But I would not look or speak, Would not cheer up at all. 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: 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, 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, 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 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, 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, 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: "No one told me a word Of her getting worse and worse, Till her poor life was past" (Here my Lady's tears dropped fast): "I might have been with her, I might have promised and heard, 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, 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.

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; 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, 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, "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. 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 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.

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. 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, 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, 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:— O 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 honor like a glass And made my life forlorn; But my Mother, Mother, Mother, O, I know her from all other.

My Lady, you might trust Your daughter with your fame. Trust me, I would not shame Our honorable 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, 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; 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.

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 clew She huddles out of view. Friend, servant, almost child, So be it and nothing more 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 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, 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, 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 neighbors live in With father and with mother, All proud of one another, 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, 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, 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, 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, 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; How should death half atone 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, 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; 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,"— I bide my time till then: "All equal before God,"— To-day I feel His rod, To-morrow He may save: Amen.



SONG.

Oh what comes over the sea, Shoals and quicksands past; And what comes home to me, Sailing slow, sailing fast?

A wind comes over the sea With a moan in its blast; But nothing comes home to me, Sailing slow, sailing fast.

Let me be, let me be, For my lot is cast: Land or sea all's one to me, And sail it slow or fast.



BY THE SEA.

Why does the sea moan evermore? Shut out from heaven it makes its moan. It frets against the boundary shore; All earth's full rivers cannot fill The sea, that drinking thirsteth still.

Sheer miracles of loveliness Lie hid in its unlooked-on bed: Anemones, salt, passionless, Blow flower-like; just enough alive To blow and multiply and thrive.

Shells quaint with curve, or spot, or spike, Encrusted live things argus-eyed, All fair alike, yet all unlike, Are born without a pang, and die Without a pang,—and so pass by.



DAYS OF VANITY.

A dream that waketh, Bubble that breaketh, Song whose burden sigheth, A passing breath, Smoke that vanisheth,— Such is life that dieth.

A flower that fadeth, Fruit the tree sheddeth, Trackless bird that flieth, Summer time brief, Falling of the leaf,— Such is life that dieth.

A scent exhaling, Snow waters failing, Morning dew that drieth, A windy blast, Lengthening shadows cast,— Such is life that dieth.

A scanty measure, Rust-eaten treasure, Spending that nought buyeth, Moth on the wing, Toil unprofiting,— Such is life that dieth.

Morrow by morrow Sorrow breeds sorrow, For this my song sigheth; From day to night We lapse out of sight,— Such is life that dieth.



ENRICA, 1865.

She came among us from the South And made the North her home awhile Our dimness brightened in her smile, Our tongue grew sweeter in her mouth.

We chilled beside her liberal glow, She dwarfed us by her ampler scale, Her full-blown blossom made us pale, She summer-like and we like snow.

We Englishwomen, trim, correct, All minted in the self-same mould, Warm-hearted but of semblance cold, All-courteous out of self-respect.

She woman in her natural grace, Less trammelled she by lore of school, Courteous by nature not by rule, Warm-hearted and of cordial face.

So for awhile she made her home Among us in the rigid North, She who from Italy came forth And scaled the Alps and crossed the foam.

But if she found us like our sea, Of aspect colourless and chill, Rock-girt; like it she found us still Deep at our deepest, strong and free.



ONCE FOR ALL.

(Margaret.)

I said: This is a beautiful fresh rose. I said: I will delight me with its scent, Will watch its lovely curve of languishment, Will watch its leaves unclose, its heart unclose. I said: Old Earth has put away her snows, All living things make merry to their bent, A flower is come for every flower that went In autumn; the sun glows, the south wind blows. So walking in a garden of delight I came upon one sheltered shadowed nook Where broad leaf shadows veiled the day with night, And there lay snow unmelted by the sun:— I answered: Take who will the path I took, Winter nips once for all; love is but one.



AUTUMN VIOLETS.

Keep love for youth, and violets for the spring: Or 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."

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, 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 Of golden home; yet mine eye weepeth sore, For long the journey is that makes 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, 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 languor 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 I hear again the tender voice that calls, "Follow me hither, follow, rise, and come."



A GREEN CORNFIELD.

"And singing still dost soar, and soaring ever singest."

The earth was green, the sky was blue: I saw and heard one sunny morn A skylark hang between the two, A singing speck above the corn;

A stage below, in gay accord, White butterflies danced on the wing, And still the singing skylark soared And silent sank, and soared to sing.

The cornfield stretched a tender green To right and left beside my walks; I knew he had a nest unseen Somewhere among the million stalks:

And as I paused to hear his song While swift the sunny moments slid, Perhaps his mate sat listening long, And listened longer than I did.



A BRIDE SONG.

Through the vales to my love! To the happy small nest of home Green from basement to roof; Where the honey-bees come To the window-sill flowers, And dive from above, Safe from the spider that weaves Her warp and her woof In some outermost leaves.

Through the vales to my love! In sweet April hours All rainbows and showers, While dove answers dove,— In beautiful May, When the orchards are tender And frothing with flowers,— In opulent June, When the wheat stands up slender By sweet-smelling hay, And half the sun's splendour Descends to the moon.

Through the vales to my love! Where the turf is so soft to the feet, And the thyme makes it sweet, And the stately foxglove Hangs silent its exquisite bells; And where water wells The greenness grows greener, And bulrushes stand Round a lily to screen her.

Nevertheless, if this land, Like a garden to smell and to sight, Were turned to a desert of sand, Stripped bare of delight, All its best gone to worst, For my feet no repose, No water to comfort my thirst, And heaven like a furnace above,— The desert would be As gushing of waters to me, The wilderness be as a rose, If it led me to thee, O my love!



THE LOWEST ROOM.

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; 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.

"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, 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."

"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, 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.

"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 rather would be one of us Than wife, or slave, or both."

