For most, I know, thou lov'st retired ground. Thee, at the ferry, Oxford riders blithe, Returning home on summer nights, have met Crossing the stripling Thames at Bablock-hithe, Trailing in the cool stream thy fingers wet, As the slow punt swings round: And leaning backwards in a pensive dream, And fostering in thy lap a heap of flowers Pluck'd in shy fields and distant Wychwood bowers, And thine eyes resting on the moonlit stream:

And then they land, and thou art seen no more. Maidens who from the distant hamlets come To dance around the Fyfield elm in May, Oft through the darkening fields have seen thee roam, Or cross a stile into the public way. Oft thou hast given them store Of flowers—the frail-leaf'd, white anemone— Dark bluebells drench'd with dews of summer eves, And purple orchises with spotted leaves— But none has words she can report of thee.

And, above Godstow Bridge, when hay-time 's here In June, and many a scythe in sunshine flames, Men who through those wide fields of breezy grass Where black-wing'd swallows haunt the glittering Thames, To bathe in the abandon'd lasher pass, Have often pass'd thee near Sitting upon the river bank o'ergrown: Mark'd thine outlandish garb, thy figure spare, Thy dark vague eyes, and soft abstracted air; But, when they came from bathing, thou wert gone.

At some lone homestead in the Cumnor hills, Where at her open door the housewife darns, Thou hast been seen, or hanging on a gate To watch the threshers in the mossy barns. Children, who early range these slopes and late For cresses from the rills, Have known thee watching, all an April day, The springing pastures and the feeding kine; And mark'd thee, when the stars come out and shine, Through the long dewy grass move slow away.

In autumn, on the skirts of Bagley Wood, Where most the Gipsies by the turf-edged way Pitch their smoked tents, and every bush you see With scarlet patches tagg'd and shreds of gray, Above the forest-ground call'd Thessaly— The blackbird picking food Sees thee, nor stops his meal, nor fears at all; So often has he known thee past him stray Rapt, twirling in thy hand a wither'd spray, And waiting for the spark from Heaven to fall.

And once, in winter, on the causeway chill Where home through flooded fields foot-travellers go, Have I not pass'd thee on the wooden bridge Wrapt in thy cloak and battling with the snow, Thy face towards Hinksey and its wintry ridge? And thou hast climb'd the hill And gain'd the white brow of the Cumnor range; Turn'd once to watch, while thick the snowflakes fall, The line of festal light in Christ Church hall— Then sought thy straw in some sequester'd grange.

But what—I dream! Two hundred years are flown Since first thy story ran through Oxford halls, And the grave Glanvil did the tale inscribe That thou wert wander'd from the studious walls To learn strange arts, and join a Gipsy tribe: And thou from earth art gone Long since and in some quiet churchyard laid; Some country nook, where o'er thy unknown grave Tall grasses and white flowering nettles wave— Under a dark red-fruited yew-tree's shade.

—No, no, thou hast not felt the lapse of hours. For what wears out the life of mortal men? 'Tis that from change to change their being rolls: 'Tis that repeated shocks, again, again, Exhaust the energy of strongest souls, And numb the elastic powers. Till having used our nerves with bliss and teen, And tired upon a thousand schemes our wit, To the just-pausing Genius we remit Our worn-out life, and are—what we have been.

Thou hast not lived, why shouldst thou perish, so? Thou hadst one aim, one business, one desire: Else wert thou long since number'd with the dead— Else hadst thou spent, like other men, thy fire. The generations of thy peers are fled, And we ourselves shall go; But thou possessest an immortal lot, And we imagine thee exempt from age And living as thou liv'st on Glanvil's page, Because thou hadst—what we, alas, have not!

For early didst thou leave the world, with powers Fresh, undiverted to the world without, Firm to their mark, not spent on other things; Free from the sick fatigue, the languid doubt, Which much to have tried, in much been baffled, brings. O Life unlike to ours! Who fluctuate idly without term or scope, Of whom each strives, nor knows for what he strives, And each half lives a hundred different lives; Who wait like thee, but not, like thee, in hope.

Thou waitest for the spark from Heaven: and we, Vague half-believers of our casual creeds, Who never deeply felt, nor clearly will'd, Whose insight never has borne fruit in deeds, Whose weak resolves never have been fulfill'd; For whom each year we see Breeds new beginnings, disappointments new; Who hesitate and falter life away, And lose to-morrow the ground won to-day— Ah, do not we, Wanderer, await it too?

Yes, we await it, but it still delays, And then we suffer; and amongst us One, Who most has suffer'd, takes dejectedly His seat upon the intellectual throne; And all his store of sad experience he Lays bare of wretched days; Tells us his misery's birth and growth and signs, And how the dying spark of hope was fed, And how the breast was soothed, and how the head, And all his hourly varied anodynes.

This for our wisest: and we others pine, And wish the long unhappy dream would end, And waive all claim to bliss, and try to bear, With close-lipp'd Patience for our only friend, Sad Patience, too near neighbour to Despair: But none has hope like thine. Thou through the fields and through the woods dost stray, Roaming the country-side, a truant boy, Nursing thy project in unclouded joy, And every doubt long blown by time away.

O born in days when wits were fresh and clear, And life ran gaily as the sparkling Thames; Before this strange disease of modern life, With its sick hurry, its divided aims, Its heads o'ertax'd, its palsied hearts, was rife— Fly hence, our contact fear! Still fly, plunge deeper in the bowering wood! Averse, as Dido did with gesture stern From her false friend's approach in Hades turn, Wave us away, and keep thy solitude.

Still nursing the unconquerable hope, Still clutching the inviolable shade, With a free onward impulse brushing through, By night, the silver'd branches of the glade— Far on the forest-skirts, where none pursue, On some mild pastoral slope Emerge, and resting on the moonlit pales, Freshen they flowers, as in former years, With dew, or listen with enchanted ears, From the dark dingles, to the nightingales.

But fly our paths, our feverish contact fly! For strong the infection of our mental strife, Which, though it gives no bliss, yet spoils for rest; And we should win thee from they own fair life, Like us distracted, and like us unblest. Soon, soon thy cheer would die, Thy hopes grow timorous, and unfix'd they powers, And they clear aims be cross and shifting made: And then thy glad perennial youth would fade, Fade, and grow old at last, and die like ours.

Then fly our greetings, fly our speech and smiles! —As some grave Tyrian trader, from the sea, Descried at sunrise an emerging prow Lifting the cool-hair'd creepers stealthily, The fringes of a southward-facing brow Among the Aegean isles; And saw the merry Grecian coaster come, Freighted with amber grapes, and Chian wine, Green bursting figs, and tunnies steep'd in brine; And knew the intruders on his ancient home,

The young light-hearted Masters of the waves; And snatch'd his rudder, and shook out more sail, And day and night held on indignantly O'er the blue Midland waters with the gale, Betwixt the Syrtes and soft Sicily, To where the Atlantic raves Outside the Western Straits, and unbent sails There, where down cloudy cliffs, through sheets of foam, Shy traffickers, the dark Iberians come; And on the beach undid his corded bales.

Matthew Arnold. 1822-1888

752. Philomela

HARK! ah, the Nightingale! The tawny-throated! Hark! from that moonlit cedar what a burst! What triumph! hark—what pain!

O Wanderer from a Grecian shore, Still, after many years, in distant lands, Still nourishing in thy bewilder'd brain That wild, unquench'd, deep-sunken, old-world pain— Say, will it never heal? And can this fragrant lawn With its cool trees, and night, And the sweet, tranquil Thames, And moonshine, and the dew, To thy rack'd heart and brain Afford no balm?

Dost thou to-night behold Here, through the moonlight on this English grass, The unfriendly palace in the Thracian wild? Dost thou again peruse With hot cheeks and sear'd eyes The too clear web, and thy dumb Sister's shame? Dost thou once more assay Thy flight, and feel come over thee, Poor Fugitive, the feathery change Once more, and once more seem to make resound With love and hate, triumph and agony, Lone Daulis, and the high Cephissian vale? Listen, Eugenia— How thick the bursts come crowding through the leaves! Again—thou hearest! Eternal Passion! Eternal Pain!

Matthew Arnold. 1822-1888

753. Shakespeare

OTHERS abide our question. Thou art free. We ask and ask: Thou smilest and art still, Out-topping knowledge. For the loftiest hill That to the stars uncrowns his majesty, Planting his steadfast footsteps in the sea, Making the heaven of heavens his dwelling-place, Spares but the cloudy border of his base To the foil'd searching of mortality; And thou, who didst the stars and sunbeams know, Self-school'd, self-scann'd, self-honour'd, self-secure, Didst walk on earth unguess'd at. Better so! All pains the immortal spirit must endure, All weakness that impairs, all griefs that bow, Find their sole voice in that victorious brow.

Matthew Arnold. 1822-1888

754. From the Hymn of Empedocles

IS it so small a thing To have enjoy'd the sun, To have lived light in the spring, To have loved, to have thought, to have done; To have advanced true friends, and beat down baffling foes;

That we must feign a bliss Of doubtful future date, And while we dream on this Lose all our present state, And relegate to worlds yet distant our repose?

Not much, I know, you prize What pleasures may be had, Who look on life with eyes Estranged, like mine, and sad: And yet the village churl feels the truth more than you;

Who 's loth to leave this life Which to him little yields: His hard-task'd sunburnt wife, His often-labour'd fields; The boors with whom he talk'd, the country spots he knew.

But thou, because thou hear'st Men scoff at Heaven and Fate; Because the gods thou fear'st Fail to make blest thy state, Tremblest, and wilt not dare to trust the joys there are.

I say, Fear not! life still Leaves human effort scope. But, since life teems with ill, Nurse no extravagant hope. Because thou must not dream, thou need'st not then despair.

William Brighty Rands. 1823-1880

755. The Flowers

WHEN Love arose in heart and deed To wake the world to greater joy, 'What can she give me now?' said Greed, Who thought to win some costly toy.

He rose, he ran, he stoop'd, he clutch'd; And soon the Flowers, that Love let fall, In Greed's hot grasp were fray'd and smutch'd, And Greed said, 'Flowers! Can this be all?'

He flung them down and went his way, He cared no jot for thyme or rose; But boys and girls came out to play, And some took these and some took those—

Red, blue, and white, and green and gold; And at their touch the dew return'd, And all the bloom a thousandfold— So red, so ripe, the roses burn'd!

William Brighty Rands. 1823-1880

756. The Thought

INTO the skies, one summer's day, I sent a little Thought away; Up to where, in the blue round, The sun sat shining without sound.

