Yet I was glad, my heart confessed, The trial went not on; Glad likewise I had stood the test, As far as it had gone.

And yet I fear some recreant thought, Which now I all forget, That painful feeling in me wrought Of failure, lingering yet.

And if the dream had had its scope, I might have fled the field; But yet I thank Thee for the hope, And think I dared not yield.

6.

Methinks I hear, as I lie slowly dying, Indulgent friends say, weeping, "He was good." I fail to speak, a faint denial trying,— They answer, "His humility withstood."

I, knowing better, part with love unspoken; And find the unknown world not all unknown. The bonds that held me from my centre broken, I seek my home, the Saviour's homely throne.

How He will greet me, I walk on and wonder; And think I know what I will say to Him. I fear no sapphire floor of cloudy thunder, I fear no passing vision great and dim.

But He knows all my unknown weary story: How will He judge me, pure, and good, and fair? I come to Him in all His conquered glory, Won from such life as I went dreaming there!

I come; I fall before Him, faintly saying: "Ah, Lord, shall I thy loving favour win? Earth's beauties tempted me; my walk was straying— I have no honour—but may I come in?"

"I know thee well. Strong prayer did keep me stable; To me the earth is very lovely too. Thou shouldst have come to me to make thee able To love it greatly—but thou hast got through."



A BOOK OF DREAMS.

PART II.

1.

Lord of the world's undying youth, What joys are in thy might! What beauties of the inner truth, And of the outer sight! And when the heart is dim and sad, Too weak for wisdom's beam, Thou sometimes makest it right glad With but a childish dream.

* * * * *

Lo! I will dream this windy day; No sunny spot is bare; Dull vapours, in uncomely play, Are weltering through the air. If I throw wide my windowed breast To all the blasts that blow, My soul will rival in unrest Those tree-tops—how they go!

But I will dream like any child; For, lo! a mighty swan, With radiant plumage undented, And folded airy van, With serpent neck all proudly bent, And stroke of swarthy oar, Dreams on to me, by sea-maids sent Over the billows hoar.

For in a wave-worn rock I lie; Outside, the waters foam; And echoes of old storms go by Within my sea-built dome. The waters, half the gloomy way, Beneath its arches come; Throbbing to unseen billows' play, The green gulfs waver dumb.

A dawning twilight through the cave In moony gleams doth go, Half from the swan above the wave, Half from the swan below. Close to my feet she gently drifts, Among the glistening things; She stoops her crowny head, and lifts White shoulders of her wings.

Oh! earth is rich with many a nest, Deep, soft, and ever new, Pure, delicate, and full of rest; But dearest there are two. I would not tell them but to minds That are as white as they; If others hear, of other kinds, I wish them far away.

Upon the neck, between the wings, Of a white, sailing swan, A flaky bed of shelterings— There you will find the one. The other—well, it will not out, Nor need I tell it you; I've told you one, and need you doubt, When there are only two?

Fulfil old dreams, O splendid bird, Me o'er the waters bear; Sure never ocean's face was stirred By any ship so fair! Sure never whiteness found a dress, Upon the earth to go, So true, profound, and rich, unless It was the falling snow.

With quick short flutter of each wing Half-spread, and stooping crown, She calls me; and with one glad spring I nestle in the down. Plunges the bark, then bounds aloft, With lessening dip and rise. Round curves her neck with motion soft— Sure those are woman's eyes.

One stroke unseen, with oary feet, One stroke—away she sweeps; Over the waters pale we fleet, Suspended in the deeps. And round the sheltering rock, and lo! The tumbling, weltering sea! On to the west, away we go, Over the waters free!

Her motions moulded to the wave, Her billowy neck thrown back, With slow strong pulse, stately and grave, She cleaves a rippling track. And up the mounting wave we glide, With climbing sweeping blow; And down the steep, far-sloping side, To flowing vales below.

I hear the murmur of the deep In countless ripples pass, Like talking children in their sleep, Like winds in reedy grass. And through some ruffled feathers, I The glassy rolling mark, With which the waves eternally Roll on from dawn to dark.

The night is blue, the stars aglow; In solemn peace o'erhead The archless depth of heaven; below, The murmuring, heaving bed. A thickened night, it heaveth on, A fallen earthly sky; The shadows of its stars alone Are left to know it by.

What faints across the lifted loop Of cloud-veil upward cast? With sea-veiled limbs, a sleeping group Of Nereids dreaming past. Swim on, my boat; who knows but I, Ere night sinks to her grave, May see in splendour pale float by The Venus of the wave?

2.

In the night, round a lady dreaming— A queen among the dreams— Came the silent sunset streaming, Mixed with the voice of streams. A silver fountain springing Blossoms in molten gold; And the airs of the birds float ringing Through harmonies manifold.

She lies in a watered valley; Her garden melts away Through foot-path and curving alley Into the wild wood grey. And the green of the vale goes creeping To the feet of the rugged hills, Where the moveless rocks are keeping The homes of the wandering rills.

And the hues of the flowers grow deeper, Till they dye her very brain; And their scents, like the soul of a sleeper, Wander and waver and rain. For dreams have a wealth of glory That daylight cannot give: Ah God! make the hope a story— Bid the dreams arise and live.

She lay and gazed at the flowers, Till her soul's own garden smiled With blossom-o'ershaded bowers, Great colours and splendours wild. And her heart filled up with gladness, Till it could only ache; And it turned aside to sadness, As if for pity's sake.

And a fog came o'er the meadows, And the rich hues fainting lay; Came from the woods the shadows, Came from the rocks the grey. And the sunset thither had vanished, Where the sunsets always go; And the sounds of the stream were banished, As if slain by frost and snow.

And the flowers paled fast and faster, And they crumbled fold on fold, Till they looked like the stained plaster Of a cornice in ruin old. And they blackened and shrunk together, As if scorched by the breath of flame, With a sad perplexity whether They were or were not the same.

And she saw herself still lying, And smiling on, the while; And the smile, instead of dying, Was fixed in an idiot smile. And the lady arose in sorrow Out of her sleep's dark stream; But her dream made dark the morrow, And she told me the haunting dream.

Alas! dear lady, I know it, The dream that all is a dream; The joy with the doubt below it That the bright things only seem. One moment of sad commotion, And one of doubt's withering rule— And the great wave-pulsing ocean Is only a gathered pool.

And the flowers are spots of painting, Of lifeless staring hue; Though your heart is sick to fainting, They say not a word to you. And the birds know nought of gladness, They are only song-machines; And a man is a skilful madness, And the women pictured queens.

And fiercely we dig the fountain, To know the water true; And we climb the crest of the mountain, To part it from the blue. But we look too far before us For that which is more than nigh; Though the sky is lofty o'er us, We are always in the sky.

And the fog, o'er the roses that creepeth, Steams from the unknown sea, In the dark of the soul that sleepeth, And sigheth constantly, Because o'er the face of its waters The breathing hath not gone; And instead of glad sons and daughters, Wild things are moaning on.

When the heart knows well the Father, The eyes will be always day; But now they grow dim the rather That the light is more than they. Believe, amidst thy sorrows, That the blight that swathes the earth Is only a shade that borrows Life from thy spirit's dearth.

God's heart is the fount of beauty; Thy heart is its visible well; If it vanish, do thou thy duty, That necromantic spell; And thy heart to the Father crying Will fill with waters deep; Thine eyes may say, Beauty is dying; But thy spirit, She goes to sleep.

And I fear not, thy fair soul ever Will smile as thy image smiled; It had fled with a sudden shiver, And thy body lay beguiled. Let the flowers and thy beauty perish; Let them go to the ancient dust. But the hopes that the children cherish, They are the Father's trust.

3.

A great church in an empty square, A place of echoing tones; Feet pass not oft enough to wear The grass between the stones.

The jarring sounds that haunt its gates, Like distant thunders boom; The boding heart half-listening waits, As for a coming doom.

The door stands wide, the church is bare, Oh, horror, ghastly, sore! A gulf of death, with hideous stare, Yawns in the earthen floor;

As if the ground had sunk away Into a void below: Its shapeless sides of dark-hued clay Hang ready aye to go.

I am myself a horrid grave, My very heart turns grey; This charnel-hole,—will no one save And force my feet away?

The changing dead are there, I know, In terror ever new; Yet down the frightful slope I go, That downward goeth too.

Beneath the caverned floor I hie, And seem, with anguish dull, To enter by the empty eye Into a monstrous skull.

Stumbling on what I dare not guess, And wading through the gloom, Less deep the shades my eyes oppress, I see the awful tomb.

My steps have led me to a door, With iron clenched and barred; Grim Death hides there a ghastlier store, Great spider in his ward.

The portals shake, the bars are bowed, As if an earthy wind That never bore a leaf or cloud Were pressing hard behind.

They shake, they groan, they outward strain. What sight, of dire dismay Will freeze its form upon my brain, And turn it into clay?

They shake, they groan, they bend, they crack; The bars, the doors divide: A flood of glory at their back Hath burst the portals wide.

Flows in the light of vanished days, The joy of long-set moons; The flood of radiance billowy plays, In sweet-conflicting tunes.

The gulf is filled with flashing tides, An awful gulf no more; A maze of ferns clothes all its sides, Of mosses all its floor.

And, floating through the streams, appear Such forms of beauty rare, As every aim at beauty here Had found its would be there.

I said: 'Tis well no hand came nigh, To turn my steps astray; 'Tis good we cannot choose but die, That life may have its way.

4.

Before I sleep, some dreams draw nigh, Which are not fancy mere; For sudden lights an inward eye, And wondrous things appear.

Thus, unawares, with vision wide, A steep hill once I saw, In faint dream lights, which ever hide Their fountain and their law.

And up and down the hill reclined A host of statues old; Such wondrous forms as you might find Deep under ancient mould.

They lay, wild scattered, all along, And maimed as if in fight; But every one of all the throng Was precious to the sight.

Betwixt the night and hill they ranged, In dead composure cast. As suddenly the dream was changed, And all the wonder past.

The hill remained; but what it bore Was broken reedy stalks, Bent hither, thither, drooping o'er, Like flowers o'er weedy walks.

For each dim form of marble rare, Bent a wind-broken reed; So hangs on autumn-field, long-bare, Some tall and straggling weed.

The autumn night hung like a pall, Hung mournfully and dead; And if a wind had waked at all, It had but moaned and fled.

5.

I lay and dreamed. Of thought and sleep Was born a heavenly joy: I dreamed of two who always keep Me happy as a boy.

I was with them. My heart-bells rung With joy my heart above; Their present heaven my earth o'erhung, And earth was glad with love.

The dream grew troubled. Crowds went on, And sought their varied ends; Till stream on stream, the crowds had gone, And swept away my friends.

I was alone. A miry road I followed, all in vain; No well-known hill the landscape showed, It was a wretched plain;

Where mounds of rubbish, ugly pits, And brick-fields scarred the globe; Those wastes where desolation sits Without her ancient robe.

