Perhaps like this the songs she used to wail In the rough northern tongue of Aberdeen:—

Ye'll hae me yet, ye'll hae me yet, Sae lang an' braid, an' never a hame! Its nae the depth I fear a bit, But oh, the wideness, aye the same!

The jaws[1] come up, wi' eerie bark; Cryin' I'm creepy, cauld, an' green; Come doon, come doon, he's lyin' stark, Come doon an' steek his glowerin' een.

Syne wisht! they haud their weary roar, An' slide awa', an' I grow sleepy: Or lang, they're up aboot my door, Yowlin', I'm cauld, an' weet, an' creepy!

O dool, dool! ye are like the tide— Ye mak' a feint awa' to gang; But lang awa' ye winna bide,— An' better greet than aye think lang.

[Footnote 1: Jaws: English, breakers.]

Where'er she fled, the same voice followed her; Whisperings innumerable of water-drops Growing together to a giant voice; That sometimes in hoarse, rushing undertones, Sometimes in thunderous peals of billowy shouts, Called after her to come, and make no stay. From the dim mists that brooded seaward far, And from the lonely tossings of the waves, Where rose and fell the raving wilderness, Voices, pursuing arms, and beckoning hands, Reached shorewards from the shuddering mystery. Then sometimes uplift, on a rocky peak, A lonely form betwixt the sea and sky, Watchers on shore beheld her fling wild arms High o'er her head in tossings like the waves; Then fix them, with clasped hands of prayer intense, Forward, appealing to the bitter sea. Then sudden from her shoulders she would tear Her garments, one by one, and cast them far Into the roarings of the heedless surge, A vain oblation to the hungry waves. Such she did mean it; and her pitying friends Clothed her in vain—their gifts did bribe the sea. But such a fire was burning in her brain, The cold wind lapped her, and the sleet-like spray Flashed, all unheeded, on her tawny skin. As oft she brought her food and flung it far, Reserving scarce a morsel for her need— Flung it—with naked arms, and streaming hair Floating like sea-weed on the tide of wind, Coal-black and lustreless—to feed the sea. But after each poor sacrifice, despair, Like the returning wave that bore it far, Rushed surging back upon her sickening heart; While evermore she moaned, low-voiced, between— Half-muttered and half-moaned: "Ye'll hae me yet; Ye'll ne'er be saired, till ye hae ta'en mysel'."

And as the night grew thick upon the sea, Quenching it all, except its voice of storm; Blotting it from the region of the eye, Though still it tossed within the haunted brain, Entering by the portals of the ears,— She step by step withdrew; like dreaming man, Who, power of motion all but paralysed, With an eternity of slowness, drags His earth-bound, lead-like, irresponsive feet Back from a living corpse's staring eyes; Till on the narrow beach she turned her round. Then, clothed in all the might of the Unseen, Terror grew ghostly; and she shrieked and fled Up to the battered base of the old tower, And round the rock, and through the arched gap, Cleaving the blackness of the vault within; Then sank upon the sand, and gasped, and raved. This was her secret chamber, this her place Of refuge from the outstretched demon-deep, All eye and voice for her, Argus more dread Than he with hundred lidless watching orbs. There, cowering in a nook, she sat all night, Her eyes fixed on the entrance of the cave, Through which a pale light shimmered from the sea, Until she slept, and saw the sea in dreams. Except in stormy nights, when all was dark, And the wild tempest swept with slanting wing Against her refuge; and the heavy spray Shot through the doorway serpentine cold arms To seize the fore-doomed morsel of the sea: Then she slept never; and she would have died, But that she evermore was stung to life By new sea-terrors. Sometimes the sea-gull With clanging pinions darted through the arch, And flapped them round her face; sometimes a wave, If tides were high and winds from off the sea, Rushed through the door, and in its watery mesh Clasped her waist-high, then out again to sea! Out to the devilish laughter and the fog! While she clung screaming to the bare rock-wall; Then sat unmoving, till the low grey dawn Grew on the misty dance of spouting waves, That mixed the grey with white; picture one-hued, Seen in the framework of the arched door: Then the old fascination drew her out, Till, wrapt in misty spray, moveless she stood Upon the border of the dawning sea.

And yet she had a chamber in her soul, The innermost of all, a quiet place; But which she could not enter for the love That kept her out for ever in the storm. Could she have entered, all had been as still As summer evening, or a mother's arms; And she had found her lost love sleeping there. Thou too hast such a chamber, quiet place, Where God is waiting for thee. Is it gain, Or the confused murmur of the sea Of human voices on the rocks of fame, That will not let thee enter? Is it care For the provision of the unborn day, As if thou wert a God that must foresee, Lest his great sun should chance forget to rise? Or pride that thou art some one in the world, And men must bow before thee? Oh! go mad For love of some one lost; for some old voice Which first thou madest sing, and after sob; Some heart thou foundest rich, and leftest bare, Choking its well of faith with thy false deeds; Not like thy God, who keeps the better wine Until the last, and, if He giveth grief, Giveth it first, and ends the tale with joy. Madness is nearer God than thou: go mad, And be ennobled far above thyself. Her brain was ill, her heart was well: she loved. It was the unbroken cord between the twain That drew her ever to the ocean marge; Though to her feverous phantasy, unfit, 'Mid the tumultuous brood of shapes distort, To see one simple form, it was the fear Of fixed destiny, unavoidable, And not the longing for the well-known face, That drew her, drew her to the urgent sea. Better to die, better to rave for love, Than to recover with sick sneering heart.

Or, if that thou art noble, in some hour, Maddened with thoughts of that which could not be, Thou mightst have yielded to the burning wind, That swept in tempest through thy scorching brain, And rushed into the thick cold night of the earth, And clamoured to the waves and beat the rocks; And never found the way back to the seat Of conscious rule, and power to bear thy pain; But God had made thee stronger to endure For other ends, beyond thy present choice: Wilt thou not own her story a fit theme For poet's tale? in her most frantic mood, Not call the maniac sister, tenderly? For she went mad for love and not for gold. And in the faded form, whose eyes, like suns Too fierce for freshness and for dewy bloom, Have parched and paled the hues of tender spring, Cannot thy love unmask a youthful shape Deformed by tempests of the soul and sea, Fit to remind thee of a story old Which God has in his keeping—of thyself?

But God forgets not men because they sleep. The darkness lasts all night and clears the eyes; Then comes the morning and the joy of light. O surely madness hideth not from Him; Nor doth a soul cease to be beautiful In His sight, when its beauty is withdrawn, And hid by pale eclipse from human eyes. Surely as snow is friendly to the spring, A madness may be friendly to the soul, And shield it from a more enduring loss, From the ice-spears of a heart-reaching frost. So, after years, the winter of her life, Came the sure spring to her men had forgot, Closing the rent links of the social chain, And leaving her outside their charmed ring. Into the chill wind and the howling night, God sent out for her, and she entered in Where there was no more sea. What messengers Ran from the door of love-contented heaven, To lead her towards the real ideal home? The sea, her terror, and the wintry wind. For, on a morn of sunshine, while the wind Yet blew, and heaved yet the billowy sea With memories of the night of deep unrest, They found her in a basin of the rocks, Which, buried in a firmament of sea When ocean winds heap up the tidal waves, Yet, in the respiration of the surge, Lifts clear its edge of rock, full to the brim With deep, clear, resting water, plentiful. There, in the blessedness of sleep, which God Gives his beloved, she lay drowned and still. O life of love, conquered at last by fate! O life raised from the dead by Saviour Death! O love unconquered and invincible! The sea had cooled the burning of that brain; Had laid to rest those limbs so fever-tense, That scarce relaxed in sleep; and now she lies Sleeping the sleep that follows after pain. 'Twas one night more of agony and fear, Of shrinking from the onset of the sea; One cry of desolation, when her fear Became a fact, and then,—God knows the rest. O cure of all our miseries—God knows!

O thou whose feet tread ever the wet sands And howling rocks along the wearing shore, Roaming the confines of the endless sea! Strain not thine eyes across, bedimmed with tears; No sail comes back across that tender line. Turn thee unto thy work, let God alone; He will do his part. Then across the waves Will float faint whispers from the better land, Veiled in the dust of waters we call storms, To thine averted ears. Do thou thy work, And thou shalt follow; follow, and find thine own.

O thou who liv'st in fear of the To come! Around whose house the storm of terror breaks All night; to whose love-sharpened ear, all day, The Invisible is calling at thy door, To render up that which thou can'st not keep, Be it a life or love! Open thy door, And carry forth thy dead unto the marge Of the great sea; bear it into the flood, Braving the cold that creepeth to thy heart, And lay thy coffin as an ark of hope Upon the billows of the infinite sea. Give God thy dead to keep: so float it back, With sighs and prayers to waft it through the dark, Back to the spring of life. Say—"It is dead, But thou, the life of life, art yet alive, And thou can'st give the dead its dear old life, With new abundance perfecting the old. God, see my sadness; feel it in thyself."

Ah God! the earth is full of cries and moans, And dull despair, that neither moans nor cries; Thousands of hearts are waiting the last day, For what they know not, but with hope of change, Of resurrection, or of dreamless death. Raise thou the buried dead of springs gone by In maidens' bosoms; raise the autumn fruits Of old men feebly mournful o'er the life Which scarce hath memory but the mournfulness. There is no Past with thee: bring back once more The summer eves of lovers, over which The wintry wind that raveth through the world Heaps wretched leaves, half tombed in ghastly snow; Bring back the mother-heaven of orphans lone, The brother's and the sister's faithfulness; Bring forth the kingdom of the Son of Man.

They troop around me, children wildly crying; Women with faded eyes, all spent of tears; Men who have lived for love, yet lived alone; And worse than so, whose grief cannot be said. O God, thou hast a work to do indeed To save these hearts of thine with full content, Except thou give them Lethe's stream to drink, And that, my God, were all unworthy thee.

Dome up, O Heaven! yet higher o'er my head; Back, back, horizon! widen out my world; Rush in, O infinite sea of the Unknown! For, though he slay me, I will trust in God.



MY HEART.

I heard, in darkness, on my bed, The beating of my heart To servant feet and regnant head A common life impart, By the liquid cords, in every thread Unbroken as they start.

Night, with its power to silence day, Filled up my lonely room; All motion quenching, save what lay Beyond its passing doom, Where in his shed the workman gay Went on despite the gloom.

I listened, and I knew the sound, And the trade that he was plying; For backwards, forwards, bound and bound, 'Twas a shuttle, flying, flying; Weaving ever life's garment round, Till the weft go out with sighing.

