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by
(contents)
AN old house, crumbling half away, all barnacled and lichen-grown,
Of saddest, mellowest, softest grey,--with a grand history of its own--
Grand with the work and strife and tears of more than half a thousand years.
Such delicate, tender, russet tones of colour on its gables slept,
With streaks of gold betwixt the stones, where wind-sown flowers and mosses crept:
Wild grasses waved in sun and shade o'er terrace slab and balustrade.
Around the clustered chimneys clung the ivy's wreathed and braided threads,
And dappled lights and shadows flung across the sombre browns and reds;
Where'er the graver's hand had been, it spread its tendrils bright and green.
Far-stretching branches shadowed deep the blazoned windows and broad eaves,
And rocked the faithful rooks asleep, and strewed the terraces with leaves.
A broken dial marked the hours amid damp lawns and garden bowers.
An old house, silent, sad, forlorn, yet proud and stately to the last;
Of all its power and splendour shorn, but rich with memories of the past;
And pitying, from its own decay, the gilded piles of yesterday.
Pitying the new race that passed by, with slighting note of its grey walls,--
And entertaining tenderly the shades of dead knights in its halls,
Whose blood, that soaked these hallowed sods, came down from Scandinavian gods.
I saw it first in summer-time. The warm air hummed and buzzed with bees,
Where now the pale green hop-vines climb about the sere trunks of the trees,
And waves of roses on the ground scented the tangled glades around.
Some long fern-plumes drooped there--below; the heaven above was still and blue;
Just here--between the gloom and glow--a cedar and an aged yew
Parted their dusky arms, to let the glory fall on Margaret.
She leaned on that old balustrade, her white dress tinged with golden air,
Her small hands loosely clasped, and laid amongst the moss and maidenhair:
I watched her, hearing, as I stood, a turtle cooing in the wood--
Hearing a mavis far away, piping his dreamy interludes,
While gusts of soft wind, sweet with hay, swept through those garden solitudes,--
And thinking she was lovelier e-en than my young ideal love had been.
Tall, with that subtle, sensitive grace, which made so plainly manifest
That she was born of noble race,--a cool, hushed presence, bringing rest,
Of one who felt and understood the dignity of womanhood.
Tall, with a slow, proud step and air; with skin half marble and half milk;
With twisted coils of raven hair, blue-tinged, and fine and soft as silk;
With haughty, clear-cut chin and cheek, and broad brows exquisitely Greek;
With still, calm mouth, whose dreamy smile possessed me like a haunting pain,
So rare, so sweet, so free from guile, with that slight accent of disdain;
With level, liquid tones that fell like chimings of a vesper bell;
With large, grave stag-eyes, soft, yet keen with slumbering passion, hazel-brown,
Long-lashed and dark, whose limpid sheen my thirsty spirit swallowed down;--
O poor, pale words, wherewith to paint my queen, my goddess, and my saint!
You see that oriel, ivy-grown, with the blurred sculpture underneath?
Her sweet head, like the Clytie's own, with a white stephanotis wreath
Inwoven with its coiling hair, first bent to me in greeting there.
I shall remember till I die that night when we were introduced!
The great Sir Hildebrand stood by--her cousin--scowling as he used
To scowl if e'en a poor dumb cur ventured to lift his eyes to her.
I cared not. Well I knew her grace was not for him. I watched them dance,
And knew it by her locked-up face, and her slow, haughty utterance.
I knew he chafed and raged to see how kind and sweet she was to me.
O dear old window!--nevermore the red and purple lights, that stray
Through your dim panes upon the floor on sunny summer-night, will lay
Soft rainbows on her glossy hair and the white dress she used to wear!
Those panes the ivy used to scratch--I hear it now when I'm alone!
A pair of martlets used to hatch their young ones in the sculptured stone;
Those warm slabs were the bloodhound's bed, with fine yew-needles carpeted.
The missel-thrushes used to search there for the berries as they fell;
On that high twig, at morn, would perch a shy and shivering locustelle,--
From yon low sweep of furzy brake, we used to watch it thrill and shake.
The banksia roses twined a wreath all round that ancient coat and crest,
And trailed the time-worn steps beneath, and almost touched the martin's nest;
The honey bees swarm in and out, and little lizards flashed about.
And when we flung the casement wide, the wind would play about her brow,
As she sat, etching, by my side,--I see the bright locks lifted now!
And such a view would meet our eyes of crimson woods and azure skies!
'Twas there, when fell the twilight hush, I used to feed her wistful ears,
And make her cheek and forehead flush, and her dark eyes fill full of tears,
With tales of my wild, fighting life--our bitter, brave Crimean strife.
We had, too, little concerts in that dear recess,--I used to play
Accompaniments on my violin, and she would sing "Old Robin Gray,"
And simple, tender Scottish songs of loyal love and royal wrongs.
My violin is dead for me, the dust lies thick upon the case;
And she is dead,--yet I can see e'en now the rapt and listening face;
And all about the garden floats the echo of those crying notes!
'Tis a sweet garden, is it not? So wild and tangled, nothing prim;
No quaint-cut bed, no shaven plot, no stunted bushes, stiff and trim;
Its flowers and shrubs all overblown, its long paths moss and lichen-grown.
'Twas on that terrace that we read the "Idylls," sauntering up and down
With gentle, musing, measured tread, while leaves kept falling, gold and brown,
And mists kept rising, silver-grey, one still and peaceful autumn-day.
In those long glades we roamed apart, and studied Spanish, and the tales
Of Chaucer,--there we talked of art, and listened to the nightingales;
E'en now, when summer daylight dies, I hear their bubbling melodies.
You see that bower, half-hidden, made by the low-branching willow-tree?
We used to lounge there in the shade, and laugh, and gossip, and drink tea:
I wreathed her head with ferns, one night, and little rose-buds sweet and white.
It grew my habit, by-and-by, to gather all the flowers she wore;
She used to take them silently, or I would leave them at her door,--
And wait about till she was drest, to see them nestling on her breast.
In that green nook she used to sit, and I would watch her as she worked.
Her face had such a spell in it, and such a subtle glamour lurked
In even motion of her hand!--why, I could never understand.
'Twas there I tied the little strap that held her netting down, one day,
And kissed the soft palm in her lap, which she so gently drew away.
Ay me, we held our tongues for hours! and I plucked off and ate the flowers.
She would not look at me at first--I recollect it all so well!
Her delicate, downcast features, erst so pale, were tinted like a shell--
Then like the petals that enclose the inmost heart of a moss rose.
The others came and chatted round, but we could laugh and chat no more;
I propped my elbow on the ground, and watched her count her stitches o'er;
Their talk I did not comprehend,--she was too busy to attend.
The days passed on, and still we sat in our old place; but things were changed.
We were so silent after that!--so oddly formal--so estranged!
No more we met to worship art,--our little pathways branched apart.
All day I kept her face in view--scarce one low tone I failed to hear;
And, though she would not see, I knew she felt when I was far or near.
Yet brief and seldom was the chance that gave me word, or smile, or glance.
One night I came home in the gloom. The other guests were mostly gone.
A light was burning in her room, and from the lawn it shone upon
I plucked a flower for her to wear--a white rose, fringed with maidenhair.
I passed through that long corridor--those are its windows, to the west--
That I might leave it at her door,--and saw her cross her threshold, drest.
No lamps were lit,--the twilight shed a grey mist on her shiny head.
Her garments swept the oaken stairs; I stood below her, hushed and dumb;
She started, seeing me unawares, and stopped. "Come down," I whispered; "come!"
She waited, but I waited too;--and she had nothing else to do.
She came down, slowly, haughtily, with sweet pretence of carelessness.
I watched each step as she drew nigh, each brighter gleam on her white dress.
I did not speak, I did not stir, but all my heart went out to her.
She would have passed me, shy and still,--she would not suffer herself to mark
That I was grown so bold, until I took her dear hands in the dark.
And then--and then----Well! she was good and patient, and she understood.
My arms were strong, and rude, and rough--because my love was so intense;
She knew the reason well enough, and so she would not take offence;
Though 'twas by force I made her stay, she did not try to get away.
Ah, then we had some happy hours--some blessed days of peace and rest!
This garden, full of shady bowers and lonely pathways, from whose breast
A thousand blending perfumes rise, became a very Paradise.
'Twas fair as the first Eden, then; and Adam had no fairer mate!
Nor grieved he more than I grieved, when the angel drove him from the gate.
When God cursed him from His high throne, He did not cast him out alone!
'Twas on that broken step we sat, where the yew branch is fall'n and bent,
And read the Colonel's letter, that recalled me to my regiment.
'Twas there, on such a night as this, I stood to give my parting kiss.
'Twas there I hugged the small Greek head upon my bosom, damp with dew;
'Twas there she soothed my grief, and said, "But I shall still belong to you."
O my sweet Eve, with your pure eyes!--you're mine now, in God's Paradise.
I sailed, you know, within a week, en route for Malta's heat and blaze;
And tender letters came, to speak of love, and comfort, and bright days.
I tried to think it was not hard--of what was coming afterward.
I used to dream, and dream, and dream, from night till morn, from morn till night;
My future life just then did seem so full, so beautiful, so bright!
I could not see, I could not feel, the sorrow dogging at my heel.
At length it touched me. By-and-by the letters ceased. I looked in vain;
I roamed the streets dejectedly, and gnawed my long moustache in pain.
I wrote twice--thrice; no answer still. Surely, I thought, she must be ill.
Until one evening Eyre came in, to lounge and gossip, drink and smoke,
I gave him leisure to begin; and, when his pipe was lit, he spoke,
Through curling vapour, soft and blue--"Guy, I've a piece of news for you.
"One of the girls you met last year at that poor tumble-down old place--
The dark-haired one--she with the clear white skin and sweet Madonna face,--
She's married now, I understand, to her rich cousin Hildebrand."
I felt my limbs grow stark and stiff; I felt my heart grow cold as lead;
I heard Eyre's quiet, musing whiff--the noise swam round and round my head.
I veiled my eyes, lest he should see their passionate, mute misery.
"I only heard," he said, "to-day. It's out in all the papers, though.
She did not care for him, they say. But the old house was falling low--
Her father's name and fame at stake. She would do anything for his sake.
"Some mortgages foreclosed--the price of years and centuries of debt;
The manor doomed for sacrifice--or else the Lady Margaret.
Doubtless for Hildebrand's red gold the rare Madonna face was sold.
"I fancy that's the history," he ended, in a bitter tone.
"It's not a new one, by-the-bye." And when he went, I sat alone,
And tried to ease me with a prayer, but ground my teeth in despair.
Then I grew stupid, numb, and tired. A fever crept through all my veins,
And wearied out my heart, and fired my dazed, tumultuous, teeming brains.
I hung suspended by a breath, for weeks and months, 'twixt life and death.
Then I recovered, and had leave to go to England--where she dwelt;
In my home climate to retrieve my broken health and strength. I felt
Twice ten years older than before. I knew I should come back no more.
Soon as I touched my native land, my feet turned toward the manor house.
