Amid the din of elemental strife, No voice may pierce but Deity supreme: And Deity supreme alone can hear, Above the hurricane's discordant shrieks, The cry of agonized humanity.

Not unappeased was He who smites the waves, When to his stormy ears the warrior's vow Entered, and from his foamy pinnacle Tumultuous he beheld the prostrate form, And knew the mighty heart. Awhile he gazed, As doubtful of his purpose, and the storm, Conscious of that divine debate, withheld Its fierce emotion, in the luminous gloom Of those so dark irradiating eyes! Beneath whose wavering lustre shone revealed The tumult of the purpling deeps, and all The throbbing of the tempest, as it paused, Slowly subsiding, seeming to await The sudden signal, as a faithful hound Pants with the forepaws stretched before its nose, Athwart the greensward, after an eager chase; Its hot tongue thrust to cool, its foamy jaws Open to let the swift breath come and go, Its quick interrogating eyes fixed keen Upon the huntsman's countenance, and ever Lashing its sharp impatient tail with haste: Prompt at the slightest sign to scour away, And hang itself afresh by the bleeding fangs, Upon the neck of some death-singled stag, Whose royal antlers, eyes, and stumbling knees Will supplicate the Gods in mute despair. This time not mute, nor yet in vain this time! For still the burden of the earnest voice And all the vivid glories it revoked Sank in the God, with that absorbed suspense Felt only by the Olympians, whose minds Unbounded like our mortal brain, perceive All things complete, the end, the aim of all; To whom the crown and consequence of deeds Are ever present with the deed itself.

And now the pouring surges, vast and smooth, Grew weary of restraint, and heaved themselves Headlong beneath him, breaking at his feet With wild importunate cries and angry wail; Like crowds that shout for bread and hunger more. And now the surface of their rolling backs Was ridged with foam-topt furrows, rising high And dashing wildly, like to fiery steeds, Fresh from the Thracian or Thessalian plains, High-blooded mares just tempering to the bit, Whose manes at full-speed stream upon the winds, And in whose delicate nostrils when the gust Breathes of their native plains, they ramp and rear, Frothing the curb, and bounding from the earth, As though the Sun-god's chariot alone Were fit to follow in their flashing track. Anon with gathering stature to the height Of those colossal giants, doomed long since To torturous grief and penance, that assailed The sky-throned courts of Zeus, and climbing, dared For once in a world the Olympic wrath, and braved The electric spirit which from his clenching hand Pierces the dark-veined earth, and with a touch Is death to mortals, fearfully they grew! And with like purpose of audacity Threatened Titanic fury to the God. Such was the agitation of the sea Beneath Poseidon's thought-revolving brows, Storming for signal. But no signal came. And as when men, who congregate to hear Some proclamation from the regal fount, With eager questioning and anxious phrase Betray the expectation of their hearts, Till after many hours of fretful sloth, Weary with much delay, they hold discourse In sullen groups and cloudy masses, stirred With rage irresolute and whispering plot, Known more by indication than by word, And understood alone by those whose minds Participate;—even so the restless waves Began to lose all sense of servitude, And worked with rebel passions, bursting, now To right, and now to left, but evermore Subdued with influence, and controlled with dread Of that inviolate Authority. Then, swiftly as he mused, the impetuous God Seized on the pausing reins, his coursers plunged, His brows resumed the grandeur of their ire; Throughout his vast divinity the deeps Concurrent thrilled with action, and away, As sweeps a thunder-cloud across the sky In harvest-time, preluded by dull blasts; Or some black-visaged whirlwind, whose wide folds Rush, wrestling on with all 'twixt heaven and earth, Darkling he hurried, and his distant voice, Not softened by delay, was heard in tones Distinctly terrible, still following up Its rapid utterance of tremendous wrath With hoarse reverberations; like the roar Of lions when they hunger, and awake The sullen echoes from their forest sleep, To speed the ravenous noise from hill to hill And startle victims; but more awful, He, Scudding across the hills that rise and sink, With foam, and splash, and cataracts of spray, Clothed in majestic splendour; girt about With Sea-gods and swift creatures of the sea; Their briny eyes blind with the showering drops; Their stormy locks, salt tongues, and scaly backs, Quivering in harmony with the tempest, fierce And eager with tempestuous delight; - He like a moving rock above them all Solemnly towering while fitful gleams Brake from his dense black forehead, which display'd The enduring chiefs as their distracted fleets Tossed, toiling with the waters, climbing high, And plunging downward with determined beaks, In lurid anguish; but the Cretan king And all his crew were 'ware of under-tides, That for the groaning vessel made a path, On which the impending and precipitous waves Fell not, nor suck'd to their abysmal gorge.

O, happy they to feel the mighty God, Without his whelming presence near: to feel Safety and sweet relief from such despair, And gushing of their weary hopes once more Within their fond warm hearts, tired limbs, and eyes Heavy with much fatigue and want of sleep! Prayers did not lack; like mountain springs they came, After the earth has drunk the drenching rains, And throws her fresh-born jets into the sun With joyous sparkles;—for there needed not Evidence more serene of instant grace, Immortal mercy! and the sense which follows Divine interposition, when the shock Of danger hath been thwarted by the Gods, Visibly, and through supplication deep, - Rose in them, chiefly in the royal mind Of him whose interceding vow had saved. Tears from that great heroic soul sprang up; Not painful as in grief, nor smarting keen With shame of weeping; but calm, fresh, and sweet; Such as in lofty spirits rise, and wed The nature of the woman to the man; A sight most lovely to the Gods! They fell Like showers of starlight from his steadfast eyes, As ever towards the prow he gazed, nor moved One muscle, with firm lips and level lids, Motionless; while the winds sang in his ears, And took the length of his brown hair in streams Behind him. Thus the hours passed, and the oars Plied without pause, and nothing but the sound Of the dull rowlocks and still watery sough, Far off, the carnage of the storm, was heard. For nothing spake the mariners in their toil, And all the captains of the war were dumb: Too much oppressed with wonder, too much thrilled By their great chieftain's silence, to disturb Such meditation with poor human speech. Meantime the moon through slips of driving cloud Came forth, and glanced athwart the seas a path Of dusky splendour, like the Hadean brows, When with Elysian passion they behold Persephone's complacent hueless cheeks. Soon gathering strength and lustre, as a ship That swims into some blue and open bay With bright full-bosomed sails, the radiant car Of Artemis advanced, and on the waves Sparkled like arrows from her silver bow The keenness of her pure and tender gaze.

Then, slowly, one by one the chiefs sought rest; The watches being set, and men to relieve The rowers at midseason. Fair it was To see them as they lay! Some up the prow, Some round the helm, in open-handed sleep; With casques unloosed, and bucklers put aside; The ten years' tale of war upon their cheeks, Where clung the salt wet locks, and on their breasts Beards, the thick growth of many a proud campaign; And on their brows the bright invisible crown Victory sheds from her own radiant form, As o'er her favourites' heads she sings and soars. But dreams came not so calmly; as around Turbulent shores wild waves and swamping surf Prevail, while seaward, on the tranquil deeps, Reign placid surfaces and solemn peace, So, from the troubled strands of memory, they Launched and were tossed, long ere they found the tides That lead to the gentle bosoms of pure rest. And like to one who from a ghostly watch In a lone house where murder hath been done, And secret violations, pale with stealth Emerges, staggering on the first chill gust Wherewith the morning greets him, feeling not Its balmy freshness on his bloodless cheek, - But swift to hide his midnight face afar, 'Mongst the old woods and timid-glancing flowers Hastens, till on the fresh reviving breasts Of tender Dryads folded he forgets The pallid witness of those nameless things, In renovated senses lapt, and joins The full, keen joyance of the day, so they From sights and sounds of battle smeared with blood, And shrieking souls on Acheron's bleak tides, And wail of execrating kindred, slid Into oblivious slumber and a sense Of satiate deliciousness complete.

Leave them, O Muse, in that so happy sleep! Leave them to reap the harvest of their toil, While fast in moonlight the glad vessel glides, As if instinctive to its forest home. O Muse, that in all sorrows and all joys, Rapturous bliss and suffering divine, Dwellest with equal fervour, in the calm Of thy serene philosophy, albeit Thy gentle nature is of joy alone, And loves the pipings of the happy fields, Better than all the great parade and pomp Which forms the train of heroes and of kings, And sows, too frequently, the tragic seeds That choke with sobs thy singing,—turn away Thy lustrous eyes back to the oath-bound man! For as a shepherd stands above his flock, The lofty figure of the king is seen, Standing above his warriors as they sleep: And still as from a rock grey waters gush, While still the rock is passionless and dark, Nor moves one feature of its giant face, The tears fall from his eyes, and he stirs not.

And O, bright Muse! forget not thou to fold In thy prophetic sympathy the thought Of him whose destiny has heard its doom: The Sacrifice thro' whom the ship is saved. Haply that Sacrifice is sleeping now, And dreams of glad tomorrows. Haply now, His hopes are keenest, and his fervent blood Richest with youth, and love, and fond regard! Round him the circle of affections blooms, And in some happy nest of home he lives, One name oft uttering in delighted ears, Mother! at which the heart of men are kin With reverence and yearning. Haply, too, That other name, twin holy, twin revered, He whispers often to the passing winds That blow toward the Asiatic coasts; For Crete has sent her bravest to the war, And multitudes pressed forward to that rank, Men with sad weeping wives and little ones. That other name—O Father! who art thou, Thus doomed to lose the star of thy last days? It may be the sole flower of thy life, And that of all who now look up to thee! O Father, Father! unto thee even now Fate cries; the future with imploring voice Cries 'Save me,' 'Save me,' though thou hearest not. And O thou Sacrifice, foredoomed by Zeus; Even now the dark inexorable deed Is dealing its relentless stroke, and vain Are prayers, and tears, and struggles, and despair! The mother's tears, the nation's stormful grief, The people's indignation and revenge! Vain the last childlike pleading voice for life, The quick resolve, the young heroic brow, So like, so like, and vainly beautiful! Oh! whosoe'er ye are the Muse says not, And sees not, but the Gods look down on both.