I said, O mystic thing, thou goest On working in the dark; In space's shoreless sea thou rowest, Concealed within thy bark; All wondrous things thou, wonder, showest, Yet dost not any mark.

For all the world is woven by thee, Besides this fleshly dress; With earth and sky thou clothest me, Form, distance, loftiness; A globe of glory spouting free Around the visionless.

For when thy busy efforts fail, And thy shuttle moveless lies, They will fall from me, like a veil From before a lady's eyes; As a night-perused, just-finished tale In the new daylight dies.

But not alone dost thou unroll The mountains, fields, and seas, A mighty, wonder-painted scroll, Like the Patmos mysteries; Thou mediator 'twixt my soul And higher things than these.

In holy ephod clothing me Thou makest me a seer; In all the lovely things I see, The inner truths appear; And the deaf spirit without thee No spirit-word could hear.

Yet though so high thy mission is, And thought to spirit brings, Thy web is but the chrysalis, Where lie the future wings, Now growing into perfectness By thy inwoven things.

Then thou, God's pulse, wilt cease to beat; But His heart will still beat on, Weaving another garment meet, If needful for his son; And sights more glorious, to complete The web thou hast begun.



O DO NOT LEAVE ME.

O do not leave me, mother, till I sleep; Be near me until I forget; sit there. And the child having prayed lest she should weep, Sleeps in the strength of prayer.

O do not leave me, lover, brother, friends, Till I am dead, and resting in my place. And the girl, having prayed, in silence bends Down to the earth's embrace.

Leave me not, God, until—nay, until when? Not till I have with thee one heart, one mind; Not till the Life is Light in me, and then Leaving is left behind.



THE HOLY SNOWDROPS.

Of old, with goodwill from the skies, The holy angels came; They walked the earth with human eyes, And passed away in flame.

But now the angels are withdrawn, Because the flowers can speak; With Christ, we see the dayspring dawn In every snowdrop meek.

God sends them forth; to God they tend; Not less with love they burn, That to the earth they lowly bend, And unto dust return.

No miracle in them hath place, For this world is their home; An utterance of essential grace The angel-snowdrops come.



TO MY SISTER.

O sister, God is very good— Thou art a woman now: O sister, be thy womanhood A baptism on thy brow!

For what?—Do ancient stories lie Of Titans long ago, The children of the lofty sky And mother earth below?

Nay, walk not now upon the ground Some sons of heavenly mould? Some daughters of the Holy, found In earthly garments' fold?

He said, who did and spoke the truth: "Gods are the sons of God." And so the world's Titanic youth Strives homeward by one road.

Then live thou, sister, day and night, An earth-child of the sky, For ever climbing up the height Of thy divinity.

Still in thy mother's heart-embrace, Waiting thy hour of birth, Thou growest by the genial grace Of the child-bearing earth.

Through griefs and joys, each sad and sweet, Thou shalt attain the end; Till then a goddess incomplete— O evermore my friend!

Nor is it pride that striveth so: The height of the Divine Is to be lowly 'mid the low; No towering cloud—a mine;

A mine of wealth and warmth and song, An ever-open door; For when divinely born ere long, A woman thou the more.

For at the heart of womanhood The child's great heart doth lie; At childhood's heart, the germ of good, Lies God's simplicity.

So, sister, be thy womanhood A baptism on thy brow For something dimly understood, And which thou art not now;

But which within thee, all the time, Maketh thee what thou art; Maketh thee long and strive and climb— The God-life at thy heart.



OH THOU OF LITTLE FAITH!

Sad-hearted, be at peace: the snowdrop lies Under the cold, sad earth-clods and the snow; But spring is floating up the southern skies, And the pale snowdrop silent waits below.

O loved if known! in dull December's day One scarce believes there is a month of June; But up the stairs of April and of May The dear sun climbeth to the summer's noon.

Dear mourner! I love God, and so I rest; O better! God loves thee, and so rest thou: He is our spring-time, our dim-visioned Best, And He will help thee—do not fear the How.



LONGING.

My heart is full of inarticulate pain, And beats laboriously. Ungenial looks Invade my sanctuary. Men of gain, Wise in success, well-read in feeble books, Do not come near me now, your air is drear; 'Tis winter and low skies when ye appear.

Beloved, who love beauty and love truth! Come round me; for too near ye cannot come; Make me an atmosphere with your sweet youth; Give me your souls to breathe in, a large room; Speak not a word, for see, my spirit lies Helpless and dumb; shine on me with your eyes.

O all wide places, far from feverous towns! Great shining seas! pine forests! mountains wild! Rock-bosomed shores! rough heaths! and sheep-cropt downs! Vast pallid clouds! blue spaces undefiled! Room! give me room! give loneliness and air! Free things and plenteous in your regions fair.

White dove of David, flying overhead, Golden with sunlight on thy snowy wings, Outspeeding thee my longing thoughts have fled To find a home afar from men and things; Where in his temple, earth o'erarched with sky, God's heart to mine may speak, my heart reply.

O God of mountains, stars, and boundless spaces! O God of freedom and of joyous hearts! When thy face looketh forth from all men's faces, There will be room enough in crowded marts; Brood thou around me, and the noise is o'er; Thy universe my closet with shut door.

Heart, heart, awake! the love that loveth all Maketh a deeper calm than Horeb's cave. God in thee, can his children's folly gall? Love may be hurt, but shall not love be brave?— Thy holy silence sinks in dews of balm; Thou art my solitude, my mountain-calm.



A BOY'S GRIEF.

Ah me! in ages far away, The good, the heavenly land, Though unbeheld, quite near them lay, And men could understand.

The dead yet find it, who, when here, Did love it more than this; They enter in, are filled with cheer, And pain expires in bliss.

Oh, fairly shines the blessed land! Ah, God! I weep and pray— The heart thou holdest in thy hand Loves more this sunny day.

I see the hundred thousand wait Around the radiant throne: To me it is a dreary state, A crowd of beings lone.

I do not care for singing psalms; I tire of good men's talk; To me there is no joy in palms, Or white-robed solemn walk.

I love to hear the wild winds meet, The wild old winds at night; To watch the starlight throb and beat, To wait the thunder-light.

I love all tales of valiant men, Of women good and fair; If I were rich and strong, ah then, I would do something rare.

I see thy temple in the skies On pillars strong and white; I cannot love it, though I rise And try with all my might.

Sometimes a joy lays hold on me, And I am speechless then; Almost a martyr I could be, And join the holy men.

But soon my heart is like a clod, My spirit wrapt in doubt— "A pillar in the house of God, And never more go out!"

No more the sunny, breezy morn; No more the speechless moon; No more the ancient hills, forlorn, A vision, and a boon.

Ah, God! my love will never burn, Nor shall I taste thy joy; And Jesus' face is calm and stern— I am a hapless boy.



THE CHILD-MOTHER.

Heavily lay the warm sunlight Upon the green blades shining bright, An outspread grassy sea: She through the burnished yellow flowers Went walking in the golden hours That slept upon the lea.

The bee went past her with a hum; The merry gnats did go and come In complicated dance; Like a blue angel, to and fro, The splendid dragon-fly did go, Shot like a seeking glance.

She never followed them, but still Went forward with a quiet will, That got, but did not miss; With gentle step she passed along, And once a low, half-murmured song Uttered her share of bliss.

It was a little maiden-child; You see, not frolicsome and wild, As such a child should be; For though she was just nine, no more, Another little child she bore, Almost as big as she.

With tender care of straining arms, She kept it circled from all harms, With face turned from the sun; For in that perfect tiny heart, The mother, sister, nurse, had part, Her womanhood begun.

At length they reach an ugly ditch, The slippery sloping bank of which Flowers and long grasses line; Some ragged-robins baby spied, And spread his little arms out wide, As he had found a mine.

What baby wants, that baby has: A law unalterable as— The poor shall serve the rich; She kneeleth down with eager eyes, And, reaching far out for the prize, Topples into the ditch.

And slanting down the bank she rolled, But in her little bosom's fold She clasps the baby tight; And in the ditch's muddy flow, No safety sought by letting go, At length she stands upright.

Alas! her little feet are wet; Her new shoes! how can she forget? And yet she does not cry. Her scanty frock of dingy blue, Her petticoat wet through and through! But baby is quite dry.

And baby laughs, and baby crows; And baby being right, she knows That nothing can be wrong; And so with troubled heart, yet stout, She plans how ever to get out, With meditations long.

The bank is higher than her head, And slippery too, as I have said; And what to do with baby? For even the monkey, when he goes, Needs both his fingers and his toes.— She is perplexed as may be.

But all her puzzling was no good, Though staring up the bank she stood, Which, as she sunk, grew higher; Until, invaded with dismay, Lest baby's patience should give way, She frees her from the mire.

And up and down the ditch, not glad, But patient, she did promenade; Splash! splash! went her poor feet. And baby thought it rare good fun, And did not want it to be done; And the ditch flowers were sweet.

But, oh! the world that she had left, The meads from her so lately reft, An infant Proserpine, Lay like a fabled land above, A paradise of sunny love, In warmth and light divine.

While, with the hot sun overhead, She her low watery way did tread, 'Mid slimy weeds and frogs; While now and then from distant field The sound of laughter faintly pealed, Or bark of village dogs.

And once the ground began to shake, And her poor little heart to quake For fear of added woes; Till, looking up, at last, perforce, She saw the head of a huge horse Go past upon its nose.

And with a sound of tearing grass, And puffing breath that awful was, And horns of frightful size, A cow looked through the broken hedge, And gazed down on her from the edge, With great big Juno eyes.

And so the sun went on and on, And horse and cow and horns were gone, And still no help came near; Till at the last she heard the sound Of human footsteps on the ground, And then she cried: "I'm here!"

It was a man, much to her joy, Who looked amazed at girl and boy, And reached his hand so strong. "Give me the child," he said; but no, She would not let the baby go, She had endured too long.

So, with a smile at her alarms, He stretched down both his lusty arms, And lifted them together; And, having thanked her helper, she Did hasten homeward painfully, Wet in the sunny weather.

At home at length, lo! scarce a speck Was on the child from heel to neck, Though she was sorely mired; Nor gave she sign of grief's unrest, Till, hid upon her mother's breast, She wept till she was tired.

And intermixed with sobbing wail, She told her mother all the tale,— "But"—here her wet cheeks glow— "Mother, I did not, through it all, I did not once let baby fall— I never let him go."

Ah me! if on this star-world's face We men and women had like grace To bear and shield each other; Our race would soon be young again, Its heart as free of ache and pain As that of this child-mother.



LOVE'S ORDEAL;

A recollection and attempted completion of a prose fragment read in childhood.