They told me that Sir Hildebrand was in the Highlands, shooting grouse;
That she was in her father's care. That night I found her, sitting there,
On that third step, just where the trees cast down their greenest, coolest shade;
Her weary hands about her knees, her head against the balustrade;
And such dumb woe in her sweet eyes, uplifted to the fading skies.
She did not see me till I burst through the rose-thickets round about.
She sprang up with a cry at first--and then her arms were half stretched out--
And then caught backward, for his sake. I felt as if my heart would break.
I knew the truth. I did not care. I did not think. I flung me down,
And kissed her hands, her wrists, her hair, the very fringes of her gown;
While she sat cowering in a heap, and moaned, and shook, but could not weep.
It was soon over. O good God, forgive me!--I was sorely tried.
'Twas a dark pathway that I trod; I could not see Thee at my side.
It was soon over. "I shall die," she whispered, "if you stay here, Guy!
"O Guy! Guy! you were kind to me in our old days,--be kinder now,--
Be kind, and go, and let me be!" And then I felt on my hot brow
The brush of her cold finger-tips--the last soft contact of her lips.
And I obeyed her will and went, and vowed to tempt her nevermore.
I tried hard, too, to be content, and think of that which lay before.
I knew my dream of love was past, yet strove to serve her to the last.
I left my comrades--I had lost all taste for glory and for mirth--
And, without hopes or aims, I cross'd the seas and wander'd o'er the earth.
Without a light, without a guide, I drifted with the wind and tide.
My heart was broken when 'twas struck that bitter blow, and joy ran out!
Only a few stray treasures stuck--a few gleams flickered round about.
My old art-love still lingered there,--I think that kept me from despair.
With strange companions did I dwell, one scorching summer, on the heights
Of Tangiers' Moorish citadel, and mused away the days and nights.
With loose white garments and long gun, I roamed the deserts in the sun.
I painted Atlas, capped with snow, and lifted, cool, and still, and fair,
Out of the burning heat and glow, into the solemn upper air;
And Tetuan's gleaming walls I drew on fields of Mediterranean blue.
I haunted Cairo's crowded ways, and sketched carved doors and gilded grates,
Mosque-domes and minarets ablaze, and sweet dark heads with shining plaits;
And now a grave old Arab sheikh, and then a slim, straight-featured Greek.
In a swift wing-sailed boat I slid across the stream where Libya looms,
And from King Cheop's pyramid saw Pharaoh-cities, Pharaoh-tombs;
And, stretching off for many a mile, the sacred waters of the Nile.
I saw the graves of mighty states,--I saw Thebes' temple, overturned--
The City of the Hundred Gates, where Moses and Greek sages learned,
Where hungry lions prowl at noon, and hyænas snarl at the bright moon.
I roamed through Nubian desert flats, where vultures sailed o'er burning seas;
And forests where the yellow bats hung, cloaked and hooded, from the trees;
And marshy wastes, where crocodiles slept on the shores of sandy isles.
I followed, through long days and nights, where, with their little ones and flocks,
Had passed the wandering Israelites; I read the writing on the rocks;
And e'en these restless feet of mine tracked holy feet in Palestine.
Roaming through India's burning plains, I chased wild boars and antelopes;
Swam brawling nullahs in the rains, and haunted dew-wet mango-topes;
Shot bears and tigers in the gloom of the dense forests of Beerbhoom.
Through swathing-nets I watched at night the clear moon gild a palm-tree ledge;
And, through the flood of silver light, heard jackals at the compound-hedge;
While punkahs waved above my head, and faint airs hovered round my bed.
I mused by many a sacred tank, where lonely temples fell away,
Where the fat alligators drank, and scarlet lotus-flowers lay;
Smoked curling pipes 'neath roof and tree, the while dark nautch-girls danced to me.
I trod the creeper-netted ground of deadly, beautiful, bright woods,
Where birds and monkeys chattered round, and serpents reared their crimson hoods.
I dwelt 'neath breathless desert-glows, and Simla's Himalayan snows.
From the hot glades of garden reach, I wandered upward to Cabool--
From the bright Hooghly's flowering beach to the wild mountains, calm and cool.
I wept at Cawnpore's fatal well, and where our heroes fought and fell.
I roamed through Lucknow's battered gate--thick-thronged with memories so intense!
And Delhi's ruins of wild state and old Mogul magnificence.
I pressed the rank, blood-nurtured grass that creeps along the Khyber Pass.
I sailed the Irrawaddy's stream, 'mid dense teak forests; saw the moon
Light up with broad and glittering gleam the golden Dagun of Rangoon--
The delicate, fretted temple-shells, whose roofs were rimmed with swaying bells.
In his gold palace, all alone, with square, hard face and eyes aslant,
I saw upon his royal throne the Lord of the White Elephant.
I mixed in wild, barbaric feasts with Buddha's yellow-robèd priests.
I crept with curious feet within imperial China's sacred bounds;
I saw the Palace of Pekin, and all its fairy garden-grounds;
The green rice-fields, the tremulous rills, the white azaleas on the hills;
The tea-groves climbing mountain backs; the girls' rich robes of blue and white;
The cattle 'neath the paddy-stacks; the gilt pagodas, tall and bright;--
And in a merchant-junk I ran across the waters to Japan.
I saw, where silk-fringed mats were spread, within his laquered, bare saloon,
With his curled roofs above his head, on muffled heels, the great Tycoon.
Familiar things they were to me--the pipes, and betel-nuts, and tea.
I dug in Californian ground, at Sacramento's golden brim,
With hunger, murder, all around, and fever shaking every limb;
Saw, in lush forests and rude sheds, the Dyaks roasting pirates' heads.
I shot white condors on the brows of snowy Andes; and I chased
Wild horses, and wild bulls and cows, o'er the wide Pampas' jungle-waste;
And saw, while wandering to and fro, the silver mines of Mexico.
In Caffre waggons I was drawn up lone Cape gorges, green and steep,
And camped by river-grove and lawn, where nightly tryst the wild things keep;
Where glaring eyes without the line of circling watch-fires used to shine.
I chased o'er sandy plains and shot the ostrich,--at the reedy brink
Of pools, the lion, on the slot of antelopes that came to drink;
Giraffes, that held their heads aloof 'neath the mimosa's matted roof;
And brindled gnus, and cowardly, striped shard-wolves, and 'mid water-plants
And flags, black hippopotami, and snakes, and shrieking elephants.
From courted sickness, hunger, strife, God spared my weary, reckless life.
In the bright South Seas did I toss through wild blue nights and fainting days,
With the snow-plumaged albatross. I saw Tahiti's peaks ablaze;
And still, palm-fringed lagoons asleep o'er coral grottoes, cool and deep.
I built an Australian hut of logs, and lived alone--with just a noose,
A trap, a gun, my horse and dogs; I hunted long-legged kangaroos;
And oft I spent the calm night-hours beneath the gum-trees' forest-bowers.
I threaded miles and miles and miles, where Lena's sad, slow waters flow,
'Mid silent rocks, and woods, and isles, and drear Siberian steppes of snow;
Where pines and larches, set alight, blaze in the dark and windless night.
I shot a wild fowl on the shore of a still, lonely mountain lake,
And, o'er the sheer white torrents' roar, heard long-drawn, plaintive echoes wake;
Caught squirrels in their leafy huts, munching the little cedar-nuts.
I trapped the small, soft sables, stripped the bloomy fur from off their backs,
And hunted grey wolves as they slipped and snuffed and snarled down reindeer tracks;
I brought the brown, bald eagle down from the white sea-hill's rugged crown.
I saw the oil-lamp shining through the small and dim ice window-pane;
And the near sky, so deeply blue, spangled with sparks, like golden rain;
While dogs lay tethered, left and right, howling across the arctic night.
I saw when, in my flying sledge, I swept the frozen tundra-slopes,
The white bears on some craggy ledge, far-off, where ocean blindly gropes
In her dim caves--where bones lie furled, the tokens of a vanished world.
I saw across the dread blue sky, spanning blue ice and bluer mist
(That shows where open waters lie), the bright Aurora keep her tryst,--
That arch of tinted flame--so fair! lighting the crystals in the air.
Then, all at once--I know not why--I felt I could no longer roam;
A voice seemed calling to my heart--Return to England and thy home;
I found my thoughts were yearning yet, for one more glimpse of Margaret.
So on a sudden I returned. I reached the village in the night.
At one small inn a candle burned with feeble, pale, unsteady light:
The hostess curtseyed, grave and strange. She did not know me for the change.
My broad white brows were bronzed, and scarred with lines of trouble, thought, and care;
My young bright eyes were dim and hard--the sunshine was no longer there;
My brown moustache was hid away in a great beard of iron-grey.
"The Manor House is habited," to my brief question she replied.
"To-night my lady lies there dead. She's long been ailing, and she died
At noon. A happy thing for her! Were you acquainted with her, sir?
"A sweeter lady never walked! So kind and good to all the poor!
She ne'er disdained us when she talked--ne'er turned a beggar from her door.
Ah, sir, but we may look in vain; we ne'er shall see her likes again.
"I heard the squire's great bloodhound's bark; I woke, and shook, and held my breath.
My man, he stirred too in the dark. Said he to me, 'My lady's death
Is not far off. Another night she'll never see.' And he was right.
"'Twas over in twelve hours or less. She lies there, on the golden bed,
In her old confirmation dress, with the small white cap on her head
Which bore the bishop's blessing hand,--she asked that of Sir Hildebrand."
You see that window in the shade of those old beeches? 'Twas that room
Wherein my dear dead love was laid. I climbed the ivy in the gloom
And silence--just once more to see the face that had belonged to me.
I stood beside her. No one heard. On the great rajah's bed, alone
She lay. The night-breeze softly stirred the Cashmere curtains, and the moan
Of my wild kisses seemed to thrill the solitude. All else was still.
In the pale yellow taper light, I gazed upon her till the morn.
I see her now--so sweet and white! the fair, pure face so trouble-worn!
The thin hands folded on her breast, in peace at last, and perfect rest!
* * * * * *
NUMB, half asleep, and dazed with whirl of wheels,
And gasp of steam, and measured clank of chains,
I heard a blithe voice break a sudden pause,
Ringing familiarly through the lamp-lit night,
"Wife, here's your Venice!"
I was lifted down,
And gazed about in stupid wonderment,
Holding my little Katie by the hand--
My yellow-haired step-daughter. And again
Two strong arms led me to the water-brink,
And laid me on soft cushions in a boat,--
A queer boat, by a queerer boatman manned--
Swarthy-faced, ragged, with a scarlet cap--
Whose wild, weird note smote shrilly through the dark.
Oh yes, it was my Venice! Beautiful,
With melancholy, ghostly beauty--old,
And sorrowful, and weary--yet so fair,
So like a queen still, with her royal robes,
Full of harmonious colour, rent and worn!
I only saw her shadow in the stream,
By flickering lamplight,--only saw, as yet,
White, misty palace-portals here and there,
Pillars, and marble steps, and balconies,
Along the broad line of the Grand Canal;
And, in the smaller water-ways, a patch
Of wall, or dim bridge arching overhead.
But I could feel the rest. 'Twas Venice!--ay,
The veritable Venice of my dreams.