A drizzling rain proclaimed the skies As wretched as the earth; I wandered on, and weary sighs Were all my lot was worth.

When sudden, as I turned my way, Burst in the ocean-waves: And lo! a blue wild-dancing bay Fantastic rocks and caves!

I wept with joy. Ah! sometimes so, In common daylight grief, A beauty to the heart will go, And bring the heart relief.

And, wandering, reft of hope or friend, If such a thing should be, One day we take the downward bend, And lo, Eternity!

I wept with joy, delicious tears, Which dreams alone bestow; Until, mayhap, from out the years We sleep, and further go.

6.

Now I will mould a dream, awake, Which I, asleep, would dream; From all the forms of fancy take One that shall also seem; Seem in my verse (if not my brain), Which sometimes may rejoice In airy forms of Fancy's train, Though nobler are my choice.

Some truth o'er all the land may lie In children's dreams at night; They do not build the charmed sky That domes them with delight. And o'er the years that follow soon, So all unlike the dreams, Wander their odours, gleams their moon, And flow their winds and streams.

Now I would dream that I awake In scent of cool night air, Above me star-clouds close and break; Beneath—where am I, where? A strange delight pervades my breast, Of ancient pictures dim, Where fair forms on the waters rest, Or in the breezes swim.

I rest on arms as soft as strong, Great arms of woman-mould; My head is pillowed whence a song, In many a rippling fold, O'erfloods me from its bubbling spring: A Titan goddess bears Me, floating on her unseen wing, Through gracious midnight airs.

And I am borne o'er sleeping seas, O'er murmuring ears of corn, Over the billowy tops of trees, O'er roses pale till morn. Over the lake—ah! nearer float, Down on the water's breast; Let me look deep, and gazing doat On that white lily's nest.

The harebell's bed, as o'er we pass, Swings all its bells about; From waving blades of polished grass, Flash moony splendours out. Old homes we brush in wooded glades; No eyes at windows shine; For all true men and noble maids Are out in dreams like mine.

And foam-bell-kisses drift and break From wind-waves of the South Against my brow and eyes awake, And yet I see no mouth. Light laughter ripples down the air, Light sighs float up below; And o'er me ever, radiant pair, The Queen's great star-eyes go.

And motion like a dreaming wave Wafts me in gladness dim Through air just cool enough to lave With sense each conscious limb. But ah! the dream eludes the rhyme, As dreams break free from sleep; The dream will keep its own free time, In mazy float or sweep.

And thought too keen for joy awakes, As on the horizon far, A dead pale light the circle breaks, But not a dawning star. No, there I cannot, dare not go; Pale women wander there; With cold fire murderous eyeballs glow; And children see despair.

The joy has lost its dreamy zest; I feel a pang of loss; My wandering hand o'er mounds of rest Finds only mounds of moss. Beneath the bare night-stars I lie; Cold winds are moaning past: Alas! the earth with grief will die, The great earth is aghast.

I look above—there dawns no face; Around—no footsteps come; No voice inhabits this great space; God knows, but keepeth dumb. I wake, and know that God is by, And more than dreams will give; And that the hearts that moan and die, Shall yet awake and live.



TO AURELIO SAFFI.

To God and man be simply true: Do as thou hast been wont to do: Or, Of the old more in the new: Mean all the same when said to you.

I love thee. Thou art calm and strong; Firm in the right, mild to the wrong; Thy heart, in every raging throng, A chamber shut for prayer and song.

Defeat thou know'st not, canst not know; Only thy aims so lofty go, They need as long to root and grow As any mountain swathed in snow.

Go on and prosper, holy friend. I, weak and ignorant, would lend A voice, thee, strong and wise, to send Prospering onward, without end.



SONNET.

To A.M.D.

Methinks I see thee, lying calm and low, Silent and dark within thy earthy bed; Thy mighty hands, in which I trusted, dead, Resting, with thy long arms, from work or blow; And the night-robe, around thy tall form, flow Down from the kingly face, and from the head, Save by its thick dark curls, uncovered— My brother, dear from childhood, lying so! Not often since thou went'st, I think of thee, (With inward cares and questionings oppressed); And yet, ere long, I seek thee in thy rest, And bring thee home my heart, as full, as free, As sure that thou wilt take me tenderly, As then when youth and nature made us blest.



A MEMORIAL OF AFRICA.

I.

Upon a rock, high on a mountain side, Thousands of feet above the lake-sea's lip, A rock in which old waters' rise and dip, Plunge and recoil, and backward eddying tide Had, age-long, worn, while races lived and died, Involved channels, where the sea-weed's drip Followed the ebb; and now earth-grasses sip Fresh dews from heaven, whereby on earth they bide— I sat and gazed southwards. A dry flow Of withering wind blew on my drooping strength From o'er the awful desert's burning length. Behind me piled, away and upward go Great sweeps of savage mountains—up, away, Where panthers roam, and snow gleams all the day.

II.

Ah, God! the world needs many hours to make; Nor hast thou ceased the making of it yet, But wilt be working on when Death hath set A new mound in some churchyard for my sake. On flow the centuries without a break. Uprise the mountains, ages without let. The mosses suck the rock's breast, rarely wet. Years more than past, the young earth yet will take. But in the dumbness of the rolling time, No veil of silence will encompass me— Thou wilt not once forget, and let me be: I easier think that thou, as I my rhyme, Wouldst rise, and with a tenderness sublime Unfold a world, that I, thy child, might see.



A GIFT.

My gift would find thee fast asleep, And arise a dream in thee; A violet sky o'er the roll and sweep Of a purple and pallid sea; And a crescent moon from my sky should creep In the golden dream to thee.

Thou shouldst lay thee down, and sadly list To the wail of our cold birth-time; And build thee a temple, glory-kissed, In the heart of the sunny clime; Its columns should rise in a music-mist, And its roofs in a spirit-rhyme.

Its pillars the solemn hills should bind 'Neath arches of starry deeps; Its floor the earth all veined and lined; Its organ the ocean-sweeps; And, swung in the hands of the grey-robed wind, Its censers the blossom-heaps.

And 'tis almost done; for in this my rhyme, Thanks to thy mirror-soul, Thou wilt see the mountains, and hear the chime Of the waters after the roll; And the stars of my sky thy sky will climb, And with heaven roof in the whole.



THE MAN OF SONGS.

"Thou wanderest in the land of dreams, O man of many songs; To thee the actual only seems— No realm to thee belongs."

"Seest thou those mountains in the east, O man of ready aim?" "'T is only vapours that thou seest, In mountain form and name."

"Nay, nay, I know them all too well, Each ridge, and peak, and dome; In that cloud-land, in one high dell, Nesteth my little home."



BETTER THINGS.

Better to smell a violet, Than sip the careless wine; Better to list one music tone, Than watch the jewels' shine.

Better to have the love of one, Than smiles like morning dew; Better to have a living seed Than flowers of every hue.

Better to feel a love within, Than be lovely to the sight; Better a homely tenderness Than beauty's wild delight.

Better to love than be beloved. Though lonely all the day; Better the fountain in the heart, Than the fountain by the way.

Better a feeble love to God, Than for woman's love to pine; Better to have the making God Than the woman made divine.

Better be fed by mother's hand, Than eat alone at will; Better to trust in God, than say: My goods my storehouse fill.

Better to be a little wise Than learned overmuch; Better than high are lowly thoughts, For truthful thoughts are such.

Better than thrill a listening crowd, Sit at a wise man's feet; But better teach a child, than toil To make thyself complete.

Better to walk the realm unseen, Than watch the hour's event; Better the smile of God alway, Than the voice of men's consent.

Better to have a quiet grief Than a tumultuous joy; Better than manhood, age's face, If the heart be of a boy.

Better the thanks of one dear heart, Than a nation's voice of praise; Better the twilight ere the dawn, Than yesterday's mid-blaze.

Better a death when work is done, Than earth's most favoured birth; Better a child in God's great house Than the king of all the earth.



THE JOURNEY.

Hark, the rain is on my roof! Every sound drops through the dark On my soul with dull reproof, Like a half-extinguished spark. I! alas, how am I here, In the midnight and alone? Caught within a net of fear! All my dreams of beauty gone!

I will rise: I must go forth. Better face the hideous night, Better dare the unseen north, Than be still without the light! Black wind rushing round my brow, Sown with stinging points of rain! Place or time I know not now— I am here, and so is pain!

I will leave the sleeping street, Hie me forth on darker roads. Ah! I cannot stay my feet, Onward, onward, something goads. I will take the mountain path, Beard the storm within its den, Know the worst of this dim wrath, Vexing thus the souls of men.

Chasm 'neath chasm! rock piled on rock: Roots, and crumbling earth, and stones! Hark, the torrent's thundering shock! Hark, the swaying pine tree's groans! Ah, I faint, I fall, I die! Sink to nothingness away!— Lo, a streak upon the sky! Lo, the opening eye of day!

II.

Mountain heights that lift their snows O'er a valley green and low; And a winding path, that goes Guided by the river's flow; And a music rising ever, As of peace and low content, From the pebble-paven river As an odour upward sent.

And a sighing of the storm Far away amid the hills, Like the humming of a swarm That the summer forest fills; And a frequent fall of rain From a cloud with ragged weft; And a burst of wind amain From the mountain's sudden cleft.

Then a night that hath a moon, Staining all the cloudy white; Sinking with a soundless tune Deep into the spirit's night. Then a morning clear and soft, Amber on the purple hills; Warm high day of summer, oft Cooled by wandering windy rills.

Joy to travel thus along, With the universe around! I the centre of the throng; Every sight and every sound Speeding with its burden laden, Speeding homewards to my soul! Mine the eye the stars are made in! I the heart of all this whole!

III.

Hills retreat on either hand, Sinking down into the plain; Slowly through the level land Glides the river to the main. What is that before me, white, Gleaming through the dusky air? Dimmer in the gathering night; Still beheld, I know not where?

Is it but a chalky ridge, Bared by many a trodden mark? Or a river-spanning bridge, Miles away into the dark? Or the foremost leaping waves Of the everlasting sea, Where the Undivided laves Time with its eternity?

No, tis but an eye-made sight, In my brain a fancied gleam; Or a thousand things as white, Set in darkness, well might seem. There it wavers, shines, is gone; What it is I cannot tell; When the morning star hath shone, I shall see and know it well.

Onward, onward through the night! Matters it I cannot see? I am moving in a might, Dwelling in the dark and me. Up or down, or here or there, I can never be alone; My own being tells me where God is as the Father known.

IV.

Joy! O joy! the Eastern sea Answers to the Eastern sky; Wide and featured gloriously With swift billows bursting high. Nearer, nearer, oh! the sheen On a thousand waves at once! Oh! the changing crowding green! Oh my beating heart's response!