THE LONGEST DAY



On yonder hills soft twilight dwells And Hesper burns where sunset dies, Moist and chill the woodland smells From the fern-covered hollows uprise; Darkness drops not from the skies, But shadows of darkness are flung o'er the vale From the boughs of the chestnut, the oak, and the elm, While night in yon lines of eastern pines Preserves alone her inviolate realm Against the twilight pale.

Say, then say, what is this day, That it lingers thus with half-closed eyes, When the sunset is quenched and the orient ray Of the roseate moon doth rise, Like a midnight sun o'er the skies! 'Tis the longest, the longest of all the glad year, The longest in life and the fairest in hue, When day and night, in bridal light, Mingle their beings beneath the sweet blue, And bless the balmy air!

Upward to this starry height The culminating seasons rolled; On one slope green with spring delight, The other with harvest gold, And treasures of Autumn untold: And on this highest throne of the midsummer now The waning but deathless day doth dream, With a rapturous grace, as tho' from the face Of the unveiled infinity, lo, a far beam Had fall'n on her dim-flushed brow!

Prolong, prolong that tide of song, O leafy nightingale and thrush! Still, earnest-throated blackcap, throng The woods with that emulous gush Of notes in tumultuous rush. Ye summer souls, raise up one voice! A charm is afloat all over the land; The ripe year doth fall to the Spirit of all, Who blesses it with outstretched hand; Ye summer souls, rejoice!



TO ROBIN REDBREAST



Merrily 'mid the faded leaves, O Robin of the bright red breast! Cheerily over the Autumn eaves, Thy note is heard, bonny bird; Sent to cheer us, and kindly endear us To what would be a sorrowful time Without thee in the weltering clime: Merry art thou in the boughs of the lime, While thy fadeless waistcoat glows on thy breast, In Autumn's reddest livery drest.

A merry song, a cheery song! In the boughs above, on the sward below, Chirping and singing the live day long, While the maple in grief sheds its fiery leaf, And all the trees waning, with bitter complaining, Chestnut, and elm, and sycamore, Catch the wild gust in their arms, and roar Like the sea on a stormy shore, Till wailfully they let it go, And weep themselves naked and weary with woe.

Merrily, cheerily, joyously still Pours out the crimson-crested tide. The set of the season burns bright on the hill, Where the foliage dead falls yellow and red, Picturing vainly, but foretelling plainly The wealth of cottage warmth that comes When the frost gleams and the blood numbs, And then, bonny Robin, I'll spread thee out crumbs In my garden porch for thy redbreast pride, The song and the ensign of dear fireside.



SONG



The daisy now is out upon the green; And in the grassy lanes The child of April rains, The sweet fresh-hearted violet, is smelt and loved unseen.

Along the brooks and meads, the daffodil Its yellow richness spreads, And by the fountain-heads Of rivers, cowslips cluster round, and over every hill.

The crocus and the primrose may have gone, The snowdrop may be low, But soon the purple glow Of hyacinths will fill the copse, and lilies watch the dawn.

And in the sweetness of the budding year, The cuckoo's woodland call, The skylark over all, And then at eve, the nightingale, is doubly sweet and dear.

My soul is singing with the happy birds, And all my human powers Are blooming with the flowers, My foot is on the fields and downs, among the flocks and herds.

Deep in the forest where the foliage droops, I wander, fill'd with joy. Again as when a boy, The sunny vistas tempt me on with dim delicious hopes.

The sunny vistas, dim with hurrying shade, And old romantic haze:- Again as in past days, The spirit of immortal Spring doth every sense pervade.

Oh! do not say that this will ever cease; - This joy of woods and fields, This youth that nature yields, Will never speak to me in vain, tho' soundly rapt in peace.



SUNRISE



The clouds are withdrawn And their thin-rippled mist, That stream'd o'er the lawn To the drowsy-eyed west. Cold and grey They slept in the way, And shrank from the ray Of the chariot East: But now they are gone, And the bounding light Leaps thro' the bars Of doubtful dawn; Blinding the stars, And blessing the sight; Shedding delight On all below; Glimmering fields, And wakening wealds, And rising lark, And meadows dark, And idle rills, And labouring mills, And far-distant hills Of the fawn and the doe. The sun is cheered And his path is cleared, As he steps to the air From his emerald cave, His heel in the wave, Most bright and bare; In the tide of the sky His radiant hair From his temples fair Blown back on high; As forward he bends, And upward ascends, Timely and true, To the breast of the blue; His warm red lips Kissing the dew, Which sweetened drips On his flower cupholders; Every hue From his gleaming shoulders Shining anew With colour sky-born, As it washes and dips In the pride of the morn. Robes of azure, Fringed with amber, Fold upon fold Of purple and gold, Vine-leaf bloom, And the grape's ripe gloom, When season deep In noontide leisure, With clustering heap The tendrils clamber Full in the face Of his hot embrace, Fill'd with the gleams Of his firmest beams. Autumn flushes, Roseate blushes, Vermeil tinges, Violet fringes, Every hue Of his flower cupholders, O'er the clear ether Mingled together, Shining anew From his gleaming shoulders! Circling about In a coronal rout, And floating behind, The way of the wind, As forward he bends, And upward ascends, Timely and true, To the breast of the blue. His bright neck curved, His clear limbs nerved, Diamond keen On his front serene, While each white arm strains To the racing reins, As plunging, eyes flashing, Dripping, and dashing, His steeds triple grown Rear up to his throne, Ruffling the rest Of the sea's blue breast, From his flooding, flaming crimson crest!



PICTURES OF THE RHINE



I

The spirit of Romance dies not to those Who hold a kindred spirit in their souls: Even as the odorous life within the rose Lives in the scattered leaflets and controls Mysterious adoration, so there glows Above dead things a thing that cannot die; Faint as the glimmer of a tearful eye, Ere the orb fills and all the sorrow flows. Beauty renews itself in many ways; The flower is fading while the new bud blows; And this dear land as true a symbol shows, While o'er it like a mellow sunset strays The legendary splendour of old days, In visible, inviolate repose.

II

About a mile behind the viny banks, How sweet it was, upon a sloping green, Sunspread, and shaded with a branching screen, To lie in peace half-murmuring words of thanks! To see the mountains on each other climb, With spaces for rich meadows flowery bright; The winding river freshening the sight At intervals, the trees in leafy prime; The distant village-roofs of blue and white, With intersections of quaint-fashioned beams All slanting crosswise, and the feudal gleams Of ruined turrets, barren in the light; - To watch the changing clouds, like clime in clime; Oh sweet to lie and bless the luxury of time.

III

Fresh blows the early breeze, our sail is full; A merry morning and a mighty tide. Cheerily O! and past St. Goar we glide, Half hid in misty dawn and mountain cool. The river is our own! and now the sun In saffron clothes the warming atmosphere; The sky lifts up her white veil like a nun, And looks upon the landscape blue and clear; - The lark is up; the hills, the vines in sight; The river broadens with his waking bliss And throws up islands to behold the light; Voices begin to rise, all hues to kiss; - Was ever such a happy morn as this! Birds sing, we shout, flowers breathe, trees shine with one delight!

IV

Between the two white breasts of her we love, A dewy blushing rose will sometimes spring; Thus Nonnenwerth like an enchanted thing Rises mid-stream the crystal depths above. On either side the waters heave and swell, But all is calm within the little Isle; Content it is to give its holy smile, And bless with peace the lives that in it dwell. Most dear on the dark grass beneath its bower Of kindred trees embracing branch and bough, To dream of fairy foot and sudden flower; Or haply with a twilight on the brow, To muse upon the legendary hour, And Roland's lonely love and Hildegard's sad vow.

V

Hark! how the bitter winter breezes blow Round the sharp rocks and o'er the half-lifted wave, While all the rocky woodland branches rave Shrill with the piercing cold, and every cave, Along the icy water-margin low, Rings bubbling with the whirling overflow; And sharp the echoes answer distant cries Of dawning daylight and the dim sunrise, And the gloom-coloured clouds that stain the skies With pictures of a warmth, and frozen glow Spread over endless fields of sheeted snow; And white untrodden mountains shining cold, And muffled footpaths winding thro' the wold, O'er which those wintry gusts cease not to howl and blow.

VI

Rare is the loveliness of slow decay! With youth and beauty all must be desired, But 'tis the charm of things long past away, They leave, alone, the light they have inspired: The calmness of a picture; Memory now Is the sole life among the ruins grey, And like a phantom in fantastic play She wanders with rank weeds stuck on her brow, Over grass-hidden caves and turret-tops, Herself almost as tottering as they; While, to the steps of Time, her latest props Fall stone by stone, and in the Sun's hot ray All that remains stands up in rugged pride, And bridal vines drink in his juices on each side.



