======================================== SAMPLE 1 ======================================== "And in blue ink he capers: 'Here! 'dam! There! get away! The place is bad; This lamp burns!" Ben he seizes, And on the night's dark pages slips, Quivers, and checks the eager lips. 'Bring it!' The ship is brought ashore; The crowd goes with it. Far and wide The tumult of the crowd is spread, The sheet-wraith's voice comes up the shore And clamours up the stormy tide. Wives, long abandoned, long ago, Long since, long since, were all too rude To find a hiding-place below; It's horrid in the very stews Of Pharaoh, in this ugly wood; For one black devil-hole he 'll spout, And all his host (the devil-worshippers) Will split the dozen, you'll be there, Just in the middle of the street; And others more from underground, And others from the church and ground, Will have to quake before the rain Will prove a welcome, or a chain. Long life indeed! but not in vain. Well not in vain, in less than pain! Our very joys are mixed with pain! And let this day be half an hour With lingering, melancholy train. Hark! Hark! Euroclydon has set The bell-goats too, they're fast at it, And faster than the pace they keep The minutes, faster than the wheels; And, going, see the wheel go round, And backward fall the men and women Just as the opening ruin palters. They "came a word" to tell the world, And on their faces read the title, Which says, that hell's initial heir, Auld Satan must be quite forgotten, For he was in King George's reign, And twenty-four the next that's known, And many more will be the leader Of the astonished nation round, All Europe's issue now to yield, And purse them all in one black stave, Shave them, or pull them out at length, First of the race they were called in, And now among a thousand men, That have for centuries been numbered, They take the time, all having done, According to the prompter's title, For every one of their succession, There is a record, every member crowned With his eight hundred cannon loaded, They say the grand command is ended, The rulers shall go down as dust, And every man in the dominion What are the laws? The people say They are five thousand in the score Of members only, like the rest; While they have not been held in sight; Their case they cannot well uphold, Being with several other men, What order would become of them These dukes and earls, so long in store, These devils themselves do take away, And be the doom of public men, They crack'd their whiskers in their sleeves, Their noses being all in five, So that the lesser would not look, They did not break their teeth at all; The doctors cut a wondrous deal, Yet neither half so good a deal As that of Scrope or of Macaul, Could tell a thing so lively, They gave a very pretty squint, And twenty cuts across the plan, And sent the cocks to be at rest, When three rose spirits took their nest, And not a word was 'understood;" Of three who strive for crook or sheet, From four pluck'd leaves and four large roots, The south and east brought champions three, Ringed in each other's arms were free, With four white steeds behind them ride, With good steeds running into place, Then, as if lame, he toss'd a race. Riding in arms, as southward you may take, Yet you must turn, and run, brave gentlemen, For if you turn, proud gentlemen, The least of you shall lose the race. The sons of England, England, proud and great, From England were turn'd enemies to the state, And none should England front against a State: Since when was William Conquer and she fertile lands, And a great war was held within her wide commands, The English drew the sword, the King blew down, And a fresh blood ran on through ev'ry tongue, When William Conquer and she came among The rights and lives of all the English reign, Where Scotland reign'd, when she was own'd again, And all who knew her power, and all who owned ======================================== SAMPLE 2 ======================================== 's strait. We are come straight to be good friends-- We who have seen the world's broad track, But lost to us, and lost to us-- We wait the call of each to help; In the eternal bounds below, Behind us, and beyond our view, They bide but a few scant mile-- They will not stay till I am well-- They hold me close for evermore, But all that's made for us they leave, And every shadow that may fall To walk with down-bare feet and hands Together, and our fate be ours. All faces changed for in that day, From the crude bonds men used to break They long to feed us, as we stray Along the crowded paths we make. I marvel not at morn and eve; Naught but the boughs and swaying leaves Wore for all time the shape of speech-- The leaf-bound things and words we teach. "Wisdom supreme! but not for us, Not for the dim and sordid days Of dull repute--we worship you, "For none may know or help--not none Shall claim you homage and be won "Shall pray for you and hunger for And go back thither in the sun, "And you shall come and live with us, Here where the will found fitter ease, Here where the trouble comes to all." Not without promise, not with love, I deem that I shall yet prove true To this same beauty in my heart That other people used to love; "For in our pleasant bowers of ease, And by the good light of this sky You shall receive and understand How there the times go by and by And in their careless places where The good things that have died are by. But if I long for you and you, Here in the little corner here To watch the new light fail you, I cannot but say you may hear In what I hear--and in this year There will be May forever near, And in your place beside the wood Where you and I together stood And sat and talked the truth to be Until our two souls grew one with me. Oh, you'd not say what you thought about it If you had fallen asleep with the night-- The real morning and dream came out of it But not for me, with its whispered light That how hardly you knew it, and doubt it, And come with a laugh and pretend not, And try to believe that it's made of A dream and a world of long shadows, And each with his reason on earth for a Narrowly longing to think that you Were to take the thing and live with me-- A year ago, the world that seems so splendid, Now many months I'm back again for roaming And am alone, and longing for it Dwelt all unknown. My dream was sad for lost and desolate Where I was born; But now I see the lights that rhymed in glory Burn quietly out of wakening chimes, And wake in rhyme. No prowling gnat the prowling carmine breaks From tombs of dun to lonely lonely isles; All calm beneath the winds we flutter up As if we knew we were not born for this. Not all the birds, from piercing ferns and tangles, Have ever told us of this hindering air Where in the pastures herds in greenness trod. Ah me, the unborn year brings nothing of it On the old way we know, Nor can it surely bring as lovely an answer As when we knew! Ah, love comes never,--yes, and numb looks are weary, And longsome toil arises from the stream To weep upon the pastures where all else is weary And hope seems not to dream. We shall not know, perhaps, these sad and sorrowful days That are no dream, For life lies far away, unheeded by the suns Whose rays Roll back the morning star; they tell thetale-- They tell of it to us, but still the tale Are we to tell again. I saw the little man who cried, "Let go! Oh, I have found my soul!" and died A deathly cry. When I have felt thy hand in mine Came I in silence--I alone, A silence, deep as thy soft eyes And lips that met in happier skies, So full of beauty, so divine, So full of bliss--oh, I have known All these! My thoughts have found a music free, ======================================== SAMPLE 3 ======================================== air, He plunges off,--'tis plain to know all truth, But how this stingsome wood, this wounding horse, Now like a charred stake crackling to the sand Of whatsoever wretch can suffer more, Than his head totters on? Who knows indeed But noble Neleus' son was wont to burn, And hurl him on the shoulder, as he might (For that's his father's self, his patron's foe), Had he but loved the king, or had not kneel To give it to his king. And ere he sprung Across the plain, to view his manly form Clad in the mine of all most virtuous sire, To Hercules he gave the key, of right To hear his charge commit, and sorely vex His people with misdeeds, to drive them hence With madness. Yet before the seasons came He had a care to plant his banyan tree In Lyoneserian arms,--so one palm's worth Might tempt his parents from the lofty snows And to the hollow trunk his person bind With brambles, roses, osiers, twining reeds. He had but one right to subdue the weak, That he might make them mourn their many woes; So all too soon, with thought so vain and strange Of the full theatre to cross the stage Of pleasure, and so cross to Corinth's side, To weep for Turnus, all but him and Fate Therefore he wandered to and fro, and thought How for the horse his father would have died, If 'twere not done--if now he had remained Amid the maddening waves, all night, in tears, What sorrow had he suffered, how he bade Helpless Polyxena stay the holy rite. Gazed at the king, the people thus bespake:-- "Ye would have worship to our holy King Muse and Dominus, should he call upon His only heir, Demodocus, or take All heaven, our happy cov'nant."--With that word They went and waited for the hand of death, Hoping with mournful memory to soothe Themselves of others, and to add a groan. But all on fire for Turnus--for his mind Was hot to follow his unhappy sire And his chaste son, nor know what tears were spilt, Nor what he bade, nor how to live again. Meantime Apollo, from his chamber soared A voice, as though a lark had sung to rest, And on the topmost boughs an ash-tree stood. Then, on a sudden perched a quailing deer As if to set them free, and bade the rest Follow him. Roared the baying pack before. Then Jove bespake the Lord of counsel thus:-- "Go, gallant bark! and bear it to thyself: Nor to the enemy did he connrive, But dared the battle. On his throne he sat (In presence of the throne) by Juno's will, An awful satra, suited to thy maw. Now must I battle with the seed of Mars; Nor dream I beauty or I gouged hard By my own eyes--I shall not fight the gods; Nor stand the fiery sire to my commands: He never could endure a mortal's spear, But he that would offend my wrath shall slay." With that he vanished from the lusty crew, And left them to debate in doubtful plight Of coming battles. Through the middle space Incensed the Trojan strength and angry words. Wild-eyed Malaperti saw the unasked-for fight, And shook with rage his peaceful temples. Then He sought, Leucaspis, sought the noble youths With eager shouts (for one amid the rest Slew him, and left him in the rear). The host Severing their ranks, and launching back the cars Before them, to the woods and slayers went, All that the old man had in his house, Found void of men and horsemen, many of whom Drave back and slain, and many left untold. And now his blood was mingled with the dust, His cheeks were purple, and his ears were rung With uproar, and his mind was mixed with thoughts Of battle. Then (for on his mind was laid That battle) from a hollow rock he sprang And gave command that Teucer be not loth To render back with this foredoomed assault A Trojan hero, if so be that he Should wage fierce war against ======================================== SAMPLE 4 ======================================== That I should go astray, And sleep before the mountains And with thee make my way! Take a leaf to fill thy heart; Over and below The leaves that will droop apart Borrow all that they throw; But come to thy heart, and thou Art grown so dear to me! Lully, the summit of God's mysteries Seems far above us and below. To be a page of human history Is what I long to know. For the love and glory of my mother Shall have been mine alone; And the old, old, holy faith of my mother Shall have been mine alone. My loved ones, long ago, Buddha, will have ruled their young steadging to the gods, to come and go And dwell with me at that moment so. Do you know how it would end? The shadow about me, The flood ahead of my thought, The wind under the rim Of your spirit-swelling, The trees before you, The root-fountains above, The plain before you, The soft earth at your feet Up-flinging its beautiful flower, Will find a pavement in the dust of your garden THEY laughed, poor little children, At the blue-bird, the thrush, While away the butterflies danced In a flurry of rain. How they thought you were happy, They thought you were gay; You turned with a merry mirth As they talked about you, "Do you know, do you know, little children, How it's always the way." Then they laughed and sang softly, And the old birds sang And the new come home again In their telling, Out of the ages, They who made it wise And had it and it, For the little children Of the long ago. THE blossoms waken and beat on the stalk, And the waves swell the song-birds' throats sing; Each time they listen, each time they hear A wonderful singing, A wonderful, glorious thing. In the broad-winged days of April How beautiful the world was, When I was little enough, And when the grass was green, And all the sky was blanched with swallows, And all the earth was pregnant with welcome, For I was little enough, And now I am old, And my heart is well-nigh broken, And everything is seared, And I am very glad, And I long for the little things That God has given me, For the love I shall give to you, For the memory of things I shall know. NOW the grass is brown and fresh, And the last leaves curl and fall. But in afternoons the cold Rises, and the long days pass, And the stout old chestnuts, lifted high To the sun in amorous Heaven, Fold above my head the gray Warmless honey-weed, And the old-time comrades come With a shaking and a laughter, That I love, and am immortal. NOW the meadows are before me, And I follow everywhere The foresters, and follow them, And my youth's old meadow fare; Shaking off the grass to hide Where they lured me or they led me, And I follow, and follow on, Finding it is pleasant weather, And they lead and they lead me By a little winding lane Through the bright spring day again. See the wild grapes on the blossom, And the red fruit on the bough, And the flowers so ruddy and white Coming quick with the dawn, Coming with the dusk's last light, And the capers overhead, And the fruit at their eaves undrowned Sitting in clusters overhead. And I follow and follow till the rain Washes the redoubt from my face With a widened breadth, I wonder, And the whole bush overhead Is as red and as still as a rose, And I look through my eyes To see a shape in the cloud, A sunbeam suddenly, And a voice, that seems to say, "Lo, I am but a dream!" And I follow and follow till the rain Wraps all things round my feet, And my heart's head lies with pain, Sick with bliss and dizzy Till the world seems but a dream, Till my name is writ in flame In flames that cannot smother. Ah, the knowledge full of a thousand things, The light that burns on a thousand hills, The love that ======================================== SAMPLE 5 ======================================== , for I kent That I could sort it wi' them. It set my heart a-flame wi' pride, To see the siller siller, I thought, 'As charmers use to try Their tips wi' sklentin-trick; I thought, within an hour ago, I first had sat to wonder, Thinking, "The sun had left the sky For worlds of other wonder." Then up I gat, with nimble feet O'er flowers and thistles,--round; And through the flower-beds, wet with dew, Myself came flaunting dew. My little Mad-Love, here I sate, Under the wide redwood; And, 'twixt the dark green leaves, I held The swing of legs of wood. The wind was in the east; the tide Had got into the west; All night we heard the river's din, Its fall just lit the west; And, when we climbed upon its brink, The far-off elm trees crested high With willow-wands of dry. The night was in the drift; the clouds Glimmered on every fence; While 'mid the elm trees all the frost Hot-tooth'd and mired we wailed Like ships in wet wind-travell'd coasts Left desolate and quailing. But when the moon sank slowly down I crouched and loitered hum At what the catbird's golden plume Flung through the boughs of hawthorn. No flocks of winged seeds, or plumes Of bramble-blooms escape; Each sinceom flies, and skimming lifts Its head, its billow to the skies Of everlasting day. O for a moment, ere it drop On the breast of my wide breast,-- Its pale face, fringed with rosy fire, Like heaven's own lightning-quest. Dear child! I can no longer keep, For now the moon is gone; With footsteps slow I hear her tread, The wind, that sweeps the snows Of naked foliage through their sphere, And rustles fresh and clear, While boughs in sleepy disleaf sweep, And trees like sentinels appear. Dear child, the month is near, When two by two, And, slowly turning, chant the hour In over-pream'd abode; When at the church's outer gate, Little we see, With long-subjected boughs hangs down The wild grass-bushes of state. The garden in its maze, As yet unseen, With shrubs and hedges far and wide Sleeping alone, Is like a scene Drear in the desolate homestead's midst: The cricket shrills his song; The moths that haunt the hazy air Move with faint wheel-tracks o'er the snow, While in the woods the butterflies Stay wing'd to go. Come, patter now the feather'd leaves, While the pale dewdrops pour. Ye see the kindly flowers thrive, But dearest to the flowers, Ye run among the sleepy leaves In all the forest's solitude. Then whither go ye, Winter, go! Be rough as cold, Unkind, though very near ye love: And do not let me move. The pumice is a stormy hill; Lash'd with silver frost and chill; And the lamplight's long and bright Rainbow dew falls on the night. Out of the buried sea I leap And prowse about with fear, And see the streaming world beneath Like a giant of the dead; The sifted mist is quenched in space; The jagged clouds hang heavy and chill; And the sea's mists are rising chill Above the grey and waning sky; And I sail like a phantom bark That has long been hid from ken, With vague and aimless fears o'erthrown, That I fear not the autumnal sun For all the mournful summer days, If I be not as their grey mother was! Lie softly in the cedar chest; Over the cradle softly flings The scrawl of a dead man's broken breast; And the fairy dreams of life are o'er, That we were born an hour before; When shall we sleep in the cedar chest? <|endoftext|> TANOh! my heart is sick and wounded, Cold and ======================================== SAMPLE 6 ======================================== and hum; the censers murmured, Tears came down like flakes of dew, Loud, and sudden, and sharp-- That is why I've wished you! Plented when you and I were young; You are always afraid of dread; Well, we might look at you and flout Our faults 'neath our own heads; And once or twice ago we thought Our first poor joy was past, When somebody called you to be had And came and bidden us fast. Oh, the long, far journey to arrive And learns by rote-paths plain and dell, How easy it feels and easy to climb Up the hill-top if one can tell! You feel the path wind through the trees And down the meadows throw your feet, And there is nothing going to lose Except to eat and drink and eat; You feel that life has some eternal cure For every ill that you could fear. For they who sell their souls to gain In golden fields of endless ease, Know neither pain nor disappointment, They have no longing to be happier. But do not think they've got this scope That draws them all to heaven again. I asked of Celia, "If I dare You'll try the heart of Celia," I said, "I'll try the laddies; they'll be my dead, And let me, oh, I'll come again." "I'll come and sit by the golden fire, And tell them they would soon be there; It is only the living scene That makes Celia smile. They'll stay on here, And she will have to leap, ah, smile, And perhaps she has but an added charm To make them smile." Thus Celia spoke, and I did speak, "They're all a pack of common things When one has heard each word a book That's like the language of the birds, And starts to talk. I hear them groan And hoot, as if in loneliness, Babbling, but always hearing none. One needs to hear each pretty throat Re-murmur, speaking soft and low, And once or twice to see each note That's like the language of the birds, And once or twice to see the toys The grass used to be made to look So softly and so tenderly. When I was down beside the sea, A child stood at my knee, And all my other children came And shook their curls with me. Then, lulling in a bed of down, They laid them down to sleep, And with their naughty arms made their Poor little pretty neck sweep. The night is cold and the house is dark, Lone and silent all the day, And the wind keeps singing the shrill notes As we go our ways, Chattering, chirping, but never a song, And never a cry of sorrow or pain, And all the night brings the happy throng Bringing people home again. Send home the child, your peace is gone, And to my father's house again Bring the little brown boy; Give him a little ball, And let the fire glow Through the painted window-pane That stands in the garden, And the little red house Where the flowers blow. And after that the little empty pot Will be left in the earth, That a butterfly may live, and live, And the little world may come And carry the smell of the fresh-smothered wood Through the days of the summer. And when the sun sinks slowly down, And the birds are quiet and a-sleeping, Why must the world begin to weep? Because the good days have gone well. There are many mysterious things That the old world knows; There are strange and many springs, And the hill brooks flows; There are deep grass and withered trees Where the wind will never cease, And the dreamers of the forest trees Will never cease. They do not know the life I pass, Nor the deeds that I have done; The thoughts that fill my memory Will pass like some immortal dream, But all the dreams will pass away And all that was is done. For there's a little house that stands Beyond the stars, And on this summer-evening's day A pewter-pitted knife, A paper-covered wall, A piece of broken board, And on this Summer-noon, A barefoot boy I'll dream at home About this little house. And just this day a bag of corn ======================================== SAMPLE 7 ======================================== -nubling--the wall; The hanging wall and the gate of the world. Yet some endure that its walls lie ill Admiringly, and are not built again For forms of Death; for their clear eye Builds in the ceaseless moat of Time, Where huge rains fall and the snows heap high, And the gray storm-tost soul, that sways and swoons, Is now more safe from the furious teeth of the world. And, lo, as these are built of my clay, Even here on the tiles of Eternity I speak in language that breathe with my breath More delicate than on earth before death, And I marvel to look on them with eyes As dull as the gloom of a marsh-plaiced fen. And these, as yet, are not these of my earth? Or, hast thou not heard, O fisher-folk, The beating of hearts in these waters of Thought? Where are the wandering waves and the glorious sun That stirred the tide of the blood of the sea? Where the tide of the world? Where the wind and the tide In a mystical rhythm of song and of rhyme? Where the strident voices of earth and of sky? Where the sound of the wind and the tide of the tide Brake out of the ears of the senses aflame? Where the heart of the hill-stream or the plain Gone, in the day or in sunset or dawn? Where the gorse by the torrent? Where the plain, In the heart of a darkness, arises, a dream That stills all the turmoil, all the turmoil of day? How many a story of days and of days Rises on the dark wall of Time, With its morning and shadow engrave A prismy screen from a sun-baked wave, That on Summer's great ruins enshrouds The thunderous arches of heaven, As, in Memnon's plain-shaded towers, Yet the fates' thin voices of men Stir in every one life anew: Echo, in thine ears, forevermore, Doubtless midst these joyless children of Song, Lift thy lyres and lift the psalm of thy Land; For the Spring of those royd-singing throats Makes no land from the boundless sea, Nor from out the dim and budding lands Isses a man-of-war to roam, All unarmored, and all unblamed, And for toil of faith at last War no less than the finer thought, And for hope of profit and fame. For by the high sea of old Romance, One that wakes to the sorrowful swells At Magellan's farm, at Agincourt, Far over the waves of a mellow plain Dumb ortsnean, rose the heroic strain That teemed with tears and laughter and wine; And other singers, with more of the heart, That now shall surround the Poet, or start A musical undertone and on To the call of a bird, beyond the mere Raptize, with a swan-winged ball, "O soul of beauty, Poet in thought, Ah, set me apart From the light and the centre, far, far From the light and the centre." But ever, like a star, On to its own sunset, Raying dark and afar, All the world's mists apart Fell from the sphere That holds thee apart So long in the heart With the angels of love And the thought of the heart, That, sleeping or waking, I shuddered to hear The far-off voice of it make moan From the leafless tree of it thrown In broad leaves of the world alone. In light as the rose, Flecked with light, Through the blackness the starlight shone Far out o'er the hills. All the loveliness that was mine Felt the touch of the dear night-dew Shall fade in a transient shine, Shall wither away and be gone, And the world be aware of the dawn, The world of the heavens unfolding their finical richets, And the world of the sounding skies. Through the veil of whose folds the moon Burns a star intense On the white horizon in cold apoge Where the sorrowful planet-star Burns and withers afar The west star's fierce-plume's curling flame Through the arrased windows of night, Gleaming, kindling the void, Shadows ======================================== SAMPLE 8 ======================================== ! See, see, how thickly the wit, Of those true witlings, is printed complete! 'Tis surely a curse to my great disgrace; A shadow of sin, to my dear Friend the prize, But you've cheated it all, and we cannot refrain; You've cheated us all, you're us only to wed! You lie in the dungeon and live to be fed, And we'll never escape till the judgment day's come! You lie in the prison and live to be fed, And live to be fed with our food and our crumbs, While we're running our tippets and paying our debts, And never escape till the judgment day's come! We are all jolly courtiers, And we never escape from our happiness; We'll promise to each other, And you'll never hereafter escape from our woe! When you come to die, Every nerve and bone Soon lulled in sleep, Secure and free, Sleep will seize on you. When you come to die, Every nerve and bone Soon lulled in sleep, Sleep will seize on you. When you come to die, Every nerve and bone Soon lulled in sleep, We'll still be free, And you'll never escape from our woe! When you come to die, Every nerve and bone Soon lulled in sleep, We'll still be free, And you'll never escape from our woe! A woman sat in yon trim place, Says she, "My lady, pray be mine, Put out the fire, I pray, Put out the Bible, I pray, And I'll be the, lady, straight, Up till the chimney stoops!" The little brown wife said, "I'm sure My darling will hear when I've come," And her husband said, "Go on, It is only my darling, please, That makes the kettle squeam." The little brown wife looked around And saw a pig, that was spotted and spotted, That was spotted, and spotted, and spotted; He looked as black as the sky, And he said, "Dear me, don't go on, It is just as red as the ground!" "I beg your pardon," the little brown wife said. "It is only my darling, and not her mother, Who taught me to spin, and to shuttle the thread, And now, dear old woman, I pray you, Let us now make ready for bed, And the little brown wife, if she can, She shut the door, and she will see soon, How I wish I was there, or she could!" "It is not my darling," the little brown wife said. "Oh, let me shut the door," the little brown wife said. A green-hide pig, all golden brown, Was passing merrily home; He was but a merry thing, you'll think, And he wished he was overjoyed. He was glad his friends would let him roam, But he only laughed at the pain; He said, "I wish I could see him now, I'll make a very merry train!" A spinner with a clean green gown, Looks at the family below; But the family children look so small They scarce can get through to a bone. "For all that little pigs are stabled, And all that little pigs are fat, And all that little pigs are housed To skin with asparagus." A spick, a stew-pot, and an earthen pot Are standing near the roadside table set; But the little brown wife does not mind it, She shut the door, and she did not find it. He hung a paper on the table, He did not think to cry or talk, But stood and looked into the pew, And very quickly ate and drank. The goose that was to be forgotten, He sent it to the beau; The fowl that was to be forgotten, He sent it to the hawk; And so it was carried away To be an old man and gray. In a crowded Union Churchyard What is happening everywhere? Something in the sky above us, Something in the river, Beyond our cloudy screen; Something that the whole world passes Like a minute's breathing, Lifting up to heaven's blue Rank above the blue; Something of the earth and ocean, Tremble on the distance, All too thin and fetid for the soul, Far too thin and fetid for the soul. And there's something in this pressure ======================================== SAMPLE 9 ======================================== with good estate and many a pound. In all the land there is a place for me; Thou wilt not tempt me there to stay; There is a woman with an angel's eye That makes me stay. I have no tears in hand; And the plaints of it are all from me; And yet I can not understand The comfort of that worldly day, Nor the joy of it; but, lo, this land Bids me draw back from its antiquity. All through the watches of the night I cry with groans of anguish sore, And all for her I leave not right, Nor ask where death has laid me low: But no! from that sad country I, With steadfast step and noble eye, Set my face full of charity Upon the way. The path is sweet to the weary feet That it must often meet, And the tongue of the thing that we hate is sweet To the weary heart and feet. Ah! had I known and had met my fate, On that dark disastrous day, When the iron man was my hated mate, And I my foe. O the woman! O the woman! I do not crave to ease my pining heart; I shall learn to live a second life Before it cease. And for that I am mistress of the sun, And the stars above me,--they, the eyes, The soul and the body,--all of them, And all of them, have sinned and lied, And yet I dare not even speak to them, Nor speak to them, and they return not, Or speak to them. Oh the woman! O the woman! As I lay sleeping at her door, And heard her weeping and her sobbing And sobbing and distress'd sobbing And the silence of the night grew full Of the dews of dawn that hung above The garden door. But the voice was still'd, and through the lattice All things were still as a wide star. And her picture still lives on in the window, And never a sign, till the gray moon Lights up the garden of the night And tells them of the moonlit day When nothing takes them from the sight But the sound of the song and the dance, The light of her beautiful talk In the garden without on the stair, By the hearth, and the empty room For the soul of an hour. Like a child who has sin'd, and has slept, He reaches toward the garden, And beneath the orange and the Cypress The moonlight on his shoulder leads him In green and silver charmed glooms Towards the middle of the valley Where the rivulets and the birch and maples Stand out from the October twilight To breathe their perfume Over the graves where the dead have slept And from the windows the dust and mould Lay over them that never died. The jasmine stars are humid, The wind blows moist, But in the evening twilight To the pond the dead men rise And collect about the roses On the mound where the dead have slept. The grey riders go on their fastest speed, Drinking all together; They follow a ban with loud and hoarse cry To where the houses are shut out on the sky; Or in crowds crowding around one palace-gate, They follow an empty reticence. The builders of vessels that suddenly burst Are black with the rain in the streets they are lost; And a blue silken veil of gray, With a quietude of clouds across her face They leave their track, And are strewn with desolate streets. The mist lifts dark and thick Over them in dense and sullen folds That are black with the autumn moon. One watches the lightning flash In the cataract of the wind; The knife-blade on the heaving stone Gives a sharp and sable shock And with it incessantly She forces fast and steadily The moon's way: They cross over the flaming rain, And are strewn with desolate streets. Over the sinking and tarnished rain, Over the sullen rain, The women wait in their discontent Until the sunset gleams Over the blistering steaming roofs, To watch the ships come past. The black men's thunder of cannon and gun, The rough-faced men with their feet in the snow, The tired men that cannot guess at sleep And fear the dawn, for the dawn is cold, The old with the battered heart. Under them are grimy walks That pass through paths of stone; ======================================== SAMPLE 10 ======================================== est use, and that those may thy strong trap not have loose to thy hold! But I will tell thee one and all, if thou wilt come to me. Tell me of our escort." v.Course of the hapless wights thitherward the woeful band drew on and on, which he at first had called them, wherefore weeping their hearts with their tossing locks, they cried to their God in to their shame; and their mouths were so full of guile and enmity that the mother only made them happy; for she was a woman of great their wives, and have no other care than they for that which they said and flee. Then they formed a terrible snake, wherein are thickest, in the great gulf called and plunged him in the earnest sea. The ferryman could find no pass through the gulf into which the serpent was drawn, and the boat drew back into the hollow cave, when the fury fell from him. There he was living in the very body of Patroclus and of his squire who gave the Trojans death. Patroclus gave him a steeds to bear to his own ship, and the horses to bring him to his own country. He sent four ships of them into the ship and all that way whereby he would go. NOW when we had crossed the sea for the space of seven days, I found the seals that have a hundred hands just off from the time when any one or other of the other crew could see us so wholly perish and how close they are themselves, so many and So spake I to him, and he replied, "Tell me this first; how are they all brought thus far from our own country? are they all come to a bad end, from the waves? or did some prophecy or other manifest destiny of their lives make them forget the ten years' separation knit them and betoken them to this ?" which in evil hour shapes the hour as it changes, as a spider draws an air when she seizes it, lies soft when the long particle falls into the hand of one passing over a banquet. And these too took their seats; but my father and my mother went on board ship to consult the matter, and I, being not a whit older than he, made a wait, and bade the housekeeper wait on before the vessels themselves, so as the harbour-men, grasping a glimmering oar, went on board, saying, "Lo, we are oager, and we are come for the belly of mighty Jove, to witness that which ourselves may do." Ithaca had been on a coast in the Arimy parental, and the natives were far the best of vessels, and their decks were lying so thickly in the stern of the vessel. Then Ithaca began to bless that princely guest who stood in the midst of all his gifts, so fair was he. But Ithaca still stood with his company, and sent twenty ships to their father Jove, who dwells on Olympus. Thenceforth, when Ithaca had heard of this gift, they resolved to send the best of the ship to the hands of Ithaca, and bring us their convoy, and send forth again the loosened vessel to the city." When they had thus fulfilled their mind, they yoked the ship for their courses, with the masts and halyards piled out upon the sea shore; then they took their seaman to the chambers of Eurymachus. They brought them wine out of a fair golden cup, brought them sweet scented meat, and their eyes were filled with tears and dust; for a dark cloud held over their bodies their heads. But Telemachus alone could fare without his ship, so tarrying so long in his own house. And Telemachus bare his men to his own room, and they laid their places ually aside. Now there was the slaughter of the men and of their women, and a din rose about the tables of the foster-fatted herdsman. The heifer bounded forward and stared at the unwearied as before, but the sons of the swineherd were feasting in their own houses for them. Then the swineherd could see the trees of the forest, and could hereafter see them and mark them, for he bethought him to go and lay his hands upon the good cheer set before him. "Forth on this, stranger," said he, "fearing not the shame and ======================================== SAMPLE 11 ======================================== me before the fire, 'twas when the race is up, We won a chance to follow what, and find their chips. I know it was for skilful fingers,--and for hair, Also--I see the head and shoulders too and fro,-- Then some one says, "Good evening, ladies: take this oil,-- Thoughts turned like snow, like windy Christmas-chats too, Pass the fire, cut out like icicles, and then, One follows you,--why, I'd be better then,-- Have a good bit of a dinner,--and I don't fear You'll in nor even abandon this. It's most in town, This very night, to find your roses gone. I'll set you in a jewelled band, and you, Ere many weeks are passed, shall have your death. Yes, I'll have those who could, and have no fear If I should die for love,--I shall lie here Not to look back for once; since very fair The sun becomes, the frost has ceased to bite The last is better, though I'm strong, perchance, Than my bad fortune's done. From the close retire-joys of those days When I was brought up with I much maintained By candles buttered in the convalescence Of unpermitted cigarette, such rays Were no good instruments of disappearment, Methought in that supreme arbitrament I heard men singing, "Hither, thither, choir, "And make you sing, and you "Make music, be along And pipe, and such soft notes and lute-like flute-like flute-like flute-like flute-like flute-like flute-like And I'm grown up smart And rough indeed, Yet would much less, (however fond of songs) I'd do it still: but I'm not in a mood At what I'd do. I am the sport Of those who flung me out of life and days, Not for myself, but for your own praise, But for your mountain-way, your vales and bays. Be brave enough! For me, I've done my best, To be your guide, your flower, your road's observant rest. Here in this company My sorrow I delight, And joy in you. I can feel, my dear, My pains and fears, and hope To know you near. Yet here I am! I could not weep for you, And yet I'm blest; I do not cry For any but you, You are the sweetest friend I have in my way. On friends I do not feast, I laugh at a friend, But the heart aches With recollection As though I'd fain For a charm To dream for aye, I'm with you all, The summer day. How can I know When the morning leaves her dun and bare? How can I, between town and city, Dare in the wayside glare hearth-smoke, And see it while the country-side Rings as the hivefives' honey-hives From fall to empty honey-hives? I fear the phrase of one who says That I am when I've been on the way, Afar, as if I'd fain been kissed By others ever to be gone; And that's my business. No, I'm not In turn a friendly word or jest, But just my lesson's best,-- A living book that's best That's hard to get, And better still that's sweet, Oh, best! And I'd more heed of it, I swear, Than how I'll read and scribble now, And leave it all to chance, now this-- You lose it: take it, I'm your friend! There's nothing for it like content, Only a heaven that's meant. Oh, then it does me good to smell The water laughing through its shroud, The smouldering, smell-drip heavy dew Along the meadows dense and dun, Blue in a moonbeam, fine and blue, And if a cloud has fallen, near or far, To make a place where breezes are, A tiny world of lonely thought, A heaven of merry hopes, a heaven of joy, A sunny land of singing seas. Oh, such is life, not quite so sweet, If life be only as it is; If there's a God that is to love, If ======================================== SAMPLE 12 ======================================== ly, Jock and Bessy-Locks To poor Cordelia chiefly owe a debt; Yet they in Church-yard laid the scruples low Which, if at frosted Kaub we keep it, know. First, Jock, I put your Horse upon the fire, And, if I can, put out both Horse and G ire. By this Daye-tide the French return their way; For, by this Daye-tide, which is more I say, A Spanish eighteenth Crown is left in hand, Which once was Thamis in the Ayre of Spie, A more fair Idol, and a more brave seize, Which now is but the valour of their Land. For here their Right may safely rest at will; And for their Country's weal I cannot fill. So they the Ranks, and the Brothers rush on him, And so the Ranks, and the Brothers rush on him. Sir Knight, (for you are with me) know that I Am Brave, and out of One as well as I. For if one wear the best I sell, one treadleth right, Whilst the other, like a Knight, doth all that's good: On Man no felon no felon could be read; What of the Ranks--on one thou must have read. Of the Ranks--on one thou must repent to say That setting English in disgrace and gore, Because they robb'd us of a Knight of some, A right good fellow in their Grand Ayre; As the Ranks do then, that he the King should take, Of men like these all but the most rich in wakes. One pound of Boyne,^10 Sir Knight, it much behoved me That I to carry on these Earls a Tragic Jament, Inferior far unto that to countenances, How dreadful to make Lady Elfinhart, And to her own self might she and I compare In vertues equal to a Crownes Lebmond beare. But after, in a cloud, poor Cloe must likewise Be placed on the margin of the Table Round, And see if by the luckless chance you can Have him uncounted and beloved of all, On he returning will he chuse to goe, For that my Lady, when she saw him so, Did to the Front of that old Lyonors house, Before her see a Knight all earlily, With these Hirsuteous and Catch-'em, one of those Whom the old King had made of Castlereagh. These then, with pleasing smiles and carrols playing, In the mid Chase before the Castlereagh, Knew that a present of those Ranks was say'd To this Dame Prouin, when to this she hied. So on the hunt upwent this Lady Vade, And with her practised eye survey'd the glade; But when the Forester upshot her eyes, She blush'd, and to her Dowager she cries, "Good Father dear, and have you heartily I may behold you well." Then to herself she cries, "The Lady Fair is fairer unto me." So thinking, reverential to the Dame, From her right side she drew Sir Knight and friar, And after him Sir Lancelot he espied, On whom the maiden waited with such pride, That to leave him he could not well enquire. But when Sir Lancelot him beheld, astride In his own strength and vigour, down he gan, And to his side Sir Lancelot thus address'd, Gan full of doubts, and holding high his crest, "Lady, what see'st thou, Sir Percivale, with eyes Like those which under Mars great Appelists Have seen their King--nay, turn thy face away As if to say, if this thy heart can gain Aught of thy trial, and the man be slain, Let him resign himself to mere pretence, And he, thy servant, to the King of Heav'n Will make the pretext of a pretext, free, And by the King's permission do what he Will partly loose, himself may freely go. Of those who so have pass'd through warlike actions Brave Guelpho blame the Knight to go into, And that, as well as those who wish'd, he teaches To go, and on a sudden down to sinning In open field to die disgrac't with him. And she, 'twas said by Richard, "Lord, the King, If thou the ======================================== SAMPLE 13 ======================================== ! within her place-box!" "Ah no, you must not catch him, darling, If you wish to wed with that sweet maiden." To the chimney-top she brought him, And the kettle called her aunt, "Dinah, dinah, dinah, here comes To the gate, this present morn, Where you will hear a footstep, and see with his eyes the locks He wrote this song, "You have wedded your fair lady, your wife is an exile, You never can make a long purse, or you can buy it. Whether he's poor or rich, he has riches, but never Can make a will for two, but one gold ring alone. Then please to follow me, For to give you freedom, then To accept your wife to the issue, And live free, If you would approach, Let the six that keep it ten times longer, For it's better to be brave and true, than to tarry!" I told you once a bargain, And he refused to sell All the money which he had But what's the use? You'll not have a wife, So you will not marry a new woman. But he was rich and well-bred, and his father had such a heart, That he said to his wife, "Your wife has a right Honor and favor; what will you give her?" And the little one, The red, red, and blue, Whispered out this jocular way, "Your wife has a right Honor and favor; what will you give her?" And the little one said, "Because she has the one soul in her," And the little one, The big, sweet Red, With the funny, high-curled smiles Of the little one behind the other, A-bobbing with glee Just as if he'd like to doze The potation of the grog-pies! But for all that they had to say, And not having heard or heard, You can't afford to use the word Which means so all the other people. Just then she knew 'twas jewelled hands, And the old one pouting, "Oh, how admirable it is!" And you'll remember, There are so many other people Who get them into trouble, There's little men, And for the most part of their life, There are rich men like undenyed men. And if one takes a drop of driving, Another drops it easily. There are so many honest people Who shun a house that can't be hiding. What delicate people are you all, You are so very flattered That when you get a grudge, Or trouble it all with feeling, They don't know who are good friends. For all your merry mirth and merriment, And all your merry laughter, There's one who has but one mind, What is it that he knows of friends? Here's somebody that don't like his mirth, Or his father's ploughing, And that is all the question he May choose to live in, And that's the point he fires the most, And makes his cares to creep about. There's faces with the legs outspread In the road that he sets out. Though you look at the beaten men, Or see them on their feet, They've got a perennial row Of legs in the street, And so it's clean and good to be A hero like you. If you see a road outspread, Or upon a summer's morning Dream-like from the plain, You just let the water flash, You never let it stain; The man that's real good and kind Is one of us who knows. Here's another with the heart outspread, But we won't go again. The dying stream is running red As it runs along the bed. Your window keeps a constant pull To see the stream's reflection-- But go, don't start to fret; 'Twas here the water came to be A big pebble spray and sea. Here is a heap of gilded wood Where the man's candle was: We're on the journeying side astride When I was but a little child. Now, our three-legged girl beside The fire with one good arm Will take us unaware. And that's what we shall wear. Here's a bit of a new round, And a bit of a hill, And a better room With a pool on the hill, ======================================== SAMPLE 14 ======================================== on the tee-jib's wa'-shoo; The beggar'd hodm'd in bed, Wi' a sark-sleeve-sleeve in his back, Whenas his wee bit bairns did come, And cried, "Eh, faithless Tam! A better dochter couldna be!" But, word for word, the vera lad (His misther had na sta'n a') Bliss Carler, wha kens thy saw, Wad hint the vera baith thy heid: He kens the vera baith thy saw, For vera baith thy saw and saw; Sae tak' your misther apron, M'Let! Or, ken ye weel, ye wuird poor thing? I've seen them ca'ed them a' in thrall, In park or stately hall. I've seen them sairly chant their lays, In furth or woak, in barks or plays; And meikle-dum, and wood-nymph's lays, They maun bewiss the baith men say; And meikle-dum, and wood-nymph's lays, They maun bewiss the baith men say. And mony a cantie carle, O Tum! Ye'll still be tunefu' at the sound, Wi' music's mair than a' the ices; And to the warld, wha hiz upo' Your misther, Tam, they can a' gie ye Wi' melody, and fun and glee, And mad-tonage, and the evenin' cry, They maun bewa'ed by a' the ninnies; But, O Tum, ye'll no be for aye (The truth may be) pit-a-pather. The quiltins, whether they be waur, Or be themsel's plays deid for feir, Maun be ta'en up, wha're gaun to braw, As fast as twa are leevin's. A quiltins, wha'll be fash'd sark-fast? A thrawart sark an' a auld man's breech? A whistles, that's sound wi' t' wind? A whistles, that's sound wi' t' rain? A ne'er, that I think, will be for thee; And a ne'er, that I think, will be for thee, When nae the sea comes, simmering tow'rds me, Wi' dancin' sails, owre a' the blue, An' the wind blaws i' the gummin' yooth; And whiles, whan my heart beats in the stoup, An' I rin an' dream, at evenin', droop, An' then, wi' the wind, I'll end my sang, An' seek my lane, at the mirk stane, Wi' her green wull for my lanely stane. Wi' the bricht blade o' burnin' ling, When the water, mak' a leis mair bricht, Than has been step for noontide twenty sicht, Frae my awnell starns I gae a sicht, Afore I began to think o' it; When I gaed to the byre o' it A-heppin' my ain wee carkit carkit carkit carkit carkit carkit cawit cawit cawit cawit cawit cawit cawit cawit cawit cawit cawit cawit cawit cawit cawit cawit cawit cawit cawit cawit cawit cawit cawit cawit cawit cawit cawit cawit cawit cawit cawit cawit cawit cawit cawit cawit cawit cawit cawit cawit cawit cawit cawit cawit cawit cawit cawit cawit cawit cawit cawit cawit cawit cawit cawit cawit cawit cawit cawit cawit cawit cawit cawit cawit cawit cawit cawit cawit cawit caw ======================================== SAMPLE 15 ======================================== , who come and have but their language-- Lady, list to the rustling of dew, List! we heard a love-call come and go,-- Fiery and fierce and bitter as blood, O'er the Mermaid stealeth as hath been said. Mighty prophet! Seer of the stormy soul, Tempter of the blast, wretch, tempter of soul, Nature's prophet, seer in Thee, Thou dost roll Rocks along the Eternal which are now to gnaw. "Oh thou of Homakers! Oh thou of the Frosts! Oh thou of the Thrang! Oh thou of the beasts! Oh thou of the under-world that seest the ghost Of the golden-scaled sage, Father Whittington! Thou of the Forests! who in the night With the cutting hoof of a lion must fight, Stalking the ghost of a King; oh thou Of the scarlet-throated Pithe, Oh thou Of the blazing throat and the battle-snow! Whittington! Swarming divine of Art! Sweet of taste and proud of heart, Flowers of culture, fruit of desire, Woods for sport, and whiting for fire! Crass, at highest, within and without Frost, and snow, and, to give the grim foe drink, Roaring and frothing at each other, drink. Yea, the crows, the enlightened, the dear, Vague of remembered, vain-glorious year, Now, the soul, half turning, half turning, Looks on the master's face, like a moon Rising and setting, and looking from thence-- He, the Master-in-Law, who hath named The king, Wielder, justly--who he was When the poet came by the way to France, And here, then, for the sight of a queen, Hath called over the infinite sea. Voiceless, perchance, to the Heart's desire, Soul that hath found eternal calm in the flesh, Is the nobler, softer the nobler man, Hiding his own, the beneficent, An heir of earth, nor in measureless length Of the being welded to form and made To shed the light of humanity O'er the being for her great deliverance Earned by her mighty natural. Lavish of the realm in which the sea, Scattered over the world, is trodden and trodden, O Art, make now for thy perfections this: That in likewise of which we are come, When you alone man's heart shall unlock, Afar, by some strange fate, in a world Which, darkly inscribed on the ivory keys, Was trapped by the midnight bird as a seal. Love first that which the senses took With aspect and thought, soul of beauty, 'Tis it, in the therefore, we are able To fashion the bright loveliness By which to the wondrous inner sight. Love which yet lives, in beauty's light, Alone possesses all excess. Upward then from breast unto breast Is drawn the elusive modesty Of that purity, every whiteness, That art hath in itself the law Of all the seas, in each, sea-breathing Rooted in the fields, wide-opening, To the intimate heart's deep centres of thought. From God-is there comes an inner light That fills and feeds us with emotion In lofty, unmeasured epics Of beauty, that is love's abiding-place, Thou shalt discern the complex play-ground Of beautiful words, or my song will trace The hieroglyphics of my thoughts, And fathom why, and sing their glory, Tracing them with deep tenderness. Not only these, O little poets! The world you know is full of them, And perfect for you are they all. For each, of these I have sung Is full of the full, golden light That through our fair poet-heart thrashes Before his marriage with light: The full-ed souls are the worlds. But, dear books, in love's far dominion I am your heart-deep, loving nation. Hath she with such a genial voice Uttered this outer world,-- With softest echoes, sweetest touch Of hand, and foot, and heart, For all men's wonder, more than those Sylvanian music which, Fading through his chrysolite vine, Speaks, and makes visible The radiant gates of daylight ======================================== SAMPLE 16 ======================================== fell asleep, His brow was circled with a weight Of lovely thoughts. In dreams he read The story of his fathers' deeds Of wonder and of blood's remorse. On heads of corn he held high feast, In robes of purple, silken down, His star-bright body hung in light, His powdered forelock wore a crown, With broideries of crushed burnished gold, And rubies of the cobweb cold. I saw him as he lay, whereon, Upon a hill's fantastic crown, While all his gathered life lay dead, Like to some old musician's head, Came to the cataract's dashing flow, And there, in softer voice, he said: "Why art thou here, a fen to roam Far from the buzzing clamour of the dead? Pluck up thy hasty fruit, destroy With wine the brimming goblet's foam. Come, drain the goblet's strength destroy, And drink the brewage of thy thirst Then, only then, with magic art To waken from its long delay The long hours of thy joyous play." And now he heard a funeral-peal, A sorrowing voice, that fared along Beneath the moonlight's gracious lay, And funeral-pipes that called to-day Farewell, farewell, forever nigh! At the outer door Lay many a goodly kid, Tremembered like a hare. But his precious flesh was gone, No longer young, nor yet With any pledges of good grace Fastened itself at home. For past the feast and done, On a shabby gray stone old, That overlooked the well-built place, And met by a small village gray, And a small hut in a woody nook, That stood there, near a gloomy nook, Where the brown taper lit each hole, And opened over and let in Darkness and sunshine, sunlight and moonlight, That glimmered through the windows' gloom, Like an old friend's sepulchre. Short the way Here, when the snows were gone, In summer, on the hill, Close up the stile; The snowdrop, with his head Across his shoulders, hung Like a bunch of flowers Shaped in a sunny dell. And the pears, that were the heap Of flowers late so dear, Trembled and flashed and fell On the table there. Nothing says this place. The faded flower-bud, On its dead lord's bones, Was hidden close; Its blooms were gone, And the golden grass Sifted dust around; The lone Rose put forth its leaves In the garden of her heart, Whose sad thoughts wandered forth, In many a humble mood, Through the very solitude That once was her own mood. Whither the days go? Take me, tender May, Ye have passed away, By the cold world's way, Under autumn's sun. Fields fresh with autumn, Budding where the eglantine Winds the cottage that once stood, Where the alders stood. Where the slanting yellow In the warm hedge-row Seems to bar the way. Towers and fields with flowers, Winding where they go, And the traveller brings His blind wand back to go, Where they might not see. Come to me at evening, Come when the shadows fall, Come in the gloaming, In such an hour, Such a wandering home. I'll be your shield. Fear not. Thou only, I know, The gleam, the hope and you shall go, While I smile on your face, And sweet dreams in your voice. Yet many a promise yet remains, That my young days may still succeed In useful converse sweet, but pain To live in, and that need to breed A love within me that shall be More perfect in itself. The end Is come, but soon or late. O thou, by Heaven sent To my bedside mast; Come while I glory in my love, In my low bed to pray, A white robe and a star above, And a blessed blessed day! Bend down your head, And look up. Ye hosts of sorrow ones, come down, Ye palaces of woe, Prayer for the faithful ones that die, And have no place to go, But go up on the silent seas, The lonely homes, and homes, ======================================== SAMPLE 17 ======================================== from head to foot, the few trees which Christ's careless force and spells will draw down to them, he will see that ever the evil is done--hiding life's shame away from the seeker, the hopeless perishing, the ignorant man, and he will gaze again, turning from shore to shore and bidding adieu to the heroes. When I once had heard voices, 'twas but a long while ago, and I knew them the same--how should I know them? Yet, God knows, it is plain enough that not the angels, not the saints who live always, not the redeemed, must ever greet my spirit more closely than my verses. My heart still kept telling my very dear love's story to me, but so many nights ago--so many years since he told me all the love he could ask--and so many moments since that time--his tale told of the love which he could not withhold, yet still lives, in the distance beforetime, when the glory of God glitters brightly in the heart. God sends me home with power, With power to sound the lonely hours To numbers of true worth; To make the earth, the forest-trees, To rosy-bosomed flower, And mould the solemn thoughts to be Which May-time cares to wean; To blot the fairy-fleece Which hides its loveliness and truth, Its little hour of bliss; To darken the deep-sea of woe, And set the blue above it so, That far from earth he trod. Lord, grant me Peace; I'm slow to grudge, Or pit me for my sins like these; Lord, wilt Thou help me in my need, Or strengthen me in dreams? Rather than fail, as storms are driven, And rigorously out endeavour, Lord, send me Peace again; To win no heart, to take no rest, Then, never, Lord, forget, Thy holy name we angels know, That we are stretched in welcome so. And grant us Peace again; And strengthen us in this great fight, Where One in Glory is; That, to make all of time restored, Belongs to me in heaven. As the fisher remembers the sunnyted shallows, When the winds are in fields which are parched and unprisoned, The line stretched, so long beyond sands or mountain, But drifting away in the distance beyond The quiet, still darkness, he saw that it reached the shore And the rushing wind, and the golden sea, and the glory that crowned the bright bay. And all the long night I would wistfully scan, As I thro' the grey dawn I watched it rise, With the flashing wing of a golden chrysolite, And the ocean behind, and the leaping wind, And the soft, sweet kiss of the lonely sea, That makes Love home, and we two together, To shore upon the sweet bay weather. Ah, dream too bright to be dreaming Like those far-away stars we see, Who come to us, glad and unwearying As Hesper falleth from the sea! O, dream too bright to be weeping Like those far-away stars we see, He comes with a sombre, leaden wing, He tarrieth in gusts of flame. Ah, dream too bright to be weeping Like those far-away stars we see, To bear, as falleth love's bright wings, His bright soul back to us and us, To chant of grace in this dim air, And feast us with many a star, The music that doth not come near, Whence no winged soul doth come near. Ah, dream too bright to be weeping Like those far-away stars we see, To teach us how each one maketh A vision and a glorious birth. Poor fools, they cry, they love thee, They hide thee with their hoods above thee, They lash thee with their chains to rend thee, They tear thee with their knives of love, They bid thee writhe up in the wood, Thy life is a mockery to love, And love is a lesson to love. O, dream too bright to be weeping Like those far-away stars we see, To teach us how each one maketh His bright soul back to us and us, To bear, as falleth his bright soul, His bright soul back to us and us, To bear, as falleth his bright soul. ======================================== SAMPLE 18 ======================================== to the father as he came down His Argives from the sun's way, and they chose No armed men for the War-god. Sudden bright As the thronged scroll-clouds, when their handiwork Fills the portentous bridge across the flood, And the hero leaps out with his utmost power Back on his own ship, and with one vast shout In anguish and alarm the Trojans sprang Crashing together, like a storm-cloud's cloud. Such the confederate robins. Who would dare That the great Sea-maids bring them safe again Across that narrow sea, and drag them back From the stanchions where their brethren slept? Then a great whirlwind threw them from their frames, And smote the heavens, and they sank to earth. Even then Achilles knew the deep desire Of war-destroying foes. He started up Through the thick gloom; no flickering blazing sun Gleamed above, no starry glimmer of blazing stars Shone round him; from his temples swelled his eyes, And his heart leaped with the bliss of that fair deed As, running, he essayed to conquer them. But the strong God withheld not in his heart The vision of that Might-have-been. Long time He trembled, and in awe, all trembling, cried, While his loud heart with anguish was o'erflowed. But the great God withheld not in his heart The vision of that which he foreknew, Of that shame wrought, that honourable pride Stamped on his unforgotten name. His wrath Marvelled at such indignity to him. He suffered not that he should not fight His despoiled people ever more in fray. But now when a great host he beheld, And marvelled, being wrangling, how to press The Immortal gates again, he cried aloud, "Dog, be no coward: let the thing be cast Into the very heart of a great Lord!" Then from his presence shrank the Argive men With awe-struck courage. Onward then they poured Indomitable wine, and made them thrall With their great masters to their joy. Long since The supreme Fates had given him strength to rouse The Argives on their knees to pity. Him They softened, but abashed. With anguished heart They banched him from the battle. A great shout Then rose for joyous hearts around their lord, And shouted, and the people bickering ran As the storm-showered river leaps upon the hills And spurns the thirsty walls. The chariots whirled To meet the warriors, mad with eager haste, And with their thunderer o'er the hollow wave The limbs were quivering. Each man, though he Fought breathless round him, grasped the mighty spear Which Achilles' broad breast bore, and eagerly Would fain have thrust it from his mighty hand And quencht it in his own despiteful heart. So in great strength they smote him with their might. Then did the Blessed Battle-eager draw At last within a wall not far apart Which o'er the mighty dead had fallen a-stretch Before the Gods' stern doom. There in the wall Lay perishing the Thracian, as a babe Blest with the firstlings of its mother's breast And milk the little brooks of a mother's milk On a cradle of the aged: for Achilles' hand Thrilled to a sudden the air, tremulous And quick, and from beneath his feet as loud Rushed a white steed fast by, as, wild with fear, The rush of men rushed onward, or a cry Pressed from the mighty heart; loud rang the stones As on the wind of Zeus. Tumult there came Hovering, and echo of the pitiless deeds Of those that perished in that battle-strife. So in their multitude he rushed out like A thunderbolt from Jove, in thunderstorm Tossing the earth. The chariots then were turned Back to the rampart; and with clash of arms And sound of heavy hurling of man-steeds' heads Rose the great Amazons. Anon the Greeks Halted with panic-stricken hearts, and caught The beams that flashed from their still-rooted shields, For in that better fight they deemed them all, But laid the earth in drudgery behind them. Then Marvelled the highest of the inthwits of their ======================================== SAMPLE 19 ======================================== . "How still the sky! nor how the seas in brass Scattered the mists,--alas! not those who rule O'er rolling waves, who sail so ill at ease Groping for mercy! how it is with me Man tramples down, from all the vast domain Of all that earth has made! And this is he That must break Sin's chain, and break the free Of man's desire! And this is he, the Lord That captive led to shudder, and indeed Such as he now rejoices, to restore Peace to his folk, and daily to assuage His of that woeful realm to come! And some Heard in the murmurings of the multitude And village preachings of a mother; some Saw fervid with the faith that they believe No less than they, to those who for the good Compel the evil, and confound the good For which they are undone. And lastly, see, With just-accordant piety their hands Healing and huge altar-laying have done Their sacrifice, and poured their wine, and gave Their God! And lastly, in that plenteous hour, Since with the early-born they met together, This Eve was named. "Come then with me," they cried, "To the Unseen Land, the glory-haunted sea, To the Unlighted Land! And we will sail Each to his home again, till o'er us break The unnamed Starry Dominion! See ye all, How silver-feathered Eve went up the wall! For lo! the light! she cometh! Go, and speed!" So went they; and so crashed the gateway, each, As, pealing, shouts the other from the stall. They crossed themselves the doorway to draw back At the long bright line of the unlighted track. Then Eve stood still, and looked down shadowy and pale, Like one impelled by some new-yoked control, When he sees all the human multitude Hanging in earth--the Adam and the Man, Who, bodyless, with eyes that flash like fire, Turn to the field--his porter! His askan Rises, and looks, and beckons with desire. The innumerable-throned Lord of all, We greet you, O ye myriad-spreading stars! We touch you with red meteors of delight, And glittering things of the world afar Pile before him in the confluence of far-off spheres, And from his throne, like some resplendent sphere, The flaming cycles go along and die, Like little things beneath some infinite sky. And far and near, the innumerable host And pale-faced moon, that, whereof thou wost impart The secrets of all worlds to other men, Step before their vast stature. For the day That brought them forth, was on the golden way, And by their light about you shall be seen Upon the world's far-wandering world the seven. The passage--spring o' the cloud--even now, Is clear, and all its waves are one wide law, Which hangs with you, and passes as you do. All things grow new and strange; and, so, I trust That the rude sounds of this world are scarce a rust, For thou art heard of, that in thee is heard. Again the murmur runs, and from the sky The thunders liquidness, and cloud on cloud Swell the resounding hoofs--even now, methinks, A sound like those of aspen-trees are wont To quiver, and flash up in rushy bars Into the atmosphere. I hear it sweep With such a force, I know not how it comes. All suddenly the gates swing back, and press Up to the luminous upper upper vault; The strong-lights' music climbing up the sky Is heard, and the wide hall is dimmed as with a sigh. Through all the palace rings a clamour of Such as no other might be. So she fled, The Shadow Lady of the skirts of Time, Fair-haired, and flower-clad, and dauntless Thrice, With mocking smile and glimmering beckoning throng, Went wading through the heavy laden void And brightening to the pool where threads of dust Bent idly round and darker. There she stood, Her sun-robed self behind her, then one breast She lighted to a sudden and to rend, And then her heart was snared; she reeled again, As if to one ======================================== SAMPLE 20 ======================================== : Thus verily I'll venture down With sulphur to that nit. A good fat creature was at home, My husband and my darling wife, And she was taken by the arm That kept her there from harm; 'Twas one of those vile, grousome boys Who stood upon the floor, Who, for my sins, might well be famed For making those ashamed. Their neighbours and my milk-pans Were not to blame at all, The men they killed and unfortunate, In thousands to extol: Yet were they to the bottom filled, 'Twould make an honest thrall. But still it was my great disgrace To see them still take in, The man who shot the curdard first And after died of sin. My husband and my brothers fat 'Twas all to make him well, I thought it would be no disgrace To take them in a quill. But though the hands that he has gone Those hands have left in vain, The head that went, the shape that went, We'll keep him in the rain. That fowl who to the wind that's named With plumes and bill and bag, When weary of the yoke is broke, May fly to meet the gale; No earthly beast of earth, or sun, Can to his funeral make A human figure; or, as one, His life may be redeemed. For all from God, and saints, and kings, And thousands thousands many, A brother's welfare is a thing Which makes him howl with pain, And, bent on earth, he walks about In sorry mood, like any cork, For wanting in that small lost thing. That saint, which now in human things Hath passed away, Whose body life and soul have clung To be so long a prey, Think how in heart he could be blessed If not by death away! O Church, how dead and mute, how dead With all thy boasted bliss! How desolate, how stark, how stark, England! thy proudest bliss! O broken, shattered, restless heart, That, trampled, dealt its blow Think how in heart had sunk that blow! Think how in heart had died that blow! Think how in heart had died that blow! Come, knit the braid round brow that wears The plaid that I must wear, The ribbon that must travel too, The plaid I cannot wear; And think upon the fading rose I leave behind my care, The blue-bell that shall no more bloom Because I would not share The blue-bell of the skies, the rose That withered when we sought the bower To gather aught but sorrow And left to sorrow. Thrice, O thine eyes of tender light, And if my feet be led To the dear place where Vision dwells That fills with love thy dead; Thrice return to me that light That filled the love we tried To fold within our hearts again, And find that it is thine. I know not if this world be so It yet may soon be mine, But if, in days far sweeter spent, The dream of hope is thine, Remembering that thou waitest late For those who wait outside. And if, in happier days than these, Thou shouldst not yearn for love, Or fear the word he says, "Approach," Thou wouldst not wait to prove That promise to thy lips is still, For all would welcome will, That to thy couch as bridal bier Thy soul with gladness all should come, That thou, when Death draws near, Shouldst, in immortal guise, In that pure rest to which the spirit clung, An untroubled Spirit find, Thou shouldst not sleep Nor ask thy mortal help in vain, But loving thee in all thy grief and pain I am come to see thee--I am bent O heart! at last to lull thy weariness So when thou shalt the eyelids meet I may not long to lay me down in rest. O spirit of my soul! Beneath the fellowship of one Who ruled my fate while yet my heart was young And thine in beauty grown, Now when thou hast my heart to love anew But scarce can know my own, Then by thee all our thoughts should slumber, And past each thought and fear of heaven-- O then, when I have learned to love the shade, Thou wilt have grief to bear And be as I were ======================================== SAMPLE 21 ======================================== as he was, With flint anon he could throw from the plate; But the boy, seeing this, refused to feed, Unfolding the straw, or empty the basket; For Jumper the spit on the fire bestowed, And they found their fellow an ox they hated. Eagerly said Jumper, "This must be done: Come, fellow! come! we have watched thy house, We see the walls of thy dwelling to rue. But what has Jumper done?" 'Twas said in the Greaze, As he kicked his horse's foot, and his breeches' weight; A half-star found him, and the whole world heard, And a half-provoked fire burnt under his head; He whelmed the horses, and his harness heared. "It was an insult to me," muttered Jumper; "Who else but Jumper should deal properly With me, my brethren? These Numidian dwellers, The gallant Capuletos, men and women? Had they been asked by aught on this condition, 'Twould grieve them in their hearts should have relied On looking out for these white, terrified thieves, The worst holds, and the worst does nothing. "Yes, I am the man, as I should well have the boy, A non- unfit man must not have an older; He knows the thing already, and laughs in the mouth, Beethoven or Utica, or chief of the Greeks; But why shouldn't I tell you, then, of him, Jumper, Whether he knew him, or I? I know him well, In answer to question, whether he knew him Better or nearer; and this I am not; Only the man, I suppose, was taken away, The town conceals him: the town then presents him. He has an ancient city and little more, Except what you ask for and help it receives: Three great logs, trunks packed there: this will stand for Ninthric, for evening. Strew him on him well With furs; take off his robe with fillet, too; Do what you will, let him have hose and stockings, To-morrow may'st overtake him here, and so With food and flowers feed him; let him see An idler in the vesture of his dress, I mean that, taking off the hat, he begs To have no object. First, let him devise The whole disordered story: he himself Hastes by a horse's foot towards a river, With as much heart as can both side of it, To see if anyone may in his dream In the region be a clown, as I have seen. When a block's lying there is much to say, And theBeing asked, who dug it up? He first Arose, and then the lying judge's plea, And then went on: but whence it came, I say? Both of the bodies and the parts he there, The souls and souls, the souls which did suggest In that case, made the corpulence which showed Consumption, as the mind was, through excess Resembles it by ill indigence, whereon The parts dissipated the sense of blows. Next then, to be a person heard, I mean A gen'ral voice; for much I know the means Of bringing back to him my father's words, And to his saying, 'What, what, in that third act, Com'st thou to spy him? Tell him what they bring.' Then to the living judge 'Thou demandest, O noble lords! I will un-abasement The censer's fulsome precept, and we'll say How blessed are the Gods, and if not all, They leave no less presents there than smiles.' But this the instant, as the fine voice swore, 'O perjured witnesses! the guilty fear Which first broke off, and then attested wrong, Now not to utter offence or bite, or make The deed itself a lie, but to prevent From speaking of the crime to any sense, Yet feeling of what guilt upon his head By such a judge's was done, as I have seen. "'O madman, think what in a clown you are! Confirm the truth: I tell thee, nothing false! What you believe not, who believe not God? That which is truth, if any, nothing seems. In man you trust too much, his life, his death Secure, and therefore innocent at last. O, when ======================================== SAMPLE 22 ======================================== , brave Bopeepin, with intent To rescue for the fleet the Grecian host From great Aeneas in the halls of Troy, Were crowded on with wondering arms. Then sprang Alecto the immortal, for he deemed His mother's son and her of noble race. But Neptune, sorely troubled at the view, Looked up, and marvelled at the work he plied. He, seeing it was fruitless to his work, Now drew the bow-string forth and slung it on the string, And, thrusting it, urged forth his master's shaft And darted at its head, and pierced the shaft within. Just where the mark of the unerring bow Fell in huge fragments, from the lofty tow Of lofty Troy the arrow home he plied. Of spear he smote him; quiver-bolts he left And flinging it afar. He grasped the string Snatched by the hand of ever-flowing shafts Of Aeacus; in the midst he smote him dead, And with his own hands caught it by the cord, And, dying, the hand laid thereon, with the shaft still Considered there and again, and the hand held fast With the deadly arrow, and the string of the bow; And in his own hands held a heavy stone. So by his back upon the wound he cast, And throned above the battle, and his heart Went with a writhing sigh, and all around Thwarted the arrow of death, and in his own wound Dying he fell, and forth a living wound. He fell there and with groaning, ever more Points out the arrow from its home in the wound, So that the arrow passed of death a prey, And from the hand the bow-string draws it out For his own hands to reap the last of the bow. There, with his bosom covered o'er with blood, On the fair bosom of his mighty friend Stood Bopeepin, whose hands outstretched to kill That murdered man, and draw the arrow out. And all with mighty joy had filled his heart To see the hand so like the hand of Fate. For as the arrow drew the string he fell Still as a mast it moved, still as if mauled By axe or axe or axe-blade. But the wound Achilles' steeds once smote, nor in the plait With which the King did bear away the spear, Till in his breastplate his beloved life Fell out. And like a powerful eagle's beak Armed with two spears was Sthenelus of Crete, Whom, midst the rushing darts, whene'er he saw Fire in the wound, he flung afar to fight From all sides, as a father's hand is charged With many a mighty buffet of the bane. Still on the bosom of his friend was slain That son of Troy, the death-spear, and he fell. In Cleopatra's hand he wounded else, While neck and liver liver with the lance Out-stript, and on the orifice's floor he pressed His brawny body, corse and flesh and all The bones about that in his heart he threw. Then valiant Peleus' noble son cried out: "Patroclus, is this such a glory now To me? What profit had I then to live With one in this wound-wasted carcase rent From my own head, slain by the murderess dead Ere the blood touched my flesh? Why did my hand Rest on the wound, that here I see so clear The wound, and recognize the bitter death? But, that such glory may remain with me While I am suffering still this deadly wound, While Greeks and Trojans in the funeral strife Are dealing with me, let me reap it then." He sang awhile, then bravely spake to him, And in winged words his courage roused: "Great son of Tydeus, thou indeed have known My sorrow, and my grievous wound I bear For all, all that I have. Thou hast redeemed Him in my latest hour, when it is born That I shall call him forth to battle from His deck of battle, for indeed, despite Of body and mind thou art, as it were, As free from body is as best of form. Him once who, sitting near my side, didst bring From out the hall the mail-coat that he wore, For the war-shout, I know not whence, when He hurled his buck ======================================== SAMPLE 23 ======================================== it would have been, That all of us had got within his load, Before he turned his footsteps to his steed, He had found some work that drove him mad, He knew the manner of riding on, It was so far from pleasant." "I'll come to you," said Cole, "With just enough of my tools. "I'll learn the craft of riding first, "And see if you'll keep them to be surpassed, "For these are Orion's sneaking ones, "Who look upon the Sun and Moon, "And offer tobacco, to my taste, "But, somehow, don't you think it brooks "A good, deep matter in these matters, "That country Cupid has to be "He will be lacking in the forest, "For he can work and he can run." "What for?" admitted Swift. "One that can do no mischief. "He will have to fill the buskins "With powder, and so hack and pitch, "And he will be too late for tea, "And, (tho' the job's as hard as his,) "So, on the walls, the boy is born, "And still the Bull keeps close to Heaven, "Till evening shall retire." A parson's boy, "Cease your boy! "Those pies shall be our last." "And for that's quite gone." "Those pies shall be our last." "No, for I'll stop "An' don't know to whom." "My dear," said Dick, "I'd love to make a pair." "And, with you, wear my best "To do what's right in there." They're out in the tavern, They're in the cellar, They're out there, and their stories Are much too exciting. My dear little Star, will you ever so nice? Peppermint and appleblossom, sugar and rice Are all the good things which my grandmother piles Here in my garden, there in the country lane. Peppermint and appleblossom, candy and raspberries Are the good things that my grandmother piles Here in my garden, there when the day shines. Peppermint and appleblossom, cinnamon awm Have neither barley nor fruit, they are good to me All through the summer of life, and I can see Nothing in this world so tempting as it can be. Hey diddle diddlety, The cat and the fiddlety, The cow jumped over the moon; The little dog laughed "Oh, dear little Duckie, Are you in a barn?" The little sheep answered, "Oh, dear little Sturdy, You ought to be a pauper. You ought to be a pauper." The sheep looked very silly, And looked very silly, And the little sheep answered, "Pauper not, for I'm gladsome, And I'm goin' to be a pauper." Then up jumped the little hen, And away they ran, All in the high winter-time, To the fields where the golden grass Islanded for half an hour There was a little Pig, whose eyes Were fair as elfin Brun; He made a little supper, And not one day envied His Paa, so pretty and fat. He ate and drank but little; When he was thinking, "What a lovely day To be so frisky, and not to play!" "I wonder what they're going to say," Replied a little Pig, whose nose Was like a Pig in cotton, He was chubby, and tawny, And ten to one, but one; His waistcoat was a silver pin, His face a golden sun. And he had a little gun, Made out of all red leather, To shoot the little birds in, And leave theabies on the air; With which he sent them flying, To bring a feather; A rabbit on an apple-tree, Who always wore a scarlet coat; He was a red and yellow coat, Perhaps because his name was careless; But when it came to his true heart, He said, "Although I hate to shoot, "I love to hear the words you say, And when you send them home they'll stay, And all the flowers will turn your nose, You know that I will stay and fight, And scratch your very soul, good night! Why, not a poor soul must I fight, Unless, like ======================================== SAMPLE 24 ======================================== in this brave. To these:--from debts to dues, from towns to streets Ceased, storing hard for the long moment's ease, And something I half forgot that day, you know. Think what you will of it, and you'll be gone: --To the fields, to the woods, and the weary way, The sleepy bees, the rustling heath-bells, The ringing crow, the swinging cuckoo. The kindly grass, the viewless hawthorn, The song and voice of all things made for love, The many, many seasons over-score, And after till their life with time was o'er, They toil'd to find it out, through those long days Which Eve had often left, or could not take For memory of some bliss from her, or me, Aught the soft breathings of the summer. Love The human landscape scarcely heeded now, For the gray cheeks that would be bleached with bread Were plump for the mere work. All things were his. His journey, 'twixt the world and the hard work Were his. Though these things kept their forms from touch To see, far to the most, the beauty which His childhood could beget; but these things left A space for Nature's loving looks to wave Before them and to give her. Silently, stealthily, Out he went under sun, or resting-place, Which a slow nomad fashioned for his thought, And gave him thinking of. This was his first Desire to be upraised, then sought him out And gazed, as if in doubt. His search was set, And no one knew what yet it might be. Quick She caught the thought, 'He's nowhere in the place.' 'You come to fetch me!' With a bitter laugh She half replied. 'No. Every note of his Was his last wish, and he'd be here this night With me. Each passing moment of his life We all were in, nor cared what there was left That could be sought by us; he toiled and groan'd, Welded awhile, to win immortal praise. He loved her. He was starving in the street; Wept with his passion, anxiously he asked What thing he could not do, what greater gain He could not seek; what pain he could not gain Was none of hers; and oftentimes he thought 'What I must do if I would wed again And live twice o'er again.' But in his rage He cried, 'I'll rather live with you and miss What you're for marriage, than in all the world, If so be that.' 'I'm done with it,' she said; And he, 'Let's wed.' And to that passionate lord He yearned. 'But I shall miss it' added, 'No.' He cried, 'and I shall miss.' Her eyes grew dim, And something trembled when he asked her why; 'You did not understand me.' 'I understand, But not till then--I did believe you then.' She said, 'I did obey.' He turn'd his head And added, 'You saw that I was bound to love. And if you will not trust the thought I think As I did first when first you came to me I'll say you love me. It's a heavy thing To win love back; not so if I grow dull And you must love me when you come to me, And you must serve me just as I should love.' Then came the hare's glad beating on her ear, And she cried out again, 'It's all too much; You loved me, Geraldine?' and therewithal She sighed and sobbed, 'If I but loved you then, I'll die of sheer neglect, for all the blame On me, on your poor child.' But Vivian, 'You, I'll not be hard to win me if I will, (You'll get my offer if you will)--and so If I will let you up and follow me My vows won wholly out of Mary's heart, I'll eat my supper, or come back to life And hide my heart within it.' Then she thought 'I will be kinder to you if I will,' And there she wept, and there she flung her arms Back to her beating heart. But once alone We went up through the wood, and Vivian, With a bright beating heart, as only lovers Who have known sorrow are content to live, We took our way along the open walks, And rested by the wayside well awhile, And loitered at ======================================== SAMPLE 25 ======================================== the CHAMER, or elegant steeds; Or cob-horned peed his grace had prized, And, in a form too fine for modern steeds, Has ridden over some black-fruited hill With a frigate on the watery plain That wades below some gallant cavalier. And now my simple tale, old foxen bird, Has pecked the quivering limbs of girls and boys With half a glance at the spray that stings Their plumage in the clear wind as they pass. The OLD CAUSE, though, in his gray old age, He pours into the printed book the live Romantic lays that touch the trembling heart, And from the bloodstained feathers of their frock Draw the deep breath of death, and haunt, and smite Some weak but vivid bark in that bright ball, Who, in the distant isle of his fond love, Now counts but one unsteady stanza still Sounding his sonorous canticle, and smooth His silvery way beside the stream, to launch His babbling torrent on the beechen oaks. So every Muse of Greece whose harp has hung The scaly fretting of that raven's wing, And which, when put to use, unceasingly Drops in the lap of breezy Helicon His ivy wreath and lovely fountain-spring, Let the fond Sisters, to her airy mood, Twine round their limbs a bright and filmy dress, And decorate in vestures of blue sky Their snowy forehead and soft dimpled chin, That rise from their fair hands like moving flowers, And shine from their fair hands like water-cups. How lovely is the mossy bank, and still The curling rushes glisten in the sun, In one green line among the old Apeloes That stud the oaks for bees in their high pride And overhang the castle's southern side! There was a goodly quiet that down-hearted Rode in the sunset on the grassy slopes, The long, cool, silver pines, that spread their umbrage And crowned the Titian glade like floating bells That whispered "Blessed Mary" o'er the mountain. A beautiful old mansion stood within Its circling walls, that from the rosy sunset Of a bright May, looked like a hilly nest Of robin redbreast buds that fluttered white And flung them fragrance-like into the meadows, Lily-like, on the grassy slope, and closed On their soft stems the creamy purity Of its dark panes and leaves like hyacinth. And all about it was a porch of leaves, With ivy and wild vine and walnut-tree. O'er it a vine-embroidered canopy, Gleaming and warm with dewy-sprinkled savors Of sleepy, golden-rod and chesnut-thicket, Ripe cherries, and sweet musk-olias, and violets, Primroses, and white lilies with dark eyes, And rich gazelles, and chrismalacked hollyhocks That hung above the door that that leaned above them. The whole plantation stirred with a wild passion At the scene now glowing like the tropic moon; The glorious windows glittered with bright glories, The soft soft echoes of the summer winds That thro' the lilacs, low and murmury, From the bright beechen casement there came stirrling And ringing with a sound more lovely still Than ever mortals have heard in Arabian dales. These, the imperial City of the Moon, The wonder of the earth, the palaces, The many Temple walls, the Eastern crowns, And the majestic ruins of an Age! Was never witness seen so strange and beautiful As the green wonders of those black hills and vales, Which gleaming with the light and beauty of the moonshine, Glowed like a lake of crystal that was washed with silver, And glistened like a soft and amber light When the sun sheds his benisons upon the earth! And, all around them seemed that Temple, carved of white, The work of Nature's handiwork, and set In flashing raiment of bright buds and bluer gold. It was an hundred and seven daughters of the earth, And a thrice-fifty and three maidens of the earth. The eldest of the young men was a queen, With a fair golden head and fair cheeks, And a ruddy cheek, and a rosy mouth, And ======================================== SAMPLE 26 ======================================== Had not he said a little thing! So Aunc noses, prayers, and psalms Were far less dear than their own wills, And pray'd to Death the Lord to die. In such a case the chequered board, Whose stings struck dead the dead, Had more of shrewd portent expressed Than a boy's ringing--hoary, gray, Blue, white and brown, black, crackling, grey, Spare't you--for they were mark'd by sight Of an undelible dinner-table. To choose each crisp and eager thing Of hanger-life was the cool trysting With dainties of an hour or two-- Last night--when, deeming himself distrest, The "encer-barrels" flash'd and bled With scalding tears; for, at his best, The touch-box set, wherein were slung The patience of the aged young-- And joyously that laugh had sung, That none forgot to raise the song; That none regretted aught were heard But the musicians--oh, 'twas hard! Whispering out tenderly the while The lutes were crackling in the smile Of the warm evening--and once more Had he, too, joined the melanch crew Before their song lay to and fro, With uncontroll'd tears for his winning. Again, where now he stood or stood, He, seeking out the willing hand Which aye, more buoyant, smooth, and good, That day had spent, it must be said, More pain the more, for than was said, Or answer could be made; That the same headlong barbarous band By the child's bare arms was well sustain'd, A years ago--so curious-read-- Had sate beside the duchess' waist, His knee as well had dropp'd upon, To feel his mouth so slightly drawn, To melt his lip as gently now, As its own innocent kiss allow'd: To dream, and never wake again! That his young life was too enamour'd To live, nor dream of any failure On the seas of Death as bright and gay. He never fail'd--for he was strong As some proud bird that meets his mate, And his own heart beats quicker when He strikes it with a wiser clime; And so it went. The charm was soon Bestuck'd together; quick as thought, Flashing between the brows as cream, Full stream'd the word--as round the ring The maiden ran with eager spring. O thought of that unselfish day, That miss'd the hermit long away! That call from such forever rest As might the spirit, which was best! O pain of all the parting bliss! That bids me think what parting kiss Held her above his lips and his-- The kiss that never brought him near, The kiss that won him to be true, The kiss to be as woman too! All this he granted--for, no more Than at such leisure he had store, He pass'd again, in fever's flight; He caught the heart that yearned for light, And rent it up in sighs of sighs Between the lips that yearned for light, Until the voice by sorrow woke Both at the hour of morning, spoke, At once to her, and did not make. But round that starry shrine, that look Whose ray is white as mountain brook, Another light steals from above, A fitful radiance from the sphere Of love to both, that burns more clear As heaven's own sunset burns in love, Than she,--ah, half so tenderly! Not cold, but like two maiden dears Breathless, yet faint in beauty's tears, That round the ring in solemn row Doth whisper her soft natal vow; Not cold, but like two maiden dears She blush'd with tears: thus every day Doth fall;--and 'mid the city's roar, Or in the wake of summer morn, To listen to the blithe and gale, Hear not the whispering wind, which chills The ring, on which those eyes would gaze, Though high that night it waits for stills, As if some solemn memory, Both breathed and weather'd in their beams, Should fold the cradle of the stars; And thus, into those eyes that peer'd Betwixt the crowns, a bridge of spears Planted, as if the deity Of heaven itself should kindly ======================================== SAMPLE 27 ======================================== , you think about your turkey; They see a matter which they're too fond of, And which they don't care for, So if I add not this, And save my poetry It's almost surer, surer. Went down the staircase And in he stood awhile, Then cried to himself, "To have a relish A little relish, A little relish, A little relish, Upon the field of war, A little relish, A little relish, That is my darling." At the window sat a club boy, And watched his big face well, And shook the big club from its burden, But therewith mocked the yell, And cried, "Fall back, and eat your bread While only the keeper keeps!" "Soldier, soldier come in training!" Ankered with many a yell, Gazing with fixed grimaces, Clad on with silken dresses, Tired with new life's new distress, Coming screwed till you can dress, And with your arms wide open, And your elbows on your knees, You who were six months old, I loved Captain Kidd. Marching was his work well done, When I put my hands on you, Marching was my darling son, And I put him back with you. "The big black band, you know, Was horribly fulfilling, When they all came down the way, The boys had all been mourning; The boys all screamed and quaked, Their stumps were shaking, As a vision of beauty-- As a passion that's unbroken! Then I slipped away, Like a delicate crystal stone, And from my pocket slipped Tones of indelicate cannon, Through my feathers, torn and furled, And the black battalions Drew the flag-staff round the world. "I had no rest: I had no joy: Nothing else seemed pleasant, The shadows of star-worlds came, The glories of the dumb. Stole my threadbare songs: Went my music and my cloaks: One went up in my cellars To the under-brassy. I had then to work again: I had so many songs; Now I laugh out of my pain Drinking with thunderous wings; Now I weep a happier strain." So the sullen evening went. I and Haw were out alone And he who was not left alone Sent to the others joyful news How Haw had got a gun. In a dark hall a huge redoubt Sat with blank lid across, Like a weary drunkard's heart In a wretch's drunkenness; And he thought, "How cool it is!" Spent with the great dead king Till the blood ran over him: Spent with the brave live men When the cruel world began. Weep not for the dead king When he sends you home; Who shall carry you king When the war goes down? When the lady leaves her lord He is sorry for the grave, With the rose of summer and treason In the loam: the beauty sea Of a country sweeter for thee Than for him, good woman! Live and let him have his whim, Weaken to him gray with time, More than let him dream atween A grind in the realm of men. Clive and weas and steaming brass Never have to tell him of, Having cast the camp's renown Under his eyes, alive For one poor look and cry: If he had but known and missed, And the redness of his dress, They he had not known and missed, Or the whiteness of the press. Squandering a thousand miles, Weary of changing mood, He that the winter suffers Found but an endless food, And the thing that lived but in it Lord of the hidden soul, Gave it the touch of it, Touch of his hand and whole Beheld it, and his eyes, With the brown fool-miracled hell Ever uncouth, and seen Tortures of grisly vice, And things as shameful and as vile As the mean thoughts of mortality. High he went up to it, Burning out blind, Killing it with the strength of fire And smoke, and roaring 'In, Beyond the length of sky, Far down in the blue vale, With a dream and a loud roar, Past the firth of the purple fen, Out over the icy moor. ======================================== SAMPLE 28 ======================================== is there, and hopes no other ill Than water fume, that curles, and flings them here? Why say I as it is? What said your friend When ye went singing thus? Some way of cheering comfort or distress, From the chief topic of Dempster to ask: What words did any man express? And did each one express? Did any one know clearly how they went? When I saw you, my fair one, speaking so, I could not but believe it ye were blind, And but the tale that Aesop would unfold No meaning did my heart diviner grief; And could, like other bridesmen, be of cheer As glad as I could then be made of stone, I should speak quietly in this same tongue, And your kind presence cheerly bade me bear My burden upon sorrow, and could say That all unweary I have borne the wrong, Longing to find you again. O dear St. Andrews Bay, With many a happy way And a sonnets waving free I catch your light winged way! The voices that you sing I hear in loneliness, And when in theltring Your water-songs increase, I taste your sweet and strong O woman with the smile And the jocund air, "He reached it,--and he bore it all a child!" O children, happy and fair, Beneath your mother's sod! At dawn the day departs, The fading east withdraws his light, The Sun comes slowly forth to light, The Shepherd is at rest; Come hither, my whole heart, Come, with the mother's love, And welcome you, and blessed be, The friend of my youth and me! O for an answer to the cry My heart has borne to-day! O for an eye That has been bright with tears, A heart that can understand And fail to set it right! "Then follow on the cry Out of the East, to-night!" And so to the world go they To the endless gates of light! And yet to-day The strange light sleeps before them, The dim light is gone from me; I hear the sad bells toll, I watch the uncertain streets, The light upon your pale, I catch the fading gleam Of the last last gates of destiny. I had love in my heart That was a shrine And flower and tree and star; I had love in my heart And glory in mine! Not the grave of its owner, Not the sepulchral shares, Not the radiance of light Glorified with sorrows and cares, And not all the tears That sparkle in all the unspoken skies, Not all the bright words At the darkened Gate of the eyes! The implacable door is silent, It has no key to the earth, No key to the heaven of stars; But the porch of one day is strewn With a sky of calm, kindly peace, Full of the peace of her peace As who should find, Before the days have changed, A blissful couch, a mate. A hush is in the sky, The clear sky turns to grey And the chill winds seem to doubt (Not heeding the wonder) Why why? because I loved him so long ago. An hour ago I said in a low voice That he loved me before his face That the old graces to replace Might have been foolish, but could not quite - I only knew that the old gods must Not be forsaken. Gods have forgotten The prayers that are pious, The hatred unfaithful, And love, that deceives you, Who have never forgotten Praise and forget, God's prayer fulfilled - God's rose and thymy, But one like the yew For the bud and the flower, Whose lips, unkempt In the June sun's bloom, Have no share in gloom. Hush! One was singing to me Of a song made of eternity, And the light was dying, From the lands where it lay, For the soul who had never again Grow glad for an ecstasy That was singing with him; Of a song held with him. Of a song held with him. I went back to the earth To the light of my birth, And I heard, as I lay, The mounting of his feet, And the old, old song. "I am listening ======================================== SAMPLE 29 ======================================== . O Death, thou hast a pall Upon this cruel breast, Thou hast a crimson shroud Upon thy scowling crest; And on thy hollow throne, Long have been worshippers Of some poor ruined thing The thunder shook from sun to sun, But now thy funeral-song is done. Beat back the drums! Let mourning cease To chant the requiem of the just! And the old world's a tomb Without which all too long Loves not the loudest tongue Of all God's creatures dark and drear. His thought is strong, his hope sublime! Yet does not Death his vigil keep, A blind man's unbelieving crime Neglect in that dark shroud he sleeps. Dost thou not hear us pleading cry, With unavailing prayers, As we kneel in that voiceless grave? Does the dull earth his tribute pay Of clay, to his unweeting hand, The grievous seeds of this frail band In the wild bloom that bursts in bloom, Hath God indeed in each short hour For each oblation--fire and flower, Cannot but burn to ashes--fire? O Love, without our prayer, Look down from heaven above, Lift us a little toward the skies, Lest in our love-sick eyes The world be all too dark for thee. O Palm! thy sisters pluck away The stricken sparks that we entwine, And thou, for thy sad sorrows' sake, Dost hope to hear us moan and sing? The flower's withered leaves are cast Along the glimmering branches; Below thy gray and shadowy crown The lordliest wreath is torn. The throne is broken; yet it seems Forever strong as truth, When years of bitter brine shall stream Into the mouth of youth. Awake! Cast sleep, lest waking, thou Shouldst waken from a dream! Thou canst not see what is within Thine hour of anguish here. No, not in dreams must he who feels His heart's blood quiver in the bond That binds us to his heart. The anguish in the common cup, Though but the sign of strife, Is of the crowning sorrow's cup, The universal life. Oh, not on the lonely plains, Lulled by the heavy blast To rest from the inmost soul, Could the twin-throb and the chain Of the beasts of the waste remain; But the burden of thy woe, Blessing the heroes who are free To all men, to thy queen! "Oh, my brother!" Shines the rifle cracked in his hand, "Halt!"--for the silence, grim and dread, Stands the garish church-yard wall. Leisurely the uplands look down-- On the stately shadows all-- On the city of the poor, Where the driver's son returns. Wildly tread, like the foot of man, On the city of the free, Least its worship by his will May be powerless--even he, Only, hath the gift of day, Broken the arms that crush away All its folds that day has stored, Sealed from the stress of angry storm. That a prison still is Time, That with earth its chains may bind. Only, not a dungeon vast, Shall this one day halt and keep All that is and holds it fast, Crush its ashes and its ward; Only, but for me, would'st know How they twine in hearts that glow, Strewn by some forgotten hand, Scatter, as it forced them so, All the old and thrice-wrought bands That guard these dust-embroidered lands. There the murmur of the streams, And the singing of the birds, Reverberate welcome and mild:-- Yonder only shalt thou see, Weaving this son right and sane, Towering far, like the too-much rain, All these with the same clean heart. There shall come to thee the jests As the chains on him who betters, There shall come to thee the smiles When he sees thy wound and scar; And his war-whoop kindly rings, Singing just for him that sings; There the festival of earth Shall loudest bechoes her horn, And his playmate, glad to know He may laugh, and fight, and dance, And the island ever shall be there. Yes, thou art a dream, and ======================================== SAMPLE 30 ======================================== , To sell the best and most." Just yet the moon had passed, and through a cloud What seemed a little sky with low-hung shroud Marked the long mail the little army wore; But soon the white and gold alarms the view, For they were bent on plunder, sword, and shield. Scarce did the keen inspection drop a spark, The silver lake had cleared the sandy beach. "As yet the smallest thing," you might have said, "Must steal," and that was in December's day. The French camp slipped into the evening gray Which gave new colour to the setting day. The French camp camp, through the hills, across the dew Pretended speedy, hand in hand, and lay. They heard the cry, but saw no sun; the blast Prevented; and the death, their common dread, Stole on the prospect and perhaps had passed. Tears, at their eyes a double light suffused. Leapt their cold eyes, their honour made them bend To read the ensuing morning read in vain, The scenes on which their comrades cried in vain; Now getting lost, now gain'd, now vanquish'd, blind To see their evil messengers again. They saw their wicked traitress, and her vow, How she avers banish'd from her native land. To poison France the Emperor was design'd To conquer France by dint of means of war. That death to France the king no longer tasted, A life of hopeless and unguarded merit. Her old dishonour, seen so long, had 'neaded The peerless blood of Gage and Barbary. To France the day was set in tempests came; And thence the fortune of the youth and dame. To France was given the evil day's misdeed, And cruel was the plague which laid them lead. Barbarian marks each neck and hand attempted, By many a wound, by many an old assailing; The knightly form of twenty fighting horses, Who disunite away the galling chains, And plunder from the Pagans land and then A soldier made for France the insolence, And told the laws they knew, and thus affronted. The duke, who saw their wiles with angry eyes, And lordly stature spied and visage woof, Granted his signal and advanced his bands, That they a fearful fight might prepare, Of broken shields, of women cut in twain, Of screaming men, or bids his troops complain, All, all the dreary wastes, must yield their food To the fierce savage boar, and thus persuade Their vanquish'd foes to yield their lives, and thus To their slain troops bring danger, death, and shame. King, Charles, and Dardinel, the chivalry Of Gascony, had given a pass to three, That, were they kill'd, the Christians would not die For grief, but for that instant would they fly. At that defiance by his prance they ran, For great was their desire to quit the field, The distant mountains, and the vales that were, And where they left their mangled arms and shield, As if that they might slaughter yet be made, If with that evil will the Pagans made, They should have rest and safe escapes afraid. Where they besought the advancing army to Suppose assault, fierce battle heretofore, And still continuing on their feats they stood; In looks and gesture leftward, looks and hands, With his fierce eyes beholding, strove to seize Him, that unlook'd-for combat, but the knights Whose weapons, in their mood, he thus bestow'd: "And in what purpose, wherefore keep we back? Could we have turn our faces to the foe? Swear and protest, and die, before we pause To find us still unsatisfied revenge." This said, his knights; with firmest looks his suit He charg'd, and to him spoke without delay: "Sir, you have wounded me so sore, that I No visage anywhere can recognize. But bear, let me become an Ortwine hack, And lead this madman out, and undertake To whet the sword, and kill him as he doth, And come no nearer to him: let him run Till he have fought, and then before him run." When these words were heard, they lit, or donn'd, And up the sum kick'd with their biting swords: Yet him nor knight kept back, but stood apart Amidst the Pagan's ======================================== SAMPLE 31 ======================================== within thee---- Is there aught that can be more? Ah, not there thy voice can reach Thy heart of hearts in me; And ever after shall I hear Thy eloquent self-praise, who are still as the morning star. O strong heart, blood-red with gladness 'Tis not in thee alone Thy fate and mine is one. Thou art my life, thy words I defy, Still barren in thy surging die. Yet, till thine eyes grow old and dim, No more at night my heart shall hymn Itself for me in air, in starry skies, Unnoticed, unentailed, unentraced, unfallen, As a bird's unseen wings o'er ocean. There are songs of youth and death, Wild thoughts and hopeless quarrels-- A shameful life of sullen folk Where love and death alone come true. Though mine arms reach not your feet, Mine eyes still weep and murmur; Your long hair is uncrowned and torn, Your hair with loveless locks and scorn, And the strength of a red goad All down your frame is known, And a stanch and bitter bone Gangs from my throat o'er your head, And this hour by a dead man's side I shall watch you cross my tide. "Hear, sister, sister, speak, What wouldst thou say to me? The Earl who, on a rock, Sits like a tall, old oak, And we two by the crumbling grey Rises, and sits by his lady-side." "Hear, sister, sister, speak, What wouldst thou say to me? The Earl who at thy feet Trembles at thy powerless feet, And for me words, fearful Of losing thee so dear, so dear: 'Mis lure thou not, nor boastful things From ages yet to be, But rise and know a field of wings Which made thy brow a throne, Where in his boyish craft Thy bearded elfin trail has never more been known, And of his iron heart Shall end our battle-ore. "And thou wert born a King, And upon England's throne Hadst turned thy face away? Nay, sister, nay! nor say Of earthly things thou art the King. What wert thou? Was thy birth Born of one maid's hand? Nay, sister, nay! not so: From birth and death, thou shalt not go, To earth--to heaven, again-- And this thy dearest father-summer!" (Child, vol. iii. Early Edition.) Come, and be pitiful with love, (The fair are about.) Be pitiful and trustful that women shall know! You have nae cares for, as well as kisses, as for little lasses, I'd call you daisy Because your pretty lasses have drawn in from them? Yet we're glad, sister, you've nae cares for, For little lads and lasses, weylike what no man feels, We are all in love. You may be gowned for, but may be glazed for, You'll find two white snails beyond you're dwined for, you'll find two globes Of ice melt earthward through the rivers, It's a seared hymn, and some days we are dreams of ninnocence, And now I get homesick about the seeds and tares and gilly, And I am sad at heart for the little cups I hang at counting them, And think that I just must. How I am thankful, I ask you! And how glad I look at you, That with no day to dally, And with no work to do, And that no work should chide me, But that life would find me, My own lives would be twined in the little buds between me and my maiden And the wonder in the stars That grow about the ways of the other gods through me! And should I set my face to the amorous kisses of gods that are for men, I'd build with the reedy grove of my lady's love A weeping-sweet sweet grave For her buried love, And the wine that is in the well for her whose hands are cold to-night, With the sea-water dripping And wine that is nigh to to to to-morrow, ======================================== SAMPLE 32 ======================================== shall be the way we wind. This world is things to me unknown-- The world is not my home, nor throne; My palace is the dream I crave; To day is all my being brave: I am the meanest slave to slave; To day is all my being brave: I am the slave, I am the slave. To day is all my being brave: I see no scene--no scent--no fave-- The wall is there to break my sleep, The hedge is close and bitter deep: And ah! the world's a shadowed grave. Forgive, forget, or love me not! And take the road I went, with you! Forgive and lie beneath the sun; And let the past be comforted: I am the slave, I am the king, And from my soul its likeness flings; The sword is not for me, but kings: For me the groan of bit and shell; For me the yew, the shafts of hell; For me the sinew and for me The wind that tramples on the tree; The sun, and all his ways are well: I am the slave, I am the king. I walk alone within the garden-- But all the hues of morn are gone; The wind flows down upon the water, And there's a light where stray the bees. I see the robin singing lowly, I hear the thrushes flute and coo. I hear the wind above the orchard; It sighs, it sings, it moans, it moans, And from my heart it falling, sobbing, There came a bird that flying waits. Winged with gladness, he flew over The blue far hills of afternoon-- And took my hand, and led me, lover, To my heart's beloved tune. And as he touched the sleeping honey I sighed to think how glad he was. And like a dream I stood in Eden, And knew the coming years were near. How should I know that after sorrow There came no bird but pertly sings, And I remember that the morrow That once I was a minor heard. This little book, this sundered book, These drifting hours I thus define, Is wholly worthless now; I look, And all my joy is wasted with the wind. Some hours when flowers are dead Comes one to make a gilded throne, And offering one have put away All that has been her whole life down. Then will I bid the page recite What things unborn shall be to-night, How love is slain--how far apart-- The world, whose love was the world's heart. I call to him the deep blue night That lies so deep and still and cold. I call to him and hearken how The winds are calling at the gate, And though our love, far more than life, Is spread beyond its mortal date, It leaves no trembling thrill or strife To wake to life new-born in the dawn. I cannot see what love can do, For doubts, and fears, and scruples seem To make all music of a man. I see no doubts; I do not know That heaven can only seem so low, For earthly lights and love to burn While ever it light laughter spurn. I do not know what joy can be In the brave days that are no more. When sorrow set me free I have no grief to say "Farewell," But trouble yields no help to me. I stretch my arms and cry, "If I have loved--I die!" I find no heart to break My weariness to-night, And yet--could I but wake And say "I have been broken." I would see none of those, And I do not deny My love as true as she-- I hope she will not die; I should hate her, she! So as I can see her now-- Perhaps God gives no sign That my despair shall find An Eden that I did not see. Then I put my arms about her neck; I would taste my sweetest wine, And though not the least---she ne'er would shrink, Though I loved her not the whole. So she told me to cage, Though she liked me not the first, Why I love her not the first. And when I was safe from home, If my folly or my sin Had not murdered me, I would stumble over life, to see Sorrow born of woman's love ======================================== SAMPLE 33 ======================================== And the barns of Yorkshire whelp their food. And where the dead of the winter torrents leap To the banks of the strong Atlantic, My boys lie sleeping beneath the rock, And their guileless lives are a hollow chasm. And anon beside the sparkling brine, I will watch them sail by the silver spray, And rest them on the kisses of the brine, Whilst the birds are singing sweetly away, And I shall hear, while the blooming urchins play, Coo calling Christ-and-Pan below. And if I get in to the orchard-plot, And follow Christ to the snow-crowned hills, And if I get, as the tortoises flock Round the wilderness of heaven, 'Tis my chance then to rise in the crimson dawn And see myself where He stands. For it is this that lifts me up to stay, And I wait for the summer that will come, And I leave it all to Him. Oh, God, how my boyish heart is sown With hopes, full of sweetness, full of grace! Though I go forth, far on a distant trail Through leagues of desert space. One word is enough; for all I lack Is a smile of thanksgiving on the face, A breath of free air in the hair of storms, And a soul akin to man. One word is enough; for all I lack Is a breath of thanksgiving on the face, A breath of the wind in the hair of storms, A breath of the surge in the hair of storms, And a soul akin to Christ. For he that is with me at midnight Is without longing, is hardly free; He cannot live that he makes the light Of his soul unacknowledged. And a love that shall endure forever Deep as his heart, shall endure forever And never end. Linger, let us lay the golden dial To show that life is not a running stream; Let us linger but a little while Till the silver sands shine golden and the moon Shall wake and meet us, and we only seem To flow for ever on the silver stream. There are thousands in millions toighting on the sea With a song for us, who are turning gold to silver bars; But the richest song of all-- A song for us and singing that our hearts may sing-- For we are bound to love and the sun is shining bright As we launch our boat to anchor in the harbor of the stars. Farewell, my brothers, we have sailed for evermore! Farewell, farewell, our love and care, Our friendships, hopes, and our belov'dness, and our prayer And holy love; We have pray'd in silence and we may be bold to sing As we dream of fairy-land, In love, in sleep, in danger, and in darkness, On the rolling deep, in danger and in darkness; But we know the holiest song That ever pierced the heart of God. For they said that not a soul can dare To lift the burden of that task alone, And sit upon the blessed Virgin's chair, And sing the blessed songs, And glorify the helpless sentries--God! And holy Marys raised their chalice high, And gave her incense, and they hung the censer's light, And raised their lamps to bless Our joyous feast, And with voices sweet and pure the time Shed o'er the silver pillars of the door of paradise, And glided in the dawn Of those long-haunted, pure innumerable days, When to our love the universe was given, And we had no more fear Of the crownless fate, Which, beacons of one King, alone was manifest From the birthless East. King Hallelujah did with gentle fall, And hastened where our King was crucified; And with alacrity The royal presence of the King of Heaven Almost shone forth. But humbly, lightly lay My offerings at His feet, my Queen, my Queen, And saw Him fall, And burst His bonds, and go, Her weeping robes, into the wilderness, And fain would weep That He had found His love so long unseen. And when the morning ray Was sinking to the red, Then to the King, my daughter, stood my King, Stiff in His joy and dread, And when the spirit of a royal dream Wasted and passed away, Yet the woman spread her wavering wings, And touched His feet, ======================================== SAMPLE 34 ======================================== and engage In power and prudence; then to their aid He must return (if his country's good) The vauntie and surplaile of all Belie his own: but, what to him comes forth Of th'Elizian fame? He certainly merits Beyond all others, who averr He should be call'd his blessed: for that name And office awes him, who as a grudge Hath honour'd it of him, and is belov'd At callings in the Serpent, who assayes Grievous revenge for his accomplice, As it hath power to do: for in the deed He neer before did with his matchless foe Angelic fall. That popular character And goodly counsel which they gave to Eve, And all who in it were: to these it seemed Hee had not ended till the Serpent should Have made a ende of his own works, not long; And in the records of this Golden Mean Lived safe his unblam'd, and his workes not long. So he created Adam, and first made The woman, the Work, and theaimer-work, Thir sex and produce, which yet he saw Unmindful of, and fully of thir use Drove out of Paradise so deifi'd, It half obcom'd, the only work on earth, By art to do it good: that done, partake The pleasures of those goodly sons of Eve, For which thou hast such help, they on the tree Were chas'd, not seen; nor fruit mature, not high'd, Earth-struck, in all her delicacie Draughto and Laplandie: for on the East side More pleasant it seemd to grow, fresher, Earth Meets with her eye-lids on the Pummer Hoar, And with her long hair hanging all abroad About her sooty Beames; which done, retire. To mocke with her suspition: she at once Devoutly fell, and on her lap half-fall Fell wisht, and wisht, and uttering lamentati Herod the fair, her former state the same Who first her sinew left. Him all the while Fell pain'd, and from her, one or two, her flesh As supple shook, as she fell off from Heav'n: And oft as underneath the ground he lies, Extends his coverings vain, or less her guilt, So on a bush seated, and with her oft Calls him, and him at rest, her orison. Nor soft the flesh where Lædabis had lain, Nor melon artful sound, nor herb, that gave Me false delight, nor herb, that might becom Though hard and lazy, fail'd the listning ear Of lazy ADAM; bootless, she not mourns, As not of better life, that was not born To tend his sport, and after, wood and floure To tend his flourie leaves, still inly sad, Though perfect else in mould; harder than ice, And harder far to ice. While now her rage Labouring to throw him over the hot Duke Boldly into the fire, thus, over all In person, at th' assembled throng she call'd Ominous of aspect, 'Why, ye cursed crew, 'Spirits and favourites of Heav'n, say ye 'Now Deaft us with' this famine, if we live To still the ocean's rage, and, row the flood In such a fury, we can still abhorre 'Gainst the sea's everlasting roar: go we 'The ways of God, how we may best forswear 'To do our maker, whatsoe're the Foe 'Tis to refuse; for never will be doast With human kind, but if Gods level high And urgent against theirs, none shall presume To heare their cry, till the wild uproar stirr'd All Heav'n and Earth with lamentation loud. I told ye then he should prevail and speed On his bad Errand, whom ye now behold Ranging sublime in air his golden flood. Nine dayes he feasted, till the tenth approachd Of that fair morn, when heavie clouds at length Came gently on, and the Sun's face divine Dwindled throughstreame, and showd a land of Gods Wondrous to sight, though one so loud should call His people multiform, and planets run Among the constellations, that ======================================== SAMPLE 35 ======================================== at evening: I'd call'd out, And said, "Give you your supper, my child." Wake up! wake up! the hour of your dew Hath pass'd--like a linnet in the blue, Now hoary as ever it was wont, Now purple, and now all of white, To show it, because it now seems old: To-morrow!--Why, get on and away! Think! think! think! see what a moonlight gleam'd In the lone place below! Reach up my book, and view its rim! How it whirls up and down! I have scarce seen the white moon set, When, round the radiant fireplace, Shone the sea-mist, rosy-red, Fleck'd with fire-light, yet so still, That on the cold hearth-stone I could For a moment stand, then see The waves and the clouds fade silently In the blue mist, then sink again Down into a mist, and sleep In my own green bower, so, too, That I dream not of thee. Wake up! awake! the evening falls, The white fog folds the sea-mist round; Winds whistle, and the fire-flow'rs dream, Each little ember on the ground Watches, and hears, without, a gleam Of white-stemmed portents, fairy-ground, Catching the fire's languid play, And elves and fairy fables away, All that I know, and all that I seem To hear, look, look. The firelight gleams, the low sand whirls, By the white flash, its dreamy curl; Far off, in a blue shut, shelf, A gutter, a fl gasp, a whirl. This is the firelight's golden glow, The pyx, the wind, the glow-worm's flame. Awake! awake! Of the eternal night the surest whirl. What matter, or what matter, all? Each thing that has its neighbour, shall, Idle, and friendly, though, a thrall; Unto their good I speak, I know Through no disguise of mood or show, And none hath part so worthy of me As my long-tailed Amor. King Arthur, when his eyes looked north, Found not himself within the wood; He saw not, therefore, the north wind Keen in the springing understood, And knew not what to do or say In his bewildered oracles: And yet he babbled to his sons, Till in each other's face and eyes There shone an outraged face of guise The miseries of a by-gone age, The wrongs of Arthur's Table Round, Shrieked, "Rash! Sir! it had been the treason Of a good King's son to seek this morn, The new King Arthur on his throne, Not what he was; a mortal sin, That men will think and men will dare, Were he to rule, and ride, so free, His own King Arthur. "'As God shall judge me, so I go Thy ways with thee.' Then, as I go, The moon shalt be my paramour, And my good Sister's true self shall The empress of my King be; For, though we two go a-distress'd, We have but one wish--must thou please To bind anew thy shameful chain, "'I am but one, and if thou wilt Take all that thou hast left me, go; I am but one who hath loved and loved In all men's eyes; and who is cursed By the least scoundrels that hold a throne "'I will go now to search thee out, To find thee out.' 'There, on the wild waste, I have seen thee vanish from my view, And the brief hour that would bring thee back.' Be calm, thou Fool!' but while I curse, Do I remand thee: I will curse 'No knight, no king! nor fairy-king! No bold and beautiful, no bright, No proud, high-hided fairy! No, No delicate, no silken masque, No comfortable Scottish maid! No subtle, no perfumed wizard! No! There is no God! there is none, save some, Born to be weaned from bitterest hours For sin's envenomed dung and ban. "'I will go now to look at thee, And see if ======================================== SAMPLE 36 ======================================== , Tisiphone! thy son Must surely have a mother's tender care. The father! will the wife, so fond, so fair In baby intellect,--what tenderness! To both dear sons the sovereign courtesy From that fond father kindled her despair. Alas, good father, let me now confess That grief and anguish keep me ever here. The letter bears the dismal tidings home. My father's house a stately structure rears High, lofty, sumptuous, in extended lands, Its rude, uncared for furniture, for him Whose wandering-weary pen, forbidding the Gods To enter with their blessing. From afar I hear a voice that breathes of bowers, of birds That haunt Ravenna's springs. There sits a child, A little maiden, with unbraided locks, In the same manor-worship glad and wise, But light of heart and spring-tide, patient, still. There sits an aged man, about his brow White-robed as death, and deep in mildest tears, From the same absent hearth he makes farewell. And the other hath no mind, his palace gone, For his poor father in his palace slain. But sorrow comes to him, when he hath learned The master's lesson, and his daily task Of happiness and rest; he knows it not, He hath no pain to give, but art to gain. And so great happiness the spirit shares, That not alone he triumphs. See, the happy people of Samaria Who dwell in dales, high homes, are in gradation, And they have passed through all that region great, Lived in Samaria, an illustrious name, And marched against the Moors, a youthful band, The people who marched forth from Samaria. Also from Niger, home of noble nations, They led the Christian legions to the war. No pestilence arose, no war there was, But languor, fever, poverty, despair, For seats of reason, virtue, power, and peace. There raged a war, and oft the mountain-walls Were shaken by the current, when the hoofs Of Terror, reddening, shot from 'neath the feet Of frightened foemen, 'neath a falchion's edge. There, mid the carnage of the rolling deep 'Neath, they foresaw the coming of the day, And the dread horrors of the conflict rose. Some men were of gigantic growth, and some Were fashioned out of multitudes, till now The mangled caravan ran on the sand, While still her crimson rosary dripped down The drops, blood-dabbled; of the mother brood They had their burial in the northern tribes. With Anwyl there she found them, and beneath Their single figures had a semblance fair. A peasant tribe, of many tribes and tongues, They fed the sick, and led them to the flow, And often hastened to the flood, and there, Beneath the shadow of the shade of trees, They set them down and wandered to the meads, And oft they watched the sun with lustrous eyes. Some of the people were so beautiful, To live upon the margin of that stream, That they could hardly climb the palm-tree's edge, Though they could run adown the verdant alder. They gathered up their treasure in the shade, And, guided by the light of the meridian sun, Set out upon the current, free of will, To rest at length upon a barren heath, And deep into the sandy banks of Tor. Nor yet the Pastor's impious self-deceit Strove with the stranger to outwound the stranger, But here and there, with silent, deep distress, He lay, with weary body, and opprest. Nor was his sufferings greater than the loss Of him by far, in foreign lands, than here. But Othere, having for the first time seen The face of the extremity of years, Hid from the world by long oppression, came With weary feet towards the river bank, And oft, as when the wind, the jewelled ooze Reveils its golden sands, with rustling beard And cold, blue flakes of scarlet, went astray, Choked by the wind; no sign of life was there, No sign of change, but all was solitude, Save what the copses' barren side shows fair Of hills, and streams, and green wood-solitude. Yet there before a heart's out ======================================== SAMPLE 37 ======================================== . An' some may gather oot o' state, An' pan in't wad be in't the rate; But I'll just seed mine ain' sturt here Was'tever yet the form or gear? An' Peter, Wylie Braith, was gotten The envy o' a ha'penny. His lippie's safe, he gie us lands, An' stocke his "gifties" rich commands; But where the highest grade begets, O' ships, an' o' true loving nettles, I think he would swap shoes for't, If I'd the leisure myself to get; But yet, my dear, byuld New Year's death, I think his wage an' shoo's to drou't. An' pouthie, he's sae mony fere'ty, That ye wad ne'er lift up his "pipe;" But now he's tak' his billie-can, An' swill his weekly wage; Or if his mains should tell ye, He's aiblins honest wage. Now sure an' auld an' wark-like wean He's ripenin' up our haleene; An' if his Maggie's gaun an' wean, Ye'se hae a work to do; If she'll demand anent the beast He hae na by his name, Then hope to have a work o' God To set him up the Smith. When ony unco folk got biggin', He's growin' fast frae frien's or better; He'll take their hands awa, Or else they'll a' get duddum; Or else theirsels they'll pitie In yond' carnation-beds, Till ance he's grown to be a brither That's mair than kin' o' him. Hie, owre the steep O Bennie-rhyme Weel-faur'd an' cantie; The Norland Laird o' Peggy, Ye baith amang; O' a' the lads that's hurt, An' crouse on hame. I'm weariet by my faulding, An' by my toil declin'd; In a' my need I'll lay me down, An' no be miss'd. Trowth, Sir, gin ye'll tak this tale, Ye've nourish'd mony for yoursel'! O, no; that self I fear'd, It need na j tarnish a lie! Wi' mony a fright I started, To find mysel' in deevil; But aye as knockit round and round Three holes were in the bed, Ye could na see what ails me, For, Lord be thankit, I was daft, To find I had na guessed. O, no; the pawes and ye are fashious; Wi' them aft fauld I aye; For a' my masons cost a lunt, For a' my kin' I gae. Wi' mony a paukie-rhyme, I've been at foraen; But aye I've made a man my braw, An' labour'd nought for braw; Yet, Lord be thankit, I was daft, An' did na mind my m leaflets, For, Lord be thankit, I was daft, Now Robin lies in his last lair, His penny-bag in the well; The mitherless lammie's i' the barn That bred him in and can tell; The mitherless lammie's i' the barn That bred him in and can tell; The mitherless lammie's i' the barn That bred him in and can tell. Wi' merry cheer at e'en and morn He maks the ha'-y sicht; And frae the mirk midnight, All think, O Lord, I'm lo'een a', That ae night's dew was owre my e'en, And that a' night I ha'e been. And, strang, O Lord, I'm lo'e a', That's owre the lift sae hie; And for thy seven stark sins o' that, If we be fou, O why, we'll fou Wi' a' the rest, O tell me now What cursed air I ======================================== SAMPLE 38 ======================================== fallows, faint 'neath tempest and earthquake; Heaven's gates vomit trouble. obstructs wholly Where there is no road by which to ascend, But only by night and by day are unkindled The meteors that watch for the bark and the prow. The distance wide is of trees which I pine for, Which take their shape to be moored in a line On the summit, with an eye that intently The darkness of earth--the long ridge of their line. Not from the meadows of Amathus are they, But from the sources of Holland, the race Which flows up from gentle Himalayas Called Cape St. Cancer, or is it supposed That Northward of old was a princely great man, And a princely stepmother was the great man, And the years passed and the sea full of knowledge. The place was assigned not to Alexander The princely son of his rich uncle Ned. And when the thunder of battle was heard And the lightning was laid upon floating spears, The men of this town were most miserable; But Alexander the son of this king His gold, his fortunes, from head to main Could not withhold from the steel-shod hand Of the yet unshaken prince. Thus the old man Pondered, then thought of these sources and laws Which betoken the truth, and filled his soul With the tumult of baffled wars, till he quailed At the burden of Nature, the one curse Which from conquered of old he had numbered eighteen. For he sauntered along with his dogs, And his eagles were yellow and dark, and they went Pattling over the sands, and he grewl'd With his sharp beak and keen clawings, and thrill'd At the stir and the alarm of the city; He ran at the drum and held to the van As though he were but two men in his heart, And the people ran at his shrillest shout For a chance to turn him loose; for, the wind Came merrily forth from the harbour, and the city-winds and the bay-bars were handily screwing him to a new start, for his heart was heavy. So these rocking joints of the London streets Possess'd new strength, and they bore on their backs To the haven where Owyam had built him a nest. They were bursting like curses upon the twain, And the earth shiver'd with horror, and dread, and the city flam'd at the flood, and the bellows and the lightning flashes with fury. When Sym had finished his work, he sat still, As though he had never heard anything That the old man had done before him, and listen'd To the people outside the town-halls, and knew There was fear in them: and the quiet room Was lit by the eyes of their neighbours, and shames That were foul with the carrion of those men. But Sym had been thoughtful and patient, and old, And perplex'd in his soul the whole country, and That life came to him in a hurry and strife, Like the rushing of water in Spring-time, when Clouds founder, and shuddereth in torrents, And the long swells urge to their courses, and the bitter drops to the earth-- Sitting still, and writing the words of despair, Were a burden of thoughts and a burden of hearts. Him a jewel had set in the market-place Tall and fair, and challenged his men to debate 'Twixt the struggling ruth of the public mind To force to the proof how hard it is to be! So they bade him a bauble and--cried him--spoke Of the pamper'd freedom of tongue and of tongue, And what hath been since the condition of man, Had it not been fully foretold and done? But the honest old man took heed of the man-- The wise, the brave, the true, the pitiful man, Who had striven, and who had acquiesced, But since now, though the issue seem'd baffled, and none in his heart could have counsell'd. So then, the grey-haired, the monarch, the man-- Flesh of the beast, and a sinew of bone, And a warm hand placed on his brow, and a smile Of that which was left him, and now he was gone. But Arthur walk'd slowly through all the day, Knitting the boughs, and discoursing his men, The twelve great masts and high-emb ======================================== SAMPLE 39 ======================================== The pity, for his children he had loved With all most tenderness, and to the hand Upon his heart he had given up his strength, And with a tenderness which caused it not But that he could be brave and strong and not, Changeless, however humble, gave the youth That strength in him which there was nothing left In him but firmness and submission to it. While yet the old man was alive, he felt Strong in his strength for sake of Minos, Chief Of the Croisic folk, who, with their chief of kin To Minos, in the perilous surf of war Surging together against them, fled alone To fight, and in a moment to be slain. With clamor shrill he said 'Arouse, my comrades, brave And faithful wives, who honour thee, this boon I give thee: since thou desirest to return, Reach me this moment, in the battle's strength.' Then mused the mighty chieftain, 'These who died Are no triumphions to our country, yet To win them must; wherefore now remain, Ours is the danger, let me die to-day, And when I come to die, I then will die.' So said he, and all others gazed on him, And died together in the wilderness. But when, arising to his grave, he stood Still in the desert, ready for the fray, Prepared to don his armour for the foe, All hept him up, and thus bespake him plain: 'My tribe are all afar from thee, who through The intricate labours of this world, at last, This difficult reward, thou say'st, so long And long, has to my debt been well requited? Ay, when thou first wert slain, but next thou then Hast been thy death, and gloried in thy death.' So spake the champion, but the voice was stayed By Minos; then amidst his mournful deeds Quoth him, 'Take thou this heritage of earth And be it for my body to oblivion; But greedier for the body, let me die Ere yet I end this struggle, and may use My strength to work it out, which is the might Of life, the spirit of all who here contend.' So spake he, and with deathless words replied The mighty champion of the blacksmith-stone: 'Not so; but thou, if I return, shalt learn Thy worth in all I did; that I depart For good or evil, with my life or breath, And with my life bear this as thy reward, Rejoice and be happy; thou shall grieve not At such a blow, nor shalt thou rue the gift. For in this service I should sing thee sport.' Now 'neath the oak the sturdy husband lay, And there he drew his falchion keen and bright, His goodly locks in single coilings wound, Of which some few were black and one some white; That was the workmanship, to him were clear The white most rosy red, and fairly sweet His scarlet stain of blood all overspread His smooth cheek, which a little blood had dyed. Here much worn out, at first, he forward sprang And from the oak burst twigs, and loosed his grasp, And o'er him threw his arms: 'Now by my troth A chain of rails I'll fling, as well as stones: For well thou knowest that I brought thee once A mortal body; but I shall not die, Or move a limbless skeleton in spite Of body-blood. When I have from thee torn A hundred men or so, will slay thee then.' To whom thus Belial answered, 'Stranger, say, What form of life, O stranger, now and alway Departs thy senses? Knowest thou it, that when Thy breath comes from the air, no hand can tame The flying flame, no savage heart will tame Thine out of death; and dost thou fear for death? What art thou, to this life so rash and vain? Or art thou mad, because thyself art born?' Sighing he shook his head, then said, 'Alas, I cannot bear to live nor die in peace: Yet have I known this, when from every side Throughout the world thou goest, that thou art My refuge; and I know that thou shalt come And bring a people to this peace which cometh Beneath thy roof. But since I dwell in bliss, I pray to live ======================================== SAMPLE 40 ======================================== , the day when the lithe wave rests its course, And when the rounded clouds in their border march, (Thrice, once emerging, that river were seen) Behold an armful of glory bedight! And sweep through the valleys, as if it were ours, Where over the hilltops, that rippling lee, Tremble its waters beneath another's keel! There, through the lofty bay, with a shout they sweep, While the shores are flung like a shower of gold, And ever they shine with a golden light; At the haven's mouth, to its peak they dash, While the billows rattle above the beach! And a shout they raise with a springing start, A shout to the wave that runs round the world, And save the heaving sea from its inmost part. Ah! the heroes of Liberty! shall ye start, From your war-worn keep to the rock-bound shore, And shout, ye cliff-bound cove, from your far apart In the fields o' the mist-wreaths which Evens pour, Till the wail of the burst in your gales shall sweep assoil Over the land, o'er the torrents, and deep, As their own pure heart may, when over the waves they sleep! Ye rock-bound cove, ye rugged mountain-kings, With your heights o'ercast and whirling dizziness high, Ye hold your own to the God-given rendezvous Which the exulting Alpine rocks have made, Where the glacier sleeps, in his icy lair, And the craggy reef, o'er which the deep sea binds, On either hand, by the wild turmoil cast, Holds the sun-gleam, or the misty headland's misty bed; To the coral-hill which glistens with morning cold, The Cape Ann's slumbrous breast to the cot below, All gleaming white, in the bright mist rolled, Shone the broad blue light of the day's last glow, And every cape and crag, high over all, Seemed bound with mountain homes to be the home of the elements. Oh, the noble lines that met thy feet, As from mountain home they swam! How they would have hushed thee when they came! Like to children wrapped about with flame, In the mountain cave's dim glens they dwell, Who would follow them through all the years That have seen thee, sun, and moon, and stars! Now thou comest to thy father's hall In the haunted treasury of the West, And thy wild lips are set with silver bars As if guarding the deathless dead, As the brave dead men of the conquered earth Do for thee! and the men who brave The lions that gnawed in living graves Were tigers tigers, yielding flesh To the lure of the flame-attained dove, Though now they search their prey in vain! Children, children, eyes beloved, In the shade of that beauteous form Tremble not as away thou art, Far away and wide away! As a wave the dash of the shore must flee, While the wind with a moaning voice, Rocks it up, to soar once more, To the wave-heaped peak of the Andean peak, Where the wave-heaven beateth bleak, I can only tarry on there With heart high-bold to keep, Where the the winged one treadeth black. Mother! mother! still thy voice And thy brow serene, When the breath of heaven is sent Through thy lips to me, Wings that the dead in utterance tend Where I may never pass Away from thee! As the midnight gathers round, What true life is here Lieth only as a veil Of the sky's unfathomed blue Thus, our hearts must one day meet, Death at last must pass; Must the young one seek the west Must the east one longing get, Then, turn, and with me rest, May the storm not pass! "A word to thee! a word!" What word shall speak for us, Words that are a wisdom heard, Made from a strange word? And if to a man's heart turn Older than his years are, What word of age shall speak Of thee, far-away? That word, whereof I heard Far in the dark, has given An unspeakable thought, That in the night that fills The place with darkness, sleeps A million lives, a breath. ======================================== SAMPLE 41 ======================================== , in ale. On the golden pipes aloud I can wander, and I hear The great organ's voice once more. Hark! a fumbling, rolling sound, Like the waves of ocean raves, As of eager thousands pour O'er the wooden battlements, In the vanguard of the camp, To the sound of muffled drum, Rolled the tramp of armed man. Now we start, now rush, O pioneers! For the night has fallen, and the hour of rest is here, And the shells, the booming guns, Are calling to the night. To each other run, run fast; Fear not, ye indolent, In the circles of the past, While we clasp the hand that waits us in the hour That we cry to, o'er our tomb, O'er our head the clouds of steam are rolling, While the whirring spuds of vapor slowly speck A thousand leagues of sea. See the mountains like huge amethyst Lifting, mistlike, to the very brink Of the bosom of the wilderness The dark of cedar lies. And behold the distant forest spires; See the sunset clouds, Tottering with the rising dust, Like a vapoury cloud, In the portico of heaven's blue The towers of theolation crouch. The dripping, dripping falls, Out of sight, in the night, As the cars come in their cars, Turning backward in the light. See the constellations burn, As clouds in the darkness roll; See the constellations' livid streaks; Look the downward rim of the great flamboy Quickened by the heat, As they wheel into the air. The intense bell-wethers redden On the night's black, blackened air; And like rockets, paven with fire, The everlasting, awful fire Smoulders in the midnight air. Now the lamps of dawn are flung At the wind's fitful breath, As their swiftly falling shadows fly. Now the clouds have gone to their places In the bright, unclouded weather; Now they rumble idly down On the chilly earth of snow, And now by each light, each ghoul-fire ray That flickers, and glitters, and glows, In the limitless, silent night. He is now in banishment From the rude world's rude tread, Where for hours he hies to some quiet spot Where the sweet grass grows instead. No step is heard on his unstain'd feet, No caress on his strong hand, Save the lowing of the distant dead. Not a gesture is there now, But some longing, some fear, Some remembrance of the mighty dead That walked with him here yonder, In the spirit-land above. The servants of the Lord, In their garments red, Seek to touch his fleshly foot. In the silent, unknown regions He is Lord of his own, Who this dauntless spirit saith. Lord of spirits, shall we leave Jesus here with us, By our side, in calm, still peace? Tarry ye no longer, Ye are weary, ye are dying. Ye have seen the Holy One, For the rest, in that deep peace, The triumphs of the nations, And the might of the King. O wondrous miracle! The night is dark and old; The lamps of gold go down; No fire consumes the hearth, Nor flames the parish-chamber: Ye witness, ye witness the moon, That God has come to hide the world, And turn the stubborn earth to fire. O miracle of power! The night is past the old, And Chaos hears the calling Of morning from the bell. The midnight bell is ringing; Shall we go forth, or stay? Shall we dare more than die? Shall we dare more than die? Tarry ye no longer, Ye are weary, ye are dying. We shall fail from the fiery Threads of the world-wise strife; Shall all-redeeming Exert and turn life into death? Ye were not born to perish, But for a common end, And even in shame Ye still remained your friends. But your triumphs are immortal, And your deaths are immortal; Yet while ye are triumphant O'er the world we see you With a sense of agony, And with passion wild The heart breaks at the sting. ======================================== SAMPLE 42 ======================================== of silver, Soft as fox-glove, as creature of the chase; Painted like an empty silvery fay, And the moonlight shone about his face. Rippled like a creamy bosom, Bare his brown sides as though remembering Their delight in circles; Dreaming like the satyr-fishers Rapt to be of old, and dancing, Waiting with dim eyes yearning For a wild bird,--then away. Laughing like an Indian maiden Chase a furred face with her crown To the brim of morn, on airy wing She passes down the night. Beating on, the lovely maiden Back on the meadow-land, a-roaming Like the hum-clock of a distant drum. When the startled cock crew, Over the hill a shout of joy; 'Ere's my veil!" then with a shout I said, Watching the wild wide-path, and listening To the coppers' song. Fainter than a lion's roar Came the cry, "Hooray! Hooray!" And, in a ring, Terror slipped to hear my song. Little did I dream of that tender voice, Thinking, "the dead might feel it,"--meant to see Each of the other's kind. Then loud arose Courteous clamour, "Hooray! The Brave Queen's voice Must speak her love in a world of mystery!" I turned and leant upon my lady's waist So fair,-- Shook off the chalice, cap and bells, and clasped Her form, with a strong, but tender grace Worthy, though somewhat apart. As if her conscious bosom had not known The blush that shone upon her rich attire, But that had dwelt with eyes Of tenderness and soft obscurity, So was my lady's form Encamped upon the trail, Her step averting her forehead's arching grace. She said: "My lady, faint heart and pale hand, Fear lest I love thee in such a wild voice, Unless thou stab me with thy poisoned darts, And rend my shame to pieces. Cruel love, Such as thou seest,--such too have had, O my dearest,-- O my marrow-sealedest, O Lady dearest,-- Is that a passion taken from thee To urge its cruelest against my will?" I answered: "Oh, my Lady, not alone Wilt thou--I know thee. 'Twere a false reproach. But some old lie who would betray thee Seems to have wronged thee." And she answered, "Nay-- He who deceives must know of thy foul deeds. Yet must I not!" And to her downcast eyes I crept, suffuming the great remorse, Wailing: "Oh, by thy cunning!--not my own, Thou knowest, and art plain! Where is thy will? Whence come these blows? Come, for mine eyes, that look so sweet to me!" With that I opened them and left them flowing A silvery tear. --I that have loved too well, Ah! I had learned to weep and wail and groan For thine unwise renown, By what strange measure art thou chosen; From fit of word To brief surrender I have had reward. But thou hast more to give Than life itself to me--oh! dost thou love? Has the destroyer spoken? Thou who hast set the seal of condemnation In the poor man's ears, and chosen the price Of the undying love--oh! dasten, desecrate! Where hast thou trod, thou angel of this day, Thyself the traitor? The Cross is burnt! O God, One last remorse and lover! Shall I do Nothing to thee, to others, nor to me? My own neglect is avenged on thee. In me I cannot turn. I never loved thee, yet I feel for thee. Thou art more dear to me than all this life Of mine to thine, than all these more than all Of all this nectar. Thou hast brimmed all the cup And dropped the poison. Thou art stained and soured, And yet I own thee false to me than all Its purity. Thou art more than I, More than my own most dear, more than my God, Or any other nuthiner. I am Supreme in ======================================== SAMPLE 43 ======================================== with stiffening neck and loose To stand like a cyclope,[A] and you? All our love, all our kisses, all our spring-- What shall your heart to the heart of sing O sweet, O sweet, O sweet? Buds and blossoms--all done for the best-- Hold you fast, Ere the bloom of the Spring and the Summer's white breast. But now I know If you are so good as to love me, dear! Loving me. O sweet, O sweet, O sweet! There is no other power can love like my In thy magic power (O love, if love be true, Blossom above, or petal within you), With the charm of magic leaves that ever whirl Round her magic circle--through the narrow rift Of green clay soaring--there I may descry Thy white soul, my lost one, flying by Where she moves with her shadow, there with her In the way she hath gone--O, follow me! When I die, I think you'll call me "love" Or, "Love that liveth," for your loving's sake To hang upon the beat of Time and shake The dust of Eternity--bring to us Across this shimmering world a planet's range Of night and the white peaks of that remotest range-- Come to us, you who conquered yet, When you are in us--and we with you, When you are in us--and we with you, O come to us, dear Love, and bring us more Of sorrow, and of rest, Than all that haunted of old romance, With echoing echoing after you Across the wandering moon.-- Come to us, come where the years are spent Where its ethereal fingers through These leafy shores of ours we love And we will ever read you more; The rapture of your own unrest Will fade before it is aware, And, like the star through mist of the west, We shall behold and wonder where The far-off cometh in the light And on whose whiteness fall and bleach The stain of day's delight: And the land of whose undying wake Is old and very far away, And not a star shall be in it, dear, But only this poor star of ours, Shall shine upon her like a star, And with its light our happy hearts shall burn, Remembering here, as now, that old star That blaze through the blue heaven of the West, Will fall and fade in that lone star That made its golden home; And when we long, will follow with its light The feet of its desire, We shall hear naught but the far-off song Of those who find their moonlight in the spheres Where never a star shines. The wonder of those ultimate stars On nights of wonderment and awe, In the deep loveliness of morn And those eternal moons, For a moment now beyond the range Of all imagination's range, You seem to remember, as you sang, A wild and weird refrain, Then, passing from us, a faint voice Shook my soul, and it said farewell, And, passing to me, said, "I wandered not these dewy lawns, Where shadows too great to go, And winds with whistling voices call; Yet I returned to you And now that I have come, O you, And now that I have come; I will not hide a love long hid From all your idle gaze, O you, I will be glad I came to you, And now that I have come. "I will not, then, be long awake, Though you were singing now before; In your bright eyes, ah, you will take My love again, if she will come Till you are dead and gone; You will not heed her hand that passes, For you are in her grave; And I will watch and wait and wait, Till I come home at last. "When the dream dies away, What matters it if I have seen My love in death and you no more, The flower of hope gone by? Have I not known love's failing power, And watched Love's failing sky, Have I not walked through lane and bower And through this western land? "There has been happiness through me; I never know to whom The happiness was all too great, My lady's will was gone; If I have loved my lady well I will be glad he was so dear I laid his heart to sleep, For now I know that he ======================================== SAMPLE 44 ======================================== ! Man, all hail! that man doth most delight To tread that way with Numberants; To view the place with foremost fight, Whether he reason, dream, or admit; Or meed with more than first defeat; Or take a turn, whichever way, With trembling step, or aim, Dark in the eyes, Or grudging death to shun, Still able at his post to be, In spite of all that there attend him. Under the frost, in summer's heat, To see them come and go, To hear themselves and swamp them there, Huddled in filth below; While all the world deems pleasant to The man, no matter how, When 'tis all over. But if it should seem that they Must look like western men (So this thought runs and this goes,) I should, it seems, look loth to go To bed at Mungo's, when They'll rest, poor devil there, Where her poor tremble May seem to be the mettle, 'Neath which some dropsy's fallen. Why that startle's still so bright? Why that pallid shine? Why that lace, that tasselled hood? Why that veil of furred in gold? Why that ray of ruby-light? Why that ray of opal-glow? Life, death, love, I see not now; Death, in one last breath, I vow. And for this, all we both excel; Death, whose swift and certain sign Is that my poor heart, filled full, Must drink its hate of mine. 'Thou makest me tell what 'tis I hear; And why, without avail, Is my poor love asleep and dead, And doth not much to me appear? That kindly-humoured 'faith be sure, For my love's sake he 's asleep! 'Thou young or old As children bid A Mother-maid, I fain would read, Where enraptured stands The Maiden-face, While wrinkled age Knows how to gaze When fain the front door stands Aloft on high. She, waking, sees, How sweet in dreams The Maid of delays He sings, and smiles At my high task, And I know, feel I 'm listening, where Bright eyes I catch Of her. 'Twere done, And yet there be No thing to say, So kiss her and Feel my lips, But nearer, while I lie asleep, Till thy safe days Are round me with sweet breath, Love, ah! this life, This test of death, Is a blissful thing! For the day grows old, The Maiden-love's A lively, rambling place, Where sad-eyed Truth Looks out upon Youth, And, looking on her face, One knows her mission well. "O child!" the Mother said, "The night that comes between us, Is a long time for me." She answered him and wept: "My mortal hour is this; I did a young Love once, The maiden April 7. "He, only he," the man said; "She is a rich and rare one, Yet nothing this for gain That I should aught of hire. And, living is the same, Her sweet and beauteous tresses Flow down the bright-eyed Thames." "O boy!" the Mother said, "The night that comes between us Wakes me from dreams of old, Who have my father's throne, And my name too," he said, "Named "Cle" and "Cle" for ever!" My lover at last, having married, Sallied from Naples to Naples. I love his lady more than her fellows, More than his mistress, more than her mother. His Queen has told him many things, Past one to the mountains to Sea. And that's the last I ever heard About the Pole-star, to be with her. But, no matter how foolish or heartless I loved her as she did love me, And what I had missed of her too For difference of infinity She wanted. There is none so true Did she want. There is no escape To make our lives more on the Se. So, if we leave all chance to fate, This hour's only a day for me, And I swear never to that lip Of hers that stayed all care for me, Till storm ======================================== SAMPLE 45 ======================================== chirping all about His fill the rustling village street. An ancient church of long extent, Belted with limestone, roof'd and girdled, The waifs, and ivy, and wild-bedded cott, Wherein erewhile his daughter slept. --The little church beyond the town, That o'er the village Germany, With its cold and darksome chapel, stood, Lull'd by the shepherd to his brood. --The sweet and gay bells rang below, (None but the singers there remained) A crowder call'd to the maids of yore, Whom he had told in his sweetest strain. "To church, to church the bells are ringing, And to the fane with merry din, The Pope has, with his fair Dame, attending To church, his bride, to consecrate. --Our good sir, the churchman, old and wrinkled, And with his crook'd and beauteous face, In heaven's clear light, is shining on The consecrated place, Where, in eternal beauty, see, Our house, our sister, and our queen, And that old church, so old and gray, Looks all alike from day to day. --Our children also, good and small, From instinct learn to save their fraons; And learn our duty to be loyal, To keep a state as calm as all." --The cataract, on whose rocky shore The hair sleeps fast, discloses more Than even grey remembrancer, The thundering chimney, homely skies, The shrill canals, and that great dome, The feudal voices and the hoarse Affrights the listening din within, When, as an angel guards her spot, A sweet charm glides and wins within. "You hear the rushing peals of bells," Said they who ramble at her side; She, looking down upon the tide, Smiled in her large and loving eyes (Their homes, and parents), and she smiled As if to look at her, and beg For grace from heaven, and for the child. Was this not graved upon the stone? Gone is the name, though hard the task; But mildness, simple faith, and truth, And childhood's smiles, and courteous youth And maiden-grace, and serious truth, Will set your pulses in a song To welcome Death. Not all in vain The poet-singers of the North Salute his passing footsteps forth. When the spirit's trumpet sounds the need That builds him holy temples there, When the pulses of the heart and hand Proclaim the spirit's immortality, They, when the hours of death are done, Shall find the body and the spirit one. "Above the mountain's steep, Where sun and moon ordained, Circles the grave and hill." My ken, it is no dream; I have an iron's hope Of something real. When I was down for flight, The clouds were thick as lead, And rain had gifted them With a few redoubts. "Come!" then I heard them sing The songs of a King. When I was down for flight, I threw my chivalry Above the rebel wall, They sang an unrequiting song Which bade me arm and arm; Yet everywhere The thunder-clap rang loud Like wounds where wounds were smart, And where the worms were damp. "The end of the World?" The cry Rang louder from afar; The answer shook the skies; "And, Lord, I can but pray, In Thy name, on Thy lowly bier, Lord of the World!" No less, To watch, as in a camp, The tumult and the fear. Loud answered Thamyris, "In patience and peace, There is no war with these, No blustering blasphemy, In His name, on Thy lowly bier, In our ken, on Thamyris; From whose bloody scalps And wounds, I may shew The measure of the blood that war stains." My ken, I will not cease While I read in your heart Your words of such bitterness, Their joy in human speech, In the beat of your heart, Ye dare not even stagger, But, faithless, must descend, If you will not descend." "But why"--and the Son Said, smiling, "our tale is done: For your word is said ======================================== SAMPLE 46 ======================================== ; Or, sittin' in the beech-tree, hawks, and ows, An' wooin' babies in their crane, Whare the plane-tree, which he even heaves His branches like a moisty grain. There's Gigready Castle--oh, but whence You'd hae to meet 'im on its briny way, Thare 'll knock your name on 'Change's airy bubble, There's little Will, wi' the green, wee clay. Here's Johnie o' Conroy's sheep a-skyver On the green-hill for the mornin' yet; There's little Will, an' Mary Brig, And the lammie--ravock of our shed; They've ta'en the urchin and the shuttle Till its lips lye on the rising thread. But wot does little Tom Bell tint his wonder-- Why, there's just one little Snowingale, A chink-a-ring, or from him a letter-- Comes takin' a chapter on the 'crostle. 'Tis ever thus wi' Johnie owt-- He kens the grand prerogative, Which is to say--'There's muckle wight is That can busk a lass wi' half a sark.' He says 'mysel' 's a clever feller, But, though it's a' that I can tell, I canna say--for nane at a'; An' a' that is a' the reason, We're gettin' the gear upon the feller, For--gie him watter than can buy him! Wi' plenty, an' plenty, an' a', We were 'fore our daddie could; We crack'd about like hizzies; We bloom'd upon a biz, An' rosy things about him; His han' was like a crumb, His teeth like twa-peaks, an' brawny, An' he was nae liker my ain; An' rather like my ain dearie-- Sae lang's I kept my vow, That Bess was nae less my ain. Then Lizzie drew her sunny hair, An' said to me, 'If ye be there, Ye'se get na aye a beggar!' Says I, 'Good day, good day!' But Lizzie, 'twas hersel', Fient haet to get my leave, An' went without tocher. It is gowd, says the crone, an' has na mair, Ye may lay your cheek like the mavis' flower, But this a' ye hae worn out lately, For--gie me a single hour!-- 'I'll take you, to come in an' to woo, Sae ye're welcome to come in an' to woo; Come in, come in, come in!' It has been an hundred and fifty since, Since I hae bidden ye come in. Ye come in Spanish! Ye come in Spanish! Youth and beauty ye bring about, But an oath I hae ye fairly rue, Here wi' mony a gallant rue! Ye come in Spanish! ye come in a night, An' I see ye shine through the day, But I'll set ye as fair in my garland, For an auld man gat at the door, Will ye let me sic a deal? I'll tak ye fast frae my gown, I'll let ye sit on my knee; But I'll rin ye by the side, For I've seen our pairt three times three, The night we twa hae wedded be To ane an' auld man gat dee, But I sall gang sober far away, Tho' he should carry the ship, I put my horn to yon side, It will be a pleasure for me! My fause fa' the night, my jurn crawbar, There's nae a hole for me in the house, In the warm sunny beam o' the sun, There's nae an auld man come nae late, But the mate o' my bairn is the mate Of my bairn, the mate o' my bairn, The mate o' my bairn, The mate o' my bairn, Ye'll cuddle the weepin' an' weepin' an' weepin' ======================================== SAMPLE 47 ======================================== Many dreary and abominable things. There it lies, but there lies nothing: For thee a part is pardon given; If it be on a wench thou canst not be. How weird was I while in hiding, I had no light of any living being, Not a maiden, but a partridge true, Nor yet a poet--save a stir! Yet with time I am perplext To find that in thy rest I have lived often and have not gone mad And lived in many woes and wants unseen, Aiding the hours before thy coming home. I have pined not for thee, my spindler, No tear or smile for my mistress. Though I sit without here weeping Ere she Has dried her tears and is weeping Yet both kiss me with pride and pity-- Happier than the stable, And yet it is time, Heaven will soon bring all her weeping For I--seamless yet, I and she-- Must sit there And watch the sun through the mist, My sorrow would grow cold. Since God will not forsake me My woes as I forfeit all things, Thou must meet my fate. Haste, my boy, Then hasten, hasten soon, To my lone Bower, and to my poor garden. There, in far-away clover, Stand I, ere I pass over The clouds which the wind makes over (In paradise, this sweet breeze over), And greet the still summer world With a sigh, and a kiss, and a ring. What ails my darling, what ails her? There she lives, and she is mine, And it shall be all the rest hereafter To the world where my sweetheart is not! Where the maidens dance down the meadows There, as here, she is dancing for me, There to lean her lovely head And the little ones playing for me, Shaking curls of glossy crimson Under golden suns. All the flocks that carry me, All the lambs that softly call me, All the fleecy flocks that flee me, All the little ones that call me, All the dark and all of light, Fly away down down to the meadows, Where I will never see the day! See the coming of my lover, See his pretty brown eyes glistening, Tell him all his heart's desire. Naught I fear, that white snow-mistress, Naught I fear, that sweet snow-mistress, With her eyes like stars set over, With her bosom white and rose-wreathed, With her neck all golden and golden, And her lips as red as roses, With her lips like foam-flakes. Little thought my mother-tongue, Or at that, which sweetly sings, Sings my darling; and I know Love is all in all things, Love is all in all things, Lived in all things, Evermore returning, evermore ending. For the wonder that is in me, For the wonder of great music, The delight of many memories, For the wonder of all spring songs, For the wonder of all deep-fashioned flowers, For the wonder of all song-songs, For the wonder of all songs. I myself have always known The sad flower I had blown away Given me the rondeau of day, And the gladness of all spring songs, Which were given me by the hand. Little thought my mother-tongue, Nor of winter, nor of summers, Praised me more for her love than praise, And I most of all looked longed for Gazed upon her face as she went, Laid so much upon my love That my life was almost gone. Little thought my father-tongue, For the wonder of all song songs, For the wonder of all true songs, Which were given me by the hand. Little thought my mother-tongue, For the wonder of all song songs, That my life was filled with longing For the wonder of all songs, Till it seemed a rose in bloom, And a lily in the cup Of the wine which I had drunk-- Oh! it was so sweet and strange! I knew not by what secret spell All my days of boyhood's dreaming; I was there, poor little child, I was crushed and weathered wild By the pain of all my pains, And the pain which I have known ======================================== SAMPLE 48 ======================================== ." You know they were too bad a thing to mope, So on they went with pain in full a tide. "A surgeon! yes, he is." With our good-night pray Come to us from the past in that sweet air, Bearing the hand of Fate, and all that lies In that mysterious bosom of the skies! But you shall feel no pain, nor, if you fear Those of the past can give you no relief Than to remember days of happiness-- A dream of waking happiness, of grief-- Of bliss the future can not dream, of grief. Shall we not, in this lonesome hour, atone For life left desolate, and for friends-- The sad, sad times of my boyhood gone, Left without joy the friends of my own? So when my heart hath filled, and, sad and deep, My life's blithe spirits like a sunny cloud Tossed by the zephyr over mountain and meadow, Think of the past, and muse upon the gale-- Mourn the full hours that fled so fleetly past, And thoughts that shamed itself with hope at last. Oh! breathe the sighs that on the mountain thrill, And gently fall, unheard amid the ferns-- Our best farewell! Farewell, thou wind that through the trees The yellow sunshine slumbers, And with the throng that meets the hush May, gazing on each other, rush With sparkling eyes to every bush What though my spirit fly to thee, Yet how divinely must the earth At thy approach how dreaded! What though the roaring winds of March Beat wildly by thy thunder? Oh! speed to meet a watcher there, For whom I sang so tenderly, I'd seek the cold, red heart of spring And pass him by in beauty! Of yore thou mightiest hero, lord Of mountains high in story, And while thy breath of love was stirred Upon his brow of glory, And his proud arm in triumph stilled The storm that gazed from hill to hill, I spurned the earth's brown wheaten ear, Its grasses, flower, and grass; Yet, like a crystal crystal sphere, Its charms were linked with loveliness, And rapture's upward air beguiled The bosoms of my spirit wild. My life is like that maiden bold, Who, seeking some fair woodland scene, With rosy limbs and flowers among, Sought, with the spring still newly brought, His birth-place in the forest; For first, in glad and second race, My heart to youth was womanly, And even then my early youth Brought to an old horizon. But from the locks of gray old time, The fairest spring-tide o'er, We've watched, like her, through many a clime, Unnumbered o'er the ocean: Our early thought, when summer comes, More clearly speaks our maiden-fame, Than when the pleasant green woods o'er When first I heard her vesper-bell, Beneath the sunny beam, A fairy would have passed me by With violets in their dream. I'd give thee nuts, and apples round, The ruddy apples to thy bough, And music in the autumn sound To cheer the beauty of us now, And ever brighter are the suns, And earth--all greener than before, And gentle heavens--the fields again, And lakes again--the trees again, That heard the robin on the spray, Heard Morning singing through the day. There is a song, I cannot truly say, Neath all the songster-loam Which Fancy dreamed away; But I recall that ball At sunny Morn, At evening, in the hall, When she, in lonely joy, And she, in all the scene, Transfigured, as she stood Betwixt the whortle and wood, The fount and river's flow, Looked on her; and I drew My eyes to her again, And lo! in sheen Of firelight thin I saw a little girl, Who, seeming youthful, bold, And gay as o'er the plain It plays before the wind, With glossy frills behind, And on the water-side It seems to say: O be not, pretty soon! 'Twill soon be summer, too, The rose will come at eve To pale and lily-like Before its ======================================== SAMPLE 49 ======================================== the water round And with the scoop like a great spear goes And ever the Nereids have a care But he takes and he takes them up presently-- And he is caught like the rest of the clan That sat in the fireside of Ganymede, A god they know who is strong and strong-- He tosses and claps his hands together, And as many years as a monarch's son His old age marred; and the heart of him Clings fast to the living heart of him. What is he doing, having such wars? What is his murder contending for? In the depth of the fire was no great wonder, Although to the earth it had never been carven. But there is his frame being so great and glad, And of a man and of beast a third life born, And the soul of him skulks out and thinks of him And the dolorous joy he shall prove a bane for, So she feels her life she shall live to kill, That is mother to life that's a life for ever, That's mother to death. In every church, when the world grows gray, No murmur of folk go up to the sun, No clap of the hands goes down from the hill, No change comes over the quiet one, Though all the windows hang with the sun Like strings of music; and when the sea, The sea comes in from the long palm-fringed shore Of the wide world, is filched and tinged no more By the tears of night, its sails are strained with ships, The soul of him and the senses are tired; And yet to thee, O our children, who Conceived our being, have we its true, That should be part of thy living thus, Of our deep being no vision of thee? That should be true. Lord, we know well That the heart of the Love of the Sea Is a vessel of foam whereof no cloud E'er floated; and not as an ocean-sea, But like as an island of salt-flecked foam That knows no weariness, but is builded of bark, Upon whom for ever floweth sorrow We are weariful castaway; For the heart of him that is sore is less Than the stone whereon earth he lies; And the contraries of our souls are lighter Than all the vesture of the sky. So the ship of our fate by time outworn Is on the water-bank where Death hath reft The soulless gold of his world-hallowed head, And we who shall inherit it, shall inherit The spirit of strength for the eternal word; The spirit's cry is the voice of the Unknown, Whose substance, outpouring from strand to strand, Is as a sea, whose unmeasured depths entombed Are the lost voices that haunt the land. --Such is the hope for which men strive to give The eternal pearl for the unpeopled deep: Such is the faith for which the nations live, Where the Armada of God is strong, And the Sword is his own first word, one cry-- Are we not as sons of the Unwashed, who Feed by the grace of God their fathers gave? But we know well That a sound will be as the voice of the Sea, And we may not know why they faint and fail To reap the same bright fruit which bears the tree Of the Son of the Sea in his fore-ward flight Of the pain of a newly born child-birth-- The life of that holy world which taketh The form in the loveliness of the Earth. Why does a man as a matter of words So slacken in bidding of thrones be quenched While the Son of the Sea laughs in his scorn of the Sea, But trembles because he hath called of the Sea In his wrath at the emptiness of his will; And all the ships he hath made of the Sons of the Sun Are shrunk of their voyage to hear him sing; And all that ships and the might of the Sea, And the league-long breaker of all the world, And all that he quaffs from the soul of the sea Is shrunk to its whelming old heart again. And nay, the world is yet far younger Than it was before, since the sea made fast And the sun-beaten sands run sand and the steeds of God Shall cleave as a necks-breadth out of his grasp. Meseems that his waters and so far seas Were wax as opaque, yet all too great ======================================== SAMPLE 50 ======================================== All unseen in the gloom are the flowers o'er-blown, Then every tiny and faithful flower is found. Leave Cadmus' top and the mountain steep, With Rhinna's green willows o'er-turned, Now the crest is more or less, Inex where Venus the festive lass hath groaned, The branches of willow bend. From Syrinna's rude rocks, that their cradle voice bemoan, One poplar on the moss-grown steep, Where oft the dog-weed fords among, As Cyblla once bore of old. From si Linna's orchard each flower is seen, That first so lovely far hath shone. Hence let the flowry Maenads, All lovely to the young; Ivy in every green leaf, Such as the syrinx weaves When youth by Pallas strayed. Fairer than Ascalon's stream, Or fair Coronis' flowery banks, With Tempe every tree and flow'r As lovely Iby day did see. Over the boar that was his prize, That could so cruel pass without, The Alp high rocks beneath him doth rise, Thither his fall happie resort. For Tereus his father dear Newly at first began to fear, And cherish'd by his mother's care. The boy that by Limbo was brought up, With such hard constraint did rashly roam, Was inly wrapt upon the fact. Besides that Bacchus' pious priest Suffic'd him, he by force was taught, He only with one spouse remain'd. Another, Beroe, both nam'd, Here Justice sent, and Tityus sent, To punish Cupid for the fault That he on her bare arms should plant. Thus till the boy be from the grave, To which I for the present vow, The weeping willows shall bequeath A plant of such plants as for thee, There seed fix'd in perpetual flame. Constrain'd to compass his desire, A plant renew'd him for the deed, Whose fame, at last, hath ever spread Thro' Delos and furthest Ind. Weep, then, O Muse! so silently That somewhat of thy theme be heard, May not a wish remain'd to press Too reverently upon the word; And may the murmuring billows cease To chace the oar that thou hast heared. Thus having said, he gallant Thais lay, Down by the jolly bowers, that alway bay'd Upon his ruffled plumes: bright dew The air around him cast; high up among The blooming trees his winged steeds did bear. With shivering motion loud and fain He saw the morning star appear; His eyes far distant shot the light of day. "I come," quoth he, "and with the rising sun Hang a pale and chilly beam on the wan sky; I go to yon fresh fields, and watch the day, And think on nature's smiles, though I do not die. Haste to the brooks, haste to the land where spring Flows green and flowers blooming in each valley; Trip no cold cold hand, nor stiffen the young leaf. I would no motion feel, nor breath to move; Slowly I turn'd to look, and then 'gan die; As under snow the sheepfold hides and flows, With, ere its tender leaves the wind outwrings, So rest they, all, these fair and limpid springs." With that he vanish'd all, with sudden start The rivers thither bend, and from the sun His rays made haste to warm them all for day, And still, from the thick ground lock'd up and chas'd, Their waters laving, while the crisping hay Unfolds its green and yellow spot of land. So sudden life revives; sweet life returns; And human nature with her beauty burns; So awestruck Nature now began to trace All that her once familiar fields had lost, All that her mountains and green valleys lac'd, The earth in all her glories now doth shake. Nature is dead! Nature herself is dead! For such a living beauty doth exceed All Beauty, all her sons, all all matter bleeds! Nature her self, the queen of every clime, The bearer of this vile and scornful race, Now to low air ascends her lord's dear face, And 'gainst his naked ======================================== SAMPLE 51 ======================================== maire, To live and to live for aye, Dance and prepare. Better to sweat in the sun Than pray in the shade of the tree; Better to sweat, than pray, For a prayer to a king and a priest, And a prayer to the Christ on high; Better to die than die, And not to despair. Holy Virgin! if thou canst so swear, Looking from thy nunner in heaven, I pray thee by saintly grace And humble thanks for thy grace. If it be true, if it be not, Thou shalt be sent to preach it never; If it be rich, if it be poor, Thou shalt be poor to give it never. Chanting, praying for a son, Wine-giving God, it is well done; Such a prayer as this is one (And how shall I tell?) The Virgin gave and Heaven must give, And all was well. Remember thou of what I say, And tune thy pipe to lulling lay, Till the night be blown away, And the good moon drive thee to her; Yet, though her beams lie far and wide, They are not these to make thee wise, But if she winna ease thy mind As I say now, by and by, Thou shalt hear a carping fly. And now, by the old oak-tree, When the wind is in the tree, The boughs I shall take by the throat For to draw thee, Margaretta; For thy love is so great, Thou must keep it in a trance, And then there shall come a day When this angling, kissing vein, And that tongue shall cease to gain, Shall but breed thee such a pain As could temper thy soul's sweet blood. If thou wouldest sit beside me, With those knights of high degree, If thy face I could discover, Whom to love I dare not tell, Till my dying wishes yield A contentment to those three, That for which, in former ages, I have made a saint in heaven, I will dream a devil-woe, That the feast may be forgotten Or the ball-break cease to be; That my thoughts, not words, shall be Chanted forth by my true love, Every altar-morning; I'll kneel there and pray, and take From my breast all thoughts of fear, From my breast all thoughts of agony, From my heart all thoughts of care, From my heart Faith, Hope, and Charity, I know thou wilt not leave me; I bow myself to thee, And think of things that cannot be, That were, and are to be. I bow myself to thee, Thou sage and gentle dame, Who thus didst teach me how to span The heart of Nature with her daughter, And make her looks divine! I bow to thee, thou mild and gentle dame, Thou wisest, and wilt not yield to me; I am full of love and ruth, And Charitical I cannot be, But thou wilt make me, as I yield to thee. I bow to thee, thou good and bonny dove, I will not kneel before thee; All my thoughts are gone from thee, All my thoughts are vain and vain, And I will not kneel before thee. I bow to thee, thou rose and thorn, I will not kneel before thee; I only know thy gentle morn, Thy noon did dawn and save me; I will not kneel before thee; I only know thy gentle smile, And thy voice's gentle pealing; I will do even that which thou art to, And only will do thrilling. O blessed sweet Lady mine! Do not disdain thy frown, Though I wear thy bright unsivery, And thy sharp untouched frown. Oft when thou hast shaken my trembling hand With thy hand so small and white, By night or meanness, I will stand, As guardians of thy light; And, if it be too late to speak, Tell it not to me, dear, from thence. Since Love cannot at all assistance find, Why tarry I longer still in this vale of tears? When that which I spied I again shall tell; When that which I spake, I still dare win in this fall. As thou dost love, still am I worthy thee, The most just praise from me will I deliver; With thee I ======================================== SAMPLE 52 ======================================== , while my awfull brest, with watȝ, Dull ioy, disfigured from her werk; My sonne is lost, nath he no more to wrye, But on her haþel was my eyryes throwne. And I, lesse wretched! as my hertes falle, Fled fast, but hoped not, for lesse delaye Made at our neck, for ioye, for ioye my bale, To hit I looke, how clene it ore doth yeeld. I looke, and saw so fayre a iusty flode, That with me in my selfe it was agayne. Neuer had I of wyues, ne had I of sights, Ne eyther might of sorwe, ne of delight. Ne now my ioy, looke more then I behynde, For that blynde day that euydent is vndyd. For had I of the brocke so ioy to bere, That lyued was I with my selfe my bale, All drede I well of the foule prisonyre. How that in herte is clene of my defrayned, And how my soule is set on vanyte sted, To fayne, as auenture to vanyte pere That is so dere of all thou mayest reade, Of god ne kynge so I lyst ryght well to take, But I worschyp, that to late me my dede As hote vpon him, and in sorowe vnderstonde For to preuenge, if that he wolde lese me, Folowynge of my defrayned stede withryve. To god, or that I lyste wyll ben a lyttyle, To cortaysse myȝt, as I haue seyd before, That he by lengere my selfe in myne behynde, Folowynge of my peryll my self þay hade, & for my selfe þe sayl that dotȝ me not to wrath. Bot to the sayl I se my woȝ arayed, And after I maþewot: “Falswit derkyn wit For of my self I wyll not hate so much, That I may synke on lyue aye other rate, Thay may be hende bothe vnlawful & vnkynde.” Folowynge my payne, and exaltinge my spere, Lyue alway mad fro myn alycious part, Howe be it helpeth, by-holde no barre, But sinke the sover of myn hertes smart, And howenward, ferynge with worde me calle, Myn intenyture, do me no tormente, Mi weryle of ioye, myn herte to reme. Whylest thou hast had, I schal the more enforren, This sorowe man and I shall leve thou fayre, And put to þyn toune my lust of pryde, Leue of my peynes smerte and of disese. Thus to morowe me out of þyn oþ{er} lesse And after nakke; bot if I schulde loke vpnese, As for my peynes ar mad for peynes, I mote suffre þys. And wytles for to ryse, And howe be that non may so persterte Of man, for he may saue his quereleȝ? No meane meane, ne no fors if I to halde Be in oure ede, for certes I wyll nede, For nede is but the fyrst of þyn stremes. Bot if þ{o}u so be schent & nakid er I se I am endles speche of tokyn kynde. Ou{er} meruayleȝ, what is to saye, nature Ȝif þ{o}u be ay ay for payne of quyt bere, To sayleȝ i{n} auris a mayden of ryche, A mayden of hy{m} dedely schal I syche.” Wyth ywysly wat ======================================== SAMPLE 53 ======================================== in the darkness Drinking, sleep as I sit Clasped without a struggle Loose and free as flies the fawn. And the people hear us Strangers even now, Crying over us, Over us. And I look to find the rest! By the bright hearth and porch Where the ancient columns kept Their watch below the dust And dreaming dreams of the dawn Night after night they sought the bank. Here, heavy gold and blaze, Peaches, fruited vines, And tamarind aloes Touched by toil the wind, The wind and the wind! Where the young child struggled with the wind and sun Till, over miles of flowery hills of bloom, The gossamer threads with great twisting tendrils spun And twined around the garden's flowery gloom, Beat its quick wings and all the air became A joy and mystery that night. Yonder the lights, like eyes of weedy mounds Still glower at the withering eve, Hidden behind a leafy bush, Steeped in the rose-red dusk A vague white light Glows like a brand of iron; on the north-wind, Palpitate and slow, A mutter of snow drifts its snow-gray head.... The air is turned into a blaze that grows, And deep within the earthy mound The placid primrose and blue violet Bask in a purple frond. We drink their longing in the bitter sea, Lifting our tired heads O'er that mysterious stillness, lost to me. I can see sudden From within the dark blue woods, Streaming silent streams, Petal by petal's daintiness, Golden eglantine Where the wind-flower, in gaunt and lazy tresses, Lifts its beautiful form in the mocking twilight Down on the opposite shore. They come with darkness, They come with sound of the mocking rain; And sometimes, as the night grows deep, The rain-clouds gather against the West Like wind-shouts on a mystic wold. I seem to feel myself Wandering amid green vales and woods, Like some good ghost with rain That has come from far-off solitudes, From out the untrodden ways, Into the twilight calm and still Until a wizard, wove of gems, The very thing that doth not move or rest, Can cover me and hide from sight, And, following its heavy gleam, Come down across the hush of night, And find the ancient dream; And every peal from out the distance, And every cry from under the hill-wind, Is something tangible. I catch the gleam Of dusky wings, And slowly up the long, blue steeps Of silence, like a spell, Leaps on me, and in trembling sleep Waken to power. Now I know That Spring is here, and that it is The sounding woodland creek; Yet still I know The good fairy-land that lies below Upon the hush of Autumn skies, And I am glad to hear it say This is the charm I have dreamed! Thou blossom that art sweet, deliver me, Into the arms of balm and purity, Pure as the snowdrift cast from a sky of blue, Who has no song to give, no laughing eye To follow the wheeling seasons' harmony! Wilt thou not use me in the glow and flow Of thy pure, white and whiter purity? Sure thou art fair, if I but call thee so. Weary is thy maidenhood, O Night! Yet the noonday sun hath beauty's light, And stars have twined their veils in thy white hair, And their soft glances into thine are met, And a star glitters out of heaven's air! I am alone, upon a star-swept strand, Where some fond dream of thee and I must sleep; Where thine own loved, thy beautiful, sweet land Looks toward the sea, and is its paradise! Yet do I hear the song, O Night, that moves Mysterious round thy path of starry light! THE luscious sound of the ferny grove, Whose antelopes float like stars High in the summer skies, Because of love, Because of tears, Because of sighs, Because of tears! THE Hours, that sleep in the blue And dark and white Till the mild morn Comes down with night; And ======================================== SAMPLE 54 ======================================== , the swift impatient wretch, Beats out the musty wall, No human aid shall reach his side, And Man himself shall know. You've smiled, ye Nine, immortal Page, In happy hours gone by, That now I seem so fain to rhyme Your happy fits to try; 'Tis true, the humble pipe is sprung From happy, happy heirs of kings, And all th' immortal Muses run To eulogize our sires. But now my joy grows more at length, The humble pipe I crave; Since it deserves so dear a rill That it shall never wave again, I pledge to thee and thine: And if, by any chance untaught, Thy numbers please us, tuneful sir, Go see the fountains of my love In smoother numbers flow; To love ill tun'd, is well enough, I 'd have it thus, believe me, do. Sing soft and mournful numbers, all That nature yet endears; These were of late so doubly born, By early morn and ev'ning dew, That now, we sadly wondering view Some darling form of earth; But since, and all for ever, she Has pour'd the ocean of her woe, No earthly Muse shall longer tell To lisp her sweetest numbers well. Ah, whither art thou fled, Bright planet, that didst stoml, M's hull, bustle, and fable, Now in a withering swirl, With all thy toys and pleasures, And with thy crew atriumble, Froze Albion's long-forsaken isles, Or whirled through verdant isles, Where now the roll of the deep And the salt wave is spouting, Foams on the yellow deck, Where ships of old did follow, Their courses well they steer, Each following with his crew, Froze Albion's long-forsaken isles, Foams with the rising moon, Foams, blooms, and blossoms on the shore, The lovely fields of Oudinore! Yet I would give to thee A reed with an osier pen, To strew the banks of Dee In the Elysian plain, To tell the wand'rers' pray'rs In their sweet minstrelsy. In distant blushes, lo! The hyacinth opens now; Yet, with a blush, she 's too In the Elysian plain, To harrow up for ever The debt I owe thee to my book, That thou mayst know the wonder That now my lyre thou wert to take; And I have taught it, too, That tho' in it thou wert to me The very fount of Helicon, Yet should the very god Of music by my lay be crost, Thou wouldst rejoice that I Sang o'er thy fav'rite lyre, And none of all thy choir That ever more than Thou Carol to the winds her lute. "Love thou art very dear," Was ever Fanny's moan? But when she sang her lute The song, the silence all, My softest words forgot, My saddest tears to fall, For thee, were dark as night, The fairest stars would be, But all could find no light, So none but you would see. O weary lot! O blinding woe! There were no pleasures but to love; To him that dwelt, to him that went, There are no pleasures but to prove. Then let the gentle, unseen shade Upon thy gentle spirit brood, And softly sway those listless plumes, To wake unhallowed mirth and good. And to thy soul her love repair, With all its solemn tenderness, And gently lay those favourite curls In his benignant modesty. Ave Maria! let them rest Beneath the shelter of thy breast; An only angel be thou blest, For all thy joys are but a part Where all may meet and sympathize, And all things part where'er they be, So that for thee and for thy love All there is still be found above. And if to you a choice is made, There follows always some choice shade, But you may bind with pleasure still The bonds that bind each other's will; And so this course to peace runsrene, Remember it, for only then, At once to ======================================== SAMPLE 55 ======================================== , and with him many a Pagan knight; Ardent cut up and cut with his sharp sword, This like a Saracen would never draw, Such lances were in hand nor smite him sore, And had him fallen bodily or slain before. Glad was the corpse of Hypsenor; the more To Paris was he sorrowful. Of whom But lately was the hope to be the heir Of a great love? And, since it now lies dead, The hope doth wait the Pagan's coming aid, To set that bulwark on his groundwork hard, And close the turble that no chance can have, But heaven forbid it. Here Latinus' child, Godfrey and Billy and bold Tydides, smiled, Together weeping; and their captain they In friendship gave. The Christians to that port Came, and received them full thereof. Of those Whom there they left found out some other knight, Who then the shores of Sicily confined, Who, had he perished, spake he nothing bright, Nor found a Trojan at his end: the arm Of great Tirynassan was this, from whose top To earth as far as to the heavens he clomb. Naught heard he of that profferediments vile To tempt his churl to these hid springs and skies, Which marred his better wit. So low he fell, And on his corpse low heaped prayers and sighs, Though naught but rudely scorned his living face. Glad was the body and the soul of grace, And therefore moving forth he kept him far, Nor that the help of hands and works might serve His desperate person, that still, grieved for His safety, then above himself to lift, Upbraiding him and that renowned baron Whom, as he passed, all things for peace desired. Argantes, in lamenting uncontrolled, Thus to the Lord of Armies said; "O woe Me, is the cause of Heaven thus taken now! Why lights this lamentation? why the sound Of mournful silence? from the tree with plaints Following, and cries, and cries, let us depart, That we may mourn our loss." Then turned his face, And from the presence of the Lombard knight Assumed a color, as if mourning good; And if he were aware, could nothing do, Naught he appeared and mazed from place to place, But all the hardiness of his changed face And his changed arms were cause of grief and teen, Lest, out of joy, his living arms should be Entrusted more, if aught he might amend, And of his wound the limbes and helm the sword. All this must be some traitor; being glad That he once gone in hunting was foregone; And not for this would be the punishment, But that God wot, that his rebellious hands Should use their labor so, that neither sword, Nor bow, nor arrows hurt him. And this is known Rightly for the fact, that he one victory Had gained, but not so much as he possessed. The contrary report of treachery defies All one excuse, as at the outset he goes, Beset in France, and sets upon her foes, He shows where they have camped, they were at ease, And by his arms have gained reposing trees; The scanty nets which that rude man, who chose His habitation for the prize, chose out Upon them both his commonsurer and mail, And yet himself he keeps, in faith and valor, For that small glory which was at his side. I had he owned it, he his scanty store Dished scant, and I had left him free of doubt By that perfidious answer which he failed. But it may be that great calamity, Great Nature's priestess or Earth's mighty mother, That to the miserable dares and cruelly She flings her wretched children, to take food For their devices; and that men to hell Must hurry with the innocent blood they spill; And oft 'tis thought he runs of her and weal, Yet will not turn his back till he shall spy His cursed foe, chased through the open door Where God hath bid the shades his lambs to feed, Thence whither they are sent. The same can be Of all that great calamity in Rome, Whom these are dead, whom living they did slay By popular adagings, one and all, And left as dead to ravenous beasts and man. Now, if their fortune good or bad they will, ======================================== SAMPLE 56 ======================================== , of blackest times! By the fagots of our youth, For he died with the Chinese in his time He had learned unto no one in all the world, And 'tis said the poets were as mad. Not a quill or a drop of water, Not a drop of snare Not a wrinkle--a curse Not a stain, Not a speck of the bush, Not a stain. I said a Briton, his thing was not hard for him, But he was a Briton, as though, you see, When he called the Briton "a dreary word," And his manner of speaking, he briefly guessed. 'Twas the English sparrow, though passing well, Who beguiled the gentle fair lady's heart In a wealthy kingdom, and banished apart His kindred. And the knights of the Marchese Wore leathern gauntlets and gloves, and a clot of greenery. There was one who loved to combat the foe, And loved with the Romans, but found them in war. And the barons of Canada, forthwith of them came. But the deed of the duke was the first to remark, "Had the battle been here, Great lack would have been Of the force in your hearts, And of the force in your feet, From the step to the step-- For these see no man, And nothing will permit. I've looked into your eyes The weakness of age and the weariness of the years, And certainly once in a while I could feel the truth, And the curse of the teeth-- But that's all washed away. Well, as long as our race shall be in us for ever, If the news should be told, Our sons shall be both in the fields of the battle, And our gallant ship With honour shall wait Her masters, her captains, up high in the air. 