Jan. 1867.



"NON DOLET"



It does not hurt. She looked along the knife Smiling, and watched the thick drops mix and run Down the sheer blade; not that which had been done Could hurt the sweet sense of the Roman wife, But that which was to do yet ere the strife Could end for each for ever, and the sun: Nor was the palm yet nor was peace yet won While pain had power upon her husband's life.

It does not hurt, Italia. Thou art more Than bride to bridegroom; how shalt thou not take The gift love's blood has reddened for thy sake? Was not thy lifeblood given for us before? And if love's heartblood can avail thy need, And thou not die, how should it hurt indeed?



EURYDICE TO VICTOR HUGO



Orpheus, the night is full of tears and cries, And hardly for the storm and ruin shed Can even thine eyes be certain of her head Who never passed out of thy spirit's eyes, But stood and shone before them in such wise As when with love her lips and hands were fed, And with mute mouth out of the dusty dead Strove to make answer when thou bad'st her rise.

Yet viper-stricken must her lifeblood feel The fang that stung her sleeping, the foul germ Even when she wakes of hell's most poisonous worm, Though now it writhe beneath her wounded heel. Turn yet, she will not fade nor fly from thee; Wait, and see hell yield up Eurydice.



AN APPEAL



I

Art thou indeed among these, Thou of the tyrannous crew, The kingdoms fed upon blood, O queen from of old of the seas, England, art thou of them too That drink of the poisonous flood, That hide under poisonous trees?

II

Nay, thy name from of old, Mother, was pure, or we dreamed Purer we held thee than this, Purer fain would we hold; So goodly a glory it seemed, A fame so bounteous of bliss, So more precious than gold.

III

A praise so sweet in our ears, That thou in the tempest of things As a rock for a refuge shouldst stand, In the bloodred river of tears Poured forth for the triumph of kings; A safeguard, a sheltering land, In the thunder and torrent of years.

IV

Strangers came gladly to thee, Exiles, chosen of men, Safe for thy sake in thy shade, Sat down at thy feet and were free. So men spake of thee then; Now shall their speaking be stayed? Ah, so let it not be!

V

Not for revenge or affright, Pride, or a tyrannous lust, Cast from thee the crown of thy praise. Mercy was thine in thy might; Strong when thou wert, thou wert just; Now, in the wrong-doing days, Cleave thou, thou at least, to the right.

VI

How should one charge thee, how sway, Save by the memories that were? Not thy gold nor the strength of thy ships, Nor the might of thine armies at bay, Made thee, mother, most fair; But a word from republican lips Said in thy name in thy day.

VII

Hast thou said it, and hast thou forgot? Is thy praise in thine ears as a scoff? Blood of men guiltless was shed, Children, and souls without spot, Shed, but in places far off; Let slaughter no more be, said Milton; and slaughter was not.

VIII

Was it not said of thee too, Now, but now, by thy foes, By the slaves that had slain their France, And thee would slay as they slew - "Down with her walls that enclose Freemen that eye us askance, Fugitives, men that are true!"

IX

This was thy praise or thy blame From bondsman or freeman—to be Pure from pollution of slaves, Clean of their sins, and thy name Bloodless, innocent, free; Now if thou be not, thy waves Wash not from off thee thy shame.

X

Freeman he is not, but slave, Whoso in fear for the State Cries for surety of blood, Help of gibbet and grave; Neither is any land great Whom, in her fear-stricken mood, These things only can save.

XI

Lo, how fair from afar, Taintless of tyranny, stands Thy mighty daughter, for years Who trod the winepress of war; Shines with immaculate hands; Slays not a foe, neither fears; Stains not peace with a scar.

XII

Be not as tyrant or slave, England; be not as these, Thou that wert other than they. Stretch out thine hand, but to save; Put forth thy strength, and release; Lest there arise, if thou slay, Thy shame as a ghost from the grave.

November 20, 1867.



PERINDE AC CADAVER



In a vision Liberty stood By the childless charm-stricken bed Where, barren of glory and good, Knowing nought if she would not or would, England slept with her dead.

Her face that the foam had whitened, Her hands that were strong to strive, Her eyes whence battle had lightened, Over all was a drawn shroud tightened To bind her asleep and alive.

She turned and laughed in her dream With grey lips arid and cold; She saw not the face as a beam Burn on her, but only a gleam Through her sleep as of new-stamped gold.