TO A NIGHTINGALE



O nightingale! how hast thou learnt The note of the nested dove? While under thy bower the fern hangs burnt And no cloud hovers above! Rich July has many a sky With splendour dim, that thou mightst hymn, And make rejoice with thy wondrous voice, And the thrill of thy wild pervading tone! But instead of to woo, thou hast learnt to coo: Thy song is mute at the mellowing fruit, And the dirge of the flowers is sung by the hours In silence and twilight alone.

O nightingale! 'tis this, 'tis this That makes thee mock the dove! That thou hast past thy marriage bliss, To know a parent's love. The waves of fern may fade and burn, The grasses may fall, the flowers and all, And the pine-smells o'er the oak dells Float on their drowsy and odorous wings, But thou wilt do nothing but coo, Brimming the nest with thy brooding breast, 'Midst that young throng of future song, Round whom the Future sings!



INVITATION TO THE COUNTRY



Now 'tis Spring on wood and wold, Early Spring that shivers with cold, But gladdens, and gathers, day by day, A lovelier hue, a warmer ray, A sweeter song, a dearer ditty; Ouzel and throstle, new-mated and gay, Singing their bridals on every spray - Oh, hear them, deep in the songless City! Cast off the yoke of toil and smoke, As Spring is casting winter's grey, As serpents cast their skins away: And come, for the Country awaits thee with pity And longs to bathe thee in her delight, And take a new joy in thy kindling sight; And I no less, by day and night, Long for thy coming, and watch for, and wait thee, And wonder what duties can thus berate thee.

Dry-fruited firs are dropping their cones, And vista'd avenues of pines Take richer green, give fresher tones, As morn after morn the glad sun shines.

Primrose tufts peep over the brooks, Fair faces amid moist decay! The rivulets run with the dead leaves at play, The leafless elms are alive with the rooks.

Over the meadows the cowslips are springing, The marshes are thick with king-cup gold, Clear is the cry of the lambs in the fold, The skylark is singing, and singing, and singing.

Soon comes the cuckoo when April is fair, And her blue eye the brighter the more it may weep: The frog and the butterfly wake from their sleep, Each to its element, water and air.

Mist hangs still on every hill, And curls up the valleys at eve; but noon Is fullest of Spring; and at midnight the moon Gives her westering throne to Orion's bright zone, As he slopes o'er the darkened world's repose; And a lustre in eastern Sirius glows.

Come, in the season of opening buds; Come, and molest not the otter that whistles Unlit by the moon, 'mid the wet winter bristles Of willow, half-drowned in the fattening floods. Let him catch his cold fish without fear of a gun, And the stars shall shield him, and thou wilt shun! And every little bird under the sun Shall know that the bounty of Spring doth dwell In the winds that blow, in the waters that run, And in the breast of man as well.



THE SWEET O' THE YEAR



Now the frog, all lean and weak, Yawning from his famished sleep, Water in the ditch doth seek, Fast as he can stretch and leap: Marshy king-cups burning near Tell him 'tis the sweet o' the year.

Now the ant works up his mound In the mouldered piny soil, And above the busy ground Takes the joy of earnest toil: Dropping pine-cones, dry and sere, Warn him 'tis the sweet o' the year.

Now the chrysalis on the wall Cracks, and out the creature springs, Raptures in his body small, Wonders on his dusty wings: Bells and cups, all shining clear, Show him 'tis the sweet o' the year.

Now the brown bee, wild and wise, Hums abroad, and roves and roams, Storing in his wealthy thighs Treasure for the golden combs: Dewy buds and blossoms dear Whisper 'tis the sweet o' the year.

Now the merry maids so fair Weave the wreaths and choose the queen, Blooming in the open air, Like fresh flowers upon the green; Spring, in every thought sincere, Thrills them with the sweet o' the year.

Now the lads, all quick and gay, Whistle to the browsing herds, Or in the twilight pastures grey Learn the use of whispered words: First a blush, and then a tear, And then a smile, i' the sweet o' the year.

Now the May-fly and the fish Play again from noon to night; Every breeze begets a wish, Every motion means delight: Heaven high over heath and mere Crowns with blue the sweet o' the year.

Now all Nature is alive, Bird and beetle, man and mole; Bee-like goes the human hive, Lark-like sings the soaring soul: Hearty faith and honest cheer Welcome in the sweet o' the year.



AUTUMN EVEN-SONG



The long cloud edged with streaming grey Soars from the West; The red leaf mounts with it away, Showing the nest A blot among the branches bare: There is a cry of outcasts in the air.

Swift little breezes, darting chill, Pant down the lake; A crow flies from the yellow hill, And in its wake A baffled line of labouring rooks: Steel-surfaced to the light the river looks.

Pale on the panes of the old hall Gleams the lone space Between the sunset and the squall; And on its face Mournfully glimmers to the last: Great oaks grow mighty minstrels in the blast.

Pale the rain-rutted roadways shine In the green light Behind the cedar and the pine: Come, thundering night! Blacken broad earth with hoards of storm: For me yon valley-cottage beckons warm.



THE SONG OF COURTESY



I

When Sir Gawain was led to his bridal-bed, By Arthur's knights in scorn God-sped:- How think you he felt? O the bride within Was yellow and dry as a snake's old skin; Loathly as sin! Scarcely faceable, Quite unembraceable; With a hog's bristle on a hag's chin! - Gentle Gawain felt as should we, Little of Love's soft fire knew he: But he was the Knight of Courtesy.

II

When that evil lady he lay beside Bade him turn to greet his bride, What think you he did? O, to spare her pain, And let not his loathing her loathliness vain Mirror too plain, Sadly, sighingly, Almost dyingly, Turned he and kissed her once and again. Like Sir Gawain, gentles, should we? SILENT, ALL! But for pattern agree There's none like the Knight of Courtesy.

III

Sir Gawain sprang up amid laces and curls: Kisses are not wasted pearls:- What clung in his arms? O, a maiden flower, Burning with blushes the sweet bride-bower, Beauty her dower! Breathing perfumingly; Shall I live bloomingly, Said she, by day, or the bridal hour? Thereat he clasped her, and whispered he, Thine, rare bride, the choice shall be. Said she, Twice blest is Courtesy!

IV

Of gentle Sir Gawain they had no sport, When it was morning in Arthur's court; What think you they cried? Now, life and eyes! This bride is the very Saint's dream of a prize, Fresh from the skies! See ye not, Courtesy Is the true Alchemy, Turning to gold all it touches and tries? Like the true knight, so may we Make the basest that there be Beautiful by Courtesy!



THE THREE MAIDENS



There were three maidens met on the highway; The sun was down, the night was late: And two sang loud with the birds of May, O the nightingale is merry with its mate.

Said they to the youngest, Why walk you there so still? The land is dark, the night is late: O, but the heart in my side is ill, And the nightingale will languish for its mate.

Said they to the youngest, Of lovers there is store; The moon mounts up, the night is late: O, I shall look on man no more, And the nightingale is dumb without its mate.

Said they to the youngest, Uncross your arms and sing; The moon mounts high, the night is late: O my dear lover can hear no thing, And the nightingale sings only to its mate.

They slew him in revenge, and his true-love was his lure; The moon is pale, the night is late: His grave is shallow on the moor; O the nightingale is dying for its mate.

His blood is on his breast, and the moss-roots at his hair; The moon is chill, the night is late: But I will lie beside him there: O the nightingale is dying for its mate.



OVER THE HILLS



The old hound wags his shaggy tail, And I know what he would say: It's over the hills we'll bound, old hound, Over the hills, and away.

There's nought for us here save to count the clock, And hang the head all day: But over the hills we'll bound, old hound, Over the hills and away.

Here among men we're like the deer That yonder is our prey: So, over the hills we'll bound, old hound, Over the hills and away.

The hypocrite is master here, But he's the cock of clay: So, over the hills we'll bound, old hound, Over the hills and away.

The women, they shall sigh and smile, And madden whom they may: It's over the hills we'll bound, old hound, Over the hills and away.

Let silly lads in couples run To pleasure, a wicked fay: 'Tis ours on the heather to bound, old hound, Over the hills and away.

The torrent glints under the rowan red, And shakes the bracken spray: What joy on the heather to bound, old hound, Over the hills and away.

The sun bursts broad, and the heathery bed Is purple, and orange, and gray: Away, and away, we'll bound, old hound, Over the hills and away.



JUGGLING JERRY



I

Pitch here the tent, while the old horse grazes: By the old hedge-side we'll halt a stage. It's nigh my last above the daisies: My next leaf 'll be man's blank page. Yes, my old girl! and it's no use crying: Juggler, constable, king, must bow. One that outjuggles all's been spying Long to have me, and he has me now.

II

We've travelled times to this old common: Often we've hung our pots in the gorse. We've had a stirring life, old woman! You, and I, and the old grey horse. Races, and fairs, and royal occasions, Found us coming to their call: Now they'll miss us at our stations: There's a Juggler outjuggles all!

III

Up goes the lark, as if all were jolly! Over the duck-pond the willow shakes. Easy to think that grieving's folly, When the hand's firm as driven stakes! Ay, when we're strong, and braced, and manful, Life's a sweet fiddle: but we're a batch Born to become the Great Juggler's han'ful: Balls he shies up, and is safe to catch.

IV

Here's where the lads of the village cricket: I was a lad not wide from here: Couldn't I whip off the bail from the wicket? Like an old world those days appear! Donkey, sheep, geese, and thatched ale-house - I know them! They are old friends of my halts, and seem, Somehow, as if kind thanks I owe them: Juggling don't hinder the heart's esteem.