Down rejoicing to the strand, Where the sea-waves shore-ward lean, Curve their graceful heads, and stand Gleaming with ethereal green, Then in foam fall heavily— This is what I saw at night! Lo, a boat! I'll forth on thee, Dancing-floor for my delight.

From the bay, wind-winged, we glance; Sea-winds seize me by the hair! What a terrible expanse! How the ocean tumbles there! I am helpless here afloat, For the wild waves know not me; Gladly would I change my boat For the snow wings of the sea!

Look below. Each watery whirl Cast in beauty's living mould! Look above! Each feathery curl Faintly tinged with morning gold!— Oh, I tremble with the gush Of an everlasting youth! Love and fear together rush: I am free in God, the Truth!



PRAYER.

We doubt the word that tells us: Ask, And ye shall have your prayer; We turn our thoughts as to a task, With will constrained and rare.

And yet we have; these scanty prayers Yield gold without alloy: O God! but he that trusts and dares Must have a boundless joy.



REST.

When round the earth the Father's hands Have gently drawn the dark; Sent off the sun to fresher lands, And curtained in the lark; 'Tis sweet, all tired with glowing day, To fade with faded light; To lie once more, the old weary way, Upfolded in the night.

A mother o'er the couch may bend, And rose-leaf kisses heap: In soothing dreams with sleep they blend, Till even in dreams we sleep. And, if we wake while night is dumb, 'Tis sweet to turn and say, It is an hour ere dawning come, And I will sleep till day.

II.

There is a dearer, warmer bed, Where one all day may lie, Earth's bosom pillowing the head, And let the world go by. Instead of mother's love-lit eyes, The church's storied pane, All blank beneath cold starry skies, Or sounding in the rain.

The great world, shouting, forward fares: This chamber, hid from none, Hides safe from all, for no one cares For those whose work is done. Cheer thee, my heart, though tired and slow An unknown grassy place Somewhere on earth is waiting now To rest thee from thy race.

III.

There is a calmer than all calms, A quiet more deep than death: A folding in the Father's palms, A breathing in his breath; A rest made deeper by alarms And stormy sounds combined: The child within its mother's arms Sleeps sounder for the wind.

There needs no curtained bed to hide The world with all its wars, Nor grassy cover to divide From sun and moon and stars A window open to the skies, A sense of changeless life, With oft returning still surprise Repels the sounds of strife.

IV.

As one bestrides a wild scared horse Beneath a stormy moon, And still his heart, with quiet force, Beats on its own calm tune; So if my heart with trouble now Be throbbing in my breast, Thou art my deeper heart, and Thou, O God, dost ever rest.

When mighty sea-winds madly blow, And tear the scattered waves; As still as summer woods, below Lie darkling ocean caves: The wind of words may toss my heart, But what is that to me! 'Tis but a surface storm—Thou art My deep, still, resting sea.



TO A.J. SCOTT.

WITH THE FOLLOWING POEM.

I walked all night: the darkness did not yield. Around me fell a mist, a weary rain, Enduring long; till a faint dawn revealed

A temple's front, cloud-curtained on the plain. Closed were the lofty doors that led within; But by a wicket one might entrance gain.

O light, and awe, and silence! Entering in, The blackness and chaotic rain were lost In hopeful spaces. Then I heard a thin

Sweet sound of voices low, together tossed, As if they sought a harmony to find Which they knew once; but none of all that host

Could call the far-fled music back to mind. Loud voices, distance-low, wandered along The pillared paths, and up the arches twined

With sister-arches, rising, throng on throng, Up to the roof's dim distance. If sometimes Self-gathered voices made a burst of song,

Straightway I heard again but as the chimes Of many bells through Sabbath morning sent, Each its own tale to tell of heavenly climes.

Yet such the hope, one might be well content Here to be low, and lowly keep a door; For like Truth's herald, solemnly that went,

I heard thy voice, and humbly loved it more, Walking the word-sea to this ear of mine, Than any voice of power I heard before.

Yet as the harp may, tremulous, combine Low ghostlike sounds with organ's loudest tone, Let not my music fear to come to thine:

Thy heart, with organ-tempests of its own, Will hear Aeolian sighs from thin chords blown.



LIGHT.

First-born of the creating Voice! Minister of God's spirit, who wast sent To wait upon Him first, what time He went Moving about 'mid the tumultuous noise Of each unpiloted element Upon the face of the void formless deep! Thou who didst come unbodied and alone, Ere yet the sun was set his rule to keep, Or ever the moon shone, Or e'er the wandering star-flocks forth were driven! Thou garment of the Invisible, whose skirt Falleth on all things from the lofty heaven! Thou Comforter, be with me as thou wert When first I longed for words, to be A radiant garment for my thought, like thee.

We lay us down in sorrow, Wrapt in the old mantle of our mother Night; In vexing dreams we 'strive until the morrow; Grief lifts our eyelids up—and lo, the light! The sunlight on the wall! And visions rise Of shining leaves that make sweet melodies; Of wind-borne waves with thee upon their crests; Of rippled sands on which thou rainest down; Of quiet lakes that smooth for thee their breasts; Of clouds that show thy glory as their own. O joy! O joy! the visions are gone by, Light, gladness, motion, are Reality!

Thou art the god of earth. The skylark springs Far up to catch thy glory on his wings; And thou dost bless him first that highest soars. The bee comes forth to see thee; and the flowers Worship thee all day long, and through the skies Follow thy journey with their earnest eyes. River of life, thou pourest on the woods; And on thy waves float forth the wakening buds; The trees lean towards thee, and, in loving pain, Keep turning still to see thee yet again. And nothing in thine eyes is mean or low: Where'er thou art, on every side, All things are glorified; And where thou canst not come, there thou dost throw Beautiful shadows, made out of the Dark, That else were shapeless. Loving thou dost mark The sadness on men's faces, and dost seek To make all things around of hope and gladness speak.

And men have worshipped thee. The Persian, on his mountain-top, Kneeling doth wait until thy sun go up, God-like in his serenity. All-giving, and none-gifted, he draws near; And the wide earth waits till his face appear— Longs patient. And the herald glory leaps Along the ridges of the outlying clouds, Climbing the heights of all their towering steeps; And a quiet multitudinous laughter crowds The universal face, as, silently, Up cometh he, the never-closing eye. Symbol of Deity! men could not be Farthest from truth when they were kneeling unto thee.

Thou plaything of the child, When from the water's surface thou dost fall In mazy dance, ethereal motion wild, Like his own thoughts, upon the chamber wall; Or through the dust darting in long thin streams! How I have played with thee, and longed to climb On sloping ladders of thy moted beams! And how I loved thee falling from the moon! And most about the mellow harvest-time, When night had softly settled down, And thou from her didst flow, a sea of love. And then the stars, ah me! that flashed above And the ghost-stars that shimmered in the tide! While here and there mysterious earthly shining Came forth of windows from the hill and glen; Each ray of thine so wondrously entwining With household love and rest of weary men. And still I am a child, thank God! To see Thee streaming from a bit of broken glass, That else on the brown earth lay undescried, Is a high joy, a glorious thing to me, A spark that lights the light of joy within, A thought of Hope to Prophecy akin, That from my spirit fruitless will not pass.

Thou art the joy of Age: The sun is dear even when long shadows fall. Forth to the sunlight the old man doth crawl, Enlivened like the bird in his poor cage. Close by the door, no further, in his chair The old man sits; and sitteth there His soul within him, like a child that lies Half dreaming, with his half-shut eyes, At close of a long afternoon in summer; High ruins round him, ancient ruins, where The raven is almost the only comer; And there he broods in wonderment On the celestial glory sent Through the rough loopholes, on the golden bloom That waves above the cornice on the wall, Where lately dwelt the echoes of the room; And drinking in the yellow lights that lie Upon the ivy tapestry. So dreams the old man's soul, that is not old, But sleepy 'mid the ruins that infold.

What meanings various thou callest forth Upon the face of the still passive earth! Even like a lord of music bent Over his instrument; Whether, at hour of sovereign noon, Infinite cataracts sheet silent down; Or a strange yellow radiance slanting pass Betwixt long shadows o'er the meadow grass, When from the lower edge of a dark cloud The sun at eve his blessing head hath bowed; Whether the moon lift up her shining shield, High on the peak of a cloud-hill revealed; Or crescent, low, wandering sun-dazed away, Unconscious of her own star-mingled ray, Her still face seeming more to think than see, She makes the pale world lie in dreams of thee. Each hour of day, each hour of thoughtful night, Hath a new poem in the changing light.

Of highest unity the sole emblem! In whom all colours that our eyes can see In rainbow, moonbow, or in opal gem, Unite in living oneness, purity, And operative power! whose every part Is beauty to the eyes, and truth unto the heart! Outspread in yellow sands, blue sea and air, Green growing corn, and scarlet poppies there;— Regent of colours, thou, the undefiled! Whether in dark eyes of the laughing child, Or in the vast white cloud that floats away, Bearing upon its breast a brown moon-ray; The universal painter, who dost fling Thy overflowing skill on everything! The thousand hues and shades upon the flowers, Are all the pastime of thy leisure hours; And all the gems and ores that hidden be, Are dead till they are looked upon by thee.

Everywhere, Thou art shining through the air; Every atom from another Takes thee, gives thee to his brother; Continually, Thou art falling on the sea, Bathing the deep woods down below, Making the sea-flowers bud and blow; Silently, Thou art working ardently, Bringing from the night of nought Into being and to thought; Influences Every beam of thine dispenses, Powerful, varied, reaching far, Differing in every star. Not an iron rod can lie In circle of thy beamy eye, But thy look doth change it so That it cannot choose but show Thou, the worker, hast been there; Yea, sometimes, on substance rare, Thou dost leave thy ghostly mark In what men do call the dark. Doer, shower, mighty teacher! Truth-in-beauty's silent preacher! Universal something sent To shadow forth the Excellent!

When the firstborn affections, Those winged seekers of the world within, That search about in all directions, Some bright thing for themselves to win, Through unmarked forest-paths, and gathering fogs, And stony plains, and treacherous bogs, Long, long, have followed faces fair, Fair faces without souls, that vanished into air; And darkness is around them and above, Desolate, with nought to love; And through the gloom on every side, Strange dismal forms are dim descried; And the air is as the breath From the lips of void-eyed Death; And the knees are bowed in prayer To the Stronger than Despair; Then the ever-lifted cry, Give us light, or we shall die, Cometh to the Father's ears, And He listens, and He hears: And when men lift up their eyes, Lo, Truth slow dawning in the skies! 'Tis as if the sun gleamed forth Through the storm-clouds of the north. And when men would name this Truth, Giver of gladness and of youth, They can call it nought but Light— 'Tis the morning, 'twas the night. Yea, every thought of hope outspread On the mountain's misty head, Is a fresh aurora, sent Through the spirit's firmament, Telling, through the vapours dun, Of the coming, coming sun.

