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Prf5lMltf^  tn 

(I be  -Cihraru 

of  ihc 

llniiirrsttu  of  'Toronto 


Ini 


Miss  M.S.  Cassels 


POEMS 


or 


ELIZABETH    BARRETT  BROWNING. 


THE 


/'' 


POEMS 


ELIZABETH    BARRETT    BROWNING 


Complete  fn  STijrce  Uolumes. 

OORRECTEO   BY  THE   LAST   I,0>rDOX  EDITION       WITn   AN   INTKODUCTORY 
ESSAY   BY  H.   T.   TUCKEEMAN. 


VOLTJMiE     II. 


NEW   YORK: 
JAMES  MILLER,  647  BROADWAY, 

(SUCCESSOR  TO   C.   8.   FRANCIS   t   CO.^ 


PR 


ANDERSON    &    RAMSAY,   Printort, 
a8  Frankfort  Street,  N.  Y. 


CONTENTS 


VOL.  II. 


PAGE 

A  Drama  of  Exile 15 

The  Romaunt  of  the  Page 101 

The  Lay  of  the  Brown  Rosary 114 

Lady  Geraldine's  Courtship 130 

A  Vision  offoets 107 

Rhyme  of  the  Duchess  May 205 

The  Poet  and  the  Bird 226 

The  Lost  Bower 227 

A  Child  Asleep 242 

The  Cry  of  the  Children 245 

Crowned  and  AVedded 251 

Crowned  and  Buried '. 255 

The  Four-fold  Aspect 202 

A  Flower  in  a  Letter 267 

The  Cry  of  the  Human 272 

A  Lay  of  the  Early  Rose 277 

The  Lady's  "Yes," 2S5 

A  Portrait 2S7 

L.  E.  L.'s  Last  Question 290 

The  Mourning  Mother 293 

The  Romance  of  the  Swan's  Nest 296 

Calls  on  the  Heart 301 

Wisdom  Unapplied 305 

Memory  and  Hope 309 

Human  Life's  Misery 812 

A  Child's  Thought  of  God 315 

The  Little  Friend -^. ~.  .^ . 316 


vi  C  0  N  T  E  N  T  8. 

PAGB 

I  iR-UiM.ms ^^8 

liisiitUoiency ' : ^-" 

Song  of  the  Uose ^21 

ADeiul  HoBf 322 

A  WiiiDiin's  Sliortcotnings. 324 

A  NftttiS  Itfqiiiri'inents •'26 

A  ViHr'f  S[iiiinitig 329 

Clmiice  upon  Change 381 

Tlint  Day 332 

A  Uc<<l 334 

Vasa  Giiiill  Wimli.w? 835 

Nn|...Icnii  III.  in  It.ly 445 

•riio  1  )Rnc<> 425 

A  ThIc  i.f  Villafriinca.  427 

A  Court  I>acly 431 

An  August  Voice 436 

Clirinmiw  Olfts 441 

Italy  anil  I  lie  World 444 

A  turtle  for  a  Nation 451 


/J- 


A  DRAMA  OF  EXILE. 


■^ 


// 


A   DRAMA   OF  EXILE. 

SCENE— The  outer  side  of  the  gate  of  Eden  fHiutfast  with  cloud,  from 
the  depth  of  loMch  revolves  the  »ioord  of  fire  self-moved.  Adam 
and  EvB  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  fomidations. 

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 
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,  0  my  locusts,  and  feed  in 

The  green  of  the  world. 
Come  up  !  we  have  conquered  by  evil. 

Good  reigns  not  alone. 
2* 


18  A    DRAMA    OF    EXILE. 

/  |)iovail  now,  and,  angel  or  devil, 
Inherit  a  throne. 

[In  tuddfn  apparition  a  watch  of  Inmimeralle  angels,  rank  above 
rank;  tlopM  up  from  around  the  gate  to  the  zenith.  TVte  angel 
Oabriki.  descends.] 

Lucifer.     Hail  Gabriel,  the  keeper  of  the  gate  ! 
Now  that  the  fruit  is  plucked,  prince  Gabriel, 
I  hold  that  Eden  is  impregnable 
Under  thy  keeping. 

Gabriel.  Angel  of  the  sin, 

Such  as  thou  standcst, — ^jjalc  in  the  drear  light 
Wiiich  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  despair 
And  measure  out  the  distances  from  good  ! 
Go  from  us  straightway. 

Lucifer.  Wherefore? 

Oabriel.  Lucifer, 

Iliy  last  step  in  this  place  trod  sorrow  up. 
Itccoil  liefore  that  sorrow,  if  not  this  sword. 

Lucifer.  Angels  are  in  the  world — wherefore  not  1  '\ 
Exiles  are  in  the  world — wherefoi-e  not  I? 
The  cursfd  are  in  the  world — wherefore  not  I  ? 

Gabriel.     Di'part. 

Lucifer.  And  where's  the  logic  of  '  dei)art  ? 

Our  lady  Eve  had  half  been  satisfied 
To  o])ey  her  Maker,  if  I  had  not  learnt 
To  fix  my  postulate  better.     Dost  thou  dream 
Of  guarding  some  monopoly  iu  heaven 
Instead  of  earth?     Why  I  can  dream  with  thee 
To  the  length  of  thy  wintis. 

Gabriel.  I  do  not  dream. 

This  is  not  Heaven,  even  in  a  dream,  nor  earth, 


A    DEAMA    OF    EXILE.  19 

As  ejivth  was  once, — first  breathed  among  the  stars, 

Articulate  glory  from  the  mouth  divine, 

To  which  the  myriad  spheres  thrilled  audil)ly 

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  1 

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  .  .  .  depart — 

Enouo;h  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 
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  pyramids, 
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  Him ; 
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  ; 


20  A    IHIAMA    OF    EXILE. 

Tlio  poltor's  niai-k  upon  his  work,  to  show 
It  riiip;s  well  to  the  striker.     I  and  the  earth 
Oiii  hear  jnore  curse. 

Gabriel.  O  miserable  earth, 

0  ruined  angel ! 

Lucifer.  Well !  and  if  it  be, 

1  CHOSE  this  ruin  :  I  elected  it 

Of  my  will,  not  of  service.     What  I  do, 

I  do  volitient,  not  obedient, 

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  1  turn  those  from  both 

That  bright,  impassive,  passive  angelhood ; 

And  spare  to  read  us  backward  any  more 

Of  the  spent  hallelujahs. 

Gabriel.  Spirit  of  scorn  ! 

I  might  say,  of  unreason  !  I  might  say. 
That  who  despairs,  acts  ;  that  who  acts,  connives 
Witli  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 ! 

No  more,  thou  Gabriel !     What  if  I  stand  up 
Ami  strike  my  brow  against  the  crystaline 
Huiifiiig  the  creatures, — shall  I  say  for  that. 
My  stature  is  too  high  for  me  to  stand, — 
Ibiici. forward  I  must  sit?     Sit  thou. 

Gabriel.  '      I  kneel. 

Lucifer.     A  heavenly  answer.     Get  thee  to  thj 
Heaven, 
And  leave  njy  ejirth  to  me. 


A    DRAMA    OF    EXILE.  21 

Gabriel.  Through  Heaven  and  earth 

God's  will  moves  freely ;  and  I  follow  it, 
As  colour  follows  light.     He  overflows 
The  firmamental  walls  with  deity, 
Therefore  with  loye ;  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 — 
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  can  fitly  chastise. 
While  hate  avenges. 

Lucifer.     As  it  is,  I  know 
Something  of  pity.     When  I  reeled  in  Heaven, 
And  my  sword  grew  too  heavy  for  my  grasp. 
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  pi'ecipitate  descent ; 
When  countless  angel  flxces  still  and  stern 
Pressed  out  upon  me  from  the  level  heavens, 
Adowii  the  abysmal  spaces  :  and  I  fell 
Trampled  down  by  your  stillness,  and  struck  blind 
By  the  sight  within  your  eyes  ; — 'twas  then  I  knew 
How  ye  could  pity,  my  kind  angelhood  ! 

Gabriel.  Alas,  discrowned  one,  by  tlie  tiiith  in  me 


2-2  A   DRAMA    OF    EXILE. 

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  ! 
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  otherwise, 
What  dost  thou  here,  vouchsafing  tender  thoughts 
To  that  earth-angel  or  earth-demon — which, 
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, 
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  aflVont  heaven  with  their  vacuity  % 

Gabriel.     Angel,  there  are  no  vacant  thrones  in 
Heaven 
To  suit  thy  empty  words.     Glory  and  life 
Fulfil  their  own  depletions  :  and  if  God 
tiighed  you  far  from  Him,  His  next  breath  drew  in 
A.  compensative  splendour  up  the  vast. 


A     D  HAM  A     OF     EXILE.  23 

Flushing  the  stariy  artciies  ! 

Lucifer.  With  a  change  ! 

So,  let  the  vacant  thrones   and  gardens  too 
Fill  as  may  please  you  ! — and  be  pitiful, 
hi  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 
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 .' 
A"-ainst  whose  hand  .?     In  this  last  strife,  methinks, 
I  am  not  a  fallen  angel ! 

Gabriel.  Dost  thou  know 

Ausht  of  those  exiles .'' 

Lucifer.  Ay :  I  know  they  have  fled 

Silent  all  day  along   the  wildcrnesh : 
I  know  they  wear,  for  burden  on  their  backs. 
The  thought  of  a  shut  gate  of  Paradise, 
And  faces  of  the  marshalled  cherubim 
Shininf  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 

Ausht  of  their  future  } 

Lucifer.  Only  as  much  as  this : 

That  evil  wUl  increase  and  multiply 
Without  a  benediction. 

Gabriel.  Nothing  more  > 


24  A     DRAMA     OF     EXILB. 

Lucifer.     Why  so  the  angels  taunt !     What  should 
be  more  r 

Gabriel.     God  is  more. 

Lucifer.  Proving  what  ? 

Gabriel.  That  he  is  God, 

And  capable  of  saving.     Lucifer, 
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  shoi-e  of  our  feet. 
The  depths  of  the  creation  swelled  and  brake, — 
And  the  new  worlds,  the  beaded  foam  and  flower 
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  mournful  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  perad  venture  in  the  after  years, 
When  tlumghtful  men  shall  bend  theii  spacious  brows 
Upon  the  st(jrui  and  strife  seen  everywhere 


A     DRAMA     OF     EXILE.  25 

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  ansrel  in  the  earth. 

CHORUS  OF  EDEN  SPIRITS, 

iChantinff  from  Paradise,  while  Jidam  and  Kve  fly  across   the 
sword-glare.) 

Harken,  oh  harken  !  let  ybur  souls   behind  you 

Turn,  gently  moved  ! 
Our  voices  feel  along  the  Dread  to  find  you, 

O  lost,  beloved ! 
Through   the   thick-shielded   and   strong-marshalled 
angels, 

They  press  and  pierce  : 
Our  requiems  follow  fast  ou  our  evangels, — 

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  remaining, 

No  work  to  do  ; 
The  mystic  hydromel  is  spilt,  and  staining 

The  whole  earth  through  ; 
Most  ineradicable  stains,  for  showing 

(Not  interfused !) 
That  brighter  colours  were  the  world's  foregoing. 

Than  shall  be  used. 
Harken,  oh  harken !  ye  shall  harken  surely 

For  years  and  years, 

VOL.  11. — 3 


26  A   DRAMA    OF    EXILE. 

The  noise  beside  you,  dripping  coldly,  purely, 

Of  spirits'  tears ! 
ITie  yearning  to  a  beautiful  denied  you, 

Shall  strain  your  powers : 
Ideal  sweetnesses  shall  over-glide  you, 

Resumed  from  ours ! 
In  all  your  music,  our  pithetic  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 ; 
What  time  ye  vex  the  desert  with  vain  angers, 

Or  mock  with  dreams. 
And  when  upon  you,  weary  after  roaming, 

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. 
Slow  and  solemn  in  your  hearing ! 
Oak  and  linden,  palm  and  fir. 
Tamarisk  and  juniper. 
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 ; 


A    DRAMA    OF    EXILE.  27 

Like  a  vibrant  music-strincr 
Stretched  from  mountain-peak  to  sky ! 
And  the  platan  did  expand 
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^  but  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. 
Ever  wave  the  Eden  trees 
In  the  nightlight  and  the  noonlight, 
With  a  ruffling  of  green  branches 
Shaded  oflF  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. 
River- Spirits. 

Hark  !  the  flow  of  the  four  rivers — 

Hark  the  flow ! 
How  the  silence  round  you  shivers, 


28  A     DRAMA     OF     EXILE. 

While  our  voices  through  it  go, 
Cold  and  clear. 
A  softer  voice. 

I'hiuk  a  little,  while  ye  hear, 

Of  the  banks 
Where  the  willows  and  the  deer 
Crowd  in  intermingled  ranks, 
As  if  all  would  drink  at  once 
Where  the  living  water  runs  ! 
Of  the  &hes'  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 
To  help  them  into  dreams. 
Fare  ye  well,  farewell ! 
The  river-sounds,  no  longer  audible. 
Expire  at  Eden's  door  ! 
Each  footstep  of  your  treadiog 
Treads  out  some  murmur  which  ye  heard  before 
Farewell !  the  streams  of  Eden, 
Ye  shall  hear  nevermore. 
Bird- Spirit. 

I  am  the  nearest  niarhtinffale 

That  singeth  in  Eden  after  you  ; 

And  1  am  singing  loud  and  true, 

And  sweet, — I  do  not  fail ! 

1  sit  upon  a  cypress  bough, 

Close  to  the  gate  ;  and  1  fling  my  song 


A     DRAMA     OF     EXILE.  29 

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. 
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  ! 
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  sonjr 
We  are  spirit-aromas 

Of  blossom  and  bloom  : 
\Ve  call  your  thoughts  home   us 

Ye  breathe  our  perfume  ;  "" 

To  the  amaranth's  splendor 
Afire  on  the  slopes  ; 


so  A     DRAMA    OF     EXILE. 

To  the  lily-bells  tender; 
And  grey  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, 
Yo  walked  ankle  deep  in  ! 
We  pluck  at  your  raiment. 

We  stroke  down  your  hair, 
We  faint  in  our  lament 
And  pine  into  air. 

Fare  ye  well,  farewell ! 
The  Eden  scents,  no  longer  sensible, 
Expire  a<>  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. 

Tkrrt  it  tilrncc.  Adam  and  F.VK  Jly  on,  and  never  look  back.  Only  a 
colonal  tliadow,  a*  of  iJu  dark  jLHaici.  passing  guickly,  is  cast  upon 
iMe  tuprd-glare. 


A     DRAMA     OF     EXILE.  31 


SCENE.— TAe  extremity  of  the  Sword  glare. 

Adam.  Pausinor  a  moment  on  this  outer  edse. 
Where  the  supernal  sword-glare  cuts  in  light 
The  dark  exterior  desert, — hast  thou  strength, 
Beloved,  to  look  behind  us  to  the  gate  ? 

£ve.  Have  I  not  strength  to  look  up  to  thy  face. 

Adam    We  need  be  strong  :  yon  spectacle  of  clovid 
Which  seals  the  gate  up  to  the  final  doom, 
Is  God's  seal  manifest.       There  seem  to  lie 
A  hundred  thunders  in  it,  dark  and  dead  ; 
The  unmolten  lightnings  vein  it  motionless  : 
And,  outward  from  its  depth,  the  self-moved  sword 
Swings  slow  its  awful  gnomon  of  red  fire 
From  side  to  side, — in  pendulous  horror  slow, 
Across  the  stagnant,  ghastly  glare  thrown  fliit 
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 
Betwixt  the  solemn  claspings  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  awfuUer, 


J2  A     D  R  A  M  A     0  F     B  X  I  L  E  . 

I'o  me,  at  least,— to  mc— tha^i  all  their  light. 

Adam.  What  is  this,  Eve  ?  thou  droppest  heavil)i 
In  a  heap  earthward  ;  and  thy  body  heaves 
Under  the  golden  floodings  of  thy  hair  ! 

Eve.  O  Adam,  Adam  !  by  that  name  of  Eve — 
Tliine  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, 
'I'ogether  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, 
As  God  struck  in  the  garden  !  and  as  he, 
Ik'ing  satisfied  with  justice  and  with  wrath, 
Did  roll  His  thunder  gentler  at  the  close, — 
Thou,  peradventure,  may'st  at  last  recoil 
To  some  soft  need  of  mercy.     Strike,  my  lord  ! 
/",  also,  after  tempting,  writhe  on  the  ground  ; 
And  1  would  feed  on  ashes  from  thy  hand, 
As  suits  me,  O  my  tempted. 

yidam.  My  beloved. 

Mine  10 ve  and  life — 1  have  no  other  name 
For  thee  or  for  the  sun  than  what  ye  are. 
My  utter    life  and  light !     If  we  have  fnllen, 
It  is  that  we  have  sinned, — we  :  God  is  just ; 
And  since  his  curse  doth  comprehend  us  both, 
It  must  bo  that  His  balance  holds  the  weights 
Of  firnt  and  last  sin  on  a  level.     What ! 


A     DRAMA     OF     EXILE.  tj3 

Shall  I  who  had  not  virtue  to  stand  strai^lit 
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 — 

-S'ye.  For  so,  perchance,  thy  God 

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  3ome  down 
And  walk  with  thee  as  erst, — 1  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. 

Uve.  Thou  ! 

Adam.  If  God 

Who  gave  the  right  and  joyaunce  of  the  world 
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, — 
Hast  left  this  well-beloved  Eve — this  life 
Within  life — this  best  gift  between  their  palms, 
In  gracious  compensation  ! 

3* 


U  A     DRAMA     OF     EXILE. 

Eve  I^  it  thy  voice  ? 

Or  some  saluting  angel's — calling  home 
My  feet  into  the  garden  ? 

Adam.  0  my  God  ! 

I,  standing  here  between  the  glory  and  dark, — 
The  glory  of  thy  wrath  projected  forth 
p'rora  Eden's  wall ;  the  dark  of  our  distress 
Which  settles  a  step  off  in  that  drear  world  — 
I^ift  up  to  Thee  the  hands  from  whence  hath  fallen 
Only  creation's  sceptre, — thanking  Thoe 
That  rather  Thou  hast  cast  uie  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 ! 

■i^fe.  Where  is  loss  1 

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  f.ill, 
And  look  away  from  heaven  which  doth  accuse. 
And  look  away  from  earth  which  doth  convict. 
Into  her  face  ;  and  crown  my  discrowned  brow 
Out  of  her  love  ;  and  put  the  thought  of  her 
Around  me,  for  an  VAm  full  of  birds  ; 
And  lift  her  body  up— thus— to  my  heart ; 
And  witli  my  lips  upcm  her  lips,— thus,  thus, — 
Do  (juicken  and  sublimate  my  mortal  breath 
Which  cannot  climb  against  the  grave's  steep  sides 
But  overtops  this  grief ! 

^''^'^-  I  am  renewed  : 


A     DRAMA    OF     EXILE.  35 

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  comprehend 

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, 

Bent  heavily  on  thyself  across  mine  arm, 

Thy  face  flat  to  the  sky. 

^ve.  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 
This  desolating  radiance   cast  by  swords 
Not  suns,  my  lips  prayed  soundless  to  myself. 
Striking  against  each  other — 0  Lord  God  ! 
('Twas  so  I  prayed)  I  ask  Thee  by  my  sin, 
A.nd  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  helpmete,  quick  away 
Into  the  new  dark  mystery  of  death ! 


3C  A     DRAMA     OF     EXILE. 

I  will  lie  still  there  ;  1  will  make  uo  plaint ; 
I  will  not  sigh,  nor  sob,  nor  speak  a  word, 
Nor  strusijcle  to  come  back  beneath  the  suu 
Where  peradveuture  I  might  sin  anew 
Against  thy  mercy  and  his  pleasure.     Death, 
Oh,  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  he  alone. 

Adam.  And  was  it  good  for  such  a  prayer  to  pass. 
My  unkind  Eve,  betwixt  our  mutual  lives  ? 
If  1  am  exiled,  nmst  1  be  bereaved  ? 

Eve.  'Twas  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 
Too  high  and  strong  for  such  a  foolish  prayer  : 
Love  makes  it  strong :  and  since  I  was  the  fii'st 
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. 

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  Paradise, — 
But  the  love-angels  who  came  erst  to  us, 
And  when  we  said  '  Goo,*  fainted  unawares 
Back  from  our  mortal  presence  unto  God, 


A     DRAMA     OF     EXILE.  37 

(As  if  He  drew  tbeui  inward  in  a  breath) 
His  name  being  heard  of  them,— I  think  that  they 
With  sliding  voices  lean  from  heavenly  towers, 
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 

VVherein  ye  are  holdeu. 
Do  ye  know  our  voices 

Chanting  down  the  golden  ? 
Do  ye  guess  our  choice  is, 

Being  unbeholden, 
To  be  barkened  by  you,  yet  again  ? 
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  ft-om  us  to  you. 
First  semichorus. 

Think  how  erst  your  Eden, 
Day  on  day  succeeding, 


38  A     DRAMA     OF     EXILE. 

With  our  presence  glowed. 
We  came  as  if  the  Heavens  were  bowed 

To  a  milder  music  rare  ! 
Yo  saw  us  in  our  solema  treading, 

'r reading  down  the  steps  of  cloud 
While  our  wings  outspreading 
Double  calms  of  whiteness, 
Dropped  superfluous  brightness 
Down  from  stair  to  stair 
Second  semichorus. 

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. 
We  took  you  unaware  ! 
While  our  feet  struck  glories 
Outward,  smooth  and  fair. 
Which  we  stood  on  floorwise, 
Platformed  in  mid  air. 
First  Semichorus. 

Or  oft,  when  Heaven-descended, 
Stood  we  in  your  wondering  sight 
In  a  mute  apocalypse  ! 
With  dumb  vibrations  on  our  .ips 
From  hosannas  ended ; 
And  grand  half-vanishings 
Of  the  empyreal  things 


A    DRAMA    OF    EXILE.  5» 

AVithin  onr  ejea  belated ! 
mi  the  heavenly  Infinite 
Falling  off  from  the  Created, 
Left  our  inward  contempliitioa 
Opened  into  ministration. 

Chorum. 

Then  upon  our  axle  tumii^ 

Of  great  joy  to  sympathy, 
We  sang  out  the  morning 

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, 
Boming  out  into  the  aether, 
Sensible  like  fiery  motes. 

Or,  whenever  twilight  drifted 

Through  the  cedar  masses. 

The  globed  sun  we  lifted, 
Trailing  purple,  trailing  gold 

Out  between  tlie  passes 
Of  ibe  mountains  manifold. 

To  anthems  slowly  sung ! 
\ Virile  he,  aweary,  half  in  swoon, 
For  joy  to  hear  our  climbing  tone 
Transpierce*  the  stars'  concentric  rings, — 
The  burdai  of  his  glor\-  flung 
In  broken  lights  upon  our  wings. 


40  A     DRAMA     OF     EXILE. 

Lucifer.  Now  may  all  fruits  be  pleasant  to  thy  lips 
Beautiful  Eve  !     The  times  havb  somewhat  changes 
Since  thou  and  I  had  talk  beneath  a  tree  ; 
Albeit  ye  arc  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,  0  thou  Lucifer  ! 
And  leave  us  to  the  desert  thou  hast  made 
Out  of  thy  treason.     Bring  no  serpent-slime 
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  Lor  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  womanhood, 
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  vowek. 

^^^'  So — speak  wickedly  ! 

I  like  it  best  so.     Let  thy  words  be  wounds, — 
For,  so,  I  shall  not  fear  thy  power  to  hurt : 
Trcnoh  en  the  forms  of  good  by  open  ill — 


A     DRAMA     OF     EXILE,  41 

For,  so,  I  shall  wax  strong  and  grand  with  scoin ; 
Scorning  myself  for  ever  trusting  thee 
As  far  as  thinking,  ere  a  snake  ate  dust, 
He  could  speak  wisdom. 

Lucifer.  Our  new  gods,  it  seems 

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. 
But  why  should  this  be  ?     Adam  pardoned  Eve. 
Adam.  Adam  loved  Eve.      Jehovah  pardon  both  I 
Eve.  Adam  forgave  Eve — because  loving  Eve. 
Lucifer.  So,  well.     Yet  Adam  was  undone  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, 
As  freely  as  the  streams  of  Eden  flowed 
When  we  were  happy  by  them.     So,  depart ; 
Leave  us  to  walk  the  remnant  of  our  tirao 
Out  mildly  in  the  dfesert.     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  connrmnion  of  the  dust 


42  A     DRAMA     OF     EXILE. 

Aud  issue  of   the  dust. — Go. 

Adam.  At  once,  go. 

Lnafcr.     Foigive  !  and  go  !     Ye  images  of  clay, 
Shrunk  somewhat  in  the  mould, — what  jest  i.s  this.? 
What  words  are  these  to  use .?     By  what  a  thought 
Conceive  ye  of  me  "i     Yesterday — a  snake  ! 
Today,  what } 

Adam.         A  strong  spirit. 

Eve.  A  sad  spirit. 

Adam.     Perhaps  a  fallen  angel. — Who  shall  say  f 

Lucifer.     Who  told  thee,  Adam  ? 

Adam.  Thou  !  The  prodigy 

Of  thy  vast  brows  and  melancholy  eyes 
Which  comprehend  the  heights  of  some  great  fiill. 
I  think  that  thou  hast  one  day  worn  a  crown 
Under  the  eyes  of  God. 

Lurifer.  And  why  of  God  > 

Adam.  It  wore  no  crown  else  !     Verily,  I  think 
Thou  'rt  fallen  far.     I  had  not  yesterday 
Said  it  so  surely  ;  but  1  know  to-day 
Gri  -f  by  grief,  sin  by  sin. 

Lucifer.  A  crown  by  a  crown. 

Adam.  Ay,  mock  me !  now  1  know  more  than  I 
kn  w. 
Now  I  know  thou  art  fallen  below  hope 
Of  final  re-ascont. 

Lucifer.  Because  t 

Adam.  Because 

.\  s|iirit  who  expected  to  see  God 
Though  at  the  last  point  of  a  million  years, 
Could  daro  no  mockery  of  a  ruined  man 


A     DRAMA    OF     EXILE.  43 

Such  as  this  Adam. 

Lucifer.  Who  is  high  and  bold — 

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  falling  } 

Adam.  Most  impossible. 

The  Highest  being  the  Holy  and  the  Glad, 
Whoever  rises  must  approach  delight 
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, 
Nor  any  bliss,  thou  seest,  for  coveting, 
Nor  innocence  for  staining.     Being  bereft. 
We  would  be  alone. — Go. 

Lucifer.  Ah  !  ye  talk  the  same, 

All  of  you — spirits  and  clay — go,  and  depart ! 


n 


A     DRAMA     OF     EXILE. 


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. 
Look  on  me,  woman  !     Am  I  beautiful  ? 

Eve.  Thou  hast  a  glorious  darkness. 

Lucifer.  Nothing  more  ? 

Bve.  1  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  fashionod  very  good  at  best,  so  we 
Sprang  very  beauteous  from  the  creant  Word 
Which  thrilled  behind  us — God  Himself  being  moved 
\Vhon  that  august  work  of  a  perfect  shape, 
His  dimiities  of  sovran  ansjel-hood 
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,  perhaps. 
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  thoua;ht  or  thina 
Which  1  call  beauty  ?  is  it  thought  or  thing  ? 
h  it  a  thought  accepted  for  a  thing .' 
Or  both  .'  or  neither  ? — a  pretext  ? — a  word  ? 
Ita  moaning  flutters  in  me  like  a  flame 
UndiT  my  own  breath  :  my  perceptions  reel 


A     DRAMA     OF     EXILE, 


45 


For  evermore  around  it,  and  fall  off, 
As  if  it  toe  were  holy. 

^ve.  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, 
I  still  call  love.     As  form,  when  colorless, 
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  ! 

\_He  fades  away,  while  a  loin  music  soitnifa. 

Adam.  Thou  art  pale.  Eve. 

■^^S-  The  precipice  of  ill 

Down  this  colossal  nature,  dizzies  me — 
And,  hark  !  the  starry  harmony  remote 
Seems  measuring  the  heio-hts  from  whence  he  fell. 

Adam.  Think  that  we  have  not  fallen  so.     By  the 
hope 
And  aspiration,  by  ^he  love  and  faith. 
We  do  exceed  the  stature  of  this  anofel. 

JSve.  Happier  we  are  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 


46  A     DRAMA     OF     EXILE. 

Of  naasic  swept  him  back  into  the  dark. 

[Tke  music  is  stronger,  gathering  itself  into  uncertain  articulation 

Eve.  It  throbs  in  on  us  like  a  plaintive  heart, 
Pressinj^,  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  orbed  image  sinks 

Back  from  thee,  back  from  thee, 
As  thou  art  fallen,  methinks, 
Back  from  me,  back  from  rae. 
0  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. 

All,  ah,  Heosphoros! 
Their  brows  flash  fast  on  me  from  gliding  cars, 
Pale-passioned  for  my  loss. 
All.  ah,  Tloosphoros  ! 

Mine  orbed  heats  drop  cold 

Down  from  thee,  down  from  thee, 


A     DRAMA     OF     EXILE.  47 

As  fell  thy  grace  of  old 

Down  from  rae,  down  from  me. 
O  my  light-bearer, 
Is  another  fairer 
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 
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 
1  swam  expanding  with  delirious  fire! 
Around,  around,  around,  in  blind  desii-e 
To  be  drawn  upward  to  the  Infinite — 
Ha„ha ! 

Until,  the  motion  flinginsc  out  the  motion 
To  a  keen  whirl  of  passion  and  aviditv. 
To  a  blind  whirl  of  languor  and  deligbi. 


M 


A     DRAMA     OF     EXILR. 

I  wound  in  girant  orbits   smooth  and  whil.o 

With  that  intense  rapidity  ! 

Around,  around, 

I  wound  and  interwound, 
While  all  the  cyclic  heavens  aboxit  me  spun  ! 
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  "Teat  fire   I  almost  took  for  God  ! 
Ha,  ha,  Heosphoros  ! 

Thine  angel  glory  sinks 

Down  from  me,  down  from  me — 
My  beauty  falls,  methiuks, 

Down  from  thee,  down  from  thee  ! 
O  my  light-bearer, 
O  my  path-preparer, 
Gone  from  me,  gone  from  me ! 
Ah,  ah,  Heosphoros ! 
1  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 — 1  am  slow  ! 
Ah,  ah,  Heosphoros ! 
Henceforward,  human  eyes  of  lovers  be 
Tli(!  only  sweetest  sight  that  1  shall  see. 
With  tears  between  the  looks  raised  up  to  roe. 

Ah,  ah ! 
When,  having  wept  all  night,  at  break  of  day 


A     DRAMA     OF     EXILE.  49 

Above  the  folded  hills  they  shall  survey 
My  light,  a  little  trembling,  in  the  grey. 

Ah,  ah ! 
And  gazing  on  me,  such  shall  comprehend, 
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  melancholy  earth 
Gather  her  hills  around  us,  grey  and  ghast. 
And  stare  with  blank  significance  of  loss 
Kight  in  our  faces  !  Is  the  wind  up  ? 

Eve.  Nay. 

Adam.  And  yet  the  cedai-s  and  the  junipers 
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 

Is  crazed  with  curse,  and  wanders  from  the  sense 

VOL.  II. — 5 


50  A     DRAMA     OF     EXILE. 

Of  those  first  laws  affixed  to  form  and  space 
Or  ever  she  knew  sia  ! 

Adam.  ^Ve  will  not  fear  : 

We  were  brave  sinning. 

JSve.  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. 

£ve.  And  God's  curse,  nearest.  Let  us  travel  back 
And  stand  within  the  sword-glare  till  we  die  ; 
Believing  it  is  better  to  meet  death 
Than  suffiir  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 
From  their  dilated  orbits   bound  before 
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. 
Huw  near  they  reach  .  .  .  and  far!  how  gray  they 
move — 


A     DRAMA     OF     EXILE.  51 

Treading  upon  the  darkness  without  feet, 
And  fluttering  on  the  dai-kness  without  wino-s  ! 
Some  run  like  dogs,  with  noses  to  the  ground ; 
Some  keep  one  path,  like  sheep ;  some  rock  like  trees 
Some  glide  like  a  fallen  leaf ;  and  some  flow  on 
Copious  as  rivers. 

Adam.  Some  spring  up  like  fii-e — 

And  some  coil  .  .  . 

£tve.  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 
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  precedence 
Of  earth's  adjusted  uses, — leave  us  not 
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  fi-om  us,  and  drop 


62  A     DRAMA    OF     EXILE. 

With  slow  concentric  movement,  each  on  each, — 

Expressing  widar  spaces,  and  collapsed 

lu  lines  more  definite  for  imagery 

And  clearer  for  relation  ;  till  the  throng 

Of  shapeless  spectra  merge  into  a  few 

Distinguishable  phantasms   vague  and  grand. 

Which  sweep  out  and  around  us  vastily. 

And  hold  us  in  a  circle  and  a  calm. 

Eve.  Strange  phantasms  of  pale  shadow  !  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  its  visionary  dread. 
Responding  with  twelve  shadowy  signs  of  earth, 
In  fantasque  apposition  and  approach, 
To  those  celestial,  constellated  twelve 
Which  palpitate  adown  the  silent  nights 
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  zudiac-figurcs  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. 

•^''C-  By  dream  or  sense, 

Do  we  sec  this  ? 

Adam.  Our  spirits  have  climbed  high 

By  reason  of  the  passion  of  our  grief, 


A     DRAMA     OF     EXILE.  53 

And  from  the  top  of  sense,  looked  over  sense, 
To  the  siainificance  and  heart  of  things 
Rather  than  things  themselves. 

Eve.  And  the  dim  twelve  .  .  . 

Adam.  Are  dim  exponents  of  the  creature-life 
As  earth  contains  it.     Gaze  on  them,  beloved  ! 
By  stricter  apprehension  of  the  sight, 
Suggestions  of  the  creatures  shall  assuage 
Thy  terror  of  the  shadows  ; — what  is  known 
Subduing  the  unknown  and  tamins:  it 
From  all  prodigious  dread.     That  phantasm,  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  stirrins  in  his  mane  ! 
And,  there,  a  pendulous  shadow  seems  to  weigh — 
Good  against  ill,  perchance  ;  and  there,  a  crab 
Puts  coldly  out  its  gradual  shadow-claws, 
Like  a  slow  blot  that  spreads, — till  all  the  ground, 
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  slow  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 . 


64 


A    DRAMA     OF     EXILE. 


Jl^laTn  ^^^  *^^^*  sustains, 

And  one  that  strives  !— resuming,  so,  the  ends 
Of  manhood's  curse  of  labor.*     Dost  thou  see 
That  phantasm  of  a  woman  ? — 

^yg  .  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  innocence 

Set  in  the  misty  lines  of  head  and  hand 

They  lean  together  !  I  would  gaze  on  them 

Longer  and  longer,  till  my  watching  eyes, 

As  the  stars  do  in  watching  anything, 

Should  light  them  forward  from  their  outline  vague 

To  clear  configuration — 

Thoo  Spiriu,  of  organic  and  inorganic  nature,  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 
Of  individual  life  and  passionate  ends, 
Which  overcomes  us  gazing. 


•  Adam  recognizes  in  .Aquarius,  tlio  water-bearer,  and  Sagittarius-, 
Ihe  archer,  distinct  types  of  the  man  bearing  and  the  man  combatting, — 
till'  passive  and  active  forms  of  human  labor.  I  hope  that  ihe  preceding 
ludlucal  hiijiw— transferred  to  tlie  earthly  shadow  and  representative  pur- 
po-<<j— of  Aries,  'I'aurus,  Cancer,  Leo,  Libra,  Scorpio,  Capricornus,  and 
I'lxceB,  are  BiifllcieDlly  obvious  to  the  reader. 

t  llur  maternal  instinct  is  excited  by  Ocmini. 


A     DRAMA     OF     EXILE.  55 

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 
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 ! 
1  drave  on  with  the  worlds  exultingly, 

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, 


5f. 


A     DRAMA     OF     EXILE 


And  tasted,  in  each  drop  within  the  measure 

The  sweetest  pleasure  of  their  Lbrd's  good  pleasure— 

Yet  I  wail ! 
What  a  full  hum  of  life   around  His  lips, 

Bore  witness  to  the  fulness  of  creation  ! 
How  all  the  grand  words  were  full-laden  ships ; 

Each  sailing  onward  from  enunciation. 
To  separate  existence, — and  each  bearing 
The  creature's  power  of  joying,  hoping,  fearing  ! 
Yet  I  wail ! 

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  thiough  roses,  did  the  light  enclose  me  ; 
And  bunches  of  the  grape  swam  blue  across  me — 
Yet  1  wail ! 

Second  Spirit. 
I  bounded  with  my  panthers !  I  rejoiced 

In  uiy  young  tumbling  lions  rolled  together  ! 
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 — 


A     DRAMA    OF     EXILE.  57 

Yet  I  wail ! 

First  Spirit. 
0  my  deep  waters,  cataract  and  flood, 

What  wordless  triumph  did  your  voices  render  ! 
0  mountain-summits,  where  the  angels  stood 

And  shook  fi-om  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  Sjnrit. 
O  my  wild  wood  dogs,  with  your  listening  eyes  ! 

My  horses — my  ground  eagles,  for  swift  fleeing  ! 
My  birds,  with  viewless  wings  of  harmonies, 

My  calm  cold  fishes  of  a  silver  being. 
How  happy  were  ye,  living  and  possessing, 

0  fair  half-souls   capacious  of  fuU  blessing. 

Yet  I  wail ! 
First  Spirit. 

