After him leaning and straining and bending, As on through their boles the army kept wending,

Till out of the wood Boy burst on a lea, Shouting and calling, "Come after me,"

And then they rose with a leafy hiss And stood as if nothing had been amiss.

Little Boy Blue sat down on a stone, And the creatures came round him every one.

He said to the clouds, "I want you there!" And down they sank through the thin blue air.

He said to the sunset far in the west, "Come here; I want you; 'tis my behest!"

And the sunset came and stood up on the wold, And burned and glowed in purple and gold.

Then Little Boy Blue began to ponder: "What's to be done with them all, I wonder!"

He thought a while, then he said, quite low, "What to do with you all, I am sure I don't know!"

The clouds clodded down till dismal it grew; The snake sneaked close; round Birdie Brown flew;

The brook, like a cobra, rose on its tail, And the wind sank down with a what-will-you wail,

And all the creatures sat and stared; The mole opened the eyes that he hadn't, and glared;

And for rats and bats, and the world and his wife Little Boy Blue was afraid of his life.

Then Birdie Brown began to sing, And what he sang was the very thing:

"Little Boy Blue, you have brought us all hither: Pray, are we to sit and grow old together?"

"Go away; go away," said Little Boy Blue; "I'm sure I don't want you! get away—do."

"No, no; no, no; no, yes, and no, no," Sang Birdie Brown, "it mustn't be so!

"If we've come for no good, we can't go away. Give us reason for going, or here we stay!"

They covered the earth, they darkened the air, They hovered, they sat, with a countless stare.

"If I do not give them something to do, They will stare me up!" said Little Boy Blue.

"Oh dear! oh dear!" he began to cry, "They're an awful crew, and I feel so shy!"

All of a sudden he thought of a thing, And up he stood, and spoke like a king:

"You're the plague of my life! have done with your bother! Off with you all: take me back to my mother!"

The sunset went back to the gates of the west. "Follow me" sang Birdie, "I know the way best!"

"I am going the same way as fast as I can!" Said the brook, as it sank and turned and ran.

To the wood fled the shadows, like scared black ghosts: "If we stay, we shall all be missed from our posts!"

Said the wind, with a voice that had changed its cheer, "I was just going there when you brought me here!"

"That's where I live," said the sack-backed squirrel, And he turned his sack with a swing and a swirl.

Said the gold weather-cock, "I'm the churchwarden!" Said the mole, "I live in the parson's garden!"

Said they all, "If that's where you want us to steer for, What on earth or in air did you bring us here for?"

"You are none the worse!" said Boy. "If you won't Do as I tell you, why, then, don't;

"I'll leave you behind, and go home without you; And it's time I did: I begin to doubt you!"

He jumped to his feet. The snake rose on his tail, And hissed three times, a hiss full of bale,

And shot out his tongue at Boy Blue to scare him, And stared at him, out of his courage to stare him.

"You ugly snake," Little Boy Blue said, "Get out of my way, or I'll break your head!"

The snake would not move, but glared at him glum; Boy Blue hit him hard with the stick of his drum.

The snake fell down as if he was dead. Little Boy Blue set his foot on his head.

"Hurrah!" cried the creatures, "hurray! hurrah! Little Boy Blue, your will is a law!"

And away they went, marching before him, And marshalled him home with a high cockolorum.

And Birdie Brown sang, "Twirrr twitter, twirrr twee! In the rosiest rose-bush a rare nest! Twirrr twitter, twirrr twitter, twirrr twitter, twirrrrr tweeeee! In the fun he has found the earnest!"



WILLIE'S QUESTION.

I.

Willie speaks.

Is it wrong, the wish to be great, For I do wish it so? I have asked already my sister Kate; She says she does not know.

Yestereve at the gate I stood Watching the sun in the west; When I saw him look so grand and good It swelled up in my breast.

Next from the rising moon It stole like a silver dart; In the night when the wind began his tune It woke with a sudden start.

This morning a trumpet blast Made all the cottage quake; It came so sudden and shook so fast It blew me wide awake.

It told me I must make haste, And some great glory win, For every day was running to waste, And at once I must begin.

I want to be great and strong, I want to begin to-day; But if you think it very wrong I will send the wish away.

II.

The Father answers.

Wrong to wish to be great? No, Willie; it is not wrong: The child who stands at the high closed gate Must wish to be tall and strong!

If you did not wish to grow I should be a sorry man; I should think my boy was dull and slow, Nor worthy of his clan.

You are bound to be great, my boy: Wish, and get up, and do. Were you content to be little, my joy Would be little enough in you.

Willie speaks.

Papa, papa! I'm so glad That what I wish is right! I will not lose a chance to be had; I'll begin this very night.

I will work so hard at school! I will waste no time in play; At my fingers' ends I'll have every rule, For knowledge is power, they say.

I would be a king and reign, But I can't be that, and so Field-marshal I'll be, I think, and gain Sharp battles and sieges slow.

I shall gallop and shout and call, Waving my shining sword: Artillery, cavalry, infantry, all Hear and obey my word.

Or admiral I will be, Wherever the salt wave runs, Sailing, fighting over the sea, With flashing and roaring guns.

I will make myself hardy and strong; I will never, never give in. I am so glad it is not wrong! At once I will begin.

The Father speaks.

Fighting and shining along, All for the show of the thing! Any puppet will mimic the grand and strong If you pull the proper string!

Willie speaks.

But indeed I want to be great, I should despise mere show; The thing I want is the glory-state— Above the rest, you know!

The Father answers.

The harder you run that race, The farther you tread that track, The greatness you fancy before your face Is the farther behind your back.

To be up in the heavens afar, Miles above all the rest, Would make a star not the greatest star, Only the dreariest.

That book on the highest shelf Is not the greatest book; If you would be great, it must be in yourself, Neither by place nor look.

The Highest is not high By being higher than others; To greatness you come not a step more nigh By getting above your brothers.

III.

Willie speaks.

I meant the boys at school, I did not mean my brother. Somebody first, is there the rule— It must be me or another.

The Father answers.

Oh, Willie, it's all the same! They are your brothers all; For when you say, "Hallowed be thy name!" Whose Father is it you call?

Could you pray for such rule to him? Do you think that he would hear? Must he favour one in a greedy whim Where all are his children dear?

It is right to get up and do, But why outstrip the rest? Why should one of the many be one of the few? Why should you think to be best?

Willie speaks.

Then how am I to be great? I know no other way; It would be folly to sit and wait, I must up and do, you say!

The Father answers.

I do not want you to wait, For few before they die Have got so far as begin to be great, The lesson is so high.

I will tell you the only plan To climb and not to fall: He who would rise and be greater than He is, must be servant of all.

Turn it each way in your mind, Try every other plan, You may think yourself great, but at length you'll find You are not even a man.

Climb to the top of the trees, Climb to the top of the hill, Get up on the crown of the sky if you please, You'll be a small creature still.

Be admiral, poet, or king, Let praises fill both your ears, Your soul will be but a windmill thing Blown round by its hopes and fears.

IV.

Willie speaks.

Then put me in the way, For you, papa, are a man: What thing shall I do this very day?— Only be sure I can.

I want to know—I am willing, Let me at least have a chance! Shall I give the monkey-boy my shilling?— I want to serve at once.

The Father answers.

Give all your shillings you might And hurt your brothers the more; He only can serve his fellows aright Who goes in at the little door.

We must do the thing we must Before the thing we may; We are unfit for any trust Till we can and do obey.

Willie speaks.

I will try more and more; I have nothing now to ask; Obedience I know is the little door: Now set me some hard task.

The Father answers.

No, Willie; the father of all, Teacher and master high, Has set your task beyond recall, Nothing can set it by.

Willie speaks.

What is it, father dear, That he would have me do? I'd ask himself, but he's not near, And so I must ask you!

The Father answers.

Me 'tis no use to ask, I too am one of his boys! But he tells each boy his own plain task; Listen, and hear his voice.

Willie speaks.

Father, I'm listening so To hear him if I may! His voice must either be very low, Or very far away!

The Father answers.

It is neither hard to hear, Nor hard to understand; It is very low, but very near, A still, small, strong command.

Willie answers.

I do not hear it at all; I am only hearing you!

The Father speaks.

Think: is there nothing, great or small, You ought to go and do?

Willie answers.

Let me think:—I ought to feed My rabbits. I went away In such a hurry this morning! Indeed They've not had enough to-day!

The Father speaks.

That is his whisper low! That is his very word! You had only to stop and listen, and so Very plainly you heard!

That duty's the little door: You must open it and go in; There is nothing else to do before, There is nowhere else to begin.

Willie speaks.

But that's so easily done! It's such a trifling affair! So nearly over as soon as begun. For that he can hardly care!

The Father answers.

You are turning from his call If you let that duty wait; You would not think any duty small If you yourself were great.

The nearest is at life's core; With the first, you all begin: What matter how little the little door If it only let you in?

V.

Willie speaks.

Papa, I am come again: It is now three months and more That I've tried to do the thing that was plain, And I feel as small as before.

The Father answers.

Your honour comes too slow? How much then have you done? One foot on a mole-heap, would you crow As if you had reached the sun?

Willie speaks.

But I cannot help a doubt Whether this way be the true: The more I do to work it out The more there comes to do;

And yet, were all done and past, I should feel just as small, For when I had tried to the very last— 'Twas my duty, after all!