All things most excellent Are likened unto thee, excellent thing! Yea, He who from the Father forth was sent, Came the true Light, light to our hearts to bring; The Word of God, the telling of His thought; The Light of God, the making-visible; The far-transcending glory brought In human form with man to dwell; The dazzling gone; the power not less To show, irradiate, and bless; The gathering of the primal rays divine, Informing chaos, to a pure sunshine!

Death, darkness, nothingness! Life, light, and blessedness!

* * * * *

Dull horrid pools no motion making; No bubble on the surface breaking; Through the dead heavy air, no sound; Asleep and moveless on the marshy ground.

* * * * *

Rushing winds and snow-like drift, Forceful, formless, fierce, and swift; Hair-like vapours madly riven; Waters smitten into dust; Lightning through the turmoil driven, Aimless, useless, yet it must.

* * * * *

Gentle winds through forests calling; Big waves on the sea-shore falling; Bright birds through the thick leaves glancing; Light boats on the big waves dancing; Children in the clear pool laving; Mountain streams glad music giving; Yellow corn and green grass waving; Long-haired, bright-eyed maidens living; Light on all things, even as now— God, our Father, it is Thou! Light, O Radiant! thou didst come abroad, To mediate 'twixt our ignorance and God; Forming ever without form; Showing, but thyself unseen; Pouring stillness on the storm; Making life where death had been! If thou, Light, didst cease to be, Death and Chaos soon were out, Weltering o'er the slimy sea, Riding on the whirlwind's rout; And if God did cease to be, O Beloved! where were we?

Father of Lights, pure and unspeakable, On whom no changing shadow ever fell! Thy light we know not, are content to see; And shall we doubt because we know not Thee? Or, when thy wisdom cannot be expressed, Fear lest dark vapours dwell within thy breast? Nay, nay, ye shadows on our souls descending! Ye bear good witness to the light on high, Sad shades of something 'twixt us and the sky! And this word, known and unknown radiant blending, Shall make us rest, like children in the night,— Word infinite in meaning: God is Light. We walk in mystery all the shining day Of light unfathomed that bestows our seeing, Unknown its source, unknown its ebb and flow: Thy living light's eternal fountain-play In ceaseless rainbow pulse bestows our being— Its motions, whence or whither, who shall know? O Light, if I had said all I could say Of thy essential glory and thy might, Something within my heart unsaid yet lay, And there for lack of words unsaid must stay: For God is Light.



TO A.J. SCOTT.

Thus, once, long since, the daring of my youth Drew nigh thy greatness with a little thing; And thou didst take me in: thy home of truth

Has domed me since, a heaven of sheltering, Uplighted by the tenderness and grace Which round thy absolute friendship ever fling

A radiant atmosphere. Turn not thy face From that small part of earnest thanks, I pray, Which, spoken, leaves much more in speechless case.

I saw thee as a strong man on his way! Up the great peaks: I know thee stronger still; Thy intellect unrivalled in its sway,

Upheld and ordered by a regnant will; While Wisdom, seer and priest of holy Fate, Searches all truths, its prophecy to fill:

Yet, O my friend, throned in thy heart so great, High Love is queen, and hath no equal mate.

May, 1857.



WERE I A SKILFUL PAINTER.

Were I a skilful painter, My pencil, not my pen, Should try to teach thee hope and fear; And who should blame me then? Fear of the tide-like darkness That followeth close behind, And hope to make thee journey on In the journey of the mind.

Were I a skilful painter, What should my painting be? A tiny spring-bud peeping forth From a withered wintry tree. The warm blue sky of summer Above the mountain snow, Whence water in an infant stream, Is trying how to flow.

The dim light of a beacon Upon a stormy sea, Where wild waves, ruled by wilder winds, Yet call themselves the free. One sunbeam faintly gleaming Athwart a sullen cloud, Like dawning peace upon a brow In angry weeping bowed.

Morn climbing o'er the mountain, While the vale is full of night, And a wanderer, looking for the east, Rejoicing in the sight. A taper burning dimly Amid the dawning grey, And a maiden lifting up her head, And lo, the coming day!

And thus, were I a painter, My pencil, not my pen, Should try to teach thee hope and fear; And who should blame me then? Fear of the tide-like darkness That followeth close behind, And hope to make thee journey on In the journey of the mind.



IF I WERE A MONK, AND THOU WERT A NUN.

If I were a monk, and thou wert a nun, Pacing it wearily, wearily, From chapel to cell till day were done, Wearily, wearily, Oh! how would it be with these hearts of ours, That need the sunshine, and smiles, and flowers?

To prayer, to prayer, at the matins' call, Morning foul or fair; Such prayer as from lifeless lips may fall— Words, but hardly prayer; Vainly trying the thoughts to raise, Which, in the sunshine, would burst in praise.

Thou, in the glory of cloudless noon, The God revealing, Turning thy face from the boundless boon, Painfully kneeling; Or in thy chamber's still solitude, Bending thy head o'er the legend rude.

I, in a cool and lonely nook, Gloomily, gloomily, Poring over some musty book, Thoughtfully, thoughtfully; Or on the parchment margin unrolled, Painting quaint pictures in purple and gold.

Perchance in slow procession to meet, Wearily, wearily, In an antique, narrow, high-gabled street, Wearily, wearily; Thy dark eyes lifted to mine, and then Heavily sinking to earth again.

Sunshine and air! warmness and spring! Merrily, merrily! Back to its cell each weary thing, Wearily, wearily! And the heart so withered, and dry, and old, Most at home in the cloister cold.

Thou on thy knees at the vespers' call, Wearily, wearily; I looking up on the darkening wall, Wearily, wearily; The chime so sweet to the boat at sea, Listless and dead to thee and me!

Then to the lone couch at death of day, Wearily, wearily; Rising at midnight again to pray, Wearily, wearily; And if through the dark those eyes looked in, Sending them far as a thought of sin.

And then, when thy spirit was passing away, Dreamily, dreamily; The earth-born dwelling returning to clay, Sleepily, sleepily; Over thee held the crucified Best, But no warm face to thy cold cheek pressed.

And when my spirit was passing away, Dreamily, dreamily; The grey head lying 'mong ashes grey, Sleepily, sleepily; No hovering angel-woman above, Waiting to clasp me in deathless love.

But now, beloved, thy hand in mine, Peacefully, peacefully; My arm around thee, my lips on thine, Lovingly, lovingly,— Oh! is not a better thing to us given Than wearily going alone to heaven?



BLESSED ARE THE MEEK, FOR THEY SHALL INHERIT THE EARTH.

A quiet heart, submissive, meek, Father do thou bestow; Which more than granted will not seek To have, or give, or know.

Each green hill then will hold its gift Forth to my joying eyes; The mountains blue will then uplift My spirit to the skies.

The falling water then will sound As if for me alone; Nay, will not blessing more abound That many hear its tone?

The trees their murmuring forth will send, The birds send forth their song; The waving grass its tribute lend, Sweet music to prolong.

The water-lily's shining cup, The trumpet of the bee, The thousand odours floating up, The many-shaded sea;

The rising sun's imprinted tread Upon the eastward waves; The gold and blue clouds over head; The weed from far sea-caves;

All lovely things from south to north, All harmonies that be, Each will its soul of joy send forth To enter into me.

And thus the wide earth I shall hold, A perfect gift of thine; Richer by these, a thousandfold, Than if broad lands were mine.



THE HILLS.

Behind my father's house there lies A little grassy brae, Whose face my childhood's busy feet Ran often up in play, Whence on the chimneys I looked down In wonderment alway.

Around the house, where'er I turned, Great hills closed up the view; The town 'midst their converging roots Was clasped by rivers two; From one hill to another sprang The sky's great arch of blue.

Oh! how I loved to climb their sides, And in the heather lie; The bridle on my arm did hold The pony feeding by; Beneath, the silvery streams; above, The white clouds in the sky.

And now, in wandering about, Whene'er I see a hill, A childish feeling of delight Springs in my bosom still; And longings for the high unknown Follow and flow and fill.

For I am always climbing hills, And ever passing on, Hoping on some high mountain peak To find my Father's throne; For hitherto I've only found His footsteps in the stone.

And in my wanderings I have met A spirit child like me, Who laid a trusting hand in mine, So fearlessly and free, That so together we have gone, Climbing continually.

Upfolded in a spirit bud, The child appeared in space, Not born amid the silent hills, But in a busy place; And yet in every hill we see A strange, familiar face.

For they are near our common home; And so in trust we go, Climbing and climbing on and on, Whither we do not know; Not waiting for the mournful dark, But for the dawning slow.

Clasp my hand closer yet, my child,— A long way we have come! Clasp my hand closer yet, my child,— For we have far to roam, Climbing and climbing, till we reach Our Heavenly Father's home.



I KNOW WHAT BEAUTY IS.

I know what beauty is, for Thou Hast set the world within my heart; Its glory from me will not part; I never loved it more than now.

I know the Sabbath afternoon: The light lies sleeping on the graves; Against the sky the poplar waves; The river plays a Sabbath tune.

Ah, know I not the spring's snow-bell? The summer woods at close of even? Autumn, when earth dies into heaven, And winter's storms, I know them well.

I know the rapture music brings, The power that dwells in ordered tones, A living voice that loves and moans, And speaks unutterable things.

Consenting beauties in a whole; The living eye, the imperial head, The gait of inward music bred, The woman form, a radiant soul.

And splendours all unspoken bide Within the ken of spirit's eye; And many a glory saileth by, Borne on the Godhead's living tide.

But I leave all, thou man of woe! Put off my shoes, and come to Thee; Thou art most beautiful to me; More wonderful than all I know.

As child forsakes his favourite toy, His sisters' sport, his wild bird's nest; And climbing to his mother's breast, Enjoys yet more his former joy—

I lose to find. On forehead wide The jewels tenfold light afford: So, gathered round thy glory, Lord, All beauty else is glorified.



I WOULD I WERE A CHILD.

I would I were a child, That I might look, and laugh, and say, My Father! And follow Thee with running feet, or rather Be led thus through the wild.

How I would hold thy hand! My glad eyes often to thy glory lifting, Which casts all beauteous shadows, ever shifting, Over this sea and land.

If a dark thing came near, I would but creep within thy mantle's folding, Shut my eyes close, thy hand yet faster holding, And so forget my fear.

O soul, O soul, rejoice! Thou art God's child indeed, for all thy sinning; A trembling child, yet his, and worth the winning With gentle eyes and voice.

The words like echoes flow. They are too good; mine I can call them never; Such water drinking once, I should feel ever As I had drunk but now.

And yet He said it so; 'Twas He who taught our child-lips to say, Father! Like the poor youth He told of, that did gather His goods to him, and go.

Ah! Thou dost lead me, God; But it is dark; no stars; the way is dreary; Almost I sleep, I am so very weary Upon this rough hill-road.