But the goddess, with terrible tears In the light of her down-drawn eyes, Spake fire in the dull sealed ears; "Thou, sick with slumbers and fears, Wilt thou sleep now indeed or arise?

"With dreams and with words and with light Memories and empty desires Thou hast wrapped thyself round all night; Thou hast shut up thine heart from the right, And warmed thee at burnt-out fires.

"Yet once if I smote at thy gate, Thy sons would sleep not, but heard; O thou that wast found so great, Art thou smitten with folly or fate That thy sons have forgotten my word?

O Cromwell's mother, O breast That suckled Milton! thy name That was beautiful then, that was blest, Is it wholly discrowned and deprest, Trodden under by sloth into shame?

"Why wilt thou hate me and die? For none can hate me and live. What ill have I done to thee? why Wilt thou turn from me fighting, and fly, Who would follow thy feet and forgive?

"Thou hast seen me stricken, and said, What is it to me? I am strong: Thou hast seen me bowed down on my dead And laughed and lifted thine head, And washed thine hands of my wrong.

"Thou hast put out the soul of thy sight; Thou hast sought to my foemen as friend, To my traitors that kiss me and smite, To the kingdoms and empires of night That begin with the darkness, and end.

"Turn thee, awaken, arise, With the light that is risen on the lands, With the change of the fresh-coloured skies; Set thine eyes on mine eyes, Lay thy hands in my hands."

She moved and mourned as she heard, Sighed and shifted her place, As the wells of her slumber were stirred By the music and wind of the word, Then turned and covered her face.

"Ah," she said in her sleep, "Is my work not done with and done? Is there corn for my sickle to reap? And strange is the pathway, and steep, And sharp overhead is the sun.

"I have done thee service enough, Loved thee enough in my day; Now nor hatred nor love Nor hardly remembrance thereof Lives in me to lighten my way.

"And is it not well with us here? Is change as good as is rest? What hope should move me, or fear, That eye should open or ear, Who have long since won what is best?

"Where among us are such things As turn men's hearts into hell? Have we not queens without stings, Scotched princes, and fangless kings? Yea," she said, "we are well.

"We have filed the teeth of the snake Monarchy, how should it bite? Should the slippery slow thing wake, It will not sting for my sake; Yea," she said, "I do right."

So spake she, drunken with dreams, Mad; but again in her ears A voice as of storm-swelled streams Spake; "No brave shame then redeems Thy lusts of sloth and thy fears?

"Thy poor lie slain of thine hands, Their starved limbs rot in thy sight; As a shadow the ghost of thee stands Among men living and lands, And stirs not leftward or right.

"Freeman he is not, but slave, Who stands not out on my side; His own hand hollows his grave, Nor strength is in me to save Where strength is none to abide.

"Time shall tread on his name That was written for honour of old, Who hath taken in change for fame Dust, and silver, and shame, Ashes, and iron, and gold."



MONOTONES



Because there is but one truth; Because there is but one banner; Because there is but one light; Because we have with us our youth Once, and one chance and one manner Of service, and then the night;

Because we have found not yet Any way for the world to follow Save only that ancient way; Whosoever forsake or forget, Whose faith soever be hollow, Whose hope soever grow grey;

Because of the watchwords of kings That are many and strange and unwritten, Diverse, and our watchword is one; Therefore, though seven be the strings, One string, if the harp be smitten, Sole sounds, till the tune be done;

Sounds without cadence or change In a weary monotonous burden, Be the keynote of mourning or mirth; Free, but free not to range; Taking for crown and for guerdon No man's praise upon earth;

Saying one sole word evermore, In the ears of the charmed world saying, Charmed by spells to its death; One that chanted of yore To a tune of the sword-sweep's playing In the lips of the dead blew breath;

Therefore I set not mine hand To the shifting of changed modulations, To the smiting of manifold strings; While the thrones of the throned men stand, One song for the morning of nations, One for the twilight of kings.

One chord, one word, and one way, One hope as our law, one heaven, Till slain be the great one wrong; Till the people it could not slay, Risen up, have for one star seven, For a single, a sevenfold song.



THE OBLATION



Ask nothing more of me, sweet; All I can give you I give. Heart of my heart, were it more, More would be laid at your feet: Love that should help you to live, Song that should spur you to soar.