Then my Thought came back to me.— Little Thought, what did you see In the regions whence you come? And when I spoke, my Thought was dumb.

But she breathed of what was there, In the pure bright upper air; And, because my Thought so shone, I knew she had been shone upon.

Next, by night a Thought I sent Up into the firmament; When the eager stars were out, And the still moon shone about.

And my Thought went past the moon In between the stars, but soon Held her breath and durst not stir, For the fear that covered her; Then she thought, in this demur:

'Dare I look beneath the shade, Into where the worlds are made; Where the suns and stars are wrought? Shall I meet another Thought?

'Will that other Thought have wings? Shall I meet strange, heavenly things? Thought of Thoughts, and Light of Lights, Breath of Breaths, and Night of Nights?'

Then my Thought began to hark In the illuminated dark, Till the silence, over, under, Made her heart beat more than thunder.

And my Thought, came trembling back, But with something on her track, And with something at her side; Nor till she has lived and died, Lived and died, and lived again, Will that awful thing seem plain.

William Philpot. 1823-1889

757. Maritae Suae

I

OF all the flowers rising now, Thou only saw'st the head Of that unopen'd drop of snow I placed beside thy bed.

In all the blooms that blow so fast, Thou hast no further part, Save those the hour I saw thee last, I laid above thy heart.

Two snowdrops for our boy and girl, A primrose blown for me, Wreathed with one often-play'd-with curl From each bright head for thee.

And so I graced thee for thy grave, And made these tokens fast With that old silver heart I gave, My first gift—and my last.

II

I dream'd, her babe upon her breast, Here she might lie and calmly rest Her happy eyes on that far hill That backs the landscape fresh and still.

I hoped her thoughts would thrid the boughs Where careless birds on love carouse, And gaze those apple-blossoms through To revel in the boundless blue.

But now her faculty of sight Is elder sister to the light, And travels free and unconfined Through dense and rare, through form and mind.

Or else her life to be complete Hath found new channels full and meet— Then, O, what eyes are leaning o'er, If fairer than they were before!

William (Johnson) Cory. 1823-1892

758. Mimnermus in Church

YOU promise heavens free from strife, Pure truth, and perfect change of will; But sweet, sweet is this human life, So sweet, I fain would breathe it still; Your chilly stars I can forgo, This warm kind world is all I know.

You say there is no substance here, One great reality above: Back from that void I shrink in fear, And child-like hide myself in love: Show me what angels feel. Till then I cling, a mere weak man, to men.

You bid me lift my mean desires From faltering lips and fitful veins To sexless souls, ideal quires, Unwearied voices, wordless strains: My mind with fonder welcome owns One dear dead friend's remember'd tones.

Forsooth the present we must give To that which cannot pass away; All beauteous things for which we live By laws of time and space decay. But O, the very reason why I clasp them, is because they die.

William (Johnson) Cory. 1823-1892

759. Heraclitus

THEY told me, Heraclitus, they told me you were dead, They brought me bitter news to hear and bitter tears to shed. I wept as I remember'd how often you and I Had tired the sun with talking and sent him down the sky.

And now that thou art lying, my dear old Carian guest, A handful of grey ashes, long, long ago at rest, Still are thy pleasant voices, thy nightingales, awake; For Death, he taketh all away, but them he cannot take.

Coventry Patmore. 1823-1896

760. The Married Lover

WHY, having won her, do I woo? Because her spirit's vestal grace Provokes me always to pursue, But, spirit-like, eludes embrace; Because her womanhood is such That, as on court-days subjects kiss The Queen's hand, yet so near a touch Affirms no mean familiarness; Nay, rather marks more fair the height Which can with safety so neglect To dread, as lower ladies might, That grace could meet with disrespect; Thus she with happy favour feeds Allegiance from a love so high That thence no false conceit proceeds Of difference bridged, or state put by; Because although in act and word As lowly as a wife can be, Her manners, when they call me lord, Remind me 'tis by courtesy; Not with her least consent of will, Which would my proud affection hurt, But by the noble style that still Imputes an unattain'd desert; Because her gay and lofty brows, When all is won which hope can ask, Reflect a light of hopeless snows That bright in virgin ether bask; Because, though free of the outer court I am, this Temple keeps its shrine Sacred to Heaven; because, in short, She 's not and never can be mine.

Coventry Patmore. 1823-1896

761. 'If I were dead'

'IF I were dead, you'd sometimes say, Poor Child!' The dear lips quiver'd as they spake, And the tears brake From eyes which, not to grieve me, brightly smiled. Poor Child, poor Child! I seem to hear your laugh, your talk, your song. It is not true that Love will do no wrong. Poor Child! And did you think, when you so cried and smiled, How I, in lonely nights, should lie awake, And of those words your full avengers make? Poor Child, poor Child! And now, unless it be That sweet amends thrice told are come to thee, O God, have Thou no mercy upon me! Poor Child!

Coventry Patmore. 1823-1896

762. Departure

IT was not like your great and gracious ways! Do you, that have naught other to lament, Never, my Love, repent Of how, that July afternoon, You went, With sudden, unintelligible phrase, And frighten'd eye, Upon your journey of so many days Without a single kiss, or a good-bye? I knew, indeed, that you were parting soon; And so we sate, within the low sun's rays, You whispering to me, for your voice was weak, Your harrowing praise. Well, it was well To hear you such things speak, And I could tell What made your eyes a growing gloom of love, As a warm South-wind sombres a March grove. And it was like your great and gracious ways To turn your talk on daily things, my Dear, Lifting the luminous, pathetic lash To let the laughter flash, Whilst I drew near, Because you spoke so low that I could scarcely hear. But all at once to leave me at the last, More at the wonder than the loss aghast, With huddled, unintelligible phrase, And frighten'd eye, And go your journey of all days With not one kiss, or a good-bye, And the only loveless look the look with which you pass'd: 'Twas all unlike your great and gracious ways.

Coventry Patmore. 1823-1896

763. The Toys

MY little Son, who look'd from thoughtful eyes And moved and spoke in quiet grown-up wise, Having my law the seventh time disobey'd, I struck him, and dismiss'd With hard words and unkiss'd, —His Mother, who was patient, being dead. Then, fearing lest his grief should hinder sleep, I visited his bed, But found him slumbering deep, With darken'd eyelids, and their lashes yet From his late sobbing wet. And I, with moan, Kissing away his tears, left others of my own; For, on a table drawn beside his head, He had put, within his reach, A box of counters and a red-vein'd stone, A piece of glass abraded by the beach, And six or seven shells, A bottle with bluebells, And two French copper coins, ranged there with careful art, To comfort his sad heart. So when that night I pray'd To God, I wept, and said: Ah, when at last we lie with tranced breath, Not vexing Thee in death, And Thou rememberest of what toys We made our joys, How weakly understood Thy great commanded good, Then, fatherly not less Than I whom Thou hast moulded from the clay, Thou'lt leave Thy wrath, and say, 'I will be sorry for their childishness.'

Coventry Patmore. 1823-1896

764. A Farewell

WITH all my will, but much against my heart, We two now part. My Very Dear, Our solace is, the sad road lies so clear. It needs no art, With faint, averted feet And many a tear, In our opposed paths to persevere. Go thou to East, I West. We will not say There 's any hope, it is so far away. But, O, my Best, When the one darling of our widowhead, The nursling Grief, Is dead, And no dews blur our eyes To see the peach-bloom come in evening skies, Perchance we may, Where now this night is day, And even through faith of still averted feet, Making full circle of our banishment, Amazed meet; The bitter journey to the bourne so sweet Seasoning the termless feast of our content With tears of recognition never dry.

Sydney Dobell. 1824-1874

765. The Ballad of Keith of Ravelston

THE murmur of the mourning ghost That keeps the shadowy kine, 'O Keith of Ravelston, The sorrows of thy line!'

Ravelston, Ravelston, The merry path that leads Down the golden morning hill, And thro' the silver meads;

Ravelston, Ravelston, The stile beneath the tree, The maid that kept her mother's kine, The song that sang she!

She sang her song, she kept her kine, She sat beneath the thorn, When Andrew Keith of Ravelston Rode thro' the Monday morn.

His henchman sing, his hawk-bells ring, His belted jewels shine; O Keith of Ravelston, The sorrows of thy line!

Year after year, where Andrew came, Comes evening down the glade, And still there sits a moonshine ghost Where sat the sunshine maid.

Her misty hair is faint and fair, She keeps the shadowy kine; O Keith of Ravelston, The sorrows of thy line!

I lay my hand upon the stile, The stile is lone and cold, The burnie that goes babbling by Says naught that can be told.

Yet, stranger! here, from year to year, She keeps her shadowy kine; O Keith of Ravelston, The sorrows of thy line!

Step out three steps, where Andrew stood— Why blanch thy cheeks for fear? The ancient stile is not alone, 'Tis not the burn I hear!

She makes her immemorial moan, She keeps her shadowy kine; O Keith of Ravelston, The sorrows of thy line!

Sydney Dobell. 1824-1874

766. Return!

RETURN, return! all night my lamp is burning, All night, like it, my wide eyes watch and burn; Like it, I fade and pale, when day returning Bears witness that the absent can return, Return, return.

Like it, I lessen with a lengthening sadness, Like it, I burn to waste and waste to burn, Like it, I spend the golden oil of gladness To feed the sorrowy signal for return, Return, return.

Like it, like it, whene'er the east wind sings, I bend and shake; like it, I quake and yearn, When Hope's late butterflies, with whispering wings, Fly in out of the dark, to fall and burn— Burn in the watchfire of return, Return, return.

Like it, the very flame whereby I pine Consumes me to its nature. While I mourn My soul becomes a better soul than mine, And from its brightening beacon I discern My starry love go forth from me, and shine Across the seas a path for thy return, Return, return.

Return, return! all night I see it burn, All night it prays like me, and lifts a twin Of palmed praying hands that meet and yearn— Yearn to the impleaded skies for thy return. Day, like a golden fetter, locks them in, And wans the light that withers, tho' it burn As warmly still for thy return; Still thro' the splendid load uplifts the thin Pale, paler, palest patience that can learn Naught but that votive sign for thy return— That single suppliant sign for thy return, Return, return.

Return, return! lest haply, love, or e'er Thou touch the lamp the light have ceased to burn, And thou, who thro' the window didst discern The wonted flame, shalt reach the topmost stair To find no wide eyes watching there, No wither'd welcome waiting thy return! A passing ghost, a smoke-wreath in the air, The flameless ashes, and the soulless urn, Warm with the famish'd fire that lived to burn— Burn out its lingering life for thy return, Its last of lingering life for thy return, Its last of lingering life to light thy late return, Return, return.