Almost! Nay, I do sleep. There is no darkness save in this my dreaming; Thy Fatherhood above, around, is beaming; Thy hand my hand doth keep.

This torpor one sun-gleam Would break. My soul hath wandered into sleeping; Dream-shades oppress; I call to Thee with weeping, Wake me from this my dream.

And as a man doth say, Lo! I do dream, yet trembleth as he dreameth; While dim and dream-like his true history seemeth, Lost in the perished day;

(For heavy, heavy night Long hours denies the day) so this dull sorrow Upon my heart, but half believes a morrow Will ever bring thy light.

God, art Thou in the room? Come near my bed; oh! draw aside the curtain; A child's heart would say Father, were it certain That it did not presume.

But if this dreary bond I may not break, help Thou thy helpless sleeper; Resting in Thee, my sleep will sink the deeper, All evil dreams beyond.

Father! I dare at length. My childhood, thy gift, all my claim in speaking; Sinful, yet hoping, I to Thee come, seeking Thy tenderness, my strength.



THE LOST SOUL.

Brothers, look there!

What! see ye nothing yet? Knit your eyebrows close, and stare; Send your souls forth in the gaze, As my finger-point is set, Through the thick of the foggy air. Beyond the air, you see the dark; (For the darkness hedges still our ways;) And beyond the dark, oh, lives away! Dim and far down, surely you mark A huge world-heap of withered years Dropt from the boughs of eternity? See ye not something lying there, Shapeless as a dumb despair, Yet a something that spirits can recognise With the vision dwelling in their eyes? It hath the form of a man! As a huge moss-rock in a valley green, When the light to freeze began, Thickening with crystals of dark between, Might look like a sleeping man. What think ye it, brothers? I know it well. I know by your eyes ye see it—tell.

'Tis a poor lost soul, alack! It was alive some ages back; One that had wings and might have had eyes I think I have heard that he wrote a book; But he gathered his life up into a nook, And perished amid his own mysteries, Which choked him, because he had not faith, But was proud in the midst of sayings dark Which God had charactered on his walls; And the light which burned up at intervals, To be spent in reading what God saith, He lazily trimmed it to a spark, And then it went out, and his soul was dark.

Is there aught between thee and me, Soul, that art lying there? Is any life yet left in thee, So that thou couldst but spare A word to reveal the mystery Of the banished from light and air?

Alas, O soul! thou wert once As the soul that cries to thee! Thou hadst thy place in the mystic dance From the doors of the far eternity, Issuing still with feet that glance To the music of the free!

Alas! O soul, to think That thou wert made like me! With a heart for love, and a thirst to drink From the wells that feed the sea! And with hands of truth to have been a link 'Twixt mine and the parent knee; And with eyes to pierce to the further brink Of things I cannot see!

Alas, alas, my brother! To thee my heart is drawn: My soul had been such another, In the dark amidst the dawn! As a child in the eyes of its mother Dead on the flowery lawn!

I mourn for thee, poor friend! A spring from a cliff did drop: To drink by the wayside God would bend, And He found thee a broken cup! He threw thee aside, His way to wend Further and higher up.

Alack! sad soul, alack! As if I lay in thy grave, I feel the Infinite sucking back The individual life it gave. Thy spring died to a pool, deep, black, Which the sun from its pit did lave.

Thou might'st have been one of us, Cleaving the storm and fire; Aspiring through faith to the glorious, Higher and ever higher; Till the world of storms look tremulous, Far down, like a smitten lyre!

A hundred years! he might Have darted through the gloom, Like that swift angel that crossed our flight Where the thunder-cloud did loom, From his upcast pinions flashing the light Of some inward word or doom.

It heareth not, brothers, the terrible thing! Sounds no sense to its ear will bring. Hath God forgotten it, alas! Lost in eternity's lumber room? Will the wave of his Spirit never pass Over it through the insensate gloom? It lies alone in its lifeless world, As a frozen bud on the earth lies curled; Sightless and soundless, without a cry, On the flat of its own vacuity.

Up, brothers, up! for a storm is nigh; We will smite the wing up the steepest sky; Through the rushing air We will climb the stair That to heaven from the vaults doth leap; We will measure its height By the strokes of our flight, Its span by the tempest's sweep. What matter the hail or the clashing winds! We know by the tempest we do not lie Dead in the pits of eternity. Brothers, let us be strong in our minds, Lest the storm should beat us back, Or the treacherous calm sink from beneath our wings, And lower us gently from our track To the depths of forgotten things. Up, brothers, up! 'tis the storm or we! 'Tis the storm or God for the victory!



A DREAM WITHIN A DREAM.

THE OUTER DREAM.

Young, as the day's first-born Titanic brood, Lifting their foreheads jubilant to heaven, Rose the great mountains on my opening dream. And yet the aged peace of countless years Reposed on every crag and precipice Outfacing ruggedly the storms that swept Far overhead the sheltered furrow-vales; Which smiled abroad in green as the clouds broke Drifting adown the tide of the wind-waves, Till shattered on the mountain rocks. Oh! still, And cold and hard to look upon, like men Who do stern deeds in times of turbulence, Quell the hail-rattle with their granite brows, And let the thunder burst and pass away— They too did gather round sky-dwelling peaks The trailing garments of the travelling sun, Which he had lifted from his ocean-bed, And swept along his road. They rent them down In scattering showers upon the trees and grass, In noontide rains with heavy ringing drops, Or in still twilight moisture tenderly. And from their sides were born the gladsome streams; Some creeping gently out in tiny springs, As they were just created, scarce a foot From the hill's surface, in the matted roots Of plants, whose green betrays the secret birth; Some hurrying forth from caverns deep and dark, Upfilling to the brim a basin huge, Thick covered with soft moss, greening the wave, As evermore it welled over the edge Upon the rocks below in boiling heaps; Fit basin for a demi-god at morn, Waking amid the crags, to lave his limbs, Then stride, Hyperion, o'er sun-paven peaks. And down the hill-side sped the fresh-born wave, Now hid from sight in arched caverns cold, Now arrowing slantwise down the terraced steep, Now springing like a child from step to step Of the rough water-stair; until it found A deep-hewn passage for its slower course, Guiding it down to lowliness and rest, Betwixt wet walls of darkness, darker yet With pine trees lining all their sides like hair, Or as their own straight needles clothe their boughs; Until at length in broader light it ran, With more articulate sounds amid the stones, In the slight shadow of the maiden birch, And the stream-loving willow; and ere long Great blossoming trees dropt flowers upon its breast; Chiefly the crimson-spotted, cream-white flowers, Heaped up in cones amid cone-drooping leaves; Green hanging leaf-cones, towering white flower-cones Upon the great cone-fashioned chestnut tree. Each made a tiny ripple where it fell, The trembling pleasure of the smiling wave, Which bore it then, in slow funereal course, Down to the outspread sunny sheen, where lies The lake uplooking to the far-off snow, Its mother still, though now so far away; Feeding it still with long descending lines Of shining, speeding streams, that gather peace In journeying to the rest of that still lake Now lying sleepy in the warm red sun, Which says its dear goodnight, and goeth down.

All pale, and withered, and disconsolate, The moon is looking on impatiently; For 'twixt the shining tent-roof of the day, And the sun-deluged lake, for mirror-floor, Her thin pale lamping is too sadly grey To shoot, in silver-barbed, white-plumed arrows, Cold maiden splendours on the flashing fish: Wait for thy empire Night, day-weary moon! And thou shalt lord it in one realm at least, Where two souls walk a single Paradise. Take to thee courage, for the sun is gone; His praisers, the glad birds, have hid their heads; Long, ghost-like forms of trees lie on the grass; All things are clothed in an obscuring light, Fusing their outline in a dreamy mass; Some faint, dim shadows from thy beauty fall On the clear lake which melts them half away— Shine faster, stronger, O reviving moon! Burn up, O lamp of Earth, hung high in Heaven!

And through a warm thin summer mist she shines, A silver setting to the diamond stars; And the dark boat cleaveth a glittering way, Where the one steady beauty of the moon Makes many changing beauties on the wave Broken by jewel-dropping oars, which drive The boat, as human impulses the soul; While, like the sovereign will, the helm's firm law Directs the whither of the onward force. At length midway he leaves the swaying oars Half floating in the blue gulf underneath, And on a load of gathered flowers reclines, Leaving the boat to any air that blows, His soul to any pulse from the unseen heart. Straight from the helm a white hand gleaming flits, And settles on his face, and nestles there, Pale, night-belated butterfly, to sleep. For on her knees his head lies satisfied; And upward, downward, dark eyes look and rest, Finding their home in likeness. Lifting then Her hair upon her white arm heavily, The overflowing of her beauteousness, Her hand that cannot trespass, singles out Some of the curls that stray across her lap; And mingling dark locks in the pallid light, She asks him which is darker of the twain, Which his, which hers, and laugheth like a lute. But now her hair, an unvexed cataract, Falls dark and heavy round his upturned face, And with a heaven shuts out the shallow sky, A heaven profound, the home of two black stars; Till, tired with gazing, face to face they lie, Suspended, with closed eyelids, in the night; Their bodies bathed in conscious sleepiness, While o'er their souls creeps every rippling breath Of the night-gambols of the moth-winged wind, Flitting a handbreadth, folding up its wings, Its dreamy wings, then spreading them anew, And with an unfelt gliding, like the years, Wafting them to a water-lily bed, Whose shield-like leaves and chalice-bearing arms Hold back the boat from the slow-sloping shore, Far as a child might shoot with his toy-bow. There the long drooping grass drooped to the wave; And, ever as the moth-wind lit thereon, A small-leafed tree, whose roots were always cool, Dipped one low bow, with many sister-leaves, Upon the water's face with a low plash, Lifting and dipping yet and yet again; And aye the water-drops rained from the leaves, With music-laughter as they found their home. And from the woods came blossom-fragrance, faint, Or full, like rising, falling harmonies; Luxuriance of life, which overflows In scents ethereal on the ocean air; Each breathing on the rest the blessedness Of its peculiar being, filled with good Till its cup runneth over with delight: They drank the mingled odours as they lay, The air in which the sensuous being breathes, Till summer-sleep fell on their hearts and eyes.

The night was mild and innocent of ill; 'Twas but a sleeping day that breathed low, And babbled in its sleep. The moon at length Grew sleepy too. Her level glances crept Through sleeping branches to their curtained eyes, As down the steep bank of the west she slid, Slowly and slowly

But alas! alas! The awful time 'twixt moondown and sunrise! It is a ghostly time. A low thick fog Steamed up and swathed the trees, and overwhelmed The floating couch with pall on pall of grey. The sky was desolate, dull, and meaningless. The blazing hues of the last sunset eve, And the pale magic moonshine that had made The common, strange,—all were swept clean away; The earth around, the great sky over, were Like a deserted theatre, tomb-dumb; The lights long dead; the first sick grey of morn Oozing through rents in the slow-mouldering curtain; The sweet sounds fled away for evermore; Nought left, except a creeping chill, a sense As if dead deeds were strown upon the stage, As if dead bodies simulated life, And spoke dead words without informing thought. A horror, as of power without a soul, Dark, undefined, and mighty unto ill, Jarred through the earth and through the vault-like air.