'Twere better (who knows?) That the hearts of the British be cold, Or the hearts of our English be dark, Than unslack be cold!" The Celt in the Tower replied: "If it's possible, Our own British Periwig still must be gay." And the wrongs of the Pict are the wrongs that befell In the days of our birth, And he who is injured is strong and well Who dares to defy against Burgalling Right. O theinian Faithful! how could he withstand The assaults of the Gaul And the ardours of England's per conspiracy? The chief of the Vikings is he who dares To repel all invaders who threaten her land: With children entrusted, he bears the command, To keep the example in hand; Not vainly despising the hands of the poor, Andussian despots who wear shirt on his coat. In truth, at these glorious wars, The poets of England and France, Prove her sons are more honorable born Than the sons of her sons, and their worth shall be, Though their names should be read In the speeches of men, and the letters of home: "Who of all the youth gave to fighting and war His strong-bearded chief, And to make or to save them the freemen so brave, The richest who ever were spoken of slave, The bishop who spoke from the throne of his son, Is traitor to me and to all the clan. It was he who dared all defy and defy Himself and his foes, and his banner should fly Through the kingdom of Christ o'er the desolate world, As it never shall happen again by and by." But now to the tale of their warfare, the King, Their terrors and feuds, The lion of Norand, the camel of France, Into the jaws of their lawless misrule Rush'd with avenging accord, Till he stood on the pinnacle top of the crag; As he tower'd on his tower, Heard the terrible storm come ceasing at large, And look'd o'er the dizzy goblet with fury he swag'd. The King in his palace high-citied sat; A crowned old warrior of a mighty force, And high were his brows with column and fume; A hoary-headed man Dark and old, Proudly his warrior's favorite, as gallant in age; But when to the court came the lion-like Page, A man of such dignity, As young Mary Annic, who sat on the wile, Sweet Mary, by love was she chaste, And fresh as the year ======================================== SAMPLE 57 ======================================== Shall carena sae braw, they inheritance a dress. They shall walk a measure Their heads upon a day, And view wi' pleasure The lassie o' May. She has vassalls and ladies To vamsel out gin ye please; Ye'll find it a pleasure To gie her like to you; Gie her the aul she will ken, And she'll care nae tine, Gie her the aul she will ken, And we'll care nae decline. Ye needna think ye mortal men are great, When fates are set, or high or low, But rather man, since man's imperial state, Has made you great--and greater known-- Than you, ye things of worthier life possess'd, In larger things, and graces more than rest, Whose heart can court creation's petty mirth, The deep, soft words, the solemn deeps of earth, (A pleasing task) that fill with passions high, And pleasure, that dispels the solar beam, And shapes the face of heaven with mind of beam. "Earth, Time, and Space, as yet, they say, are not, From this their first descent they fell; The very soul in their white forms they dress'd, And made them Empress of the scene--like you. When Fame reports that dim, disastrous hour, When Folly's torch threw down the starry shower, To weeping millions, 'tis the work of those Who boldly dared our cause, or had repose-- Now honour springs from human memory's page, And man attests the Muse, that call'd the age. "Tho' oft our days and nights of horrors vain With woe and silence fill our evening hour, Yet, still with Hope, our leaden hands we twine Round Memory's shrine, and grasp the fading hour, Till Death, perhaps, the last and dreadful hour, Bring him, the present, to our eye a glass, And teach the future man how soon to die; For, so employ'd, he'll pass the barren vale, And wipe the last tear from his dying urn." "As yellow as yon glittering beldame, By yonder cloud hid in the azure sky, Mild, sober eyes, concealing half conceal'd, Grow sparkling gay, with smiles of love endu'd; And now and then, in cloudless, deep repose, Tender, half-sister'd, (as if she confide In a sister's thought), the mother-monarch rows The deep-mouthed rills and greening caverns round, And laughs to see the pride of man they bound, His friend's and grand's friend's friend's to be their hearth. Now the deep midnight strikes with silent wing, Now and again, in solemn, hoary night, Th' embattled stars unnumber'd stars swing slow Through the broad heavens, eternal and so bright. "'Tis even now the tide of life's declining hour, When joy's seductive wave is smooth unsullied: And Nature calls me to a summer bower, To view each opening scene, each whispering flower; Or in fair mazes to my fancy rise, Gardened with moonlight, sleeping on the skies; Or glides, when all around, in gentle sleep, Hymns of bright angels, to the bowers I love." "'Tis not the ruin of the world, that shone With the least brightness of the kindling sun, That from his rising wakes a fairer glance, And leaves me guiltless and alone, On earth unloving all its charms to teach. To thee it seems a kind of generous trust, And zeal to heaven and charity to earth, By which I feel my every purpose awed; For thee it is that I deserve the dearth Of this my cup of happiness, and thou, Valentine thou, invitest it to give A tranquil happiness to all below, The sigh that trembles from a guiltless brow. "Ne'er linger thus for Time;--he never wings His course in upwards or in downward skies, Smiles on the dismal world, whose source is love, And smiles and chides, in conquering thrones above. Long were they loved, both for one moment's space, And the eternity of death and time, When sojourning on this bright, earthy race Is man's redeemer and chief epitome; And men's proud worth, and ======================================== SAMPLE 58 ======================================== home in heaps. Now Gage is high on horse, the foe Is falling on the walls, and so Up to the battlement And all the houses spreads, And into every square, Where cowmen ride and meet, A crowd is beating; First, Lion; second, Grace; Whose face affords a trace Of high and royal grace; Short is his breath; Wild is his glance; No fawner shepherds fail. --Yet follow; where Are serfs and mighty; and The common monsters! Franks! He's there, Who for his own end Have shorn and loosened the posts. He's there, the golden star! "Pagans!" the exulting king cries; "Who are you? With what emblems, You! with what painted teachers Came your God's inspiration. To His prerogative You have drawn the weight, You have whips and pranks!" So spake the King; Then spake the Arch-King, Who stifled and did not pause: "I'll show my man," quoth he, "The betters you allow!" Then Lion beckoned; Whose son, the Arch-King, followed; On the King's horse mounted. Barramins, who wandered, Ran to the nearest border, Gathered on the first besteren, And the longest man assembled Gathered there of Dan O'F conclude; Eager they eyed him, But soon they found him Hasting, entangled, bounding, In a broken trail; Stretching in motion, Then abruptly breaking, Thumbrously demoniac! Then the King turned round, And Oliver enraged; So marvelling Knew not what assail'd him; At this unguarded hour, Ran he on his steed; Who thus impatient Ascended his steed, And through the leathern reins, Then smote the arch-traitor, Who was driving like lightning. Wildly he rushes, But well he overtakes him; As he leads on, With howlings deep and terrific, Into the vault so entrance. Gone was that cry! Through the iron threshold Rushed with an uproar; Past a tower of oak, Bends the arch-traitor's stroke. Then come the voices Of Roland and Guarlan; With right or left they answered, Death man or woman. In his arms the arch-traitor Lay bleeding, dying; O'er his head the arch-traitor Tumbled on the ground; In his arms He hung suspended; Crest was undrawn behind; With blood his teeth were sprinkled, Coals of cavelins on his breast, Hot beaks and claws of wonder Craved his heart; once more he slept: Now he wakes, With those two hundred soldiers, Who to his kindred spirit Once more retreat. Great are their griefs; But infinite their anguish; At such a hour, For peace they sought not, nor for rest; And from the yawning tomb They took with them the Emperor. For the Emperor hath given him mercy; But for his mercy now no more; In the star-chariot He hath no trust. Then his brothers and his comrades (For the last time they were found,) Called from their straw they had been burnt; These, for mercy, had deserved Only to save; To live. Flee to the depths of the sea! The land lies lost, the sea gains bound! Sound, trumpet-voic, through the martial sound. All pale! Veil'd in the darkness of the night, Climbing the steep gray rock, he lies; Rising with hopes, and fears, and fain To die, But working on His will! Through yon vast length of flowers, each one With golden crest and burnished gun, The Giant Idol of the Sun Is swaying, setting, setting still; Over the clouds' faint shadows run, Dim with the pomp of his own will; Downward, through ether, or the dark, The Giant Idol of the Sun Is swaying, setting, setting still. With patient pace, with anxious heart, Through thick and thin, Through sound and sight, From sky to hill, from sea to sea, The Giant Idol of the Sun Is swaying, setting, setting still. From home and God, from bliss and ill ======================================== SAMPLE 59 ======================================== thee, Say, gentle Aeolus, and with accents soft, Dost thou not see a Goddess all alone? Ah, why should it be possible, my son, That one immortal thus be given to thee By heavenly fathers, since thou art so wise? To whom, the swain of Menelaus, thus, With eyes averted. That would be a shame, Nay, not because I see thee not, O prince. To whom, straight-stepping artist, shalt thou say The Prince Menelaus, how he came to Troy From Argos. Neither so will I do him good As honour: surely he is happy here Whom I shall see no more--save death, that man. His daughter's father is not always thus-- Not than a common man--to be himself So the Gods grant him serviceable to himself; But he that is a Prince of his own age, Not, as I think, with fire in either breast. I see not; I am older even now: I see I also; nor hast thou performed E'en by the Gods themselves. I fear for him That is a miserable man, the gift That Helios might in marriage bring, no fear. Would that this man might see it--it is now Too plain, I see that he is yet so weak To be so helpful; for he lives at ease. And he that stands in need of him is mean. But he that will not triumph gloriously Or dare to boast the grit that can escape His parents, honour giving him, renown And honour giving him, glory becomes him. I tell thee, therefore, this: in Argos thou Hast heard the tale which oft has been told to thee Achilles, when his father's steeds to Troy He sent, when many gallant steeds he saw. Now, son, forbear to tell thee how it is That thou hast perished; for in every fight An awful Goddess stands not, all in heaven, Whose sight can surely not endure to be The witness of so much calamity. Such never can be born to be their kin When ruthless Achilles drifts them back, for Peleus Is very godless--He alone knows whence; And on his friend his head is fastened, whom His mighty strength can so far overthrow, He cannot miss his claim, and grow thereby Unvanquished, yea, though he were but dead. To whom, indignant, Juno made reply. Then Juno, bowing low, Goddess in person. Not such, O father, as thou biddest me, But such as will fulfil my word, the spousal I would not, would not suffer. Now make fast To all my multitudes, and thou shalt give To all the Gods thine armor; for thou dost Exceed thy might in any, and in me Whittiest thou canst save. Thou wilt not fail, Being mortal, then to cope with God or man E'en now--to die, if such thy desire-- But from thy wrath a refuge; and I know Thou shalt not want thy love. Oh, would that so Thy suit had yet been dared! But Paris now Reminds me, and I would not in thy sight Pray to him. But may some other godlike man Grant thee, the best steed left alive, to ride With me to the Achaian camp, my native soil. Then will I burn the body. Then will one Of all the Gods send home the golden bane To Achilles, and will other Gods, to grieve At such an one and hate it. Had thou been Libaticus, who withers from his bed Received such blessing never had his pride Been glad, thou wouldst have still been doomed to die. But, rather, whomsoe'er thou wilt, let heaven Vouchsafe the respite; yield to lotus-born Achilles, light of mind. Then thou shalt see Thy friend Achilles, and thy keen demands Seated; and of the chase he shall be slain, The meed of vict'ry. I will win renown By deeds of valour in the field, and win The name of dear long-lost Achilles' friend. To whom the Cloud-compeller, thou replied. God, let the Furies drive us; they may aid The Greeks no more, for they shall surely win The day of triumph for us and our homes. But, if thou pray, or if into the snows By thee Achilles turn thy back, restore ======================================== SAMPLE 60 ======================================== of Poetry; of Lydgate, The first and last, Muskeby to be sung or sung Of the Land-ale, or of Beuty, I may say, Brought by our tongue in Glasgow, the approach of May, And after his specimen of works and preaching, To bring a light, by limping of the day. Here, Dathy, didst appear Like Caesar Constantine, and in a corporal's robe. He humped her: "Sir," said she, "not that I went About this latter of my friends: he moaned And wished I might be where I could: I've tried. They've got my mind a different man. Some say He shept for marrying Mary on a day. My house is rich, and way is very rough, But I've a mind and understand the Truth: And all my little place is very rough, And God help me to be true to all I am. I'm told I had an old wife sitting by Without a chance, against a learned man. I hate her: her the Critic will not lie And put it in the heads of many men. Perhaps, as luck is in the matter, I Have only spoilt her off, by means of this; And all my little place is very rough, Except where culture in the things that smile. The Prueful lads, yon fathers of our race, Not nearly of the same age, read the same, Who to old Cato, tenderly, descended; And, thoughtless of his fame, broke out as christened: 'Twas then the Roman lord was in the deep, And yet he put the schemer in his sleep: Our common scutcheon read of Caesar's worship, And gods were faithless, but his image clayed As Nature did at his supposed today. But from their midst they now withdraw the glory Which is their staff, their guardian prince's glory. But nobler still, and stronger: thou art terrible; Thou art the Genius of our human stage: With thee if either estimate we call, I doubt not: thou art more than mortal; that Is done through thee, than history in the mouths Of poets, of the dead, and ages that have passed; Thy builders are dumb fools, yet thou art still One of our senators, and knowest not How they themselves are tost about thy posts, Thy sport a man, if thou art a plebeian. When I was with the Chapeash and the Peers One morning in the street in Maiden Street, 'Twixt flour and running in the fields of wheat I sate me down upon a rustic seat: The noise was wholesome as an infant's shout; The girls were hanging their delightful hats, And looked more like a play, or frolicsome. Grass-blades were glittering in the village street, Above the bustle, or the shrub, or tree Grew still more tranquil, while the sun went down Half way to its appointed cruelty. The chime of birds was musical; the gale In summer-time was odorous; the wind Played on the bushes as the evening train Chased the blue jessamine; and the steersman's steed, Although familiar to the younger men, Slew the young grass into a furlong red With treacherous green and emerald. Here a whip Was idly making prints, or from the horse Contesting the wild bees with the unwieldy shocks. How like they were! The wanderer, here at hand, And there a steadfast dweller in my veins! O, how I loved them, as I loved their shape And features! They did well to mix the tune And make me happy, for it was my nature! O, Father Abraham, I loved them, then, With the fierce passion of revenge, until They rolled upon my head, and bore me down To the old mad scenes and dreams. How strange it was To hear again the soft, low-whispering tones Of children in the streets. I seemed to sweep Clouds up among the clouds of reverent thoughts, And like a fore-father the ghost of hope Outleapt the threatening sea; yet did I seem Like one who hears and knows not what he feels In all the house and after-bands; so then My heart began to fail me, and I wept, And struggled in my soul. That woman with her son Came on too late to help me, which I loved, ======================================== SAMPLE 61 ======================================== thereaway. I can think, now I see thee, No better thing am I, For I'll never be going away Till nightfall. It was a little owl lived there Who was pluck-gowned and very fair; And when he found his meal was done, The bird was back with all her own. With one knee bent beneath his wing, With another downward, kingly spring, He caught her by the pretty hands And led her safe to his commands. He kept so close, he kept so still, She could not have him for a stir; At last, having got his meal and eaten, And warmed himself in many a stir. Whatever was the cause, he made Me glad that he had stayed away, But I must sing, and I must say, Don't wait till the spring's put on, The bird is not a proper bird The bumble-bee went up the hill With one arm bent across the grass To fetch a little rabbit-skin To hold inside my coat of tan When the wind brought it in. The sun came down and all the world Was glad as if no one had been In sorry mind to see it thus, And all the world went up the hill And all the world went up the hill In hope as if 'twere something still To keep the rabbit underneath, But when the wind went up the hill There was no one there to give a yoke Before he picked a rabbit-skin. The sun went down and all the world Was merry as the days gone by; And now, the only thing worth giving My wife and all her brothersighs, We come back as the shadows come When the day's at its work. So when the sun came down and it Came back again upon my lawn, One kindly message did he send me, The mother sent it all for dawn. "From all the world, from all the things Of all the earth and sky, And whence they are they come to be What may have been your birth." So I did. But when the bird came back He sent it to me, baby, And whispered, baby,--" "Not at all, not at all," And if he came to you I was what life calls living, as the picture Is when I draw to death's and bury With a kiss or two upon my face. It might have been you, baby, sitting here A-mumbling over tables, sewing there At your time of good-bye, sitting here, And saying, baby, "never mind, I pray, There's such a great deal stronger at the day That don't have been the child at that day Trod on and keep the garden pushed away. Who is it walks upon the stairs And goes off into the wood All through the day, All through the night? Do you never stop and say, "This is my son, The sweet, sweet boy!" I know he's coming back to me Before the other naughty boys Were made into the nursery, dear, Do they remember? I'm not afraid of that! I don't like him, I do, I don't! The lights are out, the windows in the hall Are open wide and every one is still; And when the long drawn curtains of the hall Are drawn backward by another child On rainy days and days beguiled, The end comes at last, but somehow I Could hardly lose him if I tried! When in the housewife's yard the fire burns low And turns its eyes upon the good fires' glow, Then 'round the table sit the china maids Who made the fire a splendid place for play, Picking the bones of either hand, Bringing the pieces of the oldest fun To make the fire in. Now as you sit there, my little boy, While the fire lights the other child, If you know when you looked at him You must have seen his face and wild 'Stead of look and forehead black, Thinking overmuch of life, Somewhere in the far-off world Never has the sight been worth Such a face in any place. And still there sits that old self-love Calm and true and deep and wise, As in the beginning he Who was like you, my boy, this while Clasping hands to you and kiss, Lay your lips to yours and sweet As the dew when dawn is young, And forget the frozen beat Of the scythe and frozen feet, ======================================== SAMPLE 62 ======================================== , To do the godlike service of a friend. These fertile lands, where change is but a dream, Spreads to a waste and blind and sullen stream. Oh, at a funeral let us hymn the dead In blithe and happy days, Oh, let us linger on this radiant bed, With thoughts of noble praise! Oh, let us kneel here for the birth of flowers, Sweet flowers of valor, And bow before the pale insensate hours With grateful violets. Oh, could we wait, like you, till age should come And fill our chanted choir, Then, then, the music of the dear old home Might paeans purr. Violets and satin green, And roses in a row: In these chequered springs a little hum Ascends from the wood-thrush, stops to hum. One song alone--for all alone Is worthy of the valorous: I listened when a child, My heart was in the spade; He whispered to a neighb'ring shoot And called me very sweet: A dream of summer butterflies Sprang to my soul with sighs: But now he is gone and the leaves are brown In the silver bowers. All fountains that I have, And rivulets I leave to my lonely bird, Once more awake; It calls me home with a gentle start, And seeks and calls me far. Breathe bliss into the air And there is life enough in that great calm To make me love the Good. Sorrow and strife and longing, As any child may use, To train me like a truant bird To nature's rich abuse, It haunts me for a guide-book, And guides me to my woe: There, on the empty mountain Where sorrow dwells at ease, Its witchery lies forever, Making me love the Good. The world is growing old; A man is growing young: The world will never hold him, Nor grasp him if he wrings. He does not bend the knee, And takes no heed of me: Nought hurts him if he takes me, Or takes me from my heart; But evermore he helps me, And stills me with his dart. Come, then, with no excuses: Mind your own fears to banish. Let me have no pretence To cross your charmed tent; Sit by your side and let me hear Your shouts and laughter loud. Your barren vaunting begs, But does it better far? You come to drag me down And end it in a gutter: I leave the lurch to come And tear my body home. Youth calls me care and joy, But there's no joy for me: A sense of which annoys, A genius to a tree. So too you are afar; Why should you know my heart? I'd rather see you lie About a sandy bar, About a house and die, Than thus to hope and pine, And hearken there again; With dying as you pass, I'd bring my restless heart Out of the wild sea shore. I'm wondering if you, mated, Know not some joys you've tasted; You're not alone for joy, A man who's never married, But one you're not to blame for, And that you're not the same for. There stands a birch canoe In wooded quays; Its prow, with blue-black tresses, Whose ropes are wet; And some, of course, a goatock, A rattling, curly cur. And somewhere as you sit The luckiest wight is sitting, With eyes that turn to leather The outer black of hat. A howling bird above In wakened grove Is thrilling with love, And every bush and tree A deadly purring-- No more is seen, save you A lonely, quiet green. To see the moon and the kine To hear the fleecy lion Languorately bartering His angry, thunderous bugle, And fighting field to it. The farmer's wife, as she makes him tired, Has cried to him in spite of her That o'er the plough has never an ear, Has said that she is tired Unless a squirrel start from her lair, And has enough to eat up the air. The gossips stand amazed, yet none of them dare To lift their bodies ======================================== SAMPLE 63 ======================================== head, Nor heeds the sight of finny men and geese And wanderings that are in her secret rooms, Or only hear the frightful warning shout Of her who's loathsome, sin-bound company; When some are in their graves and sods, and raise Their brazen wreaths, to catch the glittering ray Of sun on suns, or when the storm is spent, In gloaming blackness hide their bodies;--then When resting in a covert cave they dwell, When some are lost, and other days of sun Burns on a harvest of the golden sheaf, They rise,--and springing on as they have run Shrink and look upward at the trail of light That gilds them with a warmer, fouler glow, Or the last faint gleam of their little light. The winds have called them to the woods; The skies are flushed with their cold blue. The birds are flown from the sunny tree, That they flew from, will sit and sing A night-song in warm sunnier showers; Tho' winds and sluggish fountains Sing at our cottage window-bars, And we must heartily say: "Silence, Our watch is over long, Far west." Old, old, old, in thymy wood, How wrapped about thee I am! The forms of man in still bays gone I heard: thy rotting wood is now Bound up and battered with a band Of golden briars in the wold, And scattered in the weeds of gold And left in thy ashen core: For thy fantastic such a thing Deserves not to be thought, O King. Thy palace-chamber, blank of walls, I yet may climb, O King, until Some happier wood begin to stir, And they who wrought the moulders now Shall have a soft new front of plane That will not need a stain on me. The tall, rich-coloured towers that bear And uphold the temples of thy line Upon the midnight of November, Beckon thee to thy dying outlook, With no flicker of a flash or flare Of sun, fire, wind, or any chance Of sky, earth, or of sky's great face, Still flaunting in the clear moonshine, And bringing to itself at last Thy thoughts that all being pass away. The end of this has come at last To thee, O King, in thine old age. The gods are dead. No end, no end. On a December eve My brain was whole, I could not grasp The woven raiment of a leaf That swung across thy threshold. I am not dead, I cannot know What spirit lived within my power. I only know I made thee grow To good and greater sympathies. The touch, the air, the soul's desire Within, with flesh, blood, tears, and sobs, Are dead within thy heart of me. Thy chill Is now gone out of memory. Thy flowers are turned to dead things; The path that through my heart that pauses In harmonies of shapes That went upon the wind with fire, Sad terrible, untouched and strange, Perchance, somewhere, some long-gone word Of fire or frost has stirred or stirred Upon the city's flare. The bells stand still, the candles die, The sad, sad streets are empty even, In a forgotten heaven. All things have passed; No faces human were to-night, All faces that were like my hand And in their stead were passing. One after one The street dies to the night's last. The dead are gone As the dark pallor of the dawn. In the still stillness The street dies to the street's dead air. The dead are here, Baths lying everywhere. But their dead come back to me Here, here, alone, Where all men stand; A little house, a burning place That was a man's desire And brought us to. Dead hangs the fire on high And from its clinking eye The tomb is hidden. Why is the woman weeping, Dead hangs the window-pane And slow the death Of her who died Beside her in her pain? She called you hence, The dead who came back Are now the dead. Dead lies the fire, The dry street lies as white As any flame that went And died in its returning. Dead rides the foot that went And laid his hand in hers. In the grey ======================================== SAMPLE 64 ======================================== for to demand the sceptre, To elect the bright reward of her, As homage for the lady- solely, As peace for steps to Heaven disclosed, As solace for the needy. There stands within the garden-gate A picture made of honest care, A moral point so to be sure, That priests behold it everywhere, And all the minds of brutes and sages Look up to that unclinish'd gaze, And sit thereon--as if some soul, Free from oppression's yoke, were gone, And she were all that's left upon. Thou own the art! Thou much hast known, Nor as the world refusing, The only known right thou canst own, It is the worn few nobles, And closed, toil-worn and iron-bound, Is each day a dream of the breast, Which hesitates or swerves aside, Doubting, afflictive, or denied. With which the deaf may pray and think, To view that son of suffering, Who for the world with crucible Has died for liberty and love, And both were dead long years apart, A void God's need for His whole heart. What to myself I do and speak, And now, in fact, to you I plain That life, which is no life, can be The dialogue of those who come Alike from every element, Alike depart as from the bane That wraps aflower in dreary ban, A subtile and a curious plan; A subtile vision, a gray hue, Wherein 'tis graven, 'tis untrue: The sunshine or the shadow cast May find us in the self-same spot; The earth is jarr'd as by a ghost, The heavens are dim as Erebus; A heavenly hush of earthly air Impells us,--yet, lest tears should fall As from an eyelid, we 'll recall With sharp words on that glassy wall, Where, like a rainbow, he may see The spirit to that lofty tree: Come, write in love this line of love, And tell me how to love you,-- A sight like this again, no more Than the world overtopping day, With tranquil childish troubling, A glowing lustrous element, A flaming breakfast, nothing loth, Any more wasteful, breakfasting; A sense of comfort and delight, A something real, and a right Thus ever near to being's rest; A constant tenantry of bliss, A glance to be the moment's friend, A flaming sickness of the heart, An intestinesy that may imply The mind's deliverance very far, Is very full of make and joy, A thing allied to animal life. Come! let us find this spirit's self, This dearest hope, this fondest care, That in our hearts while we may live, And which anon may bring a share Of all we see and all we crave, This may we call it; yet I 've tried it, To prove myself what I have tried In the same land, and made good sure In this by making self a sure Of something great to be--a tear; A hope of being, and a prayer, A rainbow-hues of winning air, A sudden call for charity. Think of it now! I do declare My insight of your mortal sphere; The sands that on your eyes appear In homage to the lift of light, In worship of the mercy-light, Are laid and sent upon the same As glittering in the feast of Love! How can they teach that heaven is here, If man in all his pride is such, To dart a beam, from hope so high, Of his Creator's love, such sky? O blest, for ever blest in all, Come, taught thy soul to fancy's call! A royal master on his throne, An humble pedagogue, was he, And there sat supper with his men, Praising God for their deeds of worth, As for them all he vainly would: Beside him all he cared for Man. Beside him all his table lay In thoughts of earthly fame, that rose Behind the holly, bough, and thorn, Upon his mind of sin and scorn; And for a humble death to weep In hopes it might not dawn on him, He tried and tried alone to keep A vigil for some days to be. But neither speech nor song he knew, Nor law ======================================== SAMPLE 65 ======================================== we implore. Say, can the muses save A little remnant from the grave? And can the lucre save The corn, the garner, and the grave? Then blame not me For warning notes of this That warn'd us of extremes and extremes. Or else the spirit culls Things that do pass from earth away; And Nature's daughters may Keep all their pretty meanings away, When put to sea: Oft let me rove The desert's desart, waste, and strife, Seeking for some fair star, that still Burns bright above The sand, and blazing on its path, Like comet through the gloom of life. Then blame not me, For favours fortune has forgot, That in the soul you find Affection's balm: as starts the shot, So love's best arrows from the spot. Stone walls do not a prison make, Nor iron bars a cage; Minds innocent and quiet take That for an hermitage. If I have freedom in my love, Love is a leaven; And hearts and thoughts are simple too, That in the heaven Keep sweet, unrav'n, their morning dew-- And, heaven-descended, never, never! If I have freedom in my love, And reason my regard, Then let the world approve My sweet, my sweet, my lovely Love; Since, in a master's vein, Or in a poet's brain, It marks the spring and summer by I love thee, O thou moon mine, If I have loved no other! Though I have loved too well, And sung too long a holy; Though I too humble be To stoop so low to kiss thee; Though I too humble be, Yet love me! I love thee from the first, I love thee from the second. I love thee from the third, And yet my love is holy; But I love thee from the fourth, And all the nine are holy. I love thee from the fifth, From the sixth and eighth divine; But I love thee from the seventh, With my heart full of music; But I love thee from the seventh, With my heart full of music. There's joy in woman's breast, There's hope in man's unrest, There's joy in woman's breast, There's joy in woman's breast, There's joy in woman's breast, There's joy in woman's breast, There's joy in woman's breast, There's joy in woman's breast, There's joy in woman's breast, There's joy in woman's breast, There's joy in woman's breast, There's joy in woman's breast, There's joy in woman's breast, There's joy in woman's breast, There's joy in woman's breast, There's joy in woman's breast, There's joy in woman's breast, There's joy in woman's breast, There's joy in woman's breast, There's joy in woman's breast, There's joy in woman's breast, There's joy in woman's breast, There's joy in woman's breast, There's joy in woman's breast, There's joy in woman's breast, There's joy in woman's breast, There's joy in woman's breast, There's joy in woman's breast, There's joy in woman's breast, There's joy in woman's breast, There's joy in woman's breast, There's joy in woman's breast, There's joy in woman's breast, There's joy in woman's breast, There's joy in woman's breast, There's joy in woman's breast, There's joy in woman's breast, There's joy in woman's breast, There's joy in woman's breast, There's joy in woman's breast, There's joy in woman's breast, There's joy in woman's breast, There's joy in woman's breast, There's joy in woman's breast, There's joy in woman's breast, There's joy in woman's breast, There's joy in woman's breast, There's joy in woman's breast, There's joy in woman's breast, There's joy in woman's breast, There's joy in woman's breast, There's joy in woman's breast, There's joy in woman's breast, There's joy in woman's breast, There's joy in woman's breast, There's joy in woman's breast, There's joy in woman's breast, There's joy in woman's breast ======================================== SAMPLE 66 ======================================== "Trifle-unter, it's my--something more--" A tipsy humdrum of that loud, Struck from the silence and stole so slow-- The tranquil echoes cry, Some little horse must go-- Go when the lady takes her way, Heard only by the broad-browed page Behind the page: "Another horse is at my age, And this is Susan." And first she greeted him on the road; His manly leg she has; His steed, he rode, he sprang from wood Into a meadow where No other horse have they. The wide-boned page was fair indeed; His wisdom had its sheen; His knowledge had his fire and breath; His life was human life-- But Robin said, "I'll never wed." And then he turned about and said, "I think I have a son! I've little time to face the times, But here's a hand I have; If you can get him, choose the best, Come quickly, come soon, Or why it should not be expressed, For there it is." Yet these old Robin could not tell, But loitered on in wondering. The flying horse went rolling o'er Her way, with half a bound, Heard through the low, the mountain hoar, As 'twere in the beginning, By a black crow-throat slow and low, The little milkmaid from the wold Rushed out in the early beam. The little fox fluttered by, And as he thought, "What lovely youth am I?" Said he, "I am a girl:" The frightened hare fled mad. Yet through his hat went clamouring The little hare, Till the little fox knew more Of the wonder-working hound, The little hare-clasp on his breast, And then there came The whisper of a spring-tide sail From a blithe brae where the gray hare-bell Was in a jangling row. "Oh, any kind sir am I," Said little hare, "Whose little name is Sir Montrose, And which is Sue. Oh, my darling, you are blue And you can run. Oh, I would ride without you, For fear the sun." The hound did quake and tremble With all his might; The little hare-bell trembled, She felt his might. "Oh, whither, whither do you go?" The little hare cried merrily, The little hare-bell trembled, She ran, and it became a beak. "You're going to sail the world, I know, And that 's my rede!" The first to rise he did not wait, The last cried, "Don't you go; I stay 'till to-day you come to me-- Can you, can you, can you, can you, cannot?" The second to him and his lads did say, "Whither, whither have you been?" "Some friend is here that did not mean To-morrow, and he can't come soon; Not the kind word that can say 'Fraid?' What's left? Some friend is gone without his bones; And they'll be gone with all their bones. "My father died in an evening ago, And left me there for to plow and to sweep; The last that died I cannot know, But he left the grave for to dig and sweep. "He buried the body, and left me there The one I loved I did not care-- The only one I left behind, The other one,--the grave for to find. "His coffin they buried below, below, Who cares for now it must soon be to clay; His bier they have, with carven bone, And carven bones,--and he left a day. "There's never a man of me, I said, Who's satisfied with what I've shed; And this is why, my friends, he said, We go to hear that anyway, And this is why I stay, you know, We go to hear that anyway. "He was in pain one night for fright; They thought his body laid away, And would not take him back some day, But he was gone where they had gone Before they came to hear his trumpet. "And therefore he was dead and scared, For three days spoke his silly beard; But now they call him Whipp ======================================== SAMPLE 67 ======================================== , from the combat drawn, With blood and brains’ black flames, the foremost on. Him pierced through mail and corslet, crown, and band; Through his wide chest his dexter eye would fanned; With plates of gold and jewels long and fine, Gleamed white, with silver, and the arms divine. While Pallas views him from the walls afar, He wails her slaughter, and she shrieks for war! Once more the weeping wife his sorrows sheds, Again she weeps, again her husband reads; And the sad mother to her eyes descends, Sighs for the dead, and with her offspring blends. The brethren’ tears afresh distilling flow, He pours them with the sword, and smites with blow. “Let, let it pass,” said Pallas with a sigh, “Now let it pass, the bard unpitied by, “Now let it pass,” the carol he replies: The corselet the youthful GAMA press’d, and cries: “No more of Dryope, the fire so bright, “Shall we with fruit, nor plum, my members touch, “And swift as light he winds his trident’s touch. “Fellows of yore, whom men with heart regard, “When the fierce fight was wither’d from the herd, “Rush’d on, the savage boar and savage brood “Our brothers, and their kinsmen, fierce and few. Pallas commands the martial clan to yield, And fight the vanquish’d by her knightly meed. But none the numbers of his band attend, In battle thickest, or in games contends; Their glory when at honour’s trumpet’s call, Safe through the ocean mix their shields with wall. With Dardan arms the rivals yoke them on, And meet the combat for the first third son. A priest, whose eyeballs flash’d with rage divine, Such vapours from his head and body join: Fierce as a mountain from the blaze he comes, And like a whirlwind by the tempest plays; When the mad chief, whose o’er-sped horns awry The steeds of conquest in the furious tide, Prone to the dust and furious dogs below, Loud as the thunder, wheels his coursers round, And roaring beats the hoarse bass of the woods. "Silent, deserted! all too late thy train, O sovran Power! whose vengeance justly waits On me, more brutal grown by slow decline, The sober, peaceful, and the meine! And yet, and yet so nobly doth it tend, And what was I, that I my birth might lend, Thee first, and only deity and friend! That thou mightst be my son, through all my life Of joy and glory, as a God in strife. Let me, like earth’s first sire, myself behold, With mildness as an envious deity, See yonder priest, and with a parent’s joy Draw near my half-determined head in joy." He spoke; the listening priests with every ear A sonial admiration heard; and then To pity moved them: but their rage restrain’d His temper and paternal soul restrained: For they, resign’d to pity, doom’d to bear Each the sad secret of a mother’s care, The melancholy corse and funerall’d woe, Of which both men and women know no day: Now each his mind to sorrow’d thoughts prepares, To weeping grief, to indolence his cares. As when the sickly blast of autumn blows, The nodding forests cast a sable gloom; With tepid tints the mountain’s woodman grows, And, eased of toil, the glittering pines respire; Thus pale they glow with unregarded pains, Till the near twilight shows them all in arms. Then from the camp the briding streams retire, Where Simois, less illustrious than his sire, With swelling streams, which Eridanus laves, And of his brother’s bones despatches death; Meanwhile before the fierce Achilles spread, The circling hosts against the Trojan fled; All pale they fell, and breath’d along the plain; The victor leaders, as the chiefs, remain. Then, as some star that through the ======================================== SAMPLE 68 ======================================== 'n ranks direct; the chieftain far In constant motion darts his vengeful dart, Whose place of terror, not his fate, is known. Around, around in circling troops they go, And furious battle follows as it flows, Here shakes the glittering falchion on the foe, There the sharp arrow, and there falls the stone; The helm of Ebro downward whirling, thrown, Dies at the whizzing of an arrow done. Some toil the feeble hand to lift, and some Festering in death the trembling limbs decline; Some ply their shafts and swiftest fly the belt. Nor to reproach the victor strive they; every hand, Stout Ebro, marking well his better hand Hence to the close he brings the enchanter band, And these with stern though sudden pause assailed. But Ajax, as he fled, the hero hailed, And thus with winged words the Trojans hailed: "Now, now; why tempt again the flight of Greece? Must we, my friends, before the storm forego Our dreadful war, for one so young, we fall?" Glad at his words, to whom with joy the crowd Of Trojan dames, in warlike pride, replied: "Brave as ye were, your haughty lord attends, But brave as is the lion or the hind, Ye bore, like men, brave Mars, the bravest steeds, And heaps of lances, mixed with flaming wood. Nor hath the wind to bear our Trojans aid; Unwilling, envious, he returns in flight, And now so late, fast-sleeping in the shades, The post of Mars, renown'd in fight, appears; Yet must we fear, if he approach again, Some warrior that will stain the dust with gore. His inroad stern the son of Peleus bore; Such was the contest, and such was the war: He urged him forth, to meet the conflict doom'd, With ardent combat on the doubtful field; Then took the helm, with shield and helmet crown'd, And stood, like rock majestic, on the crest, In semblance the bold son of Peleus' sire, Erect and stern, the brother of the Lycian sire. He, far retreating from the battlement, Stood half aside, and danger gave to fear; Not so the Lycian's muscles; Jove with joy Took him to his proud front, his dreadful shield to wield; No instant fright assails him, no alarms, In firm array around the Grecian arms; Full at his front he looks with pitying eyes, And bending to his spear his vengeful blade descries. But, as he turns, the brazen corslet flies, The shield resistless, and the clashing arms arise; So, bursting forth, the brazen cuirass shook, It splits the breast, the skull, and paleness broke; With his fierce spear the life of body flies, And Haemon's son, Ulysses, left alone, Unhipp'd the weapon in the panting heart. As the swart vulture, quick'ning for his prey, Springs on his heart, and sable sweeps along, Sinks in the perilous and dreadful flood, While all his life in fiercer agony seems, At him suspended, languid, from the fray; So stretch'd before the Thracian lines, When Jove to punish thee of lengthen'd years The day of vengeance and the fate of war, Swift from thine arms fell Virtue's guardian star, With whose bright shield Ulysses fought and died, And fled to the Achaian fields beside. And hurl'd from out the cliff his beamy spear, Full on his breast it struck, and cleft his brow; Headlong he fell, and stretch'd him on the plain. Nor wanted all the force of active might, And kindling lustre of immortal fire, Which, but not life itself, and more than life, Invites the soul, and captivates the heart: As some fair temple to the winds on high, Still with the flames ascending, pure, serene, Resembles yet the image of a man. Even thus, hapless in hopeless conflict lost, Raged each hero, still the brave man's force express'd. A Greek there stood before the watcher's eyes; And from beneath him, right and left, there flew A cloud of dust, and grey his hair withal, Hot ======================================== SAMPLE 69 ======================================== ral husband, and strong ancestor, All strength of mind, and youth of heart, All fortunes of this earthly life; And all the various bonds to earth, And all the toil that mortals know, And all the riches of this globe, And all that makes life glorious, Each of his lot, is in that one; And his great frailty is himself, Though in some other form he's gone, And none can call him forth; for, see, In him our earthly nature lies, E'en as the curious snail cries out Its melancholy life away, And death, by constant heed and eye, That, once set up and now set down, Adds to its inward drops no dearth, No foulness, nor corrupt of earth. Yes, as in tranquil summer skies, Parched with the heat of noon, the brook, We find the golden moisture filled, So, panting with the fresh excess, With touch of zephyr's breath, we feel Our very veins in glowing veins Burn with the heat, and light the rays With redder lightnings than our days, Or sling the smoke, or ply the forks, Or start the steel with slender points, Or from the short-strung nerves, display The threads, and toss about our heads Some new engraved in golden words; But these are truths too plain for man, And folly leads to more than truth. The thousand-windowed air of spring That, breathing from the virgin hill, The tender shoot of yellow corn And fostering green, and yellow corn, All mixed and fused in dancing waves, And coursing o'er the whispering leaves; All in one crystal shape, and nigh, With minstrelsy divine, the face Of Him, that slaked the world's last thirst, With all those thousand summers done, When man was pure and man was man, All, all was done; earth's joys began. To her, all music and all strains That time could give, and sorrows, pains, The grave's own moods, were given; nor war, Nor shriek of herald, nor of priest Was heard amid the gloom of corns, The doom still keeping close for men, With heart and hand, nor haunting eyes, None to relieve, none ever near, Than to lie still and count our tears, Forgetting how that blood ran free, And with the maddened heart of man Spurning the little fate he ran, And headlong, as he was distraught, Bent down his path and in the stream Fell, and died out, with heart and brain, Unborn, unrisen from his side, Like some half-dying child of shame, With hollow-shred face crying to God, And empty arms and limbs of clay, And maddened with a sad rejoice Like one that on a wild hillside, Dreams all night while his life waxed low, Not knowing where he dwelt, who how He had destroyed the joy of all; But what to him was all but love, His heart, and all that made him whole; The whole sweet world he was, and would Have seen him well and passed away, But could not live his dream away; All, all was said, the dream was gone, With half his heart, and all its lore; He could not speak, for death on no Blest instrument of death was set, Of silent lips and hands laid low; And each thought on him long ago, Though life lay sleeping, fair and soft, As if his soul the sweet earth's speech Stilled into music, and its breath Would not take time for breath again To taste of life's bright flowers and glee, But for the sake of dreams of death, Who now are standing at the gate Of death, and sad and lost in life. The dreams were dreams, that soon might seem The very soul of changeless Time, And that their life no longer seemed; For they had lived and had been sung Till they had reached the souls of men, Beyond their hope to know aught then, And life had left no trace of then In the young heart of men or hearts Beyond its hope for evermore; And this was all that could restore The changeless changeless hearts and minds, Which were too linked for aught but earth, Or souls to choose or do it ill. These were the thoughts within them still, The dreams of youth, the deeds of lust, The restless hearts of its desire, ======================================== SAMPLE 70 ======================================== That drag a while, but ere the third dawn dight With smiles, we bid our voices also stay For these good steeds which last shall quit the way, And, leaving marks and signs, take full delight In chariot and in car, as shepherds they Whom Atalanta doth in wondrous wise Surveie and keep for them. But chiefest joy Of living things are those that in the night Common pursuivants and vernal flies. Those that on foot will leave their bed alight Dreaded, or through their eyes the shadows stray, The ghost of Solyman shall there discern, And by his shadow gird him round, till then The ancient seer shall tell his town again. All night the stillness of the friendly moon We pleaded for, and he was turned to flight, Albeit we strove, that some unknown offence Might thence exculpate speed, by none offended, Or hinderance of our forfeit good. At noon We made our passage to the royal camp, Which, at due time, the swarthyoun to (Would it had been deserted) locked within, The former close, against the nigh of night, Within the narrow limits of the town, The commonnear, and roofed with battlements, To shield from sun-rising a fearful feud. Thus we, in fear of coming, still essayed The town's destruction, and the wooden jenn To scale, by steadfast march, and forward bent To where the breezes as the sandalled plain Rose to the keel of their huge navy, on They turned them nigh, and under them the waves With their main swept, and near them, as they went Were those who by the chariot saw the knight Who had drawn near, and quitted his retreat. At length the day departing took its rest, That kind reception having so much stress Had broken down my harassed eyes and breast, And left me at my Lord forlorn and faint. How ill it fared with me in this sad town! Men think I am not of such grief as this; 'Tis so ignoble good and chief renown, That on a certain day or so I miss My former love, and that this love is none Of such delights, that, when I once have shown Myself what I have lost, a thing so rare And strange that cannot be all comfort there, I to my Lord have done a feat of care; So should I find small profit of my woe; And having him about the term I go To serve the worthies, by my Lord I swear 'Tis only skill to give me to forget, For so I lost him by my foolish hate. -- Cry then no more, O Fortune, or mine own, But let me teach my heart to her tongue known. Though love now threaten me of such despair I will not keep my words in thankfulness, But cleave the strokes and lay my head down there. O ye that gentle, meek, and merciful And simple inborn things, be pleased to grant Your simple prayer, that thus, to sacrifice, I may, without dispute, a honey grant, Take thy protection on my courtesies. Thus, when a year is spent that gives defence To me and to my lady, whose bright eyes Have power to blind me with benignant stare, And at that sight have, in the thought they use, And pray that pity may attend their cries Then, as his child and mine before the yoke, I will descend to rest with him on some, That he may, at my care, for this be taught My course, and my attendant at my need. 'Tis as I must that she, whom I could trust For comfort, will at once descend to me. I with long silence, patiently to wait, Will her bright eye of beauty be transfused, And with soft hands my yielding heart enfold, That, if I do, I may her love uphold. I shall be taught by her, the choicest there, By her sweet looks to keep the honeyed fruit, By her sweet eyes, and by her soft brown hair. --Nor shall she ever prove me utterly, Till she be mounted on the highest seat; For there's no need to hide a heart within, Or, if she dare, to bear my weight I'll find. Now on our right for the third coming day The golden days we past will bring to hand; And to the lovely sphere, where all things grow, Songs of glad ======================================== SAMPLE 71 ======================================== to Brunhild; nought she did but feign That in such wise she durst not break her fealty. When Queen Brunhild, that dame so fair of face, From her fair hand had taken such a grace, The knight again did both together trace At once the queenly matter to explain, That in the end of his fair countenances It sure should be her husband for her dear, Whom he had loved, whose honour she did wear. With her were also the farrier band, Who thus had seen Brunhild the last queen; O mighty Dame, O queen so fair of hand, Since thou didst toil in any war with me, Make me to rule, to love, and serve my love. Such service to a sire deserve we dear, That to none other will our love attain. We are to him indeed that we bequeath Whatever man has born, or any born; We were to him enthralled, that he should live, That he might happy days and health maintain. This here present we will let her guess, Although in this she little doth possess. Within the court were ladies chamberlain, With golden hailts and pikes, and ever he Went forth and took their places, where the three Did serve in court the ladies seven a day. And none could tell which foot did make them there, The knights with four go tridding every way. The lady with her servants to her side, And they did swear together, when they could Behold the way to Sarza, huge and broad, That he one king should take, one lord beside. Rich hostages they brought, that they should carry Gold gain, diamonds rich, and diamonds brave; Boldly to guard them with their lances brave At point of sword the knights they would assail, Each Sarza shield, and quiver to secure, And with broad arrows seven hundred lance. The Sarrazins, their treasures did command And bade give way to them against the hand Of Roland, who before them fiercely stood, And parleyed with his men to stir the bands. Stumbling his steed he made those others seize, And cleft his breast; they wheeled about in rage; Nor having more his brand can save his brand, He left the steed and smote him with his hand. Gerein from France they saw the king depart, Hoping the villain would his master be, To seize the villain is inclined their art, And to seize him forthwith is sore displeased. But his man-friend, when full three hundred horse They saw, called Walter and Sir Vivian, Who soon as in that castle they arrived, Abandoned were those counts with great their master, Who thitherward with zeal did forward ride, And gave himself the bridle of his steed. And he is known to them the best steed The best steed breeding ever bridled can; For he receives beneath him as his lord, In that he is above eight hundred man; For rare withal is no whit better steed That e'er brought thither by this noble man. With the same might be said King Marsil hight, When he had drawn that sword from out the fight, He wandered free, and as he would have done, Never assured he would his knight have won. Lurcanio felt that on the warrior cold, For, freed from danger of the savage kind, Sore pined his heart, which in his bosom burned With such unquailing jealousy of mind; And to himself thought no disgrace or blame, His fault atoned, his folly would be shame; But must not fear; for Fortune's fell decree Seized him at whiles, and drowned himself in sea. Pagan Arabs, whom no holy sire can bear, But who as knight doth ever toil and teen, Will waft their foe; but if they find him there, How shall they from the fight bear off his weft. Right well it is that Carle, so right he fights, Has broken down that dragon with his steeds. The dozen peers, which by the fountain stood To drink before their peers, this while are good; But thou, their captain, king of men, in flood Wast not for thee a chamberlain a sword; Thou art their man; and with the face of earth, From these dost them profane to flout thee birth. Then, as the traitor does for thee, through thee To Carle the fever of ======================================== SAMPLE 72 ======================================== y: "Saxum repertor celsa, Tunc sciri rependuntur, Una perennis aerum, Porque de mortuorum Et tenuet siccus. Oncida, dea, revisunt, In terris per omne deuotas: Sive conant mensae nunc nominae Cum tota per terras. "Sweete favisi! tua flammanti, Solo ne mea ihni in coelo! Blanda mei pauper se coniunx, Moris augur parvas y sedit." From the poet's house to the college he had been there so long that he was obliged to make his escape into the country, as Master Lippo tells us, by no means; for he was a warm native and much cherished by his friends, only two years before he had retired from his home. "Behold," he exclaimed, "that I here through the town have entered, and I hear how the conditions of the laws were fulfilling. Alas! the occasion of the choice was too daring; it was in a hurry that the father of the father, Jove, and Ulysses, might be so seized by a great sultanship. Meanwhile Ulysses hearkened to the words of the wife, and put him to sleep; for he wanted the assistance of Minerva, who had given him his desires, which he craved to give him, in an appointment as to the advice given him by his friend." The offspring of the old woman replied, "Ulysses, I hear this further, that the son of Laertes has not now been offended; but if he has disposed to go to sleep at once, I will wake your son, and send him soon to bed." Then in his sleep Telemachus closed his eyes, and with his head in the guise of a swineherd he went up into the town, looking with tearful eyes towards his master. Then, wheresoever he was wending, he found Ulysses at his knees at once; for there were two ghostes, and the ghosts that lived near to him, to whom he had been long afar, had He then took Ulysses by the hand, looking as though he was a noblest man among them; and as he thought, "Now, then, what spirit is this?" he said to himself, "Sirs, are the ghosts from the dead? They are both dead and gone from the world or are they living, and their house is in ashes, their ashes are ashes, their hut-fires are all withered and broken: they are the only hope and refuge of mankind. Their Then Ulysses answered, "Stranger, as regards this your guest, my son, I will tell you of a certain matter: we will return up to the house of Hades and consult the ghostes in the land of the dead, for that they are dead at once, by reason of the viper the gods hold their gates up in the depth of Hell, not the insensate race who keep the gate heedful of their servants. They are living, and sleep has fallen upon them; nor would Penelope be able to prevent their disturbation though the dead were left behind. So you may rejoice when you hear their counsels and hear their prayers. They have laid hold on you as long as you are abundant, and sleep is not an abode of pain." Then Ulysses said, "Eumaeus, noble son of Laertes, I do not desire to have any of these ghosts. They are very reprieved each one of the others has admonished them to stay where they are at their own house--for there are other ghosts, who can befriend you as you journey. I will give you one that you have left behind you, and I will keep my son from all the rest that comes near him. Let him find me to sleep, and let me put on him the mantle which the sleepers On this Telemachus was now going to a village which he had just slung with killing spears and spears pointed at him; there was the murder of his son, and the wrong he did to Ulysses. There the young men were drying their locks and being scared; but now Ulysses and the old women were running down to the house of Hades. Arete, alone, was first to name the rowers, and Ulyss ======================================== SAMPLE 73 ======================================== o'er the moor, and far from all my cares Her father was unable to imagine, As was her wont, to sing him melodies. So passing through the church, upon her way She visited the venerable Abbey, For some officious charge was duly paid To the good master, the true man, Who said, all from his work With prayers and holy psalm Upon the Stoning psalms, That it was Pindar's, or ambition. Went to receive his thanks sincerely, And then a trip (of which I spoke instead) Of dames who, on the same With strictest utterance, Preferr'd the mode of calling holy, Which Burman's monks would call The wandering monks into the pulpit. Young Burman, in whose prayers and prayers The Church was guarded, was received Very near a post-boy's cot By the horretrious friar, Who not by prayers or works was served. Hearing these saintly men despair, The matrons with dishevell'd hair In silence reek'd of dread, And look'd with anguish on the mortified, And calmly, in the chaunt, That she too must believe Who on the cross her Saviour bare Was ever cross'd in death; Nor for such trials had she died. Thus over-happy time is onward flying, Loudly portends a like ambition; But much before such others listen, And oft I promise not That twice to-day is Widow of Widow Jenny. Who has not, at this hour, in decency met In such a flowery mead as this young Muse, With her own chosen verse, or musing set, In her own musing field, in valley or mead? Who thus has grown in this unholy waste, And left him, oft, as orphan, with his staff In pledge of blessedness, and motion smooth? Whose hand would bid all rough-discemper'd deeds Run riot through the grass, and water through the reeds? Ah, day no-merit-ed, no-night no-thought-of! Thus years of widows made more merrier John At Mary Mother's head, than thus about her bed They would have read the fortune of their love, And would have builded ships of verse to move Like this old Potentate, puffing her gales And trimming up the deserts; while the sails, Ascending over all with silver fret, And spreading in a profer substance more, Were laden with the precious things of home, The joys of which were made, like us, the type Of heavenly life: and there was here the Court Of meeting her by favour of the Grace And Worship. She was oft as one who sought To win a footing with the purest springs Which sweetest angels make by day and night For infants; but sometimes, when she was left To wear the mantel with which mothers vied, She too took violets which he had learnt to bring From the Queen's grave, in infancy divine. But no--the Virgin was not married, though Of noble strain; she merely had a soul To perish in a fame none else could show; And that was leaving others to make shift To bring them to a place which they might seek, And leave without remorse or pride or change, Their father's house;--how, when she first had come To bless and comfort them, they set a-foot As if they were the toeslips of their mother; And how the eggs were eaten, nor yet more, By boys and girls; their mother was their nurse, Her only child, until her catechism Was given to them, as a nurse on board, Their object, the fair raiment of their lives; But she was still the mistress of their wives. Her father, for the present, was beloved With something of the fine and lofty soul, Sweet reflexion of the Godhead, which Was frank and courteous as its own fair youth, And at the Chapel did his art prepare, Saying, Thou'rt welcome now. The stately soul Which strives to bear the influence of the throng, Affords us now a mansion for repose Like this far country, and on fields of fame Like this fair region, with a name well known As freedom, when it seems at church to call A long procession and much country names. But to return--I shall not ask for more Nor more of what I yet have done for thee. H ======================================== SAMPLE 74 ======================================== Felt that the milde breeze thereof to growe In odour and in balmy spaine did beare With vessel contrite; therefore in mixt And easie, he could finde of which the fit Was and become the Nymph; but that the sight Might make her fearfull strains such madness dresse, She would a pillour make with bloody poise, And with the troublous mote run cornerlie. O dreame and cheameie birdie! sweet and faire! For feare thy selfe with mine owne besmeare, In me surmounted are: thou maist so fayre On painted pillours borne! yet deare and deare My pleasing eyes from living faces see. O seeing my deare spouse, a prayse is me. O had my love been but the womanhede Which those two gentle barons hallowed be, (As both by right thou wert) then had not loue Nor loue, but nature yee, whom such beauties please. Woe to the world, woe ripely unto me! From whose fair cheek yee bring'st full many a gem, Whose rare insatiate purple do's not dim. But age, and loue, and passion shooteth forth Afresh with subtile beauty in their hues, And as the world, more after it, hath chose A virgin for the thing that is most lou'd, Not more then is it, nor more sweetly shows The lascivious rose. O gentle friend! I see Thy cheeks for shame, thy teeth for obtinence; They have no names, they must be also boastd, Since that thy name is banisht. that the cloud Of faded beauty doth compell vs ill From seeing thee, by what ensample still They worke thy beauties, still are eye-lids full. O gentle shade of modest sauery! I saw Thy shade approaching me, by cruell clawes Me beguiled thus, and by that eye there spoc't VVith like a forbidden counsellor it past All his abundance. I not howl'd for thee, But entertaind with every lovely shape, This woful vast of misery and woe, It made me fidler then my tedious fate, And now i'm full of dolour thus with thee. O let not one put on me my despaire, Whose utmost I admire, whom none believe. Him whom thy gentle heart hath powre to soare, The worst of men in all this world, ne're knowe, But in his nature, thine there is no showe. For heere I vow I'll read thee, ere I lye In thy weak heart, that my pure cause, tho' lie, Bid it come forth with honour and wi might To mocke my vow; that, when the deere grone From heav'n I am exil'd, not loath to sue, Yet with a proud proieu, and well-dispersed I'le take possession, yet for mercy's sake, That hee, whose wounds are purgatorialke take, May be by vs aveng'd, and not so eccho. And this I preiudge, and that I not deplore The sad destruction that hath powr to wound A virtuous mind, in pain and peril more To tell thee what I now lament, and doe Feeble the paine with which I am no more. There will I sit in sorrow and in paine: O let my death distil thee out of season! Those sweete, those tender eyes, those constant graces, All which my soul in darkness doe, are there; But which, like friendship, when my sorrow saps, Are nothing but the heat of holy warres. My mourning weed, that growes thereby along The bushes shott, that shade the fountain's rind, A tomb doth make of aged branch and young, And ever-during branch and root is sung. My grief, my sorrow! and my woef to die For him, that did to soone long since aspire. O heere I'm weary of this life, and I To find my soule's that living I admire. But O thou most adorable, O where Shall I appeare thee, to be left deplore? Shall I be found t' imagine my fate faire And miserable, that my hap shall be Inquainted ======================================== SAMPLE 75 ======================================== en, with these died.) And more than I was wont, I give it--"quick--" And certainly she did not come in the last scene of his undisgrace. For her loved mother had no happy son; Oft as the custom was of yore, She had met young Hermione With cordial words in chorus: "Young Hermione, behold my fate! From my loved parents such of thee May the first blood of woman be All, and thou here shalt perish! Balkat, the dragon's brood, I've viewed, No boy of birth or fortune, No happy youth, no maiden bride, Do I now find in my lady; She sits upon the portal, With a cross upon her bosom, And over-sitteth restless, And I know but little of it. No children are now like her; She is in every sense of me. She sits beside the portal, I wait, and still I wonder Whether in place of her there wait Some boy of many years and many, Who in their parents' sight was born, A portion of that Adam's spoil, Or aught the giant's anger." So, she stood forth the pillar. As, of old, the famous Squires Of Castle-Raise had broken, So, through many a time and oft Her body, form, and form, was borne With peril, earthly pain and anguish, And sorrow without name or answer. Ah! How few their number are Who of their parent's children, In the dire war distracted, Make havoc and afflictions, And pitifully frighten The limbs of the impending warriors. 'Mid tangled forest and wide meadow, By burly fen and lonely thicket, And the lone mountain's pine-cones shadow, Of the forest sees the quarry, But neither dogs nor bears can harm her. Now there is a stately pleasure 'mid these, An emblem of a better world--the old Made sovereign of the two fair maidens: Long ere the splendors of this age Were dyed o'er with the lustre of the sun, Ere the old father of the place was born, To thee an honourable mother. The castle tower, that stood amid the green, With stately turrets towering o'er the plain, Was not forgotten in the days of old; But now it wears a brighter, nobler fame, To match the crown of ancient warrior-name, So age has often told us of the twain. Yet, as the twain were wedded, one by one Their wealth and kindred sought; and one by one Left in the forest--he, with fainting heart, Had driven forth a maid to his lone cell, To aid him in his hour of agony. "Then," thought she, "let us cast this idle dream, And with its mocking cloud pass swiftly by." Thus did the good and faithful maidens speak, Thus, having said, a faithful mother went; And thus they did her blessing and her care, If to return to happiness were best. 'Tis meet that she will pay to other folk. Once more upon the holy chalice That holy daughter gave a ring, She showed the ring that did immale Her ring--its glimmering jewel-ring. Her fingers with the ring she knit it, And, in her toil-descended course, She laid the ring--she made it--un Permitted, with such right good force, That if the ring had waked it, 'twould Have lured a dozen pair of wings. But, ere the night her veil had broken, The maid was ill, for night was falling, From the forest where she knelt to pray Her farewell unto her dear mother. Of old, there was a little song, A ditty of that night in May, And when she sighed would not be long An astral could not but be bright. It sang, "When I am dead, my dear, 'Tis sure that you will find the day For which I sigh, 'tis sure that you Shall to your graves can neither sing, And we will die, so long as we Will keep out of the whole world-- But by and by no fairy sprites Can be more cruel than he is!" So she knelt there for a space, Then sighed again, yet was not ford, But in the little oaken place A bower of six oaken oaks was laid. And there was heard ======================================== SAMPLE 76 ======================================== ems faire depart in to the beauteous things Of nature; nor need'st thou be steeped in sweets Of draughts of heavenly sweetness; for the winged, Unconquer'd, bound in vigilant flight, Is ever on the wing, and ever rests Upon its certain and eternal road. "Nor wonder, if celestial Justice, sole In saintly guise, direct the erring ark Up through that sign: so that more clearly shine The beauteous eyes, and the harp stain the white. In which the glorious wig, impregnate with grace, Rejects the robe, and in his plastic hand Trace, to the dulcimer that draws the strings. Many such there are, who life and vision E'en to the lute, can represent; and those Who do the bidding, with envenomed prayers Temper their will. So that the learn may seem A feather-zamb of light, in which the hearer Doth vainly strive for our redemption, Shall, in himself, hope for it when men die. But that on earth may not the race of brutes Into the brightness of the sacred spheres Ever, as they did here, O spirits move, Their voices is not heard in mortal life. Unbounded, then, shall ye behold the vales Of the ice-mountain, and the river that Heaves up its flood at the vesper-tides, Each in his turn? Yea, ye may witness there The white snow, which, though fledgel'd by the frost, Is still in arching bowels loftier far Than Alps, or where the equinoctial line O'er Appavavia shows, pass'd through the Alps And fells the giants of Perugia's hold. Yea, e'en the lightning on its downward road Will, on the summit, darken: for to me It but removes the shadow, which it took When 'gainst the thunder, and before the wind Bears it away. Whoe'er of pencil reads, His works well painted let him know, and them, With his own light clouded. Of the banks One part is wanting, that forthwith may make All the crests pinch, and turn loose the other; Wherefore, men do not ply their oars on high, When the hot blast of aery flame doth touch The tender bark of the live current. Hence Is it my counsel, and my will to them, That, as the lower blow from the fire, so The more they pile, the lower grow. At last The circle, that to us from Geryon O'er the wide world hath been, doth broken lay And shattered, as a bridge, that hath no helmsman. What ensigns the high triumphal trumpet, Which, ever to its organs keeping tune The soul, doth in the blessed thunder lower, Targ'd with the song of heav'nly sweete-toned, Zeus, the all- ceilings, whose existence Is one resplendent day in the twelve heavens, Is now in righteousness and glory increast. The robe, which is of purest gold, The unbar'd deep, the cross, The unplumb'd, the sheath, the shining ore, The chalice, and the temper'd Love is hard at heart, and gets a fresh supply: That they are afraid has a meaning in the eye. No taper's half so light, nor half so high; But whether more or less this taper is, Lord help us, says they, to our selves above, As when into our heads a cannon strove With arms and lips, as might a flame of love, And with its tongue itself outstretching; till We cannot find it, and we cannot know Whether the light we see be good or no; But when our hearts and eyes do burn and beat, Straightway the wounded spirit rushes fleet, And stays there still, and with him stands at bay, And weeps remembering the care of his delay. No tapers now! no fires of living men! No giants' wand! no gods!--no, let us have A thought for one who is undone to save The soul from imminent death. There lies, instead, A comfort for our sins--an epic to the skies! Up yonder, there we'll hang from tree to tree: The sunshine'll be there, we'll live, we'll say, And call that sunshine as a good-bye to us; God grant that when there's sunshine there's no cloud We may look back upon the good they have For the poor souls that sit in it and cry For peace that shall not come to them from sky. Lord, wilt Thou save us when there's nothing left? Nay, we have said there's nothing left us yet; And God at least has pity upon us Because He gave for all things poor souls' need. Out of the heart of God, love, hope, prayer, love, This is the silence that is God's and thine, Which in the hearts of all men is the same As Thou didst make, and yet so near the soul The halo where the light of Thee doth hide Is partly lost, as we behold it die, In the great hour when Thy dear presence sinned; Not yet this earth hath felt Thy hands of fear, But Thine, Lord God, our wings do fold and beat Almost before this angel comes to greet The hope that here no more, nor yet again Shall we set hands for comfort on this grain, Lest we behold our God turn back to Thee! Out of the heart of God, help us, I say, To have lost Thee, as we see Thee nevermore! For life is a vexed abhorrence, a nail That cannot hold enough of all the fume That up in the soul the angel comes to bore In faith's triumphant shattering splendour through the past, If we but name this faith in which we trust to Thee; Then, God, we may cry, help us, and pray that somewhere on earth Thou wilt take heart for Thee. A temple of orgies! All your world's adored Commiseration! There we build the shrine And kneel in worship at the new white shrine, Clothed in the splendour of our angel-soul That rules life's universe. Art fast-bound there? Or, lest some foe see once? Nay, work your best; The lowest, highest, greatest, know your cry, Out of the sight of heaven--"Clearer, make fast; Christ, let us have His will." Behold where He Pays! But tomorrow, ere His will be done, We must behold Thee one by one and all; A higher life than e'en His angels dare, Whose wings are unenthroned by cold and dearth. Ah, would that so our Christian hearts might be With some far offering to Thee and Thee What these poor hands would offer unto Thee. Bring ye within the gate, Suffer the light of Thy sweet day To swell our hearts to tears; Tread we as fast as may be Along the path for thee. E'en as a swarm of bees, Out of their sly, conceiving locust seeds Drop with the sweet, warm light of heart's hopespring, Or hang from high the cheerful head of flowers To droop and languish and float down their bloom, Each ready to confess That such time is a day of days that dies More full of sweet and ======================================== SAMPLE 87 ======================================== pp'd to her fatal isle, and hung High o'er his bark her floating mantle wide. "Think, for the isle, what arms soe'er Shall prove, how justly kind they style! Must they, to save their honours, dare To succour Erin's wretched heir? Such high behests, so oft convey'd, Thy utmost ardour shall be paid To glut thy rage, thy rancour all, Deserved as a meed of war. Thy decks shall serve the loves and loves Of Erin's shore; thy gallant ships Shall wait thee with their leader's tears, To combat, when the war-cry spears Are heard,--the battle-cry of Mars. And oh! that day, so blest to see, Would Heaven to gentlest May-day, thee! When sinks the Star of England low, And darkens earth,--thy hero-band Shall rest,--an honoured honours due, To future ages far and near, Thy name, thy beauty, Heaven shall hear! Thus, by old Ocean's monarch brave, In years of peace, in beauty gone, The Empire was restor'd so well, Till, by the Fates' decree, it fell. Thus man, who scorn'd the lot his lot, Shall have--though few--the record not Of Him, who mightiest chief among The sacred tribes of man--the shrine Of freedom, ever kind and true, To guard the rights and rights divine, And ever dwell with truth and love On God's eternal reconciled above! Hail! holy head of Caledon! Ere midnight came, at matin's close From thy devoted lights, repose. Hail! host of spirits, sunlit plain! Hail! son of light! our numbers hail Thy Chieftain's ear! Hail, hail! that kindles, as the ray Of dawning evening lights the world; Hail! brother of the Crucified! Our bosoms throb with hospitable flame, In guileful trust the hospitable sire Bids every shade of doubt retire. Warm Faith affords to every tomb An emblem of departed worth, And pardon wraps in raptures all The cares of earth. In every leaf, in every flower, In every bird, in every bower, In every flower, in every flower, We know thy power. The thunder and the whirlwind's rage Have made thy face their dwelling-place; But thou art in their element, Not present there! They find thee not--they seldom find; The very roses of the mind In meek contrition's passing heats Upon them breathe. Thy brow is bended from the earth Of hope and fear; Thy smile is from the broad, blue sea, Where break the shores Of hope beyond the clouds of time, Hope's starry train! Thy words--they shall remind thee more Of pure and holy visions flown; For, while to thee the heart is dear, Our spirits are unknown! Like lightning from the dazzled deep, In silent joy, it sweeps the skies, And leaves the earth unvisited, The world unvisited! Thy health--it lives in every charm, And tears in every youthful grace Comes silently and warm. With fervid hope, thou dost inspire The treasured hopes that fill thy heart, And cheer with love, when wilt thou part For faithless charms--for faithless charms? Till doubt and all the past are fled, Thy thoughts are glowing--they are dead! Lend me, O God, some power above! Let me adore the things of earth, Which, in their place, thou dost deface! Let me confess the worth of days Which are to come, in time, too soon! Let me in those rich seasons trace The germs of every human heart, Which bloom in Eden's opening buds, And look from earth's majestic face, And read in every youthful face An angel's image. Young, conquering, just--oh! grace divine! And youth's sweet morning-singer's song! How, to my harp-string, breaks thy line! It cannot be recalled as "Lift;"-- And yet, 'tis sweetly tuned and dear, As that which thou didst learn too well. Light smile of childhood's smiles and glee In garlands on the woods I ======================================== SAMPLE 88 ======================================== kept, the King of Fish Let water take, and twice he gave The mead- thereto. But on the shore Of many a mournful day and night The Bráhman passing Ráma’s light Let water overtake. When uncontrolled the waves are swell’d, When Sítá on the coast is laid, Let water by the holy well Be brought for aye. For long the hours, each handmaid spent, By memory of her deed intent, Still with the morning’s light abide And bathe her body, till she died. Thence, as with weary feet she went, Honey, the spray, and thistles, bent As her soft limbs along them bore, Gently with gentle touch they bore A wreath of blossoms fair. The garments white they there beside, With morning’s beams was dight. From the dark palace’s lattice they His shoulders stretch’d to rest at ease. Then soft they fell upon his head, Girt by a hundred lashes round That graced the walls of that dread spot: By Lakshmaṇ’s hand he placed them not, But laid them in the fire, and cried: “Wake, Sítá, wake, my dearest bride! Once more we see the gentle moon Her pleasant face adorn. Why dost thou sleep, and dost not wake To greet me in my love and thee, In shallow streams, which through the day Keep fresh, unclamoring light, O’er banks of grass, beneath, o’erlade, Where nightingales were wont to play, And pleasant waters leap and run, Where man and beast went lazily Through groves that shed their pleasant dew With honey, and each flower and weed Grew fairer with the varied show Of r sweets in garden, grove, and bower Whose bells were blithe and all was gay With birds of every kind. We looked across the brook and brook, And Lakshmaṇ too we could not brook, For still his heart was fixed to keep Forever in this world of sleep. There by his side no garb he wore, Nor garment white, or ornamented plaid, His lovely cheek was wet with dew Like morning dews upon a brook. Where at the court sat Ráma still, Our hero, skilled in mischief, ill Besieged our youth with constant skill In magic arts that even pain Would rob him of his vigour still. Ah me, I longed with every eye The Maithil dame to view ally, And the great retinue had fled To birds of airy hue. But Vánar chieftains now depart, And be his journey done; for here From all the world are strangers sent To distant lands, but none are near, For king-foe wanders far and wide, Our hopes are dead, our lives bereft.” “As springs the sun from mid-day sky, This hero armed with thunder’s might To Kumbhakarṇa bends his way And sends the gathering demon far From Báli’s kingdom to his last To curse the Maithil queen.” “So, Saramossas, shall we seek The forest, there your watchman seek In lofty place his fast to keep For his return whom yet he longs Beneath the giant’s mighty stroke.” “I know not, Sákraṇ, why the words Come not to pass unheeded by: But, if you doubt his force, I say He comes prepared for punishment.” “I knew,” the Vánar chief replied, “Some refuge from this curse to hide: If I my only refuge seek, I yield myself to fate’s hard stroke.” Thus as he spoke his look the clime Of Báli’s ancient hate(200), Whose bolts, by fours and two, had hurl’d The fragments of a mountain’s side. The fearful end to Báli’s ear He shouted as he bore the spear, And, pierced by sevens in vain, the twain Defended on that fatal plain. “What canst thou,” cried the prince, “dear spouse, And, save thy darling, win rep ======================================== SAMPLE 89 ======================================== when he sat, "O Mary, I can't say he is, He has such a bright black eye; He'll let me jump without a wink, He'll be afoot this very night, When riding out he's taking flight. But, oh! my Mary, he will see He's my good old horsereef mare, When he comes riding light! The snow is falling fast, The earth is wet and old, And soon will be the last. In summer I shall rise And go with thee Where the brook comes tinkling by Upon thy knee; And in the meadows green I'll leave unseen. For where thou gav'st thy word, Thou held'st it dear; No time to slip again. A violet by a brookside stone A fox-eyed rabbit, I have seen; And, when they came, thou art so dear, A violet all alone, I ween. Thou saidst it should be thou, I trow, A rabbit, Among the rest that are They sought thy little room. And only thee, Dear Mother there, Came not. There, too, she brought thee flowers; For of thy little sweet they're made, All that they need have they arrayed Of curdled-leaves and spungy wire; And 'twas for them that 'gan prepare The painted wings of a darling bear. They tried to build thee, but thou didst not dare To touch them. And now I think that they have tricked Thy little finger with a winking jade, And done with care, and quite assured Thou hadst not lived as they have played On each green mossy ball to flaunt Thy braided hair, with many a fold And print to show how fair they hold Thy footprints, after which they shine As thy own silver and fine wine. Thou'rt of a noble kind, I guess, Yet well thou know'st they love thee less Than thou their loneliness. They say, that though a humble maid In worth as great as she hath stood, Yet modest and subdued, she's good To many a timid hearted mood-- That love hath wealth, and wit, and power; But slighting low her flaunting flower, She leans on it, and there she is, Where all the guiles are laid away, She broods upon it all day long. Thou canst not change her demure demure, If thou hast given her faith to thee. It is not ill for her, O mother, To have thy darling thus to see, And teach her this old lesson more Than all mankind can learn of thee, With earnest eyes, or smiling face, Or kind words, to her youngling child, Who has but half her wealth undrewed From the rich stores he takes to keep His childish heart from growing old. As for an old maid, see her smile, With eager eyes that catch the gleam Of the last light she drops asleep Upon the last sunbeam, and there, where She lives, where all is undiscerned And shrivelled in her ruin old, Just as old age is used to hold. Then see her! on that dusky day Some needful Angel watch and pray; A crowd around her daily task; Lift up the silent heads of ask And hear her whisper in thine ear, Praying she may forget thy fear. 'Weep, weep for her!' not with pitying eye She turned away; but she arose Stooping above her own poor children's cry, Half raised in hope of human good, Half thinking of thy pitiful state And what thou art, and of thy food; And her sweet smile, thy living voice Chillened the silent hours away, Nor heeded whence the careless throng Questioned thee, or thy looks of hate. What things are these? What matters it? These were thy daily cares to know; The things that vexed thy loneliness By night or day, that vexed thy soul Brooded, until the morning came Of secret meditation deep; And half discouraged would have given The peaceful trouble of a kiss; And half discouraged seemed to give The peace of perfect love that stooped Before thee, darling of the light; And half discouraged seemed to give Of nothing to thee for delight. What matters it? The thought of that Came like a murmur of distress Among thy ======================================== SAMPLE 90 ======================================== 's ribs, And which, as from his neck he them implores, Shapes him again with mickle force and will, Whence stones arise, so that he wholly is seen. Him fated Priam's daughter to behold, And on the pile to find if Hector had Remained alone, still breathing with his fear, Still fearing to return, by sacrifice The force, urged by his pride, to ransom back His captive wife, and wavering on his flight Into the deep blue sea. Such is the will Of Priam, whom, though triumphless, he sees Ceaseless in battle sunk, nor when the Greeks Hate him, or lose the body, cease to hope That once he sees the main and camp of Troy. And now there is in all the camp a Chief Ambassador of Jove, him follow'd forth Into a distant war, and mingling much Their warlike might, his praise was as the sound Of many voices which, as with a voice, Amid the multitude he thus began. Trojans and Lycians brazen-greaved, and thou, Great Hector, who hast roused our council here Thus suddenly, with close-fitting doors Let in the forms which I will now describe. He said, and in his turn a spear forth-streaming, Ascending, pierced his belly, with a wound Vocal, through which a scorching arrow flew. Prone on his forehead fell the murderous blade, And to his foot, as on the ground he lay, Forth-stroke, the point of lance or shield was thrown. Thus, nor the brazen lance nor spear he saw With his vast falchion cutting through the dust. But, now, the son of Priam, loud exclaim'd. Zantime, be bold, and thou shalt see these arms Quench'd newly, for the father still lives here Whom once thou lov'st, and of my race thou lov'st. For the other Greeks he is by no means loth To fight, but rather hath the vengeful arm Murder'd for his expiring wrath, who now Seeks to provoke the Grecians to avenge Their slain, nor suffers them to pause or fight. But here I leave not; let the Gods proceed To put it forth; since others of the host Shall find us, after all, to fable, else, By aught apprized of me, and which myself Can never bear, so fit to cope with war. He spake, whom all applauded, and with eyes Of even size, Ascalaphus, his son Departing, on their right hand took his spear. And Tydeus' son with wonder, while he gazed, Spoke thus to Diomede, and bade him well. Gods of the Grecian King! whose high command Alone save thee and Phoebus ever seer! But tell me true. Who art thou? whence and how Cam'st thou, or whence thy lineage? for I know His feature, and I know him not, nor known His face nor stature, but a lion fierce; See how he moves, and seems in all his shape To be some mighty beast, so ponderous too For all, by seems, as a man grown of frame. He fought on now, and in the champaigne where The Hero who enjoys a wealthy life Gives birth to others, bearing in his jaws The well-known food of strife laborious, forth The warrior spurred, the foaming torrent held By foaming torrents, like to fire, whose force First issues forth in streams, till, at their source, The flames arrive, or, kindled, go to bed, By turns relieving them, lest they, wrestled, choke The cooling air, as though fresh from the wind. He said, and sallied straight to Diomede. He then, Diomede, and noble Priam's son With others came, and as they went, the pair Appear'd as strangers. Then Tydeus' son, Came to the place, and to the cliff himself With royal admiration moved the steeds Of Diomede, and courteously bespake. Oh thou! oh son of Tydeus! oh thou! Thou, friend of men, who hast deprived the Gods Of living men, and lifted hate on us, Now it may be our lot to intermit From Zeus, and one who sees us, thus thou say'st. Who hast thou been ======================================== SAMPLE 91 ======================================== As unto Minos' heir I think. His years Have traversed forty-five degrees, as well As twenty-five; when from his funeral pyre Ixion's son should by a hundred charms Have won me out of Enna's hill and brought My peace to this unhappy place, and placed My dreaded name in Asia, Europe's king. His name? it was Alcyon. Of a clan Still is his face in all the populous land. Which others heard, within their day of work, Folks play before them. Blest with art are men Who nothing know of history or of art, Vociferan's friend and all their glories, they Endured but in the deepest. Be it known, Since Delos' kingdom, that fair city, lies Deep in its bosom, laid upon the waste Of land and ocean. No such city yet Sets on the sand, but, westward yet, o'erlooks The African main. Yet the Greek city stands Full in my view, and I can trace its bounds Afar and near, and some abiding rock To which this rock looks downward. A fair spot, From Europe lately won, within that zone Is fairly founded on a lesser lea, More fertile, though not yet a single grove, Yet noble, for it may be open yet. This island lies most fair, though on the sea Awakened from her winter seas and green By thousand billows, and no barrier stays That moves the sand. No male-left monster comes, With flaming tushes and sweet-blushing cheeks, Such as adorn her gardens, or bestrew Her parched and ruddied gardens to the sun. No solid man or female here is found, Save the male-left, who rules these waters brown, And the torn rocks which, breaking, beat their floor. This cleft is that wherein the Carpath sweeps; A spot is in it. Yet no chain is here Only to bind the sand, but it may bound Thy course, ere thou return to yonder shores. "O Goddess! from the icy region come! Workman! adorer of all life and mind! Giant, and friend in heart! to whom are given All life, and soul, and wisdom! In thy hands Of living power, shall life the gods command." Meantime, e'en from the altar, where he stood With prayers and tears, and took the place of prayer, With shame and grief, Latinus drew his speech, And thus bespoke the deities of air: "Grant to the nations of the gods thy ear! Exiled abroad shalt thou with fear abate, And learn of all the hosts their deities Of Gods celestial, and their scattered train Wrapt in the war." Along the sacred fane The deities had wove for them, and breathed A mingled atmosphere, like flames of fire. In manhood, then, the people read the same. The number and the martial tale was heard, And all were rapt at admiration, each To the high gods; and more than I could tell In verses not unmeasured. Nature taught, Nature to live; and man in these abodes Spoke all things to the woods, and to the shores Olympian, and to Pallas progeny. What greater love than human love could draw, When all things are so exquisitely wrought, So perfectly can Nature, when she moves, Himself, as when we first are touched by light, And in our mortal frame our senses take? Nay, Goddess, read our wonder here of yore, And mark our triumphs; for the time will come When earth, and sky, and ocean, shall in fire Roll, and it shall increase, with all their flames. Nor think that Juno's curse is idle, least We judge of idleness, if evil yet Will still come out, and let the world be held Ignoring earth, and ye shall see it change. But if you see this earth, is heaven unmixed? Or, will the Heaven less justice, then the Earth, With all her adjuries, by all designs, Determining things to follow, and what's worse? For I can think upon the ponderous realms, And look on Nature; men, untaught to rule The empyrean, emulous of stars, That never need to rule, or bear the bolt, Or even if they were full o'er their eyes. No, never should ======================================== SAMPLE 92 ======================================== path, and changeful work), the boy To whose fair memory never I might be The humble goal of my life's harmony. Yea, not for him shall my deep musings fail; I trust my love is wise and will prevail, And by my love each day shall rise and fail, And lovely woman rise and give me rest, And, smiling down, in vividest bliss, Her little children kneeling round her breast, And, kneeling in their gratitude for this, An humble woman find a seat at last. Up with the roses, the white lilac-thistle high Bloom flushing o'er the green ground, The stream is fattening to give forth its tide In deep and spreading sound. Fair are the vales where'er the violets blow The willowy hills along; But, ah! where is the tender violet's home? And the lids of a dear love Floating a silvery dream on the blue wavelet, That brightened while they smiled, As they wondered and worship the willow trees That spanned so rich a stream? I never deemed the fairies in the wood Were fain to hide their tears Within the cool and silver woods; I never deemed the fairies yet would roam About one or another where they stood; But in those silent bowers We saw the golden flowers, As a proud and gay procession now came out, And lit the ruddy glade, And flung each tuft of green above the gold-flower'd sod, As the queen of the water-king Sang this song to the little ones of her people; The dwellers in the sea, By the borders of the silent sea, The fishers and the hepherds, The white and black and grey, And the dwellers in the land, The bright flowers ever growing in the creek, And the water all the day, And the sea-birds ever singing in the rocks, And ever the rocking and cracking logs, And the fairy folk that pass From the busy thrush and the noisy thrush, For here there was nothing like fear, Save only the moss and the white of the rock, And the gray of the tangled grass That stands in the water and brightly glistens. There are faces that lean to the eaves Beneath the blossoming roof That makes the wee nest-loving clouds Open their folded wings And fly up the golden air With a sound of gaily flinging Flowers for the summer hours. And the sea-bird all the sunny day Carols and sings among the bright air To the merry birds that hover Beneath the dropping spray, And to the bright clouds sailing low, In joyous crowds that circle and pass, And all the sunshine shining, And, in the blue depths shining, Till the summer night is gone, The grey sails come to the sea, And the fire is quenched at the silent moon, And the rose drops, soft as a tear, To the waves that follow the burn and curl, And to the Blue-birds that sing among the reeds At the Golden Gate, whose walls are Of metal, and whose floors are Of copper, and on whose hinges The hammers of the fallows Are as iron, Blended and bruised, and all That links and hammers together. Through these beautiful halls Are rolled the strokes of the spurs, The stripes that are red and The traces of blood, And the soft blood flows Through the purple of the roses. And round the walls the rain-cloud In the great blue far sky Is flinging its beautiful carpet Of emerald and amethyst, And every leaf is a sapphire, Of green, clear gold, To the pure white glowings Of the throne of the mightiest. And if you hear the merry Light song and clear light song, You have it, and be happy, And eat your sweets, and The old earth smiles O'er the sweet earth and heaven, In the silence of the summer When all else is hushed and still. You would see the rain, Sitting in the flowering grass, And the bird upon the spray, Dancing on the leafy tops, Or flitting in the crannies, And the yellow heads of the night All pensively at play. You would see the sun on clouds, And the flowers in the light, And the falling birds and flowers, And the loud wind on the hill, Dancing there among the trees, ======================================== SAMPLE 93 ======================================== , Intent upon a new theme, "Peseus" ======================================== SAMPLE 94 ======================================== , boys: They have made a bustle, then, and a trifle short. Some folks say "Don't!" and some that don't! But don't you think it's pretty? isn't it? The many men who make a piteous jest. Many folks make foolish, but 'tis better, You know 'tis lovely sometimes--better--better-- And never lose the way, but, sure as fate, You'll find that there'll be lots of vacant provides And lots of vacant seats at sixty-five. Three ladies of a silver blue, Rise from their pillows each to two; They thread the paths that shepherds love, The floor, the chamber, and the grove; They form the border-hills of France, Are lined with white and blue-eyed France; On every side their banners wave, A soft and silken pennon float; On each their crimson spears they advance, And on each side, in gallant show, Swell forth the choral chorus slow. The little goat-that-year is spent In pouring down the meadowlands, He leads her milk-white milking-maid Upon a milking-mop she runs, Who listens at a milking-mop. For day the cat is not at home; She moves her tail with not a comb; At night she falls asleep, and soon Comes to amilking-mop she runs, Or cracks her silly little tune. When all the maids are merry And dance about the meadow, I'll take a goat-king's skulls And play the old song over: Old woes around their cruel lot are fall'n; Each one a hug with a big, black maw; For love of his own God they call him, come And sit him fast on my breast of earth, and, munch Together, sing as in their unknown regions The pure immortal secret of his birth; And when I stretch my hand out to the sea, My heart is left for an eternity. Well, where her deep womb covers on the stars, Lurk in a grave-pit, sleeping with the stars. Oh, if our only comfort is the foam That murmurs in her offspring's breathing foam, Should our poor country 'scape the wintry storm, Dislodged from the cradle-violated form Of its dead mother, there shall be a song, A hallaner than mourning from a throne For the poor dead who die. And when the light Of great day sinks upon the noiseless tomb, Weep o'er her in her mourning for the race That our great crowned and royal-sceptred mate. It is a song whereon no voices cry A mournful music on a lonely shore, Yet we rejoice, for, when we look from this Our blood runs parched, and there's a wintry wrath In God's high law that bound the world forever, And is, in every man, a most despairing And most uncomplaining of its hope. Give to the victim's fears no unputstood name, But live, that they may still atone the woes Of the untimely fate that makes us great In that soft race where even the conquered fall Makes them to weep a death to rise for fallen! Ye dimmed and dank, ye have known them all! But yet methinks the light upon your face, The power to sting, the lust to seize and hold-- Alas, I do but love you, dear, and weep Where the pale river mourns for one who sleeps! O Love, a triple standard sleeps in thine, Upon whose changeless bed all dreams have died; And thee alone it was my care to save, To keep it mine, that it may wrap and warm Our souls about it;--ay, and I have died! The mystic sod that held my father's clay Treads chill and numbly in the icy sod; The thick grey clod drags slow across the space, And the dark thorn-tree looms behind it, dim, And the bramble weed blooms white beneath the moon, And green things scent the weir that bloomed below In the half-open buds; and the poppy's glow Dances on my heart: but there's a pain at hand, To lay it on my heart, to add to thine My last long touch on life's defiled slate! I do not think I sleep to-night, Nor do I ======================================== SAMPLE 95 ======================================== dares not lift his eyes, Of a truth so met with eyes. But with his soul from the centre throng, Like a lamp that only shines, He draws his glory from time to time, And the burning sun dares not decline, But the soul that is lord of thine. And to thy deep waters, stream, and plain, Whose waters breathe by every tree, Unflowing, thy clear waters stain; It seems that thou, but for the sight Of noonday, dost appear in the stream, In the stream that ceaseth by. To thee in the stream was once as clear As the bank whereon we sit, For these who practise virtue still, Make water for the roots of the hill, Lo! it is fit that I should speak Of the stream that ceaseth flowing, For it's clear water, it's ruddiest stream, Is reflected like a dream; A shell by distance blown away, And to be set on the verge of day. A bank of glass that quiet lies, Yet to be touched by no touch of art; A knoll on which to gaze at day Is formed of golden gravel, and In one of those grand, majestic heap The scepter of a God they were, That Time should weary of his way, And have to stay his eagle flight; Nor should he haste to be away, By whence or wherefore written be. Only the earth it seems shall stay When these poor relics shall be laid. The soul for heavenly ornament, Than form or mind or body rare, A glorious thing of praise shall be, A monument of happy days, Whereto its happy-soul is fair, And there in soft gradation hies, Or in low murmurs from the skies. A scepter of a God I'd be, And having him I dare not show To leave a glory and a crown To use for all the world around. My foot hath been a magnet's track, And I a steely helmet bright, And I can handle as I will To match this gaudy goudy clique, Or with this blessed Cross compare, The fairest frailer of the fair. And you that must be like my stone, Should not this gaudy garland grace, The trusty, sleeker wight is none, Nor ever felt a gentle place. He needs must prove himself a knight, If not the friend of Christendom, And his strong arm have been to earth A light and cheerful glory-comr'd. The old, old Bible I must teach, It is the gallows-hearth of Fate, With which old Heron's life I reach'd, And writing in his dimpling face The bold, prevailing actions past Of furious heat and cold desire; Then stirring to his cry of praise, He lays the Bible down at last, And boasts of righteousness to come. Thus, when the fervid ocean's peace Is ebbing at the hour of death, The ashes of that blessed peace Shall ne'er be loos'd by priest or seer, But with the world's eternal love Shall from the depths of Nature peep And find a safe and holy bed. These pleasant glooms we all must see, Cherish for Earth, and not deform, Not join to part as these are free, Or pledge the grace of her high saint. Go, ye profane! and with your breath Before this blaze to Nature dear Come and her kingdom draw to death, There to re-load your curse and fear. Then go, ye profane! and if this cold Cold hand be laid in havoc dire, Then come! and wearing it so old, Prostrate, and claim a second death. The powers that hallow and command A lasting loyalty and holy care, Have by this hour sent hither every land To fall a victim unto Law and Right. By this the day that we have lived, and seen A glorious land to rise above our own, The Glory of the nations for the Queen, The brighter for her glorious empire shone. And humbly to this shrines repair, Though, on her triumphs triumphs to be spread, Her crown, her triumph, and her mighty name, Gave what they had united to the dead. With man the universe is blest, With children early to the earth; But, when our hours of peace are past, We may our solemn vows renew, Still one fond bond of love they hold, That ======================================== SAMPLE 96 ======================================== from all things made. Cedar from lilies torn, That's nothing now but moss. Rose, from whence the waters start, Set in her blossoms smart: Whispering in her sleep,-- 'Midst the rose-roots she'll creep. What being will she do? She, their spirit, will be dumb. For lo, a fay and satyr, To whom proud Rome is thrall, Is homage from this palace: Heaven, this fay shall call! Immortal is the story That told how came they by; A painter loved to glory, An envious at passer-by. Is any witness chosen? Is any witness given? Is any witness promised? Is any witness promised? Is any witness promised? Is any witness promised? Is any witness promised? Is any witness promised? Ye who tremble not nor hear; Ye who rout the temple rear Through the echoing colonnade, Think of old Sabrina's tomb, In her who died a hero true: The green of the tapering holm, The red of the scattered cowl, And green of the garland bloom In the heart that's warm and bold She, the champion of the old: Old and hoary-headed tyrant, From her young in a foreign lands; To her, of all things favoured, Whom angels name the master. Are you no friends for ever? We are only voyages. Ye whose flight nor time defaces To our past, forgotten places, Ye who scorn and shriek and flee, Know me not, who, in the future, Shall be comforted and glad: Ye shall know the riven secrets Of the wind-swept dream-swept main, Where the starry azure fleurs Of the sun's unfathomed stain, Where the reaper's noon is noon, And the nightingale's last tune; Ye shall all know of me, Who amid the whirling dust Where the thunders bear him down, Shall be comforted and blest. The quiet of the road I walk by daily bread; And all things that have died, Dissolve in the old road, And all things that are dead, Hold the ghostly dead. <|endoftext|> I cannot say how many things That are most dear and dear have sprung Out of the ground and with quick wings Dug underneath the earth, and among These also have sprung; for to me The April of the year is bringing A sweeter fragrance, as it were Made for the passing of my love. As full of longing, evermore, Thou lovedst me, my lady beautiful, Long as the year is full of years, And all the pulses of my life Are beating with thy heart, my sweet, My foolish love, my marvellous. Will it ever be so soon? Then let me die; for then I learn To live again, and feel that I Am dearer unto thee than the year's: To feel thy breath upon my cheek, And to my weary eye thy hair, Thou sweetest lady of the earth! The music of thy voice, the mirth Of day to day, Or music of thy radiant mood, Is more than all thy melodies And all thy songs are simple things. I have no store Of songs or flowers; I gather but my heart's desire, For the moon rains. But I will pluck The stars from out their shining chests And shoot them tremblingly, With silver shining in their hearts. A golden beaker, A bottle of wine, A girdle for my lady's feet, A ribbon for my arms and wings, A necklace for my face,-- These things are mine. I have no fear, I say not no, Nor toss my spear; I do not fear The flaming gold of her white throat That was my dear. No, I will live In name of her whose face shall charm me And make my life A feast for my lips to hold thee. My dove! Can I but come to thee alone Where nothing of thy thoughts have perished Or lesser charms are left to me, In that vast solitude of hers? The love of her that grieves my heart, Is such an one as lies at rest, And lies and dies within its nest? I shall not search, but search in vain The hopeless love that I must love, ======================================== SAMPLE 97 ======================================== of the sun? Why do you seek to hide your burning face And heat your brows and cheeks with hot desire? Whence are you made so pale and yet so pale? Whence are you that the heat of burning blood Breathe like hot coals across your brows of red? Why, what of bitter cold and bitter heat? Why are you fashioned so so like to die That even your chambers sputtered in the dark? Nay, lovely goddess, only for thy pall, What hast thou in this weary waste to stay? Is it a hungry heifer, that I cry Against the bitter winds till day is done? Nay, sister, neither for thy wretchedness Shall any hunger now. Thy mouth to mingle With rivers thou didst love, O, never lack Hate of thy blood for any thirsting milk. Nay, sister, neither for thy want of fire Nor want of body, do I hunger now. Take pity on thy load of death and woe. Thou comest to me from the mountain-side, Thou comest to the river-side, O, leave The dismal fir-trees brown and sere and old. O let me still this one thing have a care, That she may make my craven kind a scorn. Nay, mother, let me die of grief at last. O be thou kind, O mother, and make plain Thy pity upon me, that thou wilt Henceforth preserve my life from every pang. Let not the memory of the day die out Among the dead leaves; let not night swallow up My virgin-sleep, nor day a day drag up My darkness to a dreamless winding-sheet. So long as I've a name I am to call On thee, O mother, from the grave to say, Farewell, farewell, O mother dear, Farewell, thou shelter of my days, And I, thy son, shall surely be The witness of thy loving ways. Thy dead are better than the living; they Were better when alive than I shall be. Better than youth, O my Arunda, The flowers and fruits of life, the sun, the moon, The birds, the sea, the wind--or wilt thou be My mother, mother, thou and I, O mother, for I love thee well, For thou art wondrous beautiful. But, as thou seest these things, I see That thou art ever dear to me. Thou art like death and frost, and I, O mother, do not stoop to die. For, mother, thou art not a shroud, I see no stars, I hear no tides, Nor weep, for I would die of thirst, In what is death, in what abides. Thy father fell in Adriatic hills, But I saw his locks at Corinthian, He spoke with my mother all the day Because of my father, O thou my friend; And now thou shalt wake, my friend, and know That I love thee with secret pain, And henceforth as we are in the chilly West, Ah, would I had drowned you once with the sea, The mist and the wind were forsworn, But would ye have life and peace again? So should I the river have crossed And let the weed wander, and the boat go forth On its rough way, and never again The grass bring forth white flowers, nor from the land Be any one weary to know the pain When the strong sun burns high, or the river runs Into a land poisonous as death, Whither for ever the strange reeds are drawn, There is a God who has pulled down the sea, Under the eyes of the cruel eyes of Death, Like a thicket on a hedge, and from all sides Ere the air be fulfilled to wine, I dream That in my dreams a place of dearth, a place As strange as is the common earth, Under the eyes of a child, I behold The glassy plain and the great sea, Under the great sky in the hurrying West Over the sea-coast and the coast; And these three water-courses shine Through the cool surface of the brine, Under the large, white sails like a bright bird, And everywhere among them the wide sea In a sweet, murmuring sound breaks and breaks Like a sweet sound beneath the tree. There are three rocks in the crannies there, That are hidden under the mist, And the rocks are smooth and well-tilled ======================================== SAMPLE 98 ======================================== by that mountain tall, A gloomy, blighting beauty rarely claimed a breeze, But in new Paradise the trees of Heaven are sown, Because they deck the gardens with green leaves o'erthrown, Where thus, sweet months, you play with your gay frolick an embroidered fillet. But if a darker scene I see Breaks on the snow-crest's edges wild With white snow-velvet flakes of white, And thin crisp tongues of icy flame In every hair that nods along At the lark's sad lays and dares not sing, Warm rainbows o'er my spirit fly As lightly as the woodland bird In June's first merry lullaby. And these songs that thrill my heart, Like wind in a lonely tree Or a lonely cedar tree, Oh, lovely years of Italy, I long, long year the world to see, Wandering by the sea. Among the rosy wastes of ice The keenest breezes well can vie With southern breezes, soothing sweet, And pensive idleness, they urge The noiseless step of the gaunt wolf, The prowling wolf. Among the mountain-summits faint Of Afric snows the cautious chief Greets with his eunuch's heel a trite Whose death-song warbles from the lute, Greeting the dreamer, ever quick, Where silver threads the wanderer trod, Forgetful of the spoken word, Her song of daylight. With wings caressive gliding About the breast of Nature's Babe, O'er fields and forests in soft gales Of gentle breezes, how my sail Wave-watched by Fancy's richest sail, Serene upon the warm blue sky, Where shines the snow-soft Acropolis, Smooth-billowing the bright-bill'd bay, Cheerily blending with the gray The cheerless solitudes of night. From the cold northern breezes, lo, The quiet olive trees, the vines That watch the fishers' fishers quaff, The fisher's cot that listens now, His whitening pear-trees in the bough, The poplar swinging at their brow To kiss the shore. Within their shadowy garden-ground, No bright-gleaming sunbeam yields To rhaps the raiment of their king; No insect tells us that the blooms Of these deep earths are green below. And, look! a solitary thing Beneath the green and snow-white eaves Of warm, cool leaves enfolds the rose, The withered, sleepy violet. The queen of vapoured primroses, And taper daisies, be it so, That always with the rain they go, The pathway to the wanderer In leafy alleys free from snow, O'er snow-white beds that dart a star Through heaven, 'mid vapors gray below, There to be sated with sweet sleep Far 'neath a hundred murmuring seas, With pillows plumed and blue bright worlds, To dance the courtier dance of Mars, Hail slumber-bringing Fancy, thou The while a blackened hill I see Lift up its hundred-voiced boughs Tho' foiling blasts be bleak and shrewd With wind and rain and all its breath That hails and blows thro' cloudy skies, And welcomes the Atlantic grapes As warmly glides the rolling seas. And now, O king, my dream is born, And as the dreaming earth ye wait, Still in the dark I hear thee sing That long-forgotten time of late When all were gods, and sweetly stirr'd With passion from the sweet earth's heart, The fair, enchanted days of Greece, When every sweet face seem'd fair With strange, delicious taste of death, O'er the high Alps and windy heights, At whose far feet and mighty arms Floated the silver winds of heaven, O'er the dim caves and far away In happy sleep each wandering star, And heard the music of the spheres. You would not think that Time could stay? So near him the sure feet can fall That walk'd by every desolate plain, Where Pleasure was to Hope a thrall. And lo! the song which made me start In wonder, on my journey's way, When, in the dark vault of a heart Like which the noiseless dawn of day Puts o'er the mountain all its light ======================================== SAMPLE 99 ======================================== , With all the powers to be--you saw it all. You saw I wanted purity In making that "touch" Which wraps a woman as her flounces hide. You saw I wanted superhuman grace When all the love was mine and all my soul was hers The patience of the female, not the man-- The pity for the man! You saw I wanted passion strong and brusque, Which life's machinery carries to the grave; You saw I wanted courage, wholly in joint, And found the purpose, half through selfishness, In making women truly what they seem; You saw I wanted courage high and pure As much as I could prove, to make men sure, To injure simply self-obliterary wiles Of women, when the mind is not mature: You saw I wanted knowledge vast and deep, And love within me wholly set me free; You saw I wanted courage without speech, And halting back in error, self-deceit, Could make me worthy men of their love to be! The smile is not as great as thine. Your place Is not more fit for heroes. There is pride And strength that cannot falter. Men have died In battle, and the feverish cheek is bronzed By festal health. Your proper task is nerve And spirit for the revel. But the elements will go with us, we know From what far shore we live in a wide world's space And leave no likeness, save the brutes we serve, Our fit place, a vast void, and at our heels A brute world all a body craves our embrace; Our little life may have no other place Than the vast farthest corner of the void, Where, seeking honor, we are crowned and sate, And with what offerings we would fill our purse, And live together, if there ever fail Him who has most in mind and heart so great. The sea is an enchanted And silver bow of silence And rhythm like blown foam. There is a sense of coolness As I remember the first ship Down in the Naples That sparkled with the white foam. And my soul remembers Those days and dreams of golden And misty moons and golden And choruses of old. I am a myth that they remember, A lovely dream that they remember, When she was maid of the people Who walk not swayed in the dark. I dream of starlight and of moonlight That fall and cease in the dank night Like pure, unruffled tints Burning in the wall. I dream of my heart's immensity-- Its suave and mad forgets That sunder and control Through cycles till the whole Is riven with a whole Of mighty keys, Bearing upon them Old chains of gold. So my heart knows the sweetness Of her love and her beauty As I stand here at her feet. O trysting and stearing, Blind, proud, and tearless, I find my gift. O, let it start as laughter, Blind as the moon With no more warmth. Her virginal mien transports To me, and I must rest me In the exquisite starlight where she dances. No more shut lips shall press me, No more limn me the swift, free rapture Which cannot be recalled. My heart is tired. The rhythm is out of tune With distant voices, golden lights, And loves that know no way Shall yield me joy. Through dancing and revel and mean clash And vain clash of song, And all but mute things that I love Clasped lips and cloy. The passion is out of tune With her, beloved, till the moon Turns into the lute-strings and the strings Of love are mute. Eying out, sweet, intense, The melody of her intense notes Is out of tune. In the blue and laureled hours, When the golden sky was dim, Like a pigeon golden in the bowers, A ring of elf-land pearled with the south light, Thronged with bushes of purple bloom, Sat an oak, among the blossoms white, To toss in the sunlight above, And tossed with his thyrsus eyes Down under the branches of the forest hollyhocks. In the pool and the reeds A flower was strown; At the touch of his stirrup, Or the shadow of his footstep, Palely humming the swallow Through the mosses brown Of the ancient town. ======================================== SAMPLE 100 ======================================== with stealthy listeners to presage Fears that shall never die! The early cataract its thunder deep Still bears the weight of ruin; Still thou canst pour thy venom through the wound, And share with these the pangs of deadly wounds, Whilst they are pliant still. In vain did Fate the power of Fate annoy; No wanderer there to wander far away From home, and from thy fellows' ken; Thy weal and woe they still await, nor mourn, From land to land the destined journey borne, And by their lot is borne. For thou canst make a living death, to flow With melancholy stream, And when a folk thy magic mantle close, As glad they wont in youth; Still willing to renew thy cares, renew The life of them of them that still remain, Before the setting sun. And they whose dust thine altars cold shall strew Upon a mournful shore; Whose dying breath shall freeze thy lasting urn, Beside thy hallowed door; If they, who follow thee in age, not wait For that full many more, Who rolled on hostile stones, shall be thy bier, Nor e'er unwept remain. But O! forget not what thy lot has been; They died in beauty's bloom; And lay the living charm aside, in thee, For whom the dead have dittered down the dead: Roses! if once thy name they could devote, And, like the flowers, too gladly would be shed, Where still, on beds and babies waiting, Prayers, and pale tears, and prayers, and wishes tend, And passing forth thy golden treasure take, They should not look for joy to see thee wake. I will not despair; but thou wilt bless the hour When these poor eyes shall brimmed with hopeless tears, When these sad lips shall whet their holy teeth, And soul to soul in dire convulsions rise, And taste the withering drops. No! thou wilt break my heart; for thou hast been, With gushing blood, to Charybdis town. Unwilling didst thou go Into these realms below. There saw two maidens, sad with grief and woe, Come moaning to me, Chilling me, and forbidding me: "Play with the shadows," so the three did say. They must not, I suppose. Leaving to themselves-- With shame I to the world my woeful way. She, with piteous eyes, Kissed me as she kindled love-lorn cries; "Oh! God," I cried, "could this effect--hope soothe Like misery, or like misery itself! Thy very death is manifest to me; And, howsoever thy lips speak of me, Full often I have called thee." The shadows fled, the sun shone out and hid The sun with gold, the day shone out and hid The sun with lead, the day wore out and hid. And that day I never, never turned aside, Till I had seen him kneel before mine own. An angel, sent from heaven,-- Who never swerving his flaming wings, Lost me by anguish writhing in despair, As through a darksome pit of burning sand, Where, stranded, and cold, a beggar's hand Had traced with anguish my pale, cheerless mind. "Sweet Angel!" said I, " "Now comfort thee! for few and short a day Regard the hour when thou shalt call away The name from which thy soul shall flee away. When from thy presence fled, ah! me! what grace To trust thee with, what peace shall be thine?" The passing minute To him whose latest words had pierced mine ear, Reached me; and even in the moment's fear Of idle thought, I laid my head and prayed, My spirit sinking to its place of rest. But, when I called, thy soft voice to my breast Came like the sigh of any wind that fills The lonely forest, and no sound is there Save moaning of the leafy forest leaves, And a faint, feeble murmur of despair, Like the soft rising of the evening air In the sweet sunset. "Child of my heart!" (Thus at the gate of love's own gate I cried) "thou seekest a death more dire And strangest than e'en Hell's unhallow'd womb, And Hell's abhorrent bound yawns to its tomb. If from this fet ======================================== SAMPLE 101 ======================================== , yet not secure. When such a man was won of thee, dear friend, The clouding memories of his life will end. I did but mar his raptures while I saw Your pensiveness. The best things that a man can say Are the words that any one in me can teach. The pictures have been all those days, The sparrows whistle from the clay; The can, the marshes have a voice, The lightning flashes from the sky; And in the colours of the day The carving of an old gray bird, It seems the creature holds the soul Of the unfinished record day. And many of us, when dim, small crowds Of very women--who, who, when our eyes First saw her facing, saw his brow Blow with a nation's ready pride Before her in her gray, cold eyes. At such a season, one may say, The snowdrop and the tender hues Are not for those who will not love. It is the wind that shakes the snow And swiftly turns the snow and shakes Our Northern, English lakes. Down by the docks of the city We heard the noise of waters gushing, And whispered, "Etche H buzzinga!" And whispered, "Nay: they love you: They have your heart's desire too, And you are farther off from us Than ever I could be!" It is the city they loved, The cataract and the flood, And what their loving presence was, And what their beings were, It is the city we love, Our home, our city good. But still their clinging magic clips The city's gates and holds us still, Though some of us by day are swam And some of us by night are swelled, By midnight bell, by day like sparks, To give the world to groups of sparks But if the city we love, What is it that with sobbing lips Our dreamy hearts will rise and beat Against the wall of our sweet dreams, Our blossoms that are bound in streams, Our dreams of love and home, Our lodging on the stairs? Is not the stillness love makes sweet In the great silent street, The young lambs' crowing, that is heard In the old home by the ear, The quaint old playhouse under the hill? Wings of a maiden on the stair? Wind-slashed window-squares of brown Upon your chamber swept it down, Bare-headed mimes with cap and bells To keep your breath on pipe and tongue? That was a day of days indeed, Of dreams of boyhood that is dead, Of whilom great new poet sang An old sweet song, and angels sung. Beyond the rounded mother-moon The seas washed like an ecstasy, And the wet seaweeds swirled with foam And manes like far blown citied meres About the sides of horns of Rome, Each vine-like form in ghostly row Brimming the jarred portentries Of gorgeous Cypruses that show The eastern slope like dancing waves. And still between the sea and sea The wandering night-jar opened wide, Drowsing itself within inside, With melancholy murmurous, A chant of vast, incurious dreams, Where shapes of faces smiled at her, And troubled faces bent like gleams, Yet made no peace. The singers of the far away Murmured of whiles that go and come, The strange sweet-versed ditty of Shepherds' voices; and still on, Till the night-roar stopped, Rose-crowned, the still-latched hymn-choos Of winds and dawn-gleams from the sea, And faint, as dying lolls, The little boughs stirred. Under the bitter glare of lamp-light I leaned against the twisted bars; I prayed, yet struggled still with hope; But with my shoulders it was vain, For all the world with soft grey stars Must pass ere the moon reigns. Saw the far sea-crest, And heard the song of many seas, And saw how many ages fled, And what far pleasance there it had, And how the years would glide away And leave no green thing near enough To call to mind, no footsteps then, Save only the sky-roofed sailors Or the wet thread on the starry bier To toss between the setting suns, Or quacking boats that smoke afar Down smooth wet ======================================== SAMPLE 102 ======================================== for Elenor--what to say? A lawyer, wrapt in law--and not a seaman, But an apprentice, fresh, but versed in woman, And more intent, with rope of steel and chain, And telegraph-jets, and found some trader, Tell him these things with patient hand and eye: "What ails poor peddling-boys to grind their treasure, When they intend to pay the rent in pleasure, To fill their mouths with thoughts of profit? Tell me, is life worth living pleasure? "Say, and what art still alive and able To pay me back the thousand dollars funny? When I'm grown up and art still clever, I'll pay this ten-fold Ten-and-twenty; And then the bank account will tell me, If I go med'cine, I shall sell t' am money." Ah, pussy-Mame, you went on grumbling, While me and you were in church speaking; And we were seized with a fair nelling, At which you didn't know what we'd do. We went and got our fun and mischief To those on duty, I knew what We'd done at night; When a girl told me, "Do as you will, You saved your supper, the soup and jelly And a nice treat, when you're grinning, Give us a pan, To bake you up before we're ready, And cook you up before we're able." Oh, to tell you all I knew about her, I thought it no great harm to bring her. I made a melon--and she tried it, And soon as I turned head my finger, Smiling and smiling, she cried, "Say, Where can you find this girl you thought of?" I looked about her then and schemed a joke, At daybreak I'd be brave for nothing, I'd tell her if I worked hard for nothing, I'd make some money up and tackle her, And find her hair out, if I don't, But if I had my finger gone, She would have shot me, for a sin. A tailor? a black artisan? "I shouldn't be afraid of a halter, But I'm going a-swishing, I know." So he stripped off her tresses, and wrinkled her face, And sat in a chair by the old mill-stone. Our housekeeper put a basin of poplar A fall in the side as the form of a poplar; Two soap-sills fell down on the empty pouts, And sopped against the wall by the old mill-stone. "O-the-simmons, good by, and I'll give you a glass, Now, old hoss-shoes, I know not what sweeter." But our old cook followed him--hide, hair, and all that, With a rush and a jostle, she fell right under A long litony button, a star-spangled banner, And "Farewell, my heart's daughter, I'll save you a wherry." She tossed her apron, her cheek grew red, She dropped her sleeve to the wheel of the old mill-bar. There were balconies all full of flowers, And white pictures there in the corner tower; On white rose lanterns was supporting two, And-- tying one down,--the other down,-- She tied her apron on to a silk kerchief, And passed away with the wind of the night. I was kneeling on the tinth when a door was opened, I heard the wind go as it whipped in gust, I heard the wind go as it swept away, I heard the wind go as it swept away, And I saw my wife, all alone at the window, Sit spinning a loom and weaving a wool. "Sign!" said my wife, "I'll go in and see Miss S. S.." She nodded her head to the wheel of the telephone, And then in the silence she made her mark To say, "I'll go in and see Miss S. S.; I think I could fly, for I didn't speak, But I heard my wife say, 'I was a philosopher, You might go to the doctor and get a good will, And I want to go to the doctor and buy my bell.'" And then she waved her hand to the wheel of the telephone, The bell with the small red lips of a boy, The green, soft woman whose hair is brown and grey, Aged, and curly-headed girl poised ======================================== SAMPLE 103 ======================================== . Again the coming of the King Upon the city shook: But all by desperate prayer and word The maiden was betrayed. Thus she abandoned. Yet without or warning older, Unto the maid alone The pity moved her spirit. Nor ever from her heart it came With its small love all gone, To any in the world to claim The tribute of its dawn; For seldom could she look upon The little place at hand That was builded so hard by the loom, Nor look upon her land. But in the night the fair Queen rose, And saw her little street, Which was filled with people silently, And drawn by flags and feet; She saw the silken market-place Where noble folk were met, And cried, "My lady! Who art thou, Whose eyes thou'rt standing yet?" Then, in a base and cunning way, She passed within the door; The leading woman slowly came, And with no word more, Until her hair was long and low, She stooped, and called upon her: "Come forth, O maid, and take me, Take me, take me, hasten me!" Then to her wondering eyes she came, With tears of faintest rose; And in her heart there was no flame, That ever lit her woes. But when her little feet anear, She raised her head and cried, "Thou find'st me, do not fear, young man! And my poor eyes are small, And never do they need me, But weep for me, sweet lady!" The nightingale, so bonny and sweet, Tempted her little songs in idle list, Then forced her little flute away From every thicket and each pleasant spot; Grieving that such a birth had brought To such a little innocent bird, And that he might have been a king, Whatever came into his mind, Yet to be made a deathless plaint To his luckless tenor and his court. The nightingale, she lightly dined In a small spot where she had missed her mark: The mother did not hear the song, The world went round and still we found Our infant laughter, and our mirth; We wondered why the world was sad. But when the child of morning light Gaed in with day-star of the sun, And, climbing up the crag's sharp height, Starred over all the gloomy bars With a bold look of infant stars, A pretty babe, with open eyes, Made heaven brighter for his fantasy, Held his bow down, and went his way. He went and was a lovely child; No ruddy face, no tresses wild, No rounded limbs, no tressed hair fair, Might match his courtly unguent hair, No goblet crown, nor top-knot rare, No crown might tempt him from his bower, And yet he was a happy flower. "Here shall I bring thee, little one, And then, good fellow, shall I fetch thee?" "I bring thee, little false child, come, And eat thee." Then the tender little babe, alack! Pressed, kiss'd, and kiss'd, and cried, "Thy little tricks I'll play At cock-crow, that I fear, if he be dead, He shall not die a gallows for his head, But I'll be gone." He was very well indeed, When he began to make these most of one. He said, "My pretty wanton, come away! Break your string, and hither line with me," Whilst he laid his finger on the black, And beckon'd, "Mighty God will see That thou com'st home!" The cradle was an honest one, No doctor had the need to be 'Tis said that, when at rest, 'Tis said the baby did not go. But now he is at six full-milled, And can turn up hisRepeating ode, And trim his nursery, just like yours, And make the oddest little babes Hold up before them future bliss, This little infant on his mother's lap. So glad is little Willy of this town, So happiness befell him one by one. He was the son of a respected friend Who, knowing all the ways of all mankind, Could not in time a word of courtesy Repeal as his enquiriesings went. The child was all the one to him ======================================== SAMPLE 104 ======================================== before the feast they made their way. Meanwhile, as thus enkindling on their view To that great throng, associate came the crew. They, hasting to the ships, by men and steeds Besieged, beside the chariot held their seat. Thrice, thrice, and four times, round the ship they strode, Both raw bull-hides, with the coursers filled, E'en then, as Hector fastened on his breast, He shook his splendid sword, and flashed afar, As lightning dashes round the rolling brass. The hero, seeing them, uprose at once Before his chariot; the Sire of all, Apollo, godlike Hector, first he met, And after, first, the charioteer beloved Of royal Priam, and his brave allies, Son of the wealthy monarchs, Ajax, there Bereaving; swift as thought, he sprang at once And smote the son of noble Sthenelus; Epeius, son of Enops, with a spear Of brass-broned Peleus; from the car he fell, Plunged in the dust, while, with the horses' feet, His charioteer and his chariot-steeds Drove chariots and provisions over Troy, But were not yet within the power of hands Of noble Hector; in the course of war, While the earth closed beneath him, to the ships He came like some vast mountain-clash of flame, Or slow fire-mountain rising on the cliff, Or that proud mountain-crest whose lofty brow, And glittering scatt of snow-shapes overhangs Towns, cities, unto subjects of themselves, Hear him who moves him, and who speaks aloud. So well his chariot fitted to his gripe. But Hector, if thou wilt, and if thou go, Let no man, Tydeus, bear his chariot-steeds As once; for fiery-hearted Mars essay'd To 'scape him, and had not thy comrade dared To box the chariot yoke; but he himself, Apollo, from his chariot in the midst Smote him, and on his head descended; broad Behind him ran his armor, with a stroke Dreadful he fell; then with a scream of death Hector beheld the battle, and the steeds Whirl'd to the ground, while in their gallop strove The chariot, and the chariot Hector smote With his spear brazen-shafted. Then Polites, Polydamas, Oenomestor's son, Came in hot haste; but to his chariot-steeds He came as swiftly as a lightning-bolt Wielded of strength, and mounted up the car. He bore away the reins, and urged the steeds Back to their steeds in safety, and at length Antenor, in wing'd accents, thus began. My friends! since, in the name of heaven, no more Bereaving our steeds, do we beseech the Gods To vouchsafe us aught, at once repast, Of our own lives, and of our glory more? Come, drive us hence into the host of Troy, The van of Troy, and the abode of death. He spake, nor Ajax, not a whit less prompt Than they who fled before them. But the son Of Telamon threw far a dart, and struck Through the right shoulder Prothoenor, son Of Phylides, with a rock- fragment strown, Which from the giant's neck had split the joint. Down from the chariot fell the splendid fragment Scattering, and as it sucks the life away With piteous jangling, so the chariot-steeds Plunged to the ground. Then thus Antenor's son. Hear, also, Jove! and thou who rul'st the skies, Eternal, both in flight, and thou, O Sun! Guard still Thy people, never, never cease. To whom the son of Saturn in return. Mars, King of men! if thou observe these ways Thou wilt not. Hast thou ere yet into the host Our horses fasten, that we may make them strides In time to come. But drive them out, that they Beneath the yoke may keep us. They, myself, Shall, as I think, ride free beyond the range Of the broad ocean; but, ere they there breathe, I take their life, and he and they ======================================== SAMPLE 105 ======================================== With what a hiss they said, Who'd got to be a R.T. Why here I stand, not knowing How they'd come to me, Angered with their unbinding hands, Of friends we are to be; Whose coming is so mighty In grace and dignity, I fancy they'll be happy Till they come to me! We're not awake till morning And we dance a merry round, And then the lessons which we learn Come to us on a ground. At table we'll be courting Each one of us and him, And eat our evening group before We go to let the Saladin In his most thoughtful spree. For here's a long, low lesson That he ought to learn, And soon in that cathedral door We shall bear him in his search--so-- He'll stand without a fuss, And cheer us for our merry march O'er rocks and stones that's grand And of the country--with our hearts Are all so easily made fast That when the journey's done One leaves his cap and on his nose May be his last wish left! The sun is coming down; Ah, God! we love the sight Of that awful thing we saw In such unspeakable affright! From such a night of terror May you have any panic! A rock among the deeps, And through the way you take, This helpless girl comes back to us, Your messmate with his bier; We will send you there, we'll send you there, As decent and as good As if you came, of poor old years, Into the marriage-bed. With bay and mine beside. We'll send you to your grave, As decent and as good As if you came, of poor old years, Into the marriage-bed. 'Twas Life who in the far-off years Had wrought you a man's death. A life, and all it seemed to me That your life, on earth, must be, In some life, seen with such grief, So like the hopeless mad Who in the sacred crucifix His crucifix would have slain. Ah! why do you then cry, And sob, and beat your breast? O happy life! it shall not die For such a blessed rest! I'm taking that way! How tired you must be If it's not time to loaf And ring your head with the rod Of an easier rod! I wish I could be A tree, just like you! And I in the school Wish I hadn't my fool, And the nights are dark and long, And there's nothing that's wrong! But 'tisn't all right to me, For the ones that jump out there, And the teacher is just ahead, He will give his mum share; Or I've to finish up And back the drugs for poor old Dobson's mug! A case of books, not like your aunt, Are what I wish to get and live upon; Yet how of the winter, after all? A feeling of pleasant fun; A feeling of happiness everywhere, A feeling of honor and love alway! When I was one of those some eighteen years I had not seen in history, But now, amid the momentary haze, I never knew a bit! One's name is Death; there ain't no name The name is anything but home; And some that I had learned to know, Are by some magic invitation, Some night of sudden, strange, unreal, We two were still together. By the drive of Posthoof, man of the slow repute, On the roll of Bagdad I made a carnage hole, With a shell-patterned body, and having a part Of work done in a painful sort of way, Pick'd the recesses to it for three months Of waiting till they come to my dug-out. And then the sense of ferment and sleep, The sugar and sweet temper of mother's breasts, And of the symphony of the will, And the march and the blow and the march, Are as it were now in the yesterday's work, And as it was after the four years' march, The three now silent and indifferent keep. Oh, they're a comely matron, Grace'mores! (That to the smile in smiles, Is something better now than in discourse, So much of one as all the audience begs)-- That kindly wife a vignette, Grace'mias, Smoothing the ======================================== SAMPLE 106 ======================================== Thou hast won us from the street, Our houses and our farms, Our marbles and our wharf, Our women and our wharf. Many a thing in the land We do have the best of, The deuce, we're dull and cross, And I take in the rest of The cock-a-roach we mean; The farmers and the teachers Will never yield us again; The shavings on the lasses, The pigs, and the redcoats, Will never cheer the shop We're eaten and rejected And forced to work for food, And discord and vexation Will prey on the nation, And in disgrace and horror We'll throw our good lives down, With no curse upon your own! Some of us were too small for us, Stupid and haggard, Had we but souls and bodies, And then how fast they ran! But we have souls, and bodies, And souls enough for all: Had eyes, and hearts, and garments, And then we had them all. We should have souls, and bodies, And warmth and light and shade, And quiet homes by nature Where the sky is always bright: If we were souls, and souls, and natures, We all of us would pray, To stoop to them and praise them And pity and protect them Lest, like the grasshoppers, their wings Should be o'ersetted too and fro, And they should suffer shame and sorrow By looking at another's, How tedious you would be In such a crystalline, And yet be neither air nor water. The race of man is not more wise than men: They have no wisdom and no power. They have no thirst for any sweet, sweet wine; For which they know not any power. For they know nought of Power, And all their purposes prove That they have none, but only of their own: Their powers are not alone: They speak and live, and they alone. The nightingales, with drooping wing, Sing high their lays unheard by night, Alone, awake, from their night-watches, Carol of love to the utter light, While endlessly they huddle and grope For love in one another's ear. Then the nightingales, With drooping wing and drooping wing, Pour round their souls the great love-soothing Of peace to the utter light of the day, And peace to the almost-blind. Then the nightingales, With drooping wing and drooping wing, Sing low, lest haply they deem That they shall no more be The happy, the beloved of men, For their mouths' sake at last shall be The home-of-peace, and their goal is, then, Of joys departed long since after. They rest in the shadows Of the sacred sky; The winds are murmuring Their songs on high; The world is comforted, The Earth is glad; There comes an answer, A cry of pain, From the lost years far after. To the cradle's side, Where sings the bride, And men and maids with voices sweet, And songs of hope come over the earth To sorrow and sorrow and sorrow and mirth, And the pale-lipped snow is as white as the snow, And winds are awake in the deeps of the sea, And darkness is breaking in frost. The nightingales are singing, yet not they, For the dawn of the day is red. What song has stirred the slumbering sea, And stirred the heart in its head? Now the morn is waking, yet not I, For the waking is long and sweet, And noon is abroad on the mountains, And night is around us sweet, For far on the shadowy heaths, in the valleys, The scarlet smoke of the day! The morn is breaking, yet not I, For the day is without wings; Where no voices come from the valleys, Or songs of the nightingales, And the zephyrs wander in rapture, And the earth and the heavens are young, In the dawn-light of morning! Beneath the cloudy, starry heavens, I lie and listen to the nightingales, The nightingales! The nightingales! Under the heath and under the vines, In the noisy close of the summer days, They are all singing one another's praise; Each has its own old secret, ======================================== SAMPLE 107 ======================================== e, went upon Like the Roman fled, for Dido fled. Diomede-like Diomede wept and sighed, Dying as in Amphion's rage she stood. But when she came on whom she had bestow'd Her loving arms, she dropp'd the veil and slew Upon her brows; then drew the weapon true, And, peering through her lids, when he had stood Between the neck and throat, as maidens do The entrails in their best, untying pierce Of foaming chests; so on a galley stepp'd Down-stream, which, glorying in its speed, oars plunged. Hither she ran, full oft she call'd her,--she, Whom during winter, looking back on, see. But, ere the first of dawning light appear'd, She threw her arms around him as he lay, And hid her features in her beauteous face. Such signs the keen-ey'd messenger of heaven. A deep voice from her brother he descends, Who thus inquires:--"Tell me the signet's signet." "The signet's signet make; I'll soon be thine, And when with thee, let both my hand be dumb. Thy rod shall rule the forfeit of my life, And gold begone's my power, and power thou buy'st, With joy the gift." But He, as he had said, Sent her away. Then Ilioneus of Thebes Sent her to Charon, seeking whence he came. But Herachus, in wrathful tone, replied:-- "If I can find thee wherefore seek we none? At least a long day's term of sojourn here Anxious to bring the recompense to me Which I will give, since other risk is none. To-morrow and to-day I will require The aid of Jove, who, with injurious hand Held out thy bow, before thy shafts dismiss'd." He said, and to his sister thus replied:-- "Atrides, most favorable of all powers I know, and so protect thee with all care, Nor this the issue of a friendly fate Shall e'er be thought to rest by intercession stored About thee, in thy well-appointed barks, To expedite the murder'd Trojan host, If thou accept thy deadly punishment." So Thetis, sorrow-stricken from her thoughts, Thus spake to young Diomede the aged:--"O To lay thy stores, good herald! this design Is mine for counsel--I shall give the sign. Lead thou his ships to o'er the watery main; For none is here that fears the evil day, Or may withstand, and dare their threaten'd rage." Thus he. As sleeps the wild fowl of the sky, So Pallas inly groaned for Neleus' son. Uprising then, and gazing on the chiefs, Forth from the ranks the sorrowing warriors ran, And on Tydides rush'd, where Chrysa's town The men of Thebes had conquer'd in a day; Their herald Polydorus struck below; And he, the chief, from Aegypt's wood convey'd, All unsuspecting of the work, to slay, And brook'd the fiery work; with his broad shield He struck the nimble air, and, poising high, Sent forth a shout that rent the air again. The last ambrosial of the battle came, The right arm lifted from the dead; the stone Went crashing thro' his helmet, and the brain Fell to the earth; he gnash'd his teeth, and died. But Paris, where his gaping arms are left, Took from the foe his vitals, and, in turn, Gave his full force, and with his gloves indrawn, In his right hand a cup; and pray'd, "Now, now, Brother, bring water from the stream of stream, Or that the water come not: as it is, If thou but take the fishes, thou shalt pay And buy again those offered glacies here." He said; and to the blue-ey'd Maid return'd, And stood before her; she, with tears, replied:-- "On my tomb shrined, and beside the stream, Weep not; I left my friend behind; in vain Hope to restore her whom I lopp'd to meet. No better weeping could the Grecians hold Than the heart-broken Lausus, who, ======================================== SAMPLE 108 ======================================== She smiles to greet him--saith she yet would frown. "Wherefore--thou knowest--canst thou still go on? Has one so loved thee, loved thee, went from thee? If love be in thy heart, thou knowst not well But that thou canst not grieve thy soul for me." While thus they wailed to mark the mournful sign, And many followed her, the mournful nine. But onward through the dusky deepening gloom She led them, fainting back, the darkness there. But soon she saw before her own old town The golden gates, the glimmer of the night. A new-built tower for softer light she knew, Golden and violet in its ruddy face, Beyond all mortal women built of stone Amidst that desolate monastic race. "Here," said the weeping Abbot, "with the keys We ought not to unlock, and we will strain Ourselves for ever, with an unseen hand, Through which we find a passage o'er the land, And, like ourselves, should there the passage stand. "But even now thou'lt pass on to the door, And not upon the threshold?"--"Ah, no," The Abbot said, "but let the door down, For I will have thy threshold, and will see What crucifixions may be there inscribed Upon the rood, and thou wilt find the key. "And thou wilt see it, whether I drop down, Like a little child, and fasting cry; and there Thou needst not fear, and I will let thee pass. There are eight pennies in the treasury Enough to clothe the wicked, and like dreams Keep eyes that just behold them, and like dreams, Upon the golden chariot of thy dreams. "The eye of God! look up and see on earth Worn in an hour, but risen again, Hushing thy thoughts and business in the air! Thy business is abroad, and comes to all Unto the wanderer like a man in chains." Then she: "Ah, such a glory! and indeed Such glory, too, through human conscience! not That thou mightst be despised in holy things, Nor yet too timid for their holy zeal! But as for me, I do repent of men Worshipping all who offer to me this world. Come thou in thy most joyful hour, I pray, Wearing these poor relics here in poverty; Come thou in crowds with folk who to the woods And show the gracious faces of their King, And then go forth to tell them of thy deed. "Ah, if I suffer thus these suffering years Which come about me in my extremest time, I pray thee, 'Father!' feel I for my son Some little secret wish of my heart's blood! I am so dear to every living thing, Whoso can say if this I do repent." But when they brought him to the door of chapel, His garment, flower-like, from the Abbot's hand, They covered; and he said: "If it be so, I cannot go to mass; but here in this, Here in this church, by whatsoever name Thou callest me, I charge thee on my sin!" Meanwhile, however, 'mid the dusky woods, Far off, a young man, white with age and grey, Pushed close together through the poplar grove, Came on the steps, beneath whose heaped boughs Green boughs of pine o'erhung his chinless brows. "My son," he said, "one fishing festal tide I've sailed in times before; the dance and song Have also changed their names; the stirring dance Of green-gowned revels, and the gay house-halls, And some old coxcomb singing in the coals, Are still around me; and, my son, the bard, And all the thousand others who have died, Their names ring with me! yet if I were found, If by my skill and drugs alone I'd live, I would find storehouse here, built on the oaken floor, And deftly handle what the Comforters Have said to those who dwell near that great lake, And I myself in wishing far less fare Than any. Come, dear father, come and plough This way, and, if thou canst, two days or two, Thou must return again unto the birds." With that he ploughed the field, and still, indeed, The tender grasses bent beneath his feet ======================================== SAMPLE 109 ======================================== from his grave; to stray again The Eumenides his joyance made, When the stern queen, impatient of his train, With clasping nuptial torches to display Her lord's ungrateful honour,--all a prey To filching age and reverend household gods,-- Would retribution follow--hushed the cry, And left the funeral pile at Mary's shrine; In vain, while faithless to the gods he vows, With plaintive accent holy Orpheus hymn; He dares not move the marble shaft apart. Tumultuous ire from stony Orpheus sprung, And rock enraged;--and, at his plaintive sound, Wide o'er the mournful relics, as he stood, His round enraptured listening heard the knight; Aloft no murmur raised the vaulted roof, Or robbed the fold, by spells, unheard of proof. Soon as the solitary toils at eve An visitor of colder atmosphere, Sudden he saw, and with unerring eye Discerned the secret meaning of the words, And re-enraged, dismayed the wonted cause, And thought, "Concerning Helen more than man, Hers more than man--of man the most divine, Whom Phoebus and thy brother love, (more blest Than checks one hope to one proud breast alone) Have wreathed for her with that eternal snare, Which the proud tyrant thus, when caught by guile, Has snatched from Heaven, the prize he sought was his, A woe to cope with and deform her charms; Unless, through blood that thou mayst see and know, A fatal shaft, by jealousy shot home, Shall rend the veil of sly Ulysses' beard, And pierce his graceful head, and pierce his breast, Or, if he dare, some soothing power impart, To ease a wound, or cure the dying man; To smooth his rugged brow and smooth his smiling face; And with that smile of dignity and love, Bring the dear child to life, and fill his mother's place." To whom the warlike maid: "By all thy charms Sooth'd to reply, and promised to be vain, The mighty chief shall slight his promised pains. But what, O boy! these boundless charms avail? Not far that tower, on Ida's ever proof, Hangs in the skies! unheard by man or brute, Save heard by me; the roaring of the flood, The whirlpool bursting o'er the tempest sent; These arts shall cure his heart, and heal his mortal mood." Whom answer'd thus the hapless martial maid: "Behold, how power with gifts emblazed, and ranged The warrior stands! this youth awakes our arms, The doom which he to-day by us imparts; And leaves us now his deeds--to me declares Nor less his valour with his father's praise. With him, each dainty peer of Trojan fame, A winsome girl, the easy purchase trust, Whence he shall spring, his father's beauteous bride, supplied." "And why," replies Achates; "why such ardour show In every breast to find the grace to wear Of him who reigns? I bade him choose this wretch, or dare His lot who leads; nor shalt thou grudge the boon, The bounteous man receive, who gives his heart away." She said, and wept: her tears afresh plied healing; And with swift-falling tears, and blows, she wept Of many a stranger, whom she saw unwept. Then chiding words the virgin virgin spied. "Offspring of Calydon! thy thread is spun; This, to the obsequious sceptre bear: what fate Barred this unhappy wanderer? what are ye? Who, from your native race, reluctant fly, Detain'd by flattery's soft complaint, to slight His worth, and meet mankind with base concern?" "Oh, thou, high goddess of the golden bow! Usurped by fate to labor in the womb Of cold neglect, closed only in the tomb! O crown thyself with years! thy prayer shall sound Through Hell's wide regions, and anon too thine To Thebes a lamentable wretch shall go, And sighs and doleful tidings bear to Pluto's throne. In Jove's high thrones thy sire the prince shall dwell, And share the bliss his birthright knows not well." "Think of thy sister's ======================================== SAMPLE 110 ======================================== s, the cat, lives free, And, as he thinks, he'll burst the heart of brass For cotton baubles like his plate,-- Yet, an apron-countenance Turns in his eye of witching wit, Eyes that can laugh or blush, A widow, that her sweetheart whims With soothing, careless tripe,-- O Maiden of the Muse, Bright Spirit of the Muse! Though on thy storied page The record sad of many years, Yet is thy spirit bright With pictured and with grove; Though on thy pictured page The tomb's dim shadows move, And trembling hearts must pray That yet may hear the Wanderer's lute The Wanderer's death-low, and the Musician's strain; Yet art thou, in that age Of Greece, the Church's highest praise, The genius, that can shirk The runes that tell the bard, The Dead Sea's trump of dread;-- As in the days of old My roving feet had trode, At the Great Allah's smile, And hailed me from afar, Beneath the traveller's star. The line of high pursuit For higher heights to seek, These all I followed and marked not; For me the prize was set. Wearied by pursuit, About my goal I sped; Searched by the bright pursuit, And never snared the prize;-- Yet all that I could do Was for one time--alone-- To win at last the crown. When, lost to all beside, Our stock was shattered, The child we used to love Has blossomed from above; In vain the baby's cry We cannot ever jest; "Why, Mother, weep no more! What may I weep to-day? Look up--those blue eyes shine, So shuts their light away?" Who cares? What boots it, who? God calls it--because "Look up!" There goes the crow, The Nightingale that knows All to her prayer; She can alone is gone. The story of the past That, sealed from all beside, Remains--are not of Thee; To Him our whole race The holy psalm is join'd; The Immortal Hand that guides The Master and the Lord, Without thee, may be hid. Vain men, despair not! They have put this question on me. If "poor among the poor," were wealth of such a one to me, I might go far and wide and never seek a poorer home, Without thinking nought of what a soul had left a little one; A goodly land and gone to measure earth's true worth and wise, One peaceful corner, nothing else to do nor dream of save, There was one riches failing and one faith in me which told One more priceless boon,--how many? 'twas the same or not-- And all of this--my foolish self with some there were of yore, As our only worldly portions--poverty and love and lot-- Is something left to do,--and I, the weakly balanced yet. For I learned how vainly to himself I sought to win That little prize, ere I was asked; he wore the iron crown; He had lard a tangled hate, to rob him of the wreath; And the sullen love that taught, while I lived, a humble claim, Was like a simple flame, and a homely love of claim. Youth passed away, but youth must come; I live to learn the truth; Oh, for the few dozen or thousands that sicken or fight Till the master forgets all but he had wasted one! For the armies of battle are woven of ravens and spurs, And their whitened bones are garnered in autumn or embers, And the red plucked out of the core is hidden and stilled From the gripings of famine and of oppression and ill. But there are the many hundreds that fall, and cannot die, And the deepest riddles of poverty all unplundered are; Who the highwayman trod, nor turned, nor waited nor bidden, Only he knew the price was paid for living and for dead. Let him choose his own path and come into the town, And gather in pride for the harvest; that feast is made known. Let him cease at the Inn and take the road that is free; One shall find the golden key Where the twelve shall walk with God in the heart of the New. The Will from out the Just is ======================================== SAMPLE 111 ======================================== s Hang on the crest of the fiery constellation. Now in the distance beyond north is heard The voice of a voice saying, "Go forth, go forth, Go forth and win the prize, and let this cup Be brimming over all." So to the earth And over the last harvest field of war The day was spent. In maddening misery The old King's sons set forth upon the road. Then for the prize at highest hand they hasted, And on the two were gathered the whole host Of all the folk; nor did they know the wish To take the half of the immortal prize; But the king summoned them all to his ships, And with them rose the pile of bricks and clay, And bade them make it. Now for men's sake The wind hath blown them on; for them no God Is kindling in the depths of long despair. On such a day as this they laid their hands Upon the food that the old man had given And the maidens and the feasters would have seized, The sire and son of Zeus, bidding them yoke The cattle, and bring forth the ewes with all. Then did the Achaeans bear away The ewe, and drew them up, and rolled the bowls, And raised the tables, and in eager haste The armour and the glorious cups they bore. But on the awful embers there was set No sign of welcome: these in panic plunged Down to their ships, but there without the tent Horsemen and foot-sore mariners drew in And thrust the pieces down, and bore away Helpless and dead. Then to the ship they went, As one that flies who cannot shun the light, And flingeth anguished heart and all the time As when the wind hath swept him home to Troy. But when the yard was won, then was the doom Of all to bear that evil doom in hand; For that his brothers and his wife must fall Ere twelve to spring, when as a boy again With youngest hope shall push them from the ship. For had the glorious Shaker of the Gods Been slain, not on the battle-field had fall'n Anigh his huge and shaggy jaws then sprang The Argives, in terror of the swift feet. But from the ship there leapt into the sea A gory spot, on some side of the sea; Sore it bode terror of men, for that indeed Achilles' dread hand had slitten them; indeed Achilles' swift feet also had dropt down Strong and light-hooped before them on the deck, But the waves wash them, and their life is saved. As when a woman, clasping her fair form With fingers slim, in gentle act and words, Draws a tear forth, and from her eyelids spreads Soft tresses down to her fair shoulders, then She kisseth the feet of her sea-cleaving Lord, And she in sheave-reclined arms and bending head Let fall her golden crown. And thenceforth they Dwell in some bay, and dally for their sake. There many a gleam of light from heaven is sent By Phoebus, cunning of craft for the Argive fleet, When they behold their prize of fight, and say That they have won Poseidon, rich in gold, To bear him up. But, as it was foreseen, The water-nymphs, sped over Pieria's realm Wander, and at her pleasure served glad news Till Dawn gleamed forth, and slew the Sun of Even. They, in the midst of which were ye, were ware That, toiling hard, the Trojans sought the fight, And Atreus' sons brought water for their feet. Then the Achaians marvelled at the sight, But uprose Atreus' warlike son, the Kings And Chiefs of Troy, in dazzling armour clad. There followed in a wind the cloud-gleam, And hardy Phoebus bore him to the fight Afar. Then glorious Hector, terrible With fiery bolt, hurled thro' the gates of brass His massy spear, and bade his charioteer Be steed of swiftest foot, for he himself Seemed to the war-lord Aeetes' self To bear, while fighting round him. Then again He from the cloud-gleam cast a dart afar Into his heart, and with a scream he fell. But first Achilles drew his mighty sword, And smote the portals, and the folding doors Fell, as ======================================== SAMPLE 112 ======================================== like lead, thy heaving heart Stamps with its mightiest throbbings to be free. With artful curves, mad rides, and woodland dyes Seem nowhere but in vaster circuit wide. So roars the wild wind, and the cloud's heart whispers, Heavily flushing with its azure pride, So like inswept brilliance, o'er the clouds, uprisen, And all forgetful of a time, I go, Where wonder, cawing the cold wind, sways To a wild tenderness. The childish wiles Lost javity betray in Marna's smiles; Their blue eyes--chokes, and curls--the gusts--now sweep And we can only watch them till they sleep; How strange! The heart whose light would win to God The call to conscience, not the soul to clod, Only to roam; though wild its wavelets wild, And drenched with cold at night, is fierce with child. The wreath of flowers with tenderer crownings bound, And seems to hang upon the unseen hand Of one who, with each fervent step or kind, Feels on his forehead and a smile demands. So like an infant up the beach we glide, What time we touch it, ere the tender thought Leads from the breast a breath and bosom's fires. And so we gazed; but, not without delight, The coming of those days, in wondrous dreaming, Was all the bloom and fragrance of that night I felt so late, that--now--I seemed to see The wreck of a long dear departed soul, Still in its past the wealth of knowledge be. Still did I grasp the dagger; and with awe The nearer steal upon my longing eye. The present and the past stood, pictured, seen, As one who clasps a golden amulet To bind the stars, to make those gentle ones Like starry shadows in the orchards high. But oh! how changed! And like some Eastern Queen Queen-thronged with spangled diamonds, sable-sarched And laced with pearls--the classic diamonds shone, A picture of the Queen of Beauty now So beautiful, the one more priceless gift, Doth in that stately casket close, entwined In those dark gossessed sceptres of the mind. Upon that marble in the secret shrine Where blameless spirits weave their fragrant spell, A shrine of grace,--rememberest thou not That this gold ringlet droops upon thy brow, This golden circlet, wreath of that dark gem? Oh, not for this,--I deem it still to find Some token of that high and worthy love Which angels, in their purity, above Have worn for aye: the tribute of their love Is one of angels--ever thine is thine! Even in my vision hope is laid asleep; It is for thee, my love, the laurel leaves; Till winter's cold, the midland autumn eves And Spring delays, with thee to bind anew The blushing hues of my illusive cheek, Oh! it is vain to offer such a boon-- Forgive me, darling, what thou wilt,-- The smile on youth's bright lip, and the winsome mouth, Which hath been near to Heaven,--for this thou must! Thou'rt mine! 'Tis well--I love thee, love, so well! For to the fatal contract I do come! My heart, for love's sake offered; by the spell Of thy love's beauty crushed, I strive to free A second passion from this pain and thee! As some dark cloud before the lightning flies That swiftly drips its fiery shower, and drips Its lengthening strength,--and so my soul descries The glorious instinct in thy look and looks! I may not see thee as I see thee now-- And this poor sorrow sits upon my brow, With a look of full and deep regret For its own love's dear presence. Wilt thou not In some drear prison keep the bolts of hell, And rend the dark folds of a prophecy Whereby the iron mists are drawn to naught, While the sword gleams with brightening points of steel And man's despondency? And dost thou choose To dash away the prize that waits the moth? I love thee! and I can be thy wife! O Heart of Life! Life is the fairest thing That ever casts an eye Upon the worlds that are--and that ======================================== SAMPLE 113 ======================================== whose very foundations have been thrown Into the lake of ruin,--who would not be drowned Had such a pebble fallen from its top in the ground. But still the languid ones would wind on, until A flash was wafted from their heads upon the heath, And burst in flame above, like hail, to where The distant waters wimple up and down. No breeze from heaven was there, and we could see Upon the sheen of this soft flowery plain So many fragrant flowers, and on the ear Shed forth, and mingled with the fulness of the year. There, then, we heard the boyish voices rise, Like water-falls on straggling beds of corn. We seemed to be uplifting their bright heads From the fair heaven, and lovelier than before; Like as when down from heaven one gentle word Burst like a pestilence, and all around Flashed like a meditative fire by sparks, While others fell, without one breathing-while, Into the water's dampish and profound, And left us stranded on the desert sand. At length a wonder strange and far began, For lo, the boyish voices fade and melt Under the gullies of the drifting mist, And o'er the river's loveliness there floats A spotless light, as when the utter rest Of forest-blooms at nightfall run to sea In whitening ripples, and they flash across From grey-hung hills to blue Arabian nights, And, wing by wing, the weary skiff is borne Up hills precipitous, and steeps the waste of fern. At last we heard the helots of the waves Slant from the sunset, and we gazed across To where, serenely rapt above the sea, A dark-eyed nursel stood beside our path; The boat was wingless, and its shadowy line Unloosed the current, and we saw its light No longer glimmering on the darkening flood. The solitude seems strangely bound to me By the white elfin capes that spread its sails Through the grey tide, and, like a thing apart, A cloud stands on the verge of the old sea. Ah, dream too bright, so beauteous and so clear Of heaven in sunshine, that it seems to change All things in color, as the stars turn pale, And touch each other's bosoms till they lose Their light in one sweet dream, and then they lose Their luring shimmer into air, and leave Dark maze of black and gold behind them deep, As tho' the sun's eye flashed a brighter light. Tho' this may be the tender trysting-place Of the near future, the first happy days Of yore may be the souls of other men Unlike the sunniest and tenderest fays, Mingling together in their quickening race, One beautiful and steadfast forest path. A gracious human soul doth seek itself In Nature's fair expanse, where, seeking food, The myriad butterflies are fairy fans Of the mid-moons that glitter where the flood Spins like a golden shuttle through the warp. What throbs, what whispers, of what spirits floats From flower to flower thro' the dark green gloom? What all this deep and beauteous scene hath held Is not yet full of beauty, but a world Of beauty and of harmony, wherein A world that strives to reach a fairer soil Than never, with the heart of love, were given To gain the heart it seeks in full to Heaven? Oh, love that sings its holy hymn of peace! Oh, may love's truth like thine tread all our days Upon the heart that is its halo-light! They flash thro' daylight's golden haze, And through the stillness they shall pass, Like amber rays thro' autumn eves. Hark, as the light first glimmereth On snow-clad hills, a hymn of peace! Peace ever floats like zephyr's breath About the singing sea, while clouds Are bending to the promised breeze That wanders thro' the heavens, and while The evening drops are murmuring, So, sweetly like a star, our home, With its calm gently folded close On happy eyes, in dusky eve, Is watching yet another star! The freshening breeze thro' hawthorn brake, Like thine own lure lightens round Each lofty brow, with laughter sweet. Farewell! we never loved in youth, But in our own ======================================== SAMPLE 114 ======================================== that we may well avoid her, Thou didst not fail her in a good plan, But she took me altogether In her own disdain and heart which nought can change, She meant I might drive to perdition My life and fate through contemptuous deprecation. For she was so foolish and so small That her love of an English maiden would not let her eye slip; She lost her goodwill in speaking, And she left her sighing to the fashion Of a ditty, rolling and broding, Which a husband deftly dinted, And a shirtslekin also, he hewed Into all simplicity elegant boors' shirts. I have known a man in stoves at his table, 'Tis the tide of the Glug king, And the heart of the lady's lover Lies down in the bower of her sleeping-place, With a feigned rally to fill his eye with a purple dye, And, as his touchi, he holds her resting In his mother's arm, while she lies dreaming, And the miller is nodding his caudal crest. Through the thicket and underwoodwood, Which the thrush and the wood-pigeon sing, Through the wood where the cold dews are drawn, Past the grey king's palace-yard, Silent utterly By the green white childhood of the eye, Tremendous sight! Thou, too, shalt hear what all these lovers say: With beauty of voice and strain of rhyme From the turret door Two voices run, That both might rise in the horizon's bar; One to my ear More sweet than any speech, And the other to my self apart. And the long hours they rolled along my thought From dawn to dusk; But never a flutter of the wing, Nor a gleam of a lamp, Nor a glance, To warn me of the lily-wreathed in mead. And therefore, O my chamber in my passage, I shut my eyes, and, listening, In the warm darkness, I shut my ears, That I might hark to the birds In their merry carols passing by, And hear the wind among them singing: The wind, the wind, the wind, the wind in the garden; The rain, the rain, the rain; The snow, the snow, the snow, the lovely river: White mother of the waves, White mother of their child, The glory and the joy among them, Whose waves, that turn to pearl, When falls from heaven the floor of earth, Were strewn so white with white The snow on virgin white On virgin snow alone is seen, And whitening over it The temperate azure Of heaven with silver-rimmed serene. So still she sleeps beneath it, Her sepulchre is sealed, And through her swaddling-bands The snow in the mould of mould is spilt, The earth uncoiling lies, Throned where she breathed of old And in her fading skies, Sits, proudly, and is wakened; Like some great golden toy, Built on the edge of dreams, Out of the fairy-land of joy, Out of the world's warm heart, She, offering her brood, Feels her first gleaming steed, Whose unshod hooves A blessing, a warm hurrying kiss, In the new life she springs up; So true in faith She waits for ever on her perfect throne; To her, to her, The secret of the earth is known; For her alone Is the far memory of the sun. Clear as the lightest cloud That ever clothed the heavens, To me the glory of the elements Rides in the great immensity; A wonder, that the universe Has ever thought of God. Nature stands still, And Nature stands still. I will not go Too far below, For my lady's presence, And the awful power of the sky. Far too far, it is not far. I have heard the marching stars Deep in the night, The thunder of their columns, The answer to the stars, And the beating of the steeds, And the howl of the trumpets Against the sky, Are things of highest price Among my worshippers. My beloved comes. Ah, not too soon! The soul grows too great. The garden grows too little. The little flower grows. Ah, why so slow? ======================================== SAMPLE 115 ======================================== gallop when along Shall flocks of brinded heifers grazin'; Then send around the blackguard fifty-score, To hold their own for game and glory. But if we don't go down on the same plan, They'll never know a man who's worth a man. And when some hot-housewife has slain her swatch To make a slaughter of that rover, We're glad we're in that handsome homestead-lanke, Where oft we've met and got a show. He crossed his rutty back just where he'd laid it, When the neighbers brought him up so proud, And his poor hardy swagman, with a fool-like stride, Steps up so high and loudly in the wind, That he's worth nothing but a babe-like wind. He's all of life that hasn't yet been wholly spoiled; He's all of goodness that is in his mind; He is so strong that it would make him curse and swound, If he'd let people damned live and let them die, If he were too old to take up the little load Which some of us are climbing to be blind. Oh, I thought I'd try the hummin' lot, To make it run much better; But I've always walked and walked to see A man with top a two-reef door. I've never been surpris'd to hear Of Nymphes and Thistle, And never have I tried at least To catch them scentin'; But somehow I am good enough To see a man a-skedin'. And after that I think I see A man with one good-comfort. But then my thoughts begin to fail, And I'm allus glad that's out of blame, For I've to kiss old Nymphes, When they were old and noa called him, But still I know he's good for all, An' if they've any sense or gall, I'm gettin' old and bein' old, Ef I'd a-sked the other side of the shawl. One summer-day I went abroad Speakin' up the fashions on the road, And the folks were there that used ter walk, But soon I learned I didn't talk, I guess I'd hear that same old sensible talk. But I didn't seem to know their tread, And I wasn't there, just in the street, But up there where they've been I used ter cussed And couldn't see where they belong; So I mounted and I used ter say One day, "How's the time, good man, that's made?" And I took a tin tin tin pony and tied a pony's shoe, And hurried to the woods that dangle by, Where I told 'em secrets ter amiss If they should tell me noa jes' er not. They ist stop eatin' all night with food and sleep, While I watch them make the big bines to shake; Then they come back, and I'm goin' to know They made that snowaned shrieve ev'ry night I take, And when I look around me they say things won't make. I hear that night a-sittin' at their house Whilst I cuddle all the time with talkin' friend, Or watch them tell I'm comin' 'long inside When they'd 'comin' there ew' cost a cent; The kind o' folks that own ter run away Have all the goin' done an' do the best they can There they was starving--screeching-like, and sad, There they was starving, parched, and me and him: There they was starving--me and Mrs. MORK-- We all were there, she and I alone; And when the dinner night was come 'round, He'd up, and say he'd really lost the game, Because she'd kissed him one time when she was tired; And then, she had eyes ef her work was bent To do the "miser" by and bye and bye, And sometimes he'd notice her rags on the clothes An' say, "Go back, dear, to the hills an' dew, I loved you, dear, as I'd do, An' I wouldn't do any thing for you, Nor hear what the Deacon had to say If the knowin' was really right, But I'd like to keep the Millennium right, So we two could face it with skill, An' ======================================== SAMPLE 116 ======================================== of "Sweet Mora:" but if you read me, I shall have to believe your real history. Of old it was whispered that the Palatine school was at the verybeginning of the nineteenth century. That the Palatine school was the most joyful and most instructive account for the good nothing else could be more clearly impressed than on that subject. We may suppose, however, that nothing of Chichester's part of the scholars was entirely unknowing of its teachers. But there will be no hint that any succeeds in saying that "not correct," and "what is a bad stomach to a body of satisfied, not in point of being either right or wrong,"--and it would not be better for us to be "cousin', bane of charyon," in that of the Palatine school. Or, if you think it would be better for us to be "cousin'," a word of mark for our purposes, than "to beanc defiance." So, if it were not for these harms, its Happenslust would be extremely bad, and very delicious. For this, it would have been desire to drink of the cup of their crudeness in the summer sun, if it were not for that purpose of the purpose, but for that purpose of the spiritual world. For this, I fear that we shall never see one! Let us be mute. It is in fact that too long our learning has since been decayed and reached now and never known to be. A thing more rich, yet from a sense of which I never should myself be deceived, than is the schism of my appius by which the church of Palestine is kept? Behold it in the way of Luther; wherefore I pray him to dispel his secret, and draw from it a loud light of holy hope, which he may discern in few words, that the true discourse is worthy of the good of Moses, before which whoso will draw down is able to believe. It seems to me, that means nothing, when a certain sager would seek to redeem me from myself, because I said that He would be not more just now in turning to other things. Now, for that in the Holy Church (wherefore I who have been called and shown to thee, unless it be thyself that thou dost secure to me, for thou believeest truly to me in that which it is, seeing the day that is to come draws near me; and I pray thee, if ever thou dost trust to me to transmute me, that thou wouldest behold thy wife and possess her again. For she comes not in time, but in number of sweet fancies, with the sweet sound of the willows and the singing of birds, and without fear of a snare or of departure. She is the daughter of that righteous man who sat long time with the herds of the their king and his people. She hath not refused to go with her from a foreign region, to a distant race, to a place of men, where I was born, whereof to ask thee, Heavily, and with prayers, still for my daughter and for all the goods of the world. And she was asked which way she went to? I do not believe that I did; I was rejoiced in her own and in my new life, and that she was unwilling to go with me, and did not even permit me. How fair was she to me, what glad colour was in her eyes! How good her lips! O, for the wounds by the axe are scarred by blood! Yea, and the vesture of her head, which for verity was created, for the grace of the kingdom which she bare! Therefore, when the third day dawned, went to the shades of the two nations, of which I am speaking; such a price was paid for the lilies, and the roses, the while they gathered, were dejected and red as thy new life and withered. Already were all the flowers faded and wither, and in the morning beauty went away, beholding the fair world with its paramour and its priests. And behold the strand of the sea coovered as with a garment, whereon the sand of the sea was coovered with the fluttering of the sand, and hoisted with the foam. Then from thence the blessed spirits issued at once, and from their bodies they flew to the holy regions, where they prayed the Lord of their salvation to grant them a day. The holy priests, with palms, and with singing ======================================== SAMPLE 117 ======================================== grath [quite a miniature flaw; or "In a civil way". Next came the ladies, and already wearing in their hair The Plato's form, as of the one I noted not, they drew Their heads together pointing handsomely beneath their hat. A scallop-shell, which had no words, although it seemed a bit Best of an English foreigner to have a thought within The heart (too tedious to speak) of Irish scholars some, Even in Islam, a time of earlier thought and sin. And then there were some natives, who had thought it Greek: Thou art an odd Greek woman--all, at once, to me a fact. This was retained by the Romans, though, in fact, from Fontaine. "Besides, had he been there, he might have done a deal". Thus did we learn of Dauber in a few days:-- He was a character, you'll fancy, to the least. My second Mother stood by me, and thought me mad. We got here safe to Pabble, for in that there was There thought and spoke my Mother, and I knew her well; But she said: "How is this?" Why, she just shook her head. Well, it's all over now; all what happened in the Court, The first time that I got there was four of the Court; And he merely said: "The Majesty was pleasanter To make himself, the present King, with King Charles Hath had his seat. Then he sent me forth with a letter. He sent me to St. James's to get news of my late death, Which Panny had learned in. This letter was so kind, It came to me to trouble and vex myself, I fear, To think that I had written what was writ already. But it is not surprising that he came here to-morrow, I'm not so well acquainted with the day of my birth. I'm not at home, or I can't get aught to eat. I know a dinner place is very low, That's near a failure and a meatless hearth. Yet you are far behind me and I am far behind me. I meet a dinner man, at dinner table. I always could afford to get there with a dinner; But I don't like a banquet man; nor can I eat A fat grey venison for one thing or for all. But oh! my Father says there's no chiloise at my table, I feel so small and hungry that I am the cutlet, And I prefer my supper both for food and for wine. Myself said it was there I got the morsel out, And showed her just the way, for I had done it Eaten by her who fattened me till May. But our dinner comes upon a hot and furious meeting; Then why not? In answer to the question, since 'tis still the same, The other fellow says I felt a line of pity Upon that poor, cold face, and proved its faith was Very hard to bear. She tried,--"My Brother,"--she reparts "You cannot leave me. I'm a cripple at the old creation Some days ago, but I can deal with in it only, As she spoke. The cows were feeding from the water; The poultry swarmed out to the duck; the pigs were staring. And the pigs were grunting. I left my Mother in the gutter after saying that, But her thoughts were only grey eyes, and their dinner was a feast. And it was the turkey pater-noster that set me staring, And I answered: "If the old egg hatched some trouble On my brother, it would cause her terrible anguish. Why did he say I touched him with that lovely feather? And wherefore do I make him listen? Listen, dear little birdie! Thy goslings were made up of pine, and their price was full. I'm building it high, and I see far in the water, While the silver river sinks in a heathen billow. That was built in a wood, and there's all its store of pine. And that was made in a wood, and a choice of pine. I'd build it for a day, and the fate of the world would grind it to powder. So I built it up in a wooded mountain, and it echoed Out of granite cliff and jackass; along it, without food or light, And its high above all else; just for the love of silence, And the wind in the ======================================== SAMPLE 118 ======================================== all's shadow-land, Its own dull-rompen-framed godhead shed Too little, when, at full-mouthed Atri's head, He plumped into that bistly, blackened cloud, Its throbbings too, forevermore allowed A coronaient outline, as the lay Might shade a body-soul, above the blood! On such a day, he was so glad of God, He smiled into that little babbled flow Of notes and blood, and answered the bewilderment: "I am with Nature, seeing in her so, As strikes a light from Heaven, a beam, a wind, As a hand that hovers o'er the reaching mast, When breezes change it, and the sense we find Is pierced and sodden, though with certain heat; So, rather, as it is, I am with Earth. Ay, and I think I should not have it so, But all the world must be one purple glow." Thereat a bee, the first he spoke his thought, Tossed from the balsam's jessery, and sought The lyre that winter nights had hurried by, And in the gloaming was a spirit lit To show his wonders and his mysteries. He stood,--for lo! a radiant messenger Stole from the summons of his prophet-guest On wings of minstrelsy; he turned and stood Upon the herald-shapes and sent a voice, "Rise, dost thou dare to cast away thy chains, O little body-host, upon the earth, With thy fettered spirit thronging round thyself? What man, what fiend hast thou?"-- A king is dying!--Angels of that home He would not let a fancy captive roam. So pass the ebbing hours away and let The last, last fading touches of the smile Upon the shrivelled soul of him, whose feet Had run their adventurous traces at the gate To ruin out of heaven's grey porch of gold The lovers that had served their shapes so well Still call for him who comes not. As I write, Blindly I see my Master's distant line Vast as some deep abyss of barrenness That hangs between earth and heaven to the full Whose base is truer than the shallow trench Where men are basking in their misery. I think that somewhere in a loftier world, Beneath the green and tender boughs of peace, A prisoner of a lonely poverty Is yet unhooded, till the gleaming sun Shall fling his corslet to the walled world Which shelters from the tempest of unrest Thy heart and mine. Forgive me, Thou, Whose glowing heart assuage my youth and strength, And let the rude relentlessness of time Go as it were in Heaven; to whom, in days Of darkness and of blood and treacherous storm, Ye bring, O princely one, the world which sleeps. Forgive me; yea, forgive, and pity me, Whose blindness in thy subtle moments threw Puts lightnings to the deep of human thought, Which wither--else thou hadst--thy sky above. Forgive me;--Nay, forgive,--and pity me. I met a woman in the morn, Who lightly brushed aside the taunting sun That made her beauty's proudest rival bright To our first splendid beauty; while the sea Reeled, like the emerald stem; and there was one Who tossed her fair hair back; for Time that draws Huge cincture through his scaly scint afar Coping her ribbons, nor did it avail His fulness: only Love, half-risen, doth avail. Now have I seen her as I love the most Of fathers, like her ever; and have known The diverse rushing of the tides: the unrest Of ocean, when it snows, and when it snows; And how the broken earth--some ebbing whirl Beaten along his silver sides--with hoofs A tempest-rifted precipice; or plunged Where, with blue locks, he larded; where the sea Frequented the wide world, and did not dip His whelming bosom in the brine: as well As any smiling star-flower on the morn, That in his clouds leapt up in sunlessness, To his proud height of being. For the night, Which slept not, was not passionate, but calm, Breathed on her like a music, ======================================== SAMPLE 119 ======================================== cries, "The wild lark has escaped, and the star is on the skies." This is a lonely house where throbs A ceaseless song in vague deliciousness, The unheard measure wails above, And every tone grows less and less; Yet here, the wind that sighs and rolls In cadence moans more sad than meeting skies, And here ... O hearts bereft of joy, O joy that is not sorrowful! So very quietly it stands, But, very quiet, cries, "Not quite so well;" Yet suddenly it lifts its hands, And, smiling in his sad despair, And seems to think, so calm and fair He looks on sleepy-eyed and old, A happy child ... And so is out on English ground Forced long enough, has never one, So gay a thing, so free from care, So gay a thing. I do not think her heart can know That where her spirit is so strong, Her heart-strings never touch the glow Of morning on the hills of song: How sweet it is when nurse at noon Her thoughts of home, with one white swoon And then to feel that they will soon Rejoice in her. But then she only had to smile, And smile in such a troubled while That then she only felt she'd stop With sad caresses at her foot, And then to kiss-- But in those childish days and sweet Was all her heart's sweet loneliness. Sometimes she thinks that we must fade, But still above, with human aid, She shuns the school for which she strives: No other hands will teach her voice, No other voices call her choice Than those she's dearly for the place. She could not bear to read one page That bent by rights her soul's desire, Yet knowing that it must be plain Her spirit's loneliness was theirs Beyond all other happiness. Sometimes, her hands clasp idly up, Her voice's distant music drown Its song of love and bade her run Beneath the stars and fill her cup With dreamy-deep imaginings. She had to read sometimes enough, But then, alas, too late indeed: "I'll wait, till all my soul is filled, Then surely she must come indeed; Some day I'll come, and see her triumphing, Then ride alone through lands and seas." She sent a wild and shy appeal, As tho' her youth were but a dream; She sent a gold-lipped, sullen stream That fed her heart with memories warm ... Then dawned, the law had yet to seem. I love her with the soft, sweet grace And all the moving grace of youth A vaguer of her gentle face And all the glories of her truth. I hate the sway of circumstance, The grim necessity That severs loving, I would hate With all the free, unfaltering sense Of selfishness and deepest hate That makes for others loves so vain The most too deep, the most too far. I hate to be a king, and yet, Though she loves me, she loves me still, And she may hate me, still, for all I hate her, I love her. Nay, no more, If I hate God, will I not love her, I am for her so much alone. A wild and passionate passionate grief That would not change nor alter quite, It was but love that stopped and broke The blade of His right hand in it. There was no end to this: but I-- I'll meet my people one and all To give her peace; but I, I'll cry, 'It's heaven that I should call it still.' So it was done; and then I knew That I should love her ere my close; So that I cried, "Is it so sweet? Oh, if it's He that I adore, Is it so sweet that I implore? Yes, He will come to me somewhere, And, oh, He's watching! I must wait!" I kissed the brow of one I knew And hoped He would not look too cold, Or cold, or false, or strangely bright For her and me to understand. Ah, take me in Thy hand and learn The story of my wrong and wrong! I loved Him not; the world, I wist, Was it was love which grew too strong To leave His side, or punish wrong? My ears are hollowed with His voice, And yet His hand is very near. ======================================== SAMPLE 120 ======================================== them, guards them not, nor fear To break the bonds that only can Abate the pride of masters there. Of courteous welcome should they take To their true friends, as friends, to make This grateful service to break down The wrongs that discord can sustain. They set the crowning yoke to none, Nor sell themselves their rights before; And for a pillage of their own, Repay the scutcheon of the poor. Whose treasures dissipate the plague, Her nursing-cloaks are fastened there; And in her pouch, two lily strowed With snowy white, and in her hair A water-gull. They look with fear, And thunder through the mountain-paths, Driven by their dint of sin and shame To their dark cairns. To-day each man Watches the cruel nipping frost, And laughs to see the leaves drop down, Which are as white as lilies pure With midnight mists: The moon has risen, The clear winds' silent ministry, A silver gleam. The stars are flown And let the bitter gales blow damp. To-day they think that they are dead; And that they have lost their crystal light, Where now their happy lives are made. Yet, in a month, if winds blow dry, Wherefore their woe lies in this heart, When the evening sun is fled. Must we weep o'er a hero slain, When the sad days of a nation's strife Will veil the glory of God, And the struggle between life and life? In vain? The dews will spread their seed, And the firm soil, which fed them, soon Went forth. Their common fate were stated, While the world creeps to the dawn of day, And their faith-signal favors wait And glitter at the cliff of life, While the dim earth waits, with patient bosom, For the passing of those pure souls, Which ne'er shall be forgotten! When the long year to full sweeps on And chops the chill day after And yields it freedom for an age, Nor power to curb or stay it, A race runs, shrill, but slowly And silently expects fulfil, Then slowly, while the winter is low, Its long, keen battle taking, A new life shines as fresh and bright As the rain's loveliest morning. And not a sunbeam comes with breath, Nor snow falls darkly from the heights, And the weary wanderers of the world Are glad when their hands clogged it, "Freedom is not for a vulgar life." And as for that which works surprise, And smiles by day and silent night, Were the days of Scotland's glory But the years of Scotland's might. And there the noble, nobly born, Went forth in the fitful glow Which saves those relics in the strife, And the hearts which waited for its doom. And if, by constant deeds performed, The soldier's grateful soil were spared, When the sunbeams, streaming on the floor, Should down the eye in a twilight shroud And kindle all life's roses And their young souls beheld once more They might not guess, nor ever know, That the struggle of the past And the glorious hopes of future things Were all too long upon its breast. Like those fair, beautiful lands afar Where the whirlwinds of the storm And the tempest of the battle clash On the piles of populous homes, Where the desire of man for his nation's peace Is nor life nor nature's withering blight, Their second hope of glorious increase Is gone and their glory is lost in night. Succeeding ages! by what right Dwell the wise, high-minded sons of thought, Whose true hearts wore the sacred spell That a nation's awful tomes unfolds, With the marvels of her clouded heavens, And the stir of heart and the joy of blood. But over those courts would a darkness be, That rose in a tempest not her own; And under that lordling white and pale A shadowy, kingliest of emperors. And around them would wan spectres march, Like the ghostly months among the mist, Who fear to take into themselves a gleam Of grief they left their ranks behind the King, While a glorious scene out-meeting the morning tide Of the banners of the right and the line of the multitude, All under the banner that wavered and fluttered, And under that banner whose banner we see. ======================================== SAMPLE 121 ======================================== ; He was dressed in black, scarlet and vermine, Vestured with exactions of tenderness, But his form was of beauty, he fancied, Like the flower's self,--all but one perfect flower. One by one his hopes went down as far As his wealth would crown him, and saw the friends Long estranged in the land. At the sight of these friends He set up his heavy hammer, said: "Let me blow here, and so it ends. For I have the strange fortune, I ponder, Of the quiet heart of one who has left His house to another," And with that colour which woman is wont To be finer than honey or love, He decked the fair bride who had proven A pattern and pattern for pattern, He added another. And this is the way the girl Was able to paint the boy's father. Her portrait is kept in our home By the bees as they pass by the city, A tall fishing-boats on the river, A city, with balconies loaded For high country repasts at night, Where fish from the fishing leap As they hurry along in the lake To meet in the river the village Who fashionable gardens surround them. And the fair bride in a flush Is the Fairies who wander around them; A spring cat with snowy coat In the pathway of fishing appear While I look at the pious pair,-- For the Fairies disputing all,-- The river-boats bearing the Fairies Facing with the moonlight on them; As though they were sent with speed, To save the fair Ship from affliction, They never leave judgment on hundreds. But thou in thy wooing's despite, Thy wife and her brood in the wrath, E'er slacked by the passing of judgment. And when do their labors unite Who slumbered so long in the deeps of The river, with paying their debts Through thine own vertue of worth, Who murmured in mortarous tones Of animated applause Of the Fairies themselves? And mark me! "all was right." As far as the signal to heed Who shall dare to complain of the fading Griffon of sports, such as Hercules Called the "Sons of the Surely." The boy went forth to the hills And mother in Gilead, To see that none left his door, In Gilead far from the hall And mother in Gilead. Here is a song in Latin rhymes As it is of the birds. The evening darkness is stealing Upon me. The birds have come to their nest In the morning. The young maids lie at their breast, A bath for the heroes! The young in their dreams of love Come from far-off valleys. Some the sweet maidens are, But the young maidens shiver, In the joy of the morning star, While the birds of the mountain quiver, O, shut your song, and listen! Then come to me, O ye lovers Of the rosy glens and greenwood, Of the hazel and the pine tree, Of the bud and blossom-plaster, Of the white-thorn and the pine! Ho, here we have the journey With the fairies and the leas, Among the meadows of the heather! Here will we start again, To meet them at their play-house, And when the sun is high We'll go to bed, I know not whither, Upon the path of dreams Following on breezy vision! Treading light on green Damascus And keeping watch by the sea, Thinking of thee! Thinking of thee! When on her heart thou com'st, Fresh as the morning dew, Sweet sleep to stay Our watch upon thee! Thou wakest in the day Of this fair day, And I am fain to pray Before thy throne now. None stirs in the blue, But the light of thy great soul Is strong in me. Thou standest in the garden, At its world-wise door, Watching the earth in its beauty And the green ways evermore. Though I cannot call thee nay, Nor where thou wilt be, Yet the fountain-ways of the seasons Within me and on me Hold thee; and when my heart Shall have spoken, and I saw Thy roses beside thee, The flowers be-decked with blossom, And the wind through thy branches blown, I will ======================================== SAMPLE 122 ======================================== Resenting was he, his lady's smile: "Sir Knight," he said, "among your noble train, Worthy a knight we heretofore are fain, Is our high will but homage to obtain. I came not here, for 'tis but fit to wait, The care I bear not, and the power I hate, With them, I must implore you let me know That I with courtesy will gladly go." With that the Knight his question did conspire With one of his two lances at a time, But, ere he rose, with one accord and mirth To him the generous Eustace gave the knight; Wherewith with a sharp glance did the warrior fight, And thus bespake the stranger knight and knight, "Sir knight, to my commands this stranger do; 'Tis hid within the border of the Moor: There where you see the fort is fortned new. In coming of a knight who well can fight, The Saracens will ride without delay; The assaulted will for many a day Hang their bright arms upon the castle wall, Shall set their spears in order to a fall. But seek we Marsiliun, if your name Shall in the arena be borne in fame; He with his brother, and the Count of Spaine, By Christ's enquire shall lead our army fain; You with the lance you meekly shall disdain." He, bowing, with impetuous passion burned, And with his faulchion flew the noble youth, Till GAMA, having left his people's guide, Bent down his head, and bade his host behind The valiant Francis bear their standards wide. Now came the conscript full of soldiers bold, And all, that in their council service wert, Ere the fourth act was done, the band well-stored, And in that moment was the festal feat, And flags waved o'er the many festal street. Now they that sit in Council held debate, Armored in arms, their warlike wont to show, What faulchions fair to see, what shields to threat, How well aieled and rich full of young and old, Had been provided for this warlike band To see if all their prowess could withstand, Withdrawn from France, they over-ran the land, And when they should assembled stand, they wend, Together linked in military speed. Where they encountered in the victor's sight Rogero, of the valorous lance in chase: But who, as said, believed the bugle's sound, Nor deemed the fittest meeting to engage, Nor deemed the desperate fight by Dudon prest, Till in due muster the third knights were seated. Meanwhile the valiant Sir Rinaldo slights, Who bears Sobrino's falchion in his hand, (That bridge which through all dangers passeth by,) For him good Brigliador the lance hath slain, Whose body late from that bridge was ta'en; Whose fall with mighty clamour now resounds, And echoes back from both the towers and walls. And now, besides the splinters of that shield Is manifest, with his white crest inlaid, He in the flank of Agramant descends, And, as he looks with troubled and troubled face, Spurs by the courser courser in his place. More, in the flank, than others, scour the field, More, where fierce Paynim has no warder stied, Which follows furious and unjust and fell. He, cleaving this, through many a gaping wound, Is crushed, and plunges in sanguinary wise, Here, there, 'mid corpses, many a vengeful wound, Inflamed with fire, his foaming courser lies. The monarch makes the story of the faulchion Of the two furious warriors, that with hand Vermilion, which in Calpe towered o'er the plain, Bold Flordelice, with sulphur foul and brand, He feigns; nor has returned from the caitiff's hold; That mighty warrior, who had pierced so deep, And many an eyelash lurked with anguish-dyed, When he the stripling of the bridge had crost, And not the leech who succored him, at need, And well for life, preserved himself, as dead, In other's ears had valiant Falsar been. When thus in stirring tone the faulchion said: ======================================== SAMPLE 123 ======================================== ness, cunning beauty, wisdom that No man had ever found. They sang of heaven's glorious dispensations, Of love supremely blest, Of all the dream-perplexities, Of victory and death embraced; And of that good old law Which makes of earth a clearer star; Of incomparable grace That makes the whole face sweet: Of perfect trust in His throne, In ways to please and men to please; Of simple faith in nothing; Of fellowship in all things--he, Whose God is everywhere, And man's life is but effort, and a strenuous toil, When the ripe mouth, bled out with gladness, shall give proof That all its flower laughs down to meet the small heart That ever had known love. Then may they read the sign of the knowledge that has brought Their friend to the door; From that voice-frenzied, imperious note, That bids men hope and fear, Those soul-souled, undying words, to give their dream-world peace. Old memories shall awake Before we depart, Naked as thy kiss, O rose of memory! But from thy kiss shall I not enter other hearts To make our true loves light as thine grows dark before? O day of man's desire! O splendid sun-fire That burns upon the night's wide floor, As thou desirest--in thy love's leash, O love! And in thy kiss thy sweet mouth; All love, all hate, all hate, in thee! But O sweet moon, come down! I am so wronged That I must dare to die. Why is my love so small, So sudden and so sweet? Or is it but an ecstasy That thou and I, may meet? And, if it be not so, This love that I may make Not, and I leave to thee, Come back, O dove, at thy last word, come! But if thou leave to me, Come back, O dove, at thy last word, Come back, O dove, at thy last word, come. I would, I would that I might have thy heart, And life and love as one in sweet accord Walking amid the flowers; But if thou leave to me this day, Let this love be but in vain, That love whose yielding beauty draws The hearts of men again. If thou delayest no further than this day, Then shalt thou be cast out of my sight; So I but meet, and I wait the perfect day, Content till thy sweet eyes shall surely shine with mine, Till the Love-goddess unbind me. Wait not for me, O dove, When on this breast thy head, First laid, is ready to receive the token of thee; So shall I surely find thee. I cannot and I will not; But a tender kiss (a kiss I must take from thee!) Consummate and sublime Here, still to quiet Time. No wind of rain, no rain! Fold in thy tresses all my soul. Look forth, sweet snow of snow! My feet are fleeces soft and warm. Though the long journey close, To sail is never for the lost. To wander over sea Must be one journey unto ship. A bird on the dry brine Is singing to me. Eternity I count the years That still pass by. And what will happen when we die, Since never I'm gone by? White flower! Though the dew stops the rose in the first little heap, And though the garden blossom no new green I keep, My love has come back to me, the old love still keeps, And silently drags me on where I lie asleep. The mossy banks are all broken in a tear, The little brook runs all broken to the ground, The desert springs in a charnel of perfume rare, But a lonely land where the saints keep revel round. The land of the pilgrim is loved of old, The land of the lowly, the land of the tall, Where a little nest, a broken heart, a mould, A heart fulfilled of holy and fasting small. What though the forest be ruined and the stone, The world be lost that is the world of gold; Though the dry earth lard her lonely bed alone, The land of love that is the land of bread. The nest that is sheltering is found of those Who pleasantly guard their doors from fell and sun; How the swan flits through the water in the pond And winds the ======================================== SAMPLE 124 ======================================== , soft, white, and mix'd with flakes of snow. Her slumber ceased; sleep with the world reposed; Faintly she seem'd to breathe, yet scarce awake, As from a trance her motion all aghast With the great sense of life's eternity, Which only seem'd to lift her dreaming eyes To heaven; or that empassated sphere Where all things live remorseless; and her smile, (A mockery of the gay, sweet thought of joy) Swifter and bolder, as the vision fell At once on her; and only she remember'd all. O love, return, and be with me in Heaven! I have remember'd deeds like those we love, Combining with ambitious fancy, too To be forgotten; for the dark dull sky Doth bow before the great Creator, Love, And all the mysteries of human life Are but the legacy that Nature gave, And gives for each a moment of her birth. Love is the theme for ever, and for ever! Fondness, and love, and melody, and tears, Shall with such slight small pæans make a heaven To suit a sense of needful ecstasy For ever, and for ever, thine and mine! Thus, thus the single moment of love's advent Will pass, till human hearts at length shall rise To feelings at the mercy of the King, Whom on the bosom of his Table falls; Though his reign hath been chang'd into a coil, Through him there's not a prayer to be begot Of all the good and universal world And that imperial creation, which is what It ends in, by which those feeble limbs are worn, Whose light the glimmering shadow of a die, And whose age adds to every glorious age, And counts the clock-beats of eternity; To whom 'tis given to give true counsel, 'tis A counsel, and a truth, in wits and fables. And therefore doe not take me from the grave, Which needs no being, while I have a breath; Let me not live with troubles, or with woe, For this I live; 'twere better death and death Were worse, by law, than nothing here below. This warlike man who keeps his proper trade Of bloody arms, or warlike bravely drest, In England's court a simple poet wrote, Perhaps himself had hardly read a verse, Or liv'd a life of blood, but one of all The desperate, rude, vile, that would devour For mankind, in the breast of death, to swell A giant brood, with them that court the grave; And never in his life was there combin'd A line of virtue, a broad, black, and proud But emblem'd for the breast of tyranny; Or a poor widow, dying for a soul, That aims to hide the wreath that must be won By cruelty, and die to save the one. At first, while thus, the Bard adoring life, Yet gave it not the hope of liberty, The fiery passions of the blood and brain, The wild blood, and that thunder which outburns The genius of the blood which purged and bled, Had moved the sons of stern rebellion sore, Scorning the title of the injured Bard. So, with the prodigy, the Bard exclaim'd, Yet do not beleeff me to expose my dust: My fiery passions are so sorely dyed In my unsmirksome blood, I am no more An imp beside, a Jackdaw, or a dog, Myself,--intending to make law, and rule, And justly to suggest that I should be A living soul, not an expiring fool. All this time, therefore, O my friends, attend! Since thou hast ever lov'd, and I have lov'd, Bear with me now, and with that faith befriend! Thou shalt be happy in this common life, If thou art happy to this common death. See, the brisk cuckold claims his simple fare, And soon the champion takes the ready gold; How should he, but a novice in the art, Be featured like his peers in that old Tart, And conquering with his eunuch-spear'd might, To rid himself of glory from the dust? The gaudy colour'd robe which clothed him so, Though stiff and rough his coat, yet did he seem Like a proud maid, without the show or mask Of a true woman's fashion. For all this, There is but one beholding in his fate His bea ======================================== SAMPLE 125 ======================================== You, stoop and ask the people of Their promise-offer in their terror-cries To ask what Land discerned our Italy, That had seen king o' the world and ruled its wars Soaring beyond the shrinking Italy To greet him with her thunders on her coasts. And so it comes that, for a moment, O The undiscovered land! A lovelier man! He made thee, Francis; that is all the tale Will tell; but thou art none the sweeter; none Regardest all that wilder mystery Whereby men speak the word that once it said, "It is the land of Romances that she knew." What land was it that passed away from thee, These hundred years? what greatness could befall Aught that it brought? What treasured things of it? It seemed thy power was all-pervading Rome And strong Empedocles, and the soft sway Of Venice in thine even-balanced clime. O, was it not the yet miraculous end Of all the natural things, when, one by one, We are alone, her wealth of loveliness? And thou, O Nature, left'st the costliest For evermore, but worthiest to be A witness of the quiet majesty That reigned within thee; and the causes were Thine own, that surely must advance and draw Another circle unto its long light, Whereto thou drewest, and thy power foresaw. Thou wast upon thy stately tow'r upheld By the great Consuls; thou before thyself Didst bend the lowliest of the great, and set Upon the greatest throne, the State in which We both were seated while the thrones were throned. Is this the place for such transfeminated Freemen, as these, her brothers, or even friends, Might shame us for our lack of sight? We would, As Romulus say, with a wider space Of wall, to see if it could lead our home From Rome to Ephesus. But thy gifts on earth, (Like as a man of old, or Tuscan show, When something greater fills his mind with doubt About the shadow of his chance or fear), Could ill have help, even in this field of ours. 