Sydney Dobell. 1824-1874

767. A Chanted Calendar

FIRST came the primrose, On the bank high, Like a maiden looking forth From the window of a tower When the battle rolls below, So look'd she, And saw the storms go by.

Then came the wind-flower In the valley left behind, As a wounded maiden, pale With purple streaks of woe, When the battle has roll'd by Wanders to and fro, So totter'd she, Dishevell'd in the wind.

Then came the daisies, On the first of May, Like a banner'd show's advance While the crowd runs by the way, With ten thousand flowers about them they came trooping through the fields. As a happy people come, So came they, As a happy people come When the war has roll'd away, With dance and tabor, pipe and drum, And all make holiday.

Then came the cowslip, Like a dancer in the fair, She spread her little mat of green, And on it danced she. With a fillet bound about her brow, A fillet round her happy brow, A golden fillet round her brow, And rubies in her hair.

Sydney Dobell. 1824-1874

768. Laus Deo

IN the hall the coffin waits, and the idle armourer stands. At his belt the coffin nails, and the hammer in his hands. The bed of state is hung with crape—the grand old bed where she was wed— And like an upright corpse she sitteth gazing dumbly at the bed. Hour by hour her serving-men enter by the curtain'd door, And with steps of muffled woe pass breathless o'er the silent floor, And marshal mutely round, and look from each to each with eyelids red;

'Touch him not,' she shriek'd and cried, 'he is but newly dead!' 'O my own dear mistress,' the ancient Nurse did say, 'Seven long days and seven long nights you have watch'd him where he lay.' 'Seven long days and seven long nights,' the hoary Steward said; 'Seven long days and seven long nights,' groan'd the Warrener gray; 'Seven,' said the old Henchman, and bow'd his aged head; 'On your lives!' she shriek'd and cried, 'he is but newly dead!' Then a father Priest they sought, The Priest that taught her all she knew, And they told him of her loss. 'For she is mild and sweet of will, She loved him, and his words are peace, And he shall heal her ill.' But her watch she did not cease. He bless'd her where she sat distraught, And show'd her holy cross,— The cross she kiss'd from year to year— But she neither saw nor heard; And said he in her deaf ear All he had been wont to teach, All she had been fond to hear, Missall'd prayer, and solemn speech, But she answer'd not a word. Only when he turn'd to speak with those who wept about the bed, 'On your lives!' she shriek'd and cried, 'he is but newly dead!' Then how sadly he turn'd from her, it were wonderful to tell, And he stood beside the death-bed as by one who slumbers well, And he lean'd o'er him who lay there, and in cautious whisper low, 'He is not dead, but sleepeth,' said the Priest, and smooth'd his brow. 'Sleepeth?' said she, looking up, and the sun rose in her face! 'He must be better than I thought, for the sleep is very sound.' 'He is better,' said the Priest, and call'd her maidens round. With them came that ancient dame who nursed her when a child; O Nurse!' she sigh'd, 'O Nurse!' she cried 'O Nurse!' and then she smiled, And then she wept; with that they drew About her, as of old; Her dying eyes were sweet and blue, Her trembling touch was cold; But she said, 'My maidens true, No more weeping and well-away; Let them kill the feast. I would be happy in my soul. "He is better," saith the Priest; He did but sleep the weary day, And will waken whole. Carry me to his dear side, And let the halls be trim; Whistly, whistly,' said she, 'I am wan with watching and wail, He must not wake to see me pale, Let me sleep with him. See you keep the tryst for me, I would rest till he awake And rise up like a bride. But whistly, whistly!' said she. 'Yet rejoice your Lord doth live; And for His dear sake Say Laus, Domine.' Silent they cast down their eyes, And every breast a sob did rive, She lifted her in wild surprise And they dared not disobey. 'Laus Deo,' said the Steward, hoary when her days were new; 'Laus Deo,' said the Warrener, whiter than the warren snows; 'Laus Deo,' the bald Henchman, who had nursed her on his knee. The old Nurse moved her lips in vain, And she stood among the train Like a dead tree shaking dew. Then the Priest he softly stept Midway in the little band, And he took the Lady's hand. 'Laus Deo,' he said aloud, 'Laus Deo,' they said again, Yet again, and yet again, Humbly cross'd and lowly bow'd, Till in wont and fear it rose To the Sabbath strain. But she neither turn'd her head Nor 'Whistly, whistly,' said she. Her hands were folded as in grace, We laid her with her ancient race And all the village wept.

William Allingham. 1824-1889

769. The Fairies

UP the airy mountain, Down the rushy glen, We daren't go a-hunting For fear of little men; Wee folk, good folk, Trooping all together; Green jacket, red cap, And white owl's feather!

Down along the rocky shore Some make their home, They live on crispy pancakes Of yellow tide-foam; Some in the reeds Of the black mountain lake, With frogs for their watch-dogs, All night awake.

High on the hill-top The old King sits; He is now so old and gray He 's nigh lost his wits. With a bridge of white mist Columbkill he crosses, On his stately journeys From Slieveleague to Rosses; Or going up with music On cold starry nights To sup with the Queen Of the gay Northern Lights.

They stole little Bridget For seven years long; When she came down again Her friends were all gone. They took her lightly back, Between the night and morrow, They thought that she was fast asleep, But she was dead with sorrow. They have kept her ever since Deep within the lake, On a bed of flag-leaves, Watching till she wake.

By the craggy hill-side, Through the mosses bare, They have planted thorn-trees For pleasure here and there. If any man so daring As dig them up in spite, He shall find their sharpest thorns In his bed at night.

Up the airy mountain, Down the rushy glen, We daren't go a-hunting For fear of little men; Wee folk, good folk, Trooping all together; Green jacket, red cap, And white owl's feather!

George MacDonald. 1824-1905

770. That Holy Thing

THEY all were looking for a king To slay their foes and lift them high: Thou cam'st, a little baby thing That made a woman cry.

O Son of Man, to right my lot Naught but Thy presence can avail; Yet on the road Thy wheels are not, Nor on the sea Thy sail!

My how or when Thou wilt not heed, But come down Thine own secret stair, That Thou mayst answer all my need— Yea, every bygone prayer.

Dante Gabriel Rossetti. 1828-1882

771. The Blessed Damozel

THE blessed Damozel lean'd out From the gold bar of Heaven: Her blue grave eyes were deeper much Than a deep water, even. She had three lilies in her hand, And the stars in her hair were seven.

Her robe, ungirt from clasp to hem, No wrought flowers did adorn, But a white rose of Mary's gift On the neck meetly worn; And her hair, lying down her back, Was yellow like ripe corn.

Herseem'd she scarce had been a day One of God's choristers; The wonder was not yet quite gone From that still look of hers; Albeit, to them she left, her day Had counted as ten years.

(To one it is ten years of years: ...Yet now, here in this place, Surely she lean'd o'er me,—her hair Fell all about my face.... Nothing: the Autumn-fall of leaves. The whole year sets apace.)

It was the terrace of God's house That she was standing on,— By God built over the sheer depth In which Space is begun; So high, that looking downward thence, She scarce could see the sun.

It lies from Heaven across the flood Of ether, as a bridge. Beneath, the tides of day and night With flame and darkness ridge The void, as low as where this earth Spins like a fretful midge.

But in those tracts, with her, it was The peace of utter light And silence. For no breeze may stir Along the steady flight Of seraphim; no echo there, Beyond all depth or height.

Heard hardly, some of her new friends, Playing at holy games, Spake gentle-mouth'd, among themselves, Their virginal chaste names; And the souls, mounting up to God, Went by her like thin flames.

And still she bow'd herself, and stoop'd Into the vast waste calm; Till her bosom's pressure must have made The bar she lean'd on warm, And the lilies lay as if asleep Along her bended arm.

From the fixt lull of Heaven, she saw Time, like a pulse, shake fierce Through all the worlds. Her gaze still strove, In that steep gulf, to pierce The swarm; and then she spoke, as when The stars sang in their spheres.

'I wish that he were come to me, For he will come,' she said. 'Have I not pray'd in solemn Heaven? On earth, has he not pray'd? Are not two prayers a perfect strength? And shall I feel afraid?

'When round his head the aureole clings, And he is clothed in white, I'll take his hand, and go with him To the deep wells of light, And we will step down as to a stream And bathe there in God's sight.

'We two will stand beside that shrine, Occult, withheld, untrod, Whose lamps tremble continually With prayer sent up to God; And where each need, reveal'd, expects Its patient period.

'We two will lie i' the shadow of That living mystic tree Within whose secret growth the Dove Sometimes is felt to be, While every leaf that His plumes touch Saith His name audibly.

'And I myself will teach to him,— I myself, lying so,— The songs I sing here; which his mouth Shall pause in, hush'd and slow, Finding some knowledge at each pause, And some new thing to know.'

(Alas! to her wise simple mind These things were all but known Before: they trembled on her sense,— Her voice had caught their tone. Alas for lonely Heaven! Alas For life wrung out alone!

Alas, and though the end were reach'd?... Was thy part understood Or borne in trust? And for her sake Shall this too be found good?— May the close lips that knew not prayer Praise ever, though they would?)

'We two,' she said, 'will seek the groves Where the lady Mary is, With her five handmaidens, whose names Are five sweet symphonies:— Cecily, Gertrude, Magdalen, Margaret and Rosalys.

'Circle-wise sit they, with bound locks And bosoms covered; Into the fine cloth, white like flame, Weaving the golden thread, To fashion the birth-robes for them Who are just born, being dead.

'He shall fear, haply, and be dumb. Then I will lay my cheek To his, and tell about our love, Not once abash'd or weak: And the dear Mother will approve My pride, and let me speak.

'Herself shall bring us, hand in hand, To Him round whom all souls Kneel—the unnumber'd solemn heads Bow'd with their aureoles: And Angels, meeting us, shall sing To their citherns and citoles.

'There will I ask of Christ the Lord Thus much for him and me:— To have more blessing than on earth In nowise; but to be As then we were,—being as then At peace. Yea, verily.

'Yea, verily; when he is come We will do thus and thus: Till this my vigil seem quite strange And almost fabulous; We two will live at once, one life; And peace shall be with us.'

She gazed, and listen'd, and then said, Less sad of speech than mild,— 'All this is when he comes.' She ceased: The light thrill'd past her, fill'd With Angels, in strong level lapse. Her eyes pray'd, and she smiled.

(I saw her smile.) But soon their flight Was vague 'mid the poised spheres. And then she cast her arms along The golden barriers, And laid her face between her hands, And wept. (I heard her tears.)