It is only much the same As not being liar or thief!

The Father answers.

One who tried it found even, with shame, That of sinners he was the chief!

My boy, I am glad indeed You have been finding the truth!

Willie speaks.

But where's the good? I shall never speed— Be one whit greater, in sooth!

If duty itself must fail, And that be the only plan, How shall my scarce begun duty prevail To make me a mighty man?

The Father answers.

Ah, Willie! what if it were Quite another way to fall? What if the greatness itself lie there— In knowing that you are small?

In seeing the good so good That you feel poor, weak, and low; And hungrily long for it as for food, With an endless need to grow?

The man who was lord of fate, Born in an ox's stall, Was great because he was much too great To care about greatness at all.

Ever and only he sought The will of his Father good; Never of what was high he thought, But of what his Father would.

You long to be great; you try; You feel yourself smaller still: In the name of God let ambition die; Let him make you what he will.

Who does the truth, is one With the living Truth above: Be God's obedient little son, Let ambition die in love.



KING COLE.

King Cole he reigned in Aureoland, But the sceptre was seldom in his hand

Far oftener was there his golden cup— He ate too much, but he drank all up!

To be called a king and to be a king, That is one thing and another thing!

So his majesty's head began to shake, And his hands and his feet to swell and ache,

The doctors were called, but they dared not say Your majesty drinks too much Tokay;

So out of the king's heart died all mirth, And he thought there was nothing good on earth.

Then up rose the fool, whose every word Was three parts wise and one part absurd.

Nuncle, he said, never mind the gout; I will make you laugh till you laugh it out.

King Cole pushed away his full gold plate: The jester he opened the palace gate,

Brought in a cold man, with hunger grim, And on the dais-edge seated him;

Then caught up the king's own golden plate, And set it beside him: oh, how he ate!

And the king took note, with a pleased surprise, That he ate with his mouth and his cheeks and his eyes,

With his arms and his legs and his body whole, And laughed aloud from his heart and soul.

Then from his lordly chair got up, And carried the man his own gold cup;

The goblet was deep and wide and full, The poor man drank like a cow at a pool.

Said the king to the jester—I call it well done To drink with two mouths instead of one!

Said the king to himself, as he took his seat, It is quite as good to feed as to eat!

It is better, I do begin to think, To give to the thirsty than to drink!

And now I have thought of it, said the king, There might be more of this kind of thing!

The fool heard. The king had not long to wait: The fool cried aloud at the palace-gate;

The ragged and wretched, the hungry and thin, Loose in their clothes and tight in their skin,

Gathered in shoals till they filled the hall, And the king and the fool they fed them all;

And as with good things their plates they piled The king grew merry as a little child.

On the morrow, early, he went abroad And sought poor folk in their own abode—

Sought them till evening foggy and dim, Did not wait till they came to him;

And every day after did what he could, Gave them work and gave them food.

Thus he made war on the wintry weather, And his health and the spring came back together.

But, lo, a change had passed on the king, Like the change of the world in that same spring!

His face had grown noble and good to see, And the crown sat well on his majesty.

Now he ate enough, and ate no more, He drank about half what he drank before,

He reigned a real king in Aureoland, Reigned with his head and his heart and his hand.

All this through the fool did come to pass. And every Christmas-eve that was,

The palace-gates stood open wide And the poor came in from every side,

And the king rose up and served them duly, And his people loved him very truly.



SAID AND DID.

Said the boy as he read, "I too will be bold, I will fight for the truth and its glory!" He went to the playground, and soon had told A very cowardly story!

Said the girl as she read, "That was grand, I declare! What a true, what a lovely, sweet soul!" In half-an-hour she went up the stair, Looking as black as a coal!

"The mean little wretch, I wish I could fling This book at his head!" said another; Then he went and did the same ugly thing To his own little trusting brother!

Alas for him who sees a thing grand And does not fit himself to it! But the meanest act, on sea or on land, Is to find a fault, and then do it!



DR. DODDRIDGE'S DOG.

"What! you Dr. Doddridge's dog, and not know who made you?"

My little dog, who blessed you With such white toothy-pegs? And who was it that dressed you In such a lot of legs?

Perhaps he never told you! Perhaps you know quite well, And beg me not to scold you For you can't speak to tell!

I'll tell you, little brother, In case you do not know:— One only, not another, Could make us two just so.

You love me?—Quiet!—I'm proving!— It must be God above That filled those eyes with loving: He was the first to love!

One day he'll stop all sadness— Hark to the nightingale! Oh blessed God of gladness!— Come, doggie, wag your tail!

That's—Thank you, God!—He gave you Of life this little taste; And with more life he'll save you, Not let you go to waste!

He says now, Live together, And share your bite and sup; And then he'll say, Come hither— And lift us both high up.



THE GIRL THAT LOST THINGS.

There was a girl that lost things— Nor only from her hand; She lost, indeed—why, most things, As if they had been sand!

She said, "But I must use them, And can't look after all! Indeed I did not lose them, I only let them fall!"

That's how she lost her thimble, It fell upon the floor: Her eyes were very nimble But she never saw it more.

And then she lost her dolly, Her very doll of all! That loss was far from jolly, But worse things did befall.

She lost a ring of pearls With a ruby in them set; But the dearest girl of girls Cried only, did not fret.

And then she lost her robin; Ah, that was sorrow dire! He hopped along, and—bob in— Hopped bob into the fire!

And once she lost a kiss As she came down the stair; But that she did not miss, For sure it was somewhere!

Just then she lost her heart too, But did so well without it She took that in good part too, And said—not much about it.

But when she lost her health She did feel rather poor, Till in came loads of wealth By quite another door!

And soon she lost a dimple That was upon her cheek, But that was very simple— She was so thin and weak!

And then she lost her mother, And thought that she was dead; Sure there was not another On whom to lay her head!

And then she lost her self— But that she threw away; And God upon his shelf It carefully did lay.

And then she lost her sight, And lost all hope to find it; But a fountain-well of light Came flashing up behind it.

At last she lost the world: In a black and stormy wind Away from her it whirled— But the loss how could she mind?

For with it she lost her losses, Her aching and her weeping, Her pains and griefs and crosses, And all things not worth keeping;

It left her with the lost things Her heart had still been craving; 'Mong them she found—why, most things, And all things worth the saving.

She found her precious mother, Who not the least had died; And then she found that other Whose heart had hers inside.

And next she found the kiss She lost upon the stair; 'Twas sweeter far, I guess, For ripening in that air.

She found her self, all mended, New-drest, and strong, and white; She found her health, new-blended With a radiant delight.

She found her little robin: He made his wings go flap, Came fluttering, and went bob in, Went bob into her lap.

So, girls that cannot keep things, Be patient till to-morrow; And mind you don't beweep things That are not worth such sorrow;

For the Father great of fathers, Of mothers, girls, and boys, In his arms his children gathers, And sees to all their toys.



A MAKE-BELIEVE.

I will think as thinks the rabbit:—

Oh, delight In the night When the moon Sets the tune To the woods! And the broods All run out, Frisk about, Go and come, Beat the drum— Here in groups, There in troops! Now there's one! Now it's gone! There are none! And now they are dancing like chaff! I look, and I laugh, But sit by my door, and keep to my habit— A wise, respectable, clean-furred old rabbit!

Now I'm going, Business calls me out— Going, going, Very knowing, Slow, long-heeled, and stout, Loping, lumbering, Nipping, numbering, Head on this side and on that, Along the pathway footed flat, Through the meadow, through the heather, Through the rich dusky weather— Big stars and little moon!

Dews are lighting down in crowds, Odours rising in thin clouds, Night has all her chords in tune— The very night for us, God's rabbits, Suiting all our little habits! Wind not loud, but playful with our fur, Just a cool, a sweet, a gentle stir! And all the way not one rough bur, But the dewiest, freshest grasses, That whisper thanks to every foot that passes!

I, the king the rest call Mappy, Canter on, composed and happy, Till I come where there is plenty For a varied meal and dainty. Is it cabbage, I grab it; Is it parsley, I nab it; Is it carrot, I mar it; The turnip I turn up And hollow and swallow; A lettuce? Let us eat it! A beetroot? Let's beat it! If you are juicy, Sweet sir, I will use you! For all kinds of corn-crop I have a born crop! Are you a green top? You shall be gleaned up! Sucking and feazing, Crushing and squeezing All that is feathery, Crisp, not leathery, Juicy and bruisy— All comes proper To my little hopper Still on the dance, Driven by hunger and drouth!

All is welcome to my crunching, Finding, grinding, Milling, munching, Gobbling, lunching, Fore-toothed, three-lipped mouth— Eating side way, round way, flat way, Eating this way, eating that way, Every way at once!

Hark to the rain!— Pattering, clattering, The cabbage leaves battering, Down it comes amain!— Home we hurry Hop and scurry, And in with a flurry! Hustling, jostling Out of the airy land Into the dry warm sand; Our family white tails, The last of our vitals, Following hard with a whisk to them, And with a great sense of risk to them!

Hear to it pouring! Hear the thunder roaring Far off and up high, While we all lie So warm and so dry In the mellow dark, Where never a spark, White or rosy or blue, Of the sheeting, fleeting, Forking, frightening, Lashing lightning Ever can come through!