V

Juggling's no sin, for we must have victual: Nature allows us to bait for the fool. Holding one's own makes us juggle no little; But, to increase it, hard juggling's the rule. You that are sneering at my profession, Haven't you juggled a vast amount? There's the Prime Minister, in one Session, Juggles more games than my sins 'll count.

VI

I've murdered insects with mock thunder: Conscience, for that, in men don't quail. I've made bread from the bump of wonder: That's my business, and there's my tale. Fashion and rank all praised the professor: Ay! and I've had my smile from the Queen: Bravo, Jerry! she meant: God bless her! Ain't this a sermon on that scene?

VII

I've studied men from my topsy-turvy Close, and, I reckon, rather true. Some are fine fellows: some, right scurvy: Most, a dash between the two. But it's a woman, old girl, that makes me Think more kindly of the race: And it's a woman, old girl, that shakes me When the Great Juggler I must face.

VIII

We two were married, due and legal: Honest we've lived since we've been one. Lord! I could then jump like an eagle: You danced bright as a bit o' the sun. Birds in a May-bush we were! right merry! All night we kiss'd, we juggled all day. Joy was the heart of Juggling Jerry! Now from his old girl he's juggled away.

IX

It's past parsons to console us: No, nor no doctor fetch for me: I can die without my bolus; Two of a trade, lass, never agree! Parson and Doctor!—don't they love rarely, Fighting the devil in other men's fields! Stand up yourself and match him fairly: Then see how the rascal yields!

X

I, lass, have lived no gipsy, flaunting Finery while his poor helpmate grubs: Coin I've stored, and you won't be wanting: You shan't beg from the troughs and tubs. Nobly you've stuck to me, though in his kitchen Many a Marquis would hail you Cook! Palaces you could have ruled and grown rich in, But our old Jerry you never forsook.

XI

Hand up the chirper! ripe ale winks in it; Let's have comfort and be at peace. Once a stout draught made me light as a linnet. Cheer up! the Lord must have his lease. May be—for none see in that black hollow - It's just a place where we're held in pawn, And, when the Great Juggler makes as to swallow, It's just the sword-trick—I ain't quite gone!

XII

Yonder came smells of the gorse, so nutty, Gold-like and warm: it's the prime of May. Better than mortar, brick and putty, Is God's house on a blowing day. Lean me more up the mound; now I feel it: All the old heath-smells! Ain't it strange? There's the world laughing, as if to conceal it, But He's by us, juggling the change.

XIII

I mind it well, by the sea-beach lying, Once—it's long gone—when two gulls we beheld, Which, as the moon got up, were flying Down a big wave that sparked and swelled. Crack, went a gun: one fell: the second Wheeled round him twice, and was off for new luck: There in the dark her white wing beckon'd:- Drop me a kiss—I'm the bird dead-struck!



THE CROWN OF LOVE



O might I load my arms with thee, Like that young lover of Romance Who loved and gained so gloriously The fair Princess of France!

Because he dared to love so high, He, bearing her dear weight, shall speed To where the mountain touched on sky: So the proud king decreed.

Unhalting he must bear her on, Nor pause a space to gather breath, And on the height she will be won; And she was won in death!

Red the far summit flames with morn, While in the plain a glistening Court Surrounds the king who practised scorn Through such a mask of sport.

She leans into his arms; she lets Her lovely shape be clasped: he fares. God speed him whole! The knights make bets: The ladies lift soft prayers.

O have you seen the deer at chase? O have you seen the wounded kite? So boundingly he runs the race, So wavering grows his flight.

- My lover! linger here, and slake Thy thirst, or me thou wilt not win. - See'st thou the tumbled heavens? they break! They beckon us up and in.

- Ah, hero-love! unloose thy hold: O drop me like a cursed thing. - See'st thou the crowded swards of gold? They wave to us Rose and Ring.

- O death-white mouth! O cast me down! Thou diest? Then with thee I die. - See'st thou the angels with their Crown? We twain have reached the sky.



THE HEAD OF BRAN THE BLEST



I

When the Head of Bran Was firm on British shoulders, God made a man! Cried all beholders.

Steel could not resist The weight his arm would rattle; He, with naked fist, Has brain'd a knight in battle.

He marched on the foe, And never counted numbers; Foreign widows know The hosts he sent to slumbers.

As a street you scan, That's towered by the steeple, So the Head of Bran Rose o'er his people.

II

'Death's my neighbour,' Quoth Bran the Blest; 'Christian labour Brings Christian rest. From the trunk sever The Head of Bran, That which never Has bent to man! 'That which never To men has bowed Shall live ever To shame the shroud: Shall live ever To face the foe; Sever it, sever, And with one blow.

'Be it written, That all I wrought Was for Britain, In deed and thought: Be it written, That while I die, Glory to Britain! Is my last cry.

'Glory to Britain! Death echoes me round. Glory to Britain! The world shall resound. Glory to Britain! In ruin and fall, Glory to Britain! Is heard over all.'

IIII

Burn, Sun, down the sea! Bran lies low with thee.

Burst, Morn, from the main! Bran so shall rise again.

Blow, Wind, from the field! Bran's Head is the Briton's shield.

Beam, Star, in the West! Bright burns the Head of Bran the Blest.

IV

Crimson-footed, like the stork, From great ruts of slaughter, Warriors of the Golden Torque Cross the lifting water. Princes seven, enchaining hands, Bear the live head homeward. Lo! it speaks, and still commands: Gazing out far foamward.

Fiery words of lightning sense Down the hollows thunder; Forest hostels know not whence Comes the speech, and wonder. City-Castles, on the steep, Where the faithful Seven House at midnight, hear, in sleep, Laughter under heaven.

Lilies, swimming on the mere, In the castle shadow, Under draw their heads, and Fear Walks the misty meadow. Tremble not! it is not Death Pledging dark espousal: 'Tis the Head of endless breath, Challenging carousal!

Brim the horn! a health is drunk, Now, that shall keep going: Life is but the pebble sunk; Deeds, the circle growing! Fill, and pledge the Head of Bran! While his lead they follow, Long shall heads in Britain plan Speech Death cannot swallow!



THE MEETING



The old coach-road through a common of furze, With knolls of pine, ran white; Berries of autumn, with thistles, and burrs, And spider-threads, droop'd in the light.

The light in a thin blue veil peered sick; The sheep grazed close and still; The smoke of a farm by a yellow rick Curled lazily under a hill.

No fly shook the round of the silver net; No insect the swift bird chased; Only two travellers moved and met Across that hazy waste.

One was a girl with a babe that throve, Her ruin and her bliss; One was a youth with a lawless love, Who clasped it the more for this.

The girl for her babe hummed prayerful speech; The youth for his love did pray; Each cast a wistful look on each, And either went their way.



THE BEGGAR'S SOLILOQUY



I

Now, this, to my notion, is pleasant cheer, To lie all alone on a ragged heath, Where your nose isn't sniffing for bones or beer, But a peat-fire smells like a garden beneath. The cottagers bustle about the door, And the girl at the window ties her strings. She's a dish for a man who's a mind to be poor; Lord! women are such expensive things.

II

We don't marry beggars, says she: why, no: It seems that to make 'em is what you do; And as I can cook, and scour, and sew, I needn't pay half my victuals for you. A man for himself should be able to scratch, But tickling's a luxury:- love, indeed! Love burns as long as the lucifer match, Wedlock's the candle! Now, that's my creed.

III

The church-bells sound water-like over the wheat; And up the long path troop pair after pair. The man's well-brushed, and the woman looks neat: It's man and woman everywhere! Unless, like me, you lie here flat, With a donkey for friend, you must have a wife: She pulls out your hair, but she brushes your hat. Appearances make the best half of life.

IV

You nice little madam! you know you're nice. I remember hearing a parson say You're a plateful of vanity pepper'd with vice; You chap at the gate thinks t' other way. On his waistcoat you read both his head and his heart: There's a whole week's wages there figured in gold! Yes! when you turn round you may well give a start: It's fun to a fellow who's getting old.

V

Now, that's a good craft, weaving waistcoats and flowers, And selling of ribbons, and scenting of lard: It gives you a house to get in from the showers, And food when your appetite jockeys you hard. You live a respectable man; but I ask If it's worth the trouble? You use your tools, And spend your time, and what's your task? Why, to make a slide for a couple of fools.

VI

You can't match the colour o' these heath mounds, Nor better that peat-fire's agreeable smell. I'm clothed-like with natural sights and sounds; To myself I'm in tune: I hope you're as well. You jolly old cot! though you don't own coal: It's a generous pot that's boiled with peat. Let the Lord Mayor o' London roast oxen whole: His smoke, at least, don't smell so sweet.

VII

I'm not a low Radical, hating the laws, Who'd the aristocracy rebuke. I talk o' the Lord Mayor o' London because I once was on intimate terms with his cook. I served him a turn, and got pensioned on scraps, And, Lord, Sir! didn't I envy his place, Till Death knock'd him down with the softest of taps, And I knew what was meant by a tallowy face!

VIII

On the contrary, I'm Conservative quite; There's beggars in Scripture 'mongst Gentiles and Jews: It's nonsense, trying to set things right, For if people will give, why, who'll refuse? That stopping old custom wakes my spleen: The poor and the rich both in giving agree: Your tight-fisted shopman's the Radical mean: There's nothing in common 'twixt him and me.