1  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. 
[  wail,  I  wail !  Behold  ye  that  I  fasten 

My  sorrow's  fang  upon  your  souls  dishonored  ? 
Accursed  transgressors  !  down  the  steep  ye  hasten, — 


58  A     DRAMA    OF     EXILE. 

Your  crown's  weight  on  tlie  world,  to  drag  it  down- 
ward 
Unto  your  ruin.     Lo  !  my  lions,  scenting 
The  blood  of  wars,  roar  hoarse  and  unrelenting— 
And  I  wail ! 

Firat  Spirit. 
I  wail,  I  wail  I  Do  you  hear  that  I  wail  ? 

I  had  no  part  in  your  transgression — none  I 
My  roses  on  the  bough  did  bud  not  pale — 

My  rivers  did  not  loiter  in  the  sun. 
/  was  obedient.     Wherefore  in  my  centre 
Do  I  thrill  at  this  curse  of  death  and  winter  ! — 
And  I  wail ! 

Second  Spirit. 
1  Wail,  I  wail !  I    wail  in  the  assault 

Of  un<leserved  perdition,  sorely  woundod  ! 
My  nightingales  sang  sweet  without  a  fault. 

My  gentle  leopards  innocently  bounded  ; 
We  were  obedient — what  is  this  convulses 
Our  blameless  life  with  pangs  and  fever  pulses .' 
And  I  wail ! 

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. 

Tliis  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  fei'l  your  steps,  0  wandering  sinners,  strike 
A  sense  of  death  to  me,  and  undug  graves ! 


A     DRAMA    OF     EXILE.  59 

The  heart  of  earth,  once  calm,  is  trembling  like 

The  ragged  foam  along;  the  ocean-waves : 
The  restless  earthquakes  rock  against  each  other ; 
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  wildernesses — 
And  I  wail ! 

Adam.  To  thee,  the  Spirit  of  the  harmless  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  suffering  from  our  sin, 
Yo   who  are  under  and  not  over  us, 
Be  satisfied  with  God,  if  not  with  us. 
And  pass  out  from  our  presence  in  such  peace 
As  we  have  left  you,  to  ^njoy  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, 
VVho  rather  should  be  humbler  evermore 


60 


A     DRAMA     OF     EXfLE. 


Since  self-made  sadder.     Adam  !  shall  I  speak— 

I  who  spake  once  to  such  a  bittfer  end — 

Sliall  I  speak  humbly  now,  who  once  was  proud  ? 

I,  schooled  by  sin  to  more  humility 

Than  thou  hast,  O  mine  Adam,  0  my  king — 

M;/  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  impure — 
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; 
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  tJie  winds  make  pastoral  peace  between 
Two  grassy  uplands, — and  the  river-wells 
Work  out  their  l)ut)l)lin<rmvstcries under  ground — 
And  all  the  birds  sing,  till  for  joy  of  song, 
'i'hcy  lift  their  trembling  wings   as  if  to  heave 
The  too-nnich  weight  of  music  from  their  heart 
And  float  it  up  the  ajther  !     I  am  'ware 
That  these  things  I  can  no  more  apprehend 
Witli  a  pure  organ  into  a  full  delight ; 


A     DRAMA     OF     EXILE.  61 

The  sense  of  beauty  and  of  melody 

Being  no  more  aided  in  me  by  the  sense 

Of  personal  adjustment  to  those  heights 

Of  what  I  see  well-formed  or  hear  well-tuned, 

But  rather  coupled  darkly  and  made  ashamed 

By  my  pereipiency  of  sin  and  fall 

111   melancholy  of   humiliant  thoughts. 

But,  oh  !  fair,  dreadful  Spuits — 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 

As  watering  dews  of  Eden,  unreproached  ; 

And  when  your  tongues  reprove  me,  make  me  smooth, 

Not  ruffled — smooth  and  still  with  your  reproof, 

And  peradventure  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, 

'  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  westerinc  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, 

VOL.   II.- -6 


GS 


A     DRAMA     OF     EXILE. 


The  lady  of  the  world,  piincess  of  life, 

Mistrc'ss  of  feast  and  favor  ?     Could  I  touch 

A  rose  with  my  white  hand,  but  it  became 

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-ti'ee, 

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  weeping  fast. 

Now  good  for  only  weeping — upon  man, 

Angel,  or  beast,  or  bird,  but  each  rejoiced 

Pocause  I  looked  on  him  ?     Alas,  alas  ! 

And  is  not  this  much  wo,  to  cry    '  alas !  ' 

Speaking  of  joy  ?     And  is  not  this  more  shame, 

To  have  made  the  wo  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.  I  will  not  hear  thee  speak  so.      Hearken; 
Spirits ! 
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  niverence,  then, — and  never  bruise  her  more 
Willi  uiij)ermitted  and  extreme  reproach  ; 
Lesi,  passionate  in  anguish,  she  fling  down 


A     DRAMA     OF     EXILE 


63 


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  estate  : 
And  pass  out  from  her  presence  with  no  words. 
^  Eve.   0    dearest    Heart,  have   patience   with    ray 
heart, 
O  Spirits,  have  patience,  'stead  of  reverence, 
And  let  me  speak  ;  for,  not  being  innocent, 
It  little  doth  become  me  to  be  proud  ; 
And  I  am  prescient  by  the  very  hope 
And  promise  set  upon  me,  that  henceforth 
Only  my  gentleness  shall  make  me  great, 
My  humbleness  exalt  me.     Awful  Spirits, 
Be  witness  that  I  stand  in  your  reproof 
But  one  sun's  length  off  from  my  happiness — 
Happy,  as  I  have  said,  to  look  around — 
Clear  to  look  up ! — And  now !     I  need  not  speak — ■ 
Ye  see  me  what  I  am  ;  ye  scorn  me  so. 
Because  ye  see  me  what  I  have  made  myself 
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  wretchedest. 
Saddest  and  most  defiled — cast  out,  cast  down — 
What  word  metes  absolute  loss  ?  let  absolute  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. 


({4  A     DRAMA    OF     EXILE. 

Put  off  from  me,  to-day,  your  hate  with  prayers  ! 
/  yesterday,  who  answered  the  Lord  God, 
Composed  and  glad   as  singing-birds  the  sun, 
Mifht  shriek  now  from  our  dismal  desert,    '  God,' 
And  hear  Him  make  reply,    '  What  is  thy  need. 
Thou  whom  I  cursed  to-day  '  ' 

Adam  Eve ! 

JfJve.  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  boun'hs  on  both  sides.      In  the  shade  of  which, 
When  presently  ye  shall  behold  us  dead, — 
For  the  poor  sake  of  our  humility. 
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, 
Vnd  sufifer  it,  self-reconciled,  to  pass. 

Lucifer  rises  in  the  circle. 

Lucifer.  Who  talks  hereof  a  complement  of  grief.'' 
Of  expiation  wrought  by  loss  and  fall .'' 
Of  hato  subduable  to  pity  .''     Eve  .-' 
Take  counsel  from  thy  counsellor  the  snake, 
And  boa-st  no  more  in  grief,  nor  hope  from  pain, 
My  docile  Eve  !     I  teach  you  to  despond, 
Who  taught  you  disobedience.     Look  around  ;— 


A     DRAMA     OF     EXILE.  65 

Earth-spirits  and  phantasms  hear  you  talk  unmoved, 
As  if  ye  were  red  clay  again   and  talked  ! 
What  are  your  words  to  them  ?  your  griefs  to  them  ? 
Y'our  deaths,  indeed,  to  them  ?      Did  the  hand  pause 
For  their  sake,  in  the  plucking  of  the  fruit. 
That  they  should  pause  for  yo?/,  in  hating  you  ? 
Or  will  your  gi-ief  or  death,  as  did  your  sin, 
Bring  change  upon  their  final  doom  ?     Behold, 
Your  grief  is  but  your  sin  in  the  rebound, 
And  cannot  expiate  for  it. 

Adam.  That  is  true. 

Lucifer.  Ay,  it  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.     Per  adventure  I 
CouIJ  wail  among  you.     0  thou  universe. 
That  boldest  sin  and  wo, — more  room  for  wail ! 

Distant  starry  voice.     Ah,  ah,  Heosphoros !  Heos- 
phorus ! 

Adam.     Mark  Lucifer.     He  changes  awfully. 

SJve,     It  seems  as  if  he  looked  from  grief  to  God 
And  could  not  see  Him ; — wretched  Lucifer  ! 

Adam.     How  he  stands — yet  an  angel ! 

Uarth  Spirits.  We  all  wail ! 

Liccifer,    [after  a  pause.)      Dost  thou  remember, 
Adam,  when  the  curse 
Took  us  in  Eden  ?     On  a  mountain-peak 
Half-sheathed  in  primal  woods  and  glittering 
In  spasms  of  awful  sunshine  at  that  hour 
A  lion  couched, — part  raised  upon  his  paws. 


66 


A     DRAMA     OF     EXILE, 


With  his  calm,  massive  face  turned  full  on  thine, 

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 

Toarin"'  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 

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, 

Adam.  It  might  have  been 

1  heard  the  curse  alone. 

Earth  Spirits.  I  wail,  I  wail  ! 

Lucifer.  That  lion  is  the  type  of  what  I  ara  ! 
And  as  he  fixed  thee  with  his  full-faced  hate, 
And  roared,  0  Adam — comprehending  doom  ; 
So,  gazing  on  the  face  of  the  Unseen, 
I  cry  out  here   between  the  heavens  and  earth 
My  conscience  of  this  sin,  this  wo,  this  wrath. 
Which  damn  me  to  this  depth  ! 

Earth  Spirits.  I  wail,  I  wail ! 

Eve.  I  wail— 0  God  ! 

Lucifer.  J  scorn  you  that  ye  wail, 

Who  use  your  petty  griefs  for  pedestals 
To  stand  on,  beckoning  pity  from  without, 


A     DRAMA     OF     EXILE.  67 

And  deal  in  pathos  of  antithesis 
Of  what  ye  were  forsooth,  and  what  ye  are  ; — 
1  scorn  you  like  an  angel !     Yet,  one  cry 
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  ! 

Earth  Spirits.  I  wail,  I  wail ! 

Lucifer.  For,  O  ye  heavens,  ye  are  my  witnesses, 
That  T^  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, — 
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 ' — 
Lucifer — soft  as    '  Michael  S'    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: 


68  AORAMAOFGXILB. 

I  cry  as  the  beast  did,  that  J  may  cry — 
Expansive,  not  appealing !     Fallen  so  deep 
Against  the  sides  of  this  prodigious  pit, 
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  wo  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  extremes 
Of  what  I  am  and  have  been.     If  ye  have  fallen. 
It  is  a  step's  fall, — the  whole  ground  beneath 
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 
The  ill  I  did  you  !     Were  ye  wronged  by  me, 

Hated  and  tempted  and  undone  of  me, — 
Still,  what's  your  hurt  to  mine   of  doing  hurt, 

Of  hating,  tempting,  and  so  ruining  ? 

This  sword's  hilt  is  the  sharpest,  and  cuts  through 

The  hand  that  wields  it. 

Go— I  curse  you  all. 

Hate  one  another — feebly — as  ye  can  ; 

1  would  not  certes  cut  you  short  in  hate — 

Far  be  it  from  me  !  bate  on  as  ye  can  ! 

I  breathe  into  your  faces,  spirits  of  earth. 

As  wintry  blast   may  breathe  on  wintry  leaves 


A     DRAMA    OF     EXILE.  69 

And  lifting  up  their  brownness,  show  beneath 

The  branches  very  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 

Than  to  the  sorrow — as  the  Heavens,  I  trow, 

For  justice'  sake  gave  theirs. 

I  curse  you  both, 
Adam  and  Eve  !      Say  gi-ace  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  and  your  generations,  in  all  plagues. 
Corruptions,  melancholies,  poverties. 
And  hideous  forms  of  life  and  fears  of  death  ; 
The  thought  of  death  being  alway  eminett 
Immoveable  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  net  set  in  you 
This  hate  which  shall  pursue  you — this  fire-hate 
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 


70 


A     DRAMA     OF     EXILE. 


With  the  great  wo  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 

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  ! 

liUclFER  vanishes. 

Earth  Sjnrits. 

And  we  scorn  you  I  there's  no  pardon 

Which  can  lean  to  you  aright ! 
When  your  bodies  take  the  guerdon 
Of  the  death-curse  in  our  sight, 
Then  the  bee  that  hummeth  lowest  shall  transcend  yoa 
Thon  ye  sliall  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  ; 
Unrc'sistrdly  and  coldly 

I  will  smite  you  with  my  rain  ! 
From  the  slowest  of  my  frosts  is  no  receding 
Second  Spirit. 

And  my  little  worm,  appointed 


A     DRAMA     OF     EXILE.  7] 

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  scora 
Toward  your  faces  gray  and  lorn, 
As  the  wind  drives  back  the  rain, 
Thus  I  drive  with  passion-strife  ; 
I  who  stand  beneath  God's  sun, 
Made  like  God,  and,  though  undorc, 
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  ; 
By  the  pinings  which  disclose 
That  my  native  soul  is  higher 
Than  what  it  chose, 
We  are  yet  too  high,  O  spirits,  for  your  disdain 
Eve.     Nay,  beloved  !  if  these  be  low, 

We  confront  them  with  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. 
Sarth  Spirits. 

We  shall  triumph  —  triumph  greatly 

When  ye  lie  beneath  the  sward  ! 
There,  our  lily  shall  grow  stately 
Though  ye  answer  not  a  word — 


T2  A     DRAMA     OF     EXILE. 

And  her  fragrance  shall  be  scornful  of  your  silence  . 
While  your  throne   ascending  calmly, 

We,  in  heirdom  of  youi'  soul, 
Flash  the  river,  lift  the  palm  tree. 
The  dilated  ocsan  roU 
By  the  thoughts    that  throbbed  within  you — round 
the  islands. 


Alp  and  torrent  shall  inherit 
I'our  significance  of  will : 
With  the  grandeur  of  your  spirit 
Shall  qur  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  sino-ins. 

Your  bold  speeches,  our  Behemoth 

With  his  thunderous  jaw  shall  wield  ! 
Your  high  fancies  shall  our  Mammoth 
Breathe  sublimely  up  the  shield 
Of  St.  Michael    at  God's  throne,  who  waits  to  speed 
him! 
Till  the  heavens'  smooth-grooved  thunder 
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  exceed  him  !' 


A     DRAMA     OF     EXILE.  7fJ 

Adam.  Root  out  thine,  eyes,  sweet,  from  the  dreary 
ground. 
Beloved,  we  may  be  overcome  by  God, 
But  not  by  these. 

Eve.  By  God,  perhaps,  in  these. 

Adam.  I   think,   not  so.     Had  God  foredoomed 
despair, 
He  had  not  spoken  hope.     He  may  destroy 
Cartes,  but  not  deceive. 

Eve.  Behold  this  rose  ! 

I  plucked  it  in  our  bower  of  Paradise 
This  morning  as  I  went  forth  ;  and  my  heart 
Hath  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. 
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  ©f  death. 
Draw  any  of  your  pity  after  me. 
Or  lie  still  in  the  quiet  of  your  looks. 
As  my  flower,  there,  in  mine. 

[A  bleak  wind,  quickened  with  indistinct  human  voices,  spins  iraund 
the  earth-iodiae  ;  and  filling  the  circle  loilh  its  presence,  and  then 
wailing  off  into  the  east,  carries  the  rose  a  way  with  it.  B\s  falls 
Upon  her  face.    Adam  stands  erect. 

Adam.  So,  verily. 

The  last  departs. 

VOL.  II. — 7 


74  A     DRAMA     OF     EXILE. 

^Ve.  So  Memory  follows  Hope, 

And  Life  both.     Love  said  to  me,    '  Do  not  die,' 
And  I  replied,    '  0  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. 

[T/it  tcind  revolves  from  the  east,  and  round  a/rain  to  the  east,  perfumed 
by  the  Eden-roxe,  and  full  of  voices  which  sweep  out  into  articula- 
tion as  they  pass. 

Let  thy  soul  shake  its  leaves 
To  feel  the  mystic  wind — Hark  ! 

£ve.  I  hear  life. 

In/ant  voices  passing  in  the  wind. 
0  we  live,  O  we  live — 
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  sisht. 
Flowing  round  in  trickling  touches. 

With  a  sorrow  and  deliixht, — 
Yet  is  it  all  in  vain  .'' 

Rock  us  softly. 
Lest  it  be  all  In  vain. 
Youthful  voices  passing. 
O  we  live,  O  we  live — 


A    DRAMA    OF     EXILE. 

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, 
Though  the  vessel's  prow  will  quiver 
.  At  the  lifting  of  the  anchor : 
Yet  do  we  strive  in  vain  ? 

Ivfant  voices  passing. 

Rock  us  softly, 
Lest  it  be  all  in  vain. 

Poet  voices  passing. 

0  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 : 
With  a  breathing  and  a  floodint^ 

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, 
Which  for  others'  use  we  have, 


76  A     DRAMA     OF     EXILE. 

Duty-ladon  to  remain. 
We  arc  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  2Mssing. 

0  we  live,  O  we  live — 
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. 
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. 
1  hear  life— life  ! 

Adam.  And,  so,  thy  cheeks  have  snatched 

Scarlet  to  paleness ;  and  thine  eyes  drink  fast 


A     DRAMA     OF     EXILE.  77 

Of  glory  from  full  cups ;  and  thy  moist  lips 

Seem  trembling,  both  of  them,  with  earnest  doubts 

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  Sjnrits.  And  bringer  of  the  curse  upon  all 
these. 

Eve  sinks  down  again. 

Poet  voices  passing. 

0  we  live,  O  we  live — 

And  this  life  that  we  conceive, 

Is  a  noble  thing  and  high. 

Which  we  climb  up  loftily 

To  view  God  without  a  stain  : 

Till  recoilins:  where  the  shade  is. 
We  retread  our  steps  again, 

And  descend  the  gloomy  Hades 

To  resume  man's  mortal  pain. 

Shall  it  be  climbed  in  vain  ? 
Infant  voices  passing. 

Rock  us  softly, 

Lest  it  be  all  in  vain. 
Love  voices  passing. 

O  we  live,  0  we  live — 

And  this  life  we  would  retrieve, 

Is  a  faithful  thing  apart, 

Which  we  love  in,  heart  to  hearty 


78  A     DRAMA    OF     EXILE. 

Until  one  heart  fitteth  twain. 
*  Wilt  thou  be  one  with  me  ?' 
'  I  will  be  one  with  thee  !' 
'  Ha,  ha  ! — we  love  and  live  !' 
Alas  !  ye  love  and  die  ! 
Shriek — who  shall  reply  I 
For  is  it  not  loved  in  vain  ? 
In/ant  voices  passing. 

Rock  us  softly, 
Though  it  be  all  in  vain. 
Aged  voices  passing. 

0  we  live,  O  we  live — 
And  this  life  we  would  survive, 
Is  a  gloomy  thing  and  brief, 
Which  consummated  in  grief, 
Leavcth  ashes  for  all  gain. 
Is  it  not  all  in  vain  ? 
Infant  voices  passing. 

Rock  us  softly. 
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  oflF; — so  let  me  die. 

Adam.  So  let  us  die, 

Wlicn  God's  will  souiideth  the  right  hour  of  death. 

Earth  Spirits.  And  bringer  of  the  curse  upon  all 
those. 

Ei'c  0  spirits  !  by  the  gentleness  ye  use 
In  winds  at  night,  and  floating  clouds  at  noon, 


A     DRAMA     OF     EXILE.  79 

In  gliding  waters  under  lily  leaves, 

la  chirp  of  crickets,  and  the  settling  hush 

A  bird  makes  in  her  nest  with  feet  and  wings, — 

Fulfil  your  natures  now  I 

Earth  Spirits. 

Agreed ;  allowed ! 
We  gather  out  our  natures  like  a  cloud, 
And  thus  fulfil  their  lightnings  !     Thus,  and  thus  ' 
Hearken,  0  hearken  to  us  ! 

First  Spirit. 
As  the  storm-wind  blows  bleakly  firom  the  norland, 
As  the  snow-wind  beats  blindly  on  the  moorland, 
As  the  simoon  drives  hot  across  the  desert, 
As  the  thunder  I'oars  deep  in  the  Unmeasured, 
As  the  torrent  tears  the  ocean-world  to  atoms, 
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  clangour, 
As  the  vultures  that  scream  against  the  thunder, 
As  the  owlets  that  sit  and  moan  asunder, 
Thus, — and  thus  ! 

Eve.  Adam!  God! 

Adam.  Cruel,  unrelenting  Spirits  ! 

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 


80  A     DRAMA     OF     EXILE 

Down  to  obedience. — 1  am  king  of  youi 
Earth  Spirits. 

ila,  ha  !  thou  art  king  ! 

With  a  sin  for  a  crown, 

And  a  soul  undone  : 

Thou,  the  antagonized, 

Tortured  and  agonized, 

Held  in  the  ring 

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 — 
And,  from  under  the  feet  of  thy  scorn, 
O  forlorn  ! 

We  shall  spring  up  like  corn. 

And  our  stubble  be  strong. 
Adam.  God,  there  is  power  in  Thee  !     I  make 
appeal 
Unto  thy  kingship. 

Ei'e.  There  is  pity  in  Thee, 

0  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  agony  beyond  what  we  can  bear, 
Fallen  in  debasement  below  thunder-mark 


A    DRAMA     OF     EXILE.  HI 

A.  mark  for  scorning— taunted  and  perplexl 
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. 

[jj  vision  of  Christ  appears  in  the  midst  of  the  zodiac,  which  pale'  be- 
fore the  heavenly  tight.  The  Earth  Spirits  grow  grayer  and 
fainter. 

Christ.  I  am  here  ! 

Adam.  This  is  God  ! — Curse  us  not,  God,  any  more 

JEve.  But  gazing  so — so — with  omnific  eyes, 
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  unmitiorated  blame 
Ye  cast  upon  your  masters.     True,  they  have  sinned ; 
And  true  their  sin  is  reckoned  into  loss 
For  you  the  sinless.     Yet,  your  innocence. 
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  disdains 
These  sinners  who   in  falling   proved  their  height 
^bove  you  by  their  liberty  to  fall  ? 
knd  which  of  you  complains  of  loss  by  them, 


82 


A     DRAMA     OF     EXILE. 


For  whose  deliirht  and  use  ye  have  your  life 

And  honor  in  creation  ?     Ponder  it ! 

This  regent  and  sublime  Humanity 

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, 

Lay  flat  your  forests,  master  with  a  look 

Your  lion  at  his  fasting,  and  fetch  down 

Your  eagle  flying.     Nay,  without  this  law 

Of  mandom,  ye  would  pjii.-shj^biast  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, 

And  mutter,    '  Why,  God,  hast  thou  made  us  thus ." 

And  pining  to  a  sallow  idiocy 

Staffer  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  content 

To  minister  with  voluntary  grace 

And  melancholy  pardon,  every  rite 

And  function  in  you,  to  the  human  hand. 

Be  ye  to  man  as  angels  are  to  God, 

Servants  in  pleasure,  singers  of  delight, 

Siiggesters  to  his  soul  of  higher  things 

Than  any  of  your  highest.     So  at  last, 

Hi!  shall  look  round  on  you  with  lids  too  straigtit 
To  hold  the  grateful  tears,  and  thank  you  well ; 

And  bless  you  when  he  prays  his  secret  prayers, 


A     DRAMA     OF     EXILE.  b3 

And  praise  you  when  he  sings  his  open  sonjs 

For  the  clear  song-note  he  has  learnt  in  you 

Of  purifying  sweetness  ;  and  extend 

Across  your  head  his  golden  fantasies 

Which  glorify  you  into  soul  from  sense  ! 

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  foi-  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. 

Eve.  Speak  on  sliU,  Christ.     Albeit  thou  bless  me 
not 
In  set  words,  I  am  blessed  in  hearkening  thee — 
.  Speak,  Christ. 

Christ.    Speak,  Adam.     Bless  the  woman,  man — > 
It  is  thine  office. 

Adam.  Mother  of  the  world. 

Take  heart  before  this  Presence.     Lo  I  my  voice, 
Which,  naming  erst  the  creatures,  did  express, 
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, 
Out  fairly  and  wide.     Henceforward,  rise,  aspiro 
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, 


8i 


A   dkama   of   exile, 


First  woman,  wife,  aud  mother. 

JSve.  And  tiist  in  sin. 

Adam.  And  also  the  sole  bearer  of  the  Seed 
Whereby  sin  dieth  !     Raise"  the  majesties 
Of  thy  disconsolate  brows,  O  well-belovod, 
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  doinfr  scood  and  of  cndurin;^  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-righteousness, 
The  heavenly  life  and  compensative  rest 
Shall  come  by  means  of  thee.     If  wo  by  thee 
Had  issue  to  the  world,  thou  shalt  go  forth 
An  anjrel  of  the  wo  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  satisfied  ; 
Something  thou  hast  to  bear  through  womanhood — 
Peculiar  suftcrinsr  answerinsi  to  the  sin  : 
Some  pang  paid  down  for  each  new  human  life  ; 
Some  weariness  in  guarding  .such  a  life — 
Some  coldness  from  the  guai-ded  ;  some  mistrust 
From   those   thou  hast  too  well  served  ;  from  those 

beloved 
Too  loyally   some  treason  :  feebleness 
Within  thy  heart,  and  cruelty  without ; 
And  prcssi'rcs  of  an  alien  tyranny 


A     DRAMA     OF     EXILE.  86 

With  its  dyuastic  reasons  of  larger  bones 

And  stronger  sinews.     But,  go  to  !  tby  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 : 

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  foregone, 

From  all  the  generations  which  succeed. 

Thy  hand  which  plucked  the  apple,  I  clasp  close ; 

Thy  lips  which  spake  wrong  counsel,  I  kiss  close, 

I  bless  thee  in  the  name  of  Paradise 

And  by  the  memory  of  Edenic  joys 

Forfeit  and  lost  ; — by  that  last  cypress  tree 

Green  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 

Back  to  the  o;radual  banks  and  vernal  bowers 

And  fourfold  river-courses  : — by  all  these, 

I  bless  thee  to  the  contraries  of  these  ; 

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  this  end 

VOL.  II. — 8 


Se  A     DRAMA     OF     EXILE. 

Of  Doatl)  and  the  hereafter  ! 

Eve.  I  accept 

p'or  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 
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  myself 
Humbly  henceforward  on  the  ill  I  did, 
That  humbleness  may  keep  it  in  the  shade. 
Shall  it  be  so  ?     Shall  /  smile,  saying  so  ? 

0  seed  !  0  king  !  0  God,  who  shall  be  seed,-  - 
What  shall  I  say  ?     As  Eden's  fountains  swelled 
Brightly  betwixt  their  banks,  so  swells  my  soul 
Betwixt  Thy  love  and  power  ! 

And,  sweetest  thoughts 
Of  foregone  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  above  our  heads. 

[The  Cubist  is  gradually  transfigured  during  the  fallowing  phrases  q} 
dialogue,  into  humanity  and  sufferitiir. 

Eve.  O  Saviour  Christ, 

Tliou  standest  mute  in  glorv,  like  the  sun. 


A     DRAMA     OF     EXILE.  87 

Adam.  We  worship  in  Thy  silence,  Saviour  Christ. 

£!ve.  Thy  brows  grow  grander  with  a  forecast  wo, — 
Diviner,  with  the  possible  of  Death  ! 
We  worship  in  thy  sorrow,  Saviour  Christ. 

Adam.  How  do  thy  clear,  still  eyes  transpierce  oiu- 
souls, 
As  gazing  through  them  toward  the  Father-throne 
In  a  pathetical,  full  Deity, 
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  fronting  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  world's  genesis 
Budding  in  fire, — the  gradual  humming  growth 
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  AVORD,  innumerous  angels  straightway  lift 
Wide  on  celestial  altitudes  of  song 
And  choral  adoration,  and  then  drop 
The  burden  softly,  shutting  the  last  notes 
In  silver  wings.     Howbeit  in  the  noon  of  time 


88  A    DRAMA    OF    EXILE. 

Eternity  shall  wax  as  dumb  as  Death, 
While  a  new  voice  beneath  the  spheres  shull  cry, 
'God!  Why  hast  thou  forsaken  me,  my  Godf 
And  not  a  voice  in  Heaven  shall  answer  it. 

I77i6  transfigtiration  is  complete  in  sadness. 

Adam.     Thy  speech  is  of  the  Heavenlics  ;  yet,  O 
Christ, 
Awfully  human  are  thy  voice  and  face  ! 

JEve.      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, 
Descend  before  a  woman,  blessing  her 
With  perfect  benediction  of  pure  love, 
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. 

JlJve.  0  pale,  pathetic  Christ — I  worship  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 
Beneath  the  fire  of  Godhead,  will  tread  earth, 
And  ransom  you  and  it,  and  set  strong  peace 
Betwixt  you  and  its  creatures.     With  my  pangs 
1  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  sot  a  holy  passion  to  work  clear 


A     DRAMA     OF     EXILE.  89 

Absolute  consecration.     In  my  brow 

Of  kingly  whiteness,  shall  be  crowned  anew 

Your  discrowned  human  nature.     Look  on  me  ! 

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 

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  constant  prayers 

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  FjVE  stand  in  an  ecstasy. 
The  earth-zodiac  pales  amay  shade  hi/  shade,  as  the  stars,  star  by 
star,  shine  out  in  the  shy  ;  and  the  fullowing  chant  from  the  two 
Earth  Spirits  {as  they  sweep  back  into  the  zodiac  and  disappear  with 
it)  accompanies  the  process  of  change. 


90  A     DRAMA     OF     EXILE. 

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  cove- 
nanting. 
Here,  forgive  us  all  our  scorning  ; 
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  ; 
Tf  this  mortal  and  unholy 

We  still  fail  to  cast  out  from  us, — 
And  we  turn  upon  you,  unaware,  your  own  dark  in- 
fluences ; 
If  ye  tremble  when  surrounded 

By  om-  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,  0  mortals,  do  not  fear  us, 

We  are  gentle  in  our  languor  ; 
And  more  good  ye  shall  have  near  us 
Than  any  pain  or  anger ; 
And   o\ir  God's  refracted   blessing  in  our  blessing 
shall  be  given ! 


d 


A     DRAMA    OF     EXILE.  91 

By  the  desert's  endless  vigil 

We  will  solemnize  your  passions  ; 
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  bodiet  shall  lie  smooth  in  death,  and  straight 
and  slumberful : 
Then,  a  couch  we  will  provide  you 

Where  no  summer  heat  shall  dazzle  ; 
Strewing  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  woi'lds 
assemble ; 
While,  renewed  by  new  evangels, 

Soul-consummated,  made  gloi-ious, 
Ye  shall  brighten  past  the  angels — 

Ye  shall  kneel  to  Christ  victorious ; 


[)2  A     DRAMA     OF     EXILE. 

And  the  rays  around   His  feet  beneath  your  sobbinn; 
lips,  shall  tremble. 

[Tke  phantastic  vision  has  all  passed  ;  the  cartli-zodiac  has  broken  like 
a  belt,  and  dissolved  from  the  desert.  The  Earth  S/iirits  vanish  ; 
and  the  stars  shine  out  abooe. 

CHORUS  OF  INVISIBLE  ANGELS. 
fVhile  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  movinof. 
We  unseen   are  heard 

To  live  on  by  loving. 
Far  above  the  glances 

Of  your  eager  eyes, 
Listen  !  we  are  lovinw  ! 
Listen,  through  man's  ignorances — 
Listen,  through  God's  mysteries — 
Listen  down  the  heart  of  thino-s. 
Ye  shall  hear  our  mystic  wings 
Murmurous  with  lovino- ! 

Through  the  opal  door, 

Listen  evermore 

How  we  live  by  lovinf^ ! 
J''irst  semichorus. 

When  your  bodies  therefore, 
Reach  the  grave  their  goal, 
Softly  will  we  care  for 


1 


A    DRAMA    OF    EXILE  93 

Each  enfranchised  soul ! 
Softly  and  unlothly 

Through  the  door  of  opal 
Toward  the  Heavenly  people. 
Floated  on  a  minor  fine 
Into  the  full  chant  divine, 

We  will  draw  you  smoothly, — 
While  the  human  in  the  minor 
Makes  the  harmony  diviner  : 
Listen  to  our  loving  ! 
Second  semtchorus. 

There  a  sough  of  glory 

Shall  breathe  on  you  as  you  come, 
Ruflling  round  the  doorway 
All  the  light  of  angeldom. 
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  ! 
First  semickorus. 

So,  in  the  universe's 

Consummated  undoing. 
Our  seraphs  of  white  mercies 
Shall  hover  round  the  ruin  ' 


94  A     DRAMA     OF     EXILE. 

Their  wings  shall  stream  upon  the  dame 
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  lookinar  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, 

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  charnal  birth 
With  his  blast  so  clear  and  brave ; 

Till  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  ! 
^irst  semichorus. 

But  wild  is  the  horse  of  Death ! 
He  will  leap  up  wild  at  the  clamor 

Above  and  beneath ; 

And  where  is  his  Tamer 

On  that  last  day, 


J 


A     DRAMA    OF     EXILE.  95 

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  ghastlilj  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 


96  A     DRAMA     OF     EXILE. 

To  see  the  darkness  curdle  from  the  horse's  glittering 

flanks. 
Throuf^h  the  flats  of  Hades  where  the  dreary  shade 

is, 
Up  the  steep  of  Heaven,  will  the  Tamer  guide  the 

steed, — 
Up  the  spheric  circles — circle  above  circle. 
We  who  count  the  ages,  shall  count  the  tolling  tread — 
Every  hoof-fall  striking  a  blinder,  blanker  sparkle 
From  the  stony  orbs,  which  shall  show  as  they  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  coeval, — 
Stagnant  in  the  spaces  shall  float  the  pallid  moons  ; 
Suns   that  touch   their   apogees,   reeling  from  their 

level. 
Shall  mn  back  on  their  axles,  in  wild,  low,  broken 

tunes. 
Chorus. 
Up  against  the  arches  of  the  crystal  ceiling,    [breath ; 
From  the  horse's  nostrils  shall  steam  the  blurting 
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,  ()  Jehovah,  to  this  I  bring  before  Thee 
With  a  haiul  nail-pierced, — 1,  who  am  thy  Son.'      " 


A    DRAMA    OF    EXILE.  97 

Then  the  Eye  Divinest,  from  the  Deepest,  flammg, 
On  the  mystic  courser,  shall  look  out  iu  fire : 
Blind  the  beast  shall  stagger  where  It  overcame  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 
Murmurous  with  loving. 
A  Voice  from  below.  Gabriel,  thou  Gabriel  ! 
A  Voice  from  above.  What  wouldst  ^/iO«  with  me? 
First  Voice.  1  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  1     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  not  my  star  ? 
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. 
Chorus.     Live,  work  on,  O  Earthy  ! 
By  the  Actual's  tension, 

VOL.  II. — 0 


/ 


>)8  A     DRAMA     OF     EXILE. 

Speed  the  arrow  worthy 
Of  a  pure  ascension. 
From  the  low  earth  round  you, 

Reach  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. 

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 
Hor  name  of  '  Bright  and  Morning-Star  '  to  Him, — 


A     DRAMA     OF     EXILE.  99 

Aud  take  the  fairness  of  His  virtue  back, 
To  cover  loss  and  sadness  ? 

Second  Voice.  It  is  true. 

First  Voice.  UNtrue,  UNtrue  !     0  Morning-star  ! 
O  Mine  ! 
Who  sittest  secret  in  a  veil  of  lio-ht 
Far  up  the  starry  spaces,  say, —  Untrue  ! 
Speak  but  so  loud  as  doth  a  wasted  moon 
To  Tyrrhene  waters  !     I  am  Lucifer — 

\Ji  pause.     Silence  in  the  stars. 

A.11  things  grow  sadder  to  me,  one  by  one. 
Angel  chorus. 

Exiled  Human  creatures, 

Let  your  hope  grow  larger 
Larger  grows  the  vision 

Of  the  new  delight. 
From  this  chain  of  Nature's, 

God  is  the  Discharffer  : 
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 ! 
These  are  stars  beholden 

By  your  eyes  in  Eden  ; 
Yet,  across  the  desert, 
See  them  shining  still. 

Chorus.     Future  joy  and  far  light 


100 


A     DRAMA     OF     EXILE, 


Working  such  relations, 
Hear  us  siuging  gently 

Exiled  is  not  lost  f 
God,  above  the  starlight, 

God,  above  the  patience, 
Shall  at  last  present  ye 

Guerdons  worth  the  cost. 
Patiently  enduring, 

Painfully  surrounded. 
Listen  how  we  love  you — 

Hope  the  uttermost — 
Waitiun;  for  that  curing 

Which  exalts  the  wounded, 
Hear  us  sing  above  you — 

Exiled,  but  not  lost  ; 

[The stars  shine  on  brightly,  while  Adam  and  "Eva pursue  their  way 
into  the  far  wilderness.     There  is  a  souiid  through  the  silence,  as 
of  the  fulling  tears  of  an  angeL 


THE   EOMAUNT   OF  THE   PAGE. 

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. 

*  0  young  page,'  said  the  knight, 
'  A  noble  page  art  thou  ! 
Thou  fearest  not  to  steep  in  blood 

The  curls  upon  thy  brow  ; 
And  once  in  the  tent,  and  twice  in  the  fight, 
Didst  ward  me  a  mortal  blow — ' 

'  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. 


102     THE     ROMAUNT     OF     THE     PAGE. 

'  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. 

'  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 

The  warrior-hilt  we  drave. 


t 


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.' 

The  page  spake  calm  and  high 

As  of  no  mean  degree  ; 
Perhaps  he  felt  in  nature's  broad 

Full  heart,  his  own  was  free  ; 
And  the  knight  looked  up  to  his  lifted  eye, 

Then  answered  smiUngly : — 


'  Sir  Page,  I  pray  your  grace  ! 
Certes,  I  meant  not  so 


( 


THE  ROM  AUNT  OF  THE  PAGE.   103 

To  cioss  your  pastoral  mood,  sir  page, 
With  the  crook  of  the  battle-bow  ; 

But  a  knight  may  speak  of  a  lady's  face, 

I  ween,  in  any  mood  or  place, 
If  the  grasses  die  or  grow. 

