. 
Thine  eyes  that  seem,  themselves,  two  souls 
in  mourning,  — 
Thou  lovest,  girl,  too  well,  and  bitterly  ! 
But  hear  me:  rush  no  more  to  a  headlong 
fall: 
Seek  no   more  deaths  !   leave  wail,  lay 
sorrow  down. 
And  pray  the  sovran  god;  and  use  withal 
Such  prayer  as  best  may  suit  a  tender 
youth, 
Well-pleased  to  bend  to  flatteries  from  thy 
mouth. 
And  feel   them   stir   the  myrtle  of   his 
crown.' 

—  So  spake  the  shepherd-god;  and  an- 
swer none 
Gave  Psyche  in  return :  but  silently 
She  did  him  homage  with  a  bended  knee, 

And  took  the  onward  path.  — 


PSYCHE  PROPITIATING  CERES 

(Metamorph.,  Lib.  VI.) 

Then  mother  Ceres  from  afar  beheld  her. 
While    Psyche    touched,   with   reverent 
fingers  meek. 
The  temple's  scythes;  and  with  a  cry  com- 
pelled her:  — 
*0  wretched    Psyche,  Venus   roams   to 
seek 
Thy  wandering  footsteps  round  the  weary 

earth, 
Anxious  and  maddened,  and  adjures  thee 
forth 
To  accept  the  imputed  pang,  and  let  her 
wreak 
Full  vengeance  with  full  force  of  deity  ! 
Yet   thou,   forsooth,   art   in   my   temple 
here, 
Touching  my  scythes,  assuming  my  degree. 
And  daring  to  have  thoughts  that  are  not 
fear  ! ' 
— '■  But  Psyche  clung   to  her   feet,  and  as 
they  moved 
Rained    tears   along    their    track,   tear 
dropped  on  tear. 
And  drew  the  dust  on  in  her  trailing  locks, 
And   still,  with   passionate   prayer,   the 
charge  disproved  :  — 
'  Now,  by  thy  right  hand's  gathering  from 

the  shocks 
Of  golden   corn, — and   by  thy  gladsome 

rites 
Of  harvest,  —  and  thy  consecrated  sights 
Shut  safe  and  mute  in  chests,  —  and  by  the 

course 
Of   thy  slave-dragons,  —  and   the   driving 

force 
Of    ploughs    along    Sicilian    glebes    pro- 
found, — 
By  thy  swift   chariot,  —  by  thy  steadfast 

ground,  — 
By  all  those  nuptial  torches  that  departed 
With  thy  lost  daughter,  —  and  by  those 
that  shone 
Back  with  her,  when  she  came  again  glad- 
hearted,  — 
And   by  all   other   mysteries  which  are 
done 
In  silence  at  Eleusis,  —  I  beseech  thee, 
O  Ceres,  take  some  pity,  and  abstain 
From  giving  to  my  soul  extremer  pain 
Who  am  the  wretched  Psyche  !     Let  me 
teach  thee 


PSYCHE   AND    PROSERPINE 


475 


A  little  mercy,  and   have  thy  leave    to. 
spend 
A  few  days  only  in  thy  garnered  corn, 

Until  that  wrathful  goddess,  at  the  end. 
Shall  feel  her  hate  grow  mild  the  longer 

borne,  — 
Or  till,  alas  !  —  this  f aintness  at  my  breast 

Pass  from  me,  and  my  spirit  apprehend 
From  life-long  woe  a  breath-time  hour  of 

rest ! ' 
—  But  Ceres  answered  *  I  am  moved  indeed 
By    prayers    so    moist    with    tears,    and 
would  defend 
The  poor  beseecher  from  more  utter  need: 
But  where  old  oaths,  anterior  ties,  com- 
mend, 
I  cannot  fail  to  a  sister,  lie  to  a  friend. 
As  Venus  is  to  me.     Depart  with  speed  ! ' 


PSYCHE  AND  THE  EAGLE 

(Metamorph.,  Lib.  VI.) 

But  sovran  Jove's  rapacious  Bird,  the  regal 
High  percher  on   the  lightning,  the  great 

eagle. 
Drove  down  with  rushing  wings ;   and,  — 

thinking  how, 
By  Cupid's  help,  he  bore  from  Ida's  brow 
A  cup-boy  for  his  master,  —  he  inclined 
To  yield,  in  just  return,  an  influence  kind; 
The  god  being  honored  in  his  lady's  woe. 
And  thus  the  Bird  wheeled  downward  from 

the  track, 
Gods  follow  gods  in,  to  the  level  low 
Of  that  poor  face  of  Psyche  left  in  wrack. 
— '  Now  fie,  thou  simple  girl  ! '  the  Bird 

began; 
'  For  if  thou  think  to  steal  and  carry  back 
A  drop  of  holiest  stream  that  ever  ran. 
No  simpler  thought,  methinks,  were  found 

in  man. 
What !    know'st   thou   not    these   Stygian 

waters  be 
Most  holy,  even  to  Jove  ?  that  as,  on  earth. 
Men  swear  by  gods,  and  by  the  thunder's 

worth, 
Even  so  the  heavenly  gods  do  utter  forth 
Their  oaths  by  Styx's  flowing  majesty  ? 
And  yet,  one  little  urnful,  I  agree 
To  grant  thy  need  ! '    Whereat,  all   has- 
tily, 
He  takes  it,  fills  it  from  the  willing  wave, 
And  bears  it  in  his  beak,  incarnadined 


By   the   last  Titan -prey  he    screamed   to 

have ; 
And,  striking  calmly  out,  against  the  wind, 
Vast  wings  on  each   side,  —  there,  where 

Psyche  stands. 
He  drops  the  urn  down  in  her  lifted  hands. 


PSYCHE  AND  CERBERUS 

(Metamorph.,  Lib.  VL) 

A  MIGHTY  dog  with  three  colossal  necks, 
And  heads  in  grand  proportion;  vast  as 
fear, 

With  jaws  that  bark  the  thunder  out  that 
breaks 
In  most  innocuous  dread  for  ghosts  anear, 

Who  are  safe  in  death  from  sorrow:  he  re- 
clines 

Across  the  threshold  of  queen  Proserpine's 

Dark-sweeping  halls,  and,  there,  for  Pluto's 
spouse. 

Doth   guard   the    entrance    of   the   empty 
house. 

When  Psyche  threw  the  cake  to  him,  once 
amain 

He  howled  up  wildly  from  his  hunger-pain, 

And  was  still,  after.  — 


PSYCHE  AND  PROSERPINE 

(Metamorph.,  Lib.  VL) 

Then  Psyche  entered  in  to  Proserpine 
In  the  dark  house,  and  straightway  did  de- 
cline 
With  meek  denial  the  luxurious  seat. 
The  liberal  board  for  welcome  strangers 
spread, 
But  sat  down   lowly  at  the  dark  queen's 
feet, 
And  told  her  tale,  and  brake  her  oaten 
bread. 
And  when  she  had  given  the  pyx  in  humble 
duty, 
And   told  how  Venus   did   entreat   the 
queen 
To  fill  it  up  with  only  one  day's  beauty 
She   used    in   Hades,    star -bright    and 
serene. 
To  beautify  the  Cyprian,  who  had  been 
All  spoilt  with  grief  in  nursing  her  sick 
boy,— 


476 


TRANSLATIONS 


Then  Proserpine,  in  malice  and  in  joy, 
Smiled  in  the  shade  and  took  the  pyx, 

and  put 
A  secret  in  it;  and  so,  filled  and  shut. 
Gave  it  again  to  Psyche.     Could  she  tell 
It  held  no  beauty,  but  a  dream  of  hell  ? 


PSYCHE  AND  VENUS 

(Metamorph.,  Lib.  VI.) 

And  Psyche  brought  to  Venus  what  was 

sent 
By  Pluto's  spouse;  the  paler,  that  she  went 
So  low  to  seek  it,  down  the  dark  descent. 


MERCURY  CARRIES  PSYCHE  TO 
OLYMPUS 

(Metamorph.,  Lib.  VL) 

Then  Jove  commanded  the  god  Mercury 
To  float  up  Psyche  from  the  earth.     And 

she 
Sprang  at  the  first  word,  as  the  fountain 

springs. 
And  shot  up  bright  and  rustling  through 

his  wings. 


MARRIAGE     OF    PSYCHE    AND 
CUPID 

(Metamorph,,  Lib.  VI.) 

And  Jove's    right   hand    approached   the 
ambrosial  bowl 
To  Psyche's  lips,  that  scarce  dared  yet 
to  smile,  — 
'  Drink,  O  my  daughter,  and  acquaint  thy 
soul 
With    deathless   uses,  and  be   glad   the 
while  ! 
No  more  shall  Cupid  leave  thy  lovely  side; 
Thy  marriage-joy  begins  for  never-end- 
ing.' 
While  yet  he  spake,  —  the   nuptial   feast 
supplied,  — 
The   bridegroom    on   the    festive    couch 
was  bending 
O'er    Psyche   in    his    bosom  —  Jove,   the 
same, 
On  Juno,  and  the  other  deities, 


Alike  ranged   round.      The  rural  cup-boy 
came 
And  poured  Jove's  nectar  out  with  shin- 
ing eyes. 
While  Bacchus,  for  the  others,  did  as  much, 
And  Vulcan   spread  the  meal;    and   all 

the  Hours 
Made  all  things  purple  with  a  sprinkle 
of  flowers. 
Or  roses  chiefly,  not  to  say  the  touch 
Of  their  sweet  fingers;  and  the  Graces 
glided 
Their  balm  around,  and  the  Muses,  through 
the  air. 
Struck  out  clear  voices,  which  were  still 
divided 
By  that  divinest  song  Apollo  there 

Intoned  to  his  lute ;  while  Aphrodite  fair 
Did  float  her  beauty  along  the  tune,  and 
play 
The   notes   right   with   her   feet.      And 
thus,  the  day 
Through   every  perfect  mood  of   joy  was 
carried. 
The  Muses  sang  their  chorus;  Satyrus 
Did  blow  his  pipes ;  Pan  touched  his  reed ; 
—  and  thus 
At  last  were  Cupid  and  his  Psyche  married. 


FROM   NONNUS 

HOW  BACCHUS  FINDS  ARIADNE 
SLEEPING 

(DiONYSiACA,  Lib,  XLVIL) 

When  Bacchus  first  beheld  the  desolate 
And  sleeping  Ariadne,  wonder  straight 
Was  mixed  with  love  in  his  great  golden 

eyes; 
He  turned  to  his  Bacchantes  in  surprise, 
And  said  with   guarded   voice,  —  '  Hush  ! 

strike  no  more 
Your  brazen  cymbals;  keep  those  voices 

still 
Of  voice   and   pipe;    and   since   ye   stand 

before 
Queen  Cypris,   let   her  slumber  as   she 

will ! 
And  yet  the  cestus  is  not  here  in  proof. 
A  Grace,  perhaps,  whom  sleep  has  stolen 

aloof  :  lo 

In  which   case,  as  the   morning  shines  in 

view. 


HOW   BACCHUS    COMFORTS    ARIADNE 


477 


Wake  this  Aglaia  !  —  yet  in  Naxos,  who 
Would  veil  a  Grace  so  ?     Hush  !     And  if 

that  she 
Were  Hebe,  which  of  all  the  gods  can  be 
The  pourer-out  of  wine  ?  or  if  we  think 
She 's   like   the    shining  moon    by  ocean's 

brink, 
The  guide  of  herds,  —  why,  could  she  sleep 

without 
Endymion's  breath  on  her  cheek  ?  or  if  I 

doubt 
Of  silver-footed  Thetis,  used  to  tread 
These  shores,  —  even  she  (in  reverence  be 

it  said)  20 

Has  no  such  rosy  beauty  to  dress  deep 
With  the  blue  waves.     The  Loxian  god- 
dess might 
Repose  so  from  her  hunting-toil  aright 
Beside  the   sea,  since   toil   gives  birth   to 

sleep. 
But  who  would  find  her  with  her  tunic 

loose. 
Thus  ?     Stand   off,  Thracian  !    stand  off  ! 

Do  not  leap. 
Not  this  way  !     Leave  that  piping,  since 

I  choose, 
O  dearest  Pan,  and  let  Athen^  rest ! 
And   yet    if    she    be  Pallas    .    .    .    truly 

guessed  .  .  . 
Her  lance  is — where  ?  her  helm  and  segis 

—  where  ?  '  30 

—  As  Bacchus  closed,  the  miserable  Fair 
Awoke  at  last,  sprang  upward  from  the 

sands. 
And  gazing  wild  on  that  wild  throng  that 

stands 
Around,    around     her,    and    no     Theseus 

there  !  — 
Her  voice  went   moaning  over  shore  and 

sea. 
Beside  the  halcyon's  cry;  she  called  her 

love ; 
She  named  her  hero,  and  raged  madden- 
ingly 
Against  the  brine  of  waters;  and,  above, 
Sought  the   ship's   track,  and   cursed   the 

hours  she  slept; 
And  still  the  chiefest  execration  swept      40 
Against  queen  Paphia,  mother  of  the  ocean; 
And  cursed  and  prayed  by  times  in  her 

emotion 
The  winds  all  round.  .  .  . 

Her  grief  did  make  her  glorious;  her  de- 
spair 


Adorned  her  with  its  weight.    Poor  wail- 
ing child  ! 
She  looked  like  Venus  when  the  goddess 
smiled 

At  liberty  of  godship,  debonair; 

Poor  Ariadne  !  and  her  eyelids  fair 

Hid  looks  beneath  them  lent  her  by  Per- 
suasion. 

And  every  Grace,  with  tears  of  Love's  own 
passion  50 

She  wept  long;  then  she  spake:  — 'Sweet 
sleep  did  come 

While  sweetest  Theseus    went.     Oh,  glad 
and  dumb, 

I  wish  he  had  left  me  still !  for  in  my  sleep 

I  saw  his  Athens,  and  did  gladly  keep 

My  new   bride-state   within   my  Theseus' 
hall; 

And  heard  the  pomp  of  Hymen,  and  the 
call 

Of  "  Ariadne,  Ariadne,"  sung 

In  choral  joy;  and  there,  with  joy  I  hung 

Spring-blossoms  round  love's  altar  !  —  ay, 
and  wore 

A  wreath  myself;  and  felt  Aim  evermore  60 

Oh,  evermore  beside  me,  with  his  mighty 

Grave    head    bowed    down   in   prayer   to 
Aphrodite  ! 

Why,  what   a   sweet,    sweet   dream  !     He 
went  with  it. 

And  left  me  here  unwedded  where  I  sit  ! 

Persuasion  help  me  !     The  dark  night  did 
make  me 
A  brideship,  the  fair  morning  takes  away; 

My  Love  had  left  me  when  the  Hour  did 
wake  me; 
And  while  I  dreamed  of  marriage,  as  I 
say,_ 

And  blest  it  well,  my  blessed  Theseus  left 
me: 

And  thus  the  sleep,  I  loved  so,  has  bereft 
me.  70 

Speak  to  me,  rocks,  and  tell  my  grief  to- 
day, 

Who  stole  my  love  of  Athens  ? '  .  .  . 


HOW    BACCHUS     COMFORTS 
ARIADNE 

(DiONYSiACA.  Lib.  XLVII.) 

Then  Bacchus'  subtle  speech  her  sorrow 

crossed: — 
'  O    maiden,  dost  thou  mourn  for   having 

lost 


478 


TRANSLATIONS 


The  false  Athenian  heart  ?  and  dost  thou 
still 

Take  thought  of  Theseus,  when  thou  mayst 
at  will 

Have  Bacchus   for  a  husband  ?     Bacchus 
bright  ! 
A   god  in   place  of   mortal  !     Yes,  and 
though 

The  mortal  youth  be  charming  in  thy  sight. 
That  man  of  Athens  cannot  strive  be- 
low, 

In  beauty  and  valor,  with  my  deity  ! 

Thou  'It    tell    me    of   the    labyrinthine 
dweller,  lo 

The  fierce  man-bull  he  slew:  I  pray  thee, 
be, 
Fair  Ariadne,  the  true  deed's  true  teller. 

And  mention  thy  clue's  help  !  because,  for- 
sooth, 
Thine    armed   Athenian   hero   had    not 

found 
A   power   to   fight   on   that    prodigious 
ground. 

Unless  a  lady  in  her  rosy  youth 

Had  lingered  near  him:  not  to  speak  the 
truth 

Too  definitely  out  till  names  be  known  — 

Like    Paphia's  —  Love's  —  and    Ariadne's 
own. 

Thou  wilt  not  say  that  Athens  can  com- 
pare 
With  ^ther,  nor  that  Minos  rules  like 
Zeus,  21 

Nor   yet   that   Gnossus   has    such   golden 
air 
As  high  Olympus.     Ha  !  for  noble  use 

We    came  to   Naxos  !     Love  has  well  in- 
tended 

To  change  thy  bridegroom  !     Happy  thou, 
defended 

From    entering    in    thy   Theseus'   earthly 
hall. 

That  thou  mayst   hear  the  laughters  rise 
and  fall 
Instead,  where  Bacchus  rules  !     Or  wilt 
thou  choose 

A  still-surpassing  glory  ?  —  take  it  all,  — 

A  heavenly  house,  Kronion's  self  for  kin,  — 

A  place  where  Cassiopea  sits  within  31 

Inferior  light,  for  all  her  daughter's  sake. 

Since  Perseus,  even  amid  the  stars,  must 
take 

Andromeda  in  chains  sethereal  ! 

But  /  will  wreathe  theCy  sweet,  an  astral 
crown. 


And  as  my  queen  and  spouse  thou  shalt  be 

known  — 
Mine,  the  crown-lover's  ! '  Thus,  at  length, 

he  proved 
His  comfort   on  her;  and   the   maid   was. 

moved; 
And   casting   Theseus'  memory  down  the 

brine. 
She  straight  received  the  troth  of  her  di- 
vine 
Fair  Bacchus;  Love  stood  by  to  close  the 

rite ;  41 

The  marriage-chorus  struck  up  clear  and 

light. 
Flowers  sprouted  fast  about  the  chamber 

green. 
And  with  spring-garlands  on  their  heads,  I 

ween. 
The  Orchomenian  dancers  came  along 
And  danced,  their  rounds  in  Naxos  to  the 

song. 
A  Hamadryad  sang  a  nuptial  dit 

Right  shrilly:  and  a  Naiad  sat  beside  4» 
A  fountain,  with  her  bare  foot  shelving  it. 
And  hymned  of  Ariadne,  beauteous  bride,. 
Whom  thus  the  god  of  grapes  had  dei- 
fied. 
Ortygia  sang  out,  louder  than  her  wont. 
An  ode  which   Phcsbus  gave  her  to  be 

tried. 
And   leapt   in   chorus,  with   her  steadfast 

front. 
While  prophet  Love,  the  stars  have  called 

a  brother. 
Burnt   in   his   crown,  and   twined   in   one 

another 
His  love-flower  with  the  purple  roses,  given 
In   type   of   that   new  crown   assigned  in 

heaven. 


FROM   HESIOD 

BACCHUS    AND   ARIADNE 

(Theog.  947.) 

The  golden-haired  Bacchus  did  espouse 

That  fairest  Ariadne,  Minos'  daughter. 
And   made   her  wifehood   blossom   in  the 
house ; 
Where   such    protective   gifts    Kronion 
brought  her, 
Nor  Death  nor  Age  could  find  her  when 
they  sought  her. 


HECTOR    AND    ANDROMACHE 


479 


FROM    EURIPIDES 

AURORA   AND   TITHONUS 

(Troades,  Antistrophe,  853) 

Love,  Love,  who  once  didst  pass  the  Dardan 
portals, 
Because  of  Heavenly  passion  ! 
Who  once  didst   lift   up  Troy  in  exulta- 
tion, 
To   mingle   in    thy   bond    the    high    Im- 
mortals !  — 
Love,  turned  from  his  own  name 
To  Zeus's  shame. 
Can  help  no  more  at  all. 
And    Eos'    self,    the    fair,    white-steeded 

Morning,  — 
Her  light  which  blesses  other  lands,  return- 

Has  changed  to  a  gloomy  pall  ! 
She  looked  across  the   land  with  eyes   of 
amber,  — 
She  saw  the  city's  fall,  — 
She  who,  in  pure  embraces, 
Had  held   there,  in  the  hymeneal   cham- 
ber. 
Her  children's  father,  bright  Tithonus  old, 
Whom  the  four  steeds  with  starry  brows 

and  paces 
Bore  on,  snatched  upward,  on  the  car  of 

gold, 
And  with  him,  all  the  land's  full  hope  of 

joy! 

The  love-charms  of  the  gods  are  vain  for 
Troy. 


FROM   HOMER 


HECTOR  AND   ANDROMACHE 


(Iliad,  Lib.  VI.) 

She  rushed  to  meet  him :  the  nurse  follow- 
ing 

Bore  on  her  bosom  the  unsaddened  child, 

A  simple  babe,  prince  Hector's  well-loved 
son. 

Like  a  star  shining  when  the  world  is  dark. 

Scamandrius,  Hector  called  him;  but  the 
rest 

Named  him  Astyanax,  the  city's  prince, 

Because  that  Hector  only  had  saved  Troy. 

He,  when  he  saw  his  son,  smiled  silently; 


While,       dropping      tears,      Andromache 

pressed  on. 
And  clung   to    his    hand,  and    spake,  and 

named  his  name. 


10 


*  Hector,  my  best  one,  —  thine  own  noble- 
ness 
Must  needs  undo  thee.    Pity  hast  thou  none 
For  this    young   child,  and  this  most  sad 

myself. 
Who    soon    shall   be    thy    widow  —  since 

that  soon 
The  Greeks  will  slay  thee  in  the  general 

rush  — 
And  then,  for  me,  what  refuge,  'reft  of  theey 
But  to  go  graveward  ?     Then,  no  comfort 

more 
Shall  touch  me,  as  in  the  old  sad  times  thou 

know'st  — 
Grief  only  —  grief  !    I  have  no  father  now,, 
No  mother  mild  !     Achilles  the  divine,     20 
He  slew  my  father,  sacked  his  lofty  Thebes, 
Cilicia's  populous  city,  and  slew  its  king, 
Eetion  —  father  !  —  did  not  spoil  the  corse, 
Because  the  Greek  revered  him  in  his  soul. 
But  burnt  the  body  with  its  dsedal  arms. 
And  poured  the  dust  out  gently.     Round 

that  tomb 
The  Oreads,  daughters  of  the  goat-nursed 

Zeus, 
Tripped  in  a  ring,  and  planted  their  green 

elms. 
There  were  seven  brothers  with  me  in  the 

house. 
Who  all  went  down  to  Hades  in  one  day,  — 
For  he  slew  all,  Achilles  the  divine,  3 1 

Famed  for   his   swift  feet,  —  slain  among 

their  herds 
Of  cloven-footed  bulls  and  flocking  sheep  ! 
My  mother  too,  who  queened  it  o'er  the 

woods 
Of  Hippoplacia,  he,  with  other  spoil, 
Seized,  —  and,  for  golden  ransom,  freed  too 

late,  — 
Since,  as  she  went  home,  arrowy  Artemis 
Met  her  and  slew  her  at  my  father's  door. 
But  —  oh  my  Hector,  —  thou  art  still  to  me 
Father   and   mother  !  —  yes,    and   brother 

dear,  40 

O  thou,  who  art  my  sweetest   spouse  be- 
side ! 
Come  now,  and  take  me  into  pity  !     Stay 
I'  the  town  here  with  us  !     Do  not  make 

thy  child 
An  orphan,  nor  a  widow  thy  poor  wife  ! 


48o 


TRANSLATIONS 


Call  up  the  people  to  the  fig-tree,  where 
The  city  is  most  accessible,  the  wall 
Most  easy  of  assault  !  —  for  thrice  thereby 
The  boldest  Greeks  have  mounted  to  the 

breach,  — 
Both  Ajaxes,  the  famed  Idomeneus, 
Two  sous  of  Atreus,  and  the  noble  one      50 
Of    Tydeus,  —  whether   taught    by   some 

wise  seer. 
Or  by  their  own  souls  prompted  and  in- 
spired.' 

Great  Hector  answered :  — '  Lady,  for  these 

things 
It  is  my  part  to  care.     And  /  fear  most 
My  Trojans,  and  their  daughters,  and  their 

wives. 
Who  through  their  long  veils  would  glance 

scorn  at  me 
If,  coward-like,  I  shunned  the  open  war. 
Nor  doth  my  own  soul  prompt  me  to  that 

end  ! 
I  learnt  to  be  a  brave  man  constantly, 
And  to  fight  foremost  where  my  Trojans 

fight,  60 

And     vindicate    my    father's     glory    and 

mine  — 
Because  I  know,  by  instinct  and  my  soul, 
The  day  comes  that  our  sacred  Troy  must 

fall, 
And    Priam    and    his    people.      Knowing 

which, 
I  have  no  such  grief  for  all  my  Trojans' 

sake. 
For  Hecuba's,  for  Priam's,  our  old  king. 
Not  for  my  brothers',  who  so  many  and 

brave 
Shall  bite  the  dust  before  our  enemies,  — 
As,  sweet  for  thee  !  —  to  think  some  mailed 

Greek 
Shall  lead  thee  weeping  and  deprive  thy 

life  70 

Of   the  free  sun-sight  —  that,  when   gone 

away 
To  Argos,  thou  shalt  throw  the  distaff  there. 
Not  for  thy  uses  —  or  shalt  carry  instead 
Upon  thy  loathing  brow,  as  heavy  as  doom, 
The  water  of  Greek  wells  —  Messeis'  own. 
Or  Hyperea's  !  —  that  some  stander-by. 
Marking  my  tears  fall,  shall  say,  "  This  is 

She, 
The  wife  of  that  same  Hector  who  fought 

best 
Of   all  the   Trojans,  when  all  fought   for 

Troy"  — 


Ay  !  —  and,  so  speaking,  shall  renew  thy 

pang  80 

That,  'reft  of  Him  so  named,  thou  shouldst 

survive 
To  a  slave's   life  !     But   earth  shall   hide 

my  corse 
Ere  that  shriek  sound,  wherewith  thou  art 

dragged  from  Troy.' 

Thus  Hector  spake,  and  stretched  his  arms 

to  his  child. 
Against   the  nurse's   breast,  with   childly 

cry, 
The    boy   clung    back,   and    shunned   his 

father's  face. 
And  feared  the  glittering  brass  and  waving 

hair 
Of  the  high  helmet,  nodding  horror  down. 
The  father   smiled,  the  mother  could  not 

choose 
But   smile  too.     Then  he  lifted  from  his 

brow  90 

The  helm,  and   set   it  on   the   ground   to 

shine: 
Then,  kissed  his  dear   child  —  raised  him 

with  both  arms. 
And  thus  invoked  Zeus   and  the   general 

gods :  — 

*  Zeus,  and  all  godships  !  grant  this  boy  of 

mine 
To  be  the  Trojans'  help,  as  I  myself,  — 
To   live   a   brave   life   and    rule   well    in 

Troy  ! 
Till  men  shall  say,  "  The  son  exceeds  the 

sire 
By   a   far   glory."     Let  him    bring   home 

spoil 
Heroic,  and  make  glad  his  mother's  heart.' 

With  which  prayer,  to  his  wife's  extended 

arms  100 

He  gave  the  child;  and  she  received  him 

straight 
To  her  bosom's  fragrance  —  smiling  up  her 

tears. 
Hector    gazed   on   her    till   his   soul   was 

moved: 
Then  softly  touched  her  with  his  hand  and 

spake. 

*  My  best  one  —  'ware  of  passion  and  ex- 

cess 
In  any  fear.     There  's  no  man  in  the  world 
Can   send   me   to   the   grave   apart    from 

fate,  — 


ODE   TO   THE   SWALLOW 


481 


And  no  man  .  .  .  Sweet,  I  tell  thee  .  .  . 
can  fly  fate  — 

No  good  nor  bad  man.  Doom  is  self-ful- 
filled. 

But  now,  go  home,  and  ply  thy  woman's 
task  no 

Of  wheel  and  distaff !  bid  thy  maidens 
haste 

Their  occupation.    War  's  a  care  for  men  — 

For  all  men  born  in  Troy,  and  chief  for 
me.' 

Thus  spake  the  noble  Hector,  and  resumed 

His  crested  helmet,  while  his  spouse  went 
home ; 

But   as   she  went,  still   looked  back   lov- 

Dropping  the  tears  from  her  reverted  face. 


THE     DAUGHTERS     OF     PAN- 
DARUS 

(Odyss.,  Lib.  XX.) 

And  so  these  daughters  fair  of  Pandarus 
The    whirlwinds    took.      The    gods     had 

slain  their  kin : 
They  were  left  orphans   in  their   father's 

house. 
And  Aphrodite  came  to  comfort  them 
With  incense,  luscious  honey,  and  fragrant 

wine ; 
And  Here  gave  them  beauty  of  face  and 

soul 
Beyond  all  women;  purest  Artemis 
Endowed  them  with  her  stature  and  white 

grace; 
And   Pallas   taught   their   hands    to  flash 

along 
Her   famous    looms.     Then,   bright    with 

deity, 
Toward  far  Olympus,  Aphrodite  went 
To   ask   of   Zeus    (who   has   his    thunder- 
joys 
And  his  full  knowledge  of  man's  mingled 

fate) 
How  best  to  crown  those  other  gifts  with 

love 
And  worthy  marriage:  but,  what  time  she 

went, 
The  ravishing  Harpies  snatched  the  maids 

away, 
And   gave    them  up,  for   all  their   loving 

eves, 
To  serve  the  Furies  who  hate  constantly. 


ANOTHER   VERSION 

So  the  storms  bore  the  daug^hters  of  Pan- 

darus  out  into  thrall  — 
The  gods  slew  their  parents;  the  orphans 

were  left  in  the  hall. 
And  there,  came,  to  feed  their  young  lives, 

Aphrodite  divine, 
With  the  incense,  the  sweet-tasting  honey, 

the  sweet-smelling  wine; 
Her^  brought  them  her  wit  above  woman's, 

and  beauty  of  face; 
And  pure  Artemis  gave  them  her  stature, 

that  form  might  have  grace: 
And  Athen^  instructed  their  hands  in  her 

works  of  renown; 
Then,  afar  to  Olympus,  divine  Aphrodite 

moved  on  : 
To  complete  other  gifts,  by  uniting  each 

girl  to  a  mate, 
She  sought  Zeus,  who  has  joy  in  the  thun- 
der and  knowledge  of  fate. 
Whether  mortals  have  good  chance  or  ill. 

But  the  Harpies  a-late 
In  the  storm  came,  and  swept  off  the  maid- 
ens, and  gave  them  to  wait. 
With  that  love  in  their  eyes,  on  the  Furies 

who  constantly  hate. 


FROM  ANACREON 

ODE   TO   THE   SWALLOW 

Thou  indeed,  little  Swallow, 
A  sweet  yearly  comer. 
Art  building  a  hollow 
New  nest  every  summer, 
And  straight  dost  depart 
Where  no  gazing  can  follow, 
Past  Memphis,  down  Nile  ! 
Ah  !  but  Love  all  the  while 
Builds  his  nest  in  my  heart, 
Through  the  cold  winter-weeks: 
And  as  one  Love  takes  flight, 
Comes  another,  O  Swallow, 
In  an  egg  warm  and  white. 
And  another  is  callow. 
And  the  large  gaping  beaks 
Chirp  all  day  and  all  night: 
And  the  Loves  who  are  older 
Help  the  young  and  the  poor  Loves, 
And  the  young  Loves  grown  bolder 
Increase  by  the  score  Loves  — 


a 


482 


TRANSLATIONS 


Why,  what  can  be  done  ? 
If  a  noise  comes  from  one 
Can  I  bear  all  this  rout  of  a  hundred  and 
more  Loves  ? 


FROM   HEINE 

THE   LAST   TRANSLATION 

Rome,  i860 
I 


Out  of  my  own  great  woe 

I  make  my  little  songs, 

Which  rustle  their  feathers  in  throngs 

And  beat  on  her  heart  even  so. 

II 

They  found  the  way,  for  their  part. 
Yet  come  again,  and  complain: 
Complain,  and  are  not  fain 
To  say  what  they  saw  in  her  heart. 


II 


III 


Art  thou  indeed  so  adverse  ? 
Art  thou  so  changed  indeed  ? 
Against  the  woman  who  wrongs  me 
I  cry  to  the  world  in  my  need. 


10 


II 


O  recreant  lips  unthankful, 

How  could  ye  speak  evil,  say, 

Of  the  man  who  so  well  has  kissed  you 

On  many  a  fortunate  day  ? 


Ill 


My  child,  we  were  two  children, 
Small,  merry  by  childhood's  law; 
We  used  to  crawl  to  the  hen-house 
And  hide  ourselves  in  the  straw. 


20 


II 


We  crowed  like  cocks,  and  whenever 
The  passers  near  us  drew  — 
Cock-a-doodle  !  they  thought 
'T  was  a  real  cock  that  crew. 


The  boxes  about  our  courtyard 
We  carpeted  to  our  mind, 
And  lived  there  both  together  — 
Kept  house  in  a  noble  kind. 


IV 


The  neighbor's  old  cat  often 
Came  to  pay  us  a  visit; 
We  made  her  a  bow  and  curtsey, 
Each  with  a  compliment  in  it. 


30 


After  her  health  we  asked 

Our  care  and  regard  to  evince  — 

(We  have  made  the  very  same  speeches 

To  many  an  old  cat  since). 

VI 

We  also  sat  and  wisely 

Discoursed,  as  old  folk  do, 

Complaining  how  all  went  better 

In  those  good  times  we  knew,  —  40 

VII 

How  love  and  truth  and  believing 
Had  left  the  world  to  itself, 
And  how  so  dear  was  the  coffee, 
And  how  so  rare  was  the  pelf. 

VIII 

The  children's  games  are  over. 

The  rest  is  over  with  youth  — 

The  world,  the  good  games,  the  good  times, 

The  belief,  and  the  love,  and  the  truth. 


IV 


Thou  lovest  me  not,  thou  lovest  me  not ! 

'T  is  scarcely  worth  a  sigh:  50J 

Let  me  look  in  thy  face,  and  no  king  in  his^ 
place 

Is  a  gladder  man  than  I. 

II 

Thou    hatest    me    well,  thou    hatest    me] 
well  — 
Thy  little  red  mouth  has  told : 
Let  it  reach  me  a  kiss,  and,   however  itj 
is. 
My  child,  I  am  well  consoled. 


FROM   HEINE 


483 


My  own  sweet  Love,  if  thou  in  the  grave, 

The  darksome  grave,  wilt  be. 
Then  will   I  go   down   by   the   side,    and 
crave 

Love-room  for  thee  and  me. 

II 

I  kiss  and  caress  and  press  thee  wild, 
Thou  still,  thou  cold,  thou  white  ! 

I  wail,  I  tremble,  and  weeping  mild, 
Turn  to  a  corpse  at  the  right. 

Ill 

The  Dead  stand  up,  the  midnight  calls, 
They  dance  in  airy  swarms  — 

We  two  keep  still   where  the  grave-shade 
falls, 
And  I  lie  on  in  thine  arms. 


IV 


The  Dead  stand  up,  the  Judgment-day 

Bids  such  to  weal  or  woe  — 
But  nought  shall  trouble  us  where  we  stay 

Embraced  and  embracing  below. 


70 


VI 


The  years  they  come  and  go, 
The  races  drop  in  the  grave, 

Yet  never  the  love  doth  so 

Which  here  in  my  heart  I  have. 

II 

Could  I  see  thee  but  once,  one  day, 
And  sink  down  so  on  my  knee. 

And  die  in  thy  sight  while  I  say, 
'  Lady,  I  love  but  thee  ! ' 


8c 


» 


APPENDIX 


I.  JUVENILIA 

I 

THE   BATTLE  OF  MARATHON 

On  October  5,  1843,  Elizabeth  Barrett  wrote 
as  follows  to  Mr.  R.  H.  Home,  who  had  re- 
quested biographical  details  for  the  sketch 
which  he-  wished  to  enibody  in  A  New  Spirit 
of  the  Age,  concerning'  her  first  considerable 
poetical  production : '  My  great  epic  of  eleven  or 
twelve  years  old,  in  four  books,  and  called  The 
Battle  of  Marathon,  and  of  which  fifty  copies 
were  printed  because  papa  was  bent  upon 
spoiling  me,  is  simply  Pope's  Homer  done  over 
again,  or  rather  undone  ;  for  although  a  curi- 
ous production  for  a  child,  it  gives  evidence 
only  of  an  imitative  faculty,  and  an  ear,  and  a 
good  deal  of  reading  in  a  peculiar  direction.' 
This  privately  printed  edition  dedicated  to  the 
father  of  the  poetess  (LoNDOK  :  printed  for  W. 
Lindsell,  87  Wimpole  St.,  Cavendish  Square, 
1820)  was  first  reprinted  for  publication  in 
London  in  1891. 

BOOK  I 

The    war    of  Greece    with    Persia's  haughty 

King, 
No  vulgar  strain,  eternal  Goddess,  sing  1 
Wliat  dreary  ghosts  to  glutted  Pluto  fled, 
What  nations  suffered,  and  what  heroes  bled : 
Sing  Asia's  powerful  Prince,  who  envious  saw 
The  fame  of  Athens,  and  her  might  in  war ; 
And  scorns  her  power,  at  Cytherea's  call 
Her  ruin  plans,  and  meditates  her  fall; 
How  Athens,  blinded  to  the  approaching  chains 
By     Vulcan's     artfid     spouse,     unmoved     re- 
mains ;  lo 
Deceived  by  Venus  thus,  unconquered  Greece 
Forgot  her  glories  in  the  lap  of  peace  ; 
While  Asia's  realms,  and  Asia's  lord  prepare 
T'  ensnare  her  freedom,  by  the  wiles  of  war  : 
Hippias  t'  exalt  upon  th'  Athenian  throne, 
Where  once  Pisistratus  his  father  shone. 
For  yet  her  son  Eneas'  wrongs  impart 
Revenge  and  grief  to  Cytherea's  heart ; 
And  still   from  smoking  Troy's  once    sacred 

wall, 
Does    Priam's    reeking    shade    for    vengeance 
call.  2o 

Minerva  saw,  and  Paphia's  Queen  defied, 
A  boon  she  begged,  nor  Jove  the  boon  denied  ; 


That  Greece  should  rise,  triumphant  o'er  her 

foe. 
Disarm    th'   invaders,   and  their    power    o'er- 

throw. 
Her  prayer  obtained,  the    blue-eyed  Goddess 

flies 
As  the  fierce  eagle,  thro'  the  radiant  skies. 
To  Aristides  then  she  stood  confessed. 
Shews    Persia's    arts,    and    fires    his    warlike 

breast : 
Then  pours  celestial  ardor  o'er  his  frame 
And  points  the  way  to  glory  and  to  fame.        30 
Awe  struck  the  Chief,  and  swells  his  troubled 

soul, 
In    pride    and    wonder    thoughts    progressive 

roU. 
He  inly  groaned  and  smote  his  laboring  breast, 
At  once  by  Pallas,  and  by  care  opprest. 
Inspired  he   moved,  earth    echoed   where    he 

trod. 
All    fuU   of    Heaven,    all    burning    with    the 

God. 
Th'   Athenians  viewed  with  awe  the  mighty 

man. 
To  whom  the  Chief  impassioned  thus  began  : 
'  Hear,  all  ye  Sons  of  Greece  !    Friends,  Fathers, 

hear! 
The  Gods  command  it,  and  the  Gods  revere  !  40 
No    madness    mine,    for    mark,    oh     favored 

Greeks ! 
That    by    my    mouth     the    martial    Goddess 

speaks  ! 
This  know,  Athenians,  that  proud  Persia  now 
Prepares  to  twine  thy  laurels  on  her  brow; 
Behold    her    princely    Chiefs     their    weapons 

wield 
By  Venus  fired,  and  shake  the  brazen  shield. 
I  hear  their  shouts  that  echo  to  the  skies, 
I  see  their  lances  blaze,  their  banners  rise, 
I  hear  the  clash  of  arms,  the  battle's  roar. 
And  all  the  din  and  thunder  of  the  war  !  50 

I  know  that  Greeks    shall  purchase  just  re- 
nown. 
And  fame  impartial,  shall  Athena  crown. 
Then  Greeks,  prepare  your  arms !    award  the 

yoke. 
Thus    Jove    commands '  —  sublime    the    hero 

spoke  ; 
The  Greeks  assent  with  shouts,  and  rend  the 

skies 
With  martial  clamor,  and  tumultuous  cries. 
So  struggling  winds  with  rage  indignant  sweep 
The  azure  waters  of  the  silent  deep. 
Sudden  the  seas  rebellowing,  frightful  rise. 
And  dash  their  foaming  surges  to  the  skies  ;    60 
Burst  the  firm  sand,   and  boil  with  dreadful 

roar, 


486 


APPENDIX 


Lift  their  black  waves,  and  combat  with  the 

shore. 
So  each  brave  Greek  in  thought  aspires  to  fame, 
Stung    by    his   words,    and    dread    of    future 

shame  ; 
Glory's  own  fires  within  their  bosom  rise 
And  shouts  tumultuous  thunder  to  the  skies. 

But  Love's  celestial  Queen  resentful  saw 

The    Greeks    (by  Pallas  warned)    prepare  for 

war  ; 
Th'  indignant  Goddess  of  the  Paphian  bower 
Deceives  Themistocles  with  heavenly  power;  70 
The  hero  rising  spoke,  '  Oh  rashly  blind. 
What  sudden  fury  thus  has  seized  thy  mind  ? 
Boy  as  thou  art,  such  empty  dreams  beware  ! 
Shall  we,  for  griefs  and  wars  unsought,  pre- 
pare ? 
The  will  of  mighty  Jove,  whate'er  it  be, 
Obey,  and  own  th'  Omnipotent  decree. 
If  our  disgrace  and  fall  the  fates  employ, 
Why  did  we  triumph  o'er  i^erfidious  Troy  ? 
Why,  say,  oh  Chief,  in  that  eventful  hour 
Did  Grecian  heroes  crush  Dardanian  power  ?  ' 
Him  eyeing  sternly,  thus  the  Greek  replies,    81 
Renowned  for  truth,  and  as  Minerva  wise, 
'  Oh  Son  of  Greece,  no  heedless  boy  am  I, 
Despised  in  battle's  toils,  nor  first  to  fly. 
Nor  dreams  or  phrenzy  call  my  words  astray, 
The  heaven-sent  mandate  pious  I  obey. 
If  Pallas  did  not  all  my  words  inspire. 
May  heaven  pursue  me  with  unceasing  ire  ! 
But  if  (oh  grant  my  prayer,  almighty  Jove) 
I  bear  a  mandate  from  the  Courts  above,         90 
Then  thro'  yon  heaven,  let  awful  thunder  roar 
Till  Greeks  believe  my  mission,  and  adore  ! ' 

He  ceased  — and  thro'   the  host   one  murmur 

ran, 
With  eyes  transfixed  upon  the  godlike  man. 
But  hark  !    o'er  earth   expands   the  solemn  ] 

sound,  I 

It  lengthening  grows  —  heaven's  azure  vaults  | 

resound,  f 

While    peals   of   thunder    beat  the  echoing  ! 

ground.  J 

Prostrate,  convinc'd,  divine  Themistocles 
Embraced  the  hero's    hands,  and  clasped  his 

knees  : 
'Behold  me  here,'  (the  awe-struck  Chieftain 


cries 


100 


While  tears  repentant  glisten  in  his  eyes,) 
'  Behold  me  here,  thy  friendship  to  entreat, 
Themistocles,  a  suppliant  at  thy  feet. 
Before  no  haughty  despot's  royal  throne  1 

This  knee  has  bent  —  it  bends  to  thee  alone      f 
Thy  mission  to  adore,  thy  truth  to  own.  J 

Behold  me  Jove,  and  witness  what  I  swear 
By  all  on  earth  I  love,  by  all  in  heav'n  I  fear. 
Some  fiend  inspired  my  words,  of  dark  design. 
Some    fiend    concealed    beneath    a    robe    di- 


vine 


no 


Then  aid  me  in  my  prayer,  ye  Gods  above, 
Bid  Aristides  give  me  back  his  love  !  ' 
He  spake  and  wept ;  benign  the  godlike  man 
Felt   tears  descend  and  paused,  then  thus  be- 
gan, 


'  Thrice  worthy  Greek,  for  this  shall  we  con- 
tend ? 
Ah   no !     I  feel   thy    worth,  thou  more   than 

friend, 
Pardon  sincere,  Themistocles,  receive  ; 
The  heart  declares  'tis  easy  to  forgive.' 
He  spake  divine,  his  eye  with  Pallas  burns. 
He  spoke  and  sighed,  and  sighed  and  wept  by 
turns.  120 

Themistocles  beheld  the  Chief  opprest. 
Awe-struck  he  paused,  then  rushed  upon  his 

breast. 
Whom  sage  Miltiades  with  joy  addressed. 
'  Hero  of  Greece,  worthy  a  hero's  name 
Adored  by  Athens,  fav'rite  child  of  fame  ! 
Glory's  own  spirit  does  with  truth  combine 
To  form  a  soul,  so  godlike,  so  divine  I 
Oh  Aristides  rise,  our  Chief  !  to  save 
The    fame,   the    might   of    Athens  from    the 

grave. 
Nor  then  refuse  thy  noble  arm  to  lend  130 

To  guard  Athena,  and  her  state  defend. 
First  I,  obedient,  'customed  homage  pay 
To  own  a  hero's  and  a  leader's  sway.' 
He    said,    and  would    have    knelt ;   the    man 

divine 
Perceived    his  will,  and  stayed   the  Sire's  de- 
sign. 
'  Not  mine,  oh  Sage,  to  lead  this  gallant  band,' 
He  generous  said,  and  grasped  his  aged  hand, 
'  Proud  as  I  am  in  glory's  arras  to  rise, 
Athenian  Greeks,  to  shield  your  liberties. 
Yet    't  is    not    mine    to    lead    your    powerful 
state,  140 

Enough  it  is  to  tempt  you  to  be  great ; 
Be  't  for  Miltiades,  experienced  sage, 
To  curb  your  ardor,  and  restrain  your  rage, 
Your  souls  to  temper  —  by  his  skill  prepare 
To  succor  Athens,  and  conduct  the  war. 
More  fits  my  early  youth  to  purchase  fame. 
By  deeds  in  arms  t'  immortalize  my  name.' 
Firmly  he  spake,  his  words  the  Greek  inspire. 
And  all  were  hushed  to  listen  and  admire. 
The  Sage  thus  —  '  Most  Allied  to  Gods !   the 
fame,  igo 

The  pride,  the  glory  of  the  Grecian  name, 
E'en  by  thee.  Chief,  I  swear,  to  whom  is  given 
The  sacred  mandate  of  yon  marble  heaven  — 
To  lead,  not  undeserving  of  thy  love, 
T'  avert  the  yoke,  if  so  determines  Jove.' 
Amidst  the  host  imagination  rose 
And  paints  the  combat,  but  disdains  the  woes. 
And  heaven-born  fancy,  with  dishevelled  hair, 
Points  to  the  ensanguined  field,   and  victory 

there. 
But  soon,  too  soon,  these  empty  dreams  are 
driven  ^  160 

Forth  from  their  breasts  —  but  soothing  hope 

is  given, 
Hope  sprung  from  Jove,  man's  sole,  and  en- 
vied heav'n. 
Then  aU  his  glory,  Aristides  felt, 
And    begged    the    Chieftain's    blessing   as  he 

knelt :  . 
Miltiades  his  pious  arras  outspread, 
Called  Jove's  high  spirit  on  the  hero's  head, 
Nor  called  unheard  —  sublime  in  upper  air 


JUVENILIA 


487 


The  bird  of  Jove  appeared  to  bless  his  prayer. 
Lightning-  he  breathed,  not  harsh,  not  fiercely 

bright. 
But  one  pure  stream  of  heaven-collected  light : 
Jove's  sacred  smile  lulls  everj'  care  to  rest,     171 
Cabns  every  woe,  and  gladdens  every  breast. 
But  what  shrill  blast  thus  bursts  upon  the  ear  ; 
What  banners  rise,   what  heralds'  forms  ap- 
pear ? 
That  haughty  mien,  and  that  commanding  face 
Bespeak  them  Persians,  and  of  noble  race  ; 
One  on  whose  hand  Darius'  signet  beamed, 
Supei'ior  to  the  rest,  a  leader  seemed, 
With  brow  contracted,  and  with  flashing  eye 
Thus  threatening  spoke,  in  scornful  majesty  : 
'  Know  Greeks  that  I,  a  sacred  herald,  bring 
The  awful  mandate  of  the  Persian  King,         182 
To  force  allegiance  from  the  Sons  of  Greece, 
Then  earth  and  water  give,  nor  scorn  his  peace. 
For,  if  for  homage,  back  reproof  I  bear, 
To  meet  his  wrath,  his  vengeful  wrath,  prepare. 
For  not  in  vain  ye  scorn  his  dread  command 
When    Asia's  might  comes  thundering  in  his 

hand.' 
To  whom  Miltiades  with  kindling  eye, 
'  We  scorn  Darius,  and  his  threats  defy  ;        190 
And  now,   proud  herald,    shall    we    stoop  to 

shame  ? 
Shall  Athens  tremble  at  a  tyrant's  nanae  ? 
Persian  away  !  such  idle  dreams  forbear, 
And  shun  our  anger  and  our  vengeance  fear.' 
'  Oh  !  vain  thy  words,'  the  herald  fierce  began  ; 
'  Thrice  vain  thy  dotaged  words,  oh  powerless 

man. 
Sons  "of  a  desert,  hoping  to  withstand 
All  the  joint  forces  of  Darius'  hand. 
Fools,  fools,  the  King  of  millions  to  defy, 
For  freedom's  empty  name,  to  ask  to  die  !      200 
Yet  stay,  till  Persia's  powers  their  banners 

rear, 
Then  shall  ye  learn  our  forces  to  revere, 
And  ye,  oh  impotent,  shall  deign  to  fear ! ' 
To  whom  great  Aristides  :  rising  ire 
Boiled  in  his  breast,  and  set  his  soul  on  fire  : 
'  Oh  wretch  accurst,'  the  hero  cried,  '  to  seek 
T'  insult  experienced  age,  t'  insult  a  Greek  ! 
Inglorious  slave  !  whom  truth  and  heaven  deny. 
Unfit  to  five,  yet  more  unfit  to  die :  1 
But,  trained  to  pass  the  goblet  at  the  board  210 
And  servile  kiss  the  footsteps  of  thy  lord, 
Whose  wretched  life  no  glorious  deeds  beguile, 
Who  lives  upon  the  semblance  of  a  smile. 
Die  !   thy  base  shade  to  gloomy  regions  fled. 
Join  there  the  shivering  phantoms  of  the  dead. 
Base  slave,  return  to  dust  '  —  his  victim  then 
In  fearful  accents  cried,  '  Oh  best  of  men, 
Most  loved  of  Gods,  most  merciful,  most  just. 
Behold  me  humbled,  grovelling  in  the  dust : 
Not  mine   th'   ofPence,   the   mandate  stern   I 

bring  220 

From  great  Darius,  Asia's  tyrant  King. 
Oh  strike  not,  Chief,  not  mine  the  guilt,  not 

mine. 
Ah  o'er  those  brows  severe,  let  mercy  shine, 
So  dear  to  heav'n,  of  origin  divine  ! 
Tributes,    lands,    gold,  shall   wealthy  Persia 

give, 


All,  and  yet  more,  but  bid  me,  wretched,  live !  ' 
He  trembling,   thus  persuades  with  fond  en- 
treat 
And  nearer  prest,  and  clasped  the  hero's  feet. 
Forth  from  the   Grecian's  breast,  all   rage  is 
driv'n,  229 

He  lifts  his  arms,  his  eyes,  his  soul  to  heav'n. 
'  Hear,  Jove  omnipotent,  all  wise,  all  great. 
To  whom  all  fate  is  known  ;  whose  will  is  fate; 
Hear  thou  all-seeing  one,  hear  Sire  divine. 
Teach  me  thy  will,  and  be  thy  wisdom  mine  ! 
Behold  this  suppliant !  life  or  death  decree  ; 
Be  thine  the  judgment,  for  I  bend  to  thee.' 
And  thus  the  Sire  of  Gods  and  men  replies, 
While    pealing  thunder  shakes    the  groaning 

skies. 
The  awful  voice  thro'  spheres   unknown  was 

driv'n 
Resounding  thro'  the  dark'ning  realms  of  hea- 
ven. 240 
Aloft  in  air  sublime  the  echo  rode, 
And  earth  resounds  the  glory  of  the  God : 
'  Son  of  Athena,  let  the  coward  die. 
And  his  pale  ghost,  to  Pluto's  empire  fly ; 
Son  of  Athena,  our  command  obey. 
Know    thou  our  might,  and  then  adore    our 

sway.' 
Th'  Almighty  spake  —  the  heavens  convulsive 

start, 
From  the  black  clouds  the  whizzing  lightnings 

dart 
And  dreadful  dance  along  the  troubled  sky 
Struggling  with  fate  in  awful  mystery.  250 

The  hero  heard,  and  Jove  his  breast  inspired 
Nor  now  by  pity  touched,  but  anger  fired  ; 
While  his  big  heart  within  his  bosom  burns, 
Off  from  his  feet  the  clinging  slave  he  spurns. 
Vain  were  his  cries,  his  prayers   'gainst  fate 

above, 
Jove  wills  his  fall,  and    who  can  strive  with 

Jove? 
To  whom  the  hero  —  '  Hence  to  Pluto's  sway, 
To  realms  of  night,  ne'er  lit  by  Cynthia's  ray. 
Hence,   from  yon  gulph  the  earth  and  water 

bring 
And  crown  with  victory  your  mighty  King.' 
He  said  —  and  where  the  gulph  of  death  ap- 
peared 261 
Where    raging    waves,   with   rocks  sublimely 

reared, 
He  hurled  the  wretch  at  once    of  hope    be- 
reaved ; 
Struggling  he  fell,  the  roaring  flood  received 
E'en  now  for  life  his  shrieks,  his  groans  im- 
plore. 
And  now  death's  latent  agony  is  o'er,  1 

He  struggling  sinks,  and  sinks  to  rise  no  more.  J 
The  train  amaz'd,  behold  their  herald  die, 
And  Greece  in  arms  —  they  tremble  and  they 

fly;. 
So  some  fair  herd  upon  the  verdant  mead       270 
See  by  the  lion's  jaws  their  foremost  bleed, 
Fearful  they  fly,  lest  what  revolving  fate 
Had  doomed  their  leader,  should  themselves 

await. 
Then  shouts  of  glorious  war,  and  fame  resound, 
Athena's  brazen  gates  receive  the  lofty  sound. 


488 


APPENDIX 


But  she  whom  Pai^hia's  radiant  climes  adore 
From  her  own  bower  the  work  of  Pallas  saw  : 
Tumultuous  thoughts  within  her  bosom  rise, 
She  calls  her  car,  and  at  her  will  it  flies. 
Th'  eternal  ear  with  gold  celestial  burns,       280 
Its  polished  wheel  on  brazen  axle  turns : 
This  to  his  spouse  by  Vulcan's  self  was  given 
An  offering  worthy  of  the  forge  of  heav'n. 
The  Goddess  mounts  the  seat,  and  seized  the 

reins, 
The  doves  celestial  cut  the  aerial  plains, 
Before  the  sacred  birds  and  car  of  gold 
Self -moved  the  radiant  gates  of  heav'n  unfold. 
She  then  dismounts,  and  thus  to  mighty  Jove 
Begins  the  Mother  and  the  Queen  of  Love. 
'And  is  it  thus,  oh  Sire,  that  fraud  should 

spring  290 

From  the  ptu'e  breast  of  heaven's  eternal  King  ? 
Was  it  for  this,  Saturnius'  word  was  given 
That  Greece  should  fall  'raong;nations  curst  of 

heaven  ? 
Thou  swore  by  hell's  black  flood,  and  heaven 

above, 
Is  this,  oh  say,  is  this  the  faith  of  Jove  ? 
Behold  stern  Pallas,  Athens'  Sons  alarms, 
Darius'  herald  crushed,  and  Greece  in  arms. 
E'en  now  behold  her  crested  streamers  fly, 
Each  Greek  resolved  to  triumph  or  to  die  :     299 
Ah  me  unhappy  !  when  shall  sorrow  cease  ; 
Too  well  I  know  the  fatal  might  of  Greece  ; 
Was  't  not  enough,  imperial  Troy  should  fall. 
That  Argive  hands  should  raze  the  god-built 

wall  ? 
Was  't  not  enough  Anchises'  Son  should  roam 
Far  from  his  native  shore  and  mixch  loved  home  ? 
All  this  unconscious  of  thy  fraud  I  bore, 
For  thou,  oh  Sire,  t'  allay  my  vengeance,  swore 
That  Athens  towering  in  her  might  should  fall 
And  Rome  should  triumph  on  her  prostrate 

wall; 
But  oh,  if  haughty  Greece  should  captive  bring 
The  great  Darius,  Persia's  mighty  King,        3" 
What  power  her  pride,  what  power  her  might 

shall  move  ? 
Not  e'en  the  Thunderer,  not  eternal  Jove, 
E'en  to  thy  heav'n  shall  rise  her  towering  fam.e. 
And  prostrate  nations  will  adore  her  name. 
Rather  on  me  thy  instant  vengeance  take    ) 
Than  all  should  fall  for  Cytherea's  sake  !     > 
Oh  !  hurl  me  flaming  in  the  burning  lake,   ) 
Transfix  me  there  unknown  to  Olympian  calm. 
Launch  thy  red  bolt,  and  bare  thy  crimson  arm. 
I  'd  suffer  all  —  more  —  bid  my  woes  increase  32 1 
To  hear  but  one  sad  groan  from  haughty  Greece.' 
She  thus  her  grief  with  fruitless  rage  expressed. 
And  pride  and  anger  swelled  within  her  breast. 
But  he  whose  thunders  awe  the  troubled  sky 
Thus  niournful  spake,  and  curbed  the  rising 

sigh: 
'  And  it  is  thus  celestial  pleasures  flow  ? 
E'en  here  shall  sorrow  reach  and  mortal  woe  ? 
Shall  strife  the  heavenly  powers  for  ever  move 
And  e'en  insult  the  sacred  ear  of  Jove  ?         330 
Know,  oh  rebellious,  Greece  shall  rise  sublime 
In  fame  the  first,  nor,  daughter,  mine  the  crime, 
In  valor  foremost,  and  in  virtue  great. 
Fame's  highest  glories  shall  attend  her  state. 