"Know'st thou that sound upon the window pane?" Said the youth quietly, as outstretched he lay, Where for an hour outstretched he had lain, Pillowed upon her knees. To him did say The thoughtful maiden: "It is but the rain That hath been gathering in the West all day; Be still, my dearest, let my eyes yet rest Awhile upon thy face so calm and blest."

"Know'st thou that sound, from silence slowly wrought?" Said the youth, and his eyelids softly rose, Revealing to her eyes the depths of thought That lay beneath her in a still repose. "I know it," said the maiden; "it is nought But the loud wintry wind that ever blows, Swinging the great arms of the dreary pines, Which each with others in its pain entwines."

"Hear'st thou the baying of my hounds?" said he; "Draw back the lattice-bar and let them in." Through a cloud-rift the light fell noiselessly Upon the cottage floor; and, gaunt and thin, Leaped in the stag-hounds, bounding as in glee, Shaking the rain-drops from their shaggy skin; And as the maiden closed the spattered glass, A shadow faint over the floor did pass.

The youth, half-raised, was leaning on his hand; And when again beside him sat the maid, His eyes for a slow minute moving scanned Her calm peace-lighted face; and then he said, Monotonous, like solemn-read command: "For love is of the earth, earthy, and laid Down lifeless in its mother's womb at last." The strange sound through the great pine-branches passed.

Again a shadow as it were of glass, Over the moonbeams on the cottage floor, Shapeless and dim, almost unseen, doth pass; A mingled sound of rain-drops at the door, But not a sound upon the window was. A look of sorrowing doubt the youth's face wore; And the two hounds half-rose, and gazed at him, Eyeing his countenance by the taper dim.

Now nothing of these things the maiden noted, But turned her face with half-reproachful look, As doubting whether he the words had quoted Out of some evil, earth-begotten book; Or upward from his spirit's depths had floated Those words like bubbles in a low dead brook; But his eyes seemed to question,—Yea or No; And so the maiden answered: "'Tis not so;

"Love is of heaven, and heavenly." A faint smile Parted his lips, as a thought unexpressed Were speaking in his heart; and for a while He gently laid his head upon her breast; His thought, a bark that by a sunny isle At length hath found the haven of its rest, Yet must not long remain, but forward go: He lifted up his head, and answered: "No—

"Maiden, I have loved other maidens." Pale Her red lips grew. "I loved them; yes, but they, One after one, in trial's hour did fail; For after sunset, clouds again are grey." A sudden light flashed through the silken veil That drooping hid her eyes; and then there lay A stillness on her face, waiting; and then The little clock rung out the hour of ten.

Moaning again the great pine-branches bow, As if they tried in vain the wind to stem. Still looking in her eyes, the youth said—"Thou Art not more beautiful than some of them; But more of earnestness is on thy brow; Thine eyes are beaming like some dark-bright gem That pours from hidden heart upon the night The rays it gathered from the noon-day light.

"Look on this hand, beloved; thou didst see The horse that broke from many, it did hold: Two hours shall pass away, and it will be All withered up and dry, wrinkled and old, Big-veined, and skinny to extremity." Calmly upon him looked the maiden bold; The stag-hounds rose, and gazed on him, and then, With a low whine, laid themselves down again.

A minute's silence, and the youth spake on: "Dearest, I have a fearful thing to bear" (A pain-cloud crossed his face, and then was gone) "At midnight, when the moon sets; wilt thou dare To go with me, or must I go alone To meet an agony that will not spare?" She spoke not, rose, and towards her mantle went; His eyes did thank her—she was well content.

"Not yet, not yet; it is not time; for see The hands have far to travel to the hour; Yet time is scarcely left for telling thee The past and present, and the coming power Of the great darkness that will fall on me: Roses and jasmine twine the bridal bower— If ever bower and bridal joy be mine, Horror and darkness must that bower entwine."

Under his head the maiden put her arm, And knelt beside, half leaning on his breast; As, soul and body, she would shield all harm From him whose love had made her being blest; And well the healing of her eyes might charm His doubting thoughts again to trusting rest. He drew and hid her face his heart upon, Then spoke with low voice sounding changeless on.

Strange words they were, and fearful, that he spake; The maiden moved not once, nor once replied; And ever as he spoke, the wind did make A feebler moan until away it died; Then the rain ceased, and not a movement brake The silence, save the clock that did divide The hours into quick moments, sparks of time Scorching the soul that watcheth for the chime.

He spoke of sins that pride had caused in him; Of sufferings merciful, and wanderings wild; Of fainting noontides, and of oceans dim; Of earthly beauty that had oft beguiled; And then the sudden storm and contest grim; From each emerging new-born, more a child; Wandering again throughout the teaching earth, No rest attaining, only a new birth.

"But when I find a heart that's like to mine, With love to live through the unloving hour, Folded in faith, like violets that have lien Folded in warm earth, till the sunny shower Calleth them forth; thoughts with my thoughts to twine, Weaving around us both a fragrant bower, Where we within may sleep, together drawn, Folded in love until the morning dawn;

"Then shall I rest, my weary day's work o'er, A deep sleep bathing, steeping all my soul, Dissolving out the earth-stains evermore. Thou too shalt sleep with me, and be made whole. All, all time's billows over us shall pour, Then ebb away, and far beneath us roll: We shall behold them like a stormy lake, 'Neath the clear height of peace where we awake."

Her face on his, her lips on his lips pressed, Was the sole answer that the maiden made. With both his arms he held her to his breast; 'Twas but a moment; yet, before he said One other word, of power to strengthen, lest She should give way amid the trial dread, The clock gave out the warning to the hour, And on the thatch fell sounds as of a shower.

One long kiss, and the maiden rose. A fear Fell like a shadow dim upon her heart, A trembling as at something ghostly near; But she was bold, for they were not to part. Then the youth rose, his cheek pale, his eyes clear; And helped the maid, whose trembling hands did thwart Her haste to tie her gathered mantle's fold; Then forth they went into the midnight cold.

The moon was sunken low in the dim west, Curled upwards on the steep horizon's brink, A leaf of glory falling to its rest. The maiden's hand, still trembling, scarce could link Her to his side; but his arm round her waist Stole gently; so she walked, and did not sink; Her hand on his right side soon held him fast, And so together wound, they onward passed.

And, clinging to his side, she felt full well The strong and measured beating of his heart; But as the floating moon aye lower fell, Slowly she felt its bounding force depart, Till like a throbbing bird; nor can she tell Whether it beats, at length; and with a start She felt the arm relax around her flung, And on her circling arm he leaned and hung.

But as his steps more and more feeble grow, She feels her strength and courage rise amain. He lifted up his head; the moon was low, Almost on the world's edge. A smile of pain Was on his lips, as his large eyes turned slow Seeking for hers; which, like a heavy rain, Poured love on him in many a love-lit gleam. So they walked like two souls, linked by one dream.[2]

[Footnote 2:

In a lovely garden walking, Two lovers went hand in hand; Two wan, sick figures, talking, They sat in the flowery land.

On the cheek they kissed each other, And they kissed upon the mouth; Fast clasped they one another— And back came their health and youth.

Two little bells rang shrilly, And the dream went with the hour: She lay in the cloister stilly, He far in the dungeon-tower.

Translated from Uhland.]

Hanging his head, behind each came a hound, With slow and noiseless paws upon the road. What is that shining on the weedy ground? Nought but the bright eyes of the dingy toad. The silent pines range every way around; A deep stream on the left side hardly flowed. Their path is towards the moon, dying alone— It touches the horizon, dips, is gone.

Its last gleam fell upon dim glazed eyes; An old man tottered feebly in her hold, Stooping with bended knees that could not rise; Nor longer could his arm her waist infold. The maiden trembled; but through this disguise Her love beheld what never could grow old; And so the aged man, she, young and warm, Clasped closer yet with her supporting arm.

Till with short, dragging steps, he turned aside Into a closer thicket of tall firs, Whose bare, straight, slender stems behind them hide A smooth grey rock. Not a pine-needle stirs Till they go in. Then a low wind blows wide O'er their cone-tops. It swells until it whirrs Through the long stems, as if aeolian chords For moulding mystic sounds in lack of words.

But as they entered by a narrow cleft Into the rock's heart, suddenly it ceased; And the tall pines stood still as if bereft Of a strong passion, or from pain released; Once more they wove their strange, dark, moveless weft O'er the dull midnight sky; and in the East A mist arose and clomb the skyey stairs; And like sad thoughts the bats came unawares.

'Tis a dark chamber for the bridal night, O poor, pale, saviour bride! A faint rush-lamp He kindled with his shaking hands; its light Painted a tiny halo on the damp That filled the cavern to its unseen height, Like a death-candle on the midnight swamp. Within, each side the entrance, lies a hound, With liquid light his green eyes gleaming round.

A couch just raised above the rocky floor, Of withered oak and beech-leaves, that the wind Had tossed about till weary, covered o'er With skins of bears which feathery mosses lined, And last of lambs, with wool long, soft, and hoar, Received the old man's bended limbs reclined. Gently the maiden did herself unclothe, And lay beside him, trusting, and not loath.

Again the storm among the trees o'erhead; The hounds pricked up their ears, their eyes flashed fire; Seemed to the trembling maiden that a tread Light, and yet clear, amid the wind's loud ire, As dripping feet o'er smooth slabs hither sped, Came often up, as with a fierce desire, To enter, but as oft made quick retreat; And looking forth the hounds stood on their feet.

Then came, half querulous, a whisper old, Feeble and hollow as from out a chest: "Take my face on your bosom, I am cold." Straightway she bared her bosom's white soft nest; And then his head, her gentle hands, love-bold, With its grey withered face against her pressed. Ah, maiden! it was very old and chill, But thy warm heart beneath it grew not still.

Again the wind falls, and the rain-clouds pour, Rushing to earth; and soon she heard the sound Of a fierce torrent through the thick night roar; The lamp went out as by the darkness drowned; No more the morn will dawn, oh, never more! Like centuries the feeble hours went round; Dead night lay o'er her, clasping, as she lay, Within her holy place, unburied clay.

The hours stood still; her life sunk down so low, That, but for wretchedness, no life she knew. A charnel wind sung on a moaning—No; Earth's centre was the grave from which it blew; Earth's loves and beauties all passed sighing slow, Roses and lilies, children, friends, the few; But so transparent blanched in every part, She saw the pale worm lying in each heart.

And worst of all, O death of gladsome life! A voice within awoke and cried: In sooth, There is no need of sorrow, care, and strife; For all that women beauty call, and truth, Is but a glow from hearts with fancy rife, Passing away with slowly fading youth. Gaze on them narrowly, they waver, blot; Look at them fixedly, and they are not.