Let the wind chafe In the trees overhead, We are quite safe In our dark, yellow bed! Let the rain pour! It never can bore A hole in our roof— It is waterproof! So is the cloak We always carry, We furry folk, In sandhole or quarry! It is perfect bliss To lie in a nest So soft as this, All so warmly drest! No one to flurry you! No one to hurry you! No one to scurry you! Holes plenty to creep in! All day to sleep in! All night to roam in! Gray dawn to run home in! And all the days and nights to come after— All the to-morrows for hind-legs and laughter!

Now the rain is over, We are out again, Every merry, leaping rover, On his right leg and his wrong leg, On his doubled, shortened long leg, Floundering amain! Oh, it is merry And jolly—yes, very!

But what—what is that? What can he be at? Is it a cat? Ah, my poor little brother, He's caught in the trap That goes-to with a snap! Ah me! there was never, Nor will be for ever— There was never such another, Such a funny, funny bunny, Such a frisking, such a whisking, Such a frolicking brother! He's screeching, beseeching! They're going to—

Ah, my poor foot, It is caught in a root! No, no! 'tis a trap That goes-to with a snap! Ah me, I'm forsaken! Ah me, I am taken! I am screeching, beseeching! They are going to—

No more! no more! I must stop this play, Be a boy again, and kneel down and pray To the God of sparrows and rabbits and men, Who never lets any one out of his ken— It must be so, though it be bewild'ring— To save his dear beasts from his cruel children!



THE CHRISTMAS CHILD.

"Little one, who straight hast come Down the heavenly stair, Tell us all about your home, And the father there."

"He is such a one as I, Like as like can be. Do his will, and, by and by, Home and him you'll see."



A CHRISTMAS PRAYER.

Loving looks the large-eyed cow, Loving stares the long-eared ass At Heaven's glory in the grass! Child, with added human birth Come to bring the child of earth Glad repentance, tearful mirth, And a seat beside the hearth At the Father's knee— Make us peaceful as thy cow; Make us patient as thine ass; Make us quiet as thou art now; Make us strong as thou wilt be. Make us always know and see We are his as well as thou.



NO END OF NO-STORY.

There is a river whose waters run asleep run run ever singing in the shallows dumb in the hollows sleeping so deep and all the swallows that dip their feathers in the hollows or in the shallows are the merriest swallows and the nests they make with the clay they cake with the water they shake from their wings that rake the water out of the shallows or out of the hollows will hold together in any weather and the swallows are the merriest fellows and have the merriest children and are built very narrow like the head of an arrow to cut the air and go just where the nicest water is flowing and the nicest dust is blowing and each so narrow like the head of an arrow is a wonderful barrow to carry the mud he makes for his children's sakes from the wet water flowing and the dry dust blowing to build his nest for her he loves best and the wind cakes it the sun bakes it into a nest for the rest of her he loves best and all their merry children each little fellow with a beak as yellow as the buttercups growing beside the flowing of the singing river always and ever growing and blowing as fast as the sheep awake or asleep crop them and crop and cannot stop their yellowness blowing nor yet the growing of the obstinate daisies the little white praises they grow and they blow they spread out their crown and they praise the sun and when he goes down their praising is done they fold up their crown and sleep every one till over the plain he is shining amain and they're at it again praising and praising such low songs raising that no one can hear them but the sun so near them and the sheep that bite them but do not fright them are the quietest sheep awake or asleep with the merriest bleat and the little lambs are the merriest lambs forgetting to eat for the frolic in their feet and the lambs and their dams are the whitest sheep with the woolliest wool for the swallow to pull when he makes his nest for her he loves best and they shine like snow in the grasses that grow by the singing river that sings for ever and the sheep and the lambs are merry for ever because the river sings and they drink it and the lambs and their dams would any one think it are bright and white because of their diet which gladdens them quiet for what they bite is buttercups yellow and daisies white and grass as green as the river can make it with wind as mellow to kiss it and shake it as never was known but here in the hollows beside the river where all the swallows are the merriest fellows and the nests they make with the clay they cake in the sunshine bake till they are like bone and as dry in the wind as a marble stone dried in the wind the sweetest wind that blows by the river flowing for ever and who shall find whence comes the wind that blows on the hollows and over the shallows where dip the swallows and comes and goes and the sweet life blows into the river that sings as it flows and the sweet life blows into the sheep awake or asleep with the woolliest wool and the trailingest tails and never fails gentle and cool to wave the wool and to toss the grass as the lambs and the sheep over it pass and tug and bite with their teeth so white and then with the sweep of their trailing tails smooth it again and it grows amain and amain it grows and the wind that blows tosses the swallows over the hollows and over the shallows and blows the sweet life and the joy so rife into the swallows that skim the shallows and have the yellowest children and the wind that blows is the life of the river that flows for ever and washes the grasses still as it passes and feeds the daisies the little white praises and buttercups sunny with butter and honey that whiten the sheep awake or asleep that nibble and bite and grow whiter than white and merry and quiet on such good diet watered by the river and tossed for ever by the wind that tosses the wool and the grasses and the swallow that crosses with all the swallows over the shallows dipping their wings to gather the water and bake the cake for the wind to make as hard as a bone and as dry as a stone and who shall find whence comes the wind that blows from behind and ripples the river that flows for ever and still as it passes waves the grasses and cools the daisies the white sun praises that feed the sheep awake or asleep and give them their wool for the swallows to pull a little away to mix with the clay that cakes to a nest for those they love best and all the yellow children soon to go trying their wings at the flying over the hollows and over the shallows with all the swallows that do not know whence the wind doth blow that comes from behind a blowing wind.



A THREEFOLD CORD:

Poems by Three Friends.

TO

GREVILLE MATHESON MACDONALD.

First, most, to thee, my son, I give this book In which a friend's and brother's verses blend With mine; for not son only—brother, friend, Art thou, through sonship which no veil can brook Between the eyes that in each other look, Or any shadow 'twixt the hearts that tend Still nearer, with divine approach, to end In love eternal that cannot be shook When all the shakable shall cease to be. With growing hope I greet the coming day When from thy journey done I welcome thee Who sharest in the names of all the three, And take thee to the two, and humbly say, Let this man be the fourth with us, I pray.

CASA CORAGGIO: May, 1883.



A THREEFOLD CHORD.



THE HAUNTED HOUSE:

Suggested by a drawing of Thomas Moran, the American painter.

This must be the very night! The moon knows it!—and the trees! They stand straight upright, Each a sentinel drawn up, As if they dared not know Which way the wind might blow! The very pool, with dead gray eye, Dully expectant, feels it nigh, And begins to curdle and freeze! And the dark night, With its fringe of light, Holds the secret in its cup!

II. What can it be, to make The poplars cease to shiver and shake, And up in the dismal air Stand straight and stiff as the human hair When the human soul is dizzy with dread— All but those two that strain Aside in a frenzy of speechless pain, Though never a wind sends out a breath To tunnel the foggy rheum of death? What can it be has power to scare The full-grown moon to the idiot stare Of a blasted eye in the midnight air? Something has gone wrong; A scream will come tearing out ere long!

III. Still as death, Although I listen with bated breath! Yet something is coming, I know—is coming! With an inward soundless humming Somewhere in me, or if in the air I cannot tell, but it is there! Marching on to an unheard drumming Something is coming—coming— Growing and coming! And the moon is aware, Aghast in the air At the thing that is only coming With an inward soundless humming And an unheard spectral drumming!

IV. Nothing to see and nothing to hear! Only across the inner sky The wing of a shadowy thought flits by, Vague and featureless, faceless, drear— Only a thinness to catch the eye: Is it a dim foreboding unborn, Or a buried memory, wasted and worn As the fading frost of a wintry sigh? Anon I shall have it!—anon!—it draws nigh! A night when—a something it was took place That drove the blood from that scared moon-face! Hark! was that the cry of a goat, Or the gurgle of water in a throat? Hush! there is nothing to see or hear, Only a silent something is near; No knock, no footsteps three or four, Only a presence outside the door! See! the moon is remembering!—what? The wail of a mother-left, lie-alone brat? Or a raven sharpening its beak to peck? Or a cold blue knife and a warm white neck? Or only a heart that burst and ceased For a man that went away released? I know not—know not, but something is coming Somehow back with an inward humming!

V. Ha! look there! look at that house, Forsaken of all things, beetle and mouse! Mark how it looks! It must have a soul! It looks, it looks, though it cannot stir! See the ribs of it, how they stare! Its blind eyes yet have a seeing air! It knows it has a soul! Haggard it hangs o'er the slimy pool, And gapes wide open as corpses gape: It is the very murderer! The ghost has modelled himself to the shape Of this drear house all sodden with woe Where the deed was done, long, long ago, And filled with himself his new body full— To haunt for ever his ghastly crime, And see it come and go— Brooding around it like motionless time, With a mouth that gapes, and eyes that yawn Blear and blintering and full of the moon, Like one aghast at a hellish dawn!— The deed! the deed! it is coming soon!

