So I was sent away That none might spy the truth: And my childhood waxed to youth 30 And I left off childish play. I never cared to play With the village boys and girls; And I think they thought me proud, I found so little to say And kept so from the crowd: But I had the longest curls And I had the largest eyes And my teeth were small like pearls; The girls might flout and scout me, 40 But the boys would hang about me In sheepish mooning wise.

Our one-street village stood A long mile from the town, A mile of windy down And bleak one-sided wood, With not a single house. Our town itself was small, With just the common shops, And throve in its small way. 50 Our neighbouring gentry reared The good old-fashioned crops, And made old-fashioned boasts Of what John Bull would do If Frenchman Frog appeared, And drank old-fashioned toasts, And made old-fashioned bows To my Lady at the Hall.

My Lady at the Hall Is grander than they all: 60 Hers is the oldest name In all the neighbourhood; But the race must die with her Though she's a lofty dame, For she's unmarried still. Poor people say she's good And has an open hand As any in the land, And she's the comforter Of many sick and sad; 70 My nurse once said to me That everything she had Came of my Lady's bounty: 'Though she's greatest in the county She's humble to the poor, No beggar seeks her door But finds help presently. I pray both night and day For her, and you must pray: But she'll never feel distress 80 If needy folk can bless.'

I was a little maid When here we came to live From somewhere by the sea. Men spoke a foreign tongue There where we used to be When I was merry and young, Too young to feel afraid; The fisher folk would give A kind strange word to me, 90 There by the foreign sea: I don't know where it was, But I remember still Our cottage on a hill, And fields of flowering grass On that fair foreign shore.

I liked my old home best, But this was pleasant too: So here we made our nest And here I grew. 100 And now and then my Lady In riding past our door Would nod to Nurse and speak, Or stoop and pat my cheek; And I was always ready To hold the field-gate wide For my Lady to go through; My Lady in her veil So seldom put aside, My Lady grave and pale. 110

I often sat to wonder Who might my parents be, For I knew of something under My simple-seeming state. Nurse never talked to me Of mother or of father, But watched me early and late With kind suspicious cares: Or not suspicious, rather Anxious, as if she knew 120 Some secret I might gather And smart for unawares. Thus I grew.

But Nurse waxed old and grey, Bent and weak with years. There came a certain day That she lay upon her bed Shaking her palsied head, With words she gasped to say Which had to stay unsaid. 130 Then with a jerking hand Held out so piteously She gave a ring to me Of gold wrought curiously, A ring which she had worn Since the day I was born, She once had said to me: I slipped it on my finger; Her eyes were keen to linger On my hand that slipped it on; 140 Then she sighed one rattling sigh And stared on with sightless eye:— The one who loved me was gone.

How long I stayed alone With the corpse I never knew, For I fainted dead as stone: When I came to life once more I was down upon the floor, With neighbours making ado To bring me back to life. 150 I heard the sexton's wife Say: 'Up, my lad, and run To tell it at the Hall; She was my Lady's nurse, And done can't be undone. I'll watch by this poor lamb. I guess my Lady's purse Is always open to such: I'd run up on my crutch A cripple as I am,' 160 (For cramps had vexed her much) 'Rather than this dear heart Lack one to take her part.'

For days day after day On my weary bed I lay Wishing the time would pass; Oh, so wishing that I was Likely to pass away: For the one friend whom I knew Was dead, I knew no other, 170 Neither father nor mother; And I, what should I do?

One day the sexton's wife Said: 'Rouse yourself, my dear: My Lady has driven down From the Hall into the town, And we think she's coming here. Cheer up, for life is life.'

But I would not look or speak, Would not cheer up at all. 180 My tears were like to fall, So I turned round to the wall And hid my hollow cheek Making as if I slept, As silent as a stone, And no one knew I wept. What was my Lady to me, The grand lady from the Hall? She might come, or stay away, I was sick at heart that day: 190 The whole world seemed to be Nothing, just nothing to me, For aught that I could see.

Yet I listened where I lay: A bustle came below, A clear voice said: 'I know; I will see her first alone, It may be less of a shock If she's so weak to-day:'— A light hand turned the lock, 200 A light step crossed the floor, One sat beside my bed: But never a word she said.

For me, my shyness grew Each moment more and more: So I said never a word And neither looked nor stirred; I think she must have heard My heart go pit-a-pat: Thus I lay, my Lady sat, 210 More than a mortal hour— (I counted one and two By the house-clock while I lay): I seemed to have no power To think of a thing to say, Or do what I ought to do, Or rouse myself to a choice.

At last she said: 'Margaret, Won't you even look at me?' A something in her voice 220 Forced my tears to fall at last, Forced sobs from me thick and fast; Something not of the past, Yet stirring memory; A something new, and yet Not new, too sweet to last, Which I never can forget.

I turned and stared at her: Her cheek showed hollow-pale; Her hair like mine was fair, 230 A wonderful fall of hair That screened her like a veil; But her height was statelier, Her eyes had depth more deep; I think they must have had Always a something sad, Unless they were asleep.

While I stared, my Lady took My hand in her spare hand Jewelled and soft and grand, 240 And looked with a long long look Of hunger in my face; As if she tried to trace Features she ought to know, And half hoped, half feared, to find. Whatever was in her mind She heaved a sigh at last, And began to talk to me.

'Your nurse was my dear nurse, And her nursling's dear,' said she: 250 'I never knew that she was worse Till her poor life was past' (Here my Lady's tears dropped fast): 'I might have been with her, But she had no comforter. She might have told me much Which now I shall never know, Never never shall know.' She sat by me sobbing so, And seemed so woe-begone, 260 That I laid one hand upon Hers with a timid touch, Scarce thinking what I did, Not knowing what to say: That moment her face was hid In the pillow close by mine, Her arm was flung over me, She hugged me, sobbing so As if her heart would break, And kissed me where I lay. 270

After this she often came To bring me fruit or wine, Or sometimes hothouse flowers. And at nights I lay awake Often and often thinking What to do for her sake. Wet or dry it was the same: She would come in at all hours, Set me eating and drinking And say I must grow strong; 280 At last the day seemed long And home seemed scarcely home If she did not come.

Well, I grew strong again: In time of primroses, I went to pluck them in the lane; In time of nestling birds, I heard them chirping round the house; And all the herds Were out at grass when I grew strong, 290 And days were waxen long, And there was work for bees Among the May-bush boughs, And I had shot up tall, And life felt after all Pleasant, and not so long When I grew strong.

I was going to the Hall To be my Lady's maid: 'Her little friend,' she said to me, 300 'Almost her child,' She said and smiled Sighing painfully; Blushing, with a second flush As if she blushed to blush.

Friend, servant, child: just this My standing at the Hall; The other servants call me 'Miss,' My Lady calls me 'Margaret,' With her clear voice musical. 310 She never chides when I forget This or that; she never chides. Except when people come to stay, (And that's not often) at the Hall, I sit with her all day And ride out when she rides. She sings to me and makes me sing; Sometimes I read to her, Sometimes we merely sit and talk. She noticed once my ring 320 And made me tell its history: That evening in our garden walk She said she should infer The ring had been my father's first, Then my mother's, given for me To the nurse who nursed My mother in her misery, That so quite certainly Some one might know me, who... Then she was silent, and I too. 330

I hate when people come: The women speak and stare And mean to be so civil. This one will stroke my hair, That one will pat my cheek And praise my Lady's kindness, Expecting me to speak; I like the proud ones best Who sit as struck with blindness, As if I wasn't there. 340 But if any gentleman Is staying at the Hall (Though few come prying here), My Lady seems to fear Some downright dreadful evil, And makes me keep my room As closely as she can: So I hate when people come, It is so troublesome. In spite of all her care, 350 Sometimes to keep alive I sometimes do contrive To get out in the grounds For a whiff of wholesome air, Under the rose you know: It's charming to break bounds, Stolen waters are sweet, And what's the good of feet If for days they mustn't go? Give me a longer tether, 360 Or I may break from it.

Now I have eyes and ears And just some little wit: 'Almost my Lady's child;' I recollect she smiled, Sighed and blushed together; Then her story of the ring Sounds not improbable, She told it me so well It seemed the actual thing:— 370 Oh, keep your counsel close, But I guess under the rose, In long past summer weather When the world was blossoming, And the rose upon its thorn: I guess not who he was Flawed honour like a glass, And made my life forlorn, But my Mother, Mother, Mother, Oh, I know her from all other. 380

My Lady, you might trust Your daughter with your fame. Trust me, I would not shame Our honourable name, For I have noble blood Though I was bred in dust And brought up in the mud. I will not press my claim, Just leave me where you will: But you might trust your daughter, 390 For blood is thicker than water And you're my mother still.