George Meredith. 1828-1909

772. Love in the Valley

UNDER yonder beech-tree single on the green-sward, Couch'd with her arms behind her golden head, Knees and tresses folded to slip and ripple idly, Lies my young love sleeping in the shade. Had I the heart to slide an arm beneath her, Press her parting lips as her waist I gather slow, Waking in amazement she could not but embrace me: Then would she hold me and never let me go? . . . Shy as the squirrel and wayward as the swallow, Swift as the swallow along the river's light Circleting the surface to meet his mirror'd winglets, Fleeter she seems in her stay than in her flight. Shy as the squirrel that leaps among the pine-tops, Wayward as the swallow overhead at set of sun, She whom I love is hard to catch and conquer, Hard, but O the glory of the winning were she won! . . . When her mother tends her before the laughing mirror, Tying up her laces, looping up her hair, Often she thinks, were this wild thing wedded, More love should I have, and much less care. When her mother tends her before the lighted mirror, Loosening her laces, combing down her curls, Often she thinks, were this wild thing wedded, I should miss but one for many boys and girls. . . . Heartless she is as the shadow in the meadows Flying to the hills on a blue and breezy noon. No, she is athirst and drinking up her wonder: Earth to her is young as the slip of the new moon. Deals she an unkindness, 'tis but her rapid measure, Even as in a dance; and her smile can heal no less: Like the swinging May-cloud that pelts the flowers with hailstones Off a sunny border, she was made to bruise and bless. . . . Lovely are the curves of the white owl sweeping Wavy in the dusk lit by one large star. Lone on the fir-branch, his rattle-note unvaried, Brooding o'er the gloom, spins the brown evejar. Darker grows the valley, more and more forgetting: So were it with me if forgetting could be will'd. Tell the grassy hollow that holds the bubbling well-spring, Tell it to forget the source that keeps it fill'd. . . . Stepping down the hill with her fair companions, Arm in arm, all against the raying West, Boldly she sings, to the merry tune she marches, Brave is her shape, and sweeter unpossess'd. Sweeter, for she is what my heart first awaking Whisper'd the world was; morning light is she. Love that so desires would fain keep her changeless; Fain would fling the net, and fain have her free. . . . Happy happy time, when the white star hovers Low over dim fields fresh with bloomy dew, Near the face of dawn, that draws athwart the darkness, Threading it with colour, like yewberries the yew. Thicker crowd the shades as the grave East deepens Glowing, and with crimson a long cloud swells. Maiden still the morn is; and strange she is, and secret; Strange her eyes; her cheeks are cold as cold sea-shells. . . . Sunrays, leaning on our southern hills and lighting Wild cloud-mountains that drag the hills along, Oft ends the day of your shifting brilliant laughter Chill as a dull face frowning on a song. Ay, but shows the South-west a ripple-feather'd bosom Blown to silver while the clouds are shaken and ascend Scaling the mid-heavens as they stream, there comes a sunset Rich, deep like love in beauty without end. . . . When at dawn she sighs, and like an infant to the window Turns grave eyes craving light, released from dreams, Beautiful she looks, like a white water-lily Bursting out of bud in havens of the streams. When from bed she rises clothed from neck to ankle In her long nightgown sweet as boughs of May, Beautiful she looks, like a tall garden-lily Pure from the night, and splendid for the day. . . . Mother of the dews, dark eye-lash'd twilight, Low-lidded twilight, o'er the valley's brim, Rounding on thy breast sings the dew-delighted skylark, Clear as though the dewdrops had their voice in him. Hidden where the rose-flush drinks the rayless planet, Fountain-full he pours the spraying fountain-showers. Let me hear her laughter, I would have her ever Cool as dew in twilight, the lark above the flowers. . . . All the girls are out with their baskets for the primrose; Up lanes, woods through, they troop in joyful bands. My sweet leads: she knows not why, but now she loiters, Eyes the bent anemones, and hangs her hands. Such a look will tell that the violets are peeping, Coming the rose: and unaware a cry Springs in her bosom for odours and for colour, Covert and the nightingale; she knows not why. . . . Kerchief'd head and chin she darts between her tulips, Streaming like a willow gray in arrowy rain: Some bend beaten cheek to gravel, and their angel She will be; she lifts them, and on she speeds again. Black the driving raincloud breasts the iron gateway: She is forth to cheer a neighbour lacking mirth. So when sky and grass met rolling dumb for thunder Saw I once a white dove, sole light of earth.

Prim little scholars are the flowers of her garden, Train'd to stand in rows, and asking if they please. I might love them well but for loving more the wild ones: O my wild ones! they tell me more than these. You, my wild one, you tell of honied field-rose, Violet, blushing eglantine in life; and even as they, They by the wayside are earnest of your goodness, You are of life's, on the banks that line the way. . . . Peering at her chamber the white crowns the red rose, Jasmine winds the porch with stars two and three. Parted is the window; she sleeps; the starry jasmine Breathes a falling breath that carries thoughts of me. Sweeter unpossess'd, have I said of her my sweetest? Not while she sleeps: while she sleeps the jasmine breathes, Luring her to love; she sleeps; the starry jasmine Bears me to her pillow under white rose-wreaths. . . . Yellow with birdfoot-trefoil are the grass-glades; Yellow with cinquefoil of the dew-gray leaf; Yellow with stonecrop; the moss-mounds are yellow; Blue-neck'd the wheat sways, yellowing to the sheaf. Green-yellow, bursts from the copse the laughing yaffle; Sharp as a sickle is the edge of shade and shine: Earth in her heart laughs looking at the heavens, Thinking of the harvest: I look and think of mine. . . . This I may know: her dressing and undressing Such a change of light shows as when the skies in sport Shift from cloud to moonlight; or edging over thunder Slips a ray of sun; or sweeping into port White sails furl; or on the ocean borders White sails lean along the waves leaping green. Visions of her shower before me, but from eyesight Guarded she would be like the sun were she seen. . . . Front door and back of the moss'd old farmhouse Open with the morn, and in a breezy link Freshly sparkles garden to stripe-shadow'd orchard, Green across a rill where on sand the minnows wink. Busy in the grass the early sun of summer Swarms, and the blackbird's mellow fluting notes Call my darling up with round and roguish challenge: Quaintest, richest carol of all the singing throats! . . . Cool was the woodside; cool as her white diary Keeping sweet the cream-pan; and there the boys from school, Cricketing below, rush'd brown and red with sunshine; O the dark translucence of the deep-eyed cool! Spying from the farm, herself she fetch'd a pitcher Full of milk, and tilted for each in turn the beak. Then a little fellow, mouth up and on tiptoe, Said, 'I will kiss you': she laugh'd and lean'd her cheek. . . . Doves of the fir-wood walling high our red roof Through the long noon coo, crooning through the coo. Loose droop the leaves, and down the sleepy roadway Sometimes pipes a chaffinch; loose droops the blue. Cows flap a show tail knee-deep in the river, Breathless, given up to sun and gnat and fly. Nowhere is she seen; and if I see her nowhere, Lighting may come, straight rains and tiger sky. . . . O the golden sheaf, the rustling treasure-armful! O the nutbrown tresses nodding interlaced! O the treasure-tresses one another over Nodding! O the girdle slack about the waist! Slain are the poppies that shot their random scarlet Quick amid the wheat-ears: wound about the waist, Gather'd, see these brides of Earth one blush of ripeness! O the nutbrown tresses nodding interlaced! . . . Large and smoky red the sun's cold disk drops, Clipp'd by naked hills, on violet shaded snow: Eastward large and still lights up a bower of moonrise, Whence at her leisure steps the moon aglow. Nightlong on black print-branches our beech-tree Gazes in this whiteness: nightlong could I. Here may life on death or death on life be painted. Let me clasp her soul to know she cannot die! . . . Gossips count her faults; they scour a narrow chamber Where there is no window, read not heaven or her. 'When she was a tiny,' one aged woman quavers, Plucks at my heart and leads me by the ear. Faults she had once as she learn'd to run and tumbled: Faults of feature some see, beauty not complete. Yet, good gossips, beauty that makes holy Earth and air, may have faults from head to feet. . . . Hither she comes; she comes to me; she lingers, Deepens her brown eyebrows, while in new surprise High rise the lashes in wonder of a stranger; Yet am I the light and living of her eyes. Something friends have told her fills her heart to brimming, Nets her in her blushes, and wounds her, and tames.— Sure of her haven, O like a dove alighting, Arms up, she dropp'd: our souls were in our names. . . . Soon will she lie like a white frost sunrise. Yellow oats and brown wheat, barley pale as rye, Long since your sheaves have yielded to the thresher, Felt the girdle loosen'd, seen the tresses fly. Soon will she lie like a blood-red sunset. Swift with the to-morrow, green-wing'd Spring! Sing from the South-west, bring her back the truants, Nightingale and swallow, song and dipping wing. . . . Soft new beech-leaves, up to beamy April Spreading bough on bough a primrose mountain, you Lucid in the moon, raise lilies to the skyfields, Youngest green transfused in silver shining through: Fairer than the lily, than the wild white cherry: Fair as in image my seraph love appears Borne to me by dreams when dawn is at my eyelids: Fair as in the flesh she swims to me on tears. . . . Could I find a place to be alone with heaven, I would speak my heart out: heaven is my need. Every woodland tree is flushing like the dogwood, Flashing like the whitebeam, swaying like the reed. Flushing like the dogwood crimson in October; Streaming like the flag-reed South-west blown; Flashing as in gusts the sudden-lighted whitebeam: All seem to know what is for heaven alone.

George Meredith. 1828-1909

773. Phoebus with Admetus

WHEN by Zeus relenting the mandate was revoked, Sentencing to exile the bright Sun-God, Mindful were the ploughmen of who the steer had yoked, Who: and what a track show'd the upturn'd sod! Mindful were the shepherds, as now the noon severe Bent a burning eyebrow to brown evetide, How the rustic flute drew the silver to the sphere, Sister of his own, till her rays fell wide. God! of whom music And song and blood are pure, The day is never darken'd That had thee here obscure. Chirping none, the scarlet cicalas crouch'd in ranks: Slack the thistle-head piled its down-silk gray: Scarce the stony lizard suck'd hollows in his flanks: Thick on spots of umbrage our drowsed flocks lay. Sudden bow'd the chestnuts beneath a wind unheard, Lengthen'd ran the grasses, the sky grew slate: Then amid a swift flight of wing'd seed white as curd, Clear of limb a Youth smote the master's gate. God! of whom music And song and blood are pure, The day is never darken'd That had thee here obscure.