VI. For, ever and always, when round the tune Grinds on the barrel of organ-Time, The deed is done. And it comes anon: True to the roll of the clock-faced moon, True to the ring of the spheric chime, True to the cosmic rhythm and rime, Every point, as it first fell out, Will come and go in the fearsome bout. See! palsied with horror from garret to core, The house cannot shut its gaping door; Its burst eye stares as if trying to see, And it leans as if settling heavily, Settling heavy with sickness dull: It also is hearing the soundless humming Of the wheel that is turning—the thing that is coming! On the naked rafters of its brain, Gaunt and wintred, see the train Of gossiping, scandal-mongering crows That watch, all silent, with necks a-strain, Wickedly knowing, with heads awry And the sharpened gleam of a cunning eye— Watch, through the cracks of the ruined skull, How the evil business goes!— Beyond the eyes of the cherubim, Beyond the ears of the seraphim, Outside, forsaken, in the dim Phantom-haunted chaos grim He stands, with the deed going on in him!

VII. O winds, winds, that lurk and peep Under the edge of the moony fringe! O winds, winds, up and sweep, Up and blow and billow the air, Billow the air with blow and swinge, Rend me this ghastly house of groans! Rend and scatter the skeleton's bones Over the deserts and mountains bare! Blast and hurl and shiver aside Nailed sticks and mortared stones! Clear the phantom, with torrent and tide, Out of the moon and out of my brain, That the light may fall shadowless in again!

VIII. But, alas, then the ghost O'er mountain and coast Would go roaming, roaming! and never was swine That, grubbing and talking with snork and whine On Gadarene mountains, had taken him in But would rush to the lake to unhouse the sin! For any charnel This ghost is too carnal; There is no volcano, burnt out and cold, Whose very ashes are gray and old, But would cast him forth in reviving flame To blister the sky with a smudge of shame!

IX. Is there no help? none anywhere Under the earth or above the air?— Come, sad woman, whose tender throat Has a red-lipped mouth that can sing no note! Child, whose midwife, the third grim Fate, Shears in hand, thy coming did wait! Father, with blood-bedabbled hair! Mother, all withered with love's despair! Come, broken heart, whatever thou be, Hasten to help this misery! Thou wast only murdered, or left forlorn: He is a horror, a hate, a scorn! Come, if out of the holiest blue That the sapphire throne shines through; For pity come, though thy fair feet stand Next to the elder-band; Fling thy harp on the hyaline, Hurry thee down the spheres divine; Come, and drive those ravens away; Cover his eyes from the pitiless moon, Shadow his brain from her stinging spray; Droop around him, a tent of love, An odour of grace, a fanning dove; Walk through the house with the healing tune Of gentle footsteps; banish the shape Remorse calls up thyself to ape; Comfort him, dear, with pardon sweet; Cool his heart from its burning heat With the water of life that laves the feet Of the throne of God, and the holy street!

X. O God, he is but a living blot, Yet he lives by thee—for if thou wast not, They would vanish together, self-forgot, He and his crime:—one breathing blown From thy spirit on his would all atone, Scatter the horror, and bring relief In an amber dawn of holy grief! God, give him sorrow; arise from within, His primal being, deeper than sin!

XI. Why do I tremble, a creature at bay? 'Tis but a dream—I drive it away. Back comes my breath, and my heart again Pumps the red blood to my fainting brain Released from the nightmare's nine-fold train: God is in heaven—yes, everywhere, And Love, the all-shining, will kill Despair!— To the wall's blank eyeless space I turn the picture's face.

XII. But why is the moon so bare, up there? And why is she so white? And why does the moon so stare, up there— Strangely stare, out of the night? Why stand up the poplars That still way? And why do those two of them Start astray? And out of the black why hangs the gray? Why does it hang down so, I say, Over that house, like a fringed pall Where the dead goes by in a funeral?— Soul of mine, Thou the reason canst divine: Into thee the moon doth stare With pallid, terror-smitten air! Thou, and the Horror lonely-stark, Outcast of eternal dark, Are in nature same and one, And thy story is not done! So let the picture face thee from the wall, And let its white moon stare!



IN THE WINTER.

In the winter, flowers are springing; In the winter, woods are green, Where our banished birds are singing, Where our summer sun is seen! Our cold midnights are coeval With an evening and a morn Where the forest-gods hold revel, And the spring is newly born!

While the earth is full of fighting, While men rise and curse their day, While the foolish strong are smiting, And the foolish weak betray— The true hearts beyond are growing, The brave spirits work alone, Where Love's summer-wind is blowing In a truth-irradiate zone!

While we cannot shape our living To the beauty of our skies, While man wants and earth is giving— Nature calls and man denies— How the old worlds round Him gather Where their Maker is their sun! How the children know the Father Where the will of God is done!

Daily woven with our story, Sounding far above our strife, Is a time-enclosing glory, Is a space-absorbing life. We can dream no dream Elysian, There is no good thing might be, But some angel has the vision, But some human soul shall see!

Is thy strait horizon dreary? Is thy foolish fancy chill? Change the feet that have grown weary For the wings that never will. Burst the flesh, and live the spirit; Haunt the beautiful and far; Thou hast all things to inherit, And a soul for every star.



CHRISTMAS-DAY, 1878.

I think I might be weary of this day That comes inevitably every year, The same when I was young and strong and gay, The same when I am old and growing sere— I should grow weary of it every year But that thou comest to me every day.

I shall grow weary if thou every day But come to me, Lord of eternal life; I shall grow weary thus to watch and pray, For ever out of labour into strife; Take everlasting house with me, my life, And I shall be new-born this Christmas-day.

Thou art the Eternal Son, and born no day, But ever he the Father, thou the Son; I am his child, but being born alway— How long, O Lord, how long till it be done? Be thou from endless years to years the Son— And I thy brother, new-born every day.



THE NEW YEAR.

Be welcome, year! with corn and sickle come; Make poor the body, but make rich the heart: What man that bears his sheaves, gold-nodding, home, Will heed the paint rubbed from his groaning cart!

Nor leave behind thy fears and holy shames, Thy sorrows on the horizon hanging low— Gray gathered fuel for the sunset-flames When joyous in death's harvest-home we go.



TWO RONDELS.

I.

When, in the mid-sea of the night, I waken at thy call, O Lord, The first that troop my bark aboard Are darksome imps that hate the light, Whose tongues are arrows, eyes a blight— Of wraths and cares a pirate horde— Though on the mid-sea of the night It was thy call that waked me, Lord.

Then I must to my arms and fight— Catch up my shield and two-edged sword, The words of him who is thy word— Nor cease till they are put to flight; Then in the mid-sea of the night I turn and listen for thee, Lord.

II.

There comes no voice from thee, O Lord, Across the mid-sea of the night! I lift my voice and cry with might: If thou keep silent, soon a horde Of imps again will swarm aboard, And I shall be in sorry plight If no voice come from thee, my Lord, Across the mid-sea of the night.

There comes no voice; I hear no word! But in my soul dawns something bright:— There is no sea, no foe to fight! Thy heart and mine beat one accord: I need no voice from thee, O Lord, Across the mid-sea of the night.



RONDEL.

Heart, thou must learn to do without— That is the riches of the poor, Their liberty is to endure; Wrap thou thine old cloak thee about, And carol loud and carol stout; Let thy rags fly, nor wish them fewer; Thou too must learn to do without, Must earn the riches of the poor!

Why should'st thou only wear no clout? Thou only walk in love-robes pure? Why should thy step alone be sure? Thou only free of fortune's flout? Nay, nay! but learn to go without, And so be humbly, richly poor.



SONG.

Lighter and sweeter Let your song be; And for sorrow—oh cheat her With melody!



SMOKE.

Lord, I have laid my heart upon thy altar But cannot get the wood to burn; It hardly flares ere it begins to falter And to the dark return.

Old sap, or night-fallen dew, makes damp the fuel; In vain my breath would flame provoke; Yet see—at every poor attempt's renewal To thee ascends the smoke!

'Tis all I have—smoke, failure, foiled endeavour, Coldness and doubt and palsied lack: Such as I have I send thee!—perfect Giver, Send thou thy lightning back.



TO A CERTAIN CRITIC.

Such guests as you, sir, were not in my mind When I my homely dish with care designed; 'Twas certain humble souls I would have fed Who do not turn from wholesome milk and bread: You came, slow-trotting on the narrow way, O'erturned the food, and trod it in the clay; Then low with discoid nostrils sniffing curt, Cried, "Sorry cook! why, what a mess of dirt!"



SONG.

She loves thee, loves thee not! That, that is all, my heart. Why should she take a part In every selfish blot, In every greedy spot That now doth ache and smart Because she loves thee not— Not, not at all, poor heart!

Thou art no such dove-cot Of virtues—no such chart Of highways, though the dart Of love be through thee shot! Why should she not love not Thee, poor, pinched, selfish heart?



A CRY.

Lord, hear my discontent: all blank I stand, A mirror polished by thy hand; Thy sun's beams flash and flame from me— I cannot help it: here I stand, there he! To one of them I cannot say, Go, and on yonder water play; Nor one poor ragged daisy can I fashion— I do not make the words of this my limping passion! If I should say, Now I will think a thought, Lo, I must wait, unknowing What thought in me is growing, Until the thing to birth be brought! Nor know I then what next will come From out the gulf of silence dumb: I am the door the thing will find To pass into the general mind! I cannot say I think— I only stand upon the thought-well's brink: From darkness to the sun the water bubbles up— lift it in my cup. Thou only thinkest—I am thought; Me and my thought thou thinkest. Nought Am I but as a fountain spout From which thy water welleth out. Thou art the only one, the all in all.— Yet when my soul on thee doth call And thou dost answer out of everywhere, I in thy allness have my perfect share.