So my Lady holds her own With condescending grace, and fills her lofty place With an untroubled face As a queen may fill a throne. While I could hint a tale— (But then I am her child)— Would make her quail; 400 Would set her in the dust, Lorn with no comforter, Her glorious hair defiled And ashes on her cheek: The decent world would thrust Its finger out at her, Not much displeased I think To make a nine days' stir; The decent world would sink Its voice to speak of her. 410

Now this is what I mean To do, no more, no less: Never to speak, or show Bare sign of what I know. Let the blot pass unseen; Yea, let her never guess I hold the tangled clue She huddles out of view. Friend, servant, almost child, So be it and nothing more 420 On this side of the grave. Mother, in Paradise, You'll see with clearer eyes; Perhaps in this world even When you are like to die And face to face with Heaven You'll drop for once the lie: But you must drop the mask, not I.

My Lady promises Two hundred pounds with me 430 Whenever I may wed A man she can approve: And since besides her bounty I'm fairest in the county (For so I've heard it said, Though I don't vouch for this), Her promised pounds may move Some honest man to see My virtues and my beauties; Perhaps the rising grazier, 440 Or temperance publican, May claim my wifely duties. Meanwhile I wait their leisure And grace-bestowing pleasure, I wait the happy man; But if I hold my head And pitch my expectations Just higher than their level, They must fall back on patience: I may not mean to wed, 450 Yet I'll be civil.

Now sometimes in a dream My heart goes out of me To build and scheme, Till I sob after things that seem So pleasant in a dream: A home such as I see My blessed neighbours live in With father and with mother, All proud of one another, 460 Named by one common name From baby in the bud To full-blown workman father; It's little short of Heaven. I'd give my gentle blood To wash my special shame And drown my private grudge; I'd toil and moil much rather The dingiest cottage drudge Whose mother need not blush, 470 Than live here like a lady And see my Mother flush And hear her voice unsteady Sometimes, yet never dare Ask to share her care.

Of course the servants sneer Behind my back at me; Of course the village girls, Who envy me my curls And gowns and idleness, 480 Take comfort in a jeer; Of course the ladies guess Just so much of my history As points the emphatic stress With which they laud my Lady; The gentlemen who catch A casual glimpse of me And turn again to see, Their valets on the watch To speak a word with me, 490 All know and sting me wild; Till I am almost ready To wish that I were dead, No faces more to see, No more words to be said, My Mother safe at last Disburdened of her child, And the past past.

'All equal before God'— Our Rector has it so, 500 And sundry sleepers nod: It may be so; I know All are not equal here, And when the sleepers wake They make a difference. 'All equal in the grave'— That shows an obvious sense: Yet something which I crave Not death itself brings near; Now should death half atone 510 For all my past; or make The name I bear my own?

I love my dear old Nurse Who loved me without gains; I love my mistress even, Friend, Mother, what you will: But I could almost curse My Father for his pains; And sometimes at my prayer Kneeling in sight of Heaven 520 I almost curse him still: Why did he set his snare To catch at unaware My Mother's foolish youth; Load me with shame that's hers, And her with something worse, A lifelong lie for truth?

I think my mind is fixed On one point and made up: To accept my lot unmixed; 530 Never to drug the cup But drink it by myself. I'll not be wooed for pelf; I'll not blot out my shame With any man's good name; But nameless as I stand, My hand is my own hand, And nameless as I came I go to the dark land.

'All equal in the grave'— 540 I bide my time till then: 'All equal before God'— To-day I feel His rod, To-morrow He may save: Amen.



DEVOTIONAL PIECES



DESPISED AND REJECTED

My sun has set, I dwell In darkness as a dead man out of sight; And none remains, not one, that I should tell To him mine evil plight This bitter night. I will make fast my door That hollow friends may trouble me no more.

'Friend, open to Me.'—Who is this that calls? Nay, I am deaf as are my walls: Cease crying, for I will not hear 10 Thy cry of hope or fear. Others were dear, Others forsook me: what art thou indeed That I should heed Thy lamentable need? Hungry should feed, Or stranger lodge thee here?

'Friend, My Feet bleed. Open thy door to Me and comfort Me.' I will not open, trouble me no more. 20 Go on thy way footsore, I will not rise and open unto thee.

'Then is it nothing to thee? Open, see Who stands to plead with thee. Open, lest I should pass thee by, and thou One day entreat My Face And howl for grace, And I be deaf as thou art now. Open to Me.'

Then I cried out upon him: Cease, 30 Leave me in peace: Fear not that I should crave Aught thou mayst have. Leave me in peace, yea trouble me no more, Lest I arise and chase thee from my door. What, shall I not be let Alone, that thou dost vex me yet?

But all night long that voice spake urgently: 'Open to Me.' Still harping in mine ears: 40 'Rise, let Me in.' Pleading with tears: 'Open to Me that I may come to thee.' While the dew dropped, while the dark hours were cold: 'My Feet bleed, see My Face, See My Hands bleed that bring thee grace, My Heart doth bleed for thee, Open to Me.'

So till the break of day: Then died away 50 That voice, in silence as of sorrow; Then footsteps echoing like a sigh Passed me by, Lingering footsteps slow to pass. On the morrow I saw upon the grass Each footprint marked in blood, and on my door The mark of blood for evermore.



LONG BARREN

Thou who didst hang upon a barren tree, My God, for me; Though I till now be barren, now at length Lord, give me strength To bring forth fruit to Thee.

Thou who didst bear for me the crown of thorn, Spitting and scorn; Though I till now have put forth thorns, yet now Strengthen me Thou That better fruit be borne. 10

Thou Rose of Sharon, Cedar of broad roots, Vine of sweet fruits, Thou Lily of the vale with fadeless leaf, Of thousands Chief, Feed Thou my feeble shoots.



IF ONLY

If I might only love my God and die! But now He bids me love Him and live on, Now when the bloom of all my life is gone, The pleasant half of life has quite gone by. My tree of hope is lopped that spread so high, And I forget how summer glowed and shone, While autumn grips me with its fingers wan And frets me with its fitful windy sigh. When autumn passes then must winter numb, And winter may not pass a weary while, 10 But when it passes spring shall flower again; And in that spring who weepeth now shall smile, Yea, they shall wax who now are on the wane, Yea, they shall sing for love when Christ shall come.



DOST THOU NOT CARE?

I love and love not: Lord, it breaks my heart To love and not to love. Thou veiled within Thy glory, gone apart Into Thy shrine, which is above, Dost Thou not love me, Lord, or care For this mine ill?— I love thee here or there, I will accept thy broken heart, lie still.

Lord, it was well with me in time gone by That cometh not again, 10 When I was fresh and cheerful, who but I? I fresh, I cheerful: worn with pain Now, out of sight and out of heart; O Lord, how long?— I watch thee as thou art, I will accept thy fainting heart, be strong.

'Lie still,' 'be strong,' to-day; but, Lord, to-morrow, What of to-morrow, Lord? Shall there be rest from toil, be truce from sorrow, Be living green upon the sward 20 Now but a barren grave to me, Be joy for sorrow?— Did I not die for thee? Did I not live for thee? Leave Me to-morrow.



WEARY IN WELL-DOING

I would have gone; God bade me stay: I would have worked; God bade me rest. He broke my will from day to day, He read my yearnings unexpressed And said them nay.

Now I would stay; God bids me go: Now I would rest; God bids me work. He breaks my heart tossed to and fro, My soul is wrung with doubts that lurk And vex it so. 10

I go, Lord, where Thou sendest me; Day after day I plod and moil: But, Christ my God, when will it be That I may let alone my toil And rest with Thee?



MARTYRS' SONG

We meet in joy, though we part in sorrow; We part to-night, but we meet to-morrow. Be it flood or blood the path that's trod, All the same it leads home to God: Be it furnace-fire voluminous, One like God's Son will walk with us.

What are these that glow from afar, These that lean over the golden bar, Strong as the lion, pure as the dove, With open arms and hearts of love? 10 They the blessed ones gone before, They the blessed for evermore. Out of great tribulation they went Home to their home of Heaven-content; Through flood, or blood, or furnace-fire, To the rest that fulfils desire.

What are these that fly as a cloud, With flashing heads and faces bowed, In their mouths a victorious psalm, In their hands a robe and palm? 20 Welcoming angels these that shine, Your own angel, and yours, and mine; Who have hedged us, both day and night On the left hand and the right, Who have watched us both night and day Because the devil keeps watch to slay.