I saw the grey dawn shimmer down the stream,
And all the city rise, new bathed in light,
With rose-red blooms on her decaying walls,
And gold tints quivering up her domes and spires--
Sharp-drawn, with delicate pencillings, on a sky
Blue as forget-me-nots in June. I saw
The broad day staring in her palace-fronts,
Pointing to yawning gap and crumbling boss,
And colonnades, time-stained and broken, flecked
With soft, sad, dying colours--sculpture-wreathed,
And gloriously proportioned; saw the glow
Light up her bright, harmonious, fountain'd squares,
And spread out on her marble steps, and pass
Down silent courts and secret passages,
Gathering up motley treasures on its way;--
Groups of rich fruit from the Rialto mart,
Scarlet and brown and purple, with green leaves--
Fragments of exquisite carving, lichen-grown,
Found, 'mid pathetic squalor, in some niche
Where wild, half-naked urchins lived and played--
A bright robe, crowned with a pale, dark-eyed face--
A red-striped awning 'gainst and old grey wall--
A delicate opal gleam upon the tide.
I looked out from my window, and I saw
Venice, my Venice, naked in the sun--
Sad, faded, and unutterably forlorn!--
But still unutterably beautiful.
For days and days I wandered up and down--
Holding my breath in awe and ecstasy,--
Following my husband to familiar haunts,
Making acquaintance with his well-loved friends,
Whose faces I had only seen in dreams
And books and photographs and his careless talk.
For days and days--with sunny hours of rest
And musing chat, in that cool room of ours,
Paved with white marble, on the Grand Canal;
For days and days--with happy nights between,
Half-spent, while little Katie lay asleep
Out on the balcony, with the moon and stars.
O Venice, Venice!--with thy water-streets--
Thy gardens bathed in sunset, flushing red
Behind San Giorgio Maggiore's dome--
Thy glimmering lines of haughty palaces
Shadowing fair arch and column in the stream--
Thy most divine cathedral, and its square,
With vagabonds and loungers daily thronged,
Taking their ice, their coffee, and their ease--
Thy sunny campo's, with their clamorous din,
Their shrieking vendors of fresh fish and fruit--
Thy churches and thy pictures--thy sweet bits
Of colour--thy grand relics of the dead--
Thy gondoliers and water-bearers--girls
With dark, soft eyes, and creamy faces, crowned
With braided locks as bright and black as jet--
Wild ragamuffins, picturesque in rags,
And swarming beggars and old witch-like crones,
And brown-cloaked contadini, hot and tired,
Sleeping, face-downward, on the sunny steps--
Thy fairy islands floating in the sun--
Thy poppy-sprinkled, grave-strewn Lido shore--
Thy poetry and thy pathos--all so strange!--
Thou didst bring many a lump into my throat,
And many a passionate thrill into my heart,
And once a tangled dream into my head.
'Twixt afternoon and evening. I was tired;
The air was hot and golden--not a breath
Of wind until the sunset--hot and still.
Our floor was water-sprinkled; our thick walls
And open doors and windows, shadowed deep
With jalousies and awnings, made a cool
And grateful shadow for my little couch.
A subtle perfume stole about the room
From a small table, piled with purple grapes,
And water-melon slices, pink and wet,
And ripe, sweet figs, and golden apricots,
New-laid on green leaves from our garden--leaves
Wherewith an antique torso had been clothed.
My husband read his novel on the floor,
Propped up on cushions and an Indian shawl;
And little Katie slumbered at his feet,
Her yellow curls alight, and delicate tints
Of colour in the white folds of her frock.
I lay, and mused, in comfort and at ease,
Watching them both and playing with my thoughts;
And then I fell into a long, deep sleep,
And dreamed.
I saw a water-wilderness--
Islands entangled in a net of streams--
Cross-threads of rippling channels, woven through
Bare sands, and shallows glimmering blue and broad--
A line of white sea-breakers far away.
There came a smoke and crying from the land--
Ruin was there, and ashes, and the blood
Of conquered cities, trampled down to death.
But here, methought, amid these lonely gulfs,
There rose up towers and bulwarks, fair and strong,
Lapped in the silver sea-mists;--waxing aye
Fairer and stronger--till they seemed to mock
The broad-based kingdoms on the mainland shore.
I saw a great fleet sailing in the sun,
Sailing anear the sand-slip, whereon broke
The long white wave-crests of the outer sea,--
Pepin of Lombardy, with his warrior hosts--
Following the bloody steps of Attila!
I saw the smoke rise when he touched the towns
That lay, outposted, in his ravenous reach;
Then, in their island of deep waters, saw
A gallant band defy him to his face,
And drive him out, with his fair vessels wrecked
And charred with flames, into the sea again.
"Ah, this is Venice!" I said proudly--"queen
Whose haughty spirit none shall subjugate."
It was the night. The great stars hung, like globes
Of gold, in purple skies, and cast their light
In palpitating ripples down the flood
That washed and gurgled through the silent streets--
White-bordered now with marble palaces.
It was the night. I saw a grey-haired man,
Sitting alone in a dark convent-porch--
In beggar's garments, with a kingly face,
And eyes that watched for dawnlight anxiously--
A weary man, who could not rest nor sleep.
I heard him muttering prayers beneath his breath,
And once a malediction--while the air
Hummed with the soft, low psalm-chants from within.
And then, as grey gleams yellowed in the east,
I saw him bend his venerable head,
Creep to the door, and knock.
Again I saw
The long-drawn billows breaking on the land,
And galleys rocking in the summer noon.
The old man, richly retinued, and clad
In princely robes, stood there, and spread his arms,
And cried, to one low-kneeling at his feet,
"Take thou my blessing with thee, O my son!
And let this sword, wherewith I gird thee, smite
The impious tyrant-king, who hath defied,
Dethroned, and exiled him who is as Christ.
The Lord be good to thee, my son, my son,
For thy most righteous dealing!"
And again
'Twas that long slip of land betwixt the sea
And still lagoons of Venice--curling waves
Flinging light, foamy spray upon the sand.
The noon was past, and rose-red shadows fell
Across the waters. Lo! the galleys came
To anchorage again--and lo! the Duke
Yet once more bent his noble head to earth,
And laid a victory at the old man's feet,
Praying a blessing with exulting heart.
"This day, my well-belovèd, thou art blessed,
And Venice with thee, for St. Peter's sake.
And I will give thee, for thy bride and queen,
The sea which thou has conquered. Take this ring,
As sign of her subjection, and thy right
To be her lord for ever."
Once again
I saw that old man,--in the vestibule
Of St. Mark's fair cathedral,--circled round
With cardinals and priests, ambassadors
And the noblesse of Venice--richly robed
In papal vestments, with the triple crown
Gleaming upon his brows. There was a hush:--
I saw a glittering train come sweeping on,
From the blue water and across the square,
Thronged with an eager multitude,--the Duke,
And with him Barbarossa, humbled now,
And fain to pray for pardon. With bare heads,
They reached the church, and paused. The Emperor knelt,
Casting away his purple mantle--knelt,
And crept along the pavement, as to kiss
Those feet, which had been weary twenty years
With his own persecutions. And the Pope
Lifted his white haired, crowned, majestic head,
And trod upon his neck,--crying out to Christ,
"Upon the lion and adder shalt thou go--
The dragon shalt thou tread beneath thy feet!"
The vision changed. Sweet incense-clouds rose up
From the cathedral altar, mix'd with hymns
And solemn chantings, o'er ten thousand heads;
And ebbed and died away along the aisles.
I saw a train of nobles--knights of France--
Pass 'neath the glorious arches through the crowd,
And stand, with halo of soft, coloured light
On their fair brows--the while their leader's voice
Rang through the throbbing silence like a bell.
"Signiors, we come to Venice, by the will
Of the most high and puissant lords of France,
To pray you look with your compassionate eyes
Upon the Holy City of our Christ--
Wherein He lived, and suffered, and was lain
Asleep, to wake in glory, for our sakes--
By Paynim dogs dishonoured and defiled!
Signiors, we come to you, for you are strong.
The seas which lie betwixt that land and this
Obey you. O have pity! See, we kneel--
Our Masters bid us kneel--and bid us stay
Here at your feet until you grant our prayers!"
Wherewith the knights fell down upon their knees,
And lifted up their supplicating hands.
Lo! the ten thousand people rose as one,
And shouted with a shout that shook the domes
And gleaming roofs above them--echoing down,
Through marble pavements, to the shrine below,
Where lay the miraculous body of their Saint
(Shed he not heavenly radiance as he heard?--
Perfuming the damp air of his secret crypt),
And cried, with an exceeding mighty cry,
"We do consent! We will be pitiful!"
The thunder of their voices reached the sea,
And thrilled through all the netted water-veins
Of their rich city. Silence fell anon,
Slowly, with fluttering wings, upon the crowd;
And then a veil of darkness.
And again
The filtered sunlight streamed upon those walls,
Marbled and sculptured with divinest grace;
Again I saw a multitude of heads,
Soft-wreathed with cloudy incense, bent in prayer--
The heads of haughty barons, armèd knights
And pilgrims girded with their staff and scrip,
The warriors of the Holy Sepulchre.
The music died away along the roof;
The hush was broken--not by him of France--
By Enrico Dandolo, whose grey head
Venice had circled with the ducal crown.
The old man looked down, with his dim, wise eyes,
Stretching his hands abroad, and spake. "Seigneurs,
My children, see--your vessels lie in port
Freighted for battle. And you, standing here,
Wait but the first fair wind. The bravest hosts
Are with you, and the noblest enterprise
Conceived of man. Behold, I am grey-haired,
And old and feeble. Yet am I your lord.
And, if it be your pleasure, I will trust
My ducal seat in Venice to my son,
And be your guide and leader."
When they heard,
They cried aloud, "In God's name, go with us!"
And the old man, with holy weeping, passed
Adown the tribune to the altar-steps;
And, kneeling, fixed the cross upon his cap.
A ray of sudden sunshine lit his face--
The grand, grey, furrowed face--and lit the cross,
Until it twinkled like a cross of fire.
"We shall be safe withhim," the people said,
Straining their wet, bright eyes; "and we shall reap
Harvests of glory from our battle-fields!"
Anon there rose a vapour from the sea--
A dim white mist, that thickened into fog.
The campanile and columns were blurred out,
Cathedral domes and spires, and colonnades
Of marble palaces on the Grand Canal.
Joy-bells rang sadly and softly--far away;
Banners of welcome waved like wind-blown clouds;
Glad shouts were muffled into mournful wails.
A Doge was come to be enthroned and crowned,--
Not in the great Bucentaur--not in pomp;
The water-ways had wandered in the mist,
And he had tracked them, slowly, painfully,
From San Clemente to Venice, in a frail
And humble gondola. A Doge was come;
But he, alas! had missed his landing-place,
And set his foot upon the blood-stained stones
Betwixt the blood-red columns. Ah, the sea--
The bride, the queen--she was the first to turn
Against her passionate, proud, ill-fated lord!
Slowly the sea-fog melted, and I saw
Long, limp dead bodies dangling in the sun.