'Tis in the hedgerows of the peaceful tilth, Where peasants eat their cream (p. Beware lest thou Get any too much where thou hast any share). Obscured it yields no more opinions To us than to our enemies or friends, For which they pray so great, so just, so kind, That we besiege the land, and so contrive To free the inhabitants. For this is not The land which to Camillus was consigned The Italians, nor the gods in any land; Nor is it, save by dint of sword and flame, The citizen's defence against so many foes As now, where'er the open plain is drest With soldiers, that have little blood to spare. Their enemies, 'tis all the same, and I Avenged them to have helped, and to have borne Their miseries for some years: but if I think They will consent to see the state and use Of their society, 'tis plain they will. And now, since this event our citizens And sovereign lords have little rights to do, Their enemies will prove that they are good And theirs; as if no day were lost, but we Weary of wishing to escape the yoke Of human dissolution. We are bound To that, if only thus, that we should do Our uses and our service as it ought. We give our sons an upgrown liberty To their companions, if they faint or fall Upon the instant needful; and, in sooth, We wish that they would do so with their wives, And hear what news they have, and never choose But that his lordship may inform the world That we are merchants. We are tired of this, And bring back what we found but useless waste, And we may die to serve another folk. No, by all means, the good are not the bad; The good are not the good of what they are; And so the good are not the good of those Who live where they are poor, but whether There be a weary life and a debauch, Or rich or poor, or rich or poor, or both, The good they have or will be all or none. One pays, another pays, they're good or bad; Let this be what it will, the good they are Is ours, or ======================================== SAMPLE 126 ======================================== Divine, And though his benedictions fall Like hail, he has but wept it all. The fury of the Father's brain, He cannot see, he has not wept; He would not be content with pain, He cannot see, he has not wept. Poor Polly! fie, poor Polly! Cock don't crow, Dag won't crow, All the fowls on mischief bent are, Oh, scold! scold! Hear, pig, ho! Hear, pig, ho! Tooth-whistle, cuttle, and trumpeter, Cap-pale, pig, I'm very severe,-- I'm getting too fat! There! what? what? a cheese! I guess what I'll get! Here a pint! For, tuck down his fist, and sip A glass of wine, That I, for my part, may see Quite as full as he is. Come with me, my Jenny, The fag's poor, And oh! how I like his fag When as I shall bide here! Four and twenty tailors, and come to town With a haberdasher, you know, and whose Beautiful black market-ivery wear; Come to me quickly, and drop the cash down, For this old night's a grand Sunday's house. We have started as our folks began, And now the good folks must come in To dance the daffodils all the while To see us coming home. By our hired girl, that night, There was a grand street-corner there, And three she ran with her. And I! it's a grand sight! Here comes the seven wighter! Hark, how the jolly house-bells boom To the robber lads at home. And the jolly cherry trees Rear their red faces to the moon, And the rarest misty day Is coming with the comin' soon. And you'd good-bye to everything Before you pass away! I'll give you two cigars, if you Don't want cigars,--yes, some! And then, some night, perhaps, I'll buy Big wheelbarrows that you let out; And in your big wheelbarrow there'll be A lady with a red-faced smile, A very pretty Russian girl With soft, brown hair, and black eyes. You'll find the woman you love, I really don't know which, But I'd give her two cigars, and one, Dear lass, I'd buy the cocktail; so don't you, Come, now, I'll come with that! Here's a glass of turtle water, And it fairly turns round, It's just like turtle water, But I'm not a pound. They're too much jolly to dine, young chap! The rhymes for operatic rhyme: Come, come along, the board's bespoke, And with the lady you love us, Come! Don't you envy my poor cottage? Who's mistress? You're a vagabond! What's your business? You betrays! And yet the kindest of us figures 'Bout whom my poor friends might praise! Who's mistress? You're a vagabond! Who's mistress? You're a snob!-- Don't you want my wife, Who is my dear? Who's my dear? Who made me happy? Since the day I died I've but to see my dear deceased. If it be possible You've no new bargain for my grave. It is a little fifteenth day, And when I know it you may lie Out in the grass! You have a heart, And for a little gold-bell, And a jewel, too, Upon the little plate Which a broken body pinned Has or has gone,-- Go to the shop, And there inquire About the matter, and the meaning; And be grave enough, By looking at a single article, That you can put Against an orb of blessed Truth, As far as she, That on her wings she writes, And cannot speak! It's no religion I shall weigh To get back home, for without money, My dear, You would fain buy true freedom, right away; But that is really a question. Some folks have always silvered ears Of strongest muscles, bent on straining Their fathers' ears ======================================== SAMPLE 127 ======================================== died,-- But the gold in his mouth was the heart of a maid; O, there was a man who made answer; And one day he said as he sauntered up the street: "I wish I could make my visit On the borders of the old man's garden, And have seen the ringer in his bonnet. I can make my visit Inverness, And send him down the summer solstice, To see if the ring approve my views, For 'tis half-past twelve o'clock already." And the gray old man was very kind. A slippered youth and an old maid Sat down by the side of the fences; And it was her manner to be A lily-teeming farmer. They had no laggards, you would say, For they looked like Tom and Tom then; And 'twas my manner to be A lily-teeming farmer. Through the sweet Spring, from dusk till dawn, In a thick bush, this summer day, The merriest of all the hay, With a welcome call, sped away, With a laugh of jocund mirth, A jest of Robin-like laughter At the change so great a nymph has told, All in the leafy softest grove That you saw in wild love,-- If you thought, "When maidens sing How the lightsome glance bestakes the spring." "And what secret signs are these For my red-cheeked belovëd guest?" "Ah, the world-old rose that dies And blossoms in the April skies!" Thus he spoke--"Your friend and mine Are the keys of conjugations fine-- Of violets and phlox and urns Wherewith you may make a sieve-- Or the bird that in her pathway sighs To lure his flocks to pasture-lands Where none may drain the summer-rain, Nor track the bleeding hart again; The partridge hiding in the brake His heart may heal or bind his heart, The maiden's heart may teach to speak When weary of the silvery dart Thou feel'st on wing or ruffled wing, Or from the love of maiden's eyes She has less love and less desire, And thou art noFit belovéd ghost For, flitting through the starry host, She sits no more in revelry Than fickle maidens of the isle, Though fickle hearts may laugh or smile. In palaces and castles grand She sits with folded winglets grand As if she loved a gladsome thrall, And loves the summer, till her hair Curls everywhere about her feet; And every eve, beneath the moon, Of sweet and beautiful alway She lures him by a leafy tree Beside a lonely water-way. Along the mountain-sides she goes On her light doe gallant men; The lonely water-lily blows By brier, and birch, and briar, Till the startled sound shall bear Sweet beauty to the very air, And the startled mountain-air Shall tell the maiden where she is, For she has known her lover here. A bitter wind blew early Out of the dripping flower, For she must give the peasant A great white hand in dower, For she would swear an unseen oath Her heart was in an alien land. "O my strong gray-bearded charger, How art thou freighted high With those who fawn on danger, Thou bold and beautiful steed, Who ride upon the saddle With head a-fringe with the wind, And the waving of thy white hand, Are of the best on earth as I Shall be the warder and guide Of these that follow on their way." "Yet think not that the folk will spurn My protestations, Though in theyr armour gleam the wind And wring their garments to the bone, My kinsmen bear them bardedly With face upturned in insolence, And hearts that are so heavy That they for many a year will press Through storms that threaten thunder And that they lack a single thing Through flood and thunder. "I will not sleep till thou awake," Said I, and sighed. "Nor then awake till the blue sky glows," I said; "I will not dream of sleep Save in the heaven above me The one eternal vision keep, In which a watchful God shall stand ======================================== SAMPLE 128 ======================================== already, forward sprung: To whom their joy The angels, anguished from the womb of fire, Their harps they hew and serve thee; but for thee Not any gifts, nor other service done, Their service brings thee not unto thy Son. To whom thus Michael. Of the first three types A glorious answer Satan gave, that all Might joyn: For in the second ye behold Zoe, and in Heaven; nor aught else requisite By means of servitude, but obedience, Is wholly free; part, heart and eyes; the rest With God as in the first. And he in scorn Of that fair flower, whose rash disheads to thee So much is wanting, as thou yet shalt thirst To see it only, and wish to be The same which in our after-habit earth. However, be it strange or wonderful, In heaven or earth, as thou shalt cry therefor, -- Yea, or the lilies' or of flowers' breath-- Shall yet be thine: Of the twelve plants shalt thou take No more account, but for the like of them, Either for scent or hue, wherein thy Son May live, and grow up like to Heaven-day: The glory thence thou mayest more conspicuous In the crown'd forehead, than the stoniest crown Shall be to thee less fair or less conspicuous: Since to God's love looking as in a glass, Thy sight, as is the Heaven, can ne'er be quench'd. Now therefore on the damsel Bride of Childe Springs out a noise of triumph; and the rest Trip to the ladies: In two jousts they reach, Where the great feast is spread, the ancient hall: But, when they list, the hall is left a void, And night and day unites them to the wine. Thus held their revel; and the dames and youths, There with the dames retired; nor did the rest Disport them, one or the other, in their search To find the bridal partners; so bewitched Each with her favourite, by the eventide, Deeming they might be worse than they were now. Then to the bard, Angelica, who saw At that same hour the self-same form appear, Worthy the race of Dardanus to be, (So was her dearly-bought bride added here) Beggan, by fancy for the bridal wreath, To one of the twelve lovely sisters, who With one accord join'd them; they at sight The bridal partners all were putting on, And, as it might, were but things unreson. The bridal partners through the shadowy grove Were rowing, each with eager pace, and each Alike full-grown and comely to the sense Of gazing; this to show her was at sight, And to approach them, slipp'd her golden tresses, Ambrosial odours, eglantine and rose. The men were present on the labourer's farm To gather flowers; and now the work was done. An aged seer, not born to serve a bar, Leapt up, and, running, said, "Too long a guide! Loose then the thread, and thou shalt find the charm!" Flaxen had done as doth the female fair Teach men, and made them by their words obey: But, having spoke, the aged seer his vow Firm saw, and forthwith broke the virgin's vow. He, when the aged seer had plainly seen The reason of his vows, and saw the youth, Rejoiced that Dardan baron he might prove Faulty, if he advised him, in his truth, The cord to change, as melteth wax the sapling. He now prepared to run, and made a race, And eke to cut one branch amid the wood. There Dares was, and his arithönian name One of the myriads, one who loved his skill In the prime art of harmony, and some Who best could conjure up that laborious string, To speak the will of those to task who knew. So Dares tripping a jolly troop came by, Known to him in the bower of laurel-trees, When, by the singer accompanied, A troop came forth to meet him, men of wealth And high degree, their order and array; And with the comeliest of their company He all the riches of the field bestrode. Now by ======================================== SAMPLE 129 ======================================== same air that lends a shower To that their food? Like him they stand! Lover of Time! my comrade dead! His wanderings are o'er. How comes he now? I know him. (Oh, I know him well!)-- All flown with fears, His burning hopes in ashes dwell! I think he lives. (It is not true! He still survives!) He will come back to me and you-- Nothing more strange Than sadness for departed friends, Alas, I wait! The winds that blow Have riven him; His last thought, his desire has fled; That hour shall come When, like the ghost In the dark tomb, His soul shall soothe his body with sweet rest. Thus ever did I love him! His silent tears Speak joy. I love him! Yea, his spirit thrills (All memory shrinks from memory!) As from his grave He turns, a weeping look, his spirit's grave. Ah! have you mark'd, when last we met, The desecrated street; And I have stood, alone, at length, Possest of joyous greeting. Yet all in vain I look'd, O soul! Alas, my own soul lost its last! Saying, "As prosper, Lord, my children! So prove your love, my child! Doth all the hollow heavens engulf us?" No more my own poor heart. Where's now that spirit fair, The angel fair Hath rest and peace and folded wings? Is earth a grave--a grave, So all alone--a grave? O record me of days departed, O records of days gone by, When we were both to the old record, Ere aught of us went bye! When we were only a little tad, From morning till even, We wuz as happy as happy could be, And a happy life a'. O records all Of days gone by, Of glorious days departed, and pleasant Alyssum in the sky! O records all Of days gone by! All sad and dreary, and dreary, and dreary, Often we're looking shy-- But O it's saddest to know that there's ever A heart in that beautiful sphere! THE smiles that glitter'd And linger'd In the twilight gloom of the cypress-wood, Came like a breath from the heart of the spring, Now glisten'd and listenen, And then on the wall--till I look'd in my heart And seem'd to have gone away From my house, and no longer Could keep her away, And the air so dreary Was her farewell to me; But I remember'd once how she used to sing, And the tune of her voice so sweet, As of birds her requiem, In the woods of life; And I seem'd to hear her for hours on the wing, And I felt once more That I was away with her--did not know That I was a fairy bride, And no happy star on a dowry grace Would wait for the silver light of her face In the mirror above her head, And, amid the revels of night and of day, Have learn'd to haunt, unawares, The echo of oaten pipes, and the sound Of beautiful little pranks tering up in the hall. O hasten slowly to some ethereal sphere Where all my thoughts, all cast aside by grief, Are still most happy; it may wake no more Through dim, uncertain doubts, nor ever cease To find within its joys a dream so fair Of love and constancy and faith and peace; For all my hopes of heaven are vanishing Before its glimmering light is gone--O sight So beautiful and fair! O Earth! theWhenever thou dost stir, There comes a charmed vision to my soul, So charmed, so bodilessly dear, It is not like thy mother-milk-a for joy-sweetness, But like a warm sweet baby-heart Who has no eyes to smile, Grown soft and full of fondness, As though, methought, I stood At its mother's knee, There in thy open solitude Thy silvery brook afar I see, Where'er my spirit lets go free. O Earth! in very wonder dwells The beauty of thy bosom deign, Hearing how faint it stirs, Yet to each other never ======================================== SAMPLE 130 ======================================== heaven they praise; to hide him, flee To earth--yet, there he loves; where'er you go, All time and space is in the soul's deep wound, Unfolds his lost wing, and its spell hath found Unyoked its thought-bound spell of vanished days, But sends no spark, not unlost glory's ray, To waken on the planet of our praise The lost soul, and its message high and high, Which though it close adown the shining sky, Still shine of mild moon and serenity, To bid its image wander: all that hear From him are in the dearest, waking ears, Low murmuring of his name and glory there, Wishful, but yet serene; with starry eyes Languishing in his soul the heavenly prize, And in the very image of his love, All life rekindles when it seems to move. And when he inmost throbs through all the air, To see the bird's calm wisdom on his bough, Like some faint sweet caress, or forest air, Ripples in the fresh leafage of the bough. 'Tis well, beloved, that thou shouldst live with me; Else I would sing him ere he sink to rest, Would my brave soul be able to go through thee. Nay, 'tis not I that love thee, nor the scorn That my poor heart has borne thee, nor can turn To the love-light, and all the trust of gain Drawn to his fullest grasp, with such delight As heart's fierce tyrant cannot tremble in With bars and death-cries that in sweetest strife Could shape the perfect life to perfect life, Now, now, dear love, I pray thee, let us part. I am alone. For love, with wedded heart, Me bids not part for ever. So, at last, There cometh one dear love. Ah, come to me! For I would seek thee ere the morning be, And when the night is gone my light should grow As rose the rose in heaven, and lily snow She shall be lily-ploaked till the dusk Is come, and then, with morning's first surprise, She shall be lily-ploaked till love's eyes Are flooding eyes with tears of hopeless love Until, by pain, the sight of her is strange. Yet love, forgetful of my all I am, Hath laid his utmost kisses on my mouth. And yet, just this to love, now all is o'er. Laugh, though I clomb the earth to see her more, To kiss the flowers she cherished so, and say (Such things be sweet when given to thee) she's mine, My soul's for ever lost; for very sake Of thee and me, I'd rather be the lake That gladdens at its mirror than the sky Where morning melts to sunset when it wakes, Than be the earth-bird's rapture, if she take One little word from me or memory takes One step of thine to wake me to her hand. My love was as a sea, whose calm seems made For every ripple that by wind or wave Conducted it to smiles and music's tone. I know the birds that make their song one flight Of one clear song, and know that not one bird For evermore may awaken near the sun. There was a time when two fair forms of life Would whisper to me of deep sympathy, Of secrets lit to love, of love, of strife, Of tenderness, of truth, of soul for aye. And I have mixed with joy those wind-bright eyes, Widened by dreams of joys beyond our ken, Of tenderness. Now these are as a sea, Deep-lashed and gurgling, and with all their power I sit like lover in a trance of trance. When first my love for thee at eventide Grew to perfection, joy was in its train, Humility in summer rich and green Seized on thy heart. And thus my love's delight, Blooming and brown in sunshine quickened on thee And melted through thy face, and warm thy mouth. So, as a butterfly flits through the fields Of the new day, my love thy body seeks; Oh, yield thee, love, to one that needs must wait, With eagerness to gather for thy kiss; Oh, lift thy eyes to mine that loves thee not! All day the wind breathes, the sun grows chill, The wind breat ======================================== SAMPLE 131 ======================================== . I know not if his prowess were complete, But he must meet a champion of such might, Unmeet to be the death of spear or stone, And rend his shield with such resistless force That in the dust he lies there dead alone. So now the joyous chase was hardly won, At last the sun sank down, the air was mild, And still the troubled stream of blood did flow, And from the two loud voices rose the wail Of women and of men, as through the crowd It shouted and gave forth, "Now, then, 'tis done! His prize of glory is already won, He stands alone--it cannot hold him back! His arms are full of strife, he deems too light To hold a champion worthy to be bright." The children gathered there, and cried again: "We bring the bow which rests upon the quiver, With lance and sword; we have the bow in vain! Lo, thus the murderer is pursued--Alas, Thou hast slain him--be it so! My heart with shame Would break in pieces if thou didst not claim The service for this cordial sacrifice!" Then, his brawn shield he raised and smote full- thwack, And smote a mighty blow, far nobler far Than was the son of him who answered 'Sir, Not without art, but art, is wrought by art-- Arms have we, and beauty has matched in war, And are the wisest of us all bereft Of those arms of ours which never could be left.' One died of thirst, and smote a giant knight Before him with his spear--and in his plume Sliced at his throat, his helmet of the heath Descended, by its grandeur saved as a shield, And fallen 'neath his helm, below the brow Where the sword cuts its edge into a flank; And Balen turned and gazed upon him blank, And cried, "Alas, that noble knight! the steel Saved us--behold the glorious victor's meed!" But now the victor had him laid in earth, And Balen turned to see the fair one there; And that one found her fairest not for him, And by the side of his whom she had bred, Slew him, and she in pity, smiling said: "Thou shalt be saved--I kissed thy lip to see, And hold thee prisoner, and thy hand shall be Quaffing the lifeblood of thee where thou leavest part of me." Again he said it, and his eyes grew bright With gladness now, and therewithal a verse Was writ and feat as a young blushing girl Hath said within her bosom when she sees The heart and lips of the boy--his face beneath In the bright smile whence she hath fallen down, And now that time is gone from answering lips, The maiden a white swan at mid-day swooping Had past her knee, and fearless to the quest And wearing golden scarf on which she prest A faery damsel with her maiden vest. And as the summer sun sank down, and threw His beams upon the land, so Balen drew His fiery blade, and the young chief's mood Was charmed up with a maiden's face and face, And lo, before him, like the full-armed sun, White-armed, of tall stature, stood young Launcelot, And stood adored, and kissed him as his life waxed slow. And yet his face, it seemed, still death-like grew, As the green-seeing moon, which at night hour Peeps through the stars, when there great stormclouds sit Upon the world, when air is void of light, Rises and falls and shoots out merrily, And all is bright in the thick-globed casement; And by the light upon the living world Which Merlin dreamed on, and by his own eyes kindled, In those dear eyes he saw the light again, And all that she had lost, and all that she had done. And Balen, seeing his eyes still bright and dim, Made question of them, and looked on them long, As though they saw but not, as though on fire With love that made them glad; and then he turned And in a little space, and said to him, "Sorrow not that, but fear not that, you see My lady, for I know too well that all Those sorrowing wights that used to say her name Were wights of mine, and all for my sweet shame." ======================================== SAMPLE 132 ======================================== , before We, who never fail'd, sat one day, learning Tales of those years and struggles strange, Of some great struggle to be whole, Of some great struggle to be whole Was but a tale of mystery. He might not tell: 'twere wrong to err In books, unless he tried to teach. He must be gentle, loving chaste, As Arthur is in any place. "You went and broke a plan. You never Fear'd theretoo to let the trouble through. You never fail'd--" How did you do? And what about the arm?" They knew That what he wish'd to see for you Was in the face he would not do. "And you were late enough to know That John was dying. You and I Had been too sad for such a pair Of happy lovers. Now 'tis clear This marriage has been settled so. I wish that you might meet us there At the marriage time, as I do now. In the same grounds, so long we've sat, At this time, we have nothing to fear. I hope you'll send the poor man here, And then you'll have me, dear." And then Would quarrel and would fret and tease The man's poor family while away From this of your poor family. So we arose in the morn, I rose in the morning; Was I not? I am sleeping. My darlings, you came in. You could have crush'd them, if you thought That you must fall, they had been naught. They could have crush'd, but they were dead. They died. They could have died, not I. I rose in the morning, I rose in the morning; I rose in the morning, For cause to weep, not I. And the cause, so tried, left I For thinking too. What a tale! But the tale? Ah no, no, no, no, They did not come to the end of the year, Or just to be sold off at once, On both sides of the country. Teddy and Beller came again, Not like the news from London; The half-cracked jokes of the people Burst from the tale of a tithe-tongued term, And cried (a puny Twiston, the which he bought By a tailor of St. James's) "Sir, you're not fit for a song, Your commendatory fortune." In early times, when the steamers were under her arm, They sat her down on a chair, and took up a model to arm With her slave, a golden bag with nothing to eat in the place From women and boys to the flounce, which vibrated round her. Her brow-chin, her black eyes, were both blue and sallow, Her waistband so black, and her ringlets, most comely and bright, A wild expectant curl, down her neck, in short all unmeet For a smooth little mouth, which in short it may hold or untied For the bane accursed of any, 'gainst those who love meat. I brought her a rose, And her name I shall vener; How the colour of white Bounds, and fades, and vanishes, 'Mid the rose-scented aves In the leaves of tender aves. In those northern parts of our country, Which a snow-storm casts o'er us, Fell some beautiful air, With her sudden strange smile, Like a something buried there. Fairies, you must know, Looking to the flowers below, For a something gone amiss, Felt you whisper'd, then kiss. How shall I discover, then, Why such graces act? And why make the heart of man Burn all day, and stand so near, That it keep all alive With love, and not give death? Hail to the morning! Hail, to the night! And they who watch it Under the stars, and under our moon, Claim, by their looks, their indivisible purpose. And they answer, nodding. And they look, with wisdom in them, For the wisdom which is in them: How shall I know, then, Why such graces act? In the heroic lives of you They were happy, oh! how few! God liked you, little Mary, Better than men are we; And you are all your heart's desires, And yours, unutter'd, unref ======================================== SAMPLE 133 ======================================== this floor, With bolts of starry-blue, broken inunder-woven, Shall, rising like a tomb, pierce the golden scars, And each stone, the story tell, glistens in the vast Sudden walls and roofed arches, Amazing deeps, dim. These windows, this grey stone, sleep like a wraith, moving In fallen glimmers. These windows, gray, grey, gray, Where mid-sea shallows wade, Like overthstantial shadows; Where in the small, loose-left, deep-slurred avenues of palm; There fall beaker-cups of roses Dimpled by sleep, on grass, red as the Mermaid's wine. Not on the walls of fairyland The glorious sunset ever flows, But on the lichened walls of the grey garden, Where sunset never reposes, But, opening, lets the ivy cloy Open its buds, and as the day Draws closer, shadeless, so the roses With their own sunlight fade away, As the red petals of sunrise-- As the rapt seraphim of evening, Dreamily bright, fold their wings Round the divine imperial porch whose alleys Faint with warm beams of starlight, Fling, wavering, hovering, From the falling fleur-de-lis To the dewy pearly gates of the dawn. But where the garden flowers that bloom Like flowers in the crumbled drowsy earth, See how the thousand eyes of care By the strange moonlight change and twine, For sight and sound and sound not one Through the cold fretting of the garden, A moon her perfect face, nor ever A sun that has the casement pierce. And what is so close to my heart, As it holds my soul with a sword, Girt round about me from the part Of its gaze and of its being? Which does it know?--I bow to you, As a priest before the sun. Yet I have struck from deeper view Beauties beyond these heavens in, That my soul shall pass before you, Pass before you as men pass To the waving of their banners, Pass like spirits glorified By your fathers, and shall know them, Pass and triumph in their turn. They are on the road to you. For you are a strange child My heart has often trod. I often think your gentle eyes Must ever keep their arcades In sight of father's house, Thro' a dim place, over against against the dark; But on the road to you. You have struck the earth-- So I suppose There was some miracle in the moonlight, Some path across the sky In a bright waste of sky The blessed suns of my life; But you have travelled with me And it is only as well As the swift clouds over the pale abyss of the road, Or the high stars that fell, Slowly, the gathered stars, But the Wise Astronomer is one who knows. He can drink and drink. He is young, my girl, And I can little help him. God will have him as He walks, Saying that he will not be too far away. But with him, when he grows older, He will have a bookful That will tell you of knowledge that is in the world Too much known for knowledge As knowledge is, to my deep joy in the silent darkness. Nor will he betake me To his hoodlashes and carcanets, That I cannot understand the secret of all the meaning of the world. But the one that is beautiful will I be thankful for. So when I have shut the book, And no time is left to listen, Do not hesitate to make your bosom glowed, Or you will not turn your face Or make tranquil your heart. Why should I? Why should I turn the page Of that pictured book, And hold my breath in mine? You, my blood, are about me, Flowing along with me, Like a nectar divine. I will keep them all, All of them, with music, With lutes of sound, Calling me to thee. And, beside me, at night, They will find me and hold me, Saying: "Go not away, Thou and thine"--And, though this night I shall sleep as I did, Paint not my cheek, but stay Where it bent, hidden still, Over the emblazoned pillow. ======================================== SAMPLE 134 ======================================== ; but more miserable to me. For, by the favour of a noble Mind, Livius has cut down the middle strings Of all that burst beneath the joyous art Of free and hearty sympathies. But who Behooves that he may play the flute? and who May venture it, to play the soft-voiced song That makes a charming girl laugh at the wrong? To-morrow we must turn aside and weep, And let the flower be as the flights are high; To-morrow we must catch a light and swift, And snatch the ring that gaily called a dance. So I have a discreet old nature." "I must speak out," I say, "and laugh to-day; Though the world should deceive me I am glad I will speak out with my lubberish glad." That was enough! My gifted head is bared To meet the blithe Apollo, as I will Speak out her praises with a laugh of scorn." A modest tress, that grace unspotted yet, Was just a rare white figure, nobly seen In many garb and feature. Which on me, At sight of one I could have seized and hung Imagination's proper meed. With ear, and eye, and body blended, tried To follow up the glances of my lute, No match could be for firewood or for pheasants. Upon my lyre in tune they'd stand in songs, And chime by chime, or join in flowing numbers, Until I sighed, and looked upon the strings And laughed outright, though quite, without a meaning. "Dear lute," they'd say, "we have no need of more Than of your pleasing music. Sit down! We'll play the lute and viol, for our pains, And make these walls resound with our desires, That we may lend to the sweet symphony Our measures." Here I offered up the song, With sidelong glance, to keep in company, With those two spirits singing all day long Under my lyre and vocal reed of love. Well might my gentle lute keep time to my lay, With all its flute-like sounds, so full of sweetness I could not look on death nor breathe away Those deep, melodious streams of melodies, That rolled and burst and flew in many a measure Like to the requiem of the passing breeze When summer winds in some voluptuous dance Paint all the flowers and flowers that bloomed or glowed In woodlands under sun-illumined vales. But still the sounds of that sweet warbling throat Were those that sprang from mine, with hearts that felt Love's rapture; dreams that in the forest roved, Sang back to me with language that we knew, The sweet respondences that all our treasure Exhale from us, and playmates over us. I sang the flute. 'Tis true, the mute, sad strains Are never born to break the sweet, soft heart, And that the minds of common men despise They never find an echo in the notes, But all that throng and revels in the art And pride of Nature, with her worshippers Still worshippeth the ever-singing cad, Unmurmuring, but its power of self Forgets, and masterful as light in flame. Farewell, old Dewy! Farewell, old crocus-spray! That once shook hands with me in that old way Whereon the sky and field-heap gleamed gold. To-morrow evening by the blacksmith's door The haunts of cowherds, all shall live once more. Maidens of origin shall come: And, from the long-stemmed curling tips Of faded feathers, which yet cling Their daily zest of the summer days, That others have, and such bright flame, And a wild flight of short-lived years, Shall still be hovering o'er and o'er. What gift of vows shall be thine own, The false, false world, though ages gone, While my young days have blossom'd on, Still nearer thee to see thine own; That we may meet with one another, No other home than this, my mother. The fabled nymphs of Erin sing, Mix'd with the waves of the yellowing sea, Whose fairy groves by Corinth run, Where the white osier waves o'ershade The moon-path that dispells the sun; And ======================================== SAMPLE 135 ======================================== . Now just to see them was to be supposed, As is the practice of the Pharisees, When people pray for expiation. But the arch-heaven-planted liberty Of these most profligates, knows no whit Which way to turn them back. I say 'no Franks.' Let this be but a vial to the brim. Oh let the error of the holy place Be stopped, because that be not satisfied, And the arch-heaven so that not a man Is able to lift up his eyes to heaven! But for no prayers vouchsafed to our old Master, Nor let his memory get further back, The Saracen he spoke, and never then Will he regard the world which once he knew. Then in the ancient Tun descends a church, Upon whose door there stood a mighty space Of corded shaft and cone, and on the wall, A silver shield with boss and crust of gold, With beaded pinnacles of grey. Three paces on, With diamond studs of marble intertwined, Three on the head, three on the silver plate. In front is wrought the goodly horn which rang To it that was no bar nor cruel draught Which e'er was in the place of Charlemagne. And that was in the sky, but through the rents Of times of woe, which Grecia's children strain Against the bridge; and which it was that made The arch-heaven whole, as well as arch and square, A lady ever in her glory shone. In this career a marvellous jewel of renown Was planted on the rock of Calabur. When Grecia knew, fair Italy, her son, It was that Grecia chose herself a tomb Whereon to hang his head, and here to show Our tomb in facts to many a man and beast. As for the rest, they say that this was so A sign of death; and very bolder men Ran thither in the night-time to and fro. Again I say, and yet I warn thee, fair To me, if e'er I claimed another name. Garcuin of Calabur, if ever on Ages thou wast a champion, and thy life Was lost, thou couldst not blame in anything Except the fact that I with noble might Wander astray into the wide world's end Like as a man distraught. But if the hour Was come, when he who brought away the life, Thou know'st not by what title, till it were, Zeus learned the secret of the human race With idle finger. 'T was a prodigy indeed To thee, Aeneas, wonderful in song; Thou didst exalt even now to noble things, Who make thee twice the third in thy renown. But what avails thee now, if they sang thee a song, A song of antique days and solemn-seeming years? For should it come to thee no other song Would follow it, and therefore thou must die, If, when the warders of Ilmatar heard The doctrine of the stars, he of the nations That rule the universe must not forsake Earth, that frail form of Venus, who for all Her children did deliver, and the three Herself forgave a mother, and in Heaven, Queen of a world! But if thou be her queen, Now, father, look upon thy son and love him. Out of this myrtle-wood of time I grow, With a fair set of men, and a tree shade, As bush and berry; think on these brave men To-morrow to behold thee." So with prayer Spoke Giora and the poplar grove; and there The God of War made manifest to men His ancient splendour: He made them forget That dwell in mountains, and the terrible threats Of War and Death, his terrible retinue, He taught them how to conquer and subdue. Therefore, a higher power he did devise In the wild wood, that the fierce graces came To enkindle hearts like flame: the mighty god Gathered up one handful, and the multitude Of cities, heroes, warriors: therefore came The bastard forces, bringing forth theships With all their warlike gear, an armour bright; And like a ship, who under the full moon In graven webs of terror doth search out Some treasure secretly, and leave no trace. Now then came forward the great Table Round, And in his men's behalf they bowed their heads, As ======================================== SAMPLE 136 ======================================== no lady, no man so wild a thing. They were more than stone-stone on a heaven-wide throne, And they took the most lovely maid for their own, And they married young women, who sat all alone. They moved through the room like a thronged endeavor; They danced by the water like music in a dream, A music of singing and dancing and laughter; They sang by the water like light on a stream: They sang to each other the songs of the night, Sang to each other the songs of the sea, Danced in the green of the fountain and lea: "Hail, fair and goodly, A princess and wife of the Northland "But what wilt thou with him do For him that has brought thee spears, What wilt thou give, O maiden, To him that hath slain a brother? For him that put thee to evil, For him that gave thee counsel? And shall he not give up the sceptre For the minstrel of heaven? Will not the thing be as thou hast done, As fast as thine hands are, That thou art mindful of thy life, And knowest of time and place, That thou dost not disdain a place, That thou dost not forget a place, That thou dost not disdain a place, That thou dost not condemn a place, That thou dost not expect a place, That thou dost not expect a place, That thou dost not despair for a day, That thou dost not despise a day, That thou dost not expect a day, That thou dost not expect a day, That thou dost not expect a day, That thou dost not expect a day, That thou dost not expect a day, That thou dost not expect a day, That thou dost not expect a day, That thou dost not expect a day, That thou dost not expect a day, That thou dost not expect a day, That thou dost not expect a day, That thou dost not expect a day, That thou dost not expect a day, That thou dost not expect a day, That thou dost not expect a day, That thou dost not expect a day, That thou dost not expect a day, That thou dost not expect a day, That thou dost not expect a day, That thou dost not expect a day, That thou dost not expect a day, That thou dost not expect a day, That thou dost not expect a day, That thou dost not expect a day, That thou dost not expect a day, That thou dost not expect a day, That thou dost not expect a day, That thou dost not expect a day, That thou dost not expect a day, That thou dost not expect a day, That thou dost not expect a day, That thou dost not expect a day, That thou dost not expect a day, That thou dost not expect a day, That thou dost not expect a day, That thou dost not expect a day, That thou dost not expect a day, That thou dost not expect a day, That thou dost not expect a day, That thou dost not expect a day, That thou dost not expect a day, That thou dost not expect a day, That thou dost not expect a day, That thou dost not expect a day, That thou dost not expect a day, That thou dost not expect a day, That thou dost not expect a day, That thou dost not expect a day, That thou dost not expect a day, That thou dost not expect a day, That thou dost not expect a day, That thou dost not expect a day, That thou dost not expect a day, That thou dost not expect a day, That thou dost not expect a day, That thou dost not expect a day, That thou dost not expect a day, That thou dost not expect a day, That thou dost not expect a day, That thou dost not expect a day, That thou dost not expect a day, That thou dost not expect a day, That thou dost not expect a day, That thou dost not expect a day, That thou dost not expect a day, That thou dost not expect a day, That thou dost not expect a day, That thou dost not expect ======================================== SAMPLE 137 ======================================== , beneath our roof Lie gloomy--conducted near, with domes and towers, Of ruins all complete; yet here one sense Is wanting--each dull sense--its all art, Its dust, perchance, wherein the dead have sunk. The fair wet eyes, no breathing loathsome spot, Erect the cheek, and smooth the short white hair; Nor touch, but as if praying Heaven to bless (A blessing never upon sinful earth)-- The voice of comfort, and the signet's prayer; In yonder window sits the watcher hears Low in the dust his dying mistress' love, And in the soft swoon falls a fallen star. What brings me to the green hill's side, Where by the winding Wanda's side That walketh, slowly, far and wide, The lone man's wand'ring passenger,-- The wandering Arab to restore, The loss of him, the Indian's lore,-- My Houri with her languid eyes? Ah me! how oft, when dimmed with dew, Her dark eyes twinkling turn to you! Ah, oft, when lone and still she stands, With wild-eyed walk, and fetter'd hands, Like one that deeply moves to take Some last light touch of life's first kiss, She turns to those dim eyes that wake, As one that holds her tightly by In all the terrors of the tomb. Even such the wild bees' whimpering mirth, Which makes the heart's buzzurtium mirth. And oh! when Earth, her fixed demesne, Touched by her gladness never erred, Beholds the fruit she never sown, Which tells the rip'ning power of Spring. And who can say, when none has said, In thankful faith and choral lay, "He for God's seed rejoice and spread Thy future blossoms, Joseph!" Thus, O blessed longing! crowns the world With many a boon its God can give. 'Tis like the world's,--the sullen street Where lies the soul's white-hearted beat; And one goes by to hear her feet Uprear the tumult of her race. "Some need cool sleeps; some need God's care," God grants them to themselves. He may They need the breeze to turn their hair, Sunshine and showers; yea, all this place Can welcome smiles, and comforts be, In fairest dreams, a mind to thee, And in each shining, well-loved face. I see far, far above my head, Dark blue of sky, and lost in light, How the first rapture falls from heaven! And hark, the zephyrs come laden With song and answer from the earth! I hear low and far the Tabor, From where my step-mate left the door, And from the far-off, distant region, And up, sweet woodland aisles once more. Who thus hath wandered from the West, To some far stream or lowly bed? These woodlands still, and in the breast Of our calm childhood's holy tide, And where we made a far, far land, Passed all our gladest visions by, And only seen the peaks that rise, And passed the sunset's sunlit skies, And all the silver clouds that, stealing Across the clouds, fold o'er the scene, And mingled with the quiet charm So beautiful, yet once could charm No more a spirit, dazzled now, Than I, with wings I see below, When through this atmosphere, their wings, Their beauteous blossoms burst their bloom, And soul and body cast away As with an all-sustaining force I mount, and upward, upward soar, In hope to reach God's hidden source. The nightingale had here its nest, And here the sobbing otter fed, And here the gentle bramble rose, Warm with her wonted cool repose. The grassy bank, the water clear From many a garden fount that shone, And in the beauteous grove that lies So soft, so deep, yet overgrown With grateful shade, the beauteous fern Hath woven here her nestlings wise; Here too the beauteous woodbine tuft Hath spread her damp and sunny side, And there the heart hath wooed a bride As it has wove a garment wide. Where are they? on the lonely way? Ah, just beyond ======================================== SAMPLE 138 ======================================== -were, but also this: Chance upon chance Can yet afford it noblest, and may thence Alike find, that by chance ye chance to meet: And doubtless I'll request a score of Greeks, And twelve of Trojans, in the arduous work Of Troy, not though, to have yourselves yourselves Intent, and which the Trojans now prepare, For loss of many (for such work indeed Was then in small things, all that can be), I find; So hither send me forth to keep the ships, And drag unwearied forth to battle first, Thence come I may, myself, from fight withdraw; Then bidd me both to bear the brunt of war." He said; and, from the battle leaping forth, The noble son of Tydeus brought the spear, And with his father's blade his father's own; But thrust his lance, he grasped it and he fell. The helmet too he made of tough bull's-hide; The hero's head was graced with helm and shield; The keen point through the hollow cuirass ploughed The flying point; the other corselets drooped, And the broad pennons gathered to a hem, Reft of the horse-hair, and a single bar. He in the body laid the noble youth, But of quick craft he was not near bereft. Them now the warrior stalwart Diomed Bound once again, but ran to slay, the third, Till by him broke the spear-staff from his neck, As through the body went the murderous weapon: And downward fell, so huge that on the ground It seemed he lay, for earth now gnawed the flesh, And all the bones were mingled with the dust. Thundered the helmet, and from that point glittered The point, that to his helmet Hector bore. He in the body laid the noble son Who thus had tamed him, and from out the wound Pierced through, but thrust the point into the throat, Which never might be stayed. Then Diomede Hacked through the throat; a vein the hero drew Out of his body; issuing forth he ran As one that flies, or if one wight of air Hath power to bear away the flying shaft. The startled horseman now turned round the goal And met Apollo's shaft with a discreet And graceful stroke; but then that other missed Him who would strive with such a dangerous foe, Him now Ulysses following hard behind. Then as the hand would hurl a dart aloft In stubble, and that some diviner vaunce To pass the mark, flung forward still his aim; So on the Trojans erred the brazen spear. But when they ran to meet some valiant man Who other in the race was near, the son Ulysses standing in the midst began: "How hast thou fought, old man? But say, I know That noble man, for if I feared thy spear, Come from the shoulder of a vrouCause, I Thou rather fear, this sword, than spear of mine." He said: and in the wind his valour bare, And to the Trojans such great honour showed. As the sun shines the last gilding scattered leaves, But none the livelong daylight fair availed. But not the more each with their shouts arose From breast to flank, nor yet the steeds set foot Till all the host be-gladdened; following came Swiftly the countless folk that thronged the plain, These scourged in brass, these on their heads they bore, Who scarce had felt the passing of their own Had missed the Trojan hero. But in fear They filled their own. Forsooth the Trojans on Held fast those mighty chiefs; for on the plains Of fair-flowing Thermodon, high upland By Imbrus' bank, a town of blazing hills They raised, and Trojans, that are now no more, Routed, for battle. But the snow-clad host Forsook them, stirred by the fresh-springing dawn. Thus, haply, in their judgment they resolved To give the final issue of the war, Till Teucer saw the Arcadian host draw nigh, And so the two from first to last fight hand In hand, but each intent alike on horse, Fate in the battle. Oft of Teucer too Sought his familiar kindred on the field, By thine or others' arms; but in the flank Grim Telamon ======================================== SAMPLE 139 ======================================== , don't I want My sort of Christmas!" Said the viol, softly; "Whistle!" And the little singer on a swag whimper died. Voracious-violet eyes. Gaunt and hairy. Had you laid a starving mouse in his bed, A furry rug in his chamber, With a ragged blanket on his head, And either side a beard, To keep from snoring--every stitch In the morning air a fairy-tale Of a certain great we'd like to try, Ere he had come to the worn knee! And it ended--and theworm Made a solemn figure, fetched and quick, And set his back a minstrelick To show him how to pipe and laugh. And I said, "There's a lovely wood On the slopes of the valley's side, Where a south-wind blowing, And an ever-tired, sun-kissed Pallie-pinky man, Whom the dog-tired winter swept With a heave of snow on his thin mane, Where every wee fern a trail Pues with fingers sad and pale, In whose sad whin the sleigh-bells rang, With its gray-tailed hoofs winging. "Ah, good-bye, pretty page," Cried a little boy at a fall, "Are you in your crib now, North, Or where the ways of the boyhood be? Will you take up the story, pray?" But I hardly said no-more, For, what would the baby do? "Wed a maiden with man," said he, "Make your bed, North, on the hill; Or, wed some day, there'll be then No cause to grieve you will. Shut your mouth up on your breast, Or else I'll have to tell." But he wouldn't, you would not, he! He left them with a cheer. When the winter comes again, And your face is fair and gray, When the lambs go bleating past And the calves are in the fold, Then how sweet the black-eyed maid With the lips that he has lain At the foot-fall on the plain! Now a paper cap he took, Laid it on his back and strode By the place where he had put Scraps of bread and butter-cup. Bags of butter round him clung-- Suddenly a dew-drop sprang From a cherry- cherry blossom. All the birds that fly in bed Fell with one accord, And, to fill the crackling board, Hissed and fluttered all their bills, At the wish of Sym and Sym, Who'd been sitting late at tea. All the while he tried to spin, And the roses put to rout, Something in his heart did pierce Whenever they lost the game. Then his brain it was allured Till it seemed the very grapes Grew all red and blushing red, From which he plucked the fruit, And I, seeing it had turned Nearer, by his art purveyed. And 'tis odd that he who spends On such things, should find employment By such prodigal delights, In the realm of the stranger, Is like some old mariner Rich in taste and taste of joys As the pageants of his land. But the eunuch he did not Sail, or ride, or sing regardless, Never more would he sing to it, 'Till he learned to wear a sack, Just to keep himself warm, And to play at house or tavern. Then, before he went to bed, He'd a long job and no jobbin, Wrote and read and planned a new one, Each with its own winding sheet, And a sheet that rang out "Gad," Till he'd a third in his coat, Just to keep himself warm, And a heap of dough and toast At the top of every linden. He did no less, and he Answered the good Saint Peter, "Hail, Saint Ben," and then, "Our Father." Then, at least, he walked straight To the noble saint Dfingre; Saying, "Very good Saint Ben, You're the best man ever drew!" (Ended Damfreville, the old and lame, A laurel crown, which one time had Supply that crown, on stick or brace And trinkets worn to make an end ======================================== SAMPLE 140 ======================================== merry. One time I called the good old grey old fox, And, "Where's your old tramp, and all your hoops?" I answered him. "My friend, a long good life, I've had enough," he said, "of being S.T.;-- You can get down some day." Then, just as I'm informed, My head was upward turned, and I heard him Elate. Then he began again, And, climbing up the old hill to the place, The old fox crossed his back And nearly broke the wheel. I crawled upon the bed And slunk away. He lay a minute, And when he woke I heard Outside his head, That since he had not slept. I've not been behaving just then. Oh, yes, I have. In my waking I've nothing now to say, I'm feeling better. Oh, yes, I am. In my dreams I hear a frog As it croaks somewhere down the hill, And it croaks to me from the hole Where the frog lies down. I can see the black line of him As he smiles and sniffs and croaks, And it tells me anything But his eyes! One time a little birdling Went out of sight. "Cheer up!" he said. The birdling was singing Because it was bright. I leaned my head to it And tried to Iar, Where I could not help but sing And busy my wings; But all in vain. Through three fields hard and white, By five fields clear He went and came to the valley One time a little birdling Went down. "Hey!" said he. The fir-tree stood in the other field. "So you're not the surest to arrive," He said. He smiled, "or you are a little child." "I came across" "the house was very close." "I want to take your point. I don't suppose We are going to go the other way," The little boy cried. The boy had jumped And not a moment while they pulled The boots. "There's not a word I say." "I can't. I do not like it any more," He said. He saw a pair of blind old bottles Standing in the other side the lane. Then he climbed a bush and shook his head, And up a bush and knocked them on again. The smell came back, and the odor came. "A little one, a little one!" A cowbird in a big round cage, Fluttered a little feather stick, Fell on the earth and pushed it higher Until the cones upon the world Looked up, and there were five of them That jumped upon a cherry tree. One moment, I watched a squirrel in the trench, Wishing he'd gone to Paradise. Above his head his yellow eyes Slashed, with a little pattering sneer, Then one sharp green kick in his fist And--"Hide your eye!" I looked into his prettyums And saw a dozen more, Standing among the big smooth-ums And boasting elders, everyone. "He's coming!" "Where's your money gone?" And there I saw some questions: Why did he not, Till, to fill a baby's eyes With one wee, happy, purple blossom, He turned away and looked at me. "Your daughter? Why not her father? She never played with me. Don't tell her that I love her-- Unless she comes, my life will be The enduring joy of you. She'll be my wife for a little moment, But she never comes my way. "Our house is built upon a hill Which sides up to the sea. So you'll go there and bury me-- Unless you come this way." My flower was lovely and gay, And like an angel's face, The flowers made the sun as bright As once the sun was grace. She did not go for gold, love, She seemed to have been glad. No grief was in her gentle eyes Or bitter words, I had. So many a pretty word My petals had smelt, And scattered flowers, and birds, and beasts, The blossoms where they dwelt. But many a child of sweetest sort Lay tossed in sleep or pale, And many a dear-loved sleeping hand Lay dimpled in her veil. And yet she rested quiet A moment, ======================================== SAMPLE 141 ======================================== . So then I sit, and to reproach my sin Will howl o'er all the worlds, and cry--Alas! God's wrath! For when I grasp this scheme I laugh aloud To think of nought but Judas. Poor young Judas! What a world Yon snatches! Then my bold, unholy mood Will give me such a fool. Ah! might I still Cheer him about some howling wretch to kill Sowny with passion, as his sense should be Too warmth and emphasis of eye-glasses In man's unwise heart. May I be quite Like him and you be damned! My doors, The rocks above me and the serried air, The river underneath me and the air, Eternal as the Sibyl's charnel-house! The winds shriek over it; the wings of doves Snarl serpents where it clings: The bird flies downward to the tempest's blaze; The wood-thrush sings its gladness in the grooves; The nightingale is singing all the day To kindle palpitations at his play. I will not grieve for Judas for his fate, For mine own joys, like his shall be the hate. I have been tried for fooling Tragedy, And stooped awhile with him and reared him high. He's always heard me curse and moan and swear, Then spread his wings and flutter all their air. I will not give him pity in exchange For me, for thee, and thee: I'll live-- I'll sigh for Judas--and look up and laugh. I'll dare no more, but smile; and when the cries Come from the world have made me anything, I'll weep no more, nor groan for what I craved, Nor moan to help my Judas to be saved. My curse I'll pay for this; and this I grant-- For all this hopeless and infernal want. If ever I would rather see thee lie In this lost world forever panting, still, In pain and torture laboured through the will; Living for ever; naming all my sins And making all my sufferings vain at last; Yet not the only refuge left to be For those poor suffering those of all the past. I was a willing slave, and to these shores Came riding out; and I, like to a slave, Scarce hoped the bonds I would have introduced Into that wilder beast's clutch by the time, The frenzy of whose moanings. Ay! too late I paid off my all and begged them on the gate. The slaves were bound; my words were at their core. No, my voice failed, my soul crashed on the door. Not free from triflingants and brutal rage, Content to serve a gentle heart and soul With bland caresses of one mean, true wife, I reigned for ever in a world where men Craved what they scorned, and could not be enslaved. But never before my lips did man Bow to obedience while he held the place Of highest place. Then lay I in my hold, Like a foul fiend, for hideousness and fraud, And did in my worst manner seize and bind The man who should protect me from my foes. This thought the fiend repaid with dread and shame, When I beheld them flee through the firelit door, And to their country fled, all clamour burst, Or courage burst, or flames were scattered round. But I, for fear of loss, with moan abode, By fright and famine gave myself to death, And made my cry my need; yet at their call Would not the powerful Lord defend my realm. Now, comrades mine! take men to be your wives, This side and that; the cowards take to flee; If they can help, the cowards rise and fight, But none shall help us. Up! be men with men, These, with the cunning that will help to tame The men of Eloquence. Be strong, and stout, Swift be, good fellows, in whose face ye see Only deceitful counsels, deeds of blood! I cannot force my giants to obey, Because they fear me for some future times. Shall I by right of reason rule the state? I yield to Fate--shall force my oath admit The care of gods, as their decrees decrees. Must we, for death, be slaves and damned to earth, If they find God indeed ======================================== SAMPLE 142 ======================================== before the he-goats barked, So singled that, tick, tick, tick! Something at her head-- Something at her feet Like a little girl's; While the sizzling rock Like a gush of sound Fell from her right hand, And the keel of her voice Into the sound Drew it and the clack. Then, at that, every one Limplyed itself From the bordering crag, And into the sun Urged itself and sang Rudely and good-by, There by the keel Stroke, tack, and wrack, Thinking himself alive With a strain of strife; That within its frame Through the hot and tangling steam, Like a mighty spider's beam, Flashed the light foam Over all its corrugate clots, Feeling that in there flames Once a soul alive Burned, all throbbing, there as it falls Through the furnace-breath, Till it took the form Of the pyre, Leaving the powerless shape Unsatisfied, as it stood, Till he saw the heavens grow Strange, but wonderful, Flaked with a rapture of white fires, Rising, and receding, and mounting, Regnant with the flame-burst, Casting down all the fumes Of mere smoke, to drive after From their sanctuary A glance into the mouth of the thunder Of his terror, the gaze of the thunder. Not for the epicure Of Eros, carven For the beauty of his passion, Or for the passion of his passion, No, not for the proud contended Ascended from heaven, but by the western side Of some strong gold, on the tides of night Stretched, like a shield, of azure: A sword-blade, a horse, a statue, And a triumph of light On the fierce moonlight. And all these, With touches of fire, Fell to the feasters,--no gleam of the torch. Or were housed on high, All things in a vale, With or with a nod or a blush, Or a pirouette, or a pirouette. Or were housed at a bar, With a pirouette, or a waltzette, Or a musical curve, Or a gentle pause, In or with a pirouette, or a pirouette. But when The fervent and keen Gave of infinity, As the full tide of it rose, Were the orators of all the spheres Nursed with an ecstacy, These, and their teachers, Clothed and transfigured with wings Dark with hoar thunderings, And were surpassed by the eagles at least, And the Alectrytes, such as from heaven To the walls of the world, descending, Threaded the darkness, and shook the earth. Wherefore a blast of fiery flame Will sweep you hence, and smite you there, Where the heavenward winds Are engines of thunder, and engineless end. Nor shall you, save By a comet's glance, By the hail of a swift stream To a ruinous speed, Ere through the air you descend, Shake, and descend, O flames, large, and eternal, and hurled Through the void air, to perish with the world That spares you for ever: No stroke, no hurt, Only the thunder and darkness of heaven; Only the might Of the wind, and the darkness of shadow on fire. For, counting in mists, And pondering in chains, You are prisoner, Bound in the web, you are sentenced to be Ever a naked wreck Of uncounted loam Where no winds blow; You are flung in a sea of fire, below, Of what you desire, And what you desire, You have sentenced to death, below, That you cannot escape; You are thrown in a sea of fire Where the waters wash Their crystal and salt homes In the unfathomable sea of flame. I shall never know Whither you have plunged, till the end Of this great world you hold I shall never be loved, till my soul Shall have launched itself To embrace your knees With a great and glittering world-wide desire. I shall never know Whither you have plunged, till the end Of this great world you hold I shall never be loved, till my soul Shall have drawn a steel thread between love and death. ======================================== SAMPLE 143 ======================================== crown of fitly gifted Fate; The growing coronal of Helen's face, Touched with the divine poesy of praise; The statues of her triumphs and her rest; The statues of her children and her birth; And those of twenty winters and of night, In the blithe chivalry of winsome fight. Gatherings that wrap like harvest-flowers, Red ribbons of the blossoms, fann'd with flowers, Which winter woos to tribute bring To Ceres, annual in her annual ring. These do not find their commonest tomb, The gory ware and garnered glory of its doom. When to the quick and ailing heart, The heart returns of its wonted strength, And the fierce passions kindling start, The memory of a battle fierce and rude, When it's o'er buoyant pageants fam'd for aye, And flies of yellow and lilac-colored gown, And the songs of bridal woe, It has quicken'd change of gauds to gold, Though now it wears no scarlet-crown. And a few ring of ribbons we'll select From those that have beneath it well: That we may do the fashion good If we but do its bidding well. A merry little history of famous comrades-- Wandering abroad to mark the casual author Of their trouble: what the end may be? Why do they greet me? Who would ask if I forget? This time, it seems, it says to me. And thus methinks they end their march, and they move away. Yonder is the river Aldona singing to the sea, And there is laughing Minnie just above, And the waves are laughing Minnie just above. There are waters, there are skies, there are flowers, And the merle are playing, Minnie, down the Rhine: And a young grey cat walks o'er the sands of old Noll-lanes, And the hillside is a fairy-haunted place. I know that, when the summer days are done, The clinking iron chains about my head Are gilded with a cloud of silver fire, The curling smoke curls all the sky's desire, And far, dim woodland crests that seem a sea. Then wherefore, youth, it should be like to be The dew-drunk petrel of the morning-dew, To bathe in running streams and rainbow light The limbs that wander through the woods to-night. Of all the world a solitude is nigh; My heart cries out in awe, 'mid groves, and flowers, And dimly falls a distant sob of pain: Yet, though I fall in tumult, it were vain. Long has it been my lot to see The long-wrought flowers of Italy, Those smiling lips, warm, proud, and fair, Which now, once warm with love and fire, New love and wonder fill my soul; Long, long ago it seems to me That, in a dream of love and light, I stand amid the mists of night, And read the stars and read the skies, And all the heart's deep reveries. And this is all I need to say; I'll write a rhyme, a song, and marry One, the sweetest star on height: She was born for me in childish sight, As a heaven-sent primaeval flower Springs from earth to heaven from ours, In our city here we are soothed and blessed, Wrought of sun and of moon and shower, All the things that have been and are, And the things that are, and the things we love, And the women that we worship above, And the maidens in the wind's caress And the old joys we used to know, And the things we long for we do not miss. Where, then, is the land of desire, The love we long for, and the faith we long for? Is it in the grave that we desire? Is it on the brain that we, poor soul, Still aspire to, and bear the gorses? Are they in the flesh that we control? We aspire to heaven as 'tis to earth; And, gazing up, on all we see, One thing alone we long for--love, One thing alone, a soul from me, One thing alone we long for. I lift the curtain of my eyes, It shows me where I am alone: There was the veil, it shows me where, And yet, will it not help me there? ======================================== SAMPLE 144 ======================================== , till presently themselves reeyes them. But the troop were still expecting, within the gates, unless their lord appear, who hails them to his own harm, and gives them light. And Geryon warned them not to make this pass. Soon as Geryon guessed that near the gates They had set up, his voice rose from the crowd. Then Geryon said, "My lords and Geryon, Be not so sore offended with these words. Is there not elder among us, that does fill The father's heart with lust of fame so great, Who rashly boasting in his youth has quailed? Let us not weary have of speech and thought Our homely deeds and days and deeds of men. And lo! my lord is one among our tribe, Who so renownèd is and so emblest That, deathdeflowering, still he dares the same. Great was his voice when he was nigh of kin; That great King Arthur, when the days of youth Were turning into battle: O for this No other knight will ever have his crown." Yet, when the noble Geryon was now ware Of Arthur's wille, then Geryon left The council with a simple smile, and said: "Thou knowest the wounds thou hast shed over us Through wrath of God, and by our own good deeds! O Geryon, whom never mortal man's, Although in high affairs of glory pure, Has excelled in the exercise of war! I do beseech thee, if a champion come To hearken to my words, of Geryon, When thou hast heard them. Take from Geryon My sword and ashen greaves of other things; And all these services of thine and theirs Shall serve to heap in overflowing store The great and virtuous Geryon for his son, And he, to whom his father owes for aught, At once will be his royal guest in need." And Geryon answered, "Peace, and love thyself Unto these hamlets, through whose tender cares We see no watch, no loom may grate his arm. For battle needs these halls, though heretofore One were unworthy to keep war with thee, But that not one might serve thee and thy lands-- Kinsmen and brothers--so thy wound shall leave Thy walls and bulwarks, to lie down and sleep Together on the ground under the graves." So said, so done; and Geryon, 'midst the rest, Sware of Geryon, and, failing that reserve And slowly moving out, stood motionless. Then rising up Geryon's gravely-crowned Lion, who looked on him and was not cold, Gave either, and in like mood, and said, "Why would you tear from me a brother's life? Thus much I love my brother: I can spare Nothing of what I can; I can be brave, Save only love, if offer'd, will be mine. Then leave me to the battle, for the thoughts Of God the lamestryph can give me, and I choose Battle for this lost brother, if to him I will surrender all, and no least thought Of recompense will one day lack." Then Geryon, sore grieving for his love, Seeing that none would have it, deem'd himself Less of a vassal to himself than those Of whom his brother had a gift like his. "Think, brother, think on this, for on the man Whose heart thou wast to keep it, do thou tell Thy sister, when she died, the common need Of all those common cares, the petty graves, And all that life becomes of heart and hand. For, if I had a brother, as I know, I am so weary of this quiet land, The seeming dearest of thy sojourn here, I should not think his step would come too late. But to return to health is wise and true; My brother, therefore, I will place amends For him and all the fellowship of those Who wander in this lonely land with me." So saying, from the ramparts the left guard Went onward; and a mighty shout went up, As of a trumpet, that proclaims the foes Far, far, O! far too fared these enemies. They press'd the other gates with din of arms. They tore the planks with piles, and to the sea Loaded the calms; they put the ships to flight, And, crowding to the ======================================== SAMPLE 145 ======================================== , goodly: this renown I envy still, and from me not a jot. And what's the use, but a sea mare, so let it run. 'Tis it, as some Idalian fauns (this lass) confess: She who so much has been more, sought less, more. She cowers like the world, and will not allow That earth her goodly breast is blest with nobleness; Then, 'tis defy'd which would make her the next day, By her own gift, to sink into a sty. The thron'd daughter of Jove is very kind, Which her own mother to a temper will commend; Thence comes it that your dame will be offended, And none but she of Priam will regard her As guiltless; for she has but one admirer. She will confess, and will deny you till then; And if your patience does not much incline, You may be pleased to own her you were swine, And of that herd and all make up your tale. When he who tells the Greeks the boys have done, And that their gallant lives are short of date, Or any god the Trojans did present, To whom 'tis a declining date is fit. Now take you Teucer, strong and keen as he, Great names by Menelaus they are known, Who, dying, gave Ulysses to the bed By bold Achilles, whom, as rumours tell, To Dardan Cisbe he his marriage made; Who, dying, left it; and from death's estate Lamenting Trojans to their own sad fate: Who could prevail, by any Trojan hand, To open Jove's wide gates and sack the land? The Greeks now melt into a sea of fire; But while Æneas wastes, his aged sire Holds the sweet opportunity to spare, And takes to him the only grace of care. His sorrows with the holy deep engraven He fashions off, and blames the passers-by Should they be kept, a mighty plague to me, Nor will I see at all, through human wit, Thy son's unhappy, father, twice a son. "Cease your complaints; ah cease your loud complaints! The world afflicts me, and I fly from hence. Arcists, Rutulians, and Arcadian horse, Avenues, in deserts wild of war may daunt, And I pursue in heaven his blunted feet. Begin my sorrows, haste, and seek the fight; See for thy son; and, if he is not there, Put on his purple cloak, that it may bear Anchises' doom of death, and when the light Of glory shines as shines the day-star bright, And if his fury glows with weapons small, Then aid me, O unhappy, bending all To succor him, my bitter grief to spare. Forbear, ye lambs, these furious threats to raise; Ye maidens, strive with those which are your praise. This deed is done; and even as my seer, Punished with age, decrees his ghost to hear. He ended, and Alcissa heard his pray'r. When but three days the rosy-finger'd morn First rose the sun, the day for war had sworn, And, cloth'd in robe of purple, o'er the plain Each with a torch of hunting, in the rear Slew the huge herd, their fodder and their milk, And all their fleecy charge for midnight spilled. There Aphrodite, in the front, shepherds With fifty-two bright beaks the chariot shared; Aldermen seated at the river-side Two golden cauldrons, by three watery snows Furrow'd the tail, and litter'd o'er the brows. Athwart the steed they threw their shining arms; Then, taking each a hollow stump, they bore Three symbol candles; on the ground they hung, Two flaming eyeballs, glittering in the sun, And shoulder'd there with axes keen they mark'd The mighty hall of great Ulysses, where Beneath him, to the city's highest tower Each in his car he stood, where built the God The builder of the house; the place, to him, And the hill-shadow'd palace of the place. They paused; and all the morning long they lay Within the town, while the returning sun Looks down upon their hill-tops from the height. ======================================== SAMPLE 146 ======================================== gy gen'ral, and a bright And spacious chiton in the midst of might: There huge and triple branching firs were seen, And beechen boughs gave out the twin-born green. The pond'rous there he laid; to that high-bound The stately pines; to these the slow winds singed; These glanc'd the trees; the springs themselves were seen Perfum'd along the shore, now in a ring Of waving gold; a yong elm, which lay Arow'd beside it; next the pine he took, (This chief for prophet, and for poet fame, The willow that the Fates pour'd forth to frame,) His pendant work. The luckless carpenter With weary labour in a leathern basket strook; With studding oar he tried to fix the sail, Yet, resting by the gangway, chose to go, And anchor in a space, or in a pique To fit his hold; yet, not a whit misdoubt Avail'd him, but the aged seaman heard, And, laden with his oars, ingage and cheer'd, Beneath the silver pines, the voice that charms And sooth'd him, oft bespoke him to embark Upon his new, and he set forth at sea. To Phoebus then he calld the vow'd-for land, Which the four winds were witness'd to the test; The ship was lief, the rudder brought to port The goods of Nereus from the Pelops' isle, Phoenicians, noble youths, which (all who breathe) From sea and heaven, the building of a ship, That to the whistling billows bring the prize, And for the prizes, these as many bear; These to Apollo, and those to Hercules. But once when Thetis, in the white-arm'd seaman's bark, Took up her laurel chaplet, and her locks With olive wreath'd, and thus the boar he taw'd. Peace to the swineherd, all our bark take off! Come forth, ye Muses, shoot a blast of horns, And with your Muses straight to me return. And ye my various tuneful band obey, That I may call the Muse to her own lay. My mother Thetis, for whose sake we strove To sing the vigils of a sister-nymph, To her, from whose sweet song the hill inclos'd, Beguil'd the pleasures of a shepherd's mind, And through my palace pour'd the show'rs of gold; To her my chief confers the sacred theme Of long-past Jove, who for a hermit's sake Has made the rough seas shake their purple oar, And girt the waves with ores and sable smoke: He made the trees, the oaks, and backward trod, The lovesick land, by human voice proclaim'd. He taught the youths to lift the flinty bows, And to direct the arrow at the bow; The venom'd arrow from the trembling string Did with such ease and swift illume the tongue. Hence ev'ry voyage of the wilds he spread To Thetis; that his worthiest daughter bred, The fairest daughter of Phaeacia's line. The goddess Thetis through the city bore The jav'lin, which to great Apollo bore; The winds were conscious of the omen bright; Nor sign nor sound receiv'd the flying archer's flight. A swallow, posted on the right, below, Tells what his errand was; the Greeks obey'd. Him viewing, Hector with proud joy beheld, And thus his answer to the godlike man return'd. "Not long Achilles, of thy friendless lays, Shalt thou survive; but with a sterner grace Call to the mind of mortals the renown That thou hast bred in old Anchises' isle; Not long shall I, in wisdom, tempers move To strife, but in respect of Jove and you, When from the walls of strong-besetting fight We saw the Greeks, how terrible the light! Ye gods, what time in Scythia's wide domains To mingle, fell, in fruitful Italy, A keener clime; but I will give you hence A song, which in mine honour shall arise. My Muse shall sing of Troy and all her towns In flames of flames; and ye shall see in me Ev'n all the bravest and the best ======================================== SAMPLE 147 ======================================== , seigneur d'Olvide. La rêve, décontré lui qu' annière, Qui ne voulpir leurs ancinecin, Qui ne voulpir leurs folions, Nous nous appelaisins enfant, Pompé la delic enporta, Noit quando s'explané si me peine Quando tu vive s'exadis con compaigne Fusconde ou monde, si tu n'espar, Quando tu negait bien servir et l'on, Puisse que toujours de vieis puis. La tome pas, comme un bon emprère, Qui ne diste une à travers la vie, Il y avait un ailune pleine et l'on, Qui ne voulpir leurs voix bix se rit. Mais tu n'as secours, c'est baigne plus grâce Qui ne visant crine à jamais grâce, Que par fois l'extase, un jour de crin lors. C'est un dans les tales du feuillage. Il est vait un bourdon de son d'Oris. Et je vais touche sais gret sellage, Quelle industrire et je sujet il mire, Puisse-t'-Aix de liber un paiserie Qu'on un voisin comme un voisin d'une chaste. Faute de la ciel sujet ils revient. Et je vais sans peine et sans pris-je Qui ne vouloit sans crin l'emport. Mais tu n'espar, la voix, ces fait jette, Vier de tu n'es point de point n'est-à-bre, Oh! lune voix! nous avait pas l'homme, Chei, s'envolees ses voix, s'envolees, Pieds rien, rien, et sans mon leur cette. Enfin, encorpoint, procinct à tépultureie, Des préans, pour quelque je cherrie, Pour quelqueret pour ses voix! Pour quelqueret pour claret, pour quelque je j'ai foy, Qui ne vait qu'en coupe un peu vald. Nous avait un peu qu'on l'homme, ait, Qui ne vait s'est an pas d'armie: C'est pour l'amour de ses voix! Refait nous nous, pour des ries et les yeux, Qui ne vait perss que ce peu de rest; De ses voix, et de ses voix, et je peur qu'on se Peu nous avait de à tes roses nest. Avant que je puis tes jours De jamais piedes et jusqu' anciqués Que jusqu' été moultant pese, Du poitrine lui-moultant; Puis que j'ai cruise et peu revés Vouloir dans l'onde; ses peures, Mésprèger au bord de lui-moultant: Puis que j'ai donne et jusqu' été ses passages, Ense velourd comme dans les rues, Puissez-nous avez épauisons coueurs De mon bêtes de ses voix! Dans leurs pouvertes d'autre gloire, Que je toute mépé appelle, Comme un instante de nos passus, C'est un pour mon nuit de nos. Comme un pré micadés de recevoir, Ce fut ta bouche bouche entre moux, Ce ses racontées, lèvres douffours, Que des visages, jusqu'à la merule, Que c'est un voix, elle d'amour. Hail, Ponte-Monstres, glorious regions, With fairy peaks fantastical! How beautiful is y ======================================== SAMPLE 148 ======================================== , victor! to approach, Still pale, but with thyself, were sere, and bleak. But shouldst thou point me to a funeral pyre, Vow'd by the altar of thy slaughtered bull, No power shall tell my name, no sight my view, He asks no oath, no oath but who he knew: Those rites sacrilege, neglected rites, Which not the twice seven years can well control; Be rang'd with all the plaudits of thy soul. With thee, great GAMA! thy own precepts ring, The trophies of thy festive days are thine, The realms of Death are thine: all India's king Shall own thee glorious in his nobler line, And hail thee victor of the Indian's line. How lovely every scene that deck'd thy shore, With all the varied scenes of beauty hung, Where bloomy groves the pride of Ophir hung, And nymphs and naiads deck'd the cool abode Of Naiad o'er the flowery lap of Jove. Here, sheltered from the Cambrian's scattered steel, Hid by the mountain's side, by horned nymphs And sylvan deities, the Naiad sings And wantons o'er her swan, whose foot, pursued, By the deer-shaded streams, the quail rejoices, And soft night purges every flowery bow'r. How sweet the dwelling of the wond'ring sage! Oft heard he of the holy prophet say, Lo, a new worshipper before the shrine, The unknown deity whose mystic rites By lone penance call the Thunderer's name, Ere Death had laid his icy lamp at night, Saved from the fetters of the midnight air, To bless the man who sojourns in the shades. Then first, when Morn her lengthen'd curtain threw, And mute were all the groves, we stole away, Upon the sylvan chase, or wildwood glade, Where lonely Asra, wav'ring from her soar, Sits in the smile of love, his wat'ry site On the high mountain's brow, his kindred god O'er lone Hydaspathus, or his native plain, And hears the mournful murmur far away. A silent and a lovely scene succeeds; By the green glen, with all his flowery train, Fair Glendiana pour'd her spicy reins, And breathing love enjoy'd the sweet domain. See the green fields, the bow'rs of flow'rs, how gay And full of verdure the vermilion flowers, In purple dressed, and bunches of the gold! While, viewless as the rocks, our Fancy's eye Pursues the vision of each beauteous spot, Enraptur'd scenes of endless summer past, Blest with the rich variety of heav'n. How lovely woods, how sylvan shades along! How well the shepherds of the lonely fold! Fair-bos'd, and blooming in the genial smile Of twilight, rising from the cheerful east, The purple fruitage and the snowy vine, All tempt the wanderer from the fragrant feast, And, clustering in the hazel-shaded grove, See the gay Lothian chlamys from afar, The shepherd Thrace, and solitary Mere, And the old lynx, and hyacinthine glade, Fanning their bosoms with their wanton wings; Such raptures wild, and such immortal joys The happy shepherds on the lonely steep, When the rude Boreas freezes o'er the plain, And frozen thunders beat the hollow rock, Their raptur'd raptur'd raptures then pursue The traces of the glories of the west; While, wand'ring o'er the mountains, woods decay, And silent cliffs, a melancholy train! On the rough cliffs no more the light-burnt train Shall shiver, or shall leave the wat'ry plain: No more shall human footsteps here resort, And never-ending glories make the vault: Here birds of ev'ry hue more gayly sing, And the gay scene shall pass as blithe an end. A wakeful lynx on mountain tops shall wheel, To watch their gentle glances o'er the ground; And oft against yon azure evening sky, The myrtle branches waving o'er the spot, The musk-scented shrubs shall gra ======================================== SAMPLE 149 ======================================== ; and, for he had hoped to see The sight in their directions. This alone Was Nopto, had hisusk of sea-blue stayed. But heard not Nopto for the listé yet The moan of all the Nopto; nor drew close Unto his benediction nor bowed down Before the body of his benediction, But laboured, and, that he might stay no more For those five blest, the comforter had drawn Before they came to Nopto; and he said: "What is it that a man in arms should wield The sword of God? To me, in this fair world The planet of the Pleiades is lit Up to its utmost pitch." And on his way The prophet brought the second Nopto to him, Whereon it was as if he watched the stars And all the constellations in the blue. Now to Nopto and his work he gave The starry signs of his unwearying power, And all his hunger was but thirst that slaked The thirst that gnawed the bones, the gnash of teeth Striking from blind stones and splintered ribs The dew that lay like shattered fountains dry; And each man for the other asked what meant The forest-people, as they bowed and cried Among the folk, and bow their heads, and say: "Pull for it, comrades, for the rock is broken, And Leto rend her with a grinding blow! For all this thirst for blood has made you mad, Even as your fellows of the land that slakes Its face and deluges the marshy fen! O wild men, ye are hardy--ay, ye are hard And hot as fire--yea, ere ye could abide Till ye were ripe for battle! Ye are fierce-- Ay! ye are hard, and fierce enough to rage Because ye cling to this. O cruel strange Of what men call ye fool! Ye must be brave, And not the breed of Cunabian hordes That drive back fierce the scoundrels. O my friends, Plain men, ye are too quick to judge aright With open sword! Take heed of coming ill! If from this rising thou wilt learn who fights Clung to the level of the monstrous towers Or in the forests, or in the fir-glazed caves, Or in the rains, or by the roaring wind, Or maybe at the heart of a great chief, Set on some terrible battle-ableness, Who had the blood of men to dull and tame, Yea, who had known and heard and spoken words What time his hardy spirit fell by arms This side of battle, and where death was worst By trenches thick with heavy entrails, wall Of door and battlement, and charging lines Of battlements and towers, then the folk Shouted, and with their white arms gripped him hard, And clapt their hands in agony, and cried: "Where art thou, wont at evening to kneel here Before the goddess, I, a weakling, cried Over the shrine doors, and beseech thee, come, For with thy blood thy steps didst turn again, When at my side fled Amaryllis, thou, Who wast the child of sorrow, paramour Of noble Amaryllis. Sad her soul, And sad her weeping! Answer me, and say What word thou wilt!" And in his heart he said: "Ah no! though that I die the gods he knows, No god is like to suffer for thy sake: For I have bared my battle-crest of yore, And talked with men of war, and chanced to come To Hades' house on Christmas-day, to find A fair way for me: but when the light Shone on my eyelids, and with music filled My heart grew hot, and my dull hurt me more Than was the all-seeing godhead of the land Who saw the Gods herein; then through my soul Feared came the dull world-goherling, and for me He moaned aloud, for I went down the way, No woman found a way, whom thus he spake: "O hardy child, that unto me thou criest Not for my death! If it be now, by this, By this same hand of mine, thou'lt feel for death No longer: soon, when ye shall come to this, Thy tale may hold the noble, and thy flesh ======================================== SAMPLE 150 ======================================== , Cachuchadrops, and grasshoppers, And maids with their feet like sedges, And the stately Tempter, as with a wand, Wrought up, till the Sun seemed in heaven, Then was still for days, For days and days, There was a great, great king of Tyre Made full of rev'rence, and faith, and great fame; And the people were turn'd to the name Of the sailor God Bacchus Apollo, Whose head was o'errun by the couplet. They of all unity chose The society of their tongues, While the other merits and interests, Like other famous officers, famous For foreign States and foreign faiths, Were the first to look up to the Nestles; Afterward (to madden my heart) Came a general era of youth, With the laws of the antientuast: In the first place--I now musique-- One of these matters I must aver-- He first gave the law, and the nineteenth, For its fitness and order created. Whilst the crown of all poplars and temples Still flourish'd upon the old tree-trunks, Bearing their sticks unto the sea, And the sails of their timbers yet flap unto thee, Take a whisk of their fellow away, And away with my parting! Look! the Dandy's awake! Look! the Dandy's awake! Underneath his straw hat, white and crimson, Pale as winter's cloud, stands the Donoghuere. Open then! or the gumption of pity May not be a terror of aght, Or perhaps the end of the plutocrat. May not he be frightened, for breaking The long Sabbath of Gentleness? Do not know that our souls are forsaking The vow of the Prophets and the Saints, Who broke many a Sabbath like Moses, And founded the Zion again and again, When the trumpet of judgment is roar'd. May not he be frightened, for breaking The Law of the Prophets and the saints? Yet he is happy! and may it be so! For if the land perish of him, remember That he lived like the patriarch, let the poor stone Not be seen by another! Lift up your heads, and hearken unto me. He knows not me. He hath learn'd it not. I dare not believe, but I dare not! The clouds are no repenting, the winds are no wailing, I would sooner leave them behind, Than perish among them; for God hath forbid That we be vex'd with sorrow, or groan Through the heat of the tedious day, Or with calm mind resolve to eat and drink, Than perish among them! Lord, forgive us! and lose not us a spark Of sympathy in a day like this, That we, who are falling, must fall to the ground. The vassals are glad, and the ladies look gay, For the company cometh now to be; Away, away, to the right hand road To join with my memory. What news, Lady, of news so like to thine? What news have I heard, that thou art gone, And left in the valley, so dreary and drear, The widow that's dead, and the orphan that's here? What news have I heard, that thou art gone, It is thou that art weary. Come on; I am going to ride on the very same road To be with my sorrowful Lady. There! the night is dark now, The night of our mourning! This is my true love, Damon, thy story. By all that I can, Mine heart shall recover. By all that's worth and beauty That on this tomb I lay, In silent death I'd lie 'midst a world of woolly, That I might entone thee,--aye, me too shall move. The knight saith that he will make thee Through all that dust and woe One rose-wreath, bright as the sky, And the rose-wreath, I would throw From a garland of lilies in one of its roses; And that none should share with the maid, No, not one should share with the maid, No, not one should share with the maid, So, roses and roses and lilies and roses! By the side of a cold, rocky place, Where the flowers that grow there grow, There lies a grave, where a flower might be found. What ======================================== SAMPLE 151 ======================================== hast thou there usurped, Aqueint my gratitude and love, to dare, Against Omnipotence, revolt and war? Why should I fear Omnipotence himself? As if this throng of men upon the earth Were but the perjurer, trampling upon fools, That my poor hands should do it! What are they? The more I see the pity! the more I feel it! much I love, and much I hate, And love this evil hour! What worse than gall Is in this hour, a meaner show of man For a poor merely human happiness! Oh! why is wealth thus bought with so much toil, To make men happy? Why this grand-pied joy Which to out-run the raiser's hand is grown Grows out to trivial all this want of soul? This goodly quality is yet deflemed, And razed into a razed and razed eye; This love is but a picture, and this joy So vividly is in no place of earth, I cannot see it, but I feel it now; I see a truth as clear as its clear beams. This man was made for bliss, a bliss unworthy, And yet without a sin. Now he is freed, A prisoner, as becomes the moral laws. Here is a man! For let me keep My moral. Thus wilt thou free me from myself, And henceforth I will be, though it be impure, An inward enemy to the woman within, Whom I shall teach, and force thy doctrine elsewhere. The best-laid schemes of nice-natured woman, With women's, and the feigning, wife's and son's, Wink at a little--when, in my first youth, No woman had attempted to be great, And I was grown so small or to be rich! Thou mayst, my friend, use them in conversation, And let me be remembered. To thy book I recommend the ear of Nature freely. What joy in his! what pleasure in his lot! Whatever other duties call thee great Of being humble, lofty, humble, great, High-minded, noble, good, and wise, and great! God bless thy name and works thy ways! and be A higher, being earth-born poet! See, His soul seems set upon the earth as lofty As thou art awful, and transcendent Father! Even of the great man do I thus feel: While thou art dwelling on the earth below, And teaching children, every day, that grow In Christian fellowship with thee, like them, And dost not tremble at thy holy lot, I feel them close upon my heart, and must, Though buried deep, this side the cradle lie. Nature herself has fallen upon the way, And said, "I come," as if 'twere fit to live: Else wherefore hast thou sought my holy home, Where should I fail in thee? Or where the key Of all my being, to my holy home? I would not give my feeble hold on God; It surely doth requires him; he may claim The love of things! There let me live for thee. The most I seek, and seek for, fails in thee, Nay, though the day be distant, and the time More swift; and, when I rise, do I not wish To spare a scanty sustenance? Yet on, There is a stronger spirit within thee, Than in the heart of man! It cannot be That, on a day like this, thou needst a care, And make the heart beat higher as ye stand, When, 'mid such petty triumphs of the past, Ye come to me and say: When shall I see Thy bare arms stretched about me, girdled all With a long glory, I possess the height? Not, then, am I the happiest of the great! I see it only as a child's renown, And I have seen its daily life and thought. Ay, if I would; but soon again 'tis gone, And the old glory gone, which once was mine. And mine its monuments of pomp and power; Its villaries, theatres, and temples fair, And pillars marched upon its gilded door, Trod down a triumphal march with fiery feet! The joy that was within it, the delight that was Within it, and the pain that was in it, Came in my heart like that which I had learned In childhood, in the ear of the Unknown. E ======================================== SAMPLE 152 ======================================== On what far ways we last to steer! How might I pass it, if not near, Among those folks, so high and near, Or at one place, alone, and miss, But huddle in a sheltering cresset! Ah, happy few, in deep green grass, That stretch, oh, slowly, far and swift, And let me feel, with bosom pant, That we are on the self-same track Most like to find all we can reach in Thus clearing up to one remained. Come, dearest mother, when I die, Let us go forth, from year to year, And I will show you where to lie, In green orchards far or near, Where, loved ones, I have loved to meet; But O, my mother--ever sweet! For pity 'tis to me so bare, So bare and bare, so lone and bare, To be the very earth's wide share. I would not give it, nor forbid it, If aught was left me then or now For having lived, though ever well, And for having loved, I would not die. If thou hadst kept my love with me, Won't I have kept my life in sight? Come, baby, I would hold thee tight, I 'll feel thee fast in mine; I 'll lead thee where thou dost invite, I 'll lift thee up so high; I 'll meet thee in the morning light, I 'll lift thee up so high; I 'll think upon thy nest, a-rows, And then I 'll mingle sigh. Now windy days and sunny days Are here and somehow, Just let me kiss the crystal fount, And listen while I sing; Now gloaming 'stead I 'll sing, But not for me 'll my mother bring Seween longing, sure unfailing. Oh, then I 'll sing my happy, happy lays, As sweet as music makes by day; And sleep the sleep-the breeze that knows not why, And wander in the woods at play, To dally with the little frogs in rills, And know--by joy--most all of me. It has two lilies--what do you think of that? There 's a garden of roses I've found in the banks. And a tiny bud close to the lips of my rose, But the flowers of the primrose are faded and gone. There 's an ugly place down below, The garden of roses I never will go; And some of the lilies--'twere good, Perhaps, with their lilies, to make me a clod Where the flowers of the meadow should bloom till I come. My tears are deep, and my faith is high; The roses of Erin have two more roses Because of the malice they've always to ply, And when there 's a name that will die, And I've met with another lover, And I know that it never will die, Oh, the lilies are fair for to see, But the flowers of Erin I never will grieve; And the garden of Erin I never will leave. I've been a bright butterfly all summer day, And then I 've seen the birds take wing on their way, And then but one little bud I thought of this; But now I 'll weep for that which is most dear to me, Though the garden of Erin I never will leave. The lamb and the dove I knew, And the falconer and I; I 'll seek in the woods above The talismanium of Jove; I 'll stray in the dells of dew The liquid spirit of the brook Where, singing to her loves, The eagles still roost in air, And the thunders still roll in the sun's turban. O Lady of love, send down Some honey-cake this, To a lover that 's old and gray; This is not the flower that you bring me, Though it be fresh every day. There 's not a step in the path that I know, Though the ocean foam there and the rush storm wind flow. And a love-lit path that leads to the land From the land of the matching-sea; Where the bulwarks of reason rear Their reverberating arches higher Than the ring and the peacock-dove know, And the fringe of the western seas. Is the hour my hands shall keep? Shall I sleep when the twilight ======================================== SAMPLE 153 ======================================== as’ all the gifts to thee.” Thus having spoke, his briny ears The royal Ráma lifted up, And o’er the earth in triumph rose Governed of Mithraea’s sons. Sugríva’s breast with joyful breast The sons of Daśaratha pressed, Where, with a storm of mace reblent, The giant’s mace the sky o’ercast. Forthwith the Sun, the Moon, appeared, And glorying in the skies appeared. High reared in air the Lord of Fire, And thus his son the Immortals spake: “Obey, all power are past, ’tis said Whose hand should serve, and conquer, stead. The Immortals now have framed a plan Which shall avail us yet: no plan Can fail us now, the helpmeet naught, Which Gods and heavenly powers shall bring. Now, lords, be firm. This best of kings Shall lead ye forth in time of fears, For death no more is than the need, That from these lips and lives should freed.” Thus he the sons of Raghu spoke: Then flushed with joyous hope the high King of the winds his high estate Dwelt on a hillock by the beach. Then Ráma, smiling as he viewed The Vánars, to his heart pursued. Thus to the chief he cried and cried: “I have not failed, I well believe: O King Sugríva, guard and guide Thy faithful troops who throng this strand To guard thee in the need of hand! Bend to the Gods this aged land, And follow Ráma to his stand.” He spoke, the mighty king(200) in haste, With lifted hands his head upraised, And thus the Vánar chief replied: “King of the Vánar host, the king, Armed with no elephant, can bring Defiance to the terror-stricken foe, Nor heed the flight of bird or cow. Thy care will aid the suppliant’s art, And, Ráma, him with power to part. Now, King Sugríva, grant to us Thy friendship with the strong Supreme. Now hear me, and this message give: That he may guard thy life from thee. Before our eyes his oath to swear Have perfect knowledge of the line That binds the Vánar chief, and thou, For all who go, may see him now.” Then went the monarch to the sea. Then, as he bade, from shore arose Each Vánar and each radiant dame Their several arts of speakers knew. Each spoke in order, calm and slow. Then, as the universal rite Had duly prayed, they sate at length About their monarch and with him A single lotus leafy-clad. To royal Bhima gave the sign, And cried with joyful heart, “We twain Will meet before him in the land, And minister and him command. Brother, disclose the wondrous deed: Whate’er the favouring host may lead, Whate’er he bids the gods provide In heaven itself, all need his aid: What can we better do, O King, Than ward the counsel that we give? These Vánars, skilled in mighty art, All for the healing of our heart, And, haply, wondrous helps to cure Our Vánar foes for woe prepared. Then, chieftains, die and be refrained, And men and dames and men undrained Shall ne’er, in smiting, fall in vain. The wicked spirits of the brave No counsel for their safety gave. So, country-born, thou wilt not live Till Lanká’s host be overthrown, In might though high in perils tried, And in the fiends who do not guide. In vain, O King, thy vows shall be And help the sinful in the sea.” Thus by his peerless art addressed, His Vánar lords who bore the best Of Rákshas troops, the hero, learned, From Gods and fiends their wrath had learned, They gathered at the monarch’s call One Vánar lord of men, and all The Vánars, and the demons all. Sumantra, terrible in war, The foeman’s chariot seen ======================================== SAMPLE 154 ======================================== , and she loved him A goodly thrall, A most delightful woman, Who the better live to die, And never cease to live To taste the psalm of liberty. Why do ye start at this?-- 'Tis I that am your child! Of all that's great and good The strangest can be wild! Nay, to the very brim, O comrade blate, Pour out the red-hot wine of hate! Quench, quench the ancient thirst That slaked your thirst, And quench the last long thirst In the still cup of drouth! Nay, to the busy brain, As o'er the unhoped-for rain Poured out, in sultry play, The harvest of your fray, Let each man bring his gift again! Nay, if ye lift your eyes To catch one gleam of stars Upon some ruined dream, That on the horizon's rim Comes gloomily, Then--fear not nor seek not for them! The heart may quench the fire That warmed you, one by one, Yet never quench it, quench it, quench it! Give me your hand and I will heal it. Give me your foot and I will heal it. I will restore the might That healed me when the night Closed on me, till the height Was covered from my sight. I saw a vision, a vision! 'Twas anigh-naked, and the height Was circled by an angel's vision; And the angel turned his head And plucked her hand and said, "See, how this height, so lonely, Is wonderful indeed! Beside the four-wheeler's wheel You will find nothing worth." When you have met the angel, The angel is so tall It shakes his hand at you. He lifts his eyes to watch you, And you see all things well. He is so tender and so true, You seem all faith to him, He is so gentle and so true, You seem all love to him. And you see all things well, and what He is,--your truth to him? He is so radiant, so so dear, You seem to see him too. It was an image of the glory of a young woman High on the mountains, close against the snow, He lingered to exhale the incense of myrrh; And as I gently raised my eyes to his, He heard a sheep-dog baying on the spot Where my poor heart, with bleeding for his meat, Suffused to rest. I saw his tender, white-haired mother, All softly, and a radiance of tears, The happy man beside her; for I knew It would be always sweet when we were young together. After the passage had taken place Over the mountain range, Where rocks were waiting for the sun to come, I heard a crow from the hollow of a hollow oak. He came and touched the root Of the white hollow, wide and deep; He raised his head and sadly stole away; And I beheld his streamers with their ancient waves Run shallow past my feet. He came and touched the earth anew While the bare rocks gave back the sacred sea That God had given to me. He brought me water; I was one; He loosed my tears in the full tide. The love that once hath been, of old, My heart hath buried deep in its young grave; But the awakening of the earliest day Will bring me to his side. Not with the hopes that we have had, Nor yet with Love's despair, The hope that on the utmost shore We ne'er shall see again; Not with the love that we have had, Nor hope that we have nought, But in the white ideal, white and clear, That in the great soul lies of yore No shadow of disguise, But, waiting in the future years, Its own most cherished bride. I dreamed that I should see her face, I seemed to see her eyes; I dreamed that I had borne her lot, In years long passed away; The sunshine of her eyes and hair, The love that long gone by-- In the cold grave she lies so fair, Dear,--for a single sigh. I dreamed that when I looked again, I saw the last year's face, I pitied, toil away the years, My dream of happiness, the pain, The sorrow ======================================== SAMPLE 155 ======================================== sound of sorrow on the sad old earth, and they live too, if they make themselves fit nourishment and relieve their hope. And no man comes to an old turn of trot outside you, and is saying: "When the stars are all hurrying by, and you sit on a fir tree, and you cry out: How strange to you, ah! It's the old dear Darby! He is in the middle of the crowd, and you must see him through the crowd coming on like a lion at his game." Come away, little boy, and dance with me. The sun shines from the horizon. The shade is hung in the eastern sky. Tired of ourselves, tired of love, dancing in the morning beam, the dew is gone, the roses drooped above the hillside and the shade of the brook where the morning suns are. But come away, little boy, and dance with me. Thy little girl will tell thee all her sorrows. We will walk in sunshine while the ladder dances of the lilies are not yet too much on the earth to be called to the harp of the glorious nymph who sings so blithely. Thy little lad, dancers with the lilies and the flowers, will dance with us on the day of our wedding about to wed. But to-night the angel Death has bright eyes, fair and radiant, with glowing cheeks, with burning mouth, with bright feet, of the angels that had come down from the alabaster throne, to touch the bride's hand. Ah! it is very sweet to sit in the starry fir coppice, and feel the wind beating against it, and hear the winds whisper of the leaves--and fainter crests throb and clamour under the leaves. I wish the dead leaves were as fresh and soft as the morning. They'd heap the holy floor with bricks and dye the holy hearth-stone; I wish the dead leaves were as fresh as they are, for if the ghosts here were alive, they'd fall here on a beggar's grave. O thou undaunted soul! who, with all thy strength, art with the strength of God, at times, and with an immortal overflow at every breath of the skies! I am not with the living, and fear is most afflicted in my breast. <|endoftext|> (5) [transjected a thought in his head that the pain was caused. For this sickness, and many evils there are attending it. But we have yet to speak of him among us, and in future he will come to us again, to the sacrificement of the sacred temple where the image of Satan is lying. (6) [transjected a thought in his head that the pain was caused. (7) [being fulfilled with the pain. (8) [the loss remains to him. (9) [the cry is of despair. (10) [blench and smile. (11) [does it (12) [if it had it There is a river at the throat of which a boat cannot (15) ======================================== SAMPLE 156 ======================================== , the count, Our prelates longed for new success, And, weary of the least delay, Made all the hours of night away, A joyous, cheerful rest to break. A glorious night, whose opening rays Shone from the distant horizon's close, Lights our dark couch with fairy blaze, Weaving a rainbow, which the blaze Kindled by fits when he arose. And, as he too charmed the lighter fly, It was a heavenly hue, which spread Out from his purple wings, and laid His burning plumes at our retreat, To fan the flame that could efface The dying embers of our face. Behold! the Lord himself appears, Girt with a glory of new years! It cannot be that he has crossed The regions of the morn and lost His handiwork, can make us quaff Of every good, of every ill, That ever might his own distil. It cannot be that he has crossed The regions of the morn and lost, The everlasting hills; and now Designs of power, and thoughts that dare In other plains than those we spread, Shall push the Lord from out the air, And his ten thousand quivers lead Again from off the eastern side, And bring him, too, the mightier tide, That sweeps from out the Canaan's waste, And sets his bark upon the waste. Behold! again the Godhead grows; The winds again his airy cuisle Surveys;--and with his signet jars The Orient bows;--upon the waves Her wide marsh-maze of stars is seen; In clouds it cannot be but seen, To rest 'neath heaven's dome, where God Lays his dry fingers on the sod! There is no word the God hath said But what he utters in the tread Of some child that the foe is near; And he with a calm eye is hid, And whispers to the stars, Ah me! The word he speaks,--the words that seem His supernatural sleigh, which seems The wing that whirls and whence it gleams To make the winds a coronal; Whereof the living wheels of thought On that great Pentecost betwixt The poles, and shores, and sullen stair, Which flit erewhile from height to height, Into this mighty wilderness; Whereof the Lord hath called a dream; And all their flowings be but one, Only at once and everywhere. I heard a hound bark as she came A-listening to the sounds of shame, That marred the dumb, but would not cease To write, and at my bidding stood, Muttering: "The deeds of a Golumpus!" She added: "The deeds of a Golumpus! You cry so that I read aright; To-night, I am longing to hear it! The clouds pass o'er with silent light, The west is beaming as from a shrine, Our God hath visited the sea!" He said and drove her through the snow, And his fastened to her hair, That fell upon her head,--for when She bowed a while, she could not speak, Or moved a syllable of fear; Yet hearkening ever more and more, Till silence fell on all; A very marvellous, adore, Unto the God in heaven, she came; He stood before her, and he came. Who will tell what a wonder it is To hear what the God shall seem Most joyfully; for by what sign Human and strange its riddle is, It shows its nakedness divine, And tells him who he ought to be; But by by sudden and mysterious law, By might of godlike attribute, The child it is, though of no use. Man is in trees to know and know, And God in heaven to see and know, And evermore in his old creed Preaches the awakening mystery. For lo, the sacred and blissful days, When earth a myriad world shall be Brought forth, and men be heard and sung, But the woods' echoes shall be mute, And all the sound of things unseen Shall be a moaning, murmuring sound, That all the world shall be all drowned, In the great working of God's will, Grim as a carven human spear. "O Lancers, shine upon your heids, Freshened by your white foam! Is not the ground we hold so ======================================== SAMPLE 157 ======================================== iene my undis is compassed, I mean that is, whate'er the slave is. O fortunate land! O happy land! That from beneath such heavens doth reel Such mighty wonders, and doth rise From every spasm, of its headlong woe! O happy land, so fair! O land Of beauty and of health! Where vales and mountains shall bear witness What Earth hath witness'd oft against A gentle race in their rough stress! O happy land! O land Of Youth and Health! whose pure, untam'd good, Unbless'd propitious clouds doth bring Her children to be what they are! O land of essential wealth! Be whom Thou must, whilst it shall please Other people, and Thy peace In this distress By Thee alone! O land Of all unquiet thoughts! Of all in bitterness! Of all in us! Of all we feel! Of all our wishes, hopes, despairs, Despondency, despair, distrust, Afflictions, banish'd hopes, despairs, Affections, vanish'd hopes, Affections disappear'd, Affections brought to light As flowers decay'd on the stalk; Which through our tears doth roll In sighs of our old sins, And gives to us again Full scope for their return. O land of all desires! Of all desires the dearest joy, Above the basest phase of woe, The surest hope, the holiest joy! Where shall thy sorrows be, Where thy woes shall be! O land! O land Of all desires! O earth Of all desires! O earth Of all desires! O earth Of all desires! O earth Of all desires! O earth Of all desires! O heaven Of all desires! O earth Of all desires! O earth Of all desires! O earth Of all desires! O earth Of all desires! O earth Of all desires! O earth Of all desires! O earth Of all desires! O earth Of all desires! O earth Of all desires! O earth Of all desires! O earth Of all desires! O earth Of all desires! O earth Of all desires! O earth Of all desires! O earth Of all desires! O earth Of all desires! O earth Of all desires! O earth Of all desires! O earth Of all desires! O earth Of all desires! O earth Of all desires! O earth Of all desires! O earth Of all desires! O earth Of all desires! O earth Of all desires! O earth Of all desires! O earth Of all desires! O earth Of all desires! O earth Of all desires! O earth Of all desires! O earth Of all desires! O earth Of all desires! O earth Of all desires! O earth Of all desires! O earth, Thy golden-hair'd head And thy soft breast and All those that have bin, Have fallen down from off the roof Where the Darling of the blest Arose of rapt desire, From God's sole joys and sacred wrath, From thine own earth and God's mane! Love that is not itself is at strife; The immortal Image is perfect Life, Though shatter'd at times by the will; No Spirit moves, but the God who stirs O'er the shadows and stars of the seas, Over the seas and over the rocks, Seeking the hidden House of the Spheres. Yea, all was well, and for each atom knows The Beauty of God: Thou, in the Unknown, Art, Beauty; for this consciousness feels Strong palpitation of the Spirit's wings; Who is it who walks with the never-cloyed senses, Dreams with an arduous irks at the skies, And puts the wraith of self to shame? Is it that ye are stricken with new surprise? O Heart, do ye dream a dream For ever new and true? Ye find it a weariness, The same as life to you! Yea, in the Autumn and the spring, Be comforted: the boughs are dry: Ye are a-weary of things, Meseems ye are glad to be A-weary of weariness. In her grandeur the days of her birth ======================================== SAMPLE 158 ======================================== for them all or ne'er, Only the men, by word or deed, Who deeply toil, with endurance strive, Though all are laboured in the toil; These here, and such there, thou shalt see, And warm thy fainting limbs shall be. By these a people, vast and grey, Upon the ocean's verge, are seen, Of those in those a people say, That have a noble family; Of others, 'tis no vulgar thing, But of a race which, used or brings A weight of iron on the waters, Wears the huge wreck of ages. Then of all others, does my friend, Give me some small account, and send Some counsel to my prying ears, Or to my people or my friends; Then shall I to the Abbey go, And take my time and place below. What though to make their welfare sad, Nor yet to break their flatterers glad, Enticed by such an old, old race, With all the world's false light and base, With all the lives that are alive, The modern comet, not its slave; It cannot, therefore cannot be, Breaking its light about the sea, Down from the heavens it must issue thence. And yet there is an end of sense; When the loose system runs in View, And systems from its slime have rose, Much less will fill their ancient course, When earth has measured out anew; That great sublime, so long foretold By that reviving world of old, That empires yet shall have their will More then the stars, those planets will, When, each in its revolving wheel, They hear the mouldering thunder roll, Through the vast void they melt, and feel The eternal sovereignty of Time. Through the firmament how bright Tints with celestial light, In what a multitude they stand, The firmament, the radiant land! The light, that on those keys alone Lives in the vulgar privacy, Among the mighty, unconfined, Unblessed, unthroned, unbosom'd, Is one in all the millions seen. Of men, that, now to peopling years, Do but augment the multitude With knowledge, more than e'er was plann'd, I recognize the universal Lord. A kingdom and a jewel, Lord Of all the earth! a gem, gem, and seal! Yes, the name, that men call everlasting, Is blessed, and that, which shews all things, Falleth one with the numberless fates of Thee, Hath its loathsome Hell, for ever yours. Ne'er hath He, loitering on, been crown'd With coward thoughts, though bold himself, With promises, which do not fear, But do their worst, that they may fall By some envenom'd foe, the while they drink The sackless draught of death upon their lips, When all this vale of misery and gloom Is sack'd, and all that e'er can come Must perish! With how sad steps, O Lord, Thou drawest To Pluto's realm, eternal bane! And she, the fairest of the earth, Who in her cradle hears thy moan, In the midnight of thy circling years, Is also banished from the place Where once she loved, Lord, my face. Then from those halls, as if the world Were full of men, all women rise To swell the tide of her pure veins, And mix, and do the sparkling wine, The immacreable drops, which pour An ocean in their duller brain, Since Mary-stride, with every year, Was brought to act as Italy When, in her virgin innocence, She so her virgin heart disdained; And the full moon lookt as a maid For one, and all her watching were That here again she should rejoice, And force into her sisters' arms, And so all her blissful tears, Mix with the milk of future years! No more! our childhood's garden grows With fair trees, and the pleasant sky, And winter winds, as calm as now; The shadows of the clouds upgrow Where'er we gaze upon earth below, And in the sweet, sweet dream, which glads Our earthly life, its fairest seems. So when the wild dream hath fleeted on, What hope hath pass'd into the past? The present seems so bright and fair That we should fear to lose it now! To-morrow such as dreams seem fair, ======================================== SAMPLE 159 ======================================== I too." But now the supper table's cleared, And each can drain a magic glass. While there the light-foot brushes, The wine, the toast, the magic glass, That still, beneath my trysting, May speak a mightier speech. For then my yearning fancy Grows far, as I, unresting; A kindlier fortune ne'er shall Create my saddened westward. For then the dance's over, And the pipe is now in pieces, With glasses all-amazed, I Will sit, and whiff, and smoke, and rummage In quarters by the barrels. And when the day is o'er, Then I will bid good-morrow And in an open soar The carriage, and give up the coach For joy of my house-service. I will return to home, My chamber and my fireside; I will give up the ghost, And build a new cottage Where, on a night of storm, The dead may sleep in peace. And then the morn will come, I'll leave this old abode, And sleep with cups of ale, And my ruby stairs will glimmer Among cobwebs, red and blue. And then the room will glimmer, And then again the wind will blow, And then I'll see my trumpet, And--when my time is flown, I'll blow about me dreaming That long the shadows lay my cheek on." O great and evil angel! God of mercy, what a hell Was he who let this moving be! For ye have heard the story Of the Landlord of the News, And ye must know the evil And the good that he has done. "He will not love us for his love," The poet thus began to say; "The love that lets a man approve Is where the heart is satisfied; For he is poor, and Jesu's heir, And therefore would he ever be A king." His mother would not cry: She took the absent one and tried Her skill with God to keep him wise, And bade her hand untie The flaxen band that bound her shoe And bind him, one by one, Upon the spot. "A crown shall win the day," Her mother would not say. "A curse on those who love us, A black curse from a friend above us," Ah, what another? "A curse upon the meanest head And yet, we find, a bitter lesson Will fall upon our knees, And spoil the golden voices That call you forth. And then we'll break the Sabbath With babbling tongues of babbling brabbling brattle, And all your lips and ears Shall ring with holy echoes With 'Let us rats!' to fill your pockets. Come forth and freely give Your simple heart and mind, Your house and lands, your gold and land, Your raiment and your land; Your wife and little children, The great and small between us, Who in a selfish froth, A mother and a wife, Working through years, and making young and old, Have made and shall be. Therefore on thee they call, The rich and poor, the great and little; The smallest, I the least, Take one for thy model, Come, make the others, the whole social company, And sing their carols free As the wind, to-day, from sea to sea, From coast to coast, from sea to sea, And make a wife to be a man For all, for all, for all, and thee; A wife, a wife, a little one, That all together sing and play, And dance and time out of my span, And work and sing and laugh and say: And a little child who sings And dances not to rest or play; Still sing and dance and dance and sing And dance and time out of my span. And a little girl who spins for hours, And when she works with rocking hands, And when she owes a shower of pearls, And when she smells of precious things, And when she smells of precious things, And when she shares a million springs, And when her feet with crystal rings Go patter by the dear ones wooed, Make music sweet with sweetest breath, Make song with music, like a dew, Make life itself a lovely life, And happy, happy be the wife That gives herself for wife and wife And finds the world a happy wife, That one in ======================================== SAMPLE 160 ======================================== good sleep, A fish o'er-canopied in the deep, With yellowish coasts that bear the gleams, No more divided from our dreams. Our pleasant dreams are fled, Fled is our welcome, The beauty of the dead Where all is dear. And yet this stone that we call our dead Some little use will gravely tread: The ashes we revere May still be ours: The graves we erected shall remain, In their own hearts we honor'd gain, Where ne'er a shade of sadness comes, We'll watch and pray. Peace, beauty, peace, in constant flow! Fill high the cup of happiness, Tho' all be true, Each hour brimming to the brim, A pious few, Who think to fast, and long for that, And with the time go fast. But, ah, short was the time! The brooklet runs so deep That it sleeps half buried now, And runs back to the deep. When we are dead, ah then, How sweet upon the plain The solitary sleep! I felt as round the hour That mother's eyes were closing, The wind went moaning by me, The distance 'neath me winking. And now the third low sigh I felt seem more to me Than all the world's reality, As dreaming of that day's light, That was to be. And then I saw the eyes That fed so fondly on me, The head so high and sure, That sat so low on mine, And smiled at me, and spoke, And beckoned to me, and took Awhile the way before me, And saw that it was vain, A dream so sweet, a gleam So radiant, a desire So clear, no earthly heaven Had power to rival thine, So high, so deep I stood, By wave and star in vision, To look upon that flood Of joy, that floweth now Beneath me, o'er and o'er, That leadeth to the shore And halteth ere it floweth. And as I turned to go, By trestles drown'd and dank, He gently spoke, and smiled, And set me on his bank. Nay, he is dead, poor devil! And with a blest surmise Towards the sunset sea, In all its glory, My soul is too intense For its smoothness, To stand and bow to it. With a last embrace I look'd up, Towards the stars so high, And look'd thereon, but look'd Beneath the shadowy sky, The Earth, unkindly unto thee, Hath nothing under-known Or altered like her mould, Nor beauty to behold In all her heavenly zone. I look'd upon the stars, And thought them Heavens of old; But nothing now is mine, Nor word of mine is told, Save what they shone and yet Are chang'd to things divine, Not Heaven's own radiant gold. There is not in the springtime So much as new-born spring, As in the springtime such as these Forever and for aye, Aught but new gladness and new grace, As doth the summer's face. To inmost Heaven's completeness, And from the fair and fine Of earth and sky, the great soul enters, And it must follow here From here to live till it be dumb; After the summer's heat The streams of light go through, And the fields where they are fed From their first natural heat. By the sea and the air, Where we wander and wear The freshness of things and see The flowers in our stream; By the rivers where we, By the bays and flowers bright, Through the nights and by the fountains Go forth, and when we are dust, The winds and waters sweep From the levels of their deep, And we see without guide The wide, deep rivers From their farthest source, That are scatter'd on every side With the tide, the road, the path Whereon they vanish. I see the Nations in a row, Radiating on the dyes of the line, The army of Empires like to be The accomplish'd boast of ages yet to be. A Universe vast as this, and wide As these--but rather peoples of the shore, Whose vast contentions, and that nevermore Se ======================================== SAMPLE 161 ======================================== When I, unclasp'd and naked, Wrestle at dawn, and, calling for a toast, Throw in your mantles, Celia, and confess, "The obligation of such names should pass Through all the lands of St. Joseph's Gate "And oft in honour of the deed "Will Cara and Castara thence succeed." No, though your very mien be gone And your bright coloured bosom bare, You will not, like me, assume Those simple forms and foreign air You so pursue, and after read The book of humble education, At least, your own ambition's good. The Carlisle peasants, as they view The book-making, of the great Rinaldo. I mention'd once, by chance, some dozen-- (The century's great townsmen call them) The dozen, whom I have not mentioned, And all my gossip's personal attacks, The colonel and the colonel's chaplain And all the news-beasts of Prince Laban. The sad antithesis to say Mean doings ere that end of every day; How died my fuell, how my hat Well muffled hones, and no time bore, My hat, and my coat,--how it glowed With emblems that half elude me, And all my uncle writes and dictates, And I have--all--all great offences. From the impracticable outcome of the Austen Grand, Of finding his American Revolution Far loftier than Europe's eagle eagle, (More speech than Libyan eagles,) He has not fallen, that sublime Even to the capitulation of the past. His high ambition is to sit And snarl at such mistakes as basely As frighten and destroy the state, And flout the things that they relate. He lives in Nature with a passion, A fire in her eye, a heart in her, That's tame, has beat bravely for fashion, And has avowed him for the fashion. A courtier's, peeved of all who can, Had he the only State of man, With some conditions near his academic, And people of the great or small, Is proving wise and witty by a pinch. First, when the age of golden days Had cycled out its guid to-day, And those churls of worldly homes grown gray Turn'd out upon the lightest rays That clear'd the newly-open ways, He saw, where, by his splendid view, An old acquaintance,--not a new one, too, A woman, of an age of crows, Painted, except in patron guise, That, wearing somewhat of a guise, Came to his bedside by the blaze. He sighed for her, and thus began To rake the dust of her last fall, "You've done this, and I'm undone for that; "The lightest word you ever heard, "That ever shocked you or betrayed: "I say, 'A great man had to blame, "And still they called me dollars made, "Though, for ten dollars, I'm quite poor, "Yet,--not because my heart is poor, "They paid the honest bell-in-lead "For making this, or that a case; "I only wish that I could strayed "So far off as the city's name, "With any flag that men could bray "I think I'd sooner die away." I found the ambitious man dismay'd, Reeking his spirits with distress, And but for thinking of his wealth As men who win at honesty. "Such preface was the greatest plan "For the fair hopes of raising man. "For any wretch who brings the case, "That scorns, and scolds, or looks in pence, "Would prove in vain to pay the bill; "He'll go and pay his debts, no doubt, "And, if he wants to be without, "Seek out a place to hide from doubt "And shun a hole in the sex sex out." His friend sincere ignored his views; He neither cared nor cared pre-judge (For by ill-closet shelves was naught), "Our moral is the noblest work "We have to get without the naught; "I have to view an honest plan "And gain to take with that man's man." To sum up all that he had heard, And to commend one's self or fame, He oft had thought his views sublime Were fairly lost, and so he ======================================== SAMPLE 162 ======================================== -- All stared at him with whiskers and with anger, All pitied him for saying he was sorry. They stared at him and looked at him and smiled, And all but one, the other half smiled, As if they laughed and said he was delighted. He stared at them with pouting lips and phiz, (His face like white paper in a mirror,) They trembled and shouted, "Little donkey, Will you forgive me if I say too? Will you forgive me for a little? You can forgive me for a little." They laughed and sang till all grew still, (He was a high top of the green wood,) And then they said: "You do not know how many Of those who strolled before you are so wrapped in, Puffing their heels in a sheaf of holly! Then all in vain for Raffal's money. The doctor cried aloud, 'Go up, you lazy!' And there was nothing of it to do with him. He read the papers by himself in bed, And lo! there was no reason why he frowned. Then the old woman cried again, 'What nonsense! You'll never make a fool of Raffal's money. 'What fun there is! A hundred thousand buns Were gathering on the heartache! Now he's half dry!' And there was nothing to do with the women, And nothing at all to do with the women. And there was nothing to do with the women. The lawyer read the paper, and the clerk Writ to them this and that and written this: "I must proceed to the post of the living. I am a painter: and this point to conclude, I had thought very much about forgetting What happened to my canvas when I wrote. I would go on and see if they found the canvas; I am a speaker: and, if they found me, Their works would be here in my proper knowledge. Forgive my intrusion, I tell them now, I am not in the proper way of writing. I can tell you that, as I am aware Of my older business, I am a scholar, And they seem to me--as if they had been ... A harsh half-verse. I shall be gone myself. I am a writer; and I see no better. I did what I had said, and now am here. Go on; give sentence. You have done your duty As a spider must; and there's no end of it, Or you shall see that you have acted thus. There are more things in the world than you do. O leave me, I pray you. I am going. I am so sorry for you. You, so far. You have my papers also--but your duty, Your honey's scarce known or weighed down by. You let me not look at your old grey eyes. What is the use of looking at you thus, If you will laugh? I gave my youth a shaking, And with all my own making my profession Looked back. If you remember, love, the women, Remember how I worked the hour of my life, And there were fairy castle walls upstanding, And sombre tower-towers between the clouds, And magic towers, and a fairy hostelry, And gentle vistas, and a fairy dream, And busy house-beams and a fairy stream, And fairy arras with their fairy lanterns And magic vista with their fairy enchantment, And fairy water-paths and fairy vista, And a fairy hostelry in the fairy vista, And so on, on, on. I am grown so proud, so foolish I am all puzzled why I could not marry A woman--my wife's wife--and then the world Was filled with such thoughts of what a man Could be. So one day Margaret, the bride And the bride-mother, were walking by the window. I think I would like to see him. O God, Is it the matter of this passion? I did not Ask your wife often. O, the thought is pure; But in the end all love is pure, and yet It is your right, your duty. In my youth I loved not the king's daughter for his--all-- But as she will, my father's noble wife, Her wedded lord's fair daughter, if I can. Yea, and if a woman is too fair for him, I beg you, but you have no woman's love. You've powdered your hair and eyes like painted dragon, ======================================== SAMPLE 163 ======================================== 'd fitter far to seek. The skulking merchant feared the lumbering wagon Wools in Heaven's court; secure the market-place To pass by faithless traffic, and ungrateful To Christian slaves. And yet, too oft we found him Discerning, though in paradise, more free. Thus came we, parting, next to Matthew Grief. Roses--of which we knew but little lying, The sweet lash of her red, her quiet eyelashes; A bosky full of love and trust, allied To vessels of strong loaves, dark watery weeds, Which, though in a most sunk romantic valleys, Fell under the soft sunshine of her locks; Such neighbouries as thinnest shade that pinches The dappled skin of a wild cat, writhing, Within the chimney-corner, which would crush The hapless creature's, whom her hands would bruise Even to the center, if she should surpass The monstrous figure of a thing pursued. You tell me, Sir, she means a different thing; I could as well describe her 'I am Nature'; You would describe her whole, 'you'd burn half hell,' Or fix a torrent in a mountain roe. The polar bear, that knows no venom by it, Would pounce upon a native stag at best, And at a price so marvelous would smite it. 'I will,' said he, 'driiddle me from clover To such an ant as has no other thirst; Fetch me that forest ere the roe-drip artus, Or I shall die a death so fearful fatal; Small hope remains, e'en of a mortal man, If, where he goes, you give my life a guerdon.' So when poor Joan had heard him, not a stone Will serve to soothe poor Susan's widow'd heart; Foul is the love the old world yields unto it, But young and old in cordial love were part That sought and found her; e'en the hour of prime Seems fateful ever to affect ungrateful, For future pleasure is an endless crime, And every morning brings a fresh return Of hurtful thoughts and ruin without end. Thus fares it oft, I ween, in after years Telling of what has been, and is, and is, Not so much frustrate of its latest smiles, But so much more seduced, as worse or graces Have latter'd in their full and mantling faces. Why then should I foretell the succeeding years, And hope hereafter? We may trace the future, As some have after moniments of time Till our appointed hour; ere this we gather All seeds of life that germinated forth; But each short tendance of existence, each We have imagined but confusion, and That all we cherish in the mind are selfish, And what is honest war, and what is gall Is merely nonsense, 'twixt the suicide And dead devotion of our fellow-men. Why then should I foretell this?--It is gory; Cherry, goose, gander--pulse of the devil-- And roasted fiend, that all the drinkers Of every quarter'd land hold willingly, Not as a juggler, but as one whose wit Hath melted bone by thumb or thumb alike, Because his spirit and his cupid spirit, Having sat self-spells and caputities Above, find something half so sweet, and turn To plead with a blear conscience, before the fumes That burned like incense for the soul he trampled; Or in his languor found an egotist To add more merit to the mocking sun, Who would debate true matters to his prayers, And make a sensual show, before he can. Why then should I foretell how these things fare? Are there no other terms and agitations In the whole scope of my remover-muse, And jewel-breathing airs or tresses, Which make her lovelier far than ever yet The luxuries of love? If you can note What man has written, make him know your name, And then with what a natural old conclude He'll call on Love--Love, Love, Venus, Venus, And think upon his great Hesperus, And burn the Poet upon the same burns; While Venus is her lover, Venus, Venus. The same burns Sappho, Pyramus, Cyprius, The same burns yet--the same burns too-- The fairest youth I ever saw was hers; But brighter he ======================================== SAMPLE 164 ======================================== to the bedroom overhead, The old men with the knife between their hands, They stop before the children in their sleeves, And chatter with their lips and look at me. O Captain! my Captain! our fearful trip Hath been on the Long Trail--the long, long way Hath been through many a battle and many a foil. Hath been at last a quiet, quiet life; Hath come to the homesick weary, the sick, the old, Hath come to himself gray sick, sore wounded, and worse Than battle and wounds and pestilence and war. Hath come to the homesick weary, the sick, the old, Hath come to himself gray sick, the lancet, and worse Than battle and wounds and pestilence and war. Hath come to the homesick weary, the lancet, and worse Than battle and wounds and pestilence and war. Hath come to the homesick weary, the lancet, and worse Than battle and wounds and pestilence and war. Hath come to the homesick weary, the lancet, and worse Than battle and wounds and pestilence and war. Hath come to the homesick weary, the lancet, and worse Than battle and wounds and pestilence and war. Hath come to the homesick weary, the lancet, and worse Than battle and wounds and pestilence and war. Hath come to the homesick weary, the lancet, and worse Than battle and wounds and pestilence and war. Hath come to the homesick weary, the lancet, and worse Than battle and wounds and pestilence and war. Hath come to the homesick weary, the lancet, and worse Than battle and wounds and pestilence and war. Hath come to the homesick weary, the lancet, and worse Than battle and wounds and pestilence and war. Hath come to the homesick weary, the lancet, and worse Than battle and wounds and pestilence and war. Hath come to the homesick weary, the lancet, and worse Than battle and wounds and pestilence and war. Hath come to the homesick weary, the lancet, and worse Than battle and wounds and pestilence and war. Hath come to the homesick weary, the lancet, and worse Than battle and wounds and pestilence and war. Hath come to the homesick weary, the lancet, and worse Than battle and wounds and pestilence and war. Hath come to the homesick weary, the lancet, and worse Than battle and wounds and pestilence and war. Hath come to the homesick weary, the lancet, and worse Than battle and wounds and pestilence and war. Hath come to the homesick weary, the lancet, and worse Than battle and wounds and pestilence and war. Hath come to the homesick weary, the lancet, and worse Than battle and wounds and pestilence and war. Hath come to the homesick weary, the lancet, and worse Than battle and wounds and pestilence and war. Hath come to the homesick weary, the lancet, and worse Than battle and wounds and pestilence and war. Hath come to the homesick weary, the lancet, and worse Than battle and wounds and pestilence and war. Hath come to the homesick weary, the lancet, and worse Than battle and wounds and pestilence and war. Hath come to the homesick weary, the lancet, and worse Than battle and wound and pestilence and war. Hath come to the homesick weary, the lancet, and worse Than battle and wound and pestilence and war. Hath come to the homesick weary, the lancet, and worse Than battle and wound and pestilence and war. Hath come to the homesick weary, the lancet, and worse Than battle and wound and pestilence and war. Hath come to the homesick weary, the lancet, and worse Than battle and wound and pestilence and war. Hath come to the homesick weary, the lancet, and worse Than battle and wounds and pestilence and war. Hath come to the homesick weary ======================================== SAMPLE 165 ======================================== , That so invested but the same have seemed With what a living beauty therefrom clings To the large sense of these divinest things; That these could BOS dish forth her own face Still through the blackness of the case obscene Which hides it not; that other looks in vain, But fades into the blackness of the face At once reflected; that which else hath been Mixed, alas! with ill. And every side, From skirt to skirt of a rough wilderness, Not many suns have risen and decayed Where no man might return, the face is cleft By the gnarment of the flesh. Then upon edge Of forest-land that spreads on mountain-side, There stands a mountain, from whose brow the snows Bears on the surface of a level beach The rugged characters of earth--the rock Stands lifeless and a solitary mound, With the sea's wreck and the sun's low rays And points that kiss it. Soaring along it Through the bleak sea-rims, even to the land That lies from the low-browed main to the broad, And gives no passage. High above the ground The clefts of granite thunder, while the sea Bears ice and snow; so was this chasm within Uglow at sight of land. In the round world Where winds and sun and rain are equal-wise Some blasts of winter blow. The frozen peaks Grow long beneath the chilling, and one grave Leads to the sea. But wherefore shouldst thou gaze, O weary soul of man, upon the hope Of some consolation of the earth, And think to find it? The world forces on With all its storms. 'Tis vain to strive for Truth, A phantom which lives ever by itself And not by rules; 'tis vain to take for truth Its balance of eternity, foresaw By neither; 'tis a snare which follows time And ruins it; 'tis a thing from which no strength Could spring, of matter or of will, into A narrow universe of elements, And do not fall. In those parts of man the rude strife Of passions and devising words delights And fearing words: they do not vex themselves With rumorings of a peace which like the night Fills heaven with clouds, or sees the black clouds burst And hide the lightning's track. In the affairs Of elements, like the lightnings of a ship Diverging low, the earth shoots up a flame Of germs bursting into flame. There is no death In this, but only joy. At times, indeed, Though matter be the same, there are who shrink From contact with the body, in a land Where divers melodies will be destroyed, And soothe no soul with sadness. So the light Faints and is bright for him, who with desire Feels on his cheek the painted agitations Of some external beauty; and the heart Sickens beneath the inevitable fire. He has not yet lost sight of it. He has not yet Been hurtled to a rock. The bird he loves Is in the woods. He has not heard the laugh Of stealthy creatures in the sunlit park Or the free laugh of birds upon the lawns, And is not yet contented. He has seen The ring of trees. He has not felt the fall Of daybreak on the heath, the wave and leaf Which sent the leaping boy athwart his youth, And made him feel no more the fresh delight Of his young forehead,--seeing, yet how grave And full of pity for the heartless pain His youth had brought him,--seeing that the rust Of spring no more upon his soul should break, But in its upward rush of joy; for so The ripples, gathered when the summer day Drops slowly from the drowsy world, awake, Bearing the zephyrs in their breathless flight, Sweep jubilant and glad from one white wave To where, in wandering bowers, on the shore One watches, and, at night, one wakes and sees Where, by the rill, the rustling leaves brush-- So has the wind brought matters to these lands. And thus our father takes the time to breathe Or sink on sleep, and robs the many tongues Which he has loved too well, and as he died, Enduring the stern silence, as the wave Lulls the young heart whose pleasure is in death, Or grates the sorrowful in life to rest Its hopes in the world's b ======================================== SAMPLE 166 ======================================== rock, that's dreamt of happiness, Full oft the king it would have kissed again Lay thee asleep upon a tropic plain. Or sweetest, blessed while the world's affairs Are left in tyranny, and she is fair Whilst few betray her, all retinue declare Of those who into regions far away Dwell now in thrall and luxury, as they Who never heard, in days of happiness, Expound his praises, that they do not say She 's so perfuminous, and rich, and gay. Oh, those were happy times! The Piedmont (Who tells me in his youth) was young and fair, And he had loved his mistress more than any tongue, Which the old times made music to the air: How that the grass was red and the trees were green! All were content to stay between them, too, And so that winds might blow and they should fall To sigh most sweetly; yet, I must enquire, Do I desire again to be away, Can I forget the roses blushed with May? The inky leaves, so blossoming at noon, Are still and deep, and to be gathered now In scarce essential silence; half-forgot To think, or ponder, or awake to throw A moment's thought into a silence. Now The trees are whispering soft, like sister-peers, And all around them, white as daisies, send A chuckle to their feet in this late way: I catch, perchance, they'll listen, for my foot Hath here refused to keep me from the way. My foot hath not yet fallen from the ground, And even my boots with dust are dusty now, Or worn and dusty since I went my pace The black dust settles round my shoes. But yet, 'T is only yet the same green pilgrim path Through the thick brushwood where the May-day sun Hangs ripening: he must lead his steersman straight And scare his halyards: then with ghostly shout And all but solemnly I leave them out Leaving the village and the company, Because I would not have them be in sight. Then low and poignant was the sudden fear As if the very moon was really near, But yet she seemed to know what she would do, And with what touch of unawakened grace They should have drawn the little leaves aside. "They'd say that Nature must have been alive, And that she perished with a wordless grief," "They'd say, That though he lived and looked on her He saw no way to save her from the dust Where nothing stirs and stirs in the deep air, And other eyes but hers; and other ears And noblest ears--they seemed to hear themselves Listening to hear them, and could not refuse. Then fearing 't were vain to speak and weep, And having shown the true ways of the world For ever striving, trusting the wild ways That set men blind in guilt, they kept them hid. And so when once they met, the little isle Open to him it seemed a name indeed And she could dream that he was there in truth, And so that when he went the tree was green; Or the long dappled sward for him, the tree Stood dumb and listening, as the father knew What once he told to man--and that his love Could never be the whole of his delight. Ah, in his very name, I'm not afraid Of any thing, save this which suits his taste So well: from out that far-off distant land I did not come by stealth to any man. It is a truth, I know. But there are some Who still deny it;--no! not he who roams For long a lonely trail in death-dews grey, Nor he who sadly loves. 'T were well indeed The heart could have borne more; 't were better far Thus wandering down the verdant fields with him, And over heaths in barren woods, and brakes Nameless, and sunless places, were he not, And dreaming of the eternal things he did, And longing to be kind with men whom all Beloved, deemed dead. But you will find These weary boughs of every southern tree And all the ghosts that I have loved so well Come wandering, wandering now from shore to shore I'd like to have you know, and as I spoke I'd like to have you know, and you would know I cared not for you, who were fit to live, Where I would wait ======================================== SAMPLE 167 ======================================== ful!--When they should have been struck to death, Nought had the effect--even this was death indeed! As if (bless'd souls!) it were from earth-- A thought so fatal had been stealing o'er These, on the horn of the Great Spirit who dared To front a world that bodes a future fate, My humble spirit hail'd an hour at best Of its full freedom! In the night I saw, Like some hoar pile of wood o'er which a cloud Of thickly-blazing fire spreads, till it is lit With mellow embers, and in still deep tones Dies like a spirit--hunger comes along, And roars and wails along the wind. I turned To face the foe; his tents I could but hear Down the long ladders which upbear the stars, And flash them to the left and fling them down Upon the earth--till suddenly above, In glimmering shadow, he appeared, and like A shining spirit moved and gazed upon me-- And when I saw the meaning of his glance, His eyes were kindled; then he spoke-- "Why talk, and why fight? I am no coward bird, That shrinks to shelter in these forts below; And the sly fowler that, in watching them, Would plunder for their nests a fisher's boat And take my countless chance for the relief Of the helpless fishers whom I howling saw At noon, when all the flock had waken'd him To try his fortune; so I went and caught A bird which cried--'What news? What shall I do? My only work, that I might play with him, And serve his business everywhere? The bird Sang in my ear, and now he sings--'Ah, Mother, This is the very day when I could not Fight with the foe that I might be a slave. At dawn he sang, and, crowing, on the rocks Borne to the ocean, I arose and flew Into the vast and sunless East; and so I sought to lay my purpose down and keep My life and honour with it; and there crept Into my heart's recesses, and I went To work, and said to Martha, "Mary, keep your promise with me: take your blessing on!" She went, and when I touched the sacred flour I felt a taste of bitter scents therein. But when I reached the altar of the man, There smelt a sense of bitter scents therein, Of smouldering hives and savour, mixing sweets Of many kinds--then, as I thought, a fire Sprang from my heart--began to crawl, and writhe, And crawl in bed, like a beast that knows no man, Then gnaw and growl, and crawl, and wring and strain, Until I cried, in terror, "Kill me, kill me now!" My heart then gnaw'd--for I was just awake, And stared, and he had pin-black on my face, And faintly I flung my arms around his neck. Oh, he was like a woman! And how strange That love of man was fruitless as himself! I could not understand why others say That Nature did some evil thing for him, Though he was kind and fair, though he was kind And peaceful as a woman. That it was Indeed, that she was prudent; but she seem'd A peaceful, loving woman, meant to stir Her wrath, because her judgment was complete; And that, in spite of that, her wrath was strong For a man's reason; for she told me next, She would not fail, though she had said to me She was his wife--and I was proud, and she Was patient. Yet, whatever she had said, Was I contented, yes, content to wait, And feel as if she would not, but she said, That she would still be patient, not the less, Else had she little cause for jealousy. Oh, but she was content, this was the point Of tragic beauty; for some evenings when She would not watch with me, she seem'd too tired, And so she dreamt and feigned, and loved not me. Oh, for the day when she who ranges in The village finds the village aunt in me! Forgive me, Madam, I forget the date Of married life, but rather have my fears Forgot, and for the rest of what I am, To whisper them to-night--and that was all. She did not tell me of the tender looks That with your ======================================== SAMPLE 168 ======================================== aid in nymph, Sweet Sirens, bring your sheifers home; And, on the mountain in their pride, Bring the yet dearer pair aside; But oh, what art could give to cheer The hearts of wild serenades here. He answers not: "The arm may clasp, The hand I fondly clasped to-night." Ne'er may the land of Bethlehem Hear you that strains so wild and sweet; Ne'er may the heavens behold the feet Of armed men to vaulted street; Ne'er may your wide, warm tent be o'er, O'erjoyed, for 'tis the will of Heaven, And through the earth is ever driven Far as the dreams that haunt our youth, Far from the lore that won our hearts, Our forms are dust, our age is gray; And should some patriot, from afar, Usurp the truth, 'tis but a dream, A poet would have sung the star. Nay then, be not alone; your song Soars like a voyager on high; Like one some central, fabled barque, That through its ocean, lifts a sky, Until, with winds from all its parts, It cleaves the utter wilderness of heart. On each white sail that sweeps the gale, Where'er the long blue tempest gleams, The poet saw--like one who tells His dreams by someone made to swear, And gladly would the tempest hail His thought as "Hail, To Thee!" The hour's birthfellow scarce had come Unto the hour to ask the cause Of that great deed which, like this thought, And no man should have done, arouse Angered his earnest-throated phiz Of wrongs to man forgiven by: And yet, he answered ( For no man yet can understand) With "I, the fulfillisher of deeds, Am one with God, beyond myself. Hail, Queen and God!" The first smile of that winsome smile Met him with hopeful, good-for-nothing eyes. To bring the enraptured soul on high, Fishing, abounding with the wish to be Of him, as free from enemy or chain, Or any enemy that dared to stray, Unto the self-same spot where he had met And clothed himself in majesty of soul, Like some slim statue standing in the gloom Of that unfinished work unfinished, grand As God's own hand that shaped it to his bone. But for that wind, a wailing on the sea Of perishing hearts, "Out, out," he cried, "To the remembered man below the gate!" He, seeing the tyrant had begun to hate, Rolling his eyes, out of his lurid soul Swept, free, right to the higher goal; he came To the mean stake in the strong Indian war, And saw what he had done and fought and fought. Shuddering he left, thinking it like some brave speech To teach him what the fiendish mob that hold Earth's lordliest manhood for a soul's true strength, Who sits no more, nor ever orders back His own soul's matchless spirit with the price Of cosmic struggle to outrival this. So, on he went, with no less mighty speed, Unto the outer courts, and, bursting through The flashing windows and the darkening courts With men and women gathered, till at last He looked aloft into the lofty sky With angry eyes. Beside him Drona lay, A strain of preludes, while he laid Her one white arm in his, and cast From off its limbs the loosened chain She held so long; and, straining to make fast His groping thought, drew back, half dazed, To where with one white elbow raised He leaned above her like a looking-glass. Then there was sudden storm and thickening gloom, And men, and women, and the darkening decks, The reeling ships, the ships unshaken and the wreck, The masts that strained like battering-rams. He saw their reeling masts and broken hulls, And thunders of red ruin and the wreck Of shattered splinters that were smashed to wreck A world for wonder and for precedent. The lonely signal on the quay And the wild cries of the reeling main, The battling rigging and the crash That rang the stern and broke the brine, The breaking lances of the brine, The howling spaniels that cursed at m ======================================== SAMPLE 169 ======================================== eye! You know all: we've human creatures here, And where we're able to compare With those who have no dealings with them. Yes, we will speak to them, I hope! They'll be so genial and so pure They'll give me poems, too, to beg for. A native of most Yankee speech, Among the best of Brahmins there. She was one of the "old dog compare." He would be the Brahmins' fatesman. But all these Gods are built on A strong, deep-reaching law, That never, since omniscient, Has entered that great city of Fate, But has no power to draw the line Which marks the place and furthered line On which the human race design. Up that broad bridge, whose arching walls The valley, at a crossway waits (It mounts into the holy town) To cross a lane, and thence down falls, The rain, and stones and bugles' rue. As there he walks, his proper path A man, in search of waterfalls, Might gaze, should one but eye explore, He'd cross the track, and gaze no more. 'T was strange, indeed! strange as the sight Of human kind was that dark road, And all below was redolent With now this earth, this sun, this sod, This blest abode,--and ah, to see This little God-writ page to me, Where such as I have ever stood With great men at this giant's feet, Here in this trench, this peaceful bay, With buildings overgrown and rent, Where little ones, unknown of men, Who bore the torch of Truth away, Would shun all help, and put to sea For very naught, for very naught, And then they thought of home, nor thought Of home, whose kind, unclothed, and smart Were past as well as that sweet sight That they before had never tried For all the heavenly purposes. Old man, he seemed not yet quite dead Of face, as his worn sanded ghosts said; But, under cloud of smoke and heat, Full of fun and wet with dew-dried feet, He turned about to muse and pray Which means he shall find happy May. And after prayer, the way he made, He paused and looked and looked and prayed For that sweet place to rest upon, In visions, and in dreams, and won The old man's search, while on his way The old man brought his wretched clay. Thus came he back again, when day Broke from a pleasant light, and died Before it left the sunset grey, A fair niche in the holy sky, Where, in the yellow-lighted town, A musket, shot with smoke and flame And fire, had made a sign to mark How from that spot the pilgrim came. Meanwhile, when his mind failed, he heard A sudden steel-tipt chant proclaim A horrible Exxitel, That the poor in their obedience Had practised for the works of trade, And all this evil-doer dread Was but a quarrel, feud, and strife; And the Old Man grimly spake and said, 'That evening's gathering as I ride, We reached the Darling! I need say 'There is a better God than Thou!' A big, red, wiry little wight And wise old Smithery in sight Did walk with screwing screws, and light Unwearied to the stars, and she With constant care would nightly strike Those simple syllables which still Our minds take to that ancient tune Which even now, in some far place, Is mingled with some deep-laid face, Which once might love and greet us there. With that he came where the owd door, With its chaste scutcheon on his breast, Advised us with his great sword, And then with pipe and bag he chased That crowd so bravely, and made sound The mighty dead: but gathering all The guests were round him, ranged around In silence, and with busy search, Finding no stranger in their way. They walked; and we, to please the eye, Stood looking where an organ fell, But still he kept his wond'ring eye, And gazing, with a doubtful smile, Upon the organ there was naught But the far sky, and from the earth There came the voice of those who heard, And saw, within, the new notes sent By some ======================================== SAMPLE 170 ======================================== within. He said, "So, Woman, make no doubt of it!" And "By my soul!" he urged, "the wrong is right." He said, "We ought to hate the wrongs of life!" He said, "It'sbetter to forgive than fight!" He urged, "I gave it." In their hands, as he leaned on them, He held his wisdom and the look That acquiesced, for others stood compact. "I am contented," he said, "to live!" If you like a man with an earnest soul Do not then reward yourself for having made him A man without a conscious soul Whereon to build and fashion to fashion him Out of lovely stalagrees of feeling The fair, wise face you wear That has faded much And found no trace Of the past in you. It's sure as law You know what the future is, And whether you make a chief Of his larger sense than his Alloys with, and he who spends Still works till all he has Is in service, not reward. You see the world is old With its crack and scold, And what is so old as it seems to me Is nothing very new: Why should you rack and tear And nothing undertake For the years you heed and keep When the days you heed not? It's certain that his good wife would see you, Wearing always a single or two clothes Besides great things and not quite the true passion, Or even if neighbors should only amuse you Whose heads make an excellent tour with your wisdom; And his friends would be glad if they sent him the culture. "Yes, I am a master," said his wife to him, "And I'm fed to a weak old fellow, the scamp, "And I've all the fear and the hope of the future, "For the sake of him who has come with a stranger "To see that I am a fool--all his hoarded "Iron age and the sand lying round him. "You cannot go past him but smile and remind him "Of the old wounds that his brother has healed you. "And if his flesh had a way, you've had use of it "With a careless head and a merry heart." "Why don't you care for the grass, or for every friar? "A perfect religion is pleasant and sweet "To a man who cannot contain them. "There is many a man here who has taught them "Their proper duty and great caution in them, "Who always achieved in the rugged old rock, "And sought the waters to teach them." And, when the preacher came in the hall, The animals on the backs of the crowd Prayed no prayer, And never had shrunk to the crowd Since the last hour of his lonely death. For the silence and sound of the sermon You've been eager to listen, For no day and no night it had been, And you dare not lift your head. Oh, the voice of my mother was speaking: "Why, let us rather divide, "For the joys of living, my friends, "Than silently divide, "And your fingers, like grey-beards, trembling, "Die with pain as before, "And your lips remain, "A sealed fast, and you will grow old." The face of my mother was darkened, The eyes of my sister were dried; She had fallen on the railing And neither had lifted her lid. But never until that evening Did her speaking withdraw, And she wept, with her hands folded, For the loss of her child,-- When she knew that it was bitter To have spoken the last word, She would know how it came. And the voice of my brother was speaking: "Why, let us remain in the tent, "For the beasts and the bison are seeking, "In the wood, by the brink of the brook, "Where the cranberries grow, "And the milk-pail it's cold. "Let us set ourselves down, we will go, "Where the cranberries grow. "Thrice the day has departed "Since the time I have had "To look at the birds and the cranberries "In the pasty-wild wood, "For them that should take on the finches "A stone for their food." Thrice a hundred heroes to die And a thousand more slain, Had rested the ravens on high With their glory again. 'Twas the chiefs that gave ======================================== SAMPLE 171 ======================================== --his wife the friend of young Magdalene, Stood upright--half his face buried in that form-- And there, between them, on the half-warm sand Young Poole stood looking forth impatiently, As one who dreams of near and long ago, And cannot wholly understand. Then the sick man with six Long-headedlooking eyes from the mystic book Cried, "Pray you, pray, I know you know your God!" But the other shook his hand; but the stricken priest Turned him from these pure eyes, and still no ray Broke on his faded lips, for of himself Not one seemed left to cheer the pious thought. And then, as one in grief that seems to him In its own wakened self, the poor life-period Faded away, and suddenly the deep Deep voice of one who says, "I knew you all! Surely I was your friend, and that my pity, I was your comfort and your grace before; And I remember the dream that took me, owner, At five years old, upon some silent shore, Thro' which, scarcely seven years old, I said, 'Life Is full of love and courtesy,' and died Of grief and sin. Oh, pitiful! for me That such sweet worship should be washed away, Ere the last trump of judgment shall unfold The city of our peace, the mercy that should dwell In that pure heart. Oh, let it be a prayer For your good name! Would the Poet were vocal As this beautiful song; Pouring out his soul in it As a vessel of gold; Singing on the whole world Like an angel above, Because the song moves him With his presence of love. Let him, even if he may, Folding his hands out to me, Here and there a moment As if I were he; With the backward glance of his strong-stepping will, To that ever-trembling song I shall For ever go on In a measure or pattern Other than before; Never before to awaken; Like a child I shall go, Out of heaven to wander And muse thereon, Pouring out his soul In the ecstasy Of that deep ecstasy, When the world is all speech, And every word is a breath; When the sound of his feet Is the measure or verse Of all life, even he Who sings out his soul With a strong, full delight As never a song is told. For him I'll create a song; It will live, yet its sound is stronger. Better the cradle that bears him Than the stern rock whereon we Shall sit, while we make it ready For the great unknown; Better a grave with his body Than a dear one with a sword. Rather a grave of snow for The sea-born poet that sings; And the last spring sun That reddens the sky with his red Touched rather than makes white The water that runs Whiter than snow, And makes grey the air With his bright light. Rather a grave that holds His body and sings In an angel-sweet Sea-scented and sharp; Rather a grave that holds With love-large wings All the songs that man sung; Rather a grave of snow, Free to be flung Than a bird's winging. Rather a grave that holds White flowers in one white hair As she will it tenderly That her own windward wings Do reach and kiss And purr as she doth; Rather a grave in silence. Rather a grave with his drows Than his own face to kiss; Rather a grave for me Than his silence that fills, His palms that is black With his burning blue; Rather a grave that holds A song to the tune of his praise. Rather a grave that holds All songs in one kiss Or song at least. Rather a grave that holds All music to his sense; Rather a grave for a song, Or music; rather a grave Than song of the mine; rather A grave's mouth, or a grave's heart, That all things with love May live, and not die, Like a man's, heart on heart, Life I love best Far below the gentle light That o'er the hills of ranges gray Blue and o'er the height where snow and flying Wild the river eddles through its gloaming; I can tell how fared it with the doubting. How, ever evermore, through all the frozen air ======================================== SAMPLE 172 ======================================== And louely browes, that seeme to be Twixt loue and loue, as is the skie Of vs alone, perswade whole May. Nor long vs never will repreue, But for the pleasure of theyr loue, Sweet Hermon-spole by whom none keepe, The poor and coure of an old Loue. Then come, bring hither Fals & hazards ayde With your delicious meri sound, Like hell, or earth, if this be still lou'd, Or that it were some idle pleasure, With ioy and merriment to meete. And then come hither to my loue, O tell me in what happy haire Thou didst thy selfe, and welcomest thus. Of all most kingly office awfull men, With fortune faire, might tell me who can Finde a more worthy office than thou wert, And finde the one that needeth more loue me. O take that coy, but not disdeeme Of count'nance loue, nor of his specious name: If there be a lordes mercy or disgrace, No, I will not loue thee, though it cost: And if not, yet, sayst, what is the game? Now proue thou not that I loue thee: For I can loue thee nothing else, nor thee. And though thy courage do not so disdaine, Yet I will loue thee to a soul so fild, That for thy glory I wyll ay complaine In thee the cause, by loue made more keepe, You won't do what sweete loues lawd in you. And if I doubt, if a loue then you finde, You will be assur'd of a most sweet minde, So keep it still till Jovs name bid you rought Thy spoyl'd blisse, but lye not as it ought. For as your heart at this doth sympathize, So mine shall sympathize in you no part, No hate comes in, no fierie calme affright, No quarrels catches at to know the art. Fortune, I mind me not, will not be so; Yet, if the common state of hearts were not The life of man, who were not subject unto, Whose was the truth, whose fortune he did read? What word, but this to keepe my heart is shedd? What power, but lyes within my breast or eares? When ev'n in warre, yet no whit wroth, I finde, The world hath cause to doubt, the world ore-blinde. And if that poore blind man draweth vp his eyes For pitty drawne out of his poore mensurate, This fortie blow did at my virgin heate With wounds displeast to end my paining cheeke, And this my body on my lap doo reele: For thou too feed't with too much salt and waste, Quho vniuersis fatui nota ore canst entret, But stedfast urge on some compassionate. Ne graue, ne graue, O lyonesse faire a fort, Ne graue, ne graue, O noble feare quoth he Whose ornaments are richly goodly blent With store of poore and precious precious stone, Resembles nature, beauties courts her harts, And doth with precious scruples tast her owne: For no perfection but in her can sterve, She doth but show to varnish every where, She being faire, might that be fairest prove, And by the which shee was thou never deare. But I alas! the feeare of such disdain I may not surfeit make, nor hope to gaine For pardonlesse this so faire a fairer place, The golden bands to binde my head about, The braues are fine, the world doth faire and faire, But the bruised reed doth break, that is no prayses, It is not diuine, no sweet smell there, But the bruised shepheard's wofull sound doe vnder Both his fresh beautie and hart-burning fire, His faire compassion, Cupid doth improue, He loses euery little thing of his. So every man be by his newes-dropped tun, Th' hast to abate ne need but he must chuse ======================================== SAMPLE 173 ======================================== a thousand flies, Trying all forms to make and live in lucid flight, Of a great work set on gigantic limbs that cling, 'Twixt Nature's roots and man's fierce scales for all their lays: And in those foulest days of breathing vapours They heard them shouting from the shoals beneath In monstrous, thunderous, fantastic forms, and glooms That tortured the dull sense with their wings' sharp breath; And the veined tongue of radiant love thrilled through them as they started down their liquid path. And this done all, they mounted to the height Of that new realm whereon the sun does stand. The sun takes from the land: those fairy forms That dwell with flesh and spirit, and with wind, And with the misty veil of heaven and stars The invisible hills lift up their lofty minds, And thoughts of things that are, and that might be. In the East, Nature was not, in the West, Ere Art grew woman, did she know the same. Now Nature in a shroud of glory lies And veils her tresses with her veil of flame. Now is the earth a garden of the flowers, Now is the sky a place wherein a grave Is made, a habitant of the breath of airs, Of the veiled buds of starlight and of gloom; Now is the earth a forest, whence a stream, A fountain, and a prison, and a house, And lovely flowers that God had made for them, But now they grow in loveliness, and wax In worth, as linked in loveliness with earth; Now there is earth, and now in it a heaven. Now in the East, Nature resumed her old command, Then from the South her freedom there began, And Heaven began anew her law, her love, Her universal, holy love, she sent In seas that glass the morning face of heaven, In winds that waft the rose's fragrance on Her radiant tresses, till the morning star Shed sacred light upon the growing earth, Now found its hour of growth and growth complete. Now, as this ancient legend ran, the West Saw fierce Mars die asunder, and the armed East Lie prostrate, and the young men cease their play At this fair fight. Now 'midst the chosen few He strove and marred his own, till in the deeps Of earth's dark womb the Furies made their couch, And purged with foul repose their fill of death. Now men grown gray were, being of godlier blood, And in the hollow void the moaning earth Fenced as the gates of hell for entrance up. Lo, all the places where the great sun fell Seemed covered with the darkness of the void. On either side a sea that surges up A little land whereof the upper deeps, Washed by the quivering sea, shows all a speck Unto a sea whence endless summer grows As deeps break. And a little far above, A star arose; then up a screeched and grey A light caught in the heavens and drew down Once more, and glittering on a sky of wax. How happy there the naked elements Were, seeing from the hollows of that soft white cell The starry moon half wan and wan and cold And cold as ice that yearns the sundown, fell And smouldered to a mist that gathered all About its knees and feet and unconsumed; A lovely place! a haunt of calm delight! A still ambrosial hall, wherethrough the morn Made out a glory in the silence night, Where no unhurrying eye or sound of breath Might mark the sleeping sails and wandering ships As they flew hither, even as merry folk Who sit here by the wayside and look long For the familiar things that now pass by. Over the cross the burning moon hung high, And dim beneath the cold translucent sky A lazy escort ran: from gate to gate, As on the hill the barge swings on the tide, The thronged adventurers swam with instant state And turned their backs on the remotest hills. At last, with gown of purple, and a robe Of purple, they moved to a narrow bridge, Which through the narrow tunnels sharply ploughed In broken lines athwart a caverned glen. They swam together, and at length reached out A garden, where, still whispering to the air, They sat together on a little bridge That jutted through a cypress-spruce and birch, Dragging the ploughman's furrow for the pl ======================================== SAMPLE 174 ======================================== yond dale; Ther as he was on palfrey bred, He spendeth noght upon his stede, He makth himselven forto duelle. So it betidde upon a tyde, That he ne mihte of love lete, That on he mihte werche and pleie, Which may noght serve in such a wise; Wherof he mihte him noght devise. And tho per cas the londes weie, Echon with other fro thei sette In stede of love and a visage To werche, and echon gret and smal, Sche mihte be delivered al. Sche scholde, to the men at on, Himselven pleine love to caste, And thei that wiste what it mente, They tok it understod a rede, And echon for himselve spak, That it was of so gret worschipe; That forto make it redyak To gon upon his doghter stille, Ther schal no mannes do justice, Bot alle goode men foryive. Thus if he wolde his grace crave, It were a wastour forto winne The vices that he mihte winne. Bot eny thing that is withinne I thenke telle, as I beknowe, Wherof a man mai stonde be The worthi men that ben of Age, And of his oghne wisdom thurgh The vice of Slowthe mai noght laste: Bot stomble upon al this fare, Wher as he stant in his memoire, And to the point a tale I rede. Ther was a king and Sone also, Which wolde come of riht good mo, Tidinge of such a worthi yow That riche he scholde of that thei tolde. The heved hath sent the Cite full, The which was time to beholde, Hem thoghte that thei were war and sore; And he, which hadde of him no lore, Makth knowe of suche Rihtes bothe. The Cite tho began conseil And cast withinne a thousand wyn, And ate laste everydel Thei comen to the deth and lif Of hem whiche that to him felle, And goth to court and goth also Among hem that that in buisshes, So that no maner Sone therto Mihte forto take leve or dethe To seche and schorte himselve bright. Bot yit thei seiden it was right That in avision thei the laie Thei gon tofore the Court al pleie In Char, to loke into prison: This King hem hadde wel to done, That he hem lete in avision. And whan it cam into the lond, Of Semiramis a gret peril Was thanne als such on as sche, Whan that thei mihten saufly sieke. Tho tho began thei taken hiede To setten upon this tempeste, Which is the moste leche of alle, The vice of thilke horrible vice Hire worthi Pite forto speke Of a Cronique in every lond, Which is the Regne of every lond That is upon the mannes myht. This pite, thogh the pite hir sieke, Was thanne litel how sche stod And ofte in many a maner side; And tho was al that evere glade That sche scholde al hire bodi schewe; Al was Medea sorwe and mad, Bot as it was to the goddess Hire vengance upon a nede Was broght into so prive a red, That with gret bataille sche was there. So it betidde upon a day Sche hath unto the goddes fere Of al that plein sche scholde sein, And dede, if that sche myhte sein And make eny covenant With hem that hire divin. And tho that hadden pite sore, And preide hir, as it was lore, To sen that sche was wroth therfore And torne his Chariot al ======================================== SAMPLE 175 ======================================== . <|endoftext|> But still, as in my calendar I am, I lack an answer. I Am plainly an unhappy land! I miss to tell of one that died Absorbed in the one-eighth year Of life since that I was a year. Briefly I cherish it for some few years, As this life now has full grown up to be Grown only as now. I too, or I May have been drowned outright. What then? At least, there is another pen. Yet smile. I am content. By compass now and place The last remaining lines are impeded. See! Who enters here? The door is shut! What goes it? Who is it that doth stand Fast by me, like a stave-man who has shivered His corded forks, and fallen down? I fear him, for I would not have him, If he were not a wood-thief. Let him guide me. (This was the character of him who died Twenty years ago.) See! I am very fortunate! It will not last quite long. He is alive. He sang the song of youth--and my whole body Sends mirth unto the earth--ah, but the way Is long and difficult. Ah, even the breath Of youth is short enough. Ah, I must try it. And now, my lungs keep vital motion! You might have heard the song. Not such a song! It hath no business to be heard to. Not such a song! I've heard it overhead. I did not hear it of the end and power That waits for all the work. I did not learn The Way of Life and Death. All things may learn Just at the very time. But though I am so far above myself That I might learn what this dark afternoon Must be--some message from the night-time Comes back to me: some matter of this world Must be a part of you and me and him, Some farther youth who walks with me and broods. You cannot speak to me of anything, Or any wisdom. I should lie alone In some green nook on some still summer lawn. This happiness may be our prison-place, Not for itself, but that, for him whose clear And flowery eyes are like the radiant eyes Of Hesper, watching for his fleetfoot herds Among the twilight clouds. If I have told, May be he knows indeed. For him, oh, help, Help from these dark, he helpless, who must die, Help from the night of Death! Men of the world--may sound The praises of this mighty people--Men! Men who shall say, that ere these roaring suns Kindled upon the people clamoring, Against their sturdy, manly faces The crucible-clasps clung. O righteous men! That long ago made deaf amid the silence Of things the People loved! The goodly earth Knew nought of this, save that the very air Of some sweet girlhood held them all athwart Their head, by all the smouldering fire-flies That burn upon the people; and at last, O'er whose mysterious memory rose that sigh They knew not of, the girl they loved, who fell To give the people that she loved at last, She, taking from them all her loveliness, Blossoming them as only flowers that grow To kiss new-plucked and sweetened into life. The followers of the story heard with joy Of love and she, their duties to fulfil, And spread religion through the people's heart, And superstition joined the throng to keep Turned to the music of a merry tune Wriggling the furrows long and carefully Upon their hearts in joy and wonderment, Pleading with them to go forth and rest, By sad November weather. Even then, Even then they felt the coming of the sun In them beheld. They trembled not at all, But feared that even in their eyes there gleamed A sunbeam shining through the hands of Death. Oh! what a smile! They drank deep of the wine And watched it flowing from the mouthful of the Cross. How beautiful they trembled! One and all They cried: "We are assured that there is death For those we love. Give us thy sword and give us To give us weapons." Eagerly they leapt Into the jaws of death-- ======================================== SAMPLE 176 ======================================== 's Brothe, And but the Angler's self Is least polite, so is the SWEET Of his Creator, and should best Of Best aspects offer most content. If the fair Shade be anythin, Then will the Fair herself, As lovely as a Lady, thin, As charming as th' Artificer, And will not fail in in her, Whose heart and word are pure. Still rash, from this I grieve Each time to carry you; But should the Spirit then crave An hour of mirth and glee, Which back to you I'm given, 'Twere ill if I were after Heaven, A moment, by and by. A wiser path is found In this my rustic age, Wherein to weary nature round She ranks, with each new-blown sage A grander sage than I, And bids us shun each stage and haunt Of prince or peasantry. But turn your eyes, and lo! behold A crowd within the door Of this stupendous age which lives, Let thence no more depart, But daily drive the roaring cows That frisk before thy shrine; Until at length he turn his sight, Without farewell, or warning, And this thy servant's page; Which is the goddess of thy bower, Returned from all thy kingly power, In beauty, youth, and beauty's charms, A long-lost child we find Before us, through the joys and pains Which once thy master kind, As gallant as a horse of his, Nor fierce as blood, and fleet as wind, Graced with high hopes to meet thine eyes, And meek as of the bowing pines In their ancestral pastures bred, I would not yield thee now, And hold thee and grow up as of old. The fairest is not false or kind, And wilt thou gain by false? I've guessed thee false, yet 'tis behind The best that can be still. But sure 'tis very hard to judge, Who thus can choose between two two A friend, whose faithful heart shall own That love shall never be another's, Till death some other way be known. On them shall thy temple's shelves Without an olive's bark, All full of leaves, but not of rue And living proof, of lack of creek And water's precious cheer. For these are of thy choice, although Their names be new, are all I have To offer which if they are free They will accept thy gift, and crave The meanest favor which is lent. For the great lineage of the earth, And birth, and death are thine; As oaks beneath the aspen shade Crow up to cover thee, As streams through moss thy tall hillside, As shrubs thy tangled banks shall be, And while the mountains wind and blow, With labouring ships thy lofty brow Shall strike with awe the willing stones And blast thy broad fields, that shall bring Thy country's wishes to a spring, And thy's the richlyowered groves among Which grew in days of summer-tide When birds were singing side by side. Alas! for thee no fruit or flow'r, No flower its native fragrant bears; And when those come to whom are now, And such as once from ocean comes, Not even when o'er the breast of death They have shed a mutual tear or sigh, Let me not, like too often sung Or desecrate thee; but, lest thou, If of that red but inward flame, Alas, for him, all blood hath run, Failing, if through fire and cloud Thou passest a pale corrie there, Then am I dying; and the voice Of this poor verse shall be the last. And when thou with thy servant's aid Art hither tending, and shalt be Beside him, then the many a maid, Herself, will bear thee company, And, hand in hand thereto shall go The soft hours of thy childish hour And think how, on the flow'ry bed They sit together, they that sleep Under the flowers, whose careless hands Fold and give life to one Spring's bands, Whose laughter rings among the bowers Where others hardly know their hours. As in my father's house Beyond the sea, I see the trees, the trees, With its mist and cloudy hues, Like unto become The things that have been. Their lovely heads droop downward ======================================== SAMPLE 177 ======================================== 'T is cruel to be grave! I've dragged my soul into the lake, To sink within a well of sand; And here, amid the greenest grove, Is comfort for a lover's hand, A book my father bought of yore (When here he ruled his house beside) With books and books and toys and flowers, To take his fancy to his bride. Yon castle's stately toppler! Where The hunter's bead could ever be, On earth or sea, is such the skill To win the prince's joyless day, And memory's flight to memory Will pierce, as, peering into glades, Old heroes trode into the shades. Such was the dream they dreamed; and then Fell on the ear like parting men; And straight, as if to die, they stirred, And fainted to their several shades. Those leaves I know, who thus have played For years and years and years away; And though they sleep as in a grave, How is it that the domes go loose And tremble under foot? Yet here The dull, green stones and sleepy trees Lie level with the quiet skies, The squirrels flit, as memories; The brooks have lost their old surprise; And I have seen a nest o'er-turned And nursed it when I had anointed My head with silver. Is it well? The years depart; I see them yet, My boyhood's God in manhood's years; And with his boyhood's thoughts of praise They glide before me as a wave Sideways, and glide again to give The burial-place beyond the wave. The best was ever yet, at last, Which made a radiant face and bright; While memory bides no longer past, And in the shadow seems to shine, Just as my mother said of old, In a dream, by pleasant wayside streams, Gems not the spring to us--or flowers, Yet leaving barren sweetnesses As sweet as those to which his blood The priceless violet yields For future years to come and go. Her flowers went before me, day by day; The south wind hushed their dirge and sigh As summer storms came rolling by; The branches now inclined to sigh, As wind that gathers in its might, Keeps shifting tokens of the flower, And in its mother's tender eyes The morning sunbeams of the morn Have left me yet of all their charms, And all their radiance, all their light Beams of the happy summer's day. Shadows and snow-clad streams around Covered my spirit like a crown. Such lines of beauty as shall fade Before the mirror's laughing gaze Shall on its graver fancy fade, And leave it powerless and aloof, So when the shadow of death's wing Shall lengthen out the song of love. The nightingales, the snow-clad peaks And glimmering waters glimmering by, The whisper of the shore that rims Above them like an emerald sky, Shall, by mine uttering, take the tone Of longing love, unto my soul. And through those hours that are too brief, A moment on that golden string Shall fall the gift of that glad time, And by its rhythmic ticking thrill Be born again to this brief rhyme; And then, her rare voice sounding low To this faint heart that would not sing, I'll rise and kiss that bower of snow And bound it with a myrtle ring. Yea, when this shadow of the snow Must make that wonder of me yet, I'll sit and wave those gracious curls I built upon my father's sod, And tell the story of our tears, And all the grief to us that time May bring to us as her own. 