IX

He says I'm no use! but I won't reply. You're lucky not being of use to him! On week-days he's playing at Spider and Fly, And on Sundays he sings about Cherubim! Nailing shillings to counters is his chief work: He nods now and then at the name on his door: But judge of us two, at a bow and a smirk, I think I'm his match: and I'm honest—that's more.

X

No use! well, I mayn't be. You ring a pig's snout, And then call the animal glutton! Now, he, Mr. Shopman, he's nought but a pipe and a spout Who won't let the goods o' this world pass free. This blazing blue weather all round the brown crop, He can't enjoy! all but cash he hates. He's only a snail that crawls under his shop; Though he has got the ear o' the magistrates.

XI

Now, giving and taking's a proper exchange, Like question and answer: you're both content. But buying and selling seems always strange; You're hostile, and that's the thing that's meant. It's man against man—you're almost brutes; There's here no thanks, and there's there no pride. If Charity's Christian, don't blame my pursuits, I carry a touchstone by which you're tried.

XII

- 'Take it,' says she, 'it's all I've got': I remember a girl in London streets: She stood by a coffee-stall, nice and hot, My belly was like a lamb that bleats. Says I to myself, as her shilling I seized, You haven't a character here, my dear! But for making a rascal like me so pleased, I'll give you one, in a better sphere!

XIII

And that's where it is—she made me feel I was a rascal: but people who scorn, And tell a poor patch-breech he isn't genteel, Why, they make him kick up—and he treads on a corn. It isn't liking, it's curst ill-luck, Drives half of us into the begging-trade: If for taking to water you praise a duck, For taking to beer why a man upbraid?

XIV

The sermon's over: they're out of the porch, And it's time for me to move a leg; But in general people who come from church, And have called themselves sinners, hate chaps to beg. I'll wager they'll all of 'em dine to-day! I was easy half a minute ago. If that isn't pig that's baking away, May I perish!—we're never contented—heigho!



BY THE ROSANNA—TO F. M. STANZER THAL, TYROL



The old grey Alp has caught the cloud, And the torrent river sings aloud; The glacier-green Rosanna sings An organ song of its upper springs. Foaming under the tiers of pine, I see it dash down the dark ravine, And it tumbles the rocks in boisterous play, With an earnest will to find its way. Sharp it throws out an emerald shoulder, And, thundering ever of the mountain, Slaps in sport some giant boulder, And tops it in a silver fountain. A chain of foam from end to end, And a solitude so deep, my friend, You may forget that man abides Beyond the great mute mountain-sides. Yet to me, in this high-walled solitude Of river and rock and forest rude, The roaring voice through the long white chain Is the voice of the world of bubble and brain.



PHANTASY



I

Within a Temple of the Toes, Where twirled the passionate Wili, I saw full many a market rose, And sighed for my village lily.

II

With cynical Adrian then I took flight To that old dead city whose carol Bursts out like a reveller's loud in the night, As he sits astride his barrel.

III

We two were bound the Alps to scale, Up the rock-reflecting river; Old times blew thro' me like a gale, And kept my thoughts in a quiver.

IV

Hawking ruin, wood-slope, and vine Reeled silver-laced under my vision, And into me passed, with the green-eyed wine Knocking hard at my head for admission.

V

I held the village lily cheap, And the dream around her idle: Lo, quietly as I lay to sleep, The bells led me off to a bridal.

VI

My bride wore the hood of a Beguine, And mine was the foot to falter; Three cowled monks, rat-eyed, were seen; The Cross was of bones o'er the altar.

VII

The Cross was of bones; the priest that read, A spectacled necromancer: But at the fourth word, the bride I led Changed to an Opera dancer.

VIII

A young ballet-beauty, who perked in her place, A darling of pink and spangles; One fair foot level with her face, And the hearts of men at her ankles.

IX

She whirled, she twirled, the mock-priest grinned, And quickly his mask unriddled; 'Twas Adrian! loud his old laughter dinned; Then he seized a fiddle, and fiddled.

X

He fiddled, he glowed with the bottomless fire, Like Sathanas in feature: All through me he fiddled a wolfish desire To dance with that bright creature.

XI

And gathering courage I said to my soul, Throttle the thing that hinders! When the three cowled monks, from black as coal, Waxed hot as furnace-cinders.

XII

They caught her up, twirling: they leapt between-whiles: The fiddler flickered with laughter: Profanely they flew down the awful aisles, Where I went sliding after.

XIII

Down the awful aisles, by the fretted walls, Beneath the Gothic arches:- King Skull in the black confessionals Sat rub-a-dub-dubbing his marches.

XIV

Then the silent cold stone warriors frowned, The pictured saints strode forward: A whirlwind swept them from holy ground; A tempest puffed them nor'ward.

XV

They shot through the great cathedral door; Like mallards they traversed ocean: And gazing below, on its boiling floor, I marked a horrid commotion.

XVI

Down a forest's long alleys they spun like tops: It seemed that for ages and ages, Thro' the Book of Life bereft of stops, They waltzed continuous pages.

XVII

And ages after, scarce awake, And my blood with the fever fretting, I stood alone by a forest-lake, Whose shadows the moon were netting.

XVIII

Lilies, golden and white, by the curls Of their broad flat leaves hung swaying. A wreath of languid twining girls Streamed upward, long locks disarraying.

XIX

Their cheeks had the satin frost-glow of the moon; Their eyes the fire of Sirius. They circled, and droned a monotonous tune, Abandoned to love delirious.

XX

Like lengths of convolvulus torn from the hedge, And trailing the highway over, The dreamy-eyed mistresses circled the sedge, And called for a lover, a lover!

XXI

I sank, I rose through seas of eyes, In odorous swathes delicious: They fanned me with impetuous sighs, They hit me with kisses vicious.

XXII

My ears were spelled, my neck was coiled, And I with their fury was glowing, When the marbly waters bubbled and boiled At a watery noise of crowing.

XXIII

They dragged me low and low to the lake: Their kisses more stormily showered; On the emerald brink, in the white moon's wake, An earthly damsel cowered.

XXIV

Fresh heart-sobs shook her knitted hands Beneath a tiny suckling, As one by one of the doleful bands Dived like a fairy duckling.

XXV

And now my turn had come—O me! What wisdom was mine that second! I dropped on the adorer's knee; To that sweet figure I beckoned.

XXVI

Save me! save me! for now I know The powers that Nature gave me, And the value of honest love I know:- My village lily! save me!

XXVII

Come 'twixt me and the sisterhood, While the passion-born phantoms are fleeing! Oh, he that is true to flesh and blood Is true to his own being!

XXVIII

And he that is false to flesh and blood Is false to the star within him: And the mad and hungry sisterhood All under the tides shall win him!

XXIX

My village lily! save me! save! For strength is with the holy:- Already I shuddered to feel the wave, As I kept sinking slowly:-

XXX

I felt the cold wave and the under-tug Of the Brides, when—starting and shrinking - Lo, Adrian tilts the water-jug! And Bruges with morn is blinking.

XXXI

Merrily sparkles sunny prime On gabled peak and arbour: Merrily rattles belfry-chime The song of Sevilla's Barber.



THE OLD CHARTIST



Whate'er I be, old England is my dam! So there's my answer to the judges, clear. I'm nothing of a fox, nor of a lamb; I don't know how to bleat nor how to leer: I'm for the nation! That's why you see me by the wayside here, Returning home from transportation.

II

It's Summer in her bath this morn, I think. I'm fresh as dew, and chirpy as the birds: And just for joy to see old England wink Thro' leaves again, I could harangue the herds: Isn't it something To speak out like a man when you've got words, And prove you're not a stupid dumb thing?

III

They shipp'd me of for it; I'm here again. Old England is my dam, whate'er I be! Says I, I'll tramp it home, and see the grain: If you see well, you're king of what you see: Eyesight is having, If you're not given, I said, to gluttony. Such talk to ignorance sounds as raving.

IV

You dear old brook, that from his Grace's park Come bounding! on you run near my old town: My lord can't lock the water; nor the lark, Unless he kills him, can my lord keep down. Up, is the song-note! I've tried it, too:- for comfort and renown, I rather pitch'd upon the wrong note.

V

I'm not ashamed: Not beaten's still my boast: Again I'll rouse the people up to strike. But home's where different politics jar most. Respectability the women like. This form, or that form, - The Government may be hungry pike, But don't you mount a Chartist platform!

VI

Well, well! Not beaten—spite of them, I shout; And my estate is suffering for the Cause. - No,—what is yon brown water-rat about, Who washes his old poll with busy paws? What does he mean by't? It's like defying all our natural laws, For him to hope that he'll get clean by't.

VII

His seat is on a mud-bank, and his trade Is dirt:- he's quite contemptible; and yet The fellow's all as anxious as a maid To show a decent dress, and dry the wet. Now it's his whisker, And now his nose, and ear: he seems to get Each moment at the motion brisker!

VIII

To see him squat like little chaps at school, I could let fly a laugh with all my might. He peers, hangs both his fore-paws:- bless that fool, He's bobbing at his frill now!—what a sight! Licking the dish up, As if he thought to pass from black to white, Like parson into lawny bishop.

IX

The elms and yellow reed-flags in the sun, Look on quite grave:- the sunlight flecks his side; And links of bindweed-flowers round him run, And shine up doubled with him in the tide. I'M nearly splitting, But nature seems like seconding his pride, And thinks that his behaviour's fitting.