"Oh better then be slave or wife Than fritter now blank life away: 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?

"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. 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!

"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: 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?

"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 Through life, through 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, 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?"

"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; Forgive me if I said too much, So much more than I meant.

"Homer, though 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.

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, 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.

"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: 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."

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 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, Though nestling of the self-same nest: No fault of hers, no fault of mine, But stubborn to digest.

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 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:

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

Yet, though 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; Most like a vine which full of fruit Doth cling and lean and climb toward heaven, While 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.

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, 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.



DEAD HOPE.

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.

Nought we place above his face To mark the spot, But it shows a barren place In our lot.



A DAUGHTER OF EVE.

A fool I was to sleep at noon, And wake when night is chilly Beneath the comfortless cold moon; A fool to pluck my rose too soon, A fool to snap my lily.

My garden-plot I have not kept; Faded and all-forsaken, I weep as I have never wept: Oh it was summer when I slept, It's winter now I waken.

Talk what you please of future spring And sun-warmed sweet to-morrow:— Stripped bare of hope and every thing, No more to laugh, no more to sing, I sit alone with sorrow.



VENUS' LOOKING-GLASS.

I marked where lovely Venus and her court With song and dance and merry laugh went by; Weightless, their wingless feet seemed made to fly, Bound from the ground and in mid air to sport. Left far behind I heard the dolphins snort, Tracking their goddess with a wistful eye, Around whose head white doves rose, wheeling high Or low, and cooed after their tender sort. All this I saw in spring. Through summer heat I saw the lovely Queen of Love no more. But when flushed autumn through the woodlands went I spied sweet Venus walk amid the wheat: Whom seeing, every harvester gave o'er His toil, and laughed and hoped and was content.



LOVE LIES BLEEDING.

Love that is dead and buried, yesterday Out of his grave rose up before my face, No recognition in his look, no trace Of memory in his eyes dust-dimmed and grey. While I, remembering, found no word to say, But felt my quickened heart leap in its place; Caught afterglow thrown back from long set days, Caught echoes of all music passed away. Was this indeed to meet?—I mind me yet In youth we met when hope and love were quick, We parted with hope dead, but love alive: I mind me how we parted then heart sick, Remembering, loving, hopeless, weak to strive:— Was this to meet? Not so, we have not met.



BIRD RAPTURES.

The sunrise wakes the lark to sing, The moonrise wakes the nightingale. Come darkness, moonrise, every thing That is so silent, sweet, and pale: Come, so ye wake the nightingale.

Make haste to mount, thou wistful moon, Make haste to wake the nightingale: Let silence set the world in tune To hearken to that wordless tale Which warbles from the nightingale

O herald skylark, stay thy flight One moment, for a nightingale Floods us with sorrow and delight. To-morrow thou shalt hoist the sail; Leave us to-night the nightingale.



MY FRIEND.

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; 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.



TWILIGHT NIGHT.

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.

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! 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: I watched so yesterday In hope and sorrow, Again to-day I watch the accustomed way.



A BIRD SONG.

It's a year almost that I have not seen her: Oh, last summer green things were greener, Brambles fewer, the blue sky bluer.

It's surely summer, for there's a swallow: Come one swallow, his mate will follow, The bird race quicken and wheel and thicken.

Oh happy swallow whose mate will follow O'er height, o'er hollow! I'd be a swallow, To build this weather one nest together.



A SMILE AND A SIGH.

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 which should be flying, We live who would be dying.



DEVOTIONAL PIECES.



AMOR MUNDI.

"O 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?" "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 the eternal term."

"Turn again, O my sweetest,—turn again, false and fleetest: This beaten way thou beatest 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."



A CHRISTMAS CAROL.

In the bleak mid-winter Frosty wind made moan, Earth stood hard as iron, Water like a stone; Snow had fallen, snow on snow, Snow on snow, In the bleak mid-winter Long ago.

Our God, Heaven cannot hold Him Nor earth sustain; Heaven and earth shall flee away When He comes to reign: In the bleak mid-winter A stable-place sufficed The Lord God Almighty Jesus Christ.

Enough for Him whom cherubim Worship night and day, A breastful of milk And a mangerful of hay; Enough for Him whom angels Fall down before, The ox and ass and camel Which adore.

Angels and archangels May have gathered there, Cherubim and seraphim Throng'd the air, But only His mother In her maiden bliss Worshipped her Beloved With a kiss.

What can I give Him, Poor as I am? If I were a shepherd I would bring a lamb, If I were a wise man I would do my part,— Yet what I can I give Him, Give my heart.



BY THE WATERS OF BABYLON.

B.C. 570.

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 bestead and cowed As Sodom and Gomorrah scourged by fire, 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, 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 oppress'd Unto our foes are even marvellous, A hissing and a butt for pointing hands, Whilst God Almighty hunts and grinds us thus; 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 may 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, Reap all the corners of my harvest-field, And make their fat hearts wanton with my wine; To them my trees, to them my gardens 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, Choice tender ones on whom the fathers dote: 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. 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, 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, 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.



PARADISE.

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; 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. 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, 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, O green palm branches many-leaved— Eye hath not seen, nor ear hath heard, Nor heart conceived!

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.



"I WILL LIFT UP MINE EYES UNTO THE HILLS."

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 the everlasting hills.— Say the Saints: There Angels ease us Glorified and white. They say: We rest in Jesus, Where is not day or 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 mount and grow, And hath but dwindled down; My love sought love, and lo! Hath not attained its crown.— Say the Saints: Fresh souls increase us, None languish or 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, Or escape from death; Dear hopes and joys gone by Still mock me with a name; 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.

O my soul, she beats her wings And pants to fly away Up to immortal things In the heavenly day: 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.



SAINTS AND ANGELS.

It's oh in Paradise that I fain would be, Away from earth and weariness and all beside; Earth is too full of loss with its dividing sea, But Paradise upbuilds the bower for the bride.