All things were nothing to give Once to have sense of you more, Touch you and taste of you sweet, Think you and breathe you and live, Swept of your wings as they soar, Trodden by chance of your feet.

I that have love and no more Give you but love of you, sweet: He that hath more, let him give; He that hath wings, let him soar; Mine is the heart at your feet Here, that must love you to live.



A YEAR'S BURDEN—1870



Fire and wild light of hope and doubt and fear, Wind of swift change, and clouds and hours that veer As the storm shifts of the tempestuous year; Cry wellaway, but well befall the right.

Hope sits yet hiding her war-wearied eyes, Doubt sets her forehead earthward and denies, But fear brought hand to hand with danger dies, Dies and is burnt up in the fire of fight.

Hearts bruised with loss and eaten through with shame Turn at the time's touch to devouring flame; Grief stands as one that knows not her own name, Nor if the star she sees bring day or night.

No song breaks with it on the violent air, But shrieks of shame, defeat, and brute despair; Yet something at the star's heart far up there Burns as a beacon in our shipwrecked sight.

O strange fierce light of presage, unknown star, Whose tongue shall tell us what thy secrets are, What message trembles in thee from so far? Cry wellaway. but well befall the right.

From shores laid waste across an iron sea Where the waifs drift of hopes that were to be, Across the red rolled foam we look for thee, Across the fire we look up for the light.

From days laid waste across disastrous years, From hopes cut down across a world of fears, We gaze with eyes too passionate for tears, Where faith abides though hope be put to flight.

Old hope is dead, the grey-haired hope grown blind That talked with us of old things out of mind, Dreams, deeds and men the world has left behind; Yet, though hope die, faith lives in hope's despite.

Ay, with hearts fixed on death and hopeless hands We stand about our banner while it stands Above but one field of the ruined lands; Cry wellaway, but well befall the right.

Though France were given for prey to bird and beast, Though Rome were rent in twain of king and priest, The soul of man, the soul is safe at least That gives death life and dead men hands to smite.

Are ye so strong, O kings, O strong men? Nay, Waste all ye will and gather all ye may, Yet one thing is there that ye shall not slay, Even thought, that fire nor iron can affright.

The woundless and invisible thought that goes Free throughout time as north or south wind blows, Far throughout space as east or west sea flows, And all dark things before it are made bright.

Thy thought, thy word, O soul republican, O spirit of life, O God whose name is man: What sea of sorrows but thy sight shall span? Cry wellaway, but well befall the right.

With all its coils crushed, all its rings uncurled, The one most poisonous worm that soiled the world Is wrenched from off the throat of man, and hurled Into deep hell from empire's helpless height.

Time takes no more infection of it now; Like a dead snake divided of the plough, The rotten thing lies cut in twain; but thou, Thy fires shall heal us of the serpent's bite.

Ay, with red cautery and a burning brand Purge thou the leprous leaven of the land; Take to thee fire, and iron in thine hand, Till blood and tears have washed the soiled limbs white.

We have sinned against thee in dreams and wicked sleep; Smite, we will shrink not; strike, we will not weep; Let the heart feel thee; let thy wound go deep; Cry wellaway, but well befall the right.

Wound us with love, pierce us with longing, make Our souls thy sacrifices; turn and take Our hearts for our sin-offerings lest they break, And mould them with thine hands and give them might.

Then, when the cup of ills is drained indeed, Will we come to thee with our wounds that bleed, With famished mouths and hearts that thou shalt feed, And see thee worshipped as the world's delight.

There shall be no more wars nor kingdoms won, But in thy sight whose eyes are as the sun All names shall be one name, all nations one, All souls of men in man's one soul unite.

O sea whereon men labour, O great sea That heaven seems one with, shall these things not be? O earth, our earth, shall time not make us free? Cry wellaway, but well befall the right.



EPILOGUE



Between the wave-ridge and the strand I let you forth in sight of land, Songs that with storm-crossed wings and eyes Strain eastward till the darkness dies; Let signs and beacons fall or stand, And stars and balefires set and rise; Ye, till some lordlier lyric hand Weave the beloved brows their crown, At the beloved feet lie down.