Water, first of singers, o'er rocky mount and mead, First of earthly singers, the sun-loved rill, Sang of him, and flooded the ripples on the reed, Seeking whom to waken and what ear fill. Water, sweetest soother to kiss a wound and cool, Sweetest and divinest, the sky-born brook, Chuckled, with a whimper, and made a mirror-pool Round the guest we welcomed, the strange hand shook. God! of whom music And song and blood are pure, The day is never darken'd That had thee here obscure.

Many swarms of wild bees descended on our fields: Stately stood the wheatstalk with head bent high: Big of heart we labour'd at storing mighty yields, Wool and corn, and clusters to make men cry! Hand-like rush'd the vintage; we strung the bellied skins Plump, and at the sealing the Youth's voice rose: Maidens clung in circle, on little fists their chins; Gentle beasties through push'd a cold long nose. God! of whom music And song and blood are pure, The day is never darken'd That had thee here obscure.

Foot to fire in snowtime we trimm'd the slender shaft: Often down the pit spied the lean wolf's teeth Grin against his will, trapp'd by masterstrokes of craft; Helpless in his froth-wrath as green logs seethe! Safe the tender lambs tugg'd the teats, and winter sped Whirl'd before the crocus, the year's new gold. Hung the hooky beak up aloft, the arrowhead Redden'd through his feathers for our dear fold. God! of whom music And song and blood are pure, The day is never darken'd That had thee here obscure.

Tales we drank of giants at war with gods above: Rocks were they to look on, and earth climb'd air! Tales of search for simples, and those who sought of love Ease because the creature was all too fair. Pleasant ran our thinking that while our work was good. Sure as fruits for sweat would the praise come fast. He that wrestled stoutest and tamed the billow-brood Danced in rings with girls, like a sail-flapp'd mast. God! of whom music And song and blood are pure, The day is never darken'd That had thee here obscure.

Lo, the herb of healing, when once the herb is known, Shines in shady woods bright as new-sprung flame. Ere the string was tighten'd we heard the mellow tone, After he had taught how the sweet sounds came. Stretch'd about his feet, labour done, 'twas as you see Red pomegranates tumble and burst hard rind. So began contention to give delight and be Excellent in things aim'd to make life kind. God! of whom music And song and blood are pure, The day is never darken'd That had thee here obscure.

You with shelly horns, rams! and, promontory goats, You whose browsing beards dip in coldest dew! Bulls, that walk the pastures in kingly-flashing coats! Laurel, ivy, vine, wreathed for feasts not few! You that build the shade-roof, and you that court the rays, You that leap besprinkling the rock stream-rent: He has been our fellow, the morning of our days; Us he chose for housemates, and this way went. God! of whom music And song and blood are pure, The day is never darken'd That had thee here obscure.

George Meredith. 1828-1909

774. Tardy Spring

NOW the North wind ceases, The warm South-west awakes; Swift fly the fleeces, Thick the blossom-flakes.

Now hill to hill has made the stride, And distance waves the without-end: Now in the breast a door flings wide; Our farthest smiles, our next is friend. And song of England's rush of flowers Is this full breeze with mellow stops, That spins the lark for shine, for showers; He drinks his hurried flight, and drops. The stir in memory seem these things, Which out of moisten'd turf and clay, Astrain for light push patient rings, Or leap to find the waterway. 'Tis equal to a wonder done, Whatever simple lives renew Their tricks beneath the father sun, As though they caught a broken clue: So hard was earth an eyewink back; But now the common life has come, The blotting cloud a dappled pack, The grasses one vast underhum. A City clothed in snow and soot, With lamps for day in ghostly rows, Breaks to the scene of hosts afoot, The river that reflective flows: And there did fog down crypts of street Play spectre upon eye and mouth:— Their faces are a glass to greet This magic of the whirl for South. A burly joy each creature swells With sound of its own hungry quest; Earth has to fill her empty wells, And speed the service of the nest; The phantom of the snow-wreath melt, That haunts the farmer's look abroad, Who sees what tomb a white night built, Where flocks now bleat and sprouts the clod. For iron Winter held her firm; Across her sky he laid his hand; And bird he starved, he stiffen'd worm; A sightless heaven, a shaven land. Her shivering Spring feign'd fast asleep, The bitten buds dared not unfold: We raced on roads and ice to keep Thought of the girl we love from cold.

But now the North wind ceases, The warm South-west awakes, The heavens are out in fleeces, And earth's green banner shakes.

George Meredith. 1828-1909

775. Love's Grave

MARK where the pressing wind shoots javelin-like, Its skeleton shadow on the broad-back'd wave! Here is a fitting spot to dig Love's grave; Here where the ponderous breakers plunge and strike, And dart their hissing tongues high up the sand: In hearing of the ocean, and in sight Of those ribb'd wind-streaks running into white. If I the death of Love had deeply plann'd, I never could have made it half so sure, As by the unblest kisses which upbraid The full-waked sense; or failing that, degrade! 'Tis morning: but no morning can restore What we have forfeited. I see no sin: The wrong is mix'd. In tragic life, God wot, No villain need be! Passions spin the plot: We are betray'd by what is false within.

George Meredith. 1828-1909

776. Lucifer in Starlight

ON a starr'd night Prince Lucifer uprose. Tired of his dark dominion swung the fiend Above the rolling ball in cloud part screen'd, Where sinners hugg'd their spectre of repose. Poor prey to his hot fit of pride were those. And now upon his western wing he lean'd, Now his huge bulk o'er Afric's sands careen'd, Now the black planet shadow'd Arctic snows. Soaring through wider zones that prick'd his scars With memory of the old revolt from Awe, He reach'd a middle height, and at the stars, Which are the brain of heaven, he look'd, and sank. Around the ancient track march'd, rank on rank, The army of unalterable law.

Alexander Smith. 1829-1867

777. Love

THE fierce exulting worlds, the motes in rays, The churlish thistles, scented briers, The wind-swept bluebells on the sunny braes, Down to the central fires,

Exist alike in Love. Love is a sea Filling all the abysses dim Of lornest space, in whose deeps regally Suns and their bright broods swim.

This mighty sea of Love, with wondrous tides, Is sternly just to sun and grain; 'Tis laving at this moment Saturn's sides, 'Tis in my blood and brain.

All things have something more than barren use; There is a scent upon the brier, A tremulous splendour in the autumn dews, Cold morns are fringed with fire.

The clodded earth goes up in sweet-breath'd flowers; In music dies poor human speech, And into beauty blow those hearts of ours When Love is born in each.

Daisies are white upon the churchyard sod, Sweet tears the clouds lean down and give. The world is very lovely. O my God, I thank Thee that I live!

Alexander Smith. 1829-1867

778. Barbara

ON the Sabbath-day, Through the churchyard old and gray, Over the crisp and yellow leaves I held my rustling way; And amid the words of mercy, falling on my soul like balms, 'Mid the gorgeous storms of music—in the mellow organ-calms, 'Mid the upward-streaming prayers, and the rich and solemn psalms, I stood careless, Barbara.

My heart was otherwhere, While the organ shook the air, And the priest, with outspread hands, bless'd the people with a prayer; But when rising to go homeward, with a mild and saintlike shine Gleam'd a face of airy beauty with its heavenly eyes on mine— Gleam'd and vanish'd in a moment—O that face was surely thine Out of heaven, Barbara!

O pallid, pallid face! O earnest eyes of grace! When last I saw thee, dearest, it was in another place. You came running forth to meet me with my love-gift on your wrist: The flutter of a long white dress, then all was lost in mist— A purple stain of agony was on the mouth I kiss'd, That wild morning, Barbara.

I search'd, in my despair, Sunny noon and midnight air; I could not drive away the thought that you were lingering there. O many and many a winter night I sat when you were gone, My worn face buried in my hands, beside the fire alone— Within the dripping churchyard, the rain plashing on your stone, You were sleeping, Barbara.

'Mong angels, do you think Of the precious golden link I clasp'd around your happy arm while sitting by yon brink? Or when that night of gliding dance, of laughter and guitars, Was emptied of its music, and we watch'd, through lattice-bars, The silent midnight heaven creeping o'er us with its stars, Till the day broke, Barbara?

In the years I've changed; Wild and far my heart has ranged, And many sins and errors now have been on me avenged; But to you I have been faithful whatsoever good I lack'd: I loved you, and above my life still hangs that love intact— Your love the trembling rainbow, I the reckless cataract. Still I love you. Barbara.

Yet, Love, I am unblest; With many doubts opprest, I wander like the desert wind without a place of rest. Could I but win you for an hour from off that starry shore, The hunger of my soul were still'd; for Death hath told you more Than the melancholy world doth know—things deeper than all lore You could teach me, Barbara.

In vain, in vain, in vain! You will never come again. There droops upon the dreary hills a mournful fringe of rain; The gloaming closes slowly round, loud winds are in the tree, Round selfish shores for ever moans the hurt and wounded sea; There is no rest upon the earth, peace is with Death and thee— Barbara!

Christina Georgina Rossetti. 1830-1894

779. Bride Song FROM 'THE PRINCE'S PROGRESS'

TOO late for love, too late for joy, Too late, too late! You loiter'd on the road too long, You trifled at the gate: The enchanted dove upon her branch Died without a mate; The enchanted princess in her tower Slept, died, behind the grate; Her heart was starving all this while You made it wait.

Ten years ago, five years ago, One year ago, Even then you had arrived in time, Though somewhat slow; Then you had known her living face Which now you cannot know: The frozen fountain would have leap'd, The buds gone on to blow, The warm south wind would have awaked To melt the snow.

Is she fair now as she lies? Once she was fair; Meet queen for any kingly king, With gold-dust on her hair. Now there are poppies in her locks, White poppies she must wear; Must wear a veil to shroud her face And the want graven there: Or is the hunger fed at length, Cast off the care?

We never saw her with a smile Or with a frown; Her bed seem'd never soft to her, Though toss'd of down; She little heeded what she wore, Kirtle, or wreath, or gown; We think her white brows often ached Beneath her crown, Till silvery hairs show'd in her locks That used to be so brown.

We never heard her speak in haste: Her tones were sweet, And modulated just so much As it was meet: Her heart sat silent through the noise And concourse of the street. There was no hurry in her hands, No hurry in her feet; There was no bliss drew nigh to her, That she might run to greet.

You should have wept her yesterday, Wasting upon her bed: But wherefore should you weep to-day That she is dead? Lo, we who love weep not to-day, But crown her royal head. Let be these poppies that we strew, Your roses are too red: Let be these poppies, not for you Cut down and spread.