Where flowers are yet in bud while the boughs are green, I would get quit of earth and get robed for heaven; Putting on my raiment white within the screen, Putting on my crown of gold whose gems are seven

Fair is the fourfold river that maketh no moan, Fair are the trees fruit-bearing of the wood, Fair are the gold and bdellium and the onyx stone, And I know the gold of that land is good.

O my love, my dove, lift up your eyes Toward the eastern gate like an opening rose; You and I who parted will meet in Paradise, Pass within and sing when the gates unclose.

This life is but the passage of a day, This life is but a pang and all is over; But in the life to come which fades not away Every love shall abide and every lover.

He who wore out pleasure and mastered all lore, Solomon, wrote "Vanity of vanities:" Down to death, of all that went before In his mighty long life, the record is this.

With loves by the hundred, wealth beyond measure, Is this he who wrote "Vanity of vanities"? Yea, "Vanity of vanities" he saith of pleasure, And of all he learned set his seal to this.

Yet we love and faint not, for our love is one, And we hope and flag not, for our hope is sure, Although there be nothing new beneath the sun And no help for life and for death no cure.

The road to death is life, the gate of life is death, We who wake shall sleep, we shall wax who wane; Let us not vex our souls for stoppage of a breath, The fall of a river that turneth not again.

Be the road short, and be the gate near,— Shall a short road tire, a strait gate appall? The loves that meet in Paradise shall cast out fear, And Paradise hath room for you and me and all.



"WHEN MY HEART IS VEXED, I WILL COMPLAIN."

"O Lord, how canst Thou say Thou lovest me? Me whom thou settest in a barren land, Hungry and thirsty on the burning sand, Hungry and thirsty where no waters be Nor shadows of date-bearing tree:— O Lord, how canst Thou say Thou lovest me?"

"I came from Edom by as parched a track, As rough a track beneath My bleeding feet. I came from Edom seeking thee, and sweet I counted bitterness; I turned not back But counted life as death, and trod The winepress all alone: and I am God."

"Yet, Lord, how canst Thou say Thou lovest me? For Thou art strong to comfort: and could I But comfort one I love, who, like to die, Lifts feeble hands and eyes that fail to see In one last prayer for comfort—nay, I could not stand aside or turn away."

"Alas! thou knowest that for thee I died For thee I thirsted with the dying thirst; I, Blessed, for thy sake was counted cursed, In sight of men and angels crucified: All this and more I bore to prove My love, and wilt thou yet mistrust My love?"

"Lord, I am fain to think Thou lovest me, For Thou art all in all and I am Thine; And lo! Thy love is better than new wine, And I am sick of love in loving Thee. But dost Thou love me? speak and save, For jealousy is cruel as the grave."

"Nay, if thy love is not an empty breath My love is as thine own—deep answers deep. Peace, peace: I give to my beloved sleep, Not death but sleep, for love is strong as death: Take patience; sweet thy sleep shall be, Yea, thou shalt wake in Paradise with Me."



AFTER COMMUNION.

Why should I call Thee Lord, Who art my God? Why should I call Thee Friend, Who art my Love? Or King, Who art my very Spouse above? Or call Thy Sceptre on my heart Thy rod? Lo, now Thy banner over me is love, All heaven flies open to me at Thy nod: For Thou hast lit Thy flame in me a clod, Made me a nest for dwelling of Thy Dove. What wilt Thou call me in our home above, Who now hast called me friend? how will it be When Thou for good wine settest forth the best? Now Thou dost bid me come and sup with Thee, Now Thou dost make me lean upon Thy breast: How will it be with me in time of love?



A ROSE PLANT IN JERICHO.

At morn I plucked a rose and gave it Thee, A rose of joy and happy love and peace, A rose with scarce a thorn: But in the chillness of a second morn My rose bush drooped, and all its gay increase Was but one thorn that wounded me.

I plucked the thorn and offered it to Thee; And for my thorn Thou gavest love and peace, Not joy this mortal morn: If Thou hast given much treasure for a thorn, Wilt thou not give me for my rose increase Of gladness, and all sweets to me?

My thorny rose, my love and pain, to Thee I offer; and I set my heart in peace, And rest upon my thorn: For verily I think to-morrow morn Shall bring me Paradise, my gift's increase, Yea, give Thy very Self to me.



WHO SHALL DELIVER ME?

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, 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, 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.



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 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. 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, 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: "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 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 forevermore.



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.

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, 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, 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 Now but a barren grave to me, Be joy for sorrow?— Did I not die for thee? Do 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.

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? They the blessed ones gone before, They the blessed forevermore. 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 a palm? 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 on 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; 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: 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. At His Word, Who goes before us too, Jordan must cleave to let us through.

Yet one pang, searching and sore, And then Heaven forevermore; Yet one moment awful and dark, Then safety within the Veil and the Ark; Yet one effort by Christ His grace, Then Christ forever 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 farther bank: God the Holy Ghost we will praise, In Jesus' Name, through endless days: God Almighty, God Three in One, God Almighty, God alone.



AFTER THIS THE JUDGMENT.

As eager home-bound 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, 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, hundred-fold, with heavenly art, Fulfilling north and south and east and west, Thousand, ten-thousand-fold, 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 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 and 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: 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, 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, 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; 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.



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, 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.



A PAGEANT AND OTHER POEMS.

Sonnets are full of love, and this my tome Has many sonnets: so here now shall be One sonnet more, a love sonnet, from me To her whose heart is my heart's quiet home, To my first Love, my Mother, on whose knee I learnt love-lore that is not troublesome; Whose service is my special dignity, And she my loadstar while I go and come. And so because you love me, and because I love you, Mother, I have woven a wreath Of rhymes wherewith to crown your honored name: In you not fourscore years can dim the flame Of love, whose blessed glow transcends the laws Of time and change and mortal life and death.