X

That isle o' mud looks baking dry with gold. His needle-muzzle still works out and in. It really is a wonder to behold, And makes me feel the bristles of my chin. Judged by appearance, I fancy of the two I'm nearer Sin, And might as well commence a clearance.

XI

And that's what my fine daughter said:- she meant: Pray, hold your tongue, and wear a Sunday face. Her husband, the young linendraper, spent Much argument thereon:- I'm their disgrace. Bother the couple! I feel superior to a chap whose place Commands him to be neat and supple.

XII

But if I go and say to my old hen: I'll mend the gentry's boots, and keep discreet, Until they grow TOO violent,—why, then, A warmer welcome I might chance to meet: Warmer and better. And if she fancies her old cock is beat, And drops upon her knees—so let her!

XIII

She suffered for me:- women, you'll observe, Don't suffer for a Cause, but for a man. When I was in the dock she show'd her nerve: I saw beneath her shawl my old tea-can Trembling . . . she brought it To screw me for my work: she loath'd my plan, And therefore doubly kind I thought it.

XIV

I've never lost the taste of that same tea: That liquor on my logic floats like oil, When I state facts, and fellows disagree. For human creatures all are in a coil; All may want pardon. I see a day when every pot will boil Harmonious in one great Tea-garden!

XV

We wait the setting of the Dandy's day, Before that time!—He's furbishing his dress, - He WILL be ready for it!—and I say, That yon old dandy rat amid the cress, - Thanks to hard labour! - If cleanliness is next to godliness, The old fat fellow's heaven's neighbour!

XVI

You teach me a fine lesson, my old boy! I've looked on my superiors far too long, And small has been my profit as my joy. You've done the right while I've denounced the wrong. Prosper me later! Like you I will despise the sniggering throng, And please myself and my Creator.

XVII

I'll bring the linendraper and his wife Some day to see you; taking off my hat. Should they ask why, I'll answer: in my life I never found so true a democrat. Base occupation Can't rob you of your own esteem, old rat! I'll preach you to the British nation.



SONG



Should thy love die; O bury it not under ice-blue eyes! And lips that deny, With a scornful surprise, The life it once lived in thy breast when it wore no disguise.

Should thy love die; O bury it where the sweet wild-flowers blow! And breezes go by, With no whisper of woe; And strange feet cannot guess of the anguish that slumbers below.

Should thy love die; O wander once more to the haunt of the bee! Where the foliaged sky Is most sacred to see, And thy being first felt its wild birth like a wind-wakened tree.

Should thy love die; O dissemble it! smile! let the rose hide the thorn! While the lark sings on high, And no thing looks forlorn, Bury it, bury it, bury it where it was born.



TO ALEX. SMITH, THE 'GLASGOW POET,' ON HIS SONNET TO 'FAME'



Not vainly doth the earnest voice of man Call for the thing that is his pure desire! Fame is the birthright of the living lyre! To noble impulse Nature puts no ban. Nor vainly to the Sphinx thy voice was raised! Tho' all thy great emotions like a sea, Against her stony immortality, Shatter themselves unheeded and amazed. Time moves behind her in a blind eclipse: Yet if in her cold eyes the end of all Be visible, as on her large closed lips Hangs dumb the awful riddle of the earth; - She sees, and she might speak, since that wild call, The mighty warning of a Poet's birth.



GRANDFATHER BRIDGEMAN



I

'Heigh, boys!' cried Grandfather Bridgeman, 'it's time before dinner to-day.' He lifted the crumpled letter, and thumped a surprising 'Hurrah!' Up jumped all the echoing young ones, but John, with the starch in his throat, Said, 'Father, before we make noises, let's see the contents of the note.' The old man glared at him harshly, and twinkling made answer: 'Too bad! John Bridgeman, I'm always the whisky, and you are the water, my lad!'

II

But soon it was known thro' the house, and the house ran over for joy, That news, good news, great marvels, had come from the soldier boy; Young Tom, the luckless scapegrace, offshoot of Methodist John; His grandfather's evening tale, whom the old man hailed as his son. And the old man's shout of pride was a shout of his victory, too; For he called his affection a method: the neighbours' opinions he knew.

III

Meantime, from the morning table removing the stout breakfast cheer, The drink of the three generations, the milk, the tea, and the beer (Alone in its generous reading of pints stood the Grandfather's jug), The women for sight of the missive came pressing to coax and to hug. He scattered them quick, with a buss and a smack; thereupon he began Diversions with John's little Sarah: on Sunday, the naughty old man!

IV

Then messengers sped to the maltster, the auctioneer, miller, and all The seven sons of the farmer who housed in the range of his call. Likewise the married daughters, three plentiful ladies, prime cooks, Who bowed to him while they condemned, in meek hope to stand high in his books. 'John's wife is a fool at a pudding,' they said, and the light carts up hill Went merrily, flouting the Sabbath: for puddings well made mend a will.

V

The day was a van-bird of summer: the robin still piped, but the blue, As a warm and dreamy palace with voices of larks ringing thro', Looked down as if wistfully eyeing the blossoms that fell from its lap: A day to sweeten the juices: a day to quicken the sap. All round the shadowy orchard sloped meadows in gold, and the dear Shy violets breathed their hearts out: the maiden breath of the year!

VI

Full time there was before dinner to bring fifteen of his blood, To sit at the old man's table: they found that the dinner was good. But who was she by the lilacs and pouring laburnums concealed, When under the blossoming apple the chair of the Grandfather wheeled? She heard one little child crying, 'Dear brave Cousin Tom!' as it leapt; Then murmured she: 'Let me spare them!' and passed round the walnuts, and wept.

VII

Yet not from sight had she slipped ere feminine eyes could detect The figure of Mary Charlworth. 'It's just what we all might expect,' Was uttered: and: 'Didn't I tell you?' Of Mary the rumour resounds, That she is now her own mistress, and mistress of five thousand pounds. 'Twas she, they say, who cruelly sent young Tom to the war. Miss Mary, we thank you now! If you knew what we're thanking you for!

VIII

But, 'Have her in: let her hear it,' called Grandfather Bridgeman, elate, While Mary's black-gloved fingers hung trembling with flight on the gate. Despite the women's remonstrance, two little ones, lighter than deer, Were loosed, and Mary, imprisoned, her whole face white as a tear, Came forward with culprit footsteps. Her punishment was to commence: The pity in her pale visage they read in a different sense.

IX

'You perhaps may remember a fellow, Miss Charlworth, a sort of black sheep,' The old man turned his tongue to ironical utterance deep: 'He came of a Methodist dad, so it wasn't his fault if he kicked. He earned a sad reputation, but Methodists are mortal strict. His name was Tom, and, dash me! but Bridgeman! I think you might add: Whatever he was, bear in mind that he came of a Methodist dad.'

X

This prelude dismally lengthened, till Mary, starting, exclaimed, 'A letter, Sir, from your grandson?' 'Tom Bridgeman that rascal is named,' The old man answered, and further, the words that sent Tom to the ranks Repeated as words of a person to whom they all owed mighty thanks. But Mary never blushed: with her eyes on the letter, she sate, And twice interrupting him faltered, 'The date, may I ask, Sir, the date?'

XI

'Why, that's what I never look at in a letter,' the farmer replied: 'Facts first! and now I'll be parson.' The Bridgeman women descried A quiver on Mary's eyebrows. One turned, and while shifting her comb, Said low to a sister: 'I'm certain she knows more than we about Tom. She wants him now he's a hero!' The same, resuming her place, Begged Mary to check them the moment she found it a tedious case.

XII

Then as a mastiff swallows the snarling noises of cats, The voice of the farmer opened. '"Three cheers, and off with your hats!" - That's Tom. "We've beaten them, Daddy, and tough work it was, to be sure! A regular stand-up combat: eight hours smelling powder and gore. I entered it Serjeant-Major,"—and now he commands a salute, And carries the flag of old England! Heigh! see him lift foes on his foot!

XIII

'—An officer! ay, Miss Charlworth, he is, or he is so to be; You'll own war isn't such humbug: and Glory means something, you see. "But don't say a word," he continues, "against the brave French any more." - That stopt me: we'll now march together. I couldn't read further before. That "brave French" I couldn't stomach. He can't see their cunning to get Us Britons to fight their battles, while best half the winnings they net!'

XIV

The old man sneered, and read forward. It was of that desperate fight; - The Muscovite stole thro' the mist-wreaths that wrapped the chill Inkermann height, Where stood our silent outposts: old England was in them that day! O sharp worked his ruddy wrinkles, as if to the breath of the fray They moved! He sat bareheaded: his long hair over him slow Swung white as the silky bog-flowers in purple heath-hollows that grow.

XV

And louder at Tom's first person: acute and in thunder the 'I' Invaded the ear with a whinny of triumph, that seem'd to defy The hosts of the world. All heated, what wonder he little could brook To catch the sight of Mary's demure puritanical look? And still as he led the onslaught, his treacherous side-shots he sent At her who was fighting a battle as fierce, and who sat there unbent.

XVI

'"We stood in line, and like hedgehogs the Russians rolled under us thick. They frightened me there."—He's no coward; for when, Miss, they came at the quick, The sight, he swears, was a breakfast.—"My stomach felt tight: in a glimpse I saw you snoring at home with the dear cuddled-up little imps. And then like the winter brickfields at midnight, hot fire lengthened out. Our fellows were just leashed bloodhounds: no heart of the lot faced about.