So  fate  ordains,  nor  all  my  boasted  power 
Can  raise  those  virtues,  or  those  glories  low'r : 
But  rest  secure,  destroying  time  must  come 
And  Athens'  self  must  own  imperial  Rome.' 
Then  the  great  Thunderer,  and  with  visage  mild, 
Shook  his  ambrosial  curls  before  his  child,     340 
And  bending  awful  gave  the  eternal  nod  ; 
Heav'n  quaked,   and  fate  adored  the  parent 

God. 
Joy  seized  the  Goddess  of  the  smiles  and  loves, 
Nor  longer,  care,  her  heavenly  bosom  moves. 
Hope  rose,  and  o'er  her  soul  its  powers  dis- 
played. 
Nor  checked  by  sorrow,  nor  by  grief  dismayed. 
She  thus  —  '  Oh  thou,  whose  awful  thunders  roll 
Thro'  heaven's  etherial  vaults  and  shake  the 

P(Je, 
Eternal  Sire,  so  wonderfully  great. 
To  whom  is  known  the  secret  page  of  fate,     350 
Say,  shall  great  Persia,  next  to  Rome  most  dear 
To  Venus'  breast,  shall  Persia  learn  to  fear  ? 
Say,  shall  her  fame,  and  princely  glories  cease  ? 
Shall  Persia,  servile,  own  the  sway  of  Greece  ?  ' 
To  whom  the  Thunderer  bent  his  brow  divine 
And  thus  in  accents  heavenly  and  benign  ; 
'  Daughter,  not  mine  the  secrets  to  relate. 
The  mysterieis  of  all-revolving  fate.  358 

But  ease  thy  breast ;  enough  for  thee  to  know. 
What  powerful  fate  decrees,  will  Jove  bestow  ! ' 
He  then  her  griefs,  and  anxious  woes  beguiled, 
And  in  his  sacred  arms  embraced  his  child. 
Doubt  clouds  the  Goddess'  breast  —  she  calls 

her  car. 
And  lightly  sweeps  the  liquid  fields  of  air. 
When  sable  night  midst  silent  nature  springs, 
And  o'er  Athena  shakes  her  drowsy  wings. 
The  Paphian  Goddess  from  Olympus  flies, 
And  leaves  the  starry  senate  of  the  skies  ; 
To  Athens'  heaven-blest  towers,  the  Queen  re- 
pairs 
To  raise  more  sufferings,  and  to  cause  more 
cares ;  370 

The  Pylian  Sage  she  moved  so  loved  by  fame. 
In  face,  in  wisdom,  and  in  voice  the  same. 
Twelve  Chiefs  in  sleep  absorbed  and  grateful 

rest 
She  first  beheld,  and  them  she  thus  addrest. 
'  Immortal  Chiefs, '  the  f raudf ul  Goddess  cries, 
While  all  the  hero  kindled  in  her  eyes, 
'  For  you,  these  aged  arms  did  I  employ. 
For  you,  we  razed  the  sacred  walls  of  Troy, 
And  now  for  you,  my  shivering  shade  is  driven 
From  Pluto's  dreary  realms  by  urgent  Heaven  ; 
Then,  oh  be  wise,  nor  tempt  th'  unequal  fight 
In  open  fields,  but  wait  superior  might  382 

Within  immortal  Athens'  sacred  wall. 
There  strive,  there  triumph,  nor  there  fear  to 

fall; 
To  own  the  Thunderer's  sway,  then  Greeks  pre- 
pare.' 
Benign  she  said,  and  melted  into  air. 

BOOK  II 

When  from  the  briny  deep,  the  orient  morn 
Exalts  her  purple  light,  and  beams  unshorn ; 
And  when  the  flaming  orb  of  infant  day         389 


JUVENILIA 


489 


Glares  o'er  the  earth,  and  re-illumes  the  sky  ; 
The  twelve  deceived,  with  soiils  on  fire  arose, 
While  the  false  vision  fresh  in  memory  glows  ; 
The  Senate  first  they  sought,  whose  lofty  wall 
Midst  Athens  rises,  and  o'ershadows  all ; 
The  pride  of  Greece,  it  lifts  its  front  sublime 
Unbent  amidst  the  ravages  of  time  : 
High  on  their  towering  seats,  the  heroes  found 
The  Chiefs  of  Athens  solemn  ranged  around  ; 
One  of  the  twelve,  the  great  Clombrotus,  then, 
Renowned  for  piety,  and  loved  by  men :         400 
'  Assembled  heroes.  Chief  to  Pallas  dear, 
All  great  in  battle,  and  in  virtue,  hear  ! 
When  night  with  sable  wings  extended  rose 
And  wrapt  our  weary  limbs  in  sweet  repose, 
I  and  my  friends,  Cydoon  famed  in  song, 
Thelon  the  valiant,  Herocles  the  strong, 
Cleon  and  Thermosites,  in  battle  great 
By  Pallas  loved,  and  blest  by  partial  fate, 
To  us  and  other  six,  while  day  toils  steep 
Our    eyes    in    happy    dreams,    and    grateful 

sleep,  410 

The  Pylian  Sage  appeared,  but  not  as  when 
On   Troy's  last  dust   he    stood,   the    pride   of 

men  ; 
Driven  from  the  shore  of  Acheron  he  came 
From  lower  realms  to  point  the  path  to  fame, 
''  Oh  glorious  Chiefs,"  the  sacred  hero  said, 
"  For  you   and   for   your  fame,  all  Troy  has 

bled; 
Hither  for  you,  my  shivering  shade  is  driv'n 
From  Pluto's  dreary  realms  by  urgent  Heav'n  ; 
Then  oh  be  wise,  nor  tempt  th'  unequal  fight 
In  open  field,  but  wait  superior  might  420 

Within  immortal  Athens'  sacred  wall ; 
Ther€  strive,  there  triumph,  nor  there  fear  to 

fall  ! 
To  own  the  Thunderer's  sway,  then  Greeks 

prepare." 
Benign  he  said,  and  melted  into  air. 
"Leave   us  not   thus,"   I  cried,   ''Oh  Pylian 

Sage, 
Experienced  Nestor,  famed  for  reverend  age, 
Say  fu'st,  great  hero,  shall  the  trump  of  fame 
Our  glory  jDublish,  or  disclose  our  shame  ? 
Oh  what  are  Athens'  fates  ?  "     In  vain  I  said  ; 
E'en  as  I  spoke  the  shadowy  Chief  had  fled.  430 
Then  here  we  flew,  to  own  the  vision's  sway 
And  heaven's  decrees  to  adore  and  to  obey.' 
He  thus  —  and  as  before  the  blackened  skies, 
Sound  the  hoarse  breezes,  murmuring  as  they 

rise. 
So  thro'   th'  assembled   Greeks,  one  murmur 

rose. 
One  long  dull  echo  lengthening  as  it  goes. 
Then   all   was    hushed  in  silence  —  breathless 

awe 
Opprest    each    tongue,    and    trembling    they 

adore. 
But  now  uprising  from  th'  astonished  Chiefs, 
Divine  Miltiades  exposed  his  griefs.  44° 

For  well  the  godlike  warrior  Sage  had  seen 
The  frauds  deceitful  of  the  Paphian  Queen, 
And  feared  for  Greece,  for  Greece  to  whom 

is  given 
Eternal  fame,  the  purest  gift  of  heaven. 
And  yet  he  feared  —  the  pious  hero  rose 


Majestic  in  his  sufferings,  in  his  woes  ; 

Grief  clammed  his  tongue,  but  soon  his  spirit 

woke. 
Words  burst  aloft,  and  all  the  Patriot  spoke. 
'  Oh  Athens,  Athens  !  all  the  snares  I  view  ; 
Thus     shalt     thou    fall,    and     fall     inglorious 

too !  450 

Are  all  thy  boasted  dignities  no  more  ? 
Is  all  thy  might,  are  all  thy  glories  o'er  ? 
Oh  woe  on  woe,  unutterable  grief  ! 
Not    Nestor's    shade,    that    cursed    phantom 

chief. 
But  in  that  reverend  air,  that  lofty  mien, 
Behold  the  frauds  of  Love's  revengeful  Queen. 
Not  yet,  her  thoughts  does  vengeance  cease  t' 

employ  ; 
Her  son  Eneas'  wrongs,  and  burning  Troy 
Not  yet  forgotten  He  within  her  breast, 
Nor    soothed    by    time,    nor    by    despair    de- 

prest.  460 

Greeks  still  extolled  by  glory  and  by  fame, 
For  yet,  oh  Chiefs  !  ye  bear  a  Grecian  name, 
If  in  these  walls,  these  sacred  walls  we  wait 
The  might  of  Persia,  and  the  will  of  fate. 
Before  superior  force  will  Athens  fall 
And  one  o'erwhelming  ruin  burj"  all. 
Then  in  the  open  plain  your  might  essay. 
Rush  on  to  battle,  crush  Darius'  sway  ; 
The  frauds  of  Venus,  warrior  Greeks,  laeware, 
Disdain  the  Persian  foes,  nor  stoop  to  fear.'   470 
This  said,  Clombrotus  him  indignant  heard, 
Nor  felt  his  wisdom,  nor  his  wrath  he  feared. 
With  rage  the  Chief,  the  godlike  Sage  beheld, 
And  passion  in  his  stubborn  soul  rebelled. 
'Thrice  impious  man,'  th'  infuriate  Chieftain 

cries, 
(Flames  black  and  fearful,   flashing  from  his 

eyes,) 
',  Where  lies  your  spirit,  Greeks  ?  and  can  ye 

bow 
To  this  proud  upstart  of  your  power  so  low  ? 
What !  does  his  aspect  awe  ye  !  is  liis  eye 
So  full  of  haughtiness  and  majesty  ?  480 

Behold  the  impious  soul,  that  dares  defy 
The  poAver  of  Gods  and  Sovereign  of  the  sky  ! 
And  can  your  hands  no  sacred  weapon  wield, 
To  crush  the  tyrant,  and  your  eountrj"  shield  ? 
On,    Greeks  !  —  your   sons,   your  homes,    your 

country  free 
From  such  usurping  Chiefs  and  tjranny  !  ' 
He    said,   and    grasped    his    weapon  —  at    his 

words 
Beneath    the   horizon    gleamed    ten  thousand 

swords. 
Ten  thousand  swords  e'en  in  one  instant  raised, 
Sublime  they  danced  aloft,  and  midst  the  Senate 

blazed.  490 

Nor  wisdom  checked,  nor  gratitiide  represt. 
They    rose,   and    flashed    before     the    Sage's 

breast. 
With  pride  undaunted,  greatness  unsubdued. 
Gainst  him  in  arms,  the  impetuous  Greeks  he 

viewed. 
Unarmed,  unawed,  before  th'  infuriate  bands. 
Nor  begged  for  life,  nor  stretched  his  suppliant 

hands. 
He  stood  astounded,  riveted,  oppressed 


490 


APPENDIX 


By    grief     unspeakable,    which    swelled     his 

breast ; 
Life,  feeling,  being,  sense  forgotten  lie, 
Buried  in  one  wide  waste  of  misery.  500 

Can  this  be  Athens !  this  her  Senate's  pride  ? 
He  asked  but  gratitude,  —  was  this  denied  ? 
Tho'  Europe's  homage  at  his  feet  were  hurled 
Athens  forsakes  him  —  Athens  was  his  world. 
Unutterable  woe  !  by  anguish  stung 
All  his  full  soul  rushed  heaving  to  his  tongue, 
And  thoughts  of  power,  of  fame,  of  greatness 

o'er. 
He  cried  '  Athenians  ! '  and  he  could  no  more. 
Awed  by  that  voice  of  agony,  that  word. 
Hushed   were   the  Greeks,  and  sheathed    the 

obedient  sword,  ^  510 

They  stood    abashed  —  to    them    the   ancient 

Chief 
Began  —  and  thus  relieved  his  swelling  g^rief  : 
'  Athenians  !  warrior  Greeks  !  my  words  revere  ! 
Strike  me,  but  listen  —  bid  me  die,  but  hear  ! 
Hear  not  Clombrotus,  when  he  bids  you  wait, 
At  Athens'  walls,  Darius  and  your  fate  ; 
I  feel  that  Pallas'  self,  my  soul  inspires 
My  mind  she  strengthens,  and  my  bosom  fires ; 
Strike,   Greeks !   but  hear  me  ;  think  not    to 

•  this  heart 
Yon  thirsty  swords,  one  breath  of  fear  impart ! 
Such  slavish,  low  born  thoughts,  to  Greeks  un- 
known, 521 
A  Persian  feels,  and  cherishes  alone  ! 
Hear  me,  Athenians  !  hear  me,  and  believe. 
See  Greece  mistaken  !  e'en  the  Gods  deceive. 
But  fate  yet  wavers  —  yet  may  wisdom  move 
These  threatening  woes  and  thwart  the  Queen 

of  Love. 
Obey  my  counsels,  and  invoke  for  aid 
The  cloud  -  compelling    God,    and    blue -eyed 

maid ; 
I  fear  not  for  myself  the  silent  tomb. 
Death    lies    in  every  shape,  and  death  must 

come.  530 

But  ah  !  ye  mock  my  truth,  traduce  my  fame, 
Ye  blast  my  honor,  stigmatize  my  name  ! 
Ye  call  me  tyrant  when  I  wish  thee  free, 
Usurper,  when  I  live  but,  Greece,  for  thee  ! ' 
And    thus    the     Chief  —  and    boding    silence 

drowned 
Each   clam'rous    tongue,    and   sullen   reigned 

around. 
'  Oh  Chief  ! '  great  Aristides  fii'st  began, 
*  Mortal  yet  perfect,  godlike  and  yet  man ! 
Boast  of  ungrateful  Greece  !  my  prayer  attend, 
Oh !     be     my     Chieftain,    Guardian,    Father, 

Friend !  540 

And  ye,  oh  Greeks  !  impetuous  and  abhorred, 
Again  presumptuous,  lift  the  rebel  sword, 
Again  your  weapons  raise,  in  hateful  ire. 
To  crush  the  Leader,  Hero,  Patriot,  Sire  ! 
Not    such    was    Greece,  when    Greeks  united 

stood 
To  bathe  perfidious  Troy  in  hostile  blood. 
Not  such  were  Greeks  inspired  by  glory  ;  then 
As   Gods  they    conquered,   now    they  're  less 

than  men ! 
Degenerate  race  !  now  lost  to  once  loved  fame. 
Traitors  to  Greece,  and  to  the  Grecian  name  ! 


Who  now  your  honors,  who   your  praise  will 
seek  ?  551 

Who  now  shall  glory  in  the  name  of  Greek  ? 
But  since  such  discords  your  base  souls  divide, 
Procure  the  lots,  let  Jove  and  Heaven  decide.' 
To  him  Clombrotus  thus  admiring  cries, 
'  Thy  thoughts   how   wondrous,  and  thy  words 

how  wise  ! 
So  let  it  be,  avert  the  threatened  woes. 
And  Jove  be  present,  and  the  right  disclose ; 
But  give  me.  Sire  of  Gods  and  powers  above, 
The  heavenly  vision,  and  my  truth  to  prove  !  560 
Give  me  t'  avenge  the  breach  of  all  thy  laws, 
T'  avenge  myself,  then  aid  my  righteous  cause  ! 
If  this  thou  wilt,  I  '11  to  thine  altars  lead 
Twelve  bulls  which  to  thy  sacred  name  shall 

bleed. 
Six  snow-white  heifers  of  a  race  divine 
Prostrate  shall    faU,  and  heap  the    groaning 

shrine. 
Nor    this    the    most  —  six    rams  that  fearless 

stray 
Untouched  by  man,   for  thee  this  arm  shall 

slay.' 
Thus  prayed  the   Chief,  with  shouts  the  hea- 
vens resound ; 
Jove    weighs    the    balance   and    the    lots    go 
round  I  570 

Declare,  oh  muse  !  for  to  thy  piercing  eyes 
The  book  of  fate  irrevocably  lies  ; 
What  lots  leapt  forth,  on  that  eventful  day 
Who  won,  who  lost,  all  seeing  Goddess,  say  ! 
First  great  Clombrotus  all  his  fortune  tried 
And  strove  with  fate,  but  Jove  his  prayer  de- 
nied. 
Infuriate  to  the  skies  his  arms  are  driven, 
And  raging  thus  upbraids  the  King  of  Heaven. 
'  Is  this  the  virtue  of  the  blest  abodes. 
And  this  the  justice  of  the  God  of  Gods  ?        580 
Can  he  who  hurls  the  bolt,   and  shakes  the 

sky 
The  prayer  of  truth,  unblemished  truth,  deny  ? 
Has  he  no  faith  by  whom  the  clouds  are  riven. 
Who  sits  superior  on  the  throne  of  Heaven  ? 
No  wonder  earth-born  men  are  prone  to  fall 
In  sin,  or  listen  to  dishonor's  call. 
When  Gods,  th'  immortal  Gods,  transgress  the 

laws 
Of  truth,  and  sin  against  a  righteous  cause.' 
Furious  he  said,  by  anger's  spirit  fired,  , 

Then  sullen  from  the  Senate  walls  retired.     590     I 
'T  is  now  Miltiades'  stern  fate  to  dare. 
But  first  he  lifts  his  pious  soul  in  prayer. 
'  Daughter  of  Jove  ! '  the  mighty  Chief  began, 
'  Without  thy  wisdom,  frail  and  weak  is  man. 
A  phantom  Greece  adores ;  oh  show  thy  power, 
And  prove  thy  love  in  this  eventful  hour  ! 
Crown  all  thy  glory,  all  thy  might  declare  ! ' 
The   Chieftain  prayed,   and  Pallas  heard  his 

prayer. 
Swayed  by  the  presence  of  the  power  divine,        j 
The  fated  lot,  Miltiades,  was  thine  !  600    ^ 

That  hour  the  swelling  trump  of  partial  fame 
Diffused  eternal  glory  on  thy  name  ! 
'Daughter  of  Jove,'   he    cries,    'unconquered 

maid ! 
Thy  power  I  own,  and  I  confess  thy  aid, 


JUVENILIA 


491 


For  this  twelve  ewes  upon    thy  shrine    shall 

smoke 
Of  milk-white  fleece,   the  comeliest  of    their 

flock. 
While  hecatombs  and  generous  sacrifice 
Shall  fume  and  blacken  half  th'   astonished 

skies.' 
And  thus  the  Chief  —  the  shouting  Greeks  ad- 
mire, 
While  truth's  bright  spirit  sets  their  souls  on 
fire.  610 

Then  thus  Themistocles,  '  Ye  Grecian  host, 
Not  now  the  time  for  triixmph  or  for  boast. 
Now,  Greeks  !  for  graver  toils  your  minds  pre- 
pare, 
Not  for  the  strife,  but  council  of  the  war. 
Behold  the  sacred  herald  !  sent  by  Greece 
To  Sparta's  vales  now  hushed  in  leagues  of 

peace ; 
Her  Chiefs,  to  aid  the  common  cause,  t'  im- 
plore, 
And  bid  Darius  shun  the  Argive  shore ; 
Behold  him  here  I  then  let  the  leader  Greek 
Command  the  bearer  of  our  hopes  to  speak.' 
And    thus    the    Sage,    'Where'er    the    herald 
stands,  _  621 

Bid  him  come  forth,  't  is  Athens'  Chief  com- 
mands. 
And  bid  him  speak  with  freedom  uncontrolled, 
His  thoughts  deliver  and  his  charge  unfold.' 
He  said  and  sat  —  the  Greeks  impatient  wait 
The  will  of  Sparta,  and  Athena's  fate. 
Silent  they  sat  —  so  ere  the  v/hirlwinds  rise 
Ere  billows  foam  and  thunder  to  the  skies. 
Nature  in  death-like  calm  her  breath  suspends. 
And    hushed  in  silent    awe,   th'   approaching 
storm  attends.  630 

Now    midst    the    Senate's    walls   the    herald 

stands : 
'Ye  Greeks,'  he  said,  and  stretched  his  sacred 

hands, 
'  Assembled  heroes,  ye  Athenian  bands. 
And  thou  beloved  of  Jove,  our  Chief,  oh  Sage, 
Benowned  for  wisdom,  as  renowned  for  age. 
And  all  ye  Chiefs  in  battle  rank  divine  ! 
No  joyful  mission  swayed  by  Pallas  mine. 
The  hardy  Spartans,  with  one  voice  declare 
Their  will  to  aid  our  freedom  and  our  war. 
Instant    they    armed,    by    zeal    and    impulse 
driven,  640 

But  on  the  plains  of  the  mysterious  heaven 
Comets  and  fires  were  writ  —  and  awful  sign. 
And  dreadful  omen  of  the  wrath  divine  : 
While  threatened  plagues  upon  their  shores  ap- 
pear. 
They  curb  their  valor,  all  subdued  by  fear  ; 
The  oracles  declare  the  will  above, 
And  of  the  sister  and  the  wife  of  Jove, 
That  not  until  the  moon's  bright  course  was 

o'er 

The  Spartan  warriors  should  desert  their  shore. 

Threats  following  threats  succeed  the  mandate 

dire,  650 

Plagues    to  themselves,   and  to  their  harvest 

fire. 
The  Spartan  Chiefs  desist,  their  march  delay 
To  wait  th'  appointed  hoiir  and  heaven  obey. 


Grief  smote  my  heart,  my  hopes  and  mission 

vain ; 
Their  town  I  quitted  for  my  native  plain. 
And  when  an  eminence  I  gained,  in  woe 
I  gazed  upon  the  verdant  fields  below. 
Where  nature's  ample  reign  extending  wide, 
Displays  her  graces  with  commanding  pride  ; 
Where  cool  Eurotas  winds  her  limpid  floods  660 
Thro'  verdant  valleys,  and  thro'  shady  woods  ; 
And  crowned  in  majestj^  o'ertowering  all 
In  bright  effulgence,  Sparta's  lofty  wall. 
To    these    I   looked    farewell,   and    humbled, 

bowed 
In  chastened  sorrow,  to  the  thundering  God. 
'Twas  thus  I  mused,  when  from  a  verdant 

grove 
That  wafts  delicious  perfume  from  above. 
The  monster  Pan  his  form  gigantic  reared, 
And  dreadful  to  my  awe-struck  sight  appeared. 
I  hailed  the  God  who  reigns  supreme  below. 
Known  by  the  horns  that    started  from  his 

brow ;  671 

Up  to  the  hips  a  goat,  but  man's  his  face 
Tho'  grim,  and  stranger  to  celestial  gi-ace. 
Within  his  hand  a  shepherd's  crook  he  bore 
The  gift  of  Dian,  on  th'  Arcadian  shore  ; 
Before  th'  immortal  power  I,  fearing,  bowed 
Congealed  with  dread,  and  thus  addressed  the 

God: 
"  Comes  Hermes'  Son,  as  awful  as  his  Sire, 
To  vent  upon  the  Greeks  immortal  ire  ? 
Is  't  not  enough,  the  mandate  stern  I  bring     680 
From  Sparta's  Chiefs,  and  Sparta's  royal  King, 
That  heaven  enjoins  them  to  refrain  from  fight 
Till  Dian  fills  again  her  horns  with  light  ? 
Then  vain  their  aid,  ere  then  may  Athens  fall 
And  Persia's  haughty  Chiefs  invest  her  wall." 
I  said  and  sighed,  the  God  in  accents  mild 
My  sorrow  thus  and  rigid  griefs  beguiled  : 
"  Not  to  destroy  I  come,  oh  chosen  Greek, 
Not  Athens'  fall,  but  Athens'  fame  I  seek. 
Then  give  again  to  honor  and  to  fame  690 

My  power  despised,  and  my  forgotten  name. 
At  Sparta's  doom,  no  longer.  Chief,  repine, 
But  learn  submission  to  the  wall  divine  ; 
Behold  e'en  now,  within  this  fated  hour 
On  Marathonian  plains,  the  Persian  power  ! 
E'en  Hippias'  self  inspires  th'  embattled  host, 
Th'  Athenian's  terror,  as  the  Persian's  boast. 
Bid  Athens  rise  and  glory's  powers  attest. 
Enough  —  no  more  —  the  fates  conceal  the  rest." 
He  said,  his  visage  burned  with  heavenly 

light  ;  _  700 

He  spoke  and,  speaking,  vanished  from  my 

sight ; 
And  awed,  I  sought  where  those  loved  walls 

invite. 
But  think  not,  warrior  Greeks,  the   fault  is 

mine. 
If  Athens  fall  —  it  is  by  wrath  divine. 
I  vainly,  vainly  grieve,  the  evil  springs 
From  him  —  the   God  of  Gods,   the  King  of 

Kings ! ' 
The  Herald  said,  and  bent  his  sacred  head. 
While  cherished  hope  from  every  bosom  fled. 
Each  dauntless  hero,  by  despair  deprest  709 

Felt  the  deep  sorrow,  swelling  in  his  breast. 


492 


APPENDIX 


They  mourn  for  Athens,  friendless  and  alone  ; 
Cries  followed  cries,  and  groan  succeeded  groan. 
Th'  Athenian  matrons,  startled  at  the  sound, 
Rush    from   their  looms    and    anxious    crowd 

around. 
They  ask  the  cause,  the  fatal  cause  is  known 
By  each  fond  sigh,  and  each  renewing  groan. 
While  in  their  arms  some  infant  love  they  bear 
At  once  for  which  they  joy,  for  which  they  fear. 
Hushed  on  its  mother's  breast,  the  cherished 

child  719 

Unconscious  midst  the  scene  of  terror  smiled  ; 
On  rush  the  matrons,  they  despairing  seek 
Miltiades,  adored  by  every  Greek  ; 
Him  found  at  length,  his  counsels  they  entreat, 
Hang  on  his  knees  and  clasp  his  sacred  feet. 
Their  babes  before  him  on  the  ground  they 

throw 
In  all  the  maddening  listlessness  of  woe. 
First  Delopeia,  of  the  matrons  chief. 
Thus  vents  her  bursting  soul  in  frantic  grief, 
While  her  fond  babe  she  holds  aloft  in  air  ; 
Thus    her  roused    breast  prefers  a    mother's 

prayer :  73° 

'  Oh  Son  of  Cimon,  for  the  Grecians  raise 
To  heaven,  thy  fame,  thy  honor,  and  thy  praise. 
Thus  —  thus  —  shall  Athens  and  her  heroes  fall, 
Shall  thus  one  ruin  seize  and  bury  all  ? 
Say,  shall  these  babes  be  strangers  then  to  fame. 
And  be  but  Greeks  in  spirit  and  in  name  ? 
Oh  first,  ye  Gods  !  and  hear  a  mother's  prayer. 
First  let  them  glorious  fall  in  ranks  of  war  ! 
If  Asia  triumph,  then  shall  Hippias  reign 
And  Athens'  free-born  Sons  be  slaves  again  !  74° 
Oh  Son  of  Cimon  !  let  thy  influence  call 
The  souls  of  Greeks  to  triumph  or  to  fall ! 
And  guard  their  own,  their  children's,  country's 

name. 
From  foul  dishonor,  and  eternal  shame ! ' 
Thus  thro'  her  griefs,  the  love  of  glory  broke. 
The  mother  wept,  but 't  was  the  Patriot  spoke : 
And    as    before  the    Greek   she   bowed   with 

grace. 
The  lucid  drops  bedewed  her  lovely  face. 
Their   shrieks  and   frantic  cries   the  matrons 

cease. 
And    death-like     sUence    awes     the    Sons    of 

Greece.  75° 

Thrice  did  the  mighty  Chief  of  Athens  seek 
To  curb  his  feelings  and  essay  to  speak, 
'Twas  vain  —  the   rutliless   sorrow   wrung  his 

breast. 
His  mind  disheartened,  and  his  soul  opprest. 
He   thus  —  while  o'er  his  cheek   the  moisture 

stole, 
'  Retire  ye  matrons,  nor  unman  my  soul ! 
Tho'  little  strength  this  aged  arm  retains, 
My  swelling  soul  Athena's  foe  disdains  ; 
Hushed  be  your  griefs,  to  heav'n  for  victory 

cry. 
Assured    we'll     triumph,     or    with    freedom 

die.  760 

And  ye,  oh  Chiefs,  when  night  disowns  her 

sway 
And  pensive  Dian  yields  her  power  to  day, 
To  quit  these  towers  for  Marathon  prepare, 
And  brave  Darius  in  the  ranks  of  war. 


For  yet  may  Jove  protect  the  Grecian  name 
And  crown,  in  unborn  ages,  Athens'  fame.' 
He  said  —  and  glowing  with  the  warlike  fire, 
And  cheered  by  hope,  the  Godlike  Chiefs  re- 
tire. 
Now  Cynthia  rules  the  earth,  the  flaming  God 
In  ocean  sinks,  green  Neptune's  old  abode  ;    770 
Black  Erebus  on  drowsy  pinions  springs. 
And  o'er  Athena  cowers  his  sable  wings. 


BOOK  III 

When  from  the  deep  the  hour's  eternal  sway 
Impels  the  coursers  of  the  flaming  day. 
The  long  haired  Greeks,  with  brazen  arms  pre- 
pare. 
Their  freedom  to  preserve  and  wage  the  war. 
First  Aristides  from  the  couch  arose, 
While  his  great  mind  with  all  Minerva  glows  ; 
His  mighty  limbs,  his  golden  arms  invest, 
The  cuirass  blazes  on  his  ample  breast,  7^0 

The  glittering  cuisses  both  his  legs  enfold. 
And  the  huge  shield  's  on  fire  with  burnished 

gold  ; 
His  hands  two  spears  uphold  of  equal  size. 
And  fame's  bright  glories  kindle  in  his  eyes ; 
Upon  his  helmet,  plumes  of  horse  hair  nod. 
And  forth  he  moved,  majestic  as  a  God  ! 
Upon  his  snorting  steed  the  warrior  sprung. 
The  courser  neighed,  the  brazen  armor  rung  ; 
From  heaven's  etherial    heights    the  martial 

maid 
With  conscious  pride,   the   hero's  might  sur- 
veyed. 790 
Him  as  she  eyed,  she  shook  the  gorgon  shield  ; 
'  Henceforth  to  me,'  she  cried,  '  let  all  th'  im- 
mortals yield. 
Let  monster  Mars,  the  Latian  regions  own, 
For  Attica,  Minerva  stands  alone.' 
And  now,   th'    unconquered   Chief  of    Justice 

gains 
The  Senate's  walls,  and  there  the  steed  de- 
tains. 
Whence  he  dismounts  —  Miltiades  he  seeks. 
Beloved  of  Jove,  the  leader  of  the  Greeks, 
Nor  sought  in  vain  ;  there  clad  in  armor  bright 
The  Chieftain  stood,  all  eager  for  the  fight.  800 
Within  his  aged  hands  two  lances  shine, 
The  helmet  blazed  upon  his  brows  divine. 
And  as  he  bends  beneath  th'  unequal  weight 
Youth  smiles  again,  when  with  gigantic  might 
His  nervous  limbs,  immortal  arms  could  wield, 
Crush  foe  on  foe,  and  raging,  heap  the  field. 
Yet  tho'  such  days  were  past,  and  ruthless  age 
Transformed  the  warrior    to  the    thoughtful 

sage ; 
Tho'  the  remorseless  hand  of  silent  time 
Impaired    each    joint,    and     stiffened    every 
limb ;  810 

Yet  thro'  his  breast,  the  fire  celestial  stole. 
Throbbed  in  his  veins,  and  kindled  in  his  soul. 
In  thought,  the  Lord  of  Asia  threats  no  more, 
And  Hippias  bites  the  dust,  mid  seas  of  gore. 
Him  as  he  viewed,  the  youthful  hero's  breast 
Heaved  high  with  joy,  and  thus  the  Sage  ad- 
dressed : 


JUVENILIA 


493 


'Chief,  best  beloved  of  Pallas,'  he  began, 

'  In  fame  allied  to  Gods,  oh  -wondrous  man  ! 

Behold  Apollo  gilds  th"  Athenian  wall. 

Our  freedom  waits,  and  fame  and  glory  call  820 

To  battle  !     Asia's  King  and  myriads  dare, 

Swell  the  loud   trump,   and  swell  the  din  of 

war.' 
He  said  impatient  ;  then  the  warrior  sage 
Began,  regardless  of  the  fears  of  age  : 
'  Not  mine,  oh  youth,  with  caution  to  control 
The  fire  and  glory  of  thy  eager  soul ; 
So  was  I  wont  in  brazen  arms  to  shine, 
Such  strength,  and  such  impatient  fire  were 

mine.' 
He  said,  and  bade  the  trumpet's  peals  rebound. 
High,  and   more  high,  the  echoing  war  notes 

sound :  830 

Sudden  one  general  shout  the  din  replies, 
A  thousand  lances  blazing  as  they  rise, 
And  Athens'  banners  wave,  and  float  along 

the  skies. 

So  from  the  marsh,  the  cranes  embodied  fly, 
Clap  their  glad  wings,  and  cut  the  liquid  sky. 
With   thrilUng   cries   they  mount    their  joyful 

way, 
Vig'rous  they  spring,   and  hail    the  new  born 

day. 
So  rose  the  shouting  Greeks,  inspired  by  fame 
T'   assert   their  freedom,   and   maintain  their 

name. 
First  came  Themistocles  in  arms  renowned,  840 
Whose     steed    impatient,    tore    the   trembling 

ground. 
High  o'er  his  helmet  snowy  plumes  arise 
And  shade  that  brow,  which  Persia's  might 

defies  ; 
A  purple  mantle  graceful  waves  behind, 
Nor  hides  his  arms  but  floats  upon  the  wind. 
His  mighty  form  two  crimson  belts  enfold 
Rich  in  embroidery,  and  stiff  with  gold. 
Callimachus  the  Polemareh  next  came. 
The  theme  of  general  praise  and  general  fame. 
Cynagirus,  who  e'en  the  Gods  would  dare,     850 
Heap  ranks  on  ranks  and  thunder  thro'  the  war  ; 
His  virtues  godlike  ;    man's  his  strength  sur- 
passed, 
In  battle  foremost,  and  in  flight  the  last : 
His  ponderous  helm  's  a  shaggy  lion's  hide. 
And  the  huge  Avar  axe  clattered  at  his  side, 
The  mighty  Chief,  a  brazen  chariot  bore, 
While  fame  and  glory  hail  him  and  adore. 
Antenor  next  his  aid  to  Athens  gave. 
Like  Paris  youthful,  and  like  Hector  brave  ; 
Cleon.  Minerva's  priest,  experienced  sage,       860 
Advanced  in  wisdom,  as  advanced  in  age. 
Agregoras,  Delenus'  favorite  child  ; 
The  parent's  cares,  the  glorious  son  beguiled. 
But  now  he  leaves  his  sire  to  seek  his  doom. 
His  country's  freedom,  or  a  noble  tomb. 
And  young  Aratus  moved  with  youthful  pride, 
And  heart  elated  at  the  hero's  side. 
Next  thou.  Cleones,  thou  triumphant  moved 
By  Athens  honored,  by  the  Greeks  beloved  : 
And  Sthenelus  the  echoing  pavements  trod. 
From  youth  devoted  to  the  martial  God.         871 
Honor  unspotted  crowned  the  hero's  name, 
Unbounded  virtue,  and  unbounded  fame. 


Such  heroes  shone  the  foremost  of  the  host. 
All  Athens'  glory,  and  all  Athens'  boast. 
Behind  a  sable  cloud  of  warriors  rise 
With  ponderous  arms,  and  shouting   rend  the 

skies. 
These  bands  with  joy  Miltiades  inspire. 
Fame  fills  his  breast,  and  sets  his  soul  on  fire. 
Aloft  he  springs  into  the  gold-wrought  car,    880 
While  the  shrill  blast  resounds,  to  war  !  to  war  ! 
The  coursers  plunge  as  conscious  of  their  load 
And  proudly  neighing,  feel  they  bear  a  God. 
The   snow   white   steeds  by  Pallas'  self  were 

given. 
Which    sprung  from   the  immortal    breed  of 

heaven. 
The  car  was  wrought  of  brass  and  burnished 

gold. 
And  divers  figures  on  its  bulk  were  told. 
Of  heroes  who  in  plunging  to  the  fight 
Shrouded  Troy's  glories  in  eternal  night : 
Of  fierce  Pelides,  who  relenting  gave,  890 

At  Priam's  prayer,  to  Hector's  corpse  a  grave  ; 
Here  Spartan  Helen  flies  her  native  shore. 
To  bid  proud  Troy  majestic  stand  no  more  ; 
There  Hector  clasps  his  consort  to  his  breast, 
Consoles  his  sufferings,  tho'  himself  oppressed  ; 
And  there  he  rushes  to  the  embattled  field 
For  victory  or  death,  nor  e'en  in  death  to  yield  : 
Here  IHum  prostrate  feels  the  Argive  ire, 
Her  heroes  perished,  and  her  towers  on  fire. 
And  here  old  Priam  breathes  his  last  drawn 

sigh,  900 

And  feels  'tis  least  of  all  his  griefs  to  die. 
There  his  loved  sire,  divine  ^neas  bears, 
And  leaves  his  own  with  all  a  patriot's  tears  ; 
While  in  one  hand  he  holds  his  weeping  boy. 
And  looks  his  last  on  lost  unhappy  Troy. 
The  warrior    seized  the  reins,   the   impatient 

steeds 
Foam  at  the  mouth  and  spring  where  glory 

leads. 
The  gates,  the  heroes  pass,  th'  Athenian  dames 
Bend  from  their  towers,  and  bid  them  save  from 

flames 
Their   walls,  their    infant    heirs,  and  fill  the 

skies  _     910 

With  shouts,  entreaties,  prayers,  and  plaintive 

cries : 
Echo  repeats  their  words,  the  sounds  impart 
New  vigor  to  each  Greek's  aspiring  heart. 
Forward  with  shouts  they  press,  and  hastening 

on 
Try  the  bold  lance  and  dream  of  Marathon. 
Meanwhile  the  Persians  on  th'  embattled  plain 
Prepare  for  combat,  and  the  Greeks  disdain. 
Twice  twenty  sable  bulls  they  daily  pay. 
Unequalled  homage,  to  the  God  of  day  ;  9^9 

Such  worthy  gifts,  the  wealthy  warriors  bring, 
And  such  the  offerings  of  the  Persian  King  ; 
While  the  red  wine  ai'ound  his  altars  flowed 
They  beg  protection  from  the  flaming  God. 
But  the  bright  Patron  of  the  Trojan  war 
Accepts  their  offerings,  but  rejects  their  prayer : 
The  power  of  love  alone  dares  rigid  fate. 
To  vent  on  Greece  her  vengeance  and  her  hate  ; 
Not  love  for  Persia  prompts  the  vengeful  dame, 
But  hate  for  Athens,  and  the  Grecian  name  : 


494 


APPENDIX 


In  Phoebus'  name,  the  fraudful  Queen  receives 
The  hecatombs,  and  happy  omens  gives,         931 
And  now  the  heralds  with  one  voice  repeat 
The  will  of  Datis  echoing  thro'  the  fleet, 
To  council,  to  convene  the  Persian  train, 
That  Athens'  Chiefs  should  brave  their  might 

in  vain. 
The  Chiefs  and  Hippias'  self  his  will  obey. 
And  seek  the  camp,  the  heralds  lead  the  way. 
There  on  the  couch,  their  leader  Datis  sat 
In  ease  luxurious,  and  in  kingly  state  ; 
Around    his   brow,   pride    deep    and    scornful 

played,  94° 

A  purple  robe,  his  slothful  limbs  arrayed, 
Which  o'er  his  form,  its  silken  draperies  fold. 
Majestic  sweeps  the  ground,  and  glows  with 

gold ; 
While  Artaphernes  resting  at  his  side 
JSurveys    th'    advancing    train  with   conscious 

pride. 
The  Elder  leader,  mighty  Datis,  then, 
'  Assembled  Princes,  great  and  valiant  men. 
And  thou  thrice  glorious  Hippias,   loved  by 

heav'n. 
To  whom,  as  to  thy  Sire,  is  Athens  giv'n  ; 
Behold  the  Grecian  banners  float  afar,  95° 

Shouting  they  hail  us,  and  provoke  the  war. 
Then,  mighty  Chiefs  and  Princes,  be  it  yours 
To  warm  and  fire  the  bosoms  of  our  powers, 
That  when  the  morn  has  spread  her  saffron 

light, 
The  Greeks  may  own  and  dread  Darius'  might ; 
For  know,  oh  Chiefs,  when  once  proud  Athens 

falls. 
When  Persian  flames  shall  reach  her  haughty 

walls. 
From  her  depression,  wealth  to  you  shall  spring. 
And  honor,  fame,  and  glory  to  your  King.' 
He  said  ;  his  words  the  Princes'  breasts  inspire, 
Silent  they  bend,  and  with  respect  retire.       961 
And  now  the  Greeks  in  able  marches  gain, 
By  Pallas  fired,  the  Marathonian  plain. 
Before  their  eyes  th'  unbounded  ocean  rolls 
And  all  Darius'  fleet  —  unawed  their  souls. 
They  fix  their  banners,  and  the    tents    they 

raise 
And  in  the  sun,  their  polished  javelins  blaze. 
Their  leader's  self  within  the  brazen  car 
Their  motions  orders,  and  prepares  for  war  ; 
Their  labors  o'er,  the  aged  hero  calls  97° 

The  Chiefs  to  council  midst  the  canvas  walls. 
And  then  the  Sage,  '  How  great  the  Persian 

host ! 
But  let  them  not  their  strength  or  numbers 

boast. 
Their  slothful  minds  to  love  of  fame  unknown, 
Sigh  not  for  war,  but  for  the  spoil  alone. 
Strangers  to  honor's  pure  immortal  light, 
They  not  as  heroes,  but  as  women  fight ; 
Grovelling  as  proud,  and  cowardly  as  vain, 
The  Greeks  they  fear,  their  numbers  they  dis- 
dain. 
And  now  Athenians  !  fired  by  glory,  rise        980 
And  lift  your  fame  unsullied  to  the  skies, 
Your  victim  Persia,  liberty  your  prize. 
And  now  twice  twenty  sable  bullocks  bring 
To  heap  the  altars  of  the  thundering  King, 


Bid  twelve  white  heifers  of  gigantic  breed 
To  Jove's  great  daughter,  wise  Minerva,  bleed, 
And  then  in  sleep  employ  the  solemn  night 
Nor  till  Apollo  reigns,  provoke  the  fight.' 
The  hero  said  ;  the  warlike  council  o'er 
They  raise  the  lofty  altars  on  the  shore.  900 

They  pile  in  heaps  the  pride  of  all  the  wood  ; 
They  fall  the  first,  who  first  in  beauty  stood  : 
The   pine    that  soars   to    heaven,  the  sturdy 

oak. 
And  cedars  crackle  at  each  hero's  stroke. 
And  now  two  altars  stand  of  equal  size 
And  lift  their  forms  majestic  to  the  skies, 
The  heroes  then  twice  twenty  bullocks  bring, 
A  worthy  offering  to  the  thundering  King. 
The  aged  leader  seized  the  sacred  knife. 
Blow  followed  blow,  out  gushed  the  quivering 

life ;  1000 

Thro'   their  black  hides  the  ruthless  steel  is 

driven 
The  victims  groan  —  Jove  thunders  from  his 

heaven. 
And  then  their  bulks  upon  the  pile  they  lay. 
The  flames  rush  upward,  and  the  armies  pray. 
Driven  by  the  wind,  the  roaring  fires  ascend. 
And  now  they  hiss  in  air,  and  now  descend  ; 
With  all  their  sap,  the  new  cut  faggots  raise 
Their  flames  to  heaven,  and  crackle  as  they 

blaze  ; 
And  then  the  Sage,  '  Oh,  thou  of  powers  above 
The  first  and  mightiest,  hear,  eternal  Jove  !  loio 
Give  us,  that  Athens  in  her  strength  may  rise 
And  lift  our  fame  and  freedom  to  the  skies  !  ' 
This  said,  he  ceased  —  th'  assembled  warriors 

pour 
The  sacred  incense,  and  the  God  adore  ; 
Then    partial    Jove     propitious    heard    their 

prayer. 
Thrice  shook  the  heavens,  and  thundered  thro' 

the  air ; 
With  joy,   the   Greeks,  the  favoring  sign  in- 
spires. 
And  their  breasts  glow  with  all  the  warlike 

fires : 
And  now  twelve  heifers  white  as  snow  they 

lead 
To  great  Minerva's  sacred  name  to  bleed,     1020 
They  fall  —  their  bulks  upon  the  pile  are  laid 
Sprinkled  with  oil,  and  quick  in  flame  arrayed. 
And  now  descending  midst  the^  darkening  skies 
Behold  the  Goddess  of  the  radiant  eyes. 
The  ground  she  touched,  beneath  the  mighty 

load 
Earth  groaning  rocks,  and    nature    hails  the 

God. 
Within  her  hand  her  father's  lightnings  shone, 
And  shield  that  blazes  near  th'  eternal  throne  ; 
The  Greeks  with  fear,  her  dauntless  form  sur- 
veyed, 
And  trembling  bowed    before    the   blue-eyed 

maid.  ^  _     1030 

Then  favoring,  thus  began  the  power  divine, 
While  in  her  eyes  celestial  glories  shine  ; 
'  Ye  sons   of  Athens,   loved  by  heaven, '   she 

cries 
'  Revered  by  men,  be  valiant  and  be  wdse. 
When  morn  awakes,  Darius'  numbers  dare, 


JUVENILIA 


495 


Clang  your  loud  arms,  and  rouse  the  swelling 

war : 
But  first  to  yon  proud  fleet  a  herald  send 
To  bid  the  Persians  yield,  and  fight  suspend, 
For  vainly  to  their  God  they  suppHant  call, 
Jove    favors    Greece,   and   Pallas    wills    their 
fall.'  1040 

She  said,  and  thro'  the  depths  of  air  she  flies, 
Mounts  the  blue  heaven,  and  scales  the  liquid 

skies. 
The  Greeks  rejoicing  thank  the  powers  above 
And  Jove's  great  daughter,  and  eternal  Jove. 
And  now  a  herald  to  the  fleet  they  send 
To  bid  the  Persians  yield,  and  war  suspend. 
Thro'  the  divided  troops  the  herald  goes 
Thro'  Athens'  host,  and  thro'  th'  unnumbered 

foes. 
Before  the  holy  man,  the  Persian  bands 
Reverend  give  way,  and  ask  what  Greece  de- 
mands :  1050 
He  tells  not  all,  but  that  he,  chosen,  seeks 
Datis  their  Chief,  by  order  of  the  Greeks. 
The  mission  but  in  part  he  sage  reveals. 
And  what  his  prudence  prompts  liim,  he  con- 
ceals.                                                   , 
Then  to  their  Chief  they  lead  him,  where  he 

sat 
With  pomp  surrounded,  and  in  gorgeous  state  ; 
Around  his  kingly  couch,  his  arms  were  spread 
Flaming  in  gold,  by  forge  Cyclopean  made  ; 
And  then  stern  Datis  frowning  thus  began, 
'  What  hopes  deceive  thee,  miserable  man  ? 
What  treacherous  fate  allures    thee    thus  to 
stray  ^061 

Thro'  all  our  hosts  ?    What  Gods  beguile  the 

way  ? 
Think'st  thou  to  'scape  the  Persian  steel,  when 

Greece 
Our  herald  crushed,    and  banished    hopes  of 

peace  ? 
But  speak,  what  will  the  Greeks  ?  and  do  they 

dare 
To  prove  our  might,  and  tempt  th'   unequal 

Or  do  they  deign  to  own  Darius'  sway 

And  yield  to    Persia's    might    th'    embattled 

day?' 
To  whom  th'  Athenian  herald  made  reply 
'  The  Greeks  disdain  your  terms,  and  scorn  to 

fly.  1070 

Unknown  to  heroes  and  to  sons  of  Greece 
The  shameful  slavery  of  a  Persian  peace  ; 
Defiance  stern,  not  servile  gifts  I  bring. 
Your  bonds  detested,  and  despised  your  King  ; 
Of  equal  size,  the  Greeks  two  altars  raise 
To  Jove's  high  glory,  and  Minerva's  praise.^ 
The  God  propitious  heard,  and  from  the  skies 
Descends  the  Goddess  of  the  azure  eyes. 
And  thus  began  —  "Assembled   Greeks,  give 

ear 
Attend  my  wisdom,  nor  my  glory  fear  ;         1080 
When  morn  awakes,  Darius'  numbers  dare. 
Clang  your  loud  arms,  and  rouse  the  swelling 

war: 
But  first  to  yon  proud  fleet  a  herald  send 
To  bid  the  Persians  yield,  and  war  suspend, 
For  vainly  to  their  God  they  suppliant  call, 


Jove  favors  Greece,  and  Pallas  wills  their  fall,' 
The  Goddess  spoke  ;  th'   Athenians  own  her 

sway. 
I  seek  the  fleet,  and  heaven's  command  obey. 
The  Greeks  disdain  your  millions  in  the  war, 
Nor  I,   oh    Chief,   your  promised    vengeance 

fear.  1090 

Strike  !  but  remember  that  the  God  on  high 
Who  rules  the  heavens,  and  thunders  thro'  the 

sky, 
Not  unrevenged  will  see  his  herald  slain. 
Nor  shall  thy  threats  his  anger  tempt  in  vain.' 
And  thus  the  Greek :  then  Datis  thus  replies. 
Flames  black  and  fearful  scowling  from  his 

eyes, 
'  Herald  away  !  and  Asia's  vengeance  fear  ; 
Back    to  3'our  phrenzied   train    my  mandate 

bear. 
That  Greece  and  Grecian  Gods  may  threat  in 

vain. 
We   scorn    their   anger,  and  their  wrath   dis- 
dain :  1 100 
For  he  who  lights  the  earth  and  rules  the  skies 
With  happy  omens  to  our  vows  rephes. 
When     morn    uprising    breathes    her    saffron 

light, 
Prepare  to  dare  our  millions  in  the  fight. 
Thy  life  I  give,  Darius'  will  to  say 
And    Asia's    hate  —  hence.    Chief,   no    more, 

away ! ' 
He  said,  and  anger  filled  the  Grecian's  breast. 
But  prudent,  he  the  rising  wrath  suppressed  ; 
Indignant,  thro'  the  canvas  tents  he  strode 
And  silently  invoked  the  thundering  God.    mo 
Fears  for  his  country  in  his  bosom  rose, 
As  on  he  wandered  midst  unnumbered  foes  ; 
He  strikes  his  swelling  breast  and  hastens  on 
O'er  the  wide  plains  of  barren  Marathon, 
And  now  he  sees  the  Grecian  banners  rise, 
And  well-armed  warriors  blaze  before  his  eyes. 
Then  thus  he  spoke  —  '  Ye  Grecian  bands,  give 

ear, 
Ye  warrior  Chiefs  and  Attic  heroes  hear  ! 
Your  will  to  Asia's  other  Prince  I  told, 
All   which   you   bade  me.   Chieftains,  to  un- 
fold, 1120 
But  Pallas'  vengeance  I  denounced  in  vain. 
Your  threats  he  scorned,  and  heard  with  proud 

disdain. 
The  God,  he  boasts,  who  lights  the  earth  and 

skies. 
With  happy  omens  to  his  vows  replies  ; 
Then  when    the    uprising   morn   extends   her 

light 
Prepare,   ye   Greeks,   to    dare    his  powers    in 

fight,' 
He  said  —  the  Greeks  for  instant  strife  declare 
Their  will,  and  arm  impatient  for  the  war. 
Then  he,  their  godlike  Chief,  as  Pallas  sage, 
'  Obey  my  counsels,  and  repress  your  rage,    1130 
Ye  Greeks,'  he  cried, '  the  sacred  night  displays 
Her  shadowy  veil,  and  earth  in  gloom  arrays  ; 
Her  sable  shades,  e'en  Persia's  Chiefs  obey, 
And  wait  the  golden  mandate  of  the  day  : 
Such  is  the  will  of  Jove,  and  Gods  above. 
And  such  the  order  of  the  loved  of  Jove.' 
He  said  —  the  Greeks  their  leader's  word  obey. 


496 


APPENDIX 


They  seek  their  tents,  and  wait  th'  approaching 

day, 
O'er  either  host  celestial  Somnus  reigns. 
And     solemn    silence     lulls     th'      embattled 

plains.  I 140 


BOOK  IV 

And  now  the  morn  by  Jove  to  mortals  given 
With  rosy  fingers  opes  the  gates  of  heaven. 
The  Persian  Princes  and  their  haughty  Lord 
Gird    on    their    arms,  and    seize    the    flaming 

sword : 
Forth,  forth  they  rush  to  tempt  the  battle's 

roar, 
Earth  groans,  and  shouts  rebellowing  shake  the 

shore. 
As  when  the  storm  the  heavenly  azure  shrouds 
With  sable  night,  and  heaps  on  clouds,   the 

clouds, 
The  Persians  rose,   and  crowd  th'   embattl'd 

plain 
And    stretch    their   warlike    millions    to    the 

main;  1150 

And  now  th'  Athenians  throng  the  fatal  field 
By  fame  inspired,   and  swords  and  bucklers 

wield ; 
In  air  sublime  their  floating  banners  rise. 
The  lances  blaze  ;  the  trumpets  rend  the  skies. 
And  then  Miltiades  —  '  Athenians,  hear, 
Behold  the  Persians  on  the  field  appear 
Dreadful   in  arms ;    remenaber,   Greeks,   your 

fame. 
Rush  to  the  war,  and  vindicate  your  name; 
Forward  !  till  low  in  death  the  Persians  lie. 
For  freedom  triumph  or  for  freedom  die.'     "60 
He  said  ;  his  visage  glows  with  heavenly  light ; 
He  spoke  sublime,  and  rush'd  into  the  fight. 
And  now  the  fury  of  the  way  ^  began  — 
Lance   combats  lance,  and  man 's  opposed  to 

man  ; 
Beneath    their  footsteps,   groans  the  laboring 

plain 
And  shouts  re-echoing  bellow  to  the  main ; 
Mars  rages  fierce  ;  by  heroes,  heroes  die  ; 
Earth  rocks,  Jove  thunders,  and  the  wounded 

cry. 
What  mighty  Chiefs  by  Aristides  fell. 
What     heroes    perished,     heavenly     Goddess, 

tell,  ^  1170 

First    thou,  oh    Peleus !    felt    his    conquering 

hand. 
Stretched  in  the    dust    and  weltering  in  the 

sand, 
Thro'  thy  bright  shield,  the  forceful  weapon 

went, 
Thyself  in  arms  o'erthrown,  thy  corslet  rent; 
Next  rash  Antennes  met  an  early  fate. 
And  feared,  alas  !  th'  unequal  foe  too  late  ; 
And  Delucus  the  sage,  and  Philo  fell, 
And  Crotan  sought  the  dreary  gates  of  hell, 
And  Mnemon's    self  with  wealth  and  honor 

croAvned, 
Revered     for      virtue,     and     for     fame    re- 
nowned ;  1 1 80 

1  [So  the  original  ;  query,  day  or  fray  ?] 


He,  great  in  battle,  feared  the  hero's  hand, 
Groaning  he    fell,   and    spurned    the  reeking 

sand. 
But  what  bold  chief  thus  rashly  dares  advance  ? 
Tho'  not  in  youth,  he  shakes  the  dreadful  lance, 
Proudly  the  earth  the  haughty  warrior  trod. 
He  looked  a  Monarch  and  he  moved  a  God : 
Then  on  the  Greek  with  rage  intrepid  flew 
And  with  one  blow  th'   unwary  Greek  o'er- 

threw ; 
That  hour,  oh  Chief,  and  that  eventful  day 
Had  bade  thee  pass  a  shivering  ghost  away. 
But  Pallas,  fearful  for  her  fav'rite's  life,      1191 
Sudden  upraised  thee  to  renew  the  strife  ; 
Then  Aristides  with  fresh  vigor  rose, 
Shame  fired  his  breast,  his   soul  with  anger 

glows. 
With  all  his  force  he  rushes  on  the  foe, 
The  warrior  bending  disappoints  the  blow, 
And  thus  with  rage  contemptuous,  '  Chieftain, 

know, 
Hippias,  the  loved  of  heaven,  thine  eyes  be- 
hold, 
Renowned  for  strength  of  arm,  in  battle  bold. 
But  tell  thy  race,  and  who  the  man  whose 
might  1200 

Dares  cope  with  rebel  Athens'  King  in  fight.' 
Stung  to  the  soul, '  Oh  Slave,'  the  Greek  returns, 
While  his  big  heart  within  his  bosom  burns, 
'  Perfidious  Prince,  to  faith  and  truth  unknown  ; 
On  Athens'  ashes,  raise  thy  tyrant  throne. 
When  Grecia's  chiefs,  and  Grecia's  heroes  fall, 
When  Persia's  fires  invest  her  lofty  wall, 
When  nought  but  slaves  within  her  towers  re- 
main. 
Then,  nor  tiU  then,  shalt  thou,  oh  Hippias, 

reign. 
Then,   nor  ibill  then,  will  Athens  yield  her"] 
fame  12 10  1 

To  foul  dishonor,  and  eternal  shame  ;  j 

Come  on  !  no  matter  what  my  race  or  name  ;  j 
For  this,  oh  Prince,  this  truth  unerring  know. 
That  in  a  Greek,  you  meet  a  noble  foe.' 
Furious  he  said,  and  on  the  Prince  he  sprung 
With  all  his  force,  the  meeting  armor  rung, 
Struggling  they  raged,  and  both  together  fell. 
That  hour  the  tyrant's  ghost  had  entered  hell, 
But  partial  fate  prolonged  the  Prince's  breath, 
Renewed  the  combat,  and  forbad  the  death. 
Meanwhile    the    hosts,   the   present  war    sus- 
pend, 1 22 1 
Silent  they  stand,  and  heaven's  decree  attend. 
First  the  bright  lance  majestic  Hippias  threw 
But  erringly  the  missile  weapon  flcAV  ; 
Then  Aristides  hurled  the  thirsty  dart. 
Struck  the  round  shield,  and  nearly  pierced  his 

heart. 
But  the  bright  arms,  that  shone  with  conscious 

pride. 
Received  the  blow,  and  turned  the  point  aside. 
And  thus,  the  Greek,  '  Whom  your  enquiring 

eyes 
Behold,  oh  Prince,'  th'  Athenian  hero  cries, 
'  Is  Aristides,  called  the  just,  a  name  1231 

By  Athens  honored,  nor  unknown  to  fame.' 
Seared  at  the  soimd,   and  seized  by  sudden 
fright. 