Light above light, and Bliss beyond bliss, Whom words cannot utter, lo, Who is This? As a King with many crowns He stands, And our names are graven upon His hands; 30 As a Priest, with God-uplifted eyes, He offers for us His sacrifice; As the Lamb of God for sinners slain, That we too may live He lives again; As our Champion behold Him stand, Strong to save us, at God's Right Hand.

God the Father give us grace To walk in the light of Jesus' Face. God the Son give us a part In the hiding-place of Jesus' Heart: 40 God the Spirit so hold us up That we may drink of Jesus' cup;

Death is short and life is long; Satan is strong, but Christ more strong. At His Word, Who hath led us hither. The Red Sea must part hither and thither. As His Word, Who goes before us too, Jordan must cleave to let us through.

Yet one pang searching and sore, And then Heaven for evermore; 50 Yet one moment awful and dark, Then safety within the Veil and the Ark; Yet one effort by Christ His grace, Then Christ for ever face to face.

God the Father we will adore, In Jesus' Name, now and evermore: God the Son we will love and thank In this flood and on the further bank: God the Holy Ghost we will praise In Jesus' Name, through endless days: 60 God Almighty, God Three in One, God Almighty, God alone.



AFTER THIS THE JUDGEMENT

As eager homebound traveller to the goal, Or steadfast seeker on an unsearched main, Or martyr panting for an aureole, My fellow-pilgrims pass me, and attain That hidden mansion of perpetual peace Where keen desire and hope dwell free from pain: That gate stands open of perennial ease; I view the glory till I partly long, Yet lack the fire of love which quickens these. O passing Angel, speed me with a song, 10 A melody of heaven to reach my heart And rouse me to the race and make me strong; Till in such music I take up my part Swelling those Hallelujahs full of rest, One, tenfold, hundredfold, with heavenly art, Fulfilling north and south and east and west, Thousand, ten thousandfold, innumerable, All blent in one yet each one manifest; Each one distinguished and beloved as well As if no second voice in earth or heaven 20 Were lifted up the Love of God to tell. Ah, Love of God, which Thine own Self hast given To me most poor, and made me rich in love, Love that dost pass the tenfold seven times seven, Draw Thou mine eyes, draw Thou my heart above, My treasure ad my heart store Thou in Thee, Brood over me with yearnings of a dove; Be Husband, Brother, closest Friend to me; Love me as very mother loves her son, Her sucking firstborn fondled on her knee: 30 Yea, more than mother loves her little one; For, earthly, even a mother may forget And feel no pity for its piteous moan; But thou, O Love of God, remember yet, Through the dry desert, through the waterflood (Life, death) until the Great White Throne is set. If now I am sick in chewing the bitter cud Of sweet past sin, though solaced by Thy grace And ofttimes strengthened by Thy Flesh and Blood, How shall I then stand up before Thy face 40 When from Thine eyes repentance shall be hid And utmost Justice stand in Mercy's place: When every sin I thought or spoke or did Shall meet me at the inexorable bar, And there be no man standing in the mid To plead for me; while star fallen after star With heaven and earth are like a ripened shock, And all time's mighty works and wonders are Consumed as in a moment; when no rock Remains to fall on me, no tree to hide, 50 But I stand all creation's gazing-stock Exposed and comfortless on every side, Placed trembling in the final balances Whose poise this hour, this moment, must be tried?— Ah Love of God, if greater love than this Hath no man, that a man die for his friend, And if such love of love Thine Own Love is, Plead with Thyself, with me, before the end; Redeem me from the irrevocable past; Pitch Thou Thy Presence round me to defend; 60 Yea seek with pierced feet, yea hold me fast With pierced hands whose wounds were made by love; Not what I am, remember what Thou wast When darkness hid from Thee Thy heavens above, And sin Thy Father's Face, while thou didst drink The bitter cup of death, didst taste thereof For every man; while Thou wast nigh to sink Beneath the intense intolerable rod, Grown sick of love; not what I am, but think Thy Life then ransomed mine, my God, my God. 70



GOOD FRIDAY

Am I a stone and not a sheep That I can stand, O Christ, beneath Thy Cross, To number drop by drop Thy Blood's slow loss, And yet not weep?

Not so those women loved Who with exceeding grief lamented Thee; Not so fallen Peter weeping bitterly; Not so the thief was moved;

Not so the Sun and Moon Which hid their faces in a starless sky, 10 A horror of great darkness at broad noon— I, only I.

Yet give not o'er, But seek Thy sheep, true Shepherd of the flock; Greater than Moses, turn and look once more And smite a rock.



THE LOWEST PLACE

Give me the lowest place: not that I dare Ask for that lowest place, but Thou hast died That I might live and share Thy glory by Thy side.

Give me the lowest place: or if for me That lowest place too high, make one more low Where I may sit and see My God and love Thee so.



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS, 1848-69



DEATH'S CHILL BETWEEN

(Athenaeum, October 14, 1848)

Chide not; let me breathe a little, For I shall not mourn him long; Though the life-cord was so brittle, The love-cord was very strong. I would wake a little space Till I find a sleeping-place.

You can go,—I shall not weep; You can go unto your rest. My heart-ache is all too deep, And too sore my throbbing breast. 10 Can sobs be, or angry tears, Where are neither hopes nor fears?

Though with you I am alone And must be so everywhere, I will make no useless moan,— None shall say 'She could not bear:' While life lasts I will be strong,— But I shall not struggle long.

Listen, listen! Everywhere A low voice is calling me, 20 And a step is on the stair, And one comes ye do not see, Listen, listen! Evermore A dim hand knocks at the door.

Hear me; he is come again,— My own dearest is come back. Bring him in from the cold rain; Bring wine, and let nothing lack. Thou and I will rest together, Love, until the sunny weather. 30

I will shelter thee from harm,— Hide thee from all heaviness. Come to me, and keep thee warm By my side in quietness. I will lull thee to thy sleep With sweet songs:—we will not weep.

Who hath talked of weeping?—Yet There is something at my heart, Gnawing, I would fain forget, And an aching and a smart. 40 —Ah! my mother, 'tis in vain, For he is not come again.



HEART'S CHILL BETWEEN

(Athenaeum, October 21, 1848)

I did not chide him, though I knew That he was false to me. Chide the exhaling of the dew, The ebbing of the sea, The fading of a rosy hue,— But not inconstancy.

Why strive for love when love is o'er? Why bind a restive heart?— He never knew the pain I bore In saying: 'We must part; 10 Let us be friends and nothing more.' —Oh, woman's shallow art!

But it is over, it is done,— I hardly heed it now; So many weary years have run Since then, I think not how Things might have been,—but greet each one With an unruffled brow.

What time I am where others be, My heart seems very calm— 20 Stone calm; but if all go from me, There comes a vague alarm, A shrinking in the memory From some forgotten harm.

And often through the long, long night, Waking when none are near, I feel my heart beat fast with fright, Yet know not what I fear. Oh how I long to see the light, And the sweet birds to hear! 30

To have the sun upon my face, To look up through the trees, To walk forth in the open space And listen to the breeze,— And not to dream the burial-place Is clogging my weak knees.

Sometimes I can nor weep nor pray, But am half stupefied: And then all those who see me say Mine eyes are opened wide 40 And that my wits seem gone away— Ah, would that I had died!

Would I could die and be at peace, Or living could forget! My grief nor grows nor doth decrease, But ever is:—and yet Methinks, now, that all this shall cease Before the sun shall set.



REPINING

(Art and Poetry [The Germ, No. 3], March 1850)

She sat alway thro' the long day Spinning the weary thread away; And ever said in undertone: 'Come, that I be no more alone.'

From early dawn to set of sun Working, her task was still undone; And the long thread seemed to increase Even while she spun and did not cease. She heard the gentle turtle-dove Tell to its mate a tale of love; 10 She saw the glancing swallows fly, Ever a social company; She knew each bird upon its nest Had cheering songs to bring it rest; None lived alone save only she;— The wheel went round more wearily; She wept and said in undertone: 'Come, that I be no more alone.'

Day followed day, and still she sighed For love, and was not satisfied; 20 Until one night, when the moonlight Turned all the trees to silver white, She heard, what ne'er she heard before, A steady hand undo the door. The nightingale since set of sun Her throbbing music had not done, And she had listened silently; But now the wind had changed, and she Heard the sweet song no more, but heard Beside her bed a whispered word: 30 'Damsel, rise up; be not afraid; For I am come at last,' it said.