O, whatsoever of life or light Love hath to give you, what of might Or heart or hope is yours to live, I charge you take in trust to give For very love's sake, in whose sight, Through poise of hours alternative And seasons plumed with light or night, Ye live and move and have your breath To sing with on the ridge of death.

I charge you faint not all night through For love's sake that was breathed on you To be to you as wings and feet For travel, and as blood to heat And sense of spirit to renew And bloom of fragrance to keep sweet And fire of purpose to keep true The life, if life in such things be, That I would give you forth of me.

Out where the breath of war may bear, Out in the rank moist reddened air That sounds and smells of death, and hath No light but death's upon its path Seen through the black wind's tangled hair, I send you past the wild time's wrath To find his face who bade you bear Fruit of his seed to faith and love, That he may take the heart thereof.

By day or night, by sea or street, Fly till ye find and clasp his feet And kiss as worshippers who bring Too much love on their lips to sing, But with hushed heads accept and greet The presence of some heavenlier thing In the near air; so may ye meet His eyes, and droop not utterly For shame's sake at the light you see.

Not utterly struck spiritless For shame's sake and unworthiness Of these poor forceless hands that come Empty, these lips that should be dumb, This love whose seal can but impress These weak word-offerings wearisome Whose blessings have not strength to bless Nor lightnings fire to burn up aught Nor smite with thunders of their thought.

One thought they have, even love; one light, Truth, that keeps clear the sun by night; One chord, of faith as of a lyre; One heat, of hope as of a fire; One heart, one music, and one might, One flame, one altar, and one choir; And one man's living head in sight Who said, when all time's sea was foam, "Let there be Rome"—and there was Rome.

As a star set in space for token Like a live word of God's mouth spoken, Visible sound, light audible, In the great darkness thick as hell A stanchless flame of love unsloken, A sign to conquer and compel, A law to stand in heaven unbroken Whereby the sun shines, and wherethrough Time's eldest empires are made new;

So rose up on our generations That light of the most ancient nations, Law, life, and light, on the world's way, The very God of very day, The sun-god; from their star-like stations Far down the night in disarray Fled, crowned with fires of tribulations, The suns of sunless years, whose light And life and law were of the night.

The naked kingdoms quenched and stark Drave with their dead things down the dark, Helmless; their whole world, throne by throne, Fell, and its whole heart turned to stone, Hopeless; their hands that touched our ark Withered; and lo, aloft, alone, On time's white waters man's one bark, Where the red sundawn's open eye Lit the soft gulf of low green sky.

So for a season piloted It sailed the sunlight, and struck red With fire of dawn reverberate The wan face of incumbent fate That paused half pitying overhead And almost had foregone the freight Of those dark hours the next day bred For shame, and almost had forsworn Service of night for love of morn.

Then broke the whole night in one blow, Thundering; then all hell with one throe Heaved, and brought forth beneath the stroke Death; and all dead things moved and woke That the dawn's arrows had brought low, At the great sound of night that broke Thundering, and all the old world-wide woe; And under night's loud-sounding dome Men sought her, and she was not Rome.

Still with blind hands and robes blood-wet Night hangs on heaven, reluctant yet, With black blood dripping from her eyes On the soiled lintels of the skies, With brows and lips that thirst and threat, Heart-sick with fear lest the sun rise, And aching with her fires that set, And shuddering ere dawn bursts her bars, Burns out with all her beaten stars.

In this black wind of war they fly Now, ere that hour be in the sky That brings back hope, and memory back, And light and law to lands that lack; That spiritual sweet hour whereby The bloody-handed night and black Shall be cast out of heaven to die; Kingdom by kingdom, crown by crown, The fires of darkness are blown down.

Yet heavy, grievous yet the weight Sits on us of imperfect fate. From wounds of other days and deeds Still this day's breathing body bleeds; Still kings for fear and slaves for hate Sow lives of men on earth like seeds In the red soil they saturate; And we, with faces eastward set, Stand sightless of the morning yet.

And many for pure sorrow's sake Look back and stretch back hands to take Gifts of night's giving, ease and sleep, Flowers of night's grafting, strong to steep The soul in dreams it will not break, Songs of soft hours that sigh and sweep Its lifted eyelids nigh to wake With subtle plumes and lulling breath That soothe its weariness to death.