JUVENILIA 


497 


The  Prince  starts  back,   in  mean,  inglorious 

flight. 
And  now  Bellona  rages  o'er  the  field, 
All  strive  elated,  all  disdain  to  yield  ; 
And  great  Themistocles  in  arms  renowned. 
Stretched  heaps    of    heroes    on  the    groaning 

ground. 
First  by  his  hand  fell  Delos'  self,  divine, 
The  last  loved  offspring  of  a  noble  line,         1240 
Straight  thro'  his  neck  the  reeking  dart  was 

di'iven, 
Prostrate  he  sinks,  and  vainly  calls  to  heaven. 
Next  godlike  Phaues,  midst  the  Persians  just, 
Leucon  and  mightj^  Caudos  bit  the  dust ; 
And  now   the   Greek,  with   pride   imprudent, 

dares 
Victorious  Mandrocles  renowned  in  wars. 
The  agile  Persian  swift  avoids  the  blow 
Furious  disarms  and  grasps  th'  unequal  foe  ! 
Th'  intrepid  Greek,  with  godlike  calm  awaits 
His    instant    fall,    and    dares    th'    impending 

fates,  1250 

But  great  Cynoegirus  his  danger  spies 
And  lashed  his  steeds,  the  ponderous  chariot 

flies, 
Then  from  its  brazen  bulk,  he  leaps  to  ground, 
Beneath  his  clanging  arms  the  plains  resound, 
And  on  the  Persian  rushes  fierce,  and  raised 
The  clattering  axe  on  high,  which  threatening 

blazed, 
And  lopped  his  head ;  out  spouts  the  smoking 

gore 
And  the  huge  trunk  rolled  bleeding  on  the 

shore. 
And  then  Cyncegirus,  '  Thus,  Persian,  go 
And  boast  thy  victory  in  the  shades  below,  1260 
A  headless  form,  and  tell  who  bade  thee  bleed. 
For  know  a  Greek  performed  the  wonderous 

deed : 
But  thou,  Themistocles,  oh  hero  !  say 
Who  bade  thee  rush,   to  tempt  th'   unequal 

fray? 
But  learn  from  this,  thy  daring  to  restrain, 
And  seek  less  mighty  foes  upon  the  plain.' 
With  secret  wrath  the  youthful  hero  burned 
And  thus  impetuous  to  the  Chief  returned  ; 
'  Such  thoughts  as  these,  unworthy  those  who 

dare 
The    battle's    rage,    and    tempt    the    toils   of 

war ;  1270 

Heedless  of  death,  and  by  no  fears  opprest. 
Conquest  my  aim,  I  leave  to  heaven  the  rest.' 
He  said,  and  glowed  with  an  immortal  light, 
Plunged  'midst  the  foes,  and  mingled  in  the 

fight. 
Zeno  the  bravest  of  the  Persian  youth 
Renowned  for  filial  piety  and  truth  ; 
His  mother's  only  joy  ;  she  loved  to  trace 
His  father's  features  in  his  youthful  face  ; 
That  Sire,  in  fight  o'erwhelmed,  mid  seas  of 

gore 
Slept    unentombed,   and    cared    for    fame    no 

more.  12S0 

And  now  as  youth  in  opening  manhood  glows, 
All  his  loved  father  in  his  visage  rose, 
Like  him,  regardful  of  his  future  fame, 
Resolved  like  him  to  immortalize  his  name, 


At  glory's  call,  he  quits  his  native  shore 

And  feeble  parent,  to  return  no  more  ; 

Oh  !  what  prophetic  griefs  her  bosom  wrung 

When  on  his  neck  in  agony  she  hung  ! 

When  on  that  breast  she  hid  her  sorrowing 

face. 
And    feared    to    take,   or  shun,   the  last  em- 
brace !  1290 
Unhappy  youth  !  the  fates  decree  thy  doom. 
Those  flowers,  prepared  for  joy,  shall  deck  thy 

tomb. 
Thy  mother  now  no  more  shall  hail  thy  name 
So  high  enrolled  upon  the  Hsts  of  fame. 
Nor  check  the  widow's  tear,  the  widow's  sigh, 
For  e'en  her  son,  her  Zeno's  doom  to  die. 
Zeno,  e'en  thou  !  for  so  the  Gods  decree, 
A  parents'  threshold  opes  no  more  for  thee  ! 
On  him  the  hero  turned  his  eye  severe 
Nor  on  his  visage  saw  one  mark  of  fear ;        1300 
There  manly  grace    improved    each  separate 

part, 
And  joined  by  ties  of  truth,  the  face  and  heart. 
The  supple  javelin  then  the  Grecian  tries 
With  might  gigantic,  and  the  youth  defies. 
Its  point  impetuous,  at  his  breast  he  flung. 
The  brazen  shield  received,  and  mocking  rung  ; 
Then  Zeno  seized  the  lance,  the  Chief  defied, 
And  scoffing,  thus  began,  in  youthful  pride  ; 
'  Go,  mighty  Greek  !  to  weaker  warriors  go, 
And  fear  this  arm,  and  an  unequal  foe  ;         131° 
A  mother  gave  the  mighty  arms  I  bear. 
Nor  think  with  such  a  gift,  I  cherish  fear.' 
He  hurled  the    lance,   but    Pallas'    self   was 

there. 
And  turned  the  point,  it  passed  in  empty  air. 
With  hope  renewed,  again  the  hero  tries 
His  boasted  might,  the  thirsty  weapon  flies 
In  Zeno's  breast  it  sinks,  and  drank  the  gore. 
And   stretched    the    hero   vanquished  on  the 

shore  ; 
Gasping  for  utterance,  and  life,  and  breath,  _ 
For    fame    he   sighs,   nor    fears    approaching 
death.  1320 

Themistocles  perceived,  and  bending  low 
Thought  of  his  friends,  and  tears  began  to 

flow 
That  washed  the  bleeding  bosom  of  his  foe. 
Young  Zeno  then,  the  Grecian  hero  eyed 
Rejects  his  offered  aid,  and  all  defied. 
Breathed  one  disdainful  sigh,  and  turned  his 

head  and  died. 
Such  Persians  did  the  godlike  warrior  slay, 
And  bade  their  groaning  spirits  pass  away. 
Epizelus,  the  valiant  and  the  strong, 
Thundered  in  fight,  and  carried  death  along ; 
Him    not   a   Greek  in  strength   of    arms  sur- 
passed, 1 33 1 
In  battle  foremost,  but  in  virtue  last. 
He,  impious  man,  to  combat  dared  defy 
The  Gods  themselves,  and  senate  of  the  sky, 
E'en  earth  and  heaven,  and  heaven's  eternal 

sire, 
He  mocks  his  thunders,  and  disdains  his  ire. 
But  now  the  retributive  hour  is  come, 
And  rigid  justice  seals  the  Boaster's  doom. 
Theseus  he  sees,  within  the  fight,  revealed 
To  him  alone  —  to  all  the  rest  concealed.      1340 


498 


APPENDIX 


To  punish  guilt,  he  leaves  the  shades  below 
And  quits  the  seat  of  never  ending  woe. 
Pale  as  in  death,  upon  his  hands  he  bore 
Th'  infernal  serpent  of  the  dreadful  shore, 
To  stay  his  progress  should  he  strive  to  fly 
From  Tart'rus  far,  and  gain  the  upper  sky. 
This    (dreadful  sight !)    with    slippery  sinews 

now 
Wreathed   round  his   form,    and   clasped    his 

ghastly  brow  ; 
With  horror  struck,  and   seized  with  sudden 

awe 
The  Greek  beheld,  nor  mingled  in  the  war.  1350 
Withheld  from  combat  by  the  force  of  fear. 
He  trembling  thus  — '  Oh  say,,  what  God  draws 

near  ? 
But  speak  thy  will,  if  't  is  a  God,  oh  speak  ! 
Nor  vent  thy  vengeance  on  a  single  Greek.' 
Vainly  he  suppliant  said  —  o'erpowered  with 

fright, 
And  instant  from  his  eyeballs  fled  the  sight ; 
Confused,  distracted,  to  the  skies  he  throws 
His  frantic  arms,  and  thus  bewails  his  woes : 
'  Almighty !    thou    by    whom    the    bolts    are 

driven !  ' 
He    said,    and    cast    his    sightless    balls    to 

heav'n,  1360 

'  Restore  my  sight,  unhappy  me,  restore 
My  own  loved  offspring,  to  behold  once  more  ! 
So  will  I  honor  thy  divine  abodes, 
And  learn  how  dreadful  th'  avenging  Gods  ! 
And  if  —  but  oh  forbid  !  you  mock  my  prayer 
And  cruel  fate  me  ever  cursed  declare. 
Give  me,  to  yield  to  fame  alone  my  life 
And  fall  immortalized,  —  in  glorious  strife  !  ' 
He  said  —  the   God  who    thunders    thro'   the 

air, 
Frowns    on    his    sufferings    and    rejects    his 

prayer.  1370 

Around  his  f oi"m  the  dreadful  ^gis  spread 
And  darts  fall  harmless  on  his  wretched  head  ; 
Condemned  by  fate  in  ceaseless  pain  to  groan, 
Friendless,  in  grief,  in  agony  alone. 
Now  Mars  and  death  pervade  on  every  side 
And  heroes  fall,  and  swell  the  crimson  tide. 
Not  with  less  force  th'  Athenian  leader  shone 
In  strife  conspicuous,  nor  to  fame  unknown, 
Advanced  in  wisdom,  and  in  honored  years. 
He  nor  for  life,  but  for  the  battle  fears.        1380 
Borne  swift  as  winds  within  the  flying  car 
Now  here,  now  there,  directs  the  swelling  war. 
On  every  side  the  foaming  coursers  guides, 
Here  praises  valor,  and  there  rashness  chides  ; 
While  from  his  lips  persuasive  accents  flow 
T'  inspire  th'  Athenians,  or  unman  the  foe. 
The    glorious  Greeks    rush    on,    with    daring 

might 
And  shout  and  thunder,  and  encrease  the  fight. 
Nor  yet  inglorious  do  the  Persians  shine. 
In    battle's    ranks    they    strength    and    valor 

join.  1390 

Datis  himself  impels  the  ponderous  car 
Thro'  broken  ranks,  conspicuous  in  the  war, 
In    armor    sheathed,    and    terror    round    him 

spread 
He  whirls  his  chariot  over  heaps  of  dead  ; 
Where'er  he  dreadful  rushes,  warriors  fly, 


Ghosts  seek  their  hell,  and  chiefs  and  heroes 

die. 
All  pale  with  rage  he  ranks  on  ranks  o'er- 

throws. 
For  blood  he  gasps,  and  thunders  midst  his 

foes. 
Callimachus  the  mighty  leader  found 
In  fight  conspicuous,  bearing  death  around.  1400 
The  lance  wheeled  instant  from  the  Persian's 

hand 
Transfixed  the  glorious  Grecian  in  the  sand. 
Fate  ends  the  hero's  life,  and  stays  his  breath 
And  clouds   his  eyeballs   with    the   shade    of 

death : 
Erect  in  air  the  cruel  javelin  stood. 
Pierced  thro'  his  breast,  and  drank  the  spouting 

blood. 
Released  from  life's  impending  woes  and  care, 
The  soul  immerges  in  the  fields  of  air : 
Then,  crowned  with  laurels,  seeks  the  blest 

abodes 
Of  awful  Pluto,  and  the  Stygian  floods.        1410 
And  now  with  joy  great  Aristides  saw 
Again  proud  Hippias  thundering  thro'  the  war, 
And  mocking  thus,  '  Oh  tyrant,  now  await 
The  destined  blow,  behold  thy  promised  fate  ! 
Thrice  mighty  King,  obey  my  javelin's  call 
For  e'en  thy  godlike  self  's  decreed  to  fall ; ' 
He  said,  and  hurled    the  glittering  spear  on 

high. 
The  destined  weapon  hissed  along  the  sky  ; 
Winged  by  the  hero's  all-destroying  hand 
It  pierced  the   Prince,  and  stretched  him  on 

the  sand.  1420 

Then  thro'  the  air  the  awful  peals  were  driven 
And  lightnings  blazed  along  the  vast  of  hea- 
ven. 
The  Persian  hosts  behold  their  bulwark  die, 
Fear  chills  their  hearts,  and  all  their  numbers 

And  reached  the  fleet ;  the  shouting  Greeks     " 

pursue 
All  Asia's  millions,  flying  in  their  view. 
On,  on,  they  glorious  rush,  and  side  by  side 
Yet  red  with  gore,  they  plunge  into  the  tide  ; 
For  injured  freedom's  sake,  th'  indignant  main 
With    swelling    pride    receives     the    crimson 

stain ;  1430 

The  Persians  spread  the  sail,  nor  dare  delay, 
And  suppliant  call  upon  the  King  of  day. 
But  vainly  to  their  Gods  the  cowards  pray. 
Some  of  the  ships  th'  Athenian  warriors  stay  ^ 
And  fire  their  bulks ;   the  flames  destroying 

rise. 
Rushing  they  swell,  and  mount  into  the  skies. 
Foremost  Cyncegirus  with  might  divine, 
While    midst    the    waves    his    arms    majestic 

shine  ; 
With  blood-stained  hand  a    Persian    ship    he 

seized, 
The  vessel  vainly  strove  to  be  released  ;        1440 
With  fear  the  crew  the  godlike  man  beheld, 
And  pride  and  shame  their  troubled  bosoms 

swelled. 
They  lop  his  limb  :  then  Pallas  fires  his  frame 
With  scorn  of  death,  and  hope  of  future  fame  : 
Then  with  the  hand  remaining  seized  the  prize, 


JUVENILIA 


499 


A  glorious  spirit  kindling  iu  his  eyes. 
Again  the  Persians  wield  the  unmanly  hlow 
And  wreck  their  vengeance  on  a  single  foe. 
The  fainting  Greek  by  loss  of  blood  opprest 
Still  feels  the  patriot  rise  within  his  breast.  145° 
Within  his  teeth  the  shattered  ship  he  held, 
Nor  in  his  soul  one  wish  for  life  rebelled. 
But  strength  decaying,  fate  supprest  his  breath, 
And  o'er  his  brows  expand  the  dews  of  death. 
The  Elysium  plains  his  generous  spirit  trod, 
'  He  lived  a  Hero  and  he  died  a  God.' 
By    vengeance    fired,   the   Grecians    from  the 

deep 
With  rage  and  shouting,  scale  the  lofty  ship. 
Then  in  the  briny  bosom  of  the  main 
Thej'  hurl  in  heaps  the  living  and  the  slain. 
Thro'    the    wide    shores    resoimd    triumphant 

cries,  1461 

Fill  all  the  seas,  and  thunder  thro'  the  skies. 


II 


AN   ESSAY   ON    MIND 

'  My  narrow  leaves  cannot  in  them  contayne 
The  large  discourse.'  —  Spenser. 

In  1826,  when  Elizabeth  Barrett  was  twenty, 
her  first  volume  of  verse  was  offered  to  the 
public  under  the  title  of  An  Essay  on  Mind, 
with  Other  Poeyns.  (London.  James  Duncan.) 
Nineteen  years  later  she  said  of  it,  in  depreca- 
tion, to  Robert  Browning,  whose  growing  inter- 
est in  the  poetess  disposed  him  to  regard  with 
reverential  interest  everything  that  bore  her 
signature,  that  it  was  only  a  '  girlish  exercise,' 
and,  *  after  all,  more  printed  than  published.' 
This  probably  means  that  her  father,  Mr. 
Moulton- Barrett,  bore  more  than  half  the  cost 
of  production.  In  the  notes  for  her  biography 
which  Mrs.  Browning  furnished  to  Mr.  Home 
in  185.3,  she  mentions  the  '  Essay  on  Mind '  as 
'  long  repented  of,  and  worthy  of  all  repent- 
ance ;  '  '  and  yet,'  she  adds,  '  it  is  not  without 
traces  of  an  individual  thinking  and  feeling. 
The  bii'd  pecks  through  the  shell  in  it.'  The 
'  Other  Poems  '  consisted  of  fourteen  miscellane- 
ous pieces,  mostly  occasional  verses  or  personal 
tributes,  — '  On  the  Death  of  Lord  Byron,' '  To 
My  Father  on  his  Birthday,'  etc.,  of  small  in- 
trinsic merit,  and  no  permanent  significance. 

ANALYSIS    OF   THE   FIRST    BOOK 

The  poem  commences  by  remarking  the 
desire,  natural  to  the  mind,  of  investigating  its 
own  qualities  —  qualities  the  more  exalted,  as 
their  development  has  seldom  been  impeded  by 
external  circumstances  —  The  various  disposi- 
tions of  different  minds  are  next  considered,  and 
are  compared  to  the  varieties  of  scenic  nature  ; 
inequalities  in  the  spiritual  not  being  more  won- 
derful than  inequalities  in  the  natural  —  Byron 
and    Campbell    contrasted  —  The  varieties  of 


genius  having  been  thus  treated,  the  art  of 
criticism  is  briefly  alluded  to,  as  generally  inde- 
pendent of  genius,  but  always  useful  to  its  pro- 
ductions —  Jeffrey  —  The  various  stages  of  life 
in  which  genius  appears,  and  the  different  causes 
by  which  its  influence  is  discovered  —  Cowley, 
Alfieri  —  Allusion  to  the  story  of  the  emotion  of 
Thucydides  on  hearing  Herodotus  recite  his 
History  at  the  Olympic  Games  —  The  elements 
of  jMind  are  thus  arranged.  Invention,  Judg- 
ment, Memory,  and  Association  —  The  creations 
of  mind  are  next  noticed,  among  which  we 
first  behold  Philosophy  —  History,  Science,  and 
Metaphysics  are  included  in  the  studies  of  Phi- 
losophy. 

Of  History,  it  is  observed,  that  though  on  a 
cursory  view  her  task  of  recalling  the  past  may 
appear  of  little  avail,  it  is  in  reality  one  of  the 
highest  imjiortance  —  The  living  are  sent  for  a 
lesson  to  the  grave  —  The  present  state  of  Rome 
alluded  to  ;  and  the  future  state  of  England 
anticipated  —  Condemnation  of  those  who  de- 
prive historical  facts  of  their  moral  inference, 
and  only  make  use  of  their  basis  to  render  false- 
hood more  secure  —  Gibbon  —  Condemnation  of 
those  who  would  color  the  political  conduct  of 
past  ages  with  their  own  political  feelings  — 
Hume,  Mitford  —  From  the  writers,  we  turn  to 
the  readers  of  history  —  Their  extreme  scepti- 
cism, or  creduhty  —  They  are  recommended  to 
be  guided  by  no  faction ;  but  to  measure  facts 
by  their  consistency  with  reason  — to  study 
the  personal  character  and  circumstances  of  an 
historian,  before  they  give  entire  credit  to  his 
representations  —  The  influence  of  private  feel- 
ing and  prejudice  —  Miller  —  Science  is  intro- 
duced —  Apostrophe  to  man  —  Episode  of  Ar- 
chimedes —  Parallel  between  history  and  sci- 
ence —  The  pride  of  the  latter  considered  most 
excessive  —  The  risk  attending  knowledge  — 
Buffon,  Leibnitz  —  The  advantageous  experi- 
ence to  be  derived  from  the  errors  of  others, 
illustrated  by  an  allusion  to  Southey's  Hex- 
ameters —  Utility  the  object  of  science  —  An 
exclusive  attention  to  parts  deprecated,  since  it 
is  impossible  even  to  have  a  just  idea  of  parts, 
without  acquiring  a  knowledge  of  their  relative 
situation  in  the  whole  —  The  extreme  difficulty 
of  enlarging  the  contemplations  of  a  mind  long 
accustomed  to  contracted  views  —  The  scale  of 
knowledge  —  every  science  being  linked  with 
the  one  preceding  and  succeeding  —  giving  and 
receiving  reciprocal  support  —  Why  this  system 
is  not  calculated,  as  might  be  conjectured,  either 
to  render  scientific  men  superficial,  or  to  intrude 
on  the  operations  of  genius  —  That  the  danger 
of  knowledge  originates  in  partial  knowledge 
—  Apostrophe  to  Newton. 


BOOK   I 

Since  Spirit  first  inspir'd,  pervaded  all, 
And  Mind  met  Matter,  at  th'  Eternal  call  — 
Since   dust  weigh'd   Genius  down,   or  Genius 

gave 
Th'  immortal  halo  to  the  mortal's  grave ; 


500 


APPENDIX 


Th'  ambitious  soul  her  essence  hath  defin'd, 
And  Mind  hath  eulogiz'd  the  pow'rs  of  Mind. 
Ere  Revelation's  holy  light  began 
To  strengthen  Nature,  and  illumine  Man  — 
When  Genius,  on  Icarian  pinions,  &ew,  9 

And  Nature's  pencil,  Nature's  portrait,  drew  ; 
When  Reason  shudder'd  at  her  own  wan  beam, 
And    Hope    turn'd    pale    beneath  the    sickly 

gleam  — 
Ev'n  then  hath  Mind's  triumphant  influence 

spoke. 
Dust  own'd  the  spell,  and  Plato's  spirit  woke  — 
Spread  her  eternal  wings,  and  rose  sublime 
Beyond  th'  expanse  of  circumstance  and  time  : 
Blinded,  but  free,  Avith  faith  instinctive,  soar'd. 
And  found  her  home,  where   prostrate  saints 

ador'd  ! 

Thou  thing  of  light !  that  warm'st  the  breasts 

of  men, 
Breath'st  from  the  lips,  and  tremblest  from  the 
pen !  20 

Thou,   form'd    at    once  t'    astonish,   fire,  be- 
guile, — 
With    Bacon    reason,  and    with   Shakespeare 

smile ! 
The  subtle  cause,  ethereal  essence  !  say, 
Why  dust  rules  dust,  and  clay  surpasses  clay  ; 
Why  a  like  mass  of  atoms  should  combine 
To  form  a  TuUy,  and  a  Catiline  ? 
Or  why,  with  flesh  perchance  of  equal  weight. 
One  cheers  a  prize-fight,  and  one  frees  a  state  ? 
Why  do  not  I  the  muse  of  Homer  call. 
Or  why,  indeed,  did  Homer  sing  at  all  ?  3° 

Why  wrote  not  Blaekstone  upon  love's  delusion. 
Or  Moore,  a  libel  on  the  Constitution  ? 
Why  must  the  faithful  page  refuse  to  tell 
That  Dante,  Laura  sang,  and  Petrarch,  Hell  — 
That  Tom  Paine   argued  in  the  throne's   de- 
fence — 
That    Byron    nonsense    wrote,    and  Thurlow 

sense  — 
That  Southey  sigh'd  with  all  a  patriot's  cares, 
While  Locke  gave  utterance  to  Hexameters  ? 
Thou  thing  of  light !  instruct  my  pen  to  find 
Th'   unequal    pow'rs,    the    various    forms    of 
Mind !  40 

O'er  Nature's  changeful  face  direct  your  sight ; 
View  light  meet  shade,  and  shade  dissolve  in 

light ! 
Mark,  from  the  plain,  the  cloud-capp'd  moun- 
tain soar  ; 
The  sullen  ocean  spurn  the  desert  shore  ! 
Behold,  afar,  the  playmate  of  the  storm, 
Wild  Niagara  lifts  his  awf vil  form  — 
Spits  his  black    foam  above    the    madd'ning 

floods, 
Himself  the  savage  of  his  native  woods  — 
See  him,  in  air,  his  smoking  torrents  wheel, 
While  the  rocks  totter,  and  the  forests  reel  — 
Then,  giddy,   turn !  lo !    Shakespeare's    Avon 
flows,  51 

Charna'd,  by  the  green-sward's  kiss,  to  soft  re- 
pose ; 
With  tranquil  brow  reflects  the  smile  of  fame. 
And,  'midst  her  sedges,  sighs  her  Poet's  name. 


Thus,  in  bright  sunshine,  and  alternate  storms. 
Is  various  mind  express'd  in  various  forms. 
In  equal  men,  why  burns  not  equal  fixe  ? 
Why    are  not    valleys    hills,  — or     mountains 

higher  ? 
Her  destin'd  way,  hath  destin'd  Nature  trod  ; 
While  Matter,  Spirit  rules,  and  Spirit,  God.    60 

Let  ovitward  scenes,  for  inward  sense  desig^n'd. 
Call    back  our  wand'rings    to    the    world    of 

Mind  I 
Where  Reason,   o'er    her  vasty  realms,  may 

stand. 
Convene  proud  thoughts,  and  stretch  her  scep- 

ter'd  hand. 
Here,  classic  recollections  breathe  around  ; 
Here,  living  Glory  consecrates  the  ground  ; 
And  here.  Mortality's  deep  waters  span 
The  shores  of  Genius,  and  the  paths  of  Man  ! 

O'er  this  imagin'd  land,  your  soul  direct  — 
Mark  Byron,  the  Mont  Blanc  of  intellect,        70 
'Twixt  earth  and  heav'n  exalt  his  brow  sub- 
lime, 
O'erlook  the  nations,  and  shake  hands  with 

Time! 
Stretch'd    at    his    feet    do    Nature's  beauties 

throng, 
The  flow'rs  of  love,  the  gentleness  of  song  ; 
Above,  the  Avalanche's  thunder  speaks. 
While     Terror's     spirit    walks     abroad,    and 
shrieks ! 

To  some  Utopian  strand,  some  fairy  shore. 
Shall  soft-eyed  Fancy  waft  her  Campbell  o'er ! 
Wont,  o'er  the  lyre  of  Hope,  his  hand  to  fling, 
And  never  waken  a  discordant  string  ;  80 

Who  ne'er  grows  awkward  by  affecting  grace. 
Or   '  Common  sense  confounds  with   common- 
place ; ' 
To  bright  conception,  adds  expression  chaste. 
And  human  feeling  joins  to  classic  taste. 
For  still,  with  magic  art,  he  knows,  and  knew, 
To   touch   the   heart,    and   win  the   judgment 
too  ! 

Thus,  in  uncertain  radiance.  Genius  glows, 
And  fitful  gleams  on  variovis  mind  bestows  : 
While  Mind,  exulting  in  th'  admitted  day. 
On  various  themes,  reflects  its  kindling  ray.    90 
Unequal  forms  receive  an  equal  light ; 
And  Klopstock  wrote  what  Kepler  could  not 
write. 

Yet  Fame  hath  welcom'd  a  less  noble  few. 

And  Glory  hail'd  whom  Genius  never  knew  ; 

Art  labor'd.  Nature's  birthright,  to  secure, 

And  forg'd,  with  cunning  hand,  her  signa- 
ture. 

The  scale  of  life  is  link'd  by  close  degrees  ; 

Motes  float  in  sunbeams,  mites  exist  in  cheese  ; 

Critics  seize  half  the  fame  which  bards  re- 
ceive, — 

And  Shakespeare  suffers  that  his  friends  may 
live  ;  100 

While  Bentley  leaves,  on  stilts,  the  beaten 
track. 


JUVENILIA 


501 


And    peeps    at    glory    from    some    ancient's 

back. 
But,  though  to  hold  a  lantern  to  the  sun 
Be  not  too  wise,  and  were  as  well  undone  — 
Though,  e'en  in  this  inventive  age,  alas  ! 
A  moral  darkness  can't  be  cur'd  by  gas  — 
And,  though  we  may  not  reasonably  deem 
How  poets'  craniums  can  be  turird  by  steam  — 
Yet  own  we,  in  our  juster  reasonings, 
That    lanterns,    gas,    and    steam,    are    useful 

things —  no 

And  oft,  this  truth.  Reflection  ponders  o'er  — 
Bards  would  write  worse,  if  critics  wrote  no 

more. 

Let  Jeffrey's  praise,  oiir  willing  pen,  engage. 
The  letter'd  critic  of  a  letter'd  age  ! 
Who  justly  judges,  rightfully  discerns. 
With  wisdom  teaches,  and  with  candor  learns. 
His  name  on  Scotia's  brightest  tablet  lives. 
And  proudly  claims  the  laurel  that  it  gives. 

Eternal  Genius  !  fashion'd  like  the  sun. 

To  make  all  beautiful  thou  look'st  upon  !       120 

Prometheus    of    our    earth  !     whose    kindling 

smile 
May  warm  the  things  of  clay  a  little  while  ; 
Till,  by  thy  touch  inspir'd,  thine  eyes  survey'd, 
Thou    stoop'st    to    love    the  glory    thou  hast 

made  ; 
And  weepest,  human-like,  the  mortal's  fall, 
When,  by-and-bye,  a  breath  disperses  all. 
Eternal  Genius  !  mystic  essence  !  say. 
How,    on   '  the  chosen    breast,'   descends  thy 

day!  128 

Breaks  it  at  once  in  Thought's  celestial  dream. 
While  Nature  trembles  at  the  sudden  gleam  ? 
Or  steals  it,  gently,  like  the  morning's  light. 
Shedding,   unmark'd,   an    influence    soft    and 

bright. 
Till  all  the  landscape  gather  on  the  sight  ? 

As  different  talents,  different  breasts,  inspire. 
So  different  causes  wake  the  latent  fire. 
The  gentle  Cowley  of  our  native  clime, 
Lisp'd  his  first  accents  in  Aonian  rhyme. 
Alfieri's  startling  muse  tun'd  not  her  strings. 
And  dumbly  look'd  '  unutterable  things  ; '     139 
Till,  when  six  lustrums  o'er  his  head  had  past. 
Conception  found  expression's  voice  at  last ; 
Broke  the  bright  light,  uprose  the  smother'd 

flame,  — 
And  Mind  and  Nature  own'd  their  poet's  fame ! 
To  some  the  waving  woods,  the  harp  of  spring, 
A  gently-breathing  inspiration  bring  ! 
Some  hear,  from  Nature's  haunts,  her  whis- 

per'd  call ; 
And  Mind  hath  triumph'd  by  an  apple's  fall. 

Wave  Fancy's  picturing  wand !  recall  the  scene 
Which  Mind  hath  hallow'd  —  where  her  sons 

have  been  — 
Where,    'midst  Olympia's    concourse,    simply 

great,  15° 

Th'  historic  sage,  the  son  of  Lyxes,  sate, 
Grasping  th'  immortal  scroll  —  he  breath'd  no 

soimd, 


But,  calm  in  strength,  an  instant  look'd  around, 
And  rose  —  the  tone  of  expectation  rush'd 
Through    th'    eager    throng  — he    spake,   and 

Greece  was  hush'd  ! 
See,  in  that  breathless  crowd,  Olorus  stand. 
While   one   fair   boy   hangs,    hst'ning,    on    his 

hand  — 
The  young  Thucydides  !  with  upward  brow 
Of  radiance,  and  dark  eye,  that  beaming  now 
Full  on  the  speaker,  drinks  th'  inspired  air  — 
Gazing  entranc'd,  and  turn'd  to  marble  there  ! 
Yet  not  to  marble  —  for  the  wild  emotion      162 
Is  kindling  on  his  cheek,  like  light  on  ocean, 
Coming  to  vanish  ;  and  his  pulses  throb 
With  transport,  and  the  inarticulate  sob 
Swells  to  his  lip  —  internal  nature  leaps 
To  glorious  life,  and  all  th'  historian  weeps  ! 
The  mighty  master  mark'd  the  favor'd  child  — 
Did  Genius  linger  there  ?     She  did,  and  smil'd  ! 
Still,  on  itself,  let  Mind  its  eye  direct,  170 

To  view  the  elements  of  intellect  — 
How  wild  Invention  (daring  artist !)  plies 
Her  magic  pencil,  and  creating  dies  ; 
And  Judgment,  near  the  living  canvass,  stands, 
To  blend  the  colors  for  her  airy  hands  ; 
While  Memory  waits,  with  twilight  mists  o'er- 

cast. 
To  mete  the  length'ning  shadows  of  the  past : 
And  bold  Association,  not  iintaught. 
The  links  of  fact,  unites,  with  links  of  thought ; 
Forming  th'  electric  chains,  which,  mystic,  bind 
Scholastic  learning,  and  reflective  mind.         181 

Let  reasoning  Truth's  unerring  glance  survey 
The  fair  creations  of  the  mental  ray  ; 
Her  holy  lips,  with  just  discernment,  teach 
The  forms,  the  attributes,  the  modes  of  each, 
And  tell,  in  simple  words,  the  narrow  span 
That  circles  intellect,  and  fetters  man  ; 
Where  darkling  mists,  o'er  Time's  last  foot- 
step, creep. 
And  Genius  drops  her  languid  wing  —  to  weep. 

See  first  Philosophy's  mild  spirit,  nigh,  190 

Raise  the  rapt  brow,  and  lift  the  thoughtful 

eye; 
Whether  the  glimmering  lamp,   that  Hist'ry 

gave. 
Light  her  enduring  steps  to  some  lone  grave  ; 
The  while  she  dreams  on  him,  asleep  beneath. 
And    conjures    mystic    thoughts    of    life    and 

death  — 
Whether,  on  Science'  rushing  wings,  she  sweep 
From  concave  heav'n  to  earth  —  and  search  the 

deep ; 
Shewing  the  pensile  globe  attraction's  force, 
The  tides  their  mistress,  and  the  stars  their 

course : 
Or  whether  (task  with  nobler  object  fraught) 
She    turn    the    pow'rs    of    thinking    back   on 

thought  —  201 

With  mind,  delineate  mind  ;  and  dare  define 
The  point,  where  human  mingles  with  divine : 
Majestic  still,  her  solemn  form  shall  stand. 
To  shew  the  beacon  on  the  distant  land  — 
Of  thought,  and  nature,  chronicler  sublime  ! 
The  world  her  lesson,  and  her  teacher  Time  ! 


502 


APPENDIX 


And  when,  -with  half  a  smile,  and  half  a  sigh, 
She  lifts  old  History's  faded  tapestry, 
I'  the  dwelling  of  past  years  —  she,  aye,  is  seen 
Point  to  the  shades,  where  bright'ning  tints  had 

been  —  .        ^ " 

The  shapeless  forms  outworn,   and  mildew'd 

o'er  — 
And  bids  us  rev'rence  what  was  lov'd  before  ; 
Gives  the  dank  wreath  and  dusty  urn  to  fame, 
And  lends  its  ashes  —  all  she  can  —  a  name. 
Think'st  thou,  in  vain,  while  pale  Time  glides 

away, 
She  rakes  cold  graves,   and  chronicles    their 

clay  ? 
Think'st  thou,  in  vain,  she  counts  the  boney 

things, 
Once  lov'd  as  patriots,  or  obey'd  as  kings  ? 
Lifts  she,  in  vain,  the  past's  mysterious  veil  ? 
Seest  thou  no  moral  in  her  awful  tale  ?  221 

Can  man,  the  crumbling  pile  of  nations,  scan,  — 
And  is  their  mystic  language  mute  for  man  ? 

Go  !  let  the  tomb  its  silent  lesson  give, 
And  let  the  dead  instruct  thee  how  to  live  ! 
If  Tully's  page  hath  bade  thy  spirit  burn. 
And  lit  the  raptur'd  cheek  —  behold  his  urn  ! 
If  Maro's  strains,  thy  soaring  fancy,  guide, 
That  hail  '  th'  eternal  city  '  in  their  pride  — 
Then  turn  to  mark,  in  some  reflective  hour. 
The  immortality  of  mortal  pow'r  !  231 

See  the  crush 'd  column,  and  the  ruin'd  dome  — 
'T  is  all  Eternity  has  left  of  Rome  ! 
While  travell'd  crowds,  with  curious  gaze,  re- 
pair. 
To  read  the  littleness  of  greatness  there  ! 

Alas  !  alas  !  so,  Albion  shall  decay, 

And  all  my  country's  glory  pass  away ! 

So  shall  she  perish,  as  the  mighty  must, 

And  be  Italia's  rival  —  in  the  dust ; 

While  her  ennobled  sons,  her  cities  fair,         240 

Be  dimly  thought  of  'midst   the  things  that 

were ! 
Alas  !  alas  !  her  fields  of  pleasant  green. 
Her  woods  of  beauty,  and  each  well-known 

scene  ! 
Soon,  o'er  her  plains,  shall  grisly  Ruin  haste. 
And  the  gay  vale  become  the  silent  waste  ! 
Ah !   soon  perchance,   our  native  tongue  for- 
^         got  — 
The  land  may  hear  strange  words  it  knoweth 

not ; 
And  the  dear  accents  which  our  bosoms  move. 
With   sounds   of  friendship,  or  with  tones  of 

love, 
May  pass    away ;    or,    conn'd    on    mould'ring 

page,  _      ^  250 

Gleam   'neath  the  midnight  lamp,  for  unborn 

sage  ; 
To  tell  our  dream-like  tale  to  future  years, 
And  wake  th'  historian's  smile,  and  schoolboy's 

tears  ! 

Majestic  task  !  to  join,  though  plac'd  afar, 
The  things  that  have  been,  with  the  things  that 

are  ! 
Important  trust !  the  awful  dead,  to  scan, 


And  teach  mankind  to  moraKze  from  man ! 

Stupendous  charge  !  when,  on  the  record  true, 

Depend  the  dead,  and  hang  the  living  too  ! 

And,  oh  !  thrice  impious  he,  who  dares  abuse 

That  solemn  charge,  and  good  and  ill  con- 
fuse !  261 

Tlrrice  guilty  he  who,  false  with  '  words  of 
sooth,' 

Would  pay,  to  Prejudice,  his  debt  to  Truth  ; 

The  hallow'd  page  of  fleeting  Time  prophane. 

And  prove  to  Man  that  man  has  liv'd  in  vain ; 

Pass  the  cold  grave,  with  colder  jestings,  by  ; 

And  use  the  truth  to  illustrate  a  lie  ! 

Let     Gibbon's    name    be    trae'd,    in    sorrow, 

here,  — 
Too  great  to  spurn,  too  little  to  revere  ! 
Who  follow' d  Reason,  yet  forgot  her  laws,     270 
And    found  all    causes,   but    the  '  great    first 

Cause :  ' 
The  paths  of  time,  with  guideless  footsteps, 

trod ; 
Blind  to  the  light  of  nature  and  of  God  ; 
Deaf  to  the  voice,  amid  the  past's  dread  hour, 
Which   sounds  his  praise,  and   chronicles  his 

pow'r  ! 
In  vain  for  him  was  Truth's  fair  tablet  spread. 
When  Prejudice,  with  jaundiced  organs,  read. 
In  vain  for  us  the  polish'd  periods  flow, 
The  fancy  kindles,  and  the  pages  glow  ; 
When  one  bright  hour,  and  startling  transport 

past,  280 

The  musing  soul  must  turn  —  to  sigh  at  last. 
Still  let  the  page  be  luminous  and  just. 
Nor  private  feeling  war  with  public  trust ; 
Still  let  the  pen  from  narrowing  views  forbear, 
And  modern  faction  ancient  freedom  spare. 
But,  ah  !  too.  oft  th'  historian  bends  his  mind 
To  flatter  party  —  not  to  serve  mankind  ; 
To  make  the  dead,  in  living  feuds,  engage. 
And  give  all  time,  the  feelings  of  his  age. 
Great  Hume  hath  stoop'd,  the  Stuarts'  fame, 

t'  increase  ;  290 

And  ultra  Mitford  soar'd  to  libel  Greece  ! 

Yet  must  the  candid  muse,  impartial,  learn 
To  trace  the  errors  which  her  eyes  discern  ; 
View  ev'ry  side,  investigate  each  part. 
And  get  the  holy  scroll  of  Truth  by  heart ; 
No  blame  misplac'd,  and  yet  no  fault  forgot  — 
Like  ink  employ'd  to  write  with  —  not  to  blot. 
Hence,  while  historians,  just  reproof,  incur. 
We  find  some  readers,  with  their  authors,  err  ; 
And  soon  discover,  that  as  few  excel  300 

In  reading  justly,  as  in  writing  well. 
For  prejudice,  or  ignorance,  is  such. 
That  men  believe  too  little,  or  too  much  ; 
Too  apt  to  cavil,  or  too  glad  to  trust. 
With  confidence  misplac'd,  or  blame  unjust. 

Seek  out  no  faction  —  no  peculiar  school  — 

But  lean  on  Reason,  as  your  safest  rule. 

Let  doubtful  facts,  with  patient  hand,  be  led. 

To  take  their  place  on  this  Procrustian  bed  ! 

What,  plainly,  fits  not,  may  be  thrown  aside,  310 

Without  the  censure  of  ])edantic  pride  : 

For  nature  still,  to  just  proportion,  clings ; 


JUVENILIA 


503 


And  human  reason  judges  natural  things. 
Moreover,  in  th'  historian's  bosom  look, 
And  weigh  his  feelings  ere  you  trust  his  book  ; 
His  private    friendships,   private  wrongs,   de- 
scry. 
Where   tend  his  passions,  where  his  int'rests 

lie  — 
And,  while  his  proper  faults  your  mind  engage, 
Discern  the  ruling  foibles  of  his  age. 
Hence,  when  on  deep  research,  the  work  you 
find  320 

A  too  obtrusive  transcript  of  his  mind  ; 
When  you  perceive  a  fact  too  highly  wrought. 
Which     kindly    seems     to     prove    a    fav'rite 

thought ; 
Or  some  opposing  truth  trac'd  briefly  out. 
With  hand  of  careless  speed  —  then  turn  to 

doubt ! 
For  private  feeling,  like  the  taper,  glows. 
And  here  a  light,  and  there  a  shadow,  throws. 

If  some  gay  picture,  vilely  daubed,  were  seen 

With  grass  of  azure,  and  a  sky  of  green, 

Th'     impatient    laughter    we  'd     suppress    in 

vain,  330 

And  deem  the  painter  jesting,  or  insane. 
But,  when  the  sun  of  blinding  prejudice 
Glares  in  our  faces,  it  deceives  our  eyes  ; 
Truth  appears  falsehood  to  the  dazzled  sight, 
The  comment  apes  the  fact,  and  black  seems 

white  ; 
Commingled  hues,  their  separate  colors  lost, 
Dance  wildly  on,  in  bright  confusion  tost ; 
And,   midst    their  drunken   whirl,   the    giddy 

eye 
Beholds  one  shapeless  blot  for  earth  and  sky. 

Of  such  delusions  let  the  mind  take  heed,      340 
And  learn  to  think,  or  wisely  cease  to  read  ; 
And,  if  a  style  of  labor'd  grace  display 
Perverted  feelings,  in  a  pleasing  way  ;  ^ 
False  tints,  on  real  objects,  brightly  laid. 
Facts  in  disguise,  and  Truth  in  masquerade  — 
If  cheating  thoughts  in  beauteous  dress  appear, 
With  magic  sound,  to  captivate  the  ear  — 
Th'  enchanting  poison  of  that  page  decline. 
Or    drink     Circean     draughts  —  and     turn    to 
swine  ! 

We    hail     with     British     pride,     and    ready 
praise,  35° 

Enlightened  Miller  of  our  modern  days  ! 
Too  firm  though  temp'rate.  liberal  though  exact, 
To  give  too  much  to  argument  or  fact. 
To  love  details,  and  draw  no  moral  thence, 
Or  seek  the  comment,  and  forget  the  sense. 
He  leaves  all  vulgar  aims,  and  strives  alone 
To  find  the  ways  of   Truth,  and  make  them 
known ! 

Spirit  of  life  !  for  aye,  with  heav'nly  breath. 
Warm  the  dull  clay,  and  cold  abodes  of  death  ! 
Clasp  in  its  urn  the  consecrated  dust,  s'^o 

And  bind  a  laurel  round  the  broken  bust ; 
While  mid  decaying  tombs,  thy  pensive  choice, 
Thou  bidst  the  silent  utter  forth  a  voice. 
To  prompt  the  actors  of  our  busy  scene, 


And  tell  what  is^  the  tale  of  what  has  been  ! 
Yet  turn.  Philosophy  !  with  brow  sublime. 
Shall  Science  follow  on  the  steps  of  Time ! 
As,   o'er  Thought's    measureless    depths,    we 

bend  to  hear 
The  whispered  sound,  which  stole  on  Descartes' 

ear, 
Hallowing  the  sunny  visions  of  his  youth        37° 
With     that     eternal     mandate,    '  Search    for 

Truth !  ' 
Yes  !  search  for  Truth  —  the  glorious  path  is 

free  ; 
Mind  shews  her  dwelling  —  Nature  holds  the 

key  — 
Yes  !  search  for  Truth  —  her  tongue  shall  bid 

thee  scan 
The  book  of  knowledge,  for  the  use  of  Man ! 

Man  !  Man  !  thou  poor  antithesis  of  power ! 
Child  of  all  time  !  yet  creature  of  an  hour  ! 
By  turns,  camelion  of  a  thousand  forms, 
The  lord  of  empires,  and  the  food  of  worms  ! 
The  little  conqueror  of  a  petty  space,  3S0 

The    more    than    mighty,   or    the  worse  than 

base  ! 
Thou  ruin'd  landmark,  in  the  desert  way, 
Betwixt  the  all  of  glory,  and  decay  ! 
Fair  beams  the  torch  of  Science  in  thine  hand. 
And  sheds  its  brightness  o'er  the  glimmering 

land  ; 
While,  in  thy  native  grandeur,  bold,  and  free, 
Tliou  iDid'st  the  wilds  of  nature  smile  for  thee, 
And  treadest  Ocean's  paths  full  royally  ! 
Earth  yields  her  treasures  up  —  celestial  air 
Receives  thy  globe  of  life  —  when,  journeying 

there,  390 

It  bounds  from  dust,  and  bends  its  course  on 

high. 
And  walks,  in  beauty,  through  the  wondering 

sky. 
And  yet,  proud  clay  !  thine  empire  is  a  span. 
Nor  all  thy  greatness  makes  thee  more  than 

man ! 
While  Knowledge,  Science,  only  serve  t'  im- 
part 
The  god  thou  woulcVst  be,  and  the  thing  thou 

art! 

Where  stands  the  Syracusan  —  while  the  roar 
Of    men,    and    engines,     echoes    through    the 

shore  ? 
Where  stands  the  Syracusan  ?  haggard  Fate, 
With  ghastly  smile,  is  sitting  at  the  gate  ;      400 
And  Death  forgets  his  silence  'midst  the  crash 
Of  rushing  ruins  —  and  the  torches'  flash 
Waves    redly   on    the    straggling    forms    that 

die ; 
And  masterless  steeds,   beneath  that    gleam, 

dart  by. 
Scared  into  madness,  by  the  battle  cry  — 
And  sounds  are  hurtling  in  the  angry  air, 
Of   hate,  and    pain,   and    vengeance,  and    de- 
spair — 
The  smothered  voice  of  babes  —  the  long  wild 

shriek 
Of  mothers  —  and  the  curse  the  dying  speak  ! 
Where  stands  the  Syracusan  ?  tranquil  sage. 


504 


APPENDIX 


He  bends,  sublime,  o'er  Science'  splendid 
page;  4ii 

Walks  the  high  circuit  of  extended  mind, 
Surpasses  man,  and  dreams  not  of  mankind  ; 
While,  on  his  listless  ear,  the  battle  shout 
Falls  senseless  —  as  if  echo  breath'd  about 
The  hum  of  many  words,  the  laughing  glee. 
Which  linger'd  there,  Avhen  Syracuse  was  free. 
Away  !  away  !  for  louder  accents  fall  — 
But  not  the  sounds  of  joy  from  marble  hall ! 
Quick   steps    approach  — but    not    of    sylphic 
feet,  420 

Whose  echo  heralded  a  smile  more  sweet. 
Coming,  all  sport,  th'   indulgent  sage,  t'  up- 
braid 
For  lonely  hours,  to  studious  musing,  paid  — 
Be  hvished  !     Destruction  bares  the  flickering 

blade ! 
He  asked  to  live,  th'  unfinished  lines  to  fill, 
And  died  —  to  solve  a  problem  deeper  still. 
He    died,    the    glorious !    who,    with    soaring 

sight, 
Sought  some  new  world,  to  plant  his  foot  of 

might ; 
Thereon,  in  solitary  pride,  to  stand. 
And  lift  our  planet,  with  a  master's  hand  !     43° 
He  sank  in  death  —  Creation  only  gave 
That  thorn-encumbered  space  which  forms  his 

grave  — 
An  unknown  grave,  till  Tully  chanced  to  stray. 
And  named  the  spot  where  Archimedes  lay  ! 
Genius  !  behold  the  limit  of  thy  power  ! 
Thou  fir'st  the  soul  —  but,  when  life's  dream 

is  o'er, 
Giv'st  not  the  silent  pulse  one  throb  the  more  : 
And  mighty  beings  come,  and  pass  away, 
Like  other  comets,  and  like  other  —  clay. 

Though  analyzing  Truth  must  still  divide       440 

Historic  state,  and  scientific  pride  ; 

Yet  one  stale  fact,  our  judging  thoughts  in- 
fer — 

Since  each  is  human,  each  is  prone  to  err  ! 

Oft,  in  the  night  of  Time,  doth  History  stray, 

And  lift  her  lantern,  and  proclaim  it  day  ! 

And  oft,  when  day's  eternal  glories  shine, 

Doth  Science,  boasting,  cry  — '  The  light  is 
mine  ! ' 

So  hard  to  bear,  with  unobstructed  sight, 

Th'  excess  of  darkness,  or  th'  extreme  of  light. 

Yet,  to  be  just,  though  faults  belong  to  each. 
The  themes  of  one,  an  humbler  moral,  teach  : 
And,   'midst    th'    historian's     eloquence,    and 

skill,  452 

The  human  chronicler  is  human  still. 
If  on  past  power,  his  eager  thoughts  be  cast, 
It  brings  an  awful  antidote  —  't  is  past ! 
If,  deathless  fame,  his  ravish'd  organs  scan, 
The  deathless  fame  exists  for  buried  man  : 
Power,  and  decay,  at  once  he  turns  to  view; 
And,  with  the  strength,  beholds  the  weakness 

too. 
Not  so,  doth  Science'  musing  son  aspire  ;         460 
And  pierce  creation,  with  his  eye  of  fire. 
Yon  mystic  pilgrims  of  the  starry  way, 
No  humbling  lesson,  to  his  soul,  convey  ; 


No  tale  of  change,  their  changeless  course  hath 
taught ; 

And  works  divine  excite  no  earthward  thought. 

And  still,  he,  reckless,  builds  the  splendid 
dream  ; 

And  still,  his  pride  increases  with  his  theme  ; 

And  still,  the  cause  is  slighted  in  th'  effect ; 

And  still,  self -worship  follows  self-respect. 

Too  apt  to  watch  the  engines  of  the  scene,      470 

And  lose  the  hand,  which  moves  the  vast  ma- 
chine ; 

View  Matter's  form,  and  not  its  moving  soul ; 

Interpret  parts,  and  misconceive  the  whole  : 

While,  darkly  musing  'twixt  the  earth,  and 
sky. 

His  heart  grows  narrow,  as  his  hopes  grow 
high ; 

And  quits,  for  aye,  with  unavailing  loss. 

The  sympathies  of  earth,  but  not  the  dross  ; 

Till  Time  sweeps  down  the  fabric  of  his  trust ; 

And  life,  and  riches,  turn  to  death,  and  dust. 

And  such  is  Man !  'neath  Error's  foul  as- 
saults, 480 

His  noblest  moods  beget  his  grossest  faults  ! 

When  Knowledge  lifts  her  hues  of  varied 
grace. 

The  fair  exotic  of  a  brighter  place, 

To  keep  her  stem,  from  mundane  blasts,  en- 
shrin'd. 

He  makes  a  fatal  hot-bed  of  his  mind  ; 

Too  oft  adapted,  in  their  growth,  to  spoil 

The  natural  beauties  of  a  generous  soil. 

Ah !  such  is  Man !  thus  strong,  and  weak 
withal. 

His  rise  oft  renders  him  too  prone  to  fall ! 

The  loftiest  hills'  fresh  tints,  the  soonest, 
fade ;  49° 

And  highest  buildings  cast  the  deepest  shade  ! 

So  Buffon  err'd  ;  amidst  his  chilling  dream. 
The  judgment  grew  material  as  the  theme : 
Musing  on  Matter,  till  he  called  away 
The  modes  of  Mind,   to  form  the  modes  of 

clay; 
And    made,   confusing   each,   with    judgment 

blind, 
Mind  stoop  to  dust,  and  dust  ascend  to  Mind. 
So  Leibnitz  err'd  ;  when,  in  the  starry  hour, 
He   read    no  weakness,   where    was    written, 

'  Power  ; ' 
Beheld  the  verdant  earth,  the  circling  sea  ;    500 
Nor  dreamt    so  fair  a  world   could  cease  to 

be! 
Yea  !  but  he  heard  the  Briton's  awful  name. 
As,  scattering  darkness,  in  his  might,  he  came. 
Girded  with  Truth,  and  earnest  to  confute 
What  gave  to  Matter,  Mind's  best  attribute. 
Sternly    they  strove  —  th'    unequal  race  was 

run ! 
The  owlet  met  the  eagle  at  the  sun ! 

While  such  defects,  their  various  forms,  un- 
fold ; 
And  rust,  so  foul,  obscures  the  brightest  gold  — 
Let  Science'  soaring  sons,  the  ballast,  cast,    51° 
But  judge  their  present  errors,  by  their  past. 


JUVENILIA 


505 


As  some  poor  wanderer,  in  the  darkness,  goes, 
When  fitful  wind,  in  hollow  murmur,  blows  ; 
Hailing,    with   trembling  joy,   the   lightning's 

I'ay, 
Which  threats  his  safety,  but  illumes  his  way. 

Gross  faults  buy  deep  experience.     Sages  tell 
That  Truth,  like  -^sop's  fox,  is  in  a  well ; 
And,  like  the  goat,  his  fable  prates  about, 
Fools  must  stay  in,  that  wise  men  may  get 

out. 
What  thousand  scribblers,  of  our  age,  would 

choose  520 

To  throw  a  toga  round  the  English  muse  ; 
Rending  her  garb  of  ease,  which  graceful  grew 
From    Dryden's   loom,   beprankt   with   varied 

hue ! 
In  that  dull  aim,  by  Mind  unsanctified, 
What  thousand  Wits  would  have  their  wits 

belied. 
Devoted  Southey  !  if  thou  had'st  not  tried  ! 
Use  is  the  aim  of  Science  ;  this  the  end 
The  wise  appreciate,  and  the  good  commend. 
For  not,  like  babes,  the  flaming  torch,  we  prize. 
That  sparkling  lustre  may  attract  our  eyes  ; 
But   that,   when  evening  shades  impede  the 

sight,  .531 

It  casts,  on  objects  round,  a  useful  light. 

Use  is  the  aim  of  Science  !  give  again 
A  golden  sentence  to  the  faithful  pen  — 
Dwell  not  on  parts !    for  parts    contract    the 

mind  ; 
And  knowledge  still  is  useless,  when  confined. 
The  yearning  soul,  inclosed  in  narrow  bound. 
May  be  ingenious,  but  is  ne'er  profound : 
SpoU'd   of  its  strength,  the  fettered  thought 

grows  tame  ; 
And  want  of  air  extinguishes  the  flame  !  54° 

And  as  the  sun,  beheld  in  mid-day  blaze, 
Seems   turned    to   darkness,  as    we    strive   to 

gaze  ; 
So  mental  vigor,  on  one  object,  cast. 
That  object's  self  becomes  obscured  at  last. 
'Tis  easy,  as  Experience  may  aver, 
To  pass  from  general  to  particular. 
But  most  laborious  to  direct  the  soul 
From  studying  parts,  to  reason  on  the  whole : 
Thoughts,  train'd   oia  narrow  subjects,  to  let 

fall  ; 
And  learn  the  unison  of  each  with  all.  55° 

In  Nature's  reign,  a  scale  of  life,  we  find: 
A  scale  of  knowledge,  we  behold,  in  mind  ; 
With  each  progressive  link,  our  steps  ascend. 
And  traverse  all,  before  they  reach  the  end  ; 
Searching,  while  Reason's  powers  may  farther 

go. 
The  things  we   know  not,  by  the  things  we 

know. 

But  hold  !     methinks  some  sons  of  Thought 

demand, 
'  Why  strive    to  form    the    Trajan's  vase  in 

sand  ? 
Are  Reason's  paths  so  few,  that  Mind  may  call 
Her  finite  energies,  to  tread  them  all  ?  560 


Lo  !   Learning's  waves,   in  bounded  channel, 

sweep ; 
When  they  flow  wider,  shall  they  run  as  deep  ? 
Shall  that  broad  surface,  no  dull  shallow,  hide, 
Growing  dank  weeds  of  superficial  pride  ? 
Then    Heaven  may  leave    our   giant    powers 

alone  ; 
Nor  give  each  soul  a  focus  of  its  own ! 
Genius  bestows,  in  vain,  the  chosen  page, 
If  all  the  tome,  the  minds  of  all,  engage  ! ' 

Nay  !  I  reply  —  with  free  congenial  breast. 
Let   each   peruse   the   part,  which    suits  him 

best !  570 

But,  lest  contracting  prejudice  mislead. 
Regard  the  context,  as  he  turns  to  read  ! 
Hence,   liberal    feeling  gives    th'   enlighten'd 

soul. 
The  spirit,  with  the  letter  of  the  scroll. 