FROM HOME.

Some men there are who cannot spare A single tear until they feel The last cold pressure, and the heel Is stamped upon the outmost layer.

And, waking, some will sigh to think The clouds have borrowed winter's wing, Sad winter, when the grasses spring No more about the fountain's brink.

And some would call me coward fool: I lay a claim to better blood, But yet a heap of idle mud Hath power to make me sorrowful.



TO MY MOTHER EARTH.

0 Earth, Earth, Earth, I am dying for love of thee, For thou hast given me birth, And thy hands have tended me.

I would fall asleep on thy breast When its swelling folds are bare, When the thrush dreams of its nest And the life of its joy in the air;

When thy life is a vanished ghost, And the glory hath left thy waves, When thine eye is blind with frost, And the fog sits on the graves;

When the blasts are shivering about, And the rain thy branches beats, When the damps of death are out, And the mourners are in the streets.

Oh my sleep should be deep In the arms of thy swiftening motion, And my dirge the mystic sweep Of the winds that nurse the ocean.

And my eye would slowly ope With the voice that awakens thee, And runs like a glance of hope Up through the quickening tree;

When the roots of the lonely fir Are dipt in thy veining heat, And thy countless atoms stir With the gather of mossy feet;

When the sun's great censer swings In the hands that always be, And the mists from thy watery rings Go up like dust from the sea;

When the midnight airs are assembling With a gush in thy whispering halls, And the leafy air is trembling Like a stream before it falls.

Thy shadowy hand hath found me On the drifts of the Godhead's will, And thy dust hath risen around me With a life that guards me still.

O Earth! I have caught from thine The pulse of a mystic chase; O Earth! I have drunk like wine The life of thy swiftening race.

Wilt miss me, mother sweet, A life in thy milky veins? Wilt miss the sound of my feet In the tramp that shakes thy plains

When the jaws of darkness rend, And the vapours fold away, And the sounds of life ascend Like dust in the blinding day?

I would know thy silver strain In the shouts of the starry crowd When the souls of thy changing men Rise up like an incense cloud.

I would know thy brightening lobes And the lap of thy watery bars Though space were choked with globes And the night were blind with stars!

From the folds of my unknown place, When my soul is glad and free, I will slide by my God's sweet grace And hang like a cloud on thee.

When the pale moon sits at night By the brink of her shining well, Laving the rings of her widening light On the slopes of the weltering swell,

I will fall like a wind from the west On the locks of thy prancing streams, And sow the fields of thy rest With handfuls of sweet young dreams.

When the sound of thy children's cry Hath stricken thy gladness dumb, I will kindle thine upward eye With a laugh from the years that come.

Far above where the loud wind raves, On a wing as still as snow I will watch the grind of the curly waves As they bite the coasts below;

When the shining ranks of the frost Draw down on the glistening wold In the mail of a fairy host, And the earth is mossed with cold,

Till the plates that shine about Close up with a filmy din, Till the air is frozen out, And the stars are frozen in.

I will often stoop to range On the fields where my youth was spent, And my feet shall smite the cliffs of change With the rush of a steep descent;

And my glowing soul shall burn With a love that knows no pall, And my eye of worship turn Upon him that fashioned all—

When the sounding waves of strife Have died on the Godhead's sea, And thy life is a purer life That nurses a life in me.



THY HEART.

Make not of thy heart a casket, Opening seldom, quick to close; But of bread a wide-mouthed basket, Or a cup that overflows.



0 LORD, HOW HAPPY!

From the German of Dessler.

O Lord, how happy is the time When in thy love I rest! When from my weariness I climb Even to thy tender breast! The night of sorrow endeth there— Thou art brighter than the sun; And in thy pardon and thy care The heaven of heaven is won.

Let the world call herself my foe, Or let the world allure— I care not for the world; I go To this dear friend and sure. And when life's fiercest storms are sent Upon life's wildest sea, My little bark is confident Because it holds by thee.

When the law threatens endless death Upon the dreadful hill, Straightway from her consuming breath My soul goeth higher still— Goeth to Jesus, wounded, slain, And maketh him her home, Whence she will not go out again, And where death cannot come.

I do not fear the wilderness Where thou hast been before; Nay rather will I daily press After thee, near thee, more! Thou art my food; on thee I lean, Thou makest my heart sing; And to thy heavenly pastures green All thy dear flock dost bring.

And if the gate that opens there Be dark to other men, It is not dark to those who share The heart of Jesus then: That is not losing much of life Which is not losing thee, Who art as present in the strife As in the victory.

Therefore how happy is the time When in thy love I rest! When from my weariness I climb Even to thy tender breast! The night of sorrow endeth there— Thou art brighter than the sun! And in thy pardon and thy care The heaven of heaven is won!



NO SIGN.

O Lord, if on the wind, at cool of day, I heard one whispered word of mighty grace; If through the darkness, as in bed I lay, But once had come a hand upon my face;

If but one sign that might not be mistook Had ever been, since first thy face I sought, I should not now be doubting o'er a book, But serving thee with burning heart and thought.

So dreams that heart. But to my heart I say, Turning my face to front the dark and wind: Such signs had only barred anew his way Into thee, longing heart, thee, wildered mind.

They asked the very Way, where lies the way? The very Son, where is the Father's face? How he could show himself, if not in clay, Who was the lord of spirit, form, and space!

My being, Lord, will nevermore be whole Until thou come behind mine ears and eyes, Enter and fill the temple of my soul With perfect contact—such a sweet surprise,

Such presence as, before it met the view, The prophet-fancy could not once foresee, Though every corner of the temple knew By very emptiness its need of thee.

When I keep all thy words, no favoured some, Heedless of worldly winds or judgment's tide, Then, Jesus, thou wilt with thy father come— Oh, ended prayers!—and in my soul abide.

Ah, long delay! ah, cunning, creeping sin! I shall but fail, and cease at length to try: O Jesus, though thou wilt not yet come in, Knock at my window as thou passest by!



NOVEMBER, 1851.

What dost thou here, O soul, Beyond thy own control, Under the strange wild sky? 0 stars, reach down your hands, And clasp me in your silver bands, I tremble with this mystery!— Flung hither by a chance Of restless circumstance, Thou art but here, and wast not sent; Yet once more mayest thou draw By thy own mystic law To the centre of thy wonderment.

Why wilt thou stop and start? Draw nearer, oh my heart, And I will question thee most wistfully; Gather thy last clear resolution To look upon thy dissolution.

The great God's life throbs far and free, And thou art but a spark Known only in thy dark, Or a foam-fleck upon the awful ocean, Thyself thy slender dignity, Thy own thy vexing mystery, In the vast change that is not change but motion.

'Tis not so hard as it would seem; Thy life is but a dream— And yet thou hast some thoughts about the past; Let go, let go thy memories, They are not things but wandering cries— Wave them each one a long farewell at last: I hear thee say—"Take them, O tide, And I will turn aside, Gazing with heedlessness, nay, even with laughter! Bind me, ye winds and storms, Among the things that once had forms, And carry me clean out of sight thereafter!"

Thou hast lived long enough To know thy own weak stuff, Laughing thy fondest joys to utter scorn; Give up the idle strife— It is but mockery of life; The fates had need of thee and thou wast born! They are, in sooth, but thou shalt die. O wandering spark! O homeless cry! O empty will, still lacking self-intent! Look up among the autumn trees: The ripened fruits fall through the breeze, And they will shake thee even like these Into the lap of an Accomplishment!

Thou hadst a faith, and voices said:— "Doubt not that truth, but bend thy head Unto the God who drew thee from the night:" Thou liftedst up thy eyes—and, lo! A host of voices answered—"No; A thousand things as good have seen the light!" Look how the swarms arise From every clod before thy eyes! Are thine the only hopes that fade and fall When to the centre of its action One purpose draws each separate fraction, And nothing but effects are left at all? Aha, thy faith! what is thy faith? The sleep that waits on coming death— A blind delirious swoon that follows pain. "True to thy nature!"—well! right well! But what that nature is thou canst not tell— It has a thousand voices in thy brain. Danced all the leaflets to and fro? —Thy feet have trod them long ago! Sprung the glad music up the blue? —The hawk hath cut the song in two. All the mountains crumble, All the forests fall, All thy brethren stumble, And rise no more at all! In the dim woods there is a sound When the winds begin to moan; It is not of joy or yet of mirth, But the mournful cry of our mother Earth, As she calleth back her own. Through the rosy air to-night The living creatures play Up and down through the rich faint light— None so happy as they! But the blast is here, and noises fall Like the sound of steps in a ruined hall, An icy touch is upon them all, And they sicken and fade away.

The child awoke with an eye of gladness, With a light on his head and a matchless grace, And laughed at the passing shades of sadness That chased the smiles on his mother's face; And life with its lightsome load of youth Swam like a boat on a shining lake— Freighted with hopes enough, in sooth, But he lived to trample on joy and truth, And change his crown for a murder-stake!