And many, called of hope and pride, Fall ere the sunrise from our side. Fresh lights and rumours of fresh fames That shift and veer by night like flames, Shouts and blown trumpets, ghosts that glide Calling, and hail them by dead names, Fears, angers, memories, dreams divide Spirit from spirit, and wear out Strong hearts of men with hope and doubt.

Till time beget and sorrow bear The soul-sick eyeless child despair, That comes among us, mad and blind, With counsels of a broken mind, Tales of times dead and woes that were, And, prophesying against mankind, Shakes out the horror of her hair To take the sunlight with its coils And hold the living soul in toils.

By many ways of death and moods Souls pass into their servitudes. Their young wings weaken, plume by plume Drops, and their eyelids gather gloom And close against man's frauds and feuds, And their tongues call they know not whom To help in their vicissitudes; For many slaveries are, but one Liberty, single as the sun.

One light, one law, that burns up strife, And one sufficiency of life. Self-stablished, the sufficing soul Hears the loud wheels of changes roll, Sees against man man bare the knife, Sees the world severed, and is whole; Sees force take dowerless fraud to wife, And fear from fraud's incestuous bed Crawl forth and smite his father dead:

Sees death made drunk with war, sees time Weave many-coloured crime with crime, State overthrown on ruining state, And dares not be disconsolate. Only the soul hath feet to climb, Only the soul hath room to wait, Hath brows and eyes to hold sublime Above all evil and all good, All strength and all decrepitude.

She only, she since earth began, The many-minded soul of man, From one incognizable root That bears such divers-coloured fruit, Hath ruled for blessing or for ban The flight of seasons and pursuit; She regent, she republican, With wide and equal eyes and wings Broods on things born and dying things.

Even now for love or doubt of us The hour intense and hazardous Hangs high with pinions vibrating Whereto the light and darkness cling, Dividing the dim season thus, And shakes from one ambiguous wing Shadow, and one is luminous, And day falls from it; so the past Torments the future to the last.

And we that cannot hear or see The sounds and lights of liberty, The witness of the naked God That treads on burning hours unshod With instant feet unwounded; we That can trace only where he trod By fire in heaven or storm at sea, Not know the very present whole And naked nature of the soul;

We that see wars and woes and kings, And portents of enormous things, Empires, and agonies, and slaves, And whole flame of town-swallowing graves; That hear the harsh hours clap sharp wings Above the roar of ranks like waves, From wreck to wreck as the world swings; Know but that men there are who see And hear things other far than we.

By the light sitting on their brows, The fire wherewith their presence glows, The music falling with their feet, The sweet sense of a spirit sweet That with their speech or motion grows And breathes and burns men's hearts with heat; By these signs there is none but knows Men who have life and grace to give, Men who have seen the soul and live.

By the strength sleeping in their eyes, The lips whereon their sorrow lies Smiling, the lines of tears unshed, The large divine look of one dead That speaks out of the breathless skies In silence, when the light is shed Upon man's soul of memories; The supreme look that sets love free, The look of stars and of the sea;

By the strong patient godhead seen Implicit in their mortal mien, The conscience of a God held still And thunders ruled by their own will And fast-bound fires that might burn clean This worldly air that foul things fill, And the afterglow of what has been, That, passing, shows us without word What they have seen, what they have heard,

By all these keen and burning signs The spirit knows them and divines. In bonds, in banishment, in grief, Scoffed at and scourged with unbelief, Foiled with false trusts and thwart designs, Stripped of green days and hopes in leaf, Their mere bare body of glory shines Higher, and man gazing surelier sees What light, what comfort is of these.

So I now gazing; till the sense Being set on fire of confidence Strains itself sunward, feels out far Beyond the bright and morning star, Beyond the extreme wave's refluence, To where the fierce first sunbeams are Whose fire intolerant and intense As birthpangs whence day burns to be Parts breathless heaven from breathing sea.

I see not, know not, and am blest, Master, who know that thou knowest, Dear lord and leader, at whose hand The first days and the last days stand, With scars and crowns on head and breast, That fought for love of the sweet land Or shall fight in her latter quest; All the days armed and girt and crowned Whose glories ring thy glory round.

Thou sawest, when all the world was blind, The light that should be of mankind, The very day that was to be; And how shalt thou not sometime see Thy city perfect to thy mind Stand face to living face with thee, And no miscrowned man's head behind; The hearth of man, the human home, The central flame that shall be Rome?