With  what  triumphant  joy,  what  glad  surprise, 
The  dull  behold  the  dullness  of  the  wise  ! 
What  insect  tribes  of  brainless  impudence 
Buzz  round  the  carcase  of  perverted  sense  ! 
What  railing  ideots  hunt,  from  classic  school, 
Each  flimsy  sage,  and  scientific  fool,  580 

Crying,  '  'T  is  well !  we  see  the  blest  effect 
Of  watchful  night,  and  toiling  intellect !  ' 
Yet  let  them  pause,  and  tremble  —  vainly  glad  ; 
For  too  much  learning  maketh  no  man  mad  ! 
Too  little  dims  the  sight,  and  leads  us  o'er 
The  twilight  path,  where  fools  have  been  be- 
fore ; 
With  not  enough  of  Reason's  radiance  seen. 
To  track  the  footsteps,  where  those  fools  have 
been. 

Divinest  Newton  !  if  my  pen  may  shew 
A  name  so  mighty,  in  a  verse  so  low,  —  59° 

Still  let  the  sons  of  Science,  joyful,  claim 
The  bright  example  of  that  splendid  name  ! 
Still  let  their  lips  repeat,  my  page  bespeak, 
The  sage  how  learned !    and    the    man    how 

meek  ! 
Too  wise,  to  think  his  human  folly  less  ; 
Too  great,  to  doubt  his  proper  littleness  ; 
Too  strong,  to  deem  his  weakness  past  away  ; 
Too  high  in  soul,  to  glory  in  his  clay  : 
Rich  in  all  nature,  but  her  erring  side  : 
Endow'd  with  all  of  Science  — but  its  pride. 


ANALYSIS    OF   THE   SECOND    BOOK 

Metaphysics — Address  to  Metaphysicians 
—  The  most  considerable  portion  of  their  errors 
conceived  to  arise  from  difficulties  attending 
the  use  of  words  —  That  on  one  hand,  thoughts 
become  obscure  without  the  assistance  of  lan- 
guage, while  on  the  other,  language  from  its 
material  analogy  deteriorates  from  spiritual 
meaning  —  Allusion  to  a  probable  mode  of  com- 
munication between  spirits  after  death  —  That 
a  limited  respect,  though  not  a  servile  submis- 
sion, is  due  to  verbal  distinctions  —  Clearness 
of  style  peculiarly  necessary  to  Metaphysical 
subjects  —  The  graces  of  Composition  not  in- 


5o6 


APPENDIX 


consistent  with  them  —  Plato,  Bacon,  Boling- 
broke  —  The  extremes  into  -which  Philosophers 
have  fallen  with  regard  to  sensation,  and  re- 
flection —  Berkeley,  Condillac  —  That  subject 
briefly  considered  —  Abstractions  —  Longinus, 
Burke,  Price,  Payne  Knight  —  Blind  submis- 
sion to  authorities  deprecated  —  The  Pytha- 
gorean saying  opposed,  and  Cicero's  unphilo- 
sophical  assertion  alluded  to  —  That,  however, 
it  partakes  of  injustice  to  love  Truth,  and  yet 
refuse  our  homage  to  the  advocates  of  Truth  — 
How  the  names  of  great  writers  become  en- 
deared to  us  by  early  recollections  —  Descrip- 
tion of  the  School-boy's  first  intellectual  grati- 
fications —  That  even  without  reference  to  the 
past,  some  immortal  names  are  entitled  to  our 
veneration,  since  they  are  connected  with  Truth 
—  Bacon — Apostrophe  to  Locke. 

Poetry  is  introduced  —  More  daring  than 
Philosophy,  she  personifies  abstractions,  and 
brings  the  things  unseen  before  the  eye  of  the 
Mind  —  How  often  reason  is  indebted  to  poetic 
imagery  —  Irving  —  The  poetry  of  prose  — 
Plato's  ingratitude  —  Philosophers  and  Poets 
contrasted  —  An  attempt  to  define  Poetry  — 
That  the  passions  make  use  of  her  language  — 
Nature  the  poet's  study  —  Shakespeare  —  Hu- 
man nature  as  seen  in  cities  —  Scenic  nature, 
and  how  the  mind  is  affected  thereby  —  That 
Poetry  exists  not  in  the  object  contemplated, 
but  is  created  by  the  contemplating  mind  —  The 
ideal  —  Observations  on  the  structure  of  verse, 
as  adapted  to  the  subject  treated  —  Milton, 
Horace,  Pope  — The  French  Drama  —  Corneille, 
Racine  —  Harmony  and  chasteness  of  versifi- 
cation —  The  poem  proceeds  to  argue,  that  the 
muse  will  refuse  her  inspiration  to  a  soul  unat- 
tuned  to  generous  sympathy,  unkindled  by  the 
deeds  of  Virtue,  or  the  voice  of  Freedom  — 
Contemptuous  notice  of  those  iJrompted  only 
by  interest  to  aspire  to  poetic  eminence  —  What 
should  be  the  Poet's  best  guerdon  —  From  the 
contemplation  of  motives  connected  with  Free- 
dom, we  are  led  by  no  unnatural  transition  to 
Greece  —  Her  present  glorious  struggle  —  An- 
ticipation of  her  ultimate  independence,  and 
the  restoration  of  the  Muses  to  their  ancient 
seats  —  Allusion  to  the  death  of  Byron  —  Re- 
flections on  Mortality  —  The  terrors  of  death  as 
beheld  by  the  light  of  Nature  —  The  consola- 
tions of  death  as  beheld  with  reference  to  a 
future  state  —  Contemplation  of  the  immor- 
tality of  Mind,  and  her  perfected  powers  — 
Conclusion. 


BOOK  II 

But  now  to  higher  themes  !  no  more  eonfin'd   6oi 
To  copy  Nature,  Mind  returns  to  Mind. 
We  leave  the  throng,  so  nobly,  and  so  well. 
Tracing,  in  Wisdom's  book,  things  visible,  — 
And   turn  to   things    unseen ;    where,   greatly 

wrought, 
Soul  questions  soul,  and  thought  revolves   on 

thought. 
My  spirit  loves,  my  voice  shall  hail  ye,  now, 


Sons  of  the  patient  eye,  and  passionless  brow  ! 
Students  sublime !     Earth,  man,  unmov'd,  ye 

view,  609 

Time,  circumstance  ;  for  what  are  they  to  you  ? 
What  is  the    crash    of  worlds,  —  the  fall  of 

kings,  — 
When  worlds  and  monarchs  are  such  brittle 

things ! 
What  the  tost,   shatter'd  bark,   that  blindly 

dares 
A  sea  of  storm?    Ye  sketch  the  wave  which 

bears ! 
The  cause,  and  not  th'  effect,  your  thoughts 

exact ; 
The  principle  of  action,  not  the  act,  — 
The  soul !  the  soul !  and,   'midst  so  grand  a 

task, 
Ye  call  her  rushing  passions,  and  ye  ask 
Whence   are  ye?   and  each  mystic  thing  re- 
sponds ! 
I  would  be  all  ye  are  —  except  those  bonds  !   620 

Except  those  bonds  !  ev'n  here  is  oft  descried 

The  love  to  parts,  the  poverty  of  pride  ! 

Ev'n    here,    while    Mind,   in    Mind's  horizon, 

springs. 
Her  '  native  mud  '  is  weighing  on  her  wings  ! 
Ev'n  here,  while  Truth  invites  the  ardent  crowd, 
Ixion-like,  they  rush  t'  embrace  a  cloud  ! 
Ev'n  here,  oh  !  foul  reproach  to  human  wit ! 
A  Hobbes  hath  reasoned,  and  Spinosa  writ ! 

Rank    pride   does  much !   and  yet   we  justly 

Our  greatest  errors  in  our  weakness  lie.  630 

For  thoughts  uncloth'd  by  language  are,  at  best. 
Obscure ;    while    grossness    injures    those    ex- 

prest  — 
Through  words,  —  in  whose  analysis,  we  find 
Th'  analogies  of  Matter,  not  of  Mind  : 
Hence,   when  the    use    of  words  is    graceful 

brought. 
As  physical  dress  to  raetaphj^sic  thought. 
The    thought,    howe'er    sublime    its    pristine 

state. 
Is  by  th'  expression  made  degenerate  ; 
Its  spiritual  essence  changed,  or  cramp'd ;  and 

hence 
Some  hold  by    words,   who    cannot  hold    by 

sense ;  640 

And  leave  the  thought  behind,  and  take  th' 

attire  — 
Elijah's  mantle  —  but  without  his  fire  ! 
Yet  spurn  not  words  !  't  is  needful  to  confess 
They  give  ideas,  a  body  and  a  dress  ! 
Behold  them  traverse  Learning's  region  round, 
The  vehicles  of  thought  on  wheels  of  sound  ; 
Mind's  winged  strength,  wherewith  the  height 

is  won, 
Unless  she  trust  their  frailty  to  the  sun. 
Destroy  the  body  !  —  will  the  spirit  stay  ? 
Destroy  the  car !  —  will  Thought  pursue  her 

way  ?  650 

Destroy  the  wings  —  let  Mind  their  aid  forego  I 
Do  no  Icarian  billows  yawn  below  ? 
Ah  !  spurn  not  words  with  reckless  insolence  ; 
But  still  admit  their  influence  with  the  sense, 


JUVENILIA 


507 


And  fear  to  slight  their  laws  !    Perchance  we 

find 
No  perfect  code  transmitted  to  mankind  ; 
And  yet  mankind,  till  life's  dark  sands  are 

run, 
Prefers  imperfect  government  to  none. 
Thus  Thought  must  Lend  to  words  !  —  Some 

sphere  of  bliss, 
Ere   long,    shall    free    her    from    th'  alloy  of 

this  :  660 

Some  kindred    home    for    Mind  —  some  holy 

place, 
Where  spirits  look  on  spirits,  '  face  to  face,'  — 
Where  souls  may  see,  as  they  themselves  are 

seen. 
And  voiceless  intercourse  may  pass  between, 
All  pure  —  all  free  !   as  light,  which  doth  ap- 
pear 
In  its  own  essence,  incorrupt  and  clear ! 
One  service,  praise  !  one  age,  eternal  youth  ! 
One  tongue,  intelligence  !  one  subject,  truth  ! 

Till  then,  no  freedom.  Learning's  search 
affords, 

Of  soul  from  body,  or  of  thought  from 
words.  670 

For  thought  may  lose,  in  struggling  to  be 
hence, 

The  gravitating  power  of  Common-sense  ; 

Through  all  the  depths  of  space  with  Phaeton 
hurl'd, 

T'  impair  our  reason,  as  he  scorch'd  our  world. 

Hence,  this  preceptive  truth,  my  page  af- 
firms— 

Respect  the  technicality  of  terms  ! 

Yet  not  in  base  submission  —  lest  we  find 

That,  aiding  clay,  we  crouch  too  low  for  Mind  ; 

Too  apt  conception's  essence  to  forget. 

And  place  all  wisdom  in  the  alphabet.  680 

Still  let  appropriate  phrase  the  sense  invest ; 
That  what  is  well  conceived  be  well  exprest ! 
Nor  e'er  the  reader's  wearied  brain  engage, 
In  hunting  meaning  dovm  the  mazy  page, 
With  three  long  periods  tortured  into  one, 
The  sentence  ended,  with  the  sense  begun  ; 
Nor    in    details,  which    schoolboys    know  by 

heart. 
Perplex  each  turning  with  the  terms  of  art. 
To  understand,  we  deem  no  common  good  ; 
And 'tis  less  easy  to  be  i/??(/ersfoof/.      _  690 

But  let  not  clearness  be  your  onlj^  praise. 
When  style  may  charm  a  thousand  different 

ways ; 
In  Plato  glow,  to  life  and  glory  wrought, 
By  high  companionship  vnth  noblest  thought ; 
In  Bacon,  warm  abstraction  with  a  breath. 
Catch    Poesy's  bright    beams,   and  smile   be- 
neath ; 
In  St.  John  roll,  a  genei-ous  stream,  along, 
Correctly  free,  and  regularly  strong. 
Nor  scornful  deem  the  effort  out  of  place. 
With   taste     to    reason,    and     convince    with 
grace ;  700 

But  ponder  wisely,  ere  you  know,  too  late, 
Contempt  of  trifles  will  not  prove  us  great ! 
The  Cynics,  not  their  tubs,  respect  engage  ; 


And  dirt  J'  tunic  never  made  a  sage. 
E'en  Cato  —  had  he  own'd  the  Senate's  will, 
And  wash'd  his  toga  —  had  been  Cato  still. 
Justly  we  censure  —  yet  are  free  to  own, 
That  indecision  is  a  ci*ime  unknown. 
For.  never  faltering,  seldom  reasoning  long, 
And  still  most  positive  whene'er  most  wrong. 
No  theoretic  sage  is  apt  to  fare  711 

Like  Mah'met's  coffin  —  hung  in  middle  air  ! 
No  !  f  enc'd  by  Error's  all-sufficient  trust. 
These  stalk  '  in  nubibus  '  —  those  crawl  in  dust. 
From  their  proud  height,  the  first  demand  to 

know. 
If  spiritual  essence  should  descend  more  low  ? 
The  last,  as  vainly,  from  their  dunghill,  cry. 
Can  body's  grossness  hope  t'  aspire  more  high  ? 
And  while  Reflection's  empire,  these  disclose, 
Sensation's  sovereign  right  is  told  by  those.    720 
Lo  !  Berkeley  proves  an  old  hypothesis  ! 
'  Out  on  the  senses  ! '  (he  was  out  of  his  !) 
'  All  is  idea  !  and  nothing  real  springs 
But    God.   and    Reason '  —  (not  the  right    of 

kings  ?) 
'  Hold  ! '  says    Condillac  with    profound    sur- 
prise — 
'  Why  prate   of  Reason  ?  we    have  ears    and 


eyes 


I ' 


Condillac  !  while  the  dangerous  periods  fall 

Upon  thy  page,  to  stamp  sensation  all ; 

While     (coldly      studious !)    thine     ingenious 

scroll 
Endows  the  mimic  statue  with  a  soul  730 

Compos'd    of     sense  —  behold     the     generous 

hound  — 
His  piercing  eye,  his  ear  awake  to  sound, 
His  scent,  most  delicate  organ  !  and  declare 
What  triumph  hath    the   'Art    of    thinking' 

there  ! 
What    Gall,  or   Spiirzheim,  on  his  front   hath 

sought 
The  mystic  bumps  indicative  of  Thought  ? 
Or  why,   if  Thought  do   there    maintain  her 

throne. 
Will  reasoning  curs  leave  logic  for  a  bone  ? 

JMind  is  imprison'd  in  a  lonesome  tower  : 
Sensation  is  its  window  —  hence  herb,  flower, 
Landscapes    all    sun,    the    rush    of    thousand 

springs,  741 

Waft  in  sweet  scents,  fair  sights,  soft  murmur- 

ings; 
And  in  her  joy,  she  gazeth  —  yet  ere  long, 
Reason  awaketh  in  her,  bold  and  strong. 
And  o'er  the  scene  exerting  secret  laws. 
First  seeks  th'  efficient,  then  the  final  cause. 
Abstracts  from  forms  their  hidden  accidents, 
And  marks  in  outward  substance,  inward  sense. 

Our  first  perceptions  formed  —  we   search,   to 

find  ^ 
The  operations  of  the  forming  mind  ;  75° 

And  turn  within  by  Reason's  certain  route. 
To  view  the  shadows  of  the  things  without 
Discern'd,  retain'd,   compar'd,  combin'd,    and 

brought 
To  mere  abstraction,  by  abstracting  Thought. 


5o8 


APPENDIX 


Hence  to  discern,  retain,  compare,  connect, 
We  deem  the  faculties  of  Intellect ; 
The  which,  mus'd  on,  exert  a  new  control, 
And  fresh  ideas  are  open'd  on  the  soul. 

Sensation  is  a  stream  with  dashing  spray. 
That  shoots  in  idle  speed  its  arrowy  way  ;       760 
When  lo  !  the  mill  arrests  its  waters'  course. 
Turning:  to  use  their  unproductive  force  : 
The  cunning  wheels  by  foamy  currents  sped, 
Reflection  triumphs,  —  and  mankind  is  fed  ! 

Since    Pope    hath    shewn,  and    Learning  still 

must  shew, 
'We    cannot     reason     but     from     what     we 

know,'  — 
Unfold    the  scroll  of  Thought ;   and  turn  to 

find 
The  undeceiving  signature  of  Mind  ! 
There,  judge  her  nature  by  her  nature's  course, 
And  trace  her  actions  upwards  to  their  source. 
So  when  the  property  of  Mind  we  call  771 

An  essence,  or  a  substance  spiritual. 
We  name  her  thus,  by  marking  how  she  clings 
Less  to  the  forms  than  essences  of  things  ; 
For  body  clings  to  body  —  objects  seen 
And  substance  sensible  alone  have  been 
Sensation's  study  ;  while  reflective  Mind, 
Essence  unseen  in  objects  seen  may  find  ; 
And,  tracing  whence  her  known  impressions 

came, 
Give  single  forms  an  universal  name.  780 

So,  when  particular  sounds  in  concord  rise. 

Those  sounds  as  melody^  we  generalize  ; 

When  pleasing  shapes  and  colors  blend,   the 

soul 
Abstracts  th'  idea  of  beauty  from  the  whole, 
Deducting  thus,  by  Mind's  enchanting  spell. 
The  intellectual  from  the  sensible. 
Hence  bold  Longinus'  splendid  periods  grew, 
'  Who    was    himself    the    great    sublime     he 

drew:  ' 
Hence  Burke,    the    poet-reasoner,   learn'd   to 

trace 
His  glowing  style  of  energetic  grace :  790 

Hence    thoughts,     perchance,     some    favor'd 

bosoms  move, 
Which  Price  might  own,  and  classic  Knight 


approve 


Go  !  light  a  rushlight,  ere  the  day  is  done. 
And  call  its  glimm'ring  brighter  than  the  sun  ! 
Go  !  while  the  stars  in  midnight  glory  beam, 
Prefer  their  cold  reflection  in  the  stream  ! 
But  be  not  that  dull  slave,  who  only  looks 
On  Reason,  '  through  the  spectacles  of  books  !  ' 
Rather  by  Truth  determine  what  is  true,  — 
And  reasoning  works,  through  Reason's  me- 
dium, view ;  800 
For  authors  can't  monopolize  her  light : 
'T  is  your's  to  read,  as  well  as  their's  to  write. 
To  judge   is   your's  !  — then   why    submissive 

call, 
'  The  master  said  so  ?  '  —  't  is  no  rule  at  all ! 
Shall  passive  sufferance  e'en  to  mind  belong, 
When  right  divine  in  man  is  human  wrong  ? 


Shall  a  high  name  a  low  idea  enhance. 

When    all    may    fail,   as    some    succeed  —  by 

chance  ? 
Shall  fix'd  chimeras  unfix' d  reason  shock  ? 
And  if   Locke   err,  must   thousands  err  with 

Locke  ?  810 

Men !  claim  your  charter !    spurn    th'    unjust 

control. 
And  shake    the  bondage  from  the  free-born 

soul ! 
Go  walk  the  porticoes  !  and  teach  your  youth 
All    names    are    bubbles,    but    the    name    of 

Truth  ! 
If  fools,  by  chance,  attend  to  Wisdom's  rules, 
'T  is  no  dishonor  to  be  right  with  fools, 
If  human  faults  to  Plato's  page  belong. 
Not  ev'n  with  Plato,  willingly  go  wrong. 
But  though  the  judging  page  declare  it  well 
To  love  Truth  better  than  the  lips  which  tell  ; 
Yet  't  were  an  error,  with  injustice  class'd,    821 
T'  adore  the  former,  and  neglect  the  last,  i 

Oh !  beats  there,  Heav'n !  a  heart  of  human 

frame. 
Whose    pulses    throb    not    at    some    kindling 

name  ? 
Some  sound,  which  brings  high  musings  in  its 

track. 
Or  calls  perchance  the  days  of  childhood  back, 
In  its  dear  echo,  —  when,  without  a  sigh. 
Swift  hoop,  and  bounding  ball,  were  first  laid 

To  clasp  in  joy,  from  school-room  tyrant,  free, 
The  classic  volume  on  the  little  knee,  830 

And  eon  sweet  sounds  of  dearest  minstrelsy. 
Or  words  of    sterner    lore ;   the  young    brow 

fraught 
With  a  calm  brightness  which  might  mimic 

thought. 
Leant  on  the  boyish  hand  —  as,  all  the  while, 
A    half-heav'd    sigh,   or  aye    th'   unconscious 

smile 
Would   tell  how,  o'er  that  page,  the  soul  was 

glowing. 
In  an  internal  transport,  past  the  knowing ! 
How  feelings,  erst  unfelt,  did  then  appear. 
Give    forth    a    voice,   and   murmur,  '  We  are 

here  ! ' 
As  lute-strings,   which  a  strong    hand    plays 

upon ;  840 

Or  Memnon's  statue  singing  'neath  the  sun. 
Ah  me  !  for  such  are  pleasant  anemories  —  v 

And  call  the  tears  of  fondness  to  our  eyes  \ 

Reposing  on  this  gone-by  dream  —  when  thus. 
One  marbled  book  was  all  the  world  to  us  ; 
The  gentlest  bliss  our  innocent  thoughts  could 

find  — 
The  happiest  cradle  of  our  infant  mind  ! 
And  though  such  hours  be  past,  we  shall  not 

less 
Think  on  their  joy  with  grateful  tenderness  ; 
And  bless  the  page  which  bade   our    reason 

wake,  —  850 

And  love  the  prophet,  for  his  mission's  sake. 
But  not  alone    doth    Memory's     smouldering 

flame 
Reflect  a  radiance  on  a  glorious  name ; 


JUVENILIA 


509 


For  there  are  names  of  pride  ;  and  they  who 

bear 
Have  walked  with  Truth,   and  turn'd    their 

footsteps  Avhere 
We  walk    not  —  their    beholdings    aye    have 

been 
O'er  Mind's  far  countries  which  we  have  not 

seen  — 
Our  thoughts  are  not  their  thoughts  !  —  and  oft 

we  dream 
That  light  upon  the  awful  brow  doth  gleam, 
From  that    high    converse ;    as    when    Moses 

trod  860 

Towards  the  people,  from  the  mount  of  God, 
His  lips  were  silent,  but  his  face  was  bright, 
And  prostrate  Israel  trembled  at  the  sight. 

What  tongue  can  syllable  our  Bacon's  name, 

Nor  own  a  heart  exulting  in  his  fame  ? 

Where  prejudice'   wild   blasts    were  wont  to 

blow  ; 
And  waves  of  ignorance  roll'd  dark  below. 
He    raised  his  sail  —  and  left   the  coast    be- 
hind,— 
Sublime  Columbus  of  the  realms  of  Mind  ! 
Dared    folly's     mists,     opinion's    treacherous 

sands,  S70 

And  walk'd,  with  godlike  step,  th'  untrodden 

lands  ! 
But  ah  !  our  Muse  of  Britain,  standing  near, 
Hath  dimm'd  my  tablet  with  a  pensive  tear  ! 
Thrice,  the  proud   theme,  her  free-born  voice 

essays,  — 
And  thrice  that  voice  is  faltering  in  his  praise  — 
Yea  !  till  her  eyes  in  silent  triumph  turn 
To  mark  afar  her  Locke's  sepulchral  urn ! 
Oh  urn  !  where  students  rapturous  vigils  keep. 
Where  sages  envy,  and  where  patriots  weep  ! 
Oh    Name !      that    bids    my    glowing    spirit 

wake  —  880 

To  freemen's  hearts  endeared  for  Freedom's 

sake  ! 
Oh  soul !  too  bright  in  life's  corrupting  hour, 
To  rise  by  faction,  or  to  crouch  to  power  ! 
While  radiant    Genius    lifts    her  heav'nward 

wing,  _  ^ 

And  human  bosoms  own  the  Mind  I  smg ; 
While  British  writers  British  thoughts  record. 
And  England's  press  is  fearless  as  her  sword  ; 
While,  'mid   the  seas  which  gird   our  favor'd 

isle. 
She  clasps  her  charter'd  rights  with  conscious 

smile  ; 
So  long  be  thou  her  glory,  and  her  guide,   ^     890 
Thy  page  her  study,  and  thy  name  her  pride  ! 
Oh  !  ever  thus,  immortal  Locke,  belong. 
First  to  my  heart,  as  noblest  in  my  song  ; 
And  since  in  thee,  the  muse  enraptured  find 
A  moral  greatness,  and  creating  mind. 
Still  may  thine  influence,  which  with  honor'd 

light  _ 

Beams  when  I  read,  illume  me  as  I  write  ! 
The  page  too  guiltless,  and  the  soul  too  free. 
To  call   a   frown  from  Truth,  or  blush  from 

thee  ! 
But  where  Philosophy  would  fear  to  soar,      90° 
Young  Poesy's  elastic  steps  explore  ! 


Her  fairy  foot,  her  daring  eye  pursues 
The  light  of  faith  —  nor  trembles  as  she  views  ! 
Wont  o'er  the  Psalmist's  holy  harp  to  hang, 
And  swell  the  sacred  note  when  Milton  sang  ; 
MiugUug  reflection's  chords  with  fancy's  lays. 
The  tones  of  music  with  the  voice  of  praise  ! 

And  while  Philosophy,  in  spirit,  free, 
Reasons,  believes,  yet  cannot  plainly  see, 
Poetic  Rapture,  to  her  dazzled  sight,  910 

Portrays  the  shadows  of  the  things  of  light ; 
Delighting  o'er  the  unseen  worlds  to  roam, 
And  waft  the  pictures  of  perfection  home. 
Thus  Reason  oft  the  aid  of  fancy  seeks. 
And     strikes     Pierian    chords  —  when    Irving 
speaks  ! 

Oh  !  silent  be  the  withering  tongue  of  those 
Who  call  each  page,  bereft  of  measure,  prose  ; 
Who  deem  the    Muse    possest  of  such  faint 

spells. 
That  like  poor  fools,  she  glories  in  her  hells ; 
Who  hear  her  voice  alone  in  tinkling  chime,  920 
And  find  a  hue's  whole  magic  in  its  rhjone  ; 
Forgetting,  if  the  gilded  shrine  be  fair, 
What  purer  spirit  may  inhabit  there  ! 
For  such,  —  indignant  at  her  questioned  might, 
Let    Genius  cease  to  charm  —  and    Scott    to 

write! 

Ungrateful  Plato  !  o'er  thy  cradled  rest. 
The  Muse  hath  hung,  and  all  her  love  exprest ; 
Thy  first  imperfect  accents  fondly  taught. 
And  warm'd  thy  visions  with  poetic  thought ! 
Ungrateful  Plato  !  should  her  deadliest  foe   930 
Be  found  within  the  breast  she  tended  so  ? 
Spoil'd    of  her  laurels,   should    she    weep    to 

find 
The  best  belov'd  become  the  most  unkind  ? 
And  was  it  well  or  generous,  Brutus  like. 
To  pierce  the  hand  that  gave  the  power  to 

strike  ? 

Sages,  by  reason,  reason's  powers  direct ; 
Bards,  through  the  heart,  convince  the  intel- 
lect. 
Philosophy  majestic  brings  to  view 
Mind's    perfect    modes,   and   fair  proportions 

too  ; 
Enchanting  Poesy  bestows  the  while,  940 

Upon  its  sculptured  grace,  her  magic  smile. 
Bids  the  cold  form,  with  living  radiance  glow, 
And  stamps  existence  on  its  marble  brow  ! 
For  Poesy's  whole  essence,  when  defuied. 
Is  elevation  of  the  reasoning  mind. 
When    inward    sense    from    Fancy's  page    is 

taught. 
And  moral  feeling  ministers  to  Thought. 
And  hence,  the  natural  passions  all  agree 
In  seeking  Nature's  language  — poetry.  949 

"Wlien  Hope,  in  soft  perspective,  from  afar, 
Sees  lovely  scenes  more  lovely  than  they  are  ; 
To  deck  the  landscape,  tiptoe  Fancy  brings 
Her  plastic  shapes,  and  bright  imaginings. 
Or   when  man's   breast  by   torturing  pangs  is 

stung. 
If  fearful  silence  cease  t'  enchain  his  tongue, 


S^o 


APPENDIX 


In  metaphor,  the  feelings  seek  relief, 
And  all  the  soul  grows  eloquent  with  grief. 

Poetic  fire,  like  Vesta's,  pure  and  bright, 
Should  draw  from  Nature's  sun,  its  holy  light. 
With  Nature,  should  the  musing  poet  roam,  960 
And  steal  instruction  from  her  classic  tome  ; 
When   'neath  her  guidance,  least  inclin'd  to 

err  — 
The  ablest  painter  when  he  copies  her. 

Beloved     Shakespeare !      England's     dearest 

fame  ! 
Dead  is  the  breast  that  swells  not  at  thy  name  ! 
Whether  thine  Ariel  skim  the  seas  along, 
Floating  on  wings  etherial  as  his  song  — 
Lear  rave  amid  the  tempest  —  or  Macbeth 
Question  the  hags  of  hell  on  midnight  heath  — 
Immortal    Shakespeare!     still,    thy    lips    im- 
part 970 
The  noblest  comment  on  the  human  heart. 
And  as  fair  Eve,  in  Eden  newly  placed, 
Gazed  on  her  form,  in  limpid  waters  traced, 
And  stretch'd  her  gentle  arms,  with  pleased 

surprise, 
To  meet  the  image  of  her  own  bright  eyes  — 
So  Nature,  on  thy  magic  page,  surveys 
Her  sportive  graces,  and  untutored  ways  ! 
Wondering,  the  soft  reflection  doth  she  see, 
Then  laughing  owns  she  loves  herself  in  thee  ! 

Shun  not  the  haunts  of  crowded  cities  then  ; 

Nor  e'er,  as  man,  forget  to  study  men  j  981 

What  though  the  tumult  of  the  town  intrude 

On  the  deep  silence,  and  the  lofty  mood  ; 

'T  will  make  thy  human  sympathies  rejoice. 

To  hear  the  music  of  a  human  voice  — 

To    watch    strange    brows    by  various  reason 

wrought, 
To    claim    the    interchange    of    thought  with 

thought ; 
T'  associate  mind  with  mind,  for  Mind's  own 

weal. 
As  steel  is  ever  sharpen' d  best  by  steel. 
T'    impassion'd    bards,   the    scenic    world    is 

dear,  —        ^  ^        ^  99° 

But  Nature's  glorious  masterpiece  is  here  ! 
All  poetry  is  beauty,  but  exjirest 
In  inward  essence,  not  in  outward  vest. 
Hence  lovely  scenes,  reflective  poets  find, 
Awake  their  lovelier  images  in  Mind  : 
Nor  doth  the  pictur'd  earth,  the  bard  invite, 
The  lake  of  azure,  or  the  heav'n  of  light, 
But  that  his  swelling  breast  arouses  tlaere. 
Something  less  visible,  and  much  more  fair  ! 
There  is  a  mvisic  in  the  landscape  round,  — 
A  silent  voice,  that  speaks  without  a  sound  — 
A  witching  spirit,  that  reposing  near,  1002 

Breathes  to  the  heart,  but  comes  not  to  the  ear  ! 
These  softly  steal,  his  kindling  soul  t'  embrace, 
And  natural  beauty,  gild  with  moral  grace. 
Think  not,  when  summer  breezes  tell  their  tale. 
The  poet's  thoughts  are  with  the  summer  gale  ; 
Think  not  his  Fancy  builds  her  elfin  dream 
On  painted  floweret,  or  on  sighing  stream : 
No  single  objects  cause  his  raptured  starts,  loio 
For  Mind  is  narrow'd,  not  inspir'd  by  parts  ; 


But  o'er  the  scene  the  poet's  spirit  broods, 

To  warm  the  thoughts  that  form  his  noblest: 

moods ; 
Peopling  his  solitude  with  faery  play, 
And     beckoning    shapes    that    whisper    him 

away,  — 
While  lilied    fields,  and    hedge-row  blossoms 

white, 
And   hills,  and  glittering  streams,  are  full  in 

sight  — 
The  forests  wave,  the  joyous  sun  beguiles. 
And  all  the  poetry  of  Nature  smiles ! 

Such  poetry  is  formed  by  Mind,  and  not       1020 
By  scenic  grace  of  one  peculiar  spot. 
The  artist  lingers  in  the  moon-lit  glade. 
And  light  and  shade,  with  him,  are  —  light  and 

shade. 
The  philosophic  chymist  wandering  there. 
Dreams  of  the  soil,  and  nature  of  the  air. 
The  rustic  marks  the  young  herbs'  fresh' ning 

hue. 
And  only  thinks  —  his  scythe  may  soon  pass; 

through  ! 
None  '  muse  on  nature  with  a  Poet's  eye,' 
None  read,  but  Poets,  Nature's  poetry  ! 
Its  characters  are  trae'd  in  mystic  hand,       1030 
And  all  may  gaze,  but  few  can  understand. 

Nor  here  alone  the  Poet's  dwelling  rear. 
Though  Beauty's  voice  perchance  is  sweetest 

here ! 
Bind  not  his  footsteps  to  the  sylvan  scene, 
To  heathy  banks,  fair  woods,  and  valleys  green,. 
When  Mind  is  all  his  own  1  her  dear  impress 
Shall  throw  a  magic  o'er  the  wilderness, 
As  o'er  the  blossoming  vale,  and  aye  recall 
Its  shadowy  plane,  and  silvery  waterfall, 
Or  sleepy  crystal  pool,  reposing  by,  1040 

To  give  the  earth  a  picture  of  the  sky  ! 
Svich,  gazed  on  by  the  spirit,  are,  I  ween, 
Lovelier  than  ever  prototype  was  seen  ; 
For  Fancy  teacheth  Memory's  hand  to  trace 
Nature's  ideal  form  in  Nature's  place. 

In  every  theme  by  lofty  Poet  sung, 

The  thought  should  seem  to  speak,  and  not  the. 

tongue. 
When  godlike  Milton  lifts  th'  exalted  song, 
The  subject  bears  the  burning  words  along  — 
Resounds  the  march  of  Thought,  th'  o'erflowing 
line,  1050 

Full  cadence,  solemn  pause,  and  strength  di- 
vine ! 
When  Horace  chats  his  neighbor's  faults  away, 
The  sportive  measures,  like  his  muse,  are  gay ; 
For  once  Good-humor  Satire's  by-way  took. 
And  all  his  soul  is  laughing  in  his  book  ! 
On  moral  Pope's  didactic  page  is  found, 
Sound  rul'd  by  sense,  and  sense  made  clear  by 

sound ; 
The  power  to  reason,  and  the  taste  to  please. 
While,  as  the  svibject  varies  in  degrees,         1059; 
He  stoops  with  dignity,  and  soars  with  ease. 

Hence  let  our  Poets,  with  discerning  glance,. 
Forbear  to  imitate  the  stage  of  France. 


\ 


JUVENILIA 


511 


What  though    Coraeille    arouse  the   thrilling 

chords, 
And  walk  with  Genius  o'er  th'  inspired  hoards  ; 
What  though  his  rival  bring,  with  calmer  grace, 
The  classic  unities  of  time  and  place,  — 
All  polish,  and  all  eloquence  —  't  were  mean 
To  leave  the  path  of  Nature  for  Racine  ; 
When  Nero's  parent,  'midst  her  woe,  defines 
The    wrong    that    tortures  —  in  two  hundred 

lines :  1070 

Or  when  Orestes,  madden'd  by  his  crime. 
Forgets  life,  joy,  and  every  thing  —  but  rhyme. 

While  thus  to  character  and  nature,  true, 
Still  keep  the  harmony  of  verse  in  view  ; 
Yet    not    in    changeless    concord,  —  it    should 

be 
Though  graceful,  nervous,  —  musical,   though 

free ; 
Not  clogg'd  by  useless  drapery,  not  beset 
By  the  superfluous  word,  or  epithet, 
Wherein  Conception  only  dies  in  state. 
As  Draco,  smother'd  by  the  garments'  weight  — 
But  join,  Amphion-like,  (whose  magic  fire    108 1 
Won  the  deep  music  of  the  Maian  lyre, 
To  call  Boeotia's  city  from  the  ground,) 
The  just  in  structure,  with  the  sweet  in  sound. 

Nor  this  the  whole  —  the  poet's  classic  strain 
May  flow  in  smoothest  numbers,  yet  in  vain  ; 
And  Taste  may  please,  and  Fancy  sport  awhile. 
And  yet  Aonia's  muse  refuse  to  smile  ! 
For  lo  !  her  heavenlj^  lips  these  words  reveal  — 
'  The  sage  may  coldly  think,   the  bard  must 

feel  !  1090 

And  if  his  writings,  to  his  heart  untrue. 
Would  ape  the  fervent  throb  it  never  knew  ; 
If  generous  deeds,  and  Virtue's  noblest  part, 
And  Freedom's  voice,  could  never  warm  that 

heart ; 
If  Interest  tax'd  the  produce  of  the  brain, 
And  fetter'd  Genius  followed  in  her  train. 
Weeping  as  each  unwilling  word  she  spoke,  — _ 
Then   hush    the    lute  —  its    master    string    is 

broke  ! 
In  vain,  the  skilful  hand  may  linger  o'er  — 
Concord  is  dead,  and  music  speaks  no  more  !  ' 

There  are,  and  have  been  such  —  they  Avere  for- 
got _  "OI 

If  shame  could  veil  their  page,  if  tears  could 

blot ! 
There   are,  and  have  been,  whose  dishonor'd 

lay 
Aspired  t'  enrapture  that  the  world  might  — 

pay  ! 
Whose    life  was  one  long  bribe,  oft  counted 

o'er, — 
Brib'd  to  think   on,  and  brib'd  to    think   no 

more ; 
Brib'd  to    laugh,   weep,   nor  ask  the    reason 

why; 
Brib'd  to  tell  truth,  and  brib'd  to  gild  a  lie  ! 
Oh  Man  !  for  this,  the  sensual  left  behind, 
We  boast  our  empire  o'er  the  vast  of  Mind  ? 
Oh  Mind  !  reported  valueless,  till  sold,  mi 

Thought  dross  till  metaraorphos'd  into  gold 


By  Midas'   touch  —  breath'st    thou    immortal 

verse 
To  throw  a  ducat  in  an  empty  pui'se  — 
To  walk  the  market  at  a  belmau's  cry. 
For  knaves  to  sell,   and    wond'ring    fools  to 

buy? 
Can    Heav'n-born    bards,    undone    by    lucre's 

lust, 
Crouch  thus,   like    Heav'n-bom  ministers,  to 

dust  ? 
Alas  !  to  dust  indeed  —  yet  wherefore  blame  ? 
They  keep  their  profits,  though  they  lose  their 

fame.  1120 

Leave  to  the  dross  they  seek,  the  grovelling 

throng. 
And  swell  with  nobler  aim  th'  Aonian  song  ! 
Enough  for  thee  uninfluenc'd  and  unhir'd, 
If  Truth  reward  the  strain  herself  inspir'd  I 
Enough  for  thee,  if  grateful  Man  commend, 
If  Genius  love,  and  Virtue  call  thee  friend  1 
Enough  for  thee,  to  wake  th'  exalted  mood, 
Reprove  the  erring,  and  confirm  the  good  ; 
Excite  the  tender  smile,  the  generous  tear, 
Or  rouse  the  thought  to  loftiest  Nature  dear. 
Which    rapturous    greets  amidst    the  fervent 

line  1 13 1 

Thy     name,    0    Freedom !    glorious     Hellas, 

thine  ! 

I  love  my  own  dear  land  —  it  doth  rejoice 
The    soul,  to  stretch  my  arms,   and  hft  my 

voice. 
To  tell  her  of  my  love  !    I  love  her  green 
And  bowery  woods,  her  hills  in  mossy  sheen, 
Her  silver  running  waters  —  there  's  no  spot 
In  all  her  dwelling,  which  my    breast  loves 

not  — 
No  place  not  heart-enchanted  !    Sunnier  skies. 
And  calmer  waves,  may  meet  another's  eyes  ; 
Hove  the  sullen  mist,  the  stormy  sea,  1141 

The  winds  of  rushing  strength  which,  like  the 

land,  are  free  ! 
Such  is  my  love  —  yet  turning  thus  to  thee, 
Oh  Graecia  !  I  must  hail  with  hardly  less 
Of  joy,  and  pride,  and  deepening  tenderness, 
And  feelings  wild,  I  know  not  to  control, 
My  other  country  —  country  of  my  soul ! 
For  so,  to  me,  thou  art !  my  lips  have  sung 
Of  thee   with   childhood's  lisp,  and  harp  un- 
strung ! 
In  thee,  my  Fancy's  pleasant  walks  have  been. 
Telling   her    tales,    while    Memory    wept    be- 
tween!  ^  1 15 1 
And  now /c>r  thee  I  joy,  with  heart  beguiled. 
As  if  a  dying  friend  looked  up,  and  smiled. 

Lo !  o'er    ^gsea's    waves,    the   shout    hath 

ris'n ! 
Lo  !  Hope  hath  burst  the  fetters  of  her  prison  ! 
And  Glory  sounds  the  trump  along  the  shore. 
And   Freedom  walks  where  Freedom  walk'd 

before  ! 
Ipsara  glimmers  with  heroic  light, 
Redd'ning    the  waves  that    lash  her  flaming 

height;  "59- 

And  ^gypt  hurries  from  that  dark  blue  sea  1 


512 


APPENDIX 


Lo  !  o'er  the  cliffs  of  fam'd  Thermopylae, 
And  voieeful  Marathon,  the  wild  winds  sweep, 
Bearing  this  message  to  the  brave  who  sleep  — 
'  They  come !    they  come  !  with  their  embat- 
tled shock, 
From  Pelion's  steep,   and  Paros'  foam-dash'd 

rock  ! 
They  come  from  Tempe's  vale,  and  Helicon's 

spring, 
And  proud  Eurotas'  banks,  the  river  king  ! 
They  come  from  Leuctra,  from  the  waves  that 

kiss 
Athena  —  from  the  shores  of  Salamis ;  t  169 

From  Sparta,  Thebes,  Eubcea's  hills  of  blue  — 
To  live  with  Hellas  —  or  to  sleep  with  you  ! ' 

Smile  —  smile,  beloved  land  !  and  though  no 
lay 
From  Doric  pipe,  may  charm  thy  glades  to- 
day — 
Though  dear  Ionic  music  murmur  not 
Adown  the  vale  —  its  echo  all  forgot  ! 
Yet  smile,  beloved  land  !  for  soon,  around, 
Thy  silent  earth  shall  utter  forth  a  sound. 
As  whilom  —  and,  its  pleasant  groves  among, 
The  Grecian  voice  shall  breathe  the  Grecian 


song, 


iiSo 


While  the  exiled  muse  shall  'habit  still 
The  happy  haunts  of  her  Parnassian  hill. 
Till  then,  behold  the  cold  dumb  sepulchre  — 
The  ruin'd  column  —  ocean,  earth,  and  air, 
Man,   and    his    wrongs  —  thou   hast    Tyrtseus 

there  ! 
And  pardon,  if  across  the  heaving  main, 
Sound  the  far  melody  of  minstrel  strain. 
In  wild  and  fitful  gust  from  England's  shore. 
For  his  immortal  sake,  who  never  more 
Shall  tread  with  living  foot,  and  spirit  free, 
Her  fields,  or  breathe  her  passionate  poetry  — 
The    pilgrim    bard,   who  lived,  and  died  for 

thee. 
Oh  land  of  Memory  !  loving  thee  no  less       1192 
Than  parent  —  with  the  filial  tenderness, 
And  holy  ardor  of  the  Argive  son. 
Straining  each  nerve  to  bear  thy  chariot  on  — 
Till  when  its  wheels  the  place  of  glory  swept, 
He  laid  him    down  before   the    shrme  —  and 

slept. 

So  be  it !  at  his  cold  unconscious  bier. 
We  fondly  sate,  and  dropp'd  the  natural  tear  — 
Yet  wept  not  wisely,  for  he  sank  to  rest        1200 
On  the  dear  earth  his  waking  thoughts  loved 

best. 
And  gently  life's  last  pulses  stole  away  ! 
No  Moschus  sang  a  requiem  o'er  his  clay. 
But  Greece  was  sad  !  and  breathed  above,  be- 
low. 
The  warrior's  sigh,  the  silence,  and  the  woe  ! 

And  is  this  all  ?     Is  this  the  little  sum 
For  which  we  toil  —  to  which  our  glories  come  ? 
Doth  History  bend  her  mouldering  pages  o'er. 
And  Science   stretch    her  bulwark    from   the 

shore. 
And  Sages  search  the  mystic  paths  of  Thought, 
And  Poets  charm  with  lays  that  Genius  taught  — 


For  this  ?  to  labor  through  their  little  day,  12 12 
To  weep  an  hour,  then  want  the  tear  they  pay  — 
To  ask  the  urn,  their  death  and  life  to  tell, 
When  the  dull  dust  would  give   that  tale  as 
well! 

Man  !  hast  thou  seen  the  gallant  vessel  sweep, 
Borrowing  her  moonlight  from  the  jealous  deep, 
And  gliding  with  mute  foot,  and  silver  wing. 
Over  the  waters  like  a  soul-mov'd  thing  ? 
Man,   hast  thou  gazed  on  this  —  then  look'd 

again,  1220 

And  seen  no  speck  on  all  that  desolate  main, 
And  heard  no  sound,  —  except  the  gurgling 

cry, 
The  winds  half  stifled  in  their  mockery  ? 

Woe  unto  thee  !  for,  thus,  thy  course  is  run, 

And,  in  the  fulness  of  thy  noon-day  sun. 

The    darkness    cometh  —  yea !     thou    walk'st 

abroad 
In  glory.  Child  of  Mind,  Creation's  Lord  — 
And  wisdom's  music  from  thy  lips  hath  gusli'd  ! 
Then  comes  the  Selah  !  and  the  voice  is  hush'd. 
And  the  light  past !  we  seek  where  thou  hast 

been  1230 

In  beauty  —  but  thy  beauty  is  not  seen  ! 
We  breathe  the  air  thou  breath'dst,  we  tread 

the  spot 
Thy  feet  were  wont  to  tread,  but  find  thee 

not ! 
Beyond,  sits  Darkness  with  her  haggard  face, 
Brooding  fiend-like  above  thy  burying-place  — 
Beneath,  let  wildest  Fancy  take  her  fill ! 
Shall  Ave  seek  on  ?  Ave  shudder  and  are  still ! 
Yet  Avoe  not  unto  thee,  thou  child  of  Earth  ! 
Though  moonlight  sleep  on  thy  deserted  hearth. 
We  Avill  not  cry  ''  Alas  !  '  above  thy  clay  !      1240 
It  was,  perchance,  thy  joyous  pride  to  stray 
On    Mind's    lone    shore,    and    linger    by    the 

way : 
But  now  thy  pilgrim's  staff  is  laid  aside. 
And  on  thou  journeyest  o'er  the  sullen  tide, 
To  bless  thy   Avearied  sight,   and  glad  thine 

heart 
With  all  that  Mind's  serener  skies  impart ; 
Where  Wisdom  suns  the  day  no  shades  de- 
stroy, 
And  Learning  ends  in  Truth,  as  hope  in  joy  : 
While  we  stand  mournful  on  the  desert  beach, 
And  wait,  and  wish,  thy  distant  bark,  to  reach, 
And  Aveep  to  Avatch  it  passing  from  our  sight. 
And  sound  the  gun's  salute,  and  sigh  our  last 

'  good  night ! '  1252 

And  oh  !  while  thus  the  spirit  glides  away,  — 
Give  to  the  world  its  memory  with  its  clay  ! 
Some  page  our  country's  grateful  eyes   may 

scan ; 
Some  useful  truth  to  bless  surviving  man  ; 
Some  name  to  honest  bosoms  justly  dear  ; 
Some  grave  t'  exalt  the  thought,  and  claim  the 

tear ; 
So  when  the  pilgrim  Sun  is  travelling  o'er 
The  last  blue  hill,  to  gild  a  distant  shore,      1260 
He  leaves  a  freshness  in  the  evening  scene, 
That  tells  Creation  Avhere  his  steps  have  been  ! 


SOME   ACCOUNT   OF   THE  GREEK   CHRISTIAN   POETS     5^3 


II.  SOME  ACCOUNT  OF  THE  GREEK 
CHRISTIAN   POETS 

The  series  of  papers  on  the  Greek  Christian 
Poets  appeared  lirst  in  the  Athenceum  between 
the  months  of  February  and  August,  1842. 
They  were  reprinted  along  with  a  second  series 
of  i^apers  on  the  English  poets  —  contributed 
to  the  same  periodical  —  in  a  small  separate 
volume,  two  years  after  Mrs.  Browning's  death. 
{The  Greek  Christian  Poets  and  The  English 
Poets,  by  Elizabeth  Barrett  Browning,  London. 
Chapman  and  Hall,  1863.)  As  a  mere  girl.  Miss 
Barrett  had  read  the  Greek  Fathers  in  the  ori- 
ginal, under  the  guidance  of  the  blind  scholar, 
Hugh  Stuart  Boyd,  who  was  deeply  versed  in 
them  and  could  repeat  from  memory  pages  of 
their  works  both  in  prose  and  verse.  A  playful 
allusion  to  his  especial  enthusiasm  for  Saint 
Gregory  Nazianzen  occurs  in  Mrs.  Browning's 
poem  '  Wine  of  Cyprus,'  which  was  dedicated 
to  Mr.  Boyd. 

'  Do  you  mind  that  deed  of  Ate 

Which  you  bound  me  to  so  fast, 
Reading  "  Z>e  Virginitate,'''' 

From  the  first  line  to  the  last  ? 
How  I  said,  at  ending  solemn, 

As  I  turned  and  looked  at  j'ou. 
That  Saint  Simeon  on  the  column 

Had  had  somewhat  less  to  do  ?  ' 


The  Greek  language  was  a  strong  intellectual 
life,  stronger  than  any  similar  one  which  has 
lived  in  the  breath  of  '  articulately  speaking 
men,'  and  survived  it.  No  otlier  language 
has  lived  so  long  and  died  so  hard,  —  pang  by 
pang,  each  with  a  doli^hin  color  —  yielding 
reluctantly  to  that  doom  of  death  and  silence 
which  must  come  at  last  to  the  speaker  and  the 
speech.  Wonderful  it  is  to  look  back  fathoms 
down  the  great  Past,  thousands  of  years  away 

—  where  whole  generations  lie  unmade  to  dust 

—  where  the  sounding  of  their  trumpets,  and 
the  rushing  of  their  scythed  chariots,  and  that 
great  shout  which  brought  down  the  birds 
stone  dead  from  beside  the  sun,  are  more  silent 
than  the  dog  breathing  at  our  feet,  or  the  fly's 
l^aces  on  our  windoAv-pane  ;  and  yet,  from  the 
heart  of  which  silence,  to  feel  words  rise  up  like 
a  smoke  —  words  of  men,  even  words  of  wo- 
men, uttered  at  first,  perhaps,  in  '  excellent  low 
voices,'  but  audible  and  distinct  to  our  times, 
through  '  the  dreadful  pother  '  of  life  and  death, 
the  hissing  of  the  steam-engine  and  the  cracking 
of  the  cerement !  It  is  wonderful  to  look  back 
and  listen.  Blind  Homer  spoke  this  Greek 
after  blind  Demodocus,  with  a  quenchless  light 
about  his  brows,  which  he  felt  through  his 
blindness.  Pindar  rolled  his  chariots  in  it,  pro- 
longing the  clamor  of  the  games.  Sappho's 
heart  beat  through  it,  and  heaved  up  the 
world's,  ^schylus  strained  it  to  the  stature  of 
his  high  thoughts.  Plato  crowned  it  with  his 
divine  peradventures.     Aristophanes  made  it 


drunk  with  tiie  wine  of  his  fantastic  merri- 
ment. The  latter  Platonists  wove  their  souls 
away  in  it,  out  of  sight  of  other  souls.  The 
first  Christians  heard  in  it  God's  new  reve- 
lation, and  confessed  their  Christ  in  it  from 
the  suppliant's  knee,  and  presently  from  the 
bishop's  throne.  To  all  times,  and  their  transi- 
tions, the  language  lent  itself.  Through  the 
long  summer  of  above  two  thousand  years, 
from  the  grasshopper  Homer  sang  of,  to  that 
grasshopper  of  Manuel  Phile,  which  might  in- 
deed have  been  '  a  burden,'  Ave  can  in  nowise 
mistake  the  chirping  of  the  bloodless,  death- 
less, wondrous  creature.  It  chirps  on  in  Greek 
stiU.  At  the  close  of  that  long  summer, 
though  Greece  lay  withered  to  her  root,  her 
academic  groves  and  philosophic  gardens  all 
leafless  and  bare,  still  from  the  depth  of  the 
desolation  rose  up  the  voice  — 

O  cuckoo,  shall  I  call  thee  bird, 
Or  but  a  wandering  voice  ?  — 

which  did  not  grow  hoarse,  like  other  cuckoos, 
but  sang  not  unsweetly,  if  more  faintly  than 
before.  Strangely  vital  was  this  Greek  lan- 
guage — 

Some  straggling  spirits  were  behind,  to  be 
Laid  out  with  most  thrift  on  its  memory. 

It  seemed  as  if  nature  could  not  part  with  so 
lovely  a  tune,  as  if  she  felt  it  ringing  on  still 
in  her  head  —  or  as  if  she  hummed  it  to  herself, 
as  the  watchman  used  to  do,  with  '  night  wan- 
dermg  round '  him,  when  he  watched  wearily 
on  the  palace  roof  of  the  doomed  house  of 
Atreus. 

But,  although  it  is  impossible  to  touch  with 
a  thought  the  last  estate  of  Greek  poetical 
literature  without  the  wonder  occurring  of  its 
being  still  Greek,  still  poetry,  —  though  we  are 
startled  hy  the  phenomenon  of  lifelike  sounds 
coming  up  from  the  ashes  of  a  mighty  people  — 
at  the  aspect  of  an  Alcestis  returned  from  the 
dead,  veiled  but  identical,  —  we  are  forced  to 
admit,  after  the  first  pause  of  admiration,  that 
a  change  has  passed  upon  the  great  thing  we 
recognize,  a  change  proportionate  to  the  great- 
ness, and  involving  a  caducity.  Therefore,  in 
adventuring  some  imperfect  account  of  the 
Greek  ecclesiastical  poets,  it  is  right  to  premise 
it  with  the  full  and  frank  admission,  that  they 
are  not  accomplished  poets,  —  that  they  do  not, 
in  fact,  reach  with  their  highest  lifted  hand, 
the  lowest  foot  of  those  whom  the  world  has 
honored  as  Greek  poets,  but  who  have  honored 
the  world  more  by  their  poetry.  The  instru- 
ment of  the  (irreek  tongue  was,  at  the  Christian 
era,  an  antique  instrument,  somewhat  worn, 
somewhat  stiff  in  the  playing,  somewhat  defi- 
cient in  notes  which  it  had  once,  somewhat 
feeble  and  uncertain  in  such  as  it  retained. 
The  subtlety  of  the  ancient  music,  the  variety 
of  its  cadences,  the  intersections  of  sweetness  in 
the  rise  and  fall  of  melodies,  rounded  and  con- 
tained in  the  unity  of  its  harmony,  are  as  utterly 
lost  to  this  later  period  as  the  digamma  was  to 


514 


APPENDIX 


an  earlier  one.  We  must  not  seek  for  them  ; 
■we  shall  not  find  them ;  their  place  knows 
them  no  more.  Not  only  was  there  a  lack  in 
the  instrument,  —  there  was  also  a  deficiency 
in  the  players.  Thrown  aside,  after  the  old 
flute-story,  by  a  goddess,  it  was  taken  up  by 
a  mortal  hand  —  by  the  hand  of  men  gifted 
and  noble  in  their  generation,  but  belonging 
to  it  intellectually,  even  by  their  gifts  and  their 
nobleness.  Another  immortal,  a  true  genius, 
might  — nay,  would  —  have  asserted  himself, 
and  wrung  a  poem  of  almost  the  ancient  force 
from  the  infirm  instrument.  It  is  easy  to  fancy, 
and  to  wish  that  it  had  been  so  —  that  some 
martyr  or  bishop,  when  bishops  were  martyrs, 
and  the  earth  was  still  warm  with  the  Sacrifi- 
cial blood,  had  been  called  to  the  utterance  of 
his  soul's  devotion,  with  the  emphasis  of  a 
great  poet's  power.  No  one,  however,  was  so 
called.  Of  all  the  names  which  shall  presently 
be  reckoned,  and  of  which  it  is  the  object  of 
this  sketch  to  give  some  account,  beseeching 
its  readers  to  hold  several  in  honorable  remem- 
brance, not  one  can  be  crowned  with  a  steady 
hand  as  a  true  complete  poet's  name.  Such  a 
crown  is  a  sacred  dignity,  and,  as  it  should 
not  be  touched  idly,  it  must  not  be  used  here. 
A  born  Warwick  coxdd  find,  here,  no  head  for 
a  crown. 

Yet  we  shall  reckon  names  '  for  remem- 
brance,' and  speak  of  things  not  ignoble  —  of 
meek  heroic  Christians,  and  heavenward  faces 
washed  serene  by  tears  —  strong  knees  bending 
humbly  for  the  very  strength's  sake  —  bright 
intellects  burning  often  to  the  winds  in  fantastic 
shapes,  but  oftener  still  with  an  honest  inward 
heat,  vehement  on  heart  and  brain  —  most 
eloquent  fallible  lips  that  convince  us  less  than 
they  persuade  —  a  divine  loquacity  of  human 
falsities  —  poetical  souls,  that  are  not  souls  of 
poets !  Surely  not  ignoble  things  !  And  the 
reader  will  perceive  at  once  that  the  writer's 
heart  is  not  laid  beneath  the  wheels  of  a  cum- 
brous ecclesiastical  antiquity  —  that  its  intent 
is  to  love  what  is  lovable,  to  honor  what  is 
honorable,  and  to  kiss  both  through  the  dust  of 
centuries,  but  by  no  means  to  recognize  a  hier- 
archy^ whether  in  the  church  or  in  literature. 