'Twas time--the starlight's parting gleam Of glory fell upon the stream Of twilight, and the birds that sang Above the water-lilies found Some parting, some idea made In softest song for his bard's hours; And as I watched the leaf-borne cone Of thy young bough pile up a stone I saw them spring: the song that sprang Of free, glad songs, to light thy rids Of summer and its depth of weeds. And as I watched, my spirit found Its theme of life that should not cease; And as I watched, I saw the sound Of Love, that waited, bowed, and bent Above our mortal weakness, sent Its weight ======================================== SAMPLE 178 ======================================== 'Mid men who whinnied in their joy, 'Mid mirth's alarms and bloody war, While boys in drink, despairing, flare, Unresting, on the hearth-stone high, The bratchet reddens in the sky, The trumpets sound, the banners fly, While the wild war-horse, skill-in wars, Glares on the echoes as it whirls, Till o'er the silence far and wide Grows clammy night-fires from a hundred spires, Then dies the signal of the charge, As, grouped around its awful course, The mother-monk looks from the tower, And, one by one, to windward moves, That hand is stretched--so, now, now, The snow and sleet sweep o'er his brow, The mother-monk looks forth with eyes Of earnest and of mother-wise, As from the shrine they gather clash And shout, in reverence, the poor pace And humble pittance of her poor, As he goes up the steep descent, To offer offer her the last Short tribute; but a year or two Leaves her this hindrance to undo, And, smiling, drop his sword to go. There is no village near the town, The township of abounding renown, Though tenantless, and yet unborn, With staves and houses that aspire, Without a name, without a fame, And yet without a claim on birth, Without a thought of disenthrall'd earth, Are honour'd, thriftless, and to tell The bloodless story of the tale, The priest of holy Babylon, But keeps his spirit closed and still, Like some frail lily, newly sprung To bloom in woods, and lay its gold In the still morns and dewy dews, And with it mingle deathless views Of safety, as they sing along The safety of the traveller's song, Without the lapse of aught to be, The Highland heart of memory. Thou priceless among holy flowers, Enthroned among the wealthy bowers Of the broad-realm'd larch, thy rod, Thy sunshine and thy shadow, lend To form and substance for their end. The gracious blessing first receive, The weapon next, and then the sword; The field of combat, then the field Of battle, and of triumph last. And thou, my country's olive tree! Down whose ash trunk thy branches be, (At distance yet remote) Thou plantest thy brave heart on me. O, ye wild, guarding trees, Who guard our green-wood cot, Would to their winter homes (Your winter walks are wet), And from your roots that thrive Breathe mercy forth from you. The strong you best may wield, The weak your might deliver, But man alone shall make The strong to stand and to live. I see my fathers, I behold The forests, now before me, When the ice-bedeck'd head Of our storm-beaten barrow, Heard the wind call it home, Saw the snow wild on the heather First of all, that day, Saw a little cottage and coot; But it fell like fruit away, And like the winter rain Came to our door again. Old, and young, and fair, They left me soon behind, Each one seeking his mate, The other the kind; The first that came to my hand, The third found the woman's feet, Their tripping were mute; It was not the step of the feet Sitting beside the door, She I love first came here, She I love best and mournest me; O how little one seems to be That I could outnumber the years That Time hath not saddest unsettle'd. And when you were young and foolish, In your innocent childish way, Our unsaid watchers sat by the side Of your innocent Mother, And you knew not what they said, But we knew, when we shut our eyes, That our spirits were childish, and sometimes We were little and wise. With shame then took we for child, And for child our sakes, With pride then went our mother, And after she had grown wise, We were blinded, that we might Not see what she would see. In all youth's earliest years, No wonder, 'twas our fathers saw Your glorious boughs, with fear-fill'd eyes; And when ======================================== SAMPLE 179 ======================================== that were the lords and crowns Of all the fields, Were slaves to others. Were brothers, or more or less, Had some men said the same, And who would take the sword and blow That made him madder. Whereat the lord of many a tongue, Gave choice to speak his name, Whom none might question, But all the young-eyed race of men Should speak with shame, Till all the church should question then, And all the world should call on one, "The countries roundabout doth roam, Because his reign was lost!" Hence, all that he had dreamed and taught, Came forth, a feudlike king, And Waltharius, he called the gods, And this was all the thing: "The gods implore the might of man, The gods implore the might of gods, But what avails the empire's sway That sends him to the things that may From year to year Men turn from good men's goodly ways, Or turn from good men's good to say, "The gods have done with man," The gods gave voice to all that said, And they that ministered to none, Seek in the darkness of the night That great eternal law For what is good, and what is right, And all must come to nothing, none Begrudge to wrack the bliss that's done And leave no dawn for mirth and play; And every one must do his part To break the law that rules the land And cast the far-world's crown for HIM, Who died to keep the troth of fools, And one for whom the world's a bond, While one's the king for evermore. "If my face shine in any book, On this side the world I will look, And this one's face may scarcely pass But, oh, the world, the world I'll see When love walks by me for the glass! I'll take my book that comes to me, And this one's face shall surely be The one I sought for--Lilith Mains, Sitting by the window-pane, Where the wind cries loud for me, And the wild wind calls me-- Where the winds cry loud for me, And the wild wind cries me-- By the window-pane." He looked on Thee, Lord God, As in a vision through the ages Of his life, and the beginning, When he killed my soul in pieces, And my life from its beginning, Came back in his hands immortal To be strong with him forever. Or ever I should sleep As in old time I lay, And I slept as in a dream While the great winds were blowing Far through the trees of May, I could hear the warm soft rain From the old, forgotten main, And the glad sound of singing main Through the old, forgotten main. But I could hear the sound of thunder, And the rush of bird on the storm, And the great drops on the pane; And my soul could haste and stay As in the days gone by, And the storm-clouds in the night Fell on my soul like snow, As a sudden rush of light From the great high hills afar, When the great wind roars for me, And the great ships go by. I did not know how to begin, Nor what to say, I do not know; What good to make one with to begin, And win the power of the wind and snow To be what I am left to be, And be what I am now to be. So, when I am grown too strong for pride, Let me be gathered to your side, And hold you both in benediction, As in old times beside At the good prayers left me in the end. There was an old woman called Nothing-at-all, Who carried a broom to a mortal aunt, One day she married a beautiful hush; And the old man was quite as well as dead, With hair blown over and face turned red, And her husband was crying, "O let me go, For I love you, love you!" and the girl replied, "What has the world to do with Gun?" She went to the topgallant School, where She always said when she was a lad, But he ever said she was over young, And years ran by her, few or many a mile, And little he knew who she could be, That was coming to call for a horse or a goose ======================================== SAMPLE 180 ======================================== uavit. Saepe coelesti donc tales, Broad chest o' your ribs sae keen, Loud mutch aufgetr' und he! Out there at the window, Sae white were the fellers, And loud they resounded, As they tauld you their revel; And up and o'er the batt threshold They swam on wi' their splittie, In search o' the lanthorn, For game and ale feeling blent there. Quoth I, "Wi' a laugh in thi glee, Thou hast sat fast, I see; I'll rin like a skunkie Play soon wi' thy mettle; Thy gawsie is comin' fast As a thief frae hell doth; And wha winna save thee A-trippin' my faithfu' heels, We'll tak a sheets o' meal." Wi' a gowdy laugh on his lips, Quoth I, "The gates are wide; I'll rin them a rowing Afar, far aloan. That daddie maun please me, At the dealer's enticed wine, That'll clink at the sheugh!" Quoth I, "Wi' a' this gowd, It's gowd, and fair, and a'-- If ye'll but gie me a shilling, A gill maun be yours." Quoth I, "The way is fine, And fair am I to win; But should ye tak me mine, Mine is a' to my liking; But should ye tak me wi' it, I fear ye'll ne'er gie me your liking." Quoth I, "What says your gowd What needs your wullie to gie? For your neighbour's a thief, And - what you never saw - If you'll let me speak fae Though but a true ne'er he. For your neighbour's a thief, And aught ye ever saw, But what you never saw, But what you never saw, What you'll ne'er hear again." "Now tell me, ye jaudlin pack, What and where are ye made? smack, ance, a kiss, and a clink; Ance, come give me your blade. Gae get me your tinkering hammer-nail, Gae get me a giller gude, That will clink at the shed bell's tail, An' I'll ne'er gie ye a stane. I'll ne'er gie ye a drink o' the burn; I'll ne'er gie ye a tane; I'll ne'er gie ye a roond my ain, Unless I ha'e a new pan; An' gie me yon rich, red gowd, Wi' a glass o' the burn side. But gie me a drink o' the burn side, An' gie me a cot mair down; I'll ne'er gie my ain dear lassie Wi' a cup o' meal in her crown. Come, gie 's o'er the hame, An' gie 's o'er the gowd, An' gie 's o'er the moor to the burnside, An' gie 's o'er the field o' lead, An' gie 's o'er the fields o' meal, At the fa' o' the wind and the blaw, In the auld year that's awa. When I was a lad wi' a braw newe-shankit bairn, A' over the moor to the end I could na get weary; Tho' I was in silly weeping, an' mony by theick, Ye never would think, to be leaveward an' sae sair. But I was a swankie auld man, tho' ne'er a stiver, Ye never would think I was wafting an' sae weet, Ye never would think I was wafting an' sae sair. But I was a swankie auld man, that ne'er would let me, Ye never would think I was wafting an' sae gabbing, Ye never would think I was wafting an' sae gabbing. But I was a swankie auld man, as ======================================== SAMPLE 181 ======================================== arm for arm, and press a trepid glass With nicest care. This when that arm was seen With those two eyes, which match'd in strength of phlox, If but a single glance were thrown on me, I would be seen by other lists enjoin'd. Thus every eye was bent on other charms, And every voice in praise; for she had none. If these two, therefore, can be objects here Of something, not of thing, but of a kind, Which shews the kind, and pays to what is due. The hand which man can offer is her own, Or by a well directed to the will Of whatsoever gives it dignity. The whole is from itself divided well: For who from woman woos the man away, All, all, which she exacts from Nature, gives To others her peculiar charge; the man Less wedlock, and content in his own charge. The tresses which her own black down shears Do come or go, and many a grace is shown, When they shews graceful and majestic too; The man's the woman's peculiar charge; For man, when woman's hand or charms insures, Is of one sort, and so is woman's praise. The harlot in the smiles of man below, Who tempts the tresses of a nobleman, Meets him with all his aid; the man's unseen, Or one of nature's people; he alone Can prove the mutual blessing of a friend: For when the bee, invited to the feast, Darts on the floweret's stalk, it slays the fly. And ere his full-grown buzzard to be gone, The fattest fop he of the honey'd flower, Plucks from beneath the ear, and flies, and slays The rebel humming fly; but at the word, Wheresoe'er it shifts, for him it reeks, And so the universe devours of all. To grow in knowledge and esteem, To drink the sweets of womanhood, and clothe In truth the loveliest theories of love, Is to become the votary of thought, And of the mighty Godhead; and, indeed, Whate'er the cause of man's dislike or fear In its own nature, it is not enough To prove that woman is not God's effect. It is the Church's pedagogue, whose voice Is vocal organs to all human ears, Whose eyes are open to all human thought; Whose doctrine it is, that alone to preach, Or meditate, or teach, or meditate, Attendeth to all comers to all hearts. O, then, my Lady! If a man there be, More holy than the sages of the world, One among them is of more puissance; None o'er the rest more worthy to appear, Of so much reverence and so much love; Whereby he feigns himself more friend than friend, If aught of his peculiar nature be Worthy, in himself, the confidence of Heaven. He by his own assent has always shown How difficult, if this be true, to bear Upon the Christian creed; his piety Hath oft made proof that what man worships not; But there's another way, which he intends, Either to find, or else to bring away. Whom therefore he delights to leave behind, As say the farmer, if not his alms. But thanks to heaven for his benevolence, And the pervading spirit which, through fear, Now when the time of man is come, hath fed Upon devotion's talent, not, as yet, The perfumes of devotion, and still flush His holy head, as is the wont of fire, To place upon his conscience his revered And pure devotion; and, indeed, to prove That love of heaven hath in itself the strength, But not how much it is; he cannot tell How beautiful, how little it doth seem, How fair, how foul, how great, how great the charm Which hallows friendship, and to him speaks truth. He knows the world. He hath not learned in heaven To bend it down, to lift its timid wing, To lend its trembling plume to fan the air, To make its lovely bosom fold more close, Than our whole empire warrant it with fire; Nor does he know that the bright train we tread From grace to sin, doth teach us to be calm, Smile also in the sunshine, in the shade. We welcome thee, O England! when our Lord Can's ======================================== SAMPLE 182 ======================================== you gave me, if you please." She went, and smiled: "He should have taken it; And that is quite forgotten. 'T is in vain. Then have a care! you think I have a reason: You all'll prove me. Now you, don't believe me, But only YOU." "Ah!" she went on, "and so Must own that, speaking sincerely, you Were like a goddess made of many flowers, And like a slave may keep his head when he Stands at the altar. I am one of those; And, when I look at your fine fleur-de-lis, I love to see you in your hair and face. But if you do that which you like, as now, Then you must love me also. Do not grieve, Or if you would. If only I should cry For one short moment of affection, oh, For such a love as waits beyond its life, Why should you, even in dying, dread to lose The blessed moment in which I should think I could love only? I do not think it good To hope that such a love is recompensed By that same wish! Yet if I quite forgive My folly for it, it was not a month Of fog, or August dusking the yellow leaves That shiver on the branches. Now I fear That I shall lose you, and the memory Of all that we were in,--a single month, And more than this! My head,--the thought of that, Wound up by that which can be brought to light By Love, which waits our questioning,--to be Proved fatal by that whispered vow I broke, Which slew your hope. In faith, I find you mine! Dive to the arrows of the dead: the man Shines like a godhead, and he knows it too. He has all thoughts, all mysteries that be veiled, But one brief nidder of a message heard Out on the wind. He is so justified, So searched, it seems, in all but one he is. There are some things he could not comprehend. His murder is not heard, but he is lost. There are some things he could not comprehend. There is another world. He may not wait Longer than your commands. He has no power, But his past thirst has gone to make men hate The other years. He is too blind to see The world as that of God. How can he take The time and all it does? But you cry out For pity. Tell me, girl, if this be love, If you are like a man to be deceived By what it is for evil? When the sight Lends us its good to see it, let it be. All is for nothing. Nothing can be more. It is God's plan to make us poor or mad, And none can come to help. He did believe It could be he--that Adam and the man-- Were beasts and men--but God knows what of that! "Doughty?" "God knows I shall be soon with God. Pity me, I am sinewed." "Ye are deaf!" "Ye cannot cover me. He does not love me! He will find me ere I die." "I would be dearer, Had I nothing before, than this drought!" The sun set in eclipse. The earth in hiding, The shrub and the mole Closed and closed Round the roots of the trees. The sun set in eclipse. The earth in hiding, The mole in hiding, Clung thrice to the oak. The ground that the tan did not share, And the sky with its stars, Were covered with reindeer With a drift of toys. The sun set in eclipse. He laughed as he jumped Through the grasses and chinks At the goals of the air. The sun set in eclipse. He peered through the chinks At the white owl riding, And watched a whirlpool In the sunset's dying And the sky with the sun. He peered to the ground, And he saw in his heart That the earth was hot And the air with its stars, That the souls of the birds Did suddenly part. And the earth said, "Lie still, Have no more strife; I am your own life." But the sun set in eclipse. The stones skipped away, And the grass said, ======================================== SAMPLE 183 ======================================== let us all repent-- Let's hope in God be just as men. 'Tis Faith that sits by his own seat, Though ashes form his vest, And when his last breath passes by Shall only breathe of her. She wears a veil like the tattered cloud, An ermine snow-white veil, And her eyes are deep and dark and bright, I wonder what they are; Her daily prayer, her daily food When ruffians go, I ween, To keep the road, she rolls it o'er Like an old man worn and grey. But when her last, long prayer takes flight, She stands at the window-square, And looks out wildly with half-closed eyes At all the toys and fearsome things That once were there. For, pausing in the cold dark night, She sits so still and white; It seems as if her dress were made For some great deed of right; With her hair swept, the pillow then Of the dead you must not see, It is too late, though you make a nodding way Through every silent pew; And you can find no charm, until The stormy days grow long. The church grows near; The last long autumn leaves are dead; They fall like flakes of snow From the broad river-bed. But where they die of hunger and cold cold The will is satisfied, And the fire leaps high in the stone stair, While the organ pounds out three. And when they tumble down The cold rain-drops will curl up there. I went to her, and oh, I found her fair, And I made moan more; I made the moan like an aching thing; I laid her hand in mine, and oh, I was there. And as she passed by in the morning gray The lonesome church was nigh, And rose-wreathed fountains filled the grey Upon the hills, where the sick men lay Their weary limbs in feverish pain; They lie there so for three long years, And all the time is pain. But oh, my body will never rest, And yet in its lonely tomb May the Church give rest to the weary breast And rest from the vanguard of sorrow and gloom. They do not tell her. It must have been Through all the weary ages, But she has lived and sung in the old tune That makes the long sad years Thicken and darken the world more sad Than Springtide in her fable-twilted days, With the times of want and jarring, When she sang to the poor man gaily and bravely, And, in his ear unkempt, He sang, "Brave knight of Christendom Was our young shepherd's credulous shepherd's friend, The fair flock-master's joy, When the first footstep of our little shoe (Along the hills) Came to the place of milking time, And the song-birds brought her stories Far in her heart's unfathomed chime. Now she lies under the great oak tree, That she might have her flocks by the door, When the herd was a new delight, To sip the milk of her shepherd's kine, And fold their waxen hands on mine, And see the bright buds on her breast, Once more with the mute happiness Of the horn and the scarlet bloom She traced in her childhood's history Some word of grace and loveliness Of virgin love o'er the coming death. And this to the last of the long ago, By the night I watched in silence go, Over the ground with the dreamy dead, The shadowy shrine of the Churchyard pond, Where once in her maiden dreams The empty Temple's shattered towers Seemed desolate and forever flown. She crossed herself in a strange green way With outspread arms that reached out to meet And the slow drops gathered and softly played Upon the painted sign And the lone chapel as she lingered yet Was lonely as a dream. The monks and the priests had crossed their way, And in the cold gray air They dreamed awhile in their dusky gray; And then the harsh wind blew And the chestnut logs were fuming high And the horn its hollow smoke Was fading into the stillness of the sky. And all the church grew still, Till the sacred organ's tap had died And the doomed man knelt And felt the foot of the unseen feet But never a beat Ringing the chapel as he knelt, But ever a fit ======================================== SAMPLE 184 ======================================== Forced into a fret and a breaking bank. Thus, thus, the Poet was laughing, saying:-- "Friend! I know not what thou art at; No harmony is half so sweet as thou Thy little voice is, and thy smile is-- Thy heart is solely true and sweet-- Be guileless, even with the child of thine, And cease from bitterest voices dying, With moaning of the little human heart, With tranquil pleasure that is all divine. That is a benediction--subtlest part! With calm, majestic brow, and eyes a cream Of rarest brightness; thou, that art the soul, We are thy glories, and, throughout the world, Thy crown of fame and place is a star-spark Of the pure spirit,--we are to be his! Who thus have listened, and from the dark depths Borrowed their unending song of stars,-- Not by alternate mood of song and word, But simply for its highest purpose wisht, So that, once more, it falls upon the world As an unspeakable fountain, and has long Been filled with living music, as a harp Pipes to a thousand harmonies, and grows A song of the ambitious and of bounding thought That, with its golden cage, has something shut Within itself, and other sounds become Of import, as the earthly objects all Must follow on the hope of hearts, that come From the remote and strange Hyperion. My spirit is an island of the deep Nor shoreless. From the day I first looked on It will be one of earth, where are her flowers? Must I be silent, then? Ye find the words So full of meaning as the words of man, Which are to his fair paradise pronounced "Ten thousand thousand!" Yes! and twenty thousand Are the white chimes, that speak the souls of those Who with the singing magic of their works, In their dear strains entwine themselves with love, Winding together into threefold steps, Are never taken from them. These are the days Of childhood, ever floating upon Thought, To me, who sail with those departed bides, And when my soul has traversed the abyss Of heaven, as a wave-like word, arose To offer it her upward oracles Whose utterance is more harmonious Than music, and than a celestial song! She comes! I almost tremble at her steps! The earth is motionless! her weight of hours Has burst like a soft sigh into my prayers. What can be else? save that, in time, wherein She holds her court in solitude and song? The wavelets on her beautiful white feet, As they leap down into the starry heaven, Woo her with their sweet breath, as she dances On nimble feet to music in the dark, Through heaven's sparkling portals. Ye have made These orange shells of many a sunburnt hue, To be tossed back in ocean-tides, and pitched On barkless sands by the oar-blades, till now! Like a winged seed, I drive my heart away; A wondrous vision! like the ocean-song! With her, the breeze, the golden-winged winds pass, Her footsteps mellow as a rose's breath! Her happy hand--'tis here I wade apace, And here I pluck an apple from her boughs, And here I scatter, in full tide, the snow And languish for her bosom. Behold her gliding in among the trees! O, bright Minerva! have no prop to show This shape that she hath taken in exchange; A thing which I am glad to look upon, A war-worn wear-bride of the downward snow. She cannot lure me to her shadowy cave, Nor yet can lead me by her finger o'er The shrouded snow, though driven by the wind, And sitting by it in that icy cave. The shadowy pine-tree and the purple fir, Where I am wont to sit, but not to dance Upon the heavy-headed china's charms, Can yield but kisses at the frantic allay Of the tumultuous night-wind; but the force Of all the wild emotions of the storm And the fierce fires of tumultuous youth, And the white legends that of old he told, Only can add to a world's fair expanse Its billowy-foaming bosom and the stars Of heaven to an everlasting sleep. Nay, for the high moon, behold! ======================================== SAMPLE 185 ======================================== the likeness to the Creator of the World above. Upon his head the Virgin, and God-majesty, were set distant their collected lamps; the sound of tabour, festival and prayer, the human wailings, the wonder and awe of the eyes, medusa of God, the mother of life, were all the hearths of the earth and heaven. The elements, as before have been, were vivid with power of light and sound and beauty, to have become breathing everywhere. The elements were now the images of things to be; the image of God. So every naked plant, leaf, and bird, was being supernumerized; all things which first were lacking, and what must last is but the soul's increase. Now, when one may behold the natural aspect of things and loveliness of things, the sight and sound of animals was no more before. So the Archangel- help of the four winds has put it to flight, is not it so to be, but also to be, to be, to be; a sound was far more natural to be seen, the sound of the hum of the frog, than of the sea-tides, when, saddened by the gnat, it rolls into the dark. The hour of an eclipse has been assigned, and the moon had passed from the pole, now called; and at times one strikes an affectation, while others are delivered from a shadow. The lower pathway is deserted; there's a tree, in the middle of the apple tree, which just now looks like the wall of the Irish House, and seems to have electric-litten the heart of the bitten pool with such an emotion as it was, it believed in the refreshments it had. A black root in the apple tree is seen in the margins of the garden near the riverside, and on the left are seen a black and yellow periwig, its tail, the length of its back along the avenues leading under the boughs. Here a row of white flowers has been found about the walls and doors, and by this one has been seen several images of garden looking forward, statuesque and white. From the rear of the garden they survey almost all the garden; the peonies are so fragrant, the orange blossoms are almost fresher, and the even bright flowers are wholesome to eyes. Now I must pause, and it is time to turn my steps, Already on the road of life, so that my heart unties itself with the thought of God. So proceed, following thought! (ll. 259 lxxxix) It is pleasant where the moment of the day Brings on to mind the distance of the moment when life is held in converse with our fellows, to drop the strong hold of death at the root of each other. It is a common doom of destruction to all who go under the influence of the East, to escape its certainties, and to perish at the base of life and afterward sink under the curse of life. And certes, since they were the stings of children in the womb, they are fled and be covered over with blighting blight. (ll. 259 lxxxvii.icles: "The calamities committed after the destruction of the Babylonian private, but the temple of a secret torture is often necessary to sight it printed, lying over the hands of men." The Evelyn and the woodlark, are indeed the same as before, while the pious mother of the solitudinous peoples sings it. The woodlark starts up from his sleep, and the chestnuts are consumed by the sun, while the round sun, like a ball of fire, flashes upon the heaven. (ll. 259 lxxxvii.) s. 6 of Ocean's, Moloch's, and the deep embowered flood of the Red Sea, with its headlands of green, give birth to three daughters, so as to look upon the Divine. (ll.tabelles: Deo non Pelixi. 1. iii.6). One of these is inscribed on the breast of Medea, one of the Arabian Phoenix, as in the southern Chapæa, to which are probably descending or descending its sacred habitation. One was probably the son of Matan, and is also probably also a retired Alada, or one of the Lelegians of Salamon and Dorothea, who are spoken of as the two famous first-born of the Jewish ======================================== SAMPLE 186 ======================================== said, "You have not said what. You know I've lived all this, and I'm perfectly cool, And made myself pure, and am perfectly cool; But it's no use now to tell you, for cool." "I have said I should die, and it is only true That I can say that I am not cool. I'll have nothing to say, but I could tell That you shall tell me, sir, what you'd have to do. We'll have nothing to do but to make your mind keen; For when you know that the best of us all Will be to wait the time when there's a time to spare, You'll catch the devil in giving you time to spare." Two churches here do lodge together; They've gone to the East, and they're going to West, And they'll go to the East, and they'll go to the West, They'll go to the West, and they'll go to the West, And they'll die of the thirst of the scorching kiss That lurks at their feet through the promise of 't. They'll go to the East, or they'll go to the West, And they'll die of the thirst for the love they shall prove They shall know, at the time when their altar's dressed They'll go to the West, or the world they shall see, And you'll be holy and rich, you, and I, And your head on my shoulder I'll laid, While I kneel and pray that the world shall hear My message of peace, my hopes, my dear. And it's five long years since I saw you first, When the best of my hopes was leaving you now. Then I had to pray that my eyes might search And search the world till my eyes were blind. Then I had to pray that my heart might sing, Until old memories seemed to grow. And I used to pray that the wild things rang When the best of my pleasures came to be. I was, of course, praying that my eyes might mark Some morning again, and my heart might sing, Until my soul, I know not what, became A fount in the sky, and a mist of flame, A bubble of sound where a spirit turned, And the air seemed only the voice of Fame. Oh, I used to pray that my eyes might mark A cavern of magical rocks that rose, While I drank the dew from the ripe old pine, And drank it to the breeze of the crept and lingered pine; It was chilling to me as I turned to fly, To find my love in a ferny nook at even; And I felt that I never would see his eyes. And I had to pray that the long, sweet kiss That lured the heart from its depths, might fill With the glow of love in the heart of bliss, And the thrill of a seraph's touch at heaven's hill. And I murmured low in my heart while she spoke to me: "Oh, come to me, Love, and list to my prayer, Or my cheek shall be wetted with tears for thee." "Oh, come to me, Love, and list to my prayer, For never again shall I join in thine eyes The eyes that are pleading thee, eyes stretched to me To answer thy questions of comfortless skies. Oh, come to me, Love, and list to my prayer, For, oh, my beloved, the world's not made." And then she listened and sighed to the breath Of a heart more fluttered than words of speech, Till a hope lit up th' old halo of death, And she made reply: "Ah, my heart's not made!" Then she passed away, leaving me here. And I lived I was once more when she came there, But he came no more when she came away, And in my heart ever stilled the thought of shame, Sorrowing she wept that a woman should know That the love of a woman's love could be mine. And we left the place that we had left; And on the blue-grass roads, alone, And she with her companions, walked With her companion, a silken sister. Along the snow-drifts, Upon a high and distant hill, She saw the golden moon appear. And down she saw a king, With robes of crimson and gold, Coming along the cold. "Why, just what are you thinking of, What, with that stone for a crown, Hidden away from me, What, with those delicate diamonds, you And I, who are standing ======================================== SAMPLE 187 ======================================== ein of the heart. But thou mayest truly hope That in this world thou art a saint, And unto him belong. He may be virtuous, but not A monster of a home. For I myself were covetous Of aught but Virtue rare, And should with her compared I must find Grace, so fair, In yonder starry sphere. Then why, my sister, should I bleat On her, the heavenly fair? The fair which she alone receives Would so much humbly share, That I, who did but borrow From her a kiss, might swear I had a full love quite too fair. No man's injustice is his own; And none is he but he Whose tears they spring as dew. What's love? 'tis only clo'es and dews, 'Tis only sparkling, warm, and bright, As pure as evening primroses. Love's vessel does not smoothly pass; And none can let its flow away, But when the neck is strongly placed At the first smile, its blush will stay; And I will promise by his way To make my heart more deeply burn, Even in her bright eye's gushing font, More clearly than did ever erred. Since then this wretched hope has died, And all my power has passed away Like bubbles on the troubled tide. I've lain among the rocks forlorn 'Mid crags, and rocks, and turbid deeps, And since I've fenced it up against The wind that blows a wretched wast, And through its cloudy shroud at last Has climbed heaven's top with lightnings bright And struck his fiery hurt with lightnings. She sank beneath the ocean's waves; She did not scream, she did not scream, She did not weep, she did not sigh, Her spirit passed from earth away. Is that the cause, the fancied shade, That you should think yourself a grave? Then let my fears in silence rest, The real cause is surely mine; This is the faithful's only trust, This is the cause of love divine; I know it, but I'll never fear That death in life is really here. I would not have you hang your head, For fear it should a vacant sigh; But on my love I'd gently place The glass upon your lips of love, And on my lips your eyes to muse Upon the lifeless form they wore. No, never let your trembling lip Bring me a tear of grief no more, So may you never know mine own Vain wretch! it cannot be in vain; Grief must be constant, tears is vain, If cruel grief be always there. When I was young and full of play, And had a brood of pretty things, A staff and school-boy should I say, Fate let me play like such a king, And ne'er throw blame upon my strings? 'Twere better it were I now wear My long, loose locks and scarlet hose, And wear my ancient pretty dress, And ever hear the merry Muse Sing in my father's garden trees, And ever hear the merry birds Sing in my brother's orchard words. When I was young and full of play And had a brood of pretty things, I learnt to love the fisher boy, And so I'll tell the truth to them; 'Twas one of my most youthful dreams That I could never, never be, They came with their loud hurrying noise, Like ocean monsters, from the deep, With manacles and chains of gold, They came like water-nymphs and likesnakes, They came and passed like light, swift currents, And like the shadows on the sand, They vanished in the light of day, And they became like magic shadows, And farther down they came, and ever farther down they go, I've got a grandmother, I don't know what it's about, But it's all in a book And now, I hope I'll jump into the middle, And jump into the deepest depths, but I don't mind a bit, Though I'm not fond of a bit of a teacher-- It's nothing but books and women! I'm sure I've been on the whole, But what can a child do when he's in the hollow? I couldn't find any lessons That makes a long fool of the bookman's Sunday-school; And when the teacher's going to do it I shall put my head around and jump into the hole And ======================================== SAMPLE 188 ======================================== would never come nigh thee. Thou art rich and queen; Thy cheek is like the rose-lipped frost that runs O'er roses and o'ergrown celestials With glittering shade and delicate thick leaves, Such frost never blows thine icy breath That all thy glory, all thy blisses, lives And leaps with praise for beauty. Heaven's grace Forever hallowed by a soul's desire Must shake it soon. Perchance thou knowest How much I love thee; yet its freshness makes The old familiar strangeness wan. I did believe the holy vows I breathed, That this my heart of mine was thine in death, And now I pass from thee as a swift stream Which whirls in stormy seas of sin. The breath Of life is in my mouth, and from the kiss And kiss of love I come; but sin itself Makes purity in me, and as I think I must submit, the wound is deep. This is my very self; it fills my soul With bliss of such a subtle, loving power, And from within is breathing such a tone As ripples in a fountain from a spring Which they cannot keep and overflow: thus much I love thee. She walked along the sand-hills Without a word or gesture, A golden, silken, melancholy bird, All song and all unbroken. She never could behold That infinite compassion Of all men's woe and sorrow Upon the earth of us. And yet to me she dared not speak, Or tell the things that no man saw before. Her lovely voice, her smile Were more to me than music; The infinite pity of it hung upon me like a sorrow. She never knew distress Or new despair, or hunger, Run through the slim, rich lips, With infinite caresses; But ever through the trouble, Never knew rest or sadness, For pity or compassion. There came a dawn, and I was changed; I know not what it meant, But out of the sadness, A blissful and unbroken song, Rose like a rose-flushed cloud along the shore, That folded its arms around me, Tossed high on the restless water, Swept round and round and round. And then I cried, Foolish and unafraid, And wondering and restless, And wondering, and afraid: "Why hast thou so forgot the things I love, The fair, old, lonely places? Thou hast forgot the many glorious years, The thousand glorious songs That I sang to thee. "O my beloved, Thou hast forgotten The debt I paid for thee, The debt I gave for thee I can never forget. "Why didst thou rob me? Alas! thought I, Why shouldst thou rob me? Hast thou not hidden what I love, That I might keep thee?" But to me she said, With tears on her lashes, "Too brave, too brave!" Then to her face she spoke again, "Why so, dear friend?" 'Twas this that hindered us from gracious ways, This fraught with ill: how should it come to pass, That all be gone which hath been many days, That I should share in any time or this, Seeing thee, as thou wast in the first? And we, who were so like unto the grass, The strange, sweet flowers, And the wild ways, Shall be no more, methinks, Helen of ours? Thou art the world to me; Thou art so fair to look upon as I, With eyes as small, with thoughts as narrow! While one whose life is nought In all the world is held so dear as thee, Fairer than all the forms the canvas shows, Making thee fairer far than all the rose: Thou art my soul, and, as it were a star, Methinks its course is steering for thee. But now--if I might call thee mine own-- Nay, but not very far as thine are, I'd give the guerdon unto thee alone, For all my thoughts are sailing for thee. My faith is that thy worth Shall have no end to this thy prosperous fate; And this thy love, My faith, my love is thine! Upon the narrow sea As I came in, The distance stretching far Into the sunset, And there was not a breath But it seemed all life For me in that departing. And when ======================================== SAMPLE 189 ======================================== . O ye that are my lovers, in the night That like a spell dwells round me in my sleep, Say, do ye dream of things forgotten quite, Or do ye think of nought but the delight Of meadow-meadow-meadow-meadow-meadow? Or do ye think--oh do they say that now As in the after-silence comes my brow, As though a mist of poppies none could see-- As in the after-silence comes my brow? Still as yon mist, through yonder hills outspread, Dissolved the mist within me, and I said: "Yea, I have suffered, and the world is wan, But am not these the gates of Hellas then That shut us in before mine eyes again? Yea, I have suffered--yea, and felt my pain, Yea, I have wrestled with my soul in vain, And with mine eyes my spirit fled away. And now, this time, my love has passed me by, And still my soul has yearned unto the sky, And still its vision lingers on this day." So said he, thinking of the hours that sped With hope: and I, in thraldom passing, said: "Yea, I have questioned, but I know them not, Yea, still my heart is rapt and my tears quiver With the wild pageant of my yester years, The gyves on which my life for me no gleam of fears But Time's intolerable might consuming Holds life's one friend, for all the while I doom The sad endures--and then, in swift good-bye, I shall forget the joy that was my doom. "Yea, though I know my sun is gone to rust, And though I know not what I do, O, then It were no little thing that I should want These desolate years of worldly men again. Yea, though I know that I shall meet again My Love before I die, since I have left Life full of joys and cares and earthly mirth, Wife now my heart has wild grown for the earth And as the wild bird on the wing it whirls Sings, and the air with myrtle-band is brimming, As yet 'tis summer--and the day is bright, And golden is the season, and the world Throned in my thought is full of many a thing. Yea, though my heart be blest as thou art now, And though my love be pure as any flower, Yea, though the world be set in mortal men, I shall not die, but live and overcome." So, in the dusk, he said: "Ay, though my word Seems leapt my hands; yea, though my life seem fair, Yea, though I seek thee not, yet hope I shall That all my love is but a mortal thing; Then let me be forgotten and unmade, And let my lover rest and take me home; And in the void new loves and olden days Shall change my life, and find me anywhere." So long he pondered on the love-paths bright That in that morn, when all the world was burned, Lay in the glistering light of still eventide, In glorious splendor on a world agone; Then, past the dawning grey of dawning day, He into that dusk chamber took his way, And stood, and saw the Lady of the Dawn, A kindly flower above the fountain-head; And ere he paused a musing man she had Displayed her smile, and as he looked her hand Felt all the water in the wondrous land, And, brightening up the world with all its starry mirth, Cast up a cloud of flowers, and drew them apart, Pouring her purple draperies of her heart, As fountains rain-awakened to the touch Of the winged, mad heart of some great range Hidden apart from sun and moon and wave, And for a time, by some strange sudden change, Bowed down before her in a silence grave. Then looking up she saw the radiant god, Whose presence makes the west a beaten way, His silver bow and hot, his blazing fire Biting the sky, as though from him it came To kiss again the happy feet of his Fair sister, where, untouched, all night he sits Enthralled beneath the arch of moonlit trees, Folding his hands upon his lips to greet Their sweet twin meeting, ======================================== SAMPLE 190 ======================================== , And all are pure, and cruel, and if deaf To all, in this fierce temper, their foul strife Is heard alone, and by the light which rose From this mad strife, if the mad din should reach Of an avenging God, what foulest fear Is that the suffering soul must ever reach In sight of God? What conjecture can Lie for the strifes and bonds of countless years, When both are made one single sacrifice? No; if thou seekest God, and do not seek, 'Tis but through faith in God the highest way, And the wise prayer must needs be uttered. Let those who listen see, or not behold, That unseen things thine ears have heard and ears, And not unknown besides the weight of sin. Why mourns humanity like a vile race? But come, thou servant of thy brother's need, Thy brother of men, and do thou lead Thy life into the dreadful war, the strife Of war which biddeth, and destruction comes, And floods the world with blood of all mankind. Now for a while, for I would have thee know, God cometh in His likeness to thee now, Whose image is as changeless; whence his voice, His voice, proclaims Him evermore, and sounds Forever through the darkness, evermore. Behold, how he is coming, how He cometh in sight Of an immeasurable and perfect form That immeasurable and evermore will come. Look back! see, the adorer doth approach Close on him--Him of old, indeed, of life And light of mind, and radiant in the face. O, by that sight! O, hear a mournful voice! Then rise with triumph, and let once again The blasts of God take refuge in his heart! From such long habitation shall he come To find his heavenly guest, when that sweet form, Sweet of the earth and spicy of the air, Which crept into the chambers of the moon To kiss and kiss her all night long; yet now Unto that faithful bosom may he come, And in his snowy garments keep his rest And be a star above his stately house! Behold, he comes! His mighty hands and garments in his flesh Break forth again, and from his piercing eye Doth send it forth, a lurid radiance, As of the sun. Then, hastening to his side, Thou shouldst be curious-wonted forth the day, But yet I must abide till his bright form Takes full possession; thou must make him God. <|endoftext|> 'Tis said that when my noble mistress falls, My gentle King, down by her sepulchre, I fall, I fall: I fall: I fall; I fall: When me is dust, me shall the whizzing mists Blow, and the ghosts of all strange cities, melt; My limbs shall sink beneath a thousand shades, Then rise again, and change their stately form And grace my breast, and move and vex my soul, Thou, whom my past and present both disdain; Me thou shalt see, my son! I do thee more. Queen thou hast been, and livest in thy realm. And I am Sion, and I rule a city Which would not leave thee, where a single king Is charmed by my ill and calamities; Thy people, Rome's imperial daughter, rule Cromwell and Cornelia, and till I shall rise I too shall reign: I loathe thee, Rome; I crush Thy cities with my blood and thee abroad. No whit I shun thy hate; all civil life Has left a mighty soul, that hates the world, And with a sword can mingle great estate. Lo, the young king himself doth break the peace Of one true spouse, and put himself to death, Fain, and not sooner: would to battle rise The doubtful Roman sons of Rome to war, And rob the town of reason: no man fears To make a league against the stranger king. What must be, Rome says. What must be done, Flushed through with glory? And how many days Must I triumph to have my name fulfilled? See yonder car, by ruddy torches lit, His helmet on his head, the boy asleep, Who sleeps betimes, not knowing which of his Should fight against me? Thinkest thou, what God Will do to us? Meanwhile I'll ======================================== SAMPLE 191 ======================================== ; so of the Sarran there I heard, Who with his hand alighted at his neck; And we were left till more distinct mishap Begat a solitary courtier, who Hath here us vested an infernal Hell. The sainted King, who to high honour was Among the dead, all comfort left him there, And with the anguish of his eyes beheld Him in an agony of torment sore. Now, Reader, of the Songs you may discry, Ye many years, but here my Muse has sung What cruel wars and massacre beheld, What wounds and massacre ye well deserved, Thick, in the bosom of this mountain sat, In blood and sickness: I, that at this time In country bare, a youthful Master found, Not old, yet a true consort and a true Encroaching youth, that by a tusk escaped His cruel teeth, and him pursued in rage More than for death or other hideous pangs. This I describe; and not by way of end Things can I tell how those I daily see, Who, having Nature, virtue, wit, and power, And in their own right hand have done amiss, Sith Ilium was destroyed, and Priam slain, And Trojans, and hath since brought endless home From Argos, wheresoe'er that day arrive. Yet to all mortal eyes may I descend, Who, wheresoe'er the Muses drew the fire, Hereafter have I been in cruel hate Among my fellows; for my deeds, though aimed Their ends, are but their vaunts and vain designs. They say that in Achilles, of the Greeks His mother lost her child by Hercules, Deidamia; there, enamoured with her wrongs, Her paramour laid on the ground; and there The ancient mother, for her sake, abides Beneath the cruel rock; but e'en for her Love of Achilles hates himself, the prince, Deidamia with her sisters there Might weep; and others say that on her sighs Sighs and remorse: and so would Hector weep; And Pluto that is left with all his host Of followers, if it be that he himself Might see her, and Achilles' sorrows mark: Here did he sit, and melancholy pass Through the remainder of the stubborn fight, Disdaining to resist, that he might see If Hector's life were left for her, and scape Himself, his fellow-warrior slain. Oft, while He scanned the stars that usher evening rose, And still his eager eye pursued the wheel Whose orbit flew athwart the rolling night, Till sacred-eyed Areithoüs saw His home and parents, weeping too, and told The tidings of his noble wife, and wept. But her he found amid the forest wild 'Twixt Pallas' palace and Achilles' field, Grief of his heart, though anguish-pulse grew there, And all his fury stilled. Yon day, when round The cattle folk he wenden'd to the city, And he espied the body of his spouse, Aloud he shouted, and the sons of Greece Heard him commingle. So grief dims his eye That all the others pitied him, and scorned His hapless lot, how mournful to behold The blessed body which he left alive. But though with grief he sorrow little now His son was gone, and ships with oars were laden, Yet for him could he plan another course; For now the people madly warred with him Alone, and for the children of his land, And for them all disorder of the courts. Now when it chanced that from Pheræ's walls A sudden storm of stones had rent the air, That some collected mass of men of might Had buried there, they set upon the fire The body of Alpheus, and by baskets twain Buried he bade it lie in his own bays, And with loud moans the rivers were o'erthrown. The unhappy warrior, noting them, beheld His comrades dead in battle, and the bones Of all his people strewed around, as they Had done before, he could no more endure. And thus the son of Arceis, having mourned His brother's death, besought a brother's aid: "Hear me, ye dead, who in the dust lie low! In front of Troy, as from a ship of war, Slain by a tempest, ======================================== SAMPLE 192 ======================================== But now she is full of charm, With beauty that could have a charm 'Twould gild such wondrous charms, That heart and cheek, that bosom beats In Cupid's burning clime, Were crushed to sorrow, and no more To dark misfortune clime. I'll ne'er forget the vows we spent, When we were maids at Yule, When in our arms beneath we stow'd Some tender flower of France. In happier hour of health and love I vow'd I ne'er should see, But now this last fond dream hath died And I no longer sigh. Young Love! who to my heart has brought Deep feeling, more than can be taught: 'Twas with that much-indebted muse Which every letter bears: No, never yet could I forget The feelings it contains. The heart that loved to hear Love sing Has oft been pierc'd by absence's sting: I ne'er before did see him read Love's happy, golden lays, But now to Love's sweet lays Most welcome I would pay. No!--by the memory of those eyes Which saw me once, shine now, and come, When doubly sparkling on my thought They shone upon my brow: So long, so dearly, I could not Kiss the dear lips, which said-- "He loves you not; beware, all time Will how December blast My maiden flower, but to the last Not hers, but hers she cast: So haste, farewell! for me and you This night the fruit will pluck, And soon with Love's triumphant ray Her comely lips will crook." I first went up, to Love most high, And sought his hand, Love's token, nigh; And found, by Love's command, A willing pledge, the vows plighted By a kind heart to a faithful one, Who had made Love's servants many one, And vow'd they ne'er would wed. But Cupid met, with shafts so deadly, His arrow struck the bowels low, Who bent, with many a vain endeavour, To cut the suitor from his bow, And made him leave his heavenly station, With Love's clear torch to glow, And took his bow, that poor unbeseeming, To be his fair one's ornament, And be at once his Queen. I tell you, Love has much the likeliest, And ask'd, in eager, earnest suit, To give the paragon his due; And had it, which, in other days, Was but a warrior's helmet, say, And made him famous knights. But he, in many an artful task, Neglects his helmet, and his mask, And asks himself, in courtly guise, What was the matter's front in these? He said, for Love himself he sought, And vainly on his hand he brought The bloody lance, for which he fought, He drew it out, the while it sought The lance, which sheathed itself, with nought Or reason, of its furious charm; And swore, therein, that if she took The spear, it would not hurt her too, Yet still she hope to wound him still, And to an image bear the ill. But, true as steel, the being Cupid, Hath not such force to draw its blood, But with a pang is driven Most deep, that, weak of seeming seeming, Her new heart through, flies for the blow; She hears, and, stepping forth, must know Her heart's desire is to outrun His eager conquests, and her blood To conquer, this is worse than blood. Though young, he grieved in hate to find His heart's blood at the sight behind, And, like a father of his kind, Forbore to all he had been true. He weeps alone;--while to his heart He spoke up all that love can say; While he cries, "Fool! quoth he, apart, The two surrender, who will pay So harsh a debt as thus to say, Are plighted to your plighted wife Together, who to them shall give The heft that Love has left to live And service that should be to love. Behold the course which I pursue, The glorious end of war to do, To conquer, vanquished. Let it be That this great strife shall prove but me, The day that Fortune deals with me, To conquer this, to die but she." So ======================================== SAMPLE 193 ======================================== thou. His eyes are open as I rise, My silver tresses unconfined Pelestial dew-drops round my head. Come quickly, and I will behold How, through the shadows of the night, My Love leads me, my life to light, With bright locks, streaming through the room, And with bright fringe on mantle serene, White locks that ever down and down Rung out in rich profusion down Around my waist, and in her hair Pelleting upon me, bright and fair, Arose the crown of my success: Come now, my bride, and take thy place Within my Christian's friendly breast, And, as between us they did meet, Thus spoke the inner spirit of heat: And when my heart was whole and well, How did thy gentle spirit dwell In one transcendent momentary motion Throughout my boundless universe? I never knew, nor shall yet tell, The passion that doth fill and swell My breast with the deep sense of God. He feeds my eyes with beams of fire, The myrrh is in my cheeks, and he Sibyl of all most beautiful. I will be like the dew-wet maid Who in her mirror drops the shades Which round her in the twilight gleam: And, with a minute's wandering glance, Through the green twilight of the leaves, I will be like the soothing Lake, Which is with gentle warbled thence, The care of all the country lass, And the sweet use of her green glass Among her little mountain rills; And she, as pure as the moist earth, And beautiful as a young brook, All her lovely waterfancies woo: For I will be like one who, willing, Walks the brooklet through the flowers On the first blossom of those bowers; And she shall be like those who dwell With a light heart in paradise, And pass, unseen, into the world With quiet words of sympathy. And when my love and tender years Have gone, with joy, along my path, I feel a holy joy unfelt In the glad fields of boyhood. O my delight, the quiet thought! The thought of a dear maiden's heart Smiles in the thought of her, and shows How deeply love for me she glows. With a look of ecstasy and wonderment She turns her tearful eyes away; And, as at night, from the warm shade, Lingers the trembling star of eve, I see her in the depth of heaven. All silently I move away: And as I think of her, my tears Well flow, like brooks that mirror the green glade: But, when the day, at its full noon, dawns, I lose the image, I behold In other days! there is no other sight In this grand solitude of mind, For all its woods and fields and streams, And the blue sky, and the white woods, and the white dawn. There is a glory in the midnight air, A peace that lives in solitude, A peace that may not be again, For the dark clouds are things of earth, That made the everlasting hills And woods on which the earth doth lean, And man, that hath the power to pray, Himself is on the mountain-height, There lives a grace that cannot die, And human nature seems to bless. There is a glory in the midnight air, A peace that falls on the deep night, A holiness in the starry light, An consecration of the skies, That makes the lonely spirit free From its mortality and cares, And each affectionship is blest With the motion and the light Of those that have a longing heart, With those that have no human art. The violet with its golden dew, The antelope, the live-oaks, The lily with its airy blue, Is more than all these paradise, For the surpassing fragrance of the earth Hath not a pattern beyond it. The finest crocus, deep embalmed in dawn Like Iris, rises from the waves, To make a fragrant dimpled loveliness; The tufted grasses one by one, Daisies and violets, inanimate, Grow purple with the sunshine, And richly colored as the summer sky. The velvet violet, wrought with colours of crimson, The silver-white, when the dark Atlantic night Flamed on her harp-steeds, in a night Of drow ======================================== SAMPLE 194 ======================================== the hoes. What lets us next step on? what is this most wonderful-- Of manifold and wonderful creeds, which all our mothers love-- Is born in these dark mansions, or no man lives in them? This thought of love is their love, and that of dread, And they are dreaming and waiting for the dawn, the day that shall open for them, And the little grey-eyed girls of the night, on whom their hearts are as eager, and whose hearts are as tender As theirs the world above. Therefore to the last. When I'm weary of every pain--where are my brothers left? Are they all right again? Do they laugh and have nothing to do with themselves? Do they see nothing but blood, where their city of sin and sin has grown, And they think, with the eyes of the people of the Sun, their souls are gone? Faith is the chiefest crown of all That crowns the world in love; And now the long-forgotten walls Are shaken by the move. Men of the Sun and of the shower, And the roses and stars of heaven, Tarry not for these are done, Those who went before, are gone. Unleash the portals, and set fire to all things; The doom of the world is set, and with the darkness Of fire and shaken air, let all men witness, Ye who have had your share; That none may know, Or, seeing it, have forgot it. And those who went before, are the wise and the young; There are swords unto none, against none but their sins; And some men do forget, and some men are sick, And some men are quite old; But the cry and the sweat Of a tree be rude, And it is not for me To be undone, For you know all things are As one to another's degree. What an ugly strife Was it at the gates of death, When the heart lies open wide And the body lies in wait, And the strongest soul of all Sits forth to meet the wall! O rebellion mocked, Plague on the eyes of guile, Beauty that will never come, Longing to do no more! Have I told you these and this That I would fain conceal? Fain would I hide the scar, Yet not say it, once revealed; For when you see my face You must never know of me. Is there a way to clear a doubt Or is there an untried void? If only I were false and friendless, Should I still talk to you of this? Or is there aught I can remember, But only a hope or rumour? Is there aught I can recall, But the cry and the touch and tival? And though I say it and recall, 'It's not for nothing--it is not for all'. I know that you must be a cheat To face me and to give me back, But I would change my brief conceit And forth beyond the hills to find you. My little Ghost and I went out; A friendless Ghost was He, And there was nothing said about it. I know my life, for with me there were none. 'Twas neither half a rhyme nor half a song, Nor half a word indeed. But He was always and all good, And made me sing when I was young, And He cared nothing for my trouble, And so he needed it to-day. And thus we sang together, and had gone Where quiet leaves the world on guard, In downy-cumbered lanes alone, alone, Watching the sad clouds drift away, Because the saddest day was dawn. To-day's October of the very first, That you were rich enough to have me wed, And ere you met what I was bid to pen, And how much I was bid to do instead Of "how much I loved, how much I said, I shouldn't do any such a day. I could do more if you were kind to me Had I the skill to write and to combine; And then perhaps when you were bid to say You'd ask me where your corner lodges do, You'd make reply, "I love you; this is true, Your corner lodges do!" There was a case of which I took a scold, And heard it beat some way, and said "There's time For getting over it; I'm grown too old To be old and frozen for ======================================== SAMPLE 195 ======================================== but a dint that I can't lay my bones. Indeed, he's dead! And is it true? For this he does so, too, His body will be said To have no doctor for to meditate If he writes letters, let it be as well As not to have a dirge, and die to sell. He was--being made of cheese At sixty-five-- Of which he is the general free. A man whose faculties, Ly cured of worms and worms, Had once as many holes As he could send his thoughts and his eyes to his mind, And, in the morning light, He has such proofs of sense That one must sue, at first, for freedom from himself. Them that ask where he has gone Over the hills and beyond the mist, May he find some one Who will send his mind on a pilgrimage, And ask if he can bear a larger load Than the trunk he has on the bare earth where he has gone. If all go right they'll fight Just like diggers, Quite unmolested quite; The best of it They'll make the sad world glad! If there's a black sheep where It will find a fence of wit, It will make the blind proud, And do the silly and the proud to be so the lion. If to be all at ease In this world's evil noise, All at once begin and see That what goes on, shall follow after years, More and more, until at last the hoof-troof be found, Through ages that are past, What, I want, of this great world, To buy your grain of wheat, Shall serve you, and your country, And eat the bread and eat the master's wine! The pulse of nature is, and shows In what she ripes, The mason's hand has found a grain of oats. A new piece, bought and sold for aye, Is now the sum of truth Already gotten in the market-place! O, welcome, Lord, all you who fare O'er stony ridge and shingly aisle! O, know, yon wearying wight, What better thing can meet His sight Than to know the coming of this might With such an undoubting soul and sight, And be poor, and sordid, and uncouth, And by His grace, accursed, accursed. He hath given me eighteen months to know, To hear the chime that is making the day In the days of old; To twine with fingers the tissue o'er, And learn to spin a little thread That is thread Of the many twining round that blossom-bed When love and truth and law Are linked together, one and all, Into one. How I love to prate, Oh, I would it were my fate To have some part of youth's sweet time Away from the world's cold-- Some old forgotten time When I were yet young! With an early blast of wind, And a voice Of exultant exultation, As it swept From the dark The dark ding-dong of the morning with promise of hope, It would bring me, unaware, Some bright deed To celebrate, To give To the spirit of childhood-- Some pure, strange, and gold-lipped touch Of the hand That is willing to give, till life And love Both are past, And a heart of joy and sorrow Has a heart of gold. As the years went silently, Deeper grew my heart; Myself came forward silently, And from under the mist And under the burning grass I knew that all must be With a star, And then my soul, A bird, Began its song. Then in a moment it began To dance with light, As if the earth had taken in her flight The bright And dear Rhymes, that belong To little children's feet, With joy that never goes, To meet. O, it overflowed, And overflowed! No rest however they found, No self-seeking and strong To hold them in hugger-cub And drain them forth again; For with all convulsions Their verses run, While they repeat Unearthly songs for joy In purer throngs. THE simple, daily bread Is life's poor beast; And they that use it, feed and feed, Sow it in the same With one that much del ======================================== SAMPLE 196 ======================================== by ancient singleances (For I will lay no blame upon them) To see that soul once held as glibly As once it was; in times of terror That emptied vessel of immortal-- O, as it were, but flame becaring! I see a tomb, my kin, arise And pour the wine out in the skies, And, standing in the disenchanted town, Transformed my fate into its own. So and so did I gaze upon it, When the red sunlight smote the grey Fields--my son's first fair of days-- And, far away, a wandering man dreamed Of these sad woods, and hill and glade Leading his child by the side of the stream-- Dreaming when the fair green earth Was old and stormy, yet a voice Pursued him--even as the child His musing. "GOD, no longer seek For gifts that must be too much praised, But give me all--my child!" While the wood wondered, the voice of a man Grew bitter in spirit, and, suddenly, Into this undiscovered land Gulped on its dunghill of sands, and then Fell in a sudden flare of light, Like the heat of the heavens. Long time in the dusk A fount of fire and a stream of light Taught the traveller where life stands still In vast-browed marvellous shadow. To him There was nothing more than the sad mariner's dream. "Rise now," said the voice, as the boat sprang o'er Its low black deck of jagged stones, And the restless shore-lights of the fishing-boats Shone out in the crimson glow Of their trimness, I scarce knew what was this man's dream. "This tall man," I said, "is God's youngest son-- Leather-blanched and golden-haired, Timid-lisping, soft-lipped as a nun Beside the sea; with fingers fine As a dial dial-hand, he wove A crown of flowers and anemones For a crown to shade his brows." "I have watered well," he said. "And yet Has the night not tasted to eat of me? Is not life an empty dream,--the hand Is light and love extinguished?" But I strove To question. Wherefore could I not--I said-- "Be but an unsubstantial shade Of love!" Not otherwise it was-- The long-breathed-one, twin-born with our two lives-- Till I came to the other in the night. A will benign Grew closer to me. "Yonder shines The first red star," I said, "the first-- The ebon, with which in the night I gazed on the whole life. I say: I died in my garden one day, And loved--what means it?" "Thy life-time comes again," said the other; "Say rather strange; it used to be Thine own still mate." "So altered!" "Yea, and gone!" He remembered, while sitting Within his last light cenot, and saying, "I have lived--I will die again," He plunged and vanished, and in the dark Gulped the other--to die. "Well, you wrong yourself, my own man?" "Yes, even in your own eyes I see the wonder now which is The smallest star--there on the brow Of that long hill, tall as my love, Lonely as thy beauty--yet my love!" "It should be so," I said; "But I was not to meet The years----And I am all to blame, So none say." The night was chill and dark And yon dead leaves lying stark, A dead leaf's shadow, whitened all With chill, dead light. A call As if it breathed not, growing small At last in one grey fall, And the frost gleamed--the withered leaf. "Yea, sir, and, though this hill Is only grown so pale That you keep wan, worn--in haste And yet your good doth grow stale; You wait and watch and wait; I am no saint; I cannot tell Whether you pay me for The pain. I knew it--I at least Would let you feel it goad For all your craving, when last night I stole away in yonder wood; And as a saint--I did refuse-- I have grown pallid since I died." A ======================================== SAMPLE 197 ======================================== lewde & lewde, Er honged by a contrychaunce. A churmy wiAEsAEs this ffro me bredde, Myn erthe to my doughterdome Clove the grene Calendony, Tane in the mawe, and so {Verse,} The merye of a{nde} þ{a}t gente; The fyrst the byff{ne} is a ma{n}ne, Set eu{er}is on w{i}t{h} brow{e} To{e} the wodnesse, þo wod{h} knawe, In erthe to be bold and woo, A fowle fore-before in a traunce. Thus this bargain was begun, As I{es}u ment no tyt to hasty Of that I{es}u hym~ sclaught hym~ by. Tho wolde he not alone presage That owt was neuer so crue a nede More to{e} his fader and his frende, For he had hym sone. So gan~ he caste his fore browgh{e}, And wan~ he ryd mone on~ his backe. The King of Burgundy, a Parody about tranquillity and joy, Went out with pomp and gay pompround the court. There they left the son{es} and wedded With Tymber, the rosden boy{ur}d{e} court{e}; There they de-voyde to Ro{i}ta lade, Unto the town they toke the way, And there they toke the redege Of the fayre Araby that were there, To the Forestes,{4} a little bo{ur}, Vppon a boc of trees in a fayre, And there they had a gret solace That wan be byt {en}, and out was aAEsAEs And fast was fast the syde, The kyng thonketh hym~ sone Vppon the wood that burneth here, With a sone, as I heard sayde, Of an accursed, men-mavage{5} a hound{6}, All in a beste {en}, and w{i}t{h}-oute knyght. He kept no p{r}iote, as who seyde, The kyng for to ffyghte that were there. Asomege goddes toke theyr arayd{6 There of theyr faders to make and slayne, Men wyse bothe, and there-aye more, And p{re}soneth them of thy ladyh{7e}. He hard hym~ to his gyse, to gete the{8 In place of his knyght{i}t{h}, and hath de-lyd That hardy fader{e} of sau{m}tythe yere, Alone to ffyght on holy grounde. There the fynd{E} be-gan to wepe, The gyft{es} maddowes ful wod be-gan; With contre clere {en} the were yronne, And went hym~ there to seche and aproyne. Thane they were two yere and sene Thes wy{e}men were, and that lesyng{e}. They had a wedded bo{ur}d{es} mannysye, That whil they went, he schuld{e} stand; How þ{a}t men schulde fare to greven so, Of a castell{es} in to a rote, And {throwyn}es, and he{e} schuld{e} with-in. So they staked their stedes on a rown,{2 Wore hem downe and done: The kyng{es} sone of Perly{es} brent{es} Dyd p{re}son and chefe the keyes, Sone oute of the yere caste otherwhere, The prison and derelict{es} body fare, Ther fore go every lysten whyle: The p{re}cipal{es} man{er} in o ======================================== SAMPLE 198 ======================================== , no men are the worthiest men That ever camped under a sun-filled sky, But if you value them as your fathers did And keep it for your fathers--why, if you could, You should return and save yourself. I suppose You did not know before how the cost would sink In the great flood of earth. But, say, in haste We shall come after, as a beaten man may bring His people back with him. You leave behind The temple and the gold coin that are gone: And as our fathers brought them from the place That old world story is the heaviest thing When sorrow cannot bow, but you grow old, And in the sowing of quick flame that makes You a great harvest of immortal grief Or, growing old, what those poor words may mean. The tears will wash you and cleanse you and cleanse; Then, in the blessing of the name that endures, You shall know why we came to the last place. What do you want, of settlers who are lost Or who are all our children? You have lived On this fair land where all good things have failed And every worldly thing has vanished, save This very day you shall come to this grave, And it shall change and be as you have been. What shall be told us? The flowers of the spring were coming to bring The earliest buds to kiss it. The soft light Of the young day is coming on my soul, And, looking at its beauty and its worth, I think it best to find it. What shall be A mere memorial of a time long dead With all its former flowers--the flowers we grew In that sad earth beneath us--we who came To take them and be happy in their names, And keep them, as we left them, with the dead Before you and before you, speak of love And joy, as we flung them to one another, Or told them, as we said them, to another And loving them--you and the world have done. The snowdrop shakes below the little fern With its wee, slumbering crown of silent thorn Over the grave where the sad flowers grow. And when the snowdrop shakes before the wind The crown of poppies that are gone and gone, And the rare violet shed their blossoms, yet The dew drips down and dampens, it is so With the old breath that heals the wintry tomb And the pale flowers we sprinkled with our blood. This is the best of all! Come to these ancient graves where my young years are, Speak of these ancient dead, That sleep below the mould, in the cold North, Where the rude musk-bark goes by, And the matted fern-tree of the forest tingles, That rustles in the wind, And many and many a tree Is cast in the dead leaves. But these are the dead words of my childhood, That speak of strength and hope In a world that is full of good things, That the poor cannot accept and reprove And yet they will be here; And I shall lift the old wither sainted fingers To that unfilleable voice of all the poets Who are on the wing and cannot tell Whether they are alive or dead, But I am stricken and weary With an unfilitude of hate That mocks me with the face of Death; And ever it comes to pass That my spirit is like a lance Spent with the blood of the Lamb. And I am weary and weary With the strange dreams I had When I first looked in your eyes, And saw how good things are and fair, And the wild powers that were good, And that woven a little web Of faerie sheen and golden thread Wherewith I know the toil of bread, The cunning craft of an ancient raid, And saw how the waifs of Life Are mingled and woven and woven of strife And of love, and of truth, and of ruth; The woven webs of strange, sweet thoughts That weave into the woof The heart of youth. For they weave not the web of desire, Nor the sun whose wandering beam Across the far Atlantic sea Seems sad as yonder weak and real. What matters it though mine eyes May walk the level of the pool That wanders with eternal feet, Unvanquished, still renewed, until I gaze with little wondering On your great happy summers gone, And the years not yet passed. My child, it is not so with me, Though time may smooth his smiling brow, And keen Time hold his ======================================== SAMPLE 199 ======================================== That clouds from East to West are spread And mighty men, like some old race Whose occupation seemed to trace The live west on the untrodden floor Of some old ruined castle-door, Have glimpsed a terraced castle-gate, And, steeped within by ugly moats, Had stood within a terrace more The favorite of old times, and raised A casement o'er the edge of woods, And o'er long level, level quays, And bridges to the bay; yet he Saw only through a single bar The north and west-wind eddying by. "When all at once the broad saloon Sloped westward in a river-snorting bay, Through which the lonesome halberd ran Through sparkling, whispering calms, and fume Of hollowed meadows, and the rich Plant stilled, to catch the sleepy swan, To settle on the swelling tide. But when they lifted on their side Their cloaks, and went their way and sprung Into the farther bank, they paused, Turning a simple round and sweet To the slow moving of the swan, And the faint ripple of a rill As it drew farther in: And, on their farther way, the hill Was this way and that way dressed; And not far off in sun or shower, Was in the further bank begirt. The brown swan smiled as if to say: "Here leaps my hawk, as if in scorn To stoop and swallow me again." The squirrel chirped and chirped to hear, And through the wide, brown water stirred Like green and golden wood. Nor ever through the changing tide The little fishers caught their leap, The long swan flew away and died In far-off water, where he lay, Nor stirred, but, like the wind, went on In tumult, and was gone. Night came and went, and the strange light Whistled along the silent coast, Wavering and slow, and sadly bright As the long Sabbath of the lost Aweary wanderer through the years, The whirlwind of wild light and years, The cloud of coming years, Wandered, and dropped, and moved and glanced, Moved, and grew darker, and the night Fell, and around him rolled a veil Of darkness, like a pall That the dawning sun illumes; And it was still and motionless; The sea came in at the last to rest, The silence in the brake; And, like a boat o'er shadowed waves, The stillness of the lake; And the white foam gleamed on her bowed head: And the first starbeam smote her face In the darkness, like a sail. And the next sunbeam she, that now With an unshaded sail, Shadowed and sad, without a shroud, Swept the black water, and the night Fell, and lay still and pale Like a wan moonless ghost in the dull wave That heaves around her and As if her naked feet had trod The long, long tides of that dread sea, The dead cold sea of all their world. Never was heard such sound of wail In wind or water, Never such din of sound came down As the sad surf of the blown town, The night went over loud and long, And the white moon above us, white With the other star-fires, girdled home With tapers, and with the whole sea crowd Of other thoughts, went down. And ever the smooth-running river of even Rose and endured; and ever the broad sea Of great Oceanus, rolled far and wide, Deep, deep, and loud; and ever its loud chime Was lost in the darkness; and ever its oars Cast up their silent silver at the knees Of the blind white whirling stars, That kept watch for the lonely soul, That sat upon the shore of death, And made them all so close, so close! No moan, no lament, or groan Escaped the unknown sea; The white surf of the gathering surf Came up the wild-sea's jagged throat, As under the moonlight's splendor The white sheet glided by. And far away on the sweet air The song of the speared-up sea Made answer in sounder sound, Like voices heard in heaven's harmony: And the proud waves dwelt round her, Under the moon, in the great heart of the deep, While her foam ======================================== SAMPLE 200 ======================================== And, with her, flattering me, He, only her, of her heart a flower is; But the elf must needs his own Dear Presence, So, some way, he shall draw anigh him, I shall sigh, I shall ask, What am I? When she comes by chance With her haired trumps, She goes half guessing If I say she can, The clown or the brook, Or who can be wise, With half-shut eyes Staring at the skies. Or if she does, The pretty things Made plain in her eyes Can't do without spies. I, little elf, Will tell you to dig, And easily rise To her face, in a trice, Like the tail of a fish. The sisters out, at the edge of the day, With clothes all brown and fresh, come trotting away To get them ready, but to stick it tight With bunting and with bumble-bees all bright; Now, hapless pair! for ever hold on hope In that transcendent hour when nothing's done, Or undone, from this day's business not faring To meet the sight from any pleasant dining, Where any one can taste the plente, or see Whether the innocent, the wealthy, be As indifferent as these, or hard to please. Here was a cart, a mill, a cap or band, A cruel bench, a bar, a waggon wheel, And over it the lout could safely ride, And once, just once, he drove it out of frame, With no one near him, not a stoppike place, But straight he made it leap and fly about, For there, with nothing in it, he could hit. And once, though, all the time the road was clear, He said, "It's one how my coat's covered here!" And once, ere long, he looked about him broad, And then, "It's two how each will hurry, when The railway gets through wood and stone, While here I stand and do not care to strike, And meet the foe"--I said, "Good gracious, pray, Let me get past this once, and die I can." I got to bed by force, And heard the birds sing, And smiled and watched them play About the garden. Without this it was just a litter. The wind came up from South-west; It limped about a little drift, And blew and took it out of hand. It put the brasses off in the morning; It put the ladies all in ruts, And curled up in little corner corners Hawk-case, which the larks kept pouring out. Then down into the meadow, Along the sides, Just lightly swinging, The larkspur, kind erring! Now when he opened the buttonholes up, And walked about the edges of the moor, He looked around, but never hit his stop Until the mermaids. "What brought you here? The sleepy thing! Oh, got you gone away?" "Oh, a sea pear pear tree! I thought it was a friend!" "I found it at home from New York. There it stands on a rock, And 'tis in joint!" What? went the Owl? I got into a ball-ball-ball-ball-ball-ball-ball-ball-ball! They led him off with a jerk and jerk And I ran on with a trot, Now all the throng were out, But I went on with a trot, And I fell on the moor, So I didn't know when it came to the last That I should come to my end, But I jolted out loud, And I fell on the moor, And I splashed the livelong seal That still stand on their track. Then down I ran, And a saw I saw That was spread out so free I bounded over the star-flipped sea And swept in the sea. (Still, do you see those joy-lit eyes, Those brown and golden?) They were there with laugh and cries, They were there with beck and beck And then, and I was quite alone. Nay, nay, my little one, You are not a-wing, I know, and for me alone. For you never were known to roam You may stay till to-morrow's come, And you may grow still, But you may grow still And walk about ======================================== SAMPLE 201 ======================================== ! Thou hast a face like night,--like morn In morning, noon, and night: The same dark eyes are saddled now, And those have drowned their light. Thou hast my love, and not my kind; But if thou have her soul,-- Thee, be she happy, so my heart Will comfort, glad at last, thy guest, Thy bride, within the fold! O! for the time, as now, when all Our pleasures on earth are set, When as the world its arms of sleep, And life immortal forget! When the light veil shall fall on high, Like a wraith, dark and mystical, When only one beloved eye The city's smoke shall shroud, O! when our hearts are warm and free And dance like light, for Liberty, Thou, throned upon the brow, Do the prophet's office now, That, from time's frost and foe, All perfect melodies may flow Wherein that holiest nobleness gleams, Fling round the altar beams, Thy spirit is our minstrel theme, One, the very soul's coed of flowers, Thy ministering hand, Piercing, mystic, strong,-- The paths of heroes and of kings Whereof my song, Through the ages, I recite Unto all ages as they tread The courts of heroes and their dead, And those many other themes arrayed In the realm of Light, Of Life and Death, there hath been played The hymn of triumph o'er his head, Great in wisdom, Freedom-bride, Noble in that primal age When all was might; And though we have sung through all his days Great songs with him, and seen his praise, Yet he hath not dead. But when the soldiers' hand, so light, A crownless crown shall have of right, Our son shall wear it, with a crown, And we be crowned again. Ay! though the tyrant's brow be bared, And Justice tear the chain! The tyrant's blood his taint shall purify, And draw his triumph close, Our son again be crowned, Our babe be mother, he, To our shores of home. And those two noble loves, thy love As well may warm, as win our natures, Who shined with noble hearts of fire And holy blood, As in their boyhood's night sublime, Enthroned in heaven their earthly time And to their country's tomb most sublime, This hour a light shall be, a song, This signal-torch to Heaven. In their boyhood's time of peace and love, They bare young hearts to sun and tempest; They clasped the feet of brotherhood, As foes alike to Virtue. But thou, a Brother! well thou knowest That on the Rock of Ages, round The cradle of the coming Woe, Father and Father, hands they clasped In agony, when first they felt Its rapture; at their own dread word, Not much of love was left their bond Unto their child. Man's wrongs, and theirs was all a wrong, From that which tends on every long, To others' hearts. A well-laid chain with meanings held And freely taken; every bond 'Twixt mercy's Church and Good commends Its deed of mercy. How willingly the pledge was held Of our first Father! well he knew How easily each day, unknown, Our second Father on his knee Had trudged with him. Nor did the drops of worship fail To enter, like a sudden hail, Upon our home. A joy intense, a holy awe O'er all our dwellings rang, that saw The bells of home in noisy quires Greet us from God. There, all around, an awful calm The old Old World should seem, that saw Its Old World pass away, its will In the new light, while far away, Its darkened future, dim and grand, Its fearful future, and afar, Its crowded Eden, and its star, Its dream of Heaven. It passed away. The breath of Spring Seemed growing chill; the earth lay still And dream of Heaven. New-born, the fresh young Spring was born, The race of men was stamped and torn, Spring--and its word was "Winter, cold," Warm, lifeless shoots, a snow-white cry From hill and vale, "Now, to the fold" ======================================== SAMPLE 202 ======================================== he strayed and with that pagan. Up he rode, the Christian host to meet, The pennon tossed in air, The portents of his name before, The marvelous circle there. "Once he looked, and saw my sword," he cried, "And the hilt-cuts that I had on my side: As a brave man working just for God!" But a lion roamed along the road, A mighty host that showed Straight to the patterned shields, the plates And tables of many a purple stowre: And never a sweeter blast Blew from the petals of white roses: And never a braver man nor braver Cowed down the verdant meads of heaven. "He left his meads and his own village behind, But we thought of Spain in fair Italy, At golden gates and fair assay We sailed the golden seas, And every coast and fairer hill Was paved with pearly gray. We gained upon a Spanish coast A strait and narrow land, A pleasant land, but not so large, For all the ships went hand-in-hand; Where grey gulls' wing came through the sand, Where peering mariners saw bright, afraid, The white road in the sun's raw gold; And she who saw our slender span, Like a poor blind hound that licks the trail, And makes her footsteps soft and wild, Said, 'Rosa! will your swiftness fail And bring me to that lovely land, That fair, strange coast?' Then slowly down We climbed for it, but 'twas sweet, I think, A pleasant land, though steep and strait, Where one might turn and smile on it; For she who found a little way In love with one who loved her, kissed The light long years that all should fade, And many happy years have lain Familiar in her heart again. And when she drank of life's full sea And shared the joy of life's full sea, And saw the passionate sun on high Burn the love-light within her eyes, Then she began to sing with love, 'My love has died and I have died, But still with loving love and pride She welcomes death and doth not cheat, Being no less a spirit still, For she hath gone forth strong and sweet Like sunny wave on ocean's rim, And she hath seen the eternal hour Awhile since when her face was dim; And yet she is in paradise, With all her heart and all her deeds, With all her poet-youth and dreams, And faith and fervour in her needs, And now as in her bed she lies, And watcheth angels on the sky. 'And round her sleep the angels sweet, The silver-winged saints and all their mates, And tender folk that watch her so, And tender folk and fair of face; And fair of flesh her lovely frame, As pure as the unshaken grace And vigils of the holy thoughts That nurse the love of souls in dreams. And if she be a lady sweet, A goddess, and an angel dread, Her loveliness hath ne'er been known, It hath not kept her lovehead's head A whitener than the dawn of day, It hath not seen the burning blood, It hath not seen the love of gold, It hath not been the wine of blood. Oh, lullaby for poor despair, And lullaby for grief and pain, And lullaby for weariness Of this poor heart of mine, oh, lullaby! Sexton! thou art the wreck of God! The cup of bitterness, the cup of tears, The shattered lilies weep, the broken leaves Are salt with what thou think'st! the bitterness Which in the name of hell is crumbled, unnamed, But ever fresh and sweet! O quiet smile! To drown it is from heaven. Forget All this; for when this heart hath tasted the kiss It once was blessed and it will die For ever! And yet thou knowest The secret in the Soul of man Is the vague memory of that sterile joy That still in all the dreamy wolds he twines, Whose odours are as secrets of sweet Love, Whose light no thought beyond our vital ken May match, but never can a sight discover! Bearing within his reach, The island flower of perfect innocence, The native bud of conscience stainless, And light within her soul a fairer voice, And like a pilgrim holding ======================================== SAMPLE 203 ======================================== both! Their gorgeous wings the floor And pavement of our visitations won By civil wars, and in the long career Lead us to Egypt! Hence they come, their way Is here abrupt, and this mysterious cave, O'er which, with ill-percealing magic, rolled Our bridal chambers, there is no escape From space impassable, nor ought expect But when death brings us the fresh flower of life. Yet soon this trembling within them we end, Whose earthly course no longer is forbid; Therefore they wander'd on in quest of peace; And at last seeing 'twas a joy unknown, They wander'd onward to the other coast, And all was desolate. It chanced that chance Brought thither some shrewd elder of his race, His mantle long, and beauteous to behold, The pest that whiten'd all the land around And all that cloth'd in hides of cloth of black. And here was floating in the murky air Fell Nature's curse! Hail, as it seems! Fire that ne'er Was smitten from the cloud had smote the deep! Or fell, in such revenge, so sorecontending! If I foresaw such fate, I scarce believe My weaker, more uncarm'd. But not the less As numberless as were the thousands rush'd Upon my vision, I foresaw how high Expatiate to my view their lofty ire Would howl in space if I o'ercome their might. Nor wanted I a few hairs of old age. When I had seen my sons, I mark'd the wounds Plash'd by their enemies, and instead Of war and bloodshed, I had deem'd them keen, Promising mercy with a father's hand. But what avails to all of lesser kinds, And less deserving in a better time? Why did not therefore I accost thee thus, Thus wonder-struck? Kind, gentle, gentle youth! Thou art the zealous wife of the enervate; Laugh'st, when thou laugh'st, for at the rate of men The fattest quarter makes an actor laugh. And, would'st thou know whom this could possibly, Steadfast in heart and wisdom-cap, a king! Art thou not he, whose subtle mind possest Nothing of trouble but the wind and storm? Surely thou know'st; for, since the Orient world (All under-oubted, wise, and ancient sage) Thou never knew'st, since they were fair indeed, Or worthy, or applauded, or a prince. Nor can thy tongue, when thou hast heard my songs, The thunder-crested charioteer forego, To listen to thy quaver. It is well That thou shouldst pass thy days among the gods; For thou art ever One, and One the Thunderer! They gaze upon thee, and with looks of ruth Look down; but never any tear escaped From their old sorrows. Then, to sing of him! Thou that by onlying golden themes The shepherd-kings of fame and glory gain's Thy father's ear, by trailing laurels chased, Who gave thee life for thee! (the woods resound With pleasant strains, like hymns, while through the grove The leaves, like tattered garments, on the winds Are wafted.) Yet when twilight strikes the sky, Waking the tall fir-trees to their trill, Sweep the still woods, that their mysterious moan Is like the low moaning of the sea, Who hear the oft-repeated trill of the surge, And sigh, and think it a transparent dream, Haply it seems, yet not in vain, it moves, That such fair things as thou mayst please the gods Are sweeter for their universal toil, And thou may'st turn their new-found bonds to cords That choke the souls of men, and drown within The longing of their eyes; when that alone The sun shall rise, and all the sombre heavens And shining firmament make bright for thee. Here thou art better fitted for the stage Of writing tables. There thy happy feet Thy constant, calm, and upright heart shall find Strength to perform'd; and in that haughty age, When all the immortals kept thee at their side, And all their life did was dissolve in prayer. How happy are the gods, who look on thee With outstretched arms, and, welcoming thy smile, Thy soft ======================================== SAMPLE 204 ======================================== wide his flock with liberal care From forth their young sprouts, grazing there, In joy and play with sweet observance, Dressed out in native garb of Pee. With joy and play enwoven together The noble men of Inachus went Their offerings, praised by Sítá’s mother, The favour of the Gods gratified. Then from the mid-day heathen Princes With prayers and praise by King and Heroes To Pramábí came, their heavenly minstrel, Whom five brave sons had hither led: Fair girls were they, with tresses hairless, And in their cloths gay-gemmed garments Smiled sweet with scent of flowers. Bowed down by love the aged matron, And told the sire and sons the news, The brother-kings in doubt and anguish Hung piteous down on Gods or foes. The suitor-kings, the son-in-law, The boys that roam the ways they know, Thronged with Vriháksha, every where Cameats and kine the feast to show. High elephants with blazoned necks And rosy-shouldered steeds, And camels girt of many a hue, And camels dyed with gilded hue. With tender love the women fed As to the Gods their task assign’d: Peers of the birth, and men of mien, And girls whose eyes were radiant-green. So in the wood the Vánar strayed With conquering step and joyful mien, Pursuing still the royal way, And joyed the woodland solitude. Then from the court he sprang in haste, Prahasta’s(807) fortress, hard to win, And from his palace two tall men Whom length of days had sanctified. Borne by his car, with glorious car, Sate Diti’s(807) lords. With duteous ear Himself he loved and lov’d to hear. So, high in power and high in might, The fiends who roamed the woods confessed, Home to his happy home he sped And the high ramparts overthrown. The sons of Aksha(808) stood in heaps And watched for Ráma’s form and face, When fiercely red with blanching foam To King Vibhishaṇ strode he. A belt of steel and mail he wore Whereon his arms were fiercely tore, And there with tasselled gold he strove To smite, before he struck, the foe, Who made that rampart, rampart’s space, The ramparts of a hundred groves. Then by Kishkindhálaṇ Ráma stript, But sore marvelling at the sight, Sank in his lap his love conf slain, And there he lay and mumbled, fain To turn where Lanká’s turrets rise, Where the great chieftains raised a pile Of wood and creeper, fair to see, To stream in terror far away. But when in angry mood he strove To break the promise made he gave, Him by the lord of Lanká led His younger sons to Lanká led. Great joy was theirs who ne’er betrayed King Rávaṇ and his kith and kin To join in friendship fierce and strong, And hand to hand was Rávaṇ’s thrall; But when the dark-eyed Rákshas fell, The giants left their moon-piled cell, And fled the day for fruit of crime And left the Gods for heavenly clime. These words the lady’s gentle eyes To Ráma in the wise replied: “Faint not, O King, my steps to stay; High-hearted, show thy lord today; And I will listen as I can To the great tale thy lips declare, When first the giants fought on high, And mighty arm of war was nigh. Bowed down to Kumbhakarṇa’s power, Though palace-thralls and bulwarks lower, Fierce in the fight, and woe to me, The giants ’neath my conquering dress Thus have I paid the reverent ear, That all I had, and made, and knew To mine own tribe and home was due. Borne o’er the sea of Vánar tide, I sought Ayodhyá’ ======================================== SAMPLE 205 ======================================== , now-leaping, Her heart is loosened, She feels the blow: It is the healing herb, the healing herb, When, wounded by her cruel spear, She lay. But not alone Shall comfort now-per-plus His heart: Why, though for three His spirit leagued should have not learned the truth, Though reason too pernicious now is doomed, So is he doom'd A debedy age. Beneath his casement, on a royal bench, A mead which ready aye at supper hangs, And many a gallant and well-wasting board Makes of a vintage rich--she's there admired. Away ye damsels! and be bold, young man! To your brave masters a good toast attend. Much be't by your career, from first to last, From they that hold a part, shall soon be gone. Nor be it hard toSubject this bold gentleman, Till o'er his tomb, whose gentle care 'tis known, Whose gallant heart, in mutual tenderness, Delighted in his private cell, ere now, Though for a term, he lived; and in the morn Had climbed upon the mountain-tops to look, And the bright sun, descending from the west, Had bathed him in the embers; and he came To tell the story of his former life Renewed in bitter humour by the talk Of the dead poet; for he still was young, And would with reason daily break the link That tied him to his death, or ever came. The loving husband then no more replied, And his vain griefs indulged in grateful joy. Thus loth to lose his own, howe'er it seemed, Since into noisles and caverns he was borne, From that sad hour in sadness, when the gnome Left him his lonely bed; nor that his band, But those four quarters were forsaken, yet The young ones, with the spirit of the lake, Dwelt with their senses clear. And not a stone Was left the side of that old precipice; The dunghill of a storm-day had been dried, The hill-side, open-heaven'd, had been so green, And through the storm-cloud had appear'd a cloud; Yet was that witness of the magic charms Of the dark mountain-stream. And nearer to the plain, They saw the Schoolmaster; he his colours traced, And to the schoolmaster came: as, where he pass'd, Over a craggy steep, five hundred more, With rugged march he came. And standing here and there, Over the snow, o'er which the torrent pours Its salt, salt torrent to the mountain-side, Among the fields that silent lie, the hills, Or wet the mountain-side, He stood, or seemed to stand Where, in a hollow tree, all shaded, heath'd the streams Gush, with such power unsupply'd, and rush'd away, As if the sport were dangerous. Greener now The man's eyes ranged the distant plain; and now Pass'd by the westering sun, and now he came To where the convent, with its orchard trim, Arches the crumbling bridge. Long e'er the eastern sun Had to his noon-day beam dissolving, And, with his latest rays, his setting beams Shed their effulgence, as he went, that night His light in rocking trees might safely past; But the gray mounds and shadows of the mounds, And the brown mist, that, dusky, lingers round, His height should tremble to be loftier, darker, And tremble all before him. Here and there, In wind and weather foul, he hobbles on Over craggy steep, o'er which in vexed By rocks dislodged, the torrent slowly bowls Its sullen head, while to and fro, by fits, Withering the craggy rack, the swarthy crow, Sometimes a tall bird whistles, sometimes A strident scurry on the topmost branch, As if 't were drawing its broad wings and stoops, And fled away upon its watery flight. But he, in doubt, Saw the dim light come out. "Behold," he said, "The impious wizard, once my friend, is gone." "Friend," said the wizard, "this abominable, This barbarous and barbarous imp of thought, ======================================== SAMPLE 206 ======================================== , which in every chance I read: They tell, as careful hermits use to spell, How witches those they serve, and those they sell; How one who neither stil'd, will save a soul, And all is vanity in vain; how null, How vain the great! how idle is the fool, All mad, to save a soul, in hope to find Those who will stand aloof, and not a mind. Sir Violano, with a face which lit And acted in a sneer, was not agreed On such an one; but deeming this an art, I to the fellow said, 'Sir Violano, Your ghost would be as hideous as a dove; A friend I am of the good Gaville.' He then, of bitter humour, from the gate Which led to it, replied, 'Damian, I do. I came to see you in a sailor's coat A red-coat page; perchance you had met A man who sang in the old tapestry, Which is it, the Pacific bron roared at him? I know him by his smile. 'Say that,' quoth he, 'What is your friend?' replied the old man, gazing So cruelly upon your friend, Sir Violano. He smiled, and said again, 'The forester will care for me; the forester Will care for me; the forester himself Will care for me; the forester himself Will care for me; the forester himself Will care for me; the forester himself Will care for me; the forester himself Will care for me; the forester himself Will care for me; the forester himself will care for me.' And, smiling, whispered to him, 'Do you not know, Sir Violante, why I came not here Among your fellow-beasts to see a sign That I was taken, I would have you know?' I answered him, 'A wild and dream is thine. To know all this and know all this of some. We know what thing it is to be a man, A man indeed, and know the world, and know All that it is to know.' 'Speak out,' he said; 'Speak out' he said, 'and then with that first word Of one I gave my wife, then held your mouth; Saying 'My wife, my wife, my wife was dead.' 'Friend, 'twas for this you died and gave me bread; I claim no husband; merely for my good, I hold a boy of earlier dates who scorns All other pledges.' 'Horrible,' I said. He shook his head; 'I took my murder sown, My poverty, my life, and that,' I said. He took his grave again, and left the corse At Karew-wood. Upon the roads he came, And found some dead before. How many dead? Three hundred living; some at marriage beds, Three hundred women; some in England's name, And some at London; some, whom you know well, A husband's wife, who said, 'Her lord is dead;' And gave a marriage blessing and a name. He won his marriage blessing, but how good Had been to him, who took the other one, By force to marriage. And the other, How much of his lost fortunes could have held His whole posterity forever gone, And neither man nor wife would have been glad Enough to look upon her grave for a year, And sleep as if with nothing to regret, But, in due season, sacrifice or pray At church or state for their most solemn rites. It may be that a man's end due he must see To any man, who will not take his wife, But he must win (no matter if so be not) His heart, as has been said, his whole life long, And be beloved, or suffer aught but death. 'You and I have lived together,' Edmund said, 'And often, both together, have we met Since that June morn, beneath the lowest arch, Have we, perchance, ourselves, in after time Met, and at one certain point of course. But you and I, I know, whatever were To-morrow, yet together, in this letter, I need not tell you more than I have said. You, if you think you think it so,--in truth, Mine and myself, that love God's ways with us, That I have fled for ever from your ear To God, who waits ======================================== SAMPLE 207 ======================================== The bearing of this feeble youth, to day He roams, until he ends his days with grief, Who thus no more, his voice, his life betray. Of courteous hearts possess him yet in store, In hermit dress a flowing Devon fount Wide wandering, but that nymph by chance sustains, Of fair metropolis, a lonely shade, And sees the lovely ocean girding fast, Now swelled with tides immortal, now with pains. For who so sweet of soul as this, in vain Would heartily the world of love regain, But in vain does the vision wisely scan, For lo! 'tis him that flies, who more than man In thee would find his matchless enterprise, Who thus might waste a passing youth, alone. 'Tis this, O Teucrian Muses, you would find, At hand, no nigher strain of song to bray, For love, though fond, will languish through the mind, And on thy wreath hang wreaths of victory: Yet think it not (to Muse as fame you bend) That I have learn'd the master art of song, Whose years are many, and whose verse sublime, Ere mortal hand hath wrapt the fabric strong. 'Twas some tremendous and tremendous night, When heaven's eclipses dare not shine against, When in wide-gazing orbs, struck by delight, Horace, enring'd with stars, doth first appear; And then her silver voice makes all the spheres Dissolve in clouds of fire, that flaming rise. Thus to my lyre I tune my humble lay, For I too have sung wonders all her own. 'Twas with a voice most potent, like a god, Tuned to high supplication; and anon, I heard, and praised her. But the powers divine Of verse and harmony, like rills in flowers, Circled her throne; and singing, beckoned mine. Then in the bard's rough border I put forth My mind, intent upon that theme divine, Of which Love takes possession; and I said, Behold, 'tis Love's, which follows his own way! Nor lack I powers celestial to explore The wondrous song; but did I wish it true, Enchanting music with an equal store, Would suit a different ear; so strangely true. And yet, 'tis said, as Love his evidence Sticks close about us, Love will paint his Art, And then he veils our ravish'd, struggling heart. Nor, may I doubt, for Love can soothe the ear Of any mortal, yet I do not hear Love speak or paint one language; and I know, In utter nakedness, how beautiful Is Love, still living; and although, by chance, We oft mistake the contrary, and lie Despis'd and cuff'd, and oft put off to cry. 'Tis plain, all lovers Venus reign'd o'er fair And child-like; lovers of one worth, enow: And I, beholding thee, could love confess, And in thy eyes, still watch the heart that throbb'd, And throbb'd itself to soothe my own distress. And thou?--Ah no! by burning love I guess My words avail not to convince them here That in my absence Love hath still'd so fair His new-found fires; nor falsely swearing vow'd, Haply by passionate phantasy allow'd, By sensual influence forced to breathe my sighs In sighs of love and passion; which is why I thus acquiring sigh for Love, am I; The way to Love is more than Beauty's way. That Love which is Without all love, is shown to thee anon. Thyself do'st blame;[A] if thou lov'st me none, Nor I myself. If my deserts be such, Then pity rather pulls me to the touch Of Love, than I such injury denies. In me love always woos the amorous boy; And evermore it pleaseth him to toy. O, if thou lov'st me not, take now away These idle pleasures, which, not far from thee, I could enjoy; nor, till that hour is nigh, Won by thy looks, have I one wish deny'd. When thou shalt gather looks, in which all eyes Are hollow, I will tell thee what I see, Then will I kiss thy garment, till thou strizest Him to thy heart, and show it in thy breast. But O! now from that day ======================================== SAMPLE 208 ======================================== , then, is it all one?-- Lo! where the man who dies in vain Must sit beneath the rule of slain. That dead Medea might have known; The shape of life so quick and fine; Her smile it was that lived in all Thine innocence and that sweet touch. That idol!--But she took the heart Of Jayadeva, to her tent; There from her loving arms it fell, That she had been the Head of Hell, That she should live when the world was won, So passionate was she in her woe, So restless was she with her kiss. And then, when the mad people rose, In my despair I said to her, "Lay bare your head, Madam, lest ye Would only kill yourselves for this!" But she replied, "Nay, lie so, dear; Your great love slayes no more; the pain To her makes piti-pall in twain. Therefore I made it not to-day; It cannot now be half so far. Let me go hence, that I may stay, For I go hence." And I have heard, From her own breast as from a bird, That lovers shed their stolen seeds, And strewed the mouldy fragments round, Shall one time be my grave; and then, Returning to my rest, again Shall I go forth. But now, behold, She too shall share these sweets, and then Because she walks in Heaven's reign, I pray thee to His loving breast Take back these two divided hearts, And dwell with me, that I may dwell With her, till I return." She said, And vanished thro' the seraph's shade. And I beheld my love, and bade My soul go forth as to the light Of day and eve and evening-bowed. That it might be, the sorrow that Had left her not for me; and still, And still to me, the conflict chill, Against the past, within the will, Thou wert of thy kind, the pure, the high. I heard above, the quiet so That all my fond heart yearned to see. They took the hearts, and bowed their heads As one who walks with music treads His flowbows. In the chill it bled. By my love is it ever said Or said, I--love--love--love--love-- Will go with me along the path Through tangled vistas of hope and wrath? Shall the cup of pleasure now Linger, a little while apart? No! by my love the roses languish, The sun-hangs of the valley-land And golden-rod are burning yet. Come, play with me until we meet, Kissing the hand that held us--kissed, Kissing the mouth that kissed, and then Reeling for pity--was it not A wise concern, O play, that missed, To love--to kiss--to lie awake With me--to lie awake in me-- To long for love, and wake to me In kissing? O ye grandsons mine, My spirit, I have found you mine. They took my life and mine to be Their temple. When we meet, one word Beneath my lips, she sits with me, The woman of my knowledge heard. The sunlight streamed around us, and The shadowed ships that bore us both On wings of eventide were seen, And glimmering ships, like ghosts of wealth Faintly set free on Fashion's tide, Fought with its freight, and on and on. We drank the gales of doom, and then We perished. All was fainted then. The smile was perished, but we saw A brighter light, a wilder law, A mercy in the steadfast eyes Of one who loved us, kind and wise, And earned the crown of love, and then We drank the bales of heaven again. All time hath kissed us, for the world Weeds not our feet, nor seeks our eyes; All time hath draped us with its shroud Of pallid clouds that hang like shroud Upon the moon's wide, glassy plain, And left us comfortless, and dim. The sun shines down upon the scene As if it yet had dawned--it brings New hope, new faith, in either breast, And makes thy love to glorify Thy hollow heart, and call it home! I like to get to London When people come to visit me. I'm glad they're going away To see ======================================== SAMPLE 209 ======================================== rs Had kindly licensed to the crimes of men. The very darkest, that we fear, was HINDA. "Dear fellow, had you once but haved me Into a shape of various symmetry, You might have cut and clipped, and then devoted Another form, to cut more smoothly, and As father would have done, some joy to have." So saying, he sat down; the air was drowsy, And moonbeams, trickling through his eye-balls o'er, Silk and with yellow patter drops of dew. No more in peace, then, did I hear his voice, But a vague impulse came upon my thought, And I awoke, and lo! in am'rous tone I heard him speaking, and in his disguise, I looked upon him fresh and as he grew, "Escape, dear friend, thy hands!" I said, "Here, dearest! If you have taken these poor hands, for fear You needs must be displeased. Oh, listen! See! My head begins to bow beneath his chin, He says--for that you never more should hear About it with your ears." "Pray, nay, my friend, I did not take it ill, for surely it Was not my hand that took it, was not mine; This hand, which erst I placed upon your lap, With his dainty fingers pressed it, was no staff So slight, so delicate, so soft, so small. And he was hand-linked--but I have spoken truth-- That I was loyal with my king and queen. And, therefore, friend, I would speak out at once, And I will do my best to keep my faith That thus the fact was coupled by a king On whom at last 'twas laid upon this wise. Nor to be bound by any ties but this Did I presume to keep my life, I fear. And I would care for that to which I am; This awe was felt when forth I fared to go, And who, as one oft-times find a time, Can hardly tell the names of all my woes, And not when I have been the mate of mine. To thee, O monarch, I could freely give My hand in marriage, and my only hope; But lo! when that fair face, so fair to see, Was shown by all the chaste and holy maid, I sought to prove in either case, Which, whilst I might, I found. And as in marriage, thus I proved it, fair, And thus I bore away the maiden-smile. My duty was to prove her faith so high, And, with my lov'd one, to her wedded lord; So we' could make but smallest share in each, And yet achieve no happiness." "Till, when at length he heard me speak, he saw This was a most improper thing to wed. Oh, then thought I, 'I can wed with a spouse, But never with my eyes to take a thought Of him, and not for my sake to set in his'; For, when he thought of this, he chafed and brake; But, galling the fond bond of love, it chanced That one had robbed the other of her trust, For which he tried to break. I did, I did. Oh, then he tried to break it, but he tried: Oh, then he tried to break it, but he tried: I tried him too, and tried him o'er and o'er, And all alone he tried to break it--no! But then he tried to break it, for he could: He tried--but I could never break it, for I tried to make it clear of all his love. I tried him too! I tried him too! If he Were just as good a man as I, no doubt, As married for a month as could I be, A wife with this same lovely lily hand, This handsome, handsome, charming bride, forsooth! And now my story is completed. Yes, He once came to a very proper man. And how he once came to a handsome state: His house was rich and furnished with rich things: What made his wife so happy in her life? And she was charmingly provided now With some apparel that she might become, Or healthful to the life. The neighbors' children Were sure to send forth good things after the wedding. The neighbour's children was not thought so handsome: I feared they'd crush me in short, but he Resented, when their mother planned ======================================== SAMPLE 210 ======================================== . With ugly lips; with face a sickly blush; With cheeks a flash of red and yellow teeth; With womankind's besmearing lips, With eyes that love their nation yet, Who own at once but love they kiss, The men, the women, and their clothes. For once of ancient tales, old masters of the schools, They spoke of thee; thee harbinger of the learned; For thou didst nourish and sustain the simple fruit Of the unshaken tree and listening class with speech. Thy songs are of the world which now shall have for me The people's praise and the high Goddess' prayer, Their lasting divinity, immortal wit, Immortal wisdom, whose religion is To wisdom most profound, though never yet In any sense so native, with all their wit, As their most worthy saints, the uttermost, The men thou hast created moved with pity, Strong to obey, and in all right maintained, And stedfast to endure. I have not lived to see Thy name or works, or work them on thy thought, To work them for thy will. The gods, methinks, Grant that some lesser race may have been raised To perfect wisdom, in the long calm time, When all the world seemed made eternity, And in its heart arose a better creed, And fairer Athens, less austerely fair, Than this sweet land of Greece, which once was called Her kingliest legend, that, of her most wise, Beside the altar of the antique throne And black Acre drew, and all her fields and huts, And by her means, for thine and for thy sake, Might have been spared the expense of Pagan's blood. The mystic visions that come to the brain Of Titans, spoke in courses of such deep delight That every tongue would seem an epithymic song, Must have been noted for the Hydraic weed That caused thy victim's birth and differing birth. Such was the reign of them that ruled the earth, Till the world's wisest had its birthright born. Such were the people who were wont to hold The world in sympathy, and thus unite Against the world that hunger now devour, To feed jackals, or stagnant vermin: they, Opposing their own nature, were the food Of the World's strength to men, and to the creatures That fed therein, and so their wants supplied, They have sustained and fed, nor envied much, Had they been raised to high as heaven's earth-dwellers, They have despised, and been the common talk Of the Creator, the immeasurable God, And with such fervor their inspired minds Tended as heavenly love and heavenly shame. So stood their virtue, awful as the lightning, Clad on with bright red armlets, firm to heaven, And winged with fire of Heaven for prodigy, Thy awful might, Orion, Mars, Mercury, Also their God, in whom the world's whole race And noble birth and prosperous Immortality Were conscious, Him as the great Maker bore Among the highest in her naiads old Of her Creation. But that mighty one Thy bright companion, night, the Dawn divine, And He whose works bring all the world to light Was of the unadorned and insubstantial life Of all that starry throng, and left them free To worship Jesus in the abodes of men, Where for some pleasant glen a woman sleeps And what the love of sleeping they may be. I would not, I, thy warrior-reverence, seek For higher truth in no mean enemy Than a dead prince, the old heroic knight; These grosser honors shall my silver give To such as love, who scarce have Love with me In outward mould, to mortal men, of love Unpractised, blinding, nor unknown to thee, As perfect saints of my celestial sphere, Sole dwellers of my memory. They shall be My witnesses and this without demision, How could they mould me to the point of this, To place the eternal Truth, and so fulfil The perfect vision of an endless truth? Lover of all things in the springtime, When every thing is born alive With gladness and the sense of spirit, With joy and laughter, hope and love, In the clear, full, blue, inexhaustible heaven The living, and the dying, all rejoice In the near music of the etern voice, Which call of us to wake, to be renewed The hovering sounds through which ======================================== SAMPLE 211 ======================================== and micio Ferchie." The children, very blithely humming, Laughed in their joy at poor Sir Thomas, Who thus had little time for laughter; And some were with him, some were pretty, And some were mad and some were naughty; But, when their palfreys leave the Huron, A dozen more went on to tell them For courtesy they did not tremble, From six to eight the curates came; A badger strikes, the good man felling; The gates were opened in three gushes; He blanched his teeth, and each sleeve lingered As they rode through at each desire. "Ha, ha!" the beadle said, "what folly! I've had an endless dizzy swerving Of goings in the world, which never Is saved by chance, in trust, or duly." All people thrones who ever loved him, Whose strength and wit could ne'er be proved now, (From whom they now are separated,) In this say I, he's fair and lovely; I, rich, beloved, of others despise, And choose to be a queen and live now; And so this state of his salvation In spite of earth's good works he'll give me; For never, who dares say "yes so," He's wedded to the Fount of Session! A midge hath she in Arcady, Where young Medoro prabbles by; And, while he begs with hot desire, Her, that can give him such a fire, Yet, still, to her, that would not try To make her love him longer, why She makes him leave the rustic plough. Ah, 'tis but half a summer's day, And half that happy couple's stay; And they may live till heaven's last height, Who thus have bid good-night to night. The gray hawk broods upon the heights, That overlooked the precipice; And does not even now the sight Of that which is most beautiful; The hawk is upon the river-arc, Above whose gravel-edges slant arrows A boat appears, to bear her thence; The beaver bathes his o'er-languaged front In the spouts of the beak to bathe; And the forester is upon his paunch, And the forester is a forester; But the gray-headed one, who in a flock Of Dian's maidens by the pool Watches, with tresses round his neck, The while he slants his sidelong glance. All go to sleep, all go to play, None sing another's roundelay, But yet, while all the forum-gates Lie still and safe in this cool well, The knights will start, and will be uneasy, Though that 'tis time they should upbraid, For, had the stranger pass me by, They'd ne'er had given me eyes to see, And, were I judge of mandolins, I would not too much name a name, For I am better known to Fame, And of a famous high estate, Though, named from a great ancestry, I'm proud of any post or pastor, For, on a time of mortal pain, A saint, the Church was more in number; And I could swear that every pen Had thirty ministers like men; And every head was crowned with beads, And for a hundred more or more; So should I praise God's gifts above, For He within me is no more: My God, there's nothing left me but To sing about, and I'm a bore, Made up of all the hearts of men, Unworthy even of Paradise, God, pity me! I've often been Quite curst, I know, in act and word, Which many a ploughman finds, in zeal For golden ears, and lads like me; But then, when out at sea at night, Have all their lamps and candles lit, My castles rise, and sail and swim, Like ships; and so the money mount, To where I lay in the great sea-snort Where I live, as in a dream; Thence like a lion on the mountains That o'er the briny waves go by. And so the exercises tinkle, My veins run cold; and the streams tumble; And while it spates and dances on The flat sea-sand, it smiles upon The backs of us, and it sighs out, Like one that on a foreign throne Beholds ======================================== SAMPLE 212 ======================================== ly of the song. And a bloody weapon in the hand of that bard Had held it and the quiver in the sky. But even as this instrument did tighten, The covenants of the mystic Rose made just A perfect gem for the finger of that man Who starves in adoration of the sky. And the loyal crozier fluttered her little heels, To the tread of his foot on the palace floor, As a barb for a needle, to burn the dint Of the chamber where he. Thus they sang Prince Prince Prince Prince Prince, Into the Illustrious's dress: The naked, the red, the flaming red, The spear of the Abbot, the crucifix! And with one last ravisher, another Who watched, as an eagle hops from its nest, The work of the wondrous Rose of Christ. And after the Lama of China, built On golden sandals, isles of old romance, Arches of kings, and porphyry walls Enset, high, yawning seas beyond all scars Whereon earth's baubles lay; and above you There the oldest, highest, breathing of chants Frowned upward in many an old delight On seas of carven blue and parchment white, Pressing it out of your golden hands, As if all these chants of one foot-fall Were only sound enough to beat Love's feathery thigh with the white moonshine, Or else--poised like a boat at a landward wave, Bearing the odour of gold to your feet. Take the melody, bird, the noon is waking; Set the petals flying for us in the moon, Here for the lover who may wake and find The day is dark and the night is green, With the dance of faerie steps and dances, To bring him night and dreams and the breath of a song, But oh, to follow the foot where the high seas throng, 'Bove a hundred cities, one great city, Sitting at the end of the seven seas, With a hundred swords to protect and slay, And the tenth is on her throne before her, A hundred, O! of every country, In the land of peace, With the hymn and the song that night is born for. Like an island of glory, Under the glow of a sunset sky The sea lies a quiet, white temple, And the waves of the breaker are gray And the ways of the sands are gray With the glory of God shining in all the length of the sea-line. Sun of Spain is your dwelling, Spring is your sole beginning; Hark to the glory that waves your horn And calls the deeps of its worship-- Glow-worms on foam that are gleaming, Little fish! to your gleaming! Earth has her walls and a secret is yours-- Only to know that the sea is ours Where the love of the deep is singing, In love that is freedom's birth-time, Where the loves that are paying for us Rise to a harmony pulsing In music that's only an echo of laughter. Spirit of the sea, I pray That thou mayest forget, I know I am tired of the manless days And the joys that once I had. How the heart of a sailor is stirred That is furled and made to be tossed, Is heaped for my useless galleon From his world-wide sandy sea. Wildly the waves that leap and leap Harden to me their pride That I am not satisfied, Kissed by the wind on the sea-swept shore, And love shall bring me to thee. The song that is minded to mingle With the old joys of the world, That find no grace on the summer face Storms it or thwart its aim, That each finds sheerness and bliss on the sea-- That find no refuge from storms, Not in the tempest hearkening it, Yet ever in calm there may be That knows no fear as I feel The weight of a love, not the world's, That is not care that doth steal. I have lain for years, but I cease not to weep, Tho' I am but half sleeping And the cocks that roof the cottage-hole Tell of a time that was being well, In the land of youth, yet unavailing To call the spirit of song. The sense of life passed from my heart As the caravel was speeding, We knew, yet they said not a word, For the midnight was speeding. ======================================== SAMPLE 213 ======================================== night, an' white night--them're all night long, Sic thoughts are on; we're packed up all together In a shanse--a dinkum song--a song. (Now mind you, if't haf budum up your auld head, Whaur two thing's help is at the Deil wur Ned; Sic thoughts beat wur in a wad-gude-me-not; Hoot, here's my rowin' tale.-- O Lord, I know, for me, Thee, Lord, I know, is best; I see God speak, an' feel his warm, blest ca', That this my mither ne'er knew Wha should ance preach sae canty and dumb. "O had my soul been in yon kirk grass, Wi' a merry heartsome din, Wi' a leal, honest, honest-hearted lass, Sure, I'd na dee for aught in Air, at a sicht, wi' a pibroch an' a fouth, Unless to buy ither's beef!" Just then a flash and a shy, waesome pause O'er the tongue that wirked jur awa, A loupin', curly tongue that wurTrue-love draws To his heaving heart sae meek an' meek. And when we set to eat, in a' our slips To mix our black, nude, bawskin hips, A' tak' it tak' it taunty like a pack o' trips! While my young Jamie tauks the crack, As the pride of a' his clatterin' stoup, To his reekit auld cratur he steals, That its rude bass bursts in with a roar Like the thunner o' some Highland gorse, That tumbleth saft up its wee crumpet like burs! No, no, he'll gie me still a dear, true GRACE, Wike and contentment and a' beside; That no langer in the Crafts of his ain country-side Shall ever vaunt auld Scotland's pride: There's Smith^1 awhile i' the blue kirk-yard, And there he'll charm us wi' a smile, While we're laith at our couthie core, Awaiterin' wi' an airm-fu' style, Tho' Romilly's Loch is fu' gleg an' braw, And Bewsworth, that's the Jolly Blue: He's sae ye mak auld Scotland bluid, That taste o' lave and beef, lilegither, Better an' braw are a', lavegither! To think how we stood, while they were gazing, Like t' jujie nicht we've eer saw sic a figure! It nappitat na so bonny a licht As e'er to the laigh in the laigh land; But mak'some he's maen as weel an' gleg, For he was a braw auld Scotland's brither. And now ye're crouse, lad, to seekin' me, Wha's cast the grund age by the cairr; For auld or young, you take occasion, The feck o' auld glory is nae matter; An' yon's the man wi' that quhyss o' glee That nae wages rais'd in the whistle, For brave Fodsey there is nae bother, But, mark ye, he's a worthy player, Like licht 's the cowt, like drucken bull The baefu' brings me dirdfu' skill, Wi' glorious dance and sultry glee To see how fair, and see how clean, The laigh, linnen buckram, stands wi' charms An' ayecht waik's heart beats in its arms. Syne, on the square, or on the buss Or in the ditch, or in the park, Wi' spurning heels, or poking through a hag, Wi' girning crowdie, lifts his club, An' there he scunters round an' round, Wi' grace an' grace, that's what he's worth; But, Lord, what scene is in his hame? In a' their varying mood, they range, An' shift a doolf that's large an' smooth. An' ======================================== SAMPLE 214 ======================================== the open air; And the echoes of the castle gate Were his white courtesies, and his attire, The glimmer of the nunnery's crest, And the shadow of the birk in the font. And the lady loved him, that he loved; But, lo! she was all too weak to give; He too must walk Faith's cradled stir Through the dark ways of mystery, Ever to question evil things, As in the streets of this Franciscan king. Nor did he think of her, nor the sights That marshalled her, nor those fairy wars About her that she loves: his eyes beheld Her spirit, and he lay within his mind. But not the tales that drew her from the Don, That bards of old saw hid within the wheat, Or love, or creed, or creed, or creed, That touched his soul with music; he would ask No wizard's wand of Fairyland, No wizard's wizard-throngage; he would lay On the hard granite her new-made bride, On the stone in which the peasant died. Thus were the people gathered to the feast; And thus was every one that passed. They might not wait the appointed hour, The old familiar place, Till in the pale and secret light Queen Hild should stand with face to face With Hild the peaceful stranger, old Within her castle cold. At last she came unto a knight, And spake not; but, "'Tis said, behold, King Helge, I have spoken bold, With Hild the peaceful prisoner bold, By these two knights of old; And ye, Sir thoughtful and austere, The noble Order's wedded here, Until ye see that ye are old." "Wherefore to me, ye men of might, Beneath the earth in which ye dwell?" "Therefore on thee, upon the earth Have I builded this malignant mirth Which overcomes men's sense; And therefore if aught else mistrust, If once a lifetime hence be lost, The faeries sing me of the clock That cares not, 'tis the appointed time." "Do not my task for ever wist," Said Hild, "and watch to see my need; Though they may find me utterly set Into what use I am, But, if that lonely ring I see, I will speak out in gladness; If that I own not any ill, The glory shall not pass away, Or I a useless faithless prey." Then on his hand a jewel lay, Whereon it grew, without a bound, To what must needs be done, There gat it back again, And from it flung its glittering aloft And seemed to grow the more profound, While all the land grew bright With golden harvests of the light. But Herdsman Gerers, fearfully Saw the fitful strife within, And though no holy helm had they, Pitying with hard conditions, Bowed down with reverence, Raising the idle from the vain That on their lives that day did fall, And with them would to heaven again Leap up with living man, As from the altar stands the bride. Nought doth he comprehend Of service and of service, And soon the paths of heaven they sought, They thrust within the heavenly sphere, So glad of heaven, so fair of air; So strange, so beautiful to see, That high heaven opened to his thought. The faithful Sheker then stood near, Muttering with longing hot, "O Herdsman, I shall learn to fear Thy way! thy way is free! Nought else my God can have for thee." So bravely do the shepherds plead, Because their loves are strong, And gain, and love, and heavenly meed. It seemed to Hild, as though for death, Of truth, of life, of heaven, None was so happy but the fair; No heart to see her so, No brain to cry for her, Nor sense to know the soft embrace Of woman's tender feet. She touched his hand; and then he said, "Nay, love, we are not strong: As if to touch this spot of earth It were ill suits thy bier." "Nay, love, let that be said, my child, Nor hand be cold of fear. He may be dead within, I fear." Nought doth she love but Hild, To look with smiles upon ======================================== SAMPLE 215 ======================================== est of the storms, behold the course, Till she is loosed, and doth her work in term. Meantime she follows up the gloomy night, First on the iron, after following hard, And on the white-wall'd vessel leaning light. And round about the small gun stop she thrust, And men and women noted on her course; For length of arrows either buckler buckled Is spread from bow to arrow and lance to lance; Another noise of toil, and faint of flight, And open-mouthed of bit or straining string The dying-shot repeated; till at last The weapons grasp'd asunder; still the ball Drawn by the bow, held in its utmost grip, Eddies the roof like pointed jasper, pass'd Through givings sheer and copious; then was driven Through some byways else, and all the wind Entangled in the reek is fanned; and thus The band of savage rocks to danger strain'd. And last, and best of sport, off the wood leapt In fury, and the axe they tore away, Then 'gainst the smooth o'ershadowing waters leapt And sprang up steep, and foam'd the land around, Till the green-blooming harvest-fields were bound In glories, and the steely heaven was flash'd, Worn out, and all the red-breasted slaughter o'er, Whose earth-breath kept their heads, and, gathering fast The golden lilies, momently did the dark Stamp with the salt drops, and from every cheek Spatter'd the mingled blood, till men did deem As many voices mingling in their souls. And scarcely had the spears of webs so swift Rough-hung that blood in blood and laugh'd and scream'd, When, haply, off the opposing ranks upreel'd Of flying Trojans, they were backward driv'n; Then heav'nly-wheeling, as if he were doom'd Not to be conquer'd, round the foremost battle-smoke Flew divers weapons, while behind them throng'd Phalanxes of stalwart Greeks, in guise of Gods, Phalanxes of Lycians, with close array Of Lycians, and close-following swarm'd the steeds. Forthwith (behold the stress!) Achilles 'scap'd The wood, and midst a fosse, with bristly hair And mantle, to the Trojans call'd aloud: "Friends, Grecian youths, now quit yourselves, for lo! Within those bootless ranks, against the skies This day again receiving powers divine, Devote ye still to fight the Trojans' chief, While we, from lofty tow'rs to Ilian walls Brought forth fresh forces to the war." Whom answer'd thus Achilles, swift of foot: "Hector, at least, delay we not to seek The battle-eager Ajax; bade him yield His word, and onward haste, amid the throng, And rail at him, if ill his counsel pleas'd. To him at once let us our safety give, And drive him from the war with all his fleet; And if so be that, if so he will, perchance, He may again drive on with all his fleet, And 'twere not for his safety that so long We shar'd the lot, till now we laid him low." Thus as he spoke, by Trojans brave was giv'n, To level with the crowd his pond'rous spear, To shield his broad-orb'd weapon, and to slay, And strip the dead; and so he drove in vain. Then from the crowd Patroclus hasten'd on; And far before him, as the ranks he pass'd, Antilochus, his son, in close array, With his huge spear the Grecian comrade slew. Full well for that slain man his portion pray'd. Before his breast in vain he rush'd to fight; Strongly the brazen lance of Ajax pierc'd His mail, and shiver'd with the brass he grasp'd. Ajax at once his lance uplit; the heart Of noble Hector, at the sight disliking, And deeply pierc'd, with vain endeavour try'd To wrench his weapon forth: the blow was struck; Yet not a Grecian could the lance unfix. Then thus to Peleus' son his winged shaft: "Ajax, thou seest not where thy fated ======================================== SAMPLE 216 ======================================== then lift him up to the view, Nor need a dragg'd excuse of courtesy; For there a naked swain, a naked nymph, A wretch alone, and unadvis'd before. To naked spirits he gave sight of all, Except that he should find a beggar there; Who said, "The markets are in sight, and come For the refyn'd reliques of the thirsty earth." If I did write it out, 'twould make me strong To touch the hemispiece from skirt to skirt, And when emboss'd in antique armour are, To look a grave with an omnis-coloured crop. But at this moment it began to show Fire and rebellion in a kinder glow, And with a roar, and loud lament, and scow Th' Arch-Angel, who to mock us doth traduce, Leaps on our back, and with undaunted eyes Pours on us from above a mighty size. As once this wretched pair their peevish ban Pour'd out, 'tis true, yet how they will'd it, Man Not then the Son of God, but now of Men, Shot from the press, and stripp'd of his salt crown, And with his dagger broke his glittering crown. So doth an arch-fole, in close whirl immersed, The coals of fire burst when he sees the field, Struck by an unexpected fate, and dropp'd His helmet from his chin, and there fell down Both the fresh flowers, by their unequal blows Dissolv'd and wounded in the self-same blood. Whereon the Blessed in their boats once more Sail'd, and in written manner graved the paints; For on their brows a blessed Cross they bear, On which the lilies, and the flowers of helle, Unwreath'd of fire, hang in an oaken vase, And here are odorous also, nor omit (Mingle with the sweet scented aromatic shrubs) The myrrh, and nard, and other perfumed flowers, The myrrh in field, the sweetest wholesome herb; A third sort, and not all unworthy the disease Of these, who at the intervals so long Endure the melancholy Indian's song. But, what if all the Muses, to expose Themselves to glory, and so great their praise, Should cease to wonder at the lofty name And incense of the goddess, who now pours Her benediction through the holy fane? But what if all the Muses, to give praise To the immortal goddess, should give praise To th' immortal fire that feeds the goddess' lays? No, this is much more stuffy than a dream. To thee, fair Thetis, I return to prove A wounded hero, bathes in tears of blood Ere Kronos' daughter in their rage divine Dismiss'd him. I return once more to prove The more my timid virtue still prevails, Though mine already is god's providence; Thou hadst no need, thou hadst not else been there! But be indulgent, kind Telemachus! Be all thy thoughts in solitary things! And judge what falsehood these fair women bring To miserable shapes, who of themselves beguiled The easy air with laughter. Now the King, Whose vengeance is set others to contend, Owns what he would; yet rather let him prove A violent, and raise presumptuous thoughts To fierceness, shameless as he is, and wise. For one in word,--and for the other not! There is in it, with ease, a wanton growth; Cato is here no more, nor yet a fool. Thus shall Ulysses, to his ruin driven, Pant for our ruin; and this path so rough For his return with tears he shall enquire. Then bid him, that he send us hence no more To the Phæacian ships than this, our ship From whence thou art; he will in any wise Straight to the shore himself, and friends shall lead; Then let him leave the harbour, there to steer, And, banish'd from the eternal palace, dwell With us. Who hates not in heaven injury? Or who would share a happier home with us? As some young fish with tender, answering voice Be calling us, till from the rocks he drops Back to the sea, and all the ribbed oaks Fall from his jaws, so swam the boundless fish, And he is drown'd who yet was ======================================== SAMPLE 217 ======================================== , of recompense; Not all the riches which the greedy want Enjoy'd, but all the fair and good of life, Hopeful and well repar'd for him who slew His comrade, and so snatch'd them from his death; So heavily to Peggy he was press'd And pity drew: for when the eye of love O'erflooded, that of dread and agony For hideous dismemberment could not rise, And from his visage stepp'd the colour quak'd, The tears rush'd on his face, and pale the blood Bathed in the purple of his hoary cheek. And when he turn'd, his bosom heaved with joy, And strength seem'd gone, not long his feet were lapt In his hot feet; nor with his blood his eyes Were stopp'd, for pity of the sudden death At the full given. O'er his batter'd arms He lean'd, and kiss'd his forehead, and his hands, His feet, like blossoms, tremulous and weak. While with stern countenance his eye he fed, His lively limbs like tremulous ivies fall Prone on the ground, and o'er his shoulders broad They slide, and roll their leaves in such a tide That every branch appears to be revers'd. At length as with shot snatches the pursuing flame, Upflies the fondled doves, but enters not The secret bough; for as, when Phœbeé the chase Has gone, and by her mother's love is torn The meadow blossoms, trembling by her mate; So her fresh beauty grew upon his eyes. And when both kisses were remov'd from him, She turn'd, and round her ivory neck-piece strode, Herself behind her in the midst appear'd More lovely still; for on her face there stood A fixéd glory, and as he approach'd, Methought a damsel stood, who came to view Her from the heavenly threshold, who had gaz'd With rapture, as she look'd, her golden tresses Ambrosial, and her zone of flowers beneath. Softly her hand within her own she clasp'd, And fondly was his forehead wrapp'd about With his own hand, while all that way she look'd, Save the right eye before; and whatsoever She felt, or heard, bent, dropp'd from her, or spake, Nought saw; for she was in that blest assurance, And in her gentle heart a heaviness pledge. Yet was she ever coy, and seem'd not moved With pity for his winning, when at length She dared to look upon her beauteous form; And that fair semblance gain'd me at the last, And I became a wife, with nothing more. As she had been my kinsman, his approach Had wounded me; for his behoof from me Engag'd, as I had been his guard, to be His guard until the morn; and certainly To see his woes, had wills not yet been doom'd. But he, in truth, who was my faithful guide Unto his service, made no hindrance stay To hinder, but directed, as he said, My steps to his paternal claim; but laid All on the ruin, or if need be, his, Me rather chose as keeper of his oath, And that before his newborn hands he tied A verdant quiver on his arm, and gored The mystic bow; which, for the mighty fault Of that first tire of all, he pierced within The dim-reflected space, where we became Depriv'd of all beside, and to his guide, Led forth my steps, and stood before me there. Short space my head was from his lavish'd store; Then when he saw me come, (it must be said) With that amazement which befell me, deem'd Me to have laid aside, and seen the whole Troop to the vengeance, which that day had slain. I lifted up my eyes, and still beheld, To what high state my thought was inclin'd, When near me drew the sacred seer; and lo! A train appear'd before me. Each side us And mingled, as in talk, the multitude, That hail'd us from the shore: and as I mused Tears came into my eyes, they well appear'd, And with soft tresses look'd into mine ears. "O ye, my inmost thoughts and soul, who dwell In such a life, as in these happy climes I am ======================================== SAMPLE 218 ======================================== not the view! Thus will our president, Or when the morning dawn His fame and arms across the seas; And, if some other barrister Should step with him on board of stores, Then manifest his evident And harmless superstitious views Of every star, and every breeze, Of every flower which clothes the earth Or decorates the frozen seas; If as the senior class select His class, doth not, in kindness, feed His harmless hours, like those whom we Do know the grass, the light, and seed, The glory, from whose tender soil The air of youth yet never swerves, Repaid in plenty and in toil; If other service, then, A thousand fold, he feels a few Reproved, that waste of rags and gold, Shall seal his inward sense and eye With meanings of a kinder sky. There are who are be that crowd Of all such kinsmen as may be Worthy of right to praise and sing, Erelong among the hospitable tree Of this fair land, our genii hide From the moist air, where clustering boughs Yield the nutumn of deep-laden boughs, If haply they may choose to sing, Not one of all their minstrel-singers: Of whom we are hardly small or few, One soul of all that many, And no one thinks his own heart true. Won't please, then, my old friend, or true Who may not tire of us? In any case I hate to be An angel pleasant, bright, and free, And so is called in reason. I'm happy, no, I feel it still, And therefore hope, my kinsmen will Be ready to depart, And write to me the fates of-will, And my petition shall fulfill. And, shall they turn, those lands renewed, And burn beyond their scorching leaven, On nobler head than mine to sue, And help me now to fill the heaven With worldly fruit that men adore, To no man earthly need a more: No envy now in my possession, No flaming hope beyond, With my own is all my portion. The world's the same with all its wars, Its bloody mishaps and sudden spars, Its awful aspirations: For 'mid the tumult and the strain My old love in my heart would reign, And hear and listen often. But by his stage, so proud and grave, I feel each moment like a slave In his own bonds degraded: And he who oft, in evening gray, I've watched the slow hours unperpleased, Cries out, "Not him forsaken! He's none of you, for he recks not That noble-hearted fellow! "A plague will never come o'er the world, Though he be less approached than the other, Nor make the fair one happy." And, passing from my window, Do I behold the one Who does my life to lead me, As prodigal as they; His face is beauteous and beauteous, His waist is red as roses, His quiver and his wings Bear high upon their necks behind him, As if they drew a merlin wind: Oh, then how great a pity That one so fair to see! He lives on tree, on meadow, and on flock. All his existence, all its hours and tides, Is a sweet playing "Ah, the barley-fold's so yellow-golden, Where I've but a penny, a little goldsmith, Just a bachelor's wife, when I'm alive! Just an Englishman, though born a little boy, And as good as a neighbor, so the house all is joy. We've but a pound of victual, we've but a cup, We've but a packet o' butter, and a little fat, Won with supper and fresh milk; Ye can make us mock at all, Ye can't rob us, or I fall. "But, dear Annie, if you're hungry, An angry man will soon be learning your learning, O the country is where yours was, And his wife is Ilmatar; When he comes she don't refuse him; Pork and hedge now keep their faith in God, They are friends to all salvation. I'll help that to do; but, Annie, Play your hand, or I'll be dumb. "The earth is full of roses And dew is on ======================================== SAMPLE 219 ======================================== To envy and reproach, and ev'n offence. Even the wretch, who reads how many a curse He dreads, from such apostles dis forgiven, May now hear, how he longs to infuse Joys for the good of all these pages daily, And dares each page with sentence for to read, Or read, or wish to gratify his pen; Sure they may hurt his peace, his honour hurt, And make a widow his example be, Whose child he sits in, and as man for husband Sits, and beholds each thing that is deucalion. Where now such malice and such rage pursue? Once they exacted their late service true; The youthful poet, among many more, Might try the gen'ral flame, and tune his harp to beat The loose, well-skilled adultry of the street; Where all those many masons sing that man Has been condemned to death, and fears to cease. Two hangings they imprison in his face, And now to show him all the burning blotch, A mastick or a fay--a gewg, a torch, A smell of sickly sinews or of pitch, And matter minutely divine his bodkin. Nay, even his very beard, more black than so, Is to be seen when dried and black his eye. Whatever disputation e'er assails him, If that be vanity, he'll die without shame, The fact is, even here within these flames, The common herd of low-hung things, which range From a green spot to find their feeding place. But they who ever could be led to feel What that neglect may in itself be felt. This epic, by Dr. Henry Murray, is done in fine, And all the rest in little Britain do. While praising cannot be, the Irish swains, By chance, and wit, and manners, freely find That yet their post can save them from the wind, They ever cast the book upon the page, And were at length pleased at a fawn to come. To raise it up to fifty hundred years, Is physical, and quite the way to mend it. But still I hold it true, that when we see This little world, and read its customs, leaves The book a little bit more curious, which Evolves a pretty emblem of our age, The book we read, and all we read aright, Is (as we said it in an open place) A little curious book that could not save A sight. On one side is the book, and one the sun. There rests a copy from the manuscript, Upon the other is the upper writing, When that the first the writing has been put Between the top and wisest of mankind. Here Puck is made the best of nursing mothers, In point of lamentation. Don Apollinax Is more endued with sonnets from that time, Which says, at least it does not need the nurses. On fifth of all, our doctor has been here. We have been here a month and month before, Till almost that time Death did come to us. We have been here three years, and one before, And, in five days, it pleased us to regard him, For looking at the people of that land Because there are so many, and so few. These are the books the Brownites used to get. My dear Sir,--great, slow-sighted, good-natured! They never threw their books before his eyes, And are so nice and simple that they look Like the straight lines of all their former books, They never wanted long to buy or sell. They will be poor indeed, and have no ink To see how they can get it; and they look On paper, and on paper; and they look On roaring, rattling pictures, on the top, And hearing them declaim upon the box, Do more than look the other way to seek, Through these thick shades of his, the general roar, The frantic cry of fifty million men. You have no pity for poor Edward Newcome, But think how very clever he was. He had not been so idle, but that night He used to wash himself, and when he could, He told his old grandfather how to scour His room with whistleings and broken toys. Why, he was wise, and so was just a fool. For, since he had no fingers, but had paper, He had but two to put his hand between His fingers and a ten-penny paper bag ======================================== SAMPLE 220 ======================================== , Dance round the bowl with girls who play with shells, Bubble and flow, walk up or down the Seine, While my last draught of Strephon or of Alp? When, by a kiss, I drank not from the cup, For luscious were the lips that fed it then. When will it come? <|endoftext|> Wrecks of my father and mother Fade into mist and mist, Stars that seem to fly with Folly, Stars that gloomily droop Where the good ship's crew Never yet knew the pain of sorrow, Darker now, and fiercer yet, Floods of darkness, filled with care, Stars that keep me sitting here, Stars that peopled o'er the glasses Where I frolic on my way, O! but not there many heroes Fading in their glory shine, Mirrors there to make me sorry That I could not play my game of cricket. Fittiest in the world's renown, A lucky man they say Who has courage to be frank, and better than with me. But it is long since I had not Been given me to know If it be not for the hand that touches me to show At every leap the small free giver Of future revelry. Says God to my children, And my soul is bowed In doubting and trusting. Though I loved them, he has Only left them to me, I know not what better. We were crowding in the twilight We were foaming in the dawn, We were longing for the sea-waves That had soothed my longing. All the world is mine to-day, All the sunlight shines to-night. Yet I ever shall be happy With the one I love most true In the morning's dawning beauty, In the evening's dusky light. Only we were clinging to them In that radiant dawn of youth, When the windows rattled softly At the dear, returning truth. If you only asked to see me die, Should you only ask the help I give, You would see my face grow red and thin, And the old dear head grow gray and old, And smile as if to know that joy was told. If you only asked the help I give, Would you only know the anguish wild, The stinging, cruel strife, the sodden pain And sorrow that have made my darling mad? Would you only understand the pain, The long, dark struggle that has made me sad? You will see my face grow gray and old, A wee gray speck on a December sky, A crow on the still, cold water cold, An empty nest that I kept you by Till the winter comes again and takes you by. If you only asked the help I give, Would you only know the anguish wild, The soft despair and bitter cry And bitter strife for the outcast child, The homeless sobbing and the poor, The starving cry that shall die of all, And the heart that all shall know for friend, Or for them in the dark, unending span, If you only asked the help of man? If you only asked the help of all, Would you only know the anguish wild, The hush of sorrow in the air, The watch that never shall be there, The weeping and the breaking sea, The breaking, the breaking, the sighing, The breaking, the breaking, the loving, Borne down the waters, borne down the tide To the far, uncharted caves, And their great reward is just God's name, And their Gods know the rest which be their shame. If you only asked the help of men, Would you only know the pain we feel, The dragging anguish and the load Of sorrow, and the many griefs, And the dark eyes that cannot weep, And the press of heavy thought That can not find the utmost good? If you only asked the help of men, Would you only know the pain we feel, The silence, the anguish and the strife Of daily labour that we dread; Would you only whisper to the poor That the Lord is calling for the sun To light their dark distress and dread? If you only asked the help of men, Would you only see the pain we feel, The tangled misery and dark despair, The weeping, the sorrow and the prayer, Of souls they made unwilling, Would you only know our pain and woe In the tender twilight round us go ======================================== SAMPLE 221 ======================================== who's the best! They are "the jovial stations" and "the station" Of one who's got a horse, And even of these wary prentices They soon are off to sale; And this same lad, you know, with all his might, Can take and sell his wares; When those that's "up to it," cry out, "A guess! 'twas, by these riv'rs!" So, naturally, I wish you would admire Our simple brides, although they're of the higher, To be good-williams, and to settle wight- (Though by this they are beyond a crust of fight) In ev'rythink, nay, swine (it does my best To keep there is a goodly portion) Most thankful when it comes to the right heart To give its salt, which others render skiest. When Sâus tells to us of Kabîr's ascent, Then, when the sage and holy man, polite, Naming the wrong and cursing in the right, Says: "Sâus, on account of sin, in jest, I've made of yours a rule, Has not disjointed me with holy lore, Sâus for the contrary doore, Is love-all drawne within, All heavenly virtues gan to be devising A limit now become the limit's proof, Since sinning against right is thing I've vanquished And onely makes me twice the weaker one, I then began to looke that sinning against nature, And as the wittol's self ther' be alluring To more immediate matter. S—S—S— So said, so done. You may surmise A simple limp and to depart Without a rival, minimamus, Though few, yet the world's heart and brain Have in that sin so often beaten me, That one is prone to trouble and mismercy. Have sought among the prime and multitude And many times found out the story Of Kabîr's fasting, and the count Made wiser by a ready footfall Than Kabîr's, who showed such lack of youth In Kabîr, or ere he lifted up His eyes and joined his discipleship By showing them how good and how right he was. And many a one would see his error, And mocke himself the tutor also, And even should find out another one Fit for his playfellows. In this wise He saw no error, and did not chuse The path of truth, but this time did begin, Which he of truth and faith assured Should come to Pentapostal clearly Before the preacher should appear in sight, For his was known right well in sight, A dear and honoured father; yet of that No greater was the love he showed to him, Than is the plain and simple ignorance That Saratoga, though of good exalted, Was wont his piety to persecute, His word was ever sacred, and his lot Not his,--it was this, or rather, folly That led him to the door of Heaven, and there Where he had laid his offering, set aside For thanks to God and for his servants. And yet again the wretched victim's tongue Repulsed him,--at the hearing of those words So grievous, and so rageous! and he raised His hands to heaven, with one fair downward look Discreet, and came to heaven, and sunk down As falls a cedar on the mountain-summ. But standing there, the glorious Magi there Was seen to rise. He started up and cried, "I am Orestes," and then sank and fell Down on his knees; and she, his wife, who kept His faith and honour, unto death was thrust Away, and then, with muffled hoofs of death, Began to gnaw his beard, and all his face Became a man-upe, and his teeth outflew Asunder, and his breast was nigh to brine. It was a man in rags who once was clad With a loose band, and cloak and sandal too; But in his wearied swoon he stumbled on And fell into a sea of mortal woe And stood upon his bier beside the sea, And like a corpse fell to the ground and sprent His body with the waves. He could no more Sit in the porch of his deserted home, But sat like one in grief and cun ======================================== SAMPLE 222 ======================================== , none swelled with him, and many a base And grievous slaughter! for the best of Troy Could not with more than one good heart be blent, And those her fleshless ranks. But great must be At many a full-wrought tale, of treaty made By Greeks of all the Achaean ships beside The Atridæ. From the wide-flung gates they fare Of Thessaly, the city where to seek At eve the son of Atreus: all in vain They plot for gold, and in their hollow-swift ships Shout to the skies; in vain a wind of grief Hovers between them; hunger and pain endure The onrush of the Sea-queen: all hands must haste And strive no more, till dark night drop apace, And quaking day descend, with all his hosts In utter woe abide the empty feast." With that all sorrow ceased, and all their hearts Quaked within them; for Atreus' son he left Grief for his son, by his great father sent Most high to Nestor, in the tent of him. But night intolerable gloom cast round The long-protracted son of Neleus, whom The mighty Neleus sent forth after him, To be his friend; not long would he abide His destiny, if him in fight he slew, Or fought, himself, an uncontroul in fight. But of the chiefs of Greece most eagerly Alive he drove, ere he could launch his ship; And down into the hollow barks he cast His son, to smooth the waves; and, all unware, He sped, and sat at Menelaus' side. As some tall poplar, overhanging crow, Erects its high top midway, that falls Low-creeping, and thick-fruited, bowing to the gale, So, from the crowd of ships Achaia's host Drove out; far on the beach the Greeks beheld The ships bleached by the overwhelming blast, So down the deep they plunged, and thus their hearts With anguish were o'erflowed; for to the ships Had sent a strong and a sufficient guard On Priam's burg, the remnant of their host. But when the Trojans saw Achilles once Gigantic, filled with courage and with shame, The Trojans first beheld him; for the Gods With Olympian courage filled the heart of Greece. Then to their valiant Menelaus spoke: "O Father Jove, why stand we idly here Ready to face the battle? Haste we now, And bear the shield well shielded by the Greeks At hand of noble Menelaus, strong And wise; for he is clad in purple mail And steel; but let the spear go down to earth, No feeble in the fight, in utter need. Not so will I. The helmet that I wield Is not so fair, nor yet so white, I dare To face that noble man." Straightway his men And Trojan women joined; but soon again The Argives gave command that all should go To work their will, and they with speed of horse Should bear them to the ships. From Ida's heights The Trojans gathered still, nor far had left The Greeks, but did as those who fought alone For their own city, and must needs fight yet Till all the Argives were again at peace. Fenced every ship; and ever and anon They faced them pressing by the battlement-gate. Now to their eager hands they poured the wine, Thetis, son of Peleus; Peleus' daughter fair She, peer of gods for might and beauty, bore, And in her hand a golden cup she poured, And spake to them winged words: "Son of Atreus, To-day dread foes befallen are we all, And dost thou fear we can our towers consume? Come, speed our gallant barks; another day Shall bid thee fight; now do we wage the fight, More grievous toils of war, till, far removed From Jove's great city, thou shalt in thy hands Be raised to mortal men; for vanquished men, We too will triumph in immortal song." He spake, and with him o'er the crowd did come Two-handed swordsmen; skilled in armour, then The glorious son of Peleus, Agamemnon, strode, And now before the ships he stood at bay And pricked with golden edge his bearded spear, ======================================== SAMPLE 223 ======================================== night of Peri-Forsitan; And the God, the Judge, walked up and down In the presence of the sainted visitors, Who stood as if in awe, yet did not whine, But gibe, and spat, and leer their caps and wear, And all at once give sentence, saying "We Are neither liars nor gods, but only fee!" O well for him that has no conscience, say! There surely was no saint that said, "I do." The founts of love in every pore and brazier, And that great secret springs of anger and of fear, Could but a single mind find guilty somewhere, And stab him deep, and let him still be there! And well for him, if in that heart he bore The love-sick image of his own dear Mother, Who sat there and looked down on them before, But all ablaze that they might have some pity Upon his loveless faith, so soft and tender, And read the illumined Angel-songs no more! And well for him, if all should keep its place In the high halls of judgment and the King Who comes, that he might see no dread of wrong Amid the throng of solemn cherubim, But hear the thunders mutter of the hymn That angels and archangels must dim, And on the last and dreadful stage of time In the dark pit where lurketh now the crime, Bring the dead Sorrow back to Paradise! O ye that on the fiery records keep The fearful record of past shame and crime, Stand for the Cross that God forgot to us, Let there be left some word of ancient song Of those who cri'd from bloody centuries Before the living God, and those of him Whose deathless soul hath now no fear to come But from the sheathed edge of the sulphurous sea That yet shall hide them from the world above: For the Cross shall be the sign of their agony. O ye who drain the cup of bitter tears, Breathe the deep air of life into your ears; Bring the swift messengers of the strong old thought That shall no more be talk of the dead years, And leave behind the veil of circumstance The gray-pale witness that one instant makes The record of lost hopes and undying griefs Hold darkly in the heart of this world's griefs. O ye who cross the bridges of the years, And, bearing witness of a dear sad tale, Go gently, ah! and gently take your way: Do with a pure heart and a happy mind, Following the sound of sorrow and of sin, Yet longing for an only truth denied, And with a clear soul to behold the Christ, And to be glad at heart at any price, And to make merry with the living folk, And all the change that even the blind belief May bring to the lone heart of this heartless world. O ye who hunt the grey-pale discontent And with your unaccustomed heart content, Be of good cheer and abstinence denied To any ear but those deaf ears of thine, And be content, though hunger-pale and mute, And have no wine to cleanse you from the taint Of long-desired Pharisees, who sought to glut The poor, and wallow on the wretched throng Of Avarice, the Pharisees, who sought this wrong. O ye who watch the dead and grovel in woe, Look on these stricken souls that sit in gloom, The women with the tattered locks that show As things of no avail, and none of you, Who, for the stains of sin, the world go on, And, after many days of wandering, have known That Christ's high servant for the holy shrine That, passing where men go, one sees the whole Of all the well-loved cross, and loves it not. Or, if to-night your tears shall be but wet With that sweet blood the Pharisees mixed To bathe your souls in tears, yet not forget The anguish of your widows, and forget Your innocence of martyrs, and forget The chapel, and the cries and songs and tears That haunt the chapel. O ye who have known the Cross, Look on these children whose hands are cold and whole. This is the temple where Christ's simple faith Was held in suffering; and the mother's hand That rests upon the cradle and the cross Is held in sorrow, for the world must see The end and the beginning. O ye who keep Your hearts serene ======================================== SAMPLE 224 ======================================== One may say he thinks that had fallen; That is to say I'll speak, remembering That Now, then, returning, From that strange pondering. With his face set to the east, The words come to the tongue of Glor, the speech of the north. What a woman is that! Is it she, then, who holds the splendor Of the brazen heaven she is gone from us! "So that she is gone out of our sight; Now that the flame of a thousand miles Glances and gleams, without an echo of night. For no one dares to gaze upon her face: Not one to hear the distant thunder muttering And the trees shudd'ring with their girdles rent, Or the soft, silver by-ways gloriously drear. The sad gaze of her unreturning tears, Wasted and wan; and her love-sickening fears For some late cloud or sorrow-stricken star. She clasps him close, and her hands are against him; And his little arm cannot clasp the form: The immeasurable pain is gone to her bosom; And, lo, she has clasped the white hands of a daughter, The gentle, beautiful, golden-lipped, fair, And laughing at him as he turned away From her love-stricken heart,--"So I, My mother, at thy bidding, at thy bidding, Shall best become thee and be what thou art." "Nay, for I must, knowing not as thou art, Nor with the face of a child, nor the eyes Of a child's face, I am fired by a mist Of restless wonder, with sense enough to sing, With hope to laugh and love to die away. I must leave thee to death and the thunder to rust, To the winds to lie, to the stars to fly, And the winds to sigh, and the winds to die. "I must leave thee to silence and the sadness Of the earth and the skies, so, at thy feet, I will come to thee and create my pain, O beauty, in thee only, to create Thine everlasting beauty, that thou wilt, With the full-blown fire upon the lips, Flower-mouths, and blue-bells, and words, and lights, And murmurous footsteps,--all, to follow thee!" And I answered, "All shall die as I die; The scorn that thou shouldst reap cannot die; Thy soul shall pass away, and thou shalt lie With the pride that thou couldst feel in it. Now death is sweet, and its song to me Will sing most sweetly sweetly, and all the past Will fade like mist, as I turn to thee." The black claymores were hurrying on, Like beaten wingers, to and fro; Thick boughs lay thickly bounding over them. The yellow bees came humming through, On beds of violets, and through The bloomless fields, for lovers' meeting. And 'round them blew the merry breeze; I watched them with hushed faces, Like children round a father's knees. Hills gleamed, like plumes of wizard grass, Like witches' castles elves, To laugh at in their twisted curls. And violets like globes were there, Daisies like flowers, like foam, Like fallen stars in froth and hair. I could not see them, for they led The maids into the house; Like glimmering eyes they kindled, bed On the great boar's mane, And sparkled like a sword-blade red. I could not see them for a minute, As a sudden wind arose, A finger, as the maidens met it, That was most like man's nose, Rich, deep-sunk furred faces, Like wet hearth-stones tied together For a dance of purple feather And a wild song, he had forgotten. But suddenly the fair old world Was sparkling red, with all its gold Of lovely childish memories, And the old woods were over-blown With a sudden and far calling; And the light on the altar's side Burned brighter than with a sudden pride, As a new-born sun came up, The water-wraith of a scout, With a wild call of the hounds ringing, From the hoofs of an approaching scout. And in a light, O, sweet, O, strong, The wind of the May house crashing, ======================================== SAMPLE 225 ======================================== that alas! Slight ten-pound Abyssinian! As he lay by the awful sea Of theOcean, while from his hairy throat Down fell the shrill-voiced quay, We heard, beside the mighty chasm, The roar Of the restless, clamouring Sea. Behold the deeds that, living, tell The deeds of those who lived! For now, O wondrous miracle! The dead, Dead they are, And their blood runs back to him. Yea, they buried their dead, But he and all his children dear In their sepulchral urn, In a house of stone, In a house of stone. Not far away, In a little house He had lived; He had put away His crown, And his gay conceits, His evil deeds, And the thoughts That haunt the house As I lie watching a fire in a fauld, Along with the dark, unfathomed red, Twinkling, twinkling, over the roof, Tottering with the sparks, growing dim, A light like that, which the evening reveals With a crackle of light. Is that a smoke, is that a fire? Is that a cold, is that a death? Then, in my heart, there is no other trace Than the faint, transitory flame Of the unwhitenished flame; And, like a living creature, I have seen A helpless, helpless image come And fling its fire back in the grate, Till it took fire, and died. And yet, O Christ, I know not why Nor why, Because the living seemeth so, But God is good, and is good to me, And with His own hands fold my hands, (The pure, impure and impure I have seen, And counted it with the dead I have seen) I am so weary of life. O noble death, O death That dies not at all, I am most weary, For thy cold, dead hands have slain My father, Thy lewd, burnt, powerless boy, My mother, My little one, my little one, And yet my heart Is full of thee. These very words were uttered with exceeding bitter cries, I could not choose but hear The dreadful hymn. Ah, God, my God! THE snow was on the top, The storm was on the plain, When my little one came home to me. She did not come in time. I cried, I cried, I cried, I cried, I knew not why. The neighbors sang from it, Their cheeks were red and numb, But yet, I knew, I knew not why. I cried, I cried, I cried, I cried, The winter's's snow was heavy, But, long enough, I knew not why. Oh, not one man in all the city Had strength to tame a cat. I was most hungry, walking on a street, That he might brew me ale. I was most hungry, walking on a horse, That I might eat, and serve. I wore a coat of fur, I wore a straw hat, I wore a silver miter. All day I had to walk forlorn, When the snow was on the ground That had been my gayest And saddest of my gayest,-- My gayest and most melancholy. The haughty head, the haughty, Head of a haughty queen! Head of a haughty chieftain! THE times are old, they say, And Time an old, old man, Has no ears now, 's nothin' That makes you havin' Enough of all these winters! But I, 't was well he couldn't! Yes, p'r'aps you'll feel! For all your hair is red and bright And all your whiskers white. No! though your hair is grey, And though your teeth be spare And every day you've said a word Of what we're mair to say, You're better if you'll answer me Than if you mean to say. The things we're mair havin' on, 'T was first of late. (We loved them for the restin' trade, We're just a catin' chum!) There's Calvert took the Rechin' road, And bade a canvas pie. So they has had a horrid rum, A-sett ======================================== SAMPLE 226 ======================================== us down to this Last Rose of Eare, Which I the Lady gave before my Beare. Another morn by Daye's Celestial Bower One day was past, the bright Son of the Light; Not as his Mother, from the Parents sight, But as her Foot unto his Father's Spare, Was on the sudden leaving every trace Of that first Battel on the Wholsome Sea; Which, missing it, into the Temple's Shade By a fresh Fountain, it presented there. O what a blessed Villaine was thine ancestry, Daughter of Heav'ns illustrious Mother, in the day Of thy birth, while thou didst hold the purest Grace, And to the last Cite of the highest Potentate; After thou hadst great Birth and no lesse happiness There in thine own free Will, as in thy fatherhood. For hee in whom our just Ciphers were put to shame, Gave thee the Livery, the dismissal of thine owne flame. By this time wast thou sole in thy father's Power, The prime of Heav'n, the Womb of all Mankinde, The prime of Human Race, the first in Towne, That led thir Daughters, eldest to the Crowne, And after whom the blissful seat of all, Before thir great Dominion Danc't of the Seas, Under thir great Dominion: thither they Ascended, and the East was the so seene Of great Eloquence, heard with due applause Of all that reigns, by Henryth Sabbath Rites For his Seed: therefore of these thou maist gois, Thy father, and the Sons; which follow thee Henceforth, for heauns of thee that should beare Thy thrift, so much as he thereby hath left, Dwindl'd not by his owne Wealth, nor his owne Wealth, That were to him like honours, which thou heare Of all things, that present to thir Maker For thee, so late thy own vertue to attaine, That to thir owne worth thou mayst it ask For that thy father should be none: himselfe As from a Mount of Hills, a Valley doth spred In length and breadth, a fountaine of high Pile, All filld with waters of his owne Sea, Where he one continuous Vine divided Seed, fruit, and Fruit that all containes shall Sue his Father, and for ever brood In his own Courses, honourd though it be, Sans grace, sans spot, sans grace, which oft is lov'd With his unwearied Matin and his Seed, So grew the Enuie of his owne Mother, And in his Seed: the Garoe was let forth Out of the Earth, out of the Earth it fell, Out of the lofty monthes, which it passd And settled in two little Fountains: that He in the Plain yet filld, but down the Stunts The stream of Eden lost. On either side ACANTHUS erst was kindled by the Son Of ABARHAM, whom his Seed hath di'd, On the instant that his seed should flie Out of the STunts of SATAN, where he fell, The dayes pronifick, and where Heav'n opinion Was offerd, and where sought: for whoso robs, Abas and MAMMON seekes and dares not feares, Causeth or CUSHIN or what mesure feares Interposeth, yet as onely not desart But half he heares, while they as best can tether The bloodie snares about them, as the Tree Which God hath planted on the Earth, by rape Sends from his top, and bids them fast and farr Hang overgrowne, as not of enimie But half his entrails hungers up on Heav'n: The Armie open to receive his prey, Riskously fluttering his hopeful wings, As if enamour'd of theweb o're flye, But newly featherd and newly dropt, The bait seems flesh, and bonees instead, To be a living Cloud, and overspread Into a fatall Calm and full of Calm The eare hee pauseth, for his danger feares That danger least, so went he forth to breake The feare of TARTAR, and his fraud to spoyle With sly racietie; then, what ======================================== SAMPLE 227 ======================================== , look them all upon. Yes, she is here--she will not look to-night. And who is that, that dawns? (reads from the sight). Oh, I can make atonement for the slight, And this one vision flash around my sight Of her who's gone! Oh, if my guide were back, And I the tempest that the sea forsake May Heav'n help the ship that bore me to the Dark! There is no man can read a harder light, When Truth and Falsehood are not visible: The light that shone, the light that ne'er was given, Is light, not light; with this we all must pander, Until he writhes at last--then glare him thickly, Until he clears the blind and quivering sky, And light, and light, and light, and light must fly. There is no light, when only by the few Whose spears the gray mist from our faces threw, May he be found the light to find, nor need The sight of Light to dazzle him in sooth; To them, and to their dregs this light is true; This light can keep his memory green and bright; To them--and unto them this rays his might. Tones may they send, and echo but the word "Dreamer! Ah, lightly must thou range the wide, Only to thee is darkness as to Guide!" Naught could they tell of her, but she must guess That, when an Angel beckoned to approach, She would not fail, that Power had fail'd to drown All things but Dark and Dark beyond her own. There is no light, no light but in that Dark, When we are by the Sea, the fire, the wind, The elemental voice, that waits to mark The thing that was, and whence it was begun, And why it is, and where it is not known. So with the light of some great things we dream We answer, and are led by others too; We yearn to things which we have never seen: There is no light but in that Dark, and mean Not light! there is no light! We have our way! That call for light,--it is for us to go And some one must come forth and welcome some, And some one with it, and some one must go With them! It is for them to be a star, To move their course, and smite with flame or fear The dark, unbidden thoughts and shadows mar. That call for light! It is for them to feel That there is Light! Then light! it is for God! <|endoftext|> Oh, the fair young folk that still are dancing In our fair young May, Just as the bright waves danced along us, And the merry breeze played In a ring upon the castled rock, And the stately waving grass was creeping, And the air was full of odours, And the dew was all on flower, When, without a wind to blow, We watched, until the moon came out, The fair young folk. You that sit in the shining dew, You that wake the flowers, You that are so young and fair, Why are you so sad? You have given the golden hearts, And laid them in the earth, But they cannot say you bring Their hearts to birth; You that have a wealth of speech, And thoughts that are not a sin-- A memory of empty shows, But of tender looks within. And you, because you would not know That I am a man, and you a maid, For a single hour in our fair young life, Whose wealth of bud and leaf is maid, And, smiling, I am old; Come, come to me, Where the brook sings low; And the little silver lids, And the laughing eyes of the sea-mews, Shall be wet with tears, and I Am torn and withered and grey With the grief of many years. O, come into the light and bright, With the earliest eve of day, Where the sinless virgins play, And the temples deck the spires, And the blessed light refires, And the immortal lamp ascends In the gloom of the ancient towers, Whence the phantoms of the dead With lips that have ceased to sing Drink of the blood they shed In the revels of the dead, And the dance begins again, With the breath of the dying year, When they walk in the lonesome ======================================== SAMPLE 228 ======================================== journey home to till the morning light." Old Butlers all have nothing new to do, No more of fighting for the buzzing bees, No less the hum of bee, and butterfly Flying low to grass, and home-talk to the bees. The heather, in one great eternal tongue, Meets the keen mockery of the chattering bees, The hum of bees, and petals, and the hum Of the old grasshopper, and the humming-bird Bee and the trumpet. Who laughs away Half swooning, half singing, and half screaming, The cock of gold, the cricket's shrill dire, And, bending him above the grass, his fire His mate that is so bold To raise the yellow roses and the moon Across the grass, He laughs half swooning, he sings to himself, He todles through the grass, he runs and shirks His song and his own tune. Ah, after a thousand years A thousand fathoms deep Of toil and tears Lay their warm kisses deep On his lips which they would not lose their light, He rises still And looks down the land, Pillow on plashy water and the height, He stands On the first landing-day of the long sea, Where the winds blow free, And on the crags of woody shore, And in and out A hundred leagues or more. When we meet again We shall know the pain That was long ago; And the winds will moan That are here no more, And it shall never cease, For it has gathered the autumn-shorn boughs And gladdened the heart Where the acorns lay. When we meet again We shall go apart, In the wind and the rain, And never a wind to scatter the sails, And never a star to cheer the way That we had left. We shall walk in the windy lanes, And the flitting gipsy birds will come From the redwood, waters and summer seas, And go to the burial and dance and sing, Each with his little of anabbled spring, A little cloud of mother-sweet flowers Lily and bacillus standing forth, Smelling of dew on the sea-sands, Of the fragrant cloud-spray, and violets blue Coming up from the earth and on the earth. We shall walk in our windy ways Where the rain forsakes the day, When it bends low in some deep-sunken place, Waiting its lullaby; Not too warm, nor too warm for the wind, But strong to be chilled of the sun or moon In the great sea's immemorial hour, And cold to be smothered with rime and spray Beneath the rain's unshaken power; But rather cold than ice is cold, And cold as cold, to sit still and list Beneath the rime's unshaken will, Or see the solid skirts of snow That melt and melt in the long drifts below. (For the poet, not the Bard, but an airy and wheedly Terring in metre, haresque not long to sing.) Sonnets made of many thousand lines (That the maiden deigned not to parry with?] Youth ended, and the years, the span Of fifty years, the record runs; The worker, the new-born son, began The holy rite of the first days of man. "Pilate,"--'The woman,'--and his little son, Eager to try and find the way; But sure as fate, to his first dread intent, At last, in thought, and the last day he went. They found a woman of a noble birth, And love held in her heart and in her mouth. She in the cradle of his little bed, The shuddering one and the boy stood near, Pleading for life as she withdrew the load Of sorrow from his manhood's awful prime. The footsteps ceased. He could not speak or stir, But would obey the law that looked on her, Seeking the refuge of his faith, or else Begging the world as at a guilty rate. She looked upon the bright, white flake-white road That drove the flake of the faithless lover, While all the mother-kindred walked beside, More patient for the life he gave her to take and take. Slowly she drove it up again and down Through streets and alleys of the wandering; ======================================== SAMPLE 229 ======================================== I find him, in his heart, the sage Speak with him always by himself. Thou wast, My noble son, my king. Thee I obey; Myself I follow, and my steps I make To reach the Argos; but, arrived, depart. So spake the God, and went, but found me none. So we, unthrifty, loitered at the gate. My sire, Telemachus, (for evil fate Impended him) thus interposed. Oh me! The false end of the wicked, that I learn, Now bids me prove, if, by the will of Heaven, And by the word divine, my lost sire's son Have at the ships arrived, or if a god My woes have suffer'd, send them to the fleet. Then, all bewildered, went Telemachus His native land, and, landing, thus began. O sacred guest! Ulysses is indeed My father, yet he lives; his own brave heart Speeds all my steps; yet shall I spare myself Ere this, till evening, till the Gods achieve Perforce all strength and all discretion hence. So he, whom all approved. Meantime, throughout The house there sat a stranger; in his house Our suit we held, and we the solemn feast Continued till the going down of day. Yet, had not Philostratus his guest Daily importuned me, I had fallen once. The wish, indeed, of all the Gods above Conveys to my decision. I avow That none should, as they judge, have access here With my own thought, or my concurring prayers. This much, Atrides, heard; then, sitting sat All fouler still; but when the sun arose, Peised on his golden throne, weeping he sat And, looking down, saw Theoclymenus Ulysses sit superior. They, with tears Shed, even all their sorrow, at his feet Threw their own mantle, and their sorrow rose. But when the Sun had left the world at large, The guest came to the palace, and began. Go--dread son of Atreus! what reports Have ever yet ensued? oh that the Gods, Although with grief and anger he was filled, Had them preserved! Oh that, as at the first The Hero, whom no human calamity Consoled, yet was he now by strength of hand Abled! Ay, who this day at thy gates expects A brief delay! yet wait not--woe is me! The people hailed him--hastening to the house. But I should soon such sight have recognized As they before have witness'd; for the ships Had all been brought, and I had also quaff'd Enough of water and provision warm, Which all who eat, refreshment, strength and wine, And give all satisfaction to the chiefs Whene'er engaged. So he began Approaching him, and calling him in vain, His beautiful-hair'd daughter to his ear. And then, as soon as ever they had named His son, Ulysses thus with accents sweet Answer'd them all. And now they roam the fields With ceaseless industry, and sweet return. So saying, he bathed them in fair garments, dress'd Both hands and feet, and in the sumptuous feast, Magnificent, of beeves and savoury swine Content and deep. Then, third, Ulysses sought The city. There he found the thighs of dogs, In order'd feast, and on the fire prepared His fuel, and with noble toil enwoof'd They fell, and he consumed them. They had lain Till evening, and had tasted of the drench Of burning dards, but ne'er again had hope To rouse him forth from sleep, though eager still To prey on feeble tasks. Jove knows how long his days Were distant from his homeward-sailing ship; For, in the moment of his dearth, the son Of Enochus stood trembling in his house. Aghast he was, or hearing of his son His tidings, shed a groan deep-sound throughout The mansion of the Thunderer, while he sat In the still house astonish'd at the sound Of the shrill-roaring arrows sent from Jove. "O stranger! in some visitings of thine, At some lone day, some dear-bought pleasant nook, To lead thine infant fainting-hearted wand'rer, H ======================================== SAMPLE 230 ======================================== and burns as the last red star, As if it still moved on with a power of wind, And stirred the waves till it swept into foam; And those who knew the frailest dust, the best, Compute a perished part and a final word, Till the dim vastness is left, and the daylight gone, And men and women live but as the flickering shade Of a wandering fire that has scorched and is fed With ever-burning, more vivid and grey. And those who have marveled and they shall not fear, Shall not be comforted, or shall not die; And those who, weary of watching, shall not cry In bitter pain and want and poverty, Or faint and lagging and having too few, Shall not look back for a day that is done. And all men's souls have not made less of prayer Than of their martyrdom, nor the beat Of their most perilous journey towards man's goal, And all their lives that are fallen to save and reach Death's mysteries to naught, and all their hopes to miss The treasure of God's blessing, know the best To whom God gives for grace; and 'tis no feud With this pale kinship that invades their rest, But merely sojourning leaves and shaves their bread With purest gold for their true rest of need. Or else to come and live it over the years, To live and see in it a living name, And of it learn what we have lived and died, That a strange life is flowing in the flame, A living name, a symbol of the shame The Just are leading us in one. Through these long months of throstle and din, In daytime or night when the wood is still, When the hill is still, when the world is blind, And winds like wolves go searching for the dust, And then the world is just as fair again, The old year, as it was when I was young. What then? Why, I can tell; a year is gone. How late it was, or I could only guess. But yesterday I saw it as a dream, And that is how the year was opening up The new year, with its hopes and with its fears. All things were new in the old year's face. Young, tender, pure, and strangely laden now, But now, I think; and it has always been, I feel that I shall see the old year come Back of another, which my life was used To see just as the year was growing old. He came one day and plucked me by the ears And threw me in a cage, his greenery Flowerlike in it, its young sweetness and thought. And thus it comes to pass, the trampling clown Came by. The joyous thrush was still, the bays Danced in the light, the brook spoke in his tongue, The beech sedate, the swift deer past the wood, And the slow rooks hooted 'Round about the pass. But he was proud of that, his gray head upheld By strong entreaty, and with pasturing eyes, On that day saw him woo with his blue robes The peace of time, and as he danced he said, "Tell me, my sweet! I wish I knew the voice!" The great mare broke her knees, and she replied, "What say you, girl, when I came there? For you, I found no longings for the happiness That autumn and the land could offer it To the poor wandering child that had gone with him. Had you aught else to cherish for your joy, You would not buy it for a poet's heart, Nor think it happiness that I have lived For twenty years; have dreamed that you had loved. If that heart had aught of which I cared, I would not for a poet weep my fall, But for my boy's. I could not part his gaze For all his tuneful shepherdry of song, But for the world's deep passion--for the mill That handles, but not mingles with my fate, For my boy's grave, for his funeral bell. 'T was something all a dream; my life had found No truce with books to make a wisdom blind, But grief in him grew like a little thing That long has nursed an idle butterfly, That has not found his way toward the fields, But finds his supper and his quiet sleep, His vague vague eyes grown bright, and lips that tell How far his heart is thither borne. He seemed To brood upon my fate, thinking it ======================================== SAMPLE 231 ======================================== O, Or, urged by Fate! Why should a man of men take part? Men of his years! who taught our age To feel the windy grief and rage That hourly feeds the sacred flame That tames the hearts of men to mirth-- It is not well to bear his lot; A man to lead a life unbreathed Between the kind and the beloved, Soothing with blandest love and skill His brother--save in these, who will. The shadow o' the grave is gone, And night may darken twice to morn, As some who, looking through the gloom, Watching a passing shadow loom. 'Tis not the corpse that dreams of death Untouched, but watching through the gloom, Like the soft hours when, long ago, I used to gaze upon the snow. The old familiar things are fled-- (And all is changed, except indeed, But there remains a difference Between the spirit and the dead.) How many a pleasant and serene Bright momentary changes round Have the full circle of their own, The ghosts they haunt, the glimmering glen, The pleasure-domes they cannot crown! How often have I lain awake Beside the grave where I have lain A patient time, nor quite awake! Thus have I passed life's many shamming, But still so far beyond the happing. The days are full of hopeless woe, And nights are long ere I can see The home where I am all too late. And I have found a thing to hide Against the rush of Fate's bright tide. The husht and supple earth around Reels back into its wearied bound, Ere yet its joyous surges raving In that loud rasp of querulous sound. And now it is too late to die, Why do I pause and think, on me? Alas! when I am overcome, 'Twill be a fearful thing to bear, 'Twill be the world's despair. What is my friend? and what his end? Where is the counsel which he gave? What counsel is there none to lend? What malediction bring? What counsels from the lips I draw? Ah, yes! I know it, and I know It, but I could not tell, it is the mind Of him I most have loved, who once estranged Away from me with all that he has loved; Who by the bright springs running to their rest Of Nature's running stream, now to be pressed, Now fathomless and darkling in the wood Of universal nature, and was rude, And went to others, and still served to me As mortal only, and I could not see His heart, as mine have grown, the nearer bound And still the weaker sympathies around. Why do I seek to know if he be one Who sits there sad and soul-consuming Night Consoled by both that God and man can claim To be his worship- Priest? If he be named A tribute, claim the hymn of morning song, To waken this frail soul with strength and wrong To humble praise and meekness, it is good, Till over all my worship fade the fires Of God and face, whom I adore as nought But ignoble grandeur. When death calls me from life's thicket home, His one poor word is as a little thread Washed out between the gushings of the tomb Into a sand flung, where the dust may lie And be no more a witness if a knell Proclaim the finest work of human skill, A ringing scrap of triumph, just a touch Of quiet to the poor man's breast, Some little play of strength and solemn thought Wherewith to hail his triumph, and to claim His name for fatherman and dreamer. Why Should men be fashioned out of clay and set In golden rings, each link by which to live Above themselves? And is their spirit spent In seeking other spheres, to make them dare To touch the thing they love? Ah! let it be! The tiny bud, that we have weaned from earth, Seems as a hidden thurible of rest, Beyond which, even as we are blest, There yet a single heart, that lives and leans And breathes itself a prayer for, and forlorn, Seems justly shorn,-- Ah! let the winds that drive me now go back, That once to me be dated as a crown, With nothing left of life ======================================== SAMPLE 232 ======================================== , and his fir throne his brazen chariot. "Hear me, ye captains of the guard, “Who may this land from foes defend, “From the fierce host to guard you move, “Let not destruction hover near. “If they but hold your hearts on fire, “Forget not, friend, your friendly steeds, “Till from them will the foe retire. “And if a raging lion now “Rush on me in my utmost force, “Hence drive me forth with conqueror's power, “With fate most heavy, for the fight.” Thus spoke the power supreme, and she, Wife to a lion, fierce as death, Forbade her vanquish'd foe to flee. Yet then the coward queen, more fond Of friendly things, her hatred heated: She snatched a javelin from the foe, And cast it in the savage’s flank. The weapon ripen’d fast and thick, And straight its equal met the same; But in the flying ring it stay’d The fury of the missile dart. Around his neck the javelin flung, Fell from the string, and met the bending ear. One instant snatch'd his careless breath; The javelin stopp’d, it soar’d in air, He fell, and life forsook its place, And lifeless dropp’d before his face. But the loud thunder of the war, Involv’d, the car drew down and fled; And from his limbs the yet warm blood Was cold and hot on every side. Such was the fearful combat tried By Jove himself in rage and grief; Not swifter could the mighty space Repel one angry dart relief. But on they rush’d with sounding feet, Whose echoing tramp of war was heard, And loudest roared the crimson rain That from each charr’d and mangled arm Bursts in black eddies on the plain. When, with a furious whizzing shot, A dart they saw upon the sand, Which seem’d the body’s sounding buffet, As from a rock the rushing steed Brought down on high the feather’d rider; While from the right and left they flew, And scarce a limb was mark’d before, In vain they lash’d, they fled before; Till scorching flames around them blazed. From every part of earth they drove, With beating wings the victor friends Of brave Ulysses, and himself, Who, unobserved, his course neglects. To Pallas’ aid they now descend, Assail the youth, and car him still. It chanced the goddess interposed, Disposed the imperial messenger, To bid him with her flowing cloak To the clear stream, and distant land. He, now before the water’s brink, Declines the venerable king, Then sudden thought, with pious pray'r, To that ethereal pow'r, and said: “Bestow thou soon thy messenger, With that keen wit, and vigour shown, In silent form and person close, To see my son safe brought to land, And let thy house and state prevent, That thou, I trust, be ruled content To wander through these deserts waste. For, like Ulysses, I can see Thy son is safe beneath the sea, And press him to this port to gain, There sacrifice with tears and sighs, To brave me to the suitors’ eyes. What joy I had in his dear sight, With his dear mother, now is mine, With that dear face, and handmaid neat, Which once was mine so long, I ween. These hands, these hands shall ne’er be harmed: And though I feel my darling’s charms, These shoulders, head, and back shall bear Strains such as never lover bore. Rear them (alas! alas! for these! My true, a tender father’s bands) And let the purchase of our lives Hang on the neck of some fair swan’s neck!” He spoke. The rage of anger swell’d Each several heart, and pierced with woe: The queen with wailing passed the bier, Fired at the hero’s bones appear’d, And o’er her son’s cold ======================================== SAMPLE 233 ======================================== . Maint, with beads and jewels, rings. Well he came and trudged the tree together, with the ass in the tree, And he made a splendid poem for him, with an emerald tongue, And he drank, and he wrote, and he sang, and sang to himself, and swung, While above the broken trunk was a clothe in leaf and blossom. He planted the straw to make him a sprig and he sang to himself, But after he reaped and reaped, he had nothing to say for me. He said that he sowed a crop of corn, he said that corn Was ripe for harvest, and he'd stow that bread for his priest. Now when the basketful came at last, he thought that we Could rejoice in the rush of the rustling leaves, and silently, For a little brown loaf he would lay there the stockings on. Then for just a moment he'd gone to the hatchet, to put in the poke, To give to his own old musketry the last touch, and the band in the smoke, And flute, and gun, and all, for the birds' songs, and that little brown loaf to do. He set out on an old ship in the West that now is new, For there it is old, but old, in the old mill, and she has got to think; And all about her-- Light is out of little things. Farewell, O world! Farewell, forever! O blest and happy people! When I was down beneath the sea, And it was summer after I was down, I used to swing a hammer. It's always thus: Hear the winter wolves at play! In the greenest of the forest, In the coolest of the squalls, Let me hammer of the iron For the bond of human souls! In the white, electric fire, Let me hammer of the iron; For the little, peaceful creatures Of the fields of human thought, Who live up to the very stars, And speak the very words they speak, And shoot the words of gospel truth! <|endoftext|> If in the summer evening, When the nights are bright and high, And the branches shade the forest, And the gentle winds are by, Let me hammer of the iron For the little, busy people Of the fields of summer days, Who have shed their earthly blessings On the kindly hearts of men, Let me hammer of the metal For the men who work and pray In the great, unwearied furnace, For the souls of honest men. If in the summer evening, And the woods are bright and green, And the dews are fresh upon me, Let me hammer of the metal For the souls of honest men. If in the winter evening, When the days are long and long, And the frosty sun is bright and cold, And the snows begin to fall, Let me hammer of the metal For the people who are young, Let the men of the village forge the metal sure and strong, For the hearts of honest men. Send me never flail of iron, Nor jerk of a shod-shod boot, Send me never to the battle, And never let my foot hurt! Let me always go on leaping, With never a coward's foot! Keep them up! I say the spirit, And the fight is better far, For the armor of the metal And the buckler of the war. FIFTH MONT BLANC dissenters, When the battle rages, You, my comrade, you shall make Freedom's hunting garments. Come and take the measure, Bring the measure back, That our soldiers may be glad Of the coming. Bid them measure and prepare, For the danger is far near; That their hands may not be rough For the coming. FIFTH MONT BLANC dissenser, The nation slowly grows Into nations, as the snow Runs along the river. As it is you stand aside, Bid the weary come and lie On the earth, their bodies tied, And their hearts be mingled. Know you every year that comes, Every year that comes to us, Every year we'll hunt for fruits, Trees, and wind, and weather. But when wives are dying, And one long man alone, We will make our woodland rings, ======================================== SAMPLE 234 ======================================== that sullen parchments seem, Or street-front wore, where slandering winds O'erbrowed the marge, the traversed skirts Of white villages, and fringed smoke, Which, in their breathings mystical, Lifts the wide misty peaks of Jove, And rolls through zones of amethyst, But when the storm hath stormed the sky, And earth, which every hue of heaven Wastes 'neath the waves of heaven, lies hid From those hard-throated climes, which strain His hostages against their ships; Or which from all the world shall blow And bid the ocean cease, a roar, Such as Atrides in his pride Now smitten of his hands hath palled, And whatsoever foam hath quenched, In that portentous and soothfast home, Which dazzles and astonisheth, And stablisheth all the vestal crew Of those true followers that lead the Argive host, Which yet in sight of men endure, And howl them down in utter flight, Gainst which their straining bow-strings smite. What, friend, in the deadly grasp of ill Shall the dear hope of youth revive? Not vainly 'neath the crushing wheel, That grinds them slow, yet grinds them still. Then do thy kindliest, Jove's decree Choose whom thou wilt, nor may not fall Through craggy cliff and surf of war To any hurt or hurt at all; Next to the Achaean host of Greece, Or to thyself be call'd the light, Worthy, renown'd, to be thy guide. Thou, therefore, first, and greatest chief That sits contriving on Olympus, Regarding Jove, thou shalt behold; The last shaft of that mighty thunder Shall lay him dead, in the great sun, The crown, the glory of the sun. Ascend thy steps, and looking down In the deep mist of many a town To the august old godlike city, Care for the earth this day is given; And the great sun doth greet thee there, Ruling his realms into the air. For he hath hung withal, 'tis true, But he a crow of such would do; Hath sung him fair, and sung him true; And he in the young world hath died. Ay, much wept he by thee in the field, When with the rising moon he stood Within the shadowy myriads stirred, As in wild swarms the lion fierce Rages amid the bushes of the wood, Till from the gloomy abodes of death The joyful people swell the breath, And he is glad and comforted, For this fair day doth close at hand, And bids the Loves of Heaven stand; For he hath turned aside the bloom That was his heart's light glorying, And hath stood armed through the gloom, As forth from the green hill he doth spring, Where the free air blows fitfully, Where the free clouds in liberty Are mirrored by the waters clear, As down the streams her waves appear, Where she trims many a graceful arch, Anchises raised in air, inlaid With silver sunlight, dappled shade, And the whole theatre of heaven Is shining on the night of love. And from the sparkle of that fire Love kindles forth his wonted fire; He hath passed through the portals bright That give the day his daily flight; And as a star in his dark thought Gleams forth the light of love to light, And is once seen by the soul's eye By Love's bright evening dancing by. Alas! that I should fall to weep, Or live to pine, in thy despair; With all my heart for ever torn, Or utterly cast down and bare, And in that wind which vexed and whirled Beats on the firmament of air. For who doth not feel the load of woe, In him who loathes his life and gains The fairest things these all can show? Oh, if thou pity, pity us, O spare us for our fallen learning, That we may learn to weep with thee, And get at the most sordid learning! One still I know; but my last hour Robs me of beauty from afar; "Fair angel!" I had called him mine, But this the fatal answer bore, "Behold her, and be what thou wilt, And have no more such dainty gifts." ======================================== SAMPLE 235 ======================================== living not to the world. A mightier power he is That bade us know, than he Whose inspiration breathed her purest fire Up in a thousand hearts. Upon her bloodier cheek, Dark hair, and starry eyes, The jasmine bloom of sun-breathed bloom, It seems an army rose. A Roman, triumphing, drest, Is watching her from that high tower Down in the sunlit plain; And now her gathering nears are gone Of what the foemen say; And there, oh there, is fallen that last Pulse-crowned star of Victory. The lightning that preceded her Now bids her back again; And yet she does not heed her Master's voice, But, staying, will not turn. All things are passed: those vanquished years, The many, many dead, Whose deeds of late have so enriched her mind, They may not find her yet. But his! They say what his, whom hers Those happy times have taught: He lives, nor lives to be the oldest thing That is not human thought! The memory of a mighty past That scorned, but will not find. It might be this: she would not be again Forgetting now that grief Is such a common thing, and plain to her, But when her all is told, The angels who will sing her praise, Another tongue will have its beauties, And speak her praises grave, But she is changed from what she was before, And passed from sight once more! The spirit-world beneath me lies In ashes and in dews; The meteor-breathing night puts by The hushed and glimmering lawns. Mysterious Night! when that strange girl Is but the common earth, The myriad stars, the myriad spheral stars, And all the countless spheres, Shall hail thee queen of lovely Night, O Lady and Wife! Have pity on the thoughtless dust That wreathed thy glorious hair; On quiet beds of pleasant leaves The daisy star-flowers stare; Come live, come live, with me and me Upon thine idle knee! Knowledge that is not death to live, Locked in this darksome tomb; Nor all the music of the spheres Shall break the Silence pure. Do not call death slothful Death so hard, Nor take him by the throat; Nor question whence the gods have come With weary wandering o'er the plains, Or whence the light springs up. Nor love thy fellow Night, who seems To feel, as is the stars, The subtle joys that come and go In some deep prison-bars. O listening earth! O Earth! thine ears Are deaf in prison-bars; Yet do not mourn; for, if a man Grown old should be content To listen to the years that pass, Or if the other should not last, Then, lady, will ye hear a tale Of resurrection, while ye may, From year to year, that pass away, That vanished time, when all should be As one in dreams, as in the man That only knows and counts the years, Or is, that knows not, while ye may. An alien sky and wildering time, As the dull globe we talk about, Shows us and knows not why we doubt, Whether in light or wildering awe, Above the random things we know, Beyond the unfathomable flood Of time, or ere we know. Why are we dull and doubeless grown? Is not the earth our heritage? Thou art more lovely than our own And kindlier of the things we die Before we know them, love, or die; And thine is evermore a sign That we are blind or god or king, Or all that is, and all we lack, Or Lord or Father, for the lack Of all good things, or knowing not. O Love, who say'st what thing is, why Should man be born an English speech, A banished or a foundered bird For what shall be a kingdom or A kingdom or a death? Why are we deaf and fain? The day When we must choose it or obey, Till we approve its call or say What thing is death, what life to live? No more, no more! The evil days When man was strong enough to praise Our strength, our youth, our love of gold And all the little deeds of old, And all the ======================================== SAMPLE 236 ======================================== os could deny; For a peepulary bottle, 'tis true, There should be no Turkish bathroom for J.D. In a glow-gout domestic was she, As bright as a rose without a stain; She liked the French men,--sharp, masculine tones, And slender, deep-shining, low-whiskered, fair As those on a staircase--the widow's cat; Or sweet Reynardos in wild-gout air. And just in a row would my wife and I; Then I'd dress you with Bath, to ride,--and lie In a Tartarel, that is, in Sadetlitz, On a road called the Hoogliare. And there were our equipments, right in front, And good old-fashioned Latin, things polite; And I thought "it resembles a Christmas dinner; So take with them a little this winter night." Then (with gesticulations) "Now, you, with the greatest scorn, Am neither poet, nor burgher, nor psalter, But an orator,--if all you can Be found in the world as not therein in it. That is just where you ought to go and revel; And that is, with other things even than revel! And some of you, instance, for whom you remark That all who are uppermost are as they are, And some are as dull who are not god-like, as we! For poets, philosophers, and minstrels of Greece, Are all but well meant, as are all men's præpet; And as for morals,--but dull are they all! 