And  this,  1  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. 


'  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 ; 

And  fitter  thy  hand  for  my  knightly  spaar, 
Than  thy  tongue  for  my  lady's  will.' 

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  pardie, 

Could  blush  more  sudden  red — 
'  Sir  Knight, — thy  lady's  bower  to  me, 

Is  suited  well,'    he  said. 

Bead,  beati,  mortui! 

From  the  convent  on  the  sea, 


104     THE     ROMAUNT     OF     THE     PAGE. 

One  mile  off,  or  scarce  as  nigh, 
Swells  the  dirge  as  clear  and  high 
As  if  that,  over  brake  and  lea. 
Bodily  the  wind  did  carry 
The  great  altar  of  St.  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 — 
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  sleepeth  back,  away — 
The  uplands  will  not  let  it  stay 
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. 

*  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, 

Be  the  face  of  thy  ladye.' 


THE     ROMAUNT    OF    THE     PAGE.     105 

Gloomily  looked  the  knight ; 

'  As  a  son  thou  hast  served  me  : 
And  would  to  none   I  had  gi-anted  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. 

'  Yet  ill  it  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. 

'  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, 
Against  a  slanderer  lying  loud, 

He  rose  up  to  defend. 

'  Oh,  calm,  below  the  marble  gray 

My  father's  dust  was  strown  ! 
Oh,  meek,  above  the  marble  gray 

His  image  prayed  alone  ! 
The  slanderer  lied — the  wretch  was  brave, — 
For,  looking  up  the  minster -nave, 


106     THE     ROM  AUNT     OF     THE     PAGE. 

He  saw  my  father's  knightly  glaive 
Was  changed  from  steel  to  stone. 

"  But  Earl  Walter's  glaive  was  steel, 
^  With  a  brave  old  hand  to  wear  it ! 

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  that  traitor's  corse 

Was  yielded  the  true  spirit . 


( 


I  would  my  hand  had  fought  that  fight 

And  justified  my  father  ! 
I  would  my  heart  had  caught  that  wound 

And  slept  beside  him  rather  ! 
I  think  it  were  a  better  thing 
Than  murthered  friend  and  marriaoje-rins 

Forced  on  my  life  together. 

'  Wail  shook  Earl  Walter's  house — 
His  true  wife  shed  no  tear — 
She  lay  upon  her  bed  as  mute 
As  the  earl  did  on  his  bier  : 
Till — '  Ride,  ride  fast,'  she  said  at  last, 
'  And  bring  the  avensjed's  son  anf^ar ! 
Ride  fast — ride  free,  as  a  dart  can  flee : 
For  white  of  blee  with  waiting  for  me 
Is  the  corse  in  the  next  ehambere.' 


THE     ROMAUNT     OF     THE     PAGE.     lOT 

'  1  came — I  knelt  beside  her  bed — 

Her  calm  was  worse  than  strife — 
'  My  husband,  for  thy  fether  dear, 
Gave  freely  when  thou  wert  not  here 

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.' 

'  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  ; 
And  rule  she  wide  from  my  castle  on  Nyde 

While  I  am  in  Palestine.' 

'  In  the  dark  chamb^re,  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. 

'  My  page,  my  page,  what  grieves  thee  so. 
That  the  teaiw  run  down  thy  face  .''  — 


1C8    THE     ROMAUNT     OF     THE     PAGE. 

'  Alas,  alas  !  mine  own  sister 
Was  in  thy  lady's  case  I 
But  she  laid  down  the  silks  she  wore 
And  followed  him  she  wed  before, 
Disguised  as  his  true  servitor, 
To  the  very  battle-place.' 

And  wept  the  page,  but  laughed  the  knight, 
A  careless  laugh   laughed  he  : 

*  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.' 

The  page  stopped  weeping,  and  smiled  cold — 

*  Your  wisdom  may  declare 
That  womanhood  is  proved  the  best 
By  golden  brooch  and  glossy  vest 

The  mincing  ladies  wear  : 
Yet  is  it  proved,  and  was  of  old, 
Anear  as  well — I  dare  to  hold — 

By  truth,  or  by  despair.' 

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, 


THE  ROM  AUNT  OF  THE  PAGK   109 

Her  tender  tears  of  womanhood 
Most  woman-pure   did  make  !' 

*  Well  done  it  were  for  thy  sistdr 

Thou  tellest  well  her  tale  ! 
But  for  my  lady,  she  shall  pray 

P  the  kirk  of  Nydesdale — 
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 

Behind  her  woman's  veil.  ' 

'  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. 

*  Look  up — there  is  a  small  bright  cloud 

Alone  amid  the  skies  ! 
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 : 

Then  dimly  dropped  his  eyes  away 
From  welken  unto  hill — 

VOL.  II. — '10 


110     THE     ROMAUNT     OF     THE     I'AGh. 

Ha  !  who  rides  there  ? — the  page  is  'ware, 

Though  the  cry  at  his  heart  is  still ! 
And  the  page  seeth  all  and  the  knight  seeth  none 
Though  banner  and  spear  do  fl.^ck  the  sun, 
And  the  Saracens  ride  at  will. 

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." 

'  Now  nay,  now  nay,  ride  on  thy  way, 

I'hy  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. 

'  Ere  night  I  shall  be  near  to  thee, — 

Now  ride,  my  master,  ride  ! 
Ere  night,  as  parted  spirits  cleave 
To  mortals  too  beloved  to  leave, 

I  shall  be  at  thy  side.  ' 
The  knight  smiled  free  at  the  fantasy, 

And  adown  the  dell  did  ride. 

Had  the  knight  looked  up  to  the  page's  face, 
No  smile  the  word  had  won  ! 


THE     ROM  AUNT     OF     THE     PAGE       111 

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, 

1  ween  he  had  turned  anon  ; 
For  dread  was  the  wo  in  the  face  so  lounof : 
And  wild  was  the  silent  geste  that  flung 
Casque,  sword  to  earth — as  the  boy  down-sprung, 

And  stood — alone,  alone. 

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  ? 

'  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.  ' 

She  looketh  up,  in  earth's  despair. 

The  hopeful  Heavens  to  seek  : 
That  little  cloud  still  floateth  there. 

Whereof  her  Loved  did  speak. 
How  bright  the  little  cloud  appears  ! 
Her  eyelids  fall  upon  the  tears. 

And  the  tears  down  either  cheek. 


112 


THE  ROMAUNT  OF  THE  PAGE 

The  tramp  of  hoof,  the  flash  of  steel— 
The  Paynims  round  her  comiug  ! 

The  sound  and  sight  have  made  her  calm- 
False  page,  but  truthful  woman  ! 

She  stands   amid  them  all  unmoved  : 

The  heart  once  broken  by  the  loved 
Is  strong  to  meet  the  foeman. 

'  Ho,  Christian  page  !  art  keeping  sheep. 

From  pouring  wine  cups,  resting  ?  ' 
'  I  keep  my  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  to  question. ' 

'  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 ! 
Nathless,  as  hath  been  often  tried. 
Your  Paynim  heroes  faster  ride 
Before  him  than  behind  him.  ' 

'  Give  smoother  answers,  lying  page, 

Or  perish  in  the  lying.  ' — 
'  I  trow  that  if  the  warrior  brand 
Beside  my  foot,  were  in  my  hand, 

'Twere  better  at  replying.  ' 
They  cursed  her  deep,  they  smote  her  low. 


THE  ROM  AUNT  OF  THE  PAGE,   113 


They  cleft  her  golden  ringlets  through 
The  Loving  is  the  Dying. 


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  sereno, 
Most  like  the  spiiit-light  between 

The  darks  of  life  and  death. 

Ingemisco^  ingemisco  ! 
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  ! 
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! 
Is  ever  a  lament  begun 
By  any  mourner  under  sun, 
Which,  ere  it  endeth,  suits  but  one  ? 


THE  LAT  OF  THE  BROW^  ROSARY. 

PART    FIRST 

'  Onora,  Onora  '  — lier  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.' 

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  were  it 

found  her, 
While  forgot  or  unseen  in  the  dreamlight  around  her 
Night  cometh,  Onora  !  ' 

She  looks  up  the  forest  whose  alleys  shoot  on 
Like  the  mute  minster-aisles  vhen  the  anthem  is  done, 
And  the  choristers  sitting  with  faces  aslant 
Feel  the  silonce  to  consecrate  more  than  the  chant — 
'  Onora,  Onora !  ' 


LAY    OF    THE    BROWN    ROSARY.         lis 

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 

The  casement  she  leaneth,  and  as  she  doth  so, 
She  is  'ware  of  her  little  son  playing  below : 
'  Now  where  is  Onora  ?  ' — He  hung  down  his  head 
And  spake  not,  then  answering  blushed  scarlet-red, — 
'  At  the  tryst  with  her  lover.  ' 

But  his  mother  was  wroth.     In  a  sternness  quoth  she, 
'  As  thou  play'st  at  the  ball,  art  thou  playing  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  .'* ' 

Then  the  boy  wept  aloud.  'Twas  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  1 

lied 
Because  truth  that  is  wicked  is  fittest  to  hide  ! 
Must  I  utter  it,  mother .''  ' 

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  rosarie, 
At  nights  in  the  ruin  ! 


116      LAY     OF     THE     BROWN     ROSARY. 

'  The  old  convent  ruin  the  ivy  rots  off, 

Where  the  owl  hoots  by  day,  and  the  toad  is  sun- 
proof ; 

Where  uo  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  ? 

'  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  backward  and  swooned  unto  death 
With  -an  ave  half-spoken. 

'  I  tried  once  to  pass  it,  myself  and  my  hound. 
Till,  as  fearing  the  lash,  down  he  shivered  to  ground  ! 
A  brave  hound,  my  mother !  a  brave  hound,  ye  wot ! 
And  the  wolf  thought  the  same   with  his  fangs  at  her 
throat 
In  the  pass  of  the  Brocken. 

*  At  dawn  and  at  eve,  mother,  who  sitteth  there, 
With  the  brown  rosarie  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  ! 

'  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  tkee^ 


LAY     OF     THE     BROWN     ROSARY.       117 

The  ghost  of  a  nun  with  a  brown  rosarie, 
And  a  face  turned  from  heaven  ? 

'  St.  Agnes  o'erwatcheth  my  dreams  ;  and  erewhile 
I  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.' 

Onora,  Onora  !  they  heard  her  not  coming — 

Not  a  step  on  the  grass,  not  a  voice  through  the 

gloaming : 
But  her  mother  looked  up,  and  she  stood  on  the  floor 
Fair  and  still  as  the  moonliorht  that  came  there  before. 
And  a  smile  just  beginning  : 

[t  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. 

For  the  hair  droops  in  clouds  amber-colored,  till  stirred 
Into  gold  by  the  gesture  that  comes  with  a  word : 
While — 0  soft ! — her  speaking  is  so  interwound 
Of  the  dim  and  the  sweet,  'tis  a  twilight  of  sound 
And  floats  through  the  chamber. 

'  Since  thou  shrivest  my  brother,  fair  mother,  '  said 
she. 


lis 


LAY     OF     THE     BROWN     ROSARY. 


<  I  couut  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  !  ' 


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, — 
'   0  wicked  fair  sister,  the  hills  utter  nought ! 
If  he  Cometh,  who  told  thee  ?  ' 


'  1  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  St.  Agnes  in  sleeping.  ' 

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  bossom  the  brown  rosarie — 
That  he  shrank  away  weeping  ? 


LAY     OF     THE     BROWN     KOSARY         1)9 


PART    SECOND. 
A  bed — Onora  sleeping.    Angels,  but  not  nenr. 

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 

Mistake  that  small  soft  face  to-nijrht. 

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. 


120     LAY     OF     THE     BROWN     ROSA.K\, 

First  Angel. 

Did  none  pray  for  h6r  ? 
Second  Angel. 

Kj,  a  cliild, — 

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  WILLEP. 

First  Angel. 

One  word :  Is  she  redeemed  ? 
Second  Angel. 

No  more ! 

The  place  is  filled.  TAngels  vanish. 

Evil  Sjnrit  in  a  N'tin'^s  garb  by  the  bed. 
Forbear  that  dream — forbear  that  dream  !  too  near  to 

Heaven  it  leaned. 
Onora  in  sleep. 
Nay,  leave  me  this — but  only  this  !  'tis  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, — J  do  no  holy  work  ; 


LAY    OF    THE     BROWN    ROSARY.         121 

I  scarcely  hear  the  sabbath-bell  that  chinieth  from  tho 
kirk 
j!Jvil  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  Sjnrit. 
Forbear  that  dream — forbear  that  dream  ! 
Onora  in  sleep. 

Nay,  sweet  fiend,  let  me  go — 
I  never  more  can  walk  with  him,  O  nevermore  but  so  : 
For  they  have  tied  my  father's  feet  beneath  the  kirk- 
yard  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  ! ' 
£!vil  Spirit. 
Forbear  that  dream,  or  else  disprove  its  pureness  by 
a  sign. 
Onora  in  sleep. 
Speak  on,  thou  shalt  be  satisfied  !  my  word  shall  an- 
swer thine. 
I  hear  a  bird  which  used  to  sing  when  I  a  child  was 
praying  ; 

VOL.   II. 11 


122     LAY     OF     THE     BROWN     ROSARY. 

1  see  the  poppies  in  the  corn  I  used  to  sport  away  in. 
What  shall  I  do — tread  down  the  dew,  and  pull  the 

blossoms  blowins; } 
Or  clap  my  wicked  hands  to  fright  the  finches  from 

the  rowen  ? 
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 — declare  its  cause 

and  kind. 
Which,  not  to  break  in  sleep  or  wake,  thou  bearest  on 

thy  mind. 
Onora  in  sleep. 
1  bear  a  vow  of   sinful    kind,  a  vow  for  mournful 

cause  : 
1  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  ap- 
peared to  freeze. 
JSvil  Spirit. 
More  calm  and  free, — speak  out  to  me,  why  such  a 

TOW  was  made. 
Onora  in  sleep. 
Because  that  God  decreed  my  death,  and  T  shrank 

back  afraid : 
Have  pationcc,  0  dead  father  mine  !     I  did  not  fear 

io  die  ,- 


LAY     OF     THE     BROWN     ROSARY.      I'23 

I  wisli  I  were  a  young  dead  child,  and  had  thy  com- 
pany! 
I  wish  I  lay  bsside  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  sha- 
dowed twain — 
For  death  itself  I  did  not  fear — 'tis  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, 
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  say  to  her — to  her  !  that  else  he  loveth 

none  ? 
Though  e'er  so  high  I  sate  above,  though  e'er  so  low 

be  ^ake. 
As  clear  as  thunder  I  should  hear  the  new  oath  he 

mio-ht  take — 
That  hers,  forsooth,   are  heavenly  eyes, — ah,  me  ! 

while  very  dim 


124      LAY     OF     THE     BROWN     ROSARY. 

Some    heavenly    eyes    (indeed   of  Heavec  ')    would 

darken  down  to  him.   ' 
Evil  Spirit. 
Who  told  thee  thou  wast  called  to  death  ? 
Onora  in  sleep. 

I  sat  all  niorht  beside  thee — 
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, 
^  For  if  she  has  no  need  of  Him,  He  has  no  need  of 
her ' — 
ISvil  S^nrit. 
Speak  out  to  me — speak  bold  and  free. 


_l 


LAY     OF     THE     BROWN     ROSARY.       125 

Onora  in  sleep. 

And  then  I  heard  thee  say, — 
'  I  count  upon  my  rosarie  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  forego  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  acold — 
The  meadows  seem.  .  ,  . 
JEvil  Sjnrit. 

Forbear  the  dream,  or  let  the  vow  be  told  ! 
Onora  in  sleejj. 
1  vowed  upon  thy  rosarie  brown,  this  string  of  antique 

beads. 
By  charnal  lichens  overgrown,  and  dank  among  the 

weeds — 
This  rosarie  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  rosarie  brown,^and,  till  such  vow 

should  break, 
A  pledge  always  of  living  days,  'twas  hung  around 

my  neck  — 
I  vowed  to  thee  on  rosarie,  (Dead  father,  look  not  so  !) 
/  rvould  not  thank  God  in  my  weal,  nor  seek  Ood  in 

my  wo. 


126     LAY     OF     THE     BROWN     ROSARVT 

]£uil  Spirit. 
And  canst  thou  prove  .... 
Onora  in  sleep. 

O  love — my  love  !  I  felt  him  near  again  ! 
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  ?, 
Yet  when  he  came,  I  wept  his  name — and  the  angels 
heard  but  his. 
Evil  Spirit. 
Well  done,  well  done ! 
Onora  in  sleep. 

Ay  me  !  the  sun  .  .  .  the  dreamlight  'gins  to  pine, — 
Ay  me  !  how  dread  can  look  the  Dead  ! — Aroint  thee, 
father  mine ! 

She  starteth  from  slumber,  she  sitteth  upright, 

And -her  breath   comes  in   sobs  while   she    stares 

throuo-h  the  night '. 
There  is  nought.       The   great   willow,   her   lattice 

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  brown  rosarie. 


LAY     OF    THE     BROWN     ROSARY.      137 


THIRD    PART. 

'Tis  a  morn  for  a  bridal ;  the  merry  bride-bell 
Rings  clear  through  the  green-wood  that  skuts  the 

chapelle  ; 
And  the  priest  at  the  altar  awaiteth  the  bride, 
And  the  sacristans  slyly  are  jesting  aside 

At  the  work  shall  be  doinij. 

While  down  through  the  wood  rides  that  fair  company, 
The  youths  with  the   courtship,  the  maids  with   tho 

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  !' 

And  the  bride  and  the  bridegroom  are  leading  the 

way, 
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  hei 

breath. 
When  she  sigheth  or  speaketh. 

And  the  tender  brids-mothor  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  ? 


128     LAY     OF     THB     BROWN     ROSARY. 

Is  it  play  ?  when  his  eyes  wander  innocent-wild,    - 
And  sublimed  with  a  sadness  tinfitting  a  child  ! 
He  trembles  not,  weeps  not — the  passion  is  done, 
And  calmly  he  kneels  in  theii-  midst,  with  the  sun 
On  his  head  like  a  glory. 

'  0  fair-featured  maids,  ye  are  many  !  '  he  cried, — 
'  But,  in  fairness  and  vileness,   who   matcheth   the 

bride  ? 
0  brave-hearted  youths,  ye  are  many  !  but  whom, 
For  the  courage  and  wo,  can  ye  match  with  the  groom, 
As  ye  see  them  before  ye  ?  ' 

Out  spake  the  bride's  mother —  '  The  vileness  is  thine. 
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. 

'  Bring  the  charge,  prove  the  charge,  brother  !  speak 

it  aloud — 
Let  thy  father  and  hers,  hear  it  do^p  in  his  shroud  !  ' 
— '  0  father,  thou  seest — for  dead  eyes  can  see — 
How  she  wears  on  her  bosom  a  brown  rosarie^ 
0  my  father  beloved  !  ' 

Then   outlaughed  the  bridegroom,    and   outlaughcd 

withal 
Both  maidens  and  youths,  by  the  old  chapel-wall — 
'  So  she  wcareth  no  love-gift,  kind  brother,  '  quoth 

he, 


LAY    OF    THE    BROWN    ROSARY.         123 

'  She  may  wear   an  she  listeth,  a  browa  rosarie, 
Like  a  pure-hearted  lady  !  ' 

Then  swept  through  the  chapel   the  long  bridal  train : 
Though  he  spake  to  the  bride   she  replied  not  ao-ain : 
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. 

But  her  brother  had  passed  in  betw.^en  them  and  her, 
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. 

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. 

'  In  your   chapel,  O  priest,  ye  have  wedded  and 

shriven 
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 — 
0  shrive  her  and  wed  not !  ' 

In  tears,  the  bride's  mother, —  '  Sir  priest,  unto  thee 
Would  he  lie,  as  be  lied  to  this  fair  company  !  ' 


130     LAY     OF     THE     BROWN     ROSARY. 

In  wrath,  tlie  bride's  lover, —  '  The  lie  shall  be  clear ! 
Speak  it  out,  boj !  the  saints  in  their  niches  shall 
hear — 
Be  the  charge  proved  or  said  not !  ' 

Then  serene  in  his  childhood  he  lifted  his  face, 
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  rosarie  ! 
Is  it  used  for  the  praying  ?  ' 

The  youths  looked  aside — to  laugh  there  were  a  sin — 
And   the   maidens'  lips  trembled  with    smiles  shut 

within  : 
Quoth   the   priest — '  Thou   art   wild,    pretty    boy  1 

Blessed  she 
Who  prefers  at  her  bridal  a  brown  rosarie 
To  a  worldly  ariiaying  !  ' 

The  bridegroom  spake  low  and  led  onward  the  bride, 
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  ? 

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, 


J 


LAY     OF     THE     BROWN     ROSARY.      131 

Gazing  cold  at  the  priest  without  gesture  of  prayer, 
As  he  read  from  the  psalter. 

The  priest  never  knew  that  she  did  so,  but  still 
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. 

'  I  have  sinned,  '  quoth  he,  '  I  have  sinned,  I  wot ' — 
And  the  tears  ran  adown  his  old  cheeks  at  the  thouo^ht : 
They  dropped  fast  on  the  book  ;  but  he  read  on  the 

same. 
And  aye  was  the  silence  where  should  be  the  Name, 
As  the  choristers  told  it. 

The  rite-book  is  closed,  and  the  rite  being  done, 
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  rosarie. 
No  saint  at  her  praying  ! 

What  aileth  the  bridegroom .''    He  glares  blank  and 

wide  — 
Then  suddenly  turning,  he  kisseth  the  bride — 
His  lip  stung  her  with  cold:  she  glanced  upwardly 

mute : 
'  Mine  own  wife,'    he  said,  and  fell  stark  at  her  ♦bot 
In  the  word  he  was  saying. 

They  have  lifted  him  up, — but  his  head  sinks  away, 
And  his  face  showeth  bleak  in  the  sunshine  and  gray. 


132      LAY     OF     THE     BROWN     ROSARY. 

Leave  him  now  where  he  licth — for  oh,  nevermore 
Will  he  kneel  at  an  altar  or  stand  on  a  floor  ! 
Let  his  bride  gaze  upon  him  ! 

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  !  with  a  start 
The  shriek  from  her  soul  struck  her  pale  lips  apart — 
She  has  lived,  and  forgone  him  ! 

And  low  on  his  body  she  droppeth  adown — 
'  Didst  call  me  thine  own  wife,  beloved — thine  own  ? 
Then  take  thine  own  with  thee  !  thy  coldness  is  warm 
To  the  world's  cold  without  thee  !     Come,  keep  me 
from  harm 
In  a  calm  of  thy  teaching  I  ' 

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,  U  God,  take  pity — take  pity  on  me  ! — 
God,  hear  my  beseeching  !  ' 

She  was  'ware  of  a  shadow  that  crossed  where  she  lay ; 
She  was  'ware  of  a  presence  that  wither'd  the  day — 
Wild  she  sprang  to  her  feet, —  '  I  surrender  to  Oiee 
The  broken  vow's  pledge, — the  accursed  rosarie, — 
I  am  ready  for  dyinf  !  ' 


LAY     OK     THE     BROWN     ROSARY.      I3a 

She  dashed  it  in  scorn  to  the  marble-paved  ground, 
Where  it  fell  mute  as  snow  ;  and  a  weird  music-sound 
Crept  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  : 
*  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. 
And  carry   them  and  carry   me  before  St.  Agnes' 

shrine.  ' 
— Whereat  they  pulled  the  summer  flowers  she  planted 

in  the  spring, 
And  her  and  them    all  mournfully   to  Agnes'  shrine 

did  bring. 

VOL.  II. —  1^ 


134       LAY     OF    THE     BROWN     ROSARl. 

She  looked  up  to  the  piotured  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, 
Aad  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  dioppetti  from  the  hand,  that  fadeth  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  ? 


LAY     OF     THE     BROWN     ROSARY.      135 

We  cannot  guoss  tliee  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 ; 
But  wo  being  come,  the  soul  is  dumb  that  crieth  not 


on 


'  rXr^A  >  » 


God. 


Her  mother  could  not  speak  for  tears  ;  she  ever  mused 

thus — 
'  The  bees  ivill  find  out  other  Jlowers, — 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  nourish- 
ment to  reach ; 

0  reader  breathe  (the  ballad  saith)  some  sweetness 
out  of  each ! 


LADY   GERALDINE'S   COURTSHIP. 


A    ROMANCE    OF     THE     AGE 


A  Ttnet  writes  to  his  frit-nd.     Place— A  room  in  IVycombe  Hall. 
Time  -Laie  m  the  evening. 


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, — 1  bow  my 

head  before  you ! 
You  should  lead  me  to  my  peasants  ! — but  their  faces 

are  too  still. 


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. 


LADY    GERALDINE'S   COURTSIIII'.   1:^7 

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  her  land. 

There  are  none  of  England's  daughters  who  can  show 
a  prouder  presence ; 

Upon  princely  suitors  praying,  she  has  looked  in  her 
disdain : 

She  was  sprung  of  English  nobles,  I  was  born  of 
English  peasants; 

What  was  /  that  I  should  love  her — save  for  com- 
petence to  pain ! 

I  was  only  a  poor  poet,  made  for  singing  at  her  case- 
ment, 

As  the  finches  or  the  thrushes,  while  she  thought  of 
other  things. 

Oh,  she  walked  so  high  above  me,  she  appeared  to 
my  abasement. 

In  her  lovely  silken  murmur,  like  an  angel,  clad  m 


wuigs 


!Many  vassals  bow  before  her  as  her  carriage  sweeps 

their  door- ways ; 
She  has  blest  their  little  children, — as  a  priest  oi 

queen  were  she. 


138  LADY     GERALDINB'S 

Par  too  tender  or  too  cruel  f^r,  her  smile  upon  the 

poor  was, 
For  1  thought  it  was  the  same  smile   which  she  used 

to  smile  on  me. 

She  has   voters   in  the  commons,  she  has  lovers  in 

the  palace — 
And  of  all  the  fair  court-ladies,  few  have  jewels  half 

as  fine : 
Oft    the    prince  has  named  her  beauty,  'twixt  the 

red  wine  and  the  chalice  : 
Oh,  and  what  was  /  to  love  her  ?  my  Beloved,  my 

Geraldine  ! 

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  nympholeptlc  climbing,  poets  pass  from  mount 

to  star. 

And  because  I  was  a  poet,  and  because  the  people 

praised  me, 
With  their  critical  deduction    for  the  modern  writer's 

fault ; 
1  could  sit  at  rich  men's  tables, — though  the  courtesies 

that  raised  rae,~ 
Still  suggested  clear  between  us    the  pale  spectrum 

of  the  salt. 


COURTSHIP.  139 

And  they  praised  rae  in  her  presence  : —  *  Will  your 

book  appear  this  summer  ?  ' 
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. 

'  Quite  low  born  !  self-educated  !  somewhat  gifted 
though  by  nature, — 

And  we  make  a  point  of  asking  him, — of  being  very 
kmd  ; 

You  may  speak,  he  does  not  hear  you  ;  and  besides, 
he  writes  no  satire, — 

All  these  serpents  kept  by  charmers,  leave  their  na- 
tural stiiifif  behind,' 


"to 


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, 

overrung  them, 
And  a  sudden  silken  stirring  touched  my  inner  nature 

through. 

I  looked  upward  and  beheld  her  !  With  a  calm  and 

regnant  spirit, 
Slowly   round  she  swept  her  eyelids,  and  said  clear 

before  them  all — 


140  LADY     GERALDINE'S 

*  Have  you  such  superfluous  ,hon.r,  sir,  that  able  to 

to  confer  it 
You  will  come  down,  Mr.  Bertram,  as  my  guest  to 

Wycombe  Hall  ?  ' 

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. 

*'  Ne'ertheless,  you  see,  T  seek  it — not  because  I  am 
a  woman,  ' 

(Here  her  smile  sprang  like  a  fountain,  and,  so,  over- 
flowed her  mouth) 

'  But  because  ray  woods  in  Sussex  have  some  purple 
shades  at  ffloamin* 

Which  are  worthy  of  a  king  in  state,  or  poet  in  his 
youth. 

"  I  invite  you,  Mr.  Bertraip,  to  no  scene  for  worldly 

speeches — 
Sir,  I  scarce  should  dare — but  only  where  God  asked 

the  thrushes  first — 
And  [{you  will  sing  beside  them,  in  the  covert  of  my 

beeches, 
I  will  thank  you  for  the  woodlands,  ...  for  the  human 

world  at  worst." 


COURTSHIP.  141 

Then   she  smiled  around  right  childly,  then  she  gazed 

around  right  queenly ; 
And  I  bowed — 1  could  not  answer  !    Alternated  light 

and  gloom — 
While  as  one  who  quells  the  lions,  with  a  steady  cyo 

serenely, 
She,   with  level  fronting  eyelids,  passed  c«t  stately 

from  the  room. 


Oh,  the  blessed  woods  of  Sussex,  I  can  hear  them  still 

around  me, 
With  their  leafy  tide  of  greenery  still  rippling  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 ! 


In  that  ancient  hall  of  Wycombe,  thronged  the  nume- 
rous 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. 


142  LADYGERALDINE'S 

For  at  eve,  tlie  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. 

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  moon- 

IvAit  rino-ing, 
And  the  deer,  half  in  the  glimmer,  strewed  the  hollows 

of  the  park. 

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. 

In  the  morning,  horn  of  huntsman,  hoof  of  steed,  and 

laugh  of  rider. 
Spread  out  cheery  from  the  court-yard  till  we  lost 

them  in  the  hills  ; 


COURTSHIP.  14S 

While  herself  and  other  ladies,  and  her  suitors  left 

beside  her, 
Went  a-wandering  up  the  gardens  through  the  laurels 

and  abeles. 

Thus,  her  foot  upon  the  new-mown  grass — bareheaded 

— with  the  flowing 
Of  the  virginal  white  vesture   gathered  closely  to  her 

throat ; 
With  the  golden  ringlets  in  her  neck   just  quickened 

by  her  going, 
And  appearing  to  breathe  sun  for  air,  and  doubting  if 

to  float, — 

With  a  branch  of  dewy  maple,  which  her  right  hand 

held  above  her. 
And  which  trembled  a  green  shadow  in  betwixt  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. 

For  her  eyes  alone  smile     constantly :  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. 


144  LADY     GERALDINE'S 

Thus  olie  drew  nie  the  first  morning,  out  across  into 

the  garden  : 
And  I  walked  among  her  noble  frionds   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. 

'  But    within    this  swarded  circle,  into  which  the 

lime-walk  brings  us — 
Whence  the  beeches  I'ounded  greenly,  stand  away  in 

reverent  fear ; 
I  will  let  no  music  enter,   saving  what  the  fountain 

sings  us, 
Which  the  lilies  round  the  basin    may  seem  pure 

enouiih  to  hear. 

*  The  live  air  that  waves  the  lilies  waves  this  slender 
jet  of  water 

Like  a  holy  thought  sent  feebly  up  from  soul  of  fast- 
ing saint ! 

Whereby  lies  a  marble  Silence,  sleeping  !  (Lough  the 
sculptor  wrought  her,) 

£"0  asleep  she  is  forgetting  to  sa,y  Hash! — a  fancy 
quaint ! 

'  Mark  how  heavy  white  her  eyelids !  not  a  dream 

between  them  lingers ! 
And  the  left  hand's  index  di-oppeth  from  the  lips  upon 

the  cheek : 


COURTSHIP.  115 

And  the  right  hand, — with  the  symbol  rose  held  slack 

within  the  fiagers, — 
Has  fallen  backward  in  the  basin — yet  this  Silence 

will  not  speak ! 

*  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  riaiht  noble- 

ness   grow  humble, 
And    assert   an  inward  honor    by  denying   outward 

show,  ' 

'  Nay,  your  Silence,'  said  I,   '  truly  holds  her  symbol 

rose  but  slackly, 
Yet  she  Iwlds  it — or  would  scarcely  be  a  Silence  to 

our  ken ! 
And  your  nobles  wear  their  ermine  on  the  outside,  or 

walk  blackly 
In  the  presence  of  the  social  law    as  most  ignoble 

men. 

'  Let  the  poets  dream  such  dreaming  !     Madam,  in 

these  British  islands, 
'Tis  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.' 
VOL.  u.  — 13 


146  LADY     GBRALDINB'S 

'  Not  so  quicklj !  '  she  retorted, —  '  I  confess  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  drily,  and  sit  down 

with  Silence  here.  ' 

Half  in  playfulness  she  spoke,  I  thought,  and  half  m 
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 ! 

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, 
And    recoiling   in  a  tremble    from  the  too   much 

light  above. 

'Tis  a  picture  for  remembrance !  and  thus,  morning 

after  morning. 
Did  I  follow  as  she  drew  me  by  the  spirit    to  hei 

feet — 


COURTSHIP.  "       147 

Why,  her  greyhound  followed  also  !  dogs— we  both 

were  dogs  for  scorninc — 
To  be  sent  back  when   she   pleased  it  and  her  path 

lay  through  the  wheat. 

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. 

Ay,  for  sometimes  on  the  hill-side,  while  we  sat  down 

in  the  go  wans, 
With  the  forest  green  behind  us,  and  its  shadow  cast 

before  ; 
And  the  river  running  under ;  and  across  it  from  the 

rowans 
A  brown  partridge  whirring  near  us,  till  we  felt  the 

air  it  bore — 

There,  obedient  to  her  praying,  did  I  read  aloud  the 

poems 
Made  by  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 ! — 


148  LADY     GERALDINE'S 

Or  at  times  a  modern  volume, — Wordsworth's  solemn- 
thoughted  idyl, 

Hewitt's  ballad-verse,  or  Tennyson's  enchanted  re- 
verie,— 

Or  from  Browning  some  '  Pomegranate,  '  which,  if 
cut  deep  down  the  middle, 

Shows  a  heart  within  blood-tinctured,  of  a  veined 
humanity. 

Or  at  times  I  read  there,  hoarsely,  some  new  poem 

of  my  making — 
Poets    ever    fail  in    reading   their   own   verses  to 

then-  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. 

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  wood- 
land sinsfinw. 

Like  a  child's  emotion  in  a  god — a  naiad  tired  of 
rest. 

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 ; 


COURTSHIP.  149 

A.nd  her  mouth  stirs  with  the  song,  like  song ;   and 

when  the  notes  are  finest, 
Tis  the  eyes  that  shoot  out  vocal  light    and  seem  to 

swell  them  on. 

Then  we  talked — oh,  how  we  talked  !    her  voice,  so 

cadenced  in  the  talking:. 
Made  another  singing — of  the  soul  !  a  music  without 

bjirs — 
While  the  leafy  sounds  of  woodlands,  humming  round 

where  we  were  walking, 
Brought  interposition  worthy-sweet, — as  skies  about 

the  stars. 

And  she  spake  such  good  thoughts  natural,  as  if  she 
always  thought  them — 

And  had  sympathies  so  rapid,  open,  free  as  bird  on 
branch 

Just  as  ready  to  fly  east  as  west,  whichever  way  be- 
sought them, 

In  the  birchen  wood  a  chirrup,  or  a  cock-crow  in  the 
grange. 

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  under- 
struck  so  rightly, 

As  to  justify  the  foliage  and  the  waving  flowers 
above. 


150  LADY     GERALDINE'S 

And  she  talked  on — we  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. 

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 — 
We  are  gods  by  our  own  reck'ning, — and  may  well 

shut  up  the  temples, 
A.nd  wield  on,  amid  the  incense-steam,  the  thunder 

of  our  cars. 


'  For  we  throw  out  acclamations  of  self-thanking, 

self-admiring. 
With,  at  every  mile  run  faster, — '  0  the  wondrous 

wondrous  age,' 


COURTSHIP.  151 

Little  thinking  if  we  work  our  souls  as  nobly  as  our 


iron, 


Or  if  angels  will  commend  us    at  the  goal  of  pil- 
grimage. 

"  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,  majes- 

tical  white  horses. 
Are  we  greater  than  the  first  men  who  led  black  one?* 

by  the  mane  ? 

» 

'  If  we  trod  the  deeps  of  ocean,  if  we  struck  the  stars  in 
rising, 

If  we  wrapped  the  globe  intensely  with  one  hot  elec- 
tric breath, 

'Twere  but  power  within  our  tether — no  new  spirit- 
power  comprising 

And  in  life  we  were  not  greater  men,  nor  bolder  men 
in  death.  ' 

She  was  patient  with  my  talking ;  and  I  loved  her — 

loved  her  certes, 
As  I  loved  all  Heavenly  objects,  with  uplifted  eyes 

and  hands  ! 
As  I  loved  pure  inspirations — loved  the  graces,  loved 

the  virtues, 
[n  a  Love  content  with  writing  his  own    name    on 

desert  sands. 


152  LADY     GBRALDINE'S 

Or  at  least  I  thought  so  purely  ! — thought    no  idiot 

Hope  was  raising 
Any  crown  to  crown  Love's  silence — silent  Love  that 

sat  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. 

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  can- 
not press  their  futures 

On  the  present  of  her  courtesy,  which  yieldingly 
enslaves. 

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. 

And  the  book  lay  open,  and  my  thought  flew  fiora  ity 

taking  from  it 
A  vibration   and  impulsion  to  an  end   beyond   its 

own. 


COURTSHIP.  153 

As  the  branch  of  a  green  osier,  when  a  child  would 

overcome  it, 
Springs  up  freely  from  his  clasping  and  goes  swinging 

in  the  sun. 

As  I  mused  I  heard  a  murmur, — it  gi-ew  deep  as  it 
grew  longer — 

Speakers  using  earnest  language —  '  Lady  Geraldine, 
you  would  !  ' 

And  I  heard  a  voice  that  pleaded  ever  on,  in  accents 
stron2;er 

As  a  sense  of  reason  gave  it  power  to  make  its  rhe- 
toric good. 