She trembled, tho' the voice was mild; She trembled like a frightened child;— Till she looked up, and then she saw The unknown speaker without awe. He seemed a fair young man, his eyes Beaming with serious charities; His cheek was white but hardly pale; And a dim glory like a veil 40 Hovered about his head, and shone Thro' the whole room till night was gone.

So her fear fled; and then she said, Leaning upon her quiet bed: 'Now thou art come, I prithee stay, That I may see thee in the day, And learn to know thy voice, and hear It evermore calling me near.'

He answered: 'Rise, and follow me.' But she looked upwards wonderingly: 50 'And whither would'st thou go, friend? stay Until the dawning of the day.' But he said: 'The wind ceaseth, Maid; Of chill nor damp be thou afraid.'

She bound her hair up from the floor, And passed in silence from the door.

So they went forth together, he Helping her forward tenderly. The hedges bowed beneath his hand; Forth from the streams came the dry land 60 As they passed over; evermore The pallid moonbeams shone before; And the wind hushed, and nothing stirred; Not even a solitary bird, Scared by their footsteps, fluttered by Where aspen-trees stood steadily.

As they went on, at length a sound Came trembling on the air around; The undistinguishable hum Of life, voices that go and come 70 Of busy men, and the child's sweet High laugh, and noise of trampling feet.

Then he said: 'Wilt thou go and see?' And she made answer joyfully: 'The noise of life, of human life, Of dear communion without strife, Of converse held 'twixt friend and friend; Is it not here our path shall end?' He led her on a little way Until they reached a hillock: 'Stay.' 80

It was a village in a plain. High mountains screened it from the rain And stormy wind; and nigh at hand A bubbling streamlet flowed, o'er sand Pebbly and fine, and sent life up Green succous stalk and flower-cup.

Gradually, day's harbinger, A chilly wind began to stir. It seemed a gentle powerless breeze That scarcely rustled thro' the trees; 90 And yet it touched the mountain's head And the paths man might never tread. But hearken: in the quiet weather Do all the streams flow down together?—

No, 'tis a sound more terrible Than tho' a thousand rivers fell. The everlasting ice and snow Were loosened then, but not to flow;— With a loud crash like solid thunder The avalanche came, burying under 100 The village; turning life and breath And rest and joy and plans to death.

'Oh! let us fly, for pity fly; Let us go hence, friend, thou and I. There must be many regions yet Where these things make not desolate.' He looked upon her seriously; Then said: 'Arise and follow me.' The path that lay before them was Nigh covered over with long grass; 110 And many slimy things and slow Trailed on between the roots below. The moon looked dimmer than before; And shadowy cloudlets floating o'er Its face sometimes quite hid its light, And filled the skies with deeper night.

At last, as they went on, the noise Was heard of the sea's mighty voice; And soon the ocean could be seen In its long restlessness serene. 120 Upon its breast a vessel rode That drowsily appeared to nod As the great billows rose and fell, And swelled to sink, and sank to swell.

Meanwhile the strong wind had come forth From the chill regions of the North, The mighty wind invisible. And the low waves began to swell; And the sky darkened overhead; And the moon once looked forth, then fled 130 Behind dark clouds; while here and there The lightning shone out in the air; And the approaching thunder rolled With angry pealings manifold. How many vows were made, and prayers That in safe times were cold and scarce. Still all availed not; and at length The waves arose in all their strength, And fought against the ship, and filled The ship. Then were the clouds unsealed, 140 And the rain hurried forth, and beat On every side and over it.

Some clung together, and some kept A long stern silence, and some wept. Many half-crazed looked on in wonder As the strong timbers rent asunder; Friends forgot friends, foes fled to foes;— And still the water rose and rose.

'Ah woe is me! Whom I have seen Are now as tho' they had not been. 150 In the earth there is room for birth, And there are graves enough in earth; Why should the cold sea, tempest-torn, Bury those whom it hath not borne?'

He answered not, and they went on. The glory of the heavens was gone; The moon gleamed not nor any star; Cold winds were rustling near and far, And from the trees the dry leaves fell With a sad sound unspeakable. 160 The air was cold; till from the South A gust blew hot, like sudden drouth, Into their faces; and a light Glowing and red, shone thro' the night.

A mighty city full of flame And death and sounds without a name. Amid the black and blinding smoke, The people, as one man, awoke. Oh! happy they who yesterday On the long journey went away; 170 Whose pallid lips, smiling and chill, While the flames scorch them smile on still; Who murmur not; who tremble not When the bier crackles fiery hot; Who, dying, said in love's increase: 'Lord, let thy servant part in peace.'

Those in the town could see and hear A shaded river flowing near; The broad deep bed could hardly hold Its plenteous waters calm and cold. 180 Was flame-wrapped all the city wall, The city gates were flame-wrapped all.

What was man's strength, what puissance then? Women were mighty as strong men. Some knelt in prayer, believing still, Resigned unto a righteous will, Bowing beneath the chastening rod, Lost to the world, but found of God. Some prayed for friend, for child, for wife; Some prayed for faith; some prayed for life; 190 While some, proud even in death, hope gone, Steadfast and still, stood looking on.

'Death—death—oh! let us fly from death; Where'er we go it followeth; All these are dead; and we alone Remain to weep for what is gone. What is this thing? thus hurriedly To pass into eternity; To leave the earth so full of mirth; To lose the profit of our birth; 200 To die and be no more; to cease, Having numbness that is not peace. Let us go hence; and, even if thus Death everywhere must go with us, Let us not see the change, but see Those who have been or still shall be.'

He sighed and they went on together; Beneath their feet did the grass wither; Across the heaven high overhead Dark misty clouds floated and fled; 210 And in their bosom was the thunder, And angry lightnings flashed out under, Forked and red and menacing; Far off the wind was muttering; It seemed to tell, not understood, Strange secrets to the listening wood.

Upon its wings it bore the scent Of blood of a great armament: Then saw they how on either side Fields were down-trodden far and wide. 220 That morning at the break of day Two nations had gone forth to slay.

As a man soweth so he reaps. The field was full of bleeding heaps; Ghastly corpses of men and horses That met death at a thousand sources; Cold limbs and putrifying flesh; Long love-locks clotted to a mesh That stifled; stiffened mouths beneath Staring eyes that had looked on death. 230

But these were dead: these felt no more The anguish of the wounds they bore. Behold, they shall not sigh again, Nor justly fear, nor hope in vain. What if none wept above them?—is The sleeper less at rest for this? Is not the young child's slumber sweet When no man watcheth over it? These had deep calm; but all around There was a deadly smothered sound, 240 The choking cry of agony From wounded men who could not die; Who watched the black wing of the raven Rise like a cloud 'twixt them and heaven, And in the distance flying fast Beheld the eagle come at last.

She knelt down in her agony: 'O Lord, it is enough,' said she: 'My heart's prayer putteth me to shame; Let me return to whence I came. 250 Thou for who love's sake didst reprove, Forgive me for the sake of love.'



SIT DOWN IN THE LOWEST ROOM

(Macmillan's Magazine, March 1864.)

Like flowers sequestered from the sun And wind of summer, day by day I dwindled paler, whilst my hair Showed the first tinge of grey.

'Oh what is life, that we should live? Or what is death, that we must die? A bursting bubble is our life: I also, what am I?'

'What is your grief? now tell me, sweet, That I may grieve,' my sister said; 10 And stayed a white embroidering hand And raised a golden head:

Her tresses showed a richer mass, Her eyes looked softer than my own, Her figure had a statelier height, Her voice a tenderer tone.

'Some must be second and not first; All cannot be the first of all: Is not this, too, but vanity? I stumble like to fall. 20

'So yesterday I read the acts Of Hector and each clangorous king With wrathful great Aeacides:— Old Homer leaves a sting.'

The comely face looked up again, The deft hand lingered on the thread: 'Sweet, tell me what is Homer's sting, Old Homer's sting?' she said.

'He stirs my sluggish pulse like wine, He melts me like the wind of spice, 30 Strong as strong Ajax' red right hand, And grand like Juno's eyes.

'I cannot melt the sons of men, I cannot fire and tempest-toss:— Besides, those days were golden days, Whilst these are days of dross.'

She laughed a feminine low laugh, Yet did not stay her dexterous hand: 'Now tell me of those days,' she said, 'When time ran golden sand.' 40

'Then men were men of might and right, Sheer might, at least, and weighty swords; Then men in open blood and fire, Bore witness to their words,

'Crest-rearing kings with whistling spears; But if these shivered in the shock They wrenched up hundred-rooted trees, Or hurled the effacing rock.

'Then hand to hand, then foot to foot, Stern to the death-grip grappling then, 50 Who ever thought of gunpowder Amongst these men of men?