XVII

'"And only that grumbler, Bob Harris, remarked that we stood one to ten: 'Ye fool,' says Mick Grady, 'just tell 'em they know to compliment men!' And I sang out your old words: 'If the opposite side isn't God's, Heigh! after you've counted a dozen, the pluckiest lads have the odds.' Ping-ping flew the enemies' pepper: the Colonel roared, Forward, and we Went at them. 'Twas first like a blanket: and then a long plunge in the sea.

XVIII

'"Well, now about me and the Frenchman: it happened I can't tell you how: And, Grandfather, hear, if you love me, and put aside prejudice now": He never says "Grandfather"—Tom don't—save it's a serious thing. "Well, there were some pits for the rifles, just dug on our French- leaning wing: And backwards, and forwards, and backwards we went, and at last I was vexed, And swore I would never surrender a foot when the Russians charged next.

XIX

'"I know that life's worth keeping."—Ay, so it is, lad; so it is! - "But my life belongs to a woman."—Does that mean Her Majesty, Miss? - "These Russians came lumping and grinning: they're fierce at it, though they are blocks. Our fellows were pretty well pumped, and looked sharp for the little French cocks. Lord, didn't we pray for their crowing! when over us, on the hill- top, Behold the first line of them skipping, like kangaroos seen on the hop.

XX

'"That sent me into a passion, to think of them spying our flight!" Heigh, Tom! you've Bridgeman blood, boy! And, "'Face them!' I shouted: 'All right; Sure, Serjeant, we'll take their shot dacent, like gentlemen,' Grady replied. A ball in his mouth, and the noble old Irishman dropped by my side. Then there was just an instant to save myself, when a short wheeze Of bloody lungs under the smoke, and a red-coat crawled up on his knees.

XXI

'"'Twas Ensign Baynes of our parish."—Ah, ah, Miss Charlworth, the one Our Tom fought for a young lady? Come, now we've got into the fun! - "I shouldered him: he primed his pistol, and I trailed my musket, prepared." Why, that's a fine pick-a-back for ye, to make twenty Russians look scared! "They came—never mind how many: we couldn't have run very well, We fought back to back: 'face to face, our last time!' he said, smiling, and fell.

XXII

'"Then I strove wild for his body: the beggars saw glittering rings, Which I vowed to send to his mother. I got some hard knocks and sharp stings, But felt them no more than angel, or devil, except in the wind. I know that I swore at a Russian for showing his teeth, and he grinned The harder: quick, as from heaven, a man on a horse rode between, And fired, and swung his bright sabre: I can't write you more of the scene.

XXIII

'"But half in his arms, and half at his stirrup, he bore me right forth, And pitched me among my old comrades: before I could tell south from north, He caught my hand up, and kissed it! Don't ever let any man speak A word against Frenchmen, I near him! I can't find his name, tho' I seek. But French, and a General, surely he was, and, God bless him! thro' him I've learnt to love a whole nation."' The ancient man paused, winking dim.

XXIV

A curious look, half woeful, was seen on his face as he turned His eyes upon each of his children, like one who but faintly discerned His old self in an old mirror. Then gathering sense in his fist, He sounded it hard on his knee-cap. 'Your hand, Tom, the French fellow kissed! He kissed my boy's old pounder! I say he's a gentleman!' Straight The letter he tossed to one daughter; bade her the remainder relate.

XXV

Tom properly stated his praises in facts, but the lady preferred To deck the narration with brackets, and drop her additional word. What nobler Christian natures these women could boast, who, 'twas known, Once spat at the name of their nephew, and now made his praises their own! The letter at last was finished, the hearers breathed freely, and sign Was given, 'Tom's health!'—Quoth the farmer: 'Eh, Miss? are you weak in the spine?'

XXVI

For Mary had sunk, and her body was shaking, as if in a fit. Tom's letter she held, and her thumb-nail the month when the letter was writ Fast-dinted, while she hung sobbing: 'O, see, Sir, the letter is old! O, do not be too happy!'—'If I understand you, I'm bowled!' Said Grandfather Bridgeman, 'and down go my wickets!—not happy! when here, Here's Tom like to marry his General's daughter—or widow—I'll swear!

XXVII

'I wager he knows how to strut, too! It's all on the cards that the Queen Will ask him to Buckingham Palace, to say what he's done and he's seen. Victoria's fond of her soldiers: and she's got a nose for a fight. If Tom tells a cleverish story—there is such a thing as a knight! And don't he look roguish and handsome!—To see a girl snivelling there - By George, Miss, it's clear that you're jealous'—'I love him!' she answered his stare.

XXVIII

'Yes! now!' breathed the voice of a woman.—'Ah! now!' quiver'd low the reply. 'And "now"'s just a bit too late, so it's no use your piping your eye,' The farmer added bluffly: 'Old Lawyer Charlworth was rich; You followed his instructions in kicking Tom into the ditch. If you're such a dutiful daughter, that doesn't prove Tom is a fool. Forgive and forget's my motto! and here's my grog growing cool!'

XXIX

'But, Sir,' Mary faintly repeated: 'for four long weeks I have failed To come and cast on you my burden; such grief for you always prevailed! My heart has so bled for you!' The old man burst on her speech: 'You've chosen a likely time, Miss! a pretty occasion to preach!' And was it not outrageous, that now, of all times, one should come With incomprehensible pity! Far better had Mary been dumb.

XXX

But when again she stammered in this bewildering way, The farmer no longer could bear it, and begged her to go, or to stay, But not to be whimpering nonsense at such a time. Pricked by a goad, 'Twas you who sent him to glory:- you've come here to reap what you sowed. Is that it?' he asked; and the silence the elders preserved plainly said, On Mary's heaving bosom this begging-petition was read.

XXXI

And that it was scarcely a bargain that she who had driven him wild Should share now the fruits of his valour, the women expressed, as they smiled. The family pride of the Bridgemans was comforted; still, with contempt, They looked on a monied damsel of modesty quite so exempt. 'O give me force to tell them!' cried Mary, and even as she spoke, A shout and a hush of the children: a vision on all of them broke.

XXXII

Wheeled, pale, in a chair, and shattered, the wreck of their hero was seen; The ghost of Tom drawn slow o'er the orchard's shadowy green. Could this be the martial darling they joyed in a moment ago? 'He knows it?' to Mary Tom murmured, and closed his weak lids at her 'No.' 'Beloved!' she said, falling by him, 'I have been a coward: I thought You lay in the foreign country, and some strange good might be wrought.

XXXIII

'Each day I have come to tell him, and failed, with my hand on the gate. I bore the dreadful knowledge, and crushed my heart with its weight. The letter brought by your comrade—he has but just read it aloud! It only reached him this morning!' Her head on his shoulder she bowed. Then Tom with pity's tenderest lordliness patted her arm, And eyed the old white-head fondly, with something of doubt and alarm.

XXXIV

O, take to your fancy a sculptor whose fresh marble offspring appears Before him, shiningly perfect, the laurel-crown'd issue of years: Is heaven offended? for lightning behold from its bosom escape, And those are mocking fragments that made the harmonious shape! He cannot love the ruins, till, feeling that ruins alone Are left, he loves them threefold. So passed the old grandfather's moan.

XXXV

John's text for a sermon on Slaughter he heard, and he did not protest. All rigid as April snowdrifts, he stood, hard and feeble; his chest Just showing the swell of the fire as it melted him. Smiting a rib, 'Heigh! what have we been about, Tom! Was this all a terrible fib?' He cried, and the letter forth-trembled. Tom told what the cannon had done. Few present but ached to see falling those aged tears on his heart's son!

XXXVI

Up lanes of the quiet village, and where the mill-waters rush red Thro' browning summer meadows to catch the sun's crimsoning head, You meet an old man and a maiden who has the soft ways of a wife With one whom they wheel, alternate; whose delicate flush of new life Is prized like the early primrose. Then shake his right hand, in the chair - The old man fails never to tell you: 'You've got the French General's there!'



THE PROMISE IN DISTURBANCE



How low when angels fall their black descent, Our primal thunder tells: known is the pain Of music, that nigh throning wisdom went, And one false note cast wailful to the insane. Now seems the language heard of Love as rain To make a mire where fruitfulness was meant. The golden harp gives out a jangled strain, Too like revolt from heaven's Omnipotent. But listen in the thought; so may there come Conception of a newly-added chord, Commanding space beyond where ear has home. In labour of the trouble at its fount, Leads Life to an intelligible Lord The rebel discords up the sacred mount.



MODERN LOVE



I

By this he knew she wept with waking eyes: That, at his hand's light quiver by her head, The strange low sobs that shook their common bed Were called into her with a sharp surprise, And strangled mute, like little gaping snakes, Dreadfully venomous to him. She lay Stone-still, and the long darkness flowed away With muffled pulses. Then, as midnight makes Her giant heart of Memory and Tears Drink the pale drug of silence, and so beat Sleep's heavy measure, they from head to feet Were moveless, looking through their dead black years, By vain regret scrawled over the blank wall. Like sculptured effigies they might be seen Upon their marriage-tomb, the sword between; Each wishing for the sword that severs all.

II

It ended, and the morrow brought the task. Her eyes were guilty gates, that let him in By shutting all too zealous for their sin: Each sucked a secret, and each wore a mask. But, oh, the bitter taste her beauty had! He sickened as at breath of poison-flowers: A languid humour stole among the hours, And if their smiles encountered, he went mad, And raged deep inward, till the light was brown Before his vision, and the world, forgot, Looked wicked as some old dull murder-spot. A star with lurid beams, she seemed to crown The pit of infamy: and then again He fainted on his vengefulness, and strove To ape the magnanimity of love, And smote himself, a shuddering heap of pain.