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  grandeur  by 

a  bow. 

High  straight  forehead,  nose  of  eagle,  cold  blue  eyes, 

of  less  expression 
Than  resistance,  coldly  casting  off  the  looks  of  other 

men. 
As  steel,  arrows, — unelastic  lips,  which  soem  to  taste 

possession, 
And  be  cautious  lest  the  common  air  should  injure  or 

distrain. 


154  LADY     GBRALDINE'S 

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. 

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. 

And  that  voice,  I  heard  it  pleading,  for  love's  sake — 

for  wealth,  position. 
For  the  sake  of  liberal  uses,  and  great  actions  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.' 

'  Ah,  that  white  hand,'  he  said  quickh'^, — and  in  his 

ho  either  drew  it 
Or  attempted — for  with  gravity  and   instance  she 

replied — 


COURTSHIP.  155 

*  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.  ' 


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.' 

There,  I  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  despau:  sub- 
limes to  power  ? 

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  skiea 

grow  ruddy 
With  the  deepening  feet  of  angels,  and  I  knew  what 

epu'its  can. 


156  LADY     GERALDINE'S 

I  was  mad — iuspired — 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. 

He  had  left  her, — peradventure,  when   my  footstep 

proved  my  coming — 
But  for  her — she  half  arose,  then  sat — 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  ? 

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. 

I  plucked  up  her  social  fictions,  bloody-rooted  though 
leaf-verdant, 

Trod  them  down  with  words  of  shaming, — aU  the  pur- 
ple   and  the  gold, 


COURTSHIP.  J51 

A.11    the    'landed    stakes'   and    lordships — all   that 

spirits  pure  and  ardent 
Are  cast  out  of  love  and  honor  because  chancins 

not  to  hold. 

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. 

'  Yet,  O  God,'  1  said,  '  0  grave,'  1  said,  '  O  mother's 

heai't  and  bosom, 
With  whom  first  and  last  are  equal,  saint  and  corpse 

and  little  child  ! 
We  are  fools  to  your  deductions,  in  tnese  figments 

of  heart-closing ! 
We  are  traitors  to  your  causes,  in  these  sympathies 

defiled ! 

'Learn  more  reverence,  madam,  not  for  rank  or 
wealth — that  needs  no  learning ; 

jt7iat  comes  quickly — quick  as  sin  does,  ay,  and  cul- 
minates to  sin ; 

But  for  Adam's  seed,  man  !  Trust  me,  'tis  a  clay 
above  your  scorning, 

With  God's  image  stamped  upon  it,  and  God's 
kindling  breath  within. 

VOL.  IT.  —14 


I5K  LADY    GERALUINB'S 

*  What   right   have   you,   madam,  gazing  m   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  gayly 
You  will  wed  no  man  that's  only  good  to  God, — and 

nothing  more  1 

'  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, 

'  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  Parias  of  the  outer  world,  forbidden  to  as- 

soil  them 
In  the  hope  of   living,    dying,   near  that  sweetness 

of  your  mouth  1 

'  Have   you   any  answer,    madam  ?     If  my   spirit 

were  less  earthly, 
If  its  instrument  were  gifted   with  a  better  silver 

string, 


COURTSHIP.  159 

I  would  kneel  down  where  I  stand,  and  say Behold 

me  !  I  am  worthy 
Of  thy  loving,  for  I  love   thee  !    I   am  worthy  as  a 

king. 

'  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  impotent  dis- 
dain !  ' 

More  mad  words  like  these — more  madness  !  friend, 

I  need  not  write  them  fuller ; 
And  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. 

But  at  last  there  came  a  pause.     I  stood  all  vibrating 

with  thunder 
Which  my  soul  had  used.    The  silence  drew  her  face 

up  hke  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. 


160  LADY     GERALDINE'S 

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, 
'  Sir,  you  are  my  guest,  and  therefore  I  have  given 

you  a  full  hearing — 
Now,  beseech  you,  choose  a  name  exacting  somewhat 

less  instead' — 

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, — 
A.nd  her  gentleness  destroyed  me  whom  her  scorn 

made  desolate. 

So,  struck  backward  and  exhausted  by  that  inward 
flow  of  passion 

Which  had  rushed  on,  sparing  nothing,  into  forms  of 
abstract  truth. 

With  a  logic  agonizing  through  unseemly  demon- 
stration, 

And  with  youth's  own  anguish  turning  grimly  gray 
the  hairs  of  youth, — 

By  the  sense  accursed  and  instant,  that  if  even  1 

spake  wisely 
I  spake  basely — using  truth, — if  what  I  spake  indeed 

was  true — 


COURTSHIP.  Ibl 

To  avenge  wi'ong  on  a  woman — Aer,  who  sat  there 

weighing  nicely 
A  full  manhood's  worth,  found  guilty  of  such  deeds 

as  I  could  do  ! — 

With  such  wrong  and  wo  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 — 

So  I  fell,  struck  down  before  her  !  Do  you  blame  me 

friend,  for  weakness  ? 
'Twas  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. 

Oh,  of  course,  she   charged  her  lacqueys  to -bear  out 

the  sickly  burden, 
And  to  cast  it  from  her  scornful  sight — but  not  beyond 

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. 


1C2  LADYGERALDINE'S 

But  for  me — you  now  are  conscious  why,  my  friend,  1 

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. 

When  the  sun  has  dyed  the    oriel,  I  depart  with  no 

last  gazes, 
No  weak  meanings — one  word  only  left  in  writing 

for  her  hands, 
Out  of  reach  of  all  derision,  and  some  unavailing 


praises, 
ont  agai 
foreign  lands. 


To  make  front  against  this  anguish  in  the  far  and 


o 


Blame  me  not.  I  would  not  squander  life  in  grief — 1 

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. 


I 


COURTSHIP.  163 

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   unwritten 

thoughts  of  grief. 

Soh!  how  still  the  lady  standeth  !  'tis  a  dream — a 
dream  of  mercies ! 

'Twixt  the  purple  lattice-curtains,  how  she  standeth 
still  and  pale ! 

'Tis  a  vision,  sure,  of  mercies,  sent  to  soften  his  self- 
curses — 

Sent  to  sweep  a  patient  quiet  o'er  the  tossing  of  his 
wail, 

'  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  ?" 


[64  LADY     GERALDINE'S 

With  a  murmurous  stir  uncertain,  in  the  air,  the 
purple  curtain 

Swelleth  in  and  swelleth  out  around  her  motionless 
pale  brows  ; 

While  the  gliding  of  the  river  sends  a  rippling  noise 
for  ever 

Throu"-h  the  open  casement  whitened  by  the  moon- 
light'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.' 

Ever,  evermore  the  while  in  a  slow  silence  she  kept 
smiling. 

And  approached  him  slowly,  slowly,  in  a  gliding  mea- 
sured pace ; 

With  her  two  white  hands  extended,  as  if  praying  one 
offended, 

And  a  look  of  supplication,  gazing  earnest  in  his 
face. 

Said  he —  '  Wake  me  by  no  gesture, — sound  of  breath, 
or  stir  of  vesture  ; 

Lot  the  blessed  apparition  melt  not  yet  to  its  di- 
vine ! 


COURTSHIP.  J66 

No  approaching — hush  !    no  breathing  !    or  my  heart 

must  swoon  to  death  in 
That  too  utter  life  thou  bringest — 0  thou  dream  of 

Geraldine  !  ' 

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,  truly  love   me  ?    Is  no  woman 

far  above  me 
Found  more  worthy  of  thy  poet-heart  than  such  a 

one  as  /.^  ' 

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  di'eam  of  thee  !  ' 


o 


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,  £)he 

softly  told  him, 
'  Bertram,  if  I  say  I  love  thee,  ...  't  is  the  vision 

only  speaks.  ' 


166    LADY    GERALDINE'S    COURTSHIl 

Softened,  quickened  to  adore  her,  on  his  knee  he  fell 

before  her — 
And  she  whispered  low  in  triumph —  '  It  shall  he  as  1 

have  sworn  ! 
Very  rich   he  is    in   virtues, — very    nohle— nobie, 

certes  ; 
And  I  shall  not  blush  in  knowing   that  men  call  him 

lowly  born  I ' 


* 


A  YISION  OF  POETS. 


0  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. 

In  Heavens  aye  I  tell,  may  I  it  obtayne 

By  alms,  by  fasting,  prayer,— by  paine  ? 
Echo.  By  paine. 

Show  me  the  paine,  it  shall  be  undergone: 

1  to  mine  end  will  still  go  on. 

Echo.  Go  on. 

Britannia's  Pastorale. 


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  bead, 

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, 

The  antique  wood-nymphs  scarce  would  di.ra 

To  footprint  o'er,  luid  such  been  there, 


168  A     VISION     OF     POETS. 

And  rather  sit  by  breathlessly, 
With  tears  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, 

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  humour  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  ansrel  had  not  startled  him, 
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 


A     VISION     OF     POETS  161) 

'  Of  some  fair  Dryad  of  old  tales. 
Who  chants  between  the  nightingales, 
And  over  sleep  by  song  prevails  r  ' 

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  gi-ace  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 — 1  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. 

'■  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— 

VOL.  II. — 15 


no  A    VISION     OF     POETS. 

'  Both  these  are  happier,  pore  approved 
Than  poets  ! — Why  should  1  be  moved 
In  saying  both  are  more  beloved  ?  ' 

*  The  south  can  judge  not  of  the  north ;' 
She  resumed  calmly —  '  I  come  forth 
To  crown  all  poets  to  theu-  worth. 

'  Yea,  verily,  and  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, 
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  holy  sweet  the  asphodel 

'  Stirred  softly  by  that  foot  of  his. 
When  he  treads  brave  on  all  that  is, 
Into  the  world  of  souls,  from  this  ! 


A     VISION     OF     POETS.  171 

'  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  ? 

'  Come  on  with  me,  come  on  with  me  ; 
And  learn  in  coming  !     Let  me  free 
Thy  spirit  into  verity.' 

She  ceased :  her  palfrey's  paces  sent 
No  separate  noises  as  she  went, 
'Twas  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'er-swim  the  masses  everywhere  : 

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 

Of  the  large  Heaven- heart,  bare  with  night,-— 


172  A     VISION    OF     POETS. 

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  ; 

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  oflF  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  nea,r  unto, 
Was  bare  of  trees  :  there,  only  grew 
Straight  flags  and  lilies  just  a  few, 

Which  sullen  on  the  water  sat 
And  leant  their  faces  on  the  flat, 
As  weary  of  the  starlight-state. 


A     VISION     OF     POETS.  1-73 

'  Drink,'    said  the  lady,  grave  and  slow, 
'  World's  use  behoveth  thee  to  know.' 
He  drank  the  bitter  wave  below. 

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 
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 
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 : 


174  A    VISION    OF     TOETS. 

And  toads  seem  crawling  on  his  hand, 
And  clinging  bats,  but  dimly  scanned, 
Right  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. 

'  Ay,  ay,'  she  said,   'it  so  must  be' 

(And  this  time  she  spake  cheerfully) 
'  Behoves   thee  know  WorUrs  cruelty!' 

He  bowed  his  forehead  till  his  mouth 
Curved  in  the  wave,  and  drank  unloth, 
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. 
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  spii-it  a  sign  of  covenant  > 

At  last  came  silence.  A  slow  kiss 
Did  crown  his  forehead  after  this : 
His  eyelids  flew  back  for  the  bliss. 


A    VISION     OF    POETS.  175 

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, 

'  Rise  up  !  '  said  she,  with  voice  where  song 
Eddied  through  speech —  '  rise  up  !  be  strocg  ; 
And  learn  how  right  avengeth  wrong.' 

The  poet  rose  up  on  his  feet : 

He  stood  before  an  altar  set 

For  sacrament,  with  vessels  meet, 

And  mystic  altarlights  which  shine 

As  if  their  flames  were  crystaline 

Carved  flames  that  would  not  shrink  or  pine. 

The  altar  filled  the  central  place 

Of  a  great  church,  and  toward  its  face 

Long  aisles  did  shoot  and  interlace. 

And  from  it  a  continuous  mist 
Of  incense  (round  the  edges  kissed 
By  a  yellow  light  of  amethyst) 

Wound  upward  slowly  and  throbbingly. 
Cloud  within  cloud,  right  silverly. 
Cloud  above  cloud,  victoriously, 


116  A     VISION     OF     POETS. 

Broke  full  against  the  arched  roof, 
And,  thence  refracting,  eddied  off, 
And  floated  throuorh  the  marble  woof 

Of  many  a  fine-wrought  architrave, 
Then,  poising  the  white  masses  brave, 
Swept  solemnly  down  aisle  and  nave. 

And  now  in  dark,  and  now  in  light. 

The  countless  columns,  glimmering  white, 

Seemed  leading  out  to  the  Infinite, 

Plunged  half-way  up  the  shaft  they  showed, 
In  that  pale  shifting  incense-cloud 
Which  flowed  them  by,  and  overflowed, 

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  stroncr  aa  Sinai's  Law 


H 


4 


A    VISION     OF     POETS.  177 

They  could  enunciate  and  refrain 

From  vibratory  after-pain  ; 

And  his  brow's  height  was  sovereign — 

On  the  vast  background  of  his  winga 
Arose  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, 

Edging  with  fire  the  shifting  fumes  : 
While  at  his  side,  't  wixt  lights  and  glooms, 
The  phantasm  of  an  organ  booms. 

Extending  from  which  instrument 
And  angel,  right  and  left-vay  l^^nt. 
The  poet's  sight  grew  sentiei^ 

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  : 


\1S  A     VISION     OF     POETS. 

Still  as  a  vision,  yet  exprest 
P^ull  as  an  action — look  and  geste 
Of  buried  saint  in  risen  rest. 

The  poet  knew  them.     Faint  and  dim 
His  spirit  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 
For  truth — the  ends  being  scarcely  two, 

God's  prophets  of  the  Beautiful 
These  poets  were — of  iron  rule, 
The  ruggid  cilix,  serge  of  wool. 

Here  Homer,  with  the  broad  suspense 
Of  thunderous  brows,  and  lips  intense 
Of  garrulous  god-innocence. 

There,  Shakspeare  !  on  whose  forehead  climb 
The  crowns  o'  the  world !  Oh,  eyes  sublime — 
With  tears  and  laughters  for  all  time  ! 

Here,  ^schylus, — 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 

Even  in  the  classes.     Sophocles, 

With  that  king's  look  which  down  the  trees, 

Followed  the  dark  effigies 


n' 


A     VISION     OF     POETS.  179 

Of  the  lost  Theban.    Hesiod  old, 

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 
The  leap,  attaining  the  repose  ' 

Theocritus,  with  glittering  locks 
_  Dropt  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  Thouirht  and  woke 

The  mfinite  echoes  hid  in  each. 

And  Virgil  :  shade  of  Mantuan  beech 

Did  help  the  shade  of  bay  to  reach 

And  knit  around  his  forehead  high. 

For  his  gods  wore  less  majesty 

Than  his  brown  bees  hummed  deathlessly. 

Lucretias — nobler  than  his  mood  : 

Who  dropped  his  plummet  down  the  broad 

Deep  universe,  and  said  '  No  God,' 


ItiU 


A     VISION     OF     POETS 

Findintr  no  bottom  :  he  (Jenied 
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  could  not  learn. 

An  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) 

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  powed  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  without 
The  wreath  he  died  in,  and  the  doubt 

He  died  by,  Tasso  :  bard  and  lover. 
Whose  visions  were  too  thin  to  cover 
The  face  of  a  false  woman  over. 


A    VISION    OF    POET?  181 

And  soft  Eacine, — and  grave  Corneille, 

The  orator  of  rhymes,  -whose  wail 

Scarce  shook  his  purple.     And  Petrarch  pale, 


From  whose  brainlighted  heart  were  thrown 
A  thousand  thoughts  beneath  the  sun, 
Each  lucid  with  the  name  of  One. 


And  Camoens,  with  that  look  he  had, 
Compelling  India's  Genius  sad 
From  the  wave  through  the  Lusiad, 

With  murmurs  of  the  storm-cape  ocean 

Indrawn  in  vibrative  emotion 

Along  the  verse.     And  while  devotion 

Li  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 
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. 

And  Chaucer,  with  his  infantine 
Familiar  clasp  of  things  divine — 
That  mftrk  upon  his  lip  is  wine. 

vol.   ij.  — 16 


IS'> 


A     VISION     OF     POETS. 

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  debonaire 
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— 
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  sheon 

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. 


A    VISION    OF    POETS.  183 

These  poets  faced,  and  many  more, 

The  lighted  altar  looming  o'er 

The  clouds  of  Incense  dim  and  hoar : 

And  all  their  faces,  in  the  lull 

Of  natural  tlnngs,  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  fo,v,t^ 

Drop  after  drop — dropped  heavily 
As  century  follows  century 
Into  the  deep  eternity. 

Then  said  the  lady, — and  her  word 

Came  distant, — as  wide  waves  were  stirred 

Between  her  and  the  ear  that  heard : 

'  Wbrld^s  use  is  cold,  world's  love  is  vain. 
World's  cruelty  is  bitter  bane ; 
But  pain  is  not  the  fruit  of  pain. 

'  Harken,  O  poet,  whom  I  led 

From  the  dark  wood  !     Dismissing  dreo'i. 

Now  hear  this  angel  in  my  stead  : 


184  A    VISION    OF    POETS. 

'  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  vapoury  rack, 

'  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. 


A     VISION     OF     POETS.  185 

'  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, 

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  betwixt 
The  incomplete  and  the  unfixed : 

And  therein  mighty  minds  were  heard 
In  mighty  musings,  inly  stirred. 
And  struggling  outward  for  a  word. 

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. 
Which  cleft  (as  flying  swan,  the  rain, — 
Throwing  the  drops  off^  with  a  strain 


186  A     VISION     OF     POETS. 

Of  her  white  wing)  those  undertones 
Of  pdrplext  chords,  and  soared  at  once 
And  struck  out  from  the  starry  thronea 

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 — 
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, 
ToUins:  the  silence  as  a  bell. 


o 


The  sovran  angel  lifted  high 
His  hand  and  spake  out  sovranly — 
'  Tried  poets,  hearken  and  reply !  [ 

'  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, — 


A    VISION    OF     POETS.  197 

*  If  as  two  colors  must  ba  viewed 

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 — 

*  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  0'  the  wood,  and  liea 
Wedged  deepest  in  the  best : — if  eyes 
That  look  for  visions  and  surprise 

*  From  influent  angels,    must  shut  down 
Their  lids  first,  upon  sun  and  moon, 
The  head  asleep  upon  a  stone, — 

'  If  One  who  did  redeem  you  back, 
By  His  own  loss  from  final  wrack. 
Did  consecrate  by  touch  and  track 

'  Those  temporal  sorrows,  till  the  taste 
Of  brackish  waters  of  the  waste 
Is  salt  with  tears  He  dropt  too  fast, — 


188  A     VISION     OF    POETS. 

'  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 
This  baptism  in  salt  water  ? — choose 
Calm  breasts,  mute  lips,  and  labor  loose  ? 

'  Or,  oh  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 — 
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 

As  if  the  roof  were  off,  and  all 
Stood  in  the  noon-sun, —  '  Lo !  I  call 
To  other  hearts  as  liberal. 


A     VISION     OF     POETS.  lg<> 

'  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 !  ' 

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 — 
And  one  did  pillow  chin  on  breast. 

Right  languid — an  as  he  should  faint ' 
One  shook  his  curls  across  his  paint. 
And  moralized  on  wordly  taint. 

One,  slanting  up  his  face,  did  wink 
The  salt  rheum  to  the  eyelid's  brink. 
To  think — 0  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. 


190  A     VISION    OF     POETS. 

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 
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 
With  Homer's  forehead — though  he  lacked 
An  inch  of  anv  .     And  one  racked 


His  lower  lip  with  restless  tooth. 
As  Pindar's  rushing  words  forsooth 
Were  pent  behind  it.     One,  his  smooth 

Pink  checks,  did  rumple  passionate, 

*  I  ike  ^schylus — and  tried  to  prate 

On  trolling  tongue,  of  fate  and  fate : 


i 


A     VISION     OF     POETS.  191 

One  set  her  eyes  like  Sappho's — or 
Any  light  woman's  !  one  forbore 
Like  Dante,  or  any  man  as  poor 

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. 
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  roU 

*  Adjusted  concords — soft  enow 

To  hear  the  wine  cups  passing,  through. 
And  not  too  grave  to  spoil  the  show. 

'  Thou,  certes,  when  thou  askest  more, 
0  sapient  angel,  leanest  o'er 
The  window-sill  of  metaphor. 


192  A     VJSION     OF     POETS. 

'  To  give  our  hearts  up  '  fie  ! — That  rage 
Barbaric    antedates  the  age  : 
It  is  uot  done  on  any  stage. 

'  Because  your  scald  or  gleeman  went 
With  seven  or  nine-strinojed  instrument 
Upon  his  back — must  ours  be  bent .'' 

'  ^Ve  are  not  pilgrims,  by  your  leave, 
r*f o,  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 
And  dead  true  poets  flushed  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, — 
VV^jat  time  the  ans^el's  smile  did  draw 


A     VISION     OF     POETS.  193 

His  gazing  upward.     Smiling  on, 
The  angel  in  the  angel  shone, 
Revealing  glory  in  benizon. 

Till,  ripened  in  the  light  which  shut 
The  poet  in,  his  spirit  mute 
Dropped  sudden,  as  a  perfect  fruit 

He  i'ell  before  the  angel's  feet, 
Saying —  '  If  what  is  true  is  sweet. 
In  something  I  may  compass  it. 

'  For  where  my  worthiness  is  poor, 
My  will  stands  richly  at  the  door, 
To  pay  shoi't  comings  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 
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  oriflamrae. 

'  I  only  would  have  leave  to  loose 
(In  tears  and  blood,  if  so  He  choose) 
Mine  inward  music  out  to  use. 

VOL.  II. — 17 


I9i  A     VISION     OF     POETS. 

'  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. 

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 
No  certain  count  of  things  behind. 

1  saw  alone,  dim,  white  and  grand 
As  in  a  dream,  the  angel's  hand 
Strctchi'd  forth  in  gesture  of  command 


A    VISION     OF    POETS.  19o 

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  rejoined 
In  concords  of  mysterious  kind 
Which  fused  togethex  sense  and  mind , 

Now  flashing  sharp  on  sharp  along 
Exultant  in  a  mounting  throng, — 
Now  dying  off"  to  a  low  song 

Fed  upon  minors, — wavelike  sounds 
Re-eddying  into  silver  rounds, 
Enlarging  liberty  with  bounds. 

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  Brochen  mist,  and  with  as  brave 
Wild  roaring)  arch  and  architrave, 

Aisle,  transept,  column,  marble  wall, — 
Then  swelling  outward,  prodigal 
Of  aspiration  beyond  thrall. 


196  A     VISION     OF     POETS. 

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  brio-ht  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, — 

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 

His  spirit  with  the  sense  of  things 
Sensual  and  present.  Vanishings 
Of  glory,  with  jEolian  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,  a§  a  star  might  do, 
Still  smiling  as  she  melted — slow  : 


A     VISION     OF     POETS.  197 

Smiling  so  slow,  he  seemed  to  see 
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  entanded  skein  being  wound, 

He  knew  the  moorland  of  his  swound, 

And  the  pale  pools  that  seared  the  ground, — 

The  far  wood-pines,  like  offing  ships — 
The  fourth  pool's  yew  anear  him  drips — 
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. 
And  mild  delightsome  melancholy. 

He  journeyed  homeward  through  the  wood, 

And  prayed  along  the  solitude. 

Betwixt  the  pines,—  '  O  God,  my  God  !  ' 

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  ! 


198  A    VISION     OF     POETS. 

'  And  thougli  we  must  haye,  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— 
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  leafiness  profound 
A  wind  scarce  old  enough  for  sound 

Stood  ready  to  blow  on  me  when 

1  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. 

Yet  morning  souls  did  leap  and  run 
In  all  things,  as  the  least  had  won 
A  joyous  insight  of  the  sun. 


A    VISION     OF     POETS.  199 

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  I 

A  breezy  noise,  which  is  not  breeze ! 
And  white-clad  children  by  degrees 
Steal  out  in  troops  among  the  trees  ; 

Fair  little  children,  mornine-brisfht 
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 

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. 


200  A.     VISION     OF     POETS. 

I  called  the  child  to  no e,  and  said, 

*  What  are  your  palms  for  ? ' —  '  To  be  spread,' 
He  answered,   '  on  a  poet  dead. 

*  The  poet  died  last  month  ;  and  now 

The  world  which  had  been  somewhat  slow 
In  hoiiorini;  hisi  living  brow, 

'  Commands  the  palms — 'J'hey  must  be  strown 
On  his  new  marble  very  soon.   . 
In  a  procession  of  the  town.' 

J  sighed  and  said,    '  Did  he  foresee 
Any  such  honor  ?  '      *  Verily 
I  cannot  tell  you,'  answered  he. 

*  But  this  I  know, — I  fain  would  lay 
Mine  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 
His  eyes  illumined  and  amazed 

'  With  the  world's  beauty,  up  to  God, 
Re-offering  on  their  iris  broad, 
The  iraa<;es  of  thinars  bestowed 

'  By  the  chief  Poet,—'  God  !'  he  cried, 
'  Be  praised  for  anguish,  which  has  tried  j 
For  beauty,  which  has  satisfied  :  — 


A     VISION     OF     POETS.  201 

'  For  this  world's  presence,  half  within 
And  half  without  me — sound  and  scene — 
This  sense  of  Beina;  and  Havini'  been. 

'  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  1  speak, 
And  I  am  strons;  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. 
That  Images  of  fair  and  sweet 
Should  walk  to  other  men  on  it. 

'  1  am  content  to  feel  tbe  step 
Of  eacb  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 
And  I  am  blessed  to  my  mind. 

'  Gifted  for  giving,  I  receive 
The  may  thorn,  and  its  scent  outgive ! 
1  grieve  not  that  I  once  did  grieve. 


202  A     VISION     OF     POETS. 

'  In  my  large  joy  of  sight  9,nd  toucli 
Beyond  what  others  count  for  such, 
I  am  content  to  suffer  much. 

'  /  know — is  all  the  mourner  saith. 
Knowledge  by  suffering  entereth  ; 
And  life  is  perfected  by  Death !'  ' 

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  gi-ace 
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 
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, 
Eauh  with  a  palin-bough  in  hia  hand. 


A    VISION     OF     POETS.  203 

*  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, 
This  bridge  of  Death,  which  is  not  wide — 
1  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, 
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.?' 


204  A     VISION     OF    POETS. 

'  /,'  softly  said  the  child  ;  and  then, 
'  /,'  said  he  louder,  once  again. 
'  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. 

'  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  hath  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 
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!' 


EHTME  OF  THE  DUCHESS  MAY. 

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.' 

Six  abeles  i'  the  churchyard  grow  on  the  northside  in  a 
row,  Toll  slowly . 

And  the  shadows  of  their  tops   rock  across  the  little 
slopes 

Of  the  grassy  graves  below. 

On  the  south  side  and  the  west,  a  small  river  runs  in 
haste.  Toll  slowly. 

And  between  the  river  flowing    and  the  fair  green 
trees  a  growing 

Do  the  dead  lie  at  their  rest. 

On   the   east   I  sate  that  day,  up   against  a   wihow 

gray:  Toll  slowly. 

Through  the  rain  of  willow-branches,  I  could  sec  the 
low  hill-ranges, 

And  the  river  on  its  way. 

voj..  u. — 18 


206     RHYME    OF    THE    DUCHESS    MAY. 

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. 

There,  I  read  this  ancient  rhyme,  while  the  beU  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. 

Broad  the  forest  stood  (I  read)  on  the  hills  of  Linte- 
ged —  Toll  slowly . 

And  three  hundred  years  had  stood    mute  adown 
each  hoary  wood. 

Like  a  full  heart  having  prayed. 

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. 

Down  the  sun  dropt    large  and  red,  on  the  towers  of 
Lintcged, —  Toll  slowly. 

Lance  and  spear  upon    the   height,  bristling  strange 
in  fiery  light. 

While  the  castle  stood  in  shade. 


RHYME    OF    THE    DUCHESS    MAY.    207 

There,  the  castle  stood  up  black,  with  the  red  sun  at 
its  back,—  Toll  slowly. 

Like  a  sullen  smouldering  pyre,  with  a  top  that  flick- 
ers fire. 

When  the  wind  is  on  its  track. 

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. 

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.' 

Oh,  a  bride  of  queenly  eyes,  with  a  front  of  con- 
stancies,—  Toll  slowly . 

Oh,  a  bride  of  cordial  mouth, — where  the  uutired 
smile  of  youth 

Did  light  outward  its  own  sighs. 

'Twas  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. 

But  what  time  she  had  made  good  all  her  years  of 
womanhood,  Toll  slowly . 


208     RHYME    OF    THK    DUCHESS    MAY. 

Unto  both  those  Lords  of  Leigh,  spake  she  out  right 
sovranly, 

'  My  will  runneth  as  my  blood. 

'  And  while  this  same  blood  makes  red  this  same  right 
hand's  veins,'   she  said, —         Toll  slowly  . 

'  'Tis  my  will    as  lady  free,  not  to  wed  a  Lord  of 
Leigh, 

But  Sir  Guy  of  Linteged.' 

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.' 

She,  too,  smiled  by  that  same  sign, — ^but  her  smile 
was  cold  and  fine, —  Toll  slowly  . 

'  Little  hand  clasps  muckle  gold  j    or  it  were  not 
worth  the  hold 

Of  thy  son,  good  uncle  mine  !  ' 

Then   the  young  lord  jerked  his  breath,  and  sware 
thickly  in  his  teeth.  Toll  slowly . 

'  He  would  wed  his  own  betrothed,  an  she  loved  hia 
an  she  loathed. 

Let  the  life  come  or  the  death.' 

Up  she  rose  with  scornful  eyes,  as  her  father'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 


RHYME    OF    THE     DUCHESS    MAY.     209 

*  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.  ' 

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. 

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. 

Fast  and  fain  the    kinsmen's    train    along  the  storm 
pursued  amain —  Toll  slowly . 

Steed  on  steed-track,  dashing  off— thickening,  doub- 
ling hoof  on  hoof. 

In  the  pauses  of  the  rain. 

And  the  bridegroom  led  the  flight    on  his  red-roan 
steed  of  might.  Toll  slotoly  . 

And  the  bride  lay  on  his  arm,  still,  as  if  she  feared  no 
harm, 

Smiling  out  into  the  night. 

'  Dost  thou  fear  ?  '  he  said  at  last ;— '  Nay  !  '  she 
answered  him  in  haste, —         Toll  slowly . 


210    RHYME    OF    THE    DUCHESS    MAY. 

*  Not  such  death  as  we  could  find — only  life  with  one 
behind — 

Ride  on  fast  as  fear — ride  fast !  ' 

Up  the  mountain  wheeled  the  steed — girth  to  ground, 
and  fetlocks  spread, —  Toll  slowly . 

Headlong  bounds,  and  rocking  flanks, — down  he  stag- 
gered— down  the  banks. 
To  the  towers  of  Linteged. 

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. 

On  the  steed  she  dropt  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. 

But  a  three  months'  joyaunce  lay  'twixt  that  moment 
and  to-day.  Toll  sloioly  . 

When  five  hundred  archers  tall  stand  beside  the  cas- 
tle wall. 

To  recapture  Duchess  May. 

And  the  castle  standeth  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. 


RHYxME    OF    THE    DUCHESS    MAY.     211 

Then  the  captain,  young  Lord  Leigh,  with  his  eyes  so 
gray  of  blee,  Toll  sloioly  . 

And  thin  lips    that  scarcely  sheath  the  cold  white 
gnashing  of  his  teeth, 

Gnashed  in  smiling,  absently. 

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, 

'Twill  be  through  a  foot  of  clay. 

'  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  ven- 
geance oath. 

And  the  other  may  come  round. 

*  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. 

'  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. 

O'er  his  fixed  and  silent  mouth,  thou  and  I  will  call 
back  troth.  Toll  slowly. 


212     RHYME    OF    THE    DUCHESS    MAY. 

He  shall  altar  be  and  priest, — and  he  will  not  crj 
at  least 

'  I  forbid  you — I  am  loath !' 

*  I  will  wring  thy  fingers  pale  in  the  gauntlet  of  my 
mail,  Toll  slowly . 

'  Little  hand  and  muckle  gold '  close  shall  lie  within 
my  hold. 

As  the  sword  did  to  prevail.  ' 

O  the  little  birds  sang  east,  and  the  little  birds  sang 
west,  Toll  slowly. 

O,  and  laughed  the  Duchess  May,  and  her  soul  did 
put  away 

All  his  boasting,  for  a  jest. 

In  her  chamber  did  she  sit,  laughing  low  to  think  of 
it, —  Toll  sloivly. 

'  Tower  is  strong  and  will  is  free — thou  canst  boast, 
my  lord  of  Leigh, 

But  thou  boastest  little  wit.  ' 

In  her  tire-glass  gazed  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  !  ' 

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. 


RHYME    OF    THE    DUCHESS    MAY.     213 

"■  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  thfi  foe  at  bay. 

'  On  your  arms  I  loose  my  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  !  ' 

0,  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. 

With  a  spirit-laden  weight,  did  he  lean  down  passion- 
ate. Toll  slowly. 

They  have  almost  sapped  the  wall, — they  will  enter 
there  withal. 

With  no  knocking  at  the  gate. 

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  ! 

'  Sword,  thy  nobler  use  is  done  ! — tower  is  lost,  and 
shame  begun  ;—  Toll  slowly . 


214     RHYME    Of    THE    DUCHESS    MAY. 

If  we  met  them  in  the  breach,  hilt  to  hilt  or  speech 
to  speech, 

We  should  die  there,  each  for  one. 

'  If  we  met  them  at  the  wall,  we  should  singly,  vainly 
fall, —  Toll  slowly . 

But  if  /  die  here  alone, — then  I  die,  who  am  but 
one. 

And  die  nobly  for  them  all. 

'  Five  true  friends  lie  for  my  sake — in  the  moat  and 
in  the  brake,  —  Toll  slowly. 

Thirteen  wai*riors  lie  at  rest,  with  a  black  wound  in 
the  breast, 

And  not  one  of  these  will  wake. 

*  And  no  more  of  this  shall  be  ! — heart-blood  weighs 

too  heavily —  Toll  slowly . 

And  1  could  not  sleep  in  grave,  with  the  faithful  and 
the  brave 

Heaped  around  and  over  me. 

'  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 — 

'  These  shall  never  die  for  me — life-blood  falls  too 
heavily  :  Toll  slowly . 

And  if  /  die  here  apart, — o'er  my  dead  and  silenl 
heart 

They  shall  pass  out  safe  and  free. 


RHYME    OF    THE    DUCHESS    MAY.     215 

'  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. 

'  Then  my  friends  shall  pass  out  free,  and  shall  bear 
my  memory, —  Toll  slowly. 

Then  my  foes  shall   sleek  their   pride,  soothing  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  underneath  her 
fainting  head 

While  her  tears  drop  over  it. 

'  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. 

'  Ah,  sweet  May — ah,  sweetest  grief! — once  I  vowed 
thee  my  belief,  Toll  slowly . 

That  thy  name  expressed  thy   sweetness, — May  of 
poets,  in  completeness ! 

Now  my  May-day  seeraeth  brief.' 

All  these  silent  thoughts  did  swun  o'er  his  eyes  grown 
strange  and  dim , —  Toll  slowly . 


216     RHYME    OF    THE    DUCHESS    MAY. 

Till  his  true  men  in  the  place,  wished  thej  stood  there 
face  to  face 

With  the  foe  instead  of  him. 

'  One  last  oath,  my  friends   that  wear  faithful  hearts 
to  do  and  dare  ! —  Toll  slowly . 

Tower  must  fall,  and  bride  be  lost ! — swear  me  ser- 
vice worth  the  cost,  ' 

— Bold  they  stood  around  to  swear. 

'  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. 

'  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  aU, 

Guide  him  up  the  turret-stair. 

'  Ye  shall  harness  him  aright,  and  lead  upward  to 

this  height !  Toll  slowly . 

Once  in  love  and  twice  in  war,  hath  he  borne  me 
strong  and  far, 

He  shall  bear  me  far  to-night.  ' 

Then  his  men  looked  to  and  fro,  when  they  heard 
him  speaking  so.  Toll  slowly . 

• —  '  'Las  !  the  noble  heart, '  they  thought, — •  '  ho  in 
sootli  is  grief-distraught. 

Would,  we  stood  here  with  the  foe  !  ' 


iJHYMB    OF    THE    DUCHESS    MAY.     217 

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.  ' 

They  have  fetclied  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. 

Then  from  out  her  bower-chambere,  did  the  Duchess 
May  repair.  Toll  slowly  . 

'  Tell  me  now  what  js  your  need,'    said  the  lady,   '  of 
this  steed. 

That  ye  goad  him  up  the  stair  ?  ' 

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. 

'  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. 

Ge'  thee  in,  sweet  lady,  and  pray 

'  In  the  east  tower,  high'st  of  all, — loud  he  cries  foi 
steed  from  stall.  Toll  slowly  . 

VOL.   II. —  ID 


2J8     RHYME    OF    THE    DUCHESS    MAY. 

He  would  ride  as  far,'  quoth  he,  '  as  for  love  aud 
victory, 

Though  he  rides  the  castle-waU.' 

'  And  we  fetch  the  steed  from  stall,  up  where  uever 

a  hoof  did  fall. —  Toll  slowly  . 

Wifely  prayer  meets  deathly  need  !  may  the  sweet 
Heavens  hear  thee  plead. 
If  he  rides  the  castle-wall.  ' 

Low  she  dropt  her  head,  and  lower,  till  her  hair  coiled 
on  the  floor, —  Toll  slowly . 