Oh, a ruddy light went through the room, Till the dark ran out to his mother Night! And that little chamber showed through the gloom Like a Noah's ark with its nest of light! Right glad was the maiden there, I wis, With the youth that held her hand in his! Oh, sweet were the words that went and came Through the light and shade of the leaping flame That glowed on the cheerful faces! So human the speech, so sunny and kind, That the darkness danced on the wall behind, And even the wail of the winter wind Sang sweet through the window-cases!

But a mournful wail crept round and round, And a voice cried:—"Come!" with a dreary sound, And the circle wider grew; The light flame sank, and sorrow fell On the faces of those that loved so well; Darker and wilder grew the tone; Fainter and fainter the faces shone; The wild night clasped them, and they were gone— And thou art passing too!

Lo, the morning slowly springs Like a meek white babe from the womb of night! One golden planet sits and stings The shifting gloom with his point of light! Lo, the sun on its throne of flame! —Wouldst thou climb and win a crown? Oh, many a heart that pants for the same Falls to the earth ere he goes down! Thy heart is a flower with an open cup— Sit and watch, if it pleaseth thee, Till the melting twilight fill it up With a crystal of tender sympathy; So, gently will it tremble The silent midnight through, And flocks of stars assemble By turns in its depths of dew;— But look! oh, look again! After the driving wind and rain! When the day is up and the sun is strong, And the voices of men are loud and long, When the flower hath slunk to its rest again, And love is lost in the strife of men!

Let the morning break with thoughts of love, And the evening fall with dreams of bliss— So vainly panteth the prisoned dove For the depths of her sweet wilderness; So stoops the eagle in his pride From his rocky nest ere the bow is bent; So sleeps the deer on the mountain-side Ere the howling pack hath caught the scent!

The fire climbs high till its work is done; The stalk falls down when the flower is gone; And the stars of heaven when their course is run Melt silently away! There was a footfall on the snow, A line of light on the ocean-flow, And a billow's dash on the rocks below That stand by the wintry bay:— The snow was gone on the coming night; Another wave arose in his might, Uplifted his foaming breast of white, And died like the rest for aye!

Oh, the stars were bright! and thyself in thee Yearned for an immortality! And the thoughts that drew from thy busy brain Clasped the worlds like an endless chain— When a moon arose, and her moving chime Smote on thy soul, like a word in time, Or a breathless wish, or a thought in rime, And the truth that looked so gloomy and high Leapt to thy arms with a joyful cry! But what wert thou when a soulless Cause Opened the book of its barren laws, And thy spirit that was so glad and free Was caught in the gin of necessity, And a howl arose from the strife of things Vexing each other with scorpion stings? What wert thou but an orphan child Thrust from the door when the night was wild? Or a sailor on the toiling main Looking blindly up through the wind and rain As the hull of the vessel fell in twain!

Seals are on the book of fate, Hands may not unbind it; Eyes may search for truth till late, But will never find it—! Rising on the brow of night Like a portent of dismay, As the worlds in wild affright Track it on its direful way; Resting like a rainbow bar Where the curve and level meet, As the children chase it far O'er the sands with blistered feet; Sadly through the mist of ages Gazing on this life of fear, Doubtful shining on its pages, Only seen to disappear! Sit thee by the sounding shore —Winds and waves of human breath!— Learn a lesson from their roar, Swelling, bursting evermore: Live thy life and die thy death! Die not like the writhing worm, Rise and win thy highest stake; Better perish in the storm Than sit rotting on the lake! Triumph in thy present youth, Pulse of fire and heart of glee; Leap at once into the truth, If there is a truth for thee.

Shapeless thoughts and dull opinions, Slow distinctions and degrees,— Vex not thou thy weary pinions With such leaden weights as these— Through this mystic jurisdiction Reaching out a hand by chance, Resting on a dull conviction Whetted but by ignorance; Living ever to behold Mournful eyes that watch and weep; Spirit suns that flashed in gold Failing from the vasty deep; Starry lights that glowed like Truth Gazing with unnumbered eyes, Melting from the skies of youth, Swallowed up of mysteries; Cords of love that sweetly bound thee; Faded writing on thy brow; Presences that came around thee; Hands of faith that fail thee now!

Groping hands will ever find thee In the night with loads of chains! Lift thy fetters and unbind thee, Cast thee on the midnight plains: Shapes of vision all-providing— Famished cheeks and hungry cries! Sound of crystal waters sliding— Thirsty lips and bloodshot eyes! Empty forms that send no gleaming Through the mystery of this strife!— Oh, in such a life of seeming, Death were worth an endless life!

Hark the trumpet of the ocean Where glad lands were wont to be! Many voices of commotion Break in tumult over thee! Lo, they climb the frowning ages, Marching o'er their level lands! Far behind the strife that rages Silence sits with clasped hands; Undivided Purpose, freeing His own steps from hindrances, Sending out great floods of being, Bathes thy steps in silentness. Sit thee down in mirth and laughter— One there is that waits for thee; If there is a true hereafter He will lend thee eyes to see.

Like a snowflake gently falling On a quiet fountain, Or a weary echo calling From a distant mountain, Drop thy hands in peace,— Fail—falter—cease.



OF ONE WHO DIED IN SPRING.

Loosener of springs, he died by thee! Softness, not hardness, sent him home; He loved thee—and thou mad'st him free Of all the place thou comest from!



AN AUTUMN SONG.

Are the leaves falling round about The churchyard on the hill? Is the glow of autumn going out? Is that the winter chill? And yet through winter's noise, no doubt The graves are very still!

Are the woods empty, voiceless, bare? On sodden leaves do you tread? Is nothing left of all those fair? Is the whole summer fled? Well, so from this unwholesome air Have gone away these dead!

The seasons pierce me; like a leaf I feel the autumn blow, And tremble between nature's grief And the silent death below. O Summer, thou art very brief! Where do these exiles go?

Gilesgate, Durham.



TRIOLET.

Few in joy's sweet riot Able are to listen: Thou, to make me quiet, Quenchest the sweet riot, Tak'st away my diet, Puttest me in prison— Quenchest joy's sweet riot That the heart may listen.



I SEE THEE NOT.

Yes, Master, when thou comest thou shalt find A little faith on earth, if I am here! Thou know'st how oft I turn to thee my mind. How sad I wait until thy face appear!

Hast thou not ploughed my thorny ground full sore, And from it gathered many stones and sherds? Plough, plough and harrow till it needs no more— Then sow thy mustard-seed, and send thy birds.

I love thee, Lord; and if I yield to fears, Nor trust with triumph that pale doubt defies, Remember, Lord, 'tis nigh two thousand years, And I have never seen thee with mine eyes!

And when I lift them from the wondrous tale, See, all about me hath so strange a show! Is that thy river running down the vale? Is that thy wind that through the pines doth blow?

Could'st thou right verily appear again, The same who walked the paths of Palestine, And here in England teach thy trusting men In church and field and house, with word and sign?

Here are but lilies, sparrows, and the rest! My hands on some dear proof would light and stay! But my heart sees John leaning on thy breast, And sends them forth to do what thou dost say.



A BROKEN PRAYER.

0 Lord, my God, how long Shall my poor heart pant for a boundless joy? How long, O mighty Spirit, shall I hear The murmur of Truth's crystal waters slide From the deep caverns of their endless being, But my lips taste not, and the grosser air Choke each pure inspiration of thy will?

I am a denseness 'twixt me and the light; 1 cannot round myself; my purest thought, Ere it is thought, hath caught the taint of earth, And mocked me with hard thoughts beyond my will.

I would be a wind Whose smallest atom is a viewless wing, All busy with the pulsing life that throbs To do thy bidding; yea, or the meanest thing That has relation to a changeless truth, Could I but be instinct with thee—each thought The lightning of a pure intelligence, And every act as the loud thunder-clap Of currents warring for a vacuum.

Lord, clothe me with thy truth as with a robe; Purge me with sorrow; I will bend my head And let the nations of thy waves pass over, Bathing me in thy consecrated strength; And let thy many-voiced and silver winds Pass through my frame with their clear influence, O save me; I am blind; lo, thwarting shapes Wall up the void before, and thrusting out Lean arms of unshaped expectation, beckon Down to the night of all unholy thoughts.

Oh, when at midnight one of thy strong angels Stems back the waves of earthly influence That shape unsteady continents around me, And they draw off with the devouring gush Of exile billows that have found a home, Leaving me islanded on unseen points, Hanging 'twixt thee and chaos—I have seen Unholy shapes lop off my shining thoughts, And they have lent me leathern wings of fear, Of baffled pride and harrowing distrust; And Godhead, with its crown of many stars, Its pinnacles of flaming holiness, And voice of leaves in the green summer-time, Has seemed the shadowed image of a self! Then my soul blackened; and I rose to find And grasp my doom, and cleave the arching deeps Of desolation.

O Lord, my soul is a forgotten well Clad round with its own rank luxuriance; A fountain a kind sunbeam searches for, Sinking the lustre of its arrowy finger Through the long grass its own strange virtue Hath blinded up its crystal eye withal: Make me a broad strong river coming down With shouts from its high hills, whose rocky hearts Throb forth the joy of their stability In watery pulses from their inmost deeps; And I shall be a vein upon thy world, Circling perpetual from the parent deep.