And on the sleepers fell a wondrous dream, That dured till sunrise, filling all the cells Remotest of the throbbing heart and brain. And as I watched them, ever and anon The quivering limb and half-unclosed eye Witnessed of torture scarce endured, and yet Endured; for still the dream had mastery, And held them in a helplessness supine; Till, by degrees, the labouring breath grew calm, Save frequent murmured sighs; and o'er each face Stole radiant sadness, and a hopeful grief; And the convulsive motion passed away.

Upon their faces, reading them, I gazed,— Reading them earnestly, like wondrous book,— When suddenly the vapours of the dream Rose and enveloped me, and through my soul Passed with possession; will fell fast asleep. And through the portals of the spirit-land, Upon whose frontiers time and space grow dumb, Quenched like a cloud that all the roaring wind Drives not beyond the mountain top, I went, And entering, beheld them in their dream. Their world inwrapt me for the time as mine, And what befel them there, I saw, and tell.

THE INNER DREAM.

It was a drizzly morning where I stood. The cloud had sunk, and filled with fold on fold The chimneyed city; so the smoke rose not, But spread diluted in the cloud, and fell A black precipitate on miry streets, Where dim grey faces vision-like went by, But half-awake, half satisfied with sleep.

Slave engines had begun their ceaseless growl Of labour. Iron bands and huge stone blocks That held them to their task, strained, shook, until The city trembled. Those pale-visaged forms Were hastening on to feed their groaning strength With labour to the full.

Look! there they come, Poor amid poverty; she with her gown Drawn over her meek head; he trying much, But fruitless half, to shield her from the rain. They enter the wide gates, amid the jar, And clash, and shudder of the awful force That, conquering force, still vibrates on, as if With an excess of power, hungry for work. With differing strength to different tasks they part, To be the soul of knowledge unto strength; For man has eked his body out with wheels, And cranks, and belts, and levers, pinions, screws— One body all, pervaded still with life From man the maker's will. 'Mid keen-eyed men, Thin featured and exact, his part is found; Hers where the dusk air shines with lustrous eyes.

And there they laboured through the murky day, Whose air was livid mist, their only breath; Foul floating dust of swift revolving wheels And feathery spoil of fast contorted threads Making a sultry chaos in the sun. Until at length slow swelled the welcome dark, A dull Lethean heaving tide of death, Up from the caves of Night to make an end; And filling every corner of the place, Choked in its waves the clanking of the looms. And Earth put on her sleeping dress, and took Her children home into its bosom-folds, And nursed them as a mother-ghost might sit With her neglected darlings in the dark. So with dim satisfaction in their hearts, Though with tired feet and aching head, they went, Parting the clinging fog to find their home. It was a dreary place. Unfinished walls, Far drearier than ruins overspread With long-worn sweet forgetfulness, amidst Earth-heaps and bricks, rain-pools and ugliness, Rose up around, banishing further yet The Earth, with its spring-time, young-mother smile, From children's eyes that had forgot to play. But though the house was dull and wrapt in fog, It yet awoke to life, yea, cheerfulness, When darkness oped a fire-eye in the grate, And the dim candle's smoky flame revealed A room which could not be all desolate, Being a temple, proven by the signs Seen in the ancient place. For here was light; And blazing fire with darkness on its skirts; Bread; and pure water, ready to make clean, Beside a chest of holiday attire; And in the twilight edges of the light, A book scarce seen; and for the wondrous veil, Those human forms, behind which lay concealed The Holy of Holies, God's own secret place, The lowly human heart wherein He dwells. And by the table-altar they sat down To eat their Eucharist, God feeding them: Their food was Love, made visible in Form— Incarnate Love in food. For he to whom A common meal can be no Eucharist, Who thanks for food and strength, not for the love That made cold water for its blessedness, And wine for gladness' sake, has yet to learn The heart-delight of inmost thankfulness For innermost reception.

Then they sat Resting with silence, the soul's inward sleep, Which feedeth it with strength; till gradually They grew aware of light, that overcame The light within, and through the dingy blind, Cast from the window-frame, two shadow-glooms That made a cross of darkness on the white, Dark messenger of light itself unseen. The woman rose, and half she put aside The veil that hid the whole of glorious night; And lo! a wind had mowed the earth-sprung fog; And lo! on high the white exultant moon From clear blue window curtained all with white, Greeted them, at their shadowy window low, With quiet smile; for two things made her glad: One that she saw the glory of the sun; For while the earth lay all athirst for light, She drank the fountain-waves. The other joy; Sprung from herself: she fought the darkness well, Thinning the great cone-shadow of the earth, Paling its ebon hue with radiant showers Upon its sloping side. The woman said, With hopeful look: "To-morrow will be bright With sunshine for our holiday—to-morrow— Think! we shall see the green fields in the sun." So with hearts hoping for a simple joy, Yet high withal, being no less than the sun, They laid them down in nightly death that waits Patiently for the day.

That sun was high When they awoke at length. The moon, low down, Had almost vanished, clothed upon with light; And night was swallowed up of day. In haste, Chiding their weariness that leagued with sleep, They, having clothed themselves in clean attire, By the low door, stooping with priestly hearts, Entered God's vision-room, his wonder-world.

One side the street, the windows all were moons To light the other that in shadow lay. The path was almost dry; the wind asleep. And down the sunny side a woman came In a red cloak that made the whole street glad— Fit clothing, though she was so feeble and old; For when they stopped and asked her how she fared, She said with cheerful words, and smile that owed None of its sweetness to an ivory lining: "I'm always better in the open air." "Dear heart!" said they, "how freely she will breathe In the open air of heaven!" She stood in the morn Like a belated autumn-flower in spring, Dazed by the rushing of the new-born life Up the earth's winding cavern-stairs to see Through window-buds the calling, waking sun. Or as in dreams we meet the ghost of one Beloved in youth, who walketh with few words, And they are of the past. Yet, joy to her! She too from earthy grave was climbing up Unto the spirit-windows high and far, She the new life for a celestial spring, Answering the light that shineth evermore.

With hopeful sadness thus they passed along Dissolving streets towards the smiles of spring, Of which green visions gleamed and glided by, Across far-narrowing avenues of brick: The ripples only of her laughter float Through the low winding caverns of the town; Yet not a stone upon the paven street, But shareth in the impulse of her joy, Heaven's life that thrills anew through the outworn earth; Descending like the angel that did stir Bethesda's pool, and made the sleepy wave Pulse with quick healing through the withered limb, In joyous pangs. By an unfinished street, Forth came they on a wide and level space; Green fields lay side by side, and hedgerow trees Stood here and there as waiting for some good. But no calm river meditated through The weary flat to the less level sea; No forest trees on pillared stems and boughs Bent in great Gothic arches, bore aloft A cloudy temple-roof of tremulous leaves; No clear line where the kissing lips of sky And earth meet undulating, but a haze That hides—oh, if it hid wild waves! alas! It hides but fields, it hides but fields and trees! Save eastward, where a few hills, far away, Came forth in the sun, or drew back when the clouds Went over them, dissolving them in shade. But the life-robe of earth was beautiful, As all most common things are loveliest; A forest of green waving fairy trees, That carpeted the earth for lowly feet, Bending unto their tread, lowliest of all Earth's lowly children born for ministering Unto the heavenly stranger, stately man; That he, by subtle service from all kinds, From every breeze and every bounding wave, From night-sky cavernous with heaps of storm, And from the hill rejoicing in the sun, Might grow a humble, lowly child of God; Lowly, as knowing his high parentage; Humble, because all beauties wait on him, Like lady-servants ministering for love. And he that hath not rock, and hill, and stream, Must learn to look for other beauty near; To know the face of ocean solitudes, The darkness dashed with glory, and the shades Wind-fretted, and the mingled tints upthrown From shallow bed, or raining from the sky. And he that hath not ocean, and dwells low, Not hill-befriended, if his eyes have ceased To drink enjoyment from the billowy grass, And from the road-side flower (like one who dwells With homely features round him every day, And so takes refuge in the loving eyes Which are their heaven, the dwelling-place of light), Must straightway lift his eyes unto the heavens, Like God's great palette, where His artist hand Never can strike the brush, but beauty wakes; Vast sweepy comet-curves, that net the soul In pleasure; endless sky-stairs; patient clouds, White till they blush at the sun's goodnight kiss; And filmy pallours, and great mountain crags. But beyond all, absorbing all the rest, Lies the great heaven, the expression of deep space, Foreshortened to a vaulted dome of blue; The Infinite, crowded in a single glance, Where yet the eye descends depth within depth; Like mystery of Truth, clothed in high form, Evasive, spiritual, no limiting, But something that denies an end, and yet Can be beheld by wondering human eyes. There looking up, one well may feel how vain To search for God in this vast wilderness! For over him would arch void depth for ever; Nor ever would he find a God or Heaven, Though lifting wings were his to soar abroad Through boundless heights of space; or eyes to dive To microscopic depths: he would come back, And say, There is no God; and sit and weep; Till in his heart a child's voice woke and cried, Father! my Father! Then the face of God Breaks forth with eyes, everywhere, suddenly And not a space of blue, nor floating cloud, Nor grassy vale, nor distant purple height, But, trembling with a presence all divine, Says, Here I am, my child.

Gazing awhile, They let the lesson of the sky sink deep Into their hearts; withdrawing then their eyes, They knew the Earth again. And as they went, Oft in the changing heavens, those distant hills Shone clear upon the horizon. Then awoke A strange and unknown longing in their souls, As if for something loved in years gone by, And vanished in its beauty and its love So long, that it retained no name or form, And lay on childhood's verge, all but forgot, Wrapt in the enchanted rose-mists of that land: As if amidst those hills were wooded dells, Summer, and gentle winds, and odours free, Deep sleeping waters, gorgeous flowers, and birds, Pure winged throats. But here, all things around Were in their spring. The very light that lay Upon the grass seemed new-born like the grass, Sprung with it from the earth. The very stones Looked warm. The brown ploughed earth seemed swelling up, Filled like a sponge with sunbeams, which lay still, Nestling unseen, and broodingly, and warm, In every little nest, corner, or crack, Wherein might hide a blind and sleepy seed, Waiting the touch of penetrative life To wake, and grow, and beautify the earth. The mossy stems and boughs, where yet no life Exuberant overflowed in buds and leaves, Were clothed in golden splendours, interwoven With many shadows from the branches bare. And through their tops the west wind rushing went, Calling aloud the sleeping sap within: The thrill passed downwards from the roots in air To the roots tremulous in the embracing ground. And though no buds with little dots of light Sparkled the darkness of the hedgerow twigs; Softening, expanding in the warm light-bath, Seemed the dry smoky bark.