'They knew whose hand struck home the death, They knew who broke but would not bend, Could venerate an equal foe And scorn a laggard friend.

'Calm in the utmost stress of doom, Devout toward adverse powers above, They hated with intenser hate And loved with fuller love. 60

'Then heavenly beauty could allay As heavenly beauty stirred the strife: By them a slave was worshipped more Than is by us a wife.'

She laughed again, my sister laughed, Made answer o'er the laboured cloth: 'I would rather be one of us Than wife, or slave, or both.'

'Oh better then be slave or wife Than fritter now blank life away: 70 Then night had holiness of night, And day was sacred day.

'The princess laboured at her loom, Mistress and handmaiden alike; Beneath their needles grew the field With warriors armed to strike.

'Or, look again, dim Dian's face Gleamed perfect through the attendant night; Were such not better than those holes Amid that waste of white? 80

'A shame it is, our aimless life: I rather from my heart would feed From silver dish in gilded stall With wheat and wine the steed—

'The faithful steed that bore my lord In safety through the hostile land, The faithful steed that arched his neck To fondle with my hand.'

Her needle erred; a moment's pause, A moment's patience, all was well. 90 Then she: 'But just suppose the horse, Suppose the rider fell?

'Then captive in an alien house, Hungering on exile's bitter bread,— They happy, they who won the lot Of sacrifice,' she said.

Speaking she faltered, while her look Showed forth her passion like a glass: With hand suspended, kindling eye, Flushed cheek, how fair she was! 100

'Ah well, be those the days of dross; This, if you will, the age of gold: Yet had those days a spark of warmth, While these are somewhat cold—

'Are somewhat mean and cold and slow, Are stunted from heroic growth: We gain but little when we prove The worthlessness of both.'

'But life is in our hands,' she said: 'In our own hands for gain or loss: 110 Shall not the Sevenfold Sacred Fire Suffice to purge our dross?

'Too short a century of dreams, One day of work sufficient length: Why should not you, why should not I Attain heroic strength?

'Our life is given us as a blank; Ourselves must make it blest or curst: Who dooms me I shall only be The second, not the first? 120

'Learn from old Homer, if you will, Such wisdom as his books have said: In one the acts of Ajax shine, In one of Diomed.

'Honoured all heroes whose high deeds Thro' life, till death, enlarge their span: Only Achilles in his rage And sloth is less than man.'

'Achilles only less than man? He less than man who, half a god, 130 Discomfited all Greece with rest, Cowed Ilion with a nod?

'He offered vengeance, lifelong grief To one dear ghost, uncounted price: Beasts, Trojans, adverse gods, himself, Heaped up the sacrifice.

'Self-immolated to his friend, Shrined in world's wonder, Homer's page, Is this the man, the less than men, Of this degenerate age?' 140

'Gross from his acorns, tusky boar Does memorable acts like his; So for her snared offended young Bleeds the swart lioness.'

But here she paused; our eyes had met, And I was whitening with the jeer; She rose: 'I went too far,' she said; Spoke low: 'Forgive me, dear.

'To me our days seem pleasant days, Our home a haven of pure content; 150 Forgive me if I said too much, So much more than I meant.

'Homer, tho' greater than his gods, With rough-hewn virtues was sufficed And rough-hewn men: but what are such To us who learn of Christ?'

The much-moved pathos of her voice, Her almost tearful eyes, her cheek Grown pale, confessed the strength of love Which only made her speak: 160

For mild she was, of few soft words, Most gentle, easy to be led, Content to listen when I spoke And reverence what I said;

I elder sister by six years; Not half so glad, or wise, or good: Her words rebuked my secret self And shamed me where I stood.

She never guessed her words reproved A silent envy nursed within, 170 A selfish, souring discontent Pride-born, the devil's sin.

I smiled, half bitter, half in jest: 'The wisest man of all the wise Left for his summary of life "Vanity of vanities."

'Beneath the sun there's nothing new: Men flow, men ebb, mankind flows on: If I am wearied of my life, Why so was Solomon. 180

'Vanity of vanities he preached Of all he found, of all he sought: Vanity of vanities, the gist Of all the words he taught.

'This in the wisdom of the world, In Homer's page, in all, we find: As the sea is not filled, so yearns Man's universal mind.

'This Homer felt, who gave his men With glory but a transient state: 190 His very Jove could not reverse Irrevocable fate.

'Uncertain all their lot save this— Who wins must lose, who lives must die: All trodden out into the dark Alike, all vanity.'

She scarcely answered when I paused, But rather to herself said: 'One Is here,' low-voiced and loving, 'Yea, Greater than Solomon.' 200

So both were silent, she and I: She laid her work aside, and went Into the garden-walks, like spring, All gracious with content,

A little graver than her wont, Because her words had fretted me; Not warbling quite her merriest tune Bird-like from tree to tree.

I chose a book to read and dream: Yet half the while with furtive eyes 210 Marked how she made her choice of flowers Intuitively wise,

And ranged them with instinctive taste Which all my books had failed to teach; Fresh rose herself, and daintier Than blossom of the peach.

By birthright higher than myself, Tho' nestling of the self-same nest: No fault of hers, no fault of mine, But stubborn to digest. 220

I watched her, till my book unmarked Slid noiseless to the velvet floor; Till all the opulent summer-world Looked poorer than before.

Just then her busy fingers ceased, Her fluttered colour went and came; I knew whose step was on the walk, Whose voice would name her name.

* * * * * * *

Well, twenty years have passed since then: My sister now, a stately wife 230 Still fair, looks back in peace and sees The longer half of life—

The longer half of prosperous life, With little grief, or fear, or fret: She loved, and, loving long ago, Is loved and loving yet.

A husband honourable, brave, Is her main wealth in all the world: And next to him one like herself, One daughter golden-curled; 240

Fair image of her own fair youth, As beautiful and as serene, With almost such another love As her own love has been.

Yet, tho' of world-wide charity, And in her home most tender dove, Her treasure and her heart are stored In the home-land of love:

She thrives, God's blessed husbandry; She like a vine is full of fruit; 250 Her passion-flower climbs up toward heaven Tho' earth still binds its root.

I sit and watch my sister's face: How little altered since the hours When she, a kind, light-hearted girl, Gathered her garden flowers;

Her song just mellowed by regret For having teased me with her talk; Then all-forgetful as she heard One step upon the walk. 260

While I? I sat alone and watched My lot in life, to live alone, In mine own world of interests, Much felt but little shown.

Not to be first: how hard to learn That lifelong lesson of the past; Line graven on line and stroke on stroke; But, thank God, learned at last.

So now in patience I possess My soul year after tedious year, 270 Content to take the lowest place, The place assigned me here.

Yet sometimes, when I feel my strength Most weak, and life most burdensome, I lift mine eyes up to the hills From whence my help shall come:

Yea, sometimes still I lift my heart To the Archangelic trumpet-burst, When all deep secrets shall be shown, And many last be first. 280



MY FRIEND

(Macmillan's Magazine, Dec. 1864.)

Two days ago with dancing glancing hair, With living lips and eyes: Now pale, dumb, blind, she lies; So pale, yet still so fair.

We have not left her yet, not yet alone; But soon must leave her where She will not miss our care, Bone of our bone.

Weep not; O friends, we should not weep: Our friend of friends lies full of rest; 10 No sorrow rankles in her breast, Fallen fast asleep.

She sleeps below, She wakes and laughs above: To-day, as she walked, let us walk in love; To-morrow follow so.



LAST NIGHT

(Macmillan's Magazine, May 1865.)

Where were you last night? I watched at the gate; I went down early, I stayed down late. Were you snug at home, I should like to know, Or were you in the coppice wheedling Kate?

She's a fine girl, with a fine clear skin; Easy to woo, perhaps not hard to win. Speak up like a man and tell me the truth: I'm not one to grow downhearted and thin.

If you love her best speak up like a man; It's not I will stand in the light of your plan: 10 Some girls might cry and scold you a bit, And say they couldn't bear it; but I can.

Love was pleasant enough, and the days went fast; Pleasant while it lasted, but it needn't last; Awhile on the wax and awhile on the wane, Now dropped away into the past.

Was it pleasant to you? To me it was; Now clean gone as an image from glass, As a goodly rainbow that fades away, As dew that steams upward from the grass, 20

As the first spring day, or the last summer day, As the sunset flush that leaves heaven grey, As a flame burnt out for lack of oil, Which no pains relight or ever may.

Good luck to Kate and good luck to you: I guess she'll be kind when you come to woo. I wish her a pretty face that will last, I wish her a husband steady and true.