Two granite pillars towered on either side,
And broad blue waters glittered at their feet.
"These are the traitors," said the people; "they
Who, with our Lord the Duke, would overthrow
The government of Venice."
And anon,
The doors about the palace were made fast.
A great crowd gathered round them, with hushed breath
And throbbing pulses. And I knew their lord,
The Duke Faliero, knelt upon his knees,
On the broad landing of the marble stairs
Where he had sworn the oath he could not keep--
Vexed with the tyrannous oligarchic rule
That held his haughty spirit netted in,
And cut so keenly that he writhed and chafed
Until he burst the meshes--could not keep!
I watched and waited, feeling sick at heart;
And then I saw a figure, robed in black--
One of their dark, ubiquitous, supreme
And fearful tribunal of Ten--come forth,
And hold a dripping sword-blade in the air.
"Justice has fallen on the traitor! See,
His blood has paid the forfeit of his crime!"
And all the people, hearing, murmured deep,
Cursing their dead lord, and the council, too,
Whose swift, sure, heavy hand had dealt his death.
Then came the night, all grey and still and sad.
I saw a few red torches flare and flame
Over a little gondola, where lay
The headless body of the traitor Duke,
Stripped of his ducal vestments. Floating down
The quiet waters, it passed out of sight,
Bearing him to unhonoured burial.
And then came mist and darkness.
Lo! I heard
The shrill clang of alarm-bells, and the wails
Of men and women in the wakened streets.
A thousand torches flickered up and down,
Lighting their ghastly faces and bare heads;
The while they crowded to the open doors
Of all the churches--to confess their sins,
To pray for absolution, and a last
Lord's Supper--their viaticum, whose death
Seemed near at hand--ay, nearer than the dawn.
"Chioggia is fall'n!" they cried,"and we are lost!"
Anon I saw them hurrying to and fro,
With eager eyes and hearts and blither feet--
Grave priests, with warlike weapons in their hands,
And delicate women, with their ornaments
Of gold and jewels for the public fund--
Mix'd with the bearded crowd, whose lives were given,
With all they had, to Venice in her need.
No more I heard the wailing of despair,--
But great Pisani's blithe word of command,
The dip of oars, and creak of beams and chains,
And ring of hammers in the arsenal.
"Venice shall ne'er be lost!" her people cried--
Whose names were worthy of the Golden Book--
"Venice shall ne'er be conquered!"
And anon
I saw a scene of triumph--saw the Doge,
In his Bucentaur, sailing to the land--
Chioggia behind him blackened in the smoke,
Venice before, all banners, bells, and shouts
Of passionate rejoicing! Ten long months
Had Genoa waged that war of life and death;
And now--behold the remnant of her host,
Shrunken and hollow-eyed and bound with chains--
Trailing their galleys in the conqueror's wake!
Once more the tremulous waters, flaked with light;
A covered vessel, with an armèd guard--
A yelling mob on fair San Giorgio's isle,
And ominous whisperings in the city squares.
Carrara's noble head bowed down at last,
Beaten by many storms,--his golden spurs
Caught in the meshes of a hidden snare!
"O Venice!" I cried, "where is thy great heart
And honourable soul?"
And yet once more
I saw her--the gay Sybaris of the world--
The rich voluptuous city--sunk in sloth.
I heard Napoleon's cannon at her gates,
And her degenerate nobles cry for fear.
I saw at last the great Republic fall--
Conquered by her own sickness, and with scarce
A noticeable wound--I saw her fall!
And she had stood above a thousand years!
O Carlo Zeno! O Pisani! Sure
Ye turned and groaned for pity in your graves.
I saw the flames devour her Golden Book
Beneath the rootless "Tree of Liberty;"
I saw the Lion's legend blotted out,
For "rights of men"--unutterable wrongs!--
Dandolo's brazen horses borne away--
The venerable Bucentaur, with its wealth
Of glorious recollections, broken up.
I heard the riotous clamour; then the change
To passionate minor cadence--then the sad
And hopeless silence settle down; and then--
I woke. The flickering water-gleam was gone
From off the ceiling, and white snows of light
Fell softly on the marble walls and floors,
And on the yellow head of little Kate
Musingly bent down from the balcony.
The lapping of the tide--the dip of oars--
The sad, sweet songs, and sadder city bells,
Mellowly borne along the water-streets:--
The swirl and ripple around lumbering keels
Of heavy, slow, Rialto market-boats,
Adown the broad and misty highway, lit
With moonbeams and the far-strown light of lamps,
Following the track of vanished gondolas:--
The flutter of a fig-leaf in the wind,
A faded fig-leaf, flapping faded walls,
With faded, crumbling, delicate sculpture-crusts:--
The voice of dreaming Katie crooning out
A snatch of melody that the Austrian band
Played in San Marco's Place some hours agone,
While patriots, 'neath their shadowy colonnades,
Sauntered, and shut their ears, and ate their hearts:--
A measured footstep, pacing to and fro--
The brush of two strong hands upon my brows--
The tenor-music of dear English lips,
Whispering, between two kisses, cheerily,
"Wake up, my wife; Nina has brought our tea:"--
These were the sounds that called me back to life.
O LORD, I am so tired!
My heart is sick and sore.
I work, and work, and do no good--
And I can try no more!
I lay my treasures up,
And think they're worth such care;
And the next time I go to look,
There's only rubbish there!
I tug hard at the door
Of knowledge--strain and pant;
But, Lord, the more I seem to learn,
The more I'm ignorant!
Sometimes I am so vain
I set myself to teach;
But e'en the first beginnings lie
Utterly out of reach!
I am no use--no use!
I thought I might have been;
But now I know how small I am,
How poor, how false, how mean!
Sunk in the dust and mire
While aiming at the skies,
Only a thing to laugh at, Lord,
To pity and despise!
LEARN, learn, learn,--
Our beautiful world is not a field for sheep;
Not just a place wherein to laugh and weep,
To eat and drink, to dance and sigh and sleep.
And then to moulder into senseless dust.
Learn, learn, learn,--
Look up and learn--you cannot look too high!
Not for the earthly wealth which brains can buy,
Not for the sake of gold and luxury--
Treasures corrupted by the moth and rust.
Learn, learn, learn,--
As one in whom the Lord has breathed His breath,
And aye redeemèd from the power of death--
Not as the dumb brute-beast that perisheth,
Not as a soulless, thoughtless, thankless clod.
Learn, learn, learn,--
With love and awe and patience--not in haste;
Drink deeply,--do not pass by with a taste;
O make your land a garden, not a waste!--
Your mind bright, to reflect the face of God.
Learn, learn, learn,--
The mystic beauty and the truth of life;
Search out the treasures whereof earth is rife.
Search on all sides, with pain and prayer and strife;
Search even into darkness. Do not fear.
Learn, learn, learn,--
With a true, steadfast heart, lay up your hoard;
God will sort out the treasures you have stored,
And set them in His bright light, afterward.
He will make all your difficulties clear.
Learn, learn, learn,--
Death is no breaking at a certain place;
We only pause there for a little space.
And then--you would not shame Him to His face?--
You, in His Image and own Likeness made!
Learn, learn, learn,--
Walk with wide-open eyes and reverent heart.
Worship as God the beautiful in art.
Though you see now but dimly, and in part,
All shall be clear in time. Be not afraid.
WHEN I kneel down the dawn is only breaking;
Sleep fetters still the brown wings of the lark;
The wind blows pure and cool, for day is waking,
But stars are scattered still about the dark.
With open lattice, looking out and praying,
Ere yet the toil and trouble must be faced,
I see a silvery glimmer straying, straying,
To where the faint grey sky-line can be traced:
I see it slowly deepen, broaden, brighten,
With soft snow-fringes sweeping to the land;
The sheeny distance clear, and gleam, and whiten;
The cool cliff-shadows sharpen on the sand.
Some other sea the sunlight is adorning,
But mine is fair 'neath waning stars and moon.
O friendly face!--O smile that comes at morning,
To shine through all the frowns that come at noon!
A beautiful wet opal--pale tints filling
A thousand shifting shallows--day at length.
The sweet, salt breeze, like richest wine, is thrilling
My drowsy heart and brain with life and strength.
I hear the voice of waters--strong waves dashing
Their white crests on the brown weed-sprinkled sod;
I hear the soft, continuous, measured plashing--
The pulse that vibrates from the heart of God,--
The long wash of the tide upon the shingle,
The rippling ebb of breakers on the shore,
Wherewith my prayers are fain to blend and mingle--
Whereto I set my dreams for evermore.
I hear the lap and swirl, I hear the thunder
In the dark grotto where the children play,--
Where walls to keep the sea and cave asunder,
And frail shell towers, were reared but yesterday.
The flood has filled my soul, and it is sweeping
My foolish stones and pebbles out to sea,
And floating in strange riches for my keeping,--
O friend! O God! I owe my best to Thee.
The best of every day, its peace and beauty,
From Thy mysterious treasure-house is drawn;
Thou teachest me the grace of life and duty,
When we two walk together in the dawn.
CAN this be my poem?--this poor fragment
Of bald thought in meanest language dressed!
Can this string of rhymes be my sweep poem?
All its poetry wholly unexpressed!
Does it tell me of the dreams that wandered,
In the silent night-time, through my brain?
Of the woven web of wondrous fancies,
Half of keenest joy and half of pain?
Does it tell me of the awful beauty
That came down to hide this sordid earth?
Does it tell me of the inward crying?--
Of the glory whence it had its birth?
Only as the lamp, all dull and rusted,
Tells me of the flame that is put out,--
Of the shiny hair and happy faces
Lighted, when its radiance streamed about?
Only as this piece of glass, now lying
In the shade beside me, as I sit,
Tells me of the soft hues of the rainbow,
That the morning sunshine gave to it!
Only as this little flask, now smelling
Of the dust and mould with which 'tis lined,
Tells me of the lovely subtle fragrance
Of the perfume that it once enshrined!
Only as a picture, blurred and faded,
Tells me of the bloom of colour there,
When the painter's soul was with his canvas,
And his paint was bright, and fresh, and fair!
Only as the wires and keys--notes broken,
Odd and scattered--tell me of a strain
That once filled my very soul with rapture,
But can never be spelled out again!
Only as a bare brown flower-stalk tells me
Of the delicate blossom that it wore;
Of the humming bees in silken petals,
And the downy butterflies it bore!
Only as a crazy boat, sun-blistered,
Drawn up high and dry upon the sands,
Tells me of the blue and buoyant billows
Bearing breezy sails to foreign lands!
Only as a little dead lark, lying
With bedraggled wings and withered throat,
Tells me of the songs it heard in heaven--
Trying to teach me, here and there, a note!
Oh no! oh no! this is not my treasure--
This is but the shell where it has lain;
It is gone--the life, and light, and glory,--
And 'twill never come to me again!
AND must I wear a silken life,
Hemmed in by city walls?
And must I give my garden up
For theatres and balls?
Nay, though the cage be made of gold,
'Tis better to be free;
The green of the green meadows, love,
Is quite enough for me.
I'd rather ramble through the lanes
Than drive about in town;
I'd rather muse or dream than dance,
When the stars are shining down.