Thus in the fields They spent their holiday. And when the sun Was near the going down, they turned them home With strengthened hearts. For they were filled with light, And with the spring; and, like the bees, went back To their dark house, laden with blessed sights, With gladsome sounds home to their treasure-cave; Where henceforth sudden gleams of spring would pass Thorough the four-walled darkness of the room; And sounds of spring-time whisper trembling by, Though stony streets with iron echoed round. And as they crossed a field, they came by chance Upon a place where once a home had been; Fragments of ruined walls, half-overgrown With moss, for even stones had their green robe. It had been a small cottage, with a plot Of garden-ground in front, mapped out with walks Now scarce discernible, but that the grass Was thinner, the ground harder to the foot: The place was simply shadowed with an old Almost erased human carefulness. Close by the ruined wall, where once had been The door dividing it from the great world, Making it home, a single snowdrop grew. 'Twas the sole remnant of a family Of flowers that in this garden once had dwelt, Vanished with all their hues of glowing life, Save one too white for death.

And as its form Arose within the brain, a feeling sprung Up in their souls, new, white, and delicate; A waiting, longing, patient hopefulness, The snowdrop of the heart. The heavenly child, Pale with the earthly cold, hung its meek head, Enduring all, and so victorious; The Summer's earnest in the waking Earth, The spirit's in the heart.

I love thee, flower, With a love almost human, tenderly; The Spring's first child, yea, thine, my hoping heart! Upon thy inner leaves and in thy heart, Enough of green to tell thou know'st the grass; In thy white mind remembering lowly friends; But most I love thee for that little stain Of earth on thy transfigured radiancy, Which thou hast lifted with thee from thy grave, The soiling of thy garments on thy road, Travelling forth into the light and air, The heaven of thy pure rest. Some gentle rain Will surely wash thee white, and send the earth Back to the place of earth; but now it signs Thee child of earth, of human birth as we.

With careful hands uprooting it, they bore The little plant a willing captive home; Willing to enter dark abodes, secure In its own tale of light. As once of old, Bearing all heaven in words of promising, The Angel of the Annunciation came, It carried all the spring into that house; A pot of mould its only tie to Earth, Its heaven an ell of blue 'twixt chimney-tops, Its world henceforth that little, low-ceiled room, Symbol and child of spring, it took its place 'Midst all those types, to be a type with them, Of what so many feel, not knowing it; The hidden springtime that is drawing nigh. And henceforth, when the shadow of the cross Will enter, clothed in moonlight, still and dark, The flower will nestle at its foot till day, Pale, drooping, heart-content.

To rest they went. And all night long the snowdrop glimmered white Amid the dark, unconscious and unseen.

Before the sun had crowned his eastern hill With its world-diadem, they woke.

I looked Out of the windows of the inner dream, And saw the edge of the sun's glory rise Eastward behind the hills, the lake-cup's rim. And as it came, it sucked up in itself, As deeds drink words, or daylight candle-flame, That other sun rising to light the dream. They lay awake and thoughtful, comforted With yesterday which nested in their hearts, Yet haunted with the sound of grinding wheels.

THE OUTER DREAM.

And as they lay and looked into the room, It wavered, changed, dissolved beneath the sun, Which mingled both the mornings in their eyes, Till the true conquered, and the unreal passed. No walls, but woods bathed in a level sun; No ceiling, but the vestal sky of morn; No bed, but flowers floating 'mid floating leaves On water which grew audible as they stirred And lifted up their heads. And a low wind That flowed from out the west, washed from their eye The last films of the dream. And they sat up, Silent for one long cool delicious breath, Gazing upon each other lost and found, With a dumb ecstasy, new, undefined. Followed a long embrace, and then the oars Broke up their prison-bands.

And through the woods They slowly went, beneath a firmament Of boughs, and clouded leaves, filmy and pale In the sunshine, but shadowy on the grass. And roving odours met them on their way, Sun-quickened odours, which the fog had slain. And their green sky had many a blossom-moon, And constellations thick with starry flowers. And deep and still were all the woods, except For the Memnonian, glory-stricken birds; And golden beetles 'mid the shadowy roots, Green goblins of the grass, and mining mice; And on the leaves the fairy butterflies, Or doubting in the air, scarlet and blue. The divine depth of summer clasped the Earth.

But 'twixt their hearts and summer's perfectness Came a dividing thought that seemed to say: "Ye wear strange looks." Did summer speak, or they? They said within: "We know that ye are fair, Bright flowers; but ye shine far away, as in A land of other thoughts. Alas! alas!

"Where shall we find the snowdrop-bell half-blown? What shall we do? we feel the throbbing spring Bursting in new and unexpressive thoughts; Our hearts are swelling like a tied-up bud, And summer crushes them with too much light. Action is bubbling up within our souls; The woods oppress us more than stony streets; That was the life indeed; this is the dream; Summer is too complete for growing hearts; They need a broken season, and a land With shadows pointing ever far away; Where incompleteness rouses longing thoughts With spires abrupt, and broken spheres, and circles Cut that they may be widened evermore: Through shattered cloudy roof, looks in the sky, A discord from a loftier harmony; And tempests waken peace within our thoughts, Driving them inward to the inmost rest. Come, my beloved, we will haste and go To those pale faces of our fellow men; Our loving hearts, burning with summer-fire, Will cast a glow upon their pallidness; Our hands will help them, far as servants may; Hands are apostles still to saviour-hearts. So we may share their blessedness with them; So may the snowdrop time be likewise ours; And Earth smile tearfully the spirit smile Wherewith she smiled upon our holiday, As a sweet child may laugh with weeping eyes. If ever we return, these glorious flowers May all be snowdrops of a higher spring." Their eyes one moment met, and then they knew That they did mean the same thing in their hearts. So with no farther words they turned and went Back to the boat, and so across the mere.

I wake from out my dream, and know my room, My darling books, the cherub forms above; I know 'tis springtime in the world without; I feel it springtime in my world within; I know that bending o'er an early flower, Crocus, or primrose, or anemone, The heart that striveth for a higher life, And hath not yet been conquered, findeth there A beauty deep, unshared by any rose, A human loveliness about the flower; That a heath-bell upon a lonely waste Hath more than scarlet splendour on thick leaves; That a blue opening 'midst rain-bosomed clouds Is more than Paphian sun-set harmonies; That higher beauty dwells on earth, because Man seeks a higher home than Paradise; And, having lost, is roused thereby to fill A deeper need than could be filled by all The lost ten times restored; and so he loves The snowdrop more than the magnolia; Spring-hope is more to him than summer-joy; Dark towns than Eden-groves with rivers four.



AFTER AN OLD LEGEND.

The monk was praying in his cell, And he did pray full sore; He had been praying on his knees For two long hours and more.

And in the midst, and suddenly, He felt his eyes ope wide; And he lifted not his head, but saw A man's feet him beside.

And almost to his feet there reached A garment strangely knit; Some woman's fingers, ages agone, Had trembled, in making it.

The monk's eyes went up the garment, Until a hand they spied; A cut from a chisel was on it, And another scar beside.

Then his eyes sprang to the face With a single thirsty bound; 'Twas He, and he nigh had fainted; His eyes had the Master found.

On his ear fell the convent bell, That told him the poor did wait For his hand to divide the daily bread, All at the convent-gate.

And a storm of thoughts within him Blew hither and thither long; And the bell kept calling all the time With its iron merciless tongue.

He looked in the Master's eyes, And he sprang to his feet in strength: "Though I find him not when I come back, I shall find him the more at length."

He went, and he fed the poor, All at the convent-gate; And like one bereft, with heavy feet Went back to be desolate.

He stood by the door, unwilling To see the cell so bare; He opened the door, and lo! The Master was standing there.

"I have waited for thee, because The poor had not to wait; And I stood beside thee all the time, In the crowd at the convent-gate."

* * * * *

But it seems to me, though the story Sayeth no word of this, If the monk had stayed, the Lord would have stayed, Nor crushed that heart of his.

For out of the far-off times A word sounds tenderly: "The poor ye have always with you, And ye have not always me."



THE TREE'S PRAYER.

Alas! 'tis cold and dark; The wind all night has sung a wintry tune; Hail from black clouds that swallowed up the moon Has beat against my bark.

Oh! when will it be spring? The sap moves not within my withered veins; Through all my frozen roots creep numbing pains, That they can hardly cling.

The sun shone out last morn; I felt the warmth through every fibre float; I thought I heard a thrush's piping note, Of hope and sadness born.

Then came the sea-cloud driven; The tempest hissed through all my outstretched boughs, Hither and thither tossed me in its snows, Beneath the joyless heaven.

O for the sunny leaves! Almost I have forgot the breath of June! Forgot the feathery light-flakes from the moon! The praying summer-eves!

O for the joyous birds, Which are the tongues of us, mute, longing trees! O for the billowy odours, and the bees Abroad in scattered herds!

The blessing of cool showers! The gratefulness that thrills through every shoot! The children playing round my deep-sunk root, Shadowed in hot noon hours!

Alas! the cold clear dawn Through the bare lattice-work of twigs around! Another weary day of moaning sound On the thin-shadowed lawn!

Yet winter's noon is past: I'll stretch my arms all night into the wind, Endure all day the chill air and unkind; My leaves will come at last.



A STORY OF THE SEA-SHORE.

INTRODUCTION.

I sought the long clear twilights of the North, When, from its nest of trees, my father's house Sees the Aurora deepen into dawn Far northward in the East, o'er the hill-top; And fronts the splendours of the northern West, Where sunset dies into that ghostly gleam That round the horizon creepeth all the night Back to the jubilance of gracious morn. I found my home in homeliness unchanged; For love that maketh home, unchangeable, Received me to the rights of sonship still. O vaulted summer-heaven, borne on the hills! Once more thou didst embrace me, whom, a child, Thy drooping fulness nourished into joy. Once more the valley, pictured forth with sighs, Rose on my present vision, and, behold! In nothing had the dream bemocked the truth: The waters ran as garrulous as before; The wild flowers crowded round my welcome feet; The hills arose and dwelt alone in heaven; And all had learned new tales against I came. Once more I trod the well-known fields with him Whose fatherhood had made me search for God's; And it was old and new like the wild flowers, The waters, and the hills, but dearer far.

Once on a day, my cousin Frank and I, Drove on a seaward road the dear white mare Which oft had borne me to the lonely hills. Beside me sat a maiden, on whose face I had not looked since we were boy and girl; But the old friendship straightway bloomed anew. The heavens were sunny, and the earth was green; The harebells large, and oh! so plentiful; While butterflies, as blue as they, danced on, Borne purposeless on pulses of clear joy, In sportive time to their Aeolian clang. That day as we talked on without restraint, Brought near by memories of days that were, And therefore are for ever—by the joy Of motion through a warm and shining air, By the glad sense of freedom and like thoughts, And by the bond of friendship with the dead, She told the tale which I would mould anew To a more lasting form of utterance.