And all the answer the poor child could make Lay in the tightened grasp of her two hands; She felt as if she lay mouldering awake Within the sepulchre's fast stony bands, And cared not though she died, but for his sake. And the dark horror grew like drifting sands, Till nought seemed beautiful, not God, nor light; And yet she braved the false, denying night.

But after hope was dead, a faint, light streak Crept through a crevice in the rocky wall; It fell upon her bosom and his cheek. From God's own eye that light-glance seemed to fall. Backward he drew his head, and did not speak, But gazed with large deep eyes angelical Upon her face. Old age had fled away— Youth everlasting in her bosom lay.

With a low cry of joy closer she crept, And on his bosom hid a face that glowed, Seeking amends for terror while he slept. She had been faithful: the beloved owed Love, youth, and gladness unto her who wept Gushingly on his heart. Her warm tears flowed A baptism for the life that would not cease; And when the sun arose, they slept in peace.



A PRAYER FOR THE PAST.

All sights and sounds of every year, All groups and forms, each leaf and gem, Are thine, O God, nor need I fear To speak to Thee of them.

Too great thy heart is to despise; Thy day girds centuries about; From things which we count small, thine eyes See great things looking out.

Therefore this prayerful song I sing May come to Thee in ordered words; Therefore its sweet sounds need not cling In terror to their chords.

* * * * *

I know that nothing made is lost; That not a moon hath ever shone, That not a cloud my eyes hath crost, But to my soul hath gone.

That all the dead years garnered lie In this gem-casket, my dim soul; And that thy hand may, once, apply The key that opes the whole.

But what lies dead in me, yet lives In Thee, whose Parable is—Time, And Worlds, and Forms, and Sound that gives Words and the music-chime.

And after my next coming birth, The new child's prayer will rise to Thee: To hear again the sounds of Earth, Its sights again to see.

With child's glad eyes to see once more The visioned glories of the gloom, With climbing suns, and starry store, Ceiling my little room.

O call again the moons that glide Behind old vapours sailing slow; Lost sights of solemn skies that slide O'er eyelids sunken low.

Show me the tides of dawning swell, And lift the world's dim eastern eye, And the dark tears that all night fell With radiance glorify.

First I would see, oh, sore bereft! My father's house, my childhood's home; Where the wild snow-storms raved, and left White mounds of frozen foam.

Till, going out one dewy morn, A man was turning up the mould; And in our hearts the spring was born, Crept hither through the cold.

And with the glad year I would go, The troops of daisies round my feet; Flying the kite, or, in the glow Of arching summer heat,

Outstretched in fear upon the bank, Lest gazing up on awful space, I should fall down into the blank From off the round world's face.

And let my brothers be with me To play our old games yet again; And all should go as lovingly As now that we are men.

If over Earth the shade of Death Passed like a cloud's wide noiseless wing, We'd tell a secret, in low breath: "Mind, 'tis a dream of Spring.

"And in this dream, our brother's gone Upstairs; he heard our father call; For one by one we go alone, Till he has gathered all."

Father, in joy our knees we bow; This earth is not a place of tombs: We are but in the nursery now; They in the upper rooms.

For are we not at home in Thee, And all this world a visioned show; That, knowing what Abroad is, we What Home is, too, may know?

And at thy feet I sit, O Lord, As years ago, in moonlight pale, I sat and heard my father's word Reading a lofty tale.

So in this vision I would go Still onward through the gliding years, Reaping great Noontide's joyous glow, Still Eve's refreshing tears.

One afternoon sit pondering In that old chair, in that old room, Where passing pigeon's sudden wing Flashed lightning through the gloom.

There, try once more with effort vain, To mould in one perplexed things; And find the solace yet again Faith in the Father brings.

Or on my horse go wandering round, Mid desert moors and mountains high; While storm-clouds, darkly brooding, found In me another sky.

For so thy Visible grew mine, Though half its power I could not know; And in me wrought a work divine, Which Thou hadst ordered so;

Filling my brain with form and word From thy full utterance unto men; Shapes that might ancient Truth afford, And find it words again.

Till Spring, in after years of youth, Wove its dear form with every form; Now a glad bursting into Truth, Now a low sighing storm.

But in this vision of the Past, Spring-world to summer leading in, Whose joys but not whose sorrows last, I have left out the sin.

I picture but development, Green leaves unfolding to their fruits, Expanding flowers, aspiring scent, But not the writhing roots.

Then follow English sunsets, o'er A warm rich land outspread below; A green sea from a level shore, Bright boats that come and go.

And one beside me in whose eyes Old Nature found a welcome home, A treasury of changeful skies Beneath a changeless dome.

But will it still be thus, O God? And shall I always wish to see And trace again the hilly road By which I went to Thee?

We bend above a joy new given, That gives new feelings gladsome birth; A living gift from one in heaven To two upon the earth.

Are no days creeping softly on Which I should tremble to renew? I thank thee, Lord, for what is gone— Thine is the future too.

And are we not at home in Thee, And all this world a visioned show; That knowing what Abroad is, we What Home is, too, may know?



FAR AND NEAR.

[The fact to which the following verses refer, is related by Dr. Edward Clarke in his Travels.]

Blue sunny skies above; below, A blue and sunny sea; A world of blue, wherein did blow One soft wind steadily.

In great and solemn heaves, the mass Of pulsing ocean beat, Unwrinkled as the sea of glass Beneath the holy feet.

With forward leaning of desire, The ship sped calmly on, A pilgrim strong that would not tire, Nor hasten to be gone.

The mouth of the mysterious Nile, Full thirty leagues away, Breathed in his ear old tales to wile Old Ocean as he lay.

Low on the surface of the sea Faint sounds like whispers glide Of lovers talking tremulously, Close by the vessel's side.

Or as within a sleeping wood A windy sigh awoke, And fluttering all the leafy brood, The summer-silence broke.

A wayward phantasy might say That little ocean-maids Were clapping little hands of play, Deep down in ocean-glades.

The traveller by land and flood, The man of ready mind, Much questioning the reason, stood— No answer could he find.

That day, on Egypt's distant land, And far from off the shore, Two nations fought with armed hand, With bellowing cannon's roar.

That fluttering whisper, low and near, Was the far battle-blare; An airy rippling motion here, The blasting thunder there.

And so this aching in my breast, Dim, faint, and undefined, May be the sound of far unrest, Borne on the spirit's wind;

The uproar of the battle fought Betwixt the bond and free; The thundering roll in whispers brought From Heaven's artillery.



MY ROOM.

To G.E.M.

'Tis a little room, my friend; A baby-walk from end to end; All the things look sadly real, This hot noontide's Unideal. Seek not refuge at the casement, There's no pasture for amazement But a house most dim and rusty, And a street most dry and dusty; Seldom here more happy vision Than water-cart's blest apparition, We'll shut out the staring space, Draw the curtains in its face.

Close the eyelids of the room, Fill it with a scarlet gloom: Lo! the walls on every side Are transformed and glorified; Ceiled as with a rosy cloud Furthest eastward of the crowd, Blushing faintly at the bliss Of the Titan's good-night kiss, Which her westward sisters share,— Crimson they from breast to hair. 'Tis the faintest lends its dye To my room—ah, not the sky! Worthy though to be a room Underneath the wonder-dome: Look around on either hand, Are we not in fairy-land? In the ruddy atmosphere All familiar things appear Glowing with a mystery In the red light shadowy; Lasting bliss to you and me, Colour only though it be.

Now on the couch, inwrapt in mist Of vapourized amethyst, Lie, as in a rose's heart; Secret things I will impart; Any time you would receive them; Easier though you will believe them In dissolving dreamy red, Self-same radiance that is shed From the summer-heart of Poet, Flushing those that never know it. Tell me not the light thou viewest Is a false one; 'tis the truest; 'Tis the light revealing wonder, Filling all above and under; If in light you make a schism, 'Tis the deepest in the prism.

The room looks common; but the fact is 'Tis a cell of magic practice, So disguised by common daylight, By its disenchanting grey light, Only spirit-eyes, mesmeric, See its glories esoteric. There, that case against the wall, Glowingly purpureal! A piano to the prosy— Not to us in twilight rosy: 'Tis a cave where Nereids lie. Naiads, Dryads, Oreads sigh, Dreaming of the time when they Danced in forest and in bay. In that chest before your eyes, Nature's self enchanted lies; Awful hills and midnight woods; Sunny rains in solitudes; Deserts of unbounded longing; Blessed visions, gladness thronging;

All this globe of life unfoldeth In phantom forms that coffer holdeth. True, unseen; for 'tis enchanted— What is that but kept till wanted? Do you hear that voice of singing? 'Tis the enchantress that is flinging Spells around her baby's riot, Music's oil the waves to quiet: She at once can disenchant them, To a lover's wish to grant them; She can make the treasure casket Yield its riches, as that basket Yielded up the gathered flowers; Yet its mines, and fields, and bowers, Full remain, as mother Earth Never tired of giving birth.

Do you doubt me? Wait till night Brings black hours and white delight; Then, as now, your limbs outstretching, Yield yourself to her bewitching. She will bring a book of spells Writ like crabbed oracles; Wherewith necromantic fingers Raise the ghosts of parted singers: Straight your senses will be bound In a net of torrent sound. For it is a silent fountain, Fed by springs from unseen mountain.

Till with gestures cabalistic, Crossing, lining figures mystic, (Diagram most mathematic, Simple to these signs erratic,) O'er the seals her quick hands going Loose the rills and set them flowing: Pent up music rushing out Bathes thy spirit all about; Spell-bound nature, freed again, Joyous revels in thy brain.

On a mountain-top you stand, Looking o'er a sunny land; Giant forces marching slow, Rank on rank, the great hills go, On and on without a stay, Melting in the blue away. Wondrous light, more wondrous shading; High relief in faintness fading; Branching streams, like silver veins, Meet and part in dells and plains. There a woody hollow lies, Dumb with love, and bright with eyes; Moorland tracks of broken ground Rising o'er, it all around: Traveller climbing from the grove Needs the tender heavens above. "Ah, my pictured life," you cry, "Fading into sea and sky!"

Lost in thought that gently grieves you, All the fairy landscape leaves you; Sinks the sadness into rest, Ripple-like on water's breast; Mother's bosom rests the daughter,— Grief the ripple, Love the water. All the past is strangely blended In a mist of colours splendid, But chaotic as to form, An unfeatured beauty-storm.