And  tear  after  tear  you  heard    fall  distinct  as  an^ 
word 

Which  you  might  be  listening  for. 

'  Get  thee  in.  thou  soft  ladie  ! — here  is  never  a  place 
for  thee  ! —  Toll  slowly  . 

Braid  thy  hair  and  clasp  thy  gown,  that  thy  beauty 
in  its  moan 

May  find  grace  with  Leigh  of  Leigh.  ' 

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. 

And  her  foot  trod  in,  with  pride,  her  own  tears  i'  the 
si.  >ne  beside, —  Toll  slowly . 

'  Go  to,  faithful  friends,  go  to  ! — Judge  no  more  what 
ladies  do, — 

No,  nor  how  their  lords  may  ride  !  * 


RHYME    OF    THE    DUCHESS    MAY.     219 

Then  the  good  steed's  rein  she  took,  and  his  neck  did 
kiss  and  stroke  :  Toll  sloivly  . 

Soft  he  neighed  to  answer  her ;  and  then  followed  up 
the  stair, 

For  the  love  of  her  sweet  look. 

Oh,  and  steeply,  steeply  wound  up  the  narrow  stair 
around, —  Toll  slowly. 

Oh,  and  closely,  closely  speeding,  step  by  step  beside 
her  treading. 

Did  he  follow,  meek  as  hound. 

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 ! 

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. 

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 
bteed — 

But  no  more  of  my  noble  wife. ' 

Quoth  she,    '  Meekly  have  I  done  all  thy  biddings 
under  sun  :  Toll  slowly . 


220     KHYMB    OF    THE    DUCHESS    MAY. 

But  by    all   my   womanhood, — which  is  proved  tso, 
true  and  good, 

I  will  never  do  this  one. 

'  Now  by   womanhood's  degree,  and  by  wifehood's 
verity,  Toll  slowly . 

In  this  hour  if  thou  hast  need  of  thy  noble  red-roan 
steed, 

Thou  hast  also  need  of  me. 

'  By  this  golden  ring  ye  see  on   this   lifted   hand 
pai'die,  Toll  slowly . 

If  this  hour,  on  castle-wall,  can  be  room  for  steed 
from  stall, 

Shall  be  also  room  for  me 

'  So  the  sweet  saints  with  me  be  '   (did  she  utter 
solemnly,)  Toll  slowly . 

'  If  a  man,  this  eventide,   on  this  castle-wall   will 
ride, 

He  shall  ride  the  same  with  me.  ' 

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  ^  ' 

She   clang  closer   to  his  knee — '  Ay,  beneath  the 
cypress-tree  ! —  Toll  slowly 

Mock   me   not :    for    otherwhere      than    alon";   tne 
gi-een-wood  fair, 

Have  I  ridden  fast  with  thee  ! 


RHYME    OF    THE    DUCHESS    MAY.     22» 

•   Fast  I  rode   with  new-made  vows,  from  my  angry 
kinsman's  house  I  Toll  dowhj  . 

What  !    and   would  you    men    should  reck     that  I 
dared  more  for  love's  sake 
As  a  bride  than  as  a  spouse  ? 

'  What,  and  would  you  it  should  fall,  as  a  proverb, 
before  all.  Toll  slowly  . 

That    a  bride  may  keep  your  side    while   through 
castlegate  you  ride, 

Yet  eschew  the  castle-wall  ?  ' 

Ho  !  the  breach  yawns  into  ruin,  and  roars  up  against 

her  suing, —  Toll  sloioly . 

With  the  inarticulate  din,  and  the  dreadful  falling  in — 
Shrieks  of  doinfj  and  undoing  ! 


o 


Twice  he  wi'ung  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  ! 

Evermore  the  foeman  pour  through  the  crash  of  win- 
dow and  door, —  Toll  slowly. 

And  the  shouts  of  Leigh  and  Leigh,  and  the  shrieks 
of    '  kill !  '   and    '  flee !  ' 

Strike  up  clear  amid  the  roar. 

Thrice  he  wrung  her   hands  in    twain, — but    they 
closed  and  clung  again, —         Toll  slowly . 


2'22     RHYME    OF    THE    DUCHESS    MAY. 

Wild  she  clung,  as  one,  withstood,  clasps  a  Christ 
upon  the  rood, 

In  a  spasm  of  deathly  pain. 

She  clung  wild  and  she  clung  mute, — with  her  shud- 
dering 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. 

Back  he  reined  his  steed  back-thrown  on  the  slippery 
coping-stone.  Toll  slowly. 

Back  the  iron  hoofs  did  grind  on  the  battlement 
behind. 

Whence  a  hundred  feet  went  down. 

And  his  heel  did  press  and  goad  on  the  quivering 
flank  bestrode.  Toll  slowly. 

'  Friends   and   brothers,   save   my  wife ! — Pardon, 
sweet,  in  change  for  life, — 
But  I  ride  alone  to  God.' 

Straight  as  if  the  Holy  name  had  upbreathed  her 
like  a  flame.  Toll  slowly. 

She  upsprang,  she  rose  upright, — in  his  selle  she  sate 
in  sight; 

By  her  love  she  overcame. 

And  her  head  was  on  his  breast,  where  she  smiled  as 
one  at  rest, —  Toll  slowly. 

'  Ring,'  she  cried,  '  0  vesper-bell,  in  the  beech-wood's 
old  chapelle ! 

But  the  passing-bell  rings  best.' 


RHYME   OP  THE   DUCHESS   MAY.     223 

Tiiev  have  caualit  out  at  the  rein,  wliicli  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. 


Now  he  hanirs,  he  rocks  between — and  his  nostrils 
curdle  in, —  Toll  slowly. 

And  he  shivers  head  and  hoof — and  the  flake*  of 
foam  fall  otf ; 

And  his  face  grows  fierce  and  thin  ! 


And  a  look  of  human  woe  from  his  staring  eyes  did 

CTO  Toll  slowly  ■ 

And  a  sharp  cry  uttered  he,  in  a  foretold  agony 
Of  the  headlong  death  below, — 

And, '  Ring,  ring, — thou  passing-bell,'  still  she  crie  ., 
'  i'  tlie  old  chapelle  !' —  Toll  slowly. 

Then  back-toppling,  crashing  back — a  dead  weigl  - 
flunk  out  to  wrack. 

Horse  and  riders  overfell ! 


Oh,  the  little  birds  sang  east,  and  the  little  birds  sang 
west,—  ^0^^  «^««'^y  - 

And  I  read   this   ancient   Rhyme,  in  the  churchyard, 
while  the  chime 

Slowly  tolled  for  one  at  rest 


224     RHYME    OF    THE    DUCHESS     M  A \  . 

The  abeles  moved  in  the  sun,  and  the  rivev  smooth 
did  run,  Tollslovdy . 

And  the  ancient  Rhyme  rang  strange,  with  its  passion 
and  its  change, 

Here,  where  all  done  lay  undone. 

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 

Then,  O  Spirits — did  I  say — ye  who  rode  so  fast  that 
day, —  Toll  slowly. 

Did  star-wheels  and  angel-wings,  with  their  holy  win- 
nowings. 

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, — 

Now,  your  will  is  all  unwilled — now  your  pulses  are 
all  stilled, —  Toll  slowly  . 

NoWj  ye  lie  as  meek  and  mild   (whereso   laid)    as 
Maud  the  child. 

Whose  small  grave  was  lately  filled. 

Beating  heart  and  burning  brow,  ye  are  very  patient 
now.  Toll  slowly. 


IIHYME    OF    THE    DUCHESS    MAY.     225 

And  the  children  might  be  bold  to  pluck  the    king- 
cups from  your  mould 

Fro  a  month  had  let  them  grow 

And  you  let  the  goldfinch  sing  in  the  alder  near  in 
spring,  Toll  slovdy . 

Let  her  build  her  nest  and  sit  all  the  three  weeks  out 
on  it, 

Mui-muring  not  at  anything. 

In  your  patience  ye  are  strong ;  cold  and  heat  ye  take 

not  wrong:  Toll  slowly. 

When  the  trumpet  of  the  angel  blows  eternity's  evangel, 

Time  wiU  seem  to  you  not  long. 

Oh,  the  little  birds  sang  east,  and  the  little  birds  sang 
west.  Toll  slowly . 

And  I  said  inunderbreath, — all  our  life  is  mixed  with 
death, 

And  who  knoweth  which  is  best } 

Oh,  the  little  birds  sang  east,  and  the  little  biids  sang 
west,  Toll  slowly . 

And  I  smiled  to  think  God's  greatness  flowed  around 
our  incompleteness, — 

Kound  cm-  restlessness,  His  rest. 


THE   POET  AND   THE   BIRD. 

A    FABLE. 

Said  a  people  to  a  poet — '  Go  out  from  among  us 
straightway  ! 
While  we  arc-  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 !  ' 

The  poet  went  out  weeping — the  nightingale  ceased 
chanting ; 
"  Now,  wherefore,  0  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.' 

The  poet  went  out  weeping, — and  died  abroad,  bereft 
,       there — 

The  bird  flew  to  his  grave  and   died  amid  a  thou- 
sand 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  night- 
ingale's .' 


THE  LOST  JBOAVER. 

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  ! 

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. 

There  is  one  hill  I  see  nearer, 
In  my  vision  of  the  rest ; 
And  a  little  wood  seems  clearer. 
As  it  climbeth  from  the  west, 
Sideway  from  the  tree-locked  valley,  to  the  airy  up- 
land oi-est. 

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  quiokly 
through  content. 

Not  a  step  the  wood  advances 
O'er  the  open  hill-top's  bound : 


228  THEL08T     BOWER. 

There,  in  green  arrest,  the  branches 
See  their  image  on  the  ground : 
Vou  may  walk  beneath  them  smiling,  glad  with  sight 
and  glad  with  sound. 

For  jou  hearken  on  your  right  hand, 
How  the  birds  do  leap  and  call 
In  the  greenwood,  out  of  sio-ht  and 
Out  of  reach  and  fear  of  all ; 
And  the  squirrels   crack  the  filberts,  through   their 
cheerful  madrigal. 

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!  ' 

far  out,  kindled  by  each  other, 

Shining  hills  on  hills  arise  ; 

Close  as  brother  leans  to  brother, 

When  they  press  beneath  the  eyes  [dise. 

Of  some  father  praying  blessings  from  the  gifts  of  para- 
While  beyond,  above  them  mounted. 
And  above  their  woods  also, 
Malvern  hills,  for  mountains  counted 
Not  unduly,  loom  a-row — 

Keepers  of  Piers  Plowman's  visions,  through  the  sun- 
shine and  the  snow.* 

•  The  M.ilvern  Flills  of  Worcestersliiro  are  the  scene  of  linnglaiide's 
visions,  and  tluis  prestMvl  llie  ('!irlipst  c.liisaic  ground  of  English  poetry. 


THE     LOST     BOWER.  no 

Yet  in  childhood  little  prized  1 
That  fair  walk  and  far  survey  : 
'Twas  a  straight  walk,  unadvised  by 
The  least  mischief  worth  a  nay — 
Up  and  down — as   dull   as  grammar   on  the  eve  of 
holiday , 

But  the  wood,  all  close  and  clenching 
Bough  in  bough  and  root  in  root, — 
No  more  sky  (for  over-branching) 
At  your  head  than  at  your  foot, — 
Oh,  the  wood  drew  me  within  it,  by  a  glamour  past 
dispute. 

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. 

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. 

And  the  poets  wander,  said  I, 
Over  places  all  as  rude  ! 
Bold  Rinaldo's  lovely  lady 
Sat  to  meet  him  in  a  wood —  [tude 

Rosalinda,  like  a  fountain,  laughed  out  pure  with  soli- 
voL.  II. — 20 


230  THE     LOST     BOWER. 

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  smilina;  without  lovinnc,   in  their  island- 
citadel. 

Thus  I  thought  of  the  old  singers, 
And  took  courage  from  their  song, 
Till  my  little  struggling  fingers 
Tore  asunder  gyve  and  thong 
3f  the  brambles  which  entrapped  me,  and  the  barrier 
branches  stronsr. 


o 


On  a  day,  such  pastime  keeping, 
With  a  fawn's  heart  debonaire, 
Under-crawling,  overleaping 
Thorns  that  prick  and  boughs  that  bear, 
I  stood  suddenly  astonished — I  was  gladdened  unaware 

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. 

Here  a  linden-tree  stood,  brightening 
All  adown  its  silver  rind  ;  i 

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 


I 


THE    LOST     BOWER.  2bl 

Tall  the  linden-ti-ee,  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  sinw  of 
thus  to  you. 

'Twas  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. 

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, — 
Listening  less  to  her  own  music,  than  for  footsteps  on 
the  walk. 

But  that  bower  appeared  a  marvel 
In  the  wildness  of  the  place  ! 
With  such  seeming  art  and  travail. 
Finely  fixed  and  fitted  was  [the  base. 

Leaf  to  leaf,  the  dark-green  ivy,  to  the  summit  from 

And  the  ivy,  veined  and  glossy, 

Was  inwrought  with  eglantine  ; 

And  the  wild  hop  fibred  closely, 

And  the  large-leaved  columbine. 

Arch  of  door  and  window  muUion,   did  right  sylvanly 
entwine. 


232  THE     LOST     BOWER. 

Rose-trees  either  side  the  door  were 
Growing  lythe  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. 

As  I  entered — mosses  hushino 
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  absoluto 

All  the  floor  was  paved  with  glory, 
Greenly,  silently  inlaid, 
Through  quick  motions  made  before  me, 
With  fan  counterparts  in  shade 
Of  the  fair  serrated  ivy-leaves  which  slanted  overhead 

'  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. 

At  the  same  time,  on  the  linen 
Of  my  childish  lap  there  fell 
Two  white  may-leaves,  downward  winning 
Through  the  ceiling's  miracle, 
From  a  blossom,  like  an  angel,  out  of  sight  yet  bless- 
ing well. 


THE     LOST    BOWER.  233 

Down  to  floor  and  up  to  ceiling. 
Quick  I  turned  my  childish  face  ; 
With  an  innocent  appealing 
For  the  secret  of  the  place, 
To  the  trees  which  sui-ely  knew  it,  in  partaking  of 
the  grace. 

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,     [derstand. 
Breaking  off  from  other  wild  work  ?    It  was  hard  to  un- 

Was  she  weary  of  rough-doing, 
Of  the  bramble  and  the  thorn  ? 
Did  she  pause  in  tender  ruing, 
Here,  of  all  her  sylvan  scorn  ? 
Or,  in  mock  of  art's  deceiving,  was  the  sudden  mild- 
ness worn  ? 

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  r 

Or  was  this  the  house  of  fairies, 
Left,  because  of  the  rough  ways. 
Unassoiled  by  Ave  Marys 
Which  the  passing  pilgi-im  prays, 
And  beyond  St.  Catherine's  chiming    on  the  blessed 
Sabbath  days  ? 


231  THE     LOST     BOVVEK. 

So,  young  muser,  I  sat  listeninw 
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. 

Softly,  finely,  it  inwound  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. 

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 
riverhead 

Never  lark  the  sun  can  waken 
With  such  sweetness  !  when  the  lark. 
The  high  planets  overtaking 
In  the  half  evanished  Dark, 
Cast  his  singing  to  their  singing,  like  an  arrow  to  the 
mark. 

Never  nightingale  so  singeth —  ij 

Oh  !  she  leans  on  thorny  tree. 
And  her  poet-song  she  flingeth  j 

Over  pain  to  victory  ! 
yet  she  never  sings  such  music, — or  she  sings  it  not 
to  me. 


I 


THE     LOST    BOWER.  235 

Never  blackbirds,  never  tbrushes, 
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. 

If  it  were  a  bu-d,  it  seemed 
Most  likn  Chaucer's,  which,  in  sooth. 
He  of  green  and  azure  dreamed, 
While  it  sat  in  spirit-rath 
On  that  bier  of  a  crowned  lady,  singing  nigh  her  silent 
mouth. 

If  it  were  a  bird  ! — ah,  sceptic. 
Give  me  '  Yea  '  or  give  me  '  Nay  ' — 
Though  my  soul  were  nympholeptic. 
As  I  heard  that  virelay,  [away. 

7ou  may  stoop  your  pride  to  pardon,  for  my  sin  is  far 

I  rose  up  in  exaltation 
And  an  inward  trembUng  heat, 
And  (it  seemed)  in  geste  of  passion 
Dropped  the  music  to  my  feet, 
Like  a  garment  rustling  downwards  ! — such  a  silence 
followed  it. 

Heart  and  head  beat  through  the  quiet, 
Full  and  heavily,  though  slower  ; 
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. 


236  THE    LOST     BOWER. 

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  consciously  was 
cast. 

Face  to  face  with  the  true  mountains, 
I  stood  silently  and  still ; 
Drawing  strength  for  fancy's  dauntings. 
From  the  air  about  the  hill. 
And  from  Nature's  open  mercies,  and  most  debonair 
goodwill. 

Oh  !  the  golden-hearted  daisies 
Witnessed  there,  before  my  youth, 
To  the  truth  of  things  with  praises 
To  the  beauty  of  the  truth  : 
And  I  woke  to  Nature's  real,  laughing  joyfully  for  both. 

And  I  said  within  me,  laughing, 
I  have  found  a  bower  to-day, 
A  green  lusus — fashioned  half  in 
Chance,  and  half  in  Nature's  play — 
And   a  little  bird  sino-s   nigh   it,  I  will   novermorti 
missay. 

Henceforth,  /  will  be  the  fiiiry 
Of  this  bower,  not  built  by  one  ; 
I  will  go  there   sad  or  merry, 
With  each  morninoi's  benison  : 
And  the  bird  shall  be  my  harper  in  the  dream-hall  I 
have  won. 


THE     LOST     BOWER.  237 

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. 

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  snow-drop — by  the  rosemary 
and  rue, — 

I  affirm  by  all  or  any. 
Let  the  cause  be  charm  oi'  chance, 
That  my  wandering  searches  many 
Missed  the  bower  of  my  romance —     [nance 
That  I  nevermore  upon  it,  turned  my  mortal  couute- 

I  affirm  that,  since  I  lost  it, 
Never  bower  has  seemed  so  fliir — 
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. 

Day  by  day,  with  new  desire, 
Toward  my  wood  I  ran  in  faith — 
Under  leaf  and  over  briar — 
Through  the  thickets,  out  of  breath — 
Like  the  prince  who  rescued  Beauty  from  the  sleep  as 
long  as  death. 


238  THE     LOST     BOWER. 

But  his  sword  of  mettle  clashdd, 
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. 

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  Qildipus's  grave-place,  'mid  Colone's  olives 
swart. 

As  Aladdin  sought  the  basements 
His  fair  palace  rose  upon, 
And  the  four  and  twenty  casements 
Which  gave  answers  to  the  sun  ;  [down. 

So,  in  wilderment  of  gazing  I  looked  up,  and  I  looked 

Years  have  vanished  since   as  wholly 
As  the  little  bower  did  then  ; 
And  you  call  it  tender  folly 
That  such  thoughts  should  come  attain  ? 
Ah !  I  cannot  change  this  sighing  for  your  smiling, 
brother-men  ! 

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. 


THE     LOST     BOWER.  2:i3 

I  have  lost — oh  many  a  pleasure — 
Many  a  hope  and  many  a  power — 
Studious  health  and  merry  leisure — 
The  first  dew  on  the  fii-st  flower  ! 
But  the  first  of  all  my  losses  was  the  losing  of  the 
bower. 

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, — 
thirst  recoil  from  incompletion,  in  the  face  of  what  is 
won — 

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  . 

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. 

Some  respect  to  social  fictions 
Hath  been  also  lost  by  me  ; 
And  some  generous  genuflexions, 
Which  my  spirit  oflfered  free 
To  the  pleasant  old  conventions  of  our  false  Humanity 


240 


THE     LOST     BOWER. 


All  my  losses  did  1  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.' 

For  God  placed  me  like  a  dial 
In  the  open  ground,  with  power  ; 
And  my  heart  had  for  its  trial. 
All  the  sun  and  aU  the  shower  !  [bower. 

And  I  suffered  many  losses  ;  and  my  first  was  of  the 

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 ! 

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  recoUections,  where  those  changes 
overcame. 

On  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  behold   the 
bower  arise. 


THE     LOST     BOWER.  241 

Springs  the  lindeu-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 . 

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. 

And  that  music  overfloweth, 
Sudden  sweet,  the  sylvan  eaves  ; 
Thrush  or  nightingale — who  knoweth  ? 
Fay  or  Faunus — who  believes  ?       [the  leaves. 
But  my  heart  still  trembles  in  me,  to  the  trembling  of 

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 — 

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,  singing — '  All 
IS  LOST  .  .  .  and  won  I ' 
VOL.  II. — 21 


A   CHILD  ASLEEP. 

How  he  sleepetb  !  having  drauken 
Weary  childhood's  mandragore, 
From  his  pretty  eyes  have  sunken 
Pleasures  to  make  room  for  more — 
Sleeping  near  the  withered  nosegay  which  he  pulled 
the  day  before. 

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. 

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. 

Vision  unto  vision  calleth, 

While  the  young  child  dreameth  on  : 
Fair,  O  dreamer,  thee  befalleth 
With  the  glory  thou  hast  won  ! 
Darker  wert  thou  in  the  garden,  yestermorn   by  sum- 
mer sun. 


A     CHILD     ASLEEP.  243 

We  should  see  the  spirits  ringing 
Round  thee, — were  the  clouds  away 

'Tis  the  child-heart  draws  them,  singino- 
In  the  silent-seeming  clay —  [the  way. 

Singing  ! — Stars  that  seem  the  mutest,  go  in  music  all 

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. 

Shapes  of  brightness  overlean  thee, 

With  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. 

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. 

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. 


244  A     CHILD     ASLEEP. 

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. 

Could  ye  bless  him — father — mother  ? 

Bless  the  dimple  in  his  cheek  ? 
Dare  ye  look  at  one  another. 
And  the  benediction  speak  r 
Would  ye  not  break  out  in  weeping,  and  confess  your- 
selves too  weak  ? 

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. 


"  ^e9,  (ptS,  Tt  irpoaiepKcaOc  ft   oji/taTiv,  rcieva" 

Mbdea. 


Do  ye  hear  the  children  weeping,  O  my  brothers, 

Ere  the  sorrow  comes  with  years  ? 
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  ! 
They  are  weeping  in  the  playtime  of  the  others, 
In  the  country  of  the  free. 

Do  you  question  the  young  children  in  the  sorrow, 

Why  their  tears  are  felling  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 : 


246       THE    CRY    OF    THE    CHILDREN. 

Dut  the  young,  young  obildren,  O  my  brothers, 
Do  you  ask  them  why  they  stand 

Weeping  sore  before  the  bosoms  of  their  mothers, 
In  our  happy  Fatherlanrl  ? 

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  ! 
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 : 

'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. 
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, 


THE    CRY    OF    THE    CHILDREN.       247 

And  merry  go  her  moments,  lulled  and  stilled  in 

The  shroud  by  the  kirk-chime ! 
It  is  good  when  it  happens,'   say  the  children, 

'  That  we  die  before  our  time  !  ' 
Alas,  alas,     the    children  I    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  you  handfuls  of  the  meadow-cowslips  pretty — 
Laugh  aloud,  to  feel  your  fingers  let  them  through  ! 
But  they  answer,   '  Are  your  cowsUps  of  the  meadows 

Like  our  weeds  anear  the  mine  r 
Leave  us  quiet  in  the  dark  of  the  coal-shadows, 

From  your  pleasures  fair  and  fine  ! 

'  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  ^.nd  sleep. 
Our  knees  tremble  sorely  in  the  stooping — 

We  fall  upon  our  faces,  trying  to  go  ; 
And,  underneath  our  heavy  eyelids  drooping. 

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. 

'  For,  all  day,  the  wheels  are  droning,  turning, — 
Their  wind  comes  in  our  faces. — 


248    THE     CRY    OF     THE     CHILDREN. 

Till  our  hearts  turn, — our  hea,ds,  with  pulses  burning, 

And  the  walls  turn  in  their  places — 
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  ii-on  wheels  are  droning ; 

And  sometimes  we  could  pray, 
'  O  ye  wheels,'  (breaking  out  in  a  mad  moaning,) 
'  Stop  !  be  silent  for  to-day  !  ' 

Ay !  be  silent !     Let  them  hear  each  other  breathing 

For  a  moment,  mouth  to  mouth — 
Let  them  touch  each  other's  hands,  in  a  frccsh  wreathing 

Of  their  tender  human  youth  ! 
Let  them  feel  that  this  cold  metallic  wotion 

Is  not  all  the  life  God  fashions  or  roveals — 
Let  them  prove  their  living  souls  against  the  notion 
That  they  live  in  you,  or  under  you,  O  wheels  ! — 
StUl,  all  day,  the  iron  wheels  go  onward, 

Grinding  life»down  from  its  mark  ; 
And  the  children's  souls,  which  God  is  calling  sun- 
ward. 
Spin  on  blindly  in  the  dark. 

Now  tell  the  poor  young  children,  O  ray  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  ? 


THE     CRY     OF     THE     CHILDREN.      249 

When  we  sob  aloud,  the  human  creatures  near  us 

Pass  by,  hearing  not,  or  answer  not  a  word  ! 
And  we  bear  not  (for  the  wheels  in  then-  resounding) 

Strangers  speaking  at  the  door  : 
Is  it  likely  God,  with  angels  singing  round  Him 

Hears  our  weeping  any  more  ? 
'  Two  words,  indeed,  of  praying  we  remember ; 

And  at  midnight's  hour  of  harm, 
'  Our  Father,'  looking  upward  in  the  chamber, 

We  say  softly  for  a  charm.* 
We  know  no  other  words,  except '  Our  Father,' 

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. 
'  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.' 

'  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  : 
Do  not  mock  us  •  grief  has  made  us  unbelieving, — 
We  lookup  for  God,  but  tears  have  made  us  blind.' 

•  A  fact  rendered  pathetically  historical  by  Mr.  Home's  Report  of  his 
commission.  The  name  of  the  poet  of  ''  Orion  "  and  "  Cosmo  de'  Me- 
dici "  has,  however,  a  change  of  associations,  and  comes  in  time  to  re- 
mind me  (with  other  noble  instances)  that  we  have  some  noble  poetic 
heat  still  in  our  literature,— though  open  to  the  reproach,  on  certain 
points,  of  being  somewhat  gelid  in  our  humanity. 


250      THE     CRY     OF     THE     CHILDREN. 

Do  you  hear  the  childrea  weeping  and  disproving, 
O  my  brothers,  what  ye  preach  ? 

For  God's  possible  is  taught  by  His  world's  loving — 
And  the  children  doubt  of  each. 

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 : 
They  know  the  grief  of  man,  without  his  wisdom  ; 

They  sink  in  man's  despair,  without  its  calm — 
Are  slaves,  without  the  liberty  in  Christdom, 

Are  martyrs,  by  the  pang  without  the  palm,— 
Are  worn  as  if  with  age,  yet  unretrievingly 

The  harvest  of  its  memories  cannot  reap, — 
Are  orphans  of  the  earthly  love  and  heavenly : 

Let  them  weep  !  let  them  weep ! 
They  look  up,  with  their  pale  and  sunken  flices, 

And  their  look  is  dread  to  see. 
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  palpitation, 

And  tread  onward  to  your  throne  amid  the  marti 
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 !' 


CKOWNED  AND  WEDDED. 

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  misht 
Be  still  kept  holy  from  the  world   to  childliood  still  in 

sisjht — 
To  erase  it  with  a  solemn  vow, — a  princely  vow — to 

rule — 
A  priestly  vow— to  rule  by  grace  of  God  the  pitiful, 
A  very  god-like  vow — to  rule  in  right  and  righteousness, 
And  with  the  law  and  for  the  land  ! — so  God  the  vower 

bless  ! 
The  minster  was  alight  that  day,  but  not  with  fire,  I 

ween, 
And  long-drawn  glitterings  swept  adown  that  mighty 

aisled  scene  : 
The  priests  stood  stoled  in  their  pomp,  the  sworded 

chiefs  in  theirs. 
And  so,  the  collared  knights, — and  so,  the  civil  minis- 
ters. 
And  so,  the  waiting  lords  and  dames — and  little  pages 

best 
At  holding  trains — and  legates  so,  from  countries  casl 

and  west — 


252  CROWNED     AND     WEDDED. 

So,  alien  princes,  native  pearsy  and  high-born  ladies 
blight, 

Along  whose  brows  the  queen's  new  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  min- 
ster floor, 

There,  verily  an  awful  state  maintaining  evermore — 

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  mean- 
ing can  it  have  ? — 

The  King  of  kings,  the  right   of  death — God's  judg- 
ment 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 — 

And  as  the  loyal  shouts  went  up,  true  spirits  prayed 
between. 


CROWNED     AND     WEDDED.  253 

'The  blessings  happy  raonarchs  have,  be  thino,  0 

crowned  queen  !  ' 
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,lier  childhood 

put  away — 
She  doth  maintain  her  womanhood,  in  vowing  love 

to-day. 
0,  lovely  lady  ! — let  her  vow  I — such  lips  become  such 

vows, 
And  fairer  goeth  bridal  wreath  than  crown  with  vernal 

brows ! 
0,  lovely  lady  ! — let  her  vow  ! — yea,  let  her  vow  to 

love ! — 
And  though  she  be  no  less  a  queen — with  purples  hung 

above, 
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, 
WhUe  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  vio- 
late the  dream 
Wherein  no  monarch  but  a  wife,  she  to  herself  may 

seem  : 
VOL.  II  — 22 


254     CROWNED  AND  WEDDED. 

Or,  it'  ye  say,  Preserve  the  queen ! — oh,  breathe  it 

inward  low — 
ijhe  is  a  woman  and  beloved  ! — and  'tis  enough  but  so  ! 
'Jount  it  enough,  thou  noble  prince,  who  tak'st  her  by 

the  hand, 
Ind  claimest  for  thy  lady-love,  our  lady  of  the  land  ! 
ind  since.  Prince  Albert,  men  have  called  thy  spirit 

high  and  rare, 
Knd  true   to  truth   and  brave  for  truth,  as  some  at 

Augsburg  were, — 
Ne  charge  thee,  by  thy  lofty  thoughts,  and  by  thy 

poet-mind, 
A'hich  not  by  glory  and  degree  takes  measure  of  man- 
kind. 
Esteem  that  wedded  hand  less  dear  for  sceptre  than 

for  ring, 
And  hold  her  uncrowned  womanhood  to  be  th3  royal 

thing : 
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 
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,  0 

crowned  oueen  !  ' 


CROWNED   AND   BURIED. 

Napoleon  ! — years  ago,  and  that  gi-eat  word 
Compact  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. 

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  then-  last  silence,  uttered  it  for  God's. 

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  overstooped 
By  meek-eyed  Christs, — and  widows  with  a  moan 
Spake  it,  when  questioned  why  they  sat  alone. 

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 
Mino-led  the  same  word  with  its  grand  '  F^I  ever.' 


256 


CROWNRL)     AND     BURIED. 


riiat  name  was  shouted  near  the  pyi-amidal 
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  Ptolemies. 

The  world's  face  changed  to  hear  it.     Kingly  meu 
Came  down  in  chidd  n  babes'  bewilderment 
From  autocratic  places— each  content 
With  sprinkled  ashes  f  ir  anointing  :— then 
The  people  laughed  or  wondered  for  the  nonce, 
To  see  one  throne  a  composite  of  thrones 

Napoleon  !    Even  the  ton-id  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  we  heard  her  chain. 

And  Germany  was  'ware — and  Italy 
Oblivious  of  old  fames— her  laurel-locked, 
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  her  past. 

For,  verily,  though  France  augustly  rose 
With  that  raised  name,  and  did  assume  by  such 
The  purple  of  the  world,— none  gave  so  much 


CROWNED     AND     BURIED.  257 

As  she,  in  purchase— to  speak  plain,  in  loss — 
Whose  hands,  to  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  emmarbled  dreams, 
Dreampt  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. 

Napoleon  !  'twas  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. 

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  . 

A  deep  gloom  centered  in  the  deep  repose — 
The  nations  stood  up  mute  to  count  their  dead — 
And  he  who  owned  the  Name  which  vibrated 
Through  silence, — trusting  to  his  noblest  foes 
When  earth  was  all  too  gray  for  chivalry — 
Died  of  their  mercies,  'mid  the  desert  sea. 
22* 


258  CROWNED     AND     BURIED, 

0  wild  St.  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. 

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.' 

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!   'tis  a  courteous  claim — 
But  ask  a  little  room  too  ...  for  thy  shame  ! 

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. 
I  would,  my  noble  England,  men  might  seek 
All  crimson  stains  upon  thy  breast — not  cheek  ! 

I  would  that  hostile  fleets  had  scarred  Torbay, 
Instead  of  the  lone  ship  which  waited  moored 
Until  thy  princely  purpose  was  assured. 


i 


CROWNED     AND     BURIED.  259 

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 ! 

And  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 . 

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  burden  'bide  !  ' 

Orestes  to  Electra  ! — O  fair  town 

Of  Paris,  how  the  wild  tears  will  run  down 

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 . 

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  !* 

•  It  was  the  first  intention  to  bury  him  under  the  column. 


260  CROWNED    AiND     BURIED. 

There,  weapon  spent  and  warrior  spent  may  rest 

From  roar  of  fields  :  provided  Jupiter 

Dare  trust  Satuinus  to  lie  down  so  near 

His  bolts  ! — And  this  he  may.      For,  dispossessed 

Of  any  godship  lies  the  godlike  arm — 

The  goat,  Jove  sucked,  as  likely  to  do  harm  . 

And  yet  .  .  .  INapoleon  ! — 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. 

Blood  fell  like  dew  beneath  his  sunrise — sooth ! 
But  glittered  dew-like  in  the  covenanted 
Meridian  light.     He  was  a  despot — granted ! 
But  the  avToi  of  his  autocratic  mouth 
Said  yea  i'  the  people's  French  :  he  magnified 
The  image  of  the  freedom  he  denied. 

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  Napoleon  ! 

I  do  not  praise  this  man  :  the  man  was  flawed 

For  Adam — much  more,  Christ ! — his  knee  unbent — 

His  hand  unclean — his  aspiration  pent 


OBOWNED     AND     BURIED.  261 

Within  a  sword-sweep — pshaw  ! — ^but  since  he  had 
The  genius  to  he  loved,  why  let  him  have 
The  justice  to  be  honored  in  his  grave 

I  think  this  nation's  tears  poured  thus  together, 
Better  than  shouts  :     I  think  this  funeral 
Grander  than  crownings,  though  a  Pope  bless  all : 
I  think  this  grave  stronger  than  thrones  :  But  whether 
The  crowned  Napoleon  or  the  buiied  clay 
Be  worthier,  I  discern  not — Angels  may. 


THE  FOURFOLD  ASPECT. 

When  ye  stood  up  in  the  house 

With  your  little  childish  feet, 
And  in  touching  Life's  fii'st  shows, 

First  the  touch  of  Love  did  meet, — 
Love  and^^earness  seeming  one, 

By  the  heart- light  cast  before. 
And,  of  all  Beloveds,  none 

Standino-  farther  than  the  door — 
Not  a  name  being  dear  to  thought. 

With  its  owner  beyond  call. 
Nor  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, 
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 


THE     FOURFOLD     ASPECT.  26a 

A  tale  of  fairy  ships 

With  a  swan-wing  for  a  sail  ' — 
Oh,  ye  kissed  their  loving  lips 
For  the  merry,  merry  tale  ! — 
So  carelessly  ye  thought  upon  the  Dead 

Soon  ye  read  in  solemn  stories 

Of  the  men  of  long  aso — 
Of  the  pale  bewildering  glories 

Shining  farther  than  we  know. 
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 
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  on  his  face  : 
How  that  true  wife  said  to  Poetus, 

With  calm  smile  and  wounded  heart, 
'  Sweet,  it  hurts  not !'  — how  Admetus 

Saw  his  blessed  one  depart . 
How  King  Arthur  proved  his  mission, 

And  Sir  Rowland  wound  his  honi. 
And  at  Sangreal's  moony  vision 

Swords  did  bristle  round  like  corn. 
Oh  !  ye  lifted  up  youi-  head,  and  it  seemed  the  while 
ye  read, 


264  THE    FOURFOLD     ASPECT. 

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 
Of  a  noble,  noble  tale  ! — 
So  awfully  ye  thought  upon  the  Dead 

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  ! — 
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  straightway 

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, 

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 : 


THE     FOURFOLD     ASPECT.  265 

Merry  books,  once  read  for  pastime, 

If  ye  dared  to  read  again, 
Only  memories  of  the  last  time 

Would  swim  darkly  up  the  brain. 
Household  nanies^  which  used  to  flutter 

Through  your  laughter  unawares, — 
God's  Divinest  ye  could  utter 

With  less  trembling  in  your  prayers  ! 
Ve  have  diopt  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, 

0  Thou  agonized  on  cross  r 

Art  thou  reading  all  its  tale  ? 
iSo,  mournfully   ye  think  upon  the  Dead  ! 

Pray,  pray,  thou  who  also  weepest, 

And  the  drops  will  slacken  so  ; 
Weep,  weep  : — and  the  watch  thoukeepest. 

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  : 
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  uaest 

In  embiaciug  thy  despaii* : 

VOL.   II. — 2.'^ 


266 


THE    FOURFOLD    ASPECT. 


Love  :  the  earthly  love  thou  losest 

Shall  return  to  thee  more  fair. 
Work  :  make  clear  the  forest-tangles 

Of  the  wildest  stranger-land  : 
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  Beloved,  is  it  so  ? 
Have  ye  tasted  of  my  wo  ? 
Of  my  Heaven  ye  shall  not  fail ! ' — 
He  stands  brightly  where  the  shade  is, 
With  the  keys  of  Death  and  Hades, 
And  there,  ends  the  mournful  tale : — 
So  hopefully  ye  think  upon  the  Dead. 