Most mighty One, Confirm and multiply my thoughts of good; Help me to wall each sacred treasure round With the firm battlements of special action. Alas, my holy happy thoughts of thee Make not perpetual nest within my soul, But like strange birds of dazzling colours stoop The trailing glories of their sunward speed For one glad moment, filling my blasted boughs With the sunshine of their wings. Make me a forest Of gladdest life wherein perpetual spring Lifts up her leafy tresses in the wind. Lo, now I see Thy trembling starlight sit among my pines, And thy young moon slide down my arching boughs With a soft sound of restless eloquence! And I can feel a joy as when thy hosts Of trampling winds, gathering in maddened bands, Roar upward through the blue and flashing day Round my still depths of uncleft solitude.

Hear me, O Lord, When the black night draws down upon my soul, And voices of temptation darken down The misty wind, slamming thy starry doors With bitter jests:—"Thou fool!" they seem to say, "Thou hast no seed of goodness in thee; all Thy nature hath been stung right through and through; Thy sin hath blasted thee and made thee old; Thou hadst a will, but thou hast killed it dead, And with the fulsome garniture of life Built out the loathsome corpse; thou art a child Of night and death, even lower than a worm; Gather the skirts up of thy shadowy self, And with what resolution thou hast left Fall on the damned spikes of doom!"

Oh, take me like a child, If thou hast made me for thyself, my God, And lead me up thy hills. I shall not fear, So thou wilt make me pure, and beat back sin With the terrors of thine eye: it fears me not As once it might have feared thine own good image, But lays bold siege at my heart's doors.

Oh, I have seen a thing of beauty stand In the young moonlight of its upward thoughts, And the old earth came round it with its gifts Of gladness, whispering leaves, and odorous plants, Until its large and spiritual eye Burned with intensest love: my God, I could Have watched it evermore with Argus-eyes, Lest when the noontide of the summer's sun Let down the tented sunlight on the plain, His flaming beams should scorch my darling flower; And through the fruitless nights of leaden gloom, Of plashing rains, and knotted winds of cold, Yea, when thy lightnings ran across the sky, And the loud stumbling blasts fell from the hills Upon the mounds of death, I could have watched Guarding such beauty like another life! But, O my God, it changed!— Yet methinks I know not if it was not I! Its beauty turned to ghastly loathsomeness! Then a hand spurned me backwards from the clouds, And with the gather of a mighty whirlwind, Drew in the glittering gifts of life.

How long, O Lord, how long? I am a man lost in a rocky place! Lo, all thy echoes smite me with confusion Of varied speech,—the cry of vanished Life Rolled upon nations' sighs—of hearts uplifted Against despair—the stifled sounds of Woe Sitting perpetual by its grey cold well— Or wasted Toil climbing its endless hills With quickening gasps—or the thin winds of Joy That beat about the voices of the crowd!

Lord, hast thou sent Thy moons to mock us with perpetual hope? Lighted within our breasts the love of love To make us ripen for despair, my God?

Oh, dost thou hold each individual soul Strung clear upon thy flaming rods of purpose? Or does thine inextinguishable will Stand on the steeps of night with lifted hand Filling the yawning wells of monstrous space With mixing thought—drinking up single life As in a cup? and from the rending folds Of glimmering purpose, do all thy navied stars Slide through the gloom with mystic melody, Like wishes on a brow? Oh, is my soul, Hung like a dewdrop in thy grassy ways, Drawn up again into the rack of change Even through the lustre which created it? —O mighty one, thou wilt not smite me through With scorching wrath, because my spirit stands Bewildered in thy circling mysteries!

Oh lift the burdened gloom that chokes my soul With dews of darkness; smite the lean winds of death That run with howls around the ruined temples, Blowing the souls of men about like leaves.

Lo, the broad life-lands widen overhead, Star-galaxies arise like drifting snow, And happy life goes whitening down the stream Of boundless action, whilst my fettered soul Sits, as a captive in a noisome dungeon Watches the pulses of his withered heart Lave out the sparkling minutes of his life On the idle flags!

Come in the glory of thine excellence, Rive the dense gloom with wedges of clear light, And let the shimmer of thy chariot wheels Burn through the cracks of night! So slowly, Lord, To lift myself to thee with hands of toil, Climbing the slippery cliffs of unheard prayer! Lift up a hand among my idle days— One beckoning finger: I will cast aside The clogs of earthly circumstance and run Up the broad highways where the countless worlds Sit ripening in the summer of thy love. Send a clear meaning sparkling through the years; Burst all the prison-doors, and make men's hearts Gush up like fountains with thy melody; Brighten the hollow eyes; fill with life's fruits The hands that grope and scramble down the wastes; And let the ghastly troops of withered ones Come shining o'er the mountains of thy love.

Lord, thy strange mysteries come thickening down Upon my head like snowflakes, shutting out The happy upper fields with chilly vapour. Shall I content my soul with a weak sense Of safety? or feed my ravenous hunger with Sore purged hopes, that are not hopes but fears Clad in white raiment?

The creeds lie in the hollow of men's hearts Like festering pools glassing their own corruption; The slimy eyes stare up with dull approval, And answer not when thy bright starry feet Move on the watery floors: oh, shake men's souls Together like the gathering of all oceans Rent from their hidden chambers, till the waves Lift up their million voices of high joy Along the echoing cliffs! come thus, O Lord, With nightly gifts of stars, and lay a hand Of mighty peace upon the quivering flood.

O wilt thou hear me when I cry to thee? I am a child lost in a mighty forest; The air is thick with voices, and strange hands Reach through the dusk, and pluck me by the skirts. There is a voice which sounds like words from home, But, as I stumble on to reach it, seems To leap from rock to rock: oh, if it is Willing obliquity of sense, descend, Heal all my wanderings, take me by the hand, And lead me homeward through the shadows. Let me not by my wilful acts of pride Block up the windows of thy truth, and grow A wasted, withered thing, that stumbles on Down to the grave with folded hands of sloth And leaden confidence.



COME DOWN.

Still am I haunting Thy door with my prayers; Still they are panting Up thy steep stairs! Wouldst thou not rather Come down to my heart, And there, O my Father, Be what thou art?



A MOOD.

My thoughts are like fire-flies, pulsing in moonlight; My heart like a silver cup, filled with red wine; My soul a pale gleaming horizon, whence soon light Will flood the gold earth with a torrent divine.



THE CARPENTER.

0 Lord, at Joseph's humble bench Thy hands did handle saw and plane; Thy hammer nails did drive and clench, Avoiding knot and humouring grain.

That thou didst seem, thou wast indeed, In sport thy tools thou didst not use; Nor, helping hind's or fisher's need, The labourer's hire, too nice, refuse.

Lord, might I be but as a saw, A plane, a chisel, in thy hand!— No, Lord! I take it back in awe, Such prayer for me is far too grand.

I pray, O Master, let me lie, As on thy bench the favoured wood; Thy saw, thy plane, thy chisel ply, And work me into something good.

No, no; ambition, holy-high, Urges for more than both to pray: Come in, O gracious Force, I cry— O workman, share my shed of clay.

Then I, at bench, or desk, or oar, With knife or needle, voice or pen, As thou in Nazareth of yore, Shall do the Father's will again.

Thus fashioning a workman rare, O Master, this shall be thy fee: Home to thy father thou shall bear Another child made like to thee.



THE OLD GARDEN.

I.

I stood in an ancient garden With high red walls around; Over them grey and green lichens In shadowy arabesque wound.

The topmost climbing blossoms On fields kine-haunted looked out; But within were shelter and shadow, With daintiest odours about.

There were alleys and lurking arbours, Deep glooms into which to dive. The lawns were as soft as fleeces, Of daisies I counted but five.

The sun-dial was so aged It had gathered a thoughtful grace; 'Twas the round-about of the shadow That so had furrowed its face.

The flowers were all of the oldest That ever in garden sprung; Red, and blood-red, and dark purple The rose-lamps flaming hung.

Along the borders fringed With broad thick edges of box Stood foxgloves and gorgeous poppies And great-eyed hollyhocks.

There were junipers trimmed into castles, And ash-trees bowed into tents; For the garden, though ancient and pensive, Still wore quaint ornaments.

It was all so stately fantastic Its old wind hardly would stir; Young Spring, when she merrily entered, Scarce felt it a place for her.

II.

I stood in the summer morning Under a cavernous yew; The sun was gently climbing, And the scents rose after the dew.

I saw the wise old mansion, Like a cow in the noon-day heat, Stand in a lake of shadows That rippled about its feet.

Its windows were oriel and latticed, Lowly and wide and fair; And its chimneys like clustered pillars Stood up in the thin blue air.

White doves, like the thoughts of a lady, Haunted it all about; With a train of green and blue comets The peacock went marching stout.

The birds in the trees were singing A song as old as the world, Of love and green leaves and sunshine, And winter folded and furled.

They sang that never was sadness But it melted and passed away; They sang that never was darkness But in came the conquering day.

And I knew that a maiden somewhere, In a low oak-panelled room, In a nimbus of shining garments, An aureole of white-browed bloom,

Looked out on the garden dreamy, And knew not it was old; Looked past the gray and the sombre, Saw but the green and the gold,

III.

I stood in the gathering twilight, In a gently blowing wind; Then the house looked half uneasy, Like one that was left behind.

The roses had lost their redness, And cold the grass had grown; At roost were the pigeons and peacock, The sun-dial seemed a head-stone.