Christina Georgina Rossetti. 1830-1894

780. A Birthday

MY heart is like a singing bird Whose nest is in a water'd shoot; My heart is like an apple-tree Whose boughs are bent with thick-set fruit; My heart is like a rainbow shell That paddles in a halcyon sea; My heart is gladder than all these, Because my love is come to me.

Raise me a das of silk and down; Hang it with vair and purple dyes; Carve it in doves and pomegranates, And peacocks with a hundred eyes; Work it in gold and silver grapes, In leaves and silver fleurs-de-lys; Because the birthday of my life Is come, my love is come to me.

Christina Georgina Rossetti. 1830-1894

781. Song

WHEN I am dead, my dearest, Sing no sad songs for me; Plant thou no roses at my head, Nor shady cypress tree: Be the green grass above me With showers and dewdrops wet; And if thou wilt, remember, And if thou wilt, forget.

I shall not see the shadows, I shall not feel the rain; I shall not hear the nightingale Sing on, as if in pain; And dreaming through the twilight That doth not rise nor set, Haply I may remember, And haply may forget.

Christina Georgina Rossetti. 1830-1894

782. Twice

I TOOK my heart in my hand (O my love, O my love), I said: Let me fall or stand, Let me live or die, But this once hear me speak (O my love, O my love)— Yet a woman's words are weak; You should speak, not I.

You took my heart in your hand With a friendly smile, With a critical eye you scann'd, Then set it down, And said, 'It is still unripe, Better wait awhile; Wait while the skylarks pipe, Till the corn grows brown.' As you set it down it broke— Broke, but I did not wince; I smiled at the speech you spoke, At your judgement I heard: But I have not often smiled Since then, nor question'd since, Nor cared for cornflowers wild, Nor sung with the singing bird.

I take my heart in my hand, O my God, O my God, My broken heart in my hand: Thou hast seen, judge Thou. My hope was written on sand, O my God, O my God: Now let thy judgement stand— Yea, judge me now.

This contemn'd of a man, This marr'd one heedless day, This heart take thou to scan Both within and without: Refine with fire its gold, Purge Thou its dross away— Yea, hold it in Thy hold, Whence none can pluck it out.

I take my heart in my hand— I shall not die, but live— Before Thy face I stand; I, for Thou callest such: All that I have I bring, All that I am I give, Smile Thou and I shall sing, But shall not question much.

Christina Georgina Rossetti. 1830-1894

783. Uphill

DOES the road wind uphill all the way? Yes, to the very end. Will the day's journey take the whole long day? From morn to night, my friend.

But is there for the night a resting-place? A roof for when the slow, dark hours begin. May not the darkness hide it from my face? You cannot miss that inn.

Shall I meet other wayfarers at night? Those who have gone before. Then must I knock, or call when just in sight? They will not keep you waiting at that door.

Shall I find comfort, travel-sore and weak? Of labour you shall find the sum. Will there be beds for me and all who seek? Yea, beds for all who come.

Christina Georgina Rossetti. 1830-1894

784. Passing Away

PASSING away, saith the World, passing away: Chances, beauty and youth sapp'd day by day: Thy life never continueth in one stay. Is the eye waxen dim, is the dark hair changing to gray That hath won neither laurel nor bay? I shall clothe myself in Spring and bud in May: Thou, root-stricken, shalt not rebuild thy decay On my bosom for aye. Then I answer'd: Yea.

Passing away, saith my Soul, passing away: With its burden of fear and hope, of labour and play, Hearken what the past doth witness and say: Rust in thy gold, a moth is in thine array, A canker is in thy bud, thy leaf must decay. At midnight, at cockcrow, at morning, one certain day, Lo, the Bridegroom shall come and shall not delay: Watch thou and pray. Then I answer'd: Yea.

Passing away, saith my God, passing away: Winter passeth after the long delay: New grapes on the vine, new figs on the tender spray, Turtle calleth turtle in Heaven's May. Though I tarry, wait for me, trust me, watch and pray. Arise, come away; night is past, and lo, it is day; My love, my sister, my spouse, thou shalt hear me say— Then I answer'd: Yea.

Christina Georgina Rossetti. 1830-1894

785. Marvel of Marvels

MARVEL of marvels, if I myself shall behold With mine own eyes my King in His city of gold; Where the least of lambs is spotless white in the fold, Where the least and last of saints in spotless white is stoled, Where the dimmest head beyond a moon is aureoled. O saints, my beloved, now mouldering to mould in the mould, Shall I see you lift your heads, see your cerements unroll'd, See with these very eyes? who now in darkness and cold Tremble for the midnight cry, the rapture, the tale untold,— The Bridegroom cometh, cometh, His Bride to enfold!

Cold it is, my beloved, since your funeral bell was toll'd: Cold it is, O my King, how cold alone on the wold!

Christina Georgina Rossetti. 1830-1894

786. Is it Well with the Child?

SAFE where I cannot die yet, Safe where I hope to lie too, Safe from the fume and the fret; You, and you, Whom I never forget. Safe from the frost and the snow, Safe from the storm and the sun, Safe where the seeds wait to grow One by one, And to come back in blow.

Christina Georgina Rossetti. 1830-1894

787. Remember

REMEMBER me when I am gone away, Gone far away into the silent land; When you can no more hold me by the hand, Nor I half turn to go, yet turning stay. Remember me when no more day by day You tell me of our future that you plann'd: Only remember me; you understand It will be late to counsel then or pray. Yet if you should forget me for a while And afterwards remember, do not grieve: For if the darkness and corruption leave A vestige of the thoughts that once I had, Better by far you should forget and smile Than that you should remember and be sad.

Christina Georgina Rossetti. 1830-1894

788. Aloof

THE irresponsive silence of the land, The irresponsive sounding of the sea, Speak both one message of one sense to me:— Aloof, aloof, we stand aloof, so stand Thou too aloof, bound with the flawless band Of inner solitude; we bind not thee; But who from thy self-chain shall set thee free? What heart shall touch thy heart? What hand thy hand? And I am sometimes proud and sometimes meek, And sometimes I remember days of old When fellowship seem'd not so far to seek, And all the world and I seem'd much less cold, And at the rainbow's foot lay surely gold, And hope felt strong, and life itself not weak.

Christina Georgina Rossetti. 1830-1894

789. Rest

O EARTH, lie heavily upon her eyes; Seal her sweet eyes weary of watching, Earth; Lie close around her; leave no room for mirth With its harsh laughter, nor for sound of sighs. She hath no questions, she hath no replies, Hush'd in and curtain'd with a blessed dearth Of all that irk'd her from the hour of birth; With stillness that is almost Paradise. Darkness more clear than noonday holdeth her, Silence more musical than any song; Even her very heart has ceased to stir: Until the morning of Eternity Her rest shall not begin nor end, but be; And when she wakes she will not think it long.

Thomas Edward Brown. 1830-1897

790. Dora

SHE knelt upon her brother's grave, My little girl of six years old— He used to be so good and brave, The sweetest lamb of all our fold; He used to shout, he used to sing, Of all our tribe the little king— And so unto the turf her ear she laid, To hark if still in that dark place he play'd. No sound! no sound! Death's silence was profound; And horror crept Into her aching heart, and Dora wept. If this is as it ought to be, My God, I leave it unto Thee.

Thomas Edward Brown. 1830-1897

791. Jessie

WHEN Jessie comes with her soft breast, And yields the golden keys, Then is it as if God caress'd Twin babes upon His knees— Twin babes that, each to other press'd, Just feel the Father's arms, wherewith they both are bless'd.

But when I think if we must part, And all this personal dream be fled— O then my heart! O then my useless heart! Would God that thou wert dead— A clod insensible to joys and ills— A stone remote in some bleak gully of the hills!

Thomas Edward Brown. 1830-1897

792. Salve!

TO live within a cave—it is most good; But, if God make a day, And some one come, and say, 'Lo! I have gather'd faggots in the wood!' E'en let him stay, And light a fire, and fan a temporal mood!

So sit till morning! when the light is grown That he the path can read, Then bid the man God-speed! His morning is not thine: yet must thou own They have a cheerful warmth—those ashes on the stone.

Thomas Edward Brown. 1830-1897

793. My Garden

A GARDEN is a lovesome thing, God wot! Rose plot, Fringed pool, Fern'd grot— The veriest school Of peace; and yet the fool Contends that God is not— Not God! in gardens! when the eve is cool? Nay, but I have a sign; 'Tis very sure God walks in mine.

Edward Robert Bulwer Lytton, Earl of Lytton. 1831-1892

794. A Night in Italy

SWEET are the rosy memories of the lips That first kiss'd ours, albeit they kiss no more: Sweet is the sight of sunset-sailing ships, Altho' they leave us on a lonely shore: Sweet are familiar songs, tho' Music dips Her hollow shell in Thought's forlornest wells: And sweet, tho' sad, the sound of midnight bells When the oped casement with the night-rain drips.

There is a pleasure which is born of pain: The grave of all things hath its violet. Else why, thro' days which never come again, Roams Hope with that strange longing, like Regret? Why put the posy in the cold dead hand? Why plant the rose above the lonely grave? Why bring the corpse across the salt sea-wave? Why deem the dead more near in native land?

Thy name hath been a silence in my life So long, it falters upon language now, O more to me than sister or than wife Once ... and now—nothing! It is hard to know That such things have been, and are not; and yet Life loiters, keeps a pulse at even measure, And goes upon its business and its pleasure, And knows not all the depths of its regret....

Ah, could the memory cast her spots, as do The snake's brood theirs in spring! and be once more Wholly renew'd, to dwell i' the time that 's new, With no reiterance of those pangs of yore. Peace, peace! My wild song will go wandering Too wantonly, down paths a private pain Hath trodden bare. What was it jarr'd the strain? Some crush'd illusion, left with crumpled wing

Tangled in Music's web of twined strings— That started that false note, and crack'd the tune In its beginning. Ah, forgotten things Stumble back strangely! and the ghost of June Stands by December's fire, cold, cold! and puts The last spark out.—How could I sing aright With those old airs haunting me all the night And those old steps that sound when daylight shuts?

For back she comes, and moves reproachfully, The mistress of my moods, and looks bereft (Cruel to the last!) as tho' 'twere I, not she, That did the wrong, and broke the spell, and left Memory comfortless.—Away! away! Phantoms, about whose brows the bindweed clings, Hopeless regret! In thinking of these things Some men have lost their minds, and others may.