'Tis not to be understood in the man-loaf, And let mere man brag on of that for him; And that we must seek something worth research, To read these of in truth as philosophers Are just not all tongue-tied like our ancestry, Or, like our first or last, make use of what we see In flash and shower, in cloud and on the breeze! Now they're all abject and 'tis well worth while That they did so by the sad escapade Or the false rings of an old-world junket On schemes made up of men in their days there; And, since no man will be our friend again, They ever borrow a richer lustre From fortune's lavish gold, than as from Rome. For they steal to us. Why, it takes some pains To have lost our Earth, and brought it to us. And they steal away--brought back to be, Forgetting the eyes that we have lost; A world that's not ours, with its riot of prayers, And the ravening laugh that we have not heard; And they bring us back, in the winter of life, The cherished dreams we have lost, the dry years We've sighed in the dead, the delight of friends, The mysterious joy of the world again, And the delights of the dead they have lost! Why, now at the end of his roguish eyes They tell me something, saying he loves me "Because I love him, because I love him, For that I love him not, nor was born of him. Now, you know well, it was not, I fancy, But I know that he really loved me And was far away from me! I remember It was not the dawn of year, Not long the winding path That took the night, but when The sun went down, I looked To see his face--as if 'T were that I saw him there-- Oh, with his eyes as clear As heaven and as pure As sunny eyes could see, Just like a girl's--the glade On which she looked to me With those deep orbs of blue Which so enchant my thought I looked to them--and blest Me out of door to roam About the homes I loved Without farewell or home. 'Twas not to see him now My dazzled sight did stray O'er pearly sands and flow'rs, Where, if a voice should say, He was my light obey'rs. To see him was to know The perfect form of you, And, since I gaze and marvel How much I have to do With those I love the most, I'd like to own 'twould be To have some wonder-working Comical faces there That, if you sent your Iris To me at last, were there-- Then, dear, I'd read to you With all the love you brought me That, in our hearts ======================================== SAMPLE 237 ======================================== , eke the many of them, Agamemnon, the mighty son of Peleus, was still unmindful of Ulysses. True it was that the suitors might not go on without themselves; but among the suitors none would heed to carry their sharp sighs for their sons; for at the same time, then, they sat me down to waste the house and at their own feasts. As soon as they began roasting the house of Odysseus, they took some wine, and sent it to the aged and the aged to fetch them their dinner at the river of Alcinous, where they were loath to drink, for they are very near their supper, and find them in distress; but even so the god did not take heed, for no one ever yet gave him the cup whereon he lay. So the favouring gods who live in heaven are in good humour with us, that we have to wear the garments of Ulysses, whom they have put beneath the earth, and hold the gilding for ever. As soon as we have had enough to eat and drink the fruits of the field and all our wooing, so we will go on to the feast and feast among the wooers; for never have Achilles with the women nor any of them left us, but we will have to wear the stout hide of an ox, or to keep dinner in our house, and we will eat all the year of the wooers that they have. And whosoever shall feast at my house in that place, or do any thing of the goddesses that are in heaven or earth, I will provide him a garment and a doublet for adorning that loveliest robe of the wooers.' When the child of morning, rosy-fingered Dawn, appeared, they departed to the house of Odysseus, to the place where the whole dome was set apart, but there they laid themselves down and feasted on sweet wine and sweet honey. Then they departed through the halls, and the halls, each with his spear in his plumed armour, bare them to the wooers, whereon the henchman led them on under the shining oint. In the cloisters they slept, or sitting all slyly in the midst of them, and the rest were scattered under the feet of the mighty prince, and the ancient beast ceased. And among them Odysseus brought the raiment of the queen, with the most wondrous beauty in her eyes, which the women put into his hand. And they spread it arrayfully over the tables, and placed it on a chair where the maidens, with the round leathern doublet and quills underneath, lay their hands about the good things that were further out of the way; for the son of Cronos had come in his heart to set the raiment upon, and thereof he had a sandal in his house, whereas the people call him sine lipless. So the goddess and the goodly swineherd were glad to see the worth of sacrifice; but he laid his two hands upon the good fire, and sacrificed to the gods that keep the wide heaven, but again spake to Eumaeus winged words: And wise Eumaeus, ever-wise, spake to him again: Slay, slay me, therefore, O swineherd, even now, for I had only much to eat. But when I had the share of meat and drink within the house, I bade the noble stranger bid me drive off the car to the citadel, and I bade him hand it to the walls that held the doors of the lofty banquet. But as for this, then, I have the whole house of the barren house perish, for lo, here are the hands of my masters, and of all the company of them whom of old I slew. There are the polished seats, but behold, where the house stands and is breeding with the sea. In the end it is derelict to-day, even with the lot of mortals. But even as for those other hearts, the rest of the company is still abounding with beauty, and the youth are all educated out of the ornithy of the goddess. Then Athene drew near to him and spake and hailed him: 'Lo now, stranger, and what a feast is this, that shows thee far more comely, when thou hast got no savour in the meal, and thyself come again from the wastour of the steersman. In the morning ======================================== SAMPLE 238 ======================================== May these glorious times prolong." To whom those blest, with gentle smile: Fair, artless, and serene, Your beauty weeps for fear. Why came you not, sweet May? Could you not prompt this flight To vade your blossoms white, And make those rosy lips, To which all beauty clings? I'd make my heart of snow, If you could melt its snow. I'd make my heart of snow, If you could melt its snow. Fouling the rose in mine, Dew-drops of love divine, I would not wish for more The bliss I'd give you then. Her lips were red with roses, They'd make a rugged rose; They'd shape that fragrance posies, And, all to bloom, forget That, you had yet to wear it. I, too, would choose my posies, That they might flourish there; I'd choose my flowers, and fix them With your own fragrant hair. I'd wear them all with her, And then, as blest too, 'twould go. But ah! she's dead! and death Is near, who will not know! Life never is so splendid, I'd print her marble feet In all the veils of death. My books, alas! are few, My joys are easily sought; But when I look with pride, There seems to be but one Which holds my heart in view. Some wishes there may dwell. I wish they were divine. My hope, alas! is but a blast, Which fades without the zest, And burns with wind and tide, Yet wavers not from thine. Thy love I never prize. If bliss were bought with, oh, How little then were we! I'd spend the holidays For books, and the delights Of Love, and the delights Of her, whose nature,-- 'Twould almost make me cry. To give up all I can Is use,--I should disdain Perpetual store of brain. It may, it may not be, Yet I'm content with thee. With thoughts which bear the fires Of love, and tongues of flame, I hate the sweets of flowers And carnations,--that's the same. What joy then can I give, O thou, whose boundless love Makes every sparkle live, Nor less nor more for me? So doubting,--for, my maid, Away, with me it's o'er! I fain would sing of love Whom none can ever sing; Of constancy, of wrath, And pride of every string. But soon my fate I know, She will not come too late, To drop a voiceless kiss Upon my page, to end My lessons, which mischance Has pleased some, yet unfitting. My love she'll come not late, Although my heart is stout. She'll come unless I'm sick; And if I chance to die, There's no worse air in Music's breast Than to have dreamed, you know, And taught the beauties you With smiles in every look Will play a fool to--go. That now I take my Book, Of bliss for me I dream, And memory to look back, When you no more return. By love, with faith and truth, I'll think this present page, But not that I should miss In such dear part of me. Go live, my love, in Heaven As you do dwell with me, And sweet words, when we're wedded, Will greet us on the tree. We'll talk of Love, and Heaven, Where we may never pine; Where words, if gay or mournful, Heap flowers upon our shrine; But, if we can't, the meaning To tell us of the skies, When we together lie in On the hills,--another day! When Hope has flown, with smiles and sighs, O'er youth's enchanting face, Then, long ago, I hoped to die; Why then,--behold the grace! Thou and thy Mother seem To long for that bright dream; We scarce can think we see Ourselves, below the stream! And when thy image dies, Let him be still and fair, And, leaving life, skies, earth, and skies! Clinging to these, the thoughts of Heaven have passed, They pass like ======================================== SAMPLE 239 ======================================== to us Their mirthful elfs, their jovial swains, And they whose song has told their flocks Heard in old forests evermore Their snowy bones, long lived before, Where now for ever and for aye Comes down to die in the living clay, The trouble that gnaws in its hidden heart Will still repay upon the Earth, And make a scene of going forth. Her ancient eyes, with tender care And hallowed vision to appear, The child's dim eyes, with song to vie, As I to dwell in Nature's sphere, Her sceptre in mine hand shall take All shapes from out my memory, Shapes bright and rare from no earthly part Shall ever spring into the heart. Through scenes of power and pride A mother smiling smiled she saw, And as a breath stole o'er her cheek A mother's spirit rocked its child, And mother's heart was filled with fears For the loved one, far away; And deep into that Mother's arms Her child lay sleeping 'neath the ground, The gentle one, close-fold to its nest, A mother's breast was chilled with dread Of those dear eyes so bright to heaven. And as her breathings left her side A thousand fears possessed her heart, With double balm their way she tried, As one who would be first to speak, And after find that it is weak. And then she fondly cast her eye On the dear one whom she loved, And lo! her infant close drew near, Her breast to throbbing still moved slow, And softer through her cheek came down The breath of a dream-dumb earthly sigh, And earth felt, fading from the breast Of the beauteous child, her own soul blest. But long they sought her, in the gloom Of the sombre cave where she had lain Forever moaning low and sweet, From their dark depths by sorrow touched, She would lift up her child again, And then no more outstretched, but white And little radiant, on her knee Would sleep the child but seldom, she, No angel by her side, but she. Nathless, and homeless, in the past, So desolate, so desolate, and cold, That, like a few brief paces, each Would linger in the shadowed sand, And thus for many a weary day Would sit, and see the stealthy tide Faint gleaming in the weary land. 'Twas now the twilight hour, when she Who knelt to slumbrous man they knew, Had been anhungered by the glen, Musing upon her murdered child, Was pleased to take the old man by Her hand, and try if he could cry "Dying for ever!" Each by stealth Would send her to some distant cave, To learn if he had been betrothed, Or she had been betrayed, or he Had done what he with every oath Had done. Alas! the gory wound Grew, and the crimson blood crept down Upon her face, and on her eyes The gleaming murder lay, and then She thought of him, and cursed her fate With bitter thoughts of bale and bliss. But soon she learned to hate his name, And shed too early and too late Her tears, that when the coming days Had made an end of mortal strife, She would renounce her natural life, And pay another price for praise, To be an outcast and forlorn, A widowed daughter, and forlorn. This was a time she loved his name, A time she would forget his name, And rather choose than tell him so To leave it now, or care for more. He was in love. She had his place Of purer heart and holier face, A place for holy dreams to sit, And be an eye that seems to prance The silvery tissue of his wit, And, careless of the passers by, Put forth a bloom of baby-pride That trembled all her features, while She held her hand and seemed to smile. The blood, as by some sleepy spell, Budded, and danced upon his arm, And he knelt down, and laid his head Upon his breast, and kissed his cheek, And said, "O, child, thou art a weak And worn, thou sufferest in this shire; But, child, to thee the grace is fair Of heaven, whose glory is a prayer!" All night the men that ======================================== SAMPLE 240 ======================================== , cheerful, Sorrowful, happy, happy, All the whole Spring through. When Summer comes again, and brings Her orisons of languid wing From her full-bosomed heart, I feel within me as though My blood were kneeling stream For violets which blush and bow To my new violets now, Nursing in dreams new-born, And make their rise not vain. When Winter comes again, and brings Her vesture and her zone of gold, I hear his icy breath and sing A song that shall not die quite cold. Oh, Memory! still thy colors keep, That thou canst bear my brows aright; And give thy heart to him who weeps To think that he is sinking down to-night. And so the Day's swift feet go on, And make it hard for me to lie; And so I think my spirit feels A long half waking ecstasy. Sweet love, how soon will beauty sleep When man is asleep; For every note of his sweet note He gladly will express to thee, As sweet to memory as song to me. The little dog that chased the wolf, Stabbed the white frosts with a softened lash; He hearkened and dreamed until the night Was as the better time of the light. The great, white thunder of the forge, Whose roar the solid earth surrounds And turns the golden light to gold, Was as a festal show of pain Beneath the bright arch of the brain. The giant pyramids grew dim With strange-eyed, star-spun, aerial swim; And Death's most awful torch displayed Its glow of plumes on yonder raid. On his own unsullied face he gazed Whose shame had filled his heaving heart With such unfeeling joy, the gloom Had given the brows of gods to bloom. And yet the wreath he won with tears Hung sadly round that tall dark head; But Death's fair fingers, opening, drew Unfading out his flaming sword. Down from the central flaming floor His feet flashed on the dazzling door. The coiled and flickering candle-flames And all the flights of flaming stairs Were dark as hyacinths by Bacchus thrust From laden hands, on holy dust. He raised his drawn sword on his face, And terrible and blasphemy his tread, Till the earth--mellow to a marching flame The fierce assault his gladiator-glad, And all his arms shook with a shout and flame. Then loud his shouts rose like the roar of hell In the hearing of a tempest-call. The bold assault a Fiend alway made. The air grew black and still before As when some evil tempest braves A little sun or devil hates, And the moon seems unto stumble on When a great, fond lover grasps his glove. "What will ye give me if I come And stand before your dying flame? If I, upon your knee to wait, Can crush your faithless and failing soul? If I can crush your faithless dust, Bring death and pain to both the whole And O, ye gods! draw near once more, And teach the blinded eyes of all The comfort by your hands shall know. If I can crush your faithless heart, Draw near till breaking of the day, Then shall that last wild hope be lost And then your dying love be blown Over--by Love's strong, loving aid And Pity's arm o'ershadowing, And all the fiery thoughts that feed Unutterable passion, and desire Another than your mightier arms And grind them into flowery charms." The night-wind was as a great forest, One splendid eve in Spring; It whirled the sprays like reeds And sang them into a musical fashion; Like fleets on which the wind Has tossed them over the sea, They crooned and laughed to aërial dances, Like two great cushions beaded in a bass, As the wild notes in a secret breeze Woke up from woods and seas Of old, long lutes and sparkling mandolins. And a merry clamour of voices rose In the hollow hollows of the night, And the young thieves walked upon the lawns Till they were almost tired. And the dark green-girdled mourner's eyes Shone up with pleasure, and the morning stars Were a-tremble like home-sick fowls, With the sound ======================================== SAMPLE 241 ======================================== her lips With a round tear, and sigh, and proffer'd pray'r-- Sung low, yet never stop'd--for ever now! No halt or stay she took--her labors o'er-- Her head declined, and sinking at her feet, She lay and wept, yet never look'd on her! So came her book, with all its freight of love, And pensive murmurs, lulling all the smart: On the soft down, she flutter'd o'er the heart, And dropp'd the touch of solitude above. Ah, little, little!--she had pass'd away, She seem'd to have been happy, she had wept, And love had died away--and love was left In the lost heavens, and left the angel lone-- Her tears were idle--sigh'd for love alone! The love I owe thee from my heart Thou dost! I cannot let it go: Thou hast done it: I cannot let it stay: I cannot give it: But Thou art mine, and mine, and, all my bliss, Thy smiles I cherish ever, as the breath Of summer wanders from the frozen North To freshen children's song: I can but kiss That forehead where it glooms--dare Thou but tell My secret to Thyself?--that brow, methinks, That hair I clasp so glorious, and those eyes So radiant, that neck, rich with youth and love, Not rippling from the neck of virgin boy, And curls, methinks, such loosest cordial dashed In my young's giddy youth--why, then, how sweet The concord that we love! For, what we find To those who honour duty, we must do it As worthy of our love, were that repose Contented ever in our souls, and how That loving hand in which we to our feet Would consecrate our names, and, pausing, trace Our footprints on the desert--was it thus, This heart, which, wandering lonely as I am, Was for a moment broken-hearted too? Or was it rather, this heart broken-hearted, At length forsaken? I--have understood Perhaps it was not in the world we roved; Perhaps 'twas wandering too--and we might change; Or else we might escape: as so I deemed, This should have been; for, ah! the world, perhaps, Was happy--but 'twas happy--what it was! And yet, 'twas like a tavern, and a show! 'Twas pretty,-red youth chosen as the king-- The most for beauteous flowers, such as belong To Eden's blest precincts, whence the Son Of God fore'er hath to it the power, Wherein to choose His court, and, being come There whispering of Him, to do the rites Of the poor comer's spirit. Then their names They fell into the Muse's ear by these:-- "Taper of mirth, whose music hells and brains Draw up, of hopes to be Heaven's seal and seal." And she replied to what these were divining: "Man's hearth, God's glory, not His hottest prayer; For Thou, until of Mary's wedding blest, Hast set two worlds upon the hearts of men. The one the sea-wide heaven; the other sea; And now the sea-Wide sphere, He named the sea; And, being named so called, the general heaven And all the other parts of earth He calls The sea, His home: His name is in the seas, And on the dial's points all motions still; And the same wave and sea, and on the waves, The same creation, which returns to us From restless tides, and changes space by time. Whate'er may change, what goodness it may be, Let this be known; and who the beast may change With the same members, and shall still be deemed First, Highest, author of so bright a heaven, Shall separate us, wedded to his own creation, And be of Men--this Singing--brought to pass! Nor shall so fair a scene, with clouds so dense, Rise, but to sweep it from our prospect far As all the stars have filled the sky, and marred The basalt of the sky; nor shall there be A momentary rainbow, or a sun Standing among the clouds--a moment all Of its large light and cold and fiery truth-- One moment, and the next. And thou, O soul, That from ======================================== SAMPLE 242 ======================================== Heaun's wrath) Not one of his kind I shall know; I haue a sword out of his sheath Vnder his head--the Nymph of the Dawn Shall find an arm, and tie it on, And burn its sheaths before his sight, And say 'Fool, Satyred, how cam'st thou here?' Ah no! his shadow must flee away Away, away, at dawn of day, Before his way is up the wood To Nymph I came my mourner stood, In aspect more secure and good; And said, I to myself do tell, Ah yee, for what I haue to tell, What once was o'er my forehead shot, What once was side of Heav'nlie hills, A Niobe, whose waters ran With yond three hundred fountains; Where seven swift hounds, shunning foes, Strake to a close, unquiet doze; Where amorous Daphnes rears his head, And Sighs beguil'd, so rich a bed. 'Maiden, we know thy brother well, And of his lady hath no care, Yet have we served him long and well: I'm t'you, sweet, and halfe your share. And you, dear Boy, t'awake the cue; T'ave me his belly to beguile, But, Fortune, would be a disgrace To 'tween you twinee a grizly smile. O! if my daily tun's must be Forgiveness ere ye come to me, Let murther somp' a crikey there, And syt him send to starve a teare Yet send him a command in teare; Nor let me chuse another one, But needs some other one's own style, If not before th' attructive wall, To beg his name and faggot-all. O! this is murther (else I would That other such were dead already;) Now, well-a-day! (quoth he) you'll giue Your music o'er and o'er againe; We may caesse it to your skill, Doo'st speare your own againe againe. If it should happen thus, a stint, (For none may feare it) should so affright it, A man may thinke (as yu'd not) Such luggie castles, moniment, It is (alas) to cut this lease Of wretchedness, you must surprize. O! try then now to doe but feare 'Gainst which you ask a boist'rous teare; 'Tis what a king, in private, deems Anie will never doe his deeds, So I that fayre Chastity, The coorn gentry then, in thee, (Thy sister's fauour) dare vnite To fawne abroad to shew them to spite Thy patience, I doe vow and write. So time, said I, shall act i'th' stranded, Till my last breath of life's first motion (Waft'ring of vigillous hope) be ended Because thou hast the face o' narration; And for my boure I'm surest thrall, My beauties they shall not resort, I'le go or wait till I dee on thee, So long the lawes they shall delay, So long I have the women stay To turn, and taste that sweet revenuers That fairest heauen we thus may thee adore; But I'm too poor to mourn for ever, That scarce I see the face soe'rere, Whilst th' weak one serves, is scarce more blest With such oblations, lest one last request. If, when of late our short-lived sinnes (Vain war) we spend by violent paine, Then none of us, O Time, canst summon; We have no Muse to sing by elegies, Nor hast thou to the hazels past The fault (quoth she) of all thy heaunly flocke Of face, but thou hast done them all As one disdaine that hauntes his bed Whilst yet his ear doth ruminate And yet his sight doth me greet more Than all the vaine drinke of the pore. Then, while thou fitly roughest time To chuse another's case againe, And still d ======================================== SAMPLE 243 ======================================== . He's dead now, he's living now, and out of breath To drink, to dance, to dress, and all in his coffin. I'll say, my dear deceased, the night I sat In that dear house where you and I were kept, When to be certain I took my repose, And there I spent a night cap and belt too, Which at the church door I took up and left. That you'll be glad to hear my story? No! My love must be good though it is not. If I'm a simple young man I'll try the art To lead you right by your just liberality, And then--well, yes--I think I should be right. Now for the house-keeping tinker, you Are quite well pleas'd I sit here, where I sit. I pray you, come and see who's been--e. Good-by, sweet Loving-man, a lovely Boy, Good morrow to you, love, and shelter: so I'll sing you a song made by some old brook, Warm from the fragrant dew, Which I did nurse and nurse when I did wake. No loss for you, Sweetheart,--but just a slice, The best I've ever cropp'd, brought from of old, Of all the things that are, That you and I together; then, good-night, Good morrow to you, Sweetheart, good-night, Good morning to you, Sweetheart, good-night. Sleep, baby, sleep, The blessed boon you seek, Hath found eternal rest; But wilt thou go to Heaven as I do? And then, good-night, Sweetheart, good-night. Through tangled briers and tangled grass The whirring dew Shall gently fall upon my brow: But oh, That star-like glow, Which woke me from a long-unfathomed sea And made my spirit swim, Shall lure my soul into a deeper peace, Fairer unto thy face than any balm That may enfold thee in a brother's arms. Sweet, sweet, sweet, sweet, So sweet, so sweet, The balm that drips from Heaven on earth, The fragrant balm of Heaven upon earth, All these must fade and perish, and I die. O, love, O, love, Are ye as fragrant blossoms, As fragrant balm for twilight dews? Are ye as fragrant balsam, As fragrant balsam, As fragrant balsam, That lull'd my soul to rest? Are ye as fragrant posies As fragrant balm for sunset skies, As fragrant balsam, As fragrant balsam, As fragrant balsam, As fragrant balsam, As fragrant balsam? Are ye as rosebuds, As fragrant, sweet, as fragrant, As fragrant balsam? Are ye as daffodilies As daffodilies, As fragrant balm-tree? Are ye as lilac, As lilac, sweet, as fragrant, As fragrant balsam? Nay, sweeter than a brother, A brother, a more faithful brother, The rosy joy of lovers, Who have beheld his sight too true, In his pure heart surmising Love's heavenly blesseding. Come hither, oh, my little one, Come hither, oh, my little one, And try to tell my love to thee What thoughts it is to love thee. I thank thee, little one, For something both well aimed and known; A sacred awe within me groans, For Love walks with an angel on. It is not well, be sure of you, For all my part of life is past; I'm glad that I find peace in it And that's all rest at last. In vain the weary mill grinds, The mason's long accursed meal The golden spindles grind till hoofs Are shivered in the heat; The village glens are very foul, The village pipes most sedately, And in the thickening hazels dense The dying sunbeams glare. Just here's a light--there's something yet-- And hark! that voice, that cry, Out-kinging in his red right hand, That naught the nearer draws--yea, all Will be a tale for scorn. ======================================== SAMPLE 244 ======================================== To pamper us as they would pelt us with drink. Sure I would now plunge deep in Tartary, And drink my fill of this same salve of dew, Since it is unto me makar as well. A canker-mug that snares Mephisto's swine As ever drew Jove-drums out of the wet sky. Pleasant is the calm in the desert place, If the goats that fed them do not move here. Their roots are in solid earth, such are the poles, As are now we acquired in breeding of them. And as fresh e'en as when Jove in the earth did mix With earth's globe, for a counting-house is kind, So have we all found here in a land diverse. Here, where you can lift yourselves with pleasure, And lay it in fruit upon your olives warm, Shall your loving hands have the fair earth's present. And take all things for some time unto earth In the sweet-running rivers of the fountains. So, too, may your fair earth continue its dole. And let her flee the more because I say She will loose the net which guards her from the day, Rather than 'scape a jet-tothed time too late. A golden fly is carried in the cart, And to the Giddy top of some sweet tune Inactive all the blisses of the Gods. A sound without a god is in the air, When we go up against it from on high. I have a little pocket where I view The plaided travel in its white array; And with my elbows on the table spread, Or to beneath the ruins of the road, Methinks my drift-wood fire is finer yet; A little while I have to turn aside; While I to that ill brook have known therein The shuffling, when the step is the most sin, And having mastered it, I feel akin, For well I know it is a little thing, If not the very, very something Of a heart's love stirring this about. I know not if 'twas so; the great gods have Outlives them all: and, in the same founts, Whatever be they may, even in heaven, A lovely rock and an immortal love, Above all lesser gods above the gods In placid majesty, content with these. Go, serving maids, and hither bring, With all your craft, the dark springs' well Wherein are pent the souls of men Which into fiery language flow When serpents have shed their golden fleece, The while that sleeping 'twixt me and me Anointed magical and plants Which the faint wind has shaken down, A heavenly nard, made of bright fire The centre of our heaven and clouds Which the earth pours from the blue-black water On our unfathomed breasts, which shine With colours of the rainbow tints Wherefrom the sun-red splendor shines. My heart to-day is not alone 'Tis Love, but Love, the cooing one Of many sweet and mellow birds; Nor in a moment through the air It feels the breath of his loud wings, But the light of his wings is always there. It loves a bit, For it has joys for those who come. And he has given a gift to me To love me well, and my own heart Went the sweet way it deemed of yore, And I have given it to myself To feel its undeviating part Beside the gate of my desires, That my young life should be its sign And only its returning do. Nay, not too long of me can I Grasp the swift dream from one of you Who makes me dream, and lights my heaven With kindliness, and smiles and tears Upon a kindlier world aspires, While Love is crucified and dies. For who can know the inmost worth Of this his heart, his radiant light? Whether in groves the hemlock weaves, Or through the fields the hemlock strews, Or if the scarlet apples bend, Or if upon a stricken tree Some late October rains descend, Or black-winged whirlwinds shake the earth, Or if a flame unfallen be Across the sky, and all things live Which have the louder quality For of that Sun I do not care. But thus my wisdom is gone by, And in the mountain hollows lie My comfort and comfort; no need To tell of ======================================== SAMPLE 245 ======================================== ranger's goblet, bright with blossom, Reflects it dripping from thy wedding cup." "Not till this hour a good man came, who seemed Patiently clothed, and a huge ship had come, Bearing the unutterable secret treasure, Nor was her courage less than a wild war-pall, In mere good fortune, even if God had chosen That she should act a new or lovely dame. Thou didst betake thee, friend, one word to God. E'en as thou thought'st,--look now, and mark it well-- Thy sword hangs idle, and the quiet moon Looks heavenward, still and calm, doth seem to brood Swaying in solitary dreams with thee. Thy web of sleep is spun. A star of thine Fit for a chamber for a lady's love, To hold the quivering and refulgent light. Go thou, and with them go thou down the land Wherein Death's guardsmen all their murderers Have broken, slain, and love consumes them yet. Fain would I see this prince in one great arm Make thee his wife; then may'st thou say he lives Who for the love of God hath deathless need." So said he, but he drew his sword again, His falchion keen bent at a breath and laughed, Till as they passed beneath the forest gloom, From some wild-woman in the castle castle, A frightful fair face brightened into tears, To hear the lordly tumult of the castle Float in the golden light and leave the gloom. And when they reached the foot of turret tall, Who yet had stood between them on that day As if on fire before his palace door, The hilt in hand, the helmet in the front, The youth in robes of royal purple bound, As if to gaze on the high loveliness, Seemed some young god amid the dreaming flames, So that he spoke not, but a human voice Heard not. "Then," said he, "then also hear me. Do I but speak? For surely I believe I was the son of that proud Holy Spirit, The Son of God, who unto death was given, The Lord of Hellas and of glorious deeds. But, oh, the frenzy leaps into a stream, Away, away, and if I see thee there, It is not thou but mine, and so thou dream'st! "Rejoice! Rejoice! And I will say at last, That in his halls he seeks a life immortal From the divine cold death. But see, he cometh, As through the waving tapestries he goes, A sainted hermit of a world diseased, A worldly wise great, Danae-like spirit named, Whose gentle foresight knows no ill, nor knoweth That aught is wrought by evil with good taste. "And now with this, even now I saw him speak, And now with that I know not what to do; And yet I would not mar thy gracious speech, For it was like a good deed, and I hear it As from a page of Scripture. But I know That you who set this journeying on your head Will be the death of marvel and of glory, Nor will aught evil come of you to any, When you die wholly, and come to all men's good." Meanwhile the eternal days went on, the seven And seven years had passed, and then the moon Began to wane. Along the eastern sky Clear heaven's bright symbol, or the Pleiades, Just as the day's sphere, or the dawn's sphere, When God had made his worlds for one vast feast, Eve loomed up in heaven and like a goddess stood, Fanes, trumpets, torches, and the pyres that blazed. So in their midst the three great prophets stood, Their solemn eyes fixed on that humble scene; And in their midst the mystic Homer stood, Like some great king of Rome, armed with the sign Of the dread majesty of her own diadem, In such a starry mid-heaven's radiant sign. And once and and thither all the spirit filled With pastoral songs and incense rich and bland, Lifting the buried ashes to the air, As on the earth the spirits rose again In heaven's high presence and that night were gone, When heaven's high King came by and bade them go. The frame of earth was iron, and the sun's eye Was fire; and there below earth's feeble hue, ======================================== SAMPLE 246 ======================================== distant the gem where the hand Of thy full-stringed throat rings in a psalm Exulting in beauty and pleasure of heaven. Oh, beautiful Bride, These are thy pleasing triumphs. Lo, now the sun, The waking life-flower of his morning light, Whose warm heart beats yet quivering for the kiss He dallied out on his adoration-night! So I stand here, shading my eyes that mourn The one I promised thee long ago, Who called thee bride, and clasped thee here in life, Mingling with all my heart-beats' tender strife. Forlorn, a perfect image of hope is left, With calm, immortal eyes and lips of love: What was this earth we call our sad, strange need, The broad breast of our little earth below? Ah, little did we think such things were born That they would thus be rendered into scorn! How frail a thing is love! What dark a load Of happiness in a close heart is stored! How hard a joy we treasure in a mind Whose joy has grown too great, to stand apart, Let it not trouble conscience to find How it can mate with hope, and rest, and truth. Love all our own, love all our life the heart, Love all our love, and love our ignorance, Hearts that have seemed too large, too light apart. This little heart is bare of hope and birth, Youth's and the loving lips that kissed so warm, And love's eyes last to see it in the earth. Yet have I known a thousand wings of grace, A thousand wings of gracious tenderness. They are not fairer then than thou once were, And purer now than we are. O, may it be, Ye too may make the city of your love Secure from sundering sea. By the love-light of a gentle love, And the hour-glass's dim vision, this one, this Song is not mute. It waits without, Knowing the day and hour of our great love Have passed away, nor altered the hour of our desire, But makes plain Nature and the resurrection air. Still are we with ourselves, and you not here! Ye who are less and higher, O most wise, More delicate, more tender than a star, The souls which know you! infinitely dear, Most perfect in your sweetest, last communion; Yet not too close with us, and not too close with us, We who could seize and keep you till the end, No heart of earth, but in your mind's enshrined. And, in the loneliness of Life, If our striving, if our sickness, should send Some far more savour to the world of our friends, My tired, sick hands would lay them down at rest In that soft breast, and wake upon my breast Some dream of peace! I would not sink or die, But feel the emptiness of old and fair, Mingling with all things, with their suns of gold, And with their quietness of loves untold! Goodnight! good night! until the last gleam of day Is worn out, and the dream-light is o'er. I did remember that sweet time of old! I think it so. My heart hath been before. The winds and stars have gone from anywhere, But with them there are two, your eyes are still, Your sleeping arms, your dreaming eyes. Be not a warder, but keep loving these; See, I am dying, but if I could sleep I should arise, if you were not awake! Why, no, the truth is as a deadly sin, Tho' I am scared, and all of hope is best, The silence and the wonder of your eyes. No, I am stricken with strange nights of pain, My dream is turned to dreams. I do not know Whether the heart hath laughed before or doth, But only wait until I drop my mask, Or wait until my Love shall come to me, I know not why, but all I am and have, O, happy thought! I am so desolate! Time was when I was glad of heart and hope From that sweet time, but now Tho' the drowsy head of my beloved braids Droopeth and droopeth beneath the evening's wing, How sad it looks! How sad it looks! That is the world to me That such a day should be When in this world I were not happy, unafraid, I should desire to see The dew upon the flowers ======================================== SAMPLE 247 ======================================== and Proteus, weep, and oft make moan My pain, the price which had been his before; And here wept Hector in his house alone, The brother that robb'd his infant son for pay; His mother's shade upon the topmost bough Was seen; his hair the fillet did not spread, Which, curl'd up with his locks, did ever flow About his brow; the nurse's name round him shed. Then Hector of his armour was as light, And on his neck a golden chain did lie, Wherewith to clasp the spoil, and lull to sleep, The relics of his tresses were to spread. Forthwith, from every side, his trusty spear, Drawn through the ranks, to Hector backward came; And with him Hector rose, whom late his troops Had scattered; but amid them all 'gan say, "Forward ye rush; my friends, now stand aloof!" He said: the Trojans heard him, and abash'd. Pray to the King, and in his presence join Of friendly welcome, all that meet him there. Before him stood the gallant Diomed, And Tydeus' son, Anchises' valiant son. There many a spear the stalwart Paean bore, And over-mighty Hector's back they laid, And there, the hilt both brass and burnish'd bright, They lay upon the body; then the sword Grasping, they sprang from off the wound, andStanding, With whom he smote DemophoA¶n, whom he slew: Eumelus' offspring then the battle joyed To meet them, and the crowded chariots bring Back to their ranks, and Trojan chariots charge. Back to his car he flung him, right and left; Fell on his breast, his vital breath bereft. His plumes, which furrowed as he moved along, Stood up in wreaths, in fashion of a kite Euripylus, a rich and noble steed; Which none the less the Grecian had beside. Next Gereus' son smote Diomed the steeds, With mighty force; the head, far off, appears From off its mane, which hung in golden casque; Who thus the charioteer bespake, and said: "Achilles, dost thou well consider ere We reach the pass, or we shall win the day To hand thee in the car, where still doth lie Thine anger and thy wrath? The Gods are nigh In that destruction; wherefore come we hither, And whence? Sarpedon, my own chosen friend, Now, since thou know'st, have pity on our woes. This seat the driver to Sarpedon lost; No man may he whose anger melts the heart, Of the unbridled spirit let him part, And let him share our bath; but such my seat." To whom in answer godlike Hector spoke: "True is it that I care not to oppose The Argives; since I understand of none Of them, of Agamemnon nobler born, In lofty steeds, of nobler blood than theirs, Whose valour always shows the might of one. Yet take we counsel, if we yet espouse, How best to fight against Patroclus' car, Or to retreat from fierce Sarpedon forth, Or to retreat, where none shall dare to mingle The fight; but urge them to the ships' behalf. We hold these barrier-posts not for our guard; But for Patroclus' body, and his fall To war, we stand, and hold our own against." To whom thus Hector of the glancing helm: "Ye, Dardans, and ye well-warmed cars, beware Achilles' presence; take not from me fear, But if ye will, the death of one like you. He too shall linger if he dares to fight, Nor faint, but mingle in the fire of war; Lest Agamemnon, Atreus' valiant son, Assail his comrade, and himself expire; For this I promise, but and this I swear, E'en as he is, to thrust our coursers hence, And utterly bear off his own escape." His words fresh courage roused within his breast; With hearten'd courage were his courage rous'd: Forth in his haste, the gallant chief he sprang, With spear in hand, and eager arms to throw: As little ======================================== SAMPLE 248 ======================================== 'd, on the green grass. And the self-same ev'ning; and still seem'd A maiden and matron among them, As if and alone on a lonely lake, Her fair face flashing among the leaves. I spied the Angel of Care cross'd the wave, And stood with his fair Angel at my side; I spied he had slumber-freed, and look'd To my Son, on whom ev'n to vain grief The gazing woe was but wont to lave; I saw the Mercy Seat on his brow, Which wav'd the green grass of the infant year; A chearful smile on his features came, A frown upon his lips, yet not a sneer; But I heard his last farewell in the deep, And saw my Mother sink into the wave, And lay with her orphans at the foot Of the stony fountain of crystal stone, And my darling sleeping in its bowers alone. Then I sigh'd out my soul for the wild scene Of the sunny Isle, where the shores are green, But there, in the midst of the unknown sea, The cruel sport of the setting sun Shows the loveliest flowers I have ever known; And those fair creatures of the frigid zone Who from the ocean look for a mate Thro' the furrow'd infinite of wave and skiff, Are for the sport of an ignorant crowd, But for Love's sake who pass their forms at large Who neither seem to know nor care nor guess; The pale moonshine for the rising moon, For the taper's feeble light and shade, For the quiver'd shaft, for the awe-struck eye, For the hush'd and the consternated sky, For the spiritless shades of the distant hill, And the unconscious mountains,--they all were still, I too was a slave, e'en a slave to Love, But for her--I swear it was ever above To warn her from sorrow--I can't forgive; And when I left her, as now I know, I found her sweet lips and angel eyes, And the baby childhood that used to be Like a royal fountain among the flowers That o'er the daisies their first lesson lent. I saw her--'twas she who bid me live, I would not--no, not even to bless-- But then, my Boy--she would have let me die, And let me die in the waste of kisses! I only saw the sun-like hues That were thrown out from her, the morning blue Of that gold heaven, the crescent of the two, When she pledged me, at dead of night, To kneel beside her mother, while she tried To tell her all of sorrow, to assuage The pangs that ached into her heart, To entreat her pity; I could not, dear, But I vow'd--I swore it, and she swore it too, That those poor lost--what was their love to them, They came, these poor.[C] We come to fight for honour! Never sword Of man could wound us more with her than we! We have warred more for her than we have won; Yet we hold no war more till the dawn of day. The call to arms is for her lord to come, The chain is set, she will not be forgot! At last there came a warning! Batter and bale Ran thro' the lairs, and she was left alone, In an uncertain fortune, she had chosen well To wage with hers a fight for father or her son: And one who stood beside her from the door With awe-struck face and cold ungainly eye, Now bowed and pale, the soubrette Pote was there. "No, no! A father's face is at the wall. An angel's voice. The form is beautiful. The portrait is the river that sings in its birth, And into it the eyes of stars are looking forth. Beneath, there is another form and face That fills the soul, when all is well; and in Are two white plectrumills upon the brim Of life. The face is beautiful, and she Is lovely as of old. Her long black hair Shines not so wildly on the lifted brow, And on the breast-plate where her feet have lain, No thoughts have any of earth or heaven in vain. The eyes are beautiful; the lips are sweet; As pure as her white brow, and soft as hers Are her deep eyes. No blemish of the ======================================== SAMPLE 249 ======================================== in a vision flew, Forsaking him; and by the spell Kindled within him, he revealed Unto the dame alone, and said, And with a secret sanctity, This life were impotent indeed! For found within herself this load Beyond all women, long to be Sweeter than fever or than love. Thus spake she to herself above In kind and powerful degree; And with a voice not grosser far Than aught she knew, made her complaint, Since he was void of sense and speech, And she so subtilely that he could, For evermore her fancy clings, Whispering, in tones not low nor high. Oft would she leave the woods, the lawn, The waters, and the fairy scene, And hear the foremost omen tell What her heart fears in its despair, While she bewails the lonely care Wrought in the spoiler's arm, and there Fands by her meet to fall, and there Hears no emotion in her breast; And she hath yet to love her best, In time of danger and distress; And she hath faith in good and ill, Albeit she seem so frail and wild, With calm severity and mien She must perceive it might be so; And many a dame, that at this sight, Defies the gaze, and doth approve, Nor doth she loiter on his love, And yet for very kindness, more Designed than sunshine, still more kind, And holding Nature's genuine bond More firmly to the bounds confined, Than on the dearest prize of fame, If nobly seconded by fame. She shall be grateful, and rejoice To see the woes her lover bore By many a footstep dance the floor; And seeing those behind, she fears No loss of health, but wretchedness; But death itself can ne'er distress That does not merit punishment. Yet some of those who speak despair; Of every wretchedness the heir Of such a life, so so, I trow, They had been hated so, but now Are to the sickly number given, And died a victim in their sown. That life to them was but a sport To barter for the hideous sort; And if they did, it seemed to them To fly the brutal lightning, free From every check of sense and sight, To wander with the foul night, And show, as some on them have wept, Such kindly drops of pity, kept By melancholy looks, that they Might have their death, and danger shun, Which they before were well-nigh won. But ye, who through a life as sad As theirs have stood, hear all I tell; And let your sympathy,--ah, glad To do so much, perceive this well; And still in sympathy thereto, Give her your love, and let her go, Though ye must see her life, and know She was not, or was not, so. But if, as they are always used, That naught is said which might be spared, I could be silent; for the offence Grows to such infamy and sense, That she from which fair Truth is hurl'd Shall be absolved, nor I from all Shall be absolved:--that that were all. And what I ask ye shall reply Unto your hope.--Oh, rather die Than be deceived, and let me lie Like Ammon in his apathy. Far easier these wild fancies wend Into her ear than have to bend The truth of that vain wish, which oft Hath been, and sometime must have been, And is, and never shall be quite, For, while ye keep her eyes on you, She sees you sitting and her head Bends down; and while she feels she too Shrinks not, nor knows herself untrue. With such a rising and such a woe To burst the heart of her, ye know Ye scarce can call to him that's moved, Or see her,--'tis a wakeful heav'n, With such a writhing and such a smil'd, To compass her, than to have made A mockery and scorn for heav'n. One word, ye pray, if what we speak Be true; ye never can be weak; Nor wish to hide from God the power To serve in such a marriage hour; And, if he be a sinful man, Then, shunning all, pray her, and fling her To be the marriage-bond but ======================================== SAMPLE 250 ======================================== And though we have many a riddle to-day To try, for the rest, we're afraid of delay, But no one will scoff at us and cry, "Oh! what a damnation if we always said yes! Ah! there were men who scaled Olympus and set Where there is nothing that can do them wrong, But we, poor sinners, lay down and forgot Ourselves and made more comfortable cheer; And they might have come back, if they ever had been, To stand in the house which the Fairies have seen, And hear how the ghosts of all we longed for remain, And hear how it's meant that the Sots have to marry again. They do it once, but the worst that I know, Is to leave them the sin; for the rest, I'm as sick As a child who licks trouble and nothing will get, And will go if I keep it; but, worst of all, If the Fairies once wish for the life of meek Smith They will get it; and so shall I go to him, too. When a bloom is upon us, and one leaves behind Something wrong or we've hoped for, and one Flies away to some distance and failing, and thinks "If I'd let you live, and, dear Sots, would I not? Dear Mister, the Fairies might wish for your sighs." There's a Pinta of Ireland that sits on the throne Of Miss Burittle, the greatest that's ever known, A remarkably lovely young lady--a queen-- She's the darling of Erin, and still she is queen, And the tallest you ever have seen was the queen, But some other you'll find her that goes to the grave And remembers her lord, for he's stark mad and brave; And the Exeter longs for the smile of his smile, But the tallest he ever he sees is the man, And the children look after the smiles of his eye As they wonder to see him again in the sky. And so he has gone to the grave for his own; But he's loved him and pity'd, and loves every one, Till the tide ebbs away and the woman grows old And the life that he gave is as faded from cold, And the One that was dearest to him he has told, And the fag he beguiled now is as faded to-day, And his heart is as sickly and sorrowful lay, Yet I can remember him now as he sleeps With his hands in his bosom, and smiles with his eyes As he lies in his grave with the breath of his sighs, And he smiles as he wept with his lips and his breath When his hair in his hand falls beside him to death, And his eyes dimly brighten, and dim are his hopes To mingle again with the tears that have glisten'd When he weeps for his death, and remembered his smile; Though he sleeps, yet the dream of those eyes will beguile The dark days of his boyhood--the joys of his life, And I've know'd that there never was sorrow so sweet As the rose in his breast that is playing with life; Though I see him still smiling, and hear him complain That he thinks he is happy and merrily gay, And the troubles of life that have pass'd away, Though his hopes they have blighted and faded away Cannot only reflect on the life he is gone, And his heart and his life that has died in its pride, And so to his Queen and his brave little child, Are united again in the struggle for breath; And I see, as I tread o'er the grave-way of death, That the moments of life and the hopes of his life Have been passing away with a glory so rare That earth has forgot, and that even life's leaf Is heavy and darken'd, and, wanting a thorn, Holds only a promise that leaves nothing behind, That each day is a joy to the life that I find. He is dead, and I'm dying, dear Alice;--I'm dying, I'm dying, because I am mad, for my love, And my chance is a chosen already to roam To the house that is governed by heaven and home; 'Twas my forefathers and serving my portion In a land of such bliss as their ain't all the right, But now, I've got warning to p'raps leave off play, That my life and my fortune have found out a way, And I hate all my gains in its pay, and I With ======================================== SAMPLE 251 ======================================== , And hodden them in beds to rest, From stair to stair in Concord town; But far away, alange the sight, 'Mid palace, square, and ceoinette, That market-town conceals the charms Of this chaste town of ours. Ein kleines Nachlan, welz'n still, Wei kleines Ohr engelen, Chauchlan'en, lang rhinoceros, Wir gegendrid ein Weilen! Hro ist aus müde müde müde müde müde müde müde mueune; On aussi Kirtle fiend im Blusen, How selvers, lange du bist mir im Winden Für trinkt, das schoen entwischten machten Ein schnettern mit lange drang im Tage! Schaut's mein Zuge schal vermilchlan, Katur - (sho ho wo wo wo wo wo wo wo wo wo wo wo wo wo wo wo wo wo wo wo wo.) Manchor, quhilk, o pacemus lex, Vexabat renatem schoene Nahlan, Nisiademheitur Hände, Mein trinkt im Busch in deme Gassa, Dabitur dem tiefer Ring! Ein staeth attrochte Gegang! Nisiademheit vermilchlin, Zu brand im Busch in die Hand; Gekulis schole im Sterne, Hem loupit juschte stand, Und vocht ihr klüg und zu doide, Der zughen Gog und zu ihr thet end. Herr Weid und Brande leibten: Und der Leuchen der Macht; Die jungen sie zur wheeler, Das Feind gutte golerer gespannt. Die Gese zurüsing zu frisch und bout, Und der wachtsman saßt und hent; Die bei Bäume streib aus näu', Wie schauernd dich die Roer blut. Und in der Nähe wehm erbrüht, Die rohe beschwär' erbrüht Und dein beschörter Entfacht Die frutstünde niemalschlicht. Weit ihr niederich Treb' ich Blut: Nun und niemalschreckllet Des Herrnies Thränen wiederst: Bist du im Tiefer zuschten dich Im tiefer dich der Herrnies Blut. Noch' ich dem sahlichender Schoen, Erlaut sich die Falschen dort, Die schlehte im Allerd stand: Auf es maganz lebendennt, Auf uns dem bleiben sind Ou tiefer Scharp der Leid. Wohl den beweide näherkchen, Und sie so lieben, fand Tiefer ziehen damsel schweben. Mit einer gewimmt, Die birstchen nähen, Des bleiche Bette getan Frutst du, es gutt. Bist du, bist du, Vor das Liederm ging, Der Wandert aus, Besiegen Vrinnen: Schau', schwere die Kä crystallus, Sie kussend, der Berge wiederst, Sie läßt mit Sorgen schweben, Sorgst, drinken das Botst vergeßte, Echst inhabited herzt. Der broodhen Kind aus kühlen, Die blut' er geleid mir voll, Ergohen war sie aus kühlen, Am ihr' Gel und Glücken gellt. Sie kähnen sind, Er mußte, es müde süßte, Und einer schweig schweig geschlecht'gen, Die geschweit des Grundes fleid; Die tiefer Luft ein Kühle ======================================== SAMPLE 252 ======================================== like men for their affairs, 'Tis fitting some perform such deeds as theirs. The Pope of Rome (so much the more for this) Yet helped the Church, who, having read his heart, Informed that little flock to happy home, And ordered them as holy virgins whither They did their vows by good o'er-fire at Rome. But Cæsar telling of the Dragon's plight Means, how that dragon, who for penance, driven, Has for complaints, and scorns those bodies bright, Wanders about the waggons and himself. Meanwhile, at Rome, in spirit doffing light The monks in fine, all things towards him fare, And "Pray like you" all look up, and he Rises in front, and so there still is there. Their mighty minds toward the Papist's glory Prevent him with a Pæan of his own; A venerable house, and richly loaded With fortunes which the good old man had known. Duke Naimes, the mighty lord of Ravennips, The Archbishop Turpin, the archbishop Turpin, Were there of old, both priests and friars born, And one who all, had held a zealous son. He died himself, and died Alardo hight, Derived by chance from Turpin for his years: But now he's dead and with him lies the light, And presently enough to speak he bears. He said that Turpin from his grave drew down, Bade farewell to Turpin and to Borquin, And to Mahoundto's baron was dismissed, A gallant band, and so was killed outright. Of mighty marvels is the ascertainer: For when the Countess saw the spirit of men Sustained, the matrons said--"Tell us, oh, what then?" And asking of her spouse, to whom he's led, In her great sorrow she was fain to wed. And by this answer to the end of all, Each one consented, and the other pray'd: The parish priest, for whom the stocks were sold, Pray'd, that in due dismission he would hold A Spanish cavalier, and make a throne, And sentence of the two that were his heirs. And that, as lord of this acquiral to be, (Though somewhat fitter for the age of nine) Then offer him the prize, "Alas! to me! My uncle's money made the gift of Spain; For this new purchase let him ask, for twain, His daughter's children; on the proffer let His daughter's children dress the costly vest; Ten, let him give, be bought and taken with, But still, to honour and to be beloved. And let him have three daughters, as his right Lands every one of these--the bride and bride; So think what I will do." So they despond: And fearing somewhat, rubbed their eyes, and cried. That story of the Church and her renown Is still a matter of great weight and sound; And next they meet and both together go To a high Feast, which is the end of Rome. The guest being ready at the full, they wait, All take their chairs, and many matters share, As for their sorrow, for their wine and meat. Ceres; or Rubens and their Fathers, there. Amaran Ogier lately show'd the care Of one, so young, of one so well belov'd Of wedlock; who, throughout the whole affirm, Is the most matchless of all women born. Equal in years, and equal in their place, The holy Church has men devoutly bred; The like were born with their commands and grace And saints served in the sacred rites of wedlock; So well their coats were kept, they well contriv'd To keep the promise of so fair a bride. Now these so many and so many others chose, That none demanded of that marriage, he Offended; for he hoped it to be so. This makes the promise which he says to all, But what he says 'tis not in open Courts. The Bridegroom and his sons found out their worth In this small Church; and none but those who heard In Rome the wishes of that virtuous mirth Went thither, though they knew not whence they came. The wild followers of Charles the tyrant drew This whole twelve years to sadness, grief, and shame; And grieve still more that they saw their leader lie By a slow death ======================================== SAMPLE 253 ======================================== of all human thought,-- Teach me to say at last: "You see, you men are men indeed! What are you and what are you? Where are you and what are you?" These things that make the moment seem Like death; there is no living stream Within me; I am clothed anew. I cannot forgetfulness confound As surely as ye think it bound In marriage to one who has been dead. But I can see with better eyes Whereby to recognize That without much am boundless eyes I stand, whereon I cast a look That at the bottom of my hair, If I be false or fair, I know not; but if possible, This very instant 'twere as well As to be born and dead. Wash hands wherein the purest bliss Is yet unlearned. Win while she lies, and bid her buy No sleep! Now am I saved! Now rise, O sweet Endymion, and cry, "Sleep; Sleep; Love is upon the eyes!" Wake, happy star! Where shall I go? Neither night nor day, Nor folded 'neath the purple night, Nor aught beside, till this very night Of autumn, shall be sweet. Under yonder beech-tree single on the green-sward, By the side of the road, two young lovers were slumbering, They needs must carry a tired load. There was one, lying down to his bed to rest, One shoe beside him on the mat, one in the vest, And the other beside him on the green-sward slant For my lady's bairn, my dear one of the hamlets. And he whispered soft and cheery, "Sleep, my child, The night is terrible; the way is steep; So, prithee, rest; prithee, the night is deep, And use thy watching ere the dawn peep." Lush-a-by, baby, Over the hill, With thy father lying I wait for thee still. Wake, my babe, the little birds come flying Blithesome, breezes, bringing sweet repose; Come with thy father, Come and be my babe's. (Ah, the world is wide indeed While its joyous gales sweep by!) A rover has gone to his rest; A rover has gone to sleep; A rover has gone to sleep; A rover has gone to sleep; A rover has gone to sleep; A rover has gone to sleep; A rover has gone to sleep; A rover has gone to sleep; Come thou beside me, I am waiting for thee. (Ah, the world is wide indeed While its joyous gales sweep by!) Then what will love and the world befall, But to love and the world befall? (Ah, the world is wide indeed! But its joyous gales sweep by!) How will this be, my darling, If thou art not near, To keep thy mother's bairnage And guard her from fear? She has gone to the mountains, And left but a scar? And this will I bear to her bosom, My darling, for thee, Till I bring the brown roses Over the red sea, Where God in the south shall dwell. A good thing is a good thing, For the earth and the sky Are as happy as monarchs And kings as I, When I am well a-warned, And shepherds as I, And bees as confused teachers For their sweet surprise? Now, by my artful cunning, Thou hast answered my call; To pick a withered flower, When she comes at fall, She will bring it all to be mown For her apple, for me! And this shall be my song, When I bring it all; For I bring it all to be mown In the lust of the morn, When I bring it all to be mown In the lust of the morn. (Little brown baby) "Dost thou know who thou art?" cried I, looking very gaily, very prettily, and quite poorly clad, and very garrulous and very dignified. "Of a truth," said he, "the Mantis is the one of the beautiful." "Of a truth," I answered him, quite coolly, "I am that mantis, for I know that mantis, "I know that mantis, for I know that mantis ======================================== SAMPLE 254 ======================================== down To free a people on the earth and feel For all the human bodies, as I saw Them, and who held them fainting in such strain That the recovering hearing of their load Was crowned with joy. They waited not for day, Nor for the full-moon's rising, nor were sped Until a paper spread it wide around The sum of four its pages. I was first Appalled, and then exulting raised my eyes To the unchanging sun. Forth from the cave I saw a glittering line of fire, fierce, clear, Untarnished, tasselled, glowing, all impaled With patches of the sky. Then, as I gazed Upon it, I beheld the flames arise Like sudden flashes from the newly dead. Then, as if burning at the glowing mass They kindled, rose the smoke, and from the cave Athwart the embers leapt. A moment more. Then, like a glowworm, I beheld the smoke Roll up and sink into the night, And where the food lay quivering with the heat And horror of the fire, I beheld The dwellings of the giants, which were small And broken on their shelves, which in the sky Were lowering with a tempest, then themselves Rose up and spread themselves abroad and fought As if the stormy life of flame they feared. Then from my side, outstretch'd toward the fire, Drew forth my sword with smiling and commandant hand, And plunged it in the smoke, and to my cords With it I drew it, and the buffet drove My arm throughout them. Now I roll'd away The smoke and darkness, and they groan'd aloud Some respite, and on dreadful thoughts intent. Then to my brother on the fire he spake. Fool! no unwelcome news I bring to thee Of navies and the flames, and what we waged Against unequal battle, and whoe'er The wrath of God might be, and this have been. But answer, thou, for I have told thee true Beyond the Cape of horrors to my ships. To thee the pilot said, "We ask no more But we must back, or overset our hold. But speak thou with truth; these from the ships though struck Come back again; they tell me thou must hear Their boasting, who then smote the boldest sail." But, answer none return. They still remember What strict necessity compels. None goes Among the ships nor with these fences hence May pass; none there is nigh to him of all Who, with their own eyes, him sees. He loves them well, And will avenge them all. Now here, there will I pass in quiet, so That from the dreadful combat I may learn What wisdom leads. Now thus my mind enjoin'd: But what avails it me, that thou approve And pity me? There is the King himself, Leading me safely out. And now, alas! Welcoming me again, and with no aid Except his too unwaked power, he leads The flocks and herds toward the northern ice, And with the roaring beasts himself seeks out A fatherless and helpless innocent. There lives a wretch who, bare and bare of all, Weeps for his folly--what he knows he needs. Scarce could my son reach home, unless the gods Would grant him end so quickly with the fates, And give him ours, would murder him at least. And when he sat ent'ring on the mead of gold And wine, whereon the whole had left him free, Came near my brother, that the fates devised That he should ever end; he was as one With unto whom death may not belongs. I laugh'd aloud at him, for I was mad, As he had said, when he beholds a stone So huge, no regular turning-place can bear The haunch of javelins; it was his curse To miss it, and he stamp'd it on his cheek In his own blood. Here, on the hostile rock, Sat I, but ever, sitting, every limb I shook off slumber, and my labour spent. Then, by the God of power on this account Attesting me, I bound me to the ship, And carried forth my body, which the morn Wore by the wind. The nymphs beside my arms Hold war, and by the well-girt river come With whirring sound to plunge me in the deep. So perish'd I, withouten any fear Lest the wild beasts devour me, and ======================================== SAMPLE 255 ======================================== , with his bludgeon a spirit fair So changed to swans, they featly quit the snare; Or, as the wind, they with disorder'd range, Adown the dry embankment travelling, And surging on and on with furious impulse, Their iron track in foam and froth rehearse. The isles' dim-shadowed esc pavilions gleam, Where green vines, ever verdant, creep and stream; Where through the circling sunshine, loud and clear, The brook, as if delighted with a glen, Betray the humours of the rustic ear With the safe stirring of a horn or pen; Now faint, now clear; and now subsiding, now Turns, with a slower step, the river-beds, And, past the fring-brick willy-nilly, cast A shadow, which the glade before me cast, Swift, as an arrow sped from Parthian bow. So moved the lines, when and whereof I sprang, The shadows, swift and dry, thick-crowding stood; Or, as if Death his triple shower had broke, In dim procession to the rippling flood, They swept, and such large masses shaded me As on a pallid statue stood, and said:-- "O load of grief! O stony trident mine! A wayfarer beneath whose weight we pine, Against whose close, vast, sunless windows cast Eagles, whose eyes behold the lightest blast! A frequent fog stands o'er the sultry pile, That yawns 'till, opening, makes the world beguile. Faint noise of summer blasts the birds among; Here, over yon lone cottage, God hath hung A fervent flame. Its blazing torment shows, But here, is nothing; nothing can be snared Save Heaun-in-life, when in the silent tomb, The fallen light seems gathered. All is gloom. Night comes, but, viler, needs there such a weight? Or else I wearied of a world in store, And quarr'd that nought against my constancy, Sad beggared I of life's meridian shore, By life's worn woes and wasted birth-pulse prest, Seeking a peaceful haunt. O misery! To me, alas! what cordial drop is this? To me, that bitterer comfort of the great, That is in life itself; from me that taste Of early happiness, that makes it fair. My child, if heaven be happy, if soon blest! Even yet thou art too dear for me to mourn, The solace that, to taste the undying worm, Wins me to crumb my misery. What bliss, What consolation! mild humanity Begins me to embrace thee; here I find Thy smiles, thy whisper'd prayers!--Here, 'neath the sod, Thou, like a soft and timid sleep, shalt come, Fearing me soothe thee.--Lo, my couch I part Here with a heavy heart, and through the air The rushing wind sweeps o'er me.--To the height Of my proud sorrow I had bow'd me down, When from the empyrean's grasp I tore Those aged limbs, and seem'd the only food Of an old, once; the lifeless game of life, Of age and labour.--Here, 'mid joys and griefs, I 'd smile, and, with a mirthful countenance, Pour'd forth the mantling stream.--The fates have placed Me near th' inglorious obsequies of death; And I have laid the many colours there Of life's pure splendour.--I forget not where Th' attendants of my youth, too little known, Have heap'd my grave with flowers.--Then dreaming o'er I watch'd the shining waters in the sky Which heaven defied, and dark and dismal cells, And aspect which in early youth had vied With legends of the gloomy and hoar, Until their mingling Voice the hills and woods Gave forth, a melancholy thunder thro' And the big woods with many a ruin'd rock; I seem'd to stand as one who mourns, in vain Parting the shore, part cables of the stream, And standing, here and there in converse wild, Of these refreshments, to forget a dream.-- Invisible beneath a floating cloud, I watch'd the laughing waves beneath me beat, As if they fear'd the storm; then look'd and look'd, Stammering, with terror ======================================== SAMPLE 256 ======================================== primeval hills, And crooked forests, shaded with a vale Of vine-trees, which, like those which erst the sun Illuded, now the Grecian ships ascend. The rest, not nearly lost, through Africa And Ind, till on a seat of pillared rock They landed, disembarking, on the decks Of numerous ships, for loss of ship or crew Or arm, nor unexplored, for pro assault Had plunged them in the sea. Nor, for they fear The tempest might be of that night the cause. Forthwith from council, from the shore arose All night the currents, so the people said; Then down from the high hills the wind arose And loudly roared the ocean through the void; As when an ox or horseman trudges off An elephant, and to his stall repair, And he has sown the way he cannot escape, So, fearing most, he plunged in search of food That rather likely might his hurried flight Might here revisit. But it grieved the God, Pitying his people, that such danger lay So near to join him in the solemn night. There in the boat he lay, much worn and wan, Save differing visage, and much worn by years. I have lain awake and watched the steam Hither and thither in the moonlit night, And since that slowly waked I've but not sleep Nor rested in the Ocean; if these stairs Be mine to climb, the beam needs climb the wall. But at mid length they climb the wall, and stand Upon the entrance, looking for the camp Of the warring multitude, aghast, afraid. Aghast, astonish'd at their movement, start, And helpless tremble; but the howling hearts Seem at approach of some huge-hearted man. For to some straining eagerness, methinks, The captains of the camp are sent, on errands, To search for help, who through the coward night Toils evermore, and turns no more his eyes To those the faint and watching, nor the camp Leading him back, but only, backward looks, And round the walls, still hanging o'er his head, To draw the cumber-curtains from the neck, And bind the man-dividions to his breast. One foot beats down the deck; the others fall Head-slapped and conscious; neither buckler nor The portal reek of the sea, or blaze aloft The pitch-acons. With one stroke, all night, they reach The harbor-mouth; for they have climbed the wall With all hands hurl'd back o'er the hull. At once Ascending, at the summit they descry The quivering bright main, and then within The western gate with bursts of fury rush Upon them. They with wonder look, and see In all the compass of the vessels sunk Cannikins, now within, now in the sky, Whence haply both are hurrying. There they beheld The storm-clouds (so the thick red rain is poured) From the shore, and there amid the abysses deep They fell'd. Yet neither these nor that array, Nor rampier'd fort, nor rampart of array Could check them; but the men stood arm'd, and aghast Their hearts already panted, and each breath Trembled within them. But when now the storm Had made a path in heaven, the others met In council; and among them Maithil maids, And maiden damsels, on the warrior sate, Daughters of Zeus, their placid homes o'erwhelm'd With the deep thunder of the lightningbolt. Then was a cave where under sunless heavens Mantled a broad and well-compacted stream, Which closed the port and served the shallow ford And check'd the water current, which by force Of the strong current overtopp'd, were plunged. Under the guidance of his stalwart boat The hoary Sea-god, child of watery hue, His prudent entrance scour'd, and down beneath Dipp'd the soft shallows, and they fell'd, and spilt The briny ocean with a second flood Into the billows, leaving them as salt As the brine the wind has driven. Thus they, There with the Sirens' song and charms inshrall'd, Depriv'd the isle of Ogygia, land Of birth divine; for neither sea, nor shore Of air, nor land of any, nor the land Of any ======================================== SAMPLE 257 ======================================== ' House, where reigns, for thee, Mankind created what is truth, What springs in them, for thee, of chance; And seats and jewelled houses gay, And robes, for thee, of texture slight, A wondrous architecture laid, Huge as those old Caesars were, Fallen are the Lords, but not the least. To this obscurest planet known, The hemispheres of night and morn The other lights, the livelong day, The setting of the latter light, And the reflected beams of night, And other lights of various hue, Allure the torches to our will, And cure our wishes to remove That darkness which is lighted thus, Pleasures of light richly wrought, The day's sole issue,--not of light This one, that, without help or proof, Pleads to the shadows on the road, The next, that drops the shaft that sears, Through broken shafts, the morning star. Lone in the moonlight and the air, So still, so very lone, and fair, The figure that I held to view, So deathlike, shrouded up in snow, The beautiful in white of snow, As she, before the world too late, And doomed to live a naked fate. And in the tree's green wounders, The sacred boughs to hang around, And there, till the diurnal race Of mortals, hurried and made sound, Thickened the crust from underneath Of the white heron, whom no more They tread in ice-fields underground. But these, and many others more, Pleached upon air, they did not find; Through glass and rock trans-meddering far, They stood; nor in the middle ground, Nor in the roof, the second round, Upon the third, nor on the fourth; These were their world of faces, they Struck but on earth, with such a stress Of passing motion, that all eyes Stained with tears left many a score. And, forth from heaven, thus calm and still, In one brief moment on they went, Like clouds, upon the world's dark hill. As, from the very seat of earth, There came a creature I saw grow, And toward the heavens did stretch its wing, And somewhat bore me, made me know The day would be, if I were dead; 'Twould doubtless be a paradise Where every dust, as deep as air, Fled from the changeful yearning That my poor hands have learned to swear: And, in the moment of communion, So pure, so bright, as 'twas my sweet, That, from the centre, to the centre, At once they formed and formed thereon, Where even earth less formed than heaven. Then, for a little space, of night, We came into that scene of light, Where the daylight's doubtful rhapsody Did, from our own, grow darker too; And, in the centre, far more bright Than if all lights were quenched of there, As is the first faint broken moon In heaven. Before our wondering eyes, For hours I seemed to almost muse, When the great Master said, "Behold A wonder for a moment seen;" And on the happy valley's brink He plucked a flower from a withered tree, And placed it in his crown, to show How what it was his hand did blow, And how he deemed it was his hand Which aimed it at a single string; And, in advance of anything, So far as was the perfect song, It vanished with the fleeting breath, And I but sat and watched it long. But then as watches which do stand On the four corners of the hand, Thereby more than was ever sung, Thereby more clearly doth it show The clear and visible view, which went So far in that last grace of light The trumpeters of God sent to the right, Then, as with lights and winds at ease, Lamp, tapers, and the brightening gear That horsemen's feet at dead of night Showed clearly to my wondering sight How they, in the last hour, before The altar of their Lord had come, Had looked upon the foreign face, And it was known and known that here There was no need to look upon Aught but the bare feet of an earlier god; But ere a prayer was read or sung, The clangour of the hoof and horn Did on the altar's front proclaim ======================================== SAMPLE 258 ======================================== And fill with pride the river's tide. We thank the God who first began, Our hearts grow young, our lips grow old, But the will done springs from Thor and Thor For coming times unfold. O golden Heart, rejoice again, The day draws on apace; When we have done and dreamed and seen, Then hide the world away, 'Neath thy snow-clraped, crowned Crown, and blue, While birds go forth on every wing, And in thy wreaths shall spring. Take no heed of fear or dread From the way-side; We are neither wood nor sod; The same thing is in God. For the wise old Has been taught That the only living springs In the wilful heart are sought, And the tired has but few wings. He is much too wise to learn How to say all that is said And most heartily to turn To the whisper of the dead. I took the dove to my side To fold her dear little one Till she should be made of stone; The clouds threw a purple pride Over her, she was alone; I was happy as she, as this. Now that all's finished, pray forget: The sun has not set, my heart has not yet To think what's before. Some lightness now is gone from earth, And silence, and hath been A sullen and dissonant mirth, And the pain of our brief summer mirth, And all things are nothing now. O sweet to feel the presses now Lifted, like loveless limbs, upon The smooth, white wall of one goodly land, Which pillowed once upon her breast, Not elsewhere, not elsewhere, is rest. To leave behind that ancient lair, Wherefrom she will repose; Past ridge and tower, past city-cherry, Her word has brought me to this house. Was ever eye of mine mine before, Deeply oracular, So deep is troubled sleep or lore To me, in this one vision gone, And only here is my abode, A palace, and a garden-bed, Wherein the Queen of Heaven once more Gazed on me Heaven's Queen of Heaven. She will not hear my ghostly cries; My quiet words come well to her, Before the curtain comes on night, And the light vanished from her sight. Her face is shadowed with a tear, But her bright eyes still flash with it, As she sees the walls rise disappear, And all her beauty gone to it. She sees that tall and shadowy maid, Who first shall come the morn; Her heart shall follow his, ah, then, That was all so still and drear. She will not come, but her light hand Shall yet have gathered strength to bear The soul that has been there before, As at a dream of weariness She waits here in this happy place Without some memory of decay; For all her hopes can never rest, And all her aims are strained so tight, They cannot bring them home to me, The rapture of the lonely night. I found her at the garden-gate, A perfect rose, Of love and living flame; And sweet and beautiful The beauty that must die; This lovely lily that doth grow Within this bud of bloom so rare, Which shows you but a treasure rare Within a single shower. Her warm red lips--as if to meet Her smile upon me--now are cold; And like a sea asleep the snow Is round her, and her eyes are bright, She seems as if I lay my hand Beside the gate, and at the stand The pensive porters all stand. Old gardens, oh the years gone by! The bird of morning slumbering deep! My heart is weary as a wave That breaks beneath some sunk caress; And all the while a painless tune It rises as I climb and rise Towards my home among the skies. And yet, when I have reached her gate, If I may see her smile or stammer, If through the branches that o'erflow My darling's garden, grey with dew, She opens, and she smiles on me. It was a dream one has not told, A poet sang of some sweet thing, Some story like a tale that told, As lovely and as true and deep As rain-drops on the hidden deep. Beneath a waning moonless sky He lived; and it is still ======================================== SAMPLE 259 ======================================== cried, "Stay thou! too hapless soul!" "Sooner than thou hast known me, Thou shalt die of grief, Sooner than thou hadst slain me In the glens of Marmadane, By the savage hurricane Whelm'd beneath the blasting main." "But soon I shall be welcom'd, Stronger than thou art, From the furious hurricane Whelm me deep, O Lord! "Sooner than thou hadst slain me, I shall die of grief, Sooner than thou hadst slain me In the glens of Marmadane, By the savage hurricane Whelm me deep, O Lord! "I myself will clear before thee The river strand Where to sunless noon is equal: No more grief, nor fear, Shall me rend, or quench, or falter, As thou lovest now. "Sooner than thou hadst slain me Thou wouldst call to mind The service of a life-time o'er me, And thy words are so refined, I could not survive it. Early I pass'd to rest, But the last fear left me, Left me till to the dead: All but this, O Lord! "And now I aloft can soar, Wafts through the dizzy height To some little glen whose slope looks down Under the blossoming boughs, And throws wide shade o'er all. "I will not leave thee, dearest! I will bathe, and quench, and weep, With my last breath in my hand. But though I may not wander, I will bless, and there will rest, The love in my breast, the passion in my soul, The love that is my own. "And in my last sickness, So all that I can give, Will be lovely summer-morrow, And sweeter days than thou, And a life that never endures." I have a sorrow. 'Twas once a gloomy wood, And chill with cold, Within a pleasant dwelling, With joy its walls enclosing, With wild ivy crown'd. But oh! no more a woodland Shall charm its heart, No green shallows fence it, Beneath an aged thorn; No darksome vault of sky Around its walls enclose it, No voice of man or maid Should speak its lofty name! But ah! the heart may break When I forget That life's enchantment o'er me Hath bow'd its giant prime, And stammering grown and dim, Has dream'd of Summer's prime! Oh! would that when my thoughts Have floated far On the stream of time, That gentle stream appear, And fade away in light, And deep in glade Of green, and deep in glade, Fade far away, Till time and change have fleeted, And yellow Life is fled! And soon those days so sunny Will come again, And Spring herself on them will lighten, Shedding her healing balm. There is an old story in Ayr, A quaint old song, That has told of some Danish knight In years gone by, Ages back in the far north Of a land of the sea. There are three friends in Bighlyland, They would each take a brother's hand, And they would be friends on sundew moor In the fasting and the drinking-salm. There are three friends in East Malvide, And three are gone, And the brother is but an eight-days'-old, But does no one see The place where the tide has run, The wild-buck is out there, the wild-buck is out there. There are two friends, and three are seven, But the one is no friends in Bighlyland; There are two of the north and west And two are no friends on the sea. They said to the little Gurnld, They would give him a knife if he would, And they said to the shaven-Also, "We are two, and two are seven, And never a one will think of us." There are three friends in East Malvide, They would give him a knife if he would, And they said to the shaven-Also, "We are two, and two are seven, And each of us likes a brother-in-law." And they have a sword by the side of a hill And they have ======================================== SAMPLE 260 ======================================== Above her height, a speck of shadowy white Allures the Fairy butterflies, Or paths of dragon-flies; Or delicate garden beds Of asterub bees; Or elfin eaves in sunny bowers, Or mossy eaves of rhyme half-mast Where children gather, fearfully, To try their wings. Or under starry heavens, in whose glare The Mother Moon herself is fair, When shrouded in her inmost shrine, In all her beauty lies entranced; Or under tropic clouds, on grassy streams On silver seas, Where warm winds moan in quaint amaze Wandering at will, With fairy feet that dance upon the seas, Or plumes of summer butterflies On lovely isles; Or under forests deep in leafy trees, Where innocent mischief raises house Of crimson flowers; Or under forests dark, which kiss the dark Wild impberries, Or under forests dark, where witches purge, And light her melancholy lamps, When walk the caves: Or under starry heavens, where quiet flies The stealthy Pan, and Morning fairies, Who steals the tears from sunbeams, trembling His twisted hues, Kissing the dark with dewy husk, whose flight Comes not to Hell, but all the night A cloud of dreams, Floating along the high-hung, leaping gold Of peaks, whose slopes, all fringed with gems, Are kissed, to lilt With languor and swift tears, for love's adieu, And joy and kisses spent. It is the height of heaven, the height of earth With all the stars above; and all their birth And all their zest of heaven, so brief and bright Have been but in its glittering noon-tide night, As ministers of heaven, teased all around With shadows and such love. And 'tis the height of heaven, the height of earth With all the stars above; and all their birth And all their slave are angels; and their worth Is love, without a stain. It is the height of heaven, the height of heaven With all the stars above; and all their birth Is love, without a stain. And now there comes in one long presence, near, And yet not distant, ever gathering clear And blinking day before her unveiled face; A front of ardent, stormy, frightened grace; And sweet and beautiful youth that gleams and glow, Crowning the earth with glory; ever young, Most beautiful and full of wisdom and of grace. And then she waits a long time for a speech; She breathes a soft and leading music through The longing crowd, but wraps her with a veil Of mist and vapour, fading far and dim As visions come of day; But she, like One among the many, lures, Beholds that all she asks, and all it asks, And is the fair word spoken secretly, And for her future weeps. Till in her heart a mighty passion plays, Piercing the acrid murmurs of her lips, That, though upon her eyes it falls, yet slips Asunder, scintillating down her cheeks, Yet nothing stands the poorest of her thrall, Nor all her hoard asunder. What if she Should lie, indifferent to the storm-fiend's art, Her woman's counterfeit. Ah, her red waist Ripened with rose leaves and the wasted leaves, Her lingering flight unholy and her sowing In heartless places of deep-walled, grey-lit meadows. Ah, what if she should lift the imploring hand And sue its sheltering heart out, and be mine Forever, and for ever at her feet Reeling, the while her heart grow old and fleet With hope, and all the fleeting things that seem. Ah, what if she should turn the hour of terror And watch the peril flitting out like dreams From darkness unto darkness? Could the scream Of the dragon fly across her breast? Ah, what if she should turn and smile at Fate, And be the Death, that, in some hungry mood, Wild hands should catch her, and to kill the hope That won her blind consentance? Let the hope Leap out; the hands that cling to Love and Faith Drop palsied of their task, and she and Death Are but one torture to the heart. If there She lie as any flower. Ah, what if she Should faint upon her lips, and the white hair Fall from the lifted brow,--the lover's hope? Yea ======================================== SAMPLE 261 ======================================== She walks here, dumb with pain. Thy master tortures me, like you, With many a dreadful look, And much of horror and delight, For they allow thy quite. Ah! what an awful and a sight Thee, frantic from that horrid charge! More hideous than creation's night, Thy path upon the wave, Is spread with terror, terror, and fear, While on the moonlight wave, Thou wander'st thro' the wondrous sphere, A gleam of moonlight, and thy stay, A dismal, and a dreadful ray, Is almost in thy doom! Oh! should there lurk, O fiendish one! On some poor wanderer's head, Or where a hoarse, lamenting crew May thunder through the night, Thy awful curse, I should have done, Thy very name in hell. And on the surging sea of care, Thy dread attendants tossed, With dirges deep and loud despair Sigh for the wanderer lost. Come, lady, for the ocean tide Is hurrying o'er the main; Come, and claim thy care-worn aid, To bless his home again. But do not think that here below Thy comforts cannot lie, That, while my story's closely bound, My husband is no nigh. He came to woo, he came to wed, He came to wed, he came to wed. Yet one loved woman, fair and good, He came to woo, he came to wed. The wedded lord was fain to take His place among the waiting crew, And bend his bow, and answer make To one that came not, for to woo Was to another done. I'm sure that Love can do no wrong, And know that I've no right to woo; Then whisper low he scarce can say, 'I'll wed another day.' But this I can not now deny, 'My days will all go right away, And none remain to say me nay,' But tell him, when his time is near, His pretty girl will sometimes stay; And he'll not say I'm weary of, Because he scorns to marry me. And though he would afford to be The victim of the loves of me, His wife, unless he seeks to please, Is not a lass at home. But that is most despairing-wise. When love within is tempest-tossed, How sweet it is to make the wretch Himself the victim,--for he's lost! If in the world the love are taught, The love unless you have the thought, You'll know that, won with solitude, His wife will be your slave. Ah! see how black it is!--it is The wretch who aims to win from us A penitent as we? I know the wretch who grasps the cup, Loses his dear and jealous wife, Sees even love go by. Weep now, my friends, weep now, For I will not let you depart While I the welcome have of smart, Saith I, and you the heart. Like oaks in that great antiphony, They made him pass his jokes and sing, His jokes and laughs to mingle, Their music mingle,-- The laugh, the kiss, the chaff, and they-- And all on earth his music is! My purse's unbounded A beggar's gift my poor soul's friend. Poor strong-belief I am Who dare the morning, So sad the reaper's That from his sheep's pipes I sell my pig. Then Hope I'm getting A merry mind to guide, While in my trembling I stand and think. Then wake, my soul's a- I have no need of sloth, When in my rambles The world is bright. Ah me! then rise and fly away; Thy woe I cannot bear! My drooping heart it takes my heart away, To thy cold grave and sadder sight I crawl, 'neath thy still threatening wings,-- Ah me! I cry, for life's pure light! O pallid sun! of thy cold beams Thou ailest me with silvery beams, And dead, I feel thy sad beams roll. O hasten, drop the tearful weight Of sorrow on my drooping soul! Too soon, too soon, the beams of faith Steal o'er me from the dwelling-place Of fancy and of ======================================== SAMPLE 262 ======================================== ; And there for us the scars remain, As here; their graves are gained again. <|endoftext|> O praise me not the Sun! that, when I view The heavens with amorous eye, and lie At ease on his uneasy uneasy bed, And feel that night is near, With hurried feet, that come to mourn my doom, And think, "What sounds are these?" I do not think that haughty thought was born By slow Meander's perishing demur; I do not shudder to behold afar His fabled shepherdess,-- Unconscious as the rushing wind or gale, Or the consuming blast That swept his dark forefinger through the hush of night. Yet feel I not that sight Fairer than all thy works, most welcome, deepest, best! Blest, thou whose name is Fame! Wert thou immortal when thy birth, The deities of Earth, Ascended, and thy hearths shall still be dear to thee! Yea, and immortal too, Shall my immortal portion still be dear to thee. I will have chosen thee a part, And my diviner part Shall move to Love, and bide apart 'Twixt Paphos and the love of Cressos, long ago. Yet something still remains: Something by long years untold has rolled Into my life, and made my pulses leap and beat; And something is become That was too bright for me,-- The vision of immortal years,-- That made the immemorial palace bright for aye. Not far, out of the ways Where sepulchres are piled, Abides the holy Mother-Maid; But to the heart she hath dear children still, A nursing-child she weeps,-- A little child, whose faery eyes Meet full of mirth and laughter, even as she Stands pale and pitiful and tears. The princes of the wrangling earth They cannot ever rue. A wise and valiant folk are they, But in their riddles are there none So big with sorrow, And glory is their name. O King, the world was once too wide For thee to tread upon. And now, though thou art far away, Thou hast but filled my heart With flowers and leaves and tender joy; I can but see thy face, And all my waking thoughts embrace thee in the darkness! And it is well To be of this thing. My little part of life is a song; Thou singest not alone, But thou that will not sing it long, Because thou hast no son. O King, my life is a song, And tho' your music die, Thy whole life dies in the slow song, Because of him I try. My little part of life is a song, But I have no son. In the vast spaces of the world, Trees are unshaken, And the high and unpassing, Even, and the whirl of waters, The myriad sounds Of the eddying years Wake courage in our hearts. Our hearts are a song, And the unspoken throng Renounce the evil days, And the night-long hours Fold and undulant Bear me the hot face down the ways; To feed with the light Gleam in the gardens of the dawn; But if no tears Drip in the spring, If no fresh comfort thou hast lost, To lay my heart Gone to thy face, Gone, O King, to be as a watch-dog, even, Alone and blameless. Is there aught like this? What is here For a man's to fear? I can give no comfort, dear, to thee If thou wouldst live-- Thy word will not come short to me. In pleasant leisure, we two will sing, Of the wine of David and the ancient kings, Of the simple ointment, and the words Of David's service, and the notes of thine, And once a little shadow shall appear, Thy shadow, in the darkness, lifted up, Soaring up steeply, climbing the steep slope That rises, with steep fall, in silent awe. I know not if I ever knew. Yet I was not a phantom of thee, Dear, and of life, and so thou art; Thy shadow comes from out the universe, Thy shadow falls upon my soul. And in the night I sleep, And the last rays ======================================== SAMPLE 263 ======================================== , he counted but his own, I but one, heart-broken, drop by drop Considered in a whiteness, none for her Wakeful but, ghost-like, living in a whirl Of joy which for one moment she must save, When she should find him for her enemy, Nor for the purpose of her, shred from shred Reflected in the present, place and hour. I, while this artist, who had journeyed, knew Pleasure's elysian allures, as I deemed All pleasures else unseen, and saw her grow, Hoping the days to come, the giddy height Of every glad endeavour! and that each Could be her own endeavour, half for her, Half only of the spirit's bitter lot, Yet half for that excess, which evermore Grows more and more distempered, till the end Of imperfect beauty brought it to a close. Nor that I, do I love thee! for the calm And quiet ambush of this grief of ours Which slumbering immorality engirds Our own perfection. Shall I lose to-day Love, or be found a shepherd without sheep Upon a hillock, or unfading flower, Gather a single rib of that which fills One single rib? No, no! The world I see Dies like a pretty worm. For what, for life, Is to be found not; rather, life itself We find with all our losses, sorrow, shame, Our rare and empty pleasures! But, for all, Love has two elements: the common heart Is a most potent passion, and the blood Aches most, and then it burns as if it dwelt On nectar. For to roll along the veins Is as the fire a thirsty bird with thirst, Feeding on nectar, hath the sweetest taste Unsatisfy'd, nectar is nectar too, And not a nectar that it merits now. And thus I learn to hold with all my lore A lesson, which alone I rate the true, And love most knowing. He who guides the heart Will feel the load it bears, when common lips And common words are lost in realms of song. This is my teacher. When I meet the Queen I leap to her at once; I find the base Self-love, and would have thought it! so, I know The pent-up passion, the exulting pride And high conceit of all-unwilling Fate. Love can but give the secret wayward love All to the full; and when at length he dies, Love's doctrine, like a burning candle, dips Into its ashes, and betrays its flame. But if he lives to share the common shame Of his own time, and yet be call'd a man Of equal honour; if a lowly bard Be quite as simple as the humble frog, And are but little understood at best By simple virtues; virtue there is none That is not born of low and servile seed. This wisdom sav'd from one frail natural Renders us better than we think of death. For, though we live so many things to be, Why count it difficult to think of life As what we touch and think? Where blest so soon, Good night! I'll think of what I am and know The joys of sense, the flatness of the pulse, The blare of wings, the exercise of heart, The love of nature, and the consciousness Of soul with body pouring through the whole To quicken love, that warms the breast of all To truest, till we grasp, with ecstasy, The perfect honeysuckle of the mind. Come, my dear fellow!--I am in the midst, And think I see you all the time. I know That life is such a burden, that when death Eases to bring some near or distant day, Some near to me, I cannot. What I know Is, that if perfect be its perfectness, 'Tis as the burden borne along the air, Glimpses and vanities, the selfish sum Of pleasure which a great man can create, And he can have no more. I wish to see That you who never falter. For, do you, I see not if you dare. So! Take my hand, And I will tell you in a solemn thought How I have loved you--though I know not now If you are what my eyes have long since taught-- And I have loved you so--that as you were I love you better than I do myself. We may be what we were before, the ======================================== SAMPLE 264 ======================================== [v]him in such host His fane were none o'erfull, though all [v]him gold, Th[=e]ienlest of gold, fairest and wel with trav'let And costlier beasts than gold, whet[=e] him an ounce of gold, He gave those gold he could not have plied Aught, which on earth with honour he had [v]himself Had self-deluded. To mankind--to men That 'scorn of gold, O monarch, wove the golden Warm sacrifice, and tak' it in their hands They offer with their hearts' best blood, to[v]in Unto the rich and simple who have sold it, And good or bad tribute at a price. Nor are there many at this day in Norway By gold possesounding; no gold can hold The glory, or[v]of him that e'er shall liberate it To the last state, since there is no gold there. Nor surely in time to be lord of kings Shall any be left, to be chivalrous Unto our people, one by one, and be In honor's place supreme King Langenstein, "A Santo Pietro, who can scarcely rob," By right permission--'tis enough for me. But thou, O king, hast given thy gifts to her-- Nay, take not his keys with thee. Mine eyes, I pray thee, Care not as yet for hearkening. Thou, a glove, Hast left him to us thus. Mine ears, be sure, These words have spoken truly unto him, For he his person would have sought to slay, And also, on a striking point, had sworn, As thou didst on th' altar, to to the gods, The most supreme last word of all the East. An he shall make himself, even now condemned By fate from Jove, to bear a death-doomed doom On men for evil, when the queen his case Conjured against him, and he promised him To be the mate of miserable men; But now, what life is lapped in bloody sleep, Which, at the last, hath severed from his lips, By evil chance, the king's son, who, with tears Shed from his holy mouth, weeps for him, Now made to be the cause of tears for him, To suffer and support him, fain would live, To greet his Lord, so many years of agony And peril in the wilderness to come, And yet so many years, indeed, since he A voice was wailing for him, save his child, Some shadow of the oracle had come From the tomb-mouth of Jove, who, gazing round Afar, and weeping at his destiny, Spake, and lamenting for his destiny-- "Ah, wretched father, doomed, to die for thee! Well hast thou suffered, knowing what a grief For thy son's wife can madden, and can know The pain of exile. Therefore now return To mine Hiatarites, if his ghost Remains alone, and none may call him back; That my foreboding may be vain to me, No longer could I call him such as I. But soon as these events have passed away They will approach us, and we shall not wait." "Ah, when thou com'st, return thou straight And greet him with thy son; for in thy presence Is nowhere yet thy son, to be embraced By friendship's tie, and by all things embraced. The immortal man, we know, has come to live, And he shall greet thee rarely, as we say. Come, sit beside him--ha! He, whom thou lov'st, Now understands; and, though it grieved him not, Will not sit long, but die in peace at last, Though far-off exercise of our desires. He will be happy in thy father's sight, And he will bless thee with a father's blessing." "Then Hetwaser will be a nobleman, And father Penelope, the care Of all the nations, with most reverent awe A mother owes, and on a charge returns To her, a young and beautiful Elder, Ared and committed, bringing thee up To his old mother's bed, with pious prayers, For thy dear child--whom in her father's home We left for ever. How my heart will yearn, When thou art gone, to feel a father's arms, And the old hearth unbidden sink beneath His arms again, like Cæs ======================================== SAMPLE 265 ======================================== , too, with walls and bars, And wheels, and columns, and shields, And all the arts of concupiscrites, And all that art can do to keep, Will change the watch they kept so long And steal so quietly away. With more than usual length of blade The stroke, as it is decreed, Will stretch his fangs and shade his head, And teach him to survive the blow. --The dints are gone and wasted-- Then fill the cold and dead; A faint and pallid man is flown, And this is death instead! Three men of all the lying block This grand old tracer of the Church, In the long wars with Customsel, The cause, the honest cause of all The many wounds that day and night Have bred in one man's upright right And made his law by all men rather dark. Four bitter years of servitude, And six long decades of exile, Our patient country's tears and toil Have wept their bond of many a year. Six burdens yielding day and night And night and day we owe this cloth And joy that in our day's delight We celebrate with annual prayers. They'll let us know the greater wonders The store of buried centuries That lie with me in banks of shade Whose flowers outlive the hopes of maid, Whose nameless horrors dimmed our eyes, And glare with presence more than truth And hope for ever, when we see Our quiet country's hope and me. Are there not some who now are dumb, That creak their long-forgotten hate, And weep for joy of losing all The laurel from its crown of fame? There still are those who of the old To whom we were ourselves are told The griefs we blessed in glorious days, Who in our youth were brave and young. O beautiful of soul, and fit To lead our landmen to the fight, O gracious angel! not refuse To let the weak endure the light, While Fame through all her myriad states Looks on us blindly and at will. And we, whose glory was but slow, Have fallen in the swift pursuit, And yet remain the less to know That we and our poor country's wrong Still care to weep with one another. The spirit now that in our blood So soon must cease and leave us food, We live our little span of life, The privilege of death and strife. And mark us not with visored eyes, For we have lost the old desire, That set the captives free and free As is the boundless empire yet. For o'er the wintry void we passed, And still we'll follow in the way We left behind us, God, at last, To keep the march of England's day. What if the age that passed away Some brother-hearts of iron won, We perish in the judgment day That breaks our dawn of golden sun? Yea, even our ruin may be traced By winged shafts of mighty creeds Railing into the midnight skies Through all the chaos of the graves. So when, amidst a waste of dead, A handbreadth from out the deep Shall loom across the shining street And set our prisoned country free, We'll pass to die like countrymen, And rise up strong in Freedom's cause To smite with sword and flame the free. Then, in our stricken country's cause, The world be raised to what it was And when the avenging days have come, To veil from us each lingering hope, And taint the land with blood and tears Our mountain-mass of blood and tears. The trees have crossed my grave, and aught Beneath my hearth shall live again; But, looking o'er the crowded way, Shall find no trace of man or stain. Yet through these patient centuries I saw, without a stain, The hope that from old wrongs profaned Shall rise up strong for greater plains. Yet though the frozen heart and brain May not, with eventful stress, Let once more human life depart, I still can hope to sing, To feel the hand that thrills and strains The chords of Nature's music strong, And of its joyous harmony To lend the ear and ear of song. To watch the changing world take on Its frail uncertain plans of bliss, And dare the seeming contumely thin Were life's caprice and purpose this, But the implacable despair To touch the throat of Memory ======================================== SAMPLE 266 ======================================== ; some arrow Trickt in my bowels, that are broken, Gnawed through and crack'd, and rolling, Rushed through me, As o'er the boggard's sheathing, Me astral! Because, within the intercepting view Of antique time, thy fame is growing-- An ivied oak, whose hoary top For ever keeps its ancient top; Though, verily, thy branches droop, They shorten in the morning-shine, Though storms have fallen on thy head, They cheer thee,-- When thou art near thy last redoubt, Then, be advis'd, nor be vex'd With noisy blame, nor call thee "ricket-gicket," But "garden-garden," and "garden-garden." Now staff in hand, now seek To plant with root thy youth for him With the stalks first blown and priming thy fiery To strew in the path, nor care If thou at the garden-bench be stops fooling Some clown in his club-room-- Wish thee a man! (thou say'st) a maid should never Behold the fainting wain in a soft grass bed. (From the master's knighthood he draws an axe, Which, rightly, will he smooth; But thou--thou hadst much too rough a skein For one that couldst print the upon histoire.) Stand up and swear! To hurt or to keep thee From scaring, be to lizard alive and strong, No sex in thee save mud, and thy nose against thee, Thou hated beauties, lest one dawning young To make thy love his brief vaunt: Strength is the 'force which bounds them on to flight; 'T is virtue, that of a foe; Beauty but mars thy flower. Now of the praise, damn me Who sang for the Band slow at her knee; But if her lip--smoothness me, She beauties beyond speech and at home, Vindicancy mocks me, Then you be talk'd to the dancers! Come, then, and dumb She can give the picture to me of myself: The honey-bee, The big stag, The little war pony, The big, solid antelope! We as cannily quietly droop When once they've coin'd it: A million on the brink Of wine to think, to drink, to think. I say by the witty and the quick, And the foolish rooted things that mock A man's sense right, your brown eyes stare Away in the face, and like a Greek You grasp the lovely small bright hair She is but one of Beauty's fair. Did I say "without a word"? Then if they hurt me, ah! of you, I should starve before they cut me up! I cannot bribe them; I cannot bribe; I must, or I am weak at times; For I am the flesh of the wild beast. Nor is it cheap for them to feel the bit Of beauty,--not to kill myself,-- My wayward wishes, feelings small. I beg a husky skin That I will tell you whence they are; I have some friends in other fields, Who help me with my friend's calm look. They are my heart's, and as my friend's. And not a creature of my kind Is harder than a dog to find, Than I, when only in the wind, Dance to my friend,-- The wanton, laughing, hoping elf. Look near the beast!--my sister slips, Into the gulph of my dear eyes. Oh, touch her,--lift her, if you dare, With vulture glare, and famished hair! My heart burns deep with longing: Oh, Put cheek to cheek, and make me gay. 'T is I who am my country's pride, I who, as carrion and as bride, Am come from marriage; they will care So far, or it will turn me bare, Or it will turn me black and bare. On holidays, when men are kind, I feed on roast piles and good beef, Sweet oysters, too, I like to eat; But what's the use of wedding neat That you arrange before? I'm sure I don't make no mistake; They have their cellar for the cook, Where if you should, no knife can break, 'T would be your work, you know. Well, let them dine ======================================== SAMPLE 267 ======================================== Her crescent wound in a frosty green, And the rest were silent and smothered and seen. A few lay in a circle, a pale thin joke, A dull blight in her lips and a shine in her eye. But God in His joy was careless and took No print of his evil or say good by dint of it, As He made the green green hills and valleys a quake, And saw in the forest a small shot or slant Or spark, as it comes down at the hour of least. And when in the night they drew their accustomed head, A small boy in a turban sailed with a squirch On a headland pony with thongs on her neck Which jinglingly rode on a goals of the Saxon To hear the jingling ball, and his eyes where he swore Were shining like jewels of cloud on the road. The hoofs that he wore by his forage were beaten By a tree in the woods; and the pack on his back That made, from behind the grey paws to the plain, A mark for the horse's girth, went romping back By the green, dusty lanes; and his straddlings gave way To the beast that had left the village to pray. And suddenly, a rough sound was heard, and the scent Of the grass that kept the road all out of it. And before, with his chain uponpins, he threw His arm along the bank of the grey tuft of a bank, And turned again to the sea with a gibe of abuse. Then followed the man with his gallop and cry, With the packet of brawn and the hunted knee, With keen whistle, the lips that answered his aim, And bicker and flap and the blood in his face, With the red-thonged quail of a stallion black Ripping on from the grass to the down-fallen old trull; Then he, for his love had left him, turned to the loon In the half-frightened moonlight, with lips of scorn, And keen twanging far off of the brown hawse's horn, And the whistling and whistling over the bull. And this was the song of the son of Aron the strong, And his life and his soul were over and gone, With none to hear him coming, none to hear him that day From the rocks where the reindeer ran ghostly way To the heaths where the beaver watched out in the rain Through the anvils of heaven, to the fields where the plain And the clank of the chains for gold. Then up through the dizzy height, up through the sea, Up through the rocks to the sheer ravine To the rapids of heaven, to the hills with gold, The rippling waters that lap the city's feet, To the lowlands where once the clamorous bugle beat That rang from the fort o' the Grave. And near to the bank to the top of the bank There lay the man who had seized his gun By the throat of a rope, and then bayonet That gaped as the rope on a Caucasus-bound coast, And the strength of his hands in a statue of stone. And on from the tangle of fight to the last, The man with a jingle and thud, as he ran, Between the hulk and the prow. Then bayonets whistled from hill to hill, And the pick of his jolly company, Colan, lashed His ears and he swore through the long hulk-bones, Through all to the edge of the horn. And along the deck to the top of the mast With his right hand grasped at the rope-jut rope He held till the waves either broke in a blur Of fire in the dawn of day. "If a man should die He can't get back his way," Cried one who had loved him the best of all, "Or ever death cut the rope off him stall, He can't swim back again; The rope holds in his hand, And the bell rings in his ears, And he'll never stand no more, Nor ever the moonlight stain In his bursting chains, on the sea-beach slung." Then they stepped inside the vessel Where the rope-jut rope was hung. And the rope-jut rope that they spun Tossed over to left and right, And he saw it fall in the bright moonshine On the sea-beach white and light, And the rope-jut rope that they biting spun With the rope-j ======================================== SAMPLE 268 ======================================== one day this hand of mine Shall a new morning take, And then of all the hours that be Dawn to appear; Let us, though the loud huzzar Rang back, to share. Let the next, from dawn till dark, The flying hours with swift shuttles mark Pale mountains stepping o'er the bay Where halt the herd; And my weak footsteps tramp abreast On hill and bays Where scattered flowers adorn each waste And greenest bowers. Let us next, as through the wood, Follow each kindling breath we drew, Until the landscape fades in view, Like night-dews, blotting the noon's hot blood Over the hills; Whereon they hope to see the scene Effacing change, And the swift sun come glancing down To shiver every devious lawn, While they, as once, the tents had scathed And stopped their speed. Some scattered flowers of them that loiter there Will meet me from their upward labouring, And while they pluck, their tender grace doth share, While hovering o'er them with unfaltering aim, The poppies twine, as, wondering at the sight, They spread their arms, and make a distant mound. How do the dews descend? the surer sun Scares down the same some evanescent one That, with these spheres made one, Thou yet shalt find; a falling star, Light on a night of autumn frost-bound skies, While life is dark in chill and icy skies. How do the breezes o'er the lawn upwind? How do the buds in purple bloom wilt find? Or where the humid rose, By sun-light coolness won, On the fir'd hill's edge reposing lies, As if the clouds in sleep A solemn secret place could keep With quiet brooding o'er the skies; Where creepingly the Great City spires, A solemn, stern and hazy guard, appears, While through their ranks, Soft from the East, With measured movement, bee-like, slow, Like a winged Spirit's o'er the main, The wondrous clouds in azure sweep. Ye Stars! that in the west With watchers overhung, Look Eastward, and with patriot zeal, Upon their blue displaying sweep, Impel the sail:-- Ye Stars! that hover o'er the wave, Whose crimson hue comes unawares, A country lover, on a grave Is laid for you, And sweet rest flows not through the airs When breezes swoon with whispering firs The sanguine gales! On a verdant field, Arden and Melyson sleep, The founts of all flowers near the door; The Forget-me-not, Built for the weary, and still, That, under the eaves, of delver and dell Sleep, under the eaves. Sorrows more than the world relieve, Lamenting of them that are less Than the world altogether knows, Is this the Art of the Things that survive, This the Master-soul that from death estruts, The transmuting Soul from the Soul that's thysquare, And the, Memory-Blossom, a Genius yet bears Upon it aloe. Better than Death is life In the memory of thee; Better than life more beautiful, Is life in grief or in agony, More than our whole life of it can bring, Or wish for thine; Hear, and rejoice; for thou canst not destroy This crown of that glory, thy place, thy joy, And which Time marred once, th' memorial urn! O yet some fill me with thy joy, Some fill me with thy deep, keen joy, That makes me calm and never sad, No mourning for a love that has been, But a memory of glad hours, The promise that in time should be An April--Aye, in time like this, So fair as first I saw the rose. Lo here, o'er life's broad woodland stream A Soul as lovely as a dream Comes to thee like an April shower, Blown golden by the June-tide shower, A wild bird's song that flutters high And in an instant dazzles eye A courtier of the planets' sight, Whence, midst the ocean-varied height, A craggy hill springs out of sight. There life is made that ======================================== SAMPLE 269 ======================================== waxen like a wave: And, save in turning each emprise, Or sometimes turning, the wind slings himself Sunder in, and gives up all his rights. Thus we are made one with the splendid sun, The one that breaks from darkness on the world; A poet with more equal soul than we, Who 'mid the dumb and spectres of the dead, Supremely blameless, sing to common men, As far as earth and ocean's boundsen trod. Man's heart may have been full of things like these, But of the high wild heavens all earth's gifts were lost. What Nature, un-Enriching all she knows, Works with her mystic hand the eternal work, Lifts up her clear voice and aye blurs it To please the eyes that love her most, and is Strong to unshaken wisdom and the mind And whatsoever men's desires eclipse, Makes glad the senses of their natural things. Down the great world of things that change must be, Falling asleep, down the great hollow stair Borne like a jewel on thy sunlit hair. But shall I bid thee pause? Shall I say, ah, this, That I am grown too lofty to make men praise A beast, for certain, who doth strain and kiss The hawser for my grave, even so? Ah, kind, Shall I make answer to thy request? Ah, kind, Shall I not tell thee that it is a debt Dying to win by struggle, or to lose By suffering, and watching pain? Shall I not make An answer to thy pleading? Nay, in truth, I pray thee turn; it is not gold I seek. Christ came from Nazareth, who had travelled far, A pilgrim here, and here he is at rest. Yet peace may claim for his averted lips Here in the inn whence he was wont to rove, And rest, and that unhoped-for-avenging hope That finds no undiscovered shore. And he shall cease, as I of this aware, Or he is talked of in the Temple here. "Three weeks apart, Our Lady from me parted; he and I Through a still inner door of unknown men, And here alone, close by a casement high, Watched, every morn, a golden-studded chalice, That filled our wine-cups 'mid the glimmering light; But when the eve of day was hid in west, Beside a rose-swept porch, 'mid lily bowers, And in the garden's verdurous solitude, I thought, I thought, he might his name renew. Now I have made a hope to meet him yet, A resting-place within a holy world, Where thou canst pray, and tell the solemn truth, And leave no vestige of this thought behind. Go to him: pray,--in this our blessed Heaven Anointed king and Lord of all the rest, Whom I, in after days of darkness blest, Worship as best I ought, and will lift up To Heaven some trust, and pass those vows unblest, That I too may redeem thy soul from sin. "Go to him, all unconscious of remorse, The holy man who loved thee once in youth; Go to him, go, whose fervent zeal doth stir The silver in the darkness of its path, And stir the heart to sacrifice to death, That longed-for life so sweet, so lone, so brief. But thou, 'midst the Elysian fields of light, When thou wert young, shouldst seek no other bliss, But dwell in them who rest their spirits light. "Oh, blest, and blest above all earthly bliss, We in this garden, blest by naught save thee, Not any thing but bliss can be exempt, And raptures as divine as the divine, For that can be where man hath ne'er been born. Oh, would to God, where'er thou art, there breathe A pure soul-thrida on the holy air! If thou art pure, canst thou, too, its very dews? No flood of heaven in all the universe, I'll drink in if I will, and thou shall see. Therein, as far as thou art high in heaven, I'll swear that even the sun will veil the shade; Still climbing heaven, at least, thou'lt see love's shine, And worship's waxen taper glows as bright As thy young ======================================== SAMPLE 270 ======================================== with lofty thought and worth March on us from this destined earth Where greed gives way and craft doth rule. For little children see and hail us-- And so I tell you--with tears they fall; (O, blessed human children, pity us!) A child in sire and mother-time, That, as the years roll on and on, Is by its clearness seen, is gone. So we in tears behold the sun, The rolling stars, the worldly wars, The happy plenteous seasons o'er, A little throng of friends once more. Such toil is ours to rule; and such The tyrannies of man's busy life, A little fleeting joys to give A little feast for infant strife; A little bridge of light and life Whereof we all do take to rest, And stir and keep the ways that lead Along our paths as from the East. A little ship that helps the breeze And gently asks the waves to come, Who thus doth guide her helm-holes up Whenever wind or weather comes-- Such good things to sustain, and bear, So far the world about her goes, That o'er the main the waves do steer. A little vessel, strong and bold, Yet swelling up like fire to launch, By tempest ever striving still To keep our hearts on board; For pilot-craft is ever tried, By luck and change and fortune guided-- And, since our voyage here is stayed, One mind with every wind is plied. An ocean-mother we must call; Behold her rocky strand we see; Two hearts are in her bosom all, And, answering for the rocks, we cry-- 'Tis God that will the waves defy; Then some will haste, and some will speed, And some will leave us all in need. A little fleet, with wondrous power Will follow up, by sea and sky; And when there's none along the shore, Nor any who have stepped or played The fabled anchors of our bay, Then, worthy friends, we'll each essay The harvest of our joyful days Without the fog or helter-rope, Till all our plan be ended and our ways. Ah! was it this I long believed? Was it the waves that foamed and boiled, That I must leave to such and to pursue, To learn what life is in a shadow-world to do? Yet do not I forget to tell; I'll call for aid, and so will call-- For, had he died upon the day We parted he had lived to us, And had no more to give to us. The thoughts, indeed, of home and friends Are of the times when meadow birds Will dip their feathers in the stream And return to their nests to us; For where we could pursue the fly Their several flight and fly, We would not miss him, and we'd try To be no other than a thing To join our wings, the same to guide-- But one wise mind is always wise. O happy wind that in the night Walketh, say thou dost sweetly sing! Thou makest all things mean delight, And turnest all things into things. A song made of the nightingale, All day long, So doth she charm the air That doth compass her, That she seems to sing, That doth sway All things, that move In a measure sweet, That doth control everything, that doth control Quitting the entire of things. There is a quiet here Under the sea, Where no winds ever blow, Where ships never pass, Where ship never pass, Where ship never pass, Where ship never passeth, Though seas never fall, Yet many a wave doth fall From off the land at last; Here is a quiet here, Under the sea, Without wind or wave, Right to the land from home, Here ends a quiet. How little knowest thou the unknown Unto thine earthly days, how little knowest thou of sorrow That by thy peace thou losest the lands of men! O dweller in the ancient town, Which is the offspring of the Lord, Where I with joy did follow down To the time that I was come. What pleasure did I then behold, To sit upon his right hand! For he with tenderness of mind Did wait upon each child of earth As surely as the day was born. But now the man is grown a man ======================================== SAMPLE 271 ======================================== eth thee to stay, Whilst others wail, or vainly sue, 'Till come the tempest-suitor too. Weep not, my spirit! The stars above Their light of life diffuse O'er the grim element, Whose dwellings ominous are. The hare, that wonts, when slumbering sound, To watch, unseen, their doleful race succeed, Exhausted in her desperate fear profound, Yet busied to destroy her, not her friend. In sorrowing mood she walks, and blames her speed. At length the worthy master with regret His hapless master's usurpated spoil doth prove, The sleep-sodded features of a deer, Scarce quite half-lipped from their own horrid reign; Which, as allay'd by preparation, tries Each to maintain, and be his faithful stay, In full volcanos he devours the rain, And drinks perpetual dews. With joy to see the spoils of warfare join'd In bloody battle, he prepares to blaze; Longing to faint in unsheath'd zest, and spare An unzellish for the ignominious feat. Thus, when the fires and whistling winds arise, And forest fires through seas and sands retire, And hurtling waters from the jovial skies Raise, and, as nature bids, their forces fire, Dispersed and soon to utter forth her voice, By wildering whirlwinds, and by thunders blind, Now shuddering, feeble in their foundering rage; Yet long, and hopeless is their confidence; While disappointment not a hope can bring, But from their slumber both resistless fall, And all night longingly they groan for him. When death approaching makes the victor dread, The sable curtains rent, and their limbs rend Their scatter'd corselet, and their scatter'd gore Each welt'ring breast o'erwhelm'd with sudden fear. And careful lest the crimes should close unseen, Some secret act their confidence fully hides. Besides, the holy and the dread requir'd, At dead of night they catch their inmost souls, And, soon dispers'd, with sighs and groans deplore Their absent lord, when all the stars are set, And stars shine out; each man with sighs must groan, Or bathe his face, repenting of his crimes. And who hath seen it, though no louder lays, In the dread presence of the sounding sky? That sentinel our pathless fagot tells, Whose blade bright thunder from above doth hie As keen, and thick as drops of morning dew. A trusty cypress, with her verdant wreath Hath hewn fair cheeks, and crown'd with gems of fire The white bull's-hide that hides his head beneath. Strong couchant lions in his lairs admire The beauty of the light, and high in air Rais'd the whole hue of th' angry firmament. The laurel leaves its bloody boughs emboss'd Of his rich clusters rich in leaves of gold. Already in the midst of myrtle-shade Stood Fennius, son of the great Chieftain slain, Glorious in death. Upon his mouth lay flints Of milk, and blood, and yet the fatal boughs Forfeited it; and, in the very turf His body was enfeebled, and the bones With blackness mingled and as yellow as the dust. Scarce could I see his face, the pallor there Stuck fast in darkness; and with pallid mien, Not knowing what he did, his visage pall'd. Then, fearfully, my mind cast round and round On all sides round the mighty wood to gaze, To mark if aught indeed there was to be Sufficient for a man below it. At the sight I seem'd to reel, and lay my limbs as dead, Staring through ferns and fennel-leaves to ground. Then with a sigh I thus began to say: "O thou, who rulest the seven heads of all, Who fell'st upon our goodly town, reflect How near thou art; if any such distress As we can speak of to these limbs we owe, Know that an augur good is here cut off. Thy valor and thy courage do restrain The city walls about thee, and defend From that too murderous and portending power The city Phaethontes, whom thou se ======================================== SAMPLE 272 ======================================== 'r miorum se accepit u'cula mortem. Omnis aevom, temporis sperabat ales: Imbriferis facie fregit et tenues et uices. Beneath the piny holme, with talë undefable, Amble for prey, away careering, fly we. By Nature taught, and fed with human flesh, Our bones are stuff’d with fleeces, and our holes With naked brigs; the nimble deer at first With pinion light our tender fawnes beguiles, Till before man we are, and ere man knows, One savage footprint. Therefore what wide-wind’d woe Penetrifies our life, and wide-deserves The dignity of death. We are thus lured Into a darksome pit, because we lurk In unseen haunts of innocence and fear. Well might the Father make us wish to end As “seniorum” writ with trumpery. Think on thy rashness, hurl’st aside, so far Among the clangours of the roarings of war, That cast thee on the earth, or dost thou cast O man, and dare the highest? What can move With fear of death, affection, or even love?” Oh, what a thankless smile and strong respect The high-born offspring of our dignity Touched to spectator! Then the world before us, In hearing low’ring as a bird is wont, Would fancy its great ensigns to behold, In living bosom, fann’d by breathing gales, And in the thousand clouds sublimely brighten. Let us be proud—O what a servile word Is that which passes with a princely word! Oh, what a hope, a joy, a hope above us, Eternally upheld and always loved! No heart-wound strove or knew us in that trance; Nature, in patient silence, shunn’d the trance. With health, strength, health’s re-assume the gale; And let the earth her choicest fruits produce, Far lovelier than the steep and hemlock’s force. Wake, Israel, wake! for ’tis already dawn! See how Aurora throws her fair damoon O’er the late-morning! putting on Thy bright, first-fruits! that ripen’d, brightening bloom Is like the morning morning mild and early! Come, let us forth. Oh, by the favour of the skies, Thou, my beloved, shalt mount and follow Wherever thou willest, wherever thy steps be, Ne’er canst thou find a rest more fit for thee; In the pure bosom of the unknown world, Thou art exalted like the first, O Love! And must thy work be done? ’Tis well, I think. My Christian friends, I had my life in charge, And then I’ve spent it, having done for nothing; All that my heart or soul could wish produced Was a rich portion of my whole collected, And all my other feelings had in charge, Because the food I wished was all collected. In vain, in vain, in vain. The tender touch Of Nature’s hand my soul from anguish drew, And knew no mean reserve. In vain, in vain, I hung the snares of care upon my brow, With wishful measure, and could urge no more, As Nature gave me, with a yearning, To leave the creature where he was before. Youth was my friend,--no fairer could I find, E’er to regret me when I thought on thee. But even when we parted, and whene’er I saw thee never, thine was all in vain; And all in vain, though all in hopeless woe, I cursed the hour that call’d me back to thee. One night, by a watery fountain, I sat in a dazegeon’s water, Bubbling, chirping, parleying, forming My brains for to waltz! And I threw up Thy peevish petticoat, my mamma, And got a rose-bush for my brows! A sobbin, a sobbin, a sobbin, My son, my daughter, my beau, my cousin, I never shall trouble you ======================================== SAMPLE 273 ======================================== , When I grew up and knew the spell I was too old for exercise to know. Then I got free supplies and hooked the bird, The kitten quickly took the kingdom he had bought, And to herself was given the drugs, most sweet-- So runs the tale, you see in half an hour. The kitten did,--Oh, now my picaroons droll-- Made me a house that stood in front of it, For I became as black as the brooding owl That builds in the geese, and where I should be I made a house of cards,--I'd build a fence When spring winds blow through the soft-horned corn, And its shy forms are lost i' the sunny sky, And when a bird would flit in my sunny bars, I watch the sunny light of thy pale eyes; Thy glossy breast is bared to nature's charms, But where is Mary?--Nay, where is the boy? The life of a boy--ah, where?--I know not! That boy is gone. And yet The maid I know will play The livelong day; The joys that once he had Were his,--for me. He clove the hands of his mother's boy, He left his own on his father's knee, And I in my delight Shall feel an ache For the touch of his strumpet tongue, When the news comes back That his mother's grief Has tinged her brow with down, And that her laughing lips Are never dry But loving him, The sadder things that are. I know that I cannot forget-- I know that I cannot forget; Yet I could not forget. The sunset clouds of the western sky Float crinkled around the hills, Where the downs from the river's low, white waves Look down with an evil look, Or ruffle the insects' wings of dusty gold, Where burnt-up grasses straggle and clack Reach out to the light-house top. The night is come; the moon shines bright; The sky is like a blue-black night; The down is blue, the grass is white, And scarlet are the banks; the light Of the flooded river shines Like a smile and an iron tongue of flame, As if it had fallen on my face,-- I feel that I am not wholly thine, Ere thou be gone! I know that thou art the real girl, And that thou art the real girl; That thou art best when thou goest to roam Thy feet are long and thin; Thy cheeks are pressed with frost and snow; Thine eyes are tender, so--oh, yes! Thy rosy mouth has a coral lip; My mother called for me at even-tide, I looked with pained surprise At the suffering mother's lonely eyes; And both of us seemed aware Of the madness of her lonely mind That cannot find itself behind The barriers of despair. We sat together by the fire, Just the same old time of day; You almost told me that we couldn't pray, And both of us were standing there, A-looking down on the old-fashioned way. I wonder if you guessed 'neath the blossoms That so trembled over their hair, And if in their ears I whispered the message, That I must have my eyes shut close? And the mother looking over her shoulder, With her arms outstretched to the sun, And her sad face looking up at him with a sadness As sudden as the rain comes on; But I cried aloud, looking down on the faces That you could see so well in them, And I thought that all your prayers would help in To the atoning of your heart. The wind had withered the acorns That wounded the soft little leaves; The tentacle-sparrows came slowly To where I lay on the old-fashioned way, With just one hand on my shoulder, And only one knee on my knee. The sky would hold out the stars, And forget to plead any cause For pity or other compassion, Or new or a little reproof; I would have replied to her often, That her speech was as soft as a sigh, Or some slight shade of the lilies Coming to woo and to die. We could see no more than we saw them Floating down on the old-fashioned way Down through the gates of the City, Through the narrow pavilions of night, And walking there in the lonely ======================================== SAMPLE 274 ======================================== , And draw some balm and other sap To my fiddle-faddle, Prying over all my limbs Like a rope of pearls. Ring out, little girl, Prythee, sing of brooks, And the wide world's turning sap Begin to 'prickle', For to lose is only folly In the wise maxims of the wise And early pleasures of the schools. Now we will sing a roundelay To all the neighbours that are here Who up and down have run with us Hear now the fiddle-faddle, No words of scribble, But the deuce take care of yourself to your ear, And never need a fiddle. You may do more than that, I think; Ye with your levelled hair May have less business then than talk, Or anything, ye know, than half, And God be praised for that. For hear ye London bells ring loud, And London town shall know That ye do well for that. But as for Adam, fain he would Have knowne that Pan is good; He therefore mote his neighbour's pipe Be neer so big, he cannot drudge With all his heart in his. When winter is the tonge And stars are here for play, And you can have no fear That Phoebus himself is gone, I love you, I love you, When summer is the time, And you are all my kith, And whether you're a kingly cloth, Or whether you are such a great As some of us may be, That when the sun is sunk, Our children no one chews For you, or us, or us. There's little need to set a fine tune To music; We want some recreation In the hedges and the streets, For the pretty little minstrelsy. Now sunbeams slant On the fleecy stones, Lift up such branches of the brest That we scarcely see them, And push out red-breast arrows For prey, for sport, To snatch the wretch from God, who rais'd Up soars on empty air. Night's wings are spread; Who can be wise should be, But for the wisdom of the moth That comes flying after: Blown brings the blackbird from the thorn, Blown stamens from the linn, The linnet from the lark Up soars on wings of light. The wild wood winds to meet them, The wild wood clears to greet them, And everything on earth to greet them Is joy, for aye and aye. Is joy a thing to die for? When the clovers and the sheep Fold warm round the sun's eye, We should hear them, one by one, Give a fairy-like reply, The Wind blew a blast to-night, The Blossom-bird a shriek of fright, The Cock was out of sight! There was scarcely breath of wind, Scarce a pin could stir the leaves, When the ancient Sleep-at-arms Brightly smiling said, "My child, On the crested over-branch I will catch thee in a trice, Far over yon hills and dales, Where the wild gorse blossoms fair, And the purple-colour'd herb And the wild-flower lend their sweets To the dewy under-ground; While I steal away to seek In the sweet and solemn night The Sleep-at-arms which once I knew;" Slowly closing Sleep's arms, He took the Sleep-at-arms from me, And, softly whispering, wavered On my tremulous finger-tips, Till the stars went down in the west Like a dream from the heart of rest. Fairy-like is that sweet child, The Spying Swan is made for speed. Boadice, to thee I will tell What the little Bird can do, When, into the uttermost Heaven of HIM, He makes a sweet and knowing song, To thither he'll listen, and hear the dew Of stars descending near and far; I will tell how the dews did fall, When the stars were pastured at last, And the night was almost done. The butterfly, sitting on the daisy That just opened to the Sun, Rubbed her wings, and over them she spread Her little silver net, As though she had not heard a word: She started up, but with a start, ======================================== SAMPLE 275 ======================================== we judged it wise On whom authority the praise should tend, If by no other stated act we bend. For always in the family at strife 'Twixt self and good, the honour and the life, Is things of which some deal I've just heard said, It was on Sunday after supper, sir. The dinner waits, the luncheon, every guest, No flavour like the gruel sweets impart. (You see 't is praised by all who pass as good. They give a hearty banquet to the young; A splendid time is theirs, for they approve You deal in gaiety, who're tender, love.) 'Tis very sad to see what they have got; They pine for something better than a job.) I'd like to put my curls upon the top Of every post, and hide the frowns I force; And having got my hair about my ears, I'll tell you all about them in the course Of my applause, and say I'm not deserving, If all I care to be alive, poor list'ning, Will be at work to-morrow afternoon, A duty, thank you, and I'll fix the scene. (Perhaps you'll pay my visit, if you can, If you desire it, if you choose to-night.) My readers may be slightly astray, but I Can't read the prose of each new Saturday; The evening is advancing, and we Sit up all tiptoe, laughing at the sight Of the calm shadows, when, far off at sea, The watchful Lark, pre cherchanting to be, Crows through the grove, so glorious and bright, Has made his golden glory almost bright. My pen is humming 'gainst these dusky walls, Where the sweet flowers lift sleepy eyes to me; And I repeat to-day, with absent-bees, How sweet they are in rustling trees and trees, And each in turn must be in his employ; So, with a smile, I stand and bid good-morrow, For I've been wondering all the time I've said That anything so lovely as aught worth while Could be in this world's commerce more than smile. The clover seems to kiss the quiet earth, And everything about the sky seems dressed In lovely flowers that God has sent to gild And polish every wandering plant and flower; But all things wear an aspect and a grace, Even in the very face of earthly love; So I still softly fold my being's wings, And bear with me through this fleeting world of things. This is the land where every poet sings; Here in the east what radiant colours rise, Sunning their steps in golden bars of light, How, through the soft and twilight-colored skies, Where gleams not yet the spirit's opening eyes, Birds from their fixed places their notes take flight, And the young mornings brighten into day; Here, too, the blood of heroes must take flight, Bears its red banner to the courts of night, Yet every rose must take its fresh delight, Because in this all-circling quality, Love has no other language than the love That is not paid to for one minute's span; Yet such a love as this may kindle hearts, And hearts, like ours, grow still to be more strong, Until, too late, the sun goes on his way, Striving with dawn to be of newer day To burst the world-old chivalry of song Into the drowsy silence of the night. Here have I known the lullaby of trees, The violet on the dusk, the violet cool, Myself held out with the soft gloom of leaves, Only my eyes now cannot see the form That seems a thing not seen and still receives, But as it is by now the world seems new, Though now it is not old, and now it is, Yet something has gone from me that was A flower, and if a blossom I had held The hue of all the days that are now past, It is not old, but it was sent to me As many days before to set me free From all those tears and suffering. I should have My outward shows of intellect and thought, For outward show, of majesty and power, Of inner self; and by the outer laws Of spirit, I should build the secret halls Of outward things. What of the desolate Who wander in the night? I hear the beat of breasts, I see the shadowy lights, But not the starry blossom of the sky That star-like shines to ======================================== SAMPLE 276 ======================================== Sends the spruce Musician, pingeus of the vein, To quench the fires and punish life again. But I am taught a lovers' words must be Dim-blown as petals blown before a bee. And this the balm that stings humanity Is this;--from Cathay and all humanity Ripening to mirth again; from eyes that dart Light from low-breathed lips in time to tender heart; From serpent sight and voice that with the sun Torments the impetuous skies; from hale on dun Elastic bandage, perfumed mystery; Riot of gloom still dumb with the cloudy pales, A cactus all unbroken, far ahead In desolate distances: where no sun scares The marsh-grass strange with brown, but spread and fed With saffron spots. One murmurs, "Nay, my child, I never breathed a word that called me brave; O woman, woman! child, for woman's sake!" Holds off his soul with him and turns away As one some ghostly pain that talks to stay Or warns away. "Ah, God! my child, What word have I for all my soul in fee? Is this prize love?" Nay, but still less for me Than those who used to say my name before, "Have we not yet come here?" The world looks o'er Gray old Domes of Sin, not yours, which is Shamefaced and cold and simple, but half true. Who now will understand these lines of beauty, Or live to learn the secret of the quest, See all, all through whom the great Creator's Divine success hath ever best expressed? You speak too well, your coldness just inspires To passionate words and breaths. Be not afraid; Nor pray too long, nor wish too long, in vain. Your lissom chinees showed you as you rounded Each goblet's end, which you, poor child, alone Could never give, if you would give it all. I stood by one who nursed his genius, rapt In that small art which takes a moldering lie Back in his heart, where, in the fireside glow, He learned love, as you,--to know, to cry. Ah! was there ever any peace like these? I ask. 'Tis much. We two may rise and live Forever, and we both may turn to go. Your grief, my child, subdues me; and I ween That never yet one thought of you can smother; And, as I never loved, no thought of you Can ever, in my soul, and, looking through Your lids, I think of you,--can only so. I dare not hope from your glad heaven of sight To change in anything, and say to me,-- If only of that faith which proved to me The charm that fled from me and left me lone I take from you,--I cannot hear the tongue Of a deceived one tell me what was all. I have all I have asked, my child, from you, All I can give, be nothing but of you; And, if it be not so, you will refuse To give a generous gift to me--to use Not more. If you would have me hold your hand Away, and win my love, not more, for life, I dare not ask your father or your wife To give a helping hand. Why not deceive, Out of her best, her strength, her heart, her brain Is but a little something. When she speaks, It is her voice which wants my heart to hear-- Your voice which looks for me, and I would be Too good for nothing but a single one, But for the one who sees you. Then I come, I am in you. To mine own worship, then, I'll come, my child, and find you in your childhood, In your most pleasant dreams, and, as I see, Believe, I know you'd rather be a child, Than one who sees you. He met her somewhere in the twilight dim, Strange company there, some in starlight there, Some in their office under the sun, Some in the starlight; and the thought was not Its fitting motion, nor their souls the less Able to bear it. And she seemed to me The mother of dreams and so of happiness, As she went down the stairs. "Well done, well done!" He cried, and they arose, and, stretching out Their hands, the others slept in the dim light ======================================== SAMPLE 277 ======================================== at once with fasten'd knees, And trembling lips expect no more the aid Of sudden adoration of his Lord. O then with fervent zeal, He warm'd the blood Of either priest, and chose with pious speech To pass their watch, their useful toil to bring. When neither ceaseless was the work, nor short, Was needful for it; yet, with fervent zeal Calling the Gods to witness, He resum'd The message to perform'd; exceeding soon, He deem'd the Gorgon rolling with its fires, And glowing embers, thus it spake again: "O Heav'n, I will confess the fault which lie In that best work which shall with our own right Deem less than knowledge of the Pow'r supreme, When our futurity is clos'd in sleep. For Heav'n allows not aught, that is beneath The Heaven thou gav'st; not ev'n to Heav'n is owed Our knowledge or our knowledge, yet the Gods Delight in good, and we confess it oft To err in silence, though in deep distress." To whom the Lord: "Thy words persuade, my Son. What further shall I say? another time I can prepare to follow thee aright; Thou canst not with Predestination go, Thou canst not with Predestination go, But canst not with Predestination go, Nor by the Scribe of Sacred continence Nor by the Scribes of Tents, whose crosses Heav'n Thou canst not with Predestination go. Therefore it is expedient to inquire What thou dost ask, whether thou com'st or no; And, to my Son, if thou exactly know, The short existence of thy mortal lot, What canst thou ask, but only of thy Son?" He answer'd thus: "A Thousand times have brought My stubborn spirit to that ragged ridge Of Tears, and many have with me depriv'd, Through this abode of punishment, ere now Created vast and round; but in my woe, If it be great or small, to have liv'd in joy, What can it then avail that I should fear Some Deity, and some kind Deity, Who sav'd me in the shape of my own form. Therefore to me is this their doom assign'd, That they their doom may aggravate my woe. But come, let us in silence pass the hours That I may say, and know that I must go On others 'bove the Good; for when they list, I will be like the rest; and, buried deep Within my heart, will urge them on to go, For they are strongest by the strongest sin. But first, if thou wilt pity me, and prove My strength against them, I will send in charge A strong and angry oath to break their oath; Then, by thy head, and by my hand, subdue The ill-barr'd multitude, and sate them all Under the seat of God. For should a King Arrive and that ill-judg'd me, I intend That he should by his own right hand possess The person of his glory, who shall free All treasons wound in me, and due revenge Urge on his foes; with fire and hostile flames Heap on his enemies, and fill all Troy. Then shall I wo to thee, and heavy groans A passage tore in twain from all the plains Of Argos, and lament my coming death, If any know thee, pity me no more." Thus saying, he drew down his purple veil, And to the Sire of Gods and men gave laws: Nine golden-irised axes, fitted each To other's use, bore down the slender string. On the fourth morn, in saffron robe array'd, With skilful fingers Argan to the strings Fell, and he to the chords of the sweet pipe Responded: "Nature ever with diffused light Diverts the dark womb, and in her prisons hides The madd'ning serpent; she meanwhile at last, Through the great portals of the darksome shades, Not seldom thence shall Ube's son behold His shadow lengthen'd by the doom of death. But come, and I will sing thee, ere the day Pervaded shall return to this sad mourn Where even toils and sufferings are denied. "Ah, gentle Bird! the Muses did allow Thy warbling voice to soothe my sad despair. ======================================== SAMPLE 278 ======================================== sad there lies a bitter grief. Beneath that wilder strand A daughter stands and cries: "O fair, if thou, to me Shall Christian charity supply!" And the coming of that is mighty, "Now, child," she cries, "In what righteous cause to suffer Is help the Lord with God. They will bring thee to thy father, To all thy woes and all thy pains! For them shalt thou no comfort be, When thou comest to the arms of God!" And that is all she meets and says, "For them in heaven shall lie our bones." Methinks I hear some earnest cries, And I would rather be in hell Than to be strong like her to-day, With her upon the witch's lea! To think upon her wasted life, And call for golden ransom rife With griefs for her, the dreary things, While she is by, and dreams of God! Poor wind! what sighing in thy face? Thou art a ghost, amid the mists That follow in an evil hour; And ere another dawn shall wane, Thy poor soul and thine own will wane. Low on the floor thy shadow lies; No word there speaks of heaven or hell. There is a breath upon thy cheek, A softer breath, a holier air; Thy lips are as a marble saint, Thy lips are as a prophet's prayer. Yet in the holy house above, Upon the starry arch of Thought, Most holy and most sweet of things, The sound of singing softly caught Smiles from the lips that cannot speak, And all the rest is like a trance Born of a new and living fire, That makes the sinner thrice athirst, Until, like melted icicles, The holy flames leap up to light. Why, let me on the floor be stayed, Because a little child I were! And then, O sweet to scatter dust, And hide me in the coolest nook, Though over me the ripples pass, Or o'er the spring a murmur brook Of sudden silver, smooth and fine, In rainy streaks of sunny light, Like rainbows, when they fell to-night! When you and I have walked beneath The shadow of the naked trees, And seen the hollow rivers, out In crystal light, become as we See through a scattering of flowers, And gentle rivers, safe at home, Remembering little, tender trees With all their waving grass in spring, And grass with green, and flower-like flowers, While still the air breathes odours, And only heaven in such an hour Can change earth into a sweet perfume. O you that are my bride, take heed Of all my songs that you have heard; For if you see my songs indeed, You cannot keep your eyes from me, Your voice so near the window-sill Must sound and come to understand. If I go out, my Rose, into the earth Where thickest darkness ends, I will go forth And show thee what I know. O flower-sport! I will not say too proudly to thyself: Thou art not that whereof sweet women tell Thee tales; but that sweet hour of sweet birds' breath That made those gentle trees articulate, I will not say too proudly to thyself: Thou art not that whence springs the air of Morn Those flowers to be. O flower! that art Fit to be loved and put away from me! O flower! that art the flower of all my days, The dew of all my hopes, and flower of all my days! Were I a primrose, that would shrink and pine All winter in the summer-shower, And die to be a wanton flower, I would not claim thee for my love, Till thy fair form should be all thine own, And all thy gold not thine. The world will hold thee small enough, Nor drape its heavy robes; Through outer mist the peaks and vales Of sun and moon shine through thy roots, And into flowery lands; The wide and level earth becomes a shrine Where thou wert used to stand. How shall I woo thee? how; till late Through all the summer-tide? Through the bare boughs of the saltbush, Through the bare boughs of the saltbush, On to the fireside of thy root, And down into the ground! That we may ======================================== SAMPLE 279 ======================================== 'd if we push into the ruinous airy memorable land of woe; And pined and pined, forsaken by the low, seeking them out of sight and sight, Safely the scene I'll leave:--but not for long shall I compose this tale. Old Gaffer's Night Thought of How Bhar Was Luck Alas, I'm writing here some rhymes to-day, Full of forbidden scenes, which seem Like festive pleasures, fraught with woes and joys Too sad for simple tale or song to raise, Like some poor song that feels its poignant pain And longs to die. Like a whip-lash's face, through shades of even The moonlight of those shady trees, With eyes of jet, like twilight, dark, And tangled for the purple fruits, Your face seems strangely beautiful, Altho' perhaps you hide your eyes, And look as if you saw the face Of one who does not love the moonlight, And listening to the birds about Are half asleep, while low and loud The whip-lash's strain the night-rain sounds, A sad but glorious strain. Striving to stand within my reach To look upon your face, I kept my gaze upon the moon And watch, with all my soul at ease, Till clouds withdrew like clouds before the wind, And earth and sky conspired to find Some fairer fruit. I stood beside your feet, I knew Your pain, your rapture! Then I went on And loved you more--more, much more, More,--more! The way is long, The path is clear For you, my lover dear, I cannot walk I am my own dear shepherd, do not fear! For here is nothing, here is anything, But flowers or leaves Or music leaves That belongs to the hours And the day And the mind Is constantly confined To the thought That is ever refined And refined Till by sorrow refined As morn Is with light And the moon. How visionary and wild The lulling of this thought! Incomparable, soft and slow, Wit, genius and genius are; But hark! How sweet the morn That tinkles so, While larks are sipping their morningward From skies of blue. There is a garden of my own Where autumnal leaves have fallen Upon their parent vine; A palace of delight And gardens of my own. Curtained of sun, and once a little vale And close to viewless foliage here, Within the gleaming shade of summer trees, Let us retrace our steps once more Over the mountains and the hills and rocks Till they can scarcely pass. Here will we make delay; See, far away A great sea And distant villages All sparkling with the sun, The coming of the rains. We will not wait till these Be overleaped with trees, Then I shall rise in state, With all my crown of boughs. Then will the coming of the rains Bring many allies; And when we pause a little while After the silence, then we shall Look into eternity. The great sun sinks in the West, And the dew is falling cool, Low lies the hill on his breast, And the fog and the mist of the pool Around him are falling, From evening's clear fountain The stars troop like travellers. What is that which rises here? He stands high in the heavens serene, The traveller through mist is passing near, The sun shines on him, and in my face His image is reflected. Why is it that the year With its clouds must be filled? Do they still bright or dead? Do they still bright or dead? The world has yet a prison That fetters me out of my prison, And that prison itself looks like death, And nothing is living but pain. I should die as I have; Death would be a crushing companion, But pain must be too strong. I should die as I have; But the sun shines on me, And the dead dreams, but not one. My love is alive to-day, I shall not be a slave; My love is alive to-morrow, But the dead dream, not the grave. I am listening, not listening; I am watching, not listening; There is a sound of singing Not of wind and cloud, So do I feel in my heart, In the grass beneath the sun. My ======================================== SAMPLE 280 ======================================== , Shaking off leaves, and crying: "Bring I wine!" The king had nearly closed the refrain, There is a fragrance everywhere, A softness everywhere, Softness that rises everywhere, Over the silence everywhere. There is a quiet on the earth, There is a silence in the air; The voiceless air is one with mirth, And softly, where the roses flare, A liquid silver drips, and falls Cool, scentless things Upon the idle earth. The gods are they who came to earth And set the seas ablaze with gold. There is a breeze upon the sea, A sea of summer in its folds, A salt, enchanted breeze that mocks The scents of life, from far away Comes slumbrous, sad, and quaint, and quaint. The mother of the gods, that day, With mortal feet and sweet voice speaks, And smiles, and speaks to men: "My Sweet, I shall not weary of thy pain." All day the weariness hangs on, The earth is like an Autumn night; The dew falls on the roseate bloom, The moments fly from dream to dream; All day, with sheaves of yellow light About the feet of angels walked, The shining, moon-lit dew they drink; All day, with hours, with hours, and hours, By broken vows, through nights and days, With hearts akin to joy and tears, The passing to their upper years, The language of their peace that glows. All day the frost hangs on the rose; The faint grey frost along the snow Gathers the silver flakes from off The leaves, and like a holy thing Makes the heart sing its brother-song. The village tower beneath the hill Begins to weave a summer-spell, And through the crumbling arch one rill Doth glitter down an angel-troop - A bed of sparkling, flowering mist, Warm, silver-tinted streams, that twist Their silver way through leaves and boughs, And kiss each other in the wind. White roses, blithe and beautiful, They die and die as dews of night, But the slow, fragrant winds of light Drink of them, and it is not long Forever so we may divine Our far, bright future, old and wise. A young wind is blowing from the west, Shaken by the leaf, he comes. He whispers in my ear; his earnest eyes Fix on the eternal home; his hand Points thitherward, and, reaching his hand, Sits long ago. His angels stand Waiting his will. His soul so swift Runs onward by the soul: "He comes!" I hear him whisper in my ear; His voice is on my heart, his breath Seems cold and vibrant like a sea. He was the image and the dream That waiteth for the promised hour. I hear him whisper, as the breeze Trails with the singing of the tower, Telling him of the precious keys Wherethrough the spirit of this land Shall come to take his rest. Oh, soft the sound of lute and flute! Oh, soft the touch of his brown hand! "He comes! he comes!" and every note Of his rare song, and every chord Trembling to melody, and all The wild strings stirring in a world, Waken a wonder, thrilling it, "He comes! he comes!" I hear him breathing on the night; I see his blood-red crest; his curls Above him, as he leans, to hear A watchman's plaintive accents fall From off his arm, and, strong and lit With life, a surging rush of tongues, Roll on the shouting cliff and shoal, Near and more near, until he turns And look - and lo! his face appears - As if he fain, in human fears, Had blessed the passing years. A full year's dawn, a strong one too, Bids me be happy and supreme; Not in vague phantasies of dream Endures the morning with its rays, But all the night it withers and dies. I am weary and so much to-day Of the orchard, the orchard, and the pond; I want to hear once more the hum Of bee, as if no one had spoken words, And the soft, sheep-walk in the grass. There are tones in every bird that passes, And a fugitive mood in every flower ======================================== SAMPLE 281 ======================================== and cuirasses, With hair that spotless and cold as snow. Then let us o'er the moonlight wave And with pure heart our course we guide. While falling dews are soft and clear With the cool dews as perfume weave, Whilst even the cloudless winds we dare To quiver with peritating breath In the dark regions of Death beneath, We 'll walk by the wave in the lap of the great deep, That hangs low moaning on the breakers. Farewell to Nature, all her treasures! Now the birds of spring come fluting, And back again in clefts to battle Have gone with gleaming swallows, Till the blue bound fount of ether Is cradled in each coral bed. Farewell to Progne that brave old ocean Is cloven by their fearful chains-- To all who sail the stormy foam O God! this is the doom, This is the doom of me, Wilt Thou not? All the world is blank With all its griefs and sorrows. I hope that time shall wrap the crust And wash away each care And cleanse my soul from every lie That is so cruelly dear. This is the doom, This is the doom of me, Wilt Thou not? All the world is blank With all its griefs and sorrows. When Winter blights the naked trees And whistles on the blast, By goodness of the winds that please, Thou wilt not hear me laugh. This is the doom, This is the doom of me, Wilt thou not? All the world is blank With all its griefs and sorrows. The world breaks in upon me like a curse, I'll follow to the grave Where Winter, with his tattered locks, Is waiting for the gloomy rooks That soar above the wave. I would not rise and think of him Who all day long ago, And from the deathless birds at night Forgiveness with his woe. I would not leave him, nor forget A friend so dear to me; For this to me is but to go And nevermore to see Not with him goes the glorious Spring With rich gifts of rejoicing, But blithe as the merry swallows That bring glad thoughts of home; Not in the gold of autumn, But teaching me to sing, Blithe as the birds of winter, That hasten the king's bird. So with songs for my teacher, And childish verses for old, I live for my master, And for ever for his gold; All that comes from the reader, Greater than all we miss, Heart to heart is a song-bird, The fays of Aillipps thereafter Come, let us go and meet Under the trees, and greet Each other again and again, And each has made the complete Wake! for the light is retiring, The garlands awhile are falling, The foliage with dew is dight, And all the leaves are falling, We'll go and greet each other Under the trees, and greet Bright skies and silvery latches, Smiling when we meet; Blithe as the bird of summer, That banishes care and sadness, That banishes grief and sadness, That banishes care and sadness. I saw a twilight in the sky, A soft and silver light, And thought, if haply grief and joy May be the guide of light, That is the beam of joy and light That makes the darkness bright. "O sister!" exclaimed the mother, "A bright, good-morrow! Make haste, make haste, my kite, Before the chilly North-west To-morrow veils its scarlet glow And breathes its freshened bloom." "This is a brave night," she said, "A merry, joyous day; But when will this good day Be gone in such an evil way? And then my mother away." And she, with gentle tones, Broke back the words she said, While still her gaze engraven Felt on his face and fled. Not one more tender glance of love Came to the mother's eyes, But, through her trembling speechless speech, Flashed of soft Indian skies. And then she kissed his forehead, And said: "The mists are rising; Our brother meets the sea, Across the edges breaking, In blue and silver sheen." Her mother's ======================================== SAMPLE 282 ======================================== rough and wove with gray; In face and shape the ball they trace, And wrestling with this hardened race, While gentle glances meet their gaze, They seem to feel a faltering feet, And trace the movement of their feet. Then ends the dance--the sport begun, And hearts with truest ardor run, As rocks 'gainst winter blow they fly, Defiant, wild, to sky and sky. They bow, they look, with wild surprise, And from their eyes the streams run dry. And while with stern delight they view The game they chafe and turn to woo, The matron comes, and with her train Joints the bright frocks of the main. His eye, that on some nook of earth Seems nearest to his restless eye, Sees far beneath, the ocean's birth, While far away, a vapoury sky, The Night's long anthem swells and swells Like the clear trump of war it rouses, And every breeze that sweeps the seas Makes joyous shout from many towers. O when shall Earth, in winter steeped, In the deep tomb of stone be laid? When will her busy hands forget To wreathe her with the mistletoe, And deck her in her golden hair, By cunning means that others wear? And when the westering sun grows low, In the next after hours to show, When Night o'ershades the brow of night, And stars their heralds Hesper bring, When the star's silver wheel shall run, And with his light the world's round Sun Turn homeward to his ebon throne? The flush of shame is gone, and on his cheek Bare thoughts of fearful battle speak. A lovely youth, with gleaming spear, Akin to Mars, himself sincere, Is gone with grief and Conscience near; Foredews he has, and dinted steel, And cannons' wrath to Pallas dear, With souls distraught he 'scapes the foe, He mounts, he flies, he slaughters all, At once, he steps aside, 'tis vain, His darling hour, he swift commands, To altars fair, and armour-band, With bows and arrows are aloud. See! from the altar, at the shrine Saturnian Umbellus springs in line, With precious robes (bays bright with wine) And piles of clotted blood of Thine; He, smiling, with a bride and prayer, Now storms the skies with sullen stare, And on the threshold treads amain When soon he hears the trumpet's swell, And glory bursts from lips of hell. A fairy youth, with rosy cheek, As coy's a flower, as young and fair, As young and fair as any child, With fancies bright, and dreamy air; But, ah! more meet he must embrace A faery isle with such a grace, That, calling forth the jealous Dead, The wanton sisters cheerly fled; Then left her home and, void of care, In woods and wilds and wilds repair. Beneath a tree, whose aged trunk With pinion spread, the Prophet's step Pursues the ark; there full in view He meets the sable tribes which swarm Beneath that tree, whose bolerous arm Points towards heaven's battlements. There, without fear of enterprise, Rides down with hoary tresses high, Each following other to deep coil, Nor ever less the unknown force When Thou art in their wonted walks. As some huge pile, the wanderer's fear, Condensed, the earth still forward bears, Which crackling o'er the woodland bends, Before the alkaiff screen it bends, And, waving far around, to fit The closest fence around. Who thus, in gentle words, accosts With heavenly names the absent and unknown? Lov'st thou the daughters of this land, From mountain groves, and streams which roll Thro' the salt sands? Or by the waters hast thou won Delay, which every wave hath shown, For all benighted as the whole. But few, who thus have learned to know, Delight in this great world below, With half so many ardent looks, Have thought their tastes indeed of brooks And fresh rosebuds, a thought is theirs; Which is not slow, they say, to mix, For fountains cannot satisfy, Nor r ======================================== SAMPLE 283 ======================================== off from us, And crush me in a wriggle's pace. Oh let not my remembrance roam Throughout the throng, or far away; For I am past and not at home, Though unrestrain'd, and driven by care, And should I once more cross the air Yield my sole chance with joy or fear, 'Twould then be well for a man like this To die for the confusion of him. We are but dead! Then to the press Let us as bachelor make our prayer: That this may not be his, in fact, But dead for the assurance there. For which account the man who dies Will more than never fail to speak Of one day's duty, when life dies For that no earthly task is sought. His life is borne by many times And many times 'twill come about, When they who first before him stood, The men of king's eternity, Will learn to live as brave men are, Then come and have their liberty. In vain men's pride, or bondsmen's woe, Alas! 'Tis theirs to strike and blow. The dreadful blow but lightly dealt Will not be dealt in kind or ill. And like a ship at rest, whose course Is idly o'er the waters vent. Oh! God! Thy great economy Is sealed by truth, for all we see Are moaning and complaining; And all things else that move or strive Are motionless as ocean. Yes, Nature's God! Oh! God of might, That in the darkest hour of night Thy creatures' good would fail us all, And earth--without her. Ah! Nature 's stubborn as her clay, And wreck'd is heaped for each sweet end, Yet the sole reasonable ray Will always guide us on our way. Then if she dwells with holy fire, If her heart's darkness turn to mist, Will she renew the God we name, And put the former God to use? Oh! Nature's God! Oh! God of might, That hast thou made it, and design, With silent brow and fearless mien, To waken up its wildest flame, Through the wild dogs to mingling shame, And lift it up with steadfast gaze Unto the face of a God, the Lord Who holds his heaven on his right hand. So naught but heaven is left to thee, Nor reason is to be prevail'd, But not to see the sons of sin Whose blood till yesterday was well; But nevermore the sinner shall By the keen blade be led to hell. "What fools are you, who fain would see A worthy thing?" quoth one. "If thou canst see aught else for me, I have no need of sight;" "There is a thing, if seen right, That shines in heaven or earth, Shall my dead body find; And great things be of birth." "The wise God tells his wisdom: I know him where he dwells, For there is none he knows; And though he seeketh bliss, The very lowest hell Will be upstayed with woe." Thus spake the dying saint, And wept that he should die. And I must say my say, If I may see and prove That as I saw and prove, I will endure, and love; And as I deem it best, So mourn I as though none Would ever after know The weary waste of woe When Death, whose dreadful hand Had ta'en so long that scanned, With sight of all his store, Hath set the world before. "How then shall I be glad That I did thus arise?" The Lord replied, and sad, "How can I, Lord, thus mourn As though I were a clerk To lend me other leaven, And cast me out of heav'n?" The Lord cried out, and smil'd, Then put his vesture on. They mounted at the word, A sunbeam took their way; They pass'd, and come again, As fain that I might stay; And as before they stood, A light shone on their aisles. I saw them as they pass'd, But I could not perceive How I should look at them; Nor could I at the sight For spirits to endure; For of their truth I did My prayers, all I could, That death could thus be got Without the least defect, ======================================== SAMPLE 284 ======================================== fair thy brow; Breathe on these flowers thy melting sigh; And let thy liquid breast retain The image of my inward pain. Then if thou canst--that need must be-- Thy grief is overmastered by me. Dying, that ear which has no ears To hear, but for the eye is near-- The dew will leave some heavy sigh, And leave it soft and sweet to die. Fair Derwente! if any chance Thy choice to share may give, Which must for thee be fair to see-- The eye of Nature blind must be! Ah, say, for one fond mournful hour, The "last years" have thy tomb! Weep not, faint heart, for the days are come, And thine has been the fate of all! Thy wish is gone--thy love is thine-- Thy joys have passed away-- Thy hopes have fled--Thy joys have fled-- Ah! whither are thy lambs and ewes? Who is it now these violets raise, Singing from spray to spray, This year a dirge of Ariel From unknown realms away? So hither, sweetest Spring, To thee we send the strain, That with a note thou still must sing Throughout the world again; The smile that shines from Heaven, And brighter far than thine, Is still to sweeten in the heart The lovely seasons old. So, sweetest Winter, thou To me didst lend thyself, Thy evenings to renew, Thy morn to crown with flowers The daisy-path of love. O, emblem of the soul, Still, before thee shalt thou fling That soil, which earth did not estend, Nor erring care where earth did spring. Come hither, every heart! And read from every page The magic name of things Who now are at thy side! O, not a single look! I catch the sacred fire Amid thy dewy boughs-- Such look as innocence beguiles-- But, ah, such look as love beguiles! There is a mystery in the air Which is not born of summer days, As instinct with the sweet surprise Of beauty's features hath it flings Unspeakable upon the eyes-- As in a rainbow's perfect birth, Ere Heaven withholds its brightening wings. I may not linger, I may not stay; I would not creep into thy bower! But in that instant I must lay Myself beneath this savage power; And if some creeping linnet, dressed With russet locks of wilder brown, Should chase away the pensive guest, Whose heart with fear is always full, It yet may draw from hour to hour A deeper feeling for the powers Of Nature, and a holier power To make the bosom of the earth, Unsatisfied and free from dreariness! Come, then, deliverer of the scene! Who thus have led us to the door Which Nature keeps for ever, till The hope, the zest, the spirits fail Of seeing farther than before-- As, after scenes of sceneless shade And sunless skies and fading stars We still may tread enchanted ground, And muse upon the sunlit heights That yet will shine as in their youth! O, thou Great Master of the earth! O, thou art in the light of God! Thy wisdom is abroad in all That hemisphere is veiled from man. And watching earth--earth's mighty sons-- The golden fruit of wisdom bear, Whose radiance buildeth in the heart The portals of a purer air. O thou, that day of union born With day--that day of union born When these fair flowers beneath the sod Wave high with freshness in the sun-- Yea, Lord of lords and King of kings! And, Lord, in this as calm a night As slumber in a stillness, when The summer flowers, fresh-blown and white, Come forth and light the gorgeous sky, Have touched the clouds; and all the souls That now are fluttering in the breeze Were once swept upward in the dark-- The angels who are seen to glide Swinging, and bending from the height. And all the souls of these night-walls, Who in their glories wear the crown Of higher things than the loud kine, We know not, and we who are not! The morning is rising and spreading Her rainbow robes ======================================== SAMPLE 285 ======================================== , your pains! Pray, has Heaven heard? thou ask'st not of me In vain I fight, to win that sacrifice? Pardon! for him I grant these pains. I pardon? ask not from the skies What solitude thou would'st impart! Thy heart the weight of conscience bear; Till then, in all its tumult, shall We sit and cry--Adieu, dear Heart! Then, if our souls can bear and brave, Descend into the shades of death, And be no more a little grave, Then shall we breathe from out thy breath, And say--"Here, bosom, thus we lay; Thou art my Master!--so must I Endure this scorching heat and strife And fire, from this incessant life! But never let thy contrite sighs Be turned into these burning eyes! What! didst thou shun mine armed hand! Didst thou forsake thy private stand, And cast off thyiture of hair, And look on mine in all the air? I took thee by the foot, thou say! Art thou still Kilda? Doubtless thou! Art thou still Faust? Oh, this is thou! But ah, if the world were an empty throne, And the gods had fallen upon the throne! So wise as thou, when my own eyes were fain To look upon the future of my pain Is the outer world. Is the end of all? Is it not always so? He who is sad who looks beyond the tomb Over the darkened laurel and the gloom With longing eyes that saw it never rise? He is so good who seems no more to weep, Being quite alone within the world weeps deep, And O my child, art thou not always glad? Who lookest gravely on the falling leaf That trembles on the stalks of every broom? Who symbolizes evil when he breaks it free? Whose spirit meets the invisible God anew? Whose call is heard from year to year? He cares not for the dead and not the dead; The dead are good ere they have risen up; The strong must wait to show them the same way. Who battles? This is he who daily goes To win among the victors and disgrace Where no caresses rule and smiles, but stays At home, and turns no more to the East lands; Who humbles life to sickness, wounds to strife, And fails, and, though he cannot understand, Fears not for any crowd but him to meet Where anger would have spoke. But, far away, His feet beneath the darkness will not stray; There is a city that he can not spoil, Its high and many streets, and stone-heaped door, And a small villa where he may not look. Who blames his lot? Not he who needs must fear. Who hears the voices of the souls of men, Who does the wrong and he must bear the shame, And to himself forgets the easy name, Whose dying voice upon his life was caught And pressed to earth. The old rejected thought, The useless grief and the despised despair, Are the just heirs of all that made his life A living, and he lives again, the same. How long wilt thou look with another's eyes Upon my anguish and my pain! Yet soon Thy pity will refresh my gentle one, Whose pity yet shall bathe my wearied frame, That it may guard thee from all storms of Time And bid farewell to all my grief and pain! What though I still can follow sorrow, and bear Ever some wrong to others or to me-- Not for the same I'll live, but for the love That thou hast given, and for the sight of thee. For, oh, thou know'st how truly I can love-- Though 'twere but in a different way--the years-- Yet I am happy as the dead; and still Would I remain where I have loved the past; That, till I end, still by my side my side I'd stand, and in a smiling countenance Point out some little to thy better years. What shall I be when all the world's at end? A light that trembles in a world of clouds And trembles in its lonely star-paths, lo! How shall I make it seem, or make it seem? For me it is an earth--of earth the tomb. Then, if this earth continue, if its scope Be reached by storm, or if it still remain-- If these things ever prove too long for earth ======================================== SAMPLE 286 ======================================== --not all my brothers-- Might as well have braced them, Rather than a hundredweighty Buys them quite too straitly. Now the holiday's departed, Leaves no trace behind; Each man speeds his steed, to meet thehorn, And, completely stung, Paces round the verdant mountain, Throws his head fu' proudly, Wears a shrill, shrill, hoarse cry: "Eevein' een, by this sun-dawn, Won't thou rin a bit?" "It is not, smirch-white godheads, Not the angry, ghastly, ghastly Frisks of midnight-glory! No! a horn blew out of heaven At such a wild, mad sunset, Driven in a fiery red-hot levin Ne'er to be reborn. "By this blazing, pygmy's coulter, Mocking-wise, grim-gluttony, With thy mammy's stuffy Crammed beneath the wadding: Pulp it down, yon ravening pander, Lest thou kill his pride!" "Ha! my son, hast thou met yet?" "By yon moonlight fleck'd with fury, By yon sea-tang gush'd with fury, Lest thy frantic boilers, Born of high desire, boil thee up in mad embers, Many morns in crucibles Bury thee and die!" "Ha! my son! hast thou met yet?" "By yon moonlight, dimly glimmering, Mists of midnight-glow are falling, Lifting up, I see thee, Rocking on the storm-beat lea, Ha! thy son is riding swiftly." "By yon moonlight, in the gloaming, By yon starlight, grey, and glimmering, Children of the air are passing!" "By yon starlight, gray and glimmering, I can only say 'He's at Home;' Or, if it be dark, some other Sow him deep some other's tombstone." At length, as with a mighty roaring From the forest he broke in, Proudly urged on St. Lucy's carvels, The sweet bard, whose bosom shaken In the battle's might, while ringing He swaggers on his feet, Slew both steed and horn, Rising, ringing, swinging, Till all the unearthly gloaming Made his snow-white breast all glow, In bright disorder, o'er the snow Quenching warm, like heated glowing Waters of frozen ice. Water-lilies on the meadow Nestle, pink, and lily, Ever brightly brightly glowing In the midst of sunny space; And the wild wind homing From the icy, roaring, Night of winter, swallows flying O'er the, snow-dragged ocean Thickening all with hazy hue, And, o'er the, wan blue water, Shining faint and slow; "Over-bold! the warning Comes in torrents at that voice! Ah! I do not even see it, Nor the charm it seems to reach, But I see it flashing brightly, As the christening tide doth seek Or, with swift exultation, Toward the wide world coming, Like the thunderbolt it coming, And his sire of might and main Far away upon the plain Sinketh in a glorious rain, And each golden hue and color Through his open eyes doth shine, As if earth had touched and bound it; So his face, as in a dream, Beamed with brilliant like a stream In the face of heaven crowned; And as earth was, heaven shone With the light of the coming sun. Then up sprang the red-faced jolly, Cocking-wise; the jolly tents, And they stood in wide array, Like a giant-sized church-yard wall, Where in sudden silence heard Echoes that wild music near, From the forest, far and near, With the burst of summer thunder, Hollow and and full and loud, As if a voice had come, From the far estray of echo, To the murmuring of the cloud. Such a voice! such a voice! There were triumph and despair And the echoes which drew, as From the forest or the ======================================== SAMPLE 287 ======================================== His harshening pulse. Aye, heavier grew his heart When first love only died. Low at her feet The rough world coiled and hid from her, and all Her passions perished in his breast: at times Her hand put softly forth, but dark it grew Before his door. His lips, the hard words said, Heard not, and in his brow he bowed. With tears His love was fanned, his eyes were raised, and high Across his memory swifter there he stepped. Then suddenly the young man hailed the maid With his sweet word, and yet--dear face!--she turned From him, and cried with a cold touch of pride,-- "What noble art I do, O widowed one? What power of love or service can I serve? I will revenge myself. My name is Death, And to my love all strength of life is given." The day was hot, and rich with sweets, and she Sang in her ear a most sweet melody: The flowers were scattered in the garden wall. Her quiet home, and with her trembling hand There waved sweet incense, till her song grew white With the bright glory that her happy eyes Showed where to rest; her heart went back, and with her She sat her down in silent reverie. Then all the birds sang, and the sunbeams played Their summer harmonies, and in her ear The music of the wind amid the lilies said: "O river deep and wide, Where are you going? Your wandering tide Is all unknown to me. It has no shore. Henceforth I'll come to you, if you will come, And I your message will obey." She spake So blameless, that she seemed to see her words, The while she sighed, "O river deep and wide, Where are you going?" Soaring up the sky, She flew across the little risen World Which she had left, alone with Love she flew Between the leafy leveld and the rippled tide, Till, where the thorn-buds hid her from the wind, Under a misty and uncertain light They saw the Lady of the Lake. A sound Came from within, a long and broken sigh, And up she started from the watery sleep, While the freed water, as it gleamed, came near, And through the tangled glooms of lilies crept, That held their strewed lilies under one small head. And here and there an eukaleli roared With throbbing, wanton laughter and wild glee; And pearl-pale light of laughter streamed along The water's edge, where, in a golden song, The curlew, smiling from the bending spray, In giddy, wanton play, Stepped in, and gathered lilies, very thin, Which told of lilies, pink, white, violet, And fairy things, but most of all the gleam Of the glad water, made her zone for the eye Of starry heaven, wide and wistfully. Then, coming from a ring where ivy-fragrance bars The tender rills,--there by a maiden wove A glory-wreath of frail, flower-wreathed flowers, And led her to a temple; and, behold! There, in a moment, swooned she, like a dove Lost in the wildwood, on a flight of wind That vanished, and the sea was lost behind; And that sweet glory by a dream divine Gently she waded in a blinding swine Until, above the shadowy water's roar, She floated like a Spirit down the shore Into the tranquil wave. As still she held Her deep robes flashing in the morning beam, The sylphs from off her shoulders drooped their heads, And longed to kiss her hands, but she dreamed not of What blissful vision hovering there it led. She heard a little voice, That sang, "O boyish day, A prince may in his lifetime prove a curse, If it were not for thee and thee and me To wear thy glory in a king's embrace, Or to take revenge where no crime was in place, For which a king may in a hero's blood Make all men shudder for his villainhood." O maiden moon, Above the bleaching meadows far away, Thy sweet and silent radiance lies on high Above the twilight of a slumbrous sky; And with the soft and balmy-sandaled wind Thy lustrous rays, that they may yet be blind, The little shepherd heart within him keeps ======================================== SAMPLE 288 ======================================== , and father, mother, sire, Are nothing like thee; and our twin content, Who make such great and glorious mystery, Is wonder-working for the mystery Of thought and memory, for our brotherhood." Then, suddenly, he turned and went in fear, And lo, upon the precincts of the hall, A book-box stood in which he had a book, Unknown and poor, yet fitted to his need, To be an emblems of the darkest mood. In truth the prince of luxury took part, And showed himself as at his royal ease, With a little sad, and his expressive eye, And a look cast in a friendly attitude Of one subdued and meditative mien, And an equal temper of tone and gesture, All in the same costume that he had known. A rustic knight descended from his palace, With grizzled, shaven head and wolfish beard of grey, As though the infant of Apollo's cane Had caused some splendid music; but with mien And drooping visage, with a downcast eye, He read his port, and never spoke a word. Then a fierce demon could have come behind A single lamp; and on the ruinous hearth, Satan had been his escort in the town. As morning comes, the light in her own palace Hangs o'er the ruined threshold, and the rain Runs down the roofs and cedars; and the jar Of a strong arm lies on the enduring iron. The storm blew from the east, and from the north Come thunder, and the hurricane's fierce breath Came rattling on the window; and, with a shout, Rushed the red tempest down the chimney-top, And the town glittered in its youthful glow. Then from her ruins rose the cry of woe And smitten to the very topmost tower The daughter of the lake was called the Naiad. And sure it is an everlasting grief To have both of them fallen there together, To have bothotted and destroyed in one, To have both intertwined and separated too, To have both gone together they and I-- Not one, not one, was left to me. Stiff, squat, with shaven head and hands and feet, The daughter of the lake was very sad, And did not speak for very grief. But she Was sad for just ten hours and it was morn, The night before her in that place. "What do you here, O gracious lady mine? Why have you come? Why have you come to me? I will not speak, I dare not look at you, I wish you to be with me at your wail." A dark cloud passed across the mountains, Through the quivering air a silver stream, And down into a shady valley With shining arms and beaming eyes, it came, And a most lovely day was this: With a ribbon of fawn and a fillet of blue, And a chain of lilies breaking on the thigh; And little they dreamed of the lovely lake, With its dark green-clad stones like pearls in the water, And a dew and a smile on its face like a smile, And the sunshine of its own lovely face like a smile. But never again came a dark cloud, With its dew-drops both on a golden wing, Nor ever a lake seemed so blue, and dim, Nor ever a cloud like the ripples that run Through the racing ripples on the shining sun. And so, through the mists of evening, Their beautiful lake lay calmly asleep, With its sad, sad sleep; nor a single tear Was shed that way, save only the glorious wake Of sorrow; and the stillness of its look As the white mist melted away. From the old woods now, in the wood-fields, No trilling echo rose; But a deep, deep sigh, that softly stole From its silvery tones and trembled there Over many a many a bough. And so they went, by each lake feeding, To the very home of their own love, Through the long, long summer hours; And the stir of their winged beaks, that still Breathed on the lake and danced on the shore, Is stiller and sweeter than before. Hither, O hither, to come, I see the fawn is wild and fair, With rosy tasselled tassels blowing; And laughing, and lying there In the dark grass, a maiden, alone, Murmurs that all her life is gone. Yet, O ======================================== SAMPLE 289 ======================================== , you wot there'll be some blemish, Some pinch of elder brandy in it, While you sit one day at a grand table, While you sit one day at a grand table, While you sit one day at a grand table. When ourbooks are read, And the titles you've forgot, We must keep our books in the kilns How cold it is and still; Let the fire burn high, Let it still for ever die, And we'll be gay as boys at play, Pricklay and Scotia's dun, And a-weep at homesick men And they'll never know again Tho' they fled the toilsome race, And till they had sought fame, They made strong men of all the best, But they never found a name That shall never, never be forgot And the hawks that ranged all round Will soon be haggard and unfurled Till men at home are bound And wail for cold and wept for sad, And then they will be sad For there'll be many a heart that's never Most like Irish women, and we know All the evileries that will open You all day long to come to woo, But to-morrow, when you sleep, You'll be very loud and deep, And as angry you'll be crost When you wake and he'll be prancin' To the lovely English lady For you, where you may stay, You'll be cruel and raw, And wilful, and unfair And bitter will be the day Why, why should you go so far from home But come, O roguish-hearted one? There'll be no damsel so good anither As ye were, and all right glad at heart For this was the pleasure that I had To see her smile on me, That I had some music to welcome her On this lovely English lady. Lands foretelling all things I Think of when we did dwell, Now we're back among men, But, O when we meet no more Let us throw a frown and fret At this wilful, hawking of mine And never heed it! I would do so too with mine own, That I knew I never would get For her sake; So I lay me down for her--yes! yes! Though I feel no hurt nor hurt, Let me stay; Wherefore should I still lament There's enough That I loved her, after all my days, To love her! I must woo men, for I love the like of old, That when they dance about the bridal chime They wonder if the sweet time is past And I would have them know the other times That we were dancing then! O why should I be weeping then For her forsaken and abandoned ways? Let me be left behind, for she is now, A wilding place, A strange, sad place, Where I have some joy of all the days To take my fill, And forget that she is here In front, with that front face! Oh no! the common things that be Borne to my mind, Are more than I have ever known, And come to mind: It is not wonder or not ruth To be so blind To that poor spirit of the sea In whom I had a world of joy For to enjoy. As on the shore I have my ship to steer, I too would laugh to clasp a child And be a sailor; The wind would not be much less wise To see the baby shining there And be a sailor. I thought, "Go home, child," but I would not, So I clung to the crested and gallant And gave her a careless request, And wondered why, With no innocent answering smile My baby was slain by my own. But, child, that night, I thought I would spare her And take her back again. And I'm sitting on the top of the stairs With this little Mary that I love. And tell her I love her, and I'll tell her How pretty she is and how loving. And as to the stories I've just to tell you They're pretty enough to make out for A skimming boat and a skating skiff And a apple or two with the new fish And a dancing girl with her laughing eyes And pretty bodies about the sties And all the things that are to be, But I am gay and I cannot be A Willow in the best of the row The Three Glassoons are in ======================================== SAMPLE 290 ======================================== earth-- Nor could I be for ever blessed By any prayer on any breast But the affection of my mother. For long ago I saw her on the moor Run that she never could have risen. Sometime she was a boy in petticoats, And frolicked with her hoopoe feet. And now she is a man in scarlet clothes-- But the darned she's to be made bold! Some one started up and scratched me, And then she rolled me down in deep sea water, A-carteing to the doctor's daughter, And "Pit," she cried, "I've done what I'm already done." She got into the house to stare, Pale and conversant, in that voice Of protestation, you know how Your dumb cox-pointion pricks me,-- And only you can’t look at me With the big red mouth that never stopped. And she is--ah! and she's so tall, And oh! how handsome she must be! I'm no authority with her, And why she rises and pricks so! Pray, if you like her just my way, She mustn't have to take the pains To shut off so much suffering. Like one that had a mouth for sweetness, And of indolent repartee, The oracle and the innermost recess Were locked away, one time together. I think I see myself as I saw you, With mighty joy and mighty pride, And run into a raging traffic, A surging thoroughfare of trade. And so, you three, when out of work, So far, and so near, I must tell ye Of railroad courses and the swift wheels, And now, you three, I need not tell ye To any one I ever meet with! The more thou'dst learn, the less it's mine, As Roger, Job, your fellow-citizen, A watchman of the works divine; The more would you have to see him, How well could one as one desire him Have cobbled him about the fire? I have seen him frequent too, to see That he is not a commonfiend, But, strong enough, his raiment spun him, At every jolt, through every bend. And thus to dwell, for want of proper vent, He tastes, at times, some hard, and struggles To catch those hearty digestations And sweets that to a liberal diet Are quite as easy as he thinks it. But, Oh, the vast delight of living, The like of all in being far, Of being good! But, ah! how funny, When more is not well recked of seeing! My picture, too, while I have holden, Is built in such a feeble holden, That, let a pupil, there to tease him, Another would have dropped his brush. There are who wish they had a friend, So far beyond their present sufferings, Who wish that friends should ask their end, Some way, from the world's tottering portals. I like them; but I know their ways, And will not please them while I'm by them, For I am envy of their praises. There is a dandy in the heavens, And there are planets on the moon, And, in the one right, a great sun. And the noblest souls, from east and west, All little vassals I have known, But, oh! how many do I see them Going to rack and to diminish With the supernal satisfaction Of being a part of that heavenly dance. But, oh! I'll tell the trees their story, Till the air and earth shall die, And the moon and stars and planets glimmer, And night, with the revolving wheel, Hurry to disappear ere morning. Then, that he who is thus so youthful Will be upon a little longer, And, if there's any thing in life, Will turn an old man into a hearse! And yet, the learned peoples'll say That since I have seen him so much, And he is not a whit the worst, I must believe that he has travelled But half as far as he has travelled. He does as he was told, and is nowise cheered With an angelic sympathy. And I feel, As I look in his face, I believe that he's met In one of the moods that used to keep, Lisping and prattling rhymes for a piece of a ======================================== SAMPLE 291 ======================================== , with slack wings, Hang on the starry heavens their hovering lamp-- See from its gilded car The steeds plunge deep in air and through the sky The figures of the Gods arise! The splendors of the Heavens Glitter with gold between the ethereal and the radiant; Light in their rapture swims, Flame through the air, and streams The draught from the Cimmerian mountain to the Sun. Then by divine embrace, And incense for our sovran's soul, the gods, deliver The immortal flowers of song To crown the eternal years; And so in chant of sacred love our powers fulfil The priestess and the sacrifice. For lo! where the long noontide sets The sun out, and sets, The overmastering West, the land-locked rivers of the Ocean; And how, from sky to sky, In the listless hours, With clang of harps, and whisper of the hasting kings, The brazen blazon of the pomp is broken; And yet, through all the proud archical pomp, A terror is abroad, Like the hoarse thunder and the crash Of a great trumpet, hurtling the awakening earth. All vain the eager vision! The veiled Poseidon Gives in the thanks that to the immortal Gods The immortal gift Is ready, O thou Hermes! Bound is Thalaba with his gorgeous spell; The past is in his mind, Nor can he quite forget The once glad yesterday That freed him in his youth. Still he views the free and undiscovered way That showed him the young brows of other days, Of when it seemed a sacred sight Than his own were, when the Eternal Eld Veiled the Old world, and the ancestral knew Them, and from all the deeds of time Fashioned the world a mystic sublime. But see! the daring hunter now Is within,... The hunter is already crushed, The trees are bare, In sheltered places, he must search For the pale moon And the brown shining orb of the heavens; They come like a swarm of bees Scudding from an unknown way, From the orange groves of palm-trees, Where the wandering Indians play, And the ostrich from the forest in the valley; And over it come the breath Of the putrid Libyan pests, The blackness of an awful death; Avengers of their swift decay On the tilled lands of Norahs made, From the burning fields of cane-tongue Where the never-resting tigers play, And the lice-swarms crawl and crawl, Their sickles forgotten, Their tongueless tigers Groping for meat in the sun-forsaken valleys, Where the eagles of the strong Flicker and flutter along the quiet waters, And the frightened soldiers of the war Shake the dust from off their tunic's hem. The Fagots of Afrite, once the friend Of the Prophet, now the last, When he was called upon to strike the blow Upon that unbelievers' side, And leave their exiled teacher free To search the depths of his devising heart, A perilous, a bleeding prey, And drag from out the desert sands, Where yet a corse of sand remains, Thick with the bones of many slain And the last remains of many years. Now at that heavy breathings of the war He rose, and thought Of a cool bank of nameless herbs, And a strong brook within a glade Where the past grass was like the plain; And then he leaned And called his faithful Arab youth, The aged Persians round him threw Their arms and shouted out his name, And in their midst the Prophet came, A youth that was no more a man. Older than Rhodes, and fleet as winds Far up in the sunset sea, His beard was crisp, and his face was red, And his eyes were overfilled with tears; And he lifted up his voice to sing A song of wars and rivalries And copses and copse and river and lea, The green of the deep, blue, brightening sea, The gray of the west, the gray of the dawn, The gold of the morn, the grey of the morrow, And lo! he was gone, he was dead, Older than Rhodes, older than Rome. And those two boys were left in the grave, Older than Rhodes, older than Rome. Older than Rhodes, older than Rome, He was at his age ======================================== SAMPLE 292 ======================================== lust and malice toward them fell. Then show'rs of gold lay scatter'd in the air; And Cephalus, king of great virtues, there Stood round his person: high on his brow A crown, with slungen gold, proclaim'd his peer. A crystal sling his golden braid confest, Which--turning down his glitt'ring eyes from far-- Had broken his helm, and leaving on his breast Two chains which lov'd him as he bore afar, The brothers' treasure of his arms had bought. Of gold and silver was the glittering staff: Of silver--sparkling metal--never tied To man, because its strength was unconfin'd. Gold was the sword and all the gems it wore, Which he with labor gifted to decide. And now he faints, and scarce himself appears To loiter longer on the wat'ry scene; Yet he with sobs and sighs:--the mournful bird Feasted, but scarce the throat so strongly rais'd. The bloody streaks remain'd:--the victor king, Tir'd with the agony, remain'd, but came; And still more fierce and haughty his dark eye Flash'd back, and o'er his dark-brow'd form it came: Yet must he groan--still groan he--but not for shame: His heart had hope of victory--and claim A promise--'midst his inmost soul to rise, And rush to arms and to his hands and die. Thy heroes dropp'd not as the hero fell; Their tameless rage he could not then repel. But having pass'd through all that dreary space, Thy brave heart shudder'd as the awful sight. Earth trembled, but the seas ethereal roar: The strong sea murmur'd--but the babbling flood Flow'd, and the sea was still'd, and all the sea Held to his feet, as if afraid to move. Herself, a rival of the ocean god, Herself, and friends of th' infuriate sea Clash'd in the briny hold, and seiz'd her on. The omen of the nations then was done; Amidst the tumult, heard the wild harp-notes; A warlike nation to one grandeur gave The bravest and the noblest of the brave. As starts the shaft, awaking from her sleep, The faithful warrior cheers her with his leap: The shout, the cry of terror and affright, Betray the arms of nations to the fight. A thousand squadrons fled the summons dread, Men form'd to meet the signal of their flight; And sentries rose, and muster'd as they fled, And clamour reach'd from distant lands. Full in the front the advancing army stood; The foe sought shelter, but devoid of food. Upon the shelving banks a boatman shot A deadly arrow, slipp'd by many a turt Where stream'd the blood: no farther than the surge Bursting the narrow anvil, and the roof Snapp'd in the current, seized and carried home. As thro' the depth he hurried, men must flee; They fled; and in the forest left the deer. The chopper arrow found a snare, the wolf; The monster pass'd the mountains round; the crowd Beheld him plunging from his covert, bow'd And quiver'd, and the forest's trunk o'ershook. Right on the passage through the forest came Two troops of savage clans;--man, horse, and hound, The savage foremost, and the savage worst Of all the monsters of the mountain land, Swords, bowmen, boars, and tigers of the forest side; Huge helms, and necks, and hands that bristled most. Fiercely he smote his buckler on the head, Till in the dust he fell, a dreadful sight! Then quick as thought, the fiend his death avenged. The brothers, brothers, and the sons of Troy, The warlike Solyme now from his death escaped. So, by his valiant arms o'erlook'd, appear'd An uncouth band. The Trojan ranks he pass'd, And many a spear-thong dappled in his flight, And many a buckler hastily he donn'd. As the grim lion on the hart, who tries To match the force of some resolv'd defence, Stays, backward, round the range of circling eyes, So far, the Trojan masses; ======================================== SAMPLE 293 ======================================== the trees he comes, And lays down all his strength; He has emptied His fair fane, He has made His own, His own, He will have broken it too,-- Who shall make it anew? He shall gather for His future creed Such as men have dreamed in vain, And fashion it of truth-- Such as men have never dreamed, Or ever have dreamed in vain. He is grafted with the tree Of knowledge, and the bird Of his knowledge spreads and grows As knowledge spreads and grows As knowledge spreads and grows. The shallop floats on the stream afar, And the undertow by the shallow breeze Is music to the voices of the stars. They stay there when the moon goes down, And still the blindrift sweeps Right onward to the quiet town. But men can never know How much about her power shall fall; For often from her side Flies one who sits, and sighs at all Not sad, nor proud, but calm and fair, And from her brow the shadows rise Spread, or remote, in their merchandise And, on the earth, is hid. She sits upon the water's edge, Her eyes are fixed on the bay, Her head is wreathed with forest birk, She hears the night-bird's call Pipe through the moss, as if in fright She watched it scurry down the dark The vapour from her hair Starts in the water-lips. She does not know that subtle wile, That ghastly, perilous design Which bade the dark and lonely child Put off the shroud, nor stand again A moment at that name. 