Hate you? not I, my very good friend; All things begin and all have an end. 30 But let broken be broken; I put no faith In quacks who set up to patch and mend.

Just my love and one word to Kate: Not to let time slip if she means to mate;— For even such a thing has been known As to miss the chance while we weigh and wait.



CONSIDER

(Macmillan's Magazine, Jan. 1866.)

Consider The lilies of the field whose bloom is brief:— We are as they; Like them we fade away, As doth a leaf.

Consider The sparrows of the air of small account: Our God doth view Whether they fall or mount,— He guards us too. 10

Consider The lilies that do neither spin nor toil, Yet are most fair:— What profits all this care And all this coil?

Consider The birds that have no barn nor harvest-weeks; God gives them food:— Much more our Father seeks To do us good. 20



HELEN GREY

(Macmillan's Magazine, March 1866.)

Because one loves you, Helen Grey, Is that a reason you should pout, And like a March wind veer about, And frown, and say your shrewish say? Don't strain the cord until it snaps, Don't split the sound heart with your wedge, Don't cut your fingers with the edge Of your keen wit; you may, perhaps.

Because you're handsome, Helen Grey, Is that a reason to be proud? 10 Your eyes are bold, your laugh is loud, Your steps go mincing on their way; But so you miss that modest charm Which is the surest charm of all: Take heed, you yet may trip and fall, And no man care to stretch his arm.

Stoop from your cold height, Helen Grey, Come down, and take a lowlier place; Come down, to fill it now with grace; Come down you must perforce some day: 20 For years cannot be kept at bay, And fading years will make you old; Then in their turn will men seem cold, When you yourself are nipped and grey.



BY THE WATERS OF BABYLON

B.C. 570

(Macmillan's Magazine, October 1866.)

Here where I dwell I waste to skin and bone; The curse is come upon me, and I waste In penal torment powerless to atone. The curse is come on me, which makes no haste And doth not tarry, crushing both the proud Hard man and him the sinner double-faced. Look not upon me, for my soul is bowed Within me, as my body in this mire; My soul crawls dumb-struck, sore-bested and cowed. As Sodom and Gomorrah scourged by fire, 10 As Jericho before God's trumpet-peal, So we the elect ones perish in His ire. Vainly we gird on sackcloth, vainly kneel With famished faces toward Jerusalem: His heart is shut against us not to feel, His ears against our cry He shutteth them, His hand He shorteneth that He will not save, His law is loud against us to condemn: And we, as unclean bodies in the grave Inheriting corruption and the dark, 20 Are outcast from His presence which we crave. Our Mercy hath departed from His Ark, Our Glory hath departed from His rest, Our Shield hath left us naked as a mark Unto all pitiless eyes made manifest. Our very Father hath forsaken us, Our God hath cast us from Him: we oppressed Unto our foes are even marvellous, A hissing and a butt for pointing hands, Whilst God Almighty hunts and grinds us thus; 30 For He hath scattered us in alien lands, Our priests, our princes, our anointed king, And bound us hand and foot with brazen bands. Here while I sit my painful heart takes wing Home to the home-land I must see no more, Where milk and honey flow, where waters spring And fail not, where I dwelt in days of yore Under my fig-tree and my fruitful vine, There where my parents dwelt at ease before: Now strangers press the olives that are mine, 40 Reap all the corners of my harvest-field, And make their fat hearts wanton with my wine; To them my trees, to them my garden yield Their sweets and spices and their tender green, O'er them in noontide heat outspread their shield. Yet these are they whose fathers had not been Housed with my dogs, whom hip and thigh we smote And with their blood washed their pollutions clean, Purging the land which spewed them from its throat; Their daughters took we for a pleasant prey, 50 Choice tender ones on whom the fathers doat. Now they in turn have led our own away; Our daughters and our sisters and our wives Sore weeping as they weep who curse the day, To live, remote from help, dishonoured lives, Soothing their drunken masters with a song, Or dancing in their golden tinkling gyves: Accurst if they remember through the long Estrangement of their exile, twice accursed If they forget and join the accursed throng. 60 How doth my heart that is so wrung not burst When I remember that my way was plain, And that God's candle lit me at the first, Whilst now I grope in darkness, grope in vain, Desiring but to find Him Who is lost, To find Him once again, but once again. His wrath came on us to the uttermost, His covenanted and most righteous wrath: Yet this is He of Whom we made our boast, Who lit the Fiery Pillar in our path, 70 Who swept the Red Sea dry before our feet, Who in His jealousy smote kings, and hath Sworn once to David: One shall fill thy seat Born of thy body, as the sun and moon 'Stablished for aye in sovereignty complete. O Lord, remember David, and that soon. The Glory hath departed, Ichabod! Yet now, before our sun grow dark at noon, Before we come to nought beneath Thy rod, Before we go down quick into the pit, 80 Remember us for good, O God, our God:— Thy Name will I remember, praising it, Though Thou forget me, though Thou hide Thy face, And blot me from the Book which Thou hast writ; Thy Name will I remember in my praise And call to mind Thy faithfulness of old, Though as a weaver Thou cut off my days, And end me as a tale ends that is told.



SEASONS

(Macmillan's Magazine, Dec. 1866.)

Oh the cheerful Budding-time! When thorn-hedges turn to green, When new leaves of elm and lime Cleave and shed their winter screen; Tender lambs are born and 'baa,' North wind finds no snow to bring, Vigorous Nature laughs 'Ha, ha,' In the miracle of spring.

Oh the gorgeous Blossom-days! When broad flag-flowers drink and blow, 10 In and out in summer-blaze Dragon-flies flash to and fro; Ashen branches hang out keys, Oaks put forth the rosy shoot, Wandering herds wax sleek at ease, Lovely blossoms end in fruit.

Oh the shouting Harvest-weeks! Mother earth grown fat with sheaves Thrifty gleaner finds who seeks; Russet-golden pomp of leaves 20 Crowns the woods, to fall at length; Bracing winds are felt to stir, Ocean gathers up her strength, Beasts renew their dwindled fur.

Oh the starving Winter-lapse! Ice-bound, hunger-pinched and dim; Dormant roots recall their saps, Empty nests show black and grim, Short-lived sunshine gives no heat, Undue buds are nipped by frost, 30 Snow sets forth a winding-sheet, And all hope of life seems lost.



MOTHER COUNTRY

(Macmillan's Magazine, March 1868.)

Oh what is that country And where can it be, Not mine own country, But dearer far to me? Yet mine own country, If I one day may see Its spices and cedars, Its gold and ivory.

As I lie dreaming It rises, that land: 10 There rises before me Its green golden strand, With its bowing cedars And its shining sand; It sparkles and flashes Like a shaken brand.

Do angels lean nearer While I lie and long? I see their soft plumage And catch their windy song, 20 Like the rise of a high tide Sweeping full and strong; I mark the outskirts Of their reverend throng.

Oh what is a king here, Or what is a boor? Here all starve together, All dwarfed and poor; Here Death's hand knocketh At door after door, 30 He thins the dancers From the festal floor.

Oh what is a handmaid, Or what is a queen? All must lie down together Where the turf is green, The foulest face hidden, The fairest not seen; Gone as if never, They had breathed or been. 40

Gone from sweet sunshine Underneath the sod, Turned from warm flesh and blood To senseless clod, Gone as if never They had toiled or trod, Gone out of sight of all Except our God.

Shut into silence From the accustomed song, 50 Shut into solitude From all earth's throng, Run down tho' swift of foot, Thrust down tho' strong; Life made an end of Seemed it short or long.

Life made an end of, Life but just begun, Life finished yesterday, Its last sand run; 60 Life new-born with the morrow, Fresh as the sun: While done is done for ever; Undone, undone.

And if that life is life, This is but a breath, The passage of a dream And the shadow of death; But a vain shadow If one considereth; 70 Vanity of vanities, As the Preacher saith.



A SMILE AND A SIGH

(Macmillan's Magazine, May 1868.)

A smile because the nights are short! And every morning brings such pleasure Of sweet love-making, harmless sport: Love, that makes and finds its treasure; Love, treasure without measure.

A sigh because the days are long! Long long these days that pass in sighing, A burden saddens every song: While time lags who should be flying, We live who would be dying.



DEAD HOPE

(Macmillan's Magazine, May 1868.)

Hope new born one pleasant morn Died at even; Hope dead lives nevermore. No, not in heaven.