THE KEY-NOTE.

Where are the songs I used to know, Where are the notes I used to sing? I have forgotten everything I used to know so long ago; Summer has followed after Spring; Now Autumn is so shrunk and sere, I scarcely think a sadder thing Can be the Winter of my year.

Yet Robin sings through Winter's rest, When bushes put their berries on; While they their ruddy jewels don, He sings out of a ruddy breast; The hips and haws and ruddy breast Make one spot warm where snowflakes lie They break and cheer the unlovely rest Of Winter's pause—and why not I?



THE MONTHS:

A Pageant.

PERSONIFICATIONS.

Boys. Girls. January. February. March. April. July. May. August. June. October. September. December. November.

Robin Redbreasts; Lambs and Sheep; Nightingale and Nestlings.

Various Flowers, Fruits, etc.

Scene: A Cottage with its Grounds.

[A room in a large comfortable cottage; a fire burning on the hearth; a table on which the breakfast things have been left standing. January discovered seated by the fire.]

January.

Cold the day and cold the drifted snow, Dim the day until the cold dark night.

[Stirs the fire.

Crackle, sparkle, fagot; embers glow: Some one may be plodding through the snow Longing for a light, For the light that you and I can show. If no one else should come, Here Robin Redbreast's welcome to a crumb, And never troublesome: Robin, why don't you come and fetch your crumb?

Here's butter for my hunch of bread, And sugar for your crumb; Here's room upon the hearthrug, If you'll only come.

In your scarlet waistcoat, With your keen bright eye, Where are you loitering? Wings were made to fly!

Make haste to breakfast, Come and fetch your crumb, For I'm as glad to see you As you are glad to come.

[Two Robin Redbreasts are seen tapping with their beaks at the lattice, which January opens. The birds flutter in, hop about the floor, and peck up the crumbs and sugar thrown to them. They have scarcely finished their meal, when a knock is heard at the door. January hangs a guard in front of the fire, and opens to February, who appears with a bunch of snowdrops in her hand.]

January.

Good-morrow, sister.

February.

Brother, joy to you! I've brought some snowdrops; only just a few, But quite enough to prove the world awake, Cheerful and hopeful in the frosty dew And for the pale sun's sake.

[She hands a few of her snowdrops to January, who retires into the background. While February stands arranging the remaining snowdrops in a glass of water on the window-sill, a soft butting and bleating are heard outside. She opens the door, and sees one foremost lamb, with other sheep and lambs bleating and crowding towards her.]

February.

O you, you little wonder, come—come in, You wonderful, you woolly soft white lamb: You panting mother ewe, come too, And lead that tottering twin Safe in: Bring all your bleating kith and kin, Except the horny ram.

[February opens a second door in the background, and the little flock files through into a warm and sheltered compartment out of sight.]

The lambkin tottering in its walk With just a fleece to wear; The snowdrop drooping on its stalk So slender,— Snowdrop and lamb, a pretty pair, Braving the cold for our delight, Both white, Both tender.

[A rattling of doors and windows; branches seen without, tossing violently to and fro.]

How the doors rattle, and the branches sway! Here's brother March comes whirling on his way With winds that eddy and sing.

[She turns the handle of the door, which bursts open, and discloses March hastening up, both hands full of violets and anemones.]

February.

Come, show me what you bring; For I have said my say, fulfilled my day, And must away.

March.

[Stopping short on the threshold.]

I blow an arouse Through the world's wide house To quicken the torpid earth: Grappling I fling Each feeble thing, But bring strong life to the birth. I wrestle and frown, And topple down; I wrench, I rend, I uproot; Yet the violet Is born where I set The sole of my flying foot,

[Hands violets and anemones to February, who retires into the background.]

And in my wake Frail wind-flowers quake, And the catkins promise fruit. I drive ocean ashore With rush and roar, And he cannot say me nay: My harpstrings all Are the forests tall, Making music when I play. And as others perforce, So I on my course Run and needs must run, With sap on the mount And buds past count And rivers and clouds and sun, With seasons and breath And time and death And all that has yet begun.

[Before March has done speaking, a voice is heard approaching accompanied by a twittering of birds. April comes along singing, and stands outside and out of sight to finish her song.]

April.

[Outside.]

Pretty little three Sparrows in a tree, Light upon the wing; Though you cannot sing You can chirp of Spring: Chirp of Spring to me, Sparrows, from your tree.

Never mind the showers, Chirp about the flowers While you build a nest: Straws from east and west, Feathers from your breast, Make the snuggest bowers In a world of flowers.

You must dart away From the chosen spray, You intrusive third Extra little bird; Join the unwedded herd! These have done with play, And must work to-day.

April.

[Appearing at the open door.]

Good-morrow and good-bye: if others fly, Of all the flying months you're the most flying.

March.

You're hope and sweetness, April.

April.

Birth means dying, As wings and wind mean flying; So you and I and all things fly or die; And sometimes I sit sighing to think of dying. But meanwhile I've a rainbow in my showers, And a lapful of flowers, And these dear nestlings aged three hours; And here's their mother sitting, Their father's merely flitting To find their breakfast somewhere in my bowers.

[As she speaks April shows March her apron full of flowers and nest full of birds. March wanders away into the grounds. April, without entering the cottage, hangs over the hungry nestlings watching them.]

April.

What beaks you have, you funny things, What voices shrill and weak; Who'd think that anything that sings Could sing through such a beak? Yet you'll be nightingales one day, And charm the country-side, When I'm away and far away And May is queen and bride.

[May arrives unperceived by April, and gives her a kiss. April starts and looks round.]

April.

Ah May, good-morrow May, and so good-bye.

May.

That's just your way, sweet April, smile and sigh: Your sorrow's half in fun, Begun and done And turned to joy while twenty seconds run. I've gathered flowers all as I came along, At every step a flower Fed by your last bright shower,—

[She divides an armful of all sorts of flowers with April, who strolls away through the garden.]