A   FLOWER  m   A    LETTER. 

My  lonely  chamber  next  the  sea, 
Is  full  of  many  flowers  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. 

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,  hath  won  anew 

A  glory  ...  in  declining. 

Red  roses  used  to  praises  long, 
Contented  with  the  poet's  sonor, 

The  nightingale's  being  over  : 
And  lilies  white,  prepared  to  touch 
The  whitest  thought,  nor  soil  it  much, 

Of  dreamer  turned  to  lover. 

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 . 


268 


A     FLJWER     IN     A     LETTER 

Pansies  for  ladies  all, — I  ,wis 

That  none  who  wear  su^h  brooches,  miss 

A  jewel  in  thj  niii'ror  : 
And  tulips,  children  love  to  stretch 
Their  fingers  down,  to  feel  in  each 

Its  beauty's  secret  nearer. 

Lovers  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. 

And  such  being  strewn  before  a  bride, 
Her  little  foot  may  tui-n  aside, 

Th;;ir  longer  bloom  decreeing  ; 
Unless  some  voice's  whispered  sound 
Should  make  her  gaze  upon  the  ground 
Too  earnestly— for  seeing. 

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. 

And  such  being  wreathed  for  worldly  feast, 
Across  the  brimming  cup  some  guest 
Their  rainbow  colors  viewing, 


A     FLOWER     IN     A     LETTER.  269 

May  feel  them, — with  a  silent  start, 
The  covenant,  his  childish  heart 
With  nature  made, — renewing. 

No  flowers  our  gardened  England  hath. 
To  match  with  these  in  bloom  and  breath, 

Which  from  the  world  are  hiding 
In  sunny  Devon  moist  with  rills, 
A.  nunnery  of  cloistered  hills, 

The  elements  presiding. 

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  Mitford's  bower — to  want  the  sun 

To  light  her  through  the  garden  . 

But,  here^  all  summers  are  comprised — 
The  nightly  frosts  shrink  exorcised 

Before  the  priestly  moonshine  : 
And  every  Wind  with  stoled  feet, 
In  wandering  dovm  the  alleys  sweet. 

Steps  lightly  on  the  sunshine  : 

And  (having  promised  Harpocrate 
Among  the  nodding  roses,  that 

No  harm  shall  touch  his  daughtere) 
Gives  quite  away  the  rushing  sound, 
He  dares  not  use  upon  such  giound, 

To  ever-trickling  waters. 

23* 


270        A    FLOWER    IN     A     LETTER. 

Yet,  sun  and  wind !  what  can  ye  do, 
But  make  the  leaves  more  brightly  show 

In  posies  newly  gathered  ? 
I  look  away  from  all  your  best ; 
To  one  poor  flower  unlike  the  rest, 

A  little  flower  half-withered. 

I  do  not  think  it  ever  was 

A  pretty  flower, — to  make  the  gra^ 

Look  greener  where  it  reddened  : 
And  now  it  seems  ashamed  to  be 
Alone  in  all  this  company, 

Of  aspect  shrunk  and  saddened  . 

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. 

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  6rst  sweet  news  of  Heaven  ' 

And  those  who  planted,  gathered  it 
In  gamesome  or  in  loving  fit. 
And  sent  it  as  a  token 


A    FLOWER     IN     A     LETTER.  271 

Of  what  their  city  pleasures  be, — 
For  one,  in  Devon  by  the  sea 
And  garden-blooms,  to  look  on. 

But  SHE,  for  whom  the  jest  was  nieiint. 
With  a  grave  passion  innocent 

Receiving  what  was  given, — 
Oh  !  if  her  face  she  turned  tften, 
Let  none  say  't  was  to  gaze  again 

Upon  the  flowers  of  Devon  I 

Because,  whatever  virtue  dwells 
In  genial  skies — warm  oracles 

For  gardens  brightly  springing, — 
The  flower  which  grew  beneath  your  eyes, 

Beloved    friends,  to  mine  supplies 

A  beauty  worthier  singing ' 


THE   CRY   OF  THE   HUMAN. 

'  There  is  no  God,'  the  foolish  saith, 

But  none,  '  There  is  no  sorrow  ;  ' 
And  nature  oft,  th«  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  . 

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,  0  God  ! 

The  battle  hurtles  on  the  plains- 
Earth  feels  new  scythes  upon  her  : 

We  reap  our  brothers  for  the  wains, 
And  call  the  harvest .  .  honor, — 


THE     CRY     OF     THE     HUMAN.         273 

Draw  face  to  face,  front  line  to  line, 

One  image  all  inherit, — 
Then  kill,  curse  on,  by  that  same  sign. 

Clay,  clay, — and  spii-it,  spirit. 

Be  pitiful,  0  God  ! 

The  plague  runs  festering  through  the  to\Tn, 

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. 

And  shrieks  away  its  sleeping. 

Be  pitiful,  0  God  » 

The  plague  of  gold  strikes  far  and  near. 

And  deep  and  strong  it  enters : 
This  purple  chiraar  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,  0  God  ! 

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  VVhite  Horses  ! 


274 


THE     CRY     OF     THE     HUMAN. 

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,  0  God  ' 


We  meet  together  at  the  feast — 

To  private  mirth  betake  us — 
We  stare  down  in  the  wine  cup,  lest 

Some  vacant  chair  should  shako  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  ! 

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 !  ' — 0  words,  to  be 
Our  best  for  love  the  deathless  ! 

Be  pitiful,  dear  God  ! 


We  tremble  by  the  harmless  bed 
Of  one  loved  and  departed — 

Our  tears  drop  on  the  lips  that  said 
Last  night,  '  B^  stronger  hearted :  ' 


THE     CRY    OF    THE     HUMAN  27& 

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,  0  God  • 

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  sec  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  ! 

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  of  glory  ! 

Be  pitiful,  O  God  • 

We  leave  the  communing  of  men, 

The  murmur  of  the  passions  ; 
And  live  alone,  to  live  again 

With  endless  generations. 


276         THE     CRY     OF     THE     HUMAN. 

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,  0  God  ! 

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  ! 

And  soon  all  vision  waxeth  dull — 

Men  whisper,  '  He  is  dying  :  ' 
We  cry  no  more,  '  Be  pitiful !  ' — 

We  have  no  strength  for  crying  : 
No  strength,  no  need !     Then,  Soul  of  mine, 

Look  up  and  triumph  rather — 
Lo !  in  the  depth  of  God's  Divine, 

I'be  Son  adjures  the  Father — 

Be  pitiful,  O  God  ' 


m 


A  I.AY  OF  THE  EARLY  ROSE. 


'  discordance  that  can  accord. ' 

ROMACNT   OF   THE    RoSE. 


A  ROSE  once  grew  within 
A  garden  April-green, 
In  her  lonencss,  in  her  loneness, 
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, 
In  her  loneness,  in  her  loneness. 
All  the  fairer  for  that  oneness. 

'  For  if  I  wait,'  said  she, 
'  Till  times  for  roses  be, — 
For  the  moss-rose  and  the  musk-rose, 
Maiden-blush  and  royal-dusk  rose, — 
VOL.  II. — 24 


278      A     LAY     OF     THE     EARLY     ROSE 

'  What  glory  then  for  me 
In  such  a  company  ? — 
Roses  plenty,  roses  plenty, 
And  one  nightingale  for  twenty  ? 

'  Nay,  let  me  in,'   saiJ  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  ? 
What  addressing,  what  caressing  ! 
And  what  thank  and  praise  and  blessing ! 

'  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, — 

'  And  every  moth  and  bee. 
Approach  me  reverently  ; 
Wheeling  o'er  me,  wheeling  o'er  rae, 
Coronals  of  motioned  glory. 


A     LAY     OF     THE     EARLY     ROSE.      279 

'  Three  larks  shall  leave  a  cloud ; 
To  my  whiter  beauty  vowed — 
Singing  gladly  all  the  moontide, 
'  Never-waituig  for  the  suntide. 

'  Ten  nightingales  shall  flee 
Their  woods  for  love  of  me, 
Singing  sadly  all  the  suntide, 
Never  waiting  for  the  moontide.   • 

'  I  ween  the  very  skies 
Will  look  down  with  surprise, 
When  low  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.' 

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  thmg  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. 


280      A     LAY     OF     THE     EARLY     ROSE. 

The  little  flies  did  crawl 
Along  the  southern  wall, 
Faintly  shifting,  faintly  shifting 
Wings  scarce  strong  enovigh  for  lifting. 

The  lark,  too  high  or  low, 
I  ween,  did  miss  her  so  ; 
With  his  nest  down  in  the  goises. 
And  his  song  in  the  star-courses  . 

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  ; 
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  .'' 


A     LAY     OF    THE     EARLY     ROSE.      2»I 

*  Holla,  thou  ■world-wide  snow  ! 
And  art  thou  wasted  so  r 
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 ! 
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  chanceth  too  with  us 
Poets  singing  sweetest  snatches. 
While  that  deaf  men  keep  the  watches — 

'  Vaunting  to  come  before 
Our  own  age  evermore. 
In  a  loneness,  in  a  loneness, 
And  the  nobler  for  that  oneness  I 

'  Holy  in  voice  and  heart. 
To  high  ends,  set  apart ! 
All  unmated,  all  unmated, 
Just  because  so  consecrated. 
24* 


282      A     LAY     OF     THE     EARLY     ROSE. 

*  But  if  alone  we  be, 
Where  is  our  erapery  1 
And  if  none  can  reach  our  stature, 
Who  can  mete  our  lofty  nature  ? 

'  What  bell  will  yield  a  tone, 
Swuno;  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  inter-penetration  . 

'  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  tlicm, 
Ere  we  ever  hope  to  charm  them. 

'  Howbeit '   (here  his  face 
Lightened  around  the  place, — 
So  to  mark  the  outward  turning 
Of  bis  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  ! 


> 
A     LAY     OF     THE     EARLY     ROSE.      28U 

'  Whether  that  form  respect 
The  sense  or  intellect, 
Holy  be  in  mood  or  meadow, 
The  Chief  Beauty's  sign  and  shadow  I 

'  Holy,  in  mo  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,  nathless  : 
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  obulum  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 
TInto  Him  who  sits  above  you, — 


284      A     LAY    OF    THE     EARLY     ROSE 

'  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  !  ' 


THE  LADY'S  'YES.' 

*  Yes  !  '  I  answered  you  last  night ; 
'  No !  '  this  morning,  Sir,  I  say. 
Colors  seen  hy  candle-light 
Will  not  look  the  same  by  day. 

When  the   viols   played  their  best, 
Lamps  above,  and  laughs  below — 

Love  me  sounded  like  a  jest. 
Fit  for  Yes  or  fit  for  iVo . 

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. 

Yet  the  sin  is  on  us  both — 
Time  to  dance  is  not  to  woo — 

Wooing  light  makes  tickle  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. 


286  THELADY'SYES. 

Lead  her  from  the  festive  boards, 
Point  her  to  the  starry  skies, 

Guard  her,  by  your  truthful  words. 
Pure  from  courtship's  flatteries. 

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. 


iJ^ 


A  PORTRAIT. 


"  One  name  is  Elizabeth."— Bbn  Jon  son. 

1  WILL  paint  her  as  I  see  her  : 
Ten  tunes  have  the  lilies  blown, 
Since  she  looked  upon  the  sua. 

And  her  face  is  lily-clear — 

Lily-shaped,  and  drooped  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. 


288  A    PORTRAIT. 

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  jestlngs  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  her  hair. 


A    P  O  R  T  R  A  I  T  .  289 

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, 
'  'Tis  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  !'— 
Ay,  and  always,  in  good  sooth. 
We  may  all  be  sure  He  doth. 


VOL.  u. — 25 


L.  E.  L.'S  LAST  QUESTION. 


'Do  you  think  of  nie  as  I  think  of  you?  ' 
From  her  i>oem  written  during  the  voyage  to  the  Capb 


'  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  behind — 

'  Do  you  think  of  me  as  I  think  of  you  ?' 

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  you  ?' 

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, 
Whatever  household  noises  round  him  move, 
Hears  in  his  dream  some  elfin  turbulence, — 
Even  so,  suggestive  to  her  inward  sense, 
All  sounds  of  life  assumed  one  tune  of  love. 


L.    E.    L.'S    LAST    QUESTION.  291 

And  when  the  glory  of  her  dream  withdrew, 

When  knightly  gestes  and  courtly  pageantries 

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,  0  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 ! 
Would  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  iAee,' 
Her  place  was  in  the  dust,  too  deep  to  hear. 

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  >* 

Bring  your  vain  answers — cry,  '  We  think  of  thee  P 

Plow  think  ye  of  her }  warm  in  long  ago 

Delights  .' — or  crowned  with  budding  bays  }     Not  so. 

None  smile  and  none  are  crowned  where  lieth  sh*^, 

With  all  her  visions  unfulfilled  save  one — 

Her  childhood's — of  the  palm-trees  in  the  sun — 

And  lo !  then-  shadow  on  her  sepulchre  ! ^^ 

•  Her  l>ric  on  the  polar  star  came  home  with  her  latest  paperi 


292  L.    E.    L.'S    LAST    QUESTION. 

'  Do  ye  think  of  me  as  1  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.' 

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  yon  ? 


THE   MOURNING   MOTHER 
(of  the  dead  blind.) 

Dost  thou  weep,  mourningmother, 

For  thy  blind  boy  in  the  grave  ? 
That  no  more  with  each  other 

Sweet  counsel  ye  can  have  ? — 
That  Ae,  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 ; 
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 — 
And  under  which,  sat  smiling 

The  child-mouth  evermore, 
25* 


294  THE    MOURNING    MOTHER. 

As  one  who  watcheth,  wiling 

The  time  by,  at  a  door  ? 
And  weepest  thou  to  feel  not 

His  clinsrino:  hand  on  thine — 
Which  now,  at  dream  time,  will  not 

Its  cold  touch  disentwine  ? 
And  weepest  thou  still  ofter, 

Oh,  nevermore  to  mark 
His  low  soft  words,  made  softer 

By  speaking  in  the  dark? 
Weep  on,  thou  mourning  mother  ' 

But  since  to  him  when  living. 

Thou  wert  both  sun  and  moon. 
Look  o'er  his  grave,  sui'viving, 

From  a  high  sphere  alone  I 
Sustain  that  exaltation — 

Expand  that  tender  light ; 
And  hold  in  mother-passion 

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 

The  Christ's  in  its  divine, — 
For  the  first  place,  the  golden 

And  tideless  hyaline : 


THE    MOURNING    MOTHER.  295 

With  trees,  at  lasting  summer, 

That  rock  to  songful  sound, 
While  angels,  the  new-comer, 

Wrap  a  still  smile  around. 
Oh,  in  the  blessed  psalm  now. 

His  happy  voice  he  tries. 
Spreading  a  thicker  palm-bough, 

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. 
liOok  up,  O  mourning  mother  ; 

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 

As  once  thou  leddest  his. 
Wait  on,  thou  mourning  mother. 


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's   'Beads  from  a  RoSARf.' 


Little  ElHe  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. 

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 

Little  EUie  sits  alone, 
And  the  smile  she  softly  uses, 
Fills  the  silence  like  a  speech  ; 


THE    SWAN'S    NEST.  297 

While  she  thinks  what  shall  be  done, — 
And  the  sweetest  pleasure   chooses, 
For  her  future  within  roach. 

Little  Ellie  in  her  smile 
Chooseth  .  .  .  '  I  wUl  have  a  lover, 

Riding  on  a  steed  of  steeds  ! 

He  shall  love  me  without  guile  ; 
And  to  him  I  will  discover 

That  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. 

'  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 
ShaU  flash  onward  and  keep  measure, 

Till  the  shepherds  look  behind 

'  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  ' 


29«  THEROMANCEOF 

'  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  1  gift  with  heart  and  hand.  ' 

'  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'll  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. 

'  Three  times  shall  a  young  foot-page 
Swim  the  stream  and  climb  the  mountain 

And  kneel  down  beside  my  feet — 
'  Lo  !  my  master  sends  this  gage, 
Lady,  for  thy  pity's  counting  ! 

What  wilt  thou  exchange  for  it  ?  ' 

'  And  the  first  time,  I  will  send 
A  white  rosebud  for  a  guerdon, — 


THE    SWAN'S    NEST.  299 

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. ' 

'Then  the  young  foot-page  will  run — 
1'hen  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!  ' 

'  He  will  kiss  me  on  the  mouth 
Then ;  and  lead  me  as  a  Jover, 

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.' 

Little  Ellie,  with  her  smile 
Not  yet  ended,  rose  up  gayly, 

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. 

Pushing  through  the  elm-tree  copse 
Winding  by  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 


300 


THE    SWAN'S    NEST. 


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 ! 


■M^F$i^^ 

mmmmmm. 

"mmm^^-^.^-^ 

CALLS  ON  THE   HEAET. 


Free  Heart,  that  singest  to-day, 
Like  a  V)ird  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  1 
Heart,  wilt  thou  go  1 
— '  No,  no  ! 
Free  hearts  are  better  so. ' 


11. 

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-voice  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. ' 
VOL.  IT. — 26. 


302  CALLS    ON    THE    HEART. 

III. 

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  crowni, 
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  that  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. ' 


V. 

And  what  is  this  place  not  seen, 
Where  Hearts  may  hide  serene  ? 
'  'Tis  a  fair  still  house  well-kept, 
Whieh  humble  thoughts  have  «wept, 
And  holy  praycia  made  clean. 


CALLS    ON    THE    HEART.  803 

There,  I  sit  with  Love  in  the  sun, 
And  we  two  never  have  done 
Smging  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  1 
— '  But  this  true  Love  of  mine 
Clings  fast  as  the  clinging  vine. 
And  mmgles  pure  as  the  grapes  in  wine. ' 
Heart,  wilt  thou  go  1 
— '  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  1 
'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. ' 


304  CALLS    ON    THE    HEART 


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  m  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  off  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  ? 
— 'Igo! 
Broken  hearts  triumph  so. ' 


i= » 


WISDOM  UNAPPLIED. 


If  I  were  thou,  O  butterfly, 

And  poised  my  purple  wings  to  spy 

The  sweetest  flowers  that  live  and  die, 


n. 

I  would  not  waste  my  strength  on  those, 
As  thou, — for  summer  hath  a  close. 
And  pansies  bloom  not  in  the  snows. 


ni. 

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. 
26* 


306  WISDOM    UNAPPLIED. 


V. 

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 ; 

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 ; 


I  would  not  overstay  delight, 

As  thou, — but  take  a  swallow-flight, 

Till  the  new  spring  returned  to  sight. 


WISDOM    UNAPPLIED.  307 

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  domg  wrong  ; 

XIII. 

'  I  would  not  waste  my  cares,  and  choose, 
As  thou, — to  seek  what  thou  must  lose. 
Sudi  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, — toward  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. 


308  WISDOM    UNAPPLIED. 

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 ! ' 


MEMOKT  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. ' 


n. 

Poor  Memory's  brain  is  wild, 
As  moonstruck  by  that  flaming  atmosphere 
When  she  was  bom.    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  defiled ; 
She  trampleth  down  earth's  grasses  green  and  sweet. 

With  her  far-wandering  feet. 


310  MEMORY    AND    HOPE. 


III. 


She  plucketh  many  flowers, 
Their  beauty  on  her  bosom's  coldness  killing ; 
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  Eden  wreath  she  saw  not  wither, 
And  went  a-nodding  through  the  wilderness, 

With  brow  that  shone  no  less 
Than  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,  w^hile  she  dreamed,  her  slippers  stole  away  ; 
But  still  she  wended  on  with  mirth  unheeding. 

Although  her  feet  were  bleeding  ; 
Till  Memory  tracked  her  on  a  certain  day. 
And  with  most  evil  eyes  did  search  her  long 
And  cruelly,  w^hereat  she  sank  to  ground 

In  a  stark  deadly  swouud. 


MEMORY    AND    HOPE.  311 


VI. 

And  so  my  Hope  were  slain, 
Had  it  not  been  that  thou  wert  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  ! 


VII. 

Therefore  my  Hope  arose 
From  out  her  swound  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. ' 


VIII. 

Then  gavest  Thou  the  smile 
Whence    angel-wings    thrill  quick  like  summer 

lightning, 
Vouchsafing  rest  beside  Thee,  where  she  never 

From  Love  and  Faith  may  sever ; 
Whereat  the  Eden  cro^vn  she  saw  not  whitening 
A  time  ago,  though  whitening  all  the  while, 
Reddened  with  life,  to  hear  the  Voice  which  talked 

To  Adam  as  he  walked. 


HUMAK  LIFE'S   MISERY. 


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, 
Enquiring  wherefore  we  were  born  .  .  . 
For  earnest,  or  for  jest? 

u. 

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. 

in. 

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. 


HUMAN    LIFE'S    MISERY.  313 

IV. 

Aiid,  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  puiions  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  1 — exaltations 
From  His  great  glory  1 — strong  previsions 
Of  what  we  shall  be  1 — 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: 
We  cannot  see  them  go  or  come : 
Their  touches  fall  soft— cold— as  snow 
Upon  a  blind  man's  face. 
Vol.  II.— 27 


3H  HUMAN    LIFE'S    MISERY. 


VIII. 


Yet,  touching  so,  they  draw  above 

Our  common  thoughts  to  Heaven's  unknown— 
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  m  their  wings. 

X. 

And,  sometimes,  through  Life's  heavy  swound, 
We  grope  for  thertx ! — ^with  strangled  breath 

We  stretch  our  hands  abroad  and  try 

To  reach  them  in  our  agony, — 

And  widen,  so,  the  broad  life-wound. 
Which  soon  is  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  ? 

n. 

And  if  you  dig  down  in  the  mines 
You  never  see  Him  in  the  gold, 
Though,  from  Him,  all  that's  glory  shines. 

in. 

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 : 

V. 

As  if  my  tender  mother  laid 

On  my  shut  lids,  her  kisses'  pressure, 

Half-waking  me  at  night ;  and  said      [guesser  1 ' 
'  Who   kissed    you    through   the   dark,   dear 


THE  LITTLE  FRIEND. 


WRITTEN  IN  THE  BOOK  "WHICH  SHE  MADE  AND   SENT  TO  ME. 


— TO  <5*  riSti  si  opBaXjioiv  anrjXttXvdsv. 

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  ! 


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  ! 


THE     LITTLE     FRIEND.  317 

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  bhss,  abroad, 

As  Eden's  were  not  done — 
Mistaking  stiU  the  cherub's  sword 

For  shining  of  the  sun  ! 

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 ! 

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. 

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  ! 

27* 


318 


THE     LITTLE     FRIEND. 

Sit  at  his  feet  in  quiet  miitii, 

And  let  him  see  arise 
A  clearer  sun  and  greener  earth 

Within  thy  loving  eyes  ! — 

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  ye  turned  on  wc, 

Ye  meet  th'  advancing  years  ! 


INCLUSIONS. 


I. 

Oh,  wilt  thou  have  my  hand,  Dear,  to  lie  along  in 

thine  1 
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. 

II- 

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. 


III. 


Oh,  must  thou  have  my  soul.  Dear,  commingled 

with  thy  soul  1 — 
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. 


>^fe 


INSUFFICIENCY. 


There  is  no  one  beside  thee,  and  no  one  above  thee ; 
Thou  standest  alone,  as  the  nightingale  sings! 
Yet  my  words  that  would  praise  thee  are  impo- 
tent things, 
For  none  can  express  thee  though  all  should  ap- 
prove thee ! 
I  love  thee  so.  Dear,  that  I  only  can  love  thee. 


n. 

Say,  what  can  I  do  for  thee?  . .  weary  thee  . .  grieve 

theel 

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. 


so:n'g  of  the  kose. 


ATTRIBUTED   TO    SAPPHO. 


Tf    Zeus  chose  us  a  King  of  the  flowers  in  his  mirlh, 
.He  would  call  to  the  rose,  and  would  royall)' 
crown  it ; 
For  the  rose,  ho,  the  rose !  is  the  grace  of  the  earth, 
Is  the  light  of  the  plants  that  are  growing  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  that  sit  in  the  glow  unaware. 
Ho,  the  rose  breathes  of  love!  ho,  the  rose  lifts  the 
cup 
To  the  red  lips  of  Cypris  involved  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  Jlchi'les  Tntiu* 


A   DEAD   ROSE. 


I. 

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. 


n. 

The  breeze  that  used  to  blow  thee 
Between  the  hedge-row  thorns,  and  take  away 
An  odour  up  the  lane  to  last  all  day, — 

If  breathing   now, — unsweetened   would   forego 
thee. 


HI. 


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. 


ADEADROSE.  323 

IV. 

The  dew  that  used  to  wet  thee, 
A.nd,  white  first,  grow  incarnadined,  because 
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  leafs  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  recognise  thee, 
Alone,  alone  !     The  heart  doth  smell  thee  sweet. 
Doth  view  thee  fair,  doth   judge   thee   most   com- 
plete— 

Perceiving  all  those  changes  that  disguise  thee. 

VIII. 

Yes,  and  the  heart  doth  owe  thee 
More  love,  dead  rose !  than  to  such  roses  bold 
As  Julia  wears  at  dances,  smiling  cold ! 

Lie    still    upon    this  heart— which   breaks  below 
thee  ! 


A   WOMAN'S   SHOETCOMINGS. 


Shb  has  laughed  as  softly  as  if  she  sighed ! 

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  grooving : 
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  ^v•ords,  unreproving : 
But  her  silence  says — what  she  never  will  swear- 

And  love  seeks  better  loving. 


A    WOMAN'S    SHORTCOMINGS.        ■■.2b 


III. 


Go,  lady  !  lean  to  the  night-guitar, 

And  drop  a  smile  to  the  biinger ; 
Tlien  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  yon  can  think,  when  the  song  is  done, 

No  other  is  soft  in  ^he  rhythm ; 
Unless  you  can  feel,  when  left  by  One, 

That  all  men  else  go  with  him ; 
Unless  you  can  know,  when  unprais*  xl  by  his  breath, 

That  your  beauty  its.-lf  w;.nts  pro  zing; 
Unless  vou  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  ! 
VOL.  II.— 28 


A    MAN'S   REQUIREMENTS. 


I. 

Love  me,  sweet,  with  all  thou  art, 
Feeling,  thinking,  seeing, — 

Love  me  in  the  lightest  part, 
Love  me  in  full  being. 


11. 

Love  me  with  thine  open  youth 
In  its  frank  surrender ; 

With  the  vowing  of  thy  mouth. 
With  its  silence  tender. 


III. 

Love  me  with  thine  azure  eyes. 
Made  for  earnest  granting  ' 

Taking  colour  from  the  skie?. 
Can  Heaven's  ti'utli  be  wanting? 


A  "MAN'S    REQUIREMENTS.  327 


IV. 


Love  me  with  their  lids,  that  fall 
Snow-like  at  first  meeting : 

Love  me  with  thine  heart,  that  all 
The  neighbours  then  see  beating. 


Love  mg  with  thine  hand  stretched  out 

Freely — open-minded : 
Love  me  with  thy  loitering  ft)Ot, — 

Hearing  one  behind  it. 


VI. 

Love  me  -w-ith  thy  voice,  that  turns 
Sudden  faint  above  me ; 

Love  me  with  thy  blush  that  burns 
When  I  mui-mur  '  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. 


328 


A    MAN'S    REQUIREMENTS. 


IX. 


Love  me  pure,  as  niusers  do, 
Up  the  woodlands  shady  : 

Love  me  gaily,  fast,  arxd  true, 
As  a  winsome  lady. 


X. 


Tlirough  all  hopes  that  keep  us  bi^ave, 

Further  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-y ear  — 
As  a  man  is  able. 


A  TEAE'S  SPmNING. 


I. 


He  listened  at  the  porch  that  day 
To  hear  the  wheel  go  on,  and  on, 

And  then  it  stopped — ran  back  away — 

While  thi'ough  the  door  he  brought  the  sun' 
But  now  my  spinning  is  all  done. 

n. 

He  sate  beside  me,  vnth  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. 

III. 

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. 
28* 


330  A    YEAR'S    SPINNING. 

IV. 

I  thought — 0  God ! — my  first-bom's  cry 
Both  voices  to  my  ear  would  drown : 

I  listened  in  mine  agony — 

It  was  the  silence  made  me  groan ! 
And  now  my  spinning  is  all  done. 

V. 

Bury  me  'twixt  my  mother's  grave, 
Who  cursed  me  on  ner  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  neighbours  !  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. 


I 


CHANGE  UPON  CHANGE. 


I. 

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  ? 

n.      , 

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  to  pale. 
It  was  thine  oath  that  first  did  fail, — 
It  was  thy  love  proved  false  and  fiail ! 
And  why,  since  these  be  changed  enow, 
Should  /change  less  than  thou? 


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  but  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 ! 


III. 

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,  unreproved  ;— 
Would  I  trouble  thee  rather  than  them,  my  beloved. 

And  my  lover  that  day  1 


THAT    DAY. 


333 


IV. 
Go !  be  sure  of  my  love — by  that  treason  forgiven  ; 
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  I 


A  EEED. 


I. 

I  AM  no  trumpet,  but  a  reed : 

No   flattering   breath  shall  from  me  lead 

A  silver  sound,  a  hollow  sound ! 
1  will  not  ring,  for  priest  or  king, 
One  blast  that  in  re-echoing 

Would  leave  a  bondsman  faster  bound. 

II. 

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. 


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  sedj^e. 


CASA  GUIDI  WINDOWS. 


ADVERTISEMENT. 


This  Poem  contains  the  impressions  of  the  writer  upon  events  in 
Tuscany  of  which  she  was  a  witness.  "  From  a  window,"  the  critic 
may  demur.  She  bows  to  the  objection  in  the  very  title  of  hef  worli. 
No  continuous  narrative,  nor  exposition  of  political  philosophy,  ia 
attempted  by  her.  It  is  a  simple  story  of  personal  impressions, 
whose  only  value  is  in  the  intensity  with  which  they  were  received, 
as  proving  her  warm  affection  for  a  beautiful  and  unfortunate  coun- 
try ;  and  the  sincerity  with  which  '.hey  are  related,  as  indicating  her 
own  good  faith  and  freedom  from  all  partizauship. 

Of  the  two  parts  of  this  Poem,  the  first  was  written  nearly  three 
jears  ago,  while  the  second  resumes  the  actual  situation  of  1851. 
The  discrepancy  between  the  two  parts  is  a  sufficient  guarantee  to  the 
public  of  the  truthfulness  of  the  writer,  who,  though  she  certainly 
escaped  the  epidemic  "  falling  sickness"  of  enthusiasm  for  Pio  Nono, 
takes  shame  upon  herself  that  she  believed,  like  a  woman,  some 
royal  oaths,  and  lost  sight  of  the  probable  consequences  of  some 
obvious  popular  defects.  If  the  discrepancy  should  be  painful  to  the 
reader,  let  him  understand  that  to  the  writer  it  has  been  more  so. 
But  such  discrepancy  we  are  called  upon  to  accept  at  every  hour  by 
the  conditions  of  our  nature  .  .  .  the  discrepancy  between  aspiration 
and  performance,  between  faith  and  disillusion,  between  hope  and 
fact. 

"  Oil  trusted,  broken  prophecy, 
Oh  richest  fortune  eourh'  croat, 
Bom  for  the  future,  to  the  future  lost  I" 

Nay,  not  lost  to  the  future  in  this  case.    The  future  of  Italy  shall  not 
be  disinherited. 

Florence,  1851. 


CASA   GUIDl   WINDOWS. 


PART  L 


I. 

I  HEARD  last  night  a  little  child  go  singing 

'Neath  Casa  Guidi  windows,  by  the  church, 
«  0  hella  liberta,  0  bellaT  stringing 

The  same  words  still  on  notes  he  went  in  search 
So  high  for,  you  concluded  the  upspringing 

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  Florence  street ! 
A  little  child,  too,  who  not  long  had  been 

By  mother's  finger  steadied  on  his  feet; 
And  still  0  bella  liberta  he  sang. 


II. 


Then  I  thought,  musing,  of  the  innumerous 
Sweet  songs  which  still  for  Italy  outrang 

From  older  singers'  lips,  who  sang  not  thus 
Exultingly  and  purely,  yet,  with  pang 

Sheathed  into  music,  touched  the  heart  of  us 

Vol.  II.— 29 


338  CASA    GUIDI    WINDOWS. 

So  finely  that  the  pity  scarcely  pained ! 
[  thought  how  Filicaja  led  on  others, 

Bcwailers  for  their  Italy  enchained, 
A.nd  how  they  called  her  childless  among  mothers, 

Widow  of  empires,  ay,  and  scarce  refrained 
Cursing  her  beauty  to  her  face,  as  brothers 

Might  a  shamed  sister's — '  Had  she  been  less  fan- 
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 

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  Italy 

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  V     Of  such  songs  enough ; 

Too  many  of  such  complaints !     Behold,  instead, 
V^oid  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  'tis  easier  to  gaze  long 

On  mournful  masks,  and  sad  effigies. 
Than  on  real,  live,  weak  creatures  crushed  by  strong. 


*  They  show  at  Verona  an  empty  trough  of  stone  as  the  tomb  of 
Juliet. 


CASA    GUIDI    WINDOWS.  339 

HI. 

For  me  who  stand  in  Italy  to-day 
Where  worthier  poets  stood  and  sang  before, 

I  kiss  their  footsteps,  yet  their  words  gainsay. 
I  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  multiplied, 

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  without 

In  silence  listen  for  the  word  said  next. 
What    word   will    men    say, — here    where   Giotto 

His  campanile,  like  an  unperplexed  [planted 

Fine    question    Heaven-ward,   touching   the   things 
granted 

A  noble  people  who,  being  greatly  vexed 
In  act,  in  aspiration  keep  undaunted  ! 

What  word  will  God  say?     Michel's  Night  and 
Day 
And  Dawn  and  Twilight  wait  in  marble  scorn,* 


*  These  famous  statues  recline  In  the  Sagrestia  Nuova,  on  the  tombs 
of  Giuliano  de'  Medici,  third  son  of  Lorenzo  the  Magnificent,  and  Lo- 
renzo of  Drbino,  his  grandson.  Strozzi's  epigram  on  the  Night,  with 
Uichel  Angelo's  rejoinder  is  well  known. 


340  CASA    GUIDI    WIJSTDOWS. 

Like  dogs  upon  a  dunghill,  couched  on  clay 
From  whence  the  Medicean  stamp's  outworn, 

The  final  putting  off  of  all  such  sway 
By  all  such  hands,  and  freeing  of  the  unborn 

In  Florence  and  the  great  world  outside  Florence 
Three  hundred  years  his  patient  statues  wait 

In  that  small  chapel  of  the  dim  St.  Lawrence ! 
Day's  eyes  are  breaking  bold  and  passionate 

Over  his  shoulder,  and  will  flash  abhorrence 
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. 

Of  angers  and  contempts,  of  hope  and  love ; 
For  not  without  a  meaning  did  he  place 

Princely  Urbino  on  the  seat  above 
With  everlasting  shadow  on  his  face ; 

While  the  slow  dawns  and  twilights  disapprove 
The  ashes  of  his  long-extinguished  race, 

Which  never  more  shall  clog  the  feet  of  meJi. 

IV. 

I  do  believe,  divinest  Angelo, 

That  winter-hour,  Via  Larga,  when 
They  bade  thee  build  a  statue  up  in  snow,* 

And  straight  that  marvel  of  thine  art  again 

*  This  mocking  task  was  set  by  Pietro,  the  unwort-hy  successor  of 
Lorenzo  the  Magnificent. 


CASA    GUIDI    WINDOWS.  341 

Dissolved  beneath  the  sun's  Italian  glow, 

Thine  eyes,  dilated  with  the  plastic  passion, 
Thawing  too,  in  drops  of  wounded  manhood,  since, 

To  mock  alike  thine  art  and  indignation. 
Laughed  at  the  palace-window  the  new  prince, — 

('  Aha  !  this  genius  needs  for  exaltation, 
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 
After  those  few  tears — which  were  only  few ! 

That  as,  beneath  the  sun,  the  grand  white  lines 
Of  thy  snow-statue  trembled  and  withdrew, — 

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  proudlj 
thank 

God  and  the  prince  for  promise  and  presage, 
And  laugh  the  laugh  back,  I  thuik  verily. 

Thine  eyes  being  purged  by  tears  of  righteous 
rage 
To  read  a  wrong  into  a  prophecy, 

And  measure  a  true  great  man's  heritage 
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,  indeed, 
On  book  or  board  or  dust,  on  floor  or  wall, 

The  same  is  kept  of  God  who  taketh  heed 
That  not  a  letter  of  the  meaning  fall 


342  CASA    GUIDI    WINDOWS. 

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. 

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  understand. 
Through  rhymers  sonneteering  in  their  sleep. 

And  archaists  mumbling  dry  bones  up  the  land, 
And  sketchers  lauding  ruined  towns  a-heap, — 

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, 

(And  many  of  such  wakers  now  are  here, 
Complete  in  their  anointed  manhood,  who 

Will  greatly  dare  and  greatlier  persevere,) 
Than  join  those  old  thin  voices  with  my  new. 


CASA    GUIDI    WINDOWS.  343 

And  sigh  for  Italy  with  some  safe  sigh 
Cooped  up  in  music  'twixt  an  oh  and  ah  ! — 

Nay,  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  bella  fossi,  Italia  P 

VI. 

*  Less  wretched  if  less  fair.'     Perhaps  a  truth 
Is  so  far  plain  in  this — that  Italy, 

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,  Caesar.'     What  beside  1  to  task 
The  memory  closer — '  Why,  Boccaccio, 

Dante,  Petrarca,' — and  if  still  the  flask 
Appears  to  yield  its  wine  by  drops  too  slow, — 

Angelo,  Raflfael,  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  OAvn  past,  impassioned  nympholept ! 