I do not care for diamonds, dear,
But I care a deal for flowers;
And thousands are just creeping out
For the sunshine and the showers.
I like to hear the Household band,
But I love the bird-songs best;
And hark! how they are twittering now
Round each half-hidden nest!
The wind is whispering in the leaves,
And the downy bees begin
To hum in the blossoming sycamores,
And the brook is chiming in.
There is such melody in the woods,
Such music in the air!
The streets are full of life and sound,
And yet 'tis silent there.
I like to see the pictures--ay,
But I am hard to please!
I never saw a picture yet
As great and grand as these;
Such tones of colour as transform
The tender green and brown,
When the pink dawn is flushing up,
Or the red sun sinking down;
Such painting as the chestnut bud
Shows in its opening heart;
Such lights as shine 'twixt earth and sky
When rain-clouds break apart;
Such soft, warm, subtle tints, as lie
In every mossy patch--
On the blue-brown trunks, now filled with life,
And the humble roof of thatch,--
In the purple hollows of the hills,
In the lichen on the wall,
In the orchard and the feathery woods,
And the sun-lit waterfall.
I like my humble country ways,
My simple, early meals;
I like to potter about the yard,
With my chickens at my heels.
I'd rather climb this brambly steep,
Where freshest sea-winds blow,
With my old straw hat hanging down my back.
Than canter along the Row.
To me (it's vulgar, dear, I know)
No fête is half so gay
As a cricket-match on the village green,
Or a picnic in the hay.
Ah, yes! I'm happier as I am,--
I'm ignorant, you see;
And the life of fashion that you love
Would never do for me.
I SAY it to myself--in meekest awe
Of Progress, electricity and steam,
Of this almighty age--this liberal age,
That has no time to breathe, or think, or dream,--
I ask it of myself, with bated breath,
Casting a furtive glance about the hall,--
Our fathers, were their times so very dark?
Were they benighted heathens after all?
Had they not their Galileo--Newton too--
And men as great, though not a Stephenson?
Had they not passable scholars in fair Greece,
Who traced the paths we deign to walk upon
Had they not poets in those dismal days--
Homer and Shakespeare, and a few between?
Had they not rulers in their barbarous states,
Who scattered laws for our wise hands to glean?
Had they not painters, who knew how to paint--
Raphael, to take an instance--well as we,
With near four hundred years of light the less?
Is Phidias matched in our great century?
And architects? Sure Egypt, and old Rome,
And ruined Athens tell of fair reputes!
The Pyramids, and temples of the Greeks,
May vie with our town-halls and institutes.
Their marble Venice, with her dappled tints,
Their grey old minsters, strong as chiselled rocks,
Their Tyrolean castles, lifted high,
May outlast all our brick-and-mortar blocks.
And were there not refinements in those days,
And elegant luxuries of domestic life?
I read the answer in the precious things
Whereof these clustering cabinets are rife.
What can we show so beautiful in art?
What new of ours can match their wondrous old?--
This fragile porcelain--this Venetian glass--
This delicate necklace of Etruscan gold.
And was there not religion--when the Church
Was one--a common mother--loved and feared?
When haughty souls rejoiced to bear her yoke?
When all those grand monastic piles were reared?
And were there not some preachers--Chrysostoms,
Whose golden words still linger, like a chime
Of falling echoes in lone alpine glens,
Amongst the sonorous voices of our time?
And soldiers--heroes? Do we shame them much?
Have men more courage than in days of yore?
Are they more jealous for their manhood now?
Do they respect and honour women more?
Are they more noble than those good old knights,
Who scorned to strike a foe save in the face--
Who reckoned gold as dross to gallant deeds,
And counted death far happier than disgrace?
Is life more grand with us, who bask at ease,
And count that only excellent which pays,
Than 'twas to the stout hearts that wore the steel
In those dark, turbulent, fearless, fighting days?
AN evening all aglow with summer light
And autumn colour--fairest of the year.
The wheat-fields, crowned with shocks of tawny gold,
All interspersed with rough sowthistle roots,
And interlaced with white convolvulus,
Lay, flecked with purple shadows, in the sun.
The shouts of little children, gleaning there
The scattered ears and wild blue-bottle flowers--
Mixed with the corn-crake's crying, and the song
Of lone wood birds whose mother-cares were o'er,
And with the whispering rustle of red leaves--
Scarce stirred the stillness. And the gossamer sheen
Was spread on upland meadows, silver bright
In low red sunshine and soft kissing wind--
Showing where angels in the night had trailed
Their garments on the turf. Tall arrow-heads,
With flag and rush and fringing grasses, dropped
Their seeds and blossoms in the sleepy pool.
The water-lily lay on her green leaf,
White, fair, and stately; while an amorous branch
Of silver willow, drooping in the stream,
Sent soft, low-babbling ripples towards her:
And oh, the woods!--erst haunted with the song
Of nightingales and tender coo of doves--
They stood all flushed and kindling 'neath the touch
Of death--kind death!--fair, fond, reluctant death!
A dappled mass of glory!
Harvest-time;
With russet wood-fruit thick upon the ground,
'Mid crumpled ferns and delicate blue harebells.
The orchard-apples rolled in seedy grass--
Apples of gold, and violet-velvet plums;
And all the tangled hedgerows bore a crop
Of scarlet hips, blue sloes, and blackberries,
And orange clusters of the mountain ash.
The crimson fungus and soft mosses clung
To old decaying trunks; the summer bine
Drooped, shivering, in the glossy ivy's grasp.
By day the blue air bore upon its wings
Wide-wandering seeds, pale drifts of thistle-down;
By night the fog crept low upon the earth,
All white and cool, and calmed its feverishness.
And veiled it over with a veil of tears.
The curlew and the plover were come back
To still, bleak shores; the little summer birds
Were gone--to Persian gardens, and the groves
Of Greece and Italy, and the palmy lands.
A Norman tower, with moss and lichen clothed,
Wherein old bells, on old worm-eaten frames
And rusty wheels, had swung for centuries,
Chiming the same soft chime--the lullaby
Of cradled rooks and blinking bats and owls;
Setting the same sweet tune, from year to year,
For generations of true hearts to sing.
A wide churchyard, with grassy slopes and nooks,
And shady corners and meandering paths;
With glimpses of dim windows and grey walls
Just caught at here and there amongst the green
Of flowering shrubs and sweet lime-avenues.
An old house standing near--a parsonage-house--
With broad thatched roof and overhanging eaves,
O'er run with banksia roses,--a low house,
With ivied windows and a latticed porch,
Shut in a tiny Paradise, all sweet
With hum of bees and scent of mignonette.
We lay our lazy length upon the grass
In that same Paradise, my friend and I.
And, as we lay, we talked of college days--
Wild, racing, hunting, steeple-chasing days;
Of river reaches, fishing-grounds, and weirs,
Bats, gloves, debates, and in-humanities:
And then of boon-companions of those days,
How lost and scattered, married, changed, and dead;
Until he flung his arm across his face,
And feigned to slumber.
He was changed, my friend;
Not like the man--the leader of his set--
The favourite of the college--that I knew.
And more than time had changed him. He had been
"A little wild," the Lady Alice said;
"A little gay, as all young men will be
At first, before they settle down to life--
While they have money, health, and no restraint,
Nor any work to do." Ah, yes! But this
Was mystery unexplained--that he was sad
And still and thoughtful, like an aged man;
And scarcely thirty. With a winsome flash,
The old bright heart would shine out here and there;
But aye to be o'er shadowed and hushed down,
As he had hushed it now.
His dog lay near,
With long, sharp muzzle resting on his paws,
And wistful eyes, half shut,--but watching him;
A deerhound of illustrious race, all grey
And grizzled, with soft, wrinkled, velvet ears;
A gaunt, gigantic, wolfish-looking brute,
And worth his weight in gold.
"There, there," said he,
And raised him on his elbow, "you have looked
Enough at me; now look at some one else."
"You could not see him, surely, with your arm
Across your face?"
"No, but I felt his eyes;
They are such sharp, wise eyes--persistent eyes--
Perpetually reproachful. Look at them;
Had ever dog such eyes?"
"Oh yes," I thought;
But, wondering, turned my talk upon his breed.
And was he of the famed Glengarry stock?
And in what season was he entered? Where,
Pray, did he pick him up?
He moved himself
At that last question, with a little writhe
Of sudden pain or restlessness; and sighed.
And then he slowly rose, pushed back the hair
From his broad brows; and, whistling softly, said,
"Come here, old dog, and we will tell him. Come."
"On such a day, and such a time, as this,
Old Tom and I were stalking on the hills,
Near seven years ago. Bad luck was ours;
For we had searched up corrie, glen, and burn,
From earliest daybreak--wading to the waist
Peat-rift and purple heather--all in vain!
We struck a track nigh every hour, to lose
A noble quarry by ignoble chance--
The crowing of a grouse-cock, or the flight
Of startled mallards from a reedy pool,
Or subtle, hair's breadth veering of the wind.
And now 'twas waning sunset--rosy soft
On far grey peaks, and the green valley spread
Beneath us. We had climbed a ridge, and lay
Debating in low whispers of our plans
For night and morning. Golden eagles sailed
Above our heads; the wild ducks swam about
Amid the reeds and rushes of the pools;
A lonely heron stood on one long leg
In shallow water, watching for a meal;
And there, to windward, couching in the grass
That fringed the blue edge of a sleeping loch--
Waiting for dusk to feed and drink--there lay
A herd of deer.
"And as we looked and planned,
A mountain storm of sweeping mist and rain
Came down upon us. It passed by, and left
The burnies swollen that we had to cross;
And left us barely light enough to see
The broad, black, branching antlers, clustering still
Amid the long grass in the valley.
"'Sir,'
Said Tom, 'there is a shealing down below,
To leeward. We might bivouac there to-night,
And come again at dawn.'
"And so we crept
Adown the glen, and stumbled in the dark
Against the doorway of the keeper's home,
And over two big deerhounds--ancestors
Of this our old companion. There was light
And warmth, a welcome and a heather bed,
At Colin's cottage; with a meal of eggs
And fresh trout, broiled by dainty little hands,
And sweetest milk and oatcake. There were songs
And Gaelic legends, and long talk of deer--
Mixt with a sweet, low laughter, and the whir
Of spinning-wheel.
"The dogs lay at her feet--
The feet of Colin's daughter--with their soft
Dark velvet ears pricked up for every sound
And movement that she made. Right royal brutes,
Whereon I gazed with envy.
"'What,' I asked,
'Would Colin take for these?'
"'Eh, sir,' said he,
And shook his head, 'I cannot sell the dogs.
They're priceless, they, and--Jeanie's favourites.
But there's a litter in the shed--five pups,
As like as peas to this one. You may choose
Amongst them, sir--take any that you like.
Get us the lantern, Jeanie. You shall show
The gentleman.'
"Ah, she was fair, that girl!
Not like the other lassies--cottage folk;
For there was subtle trace of gentle blood
Through all her beauty and in all her ways.
(The mother's race was 'poor and proud,' they said).