May.

And gathering flowers I listened to the song Of every bird in bower. The world and I are far too full of bliss To think or plan or toil or care; The sun is waxing strong, The days are waxing long, And all that is, Is fair.

Here are my buds of lily and of rose, And here's my namesake-blossom, may; And from a watery spot See here forget-me-not, With all that blows To-day.

Hark to my linnets from the hedges green, Blackbird and lark and thrush and dove, And every nightingale And cuckoo tells its tale, And all they mean Is love.

[June appears at the further end of the garden, coming slowly towards May, who, seeing her, exclaims]

May.

Surely you're come too early, sister June.

June.

Indeed I feel as if I came too soon To round your young May moon And set the world a-gasping at my noon. Yet come I must. So here are strawberries Sun-flushed and sweet, as many as you please; And here are full-blown roses by the score, More roses, and yet more.

[May, eating strawberries, withdraws among the flower beds.]

June.

The sun does all my long day's work for me, Raises and ripens everything; I need but sit beneath a leafy tree And watch and sing.

[Seats herself in the shadow of a laburnum.

Or if I'm lulled by note of bird and bee, Or lulled by noontide's silence deep, I need but nestle down beneath my tree And drop asleep.

[June falls asleep; and is not awakened by the voice of July, who behind the scenes is heard half singing, half calling.]

July.

[Behind the scenes.]

Blue flags, yellow flags, flags all freckled, Which will you take? yellow, blue, speckled! Take which you will, speckled, blue, yellow, Each in its way has not a fellow.

[Enter July, a basket of many-colored irises slung upon his shoulders, a bunch of ripe grass in one hand, and a plate piled full of peaches balanced upon the other. He steals up to June, and tickles her with the grass. She wakes.]

June.

What, here already?

July.

Nay, my tryst is kept; The longest day slipped by you while you slept. I've brought you one curved pyramid of bloom,

[Hands her the plate.

Not flowers, but peaches, gathered where the bees, As downy, bask and boom In sunshine and in gloom of trees. But get you in, a storm is at my heels; The whirlwind whistles and wheels, Lightning flashes and thunder peals, Flying and following hard upon my heels.

[June takes shelter in a thickly-woven arbor.]

July.

The roar of a storm sweeps up From the east to the lurid west, The darkening sky, like a cup, Is filled with rain to the brink;

The sky is purple and fire, Blackness and noise and unrest; The earth, parched with desire, Opens her mouth to drink.

Send forth thy thunder and fire, Turn over thy brimming cup, O sky, appease the desire Of earth in her parched unrest; Pour out drink to her thirst, Her famishing life lift up; Make thyself fair as at first, With a rainbow for thy crest.

Have done with thunder and fire, O sky with the rainbow crest; O earth, have done with desire, Drink, and drink deep, and rest.

[Enter August, carrying a sheaf made up of different kinds of grain.]

July.

Hail, brother August, flushed and warm And scatheless from my storm. Your hands are full of corn, I see, As full as hands can be:

And earth and air both smell as sweet as balm In their recovered calm, And that they owe to me.

[July retires into a shrubbery.]

August.

Wheat sways heavy, oats are airy, Barley bows a graceful head, Short and small shoots up canary, Each of these is some one's bread; Bread for man or bread for beast, Or at very least A bird's savory feast.

Men are brethren of each other, One in flesh and one in food; And a sort of foster brother Is the litter, or the brood, Of that folk in fur or feather, Who, with men together, Breast the wind and weather.

[August descries September toiling across the lawn.]

August.

My harvest home is ended; and I spy September drawing nigh With the first thought of Autumn in her eye, And the first sigh Of Autumn wind among her locks that fly.

[September arrives, carrying upon her head a basket heaped high with fruit]

September.

Unload me, brother. I have brought a few Plums and these pears for you, A dozen kinds of apples, one or two Melons, some figs all bursting through Their skins, and pearled with dew These damsons violet-blue.

[While September is speaking, August lifts the basket to the ground, selects various fruits, and withdraws slowly along the gravel walk, eating a pear as he goes.]

September.

My song is half a sigh Because my green leaves die; Sweet are my fruits, but all my leaves are dying; And well may Autumn sigh, And well may I Who watch the sere leaves flying.

My leaves that fade and fall, I note you one and all; I call you, and the Autumn wind is calling, Lamenting for your fall, And for the pall You spread on earth in falling.

And here's a song of flowers to suit such hours: A song of the last lilies, the last flowers, Amid my withering bowers.

In the sunny garden bed Lilies look so pale, Lilies droop the head In the shady grassy vale; If all alike they pine In shade and in shine, If everywhere they grieve, Where will lilies live?

[October enters briskly, some leafy twigs bearing different sorts of nuts in one hand, and a long ripe hop-bine trailing after him from the other. A dahlia is stuck in his buttonhole.]

October.

Nay, cheer up, sister. Life is not quite over, Even if the year has done with corn and clover, With flowers and leaves; besides, in fact it's true, Some leaves remain and some flowers too. For me and you. Now see my crops:

[Offering his produce to September.

I've brought you nuts and hops; And when the leaf drops, why, the walnut drops.

[October wreaths the hop-bine about September's neck, and gives her the nut twigs. They enter the cottage together, but without shutting the door. She steps into the background: he advances to the hearth, removes the guard, stirs up the smouldering fire, and arranges several chestnuts ready to roast.]

October.

Crack your first nut and light your first fire, Roast your first chestnut crisp on the bar; Make the logs sparkle, stir the blaze higher; Logs are cheery as sun or as star, Logs we can find wherever we are.

Spring one soft day will open the leaves, Spring one bright day will lure back the flowers; Never fancy my whistling wind grieves, Never fancy I've tears in my showers; Dance, nights and days! and dance on, my hours!

[Sees November approaching.

October.