Yet, O for one deep draught in this dull hour! One deep, deep draught of the departed time! O for one brief strong pulse of ancient power, To beat and breathe thro' all the valves of rhyme! Thou, Memory, with thy downward eyes, that art The cup-bearer of gods, pour deep and long, Brim all the vacant chalices of song With health! Droop down thine urn. I hold my heart

One draught of what I shall not taste again Save when my brain with thy dark wine is brimm'd,— One draught! and then straight onward, spite of pain, And spite of all things changed, with gaze undimm'd, Love's footsteps thro' the waning Past to explore Undaunted; and to carve in the wan light Of Hope's last outposts, on Song's utmost height, The sad resemblance of an hour or more.

Midnight, and love, and youth, and Italy! Love in the land where love most lovely seems! Land of my love, tho' I be far from thee, Lend, for love's sake, the light of thy moonbeams, The spirit of thy cypress-groves and all Thy dark-eyed beauty for a little while To my desire. Yet once more let her smile Fall o'er me: o'er me let her long hair fall....

Under the blessed darkness unreproved We were alone, in that best hour of time Which first reveal'd to us how much we loved, 'Neath the thick starlight. The young night sublime Hung trembling o'er us. At her feet I knelt, And gazed up from her feet into her eyes. Her face was bow'd: we breathed each other's sighs: We did not speak: not move: we look'd: we felt.

The night said not a word. The breeze was dead. The leaf lay without whispering on the tree, As I lay at her feet. Droop'd was her head: One hand in mine: and one still pensively Went wandering through my hair. We were together. How? Where? What matter? Somewhere in a dream, Drifting, slow drifting down a wizard stream: Whither? Together: then what matter whither?

It was enough for me to clasp her hand: To blend with her love-looks my own: no more. Enough (with thoughts like ships that cannot land, Blown by faint winds about a magic shore) To realize, in each mysterious feeling, The droop of the warm cheek so near my own: The cool white arm about my shoulder thrown: Those exquisite fair feet where I was kneeling.

How little know they life's divinest bliss, That know not to possess and yet refrain! Let the young Psyche roam, a fleeting kiss: Grasp it—a few poor grains of dust remain. See how those floating flowers, the butterflies, Hover the garden thro', and take no root! Desire for ever hath a flying foot: Free pleasure comes and goes beneath the skies.

Close not thy hand upon the innocent joy That trusts itself within thy reach. It may, Or may not, linger. Thou canst but destroy The winged wanderer. Let it go or stay. Love thou the rose, yet leave it on its stem. Think! Midas starved by turning all to gold. Blessed are those that spare, and that withhold; Because the whole world shall be trusted them.

The foolish Faun pursues the unwilling Nymph That culls her flowers beside the precipice Or dips her shining ankles in the lymph: But, just when she must perish or be his, Heaven puts an arm out. She is safe. The shore Gains some new fountain; or the lilied lawn A rarer sort of rose: but ah, poor Faun! To thee she shall be changed for evermore.

Chase not too close the fading rapture. Leave To Love his long auroras, slowly seen. Be ready to release as to receive. Deem those the nearest, soul to soul, between Whose lips yet lingers reverence on a sigh. Judge what thy sense can reach not, most thine own, If once thy soul hath seized it. The unknown Is life to love, religion, poetry.

The moon had set. There was not any light, Save of the lonely legion'd watch-stars pale In outer air, and what by fits made bright Hot oleanders in a rosy vale Search'd by the lamping fly, whose little spark Went in and out, like passion's bashful hope. Meanwhile the sleepy globe began to slope A ponderous shoulder sunward thro' the dark.

And the night pass'd in beauty like a dream. Aloof in those dark heavens paused Destiny, With her last star descending in the gleam Of the cold morrow, from the emptied sky. The hour, the distance from her old self, all The novelty and loneness of the place Had left a lovely awe on that fair face, And all the land grew strange and magical.

As droops some billowy cloud to the crouch'd hill, Heavy with all heaven's tears, for all earth's care, She droop'd unto me, without force or will, And sank upon my bosom, murmuring there A woman's inarticulate passionate words. O moment of all moments upon earth! O life's supreme! How worth, how wildly worth, Whole worlds of flame, to know this world affords.

What even Eternity can not restore! When all the ends of life take hands and meet Round centres of sweet fire. Ah, never more, Ah never, shall the bitter with the sweet Be mingled so in the pale after-years! One hour of life immortal spirits possess. This drains the world, and leaves but weariness, And parching passion, and perplexing tears.

Sad is it, that we cannot even keep That hour to sweeten life's last toil: but Youth Grasps all, and leaves us: and when we would weep, We dare not let our tears fall, lest, in truth, They fall upon our work which must be done. And so we bind up our torn hearts from breaking: Our eyes from weeping, and our brows from aching: And follow the long pathway all alone.

Edward Robert Bulwer Lytton, Earl of Lytton. 1831-1892

795. The Last Wish

SINCE all that I can ever do for thee Is to do nothing, this my prayer must be: That thou mayst never guess nor ever see The all-endured this nothing-done costs me.

James Thomson. 1834-1882

796. In the Train

AS we rush, as we rush in the Train, The trees and the houses go wheeling back, But the starry heavens above the plain Come flying on our track.

All the beautiful stars of the sky, The silver doves of the forest of Night, Over the dull earth swarm and fly, Companions of our flight.

We will rush ever on without fear; Let the goal be far, the flight be fleet! For we carry the Heavens with us, dear, While the Earth slips from our feet!

James Thomson. 1834-1882

797. Sunday up the River

MY love o'er the water bends dreaming; It glideth and glideth away: She sees there her own beauty, gleaming Through shadow and ripple and spray.

O tell her, thou murmuring river, As past her your light wavelets roll, How steadfast that image for ever Shines pure in pure depths of my soul.

James Thomson. 1834-1882

798. Gifts

GIVE a man a horse he can ride, Give a man a boat he can sail; And his rank and wealth, his strength and health, On sea nor shore shall fail.

Give a man a pipe he can smoke, Give a man a book he can read: And his home is bright with a calm delight, Though the room be poor indeed.

Give a man a girl he can love, As I, O my love, love thee; And his heart is great with the pulse of Fate, At home, on land, on sea.

James Thomson. 1834-1882

799. The Vine

THE wine of Love is music, And the feast of Love is song: And when Love sits down to the banquet, Love sits long:

Sits long and arises drunken, But not with the feast and the wine; He reeleth with his own heart, That great, rich Vine.

William Morris. 1834-1896

800. Summer Dawn

PRAY but one prayer for me 'twixt thy closed lips, Think but one thought of me up in the stars. The summer night waneth, the morning light slips Faint and gray 'twixt the leaves of the aspen, betwixt the cloud-bars, That are patiently waiting there for the dawn: Patient and colourless, though Heaven's gold Waits to float through them along with the sun. Far out in the meadows, above the young corn, The heavy elms wait, and restless and cold The uneasy wind rises; the roses are dun; Through the long twilight they pray for the dawn Round the lone house in the midst of the corn. Speak but one word to me over the corn, Over the tender, bow'd locks of the corn.

William Morris. 1834-1896

801. Love is enough

LOVE is enough: though the World be a-waning, And the woods have no voice but the voice of complaining, Though the sky be too dark for dim eyes to discover The gold-cups and daisies fair blooming thereunder, Though the hills be held shadows, and the sea a dark wonder, And this day draw a veil over all deeds pass'd over, Yet their hands shall not tremble, their feet shall not falter; The void shall not weary, the fear shall not alter These lips and these eyes of the loved and the lover.

William Morris. 1834-1896

802. The Nymph's Song to Hylas

I KNOW a little garden-close Set thick with lily and red rose, Where I would wander if I might From dewy dawn to dewy night, And have one with me wandering.

And though within it no birds sing, And though no pillar'd house is there, And though the apple boughs are bare Of fruit and blossom, would to God, Her feet upon the green grass trod, And I beheld them as before!

There comes a murmur from the shore, And in the place two fair streams are, Drawn from the purple hills afar, Drawn down unto the restless sea; The hills whose flowers ne'er fed the bee, The shore no ship has ever seen, Still beaten by the billows green, Whose murmur comes unceasingly Unto the place for which I cry.

For which I cry both day and night, For which I let slip all delight, That maketh me both deaf and blind, Careless to win, unskill'd to find, And quick to lose what all men seek.

Yet tottering as I am, and weak, Still have I left a little breath To seek within the jaws of death An entrance to that happy place; To seek the unforgotten face Once seen, once kiss'd, once reft from me Anigh the murmuring of the sea.

Roden Berkeley Wriothesley Noel. 1834-1894

803. The Water-Nymph and the Boy

I FLUNG me round him, I drew him under; I clung, I drown'd him, My own white wonder!...

Father and mother, Weeping and wild, Came to the forest, Calling the child, Came from the palace, Down to the pool, Calling my darling, My beautiful! Under the water, Cold and so pale! Could it be love made Beauty to fail?

Ah me for mortals! In a few moons, If I had left him, After some Junes He would have faded, Faded away, He, the young monarch, whom All would obey, Fairer than day; Alien to springtime, Joyless and gray, He would have faded, Faded away, Moving a mockery, Scorn'd of the day! Now I have taken him All in his prime, Saved from slow poisoning Pitiless Time, Fill'd with his happiness, One with the prime, Saved from the cruel Dishonour of Time. Laid him, my beautiful, Laid him to rest, Loving, adorable, Softly to rest, Here in my crystalline, Here in my breast!

Roden Berkeley Wriothesley Noel. 1834-1894

804. The Old

THEY are waiting on the shore For the bark to take them home: They will toil and grieve no more; The hour for release hath come.

All their long life lies behind Like a dimly blending dream: There is nothing left to bind To the realms that only seem.

They are waiting for the boat; There is nothing left to do: What was near them grows remote, Happy silence falls like dew; Now the shadowy bark is come, And the weary may go home.

By still water they would rest In the shadow of the tree: After battle sleep is best, After noise, tranquillity.

Thomas Ashe. 1836-1889

805. Meet We no Angels, Pansie?

CAME, on a Sabbath noon, my sweet, In white, to find her lover; The grass grew proud beneath her feet, The green elm-leaves above her:— Meet we no angels, Pansie?

She said, 'We meet no angels now'; And soft lights stream'd upon her; And with white hand she touch'd a bough; She did it that great honour:— What! meet no angels, Pansie?

O sweet brown hat, brown hair, brown eyes, Down-dropp'd brown eyes, so tender! Then what said I? Gallant replies Seem flattery, and offend her:— But—meet no angels, Pansie?