As one that ere a June day rise Makes seaward for the dawn, and tries The water with delighted limbs That taste the sweet dark sea, and swims Right eastward under strengthening skies, And sees the gradual rippling rims Of waves whence day breaks blossom-wise Take fire ere light peer well above, And laughs from all his heart with love;

And softlier swimming with raised head Feels the full flower of morning shed And fluent sunrise round him rolled That laps and laves his body bold With fluctuant heaven in water's stead, And urgent through the growing gold Strikes, and sees all the spray flash red, And his soul takes the sun, and yearns For joy wherewith the sea's heart burns;

So the soul seeking through the dark Heavenward, a dove without an ark, Transcends the unnavigable sea Of years that wear out memory; So calls, a sunward-singing lark, In the ear of souls that should be free; So points them toward the sun for mark Who steer not for the stress of waves, And seek strange helmsmen, and are slaves.

For if the swimmer's eastward eye Must see no sunrise—must put by The hope that lifted him and led Once, to have light about his head, To see beneath the clear low sky The green foam-whitened wave wax red And all the morning's banner fly - Then, as earth's helpless hopes go down, Let earth's self in the dark tides drown.

Yea, if no morning must behold Man, other than were they now cold, And other deeds than past deeds done, Nor any near or far-off sun Salute him risen and sunlike-souled, Free, boundless, fearless, perfect, one, Let man's world die like worlds of old, And here in heaven's sight only be The sole sun on the worldless sea.



NOTES



P. 7 That called on Cotys by her name. AEsch. Fr. 54

P. 94

Was it Love brake forth flower-fashion, a bird with gold on his wings? Ar. Av. 696.

P. 161

That saw Saint Catherine bodily.

Her pilgrimage to Avignon to recall the Pope into Italy as its redeemer from the distractions of the time is of course the central act of St. Catherine's life, the great abiding sign of the greatness of spirit and genius of heroism which distinguished this daughter of the people, and should yet keep her name fresh above the holy horde of saints, in other records than the calendar; but there is no less significance in the story which tells how she succeeded in humanizing a criminal under sentence of death, and given over by the priests as a soul doomed and desperate; how the man thus raised and melted out of his fierce and brutal despair besought her to sustain him to the last by her presence; how, having accompanied him with comfort and support to the very scaffold, and seen his head fall, she took it up, and turning to the spectators who stood doubtful whether the poor wretch could be "saved," kissed it in sign of her faith that his sins were forgiven him. The high and fixed passion of her heroic temperament gives her a right to remembrance and honour of which the miracle-mongers have done their best to deprive her. Cleared of all the refuse rubbish of thaumaturgy, her life would deserve a chronicler who should do justice at once to the ardour of her religious imagination and to a thing far rarer and more precious—the strength and breadth of patriotic thought and devotion which sent this girl across the Alps to seek the living symbol of Italian hope and unity, and bring it back by force of simple appeal in the name of God and of the country. By the light of those solid and actual qualities which ensure to her no ignoble place on the noble roll of Italian women who have deserved well of Italy, the record of her visions and ecstasies may be read without contemptuous intolerance of hysterical disease. The rapturous visionary and passionate ascetic was in plain matters of this earth as pure and practical a heroine as Joan of Arc.

P. 164

There on the dim side-chapel wall.

In the church of San Domenico.

P. 165

But blood nor tears ye love not, you.

In the Sienese Academy the two things notable to me were the detached wall-painting by Sodoma of the tortures of Christ bound to the pillar, and the divine though mutilated group of the Graces in the centre of the main hall. The glory and beauty of ancient sculpture refresh and satisfy beyond expression a sense wholly wearied and well-nigh nauseated with contemplation of endless sanctities and agonies attempted by mediaeval art, while yet as handless as accident or barbarism has left the sculptured goddesses.

P. 168

Saw all Italian things save one.

O patria mia, vedo le mura e gli archi, E le colonne e i simulacri e l'erme Torri degli avi nostri; Ma la gloria non vedo, Non vedo il lauro a il ferro ond' eran carchi I nostri padri antichi.

LEOPARDI.

P. 179

Mother, that by that Pegasean spring.

Call. Lav. Pall. 105-112.

P. 229

With black blood dripping from her eyes. AEsch. Cho. 1058.

THE END