For I had wandered back to childish years; And asked her if she knew a ruin old, Whose masonry, descending to the waves, Faced up the sea-cliff at whose rocky feet The billows fell and died along the coast. 'Twas one of my child marvels. For, each year, We turned our backs upon the ripening corn, And sought the borders of the desert sea. O joy of waters! mingled with the fear Of a blind force that knew not what to do, But spent its strength of waves in lashing aye The rocks which laughed them into foam and flight.

But oh, the varied riches of that port! For almost to the beach, but that a wall Inclosed them, reached the gardens of a lord, His shady walks, his ancient trees of state; His river, which, with course indefinite, Wandered across the sands without the wall, And lost itself in finding out the sea: Within, it floated swans, white splendours; lay Beneath the fairy leap of a wire bridge; Vanished and reappeared amid the shades, And led you where the peacock's plumy heaven Bore azure suns with green and golden rays. Ah! here the skies showed higher, and the clouds More summer-gracious, filled with stranger shapes; And when they rained, it was a golden rain That sparkled as it fell, an odorous rain.

But there was one dream-spot—my tale must wait Until I tell the wonder of that spot. It was a little room, built somehow—how I do not know—against a steep hill-side, Whose top was with a circular temple crowned, Seen from far waves when winds were off the shore— So that, beclouded, ever in the night Of a luxuriant ivy, its low door, Half-filled with rainbow hues of deep-stained glass, Appeared to open right into the hill. Never to sesame of mine that door Yielded that room; but through one undyed pane, Gazing with reverent curiosity, I saw a little chamber, round and high, Which but to see, was to escape the heat, And bathe in coolness of the eye and brain; For it was dark and green. Upon one side A window, unperceived from without, Blocked up by ivy manifold, whose leaves, Like crowded heads of gazers, row on row, Climbed to the top; and all the light that came Through the thick veil was green, oh, kindest hue! But in the midst, the wonder of the place, Against the back-ground of the ivy bossed, On a low column stood, white, pure, and still, A woman-form in marble, cold and clear. I know not what it was; it may have been A Silence, or an Echo fainter still; But that form yet, if form it can be called, So undefined and pale, gleams vision-like In the lone treasure-chamber of my soul, Surrounded with its mystic temple dark.

Then came the thought, too joyous to keep joy, Turning to very sadness for relief: To sit and dream through long hot summer days, Shrouded in coolness and sea-murmurings, Forgot by all till twilight shades grew dark; And read and read in the Arabian Nights, Till all the beautiful grew possible; And then when I had read them every one, To find behind the door, against the wall, Old volumes, full of tales, such as in dreams One finds in bookshops strange, in tortuous streets; Beside me, over me, soul of the place, Filling the gloom with calm delirium, That wondrous woman-statue evermore, White, radiant; fading, as the darkness grew, Into a ghostly pallour, that put on, To staring eyes, a vague and shifting form.

But the old castle on the shattered shore— Not the green refuge from the summer heat— Drew forth our talk that day. For, as I said, I asked her if she knew it. She replied, "I know it well;" and added instantly: "A woman used to live, my mother tells, In one of its low vaults, so near the sea, That in high tides and northern winds it was No more a castle-vault, but a sea-cave!" "I found there," I replied, "a turret stair Leading from level of the ground above Down to a vault, whence, through an opening square, Half window and half loophole, you look forth Wide o'er the sea; but the dim-sounding waves Are many feet beneath, and shrunk in size To a great ripple. I could tell you now A tale I made about a little girl, Dark-eyed and pale, with long seaweed-like hair, Who haunts that room, and, gazing o'er the deep, Calls it her mother, with a childish glee, Because she knew no other." "This," said she, "Was not a child, but woman almost old, Whose coal-black hair had partly turned to grey, With sorrow and with madness; and she dwelt, Not in that room high on the cliff, but down, Low down within the margin of spring tides." And then she told me all she knew of her, As we drove onward through the sunny day. It was a simple tale, with few, few facts; A life that clomb one mountain and looked forth; Then sudden sank to a low dreary plain, And wandered ever in the sound of waves, Till fear and fascination overcame, And led her trembling into life and joy. Alas! how many such are told by night, In fisher-cottages along the shore!

Farewell, old summer-day; I lay you by, To tell my story, and the thoughts that rise Within a heart that never dared believe A life was at the mercy of a sea.

THE STORY.

Aye as it listeth blows the listless wind, Filling great sails, and bending lordly masts, Or making billows in the green corn fields, And hunting lazy clouds across the blue: Now, like a vapour o'er the sunny sea, It blows the vessel from the harbour's mouth, Out 'mid the broken crests of seaward waves, And hovering of long-pinioned ocean birds, As if the white wave-spots had taken wing. But though all space is full of spots of white, The sailor sees the little handkerchief That flutters still, though wet with heavy tears Which draw it earthward from the sunny wind. Blow, wind! draw out the cord that binds the twain, And breaks not, though outlengthened till the maid Can only say, I know he is not here. Blow, wind! yet gently; gently blow, O wind! And let love's vision slowly, gently die; And the dim sails pass ghost-like o'er the deep, Lingering a little o'er the vanished hull, With a white farewell to the straining eyes. For never more in morning's level beam, Will the wide wings of her sea-shadowing sails From the green-billowed east come dancing in; Nor ever, gliding home beneath the stars, With a faint darkness o'er the fainter sea, Will she, the ocean-swimmer, send a cry Of home-come sailors, that shall wake the streets With sudden pantings of dream-scaring joy. Blow gently, wind! blow slowly, gentle wind!

Weep not, oh maiden! tis not time to weep; Torment not thou thyself before thy time; The hour will come when thou wilt need thy tears To cool the burning of thy desert brain. Go to thy work; break into song sometimes, To die away forgotten in the lapse Of dreamy thought, ere natural pause ensue; Oft in the day thy time-outspeeding heart, Sending thy ready eye to scout the east, Like child that wearies of her mother's pace, And runs before, and yet perforce must wait.

The time drew nigh. Oft turning from her work, With bare arms and uncovered head she clomb The landward slope of the prophetic hill; From whose green head, as on the verge of time, Seer-like she gazed, shading her hope-rapt eyes From the bewilderment of work-day light, Far out on the eternity of waves; If from the Hades of the nether world Her prayers might draw the climbing skyey sails Up o'er the threshold of the horizon line; For when he came she was to be his wife, And celebrate with rites of church and home The apotheosis of maidenhood.

Time passed. The shadow of a fear that hung Far off upon the horizon of her soul, Drew near with deepening gloom and clearing form, Till it o'erspread and filled her atmosphere, And lost all shape, because it filled all space, Reaching beyond the bounds of consciousness; But ever in swift incarnations darting Forth from its infinite a stony stare, A blank abyss, an awful emptiness. Ah, God! why are our souls, lone helpless seas, Tortured with such immitigable storm? What is this love, that now on angel wing Sweeps us amid the stars in passionate calm; And now with demon arms fast cincturing, Drops us, through all gyrations of keen pain, Down the black vortex, till the giddy whirl Gives fainting respite to the ghastly brain? Not these the maiden's questions. Comes he yet? Or am I widowed ere my wedding day?

Ah! ranged along our shores, on peak or cliff, Or stone-ribbed promontory, or pier head, Maidens have aye been standing; the same pain Deadening the heart-throb; the same gathering mist Dimming the eye that would be keen as death; The same fixed longing on the changeless face. Over the edge he vanished—came no more: There, as in childhood's dreams, upon that line, Without a parapet to shield the sense, Voidness went sheer down to oblivion: Over that edge he vanished—came no more.

O happy those for whom the Possible Opens its gates of madness, and becomes The Real around them! those to whom henceforth There is but one to-morrow, the next morn, Their wedding day, ever one step removed; The husband's foot ever upon the verge Of the day's threshold; whiteness aye, and flowers, Ready to meet him, ever in a dream! But faith and expectation conquer still; And so her morrow comes at last, and leads The death-pale maiden-ghost, dazzled, confused, Into the land whose shadows fall on ours, And are our dreams of too deep blessedness. May not some madness be a kind of faith? Shall not the Possible become the Real? Lives not the God who hath created dreams? So stand we questioning upon the shore, And gazing hopeful towards the Unrevealed.

Long looked the maiden, till the visible Half vanished from her eyes; the earth had ceased That lay behind her, and the sea was all; Except the narrow shore, which yet gave room For her sea-haunting feet; where solid land, Where rocks and hills stopped, frighted, suddenly, And earth flowed henceforth on in trembling waves, A featureless, a half re-molten world, Halfway to the Unseen; the Invisible Half seen in the condensed and flowing sky Which lay so grimly smooth before her eyes And brain and shrinking soul; where power of man Could never heap up moles or pyramids, Or dig a valley in the unstable gulf Fighting for aye to make invisible, To swallow up, and keep her smooth blue smile Unwrinkled and unspotted with the land; Not all the changes on the restless wave, Saving it from a still monotony, Whose only utterance was a dreary song Of stifled wailing on the shrinking shore.

Such frenzy slow invaded the poor girl. Not hers the hovering sense of marriage bells Tuning the air with fragrance of sweet sound; But the low dirge that ever rose and died, Recurring without pause or any close, Like one verse chaunted aye in sleepless brain. Down to the shore it drew her from the heights, Like witch's demon-spell, that fearful moan. She knew that somewhere in the green abyss His body swung in curves of watery force, Now in a circle slow revolved, and now Swaying like wind-swung bell, when surface waves Sank their roots deep enough to reach the waif, Hither and thither, idly to and fro, Wandering unheeding through the heedless sea. A kind of fascination seized her brain, And drew her onward to the ridgy rocks That ran a little way into the deep, Like questions asked of Fate by longing hearts, Bound which the eternal ocean breaks in sighs. Along their flats, and furrows, and jagged backs, Out to the lonely point where the green mass Arose and sank, heaved slow and forceful, she Went; and recoiled in terror; ever drawn, Ever repelled, with inward shuddering At the great, heartless, miserable depth. She thought the ocean lay in wait for her, Enticing her with horror's glittering eye, And with the hope that in an hour sure fixed In some far century, aeons remote, She, conscious still of love, despite the sea, Should, in the washing of perennial waves, Sweep o'er some stray bone, or transformed dust Of him who loved her on this happy earth, Known by a dreamy thrill in thawing nerves. For so the fragments of wild songs she sung Betokened, as she sat and watched the tide, Till, as it slowly grew, it touched her feet; When terror overcame—she rose and fled Towards the shore with fear-bewildered eye; And, stumbling on the rocks with hasty steps, Cried, "They are coming, coming at my heels."