Wakes within, the ancient mind For a gloriousness defined: As she sought and knew your pleasure,— Wiling with a dancing measure, Underneath your closed eyes She calls the shapes of clouded skies; White forms flushing hyacinthine Twine in curvings labyrinthine; Seem with godlike graceful feet, For such mazy motion meet, To press from air each lambent note, On whose throbbing fire they float; With an airy wishful gait On each others' motion wait; Naked arms and vesture free Fill up the dance of harmony.

Gone the measure polyhedral! Springs aloft a high cathedral; Every arch, like praying arms Upward flung in love's alarms, Knit by clasped hands o'erhead, Heaves to heaven the weight of dread. Underneath thee, like a cloud, Gathers music, dim not loud, Swells thy bosom with devotion, Floats thee like a wave of ocean; Vanishes the pile away,— In heaven thou kneelest down to pray.

Let the sounds but reach thy heart, Straight thyself magician art; Walkest open-eyed through earth; Seest wonders in their birth, Whence they come and whither go; Thou thyself exalted so, Nature's consciousness, whereby On herself she turns her eye. Only heed thou worship God; Else thou stalkest on thy sod, Puppet-god of picture-world, For thy foolish gaze unfurled; Mirror-thing of things below thee. Thy own self can never know thee; Not a high and holy actor; A reflector, and refractor; Helpless in thy gift of light, Self-consuming into night.

Lasting yet the roseate glory! I must hasten with my story Of the little room's true features, Seldom seen by mortal creatures; Lest my prophet-vision fading Leave me in the darkness wading. What are those upon the wall, Ranged in rows symmetrical? They are books, an owl would say; But the owl's night is the day: Of these too, if you have patience, I can give you revelations: Through the walls of Time and Sight, Doors they are to the Infinite; Through the limits that embrace us, Openings to the eternal spaces, Round us all the noisy day, Full of silences alway; Round us all the darksome night, Ever full of awful light: And, though closed, may still remind us There is mystery behind us.

That, my friend? Now, it is curious, You should hit upon the spurious! 'Tis a blind, a painted door: Knock at it for evermore, Never vision it affords But its panelled gilded boards; Behind it lieth nought at all, But the limy, webby wall. Oh no, not a painted block— Not the less a printed mock; A book, 'tis true; no whit the more A revealing out-going door. There are two or three such books For a while in others' nooks; Where they should no longer be, But for reasons known to me.

Do not open that one though. It is real; but if you go Careless to it, as to dance, You'll see nothing for your glance; Blankness, deafness, blindness, dumbness, Soon will stare you to a numbness. No, my friend; it is not wise To open doors into the skies, As into a little study, Where a feeble brain grows muddy. Wait till night, and you shall be Left alone with mystery; Light this lamp's white softened ray, (Another wonder by the way,) Then with humble faith and prayer, Ope the door with patient care: Yours be calmness then, and strength For the sight you see at length.

Sometimes, after trying vainly, With much effort, forced, ungainly, To entice the rugged door To yield up its wondrous lore, With a sudden burst of thunder All its frame is dashed asunder; The gulfy silence, lightning-fleet, Shooteth hellward at thy feet. Take thou heed lest evil terror Snare thee in a downward error, Drag thee through the narrow gate, Give thee up to windy fate, To be blown for evermore Up and down without a shore; For to shun the good as ill Makes the evil bolder still. But oftener far the portal opes With the sound of coming hopes; On the joy-astonished eyes Awful heights of glory rise; Mountains, stars, and dreadful space, The Eternal's azure face. In storms of silence self is drowned, Leaves the soul a gulf profound, Where new heavens and earth arise, Rolling seas and arching skies.

Gathers slow a vapour o'er thee From the ocean-depths before thee: Lo! the vision all hath vanished, Thou art left alone and banished; Shut the door, thou findest, groping, Without chance of further oping. Thou must wait until thy soul Rises nearer to its goal; Till more childhood strength has given— Then approach this gate of Heaven: It will open as before, Yielding wonders, yet in store For thee, if thou wilt turn to good Things already understood.

Why I let such useless lumber Useful bookshelves so encumber? I will tell thee; for thy question Of wonders brings me to the best one. There's a future wonder, may be— Sure a present magic baby; (Patience, friend, I know your looks— What has that to do with books?) With her sounds of molten speech Quick a parent's heart to reach, Though uncoined to words sedate, Or even to sounds articulate; Yet sweeter than the music's flowing, Which doth set her music going. Now our highest wonder-duty Is with this same wonder-beauty; How, with culture high and steady, To unfold a magic-lady; How to keep her full of wonder At all things above and under; Her from childhood never part, Change the brain, but keep the heart. She is God's child all the time; On all the hours the child must climb, As on steps of shining stairs Leading up the path of prayers. So one lesson from our looks, Must be this: to honour books, As a strange and mystic band Which she cannot understand; Scarce to touch them without fear, Never, but when I am near, As a priest, to temple-rite Leading in the acolyte. But when she has older grown, And can see a difference shown,

She must learn, 'tis not appearing Makes a book fit for revering; To distinguish and divide 'Twixt the form and soul inside; That a book is more than boards, Leaves and words in gathered hordes, Which no greater good can do man Than the goblin hollow woman, Or a pump without a well, Or priest without an oracle. Form is worthless, save it be Type of an infinity; Sign of something present, true, Though unopened to the view, Heady in its bosom holding What it will be aye unfolding, Never uttering but in part, From an unexhausted heart. Sight convincing to her mind, I will separate kind from kind, Take those books, though honoured by her Lay them on the study fire, For their form's sake somewhat tender, Yet consume them to a cinder; Years of reverence shall not save them From the greedy flames that crave them. You shall see this slight Immortal, Half-way yet within life's portal; Gathering gladness, she looks back, Streams it forward on her track; Wanders ever in the dance Of her own sweet radiance. Though the glory cease to burn, Inward only it will turn; Make her hidden being bright, Make herself a lamp of light; And a second gate of birth Will take her to another earth.

But, my friend, I've rattled plenty To suffice for mornings twenty; And I must not toss you longer On this torrent waxing stronger. Other things, past contradiction, Here would prove I spoke no fiction, Did I lead them up, choragic, To reveal their nature magic. There is that machine, glass-masked, With continual questions tasked, Ticking with untiring rock: It is called an eight-day clock. But to me the thing appears Made for winding up the years, Drawing on, fast as it can, The day when comes the Son of Man.

On the sea the sunshine broods, And the shining tops of woods; We will leave these oracles, Finding others 'mid the hills.



SYMPATHY.

Grief held me silent in my seat, I neither moved nor smiled: Joy held her silent at my feet, My little lily-child.

She raised her face; she seemed to feel That she was left outside; She said one word with childish zeal That would not be denied.

Twice more my name, with infant grace; Sole word her lips could mould! Her face was pulling at my face— She was but ten months old.

I know not what were my replies— I thought: dost Thou, O God, Need ever thy poor children's eyes, To ease thee of thy load?

They find not Thee in evil case, But, raised in sorrow wild, Bring down from visiting thy face The calmness of a child.

Thou art the depth of Heaven above— The springing well in her; Not Father only in thy love, But daily minister.

And this is how the comfort slid From her to me the while,— It was thy present face that did Smile on me from her smile.



LITTLE ELFIE.

I have an elfish maiden child; She is not two years old; Through windy locks her eyes gleam wild, With glances shy and bold.

Like little imps, her tiny hands Dart out and push and take; Chide her—a trembling thing she stands, And like two leaves they shake.

But to her mind a minute gone Is like a year ago; So when you lift your eyes anon, They're at it, to and fro.

Sometimes, though not oppressed with thought, She has her sleepless fits; Then to my room in blanket brought, In round-backed chair she sits;

Where, if by chance in graver mood, A hermit she appears, Seated in cave of ancient wood, Grown very still with years.

Then suddenly the pope she is, A playful one, I know; For up and down, now that, now this, Her feet like plash-mill go.

Why like the pope? She's at it yet, Her knee-joints flail-like go: Unthinking man! it is to let Her mother kiss each toe.

But if I turn away and write, Then sudden look around, I almost tremble; tall and white She stands upon the ground.

In long night-gown, a tiny ghost, She stands unmoving there; Or if she moves, my wits were lost To meet her on the stair!

O Elfie, make no haste to lose Thy lack of conscious sense; Thou hast the best gift I could choose, A God-like confidence.



THE THANK OFFERING.

My little child receives my gift, A simple piece of bread; But to her mouth she doth not lift The love in bread conveyed, Till on my lips, unerring, swift, The morsel first is laid.

This is her grace before her food, This her libation poured; Uplift, like offering Aaron good Heaved up unto the Lord; More riches in the thanks than could A thousand gifts afford!

My Father, every gift of thine, Teach me to lift to Thee; Not else know I the love divine, With which it comes to me; Not else the tenfold gift is mine Of taking thankfully.

Yea, all my being I would lift, An offering of me; Then only truly mine the gift, When so received by Thee; Then shall I go, rejoicing, swift, Through thine Eternity.



THE BURNT OFFERING.

Is there a man on earth, who, every night, When the day hath exhausted each strong limb, Lays him upon his bed in chamber dim, And his heart straightway trembling with delight, Begins to burn up towards the vaulted height Of the great peace that overshadows him? Like flakes of fire his thoughts within him swim, Till all his soul is radiant, blazing bright. The great earth under him an altar is, Upon whose top a sacrifice he lies, Burning to God up through the nightly skies, Whose love, warm-brooding o'er him, kindled his; Until his flaming thoughts, consumed, expire, Sleep's ashes covering the yet glowing fire.



FOUR SONNETS

Inscribed to S.F.S., because the second is about her father.

I.

They say that lonely sorrows do not chance. I think it true, and that the cause I know: A sorrow glideth in a funeral show Easier than if it broke into a dance. But I think too, that joy doth joy enhance As often as an added grief brings low; And if keen-eyed to see the flowers that grow, As keen of nerve to feel the thorns that lance The foot that must walk naked in one way— Blest by the lily, white from toils and fears, Oftener than wounded by the thistle-spears, We should walk upright, bold, and earnest-gay. I'll tell you how it fared with me one day After noon in a world, so-called, of tears.

II.

I went to listen to my teacher friend. O Friend above, thanks for the friend below! Who having been made wise, deep things to know, With brooding spirit over them doth bend, Until they waken words, as wings, to send Their seeds far forth, seeking a place to grow. The lesson past, with quiet foot I go, And towards his silent room, expectant wend, Seeking a blessing, even leave to dwell For some eternal minutes in his eyes. And he smiled on me in his loving wise; His hand spoke friendship, satisfied me well; My presence was some pleasure, I could tell. Then forth we went beneath the smoky skies.