Thomas Ashe. 1836-1889

806. To Two Bereaved

YOU must be sad; for though it is to Heaven, 'Tis hard to yield a little girl of seven. Alas, for me 'tis hard my grief to rule, Who only met her as she went to school; Who never heard the little lips so sweet Say even 'Good-morning,' though our eyes would meet As whose would fain be friends! How must you sigh, Sick for your loss, when even so sad am I, Who never clasp'd the small hands any day! Fair flowers thrive round the little grave, I pray.

Theodore Watts-Dunton. 1836-1914

807. Wassail Chorus at the Mermaid Tavern

CHRISTMAS knows a merry, merry place, Where he goes with fondest face, Brightest eye, brightest hair: Tell the Mermaid where is that one place, Where?

Raleigh. 'Tis by Devon's glorious halls, Whence, dear Ben, I come again: Bright of golden roofs and walls— El Dorado's rare domain—

Seem those halls when sunlight launches Shafts of gold thro' leafless branches, Where the winter's feathery mantle blanches Field and farm and lane.

CHORUS. Christmas knows a merry, merry place, &c.

Drayton. 'Tis where Avon's wood-sprites weave Through the boughs a lace of rime, While the bells of Christmas Eve Fling for Will the Stratford-chime O'er the river-flags emboss'd Rich with flowery runes of frost— O'er the meads where snowy tufts are toss'd— Strains of olden time.

CHORUS. Christmas knows a merry, merry place, &c.

Shakespeare's Friend. 'Tis, methinks, on any ground Where our Shakespeare's feet are set. There smiles Christmas, holly-crown'd With his blithest coronet: Friendship's face he loveth well: 'Tis a countenance whose spell Sheds a balm o'er every mead and dell Where we used to fret.

CHORUS. Christmas knows a merry, merry place, &c.

Heywood. More than all the pictures, Ben, Winter weaves by wood or stream, Christmas loves our London, when Rise thy clouds of wassail-steam— Clouds like these, that, curling, take Forms of faces gone, and wake Many a lay from lips we loved, and make London like a dream.

CHORUS. Christmas knows a merry, merry place, &c.

Ben Jonson. Love's old songs shall never die, Yet the new shall suffer proof: Love's old drink of Yule brew I Wassail for new love's behoof. Drink the drink I brew, and sing Till the berried branches swing, Till our song make all the Mermaid ring— Yea, from rush to roof.

FINALE. Christmas loves this merry, merry place; Christmas saith with fondest face, Brightest eye, brightest hair: 'Ben, the drink tastes rare of sack and mace: Rare!'

Algernon Charles Swinburne. 1837-1909

808. Chorus from 'Atalanta'

WHEN the hounds of spring are on winter's traces, The mother of months in meadow or plain Fills the shadows and windy places With lisp of leaves and ripple of rain; And the brown bright nightingale amorous Is half assuaged for Itylus, For the Thracian ships and the foreign faces. The tongueless vigil, and all the pain.

Come with bows bent and with emptying of quivers, Maiden most perfect, lady of light, With a noise of winds and many rivers, With a clamour of waters, and with might; Bind on thy sandals, O thou most fleet, Over the splendour and speed of thy feet; For the faint east quickens, the wan west shivers, Round the feet of the day and the feet of the night.

Where shall we find her, how shall we sing to her, Fold our hands round her knees, and cling? O that man's heart were as fire and could spring to her, Fire, or the strength of the streams that spring! For the stars and the winds are unto her As raiment, as songs of the harp-player; For the risen stars and the fallen cling to her, And the southwest-wind and the west-wind sing.

For winter's rains and ruins are over, And all the season of snows and sins; The days dividing lover and lover, The light that loses, the night that wins; And time remember'd is grief forgotten, And frosts are slain and flowers begotten, And in green underwood and cover Blossom by blossom the spring begins.

The full streams feed on flower of rushes, Ripe grasses trammel a travelling foot, The faint fresh flame of the young year flushes From leaf to flower and flower to fruit; And fruit and leaf are as gold and fire, And the oat is heard above the lyre, And the hoofed heel of a satyr crushes The chestnut-husk at the chestnut-root.

And Pan by noon and Bacchus by night, Fleeter of foot than the fleet-foot kid, Follows with dancing and fills with delight The Maenad and the Bassarid; And soft as lips that laugh and hide The laughing leaves of the trees divide, And screen from seeing and leave in sight The god pursuing, the maiden hid.

The ivy falls with the Bacchanal's hair Over her eyebrows hiding her eyes; The wild vine slipping down leaves bare Her bright breast shortening into sighs; The wild vine slips with the weight of its leaves, But the berried ivy catches and cleaves To the limbs that glitter, the feet that scare The wolf that follows, the fawn that flies.

Algernon Charles Swinburne. 1837-1909

809. Hertha

I AM that which began; Out of me the years roll; Out of me God and man; I am equal and whole; God changes, and man, and the form of them bodily; I am the soul.

Before ever land was, Before ever the sea, Or soft hair of the grass, Or fair limbs of the tree, Or the flesh-colour'd fruit of my branches, I was, and thy soul was in me.

First life on my sources First drifted and swam; Out of me are the forces That save it or damn; Out of me man and woman, and wild-beast and bird: before God was, I am.

Beside or above me Naught is there to go; Love or unlove me, Unknow me or know, I am that which unloves me and loves; I am stricken, and I am the blow.

I the mark that is miss'd And the arrows that miss, I the mouth that is kiss'd And the breath in the kiss, The search, and the sought, and the seeker, the soul and the body that is.

I am that thing which blesses My spirit elate; That which caresses With hands uncreate My limbs unbegotten that measure the length of the measure of fate.

But what thing dost thou now, Looking Godward, to cry, 'I am I, thou art thou, I am low, thou art high'? I am thou, whom thou seekest to find him; find thou but thyself, thou art I.

I the grain and the furrow, The plough-cloven clod And the ploughshare drawn thorough, The germ and the sod, The deed and the doer, the seed and the sower, the dust which is God.

Hast thou known how I fashion'd thee, Child, underground? Fire that impassion'd thee, Iron that bound, Dim changes of water, what thing of all these hast thou known of or found?

Canst thou say in thine heart Thou hast seen with thine eyes With what cunning of art Thou wast wrought in what wise, By what force of what stuff thou wast shapen, and shown on my breast to the skies?

Who hath given, who hath sold it thee, Knowledge of me? Has the wilderness told it thee? Hast thou learnt of the sea? Hast thou communed in spirit with night? have the winds taken counsel with thee?

Have I set such a star To show light on thy brow That thou sawest from afar What I show to thee now? Have ye spoken as brethren together, the sun and the mountains and thou?

What is here, dost thou know it? What was, hast thou known? Prophet nor poet Nor tripod nor throne Nor spirit nor flesh can make answer, but only thy mother alone.

Mother, not maker, Born, and not made; Though her children forsake her, Allured or afraid, Praying prayers to the God of their fashion, she stirs not for all that have pray'd.

A creed is a rod, And a crown is of night; But this thing is God, To be man with thy might, To grow straight in the strength of thy spirit, and live out thy life as the light.

I am in thee to save thee, As my soul in thee saith; Give thou as I gave thee, Thy life-blood and breath, Green leaves of thy labour, white flowers of thy thought, and red fruit of thy death.

Be the ways of thy giving As mine were to thee; The free life of thy living, Be the gift of it free; Not as servant to lord, nor as master to slave, shalt thou give thee to me.

O children of banishment, Souls overcast, Were the lights ye see vanish meant Alway to last, Ye would know not the sun overshining the shadows and stars overpast.

I that saw where ye trod The dim paths of the night Set the shadow call'd God In your skies to give light; But the morning of manhood is risen, and the shadowless soul is in sight.

The tree many-rooted That swells to the sky With frondage red-fruited, The life-tree am I; In the buds of your lives is the sap of my leaves: ye shall live and not die.

But the Gods of your fashion That take and that give, In their pity and passion That scourge and forgive, They are worms that are bred in the bark that falls off; they shall die and not live.

My own blood is what stanches The wounds in my bark; Stars caught in my branches Make day of the dark, And are worshipp'd as suns till the sunrise shall tread out their fires as a spark.

Where dead ages hide under The live roots of the tree, In my darkness the thunder Makes utterance of me; In the clash of my boughs with each other ye hear the waves sound of the sea.

That noise is of Time, As his feathers are spread And his feet set to climb Through the boughs overhead, And my foliage rings round him and rustles, and branches are bent with his tread.

The storm-winds of ages Blow through me and cease, The war-wind that rages, The spring-wind of peace, Ere the breath of them roughen my tresses, ere one of my blossoms increase.

All sounds of all changes, All shadows and lights On the world's mountain-ranges And stream-riven heights, Whose tongue is the wind's tongue and language of storm-clouds on earth-shaking nights;

All forms of all faces, All works of all hands In unsearchable places Of time-stricken lands, All death and all life, and all reigns and all ruins, drop through me as sands.

Though sore be my burden And more than ye know, And my growth have no guerdon But only to grow, Yet I fail not of growing for lightnings above me or deathworms below.

These too have their part in me, As I too in these; Such fire is at heart in me, Such sap is this tree's, Which hath in it all sounds and all secrets of infinite lands and of seas.

In the spring-colour'd hours When my mind was as May's There brake forth of me flowers By centuries of days, Strong blossoms with perfume of manhood, shot out from my spirit as rays.

And the sound of them springing And smell of their shoots Were as warmth and sweet singing And strength to my roots; And the lives of my children made perfect with freedom of soul were my fruits.

I bid you but be; I have need not of prayer; I have need of you free As your mouths of mine air; That my heart may be greater within me, beholding the fruits of me fair.

More fair than strange fruit is Of faiths ye espouse; In me only the root is That blooms in your boughs; Behold now your God that ye made you, to feed him with faith of your vows.

In the darkening and whitening Abysses adored, With dayspring and lightning For lamp and for sword, God thunders in heaven, and his angels are red with the wrath of the Lord.

O my sons, O too dutiful Toward Gods not of me, Was not I enough beautiful? Was it hard to be free? For behold, I am with you, am in you and of you; look forth now and see.

Lo, wing'd with world's wonders, With miracles shod, With the fires of his thunders For raiment and rod, God trembles in heaven, and his angels are white with the terror of God.

For his twilight is come on him, His anguish is here; And his spirits gaze dumb on him, Grown gray from his fear; And his hour taketh hold on him stricken, the last of his infinite year.

Thought made him and breaks him, Truth slays and forgives; But to you, as time takes him, This new thing it gives, Even love, the beloved Republic, that feeds upon freedom and lives.