If,  indeed,  an  opinion  on  the  former  relation 
might  be  regarded  here,  it  would  be  well  to  sug- 
gest, that  to  these  '  Fathers,'  as  we  call  them 
filially,  with  heads  turned  away,  we  owe  more 
reverence  for  the  grayness  of  their  beards  than 
theological  gratitude  for  the  outstretching  of 
their  hands.  Devoted  and  disinterested  as 
many  among  them  were,  they,  themselves, 
were  at  most  times  evidently  and  consciously 
surer  of  their  love,  in  a  theologic  sense,  than  of 
their  knowledge  in  any.  It  is  no  place  for  a 
reference  to  religious  controversy  ;  and  if  it 
were,  we  are  about  to  consider  them  simply  as 
poets,  without  trenching  on  the  very  wide 
ground  of  their  prose  works  and  ecclesiastical 
opinions.  Still  one  passing  remark  may  be 
admissible,  since  the  fact  is  so  remarkable  — 
how  any  body  of  Christian  men  can  profess  to 
derive  their  opinions  from  '  the  opinions  of  the 


Fathers,'  when  all  bodies  might  do  so  equally. 
These  fatherly  opinions  are,  in  truth,  multi- 
form, and  multitudinous  as  the  fatherly  '  sub- 
lime gray  hairs.'  There  is  not  only  a  father 
apiece  for  every  child,  but,  not  to  speak  it  un- 
filially,  a  piece  of  every  father  for  every  child. 
Justin  Martyr  would,  of  himself,  set  up  a  wil- 
derness of  sects,  besides  '  something  over  '  for 
the  future  ramifications  of  each  several  one. 
What  then  should  be  done  with  our  '  Fathers '  ? 
Leave  them  to  perish  by  the  time-Ganges,  as 
old  men  innocent  and  decrepit,  and  worthy  of 
no  use  or  honor  ?  Surely  not.  We  may  learn 
of  them,  if  God  will  let  us,  love,  and  love  is 
much  —  we  may  learn  devotedness  of  them  and 
warm  our  hearts  by  theirs ;  and  this,  although 
we  rather  distrust  them  as  commentators,  and 
utterly  refuse  them  the  reverence  of  our  souls, 
in  the  capacity  of  theological  oracles. 

Their  place  in  literature,  which  we  have  to 
do  with  to-day,  may  be  found,  perhaps,  by  a 
like  moderation.  That  place  is  not,  it  has 
been  admitted,  of  the  highest ;  and  that  it  is 
not  of  the  lowest  the  proof  will  presently  be  at- 
tempted. There  is  a  mid-air  kingdom  of  the 
birds  called  Nephelococcygia,  of  which  Aristo- 
phanes tells  us  something ;  and  we  might  stand 
there  a  moment  so  as  to  measure  the  local 
adaptitude,  putting  up  the  Promethean  um- 
brella to  hide  us  from  the  '  Gods,'  if  it  were 
not  for  the  '  men  and  columns '  lower  down. 
But  as  it  is,  the  very  suggestion,  if  persisted  in, 
would  sink  all  the  ecclesiastical  antiquity  it  is 
desirable  to  find  favor  for,  to  all  eternity,  in 
the  estimation  of  the  kindest  reader.  No  !  the 
mid-air  kingdom  of  the  birds  will  not  serve  the 
wished-for  purpose  even  illustratively,  and  by 
grace  of  the  nightingale.  '  May  the  sweet 
saints  pardon  us  '  for  wronging  them  by  an 
approach  to  such  a  sense,  which,  if  attained 
and  determined,  wovild  have  consigned  them 
so  certainly  to  what  St.  Augustine  called  — 
when  he  was  moderate  too  —  mitissima  damna- 
tion a  very  mild  species  of  damnation. 

It  would  be,  in  fact,  a  rank  injustice  to  the 
beauty  we  are  here  to  recognize,  to  place  these 
writers  in  the  rank  of  mediocrities,  supposing 
the  harsh  sense.  They  may  be  called  medio- 
crities as  poets  among  poets,  but  not  so  as  no 
poets  at  all.  Some  of  them  may  sing  before 
gods  and  men,  and  in  front  of  any  column, 
from  Trajan's  to  that  projected  one  in  Trafalgar 
Square,  to  which  is  promised  the  mii'aculous 
distinction  of  making  the  National  Gallery  sink 
lower  than  we  see  it  now.  They  may,  as  a 
body,  sing  exultingly,  holding  the  relation  of 
column  to  gallery,  in  front  of  the  whole  '  corpus  ' 
of  Latin  ecclesiastical  poetry,  and  claim  the 
world's  ear  and  the  poet's  palm.  That  the 
modern  Latin  poets  have  been  more  read  by 
scholars,  and  are  better  known  by  reputation 
to  the  general  reader,  is  unhappily  true :  but 
the  truth  involves  no  good  reason  why  it  should 
be  so,  nor  much  marvel  that  it  is  so.  Besides 
the  greater  accessibility  of  Latin  literature,  the 
vicissitude  of  life  is  extended  to  posthumous 
fame,  and  Time,  who  is  Justice  to  the  poet,  is 


SOME   ACCOUNT   OF  THE   GREEK   CHRISTIAN   POETS     515 


somatimes  too  busy  in  pulveiizing  bones  to  give 
the  due  weight  to  memories.  The  modern 
La^in  poets,  '  elegant,' — which  is  the  critic's 
word  to  spend  upon  them,  —  elegant  as  they 
a*e  occasionally,  poKshed  and  accurate  as  they 
are  comparatively,  stand  cold  and  lifeless,  with 
statue-eyes,  near  these  good,  fervid,  faulty 
Greeks  of  ours  —  and  we  do  not  care  to  look 
again.  Our  Greeks  do,  in  their  degree,  claim 
their  ancestral  advantage,  not  the  mere  advan- 
tage of  language,  — nay,  least  the  advantage  of 
language  —  a  corajjarative  elegance  and  accu- 
racy of  expression  being  ceded  to  the  Latins  — 
but  that  higher  distinction  inherent  in  brain 
and  breast,  of  vivid  thought  and  quick  sensi- 
bility. What  if  we  swamp  for  a  moment  the 
Tertullians  and  Prudentiuses,  and  touch,  by  a 
permitted  anachronism,  Avith  one  hand  ViDA, 
with  the  other  Gkegory  Nazianzen,  what 
then  ?  What  though  the  Italian  poet  be  smooth 
as  the  Italian  Canova  —  working  like  him  out 
of  stone  —  smooth  and  cold,  disdaining  to  ruffle 
his  dactyls  with  the  beating  of  his  pulses  — 
what  then  ?  Would  we  change  for  him  our 
sensitive  Gregory,  with  all  his  defects  in  the 
glorious  '  scientia  metrica '  ?  We  would  not  — 
perhaps  we  should  not,  even  if  those  defects 
were  not  attributable,  as  Mr.  Boyd,  in  the  pre- 
face to  his  work  on  the  Fathers,  most  justly  in- 
timates, to  the  changes  incident  to  a  declining 
language. 

It  is,  too,  as  religious  poete  that  we  are  called 
upon  to  estimate  these  neglected  Greeks  —  as 
religious  poets,  of  whom  the  universal  church 
and  the  world's  literature  would  gladly  em- 
brace more  names  than  can  be  counted  to  either. 
For  it  is  strange  that,  although  Wilhelm  Meis- 
ter's  uplooking  and  downlooking  aspects,  the 
reverence  to  things  above  and  things  below, 
the  religious  all-clasping  spirit,  be,  and  must 
be,  in  degree  and  measure,  the  grand  necessity 
of  every  true  poet's  soul,  —  of  religious  poets, 
strictly  so  called,  the  earth  is  very  bare.  Re- 
ligious '  parcel-poets '  we  have,  indeed,  more 
than  enough  ;  writers  of  hymns,  translators  of 
scripture  into  prose,  or  of  prose  generally  into 
rhymes,  of  whose  heart-devotion  a  higher 
faculty  w^ere  worthy.  Also  there  have  been 
poets,  not  a  few,  singing  as  if  earth  were  still 
Eden ;  and  poets,  many,  singing  as  if  in  the 
first  hour  of  exile,  when  the  echo  of  the  curse 
was  louder  than  the  whisper  of  the  promise. 
But  the  right  '  genius  of  Christianism  '  has  done 
little  up  to  this  moment,  even  for  Chateau- 
briand. We  want  the  touch  of  Christ's  hand 
upon  our  literature,  as  it  touched  other  dead 
things  —  we  want  the  sense  of  the  saturation  of 
Christ's  blood  upon  the  souls  of  our  poets,  that 
it  may  cry  through  them  in  answer  to  the  cease- 
less wail  of  the  Sphinx  of  our  humanity,  ex- 
pounding agony  into  renovation.  Something  of 
this  has  been  perceived  in  art  when  its  glory 
was  at  the  fullest.  Something  of  a  yearning 
after  this  may  be  seen  among  the  Greek  Chris- 
tian poets,  something  which  would  have  been 
7?iMC^  with  a  stronger  faculty.  It  will  not  harm  [ 
us  in  any  case,  as  lovers  of  literature  and  honest  1 


judges,  if  we  breathe  away,  or  peradventure 
besom  away,  the  thick  dust  which  lies  upon  their 
heavy  folios,  and  besom  away,  or  peradventure 
breathe  away,  the  inward  intellectual  dust, 
which  must  be  confessed  to  lie  thickly,  too, 
upon  the  heavy  poems,  and  make  our  way 
softly  and  meekly  into  the  heart  of  such  hidden 
beauties  (hidden  and  scattered)  as  our  good 
luck,  or  good  patience,  or,  to  speak  more  rev- 
erently, the  intrinsic  goodness  of  the  Fathers  of 
Christian  Poetry,  shall  permit  us  to  discover. 
May  gentle  readers  favor  the  endeavor,  with 
'  gentle  airs,'  if  any  !  readers  not  too  proud  to 
sleep,  were  it  only  for  Homer's  sake ;  nor  too 
passionate,  at  their  worst  displeasure,  to  do 
worse  than  growl  in  their  sleeves,  after  the 
manner  of  '  most  delicate  monsters.'  It  is  not 
intended  to  crush  this  forbearing  class  with 
folios  nor  even  with  a  folio ;  only  to  set  down 
briefly  in  their  sight  what  shall  appear  to  the 
writer  the  characteristics  of  each  poet,  and  to 
illustrate  the  opinion  by  the  translation  of  a  few 
detached  passages,  or,  in  certain  possible  cases, 
of  short  entire  poems.  And  so  much  has  been 
premised,  simply  that  too  much  be  not  ex- 
pected. 

It  has  the  look  of  an  incongruity,  to  begin  an 
account  of  the  Greek  Christian  poets  with  a 
Jew  ;  and  Ezeklel  is  a  Jew  in  his  very  name, 
and  a  '  poet  of  the  Jews  '  by  profession.  More- 
over he  is  wrapt  in  such  a  mystery  of  chro- 
nology, that  nobody  can  be  quite  sure  of  his 
not  having  lived  before  the  Christian  era  —  and 
one  whole  whisper  establishes  him  as  a  unit 
of  the  faixious  seventy  or  seventy-two,  under 
Ptolemy  Philadelphus.  Let  us  waive  the  chro- 
nology in  favor  of  the  mystery.  He  is  brought 
out  into  light  by  Clemens  Alexandrinus ;  and 
being  associated  with  Greek  poets,  and  a  writer 
himself  of  Greek  verses,  we  may  receive  him 
in  vii'tue  of  the  roTororoTOToroTOTOTLy^^  with  little 
fear,  in  his  ease,  of  implying  an  injustice  in  that 
middle  bird-locality  of  Nephelococcygia.  The 
reader  must  beware  of  confounding  him  with 
the  prophet ;  and  the  circumstance  of  the  lat- 
ter's  inspiration  is  sufficiently  distinguishing. 
Our  Greek  Ezekiel  is,  indeed,  whatever  his  chro- 
nology may  be,  no  rates  in  the  ancient  sense.  A 
Greek  tragedy  (and  some  fragments  of  a  tragedy 
are  all  that  we  hold  of  him),  by  a  Jew,  and  on 
a  Jewish  subject,  'The  Exodus  from  Egypt,' 
may  startle  the  most  serene  of  us  into  curiosity 
—  with  which  curiosity  begins  and  ends  the 
only  strong  feeling  we  can  bring  to  bear  upon  the 
work  ;  since,  if  the  execution  of  it  is  somewhat 
curious  too,  there  is  a  gentle  collateral  dulness 
which  effectually  secures  us  from  feverish  ex- 
citement. Moses  prolog^izes  after  the  worst 
manner  of  Euripides  (worse  than  the  worse), 
compendiously  relating  his  adventures  among 
the  bulrushes  and  in  Pharaoh's  household,  con- 
cluded by  his  slaying  an  Egyptian,  because  no- 
body was  looking.  So  saith  the  poet.  Then 
follows  an  interview  between  the  Israelite  and 
Zipporah,  and  her  companions,  wherein  he  puts 
to  her  certain  geographical  questions,  and  she 
(as  far  as  we  can  make  out  through  fragmentary 


5^6 


APPENDIX 


cracks)  rather  brusquely  proposes  their  mutual 
marriage  ;  on  which  subject  he  does  not  venture 
an  opinion ;  but  we  find  him  next  confiding 
his  dreams  in  a  family  fashion  to  her  father, 
who  considers  them  satisfactory.  Here  occurs 
a  broad  crack  down  the  tragedy  —  and  we  are 
suddenly  called  to  the  revelation  from  the  bush 
by  an  extraordinarily  ordinary  dialogue,  be- 
tween Deity  and  Moses.  It  is  a  surprising 
specimen  of  the  kind  of  composition  adverted 
to  some  lines  ago,  as  the  translation  of  Scrip- 
ture into  prose  ;  and  the  sublime  simplicity  of 
the  scriptural  narrative  being  thus  done  (away) 
into  Greek  for  a  certain  time,  the  following  re- 
ciprocation —  to  which  our  old  moralities  can 
scarcely  do  more,  or  less,  than  furnish  a  paral- 
lel—  prays  for  an  English  —  exposure.  The 
Divine  Being  is  supposed  to  address  Moses :  — 

But  what  is  this  thou  holdest  in  thine  hand  ?  — 
Let  thy  reply  be  sudden. 

3Ioses.  'T  is  my  rod  — 

I  chasten  with  it  quadrupeds  and  men. 

Voice  from  the  Bush.    Cast  it  upon  the  ground  —  and 
straight  recoil ; 
For  it  shall  be,  to  move  thy  wonderment, 
A  terrible  serpent. 

3Ioses.  It  is  cast.     But  Thou, 

Be  gracious  to  me,  Lord.     How  terrible  ! 
How  monstrous  !  Oh,  be  pitiful  to  me  ! 
I  shudder  to  behold  it,  my  limbs  shake. 

The  reader  is  already  consoled  for  the  destiny 
which  mutilated  the  tragedy,  without  requiring 
the  last  words  of  the  analysis.  Happily  charac- 
teristic of  the  'meekest  of  men'  is  Moses's 
naive  admission  of  the  uses  of  his  rod  —  to  beat 
men  and  animals  withal  —  of  course  '  when  no- 
body is  looking.' 

Clemens  Alexandrinus,  to  whom  we  owe 
whatever  gratitude  is  due  for  our  fragmentary 
Ezekiel,  was  originally  an  Athenian  philosopher, 
afterwards  a  converted  Christian,  a  Presbyter 
of  the  Church  at  Alexandria,  and  preceptor  of 
the  famous  Origen.  Clemens  flourished  at  the 
close  of  the  second  century.  As  a  prose  writer 
—  and  we  have  no  prose  writings  of  his,  except 
such  as  were  produced  subsequently  to  his  con- 
version —  he  is  learned  and  various.  His  '  Peda- 
gogue '  is  a  wanderer,  to  universal  intents  and 
purposes  ;  and  his  '  Tapestry,'  if  the  '  Stromata  ' 
may  be  called  so,  is  embroidered  in  all  cross- 
stitches  of  philosophy,  with  not  much  scruple 
as  to  the  shading  of  colors.  In  the  midst  of 
all  is  something,  ycleped  a  dithyrambic  ode, 
addressed  to  the  Saviour,  composite  of  fantas- 
tic epithets  in  the  mode  of  the  old  litanies, 
and  almost  as  bald  of  merit  as  the  Jew-Greek 
drama,  though  Clemens  himself  (worthier  in 
worthier  places)  be  the  poet.  Here  is  the 
opening,  M^hich  is  less  fanciful  than  what  follows 
it:  — 

Curb  for  wild  horses, 
Wing  for  bird-courses 
Never  yet  flown ! 
Helm,  safe  for  weak  ones. 
Shepherd,  bespeak  once, 
The  young  lambs  thine  own. 


Rouse  up  the  youth, 
Shepherd  and  feeder, 
So  let  them  bless  thee, 
Praise  and  confess  thee,  — 
Pure  words  on  pure  mouth,  • 
Christ,  the  child-leader  ! 
O,  the  saints'  Lord, 
All-dominant  word ! 
Holding,  by  Christdom, 
God's  highest  wisdom ! 
Column  in  place 
When  sorrows  seize  us,  — 
Endless  in  grace 
Unto  man's  race, 
Saving  one,  Jesus  ! 
Pastor  and  ploughman. 
Helm,  curb,  together,  — 
Pinion  that  now  can 
(Heavenly  of  feather) 
Raise  and  release  us,  — 
Fisher  who  catcheth 
Those  whom  he  watcheth  . 


'  By  the 

that  the 


It  goes  on  ;  but  we  need  not  do  so. 
pricking  of  our  thumbs,'  we  know 
reader  has  had  enough  of  it. 

Passing  rapidly  into  the  fourth  century,  we 


would  offer 
Nazianzeii, 


our  earliest  homage  to   Gregory 


That  name  must  ever  be  to  us  a  friend, 

when  the  two  Apolinakii  cross  our  path  and 
intercept  the  'all  hail.'  Apolinarius  the  gram- 
marian, formerly  of  Alexandria,  held  the  office 
of  presbyter  in  the  church  of  Laodicaia,  and 
his  son  Apolinarius,  an  accomplished  rhetori- 
cian, that  of  reader,  an  ancient  ecclesiastical 
office,  in  the  same  church.  This  younger  Apo- 
linarius was  a  man  of  indomitable  energies  and 
most  practical  inferences  ;  and  when  the  edict 
of  Julian  forbade  to  the  Christians  the  study 
of  Grecian  letters,  he,  assisted  perhaps  by  his 
father's  hope  and  hand,  stood  strong  in  the 
gap,  not  in  the  attitude  of  supplication,  not 
with  the  gesture  of  consolation,  but  in  jDower 
and  sufficiency  to  fill  up  the  void  and  baffle 
the  tyrant.  Both  father  and  son  were  in  the 
work,  by  some  testimony  ;  the  younger  Apoli- 
narius standing  out,  by  all,  as  the  chief  worker, 
and  only  one  in  any  extensive  sense.  '  Does 
Julian  deny  us  Homer  ?  '  said  the  brave  man 
in  his  armed  soul  —  '  I  am  Homer  !  '  and 
straightway  he  turned  the  whole^  Biblical  his- 
tory, down  to  Saul's  accession,  into  Homeric 
hexameters,  —  dividing  the  work,  so  as  to 
clench  the  identity  of  first  and  second  Homers, 
into  twenty-four  books,  each  superscribed  by  a 
letter  of  the  alphabet,  and  the  whole  accept- 
able, according  to  the  expression  of  Sozomen, 
avTL  T^s  'Ofxripov  KOLrjcreuis,  in  the  place  of  Homer's 
poetry.  '  Does  Julian  deny  us  Euripides  ?  '  said 
Apolinarius  again  —  '  I  am  Euripides  !  '  and 
up  he  sprang,  —  as  good  an  Euripides  (who  can 
doubt  it  ?  )  as  he  ever  was  a  Homer.  '  Does 
Julian  forbid  us  Menander  ?  —  Pindar  ?  — 
Plato  ?  —  I  am  Menander  !  —  I  am  Pindar  !  — 
I  am  Plato  ! '  And  comedies,  lyrics,  philoso- 
phies, flowed  fast  at  the  word  ;  and  the  gospels 
and  epistles  adapted  themselves  naturally  to  the 


SOME   ACCOUNT    OF   THE   GREEK   CHRISTIAN   POETS     517 


rules  of  ISocratic  disputation.  A  brave  man, 
forsooth,  was  our  Apolinarius  of  Laodicfea, 
and  literally  a  man  of  men  —  for  observe,  says 
Sozomen,  with  a  venerable  innocence,  at  which 
the  gravest  may  smile  gravely,  —  as  at  a  doub- 
let worn  awry  at  the  Council  of  Nice,  —  that 
the  old  authors  did  each  man  his  own  work, 
whereas  this  Apolinarius  did  every  man's  work 
in  addition  to  his  own  —  and  so  admii-ably  —  in- 
timates the  ecclesiastical  critic,  — that  if  it  were 
not  for  the  common  prejudice  in  favor  of  anti- 
quity, no  ancient  could  be  missed  in  the  all-com- 
prehensive representativeness  of  the  Laodicsean 
writer.  So  excellent  was  his  ability,  to  '  out- 
brave the  stars  in  several  kinds  of  hght,'  besides 
the  Caesar  !  Whether  Juhan,  naturally  mortified 
to  witness  this  germination  of  illustrious  heads 
under  the  very  iron  of  his  searing,  vowed  ven- 
geance against  the  Hydra-spirit,  by  the  sacred 
memory  of  the  animation  of  his  own  beard,  we 
do  not  exactly  know.  To  embitter  the  wrong, 
Apolinarius  sent  him  a  treatise  upon  truth  — 
a  confutation  of  the  pagan  doctrine,  apart  from 
the  scriptural  argument,  —  the  Emperor's  no- 
tice of  which  is  both  worthy  of  his  CsesarshiiJ, 
and  a  good  model-notice  for  all  sorts  of  critical 

dignities.      'A^viyviav  eyvujv  Kareypuiv,  is   the   Greek 

of  it ;  so  that,  turning  from  the  letter  to  catch 
something  of  the  point,  we  may  write  it  down 

—  '  I  have  perused,  I  have  mused,  I  have 
abused :  '  which  provoked  as  unperious  a  retort 
— '  Thou  mayest  have  perused,  but  thou  hast 
not  mused  ;  for  hadst  thou  mused,  thou 
wouldst  not  have  abused.'     Brave  Laodicaean ! 

Apolinarius's  laudable  double  of  Greek  Htera- 
ture  has  perished,  the  reader  will  be  concerned 
to  hear,  from  the  face  of  the  earth,  being,  like 
other  lusus,  or  marvels,  or  monsters,  brief  of 
days.  One  only  tragedy  remains,  with  which 
the  memory  of  Gregory  Nazianzen  has  been 
right   tragically  affronted,  and  which  Gregory, 

—  el  Tt?  aicr0r)o-i?,  as  he  said  of  Constantine,  — 
would  cast  off  with  the  scorn  and  anger  befit- 
ting an  Apolinarian  heresy.  For  Apolinarius, 
besides  being  an  epoist,  dramatist,  lyrist,  philo- 
sopher, and  rhetorician,  was,  we  are  sorry  to 
add,  in  the  eternal  bustle  of  his  soul,  a  heretic, 

—  possiblj^  for  the  advantage  of  something  addi- 
tional to  do.  He  not  only  intruded  into  the 
churches  hymns  which  were  not  authorized,  be- 
ing his  own  composition  —  so  that  reverend 
brows  grew  dark  to  hear  women  with  nuisical 
voices  sing  them  softly  to  the  turning  of  their 
distaff,  —  but  he  fell  into  the  heresy  of  denying 
a  human  soul  to  the  perfect  man,  and  of  leav- 
ing the  Divinity  in  bare  combination  with  the 
Adamic  dust.  No  wonder  that  a  head  so  beset 
with  many  thoughts  and  individualities  should 
at  last  turn  round  !  —  that  eyes  rolling  in  fifty 
fine  frenzies  of  twenty-five  fine  poets  should 
at  last  turn  blind!  —  that  a  determination  to 
rival  all  geniuses  should  be  followed  by  a  dis- 
position more  baleful  in  its  exercise,  to  under- 
stand '  all  mysteries  '  !  Nothing  can  be  plainer 
than  the  step  after  step,  whereby,  through  ex- 
cess of  vain-glory  and  morbid  mental  activity, 
Apolinarius,  the  vice-poet  of  Greece,  subsided 


into  Apolinarius  the  chief  heretic  of  Christen- 
dom. 

To  go  back  sighingly  to  the  tragedy,  where 
we  shall  have  to  sigh  again  —  the  only  tragedy 
left  to  us  of  all  the  tragic  works  of  Apolinarius 
(but  we  do  not  sigh  for  that ! )  —  let  no  voice 
ever  more  attribute  it  to  Gregory  Nazianzen. 
How  could  Mr.  Alford  do  so,  however  hesitat- 
ingly, in  his  '  Chapters,'  attaching  to  it,  with- 
out the  hesitation,  a  charge  upon  the  writer, 
whether  Gregory  or  another  man,  that  he,  who- 
ever he  was,  had,  of  his  own  free  will  and 
choice,  destroyed  the  old  Greek  originals  out  of 
which  his  tragedy  was  constructed,  and  left  it 
a  monument  of  their  sacrifice  as  of  the  blood 
on  his  barbarian  hand  ?  The  charge  passes, 
not  only  before  a  breath,  but  before  its  own 
breath.  The  tragedy  is,  in  fact,  a  specimen  of 
centoism^  which  is  the  adaptation  of  the  phrase- 
ology of  one  work  to  the  construction  of  an- 
other ;  and  we  have  only  to  glance  at  it  to 
perceive  the  Medsea  of  Euripides  dislocated  into 
the  Christus  Patiens.  Instead  of  the  ancient 
opening  — 

Oh,  would  ship  Argo  had  not  sailed  away 
To  Colchos  by  the  rough  Symplegades  ! 
Nor  ever  had  been  felled  in  Pelion's  grove 
The  pine,  hewn  for  her  side  !  .  .  . 

So  she  my  queen, 
Medaea,  had  not  touched  this  fatal  shore, 
Soul-struck  by  love  of  Jason  ! 

Apolinarius  opens  it  thus  — 

Oh,  would  the  serpent  had  not  glode  along 

To  Eden's  garden-laud,  —  nor  ever  had 

The  crafty  dragon  planted  in  that  grove 

A  slimy  snare  !     So  she,  rib-born  of  man, 

The  wretched  misled  mother  of  our  race, 

Had  dared  not  to  dare  on  beyond  worst  daring, 

Soul-struck  by  love  of  —  apples  ! 

'  Let  us  alone  for  keeping  our  countenance  '  — 
and  at  any  rate  we  are  boimd  to  ask  gravely  of 
Mr.  Alford,  is  the  Medcea  destroyed  ?  —  and  if 
not,  did  the  author  of  the  '  Christus  Patiens ' 
destroy  his  originals  ?  and  if  not,  may  we  not 
say  of  Mr.  Alford's  charge  against  that  author, 
'  Oh,  Avould  he  had  not  made  it !  '  So  far 
from  Apolinarius  being  guilty  of  destroying  his 
originals,  it  was  his  reverence  for  them  which 
struggled  with  the  edict  of  the  persecutor,  and 
accomplished  this  dramatic  adventure  ;  —  and 
this  adventure,  the  only  remaining  specimen  of 
his  adventurousness,  may  help  us  to  the  secret 
of  his  wonderful  fertility  and  omni-representa- 
tiveness,  which  is  probably  this  —  that  the  great 
majority  of  his  works,  tragic,  comic,  lyric,  and 
philosophic,  consisted  simply  of  centos.  Yet  we 
pray  for  justice  to  Apolinarius :  we  pray  for 
honor  to  his  motives  and  energies.  Without 
pausing  to  inquire  whether  it  had  been  better 
and  wiser  to  let  poetry  and  literature  depart  at 
once  before  the  tyranny  of  the  edict,  than  to 
drag  them  back  by  the  hair  into  attitudes  gro- 
tesquely ridiculous  —  better  and  wiser  for  the 
Greek  Christian  schools  to  let  them  forgo  alto- 
gether the  poems  of  their  Euripides,  than  adapt 


5i8 


APPENDIX 


to  the  meek  sorrows  of  the  tender  Virgin-mo- 
ther, the  bold,  bad,  cruel  frenzy  of  Medaea,  in 
such  verses  as  these  — 

She  howls  out  ancient  oaths,  invokes  the  faith 

Of  pledged  right-hands,  and  calls,  for  witness,  God  ! 

—  we  pray  straightforwardly  for  justice  and 
.honor  to  the  motives  and  energies  of  Apolina- 
rius.  '  Oh,  would  that '  many  lived  now  as  ap- 
preciative of  the  influences  of  poetry  on  our 
schools  and  country,  as  impatient  of  their  con- 
traction, as  self-devoted  in  the  great  work  of 
extending  them  !  There  remains  of  his  poetical 
labors,  besides  the  tragedy,  a  translation  of 
David's  Psalms  into  'heroic  verse,'  which  the 
writer  of  these  remarks  has  not  seen,  —  and  of 
which  those  critics  who  desire  to  deal  gently 
with  Apolinarius  seem  to  begin  their  indulgence 
by  doubting  the  authenticity. 

It  is  pleasant  to  turn  shortly  round,  and  find 
ourselves  face  to  face,  not  with  the  author  of 
'  Christus  Patiens,'  but  with  one  antagonistical 
both  to  his  poetry  and  his  heresy,  Gregory 
Nazianzen.  a  noble  and  tender  man  was 
this  Gregory,  and  so  tender,  because  so  noble  ; 
a  man  to  lose  no  cubit  of  his  stature  for  being 
looked  at  steadfastly,  or  struck  at  reproachfully. 
'  You  may  cast  me  down,'  he  said,  '  from  my 
bishop's  throne,  but  you  cannot  banish  me  from 
before  God's. '  And  bishop  as  he  was,  his  saintly 
crown  stood  higher  than  his  tiara,  and  his  lov- 
ing martyr-smile,  the  crown  of  a  nature  more 
benign  than  his  fortune,  shone  up  toward  both. 
Son  of  the  bishop  of  Nazianzen,  and  holder  of 
the  diocese  which  was  his  birthplace,  previous 
to  his  elevation  to  the  level  of  the  storm  in  the 
bishopric  of  Constantinople,  little  did  he  care 
for  bishoprics  or  high  places  of  any  kind,  —  the 
desire  of  his  soul  being  for  solitude,  quietude, 
and  that  silent  religion  which  should  '  rather 
be  than  seem.'  But  his  father's  head  bent 
whitely  before  him,  even  in  the  chamber  of  his 
brother's  death,  —  and  Basil,  his  beloved  friend, 
the  '  half  of  his  soul,'  pressed  on  him  with  the 
weight  of  love  ;  and  Gregory,  feeling  their  tears 
upon  his  cheeks,  did  not  count  his  own,  but 
took  up  the  priestly  office.  Poor  Gregory  !  not 
merely  as  a  priest,  but  as  a  man,  he  had  a  sigh- 
mg  life  of  it.  His  student  days  at  Athens, 
where  he  and  Basil  read  together  poems  and 
philosophies,  and  holier  things,  or  talked  low 
and  misopogonistically  of  their  fellow-student 
Julian's  bearded  boding  smile,  were  his  happiest 
days.     He  says  of  himseK, 

As  many  stones 
Were  thrown  at  me,  as  other  men  had  flowers. 

Nor  was  persecution  the  worst  evil ;  for  friend 
after  friend,  beloved  after  beloved,  passed 
away  from  before  his  face,  and  the  voice  which 
charmed  them  living  spoke  brokenly  beside 
their  graves,  —  his  funeral  orations  marked 
severally  the  wounds  of  his  heart,  — and  his 
genius  served,  as  genius  often  does,  to  lay  an 
emphasis  on  his  grief.    The  passage  we  shall 


venture  to  translate  is  rather  a  cry    than  a 
song  — 

Where  are  my  winged  words  ?    Dissolved  in  air. 
Where  is  my  flower  of  youth  ?    All  withered.     Where 
My  glory  ?    Vanished.     Where  the  strength  I  knew 
From  comely  limbs  ?    Disease  hath  changed  it  too, 
And  bent  them.     Where  the  riches  and  the  lands  ? 
God  hath  them  !     Yea,  and  sinners'  snatching  hands 
Have  grudged  the  rest.     Where  is  my  father,  mother. 
And  where  my  blessed  sister,  my  sweet  brother  ? 
Gone  to  the  grave  !  —  There  did  remain  for  me 
Alone  my  fatherland,  till  destiny, 
IMalignly  stirring  a  black  tempest,  drove 
My  foot  from  that  last  rest.     And  now  I  rove 
Estranged  and  desolate  a  foreign  shore, 
And  drag  my  mournful  life  and  age  all  hoar 
Throneless  and  cityless,  and  childless  save 
This  father-care  for  children,  which  I  have, 
Living  from  day  to  day  on  wandering  feet. 
Where  shall  I  cast  this  body  ?     What  will  greet 
My  sorrows  with  an  end  ?     What  gentle  ground 
And  hospitable  grave  will  wrap  me  round  ? 
Who  last  my  dying  eyelids  stoop  to  close  — 
Some  saint,  the  Saviour's  friend  ?  or  one  of  those 
Who  do  not  know  Him  ?     The  air  interpose, 
And  scatter  these  words  too. 

The  return  upon  the  first  thought  is  highly 
pathetic  ;  and  there  is  a  restlessness  of  anguish 
about  the  whole  passage  which  consecrates  it 
with  the  cross  of  nature.  His  happy  Athenian 
associations  gave  a  color,  unwashed  out  by  tears, 
to  his  mind  and  works.  HaK  apostolical  he 
was,  and  half  scholastical  ;  and  while  he  mused, 
on  his  bishop's  throne,  upon  the  mystic  tree  of 
twelve  fruits,  and  the  shining  of  the  river  of 
life,  he  carried,  as  Milton  did,  with  a  gentle 
and  not  ungraceful  distraction,  both  hands  full 
of  green  trailing  branches  from  the  banks  of 
the  Cephissus,  nay,  from  the  very  plane-tree 
which  Socrates  sat  under  with  Phsedrus,  when 
they  two  talked  about  beauty  to  the  rising  and 
falling  of  its  leaves.  As  an  orator,  he  was 
greater,  all  must  feel  if  some  do  not  think, 
than  his  contemporaries ;  and  the  '  golden 
naouth '  might  confess  it  meekly.  Erasmus 
compares  him  to  Isocrates,  but  the  unlikeness 
is  obvious:  Gregory  was  not  excellent  at  an 
artful  blowing  of  the  pipes.  He  spoke  grandly, 
as  the  wind  does,  in  gusts  ;  and,  as  in  a  mighty 
wind,  which  combines  unequal  noises,  the 
creaking  of  trees  and  rude  swinging  of  doors  as 
well  as  the  sublime  sovereign  rush  along  the 
valleys,  we  gather  the  idea,  from  his  eloquence, 
less  of  music  than  of  power.  Not  that  he  is 
cold  as  the  wind  is  —  the  metaphor  goes  no 
further  :  Gregory  cannot  be  cold,  even  by  dis- 
favor of  his  antithetic  points.  He  is  various  in 
his  oratory,  full  and  rapid  in  allusion,  briefly 
graphic  in  metaphor,  equallj'  sufficient  for  in- 
dignation or  pathos,  and  gifted  peradventure 
with  a  keener  dagger  of  sarcasm  than  should 
hang  in  a  saint's  girdle.  His  orations  against 
Julian  have  all  these  characteristics,  but  they 
are  not  poetry,  and  we  mvist  pass  down  lower, 
and  quite  over  his  beautiful  letters,  to  Gregory 
the  poet. 

He  wrote  thirty  thousand  verses,  among  the 
which  are  several  long  poems,  severally  defec- 


SOME   ACCOUNT   OF   THE   GREEK   CHRISTIAN   POETS     519 


tive  in  a  defect  common  but  not  necessary  to 
short  occasional  poems,  and  lamentable  any- 
where, a  want  of  unity  and  completeness.  The 
excellences  of  his  prose  are  transcribed,  with 
whatever  f aintness,  in  his  poetry  —  the  exalta- 
tion, the  devotion,  the  sweetness,  the  pathos, 
even  to  the  playing  of  satirical  power  abovit 
the  graver  meanings.  But  although  noble 
thoughts  break  iip  the  dulness  of  the  ground- 
work, — although,  with  the  instinct  of  greater 
poets,  he  bares  his  heart  in  his  poetry,  and  the 
heart  is  worth  baring,  still  monotony  of  con- 
struction without  unity  of  intention  is  the  most 
wearisome  of  monotonies,  and,  except  in  the 
case  of  a  few  short  poems,  we  find  it  every- 
where in  Gregory.  The  lack  of  variety  is  ex- 
tended to  the  cadences,  and  the  pauses  fall 
stifiEy  '  come  corpo  morto  cade.'  Melodious  lines 
we  have  often :  harmonious  passages  scarcely 
ever  —  the  music  turning  heavily  on  its  own 
axle,  as  inadequate  to  living  evolution.  The 
poem  on  his  own  life  ('  De  Vita  sua  ')  is,  in  many 
places,  interesting  and  affecting,  yet  faulty  with 
all  these  faults.  The  poem  on  Celibacy,  which 
state  is  commended  by  Gregory  as  becometh  a 
bishop,  has  occasionally  graphic  touches,  but 
is  dull  enough  generally  to  suit  the  fairest 
spinster's  view  of  that  melancholy  subject.  If 
Hercxiles  could  have  read  it,  he  must  have  rested 
in  the  middle  —  from  which  the  reader  is  en- 
treated to  forbear  the  inference  that  the  poem 
has  not  been  read  through  by  the  writer  of  the 
present  remarks,  seeing  that  that  writer  marked 
the  grand  concluding  moment  with  a  white  stone, 
and  laid  up  the  memory  of  it  among  the  chief 
triumphs,  to  say  nothing  of  the  fortunate  deliv- 
erances, vitce  sucE.  In  Gregory's  elegiac  poems, 
our  ears,  at  least,  are  better  contented,  be- 
cause the  sequence  of  pentameter  to  hexameter 
necessarily  excludes  the  various  cadence  which 
they  yearn  for  under  other  circumstances.  His 
anacreontics  are  sometimes  nobly  written,  with 
a  certain  brave  recklessness,  as  if  the  thoughts 
despised  the  measure  —  and  we  select  from  this 
class  a  specimen  of  his  poetry,  both  because 
three  of  his  hjTnns  have  already  appeared  in 
the  '  Athenaeum,'  and  because  the  anacreontic 
in  question  includes  to  a  remarkable  extent 
the  various  qualities  w5  have  attributed  to 
Gregory,  not  omitting  that  play  of  satirical  hu- 
mor with  which  he  delights  to  ripple  the  abun- 
dant flow  of  his  thoughts.  The  writer,  though 
also  a  translator,  feels  less  misgiving  than  usual 
in  offering  to  the  reader,  in  such  English  as  is 
possible,  this  spirited  and  beautiful  poem. 


SOUL  AND   BODY 

What  wilt  thou  possess  or  be  ? 

0  my  soul,  I  ask  of  thee. 
What  of  great,  or  what  of  small, 
Counted  precious  therewithal? 
Be  it  only  rare,  and  want  it, 

1  am  ready,  soul,  to  grant  it. 
Wilt  thou  choose  to  have  and  hold 
Lydian  Gyges'  charm  of  old, 

So  to  rule  us  with  a  ring, 


would  I  '-ing  ! 


Turning  roimd  the  jewelled  thing, 
Hidden  by  its  face  concealed, 
And  revealed  by  its  revealed  ? 
Or  pref errest  Midas'  fate  — 
He  who  died  in  golden  state, 
All  things  being  changed  to  gold  ? 

Of  a  golden  hiuiger  dying, 

Through  a  surfeit  of 
Wilt  have  jewels  brightly  cold, 

Or  may  fertile  acres  please  ? 
Or  the  sheep  of  many  a  fold, 
Camels,  oxen,  for  the  wold  ? 

Nay  !  I  will  not  give  thee  these  ! 
These  to  take  thou  hast  not  will. 
These  to  give  I  have  not  skill; 
Since  I  cast  earth's  cares  abroad, 
That  day  wiien  I  turned  to  God. 

Wouldst  a  throne,  a  crown  sublime. 
Bubble  blown  upon  the  time  ? 
So  thou  mayest  sit  to-morrow 
Looking  downward  in  meek  sorrow, 
Some  one  walking  by  thee  scorning 
Who  adored  thee  yester  morning. 
Some  malign  one  ?    Wilt  be  bound 
Fast  in  marriage  (joy  unsound  !) 
And  be  turned  round  and  round 
As  the  time  turns  ?  Wilt  thou  catch  it, 
That  sweet  sickness  ?  and  to  match  it 
Have  babies  by  the  hearth,  bewildering  ? 
And  if  I  tell  thee  the  best  children 
Are  none  —  what  answer  ? 

Wilt  thou  thunder 
Thy  rhetorics,  move  the  peoi^le  under  ? 
Covetest  to  sell  the  laws 
With  no  justice  in  thy  cause, 
And  bear  on,  or  else  be  borne. 
Before  tribunals  worthy  scorn  ? 
Wilt  thou  shake  a  javelin  rather 
Breathing  war  ?  or  wUt  thou  gather 
Garlands  from  the  wrestler's  ring  ? 
Or  kill  beasts  for  glorying  ? 
Covetest  the  city's  sliout, 
And  to  be  in  brass  struck  out  ? 
Cravest  thou  that  shade  of  dreaming. 
Passing  air  of  shifting  seeming, 
Rushing  of  a  printless  arrow. 

Clapping  echo  of  a  hand  ? 

What  to  those  who  understand 
Are  to-day's  enjoyments  narrow 
Which  to-morrow  go  again, 
Which  are  shared  with  evil  men 
And  of  which  no  man  in  his  dying 
Taketh  aught  for  softer  lying  ? 
What  then  wouldst  thou,  if  thy  mood 

Choose  not  these  ?  what  wilt  thou  be 

O  my  soul  —  a  deity  ? 
A  God  before  the  face  of  God, 
Standing  glorious  in  His  glories, 
Choral  in  His  angels'  chorus  ? 

Go  !  upon  thy  wing  arise, 

Plumed  by  quick  energies. 

Mount  in  circles  up  the  skies  : 

And  I  will  bless  thy  winged  passion. 

Help  with  words  thine  exaltation. 

And,  like  a  bird  of  rapid  feather, 

Outlaunch  thee,  Soul,  upon  the  aether. 

But  thou,  O  fleshly  nature,  say. 
Thou  with  odors  from  the  clay, 
Since  thy  presence  I  must  have 
As  a  lady  with  a  slave. 
What  wouldst  thou  possess  or  be. 
That  thy  breath  may  stay  with  thee  ? 
Nay  !  I  owe  thee  nought  beside. 
Though  thine  hands  be  open  wide. 


520 


APPENDIX 


Would  a  table  suit  thy  wishes, 

Fragrant  with  sweet  oils  and  dishes 

Wrought  to  subtle  niceness  ?  where 

Stringed  music  strokes  the  air, 

And  blithe  hand-clappings,  and  the  smooth 

Fine  postures  of  the  tender  youth 

And  virgins  wheeling  through  the  dance 

With  an  unveiled  countenance,  — 

Joys  for  drinkers,  who  love  shame. 

And  the  maddening  wine-cup's  flame. 

Wilt  thou  such,  howe'er  decried  ? 

Take  them,  —  and  a  rope  beside ! 

Nay  !  this  boon  I  give  instead 
Unto  friend  insatiated,  — 
May  some  rocky  house  receive  thee, 
Self-roofed,  to  conceal  thee  chiefly  ; 
Or  if  labor  there  must  lurk. 
Be  it  by  a  short  day's  work  ! 
And  for  garment,  camel's  hair, 
As  the  righteous  clothed  were, 
Clothe  thee  !  or  the  bestial  skin 
Adam's  bareness  hid  within,  — 
Or  some  green  thing  from  the  way. 

Leaf  of  herb,  or  branch  of  vine, 
Swelling,  purpling  as  it  may. 

Fearless  to  be  drunk  for  wine  ! 
Spread  a  table  there  beneath  thee. 
Which  a  sweetness  shall  upbreathe  thee, 
And  which  the  dearest  earth  is  giving. 
Simple  present  to  all  living  ! 
When  that  we  have  placed  thee  near  it, 
We  will  feed  thee  with  glad  spirit. 
Wilt  thou  eat  ?  soft,  take  the  bread. 
Oaten  cake,  if  that  bested  ; 
Salt  will  season  all  aright. 
And  thine  own  good  appetite, 
Which  we  measure  not,  nor  fetter  : 
'T  is  an  uncooked  condiment, 
Famine's  self  the  only  better. 

Wilt  thou  drink  ?  why,  here  doth  bubble 
W  ter  from  a  cup  unspent, 

Followed  by  no  tipsy  trouble. 
Pleasure  sacred  from  the  grape  ! 
Wilt  thou  have  it  in  some  shape 
More  like  luxury  ?  we  are 
No  grudgers  of  wine-vinegar ! 
But  if  all  will  not  suffice  thee, 

And  thou  covetest  to  draw 

In  that  pitcher  with  a  flaw. 
Brimful  pleasures  heaven  denies  thee  — 
Go,  and  seek  out,  by  that  sign. 
Other  help  than  this  of  mine  ! 
For  me,  I  have  not  leisure  so 
To  warm  thee.  Sweet,  my  household  foe, 
Until,  like  a  serpent  frozen. 
New  maddened  with  the  heat,  thou  loosen 

Thy  rescued  fang  within  mine  heart ! 
Wilt  have  measureless  delights 
Of  gold-roofed  palaces,  and  sights 

From  pictured  or  from  sculptured  art, 
With  motion  near  their  life  ;  and  splendor 
Of  bas-relief,  with  tracery  tender. 
And  varied  and  contrasted  hues  ? 
Wilt  thou  have,  as  nobles  use, 
Broidered  robes  to  flow  about  thee  ? 
Jewelled  fingers  ?     Need  we  doubt  thee  ? 
Gauds  for  which  the  wise  will  flout  thee  ? 
I  most,  who,  of  all  beauty,  know 
It  must  be  inward,  to  be  so  ! 
And  thus  I  speak  to  mortals  low. 
Living  for  the  hour,  and  o'er 
Its  shadow,  seeing  nothing  more ; 
But  for  those  of  nobler  bearing. 
Who  live  more  worthily  of  wearing 
A  portion  of  the  heavenly  nature  — 
To  low  estate  of  clayey  creature, 


See,  I  bring  the  beggar's  meed, 
Nutriment  beyond  the  need  ! 
O,  beholder  of  the  Lord, 
Prove  on  me  the  flaming  sword ! 
Be  mine  husbandman,  to  nourish 
Holy  plants,  that  words  may  flourish 
Of  which  mine  enemy  wovild  spoil  me. 
Using  pleasurehood  to  foil  me  ! 
Lead  me  closer  to  the  tree 
Of  all  life's  eternity ; 
Which,  as  I  have  pondered,  is 
The  knowledge  of  God's  greatnesses  : 
Light  of  One,  and  shine  of  Three, 
Unto  whom  all  things  that  be 
Flow  and  tend  ! 

In  such  a  guise, 
Whoever  on  the  earth  is  wise 
WiU  speak  unto  himself  :  and  who 
Such  inner  converse  would  eschew,  — 
We  say  perforce  of  that  poor  wight, 
'  He  lived  in  vain  ! '  and  if  aright, 
It  is  not  the  worst  word  we  might. 

Amphilochius,  bishop  of  Iconium,  was  be- 
loved and  much  appreciated  by  Gregory,  and 
often  mentioned  in  his  writings.  Few  of  the 
works  of  Amphilochius  are  extant,  and  of  these 
only  one  is  a  poem.  It  is  a  didactic  epistle  to 
Seleucus,  '  On  the  Right  Direction  of  his  Studies 
and  Life,'  and  has  been  attributed  to  Gregory 
Nazianzen  by  some  writers,  upon  very  inade- 
quate evidence,  —  that  adduced  (the  similar 
phraseology  Avhich  conveys,  in  this  poem  and  a 
poem  of  Gregory's,  the  catalogue  of  canonical 
scriptures),  being  as  easily  explained  by  the 
imitation  of  one  poet,  as  by  the  identity  of  two. 
They  differ,  moreover,  upon  ground  more  im- 
portant than  phraseology:  Amphilochius  ap- 
pearing to  reject,  or  at  least  to  receive  doubt- 
fully, Jude's  epistle,  and  the  Second  of  Peter. 
And  there  is  a  harsh  force  in  the  whole  poem, 
which  does  not  remind  us  of  our  Nazianzen, 
while  it  becomes,  in  the  course  of  dissuading 
Seleucus  from  the  amusements  of  the  amphi- 
theatre, graphic  and  efPective.  We  hear, 
through  the  description,  the  grinding  of  the 
tigers'  teeth,  the  sympathy  of  the  people  with 
the  tigers  showing  still  more  savage. 

They  sit  unknowing  of  these  agonies. 

Spectators  at  a  show.     When  a  man  flies 

From  a  beast's  jaw,  they  groan,  as  if  at  least 

They  missed  the  ravenous  pleasure,  like  the  beast. 

And  sat  there  vainly.     When,  in  the  next  spring. 

The  victim  is  attained,  and,  uttering 

The  deep  roar  or  quick  shriek  between  the  fangs, 

Beats  on  the  dust  the  passion  of  his  pangs. 

All  pity  dieth  in  that  glaring  look. 

They  clap  to  see  the  blood  run  like  a  brook  ; 

They  stare  with  hungry  eyes,  which  tears  should  fill, 

And  cheer  the  beasts  on  with  their  soul's  good  will ; 

And  wish  more  victims  to  their  maw,  and  urge 

And  lash  their  fury,  as  they  shared  the  surge. 

Gnashing  their  teeth,  like  beasts,  on  flesh  of  men. 

There  is  an  appalling  reality  in  this  picture. 
The  epistle  consists  of  333  lines,  which  we  men- 
tion specifically,  becaiise  the  poet  takes  ad- 
vantage of  the  circumstance  to  illustrate  or 
enforce  an  important  theological  doctrine  :  — 

Three  hundred  lines,  three  decads,  monads  three, 
Comprise  my  poem.    Love  the  Trinity. 


SOME   ACCOUNT  OF   THE   GREEK   CHRISTIAN    POETS     521 


It  would  be  almost  a  pain,  and  quite  a  regret, 
to  pass  from  this  fourth  century  without  speak- 
ing a  word  which  belongs  to  it  —  a  word  which 
rises  to  our  lips,  a  word  worthy  of  honor  — 
Heliodorus.  Though  a  bishop  and  an  imagi- 
native writer,  his  '  ^S^thiopica  '  has  no  claim  on 
our  attention,  either  by  right  of  Christianity  or 
poetry ;  and  j'et  we  luay  be  pardoned  on  our 
part  for  love's  sake,  and  on  account  of  the  false 
position  into  which,  by  negligence  of  readers 
or  insufficiency  of  translators,  his  beautiful  ro- 
mance has  fallen,  if  we  praise  it  heartily  and 
faithfully  even  here.  Our  tears  praised  it  long 
ago,  our  recollection  does  so  now,  and  its  own  pa- 
thetic eloquence  and  picturesque  descriptiveness 
are  ripe  for  any  praise.  It  has,  besides,  a  vivid 
Arabian  Night  charm,  almost  as  charming  as 
Scheherazade  herself,  suggestive  of  an  Arabian 
Night  story  drawn  out  *  in  many  a  winding 
bout,'  and  not  merely  on  the  ground  of  extem- 
poraneous loving  and  methodical  (must  we  say 
it?)  lying.  In  good  sooth  —  no,  not  in  good 
sooth,  but  in  evil  leasing  —  every  hero  and  hero- 
ine of  them  all,  from  Abou  Hassan  to  '  the 
divine  Chariclsea,'  does  lie  most  vehemently 
and  abundantly  by  gift  of  nature  and  choice  of 
author,  whether  bishop  or  sultana.  '  It  is,'  as 
Pepys  observes  philosophically  of  the  compara- 
tive destruction  of  gin-shops  and  churches  in 
the  Great  Fire  of  London,  '  pretty  to  observe  ' 
how  they  all  lie.  And  although  the  dearest  of 
story-tellers,  our  own  Chaucer,  has  told  us  that 
'  some  leasing  is,  of  which  there  cometli  none 
advauntage  to  no  wight,'  even  that  species  is 
used  by  them  magnanimously  in  its  turn,  for 
the  bare  glory's  sake,  and  without  caring  for 
the  'advauntage.'  With  equal  liberality,  but 
more  truth,  we  write  down  the  bishop  of 
Tricca's  romance  charming.,  and  wish  the  charm 
of  it  (however  we  may  be  out  of  place  in  naming 
him  among  poets,)  upon  any  poet^  who  has 
not  yet  felt  it,  and  whose  eyes,  giving  honor, 
may  wander  over  these  Remarks.  The  poor 
bishop  thought  as  well  of  his  book  as  we  do, 
perhaps  better ;  for  when  commanded,  under 
ecclesiastical  censure,  to  burn  it  or  give  up  his 
bishopric,  he  gave  ui?  the  bishopric.  And  who 
blames  Heliodorus  ?  He  thought  well  of  his 
romance  ;  he  was  angry  with  those  who  did  not ; 
he  was  weak  with  the  love  of  it.  Let  whosoever 
blames,  speak  low.  Romance-writers  are  not 
educated  for  martyrs,  and  the  exacted  martyr- 
dom was  very  very  hard.  Think  of  that  English 
bishop  who  burnt  his  hand  by  an  act  of  volition 

—  only  his  hand,  and  which  was  sure  to  be  burnt 
afterwards ;  and  how  he  was  praised  for  it  ! 
Heliodorus  had  to   do  with  a  dearer  thing  — 

—  handwriting,  not  hands.  Authors  will 
pardon  him,  if  bishops  do  not. 

NoNNUS  of  Panopolis,  the  poet  of  the  *  Dio- 
nysiaca,'  a  work  of  some  twenty-two  thousand 
verses,  on  some  twenty-two  thousand  subjects 
shaken  together,  flourished,  as  people  say  of 
many  a  dry-rooted  soul,  at  the  commencement 
of  the  fifth  century.  He  was  converted  from 
paganism,  but  we  are  sorry  to  make  the  melan- 
choly addition,  that  he  was  never  converted 


from  the  '  Dionysiaca.'  The  only  Christian 
poem  we  owe  to  him  —  a  paraphrase,  in  hexam- 
eters, of  the  apostle  John's  gospel  —  does  all 
that  a  bald  verbosity  and  an  obscure  tautology 
can  do  or  undo,  to  quench  the  divinity  of  that 
divine  narrative.  The  two  well-known  words, 
bearing  on  their  brief  vibration  the  whole  pas- 
sion of  a  world  saved  through  pain  from  pain, 
are  thus  traduced  :  — 

They  answered  him 
'  Come  and  behold.'     Then  Jesus  himself  groaned, 
Bropping  strange  tears  from  eyes  unused  to  weep. 

'  Unused  to  weep  ! '  Was  it  so  of  the  Man  of 
Sorrows  ?  Oh,  obtuse  poet !  We  had  trans- 
lated the  opening  passage  of  the  Paraphrase, 
and  laid  it  by  for  transcription,  but  are  re- 
pelled. Enough  is  said.  Nonnus  was  never 
converted  from  the  '  Dionysiaca.' 