III.

I, strengthened, left him. Next in a close place, Mid houses crowded, dingy, barred, and high, Where men live not except to sell and buy, To me, leaving a doorway, came a grace. (Surely from heaven she came, though all that race Walketh on human feet beneath the sky.) I, going on, beheld not who was nigh, When a sweet girl looked up into my face With earnest eyes, most maidenly sedate— Looked up to me, as I to him did look: 'Twas much to me whom sometimes men mistook. She asked me where we dwelt, that she might wait Upon us there. I told her, and elate, Went on my way to seek another nook.

IV.

And there I found him whom I went to find, A man of noble make and head uplift, Of equal carriage, Nature's bounteous gift; For in no shelter had his generous mind Grown flowers that need the winds, rough not unkind. The joiner's bench taught him, with judgment swift, Seen things to fashion, unseen things to sift; From all his face a living soul outshined, Telling of strength and inward quietude; His great hand shook mine greatly, and his eyes Looked straight in mine with spiritual replies: I left him, rich with overflowing good. Such joys within two hours of happy mood, Met me beneath the everlasting skies.



SONNET.

(Exodus xxxiii. 18-23.)

"I do beseech Thee, God, show me thy face." "Come up to me in Sinai on the morn: Thou shalt behold as much as may be borne." And Moses on a rock stood lone in space. From Sinai's top, the vaporous, thunderous place, God passed in clouds, an earthly garment worn To hide, and thus reveal. In love, not scorn, He put him in a cleft in the rock's base, Covered him with his hand, his eyes to screen, Then passed, and showed his back through mists of years. Ah, Moses! had He turned, and hadst thou seen The pale face crowned with thorns, baptized with tears, The eyes of the true man, by men belied, Thou hadst beheld God's face, and straightway died.



EIGHTEEN SONNETS,

About Jesus.

I.

If Thou hadst been a sculptor, what a race Of forms divine had ever preached to men! Lo, I behold thy brow, all glorious then, (Its reflex dawning on the statue's face) Bringing its Thought to birth in human grace, The soul of the grand form, upstarting, when Thou openest thus thy mysteries to our ken, Striking a marble window through blind space. But God, who mouldeth in life-plastic clay, Flashing his thoughts from men with living eyes, Not from still marble forms, changeless alway, Breathed forth his human self in human guise: Thou didst appear, walking unknown abroad, The son of man, the human, subject God.

II.

"There, Buonarotti, stands thy statue. Take Possession of the form; inherit it; Go forth upon the earth in likeness fit; As with a trumpet-cry at morning, wake The sleeping nations; with light's terror, shake The slumber from their hearts; and, where they sit, Let them leap up aghast, as at a pit Agape beneath." I hear him answer make: "Alas! I dare not; I could not inform That image; I revered as I did trace; I will not dim the glory of its grace, Nor with a feeble spirit mock the enorm Strength on its brow." Thou cam'st, God's thought thy form, Living the large significance of thy face.

III.

Some men I have beheld with wonderment, Noble in form and feature, God's design, In whom the thought must search, as in a mine, For that live soul of theirs, by which they went Thus walking on the earth. And I have bent Frequent regard on women, who gave sign That God willed Beauty, when He drew the line That shaped each float and fold of Beauty's tent; But the soul, drawing up in little space, Thus left the form all staring, self-dismayed, A vacant sign of what might be the grace If mind swelled up, and filled the plan displayed: Each curve and shade of thy pure form were Thine, Thy very hair replete with the divine.

IV.

If Thou hadst been a painter, what fresh looks, What shining of pent glories, what new grace Had burst upon us from the great Earth's face! How had we read, as in new-languaged books, Clear love of God in lone retreating nooks! A lily, as thy hand its form would trace, Were plainly seen God's child, of lower race; And, O my heart, blue hills! and grassy brooks! Thy soul lay to all undulations bare, Answering in waves. Each morn the sun did rise, And God's world woke beneath life-giving skies, Thou sawest clear thy Father's meanings there; 'Mid Earth's Ideal, and expressions rare, The ideal Man, with the eternal eyes.

V.

But I have looked on pictures made by man, Wherein, at first, appeared but chaos wild; So high the art transcended, it beguiled The eye as formless, and without a plan; Until the spirit, brooding o'er, began To see a purpose rise, like mountains piled, When God said: Let the dry earth, undefiled, Rise from the waves: it rose in twilight wan. And so I fear thy pictures were too strange For us to pierce beyond their outmost look; A vapour and a darkness; a sealed book; An atmosphere too high for wings to range: At God's designs our spirits pale and change, Trembling as at a void, thought cannot brook.

VI.

And is not Earth thy living picture, where Thou utterest beauty, simple and profound, In the same form by wondrous union bound; Where one may see the first step of the stair, And not the next, for brooding vapours there? And God is well content the starry round Should wake the infant's inarticulate sound, Or lofty song from bursting heart of prayer. And so all men of low or lofty mind, Who in their hearts hear thy unspoken word, Have lessons low or lofty, to their kind, In these thy living shows of beauty, Lord; While the child's heart that simply childlike is, Knows that the Father's face looks full in his.

VII.

If Thou hadst been a Poet! On my heart The thought dashed. It recoiled, as, with the gift, Light-blinded, and joy-saddened, so bereft. And the hot fountain-tears, with sudden start, Thronged to mine eyes, as if with that same smart The husk of vision had in twain been cleft, Its hidden soul in naked beauty left, And we beheld thee, Nature, as thou art. O Poet, Poet, Poet! at thy feet I should have lien, sainted with listening; My pulses answering aye, in rhythmic beat, Each parting word that with melodious wing Moved on, creating still my being sweet; My soul thy harp, thy word the quivering string.

VIII.

Thou wouldst have led us through the twilight land Where spirit shows by form, form is refined Away to spirit by transfiguring mind, Till they are one, and in the morn we stand; Treading thy footsteps, children, hand in hand, With sense divinely growing, till, combined, We heard the music of the planets wind In harmony with billows on the strand; Till, one with Earth and all God's utterance, We hardly knew whether the sun outspake, Or a glad sunshine from our spirits brake; Whether we think, or windy leaflets dance: Alas, O Poet Leader! for this good, Thou wert God's tragedy, writ in tears and blood.

IX.

So if Thou hadst been scorned in human eyes, Too bright and near to be a glory then; If as Truth's artist, Thou hadst been to men A setter forth of strange divinities; To after times, Thou, born in midday skies, A sun, high up, out-blazing sudden, when Its light had had its centuries eight and ten To travel through the wretched void that lies 'Twixt souls and truth, hadst been a Love and Fear, Worshipped on high from Magian's mountain-crest, And all night long symbol'd by lamp-flames clear; Thy sign, a star upon thy people's breast, Where now a strange mysterious shape doth lie, That once barred out the sun in noontide sky.

X.

But as Thou earnest forth to bring the Poor, Whose hearts were nearer faith and verity, Spiritual childhood, thy philosophy,— So taught'st the A, B, C of heavenly lore; Because Thou sat'st not, lonely evermore, With mighty thoughts informing language high; But, walking in thy poem continually, Didst utter acts, of all true forms the core; Instead of parchment, writing on the soul High thoughts and aspirations, being so Thine own ideal; Poet and Poem, lo! One indivisible; Thou didst reach thy goal Triumphant, but with little of acclaim, Even from thine own, escaping not their blame.

XI.

The eye was shut in men; the hearing ear Dull unto deafness; nought but earthly things Had credence; and no highest art that flings A spirit radiance from it, like the spear Of the ice-pointed mountain, lifted clear In the nigh sunrise, had made skyey springs Of light in the clouds of dull imaginings: Vain were the painter or the sculptor here. Give man the listening heart, the seeing eye; Give life; let sea-derived fountain well, Within his spirit, infant waves, to tell Of the far ocean-mysteries that lie Silent upon the horizon,—evermore Falling in voices on the human shore.

XII.

So highest poets, painters, owe to Thee Their being and disciples; none were there, Hadst Thou not been; Thou art the centre where The Truth did find an infinite form; and she Left not the earth again, but made it be One of her robing rooms, where she doth wear All forms of revelation. Artists bear Tapers in acolyte humility. O Poet! Painter! soul of all! thy art Went forth in making artists. Pictures? No; But painters, who in love should ever show To earnest men glad secrets from God's heart. So, in the desert, grass and wild flowers start, When through the sand the living waters go.

XIII.

So, as Thou wert the seed and not the flower, Having no form or comeliness, in chief Sharing thy thoughts with thine acquaintance Grief; Thou wert despised, rejected in thine hour Of loneliness and God-triumphant power. Oh, not three days alone, glad slumber brief, That from thy travail brought Thee sweet relief, Lay'st Thou, outworn, beneath thy stony bower; But three and thirty years, a living seed, Thy body lay as in a grave indeed; A heavenly germ dropt in a desert wide; Buried in fallow soil of grief and need; 'Mid earthquake-storms of fiercest hate and pride, By woman's tears bedewed and glorified.

XIV.

All divine artists, humble, filial, Turn therefore unto Thee, the poet's sun; First-born of God's creation, only done When from Thee, centre-form, the veil did fall, And Thou, symbol of all, heart, coronal, The highest Life with noblest Form made one, To do thy Father's bidding hadst begun; The living germ in this strange planet-ball, Even as thy form in mind of striving saint. So, as the one Ideal, beyond taint, Thy radiance unto all some shade doth yield, In every splendour shadowy revealed: But when, by word or hand, Thee one would paint, Power falls down straightway, speechless, dim-eyed, faint.

XV.

Men may pursue the Beautiful, while they Love not the Good, the life of all the Fair; Keen-eyed for beauty, they will find it where The darkness of their eyes hath power to slay The vision of the good in beauty's ray, Though fruits the same life-giving branches bear. So in a statue they will see the rare Beauty of thought moulded of dull crude clay, While loving joys nor prayer their souls expand. So Thou didst mould thy thoughts in Life not Art; Teaching with human voice, and eye, and hand, That none the beauty from the truth might part: Their oneness in thy flesh we joyous hail— The Holy of Holies' cloud-illumined veil!

XVI.

And yet I fear lest men who read these lines, Should judge of them as if they wholly spake The love I bear Thee and thy holy sake; Saying: "He doth the high name wrong who twines Earth's highest aim with Him, and thus combines Jesus and Art." But I my refuge make In what the Word said: "Man his life shall take From every word:" in Art God first designs,— He spoke the word. And let me humbly speak My faith, that Art is nothing to the act, Lowliest, that to the Truth bears witness meek, Renownless, even unknown, but yet a fact: The glory of thy childhood and thy youth, Was not that Thou didst show, but didst the Truth.