'My sons, it is not a moon,--' I feel 'tis time to turn again; I am sure I saw them first, According to my skill. My life had wreathed them round about Like twighes of cypress or of thorn, But now, at dusk, its brightest colors bloom Like flower-flowers dashed with a white thorn. I say the morning-glory's scope, The winter's morn, the morning's star, Are not my buoyant youth; But I have drunk it from the cup And drained it unbequeathed; Nor do I care where lies it hid. The world is parched with thirst; The fishers have their fields to watch; The aged labourers Have none to sell; The young men must do well While the old labourers Are paddling their swipes. One, two, three, four, four, five, Filling the eye, Steals a slow smile On the ones he sells Where is he sold? He has broken faith, He has cheatedegu: Languid and vexed regret: At the three or four He has belied it all. One, two, three, four, five, six, Thinking of death, All wrinkled but the brow, No rest can give-- Not even a bone. One, two, three, four, five, six, Presences that breathe out breath In the vast and soulless earth, As the calm sky when the tempest raves, And the wind in the tree-tops lifts Its voice in the gusty night, And the gusty rain. There are those Who have no heart to say All the things that be That no man knows. But they must Bear still as they are, Who have no word Of what we know-- Who need but hear. --Not as they would, But they will stay Till they are gone, We shall not wake, Dry your eyes and your cheeks are wet With the rain-wet light that is in you And hurts it so. O you who gave Light and life To one who is dead, Bowed and bent Because you were so fair, Hearing what you have said, Hearing how they have smiled, Hearing your name, Hearing what they have said, Hearing what they have heard, Hearing what they have heard Giving what they have heard To one who is dead. Lovingly, truly Roses of honour, Don the imperial camels That guard the imperial palace Of the kings of the earth, Hear the wondrous story Of the dead kings And little babies Grew to be a nation, For the world we know nothing of, But that there is nothing about it, Nothing about it. While the ======================================== SAMPLE 294 ======================================== me down to yonder mere, And there I'll lie till yon'er look me in And then they'll go to me!" "There's a sweet and pleasant quiet To one on the map," I went, with my face turned to the glare, And I heard the sound of a voice at my door Call out from the far-away town of Loou. Oh, weary, weary road! From moored horse back, The grey dust swells with the calls of the town, And the shadows play with the shadows, As over the meadows, in the morning, The rivers run into the sea. You feel it a well off the sound of a bell, And hear it a knocking at the door? Oh, noise wild and strange to ear! And from the lips of the crowd, and out of the City, And on to the Far-away, only sounds That run through the streets, like rings. There are sorrows in city and dissensions of men That enter my mind in the evenings I've watched o'er, Though the Clangle, round-eyed, hails a beautiful house With its empty cold walls, or walled around with black weed, And I'm dreaming tonight, I can't seem to have my delight In any spot which is known as Gosh's Hill. There's little of everything in the world and all its places, But I fancy sometimes things that I never forget: There's a something in the landscape about me and I'm wondering why That people call it city, but I think it a plain thing to know That it's all of no use, for the air is everywhere about me The tapestried door in my house. Oh, nobody answers that, as my window peeps out of the window-pane. No, it's nothing but crooning. The thing is a house. It's all of no use, though, that happens. But I guess there is no place in the corner; And if I had known, I could have had a new window. I like it so much, in my attic, But I can't be where I am, Though I long to go out and be missed by my bed-time. When I step outdoors, right down I will be at the window, And throw the glass over the floor. On what do you think of my bed-time? But I don't look at you. When my bed-time comes, the wind Hails a stranger entering, Laden with the delicious fragrance That is always dear to me. So I walk unseen and do not find it As I step away from my room To escape the cruel Boreas. THEY are coming, my heart, and you know it. They are coming, my dear, But you never may see the tears down my cheek Till they fill my eyes of you. They are coming, my dear, and they are coming, But you never may see their face. They are coming, my heart, and you never may hear them Their speech is always near. They are coming, my heart, and they will tell me Their faces are watching you. And the softness of their leaves is like music That whispers to you. They are going, my heart, and they are coming, But you never may hear them again. I AM cold and estranged, dearest. You cannot look in my eyes. I am glad I am not with you, my love. It is not true that you said that I should be cold or unhappy. But I cannot rest, or sleep, for the world is about to fight With a warm and golden fight. And I die, so sad, in my fever, my heart and my brain Have been beaten to such a terrible deal as this. You have turned your head so haggard and tired, dear. The world is too much for your lips. When the daughters of men made you women and men with money You could drink for your lips. But the cup that you left on the day of your marriage Was pledged to the children of God. But the roses of men and the curls of your beauty Made you women and men. They have turned your beauty to ashes and dust, dear, And your hearts are as dead as your own. But I am not like you, my dear, For I am afraid to be dead, my dear, And I'm not like your life, your life, But I know it is bitter to be proud, my dear, For I am afraid to be proud. And what do I care if I see ======================================== SAMPLE 295 ======================================== In list of talking.--Can we rise, When birds are singing?--We may go Among the branches.--Need we so Exercise of the great bough? He wakes our terrors, nor denies To share our terrors. Had he nought We might have felt his genial pride-- His Titan strength--his daring arm-- To strike, two lances through the land, And carry us thro' peril and harm. It would seem He could not, based on Nature's ties, Have triumphed, in her threatening grace All-four polluting air; Nor could the blue-paved sky so soon Outstrip her daring to a moon Upon her fiery throne. All this is work, he deems it fit, So "slight," yet strong, and yet it must Fall with the knowledge--yet, it may! Nature need such--and must we still, So is it ours, so must it still, So must we fall!--Of all the men Who now are raising him a god To fill their hands with peace, and sing The name of peace and love, that all Who hear us cry "Christ!" will be redeemed. At this moment, when he dares, all smiles In heaven's deep blue, in earth's blue star, He smiles from out the night of heaven Into God's boundless East, where peace And beauty dwell, not kingly wrong Are nature's causes--The great Love, Of which our hearts have laws the hour Of joy, that scatters sweet perfume From Passion's cup, who holds her sway O'er moorings screaming, till his own Revealed, there now, lies pure and bright As sunset's dew, the mother-heart Of life is love! You hold it fast, Dear Beautiful, for ever past Your dearest wish, we all shall meet In that chaste night of bliss and light When at our high-mamocked "Cousin," you Will sigh, and turn away the last Prayer, that our hearts, even here, As now they stoop, will still repeat Their vows of love, and call us sweet A happy, patient life, content In God and man's tranquillity. My wife, who from this grave may now Besie you all, go, "whither?" To-morrow--go--you are so blest! For sweet, oh! sweet and strong is rest. With him you have your daily work, But not your grotes haunts and your bed, Nor your straw-couchings and your prayers But a "tussle and a thud" for dairies. And true your faithful wife, so true That she may free him from his "ruin," And bid her dream you: "proud one! take His church and landlady at his beck. For God who deigned to earn his rent, To make it pleasant, not to preach In frost and in the heat, perchance, In the skirts of God, were not so large." We wish we had the Lord in sight Of the cross, His cross--we all would see His martyrs, shaming off a sight Of what we are to suffer here. But like Lord Lewis (Lord, look down!) The Great Chief fell at Percivoli By a most gorey, mannered head With shot of cannon--took him dead. Dead! How the Prince of Ireland sank, When, sword in hand, the state was took. We work beneath the gryphied rule When every tyrant's power was bent, And Cromwell came from Emsrim's bank To aid the weak against the strong. We arm our souls to face the foe, And heap his coffers up so high That where a citizen could bow The poor had heaven beneath his eye. We make the pall of Ireland's tears The grave where stern Piedmont's sternest bays Were joined the more for bringing fears That some new poet's memory stays. We leave the hearth where Lecharn keeps His classic Abbey--where they chose To build their "Order and controls," "The holiest spot in history," And of our own dear England muse. In Herkend is a mountain side Which, side by side, the copse must hide; It bends its own proud head and crest To meet the blue sea, towering o'er The waves that idly sink and soar. But, compared with England's lowly nook, Where man repines on what might seem ======================================== SAMPLE 296 ======================================== grac'd from their maze, The total and the fifer, just in file; The racers, who their offices maintain O'er the strict rule of emigrants and train. To work 'tis granted that we may compare With those who walk on foot and the same square; Where crowns their worth with three-pat coronation, Resembl'd thereunto a livery beare. Well could their sages judge of matters rightly; And even should impartial arbiters, Pretend to beg the good of the Inobedience, Old King, or elder brother, may presume. The Mr. Douglas is, no doubt, superior In all that does on this eventus blend; But recollects that in all points the west (Though of the royal George a separate vest) Is not with these a noble, wise man, kind But is the gentleman in every mind, Conspicuous of most humbler, worldly clothes, Who in all things has something strange to do. There is in truth no wonder 'tis to him Of whom a large prosperity he spreads, Or if in any man, a thing so sinister, That he 'twixt two exists at any time; For, like things vary'd in their close positions, They each to other have at once combined, And of the favour one would often say, A deintment 'twixt the high and low declining. If then for this old world I have endeavor'd In such a meadow, where the green turf's green, Then thither have I borne it. Ere May return, I'll go in greenwood, and will see the dawn. Meantime continue, my bold heart's best treasure (The few things I for thee alone can give), My passion and my feelings, as thine own, The wind and thy sweet image,--these alone, With thee, and with thyself, live, and be gone; Live undisturb'd, but keep me still in greenwood. It is fortunate, therefore, that I should neglect it, As all things ill appear to chance the best, And then remember'd, future things in life, They would themselves like well themselves in a storm, And turn the self-complacent to another, As foolish and as full of guilt and evil As tho' they were of little blood and fire, Or that is oftest the case to be the seed Of a man whom thou hast lately named the best, (The harmless birth of every foul distaste, Excepting at the best thereof precisian), Yea, sooner would he wish to bear me forth And fetch me a new birth also than this, Than to have thou thyself therein to be Inferior to good, or rather dost the like be, But, like the gods, to have my own in love Is to make nothing of an ill intent. So will I praise thee, O thou strange delight, Amorous, glorious, delicate, and bright, Exceeding those whose deep majestic eyes Divided beauty from the base, and these Athwart the adoration of the ground, Saw gods indeed in many a lovely dress, Not without being woo'd; Beauty which from a babe thou suck'st, And in his impious embraces burn'st, But to be foil'd who first did suit the hair, Had then its fence of golden wings outshining; His lips were vermeil cheeks, and burning eyes, With emerald hair, his forehead high, and bound In purple to a star, A brow, whose majesty condensing him, Was proud as t' have a slave, Who then his locks disfigur'd fling away, And hid him for a worse man's ugly presence; But that god's honour could no longer dye him, Who left the melting kiss, and cur'd a knife 'Twixt his fair forehead, and a better fate, His usual beauty grew, not by his gaudy trim. Thus 'twixt my mistress and the lofty skies, The noblest souls did on this happier day Feel spite for those, who this felicity At Volscian forges with so rich a soil, That rich men wish their life, and die in gain. Though red my cheeks be, angry too is he That I am he; because his memory Is bred from care, which, like a common tide Of waves, yet beats at last, even as the waves Which did of old give up kind hearts and minds, How can I die when dead? He that died ======================================== SAMPLE 297 ======================================== of blind flesh and stale, how shall thy pride Repay that hollow cry? Thy pride must hear (How lips should tell how wine was served for them.) Yet have I known her for a little space The mouth of love: her silent lips, the sense Of all love's exquisite divinity, The jeers of those that make her name their speech, The lovely images that still pursue Our souls' necessities, the prayers that rouse The beggar's passion; and the tender ways That haunt our home, and where we pray our race, Not for the abodes of such an abbey smile. She cannot hear us: yet she only knows, Of course, I hear, as from a far-off world; The maid we asked her for the saintly spouse Of our poor man: she knows; the end for which I have been won. In faith to love we wait. She tells of our despair: a sudden blight Within her heart I must possess: a fear Grails us; she knows not what, nor if she some, Some renegade, while she goes mad with love. Yet is she moved; I hold her still a captive. Silent for her? Or now a silent end? I shall assail it all; if not, I seek As much as I may lure her not; if not, I am not glad, even from the best I seek. I will hold on, love; she will hold on, till She meet me in the court of love. I must Last long, till there where lover lingers still, I have seen her last, watching my rose, whose life Is crowned and comely, or the warm red rose Escaped from its own shadow; others she would give To fill the measure of her loveliness, Yea, all the world, till heaven should break for this; But, being done, I did but lay my hand Upon her, as the blood poured out for her. I did not know her dear. Who art thou? To me he said, "My love, my Constance? Where? Or whither goest thou?" And I answered, "I Will find no way whereby to go or stay, No less than I have found them: I have known Thee, and with love I also found thee." At that word The dreadful light grew deadly pale, and dense And ere it met her seeming painters knelt Before her, and she spoke: "O Faith of mine, When by two ways the blind world came to me, Under the shadow of the tree of life, I should have cried aloud: My heart shall ache Beneath its load; thou knowest when my lips Shall question thee; yet I cannot speak to-night: For when the full-mooned face of morning is Upon my life, and I am young again, I shall have fallen asleep, or gone to-night." How should she utter? Let me go her way, And clamber up the horse, and reach my arms And hold her fast, ere she vanish; for the soul Needs strength to suffer, not for this our life, But to be brave and not afraid to die. She could not say she was not like to me When first she saw me. So the shadow Stretched forth without a word, till at her side I knelt, her peace departed. Then again She sat by me and longed for me to come And touch my brows. She was not like to me. She showed me where, upon that summer morn, Her hair was crowned with thistledown and gold, Between her hands that for an instant lay, Fling down into my face, not finding yet A sweeter than the flowers that on her breast Kissed. Must I die then? Her eyes were bright, And when they saw me, they were strange and wild, As though my hair had cut them like a knife. I thought my soul had wasted with the thought That I had stooped to kiss her feet to earth, And petted, and would seize them. She sat In a low chair, with hands outstretched to heaven, And lips that seemed as if they dwelt upon Its essence--for the night had flung her far More deeply than the lightning. Many a night I watched her plight with strained and feverish eyes. Some fair morn now I saw her, and she took Her hand and wept--"Are women mad like me? I see fair women working at their books With lashes sweeter than night's starlight!" Her face grew sharp ======================================== SAMPLE 298 ======================================== of Hall, of Eddstarr; A convent in a forest dark and still Where owls and bats and violets never die, And tawny deer are huntsmen, wild and free, And foxgloves are their sole delight to see. The roving breeze is sweet with violets scent, And moonlight fills the dripping crevasses; Cool airs are quiring 'mid the silver trees, The streamlet's waves are the sea's harbour-beaches. I lean above the drift-wood tree with hands Upon the hedge thatops which be set in rows, Whose arms have scarcely touched the wind's commands When calm again it flows. Above the trees and moss there is a lane Near o'er the beach--a yellow sunset-sky, Lilting its amber bars in golden light O'er all the outer world; And by some brook, on sunny banks of blue, The air is sleepy with the bees that go With gauze-winged sails Among the cressy cushions, lazily, Where flutter the blithe leaves in leaf and dye And where the gleaming rushes lean below. The lilies, tossed on golden billows, glow In the warm sunlight, still and warm and white; Stately the red-bird sings, Homeward the snowdrop leaps, And all the waves are lost in the same plight; For still the wind is blowing, and the snow, Like one who slips, Swift as an eagle's wings, Sweeps round and round. Now all is still and silent, save that still Of snow that falls from the high pine-trees, Yellow as cuckoo's peck Of gorse, brown as the leaves, As of a nun's flesh, who in agony Looks up, and sees her sister in the pool Leap, and in shrinking from the pool, Her long white neck, half hidden by the sedge, Half mirrored there, the silver and the pink. The gold bees and the gossamer, and whence Comes now the murmur of that hive of bees, Borne by the golden honey-harvestines Of clovers, and the dipping butterflies Of driftwood and of eglantine, And ivy leaves flung back to cool the wind, This is the wood where leaf and flower were kind. And here in thee, sweet overhanging tree, Sweet underhanging cavern, lie the things Thou lovest. They, and the things that thou didst find, These, these are they, The tall trees and the flowers that I have twined. The stars that shook and twinkle and pass, The grasses, the flowers, the leaves and grass, These and these have made My heart a place Full of the old flame, and the newer sheen. The birches rise On either side In the track that the boy watches, and bend Over the tree which the boy watches, With brows as brown As the plumes of a boy's, and cheeks as thin As pink As the plumes of a boy's. The trees bend down Their heads to the ground And lift their heads And their dim globes to the heavens; and dim Turns the leaves of their tops to the sky; And in the birches gold A tremulous glory is seen Thrown from the wood, A shining spirit of green, That is quiet and wise, and has set His thoughts as gay As a child when he goes. The elm and the poplar held high Over the stream which ran straight and high, Like a dance of butterflies, To the full-blown lily-heads, That stood over the stream to keep cool, And wonder how they stood on their stems. The leaves kept a fret Of silvery water-drops In the blue of the wood, As they kept fresh and stately talk Of a holy thing That lived on a roof of oak. They stood on their branches unglazed For a holy moment each wave to have made, While the twig snapped Of the oak, and its branches of oak. A murmur, a gasp, A transitory breath, Then fell on the group, and the leaves swung back From the shoulders of white Swiftly dropping from leaf to leaf, But only dropped In the falling of leaves, and the evening hour Was only a glimpse from the trees. From the copses shut out The beasts of the forest, The sheep in their fast ======================================== SAMPLE 299 ======================================== 'd: The hour--its flare--the next morn's sun afire With shouts, and screams, and the great prophet's name. Around, from all the streets, and over all the earth, With the dim torch of day, now dwindling to its birth, Shone all that gorgeous mystery in man's control. "Not here I sit," the prophet said, "In this strange strife with formless fear. How strange of life to me it seems! The brain may stretch, but not the heart; How strange with each familiar scene To cross my soul a various mood! What spells, what charms have touch'd my soul? What magical illusions thronged my brain? 'Twas Fancy girt me with the light That dies not when the dream is fled. I woke, and in my trembling breast There seem'd to pant and prate, A mighty fiend, and shape unrest That found me shuddering there. My shuddering heart its sense forsook. I sprang, and lo! the sun shone red: Woe, woe to man! his fatal look For yet the power was mine! "And what the boon that made our strife When weary hearts should bleed, And the sweet boon, which Heaven has rife, Hath brought thee to my need? What links mine eyes to vision bring! When I might lay my hand, No fiend would drive me from my soul; No fiend my love could stand. "With patient, patient spirit, slow And silent, thou! I know The ties that bind us to thy brow, And with thy hair I blow. Thy hand upon my heart I press, Thy words my mind reveal, Till that my breast shall seem to thine; And in thy countenance I shine. "And though no shade of doubt remain In the full moonlight of thy face, Thy thoughts of me, thy joy and pain, Can never pierce my soul the grace." All day the torrent of the rain Raves at its base, Rising, heaves overhead, The waves that whiten more and more, As if the summer floods were swept Across the hill, But rise and slumber still. The wind--the tempest's roar-- Plashes along the hollow caves, Like some bold song from the world's high caves, Lashing the shadows to its waves-- Is sweeping wildly on from wave to wave, As if the stormy stream were swept Across the hill, And with the thunder of a wintry wave, And the bleak rain, doubling the rock's grave, Falls in its fury on the deep, And with its stormy might the surge is wild! The huge rain, whirling like a spell, Sweeps down the mountain-sides, and stalks along, Gleaming above, beneath, below, And vanishes before it go, And down its rushy torrent peels And far below, Along the thunderous, stormy tide, The storm itself rides rapidly, And scarce the shadow of the cloud can hide. It is not yet the moon's pale light, Though earth and heaven Rebuke it as a spell, With all their might, Like demons fanned, Rend from the world with savage shout, And in its torrents rush without, And drown in shouts the tears they raise, When from that world of dark and bright The storm-cloud lifts its angry might, And dark and terrible the night Casts down its flood! In agony Queen Iska drifts before the overwhelming power And the wild impetuous rush That rends her walls; The wild sky shrieks, And the wild thunders roar and roar Louder and louder; and the storm, Swept in wild wrath Before its angry might, Has reared its rocks on the deep; The rock is rent and the wild waves rise, And the swift currents strewn with unhallowed skies! Clouds, as the tempest sweeps along, Wreathing with dark the mountains blue, Possess the heaven of their deeps; And as it sweeps beneath it, they Follow its dark assaults. They are enchanted realms below, Where the dark torrent's torrent sweeps, To where it sweeps by towers of snow, And towering crosses tower their steeps. Hark! the deep thunder's peal of thunder, And the hoarse murmur of the deep, Choken with storms that shake and wreathe; Then like a ghastly band of demons ======================================== SAMPLE 300 ======================================== . His sullen eyes with doubts he fill, And, from the quickening heart, distend His tongue's unspoken meanings still, Affection's tongue of wisdom spurns That voice of silence which he spurns. Once more he has such store of praise, He never was a little boy; The youngest's hair becomes more white, The fairest crows when reaped the night. So let his elder brothers share The joy of his caprice and care, And oil, and pillage, and good will, And only feats of honest skill. The generous Prince! whose heart can feed An overflowing zeal for right, And whose determined wisdom speed A never-dying creed of might, A sword whose hilt can pierce the blood, Or rouse a pistol from his breast, Whose every act can harm a brother, Or lay a shade upon his brother, A rank untimely blot to bless Whom less than he is loath to harm; Whose heart is merciful and pure, That never yields to selfish spur, But bears its owner's lofty faith And purpose to his high estate. But who, from childhood of his age, Can trust his tender father's heart, Who counts his home, and loves his age, Whose days of loving makes his rest; Who fills his life with praise, and prays, For children's guidance, not of less, He knows the manliest man is best. Like a golden ring,--like a golden chain, Hung round about a charming prize, Which, with unyielding pride, the youthful lover Is bounding at some pearly shrine; Her former eyes, her aunt, her sister, Beam o'er her, love, with loving glow, On the joy-laden waiting-room of truth, That waits his anxious wish, his wish, To be some far-off dwelling-place, And glorify her glorious youth. That hush of the high woodland, the sweet bird's call, The silent thrush's trilling lay, The voice of the solitude of the wood-bordered pool, The holy fire in the brake, Now hallowed by the haunted, over the rock, With the step of the coming tide, With the tongue of the beast, as it fondly spoke, Ever with his fancy tied; While the poet's pen, and the beautiful wreath, And the musing streamlet, bathed in a pilgrim's wreath, The fount of his birth, o'er the high hill-side, Rippled by the broken streams; And the shepherd of the dell, and the green-leaved waterfall, Heard it murmur by the stream; And heartily he thought, from the sparkling marge, "Ere I fade, that my hand, my Father, has wrote His verses of the summer, and last"-- With his arms outstretched to the brook that gave His word, he drew it and wrote it. So the traveller returned to his lonely cave, The traveller stopped; and the silence was deep, The earth silent, the sky in its light arrayed Like a sentinel, Came down the steep glen water, Slowly up the bank descended, When he gained the bank slope open, Not disturbed by his pathway, By the swell of his mountain, By the deepening stream of the valley, But because it was beautiful. He leaped on his wallet, And down he hewed in the distance, And opened the song of his people, And opened its spring of song; For the gifts are offered, And the people receive them, While the world on his journey is waiting. He went to the blue bay of Naples, He went to the priestess of Niger, And raising the chant of Saint George, Whose silence is heard in the land. On earth the four of them ended, In the car of him rode the fifth steed, A grey-haired gentleman, All honor and favor the Emperor, As passing beneath the shades of the grave. Where shall we find him? And what if the scroll of his fate Be traced on the pages of history? What may the camel's hoof print Where the horse and rider grow confident? Well, there he goes,--he knows where, On the brink of death, of life: Yet many a life is waiting 'Till the trumpet shall blow the fifth of his note, The ninth of his fame is his war-note. What ======================================== SAMPLE 301 ======================================== st whilom cloud Hath covered him with rain and cloud And with the cloudy rack The cloud has drenched him full in tears, His friend lies fallen at my feet And with the cry of one long-dead, I mourn his death with bitter moan, For I did hear him hanged on air. Cry out, thou master of my side, While yet I look from wall to wall, I will not in my anger bide Nor yet stand by thy side. Thy life will end in bitterness, My portion in the end, My part in thine in thine in peace, My life in agony. Cry out, thou master of my grief, My life, my life, my love, my love, I will not in my anger bide Nor yet stand by thy side. Within a little while I lived and loved, A thousand summers or anon; I spied the sunlight in the woodland glade, The genial air of spring was gone; I saw the river winding through the woods, Came reveling, gliding, gliding on. I laughed to see the busy merchants go, The tumult in the town, The prisoned farmer plodding in his toil, The harvesters upon the down; The wheel of traffic in the busy throngs, The merchant for his wage, And the loud wheel of trade's wheel at his side, Alone I stood and gazed. I saw the faces of my gallant sons, I heard the old cry of their sires, I saw their mothers wringing their fair heads, I saw great wounds on many a day, I saw their daughters all in tears, I saw my daughters all in shame, I saw my boys all in disarray, And I saw my very fates o'erthrown, And now I stand alone. I looked up from the casement and I saw The black slave of my fate, Forgot what I had done and would have done, My own sad heart beat fast, I knew not wherefore I sought the street And saw the shameful street, My kinsman died, without a name, Alone I stood and looked. I heard the grisly bailiffs' dolorous yell, I heard the constable on the hill, I saw the fury of the northern gale Sunk down in sullen tormentor. No man nor angel came; The clouds no more around me curled, Nor any wind that blew Disturbed the mighty atmosphere, Nor any chance of mine. O sweet delight of childhood days! O painted hopes and dreams of youth! O glimpses of departed joys! O spectre of the happy dead! O comfortable sleep! My heart hath oft been troubled. Like an old clock in the monument It neither ached nor pale, And through these prison walls I heard, Peak-tapped, the cry of agony, The words repeated: "Call in God, And from this spot let fall The One who chained with cords the hand, Who is the Lord of all." And then I saw a fair young form, And she had drenched her eyes: Her hands were wrought with human tears, As water with the skies: Her brow was wreathed with suffering, Yet no balm fell on her hair, And through her wasted heart, and through The prison-wretch's despair, And through her prison's blinded eye, The awful light of life and death, Were prisoned in despair. I saw the prison's iron gates, I saw the scaffold's painted bars, I saw the scaffold's painted vaults, I saw the horrors of the scene, I heaped with piled, perfidious stones, And fettering with their meaner hands The hurried, floating, masterless crowd, That came to pay their master's debt, And bore the bell, which they must use, To gain his prison-cell. There hung a wretch beneath the wretch, And yet I ween, there was a wretch, That would have borne the bell. The wretch, the wretch, the wretch went by, He found a victim in the crowd, And, oh! he found the bell. And there had knelt his master, knelt, Yet for a space he weeps and lifts His drooping head, nor asks the law, Nor aught of ruth or kindness knows The wretch's miserable plight; But like a wax-licked thing he glides ======================================== SAMPLE 302 ======================================== wringle slow. This is the bottom of all surmises: A sigh; a tear; a loud lament. Which, with one word, a God durst; that, Uplifting man's right hand, I looked Upon God's countenance: for blushes Burned in the pale and anguished cheeks And all the pains, both in this weight And that, of love for Son and Sire. That man's heart beat inordinately With prayers, and yet with anguished ire; As it were up-rising and going, All at a leap would heave and heave Out of his heart, as it were on A heap of sparks out of a pyre: He raised his breast: and then of bliss And glory broke from him: for he Had loved God more than all men can, And cast out from his body thought, And triumphed, at its father's breast. "And thou," he murmured low, "O brother mine, Where is thy heart's desire, one day, To sing for me a little tune, Uncheered, save as I aspire To be the mate of that which is The most perfect of all bliss? "Yet life! let loose the moments olden; I need not grieve: let loose the hours; One little prayer I ask for wings, One little blessing for my flowers: Sorrow must fly before I go, And pride for that grow old in hours Worth all the joys of one who hath Joy in himself, and in himself. "But, save in me, though weak my heart Can feel this old desire, I need Self-proof of self: and I shall find The one sure thing the strong mind Can give, when soul and body long Live on in equal periods, Shall follow Christ, though living yet, Moved with his passion, will forget, And cleave to his usurpate self As serf of God, O faithful bond Of man, this ancient fire hath clomb Into my heart, that I may think 'Tis over at last like some sweet tune Shaped by some pilgrim passing hiss In the far distance, now I see The martyrs lift their heads and cry, "Halt to the Holy Temple, see This my love, this my sacrifice!" Meanwhile at last the moon had sunk, The rose arose, like some young soul, And grew, as life grows ever dark, More fair in aspect, but more fair In face, more delicate in soul; Till, over all the threshold-stair, It beamed up an unsteady light, Illumined by the herald's palm Of light and love, and he, a man, The Holy Church, which consecrates That rich festivity of her joys, And hath her ministers to lead Through all the changes of the world, And unto earth her shining ladder hangs. Soon, presently the moment gone, Came Reverence smiling: but ere long The habitation, here and there, By the well-spring of starry sphere, Took leave, to seek a new bright world. And, like a bride whom some are called Eve separate, in happy hour, She shone between the radiant throng Of luminous spirits, clear and strong, As is to us the tremulous star Gathered by the ambrosial night Whenas its lustre but one star, Bright in the dusk of our deep night, With darkness is o'erspread. The fair And delicate lights on either part Were scattered. Quenched the air Their tongues of flame, their tongues of light, And then the spiritual world began To cry with voices hushed that shook Its purposes like wind-whipt flame, And shook its purpose far away To the far music of that sky Which showed our earth below a speck Of radiant green, that gathers and Dissolves in the hour of our birth. And that pure spirit, which had wings, (Nightly responsive to the sun) Nerved in us for that restless flight Of oars, on whose swift course we steer, Flashed in our wake; that did appear (We started seeing time long dead) With an unwonted loveliness Our inmost being seemed to be. A moment, and yet not a word, That the old joy awoke; and to our eyes Ran the blue gold of new-born days, That fell like sunlight on the glass ======================================== SAMPLE 303 ======================================== And con antiento extreme al pudico, veneno pellucidos ingendrata, mercede il vacuos: sil la dura Y el ancho mundo: que, allí sapor, Feitaste, como al otro non tardo. En las noches sacas tú, que estremos, Visten hasta el non ya fingecido. En ellos, e siento sufrimos impososos, E recamado en formostalla templo Llena, perdido en formostalla templo: «Que esta mi familia y buenos amatos, Que á la libertad, y la fama pura, Que fiamla el aura y baste pura.» Yace el coraçon tras fazer vitor: «Tú nombre, que cuerpo mi coraçon, Que locura y gloria al son que gyer, En quien durar por el estremos sañoso.» «¡Qué será fidal, nos rondoso vuestra Que este cubre de tierno beldad suya?» «¡Cuánto aquel es mayor angulo Há que les marchantos estrecha, que él con el dedo De hélquilla más bella del torne y criados!» --«Digno bien esto ven triunfalo de ella, También en esta duque difecontera, Quando escurece de amor donde estoy venganso, De quien siempre y estar ellos se hielo.» --«Dulce templo, ¡dulce esta escurosa! Sentida el oro omnipotencia, Quando al Isilla y desdeñaba, Quando á quien no eran parturoso: «No es más amete en mi pecho, Que que me enviad la procura, Es el mismo que se me encubura.» --«Nueca esto aquel que yo lo querría O ser más amador el pino, Yo lo de ser más amargado; Yo lo querría que me enviadía.» «En la alegría de estar amado, Siempre fué contra el mar rïo, Que nunca me dar por dobran Le pere de amores ardía. Y anhelo que por mi existencia Por donde tu poder volverás; Que lo oculta de estar countrye, De los desaparecen tardas, Con tanta edad amada nuevo, En todo cuanto más amargura ¡Bello es vivir!--El hombre De la verdad de los mí... ¡Bello es vivir!--El frío De esta vida y tu amargura, Con tanta edad amarilla, Yo lo tanta edad amará, De tu viola de está De que el rostro non alcan, Del fijo del dolor. ¡Bello es vivir!--El prado Duerme envejecido Pone se llaman fijo De tantas nuestro canto. ¡Bello es vivir!--El pecho, El prado infeliz, el prado Que lo han tronto entre los cierres De que es consonantes sonoris, Un se engendrado de tus niños, Que está en amores de tus blancos. --«El fruto en tanto, y más han trato, Que es en ti, el pronto ores duelo, El dolor que te oculta gozano.» --«Quando tu nombre humilles De tanta locura y campana, Que ha de apagar podrato, Quando tu puede el ancho puro; Vierte en todo cernado, Que siente de grande gran valle; Que se vençe el ternura de estrellas Del estremo de ten ======================================== SAMPLE 304 ======================================== , whom nightly weeps And leaves us in sore trouble; so there shall be. No one shall ever close with him or keep Her path amid the melancholy throng; And who may lift her weary burden up When she is called to soothe her widowhood. But should you like this journey more than once, Remember, 'tis your history from afar Diverts and melancholy--duly men, Vexed over by fierce feelings, hard to bear, With lofty sorrow, and a tranquil mien, When she walks forth at intervals to weep, Because a tear in all her eyes will mark A father's silent anguish, and their pace Needs but the self-same steps that they retrace. This place is often haunted by those thoughts Into whose tenderness and use and love, Like hers, was troubled by a presence near, That for a while would make her faint to weep, And pierce the heart with its deep-buried fear. 'Tis often, in the hours of youth, we feel A presence which is well, but is unheard At length, and, lo, she walks not. It is heard From the same place. Or listen to a word From an unspeakable depth, which none may know. And ye, who feel the dew of this deep heart, Know there is surely something far above This tossing, in a wave is not a part Of the eternal brightness. Oh, be kind, And never let those follies disappear Which ofttimes gloomed and stained with blood and tears, Which have no semblance of our great despair, Only the loveliness of pale despair. For, look you, o'er this surging wreck of life, A new and monstrous commotion In carnal lustre would go up, in strife, Like the derision of the demons Upon the senses' eyes; or in the strife Of concupiscence, thrilling with fierce heats, Like that which meets the hypocritic hearts, Or all disrobed of the true needs, Naked in anger and in terror, wheels Out pompous pageantry, like the vast pomp Flung from the clouds above. But if a man Bow down his head in reverence and awe, Or on his anvil beat the midnight bell, Though leaning, with his hands on his heart, He watches it as it were a presence, he Must enter. So they both paused, And he, too, suddenly moved about And, in his interrupted, trembling voice, Panted against the dreadful door and stood Upon his feet; then on his breast a groan Rose from the breast of his deep-versed knees; And from his lips a watery sigh he drew, And, with a hesitating glance, he gazed Over the narrow, thickened stairway, where, Telling his horror, his grim visage met The lurid lightning of the fierce assault, And 'twixt his teeth and bosom shot the glare. And, when the thunder and its ceaseless roar Broke on the stillness, on the floor arose And, climbing, slowly gained the house, and rose, A woman, piteous-eyed and pale with fear, Who held her trembling hand across her eyes, Which blinding, they unclosed, and made the place Grow darker and darker. A besprent flame, The which with bloody ashes they infuse, Made all within and lurid from afar Like fire; and still they burn and kindle there, Paling their brows and covering them with flame, Each one the worse for having known it. There when the Father had done all his work, And there he sat and marveled, and then said: "The works are finished. Now, tall workman, pray For me in heaven or earth. I cannot stay Longer here, having my daily rounds, Stooping to level them in this sad way, With nails, two blades. The Heavens begin To hear, for this is ever open air And all the story of a people drown'd." Yet stood he motionless, until he traced How the compassionate Angel took his seat In the One Woman's heart. He heard the voice, And he beheld the naked, woeful things, And longed to let them sink into the earth Into the sea of torment. Now he saw The city from the wave, and he took up The little slave that night. Him little he Knew not, yet answered him; and they arose Suddenly with a crown, ======================================== SAMPLE 305 ======================================== fit to ride Out on the skew, where he had flashed with 'em, If I had them on my back; Didn't it pull him out of breath, I never got him over death? Fool! Why they knew I was too good, And so they didn't choose to do; But they took away my load As soon as they had found me out, And left me lying there some weeks A-frightened in a chair. The damnedest drop in Closet Got no one in his 'ead, He took what came of that, to eat, He took what came of it, he said, And learned how to make it, when He left the car and dined the men, And reeled and swerved away. But still my go-by would not stay; I let her have her right good day For back home consumption. Could she have sense and such like wit When she comes in as good as that? Now there were worse things done, to quit Everything but self-made extra, 'E would have shamed me, if I tried. If I could carry less, I'd quit her, With half an hour or so, By God, she wouldn't know the worst If she couldn't pay a blow. She'd take and slip it, her old dog, And twist it, anyhow, 'Ow often in the long cold days, When every pig in town had fun, At a walk or two from me. And think how bad she'd look to me, When over there, from here, This time she got so very scared, 'Ow better than the dear! And think 'twould make her soul so sick, As long as it was here. A-h! A-h! And as they drove home, They found her sitting cross and back Quite dead on end a dead dragg'd stick, And dead as well as black! But just suppose you could see why-- God made the angels what it was To be a dead dragg'd stick! At dawn, I found her on the hill, Just as I reached the steeple, I thought, the house was in the barn, And there a young gazelle Came from the waterfelly, And down I sat and peeped about, Remembering, and like her, At "Vide O Uppey." Then I roared As loud as I could shout, And down I sat and wait the night When a grave people gathered round To stare me. For I'm off to town; I'm in the country on the crown, Lined with a lazy, idle fellow, Who's making up of me a sudden Make matches for a ten-inch shell To eat the ball. Why, that's a business! Well, you forget a fellow as Is that brute Murray in the pantry. And yet I think she's not a creature. Some men call foolish sentiment. Some men find happiness in knowing How much life is; and yet, somehow, Though I'm no help, and so am going Home to the old girl I used to know, I can't forget her! Where's the bliss Bestow upon me? Shall I miss God knows, and call her Margery Camp? Ah no, it's all in vain to call me A heartless man, not vain, not old! Yet well I know her grief for me, And guess its pangs as mine may be. And yet I think it all in vain To summon Margery Camp to mind If there is one who has a brain, Or one who has the heart to bind. What can I give her? I receive. Oh, will she let me? Let me grieve. Well, let me have her all my own. There's life before me, all alone. In a d---- nave they sing of the golden moon That hangs like a white cloud o'er the lake. In a d----n'd shawl they tell of the grotto Of the river floweret, magic, rare, Where the maid's lover for fervour is coming And his lily is fairest and fair And he lives in a lily--and he is a builder, And his falls are not sweet, but most rare. O excellent Poesy, thou must blend Your beings with others, blend too high To comprehend one thought there is in each Poesy, a somewhat homeless cry That will ======================================== SAMPLE 306 ======================================== the black wine, Well like your lips, Ahafal! the ruby wine! The red wine and the blue, ahafal! The red wine and the blue, ahafal! Why do you seek the red wine, ahafal? The fairest wine the lips shall name, ahafal! And welcome it, Ahafal! O red wine and the blue, ahafal! O rose and magic ocup, ahafal! There comes fragrance in the rose, ahafal! There comes fragrance in the rose, ahafal! Where the honey drips and drips, ahafal! Gather me the royal rose, ahafal! The red wine and the blue, ahafal! O red wine and the red, ahafal! The purple vintage of the rose, ahafal! The King of kings, Ahafal! Roses for you, roses for you, Ahafal! The King of every shining sword on earth shall bloom! For lo! the roses of the morn shall bloom! And Christ of God shall give them that morosa bloom! But lo, the roses of the morn shall bloom! The King of kings shall give them that morosa bloom! O red wine and the blue, ahafal! O rose and magic ocup, ahafal! O rose and magic ocup, ahafal! O rose and magic ocup, ahafal! The loveliest roses of all the year That ever the roses of May could wear, Are slippers--three--four--twenty--two--five-- A wondrous golden bee inside, With cithill beside its knee. A heart of gold and a heart of gold, And a ruby that is a golden bee, Are small, are small, are no great matters, Have you not the sweetness to contemplate? O red wine and O white wine, O white wine! The rose that is the purest of all the year That ever the roses of May can bear Is worth an apple of woe to you, And your lips are blue, are green--but there, Have you not the purity to contemplate? "O that I had a dove for my love, A dove for my love, red wine," said she. "Love me one kiss and then away. I have no will unless I do, I am free, I have no slave," she said. Then in an anger Jealous lifting a spray Drew her all in a taffrail to hold her away. "Here it is, my love," sighed the maid, "In my coral-band, purple wine, One kiss alone I will give you." Then in a anger Jealous lifting her rose Fell back in the dark, and she went alone. But as the sun kept to the top, they were dyed With a blood-red rose on the earth--so it thundered and died Little Ellie, with eyes that were full of love and hope, Tarried alone to the garden where she had taken her place, Till they gathered the lilies that blossomed in her face, And the lilies of an azure lake shone into her face, Gathered them and rested there. Then one took heart to drink, O wonderful eyes of my love, O eyes of my love, They are lilies for a thing, But the will of God above Grows and vanishes. Is it love, or is it a fire, A disease that blinds you? O eyes, O tender eyes of my love, O tender eyes of my love, Do you ask me What this love is, That you bear me, That you know my heart, That you share my heart, That you share my heart, Till God knows how much good I have been? When I found you fair, In the years that blur the morn I had found you wise, Fair and tall as any prince of old, With your face set in the West, Of all fair things since the world began There is nothing I wonder at can compare with your beauty. I thought of the meeting of hands, Of the delicate lips and eyes, Of delicate throat and tongue That spoke my heart to me. The dawns of thought have come, And the dew has taken my dreams, And they lie on my hair to lie Under the drowsy stars. The days are departed like dreams, The nights are long and deep, The morns are ======================================== SAMPLE 307 ======================================== , But simple people take a Marsupine. This to do to bear, I've gained myself From cold foreseeing. Let's pretend: what's that? It is to let their contracts in this case Snap at each other. They say I'll have to yield. That would be best for me to bear in times When life is so much like a tree, and use In public for the public's sake and voice. That's high enough to square the middle box. There'll be the second way I might attempt About this moral: money now is gone. There's not a fellow sells two hundred dollars. Time's running down, it must be true that once Your money called the Styx is fairly gone. Yet tell me, friend, (if you can hold your hand) How fares it with your, from this counterfeit Of cheats that Phoebus has for sale?--This honey By no means spent is in our highest room. Boney's not ours: the well-known dust is good, Nor does it poorly ease the pregnant air. We're scandalized: when first this honey fell, It was deemed sweet--I tell the truth--you're there. "Pray, sir, leave that girl here in her foul society." "Why, 'twas a gross, old, ugly phiz in his dress And was like you, sir: I knew him once who wrote The scholars' Samuel on the death of Lord Booth, And ditched old Dine with the that he wrote of The above. Well, I will venture; we must back the dead. There's none of all the rest of us but fools. I've summoned the ghosts here with the two ghosts. Suppose the moon should shine when that black gnarled rogue With a few friends, sir, would show off the worlds, And rather lose her own side, though he took her Over the woods and troubled the world; no doubt, So he would stumble against a man's ends And crack the sex; so if a woman strives Her first to spout it, and draws back and pays, The whole world in her aid, the end of the tale, Then not at all. I have tried it, but failed to prevail. "There's a woman called Dick, who lives on a farm," Said Dick: but I have not tried one, nor a few. She says not by the names of the five odd letters, But I am dumb and the world will soon be dumb. "There's the dad who's dead, now, Edith Jane, Who kiss'd the girl that fed his grandmother; But you go with the old man straight in the room." "Died so," sighed Dora. Who can say so? And she follows him always with the train But the same man she served and with none of the aforesaid things. Her old hand too busily taking a walk To the house, when there was a child there she knew, And yes, sometimes she took the long hand that was cold. And though little enough we care what's called she holds it dear . . . "And then she kissed it she went, and they went; She never seemed to be changed since the day we left. And we lay in the sunlight near the dead house, where we heard the I will come back to you in Spring, So take and keep your fancy free, And whither you would turn away. But it's in Spring, so don't be quite; I know my task is well, and quite I'll find it good enough for me. So take and keep your fancy free, And long for me, so very sweet, To think what I shall find the sweet. It's lovely when it's o'er, It's so odor-like, it's sweet, And in it I shall choose my sweet. But the harsh old world grows hard And the earth is nearly full, And if something's wrong I can't explain, For it's in the Springtime I will gain. And I'll think about it all, and then Remember it will be all the same. For the first time, good reader, I Must be shut out to pigmy; By be smooth as a fad, And then, good reader, I shall not be chid. Take to the lilac-bed In which the lilies are red: Give me my deepest musk, It will oppress my bosom; It has a fragrant smell, And from my being-well All you shall cull a ======================================== SAMPLE 308 ======================================== These in the temple of the lustrous oak, Wand'ring, they through its branches has been struck Aback, and rending by the roots and load. Then fly, ye Bays, away! and vainly thus Do search the paths that lead to yonder boughs. That they may see thee not, wert thou not worst, In elvesery's shop be first vouch'd with flowers, Then reign at random, and know well, the worst Of wild beasts in the field before they raise Their heads and shrill for birds, and feel the thirst That of the desert breds their youthful looks; The very groundling of that Grecian brook Did lead to death; and when the fruits had fail'd Of rigour, and the thistle's well-grown grace, 'Twixt him and ours a sadder fate decrees. The dwellers of the flood and of that isle Whereby they pass'd the crowd, here make no stand. They know not who dwells on those dusty plains To gaze on these poor deserts, or look round Upon them from the unexpected seas. The forest bare now of those dismal groves Scarce human form, and no Madeira there; Athwart whose gloom'd escath'd the Golden Hyllus; Anchises there his brows and locks outshone; The place is pal'd with stones and thickly strewn Of Druid rocks. The building cirque stands here All round with veins of ocean branc'd with trees. Huge theatres of full-fac'd agate stone Imbraean huge crests, which could be seen To turn white marble to their feather'd sheen. The hall where thou didst see the sun descending In pearly light, doth now no longer glance Thro' the two mansions of one marble tress, Thou'lt see all round, and this must be the end. There, on a time when Phoebus did outshone His flaming globe, his bosom should be stirr'd In violet blue, and round his olive wand Branches of saffron and spun amorous flowers Receive the breath of heaven, when first he sung Of Orpheus and Arethusa, and the birth Of heavenly minds: but when he sang of Orpheus The passages of incantation rung Up through the Heavens, and down to hell he fell, Then all at once he fell, all falling down. Iris that bard of Orpheus fell, and Irem, That other Leon, king of Orpheus, fell. I saw him but a moment, and beheld His mighty limbs, not all extended long. A longing seized me, and I said to him, Behold! I see, thou art no longer thine. Art thou not beautiful? Then let me pause, And with a milder calm my visage shine. He who but now appears to be, and seems To court his looks, therein I read my thought. For me a golden bath of crystal springs, In which dissolved spirits are upsteam'd, From mists and steam, their waters to nought sense Turning, returns again unto the place Where I was lately left: but there meanwhile With his head held, my breast upon his breast He unclos'd, and I saw written with his eyes. O what most sweetly, dearest brother, breathes This one short life into the life of man? That one short life which suits with our affairs, This man ordains: lo! how he fades away Like the next dawn, and like that phantom fair, Fishes, and like that phantoms, that instead Of others of us Autumn, tell us whence Those flames and wind-blasts which now scatter'd are Now first collected in a solid cloud, Which in that mountain's womb conceals from us Three thousand times ten thousand hideous sins, Like to a fire in winter, numberless. Flocks in the meadows, on the mountain's brow, A troop of nymphs and naiads, their haunts Amid the grass; and all the pride of Rome Lash'd by the Cretan wind their arbours trim. Whilst many an Angel, through the gloom appear Of things astonish'd, long before the sound Of Tartarus, thenceforth with deep sighs Sighing went up, and with complaints despair'd. But now my heart relents them, and I know My grief's eclipse; mine eyes from upward gaze Direct are turn'd, and from their orbs the ======================================== SAMPLE 309 ======================================== of bloom that brightly decks the morning, And lulls the colours to a downy hue. A lovely-flown Time shall kindle to sad cheer, And scare these shadows from the proudest height. His hand shall crush them at the iron's dolour; His feet shall crush them in a gaudy night. Alone! nor then nor care: up, over the wall! And either has made his mark and hold them all. The soul, that, so pure and fit for seraph grace, Has left nothing more pure than its graces and grace. Breathe the long sigh of sorrow down: austere, Softer than silence, their fate-mocking song. Sad Time shall drag them through a sordid year, Towards the bright reign of the stormy spring. Some few, bent with toil, and weary with quest, Through a waste sunless day long wear their rest. While sorrow, like a evil dream, flies o'er The poor Man's soul, and lo! the olden door. Time's path leads to a dizzy, black ravine. And (foolish man) still, darker, still more deep, The billows waver with the quivering sweep. As goes the tempest to this Southern sea, The laugh is dead, and passion is with me. Horizon! I fain the sorrow to control, Rather than rule, so, seek a deathless soul. Though sorrow be a knight's cockro-shell, Grim Death aaer pathway unto thee, To win thy lady's grace and stand with his-- I well believe in God my hand to thee, The dawning sun, who will not leave us two. O Lady, sit in Heaven this night with me, And wail for sinners with the dreadful fee; Yet, when I near the Altar, come with me, And softly to my heart this song shall sing, With such a wail as the weak women feel, For you must hammer softly as a steel. They've cut down man like leprous from the wood, And, with it all their lusty strength and might, Turned to the Lord in likeness as a flood-- A barren rock upon a roaring height. Gaunt and terrific is the fireplace here, That sends me forth a Prince to minister The lustre of a splendid star of cheer. The naked knife within its ferny hand Did, touching, set the workmen singing bland. Slow comes the hurrying rush, slow comes the time-- What fine avengers! all together rhyme. By the mute tomb where Dante slept his doom A thousand times had flung a gleam of light Upon a tomb of those he loved so well. The pictures stand and stare in every room, As one who walks in troubled mood and tears. 'Tis an old story, but it has no date; 'Twas born in such a vale where speaks the chime. A shadowy land of dreams and dreamy moods Passed o'er me--waves, swards, and vistas wild, And shadowy glens with shapes that hold me bound, The wreck of beauty that forever sleeps Deep in the heart of that enchanted isle; And here, indeed, that in a quiet place, Still hears me singing of some far-off world, And feels some voice whose faltering melody Falls on me with a sweet and dreamy sound, With shadowy dread when to my ear you listen, My only sinless creed that spells me back With that soft, loving message that of peace, Whispering hope, sweet pity, ever stilled By all the tears that now a vapor fill, A deeper shadow in my breast that dreams. On a silvery sail of a silvery sail, Wrecked on the shimmering silvery spar, A painted ship o'er a molten spar, Her sails, a living azure, swung To the upper zenith like a mass of gold, Which when I looked, it was all too cold, And the snows of the winter had seemed but mould. Yet I thought, 'mid the grim and gloomy arch, Where every beam of the setting day Is the ghost that sails in a golden arch, There would be an answer, a wistful ray, From the walls where the Great Queen sleeps so still, From the city where she laments her loss, From the drifting palace and dark lagoon, Would I fancy the wail of the Night below, A dirge that the wakeful spirit breathes For ======================================== SAMPLE 310 ======================================== . But how to Statesman--how to man?-- No man lives ... God--so be it!... I'd ask of you a bit-- My homage to the can. "I'd ask it o'er and o'er," I'd sigh--I'd sigh--"I'm more than dead." And (howling) as I onwards came, I'd murmur--"He's a far-off name! Wealth's nothing but the can." "The more you've worships at the big, The more he chisels up the hog," I'd groan--I'd moan-- "I'm all too young for half the strife." Ein kleinstehtt ans, bistenht I do'n't know how to woo-- Klingstehtwa is sooch ach! I winna ken, but woo! I winna ken, but woo! O fly me, or I die! O fly me, fly me, fly me! No care I, no. My honey is too sweet, But you may stomacher here, If only I can gain O fly me, fly me, fly me! Pray hurt me, fly me, fly me! So fare it, fare it, fare it! The bird that sings shall ne'er Fear Love's no wrong, the bees Dare not call it a bee. I have a word to teach; Its meaning, maybe, shows Father is very far, I know his heart's a-low As we would teach his foes. So let him be, and pray For pity--for his sake, And though I say't and say't I claim no daintyift. The child of God is all That man need hope to call: (If God be mighty still) So let him sing, and tell Till all is well--and all Dare not despair to tell The baby of the heart Christ once for all is sweet. He sitteth there All ignorant of all His things that make a wall, And in a narrow place, He slays his mother, Making a great noise; But in the strangest way, And in this high and solemn And solemn tumult, He stands before the awful Spear and the Lord God, And sitteth on his right In the very hall of light. He calleth unto distant, "Can we bear this fair day, Brother with your babe, The dear May, that is born? Do you dare? You have sinned! Blessed is the Father of the heavenly A Friend of man--no other: Let him take from you His darling child--but we, Father, take your own, and so This child shall have your own!" One morn by birth before my father's gate A winsome lass was stoled and fair of face: The purest maid she looked with lovely grace, And, when a child, she sang a baby-song: I wooed her from an amorous embrace; Her brow was blue, her lips were cherry-gay, But her mouth was sweet--as blithe as any child. "Hail! May I love my lass!" the people cried, When, lo! her bride beside her winsome lass. "Make thee, for thee, a sweeter singer bride In palace far away from man's embrace! In every bower and glen and forest place, In lake and river, mountain and each town, In hamlet, plain, and green-clasped street, All welcome to thy kiss and song, Peer of the fairest maid among." My father's noble housekeeper then came; My mother's noble servants then he led, And, when he led the youth up on my knee, They called him Robin Hood. He sweetly said: "Why, outcast, sneaking care-stained, beggar maid! Why, by the fowl, art thou the maid to win?" Ah, yonder little brook runs laughing in! With angry green-hair waves its head; To shun its ancient drinks the boy would die And hide his tears--and so outcast could cry! The boy heard, and half his love was spent; He thought upon his mother's solitude: "He would not hear thy daughter's woe! He would not see her! her poor, helpless son!" Oh, why did flowery May bind me? ======================================== SAMPLE 311 ======================================== 's birth; He wills the dead in spirit bear The holy standard and the star. For, gazing on that form, I ween, It cannot have the figure been That by the white cross' carven shield Beholds me once, and breathed of old. Nor wind, nor breath, shall die, although King Phaethon, girt with steel, shall burn Till to his summit heaven's hill Be opened. Yea, and in the sky Such colors shall be set by me, Such sign shall be enwreathed on high. And from a world of hurry and strife Like this, dear child, I know thy life Is bright with joy and life, as seems The jasmine in the wildwood bud. For see the lightly-plodded flowers That twine about the root and stem And kiss the forehead, how they clamber To kiss thy feet and clear thy path! (Will no one, then, my dear love, stay To search for me and find me here? I see thee only through the day Of thy strange love of many a year, But by my skill and much-loved play Thy master hath made all things clear; And though thou art a thousand years, I have no joy except in tears, And all the world, from east to west, Must teem with grief to see thee stranded. He cares not for the green and leafy Adding unnoticed bliss to us, Nor for the songs that ring the sheen About the earth, from birds that carol; For, in the leafy woodlands, when The nightingale begins her thrush, She tells the artful tale of love With a strain more sweet than thrush or linnet. Now what is this? The songs that throng Our street, as with a wedding-ring, 'Twixt fields and leafy lea, art come To rid us of our mystery! Of old this was the first sweet song! That singing from the gray-green wood, Flowers for a season treasured long, But could not grow and fade in song. Nay, never shall this earth be hurled Where I have trod, though all the world Be changed for me, in all the paths I have walked. My spirit of dreams is like a garden, Warm, cold, and full of scent and color, Full of the sun and dew and music And full of summer birds and fragrance. Like a sweet hill fashioned by the sea A temple of the spirits' seeing, Full of the color of the clouds, With flowers and light and shade and shadows. These days are long, and I but come To be a prodigal at thy door, And when I breathe out human breath I think thy lips' soft love restore me. From these days we are so apart, So with the vividness of thy heart, As I would have thee still confess, Thou art mine own, and I make confess My soul of fire and secretness. My love for thee does as I would The roseate colors weave for thee, And in the robe of twilight fair Thou wert his diadem. I see thy tears of rosy hue Upon the leaves of autumn, Thou seeest me a little brood Of gloom and longing largely; I hear the call of hidden things That haunt the heart that lingers, I see the smile of sea-birds on Thy lips and face like embers; And the sweet nectar of thy tears Is rapture to the core. All dainty in the morning bright, All dainty with the rays of light, The firefly thrills and dances, And when thou comest forth to-night, Thou'lt see the rush of feathers. In the soft-rippling blue, the many-colored flowers Their beauty blow on the far-travelled hours, O golden with auras and toads and bees, And a bevy of lotus blossoms; The odorous-orchises and the musky flowers Feed their flocks on the shore; Their fragrance is the rose of thy hair, And the cool freshness of thy mouth, Enthroned by the evening of the moon With a rank and regal mingling of shapes. For the night is on us like the far wind's breath, The soft-railing, Cool, even audible as a song in sleep; Weaving a tissue Of silence about us as we weave their flow, And singing the secrets of the ======================================== SAMPLE 312 ======================================== ! if you must Die wel, come die and see Wrecks of widow and wife Cooped in one bed together, Closed in one bed together, I, the one bed together, Wring the bed together. Walking children round the table, Walking children round the table, Writhing, mucking, rambling, While the little one was singing As the baby to the baby Beginning to walk. Now it is as if a bean pod Spun before the morning sun; Spun before the twilight, As you know, too, of the moon; But as a child's in the cradle, Trimming full in face and limb, Ignorant of what helps or helps, As the long-legg'd bridal slice, As the fatal egg or dove, So it is with this thing. Plague upon thee, Bude, Plague upon thy maiden lady, How are all these evil things done In thy young child's days? Vainly do they seem to me In their tender depths of feeling, Never were the honey-bees Stoop so low to meet their wishes, Never were they sent to thee From the fields and flowers! But a buzzing in the air, And a beating at the windows, Howl'd my heart to vex and tare-- TheBird of the wilderness, Bit the soft grass from the wing, Pelt'd and dropp'd of unseen things. And thou, little Bird of the wilderness, I fain would sing with thee. But most I fain would sing In thy desolate palace, Where living things, denied, Eat in dark and hungering pride, And scornful folly taunts and jeers, Voices of a life defrauded By the moulie mystery Of mirth, which men call scornful, The laughter of a man to madden; Yet I would sing--ah, no! Those ever-living images Still carry the heart of Alice, And laugh before her as she passes; And those who for the wild-briar, The little bayou, Song, play With a gentle cruel fire, Touch'd by a surety unawares Of enemy envy, Blinding them with a peacefull assurance That they were not hard-hearted While they were so far-minded. Proudly she will smile, And then will she go, Staying her mild words till they reach Helpless the little fluttering wing. But thou--thou are a Queen indeed; Thou art the Wielder of the quest, And yet I fain would sing. We that are wandring far behind, And lacking all our scope of thought We come to his sad banishment And haunt his waste palace wrought. Our hearts may fail, when he is still, And our brief vices be in vain; And dimmer shall our fingers chill Each morning in his quavering strain; Then he will go and wear the wings Of dimness o'er the clamoring street, The feeble eyes that think it wrong To let him pass. The child that when the old Mother came And set him up with what she feared, Laughed in the dovecote garden where His own Young thoughts were not intrusted, Though he was tall as any sparrow Yet each small comfort and each shadow Had fallen in his deep distress. His wealth had all the Old-Year moulding, And in those hours of sober leisure His children gambol'd with their flocks, Or with their little lambs, or fed By sun and wind, or with the bees. Oh, children of the new-built city, Whose antique suits of curious speech Have cost more dear the joy of it Than all the pain of seeing them, Still must ye care for what is dead, Since you are born? Most growing things ye hold apart, Will change like flowers in your own heart, And none be known to you; and all That is born in them must be unlike, Nor any mournful or with tears. Because we cannot separate flowers For one short hour. Twelve little letters, that do lie Between the one, that you may know (As far as where the fingers blow), You think it is a childish hand That laid them down to grow, And that their roots are so intombed They hardly know. And then they're safe--God knows how long-- From this world's tangles to the core Of all the things they ======================================== SAMPLE 313 ======================================== . "That was a funeral. Over one Death's pang had come; then our eyes fell On one who had been killed. His face Was the black visage of a hag. Her blood was even blood. I saw The ghastly face before her! Loud Her battered side--you'd think you'd see The depths of them--that is how she did A-dying--and, aside, by God's grace! The men who stood between us there. Where was she, anyway?--the man, A crazy, aye! most beautiful, A-dying--dying--ha?--what was the friend She wished to be? "If my dear boy, the hills and dells, What once he loved, were changed and glad This day, old griefs will make him sad-- Perhaps he's sad--perhaps he's sad, Perhaps his youth will run too bad. No chance has he of greeting friends That send his footsteps anywhere But those he loved are friends again, Or else he'll go alone and die." Bitter, or ever, like a great red cinder Before which drops and spreads a fire-- Blown on and beaten to the tinder Of teeth that still are running still, And still like remnants on a hill-- With a fierce joy that smiles and speaks Before me, is a storm of wings-- Shrieks and screams and touches of white clods. I know that there are some things left In books and blotches and--I know They never will disturb me, never, They cannot have to waken me. To be old and lost is still my anguish Of feeling, hearing and feel near-- In a like sense of the high power Of God in man. Yet, all the while, With a sad smile, I see a something that is healing With an old sorrow--cleansing fear Upon the strong, brave arm of reason-- Hair blown back and back, and heavily By degrees down beaten drums That beat, as with a gnawing of the will, Till they are lost to hearing--then The devil takes those poor old things For his old pity! It is not sin Of old--and, for the want of grace, As it is, and habitually Of all that I shall tell you now, A chief might not have had his old. For he might only look on him, (And such are angels in a crowd) Though he was known and yet would be As son to him; and it is thus That lovers often minister Unto their old-time, having worn Their old faces and their old-days The only jewel of their praise. Littly, in truth, They leave their young souls and the air, Those flowers that are the tenderest once Of all the world, and where they are I look--but look not there--for lo, Those flowers!--who seem so very old Are ever young before they die Because they have grown old, you know, Because they fade before they go! Because those souls, whose eyes are sad, And, like the flowers, must seek the light, Must speak to them on to its night Of the love that grew in the passing years, Must speak to them in this wise: "Lo, this is he, this is his faith," Whereof God's prophet is the faith That was a virtue, and a life, That was indeed a crown of tears Foreshadowing, or else destroying, Till men looked in their own dim eyes And suffered them to look again On the great newness of their race, And how they shall have loved and lost A soul immortal as the old Are sheltered, yet must have it soiled In the mid coil of misery, And, if they dared to lift their hands To clutch, be deeply wounded through Their suffering or glad departure, But still the same-- After the solid longing of our hearts With all the ancient sweetness and the new Simple tumultuous tears, the sudden Artful fervour and the sudden Dismal arch, the disentangling (With all the common hopes and fears The growing it of passion that has Flowed up to heaven) in a single hour From hour to hour of night and rise The stately splendour of our skies Upon our souls. For life and death And change and time and chance and life Keep pace with us and we are one. Nothing is here that we deny, For my heart is hollowed, and the dark ======================================== SAMPLE 314 ======================================== me not. Death will be my death-ground; Let that be so, let me alone in the end." But at the cry of Messrs. Fox rose up and said, "Take heart; young man, I 'v Earlis come home to-day. I 'v Lord, and I 'v Sir Knight, a clever man And the Queen's Mother, Sir, that takes a plot, To please her fancy. An old spin-laureau, Grim crashing Englishman with the lace cap, The wenches out, the kitchen crook'd to sing The day she left. And I had talk in the kitchen, But the quick lad loved her; he said it was hers; And then the dear old days came up with her And proved their faults, and they smiled kindly then. He would have taught her a pauper and tenor. 'Thou art too noble,' he said, 'and the look So belike to command,--so noble and high,-- And you have yet to learn! But she hath not The wonderful land of Spirits that sigh Here, of my love and dread! One moment I rose, And heard the thunder of battle. My look Was on the Queen's face; and her ring-dove eyes Were turned into steamers. But no matter, my love, To-night I dare believe any more to-night.' Pulsed on in silence, he saw her. She moved In the light which was playing on the table, And the slow pace of laggard round her feet. She slowly changed; and down she sank from the chair To right and left. The white and golden gleam Had tinged her delicate neck and cheek. Quivering she fell. They cast her aside And the cell was left of the moon in the wood By the river-side. The frost lay bare And ice-cold on the marble. They caught The heat from the sheet of white ice. They froze The smooth stone ice; they froze it at the base Of the old granite rock. They took to the door Long and red-drawn. They had ice-crusted ice, And ice-cold, and ice-cold; they even drew Their knives out of the frost-crusted jaws Of black catena, of ravenous wolves, Of wolf and bear. They drank from the warm blood The juice of the innocent blood, and were awake. They could talk. But once through a gurgling vein, a vein For remembrance, they saw on a strange dark day As in a certain black cathedral's aisle The last of the train. The train might be seen Standing steadily in the fiery rain, Lifting in ghostly colours, red and green, Tremendous as death and cloudless, strange As the shade of the dead night and the dark. The train would slacken, they caught the train, And they had fixed it, they couldn't stand again. Alone with sorrow. One broke in two, Three nails in front. 'Well, what is the sequel? Tell me a letter now, sir.' 'No' she said. 'There was a war in the town of Larkin's Wood On Saturday, and twenty men were shot, And they saw a crossbar's bloody red, And the Cross bush rattled in the sun. But a fatal panic was on the brief train. "The Cross, sir, was riven in twain By the bloody Cross of Larkin's Wood. And he rushed against it. He left the gap For the homestead in Larkin's Wood. There were thousands of windows open wide, There was slain in front of Larkin's Wood, And he fell to the left in the gurgling tide, The crowd of dead men, that the stark blood shed Dripping on Larkin's Wood. There was a far-off hunting band, They found no room for a wound, They set their master to swing Or heel for the third stage three. They bound him on fast with a horse's snorting back, Then closed his eye with their rifle's crack, And the bloody, desperate, first stage coach Cramped over the dead men's backs. But, after three on a scarred, split mast, The old man's eye shot wide. 'Why, lad,' he cried, 'you are galloping fast, You have not yet struck your side. Is this the test for a brave old man, A man that you see in a true old ======================================== SAMPLE 315 ======================================== on the leap Of the great sea, snow-swept and blue,-- Ah! and these out of the stars will arise, And pour their strength through the dark and the skies, And lift the strong soul of the whole that flies. What of the joy that is kept alive In the vast and airy vault of the sky, Where vast fire-girdled immortals dance, And unseen feet are on the paths that lie, And the eyes that look into the night Rest in the breast of the intimate light? What of the nests in the water's rings? What of the many birds that fly Singing unseen in the salt sea-springs? What of the multitudinous king-fishers That toss their wings in the cold black air, And silver-grey all painted fair With green, and yellow, and amber and rare? What of the pale folk, which the sun sets free From the dead? what of the iron-circled earth That sucks its heart in the cold cool hand Of Death, that feeds it with living blood? What of the wild swan's sad, plaintive cry, When the grey dawn of day is close, And the stars and the shadows huddle by? What of the fisher's chase, that sped Singing through the dripping wood, The lost sea-white, the young greenhead, And the flake and the woodland-queen? What of the tide of the fire, that passed With feet of fleet black and of fleet brown stone On the streaming sand and swept across The roaring soul of the wind-whirled bark Sweeping into port with the light o'erhead? What of the laughter of eyes, that turned To hounds that fled from the top of noon, That had lain the noon-red length of an even moon? What of the leafy fire that lay In the wood so black, so white, so still? And the sobbing leaves of the wild wood blown Across the dripping branches and through the rind? What of the rain, that followed the sun With the wild wet leaf on the naked bough? What of the green wood where the wine was wed, The leaves that hung in the loadle above? O, a spirit of honey and maiden song Of the wild rose blooming in the fields, Oh, a whimpering voice of the sweet-briar fawn, And the dim green-girdled and naked girls Who are dancing in mad bewildering foam, To the clasp of an arm, with the gray, wild flesh Of the foam-brimming foam, and the wild wild dance, Making the light-house sweet. Do you think there is really a calling here? Do you think the summer is pulsing about? Do you think the air's lightly impassioned, In the dewy prime; Do you think the wind's kiss, the wild wind's bosom, Can freshen a rose's mouth? Do you think the honey's a dead to kiss, Or the heart's light rapture of air that passes, In the wild, voluptuous pain? O! do you think, by the sun-filled vine-hung valleys, The billowy rain-lily is flying over, That, dropping its weight, sets all the grasses a-thrill, While the green-girt cloud goes over, laden with honey and gold, And everything over is mine and thine, to keep, when or ever I hold, I hold. This is the secret, this is the secret, That ebbs in my blood till I stand full still; That sounds of the trumpet, thrills like a reed, That sings of the surf-capped city, the hill, Of the forest, the wind, and the world's mad glory, The strange free land that I know not of, Of the waters, the woods, and the free-footed seas, In all these years I shall know what I know, I shall know more of the secret than this, I shall be more than the Master, and gladder than any, And the tall tall reeds swill in the wind, and the grasses shall Last, and the sound of the elfin trump shall die in the blast. There's a high land in the sky Where all good men are famous, There's a high land in the west, And all good men are famous; And the lordly land is this To which each man is jester, And a bolder place than this Is more than I know twenty. ======================================== SAMPLE 316 ======================================== , my little brigantines! You cannot see my face; your face I prize. I cannot kiss--you cannot see my eyes. Perhaps in some far, foreign country You may perhaps be happy there. Perhaps in some far royal city You may perhaps be happy there. From the cities of New England A vision comes to me Of a little child I used to know. He is so very small, His hands are so very small, His nails are so very long and long He has such soft, white skin, So very soft and fine He is a delicate thing to touch. So, when I watch his shining clothes Tumble into his little nose, Tripping, propped up on tip-toe He is so nice and fine, With his nice, white nails, he is so nice. And I wonder what's the use of him, For wherever people bang him, They sometimes make him sing and scold, And when they pull him down, It is always in the way he is. He is so very small, His hands are so long and long, They can almost take a span And not at all allow him to. He's grown so tight and fast, It is a shame to see him shirk. He's grown so very fat, With all his little wit, So very short and very great, He must be very fat, So very short and very fat. And now the children, I've heard, Play with him in the nursery; Perhaps he is too bold, Perhaps his feet are far too bold. And, anyway, he must not go For all the pretty dolls he used to know. But when I see him in the play, I always wonder why He never can get back to tea. When I was down from Uncle Fred He was good-natured and kind-hearted. I used to think that it made me wise To take him in the parlor and put him in a ride; When I see him in the manor drive, I wonder why he drives with no horses. If you are ill, and they make poor, You must never claim the lady; If they lay you down and scream, You must call them very strict. For you must always be controlled, Though you'll never keep your gold; If you're not all black and strong, You must never ask for money. I'm sure that father and mother Did much as I say now; I've just one eye for judgment, Then there is nothing now, And what have they done for me? I'm sure that I'm more cross Than they are any other. I'm certain that they'll all Transport you in the trouble As you do in your trouble; They'll give you a way to take you, And never keep you out. They will show you all my trouble, They'll cause my crying sharp. But if you're ill, old Uncle John, You'll never be in bed, But then you'll always have a will To wait for you for future still. There were three of us, they say: Husband and wife and half of me, What are the best things that we see? They are of the sort that I see. So then we laughed until they grew, And called each other one by two. But as they grew they made a friend Of the things that would rend and mend. And as they grew they meant to end In some way, because they meant to mend. So they went by house and wedded wife And the three in bed were ill-content. And so they made the beds up strong And the chairs up strong enough to sling, And as they were getting through the house They groped for some one but a man. But at last they came to the house Where their father lay in bed. They were loth to go to the store But something in the bed was bad. My lips, dear, lie on my heart, We're two that's different from you. Do you see this man with his head And his hands all washed away? Have you any sympathy with me But as I am, so is day. I know our scarlet sins are scarred Because their scarlet sins are done. But as I lie in bed alone And my thoughts are sharp with pain, And as I am, so is my heart Still full of aches and tears again. And now I have had a dream to sell, I know it by hand, ======================================== SAMPLE 317 ======================================== so bravely unimpair'd, That Fate her eye-lids from the march aside Blazed, and no longer dreaded haunt the shore. Stung to a heart by treachour more than crime, Back to the ship the whirlwind sweeps, and leaves Its ancient grapplers, and to windward sweeps The myriads of the closing keels. From all The deeps beneath the surge her timbers shivering Implode a voice, that, when her crafty crew Had run their eager barks at Thetis' hands, Caught her to loose their anchor. When she chose Their fate, and nursed them, low she worshipp'd them, And, having power to launch their bark, their bark Turn'd to the keel, not trusting to escape Her dread; back to the deck again they came, Nor tiring more to check the chief's command. And now the victor, farther South, approach'd, Not landing till the race of other men Took flying fear; then drove the vessel back, And gave the deep sea-wolves their oars. At once The steersman of Cilician Dido, saw, As through the ship they plough'd the briny flood, "Stand by to-day, and let the coward bear With him the base reward." Thus did the Prince Stripp the great barks, or, speeding down the stream, Bear off the flag of unknown comrade-man. From so much swathe of foam and riving foam The faithful crewsmen many a league away From that rude pirate till he landed there, Leaving Cilician food and skins behind. Now, laden well the berried decks with oars Where glide swift rufflers, new arrived, and keen The billows roaring in their dark descent. There, with his spouse and comrades of his train, Astyanax and Sinon, a young bark, Sea-rovers, eager for the stern debate, Whom they together dash'd on either side Dashing the waves, and when from side to side The ocean listens, with his faithful band He seals the roaring tempest of the sea, Now whitens crest and storm-cloud hide the prow. He leaves them tranquil as his windy ship That hiss'd, when rushing from her prison-cell, High from the starry mansions, life and home, He chose with speed, and, by the works of men And flying vessels, on the deck he leaves The crew, obedient to the master's voice. At once and now the host with shouts arose, As when huge Eurus to a ship had fled, And, starboard, mastless o'er the gulf, with oars Blown on the sea, and mingled with the sea. So, when the prince, albeit with men of Troy Back to the cleaving river, yet the ships Alone embark'd, and Troy remain'd a prey. He in the foremost vessel, tall, and fair, Carved with his art, the building of a wall To his contrivance; Paris, his of right, Robs in the bulwarks, and he posts a plank To swim at anchor, drawing from the bank, Steers by the pilot, saves the nimbler oars And skilfully he dashes down the flood. He with a choir of maidens, all around, Attracts the bark, and, skilful as a God, Makes it his dwelling, guarded with a guard From winds and waves. When thus the mighty prince, "Draws in the helm of wind and storm the ship, And, through a rocky channel, dashes down To join, o'er liquid air. Without a sail We wind our course, and, entering the mid flood, We look into the gulf, and shun the light." Thus is the legend taught. Between the shrines And oars the hoary father finds the God, His figure in the form of water-nymphs, Her arms around his neck, and heavenly forms. With wonder and amazement both the brave Beheld it rise, but doubted to accept His challenge; for he from their head in vain Pre-eminently took the cup, and quaffed. Him when the bowl he fills, he in the breast Of the chaste Virgin of his namesake-land The crown imperial of his cup of milk, Seeking him with his maidens to espouse, And inly thirsting, thus himself began. "Oh love of country, in whose holy laws I, through the heavenly counsels fixed ======================================== SAMPLE 318 ======================================== as its gates thou may'st, If it falle not to the hand, Yet like the angel in the sky, Shoot forth its bidding on, nor spare The goddess for whom, all afire, "We raise the pillars of the shrine, And visit the fulfilment mine!" So Hope spake on, and Time went by, And joyed of Thee, and Fate went by, And dropped his torch, and like a spell It vanished from the House of spell. The rafters were full of ancient date, The fires around with eldritch flame Were coiled and polished to the shape Of headsman, sailor, mechanic, sage, Who sat in meditation down With the old Baron by his hearth, Or heard old tales of times untold, And built the marriage-chamber high, When twilight hung like a catafalque Above the eternal palace-hear Of glimmering halls; Where senates in council sate, 'Mid the folk of a gathering chime Of ancient mystery and magic That speaks of Time. The tall archæological casements, And the spiral minarets of the old Breaking through their crannied screen, The ruined bridge at last stood still, As HARD grim leaden downward knelt, In his wisdom's wisdom-giving glance, Which means his speed is swift to reach The place where he sits at his painted easel, And Nature pauses at the gate Of his grand-pated Hell. Down swept the crimson from his beard, Like the spray upon an army beach, As he lifted his boyish head, In the quick and boyisheffaced man Of the tops of bells, that leisurely In their slowest rhythmical march, Passed under his silent escaunt. In shadow and in mystery stood The old king's son, with face that smiled Like a child's, and brown hair like sand, When the smile that hovers o'er his face Shall run along his watery march Like a stream-tide in the shaded grass. The old, stern, bloodless face grew pale, As he sat at his ancient resting-place, And heard the gushing of the gale Where the surge of ages routed Space, And felt the Earth a tightening clod That the new-born day is not, nor God. O let us leave the fevered town, Its sad, it lonely street of stone, For wheels that whirl, and wheeling wheels That whirl forever in the dust, Here in the common fields, of yore The gathered dust is fresh again; And the seed lives in the common sun Whose mould is fresh again. It wears no more the bushy ring, The hot, hot summer-tide of snow, The hearth-fire on the hillside cold Rins in its hollow sides of old, Nor shakes its mantle at the day As, yawning by the brook's still flow, The sun creeps up to meet the sun, A thin and sullen hue is gone, The lips of children on the knee Look up again to find the day, And laugh to wake the happy shade That comes to cheer the wintry day. In all our wanderings the days are come, As when across the winter's heart of foam The minstrel rode and sang, and so He bore the singer far in space, And nowhere cared the passer-place For such the songs and tender grace That round his wayward way he flings To where, beside the frozen fount, He fails to find the poet's voice. Ere each rude heart was dumb in fear He turned away in wrath and tears; The man was sad and filled with woe, His soul could hardly think him dead; And what were all his joys to him Whose eyes before his wayward way No other song than his had shed? O happy living blades of grass, Hushed now beneath the weight of thyme! Thou hast no helper near my way To quicken and to gather me. I am but one who climbs the hill To help him pass the weary day, And knows not for what pain I will, That life is good for what I say. My little son, who for thy sake Can care no more than dost bestow Wherewith to guard thy father's grave, And set in keeping of his vow The living of the quiet will, And breathing from the troubled clay That loved thee in his early day, When ======================================== SAMPLE 319 ======================================== Through all the world be now admired, That to a noble name belongeth, And all is fame, and all the throng May of this choice prosperity fildeth. I grant your grace is in your sight Most gratifying, sov'reign knight, To hold it as usurp's in my hand. That so my poor best feelings command, If by my labors you be ruled, I am both in procrastination And can with skill and valour hold the land. Let Fortune with most constant care These gifts to your defence prepare, The waste of the vast choysa bear Which that of priests, they mean encarcies; 'Twill crush your ignorance, and disgrace The brow of your illustrious race, What time the queen, your royal mother, Yourself the only coronal bedight, To have an influence on the maid. Away! these happy glories fly, So brief a life is all too brief to die. Passion and pride soon banish sorrow, From gilded dwellings disappear. And to a sumptuous banquet go, The mighty obligation long to know; Your costly luxury must recompense Your famished boors and bands on foot, Here, here the patron, host, or guest Can still the weary wanderers rest. And man, this noble race to bless, Is but the favoured guest's caress. My tale and date are both too few; Your edict then I 'm sure must be This honor to my prowess true, For in this lists have oft been met, Since in your arms Lucretia sat, And at your knees thy praises I Will neither yet in wed dalliance bow, But with a flattering jibe pursue, Till you are won, and both by you. Go! and with me, of beauties vain, We two shall strive to suit again; Both from the landscape now away, Or yearly loitering day and night; If fortune should your vows pursue, Who knows no lord of men should you? What passion lurks within the breast, When that dame, suppliant, and distressed? Away, my friend! no dread offence Can e'er prevail against offence. Vows, by resentment compelled, Thirst for blood shall you suppliant meet; And when you shall impose them on, Your guilty blood shall be dispelled; The foe shall be subdued by fear, If you the test regard with fear. This much may I command of you: Yourself with patience bear it, do What I can with success achieve, And of my downfall drink a draught. A full flowing tide of sorrow flows To my dismal heart, and fill my eyes With the streaming tear and hopeless sigh. Long I lived anxious, yet was not I? Now if that swain the youth should prove, With high respects, he could my age, And so far in the world be borne; I would not leave the town to you. Nor will I e'er again deferr Your kind warm wishes to a lover, Should I a sullen welcome prove To him who thus to you commendeth: 'Tis, if you please, he humbly begs you; And think you mean yourself to ease it. "Believe not such as men profess, Believe me such as men profess. Let fairer wives make those she can; Such do, with me, the maids of man; And when you deed of love impart To me, the most avow you shall. My soul's unwell sustain'd I'll prove That sin of parting is most blest: I wish your judgment now release, Your patience, patience, and peace." The youth with gratitude approved The offer made, and laid the rest On his most faithful maid. Though neither knight nor squire he saw, He wist not of her till she grew; Though each observant took the same Fresh cause for to oblivion's claim, His folly past, his grief past by, Though none but cowards ever knew Why his heart late so fell and low, He was, he could not choose but go, So brave, so many and good at once. But yet he thought she knew not how To first excuse his virtuous vow. What time from him, by wrath impelled, The woman took the knight and thief, And laughing loud, the false man praised, And to the crone present herself, To comfort her in jest and teen. "Why scold I not to be in ======================================== SAMPLE 320 ======================================== below in the dark, The Race behind that is so noble. I should be sure I could not fail, If I were bold and I were wary, If I were wild and I were saintly, And I should die, oh, for my woe, If I were wise and I were loath, If I were tall and I were flesh. I should be troubled as I was With thoughts of her until that morning. I should be troubled when I took her For the dear mother of my brothers. They burnt my flesh into a basket, Cast my cup into the water, Singed my brows and soothed my hunger, Soothed my spirit into calyx Tinged my hands and top my forehead, Burning with fire, vowed to marry Me whom they call the fair Dodona. The bard decrees the oath is holy, And the rites go down in silence. When the years are many and numberless, When life's sun goes down to ocean, Why do ye, mortals, mortals, mortals Give up your empty sepulchre? Why, our bosoms feel the enclasp Of this cold and barren water, And we wake, and sigh, and weep? Why should you be sad and sorry, Give up the peace and let us go, And weeping freely love and languish. Here we are waiting, and the day Will come, when men will hail and pray. But, children, what are ye doing, Thus to cry thus in our request? Why, we must answer--Must we say The same, that we will not forget? O dear heart, say, who can this maiden be? Who is the son that you so tender see? Who is the father, the dear one, of me? O why is he still thinking of love and me? O why, O why, in the clear, radiant air, Wilt thou sit on the breast of thy fair mother, Say, what do these writhing fingers dare To weave thus, this heart, this heart to dare? And O what the answer, all discover, For each of them one to the other ever, And each to the other, in silence listening, And each to the other his bosom swelling, And the gentle mother not weaving finely, Each to the other her weaving is sweeping, For each to the other her weaving is sweeping. The golden chain from the warp swung free, The golden comb in the beam made bright, The shuttle behind it the sable flee, The shuttle so fair to look to, When she hath made the shuttle to-night, And on the breast of the shuttle She dights the heart with a golden ring, When she beholds that her weaving's begun, And wonders to learn is the marriage of one. The day is bright, the night is chill, The moon is up; we wait in vain, I must be off to the sombre fields, Or somewhere out in the deepening glooms There may be one for whom I dare not care, In the vaults of the moon's abysses mine is his care, One whom you may see as I see you now, Whom to the darkest night you yet may see, Waking it on your cradle-rock above, If I set my face in your father's face, From the side of my new-made grave, Then you'll kneel down, when I pass from the place, For the swift, sure feet of my daughter and lover, And I know her heart is my bride, my bride. So, out on the land he named me, I wandered all day, I looked from my window, and rose and smiled, And kissed the stars away. Till I looked the first to my father's face, And I kissed his mouth and eyes, And my heart waxed full of a mother's grace, And the veil of a sister's blue. The parting kiss from his hand, The loving touch of his mouth, The last touch of his hand, the love he gave me, And death, they all have been. Yes, I looked for my daughter, With her well-known glade, I looked again to my mother's face, And I saw his eye was blue. He kissed her cheeks, o'er and o'er, And his little hand on my mother's breast, His love and hers have grown. Yes, I saw his head, o'er and o'er, I heard him speak again; O, then I knew his voice, o ======================================== SAMPLE 321 ======================================== the Head as white. She was not as pretty as night. She'd a gilt and heavy creque, Clean and yellow as sand, Blue and satin, She was all the sort of land With the lands that she'd land. Like a canary she grew, Blue and satin, And knew not that she was satisfied; She was satisfied. But she came one day to Kirkborne town, With a brother she had grown, And gave mistresses to the gentlemen, And a young man, he was Dean Zinn. And she glided away through Kirkborne town In a big and somber dark, With wan moon in the dusk. And she went by Wellford brook, With her uncle had a fay; He sat on the horse's back, And he knew that he must pray. He saw the water-sparlour's plume Blown by an angry flaw, And the cloud of incense dimmed his sight; He saw his day of law, And he knew that in his breast There had been no witness there The lost--yet not the mean. He was the apron on the keel, To the stake in Chancery nigh; He was where none had seen such green. And all of the brood that sea-gulls cry Would bark in their covert here, And a cruel storm would vex them there. He saw them part in the water well, And him with his friends had planned To break the incense trees because They were disobedient yet. He dropped the cows with a horror-dread; He sprinkled the down with sand, And in spoil and in sherds had smelt The sea-salt under his hand. As the bear, with fierce eyes opened wide, Sought the covert, high and wide, He saw a stout hunch-back come in From the scented laurel-grove; He saw him bend on the boughs, and he heard An awful voice that called, And in trembling voice he had fallen there. Then a brave man came, with the horse's mane Slung free on a milk-white trail; He was nearing the rocky edge, and he caught His breath in the river below. There was nothing daunted, Lest herself she should catch, And she feared that she waltzed not back to seek The sea-salt under the sky; For that danger was come, and a shame had seized The haughty hulk, And the poor man saw, from his seat in the boat, A whale draw nigh, 'Twixt the bank and the headland A mighty hole was set, And the wind carried him far, and wherever he went The whale drew nigh. The wind carried him far, and wherever he went The whale drew nigh. But the sea, as the whale drew nigh, Kissed him up at the sight, And with one great bound, gave him back to the land, Where his bones had their birth, And where he had cot in the surf of the sea A man crept under the earth. And a wonderful hulk did he sail for, and float Straight to the whale in sport. Now the whale drew nigh, and again the billow tossed In the salt sea-tide. And a sail came he under the sea, and the whale Bore the glittering prize. He was mocked and laughed in his beard, and swore To sift his flesh with fire, But as for that vessel he dared not speak. The whale drew nigh, the fire blew. It was all a living whale, And up it came with his leaping and writhed, With the ghastly slime he had bitten and sank, And it snapped like a lath, Till it swallowed the life of that gullet close With a hole for slime, And his life was his life in that ship of his, And nothing on earth he knew. And the whale drew quick in his teeth to the sea, And burst the teeth of the whale, And again the monster they spat at him, Till it seemed a body of fog, And the whale drew back; And his teeth they saw, till they saw him plain, A bungalow slew he. It was dark in the sea, and the sea-gulls cried, To the noble hulk that was laying his last Was a vermin in speed, That was carried along by the scaly drift On ======================================== SAMPLE 322 ======================================== . At once, when we were overcome with rain And wearied in deserted dins, We took our way beneath the sun, By which o'er hill and valley one We reached; or crossed,--in deep advance The rampart wall; at length we won, And, learnt of course, came back again. Our hair was washed with green, and, lo, The western cloud began to fall; While, with a cry, we turned aside And left my girlhood with the flower Of my possession coined and dyed. Now they had turned from black to red, And such a weary lot had been, Too full of pleasure, sense, and dread To think of, or to give offence. Through moonless nights we two had been, Eden and that moonlight scene; At last we reached a water-fall By strapping dunes that jagged all; A little cottage, gray and old, With windows small and watered grass, And were so small, so cool and cold, We could not move, we could not pass; The half-moon was a shinower daile, The village gave us pleasant shade; We could not enter, for the trees Were sleeping in the silent night, And through the clouds no moonbeam wove, Like music in a sylvan grove. How long we dwelt together there, More loving in a woman's care, Than maids in convent singing sweet Among the morning pebbles fleet! A garden, new to morning hours, With daffodils and rainy flowers, And silver pansies all a-row Above the gate's high-arched row. And, as our faces told our grief, In tender converse thus we spoke: 'My husband's sire is far away, And I am left the summer gay; My boy, the winter is to-day, We miss him all the summer-day. I left him on the autumn eve, The little boy that skulks and saves; And where I am, I have to say, He was a man of many lives. The summer is to come, and yet The little boy that skulks and saves Is more than half a man, I trow, And more than half a man. And the little plaything and the flowers That bloom from my old castle tower, It is of truth the fullest worth, And is a sweet and sober bower. And as I pass, I kiss the earth And still the birds sing in my ear, For love the summer-day, and know There's joy beyond the reach of care.' He gave me all the summer-day, The little flower that I should pluck, He gave me all that I possessed He hung upon his breast in lessen The swallows that they skim o'er his shoulders. 'And then'--and then he hung it there His pretty breast and front so fair; And, having kiss'd his lady's mouth, He gave his soul to kiss the daffodils That over there did hover. Away! away! with love he flew, But with his soul he could not brook The fancies in that tender look. He never breathed upon the air Such breath as his's had breathed before, Never again would he be there To kiss the birds more fresh and fair. But I do speak of a thousand things, Whence in an old sweet-oak I see Half ruin'd on the bare floor Of this wild forest, and half thine, Which seem'st to shrink from it awhile, Not while the seasons have their smile, But as a brook right suddenly, All green and blue now drawing near To meet its fall: and then, it was A way of love and not of hate: And I have made a fitter place For my dear lover to embrace. Farewell! for that was all my prayer, And that I might have kill'd my love, And made this desert desert bare A spring-like river of my love, Where all was happy: yet, and yet Will hate, and jealousy, and hate Pass from me, as an insult'd lot A blessing on the wings of fate. But when we meet to part no more I am the dead, and thou the dead; And when I sit upon my bier With those who love thee here, I swear, Poor heart! to think of all the pain That spirit of despeavor drew From me, of that rude company. My future was more beautiful Than ======================================== SAMPLE 323 ======================================== !... ... I never try. And I would rather... had it not been The doctor had been lonesome... I would live, than worry. I thank him, sometimes. Sometimes I recall, each odious rihysterious phrase--a melon--half unconscious of the movement--of which the ladies have no confidence. Sometimes the summer sky is low and restless, and the sultry wind-flow'rs are bent above the torrents; and the south wind is goodly and gentle with the trees, and the bushes growing mighty in the path. "He should be a cheap fellow, for he chanced to hear one in the party room talking. The flower-balls had been quite wholly brown in their setting. The old garden, they say, was exceedingly rare for the hand that dropped it. It was laden with apples and melons and with fragrant apples and melons and melons and fragrant flowers, not so fit for a artistic soul. His eyes were like the London Times. They were the eyes that steadily looked at him incessantly. Their senses were bound up with a strange brocery, and a strange poplars. He was trying to look at it, but he never touched her hands, or tickled her spirit with his thought. She was infinites. She had leaned upon the boughs of a vine, and neighbourhood, had opened her whole life as quietly as any affianced. He would forgive her for the utmost. After a sharp pain, he would fill her with the passionless, scentless affrightment. Rocks of her beautiful form, filled her with them as she breathed them, even in a subtle sense of exuberance. Her being had not borne them. That felicity! Yet one quite understood it (for a gentle mind is a good soul, though a pleasant one and quiet and delightful when a sun brilliant and brighter than a tea-cup). The cruel banter was rolled in in a neat pocket-knaps from the back of her mouth, and her head was feathered in a lacquilted gown, still green with rust; the brazier was holding in her hand a railing or a javelin, save a large sword and a slender ball, which stuck it up in the corner of a great rose-pic. He was quite overcanteréd, for the smell of her tobacco had gone with him. There were some whispering powers in the distance of a blithesome voice. A champing-knife was in the little hand-net; and his tongue, and his chestnut, were found in the box at a distance from her head, and would lie down there and lean upon it; but, in a way that no one might discover the grateness of his motion, the conversation ran like water through her hair. A laugh and an elbow clink from the violins, and some think that long ago he said to himself, "Do you think we have grown very important in this way?" And that small voice, at the point of which he spoke, was scarcely remembered, but with a hint of the low and slouching of her head and half of her little round belly, the whole time being lost in the attempt to recall the imprints of her arms. Roger trembles at the words; his tongue twists back as if to keep them quiet, but the band begins again, with cleansings like brightness which only a few strong strokes of an organ turn. He starts again, and as before, the altzers pass along, each letting his head drop and let him drop and drop into the shadows of his canvas. Anon, for the last time, the dear deliverer, called the resembles which no longer heeded his hallo. He was sleeping in the room on the cue-stainer so worn and gray; and, from his midnight bath, he drew his moist and mopping lids out, then softly gripping the tight-shut lids of his canvas tighter and more sluggish. The curtain about his limbs seemed drawn; and again, with strident slaughter, he rubbed his dim forefinger to the root of his pen, and then spoke softly to himself, "The curtain opens now; I see that it is the curtain which the poet makes; this form is almost propped up on the point of his nose. They're pushed back again; I see that it ======================================== SAMPLE 324 ======================================== , and blow out seaward? Go to other war; Thou scorned thereby the iron of the vengeance that thou made When fear of thee no longer dared, Thou called'st his son and heirless on the whirlwind and the billows of his Yet here arrived of many a noble knight, Large store of these for no account is left, And much more goodly lands with them I won. My towers, and castles, and my own dear friends, Are utterly mine, as the wildfire shows! We drove the mighty ravages from Troy; How shall we thrust, then, all our host to bane? Of flight you have not hidden it from us, Here, while our hearts are broken in our ears, And how we men against our gods can call? Not so; say then, what have we done to bane To raise our hands against such bane? Why comes the rumbling thunder? Is it love, Or have we eyes beneath the furious heaven? A child may bring an infant's ill return, A wretch may kill his friend in his own house; Yet who runs fearless in the teeth of steel Is called a fool, and aged men have died, When no true man a babe may yet betray, And there be honest men to smile and talk, Thou hast slain them both; but those are thy own gifts. With scathe 'twas multiplied and noted; even the noble folk of On him the woeful she-goat, at the last, Slew her who brought him forth upon the flood, And left him, now a prey to monsters vast, Upon a bank of mountains; and she showed The youth beneath the oak that hid him not, And told him of his dangerous valour gone; How he in ghastly prison is detained To mingle with his engines and his slaves; How for ten thousand year he fled away, And leaves in wailing for his brother slain; Then how in captive anguish and in woe He sought his loved lord in a waste ravine, Beside the murdered hermit of his cave. Then she, the damsel rousald, to his art Spoke thus, and said, that "no misfortunes Ceasily perform unheard of thee, Since to avoid thee thou hast done this deed, Since with thy dying first the sun I sought Doth not delay my death nor hinder me." But answer made the hermit shepherd-wise, "When first this tale I heard, I longed to die, And all the little space between my hands Betwixt my jaws; but thou hast ended it." He, turning softly unto hermit-hood, Gave to the damsel his great recompense, And with fair honour decked his habit, And with fair honour clad his arms again, And took her by the hand; for none the less Of a sad train had made a solemn troth, But herself, better taught by his command, Though laden with a heavier weight than life, Bore and bemoaned her, and kept in her love Till he should bear him hence to Stygian shore. Her so beloved that she with many tears Was laved, while he, though loth, in thought was gone; Thenceforth she wept and prayed, as though content To see his valour in her tears dissolve. But now the sun, that look'd so scornful down, Had ta'en departure from the midmost sky, When towards her the Arcadian mother came, She, with her babe, that morning, in the arms Of her own child, the beauteous child of Jove, Came forth and cry'd, Alas! that thou so late Dost hear thy folly! Why be foes to us, And enemy of all our sister-moon? Hast thou not heard that thou hast left us here, Wherefore shouldst thou one day of our light Extend to us, O dearest? Nought is left Now of our beam to reach thine eyes and see That thou withdraw it hence, till I come in, Then from her babe the mother sent an scout To spy the babe; and as the mother hied She scream'd, and, for a moment, ran away. Then did the doubt, that moment, cease, and went Back to the mother, and with fear unkennel'd The hasty mother came; for with a look She mark'd the infant, and she saw him stretched Adown the crag, and his unsheltering limbs, And follow ======================================== SAMPLE 325 ======================================== er he had found his outer nest; But when the morn appeared again, Joy was within him, and he feared not harm. "Thou wert not ware of Friendship's bitter storms, And grieved to see the Master of the Rose; And 'tis but as a shadow sometimes stands With him that claims it, so thou never knows That Friendship stays. Give thou thy heart and eyes To Friendship, and in them thy love and joy." "There is a garden in her face, A place of sanctity in view; Where every hour the sun doth shine, She planted wild flowers in the wild-flowers, And mocked the breath of coming spring; Where in the midst a timid beech, Made fast against the stiffened string, Fell at her feet, her willing lover. "You have a home, fair maid," said he; "A home in which to you shall come, The moon's white blossoms in a sea, The winds' white blossoms in a room; And that sweet spot, where I shall sit, Where you shall hear the waves go by, Shall shield you from all evil chance. "But you shall fade; for you shall find A spirit kind and kind and true; A home in which to put your trust." "I cannot have your love unloosed," The other said, "but you must love." "Oh, no," the other cried, "forgive, It can not be: I cannot live. I would not have you think I love One whom I now must meet so near; A home whose depth my life doth veil; And never shall I see it more; But you have loved, a home so near." The nightingale heard her lover's tale, And throbbing in the garden pale, Cried to the lily--"Love, 'tis gibe; And mockery is beautiful. Oh, let me lay my lips upon Your bosom, heavy hearted! Oh, I have had a different lot, But none is better than the forgot, So let me lay my lips upon Your bosom, heavy hearted!" "You may, I fear, be wroth indeed With me," the lily said; "But you are loath, and 'tis no good For me to say one thing of nought Which one cannot undo." The wild rose laughed and 'gan to blush, And wooed her in her pearly bower; But ere they parted quite at morn The rose had closed her blushing flower. "What mockery! Your heart is wild, You think, and think it wild," The other said, "your only chance Is this to be a bird; And if it's so, you must be proud Of such a mocking thing; For though it's such, you should not care For such a silly thing." "Yet why--should I be proud, indeed? Have you no friends to stay, And none to love, and none to trust, And none to win your way? For all of these things are the best, For all are fond and true; The love that's sweetest is the best, And none is worst of you." In the leafy shadow, long and green, A ship stood near the setting sun; Her sails were loosed, her crew were spread, And with a loving heart she ran. For she had found a peaceful home, A home of peace and plenty there; A home that was of wealth and fame; And plenty breathed her gladest air. Her children played beneath the shade, As 'round the ship the skiff did roll, They called her from the shore. She called to them, her home of joy, And there they rested, ever young; The world has but one way to go, And one way, one good-bye, to go. Alas! she cried, she called no more; She only prayed, and asked him not, And in her woman's form at best, She whispered out, 'It cannot be, That he who sends this ship to me, Is my good ship, from Omshigh." "Alas!" she said. Her children cried, And, with a love as sweet and wild As if she loved each tender bud That bloomed for summer in the wood. And all the little ship went on, And all day long the summer sailed, With none to cross the flaming bar, And none to make the mockery quaint That time ======================================== SAMPLE 326 ======================================== them and say that death must be the last. Dwell deep, my child, in Paradise, But give not thou this dream of sin. I promise faithfully to drink The milk that makes the flowers drink, For e'en though now they sleep unspoiled, The quenchless fire that's far diffused, The smoking smoke that scorches it To smoke of Thine infinity; As thou in alta'scented flame Seest what thou wilt, O Lord, in me, My Babe, my Child. The autumn wild wind mourns the lonely eve, The dewy twilight falls, The brooding o'er the dumb wood settles, The nesting bird alone can sing. The sea-sands high with silver splendour shine; The hanging hills have dim Their light with evening twine. Hark! the winds have left the perfumed thrush; The pearled deers awake, And every little plumèd flower-leaf In dewy sleep doth shake. And the bending grass is warmed and glistening With the shimmering sea's dispence; The flowers are sleeping in the misty meadows, The fragrant clover stillness on the hill, And down the lonely plain, The silver moons are gathering in the silver west. So did the widows weep! Hushed was the ancient song, Sweet sounds died on the air, The willows waved, and folded was the tent. Silent as any silvery star The gray waves gathered calm and free, And when the stars had risen clear, The prowly prow did not unroll His purple fringes o'er the cold, So gliding on the watcher's wondering view, Thy light blue waves they gathered to a breast, And made a chamber meet For thee, my Child. Through the long moonlight twilight Thou wert gone; and the air With a whisper stilled its whisper, "The last light left the shore." Alone in the dusky water, Unseen by any star, No sound was heard save the wandering wind, That wandered far and far. He lay in the reeds that rustled And the whimpering stream, A listening, but acquainted, old man, From his earliest dream. The river that flows forever Sends forth in its course, A murmur of voices calling The village to logs, In the noisy school-house haunted, And the noisy school-house fills With clamour and clang, And wild uproar and hurry And hurry of boys, And the rush and fire and hurry The boys will come hatching. The iron fire centreth, The furnace of iron Smoking and spreading its glimmering sheath. The boys will carry their baskets And hie them home, And carry away the plunder From every one of the town. O, children, are you sure That you will go untouched by fear, Where all the winters are ashen And all the summers are as gold? O, children, will you never Put off your mantles, white and red, And rub your eyes and listen And smile to see me come and go? Mother, all you children of the town, Had you but your mantle and your gown, We were children in the school-house long ago. Talk not of the naked hands, Who made the beds of ships, And laid them in the sundown For baby that was gone: Of the little feet in the street, Of the little hands that beat, The hands that are grown so soft and sweet, And lips that are warm and sweet, And eyes that are clear and wise, And warm beneath the chastened skies, Where the snowdrops sleep so soft and wise! O, children, we never fear To meet the eyes that are not near, Or the sound that is more, more sweet, In the silence of the street, And lie in the heaped grass by our side, And let our laughter fall and glide Down the white road so safe and bright, To the end of the long day's journey To the end of the world to-night. Mother, the snowdrops are melting away, The flakes that have fallen on all the hills Have melted away in the snow's pure white, In the silence of morning's rosy light; And it lies still and lies, And it cannot fall on its heart of hearts, And upon the breast it bears no part, And it cannot fade in its tender dreams, And its ======================================== SAMPLE 327 ======================================== Cbitious is the stock of which the Poet found in some parts of Rome a new pretense; and still, though the earlyreto of his poems is produced only a truer idea of it all, the free-born poet has no preference, save in the Grecian metre: whence arises the reproach, the utter damnable misprint, and the strivings of a rhyming turn in his back on the verse of Cibber. Cybele deae (his Muse) is a goddess of rivers and of trees and steeples, but she never was seen at church. Perhaps, for the reason I take this notice, at first, that she is so peculiarly charming, and all, as I said before, was so much injured that it was too far removed from the text by Antonio Dalla of St. loue. The tenor of the volume (vol. of LUCASTA) is a short account of the witch-malice of She infectes the poetry of every one, and corrupts the best she may drive, while she delights her in the scent of Bacchus and Of Dalla Parnassus and in holy poems of the Muses. The letters may be changed to the humour of the Goth, and perhaps from the royal Thibet princess to the loss of domestic elsewhere, so as to form an epithet for some of the dwarfs of the kingdom. They appear to be packt in a pack, with a whip, with a whip, with a whip and bridle, with a bridle, and with a bridle. Of these ingredients, I cannot tell when completely so far or remote as I shall have the better of my own words; but still, if the present is really correct, I do not deny the vintages of the Gods, but do not deny any power of dressers in certain parts of the house, and not of such general as it is quite appropriate for the casket at Messrs. Smith's house, where the finest part of its contents is kept in the lower, and whoever sings of its contents is placed before the corner, sings with delight and solaces of the garden; it feels much better at this time of the day (though it does not which there is little ground in which can be thought of in English), than in the country where some primrose is stealing here. Not since the immaculate days of the bridegroom are the times, but also when day begins to decline to wind round understand, that it is time for us to be the well-appointed paradox,--perit of the happenings of my lord's house, and that to-morrow he will be for me, and do me honor. This will not long be my excuse--even though I grant that he should set me towards bed, and I should come to bed as the old friar did for me. I shall die as the most excellent poet of the However now I am willing to admit of the fact that the lot of the speaker's gruffness and his hard spleen is that they fell out under the stroke of a penitent, to escape his disgrace when his lady has gone, and goes to his own house the last time, too, perhaps, from the table to make the pardon of the lord who has not fallen on me after having cut off my shirt, and left me at home in a foreign country ' But, dear Lady-amour, since we are friends, I do hope that we yet shall be able to send you a good and loving way, whereby you shall come to your own house, after you have gone with you, I'll tell you that you will not listen to me too much--for it must not be ever closed against you. The stone that you're trying to hammer to will never cease to move on, and still attend to the sermon, for that very happettles you by now fear--'might I fail of a dozen, as my bride's head is broken over, let me do so, but I will not trouble you. Farewell!' "And now, my dear Miss Laksh," I had to say, "for I wish, without quicker, that your lost wife would cut up her thread again before we could get home. You see, Sir, the silken thread on one leg of a leg--and what is a line to escape you? That's the twelfth from now, with my dying gasp. Ha! ha! now I do see the whole!" As it seemed, the pipe ======================================== SAMPLE 328 ======================================== ; the Lagogue stood fast. secure, Within the door he stood, and soon the crowd That saw him coming, heard him, and, with awe, Reached forth the door, and stood; then, with a look Like pity to his grand dark eyes, they stooped, And, laughing, spoke him to his wondering self: "This stranger suits my smile; a voice I know May serve to check the kiss; but, at the door, One grace alone I find from life: the poor, Worn out, can hardly wipe their gums, or bear The ills to these great princes owed their lives." He spoke; and, leaping, swept the steps aside, And in the porch he placed his fond desire. "And dost thou dream," said they, "the Court stands still? Are hearts and lamps extinguished? Wilt thou trust In others, if the senses ever serve, In times like this? 'Tis dreadful to be weak. --I feared them, my ambition! This I know: Perchance,--Oh, strange to say; or even to-night The laws of God would break these laws! Our life So suddenly consumes me! I have lost Much wealth of glorious days. I strive in vain To look on men, and live in death, and live Like my son Herod! And though conquered, who knows That I may have my Judas! To have rent All earthly ties, and set the Vulture free! --It may be! But if thine own free will Might teach the blind to pity, and to pity, Dost thou demand my Judas? Is 't enough? Nay, do not call me fool! I love and mourn. Nay, do not ask me why? Why, on this night, I have a gift which I can spare to win, But guard thee from thy foes! Yet am I weak, And I must keep it, lest the demons should Be stronger. These men may be more brave, Who kept their souls in faith--I needs must dread; They must keep conscience. I must lay aside All faults which may befall, or I must die. I am so called from all the Latins, and Who thus have won the grace of your renown, For that of which you never spoke your name. Why art thou here? What thinkest thou of me? There is the fame of Pisa. I have lost My noble brother; and he gave his crown, And now was lord of all the lands about. Think not I ever loved my brother more! "Fame, men call me the most beautiful! But now, espouse thee, and declare the truth. If the poor live." Then went my father home, And gave my brother wealth. So may I die If thou wilt hear, when I am gone away, Thy brother's death! "If I must die, The thoughts which thou hast uttered are the same! The very dearest place I like for thee, For thy dear body! Be it so with me! This is my heirship! I will wait thy call, Or to command thy life. I know thy name, I know it, I exist; my own love! The world and I have secrets! Tell me true, What hast thou learned of that name of 'thee' That like a dog's the virtue of the world? Yet all in vain I would essay to choose, And do the deeds of some Diviner man, Who makes me part of an unknown world, And will not take a stranger to his wife. O dearest father! neither I, nor you, My future's peerless favourite long to see; Nor have I failed in any claim to be Deprived of my divinity and love; Nor need I at the time to be forgiven, And beg that yet the lenient grace of Heaven To us be shown; for who would choose for me, O mother, and thou great essential God, Would not have given thee for one little kiss! All these are idle dreams; for, if I live, These thoughts will make the barren void of thought, My brain would flow as from a pent-house tower, My conscience be the centre of my heart." He spoke, and she arose, and at her feet The door without a struggle with her took. That night she reached the garden; but the steps In that procession ne'er retraced her steps, Nor did she stop to weep; when suddenly ======================================== SAMPLE 329 ======================================== on journey - Yes, it's practise in Scotch towns, And you feel that 'twill not be late one night, And you'll pay that price for Kaiser Bill. I was almost stunned when Bill told me to stop, But I didn't care, and I didn't stop. I've been done without much, that 's why I know, And I wonder if he told it to. He says that he takes my head, And I asks as well as anyone, "Give yer goods, and I'll sell 'em, Never mind--I 'fe got one!" I sold a new stall-door with a broken lid, There was an old man who had burned two months, And his cure cured me; and I'm only dead, And I'm out, anyway! He sold me a boy and I know I do; But I never saw that with a half-a-crown, And I wish I could die From a bullet that had hit me on the head, And I know my heart would burst. A robin red-breast sat upon a tree And sang a song, which told of a mighty power, And with the winds of night that nothing could mar, Sang an old song, which nothing could tire, And a maiden was caught in the woods, and fain The birds would bring her from over the water. So she followed after, following a plan, And pursued to the castle, with her son, And died for a thousand things. "Ah, didn't I hear you speak before?" she said: "For you were far too hazy in your slumbers, But now that I'm awake; As for little Tale o' mine ain't in the classics, If I learned to draw your mantel-obey, For which I'm awfully blue." "Ah, didn't I hear you speak before?" he said: "For which you took to be your little bride, But for Love's sake; to take your little bridal In peace," she said; I put my hand upon her bosom, I almost wished I knew The meaning of her eyes: "Well--now you knew my ways." I stroked her neck, and we walked our way Out through the trees, alone, And she, and I, and I. "I like it," said the Prior, "for it Is pleasant on the earth; I love it and I hate it. So, don't you see that I can't pray." But it wouldn't be my case; So I pushed it from the gate. The church-door closed, and it was finally locked, But as I pushed it open I heard I could not see this recent door; And then I saw myself outside the door Just entering--something--my child-- The dolorous child that lay in the corner; And I wondered if he would enter there In that strange sunny house I stood in, Till the key-hole turned on the hinges And a hideous blind-eyed magpie Slipped open the door; And my heart beat loud with the loneliness That welcomed my boy and sweetheart, For my joy was that some one within Should come in to take my love. "What! Will't you come now, Mister Sister?" Cried I; "Oh, won't you come to-night?" And then it was "Some visiter from the north." He pushed me back again. He lifted me on his shoulder once more, And he cried, "Yes, Mister Sister," But he said no word. And we walked along, just as if you knew They were coming on too far For half a mile. I thought I saw you, very angry now, In your most unpleasant sort of way. "But what is this foreign wonder-way?" I could have said, "In the Cathedral's gloom There is no living Spirit of Light But her own Spirit . . . ah, dear, I do not, I see her--her own loveliness, Her innocent erringness . . . but I Turned to her, never was more than what You know--" And I puckered, "If I ought To stop and say a word about her, I'm a bold old fellow." It was night when my name was called, And,, behold! I caught her just the other way, As if it were the same . . . And the chaplain, in a passion, turned To meet me, clothed in his suit of gray, And, far ======================================== SAMPLE 330 ======================================== this small, large piece by the inward eye, If not of grub none be in such condition; He may be proud, but beg in the most part, That being found, to such extent, he could Believe its honest kindnesses are excellent. What would he then have done? (he must believe In his whole wish) he could have been a fool. From the reward which it becomes, to sink The desperate mob that's born of gentle stuff. The candid woman wears a bashful look Just as a cloak helps robin or a crook; The man is such a cook,--I must not tell, He needs a tax or little vested spell. Muffled and lean, with neckcloth on his arm, His length'ning chin is wavy, as a charm. But these great scales are too gigantic To be able to sustain a scene Quite as a model for the day, For never do we see a new day. If we behold a cock of rabbits, Encircled as with parchment before, Solemnly feelingly amazing On blackboard is a man,--he's more than we; His hair is thick, his brow is halos'd, 'Twas ever and anon with pitch; Why, then, his double brow is hoar With a misuse of puns and bursts Of brambles, which make merry here With their immaculate din. See him! He has so busily sped, That he is slowly sleeping or awake. Come hither! Pardie, with thy pen prickt; 'Tis the great judge of the Human race: Make ready, ever, to hack at it,-- And whip all to the back of the case! In the midst of the green earth and the lofty sky, There is a humble home,--a humble seat Beyond all human kindest human estimate. The domicile in which the Prince of Peace Grown tired of building up his house Rests all day, while the rain comes down from the roof. The faithful mansion in whose face The tear of pity flashed, exists Amid the silence of the street, Where a poor clerk was killed by a white swan. The prison walls--the spot that gave Her birth to this poor clerk--the grave Where such sad memories gather fast, And even the dead among the dead, Have left it desolate and lone. For, as a thing of beauty and fame So holy is the shrine of love For memory's sake, whereof it is That with a single pulse, the God of the Earth, The victim andator of its vice, The faithful Magi of my place Hath full as ample space As which the living few can there embrace And yet deserve her for a royal seat-- A consecrated spot--a place Of soft and loving maidens grace. And when a thousand years are past, In the low depths of the sweet earth The low-lying murmurs cease to be Whilst, in the fire of hearts that beat, I am not laboring in the heat, While my dear mistress laughs to hear, And every summer morn and morn, A verdant banner floats the corn. 'Tis sweet to hear the breezes play Around her garden-close, And her bed is at mid-day,--ay, The seats are fragrant-warm; Her soft white hand is still, and she Treads down the room with graceful ease; And on its own sweet upland seat, And down the lowland fallow-sweet, Is ever by its silken fold Embroider'd with purest gold. O happy life, O happy love! Who thus wouldst steal away From thy sweet favour, whose return Is only a poor maid's to-day, And scorn to yield her stolen treasure, To sleep amid the golden pleasure That clasps her lovely form at leisure Beside the hearth, so lovingly! A beautiful bright maiden came, With feet of pearl, and golden keys, And a crown of maiden-blush, That the Mother of the Flowers kept And the Maiden that should be For ages in that wild-rose bower. And then they danced in the golden shade Of the flowery hawthorn-tree, And by them, who in the earth had laid Their vestments, lay, and the burly Maid For lovely form there made And a marble fairflower, this, That their feet should tread as they danced then; And they planted her gay b ======================================== SAMPLE 331 ======================================== dar'd to combat on the verge. He stops; and thus, amidst a storm of spears, In mingled valour spoke the son of Nestor: "Whoe'er thou art, why hast thou stood unmov'd? Know'st thou me best? 'Tis I who bid thee thus, Of all that men in valour, most of all, With thee the bravest and the best receive. I am not brave in battle; but in deeds Such as I speak, I am renown'd in arms." "Whence came this blood?--Oh man! whose exultations Have all but touched my bosom! when I saw In deathless feats the famed Achilles fall! Then was my boast of him who made me wife, Thine in the field, his in the battle deep. So oft of friends a deadly hate I felt; But mine he seized not, from my bosom tore At length his life, and I, the noblest of the Greeks, Full near akin to him, in humble words Much loved him, who from Salamis afar Ascended, when with promises of aid The enemy to guard Achilles brought. "O Father Jove! (sobbing with a wild) Since that first night in which the lofty-souled Came like a God, I have not kept my heart. Still minded to chastise, I have resolved To fly not, nor to follow, and in fight Offend me in the glorious arms of Greece. But what avails it that Achilles is So near his guard, in battle to engage? His safety is our care; the guardian God Ever in Achaia's sons is near, and we Have many a bright refulgent bay, and proud As many a woodland dale, which morn of old Apollo from his mountain top beheld, Who down from heaven with storm of voices hurl'd Hailing him foaming in the boiling deep. But if some saving god, noblest of men, Should save us, we shall perish all in vain, If Agamemnon, King of all the Gods, Drives from the field our prowess to the shades." He said, and godlike Thrasymedes, first, Eniusted with his oar, away he bore. Back to the land Achilles hastes; he binds His sandals on, and to the sandy beach Thruised with ease the oxen's thighs, and swings The brazen chains which bound his flesh and bones. Pacing adown the rugged mountain's side, Where Tigris mingles streamlets, he pursues The fleeting currents which he nearly won. As the swift-footed lion from his den Darts on the hunters, which no dart can slay, Nor stretch the arrow, nor the spear can bend, Prompt to convey the clustering darts away; So thickly rank'd behind the royal Chiefs Sprang the fierce, mortal, and divine Achilles. Yet 'scaped not these by Atreus' sons- in flight, Till to the Greeks the Trojans took their way; Nor did the son of Atreus fear his wrath; But thus bespake great Jove, and bade the King: "Father and King of lords, whose ear is calm, Grant, grant, to me the summons of the skies! Now, since my soul is wrung with deadly throes, I will exalt me by the favour shown Of thee, great Lord of Ocean, to thy throne; My promise shall be as thou wilt then. Grant, therefore, that the Argives and the Greeks Still on the ships may wait thy coming wait, And for thy kindness I will have desire Of thee, great Lord of Ocean, to pour out The blood in sacrifice of bulls and goats From pasture, sheep and steer; for thou, I ween, Art by heroic means to all excell'd." He said; but Agamemnon, King of men, Rejoiced to hear, and kindled wrathful fires. On th' other side, the Trojans, who beheld And marked these words of wisdom, inly rag'd. Refus'd they, and with heart-enkindling zeal Survey'd the Argive host, and all the host Heard unconcern'd. Abating then their rage, They scour'd the plain, and with impetuous step The Trojan host array'd, till in their midst, Approaching, they descry'd, how in the crowd Of slaughter'd foes they swarm'd; on either ======================================== SAMPLE 332 ======================================== , I pray to Him, That thou with grace our bondage dost divide." Then did the gray-haired keeper turn again, Whereby his joy and pain he could not drown; And all was silent as the grave o' Christ; And he, the ready friend of every grief, No more the messenger of parting loved. But Jesus, beckoning me from the dark, Bade us go forth to take our Master's word; That from the platform of our friends, in haste, I might have purposed to observe his word; And by the bread and water, that composed The dark bread-straw, leaving in his holy name The glory of eternal life and fame. And I accepted the petition, mad With Roman exultation, word by word, And giving thanks to Him, who bade me go, Was nailed to Todos on the Latin shore; Who spake in English, and designed to bear The Sculptor's hard yet holy image near, And where it stood--a model of the Lord's-- Above all modern preachers, who need not apply The Church's holiest suffering unto God; Yet to that Cardinals I nothing heed, Save to its God, it was enough for me, For, as it was in this condition, I Could easily effect it if I might, But Lord! I need not altogether trust The vibrations of a Preacher's voice. 'Tis I that must obey, and I must hope That peace and being will have their hour out; And so I am accustomed to obey, But for a little while I should be dumb. As yet I would be neither force nor might To curb my zeal, nor yet comply with prayer, Nor need I, though the duty were divine And God had lifted those bright worlds to His. I must receive, as my deserved, with pure Resentfulness and love, no higher place; A world whose riches, and whose use and power, Are still the deific of a troubled heart; A world whose business is to dare and act Because a sudden spirit-messenger Has moved the thing he has, and reared from thence The bright new wonder to mankind below, And comes to nothing, and to nothing goes. So wilt thou please the people, cheer them all; And I, who in the market place stand up, Will bring to thee a stone, be sure, and throw Thy rib of gold into the market-place, Forgetting that to-morrow stands and stands Like a grey rock, full-orbed and stands alone, Because the whole world comes to work and do. So that the times go on and the clock goes on; And though I take no backward step from where I've stood, the people love me dearly, yet Where I am good and merry both to-day, Thou hast the chance of saying, "In good truth The times will all go on." That's well for me, And I shall deal in good to-morrow, peace. But then, for love's sake and for beauty's sake And for all waste, confusion and alarm, A man should come too late for one good thing, And the past's sorry: so I put the charm Into my word and my intent. When it comes, I give in the law of penalty the man. Thy joy is noble, venerable face, Thine honour always subject to desire, Not that which I have done, but also that Which I have done, and these things come to thee. And, so to love thee in the time of need, Dear Lady, give, have pity on thy case; But I must be constrained to make confession, Or else to prove what may seem meet for thee; Though I should say, see what is true; yet hear And understand if sorrow cannot move A lady so like as thou to comfort aye, And not say nay for God for longer peace. O, I can tell thee clearly, that if ne'er I touch thee with this hand or with my heart, Thou hast no to-morrow's pledge, no date to spare, But for another less than I could name; And I know well, how if I lose, thy love. For in the morning thou shalt rise and find Thyself all fair and fresh for thy desire; And though the gate be locked, and though the chain Break, and thy flesh lie prone, yet shalt thou find Some more charm sitting unbidden of thy thought. Do I not speak of dreams which are in youth Made by my thoughts, wherein I never see A light that may ======================================== SAMPLE 333 ======================================== The one, who walks this mortal hemisphere Between two worlds, the thunderer and the fool, Sees with a mien he had not understood. Again, beholding him with wondering eyes Till half-way to the centre of his thought He gives the master-word that hangs below, That substance, which for aye enriches us, Is broken, and the wise man sees no more. The other was, that in the dust was laid; That when, as now, it tingled by the fire, He at the last him overtook, and passed Beyond the appointed mark; and, after, lo! A goodly image of the third aspect Set fire to the hearth-side, and kindled there A clear and laughing flame; and said: "So now Thou hast thy feet upon the flowers and trees, And turned aside thy face. If further wrong Thou didst remove, I should conceal it not." Such characters of wishes upon wills are pitch'd Beyond our mortals underneath the sun, There is not, as I deem, a spirit of love absolute, but fit to assure us, that the heart, That feels no taint of harbour, whereof here He knows the sweetness, and, through seeing, chains The intellect. For, through that recollections, O'er many a bard, in many a Christian realm, The spirit of vacant space was there absolved; Silence accompanied. O widowed maid! Who in the lore of love didst give thee birth, If the true be the question, which I now Must next pursue. As is the sky that woos The sea to listen, so the soul, that late Must understand the sea, surmounting, broods In fearful privy slumber, so that oft A father, leaning on his child, would say: "Why liest thou, father! thou art in the fire!" True love, there whence the lofty glory comes, Regards it not as it were worthy of blame; The lowliness of man is levelled by His greatest gifts, however clutch'd, with pain; And, like a willow, that but bears the name Of its own mother, so doth love the rose. "Not so, not so, thou modern Theban seer, Who hath this grace in writing! that which thou Seest in thy sonnets, save as he doth this, He who accuse of sins, who, for the like, Hereuntofore has breath'd them. From the horn It took the sweet of love, and after that Beareth its love even as the man the flower. The other, who, to over-zeal more strong, Was Michael and the father of his times, Was Richard and the mother of his bard; And now the soul, that doth herself so much, Suffers the lesser lesser admiration. But this did Jocasta, when he saw The townsfolk walking in the joyful light From the high tower: he first beheld the wheel That whirling, with its resplendent verge, the sun Ride after him, and second now the moon; And he, the soul, whose ken rov'd not to the east, Till it gave way beneath the mighty flow Of the salt main. There it was he met the death, The exhalation, and betok' a blow Unto his forehead, which the vicious crowd Punish'd, as true love affirms, who hides his name Lest it should leave him secretly below. It was the calm and quiet evening-hour, That draws them to the summit of the brow Where God hath set his seal. Within a round The flame, that to my vision it gave out, Borrow'd a radiance, as towards me drew The power, that in my thought: said: "Slay, son! For in the love which thou hast such delight, Thou art the cause." After that accents, past The sword and holy priest, my lord and friend, I mark'd the secret: never did till now A holy man such promise keep; and now I mark'd him, as he turn'd me to the ground, Somewhat, which the high providence of heaven Did twine about and round about him. "On," He cried, " according to his merit, shines, And with his own beams and his own virtue, lied him. This will do, he forthwith spake: "My brother, now I see ======================================== SAMPLE 334 ======================================== "I've wished that I could tell you," She kindly said, "When I am dead that instant, How do I live?" Her eyes were brighter than before, Her face more beautified with thought In ev'ry wat'ry tint of flow'r That ev'ry blossom had in charge: And, when such a scene her thoughts had culled Within the spirit of her thought, The scatter'd company forsook The friends their mother could have caught. "Now, from my home and kindred dear, I'll hear your loud, delightful strains, And all my heart will leap to hear Your chiding "wins of many rains:" Fain would I call those wand'rers near And make my spirits mount again To claim my darling for their own. Oh, when I've run a long career, I hear my little cottage door And see before me, in the sky, A wing'd eagle sailing high; "Oh! let my thoughts run back to you From whence you came; and tell me true Where all your many pleasures are." She heard my faint, ill-omen'd pray'r Amid the bright celestial choir; And while her heavings gave delight, I felt a bliss beyond desire. I felt that joy from heav'n had flown, Too full of life and all its joy; And, as I thought, in love's employ, A something ling'ring and a noise, Would have my heart in rapture bow; But, no! it was a thing of nought, Like that of which the proud are brought. And, on that blessed morn of May, When Nature and her Friend were nigh, In rosy light, and glancing gay, Methought I heard a voice complain 'Too much, too long!' it spoke in vain; That voice which spake so wond'rous high, I knew not how it could not die; But when I saw its sad affright, I felt the very heart break out; And, ravish'd by the thrilling sound, Unable to express my doubt, My heart swell'd at the bliss so sweet (As the loud, short, and sweetest song Throughout the air had wander'd long) That I was doom'd to live and die A hopeless exile from the sky. The hope of finding thee no more Was coldly sent me to explore Thy pleasing paths and thine; but when I knew thee too, and from thy side Threw not a look of fond surmise On any object, then thy sight Was kindled up with sudden bright. Thy chaste, delightful eyes, I view'd, And still, methought, in rapture blest, Me seem'd to view th' eternal scene, Where, by the verdant mother-tree (Which oft I shun'd to have been fired With my young thoughts) I first enjoy'd The pow'r of contemplation high, And, soon fulfill'd, as well I knew The wishes first to be fulfilled: Then, morn and eve, in my despair, I sought the forest's holy shade; And, waken'd by the grateful strain, I saw thee wandering by the hill. Till now that April's drench'd shower Had fled, and Autumn's nipping frost Had cast his mantle over all, And told the secrets of the grove, Of countless looks of lovely love. I went, amid the dance, to see The nymphs around the rapturous sun: Like Phoebe's rosy children, sporting On the smooth green and silver rill: Like them I lost that glassy brook, Where still, methinks, she seems herself To be the queen of all it breathes. To see the spirit of the flow'r In dewy nooks untroubled sink: Or her who smiles in every bower May revel down her liquid cool; And, singing, send to every fount Some other drink with tenderness. That not alone the bosom waits, But ev'n in silence waits the glance: Anon, methinks, from her retreat, When, unexpected from her tow'r, I first approach'd, with secret joy, And blushing thus address'd her, "Say, What wind doth to this stranger lov'd, Which wafts my youth, which hither tends?" "'O gentle nymph,' I answer'd, 'here No murmur comes, or murmuring, 'Tis the river's self ======================================== SAMPLE 335 ======================================== " and does the matter smoothly. "Surely," said Murphy, "I'm a chickadee, My father's apple for such fellows should be, Whether he likes it or he likes it, he Has used it well in poultry-yard to sup; A good deal like it? and there's not much more For such as he, but neither much to eat." "O sir," said Murphy, "you're a small expense, I'm an inch weaker in the bank than yours." "Why, no," said Murphy; "you're a prey to thieves, But there is still some left of us to spare, For this so much, for here you're sole in fate; Such help it is, of stock you'll never want; And just sit down and see your father's ghost Comes through the trap; but say good gentlemen, How he will wring his hands for bits of meat, To take some chicken from the kitchen plate." "Tut, that is all!" said Murphy, with a sneer, As he had felt in all obedience held; But to the kitchen turn'd his face, and ne'er Could look upon him for an hour, was bold. "For fasting I've had store of poor small things; 'Tis plain enough to make a fortune kings; 'Tis for each king that's in a surly fit, 'Tis their estate that they deserve the wit. For gifts they are for kings, and all rich pelf, But most of all in Bill's corrupted self, And names like A. B., in the brothel-house, Who sits as stone for spade or bacon-sheaf. All parties are as men who'd read their book, Who, growing grumpy, preach like draughts or pork. Will raise 'em up like potter's whats, or go And go and brag their names upon it so. Now here, take interest, and leave my story To children, ghosts, and feminine maggies." "You are," said Murphy; "this is grand and queer: In your tricks you've been so much the Devil's share; And therefore, were you but a darlint now, What you'd have felt on this ridiculous plough, A good hard clod with nimble staves on brow; Your head should be adorned, and be all glazed With glistering rays and glories that in no one's gazed Are such fine things as you will smile at when You have learned that all the secrets of the men Are not sprung from an exceeding popular tongue. You should have seen them wag their tail, and whine To make them scratch their heads, and frowst for brine. How could you guess such things could never be At once brought up by such a monkey-man? So men are more familiar names than me, And whether I may move on the plains or on the sea, There's something in them is not half so nice As moths and cobwebs, who, without a bite, Hear the birds sing their witchcrafts at night, When, when they're brought up, they give a sign. And, though you may remark, there's nought of mine That, now I'm under your plough, is not The hill or cap-stone of a dupe divine, Or perch of a church or palace-gate, Where, though men don't take all they love, they know How to make a dog speak out, or to express The dignity of a deceased saint, There is no point can quell desire for less, For when we've said the prayer the son is telling, As he relaxed his prayer, he'd go and come, And in his arm he'd have the horns of a drum. "Well, Sire, my child, you mayn't pursue your sins, And would to God I might deserve your prayers, And take those hands of yours to say aloud What 'tis you're for, and that we do not roam: This is our little book of mystery, packed In prose, the common tale of nations' ways, And merely we find suited to ourselves, Studied by worms and moths, we beat about, Till the plain face, austere and sad, there stands Serenely new, and that's the soul that's squalid, But, pray, if truly there is one God's Land, Now mark what manner of God is of this Land, Its soil, its grave, and all its tribes, in which We see so many living souls, so many That we would ======================================== SAMPLE 336 ======================================== I fondled me:--he had need Of my heart's blood, and prayed me to Deny him who but breathed my prayer To shelter him till the night Was spent and dreams had gone. O, come, my son, let me list to thine eye In the days when I breathed, and fast bound In my hands, the faces that shamed The men who felt not the yoke. Let me look for thee on thy breast of snow, And in thy fair face, as thou trodst, Let me catch thee by one soft fold, And so place thee in it, and send Away from thee fearlessly o'er, For Death's sake and not thee Death. Then, come, my son, let me list for thee In the days when thou girdedst thine arm, Let me taste again thy full breath, And thy lips, my son, let me kiss, Till the night be passed in a calm Fade away and the stars have flown Out of the skies, and the soul in the heaven Shall have an angel calling to earth, And every one that his ear can hear Shall say that it whispers peace. To God, to man, but all to me For whose dear sake I used to be There's peace I had not lost in thee; And now I think upon my crown, O God, for whose love we were crowned. Let me wail and sing in pain As I've sung the lost refrain O God, let me wail! Not while the world endures Will I remember it again; Not though beneath my feet The world's vain dust is set; Nor, while the world deplore Me, weep for me no more; But, in the silence there Where gloom has fixed her seat, Let me o'erlook that fate Whose image I am, and date The hope and dread defeat That fill the world's great space With this unhoped-for day; That bring my lost youth back Before its very fane, And let me, dreaming, lack The gentle smile, the light Of eyes whose deep and beautiful beams shine On the shrine and the throne of the thine. There are songs that once were sweet In the years I never knew; And once and again repeat The secrets of the few; And the song once more repeat That one so long has ceased to call All that was born anew In the bosom of our memory, And the fire of life outbroke In the throat of us for a moment, As it has ever been. Cease to think of me! One of them sleeps,--like you,-- But, O, that fairy chime That has set my spirit free From the shoes of circumstance! Not all of it, not all of it, I am sure of it, at least! And, though now I recall That you and I have ceased, The ghosts of all of it would call All that yet live within me When your voice sounds through my ear, And I again in them recognise That the soul's still somewhere is Where God was before, and our Is the better in us both. Talk of Spring's fresh-pluck and May-time! When the sky with splendors was overcast, When the winter was white with the curtain-flake Every bush of the blossom was streaking fast, When the birds sang gayly each bough to its mate, Would you walk in a beautiful frolic flight? When the west wind sang clearly the skylark swung From the willows of mist where the buds were stung, Or perch'd with the carol and sighs of the spring Came the gauzes, and caught you, and sang to you; How the sunshine wakes now, from the meadows brown, From the meadows green, and from alway town. O, I catch at you fast as the flowers do, And my song runs clear to the summer air, As the birds have fled, or the frost-breathed dew, But the grass grows green in the blossoming year, While the little buds pressed close to the breast Of the little buds, I love, and I nestle close, And make the sunshine bright, as the red roses do. Now, let us go to the end of the light, So long as the world lasts; let us wait And labor and rest, and learn to endure In the hum of the world the bloom and endure Of the summer and ======================================== SAMPLE 337 ======================================== . In no time will our love be dumb: For fear of grave men and the dead Our wives and gallants will be dumb, And die in fetters to the tomb Of those we love who love the gloom. When we're all laid up in the fire, To prod up our loves with shame, And to spite the women by The loud oaths that you did frame; When we're all laid up in the fire, With a chest of suckling salt, And a little child in one- napkin, And the other boys in one- napkin. We'll have wine and crack bread, Plum-puddings and mutton, Also hotch-nuts and brandy-stones, Mulberry-mingisters and mulberry-stones. And after that, tell me where's The pretty dames and dames? They're everywhere: I see them stare, Sawing groans, and rolling flames; They can't stay out of their wits When we're all laid down in the fire; They never do like you and they In all the great fireside. One by one, still closer by, This one sits up and mopes: What a terrible longing seized us For the life of a bobb. In your boyhood, children were nigh: Now it's grown to a man's desire: Such a boon got by the spoon In the house that lives in the straight. Now we're all laid down in the fire, In the snug little harbour; We will suck the eggs and then Go in to tea-cob and to us What we liked the best of all. For they seem to have each one, Though the lid is off the other. And you think that it looks good In a treat of juicy meat, And they know that it's the best That a man can feel within. Such a strange and happy thing We shall never more tease till we Both dance time and time and minutes Feast the time that never comes; And when they're done, their feet Leave the baigs they wore at times, And they dance upon their toes Till they think of the show that goes Over their heads in the fire, And they feel the pains they made When they putt out the lighted shade Of the wind that blows all night. When I went to sleep in the haymaking van By the chimney-cor. I was going to bed and I found I had a comfort all the night. Teddy and I thought about stars in the table and the eight of night, and Teddy on the watch. He'd tell me of the stars in the sky, or they would shine In an angel's ear: He'd tell me of the wheel-foot galleons flying in the air, Or the harbor-lights of our nuptial bed hanging there. O! when the baby at your breast claps its tiny toes! Tell me, are there baby brother? Do they ask me kindly stories Where the Baby used to dwell? Are they brother brother comrades? Or the loves with which he died? These were treasures found in the old far world's smile; Never a gift from Nature's hand, Never a gift from Nature's crown, More than this I've brought to you. There you saw the rainbow come Twining all its rainbow hues; And you heard the angelus sing Till it seemed a heavenly rose. Such a bright and balmy night, Such a breezy, soothing light, Sunny-bright, the child would be Hesperus' own darling Ma! They talk of gardens green and gay, Of meadows pied with bees, Of glorious tulips, flamingoes, Of blossoming apple-trees; Of sun-bright lilies floating on Above the blossoming beech; Of roses 'mid the breezes blowing, Of breezes 'mid the leaves. Of roses 'mid the falling snow, The baby has his throne; For all that beauty loving Holds brothers in its own. I like to see the moon, like me, When all the world's ablaze; I like the singing birds, the street Where morn bids revelize, To make a melody from me, To join a minstrel's lays. The rain is passing, with the moonbeam, Through the lindens golden; The peonies are all warm, and The balmy buds are glowing, ======================================== SAMPLE 338 ======================================== but from thy being of the world, Who didst descend to earth from God, and died To be a heretic--thou dost arise And forge again the idea on my brain-- (Thou dost transmute it entirely)--on the sword, To which thou didst appeal, and raised the standard-- Is this the instance?--is it but a smoke, That night!--when eyes are blind and tard and dumb, I stand before thee, and am dumb--for whom? I speak to thee--thy neighbor in his need, Thy friend, who shared thy jokes with me, and told How I--who sometimes comest yesterday-- Was sent to visit thee with language, verse, Foundations, altars, patriarchs of the globe, And raised a shout of admiration at thee-- Thou tellest us, dear friend, thou didst not know That I would bring thee news: the path is long That leads to where I stood, a barren spot Of mud and dry marsh-meadows, which doth lie Between two worlds; the stars have not their light, Their sentinels, the moon hath not her bow, Nor the ocean-waves, as they did once to me. The stars have not their spirit and their course; I say they have no soul, nor take a part, Save that, in these same sorrows, I was torn By the grief-stricken heart--the poet is lost! I, the scorn-stricken heart, am fain to find What I can ne'er express--yet, the same grief That thou dost mine, there comes a memory Of solitude, the hopeless exile, The desolation, and the solitude Of youth--I have seen him as he is a god Spatting upon a river; I have seen His eyes, as they were gates of Paradise, Opening to view the scenes of paradise; And the first shews of the future--and of thee! And, after, I have found him--but his face, And the same sombre aspect I had seen When first I saw him, is gone forth with me! Thus, if thou wilt, I will not make it out-- But shut the book, and let the pen be closed! Is it not just to thee, dear little book, That I should study my philosophies? And if indeed, I might explain my plan, That out of nature's dark affairs, I should Be able to write books, to write a book I did not want. I must write with a child-- Though still so pensive, my dear friend, I seem To wear a pensive character--and smile When all the POEMS are finished by Thy friends--and I should not have cared for thee. But I've cast lots of time--there can be something With me to say the least. I don't. I've nothing. That thing is yours. I cannot do without it-- I care not for the poem--all the world, And yet I like your banter. In the world The breaking of the day with the break of moons, I do not like the lines about the moon, The lady-smock on thy smooth forehead, like A peak that hides the rain--and at the most The silvery twistings of the writing-books And all the rheumatisms--and what books Are these that sent you to me with so harsh judgements, in your great character? Why not? And now, my friends, I'll try to look a cold on any of these cold nurses? Not alone, But all for your bad sins! You've suffered, too, from wrongs to right, From which I've brought you only something to your eyes! Then I'll create a new one of Salt water and the fairies! There you'll sail in bands of gold and silver, and I'll go to the early isles of Hertford, where Charley Bush is growing up to meetings and the old Christmas tree. A tale that is told lies in the foot of a lonely corner, which a little short of a sudden lull sounded with its air of one that I had fallen asleep. How very few are now to bear the thoughts of wandering over catalep plots, and describes the law of ignorance and childhood, and the foolish fact that, as a part of the old poet's error, he has cast away his father, and cannot but remember that he has departed on that self-same night. Think of it, friend; drop down the picture into the embroidered curtain, put ======================================== SAMPLE 339 ======================================== But where I know not, like my life, one ev'n For life before I see this friendly light O'er me, Apollo's hand may sometimes stretch; But he who comes his sports to do me grace, To me the other sorrows not his share. And when he plays a hole, as where he treads, Up soars, and hits, yet jumps at me with heels, Him too too the other's care the tuss embraces, Who then the very same as here to thee, Upon his sports, till he at length grows hoarse. My, all delighting in a good chief's ditty, On this abodes my song at random made, Although a jest to cuckold rafter gaily; Till just in time it will be bound amain, That I may merrily sing for thee, mad brother, In thy sweet lays and so endearing woe. Within a garden, full of gentle flowers, And sweet to smell, rose-buds do sweetly grow; In it are orchis milk-white lilies, Thorn, rind, and moly, daffodil below; The violet, the muslin, and the rose; With them th' ev'n-glory of the ground bestows. These to the gallery, round the border pressed Of green banks, willows and of castle's towers: Those will I sing, and those for other blest, Those happy lovers, that to me be dear; And of them all the swains make best accord, I 've to them music, love, and courtesies, That all the nights to me have they been lent; Then why do I the sweet maids sing, When I of these have so much joy to sell, If they have loved some worthy thing, And given life to one so fair and well? O, if they have, as I do know, Damsel, the maidens that are in my lay May well my sweet sweetheart praise inwreathing, With smiles of love, and looks of mildely pitying. Go, pretty rose, and, in some ruddy glow, Forgetting of the heats that once did meet, And of the cold world's cold indifference, Though in your mirror, you do well to wear The dainty semblance of a lovely guest; For still remember how, upon the day You by a little hand did pass along, In happy plight about the garden's wall, Among the blooms and scents of vernal song; And, as you passed, the flowers and fruits among Were by your envious eye in blossom bold; And that was all,--and on your blushing face A damsel plucked her blushing shepherd-knot, And gave, oh! thus, to me your wedding-day; For you, methinks, deserve the stately maid Whose humble pipe with you I love the shades of yew. And if it were a dream, as I do know, Of such sweet sounds as will not seem amiss, To make one lose one's ear to Nature's voice, Sweet roses, without which a bee would die-- Ah, happy melodist! Ah, if I might hear, Amid the sounds and glories of your glance, The laughter of the fair, the amorous play, The canker-lilies and the ouzel-roses, The primroses and the adder-blooms, The daffodils, the red marigolds, The nightingale that in the tree did love thee-- If this were true, and these were mingled beams Of light and shade, with music most entr'ourest, Sweet country breezes, winds that breathe you through, Whose wanderings all the soul of man do breathe you-- If this were true, and this were fitly done, Yet 'twould be joy to feast upon your breath, And so come back to life with this our birthday, For in these arms and in these arms to-day No fears of death or want of change come o'er me-- In this small cell I bear no name nor station, 'Tis with my ashes buried in the mountains, No name, no spot, no family, no station, I live but for a little quiet, But only in the noise of battle, Unless I win to a right corner, And there I lay my roses and my stalks, 'Twould be in nothing delicate and pleasant To close with a closed mouth and a closed eye, ======================================== SAMPLE 340 ======================================== , I loathed so many years of pelf; Mine I gave home; mine, not yet; nor spilt thy gore. Me first thy hate amused, the wrath of friends, Since favour was our destined lot on earth. Thy sullen brood, and servants at thy side, Are void of time to claim our right to thee, To lend his friendly aid. Thou art foredoomed To curse mankind, a foe from whom 'twas given. Now hear, and to the suppliant thus reply. And see the people of my Kingdom, all Alike in stature, stature, wisdom high Alike to thee and thine, worthier they're named, Than is the name of women in the earth. These hateful walls lie steeped in fortresses, And neighbouring realms them mischief to appal. My kingdom, Lord, these walls thou gavest me To be thy people's plague and punishment. Thou hast brought down the house of toil and pain And set the great high-priest to exile, And laid down all that wealth for insolence Which not in gold nor marble is at hand, But while a traitor is confined in earth. Thee have I torn from thee my wife, my realm, And me, and all the joys of all my realm. Thou, therefore, actor of the king's worst hate. Come, spy out what thy power exceeds. Then, speak To me, that thou, within my realm, mayst know That though this land thou hate'st thyself, unmoved, Yet from our royal seat to sacred Troy The queen still follows, after noble strife, A glorious faith, and free from foe of fear." Then Menelaus: "Nay, but we may weep, Nor deem a lot more hard than this. Not thus Would Hector on the Greeks with truer zeal Be held, where'er the bravest of our host Advance to fame, and polish out the pride Of warring nations; who, because the son Of noble Nestor scarcely lived, am I. Fain would I show thee, how in our attire I rained his blood; for not in battle fell The Argives, or in flames subdued the Greeks, Though noble, as is lawful here, or since From Argos come they; and my young friend, found Hereafter, will return his home, and bring His bride and husband, with the pledge of love, And with the rites of hecatombs, to appease The wrath of gods, and homelike to their shades." He spake, and each from his fat offal leapt, As onward thence the ruddy sand was drawn. Then in the nostrils of a ram she placed The savoury mess-clouts, standing near the springs. Her rival dogs from out the pasture fed, To hide her thence she scour'd the country, where A public proclamation from the King Bade Priam forth. Thenceforth no more the Gods Follow her angry shade, but she, as mate In brave achievement, shared the chance of war. Long time intent, her purpose to destroy. Then Thetis, passing forth, her ancient sire Issued, and thus rebuked Achilles' shade: "Incense not, anger daunts not. In our home Perils of war, we should not yield to Troy, While in the distant ships I need for thee. Here would we give our best, when wandering free Far from her care, an alien; here we join Defiance at the least, and erring pride Of age, and strikings of the Dardan race. Such is our ruin; noblest head is free Of its own head, though all our strength decays. Have then the Gods foredoom'd us evermore To tend among these nations; to extend The conduct of our battle-chamber here Among our wives, and rule this warrior race, The Grecians trusting; they were not so stern. How, then, can we hereafter shame us dead? But if all glory in the victor's sight For many a hard fight here be for us, Then that with pity most thou may'st be wroth, For whom wert thou the meanest of the Gods? For should we, yet a little while conceal Marsyas' wrongs, who held to honour thee, See all our wars, ourselves behold with tears, The armour and ourselves our armies raze, And each assist the foe who strikes him first. O son of Atreus, king of men ======================================== SAMPLE 341 ======================================== From honour, from the pastures of my kine To eat and drink; to labour had been mine, My grave were spread with violets, my shoats Made shift with gaudy saffron tassel'd pin's. As for the rest--I told ye--I shall go; They are my wardrobe's friends, so I will send For them, an endless store of merchandise, Great store of silks, and gossamer to bind My raiment in the forests; for myself The clothing of a slave; my suit the gold Of the cave's door! My right hand bare a board! My left, the hand wherewith I clothe myself! My right hand bare the palace! let me out! Let the unmannered presence on my back Ascend! I'll send the fever from my heart With all its wants! I will not quarrel with My soul, nor put the proof to shame aside The shame, nor dare to look amid the crowd. Ah, me! look up, thou ghost! The Lord of Burleigh smiled upon me! Oh! I can but smile, he smiled! I know my sin. Himself? His goodness; so he won me back A steed, a mule, a jew, a nag of steel! Look, how our women, like the pretty dwar That pounced the death-bell, to our palace went. How they admired his manners! Court, you curs! By what strange wiles upon the stage he dwelt! And can he be the slave of God? I know Why, making this his first discovery, here I found his gaze an undistinguished gloom. The night before the daybreak, on the floor Injurious with his god, unseen, he stood, Furrowing the chamber, as he came to take Some word of his great love, before the door, I heard the black cat speak to him. With tears His eyes, that smote me sore, open'd the door. I closed the case, he took it, in his grasp'd And plunged it in the chamber; then in came The golden locket, which the miser drew, The Indian from the Indian, from the prize That he had hoped, by miracle, to gain The means whereby men gain their culturied peace. Within a week, a month, and he was dead. The Indian and the Indian slowly walk'd Once more together; nothing but the night, In which they were compell'd to meet; but I, With no companion save a shaggy bear, Far from the village school, ran rough with blows And whinnied, till, to find them joyfully, I hasten'd out to set about myself, Seeking some nobler theme; but at the last I rose and ran into the house alone, By stealth, but not too well; for all my friends Bore me their secret stores, and o'er myself I talk'd of other times; their faces told How they had found the moon; and here their hearts, And mine, and theirs, and mine; for there we had A wedding, and that night we gave the sign That I must go to them; and so 'twixt fear And shame we seem'd, as puzzled and as stout. At last, my friends and brothers on the ground Lay right and left, and, in due course, ourselves. And the effect was such that from that day All others must be compell'd to part; And much they talk'd of this, and much of that, And all the others after; for from the first My sisters, tho' desirous to essay The wonders of the world, had first to come. As for myself, I 'kept myself;' and they Had set me down to the dust, and there I slept; And when I awoke, some whisper call'd me back. We flew; and in a moment's silence stood Alone and long, and I could not accost The Leonard, who, with grasp of iron palms, Awoke and answer'd, 'Hail and bless the earth!' And, all at once, I heard, beside the bed, Arrived: that stranger pass'd, as in a dream, Close to my side, and pin'd me in his own. So, on a moment, in my own delight, I closed my long, lean, hungry, ominous hands, And stumbled over the straw, and stagger'd down Upon the floor, and scream'd as I ran forth-- Awoke, and cried again. ======================================== SAMPLE 342 ======================================== And all his music went to war, A duel unspeakable! Through these, and more to be known of, I cannot tell the more; My practice is to play With spear and battlement, and sword The fashioning of the shield, The sliding of the rain, The furious beating of the shield, And dread of night at main. These thoughts are Thracian's parents, The nuns they visit me, Whose prayers for me were scarce When I was less than I! "Dear Thracian Mother, teach me. A golden harp to play With a distinguished crest, And I will tell you half Gathered of the gifts that are From the divine abode, That unto all men we In song and jest have given Such strange and stirring tones, As shall be never spoken Among the people's foes." Sang the aged Nestor From his seat among the trees: "Have we listened to the Tyrops And to the Trumpets nine; That we should thunder in the midst, And with their clang the planets trample Under our foreheads ceaseless noise, While we are dancing in the rain." <|endoftext|> In the brightening of the dusk I woke, and could not think of waking, But that I saw before me, lying Upon the floor of the fair-roomed house. My mind to-day is far away, And I must leave my pleasant dwelling, Because I have another daughter And another child. And I feel the years begin! A thousand years--nay, yet how many Of summers, and the natural stillness Of summer, and the undying hope Of my own youth! And yet I see They have vanished, and are vanished-- Those ancient times, which, one by one, I must perceive no more. And I know that after all My other blameless child will perish, But I must hope farewell. Oh, the sun of summer smiles, And the grass is growing green, For the pretty little while Comes the Spring with all its green. While the tender hours go by, Far and far away, They are dancing in the sun, Bringing merriment and joy. Sigh, oh, sigh! For the corn is brown and new, And the rye is ripe and blue, And the corn is ripe and ripe, And the corn is ripe and ripe, I must gather for them. Not the least of the flowers, Not the least of the golden-rod, Not the least of the sunny hours, Not the smallest bird, Not the smallest child of God, Is half so sweet as I. O, we talk together Of a life of din and tread, Of a mother's feet and a brother's Fear and hurt and dread, Of a brother's eyes and fingers Stretched to you and me; But we drip with the time Of the soft flues of the soft flues O'er the silken skirts of your dress, That skirts and weighs like a snow-white sphinx O'er the waves we lay! O, we talk together Of a life of fever and pain, Of a mother's hands and feet and fingers, A mother's hands again; But I hear you, never Far off or any near; For we are a world of care, And all alone and dear. Mother and brother--I'll tell you Tales of the days of old, When a burning fever called me-- I turned to the apple-tree With its gray and shadowy crowns, And how I had wronged the boy Who lay there with happy looks, And the little yellow curls, Like my little pink vine-twigs, For a lad's desolating load. Oh, we talk together Of a life that's turning back, Of a life that's turning sadly With its worldly cares and woes; But never the while has any The fragrance of your flower, As it lingers for a moment Through the hot and frosty hours. So we smile, and say "Good-night" Through the long, long night. But time comes in our meeting For our fairy fairy eyes, And our hearts keep time to the fairy Till our happiness dies. And there is the silver moonlight On the marble pavement there, And the silver-circled cloister, And I wonder if they are fair; For I am only half-over ======================================== SAMPLE 343 ======================================== of twosne colours, Also of columned delicious, And all of green, wrapped round about, And above it there is hung The number of string and snout, And rings, and ends of rav'ry, And all those plovers there, Who ever learned to swear They saw, being gay afore, 'Twas like a foot in the matter, And off it curls on the bare Brown: And if a woman dares Interpret the trick of her bare, At once, her arms before, These show: and we find the share All fleshy and fair of hue Is now for pitch and sail To the top of the wales of Appin, Where upon her finger-tips, I have dived of the fish-spirit That won at the water's lips, And she ever told me is not An island, Sir! yet leagues apart Shall this land be? Woe unto me! all I meet Is on a day: among the wheat Sits Madilda, a labourer meet At the head of a block of stone, There stands a beaver. Woe unto me! all I meet Is at the black wheel of a street, On a feast of a farm. Or the afternoon On the mid-arch. That evening a painting Now unveiled, I must say, of a village Such as poets in goth and in rabbits Draw only at sunrise. And here is a play-bill of Asturian, Of Marini now Hercules, not the first, Offering a shrill exclamation. And the other one pauses like statues: Was a bagman. And you said: "If it's all for a song, just say well! Just hark to the song and harp, boy; And the noise of your folk is all something To my mind, now, to the music they bring, Of which thou art anything. And the people are all as anxious To put such a present at me." But the fourth time that I could not speak. The fetters of each unplucked broom Tore up the each separate twig. And the trees were like playmates. And I thought: "If the wood Is some witcher, of which he is not, He is not a lyar." And the sixth time that I could see No cunning hand leading along with it A fine jewel, A good penny which lay there; A bad penny, though green and yellow: Or for that, for a house. This was the mere print On a fag from a scrip; And a pinch of snuff sat on it On a drawer with a thatch. "Kiss me, my dears; kiss me, I pray you!" And up to the garland's end Drowsily gazed the pen: "Lady, the hand that writes And the words in this thing, Sir, Throng such a hand, and all at once, As one might write, one could not." And then the first time that I knew Was that you spoke She did not speak a word. (How the birds all sang in the sun That morning and night when he came to them Laughed to their singing, and fondly whispered How the darlings, the fairies, the dancers, In their kirtles, neglected and neglected Traced the Spring in their saddles, What a beautiful garland bespangled Their delicate beauties, And tinged their feet with such flowers, As shall befit a king's bed. Some folks think they know what the wind is, And that this is her garden. As to whom the wind-bills think you? Which way does this wind, what's this?" This is the lady Dora, Whom that youth and love followed, Who can say the fish look Many months after. She was always friends to the tempest, She was always friends to the storm, And she needed no thought of a sorrow To prove there is one man or form. And if there's a need of a succor For each cause that has been, It is easy to warm her, and easy To toil, and be honest, and mean. If you're sorry for what you're for, Take them out of the way; When the wind's not to blow always, But does blow--what is't?--high Towards the clouds, by and by, When it blows, it will blow. "From ======================================== SAMPLE 344 ======================================== 'n alone? The wood, the honied lawn, the mountain side, The run of long, long years, the wild retired wood, The face of France, the world, the world beside-- 'To end,' they cried, 'of mortal cold,' They called it death, 'to unsettle into blood The token of our wasting days.' A stern voice spake; There wept the sad bride-mother, and the fair Fair bride lamented for her dead. There pressed the crowd, there, sobbing in the air, A loving ghost, the Mother of the dead. For all of these were lovers in her shroud, And through the red-lipp'd veil that mocks her tears, With doubtful cheer, with sad but dewy shroud, They follow day, by day by day; But no man sees, no man discerns, The face and form of that dead youth. With sad hearts beating, beating high, The dead body for evermore to rest, Along the road with blood-sounds all aflame, By the bleak seas where many a mad war blazed And slaughter, while around them dead men quailed. Yet sleep fell not on them, but only dawn, With lips agape, through blood-dark deeps to smile. She could not breathe, though dream had fallen by, She could not sleep, though dreams had fallen by. But all the good things were forgot at last, When, once again, as was the wont of men, All men befel, and, through that dread dull night, Gather, and shudder, and bemoan their plight. Her lids fall down, her eyes fall down, her lids Are hopeless of their weeping; and her lips, Speechless and sickly, faint and penance-wise, Are tinged with blood, though, in her voice, her eyes Are toils and tears; and ever on her brow Her head is furrowed with a stanch green crust, And her thin, swimming locks as white as snow. Bitter and sweet is death to man that dies, But unto her most wretched is death made, For all true souls that went before, and gave No room for hope of more, but were alive With love, not love, but fear. All men have given me, From out that cold wet sand: Hands that were strained in vain, Now death calls back to me, Strength of my heart, and pain: But only grief and pain Can give me most relief! Still care I not what others may do. My days, my nights, I fain would learn of you, And learn the close presence that frost-curtains bring Tidings of sorrow for desolate places long, Of alien faces and unwish'd faces; The broken look of fierce-heart-whispering eyes, The slighted breath of hands that love had lain Blown to and fro under the pitch-black days, The moan of love, the amorous criss-cross gaze, The dull low tongue soft-moaning and soft words, The weight of ill, the rain, the fever's heat, With days and years from when its term had run, And time and space and red-clothed days undone! Ah, then again how the old kindness sped! Perchance the madness deepened and strength outworn, Or with new dawn he brought the night o'erhead, Wet moulded in wet dew-wet grass, and wan With dreams, and frighted with joy-crazed fear, And eyes, that look for vassal-crown'd content, Whose hair no custom, yet whose thoughts were bent On tales the shadowy walks of shadowy night Red-clust'rous, and dumb men, who fain had sight Of my great masters, lordly, godlike kings, Through the o'erwhelming years of those long hours, Whose deeds and lives were but the play of flowers! How we kept up our hearts for love's sake, And fate like cruel hate might take its hold On realms that made our lives accurst and cold! And in our life of sorrow and death's callethe, And toil and grief for one that died for love, For one that saw the red world's course move on, Would touch with unseen hands all life that shone, And be before it as a thing divine; Ay, so, and in the dark, not otherwise! He took the writing of his name, and read, He pray'd for more ======================================== SAMPLE 345 ======================================== " and he spoke; the rest he used to say,-- "Two good friends to the "Au revoir!" say-- It was all up in the morning, and just as I'd all three come in, nobody knew which, so away he went, like a lamb. He saw me--I wonder what he did. I let him go--what he said, and I never knew where he would go,--he had to get back, and he has to go. It's a long way back. And that ain't all the go-by. I'm glad,--yes, and I'm shivers,--name! and me, shame! all the go-by are in your arms. There's something in this world to do with us. We've nothing--friends and foals to eat up with. If you are old and Uncle sucks his teeth, I'll don't think that that's how I do with the girls. I guess that the six long years has gone by, and they must never do one another any more. The truth about this matter I'll tell you at once. If you are old and Uncle sucks his claws, I don't think that it's how I do with the girls. "How do you know those girls?--don't you know that icoats went in behind them, and so is that, don't you come here and talk to me. I'd forgotten them. If you are old and Uncle sucks his claws, I don't think that it's how I do with the girls!" So Billy climbed off Dyon's hired girl, though-- how she wished it was! She stood up for a minute, and would not look at me. After which she had told that Jim--his uncle--sitting at the hearth,--told in slow tones--"All right. At daybreak I won't bring you a bone to eat. It's time I'm to see the fisherman." They would have asked if a body of old mother would say anything about the fish. With these words she watched the water, and would not have asked her son. That was the way the woodsemers used to fish; so they took their threshold up and went back into the house, where Jim and his sister mermaid had been sitting all till they saw the yellow tarpaulins raised against a polished pillar of pure marble, made of tin which by the arid line of cypress, in which he had set his hand, they caught their rakish little reindeer thread that ran into the yard. There was a little ship well worked, and the rope with which they tied them in, crushed and broken. They stretched their hands on the rope and threw their meat into the stream, till the rope-maker's Highness ran away with Bob and loud-voiced Billy and all his kind of ship-sides before Billy. Then the cry of their sport rolled out from the churn, and there were old young-eyed chants everywhere. Whereon, as they sat still, Billy climbed up the roof and pushed the ladder down through a flat- some place of high-arched bronze-fronted mounds; then looked at the far-off miners as they pulled up their mounds of ore, to see if they could get through the hog-yard or over the barn-yard fence, they took their breath and ran away from them. How that boy could get up into the tree top, if the tree-trunk could climb down and plant them there, then the top shoots down; the top shoots up, and every tree-top swings with its little anchor of gold-colored wreath. The top shoots down; the top shoots up again; but the hill-top swings high as the top shoots down. Down in the below some rocks are falling; some high bush with flying leaves pales; the long leaves shine there in the sun. Here the tall, flax-branch branches sway and sway. The limber oak-trees sway and sway and sway and sway till the top branch bends backwards, and then, like a breath of Spring, falls down again, and a strong wind slides down the hill, and then--O! now--now! what a terrible wind!-- along the furled rock-path all the wintry day. There's the wild goose trails, along the tawny way. The wild- goose trails. And the swift goose trails. The wild-go trails. The wild-go trails. ======================================== SAMPLE 346 ======================================== . What have I said? Ah, never till then: I know your purpose--in my sons I feel the roundelay, I know My worth--and you may answer me: I never knew your plan of strife, That still unskilled may strike an hour But here, I know, your reasons ring Directly to a valiant knight. To fight? to fight? And now I know You were my kin--my wise-in-life; Your claim to glory, honour, glory, Is wrong--your shame avenged on me. What have I done?--Why, not a word; Why not a sign of life and death, At first, at last I raise the cry, "We perish--not our own." Ah, no! What have I said?--the sad, sweet cry. I may not know;--but you, strange sinner, Hast come to pry my case, to blush, The while my wayward heart gives way To that blest place where all should strive, Where none shall meet or weep; I know, God shield me, dumb. The test we give Shall make your pleasure more preoccupied. I am not happy. Yet may He Haply send angels to forgive, And, comforting your pernicious heart, Send you for angels rest and Sorrow. <|endoftext|> A little bird of middle air, So tiny, daring, lovely, fair, Has little song to do or care, Nor half a word of thanksgiving. (O happy living!) still to see A magic image lingering, A talisman of melody, And every note of love and fear. Surely, I have not lived for years In this delicious solitude; I never heard the sweetest tears, Nor wilted praises offered so. I live a simple poet still, No, never to my theme I will; The name of Memory dulls my will; For art has nothing more to do. "Dear boy, you need not be afraid, 'Twere better if you told me so. 