If his shroud were but a cloud To weep itself away; Or were he buried underground To sprout some day! But dead and gone is dead and gone Vainly wept upon. 10

Nought we place above his face To mark the spot, But it shows a barren place In our lot. Hope has birth no more on earth Morn or even; Hope dead lives nevermore, No, not in heaven.



AUTUMN VIOLETS

(Macmillan's Magazine, November 1868.)

Keep love for youth, and violets for the spring: Of if these bloom when worn-out autumn grieves, Let them lie hid in double shade of leaves, Their own, and others dropped down withering; For violets suit when home birds build and sing, Not when the outbound bird a passage cleaves; Not with dry stubble of mown harvest sheaves, But when the green world buds to blossoming. Keep violets for the spring, and love for youth, Love that should dwell with beauty, mirth, and hope: Or if a later sadder love be born, Let this not look for grace beyond its scope, But give itself, nor plead for answering truth— A grateful Ruth tho' gleaning scanty corn.



'THEY DESIRE A BETTER COUNTRY'

(Macmillan's Magazine, March 1869.)

I

I would not if I could undo my past, Tho' for its sake my future is a blank; My past, for which I have myself to thank, For all its faults and follies first and last. I would not cast anew the lot once cast, Or launch a second ship for one that sank, Or drug with sweets the bitterness I drank, Or break by feasting my perpetual fast. I would not if I could: for much more dear Is one remembrance than a hundred joys, 10 More than a thousand hopes in jubilee; Dearer the music of one tearful voice That unforgotten calls and calls to me, 'Follow me here, rise up, and follow here.'

II

What seekest thou far in the unknown land? In hope I follow joy gone on before, In hope and fear persistent more and more, As the dry desert lengthens out its sand. Whilst day and night I carry in my hand The golden key to ope the golden door 20 Of golden home; yet mine eye weepeth sore For the long journey that must make no stand. And who is this that veiled doth walk with thee? Lo, this is Love that walketh at my right; One exile holds us both, and we are bound To selfsame home-joys in the land of light. Weeping thou walkest with him; weepeth he?— Some sobbing weep, some weep and make no sound.

III

A dimness of a glory glimmers here Thro' veils and distance from the space remote, 30 A faintest far vibration of a note Reaches to us and seems to bring us near, Causing our face to glow with braver cheer, Making the serried mist to stand afloat, Subduing langour with an antidote, And strengthening love almost to cast out fear, Till for one moment golden city walls Rise looming on us, golden walls of home, Light of our eyes until the darkness falls; Then thro' the outer darkness burdensome 40 I hear again the tender voice that calls, 'Follow me hither, follow, rise, and come.'



THE OFFERING OF THE NEW LAW, THE ONE OBLATION ONCE OFFERED

(Lyra Eucharistica, 1863.)

Once I thought to sit so high In the Palace of the sky; Now, I thank God for His Grace, If I may fill the lowest place.

Once I thought to scale so soon Heights above the changing moon; Now, I thank God for delay— To-day, it yet is called to-day.

While I stumble, halt and blind, Lo! He waiteth to be kind; 10 Bless me soon, or bless me slow, Except He bless, I let not go.

Once for earth I laid my plan, Once I leaned on strength of man, When my hope was swept aside, I stayed my broken heart on pride:

Broken reed hath pierced my hand; Fell my house I built on sand; Roofless, wounded, maimed by sin, Fightings without and fears within: 20

Yet, a tree, He feeds my root; Yet, a branch, He prunes for fruit; Yet, a sheep, these eves and morns, He seeks for me among the thorns.

With Thine Image stamped of old, Find Thy coin more choice than gold; Known to Thee by name, recall To Thee Thy home-sick prodigal.

Sacrifice and Offering None there is that I can bring, 30 None, save what is Thine alone: I bring Thee, Lord, but of Thine Own—

Broken Body, Blood Outpoured, These I bring, my God, my Lord; Wine of Life, and Living Bread, With these for me Thy Board is spread.



CONFERENCE BETWEEN CHRIST, THE SAINTS, AND THE SOUL

(Lyra Eucharistica, 1863.)

I am pale with sick desire, For my heart is far away From this world's fitful fire And this world's waning day; In a dream it overleaps A world of tedious ills To where the sunshine sleeps On th' everlasting hills. Say the Saints—There Angels ease us Glorified and white. 10 They say—We rest in Jesus, Where is not day nor night.

My Soul saith—I have sought For a home that is not gained, I have spent yet nothing bought, Have laboured but not attained; My pride strove to rise and grow, And hath but dwindled down; My love sought love, and lo! Hath not attained its crown. 20 Say the Saints—Fresh Souls increase us, None languish nor recede. They say—We love our Jesus, And He loves us indeed.

I cannot rise above, I cannot rest beneath, I cannot find out Love, Nor escape from Death; Dear hopes and joys gone by Still mock me with a name; 30 My best beloved die And I cannot die with them. Say the Saints—No deaths decrease us, Where our rest is glorious. They say—We live in Jesus, Who once died for us.

Oh, my Soul, she beats her wings And pants to fly away Up to immortal Things In the Heavenly day: 40 Yet she flags and almost faints; Can such be meant for me? Come and see—say the Saints. Saith Jesus—Come and see. Say the Saints—His Pleasures please us Before God and the Lamb. Come and taste My Sweets—saith Jesus— Be with Me where I am.



COME UNTO ME

(Lyra Eucharistica, second edition, 1864.)

Oh, for the time gone by, when thought of Christ Made His Yoke easy and His Burden light; When my heart stirred within me at the sight Of Altar spread for awful Eucharist; When all my hopes His promises sufficed, When my Soul watched for Him by day, by night, When my lamp lightened and my robe was white, And all seemed loss, except the Pearl unpriced. Yet, since He calls me still with tender Call, Since He remembers Whom I half forgot, I even will run my race and bear my lot: For Faith the walls of Jericho cast down, And Hope to whoso runs holds forth a Crown, And Love is Christ, and Christ is All in all.



JESUS, DO I LOVE THEE?

(Lyra Eucharistica, second edition, 1864.)

Jesus, do I love Thee? Thou art far above me, Seated out of sight Hid in Heavenly Light Of most highest height. Martyred hosts implore Thee, Seraphs fall before Thee, Angels and Archangels, Cherub throngs adore Thee; Blessed She that bore Thee! 10 All the Saints approve Thee, All the Virgins love Thee. I show as a blot Blood hath cleansed not, As a barren spot In Thy fruitful lot. I, fig-tree fruit-unbearing; Thou, righteous Judge unsparing: What canst Thou do more to me That shall not more undo me? 20 Thy Justice hath a sound— Why cumbereth it the ground? Thy Love with stirrings stronger Pleads—Give it one year longer. Thou giv'st me time: but who Save Thou shall give me dew; Shall feed my root with Blood, And stir my sap for good? Oh, by Thy Gifts that shame me, Give more lest they condemn me: 30 Good Lord, I ask much of Thee, But most I ask to love Thee; Kind Lord, be mindful of me, Love me, and make me love Thee.



I KNOW YOU NOT

(Lyra Messianica, 1864.)

O Christ, the Vine with living Fruit, The twelvefold-fruited Tree of Life, The Balm in Gilead after strife, The valley Lily and the Rose; Stronger than Lebanon, Thou Root; Sweeter than clustered grapes, Thou Vine; O Best, Thou Vineyard of red wine, Keeping thy best wine till the close.

Pearl of great price Thyself alone, And ruddier than the ruby Thou; 10 Most precious lightning Jasper stone, Head of the corner spurned before: Fair Gate of pearl, Thyself the Door; Clear golden Street, Thyself the Way; By Thee we journey toward Thee now, Through Thee shall enter Heaven one day.

I thirst for Thee, full fount and flood; My heart calls Thine, as deep to deep: Dost Thou forget Thy sweat and pain, They provocation on the Cross? 20 Heart-pierced for me, vouchsafe to keep The purchase of Thy lavished Blood: The gain is Thine, Lord, if I gain; Or if I lose, Thine own the loss.

At midnight (saith the Parable) A cry was made, the Bridegroom came; Those who were ready entered in: The rest, shut out in death and shame, Strove all too late that Feast to win, Their die was cast, and fixed their lot; 30 A gulf divided Heaven from Hell; The Bridegroom said—I know you not.

But Who is this that shuts the door, And saith—I know you not—to them? I see the wounded hands and side, The brow thorn-tortured long ago: Yea; This Who grieved and bled and died, This same is He Who must condemn; He called, but they refused to know; So now He hears their cry no more. 40



'BEFORE THE PALING OF THE STARS'

(Lyra Messianica, 1864.)