XVII

The highest marble Sorrow vanishes Before a weeping child.[2] The one doth seem, The other is. And wherefore do we dream, But that we live? So I rejoice in this, That Thou didst cast Thyself, in all the bliss Of conscious strength, into Life's torrent stream, (Thy deeds fresh life-springs that with blessings teem) Acting, not painting rainbows o'er its hiss. Forgive me, Lord, if in these verses lie Mean thoughts, and stains of my infirmity; Full well I know that if they were as high In holy song as prophet's ecstasy, 'Tis more to Thee than this, if I, ah me! Speak gently to a child for love of Thee.

[Footnote 2: John Sterling.]

XVIII.

Thou art before me, and I see no more Pilate or soldiers, but the purple flung Around the naked form the scourge had wrung, To naked Truth thus witnessing, before The False and trembling True. As on the shore Of infinite Love and Truth, I kneel among Thy footprints on that pavement; and my tongue Would, but for reverence, cry: "If Thou set'st store By feeble homage, Witness to the Truth, Thou art the King, crowned by thy witnessing!" I die in soul, and fall down worshipping. Art glories vanish, vapours of the morn. Never but Thee was there a man in sooth, Never a true crown but thy crown of thorn.



DEATH AND BIRTH.

A Symbol.

[Sidenote: He looks from his window on the midnight town.]

'Tis the midnight hour; I heard The city clocks give out the word. Seldom are the lamp-rays shed On the quick foot-farer's head, As I sit at my window old, Looking out into the cold, Down along the narrowing street Stretching out below my feet, From base of this primeval block, My old home's foundation rock.

[Sidenote: He renounces Beauty the body for Truth the soul.]

How her windows are uplighted! God in heaven! for this I slighted, Star-profound immensity Brooding ever in the sky! What an earthly constellation Fills those chambers with vibration! Fleeting, gliding, weaving, parting; Light of jewels! flash of eyes! Meeting, changing, wreathing, darting, In a cloud of rainbow-dyes. Soul of light, her eyes are floating Hither, thither, through the cloud, Wandering planets, seeking, noting Chosen stars amid the crowd. Who, as centre-source of motion Draws those dark orbs' spirit-ocean? All the orbs on which they turn Sudden with shooting radiance burn; Mine I felt grow dim with sheen, Sending tribute to their queen: Queen of all the slaves of show— Queen of Truth's free nobles—no. She my wandering eyes might chain, Fill my throbbing burning brain: Beauty lacking Truth within Spirit-homage cannot win. Will is strong, though feeling waver Like the sea to its enslaver— Strong as hills that bar the sea With the word of the decree.

[Sidenote: The Resentment of Genius at the thumbscrews of worldly talent.]

That passing shadow in the street! Well I know it, as is meet! Did he not, before her face, Seek to brand me with disgrace? From the chiselled lips of wit Let the fire-flakes lightly flit, Scorching as the snow that fell On the damned in Dante's hell? With keen-worded opposition, playful, merciless precision, Mocking the romance of Youth, Standing on the sphere of Truth, He on worldly wisdom's plane Rolled it to and fro amain.— Doubtless there it could not lie, Or walk an orbit but the sky.— I, who glowed in every limb, Knowing, could not answer him; But I longed yet more to be What I saw he could not see. So I thank him, for he taught What his wisdom never sought. It were sweet to make him burn With his poverty in turn, Shaming him in those bright eyes, Which to him are more than skies! Whither? whither? Heart, thou knowest Side by side with him thou goest, If thou lend thyself to aught But forgiving, saving thought.

[Sidenote: Repentance.]

[Sidenote: The recess of the window a niche, wherein he beholds all the world of his former walk as the picture of a vain slave.]

Ah! come in; I need your aid. Bring-your tools, as then I said.— There, my friend, build up that niche. "Pardon me, my lord, but which?" That, in which I stood this minute; That one with the picture in it.— "The window, do you mean, my lord? Such, few mansions can afford! Picture is it? 'Tis a show Picture seldom can bestow! City palaces and towers, Forest depths of floating pines, Sloping gardens, shadowed bowers; Use with beauty here combines." True, my friend, seen with your eyes: But in mine 'tis other quite: In that niche the dead world lies, Shadowed over with the night. In that tomb I'll wall it out; Where, with silence all about, Startled only by decay As the ancient bonds give way, Sepulchred in all its charms, Circled in Death's nursing arms, Mouldering without a cross, It may feed itself on loss.

[Sidenote: The Devil Contempt whistling through the mouth of the Saint Renunciation.]

Now go on, lay stone on stone, I will neither sigh nor moan.— Whither, whither, Heart of good?

[Sidenote: Repentance.]

Art thou not, in this thy mood, One of evil, priestly band, With dark robes and lifted hand, Square-faced, stony-visaged men, In a narrow vaulted den, Watching, by the cresset dun, A wild-eyed, pale-faced, staring nun, Who beholds, as, row by row, Grows her niche's choking wall, The blood-red tide of hell below Surge in billowy rise and fall?

[Sidenote: Dying unto sin]

Yet build on; for it is I To the world would gladly die; To the hopes and fears it gave me, To the love that would enslave me, To the voice of blame it raises, To the music of its praises, To its judgments and its favours, To its cares and its endeavours, To the traitor-self that opes Secret gates to cunning hopes;— Dying unto all this need, I shall live a life indeed; Dying unto thee, O Death, Is to live by God's own breath. Therefore thus I close my eyes, Thus I die unto the world; Thus to me the same world dies, Laid aside, a map upfurled. Keep me, God, from poor disdain: When to light I rise again, With a new exultant life Born in sorrow and in strife, Born of Truth and words divine, I will see thee yet again, Dwell in thee, old world of mine, Aid the life within thy men, Helping them to die to thee, And walk with white feet, radiant, free; Live in thee, not on thy love, Breathing air from heaven above.

[Sidenote: Regret at the memory of Beauty, and Appreciation, and Praise.]

Lo! the death-wall grows amain; And in me triumphant pain To and fro and outward goes As I feel my coffin close.— Ah, alas, some beauties vanish! Ah, alas, some strength I banish! Maidens listening with a smile In confiding eyes, the while Truths they loved so well to hear Left my lips. Lo, they draw near! Lo! I see my forehead crowned With a coronal of faces, Where the gleam of living graces Each to other keeps them bound; Leaning forward in a throng, I the centre of their eyes, Voices mute, that erst in song Stilled the heart from all but sighs— Now in thirsty draughts they take At open eyes and ears, the Truth Spoken for their love and youth— Hot, alas! for bare Truth's sake! There were youths that held by me, Youths with slightly furrowed brows, Bent for thought like bended bows; Youths with souls of high degree Said that I alone could teach them, I, one of themselves, could reach them; I alone had insight nurst, Cared for Truth and not for Form, Would not call a man a worm, Saw God's image in the worst. And they said my words were strong, Made their inward longings rise; Even, of mine, a little song, Lark-like, rose into the skies. Here, alas! the self-same folly; 'Twas not for the Truth's sake wholly, Not for sight of the thing seen, But for Insight's sake I ween. Now I die unto all this; Kiss me, God, with thy cold kiss.

[Sidenote: "I dreamed that Allah kissed me, and his kiss was cold."]

All self-seeking I forsake; In my soul a silence make. There was joy to feel I could, That I had some power of good, That I was not vainly tost: Now I'm empty, empty quite; Fill me, God, or I am lost; In my spirit shines no light; All the outer world's wild press Crushes in my emptiness. Am I giving all away? Will the sky be always grey? Never more this heart of mine Beat like heart refreshed with wine? I shall die of misery, If Thou, God, come not to me.

[Sidenote: Dead indeed unto Sin.]

Now 'tis finished. So depart All untruth from out my heart; All false ways of speaking, thinking; All false ways of looking, linking; All that is not true and real, Tending not to God's Ideal: Help me—how shall human breath Word Thy meaning in this death!

[Sidenote: How is no matter, so that he wake to Life and Sight.]

Now come hither. Bring that tool. Its name I know not; but its use Written on its shape in full Tells me it is no abuse If I strike a hole withal Through this thick opposed wall. The rainbow-pavement! Never heed it— What is that, where light is needed? Where? I care not; quickest best. What kind of window would I choose? Foolish man, what sort of hues Would you have to paint the East, When each hill and valley lies Hungering for the sun to rise? 'Tis an opening that I want; Let the light in, that is all; Needful knowledge it will grant. How to frame the window tall. Who at morning ever lies Thinking how to ope his eyes? This room's eyelids I will ope, Make a morning as I may; 'Tis the time for work and hope; Night is waning near the day.

I bethink me, workman priest; It were best to pierce the wall Where the thickness is the least— Nearer there the light-beams fall, Sooner with our dark to mix— That niche where stands the Crucifix. "The Crucifix! what! impious task! Wilt thou break into its shrine? Taint with human the Divine?" Friend, did Godhead wear a mask Of the human? or did it Choose a form for Godhead fit?

[Sidenote: The form must yield to the Truth.]

Brother with the rugged crown Won by being all divine, This my form may come to Thine: Gently thus I lift Thee down; Lovingly, O marble cold, Thee with human hands I fold, And I set Thee thus aside, Human rightly deified! God, by manhood glorified!

[Sidenote: Nothing less than the Cross would satisfy the Godhead for its own assertion and vindication.]

Thinkest thou that Christ did stand Shutting God from out the land? Hiding from His children's eyes Dayspring in the holy skies? Stood He not with loving eye On one side, to bring us nigh? "Doth this form offend you still? God is greater than you see; If you seek to do His will, He will lead you unto me." Then the tender Brother's grace Leads us to the Father's face. As His parting form withdrew, Burst His Spirit on the view. Form completest, radiant white, Sometimes must give way for light, When the eye, itself obscure, Stead of form is needing cure: Washed at morning's sunny brim From the mists that make it dim, Set thou up the form again, And its light will reach the brain. For the Truth is Form allowed, For the glory is the cloud; But the single eye alone Sees with light that is its own, From primeval fountain-head Flowing ere the sun was made; Such alone can be regaled With the Truth by form unveiled; To such an eye his form will be Gushing orb of glory free.

[Sidenote: Striving.]

Stroke on stroke! The frescoed plaster Clashes downward, fast and faster. Now the first stone disengages; Now a second that for ages Bested there as in a rock Yields to the repeated shock. Hark! I heard an outside stone Down the rough rock rumbling thrown!

[Sidenote: Longing.]