Here comes my youngest sister, looking dim And grim, With dismal ways. What cheer, November?

November.

[Entering and shutting the door.]

Nought have I to bring, Tramping a-chill and shivering, Except these pine-cones for a blaze,— Except a fog which follows, And stuffs up all the hollows,— Except a hoar frost here and there,— Except some shooting stars Which dart their luminous cars Trackless and noiseless through the keen night air.

[October, shrugging his shoulders, withdraws into the background, while November throws her pine cones on the fire, and sits down listlessly.]

November.

The earth lies fast asleep, grown tired Of all that's high or deep; There's nought desired and nought required Save a sleep.

I rock the cradle of the earth, I lull her with a sigh; And know that she will wake to mirth By and by.

[Through the window December is seen running and leaping in the direction of the door. He knocks.]

November.

[Calls out without rising.]

Ah, here's my youngest brother come at last: Come in, December.

[He opens the door and enters, loaded with evergreens in berry, etc.]

November.

Come, and shut the door, For now it's snowing fast; It snows, and will snow more and more; Don't let it drift in on the floor. But you, you're all aglow; how can you be Rosy and warm and smiling in the cold?

December.

Nay, no closed doors for me, But open doors and open hearts and glee To welcome young and old.

Dimmest and brightest month am I; My short days end, my lengthening days begin; What matters more or less sun in the sky, When all is sun within?

[He begins making a wreath as he sings.

Ivy and privet dark as night, I weave with hips and haws a cheerful show, And holly for a beauty and delight, And milky mistletoe.

While high above them all I set Yew twigs and Christmas roses pure and pale; Then Spring her snowdrop and her violet May keep, so sweet and frail;

May keep each merry singing bird, Of all her happy birds that singing build: For I've a carol which some shepherds heard Once in a wintry field.

[While December concludes his song all the other Months troop in from the garden, or advance out of the background. The Twelve join hands in a circle, and begin dancing round to a stately measure as the Curtain falls.]



PASTIME.

A boat amid the ripples, drifting, rocking, Two idle people, without pause or aim; While in the ominous west there gathers darkness Flushed with flame.

A haycock in a hayfield backing, lapping, Two drowsy people pillowed round about; While in the ominous west across the darkness Flame leaps out.

Better a wrecked life than a life so aimless, Better a wrecked life than a life so soft; The ominous west glooms thundering, with its fire Lit aloft.



"ITALIA, IO TI SALUTO!"

To come back from the sweet South, to the North Where I was born, bred, look to die; Come back to do my day's work in its day, Play out my play— Amen, amen, say I.

To see no more the country half my own, Nor hear the half familiar speech, Amen, I say; I turn to that bleak North Whence I came forth— The South lies out of reach.

But when our swallows fly back to the South, To the sweet South, to the sweet South, The tears may come again into my eyes On the old wise, And the sweet name to my mouth.



MIRRORS OF LIFE AND DEATH.

The mystery of Life, the mystery Of Death, I see Darkly as in a glass; Their shadows pass, And talk with me.

As the flush of a Morning Sky, As a Morning Sky colorless— Each yields its measure of light To a wet world or a dry; Each fares through day to night With equal pace, And then each one Is done.

As the Sun with glory and grace In his face, Benignantly hot, Graciously radiant and keen, Ready to rise and to run,— Not without spot, Not even the Sun.

As the Moon On the wax, on the wane, With night for her noon; Vanishing soon, To appear again.

As Roses that droop Half warm, half chill, in the languid May, And breathe out a scent Sweet and faint; Till the wind gives one swoop To scatter their beauty away.

As Lilies a multitude, One dipping, one rising, one sinking, On rippling waters, clear blue And pure for their drinking; One new dead, and one opened anew, And all good.

As a cankered pale Flower, With death for a dower, Each hour of its life half dead; With death for a crown Weighing down Its head.

As an Eagle, half strength and half grace, Most potent to face Unwinking the splendor of light; Harrying the East and the West, Soaring aloft from our sight; Yet one day or one night dropped to rest, On the low common earth Of his birth.

As a Dove, Not alone, In a world of her own Full of fluttering soft noises And tender sweet voices Of love.

As a Mouse Keeping house In the fork of a tree, With nuts in a crevice, And an acorn or two; What cares he For blossoming boughs, Or the song-singing bevies Of birds in their glee, Scarlet, or golden, or blue?

As a Mole grubbing underground; When it comes to the light It grubs its way back again, Feeling no bias of fur To hamper it in its stir, Scant of pleasure and pain, Sinking itself out of sight Without sound.

As Waters that drop and drop, Weariness without end, That drop and never stop, Wear that nothing can mend, Till one day they drop— Stop— And there's an end, And matters mend.

As Trees, beneath whose skin We mark not the sap begin To swell and rise, Till the whole bursts out in green: We mark the falling leaves When the wide world grieves And sighs.

As a Forest on fire, Where maddened creatures desire Wet mud or wings Beyond all those things Which could assuage desire On this side the flaming fire.

As Wind with a sob and sigh To which there comes no reply But a rustle and shiver From rushes of the river; As Wind with a desolate moan, Moaning on alone.

As a Desert all sand, Blank, neither water nor land For solace, or dwelling, or culture, Where the storms and the wild creatures howl; Given over to lion and vulture, To ostrich, and jackal, and owl: Yet somewhere an oasis lies; There waters arise To nourish one seedling of balm, Perhaps, or one palm.

As the Sea, Murmuring, shifting, swaying; One time sunnily playing, One time wrecking and slaying; In whichever mood it be, Worst or best, Never at rest.

As still Waters and deep, As shallow Waters that brawl, As rapid Waters that leap To their fall.

As Music, as Color, as Shape, Keys of rapture and pain Turning in vain In a lock which turns not again, While breaths and moments escape.