SYNEsros  of  Cyrene  learnt  Plato's  philosophy 
so  well  of  Hypatia  of  Alexandria  at  the  com- 
mencement of  the  fifth  century,  or  rather  be- 
fore, that,  to  the  obvious  honor  of  that  fair  and 
learned  teacher,  he  never,  as  bishop  of  Ptole- 
mais,  could  attain  to  unlearning  it.  He  did  not 
wish  to  be  bishop  of  Ptolemais  ;  he  had  divers 
objections  to  the  throne  and  the  domination. 
He  loved  his  dogs,  he  loved  his  wife  ;  he  loved 
Hypatia  and  Plato  as  well  as  he  loved  truth  ; 
and  he  loved  beyond  all  things,  under  the  wo- 
manly instruction  of  the  former,  to  have  his 
own  way.  He  was  a  poet,  too  ;  the  chief  poet, 
we  do  not  hesitate  to  record  our  opinion,  —  the 
chief,  for  true  and  natural  gifts,  of  all  our 
Greek  Christian  poets  ;  and  it  was  his  choice 
to  pray  lyrically  between  the  dew  and  tlie  cloud 
rather  than  preach  dogmatically  between  the 
doxies.  If  Gregory  shrank  from  the  episcopal 
office  through  a  meek  self -distrust  and  a  yearn- 
ing for  solitude,  Synesius  repulsed  the  invita- 
tion to  it  through  an  impatience  of  control  over 
heart  and  life,  and  for  the  earnest  joy's  sake  of 
thinking  ovit  his  own  thought  in  the  hunting- 
grounds,  with  no  deacon  or  disciple  astuter  than 
his  dog  to  watch  the  thought  in  his  face,  and 
trace  it  backward  or  forward,  as  the  case 
might  be,  into  something  more  or  less  than  what 
was  orthodox.  Therefore  he,  a  man  of  many 
and  wandering  thoughts,  refused  the  bishopric, 
—  not  weepingly,  indeed,  as  Gregory  did,  nor 
feigning  madness  with  another  of  the  '  nolentes 
episcopari'  of  that  earnest  period,  — but  with  a 
sturdy  enunciation  of  resolve,  more  likely  to  be 
effectual,  of  keeping  his  wife  by  his  side  as  long 
as  he  lived,  and  of  doubting  as  long  as  he  pleased 
to  doubt  upon  the  resurrection  of  the  body. 
But  Synesius  was  a  man  of  genius,  and  of  all 
such  true  energies  as  are  taken  for  granted  in 
the  name  ;  and  the  very  suUenness  of  his  '  nay  ' 
being  expressive  to  grave  judges  of  the  faithful- 
ness of  his  '  yea  and  amen,'  he  was  considered 
too  noble  a  man  not  to  be  made  a  bishop  of 
in  his  own  despite,  and  on  his  own  terms.  The 
fact  proves  the  latitude  of  discipline,  and  even 
of  doctrine,  permitted  to  the  churches  of  that 
age  ;  and  it  does  not  appear  that  the  church  at 
Ptolemais  suffered  any  wrong  as  its  result,  see- 


1 


522 


APPENDIX 


ing  that  Syuesius,  recovering  from  the  shock 
militant  of  his  ordination,  in  the  course  of 
which  his  ecclesiastical  friends  had  '  laid  hands 
upon  him  '  in  the  roughest  sense  of  the  word, 
performed  his  new  duties  willingly ;  was  no 
sporting  bishop  otherwise  than  as  a  '  fisher  of 
men '  —  sent  his  bow  to  the  dogs,  and  his  dogs 
to  Jericho,  that  nearest  Coventry  to  Ptolemais, 
silencing  lais  '  staunch  hound's  authentic  voice  ' 
as  soon  as  ever  any  importance  became  attached 
to  the  authenticity  of  his  own.  And  if,  accord- 
ing to  the  bond,  he  retained  his  wife  and  his 
Platonisms,  we  may  honor  him  by  the  inference, 
that  he  did  so  for  conscience'  sake  stilly  more 
than  love's,  since  the  love  was  inoperative  in 
other  matters.  For  spiritual  fervor  and  exal- 
tation, he  has  honor  among  men  and  angels; 
and  however  intent  upon  spiritualizing  away 
the  most  glorified  material  body  from  'the 
heaven  of  his  invention,'  he  held  fast  and  ear- 
nestly, as  anybody's  clenched  hand  could  a  horn 
of  the  altar,  the  Homoousion  doctrine  of  the 
Christian  heaven,  and  other  chief  doctrines  em- 
phasizing the  divine  sacrifice.  But  this  poet 
has  a  higher  place  among  poets  than  this  bishop 
among  bishops ;  the  highest,  we  must  repeat 
our  conviction,  of  all  yet  named  or  to  be  named 
by  us  as  '  Greek  Christian  poets.'  Little,  in- 
deed, of  his  poetry  has  reached  us,  but  this 
little  is  great  in  a  nobler  sense  than  of  quantity ; 
and  when  of  his  odes.  Anacreontic  for  the  most 
part,  we  cannot  say  praisef  ully  that  '  they  smell 
of  Anacreon,'  it  is  because  their  fragrance  is 
holier  and  more  abiding;  it  is  because  the 
human  soul  burning  in  the  censer  effaces  from 
our  spiritual  perceptions  the  attar  of  a  thousand 
rose-trees  whose  roots  are  in  Teos.  These  odes 
have,  in  fact,  a  wonderful  rapture  and  ecstasy. 
And  if  we  find  in  them  the  phraseology  of  Plato 
or  Plotinus,  for  he  leant  lovingly  to  the  later 
Platonists,  — nay,  if  we  find  in  them  oblique 
references  to  the  out-worn  mythology  of  pagan- 
ism, even  so  have  we  beheld  the  mixed  multi- 
tude of  unconnected  motes  wheeling,  rising  in  a 
great  sunshine,  as  the  sunshine  were  a  motive 
energy,  —  and  even  so  the  burning,  adoring 
poet-spirit  sweeps  upward  the  motes  of  world- 
fancies  (as  if,  being  in  the  world,  their  tendency 
was  Godward)  upward  in  a  strong  stream  of 
sunny  light,  while  she  rushes  into  the  presence 
of  '  the  Alone.'  We  say  the  spirit  significantly 
in  speaking  of  this  poet's  aspiration.  His  is  an 
ecstasy  of  abstract  intellect,  of  pure  spirit,  cold 
though  impetuous  ;  the  heart  does  not  beat  in 
it,  nor  is  the  human  voice  heard ;  the  poet  is 
true  to  the  heresy  of  the  ecclesiastic,  and  there 
is  no  resurrection  of  the  body.  We  shall  at- 
tempt a  translation  of  the  ninth  ode,  closer  if 
less  graceful  and  polished  than  Mr.  Boyd's, 
helping  our  hand  to  courage  by  the  persuasion 
that  the  genius  of  its  poetry  must  look  through 
the  thickest  blanket  of  our  dark. 

Well-beloved  and  glory-laden, 
Born  of  Solyma's  pure  maiden  ! 
I  would  hymn  Thee,  blessed  Warden, 
Driving  from  Thy  Father's  garden 
Blinking  serpent's  crafty  lust, 


With  his  bruised  head  in  the  dust ! 

Down  Thou  camest,  low  as  earth, 

Bound  to  those  of  mortal  birth  ; 

Down  Thou  camest,  low  as  hell, 

Where  shepherd-Death  did  tend  and  keep 

A  thousand  nations  like  to  sheep, 

While  weak  with  age  old  Hades  fell 

Shivering  through  his  dark  to  view  Thee, 

Ai).d  the  Dog  did  backward  yell 

With  jaws  all  gory  to  let  through  Thee  ! 

So,  redeeming  from  their  pain 

Choirs  of  disembodied  ones, 

Thou  didst  lead  whom  Thou  didst  gather, 

Upward  in  ascent  again, 

With  a  great  hymn  to  the  Father, 

Upward  to  the  pure  white  thrones  ! 

King,  the  dsemon  tribes  of  air 

Shuddered  back  to  feel  Thee  there  ! 

And  the  holy  stars  stood  breathless, 

Trembling  in  their  chorus  deathless; 

A  low  laughter  filled  aether  — 

Harmony's  most  subtle  sire 

From  the  seven  strings  of  his  lyre 

Stroked  a  measured  music  hither  — 

lo  ptean  !  victory  ! 

Smiled  the  star  of  morning  —  he 

Who  smileth  to  foreshow  the  day  ! 

Smiled  Hesperus  the  golden, 

Who  smileth  soft  for  Venus  gay  ! 

While  that  horned  glory  holden 

Brimful  from  the  fount  of  fire, 

The  white  moon,  was  leading  higher 

In  a  gentle  pastoral  w^ise 

All  the  nightly  deities  ! 

Yea,  and  Titan  threw  abroad 

The  far  shining  of  his  hair 

'Neath  Thy  footsteps  holy-fair. 

Owning  Thee  the  Son  of  God; 

The  Mind  artificer  of  all. 

And  his  own  fire's  original. 

And  Thou  upon  Thy  wing  of  will 

Mounting,  —  Thy  God-foot  uptill 

The  neck  of  the  blue  firmament,  — 

Soaring,  didst  alight  content 

Where  the  spirit-spheres  were  singing. 

And  the  fount  of  good  was  springing. 

In  the  silent  heaven  ! 

Where  Time  is  not  with  his  tide  , 

Ever  running,  never  weary. 

Drawing  earth-born  things  aside 

Against  the  rocks  :  nor  yet  are  given 

The  plagues  death-bold  that  ride  the  dreary 

Tost  matter-depths.     Eternity 

Assumes  the  places  which  they  yield  ! 

Not  aged,  howsoe'er  she  held 

Her  crown  from  everlastingly  — 

At  once  of  youth,  at  once  of  eld. 

While  in  that  mansion  which  is  hers 

To  God  and  gods  she  ministers  ! 

How  the  poet  rises  in  his  '  singing  clothes,' 
embroidered  all  over  with  the  mythos  and  the 
philosophy  !  Yet  his  eye  is  to  the  Throne  :  and 
we  must  not  call  him  half  a  heathen  by  rea- 
son of  a  Platonic  idiosyncrasy,  seeing  that  the 
esoteric  of  the  most  suspicious  turnings  of  his 
phraseology  is  '  Glory  to  the  true  God.'  For 
another  ode,  Paris  should  be  here  to  choose  it 
—  we  are  puzzled  among  the  beautiful.  Here 
is  one  with  a  thought  in  it  from  Gregory's  prose, 
which  belongs  to  Synesius  by  right  of  con- 
quest :  — 

O  my  deathless,  O  my  blessed, 
Maid-bom,  glorious  son  confessed, 


i 


SOME   ACCOUNT   OF   THE   GREEK   CHRISTIAN   POETS     523 


0  my  Christ  of  Solyma  ! 

1  who  earliest  learnt  to  play 

This  measure  for  Thee,  fain  would  bring 
Its  new  sweet  tune  to  citeru-slriug  — 
Be  propitious,  0  my  King  ! 
Take  this  music  which  is  mine 
Authem'd  from  the  songs  divine  ! 

We  will  sing  thee,  deathless  One, 

God  himself  and  God's  great  Son  — 

Of  sire  of  endless  generations, 

Son  of  manifold  ci-eatious  ! 

Nature  mutually  endued. 

Wisdom  in  infinitude  ! 

God,  before  the  angels  burning  — 

Corpse,  among  the  mortals  mourning  ! 

What  time  Thou  wast  poured  mild 

From  an  earthy  vase  defiled, 

Magi  with  fair  arts  besprent. 

At  Thy  new  star's  orient, 

Trembled  inly,  wondered  wild, 

Questioned  with  their  thoughts  abroad  — 

'  What  then  is  the  new-born  child  ? 

Who  the  hidden  God  ? 

God,  or  corpse,  or  king  ? 

Bring  your  gifts,  oh  hither  bring 

Myrrh  for  rite  —  for  tribute,  gold  — 

Frankincense  for  sacrifice  ! 

God  !  Thine  incense  take  and  hold  ! 

King  !  I  bring  thee  gold  of  price  ! 

Myrrh  with  tomb  will  harmonize  ! 

For  Thou,  entombed,  hast  purified 
Earthly  ground  and  rolling  tide, 
And  the  path  of  daemon  nations. 
And  the  free  air's  fluctuations, 
And  the  depth  below  the  deep  ! 
Thou  God,  helper  of  the  dead. 
Low  as  Hades  didst  Thou  tread  ! 
Thou  King,  gracious  aspect  keep, 
Take  this  music  which  is  mine, 
Anthem'd  from  the  songs  divine. 


the 


em- 


EuDOCiA  —  in  the    twenty-first  year  of 
fifth  century  — wife   of  Theodosius,   and 
press  of  the  world,  thought  good  to  extend  hec 
sceptre  — 

(Hac  claritate  gemina 
O  gloriosa  foemina  ! )  — 

over  Homer's  poems,  and  cento-ize  them  into 
an  epic  on  the  Saviour's  life.  She  was  the  third 
fair  woman  accused  of  sacrificing  the  world  for 
an  apple,  having  moved  her  husband  to  w^rath, 
by  giving  away  his  imperial  gift  of  a  large  one 
to  her  own  philosophic  friend  Paulinus ;  and 
being  unhappily  more  learned  than  her  two 
predecessors  in  the  sin,  in  the  course  of  her 
exile  to  Jerusalem  she  took  ghostly  comfort 
by  separating  Homer's  elSuiKov  from  his  ^peVe?. 
There  she  sat  among  the  ruins  of  the  holy  city, 
addressing  herself  most  unholily,  with  what- 
ever good  intentions  and  delicate  fingers,  to  pull- 
ing Homer's  gold  to  pieces  bit  by  bit,  even  as 
the  ladies  of  France  devoted  what  remained  to 
them  of  virtuous  energy  '  pour  parfiler '  under 
the  benignant  gaze  of  Louis  Quinze.  She,  too, 
who  had  no  right  of  the  purple  to  literary  in- 
eptitude—  she,  born  no  empress  of  Rome,  but 
daughter  of  Leontius  the  Athenian,  what  had 
she  to  do  with  Homer,  '  parfilant '  ?  Was  it 
not  enough  for  Homer  that  he  was  turned  once, 


like  her  own  cast  imperial  mantle,  by  Apoli- 
narius  into  a  Jewish  epic,  but  that  he  must  be 
unpicked  again  by  Eudocia  for  a  Christian  epic  ? 
The  reader,  who  has  heard  enough  of  centos, 
will  not  care  to  hear  how  she  did  it.  That  she 
did  it  was  too  much ;  and  the  deed  recoiled. 
For  mark  the  poetical  justice  of  her  destiny  ; 
let  all  readers  mark  it,  and  all  writers,  espe- 
cially female  writers,  who  may  be  half  as 
learned,  and  not  half  as  fair,  —  that  although 
she  wrote  many  poems,  one  '  On  the  Persian 
War,'  whose  title  and  merit  are  recorded,  not 
one,  except  this  cento,  has  survived.  The 
obliterative  sponge,  we  hear  of  in  ^^Eschylus, 
has  washed  out  every  verse  except  this  cento's 
'  damned  spot.'  This  remains.  This  is  called 
Eudocia :  this  stands  for  the  daughter  of  Le- 
ontius, and  this  only  in  the  world.  0  fair  mis- 
chief !  she  is  imnished  by  her  hand. 

And  yet,  are  we  born  critics  any  more  than  she 
was  born  an  empress,  that  we  should  not  have 
a  heart  ?  and  is  our  heart  stone,  that  it  should 
not  wax  soft  within  us  while  the  vision  is  stirred 
'  between  our  eyehds  and  our  eyes,'  of  this 
beautiful  Athenais,  baptized  once  by  Christian 
waters,  and  once  by  human  tears,  into  Eudocia, 
the  imperial  mourner  ?  —  this  learned  pupil  of 
a  learned  father,  crowned  once  by  her  golden 
hair,  and  once  by  her  golden  crown,  yet  praised 
more  for  poetry  and  learning  than  for  beauty 
and  greatness  by  such  grave  writers  as  Socrates 
and  Evagrius,  the  ecclesiastical  historians  ?  — 
this  "world's  empress,  pale  with  the  purple  of 
her  palaces,  an  exile  even  on  the  throne  from 
her  Athens,  and  soon  twice  an  exile,  from  fa- 
ther's grave  and  husband's  bosom  ?  We  relent 
before  such  a  vision.  And  what  if,  relentingly, 
Me  declare  her  innocent  of  the  Homeric  cento ? 
—  what  if  we  find  her  '  a  whipping  boy  '  to  take 
the  blame  ?  —  what  if  we  write  down  a  certain 
Proba  'improba,'  and  bid  her  bear  it?  For 
Eudocia,  having  been  once  a  mark  to  slander, 
may  have  been  so  again  |  and  Falconia  Proba, 
having  committed  centoism  iipon  Virgil,  must 
have  been  capable  of  anything.  The  Homeric 
cento  has  been  actually  attributed  to  her  by 
certain  critics,  with  whom  we  would  join  in  all 
earnestness  our  most  sour  voices,  gladly,  for 
Eudocia's  sake,  who  is  closely  dear  to  us,  and 
not  malignly  for  Proba 's,  who  was  '  imjjroba  ' 
without  our  help.  So  shall  we  impute  evU  to 
only  one  woman,  and  she  not  an  Athenian ; 
while  our  worst  wish,  even  to  her,  assumes  this 
innoxious  shape,  that  she  had  used  a  distaff 
rather  than  a  stylus,  though  herself  and  the 
yet  more  '  Sleeping  Beauty '  had  owned  one 
horoscope  between  them  !  Amen  to  our  wish  ! 
A  busy  distafp  and  a  sound  sleep  to  Proba  ! 

And  now,  that  golden-haired,  golden-crowned 
daughter  of  Leontius,  for  whom  neither  the 
much  learning  nor  the  much  sorrow  drove  Hes- 
perus from  her  sovran  eyes  —  let  her  pass  on 
unblenched.  Be  it  said  of  her,  softly  as  she 
goes,  by  all  gentle  readers  — '  She  is  innocent, 
whether  for  centos  or  for  apples  !  She  wrote 
only  such  Christian  Greek  poems  as  Christians 
and  poets  might  rejoice  to  read,   but   which 


/ 


/ 


524 


APPENDIX 


perished  with  her  beauty,  as  being  of  one  seed 
with  it.' 

Midway  in  the  sixth  century  we  encounter 
Paul  Silentiarius,  called  so  in  virtue  of  the 
office  held  by  him  in  the  court  of  Justinian,  and 
chiefly  esteemed  for  his  descriptive  poem  on 
the  Byzantine  church  of  St.  Sophia,  which,  after 
the  Arian  conflagration,  was  rebuilt  gorgeously 
by  the  emperor.  This  church  was  not  dedi- 
cated to  a  female  saint,  according  to  the  suppo- 
sition of  many  persons,  but  to  the  second  person 
of  the  Trinity,  the  ayia  ao^ia  —  holy  wisdom  ; 
while  the  poem  being  recited  in  the  imperial 
presence,  and  the  poet's  gaze  often  forgetting 
to  rise  higher  than  the  imperial  smile,  Paul 
Silentiarius  dwelt  less  on  the  divine  dedication 
and  the  spiritual  uses  of  the  place,  than  on  the 
glory  of  the  dedicator  and  the  beauty  of  the 
structure.  We  hesitate,  moreover,  to  grant  to 
his  poem  the  praise  which  has  been  freely 
granted  to  it  by  more  capable  critics,  of  its 
power  to  realize  this  beauty  of  structure  to  the 
eyes  of  the  reader.  It  is  highly  elaborate  and 
artistic ;  but  the  elaboration  and  art  appear 
to  us  architectural  far  more  than  picturesque. 
There  is  no  sequency,  no  congruity,  no  keeping, 
no  light  and  shade.  The  description  has  refer- 
ence to  the  working  as  well  as  to  the  work,  to 
the  materials  as  well  as  to  the  working.  The 
eyes  of  the  reader  are  suffered  to  approach  the 
whole  only  in  analysis,  or  rather  in  analysis 
analyzed.  Every  part,  part  by  part,  is  re- 
counted to  him  excellently  well  —  is  brought 
close  till  he  may  touch  it  with  his  eyelashes  ; 
but  when  he  seeks  for  the  general  effect,  it  is 
in  pieces  —  there  is  none  of  it.  Byron  shows 
him  more  in  the  passing  words  — 

I  have  beheld  Sophia's  bright  roofs  swell 
Their  glittering  mass  i'  the  sun  — 

than  Silentiarius  in  all  his  poem.  Yet  the 
poem  has  abundant  merit  in  diction  and  har- 
mony ;  and,  besides  higher  noblenesses,  the 
pauses  are  modulated  with  an  artfulness  not 
commonly  attained  by  these  later  Greeks,  and 
the  ear  exults  in  an  unaccustomed  rhythmetic 
pomp  which  the  inward  critical  sense  is  inclined 
to  murmur  at,  as  an  expletive  verbosity. 

Whoever  looketh  with  a  mortal  eye 
To  heaven's  emblazoned  forms,  not  steadfastly 
With  unreverted  neck  can  bear  to  measure 
That  meadow-round  of  star-apparelled  pleasure. 
But  drops  his  eyelids  to  the  verdant  hill, 
Yearning  to  see  the  river  run  at  will, 
With  flowers  on  each  side,  —  and  the  ripening  corn, 
And  grove  thick  set  witli  trees,  and  flocks  at  morn 
Leaping  against  the  dews,  —  and  olives  twined. 
And  green  vine-branches,  trailingly  inclined,  — 
And  the  blue  calmness  skimmed  by  dripping  oar 
Along  the  Golden  Horn. 

But  if  he  bring 
His  foot  across  this  threshold,  never  more 
Would  he  withdraw  it  ;  fain,  with  wandering 
Moist  eyes,  and  ever-turning  head,  to  stay, 
Since  all  satiety  is  driven  away 
Beyond  the  noble  structure.     Such  a  fane 
Of  blameless  beauty  hath  our  Caesar  raised 
By  God's  perfective  grace,  and  not  in  vain  ! 


O  emperor,  these  labors  we  have  praised. 

Draw  down  the  glorious  Christ's  perpetual  smile  ; 

For  thou,  the  high-peaked  Ossa  didst  not  pile 

Upon  Olympus'  head,  nor  Pelion  throw 

Upon  the  neck  of  Ossa,  opening  so 

The  aether  to  the  steps  of  mortals  !  no  ! 

Having  achieved  a  work  more  high  than  hope, 

Thou  didst  not  need  these  mountains  as  a  slope 

Whereby  to  scale  the  heaven  !     Wings  take  thee  thither 

From  purest  piety  to  highest  aether. 

The  following  passage,  from  the  same  '  De- 
scription,' is  hard  to  turn  into  EngHsh,  through 
the  accumulative  riches  of  the  epithets.  Greek 
words  atone  for  their  vainglorious  redundancy 
by  their  beauty,  but  we  cannot  think  so  of 
these  our  own  pebbles :  — 

Who  will  luiclose  me  Homer's  sounding  lips, 

And  sing  the  marble  meed  that  oversweeps 

The  mighty  walls  and  pavements  spread  around 

Of  this  tall  temple,  which  the  sun  has  crowned  ? 

The  hammer  with  its  iron  tooth  was  loosed 

Into  Carystus'  summit  green,  and  bruised 

The  Phrygian  shoulder  of  the  daedal  stone  ;  — 

This  marble,  colored  after  roses  fused 

In  a  white  air,  and  that,  with  flowers  thereon 

Both  purple  and  silver,  shining  tenderly  ! 

And  that  which  in  the  broad  fair  Nile  sank  low 

The  barges  to  their  edge,  the  porphyry's  glow 

Sown  thick  with  little  stars  !  and  thou  mayst  see 

The  green  stone  of  Laconia  glitter  free  ! 

And  all  the  Carian  hill's  deep  bosom  brings, 

Streaked  bow-wise,  with  a  livid  white  and  red,  — 

And  all  the  Lydian  chasm  keeps  covered, 

A  hueless  blossom  with  a  ruddier  one 

Soft  mingled  !  all,  besides,  the  Libyan  sun 

Warms  with  his  golden  splendor,  till  he  make 

A  golden  yellow  glory  for  his  sake. 

Along  the  roots  of  the  Maurusian  height ; 

And  all  the  Celtic  mountains  give  to  sight 

From  crystal  clefts  :  black  marbles  dappled  fair 

With  milky  distillations  here  and  there  ! 

And  all  the  onyx  yields  in  metal-shine 

Of  precious  greenness  !  —  all  that  land  of  thine, 

^tolia,  hath  on  even  plains  engendered 

But  not  on  mountain-tops,  —  a  marble  rendered 

Here  nigh  to  green,  of  tints  which  emeralds  use, 

Here  with  a  sombre  purple  in  the  hues  ! 

Some  marbles  are  like  new-dropt  snow,  and  some 

Alight  with  blackness  !     Beauty's  rays  have  come, 

So  congregate,  beneath  this  holy  dome  ! 

And  thus  the  poet  takes  us  away  from  the 
church  and  dashes  our  senses  and  admirations 
down  these  marble  quarries !  Yet  it  is  right 
for  us  to  admit  the  miracle  of  a  poem  made  out 
oiE  stones!  and  when  he  spoke  of  unclosing 
Homer's  lips  on  such  a  subject,  he  was  probably 
thinking  of  Homer's  ships,  and  meant  to  inti- 
mate that  one  catalogue  was  as  good  for  him  as 
another. 

John  Geometra  arose  in  no  propitious  orient 
probably  with  the  seventh  century,  although 
the  time  of  his  '  elevation  '  appears  to  be  uncer- 
tain within  a  hundred  years. 

He  riseth  slowly,  as  his  sullen  car 

Had  all  the  weights  of  sleep  and  death  hung  on  it. 

Plato,  refusing  his  divine  fellowship  to  any 
one  who  was  not  a  geometrician  or  who  was  a 
poet,  might  have  kissed  our  Johannes^  who  was 


SOME   ACCOUNT   OF   THE   GREEK   CHRISTIAN   POETS     525 


not  divine,  upon  both  cheeks,  in  virtue  of  his 
other  name  and  in  vice  of  his  verses.  He  was 
the  author  of  certain  hymns  to  the  Virgin 
Mary,  as  accumulative  of  epithets  and  admira- 
tions as  ten  of  her  litanies,  inclusive  of  a  pious 
compliment,  which,  however  geometrically  ex- 
act in  its  proportions,  sounds  strangely. 

O  health  to  thee  !  new  hving  car  of  the  sky, 
Afii'e  ou  the  wheels  of  four  virtues  at  ouce  ! 

O  health  to  thee  !     Seat,  than  the  cherubs  more  high. 
More   pure  than  the  seraphs,  more  broad  than  the 
thrones  ! 

Towards  the  close  of  the  last  hymn,  the  ex- 
hausted poet  empties  back  something  of  the 
ascription  into  his  own  lap,  by  a  remarkable 
'  mihi  quoque.' 

0  health  to  me,  royal  one  !  if  there  belong 
Any  grace  to  my  singing,  that  grace  is  from  thee. 

O  health  to  me,  royal  one  !  if  in  my  song 
Thou  hast   pleasure,   oh,  thine   is  the   grace  of  the 
glee  ! 

We  may  mark  the  time  of  George  Pisida, 
about  thirty  years  deep  in  the  seventh  century. 
He  has  been  confounded  with  the  rhetorical 
archbishop  of  Nicomedia,  but  held  the  office  of 
sesevophylax,  only  lower  than  the  highest,  in  the 
metropolitan  church  of  St.  Sophia,  and  was  a 
poet,  singing  half  in  the  church  and  half  in  the 
court,  and  considerably  nearer  to  the  feet  of 
the  Emperor  Heraclius  than  can  please  us  in 
any  measure.  Hoping  all  things,  however,  in 
our  poetical  charity,  we  are  mlling  to  hope  even 
this,  —  that  the  man  whom  Heraclius  carried 
about  w'ith  him  as  a  singing-man  when  he  went 
to  fight  the  Persians,  and  who  sang  and  recited 
accordingly,  and  provided  notes  of  admiration 
for  all  the  imperial  notes  of  interrogation,  and 
gave  his  admiring  poems  the  appropriate  and 
suggestive  name  of  acroases  —  auscultations, 
things  intended  to  be  heard.  —  might  neverthe- 
less love  Heraclius  the  fighting-man,  not  slave- 
wise  or  flatterer-wise,  but  man- wise  or  dog- 
wise,  in  good  truth,  and  up  to  the  brim  of  his 
praise  ;  and  so  hoping,  we  do  not  dash  the 
praise  down  as  a  libation  to  the  infernal  task- 
masters. Still  it  is  an  impotent  conclusion  to  a 
free-hearted  poet's  mnsing  on  the  '  Six  Days' 
Work.'  to  wish  God's  creation  under  the  scep- 
tre of  his  particular  fi'iend  !  It  looks  as  if  the 
particular  friend  had  an  ear  like  Dionysius. 
and  the  poet  —  ah.  the  poet !  —  a  mark  as  of  a 
chain  upon  his  brow  in  the  shadow  of  his  court 
laurel. 

We  shall  not  revive  the  question  agitated 
among  his  contemporaries,  whether  Euripides 
or  George  Pisida  wrote  the  best  iambics ;  but 
that  our  George  knew  the  secret  of  beauty,  and 
that,  having  noble  thoughts,  he  could  utter 
them  nobly,  is  clear,  despite  of  Heraclius.  That 
he  is,  besides,  unequal  ;  often  coldly  perplexed 
when  he  means  to  be  ingeniotis,  only  violent 
when  he  seeks  to  be  inspired ;  that  he  premedi- 
tates ecstasies,  and  is  inclined  to  the  attitudes 
of  the  orators ;  in  brief,  that  he    '  not  only  ' 


(and  not  seldom)  '  sleeps  but  snores  '  —  are  facts 
as  true  of  him  as  the  praise  is.  His  Hexae- 
meron,  to  which  we  referred  as  his  chief  work, 
is  rather  a  meditation  or  rhythmetical  speech 
upon  the  finished  creation,  than  a  retrospection 
of  the  six  days  ;  and  also  there  is  more  of  Plato 
in  it  than  of  Moses.  It  has  many  fine  things, 
and  whole  passages  of  no  ordinary  eloquence, 
though  difficult  to  separate  and  select. 

Whatever  eyes  seek  God  to  view  His  Light, 

As  far  as  they  behold  Him  close  in  night ! 

Whoever  searcheth  with  insatiate  balls 

Th'  abysmal  glare,  or  gazeth  on  Heaven's  walls 

Against  the  fire-disk  of  the  sun,  the  same 

According  to  the  vision  he  may  claim, 

Is  dazzled  from  his  sense.     What  soul  of  flame 

Is  called  suflQcient  to  view  onward  thus 

The  way  whereby  the  sun's  light  came  to  us  ? 

O  distant  Presence  in  fixed  motion  !    Known 

To  all  men,  and  inscrutable  to  one  : 

Perceived  —  uncomprehended  !  unexplained 

To  all  the  spirits,  yet  by  each  attained, 

Because  its  God-sight  is  Thy  work  !     O  Presence, 

Whatever  holy  greatness  of  Thine  essence 

Lie  virtue-hidden.  Thou  hast  given  our  eyes 

The  vision  of  Thy  plastic  energies  — 

Not  shown  in  angels  only  (those  create 

All  fiery-hearted,  in  a  mystic  state 

Of  bodiless  body)  but,  if  order  be 

Of  natures  more  sublime  than  they  or  we, 

In  highest  Heaven,  or  mediate  aether,  or 

This  world  now  seen,  or  one  that  came  before 

Or  one  to  come,  —  quick  in  Thy  purpose,  there  ! 

Working  in  fire  and  water,  earth  and  air  — 

In  every  tuneful  star,  and  tree,  and  bird  — 

In  all  the  swimming,  creeping  life  unheard, 

In  all  green  herbs,  and  chief  of  all,  in  man. 

There  are  other  poems  of  inferior  length, 
'  On  the  Persian  War, '  in  three  books,  or,  alas, 
'  ausctiltations,' —  '  The  Heracliad,'  again  on 
the  Persian  war,  and  in  two  (of  coui'se)  auscul- 
tations again, —  'Against  Severus,'  'On  the 
Vanity  of  Life,'  '  The  War  of  the  Huns,'  and 
others.  From. the  '  Vanity  of  Life,'  which  has 
much  beauty  and  force,  we  shall  take  a  last 
specimen  :  — 

Some  yearn  to  rule  the  state,  to  sit  above, 

And  touch  the  cares  of  hate  as  near  as  love  ; 

Some  their  own  reason  for  tribunal  take. 

And  for  all  thrones  the  humblest  prayers  they  make ; 

Some  love  the  orator's  vain-glorious  art,  — 

The  wise  love  silence  and  the  hush  of  heart,  — 

Some  to  ambition's  spirit-curse  are  fain, 

That  golden  apple  with  a  bloody  stain; 

While  some  do  battle  in  her  face  (more  rife 

Of  noble  ends)  and  conquer  strife  with  strife  : 

And  while  your  groaning  tables  gladden  these, 

Satiety's  quick  chariot  to  disease, 

Hunger  the  wise  man  helps,  to  water,  bread. 

And  light  wings  to  the  dreams  about  his  head. 

The  truth  becomes  presently  obvious,  that  — 

The  sage  o'er  all  the  world  his  sceptre  waves, 

And  earth  is  common  ground  to  thrones  and  graves. 

John  Damascenus,  to  whom  we  should  not 
give  by  any  private  impulse  of  admiration  the 


526 


APPENDIX 


title  of  Chrysorrhoas,  accorded  to  him  by  his 
times,  lived  at  Damascus,  his  native  city,  early 
in  the  eighth  century,  holding  an  unsheathed 
sword  of  controversy  until  the  point  drew  down 
the  lightning.  He  retired  before  the  affront 
rather  than  the  injury  ;  and  in  company  with 
his  beloved  friend  and  fellow  poet,  Cosmas  of 
Jerusalem  (whose  poetical  remains  the  writer 
of  these  Remarks  has  vainly  sought  the  sight 
of,  and  therefore  can  only,  as  by  hearsay, 
ascribe  some  value  to  themj,  hid  the  remaiant 
of  his  life  in  the  monastery  of  Saba,  where 
Phocas  of  the  twelfth  centuxy  looked  upon  the 
tomb  of  either  poet.  John  Damascenus  wrote 
several  acrostics  on  the  chief  festivals  of  the 
churches,  which  are  not  much  better,  although 
very  much  longer,  than  acrostics  need  be. 
When  he  writes  out  of  his  heart,  without  look- 
ing to  the  first  letters  of  his  verses,  — as  indeed, 
in  his  Anacreontic  his  eyes  are  too  dim  for  iota 
hunting,  —  he  is  another  man,  and  almost  a 
strong  man ;  for  the  heart  being  sufficient  to 
speak,  we  want  no  Delphic  oracle  —  '  Pan  is 
NOT  dead.'  In  our  selection  from  the  Anacre- 
ontic hymn,  the  tears  seem  to  trickle  audibly  ; 
we  welcome  them  as  a  Castalia,  or,  rather, 
'as  Siloa's  brook,'  flowing  by  an  oracle  more 
divine  than  any  Grecian  one :  — 

From  my  lips  in  their  defilement, 
From  my  heart  in  its  beguilemeut, 
From  my  tongue  which  speaks  not  fair, 
,    From  my  soul  stained  everywhere, 
O  my  Jesus,  take  my  prayer  ! 
Spurn  me  not  for  all  it  says, 
Not  for  words  and  not  for  ways, 
Not  for  shamelessness  endued  ! 
Make  me  brave  to  speak  my  mood, 

0  my  Jesus,  as  I  would  ! 

Or  teach  me,  which  I  rather  seek, 
What  to  do  and  what  to  speak. 

1  have  sinned  more  than  she, 

Who  learning  where  to  meet  with  Thee, 
And  bringing  myrrh,  the  highest-priced, 

Anointed  bravely,  from  her  knee, 

Thy  blessed  feet  accordingly, 
My  God,  my  Lord,  my  Christ ! 

As  Thou  saidest  not  '  Depart  ' 

To  that  suppliant  from  her  heart, 

Scorn  me  not,  O  Word,  that  art 

The  gentlest  one  of  all  words  said  ! 

But  give  Thy  feet  to  me  instead 

That  tenderly  I  may  them  kiss 

And  clasp  them  close,  and  never  miss 

With  over-droppmg  tears,  as  free 

And  precious  as  that  myrrh  could  be, 

T'  anoint  them  bravely  from  my  knee  ! 

Wash  me  with  Thy  tears  :  draw  nigh  me, 

That  their  salt  may  purify  me. 

Thou  remit  my  sins  who  knowest 

All  the  sinning  to  the  lowest  — 

Knowest  all  my  wounds,  and  seest 

All  the  stripes  Thyself  decreest ; 

Yea,  but  knowest  all  my  faith, 

Seest  all  my  force  to  death, 

Hearest  all  ray  wailings  low. 

That  mine  evil  should  be  so  ! 

Nothing  hidden  but  appears 

In  Thy  knowledge,  O  Divine, 

O  Creator,  Saviour  mine  — 

Not  a  drop  of  falling  tears. 


Not  a  breath  of  inward  moan, 
Not  a  heart-beat  —  which  is  gone  ! 

After  this  deep  pathos  of  Christianity,  we 
dare  not  say  a  word  ;  we  dare  not  even  praise 
it  as  poetry:  our  heart  is  stirred,  and  not 
'  idly.'  The  only  sound  which  can  fitly  suc- 
ceed the  cry  of  the  contrite  soul  is  that  of  Di- 
vine condonation  or  of  angelic  rejoicing.  Let 
us  who  are  sorrowful  still,  be  silent  too. 

Although  doubts,  as  broad  as  four  hundred 
years,  separate  the  earliest  and  latest  period 
talked  of  as  the  age  of  Simeon  Meta- 
PHRASTES  by  those  '  viri  illustrissimi '  the 
classical  critics,  we  may  set  him  down,  with- 
out much  peril  to  himself  or  us,  at  the  close 
of  the  tenth  century,  or  very  early  in  the 
eleventh.  He  is  chiefly  known  for  his  '  Lives 
of  the  Saints,'  which  have  been  lifted  up  as 
a  mark  both  for  honor  and  dishonor  ;  which 
Psellus  hints  at  as  a  favorite  literature  of  the 
angels,  which  Leo  AUatius  exalts  as  chafing  the 
temper  of  the  heretics,  and  respecting  which 
we,  in  an  exemplary  serenity,  shall  straightway 
accede  to  one  half  of  the  opinion  of  Bellarmine 

—  that  the  work  speaketh  not  as  things  actually 
happened,  but  as  they  might  have  happened 

—  '  non  ut  res  gestce  fuerant,  sed  ut  geri  potu- 
erantJ'  Our  half  of  this  weighty  opinion  is  the 
first  clause  —  we  demur  upon  '  ut  geri  potii- 
erant,'  —  and  we  need  not  go  further  than  the 
former  to  win  a  light  of  commentary  for  the 
term  '  metaphrases, '  applied  to  the  saintly  bio- 
graphies in  otherwise  a  doubtful  sense,  and 
worn  obliquely  upon  the  sleeve  of  the  biographer 
Metaphrastes,  in  no  doubtful  token  of  his  skill 
in  metamorphosing  things  as  they  were  into 
things  as  they  might  have  been.  And  Simeon 
having  received  from  Constantinople  the  honor 
of  his  birth  within  her  walls,  and  returning  to 
her  the  better  honor  of  the  distinctions  and 
usefulness  of  his  life,  —  so  writeth  Psellus,  his 
encomiast,  with  a  graceful  turn  of  thought,  — 
expired  in  an  '  odor  of  sanctity  '  befitting  the 
biographer  of  all  the  saints,  — breathing  out  from 
his  breathless  remains  such  an  incense  of  ce- 
lestial sweetness,  that  if  it  had  not  been  for 
the  maladroitness  of  certain  unfragrant  persons 
whose  desecration  of  the  next  tomb  acted  in- 
continently as  a  stopper,  the  whole  earth  might 
at  this  day  be  metaphrased  to  our  nostrils,  as 
steeped  in  an  attar-gul  of  Eden  or  Ede !  —  we 
might  be  dwelling  in  a  phoenix-nest  at  this  day. 
Through  the  maladroitness,  however,  in  ques- 
tion, there  is  lost  to  us  every  sweeter  influence 
from  the  life  and  death  of  Simeon  Metaphrastes 
than  may  result  from  the  lives  and  deaths  of 
his  saints,  and  frona  other  works  of  his,  whether 
commentaries,  orations,  or  poems  ;  and  we  can- 
not add  that  the  aroma  from  his  writings  bears 
any  proportion  in  value  to  the  fragrance  from 
his  sepulchre.  Little  of  his  poetry  has  reached 
us,  and  we  are  satisfied  with  the  limit.  There 
were  three  Simeons,  who  did  precede  our 
Simeon,  as  the  world  knoweth,  and  whose 
titles  were  StyHtse  or  Columnarii,  because  it 
pleased  them  in  their  saintly  volition  to  take 


SOME   ACCOUNT   OF   THE  GREEK   CHRISTIAN  POETS     527 


the  highest  place  and  live  out  their  natural  lives 
supernaturally,  each  iipon  the  top  of  a  column. 
Peradventure  the  columns  which  our  Simeon 
refused  to  live  upon  conspired  against  his 
poetry  ;  peradventure  it  is  on  their  account 
that  we  find  ourselves  hetween  two  alphabetic 
acrostics,  written  solemnly  by  his  hand,  and  take 
up  one  wherein  every  alternate  line  begins 
with  a  letter  of  the  alphabet ;  its  companion 
in  the  couplet  being  left  to  run  behind  it,  out 
of  livery  and  sometimes  out  of  breath.  Will 
the  public  care  to  look  upon  such  a  curiosity  ? 
Will  our  verse-writers  care  to  understand 
what  harm  may  be  done  by  a  conspiration 
of  columns  —  gods  and  men  quite  on  one  side  ? 
And  wiU  candid  readers  care  to  confess  at  last, 
that  there  is  an  earnestness  in  the  poem,  acrostic 
as  it  is — a  leaning  to  beauty's  side  —  which 
is  above  the  acrosticism  ?    Let  us  try :  — 

Ah,  tears  upon  mine  eyelids,  sorrow  on  mine  heart, 

I  bring  Thee  soul-repentance.  Creator  as  Thou  art ! 
Bounding  joyous  actions,  deep  as  arrows  go  ; 

Pleasures  self-revolving,  issue  into  woe  ! 
Creatures  of  our  mortal,  headlong  rush  to  sin  : 

I  have  seen  them ;  of  them  —  ah  me,  —  I  have  been  ! 
Duly  pitying  Spirits,  from  your  spirit-frame. 

Bring  your  cloud  of  weeping,  —  worthy  of  the  same  ! 
Else  I  would  be  bolder  ;  if  that  light  of  Thine, 

Jesus,  quell  the  evil,  let  it  on  me  shine  ! 
Fail  me  truth,  is  living,  less  than  death  forlorn. 

When  the  sinner  readeth  —  '  better  be  unborn  '  ? 
God,  I  raise  toward  Thee  both  eyes  of  my  heart, 

With  a  sharp  cry  —  '  Help  me  ! '  —  while  mine  hopes 
depart. 
Help  me  !  Death  is  bitter,  all  hearts  comprehend  ; 

But  I  fear  bej'ond  it  —  end  beyond  the  end. 
Inwardly  behold  me,  how  my  soul  is  black  : 

Sympathize  in  gazing,  do  not  spurn  me  back  ! 
Knowing  that  Thy  pleasure  is  not  to  destroy, 

That  Thou  fain  wouldst  save  me  —  this  is  all  my  joy. 
Lo,  the  lion,  hunting  spirits  in  their  deep, 

(Stand  beside  me!)  roareth  —  (help  me!)  nears  to 
leap. 
Mayst  Thou  help  me,  Master  !  Thou  art  pure  alone, 

Thou  alone  art  sinless,  one  Christ  on  a  throne. 
Nightlj'  deeds  I  loved  them,  hated  day's  instead  ; 

Hence  this  soul-involving  darkness  on  mine  head. 
O  Word,  wlio  constrainest  things  estranged  and  curst, 

If  Thy  hand  can  save  me,  that  work  were  the  first ! 
Pensive  o'er  my  sinning,  counting  all  its  ways, 

Terrors  shake  me,  waiting  adequate  dismays. 
Quenchless  glories  many,  hast  Thou  —  many  a  rod  — 

Thou,  too,  hast  Thy  measures.     Can   I  bear  Thee, 
God? 
Rend  away  my  counting  from  my  soul's  decline. 

Show  me  of  the  portion  of  those  saved  of  Thine  I 
Slow  drops  of  my  weeping  to  Thy  mercy  run  : 

Let  its  rivers  wash  me,  by  that  mercy  won  ! 
Tell  me  what  is  worthy,  in  our  dreary  now, 

As  the  future  glory  ?  (madness  !)  what,  as  Thou  ? 
Union,  oh,  vouchsafe  me  to  Thy  fold  beneath. 

Lest  the  wolf  across  me  gnash  his  gory  teeth  ! 
View  me.  judge  me  gently  !  spare  me,  Master  bland 

Brightly  lift  Thine  eyelids,  kindly  stretch  Thine  hand  ! 
Winged  and  choral  angels  !  'tvvixt  my  spirit  lone. 

And  all  deathly  visions,  interpose  your  own  ! 
Tea,  my  Soul,  remember  death  and  woe  inwrought  — 

After-death  affliction,  wringing  earth's  to  nought ! 
Zone  roe.  Lord,  with  graces  !  Be  foundations  built 

Underneath  me  ;  save  me  !  as  Thou  know'st  and  wilt ! 

The  omission  of  our  X  (in  any  case  too  sullen 
a  letter  to  be  employed  in  the   service  of  an 


acrostic)  has  permitted  us  to  write  line  for  line 
with  the  Greek ;  and  we  are  able  to  infer  to  the 
honor  of  the  Greek  poet,  that  although  he  did 
not  live  upon  a  column,  he  was  not  far  below 
one,  in  the  virtue  of  self -mortification.  We  are 
tempted  to  accord  him  some  more  gracious  and 
serious  justice,  by  breaking  away  a  passage 
from  his  '  Planetus  Marite,'  the  lament  of  Mary 
on  embracing  the  Lord's  body ;  and  giving  a 
moment's  insight  into  a  remarkable  compo- 
sition, which,  however  deprived  of  its  poetical 
right  of  measure,  is,  in  fact,  nearer  to  a  poem, 
both  in  purpose  and  achievement,  than  any 
versified  matter  we  have  looked  upon  from  this 
metaphrastic  hand :  — 

'  0,  uncovered  corse,  yet  Word  of  the  Living 
One  !  self-doomed  to  be  uplifted  on  the  cross 
for  the  drawing  of  all  men  unto  Thee, — what 
member  of  Thine  hath  no  wound?  O  my 
blessed  brows,  embraced  by  the  thorn-wreath 
which  is  pricking  at  my  heart !  O  beautiful 
and  priestly  One,  who  hadst  not  where  to  lay 
Thine  head  and  rest,  and  now  wilt  lay  it  only 
in  the  tomb,  resting  there ;  sleeping,  as  Jacob 
said,  a  lion's  sleep  I  O  cheeks  turned  to  the 
smiter  I  O  lips,  new  hive  for  bees,  yet  fresh 
from  the  sharpness  of  vinegar  and  bitterness  of 
gall !  O  mouth,  wherein  was  no  guile,  yet 
betrayed  by  the  traitor's  kiss  !  0  hand,  cre- 
ative of  man,  yet  nailed  to  the  cross,  and  since 
stretched  out  unto  Hades,  with  help  for  the  first 
transgressor  !  0  feet,  once  walking  on  the  deep 
to  hallow  the  waters  of  nature  !  O  me,  my 
son  !  .  .  .  Where  is  thy  chorus  of  sick  ones  ?  — 
those  whom  Thou  didst  cure  of  their  diseases, 
and  bring  back  from  the  dead  ?  Is  none  here, 
but  only  Nicodemus,  to  draw  the  nails  from 
those  hands  and  feet  ?  —  none  here,  but  only 
Nicodemus,  to  lift  Thee  from  the  cross  heavily, 
heavily,  and  lay  Thee  in  these  mother-arms, 
which  bore  Thee  long  ago,  in  thy  babyhood,  and 
were  glad  then  ?  These  hands,  which  swaddled 
Thee  then,  let  them  bind  Thy  grave-clothes 
now.  And  yet,  — O  bitter  funerals  !  — O  Giver 
of  life  from  the  dead,  liest  Thou  dead  before 
mine  eyes  ?  Must  J,  who  said  "  hush  "  beside 
Thy  cradle,  wail  this  passion  upon  Thy  grave  ? 
J,  who  washed  Thee  in  Thy  first  bath,  must 
I  drop  on  Thee  these  hotter  tears?  I,  who 
raised  Thee  high  in  my  maternal  arms,  —  but 
then  Thou  leapedst,  —  then  Thou  sprangest  up 
in  Thy  chHd-play  ! ' 

It  is  better  to  write  so  than  to  stand  upon  a 
column.  And,  although  the  passage  does,  both 
generally  and  specifically,  in  certain  of  its  ideas, 
recall  the  antithetic  eloquence  of  that  Gregory 
Nazianzen  before  whom  this  Simeon  must  be 
dumb,  we  have  touched  his  '  oration,'  so  called, 
nearer  than  our  subject  could  permit  us  to  do 
any  of  Gregory's,  because  the  '  Planctu.s  '  in- 
volves an  imagined  situation,  is  poetical  in  its 
design.  Moreover,  we  must  prepare  to  look 
downwards  ;  the  poets  were  descending  from 
the  gorgeous  majesty  of  the  hexameter  and 
the  severe  simplicity  of  iambics  down  through 
the  mediate  versus  politicly  a  loose  metre, 
adapted  to  the  popular  ear,  to  the  lowest  deep 


528 


APPENDIX 


of  a  '  measured  prose,' —  which  has  been  likened, 
hut  which  u-e  will  not  liken,  to  the  blank  verse 
of  our  times.  Presently,  we  may  offer  an  ex- 
ample from  Psellus  of  a  prose  acrostic  —  the 
reader  being  delighted  with  the  prospect !  '  A 
whole  silver  threepence,  mistress.' 

Michael  Psellus  lived  midway  in  the 
eleventh  century,  and  appears  to  have  been  a 
man  of  much  aspiration  towai"d  the  higher 
places  of  the  earth.  A  senator  of  no  ordinary 
influence,  preceptor  of  the  Emperor  Michael 
previous  to  that  accession,  he  is  supposed  to 
have  included  in  his  instructions  the  advan- 
tages of  sovereignty,  and  in  his  precepts  the 
most  subtle  means  of  securing  them.  We 
were  about  to  add,  that  his  acquirements  as  a 
scholar  were  scarcely  less  imperial  than  those 
Oi  his  pupil  as  a  prince  ;  but  the  expression 
might  have  been  mappropriate.  There  are 
cases  not  infrequent,  not  entirely  opposite  to 
the  present  case,  and  worthy  always  of  all 
meditation  by  such  intelligent  men  as  affect 
extensive  acquisition,  —  when  acquirements  are 
not  ruled  by  the  man,  but  rule  him.  What- 
ever oiiginates  from  the  mind  cannot  obstruct 
her  individual  faculty  ;  nay,  whatever  she  re- 
ceives inwardly  and  marks  her  power  over  by 
creating  out  of  it  a  tertium  quid,  according  to 
the  law  of  the  perpetual  generation  of  spiritual 
verities,  is  not  obstructive  but  impulsive  to  the 
evolution  of  faculty  ;  but  the  ervidition,  whether 
it  be  erudition  as  the  world  showed  it  formerly, 
or  miscellaneous  literature,  as  the  world  shows 
it  now,  the  aecumvilated  acquirement  of  what- 
ever character,  which  remains  extraneous  to 
the  mind,  is  and  must  be  in  the  same  degree 
an  obstruction  and  deformity.  How  many  are 
there,  from  Psellus  to  Bayle,  bound  hand  and 
foot  intellectually  with  the  rolls  of  their  own 
papyrus  —  men  whose  erudition  has  grown 
stronger  than  their  souls  !  How  manj^  whom 
we  would  gladly  see  washed  in  the  clean  waters 
of  a  little  ignorance,  and  take  our  own  part  in 
their  refreshment !  Not  that  knowledge  is  bad, 
but  that  wisdom  is  better  ;  and  that  it  is  better 
and  wiser  in  the  sight  of  the  angels  of  know- 
ledge to  think  out  one  true  thought  with  a 
thrush's  song  and  a  green  light  for  all  lexicon 
(or  to  think  it  without  the  light  and  without 
the  song  —  because  truth  is  beautiful,  where 
they  are  not  seen  or  heard)  —  than  to  mummy 
our  benumbed  souls  with  the  circumvolutions 
of  twenty  thousand  books.  And  so  Michael 
Psellus  was  a  learned  man. 

We  have  sought  earnestly,  yet  in  vain,  —  and 
the  fact  may  account  for  our  ill-humor, —  a 
sight  of  certain  iambics  upon  vices  and  virtues, 
and  Tantalus  and  Sphinx,  which  are  attributed 
to  this  writer,  and  cannot  be  in  the  moon  after 
all :  —  earnestly,  yet  with  no  fairer  encourage- 
ment to  our  desire  than  what  befalls  it  from  his 
2)oems  '  On  the  Councils,'  the  first  of  which,  and 
only  the  first,  through  the  softness  of  our  chari- 
ties, we  bring  to  confront  the  reader  :  — 

Know  the  holy  councils.  King,  to  their  utmost  number, 
Such  as  roused  the  impious  ones  from  their  world-wide 
slumber  ! 


Seven  in  all  those  councils  were  :  Nice  the  first  con- 
taining, 
When  the  godly  master-soul  Constantine  was  reigning, 
What  time  at  Byzantium,  hallowed  with  the  hyssop, 
In  heart  and  word,   Metrophanes  presided  as  arch- 
bishop ! 
It  cut  away  Arius'  tongue's  maniacal  delusion, 
Which  cut  off  from  the  Trinity  the  blessed  Homoousion — 
Blasphemed   (0  miserable  man!)  the    maker   of  the 

creature, 
And  low  beneath  the  Father  cast  the  equal  Filial  nature. 

The  prose  acrostic,  contained  in  an  office 
written  by  Psellus  to  the  honor  of  Simeon, 
is  elaborated  on  the  words  '  I  sing  thee  who 
didst  write  the  metaphrases ; '  every  sentence 
being  insulated,  and  beginning  with  a  charmed 
letter. 

Saj'  in  a  dance  how  we  shall  go, 
Who  never  could  a  measure  know  ? 

why,  thus  —  (and  yet  Psellus,  who  did  know 
everything,  wrote  a  synopsis  of  the  metres  !)  — 
why,  thus :  — 

'  Inspire  me,  Word  of  God,  with  a  rhythmetic 
chant,  for  I  am  borne  onward  to  praise  Simeon 
Metaphrastes  and  Logothetes,  as  he  is  fitly 
called,  the  man  worthy  of  admiration  ! 

'  Solemnly  from  the  heavenly  heights  did  the 
Blessed  Ghost  descend  on  thee,  wise  one,  and 
finding  thine  heart  pure,  rested  there,  there 
verily  in  the  body  ! ' 

Surely  we  need  not  write  any  more.  But 
Michael  Psellus  was  a  very  learned  man. 

John  of  Euchaita  (or  Euchania,  or  Theodoi'o- 
poKs,  —  the  three  names  do  appear  through  the 
twilight  to  belong  to  one  city)  was  a  bishop, 
probably  contemporary  with  Psellus  —  is  only  a 
poet  now  :  we  turn  to  see  the  voice  which  speaks 
to  us.  It  is  a  voice  with  a  soul  in  it,  clear  and 
sweet  and  living :  and  we  who  have  walked 
long  in  the  desert,  leap  up  to  its  sound  as  to  the 
dim  flowing  of  a  stream,  and  would  take  a  deep 
breath  by  its  side  both  for  the  weariness  which 
is  gone  and  the  repose  which  is  coming.  But 
it  is  a  rarer  thing  than  a  stream  in  the  desert ; 
it  is  a  voice  in  the  desert  —  the  only  voice  of  a 
city.  The  city  may  have  three  names,  as  we  have 
said,  or  the  three  names  may  more  fitly  apper- 
tain to  three  cities  —  scholars  knit  their  brows 
and  wax  doubtful  as  they  talk  ;  but  a  city 
denuded  of  its  multitudes  it  surely  is,  ruined 
even  of  its  ruins  it  surely  is  :  no  exhalation 
arises  from  its  tombs,  the  foxes  have  lost  their 
way  to  it,  the  bittern's  cry  is  as  dumb  as  the 
vanished  population  —  only  the  Voice  remains. 
John  Mauropus,  of  Euchaita,  Euchania,  Theo- 
doropolis  —  one  living  man  among  many  dead,  as 
the  Arabian  tale  goes  of  the  city  of  enchant- 
ment—  one  speechful  voice  among  the  silent, 
sole  survivor  of  the  breath  which  maketh  Avords. 
effluence  of  the  soul  replacing  the  bittern's  cry 
—  speak  to  us  !  And  thou  shalt  be  to  us  as  a 
poet ;  we  will  salute  thee  by  that  high  name. 
For  have  we  not  stood  face  to  face  with  Michael 
Psellus  and  him  of  the  metaphrases  ?  Surely 
as  a  poet  may  we  salute  thee  ! 

His  poetry  has,  as  if  in  contrast  to  the  scenery 
of  circumstances  in  which  we  find  it,  or  to  the 


SOME   ACCOUNT   OF   THE   GREEK   CHRISTIAN    POETS     529 


fatality  of  circumstances  in  which  it  has  7iot  been 
found  (and  even  Mr.  Clarke  in  his  learned  work 
upon  Sacred  Literature,  which  is,  however,  in- 
communicative generally  upon  sacred  poetry, 
appears  unconscious  of  his  being  and  his  bishop- 
ric) —  his  poetry  has  a  character  singularly 
vital,  fresh,  and  serene.  There  is  nothing  in  it 
of  the  rapture  of  inspiration,  little  of  the  opera- 
tiveness  of  art  —  nothing  of  imagination  in  a 
high  sense,  or  of  ear-service  in  any :  he  is  not, 
he  says,  of  those  — 

Who  rain  hard  with  redundancies  of  words, 
And  thunder  and  lighten  out  of  eloquence. 

His  Greek  being  opposed  to  that  of  the  Silen- 
tiarii  and  the  Pisidae  by  a  peculiar  simplicity 
and  ease  of  collocation  wliich  the  reader  feels 
lightlj'  in  a  moment,  the  thoughts  move  through 
its  transparency  -with  a  certain  calm  nobleness 
and  sweet  living  earnestness,  with  holy  up- 
turned eyes  and  human  tears  beneath  the  lids, 
tiU  the  reader  feels  lovingly  too.  We  startle 
him  from  his  reverie  with  an  octave  note  on  a 
favorite  literary  fashion  of  the  living  London, 
drawn  from  the  voice  of  the  lost  city  ;  discover- 
ing by  that  sound  the  first  serial  illustrator  of 
pictures  by  poems,  in  the  person  of  our  Johannes. 
Here  is  a  specimen  from  an  annual  of  Euchaita, 
or  Euchania,  or  Theodoropolis  —  we  may  say 
'  annual '  although  the  pictures  were  certainly 
not  in  a  book,  but  were  probably  ornaments  of 
the  beai;tiful  temple  in  the  midst  of  the  city, 
concerning  which  there  is  a  tradition.  Here 
is  a  specimen  selected  for  love's  sake,  because 
it  '  illustrates  '  a  portrait  of  Gregory  Nazian- 
zen :  — 


What  meditates  thy  thoughtful  gaze,  my  father  ? 
To  tell  me  some  new  truth  ?    Thou  canst  not  so  ! 
For  all  that  mortal  hands  are  weak  to  gather 
Thy  blessed  books  unfolded  long  ago. 

These  are  striking  verses,  upon  the  Blessed 
among  women,  weeping  :  — 

O  Lady  of  the  passion,  dost  thou  weep  ? 

What  help  can  we  then  through  our  tears  survey, 
If  such  as  thou  a  cause  for  wailing  keep  ? 

What  help,  what  hope,  for  us,  sweet  Lady,  say  ? 

'  Good  man,  it  doth  befit  thine  heart  to  lay 
More  courage  next  it,  having  seen  me  so. 

All  other  hearts  find  other  balm  to-day  — 
The  whole  worlcfs  consolation  is  my  woe  .' ' 

Would  any  hear  what  can  be  said  of  a  Trans- 
figuration before  RafEael's  :  — 

Tremble,  spectator,  at  the  vision  won  thee  ! 

Stand  afar  off,  look  downward  from  the  height, 
Lest  Christ  too  nearly  seen  should  lighten  on  thee, 

And  from  thy  fleshly  eyeballs  strike  the  sight, 

As  Paul  fell  ruined  by  that  glory  white  ! 
Lo,  the  disciples  prostrate,  each  apart. 