Haste thee, haste! I am athirst To behold young Morning, nurst In the lap of ancient Night, Growing visibly to light. There! thank God! a faint light-beam! There! God bless that little stream Of cool morning air that made A rippling on my burning head!

[Sidenote: Alive unto God.]

Now! the stone is outward flung, And the Universe hath sprung Inward on my soul and brain!

[Sidenote: A New Life.]

I am living once again! Out of sorrow, out of strife, Spring aloft to higher life; Parted by no awful cleft From the life that I have left; Only I myself grown purer See its good so much the surer, See its ill with hopeful eye, Frown more seldom, oftener sigh. Dying truly is no loss, For to wings hath grown the cross. Dear the pain of giving up, If Christ enter in and sup. Joy to empty all the heart, That there may be room for Him! Faintness cometh, soon to part, For He fills me to the brim. I have all things now and more; All that I possessed before; In a calmer holier sense, Free from vanity's pretence; And a consciousness of bliss, Wholly mine, by being His. I am nearer to the end Whither all my longings tend. His love in all the bliss I had, Unknown, was that which made me glad; And will shine with glory more, In the forms it took before.

[Sidenote: Beauty returned with Truth.]

Lo! the eastern vapours crack With the sunshine at their back! Lo! the eastern glaciers shine In the dazzling light divine! Lo! the far-off mountains lifting Snow-capt summits in the sky! Where all night the storm was drifting, Whiteness resteth silently! Glorious mountains! God's own places! Surely man upon their faces Climbeth upward nearer Thee Dwelling in Light's Obscurity! Mystic wonders! hope and fear Move together at your sight.

[Sidenote: Silence and Thought.]

That one precipice, whose height I can mete by inches here, Is a thousand fathoms quite. I must journey to your foot, Grow on you as on my root; Feed upon your silent speech, Awful air, and wind, and thunder, Shades, and solitudes, and wonder;

[Sidenote: The Realities of existence must seize on his soul.]

Distances that lengthening roll Onward, on, beyond Thought's reach, Widening, widening on the view; Till the silence touch my soul, Growing calm and vast like you. I will meet Christ on the mountains; Dwell there with my God and Truth;

[Sidenote: Baptism.]

Drink cold water from their fountains, Baptism of an inward youth. Then return when years are by, To teach a great humility;

[Sidenote: Future mission.]

To aspiring youth to show What a hope to them is given: Heaven and Earth at one to know; On the Earth to live in Heaven; Winning thus the hearts of Earth To die into the Heavenly Birth.



EARLY POEMS.



LONGING.

Away from the city's herds! Away from the noisy street! Away from the storm of words, Where hateful and hating meet!

Away from the vapour grey, That like a boding of ill Is blotting the morning gay, And gathers and darkens still!

Away from the stupid book! For, like the fog's weary rest, With anger dull it fills each nook Of my aching and misty breast.

Over some shining shore, There hangeth a space of blue; A parting 'mid thin clouds hoar Where the sunlight is falling through.

The glad waves are kissing the shore Rejoice, and tell it for ever; The boat glides on, while its oar Is flashing out of the river.

Oh to be there with thee! Thou and I only, my love! The sparkling, sands and the sea! And the sunshine of God above!



MY EYES MAKE PICTURES.

"My eyes make pictures, when they are shut." COLERIDGE.

Fair morn, I bring my greeting To lofty skies, and pale, Save where cloud-shreds are fleeting Before the driving gale, The weary branches tossing, Careless of autumn's grief, Shadow and sunlight crossing On each earth-spotted leaf.

I will escape their grieving; And so I close my eyes, And see the light boat heaving Where the billows fall and rise; I see the sunlight glancing Upon its silvery sail, Where a youth's wild heart is dancing, And a maiden growing pale.

And I am quietly pacing The smooth stones o'er and o'er, Where the merry waves are chasing Each other to the shore. Words come to me while listening Where the rocks and waters meet, And the little shells are glistening In sand-pools at my feet.

Away! the white sail gleaming! Again I close my eyes, And the autumn light is streaming From pale blue cloudless skies; Upon the lone hill falling 'Mid the sound of heather-bells, Where the running stream is calling Unto the silent wells.

Along the pathway lonely, My horse and I move slow; No living thing, save only The home-returning crow. And the moon, so large, is peering Up through the white cloud foam; And I am gladly nearing My father's house, my home.

As I were gently dreaming The solemn trees look out; The hills, the waters seeming In still sleep round about; And in my soul are ringing Tones of a spirit-lyre, As my beloved were singing Amid a sister-choir.

If peace were in my spirit, How oft I'd close my eyes, And all the earth inherit, And all the changeful skies! Thus leave the sermon dreary, Thus leave the lonely hearth; No more a spirit weary— A free one of the earth!



DEATH.

When, like a garment flung aside at night, This body lies, or sculpture of cold rest; When through its shaded windows comes no light, And the white hands are folded on its breast;

How will it be with Me, its tenant now? How shall I feel when first I wander out? How look on tears from loved eyes falling? How Look forth upon dim mysteries round about?

Shall I go forth, slow-floating like a mist, Over the city with its crowded walls? Over the trees and meadows where I list? Over the mountains and their ceaseless falls?

Over the red cliffs and fantastic rocks; Over the sea, far-down, fleeting away; White sea-birds shining, and the billowy shocks Heaving unheard their shore-besieging spray?

Or will a veil, o'er all material things Slow-falling; hide them from the spirit's sight; Even as the veil which the sun's radiance flings O'er stars that had been shining all the night?

And will the spirit be entranced, alone, Like one in an exalted opium-dream— Time space, and all their varied dwellers gone; And sunlight vanished, and all things that seem;

Thought only waking; thought that doth not own The lapse of ages, or the change of place; Thought, in which only that which is, is known; The substance here, the form confined to space?

Or as a child that sobs itself to sleep, Wearied with labour which the grown call play, Waking in smiles as soon as morn doth peep, Springs up to labour all the joyous day,

Shall we lie down, weary; and sleep, until Our souls be cleansed by long and dreamless rest; Till of repose we drink our thirsting fill, And wake all peaceful, smiling, pure, and blest?

I know not—only know one needful thing: God is; I shall be ever in His view; I only need strength for the travailing, Will for the work Thou givest me to do.



LESSONS FOR A CHILD.

I.

There breathes not a breath of the morning air, But the spirit of Love is moving there; Not a trembling leaf on the shadowy tree Mingles with thousands in harmony; But the Spirit of God doth make the sound, And the thoughts of the insect that creepeth around. And the sunshiny butterflies come and go, Like beautiful thoughts moving to and fro; And not a wave of their busy wings Is unknown to the Spirit that moveth all things. And the long-mantled moths, that sleep at noon, And dance in the light of the mystic moon— All have one being that loves them all; Not a fly in the spider's web can fall, But He cares for the spider, and cares for the fly; And He cares for each little child's smile or sigh. How it can be, I cannot know; He is wiser than I; and it must be so.

II.

The tree-roots met in the spongy ground, Looking where water lay; Because they met, they twined around, Embraced, and went their way.

Drop dashed on drop, as the rain-shower fell, Yet they strove not, but joined together; And they rose from the earth a bright clear well, Singing in sunny weather.

Sound met sound in the wavy air; They kissed as sisters true; Yet, jostling not on their journey fair, Each on its own path flew.

Wind met wind in a garden green; Each for its own way pled; And a trampling whirlwind danced between, Till the flower of Love lay dead.

III.

To C.C.P.

The bird on the leafy tree, The bird in the cloudy sky, The fish in the wavy sea, The stag on the mountain high, The albatross asleep On the waves of the rocking deep, The bee on its light wing, borne Over the bending corn,— What is the thought in the breast Of the little bird at rest? What is the thought in the songs Which the lark in the sky prolongs? What mean the dolphin's rays, Winding his watery ways? What is the thought of the stag, Stately on yonder crag? What doth the albatross think, Dreaming upon the brink Of the mountain billow, and then Dreaming down in its glen? What is the thought of the bee Fleeting so silently, Flitting from part to part, Speedily, gently roving, Like the love of a thoughtful heart, Ever at rest, and moving? What is the life of their thought? Doth praise their souls employ? I think it can be nought But the trembling movement to and fro Of a bright, life-giving joy. And the God of cloudless days, Who souls and hearts doth know, Taketh their joy for praise, And biddeth its fountains flow.

And if, in thy life on earth, In the chamber, or by the hearth, Mid the crowded city's tide, Or high on the lone hill-side, Thou canst cause a thought of peace, Or an aching thought to cease, Or a gleam of joy to burst On a soul in gladness nurst; Spare not thy hand, my child; Though the gladdened should never know The well-spring amid the wild Whence the waters of blessing flow. Find thy reward in the thing Which thou hast been blest to do; Let the joy of others cause joy to spring Up in thy bosom too. And if the love of a grateful heart As a rich reward be given, Lift thou the love of a grateful heart To the God of Love in Heaven.



HOPE DEFERRED.

Summer is come again. The sun is bright, And the soft wind is breathing. We will joy; And seeing in each other's eyes the light Of the same joy, smile hopeful. Our employ Shall, like the birds', be airy castles, things Built by gay hopes, and fond imaginings, Peopling the land within us. We will tell Of the green hills, and of the silent sea, And of all summer things that calmly dwell, A waiting Paradise for you and me. And if our thoughts should wander upon sorrow, Yet hope will wait upon the far-off morrow.

Look on those leaves. It was not Summer's mouth That breathed that hue upon them. And look there— On that thin tree. See, through its branches bare, How low the sun is in the mid-day South! This day is but a gleam of gladness, flown Back from the past to tell us what is gone. For the dead leaves are falling; and our heart, Which, with the world, is ever changing so, Gives back, in echoes sad and low, The rustling sigh wherewith dead leaves depart: A sound, not murmuring, but faint and wild; A sorrow for the Past that hath no child,— No sweet-voiced child with the bright name of Hope.

We are like you, poor leaves! but have more scope For sorrow; for our summers pass away With a slow, year-long, overshadowing decay. Yea, Spring's first blossom disappears, Slain by the shadow of the coming years.

Come round me, my beloved. We will hold All of us compassed thus: a winter day Is drawing nigh us. We are growing old; And, if we be not as a ring enchanted, About each other's heart, to keep us gay, The young, who claim that joy which haunted Our visions once, will push us far away Into the desolate regions, dim and grey, Where the sea hath no moaning, and the cloud No rain of tears, but apathy doth shroud All being and all time. But, if we keep Together thus, the tide of youth will sweep Round us with thousand joyous waves, As round some palmy island of the deep; And our youth hover round us like the breath Of one that sleeps, and sleepeth not to death.