Ay, she was fair, my darling! with her shy,
Brown, innocent face and delicate-shapen limbs.
She had the tenderest mouth you ever saw,
And grey, dark eyes, and broad, straight-pencill'd brows;
Dark hair, sun-dappled with a sheeny gold;
Dark chestnut braids that knotted up the light,
As soft as satin. You could scarcely hear
Her step, or hear the rustling of her gown,
Or the soft hovering motion of her hands
At household work. She seemed to bring a spell
Of tender calm and silence where she came.
You felt her presence--and not by its stir,
But by its restfulness. She was a sight
To be remembered--standing in the straw;
A sleepy pup soft-cradled in her arms
Like any Christian baby; standing still,
The while I handled his ungainly limbs.
And Colin blustered of the sport--of hounds,
Roe ptarmigan, and trout, and ducal deer--
Ne'er lifting up that sweet, unconscious face,
To see why I was silent. Oh, I would
You could have seen her then. She was so fair,
And oh, so young!--scarce seventeen at most--
So ignorant and so young!
"Tell them, my friend--
Your flock--the restless-hearted--they who scorn
The ordered fashion fitted to our race,
And scoff at laws they may not understand--
Tell them that they are fools. They cannot mate
With other than their kind, but woe will come
In some shape--mostly shame, but always grief
And disappointment. Ah, my love! my love!
But she was different from the common sort;
A peasant, ignorant, simple, undefiled;
The child of rugged peasant-parents, taught
In all their thoughts and ways; yet with that touch
Of tender grace about her, softening all
The rougher evidence of her lowly state--
That undefined, unconscious dignity--
That delicate instinct for the reading right
The riddles of less simple minds than hers--
That sharper, finer, subtler sense of life--
That something which does not possess a name,
Which made her beauty beautiful to me--
The long-lost legacy of forgotten knights.
"I chose amongst the five fat creeping things
This rare old dog. And Jeanie promised kind
And gentle nurture for its infant days;
And promised she would keep it till I came
Another year. And so we went to rest.
And in the morning, ere the sun was up,
We left our rifles, and went out to run
The browsing red-deer with old Colin's hounds.
Through glen and bog, through brawling mountain streams,
Grey, lichened boulders, furze, and juniper,
And purple wilderness of moor, we toiled,
Ere yet the distant snow-peak was alight.
We chased a hart to water; saw him stand
At bay, with sweeping antlers, in the burn.
His large, wild, wistful eyes despairingly
Turned to the deeper eddies; and we saw
The choking struggle and the bitter end,
And cut his gallant throat upon the grass,
And left him. Then we followed a fresh track--
A dozen tracks--and hunted till the noon;
Shot cormorants and wild cats in the cliffs,
And snipe and blackcock on the ferny hills;
And set our floating night-lines at the loch;--
And then came back to Jeanie.
"Well, you know
What follows such commencement:--how I found
The woods and corries round about her home
Fruitful of roe and red-deer; how I found
The grouse lay thickest on adjacent moors;
Discovered ptarmigan on rocky peaks,
And rare small game on birch-besprinkled hills,
O'ershadowing that rude shealing; how the pools
Were full of wild-fowl, and the loch of trout;
How vermin harboured in the underwood,
And rocks, and reedy marshes; how I found
The sport aye best in this charmed neighbourhood.
And then I e'en must wander to the door,
To leave a bird for Colin, or to ask
A lodging for some stormy night, or see
How fared my infant deerhound.
"And I saw
The creeping dawn unfolding; saw the doubt,
And faith, and longing swaying her sweet heart;
And every flow just distancing the ebb.
I saw her try to bar the golden gates
Whence love demanded egress,--calm her eyes,
And still the tender, sensitive, tell-tale lips,
And steal away to corners; saw her face
Grow graver and more wistful, day by day;
And felt the gradual strengthening of my hold.
I did not stay to think of it--to ask
What I was doing!
"In the early time,
She used to slip away to household work
When I was there, and would not talk to me;
But when I came not, she would climb the glen
In secret, and look out, with shaded brow,
Across the valley. Ay, I caught her once--
Like some young helpless doe, amongst the fern--
I caught her, and I kissed her mouth and eyes;
And with those kisses signed and sealed our fate
For evermore. Then came our happy days--
The bright, brief, shining days without a cloud!
In ferny hollows and deep, rustling woods,
That shut us in and shut out all the world--
The far, forgotten world--we met, and kissed,
And parted, silent, in the balmy dusk.
We haunted still roe-coverts, hand in hand,
And murmured, under our breath, of love and faith,
And swore great oaths for one of us to keep.
We sat for hours, with sealèd lips, and heard
The sweet wind whispering as it passed us by--
And heard our own hearts' music in the hush.
Ah, blessed days! ah, happy, innocent days!--
I would I had them back.
"Then came the Duke,
And Lady Alice, with her worldly grace
And artificial beauty--with the gleam
Of jewels, and the dainty shine of silk,
And perfumed softness of white lace and lawn;
With all the glamour of her courtly ways,
Her talk of art and fashion, and the world
We both belonged to. Ah, she hardened me!
I lost the sweetness of the heathery moors
And hills and quiet woodlands, in that scent
Of London clubs and royal drawing-rooms;
I lost the tender chivalry of my love,
The keen sense of its sacredness, the clear
Perception of mine honour, by degrees,
Brought face to face with customs of my kind.
I was no more a "man;" nor she, my love,
A delicate lily of womanhood--ah, no!
I was the heir of an illustrious house,
And she a simple homespun cottage-girl.
"And now I stole at rarer intervals
To those dim trysting woods; and when I came
I brought my cunning worldly wisdom--talked
Of empty forms and marriages in heaven--
To stain that simple soul, God pardon me!
And she would shiver in the stillness, scared
And shocked, with her pathetic eyes--aye proof
Against the fatal, false philosophy.
But my will was the strongest, and my love
The weakest; and she knew it.
"Well, well, well,
I need not talk of that. There came the day
Of our last parting in the ferny glen--
A bitter parting, parting from my life,
Its light and peace for ever! And I turned
To balls and billiards, politics and wine;
Was wooed by Lady Alice, and half won;
And passed a feverous winter in the world.
Ah, do not frown! You do not understand.
You never knew that hopeless thirst for peace--
That gnawing hunger, gnawing at your life;
The passion, born too late! I tell you, friend,
The ruth, and love, and longing for my child,
It broke my heart at last.
"In the hot days
Of August, I went back; I went alone.
And on old garrulous Margery--relict she
Of some departed seneschal--I rained
My eager questions. 'Had the poaching been
As ruinous and as audacious as of old?
Were the dogs well? and had she felt the heat?
And--I supposed the keeper, Colin, still
Was somewhere on the place?'
"'Nay, sir,' said she,
'But he has left the neighbourhood. He ne'er
Has held his head up since he lost his child,
Poor soul, a month ago.'
"I heard--I heard!
His child--he had but one--my little one,
Whom I had meant to marry in a week!
"'Ah, sir, she turned out badly after all,
The girl we thought a pattern for all girls.
We know not how it happened, for she named
No names. And, sir, it preyed upon her mind,
And weakened it; and she forgot us all,
And seemed as one aye walking in her sleep
She noticed no one--no one but the dog,
A young deerhound that followed her about;
Though him she hugged and kissed in a strange way
When none was by. And Colin, he was hard
Upon the girl; and when she sat so still,
And pale and passive, while he raved and stormed,
Looking beyond him, as it were, he grew
The harder and more harsh. He did not know
That she was not herself. Men are so blind!
But when he saw her floating in the loch,
The moonlight on her face, and her long hair
All tangled in the rushes; saw the hound
Whining and crying, tugging at her plaid--
Ah, sir, it was a death-stroke!'
"This was all.
This was the end of her sweet life--the end
Of all worth having of mine own! At night
I crept across the moors to find her grave,
And kiss the wet earth covering it--and found
The deerhound lying there asleep. Ay me!
It was the bitterest darkness,--nevermore
To break out into dawn and day again!
"And Lady Alice shakes her dainty head,
Lifts her arch eyebrows, smiles, and whispers,
'Once
He was a little wild!'"
With that he laughed;
Then suddenly flung his face upon the grass,
Crying, "Leave me for a little--let me be!"
And in the dusky stillness hugged his woe,
And wept away his passion by himself.
WE have heard many sermons, you and I,
And many more may hear,
When sitting quiet in cathedral nave,
With folded palms and faces meek and grave;--
But few like this one, dear.
We ofttimes watch together 'fore the veil,
With reverent, gleaming eyes,
While priestly hands are busy with the folds,--
And pant to see the holy place, which holds
Life's dreadest mysteries.
We watch weak, foolish fingers straying o'er
The broidered boss, to grasp
Vaguely at some small end of thread, and twist
And shake the glorious pattern into mist,
And leave us nought to clasp.
We watch, with eyes dilated, some strong hand
Of nerve and muscle, trace
The grand, faint outlines, erewhile undefined
To our slow earth-enfolded sense, and find
The great design--the shadow from behind--
Dawning before our face.
But seldom do we see, dear, you and I,
The pattern melt in light,
And all the shine flow out on us, uncheck'd--
With eyes of soul and not of intellect--
As we did see that night.
It was a summer-night--the sun was low,
But overlaid the sea,
And made gold-crystals of the wet sea-sand,
And drew our shadows short upon the strand
That stretched out shallowly.
It was a Sunday night--far off we heard
The solemn vesper-chime
From some grey wind-swept steeple by the shore,
Chanting "For ev-er-more! for
ev-er-more!"
While the deep sea beat time.
We wandered far that night, dear, you and I,
We wandered out of reach,--
Until the golden distances grew grey,
And narrowed in the glory, as it lay
'Mid horizon and beach.
We wandered far along the lonely waste,
Where seldom foot had trod;
The world behind us dared not to intrude--
The summer silence and the solitude
Were only filled with God.
We sat down on the sand there, you and I,
We sat down awed and dumb,
And watched the fiery circle fall and fall
Through solemn folds of purple, and the small
Soft ripples go and come.
There was not wind enough to stir the reeds
Around us, nor to curl
The sheeny, dimpled surface of the deep;
The waters murmured low, as half in sleep,
With measured swish and swirl.
Two sea-birds came and dabbled in the pools,
And cried their plaintive cry,
As their strong wings swept o'er us as we sat
(No profanation of the stillness that,
But added sanctity).
They flecked the crimson shallows with black streaks,
Low-wheeling to and fro,
Crying their bold, sweet cry, as knowing well
It was a place where God, not man, did dwell--
A father, not a foe.
LOW he lay upon his dying couch, the knight without a stain,
The unconquered Cid Campeadór, the bright breastplate of Spain,
The incarnate honour of Castille, of Aragon and Navarre,
Very crown of Spanish chivalry, Rodrigo of Bivar!
Sick he lay, and grieved in spirit, for that Paynim dogs should dare
Camp around his knightly citadel, Valencia the fair!
For that he no more should face them, in his beauteous armour dight,
To whom God and Santiago aye gave victory in the fight.