As Spring, all bloom and desire; As Summer, all gift and fire; As Autumn, a dying glow; As Winter, with nought to show:

Winter which lays its dead all out of sight, All clothed in white, All waiting for the long-awaited light.



A BALLAD OF BODING.

There are sleeping dreams and waking dreams; What seems is not always as it seems.

I looked out of my window in the sweet new morning, And there I saw three barges of manifold adorning Went sailing toward the East: The first had sails like fire, The next like glittering wire, But sackcloth were the sails of the least; And all the crews made music, and two had spread a feast.

The first choir breathed in flutes, And fingered soft guitars; The second won from lutes Harmonious chords and jars, With drums for stormy bars: But the third was all of harpers and scarlet trumpeters; Notes of triumph, then An alarm again, As for onset, as for victory, rallies, stirs, Peace at last and glory to the vanquishers.

The first barge showed for figurehead a Love with wings; The second showed for figurehead a Worm with stings; The third, a Lily tangled to a Rose which clings. The first bore for freight gold and spice and down; The second bore a sword, a sceptre, and a crown; The third, a heap of earth gone to dust and brown. Winged Love meseemed like Folly in the face; Stinged Worm meseemed loathly in his place; Lily and Rose were flowers of grace.

Merry went the revel of the fire-sailed crew, Singing, feasting, dancing to and fro: Pleasures ever changing, ever graceful, ever new; Sighs, but scarce of woe; All the sighing Wooed such sweet replying; All the sighing, sweet and low, Used to come and go For more pleasure, merely so. Yet at intervals some one grew tired Of everything desired, And sank, I knew not whither, in sorry plight, Out of sight.

The second crew seemed ever Wider-visioned, graver, More distinct of purpose, more sustained of will; With heads erect and proud, And voices sometimes loud; With endless tacking, counter-tacking, All things grasping, all things lacking, It would seem; Ever shifting helm, or sail, or shroud, Drifting on as in a dream. Hoarding to their utmost bent, Feasting to their fill, Yet gnawed by discontent, Envy, hatred, malice, on their road they went. Their freight was not a treasure, Their music not a pleasure; The sword flashed, cleaving through their bands, Sceptre and crown changed hands.

The third crew as they went Seemed mostly different; They toiled in rowing, for to them the wind was contrary, As all the world might see. They labored at the oar, While on their heads they bore The fiery stress of sunshine more and more. They labored at the oar hand-sore, Till rain went splashing, And spray went dashing, Down on them, and up on them, more and more. Their sails were patched and rent, Their masts were bent, In peril of their lives they worked and went. For them no feast was spread, No soft luxurious bed Scented and white, No crown or sceptre hung in sight; In weariness and painfulness, In thirst and sore distress, They rowed and steered from left to right With all their might. Their trumpeters and harpers round about Incessantly played out, And sometimes they made answer with a shout; But oftener they groaned or wept, And seldom paused to eat, and seldom slept. I wept for pity watching them, but more I wept heart-sore Once and again to see Some weary man plunge overboard, and swim To Love or Worm ship floating buoyantly: And there all welcomed him.

The ships steered each apart and seemed to scorn each other, Yet all the crews were interchangeable; Now one man, now another, —Like bloodless spectres some, some flushed by health,— Changed openly, or changed by stealth, Scaling a slippery side, and scaled it well. The most left Love ship, hauling wealth Up Worm ship's side; While some few hollow-eyed Left either for the sack-sailed boat; But this, though not remote, Was worst to mount, and whoso left it once Scarce ever came again, But seemed to loathe his erst companions, And wish and work them bane.

Then I knew (I know not how) there lurked quicksands full of dread, Rocks and reefs and whirlpools in the water-bed, Whence a waterspout Instantaneously leaped out, Roaring as it reared its head.

Soon I spied a something dim, Many-handed, grim, That went flitting to and fro the first and second ship; It puffed their sails full out With puffs of smoky breath From a smouldering lip, And cleared the waterspout Which reeled roaring round about Threatening death. With a horny hand it steered, And a horn appeared On its sneering head upreared Haughty and high Against the blackening lowering sky. With a hoof it swayed the waves; They opened here and there, Till I spied deep ocean graves Full of skeletons That were men and women once Foul or fair; Full of things that creep And fester in the deep And never breathe the clean life-nurturing air.

The third bark held aloof From the Monster with the hoof, Despite his urgent beck, And fraught with guile Abominable his smile; Till I saw him take a flying leap on to that deck. Then full of awe, With these same eyes I saw His head incredible retract its horn Rounding like babe's new born, While silvery phosphorescence played About his dis-horned head. The sneer smoothed from his lip, He beamed blandly on the ship; All winds sank to a moan, All waves to a monotone (For all these seemed his realm), While he laid a strong caressing hand upon the helm.

Then a cry well nigh of despair Shrieked to heaven, a clamor of desperate prayer. The harpers harped no more, While the trumpeters sounded sore An alarm to wake the dead from their bed: To the rescue, to the rescue, now or never, To the rescue, O ye living, O ye dead, Or no more help or hope for ever!— The planks strained as though they must part asunder, The masts bent as though they must dip under, And the winds and the waves at length Girt up their strength, And the depths were laid bare, And heaven flashed fire and volleyed thunder Through the rain-choked air, And sea and sky seemed to kiss In the horror and the hiss Of the whole world shuddering everywhere.

Lo! a Flyer swooping down With wings to span the globe, And splendor for his robe And splendor for his crown. He lighted on the helm with a foot of fire, And spun the Monster overboard: And that monstrous thing abhorred, Gnashing with balked desire, Wriggled like a worm infirm Up the Worm Of the loathly figurehead. There he crouched and gnashed; And his head re-horned, and gashed From the other's grapple, dripped bloody red.

I saw that thing accurst Wreak his worst On the first and second crew: Some with baited hook He angled for and took, Some dragged overboard in a net he threw, Some he did to death With hoof or horn or blasting breath.