Each  impotent  to  bear  the  lamping  light  ! 

And  all  that  Moses  and  Elias  might. 
The  darkness  caught  the  grace  upon  her  heart 
And  gave  them  strength  for  !     Thou,  if  evermore 
A  God-voice  pierce  thy  dark,  —  rejoice,  adore  ! 


Our  poet  was  as  unwilling  a  bishop  as  the 
most  sturdy  of  the  *■  nolentes  ; '  and  there  are 
poems  written  both  in  depreciation  of,  and  in 
retrospective  regret  for,  the  ordaining  dignity, 
marked  by  noble  and  holy  beauties  which  we 
are  unwilling  to  pass  without  extraction.  JStill 
we  are  constrained  for  space,  and  must  come  at 
last  to  his  chief  individi;al  characteristic  —  to 
the  gentle  humanities  which,  strange  to  say, 
preponderate  in  the  solitary  voice  —  to  the  fa- 
nailiar  smiles  and  sighs  which  go  up  and  down 
in  it  to  our  ear.  We  wiU  take  the  poem  '  To 
his  Old  House,'  and  see  how  the  house  survives 
by  his  good  help,  when  the  sun  shines  no  more 
on  the  golden  statue  of  Constantine  :  — 

O  be  not  angry  with  me,  gentle  house, 

That  I  have  left  thee  empty  and  deserted  ! 
Since  thou  thyself  that  evil  didst  arouse. 

In  being  to  thy  masters  so  false-hearted, 
In  loving  none  of  those  who  did  possess  thee, 

In  minist'ring  to  no  one  to  an  end, 
In  no  one's  service  caring  to  confess  thee, 

But  loving  still  the  change  of  friend  for  friend, 
And  sending  the  last,  plague-wise,  to  the  door  ! 

And  so,  or  ere  thou  canst  betray  and  leave  me, 
I,  a  wise  lord,  dismiss  thee,  servitor. 

And  antedate  the  wrong  thou  maj'st  achieve  me 
Against  my  will,  by  what  my  will  allows  ; 
Yet  not  without  some  sorrow,  gentle  house  ! 

For  oh,  beloved  house,  what  time  I  render 

My  last  look  back  on  thee  I  grow  more  tender  ! 

Pleasant  possession,  hearth  for  father's  age, 

Dear  gift  of  buried  hands,  sole  heritage  ! 

My  blood  is  stirred  ;  and  love,  that  learnt  its  play 

From  all  sweet  customs,  moves  mine  heart  thj^  way  ! 

For  thou  wast  all  my  nurse  and  helpful  creature, 

For  thou  wast  all  my  tutor  and  my  teacher  ; 

In  thee  through  lengthening  toils  I  struggled  deep, 

In  thee  I  watched  all  night  without  its  sleep, 

In  thee  I  worked  the  wearier  daj^time  out, 

Exalting  truth,  or  trying  by  a  doubt. 


And  oh,  my  father's  roof,  the  memory  leaves 
Such  pangs  as  break  mine  heart,  beloved  eaves  ! 
But  God's  woEd  conquers  all. 

He  is  forced  to  a  strange  land,  reverting  with 
this  benediction  to  the  '  dearest  house : '  — 

Farewell,  farewell,  mine  own  familiar  one. 
Estranged  for  evermore  from  this  day's  sun, 
Fare-thee-well  so  !     Farewell,  O  second  mother, 
O  nurse  and  help,  —  remains  there  not  another  ! 
My  bringer-up  to  some  sublimer  measure 
Of  holy  childhood  and  perfected  pleasure  ! 
Now  other  spirits  must  thou  tend  and  teach. 
And  minister  thy  quiet  unto  each. 
For  reasoning  uses,  if  they  love  such  use. 
But  nevermore  to  me.     God  keep  thee,  house, 
God  keep  thee,  faithful  corner,  where  I  drew 
So  calm  a  breath  of  life  !     And  God  keep  you. 
Kind  neighbors  !     Though  I  leave  you  by  His  grace. 
Let  no  grief  bring  a  shadow  to  your  face  ; 
Because  whate'er  He  willeth  to  be  done 
His  will  makes  easy,  makes  the  distant  —  one, 
And  soon  brings  all  embraced  before  His  throne  ! 

We  pass  Philip  Solitarius,  who  lived  at  the 
close  of  this  eleventh  century,  even  as  we  have 


530 


APPENDIX 


passed  one  or  two  besides  of  his  fellow-poets  ; 
because  they,  having  hidden  themselves  be- 
yond the  reach  of  our  eyes  and  the  endeavor  of 
our  hands,  and  we  being  careful  to  speak  by 
knowledge  ratlier  than  by  testimony,  nothing 
remains  to  us  but  this  same  silent  passing  —  this 
regretful  one,  as  our  care  to  do  better  must  tes- 
tify —  albeit  our  fancy  will  not,  by  any  means, 
account  them,  with  all  their  advantages  of  ab- 
sence, '  the  best  part  of  the  solemnity.' 

Early  in  the  twelfth  century  we  are  called  to 
the  recognitionof  Theodore  Prodromus,  theo- 
logian, philosopher,  and  poet.  His  poems  are 
unequal,  consisting  principally  of  a  series  of 
tetrastichs  (Greek  epigrams  for  lack  of  point, 
French  epigrams  for  lack  of  poetry)  upon  the 
Old  and  New  Testaments,  and  the  Life  of  Chrys- 
ostom,  —  all  nearly  as  bare  of  the  rags  of  lit- 
erary merit  as  might  be  expected  from  the 
design  ;  and  three  didactic  poems  upon  Love, 
Providence,  and  against  Bareus  the  heretic, 
into  which  the  poet  has  cast  the  i*ecollected  life 
of  his  soul.  The  soul  deports  herself  as  a  soul 
should,  with  a  vivacity  and  energy  which  work 
outward  and  upward  into  eloquence.  The  sen- 
timents are  lofty,  the  expression  free  ;  there  is 
an  instinct  to  a  middle  and  an  end.  Music  we 
miss,  even  to  the  elementary  melody :  the  poet 
thinks  his  thoughts,  and  speaks  them  ;  not  in- 
deed what  all  poets,  so  called,  do  esteem  a 
necessary  effort,  and  indeed  what  we  should 
thank  him  for  doing  ;  but  he  sings  them  in  no- 
wise, and  they  are  not  of  that  divine  order 
which  are  crowned  by  right  of  their  divinity 
with  an  inseparable  aureole  of  sweet  sound. 
His  poem  upon  Love,  —  (/)tAta  says  the  Greek 
word,  but  friendship  does  not  answer  to  it,  — 
is  a  dialogue  between  the  personification  and 
a  stranger.  It  opens  thus  dramatically,  the 
stranger  speaking  :  — 

Love  I  Lady  diademed  with  honor,  whence 
And  whitlier  goest  thou  ?    Tliy  look  presents 
Tears  to  the  lid,  thy  mien  is  vext  and  low, 
Thy  locks  fall  wildly  from  thy  drooping  brow, 

Thy  blushes  are  all  pale,  thy  garb  is  fit 
For  mourning  in,  and  shoon  and  zone  are  loose  ! 

So  changed  thou  art  to  sadness  every  whit, 
And  all  that  pomp  and  purple  thou  didst  use, 

That  seemly  sweet,  that  new  rose  on  the  mouth, 
Those  fair-smoothed  tresses,  and  that  graceful  zone, 
Bright  sandals,  and  the  rest  thou  haddest  on, 

Are  all  departed,  gone  to  nought  together  ! 
And  now  thou  walkest  mournful  in  the  train 
Of  mourning  women  !  —  where  and  whence,  again  ? 

Love.   From  earth  to  God  my  Father. 

Stranger.  Dost  thou  say 

That  earth  of  Love  is  desolated  ? 

Love.  Yea ! 

It  so  much  scorned  me. 

Stranger.  Scorned  ? 

Love.  And  cast  me  out 

From  its  door. 

Stranger.  From  its  door  ? 

Love.  As  if  without 

I  had  my  lot  to  die  ! 

Love  consents  to  give  her  confidence  to  the 
wondering  stranger ;  whereupon,  as  they  sit  in 
the  shadow  of  a  tall  pine,  she  teUs  a  Platonic 


story  of  all  the  good  she  had  done  in  heaven  be- 
fore the  stars,  and  the  angels,  and  the  throned 
Triad,  and  of  all  her  subsequent  sufferings  on 
the  melancholy  and  ungrateful  earth.  The 
poem,  which  includes  mueh  beauty,  ends  with 
a  quaint  sweetness  in  the  troth-i^lighting  of  the 
stranger  and  the  lady.  Mayst  thou  have  been 
faithful  to  that  oath,  0  Theodore  Prodromus  ! 
but  thou  didst  swear  '  too  much  to  be  believed 
—  so  much.'' 

The  poems  '  On  Providence  '  and  '  Against 
Bareus'  exceed  the  'Love,'  perhaps,  in  power 
and  eloquence  to  the  full  measure  of  the  degree 
in  which  they  fall  short  of  the  interest  of  the 
latter's  design.  Whereui^on  Ave  dedicate  the 
following  selection  from  the  '  Providence  '  to 
Mr.  Carlyle's  '  gigmen  '  and  all  '  respectable 
persons : '  — 

Ah  me!  what  tears  mine  eyes  are  welling  forth, 

To  witness  in  this  synagogue  of  earth 

Wise  men  speak  wisely  while  the  scoffers  sing, 

And  rich  men  folly,  for  much  honoring  ! 

Melitus  trifles,  —  Socrates  decrees 

Our  further  knowledge  !     Death  to  Socrates, 

And  long  life  to  Melitus  !  .  .  . 


Chiefdom  of  evil,  gold  !   blind  child  of  clay, 
Gnawing  with  fixed  tooth  earth's  heart  away ! 
Go  !  perish  from  us  !  objurgation  vain 
To  soulless  nature,  powerless  to  contain 
One  ill  unthrust  upon  it !     Rather  perish 
That  turpitude  of  crowds,  by  which  they  cherish 
Bad  men  for  their  good  fortune,  or  condemn, 
Because  of  evil  fortune,  virtuous  men  ! 


Oh,  for  a  trumpet  mouth  !  an  iron  tongue 

Sufficient  for  all  speech  !  foundations  hung 

High  on  Parnassus'  top  to  bear  my  feet ! 

So  from  that  watch-tower,  words  which  shall  be  meet, 

I  may  out-thunder  to  the  nations  near  me  — 

'  Ye  worshippers  of  gold,  poor  rich  men,  hear  me ! 

Where  do  ye  wander  ?  —  for  what  object  stand  ? 

That  gold  is  earth's  ye  carry  in  your  hand, 

And  floweth  earthward  ;  bad  men  have  its  curse 

The  most  profusely  :  would  yourselves  be  worse 

So  to  be  richer  ?  —  better  in  your  purse  ? 

Your  royal  purple  —  't  was  a  dog  that  found  it ! 

Your  pearl  of  price  —  a  sickened  oyster  owned  it ! 

Your  glittering  gems  are  pebbles,  dust-astray  ; 

Your  palace  pomp  was  wrought  of  wood  and  clay, 

Smoothed  rock  and  moulded  plinth  !  earth's  clay,  earth's 

wood, 
Earth's  common-hearted  stones !     Is  this  your  mood. 
To  honor  earth,  to  worship  earth,  nor  blush  ?  ' 
What    dost    thou    murmur,   savage    mouth?      Hush, 

hush, 
Thy  wrath  is  vainly  breathed.     The  depth  to  tread 
Of  God's  deep  judgments,  was  not  Paul's,  he  said. 

The  '  savage  mouth '  speaks  in  power,  with 
whatever  harshness :  and  we  are  tempted  to 
contrast  with  this  vehement  utterance  another 
short  poem  by  the  same  poet,  a  little  quaint 
withal,  but  light,  soft,  almost  tuneful,  —  as 
written  for  a  'Book  of  Beauty,'  and  that  not 
of  Euchaita  !    The  subject  is  '  Life.' 

Oh,  take  me,  thou  mortal,  —  thy  Life  for  thy  praiser  ! 
Thou  hast  met,  found  and  seized  me,  and  know'st  what 
my  ways  are. 


SOME   ACCOUNT   OF   THE   GREEK   CHRISTIAN    POETS    531 


Nor  leave  me  for  slackness,  nor  yield  me  for  plea- 
sure, 

Nor  look  up  too  saintly,  uor  muse  beyond  measure  ! 

There's  the  veil  from  my  head  —  see  the  worst  of  my 
mourning ! 

There  are  wheels  to  my  feet  —  have  a  dread  of  their 
turning ! 

There  are  wings  round  my  waist  —  I  may  flatter  and 
flee  thee  ! 

There  are  yokes  on  my  hands  —  fear  the  chains  I  de- 
cree thee ! 

Hold  me  !  hold  a  shadow,  the  winds  as  they  quiver ; 

Hold  me  !  hold  a  dream,  smoke,  a  track  on  the  river. 

Oh  !  take  me,  thou  mortal,  —  thy  Life  for  thy  praiser. 

Thou  hast  met  not,  and  seized  not,  nor  know'st  what 
my  ways  are  ! 

Nay,  frown  not,  and  shrink  not,  nor  call  me  an  as- 
pen ; 

There  's  the  veil  from  my  head  !  I  have  dropped  from 
thy  clasping  I 

A  fall-back  within  it  I  soon  may  afford  thee ; 

There  are  wheels  to  my  feet  —  I  may  roll  back  toward 
thee! 

There  are  wings  round  my  waist  —  I  may  flee  back  and 
clip  thee  ! 

There  are  yokes  on  my  hands  —  I  may  soon  cease  to 
whip  thee  ! 

Take  courage  !  I  rather  would  hearten  than  hip  thee  ! 

John  Tzetza  divides  the  twelfth  century 
with  his  name,  which  is  not  a  great  one.  In 
addition  to  an  iambic  fragment  upon  educa- 
tion, he  has  written  indef atigahly  in  the  metre 
politicus,  what  must  be  read,  if  read  at  all, 
with  a  corresponding  energy,  —  thirteen  '  chili- 
ads, '  of  '  varise  historias, '  so  called  after 
Elian's,  — Elian's  without  the  '  honey-tongue,' 
—  very  various  histories  indeed,  about  croco- 
diles and  flies,  and  Plato's  philosophy  and 
Cleopatra's  nails,  and  Samson  and  Phidias, 
and  the  resurrection  from  the  dead,  and  the 
Calydonian  boar,  —  '  everything  under  the  sun  ' 
being,  in  fact,  their  imperfect  epitome.  The 
omission  is  simply  Poetry  !  there  is  no  appar- 
ent consciousness  of  her  entity  in  the  mind  of 
this  versifier  ;  no  aspiration  towards  her  pre- 
sence, not  so  much  as  a  sigh  upon  her  absence. 
We  do  not.  indeed,  become  aware,  in  the  whole 
course  of  this  laborious  work,  of  much  unfold- 
ing of  faculty  —  take  it  lower  than  the  poetical ; 
of  nothing  much  beyond  an  occasional  dry,  sly, 
somewhat  boorish  humor,  which  being  good 
humor  besides,  would  not  be  a  bad  thing  were 
its  traces  only  more  extended.  But  the  general 
level  of  the  work  is  a  dull  talkativeness,  a  prosy 
adversity,  who  is  no  '  Daughter  of  Jove,'  and  a 
slumberousness  without  a  dream.  We  adjudge 
to  our  reader  the  instructive  history  of  the 
Phoenix. 


A  phcenix  is  a  single  bird  and  synchronous  with  na- 
ture ; 

The  peacock  cannot  equal  him  in  beauty  or  in  stat- 
ure. 

In  radiance  he  outshines  the  gold;  the  world  in  wonder 
yieldeth; 

His  nest  he  fixeth  in  the  trees,  and  all  of  spices  build- 
eth. 

And  when  he  dies,  a  little  worm,  from  out  his  body 
twining, 


Doth   generate  him  back  again  whene'er  the   sun  is 

shining. 
He  lives  in  iEgypt,  and  he  dies  in  iEthiopia  only,  as 
Asserts  Philostratus,  who  wrote  the  Life  of  ApoUonius. 
And  (as    the  wise  ^Egyptian  scribe,  the   holy  scribe, 

Chgeremou, 
Hath  entered  on  these  Institutes,  aU  centre  their  esteem 

on) 
Seven  thousand  years  and  six  of  age,  this  phoenix  of  the 

story 
Expireth  from  the  fair  Nile  side,  whereby  he  had  his 

glory. 

In  the  early  part  of  the  fourteenth  century, 
Manuel  Phile,  pricked  emulously  to  the 
heart  by  the  successful  labors  of  Tzetza,  em- 
braced into  identity  with  himself  the  remaining 
half  of  ^lian,  and  developed  in  his  poetical 
treatise  'On  the  Properties  of  Animals,'  to 
which  Isachimus  Camerarius  provided  a  con- 
clusion —  the  '  Natural  History  '  of  that  in- 
dustrious and  amusing  Greek-Roman.  The 
Natural  History  is  translated  into  verse,  but 
by  no  means  glorified ;  and  yet  the  poet  of 
animals,  Phile,  has  carried  away  far  more  of 
the  -(Elian  honey  chnging  to  the  edges  of  his 
'patera  than  the  poet  of  the  Chiliads  did  ever 
wot  of.  What  we  find  in  him  is  not  beauty, 
what  we  hear  in  him  is  not  music,  but  there 
is  an  open  feeling  for  the  beautiful  which  stirs 
at  a  word,  and  we  have  a  scarcely  confessed 
contentment  in  hearkening  to  those  twice- 
told  stories  of  birds  and  beasts  and  fishes,  mea- 
sured out  to  us  in  the  low  monotony  of  his 
chanting  voice.  Our  selections  shall  say  no- 
thing of  the  live  grasshopper,  called,  with  the 
first  breath  of  this  paper,  an  emblem  of  the 
vital  Greek  tongue  ;  because  the  space  left  to 
us  closes  within  our  sight,  and  the  science  of 
the  age  does  not  thirst  to  receive,  through  our 
hands,  the  history  of  grasshoppers,  according  to 
iElian  or  Phile  either.  Everybody  knows  what 
Phile  tells  us  here,  that  grasshoj^pers  live  upon 
morning  dew,  and  cannot  sing  when  it  is  dry. 
Everybody  knows  that  the  lady  grasshopper 
sings  not  at  all.  And  if  the  moral,  drawn  by 
Phile  from  this  latter  fact,  of  the  advantage  of 
silence  in  the  female  sex  generally,  be  true  and 
important,  it  is  also  too  obvious  to  exact  our 
enforcement  of  it.  Therefore  we  pass  by  the 
grasshopper,  and  the  nightingale  too,  for  all 
her  fantastic  song  ;  and  hasten  to  introduce  to 
European  naturahsts  a  Philhellenic  species  of 
heron,  which  has  escaped  the  researches  of 
Cuvier,  and  the  peculiarities  of  which  may 
account  to  the  philosophic  reader  for  that  in- 
stinct of  the  'wisdom  of  our  forefathers,' 
which  established  an  English  university  m 
approximation  with  the  Fens.  It  is  earnestly 
to  be  hoped  that  the  nice  ear  in  question  for 
the  Attic  dialect  maj'  still  be  preserved  among 
the  herons  of  Cambridgeshire  :  — 

A  Grecian  island  nourisheth  to  bless 

A  race  of  herons  in  all  nobleness. 

If  some  barbarian  bark  approach  the  shore. 

They  hate,  they  flee,  —  no  eagle  can  outsoar  ! 

But  if  by  chance  an  Attic  voice  be  wist, 

They  grow  softhearted  straight,  philhellenist ; 


532 


APPENDIX 


Press  ou  iu  earnest  flocks  along  the  strand, 
And  stretch  their  wings  out  to  the  comer's  hand. 
Perhaps  he  nears  them  with  a  gentle  mind,  — 
They  love  his  love,  though  foreign  to  their  kind  ! 
For  so  the  island  giveth  winged  teachers, 
In  true  love  lessons,  to  all  wingless  creatures. 

He  has  written,  besides,  '  A  Dialogue  between 
Mind  and  Phile,'  and  other  poems  ;  and  we  can- 
not part  without  taking  from  him  a  more  sol- 
emu  tone,  which  may  sound  as  an  '  Amen  \  to 
the  good  we  have  said  of  him.  The  following 
address  to  the  Holy  Spirit  is  concentrated  in 
expression :  — 

O  living  Spirit,  O  falling  of  God-dew, 

O  Grace  which  dost  console  us  and  renew, 

O  vital  light,  0  breath  of  angelhood, 

0  generous  ministration  of  tilings  good, 

Creator  of  the  visible,  and  best 

Upholder  of  the  great  unmanifest 

Power  infinitely  wise,  new  boon  sublime 

Of  science  and  of  art,  constraining  might, 

In  whom  I  breathe,  live,  speak,  rejoice,  and  write,  — 

Be  with  us  in  all  places,  for  all  time  ! 

'And  now,'  saith  the  patientest  reader  of 
all,  '  you  have  done.     Now  we  have  watched 
out  the  whole  night  of  the  world  with  you,  by 
no  better  light  than  these  poetical  rushlights, 
and  the  wicks  fail,  and  the  clock  of  the  uni- 
versal hour  is  near  upon  the  stroke  of  the  sev- 
enteenth century,  and  you  have  surely  done  ! ' 
Surely  7iot,  we  answer;  for  we  see  a  hand  which 
the  reader  sees  not,  which  beckons  us  over  to 
Crete,  and  clasps  within  its  shadowy  fingers  a 
roll  of  hymns  Anacreontical,  written  by  Maxi- 
Mus  Margunius  :  and  not  for  the  last  of  our 
readers  would  we  lose  this  last  of  the  Greeks, 
owing  him  salutation.     Yet  the  hymns  have, 
for  the   true   Anacreontic   fragrance,  a  musty 
odor,  and  we  have  scant  praise  for  them  in  our 
nostrils.       Their   inspiration  is  from   Gregory 
Nazianzen,  whose  '  Soul  and  Body'  are  renewed 
in  them  by  a  double  species  of  transmigration  ; 
and  although  we  kiss  the  feet  of  Gregory's 
high  excellences,  we  cannot  admit  any  one  of 
them  to  be  a  safe  conductor  of  poetical  inspi- 
ration.    And,  in  union  with  Margunius's  plagi- 
aristic  tendencies,  there  is  a  wearisome  lengthi- 
ness,  harder  to  bear.     He  will  knit  you  to  the 
whole  length  of  a  '  Honi  soit  qui  mal  y  pense,' 
till  you  fall  asleep  to  the  humming  of  the  stitches 
what  time  you  should  be  reading  the  '  moral.' 
We  ourselves  once  dropped  into  a  '  distraction,' 
as  the  French  say,  —  for  nothing  could  be  more 
different  from  what  the  English  say,  than  our 
serene  state  of  self-abnegation,  —  at  the  begin- 
ging  of  a  house-building  by  this  Maximus  Mar- 
gunius :  when,  reading  on  some  hundred  lines 
with  our  bare  bodily  eyes,  and  our  soul  starting 
up  on  a  sudden  to  demand  a  measure  of  the 
progress,  behold,  he  was  building  it  still,  with 
trowel  in  the  same  hand:  it  was  not  forwarder 
by  a  brick.     The  swallows  had  time  to  hatch 
two  nestfuls  in  a  chimney  while  he  finished  the 
chimney-pot !     Nevertheless  he  has  moments  of 
earnestness,   and  they  leave  beauties  in  their 
trace.     Let  us  listen  to  this  extract  from  his 
fifth  hymn :  — 


Take  me  as  a  hermit  lone 
With  a  desert  life  and  moan  ; 
Only  Thou  anear  to  mete 
Slow  or  quick  my  pulse's  beat; 
Only  Thou,  tlie  night  to  chase 
With  the  sunlight  in  Thy  face  ! 
Pleasure  to  the  eyes  may  come 

From  a  glory  seen  afar. 
But  if  life  concentre  gloom 

Scattered  by  no  little  star. 

Then,  how  feeble,  God,  we  are  !  ■ 
Nay,  whatever  bird  there  be, 

(^ther  by  his  flying  stirred), 
He,  in  this  thing,  must  be  free  — 

And  I,  Saviour,  am  Thy  bird, 
Pricking  with  an  open  beak 
At  the  words  that  Thou  dost  speak  ! 
Leave  a  breath  upon  my  wings, 
That  above  these  nether  things 
I  may  rise  to  where  Thou  art, 
I  may  flutter  next  Thine  heart ! 
For  if  a  light  within  me  burn. 
It  must  be  darkness  in  an  urn, 
Unless,  within  its  crystalline, 
That  unbeginning  light  of  Thine 
Shine  !  oh  Saviour,  let  it  shine  1 

He  is  the  last  of  our  Greeks.  The  light 
from  Troy  city,  with  which  all  Greek  glory  be- 
gan, '  threw  three-times  six,'  said  ^schylus, 
that  man  with  a  soul,  —  beacon  after  beacon, 
into  the  heart  of  Greece.  '  Three-times  six,' 
too,  threw  the  light  from  Greece,  when  her 
own  heart-light  had  gone  out  like  Troy's,  on- 
ward along  the  ridges  of  time.  Three-times 
six  —  but  what  faint  beacons  are  the  last  !  — 
sometimes  only  a  red  brand  ;  sometimes  only  a 
small  trembling  flame  ;  sometimes  only  a  white 
glimmer  as  of  ashes  breathed  on  by  the  wind  ; 
faint  beacons  and  far  !  How  far !  We  have 
watched  them  along  the  cloudy  tops  of  the 
great  centuries,  through  the  ages  dark  but  for 
them,  —  and  now  stand  looking  with  eyes  of 
farewell  upon  the  last  pale  sign  on  the  last  mist- 
bound  hill.  But  it  is  the  sixteenth  century. 
Beyond  the  ashes  on  the  hill  a  red  light  is 
gathering  ;  above  the  falling  of  the  dews  a  great 
sun  is  rising:  there  is  a  rushing  of  life  and 
song  upward  —  let  it  still  be  upward  !  Shake- 
speare is  in  the  world !  And  the  Genius  of 
English  Poetry,  she  who  only  of  all  the  earth 
is  worthy  (Goethe's  spirit  may  hear  us  say  so, 
and  smile),  stooping,  with  a  royal  gesture,  to 
kiss  the  dead  lips  of  the  Genius  of  Greece, 
stands  up  her  successor  in  the  universe,  by  vir- 
tue of  that  chrism,  and  in  right  of  her  own 
crown. 


III.     NOTES   AND   ILLUSTRATIONS 

[The  task  of  annotating-  Mrs.  Browning's 
text  is  greatly  simplified  by  the  fact  of  her 
constitutional  unwillingness  to  chang-e  the  form 
of  any  thought  that  she  had  once  expressed 
fairly  to  her  own  satisfaction.  It  belonged, 
perhaps,  to  her  very  serious  conception  of  the 
Poet's  '  divine  mission,'  and  of  her  own,  as 
a  poet  by  predestination,  however  unworthy, 


Page  30 


NOTES    AND   ILLUSTRATIONS 


533 


that  her  thought,  as  first  visibly,  and  often 
painfully  enj'ante,  seemed  to  her  a  species  of 
organism^  —  which  might  be  clumsy  and  un- 
fortunate in  shape,  but  which  could  not  be 
altered  without  mutilation.  She  said  a  good 
deal  about  Art,  —  particularly  in  her-  later 
days,  when  she  lived  nearer  to  the  grand 
monde  of  letters  than  she  had  done  in  her 
earlier  and  more  productive  period.  But  in 
truth,  she  was  much  more  a  moralist  than  an 
artist,  and  had  very  little  of  the  consuming 
passion  for  mere  beauty,  and  the  unresting 
pursuit  of  external  perfection,  which  charac- 
terize the  poets  of  supremely  artistic  tempera- 
ment, like  Tennyson  and  Keats.  Even  her 
extensive  classical  studies,  —  and  they  were 
extensive,  though  not  analytic,  nor  what 
would  now  be  considered  profound,  failed,  cu- 
riously enough,  to  develop  her  sense  of  form  ; 
and  Greek  was  to  her,  if  such  a  thing  be  possi- 
ble, almost  too  much  like  a  living  language. 
No  great  writer  was  ever  more  humble  and 
reasonable  about  the  intrinsic  worth  of  her 
own  productions  than  Mrs.  Browning  ;  but  the 
words  in  which  she  said  her  say  seemed  to  her 
essential,  and  preeminently  her  own  afPair ; 
and  when  once  she  had  called  the  Seer  of  Pat- 
mos  '  apolyptic  John,'  it  required  a  good  deal 
of  argument  on  the  part  of  persons  whose  judg- 
ment she  deeply  respected  to  convince  her  that 
the  adjective  would  not  do.  She  altered  (see 
note,  p.  51G),  at  Wordsworth's  own  request,  a 
line  in  her  sonnet  on  Haydon's  portrait,  with- 
out very  materially  improving  it ;  and  she  made 
a  change  also  —  it  may  be  presumed  upon  rep- 
resentation —  in  one  of  the  more  dithyrambic 
stanzas  of  Lady  Geraldine's  Courtship.  In  the 
earlier  editions  of  that  florid  poetical  romance, 
we  have,  as  illustrating  the  extent  of  the  hero- 
ine's landed  possessions,  and  the  material  inter- 
ests which  she  controlled,  the  statement  that  — 

the  resonant  steam-eagles 
Follow    far  on  the    direction  of  her  little  dove-like 
hand. 

Both  the  eagle  and  the  dove  were  banished 
subsequently,  and  the  verse  now  reads  — 

And  the  palpitating  engines  snort  in  steam  across  her 
acres  — 

which  comes  a  little  nearer  to  scientific  truth, 
no  doubt ;  though  it  must  be  confessed  that 
both  these  attempted  impersonations  of  the 
locomotive  remind  the  reader  unpleasantly  of 
the  ear-splitting  melodies  of  the  '  Siren.' 

When  a  fourth  edition  of  Aurora  Leigh  was 
called  for,  in  January,  1859,  two  years  after 
its  orisrinal  publication,  Robert  Browning 
wrote  from  Rome  to  Mr.  Ruskin  that  a  cor- 
rected edition  of  Aurora  Leigh  had  just  been 


sent  off  to  London  which  had  cost  '  us '  (Mrs, 
Browning  and  himself)  '  a  great  deal  of  pains  ; ' 
and  Mrs.  Browning  wrote  to  a  friend  at  the 
same  time  that  she  had  '  dizzied  herself  with 
"  ifs  "  and  ''  andsy  '  The  labor  which  irked 
her  so  was  indeed  almost  confined  to  the  '  ifs  ' 
and  '  ands  ;  '  that  is  to  say,  to  those  minute  cor- 
rections in  grammar  and  punctuation  which 
leave,  for  the  most  part,  the  thought  and  im- 
agery of  a  passage  unchanged,  but  which  ought, 
in  fairness  to  the  author,  to  be  accepted  without 
question,  as  annulling  the  previous  reading. 
Not  one  of  the  more  important  and  memorable 
passages  in  the  poem  was  noticeably  modified. 
In  looking  through  the  letters  of  both  poets 
for  passages  calculated  to  throw  light  on  the 
origin  and  growth  of  Mrs.  Browning's  princi- 
pal works,  we  find  enough  and  to  spare  in  her 
own,  but  are  disappointed  to  discover  so  little 
in  her  husband's.  The  slight  reference  in  the 
note  to  Ruskin  mentioned  above  is  almost  soli- 
tary ;  and  even  there,  it  will  be  observed,  he 
speaks  in  no  wise  as  a  critic,  but  rather  as  one 
partner  in  a  firna  with  unlimited  liability.  We 
know,  in  a  general  way,  how  exalted  was  the 
rank  which  Robert  Browning  assigned  to  his 
wife's  genius  ;  that  he  thought  the  Portuguese 
Sonnets  the  finest  written  in  any  language  since 
Shakespeare's  ;  that  it  was  through  the  charm 
and  power  over  him  of  her  earlier  writings 
that  he  first  came  to  adore  her.  We  have  the 
eloquent  dedications  of  Men  and  Women  to  her 
living  self,  and  of  the  Ring  and  the  Book  to 
her  memory,  and  we  have  the  conjecture,  not 
very  well  supported,  however,.of  Mr.  Browning's 
biographer  that  he  intended  to  portray  Mrs. 
Browning  in  the  beautiful  character  of  Pom- 
pilia.  But  for  any  more  specific  judgment  or 
intimate  commentary,  we  shall  seek  the  hus- 
bands  published  correspondence  in  vain.  It 
is  to  be  remembered,  of  course,  that  he  him- 
self destroyed,  some  years  before  his  death,  all 
those  letters  to  members  of  his  own  family  in 
which  he  would  have  been  most  likely,  perhaps, 
to  speak  of  his  wife's  work  without  reserve  ; 
and  also  that  from  the  time,  beginning  with 
the  publication  of  Casa  Guidi  Windows^  when 
Mrs.  Browning's  muse  began  to  occupy  itself 
so  much  more  than  formerly  with  political 
events,  and  social  and  philanthropic  specula- 
tions, he  may  purposely  have  refrained  from 
any  allusion  to  what  she  published,  for  the 
reason  that  while  bating  not  one  jot  of  his  loyal 
admiration  for  her  character  and  gifts,  he  did 
not  always  entirely  agree  with  her  opinions.] 

A  Romance  of  the  Ganges. 

Page  30,  line  98.     To  the  holy  house  of  snow. 

The  Hindoo  heaven  is  localized  on  the  sum- 
mit of  Mount  Meru  —  one  of  the  mountains  of 
Himalaya  or  Himmaleh,  which  signifies.  I  be- 


53^ 


APPENDIX 


Pages  30  to  150 


lieve,  in  Sanscrit,  the  abode  of  snow,  winter,  or 

coldness.  .    ,  .     . 

Line  lOi.     The  humming-bird  is  in  the  sun. 

Hiniadeva,  the  Indian  god  of  love,  is  imagined 
to  wander  through  the  three  worlds,  accompa- 
nied by  the  humming-bird,  cuckoo,  and  gentle 

Page  31,  line  157.     To  cast  ujjon  thine  hair. 

The  casting  of  rice  upon  the  head,  and  the 
fixing  of  the  band  or  tali  about  the  neck,  are 
parts  of  the  Hindoo  marriage  ceremonial. 

Line  189.     Thy  lily  hath  not  changed  a  leaf. 

The  Ganges  is  represented  as  a  white  woman, 
with  a  water-lily  in  her  right  hand,  and  in  her 
left  a  lute. 

Sounds. 

Page  38,  line  38.    Like  a  singing  in  a  dream. 

While  floating  up  bright  forms  ideal, 
Mistress  or  friend,  around  me  stream  ; 

Half  sense-supplied,  and  half  unreal, 
Like  music  mingling  with  a  dream. 

—  John  Kenyan. 

I  do  not  doubt  that  the  '  music  '  of  the  two 
concluding  lines  mingled,  though  very  uncon- 
sciously, with  my  own  '  dream  '  and  gave  their 
form  and  pressure  to  the  above  distich.  The 
ideas  however  being  sufficiently  distinct,  I  am 
satisfied  with  sending  this  note  to  the  press 
after  my  verses,  and  with  acknowledging  an- 
other obligation  to  the  valued  friend  to  whom 
I  already  owe  so  many.  — 1844. 

Page  39,  line  107.  As  the  seer-saint  of  Pat- 
mos,  loving  John. 

[This  line,  as  first  printed  in  1838,  contained 
an  extraordinary  abbreviation :  '  As  erst  in 
Patmos  apolyptic  John.'  Miss  Barrett  had  to 
be  convinced  by  Mr.  Boyd  and  others  that  the 
word  was  inadmissible  before  she  substituted 
the  above  reading.] 

The  Virgin  Mary  to  the  Child  Jesus. 

Page  43,  line  37.  As  Moses  did,  and  die,  — 
and  then  live  most. 

It  is  a  Jewish  tradition  that  Moses  died  of 
the  kisses  of  God's  lips. 

A  Drama  of  Exile. 

Page  81,  line  1023.  Of  manhood'' s  curse  of 
labor. 

Adam  recognizes  in  Aquarius,  the  Water- 
bearer,  and  Sagittarius,  the  Archer,  distinct 
types  of  the  man  bearing  and  the  man  com- 
bating, —  the  passive  and  active  forms  of 
human  labor.  I  hope  that  the  preceding  zodia- 
cal signs  —  transferred  to  the  earthly  shadow 
and  representative  purpose  —  of  Aries,  Taurus, 
Cancer,  Leo,  Libra.  Scorpio,  Capricornus,  and 
Pisces,  are  sufficiently  obvious  to  the  reader. 

Line  1025.  But  look  off  to  those  small  humani- 
ties. 

Her  maternal  instinct  is  excited  by  Gemini. 

On  a  Portrait  of  Wordsworth  by  B.  R. 
Haydon. 

Page  98.  [On  October  31st,  1842,  Miss  Barrett 
wrote  to  Hugh  Stuart  Boyd  that  she  had  had 


a  'letter  from  the  great  poet^  and  was  better 
pleased  with  it  than  were  ever  '  King  John's 
barons  with  their  charter.'  The  highly  char- 
acteristic communication  was  as  follows  :  — 

Rydal  Mount  :  Oct.  26,  '42. 

Dear  Miss  Barrett,  —  Through  our  com- 
mon friend  Mr.  Haydon  I  have  received  a  sonnet 
which  his  portrait  of  me  suggested.  I  should 
have  thanked  you  sooner  for  that  efFusion  of  a 
feeling  towards  myself,  with  which  I  am  much 
gratified,  but  I  have  been  absent  from  home 
and  much  occupied. 

The  conception  of  your  sonnet  is  in  full  ac- 
cordance with  the  painter's  intended  work,  and 
the  expression  vigorous  ;  yet  the  word  'ebb,' 
though  I  do  not  myself  object  to  it,  nor  wish  to 
have  it  altered,  will  I  fear  prove  obscure  to 
nine  readers  out  of  ten. 

A  vision  free 
And  noble,  Haydon,  hath  thine  art  released. 

Owing  to  the  want  of  inflections  in  our  lan- 
guage the  construction  here  is  obscure.  Would 
it  not  be  a  little  [better]  thus  ?  —  I  was  going  to 
write  a  small  change  in  the  order  of  the  words, 
but  I  find  it  would  not  remove  the  objection. 
The  verse,  as  I  take  it,  would  be  somewhat 
clearer  thiis,  if  you  would  tolerate  the  redun- 
dant syllable :  — 

By  a  vision  free 
And  noble,  Haydon,  is  thine  art  released. 

I  had  the  gratification  of  receiving,  a  good 
while  ago,  two  copies  of  a  volume  of  your  writ- 
ing, which  I.  have  read  with  much  pleasure, 
and  beg  that  the  thanks  which  I  charged  a 
friend  to  offer  may  be  repeated  [to]  you. 

It  grieved  me  much  to  hear  from  Mr. 
Kenyon  that  your  health  is  so  much  deranged. 
But  for  that  cause  I  should  have  presumed  to 
call  upon  you  when  I  was  in  London  last 
spring. 

With  every  good  wish,  I  remain,  dear  Miss 
Barrett,  your  much  obliged 

Wm.  Wordsworth. 

[Postmark :  Ambleside,  Oct.  28, 1842.] 

Letters  of  Mrs.  Browning,  vol.  i.  p.  113. 

A  poet  whose  gravity  of  spirit  had  been  less 
profound  than  Wordsworth's  would  hardly  have 
known  how  to  suggest  alterations  in  the  lines 
written  by  another  poet  on  his  own  personal 
appearance.  It  may  be  added  that  although 
Miss  Barrett  altered  the  passage  criticised  by 
the  Laureate,  she  did  not  accept  his  amend- 
ment.    The  lines  now  read :  — 

A  noble  vision  free 
Our  Haydon' s  hand  has  flung  out  from  the  mist.] 

The  Lost  Bower. 

Page  150,  stanza  ix.  Keepers  of  Piers  Plow- 
man's visions  through  the  sunshine  and  the  snow. 


Pages  158  to  224 


NOTES    AND   ILLUSTRATIONS 


535 


The  Malvern  Hills  of  ^^'o^ceste^shi^e  are 
the  scene  of  Langland's  Visions,  and  thus  pre- 
sent the  earliest  classic  g^round  of  English  po- 
etrj'. 

The  Cry  of  the  Children. 

Page  15S,  line  115.  '  Our  Father,'^  looking  up- 
ward in  the  chamber. 

A  fact  rendered  pathetically  historical  by 
Mr.  Home's  report  of  his  Commission.  The 
name  of  the  poet  of  '  Orion '  and  '  Cosmo  de' 
Medici '  has,  however,  a  change  of  associations, 
and  comes  in  time  to  remind  me  that  we  have 
some  noble  poetic  heat  of  literature  still,  — 
however  open  to  the  reproach  of  being  some- 
what gelid  in  our  humanity.  — 1844. 

Crowned  and  Buried. 

Page  162,  stanza  xviii.  Green  watching  hills, 
ye  witnessed  what  was  done. 

Written  at  Torquay. 

Stanza  xxii.  And  grave-deep  ^neath  the  cannon- 
moulded  column. 

It  was  the  first  intention  to  bury  him  under 
the  column. 

L.  E.  L.'s  Last  Question. 

Page  179,  stanza  vi.  Their  singer  was  to  be,  in 
darksome  death. 

Her  ho-ic  on  the  Polar  Star  came  home  with 
her  latest  papers. 

Catarina  to  Camoens. 
Page  182,  stanza  xvi.    Keep  my  riband,  take 
and  keep  it. 
She  left  him  the  riband  from.her  hair. 

Page  188.    The  Dead  Pan. 

[The  subject  of  '  The  Dead  Pan  '  was  first  sug- 
gested to  Miss  Barrett  by  John  Kenyon's  trans- 
lation of  Schiller's  Gods  of  Greece.  We  have  seen 
what  importance  she  attached  to  its  position  at 
the  end  of  the  Poems  published,  in  two  vol- 
umes, in  1844.  She  wished  it  to  be  her  last  and 
most  emphatic  word  to  the  public  upon  this 
occasion,  for  it  represented  a  tremendous  intel- 
lectual effort  on  her  part,  —  nothing  less  than 
an  attempted  synthesis  of  Paganism  and  Chris- 
tianity. The  poem  was,  however,  criticised 
with  very  special  severity,  not  merely  for  its 
flagrant  faults  of  rhyme  and  rhythm,  but  for  the 
free  and,  as  it  seemed  to  many,  irreverent  use 
made,  in  the  concluding  stanzas,  of  the  name 
or  names  of  the  Christian  Deity.  Even  Mr. 
Kenyon  remonstrated  with  the  poetess,  and 
begged  her  to  alter  or  suppress  those  last  verses, 
but  found  her  intractable  and  able  to  defend 
the  faith  was  in  her  very  passionately.  See 
Letters  of  Mrs.  Browning,  vol.  i.  pp.  127-130.] 

Page  207.  A  Dead  Rose  and  other  Poems. 

[In  October,  lS4(i,  only  a  few  weeks  after 
Mrs.  Browning's  romantic  marriage,  there  ap- 
peared in  Blackwood'' s  Magazine  seven  poems 
by  her.  some  of  which  had  been  in  the  editor's 
hands  for  a  considerable  time.  It  illustrates 
the   excessive   tenderness   of   the   bride's  filial 


conscience,  that  she  was  deeply  distressed  for 
fear  her  father  should  give  a  too  literal  inter- 
pretation to  these  poems,  and  see  in  some  of 
their  expressions  a  calculated  defiance  of  him- 
self, 'i  am  so  vexed,'  she  wrote  to  Miss  Mit- 
ford  on  the  9th  of  November,  '  about  these 
poems  appearing'  just  now  in  Blackwood.  Papa 
must  think  it  imj)udent  of  me.  It  is  unfortu- 
nate.' The  poems  were:  'A  Woman's  JShort- 
comings,'  'A  Man's  Requirements,'  'Maud's 
Spinning '  (published  among  her  poems  as  '  A 
Year's  Spinning'),  'A  Dead  Rose,'  'Change 
upon  Change,'  and  '  Hector  in  the  Garden.'  To 
one  who  re-reads  them  now,  there  seems  to  be 
very  little  in  any  of  these  pieces  which  could 
have  been  offensive,  even  to  so  morbid  and 
biased  a  reader  as  Mr.  Moulton-Barrett.  The 
secret  of  the  writer's  heart,  which  already  had 
been  confided  with  magnificent  abandon  to  the 
Portuguese  Sonnets,  is  assuredly  not  betrayed 
in  these  poems.] 

Page  214.  Sonnets  from  the  Portuguese. 

[Miss  Barrett's  daring  innovations  in  rhyme 
(they  were  less  frequent  and  conspicuous  in  the 
work  of  Mrs.  Browning)  were  never  the  re- 
sult of  carelessness.  iShe  was  always  very 
much  grieved  at  any  such  suggestion,  and,  as 
far  as  it  was  in  her  gentle  nature  to  do  so, 
she  resented  it.  She  honestly  believed  that  in 
making  panfAer  rhyme  with  saunter,  virtues  with 
certes,  and  turret  with  chariot,  she  was  '  widen- 
ing the  artistic  capabilities  of  the  English  lan- 
guage.' It  was  just  the  species  of  fond  delusion 
to  which  an  original  mind  whose  early  develoi>- 
ment  has  been  solitary,  is  especially  prone. 
Yet  it  is  a  curious  fact  that,  whenever  she  was 
under  the  stress  of  an  emotion  strong  enough 
to  make  her  forget  herself,  her  '  mission  '  as  a 
poet,  and  her  supposed  moral  and  artistic  re- 
sponsibilities, her  versification  became  almost 
flawless.  It  was  so  in  '  Cowper's  Grave,'  in  the 
matchless  Portuguese  Sonnets,  and  even  in  Casa 
Guidi  Windows,  which,  though  weak  enough 
as  a  i^olitical  pamphlet,  still  glows  with  the 
fresh  inspiration  which  her  sensitive  soul  in- 
evitably received  from  its  first  contact  with 
Italy.] 

Page  224.   Casa  Guidi  Windows. 

[There  is  a  singular  felicity  about  the  title 
chosen  by  Mrs.  Browning  for  her  initial  poem  on 
Italy.  She  herself  says  of  Casa  Guidi  Windows 
that  it  was  '  a  meditation  and  a  dream,'  and  the 
very  name  seems  to  confess  a  certain  superficial- 
ity in  her  first  outlook  upon  that  stern  secular 
struggle  for  national  independence,  which  began 
in  the  early  years  of  the  nineteenth  century, 
and  has  hardly  reached,  even  as  yet,  a  securely 
triumphant  conclusion.  The  events  of  1847 
and  1848  were  a  spectacle  to  the  newly  arrived 
poetess  ;  one  part  only  though  undoubtedlj'  the 
most  vivid  and  affecting  part  of  the  pageant 
which  all  Italy  presented  to  a  learned  and 
visionary  spectator  who  had  never  been  out  of 
England  before,  and  who  had  passed  years  of 
her  life  immured  in  the  dim  dungeon  of  a  Lon- 


536 


APPENDIX 


Pages  224  to  254 


don  bedchamber. 
ing,  vol.  i.  pp.  0S6 


See  Letters  of  Mrs-  Brown- 
1.  pp.  o50-o8S. 
The  second  part  of  the  poem,  dated  two  years 
later  than  the  first,  is  vaguely  denunciatory  in 
tone,  and  on  the  Avhole  very  despondent  concern- 
ing the  future  of  Italy.     Yet  it  contains  one  or 
two  of  Mi'S.  Browning's  noblest  bits  of  versifi- 
cation, such  as  the  tribute  to  Carlo  Alberto, 
and  the  pathetic  passage  near  the  close  begin- 
ning- 
Still  graves,  where  Italy  is  talked  upon  ! 
Still,  still,  the  patriot's  tomb,  the  stranger's  hate  ! 

and  one  does  not  quite  understand  upon  what 
grounds  the  author  anticipated  for  Casa  Guidi 
Windows  a  peculiarly  hostile  reception  in  Eng- 
land. '  I  have  a  book  coming  out,'  she  wrote 
to  Miss  Isa  Blagden  on  May  1, 1851,  '  which  will 
prevent  everj^body  else  except  you  from  ever 
speaking  to  me  again ! '  ] 

Page  225,  line  42.  Void  at  Verona^  JulieVs 
marble  trough. 

They  show  at  Verona,  as  the  tomb  of  Juliet, 
an  empty  trough  of  stone. 

Line  73.  And  Dawn  and  Twilight  wait  in  mar- 
hie  scorn. 

These  famous  statues  recline  in  the  Sag- 
restia  Nuova,  on  the  tombs  of  Giuliano  de' 
Medici,  third  son  of  Lorenzo  the  Magnificent, 
and  Lorenzo  of  Urbino,  his  grandson.  Strozzi's 
epigram  on  the  Night,  with  Michel  Angelo's 
reioinder,  is  well  known. 

Page  228,  line  100.  They  hade  thee  build  a 
statue  up  in  snow. 

This  mocking  task  was  set  by  Pietro,  the  un- 
worthy successor  of  Lorenzo  the  Magnificent. 

Page   228,  lines  256,  257. 

Savonarola^ s  soul  went  out  in  fire 
Ux>on  our  Grand-duke'' s  piazza. 

Savonarola  was  burnt  for  his  testimony 
against  papal  corruptions  as  early  as  March, 
1498  :  and,  as  late  as  our  own  day,  it  has  been 
a  custom  in  Florence  to  strew  with  violets  the 
pavement  where  he  suffered,  in  grateful  recog- 
nition of  the  anniversary. 

Page  229,  lines  321-323. 

Pass 

The  left  stair,  where  at  2Jlo.gue  time  Machiavel 

Saw  One  with  set  fair  face  as  in  a  glass. 

See  his  description  of  the  plague  of  Florence. 

Line  334.  A  king  stood  hare  before  its  sovran 
grace. 

Charles  of  Anjou,  in  his  passage  through 
Florence,  was  permitted  to  see  this  picture  while 
yet  in  Cimabue's  '  bottega.'  The  populace  fol- 
lowed the  royal  visitor,  and,  from  the  universal 
delight  and  admiration,  the  quarter  of  the  city 
in  which  the  artist  lived  was  called  '  Borgo 
Allegri.'  The  picture  was  carried  in  triumph 
to  the  church,  and  deposited  there. 

Line  363.  Whom  Cimabue  found  among  the 
sheep. 

How  Cimabue  found  Giotto,  the  shepherd- 
boy,  sketching  a  ram  of  his  flock  upon  a  stone, 
is  prettily  told  by  Vasari,  —  who  also  relates 
that  the  elder  artist  Margheritone  died  '  infas- 
tidito  '  of  the  successes  of  the  new  school. 


Page  233,  line  625.  Did  pile  the  emjyty  mar- 
bles as  thy  tomb. 

The  Florentines,  to  whom  the  Ravennese  re 
fused  the  body  of  Dante  (demanded  of  them 
'  in  a  late  remorse  of  love  '),  have  given  a  ceno- 
taph in  this  church  to  their  divine  poet.     Some- 
thing less  than  a  grave  ! 

Line  630.  Good  lovers  of  our  age  to  track  and 
plough. 

In  allusion  to  Mr.  Kirkup's  discovery  of 
Giotto's  fresco  portrait  of  Dante. 

Page  241,  line  1179.  From  Tuscan  Bellos- 
guardo,  wide  aivake. 

Galileo's  villa,  close  to  Florence,  is  built  on 
an  eminence  called  Bellosguardo. 

Page  242,  line  19.  We  poets,  wandered  round 
by  dreams,  who  hailed. 

See  the  opening  passage  of  the  Agamemnon 
of  ^schylus. 

Page  251,  line  607.  Even  Apollonius  might 
commend  this  flute. 

Philostratiis  relates  of  Apollonius  how  he 
objected  to  the  musical  instrument  of  Linus  the 
Rhodien  that  it  could  not  enrich  or  beautify. 
The  history  of  music  in  our  day  would  satisfy 
the  philosopher  on  one  point  at  least. 

Page  254.    Aurora  Leigh. 

[The  inspiration  and  the  main  purport  of 
Aurora  Deigh  were  frankly  socialistic,  —  as  so- 
cialism was  understood  by  disinterested  dream- 
ers half  a  century  ago. 

The  poem,  or  novel,  '  I  flatter  myself  it 's  a 
novel,'  Mrs.  Browning  wrote  to  one  friend,  was 
begun  under  the  immediate  impulse  of  certain 
studies  in  the  works  of  Louis  Blanc,  Prudhon, 
and  other  theorists  which  she  and  her  hus- 
band had  made  together  and  continued  with 
great  enthusiasm  during  the  winter  of  1855-56, 
when  the  Brownings  were  once  more  living  in 
Paris.  Mr.  Browning,  to  whom  solitude,  still- 
ness, and  reasonably  congenial  surroundings 
were  essential  to  composition,  was  immensely 
struck  by  the  power  of  mental  abstraction 
which  his  wife  displayed  during  that  winter  of 
work  at  high  pressure.  '  She  wrote  in  pencil,' 
Robert  Browning's  biographer  tells  us,  '  as  she 
lay  on  the  sofa  in  her  sitting-room  open  to  in- 
terruption from  chance  visitors,  or  from  her 
little  omnipresent  son  ;  simply  hiding  the  paper 
beside  her  if  any  one  came  in,  and  taking  it  up 
again  when  she  was  free.  And  if  this  process 
was  conceivable,  in  the  large,  comparatively 
silent  spaces  of  their  Italian  home,  and  amidst 
habits  of  life  which  reserved  social  intercourse 
to  the  close  of  the  working-day,  it  baffles  belief 
when  one  thinks  of  it  as  carried  on  in  the  condi- 
tions of  a  Parisian  winter,  and  the  little  salon  of 
the  apartment  in  the  Rue  du  Colisee,Avliere  those 
months  were  spent.'  (Life  of  Robert  Browning, 
by  Mrs.  Sutherland-Orr,  vol.  i.  p.  302.) 

The  villa  on  Bellosguardo  where  the  final 
scene  of  the  poem  passes  was,  in  the  main,  the 
Villa  Briochion,  which  had  been  taken  on  a 
long  lease  by  Miss  Isa  Blagden,  and  concerning 
the  vieAV  from  which  Mrs.  Browning  wrote, 
after  having  tea  upon  the  terrace  there  one  day 


Page  410 


NOTES   AND    ILLUSTRATIONS 


537 


in  early  April :  '  You  seem  to  be  lifted  above 
the  world,  in  a  divine  ecstasy.  Oh,  what  a 
vision  ! '  The  vision  which  must  indeed  haunt 
the  memory  of  all  who  have  ever  seen  it,  is 
painted  as  faithfully  as  words  can  i^amt,  in  that 
passage  of  the  seventh  book  of  Aurora  Leigh 
which  begins, 

I  found  a  house  in  Florence  on  the  hill. 

The  great  popularity  of  Aurora  Leigh  on  its 
first  appearance  was  apparently  due  to  the  fact 
that,  while  it  embodied  some  of  the  most  revo- 
lutionary sentiments  concerning  social  matters 
which  chanced  to  be  rife  at  the  time,  the  story 
was  interesting  and  sensational  enough  to  bear 
the  average  reader  smoothly  and  rapidly  above 
the  dark  places  of  the  intrigue.  Nevertheless, 
the  daring  character  of  the  plot,  and  the  abso- 
lute freedom  with  which  many  of  the  inore  ob- 
scure and  painful  questions  connected  with  the 
greatest  of  social  evils  were  handled,  exposed 
the  author  once  more  to  ruthless  criticism  in 
some  highly  respectable  quarters.  But  if,  in 
the  entire  singleness  of  her  intention,  Mrs. 
Browning  was  amazed  and  distressed  to  learn 
that  men  of  letters  who  were  also  men  of  the 
world,  such  as  Thackeray,  strongly  demurred 
to  her  experiment,  while  a  cynical  recluse  like 
Edward  Fitzgerald  fiercely  condemned,  and  the 
editor  of  the  Tablet  did  not  hesitate  to  qualify 
the  poem  as  '  grossly  indecent ;  '  she  could 
comfort  herself  with  the  knowledge  that  her 
American  publisher  '  shed  tears  of  sympathy ' 
over  the  proof,  and  that  to  so  lofty  and  uncom- 
promising a  moralist  as  John  Ruskin  it  was 
'  the  finest  poem  written  in  any  language  in  this 
century."] 

Page  410.    Poems  before  Congress. 

[During  the  decade  of  suspense  and  enforced 
inaction,  so  trying  to  all  true  Italian  patriots, 
which  intervened  between  1849  and  1859,  both 
Mr.  and  Mrs.  Browning  had  come  to  identify 
themselves  much  more  deeply  with  the  National 
Cause  than  they  had  done  when  they  were  new- 
comers in  Tuscany.  When  that  most  intem- 
perate of  Mrs.  Browning's  publications  the 
Poems  before  Congress  first  appeared,  about  six 
months  after  the  sharp  disappointment  of  Villa- 
franca,  she  wrote  to  her  sister-in-law.  Miss 
Sariana  Browning,  that  she  and  her  husband 
had  begun  writing  on  the  Italian  question  to- 
gether at  his  suggestion,  meaning  to  publish 
jointly,  but  that  he  subsequently  abandoned 
the  project,  which  she  carried  on  alone. 

It  is  made  clear  enough  by  later  events  and 
publications  of  Robert  Browning-'s  own  that  the 
point  where  he  differed  most  widely  from  his 
wife's  conclusions  on  the  Italian  question  was  in 
his  estimate  of  the  character  and  the  mission  to 
Italy  of  Louis  NapoleonBonaparte.  Heeould  not 
echo  the  rapture  of  hero-worshi]:).  —  the  extrava- 
gant adulation  of  that  high-strung  Ode  which 
stood  at  the  head  of  the  Poems  before  Congress, 
under  the  title  of  '  Napoleon  III.  and  Italy,'  but 
neither  would  he  dissent  from  his  wife  before 
the  world.     To  us,  who  have  long  known  on 


how  shallow  and  unsteady  a  foundation  the 
imposing  fabric  of  the  second  French  Emi^ire 
was  I'eared,  and  how  often,  when  it  appeared 
boldest,  the  policy  of  Napoleon  III.  was  merely 
desperate,  it  is  even  more  difficult  to  under- 
stand Mrs.  Browning's  adoring  faith  in  the 
French  Emperor. 