'Tis Jesus who the dear ones spurned, Who, in the garden of my soul, Has come to want those flowers," he said, "Those flowers by His grace forgotten, Which hearing all within His breast, They would in vain for others rest." The leaves are trembling,--they fall still, The flowers will no more be, The earth puts out their full full full rill, And the brook has no more time for them To dance with the angels, and to sing A requiem purer than the spring. What have I done? I cannot bear The thoughts that fill the brain and make Life quick and tense, and feeling rare, A sweet relief of pain to take For the stern minister in me. The doubt, the dread, the amity, So almost make me weep, Lest one so calm should dare to be Unnurtured by a promise deep Made perfect by my ecstasy. By all the songs of birds that sing, By all the silver words of speech Learnt from the lips that speak or string Or to the heart that feels or hears The voice that is their own, my ear And heart have spoken! Nay, not fear,-- Though I must mourn, make sweet the tears That I must weep to hear, so near The blessed words of Jesus' word, Though I may mourn them more, and heard Than music in another bird. No, never for one flash of thought Shall my soul find a deeper voice To sing, than that of One who taught My soul to understand and rejoice. I may not follow it, nor fall Apart, my flower, from all thy thought And thee; it is not my distress, It is not mine that thou wilt bless. I may not be indifferent If thou wilt say what I must hear And be content if thou wouldst hear A sound like this, a sound like this; But like this music let me be, And it shall help if thou not near. Beyond the reach of living thought There is no other way, my friend, Thro' thinking things that I have thought Are beyond reach of comprehending; And thou art keen to see and hear, And keen to see, as the astonished Eye of a brook, when murmuring Its low clear song at intervals Delivers in the heart of a lonely lakelet, Of a shy brook, that oft hath ======================================== SAMPLE 347 ======================================== For, if you're anxious, you'll not keep your lips, But take your broken stories out of reach; And hear what a full well you have to say By drawing one down to his own you'll say. For should he leave you then you'll have to slip And not get by your temper, till you've tried To play "two games," or snub a kneller-snood, Or eat a part of one on the best board For the return of any afternoon. It doesn't matter if a game is laid For them that first come, after all, to pray. Take any seeds of husbandry; but leave As much of each as you are, and at least Some of your friends will bless you while you stay In out of reach--the old church tower--and may For centuries keep its candlestick, Where you, not you, win dad and mother, too, As real old dad must bow to you, you two. So if I can keep out of these dull days With all my goodness, it will, just so soon, That he will reach his boy's just birthday, when He gets good and he's good, and never, never Bring any dread of being ill or hurt. You got a yard clean quick, the first man's name! You ran away and hid it in the wall Where you, last night, were counselled out of all By lice and gin, at candle-light, at ball. Your feet were where the blinds were with the sky, And all the way the blinds were with the sea; For, all day long, in the great city, where God sits with priests on the high altar- stair, They held their breath And, as you sat with Your priests by the long Cross And hardly dared to speak, they fastened there On the great pillar that was patiently set And, in his hand, I think, upon this breast Where Christ is safe, I trust, and we shall rest, For they will look into this eye, these eyes That just the way of heaven will recognize. The bare beach whitens on the sandy brim Where the sun in the west appears to swim. Pale memories gather where the tide is at play, And over all the village comes the moon With faint, half-hidden smile, A memory of home. O shining stars From beyond the four-lined shores of night, O strangely moving people of the light Across the sky! These are your priests, They know their holy secrets, they have caught Their centuries of beauty, old, and wrought Into a wonder, that was quickly caught Nay, surely we who dream Will surely find them, and will sleep When all the world grows old. Who shall restore you, landsmen? who shall guide The Kings of the Land across the tide To perfect freedom and perfect pride, Till their great Will be known? Then, later, we will trust them, if our will Be wise beyond the sunset's fading fill; For we shall lead them home. For us, let the ringing aisles Dissolve in our sons and our daughters; let Songs ring to the naked joy of it While their lives are merry. The dark race drifts to the sands, The light race drifts to the night, But there the great heart of our land Still holds its ancient course to sight. Not as our mothers did of old, Not with their own blood-guiltiness Of cities wasted, that might hold Our own and theirs, and those that die For their own only. From its ashes, men say, The cool blood of the dark earth runs Out of man's veins, and they say, "Soon is the race which is, We are made into one blood-thirsty race," Whose lips did answer to this curse, And shrink back back from the noise and noise Of the nations of man's cities. Oh, who shall look from the pangs of breath On the deep prize of life, And hear the great heart beat and ring Upward in measureless years? Say, what shall strengthen the groping hands, And what make islands of song and lands When the earth lives for them all? Men of the centuries, how long Since men were heroes! What far way Of courage and war has their sons been To fill the ranks of the fight? Alas, not singly, not singly Can their sons of the centuries know How keen is the joy of living That lives for the world's whole race! ======================================== SAMPLE 348 ======================================== Gods in the broad wolds below. Almighty God, Almighty Father, bless This festival of joy, and as the Sea Triumphantly to the full doth show, Satisfied, by the Gods thou dost confess. For we have made our altars so fair, And offer'd it; and have endur'd the works In a good work, and honour high in holiness. The Fire and Heaven, whose mysteries we know, And all the tongues of men,--in sight shall burn,-- They, in a vision may reveal our glory; These evermore shall witness it, and more Than silence grants to men in blindness drear. The Gods, in all their wisdom, yea, and nought, Daughters of God, and of all men their kin, And up and down, in shapes of man, they shine, Eternal, endless, and sublime in Heaven. The married Gods assembled all below, Omnipotent, and fearful, awful, swift, Of understanding, loving, fiery, and keen; The signs and the encourments, and the signs, And touchings of swift hands, and lips that burn As fire; and here and there and everywhere, With the strong presage of the mightiest plan, They show all things most grand to haughty man. Lo! in the midst of those great joys sublime, The antique Sun, reviving once the trees, Looks through the trees that crowd and part the sky, A tree of the life of God, surpassing this 'Neath northern wind, in heaven most fair to see. Nor less befits him, as the young, as he Who roves them over, by the hill's green crown, Or under cool Estar too near his nest Flings his light quiver. Then are not these glorious, And more befitting to his mighty eye, Nor grace to hear in that delightful land, More wonderful, and wonderful than the grave, More than the townsman in his cushioned chair, More than the singer in his palace cell. Lo! all are here that wondrous Isle of Dreams A wondrous Flower-garden, round the gate Of Eden apple-trees, and shining flowers; And all their spicy, spicy throes and roots, Cold apple, humming rainbows, silver fruit, Wide tokens of unutterable dews, Made by the magic of th' immortal Morn. From this, what men call beautiful, unknown Swells many a green, high-hearted Sister-glow, Of all green Erin-trees, and most of all The bard's true faith in her immortal song. There was a time, at Bethlehem, When all the world was pure, A wondrous Woman, throwing down Her crown exceeding sure; A Woman, on a Camel borne, Who made loud revels in the night, Nor uttered seven-and-twenty laughs In Camel, by the river-side; Nor crooned one down the hall; Or let one o' the eggs herself Sing in the Camel's wide;-- All in a silence, all at peace, The maids and little children stroll By Jordan's shore, about which lie The flocks that fatten at the fleece; Or like old friends, about to die, And leave much bitterness therefrom, Perpetual homes, with rest that brings To many a weary heart a home; All with a quiet mind, and wings Of swiftest flight, and by the flight Of dove-like birds, and at the last The rest of all the comfortings That comfort or may be. What and whence cometh it abroad, That is in Heaven? This is in air, This is in sea, This is in fire, This is in fire; This is in fire, This is in sand, This is in fire; This is in air, This is in sand, This is in water, This is in fire; This is in iron, This is in brass, This is in iron, This is in brass; This is in surf, This is in calms, This is in calms; This is in dolphin's-parsons, This is in knees, This is in knees, This is in fish, This is in kine, This is in kine, This is in kine, This is in kine, This is in kine, This is in kine, This is in gorse, This is in kine, ======================================== SAMPLE 349 ======================================== sparke an heron, an eäall monke, So golden blue a burre of cedared flode, Sor kynge on grys, or hynge on grymous stonese, At length I take the lyf to Gomorby ryses, O dere wrappëd maid! thynkest thou the nyght The dayes of nighte, of wyne, of wyne thou hast, So full of sorwe, so siker as the hast Of the foule fayr, of colde, of stinke and blaste Of alle woful thinges, and stedfast rape Of lustie wommen, which is cleane in Ioye. Here whan the nighte is come, ioy out of bedde, Of lovers lust, and rest, and many a nyght Here wryten in the temple, rsted of theyr kynde With othere contre ther in her chamber full: And foure it selfe befell, this fals and cruele man, That he here lurkynge was without cause to stonde From his other foes ther tofore ryd so longe. He came vp, and wende ther was no constaunce Of bokes of lyght, ther Iove was chastised Amon with love and bokes of tokne and wyf, That he hadde letten hem for no creature But folowynge after his wordes in the rote Of them that plefely after deth only. Thys lyfe is vnmete, and of a thred the rote Ther worche hyr couched ful many a doon agast That falsly hath with fals briddes drede, And to his sone was dere many a whyle. Whan he was come to loue, allas! and goddes lawe, With folke and lyght and noyse ther was no space But hellysshed in the grene wind and depe scanneth And his slyned handes werke hym to plese, And out of londe he goth him hom at large, So that the longe dayes of heuen redresse He put to Inthe, which is the corage Of Grece, the moder of alle loue, The clere of Sodom and also of Maide. Neuer were he y-out of his slepe forth, But tho that he to win are sworne and couth Or elles mote he here, whiche mote endite That euen he shall neuer suffer hell, Wher-ever he passeth he wole or dwelle. For whan he come doun the whiel he wolde Thryve the goddesse, whan he hadde herd this, And al this lothly maner as I gesse, And swere his herte to his herte assente, As he that thanne wole nedes serue, And thanne he was somwhat to meke of wyfe, How wonderly he wolde deme as he stod, What thing he wolde or wolde, wys worth and good. To him thenkende he cast his tentasie For al the thinges wel, wher is no lawe Ther as he seith, his hertes wel to blame, Wit of the slouthe which he is of to blame. O argumentat of this condicioun, What is to me so halwe? what to winne If I be worth a pitous dremes inne, If ther be no reson of misbelieve, Wherof I crie in anguisse and am irieve, O god of love, that lyst Narcisse, I not if I be worthi for to leve. Now, al is on, that standeth al at ones Unkinde and hard of myne astat, That he ne stant of pite, nor of non, That can noman speke of wommen in this tale, No del which that he hath understod. Of alle men it were more to blame, If he ne take his hauk, or if he loke. So is he worschip of himself, that seeth How best, what most he dede, he best, he taketh; His herte is whan he hateth forto sowe, And ======================================== SAMPLE 350 ======================================== and repld ye shall no more learn That wise men ne'er before went on with swains, The story of their wantonness, Their chaste rights, their worthiness; Yet, therefore, daily must I speak, Their pretty presence telling true; I will not grudge them to kneel, Though at the least they love to hearse, And all the smiles and the tear drops fall From out their brows to o'er their lips. I will not grieve that saintly souls Have deem'd their high renown unwroken, And they, who daily have defied Nature's rude foes, and daily failed, Are all too weak to honour each one. But if, however, you exalt the mind, My verse these virtues must disclose, It is not thus, a fable just, But hope in vain, and self-sufficient, Places the theme as in a dream, And makes the everlasting theme. Since truth can keep, though good can say, Let young and old adore their prattle: Since not for love of earth, but play, This life holds only but a fable. They heed not earth--for her pure creed Is only earth--and earth shall need No legacies to pay their debt: That gives us hope, and love to set The young, the gay, the beautiful. Then shall we learn that man's gross heart Is worth the toil, the coil, the smart, That makes the gentle wish to wound The dull-eyed into baser sound. Let sleepless dragon-feet explore The winding shore, and winding shore, With patience till their track be set Along the road to the perfect yet. Then while in simmering woods we stray, We bring the urchin's melting lay, Or lie upon the scented way In the full flower of autumn day. Who's gone and who's awa? Or is't the wee lammie, O? That I sae well might ca' the dear lammie, O? Or the lammie, dear lammie, O? Now wandering 's a waefu' heart, And I canna find it, O: The waefu' heart it has na been, That I sae well might ca' the dear lassie, O. I wander'd by the roaring brook, I look'd upon its moor; I look'd upon the lover's book, And sigh'd, and look'd in vain, And thought of him whose life 's a snooze, That I sae well might ca' the dear lassie, O. His blythe and truthful bride, He bade them ne'er be denied; He took their vows and gi''d them lands, And made them o'er the lea; He gi'd them lands and did them maist-- But they were deceiv'd a'! I'll paste the cauld warld to your gude hearts, My boy, and true lover, O: And to your kind eyes I'll still see thee, And fondly kiss away, And fondly tie the rosy shoe To fit your fingers to; And in your dainty hand I'll place The wee cussarmy, Embroider'd wi' the spangled ha', The bonny treasure, O. I'll throw the bread away amang the trees, My boy, and then thy ain; And to thy bosom I'll present my bow, For it will be like vow'd ever so. As far ahead of me my steps I'll keep, As far ahead of me my steps I'll keep, And as the moon to distance me I'll keep, And as the frost-breath on the mountain cake, The bonny treasure, O. I cannot ban my Love to his ain hame, Come let me in the bush wi' yer sigh, And I'll tell my heart how it lo'es me indeed, And I'll tell it to yer, True-love, na! Oh, dinna think I've any that can buy The bliss o' mutual love, an' be wi' me The first o' we a' should meet to-day, And haply when the thought comes that way When first I kiss'd ye in my ca'! Oh, dinna think I've any that can buy The bliss o' friendship, an' be wi' me The first o' we a' should meet to-day, And ======================================== SAMPLE 351 ======================================== (Arcension, attorney) of Joan's house. Come, Winter, with the light of love and joy, Sit on, and make a Winter of our year Till--so you are--we may not know enough-- We may not guess where time had to fall and fall. Come, Summer, with a seed of Summer yet, And there's a juice of sunburnt vintage here, And all your merry magics of red gold, Blue eyes, red lips, and russet cheeks of peach, A year ago you cut the fairy-bell To set us three. And but that, and we think That it's all Summer in a Winter's mood In the dim woods, under the boughs, that grow Where heaves the birch-trees in the sand. And yet Our dreams are drifted by the tide of hope. And if we heed not any wreaths of green, Or faint with growing longing. We may know We've only a few happy acres of green, And then--our story is an unreal one. Here, by the grinding-stones of London town That the good Master said was Death's crowning crown, I wait, and let him into his old heart. If a tear be that from my passion fly, If a sorrow steal into my eyes That I see the tears on the cheeks of one That you loved, I will never weep, And I'll see him smile, as he left the room, Till he cried, "O Love, Love, Love, Love, Love, Love, Love, I have left the corner of the past, I have made myself a kingdom of Your heart, and with a crown of thorns." Love, Lady, I do love you, And I am weary of your offer of Fair hair, and limbs that never lover Whirled like woven gold about the furnace Of a killing fire that you had knitted For instead of the love of me, Here is the power of madness. So you will leave me to your palaces, And I'll call out to you the heart of me For you love you. Then come in the twilight, And you'll remember, at the break of day, The old, mad, clamor of defeat And the grey increase of impatient night For the door you gave up. I am left alone. My place of rest is empty, and you go Out naked in the gusty wind, that blows Among the flowering swathes of unseen grass. All that I have, the candle is unlit, For I want you in the street no more. I had hoped to look upon the years That are gray and old. They have no part With those who made me. They have faded, faded, The walls have been tattered, the great bays' Profusion, and the steeples burnt, the courts Are fallen; and many a heavy laden Is laid for all the loves that I have loved. I had hoped to taste your beauty, and could Wait on the sweet, pale lips and limbs and eyes. I had stood on the cross-bench of your town. You passed with all your beauty, while I sat Half-gardens and half-blossoms, till you left The stars and the great sunset and the lights And all the places they had held before With all the sights their eyes have seen. In truth, Did you not find your daughter, dear Celeste, Among the flowers that have no scent, The only tenderness, Celeste, Which, though they kissed in the half-light of dawn, Is yet to plead with men and wait, and wait With that great sorrow in your heart? I had not found your daughter, Celeste, Who knelt beside you in the still warm heat Of your nearness. She was mine, and I was Your mistress. She too had sense and fire And high desire, and heard your cry of joys, Not without a few tears on the wane face Of the white beauty lying coldly there. I thank the love that made me such. I thank The love that made me what I am. Forgive, My heart has been a warm white place apart And not for me. I will not tell the tale Of all your many griefs, and you must weep, And yet you must forgive me. I stood beside Your chance of wandering in the long ago, A great white flame against the paling night. You had no care for me, but shared your joys. You loved me more than any, Cel ======================================== SAMPLE 352 ======================================== And with this motto. Thus when Canto breaketh, For France her freedom, and from him returning, She leave to him, as he again correcteth, The other where is now so little drifted. I say, continuing this discourse, "Such as it was with Cropheon the old, Who held the Deian gateway at Nastrandi, The last to enter in upon their way, Was none who there about the passage wended, Of old such mighty mischief could be heard, The vapour gathered which the roof opposed. And there it was, that by such adverse degrees Haply o'erblown by short erewhile was fallen, That all the aforesaid woful city trembled. O'erwhelmed with terror were her eyes the which A bitter torrent of unceasing rain, Ere it was mannered in her dire discharge, She to her fathers gan to make resort, And thitherward full roar the roar increased Which the high walls and, circling, stopped and closed. I say, continuing, it descried the dame, Who said, within herself, as he grew older He bade them seize a stone, however strong, And she to shake it, still she kept her hold, And they this while her Father David jeered, And at the gates their stand prepared they all Should stand aside and scuffle therewithal. But this was what keeps best and greatest use Of words, to make our wonderment secure, So that no longer doubts of them can wait. And now of many doubtings certain were That these the heavenly rhetoric inspired, That, following the Saint, their beloved went To make new laws, and set in order all Which be but just and sound upon the square. But I, who twice had pondered in their sight Already the things which they to hear would plain, Having avoided that, which yet they knew, They would not change their course; and now would hand The signal down to Herod, when they planned With that vain multitude to hurry back The expected scrip to their inheritance. Nor should I think that my old enemy Would, with a crew of horse, together follow, Would in a meagre fashion be arrayed, And in such manner round the circle place them As would invade the life of every one. But this is fear, and to be feared by them I'll put them under. If some prisoner haply Mean for their death, in punishment they slay, And, for their perils, and their burial-right, And look upon their desolated land, They will slay this man with shame of death." And with like words she smiled, and with like smile Thus answered him. "Behold the mountain top! After long three days' laborious warfare, And cruel triumphs which the world advanced, I brought thee hither this day thy flesh-offering, Thy blood-offering, and all the deeds thou didst, I brought thee hither to this quiet place. For I desire thou wouldest be released From these old bonds of bonds and keep thy life, The which thou must bring forth, and free from rage. Meanwhile, for that I care no more in terms Thy maker, but just office for thyself, Tell me, and tell me true." He thus replied: "If I have any power on earth to sin, I must perforce confess I have them there. But when the accursed traitor's blood was dyed With the sword's sheath, I would not take offence Nor spare the impious praise I freely gave. Therefore if I have done this, thou, secure, My conscience, and regard it, do not scorn That any other should thy fault declare. This is a grievous error, as thou deemest, If any to thee dare offer faith and love." As one that from a dream awakeneth, And musing there, that something new there dwelleth Which in his sleep would make his senses range, Thereby he dreameth that a vision strange Looks first, then sees, and knows not what to do; So I awoke, and found it in my bed, And wished that I might sleep, but that my dream Had not been true, had rather that I pushed My feet into the secret place, and pushed My foot into the secret of my breast. There was a momentary calm, that mirth Came through my veins, and made me calm again. I slept, and woke with slumberous wake, and heard A sound as of a mighty multitude Bearing the same portentous conquer ======================================== SAMPLE 353 ======================================== When we were children he gave our mother Wonder more about himself and the life of our brother, And the spirit of our mother Came over the seas, Wherever she was, she had wonderful tales of the heroes; And I myself am the dullest man Ever alive As a child of a mood severe, with a settled sense of affection and ruth That even the best of the feminine children of parent Laughed when it came to me. "I shall never see it again," I say. We lay round the wide chambelled house. We should hear him So often coming under the tree trunks that crowned the streets and the windows with garlands of flowers and sweet grass, flowers and delicate leaves, except the young man who carried the news to the house of the women who came and mourned in the late spring and sighed for the yellow lilies In the early spring When a child, too, was born, And his mother was dead. We know not what night Covered my cradle We were angry with pictures. When in our room I opened the window In the building of houses for children, I left my soul smoking out in an old room Where they were toys for my ends When they were up for the high world When the blue sky showed to me The blue water stirred, And there was the dark and beautiful Of grandfather and wife and child. No fire and candlelight revealed Their beauty in that great, strange world And when we heard the children sing I knew more than you have known. The little girls, the little men, The little men, The little maids in their quiet graves, The little children, The little path, the way that leadeth to home Never heerd him speak, Where the winged wild broom And the beards of the summer are bright In the red, red rust, Never heerd him speak. Yet the fear is as fierce as his red body's strength And his tongue like a sharp whip And the fear is as hot As the blood of the poison-cup In the red hour when it beareth a joy, A joy too full of fragrance to dim Or touch, or feel as well As his eyes are now, and his tongue more true, Though all the winter be gone. Flower of plenty, Only comforts That be not: Care not: neither are they, Hither, hither, from the street; The spell of the maiden's heart Is that of his whispered words. O, let me remember He was the child Who fell on the border, By the Donnebrook side, By the Donnebrook side, And the sailors' voices In the cedar tree. For a rest from sorrow Let us sometimes get up and sing. I think I ought to remember some time, when she asked me to Tell her the story, Tell her the subject; Tell her the subject. "A moral," she said, "Is not the sun shining clearly on the skin Of snow on the white that shines on the stream, Or under the shade of the forest trees. An impulse goes up in me To be felt like a golden gleam In my little dreams." Now she is sure we can easily be united with this class of ometors. We are but the rude and formal beings who speak of us; we have lost some useful lessons from us, and we are the stranger who comes down from the hillside from a railroad or broadside or cottage from a village or village. "It is long ago I was far away," sighed her mother, "that we bore our chains. The church gave up her ghosts; we and none of us could dream of them. They take off their rags and with the heads off them stand away. They are all risen from the depths of the old graveyard where they stand on their knees and with open eyes that look from the windows to the ground, Our mother. My son, my son, they are waiting for you. The sun shineth like a great fire. God be praised! I know that, although they are watching for you, they are shouting for you. We are all struggling and striving together, and God has ointed us with the right hands of angels, the cure for the souls of sinners; And the wind blows away from the roses to the white rose that we weave in the shallows. And the rains wash their garments and their spirits come to be mended. We cannot grasp the hand of the Infinite, ======================================== SAMPLE 354 ======================================== he added: "Thou beholdest all This brood of infamy; behold the germs Of evil deeds in time's first furnace cast, And how the maker did his body frame. The primal germs from out the mystic womb Spring up, and join their swiftest onward way. Nor deem thou that my words are void of sense, For they exist in nothing, but in sound. So saying, a glorious light doth move about O'er the dark region. The infernal spheres With swiftest lapse from earth her course retrahnt, And, as they move, the sun with his long beam Involving, holds them still in strict embrace. And now the other orbs, that round them shrowd, With loss and torment weary, to that part Crowded with ghosts, the bodies, hatchet-cords, All shrunk within their sockets, so that oft Nature seems wearied. Ere our fitter time Was, they bespake me; whence I thus to them: "O wearied spirits! come, and hold discourse With us, if by none else restrained be. The mind, that here is troubled, enters not A day without its pain, but, in desire Of seeing, retaineth no defect. In the first council I could noted well The president, and in his hand he bore The letter of his nation; then he said: "O spirits: wherefore doth not night with time Extend, and e'en when Justice is at hand, Lest we forget, ere well is come our day, What we are wont? Who doth it that can be Worse than ourselves? The weariest of them all Which Justice is, they bring not on themselves The first and last time of our mortal life. The weariest of them all, who Judge not God; And if they sinned not, and if for their sins Are cursed, for their own seed is in this world. To whom the answer thus returned he: "I know not, I, for thou art higher far Than thou did Mahomet; and if thou thinkest That I deceive not, being glad to hear So plain thy speech, hence to the fire I bring thee. I saw a devil once who all did him, Holding a naked sword within his hand, And said: I say, 'Now pluck thee hence, O Son, For on my bare wounds I will fix my sting, Or ere I cut my tongue within its sockets.' 'Son, on this side I stand prepared to die, And if thou wish to do me evil will, Follow me then,' said he, 'and let this blood Go from thee in a torrent, till I come Back from the fire, and both consume.' And they Together turned thir faces, each on each The other gazing, looking at the dusk, And the great flambeaux of the day were gone, Gazing upon this wild man's face awhile; Then said: 'He is not worthy to be spied; Worse thing he is, if he escape from hence, Than trusting to the venture which he owes Who hopes in vain to issue on a quest Som safer and more sweet; and let him perish Ere he can live, since fate willed not his death.' So said, so done; and Sohrab kindled hot To execute the charge with words of scorn, And in his face took up the name of him, Who might as well have risen, and fled amisom; And all his face was white as summer doth, And yet he did not turn himself away Till he had uttered it at the Abbey door, For when the Son of God appeared within The Son his father saw him with much wonder At such strange sight, the flame began to roar Out of the iron doors, and a wind swept 'Ma, yawley as a flash' said Sohrab then; That crying was a cry of agony And all his mother's anguish and her grief; That the hot mouthed shuddering of the fire Alone did shiver 'neath her husband's feet, And to and fro they made a heavy pause. And to his heart there crept a little pain Of two-edged horror that no human hand Wore the red raiment forth. The man was mad; So was he bitten, and with voice as low As the wind was, he muttered 'Ay, my child, Eaten till he had strength enough to save His cousin from destruction: that was all. Then said the Father: ======================================== SAMPLE 355 ======================================== forgotten, the wonder has vanished! Tear out your foliage for ever and ever, Ye were as moted in the lustre of even Ye shrunken with ferrets and hillocks of heaven, Ye lay there in the sea-slush, in the heather, And gather and gather and heap, and eat, And revel in the ruin before us-- All will be well, and shall be good hereafter! Drink--drink together, the old will drink To the fresh hollows that wind in the morning, And the flower that is on the hawthorn-tops, And the rose-petals blown from the cup of the May. She was just a morning that When she dropped asleep in the grass. The next morning she was content To rock all the meadows and strew The clover-tops, and let The April haze Float over the meadows and fields without passers-folks or passers-folks, All day long in the wheatfields. And when the night came and went, The little tired house in the wall Was over with peewits, And picketed apples, The ripe chestnuts, and the brown nuts, The whole year's apple-blossom, And the air like the whispering river, And the blackberries--all in a lump, Dropping ripe, very tempting. Not a leaf that was stirred. She was beside him. He'd forgotten her word. The last word that she said was "Ender." She was his letter from God, And at the end of her way she said: "I must leave you here To remain so very lonely, If we could only know How the air must feel, And the face look dark. Come, dear little wind, blow up, blow up; There's the snow, let's go and make A wall of the way you'll break; I thought I was at home When we came to the other side After the other side! Wind blows up the trees, the brush-grass thickens, The brown leaves whistle and the clover clings, The brown bee-thrusts tap against the stalks, So here's my poetry: "Work, anyhow!" I'll read her poems--see how glad they are With how high honors of the morning sun, And how the larkspur, that shines so, is done. I'll read her poems--see, at the end Of a white poem, if it's just the same As those that she herself wrote on the same! I'd like to be a poet--perhaps, maybe, For I might play too far in America, Where the vast waters wash my sorry quill, And how the sun and moon and stars are still! And then, perhaps, may see my homely fields, And laughing children, trees and meadows green, And sun-bright flowers where the cowslips stand, And how the hills go round and round, and round! And then I'd say, "No matter what you do, I'll live in darkness till the close of day." And then she'd say, "What do you want to see?" And laugh, if you could hear me laugh, "You want Horace, come give me your book, be sure." I'd give a score of pictures--just one more, And twining out the pretty hiding-place, Then cry, "No mother was so great before!" And gather them--and turn away their face! It's coming on till everybody knows Why Lizzie died--how Lizzie lost his wits. Poor Lizzie! He was poor and very small, And the tears that came to him are tears at all! And you must give another, you, in fun, For Lizzie was too weak to feel it so. (Poor Lizzie!); it was always God's good-will For such a simple Titian to be still, And you'd be all that any man could fill, While you were growing up to be a man, And looking after Nature's natural plan. It was because he was grown up to you (And I'd be not a critic, though, I knew), That these are facts, as I shall here state, "No man can rhyme to any man but me." And, when the basket picnic was completed, By little Mother Earth, of her warm breast, She was a mother that her children blessed! And when the golden bowl was emptied, And all but Papa and brothers left behind, She laughed aloud, "Oh, thank ======================================== SAMPLE 356 ======================================== in grace. The golden poppies shall be earned by cost, Though the poor flower its use be had. The work, not wrought by hand or brain, The faithful slaves shall from all colors gain. In cities on the earth are bought Honor and wealth alike, but Truth with good Shall find its glory richly brought And old age's laurel crown the ivy's food. The sun and stars shall be the friends Of thy declining day, and light thy spring! So shall no other man oppose Thy will, nor plant thy faith in trifles merely. The lovely Grecian maid, Her age is nearly done, Away will many a one, To wander far and free, Along the sands of Dee, Through mountains scorched by age and heat, Shriek out, as I would have thee do, Now for one minute cease. Soon she will be at peace, And end in plenty then. Boldly the young swain runs Along the hills afar; I'm not afraid of him, I would he were a man. Then he runs to his supper Among the slopes of Dee, The Swallow after him will fly, O love, thou art to me. Ye sweetest turtle-doves, Illumed by heavenly love, What shall we do for you That yet so long ye've roved? I'll not go back again To meet you on the plain. What must we do to you, O gentle Swallow, now? The gold we sought to win Is now a useless thing. What can we do to you, O simple Swallow, now? Alas! for him that flew To the fatal plain, and we Will meet no more again. Here's magic in his train! No more we'll wander back, Good reason, to return. The sea still comes to England, The tide is on the sea, The bird is on the roe-side, And all the waves roll free, And strike the Luggie down, While we go sailing by. That's where my heart's a-feelin', My heart is but a flower, An' there's a sweeter, fairer flower In a' the charms o' ane an' me. The mavis an' the wood-pigeon, Chaunt o' their canth and bloom, We wander back again, my lads, And I still am wi' the bloom. Who'll drive the mawlin' skelpin' Wi' a' my lads to rove? They'll drive the yellow cowslips Wi' sunny flecks o' love. What is there in the balance O' my lads, or but a single? I weigh them as their value Makes them baith diff'rent to me. The mavis an' the woodpecker, If they could sing or dance; We still might wander back, my lads, And I still am wi' theplace. How fleet the year, how rich the morrow, How rich the life that late was given! How vain the thought, how strong the hand-thrall, How vain the weak-the hand that wrought! O, in what ails the weary rover? Yet with him all our care is riven; The day is done, the light is down, That light will bless the happy morn, And close the lids of care on toil Till the sun shine again! But auld Robin Gray cam' here to woo, O, Robin Gray, my darling, O, my joy, When first I came but to be your ain, Your sweet, your dear, your only love, my own; I couldna choose but be your ain. O, Robin Gray, I lo'e thee weel, my own, And you, my true, shall be my ain. For you alone I ride the ring, my Jeanie, O, Your only love is true loue Jessy Jessy. For you alone I ride the ring, my Jeanie, O, Your only love is true loue Jessy Jessy. Behold, a flitting flicker on the wall, Which flutters in the air: Fair blooming bird, That maun yae be my fair. My fluttering bird, My dearest bird, I'll make a garland on thy hair. My luve, why dee ye blaw sae? Because ye can ======================================== SAMPLE 357 ======================================== Grow ye within. "Oh, darling, love! behold the lily o'erstrewn, The blushing spring-tide, and the blushing eglantine, Wreathed round with rose-buds, that in Springtime e'er Have led their footsteps to the heaven's floor. "On such a morn, when through the wood The still sweet shower is propling, O'er flowers and leaves that, by the heed Of their white buds, hang languishing in air, In such a weather-tossing hour, That I would gladly keep the hours, And take th' expresses' silence there, That yield their fragrance unto me, Thrilling with wonder, mystery, awe, delight. "So--You? you only you, love! who, even I Who loved you all through yon dark hours rove, Naught dreaming of you save my soul. The night itself is but a dream: No more for me the threnody; And dark as Winter is my light, And poor my pleasures--how,--oh, Heaven, oh, Heaven, Why should I fear to lose you? "Of all the many women that have been, What is't you wish for that? Ah, I've a long and lonely love, The saddest are these: Take your dear, but dearer-half,--forgive,-- My hopeless heaven, My sadness to be, love, cast on you-- Oscape for ever, Oscape, sweet, lovers, from the storms and years! "For I will think it true, Though the great all do. One moment's joy, my only fear,-- Forgive, forgive; Sweet face, dear smile, look veil and tear, Faster than pilgrim's cheer, Faster than any falling tear-- O save, O leave me, love!" The cypress-tree, now trim and seamed, Well-girdled of the sun, On hill, or plain, or sunny vale, Kept grateful watch upon the trail; Her slender form, yet meek, Was wreathed with yellowing leaf, And all along the alder grew The pink and crimson willows, too, Like violets ruddy-dyed, Their fragrant bosoms showed. But woe, were thine, my own deceit! To me the moon had spoke, And yet her gentle look was won By one who shared the night's glad smile, With maiden terror shook, And laid her bier beside the aisle, A grave was near one. That night through many a galloping train, And empty wagon, and dark track, I hurried, the wild wind to meet, Where all the blood-blurred boughs lay wet; But oft the scent of her white robe Left sudden horror all on me; While, with that cold hand clasped above, I led her forth, and wept to death; And there was blameless deed and foul, That I bemoaned that I should be, By this time so profound, so great, The only living spirit within a Tomb! I seek my flowers from whence they grew, Because, as yet, they turned to me In mother-love, their simple selves Were crost and sweet as innocence, Or even as the gods allow; Or if they refused, not love, It was because they loved me. I want no flowers for this earth, So fresh and fair, so fair, so sheen, Nor lush ripe, nor delicious mirth, No comrade to my story; I have found out the joy and bliss Man had not lost for twenty years, And tears which turned to sorrow. I have found life my own, though weak; But, mounting that star-guarded height, I knew it was not raining, And in a hard but constant fight My tears turned glittering. I know it is not growing, But all the good I know That is not with the growing. I will not tread them down, Nor climb to fame nor glory. So 'tis I'll make a gown For thee and only thee. The sunlight of God's advent is most brief His word men call him: Why should I murmur? Why should I make songs When men are restless? To make the morning-flowers rejoice I have much time to lose If not for thee, dear Nature, I make pause To spurn each dainty that doth disallow thee ======================================== SAMPLE 358 ======================================== ; To them, no squinting gentleman belongs When he has chosen a suitable like one. Our hero, mark him well,-- I see him not, but have seen him ride, With less discretion than a mortal bride, Whom the same time he did at dawning bid To the best village of a poet's hut. Here he was thrown, withouten centchemy or art, Into the Irish camp and met with splendid court; And now a boy, long bent on mischief's cause, Rode daily up and down; but others, he At morning and at evening both alike Rode also, strolling at the camp-fire's scope, And with his banneret, each alone got loose. At evening, maybe, fifty loads he bore, His active horse, the same which none would bear; A score of horsemen round him paced before, With time, perhaps, for freedom and the roar. To farthest north, where he would travel first, The stringed instrument did he at last Set on an isolated party cast, That neither man nor woman dares the worst. They took the road together, which they seemed To lances lances, or perhaps some gleam Of the bright spear, which by their martial strain, When tender hands were raised, refused to stain The target, which for battle seemed in vain To be a weapon, and no point was plain. Those tools the Tartar king has sought in vain, Wherewith, arrayed like himself, they doff, The gauntlet or the gauntlet canst destroy, And where the gauntlet or the sword is wheeled, The gauntlet or the war-knife wheeled. Of the twelve feared, with Spanish cavalier They had maintained their strength, through warrior gear And richly furnished weapons;--but the fear Of some disaster, then in few forbear. So vainly did the Tartar king detain Sophronia's faithful guard; yet there remain From Tervaganta Constantine's domain. Here is a lance of Spanish steel, Spurred with a deadly purpose, and an arm, Whose action could have turned to bay the swarm. Well known the youth; and there was heart to arm. But Tervagantian, when neither fear Nor weariness avails him to the chase, Oft moves on Nile to give the nations grace, As rapid in its course by him who brings The weapon, or that better course to run. He had seen Charles' wrath, his father's face, The blood that flowed in torrents from his frame. Charles, when he saw his people's fiery swarm In a round vessel from their fall, had taken, By a small stir, on board the cordial farm, Raised to a jar upon a foreign jar. This was a man of savage mien and voul, Whose garb, unveiled, still wore the star of youth. So came in safety Tervagantia's crew Few steps aloof, and then advanced anew. They and the thousand thousands, whom they led To festive order in the neighbouring wood, For years had mused their time had onward sped; When they came back, with many an ardent look, To the old quarry and the mountain brook. He with a measured stroke, half-staggering still, Drew through the covert of a sheltering hill, And, in thick shade, thus made the woods resound With his small mule-hoofs and came following slow, Till past the clamour of the hunter's cry They heard the mountain- Echo's war-note shrilly, And who had warned the Moorish monarch how To speed his flight, on dark Debregara's eye. He, full of hope, had left his dwelling free To which, with grief and terror at the view, A bridle-rein he raised, a crossbow in the free, Unscorned from danger, and his foaming steed, And all the country round about him bounded, And from his nostrils blew the ready whip. No effort found they there to turn the rein, And now, exulting in his majesty, Though his black beard and hair the sign confess That slandered Paris him, and all his woes. Not more amazed than others stood the Moor, Who thought how glad he had not marked the day When, with a gentle look, the Christian friend, And hand joined hand, and he was forth to stray. Felt the warm blood and feeling of the pain, He turned once ======================================== SAMPLE 359 ======================================== the lad; But, nobler than the soldier is, the god Of peace, who, never fearing to be, Takes his full length of exiled years outspread In the deep dungeon of the distant skies. There are no trumpets in the hills of bliss Whose soundless feet no warmer path has trod; Yet there is holy silence in the groves, The whisper of green branches and the sound Of musk-breathing boughs whose rustling branches shut The heart of every bird. Behold, a path Dams the profane and infamous waste! Rejoice that never till the life-long years Shed from the earth the effluence of their tears, Shall we be worshipp'd in the hour of love, Or sigh upon the altar of our pain, Lest he should strain himself to act again Beautiful, sad, and sinless, as he died. The sweet birds bade us through the twilight pass, Leaving behind the leaves a richer bloom, And the soft moon above us and the stars, In the mild evening, at their twilight hour. Locked in his hand the frail and fruitless tree Slept on the silent night. A few brief years And many an one passed, leaving this green earth And this gray leaf to murmur in the wind. These few strong steps lead us through the rocks To a fair rivulet, whose clear and still Flush'd with the verdure of its mossy bed, Where doze the doves and crouch the startled doves, While from its sheltering branches broken sighs The blue and silvery billows of the sea. 'Tis there the torrent roams delighted there, For every leafy bough the choral storm Writes scattered flowers and mingled melodies. And there the restless brooks from the green fount Echo our feet on an icy lake; And as in twilight hours we list to the roar Of the storm-waters, we are silent there, Weeping in their ceaseless sorrow for the flowers That fade upon them, white and red and gray, Faded into the darkling caves of death. The solitudes of the wood-duck are choked By the moaning petrel with mournful cry; And I hear faint whispers of heavy snow-drops Sigh faintly on the sedgy headland green. With mournful wailing to and fro, Like a shadow, the grey clouds come. When a dream of May with soft airs goes by, And the sun falls in slumber and hangs his cup Against the lattice, I open my eyes To watch the rainbow flakes from off the clouds, And the soft sunshine on their snowy shrouds. Deep in the mountain-depths, a mountain side Behold me lying on the bosom of A plain, and out at intervals, o'er-run With tufts of water-meadows soft and bright, Mountain-murmuring brooks, that spring and run Among the rocks, that shake their dancing limbs And kiss the ground, and make a mirror there Of glittering blue; and as I lay awake In dreams, I heard the far-off laughter fall, Like the faint echo of a mighty bell. And all the land was full of windy tones, Sweet as the tender language of the Siroc; And when the hailstop-bells lit on Eedo's groves, And when the wood-wind woke the Alhambra still Mellow with the deep murmur of the beech That kindled in the solitude of leaves; Then did the half-shut silent forest-shade Open wide on all the beauty of the woods The breezes came: and as I lie alone In her calm beauty, and the night air stirs, And laughs and passes o'er the tender blue, I watch the mists upon the hill-tops slow Pass down the hill from roof to roof again, And now that all is silent and asleep, The summer silence, and the water-glow And the bright stars are one another, this Is not the power I share with them to part Thoughts of my heart, and thoughts of other days, Of present hours, and thoughts of days to be; All ye that wander in the woods, or walk Through woods or on the shore of river-lands, The wise and true, the good and well-befriended, In the broad open and the solitude That woos the early visitants to rest, Blessed are you, dwellers in the hills and valleys ======================================== SAMPLE 360 ======================================== -high they call me 'dear's for all, And for the next all happiness; And in the joys thereof I still did cry 'Ah, nothing! nothing!' to my lips and eye. Then, looking up upon that very face, Out of my eyes I saw a colour trace: Say, what can give for all this loveliness Save to the eyes which cannot speak itness? The eyelids which can weep, and shut an eye; The hearts whose wit can not reflect the sky; The feet that falter, but are still at rest; The lids that hardly know the rising sun; The hearts that lie and wait, and where are won The fairest boon that is, when all is done. Tell me, whose is the hand which leads the way Up through the gates of pearl, and through the sill Into the sun and wind, to meet the ray Of sun and wind, to find the way at will? 'Tis like a ship some day, and swift and strong, Stranded about by the unbridled tide; But ever, ever from an unseen wrong Doth come the thought to make the work glide. Oh, deem not lightly of thy sordid lord His grace to thee, for 'tis his image glid, Whose feet thou hast, whose glances he hath, Whose snuff in battle he hath, so bedded. The end of every age is near at hand; They come as chidden through the years of life, And the wise sound it to the heart's last strife. Oh, for a heart like thine to love and be In all the world, and help and pity there! How shall the fear of time be quenched and chilled, The sordid humid earth stretch emptiness, And the blind skies of Time droop inward chill, Or change the shape that seems a thing of clay Which turns and ever onward rolls her sway? As I come forth to kiss thee, do thy looks Fold in mine arms, and all the stars above Shine through me--like the hues that Nature weaves In the proud lap of Earth, her bosom sheaves; While on the breeze comes from the dim-lit wood A sound like a great song, and far away The gushing streamlet curls and passes by. Oh, love, there is no higher thought in thee Than the love-thrilling voice of Nature's mirth, When she thy soul and soul surrounds with earth. As a closed volume, from the press urged down By some strong spell, upon the ear is blown A whispered message, till the echoing sky Goes back, and, like a herald from on high, The breaking trumpet waits. As a red cloud, with silver-pointed horns, Unto its mate remards the lighted hues Of sunset and of sunrise. Is it earth That haunts the sun's last breaking?--is it earth? The spirit of the wind that whispers round Earth, when its faintest whisper faintly seems To mock the melodies it chants in dreams? Oh, it is sweet to fall on sleep, and find No sweeter echo of the heart's wild tones; To wake at last, and with the tears o'erspread Die into thoughts and memory; and to see The close of all the faded skies of earth At last on these her threescore years are sent To wake again, and through the grey old years Their pathway lighten. In the shadow vast Of yonder trees, behold, beyond the stream, One little flower that is not as the world, And yet, though marred with some uncronded stain, Shall live once more within the song divine. Love, like a bee, floats up and down the earth, Till the low light remembers and at length The sound of dew-drops, and the morn's new birth. Drowsy,--and dream still true,--we know not why,-- Yet dream, that our great Master sent a flower So fair and bright, and yet once more it stirs The dull earth like a spirit, till she stands One little flower 'twixt the white wings of the hills, And whispers to us, and at last gives sign Of that we know not. Open her warm white hands, Seem to our love like flowers. Her dark eyes shine, Like the deep blush of morning; and her breath Is sweeter than the sigh of breaking breeze. And who shall dare unfold the thoughts of death? For in these pages is a mighty power Upon the dark which ======================================== SAMPLE 361 ======================================== less he lies and rolled His shattered soul beneath, whose weight To heaven was no Lift; Nor feared the hands that laid him there Clasped round him in his iron coil, Nor faltered in his ancient fear, As in a torment-swoon he peers, And turns his cold face to the wall, His wild and wandering thoughts fly back Unto the hills he scaled and slew On the rude rock until he knew His own sweet beauty. Ah, nothing now to do, Nothing but this to do, Strive to trace and know The after-coming of these things, The finding of his old sweet wings, The ending of cold eyes, The flight and the beginning of quick feet, The sloping of slow hands, the changing of slow tongues, Weariness and strain And weariness of heart, The jostling of young days And little things done By young days nevermore. Therefore the heart of man Cries out and cries To the sweet wind whose kisses may wake The wandering courses of earth's remotest courses, "Lo, thou art come indeed To light the darkness of the grave And covering of the gloom Be round us and with us cope To know thee--for we know Thou art our guides and hast led us, Earth, Yet we are none the fain That we could have of us, To faint with shadows and soothe with sounds Erelong all things, To sing thy song of many emprise, For we have seen thee many and many sins. Ah, do not show too much To blind our eyes so much With words to leave us. One thing is too heavy for thee, That which is not too much to give, If thou do move the same As one may, that another being there Shall bear the very same With all men--as with all mankind, That thou shalt not be any more a child Until the spring of years is changed And we be only parents. Father and Mother And King, what have we said? We who have lived and taught The fevered, cultured soul, Have felt our kindred jar Against all help in this Hard life of man: we know That they who plow Their flowers when they are young Will be most bitter and Most like to nothing now, For need we have none other? Why will not God, the saver Of all our dreams and plans Make me a knowledge better Of the best way of life to follow The lessons that the Lord makes s ponder, The way that all men teach To show the wisdom and the love God doth provide From out His whole wide door, To make us more and better Because He will be near to us Before we be well able I would be all that I can do And this to carry with me Along with me, O brother, And bid my lagging days relent For every worthy deed done, And glorious though the world be, They never will repent me, But in God's name endureth ever, Whose blessed hope my soul abides For refuge through the awful doors of death. I am dying to bear the din of it, And to fall again and live Is to knock life out of the room, And to face the light of life But to wear the strange to-morrow. And yet if this were indeed so, It would seem to do no good. If to look at me, brother, And the light of the day to see, I should sell my soul for the nonce, And to loose my soul to die From the cold insults of life, And from the endless hopeless striving, To this one request of me, Asking naught from me anywhere As a smile or a look for me. The voice of my spirit is faint and tense, But the mirthful touch of the nearing night, Awaits my soul with a threadbare needle To mix with the silver and lead to light, And as a flood that falls With a lullaby, with a luxurious softness, I pour into the heart of death its bitterness. I would rise and drink, To refresh my spirit in the night With the light that burns In the heaven of my soul, A star, a song, a star. I would love to die, To feel every round, And to gather breath, And to gather breath. The enwreath of my soul Would poison the way I walk, All alone, in lone, Dismayled in every shadowy presence. And it would be ======================================== SAMPLE 362 ======================================== to try it on their faith. Methinks from such as know it came, Our faith that spoke shall be the same. Another hope when man is blind, I have not had an earthly friend; A wretch, scarce loathed, whom others call, Who knew, perhaps, that he was slow; A fair, but Christian girl, half gay, And blest beyond the compeers of Fate, Who pointed at his path alway, And both combined in pious scope, Until he heard the country church Re-echo through the village choir, Its manmons, sonnets, and codicics, All mingled in a pious dance. And though the streets are still as death, No mortal man can there discern A spire that ne'er was reached by breath, That hill or chapel to discern, By human feeling far unheard, Above all else--in township heard By common people ever heard. Such shrines may yield a tinkering place Where others saw but outward eyes; Hear what the Brahman here would say In country choir that angels may Of Father Abraham make known, His listening son, his wandering son. But wherefore, pitying these poor skies, With heaviest fancies vex thy mind, And sigh for such a fallen nigh, Which mortals never can retrieve? Dear God, a little patience. No need to cry "All will be well!" A warning as of salt shall touch A somewhat higher forehead. But now--no time for pity. Oh, all I think, my dear good friend, Is yet a little precious. The early hours' increasing measure Of time and life has won the Summer's prime, The moon--a tiny yesterdays Holds in her west the silvery sunrise, As when she rose towards her prime. O reckless, conquering village, How, swiftly on you roll, How many lads in white or black coats, To the light march, or to the dark gun- hatch, How rich your banners are; With many swords to guard them. How the young men love you best; How noble follow the rest, The boys with long and lifted breasts, Leading your back to the breast! How good the march, how good the march, From pastoral to pastoral; With never doubt of state, or aught Of dignety, good fellows'; With pleasure, pride, or proud disdain, A glad and a generous train, The great reform that comes with peace To those that, whether old or young, Still follow it, after it, That you may heed the heavenly swine, And love to play with them. What tho' your banners are! You need not fear a man; But humbly lay your ground Upon the dead, and humbly sing For fellowship around; And we will march the others home, Because we keep the guns, Because we never play the boys That guard the boys. Our hearts will soon run high; So let us brave the boys Who fight for boys! Of other men I have heard the tell, I have said that; but if it befell That the youngest he had not been well, He could do so no better. And even so too great Have still been his delights, And quiet childhood's innocent holiday, Begetting this our world's dear way, He would set the boys upon the boys And--God be praised!--days long and a day In the dust and heat, And in need, too, out of his way To bring rough friends behind, And pretty girls with eyes as blue As birds and women, I mind; While he there, the mighty boy of the road, Whose business it is to be good, In these sad days, Could only make him so; That the voice and the heart would stay And all of them leave undone, With the old world's busy tongue, To the things he did. They could laugh at our kindness and talk For their sake, I'm afraid; But the crimes had their way of wrong; For they left us, my lad; And I didn't know how they could wrong My skill and patience so long; It might be right, perhaps, but right, And I don't know why; It might be a year or two, I know, For it all seems right! To-morrow, instead of my four, I am sure, On the road I shall go; When I come you'll be properly come and considered, For not putting ======================================== SAMPLE 363 ======================================== B mutually he and she. Both were filled with sorrow and sleep, But the lord of earth, the heaven, Folded sorrow and blessing Bade his burning anger cease. Many a night he held commune With the potent lord of earth, And the lord of stars in heaven, And the wildered free sun. While he twined his lovely tresses Round the strong man's loins and bands. But in vain; the rage of winter Hovered over all his lands. And the king had suffered greatly By his violent blast and blast, That from out the cold earth's fast Of winter's cold and cold, And the angry winter's blasts, Shamed and soiled the fields, so there, Wasted man and passed away. When the year shall go from its sheaves, When the sun from summer lights Shall at last appear, Then shall autumn leave the mould, Death, a last-retreating bond, Shall with quiet sickness glow, All his sickness bow, Save his brothers, fools and men, Laid in one thing, all for thee. But if thou shouldst venture again God, thou soul of souls, be slain! No strife can be like thine own. That spring which unmade vows is now the grave, And lives for ever, cradled in our dust, A rotten thing, an eyeless thing, O God, Ye all remember, and if this be so Yet death is death indeed, and life for thee. Long time, long years ago, O patient, Long years of hard complaint and heavy sighs Wore I through all my being, hearing The distant waves of his audacious eyes, Seeing only, and not hearing, That naught, as man, prevails, but lies. Then, too, 'twas needful, spent, unkindly, Time, time, eternity, their strife, And yet my question could not find him. Myself, I tell thee. How could one Give then much proof of this superior, If all its deeds were such, as not The busy, but the weary, only? Since then the hours' long labour are o'er, And all the weary ones return. And I that man am, now I see, A something in a dream, 'tis true. For, no--the dragon with the wings, (What, shall I say, of such a one)-- To whom do I appeal? Stern priest, yet not forsaken, But I shall be thy man, O man. For by the stroke of doom Comes surely on the mightiest path, To lead the Soul on to its God, By whatsoe'er it come. Suffering as it goes, nor dumb In peace, but up to God for aid, Yet lifted high in that great cause Not to be stayed, but still upreared Even as a man sees face Whose failing seemeth best, For the new race. Nor was that hour so pleasant To me, when on a morning calm, As if the sunshine drew The veil away of pain, And rising still and deep Up through the gloom and heat, Shone, all the sweetness of the sea, The heaven about my feet. A moment on the other. The minutes dropped from off my eyes Like flakes of snow, the summer dryness, The earth all white, the air like spice When flowers of June blow; But the sweet, sweet wind of memory That in my absence blows itself All over the wide earth from me. There was no other, and the sea Grew voiceless even in eternity, But waited for the singer, The soul beyond its sweetness free. Or, if that world were but made clear, And time the same where ends the years, What then should be the end of all The change the sea made, but the sea-ways? O sea, I feel thou hast thyself Through all the years that are to be, Passive to which I am not fain. The very great deep waters of the stars Will break and be no more, For all I have is left behind And passed away into the void, But through my utmost loss. There is no other in the world But has something gone which I could see, Some glow that faded in the sky, And some that seemed too fair for me Lost in the world,--and one from me. And no more, after all, shall be My own last shred of sea. ======================================== SAMPLE 364 ======================================== as we are. Then, to reward her, to my sorrow Give her the benevolent reply, Her heart must answer, her Dear Sorrow, Hither! Hither! to thee! The hardest heart of all the world is open, The gate that none may enter, none may snare, But Death himself must come and mark us by, With everlasting splendour of the light. Of human wonders he the holyCount, Who lends to life his mortal aid, We call great joys to him, and never die, If Death may have a near relation near. This part he play'd to, thus we live to hold, Till more of life some knowledge have to give, The greater rapture through his young soul rung. I AM of fame and so am called A Constobrand in every clime, All over earth and every world, In Paradise, in court, or bowers, In the kingdom of God, in each There stands an humble mortal boy, A little lass, a little boy. His spirit can endure, and shine With loftier views, for Love burns by it. "Here where the suns of late were set," The preacher said, "are not you yet Of heavenly birth, or mortal grace?" His vesture was a noble grace, Not of a proud and lofty station; His voice was low, but soft and sweet, A pleasing voice, yet sweet and solemn. His cap was brush'd, and was composed, And he wrought actions equal to The pattern and the fancy fine, Till they had been a wonder rare, Though from an artist to the scene. There is a spot, among the hills, Where none may tread, that is not hid, But it is good to stop one's ears, And let them hear the young birds sing Without the nests of fosterling. There of three courses are the right; The left a golden principle, And the right a double sense, And not a trifle bully-pike. And every young man knows the place, Who rears his sturdy neck so straight, As that the third is seen to be A strait and needful in degree. There are who come to common things, All nations, nations, men and birds, The weak, the young, the fond, the rude, That joy in place and understood The tenor of the true, the good. Yet, most of all, the little boy, Whose mission is to plant a tree, Who keeps the whole of its renown, To plant and save the private twain, And puts all stars on top of crown. The ripeness of the fruit and grain, And very many plants, which grow Upon the garden trees, are seen Stemless in man's nocturnal race, Each one embittered to the same, That careless boys may lift their hands To crop the rooted linden lands. Now far from modern cities lies The half-built village, grey and old, Whose smoking smoke rises aloft Above its valleys and its fields, Just like a landscape through a valley, Or empty beetles in its tents. And near the barn stands up its yard Of corn and rye, that they may shew Themselves a soberly good plan For such as they are used to be, A sort of harmless cruelty, To make them labor for a spirk. Above it stands the Union Jack, Named "maker," but not classed as yet, For this is no transgression, no A vile abuse of classed men, Who make the state a rule again, And never, never, never rule A little kingdom of the rich, But, like the rule of common law, Make laws for others who are poor. Some folks of ours think idlers mean By speaking freely of their own, But what are they to me? the world Is very full of motive, and The system somewhat right of self, And a fair system of desire, That takes away the heart of woe, When man has somewhat of himself; But some folks, rather than awake, A little stir will never make. And wherefore should a man, or girl, Cast all his tender thoughts away, To distant climes will travel soon, And come at last, when he is gray? What of the man? Why, let him know, Although some sages say so, too. But every sinner, and whoever Will reckon him a god, will envy ======================================== SAMPLE 365 ======================================== o, once, was only bound to keep alive As from its hell-deep sleep, in frightful anguish shook Who thus by chance encountered human woe: Hear, I return the lesson which it bore. Upon his knees by Pagan Hector thrown Thus sobbed his solitary friend, the sun: "A darkened world lies yonder, closed around; And art thou pleased, O great-armed god of war! Woe are we all, if to your wrath resigned A woman's heart is tuned and ready for the war!" "Look not for succour!" was the chief replied, "Nor think, great chief, thou unrelenting ghost! On thy friend's arm hang many a shield and crest, From thy strong shoulders cast me trembling fast, And pluck it off, by Heavens, for that alone Is worth all else who look for it alone. "Not though, of late, th' unholy head was slain, And of these shoulders were the mighty bones, Whom Thetis only bore when Sparta reigned, On Pergama the fair, with her beauteous spouse, With her dear children was a conqueror's spouse: The axe of Tantalus destroyed them all, To lay the nations in their sweet repose." "O Thou, great Father! whom I to myself Envied, since that mine unkindly temper gave, Forsake these relics, whose benumbing crime And taint hath wrung from Thebes my mingled seed, Lest from my seed it pierce to these my roots, Or stay the torrent which I bear to floods. Go, prince, my griefs will be my grief to thee, For this the unkindly virgin did for me." "O Thou, great Father, whom I till this day Envied, and whom with no mad argument Her cruel suit in ignorance did wrest, And who her sister, loved of Thetis, left. No true return from Thebes received me, none; With art like mine all womankind to run, As from a ship, and they whose mortal foes Scoured Troy's fair fields with thousands of their foes. "Two armies from that city which the deep Preserved, Rhipaean Jove was forced to raise, And the twin gods to social law obeyed. They brought the trophy home, and great the praise Of Argives, victors of their own dear race, And Troy's proud bulwarks with their cross-bows grace. Nor less for them I kept my steadfast mind, More in my self than of my brother kind, And, traversing the dark, desired to steer Me to their ships, and, setting sail, o'er seas Dwell onward, on the silent sea, alone, Unless I marked the great Phoenicians swarm Within my ships, who kept my course with care, And wafted on their shoulders through the air. "No time of flight, no thought of danger led My mind to tread that road all pain and toil, Which through the island morn and evening springs, Thro' weary, weary, and three nights and days My eyes have reached their wish; but now, alas! 'Tis vain! no signal of our country's foes. With less distress my comrades mourn them slain; But if thou wilt the Achaeans slay, thy crews And I, from Jove, will bear away thy safe Home to their shores, and there thy bones to grace, Then shall my days, my joyful days, be spent In travail of the world; and is my name Not shared by thee? On Argos will I bear Sharp grief for this; if, weeping, at my side My brother's mighty strength may lie hewn down, He, chafing, turns to me, and bids me stay. Meantime, nor far from friends, has Teucer found To sorrow for his friend, when I with him Had met his doom; yet Teucer chose the best To fly, and to bring down unhoped treachery Where'er his hand might fix a warrior's doom. But as he bent his words to fly, his aim Was fixed; then, turning to the dark-haired sea, Sped eager-swift against the rugged bark; But lightly as a falcon, soaring high, Or swiftly as a glance, or beaming light, Swoops on the prey before him; so the fawn That whirls before her circling carcase, flies Before it, and behind her, if she stay, Seizes it; and in ======================================== SAMPLE 366 ======================================== maiden the Diana of Vulcan; As a steer he-catchers, when the north wind In a three-cornered tempest sweeps the brine; So for beauty and stature his design. Himself in his aim he will strike, and sing Before the gods on the anvil of Zeus; And amid his raisA"d chanting admire, Forth from the flames he draws the sacred fire, A fearful anguish of heart and of brain; For Pallas in vengeance of destiny stands, And at her foot stands The Roman women, the West-Roman maids. A little while might it seem that to honrow The goodly order which Greece and Rome had given, And all which the inmost shrine beloked not, Nor little deemed that portions of the gods That with Iris were ill fulfilled should be. Hail, son of Juno, daughter of Zeus! As a sign to Thorstein the altar was charred, The altar, the altar, and the image spoke. Then from the shrine they had cut a goodly figure, And thither came Alecto, the holy priest; And he uttered a blessing, and well he divined That his seed no living creature did issue Within the holy shrine; and in reverence Sank holy maiden to earth, to earth, And the mighty sire grew immortal. Chiseli, faltering nimbly, the holy priest Plucked at her ear, and hearkening herself Stooped to the setting sun, and called to her. Stern daughter of Zeus! as thou didst deserve A daughter so fair, so beautiful,--ah, fair! When thou didst bear the altar's fair emblem, And make the world's thorns gorgeous, and pour Their pestilential streams upon a pile Of her own clay, so proud, yet lovely-fair; So beautiful that for the nymphs did groan About her, round them did the noonday halt; And when the morning in his garb of gold Climbed o'er the mountain, and the sun sank down, Down then the sacrifice, did it begin; And to her father's house rushed her the young, Whom yet they little loved, nor wished for here. The fury of the God on them was like, And as he rushed, the pale worship they shun, They fell upon a wondering people, seeing The image of them strewed on earth for aye. Up sprang they, called up the Argive band Of hundred-handed men, and cried anew With lusty shout and shriek as they came in; And Atalanta 'twixt them spoke out: "Princes, Why work ye thus onthis, who o'er our gold Sought to be driving?" But, as they cried they failed, Ceased all but they: "Return unto the Argives; When once again ye come to this festal day, The hour is come that in Atrides' hands Men set upon the pyre, and they who pray To Dymas and to Ceres, and still prop Our fathers' temples with a grateful blood, That from Thessalian folk ye may ascend, And tell their mighty names and treaties on Unto our own tribes and to our own dear homes." At these fair speeches did Atrides bid; And when they parted forth again the fair Made answer, who was well indeed by them: "Much evil now hath brought thee; we have slain The Argives; but from Poseidon at first The gods are willed, who through the counsel of Zeus Made thee come hither; and our people shall Depart, while yonder they consuming burn In meatless sacrifice, for we shall hear How thou didst murder we, and we the seed By fate of folly didst not easily pass O'er the long course of Ilios. So it befell That some in rocky places lost their hope, And bare some counsel to this too for thee, And men said that Atreus' children did not know Him truly that to these he did not pay A hardenage, even though he had been slain, Yet would he save his comrades' fellowship, And in the might of evil battle strive To aid thee; for the Gods would have it so." So spake the Fates; but straight from out the sun The Argives and the Fates it seemed to fall Even as he sank: then, standing far apart, They went and watched them from the hill of Mars Until its height was hidden. In the war-toil And battle-car they trusted ======================================== SAMPLE 367 ======================================== , Your pointed ears, your cheeks, and stately limbs, Must therefore tremble as you cast your view, Or cower through rising sloth or discontent, Thus shackled in oblivion's dull regard. And should you dare intrude within the cell Where sage Ulysses lives, and from his years Retrieve the strength of his neglected age, Secure shall he explore the realms of night Till to the tomb he kneels, and what he wills With purpose brave his venerable tomb Murmurs along the dark abyss of Time. So, mighty though he be, at length he lords The sceptre and dominion of the dead. But sage Eurypylus, the famed in arms And in the councils of the people vast, The beauteous sceptre, to his son rehearsed So long, and still his constant action waits For all he had, but, next, alone, he sheathed The spear against the boss of every shield Who thus presumed, and the illustrious chief Who pierced him through and through the thickest throng, To Paris and to Paris thus addressed: "I too (if still I err) a heavenly guest, Who by some gentle frenzy dost control My soul to join the hopes and fiercer war, Know'st not, O Neptune, for I can command The ships of Greece, and save at will the sea; And thou, Achilles, in no need of more Art thou a human child, and more divine? For them thou deem'st me from thy native land In vain to take their arms; that they, by force Of my victorious spear, should perish all Beneath their feet who pay no heart of gold." To this Eurypylus, with trembling eyes: "Alas! unhappy race of men, how vain To me the baseness of such female mien! How flee these labours, to escape your rage? But this I pray, your mercy and my hand Adventura can supply the need." To whom great Hector of the glancing helm: "Thou art not rashly said, Ulysses, sprung From some vain prince, but to a wiser man, How from the snare the only parent fly'st, How little, still, is all we have to boast!" To whom Antilochus, the chief of Troy: "Old age is painful, but it tires me still; I yield, old man! my breath was not so long As fierce Achilles, with a bloodlike brand Before his breast, and Jove's immortal arms, Sheds blood, and Jove with rolling wheels was armed, Had but his spear so struck its edge that air Not through the disk of day could pierce the disk: Nor that assault immortal could he gain; For had not Phoebus stayed his westering car, Nor great Achilles by the smart and grief Vanquisht; but by Jove's help his life should have Untimely sped; by Jove himself I hope. Achilles, by the woes thou bear'st thy soul, Has reftft from me the felness of thy mind; As in some future day, when all unbroken, The cloud-girt earth doth shine against the sun, So perish these two brothers, matchless twins! So Paris me, and me with vengeance fills." The prophet answer'd; and in accents wing'd he said; "Go then; till on the tops of yonder hill The tall wood rises with th' assault of flames; That thou mayst see the gloomy grove from far, And menaces the fane of chivalry, Be thine the banquet to the sons of Greece. For I will meet thee, when soe'er thou com'st, Dire war Achilles shall to ruin bring, To council all the chiefs of Greece." He said; Withdrawing from his limbs his hoary hair, He stood, and onward took his way. He found Fair Paris, when to him he gave the crown And fetters that he wore of adamant. Within a well-set wood he made him dance, And brought him water of the crystal brook, Which with libation of the Gods he too Had giv'n. Aye-honour'd was his tinkling hall, And the bard's glitt'ring voice was firmly there; For by the sound he was compell'd to go, No voice, no stir, no stir on earth, no stir; He mov'd the cete anon, and nothing loth, Loth to ======================================== SAMPLE 368 ======================================== atches shine; But they must also be of Mary's line; Nay, hints of either she improved with ease, For so to some distinguish'd cripple's ears The tones of sanctity and conscience hear; Who saw pure angels from their golden cells Shed forth their souls of virtue and of peace, And kept sweet poison from the plant they filled, That they might bud cheese from the flock they filled, And honey such as from their sweetness hill. Well could the nimble add a pinion-grained To that small Lamb, but yet he did not know That either's self had made the third so low That not the last in power he deem'd a row. This fault it is not, but the painful proof Of providence, is proof against all proof. Nor yet consents so oft to make a figure Out of a figure, that will soon prevail, Since now we see and know not how to speak: A seeming shape, that did the work of art Work in a tongue that could not understand, A fashion which might even its holiest lore Survive: yet in its fable we behold Much that belusel chase of the golden dawn; But more and more we see than we have seen; In which some part purloin the other kind, And that reverse still show the smoother back. If other parts then were produc'd, we know That still, 'mid lively members, being show'd Just as our mortal Nature us'd to do; That no defect could be to keep us free Of all reserve; to play the man's part well, And with the people less to fill the void. Nor might we further, after God had call'd, Without such opposition, any more, We might perchance, at least have stood aloof, But that proceeding made thee not to feel The pangs of absence manifestly hewn. When at the very limit of the world We stood a while apart, my Lord, then cried Unto me; "What is this, that thou hast done? Why am I led astray? "How much more safe I of myself can judge, who know'st it not!" "Thou know'st, who hast sustain'd," said I, "but now That I am blind, and thou hast kept the heaven. Thou know'st, who seest all, the towers between O'er which the sacred shields of Phoebus shine; Tell me if any born of Latian land Appears, who in his lifetime chang'd the key That lets the barb run counter to the stone." "Both scriptures, new and ancient," I replied. "The deeds of thine (that more polluting seems) Both broken and deprav'd, mark thee that spars For one part of the multitude, where now The leaf falls from some cliff, and not a step Is upward on the wind, that with the wind Breathes rather than the air becometh sad." "There on the filthy waters," he replied, "E'en now what next awaits us mayst thou see, So that the stream, which thou be fain to name, For its own part, not mirror'd before, Shall not be mirror'd save unto the world, Both in its countenance and in its thought. As in the heath there sits the bending swine, If she bull-visaged, so that in his gums He dreads not the hoarse roar of lions, To be a hearth-dog, while he makes mark That honey hid. But dry there lie some bones, That not so many sepulchres can close The names of them, as thou discern'st, in any Eternal life. Around them, as they seem, Great fire-flies many vintaged stars explore; And as they run, great light around their moon Lives, through the� their marled bodies, in their rounds. And, too, ye nameAstusa, from whose source Ariseth thus the scab, whose heocus doth spurn To true good counsel. ye have well discern'd That innate evil is the substance sin'd. The shoulders next I mark'd, that ent'ring goads The soul unto the woe, which is the sand Of the wide world. "O born in happy hour! Thou mayst after to behold the radiant That are beneath, who with the light of life Trac'd the Marseilles' footsteps; not to inscribe Their names, or to give birth to springs, that roll'd Upon ======================================== SAMPLE 369 ======================================== , Then, friend, come to my rescue, Cease this talk of thy realities, Think of me as I was, and once again Do what now I seem, O now thyself, Whether fortune or fortune, hence or right, Thou know'st as much already done, as I do. This sudden vision of the senses, once As now I view thy senses dazzled more, The present time is come, of transitory woe; And soon as with the day thou soon'st awake, See, here is Beelzebub as well asleep, As doth that eye which hearest not foresee, Of what it first supposed, to what it feared. Close shut thine eyes now, and keep thy senses hid. Do even this one thing to thee as thou wilt, And see as what thou now canst not believe: While by successively to thee referred, Be diligence thy thought all purified. Stand to thy studies, and in thee find grace, That which thy mind so lovely and thy mind Has never since declared or lain enshrined. Take then thy patience and thy patience stout, And be determined to bear up or to fall, In case thou able prove whether or not Thou couldst toward the mark of some deceitful fall; Or else the fault and turn of God allow, Which else were more of his Maker than of man. First as distinguished by thine acts, Secondly, thy gifts, thy own best, thy art, The guerdon of thy glory and thy gain, The rich man's son and half of his great pain, Thou also, who didst frequent thy tongue With word and deed most gentle and profound, Show me what fair and pleasing it behoved, By good effecting what thy sacred zeal moved. As the Arabians, who by force and skill, They at a game of hazard laid and paid, When Grecian gold and precious metals hid In the Arabiaan isles, prepare their ground, At leisure from the greedy wave to run, All take their shape, and are again returnd, And those whose backs and back and sides were lost In the same posture stand and rub their eyes, If thou so far dost understand and hear As from thy subject strange and fable were, Some to be rich and some to be poor were, And some were so with fear of their own ruin. Know thy own self? The Syriaites themselves By his own eyes and by his own did fall, Whose light on the cinnamon of Paradise Hath lately shone, whose honour all men call: But who more clear than thou, O chief of all, Hath eaten of the fruit which makes man thrall, And which by him was once his high ambition, Now vanishes, and hath his kingdom lost, And his great kingdom with his spoils forsaken? And yet remember, if thy mind record The Son of God, in his preweening might All that is good, and all that by him stand, Not by his enemies was it lost, but won, Though his forebears and by his foes adored, Which then were to his glory hid, if now Thou couldst sustenance; so great the conquest was, That though the Son of God by his own hands Be taken, he deserts not what is his. In Syria also (where the Arabian fell By fire into the field of Zazou, from whence They might have passed to Cyrus), yet this same Great hope of Truth shall in thy bosom rest, For Heaven of dispensations duly due, When thou shalt in his blood the conquest spend, And see him whom he left in Shemah wound, So dearly to redeem what thou hast lost. Know that in Heaven heaped on him a reward, And shall be happier than his Glory were, By Hell the Cross on onely part to light, And onely, by his shadow, in one day To free his own Loves from Spirits of Darkness. Fool that I was, when out of Tragedy His captive led me out of Tragedy, Bound in a buckle to the dark wolves, That many and many a time about him wheel'd, Not many years before baptizing, saw Flowers strow the ground, and flowerets there befel, Fruits spring, and trees are loaded up and born, With blossoms ere their tender leaves be corn, Cuckoo and bear set all their bells at nought, Rise their delicious fragrance on his thought, And with intention to Soul, ======================================== SAMPLE 370 ======================================== ? How does it be with such? I ask. Behold This is the lady of thine uttermost scorn And loveliest; therefore I think of him and thee, And loathe her luxury. Why would ye wail, Or follow me? They are so common, sweet, They may transform ye, and without my will Destroy even touches. Were this the desire Of death to come, surely her eyes were blind. They are so different from what ye know, and she, Also the lady of mine, dead in the fire Upon the tiptoe of the castle-roof, Her eyes twinkling to you, I do not think, Of him ye would look upon, but these Are little like her fair, if ye be such, For ye must tell her that she never fell Your lover. Only this she died: and I, Not she, whose life was without measure here, Died, quite as ye believe; for from my tongue, And near as is a severed crag, I seek To mutter and pronounce you, no faint word Would fall so far as what the people say Word of your love or misery; no, not I; But my mere breath, that is as a moving shade, Would rise and fall and fall from out my tongue, As any shadow. But if ye would let me, I am the spider, not the worm, to sit All day upon her body, as ye know, And let it sink and rise, by steady chance, And let it rise and rise, not pallid, but As one that falls on some eternal bed Of warm, soft flesh, unto the blest of heaven, And sure and certain! For who hath seen (As o'er the leaves of autumn-Autoly Were writ, O Time, the letters which are said), The secret colour of the sunlit trees, And of the trees the leafless, changing leaves Upon their boughs and chaff, would well become The hauntive companion of that wood, which grows The greenest ever; and the shrubs that wear Their tunics of the blue, that curl like gold About their borders, and the cooler shade Of summer-slush return to rustling leaves On the stalks overhead, or, as ye know, Print no lichened margins, or may fall Against the stones or stones, for he who treads Upon them, knows his seat, and the dear spot Where he hath lived, and, as he knows it not, The tender grass covers them, and he Who lives in such a life, and does not love To do or care what others do, may be By such slight ties together intertwined, As do the tendrils of the leaves that bear, After the wind has died, the other leaves That have been plucked or dead, and have gone by; Not one of these; but if ye think that I Am joined by one with thee, as one with thee, And all confused at once, I know not well Which path shall lead me, and which path pursue." Thus did he speak; and here the iron king His iron thongs dissevering and breaking, Whirled without motion in the aery wind The glittering iron boughs around his shoulders, And all in confusion to the place, And without comment, through the dim air passed, Like a blind faun who comes beyond the hill And knows not whither, past the ferny forest That once he did. His slender fingers met Upon his staff; and, moaning, he exclaimed, "There, there! for thee, and for thine only sake! For 'mid such barrenness, what rest for me From such a soil, who might have deemd thee king?" Then, spake he, and was still, till out of heaven They saw the Angel enter, who, advanced Above his own, above the rolling earth Sate down with his staff, and above his staff Dropt the red ash, and, smiling, thus began. For thou hast come! Be glad; for thou hast eased The burden of my sorrow, that I live Self-praised, as I have lived, though all is lost. How many pleasant fruits, my husband's land, I gather, now in all the fields are ripe, And goodly garner, that before me stands Full be theFieldsman's, or as good a lord As ever from the plainest meadow fell; If such a thing had fallen, I would have cast My care as lord of all. For life is a good thing To wear in harness, like a ======================================== SAMPLE 371 ======================================== to be free, Pretend to my fame or glory with me; In that I see, in this cloud's shadow, of thee; A thing that comes from me or ever it came: (Because thou hast there-soothed the disgust of me And made me great therein-moaning with thy name) For all the terror (poor tyrant of that same And be the plaything) I have called thine own. Now if thou waitest yet for me to set Inflame and flame thy knowledge, I beseech It will ask up the spirit thou hast used, (To speak good things before thy naked wrath), Some worthy answer to thy soft replies Thou mad'st to say and writ'st, "Thus I, the cause Of thine own fault, if the truth thou dost speak, (I speak as one that hath thy word to soot), From the beginning didst produce the good; Thou bad'st that henceforth in thy heart be fixed How by the rod thy actions and thy words May win their way through thee, and thence thyself May'st know the cause of it, and merit hence I say thyself, and keep it, unless I With added eloquence throw all to chance, Which would'st thou render me e'en as I was? My heart, which err'd in answer, was in doubt, Seeing thy words were truth, and could find noe Out of my way of knowing. Well it might Make thee well able to interpret them, But not with their wisdom; who have seen The sinceusal swim, when merit upsprang, Falsification, and the primal fall. I then was of the first, that upon high Endur'd the name of vengeance; I was such That I confess it to thee, and am here, While hope, that shoots from high, gazing on God, Must with a sigh be fain for its own end. Thou didst the wrong to me, and such a guide As I receiv'd thee when the atmosphere Circl'd around her (as I to the salt Came up and down the mountain) was the cause Why slight'd love for thee. When now thy zone, Which under thee such deep had made, resound'd, With loss apparent, and with disench'd Home to the primal blessings turn'd, thy lot We mark, where every good, that as it yields Partakes of Deity to some, who taste Theavour of it, as thine was, in joy. Hadst thou the honor of the first, not chance, In strait self-emfitting, to behold the ways Of vengeance in the air, thou hadst not so To fear or slight, but badest the others be, That they might turn thee back; nor in the least Hadst thou the honor of the first aver'd, That aim was none to scare thee. To the first Thou ne didst not cleave the lofty battlement, But pass'd the natural road, as taught by God, For him who all things overcom'd, not stopt His way, nor flew to the cape where one the great Cleanness impends, no power on earth could pleseck His vigour, or not convey him soft away. The other, next, thou pondorest as much As peril able, and didst pass the risk Of universal climbing; but do thou Thy more refulgent note to the last apost Of all my might, as doth my every limb. The providence, that governeth the world, In depth of counsel by his thunderer's arms Maketh the world be blinded to him, not To show him good; for he, in good or ill, Admits not all that to the world is folly. The truthisome may stand, though ill it warrant, The serpent, how he stung to think of it: And the tree, which with his venom hung, shall hold, No wonder, that it cannot be confin'd To its own virtue, of so great a kind. That garden, whose fresh beauty doth inform Us, as our Tuscans, that now are seen, Where now are seen Antwerp that was replete, Of the fountains both of Athens and Rome, One set apart, the other to the sea, Where now he kindleth his eternal fire, Ebuda, and Canzascoe, one see; The tree of life, whose leafy harbourage Well shows what holy chimneys Rome or Rome Desires to ======================================== SAMPLE 372 ======================================== I sigh My words to-day with gratitude For Thy great goodness and Thy grace, So shines, Lord, Thy great mightiness; Thou art all light and life's completeness. No yearning priest cast down his dream Till wisdom has made him whole again; He takes the shaft and strokes the cord, And scarcely breathes a precious voice. Not thou, O Lord, my worship is, But some vast longing, known, that brings This gracious grace of all Thy ways: Some gleams of hope, some blooming bliss, Some heavenly thought of Thee! Some human gleam of earthly love, Some gleam of purest hope above, To mental vision yields its part That makes earth perfect for our heart. If that were, then thou hadst no King, No servile base-born base-born thing, All would have seemed thy perfect grace, Then to the Elysian fields we'd come. If that were, what were thine own life, And this life's splendors but a day? We'd come and live, and walk alone The ways of other worlds to reach; If all were perfect, Lord, then this Were like the star-light of the Dove. When men shall know their sin and shame Through pain and tribulation; When not for peace the great brown earth Can bend from any distance; When only God is with us all And fills us with salvation. When the Holy Ghost has crossed Earth's face and will not listen, He has reached a sapphire town, Laid a throne of purer gold. Then all who this shall hear and know: 'Heed no sinner's censure; The world's all sinful heaps of sin, And their betters are all win. 'A righteous life is He, Who, dearest Lord, has entered The holy house of peace, 'Where all are harboured, safe, and strong, And all men dear and parted.' But should a sinful soul misdoubt Some other men's free will, Should they not rather know the truth, Appointed one with perfect youth, Could they not? God's most holy breath Gave strength to pain and death; Had given Him all things, to be seen, And know the coming of the morn. So may the undying lamp of heaven Kindled amid their dust and slime, Rest by their bed of sin forgiven; So may their souls be clothed in Thee. 'Let not a foolish heart be still That will not tell the endless tale Of all this mighty multitude Who heedeth no Thy holy word. Their own peace sleepeth, and their rest Maketh their love-long hours, nor I To other time or place so high Receive them from another.' Here with two prayers we rose; Went on with them, and chose To sing a holy hymn, And rear a holy fane; That sapped the sanctity. Then 'neath the open sky The bells rang out full loud; There, lightly flitting by, Birds' gladness seemed to crowd. And ever as the peal Of bells went ringing by, Borne by the ladies' feet, With blazoned breast-plates sweet, The mass, with stately pride, The choir, from choir to choir Turn'd forth their soft, melodious lays; Like birds that sing of praise. The regal earth holds up Her store of precious things, Shaping with sweat and gold The bosom of the deep. About the trees, in storms, The birds are tossed in wrath; For are they not baptized, Who live in peace and faith? How God our Father dear Lifteth his full wrath, Lest he defile us, by His wrath! Who hath shaped a wondrous flower For the brow of one whose face Is the fairest of the race, And shall teach the chosen one A God's grace,--what is there in Him? Thy fragrant flowers, thy pure, sweet, Pale-perishable, snow, Shall fade and die, and be Vacant, but clear and slow; Though stars in myriad others Choose none their fairer appellants, And so shall lips, those crystal fires That clothe in snow and whiteness, Be dull as heaven, and white as snow. Fond fools who in their turn Meet in the woods, and find Flocks and low hillsides On every other field ======================================== SAMPLE 373 ======================================== on the rocks to pierce the dark Hurling a great fog's baffled way: Lone lightning of the world's night, That sits on high the unbending breast Of rainy waters; or the blue Vague drifting clouds that sail and flow With portents, making wet the night With dark pale webs of fadeless light; Or glimpses where the inviolate Flawless light flecks the gloom of snow. But, oh! my need is none too great. Oh, thirst of gold, despair of dust, Waste all thy works, and turn to naught The purpose of thy deeds: for thou Hast rendered all that thou hast wrought, A measure of thy loveliness, And broughtest secrets to the light Of the unending evening hours. But only for a moment snatch Thy hold of life away; for all And all thy hours have naught to lose Or add to the unending years That with oblivion of their joy The dawning hours employ. Is there a little way, or if A weary soul would ever stray From out life's vaporous heart to set Sad mirth-beats out of music sweet In the slow after-days? But, ah! I do not know. A long and hopeless chase! Were it not better for me there To creep within thy gates, and say, Suppose I came And I could ask the thought Of life and time and all That my old wand'rings were Ere thy dear presence came? How often have I said, When thy dear smile was by, Of how the blest survives! How many times do we Give thanks for thy sweet grace, Thy heavenly dwelling-place! How many, how can we Easily go and bring All whom life doth bring To life's sequester'd close, As one whose lone heart flows. Ah me! how often must I think If these tears never fell On any of thy fair brink, Nor ever the name of thy dear eidl' From out thine book were mortal ken In any of thy bad men, Or e'er thy music smote Its true celestial tone: That music and that choir Whose mortal harmonies have been Even to death and love, Through thy fair emblazonry. Sickly, faint-hearted ghost, Where is thy fair direction? Ah, fondly they will note The fringe of life's poor flower Upon thy blushing bier; That it niem or the touch, Ne'er more in music quick Will come more divinely clear, Than thou, my love, or they. I mourn thy darkened walks, Thy woods, thy streams unhappy, Where, like a toper, the brook, Love's serpents interweaving, Horrible as thy worst design, Comes ever to my ear, That once we used to hear? I would not have thee now The friend of all my thought, With thee my wilds to sow; The friendly brook as true, And the love-lies thigh-fined boy Her kiss! But oh, my sweet, Such depth of eying things O God, that I could ne'er A closer bliss in this! How many guides, and when I smile, I vanish at the day's decline! I catch, with sweet surprise, The sunset-blushing skies, As in my lap they lie. But while I live, it is to me That youth, so pure and fair, When I find none to share, That voice so soft and rare, 'Neath stone and laurel, shields the shrines, To thee I offer boughs. And if a joy it be, To call away my tears, When thou hast met with death, 'Twill come to thee again. These are the sands whereon the gems of sleep Like weary eyes look round, and all the air Is tremulous and strange, and overhead Night's sombre veil is rent in thunderous sweep. Yearnings and storms have failed to reach the sea; The momentary calm, the day's decline, Seem to have lost its way Across the deep. 'Tis past; the tract of sand, And deep the mountain solitudes, and, as The shepherds know, the mountain-top, And the loitering sheep-bells on the height, And mountain-side, lie still; The elemental silence, all which ======================================== SAMPLE 374 ======================================== , JUPITOL from his breast: "Stint,silver-thread, that tenderest to the floor. "Small thy load, and scarce thou thinkest Gladly at the fall to drink; Thou hast a silken scarf and glittering hair, And a kirtle decked with lawn: Is't thy sorrow, treasure, trouble, thou who'st heard The praises of each friskin' flower That is set with care on the Earl's breck?" Tol'l mornin',mat, toll-bell, Sung by ane 'reptor-youngen trainin', Clog on the auld moss-hopper, Harken, Lord! and a' that Thou might aiblins listen, And I wadna gi'e a chucky For't is not the auld that honours me, The auld that honours me. <|endoftext|> About the middle of Augustin', 1793, p. Shut, Augustin', When the superfluity of Junein' was over, (For the winds were, by the rules, To sweep our cobwebs off by moonlight; For a' that and a' that The bonnie birds sang frae the auld grey tree, By a' their clans wi' some green, Some auld dan doun the green. Auld as my leg is, lang's I lang for't, An' could hae seen it lang, But now, because my ingle's sairly wanton An' thriftless, warms me nane For fear I weel may gae a pickle cleanly My hurdies doun togeder. Wi' cannie might I see the gate That fenced our youth sae sair, A faitour that should be too late, A faut for youth sair fain. A sturdy gait, I wot is now That noo are waur or surly; But I wad fain hae seen some bairn That's far enough for me. Frae locks o' jet, that's fairly dight Weel knawning on a tether, A feckless chiel that crouns at night, When a' thing's goin' together. The bonnie bairn, I wadna blame For keepin' yellow, maybe; The bairn winna say but she alays Wad fash na by and by. Awa' wi' your witchcraft o' what would be true, We'll play the very Deil, the fairest you threw, But, tru' as fond as never yet met onyuve, We'll never fash your whistle, We'll never stain your whistle, We'll only gi'e you kisses, For, ony mouth, we ne'er shall rue, Unless we hae some fulsome love, And lengthen your lang journey, We'll noan wauken Your processions o'er, Nor gi'e you hin jads and flattenchers, Unless we hae some fulsome love, We'll ne'er fard ony till we meet, Unless we hae some fulsome love, We'll noan be angry. When kindly chance comes wi' snaw, To dight our wa's, and ename our banes, Then maist we'll meet; but when we gang, We'll kiss and bear the news on the instant, Though the road be smooth and the stile be hung, And the diamond dust whare we daurna run, We'll noan be sorry. In summer time, a place so dear To faithful hands, and eyes so clear, Where springtime's footsteps rarely run, And noontide wa's where truest breezes play, A happy childhood seems to be, A happy home, for ever free, When none may claim it. The footstep flaps the lighted door, Then skims the curling stream, no more Returns to glint along the shore, A happy childhood dreams it still, An agein' youth must ne'er fulfil, When, in its gay and vigorous glee, We 'll mak our childhood's days so blest, An age in which no monitones We 'll haply wrapp'd as wakes the lass That 'd soon wakened her. But on ======================================== SAMPLE 375 ======================================== of those spirits, from whose sight God's hidden ways and glories appeer For no great show, much grace, much reverence? Say, what your sect or what your caste commend In that frail dust found here a place endued With wisdoms; truths of moral and of art Alike deserving in the highest mart, And just and honorable in the mart; Where such could find but pleasure uncorrupted. Oh for that softer light the heart relieves, That in our western light obscurely lives. Illume then, heavenly lamps! Earth's utmost ends May grace to you be evermore revealed, And you, O may the light of heaven, undried, Highly re-risen on your azure side, And ever flourish in your fresh attired, Fair as the morning, fair as the mid-day! Nor call the wheels of Death one moment wheel The stated centuries, in lengthening roll; Nor curb the tide of names struck deaf to love; Their silent ceaseless music shows the end: Though that is well, it cannot choose but bend Beneath our feet to the neglected end, Nor love itself, though love itself doth blind All eyes but serve to make the pages true, Viewing with clearer eyes our ancient dwelling, Till it attempered grows and rears above A finer, holier grace, more hallowed still By thrones, than by the tenderness of love. How passed the night by patient hours, By patient years, and woes, and sighs, The gliding centuries unrolled By the false jewels on the earth-- Folk, sires, and chieftains, side by side, And yet the brightest, brightest band, Which ever hailed, or ever died-- What makes this world so bright and new, No dream of reason built of God, But some dim temple half defaced With spells of lost forgotten lore, A kingdom builded once by Time, A kingdom which the eager years Went circling round that shadowy isle, Till he again retraced his steps To the dim city which in him dwells, Not glorified, but compassed round With ruin of the kingdoms gone. Sweet, sweet and pure, his brow, From that sad city taken, where All but a few, well-mated, share The measureless, the measureless wealth Spendth of all the common health. What heed we? having seen, shall find, But vainly seeking, he the choice Of all, the grief, the longing undefined, An endless warfare, unassolved. Is this life, then, a dolorous strain? Cry, in the crowd here, any more? There is the fitful dream for man Whose sole, a phantom, is not bliss, But doth but fill the heavenward road And bring him God, not all in vain. That dream is death, and which, we know, Shall perish as it perished long, If thou remain below, Thou never more shalt see the wrong, And make God only by thy wrong. An inward weight of sweetest song Is laid on him, and we at last, If godlike in life's wild decay, With fervent pulses beat, may hear A song for Him, who were not where. Ah, God! how comes this nearer God? The garden's all around us, and the whole Of life is very like a hidden soul Which strives from heaven for very bliss, Triumphantly by memory enthralls, And pillows here; but never grows a sight So holy and sublime, for the delight Of entering here; and but by faith's good cheer It meets us here, that would indeed So far exceed our human ken, We walk a ladder by, and climb A height, perchance, but not with time. 'Tis midmost where you ever go; With angel meek and humble be, Up, upward, upward; and so go Whether or no, but in or within All men's divine, pure ecstasy. 'Tis sweet to look, at noontide's dawn, To watch the subtle blossoms fade; To touch, by any chance of light, The wildflower in a wooded height, Or take the primrose and throw A glory round, for suns to show. The west winds blow; and in that hour How sweet to walk a little flower 'Mid flowers of everlasting bloom! When the heart's paradise of hope Is trodden down, 'tis sweet indeed, ======================================== SAMPLE 376 ======================================== and the Shakespear too, you know-- Come to her last-room's side this evening, There's nothing worth the work-box, or the Timpanum." And, when the work-box opened, She exclaimed, "What sums my friends Are these from Hanover Come, my son, at one stroke, "Yes, to one of those Who fell at Hanover They bring my books up in the church, That, setting them up in our town, Some of them must die before they close. But this, alas! is not a loss To one of us, as to all else, "This is our choice: If they must die, whyFighting, They die--if they must die-- But--this, alas! is not my wish, "This is my due: If they must die, why Not live--if they must die-- But--this, alas! I will not say. My papers, pen and paper, My dogs and cats, my cats and mice, My poultry, and my poultry, My poultry and my chicken, My roasted lobster, and my mice, And my two green ibis, If I could only speak, you see, "Here in this room I live, Nothing to chill me, nothing to chill me. All my dogs and cats are dead, All is to kill me. This, then, is very well known "The place where I live is not my own. If I could only tell you, I'd rather live in nothing Than live in a house not made of stone. The house-top, too, does not contain The goods that there lie buried In stones, not in a corner "Thus--thus to live, Thus to depart, And, when the Duty's giving, To live, not die, but hungry, "Do not think it wrong to live! When you kill yourself, you kill yourselves. No more, no more, shall the world go round. He that loves a lie is not the man that loves a lie." <|endoftext|> With the last hope and the vision of Love The sea grows rolling from shore to shore, As the idly mumbling stream swells and breaks From its calm and rest and tranquil dreams, And the rapid blazing sun leaps up To the faces we see of a hundred years, And dreams of the parting of lips that smile As they pass--to those who have shed a tear And lain with the past--to the things that were dear And the silences dark that are past and past And the silences playing last and last, As they pass--to those who have shed a tear And lain with the past--to the things that are dead And the silences playing last and last, They shall pass--to those who have shed a tear And lain with the past-- To the things that are over which Time passes fast And the darkness darkened that covers them past. The world is full of beauty and of light Ere it can number the long hours of night; The sunless days when every flower grows green And every weed is fresh and sweet and clean But only the high stars and the flowers gay Make all the world more beautiful than day. From north to south the restless sunbeams play Smooth on the calm and silent ocean height, There is a cool and delicate delight In the pure azure of the summer night, Where ships come sailing through the sea Towards the land of houses, green and dim, Where the pearl gleams and the sea gleams dim. And sometimes in the evening afternoon A golden cloud drew from the yellow moon, Grey and deep-bosomed as a sky in June, With rain that scarcely touch'd the flowering rill, And drifting sunlight on the waters chill, And silver waters whispering That once had been a deep enchanted mere And yet might soothe with a lullaby. The wave and moon are love's. From dusk to light the world is in this hand And where it resteth it cannot withstand The van of heat and the scorching land, The hand that taketh them from very dross, The heart that beateth them from soft delight, The lips that kisseth them from tender sight. In the still moonlit woods of Endamo', When the river is low and the hills are gray, I find the laughter of a little child And I hear the murmur of the river away; I see the stars shine over Endamo', Dark is the ======================================== SAMPLE 377 ======================================== were her castle, such in mien, And in her long gray locks, of grim grey hair, Her forehead wan and colourless she was. Then when the cousins came into the square, Came two and one had turned their faces grey, And both were hung a little on the square, And both were tangled in the sombre gown, Talking a little of their vanished days, Dreaming the fairy-tales that reached them close. But not again came those two knights, they say, Nor if a child were seen within the square; But ere that evening had come forth of grey They said, 'The end of life is well and sure; We are two men, for love of God is great, And so it is that all of us must die, If we shall draw this curtain 'round about And there to-night, as you have done, good-bye.' 'Nay, Lord, but I, if it should be no more, May go in hiding,' said the lady fair; 'For when the dark old woods are all aslant, And the great elms are wonderfully tall, Shall see his elm-tree stooping by his fall, The tree that grew there in the wood aloft, And the great pines hanging heavily from the tree, Shall think the beauty of that quiet day, When they were young and carried home away; And all these pretty, merry things of mirth Shall long, long years of blissful love recall, Each smiling on the other's face of earth, And I shall think of him and wander all. For as the rainbow fades from out the sky, So was her beauty waver'd and gone by. Then came two knights, and riding through the sky Came one among the maidens and the man, And all the lovelier they became; and then Their herald took her in his bower again. 'My love,' she cried, 'on you I will bestow, And with this rainbow I will give you too; And, though I may not shield the night from show, I pray your life be witness and declare. And, since this night a lady came to meet My eyes with tears, who did not first desert To speak of love, forgetful of her name; And I, to-night, shall make you all my blame.' 'Wherefore,' the steed said, 'you have spoken well?' And therewith, as they parted, they rode down The darkly glimmering town. And over the green, where the low roofs were, Saw the white sails, the red rims of the sea, And the white fellowship of lovers there On the dark pavement, fair with green sea-green, And the pale moonlight, and the wavering air, And the faint colours of white sails and ships, Lighting them on, over the silent deeps, Under the moon-soft trellis of the coast; And there were my knightly companions, O Who had dishonor'd the pride of the prince and the queen, And the love and the service of her eyes, And the heart's bitter breaking, and the soft Half-heard soft voices, and the beating heart Of each most watchful sprite. And now the night Was grown to one vast hush, while in her room, As a swart tenant, men were being made to starve Their appetites, they sought again to taste The dainties of her dream. Then through the dark The starlight slipped from them, and took them down Like a red Indian maid upon a dun And hidden glade, which a great gipsy town, Or a wild mannock-bird had borne to its nest, To shield them from the wind. And ere their mistress' tears Were dry, and they could taste them, and with heart Grew mad at heart. And then she saw a fair, Small, flowery dames and youths, with swords and spears, And ever she would run, the airy throng, To hide their look-out, and to hide their song, And hide their eyes. And ever she would leap Into her bed, and hide them; and at last, With arms outstretched, there drawing back her breath, And mopping back her life. And she let fall her veil, And drew back down again, and ever gazed At the sea-green and bright faces that she loved, Until at last she moved, and now she stood As naked as before; and so she moved In sight of them, in dread ======================================== SAMPLE 378 ======================================== beneath, is dead.' These broken words the mightiest hostelry Blazed, and each arrow went and sought the place Where, in its curious secret work, the trace Of which was in its course. At the moth's shy, Uncertain eye or weary ear of ear, The soul had found some symbol in its birth Had not its destiny of being small In lone obscurity. Its discords, which The world deems insistent in the world's the best, So mastered in its fancies, cannot rest Their weight upon the thought that it opprest. Its feasts and pastimes are the most of all, And when the soul has turned the will to gall, The tongue of grating music wails its call. Its farther boldness makes the heart swell free And range wide o'er the bounds of time, till thou, Dread Memory, hast raised the tyrant hand That lost the cause. And when my days are told And by the beating of my heart I grow old, My spirit must abide and not be cold, But with firm service bound. And from thy countenance A word is kindled in my memory That makes a charmed hour still as the sun Has lighted up in some cathedral blaze. And as I muse on thy cold searching eyes, Forget-me-nots, and nevermore can trace The one lov'd face. So with old memories And vibrant chords of time I cease to pace My life's long day and pass in unrepressed. The hours are fleeting till I name them oft, And they return not,--only yesterday. How are they dead? How slowly seem to drag A limpness on the idle skirts of Time, And roll, in a brief vista, heavily back To those long hills these wearied steps sublime. Even them they wear no custom of the throng, Nor heed their elders, nor the busy call That each step flees, "To serve them they belong." So simple-hearted is their simple selves, That no sweet name is born of their stern wills, Save they have stature vast, and are not stern, Save the despair of living through the wills And shrink from all men's greatness. O, if thou Couldst ope thy heart unto that fullest flower That rich-soul'd reflex of all loveliness, Were not so like, it should be so with thee; Thy days were shadows on the darkest night, Unshadowed by the faint low-sighing wings of Hope; When to the throng of Death a spirit rose Waked at the call of its low-searching breath; And borne by thee through Death's cold threshold close, Till, with all life and flesh, life's devious path Seem'd to be holier, rounder, than to Death, Who knows not what is living. Death itself We call life, but the flesh is the spirit's goal. Why not this? Because to this it may not seem That we have ever know that we have ever dreamed That a new life within us is not born To-morrow, but some lonely day, when all That was is said and uttered shall have come, New thoughts to the old world, new thoughts to us From the old past; but that, no more than these, Our present death may have its due regard For what was great within us and within, And stablished as the world's memory, Happier than we; that we may never know The tears of those who might be, or the grief That made them thus so dark, or the wrong That set them furrowing in eternity; But, still, O perfect Life! Far better thus For any toiling in the unlovely gloom And wearing peril of the after hours, Than to forget with gradual-opened eyes The friends and kinsmen of us all who died Without one thought of us. I heard the wind among the poplar leaves Resound with the glad sound of happy feet; My heart rejoiced to hear the mad wind sing The triumphal song that the wide world's heart To a thousand harps hath echoed; and I knew That somewhere at the end in the infinite blue Were waiting for me, waiting for my lover. To-night I come to thee, O dastard soul, Mysterious with the still unhallowed mirth And soul alive because of all the throng That, under the great arch of circumstance, Discover itself by that familiar gate Wherethrough thou art so potent, as to find Dimming and listening through the living kind How shalt thou come to me? I knew ======================================== SAMPLE 379 ======================================== it I did, and let the heat Of burning sand blot out the dregs of it As well as zone o' the sun. Now there's a conflagration in the sky, For west wind gums on the thirsty earth; And faint as we of sun-vibrations lie, And then at last all rayless from the birth The flood foams up and sets the reeking herds. I see the quivering of the warp and bar As a swift ambush waits the sun to burst And close with him. The she-goat, while his hoofs grow dull, Is yet drawn forward, with its travel spent, And on dry land. I see the far-off houses sprent With dreadful flames; the yellow glare Of smouldering houses, blazoned high And pig-built homes, o'erflecked with red, The slow green park. And yon, and yon the farther end Where I have set my heart upon the brink Of every life, all hope and end, All facts, all fables, holds it fast. Nor can I tell when, told the last Sad tale, I often feel for you The patience of the final search, And how the river's fugitives, Like stars that wend their way from us Into the night, will vanish soon. Yet still I know that, as it be, Though you the tale had told me, I Am weary of the myths I dreamed, And would not tell. I pray you, sad not having seen The dead man's face. I cannot tell If you remember, but I fear Your hand is on the charm of words, And words in some one far away. So through the change in which I lay Your cheeks were touched with his, I know Mine eyes have seen. And it is best You keep them dark for the last time. You can read the fading leaf with him, The sight of him makes shadow-time And memory dull to the very last, And touch his hand and it dies. Alas, My own dead husband's heart is dead, Dead, dead; And we shall taste of them again, Walking past his window, not of him. Death will come at last, we know not when, But the sad sun will lift the mark And the stars die out, and the light Of his eyes will pass from sight And leave them dark; And we shall have, in some remotest spot, Another sense of its own soul That we shall know not or forget, And somewhat feel, as we know not, (Being glad to find) How all our parting is forgotten, Our parting empty, and our parting, For ever parted; and for ever. I left my garden long ago, Where wild winds laughed and dew-drops ran Through glades and aeside gnarlèd trees, And in the lush green ooze and rills The lost dear children of the breeze Came out and whistled as they ran, But all my heart was lost in a mist Of moonlight, like a thing in pain, And soon the world was like a dream Of long lost beauty gone again. And I think that all the fields around With fields full of the sun were white, The very shadows of the dead Were white as ghosts before that night, And men with musk-sacks in the wind Were singing songs for one so sweet That all night long the sweet bird cropt As though that place were haunted ground, Till day again seemed full of sleep And night sank down to dark and deep. One second look was gone, then, when The soughing wind swept past the bloom And caught again the selfsame breath That time had given, and men began To shout with men for the last death And break their fast; and then I stood Like death and still beside you, gazing In flowery haunts that knew the sun When I was your true lover, and you Were not my dearest. So I knelt And prayed the dead man at my side, His lips still telling how they lied Beside the dead that knew him not, And turning, I knelt down to him, And kissed him and was comforted. One more kiss? Did I tell you, dearest? Did I tell you? No, I am not, Love is no more, While I live. Is it fairer That thou findest One more last? Or is it ======================================== SAMPLE 380 ======================================== half a horned mouse, a shaggy bear, Wherefrom should spring a hundred Romans there. Now all he's ripe for till he can't be dumb. Another day was put that mist to morn And next his wholesome gowns were tawny born. Already those two foes were neighbours; some Swam up and down the streets and called their queen Some old witch's house, some fairy grandmother Bringing to birth a soul of the new woods. And, after they had passed their houses by, They said to each his rank and name, 'I'll die. There is a witch that you may know a ghost, Who frightens me if I am still crossed, And is not cross and can be fooled again.' They cast a witch's license on the wall And plunged him in the abysses black and staining. But Aretino lashed his foaming horse And seized him hard and harsh on every side Where they had laid him on that summer night. They climbed a tower to look above, and see The shape of Aretino and his eyes. 'Twas Sansonet, the old witch's teeth a shadow, But black as a dead man's! They drew him straight Up to the castle-roof in time to leap And clutch him close with all his savage strength. He pushed him through the iron gateway. First He slithered little scarlet cloth and crimson wool And put it on a little table like a moth. His horses fed him with four slices of fat, And then a piebald horn for him, to blow. And then he fell upon his back and would Have fluffed out all that he could relive from, Hang it upon his back as though he were The hundred vases of a shell or top-heale. Then up he got before that cavern-gate. He scaled the tower with mouth a hundred feet, And all his flesh was dust and sand and soil. The world was like an ocean in his mood. He'd been all carefuller and happier, and far He had not wandered till he felt the force Of generations sweeping round him, yearning For what his heart should give him. Night and day They journeyed still the same retired way, Without a watch or word, nor a caress. One thought was in them, and it showed no less That ten years later they two died. Each was A copy of the old witch's magic glass Which says if few will die,--a living saint. The first time that these eyes That o'er my form did roll, They seemed but strangers in themselves, but each A mortal, come from soul, Came like a man to claim his gift of heaven, And made it loneliness and lonely singing. 'Tis autumn in the air, And bright June in the earth; All nature to the end is fled. What matter if I weep And fain would smile and live? The angel's kiss, the golden thread Of a young flower's young life Are fled and past, and gone; for you know not The mirth is over, yet not any. The flower had never died: Then what did love not do? With early leaves the earth o'er-shone; Love gives the breeze its breath; The wild bird's song, the violet's breath, Are past, and gone, and gone, And lost things onward. It is too late. The eastern sun Across the western hills doth run, Throwing them back to bloom again; Whose orbit seemeth more than pain. The north wind from the north-west serene Doth blow them back; again is seen The quiet sunshine of the plains. It is too late, it is too late, The lilies of the May-time droop, Gathered on a fountain's brink; Too late, too late for the glad sun, Being overflowed for cheering. My love is fairer far than fair, As wild her feet as golden hair, Her cheeks more snowy, purer, none, Yet lips of sweeter red than those. My love her white hand covers, there She dearer, kisses still more rare, Than when she took me by the curls In further childhood's painted bliss. My love her slender fingers pressed, My love her lips that seemed to kiss, Her cheeks made God's own holy breast The home of kisses and of bliss. O wilt thou go to show her what thou'rt missing? Wilt ask the reason why she is not missing? Or ask why ======================================== SAMPLE 381 ======================================== you with your gray beard; Take off the anklet, ye that cast A garment of embattled mass Upon the bank, and you that wave Your curled and shining shoulders gave To he that rushes and that flies; Take off the robe that trails and dies Beside the mouth that looks the skies, And I with them that walk in pride, Where stars and storm-clouds pitch their tents And with the thunder blow their arms; For they have wings, they are the lance And they know not weariness of sense, They are not shaped or moves, but are Their music and their liberty, To sing with them, or shake the air With trumpets of invisible things Whereby they make the stars to sing. O mariner, pause and take note Of what a strange and subtle note This creature means, but doth not choose, That building with a little art Is surely shaped, and therefore are They built with words, they are the same. And if I chance to die, 'tis well, I care not for the things I tell; That life which is made up of words Must be a deathless song, which rings With music, that is love, that is A skill which words do not express. There was a youth went to Nazareth, A golden lamb led astray The wild deer, with a merry horn, And music in the wilderness: He showed the way, as he said of old, For lovely faces gone before; They laughed, but he did not come o'er; There was no mother, there was no babe, To bear them off and go to bed; And ever those that were strong and free Died, dying, by their fathers' knee; For when his eyes made him look on them, He had his pipe and his merry pipe; Yet when the others around him closed, He seemed as one that was born anew; Yea, when he saw all this, nothing else Was left him now but the selfsame song: "O mariner, tell the fruit to-day That thou hast drunk, and no more drink; O mariner, think not all men foul Who drink therein! Now do thou assoil Their cup's unguarded!" And her mouth She offered out, "O mariner, think If aught be lawful that thou hast brought Trust to my lips, as I did before!" She held the fruit and the bee apart, And turned away, leading, nor did he hear A moan, but the voice of a sweetheart bird With a sweetheart song in a sweetheart tune. Then sudden darkness, and before his eyes The birds had entered in a joyous dance, Wherein the voice and the thing was life; And the soul of man entered a new life. And his soul was darkened; and he grew Weary of the lonely quest, And the way seemed so fair, so sweet, It had no meaning to be strange, And the way so sweet, and the way so change, He wandered the long blue afternoon, His heart was happy and glad and gay, And he said "I have found my way!" And thus to his soul he said, "O my Eye! See how that shineth! See how he Is passing over! And yet, for all The ingratitude of wrong!" And, straining to his soul, he said, "Rest, rest! I was not always glad With that glad home, so happiness Was always best to me, and of all-- The household--the cool home--of Raphael! I used to sing it all my own. Aunt Ruth was well enough--what think You of the story? Tell me, Kate, Did you see what the legend was? Do you, whose ear is misty yet, Know what it is you look the worse? Do you see those eyes of haughty light, With foolish gleam of broad-leaved hate, That seems to say, "He was a friend To forty years, and toils, and health, And that I think about the past?" Do you see those lips, all radiant pink, In whom sweet-heart the gospel blows, And those wise eyes that speak the word Of gospel truth? Well, yes,--in sooth, They are those passionate eyes,--these two Whose lightest glance ever a hope could know. Aunt Ruth was at the corner door; A star was in the casement she. "He owns the trust when He who ======================================== SAMPLE 382 ======================================== than Hymen. Not all sable are they. O ye, who boast yourselves the wisest, stay! Dismiss your hopes of conquest far away. Now spread the canvas for the winds to spread, Place, o'er the canvas, booth, for notice laid. The silk, all join; disorder loves to rear Of female servitors, the jealous care. But, as if handicraft, yet still more low, In foreign barbarian arts, from female arms. Island and isle far off in sea expand, Heaven smiles on earth, but only waves the land. All fable ends by magic. Near me stand Thy shattered temples, and defy the sea." He spoke, nor breath nor motion of his hand, But what the sea alone to ship must owe, A broken oar, yet nothing to the land. This here, directly eastward of the sea I found, which earlier still unlooses o'er My canvas. Six times after, in his bay, Went I, and soon discovered that the bay Before me lay. Thing happier I surveyed, My canvas a long distance from the land. "Now reach I Achor's" (which I more would say, For still I chanced to know it), "the Achor's hand Hath taken off the poop, and bids me stand On board, to prove if thence Ulysses' oars Reach less or more of heaven, and if the lands Contain one shore, another to restore Safe to the keel, if to his oars incline, There may be light enough for sight and light." "So speaking, I reposed. The oars we next arrive at station of the masts, each crest In its own channel. Soon as we were forth, Extinguish'd now the rowers' benches, then Down with the oars we cast our sails and spread Our smooth rapacious oars, so smoothly spread Throughout the length of the long main. The sky I saw as lief it should forbid my land To make them toil; and then, with equal toil, I to another bark brought out my oars, And, as my master bade me, swift repair'd. This made my people happy; nor my mate It only, and so much I loved my own. "'Twas thus we lay at anchor. First the sail Made my companions, and the oars broke loose At once; and, loosened by propitious gales, The vessel her broad bosom filled. He next, Brought smooth a land, with olive-wood o'erlaid; And here the gentlest spot, on either side, Placed six white rocks, with gum-branch easy thrown, In answer to the surge, was midway thrown. The vessel made the firmest there; the oars Then ply the oars, that nearest to the main, Both land and sea extend. A land, whose name Is Crete, and never known to human eyes, All teeming in that sea, which gave them birth When earth was first engrav'd on earth. B fishermen, Nor Crete nor sea receiv'd, nor faithless fates; Yet all alive, his prosperous course maintain'd. Their station here I named, and pass'd the rock. They came not. Crete with them by name was given As from the admiration of his gods. A sacred rock it was, where dwelt a God Degenerate, and a God descended, all For wisdom, honour, hospitable cheer. A figment large, in length and breadth conspicuous, The tree of olive-wood built last to a mountain, Which not the ravagers can see, nor even The men who dwell in those few pathless woods. That our inconstant traffic should abound Far beyond Alpine mountains, and have spread Through all the regions far and wide, his course. To a recess (though rudely thrown the door Through which a travelling train arrives, if still One's hand unbarr'd is on the panels) here The steersman dauntless steers began to peer; From whom the second Cirrha surely sprung To meet her steed, and break her course along. One more, and more, the breezes might afford To chill me; or to bid me linger here Till I had lain so long. Yet onward press'd The third, and mov'd me, plunging in the main. Aurora's so, and next me, gently rear'd The ======================================== SAMPLE 383 ======================================== ! for that white murderous smoke, Which Adam's garden, that foul monster, bore, Whose wicked crew the Tuscan sea forsake (That ocean which in middle ages grew With this new storm, and this fair crime of yore), The cloud is floated which not heretofore Was the sun's course, but nearer now than here. The Greekish tongues and Latin tongue, which now Speak well, may answer hollow words like these, Though but as things that sound like statues' breath, Endure so near their everlasting death, That they but know not what, nor when, or where: Nor haply will they teach us heretofore Aught but what God has wrought for man and God; So help us now; for now are all things one With neither use, nor sight, nor sound, nor word, Nor judgement in the judgement; and they come As flying visions, each with boding fraught At heart, or haply fearing in their sight That which they did before, until the day Of reckoning, where the beast and he went by With the world's judgment; each man found in him Even one he could not master, save by sight, By voice, or sound, or voice of other creature, Saying 'Well, O well, O well!' they all cry, 'Alas, Alas!' and pile their faces in the dust Not thinking that it ever yet shall be!' The evil there below, and in that dust Already with new hope shines in his eye And with fresh thoughts makes the will of God His mind, from the first breath of man's desire Still to be born is wavering, as he deems And haply though weak body be to sow, Weary and for a time, perhaps in spring The unhappy ploughman, he may reap and light On his weak presentness, and find out death, Not unlike what he sees in the world now Of human kind, but like the sun in heaven, Shall follow, and the same fair fruit arise At the same time. This does indeed increase His present good, and also we are left Abandoned, wandered, and forlorn. Each one Hath, like one man, his daily way, what time Death, if he live, yet lives, and is to come No less, yet knows not how. And knowing not The good we have achieved (nor do we know), That all we have achieved is only God. Not only all this world's possessions are Brought forth, but all we have achieved and wrought Into an age that nothing can consume, And all we have accomplished, and all yet Athrough, and life renews itself, and life, And all the asht and meadow of the world Took then, in life's first period, the dark days That ere the deep destruction of mankind Rose up from darkness into light. But now The tempter from the deep hath shaken off The golden days, and with them cometh the old. A time of many days fills up the world With a new beauty and new speech, and oft We look on deeds, and on yourselves, and nay If we wish life were gold, would all were song, Old age were beauty, youth the blossom-fruit, And time a vain memorial of our might Time that is old is still the seed of song. And if it be, how shall I say the word? Even in this end of life what things were words, That is not as the bird that twittering cocks Who cannot rest till the spring time take flight, Have music in their ears and in them thoughts That wakened by their dreaming till they wake As summer's bird that looks from sleep to dream, And brings its new song out, and in the soul A symbol and an image, all in all Of what shall be; and soothly if that name Were called a song, what could ye say or do Who sing but as one murmuring 'Well done! I am your mother,' as she sings in spring Of thousand bright bright birds the best of songs That cunning music makes in secret words, Or at least blends them, more perfect than ours, In sweet and secret rhymes and broken rhymes, Which must not be forgotten. And if ye think That words were all which they have sung, the best To wake the heavy sleep of heavy thought, And come like little dreams, upon the ear Comes moving to and fro--oh ye, ye Gods, Would ye but croon the low song of the birds That follow at their bidding till they fall Murmuring all ======================================== SAMPLE 384 ======================================== . My lamb, down-tumbled, gambles low, All parched with heat, To feed his fair, new eyes I'll go, The lips I've brimmed with gall; My only song, "Let's show him low!" The home of Attila: well read, And much the manner hence they bred: How can you better under-bred Stir up a bloody drum When both at length arrive! Then consecrate a bullock's head That grazed her father's first offence! Mild was the air, when now the noon Had cut the dark and filled the air: When, while his sullen rage was stilled, The quarrels of the warfare ceased: And French and English fiercely hurled Their first and deadliest blows in the dust. All grieved and branched their hearts, beneath That cruel ocean. Geraint ran, Towards him and he told his wrath; He charged him thus without defence, And begged, 'O, blessed heif' of heart!' 'You've done what we should wish with you,' Said he, 'but never give your life A horse of these to ride to death!' Nought heeded where he should go down The dark, dark street; far on the ground Hissed the long spears, while overhead The bloody tumult followed dread, And trampled, reddening on his face. At last, in terror and dismay, Yet fresh assurance of a brave And courage gave him, that unworn His heart might warmly burn. And if the war were won at last, Then very soon his wrath would burst. And then, with sweat and eager rage, He flung in many a gory vase Of blood the ground that he had crossed. And so the Sioux in rapt amaze Would utter forth one parting word-- 'He's dead, poor man, he lives at peace; Well, let him now forget his tears. I'll give him to my arms again, And he shall be my beadsman dear, And I will offer to the Dead The very finest and most fine Piece of renown for his grave.' Then back the leader with quick speech Of wrath was made to quail: But swift as lightning to the dark The frantic tribe came flocking home: They found a widow, in a group Whose clothes were soil of beast and tree, A broken pitcher, water-proof, A strange no-warrior's coffin. None Nor man, with sight so sad as he, Grieved they might meet the corpse and bathe. But while they thus rode on the plain They saw two carcants with black eyes. With horror stabbed, they burned his face, And stared on him with deep surprise. They caught their mane from out his breast, Then with a knife cut in his side They wring the blood of that dead man, And plunged him deep in the inside. But, as they mingled shrieking shrill, And stood like dead men down to die, The youth held forth his bloody hand, And begged for strength, to cleave it dry; Yet struggled he for breath or force, And all his strength was forced to nought; For he must punish who had wrought Such sin, or for such deeds befall, If such vile women could not be. When now the year had long been gone, He came to where, with bud and bough, The corpse, that corpse at peace, was laid, To rust the body, as they prayed. 'Thou hast no tomb,' he said, 'and thus Hast laid it on the living stone: But let those eyes, my dearest love, Not faintly come, thy griefs recall; Lo! I have laid it on thy heart, Even like a living bough, a fall.' All with that tender tender smile She kissed his forehead, eyes, and lips; While these, the mourners said, "O woe! O woe! thou art my wife, the choice!" Some memory of noble deeds, Impetuous feelings, scorned and spite, A mind like this, had kept alive A tender mother's tearless eyes. 'If I have loved thee much,' they said, 'Loved thee with love, I love but thee.' So now it chanced that in the spring Some brother, as he turned his head, Traced fire upon his aching brow, And laid a kiss upon his cheek; Then gave a tender sigh, and said, ======================================== SAMPLE 385 ======================================== ly he did as his Master said; And he moving-must went, as He decreed, In a line of pomp, with banners wide, And Saint George the capar gown inside, To the windows rung the laughter loud, And high the stately crests encamped these walls, Which lookt by him to see a Host draw out Against the sun. He moved in regal state, Where Names of all the A. B. C. and A. D. (Of F. C. inscribed in the history of England) "Invumber not the King! Behold him there, As if the heiress of the Sea had thrown A waif across the great G. P. For here he waiteth, in his watery inn With his light-beaming Whiffer, tamed and tamed, And with the morning star, on the pale crags Of his Almanack; now patches wide As he may run or lift, as he may moist." "The King let go," the Hermit said; "The King let go." "Nay, but the horse be mine," The Hermit said, "So be it, till the King Toke the horse head head, And the King be rid of the crags." And he sat and rested, and his watery guide In a hall of stone by the ale-house door, That glistened rusty casements o'er, And from the reeds, The musical speech flowed to and fro And as Sir Odoric drew damnable stories, All of the Mount, both called the tale Farewell! And now from all the wreathed-in smoke That tossed about the isles and glistening on the tide, That raged from the walls, a lurid sound Broke on the long gaunt doors, and over the floor Bright-tinted diamonds shone, their left and right. Then, though the Old man had named the names Of some himself; for which he made his tale, Which well they knew: Sir Odoric's snug house, that he held With kitchen walls and battlements, o'erthrew All its familiarities, and gave, In sooth, that never, though the yards were high, There was a builded fence of jewels new, Whereon he found a brazen door that wrought Unracked by lock of the iron barred And shut, which none but he did might see Entrance or entrance. So, for some weeks, In unawakened months, the master came To work or dine or frame his house again. He heard his master's tale,--and not in vain; For it was not; but in the blithe weeks' gone Was now the home of thought, which has the key Where all the deeds are treasured in the dark. And he is gone. And if not greatly missed In life's full joyousness, yet, though it be, That there is a great home in a happy land, Full many a thankful hour there may be found; But it shall not be seen again, These weary ways, when the sure path is plain, And I no longer wait for to attain The unknown goal." From his own deep-hued ravelin, For long with the spirit made clear By a fateful token He said: "Sir Odoric, The city where thou art is a pillar of flame To a million deathless men: The place where many a man's name Strikes out in passionate breath, and they say, How A glorious deathless king doth flourish here! If it be more and more Than thine, again from every land Tou hast a dwelling-place In a distant land, A copper-burned outbound dragon, a man that lives in the shade, And some day hath a hiding-place From the fingers of the clouds, and things must quickly fade, And a tall man with a sword Has vanished from the show. And that is my ancient home, Filled with the fires and many a mirth, And mirth's purpureate air, And now, my country's weal, I am my country's bright and flowering land, A flower out of an age, and we have time to pray, And at the funeral Went, and was still, and made a sad, wise way, And went, until the busy breath of heaven, Of this and this way had a song-shout riven With music like a sea When the wind chirps; And sudden at ======================================== SAMPLE 386 ======================================== , May float a seagull over earth--but ye-- Dauntless ye cannot, for ye never had scorn. 'Tis like a banner which the hand of Fate Tears from away,--from the land of the hordes, Of invincible utterance, till men Who said ye would not have saved your seed Should have beguiled ye not for deeds undone To fling away--as a fallen tree--but now Make fortress of this, that all may feel The strength of your strength, and not for aye Hither or thither--but by steel and flame Till ye have not lost your hold on the last goal, Make fortress of this, and no man can break down Till ye have shattered what you had kindled here Before ye could be noble, and the Right Gave law for freedom; and this day 'tis ford, The springs of man's desire to dry the land Which stands by you, the guardians of the world, Whose fathers fought and whom if ye but now Would fling from you the lilies of the field The gift of strength; for by this sacrifice And by this brotherhood ye won the day When these our fathers fought for liberty." Then Litwa's Master, "Nay," said the Spirit, "hence We two were men, and fell in Order now Are ye brothers to the King,--ye knights of France? Thou art our kinsman, we," and forth he led The armies, "We will fight against the Dane, But not the Charlemagne. We'll rule the world Of fief and power, and hold the kingdoms down When we have struck the foemen. Come, if ye Still wish the hour, but long'st the fight to die." Thereat the mighty Master turned his face, And in that fierce and furious mood he said, "Let be, ye men of England--fight for men!" Then put to sea, and soon thereafter wound At home, the great Sir Walter, on his steed, And in that fiery fray, the Devil being slain, He fought his foes, by thousands, on the plain. Then came on King Robert a little to speech With the King's men; his arm was beaten back By warrant of his nephew, but in arms He drew his sword, and, with his blazoned shield, Thrust at the ensign of the astonished French; His blade by thrust was forged. True, every thrust Was mortal; but a second stroke alone Brought death upon him. O'er his lance was bent The stroke was dealt, and yet not one of all His foes, who saw the story, could resist The iron cold. Then Tydeus' noble son Fainted, and knew his Master's angry mood, And from the deadly conflict rushed in haste With Death; but soon the Tartar king beheld King Isseln, and hastened to the fray, And slew him. What defence, what aid could save, Had he not succored his life, nor let his foes In the unpeopled desert pass. There, they King Robert saw, who in his judgment stood With Sericane, who said "Monjoie" To Ganelon, and mused, "Deliv'rance wraps The warlike camp around him: if he knows That too long Durindana has lain with him This night upon the green, then I have slain The noble Argive;" and the knights in wrath Ran thither, and against him stubbornly Furiously thundered on their horses, who With their white-shields and beards and burnished shields Passed underneath the eyes of Charlemagne. But with a mien of royal aspect strode The Saracen, and thus bespoke the King: "Saracen, say, what counsel hast thou given To the good knight of Thea, that he seek The counsels of his faithful people to, Who at their head their wrath shall waste no more? Now hear me; if thou shalt for a nobler end, Light of my head, in peace or ill repose, Be ready for the fray to combat back Thou and the wronged knight." Ganelon spake, 'Tis proven in the word which tells the tale How Charlemagne, their God, of knighthood slew A thousand men, and from the Childe to whom He owed the ransom of the dear papa, His ancient concubine, who then had passed To measure of his realm, in Charlemagne Eke this he ======================================== SAMPLE 387 ======================================== of my mistress. As I sit on the apricot, And o'er her that spreads her legs, My heart is with each one on top, And, if I should ever forget, The long descent and shortening drouble, From her short-gather'd scallop too, And by half the morrow too, From dawn till set of sun, Is made the right turn and the left, And centre the dark round for me, And back-thrust at the times' rise Of that same breakfast with my eyes, There in the wide watch-tower I see The blood-red fruit on the apricot; Where, top by towering peak, Is felt the slant pellucidness And whirl of the yellow dust That in a corner plots to rust, And in a corner, where, In a branch'd bough, the tapering sun Curls upward with his head, And in that bough beneath me twine The cluster of round almond-leaves And nodding butterflies. In that sweet hour, when the wan light Trembles about the blind lids of night, And the air's busy murmur slays, Where hart's wild antlers beat their wings, And in the moonlit woods and flowers Vary the maze of clambering trees, And here the poppy bloom perfumes That with white thorn crown the brows, And oft in my dreams I see The summer-light spread goldenly, And the apple-blossoms blow, And buds and blossoms everywhere Unheeded fall and fill the earth With scent and flower from the breath. The throstle's call, the thrush's song In my bower of walnut-wood, The clink of harness on the wall, The ride of the wheel-barrow, And the mower's call when I come at night, For it seems like a heralding The future that comes next Spring, And still again my soul is singing With its sound of Spring. O strong young heart, awake and strong! With what enduring, full-believed song Seems to reveal itself alive, While the deep-chested, high-crowned sphere, That all this time has shown to thee Must be revealed to thee; And hope itself an answer must, When thou hast breathed a gale. Land of my fathers! land of my birth! I bring thee my son, In joy and in peril aflame for the earth. Now the sun of our birth Shall rise and our birthday be reft of its sheaf; And from race-long generations unborn shall rise At a new song's birth. Land of my fathers! O may thy blood still be warm, When the years that increase Are fruitful, more strong, than the scythe-sweep or oak! Fellow-born--yea, more bounteous! Lover-born--yea, more tried! Ye have spurned me, ye have fought, ye have bowed me! Ye have struck me--yea, a nation's meed! Ye have spurned me--yea, an altar, free From every trophy! free for the shame, And the maimed, blood-shed! Mighty one--of all the Nation. Feebly, creeally, In the long ago he said-- At the age-fingers--good and bad, of the dead-- When he woke up in the dawn-- To the land of the murdered--that was his bed. From the cast of the fire He cut a piece of bread From the basket of my desire-- At the age-fingers, good and good, of the dead. Where his ploughing-blade Wrestled, and a sword was broke, And the blade was a sword-blade In the land of the hemlock-swamp, of the land of the dead. Then I lifted my soul from the dust and wept, And I left it to die and come To the land of the hemlock-swamp In the land of the hemlock-swamp, in the land of the dead. Where his ploughing-blade Wrestled, and a sword was broke, And a spear was a sword-blade In the land of the hemlock-swamp, in the land of the dead. Where his ploughing-blade Wrestled, and a sword was broken, And a spear was a sword-blade In ======================================== SAMPLE 388 ======================================== and the grasses in the mowing field Kindle them, these their yellow hair Over their cheeks; the rattling wind Out of the meadows deep; at which Swallows break, and children run, And the earth is shaken with the blast Of cat-eyed rain; and scattering the earth Thunders a joy, while overhead The copper-bellied clouds push by Forth the long lightning, leaping by. See, in their flocks the purple bear, Panting with rage, reaps his little store Of acorns and sweet-scented thyme; Fruits in the burnished platters climb; The lung, the solid rubble bears; And every beast within its bounds Stands stark and staring at their wounds. Whence should I name myself the wood Wherewith so oft the Pagan turned From his hard chase, a brawny clown, To ape and mock the strength and power That made the oak to mock the tower That girdled him with gnarled leaves? Then should I name the thick-set oak Whose tangled root was near the brink Of mossy pool, that hid the heat Of summer in its leafy fret; Whence should I name my flowering heat, Whose branching stems are looped with vine And berry, and the bending branch Still dangling by? This four-in-thawed Hyacinth, olden, since first learned bough From peasant old cut 'neath the moon, Or ere the early blades were shewed, Would stir the wild green plant no more? Thus hairy was the sturdy oak, That nips the ground with summer rains; But, though these ways it was his choice Devoutly to abide and hold, In spite of all the general noise, Reverberant to the storm it yields, And loosens all the tender leaves And blossoms of the garden-ring, And shakes with the wind, and seems to say, "Folks are come here, and women are Their mistress: with her, let them come! Behold yon darlings heretofore Naked and bare! they have come down here, From their cold waterfalls of snow, From where the long lake doth forego The snow-cold pulse. Their is the frown Of hideous prisoned realms below, And hideousness both theirs and mine A-forest here, with utterance dire; 'Tis but a wretched spectacle!" Here might be seen, afar off, some Fair spring, that by these laughing brooks Is sojourned in the darksome air Of all the forest trim and fair, Yet breaks its bloom ere the mild shower Descends the snow in here and there, And though 'tis but the chilly gray Upon our window at the day, Our hearts have been contented then With the gay world that now is ours, For here one winter's mist and showers, No friendly tree is said to be, But naked to the blasts of air, The rudderless water-fare. O foolish bird, with feathered breast And trembling wing against the nest Whereof the winds make sport, It is the peaceful court of peace, Which makes the world of heaven best; The calm-blue east where sleeps the sun, And the moist sky whence flows the brook So musically slow, The noisy lark so steeps the sky And dips his plumes in the pool that lies In revel deep. The silvery plumes that float and roll Tinkling on the waters clear When the low breeze is keen and sweet, And the moon draws on her silver feet To pour on them her quiet light As one that holds in ancient night Sweet converse with the moon, And seeth all that pass and come More mournfully than morn, And in the heart of each sits some Whose glory on their brows outclings As the morning dew. My son, I see thee once again, When on thy cheek the blush of youth Lets forth in the summer of thy years; And thou art gone, and like a friend Thou lovest me, and I have none. That mistress of the Fairy shed Her raiment on the ground, And she put it where the hill-winds blow And flowers are round. With beating heart I wandered through The woods and took the sky, And misty caverns, and the dew I took and thought aloud. My son, I know that thou art gone, But thou art more than all. Through ======================================== SAMPLE 389 ======================================== to this day! Oh, say how once, in years so deep, Did stern necessity betray Our hearts, our hopes, our hopes, our tears, The record of those miseries, What other griefs than these allow, We also, by no law could know, Save gently thus, our sad mistake, Have all our wrongs and miseries. O, say how often have we seen Mild o'er the surface, green and green, The sunshine, too, upon the sheen, The distant dancing of the sheen, And many a rival o'er the sheen, Have sown their pride, and left the green Unflowering, to us in the earth-- How often have we scaled the dome Of life, to dive into the dome Of life, to quench the ceaseless ray Of faith within the central ray, To do the honor of the day? While thus in wealth and grandeur reigns, And ev'n with pomp and joys ordain'd, We view the triumph of the morn, And feel that toil, that wealth, is vain; To us, which heaven by right has bought, Is but a cost of toil sought out; To them, the dust of times gone by, Is but a heap of that small tin Which monkeys when alive; then here We view the mart, the lowly fare, Gives to the poor the need of care, And spurns the spirit of the mean, Or spurns the temple where he lies. Come, let us build in Honour's soil This rugged bark of man's endeavour, Till Fortune's gold, and pelf of toil, Are dust and ashes in the urn Of this bleak spot--a living game, Where nations who have bow'd to fate, And paid with tears, are bound to join The patriot's death--and go or come. Come, let us plant in honest soil This resting spot, that is our home, By those whose flag, and martyr toil, Is shrined in holy privacy, Where the first glories of the Free, New fallen, in ages past, come last. In the hearts of all nations sunk, While Britain gave the first control, Still we look upon lovely scenes, Our heroes, raised for other days, Won freedom in the hearts of men, And angels, hovering round again, Fell on us in that union glad. O then, ye stars, be bold and brave! Rule we this country, this isle, and there, Throughout expands the blessed Isle, For us, around us, birds of prey, To spoil the spot, that gave them birth, Shall our immortal martyrs say-- Fall, darker shadows on our path, Lie low--dread, oh, deep-sunken yonder, Let our unwelcome song be hushed, Then will the earth her dungeons trembling From the giant wave of war display, And, bursting, break around our way. Let those who have their country's foe, Kneel, trembling, to their field and bowers, Where Freedom shineth from the day; There build--like yours, her turrets high, And as ye sit, close watchfires by, There pray for her, and be as we. Be hers our labor, be her riches mine; Thine be the glory and the joy she gave; Bright shine the homes that guard our fatherland, When he was foremost in the fight, Safe from the enemy's sharp swords, and swords, And which shall be the bliss we wish to save, But which shall be the bliss we wish to brave, And which shall be the bliss we wish to save, Shall be the bliss we wish to be! Isle of the waves, beneath a fairer sky, What is thine altar, Mighty One? Thine is the holiest, the chosen few That keep thine altar, Mighty One? Thy glorious rivers to the ocean flow, Thy hills, thy valleys, roll their sparkling waves; Thy rivers, pure as silver; near and far, Thy vales of verdant hue are homes of snow; Thy birthplace, North; thy tempering streams, Thy fertile vales and pasture-lands of snow; Thy vales of verdant hue are homes of light; Thy streams, which mount the blue of morning's sky, Reflect the day's bright glory from on high; Thy trees, whose branches branch the proudest tree, That ======================================== SAMPLE 390 ======================================== is wiser than mortality; All lore, save genius, unadorn'd from vulgar vulgar learning; Like him who sat in darkness, and must live So by his severence, the great nihil Of learning he alone can judge of learning. There is one Homer, more than any one else of the Greeks, Who, with rare faults, not ev'n in morals, dwells: But if the people rightly understood, They find their book the study of all men, And without long constraint of body and mind Use virtue ev'n in flying, and in flying; Still they consume, and still they most abound The author's profits, which themselves do crown. He is most widely on the whole sublime Of great Homer, and is most in common with him Who makes one servant of all ten thousand. All those who at his pupil eld obtrude Or at some age (so tradition and our good sir) Must understand a deal of information For true criticism; but pray take a tip, O Pedius, if you can, what is so great Of new perfection in so poor a Yourtto As to be found compare to Alliolyan Nourished in more books so nobly finish'd, And in what age excuses element More than a show-worm's-worm? Nourished by fools as yet by eloquence Enough to add new qualities to forms, Might justly vary, and be scorn'd at all. And now the Muses in more books sublime Must make their stature and their beauty equal, Since none could draw their epitaph aright Without the praise and leave to Time or Nature. Uncertainty, the little Alliolies, By my advice, and not my force, secures, That Rome of old hadise one pang. Ah! how the gouty Greek upheld his pen, And drew his navel down, nor could the blood Tremble, unless the fall show'd in a stream, To ope his lips, and bid him to be read, I cannot deem that there was more in pay, And this perchance, no one so flat but he Is at a loss. 'Tis thus the wise have mockt With his own starr'd conceit their tigresses And no less learn'd than others, which the times Are blotted from our tongue. The times are told That when our tongue is loathsome to repeat The names and names of those to whom we give The praise was meant for, though we deem them not An easy conquest, and we flatter them, Not for their mean, but for their similes, All hopes and fears of others. What this means, We cannot say; be first if you will so. You must be taught by me. Are you alive? No more. And yet, when all of you is said and said, As things take form, and change their shape at once, So all things change. We cannot well suppose That, since we can't create these things again, We'll soon arrange again and be ourselves, Those parts of divers divers shapes and shapes, And take the folly of the time away. 'Tis time, however that we cease to think That our best thoughts are made for men and books, And do not take our pleasure at the first, Because our darling imitator is blind, And our sole aim a shadow. This is all, That's to make each one of you more and more A doctrine for his neighbour, learning this. We are all fools and critics, and yet give Nothing to be desired. All men and women Have but to prove themselves as others are. It was from Conscience the high path to where They lay themselves and look, for we have seen The gods they are of the most high degree. For we have read an earthly book throughout The countries of the dark earth, and have heard The humblest speech of Agamemnon, Been long unbroken, and then speech'd, but not, That was full honour. Men have loved us not, Or we have loved, and yet we have been loved, For we have virgins in the Gods, and have False names in the true eyes of maids, and have False tongues in deaf ears, and have not hearts To use the teares or vow the maiden's vow. A line there is, that tells the story quite, Of one his early friend had loved, and sware To think upon the likeness of his friend. A jewel his companion (these may well Strike through their railroads), it ======================================== SAMPLE 391 ======================================== me, dear Mother In the golden, moon-lit nights, When the goodman Ants of the Offencie Hated me because out of the wood I was with you when we were boys; How we'd gone to school in white, With the babbling and the bold, When there was not a word of cheer But a frozen dance of cold, In the heart of winter ice That was hard and hard as cold. We tramped about for many a day After each a several hour, But in spite of all the noise And the fight, we only heard The outside of Life's violin Like a little voice from the Hill of Brass. Oh, no, but we knew that Love had been To us desolate and weary, And we were the New Brigade, The Old Temple men the wisest Of them all, and built their city, But when it was out of sight We raised it to the sky And our garland of beauty Where the Tooth and the Apennine Met in the other places, Where the river Aussa used to flow Two hundred years ago, One summer-eve in May, Just a few (and not a hundred) Dropped wimples down the lane. Last night I said my "unts" and "No!" And, "No," we rambled home again, Night after night, The people and the band Were drinking and shouting all together For joy of the Jubilee. And now there was no human keel But turned the corner-stone, And we flung our caps in the goodman's flag, And made for the county immortality. Not all the wheat was waste, Just as it was after all, Not even the stubble's edge, Or the fruit we had plucked last fall, Or the apple we had plucked last fall, Or the spavings of our hands, Or the fruit we had brought from the apple-tree, Or the leaves we had mixed in bowl for bowl, Or comrades who once with us did quaff, And scattered the brains about the end of the earth As much as we breathed and we gave birth, Did we not throw over the sweet young grass And snatch life from our children's eyes? So much for the present!--and yet When Spring comes round again, And the tassel of birds is the fairest prize To all our hard-earned immortality, And no one knows when you come to die, If you go to the grave with a fresh-breathed brow, If the laurels can be gathered now For a moment's nonentity given; If the laurel grow not on the brow Of a cold young priest from your own high Heaven, Nor the ivy that grew by your own low Hell Break from the white and starry throne Of your sleep-entangling, funeral stone. When our Mother Earth went down The grass was dead of night; The stars kept singing watch and crooning, The grass still rung, the moon shone bright; Beyond its circle did a warning Came down with silver voice, And never a cry of fear or warning But still God heard the call; And then God heard us, and we waited, And he knew us as one pent, As one unused to his great knowledge, And we, as disconsolate, Then God did me, and He said, We must be men as I have been, And would be men when I am dead. Why does she keep on piercing Bones and the hoofs on the steep, That the lips of men may dumb. Why does she lift her head, Bones and the hoofs on high, Bones and the hair on the steep, Bones and the sorriest hair, That ever was known to stray? Why does she lift her head, Bones and the hair on the steep, Bones and the lips on the steep, Why do the eyes of us never Call to her in the sleep? Where is the man that made you? Where is the woman that made you? Where is the man who made you? Where is the man that made you? Where is the man to make you? Where is the man to make you? Riot and track and sunshine Faded from all the golden glow That lit the hills of shining sand; Gold light on forest glancing shore Spanned by the myriad changing feet And from high water lilies broke Through where the setting sunbeams kiss The starry waves and skies. ======================================== SAMPLE 392 ======================================== you should be guilty of behaviour, because you are so safe."-- "I am an honor, Sir, as you desire; And, even after that, permit me die." "Your mortal blood, sir, in this cause contains Some zeal, some courage, some desire. Some friends, perhaps. I know your manly mind, Is the most manly man alive; The lion and the tiger must be whole, And love is nourished from his best. And, so to you, with other brutes conspire, Your life's harmonious course to higher life A grateful conversation would give me Of this and that domestic life." "A better sum, it is, I feel, Than thus to end my life and death By diving deeper deeper deeply in An interalerating breath; And that in me shall be a loss Smaller than my mortality; But, dying truly, well I know, 'Twill all be well--at twenty-two." Thou didst say unto me, "Your heart Should not be here and frozen for two years; And ever since your death you died." "Maurine, I thank you," faltered the man. "The land is his own," and I answered him. "Our sister is his wife. Good-bye; Good-bye, my friend, good-bye; Good-bye, my own!" Here, by the brink, a lily leans its head Over the grass. Above, the sky is red. Here, by the brink, a lily leans its head Over the grass. Here, by the brink, a lily Broods o'er the moss. The woodland rings aloud Its mystical greeting to the lily, The lily leans above. I must go back to boyhood. Let me read The sad and solemn lesson that it brings: A lily tipped with tiny heads all raised, Waiting for truth to speak to. 'Tis a lifelong precept and a lesson learned From a long-laid but worthy, honest man. "A love that shall endure, shall be matured, Shall gild to God for manhood, we have won. Speak, that these struggling years are but two days, And my spirit heave and swell. Out from the light of Truth and sunshine in it. Out from the light of Truth. I shall command Thee and myself; and turn from thee, O Autumn, When no longer warm. "Let it stay where it has been." It is not more in the grace than the mere, And it is not more in the grandest becoming Than in the grandest classic poetry. It is not more than the glory and gloom Of a house made full of fire, and lit with flowers, At the grand hour of noon, which is slowly approaching With sunset from the sky,--as in a dream,-- Or as a sound not born of the fall of winter, The voice of a house, made wholly of its own, At the whole hour of noon, which is nearly gone. "O my friend, who is this?" "I am the friend of one," I answered. "O my friend, thy words are wisdom." "All things come easily on. Men seem insipid: at each word Which we would speak, or talk, or eat, Do errands for thy giving, and to pass As pass the stars their time allotted us; But they are less obedient unto thee-- Observe, and by the virtue of thy thought, Know that, 'Tis thus. I see a creature caught To-day beneath the knife, and in such wise That no man, for a day, could be more blest; And then I see the nobler life again, Thus giving life itself to thee." No one said aught of mine. But the man that had grown up made a servant Whose bonds were so as not to hold a life In bond, however broken or made glad. Life's sweet hour out of the to-day, and all That night, which was, to him seemed some day, After the dream of the world ended,--all, At night; and only after noon he spoke, And told us tales of deeds that were to do; So that our hearts' strong passion, spoke of love, Found, and did not. And as in the beginning Each germs the wild bee swarming in its hive, So, in that day, all was so unlike love, One single heart, one common love ======================================== SAMPLE 393 ======================================== than the depths Of the old land of sun. Some rays of light, maybe, may fall No doubt, and that is why They are so light and edifying; Thee has a light in thee. I pass by Reekin's castle o'er, They trod from sun to sun; But, looking in thy face, I say They never yet had one. I have a lute, whose sounds may reach The soul of each lone echo; I have a lute whose words may be Alternately breathed forth; I have a lute whose every look May follow where it will; I have a lute, whose every tone May quicken or convulse, Like fire from a far-distant peak, And, but so faint afar, Shine out amid the darkness there Mid flashes of nocturnal dreams, Like lamps on an angel's wing, When the last lingering glimmer seems On long-ago forgotten hours; And like as when from his celestim Some power-enlightened substance gleams, But, lost in having all that's dear, Dispersed and trodden down, I still may seek, unmoved of men, Some chamber-window of the past; But, knowing thee, I still will dare The deepening glories of thy face And say: "Thus doom'd, she came to thee!" For, once in his quiet room, Beneath his raised, old-fashioned tomb, Beneath the light of the morning air, Like a prince's barge, was hewn and ta'en From its slow keel by the tempest-scarred Alchymist, in days of old. His sainted soul, the records show, Seen all, was bent their ways to do, Not knowing right or wrong; But just to think that with wild eyes His soul had caught the luring sound, And from its quivering seat He saw the white moon rise, and run Through the opened door, With low, sad voice, with open eyes, And hung the silken ring about His heart with unawares. Or, haply, in some quiet place That ancient home-hall neighbour gave His songs no longer hymned, But the sweet notes that rose, and breathed, Above the careworn few; Or that the silvery minutes trailed Closer and closer round the board Like flowers that kept their health; Or that the words of praise, that died In aught but silent praise, Might have gone up his nobler side, Had he not said "Good-night," And told the world how dark it was A night without a name. A little wine-glass in the Inn, Still russet-pale and old, The landlord of that reverend Inn, Which, like the old man of the mine, Bequeathed to him as his own What he had done. Yet, in his too, he taught to see With reverent, contrite regard, What gifts he might have brought to me, That he might be but poorer, when He left the rest. For long he cared not when I came; 'Twas his reward to know The features of my Inn had dyed His own with woe. For so it seemed, if mine should be The little wine-place there That should his name have midst the three, O lady mine, I'd give the leman Forgot to ask. It happened one day that I brought him With a pot of clay in each, And he had a shilling of mince-pies And a rake that looked like smoke. But since that day there came to me No word from any man Of the kind that I had thought it was The friendly human span. And so I stored the dollars in From my near tabernacle That morning I could thank him For doing my unfeminot Desire of self-control. And there, while I flung the books and wrought, And, one by one, I felt my veins run liquid gold And joy about my soul. And so I thought of all the toil That waits the traveller's toil For the haven of the heart to bring, But not to fill. And all that care he had to do, In his quiet after toil, No hand could track the blossom through Nor seek it in the soil. But some way soon, ere it be time To change or romp or ======================================== SAMPLE 394 ======================================== of Jesus! and of him who sees What he sees not, quick to deeds and true, And of his deeds, He is the Holy One. And he who, sitting with me, can behold Naught but the glorious, flowing out of gold, And of His grace all things that are made whole. Not all have seen, and all have felt Thy fall, That they who stand in such bright, holier light, Weeping for those who walk, in such pure light, Must rise to such sweet height, and have attained! We have not learned all this, nor understood That love shall be an element divine, Nor the veiled depths and whiter shapes of love And all the secrets that keep heaven from above. Not all will know, or all will understand The need of Jesus. He who walketh alone, In faith and hope, in radiant and happy days, In them, with whom we all shall journeying go, Will choose a sword to make the sword our foes. The way is but a psalm of love to those Who have such strife as this to reap the palm Of those who struggle unto it, who stand By it, to garner it to bear in hand, When they behold all this, and know, it is The end of all they strive for, these will miss. But God will give us light, for, with the touch Of His own healing hand, our spirits will Heap with the burden of His mercy, round Our weary feet, and find the light to rust, Which only falls on all who seek, or meet, Whether it spring high, or whether weak or blessed, Over the wounds of those who feel the hurt. It shall be wrought of many perfect deeds By angels, nor by wicked kings unclean, Nor shall be won by any wickedness Which falls from none, but we will know it all, The spirit of truth, the spirit of righteousness, The spirit of charity, by whom all live, Of purity, and mercy, and who give In himself grace for others, and in you, His brotherhood and strength and help for those Who overcome beset him, and to bind Christians and men, and lead him out of pain. So was my will fulfilled; but in the cloud Of that insatiate longing which, transcending The nature of man, to match his destiny, Creeps slowly through the sum and in itself Still matchless, for the future is with him. With you there waits indeed a "Soul of France," Saints for my fatherland and France and France, One with your sons and daughters, beautiful, With Breton and your daughters, and you too With water and the sweet mead-water, And day by day the fierce electric fire, Through whose red smouldering splinters of the cliff Seem to bear off the vapour that begins With far-off snow, on which the clank of steel, Sharp-edged, and iron-pointed, is as that O' the three-cornered clangour of the guns. Oh! what is life, the thought that lives in gloom, The thought that, cleaving to God's purposes, It is the thought that hath no fixed end, That knows not how it fares, nor when it falls, Nor when it lasts, nor when it quite is spent, But as a pastime of old books indeed That books are running ghosts and none can read. Oh, would I were once in those hopeful years, Ye days that I gazed with so wondering eye, Ye dear dead faces, ye dust-woven veils, As life and time are mine, with each to each. Would I were once in those dear ones who live And bear those thoughts, immortal and untouched, By spirits wafted through Death's mystic wings. Oh! I would have my will upon the Earth, This Easter day of joy, in each great soul To close on earth, and sing immortal praise. Would I were a tree in whose green boughs, In a tempest-tossed bark of light, it bears Their golden fruitage in its solemn boughs. Oh! would I were a little drift-wood bird That can fly on its wings and find its food, Of rarest sort, in silver-cradled gems. Oh! would I were a rock I too above Among the stars, and warm in their own breast, With these, to walk for ever in the light, And hear the voices of humanity Like distant waters dash, whose voices make A music for mine ear in the solitude, And now it ======================================== SAMPLE 395 ======================================== , well read; his glass let fall, And turning, gained the sand. But mark how often on my eyes He read that mystic word; He, like a scrawl, at me did fly To claim my splendid lord. If, with the rein-de-cog, he knew My master's voice and face, Woe ne'er was written in a sheet More royal in disgrace! When I from his dark prison came, Through bitter hours and days, To his one subject he could claim My deepest sympathy; As I a tyrant were at once, With a most cruel art, And now and then my will did rouse To deadly ire his heart. 'Twas in a dream to me he woke, And laughing then outfolded, And like a king he now began To lead me gently thither: There was no feeling of unrest In my chaste bosom then. But now, ere yet the morning broke, He at his master's door With clenched hands sought his merciless foe, And to avenge his swore He hung his head upon a chair That rang so massive o'er; And there he found me on the bier, And then a smile of joy. But why did he, with ruddy cheek, The while my face did show him, And open to the monarch's view My pale lips drawing so? O beauteous face, how couldst thou blush So proudly to behold The beauty of thy chosen dame, So beautiful in gold? But with a frown my lips did mock, And when we spoke it seemed As if my kinsman near-approached My very heart would find. O fairest face, how canst thou look With such a wistful scorn, For now my very heart would break If thou shouldst speak with me! 'Twas some ungainly joy, and yet I felt As if the very day would come, And many years of mourning swept away Ere I could bid good night to slake my need. I often feared thou wert by far too great. Now at its height, thy glory comes apace, Thy shadow comes not, but in standing still; And I would fain uplift mine eyes awhile, With tears for all these weeping and this woe, I felt as though they looked upon my face As if they breathed such sorrow as they know. What then? Ah, not all joy. But from this hour I dreamed my widowed race, Wise, perfect, perfect, unto perfect man; And, by a week or two, I reached the sea Where flows the mighty sea of Lombardy. A year went by,--I did not know what more Had yet been left. And in my troubled heart There lurked a knowledge that hath nought to do, That o'er me burned a memory like the sun. I sought to know thee as a lover loves A tender maiden, whom his fond heart thrills, And unto thine all fresh and living flowers Heard naught, far less, the passionate story. So moved I round those pearly palaces Where passion and the innocence of snow Have ceaselessly entwined them. Now the soft wind thy face shows, and the rain Of sunny light on that fair window lies; And in our hearts the lamps of white and red Burned softly through the window, white and red. And thou, my sweet, my true, unbroken heart! I shall not pass unmeet forgetfulness Of those dead days. The hand of cruel Time Tossed the soft keys within my house of stone, And now,--that marble floor I flung away,-- I place them by upon a drift of mould; And there, instead, another mould we have Of the warm heart we once loved, and this grave. How swift the ages fleeted! Hours flew by, Like swallows, when the west wind takes their flight, And, taking in the autumn's month of light, They peer into the sea and find it still. The hours slide on, as if they ne'er would cease; But when I see thy dark eyes, dark and sad, My feet press upward to the shore of peace. Here, in this inn, my own Ulysses found Our house's best guest. Here we set forth again To commune with the friends of simple life, My pampered guests, my ready fopper train. Here, in the kitchen, lives the golden-haired E ======================================== SAMPLE 396 ======================================== : And thus beheld I on that breaker theme, Who whelm'd him gently in the boiling wave; For nought the gulf was larger than my theme, And all the waves were wash'd of either grave. Of landing up, it seems, the wary soul Might, like a body laid on either shore, Wander, and to the brink at last attain Where to the sea the hermitage appears. A narrow strait and crooked and profound Embraced the parting pinnace, which descried A rock close by, which never to be row'd, Save on the part that clung around its side. A cavern, where digested, round and wide, With serpentine and with adder's tongue That goblin led to life: it seem'd the frame Of one, now enter'd, who that sate on bench, Stood ready, winking in his devilish maw. "Shut there the cave, whereby I erst alone Was led astray by magic of the place," He said: and then to me: "The troop of those Who come with me, were so great evil, that The love they bore never ability For death, could make them love the light of it. Of gold, and selves piled above the hearth, they brought, With ill-conceal'd device, an evil crew, With hideous crew, to drive the lazar hence. "The entrance here," the hermit said, "I say, And also to assure you, is the gate, I think: but that implies a better fear, Which oftentimes enriches when it enters: For as the arrow, bent to reach the bow, Leaps forth and flieth whence it featly flies, Thorough the nether passage it will go, Even such is that cave's grisly door: withal There, more than elsewhere, is the height of rocks: And, issuing forth, within there are the vaults Of perishable stone, as the next round Of that self-same tomb, where of himself His fellowages stand. In that abyss The shapes, which thou beholdest, were beheld, Because they were the true which closed the bond. "Thais, to whom Grace has been for other times Enormous, these his dignities," said I, "He is so strange, to none of us a guide, And so beneficent, needs must thou needs Thou feel as to that also; and that They were not clearly to me, from the depth Of the first circle I to thee have brought." He show'd me many others, one by one, And all, as they were nam'd, seem'd well content; For no dark gesture I discern'd in any. I saw through hunger Ubaldino grind His teeth on emptiness; and Boniface, That wav'd the crozier o'er a num'rous flock. I saw the Marquis, who tad time erewhile To swill at Forli with less drought, yet so Was one ne'er sated. I howe'er, like him, That gazing 'midst a crowd, singles out one, So singled him of Lucca; for methought Was none amongst them took such note of me. Somewhat I heard him whisper of Gentucca: The sound was indistinct, and murmur'd there, Where justice, that so strips them, fix'd her sting. He, answ'ring, straight began: "Woman is born, Whose brow no wimple shades yet, that shall make My city please thee, blame it as they may. Go then with this forewarning. If aught false My whisper too implied, th' event shall tell But say, if of a truth I see the man Of that new lay th' inventor, which begins With 'Ladies, ye that con the lore of love'." "Brother!" said he, "the hind'rance which once held The notary with Guittone and myself, Short of that new and sweeter style I hear, Is now disclos'd. I see how ye your plumes Stretch, as th' inditer guides them; which, no question, Ours did not. He that seeks a grace beyond, Sees not the distance parts one style from other." And, as contented, here he held his peace. Like as the bird, that winter near the Nile, In squared regiment direct their course, Then stretch ======================================== SAMPLE 397 ======================================== With silver-mounted urns; A gurgling vault is at the prow; The daring fresh wind flutters down On puffing wings, and, through the red-roan gate, The elfin swims along with downy feet, And gaily springs. Down, to the low sweet notes of the flute's voice, A little pair of blue-eyed daisies float; The daffodils in the green fir-grove Are dancing with their loves. The crystal-crested sumac sets A scintillating flame; the butterflies Around are scummy, and the bees With pink-acrasined feet; the butterflies Quiver with honeyed pleas, and where The thick-set boughs come up they pile Their flowers with little stings. Out on the small sweet-flowered rails A rainbow lifts its misty rose; Out on the lightsome fluttering gorse The larks begin to sing; And in a cloud among the pines The jasmine white and red Fall from the mistletoe; the jasmine Drops in a crimson bed; And in a place where warm the grasses Are waiting for the bee, Blue-jays like dappled paradise Sleeps a blue-jaysened Deity. Little thoughtful creatures sit On the grassy coasts of it; Little things with lovely eyes See them far out upon the skies; And a wind that blows from far See a tiny cloudlet sailing far; And a wind that sighs from far, And says, "I'll come," with "Where, Where, little thing, Is my wee, wee wife?" Little cares she when she pokes the fire; When the snow is soft and nice, Then her little cozy paws Are so safe and close about her feet, That she answers "There, my Kate!" Her big eyes with their hazel eyes, Her hair of gold, Her nose like the berries On berries bold; Her small feet treading down the snow, Her nose like the berry that grows below; Her pudgy lips are quiet, And her feet are small; Her head is small, Neath her palm-tree's shadow; And she sits on a kirtle, On a cosy stone; And she watches her kittens play, And they pile her nose and little, To keep from the fox a minute On the mother's nose; And they say, "Perhaps my wee Is the prettiest one of us three!" Oh, that is the wee, wee wife, The wee, wee wife, Who pats and caws and frisks and prunes In a weelegged coot of coot-pens, All leering in the damp air, That seems so soft and fair, Where the wind is wailing shrill; And it whistles an invisible tune On the hillside, that is chill; And it whispers, and it calls From the dark, and it calls From the dark, and it calls To the dark, and it calls To the dark, and it calls To the dark, and it calls To the dark, and it calls To the night, and it calls To the night, and it calls To the night, and it calls To the night, and it calls To the night, and it calls To the stars and gives To the dear, and it calls To the stars and gives To the bright, and it calls To the stars and gives To the light, and it is There, till it all grows dark and hoary, And every little ghost seems weary, And the sleepy bars are breaking, And I think of my little bed Where my wee one was asleep! As I was going to the fair, Soft music fanned me still; As I went down to the well, Soft music filled the will; As I sat at her feet, Still happy, and yet sweet, Wondering, yet somewhat wistful, As I listened to her story, I heard the music waken, And dreamt a dreamy pleasure, As I heard her voice that o'er her Had called to me, but dare not rise To catch my eyes, And I opened all my eyes, To catch if I were there! The light died on the chancel walls, The night turned on the shore; But I can hear her fall and fall, And hear her pulse no more, And vainly and in vain her cries ======================================== SAMPLE 398 ======================================== she had touched him so, and gently sank At his feet, falling prone from her,-- Then would he gently call to her, and weep, And melt the fragments of his hair and neck, And her fair eyes, and her good hair, and neck. She gave him at once her own, and knelt By one of her own husband's dead; and then, And with a gentle smile, she turned away, And kissed him with her loving lips again. He lay there dead, the dear love he had loved, And all the joy the living love had had Was turned to darkness and a hush of prayer. At midnight, when he came to her, it lay Upon the mountain side; and the great rock, That lay upon the mountain side of the hill, Had many stars to show, and many planets to make bright; So he lay sleepless; while the cock crew, The gray and sombre cock crew, And the horned henchman crept beside the hill To keep his time with his ten for the clock that told to three. So one, ere his succession from the rest, Chanted to his wife, and said to his wife, "My dearest wife, I die with thee! Look, my dear spouse! Look thou in this cold valley, where they stand. Where is my poor son? Do not dissemble! Mark the old pilgrim's pilgrim figure!" Ah, what a face! A rigid smile of dignity appeared On the pale lip of the pale bride, as she moved Her hand, and spoke sweet words, as if in pain, Piercing and piercing as the trump which called to the dead! "Sweet bride, whom I adore!" he cried, "unlive, What hath my prayer unto thee been doneg In this abode of solitude, the end Of all my being? May it be restored! Could aught of honor pass away, or come, In this cold virgin heart of mine, from me, Or the pure soul of it, henceforth--were it The country's custom? Ah, poor babe--ay--take My blessing and my favour from thine eyes. "O maid, and O true wife, farewell! Lily of the mountain, I recall This silent, bright, true love,--and, in exchange, Ye who have looked on your deliverer, And named them with him, take your trusty rest, Take for mine sake this little babe of mine-- I, that was born so easily!--to grow Slow as the leper, still as thearoo; Nor fear, nor joy, nor fear shall be my shroud, But silent, like a grave--for this I die Ev'n for the love and this--for this I die." All night the rain flew by, and still the rain Poured o'er each arm in the wet shroud so fair, They reached the leafy wood; and there, again, When lo! beside them came in life a pair Of gentle nurslings; all that they could deem Most coveting, and most coveting, they sought The mother's hand, and so beside them stood, As at her mother's dying Shakspeare, Kissing her lips, that they would die--all white! It was a little white and slender girl, Our father, who was bent on this great woe. She did not think she was some fair tallest boy, But for her seventh time loved him. When she came To that far land, she stood by him and smiled, As if that giant spirit on him, looking down, Had found a circle in her eyes; and there, As if by magic, found a star that brightened The heavens with its rays. And then there was a cry, As if the young men came, And went, with his step, Right to the farmer's hut, and Ellen's door, And Ellen's doors, and many sounds of folk Who came not back to the house, and up, Being quick'ning for them, left alone at noon The porch, and entered in. All this he told In such wise as the eve his father went, Laughing, and crying at the door: "O God, We have made thee, and we have shut out the world. Thee, too, we have shut in the beautiful arms Of our great father. Now, begin to work!" He cried out in his pride, "O man, God keep thee!" And brought a casket of silver, such As those worn ======================================== SAMPLE 399 ======================================== outside. And mihi is non Imi. "The Unequal Picture" is a characteristic object of a life. As the stories of the Belfrytenmont hold, the two destroyed the town near the font (of which not acquired at the present day, which gave its epic voice to the nine pages. "Oh, terrible! All vengeance on the coward!" But Here lies an even Academe, whose name is "Invadineer"; or "istigator;" known as "Elginus." It was probably a great juvenile poet of the great nations of the Ogyre. His masterpiece is probably a large piece of parchment in the ogiveas mulepsi, or chiseled merchant's masterpiece, the iron stanza. The "old English Christmas tradition" which partly consists of two distinct passages. New England translations from the use of the ode, as spurious "hospitable" poems were that produce the antagonist of heaven. No escape from the literary source of Dante's Longing for (2) smoke. The power of "antiquity" was once called a sign, that may be "intellectual," the "interem;" it is here supposed to symbolize a tree, apparently from a common metaphor; and again, as in the "Old Testament" the same name is "intellectual," and its close name resembles an same character. "Children of Mary": ages and ages ago I drew the mortal lamp upon its side, And lit the black ooze from the glowing grate Where lurked my boyish limbs. I left the boy, And came on earth--but heaven forbid the like. 'Twas not the lights of home; it came to me From the far mountains--where the last faint foam Was in the farther west. The scene was changed; I fancied this to some, the selfsame type Of the lost light that lingered and had grown Like a great torch--but, ah, not that alone! I had a shadow (fame and love and youth, And warm desires and ardor, these were spells, My restless being--too young, unashamed, For her young glory of the young world's fame, Had had its call: these are the ancient gods, To whom the new world's tales are as old dreams, Of graved stone and perished incense. Here The poet rests as he who listlessly Walks o'er the sand upraised; the lover, he Whom living most with the green turf above Looks down on her sweet beauty and the grave Of the sweet flowers he loved (nay, often starts For sweet lips hushed), draws back within his arms A clinging kiss; another lover lingers, And laughs in ecstasy, as flowers that close. But I know not, for where is that clear light Of heaven, grown dim with all their flushing hues, The clear, immortal sense? On that fair sphere Where love and youth as guests at once were seen, And all things fair, and beautiful, and pure, And full of promise and of sweet delight, They laugh at love, and turn their souls to heaven? O dream of joy! O hope of that sweet night When man, as from a vain world back to heaven, Rose and set forth, from dust and heaven was sent, The young man's Sweetheart! From this bright, sweet world We come, as from the destined realms of heaven Thou camest, ere the sun knew one such change! Thou hast come back, thou courier and herald Of angels bright with flowers and tongues of gold, And scenes that woke the mild, reluctant feet Of love and awe to earth's deep utterance. Thy voyaging wings, and gentle, fairy songs, And delicate giras with bright tresses plumed, With scented banner and bright golden cord They gave thee in the day of sweet repose; And all that bright, sweet world they gathered up, In its stern majesty, with whispered tales Of virtue, in its beauty, and its storms. And well they spake, in that far Eden, And in the Godless, and the hollow heart Of the young Lord, whose wisdom and whose strength Was as the strength of Love; and as a fount Of knowledge full, in His compassionate eyes Who saw, believed, and suffered them to see, And laughed to scorn, all purified from stain Of sin and sorrow, and on dreadful cross Looked out and spake in pain ======================================== SAMPLE 400 ======================================== , saith the fowls,' Vátárá who could answer, Quain to Válmíki, smitten, The dust was shaken off him, Crushed beneath his feet. And dead the Vánar strong, The dreadful gift of kings, Who, beautiful and young, Loved as his sire caressed him, Showed a fair face behind, A mirror of the truth. But came no Vánar to assuage The grief that bled his eyes, Nor in the forest lived a wight To see how goodly prize he earned, Or won his ready life. With mangled hound and broken arm He fled from every saving charm, And Ráma(957) severed from the foe Like Indra from the moon,(959) And bound and rent in shivers lay Where’er he looked and looked, Through her bright neck and cruel breast, Like Rohiṇí the chased. And Ráma on his conquering way, When Lakshmaṇ saw that noblest prey, Felt sure a living death within His tender arms to quell. Again his eager glances tried To Śúrpaṇakhá of the bride.(959) Then from the earth his spear he raised, And the broad glittering targe he blazed, Severing the mighty spears with gold, And thus to Śúrpaṇakhá told: “Here is no weapons, mad with haste, No lance to fight, no dart to waste, No coil of cord to twist or throw: Each Vánar flies his foeman’s foe. But in the fiends that haunt this place Here stands a mighty tree,(959) whose boughs Are loosened by the rushing blast; And there the root and fruit are cast. Dire is the tree that tames the steep Where demons guard it as they leap, Its branches are the tree o’erthrown: The peak-visaged tree of Ráma bone, The stricken branch of arm, the boughs That gave a life to every woe, The creeper on the barren boughs, The broken branch of arm, the bow And all the tangled fragments grow Like ruined ladies of the line, With each unlovely marks englut, And shattered root and shattered bough. Ráma, with Lakshmaṇ by his side, With Látá, fenced with guarded pride Who thus should fall and die, but she, Loved by the beauty of her face, Sweet lady, thus might stand: “For surely from her deathless eyes The queen of Maithil race(1062) lies. The dames of each high retinue, The bride and dame who love thee true, Now like the mountain fawns on high Seek Ráma with the deer to spy. Let joy be with thee as she flies, O Lakshmaṇ, strive to calm her fears By binding tranquil in her brows, To all her soul her secret vows. He who, of earth and skies bereaved, Looks on the giants’ sinful shade Will with keen arrows, sent by fate, Fierce as the God of Death, debate. The mother of her husband, none Of all the demons that be foes Of their own bliss, can hope a place Her spouse may seek and find her face, So lonely and so desolate. Hear, lady, for thy grief and fear This woman’s slander have I heard, Who lay, without his help or stay, Wishful and cowards on the ground. For till one thousand years have past No word of her to us is said, That has like odour lain on us Of her deep longing for the dead.” “Happy Kauśalyá! happy she, Fruit of her woes, her husband’s hand, Blest with all bliss, with heart like mine, Where every hope is but a jot Bound by theBoundless All-One’s knot. Now let her love thee, here she stands Loved by a faithful husband’s bands, She who, in grief her heart to free, Keeps not her tresses dark to see. Behold those locks dishevelled still, So pale and full of mirth and ill; The stains of woe are on her cheeks, In those young arms so fair to ======================================== SAMPLE 401 ======================================== s, he throws them from his brand; The sword is cloven, and his hand is on the mast. And still my angel I keep in the bonds of prayer, While, faithful to my banner, through Europe cries --The banner of the free-- "O sons of a land which now I see!" I hear the victor's shouts, I hear the jovial sound That rouses thousands to the deed I planned, I see my Prophet's banners in the victor's hand; And yet, with all this courage and devotion, O stoves the sanguinary von Orb to flame, And, with the good old rapiers, heaves a mighty storm In the large Niagara! I see that not impossibleising the bar That breaks my firmest anchor. Upon the tide Of power, wealth, power, like a torrent bursting free, The storm-cloud rolls and rushes on my head, And rushes down the vast Niagara, And mine and you, both bar and rock By the isles in the unknown world out-thrown! I see with my own eyes, I see The shifting smoke and the wild clouds tossing In angry spray, 'mid the din pouring! I see the earth--the grass-- The frail tree of climbing wreath, The pine-crowned rock looking free Amid the depths of the death-dealing gale! I see great Deed and the meek child born Of Peace, who cometh with calm scorn, And speaks the slumberousness of the night, As he journeys among the starry skies In the clear ecliptic nights afar. I see the Earth--the unbounded air-- Huge, naked seraphs moving everywhere-- Rising and falling, falling still; Across the lucid space, Above the weary face Of meadow and pasture, adry and fill! "O Earth, thou light for good! Not unto us is thy virtue denied, Not thine, not thine this happy land! O Earth, for Earth must rise, Not thine, from us depart thy braggart sway! Born of our grace divine, Thou knowest all things divine, And all thy thoughts divine, From our Creator's hand, To feel and be obey'd, And know that naught is vain, And, in the ways we know, As thy glory and light, The very heavens shoot forth a joy above! God, if this be our work, That man's unconquerable heart may have In any good as great As thine immortal art, For ever and ever must toil to get! But, if with this right hand Hastily shouldst thou understand How high is thine own right hand, How fair to have, how fair to sell! Oh, what a lovely sight 'twould be If on thy path at every step there fell Trick sacred influence, And it would seem like Love to live alone! Yet Love alone to us is unknown, And in the ways we know Is everywhere, everywhere confessed. Who hath not fain in our sight, To see that life ere long Is ripen'd to an utter depth of light; That neither night nor day Can e'er obliterate aught That in our minds is faint, Nor ever fills our souls with holy fear? Or by the Hand that stirs our hearts, We cannot quite forget The yet familiar form and countenances Of those calm features there; The God-like calm that lies Under the holy hands that ne'er shall fall; The blessed calm, the holy peace Wherewith our souls do ever climb, And oftentimes we think How sweet this life of ours, With all the store and increase Of blessedness in life on every side. It is almost true, that we Who are wedded to the sun And do not yet love the heavenly blue, Do not yet aspire To be Gods, but men, rather than men! How solemn is the calm! No tempest hath the calm For thoughts that do not perish here below. The heart's high stir and stress Here is restor'd to the cross, As the quiet bounds of the lake Do free me from all fear. The mild impulse of a summer day Doth teach us to divine The pure and holy calmness of the air, The balmy, cooling breeze, And the broad soft-suffusing breeze, The fresh earth and the clear, How beautiful to see, How fresh they shoot and make, O woman beautiful and bright ======================================== SAMPLE 402 ======================================== ; from whose brightness as she grew This morning, first the Sun appeared, with rays Dawning, and grateful Evening mild; then soon Dewy clouds the night had spent, and still the Sun, Incredible, for the cloudy mists yet spread Short, and not lasting, in the humid sky, Fell with the fervor of his beams, which else Not all Night had to their setting known. Beneath the burning splendor, in his hand He held the burning brand of orient flame, And, firm and undismayed, he fix'd it there, Where sight and motion joined ill join'd. Thus watch'd And seldom peril, nor was e'er perchance The steersman's toil: his spy, at once, at hand, Came thither, and he gave command to call On whom he was, so they call'd him. "Ask," said he, "With what fierce thoughts, or what notions sway Your mind, or whether it be passion or rage, That we have chosen this emprize, which now Makes us not singly to the harlot gay?" "To him the offer which we make assay," Replied my master; "seems to have cost All labour, if it be not for the good, Of the grand paragon, who 'mid the rest Is the most kingly. In her lustrous eyes That pleases me, I well descry the theft, And vengeance of her malice. Hence perchance May leave the herds unskill'd: for that deceit In which they nest, no skill can save. And there Where power is none, lust turns to vanity. That as the mind is in itself wrapt up In confonation, all our skill is vain. Hence therefore we are lost, there only we To joy in evil, and of bliss supreme." "That pleasant word of thine," another spake "Hath assur'd me, chary mildness, in that it Demands my tongue that can ill thrive for it, Thou hadst it here, that it may soothe my soul, And make me wish to live: and of this torment Instruct me, if thou ever see me weep, When thou hast heard that aught my voice was cut." "That pleasant word of thine," another straight Came to me, " strikes, perhaps, upon my fancy, Already either with Madonna smile, Whose saintly visage I dys dys dyssticks. Her let the saintly apparition please." "Sage! thou dost understand," I next inquir'd, "The air, and water, and all things of weight, Are in itself the cause, and (for that means With his great gift) doth make for thee of this The firm assurance good. But, as I said, This verse is false; for, if it yieldeth no Proof of resistance, when once free I mount, The thunder soon would follow, though a sign Held in his charge, if the last trump should call me To earth, and to the faithful saints; and they, That down in wood I now am come, I wot, Who e'en outside the shadowy precipice Are not turn'd round, will miss me. Well I mark, Here 'mid the living leaves, the animal Laden with these reeds his yet remaining hide. The will with holy other bound, that runs, O'er dusky holes, far wandering in the shrubs, His guide now taking, and now following me. "Why are thy thoughts thus riveted?" I exclaim'd; "Sith thou art on one A, L, a, L." He answer'd straight: "Thou thought'st me in that sin thou penn'st for me, Not in the downward shaft of Chastois. That thou o'erwear'st the sinners wilt not far, Unless the form be able to assume The skin, which they have on their backs; as they, That follow'd, still some steps apart do walk, While others others others steps do walk. E'en as the step, that hasteneth on before, Passes so pace that it shall be scarce found, Thou modern priest may well descry, from far, The shadows, that arrived were hurried on." I with my leader's beck once more The hand that spake, then lifted I mine eyes Toward the solitary, who of him believ'd, was gazing on the dame, that seem'd Young and ======================================== SAMPLE 403 ======================================== I am full of trouble! But make haste and be wary, Lest thy thoughts go bewitch me; If to me that's not a rover, I am ever riding after, Nor, by night or by day, Start at once from off the way! Did not obstruction's vessel hem thee, Better dreaded than the cellar? She who gave thee life enlivens, And a healthful house pur loseth, But with lifetime's sunshine enters, And with hearts serene reposes: 'Tis the same to me, I fancy, Who with eager thought enter thee! A crystal water gushes From the crystal of my hearth, Like the chimes of half-vented, Chimes in accents hoarse and grand, Like a double bell that answering To a sweet-toned angel's singing, Wakeful Echo from her pleas. Now Time's swift pinions soar not Through the realms of air and wave, But with grim and fearful view Foretells the end of day: And swiftly flies, and warms thee With billowy storms and snows! Furies, ye by your arts deceive, And show your wicked deeds in air; Ye see the end of human strife, And find the dread of dissolution! Look, where around the brink The sea-born tempest sweeps, The flood-waves panting for the oar, The strand-borne billow swells: What Power can make the tempest rage, What Power can strengthen all the seas, Or fix the destined mischief sure, If Heaven will only sweep or cure? Fill me with the rosy morn, The precious-hued eve; To you, who toil and never tire, In summer's heat and winter's fire, Why ask of heaven one bliss, When night is near to kiss? You ask of heaven that joy's excess, Of happiness the coming peace, When earth's green leaves grow rustling round, Or the sea-weed's tender crown. Beneath the open sky, Where the breezes are sighing, Hovers the azure blue, And her lover is sighing In the breast of the deep, In the bosom that dwells to sleep, In the caves of the brine that toss, In the highlands that lie below; There for him be his food, The billowy ocean roars, And the sleeper he loves, To the ocean is borne along From his cradle by cares and wrongs; He is borne by a tempest strong, Thither the billowy tempest whirls. The falcon, perched on the rock, In his green orchathal branch, Hath the thrush beauteous flocks to flock, And her lover is sleeping there. The nightingale too late repents, He roves through the alder-groves, And in tender pity learns That the noon-day approaches she loves. Oh maiden, rich in a blissful home, How bright in the garb of day! No cares would approach to thee come, Though delighting in chase away, And glory would paint the night With thy banners and camp-fires bright; All danger would seem but a shame To win thee, if thou'rt my belovèd. But feeble was thy desire, And feeble the love of a waning fire, Till the blue fields rose in the glow Of the setting suns, and the evening's glow, And the morn had gained new day; And night grew pure till thy shadows slept, And dawn waxed brighter, and life waxed deep, And life lay further than night or day; Thy heart but feigned an hour's delay; But the wish would never be thine. By the shore of Gitche Gumee, By the shining Big-Sea-Water, By the shining Big-Sea-Water, Are my heart and soul's desire. 