Before the paling of the stars, Before the winter morn, Before the earliest cockcrow Jesus Christ was born: Born in a stable, Cradled in a manger, In the world His hands had made Born a stranger.

Priest and king lay fast asleep In Jerusalem, 10 Young and old lay fast asleep In crowded Bethlehem: Saint and Angel, ox and ass, Kept a watch together, Before the Christmas daybreak In the winter weather.

Jesus on His Mother's breast In the stable cold, Spotless Lamb of God was He, Shepherd of the fold: 20 Let us kneel with Mary maid, With Joseph bent and hoary, With Saint and Angel, ox and ass, To hail the King of Glory.



EASTER EVEN

(Lyra Messianica, 1864.)

There is nothing more that they can do For all their rage and boast; Caiaphas with his blaspheming crew, Herod with his host,

Pontius Pilate in his Judgement-hall Judging their Judge and his, Or he who led them all and passed them all, Arch-Judas with his kiss.

The sepulchre made sure with ponderous Stone, Seal that same stone, O Priest; 10 It may be thou shalt block the holy One From rising in the east:

Set a watch about the sepulchre To watch on pain of death; They must hold fast the stone if One should stir And shake it from beneath.

God Almighty, He can break a seal And roll away a Stone, Can grind the proud in dust who would not kneel, And crush the mighty one. 20

* * * * * * *

There is nothing more that they can do For all their passionate care, Those who sit in dust, the blessed few, And weep and rend their hair:

Peter, Thomas, Mary Magdalene, The Virgin unreproved, Joseph, with Nicodemus, foremost men, And John the Well-beloved,

Bring your finest linen and your spice, Swathe the sacred Dead, 30 Bind with careful hands and piteous eyes The napkin round His head;

Lay Him in the garden-rock to rest; Rest you the Sabbath length: The Sun that went down crimson in the west Shall rise renewed in strength.

God Almighty shall give joy for pain, Shall comfort him who grieves: Lo! He with joy shall doubtless come again, And with Him bring His sheaves. 40



PARADISE: IN A DREAM

(Lyra Messianica, second edition, 1865.)

Once in a dream I saw the flowers That bud and bloom in Paradise; More fair they are than waking eyes Have seen in all this world of ours. And faint the perfume-bearing rose, And faint the lily on its stem, And faint the perfect violet Compared with them.

I heard the songs of Paradise: Each bird sat singing in his place; 10 A tender song so full of grace It soared like incense to the skies. Each bird sat singing to his mate Soft cooing notes among the trees: The nightingale herself were cold To such as these.

I saw the fourfold River flow, And deep it was, with golden sand; It flowed between a mossy land With murmured music grave and low. 20 It hath refreshment for all thirst, For fainting spirits strength and rest: Earth holds not such a draught as this From east to west.

The Tree of Life stood budding there, Abundant with its twelvefold fruits; Eternal sap sustains its roots, Its shadowing branches fill the air. Its leaves are healing for the world, Its fruit the hungry world can feed, 30 Sweeter than honey to the taste And balm indeed.

I saw the gate called Beautiful; And looked, but scarce could look, within; I saw the golden streets begin, And outskirts of the glassy pool. Oh harps, oh crowns of plenteous stars, Oh green palm-branches many-leaved— Eye hath not seen, nor ear hath heard, Nor heart conceived. 40

I hope to see these things again, But not as once in dreams by night; To see them with my very sight, And touch, and handle, and attain: To have all Heaven beneath my feet For narrow way that once they trod; To have my part with all the saints, And with my God.



WITHIN THE VEIL

(Lyra Eucharistica, second edition, 1865.)

She holds a lily in her hand, Where long ranks of Angels stand, A silver lily for her wand.

All her hair falls sweeping down; Her hair that is a golden brown, A crown beneath her golden crown.

Blooms a rose-bush at her knee, Good to smell and good to see: It bears a rose for her, for me;

Her rose a blossom richly grown, 10 My rose a bud not fully blown, But sure one day to be mine own.



PARADISE: IN A SYMBOL

(Lyra Eucharistica, second edition, 1865.)

Golden-winged, silver-winged, Winged with flashing flame, Such a flight of birds I saw, Birds without a name: Singing songs in their own tongue (Song of songs) they came.

One to another calling, Each answering each, One to another calling In their proper speech: 10 High above my head they wheeled, Far out of reach.

On wings of flame they went and came With a cadenced clang, Their silver wings tinkled, Their golden wings rang, The wind it whistled through their wings Where in Heaven they sang.

They flashed and they darted Awhile before mine eyes, 20 Mounting, mounting, mounting still In haste to scale the skies— Birds without a nest on earth, Birds of Paradise.

Where the moon riseth not, Nor sun seeks the west, There to sing their glory Which they sing at rest, There to sing their love-song When they sing their best: 30

Not in any garden That mortal foot hath trod, Not in any flowering tree That springs from earthly sod, But in the garden where they dwell, The Paradise of God.



AMOR MUNDI

(The Shilling Magazine, 1865.)

'Oh, where are you going with your love-locks flowing On the west wind blowing along this valley track?' 'The downhill path is easy, come with me an' it please ye, We shall escape the uphill by never turning back.'

So they two went together in glowing August weather, The honey-breathing heather lay to their left and right; And dear she was to doat on, her swift feet seemed to float on The air like soft twin pigeons too sportive to alight.

'Oh, what is that in heaven where grey cloud-flakes are seven, Where blackest clouds hang riven just at the rainy skirt?' 10 'Oh, that's a meteor sent us, a message dumb, portentous,— An undeciphered solemn signal of help or hurt.'

'Oh, what is that glides quickly where velvet flowers grow thickly, Their scent comes rich and sickly?'—'A scaled and hooded worm.' 'Oh, what's that in the hollow, so pale I quake to follow?' 'Oh, that's a thin dead body which waits th' eternal term.'

'Turn again, O my sweetest,—turn again, false and fleetest: This way whereof thou weetest I fear is hell's own track.' 'Nay, too steep for hill-mounting,—nay, too late for cost-counting: This downhill path is easy, but there's no turning back.' 20



WHO SHALL DELIVER ME?

(The Argosy, Feb. 1866.)

God strengthen me to bear myself; That heaviest weight of all to bear, Inalienable weight of care.

All others are outside myself, I lock my door and bar them out The turmoil, tedium, gad-about.

I lock my door upon myself, And bar them out; but who shall wall Self from myself, most loathed of all?

If I could once lay down myself, 10 And start self-purged upon the race That all must run! Death runs apace.

If I could set aside myself, And start with lightened heart upon The road by all men overgone!

God harden me against myself, This coward with pathetic voice Who craves for ease, and rest, and joys:

Myself, arch-traitor to myself; My hollowest friend, my deadliest foe, 20 My clog whatever road I go.

Yet One there is can curb myself, Can roll the strangling load from me, Break off the yoke and set me free.



IF

(The Argosy, March 1866.)

If he would come to-day, to-day, to-day, O, what a day to-day would be! But now he's away, miles and miles away From me across the sea.

O little bird, flying, flying, flying To your nest in the warm west, Tell him as you pass that I am dying, As you pass home to your nest.

I have a sister, I have a brother, A faithful hound, a tame white dove; 10 But I had another, once I had another, And I miss him, my love, my love!

In this weary world it is so cold, so cold, While I sit here all alone; I would not like to wait and to grow old, But just to be dead and gone.

Make me fair when I lie dead on my bed, Fair where I am lying: Perhaps he may come and look upon me dead— He for whom I am dying. 20

Dig my grave for two, with a stone to show it, And on the stone write my name; If he never comes, I shall never know it, But sleep on all the same.



TWILIGHT NIGHT

(The Argosy, March 1866.)

I

We met, hand to hand, We clasped hands close and fast, As close as oak and ivy stand; But it is past: Come day, come night, day comes at last.

We loosed hand from hand, We parted face from face; Each went his way to his own land. At his own pace, Each went to fill his separate place. 10

If we should meet one day, If both should not forget, We shall clasp hands the accustomed way, As when we met So long ago, as I remember yet.

II

Where my heart is (wherever that may be) Might I but follow! If you fly thither over heath and lea, O honey-seeking bee, O careless swallow, 20 Bid some for whom I watch keep watch for me.

Alas! that we must dwell, my heart and I, So far asunder. Hours wax to days, and days and days creep by; I watch with wistful eye, I wait and wonder: When will that day draw nigh—that hour draw nigh?

Not yesterday, and not, I think, to-day; Perhaps to-morrow. Day after day 'to-morrow' thus I say: 30 I watched so yesterday In hope and sorrow, Again to-day I watch the accustomed way.

THE END