Faintly rising o'er the ramparts came the murmur of the siege,
And he could but pray for Christendom, his country and his liege;
For his well-belovèd city, granite-girdled, pennon-starred,
And the royal wealth of treasure that its stately portals barred.
"Santiago, at whose altar I did watch mine armour bright,
And was girt with golden spur and brand, a consecrated knight!--
Santiago, by my vow redeemed at Compostela's shrine,
Let the Paynim life-blood only touch these blessed walls of mine!
"Santiago, warrior saintly, who with Don Fernando's host
Stormed and won the gates of Coimbra, guard my fortress on the coast!
Keep the holy leper's blessing, though the snow is on my hair;--
Strike the base-born unbelievers!--save Valencia the fair!"
Lo, a sudden cloud of glory filled his chamber as he prayed!
Lo, San Pedro stood beside him, all in shining robes arrayed!
"For thy love, Rodrigo Diaz, to Cardeña's house," said he,
"I have offered intercessions, and the Lord hath answered me.
"Thou must die, O well-beloved!--thirty days, and thou must die!
Yet in death shall Santiago grant thee still a victory.
Thou shalt ride forth to the battle--Santiago shall be there--
For the Faith and Don Alfonso and Valencia the fair."
Silence reigned within the chamber; none stood near the hero's bed;
All that dazzling flood of glory slowly, softly vanishèd.
He could only hear the murmur from the ramparts rise and fall;
He could only see the cross-bars stretching dimly on the wall.
In San Pedro's chapel lay the Cid, his eyes with rapture dim,
And proclaimed the wondrous favour that the Lord had granted him.
Then he parted from his vassals, and went humbly to confess;
And the warrior-bishop clothed his soul in its baptismal dress.
'Twas the holy day of Pentecost that saw Ruy Diaz die--
Evermore the spotless mirror of Castillian chivalry!
They, in whom his will was shrinèd, Alvar Fanez and his knights,
Stood to watch the hero vanquished who had won a thousand fights.
Doña Ximena, the faithful, with her tears bedewed his feet,
And anointed all his body with pure incense, rich and sweet.
Then in silence and in sorrow the twelve days of waiting fled;
And the warders on the ramparts dared not whisper, "He is dead."
In the midnight, dark and quiet, fell the torches' lurid glare
On the palaces and portals of Valencia the fair;
And a solemn, slow procession, mounted all in royal state,
Like the spectre of an army, passed beneath the city gate.
In the van was borne the ensign, known and dreaded far and wide,
With four hundred noblest knights ranged proudly by its side.
Toward Castille and Cardeña were those haughty faces set,--
And that banner never more did crown Valencia's parapet.
Then came mules, with treasure laden, stepping softly on before,
Compassed round with knights in armour--to the full four hundred more.
Then a band of belted nobles, stern and silent; and amid
Their levelled lances, he of Bivar--the Campeadór-- the Cid.
On his milk-white steed, Babieca, whom none else did e'er bestride,
Clad in all his princely trappings, did the lifeless warrior ride;
Girt with helm and spur and blazoned shield, and grasping in his hand
The bright crosslet of Tizona, his thrice-consecrated brand.
Geronymo and Gil Diaz held the slackened bridle-rein--
His true bishop and true vassal--as they moved on to the plain;
And Ximena and her maidens, 'mid the torchlight weird and dim,
With six hundred knights in harness, followed slowly after him.
In the solemn hush and darkness, with no joyful clarion-cry,
And no clash and clank of weapons, riding all so silently;--
Thus they passed out from the city e'er the summer morning broke,
And were found arrayed for battle when the infidels awoke.
Great and mighty was the Moorish host, by thirty monarchs led,
But a greater was the army with Rodrigo at the head;
For behold! came Santiago to the bloody battle-plain--
Santiago, with a hundred thousand warriors in his train.
Each in robe of shining whiteness, with a red cross on his breast,--
Each with fiery sword uplifted or with golden lance at rest;
Santiago, saintly leader, on a charger white as snow--
Sent to aid the Cid Campeadór in vanquishing the foe.
All the Paynims looked amazèd on the dreadful beauteous sight.
As the tender light of morning softly crept out from the night;
Then they harnessed them in silence, sternly grasping shield and spear,
And pressed on in serried column, full of wonder, full of fear.
There was one loud shock of battle, then they wildly turned to flee,
And the Cid and Santiago swept their hosts into the sea.
Twenty kings and twenty armies in that bloody fight were slain,
And were left, with upturned faces, stiff and stark upon the plain.
Fair and shining came the daylight, all in liquid summer sheen--
But no more was Santiago, or his white-robed warriors, seen;
Only one small train of nobles, riding on, with stately pace,
To San Pedro de Cardeña and the great Cid's resting-place.
By the altar in the chapel, where the monarch's throne doth stand,
Sat the dead Cid, robed in purple, with his good sword in his hand.
And again the Moorish ensign fluttered proudly in the air,
Lifted high above the ramparts of Valencia the fair.
O FOR wings! that I might soar
A little way above the floor,
A little way beyond the roar--
A little nearer to the sky!
To the blue hills, lifted high
Out of all our misery.
Where alone is heard the lark,
Warbling in the infinite arc
From the dawning to the dark;
Where the callow eaglets wink
On the bare and breezy brink,
And slow pinions rise and sink.
Where the dim white breakers beat
Under cloud-drifts at our feet,
Singing, singing, low and sweet;
Where we see the glimmering bay
Greyly melting far away,
On the confines of the day;
Where the green larch-fringes sweep
Rocky defiles, still and steep;
Where the tender lichens creep;
Where the gentian-blossoms blow,
Set in crystal stars of snow;
Where the downward torrents flow
To the plains and yellow leas,
Glancing, twinkling through the trees--
Pure, as from celestial seas.
Where the face of heaven has smiled
Aye on freedom, sweet and wild,
Aye on beauty undefiled.
Where no sound of human speech,
And no human passions, reach;
Where the angels sit and teach.
Where no troublous foot has trod;
Where is impressed on the sod
Only hand and heart of God!
"FRIEND," quoth Lord Nevil, "thou art young
To face the world, and thou art blind
To subtle ways of womankind;
The meshes thou wilt fall among.
"Take an old married man's advice;
Use the experience I have earned;
Watch well where women are concerned,--
They're not all birds of paradise!
"Be circumspect, or thou mayst fall;
Abjure a blind faith--nay, trust none--
Till thou hast chosen, proven one;
Then trust her truly--trust in all.
"Keep a calm brain and quiet eye,
And watch. The doll of powder and paint,
The flirt, the artificial saint,
The loud man-woman pass them by.
"The innocent one, who craves thy cares
To shield her from life's fret and fray;
Lad, watch her--maybe she'll betray
Some doubtful knowledge, unawares.
"The pensive one, who droops and sighs--
Wait till her dreaming comes to test;
Be gentle, yet be wary, lest
'Tis but a graceful grey disguise.
"The world-wise husband-hunter--she
Who knows no love but love of gold,
And lands and titles--empty, cold,--
Pity her, lad, and let her be.
"And the rich heiress--let her pass.
Belike she's stupid, drugged with wealth,
And just enjoys her life and health
As some fat cow in clover grass.
"Or insolent with prosperity,
Unsharpened, shallow, unrefined;--
And thou art poor, and thou wilt mind
That proud blood cometh down to thee.
"The gushing gossip--she who rains
Incessant chatter in thine ears;--
She may be worth thy keenest fears,
She may be simply lacking brains,
"And lacking grace and modesty.
She will make mischief, at the best;
She may be wily, like the rest;
Keep thy tongue still when she is by.
"They that would master thee, if they could,
In brain and muscle--flaring lights--
The clamorous for false woman's rights;--
Snub them, my friend--it does them good--
"And do not think of them for wives.
Fit mates for such seem somewhat rare;
But when two odd ones make a pair,
They spoil at least four precious lives.
"But shouldst thou chance to meet a girl
With brave, bright eyes, that front thee straight,
A kindly tongue that does not prate,
And quiet lips that cannot curl;
"With fine sense, quick to understand,
With dignity that is not cold,
Sweet, sunny mirth that is not bold,
A ready ear, a willing hand;
"One skilled in household arts, and skilled
In little courteous, graceful ways,
That make no show and win no praise--
Wherewith discordant jars are stilled:
"One who will never touch a sore;
One who sheds sunshine round about,
And draws life's hidden comfort out;
One whom the boys and babes adore:
"One with an intellect to reach
The highest range that thou canst rise;
Who will aye help thee, woman-wise,
And yet not set herself to teach:
"One of whom women love to speak,
In honest kindness, and whose name
Men let alone; whose chiefest fame
Lies hidden where men may not seek;--
"Friend, woo her, as a good knight can,
And win her. Lay thou at her feet
Faith, love, and honour, true and sweet;
And count thyself a happy man."
O SWEET darkness, still, and calm, and lonely!
Spread thy downy pinions round about.
Spare me from thy hidden riches only
One dream-face; blot all the others out.
Bring him now, for thou hast power to free him,
From that ugly garb he wears by day;
Bring him now--my darling!--let me see him
Ere the tender kindness pass away.
O sweet night-winds, wandering in the larches!
Sigh, and croon, and whisper as you creep;
Sing my songs through green cathedral arches,
While the weary workers are asleep.
Snarl and fret not of the grief and passion;
Sing in minor cadence, sweet and low;
Sing of peace and rest, in soft wind-fashion--
Of the love and faith I used to know!
THE light lay trembling in a silver bar
Along the western borders of the sky;
From out the shadowy dome a little star
Stole forth to keep its patient watch on high;
And night came down, with solemn, soft embrace,
On storied Brittany.
Another night lay over all the land--
The dark of hell, and lurid with its fire.
She heard the roar of fiends; she saw the brand
Flung red and hissing over roof and spire;
She saw her golden spurs and reaping-hooks
Tossed on the funeral pyre.
She stood in calm defiance, while the flood
Swept over her;--while everywhere was seen
Her dim, majestic cities drenched in blood;
Ashes and smoke where temple-walls had been;
And high on woodland knoll and market-place,
The ghastly guillotine.
'Twas hard to tear her peasant-souls apart
From priest and liege, and clinging faith of old;
'Twas hard to bend the strong and simple heart
By fear of torture or by love of gold:
For naught those gory hands could offer them
Might consciences be sold.
"No tower or belfry shall be left to stand,"
Saint André swore, and waved his cap of red;
"You shall have naught in all this cursèd land
For sign of your superstition,--it is dead!"
A peasant heard, and raised his eyes to heaven;--
"You'll leave the stars," he said.
True were the priests and people, each to each,
And all alike to their unlettered creed;
No violent force of sophistry could reach
Their rough-hewn faith in bitter time of need.
They died with deaf ears and dumb mouths; and theirs
Was martyrdom indeed!
Night--midnight--lay beneath her silver lamps;
Her deep sleep broken by the fitful glare
Of bivouac fires in noisy village camps,
And hoarse shouts mellowed through the listening air;
Save only where the sea-waves washed the coast--
'Twas still and quiet there:
The heave and swell, and sudden, plunging dash
Against the low rocks lying in their reach;
The hissing shingle, and the sweet, free plash
Of long-drawn breakers on the open beach;
And now and then, in momentary pause,
The curlew's mournful screech:
The soft, low gurgle in the hollowed track
Through reef and boulder; and the rippling fall
Of idle wandering waters, swirling back
From secret tryst in Naiads' rocky hall;--
Only these sounds--save that deep monotone
Which held and hushed them all.