Consenting  to  be  nailed  here  by  the  hand 
To  the  very  bay -tree  under  which  she  stepped 


344  CASA    GDIDI    WINDOWS. 

A  queen  of  old,  and  plucked  a  leafy  branch. 
And,  licensing  the  world  too  long  indeed 

To  use  her  broad  phylacteries  to  staunch 
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 
The  oil-eaters,  with  large,  live,  mobile  mouths 

Agape  for  maccaroni,  in  the  amount 
Of  consecrated  heroes  of  her  south's 

Bright  rosary  1     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 ! 
Of  which,  no  more :  but  never  say  '  no  more' 

To  Italy's  life !     Her  memories  undismayed 
Still  argue  '  evermore' — her  graves  implore 

Her  future  to  be  strong  and  not  afraid ; 
Her  very  statues  send  their  looks  before ! 

VII. 

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. 
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, 


CASA    GUIDI    WINDOWS.  345 

The  sun  not  in  theii-  faces, — shall  abstract 
No  more  our  strength :  we  will  not  be  discrowned 

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 

With  rigid  hands  of  desiccating  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  before, 
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 

With   our   fresh   souls,  our   younger   hope,  anC' 
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. 

VIII. 

'Tis  true  that  when  the  dust  of  death  has  choked 
A  sreat  man's  voice,  the  common  words  h>  said 

Turn  oracles, — the  common  thoughts  he  yoked 
Like  horses,  draw  like  griffins  ! — this  is  true 

And  acceptable.     I.  too,  should  desire, 


346  CASA    GUIDI    WINDOWS. 

When  men  make  record,  with  the  flowers  tb-.y 
strew, 
Savonarohi'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  sate  and  judged  the  judges  there,' — * 

Upon  the  self-same  pavement  overstrewed. 
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  courageously 
'  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  ! 

Who  also  by  a  princely  death-bed  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 ; 

And  men  who,  living,  were  but  dimly  guessed. 
When  once  free  from  their  life's  entangled  mesh, 


•  Savonarola  was  burnt  in  martyrdom  for  his  testimony  against 
Papal  corruptions  as  early  as  March,  1498:  and,  as  late  as  our  own 
day,  it  is  a  custom  in  Florence  to  strew  violets  on  the  pavement 
where  he  suffered,  in  grateful  recognition  of  the  anniversary 


CASA    GUID]    WINDOWS.  347 

Show  their  full  length  m  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 

Their  furlong,  could  we  hope  to  walk  our  mile  1 
Thei-efore  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. 

And,    having    reaped    and   garnered,    bring    the 
plough 
And  draw  new  furrows  'neath  the  healthy  morn, 

And  plant  the  great  Hereafter  in  this  Now. 

IX. 

Of  old  'twas  so.     How  step  by  step  was  worn 

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  ^yes, 

Traditionary  music's  floating  ghost 
Into  the  grass-grown  silence  1  were  it  wise  ? 

And  was't  not  wiser,  Jubal's  breath  being  lost, 


348  CASA    GUIDI    WINDOWS. 

That  Miriam  clashed  her  cymbals  to  surprise 
The  sun  between  her  white  arms  flung  apart, 

With  new,  glad,  golden  sounds  ?  that  David's  strings 
O'erflowed  his  hand  with  music  from  his  heart  ? 

So  harmony  grows  full  from  many  springs. 
And  happy  accident  turns  holy  art. 


You  enter,  in  your  Florence  wanderings, 

The  church  of  St.  Maria  Novella.     Pass 
The  left  stair,  where  at  plague-time  Macchiavel* 

Saw  one  with  set  foir  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  oif  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  daemons ;  you,  in  passing  it, 
Ascend  the  right  stair  from  the  flirther  nave. 

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  ;f 

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 

•  See  his  description  of  the  plague  in  Florence. 

t  Cliailea  of  Anjoii,  whom,  in  his  passage  through  Florence, 
Cimabue  allowed  to  see  this  picture  while  yet  in  his  'Bottegu. ' 
The  populace  followed  the  royal  visitor,  and  in  the  universal  delight 
and  admiration,  the  quarter  of  the  city  in  which  the  artist  lived  was 
called  " Borgo  Allogri."  The  picture  was  carried  in  a  Uiuraph  to 
the  church  and  deposited  there. 


CASA    GUIDI    WINDOWS.  34'j 

His  o^vn  ideal  Mary-smile  should  stand 

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, 

Miuds  only  the  young  babe  upon  her  knee ; 
While  sidelong  angels  bear  the  royal  weight, 

Prostrated  meekly,  smiling  tenderly 
Oblivion  of  their  wings !  the  Child  the-reat 

Stretches  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  appoints 

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 

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 
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. 


•  How  Cimabue  found  Giotto,  the  shepherd-boy,  skefchin?  a  ram 
of  hi3  flock  upon  a  stone,  is  a  pretty  story  told  by  Vasari,— who  also 
relates  how  the  elder  artist  Margheritone  died  "  infaatidito"  of  the 
•uccesses  of  the  new  school. 


350  CASA    GUIDI    WINDOWS. 

That  Cimabue  smiled  upon  the  lad, 

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  foreloiew 
Their  heirs  in  art,  for  art's  sake  have  been  glad. 

And  bent  their  old  white  heads  as  if  uncrowned, 
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  despairing  at  the  open  sill 

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  wistfully 

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, 

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  sudden  sense 

Of  Raffael's  future  was  revealed  to  him 
By  force  of  his  own  fair  works'  competence. 

The  same  blue  waters  where  the  dolphins  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 

The  strong  man's  impulse,  catch  the   fresh'ning 
spray 


CASA    GUIDI    WINDOWS.  851 

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  repeat, 
Tor  all  the  strongest  to  live  well,  and  strive 

Their  own  way,  by  their  individual  heat, — 
Like  a  new  bee-swarm  leaving  the  old  hive. 

Despite  the  wax  which  tempts  so  violet-sweet. 
Then  let  the  living  live,  the  dead  retain 

Their  grave-cold  flowers! — though  honour's  best 
supplied. 
By  bringing  actions,  to  prove  their's  not  vain. 

XI. 

Cold  graves,  we  say  1  it  shall  be  testified 
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.     Precipitate 
This  old  roof  from  the  shrine — and,  insecure. 

The  nesting  swallows  fly  oflT,  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  Marathon  1 
Who  dared  build  temples,  without  tombs  in  sight  ? 

Or  live,  without  some  dead  man's  benison  ? 
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 

Standing  and  waiting'?  your  ^ast  rhythm  will  need 


352  CASA    GUIDI    WINDOWS. 

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  1     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. 

XII. 

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  ? 

XIII. 

....  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 

The  image !  for  the  heart  of  man  beat  higher 
That  day  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  toward  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 


OASA    GUIDI    WINDOWS.  353 

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,  presagefiil  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 
Toward  rights  perceived  and  granted.     How   we 
gazed 

From  Casa  Guidi  windows,  while,  in  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,  pissed  ; 

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. 

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, 


354  CASA    GUIDI    WINDOWS. 

While  through  the  murmuring  windows  rose  and 
sunk 
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 

Motto,  '  II  popolo,'  II  Popolo, — 
The  word  means  dukedom,  empire,  majesty, 

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,  greeting  there 

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  symbols  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 


CASA    GUIDI    WINDOWS.  355 

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 
Did  it  more  warmly  ;  two-months'  babies  leapt 

Right   upward   in    their   mother's   arms,   whose 
black 
Wide,   glittering  eyes  looked    elsewhere;    lovers 
pressed 

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 

Honoured  the  other.     What  if,  ne'ertheless. 
That  good  day's  sun  delivered  to  the  vines 

No  charta,  and  the  liberal  Duke's  excess 
Did  scarce  exceed  a  Guelf  s  or  Ghibelline's 

In  any  special  actual  righteousness 
Of  what  that  day  he  granted  ;*  still  the  signs 

*  Since  when  the  constitutional  concessions  have  been  complete  in 
Tuscany,  as  all  the  world  knows.  The  event  breaks  in  upon  the  mertl- 
tetion,  an<l  is  too  fast  for  prophecy  in  these  strange  times. — E.  B.  B 


356  OASA    GUIDI    WINDOWS. 

Are  gcod,  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  despairs, 

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, 
Declared   his   eyes  filled  up  and  overfilled 

With  good  warm  human  tears  which  unrepressed 
Ran  down.     I  like  his  face  :  the  forehead's  build 

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 

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. 

XIV. 

And  all  the  people  who  went  up  to  let 
Their  hearts  out  to  that  Duke,  as  has  been  told — 


CASA    GUIDI    WINDOWS.  357 

IVhere  guess  ye  that  the  living  people  met, 

Kept  tryst,  formed  ranks,  chose  leaders,  first  un- 
rolled 
Their  banners  1 

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  1 

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, 
Where  Buonarotti  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. 

Not  there !  the  people  chose  still  holier  ground  ! 
The  people,  who  are  simple,  blind,  and  rough, 

Know  their  own  angels,  after  looking  round. 
What  chose  they  then  1  where  met  they  1 

XV. 

On  the  stone 
Call'd   Dante's, — a  plain  flat  stone,  scarce  dis- 
cerned 
From  others  in  the  pavement, — whereupon 

He  used  to  bring  his  quiet  chair  out,  turned 
To  Brunelleschi's  church,  and  pour  alone 


858  CASA    GUIDI    WINDOWS. 

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, 

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 ! 

I  muse  now,  Dante,  and  think,  verily, 
Tliough  chapelled  in  the  byeway,  out  of  sight, 

Ravenna's  bones  would  thrill  with  ecstasy, 
Could'st  know  thy  favourite  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 
That  thine  is  better  comforted  of  scorn. 

And  looks  down  earthward  in  completer  cure. 
Thai!  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  honoured ! — 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 
Their  way  to,  through  Time's  ordures  stratified,f 

And  startle  broad  awake  into  the  dull 
Bargello  chamber.     Now,  thou'rt  milder  eyed, 

•  The  Florentines,  to  whom  the  Ravennese  denied  the  body  of 
Dante  which  was  asked  of  them  in  a  "late  remorse  of  love,"  have 
given  a  cenotaph  to  their  divine  poet  in  this  church.  Something 
less  than  a  grave  ! 

+  In  allusion  to  Mr.  Kirkup'a  well-known  discovery  of  Giotto's 
fresco-portrait  of  Dante. 


CASA    GUIDI    WINDOWS.  359 

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 ; 

And,  mark  ye,  that  the  piercingest  sweet  smell 
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  firm  to  ends  foreshown, 
And  use  the  name  of  greatness  unforgot, 
To  meditate  what  greatness  may  be  done. 

XVI. 

For  Dante  sits  in  heaven,  and  ye  stand  here, 

And  more  remains  for  doing,  all  must  feel. 
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  1     A  chariot  wheel 
May  spin  fast,  yet  the  chariot  never  roll. 

But  if  that  day  suggested  something  good. 
And  bettered,  with  one  purpose,  soul  by  soul,— 

Better  means  freer.     A  land's  brotherhood 
Is  most  puissant !     Men,  upon  the  whole. 

Are  what  they  can  be,— nations,  what  they  would. 

XVII. 

Will,  therefore,  to  be  strong,  thou  Italy  ! 
WUl  to  be  noble !     Austrian  Metternich 


360  CASA    GUIDI    WINDOWS. 

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,  much  less  would  prick 
His  nostril  with  a  reed.     When  nations  roar 

Like  lions,  who  shall  tame  them,  and  defraud 
Of  the  due  pasture  by  the  river-shore  1 

Roar,  therefore !  shake  your  dew-laps  dry  abroad, 
The  amphitheatre  with  open  door 

Leads  back  upon  the  benchers  who  applaud 
The  last  spear-thruster ! 

XVIII. 

Yet  the  Heavens  forbid 

That  we  should  call  on  passion  to  confront 
The  brutal  with  the  brutal,  and,  amid 

This  ripening  world,  suggest  a  lion-hunt 
And  lion-vengeance  for  the  wrongs  men  did 

And  do  now,  though  the  spears  are  getting  blunt. 
We  only  call,  because  the  sight  and  proof 

Of  lion-strength  hurts  nothing ;  and  to  show 
A  lion-heart,  and  measure  paw  with  hoof, 

Helps  something,  even,  and  will  instruct  a  foe 
Well  as  the  onslaught,  how  to  stand  aloof! 

Or  else  the  world  gets  past  the  mere  brute  blow 
Given  or  taken.     Children  use  the  fist 

Until  they  are  of  age  to  use  the  brain : 
And  so  we  needed  Cassars  to  assist 

Man's  justice,  and  Napoleons  to  explain 
Sod's  counsel,  when  a  point  was  nearly  missed. 

Until  our  generations  should  attain 
Christ's  stature  nearer.     Not  that  we,  alas ! 

Attain  already  ;  but  a  single  inch 
Will  raisi'to  look  down  on  the  swordsman's  pass. 


CASA    GUIDI    WINDOWS.  361 

As  knightly  Roland  on  the  coward's  flinch ; 
And,  after  chloroforui  and  ether-gas, 

We  fold  out  slowly  what  the  bee  and  finch 
Have  ready  found,  through  Nature's  lamp  in  eacli, 

How  to  our  races  we  may  justify 
Our  individual  claims,  and,  as  we  reach 

Our  own  grapes,  bend  the  top  -^anes  to  supply 
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  flickerings 
Of  this  world's  false  and  nearly  expended  fire ! 

Draw  palpitating  arrows  to  the  wood. 
And  twangabroad  thy  high  hop^es,  and  thy  higher 

Resolves,  from  that  most  virtuous  altitude, 
Till  nations  shall  unconsciously  aspire 

By  looking  up  to  thee,  and  leara  that  good 
And  glory  are  not  different.     Announce  law 

By  freedom ;  exalt  chivalry  by  peace ; 
Instruct  how  clear  calm  eyes  can  oveiawe. 

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 
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. 
Vol.  II.— 31 


362  CASA    GUIDI    WINDOWS. 

XIX. 

Drums  and  battle  cries 

Go  out  in  music  of  the  morning  star — 
And  soon  we  shall  have  thmkers  in  the  place 

Of  fighters ;  each  found  able  as  a  man 
To  strilce  electric  influence  through  a  race, 

Unstayed  by  city-wall  and  barbican. 
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  Qracles  of  life — previsions  sweet 
And  awful,  like  divine  swans  gliding  through 

White  arms  of  Ledas,  which  will  leave  the  heat 
Of  their  escaping  godship  to  endue 

The  human  medium  with  a  heavenly  flush. 

Meanwhile,  in  this  same  Italy  we  want 

Not  popular  passion,  to  arise  and  crush. 
But  popular  conscience,  which  may  covenant 

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  aniens, 

The  crowd  comes  up  on  festa-days,  to  take 
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, 


CASA    GUIDI    WINDOW 0.  363 

And  bear  the  wooden  yoke  as  they  were  taught 

Tlie  first  day.     What  ye  want  is  light — indeed 
Not  sunlight — (ye  may  well  look  up  surprised 

To  those  unftxthomable  heavens  that  feed 
Your  purple  hills  !) — but  God's  light  organised 

In  some  high  soul,  crowned  capable  to  lead 
The  conscious  people, — conscious  and  advised, — 

For  if  we  lift  a  people  like  mere  clay. 
It  falls  the  same.     We  want  thee,  O  unfound 

And  sovran  teacher ! — if  thy  beard  be  grey 
Or  black,  we  bid  thee  rise  up  from  the  ground 

And  speak  the  word  God  giveth  thee  to  say, 
Inspiring  into  all  this  people  round, 

Instead  of  passion,  thought,  which  pioneers 
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  overdose 

They  only  let  the  mice  across  the  floors, 
While  every  churchman  dangles  as  he  goes 

The  great  key  at  his  girdle,  and  abhors 
In  Christ's  name,  meekly.     Open  wide  the  house — 

Concede  the  entrance  with  Christ's  liberal  mind, 
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  blind 
To  starlight,  will  he  see  the  rose  is  red  1 

A  bondsman  shivering  at  a  Jesuit's  foot — 


364  CASA    GUIDI    WINDOWS. 

'  Vse  !  mea  culpa! '  is  not  like  to  stand 
A  freedman  at  a  despot's,  and  dispute 

His  titles  by  the  balance  in  his  hand, 

"Weighing  them    'suojure. '     Tend  the  root, 

If  careful  of  the  branches ;  and  expand 
The  inner  souls  of  men  before  you  strive 

For  civic  heroes. 

XX. 

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  no  wise  dare 

To  point  a  finger  out,  and  touch  a  man, 
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  1     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  1 

Yet  mankind's  self  were  foundered  in  eclipse. 
If  lacking  doers,  with  great  works  to  be  done, 

And  lo,  the  startled  earth  already  dips 
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  holier  strain. 
We  hold  this  hope,  and  still  in  all  these  eyes, 

Go  sounding  for  the  deep  look  which  shall  drain 
Sufilised  thought  into  channelled  enterprise ! 

Where  is  the  teacher  1     What  now  may  he  do. 
Who  shall  do  greatly  1     Doth  he  gird  his  waist 


CASA    GUIDI    WINDOWS.  3C5 

With  a  monk's  rope,  like  Luther  1  or  pursue 
The  goat,  like  Tell  1  or  dry  his  nets  in  haste, 

Like  Masaniello  when  the  sky  \Yas  blue? 
Keep  house  like  other  peasants,  with  iiilaced 

Bare,  brawny  arms  about  a  favourite  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  sits  at  ease,  to  bless  the  poor, 

Like  other  pontiffs,  in  the  Poorest's  name, 
The  old  tiara  keeps  itself  aslope 

Upon  his  steady  brows,  which,  all  the  same, 
Bend  mildly  to  pez'mit  the  people's  hope  1 

XXI. 

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 
And  blessed  be  that  man  !  the  Heavens  shall  kill 

No  leaf  the  earth  shall  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  flisces,  throb  beneath 
Rome's  stones ;  and  more,  who  threw  away  joy's  fife 

Like  Pallas,  that  the  beauty  of  their  souls 
Miirht  ever  shine  untroubled  and  entire! 

But  if  it  can  be  true  that  he  who  rolls 
The  Church's  thunders  will  reserve  her  fire 


366  CASA    GDIDI    WINDOWS. 

For  only  light ;  from  eucharistic  bowls 
Will  pour  new  life  for  nations  that  expire, 

And  rend  the  scarlet  of  liis  Papal  vest 
To  gii'd  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  dispossessed 
The  first  graves  of  some  glory.     See  again, 

This  country-saving  is  a  glorious  thing ! 
And  if  a  common  man   achieved  it  ?     Well ! 

Say,  a  rich  man  did ?     Excellent!     A  king? 
That  grows  sublime  !     A  priest  1     Improbable  ! 

A  Pope  1     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 ! 

XXII. 

Stretch  thy  feet 
In  that  case — I  will  kiss  them  reverently 

As  any  pilgrim  to  the  Papal  seat ! 
And,  such  proved  possible,  thy  throne  to  me 

Shall  seem  as  holy  a  place  as  Pellico's 
Venetian  dungeon  ;  or  as  Spielberg's  grate, 

At  which  the  Lombard  woman  hunjr  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. 
Where  two  fell  riddled  by  the  Austrian's  shot— 

The  brothers  Bandiera,  who  accuse. 


CASA    GUIDI    WINDOWS.  3G7 

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  miconscious  thunder-bolt  begins 

To  loosen  in  His  grasp. 

XXIII. 

And  yet  we  must 

Beware,  and  mark  the  natural  kiths  and  kms 
Of  circumstance  and  office,  and  distrust 

A  rich  man  reasoning  in  a  poor  man's  hut ; 
A  poet  who  neglects  pure  truth  to  prove 

Statistic  fact ;  a  child  who  leaves  a  rut 
For  a  smoother  road  ;  the  priest  who  vows  his  glove 

Exhales  no  grace ;  the  prince  who  walks  a-foot ; 
The  woman  who  has  sworn  she  will  not  love ; 

And  this  Ninth  Pius  in  Seventh  Gregory's  chair, 
With  Andrea  Doria's  forehead ! 

XXIV. 

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 
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  the  licensed  mob  ! 

The  short  mad  cries  down  oubliettes,  and  plasb 
So  horribly  far  off!  priests,  trained  to  rob. 

And  kings  that,  like  encouraged  nightmares,  sate 
On  nations'  hearts  most  heavily  distressed 

With  monstrous  sights  and  apophthegms  of  fate  I — 


368  CASA    GUIDI    WINDuWS. 

We   pass   these   things, — because   '  the   times'   are 
prest 

AVith  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  !  refer 
Old  sins  (with  pourpoint,  '  quotha'  and  '  I  ween,') 

Entirely  to  the  old  times,  the  old  times ; 
Nor  ever  ask  why  this  preponderant. 

Infallible,  pure  Church  could  set  her  chimes 
Most  loudly  then,  just  then, — most  jubilant, 

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  brimstone-torch, 
And  grinds  the  second,  bone  by  b(jne,  because 

The  times,  forsooth,  are  used  to  rack  and  scorch ! 
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  mercvl      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  precedence 
In  thought  and  act,  which,  having  proved  him  higher 

Than  those  he  lived  with,  proved  his  competence 
In  helping  them  to  wonder  and  aspire. 


CASA    GUIDI    WINDOWS.  369 


XXV. 

My  words  are  guiltless  of  the  bigot's  sense ! 
My  soul  has  fire  to  mingle  with  the  fire 

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 
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! 
1  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  they  have  won  of  truth  possessively ! 
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  assures 

Of  standing  without  failure  and  defeat, 
The   same  both  fails  and  lies !  ' 

XXVI. 

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 


370  CASA    GUIDI    WINDOWS. 

For  what  he  mmj  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 
To  drench  the  busy  barkings  of  his  brain  ; 

What  ghosts  of  pale  tradition,  wreathed  with  hop 
'Gainst  wakeful  thought,  he  had  to  entertain 

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 
Assumes    for    his,  as  being  plainly  so. 

A  pope  must  hold  by  popes  a  little, — yes, 
By  councils, — fi'om  Nica3a  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 

'  The  interests  of  the  Church, '  because  a  blot 
Is  better  than  a  rent  in  miniver, — 

Submit  to  see  the  people  swallow  hot 
Husk-porridge  which  his  chartered  churchmen  stir 


CAS  A    GUIDI    WINDOWS.  37l 

Quoting  the  only  true  God's  epigraph, 
*  Feed  my  lambs,  Peter ! ' — must  consent  to  sit 

Attesting  with  his  pastoral  ring  and  stall', 
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 
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 
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  ;  affectionate, 

As  princes  may  be ;  and,  as  priests  are,  true — 
But  only  the  ninth  Pius  after  eight. 

When  all's  praised  most.    At  best  and  hopefullest, 
He's  pope — we  want  a  man  !  his  heart  beats  warm, 

But,  like  the  prince  enchanted  to  the  waist. 


372  CASA    GUIDI    WINDOWS. 

lie  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, 
Complete  and  all  alive  :  half  travertine 

Half  suits  our  need,  and  ill  subserves  our  plan. 
Feet,  knees,  nerves,  sinews,  energies  divine 

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,  pi'ince,  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 
Thy  saintly  peers  in  Rome,  who  crossed  and  cursed 

With  the  same  finger. 

XXVII. 

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 

Turned  boldly  on  all  comers  to  her  states. 
As  heroes  turned  their  shields  in  antique  time, 

Blazoned  with  honourable  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, 


CASA    GUIDI    WINDOWS.  373 

Nor  Dante,  from  gate  Gallo — still  \vc  know, 
Despite  the  razing  of  the  blazonries, 

Remains  the  consecration  of  the  shield, — 
The  dead  heroic  faces  will  start  out 

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  ev'n,  when,  gazing  round  about. 

They  find  in  what  a  glorious  company 
They  fight  the  foes  of  Florence !     Who  will  gradge 

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  1 
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  1     Why,  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  fiilseness  to  the  roots, 
And  shut  the  mouth  of  hell  below  the  swathe ! 
And  if  ye  can  bring  songs  too,  let  the  lute's 
"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 


374  CASA    GUIDI    WINDOWS, 

By  falcons  on  your  wrists,  it  unaware 
Arose  up  overhead,  and  out  of  sight. 

XXVIII. 

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  1 

Can    any    sit   down   idle   in  the  house, 
Nor  hear  appeals  from  Buonarotti's  stone 

And  Raffael's  canvas,  rousing  and  to  rouse  ? 
Where's  Poussin's  master  1     Gallic  Avignon 

Bred  Laura,  and  Vaucl  use's  fount  has  stirred 
The  heart  of  France  too  strongly, — as  it  lets 

Its  little  stream  out',  lilce  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, 
A  fuller  cadence  and  a  subtler  thought ; 

And  even  the  New  World,  the  receptacle 
Of  freemen,  may  send  glad  men,  as  it  ought, 

To  greet  Vespucci  Amerigo's  door ; 
Whde  England  claims,  by  trump  of  poetry, 

Verona,  Venice,  the  Ravenna  shore. 
And  dearer  holds  John  Milton's  Fiesole 

Than  Langlaude's  Malvern  with  the  stars  in  flower. 


CASA    GUIDI    WINDOWS.  37? 


XXIX. 

And  Vallombrosa,  we  two  went  to  see 

Last  June,  beloved  companion, — where  sublime 
The  mountains  live  in  holy  families, 

And  the  slow  pinewoods  ever  climb  and  climb 
Half  up  their  breasts  ;  just  stagger  as  they  seize 

Some  grey  crag — drop  back  with  it  many  a  time, 
And  straggle  blindly  down  the  precipice ! 

The  Vallombrosan  brooks  were  strewn  as  thick 
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  they  have  changed 
the  wick 
On  good  St.  Gualbert's  altar,  which  receives 

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  waterfalls 
And  forests  !  sound  and  silence  !  mountains  bare, 

That  leap  up  peak  by  peak,  and  catch  the  palls 
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  nmst 
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 


376  CASA    GUIDI    WINDOWS. 

By  which  he  had  drawn  from  Nature's  visible 
The  fresh  well-water.     Satisfied  by  this, 

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. 

XXX. 

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,  being  rung 
On  work-day  counter,  still  sound  silver-proof— 

In  short,  with  all  the  dreams  of  dreamers  young, 
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 
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 

*  Galileo's  villa,  close  to  Florence,  is  buUt  on  an  eminence  caUed 
Bellosguardo. 


CASA    GUIDI    "WINDOWS.  377 

Of  this  earth's  darling, — we,  who  understand 

A  little  how  the  Tuscan  musical 
Vowels  do  round  themselves  as  if  they  plann'd 

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  Petrarch's  song, 
Or  ere  we  loved  Love's  self  even ! — let  us  give 

The  blessing  of  our  souls,  and  wish  them  strong 
To  bear  it  to  the  height  where  prayers  arrive, 

When  faithful  spirits  pray  against  a  wrong ; 
To  this  great  cause  of  southern  men,  who  strive 

In   God's  name  for  man's  rights,  and  shall  not 
fail! 

XXXI. 

Behold,  they  shall  not  fiil.     The  shouts  ascend 

Above  the  shrieks,  in  Naples,  and  prevail. 
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   nothing 
lost; 
Therefore,  not  blood  !     Above  or  underneath. 

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, 


378  CASA    GUIDI    WINDOWS. 

The  eucharistic  bread  requires  no  leaven ; 
And  though  your  ends  were  hopeless,  we  should  bless 

Your  cause  as  holv  !    Strive — and,  having  striven. 
Take,  for  God's  recompense,  that  righteousness  ! 


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  1 
Didst  thou,  too,  only  sing  of  liberty, 

As  little  children  take  up  a  high  strain 
With  unintentioned  voices,  and  break  off 

To  sleep  upon  their  mothers'  knees  again  ? 
Could'st  thou  not  watch  one  hour?     Then,  sleep 
enough — 

That  sleep  may  hasten  manhood,  and  sustain 
Tlie  famt  pale  spirit  with  some  muscular  stuff. 


II. 


But  we,  who  cannot  slumber  as  thou  dost, 
We  thinkers,  who  have  thought  for  thee  and  fliiled, 
We  hopers,  who  have  hoped  for  thee  and  lost, 


CASA    GUIDI    WINDOWS.  379 

We  poets,  wandered  round  by  dreams  *  who  hailed 

From  this  Atrides'  roof  (with  lintel-post 
Which  still  drips  blood, — the  worse  part  hath  pre- 
vailed) 

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  1 

— God's  judgments,  perad venture,  will  He  bare 
To  the  roots  of  thunder,  if  we  kneel  and  sue  ? 

m. 

From  Casa  Guidi  windows  I  looked  forth. 
And  saw  ten  thousand  eyes  of  Florentines 

Flash  back  the  triumph  of  the  Lombard  north, — 
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  henceforth  stands 

Among  the  oaths  of  perjurers,  eminent 
To  catch  the  lightnings  ripened  for  these  lands. 

IV. 

Why  swear  at  all,  thou  false  Duke  Leopold  ? 
What  need  to  swear?     What  need  to  boast  thy 
blood 

Unspoilt  of  Austria,  and  thy  heart  unsold 
Away  fi-om  Florence  1     It  was  understood 

God  made  thee  not  too  vigorous  or  too  bold, 

•  Referring  to  the  well-known  opening  passage  of  the  AKamemnon 
of  jEschyliis. 


880  CAS  A    QUID  I    WINDOWS. 

And  men  had  patience  with  thy  quiet  :nood, 

And  women,  pity,  as  they'  saw  thee  pace 
Their  festive  streets  with  premature  grey  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. 
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  overlook  ? 


For  me,  I  do  repent  me  in  this  dust 
Of  towns  and  temples,  which  makes  Italy, — 

I  sigh  amid  the  sighs  which  breathe  a  gust 
Of  dying  century  to  century, 

Around  us  on  the  uneven  crater-crust 
Of  the  old  worlds, — I  bow  my  soul  and  knee, 

Absolve  me,  patriots,  of  my  woman's  fault 
That  ever  I  believed  the  man  was  true. 

These  sceptred  strangers  shun  the  common  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. 

And  I  repent  that  in  this  time  and  place. 
Where  m.any  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. 


I 


CASA    GUIDI    WINDOWS.  381 

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  atmo- 
sphere's 
Foul  smoke,  by  princely  perjuries,  kept  hot  1 

Forgive  me,  ghosts  of  patriots, — Brutus,  thou, 
Who  trailest  downhill  into  life  again 

Tliy  blood-weighed  cloak,  to  indict  me  \\ith  thy 
slow 
Reproachful  eyes ! — for  being  taught  in  vain 

That  while  the  illegitimate  Caisars  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. 
Forgive,  that  I  foi'got  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  o\vn  child's  coming  life  before 
The  prescience  of  my  soul,  and  held  faith  high, 

I  could  not  bear  to  think,  whoever  bore. 
That  lips,  so  warmed,  could  shape  so  cold  a  lie. 

VI. 

From  Casa  Guidi  windows  I  looked  out. 
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. 


382  CASA    GUIDI    WINDOWS. 

Moreover  that  same  dangerous  shouting  meant 
Some  gratitude  for  future  favours,  which 

Were  only  promised  ; — the  Constituent 
Implied ; — the  whole  being  subject  to  the  hitch 

In  motu  proprios,  very  incident 
To  all  these  Czars,  from  Paul  to  Paulovitch. 

Whereat  the  people  rose  up  in  the  dust 
Of  the  ruler's  flying  feet,  and  shouted  stiU 

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. 

VII. 

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. 
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  they  pulled  down  the  Duke's  arms  every- 
where ! 
How  they  set  up  new  cafe-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, 
And  bishops  cursed  in  ecclesiastic  metres ! 

How  all  the  Circoli  grew  large  as  moons, 
And    all    the_  speakers,    moonstruck  !  —  thankful 
greeters 

Of  prospects  which  struck  poor  the  ducal  boons, 


CASA    GUIDI    WINDOWS.  383 

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. ' 
How  all  the  nobles  fled,  and  would  not  wait, 

Because  they  were  most  noble  !  which  being  so, 
How  liberals  vowed  to  bum  their  palaces. 

Because  free  Tuscans  were  not  free  to  go. 
How  grown  men  raged  at  Austria's  wickedness, 

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  for- 
swore 
The  true  republic  in  the  form  of  hats  1 

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  anywise, — 
Pay  certified,  yet  payers  abrogated, 

Full  work  secured,  yet  liabilities 
To  over-work  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 


384  CASA    GUIDl    WINDOWS. 

Or  should  be,  and  that  Tuscany  in  arms 

Should,  would,  dislodge  her,  ending  the  old  feud ; 
And  yet,  to  leave  our  piazzas,  shops,  and  fiirms, 

For  the  bare  sake  of  fighting,  was  not  good. 
We  proved  that  also —  '  Did  we  carry  charms 

Against  being  killed  ourselves,  that  we  should  rush 
On  killing  others  1     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 

Tliat  tree  of  liberty  whose  fruit  is  doubted 
Because  the  roots  are  not  of  nature's  granting — 

A  tree  of  good  and  evil ! — ^none,  without  it. 
Grow  gods ! — alas,  and,  with  it,  men  are  wanting. 

VIII. 

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  churchyards  bleak. 

We  do  not  cry,   '  This  Yorick  is  too  light,' 
For  death  grows  deathlier  with  that  mouth  he  makes. 

So  with  my  mocking.     Bitter  things  I  write, 
Because  my  soul  is  bitter  for  your  sakes, 

O  freedom  !     O  my  Florence ! 


CASA    GUIDI    WINDOWS.  385 


IX. 

Men  who  might 
Do  greatly  in  a  universe  that  breaks 

And  burns,  must  ever  know  before  they  do. 
Courage  and  patience  are  but  sacrifice ; 

A  sacrifice  is  oftered  for  and  to 
Something  conceived  of.     Each  man  pays  a  price 

For  what  himself  counts  precious,  whether  true 
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. 
To  round  the  fervid  striving  of  the  games  1 

An  ignorance  of  means  may  minister 
To  greatness,  but  an  ignorance  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  its  way 

Between  the  Austrian  muskets,  out  of  thrall. 
I  tell  you  rather,  that  whoever  may 

'Discern  true  ends  hei-e,  shall  grow  pure  enough 
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  apophthegm — 

Nor  just  the  draping  of  a  graceful  stulf 

V'oL.  II.— 33 


38G  CASA    GUIDI    \^INDOWS. 

About  a  statue,  broidered  at  the  hem, — 

Not  just  the  trilling  on  an  opera  stage, 
Of  '  liberta'  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 
Of  civil  wants  sustained,  and  wrongs  abhorred, — 

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. 

X. 

Alas,  alas !  it  was  not  so  this  time. 
Conviction  was  not,  courage  foiled,  and  truth 

Was  something  to  be  doubted  of.     The  mime 
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.     Was  it  thus 
The  dear  paternal  Duke  did  1     Live  the  Duke  ! ' 

At  which  the  joy-bells  multitudinous. 
Swept  by  at  opposite  wind,  as  loudly  shook. 

Recall  the  mild  Archbishop  to  his  house. 
To  bless  the  people  with  his  frightened  l<'<jk, 


CASA    GUIDI    WINDOWS.  gg? 

He  shall  not  yet  be  hanged,  you  comprehend. 
Seize  on  Guerazzi ;  guard  him  in  full  view, 

Or  else  we  stab  him  in  the  back,  to  end. 
Rub  out  those  chalked  devices !     Set  up  new 

The  Duke's  arms ;  doff  your  Phrygian  caps  ;  and 
mend 
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  thick 
ening  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 
Most  fitly  expressed  by  such  a  callow  voice ! 

Alas,  still  poorer  Duke,  incapable 
Of  bemg  worthy  even  of  so  much  noise ! 

XI. 

You  think  he  came  back  instantly,  with  thanks 
And  tears  in  his  faint  eyes,  and  hands  extended 

To  stretch  the   franchise   through   their   utmost 
ranks  ? 
That  having,  like  a  father,  apprehended. 

He  came  to  pai'don  fatherly  those  pranks 
Played  out,  and  now  in  filial  service  ended? — 

That  some  love  token,  like  a  prince,  he  thre  v, 
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  TWMS^bum, 

To  make  the  ashes  which  things  old  and  new 
Shall  be  washed  clean  in — as  this  Duke  will  leaiu. 


388  CASA    GUIDI    WINDOWS. 


XII. 

From  Casa  Guidi  windows,  gazing,  then, 
[  saw  and  witness  how  the  Duke  came  back. 

Tlie  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, 
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. 
With  Austria's  thousands.     Sword  and  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  overflowed, 
Will  slow  and  silent  down  its  current  wheel 

A  loosened  forest,  all  the  pines  erect, — 
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,  straightforward 
eyes 


CASA    GUIDI    WINDOWS.  389 

And  faces,  held  as  steadfast  as  their  swords, 

And  cognisant  of  acts,  not  imageries. 
The  key,  O  Tuscans,  too  well  fits  the  wards ! 

Ye  asked  for  mimes ;  these  bring  you  tragedies — 
For  purple ;  these  shall  wear  it  as  your  lords. 

Ye  played  like  children  :  die  like  innocents  ! 
Ye  mimicked  lightnings  with  a  torch:  the  crack 

Of  the  actual  bolt,  your  pastime,  circumvents. 
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 

XIII. 

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, 
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  fi'om  all  attempted  height. 

You  kill  worms  sooner  with  a  garden-spade 
Than  you  kill  peoples:  peoples  will  not  die; 

The  tail  cui-ls  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. 

'Tis  hard  to  shrivel  back  a  day  of  God's 


390  CASA    GUIDI    WINDOWS. 

Once  fixed  for  judgment :  'tis  as  hard  to  change 
The  people's,  when  they  rise  beneath  their  loads 

And   heave   them  from    their  backs    with   violent 
wrench, 
To  crush  the  oppressor.    For  that  judgment  rod's 

The  measure  of  this  popular  revenge. 

XIV. 