I heard a voice of wailing Where the ships went sailing, A sorrowful voice prevailing Above the sound of the sea, Above the singers' voices, And musical merry noises; All songs had turned to sighing, The light was failing, The day was dying— Ah me, That such a sorrow should be!

There was sorrow on the sea and sorrow on the land When Love ship went down by the bottomless quicksand To its grave in the bitter wave. There was sorrow on the sea and sorrow on the land When Worm ship went to pieces on the rock-bound strand, And the bitter wave was its grave. But land and sea waxed hoary In whiteness of a glory Never told in story Nor seen by mortal eye, When the third ship crossed the bar Where whirls and breakers are, And steered into the splendors of the sky; That third bark and that least Which had never seemed to feast, Yet kept high festival above sun and moon and star.



YET A LITTLE WHILE.

I dreamed and did not seek: to-day I seek Who can no longer dream; But now am all behindhand, waxen weak, And dazed amid so many things that gleam Yet are not what they seem.

I dreamed and did not work: to-day I work Kept wide awake by care And loss, and perils dimly guessed to lurk; I work and reap not, while my life goes bare And void in wintry air.

I hope indeed; but hope itself is fear Viewed on the sunny side; I hope, and disregard the world that's here, The prizes drawn, the sweet things that betide; I hope, and I abide.



HE AND SHE.

"Should one of us remember, And one of us forget, I wish I knew what each will do— But who can tell as yet?"

"Should one of us remember, And one of us forget, I promise you what I will do— And I'm content to wait for you, And not be sure as yet."



MONNA INNOMINATA.

A SONNET OF SONNETS.

Beatrice, immortalized by "altissimo poeta ... cotanto amante;" Laura, celebrated by a great though an inferior bard,—have alike paid the exceptional penalty of exceptional honor, and have come down to us resplendent with charms, but (at least, to my apprehension) scant of attractiveness.

These heroines of world-wide fame were preceded by a bevy of unnamed ladies "donne innominate" sung by a school of less conspicuous poets; and in that land and that period which gave simultaneous birth to Catholics, to Albigenses, and to Troubadours, one can imagine many a lady as sharing her lover's poetic aptitude, while the barrier between them might be one held sacred by both, yet not such as to render mutual love incompatible with mutual honor.

Had such a lady spoken for herself, the portrait left us might have appeared more tender, if less dignified, than any drawn even by a devoted friend. Or had the Great Poetess of our own day and nation only been unhappy instead of happy, her circumstances would have invited her to bequeath to us, in lieu of the "Portuguese Sonnets," an inimitable "donna innominata" drawn not from fancy but from feeling, and worthy to occupy a niche beside Beatrice and Laura.

1.

"Lo di che han detto a' dolci amici addio."—Dante. "Amor, con quanto sforzo oggi mi vinci!"—Petrarca.



Come back to me, who wait and watch for you:— Or come not yet, for it is over then, And long it is before you come again, So far between my pleasures are and few. While, when you come not, what I do I do Thinking "Now when he comes," my sweetest "when:" For one man is my world of all the men This wide world holds; O love, my world is you. Howbeit, to meet you grows almost a pang Because the pang of parting comes so soon; My hope hangs waning, waxing, like a moon Between the heavenly days on which we meet: Ah me, but where are now the songs I sang When life was sweet because you called them sweet?

2.

"Era gia l'ora che volge il desio."—Dante. "Ricorro al tempo ch' io vi vidi prima."—Petrarca.

I wish I could remember that first day, First hour, first moment of your meeting me, If bright or dim the season, it might be Summer or Winter for aught I can say; So unrecorded did it slip away, So blind was I to see and to foresee, So dull to mark the budding of my tree That would not blossom yet for many a May. If only I could recollect it, such A day of days! I let it come and go As traceless as a thaw of bygone snow; It seemed to mean so little, meant so much; If only now I could recall that touch, First touch of hand in hand—Did one but know!

3.

"O ombre vane, fuor che ne l'aspetto!"—Dante. "Immaginata guida la conduce."—Petrarca.

I dream of you to wake: would that I might Dream of you and not wake but slumber on; Nor find with dreams the dear companion gone, As Summer ended Summer birds take flight. In happy dreams I hold you full in sight, I blush again who waking look so wan; Brighter than sunniest day that ever shone, In happy dreams your smile makes day of night. Thus only in a dream we are at one, Thus only in a dream we give and take The faith that maketh rich who take or give; If thus to sleep is sweeter than to wake, To die were surely sweeter than to live, Though there be nothing new beneath the sun.

4.

"Poca favilla gran fiamma seconda."—Dante. "Ogni altra cosa, ogni pensier va fore, E sol ivi con voi rimansi amore."—Petrarca.

I loved you first: but afterwards your love Outsoaring mine, sang such a loftier song As drowned the friendly cooings of my dove. Which owes the other most? my love was long, And yours one moment seemed to wax more strong; I loved and guessed at you, you construed me And loved me for what might or might not be— Nay, weights and measures do us both a wrong. For verily love knows not "mine" or "thine;" With separate "I" and "thou" free love has done, For one is both and both are one in love: Rich love knows nought of "thine that is not mine;" Both have the strength and both the length thereof, Both of us of the love which makes us one.

5.

"Amor che a nulla amato amar perdona."—Dante. "Amor m'addusse in si gioiosa spene."—Petrarca.

O my heart's heart, and you who are to me More than myself myself, God be with you, Keep you in strong obedience leal and true To Him whose noble service setteth free, Give you all good we see or can foresee, Make your joys many and your sorrows few, Bless you in what you bear and what you do, Yea, perfect you as He would have you be. So much for you; but what for me, dear friend? To love you without stint and all I can To-day, to-morrow, world without an end; To love you much and yet to love you more, As Jordan at his flood sweeps either shore; Since woman is the helpmeet made for man.