The world by the gathering twilight In a gauzy dusk was clad; Something went into my spirit And made me a little sad.

Grew and gathered the twilight, It filled my heart and brain; The sadness grew more than sadness, It turned to a gentle pain.

Browned and brooded the twilight, Pervaded, absorbed the calm, Till it seemed for some human sorrows There could not be any balm.

IV.

Then I knew that, up a staircase Which untrod will yet creak and shake, Deep in a distant chamber A ghost was coming awake—

In the growing darkness growing, Growing till her eyes appear Like spots of a deeper twilight, But more transparent clear:

Thin as hot air up-trembling, Thin as sun-molten crape, An ethereal shadow of something Is taking a certain shape;

A shape whose hands hang listless, Let hang its disordered hair; A shape whose bosom is heaving But draws not in the air.

And I know, what time the moonlight On her nest of shadows will sit, Out on the dim lawn gliding That shadowy shadow will flit.

V.

The moon is dreaming upward From a sea of cloud and gleam; She looks as if she had seen me Never but in a dream.

Down the stair I know she is coming, Bare-footed, lifting her train; It creaks not—she hears it creaking Where once there was a brain.

Out at yon side-door she's coming, With a timid glance right and left; Her look is hopeless yet eager, The look of a heart bereft.

Across the lawn she is flitting, Her thin gown feels the wind; Are her white feet bending the grasses? Her hair is lifted behind!

VI.

Shall I stay to look on her nearer? Would she start and vanish away? Oh, no, she will never see me, Stand I near as I may!

It is not this wind she is feeling, Not this cool grass below; 'Tis the wind and the grass of an evening A hundred years ago.

She sees no roses darkling, No stately hollyhocks dim; She is only thinking and dreaming The garden, the night, and him,

The unlit windows behind her, The timeless dial-stone, The trees, and the moon, and the shadows A hundred years agone!

'Tis a night for a ghostly lover To haunt the best-loved spot: Is he come in his dreams to this garden? I gaze, but I see him not.

VII.

I will not look on her nearer, My heart would be torn in twain; From my eyes the garden would vanish In the falling of their rain.

I will not look on a sorrow That darkens into despair, On the surge of a heart that cannot Yet cannot cease to bear.

My soul to hers would be calling: She would hear no word it said! If I cried aloud in the stillness She would never turn her head!

She is dreaming the sky above her, She is dreaming the earth below:— This night she lost her lover A hundred years ago.



A NOONDAY MELODY.

Everything goes to its rest; The hills are asleep in the noon; And life is as still in its nest As the moon when she looks on a moon In the depth of a calm river's breast As it steals through a midnight in June.

The streams have forgotten the sea In the dream of their musical sound; The sunlight is thick on the tree, And the shadows lie warm on the ground,— So still, you may watch them and see Every breath that awakens around.

The churchyard lies still in the heat, With its handful of mouldering bone, As still as the long stalk of wheat In the shadow that sits by the stone, As still as the grass at my feet When I walk in the meadows alone.

The waves are asleep on the main, And the ships are asleep on the wave; And the thoughts are as still in my brain As the echo that sleeps in the cave; All rest from their labour and pain— Then why should not I in my grave?



WHO LIGHTS THE FIRE?

Who lights the fire—that forth so gracefully And freely frolicketh the fairy smoke? Some pretty one who never felt the yoke— Glad girl, or maiden more sedate than she.

Pedant it cannot, villain cannot be! Some genius, may-be, his own symbol woke; But puritan, nor rogue in virtue's cloke, Nor kitchen-maid has done it certainly!

Ha, ha! you cannot find the lighter out For all the blue smoke's pantomimic gesture— His name or nature, sex or age or vesture! The fire was lit by human care, no doubt— But now the smoke is Nature's tributary, Dancing 'twixt man and nothing like a fairy.



WHO WOULD HAVE THOUGHT?

Who would have thought that even an idle song Were such a holy and celestial thing That wickedness and envy cannot sing— That music for no moment lives with wrong? I know this, for a very grievous throng, Dark thoughts, low wishes, round my bosom cling, And, underneath, the hidden holy spring Stagnates because of their enchantment strong.

Blow, breath of heaven, on all this poison blow! And, heart, glow upward to this gracious breath! Between them, vanish, mist of sin and death, And let the life of life within me flow! Love is the green earth, the celestial air, And music runs like dews and rivers there!



ON A DECEMBER DAY.

I.

This is the sweetness of an April day; The softness of the spring is on the face Of the old year. She has no natural grace, But something comes to her from far away

Out of the Past, and on her old decay The beauty of her childhood you can trace.— And yet she moveth with a stormy pace, And goeth quickly.—Stay, old year, oh, stay!

We do not like new friends, we love the old; With young, fierce, hopeful hearts we ill agree; But thou art patient, stagnant, calm, and cold, And not like that new year that is to be;— Life, promise, love, her eyes may fill, fair child! We know the past, and will not be beguiled.

II.

Yet the free heart will not be captive long; And if she changes often, she is free. But if she changes: One has mastery Who makes the joy the last in every song. And so to-day I blessed the breezes strong That swept the blue; I blessed the breezes free That rolled wet leaves like rivers shiningly; I blessed the purple woods I stood among.

"And yet the spring is better!" Bitterness Came with the words, but did not stay with them. "Accomplishment and promise! field and stem New green fresh growing in a fragrant dress! And we behind with death and memory!" —Nay, prophet-spring! but I will follow thee.



CHRISTMAS DAY, 1850.

Beautiful stories wed with lovely days Like words and music:—what shall be the tale Of love and nobleness that might avail To express in action what this sweetness says—

The sweetness of a day of airs and rays That are strange glories on the winter pale? Alas, O beauty, all my fancies fail! I cannot tell a story in thy praise!

Thou hast, thou hast one—set, and sure to chime With thee, as with the days of "winter wild;" For Joy like Sorrow loves his blessed feet Who shone from Heaven on Earth this Christmas-time A Brother and a Saviour, Mary's child!— And so, fair day, thou hast thy story sweet.



TO A FEBRUARY PRIMROSE.

I know not what among the grass thou art, Thy nature, nor thy substance, fairest flower, Nor what to other eyes thou hast of power To send thine image through them to the heart; But when I push the frosty leaves apart And see thee hiding in thy wintry bower Thou growest up within me from that hour, And through the snow I with the spring depart.

I have no words. But fragrant is the breath, Pale beauty, of thy second life within. There is a wind that cometh for thy death, But thou a life immortal dost begin, Where in one soul, which is thy heaven, shall dwell Thy spirit, beautiful Unspeakable!



IN FEBRUARY.

Now in the dark of February rains, Poor lovers of the sunshine, spring is born, The earthy fields are full of hidden corn, And March's violets bud along the lanes;

Therefore with joy believe in what remains. And thou who dost not feel them, do not scorn Our early songs for winter overworn, And faith in God's handwriting on the plains.

"Hope" writes he, "Love" in the first violet, "Joy," even from Heaven, in songs and winds and trees; And having caught the happy words in these While Nature labours with the letters yet, Spring cannot cheat us, though her hopes be broken, Nor leave us, for we know what God hath spoken.



THE TRUE.

I envy the tree-tops that shake so high In winds that fill them full of heavenly airs; I envy every little cloud that shares With unseen angels evening in the sky; I envy most the youngest stars that lie Sky-nested, and the loving heaven that bears, And night that makes strong worlds of them unawares; And all God's other beautiful and nigh!

Nay, nay, I envy not! And these are dreams, Fancies and images of real heaven! My longings, all my longing prayers are given For that which is, and not for that which seems. Draw me, O Lord, to thy true heaven above, The Heaven of thy Thought, thy Rest, thy Love.



THE DWELLERS THEREIN.

Down a warm alley, early in the year, Among the woods, with all the sunshine in And all the winds outside it, I begin To think that something gracious will appear, If anything of grace inhabit here, Or there be friendship in the woods to win. Might one but find companions more akin To trees and grass and happy daylight clear, And in this wood spend one long hour at home! The fairies do not love so bright a place, And angels to the forest never come, But I have dreamed of some harmonious race, The kindred of the shapes that haunt the shore Of Music's flow and flow for evermore.



AUTUMN'S GOLD.

Along the tops of all the yellow trees, The golden-yellow trees, the sunshine lies; And where the leaves are gone, long rays surprise Lone depths of thicket with their brightnesses; And through the woods, all waste of many a breeze, Cometh more joy of light for Poet's eyes— Green fields lying yellow underneath the skies, And shining houses and blue distances.

By the roadside, like rocks of golden ore That make the western river-beds so bright, The briar and the furze are all alight! Perhaps the year will be so fair no more, But now the fallen, falling leaves are gay, And autumn old has shone into a Day!



PUNISHMENT.

Mourner, that dost deserve thy mournfulness, Call thyself punished, call the earth thy hell; Say, "God is angry, and I earned it well— I would not have him smile on wickedness:"

Say this, and straightway all thy grief grows less:— "God rules at least, I find as prophets tell, And proves it in this prison!"—then thy cell Smiles with an unsuspected loveliness.

—"A prison—and yet from door and window-bar I catch a thousand breaths of his sweet air! Even to me his days and nights are fair! He shows me many a flower and many a star! And though I mourn and he is very far, He does not kill the hope that reaches there!"