Meantime,  from  Casa  Guidi  windows  we 
Beheld  the  armament  of  Austria  flow 

Into  the  drowning  heart  of  Tuscany. 
And  yet  none  wept,  none  cursed ;  or,  if  'twas  so, 

They  wept  and  cursed  in  silence.     Silently 
Our  noisy  Tuscans  watched  the  invading  foe ; 

They  had  learnt  silence.    Pressed  against  the  wall 
And  grouped  upon  the  church-steps  opposite, 

A  few  pale  men  and  women  stared  at  all. 
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 ! 

Was  such  plucked  at  Novara,  is  it  said  1 

XV. 

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, 


CASA    GUIDI    WINDOWS.  301 

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. 
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,   1 
say,— 

Not  upon  gibbets  ! — With  the  greenery 
Of  dewy  branches  and  the  flowery  May, 

Sweet  mediation  betwixt  earth  and  sky 
Providing,  for  the  shepherd's  holiday  ! 

Not  upon  gibbets !  thoiigh  the  vulture  leaves 
The  bones  to  quiet,  which  he  first  picked  bare. 

Not   upon    dungeons !    though   the   wretch    who 
grieves 
And  groans  within,  stirs  less  the  outer  air 

Than  any  little  field-mouse  stirs  the  sheaves. 
Not  upon  chain-bolts  I  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 ! 
1  love  no  peace  which  is  not  fellowship. 

And  which  includes  not  mercy.     I  would  have 
Rather,  the  raking  of  the  guns  across 

The  world,  and  shrieks  against  Heaven's  archi- 
trave. 
Rather,  the  sti-uggle  in  the  slippery  fosse 

Of  dying  men  and  horses,  and  the  wave 
Blood-bubbling.  .  .  .    Enough    said  ! — By    Christ's* 
own  cross. 


S92  CASA    GUIDI    WINDOWS. 

And  by  the  faint  heart  of  my  womanhood, 
Such  things  are  better  than  a  Peace  which  sits 

Beside  the  hearth  in  self-commended  mood, 
And  takes  no  thought  how  wind  and  rain  by  fits 

Are  howling  out  of  doors  against  the  good 
Of  the  poor  wanderer.     What !  your  peace  admits 

Of  outside  anguish  while  it  keeps  at  home? 
I  loathe  to  take  its  name  upon  my  tongue — 

'Tis  nowise  peace.  'Tis  treason,  stiff  with  doom, — 
'Tis  gagged  despair,  and  inarticulate  wrong, 

Annihilated  Poland,  stifled  Rome, 
Dazed  Naples,  Hungary  lliinting  'neath  the  thong, 

And  Austria  wearing  a  smooth  olive-leaf 
On  her  brute  forehead,  while  her  hoofs  outpress 

The  life  from  these  Italian  souls,  in  brief. 
O  Lord  of  Peace,  who  art  Lord  of  Righteousness, 

Constrain  the  anguished  worlds  from  sin  and  grief. 
Pierce   them    with    conscience,    purge   them    with 
redress. 

And  give  us  peace  which  is  no  counterfeit ! 

XVI. 

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  weary  of  these  windows.     Sights 
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  requites 
His  filial  South,  we  leave  him  to  be  taught. 


CASA    GUIDI    WINDOWS.  393 

His  South,  too,  has  learnt  something  certainly, 
Whereof  the  practice  will  bring  profit  soon  ; 

And  peradventure  other  e/es  may  see, 
From  Casa  Guidi  windows,  what  is  done 

Or  undone.     Whatsoever  deeds  they  be. 
Pope  Pius  will  be  glorified  in  none. 

XVII. 

Record  that  gain,  Mazzini ! — it  shall  top 
Some  heights  of  sorrow.     Peter's  rock,  so  named, 

Shall  lure  no  vessel   any  more  to  drop 
AraonjT  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. 
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, 

As  God  knows ;  and  the  people  on  their  knees 
Scoflf  and  toss  back  the  croziers,  stretched  like  yokes 

To  press  their  heads  down  lower  by  degrees. 
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 
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-closing 


394  CASA    GUIDI    WINDOWS. 

Of  adverse  interests  :  this,  at  last,  is  known, 
(Thank  Pius  for  the  lesson)  that  albeit 

Among  the  Popedom'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, 

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, 
r  the  people's  body  very  cheaply  priced ; 

And  quote  high  priesthood  out  of  Holy  book. 
While  buying  death-fields  with  the  sacrificed, 

XVIII. 

Priests,  priests  ! — there's  no  such  name, — God's 
own,  except 
Ye  take  most  vainly.     Through  Hearen's  lifted  gate 

The  priestly  ephod  in  sole  glory  swept, 
W  hen  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 
The  Urim  and  the  Thummim,  fed  with  fire 

From  the  full  Godhead,  flicker  with  the  unrest 
Of  human,  pitiful  heartbeats.     Come  up  higher, 

All  Christians  !     Levi's  tribe  is  dispossest ! 
That  solitary  alb  ye  shall  admire. 

But  not  cast  lots  for.  The  last  chrism,  poured  right, 


CASA    GUIDI    WINDOWS.  395 

Was  on  that  Head,  and  poured  for  burial 

And  not  for  domination  in  men's  sight. 
What  are  these  churches  ?     The  old  temphi  wall 

Doth  overlook  them  juggling  with  the  sleight 
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  St.  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  t\vined  linen  bhizes, 

Not,  like  asbestos,  to  grow  white  and  clear, 
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  believed 
The  priesthood  could  be  an  honest  thing,  he  smiled 

So  saintly  while  our  corn  was  being  sheaved 
For  his  own  granaries.     Showing  now  defiled 

His  hireling  hands,  a  better  help's  achieved 
Than  if  he  blessed  us  shepherd-like  and  mild. 

False  doctrine,  strangled  by  its  own  amen. 
Dies  in  the  throat  of  all  this  nation.     Who 

Will  speak  a  pope's  name,  as  they  rise  again  ? 
What  woman  or  what  child  wnll  count  him  true'? 

What  dreamer  praise  him  with  the  voice  or  oen  1 
What  man  fight  for  himi — Pius  has  his  due. 


396  CASA    GUIDI     WINDOWS. 


XIX. 


Record  that  gain,  Mazzini ! — Yes,  but  first 
Set  down  thy  people's  faults: — set  down  the  want 

Of  soul-conviction;  set  down  aims  dispersed, 
And  incoherent  means,  and  valour  scant 

Because  of  scanty  foith,  and  schisms  accursed 
That  wrench  these  bi-other-hearts  from  covenant 

With  freedom  and  each  other.     Set  down  this 
A.nd  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. — 

Let  such  not  blind  thee  to  an  interlude 
Which  was  not  also  holy,  yet  did  come 

'Twixt  sacramental  actions  : — brotherhood. 
Despised  even  there, — and  something  of  the  doom 

Of  Remus,  in  the  trenches.     Listen  now — 
Rossi  died  silen*  near  where  Caesar  died. 

He  did  not  say,  '  My  Brutus,  is  it  thou  V 
But  Italy  unquestioned  testified, 

'  /  killed  him  ! — I  am  Brutus. — I  avow.' 
At  which  the  whole  world's  laugh  of  scorn  replied, 

'  A  poor  maimed  copy  of  Brutus !' 

Too  much  like. 
Indeed,  to  be  so  unlike.     Too  unskilled 

At  Philippi  and  the  honest  battle-pike. 
To  be  be  so  skilful  where  a  man  is  killed 

Near  Pompey's  statue,  and  the  daggers  strike 
At  unawares  i'  the  throat.     Was  thus  fulfilled 

An  omen  once  of  Michel  Angelo, — 


CASA    GUIDI    WINDOWS.  397 

When  Marcus  Brutus  he  conceived  complete, 

And  strove  to  hurl  him  out  by  blow  on  l)U)\v 
Upon  the  marble,  at  Art's  thunderheat, 

Till  haply  some  pre-shadow  rising  slow 
Of  what  his  Italy  would  fancy  meet 

To  be  called  Bkutus,  straight  his  plastic  hand 
Fell  back  before  his  prophet  soul,  and  left 

A   fiagment  ...  a   maimed    Brutus, — but   more 
grand 
Than  this,  so  named  of  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  h<ild  the  level  of  thy  heart 
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  annuntiate  to  the  world's  applause. 


XX. 


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, 
The  Russias  and  the  vast  Americas, 

As  if  a  queen  drew  in  her  robes  amid 
Her  golden  cincture,— isles,  peninsulas, 

Capes,  continents,  far  inland  countries  hid 
By  jaspar-sands  and  hills  of  chrysopras. 

All  trailing  in  their  splendours  through  the  door 


398  CASA    GUIDI    WINDOWS. 

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  before 
That  congress,  the  best  work  whi  h  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) 
Along  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  behold! ' — 
'These  del ieatest  muslins  rather  seem 

Than  be,  you  think  1     Nay,  touch  them  and  be 
bold, 
Though  such  veiled  Chakhi's  face  in  Hafiz'  dream. ' — 

'These  carpets — you  walk  slow  on  them   like 
kings, 
hiaudible  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.     Compute. ' — 

'  Here's  goblet-glass,  to  take  in  with  your  wine 
The  very  sun  its  grapes  were  ripened  under. 

Drink  light  and  juice  together,  and  each  fme. ' — 
'This  model  of  a  steam-ship  moves  your  wonder? 

You  should  behold  it  crushing  down  the  brine, 


•  Philostratiis  relates  of  Apollonius  that  he  objected  to  the  musi- 
cal instrument  of  Linus  the  Rhodlan,  its  incompetence  to  enrich  and 
beautify.  The  history  of  music  in  our  day,  would,  ujron  the  formei 
point,  sufiiciently  confute  the  philiisupher. 


CAS  A    GUIDI    WINDOWS.  390 

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  Raffael  nature.     Will  it  help  my  case  1 ' — 
'Methinks   you   will    not   match    this   steel    of 
ours  ! ' — 
'  Nor  you  this  porcelain  !   One  might  dream  the  clay 

Retained  in  it  the  larvae  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. ' 

XXI. 

O  Magi  of  the  east  and  of  the  west, 
Your  incense,  gold,  and  myrrh  are  excellent.— 

What  gifts  for  Christ,  then,  bring  ye  with  the  rest  ? 
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  1 
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 
No  remedy,  my  England,  for  such  woes  ? 


400  OASA    GUIDI    WINDOWS. 

No  outlet,  Austria,  for  the  scourged  and  bound, 
No  entrance  for  the  exiled  1     No  repose, 

Russia,  for  knouted  Poles  worked  underground, 
And  gentle  ladies  bleached  among  the  snows'? — 

No  mercy  for  the  slave,  America"? — 
No  hope  for  Rome,  free  France,  chivalric  France? — 

Alas,  great  nations  have  great  shames,  I  say. 
No  pity,  O  world,  no  tender  utterance 

Of  benediction,  and  prayers  stretched  this  way 
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 ! 

XXII. 

In  the  name  of  Italy, 
Meantime,  her  patriot  dead  have  benizon  ! 

They  only  have  done  well ;  and  what  they  did 
Being  perfect,  it  shall  triumph.     Let  them  slumber 

No  king  of  Egypt  in  a  pyramid 
Is  safer  from  oblivion,  though  he  number 

Full  seventy  cerements  for  a  coverlid. 
These  Dead  be  seeds  of  life,  and  shall  encumber 

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 
Dead  for  Italia,  not  in  vain  has  died, 

Though  many  vainly,  ere  life's  sti'uggle  ceased, 


CASA    GUIDI    WINDOWS.  401 

To  mad  dissimilar  ends  have  swerved  aside. 

Each  grave  her  nationality  has  pieced 
By  its  own  noble  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 
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  sea-weeds  (it 

Her  body  like  a  proper  shroud  and  coif, 
And  murmurously  the  ebbing  waters  grit 

The  little  pebbles  Avhile  she  lies  interred 
In  the  sea-sand.     Perhaps,  ere  dying  thus. 

She  looked  up  in  his  face  which  never  stirred 
From  its  clenched  anguish,  as  to  make  excuse 

For  leaving  him  for  his,  if  so  she  erred. 
Well  he  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 
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,  ywi. 
An  exiled  patriot !     Let  him  be  revered. 


402  CASA    GUIDI    WINDOWS. 


XXIII. 

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, 

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, 
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.' 

XXIV. 

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  1 

Nothing  but  death-songs  1 — Yet,  be  it  understood, 
Life  throbs  in  noble  Piedmont !  while  the  feet 

Of  Rome's  clay  image,  dabbled  sofl  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. 


CAS  A    GUIDI    WINDOWS.  403 

And  I,  who  first  took  hope  up  in  this  song, 
Because  a  child  was  singing  one  .  .  .  behold, 

The  hope  and  omen  were  not,  haply,  wrong ! 
Poets  are  soothsayers  still,  like  those  of  old 

Who    studied   flights   of  doves, — and   creatures 
young 
And  tender,  mighty  meanings,  may  unfold. 

XXV. 

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  thy  soul,  which  fronts  the  future  so, 
With  unabashed  and  unabated  gaze. 

Teach  me  to  hope  for,  what  the  Angels  know, 
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  vain-glory  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. 
And  be  God's  witness that  the  elemental 

New  springs  of  life  are  gushing  every \vher«» 
To  cleanse  the  water  courses,  and  prevent  all 


404  CASA    GUIDI    WINDOWS. 

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  labouring  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  moutli, 
And  take  for  music  every  bell  that  tolls. 

Who  said  we  should  be  better  if  like  these  ? 
And  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  interstices 
Men  take  for  ruins,  He  will  build  into 

With  pillared  marbles  rare,  or  knit  across 
With  generous  arches,  till  the  fane's  complete. 

This  world  has  no  perdition,  if  some  loss. 

XXVI. 

Such  cheer  I  gather  from  thy  smiling,  Sweet ! 

The  self  same  cherub  faces  whicTi  emboss 
The  Vail,  lean  inward  to  the  Mercy -seat. 


NAPOLEON  III.  IN  ITALY, 

ETC. 


PKEFACE. 


TiiHSH  poems  were  written  under  the  pressure  of  the  events  they  in- 
dicate, after  a  residence  in  Italy  of  so  many  years,  that  the  present  tri- 
umph of  great  principles  is  heightened  to  the  writer's  feelings  by  the 
disastrous  issue  of  the  last  taovement,  witnessed  from  "Casa  Guidl 
windows"  in  1S49.  Yet,  if  the  verses  should  appear  to  English  readers 
toopungently  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  pcoi)Ie,  and  my  admiration  of 
their  heroic  constancy  and  union.  What  I  have  written  has  simply  been 
written  because  I  love  truth  and  justice  quand  meine,  "  more  than  Plato" 
and  Plato's  country,  more  than  Dante  and  Dante's  country,  more  even 
than  Shakespeare  and  Shakespeare's  country. 

And  if  patriotism  means  the  flattery  of  one's  nation  In  every  case,  then 
the  patriot,  take  it  as  you  please,  is  merely  a  courtier,  which  I  am  not, 
though  I  have  written  "Napoleon  III.  in  Italy."  It  is  time  to  limit  the 
significance  of  certain  terms,  or  to  enlarge  the  significance  of  certain 
things.  Nationality  is  excellent  in  its  place ;  and  the  instinct  of  self- 
love  is  the  root  of  a  man,  which  will  develop  into  sacrificial  virtuos. 
But  all  the  virtues  are  means  and  uses;  and,  if  we  hinder  their  tendency 
to  growth  and  expansion,  we  both  destroy  them  as  virtues,  and  degr.ide 
them  to  that  rankest  species  of  corriiiition  reserved  for  the  most  noble 
organizations.  For  instance,  non-intervention  In  the  affairs  of  neighbor- 
ing states  is  a  high  politic.il  virtue;  but  non-intervention  does  not  m<.sn, 
passing  by  on  the  other  side  when  your  neighbor  falls  among  thieves, — 
or  Phariseeisni  would  recover  it  from  Christianity.  Freedom  itself  is 
virtue,  as  well  as  privilege;  but  freedom  of  the  seas  does  not  mean 
piracy,  nor  freedom  of  the  land,  brigandage  ;  nor  freedom  of  the  senate, 
freedom  to  cudgel  a  dissident  member,  nor  freedom  of  the  press,  freedom 


-!08  PRKFAOE 

to  calumniate  and  lie.  So,  if  patriotism  be  a  virtue  indeed,  it  cannot 
mean  an  exclusive  devotion  to  one's  country's  interest, — for  tliat  is  only 
anotlier  form  of  devotion  to  personal  interests,  of  fouiily  inten-sts  or  pro- 
Tincial  interests,  all  of  which,  if  not  driven  past  themselves,  are  vulg.ir 
and  immoral  objects.  Let  us  put  away  the  little  Pedlingtonisra  un- 
worthy of  a  great  nation,  and  too  prevalent  among  us.  If  the  man  who 
does  not  look  beyond  this  natural  life  is  of  a  somewhat  narrow  order, 
what  must  be  the  man  who  does  not  look  beyond  his  own  frontier  or  his 
own  sea? 

I  confess  that  I  dream  of  the  day  when  an  English  statesman  shall 
arise  with  a  heart  too  large  for  England,  having  courage,  in  the  face  of 
his  countrymen,  to  assert  of  some  suggestive  policy, — "  This  is  good  for 
your  trade ;  this  is  necessary  for  your  domination  ;  but  it  will  vex  a  people 
hard  by;  it  will  hurt  a  people  farther  off;  it  will  profit  nothing  to  the 
general  humanity;  therefore,  away  with  it! — it  is  not  for  you  or  for  me." 
When  a  British  minister  dares  to  speak  so,  and  when  a  British  public 
applauds  him  speaking,  then  shall  the  nation  be  so  glorious,  that  her 
praise,  instead  of  exploding  from  wthin,  from  loud  civic  mouths,  shall 
come  to  her  from  without,  as  all  worthy  praise  must,  from  the  alliances 
Bhe  has  fostered,  and  from  the  poptilations  she  has  saved. 

And  poets,  who  write  of  the  events  of  that  time,  shall  not  need  to 
justify  themselves  in  prefaces,  for  ever  so  little  jarring  of  the  national 
sentiment  imputable  to  their  rhymes. 

KoME,  February,  1S60. 


i 


KAPOLEON  III.  m  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.  . 

n. 

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 

Expeetant,  in  repose, 
As  still  as  Merlin,  with  his  conquering  face, 
Turned  up  in  its  unquenchable  appeal 
To  men  and  heroes  of  the  advancing  race, 
Vol..  II.— 35 


410  NAPOLEON   III.   IN  ITAL^ 

Pi'epared  to  set  the  seal 
Of  what  has  been  on  what  shall  be. 
Emperor 
Evermore. 

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 
Should  graft  itself  in  that  Druidic  bough 
On  this  green  now. 

Some  cursed,  because  at  last 
The  open  heavens  to  which  they  had  look'd  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. 

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. 
We  gave  no  music  to  the  patent  thing, 


NAPOLEON   III.  IN  ITALY.  411 

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,) 
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, — 
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  soranambnlar  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. 
We  meet  thee,  0  Napoleon,  at  this  height 
At  last,  and  find  thee  great  enougli  to  praise. 
Receive  the  poet's  chrism,  which  smells  beyond 

The  priest's,  and  pass  thy  ways ;— 


412  NAPOLEON  III.  IN  ITALY. 

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, 
Till  men's  eyes  Avink  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 
Because  her  name  is  Italy — 
Die  and  count  no  friend  ? 
It  is  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  gravestone  under  her  head, 


NAPOLEON  III.  IN  ITALY.  413 

While  everj'^  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, 

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. 

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, 

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  ber  cerement  and  baffled  so 

From  doing  the  deed  she  would; 

And  her  weak  foot  stumbled  across 

The  grave  of  a  king. 

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 


414  NAPOLEON  III.  IN  ITALY. 

Of  drum  and  trump  of  martial  men, 

Should  we  feel  the  underground  heave  and  strain, 

Where  heroes  left  their  dust  as  a  seed 

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  ? 
Ay,  if  it  were  not  for  the  tears  in  our  eyes 
These  tears  of  a  sudden  passionate  joy 

Should  we  see  her  arise 
From  the  place  where  the  wicked  are  overthrown, 

Italy,  Italy  ?  loosed  at  length 

From  the  tyrant's  thrall, 
Pale  and  calm  in  her  strensrth  ? 
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  bewildeiment 
Through  the  cairns  of  Time,  and  missed  her  way 

Between  to-day  and  yesterday, 


NAPOLEON   III.  IN  ITALY.  .415 

Up  springs  a  living  man. 
And  each  man  stands  with  his  face  in  the  liorbt 

Of  his  own  drawn  sword, 
Ready  to  do  what  a  hero  can. 
Wall  to  sap,  or  river  to  fori), 
Cannon  to  front,  or  foe  to  piii'sne, 
Still  ready  to  do,  and  sworn  to  be  trne, 

As  a  man  and  a  patriot  can. 
Piedmontese,  Neapolitan, 
Lombard,  Tuscan,  Romagnole, 
Each  man's  body  having  a  soul, — 
Count  how  many  they  stand. 
All  of  them  sons  of  the  land, 
Every  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 
Than  swords  of  the  Austrian  slayer, 
All  set  acainst  the  foe. 
'  Emperor 
Evermore.' 

IX. 

Out  of  the  dust  where  they  ground  them, 
Out  of  the  holes  where  they  dogged  them. 
Out  of  the  hulks  where  they  wound  them 
In  iron,  tortured  and  flogged  thorn; 
Out  of  the  streets  where  they  chased  them, 
Taxed  them  and  then  bayoneted  them, — 


116  NAPOLEON  III.  IN   ITALY. 

Out  of  the  homes,  where  they  spied  on  them, 
(Using  their  daughters  and  wives,) 
Out  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 
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.* 

X. 

Shoot  for  France  and  Savoy  ! 
Shout  for  the  helper  and  doer. 
Shout  for  the  good  sword's  ring. 
Shout  for  the  thought  still  truer. 
Shout  for  the  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. 
Shout  for  France  and  Savoy  I 


i 


NAPOLEON   III.   IN   ITALY.  417 

XI. 

Take  up  the  child,  Mac  Mahon,  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, 
Since  the  women  are  weeping  for  joy  as  those 
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  feelingr  God's  finajer  anew. 
And  all  those  cold  white  marble  fires 
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  ! 
I^ave  room  for  his  horse  and  draw  to  the  side, 
Nor  press  too  near  in  the  ecstasy 
Of  a  newly  delivered  impassioned  laud 

He  is  moved,  you  see. 
He  who  has  done  it  all. 


418  NAPOLEON   III.   IN   ITALY. 

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 
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 

Emperor 

Evermore. 

XIV. 

Autocrat !  let  them  scoff, 

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. 
Have  special  virtues  to  spend. 
The  people's  blood  through  him. 


NAPOLEON   III.    IN   ITALY.  419 

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  !) 

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  diplomats  use, 

With  the  people's  heart  in  his  breast  ? 

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, 

Though  many  around  him  and  under, 


420  NAPOLEON   III.   IN    ITALY. 

With  intellects  trained  to  the  curve, 

Distrust  him  in  spirit  and  nerve 

Because  his  meaning  is  straio-ht. 

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. 

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  abolishing  men  into  slaves. 
Emperor 
Evermore. 


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  ; 


NAPOLEON  III.   IN   ITALY.  421 

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 
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. 

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  (renerous  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 

Fall  on  him, — crown  him  in  view 

Of  tyrants  caught  in  the  net, 


422  NAPOLEON  III.    IN   ITALY. 

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 
To  kill  the  body  of  high  intents. 
And  burn  great  deeds  from  their  place, 
Till  this,  the  greatest  of  any, 
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, 
Of  whom  (himself  among  the  dead 
And  silent,)  this  word  shall  be  said ; 
— That  he  might  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. 


You  remember  down  at  Florence  our  Casciiic, 

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  a-brim  with  Florence  Beauties, 

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  ? 

in. 

'Tis  so  pretty,  in  the  afternoons  of  summer, 
So  many  gracious  faces  brought  together ! 

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  (because  they 
too 
Go  with  other  sweets)  at  every  carriage-door ; 


424  fHE    DANCE. 

Here,  by  shake  of  a  white  finger,  signed  away  to 
Some  next  buyer,  who  sits  buying  score  on  score, 
Piling  roses  upon  roses  evermore. 

V. 

And  last  season,  when  the   French  camp  had   its 
station 
In   the    raeadow-ground,    things    quickened    and 
grew  gayer 
Through  the  mingling  of  tlie  liberating  nation 

With  this  people;  groups   of  Frenchmen   every- 
where. 
Strolling,  gazing,  judging  lightly  .  .  '  who  was  fair.' 

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,  bowing  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. 


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  assembled. 


THE   DANCE.  425 

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  overskied 
us 
Swooned  with  passion,  though  the  footing  seemed 
sedate ; 
And  the  mountains,  heaving  mighty  hearts   beside 
us. 
Sighed  a  rapture  in  a  shadow,  to  dilate, 
And  touched  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  overflow- 
ing 
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    sup- 
pose, 
For  the  Member,  mayor  .     .  with  chorus  from  the 

steeple  ? 
This  was  different :  scarce  as  loud  perhaps,  (who 

knows  ?) 

For  we  saw  wet  eyes  around  us  ere  the  close. 


426 


THE   DANCE. 


XII. 


And  we  felt  as  if  a  nation,  too  long  borne  in 

By  hard  wrongers,  comprehending  in  such   atti- 
tude 
That  God  had  spoken  somewhere  since  the  morning. 
That  men  were  somehow  brothers,  by  no    plati- 
tude. 
Cried  exultant  in  great  wonder  and  free  gratitude. 


A  TALE  OF  YILLAFRANCA. 

TOLD  IN  TUSCANY. 


My  little  son,  rny  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. 

III. 

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  ! 


428         A   TALE    OF    VILLAFRANCA. 

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. 

V. 

*  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  V 

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  ot  the  pretence  is  : 


I 


A   TALE   OF   VILLAFRANCA  429 

It  threatens  plainly  the  great  powers ; 

Is  fatal  in  all  senses, 
A  jnst  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,  *  'Tis  even  worse  ; 
What  red  tape  is  ignored  1' 

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, 

Gehemia's  self  is  loosed.' 
And  all  cried,  'Crush  it,  maim  it,  gag  it! 
Set  dog-toothed  lies  to  tear  it  ragged. 

Truncated  and  traduced  1' 

z. 

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  arc  narrow ;  let  them  grow. 

My  brothers,  we  must  wait.' 


430  A   TALE    OF    VI  LLAFR  ANO  A  . 

XI. 

The  tale  is  ended,  child  of  mine, 

Tnrned  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  ? 


i 


A  COURT  LADY. 


Her  hair  was  tawny  with  gold,  her  eyes  with  purple 
were  dark, 

Her  cheeks'  pale  opal  burnt  with  a  red  and  rest- 
less spark. 

II. 

Kever  was  lady  of  Milan  nobler  in  name  and  m 

race ; 
Never  was  lady  of  Italy  fairer  to  see  in  the  face. 

III. 

Never  was  lady  on  earth  more  true  as  woman  and 

wife. 
Larger  in  judgment  and  instinct,  prouder  in  manners 

and  life. 

IV. 

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. 


432  A    COURT    LADY. 

VI. 

'  Diamonds  to  fasten  the  hair,  and  diamonds  to  fas- 
ten the  sleeves,  ■-* 

Laces  to  drop  from  their  rays,  like  a  powder  of  snow 
from  the  eaves.' 

VII. 

Gorgeous  she  entered  the  sunlight,  which  gathered 

her  up  in  a  flame, 
While,   straight   in  her  open   carriage,   she    to  the 

hospital  came. 

VIII. 

In  she  w^ent  at  the  door,  and  gazing  from   end  to 

end, 
'Many  and  low  are  the  pallets,  but  each  is  the  place 

of  a  friend.' 

IX. 

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. 

XI. 

Pale  with  his  passing  soul,  she  went  on  still  to  a 

second : 
He  was  a  grave  hard  man,  whose  years  by  dungeons 

were  reckoned. 


A.    COURT    LADY.  433 

XII. 

Wounds  in  his  body  were  sore,  wounds  in  his  life 
were  sorer. 

*  Art  thou  a  Romagnole  ?'     Her  eyes  drove  light- 

nings before  her. 

xiri. 

Austrian  and  priest  had  joined  to  double  and  tighten 

the  cord 
Able  to  bind  thee,  0  strong  one — free  by  the  stroke 

of  a  sword. 

XIV. 

*  Now  be  grave  for  the  rest  of  us,  using  the  life  over- 

cast 
To  ripen  our  wine  of  the  present,   (too  new,)  in 
glooms  of  the  past.' 

XV. 

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. 

XVI. 

'  Art  thou  from  Tuscany,  brother  ?  and  seest  thou, 

dreaming  in  pain, 
Thy  mother  stand  in  the  piazza,  searching  the  list  of 

the  slain  ?' 

XVII. 

Kind  as  a  mother  herself,  she  touched  his  cheeks 

witli  her  hands : 
'Blessed  is  she  who  has  borne  thee,  although  she 

should  weep  as  she  stands.' 

Vol.  II.— 37 


434  A    COURT    LADY. 

XVIII. 

On  she  passed  to  a  Frenchman,  his  arm  carried  off 

by  a  ball : 
Kneeling,  .  .  '  0  more  than  my  brother !  how  shall  . 

I  thank  thee  for  all  V 

XIX. 

'  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. 

XX. 

'  Happy  are  all  free  peoples,  too  strong  to  be  dis- 
possessed. 

But  blessed  arc  those  among  nations,  who  dare  to 
be  strong  for  the  rest !' 

XXI. 

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. 

XXII. 

Long  she  stood  and  gazed,  and  twice  she  tried  at  the 

name, 
But  two  great  crystal  tears  were  all  that  faltered  and 

came. 

XXIII. 

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. 


A   COURT    LADY.  435 

XXIV. 

Faint  with  that  strain  of  heart  she  moved  on  then  to 
another, 

Stern  and  strong  in  his  death.  *  And  dost  thou  suf- 
fer, my  brother  V 

XXV. 

Holding  his  hands  in  hers : — '  Out  of  the  Piedmont 

lion 
Cometh  the  sweetness  of  freedom !  sweetest  to  live 

or  to  die  on.' 

XXVI. 

Holding  his  cold  rough  hands — *  Well,  oh  well  have 

ye  done 
',E.  noble,  noble  Piedmont,  who  would  not  be  noble 

alone.' 

XXVII. 

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  YOICE. 

"  Una  voce  angusta. ' — 


MONITOEE  TOSOANO. 


You'll  take  back  your  Grand  Duke  ? 

I  made  the  treaty  upon  it. 
Just  venture  a  quiefv     ;'uke  , 

Dall'  Ongaro  write  him  a  sonnet ; 
Ricasoli  gently  expW  . 

Some  need  of  the  constitution  : 
He'll  swear  to  it  over  again, 

Providing  an  '  easy  solution,' 
You'll  call  back  the  Grand  Duke. 


TT, 


You'll  take  back  your  Grand  Duke  ? 

I  promised  the  Emperor  Francis 
To  argue  the  case  by  his  book, 

And  ask  you  to  taeet  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'll  call  back  the  Grand  Duke. 


i 


AN  AUGUST   VOICE.  437 


III. 


You'll  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'll  call  back  the  Grand  Duke. 


IV. 

You'll  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. 

V. 

You'll  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. 


438  AN   AUGUST    VOICE. 

VI. 

You'll  take  back  the  Grand  Duke  ? 

It  is  not  race  lie  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  sight  of  the  Three.* 
You'll  call  back  the  Grand  Duke. 

vu. 

You'll  take  back  your  Grand  Duke  ? 

'Twas  weak  that  he  fled  from  the  Pitti . 
But  consider  how  little  he  shook 

At  thought  of  bombarding  your  city  ! 
And,  balancing  that  with  tiiis. 

The  Christian  rule  is  plain  for  us; 
.  .  Or  the  Holy  Father's  Swiss 

Have  shot  his  Perugians  in  vain  for  us. 
You'll  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'll  call  back  the  Grand  Duke  ? 

♦  The  Italian  tricolor:  red,  green,  and  wWtfi. 


AN   AUGUST    VOICE.  439 

IX. 

You'll  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  ffrudored  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'll  call  back  the  Grand  Duke  ? 


You'll  take  back  your  Grand  Duke  ? 

His  son  rode  fast  as  he  got  oflf 
That  day  on  the  enemy's  hook, 

AVhen  /  had  an  epaulette  shot  off. 
Though  splashed  (as  I  saw  him  afar,  no, 

Near)  by  those  ghastly  rains, 
The  mark,  when  you've  washed  him  in  Arno, 

Will  scarcely  be  larger  than  Cain's. 
You'll  call  back  the  Grand  Duke. 

XI. 

You'll  take  back  your  Grand  Duke  ? 

'Twill  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'll  listen  to  him  to-day. 
And  call  back  the  Grand  Duke. 


440 


AN   AUGUST   VOICE. 


XII. 

You'll  take  back  your  Grand  Duke  ? 

Observe,  there's  no  one  to  force  it, — 
Unless  the  Madonna,  St.  Luke 

Drew  for  you,  choose  to  endorse  it. 
I  charge  you  by  great  St.  Martiuo 

And  prodigies  quickened  by  wrong, 
Remember  your  dead  on  Ticino  ; 

Be  worthy,  be  constant,  be  strong. 
— Bah  1 — call  back  the  Grand  Duke  ! ! 


s- 

I 


CHEISTMAS  GIFTS. 

Gregory  Nazianzkn. 
I. 

The  Pope  on  Christmas  day 

Sits  in  St.  Peter's  Chair ; 
But  the  people  murmur,  and  say, 

*  Our  souis  are  sick  and  forlorn, 
And  who  will  show  us  where 

Is  the  stable  where  Christ  was  born  V 


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  strangle- 
But  the  Pope  in  the  chair  of  awe 

Looks  down  the  great  quadrangle. 

III. 

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,) 


442  CHRISTMAS    GIFTS. 

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  the  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  Romagna  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.* 


CHRISTMAS    GIFTS.  44:i 

VIII. 

— O  mystic  tricolor  bright ! 

Tlie  Pope's  heart  quailed  Uke  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  bronglit 

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. 


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  naught  to  be  done 
But  sorting  sables,  in  predilection 

For  all  those  martyrs  dead  and  gone. 
Till  the  new  earth  and  heaven  made  ready. 

III. 

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  miborn 


ITALY    AND    THE    WORLD.  445 

Will  gain  by  it  (even  in  the  lower  classes), 

But  none  of  these.     It  is  not  the  morn 
Because  the  cock  of  France  h  crowincj. 


'  Cocks  crow  at  midnight,  seldom  knowing 
Starlight  from  dawn-light :  'tis  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  iiuinicipal,  insular  schisms — 

Statesmen  draping  self-love's  conclusion 
In  cheap,  vernacular  patriotisms, 

Unable  to  give  up  Juda?a  for  Jesus. 


446  ITALY    AND    THE    WORLD. 

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. 

X. 

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  fully  developed  Christianity 

Is  civilization  perfected. 
'  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  abhorrence. 


XIII. 


i 


Modena,  Parma,  Bologna,  Florence, 
Open  ns  out  the  wider  way  I 


ITALY    AND    THE    WORLD.  447 

Dwarf  in  that  chapel  of  old  St.  Lawrence 

Your  Michael  Angelo's  giant  Day, 
With  the  grandeur  of  this  Day  breaking  o'er  us  I 

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  forever ! 

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  sacraraent-bread  has  a  bitter  leaven  ; 
We  bait  our  traps  with  the  name  of  love, 

Till  hate  itself  has  a  kinder  meaning. 


448  ITALY    AND    THE    WORLD. 


XVIII. 


Oh,  this  world :  this  cheating  and  screening 
Of  cheats  !  this  conscience  for  candle-wicks, 

Not  beacon-fires  !  this  over-weening 
Of  under-hand  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  ministration. 

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  brother. 

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 ! 


ITALY    AND    THE    WORLD.  449 

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  Noro, 
Indian  suttee,  heathen  suicide, 

Service  to  rights  divine,  proved  hollow : 

XXVI. 

And  Heptarchy  patriotism  must  follow. 

— National  voices,  distinct  yet  dependent. 
Ensphering  each  other,  as  swallow  does  swallow, 

With  circles  still  widening  and  ever  ascendant, 
In  multiform  life  to  united  progression, — 


460 


ITALY    AND   THE    WORLD. 


XXVII. 

These  shall  remain.     And  when,  in  the  session 
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. 

XXVIII. 

Each  Christian  nation  shall  take  upon  lier 
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  unsurpassed. 


, 


i 


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  from  the  tops  of  heaven.' 

'  Not  so,'  I  answered.     '  Evermore 

My  heart  is  sore 
For  my  own  land's  sins :  for  little  feet 
Of  children  bleeding  along  the  street : 


452  A    CURSE    FOR    A  NATION. 

'  For  paiked-up  honors  that  gainsay 

The  right  of  way  : 
For  ahnsgiving  through  a  door  that  is 
Not  open  enough  for  two  friends  to  kiss  : 

*  For  love  of  freedom  which  abates 

Beyond  the  Straits : 
For  patriot  virtue  starved  to  vice  on 
Self-praise,  self-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  V 

*  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  curs*^  fiom  the  depths  of  womanhood 
Is  very  salt,  and  bitter,  and  good.' 


A   CURSE    FOR    A   NATION.  453 

So  thus  I  wrote,  and  mourned  indeed, 

What  all  may  read. 
And  tlms,  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. 

It. 
Ye  shall  watch  while  kings  conspire 
Round  the  people's  smouldering  fire, 
And,  warm  for  your  part. 


454  A    CURSE    FOR    A    NATION, 

Shall  never  dare — 0  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 

Than  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  a  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  chailers  kept  true, 


A    CURSE    FOR    A   NATION.  456 

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. 


( 


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PR  Browning,  Elizabeth 

4180  (Barrett) 
E69  The  poems 

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