Her  frenzied  devotion  withstood  even  the 
staggering  blow  dealt  by  the  summary  Peace 
of  Villaf  ranca,  and  enabled  her  speedily  to  rally 
her  hopes,  though  her  health  never  recovered 
from  that  shock.  She  had  an  attack  of  severe 
illness  in  consequence  ;  but  the  moment  she  was 
able  to  hold  a  pen  she  wrote  from  Siena  to  Miss 
Browning,  that  what  had  so  prostrated  her  was 
—  '  the  blow  on  the  heart  about  the  peace  after 
all  that  excitement  and  exultation,  that  walking 
on  the  clouds  for  weeks  and  months,  and  then 
the  sudden  stroke  and  fall,  and  the  impotent 
rage  against  all  the  nations  of  the  earth  —  self- 
ish, inhuman,  wicked  —  who  forced  the  hand  of 
Napoleon,  and  truncated  his  great  intentions.' 
(Letters  of  Mrs.  Browning,  vol.  ii.  p.  320.) 

The  truth  is  that,  while  Mrs.  Browning  pos- 
sessed, as  clever  women  often  do,  a  certain 
amount  of  political  insight  and  an  enormous 
capacity  for  political  passion,  of  sound  judg- 
ment in  matters  poKtical  she  had  none  what- 
ever :  she  could  do  nothing  better  for  her  own 
country,  during  the  sharp,  successive  agonies  of 
the  Crimean  War  and  the  Indian  Mutiny,  when 
initial  mistakes  were  made,  no  doubt,  but  which 
proved  in  the  end  so  glorious  a  vindication  of 
English  valor  and  school  of  English  character, 
than  belabor  the  home  government  with  the 
most  opprobrious  epithets  which  even  her  vast 
vocabulary  could  furnish.  It  was  all  '  dismal ' 
and  '  full  of  horror  and  despair, '  —  '  the  alliance 
with  France  the  only  consolation  '  (I)  She  can 
even  dismiss  Florence  Nightingale  with  a  cold 
word  of  commendation,  adding  that  she  does 
not  consider  that  the  best  use  to  which  we  can  put 
a  gifted  and  accomplished  woman  is  to  make  her 
a  hosjntal  nurse  ! 

We  ourselves  got,  and  indeed  richly  deserved, 
a  sharp  taste  of  Mrs.  Browning's  denunciatory 
eloquence  in  the  piece  entitled  '  A  Curse  for  a 
Nation,'  which  stands  at  the  end  of  the  Poems 
before  Congress.  In  the  prologue  to  the  '  Curse,' 
Mrs.  Browning  seems  for  a  moment  almost  to 
confuse  herself  with  '  Apolyptic  John.' 

'  I  heard  an  angel  speak  last  night 
And  he  said  "  "Write  !  " 
Write  a  Nation's  Curse  for  me 
And  send  it  over  the  Western  Sea.' 

She  begins  by  protesting  her  unwillingness. 
'  Not  so,  my  lord  ! 

for  I  am  bound  by  gratitude, 
By  love  and  blood 
To  brothers  of  mine  across  the  sea.' 

But  the  god  overpowers  the  pj'thoness  and 
the  curse  follows.  No  doubt  we  were  in  mortal 
sin  when  these  words  were  written,  and  escaped 
only  by  a  speedy  and  terrible  purgation  the 
greater  part  of  the  woes  which  they  denounced. 


53S 


APPENDIX 


Pages  427  to  486 


But  the  oddest  and  most  inexplicable  part  of 
tlie  whole  matter  is  that  many  people  in  Eng- 
land, including-  the  astute  Mr.  Chorley,  who  him- 
self reviewed  the  Poems  before  Congress  in  the 
Athe7iceum,  understood  the  Curse  to  be  launched 
against  England.] 

Page  427.    Lord  Walter's  Wife. 
Page  441,  stanza  vii.     And  the  King,  with  that 
stain  on  his  scutcheon. 

Blue  Book  :  Diplomatical  Correspondence. 

Page  481.    An  Essay  on  Mind. 

Page  483,  line  101.  Or  peejis  at  glory  from 
some  ancienVs  back. 

*■  The  reason  which  the  learned  Bentley  gave 
his  daughter  for  not  himself  becoming  an  origi- 
nal writer,  instead  of  wasting  his  talents  on  the 
works  of  others,  is  probably  the  cause  of  many 
not  attempting  original  composition.  Bentley 
seemed  embarrassed  at  her  honest  question,  and 
remained  for  a  considerable  time  thoughtful.  At 
length  he  observed  :  Child,  I  am  sensible  I  have 
not  always  turned  my  talents  to  the  proper  use 
for  Avhich  they  were  given  me  ;  yet  I  have  done 
something :  but  the  wit  and  genius  of  the  old 
authors  beguiled  me,  and  as  I  despaired  of  rais- 
ing myself  up  to  their  standard  upon  fair  ground, 
I  thought  the  only  chance  I  had  of  looking  over 
their  heads  was  to  get  upon  their  shoulders.'  — 
Curiosities  of  Literature,  vol.  i. 

Lines  136,  137. 

The  gentle  Cowley  of  our  native  clime 
Lisped  his  first  accents  in  Aonian  rhyme. 

A  volume  of  Cowley's  poems  was  published 
in  his  fifteenth  year ;  and  contains  '  The  Tra- 
gical History  of  Pyramus  and  Thispe,'  written 
in  his  tenth. 

Lines  138-141. 
Al fieri'' s  startling  muse  tuned  not  her  strings. 
And  dumbly  look''d  '  unutterable  things,'' 
Till  when  five  lustrums  o''er  his  head  had  past  — 

This  poet's  great  mind  exhibited  no  precocity. 
His  '  Cleopatra, '  written  at  the  age  of  twenty- 
five  years,  first  discovered  its  author's  dramatic 
genius  to  himself  and  to  the  world. 

Lines  156-158. 
See  in  that  breathless  crowd  Olorus  stand, 
W^hile  one  fair  boy  hangs  listening  on  his  hand  — 
The  young  Thucydides. 

It  is  said  that  Thiicydides,  in  early  youth, 
was  present  at  the  Olympic  games  when  Herod- 
otus recited  his  History  ;  and  that  a  burst  of 
tears  spoke  his  admiration.  '  Take  care  of 
that  boy,'  observed  the  sage,  turning  to  Olorus  ; 
'  he  will  one  day  make  a  great  man  !  ' 

Page  484,  line  229.  That  hail  '  th'  eternal 
city  '  in  their  pride. 

'  Imperium  sine  fine  dedi,'  says  Virgil's  Jupi- 
ter. How  little  did  the  writer  of  those  four 
words  dream  of  their  surviving  the  Glory, 
whose  eternity  they  were  intended  to  predict ! 
Horace  too,  in  the  most  exulting  of  his  odes, 
boldly  proclaims  that  his  fame  will  live  as  long 


as 


Capitolium 
Scandet  cum  tacitS  virgine  Pontifex. 


Yes  !  his  fame  will  live  !  —  but  where  now  is 
the  Pontifex,  and  the  silent  vestal  ?  where  now 
is  the  Capitol  ?  Such  passages  are,  to  my 
mind,  preeminently  more  affecting  than  all  the 
ruins  in  the  world  ! 

Line  291.  And  ultra  Mitford  soar''d  to  libel 
Greece. 

Mr.  Mitford's  acknowledged  learning,  and 
accuracy  in  detail,  have  a  claim  on  our  con- 
sideration, which  we  admit  with  readiness  and 
pleasure  ;  but  prejudices,  arising  probably  from, 
early  habits  and  associations,  have  deformed 
his  work.  He  is  evidently  so  afraid  of  taking 
the  mob  for  the  people,  that  he  constantly 
takes  the  people  for  the  mob  —  a  perversion 
much  in  vogue  among  despots  of  Europe  in 
the  nineteenth  century.  He  considers  the 
Athenian  Democracy  as  he  would  a  classical 
kind  of  Radicalism ;  and  generously  endows 
Philip  of  Macedon  with  a  '  right  divine,'  not 
only  over  his  own  possessions,  but  over  those 
of  his  neighbors.  Mr.  Mitford  lets  his  readers 
look  at  facts:  but,  whether  shortsighted  as 
himself  or  not,  he  Avill  not  allow  them  to  enjoy 
that  privilege  unless  they  make  use  of  his  polit- 
ical glasses ;  which,  by  the  way,  are  No.  20, 
—  '  ne  plus  ultra  ! ' 

Lines  307-309. 

But  lean  on  Reason,  as  your  safest  rule  ! 
Let  doubtf id  facts,  with  patient  hand  be  led 
To  take  their  jilace  on  this  Procrustian  bed. 

We  shall  find  some  clever  and  animated  ob- 
servations on  this  subject,  in  Voltaire's  pre- 
face to  his  Charles  XII.  I  should  extract  them, 
but  the  book  is  too  well  known  for  me  to  doubt 
their  having  come  to  the  knowledge  of  most 
readers  ;  r.nd  a  new  publication  is  perhaps  the 
only  place  in  which  we  are  not  glad  to  meet 
an  old  acquaintance. 

Page  485,  line  351.  Enlighten'' d  Miller  of  our 
modern  days  ! 

Those  who  may  think  this  praise  excessive 
are  referred  to  the  Philosophy  of  Modern  His- 
tory, given  to  the  world  by  Dr.  Miller  ;  and 
thence  are  requested  to  judge  of  the  reality  of 
the  merit. 

Lines  369-371. 
The  whispier^d  sound  which  stole  on  Descartes''  ear, 
Hallowing  the  sunny  visions  of  his  youth. 
With  that  eternal  mandate,  '  Search  for  Truth!'' 

'  Descartes,  when  young,  and  in  a  country 
seclusion,  his  brain  exhausted  by  meditation 
and  his  imagination  heated  to  excess,  heard  a 
voice  in  the  air,  which  called  him  to  pursue  the 
search  of  Truth :  he  never  doubted  the  vision, 
and  this  dream,  in  the  delirium  of  Genius, 
charmed  him  even  in  his  after  studies.'  — 
D' IsraeW s  Literary  Character. 

Page  486,  lines  427,  428. 
He  died,  the  glorious  !  who,  with  soaring  sight. 
Sought  some  neiv  world  to  plant  his  foot  of  might. 

Archimedes  wrote  to  Hiero,  that,  if  he  had 
another  world  to  stand  on,  he  could  move  this 
by  the  power  of  his  machinery.  When  Cicero 
stumbled  on  his  grave,  he  found  it,  'Septum 
undique  et  vestitum  vepribus  et  dumetis.' 
What  a  homily ! 


Pages  486  to  490 


NOTES   AND   ILLUSTRATIONS 


539 


Lines  448,  44!». 

So  hard  to  bear  vnth  unobstructed  sight, 

Th''  excess  of  darkness,  or  th''  extreme  of  light. 

Gray  ingeniously  asks.  '  Must  I  plunge  into 
metaphysics  ?  '  (he  might  in  some  cases  have 
said  history).  '  Alas  I  I  cannot  see  in  the  dark  ; 
Nature  has  not  furnished  me  with  the  optics 
of  a  cat.  Must  I  pore  upon  mathematics  ? 
Alas  !  I  cannot  see  in  too  much  light ;  I  am 
no  eagle.' 

Lines  492,  493. 

So  Buffoon  erred  —  amidst  his  chilling  dream 

The  judgment  grew  material  as  the  theme. 

Buff  on  was  a  materialist  upon  principle, 
though  a  Catholic  by  observance.  Upon  read- 
ing a  poem  on  the  immortality  of  the  soul,  he 
exclaimed,  '  Religion  would  be  a  noble  present 
if  this  were  true.' 

Line  506.  Sternly  they  strove  —  th''  unequal  race 
was  run  — 

Leibnitz  attacked  with  violence  Sir  Isaac 
Newton's  opinion,  that  the  seeds  of  mortality 
would  be  developed  in  the  fabric  of  the  universe 
if  unrenewed  by  its  divine  Maker.  Such  an 
opinion  he  considered  '  impious  ; '  and,  in  oppo- 
sition to  it,  maintained,  that  as  Creation  pro- 
ceeded from  the  hand  of  Perfection,  it  is  perfect 
—  and  as  perfect,  immutable. 

Page  487,  line  526.  Devoted  Southey  !  if  thou 
had'' St  not  tried. 

Few  are  ready  to  bear  a  more  respectful 
tribute  to  Dr.  Southey's  poetical  talents  than 
the  writer  of  this  Work,  who  however  begs  to 
be  allowed  to  admire  his  genius,  without  ex- 
tending that  admiration  either  to  his  politics 
or  Hexameters. 

Line  535.  Dwell  not  on  parts,  for  parts  con- 
tract the  mind. 

Lord  Bacon  thus  expresses  himself  — 
'  Sciences  distinguished  have  a  dependence 
upon  universal  knowledge,  to  be  augmented, 
and  rectified  by  the  superior  light  thereof  ;  as 
well  as  the  parts  and  members  of  a  science 
have  upon  the  maxims  of  the  same  science, 
and  the  mutual  light  and  consent  which  one 
part  receiveth  of  another.'  —  Interpretatio  Na- 
turcB. 

Line  584.  For  too  much  learning  maketh  no 
man  mad. 

Perhaps,  after  all,  the  great  danger  of  know- 
ing is  in  not  knowing  enough ;  and  certainly 
'  il  pie  fermo  '  is  not '  il  piu  basso.'  '  It  is  true,' 
says  Lord  Bacon,  '  that  a  little  philosophy  in- 
clineth  men's  minds  to  atheism,  but  depth  in 
philosophj'  bringeth  their  minds  about  to  reli- 
gion.' This  is  an  acute  observation,  and  if  gen- 
eralized will  be  found  equally  so.  The  errors 
attending  Intellectual  Elevation  I  have  alluded 
to  and  allowed  ;  but  that  elevation  is  only  com- 
parative. '  Alps  on  Alps  arise  ! '  and  the  ars 
longa  vita  brevis  prevents  our  attaining  the 
topmost  height.  In  our  progress  towards  it 
then  is  our  risk,  lest  we  rejoice  to  have  gone 
a  yard,  without  remembering  we  have  a  mile 
to  go.  Like  the  princess,  in  the  pretty  Arabian 
tale,  who  was  ascending  the  mountain  in  search 
of  her  talking  bird  and  golden  water,  if  during 


the  ascent  we  turn  back  to  gaze,  we  are  trans- 
formed into  black  stones  —  capable  of  impeding 
others,  though  not  of  advancing  ourselves. 

Line  594.  The  sage  how  learned,  and  the  man 
how  meek  ! 

The  character  of  Sir  Isaac  Newton  forms  a 
sublime  comment  on  the  foregoing  note.  '  I 
don't  know,'  said  that  greatest  and  humblest 
of  men,  '  what  I  may  seem  to  the  world ;  but 
as  to  myself,  I  seem  to  have  been  only  like  a 
boy  playing  on  the  seashore,  and  diverting  my- 
self in  now  and  then  finding  a  smoother  pebble 
or  a  prettier  shell  than  ordinary,  whilst  the  great 
ocean  of  Truth  lay  all  undiscovered  before  me.' 
—  We  find  the  anecdote  in  Spence. 

Page  489,  lines  705,  706. 

Ev'n  Cato,  had  he  own'd  the  senate'' s  will. 

And  wash''d  his  toga  —  had  been  Cato  still  ! 

Plutarch  relates  that  Cato  Uticensis  was 
thought  to  disgrace  the  Prsetorship  by  the 
meanness  of  his  dress.  To  couple  '  disgrace ' 
with  the  name  of  Cato  revolts  the  soul ;  and  yet 
who  w-ould  call  his  '  exigua  toga  '  a  jiroof  of  the 
loftiness  of  his  virtue,  or  think  him  less  a  patriot 
if  he  had  kept  on  his  shoes  ? 

Lines  723,  724. 
'  All  is  idea,  and  nothing  real  sx)rings 
But  God  and  Reason  !  '  {not  the  right  of  kings  ?) 

An  obvious  question.  Pyrrho  the  Elean, 
founder  of  the  Ideal  Philosophy,  on  the  near 
approach  of  carts  and  carriages,  did  not  think 
it  worth  while  to  turn  aside  or  change  his  pos- 
ture. Dr.  Berkeley,  with  less  consistency  but 
more  prudence,  found  time  (and  conscience)  to 
write  three  sermons  in  vindication  of  passive 
obedience. 

Lines  729-731. 
^  While  (coldly  studious  !)  thine  ingenious  scroll 
Endows  the  mimic  statue  with  a  soul, 
Comjws^d  of  sense.'' 

It  is  the  object  of  Condillac's  work,  '  Sur  la 
Sensation,'  to  prove  '  que  la  refl.exion  n'est  dans 
son  principe  que  la  sensation  meme,'  and  that 
our  ideas  are  only  sensation  transformed.  His 
statue  is  very  cleverly  put  together,  but  is  a 
statue  after  all. 

Line  734.  What  triumph  hath  the  ^  Art  of 
Thinking '  there  ? 

'  L' Art  de  penser '  —  title  to  one  of  Condillac's 
works. 

Page  490,  lines  803,  804. 

To  judge  is  yours  —  then  why  submissive  call, 

'  The  master  said  so'?'' 

An  '  argumentum  ad  verecimdiam  '  used  by 
the  Pythagoreans.  I  so  much  admire  a  passage 
in  Plato's  Phsedo,  illustrative  of  these  lines, 
that  the  reader  must  forgive  my  referring  to  it. 
Cebes  supports  with  animation  an  opinion  in  op- 
position to  Socrates,  who,  turning  a  gratified 
countenance  ('  yja-OrjvaC  re  /xoi  efio^e, '  says  the  nar- 
rator) to  his  other  disciples,  benignly  observes : 
'  Cebes  always  looks  into  principles ;  neither 
will  he  admit,  without  examination,  the  senti- 
ments of  any  man.' 

We  find  in  Dr.  Reid  the  following  striking 
precept,  '  Let  us,  as  becomes  philosophers,  lay 
aside  authority.' 


540 


APPENDIX 


Pages  490  to  494 


Lines  817,  818. 

If  human  faults  to  Plato'' s  page  belong, 
Not  ev'n  with  Plato  willingly  go  wrong. 

Cicero's  assertion,  '  errare  mehercule  malo 
cum  Platone  quana  cum  istis  vera  sentire,'  is 
more  boldly  said  than  singularly  thought.  How 
many  are  there,  among  the  canaille  of  readers, 
prepared  to  praise  an  inferior  volume,  with  the 
Waverley  magic  on  its  titlextage  ;  to  commend  a 
commonplace  by  Rogers  or  a  far-fetched  allu- 
sion by  Moore.  Even  among  the  more  critical 
of  us,  have  the  names  of  Scott,  and  Moore,  and 
Rogers  no  secret  influence  ?  Do  we  not  so  de- 
voutly admire  the  noisy  slippered  Venus  that 
at  length  we  begin  to  reverence,  abstractedly, 
the  noisy  slippers  ?  This  is  so,  and  I  will  not 
quarrel  with  it ;  since  to  forget  the  trifling  faults 
of  a  great  writer  is  the  gratitude  we  owe  to  his 
perfections.  But  what,  in  subjects  of  taste  and 
sentiment,  may  be  tolerated  as  pardonable  en- 
thusiasm, must  in  grave  discussion  be  con- 
demned as  unpardonable  weakness.  If,  there- 
fore, we  judge  Cicero  only  by  the  above-cited 
passage,  we  shall  pronounce  him  to  be  a  good 
Platonist  (in  one  sense  of  the  word),  bvit  a  very 
bad  philosopher.  It  is  not  with  him,  '  Amicus 
Plato  sed  magis  arnica  Veritas : '  he  loves  truth 
less  than  he  loves  Plato. 

Line  841.  Or  Memnon''s  statue  singing  ^neath 
the  sun. 

The  statue  of  Memnon,  the  Ethiopian  king, 
was  said  to  utter  musical  sounds  at  the  rising  of 
the  sun,  Strabo  witnessed  this  singular  pheno- 
menon, but  could  only  explain  it  by  conjecture. 

Page  491,  lines  872,  873. 

But,  ah !  our  Muse  of  Britain  standing  near, 

Hath  dimmed  my  tablet  with  a  2-)ensive  tear  ! 

It  is  a  practice  too  common,  but  manifestly 
unjust,  to  visit  on  the  memory  of  distinguished 
authors  their  individual  failings.  I  wish  there- 
fore to  state  expressly,  that  the  Muse  of  Britain 
is  not  here  supposed  to  animadvert  on  Lord 
Bacon's  character  as  a  statesman,  with  which 
she  has  nothing  to  do  in  this  place.  It  is  with 
regard  to  his  writings  that  I  cannot  avoid  ex- 
pressing a  regret  —  and  I  do  so  reverentially  — 
that  pages  so  glorious  should  be  polluted  by  pas- 
sages so  servile.  '  As  men,  we  share  his  fame  ; ' 
as  Englishmen,  we  feel  his  degradation.  If,  in- 
deed, the  Novum  Organum  and  Advancement  of 
Learning  kindled  our  souls  into  a  less  proud 
consciousness  of  intellectual  dignity,  we  might 
better  brook  hearing  a  king  called  '  a  mortal 
god  upon  earth,'  and  James  the  First  compared 
to  Solomon.  But  Lord  Bacon  first  teaches  us 
how  high  Philosophy  can  soar,  and  then  how 
low  a  philosopher  can  stoop. 

Line  915.  And  strikes  Pierian  chords  —  when 
Irving  speaks  ! 

There  is  a  pleasure  in  being  benefited  by  the 
labors  of  Genius  :  there  is  a  pride  in  possessing 
powers  capable  of  benefiting.  The  pride  Mr. 
Irving  may  justly  feel  ;  and  which  of  his  read- 
ers, or  hearers,  cannot  boast  the  pleasure  ?  It 
gratifies  me  to  be  enabled  to  express  in  this 
place  my  admiration  of  his  talents,  and  my 
respect  for  their  direction. 


Lines  926,  927. 

Ungrateful  Plato  !  o''er  thy  cradled  rest 

The  Muse  hath  hung,  and  all  her  love  exprest. 

Plato  wrote  poetry  in  his  youth ;  and  when 
indeed  did  not  Plato  write  poetry  ?  Longinus 
numbers  him  among  the  imitators  of  Homer  — 

Yiavroiv  Se  tovtmv  jaaAicrra  6  HKdruiv  ano  tov  'O/xrjpiKou 
e/ceiVou  vdixarog  ets  avTOf  ULVpiag  ocraj  jraparpoTras  oltto- 
XfTevadfiei/oi. 

Page  492,  lines  972,  973. 
A7id  as  fair  Eve,  in  Eden  newly  placed, 
Gaz'd  on  her  form,  in  limpid  waters  traced  — 
The  reader  will  here  perceive  an  allusion  to 
that  beautiful  passage  in  Paradise  Lost,  book 
the  fourth,  where  Eve  describes  to  Adam  her 
emotions  on  first  beholding  her  own  reflection 
in  '  the  clear  smooth  lake  '  — 

A  shape  within  the  watery  gleam  appeared, 
Bending  to  look  on  me  —  I  started  back  — 
It  started  back,  etc. 

Lines  1022,  1023. 
The  artist  lingers  in  the  moon-lit  glade. 
And  light  and  shade,  with  him,  are — light  and 
shade. 

'Quam  multa  vident  Pictores  in  umbris  et 
eminentia  quae  nos  non  videmus,'  is  the  motto 
to  Mr.  Price's  admirable  essay  on  the  Pictur- 
esque.    Dugald  Stewart  proposes  its  reversion 

—  '  Quam  multa  videmus  nos  quae  Pictores  non 
vident,'  which  if  it  be  as  true  as  ingenious,  will 
go  a  great  way  in  assisting  my  position. 

Lines  1044,  1045. 

to  trace 

Nature's  ideal  form  in  Nature^s  place. 

Lord  Bacon  says  of  Poetry,  that  '  it  was  ever 
thought  to  have  some  participation  of  divine- 
ness,  because  it  doth  raise  and  erect  the  mind, 
by  submitting  the  shews  of  things  to  the  desires 
of  the  mind  ;  whereas  Reason  doth  buckle  and 
bow  the  mind  unto  the  nature  of  things.'  —  Ad^ 
vancement  of  Learning,  Book  2. 

Page  493,  lines  1079,  1080. 

Wherein  Conception  only  dies  in  state, 
'  As  Draco  smother'' d  by  the  garments''  weight. 

The  Athenian  people  being  accustomed  to 
testify  their  approbation  by  the  casting  of  their 
garments  on  the  approved  individual,  Draco  was 
honorably  smothered  through  excess  of  popu- 
larity. 

Page  494,  lines  1182-1184. 

behold  the  cold,  dumb  sepulchre. 

The  ruined  column  —  ocean,  earth  and  air, 
Man  and  his  wrongs !  —  thou  hast  Tyrtceus  there  ! 

The  inspiriting  effect  of  the  productions 
of  this  Greek  poet,  during  the  war  between 
the  Lacedaemonians  and  Messenians,  is  well 
known. 

Line  1197.    He  laid  him  down  before  the  shrine 

—  and  slept  ! 

Herodotus  relates  of  Cleobis  and  Bito,  Argive 
brothers,  that  on  a  festival  of  Juno  they  them- 
selves, in  default  of  oxen,  drew  the  chariot  of 
the  priestess,  their  mother,  forty-five  stadia  to 
the  temple.  Amidst  the  shouts  of  an  admiring 
multitude,  their  grateful  parent  asked  of  the 


Page  494 


NOTES    AND   ILLUSTRATIONS 


541 


gods  the  best  boon  mortals  could  receive,  where- 
with to  reward  the  piety  of  her  sons.  The  young 
men  fell  asleep  within  the  temple,  and  woke  no 
more. 

Line  1203.  No  Moschus  sang  a  requiem  oW 
his  clay ! 

That  exquisite  effusion  of  Moschus  over  the 
grave  of  Bion,  his  '  vatis  amici '  —  his  brother 
in  poetry  and  love  —  will  occur  to  the  reader's 
recollection. 


Line  1220.  Then  comes  the  Selah  —  and  the 
voice  is  hush''d ! 

Respecting  this  Hebrew  word,  which  is  found 
'  seventy  times  in  the  Psalms,  and  three  times 
in  Habakkuk,'  Calmet  observes:  'One  con- 
jecture is,  that  it  means  the  end  or  a  pause, 
and  that  the  ancient  musicians  put  it  occasion- 
ally in  the  margin  of  their  psalters,  to  sheAv 
where  a  musical  pause  was  to  be  made,  and 
where  the  tune  ended.' 


INDEX    OF   FIRST   LINES 

[Including  the  first  lines  of  songs  contained  in  poems  and  dramas.  I 


A  Grecian  island  nouiishetli  to  bless,  531. 

A  heavy  heart,  Beloved,  have  I  borne,  219. 

A  knight  of  gallant  deeds,  lOi. 

A  mighty  dog  with  three  colossal  necks,  475. 

A  phoenix  is  a  single  bird,  and  synchronous 
with  nature.  531. 

A  poet  could  not  sleep  aright,  128. 

A  rose  once  grew  within,  169. 

A  sad  man  oii  a  summer  day,  48. 

A  Thought  lay  Hke  a  flower  upon  mine  heart, 
101. 

Accuse  me  not,  beseech  thee,  that  I  wear,  217. 

Ah  me  !  what  tears  my  eyes  are  welling  forth, 
530. 

Ah,  tears  upon  mine  eyelids,  sorrow  on  mine 
heart,  527. 

All  are  not  taken  ;  there  are  left  behind,  56. 

And  Jove's  right  hand  approached  the  ambro- 
sial bowl,  476. 

And,  0  beloved  voices,  upon  which,  100. 

And  Psyche  brought  to  Venus  what  was  sent, 
476. 

And  so  an  easier  life  our  Cyclops  drew,  471. 

And  so  these  daughters  fair  of  Pandarus,  481. 

And  therefore  if  to  love  can  be  desert,  216. 

And  wilt  thou  have  me  fashion  into  speech,  217. 

And  yet,  because  thou  overcomest  so,  217. 

Back-looking  Memory,  47. 
Beloved  friend,  who  living  many  years,  199. 
Beloved,  my  Beloved,  when  I  think,  218. 
Beloved,  thou  hast  brought   me  many  flowers, 


99: 


o. 


Because  thou  hast  the  power  and  own'st  the 

grace,  222. 
Because  ye  have  broken  your  own  chain,  423. 
Bettine,  friend  of  Goethe,  45. 
But  only  three  in  all  God's  universe,  215. 
But  sovran  Jove's  rapacious  Bird,   the  regal, 

475. 
But  what  is  this  thou  hohlestin  thine  hand,  516. 
'  But  why  do  you   go  ? '  said  the  lady,  while 

both  sat  under  the  yew,  427. 

Can  it  be  right  to  give  what  I  can  give,  216. 
Could  ye  be  very  blest  in  hearkening,  56. 
Curb  for  wild  horses,  516. 

Dead  !     One  of  them  shot  by  the  sea  in  the 

east,  446. 
Dead  !     Thirteen  a  month  ago  !  425. 
Dear  my   friend  and   fellow-student,  I   would 

lean  my  spirit  o'er  you  !  118. 
Do    ye    hear    the    children    weeping,   0    my 

brothers,  156. 


'  Do  you  think  of  me  as  I  think  of  you,  178. 
Dost  thou  love  me,  my  Beloved  ?  212. 
Dost  thou  weep,  mourning  mother,  116. 

Each  creature  holds  an  insrdar  point  in  space, 

198. 
Emperor,  Emperor !    From  the  centre   to  the 

shore,  410. 
Enough !  we  're  tired,  my  heart  and  I,  433. 
Eve  is  a  twofold  mystery,  14. 
Experience,  like  a  pale  musician,  holds,  100, 

Face  to  face  in  my  chamber,  my  silent  chamber, 

I  saw  her,  200. 
Fair  Amy  of  the  terraced  house,  433. 
Farewell,  farewell,  mine  own  familar  one,  529. 
Fast  this  Life  of  mine  was  dying,  211. 
First  time  he  kissed  me,  he  but  only  kissed,  222. 
Five  months  ago  the  stream  did  flow,  209. 
Florence,  Bologna,  Parma,  Modena,  421. 
Free  Heart,  that  singest  to-day,  203. 
Friends  of  faces  unknown  and  a  land,  443. 
From  my  lips  in  their  defilement,  526. 

Go  from  me.    Yet  I  feel  that  I  shall  stand,  215, 
God  be  with  thee,  my  beloved,  —  God  be  with 

thee!  117. 
God,  nam^d  Love,  whose  font  Thou  art,  57. 
God  the  Creator,  with  a  pulseless  hand,  58. 
God,  who  with  thunders  and  great  voices  kept, 

199. 
God  would  not  let  the  spheric  lights  accost,  199. 
Gods  of  Hellas,  gods  of  Hellas,  188. 
Grief  sat  upon  a  rock  and  sighed  one  day,  206. 

He  bent  his  head  upon  his  breast,  442. 

He  listened  at  the  porch  that  day,  209. 

Hear  our  heavenly  promise,  95. 

Hearken,  hearken  !     The  rapid  river  carrieth  ! 

38. 
Hearken,  oh  hearken !   let  your  souls  behind 

you,  71. 
Her  azure  eyes,  dark  lashes  hold  in  fee,  197. 
Her  hair  was  tawny  with  gold,  her  eyes  with 

purple  were  dark,  417. 
Her  soul  was  bred  by  a  thorn,  and  fed,  448. 
How  do  I  love  thee  ?    Let  me  count  the  ways, 

223. 
How  he  sleepeth,  having  drunken,  155. 
How  high  Thoii  art  I  our  songs  can  own,  57. 
How  joyously  the  yoiing  sea-mew,  49. 

I  am  no  trumpet,  but  a  reed,  209. 
I  am  listening  here  in  Rome,  431. 
I  classed,  appraising  once,  174. 


544 


INDEX   OF   FIRST   LINES 


I  count  the  dismal  time  by  months  and  years, 

103. 
I  dwell  amid  the  city  ever,  35, 
I  have  a  name,  a  little  name,  GO. 
I  have  a  smiling  face,  she  said,  202. 
I  have  been  in  the  meadows  all  day,  99. 
I  heard  an  angel  speak  last  night,  423. 
I  heard  last  night  a  little  child  go  singing,  224. 
I  lift  my  heavy  heart  up  solemnly,  215. 
'  I  left  thee  last  a  child  at  heart,  19. 
I  lived  with  visions  for  my  company,  219. 
I  love  thee,  love  thee,  Giulio,  445. 
1  may  sing  ;  but  minstrels'  singing,  54. 
I  mind  me  in  the  days  departed,  34. 
I  mourn  for  Adonis  —  Adonis  is  dead,  468. 
I  never  gave  a  lock  of  hair  away,  218. 
I  plant  a  tree  whose  leaf,  20. 
I  see  thine  image  through  my  tears  to-night, 

220. 
I  stand  by  the  river  where  both  of  us  stood,  174. 
I  stand  on  the  mark  beside  the  shore,  192. 
I  tell  you,  hopeless  grief  is  passionless,_99. 
I  thank  all  who  have  loved  me  in  their  hearts, 

223. 
I  think  of  thee  !  —  my  thoughts  do  twine  and 

bud,  220. 
I  think  that  looks  of  Christ  might  seem  to  say, 

101. 
I  think  we  are  too  ready  with  complaint,  102. 
I  thought  once  how  Theocritus  had  sung,  214. 
I  will  paint  her  as  I  see  her,  182. 
I  would  build  a  cloudy  House,  179. 
If  all  the  gentlest-hearted  friends  I  know,  102. 
If  God  compel  thee  to  this  destiny,  101. 
If  I  leave  all  for  thee,  wilt  thou  exchange,  221. 
If  I  were  thou,  0  butterfly,  204. 
If  old  Bacchus  were  the  speaker,  184. 
If  thou  must  love  me,  let  it  be  for  nought,  217. 
If  Zeus  chose  us  a  King  of  the  flowers  in  his 

mirth,  470. 
In  the  pleasant  orchard-closes,  149. 
In  the  ranks  of  the  Austrian  you  found  him, 

442. 
Indeed  this  very  love  which  is  my  boast,  217. 
Is  it  indeed  so  ?    If  I  lay  here  dead,  219. 
It  is  a  place  where  poets  crowned  may  feel  the 

heart's  decaying,  58. 

King  of  us  all,  we  cried  to  thee,  cried  to  thee, 

439. 
Know  the  holy  councils.  King,  to  their  inmost 

number,  528. 

Let  the  world's  sharpness,  like  a  clasping-knife, 
219. 

Light  human  nature  is  too  lightly  tost,  102. 

Little  Ellie  sits  alone,  186. 

Love  !  Lady  diademed  with  honor,  whence,  530. 

Love,  Love,  who  once  did  pass  the  Dardan  por- 
tals, 479. 

Love  me.  Sweet,  with  all  thou  art,  208. 

Love  you  seek  for,  presupposes,  213. 

Loving  friend,  the  gift  of  one,  163. 

Methinks  we  do  as  fretful  children  do,  199. 
Mine  orb^d  image  sinks,  78. 
Mortal  man  and  woman,  75. 


Mountain  gorses,  ever  golden,  187. 

My  dream  is  of  an  island  place,  32. 

My  future  will  not  copy  fair  my  past,  98. 

'  My  future  will  not  cojiyfair  my  past,''  223. 

My  letters !  all  dead  paper,  mute  and  white  ! 

220. 
My  little  doves  have  left  a  nest,  51. 
My  little  son,  my  Florentine,  416. 
My  lonely  chamber,  next  the  sea,  166. 
My  midnight  lamp  is  weary  as  my  soul,  52. 
My  own  Beloved,  who  hast  lifted  me,  220. 
My  poet,  thou  canst  touch  on  all  the  notes,  218. 
My  song  is  done,  13. 

Niapoleon !  —  years  ago,  and  that  great  word, 

160.^ 
Nay,  if  I  had  come  back  so,  434. 
'Neath  my  moon  what  doest  thou,  39. 
Nine  years  old  !     The  first  of  any,  195. 
Now,  by  the  verdure  on  thy  thousand  hills,  103. 
'  Now.  give  us  lands  where  the  olives  grow,'  450. 

0  be  not  angry  with  me,  gentle  house,  529. 
'  0  dreary  life,'  we  cry,  '  0  dreary  life  ! '  102. 
O  health  to  me,  royal  one  !  if  there  belong,  525. 
O  health  to  thee  !  new  living  car  of  the  sky, 

525. 
0  Lady  of  the  passion,  dost  thou  weep  ?  529. 
0  living  Spirit,  0  falling  of  God-dew,  532. 
'  O  maiden  !  heir  of  kings  !  '  55. 
0  my  deathless,  0  my  blessed,  522. 
O  Rose,  who  dares  to  name  thee  ?  207. 
O  Seraph,  pause  no  more  !   1. 
O  thou  fierce  God  of  armies.  Mars  the  red,  61. 
Observe  how  it  will  be  at  last,  440. 
Of  all  the  thoughts  of  God  that  are,  48. 
Of  English  blood,  of  Tuscan  birth,  210. 
Of  writing  many  books  there  is  no  end,  254. 
Oh,  take  me,  thou  mortal,  — thy  Life  for  thy 

praiser !  530. 
Oh,  wilt  thou  have  my  hand.  Dear,  to  lie  along 

in  thine  ?  213. 
Oh,  would  ship  Argo  had  not  sailed  away,  517. 
Oh,  would  the  serpent  had  not  glode  along,  517. 
Oh,  yes !  they  love  through  all  this  world  of 

ours,  223. 
On  the  door  you  will  not  enter,  181. 
'  Onora,  Onora,'  — her  mother  is  calling,  108. 
Out  of  my  own  great  woe,  482. 
Over  the  dumb  Campagna-sea,  444. 

Pardon,  oh,  pardon,  that  my  soul  should  make, 

222. 
Peace,  peace,  peace,  do  you  say  ?  438. 
Put  the  broidery-frame  away,  171. 

Rejoice  in  the  clefts  of  Gehenna,  67. 

Said  a  people  to  a  poet  —  '  Go  out  from  among 

us  straightway !    149. 
Say  over  again,  and  yet  once  again,  218. 
Seven  maidens  'neath  the  midnight,  29. 
She  has  laughed  as  softly  as  if  she  sighed,  207. 
She  rushed  to  meet  him  :    the  nurse  following, 

479. 
She  was  not  as  pretty  as  women  I  know,  430. 
Since  Spirit  first  inspir'd,  pervaded  all,  499. 


I 


s 


INDEX   OF   FIRST   LINES 


545 


Since  without  Thee  we  do  no  good,  61. 

Sleep,  little  babe,  on  my  knee,  426. 

Sleep  on,  baby,  on  the  floor,  183. 

Sleep,  sleep,  mine  Holy  One  !  43. 

So  the  storms  bore  the  daughters  of  Pandarus 

out  into  thrall,  481. 
Some  yearn  to  rule  the  state,  to  sit  above,  525. 
Speak  low  to  me,  my  Saviour,  low  and  sweet, 

99. 
Sweet,  thou  hast  trod  on  a  heart,  426. 

Take  me  as  a  hermit  lone,  532. 

Teresa,  ah,  Teresita  !  445. 

Thank  God,  bless  God,  all  ye  who  suffer  not, 

90. 
The  book  thou  givest,  dear  as  such,  50. 
The  cypress  stood  up  like  a  church,  428. 
The  Earth  is  old,  40. 
The  face  of  all  the  world  is  changed,  I  think, 

216. 
The  face  which,  duly  as  the  sun,  436. 
The  first  time  that  the  sun  rose  on  thine  oath, 

221. 
The  gentle  River,  in  her  Cupid's  honor,  473. 
The  golden-haired  Bacchus  did  espouse,  478. 
The  poet  hath  the  child's  sight  in  his  breast,  198. 
The  Pope  on  Christmas  Day,  420. 
The  Saviour  looked  on  Peter.     Ay,  no  word, 

101. 
The  seraph  sings  before  the  manifest,  98. 
The  shadow  of  her  face  upon  the  wall,  197. 
The  ship  went  on  with  solemn  face,  201. 
The  shroud  is  yet  unspread,  54. 
The  simple  goatherd  between  Alp  rnd  sky,  197. 
The  soul's  Rialto  hath  its  merchandise,  218. 
The  sword  of  sorrow  v,  betted  sharp  for  me,  65. 
The  war  of  Greece  with  Persia's  haughty  king, 

48o. 
The  wind  sounds  only  in  opposite  straits,  197. 
The  Avoman  singeth  at  her  spinning-wheel,  101. 
Then  Bacchus'  subtle  speech  her  sorrow  crossed, 

477, 
Then  Jove  commanded  the  god  Mercury,  476. 
Then  mother  Ceres  from  afar  beheld  her,  474. 
Then  Psyche  entered  in  to  Proserpine,  475. 
Then  Psyche,  weak  in  body  and  soul,  put  on, 

472. 
'  There  is  no  God,'  the  foolish  saith,  167. 
There  is  no  one  beside  thee  and  no  one  above 

thee,  214. 
They  bid  me  sing  to  thee,  53. 
They  say  Ideal  beauty  cannot  enter,  198. 
They  say  that  God  lives  very  high,  206. 
They  sit  unknowing  to  these  agonies,  520. 
Thou  bay-crowned  living  One  that  o'er  the  bay- 
crowned  Dead  art  bowing,  4(). 
Thou  comest !  all  is  said  without  a  word,  221. 
Thou  hast  thy  calling  to  some  palace-floor,  215. 
Thou  indeed,  little  Swallow,  481. 
Thou  large-brained  woman  and  large-hearted 

man,  103. 
Three   gifts  the  Dying  left  me,  — -^schylus, 

200. 
To  rest  the  weary  nurse  has  gone,  23. 
To  the  belfry,  one  by  one,  went  the  ringers  from 
the  sun,  140. 


Tremble,   spectator,  at  the  vision  won  thee  ! 

529. 
True  genius,  but  true  woman  !  dost  deny,  103. 
Two  sayings  of  the  Holy  Scriptures  beat,  100. 

Unlike  are  we,  unlike,  0  princely  Heart,  215. 

We  are  born  into  life  —  it  is  sweet,  it  is  strange, 

175. 
We  cannot  live,  except  thus  mutually,  198. 
We  have  met  late  —  it  is  too  late  to  meet, 

212. 
We  overstate  the  ills  of  life,  and  take,  103. 
We  reach  the  utmost  limit  of  the  earth,  450. 
We  sow  the  glebe,  we  reap  the  corn,  205. 
We  walked  beside  the  sea,  49. 
Well-beloved  and  glory-laden,  522. 
What  are  we  set  on  earth  for  ?     Say  to  toil,  100. 
What  can  I  give  thee  back,  O  liberal,  216. 
What  meditates  thy  thoughtful  gaze,  my  father, 

529. 
What  shall  we  add  now  ?     He  is  dead,  441. 
What  time  I  lay  these  rhymes  anear  thy  feet, 

52. 
What  was  he  doing,  the  great  god  Pan,  437. 
What  wilt  thou  possess  or  be  ?  519. 
Whatever  eyes  seek  God  to  view  His  Light, 

525. 
What 's  the  best  thing  in  the  world,  4.34. 
When  Bacchus  first  beheld  the  desolate,  476. 
When  from  thee,  weeping  I  removed,  5.3. 
When  I  attain  to  utter  forth  in  verse,  104. 
When  Jesus'  friend  had  ceased  to  be,  58. 
When  last  before  her  people's  face,  her  own  fair 

face  she  bent,  1.58. 
AYhen  our  two  souls  stand  up  erect  and  strong. 

219. 
When  some  beloved  voice  that  was  to  you,  99. 
When  some  Beloveds,  'neath  whose  eyelids  lay, 

.56. 
When  Victor  Emanuel  the  King,  MO. 
When  we  met  first  and  loved,  I  did  not  build, 

222. 
When  ye  stood  up  in  the  house,  164. 
Where  are  my  winged  words?      Dissolved  in 

air,  518. 
Which  is  the  weakest  thing  of  all,  60. 
While  Psyche  wept  upon  the  rock  forsaken,  473. 
Who  will  unclose  our  Homer's  sounding  lips, 

.524. 
Whoever  looketh  with  a  mortal  eve,  524. 
With  stammering  lips  and  unsufficient  sound, 

98. 
With  the  same  heart,  I  said,  I  'II  answer  thee, 

221. 
Wordsworth  upon  Helvellyn  !  Let  the  cloud,  98. 

Yes,  call  me  by  my  pet-name !    let  me  hear, 

221. 
'  Yes,'  I  answered  you  last  night,  149. 
Yet  love,  mere  love,  is  beautiful  indeed,  216, 
You  love  all,  you  say,  432. 
You  remember  down  at  Florence  our  Caseine, 

415. 
You  see  this  dog  ;  it  was  but  yesterday,  196. 
You  '11  take  back  your  Grand-Duke  ?  419, 


INDEX   OF   TITLES 


[The  titles  of  major  works  and  of  general  divisions  are  set  in  small  capitals.] 


Adequacy,  103. 
Amy's  Cruelty,  433. 
Apprehension,  An,  102. 
August  Voice,  An,  419. 
Aurora  and  Tithonus,  479. 
Aurora  Leigh,  254. 

Bacchus  and  Ariadne.  478. 

Battle  of  Marathon,  The,  485. 

Bereavement,  56. 

Bertha  in  the  Lane,  171. 

Best  Thing  in  the  World,  The,  434. 

Bettine,  To,  45. 

Bianca  among  the  Nightingales,  428. 

Boyd,  Hugh  Stuart ;   his  Blindness,  199 ; 

Death,  199  ;  legacies,  200. 
Brown  Rosary,  Lay  of  the,  108. 


his 


Calls  on  the  Heart,  203. 

Casa  Guidi  Windows,  224. 

Castruccio  Castracani,  the  Sword  of,  440. 

Catarina  to  Camoens,  181. 

Change  upon  Change,  209. 

Cheerfulness  taught  by  Reason,  102. 

Child  Asleep,  A,  155. 

Child's  Grave  at  Florence,  A,  210. 

Child's  Thought  of  God,  A,  206. 

Chorus  of  Eden  Spirits,  71. 

Chorus  of  Invisible  Angels,  75,  95. 

Christmas  Gifts,  420. 

Claim,  The,  206. 

Complaint  of  Annelida  to  False  Arcite,  The, 

65. 
Confessions,  200. 
Consolation,  56. 
Comfort,  99. 
Court  Lady,  A,  417. 
Cowper's  Grave,  58. 
Crowned  and  Buried,  160. 
Crowned  and  Wedded,  158. 
Cry  of  the  Children,  The,  156. 
Cry  of  the  Human,  The,  167. 
Curse  for  a  Nation,  A,  4^3. 
Cyclops,  The,  471. 

Dance,  The,  415. 

Daughters  of    Pandarus,   The,    481  ;    another 

version,  4S1. 
De  Profundis,  436. 
Dead  Pan,  The,  188. 
Dead  Rose,  A,  207. 

Dedication  to  John  Kenyon,  Esq.,  254. 
Denial,  A,  212. 
Deserted  Garden,  The,  34. 


'  Died  .  .  .  ,'  441. 

Discontent,  102. 

Doves,  My,  51. 

Drama  of  Exile,  A,  67. 

Duchess  May,  Rhyme  of  the,  140. 

Early  Rose,  A  Lay  of  the,  169. 
Earth  and  her  Praisers,  40. 
Essay  on  Mind,  An,  499. 
Exaggeration,  103. 
Exile's  Return,  The,  53. 

False  Step,  A,  426. 
Finite  and  Infinite,  197. 
First  News  from  Villafranca,  438. 
Flower  in  a  Letter,  A,  166. 
Flush,  My  Dog,  To,  163. 
Flush  or  Faunus,  196. 
Forced  Recruit,  The,  442. 
Fourfold  Aspect,  The,  164. 
Futurity,  100. 

Ganges,  A  Romance  of  the,  29. 

Garibaldi,  442. 

Greek  Christian  Poets,  Some  Account  of  the, 

513. 
Grief,  99. 

Hay  don,  B.  R.,  On  a  Portrait  of  Wordsworth 

by,  98. 
Heaven  ami  Earth,  199. 
Hector  and  Andromache,  479. 
Hector  in  the  Garden,  195. 
Hemans,  Felicia,  46. 
House  of  Clouds,  The,  179. 
How  Bacchus  comforts  Ariadne,  477. 
How  Bacchus  finds  Ariadne  sleeping,  476. 
Human  Life's  Mystery,  205. 
Hymn  ['  Since  without  Thee  we  do  no  good '] 

61. 
Hymns  :  — 

I.  A  Supplication  for  Love,  57. 
II.  The  Mediator,  57. 

III.  The  Weeping  Saviour,  58. 

IV.  The  Measure,  58. 

Inclusions,  213. 
Insufficiency,  104,  214. 
Irreparableness,  99. 
Island,  An,  32. 
Isobel's  Child,  23. 
Italy  and  the  World,  421. 

Juvenilia,  485. 


INDEX   OF   TITLES 


547 


Kenyon,  John,  Dedication  to,  254. 

King  Victor  Emanuel  entering  Florence,  April, 

18G0,  439. 
King's  Gift,  The,  445. 

Lady  Geraldine's  Courtship,  118. 

Lady's  '  Yes,'  The,  14'J. 

Lament  for  Adonis,  4(J8. 

Last  Poems,  424, 

Last  Translation,  The,  482. 

Lay  of  the  Brown  Rosary,  The,  108. 

Lay  of  the  Early  Rose,  A,  169. 

L.  E.  L.'s  Last  Question,  178. 

Lessons  from  the  Gorse,  187. 

Life,  198. 

Life  and  Love,  211. 

Life's  Progress,  A  Rhapsody  of,  175. 

Little  Friend,  The,  50. 

Little  Mattie,  425. 

Look,  The,  101. 

Look,  The  Meaning  of  the,  101. 

Lord  Walter's  Wife,  427. 

Lost  Bower,  The,  149. 

Love,  198. 

Loved  Once,  174. 

Lucifer,  Song  of  the  Morning  Star  to,  78. 

Man  and  Nature,  48. 

Man's  Requirements,  A,.  208. 

Marathon,  The  Battle  of,  485. 

Margret,  The  Romaunt  of,  20. 

Marriage  of  Psyche  and  Cupid,  476. 

Mask,  The,  202. 

May's  Love,  432. 

Meaning  of  the  Look,  The,  101. 

Measure,  The,  5S. 

Mediator,  The,  57. 

Memory  and  Hope,  47. 

Mercury  carries  Psyche  to  Olympus,  476. 

Mind,  An  Essay  on,  499. 

Mitford,  Mary  Russell,  To,  52. 

Morning  Star,  Song  of  the,  to  Lucifer,  78. 

Mother  and  Poet,  446. 

Mountaineer  and  Poet,  197. 

Mourning  Mother,  The,  116. 

Musical  Instrument,  A,  437. 

My  Doves,  51. 

My  Heart  and  1,  433. 

My  Kate,  430. 

Napoleon  III.  in  Italy,  410. 
Nature's  Remorses,  448. 
Night  and  the  Merry  Man,  39. 
North  and  the  South,  The,  450. 

Ode  to  the  Swallow,  481. 

On  a  Portrait  of  Wordsworth  by  B.  R.  Hay  don, 

98. 
Only  a  Curl,  443. 

Page,  The  Romaunt  of  the,  104. 
Pain  in  Pleasure,  101. 
Parting  Lovers,  445. 
Past  and  Future,  98. 
Patience  taught  by  Nature,  102. 
Perplexed  Music,  100. 
Pet-name,  The,  60. 


Poems  before  Congress,  410. 

Poems  of  1844,  67. 

Poems  of  185U,  191. 

Poet,  The,  198. 

Poet  and  the  Bird,  The,  149. 

Poet's  Vow,  The,  14. 

Portrait,  A,  182. 

Powers',  Hiram,  '  Greek  Slave,'  198. 

Prisoner,  The,  103. 

Prometheus  Bound,  450. 

Proof  and  Disproof,  212. 

Prospect,  The,  199. 

Psyche  and  Cerberus,  475. 

Psyche  and  Pan,  473. 

Psyche  and  Proserpine,  475. 

Psyche  and  the  Eagle,  475. 

Psyche  and  Venus,  476. 

Psyche  gazing  on  Cupid,  472. 

Psyche  propitiating  Ceres,  474. 

Psyche  wafted  by  Zephyrus,  473. 

Queen  Annelida  and  False  Arcite,  61. 
Question  and  Answer,  213. 

Ragged  Schools  of  London,  A  Song  for  the,  431. 

Reed,  A,  209. 

Rhapsody  of  Life's  Progress,  A,  175. 

Rhyme  of  the  Duchess  May,  140. 

Romance  of  the  Ganges,  A,  29. 

Romance  of  the  Swan's  Nest,  The,  186. 

Romaunt  of  Margret,  The,  20. 

Romaunt  of  the  Page,  The,  104. 

Rosalind's  Scroll,  The  Words  of,  19. 

Rose,  Song  of  the,  470. 

Runaway  Slave  at  Pilgrim's  Point,  The,  192. 

Sabbath  Morning  at  Sea,  A,  201. 

Sand,  George,  To,  a  Desire,  103  ;  a  Recognition. 

103. 
Sea-Mew,  The,  49. 
Sea-Side  Walk,  A,  49. 
Seraph  and  Poet,  The,  98. 
Seraphim  and  Other  Poems,  The,  1. 
Seraphim,  The,  1. 

'Since  without  Thee  we  do  no  good,'  61. 
Singing,  A  Song  against,  53. 
Sleep,  The,  48.^ 
Sleeping  and  Watching.  183. 
Some  Account  of  the  Greek  Christian  Poets, 

513. 
Song  against  Singing,  A,  53. 
Song  for  the  Ragged  Schools  of  London,  A,  431. 
Song  of  the  ISIorning  Star  to  Lucifer,  78. 
Song  of  the  Rose,  470. 
Sonnets  from  the  Portuguese,  214. 
Sonnets  :  — 

Adequacy,  103. 

Apprehension,  An,  102. 

Bereavement,  56. 

Boyd,  Hugh  Stuart ;  his  Blindness,  199 ;  hia 
Death,  199  ;  Legacies,  200. 

Cheerfulness  taught  by  Reason,  102. 

Comfort,  90. 

Consolation,  .56. 

Discontent,  102. 

Exaggeration,  103, 

Finite  and  Infinite,  197. 


548 


INDEX   OF   TITLES 


Flush  or  Faunus,  196. 

Thought  for  a  Lonely  Death-Bed,  A,  101. 

Futurity,  100. 

To  Bettine,  45. 

Grief,  99. 

To  Flush,  my  Dog,  163. 

Heaven  and  Earth,  199. 

To  George  Sand,  a  Desire,  103  ;  a  Recognition, 

Insufficiency,  104. 

103. 

Irreparableness,  99. 

To  Mary  Russell  Mitford,  52. 

Look,  The,  101. 

Two  Sayings,  The,  100. 

Love,  198. 

Two  Sketches,  197. 

Life,  198. 

Translations,  450. 

Mountaineer  and  Poet,  197. 

Translations :  — 

Meaning  of  the  Look,  The,  101. 

From     'Achilles    Tatius,'    attributed    to 

Mitford,  Mary  Russell,  To,  52. 

Sappho,  470. 

On  a  Portrait  of   Wordsworth  by  B.  R. 

From  ^schylus,  450. 

Hay  don,  98. 

From  Anacreon,  481. 

Pain  in  Pleasure,  101. 

From  Apuleius,  472. 

Past  and  Future,  98. 

From  Bion,  468. 

Patience  taught  by  Nature,  102. 

From  Euripides,  479. 

Perplexed  Music,  100. 

From  Heine,  482. 

Poet,  The,  198. 

From  Hesiod,  478. 

Powers',  Hiram,  Greek  Slave,  198. 

From  Homer,  479. 

Prisoner,  The,  103. 

From  Nonnus,  476. 

Prospect,  The,  199. 

From  Theocritus,  471. 

Sand,  George,  To  ;  a  Desire,  103  ;  a  Recog- 

nition, 103. 

Valediction,  A,  117. 

Seraph  and  Poet,  The,  98. 

Vanities,  56. 

Soul's  Expression,  The,  98. 

Victor  Emanuel,  King,  entering  Florence,  April, 

Substitution,  99. 

1860,  439. 

Tears,  99. 

Victoria's  Tears,  55. 

Thought  for  a  Lonely  Death-Bed,  A,  101. 

View  across  the  Roman  Campagna,  A,  444. 

Two  Sayings,  The,  100. 

Villafranca,  First  News  from,  438. 

Two  Sketches,  197. 

Villafranca,  A  Tale  of,  416. 

Work,  100. 

Virgin  Mary  to  the  Child  Jesus,  The,  43. 

Work  and  Contemplation,  101. 

Vision  of  Poets,  A,  127. 

Soul  and  Body,  519. 

Void  in  Law,  426, 

Soul's  Expression,  The,  98. 

Soul's  Travelling,  The,  35. 

Weakest  Thing,  The,  60. 

Sounds,  38. 

Weeping  Saviour,  The,  58. 

Stanzas  ['  I  may  sing :  but  minstrel's  singing '], 

Where  's  Agnes  ?  434. 

54. 

Wine  of  Cypress,  184. 

Student,  The,  52. 

Wisdom  Unapplied,  204. 

Substitution,  99. 

Woman's  Shortcomings,  A,  207. 

Summing  up  in  Italy,  440. 

Words  of  Rosalind's  Scroll,  The,  19. 

Supplication  for  Love,  A,  57. 

Wordsworth,  On  a  Portrait  of,  by  B.  R.  Hay- 

Swallow,  Ode  to  the,  481. 

don,  98. 

Swan's  Nest,  The  Romance  of  the,  186. 

Work,  100. 

Sword  of  Castruccio  Castracani,  The,  440. 

Work  and  Contemplation,  101. 

Tale  of  Villafranca,  A,  416. 
Tears,  99. 
That  Day,  174. 


Year's  Spinning,  A,  209. 
Young  Queen,  The,  54. 


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