III

This was the woman; what now of the man? But pass him. If he comes beneath a heel, He shall be crushed until he cannot feel, Or, being callous, haply till he can. But he is nothing:- nothing? Only mark The rich light striking out from her on him! Ha! what a sense it is when her eyes swim Across the man she singles, leaving dark All else! Lord God, who mad'st the thing so fair, See that I am drawn to her even now! It cannot be such harm on her cool brow To put a kiss? Yet if I meet him there! But she is mine! Ah, no! I know too well I claim a star whose light is overcast: I claim a phantom-woman in the Past. The hour has struck, though I heard not the bell!

IV

All other joys of life he strove to warm, And magnify, and catch them to his lip: But they had suffered shipwreck with the ship, And gazed upon him sallow from the storm. Or if Delusion came, 'twas but to show The coming minute mock the one that went. Cold as a mountain in its star-pitched tent, Stood high Philosophy, less friend than foe: Whom self-caged Passion, from its prison-bars, Is always watching with a wondering hate. Not till the fire is dying in the grate, Look we for any kinship with the stars. Oh, wisdom never comes when it is gold, And the great price we pay for it full worth: We have it only when we are half earth. Little avails that coinage to the old!

V

A message from her set his brain aflame. A world of household matters filled her mind, Wherein he saw hypocrisy designed: She treated him as something that is tame, And but at other provocation bites. Familiar was her shoulder in the glass, Through that dark rain: yet it may come to pass That a changed eye finds such familiar sights More keenly tempting than new loveliness. The 'What has been' a moment seemed his own: The splendours, mysteries, dearer because known, Nor less divine: Love's inmost sacredness Called to him, 'Come!'—In his restraining start, Eyes nurtured to be looked at scarce could see A wave of the great waves of Destiny Convulsed at a checked impulse of the heart.

VI

It chanced his lips did meet her forehead cool. She had no blush, but slanted down her eye. Shamed nature, then, confesses love can die: And most she punishes the tender fool Who will believe what honours her the most! Dead! is it dead? She has a pulse, and flow Of tears, the price of blood-drops, as I know, For whom the midnight sobs around Love's ghost, Since then I heard her, and so will sob on. The love is here; it has but changed its aim. O bitter barren woman! what's the name? The name, the name, the new name thou hast won? Behold me striking the world's coward stroke! That will I not do, though the sting is dire. - Beneath the surface this, while by the fire They sat, she laughing at a quiet joke.

VII

She issues radiant from her dressing-room, Like one prepared to scale an upper sphere: - By stirring up a lower, much I fear! How deftly that oiled barber lays his bloom! That long-shanked dapper Cupid with frisked curls Can make known women torturingly fair; The gold-eyed serpent dwelling in rich hair Awakes beneath his magic whisks and twirls. His art can take the eyes from out my head, Until I see with eyes of other men; While deeper knowledge crouches in its den, And sends a spark up:- is it true we are wed? Yea! filthiness of body is most vile, But faithlessness of heart I do hold worse. The former, it were not so great a curse To read on the steel-mirror of her smile.

VIII

Yet it was plain she struggled, and that salt Of righteous feeling made her pitiful. Poor twisting worm, so queenly beautiful! Where came the cleft between us? whose the fault? My tears are on thee, that have rarely dropped As balm for any bitter wound of mine: My breast will open for thee at a sign! But, no: we are two reed-pipes, coarsely stopped: The God once filled them with his mellow breath; And they were music till he flung them down, Used! used! Hear now the discord-loving clown Puff his gross spirit in them, worse than death! I do not know myself without thee more: In this unholy battle I grow base: If the same soul be under the same face, Speak, and a taste of that old time restore!

IX

He felt the wild beast in him betweenwhiles So masterfully rude, that he would grieve To see the helpless delicate thing receive His guardianship through certain dark defiles. Had he not teeth to rend, and hunger too? But still he spared her. Once: 'Have you no fear?' He said: 'twas dusk; she in his grasp; none near. She laughed: 'No, surely; am I not with you?' And uttering that soft starry 'you,' she leaned Her gentle body near him, looking up; And from her eyes, as from a poison-cup, He drank until the flittering eyelids screened. Devilish malignant witch! and oh, young beam Of heaven's circle-glory! Here thy shape To squeeze like an intoxicating grape - I might, and yet thou goest safe, supreme.

X

But where began the change; and what's my crime? The wretch condemned, who has not been arraigned, Chafes at his sentence. Shall I, unsustained, Drag on Love's nerveless body thro' all time? I must have slept, since now I wake. Prepare, You lovers, to know Love a thing of moods: Not, like hard life, of laws. In Love's deep woods, I dreamt of loyal Life:- the offence is there! Love's jealous woods about the sun are curled; At least, the sun far brighter there did beam. - My crime is, that the puppet of a dream, I plotted to be worthy of the world. Oh, had I with my darling helped to mince The facts of life, you still had seen me go With hindward feather and with forward toe, Her much-adored delightful Fairy Prince!

XI

Out in the yellow meadows, where the bee Hums by us with the honey of the Spring, And showers of sweet notes from the larks on wing Are dropping like a noon-dew, wander we. Or is it now? or was it then? for now, As then, the larks from running rings pour showers: The golden foot of May is on the flowers, And friendly shadows dance upon her brow. What's this, when Nature swears there is no change To challenge eyesight? Now, as then, the grace Of heaven seems holding earth in its embrace. Nor eyes, nor heart, has she to feel it strange? Look, woman, in the West. There wilt thou see An amber cradle near the sun's decline: Within it, featured even in death divine, Is lying a dead infant, slain by thee.

XII

Not solely that the Future she destroys, And the fair life which in the distance lies For all men, beckoning out from dim rich skies: Nor that the passing hour's supporting joys Have lost the keen-edged flavour, which begat Distinction in old times, and still should breed Sweet Memory, and Hope,—earth's modest seed, And heaven's high-prompting: not that the world is flat Since that soft-luring creature I embraced Among the children of Illusion went: Methinks with all this loss I were content, If the mad Past, on which my foot is based, Were firm, or might be blotted: but the whole Of life is mixed: the mocking Past will stay: And if I drink oblivion of a day, So shorten I the stature of my soul.

XIII

'I play for Seasons; not Eternities!' Says Nature, laughing on her way. 'So must All those whose stake is nothing more than dust!' And lo, she wins, and of her harmonies She is full sure! Upon her dying rose She drops a look of fondness, and goes by, Scarce any retrospection in her eye; For she the laws of growth most deeply knows, Whose hands bear, here, a seed-bag—there, an urn. Pledged she herself to aught, 'twould mark her end! This lesson of our only visible friend Can we not teach our foolish hearts to learn? Yes! yes!—but, oh, our human rose is fair Surpassingly! Lose calmly Love's great bliss, When the renewed for ever of a kiss Whirls life within the shower of loosened hair!

XIV

What soul would bargain for a cure that brings Contempt the nobler agony to kill? Rather let me bear on the bitter ill, And strike this rusty bosom with new stings! It seems there is another veering fit, Since on a gold-haired lady's eyeballs pure I looked with little prospect of a cure, The while her mouth's red bow loosed shafts of wit. Just heaven! can it be true that jealousy Has decked the woman thus? and does her head Swim somewhat for possessions forfeited? Madam, you teach me many things that be. I open an old book, and there I find That 'Women still may love whom they deceive.' Such love I prize not, madam: by your leave, The game you play at is not to my mind.

XV

I think she sleeps: it must be sleep, when low Hangs that abandoned arm toward the floor; The face turned with it. Now make fast the door. Sleep on: it is your husband, not your foe. The Poet's black stage-lion of wronged love Frights not our modern dames:- well if he did! Now will I pour new light upon that lid, Full-sloping like the breasts beneath. 'Sweet dove, Your sleep is pure. Nay, pardon: I disturb. I do not? good!' Her waking infant-stare Grows woman to the burden my hands bear: Her own handwriting to me when no curb Was left on Passion's tongue. She trembles through; A woman's tremble—the whole instrument:- I show another letter lately sent. The words are very like: the name is new.

XVI

In our old shipwrecked days there was an hour, When in the firelight steadily aglow, Joined slackly, we beheld the red chasm grow Among the clicking coals. Our library-bower That eve was left to us: and hushed we sat As lovers to whom Time is whispering. From sudden-opened doors we heard them sing: The nodding elders mixed good wine with chat. Well knew we that Life's greatest treasure lay With us, and of it was our talk. 'Ah, yes! Love dies!' I said: I never thought it less. She yearned to me that sentence to unsay. Then when the fire domed blackening, I found Her cheek was salt against my kiss, and swift Up the sharp scale of sobs her breast did lift:- Now am I haunted by that taste! that sound!

XVII

At dinner, she is hostess, I am host. Went the feast ever cheerfuller? She keeps The Topic over intellectual deeps In buoyancy afloat. They see no ghost. With sparkling surface-eyes we ply the ball: It is in truth a most contagious game: HIDING THE SKELETON, shall be its name. Such play as this the devils might appal! But here's the greater wonder; in that we, Enamoured of an acting nought can tire, Each other, like true hypocrites, admire; Warm-lighted looks, Love's ephemerioe, Shoot gaily o'er the dishes and the wine. We waken envy of our happy lot. Fast, sweet, and golden, shows the marriage-knot. Dear guests, you now have seen Love's corpse-light shine.