Only these sounds? Was nothing to be heard
But voice of breaker as it rose and fell,
The kelpie's song, the wailing of a bird?
Ay, far and faint amid the restless swell,
One other voice stole whispering through the air--
The chime of a silver bell.
It came from dim mid-ocean, wild and free,
To listening ears, in silence of the night;
And watchful eyes saw, out upon the sea
And 'neath the stars, a little twinkling light--
Now lost behind a waving mountain-top,
Now shining clear and bright.
Softly the fishers' boats began to glide
From shadowy rock and sheltered cave and creek;
Bronzed men and gentle maidens, side by side,
Dipped muffled oars; no woman-hand was weak.
All eyes turned, wistful, to the beacon-lamp;
But no one dared to speak.
The scattered specks, with each its little crowd,
Drew near, converging on the distant bark;
The sweet bell rang out louder and more loud,
The light shone bright and brighter in the dark:
And soon a hundred lips burst forth in praise--
For all had reach'd the ark.
There was the priest, with whom they came to sup,
White-hair'd and holy, by his humble board;
There, amid light and darkness lifted up,
The blessed rood, by simple eyes adored.
Each head was bowed, each pious knee was bent
In presence of the Lord.
Ah! 'twas a grand cathedral where they knelt!
Grand was the organ-music--vast the crypt
Wherein its wild, mysterious echoes dwelt;
And fresh and pure the incense, as it slipp'd
Down shining floor and down wide altar-steps,
With frosted silver tipp'd.
Grand was the darken'd aisles and solemn nave--
The domèd roof, magnificently high--
The airy walls and mighty architrave--
The sweet star-tapers that could never die!
And grander still its purity of peace,
Its untouched sanctity.
The worn and weary ones came there, to search
For rest and hope in holy Eucharist;
There--in the splendour of that solemn church--
They, priest and people, communed with the Christ;
Thus--with all other temples overthrown--
They kept his sacred tryst.
With calm, grave eyes and even-pulsing breath,
They dipp'd their still oars in the darken'd space.
Strong now the hands fast rowing back to death!--
And strong the simple hearts, new clothed in grace--
The hush'd and quiet souls--ere long to meet
Their Saviour face to face.
AY, many and many a year's gone by,
Since the dawn of that day in spring,
When we met in the pine-woods, Harry and I,
And he gave me this golden ring.
I had lovers in plenty, of high degree,
Who wooed in my father's hall;
But none were so noble and brave as he,
Though he was the scorn'd of all.
On the soft, green grass, where the shadows lay,
All fleck'd with the sun and dew,
With a ring and a kiss did we seal, that day,
Our vow to be leal and true.
'Twas a life-long vow;--but they did not know--
And they thought not of love or pain;--
We met just once in the sleet and snow--
We were never to meet again!
He was sent away o'er the blank, wide sea,
And I, with my hopes and fears,
Had never a message to comfort me
For over a score of years.
They laugh'd at my heart, they paraded my hand,
But I answer'd them, cold and grim--
"If Harry ne'er comes to his native land,
They shall only belong to him."
At last came a tale from the battle-field;--
And they were not scornful now.
The sentence of exile might be repealed--
They would honour our plighted vow!
They told how my Harry, like olden knights,
Had fought for his land and Queen;
Fought hard and well on the Alma heights,
Where the deadliest strife was seen.
They told how he fell in the fire and smoke,
And they gave me his things to keep;
They wonder'd why I never cried or spoke,--
But it was too late to weep.
O TAKE away your dried and painted garlands!
The snow-cloth's fallen from each quicken'd brow,
The stone's rolled off the sepulchre of winter,
And risen leaves and flowers are wanted now.
Send out the little ones, that they may gather
With their pure hands the firstlings of the birth,--
Green-golden tufts and delicate half-blown blossoms,
Sweet with the fragrance of the Easter earth;
Great primrose bunches, with soft, damp moss clinging
To their brown fibres, nursed in hazel roots;
And violets from the shady banks and copses,
And wood-anemones, and white hawthorn shoots;
And tender curling fronds of fern, and grasses
And crumpled leaves from brink of babbling rills,
With cottage-garden treasures--pale narcissi
And lilac plumes and yellow daffodils.
Open the doors, and let the Easter sunshine
Flow warmly in and out, in amber waves,
And let the perfume floating round our altar
Meet the new perfume from the outer graves.
And let the Easter "Alleluia!" mingle
With the sweet silver rain-notes of the lark;
Let us all sing together!--Lent is over,
Captivity and winter, death and dark.
"ON board the Petrel, in St. Lucia's bay,
Of yellow fever--aged twenty-nine."
"Who did you say, my lady?" drawled the Earl.
"The duke--what duke?"
"I did not speak of dukes,"
Replied the Countess slowly, white and grim,
Pressing the rustling sheet between her palms,
The while her diamonds heaved upon her breast,
And sank and heaved, and glitter'd like her eyes--
Hungry, pathetic eyes,--"'Tis only Dick,
Only a sailor-lad I used to know."
"Humph! A West Indian friend?" he softly sneer'd,
And bow'd and gave his arm. "The carriage waits--
My lady loses time."
Then pass'd they out,
Through silky servants,--he, the great Earl, stark
In plume and crest and linked mediæval steel,
The Countess en bergère, in white and red,
With roses, diamond dew-dropped, in her hat
And in her queenly bosom;--pass'd they out,
And, through clear gaslight and the avenue
Of silent Champs-Elysées, to the fête.
Her restless eyes were blind to all the blaze
And motley splendour of the throng'd saloons;
The flowers, the cool cascades, the magic wand
Of Strauss, the vine-draped balustrades, the gaze
Of wistful admiration meeting hers
At every step. The Empress smiled and bow'd,
The Emperor praised the beauty and the taste
Of her mock-rustic costume, princes begged
Her fair hand for the dance, and her grim lord
Scowl'd, wrathful, on her when she pass'd him by.
She cared for none,--she look'd beyond them all.
She saw another night--a hot, bright night--
A night of years ago--danced out in joy
'Neath the low roof-tree of a planter's house
In fair Antigua's bosom;--saw the stars,
Large, liquid, golden, swimming in the blue,
Shining through open doors and jalousies,
And the green sparkles of the fire-flies, thick
About the forest, fringing all the dark;
The crimson creepers swaying in the air
From white verandah pillars--swaying soft;
The small nest of a humming-bird; the stems,
Brown-ring'd, of feathery palm-trees,--plaintains bow'd
With broad, thick leaves, and clustering fruit, and seeds
In scarlet vessels--orange-groves, white-flower'd
And sweet, with hanging balls of green and gold--
All vaguely outlined in the mellow night.
And nearer still a brave, brown English face,
Bent low, with clear grey eyes and faithful lips
That whisper'd, "Reine, I love you," meeting hers.
The drowsy sound of laughter and light feet
Behind them she could hear--but the quick throb
Of poor Dick's English heart upon her breast
She felt to suffocation. "Reine, my sweet,
I love you--Reine, I love you; kiss me, child."
And her soft hands stray'd softly round his neck,
And softer still she kiss'd him.
Then she saw
A morning, hot and stormy--saw the Earl,
Drunk with her wondrous beauty, standing there
Where Dick had stood. She saw his cultured ways,
His high-bred, stately courtesy and grace;
She heard his subtle flatteries, his tales
Of the great world, of court and city life,
With gaping ears and speculating brain.
The voice of the arch-tempter, low and soft,
Spoke in his polished accents, "Reine, 'tis sin,
'Tis sin and shame, that such a face as yours
Should waste its sweetness in these heathen isles.
There's not a fairer face in Europe, Reine;
'Tis worth a coronet. Come back with me
As a great earl's wife; in his diamonds dress'd,
You would have homage like a crownèd queen."
She shudder'd now,--his diamonds gall'd her worse
Than felon's chains.
Anon she saw a bay--
Blue, limpid water, fringed with dipping palms,
A green rock-gateway opening on the sea,
Green cane-fields stretching upward, woods and hills
Lying entangled in the summer clouds;
An English ship at anchor--burning noon--
A thin, brown, fever'd face, with hungry eyes
Roaming from side to side, in dumb appeal,
Which none could understand,--and dying lips
Muttering to vacant air and heedless ears,
"I love you, Reine, I love you!"
"O my love--
O Dick--my Dick--would I could sleep with thee
In thy last happy sleep among the palms,
With my dead hands clasp'd tight about thy neck!
O Dick, I did not mean it--did not think--
And now my heart is broken!
"Take me home.
The rooms are hot, my lord, and I am faint--
The music makes me giddy. Take me home!"
A WAVE-WORN boulder, with green sea-moss wrapping
A silken mantle o'er its jagged sides;
And silvery, seething waters softly lapping
Through gulfs and channels hollow'd by the tides:
A lime-cliff overhead, o'erhanging grimly,
A dash of sunlight on its breast of snow;
The white line of the breakers, stretching dimly
Along the narrow sea-beach down below:
The grey waste of the waters, with one slender,
Glimmering, golden ripple far away;
The haze of summer twilight, sweet and tender,
Veiling the fair face of the dying day:
The measured plash of surf upon the shingle,
The ceaseless gurgle through the rocks and stones;
No sound of struggling human life, to mingle
With those mysterious and eternal tones!
No sound--no sound,--a hungry sea-mew only
Breaking the stillness with her little cry;
And the low whisper, when 'tis all so lonely,
Of soft south breezes as they wander by:--
I see it all; sweet dreams of it are thronging
In full floods back upon my weary brain;
To-night, in my dark chamber, the old longing
Almost fulfils its very self again.
The dying sunbeams, on the far waves glinting,
Come like warm kisses to my lips and brow,
Soothing my spirit--all its grey thoughts tinting
With tender shades of golden colour now.
Alone and still, I sit, and think, and listen,
Looking out westward o'er the darkening sea;
My seat the boulder, where the spray-drops glisten;
The tall, white cliffs my regal canopy.
And, as I sit, the fretting cares and sorrows,
Weighing so heavy when the work is done,
The gloomy yesterdays and dim to-morrows,
They slip away and vanish one by one,--
Slip backward to the world that lies behind me,
Every by sinful footsteps overtrod;
And in this unstain'd world leave nought to bind me,
This sweet world, fillèd with the peace of God!
ALL the wild waves rock'd in shadow,
And the world was dim and grey,
Dark and silent, hush'd and breathless,
Waiting calmly for the day.
And the golden light came stealing
O'er the mountain-tops at last--
Flooding vale and wood and upland,--
It was morning--night was past.
There they lay--the silvery waters,
Fruitful forests, glade and lawn;--
All in beauty, new-created
By the angel of the dawn.
Then the dim world woke in glory,
And the iris-dyes grew bright
On the waves and woods and valleys,
In a morning flood of lig