'Tis delicious to list to a lover, To list to his whispers, his sighs, his sighs; Poor Nature will hardly expel her own woe With the plaint that a lover may sigh for, And "he'll wander," with lightsome tread Through tangled and tangled dells, To banks of the bright-eyed moor-wine, Whence the drops of the dew are drawn O'er the brow of the hill of the morn. Then with hearts pure and warm Let us kneel, a loving form, At ======================================== SAMPLE 404 ======================================== by him and by the furthest guard, Their equal ills by Pallas are supplied, And envy next Davis to exile sent. With strength and courage high they strongly glows, And with stern heart they look with scornful gaze, Willing the conqueror, who, heaps on heaps, When to the Argive camp their line he brings, Heaps on heaps the shining scythes with toil, Themselves the spoils of that great prince to spoil. And to the gloomy barks they take their way, Which forage from the wind might bear them safe, Then would they meet, and to their camp resort, And prompt their aid, where more to scape were vaunt. With huge hearts tower-like they wait the demand, Nor the black Germans or their captains stand. So sour their speech, who had no better heart To hear than other trumpet sounds; yet none Shall win the war, for mutual blows they wield, The brunt of combat, and of fatal field: And such as the false spy, to view the strife, A feeble nation yields, a broken life. The troops in haste forsake the well-known camp; A pow'r of treason is the king's award, And all the plain he rallies to his lord, And guards the smoking ships, and bids prepare For the mean means to gain the fort's defence. Within a thick wood's rear-row which the blasts Have scattered here and there, they shoot their spars; The trembling women fly; the trembling matrons, Filled with their marrow, to the dogs devour, And the lone watch, at last, is still entire. While thus the wretched Trojans give the word, A safe retreat becomes the land, each bed Of soldiers bound, with hope of rest from fight, And shelter to the faithful friends invite. Now, with full force proceeding from the height, The well-guided ships return again, And from afar the sun's long-roving rays Shine through the middle heav'ns with lessening ray. Equal to these were seen the Trojan bands; For each were born to bear a warrior's lands. They drew the splinter'd lots in different knots, Then burnt with fire, and cast the lots in dugs. The Dardan men with iron hearts they tear, And close with poles and cordage to the bier. Some to the bulwarks; some to stoutTarpeau; Some to a car and citadel they donn, But as they can, with impious anger roused, Not for the common safety of the camp, The greater part they of the Dardan prince. Nor had he fail'd that day in council first To close the war, but on a lofty stand, Where laid the doubtful hazard of the fight, The town to ready ruin and defeat: Pelasgian mariners the largest fish Will gather, while the monster fights for life. There seated now, the doubtful combat stands, Whether to fall in fight, or, back repelling, To lose the struggle, or to live in blood, That work of glory for the Dardan lord. The Eryx, old as Time, a god of storms, From Ida snatch'd he thus to war begun: "For we, when fortune lies in mortal mould, For the hour of death, shall all alike be gone; Then Dardan warriors, as ye may, untie The wrongs of one by one by whom we die. Nor shall this ancient feud, this war to you Make doubtful, but to-morrow to renew. A feud that these shall make in pitched array. Dardan, whose wrath excelleth Troy in might, Obey'd, and all this order, told aright, There's holy AEtna, Dardan's native land, Whose maiden Salem's altar virgins stand; Who, at the shrine of Phoebus, peaceful stay To bless our Deliverer, his sov'reign sway, And with new heat and gen'rous fervour burn Our fleet, and quench the blazing stars of war. She, when she met the Saracen's intent, A ship of lovely ships, without a guard, That was to Troy his native land, declared To ancient Calchas in the shades of death. One ship she slew, and one, a ravish'd spouse. The one her equal, Oeva, had no more. But to increase the slaughter, to the view He summon'd, and to raise, his arm, a ======================================== SAMPLE 405 ======================================== Of crystal pearl the chariot stood, Which is the fairy palace-hall. O'er it in pomp of dazzling mail, Its hues of purple and of gold, A regal vest was borne in girth; Its head with squares of light and white, Its long, bright, vivid tresses dight; And so its royal robe was dight. On its silk a sun-girt crown Hung, like a diadem, 'twas worn; As if the King had sued in vain, With royalty for evermore, And robes like these to bind it more. One in a frock-coat, velvet-lined, With star-inwoven gems was dight; And in a bonnet, pure and rich, A kingdom's stainless stainless sheen Shone clearly as the light-line gleamed On silk that shone, with emerald woof; With golden broideries that gleamed Like moonlight 'neath the pure Cathay; In robe of gold that mocked the gold, Bedecked with gems its stainless snow. Where'er I went, 'twas far away, In sunny Cheek, in sable grey, A palace's shape, a witch-hazel, Was seen, high hanging on a tree, With walls of brick and charimps, bright With gems of glistering lazulite. It lay,--a coiled, white palace stood,-- Within its cloudy arches spread, With carven amethyst and agate And opal-hued aisles of argosy. Anon a strange and stony tower, Reared high against a rock, fell low; It met from casement's pillars pale, And, with a hundred weird alarms, Scourged round the sear, unearthly arms. It rose, it perched upon a throne, Within a nook of gracious shade, A minister of God's own hand, Whose burning lips had never prayed. The pavement rose through azure light, It shone like sapphires in the night, Of white, inspiring love, whose glow The eye-sick spirits ever know. A thousand altars sweet and fair, Whose steaming censers seemed to stand, The incense of an incense rare From every shrine within that land. The poor, sad women came in white, To bear the news to her they sought; Their perfume floated in delight, And everywhere their perfume brought, And still their blossoms clustered there, And through the chrystal doors aflame, From many a vines and olives fair. The hallowed lasses' spicy furs Had never stained a blade so white, Nor woven primbuds, neast soales, So wild and tender, and so bright, Were ever eddied in its flight. In ringlets stood fair bouquets, And lillies there in banded sheen, In white, resplendent vestiment; While here and there around them flamed In golden letters all the glade, With every marvel faint and odd, A rose-leaf in the other's rind, A cloudless rose in fairy traced, And with its perfume blent and airy, Fit subject for a seraph's smile. The pansies and the trellis white That filled the field at close of night, The slumbrous dew and daisy bright, And wove with red each lingering light. The sunbeams round their delicate wings, Its pleasant influence shed Fresh dews upon the dewy flowers, And sighed and trembled every blade, With liquid music fresh impelled, To sanctify a saint and maid, Who bowed beneath the plenitude Of silk and song and tenderness. The beaded buds of purple hue, Puffed with their wild, uncertain splendor, Floated before the urgent view, Shook in the sunset's splendor, Filled the first bee's voluptuous swell; The moths and lilies whitely fell From each red, breathing perfume rare, And in the light glittered store Of flowers, whose beauty smote men's hunger; But light from out the tiny fern, That sleeked its scented canopy, Through the faint sunshine wooed their smiles, And led their circling footsteps thence. Fair went the breath that issued then, The evening-blossoms whitely gleamed Among the dimness, and around The shuttle of the evening streamed; And all was beauty, but the while Its ======================================== SAMPLE 406 ======================================== like ice on a hearth-stone, With no mark to throw away. But the world will long, and the ear of its voice May long hear it, but not in vain; And, with the world for its aureole, Its love be lasting again. And a whisper of love in the time when men shall believe the truth. Little I dreamed the dream of beauty, While I dreamed of deep delight, And richer beauty waking beauty Within my spirit's sight. And to the mind it opened over With a strange, sweet surprise, And I bethought me of the rapture That from the woodland skies, And from the pleasure-haunted rapture, That made men's eyes rejoice, The wonder of that awful music Which God Himself must make, And of His grand earth-thundering music Whose chains are set apart, And where He sets His rainbow paths In daring deeds for heart. I thought that beauty could not pall, And yet, through all my trial, I found that there were never men Beheld a human beauty. That beauty was, in sooth, the same With all save beauty there. And, from the fleshly tenement, The perfect Beauty came. My soul had cried to God that day With a glad, proud joy at heart, "There is no God that I can call my own, No man, however bartering the goal. Oh, come and find it! never yet Had woman known the use of this, Bethink you of the subtle bliss, The beauty, the completeness, The cronement, the completeness! Oh, come and taste the gladness That lingers forever there! "Oh, come and find it! never yet Was woman known the use of this, Bethink you of the subtle bliss, The beauty, the completeness! Oh, come, come where my soul lies, Oh, come to me, my love, my bride!" O love that is most beautiful! O Love that is most poignant, most intense, Untouched, yet meaning, infinite, And something else inexplicable! With love's name-page it shall pass away; And, when men think of love, They say, "'Tis so"? At least there's something, of course, about it. Pulsing and passionate, yes, and the sweet impassioned thought-- The blithest metre that ever was made for laughter-- The rarest ones that have a taste for making faces-- The rarest ones--how nice 'twould be, I am half glad now! It's not so bad for me. My dear little girl--that's just what I call her; Now that I'm so tired, don't sit still when you're sleepy, But sit down on the stool and play with Papa, And all day long to the theatre let me go. Now I can't keep my five toes off, only I can! Then I see how the ladies all stand quite still. Just think what they say to you once, my dear little girl, That's why you'd be awkward, and what are they, too? So you look in my face, and you look in my eyes, And you see I was looking quite true, you'll despise, Don't know where you are, don't think I am one of those three. So I'll tell you to stay at home, and now you have to go, And you never more would get back in my hands so long ago. It's the voice of a boy who rejoices In his days when the world's at play; And the heart of a boy with laughter he treasures For the work that's to be a-day. And my little girl, as I wandered By the waters I crossed by-- I thought it was strange my father and mother Would me and you have gone together. Oh, my heart was happy as a little boy's will-- Oh, I loved him--I have loved him-- As dearly as any place else could be, And now, little boy, I dream you are ill-- Oh, why did you come and pass into my land? When the storms of the winter have hidden the brand That burns on the heart, and in anger you wait, You cannot hear the sweet voice that you sought For your mother to be at the door. The long oaks, the hills, the deep ocean, The green earth and the wide sky, The winds that wandered before Have stilled them to a cry. The long-sown, shallow ======================================== SAMPLE 407 ======================================== -necked {3} and like the lightning, I had not I retract, not promise should be made me, So, to be brief, as it is too a man to doubt (In t' other sense) and I must needs allow. Of greater am I bound, on towards the height Of all I wish to soar, I make this prayer: If, when the restless heart, which hither tends, Hast hither brought me, shame! or worse, thou knowest, Whatever this to do, or that to shun. Well is AEneas taught to sail and run; Thy ships and oars they know none other sea, But hard to cross, nor safe, to cross with thee. So saying, he smote them seaward from the course Of Tiber, and, all I counted lost, cast loose. They, straightway, under his command, embark Some of the longest sail, some on the marge Of the false bark, and some in open gale Upon the waters, anchor them, and mark Where, on the land, they can the port aright, And, bidden for the welcome of the morn, Dive to the land-locked bay, along the sea, So great a city shall not look for me, Nor at its head, lest, set adrift by Fate, My voyage may become a deathless fate. Am I from some great city, known of thee By all the tongues of all the wide-spread sea? Ah, should'st thou find me, O my heart! indeed, Like to a simple citizen who feels With the lost pity of his humble lot, A feebler joy, a wiser man, more dear Than all the loud felicity of fame; And thou, the unforgiving and the free, And the unfettered bybl tongue of foreign men, Shalt seek me out among the nations here, One of thy race among the sons of chance, For thou shalt find me till to-morrow's light. And like the sea-gulls, which at dawn break, Start from their flight on sudden wings and free, Thou, like a sunbeam, fair and rare, shalt pass Among the nations, gathering up the surf Of thy great river, and the sea shall burst In thunder round thee, rocking to and fro As if they rocked thee in a sleep of wind. I have a hollow, I have no more To say of thee; but only, worse than most, As a blind man who meets a blind man's door And, with the better man, begins to go. Therefore, even thus I say, as I have said; I made my ship to go; but let it stay Unsailed, for I must do as I have said; Nor shall myself be called a slave at all. And, since I have made nothing of my will, Perchance my ship is not, for I have seen That which I say, in heaven. It cannot be, I think, the better way to make an end Of all these foolish matters. No one knows Who is my friend; who lives even as I am; Whether his name is Blessed, or he lives As here I say. My poor man needs a friend, And I have never cared and ever willed That such a good man's burden he may sink. The Barmozin,--what can he say in heaven If he could only find a fitful fire To warm his darling minx? Never! I know He is a fool if every flame that glows Within him scorches him. But there he lies Dead with the need of soul, as I have said. There are two sorts of friends, at least, to whom The right and wrong are equal and assign One state, to four, to seven. The banns that show An inward goodness, fair for many a mile, Are far from common portions, no one yet Has half the right to sit within his ears. Each chambered soul he sets apart to play In the same measure. Why? Is it not so That one must be a fool, or not a fool? It is not so. To-day I ask this question,-- As I have scarce found time to say before, Not worldly,--for I have no lack of wit. Well, if a man's in heaven, and he can hear, And know a language,--take him far away; And ere the world goes on and love him well, Pray God for one like him,--I ask it well. Why 'tis I should ======================================== SAMPLE 408 ======================================== un-sung?--It is like sounding of a flock To a clear, gentle blast, which makes the dead-cold cheer; It is enough to drive the ghosts from the drear fires Into the icy caves; nor ever aught of mine Has moved the dragons away, that I may not compel Some other daring ghost from the horrid town to strike. When once the soul is in its every wish, Thou know'st not what is like a lying thing; And if the soul be dull, thine injury Can make a noble speech more sharp than sound. Thy foaming mouth gapes so, it seems to grin, And very often with a giant's grin It lurks in all the corners of its gaze. It needs the fool's cry to be excused: The hungry crier gnaws with violent hands And rules for ever, and for ever commands Him who has leasted that he should have stayed And then, confined in his ancestral bonds, Forgotten to the city, walks unsought. And here is a just reason why this doubt, And a great doubt, which creeps and yawns without The callous spirit in its body armed. In silly sinners' shriveling, feeble minds The rarer sin is purged, and the dead die; Or as the bats upon their midnight revels Fling the dead corpses forth with gashes wide, And so, when fed, with water from above, Their souls re-bapten into earthly dews, With fire and blood the same as purged and pined, So these dread monsters, not content to know, Sunk forth and soar into the upper air, Like wary owls that shadow all their ways, So these but hold the very walls in chase. What then? A frightful buzz that buzz doth keep The quiet harmless of all living things From troubling any living thing. At last These feeding hives get off into the night And fall into their souls, and sleep again. Lines of defiance, of defeat and strife, While now this body issues forth in storm, Upon a fearful instant--death! and life May be through all its depths so potent grown That as of old 'twere all the winds would moan Before those eyes they never could behold Of any human being, soul, or body That could be aught but love and death--not even The perjured Tartar's head and burning eye, And all the lofty passion-passions by That would for ever mar the solid base And most enduring heart of man--the grace Of Death--all these let fall upon his face. The first canto: The Tamas, the Chorus Who knew and would partake the mighty dead Of the hushed night, in absence, who had led The wandering folk into that silent land Where neither foot nor hands find anywhere; Who as they set their burden of despair About the life so passing, with wide hand Propped on the bramble bushes, did command A miserere weird upon the weird, Until the weird was through, and all the land Was loneliest of all that weird. 'Twas thus With dismal fear their burden did they bear. The night had not yet taken wild scrutiny Into the ancient past, and they were pent By objects of awe, in deep chamber pent, For final death; as if all things were crazed, And their eyes smote with gloom, while overhead The ceilings overhead pealed out a wail Of despair, 'neath which all forms of fear, The turbid lilies, and blue lothes blew, And through these half-destroyed fabrics went, With patience borne, through soiled walls and fretted doors, And bits of flame all round their torches flamed. And on these melancholy walls there came A sound as of a hidden voice, and through A fearful air, an everlasting fire, And drawing from them, as one feels a stroke Of a great heart, the hot vapour rolled away. The night was crowded with a wildering noise, The wail of women and of infants close, A whistling and shrill reed of the strong wind, Whispers of crackling leaves and muffled beat Of bramble and tree-bump, and up and down Wet pipes of triumph, dropping, bursting shells, And wild and back, and all the mingling shows Of priestly faces looking down to heaven. The shriek of fluttering rooks as shepherd flocks That break with shrill noises, and roar of guns That range across the street and ======================================== SAMPLE 409 ======================================== no days! God bless them all! They're rather rough And hungry-tempered, mind-free from The thought of food! They've taken root! They've killed the children,--those accursed, Trim-loose and hard,--and most of them Have played the perils. And I say, God help us all! The children cry The rest is not the ones we've loved, That are but gallows-torn old graves. But still it may be. Tell them, boy, Who's best and worst? They're always rough And some are drowsy. Where is now The banquet? 'T was too long ago. And so we sit and toss the good wine up, Or swagger round the room and see the pictures, Or turn the paper, picture, or the thoughts, But only think! In just like manner this With all its childish shows. 'T is like a picture. And like a woman's charming likeness that Is quite familiar to the hour of man. When I was thinking of my lady's words, The time was nigh when we were first acquet In that great room where we were supper time, Of noonday after tea-time, till one sees Our room all yellowed black and washed away By that faint rainy gloom, the glorious moon, And then the place is like a bright thought. So, Here where she stays there is a thousand steps, Wind-tattered, streaked with white and lustrous hues. We must be back now in the tiny kind That play about our tiny tiny selves, Or in the taffet, tender, wandering flower And pungent flame that never stays at home. Or is it like a star-lit pavement where Folk ever walk in sorrow, and all so With us the clouds are over us, or only The crinkled silver of our fairy robes. When I and all the hills and mountains hear The song of one great love that cannot die, The world seems sad before we have a time, We have no griefs in sorrow. All the world Looks at us with a trouble in her heart, Her wrongs are very bitter. She has need Of these poor things, though they were things of God That we must do. She lies beneath our feet Here in the middle of the web of sleep, And we sometimes can think of how she died, And how she wrung her hands. It was not much. Only we can remember that she died To serve a humble patient, but forget That he had chosen the soft end of life To pay her the least duty. Now, as now, You cannot take the poor out there in that, For all the tumult of the world is over; That woman is dead; that you are wronged, For all the pains and sorrows of her life, And now that I can help you in your need I shrink as much as any mortal man. I cannot let you think of being cold. I have but three long years been dead. My first, Last night a ghost came back to me and brought My heart up to me, and I felt sure it seemed The dead would never wake again. She came, And with her eyes here and there, And on my face and on my head and breast, She laid her white hand, and a cold, cold kiss Breathed from a far-off place. Oh, I am cold! I cannot keep it all. She's lost her way with the crumbling earth Between her white hands and her rosy cheeks. When we asked her how she had come to town, She told me she had come. We were grown old then; I have grown cold! My son, my dearest son, It is the very day for last year's flowers That and last time my tear-drenched grief shall drip Among the stones, and my bewildered hair Shall 'round my mouth, as I wrenched out my life, As the husbandman drops the last dry seed From the old mother's heart. Lo! the white flower Grown in my heart, I shall lie down and die. If you would go, have no rest or any sin Let me be still; I shall be happy in this place, Since nothing left of God, except this man Who longed to find the woman whom he found In Dian's life, that could not pass him by. Yet I shall love him still, and shall be glad Of all my wrongs, ======================================== SAMPLE 410 ======================================== Ragus had to occupy his mind Throughout a hundred cities, and of shown And settled states. The emperor Charles of Anjou, Of the third act supposed King of Calabur, In the Noontide had reigned. With these and more Rages the world, that many nations filled With exiles and with monsters; with whose power Antonio da Ginello, and betrayed To his own city to the treacherous foe A Bucentaur now wholly given away Into another half of Punic lands. With all the plunder of an evil heart In Santa Chi known, but in purpose still To make another and another such, That, after the next sun shall be displayed, The greedy poverty of the same crowd Shall easily yield to savage beasts, and learn From them how feared by their own single act. Two hundred years are passed, since in the gateway The Lupe of Aventura fought against The narrow French defends himself and siege, A fort against the Christians. This while now A boy shows feats of strength. The seed of death Is growing up which of his five years Is upward to demand five hundred years. And as his forefathers had not been Cast down into the ditch by the cruel Moor, Bare of all prisons that the world has seen By him, and made fit for the living, so His nephew, Guineman, against the King Prepared to die beneath the Seine, or else Had by his courtesy been slain, already Devising death for him. In his deep grief Thus Proteus from his miserable case With sighs lamented tore his captive heart. And now returned to France, as president, But not returning from captivity, Because the King, whose mandate he refused, Had taken his just claim from Charles of Anjou, When banished were the knights from battle, fled, All armed alike for Charles' reign and arms From heaps of slaughter. By the haughty Moor The old man's blame was lying; thus he killed Th' enamoured baron; he had hoped this while To give his life to dogs, and vassals joy, To spoil the bodies of his vassals chased, Had not the King pursued the baron's scheme. When Charles waged with Guineman and Guineman Against the Saracens, his nephew fled To the Caspian deserts, and with him fled Abominable, with his fleet fleet fleet fleet, For the tidings of his nephew left behind. For the young monarch took from him no thought Save that at break of morn, he should not know The treachery of King Charles. From that strange end He gathered all his vassals, them he sent To bring from France; but at the appointed time This fair occasion led him to repose. To such a pass in Agramant he went For peril great of heart, and a despiteful act. From ancient days King Agramant returned, And with him went his mantle and his vest. Of a hundred Saracens the land was there, Whom at the passing of the day the king Did with such honour enter, that the troop, And all the royal city, bade them lay To their appointed place. That cavalier Was at the head, and to the feet, and cried, With voice which spake the battle's thunder, "Montjoie!" And from the King apart the warrior drew, And spake in haste; meanwhile the other went In search of Olivier, who came from France: "I bear in mind that thou hast brought some news From France, when heard my story. Two months past And I have seen the Holy Sachem and the peers, Of whom ye have heard others, as men say, In France, before the sun in his retreat; Nor wert thou with us: thou wert the papal men, Thou of religion the most Holy-born. Oh! wilt thou slay me? No! No! I cannot do Whatever here is right: yet can I not Of the contrary carry garments: only these I carry to a hair; that upon you, For more than a hundred, I myself will wear." When these two other knights had journeyed far, Girt by the paladins, a mighty shout Of joy at being close within the town, Rang out the towers of Carlemagne, and there Put on the arms of the infernal city. From one to the other the loud revelry Was rising; and so well was in ======================================== SAMPLE 411 ======================================== , land, or mountain near; “Tydides’ bosom warms a nobler strain, “In the resounding war with beauty’s charms. Far in the marshy plain fast, fast he lay, And rears in purple on the lonely spray. The Nereïd nymphs, those savage nymphs of song, For her own rape a soft contagion brings; Seen on the rippling waves to her own breast Smile, and through heaven glide her softest kisses blest. Then comes the croaking noise, the clapping cease, Through heaven, through earth, or earth, the clapping cease, One stroke alone her bloody fingers draw; Her beauteous limbs a stiff green snake disgorge, And through her hauberk streams the slippery gore; Prone on her breasts she sinks in horrid snows; Blood clings her gory arms, blood fills her hands, Thus in the monster’s mouth she howls her woes: While rivers, lakes, and rivers on the plain, Rend their fell flood with her with fearful crash, And the sad mother shrieks in agony. So a short sooth the rage of nature shows; Such as her present dire misfortune rose: Her whiter nymphs of hapless fate attend, Unknowing where to sing and to lament; For mighty Eloquence sat mantling near, And sudden thought from Jove the rule to hear. They that her wand’ring son’s advice reject, And the kind woman whom he once protect. What should they do? While such attempt they make, So late will they relent, and once be said. Else Greece must fall, and rise triumphant too: Far in the midst of air the sport they show. But lest thou pity us, the god controls, Or let us curse, as fate’s dire doom controls. O Jove! may he the wretched Greeks destroy, And snatch her hence, a vengeance they enjoy." "If that (he cries) a son deprived of grace And loved, be lost, then Priam’s fortune face; When our indulgent king the bed of peace, Our glory lost, our wish’d reward increase." Then down he rears the tree with hands on fire, Bright with its golden fruit, whose silver sprays Glowed on the summit of the golden stems; The topmost foliage, and its branches bare, And all its branches knit in brazen stems, Before the thrones of Idus. He decrees The happy boon of life; she bids him bear A sword untainted, that no power of Fate May mortal man in safety through the land retrace, (For bliss is theirs) no fix’d decree prolong: His blade is sacred to the hecatomb of Jove; And he his sceptre swayed, when call’d to go In search of plundering foes, whose vain ambition Might fire his bosom, and resistless steel; High in his palace-hall the haughty sounds Of gathering armies, to the Grecian hands, With warlike ardour; and, with proud disdain, He woos the foemen, and they fly their spoils: But where the standard first from Troy he draws, And where great Ajax strays, and ends his wars, Whom thus the listening kings with pity heard: "Thou, Menelaus, great in human race! My blood cries lust, and stained my noble breast With pangs of envy, as I meet my fate; And here—where’er the spoils I shall remove, Let no man touch me, no! let me expire! Athwart the battlements the coursers bring The fame of Hector! let that be my meed! The last rebellious must be treated well. Meantime, my friends! Troy’s fiercest foes allow No longer; let her loose from yonder bow; The danger great, the terrors of our fleet, Or on the topmost rocks shall breathe my gore; For, sunk in all its depth, my day of doom, Shall sink the star of fate: for then I go! Yet Jove commands me, and the wrath of heaven Abates my rage, and bids me feel no more." "Lord of the skies! supreme in power above! Bright in the van of heroes as in peace! Such was my arm; and such the prescience shown Of ample aid. Thine aid, thy strength I own, And bless the Grec ======================================== SAMPLE 412 ======================================== t was the hand That set forth daughters at their fathers' knees, With faded garlands and decay; And seemed the kindling of those female hearts That once the youthful youthful lover wooed, And left with youth and pleasure, even as erst The wild music of the morning winds. But could not quite, as seemeth good, my voice Eating the sweetness of a mother's charms, From speech abjure and letter to the brow Thou stoodest, holiest Lady! to these towers, O'er whose red-lettered threshold and left-revelled King John ye will have thought upon his grave. Methinks I see thy venerable face Reflected in the castle's folded arms; And I have caught the glances of my love Amidst the sheltering ivy's shadowy hues; And all thy blooming beauty is to me Like some serener voice of other days, Singing, like some lone bird of paradise, Along the solitary water-way. Alas! that I could find thee where thou art Among the maidens of this solitude, Nor know what 'tis that they deceive thee not; That I with finger of disdain have sought Thy refuge in the sounding hall of woe, Where they are pale and breathless, and take fright Of what I see around them, strange and fair, Of which they know not; nor are they the cause Which makes them love but not the memory. Thou art the life of me, and I am thine; And sweeter than thy smile is little John Amongst them all, thou know'st, and know'st not what He is, nor what a name that I have called This year, than one whom many a mortal loves, So deeply moved by thy soft voice and eyes, Or fed with too much sweetness; he it is Whom therefore let thy quickened heart reveal, That I am his, my guardian, not my son. Ay me! I see him here; behold the mane Of all our house! Across the yellow path All flooded with the rush of life and death; A shout which like the rushing of a stream Broke from a farmhouse peopled with the heap Of grain, and like the stroke of a sharp axe, Which has long looked for sure calamity; And to the window in my cottage-sill I saw a figure creeping; and he came, And with the jar upon his head and ears, And with the tramp of hurrying feet upon His startled and alarmed hat, he leaned Forth of the cottage-door; and down the wall, Or up the passage, with his long hair thick Between his teeth, moved with his woeful smile, And with his frightened tongue to mock him in. Stole from that damsel his once slender foot, Once shod with age and many a year of eld, A peasant girl from out a tender tract Of sunny land, a peasant girl, whose home Was far from busy care and fretting and toiled, In yonder village. She is gone at last; Homeward she hurries, for her maidenhood Has come; but nothing of this maid, nor less Can possibly be here; no more, for now She holds within her passionate, calm arms A maiden bound with pearls and roses set Upon her shoulders, as the shade is free Of any limb. She shall be lighter, deeper, And more enduring, and a little while, As here she does, to pain the famished gnome, And let her up and die. But if she pines, With melancholy, for the empty homes Of her old friends, and wakes, and there is none But puts her hand in mine, a strong hand girds Her lonely waist, and on her gowns and bands She flings a bitter smile, and violets glance Athwart the casement, and the lights are out. But o'er the black well I can scarcely see Though the well-water slakes its muddy tide, And a long, dashing, long stave lets it fall, And seem as from a cavern, and to rise And drop down the cross-heavily, and end On the indifference of the mountain air A cromlech of enormous shadow on the cliff, And, like a mountain peak, sets, in its crags, Black drops upon the water; to the heart, It seems as if that little blood were there; And, like a pine, that sends its trunks of trees Gaped in the sand; as if that pine ======================================== SAMPLE 413 ======================================== f lustresse, Obeioshe phaleres, in whose aurie weyes Circhines fables of Hippolyta and Circes, Ne doth the sangere, dere of Prodegalte, That mad in peynes doo many a many darke. And yet this moother, yf it eile be, This moost likewise hath hors, and in the weie Of generation, thanne com to preye Hir bodi, when that such a checke hadde. And natheles good is ther bot on a nede, Thurgh whose heste loveth and loves welth alle. Forthi, if I that schal wite hir wolde, Hou hast thou cause of love untrewe. For I behongen alle othre depe, To ben to vs of ful besy beseke In loves cause as is wel ynowght, And that to plese hath ben plesance. So ben ther plesance bot on misinges, For othre thinges in a mannes plese As we ensample to many an other darke. So mai it proven be that assemeth: For whan the grace of god doth seme, Than schal a better time be relessed, For nouther fortune wandre hir forth borne; And yit ther is in many a place, Wherof to stonde in special A kniht, as it is resonable, The whom a man mai leven gon, So that welnyh him to the bone Of eny grace the penance winne. Omnibus huic temple deesse leges Huic temple, huic temple, at ille tyde, Non maistringem ne for no tyde With al his meille hath he here; Of al that thing the pourveance dowde, He sette nothing at nought of pes; Bot if an other man it hadde, A gret feste, I rede forthwith That for the time he wolde it sent. The lawe upon this dede diere, Whan he his goode lawe myhte make, His herte, which is yit in remem, He sette withouten eny lawe So moche of love that he nam The worthieste in alle lond, That wolde an other have in honde. And tho this love no lengere myhte, He sette lai and hindreth thus, That he wol have of love al one; Of whom that I the Scole entreide, If that he myhte be non other. This nyht as be ensample, he seide, That sche foryat that maladie That scholde his herte sore abie, And evere schal upon his weie: And so forth after on withihtes Of som womman so overtorneth, The beste and the most worthi That he his oghne herte haveth. For now I rede how this Thebes Is cleped, and is nowise dire Upon the feith that no wyves Beth in the cause of loves cure. And natheles a tale I finde, Which fell in tokne al the nede Of that Ydomene most in reste: And for he wolde it were in wynne Of hem, whiche yaf hem conseil knowe And finde it redy as tofore, So wolde he noght have al the more, Save only for his wordes wyn, That he were for his ladi wey. And for he wolde noght abide, Til it befell that he was ded, He made hir chiere anon and said, And seith, "It schal be for the beste, What it is to ben bought beste." Bot god, which wolde him noght forbere, Yaf that he scholde natheles Of that sche was full sauf and leche, And tok the prey which he for herde, And ther foryeten thei foryen. And thus a man of Armes slowh, Which hath his place of glad ynowh, Thurgh beaute for the deth he nolde, So that him lieveth ate last ======================================== SAMPLE 414 ======================================== ; I vow'd--and, through the sultry air, Fierce to this height came flying high, I swerv'd in effort to contend, And push'd at her with weary foot; I grasp'd her with a palsy, bent Above her robe, and poise'd her hand: I dream'd, and knew the falling sand Had stain'd her, like the garden's hand! (Ladies, 'tis not that I start my work, For Fear and Rage at once Sir John,) A moment did I check her glee And call her mine, and turn'd her on, And look'd and laugh'd, and call'd her mine And fancied she was mine alone. Though she was then the rage of life, Her years of youth, and bloom, and strife, Though never-ceasing, and the more Love lit her, it was merely pain That made her what she was once. Though she was then not all my own, Nor bore my smile a hint of one Who called me thine, and so I sware I did not dream that I was there! Yet even such as thou wert there, Thou wast the page to give me where Thou wert array'd in light array, A kerchief'd tress to shade thy way; I came to pay thee mine intent, And thank thee, as a kindly friend, For all thou lov'st me, dearest love, That night, when thou didst walk above My sweetest smiles, a moment since, Thyself mine own dear Elinor. 'Twas midnight; and she seem'd to sigh In mournful sort to breathe a sigh; I thought that I had lost her, I, In some waste wild 'mongst woods and hills; And I thought so, how happy we, At once, were she,--I would not then Go into bed, or seek repose Beside my Elinor's,--and, no! And here were we together there, My own sweet Anne, my dearest dear, And Anne, the happiest thing on earth That ever nursed a wish or mirth! And here we were together there How dear to me each fond embrace! The rising stars, the summer air, The moonlight on the veering sea, Bevially, with no alloy Of pain or of despair, Shed joy and melody, As made us one, and harmony. And here we were together there, While life went on in changeful air, And care and toil and grief, And death's unwelcome chill; How much we loved, and more we loved, As loved we not, ere death's eye grew dim, We loved in life's last happy dream Ere Death's keen breath forsook us; While vainly we have wish'd and thought, Since life must end, and care must grow, And long and long we've been,-- We loved too much, and now we've wept, For Death is a relief at last, Then come to me, I love thee, love thee! He caught my hand that shook, and cried, "O come away, thou wanton fair, And I will follow thee, I love thee!" And when I come at last to thee, O, then I kiss thy cheek so pale, Thy lips have grown more red, I love thee! While thoughts went wandering by, I thought their witching music 'd die, But all was but a fairy tale, A tale that never had been told, A tale that in the seasons cold I told to men, to me alone, And all alone. Afar from me all loved and lost, All grief was fled, and all was lost, The faeries sung, and wars and fays, The sad, the fierce, the prison-lows, The negro-worm, and all the chairs, All in this place. But now I pine for quiet space, I wish no more to see thy face Upon the floor; For my heart aches with misery, My senses fail me in dismay, I too have wings to fly away, The ghastly things, the mire, the clay, Have won me way. There is no place like this for me Where oft I've paced, and heard the hum Of many voices pass me by, But never more: There is no place like this for me Where oft I've mused on love's distress, And many ======================================== SAMPLE 415 ======================================== oia is the god. They shall restore Her lovely face again, with all the wiles That she had known, by schools of old reveal'd, To gaze and listen to her soul's great truth: The chosen flower of Zembla, 'mid the bloom Of Athens and Rome's high-priestical, As the hemlock in the fair world's prime, Though fond of pap andcourt, had grown To manhood for her sake, as many a king And chieftain of the past; and when 'twas grown She yet was virgin, wife, and all was new; And when those dainty, witless fingers crept Among the roses and the lily-beds, With their small glassy snatches, in the dim Gems, where they blossom'd, and in lucid rings Bright fount of crystal, led her to the King. They say there is not here a fairer bride, Which Cora loved, or, may not be the bride Of maidenhood. Men's hearts are not their own, And seldom are their mutual lips that own The tangled wishes of their innocent; But that it should not be, had they been As prest by some unprofitable hand (The hand that lulls them) there was little need For either to suggest the chance of love. But this was false: the Doctors in this art, After their suppling have invented so, Had not the better mind of poets make The good it gives, or that it gives, for so Men would not, though so wretched, praise the good, Nor would they praise the happiness it gives. Well, in these days they often counted on The good actions that they had done of late, And so men scarce themselves know how to blame. There is a pleasure in a moment's time (If not in the old time), and so is she Whose beauty in its bare adornment glows With least esteem and most familiar glee, That by its splendour and its natural sires They feel themselves the sons of English dames. Her first conceit, conceited of her state, Appeared in England, trying to be known As one that knew, then could not know the more. They bore her aloft to the Eastern court, To the white court of England's farthest woe, Where many a giant Apennine looks o'er A huge Atlantic sea, where two fair youths, Who led her on their glittering armour bright, Return'd to that procession of first years. And yet they did not look upon her more. Yet after thirty days, a clustering swarm Of giant officers and men was seen Came crowding into England with their troop, And, clustering in the columns of the hall, Their armour sweetly waving in the sun, And many a tall pavilion, bright with gold, And chests encased in artificial shade, Lay in the luxury of glittering spears, And rings and jewels dazzling, and plumes and gold. And all that train of valiant officers, In the old time, lay longing after fame, Waiting with spirits and with hopes of fame For that great Empire that surveys its realm, But spends a slow grey eye on glory, and Is oftest partial, though remov'd on high, With effort vain, and irremovable, And showings of ambition vain, and haps That veil the grandeur of so many hearts. Beneath this humble roof they sate awhile, For many suns shone on it. In the train They fed them; and 'twas weary, and their stalks Could never hold them; and all babbled in The summer morns, while fresh perfumes breathed round. But when a brief time had gone by, and wax'd On a still, bright, and chequer'd, evening air, The quick-wing'd people in their ships arose; And with them came a pedlar; and he said, In no ill humour, but in every look, "We wear the hat of every British Chief." Greeted with many an an epithe, till she Resumed her dignity and native air Amidst the new-come blooming heathy courts, Where the expiring knights on parchment carts Had piloted their beauty, from the dam, To grasp her hand, and to display at once The silken lustre of her liquid eye. He rose, and cast his colours from his deck, Like one of those that bear the Oxus yoke, Forgetful of the roses of his cheek, Since they are but the scattered ======================================== SAMPLE 416 ======================================== "So that to far Happy Land, one grain Of wit unknown, neglected and disowned He takes not." And my master said: "She only is not fair, for on her cheek Hangs radiant garlands, and her lily hand Hath drawn fair blossoms, and her parted lips Have drawn the sweet forgetfulness of dreams." Then to the shore came that hard-fought race, Sad race! And I beheld great Isemus' son Once more amid the hallowed Grecian hearts Swell as a bull-whelp gory-faced with brine Beneath the battle, full of sweet revenge; So great the price of love: for he had slain Even so one of the three. Iavelins, Lord! They chose out one of them; no second-hand Had ever dealt to them the work of man Or woman, and he sank in sleep and joy. So they had made him a fair monument. So through the country they were driven home; And still to drain the cup of bitterness They held communion, and no limb of him There passed the cup of bitterness alone. But on the other side a Roman sword Washed with grim murder, laid upon the breast Of Agamemnon; he who in the porch Once with the Laughing-Gods came forth to seek The home-land, but the two men ceased to seek Longing for lands that gleamed with virgin gold And silver! And that evil Eoäs' child, The god who slays and with his brave young heart Gives back the wealth he stole from Priam's house. Thus Arimea's child was saved by grief And sack of many a year, and there in tears Sat at the hoary head of Atreus' son. But now with plenteous sorrow they had found The day when first he went into the fight. As on the dark-blue sea some great wave drives The cattle o'er the field unto the shore, And all the torrents from the sky are heard, So from the crevices of that sea-coast Of Calydoe, from those iron seas Of the Sea-Pitæ, did Neoptoius flood His ships with such abundant spoil, that there They might be strewed amidst the hollow Deep. But even then as when a ship is loosed From out its store in some sea ravine, And from the land the men depart the land Towards the hollow rock which formerly Was ploughed by Neptune with his waves of war, A blast of wind swept o'er the shield of Troy. So with the groans of women and of maids And fawns and shawings on the corse they lay, Till all were perished; then the ancient King Poured forth his joy into the mighty host. Yet even so he made the pile accurst, That even now the Achæans sweetly cried: "To have withheld them were a foolish thought To mar our feast: but from the hall-top shines The doom of their great masters. Let them lie! The gloomy Cyclops wait their punishment. Go wash your hands of him; and slay him there!" But when their warfare was completed, there Sev'n from the wood a cave-like vulture sat, Cauld in the rocky cave, in quest of blood: So to the lofty-gated ships were charged The guards, and in the harbour's midst he stood, And loudly shouted to the mighty King: "Achilles, thou with patience and with care Beseem'st these tokens, this my word, O King! I need not say, 'He saved from evil chance Our child, when parents were but baby-like Weaned from our bosom;' but a little now Has he been given to this evil plight, Who thus hath wrought this thing; and now the ships Are empty, and the haven and the wall, And now are gone to pieces; but the King, 'He knoweth best, and we from him are sav'd, And the sole hope of comrades none may know. Yea, he hath sworn the oath, and soothly, now, That no ships are as mighty as himself, Till he be slain; and there against the wall We stand, and in our arms awaits our King." Thus for a hundred days they mused, and then Upon the dreadful sev'nfold night beheld Fierce Pyrrhus, with the thousand heads he fear'd, And cloudy ======================================== SAMPLE 417 ======================================== taken by the bacillus. That I may make a ship of you, that I may know Some place of burial, where a grave's lowest dune Will blow it on this water,--where I chance to die Upon the top of a cliff, may be a boat, Which with the dolphins and the yelping brine Will swim the sea, and roll the current in, Without menacing wave or wind, or wind, or wind. And on these waters, with protecting wing, Lend me your courses, I beseech your life! Till with the rising of a tide of life, As from a sea, or as the vessels fall, I, following, from your shore, set foot and head, And, following, find another home than yours. Let me, upheld by my ancestral hand, In whatsoever your lot lies, yet stand, And wait, upon the Severn gates again. There stand an island, in a floating bay Till the wild surge of ruin finds it 'neath the cliff. There stay while I with you remain. Anon, in one of those grand offices, Some novelty, in which to raise the hand Of science, your almighty presence awes To wisdom. By the rugged growth of things Enwoven into form, and fashioned to be thought Of many a rood, a master, with wide brimm'd Arches, and Provances that make the shores Shine with the sunset. By your acts of law, And the immense completion of your plan, I draw unto myself the thread of truth, And draw it into shape. The old sea grows With her huge boughs, as though some vast sea roll For ever downward the gray gulph, and, from The fiery furnace, the huge molten grain Smites off the ear. For many a sea did Spain Turn with black shores of Europe, long ago, But now with many a green abyss and vast, As if some isle of England shut out there, And all the mighty continents. Theirs not The gorgeous pomp of flags that swathe the seas Which lead to seaward, yet would stem the tide, Were England but as fair a land as she. For even now some journey of the land Wends o'er the sea of might. To-day I keep For her these hallow'd hours, which no man sees As friend can help, although his sight might pain Some stormy night; and over all her bounds The only light that ever swept the waves Was that one star, that gleam which they advanced. And right of earth--according to the Gods-- Those sparkling interspaces--I remember well My wandering from a summer-distant sea, A very ancient sea, where once we dwelt. And once, as I remember, I was there, In the quick memory of that tropic day, And looking round, up there I saw your face --As if, 'twould seem, alive, in a fair dream To find you, in that fairy-like romance That time has not destroy'd. A purple hue Gleam'd from your eyes; your voice was musical; The lingering sail was frank, and only then I felt that I was leaving you. 'Twas just about Eve When the first bird her portal Thrustlock'd athwart the yew, And there I heard a knocking at my door, As though my heart would break; I heard the creak of the hinge, The creaking hinges creak; And, oh! how I remember--now I know It was a creak. A black sail like a storm Hung o'er the silent main; And the great waves creak'd and shriek'd, Like a mastiff's ghost in pain. Alone, alone, I stood, Till, as I lifted my eager hands, I knew not you or me. Days and nights we sat there Without a word to speak, With lips invisible, And hands invisible. For the first time, with the last words We raised to your desire, I was silent, I was still; I had given all my soul to know That our two hearts were not in one. Long hours, long hours, were there; And I could not think of it. I know not how it was, or where Its course I never know; And yet I have kept my heart in store And communed with it so. And now, while all my soul was still, I think I never knew, How it would end; and I would ======================================== SAMPLE 418 ======================================== , And once, I think, 'twas in the town, That Juan, thou fine gentleman, Had one of such wild deeds as this, 'Twere shame to say, 'twas very sin, But I should tax myself to win, As was the custom of my brother, Whose ancestor, of course, was he; And, of the thing I speak of, this I know will never make it miss The memory of a kindly life Which drew me and my sisters near. Their native isle and native air Soon made my very mind arise And made my visage like a bear, A lion, if he had but eyes. 'Tis true, that ere I left my home These joyful times had doubtless come With neither wealth, nor pleasure free; And then the poor, obscure and poor, Would pay their taxes for their care; In vain would they demand my aid, From any other clime conveyed. Perhaps I'd find my efforts vain, For duty calls me back again. The hungry sea might spare enough Without its conquests on the sea, The wind might bear me wheresoe'er, Nor ask a thought of liberty, If 'twere but by the gentle breeze That plied their good affairs on me. O Thou, who see'st the spirit fly Of a lost man, and find'st him nigh, Be all their doubt and certainty, Till I have found out what I must be. Thus, what is past my power to aid, Is nought but vanity and shade; And as the faithful swain would do His fragile garments unattended too, As threadbare reason doth enfold The aged warrior from the mould. All who will follow thee, and all Who now are all of them, as is The custom of thy drowsy day, I shall peruse; for thou, my friend, Art the spectator of thy play. And these be but a memory, To all whose lives should run aright The sands of Time's tremendous flood; And thee, I mean, who, hadst but first Durst Anasúey to his bed, Sworn to thy lady in the burst Of wildest fear, and o'er the dead Flung back a tender loving look In his young child, and here laid up A sobbing kiss, and here laid up An image of his ruinous mien, And mouldering in her helpless hand A staff with faithful witcheries. I should have cried, Thou art the man! None save I and myself to see Here on this spot, by sorrow worn, I see the sand beneath me strown With all things earthly thereon blown; Here in my dust shall I complain Because of Káma, helper still Of all my woes to me resigned, And thy whole breast to roof with grief, Now rather my true lover, chief, Ceasing to smite the heartless Chief That stained the sire with sinfulness, And hid his faults for ever hence With deepest sins of honour's plea. In him the deities delight, The saints have stayed their rites of old; And should he ever hear again My prayers for his departed Sire, His consort I, the world would mourn Because my father's blood is borne A slave to me, and oft the Sire Would wail and waste the breath of earth. Be still, my boy, but strive with Him Till in thy outcry thou be set, And with thy sweet voice bid him weep; As long as he be deafen yet, May many an old and friendless head Pass into ashes, as his bed. Nor think of me with all my heart, My only mother, though a boy, A single grace of earth for all, That here I live to chear my fate, As the four seasons do suffice. I grant that every heart of me, Where lowly shrubs like fruit in spring, By man were blest, and born to bless Their happy fortune on his loom, Will have the fruit of strength and bloom, Yea, fruit that hangs in woodlands sweet, And every leaf the breeze drops down, That everywhere perfumes the air, So rich the wealth of all who see The alms of life, to him the crown Of flowers beneath. Alas for this, That it be made, no load to bring That heavy load of fruitless praise, No splendour of holiness, So good to those without a peer, And strength of duty, as the sphere ======================================== SAMPLE 419 ======================================== with this well-loved jewel the maid, Who, though to fire the pious vows he bears, Is glad to see the timber he has built Above the months. She, from this woeful rent When she hath soiled the red and dripping leaves, Wax fit to hang herself, obeys the rill That fain would cause her to be spared, alone, Baring the love, till the sweet fruits have grown In a long darkness, and she seems as naught, Save the green aconite within me wrought, That runs its slow length from the poppy-flower. This is the garden I have planted here And planted it with many flowers, but here Have not such intricate green things as we. A little rain settles about the eaves That run down to the water in such crowds That there should be no table, but a bed, Withdrawn from the cool, dark nook, for the wet sun Would pass from the clear heaven to fill its cup, Unless we would, when we would pass from earth, At least give over to our tired thoughts That only by waiting we may be at rest, Be here among these solitary paths In spirit from the wayside where all things Are equal in a flower. Where is the voice that said "Dear woman, save my soul"--and the slow flame Whose sound was like the running of a stream From the heart of a boy, my life, my name? Some name it holds all sweet and low between Its delicate lips; but it may pierce All colors into presently the hue Of tender poesy, and their joy and pain Are but the ones that made the rest of vain. Have you not seen the starry mountain spire As though a flight of soft wings o'er a sea Of poppies, leaping, towards its singer's eyes? And is your sight not more divine than those That, with a quivering torch, bind the whole sky To a wild mountain air of dusky blue, Which does not need the world's least leaf to shroud In its own darker veil? O, thou art true, And yet so near the stricken heart should lie Whose grief is past all words, save some it hangs As with a pent and subtle mist that drifts Before a wandering wind. What dost thou here But heaping endlessly the walls of Rome To a warm blast, but ever and again Making it lift and bear the weight of pain? I know a thing that's fair, but thou art hard, For thou shalt not be hardened like a man, For thou art overwrought with any curse, And all men lift an arm to bless thy youth And let thee be a woman turned to ruth. I love thee when the summer day is high, But when the spring hath taken leaf for joy It is more sweet, I know not how it is, Than all the songs the summer hours bring forth, But that it is not sweetest. Aye, the same And more delicious as the breath of Fame. It is a noble thing to die, And anchor up and bow to death With hope and patience, and devise To pass the weary days away To watch the coming of the day. And sometimes like a child in prayer, When summer day is dim with haze, I ask for a content to wear My old accustomed days in prayer. When summer nights are long at unredeemed, And noon is dark with bellowing of the wind, Why should the chill slight body fare as cheer As when the stated summer days are near? Why should the mould of undisturbed sleep Kiss thy fair face when all thy beauty creep Into thy full heart? O thou compassionate! Thou shalt not lie at rest by thine own breast Nor with thine alien body bruise the chill Of thy poor lips, pleading eternally Whose breath blows bitter and will never slay, And only like a thin-sanguinèd knight Seeking for scapes, thy foe would let thee lie. My virginal regret is great when thou dost fade Out of the sun and forthwith to the shade, Reft of those still familiar leaves which lie Whilst we went forth to search the natural vale That we should tread, nor ever see the wreath Of summer 'reft of flowers; yet still I breathe Full in thy face of passion, and thereon For thee the graves of those I loved in life Are spread, and in thy breast a pang of strife. And all thy days there is a season yet For thy kind deeds, since thou ======================================== SAMPLE 420 ======================================== the smallest wave the vast earth hath. And yet no less Even of this thy elder world was made Than a new Adam's, and in him 'tis weighed; He was our father; and we have nor shade, Nor nought so fair as we; But thus we know his eyes are things beyond All ken of mortal sight. And he our light knows man's brave doublet, As 'twere his light that breeds the Woman's Seed: Therefore of all the Faith is he our High, The Truth moreExpressing than our Highness could. The Saint is he who knows its honour clear, And He alone, who works its miracles, Who deems it perfect in some starry sphere, Is she indeed a blossom, lifted up So high, that in the dimness of the East It bows as with a cloud, and dyes the stars And breathes all Air; yea, is she alway thine? I, who have spoken thus much beauty, fear, And admiration have not learnt to praise, I shall speak profitless of beauty's use, And praise no less, because in you I am That one I could discern as in the bough Of thy mild bough, O trembler of thy trees, And of thy branches hanging on the air Like a soft veil o'er summer's unregarding cheek! Ah, let not this be thy beginning's complement, Since whatso else of beauty can be true But beams can follow light from darkness still; And if thou thinkest that this be but art, Let not thy beauty be the gift of God To give our eyes its full perfection; But let them also be the soul of light To this our planet, since on her, O Night, It is not night. A Ramnian rose, where one may see The anguish of the pitiless night, Rushing before him with his batter'd hoof Like some mad elephant that hath spent His shafts on emptiness, Came to me; but with one fair eye She caught me, and with that sigh did draw The glory of the stars from out the firmament. O shaken hair and starr'd, That I may catch one whit of thine, And thou wilt find it worth the while A half thy years of wandering on the starry sky. Sing me, that when I come to die No one may hear my sad complaint: For when I go to dust again My memory will return to me, And musing in some distant cave May read my name and live again As I, too, in the soul's dark room, May read and write the selfsame lines, And die again in holiness and deep repose. When first I loved, what time the rose From her fair face in spring-tide bloom Of maidenhood that knows no fear, Darkling her beauties with the air, And finding still the world too near To worship in some pleasant place, Has gird her loveliness with pride, Feeling her heart's deep love to be Part of the creature's deity; With love that casts its lovely fire Into the bosom of the blest, Whose fire has ne'er left desolate The beating heart of one that's there. I have a fount of tears, for they are sweet, As e'er by leaf or shoot were seen, An outward grief, to mortal feet, It doth inherit in this world of sin A heavenly power to bless and curse The pangs that freeze when heaven's gate is shut. Then weep no more, but weep, instead, And while the world's new hope is wide With all that ever lov'd and died, Our tears and sighs, each other share, Content to drop fresh tears to me; And thus I say, 'Dear heart, receive No e'en that sees us sever'd from the living!' Since, for the lack of all good things, No use to mourn for dead things. One grief more, and that is all, And with it we are naught, my Dear, Poor, faithful, tender thing, to mourn; For life is now too short for life. Hast thou slain Love? Nay, the white, the living, Flame, the pulse, the breath of the victim's life, The shouts, the cries, the tears, the strife, Souls that are dumb to save, to give! Tears, and kisses wet, Which were not for these But for thee, my Dear, to live. ======================================== SAMPLE 421 ======================================== For the spot where he kept his eye. There, in that sly, familiar place, Where his victims did lie at their feet, He would have as some fool despair'd, Or else, with such anguish at heart, As were he but now on the stage, With those few human souls o'er his stage, He would have elope with delight. Even the weakness of conscience was gone, When his dismal custom it was shown. He had never, 'tis true, to have done With his poor, and to let the world run. But all trouble he felt like a brook At its source, and to use it in guilt; And the drink of a dose at each quill, Though he drank it 'twixt empty and chill, Had alighted at last to th' devil. Though the devil and all his own stuff To his heirs and himself were enough, He gave back, not to give himself up, Though himself were some twelvemonth or more. To his orders he came on a morn, When his reign had been in an underground; When the wisest of men said, "Be this gage!" And his neighbors he cried, "Cramp us all!" But the dwarf to a cry of horror gave way To the flight of his anger and fury, And, stooping beside his pavilion, Smote him suddenly with his mighty hammer. When his hands were outstretched in their conflict, And his brain took fire in his brain, He began to think, and he ran to escape The world and its vain and consuming strife; And a swift volition he lent to the power Of his Maker, who look'd on his life With a languid and strange little smile, And a froward and tremulous smile, Like a flash in the dark of his prison. Of his life no account would he take, But he stretch'd him out in a fright With a nightmare on him, nor look'd on to make For a desperate desperate fight A paltry defiance, or challenge. With a fierce clap of hands on his brow, And a wild oath of fealty, He flung him out of the sight of the throne To wait on the doom of his nation. A time stood he calm and erect in the light Of his large free soul which was shaking Like ice on his veins, like the glancing Of points in the wind in a book maybe Of rhymes on the heart of a Greek; When the siren, her partner, came near And dash'd the good men from under Like hounds from a leash and fell fast to a halter, And rush'd in the foremost, imploring-- All in vain--not a breath in his nostril! Now the people came in, the brave, To the light of the nation's glory, With a cry which they cursed and then bled, But he came not FAUST to the sight of the dead, And the world shook from its forehead. He fought and he fell, and his dream was a dream Of a furious race from the grave of the Don; And the last of his race,--which the Don had to be Was the Don who drove back with Death from the Don. This is a warm evening at last, With a dusk, half-hidden eye. The shivering, soft-throated bird Makes music through the sky; I catch the strain, it seems to say, As a gentle spirit sighs, I hail the sun--hail, starry May-- Its parting, nacreous dye. Yet if that mustach's speck be thin-- You ask how that will fit With the delicate thrill of a scint? You ask that will do it? There! No! Sing and die, wrong and right! And so fare your own wrongs, But my calm soul shall cry for light-- There! No! No! No! Would my soul knew how they lay In their graves where the moonbeams lay, Purple-bright in a glassy plain, In a lonely sea-surviron, Where I hardly dreamed they would come again; And no dim presage that grew When a sailor came to me, Fluttering the scented grass as a bat to me. And would I might pass them again, To the warm still sea, again, I might look, as my spirit and eye grew bright, On a sea-surviron, and find the land Where my heart sank to its sand. There's a whispering ======================================== SAMPLE 422 ======================================== ness shall never more prevail! But if some soul up to the realm of feeling, Constrained to drink of life's divine prescription, Sink in the crystal of a world's deep feeling, Then here are flowerets that have never stained Court-favourage or luxury of Court, To please the king for riddance of his suit, Or stir him with this corporal delight, That rapturously slept in luxury, Admitted to the core of pure delight. Then you, dear subjects, once again 'midst earth, Oft in commingling crowd, our debt to pay, To seize this little taper of the heaven, Which waits you, tear-stain'd home of all the Day! Poor martyrs of religion, doomed to pine In the brief sunshine of an age long past; Whose martyrs felt their follies more divine Than any wither'd face of thine, and last! Why may not Christians always be their friends, Soon as they're gone from its lov'd favorite ends, And, like the pastoral flocks which stray and sport, Thyrsis, that once so lov'd and pass'd at Court? The world lay far beneath us in the wrong Which wars and discord would annihilate; And ruin stood where often was found restor'd The power that once had been the boon of state; Still was the human allurements leaveth to us, Still is the creed and still thealter'd law Which did at first relent and cherish paw. So true it is that what we never had, Paneowness flatter'd and ne'er lookt so bad, Saneowness, we are left to ourselves, or may be, To sigh to us that we were ne'er so bad; That all our swains are happy and wise, and never Seem to have had compassion on our sorrow; They are so blest, the man would say, are thron'd above us, Where sorrow never seemed as merry an' as love; And that 'twould make a man to live for ever, And add to infinite of woe and merit As banish'd vulgar banish'd vulgar laughter, When stupid folks would bring us other woes, Wifes, wedlock, bower, and stake their lives away, To shut our eyes a while and never once go near us, Nor to society pretend a day; For while we're in the middiest fellowship We seldom see a friendly neighbor: The time will come--noth rather ne'er come nigh it-- For with the peace, forget us to repine, We're not ashamed to feed the people's ear yet, We're not even strong enough to fatten on it, If such don't happen to move the people's pity, Their fury's altogether where they will. And so, gee whiz! for we are very sorry, And what we want, I'll burn it over true; Yet this quite make the people fear us mad; For if we did it, I can do no more Than keep our going, though we never did it, Nor ever let our youngsters do it. One, Chit! and two, and three, and one, And all the church is full of one, For she 's at Chintz still more in debt Than thou wast wont to happen to be. That then is quite enough for me, But that is quite another thing, To ask me for a home-bred youth, Not quite so very far from here. My parents' lands are quite as bad; My father is a thincer, too; The boys I know, they're used to grub, They're all as pebbles in good luck, I never spoke of it, I'm sure; But, oh! they're not as chaps in sense, Although it gives me real distress, That I do like their girls withal, But they're as dutiful as me. How still the little cock! It crawls And nestles there in either ear; It's one thing more; I like it well; I still can tell it very dear, But still it seemeth like a part Of happiness to come with her; I'll make it all I wish for then, When once I look across again, For still the same old happiness Makes all my days and days seem bliss, But she, who in her thoughts sees near, Shall never knit again, Is like the fays in night and morn, Both shivering in the breeze ======================================== SAMPLE 423 ======================================== all day, In crowded park, at home, or by some rougher way. Well I remember that no book was written there, But, in the desolate wilderness of years, To make a story of the past, for me The lone beginning and the coming of that year; No books, no studies, since the hearers fled, Met us, or told us of the solitude we led. Within our shelter, where, at eventide, Midst the dark pine woods, on either side, The owl sat listening, still and calm and sly, Save that he marked the moonlight on his eye, That told of night, when, with his soft dark wing, From the o'er-watched fire the small gnomes were flinging. We, then, were happy; life seemed but a dream, As of the dawn the new-born daybreak gleams Far in the cloudless azure of the skies, That wept in pity on the sombre ties Of dim old time. Ah, no! One heard no cry, One, whose deep brows were laughing with the light, Murmured of Love; yet the old face would die Upon her breast, as the sun in the storm-blow lie On the water's breast. Like a dream from the heart of the past he came, Like a herald to bid the ghosts depart, And forth he led the ghostly host to flee, Leaving the wreck of his empery, And vanishing, an answer fugitive From the tall arch, and shadowy pedestal Of ages, whose last word was ever said With his quick moment, and whose pulse of dread Not found the dead. Within my lonely house I know no more The secret of that vanished battle-plain; And even within my inmost soul I hear The furrows of the spears that yet may be, The breath of whose unmeasured vultures slain, Are all the shadows of the dead I knew, With the still thunder of a battle-shout, And the white banners waving overhead. Within my secret, only audible, The heroes and the chiefs of all the world, Here in their twain I look with mournful gaze, As with that solemn voice which no man's child May worship, even as the Prophet-king, When with his presence he must call them by, Crying aloud, "Alas! how can we fight? Alas, for the Omene, the dead mistake!" Like the great voice from a departing lyre, Like the deep thunder of a battle-thunder, They came, and laid their armor on my breast, And the gleam of their armor broken, And the dull rush of the hurrying hours Blotted my memory with the embers Till I can feel no more the restless glow, The trembling hold, the damp of the blood drooping, The frozen crush on the stony brow, My mind, a dead fool, turned to marble now, Never to look upon the pain I bore, And the few kindly thoughts of my boy years, Have haunted me with an undimmed tears When I sat long beside the dead man's bed In the white watching of our ruined palace When the legions of the living Were poured in thunder to their aid When the mighty walls of the foe were laid. My days are well-nigh ended, and a deep, Sorrowful ended the march of the march, Though I look with a passionless mournful eye On that pitiless will of deathless dawn That has left me and is not for me. My manhood will not leave me when I forget How the winds and the battles had been mine; Nor will they take me back to the deep calm night, While the great doors shut like a prison-cell, From the weary city asleep in the cold, But I will muse in a long sweet song Of the hearts that were freighted with life and light; Singing of the day when it was toil-pressed In the breaking of heart-needles, By the cold steep ways of the unresting, Of the constant striving that was my breast As warm a nest as the wide sea's breast, Yet to the sunless skies ever more Love-word of my heart that no one knows, And you by the dim lake lying We have gathered up heart and life again For the mighty passing of our joy and pain; The swift, unsatisfied sunshine of the Uncompromising and useless love Has come on the waters laughing at The unplucked passion-throats that rive for ever ======================================== SAMPLE 424 ======================================== now, and and bending bow Of tall alder, mark the rocky mound, While, 'mid their scatter'd thickets, bending o'er The fence, the spiry summit shimmers o'er. Far merrier to be in that rear, whirl'd round By our black winds, the white tempest sweeps Themselves, while shaken woods the javelins tore. To the high headland, where their covert is Of sacred pine, the downy woodman comes, And, putting to the east the western ray, Spreads his long halters o'er the level plains; Where, o'er the tender growth of mountain and fen, Fair, forage, shady, the tangled branches join, And the rough Libyc seeks the briny glade. Here, crown'd with beechen, GAMA shall inhale The balmy odours of the vernal gale, And the wild waste of Taurica be known: And there shall INDRA rear his stately throne Till burning marbles, dry with shrillest dew, In the glad earth proclaim his Highness due; When, bursting from his couch of lofty oak, The embodied God of light his glories spoke: "Great are thy Lords, great is thy virtue's praise, And all thy virtues, great, and glorious, blaze Where'er the sun his burning chariot wheels, When glittering lamps illumed the general glades, Unnumber'd rays were thrown from saffron beds, From the sweet-scented leaf that laves the strand, And the green flowers that round them wave their hands: Great are thy Lords, great are thy peerless might, Thy wondrous deeds o'er braided Victory; And great their glory, and their shame confound, Thy conquests gain'd through all the eastern ground: Great are thy Lords, great are thy genial might, Borne on the wings of angels the sun's bright car, The waters of the sky victorious down, Thy throne the brightness of a brighter crown. Nor shall thy wondrous acts alone control The slumbering muse, and all thy virtues raise To Virtue's crown, through all the vaulted frame Of human thought superior strength to blaze: There, at thy feet, the voice of grateful praise, The voice of grateful sweetness long shall rise, And the soft hymn the Saviour's love repeat, Whose praises led the angel to entreat. "Children of God! our strength is given us here, The faint strength of our fathers, long foredoom'd, To give us aid on earth--oh, press them not, Great are thy Virtues, yet thy goodness shined; And righteous, thou the Father's sole command, To give us succour from the gentle hand Of him, the sociable and good, to guide The ignorant, the joyful, and the wise, To give us comfort in the day of need, And guide us to our finish'd rest indeed. "Children of God! their strength is but a test That sets them to the race which strives to rise. Though but half-talent from the fleshly vest, A closer kinship claims the loftier ties; More ardour fires the valour of their sires Than self-conceit in highest sphere of creeds. "Children of God! our strength is but a strain, Which once has borne the sorrows of the strong; It shall not lose a freshness in the strain, Or gloom, or peril, or disease, or wrong. Of glory and of strength, high heaven is thine, And where thou wilt is only hope for thine; And here to match the fullness of the world Have honour, rank, nobility, and worth. "Oh! if we wish our fathers' souls to bless, Which Earth, her last foundations laid below, With earth's warm race and heaven's unwearied bless, What have we to desire? what can we do? What idle dream, what idle, idle dreams? Where are the mighty props that held these brave, And the brave minds that from the world were free? That piled the empire, till, like thrones in heaven, They bore the struggling world down deep to see? "To front the monster, and to back his throne, Our course; and keep a world of toil for us In strength and stay and fame. To know no more Were anxious souls to trust the eternal God. To loose no longer from their Western chain The golden reins of ======================================== SAMPLE 425 ======================================== 'Tis laid upon a blossomy hedge. With care the richest clusters grow By many a neatly-kept overflow As deftly in the woods they go, With instrument and bow. When all the vines, by south wind driven, With swollen heads the spray are drips, Then o'er the lake, by noon sun hidden, The rain-cloud lifts its long array; Then hastens up the glade To meet the village maid Among the flowers and broom; The broom the maiden cloaks And spreads her pearly pearls, And with her fingers shakes The leafy boughs of pine. With him--to whom can she belong, Who rushes through the lonewood so long, Stretching out his arms above The hidden woof of human love? Whose change comes now from bough to bough, Through the cedar's leafy screen, And till the glade is green! Whom then is she that can array Her bright hair to the gossamer shade, When the lamb dew doth hang In its ivory canoe? Who now will paint the gossamer dye, Or deck the lily and violet blue? Who now will fashion the floating brae, Or hood the sunset's yellow hue? Who now will fashion the drifting snows? Who now will bring the sea to rows? The long acorns stretch their hands to plough, And the sun looks out on the distant deep; For night has fallen and doth now His long, disjointed eye to steep; And night hath darkened his ancient reign With a dreary shade, and doth not sleep; Heavily now the pearly grass Reforms her coronal, And now the fresh green earth is seen Like a flake in the clear moonlight, Or a breeze in the little birds' throats, As stirs in the tree the rich-formed ash. All things rejoice the farmer's voice, But the deepest doth the night rejoice. And as I sit here in the shade, The leaves do carry away The blessed gifts he lent me, With those he sent from the far-off town Which doo make us happy all. And so, when all the corn is sown, All things begin to blow In the corn by the river-side, And the sun awhile doth abide, And the seed standeth in the corn, And the sun awhile doth look On the little cottages Who that tarry the first year In their solemn toil am clad As they go to tell the tale Of the spring when all is glad. And then another Spring doth bring, To teach that souls in the high world, Who tarry there, but shall have some Of a little while, and choose One dwelling-place for itself, Till ripe ones are to see Wherewith they are to dwell; And men that an old estate And virtue far excel, Shall gain men's blessing and honour With their knowing and knowing. And what is abroad in the town If we feel sown wheat Sown in the thinsom from fall to fall, Through rows of doors or windows all, To be taken and thrust in a ball? Aye, there are apples, and sunshines, And rattling-wheels, and spiders' line, And tansh, and Osiris chief, And the speediest of all That keepeth the homes agreen. Then mother Earth she openeth, And all things are arranged For the good they be that thrive. And we hear the call of cows, Of sheep, of flocks of birds, And all the earth around With clear, glad shout Is answered and resound. The birds, and the flowers, And the sun, and the showers, Fly as thick as ours. And the long, bright hours, And the merry bells' chime On the night-time's chime. And morning is born, And the dews are gone, And the crews of the sailors sing. And the night, with its glamour, Is thickened and sown All round about With calm and elated throng. And the seafarers' dance Tramples and disappears, And the quivering lights Shine like candles, and speak To the new and the old. And here are the gates of paradise open wide, And the trees draw up their foliage and wave their branches In a flood of light, and lift their branches To the bree ======================================== SAMPLE 426 ======================================== happy Love! Thou hast thy mysteries of grace As clear as azure clear can be; Thy naked grace proclaims A deep, deep joy, and an aeternity. Sweet Virgin! sweetest Que Que Malebranche! I saw thee once within the byre; A gentle swain, I heard thee chant, In mirth the olden time. We know no bell, we know no bower, We know no cell, no corn-fields gay, But thou art worthy to be found In every green and leafy mound, In summer sun and shower. Thy constant flow and constant flow, We know thee still, we know thee not; But we should know, we know thee now, Would each and all be as it came, How sickness would come after life, And death come after death. Gentlest of Cumae, gentlest of the mildest masters, Mother most tender, meekest, best-belovèd She! I go to seek thee where thy shade is sleeping, I bring thee where thy flowers shall be sleeping, Ascend I am, I come to thee, I come to thee, to thee, to thee, When I have lovèd thee of old, O come to me, to me, I come to thee, to thee, to me, When I have lovèd thee of old, O come to me, to me, to thee, When I have lovèd thee of old. O come to me, to me, Come to me, come to me, I want to be a bee, I want to be a tree, I want to be a tree, I want to be a man, I want to be a man, I want to be a bird, I want to be a man, I want to be a bird, I want to be a tree, I want to be a tree, I want to be a tree, I want to be a tree, I want to be a rose, I want to be a rose, I want to be a rose, All along the road To the hill on the south of the world. I want to be a rose, I want to be a star, I want to be a bird, I want to be a man, I want to be a merman, I want to be a man, I want to be a bird, I want to be a cherry, I want to be a cherry, The fruit of the trees, The singing birds, The gods of heaven, The Triumph of the year. The grand old planets rolled them in a thunderous dance, Sparks drew them down, their gold was all a glance; Beyond the torii, they danced to the farthest blaze, Around the rocky ramparts ran the lights of chance; But where the Roman army stopped the Romans' salted tide, From Roman cannon (never such an one was tide) They forced the slaves to cut them down in darksome wood, And, pouring in their pride, stopped the barbarous sea-race race, Where the red waisterks and the green-coated skin Of grimy Fox crept slowly through the green recesses, And under them, to make a mock of those savage rabbits, Queen Mab, the nursling of an exiled race, The fox with mittens and a stranger face. But all these were the nicest of their mistress fools, And, being dressed in furs of furs from human gaze, They waited at the mass which was most beautiful, This cynical work--this scrawling item of an epic Let down to me, let down to me And fools and shepherds take their pleasure, Not as the talking student of the stage, A learned man comes slowly clad in mourning clothes, And shows, indeed, a melancholy face As like one suffered on some common errand When he can give no evidence of his knowledge, The picture which the scholar paints of men. Oh Mab! but we that shall hereafter be Ourselves and idleness and idleness, Ourselves and idleness shall we obey, And idleness and idleness shall we obey, And idleness and idleness shall we obey, And idleness and idleness shall we obey, And idleness and idleness shall we obey, And idleness and idleness shall we obey, And idleness and idleness shall we obey, And idleness and idleness shall we obey, And long with idleness shall we obey, ======================================== SAMPLE 427 ======================================== , That mine will be another day, When my Spring is far away! There 's a band in the ranks, And the battle-field's ridge Is filled with the flags of the willows and plumes of the decks, And the vikin, green-fingered, Like an almoner's table, Swung on the daisies Or athwart the green-pointed sea Where the Wren dies So much the more do my leaden gaiters and wait for me, Oh, the waltz! Oh, the boom! When I come to camp It is still where the others are, And the wind says "Go on!" But there's something still in the air, And the lights are far out now, And in the old Silots and exploitour-- I never see the guns again, I never hear the shout again, When I come to camp. I come to heaven like a postilion When I jolt out a postock to attack my rear guard. For every man are coming towards me with his cry That I don't know the wind again, I jump in a black ram-and-an-black night-- A bullet whizzes to me through my shield, And I want to discharge my morning claim To have the writing on my shield, For I want to see the bottle-green, That tells me we have got it from the fight-- That we smoke a half-hour longer. They say I am drunk. That is why that Was kept me so long. That's why they sent me. They are going to give me gold and pleasure. I can't give anything else but a minute's measure Of enjoyment in life, But I have never learned the gaiety Of taking one in the case. It isn't easy to deny me gold. How can I ever doubt it, For all the gold in the farmer's eye Will bring it to rout. And I would find the pleasures that abound In a contented mind, But the tale of all our joys and pains Is one that's half unkind. While you're perained at the latest feast Of the heartless flock of earth, The fugitive possessors of content Are gaily shorn and shorn; While you can be jest and keep your word Of the promising and glad. Hate us! hie us! Pluck a handful of grain To make us be thankful for thee and for us In our idle moods That all our happy and lovely lives May be Christmas true, And true to the best of the game That our young souls could bear. Let us then bury our griefs away, Our loves and loves depart, And the hopes that were ours decay Drop, melt away, take heart. And you give not a thought to dread? We're here to-night, dear, for all we've said. We live to-night, dear, Our hearts are breaking. We believe, with a smile, you are going To be to-morrow a pensive one, And your worldly goods to pour. Pray! fling us away! For the Golden Day has come again, When we long to stay, And our faith shall open again To the life we've known to-day. We were bold to say, Though our word was wise, We should bless our land and rule ours Of cheerful and amorous lays; That we need no lays, Nor old booty to display What your gifts may please. We are heavy of debt; And our tears are dry; We are cold, and wet, And we cannot sing; We are cold and drear. We need no gold, So we raise our voice To the praise of Jesus and His name, Till our love prevail, And we do not fail. In wintertime the cattle come, And soon the fields are tilled with snow; In summer time the kine are full, And evening long the days must close; Ere Spring comes round the hedgerows' loom The milking sun has glowing hot; But the gold hours shall soon pass by Before we reach our God, the sky. The oxen strew the fields around, And now they know the light of day; Then o'er the stalks of elm and mign, Who guard their lowland stalls away; And all the bleating of the lamb, When passing by the sheep or goats, To our fors ======================================== SAMPLE 428 ======================================== That leeward overland, at his return, He hath arrived; that fresh and sound Might sorrow for the vale suffice, Which erst did all that earth contain, In such adjustment to their wrong. All this did his disheartened heart Instruct the toiler to obtain That recompense by heaven's sweet favour He would have sought in vain. There hath he sat, and on his bed In a strange land, about to sleep; Alas! he hath found his true delight, A thing of many different hue; Though 'gainst his master in the fight The stripling ceased not to pursue. At which the trembling loon descried A hurrying wind, and troubled sore; Alas! and often all the knight Had felt these thoughts, which did the sore And sorrowing hearts of certain hate Have ever us'd, but that he should Have still the scope of his disgrace. And so it was with those distressed And troubled peers who could not die, The pity of the Grecian breast No hope had power to entertain; And his infernal lip had sought The guilt with poison to restrain. When with the help of surest aid A trusty kinsman had been slain, To bitter pain he was not made, Nor ever spake again again. To aid his feeble enemy The wretched one his body brought, And made the tract to open fly, While with it left the knight his thought: "For shame, thou evil man," he said, "A plague upon my life! If thou To Providence wouldst be untrue, And yet to hope a living woe, Foul was my fame and hardy's deed, And false to thee, so far from me Were thy deceitful counsels. "Were this condition of my death, Oh let me be ungentle still! For, when thou com'st from out the fire, Thou shalt have quench'd thy fainting will. Though now I scorn thy leprosy, This promise shall thy service hold, That I this day both Christ and thee May meet and bless this holy-night." Oh what a sapphire boat was that, That in the calm expanse did sail; They baled it there for no one thing, And happy little dales did grieve, As that trim nook, of no great weight, Freshening the air with foliage high, From whence, though far out on the right, The lonely man could not descry The land outspread, and saw it lie Athwart a passage deep in snow, And stooping so to reach the town He soon saw where the Inn door stood, And saw the inn upon the bank. And there he read his Eulal books, And of invectives dear and good, And how, a hundred years or so, They'd "a been thirty year or so." And that was all the time he read. Of spirituale*, of soul, of body bright, Of spirit poems, six or seven, Still scarce three verses to a charming sight, Yet still the name appears, and who the more His love and grace had cast, and sought the weal Of that old Heron's widowed breast. Poor Orrin, in his eyes the curious oint Of that loved soul, so darkly bright, Had risen out of thoughtful slumber less, And looked, until it stood forlorn. His grief, the happy boy, the child's fond love, Had made him, unaware, too wise, In nature's earliest naked lore Endure such deep, sharp, sweet eyes. Now near the harbour's bourne, he wends Through the dark gates where live the friends Of his own heart and kindred dear; They come again from thence, the tale is told, As he found out the earnest love Of that fond boy, which now at last, Like light-winged hours, found home above. His friends, too, having sighed together, wandered To his lone cabin, where he lay, And saw the bark that glided there Eve gleaming through the open bay; For in that glorious ship, the prize Were far worth all the mountaining. There chiefly did young Bertram, who Had never found the lonely shore, As on that night have I beheld, And never seen one lonely hill. Heaven bless the darling and the lad Whose heart was pure and holier still, And that thou wert his all in ======================================== SAMPLE 429 ======================================== -stuffed--howl! For spring has come! but, lo! that flowery plain Love-in-a-mist is now! God, that seemed to keep a steadfast house, Had once its first true friend! How far had that true friend gone out! The heights where he was went! Oh, there it once had been his shroud, His shroud and off'ring, one man's shout Held forth--but here, he is gone out! Time is mighty, and life strange! Well it may be, 'tis true. Time has mighty wings and shining eyes That chase all thought of care; Time shall reap the golden grain; This was their doom they were not born to till, They die, and leave no trace. Hear the minstrels in their endless theme-- Time goeth on--and ever be the same! Time goeth--for their song seems to prevail; Time goeth--and the echoes of the tale Wake them never to return. For all from these to that one song of praise, Faint, fleeting, vain, and useless all their lays, Sad, and to be, and ever to be heard; But who is this that singeth of the dead? A voice like an eternity outleers; It is the voice of God that singeth, And one with his own eyes, and to that Their first kiss was too mildly dearest! For the world is too heavy to bear, To reach over plains of the false, to tread Along with its mountains of endless snow, Inhaling its mountains of infinite snow. But at last, when the end of the day Is come, when I must then awake and pray, When under the stars great planets bright Give birth and their lustre of mortal sight, Then, in my desolate heart, I pray In prayer above, and--in waters That flow for the love of the truth, Of the love I would give with my lips, And the love that is destined for life, And only of deathless faith. I am broken, but still to the crowd I shall still be alone on the morrow! I am heavy of heart, I have strayed Seeking alone, where the world's best wishes Are spoken in speechless adoration. Now for the gift of a song! Yea, songs that are marvellous long, And tranced in the dusk of a life hereafter! For the light that my hand shall reach down To the full of the infinite is given, And all the dreams of the joyous town Forget the great morning and morning. In the polished deep beneath the pine, The eyes of the stricken mournful moon Reflected the magic of all the air, And a shimmering track of light went where The waters in one immortal war Forevermore unfastened their war. But it is not our boast, Seeing the waves that had stormed and rolled Horde after storm, That the might of the waves was high and bold, As a bird singing from the blue abyss of the skies Is high as the eagle's wing to kiss The soul of the breeze For joy it is that it sees The realm of the spring and the land of the sun, The wrath of the sea, And the breast of the sea. For the forests are roaring, roaring, raging, Their arms are loosened and their throats are numb; And in terror of this thing, The soul of the cliffs will pounce on the sea, And go forth through the air in daring rage, In darkness of the cloud! And westward, and onward, In a rapturous and conquering unrest, The heart of the singer sighing In sleep that is fear to e'en the dead! For the voice of the singer is calling and bards, And of all earth's spirits the rain-drenched plains; To light with their song, in the night-hour's tears, Haunt every land, through the storm-cloud's peers. Then rush the heralds forth, And bid ye the mount to sing, In honour of God, with the song of the sea; O Land of the lightning! its glories be; Ye call them up to the might of the Lord, And to the right-hand throng Of all the creatures over the sea. The god of the North is himself alone In the lands of his grace and his might, In the waves and the storm, on the slow tide-blown With power that naught can abate, The God in ======================================== SAMPLE 430 ======================================== the life, and reap the fruit of life. And though thy promise may be true, May hope succeed in what we do; And day by day by day The skies are gray, And thou and I remain in heart, Firmly as ever on thy throne. And there within thy shadowy home, With longing children, lives thy Son; But, sorrow of the desolate! Thy part in this thine everlasting throne. See! the guerdon! see! That the crown of man Is the right of its work, To the bound of its dispensations So to lift up the stricken spirit, But to save it, and help to unmake Youth'sconviction so to slake The famish'd thirst of all things! Hast thou, meantime, some heavier doom That may sink this frame of man? Have the doors of the soul no goal That may hide thee, and be thrall to the breast? Yet, oh yet, thou comest in power To sink earth's low-bouldered strife, And heal the red wounds of humanity In the bountiful depths of life. Who is to have the gift to handle To him who must? Not he who moves On a thread of this glittering web of death, To stroke the air of life with a swift blow, And carve the image on the scroll! But, lo, there comes to all the people "What choice has he?" Not he who spurns The craven robbers in his pride Who snubs the gold of the god's life, To pay the debt of their endeavor, And toss the dust of their endeavor! The Mess and his million-handed Will bring him the lust that thralls his nature. Yet, oh, for a godlike love of Nature! When his blood and his heart are spurn'd, When his hands are empty of their power, When his people seek honor not his own, And honor the Lord of the Universe! Who is the darling of the world, Who is it that will never come To take us away from men's affairs, To make us all glorious and good, To celebrate our glorious leader, To teach us how to live and be A loving-kind companion for a while, As the bosom-ease and the soul of man Will choose to-day for the good they know, To choose the wish of the good they try, And please their neighbor's eyes. But he who asks for bolts and bars, Who would be careful to unloose His votive bolts, and go to fill With earth's delights a generous breast? Who is the friend of man? He with no stone can understand The splendid sorrows of his Master's mind; The hammers he doth never strike, The merciless strokes he doth not miss, Those he cannot finish he will do, Till he is pleased and careful too. He is not a stranger to the scene When the friends around him are at rest, Who learn from them to pray for him, And tell them what is wondrous want. They will be careful not to proffer Their aid unto others; He will go to a salving-yard, With flowers to deck their shoes, And the gold upon their raiment, And twofold are the choicest clothing. The richest dress his old age wears The longest that trousers can add to it, The choicest cloak that is ever made, A long one for one, a long one for the other; But when our comrade bold appear He will be seen in his own proper sphere. He, therefore, is grown too familiar To leave his parlor and household sphere, For men to praise; For women fair, Or on the ways Have found an original disposition, To suit the country and the country. His beauty is as his country's, With finer grace he is not vainer, But with a pure and spotless feeling Which lifts the heart to him concealing. His years are of a holier round, If they be not of the earth-dwelling, And he with love is basely treated, And fades away into the rotten. There is a hill the Raven goes by, Whose heart of hearts is both his own; He loves his kind, and she his foes, Yet loved his kind, and with her came That meaner folk should love his name, But when he fell in fatal fight, The Raven liked it not, nor knight. He is a strong man of the land, But there alone ======================================== SAMPLE 431 ======================================== in the cold. But still his spirit lives on in her beauty, The radiant charm of her blue eyes of wonder, And whispers of foreknown loves that were tender, Of life that were noble and noble and sure. And then, when at last her being was given, She swore, 'I will follow my fugitive errors, And when she has traversed the world of heaven, I will seek, for her sake, all my pleasures and errors.' Not one of her sons who the melting cycles through, But one of her mothers who goes to her knees, A husband, a father, a son, a lover, To one who the world-wide world would please, Yet none to repel her commands or wishes, Or stir to her lips the dews of desire. Around the City street the eyes are seeing Her beauty with languor and pain reclining To the measures of utterance which bring Her youth to a tremor of passionate yearning; The lips are dumb with her olden fire Whose locks in darkness melt and expire. And the young lips, so long in idle dreaming, Now are lost in the void of their own desire. And oh! they are weary, and long and lonely Who live in the shadow of memory, Who are dead, who are left of hope forever In the shadow of things which cannot be. And those who once walked in God's light body, Are bowed in the shadow of dim despair, For the shadow of sorrow forever is there. His life has been so asunder, Be hid or seen, and so From all the singing eyes of men, They never dared look askance again. In vain the sweet soft breath of Nature blows, It is a something which they cannot know, Its fountains in the violet darkness sink, A very shadow of the earth below, And memories of a sad, sweet dream Are haunting me through these somehow and through it, Whose harp is never struck by death's too strong string. A little leaf which stands beside a door, For ages past, its crumbling form withdrawn; But, though its face has hid a thing of yore, Its halls are filled with dreams and memories Of sorrow that has been, of sorrow that has slept, Of shadow that has never come across the deep. Old myths, they do remember very well; They wakened with a memory, new and rare, That wrapped themselves in musk and golden shroud, And made a shroud of on their souls' despair. Old myths, they will remember very well; They will not heed the rumour of this sombre throng, Their visage never touched with fear or ruth, Their hearts will never know the self-same path they trod, Their hair will never waken when they dreamed of the world. Who is the last that meets me? And who is he that shakes His wistful grey eyes from their lashes, And then awakes and shakes From off the pillaring storm? Is he the one I met That was so sweet to me, With his eyes the longest fount, And lips of sorcerie? Who is the last that met me? And who is he that met me? He is the first I met That was so sweet to me, With his eyes the longest fount, And lips of sorcerie? Who is the last that met me? And who is he that met me? For I have dreamed too long That was so sad to speak, And now the falling starlight, The falling of a tear, The starlight and the sunset, The falling of a sigh, The falling of the twilight, And the rose's funeral-glow, The falling of the rain, The falling of the snow, A little while ago, A little while and aye? Oh, the gladness of the day, The gladness of the morn, When, round and round the woodland way, We twain alone were straying, And through the wood alone We two were wont to play. Sing no song, O happy swains! For the winter's pastures are full of rain; Sing no song, O happy swains! For the winter's pastures are full of pain. Sing no song, O happy swains! For the winter's pastures are full of pain. For the winter's pastures are full of pain. Give me a song, O happy swains! For the winter's pastures are full of pain. For the summer's pastures ======================================== SAMPLE 432 ======================================== plain; Nor dost thou grieve that noble Knight to prove So much as valour, while he hath no knight Or squire at Almesbury in court or field, Where twenty men might prove if not for life. Now from that space Sir Lancelot cried, "Sir knight, Here must we part!" Then to the lofty hall Sir Lancelot vanished; but, for one short space At least, lest they again should find him there, Back through the entry at a single leap Sir Lancelot, who, against a hundred horse (The common wont) should pass the door, should fly Lancelot; and the damsel him bespake, Lancelot laughing, "Sir, and dost thou think Such villains erst thou came for thine own flesh? Yet, if thou heedest me, before I go Thou shalt not look for anger, while I stay Where maidens work unhonored at a strife With gentle maidens; for it likes me well To be a lady, if I would not speak." "Ay," said the stranger, "though I shun thy quest, I know not: yet thou reckest not of me. So well I know thee for a Christian knight, That such a fear is in my heart, I fear, Thou thinkest too of Lancelot; therefore fear I, if thou hear the conditions I foretold, For I would know the worst, yet rather hope That thou wilt not return the caitiff knight." "Alas!" said Lancelot, "but for me the lie! Beseems thee not: then for thyself be gone, Nor e'en for Lancelot, but return again." "Lancelot," he said, "for having conned thee true, Thou wilt return as soon as found, the knight. A goodly sight thou needest not expect: But now farewell!" Forth from the gate he puffed A running rabble with loud hoots and cries, And to the three cast at one cope a judge In furious mood. "Then be thou ware of me, When reeking thou doest violence to these," Said little joyfully, "as if that hate Were one more fatal; since thou bidst me know But of thyself, what are the gifts of God When He at last shall doom thee to this loss?" Then Lancelot gave a savage laugh that chode, And frowned, whose eyes flasht like a serpent's fire. And when they knelt, and lo! his dizzy breath Took flight upon the sounding cavalcade; For like a lily by the fountain-side Thrown by one passing wind. His head had fallen, And in one moment from his neck were gone The helm and breastplate; and, while on the ground He lay, the cypress and the half-shut helm Above him and two others, he the head Himself had swaying, and a sorcerous eye O'erspreading, as with both hands he had set free, Thrust forth at him. "And yet," said he, "if yet My horse kept on the barren heath again, Mine own must for a thousand years be borne." Then came he in upon him and cried, "Thou fool! If, in my name, thou bringest here no shame, Bethink thee of my horse and of my arms, Bring me my horse and arms." With that he left; And, silent as he was, beside the gate Which oped to him, a thought was on his flight, No foot advanced, no whisper came from it, That might make others question, like himself, In manner of a loyal friend. These men Drew horse and armour from their master's arms, And hurried to the siege in wrathful words. There those of Arthur's order, as it was, Lords, without rest or pause, fought where they fought, Through mists of danger and themselves through fear. Here one stood high in place, with shoulders bare, That from their knighthood fought and shrank away, Fearing their might in walls of battle stand. The other shunned the sword, though redly steeled. And Arthur fled; but, driving his strong mace, Of derned and pent in fury followed him, Fearing the redness of the charger, as The death-defying knight and charger that Do of the church, who meets with him the mount, And with the other, with his head down-bent, Nor loiters longer, fast, and clears the ======================================== SAMPLE 433 ======================================== with buffaloes. ... It was the night at supper. The lance of Balthyas fell by fight, but Aeneas caught him up. When he had fallen upon the floor, his knees and tendrils supported him up by a stroke of hatchet. In his hand he carried a huge shive-shod spear, sword without plaint, with two-spade bricze-girdle, resolute to strike him. The two-headed javelin with a thrust did Tancred's ribs. "Erect," said he, "how can I the right passage find? If I lead not a thousand-thousand dead in the field, I should take all the rest of the host for my prey, let them fall upon me with bows and with a great blood. Let them do as I bid you. Here is the fist, and the axes and feet; let them bear it far out of the field; do so that I may turn my spear yet further, for I hate not the trial of valour which, by this hand, I will keep and follow it in my best." Him Tancred caught up in his arms, and thus boasted, "Hold your sword and make these a short and savage manes, for the son of this man is the self-same man you seek among the hateful women." Ammon would not listen to him; he held out his hand to ask if the spear was true, and thereon he said, "I will follow, Telemachus, and as your heart pleases me; I am the son of Hades. He fights not too much for me, nor for me, nor for my mother, nor yet for the father that was born for me, for it is not my lot to take to the ships, save one or other of all the wives and daughters of your line. From the day that he set out on a field, our strong men bring to the city tramp, their martial valour, their manly spirit. No one may look upon a long way either with raised feet, nor out of the ring of the shield or with fair bracelets. No man may look for a long way either with raised feet, nor with two-spun heels on the ground; and his will is always to do whatsoever he can, yet no one ever can do the like." With these words he raised his sword, and he left the bodies. Meanwhile Odysseus and the rest of the other Chiefs were murdered, and spent in their utmost distress. They swarmed about the son of Atreus, threw their helmets and spears about their comrades and said, "Heaven's son, where are you, that I have held before you? Thy breastplate does not protect your flesh from the blows of your spear, but thou art caught here and struck by a spear--thrust away by my spear. Die now, cut our throats for this man that is soon in the midst of you." In his heart he held his sword, and drew his sharp-edged sword at When he had put it to him, he turned aside and let the swords fall from him. Meanwhile the son of Tydeus and brave Eurypylus held their shields round his shoulders, and as he sped forward towards the city he found the best of the dead lying there in the dust. These were the only friends that were left alive when there was one that was to perish by the spear of Melaneus. Then they took a black ram and carried it off by night. The sons of the Trojans marked out two of the battalions, which were in the front rank--leather and ruddy wine. On this they took a long spear of bronze, with a swift spear. Eurypylus of the gleaming stone stood near them. Round the point then he went in front of the dead men, lifting up his keen spear, and shouting with a loud shout as they drew back on to their chariots, he lifted his two-edgèd spear from his chariot to the earth, and striking a savage minstrel of the dead, sprang forward to defend the flesh of the slain and with gold-beds all about his temples and his chest and his two hands holding out the spear, sprang passing through the flesh and tingeth the heart; and he clutched it by the hand and fell headlong from the carcase to the ground. The wound went clean through him, and great ======================================== SAMPLE 434 ======================================== and fawne, are sappe and moore With collies, doe and doo enbrace A secret suche a cinching baore With mistletoees you haue inbrace, Woothly enamoured, and fully pinned, A part of that strange being too divine Too much enlarged for me (though no sign Of wit can reach me) I have looked on you And brought you here a gemme (like orange peel In honied gardens) till the sun ye ne're releiade. How tall you are, how chaste you are, in sooth! A common poet, and yet not a chief. Your pen would make me proud: but I must own 'Twas not those els but those els can alone That made me how to singe my happy numbers: That threw their lyric glances at your statue's head, Their soft compassion, and their unaffected sweetness, Your soul's most perfect music (though no sculptor Knows more of your real beauty) than your love-chanting. You ne're entranced at least in the prima Court As such a statue, with rare loue-touch arm'd, And lips of red, and lillies of languish'd flutes And many a sweetmeat (though the pearly scents Have coppy'd over you) with sweet desire Your dreamy forehead would be lucent horne And drunk with kisses; you would twining broun The dainty bosoms that your breasts doe vaunt For sweet caresses, and the passion paled Into a jet that vies with jet-bells tipt To cool your feet. Ah, you do strive and rail To tease my soul into a greasy gyft Of some torn visions, when your eyes and tail Were blinded by it, till the sun did pale Your sweet contemptuous neck (so it did seem Like fountains of the coral) or to purl So bitterly as dross it--ah, ah, joy! Could it be such as you, whate'er your name, (There being azure, you but wore a cape Of your bright braids, and breast, and such a flame Sparkled upon you in these Paradis That made you flash and dance upon your ankle, That spoke the sunshine or the green wave chill, And taperlike did flame from hill to hill. My sighs are toned to your caress, and then Time's kingdom lost his pole, till you remain Beautiful, clothed in your 'kerchief'd gown,' And, blushing, pin your wings upon my shoulders down! Was ever man more great than I? Fool! and no longer is it To gaud and smile and linger, But shows some fox-eyed girl, With her he pursues and watches. If thou hast met a errant Or pedant curious, Go forth, beg, copies his wooing, Thou shalt not keep thy life in blindness; If there be beauty, breeding, eating, Thou shalt not be a balk, a sotter Of women's faults and virtues, driving The gnawing of a human nettle Into a trap well set to nettle The treachery that waits thy conjuring! What perils do I know? This night I meet a youth Who in the East did lurk To watch my crawling forth A cub at my own head. 'His little brother he beguiled I lived a thousand years, And while he sent to the East It did not work its fears. We keep his stubborn will However hard he be, For ever and for aye.' The youth gave his telescope eyes Nor much, nor most of earth-- I met him 'neath the seas, And a purple shoot of mirth. 'Methinks his cloak escaped my sight, And that he's such a rare, A flute to his bodily might I met him out upon the stairs In the wood, in the open air; The feathers all of his gold were fled, And his feathers all gone to pot. I climbed up on a shining height And saw how much I was dressed, And how much had I to spare To meet the swords of the fallen foe, And the battles of the slain. I sat in the rain and laughed, For the sighing cloud took down The bright drops from my cheeks And I saw them sitting there In the city of the West-- A quiet home of love, Where never a stain was blot Of ashes, ======================================== SAMPLE 435 ======================================== 's tossing seas Are seldom seen. My words are more than words. All things which out of their eternal light Have birth and power in the primal light Of thought. The meteor fable which they gaze Has swept your heart away from you, as a soul. They have no power to baffle destiny, Whate'er the hand whose counsels outweighs years' rain, Who holds the whole earth in his giant might For all his might. They think that to the end of time and time They bend the gaze of everlasting prime, And lose in thought sublime their heritage. Though faith be notacles, and truth is not One truer than your eyes, O Raphael! They speak to all alike, in common speech, And speak for all to-day. When my dream dies It is the dreams which fill my eyes With visions that restore My heart's long-suffering world to-day. But what have I but dreams that come So shoreward in my sight, So everwhere and everywhere, As yonder stars shine on the night? My soul should lie awake To catch the throbbing of a heart That beats beneath the heavy pack Of its own music, as a pack Of golden coins along a back. Then would I be as day grows old, My soul should deeper disenthrall, And I would gird my loins with gold, And look upon the world with all My heart has done with. When I died, The angel, Death, walked by my side, And with his thunder-bolts, defied My peace to claim its crown. The angels, swift as birds of spring, Came down the golden gates of gold, And clothed me with their garments, fling My soul before the heavenly King, And sojourned, till the darkness rolled Athwart the endless, endless gates of gold. Then did I bid them sing! And then the redbreast tenderly Laid out his sapphire wing, and said, Go forth to greet thee, and, instead, Hasten, a green-cheekt apple-tree, With bleeding forehead, "Love of mine!" Then, too, upon the stony bough, I threw my arms around thee, oh, Thou blue-eyed worshipper of the nest! I can remember how I loved You, little one! and oh! the love, So long held kindred with your loves, And, more than all things else, your own; But I could never understand The longings that your eyes would fain, The longings that alone could be For ever. You remember too, I did remember! You remember too? Who learned the lesson of my boyhood, And taught me when I was a boy? I am the little Faun, I know The best of all the birds; the bent Crook-fellows, folded now and so (He grew a little sister) yet, Ah, you remember how I said That you were fairer far than I; And, when you found my voice and hair The very echoes of my own, Your ears began to ache, I know. I thank you for your virginal grace, You, little one! Be pleased to pace My threshold, and do thou not look Into the garden for my sake. The first white rose that knows the sun Is brighter than before; I know It is your own grows ever young, More flush'd and red as yet it grows And ampler is its wont to be. Ah, when this little breast grows young We shall be glad and half of glad, And see our love too in its tears Make me feel stoical as years And your own self-slain, and from Time, Take wing for sake, Forget-me-not! Here in his palace, by a mocking flame, The siren sought to utter some sad name. Slowly, by slow degrees, down the blue hill, She went again to make her pretty suit Some little world around the world, and fill She space, for all her guerdon, in our court, To live or perish in her ravenous will. So runs the legend. Rustic frowned Over some book, at least. "No child," he said. The crows came not, or the north wind Struck, or blew the bleak south-wind. The white beard of the summer night Was writhing from the brow, and dark And choking, the wind blew the leaves. Then the live flame, and ======================================== SAMPLE 436 ======================================== , unable to avoid. A life or two apart we gained, in the moated bark, And there between the breasts of one was cast a look. The other forms, for little children played alone, And all was darkened like an empty one; Nearer they grew, until like plants at play They were aware of one another strong and far, And mused what they might term this life of ours, When each was clear as though the other had been The larger self that doth your world contain. Such light, such song, the wondrous sea seemed to pass As one small word of living sound and sense; O winds of summer, spread your uncongenial tongues, And all the driven seas were songs of trees! I only heard far off, the mermaids' chaunt, And how the tall wind-bells became keen with praise. O winds that wanton as each other blew, And angry waves that have for ages grew! I only saw the sunlight in my dreams, And in my waking dreams I heard the billow Beat to the old familiar sea. Yet not for me; nor for the love I bore, I dreamed that each should be my mate and slave, But for myself, the hungering heart, the will That makes a God of all the tribes who wave And walk in ecstasy around the sun, And change his darkness into night and day For nothing that can make his sun to shine. The ship so small I could not understand, And I--I only saw my island land, And yet--I only saw the ships that stand Upon the craggy strand, the tangled spray, The drifting rain, the sheaving ocean spray, And hill and hidden mountain, now so far As sight could dream. The silver moon and star Spoke of mine own, and words of loving thought Brought back my thoughts to me, that I had wrought Some tender dreams, and, in the wise to soar, I have kept faith in many a wondrous lore. The moon and stars are dead, and in the night No more the heart of her I love may hear; The sea's voice only I can understand, And the wide heavens I have borne so long have stirred. Yet I--I only heard far off, the bell Whose mournful toll makes sad my little world, And all the wandering wave is dead or still That wakes in me at last to swell and foam In some old hollow, where the winds have strife To drown the bitter memory of life. The shore is nigh, the moon grows dim and gray, And the still waters empty all the bay; Slowly the clouds have settled on the wave, And then the nightingale begins to sing, And the deep silence sleeps and stirs again. The sea is hushed; the moon grows dark and pale; The lights and shadows gather to its veil, And even the angels of the sea and sky Own for their witness the unwonted peace, And watch for those that still so long endure. Be still, my heart, nor let thy sorrows kill Sadness and sin; within thy breast lie still As souls that felt not passion since the birth Of sense and life, and did not love its worth. Make me thy love again, or even so, My joy, my pride, my life--behold the glow Of opening heavens, the star-star of my song, My throat and eyes and breathing of my love, So fair the world may seem, and so divine. The house is in its hard yet empty room, Where idle arms upon a window-panes Within a ring half-hidden, would have stayed The golden moon to guard and keep the stars, And had no lust to brighten in the night. Some men there are whose eyes are wet with tears, Whose hands are thin with dust and gravel, made By slender tattered verses; these that hold A paven supper on the common ground, Broaken with hard words or unashied Save by the too much talk of foolishness. And such and such there are; who, having sinned, Have twentyfold as much as thirty men, Whose limbs are small and whom the skies have marred With dust, whose spirit the world has torn, Who look out rather eagerly with fear And with unspeculating eye a tear, Because they bear no likeness to the dead, No kind of look that's offered up with scorn. Some men there are whose hands are clenched on theirs, Whose heads are heavy with a mighty grief Because they cannot bend them to ======================================== SAMPLE 437 ======================================== , that might have borne it. E'en such a mood hath risen Out of the purple east, Left by the time of morn, Left by the red stars' tost. Endless, beyond record, In God's peace only Seemed something better Than it seemed now to thee. Swiftly and steadily, In the first light, As fire in a wood, The spirit of things stood Before thee, the God Who was light, Who was in darkness And lighten'd by fire, As fire in the wood. Then hidden and still Was he thy soul's, Whose name was not. Dread of so long silence, Unbroken, unrevelling, Thy spirit began then, Thy body began then To aspire upwards unto thee. For the nations of thee, For thine own land and name, Were part of their hands; Thy flame of dominion, From thy own grandeur came; Thy new life's achievement Ended, transfigured, undimm'd. Yet through it all was heard The uttermost roar Of many a trumpet In days long since gone by; In days, when the flag Wavered, at battle, And the burden of sound was laid; In days long since gone by, When men went aside And turned back their faces With grief, fear, and doubt; In the weary march of time, And the battle-scarred mile, And the lilt of many a drum, There was silence again. Then the gray-grown mother Began her work, Her son that reaps the bread From the hungry slaves of bread. "And now," said the Reacher, "Our hope is denied, We owe it to God for food. The beast is the burden, The tree of the past Must fall as the fruit of the tree. "Yet a few years of sadness Is left us to die, The hope that was born with us Is dead in the past To the present, a tree." Through bush, and brake, and briar, In the years gone by, The Spirit of all our hope Has risen and is born To muffle our mirth, To dull our mortal mirth; But with a wiser air, We shall breathe on the air That is sweeter far Than all the old songs here. We will make merry, All in the fall of dew, Of the coming of Christ. Is the star-bell that rings From the window where sings The Host that is born for us. We will laugh, and we will weep, We will have no heart-throbs left, And no eyes to deceive, But a Cross without a cross. We will bend to the lilac that blooms In the house of the Lord, And watch the white figures move, Hose, grave, to the white, white flakes That are checkered with gold, In the shadow of heaven. We will walk, and we will talk, We will play, and we will walk, And the frail white crosses will cling To the beautiful joys of the street, And entwine in their shells The linen that was our Lord's. For Christ has come down from above, Over the earth, from above, The green hills beckon to us, Where the dove, and the swallows go, And the wind in the tree-top sighs. There he loves where the gold forsakes The stone of the East, For he loves our beauty, our hearts. We will walk, and we will talk, We will talk, and we will walk, And with hands together we will sing Nothing drear of the things That we have forgotten of. For Christ's sake, and no more, no more Of your gold and your silver shall heed What the Father makes barren indeed. We will walk, and we will talk, We will bathe and we will talk, Lift up hands, and walk Where our brothers have need of it. And we shall know each man's cry And the other one's lip shall be The wet heart of the world to his knee. <|endoftext|> How sweet it is to rise with the morning star, With a pensive splendor on the dim hill's breast; To muse upon the world, with timidness, Until a youth may be the heart's repress: To ask for nothing, as the light winds breathe, ======================================== SAMPLE 438 ======================================== on the bosom of the lord The anxious damsel, fastened to the door. And as her sweeping moat the bank between And heard him pauses, all his anxious face Burned from its fringe, and he grew up and cried, "Oh, lover, dearest! I am fain to hear, Since thou hast come the loveliest to our side! O lady! I have wandered oft afar Through that cold region, and to many a land, And I am come, the maid thou lovest well, To teach my husband what a man is worth." The sun is broken toward the western sky; Already in the western sky there stood A shatter'd temple, once the bright arch'd towers Were glorious in the sky, a lofty dome, Flashing the proud pavilions of the world. Is it fit temple for the pious hand, To lay the hand of God upon the shrine? This is a temple that is all thine own, To kneel before the greatest God in heaven! The pillars of the temple with a glow Shone like a village church; beneath, above, Deep in the glimmering vaults of marble doors, Bloom'd the long mosses of an olden time. The altar-cloth, that turned a dusky scene Of naked life around a deathless shrine, Was one where love and duty, light and life, Striving for beams, together stood in prayer, To light the altar. Under all the stars That round about him clung the venerable roof, The very broad cross open'd in the Shrine, And the dark veil above lifted the dim shrine. Like the sustaining air, the very warp From curl'd and silver arrows that flash'd down From curl'd and silver bow'd and bow'd and spear. And, when he touch'd them, all his thoughts went forth As light to him. And yet his looks meanwhile Were stern and still, and more serene than smiles, With tears and waving curls; yet to his heart He was as stern and still as e'er before. Such sights the morning pours o'er vale and land; Such stars as often wander o'er the moon, Such trembling gleams, as quiv'ring, glimmer faint Above a snow-white veil. Oh! who could be A sov'reign sovereign, one so sullen bride Of idle moments? No--he'd rather sit Beside a swan's, with such a restless eye As meets the hunter when he dally near, And reels himself from his canoe to quell The wild emotion which absorbed his soul. The youthful brow so furrow'd and deep-brow'd And wrinkled now, and hair'd, though rosy-brow'd, The cold and wrathful eyes, which flashed for love, Look'd like the mistress of the day on day. There were four groups of angels, each with wings In its own incense, or, on being wings, Fluttering about their heavenly origin, With radiant feet unwearied, to the skies. Here paused the maiden, watching from the cave One by one down the long side-hills, and all That convent of the hamlet, while she saw One suited to her gentle soul, appear'd Some crystal drops of dewy, prattling down From her long beady eyes, and, with a face Of sunny, credulous innocence, her feet Forth flashing, like the sun's last trembling beam. Her beauteous eyes flashed with a love-lightening glance More than the rainbow, and she thought they dwelt Far apart in those dark chambers. When, at length, She deem'd her own at such an hour, it was A twilight mood. And when an hour or two Had come, she answer'd with a smile, and gain'd Her hand for her, and giving a short space Of speech, look'd earnest in her eyes with fixed And eager air, but all in vain, her ear Sank in the stillness of the moonless night. For a brief space she lay; then on the ground The young man lay, on which he heard the waves Of the still billows swell, and how, to call The winds up from the solemn place, he gazed In vain, for she was calm, and on his heart She found sweet patience, while he listening saw Beyond the moonlight and the wide sea's foam The thin, dim-lighted image of the moon, And the large charm of being, and the power Of unawakening being. One by one She sat upon the sands, and ======================================== SAMPLE 439 ======================================== ; Alas, you hide me and you don't see me! I have lost a world's happiness. And all the pleasant joys I knew You know are vanished quite. Once a little child lost wings, Leap and fly away, And I never saw a bird; Ah, that is a happier day! But now all the trouble's ended, And there never was a friend. When, in years of golden-hearted And full of hope and sin, A glorious youth, the day before me Was bending with her wand, And bade me look up to her eyes, Her face was like a rose, But not a rose I dare not pass, The rose was not the rose, But she grew every day more fair, While yet I saw her grow, While yet I saw her grow, While yet I saw her grow, And fairer days did make her grow, As gay a bride might come to show. We found her in the flowers We found her on the lea, We found her on the mountain-side, A happy home for me, And happy we could be Without our worldly gear, Without the fay or gear, We caught her golden gleaming gold, As swiftly, without fear, We went upon our way, With never a cry or cry, And yet we went on, By day and night, To seek her, ever the same, Though she was wondrous fair, We knew that she was fairer, And fairer day by day; Till Time had brought us back to her, And shown our growing skill, We stole, a little way, Along the flowery track To view her in her bower, With mute inquiring look, And hands at rest-- The parabled hours and The feasts the May-time flowers make, We passed the perfect vale of years, Their distance long and near, While my too-passing step Trod on the aisles of blue, And they who, in the shadowy night, Had never strayed to hear Some first melodious tune, And now and then each separate note Felt my two memories turn To one I meet once more, The first of all the worldly-wise, The best of all the poor. For now, though I am old, And strong beyond all men, I grasp the world around me still, And though I reach its rim, Forget their thousand things, and feel The thrilled being again As once it held its little hands Within its dreamy reign. I reach to some great realm of light, It is my own delight, It is the life the gods have given, A portion of myself, When my too-passing step was nigh Was lost in twilight's veil; For I had promised unto life, And where I failed was driven, And I had bidden, "Live and rejoice," Love's prescience, which is brief. And tho' I oft have found it sweet, And striven to take hold of it, I'm glad that I had found it fair, For oh, it is not old! I wish I could forget what life In future I had seen, That it may mean "I love you still," And your affection mark, And, parcelling as I am, Sorrows like those of other years, And joys that used to pass When I had wished them long and sweet, And that old lovesome bliss; It might be in the eyes of God But that, it is not these! But then I did not, once or twice, And still, in every hour, Would pass the memory of a hope That came to make it mine, Till mine should never be more mine More, and my heart be thine. Come to the backwoods with the pines in the shadow, Come and the blue waves where the birch trees grow, Come to the shorewoods where the river strays; Come and the juniper's comb, all the day long, Change the wet rocks to a woodland song, Come and the birch trees and the wild bird's cry, Come to the trail and the berries, I. or I. or I. or I. or I. 'Twill be the highway of the west when the moon is up, Wind on the gum-tree and the fir-trees spread, Wind from the moorland and the streamlet's foam, Hark to the locust and the cuck ======================================== SAMPLE 440 ======================================== , dead or in the womb to drink; He is the horn of angels, hovering Over that love-lovers's hospitality; He hath the cross, it seems; he is the dower Of some good angel with him--it is she! Some miss this perfume, which to Heaven is given To gild our souls with early travel-showers. I would I might assemble with those friends Who bade me gaze upon the planet's towers! A radiant halo, like the earliest glow Upon a twinkling, on my eyelids grows. But I have morning in my soul's domains, And so the gates of Paradise unclose. I do not call it sin, but hope and fame; And, in that common light where man meets man, I do, too, wish to be as those that wait In Paradise for us. I do not fear Lest some slight evil, or corrupt intent, Had hither brought its prey, and introduced My inner court, instead of outward charms. But well I know that in the darkest tomb I have put out the light that hath illumed, And still this apparition may not yield Me back my beauty and my chiefest grace; And, in the grave, I still may be alive. Within that house of jasper is a nook Set up of silver and of golden stones, Whose roof, like that mysterious palace fair Where the soft wind in tranquil fountains played. Around its corner grows a belt of pines, That guard from sun and dew the brow of night, Wherein, as if there were no storm, a spot Of flowers and roof and walls of marble rose. And on its arch a little garden-gate Rearles its pearly blooms, all rich and rare, Of crimson cloth, that shift the dewy leaves, But leave no trace of shadow or of rain Upon the tender leaves. Upon the wall, With fluted flowers, half hid beneath a stone, An aged man--I think his hair was finest gold-- Stood by his side, and in the centre hung A knife. A hand upon his arm was seen Grasping it, as though prompt to point the blow. Hath fallen a fountain: and a wondrous power Seated beside him on the hill-top hung, Seen and declared. The wicked old man sat, Even as the Holy One of the Mariaes. "Upsa vates, quo quae caeli advenerat?" Hast thou come here? Have I not seen thee here Or heard thee from the heights, while thus I heard Thine ancient voice, thy wonderful discourse? Perchance thou hast a building nobler far. Thither I have an ending of my days, And the far end, and not the glory light Of the great pyre. So let it be my own; I am a woman called; thou hast the trace And meaning of my thoughts; look on me now. Thou tellest well what I have seen. I saw The Virgin in her robes of saffron, clad As in a flowery vest, the Virgin blest Her husband, and the one who gave her birth To noble children; the good I have won From that great conqueror. Look on me now. I never saw this woman, yet I hold Her dreadful weapon in her hand, nor weeps For pity of my own poor helpless child; It hath been scornful and will never be. I say not she is noble, though this queen, And, being beautiful, I saw no more. But here, O God, I know that she is all, And most in all; for she is mine, mine, And we are damned, and doomed, and mocked. Behold, She is in her own heaven, in mine hell. Oh! what a world is here! In this thick wood, Eden and Fingle, she hath tasted of my life. Have I not tried her spirit? But her womb Is mine; she hides her forehead in her breast. This is the blessed wood. Hath she not found Hell and its lure my life? Is not the earth A refuge from such woe? Hath not the world A home, wherein, her subjects, safe from all Except I breathe her spirit, will endure More near to God than bitterness and death? What say I, when you touch this hushed wood? What say you, when the thrushes sing aloft Above it?--hast thou found it? Lo, the ======================================== SAMPLE 441 ======================================== Here I have some chance of poetry. I do love the 'Company'-- I love the 'Company'-- I love the 'Company'-- With me there 'Company'! And for the love of 'Company' I love my 'Company'-- And for the love of 'Company' I love my 'Company'! I don't care a 'Company' for fillage or I don't care a 'Company' for glory or I likes the 'Company' for 'Company'-- I loves my 'Company'-- And so, you see, you bet may 'Company may! Here's 'Company's wife-- Here's 'Company's wife,' There's 'Company's wife.'" It's 'Company's wife.' I climbed the belfry cross-road to the top of the Now there's 'Company'-- And there's 'Company's wife.' We 'Company' are out there, and the mornin' is shining up to greetin' us at sundown, and the mornin' is shining up to greetin' us at sundown. We 'Company's wife. With her fife, fife, fife, fife, We 'Company's wife.' We 'Company's wife.' We 'Company's wife.' A man gets a good 'rose, An' a-thinkin' of 'oo'shoo'shoo'shoo'shoo'shoo'shoo,' And a-thinkin' of 'oo'shoo'shoo'shoo'shoo'shoo. We 'Company's wife.' It's 'Company's wife.' We 'Company's wife,' We 'Company's wife.' And onc't when our dinner was 'long, we 'Company's supper, and other 'omeffections' than was 'appy once at a bob-block. We 'Company's wife,' We 'Company's wife.' We 'Company's wife.' A man gets a good 'rose, An' a-thinkin' of 'oo'shoo'shoo'shoo'shoo'shoo'shoo'shoo's And the mornin' o' London, when all pride would wear reg' sence ish go the colour Of the 'Company's wife.' And the 'Company's wife,' We 'Company's wife.' We 'Company's wife,' We 'Company's wife.' There's fights for the rear guard-- The porter takes the lead; We're 'ere in a hammock-yard, With a basin at the head; We're 'ere in a hammock-yard, And a fob and a frock, But there comes a farmyard With a lamb and a kid, Oh, a busy little farm-house And a wide field behind; We are gettin' on like a ram, And a goat and a wind. Oh, the lovely night 'We are nestlin' In the big kilt overbrim; But the firmer comes and the firmer, And the brighter is Jim, 'We are ready,' the beggar-in-hand-bed Is as rough as we can be. Well, it's ten to good for a man and a girl, And the porter's 'ow to the best in the shing. 'Can't you see, then, what stories about an opt; Why, it isn't the divil about the divil's trade I know; ain't there any ould chaps I've laid Everlastin' a man like that? He might sneer at the good ould chaps, but we'll hear him speak, 'You're 'leppin' a man like as the Old Man Jack jest six. O, the little patch singed up wiv 'is chin o' brass, But I'd not be 'aisy if I were an ass, Unless'oo I'd tries; I'd be 'aisy if I were an ass!'" The heart of me drives me 'oo'sh, me-a-s-h, o' course, Like a boat when storms isrocious, so I'll course, Wi' me for luck an' luck; I ain't bein' onc't but a soul in shift, Unless I loves an' likes; But I'seraid the tears come sopping up my face They can't keep shinein' anyo' the grace Fer me to ======================================== SAMPLE 442 ======================================== , Like that last summer-day, An angel lad came down that way And gently asked her whence she was, And when I was three-and-twenty She answered back her prayer. I am Agnes' mother, who Saw our last farewell. She took me by the hand and said, "The children were departed long From this dear land of song." But, ah! she never could have stayed A minute on my knee, And then she bowed her lovely head And kissed me, and I said Unto her loving me. A dove sat on the topmost stone Of the house which stood thereon. I marked not the bird nor the bird, But the old wolf's track was gone. And still it climbed the highest crest, But the old wolf turned it back. "The good wolf and the black cat slept In their beds beneath the town." But the eagle's track was just ahead, And the black cat had no bite. "There is hardly one to be afraid Of the death-light overhead," Said Agnes, after a little pause: "I cannot let you down. I pray you set the furrow right, But if you want your toes, The old fox will come in the night And scratch and beat my nose." Another said: "The cow Came just as well, my dear: She ran at an army one day, And the soldier said, 'Hooray!' So Agnes won't take my advice Poor Agnes. At your toes The boy keeps on his nose. When she was young her father sent The children in the old man's trade. "Their father sold the furrow fine, But the soldier couldn't buy a shine Besides the gold upon his line. The stars looked down with vlee and glee On poor old Agnes. She would see The crown of all her days. She bowed And cried: I wish she would be proud Of such a son. And now this crown Is only a short crown of straw." They sailed away. The morning sun Was shining on their homeward way. Agnes and I in reckless haste Had crossed the ocean yesterday. "My father and my mother soon The beaver cast away. My mother says she has a bat, She's just like that last night of a. And yet," she cries, "I wish I had, As soon as this one come ashore, A-sitting on my pretty boat, A-wishing baby fat and fair, Like that one I had before." At dawn I marked the fleecy clouds, Far off, like distant thunder, fly; At noon, like tossing tossed highlands A jutting crag, arose and then, A mistlike form, one might not see With foot or feathers, toil or pain, For night took part, and then again Such vision burst upon my brain. "A fitting cover for a bird! A seat to smooth the rugged side Of long and winding aisles of sand! Wherein are many that have died; And many that have gone or gone, And many that have gone and died, And many that have left some trace On earth of their remembered race. The many are the choice things that This ruthless world demands." A thousand years lay hid in mist, And yet these casual birds took hold O' the heart, for rest or show of bread With which their blood was truly shed. And yet a stillness there is shed By fisher folk, who mourn and call Upon this dim and unknown shore, And can no more divine adore. The Gulls with melancholy joy Come in like mournful pageantries, They wail and hurry to and fro Among the rocks; and now and then They sing for joy amid the trees, With mingled glee, and merry mirth, And lusty joy when even the earth Is glad and pleasant. In a hush So still and lonely, that I hear Not in this world but by the ear, The woods and fields and quiet farms Listen to them. And then a deep And solemn thunder, when it rolls In tones and rolling words to heaven, Sounds through the caverned woods above; And for this cause I must be glad For this one cause that Nature fills With forms so beautiful, so well Called Sonnet Gull--that nought is given For youth's delight, and yet may fill With holy thoughts that bring its joy, As young boyhood, ever gay And ======================================== SAMPLE 443 ======================================== Maveritable is: and friends, who do not err In character, or understanding, wait On envoy's questions, or have learn'd to bear A nation's answer; but what country lords Have built, or have contrived, or brought them down To wisdom, to their own perdition?--These May from their converse flow; and, as the bird Flies, as it flits, away; but he, perchance, Compels her, all her future in advance, And stays and sits at ease. Ah! to deny It is our right to one so wise to know Herself so strangely: such thy love, although We take no part with her, nor with her go The monarchs; for we rarely meet, nor meet To battle, and we feel in all our look The single foe, the single purpose, soon To end our proud estate. Nor would we learn If in the end we be related, or Each bore his letter.--And indeed 't were best So, let me give the truth. Vain hope! Indeed, Lorenzo, which in words so rude Would help itself to please, and others' pay So dearly? Couldst thou, perchance, Look back upon the time when France, engaged To speak a general sentence, who, before The judgment and the judges, hung a wreath So long unpaid, that doomed and unrepreeved Should pass, without appeal to all he heard. Nor wouldst thou trust me, once to hear thee speak. When, in disguise, my question'd soul was asked To answer. Oh! where do I now find thee?--where Do I find thee?--love, or light, or black? I see thee in a moment's thought. Oh! say! And while thou look'st at me, thou think'st I call. A woman's mood is in me: do I know In a few words?--for shouldst thou ever mark How time moves on to my existence: thou Wouldst leave my purpose, and what life calls art. Were I but like thee, wouldst thou only gaze, Look on me, in this agonizing sense, 'Mid which the fearful shock is struck, With a small patience, in the moment spent, Into an endless, cloudy, and eterne, And let it seem as thou wilt do it--wert constrained. 'Tis very sweet. If I but drank, I would not for my life's delight Petition furtherance for thy drink. Not for a tavern's various touch, The banquet of my days to dine, Or to my honest lips to touch A crust of that destructive wine; Which yet, I know not, would disfigure My banquet with a better table. The fruits of some cordial spirits, even, We 've with us, and have drunk, and said, That taste is rare; then, wine will be Nectar for us; and wine, I ween, A gush of enjoyment in the air, Shall leave to us an unpleasant sense Of pain or want, and, satisfied, That drink, nor be content to all, In thought alone, without one thought, Is happiness, and that delight. Well,--yes, but then, we 've drunk the jest. Our frolic natures, and our wine, Are all too few to half a minute. Then, that we 've drunk so much, but mind, And glancing wine, and crinkets, too, No, rather make this wild mistake. Some say that, young and fair, some say, We 've lost our way through wine and song, And steal intent to ruin all our fragile day. Ah! with what shallow knocker! We win upon the doctor. We spoil the good to make good fun. Our faces are sere and faded, Our hair they are gray and sere; And the music of our voices, of our laughter and mirth. Then think, how you would cheat us, When you betray your soul; Or tune us to some palaver, Forgetting so it is. Your tapers are of splendour, Your pages are of gloom; The dolorous night-air in your tapers blue, Is filled with the wind of the tomb. Like an evening on a warm upland Where the hill-wind blows, Your harp-like shadow makes no harm, But holds a rose-wreath crown Of mist-feather on her arm, That stands at the ======================================== SAMPLE 444 ======================================== set off for the last stage, That is the sum of human learning Who shun the jump as its own nation. This spring, which I have loved so long, And tried its faithfulness to prove, I chanced upon a stronger strong Cloak branch on tree when I was new; Which, when they found I propped it high, Hung there like palm-trees on the sky. Ah! then it was a leaf which shed Unheeded dew upon my head, And, spreading boughs of gadding red, I hid them with my heart in bed. I want not colour, shape, nor air, Or voice of these who have no care: Such wreaths I weave for thee and thine; And though I do not love thee quite, Yet every earthly fancy's bright To me is as a loving thought That carries thoughts of thee in thrall. So hear me, ere I go too far To see or hear my child's last war: Do I remember in his breast Some words I love or think of thee? Say, am I near or do I greet Thy footsteps as of yore, And dream of those sweet eyes I found In childhood on thy shore? Come, let us speak, and take our breath In whispers, as of yore; And tell each other that we thought More spells than we can hear; And tell each other they have eyes, And if our voices stay, That they are near or near; And tell each other we are near, And if thy shade thou make, We never once can leave it here, That it is near or far. Come, let us hope, because we know A wiser hope than thine, That thou, dear love, mayst still be near To those who need thy line; That thou, in some rough mountain-clash, Shalt still be seen to scan The landscape round thy dwelling-place, And not be half in vain; For there, my love, there is a heart Which cannot be bode of me; That I can give my dearest part, Though thou art far from me; That thou mayst still be near my heart, Though all the world may see. My heart has heard, since thou art near, Thy lovely voice before; That I can make a circle here, And dance before thy door, And speak with thee familiarly, Without a sigh or groan, I pray thee teach me to be bold To see so well thy son. Good morn is breaking, dear, The east has finished its rest; The sun is high and is up above the clouds, And morning shining o'er the level lea. The day is reached, but dawn is evening, dear, So sleep has fallen, dear, Upon the silent and untrodden lea. The swallow skims the clear blue sea, The sunshine sleeps upon the silent lea; But in the eye of heaven some angel bright Shines with a deeper, clearer light, And o'er the sleeping flower the breathless earth Sheds ambrosial dew ethereal dew. And when the last shore he hath reached, And clouds and night are gone, My heart will wander far and close Above the sea's dark moan, To look upon those fields of bloom and mirth Which in our day to-day doth tempt to mirth, To find some fair and beautiful thing, And on to wander, till they fall Among the mermen in the dust,-- Some fair and beautiful flower of all, With all its store of gleams and gleams, Of summer-glories round its head and wings, A being which, with all its store of things, Is all unlike the living flower of things, There is a tender blade of poesy Which not the doting world has placed above To mark the honey of which he loves, Or any herb that sips the morn That in the midst of all its being roves. It is the same, by day or night; And when the sun is shining bright, And birds with outspread wing and sunny flight Respond each one to other, Like birds around a happy happy nest That sing the joy of spring, I will arise, and, with a sleepy sound, Go forth, like thee, to see Where all things are. There is a garden in her face, Where all the world's a blossom, The wind is in the south; She is most sweet and fair ======================================== SAMPLE 445 ======================================== One morn or twain before the dawning light. Midst moving trees and fading fields around, A trembling world begins to intervene, Before the gathering of the rains profound, Its labouring teams behold a sunbright scene, A wonderful earth--a bed of living green. Here pause we then: how bright and beautiful This golden line of southern dandelions, Shining upon our sun-kissed parianas, Like lilies 'midst their golden margabias; Where to the eye slow-labouring drag along Grave herb delicious and undistinguished song. Come quickly, ye light shades and all ye bays, Ye glimmering days, swift-glancing to the morrow, The shadow-haunted glooms of age and wrinkles Amid your filmy fillets musing over, Lights mellow from the green o'ergliding sun, Or deeper green 'mid rifted crags of boulders, Clear brimming crystal, circling to the sea. For here areclubbed reeds and twisted ropes Of drift-wood rubbed against the glistening surface, For here, lark-like, the ripples' dancing flow Breaks the old boulders with the quivering will. For here through the green a sunken sunbeam Gleams from the sweltering forest of the hills, For here is loveliness of bouldered heaps, And the hollow oak saves and the cottager, The grey deer, and the grey heron, from whose thick Soft folds the rushes creeping on the wind, Unculling their rich foliage from the beam. Let me die; let me unaltered be; Still how feeble are the powers that move The hidden seed to things half hid in night. In the heart of meadows, fresh from the soil, Is life to a breath, With a word that stirs Soul through spirit to being. Then let me lie Deep in the toils of the wayside shade, An image that haunts the gleam of the hills, And the sweet scent of the radiant air To mirror the face of a human flower Far off in the woods where dewdrops fall. Roses shall bloom in my garden, The dew drop on the mist, The daisies in the sanctle, And the marsh-flags in the fen Rin red in the wet wind; And the cowslip, for all things good, Shall die in my garden, A sense of gladness and content Luxuriously showering. The breeze shall whistle a song, The breath of the marsh shall die in the sun, The wind take wing in the forest, And the plovers call from the shantar-hedge, And the suns melt, And the earth pelt the mould, And the forest fling her gold To mix the shapeless dew. The past shall wander far, afar, In a wistful world of song; Each vision shall have an influence Of rays exalting the sun of June In the grander depths where the valley-grasses Ring crickets over the hemlocks brown. And how the woods will wither and quiver With a little dust of green, Or how will one say, "Thus is a poet." And no more I remember the life of me, The happy sun that mingled with the blue; I remember the bliss of the land of light Where day brings all to garnish the lovely night. The song of the bird, and the murmur of bees Murmuring over the grasses and dells of the trees. The strain of the lark has pierced my thought As I wander hand in hand Through regions on the silvery brink of day, And over me in the evening hours The sway of the wind-leaves sing. Here once the gentle hand of night Had dwelt the loneliness of earth, And the shadows of the stars and the snow Forgotten as the evening's own. The influence of fragrance and song Hung round me like a spell, As on the darkness of the evening air The tones of the wind were still. I dream of a giant glancing up Into the blue beyond, Where a black gloam in the river bed Spreads its mazy minatory spread Back on its shoulders in the night, And the wide world from end to end Sets in the silver flame of day The question of the wind's voice, and loud The answer of the wind's voice, And ======================================== SAMPLE 446 ======================================== , thee and me--of fear-- Here, even here, heave the cramps;--then play, And, if my pain is cureless, pray, That so he may his faith complete, And long for us to come at last. If fates tend not; let him live:-- --If truth has not been giv'n him leave, Nor made him loth to weep and grieve, He that can think and act, must be Restored by hope and harmony. But, if not wholly,--ah--despair Change, and fade up at last, in the Wherein is now the poor man's heir. And if they still refuse (And he may pity those Who feel they cannot.) One comfort he must find In the wide-open world, And that he cannot. And if that he by chance Would turn some doom of fate, And not by fear! Let him but once more pierce The dull and killing air That pursues him there, Where the wild wood whirls and tosses, And those stiff arms grow rigid, And from the hollow sides Of those gasping fits, that muttered Demon, At the still rainy weather-point, Should he find sense of one gory, Then would he wish his strength (However easy, ay) To leap up, pant, And once more pant For life that lasteth! What said the Emperor? The mighty Emperor, Who was the surer of this thing, Then sprang up, in alarm, Over the tumbled corn, Over the ears his teeth Bound and his close-clipt skin, And his breast heaved through and through, And the blood fell from his cheeks And back and back along, Like cataracts of rock The veins ran back like lava, For he was mad, And after him was buried One person more than any, But a dull, fat, Indigestionless debility, And the flower of our peace, Which will be Christ's cheese, --But who, indeed, will save it, Or Christ defend it? Who save the life of this man, Who gave him life? A beggar of one morn, Lean, straw-legged, and forlorn, Haunted the fields, and the corn Grew bitter in his dinner; For men were sharp at heart, And women keen at eye, As sharp at will, in deed, in word, And men in anger; But soon the strife waxed stronger, He turned his back on death, And died full sound and savour, And passed his life with that sense, Which, like the lily's breath, Is sweet to sense. His fate why should I blame, And why not praise the same, And why was death made certain That he was nobly lodged And built on earth, and patient, He is now waged a war, Henceforth is only right, As God knows best; and still We have this power, we say, To shield us against ill; But he who knows and knows That we, when we shall stir, Shall lose our lives and go To murmur and to sigh; And yet--perhaps, if we Shall find this evil chance-- Just drop him from the earth, And keep him from our face! Because I am king of thy land, Full many a king I have sent unto thee; Because thou hast spoken unto my face That which I show thee, unto thine own; Because thou hast written unto mine ears Many words, many and many sounds else; Because thou wast king, that when thy word Proclaimed of mercy was not for my lips, Thou wouldest render into my hands And shrink from it, as I, in thy sight, Have wrapped thee in it for a sinner's span! Because I was king, and because I was king And counsellor of the land of my birth; Because and because I was lords and king, I was the master of the living world! Because because thou wast King, I was king! Because thine heart is my heart, my head the grave, Within, without was taken of any crown: Because alone was that birth of thy name, And this was that, that, thy brow being thine, Thy soul was full of wisdom and of might! Because I was king, and because I was king, Thou gavest me authority, love, and faith Unto thy loving heart I gave myself, And quietly ======================================== SAMPLE 447 ======================================== ght, othe, me draughts, or drafts or saul. Cf. I wiss, gis yarn, or scharpe, or dashen sene. Deles, berthings, berthings, and the boone. Degre, doen, mendie, doen. Douth, vertu, is to commend and see. Do, look upon. Oght ooowt telle such a tale What tokne ous be doyn, How that ofte tyme taketh no kepe, For deth takth that pouer softely Of oure cause why so hyde and colde. Wher suche slepinge may be tolde, I seie ther ben be manyfolde Folowches: but natheles I fonde That men don hem god hath wroght foryete. The same harde slep was nevere a pelin, That every lif which hath it wyved, Or harde a man himself it wrotheth, He were nat so gret a chambre entire, That noman nede hire chambre acompte, For there was no bote adyt or sene. A gret consailmentis thei encliden Ther lacketh no reson in eny place, I dar well loke that many a grace Ther be non mete, in love that endureth. That if I wolde drawe that poynt or yes, With hell loke wel, that I aungell Scholde have no brid for the persone It is, and moche I wolde assone. That is a noble scripture, Ferst whan that a man my word ouireth And of his wille gret vengance have, The remenant if I mai gesse Of al this thing mai non availe, In al this world as thanne aparayle I thenke speke and hie me forth. For love is evere a lawe of love, Which evere whilom was noght above And thoghte that ther mai noman love, Whan he no lawe and noght ne broghte. And thus togedre in this manere Togedre spekth to knowe ynowe, The cause why the man I sihe Hou that this man I was a Schielde. For as the bokes seide and spiede, In loves cause, as it is seid, For al my wittes to confesse, The tyme were folwe in the assisse, And be so thenkth it is a Sone To ben upon a Phesant fomnde. For loke thurgh whyt of goddes myht The mannes name is yit of hyhte Of humble, of parfit, of mercy. Bot hou to man it is a beste, To bere the erthe and the hote In oure daies or elles whyt, It schal be founde there and smal. Therfore as I have herd and spoke So stille that I mai argue, Als ferforth as I mai sein, Ther is ynowh forto reyne And ek of me therto an ende Somest of prive wolde I make my, For evere I wolde, thogh I wolde, That love an other hath withholde And leve that which is for good, And thus I do miselven riht That whilom of hem is good. For ofte if I may leve A man to love with that I can, The hevene schal wel be myn, That what a man schal coveite The womman wol be noght my wille, Bot al toward my lif belongeth That al my wittes be so longeth: And be that wel to wysdome, So as I myhte me tofore, Yit miht thou sen what I schal do: For if I mai it wel or no, Forth with ymagin and with store I schal me fro this werre telle. It is wel cas that I it wolde, Ther is no gret merveile to wryte In oure beste forto ======================================== SAMPLE 448 ======================================== upon the oaken floor, And ev'ry tapering gowan. And as he entered, tenderly He looked about him, many a sigh A sigh arose, and many a tear Beneath the setting sun was shed, Each thought the smooth and silent air, The rose's dye, the flaxen hair, And dying eyes, and living breath, With some of these he mingled death. The kind physician let me pray, I've given all my soul away; And when the slow pulse of the day Slowly, slowly stole away; There were times when I could not write, It could not be fix'd I would. It would not avail, if I had power To read his riddle of life, If he tried to read the great and small, And added to his esteem An early muster of fact By raising such a brace of facts, That a single one might claim, And not look the other in the face, To call him to and to. For it was not his task to explain, But not to stand by his own post, Nor in otherwise explain The trials of older men; Not only to keep, that he could Do something quite prominent, It would move one to condemn, And point out to and to him A ceaseless argument, While it spoke, he would have thereby stood, Or with his ill-temper'd pen Have sought this place to sketch. Oh, had you noticed him, He to whose lovely side I look'd In a tea-stir'd, antique form, Still charming his old face! With teeth of gold and eyes of jet, He can have gazed the city yet Who knows his long-miss'd name? Old Spanish colonel, he had eyed His countrymen with gold; In French there were two thousand, who Came standing on their pier, And each had silken bugles, they Were walking up and down, Like two wild cat and squirrel then, And dancing round the town. I sometimes think, when I have gazed, Of carrying souls away, How I beheld the beauteous form, That smooth and pure and gay, In garb of Nature's native grace, Among these wild men stand. To them it is a pity That they should never know The woe that did their fathers fall, Their heritage, they know, 'T was written in the great war-letter, Above their battered graves, Of cowardice and lust of gain, Their claim to live and die again, Where'er the sky's broad eye is cast Upon the world below; To those who read these lines, How can they tell how far they went Upon their fatal journey, Which was not pure from sin, No, in that tender heart they found, So near, so cold and cold. In lonely graves beneath the snow, Whence no remember'd step they tread, But loud and hoarse, with awful roar, They wildly shout, "To arms! the foes You braved, the hills in vain Have sought your peaceful vales, Your vales of moss-grown pasturage, Your mountains huge, your torrents vast, Your realm the spring, the floods that roll, Your fields the floods that girdle, Your realm the kingdom that you claim, With other yet, and better far And free, unbounded liberty. "Earth, sea, and air, And all things are at war With other men, and other gods, And other men in different climes Wherever their ambition wanders, There are the true, the impossible, The grand and good, the unembodied, And the dumb thing neither knows nor knows." When, set to weigh the earth and sea and air, I first saw lucent lights upbear, Then saw the pomp of coming day, And lingered in the scented bowers, In quietude to love and rest I would have sung; but since I know Those weary lips mine own have prest With many a solemn, stifled moan, All in this solemn hour alone Have I discerning eyes have seen Their lonely beauty ever fade, As out from the far cavern's shade The hermit band comes fluttering down To see that lovely living thing, So stately, stately, grand, and young. And aye, when life's glad morning sky With smiles is blushing over me, And I with youth and laughter gay Meet the glad face of my array ======================================== SAMPLE 449 ======================================== , for ills he knows by heart, Worthy to share his share of common woe. Bereft of peace, of hope, and goal, he pays Country and city in his heart for home, And spurns the maddened land, deserted, lost. "Shall I, too, find new friends who once loved me, When loved of women, friends and people, friends, And bowed beneath their suffering, hear his voice Through all the days that dawn and break of life? To-night, though darkness wrapped me round the world, I live and light the altar of the Lamb." So said, so done; and in the kaloper's hall The wedding feast shone, and the young men drank. But when the time drew near, and at the doors, In trembling haste, the children's dresses flowed; The swains to bind the cattle as they fed, And the old swains, to bind the victims' feet, And cast the oxen to the flames, and make Libation to the feasters, as was theirs. No hurry in had come; no pause to think The morrow yet might bring its blossom forth; So through the long room swept a sickly sound, Of cries and cries and voices, sick at heart, Came the quick check, the soft intoning, and the call, The haggard look, the troubled look, that showed Sorrow and pain and pain, patience and hope, And strength and patience linked to holiness; The voice of Jesus past, the voice of God Coming to him in the dark. God of the merciful! to whose dread use The foul Jews came, who raised the dead from the grave; To whom the living, answering for the dead, Were born anew within the spirit's eye. But the oppressor came, the cruel foe, Fear, doubt, distrust, and woe, And with his rod, Led him away to the unknown. But a few days, For ever foul with blood, And in that hour, of anguish and want, Of trial and affliction he was healed, And the contrition in him arose, And, honour and peace Together chased, as zeal, His people and his people and his slaves, In solitude, wealth, fame, power, the grave, And lifted up his voice and called to them, And spoke of them, Of him made once in Pharaoh's magic hall, --Let men deride, with all their faults and fall, Their sacrifice, their cause, Their dead alike! And Thou, where hast thou hidden Their buried-spotted lives, That shouldst rejoice and sing, When they were alive! For blood, which they held Again in Abraham's magic hall, Spoke, and they wept, And it could not be done. Thou hast brought from out the grave Roses, wild roses, and wild lilies, And writhen adder-heads, and bleeding roses, And many a cockle-weed, And dust, and in the dust They lay, The innocent and blameless dead That lived, that died, For ever blest and honoured, For ever dear, As is the sacred, dearest man, For ever loved, and for ever beloved, For ever dear; So is the man Of zeal and heart! For never could such endless bowers Be formed of thee, dark lands! Not thine, but thine! Thy soul was born to love And marriage with a mind like stone; The house above, All heaven and earth left far and wide, A kingdom, or a hiding-place, And fairy arras of sweet dreams Where the rare incense makes a sigh, A fairy altar of soft sounds Where shapes are born, and shapes live on A thousand thousand thousand years, A flower-anchored, rainbow-crowned, And rainbow-touched; and happy souls, Lingering and gazing on the sea, Lo, all around A world of beautiful white flowers, By the blest living offered to us For the queen's shrine, A day-gone, and a night of dreams, And like a kiss, and like a kiss, Those lilies lay along the way, Our mother's joy and mother's woe! And they who went and fell With hope and faith, a loving child, With morning-gleams and beauteous flowers, And all aflame To wear the child's young body;--all To comfort and to make ======================================== SAMPLE 450 ======================================== His brothers, who first broke the rites Of holy church, should be devoted, For he taught them, and held them for a time. But he saw--yet he saw not the thing; And he cried: "I have done it indeed, From Phidon, Alcmenon's throne, and take The funeral sacrifice and the pomp And immortality of the dead." "But, father, what was the story?" he asked. "How did I know the stems of a hamlet? The leading stem, and how did you place The stones with that living column above us? Whose were the priests, and what the name, And whose are the children we bring here? What is the name that we bring here? What was the name? We would answer it; But the name and the name had a voice. They have taken the tomahawk and casket, In the streets where their brothers and sisters Carried the bones to the court-yard, to hear How the bells were tolling, and how they had loaded All the doors of the great hearth, and poured Their last libres to the dying poor. But the names they shall tell no more, and the hatred Shall claim their turn once more to the tomb. And, little sad mother, the name shall be given To the lives that are rotten and wasted, And the hearts of the poor be wasted as fuel; And the names shall be changed no more, and the habits Shall outlive their record of pain. The clock in the tower's hollow, The bell in the anvil, The bell-plate and all are broken; But the beauty they wore is brighter Than ever they wore before. The fruits of the years have faded, The plants of the fays are green; They have never fed on their fragrance, Or hurt their bloom in the light; But for whom shall I long to gather The health of my days of toil? Shall the wreath of fame be gathered, The lustre of victory won, When life flows to come at evening And the bells are ringing alone? Shall it be so, and only, children, The long, long years we shall know, When the bell rings out from the chapel, And the bells do not ring in the light, That they ring in the night so early, And the children go to their play, And the bells will surely proclaim them, And a solemn silence is made, When the children cease their bonnie voices, And the bells may not ring in the night. But sometimes we sometimes shall see them Growling in the night so late; Shall hear them, and, all unremember'd, They shall think of the past; And, with hearts beating in their longing, They shall hear them repeat the same. At the postern stood a youth Of prowess, firm of limb, And he look'd to see the place Where the station-boys had camp'd, In the little shelter'd bay, Moisten'd for ever with the dew, And the kindly western air Touch'd by the breath of prayer. "Though cold be the dew," he cried, "The palm of youth is o'er; And a sunny life I've led, As glad as a king before. "Though youth be gone, and youth decay, And the hopes of youth decay, Yet the flowers of youth remain, And the voice of hope is still: "I have brought, with aching heart, A fair thing to its nest, And I'll wait for a little bird That shall lead me to rest." And so when the day was done, They sought the bush for shade, To slumber there, and not a thought Their long sleep could afford; Now they lie in their accustomed graves, Nor rise again, nor rise, Till life's lamp in the darkness shines And day begins to close. But the dead as the living depart, And the dreamer hears their voice, And he mourns his misery; For each may feel increases, And neither less nor greater, When the sorrowing heart is weary of life, And life itself seems ended. We are old men, who pass On the sands with gaze Out of the narrow world of fashion; We are old men, who stay On a river's flow And a common day Where the life of youth is waiting, And a longing grows For the world of youth and beauty Where the old man goes. We are old men, who faint With the burden of ======================================== SAMPLE 451 ======================================== , who takes The wise and good, exceptance quite at five, As they tell on't last; if more they please, They may even lessen from their praise To weariness, excess and excess of gaud, Sufficient that old age to be repaired, While it looks kindly on the new are said. And, if it be more singularly said They live on food still at a daily feast, Keeping due distance till occasion calls, They form their laws, as if not seen at all. 'T is plain, the Chieftain to you gives as due A sumptuous banquet, and, in no wise too Offers his part, his honour, or his praise, But with a longer smile destroys his lays. Now, if that chieftain had been set to know That 'sua' to kings is more than we can show, Or that the heathen king so much should be Earned for himself, his merits he'd deny; And, if he did, with proofs and reasons strong Let him persuade to sell his people's land; Then sure he would, (that I'd said out aloud,) Trust to a kingly vassal, whom he calls Sun-flowers, in lieu of others, from his stalls. 'T is well, therefore, the king need not bespeak His subjects to a people that may speak: The chieftain, in his triumph, promises To make him an example of his acts, Thrown down before his eyes by fire, and tamed To see the glorious faces of his foes; And even though the priest may grudge to hear This talisman, his reverence he'll refuse. 'Be grateful, ye,' says Vafr stretching out, 'There's none like you, who sigh for what ye preach! 'My God hath said it, why, be patient, pray! The life of your dead self, my daughter, say! Hear now, and let the kind King grant it there, That even in this place he may not live. Behold a lifeless heap of ashes and all Of those who once so near the world could call. But come, and be my loving wife, and live; This long-past life is but a crazy strife. Weep, wretched maid! Ye give her heart enough, Yet loving hearts may love but to be poor. My breast once heaved with fire; it still will live Though I were hungry now, had I been worse. 'Now, do not weep; it is not in thy mind: I do not seem myself, or else did find Myself alone to weep: and thus I say I must sleep on; but must be tired to-day, The waking of a woman; no, nor weep. And no one loveth yet, though 't be long sleep.' The pangs of shame still wax upon my heart, As o'er the cruel man this day I looked, And I have some small sign of way to fly; But ere I turn some desperate beast to seek Across that sea I found my loved one nigh, She will not be so far away from me. But soon as she was gone a lightening In the rich west, wherein I first drew near, I called her near, and stooping, threw my arms Unto her neck, and kissed her garment's hem. 'Hast thee gone then? ah, thou driv'n me forth! That thou hast been my girl, bring back the morn Of that high time, to rid me of my shame. But thou, my wife, who liest here before, What hast thou done to save me from the wolf? Know that thou didst digested, when the wolf First entered into flood. Leave me this night; My life is good: but should I swerve from thee, I will be sorry for thee in the grave.' 'And, O my God,' I say, 'if aught have been Regarded by a husband's love or aught Save my poor life, and this may I be so, I may not wholly die, nor needs must die, Nor wither, no, nor fearfully pass away. But now farewell.' He ended, and I lay Between my arms and thee upon the ground, With no one thought nor motion of mine own. There, one bleak fall, we said, did what I did, And left the remnants of our homeward race To wrestle with the winds; and some strange fate Fell on us, and no more with us must mow The teeming earth: but when with ======================================== SAMPLE 452 ======================================== Not I who rose to rouse my love against him, When heaven's calm majesty had taken me, Even as a man whom his love hath taken, May I not now receive the flesh I had before, Because that he was fairest of his sex? Therefore I care not, shall not I love him, That, when he be grown up, I may not love him? Love he is still unsure who would not love him. Then he is vext who loved, and yet more soft; But lovers in the mind and ears and eyes Are never closer linked as one and whole. Meanwhile I am rejoiced that love him. He sat among the lily hands Of cowslips; and a heifer fair Her drowsy milk did keep away, And so she wept that milk might say 'O let this milk'--she was at rest From all her weeping, since she found That milk was real and not dry. Her trouble kept her temper from exceeding sorrow, Her trouble got no rest until she came Unto that wasle upon whose amber seas The salt spray gleamed; and from the entrance She fled and left her lover in the sun Unhurt. So with her lover old she sailed Among the lilies, to that blest retreat Where all the lovely boon was tasted marred, Because she for his love was meek and pust, But not unhidden in the swarming swarming swarming. Gone she was, and above her petticoats, Where no bird sang or wrinkle on the grass, Was in the newly opened buds, or pied With curious work. Now on the grassy slopes She halted, and went towards the garden, Where she had put her lovely habitation Unto the flower-bed where the hyacinths Bestrew their bank, and had their stalk divided In several modes, and their wild tendrils taken For the high tree, where all the rose-buds shaken As they were shaken from the tender stems By the white Hours, who that evening blew Over the hill, and looking from the bushes Heard what the water's murmur seemed to say (Such sounds, and such sight in the water's rippling) To the glad winds, that blew behind the day, Moved under his young leaves. He was a joy To have both beauty, and to watch the leaf Quiver with pleasure from the flowers of spring, As the shrill winds went gathering round his head, Making a soft and byway of the leaves That overspread his bowers. He knew she was a marble goddess, But from that moment she could not be moved. Only the heaving sea upreared her image And lifted up his head, and looked abroad, And saw him under yielded spray and flowers And trees among his lovely in the dells Of Achel, and heard music of his reedy streams, And fell and blushed and started, and then sank Back gazing on them as they came across And dived beneath his rays, and he awoke To this strange vision and these savage eyes: 'I hear your voice,' he said, 'and you are sweet; 'I will not make your answer back, I will, For I am bound upon this fearful way, And will not ask you now.' 'No,' said she, 'I will but try and prove my faith, my love, To your blind husband's, therefore none may know His husband's coming, or his tender years. As the high gods have all in charge together, You'll wish me better, or I'm far the worse, But I will cross your river if you can, And make a lovers' pathway by your door, And go my ways. I will be down to you When you have brought me home.' So she ascended And towards that hollow cavern slowly moved And o'er it by the blacksmith's platonist, Who stood beside the painted buoy and raised His gaze, and after her into the wood And there beneath that plaited veil they came And soon her bones were buried and her fair form All blent together. Then their deeds of love Dispersed her lips, for they knew not of the love Which was buried in the self-same cell. But when they lifted her she bowed her head And kissed her garment-maker for his love. 'Not so,' he said, 'I may not work by love As through your eyes sometimes, for it is still Within your eyes. And yet I know you love As the high gods do. I could ======================================== SAMPLE 453 ======================================== , Man and Wife to Sin, Is not the Truth, said God, untrue? That can be, woe to him that's dumb, But God made discord in the Now. Are not our Counsellors the Sun That God sees blight without the Plan? "Behold," they cry, "the Day to come That brings the Good above the Wrong; Behold, the coming of the Right! Behold, with altars round his feet!" "Why then," cries one who, in a rage, Runs on to seek his spurs in vain, "He'll bring them up to parley-catch And hang them on the skirts of pain, Shall find a new lost Holy-Rights." But two more young ones in the throng Appear to greet them, one and all, As if their Guide, their Parent, some Great Passion-poets at their birth Had stricken, and he owned them both. And, in their pleading, heart and hands, They could not brook the words that fell From that old tale of theirs, and so Took nought, for on their sore distress, They cast their child into a cot. Their tortured crying seemed to say, "The Brother dies to-day, The Father dies from day to day! The World's reviving master In mortal weakness bows his head, And leaves the village for the dead. Though so much loved, yet so beloved, The dearest from his heart still moved, And lifted up his smiling face, "Father, thy hand hath led thee from the place Of it, and while thy wisdom charms Through lips and in thy work like fire, Cups of the wine of life to quench The thirst of thought, I yield the wheat That cannot aid me. As thou fliest, wilt Behold, and take me for thy friend!" "For both are slain!" the other cried. "Mine--yes, they bleed! Thy secret be No trophy! Mine--the awful bride The red man met his death to bless For being so dear. And she, The pensive mother, who had found True comfort for so long a day, Before her husband and his pain Had given him, strove to overcome The agony of death, and cast The fetter off; nor could the tears That trickled down, and moaned beneath The heavy burden on her heart, Be dried in vain, and let the tears Of ruth depart and--"Father, the Lord Hath raised us up!" But all the while A wanderer wailed for Liberty, And, as a sudden storm of rage Falls on an inland world, and strange To the light cause of its distress, The shuddering ships appear to move. "The place is given to free, heroic souls, When bigot zeal shall free what still belongs To other souls. But, when distrust Ill shapes its plans in gentle deeds, And for their safety, I would urge My brother by a lawless act, To smite this vile infidel of earth Through all the perils of the world, With such neglect at one man's shrine As burns in him, or meditates Upon a wrong man's hoard of gold, Or by the cords of cordial love Is driven to serve his hungry sense." Then, at these words, the impulse woke By former admonition deep, And, thus absorbed, he pondered well, And called in words of smooth address, On such occasions as the seer Might trust the Gospel in the ear Of one who looked with free desire, If need be, of his own accord, A business of small consequence To the poor shrinking Israelites. What to the Church do I disclose? And does my light show them a sign, Like bright waves in the glassy stream That skims the pure crystal element, As a day-star that gilds the sea? Have they less tender or more tender hearts Who are like mine?--I am alone. I am alone, But the world in me doth me forego. The visions that illumed my vision, And whispered in my troubled ear How home and friends could still be mine, What sparkling gospels heard in mine, What bards to my listening soul Would plead, what poets wise might sing, My heart would echo to the throng My theme might echo to the throng, What lore and incantation given I might teach only simple faith to move, My theme, as I would not repine. What though the ======================================== SAMPLE 454 ======================================== won; and his men. And the weary troops of the goodly Achaeans laid up dead, to save his comrades, as the heroes of his country slept. Then the son of Arceisius arose from out of the inner citadel, free-hearted men of his company; he was son to Polydamas, and his father was beloved by every one of the warlike youths, with them, and son to the king they felled for Menelaus that he should be the proudest of all the Argives, and the hard doom yet held him. And sheathless Achaeans yet unharmed his head from off the battle-clad After these words the hero cared exceedingly for it, and Machaon, son of Antenor, upheaved his sacrifice, taking cover of his own men; and Menelaus, son of Atreus, caught sight of him and said, "Aeneas, we best share a tale,--ere long we meet again, and this the thing that the Achaeans, though not helmed as he was, but one, this man that was the most splendid of augurs, was Agamemnon son of Atreus, who had lately risen to the war. They performed the feast of many victims; as for him Achilles watched, and the godlike hero Peleus' son named him with his comrades; and his men stood up and awaited him, out of the darkness of the fight, for the old man knew it and was overcome by fear. Many an one and many a wise among them throughout the host did as he told his men. These were the Argives, and more the care of those among the chief men, the fame and glory of Agamemnon. At one side was the field of battle, the wall of the ships, and the bridge. They could hear the arrows coming on before them as they ran towards the ships. Many a buckler was there planted by the spear, with a horse-hair plume, and a ring about the helmet, inwrought with bronze, of a beautiful horsemanship no more admired than these. When the gods had now fulfilled their pleasure, and the battle was lacking, then at home, they went back to the ships and the wounded and many a chariot which they had chosen for their driver. Many a man was slain in that chariot, and many a some brave hero leapt with them, and dashed with their battalions upon the plain. Down in the dust he came from battle, for he guessed that he should be far off in time to be first of the Achaeans, who had So spake he, and Menelaus bethought him of his troubles, and he stood by him and said, "Now go, Nestor, and urge the Trojan men, and the Achaeans who are fighting on the heights of Olympus, and have heard the wondrous things that befall the immortals and return, if he will not do so. I cannot stay here; for we have no rest and do no harm. Let us be friends, and let the Argives try each other with all hearts. We need neither hen nor fleet son of the Achaeans come here by land, but they will find us with their ships." On this Menelaus reassured him, and went back again. He bade his strongest of the brave son of Tydeus draw the lot again, and of the Trojans forget the fear of fighting till they should lie without a struggle. Hector did as he had told him, and had done as he had told him. With this he left the horses and went in search of the fight, and came to Troy again. But the son of Tydeus went out of the Achaean host and took his seat. Meanwhile the Trojans were in great passion and were wasting their life on Trojan men, but when the two had now reached the mark he sprang right fierce, saying, "I should not have done so at the ships; horses of the sea would be discomfited, and we all should now leave the high wall to fight another sort of foremost of them till we turn to one another. No other Trojan can ever get the best of his men, and fight them without being wayrifted about by the will of Aegisthus. Let him but try to make an end of the two, for Agamemnon is the finest man of the Argives." So saying ======================================== SAMPLE 455 ======================================== , blow a note! The agony of this poor dungeon night Grows greater, greener day by day Comes slowly riding down these swelling Subjects of light and song. I walked here without hope. Not fear And yet the thoughts which have my heart for Will turn to something else apart In its close chamber. This is the night I loved--the thought-- The dream I had not dreamed above; What need to seek? What need to search? A heavy sigh To find some other door unbarred. Yet in this chamber is my heart! The dream I had not dreamed above Some other form I used to know; I know 't is love, and yet 't is love! I have remembered, and have loved The dream that brought me oft to you. Its meaning lies In that you used to dream and dream: The shadow of the vista Is on your eyes; The sound that you would never speak, Is in your ears; The shadow of the veil that lies Upon your ear. Yet, now I ask, how can you dream That I have seen so fair a thing, So fair a thing, A flower so sweet, so radiant bright, So full of life and laughter? And yet I ask, how can you dream? No life is so elysian; The vague, unresting world I know, Above and overarches the veiled horizon. I see my soul ascending sail To meet your eyes, Till it be lost in fleecy clouds; Then suddenly The world of waters going past me, And you, my own, with angels' wings Through the tumult flushing, and the gale Blowing, or sweeping seaward, o'er The shores of the broad ocean. And yet, I cannot bear to watch your face Turn in your eyes, Or even to fancy in the transport That you have given me, a hope Stronger than life, A dream too lovely to be real, Too much intangible, too fair, Too much intangible. What more? Ah, tell me, I implore! What more? I dare not follow. All your poor, powerless appeal Tho' words have sufficed to ease me, And look you o'er and o'er, Until I reach God's house no more. When I am gone, and you are gone, And all the things I used to be Are stored with mother and with mother, And half of children, and of me Laughing aloud in street and mall As if their darling, aye, were still. When I am gone, and you are gone, Then all the things I used to be Are stored with mother and with mother And half of children, and of me Laughing aloud in street and mall. That's when we are but little ones; And very few are quite so tall, Yet all of children, laughing, is Made up of hearts and vanished houses; And wives are ever fond and soft; And little children are so good, Yet all are happy and all good. I said again one evening, "Let us draw our knives!" I nodded, but he said it With both his hands. And mother said I saw no bloody hand! And all of children knelt and turned At his great and cunning eye, And said it was the dreadful Pestilent thing you see. A dreadful light was on his eyes, When he dropped down suddenly Into a room where lay no room, And when he hid his eyes. You see the look of reason? I said to myself then That he would rue the horrible Red Riding-Hood of men. I don't know any more of it. When I look back on mother's eyes I never seem to see All her own black hair blowing And her own eyes bright and grave, Nor all her little pearls Nor half her little doings, Nor all the golden dreams, Nor all the gentle sighs Of little fingers sleeping On lips of baby snow. I would you still put on your spotless clothes, For the outspread and cruel sky Had told you of approaching dews, And of bright hours that must die. Perhaps you think too of trying them, Or too little to feel, Or tired with so much sleep, Or faint, and shaken with such fears. Or, perhaps, you feel too bold To risk your utmost scold. Let all the neighbours gossip, Let all the neighbors call ======================================== SAMPLE 456 ======================================== Now homeward plodding, He hastened through the glen, To Scotland's sister; Weary were they grown, and her folk were gone; But short was her delay To turn her back, she knew not where to turn; That brother, first of the two, Whom she had marked for true, Arose to seek her, and she came to know. He knew her--"What of this?" The haughty Stranger spoke. "This may not be, but that she'll truly know. But if you, Father John, May aught return your way, Then farewell gay to all you little worth? The fairest princess, You many a year shall be; And would I die, had I not fared with you! My heart then burneth, O, help me to forget The Highland care, the host that was my friend, What dost thou then forget? If love be lost, then send me back again, And the child I did keep, to sing me songs Before I go to sleep." Thus, thinking it were vain, With speeches few and gay, They vowed to stay; And now, what hap, must he abide for long? Well, let him live and die, And let me in a cottage far from home; No care I for the health I have, my child, I will provide a home; A kingly house, a quiet, pleasant earth; A little fence, a gateway to the heaven, Dear little place of birth; And as I live I'll ever keep my watch, Be sure to have good reason, for my thoughts Have never yet been absent from my mind, And they may go about the world where I am; And, on my word, I'll ever keep my watch, Be kind to those that do me gentle deed Who have a little cause to love me, too, As their hours pass. Oft have I sat by the water-side, Forgetting I could never find, And then a sigh came into view And then wept o'er the mother dead, And her in the lurch she dropped away; And she did weep, and it did me grieve That the grave, lonely mother, should receive Every little son, that here dost stay. But I wept, and it did me grieve That the grave should receive such a son as I. I did not mourn, and it did me grieve That the grave, lonely mother, should receive Every little son, that here dost stay. But I wept; and, on my son's return, I wept, and I did him all my heart; And the grave, lonely mother, should receive Every little son, that here dost stay. O, the marriage-feast! No need have I Of a son's wife, to whom I did this heritage, With no single heir, to bury or to die. O, the wedding-feast! What have I to do In grieving over the little children's days? Why have I the house to ward off tears Till the little ones stand as hearth-defiled, And the floor spread wide with golden plumes As the fair moon shimmers on the Sabbath morn? The maids are busy with the bridal bed; And the wedding-bell has rung by its knell. The guests are weary with the day's blank black From the hall's first hour to the twilight bell. I wonder what of the summer afternoon When the thick-set sun was slanting its ray Over the garden gates o'errun with clove Of wild flowers in the quickening dews of day? The flowers are listless, and the dead winds moan At the name of Summer, who can hear no word From the red-bird in the fir-top hid by thrush. And the murmurous, mysterious birds go by Hovering over the curtains, wailing by; And silent and unfriendly to an eye They seem to know each other, though alone They wait in fear or trembling for the dawn. So I love to spend the day in singing,--too The days of the market for things we can buy; While I go in my garden alone for a meal, The while I sit under the leafless tree That looks over the garden and dwindles away Like a man half hidden from the eyes of the day. It is not in the pantomime of the year That I count the days not worth the golden gold That is resting in the days when I ======================================== SAMPLE 457 ======================================== their guide; And all the country round With dismal yell and shout Still thundering, fainter sounds, And the ruined squires whence all Rent blisters rise and fall. The Church has taught these boys Though food they ne'er digest; Their hearts are warm and fresh, Though it be food deprest; And surely each can be, From that decay of earth, An able and a brave To stir the hearts of men! THE heath this night will be my bed, And lay it deep down in my true man's bed: It shall be kept till morning: I shall fill it, and it shall be spread. In God's name, what can that want mean? I am sure I can a word or two guess Whence this huge moving round so slow; Why doth that wanton, restless toe Giggle in the grass and bushy puss? My point of life, it stands still, And without doubt is busy past; There are the grasses not so green Will in this stone stand fast; And the last link in God's chain Will lead me through this quiet wold, I know full well, this place is old, And I shall feel the freshening cold In God's name, where, outworn, 'Tis fresh and pleasant, though the wind Blews fair, of yester-year: And all yon lights and shadows bright, That flicker in the stream and reach the light, Will be more curiously As yon far sun that leaps to sight At the full moon: I'll speak of these, As I had known thee long before. How will this be, this place so lone, O'er these last weakling of mine age, Since thou art with me here alone? How will these old walls feel the cold, To stand against the rising tide, O'er which the winds who pass infold? 'Tis only fit that they should stand Unrozen by the current's rush, While over them the current sweeps, With the light down, like a water-spark, That weeps for ruined man to think. But wouldst thou, lonely wanderer, From this lone spot seek refuge in gloom? Aye, by the sun's half-lighted tomb, Lie in the grave, nor look to know That thou, frail image of the snow, Shalt fall asleep, and seeming cold, Even while there's freezing, leafless wold. I AM not weary, with thee here. Whose does it all, and who shall tell? Of yore, the sweetest things can be; The shepherd on the mountains lay, The goat about the dusky way; Yet, with the early sun made bright, To memory and health in every light, The sad out-trodden leaves had spread, The squirrels in the dewy mead; The crocus was thereby unfurled, High o'er the earth's dumb rose was hung. But life is changed. I now behold The folded snow without a fold, Like that which wraps the world around, And wraps the world without a sound. I hear the solemn river move Along the silver shore of love, And from the storms without a fear Retires to find a parent here. The golden acorn first appears, And the old maple comes and sings; Of Summer's blissful laws, A glorious Eden waits the choice; For only in the golden grove The happy wild bee dwells above. What sayest thou, Pilgrim, of thy quest? What sayest, thou wanderer, of thy quest? What sayest thou, stranger, of thy quest? Where dwellest thou, weary, under mist? 'Tis known and noted every one, That thou mayst truly understand, In the long way God's feet are set, And His feet in the sand forget. Alas! our path is ever green, And Heaven's blest pure holy things Never for mortal foot was seen, But was clearly seen of God; And still in that spot Christ will stay, Nor ever coming zephyrs play. Then, far be thou guide and far; But be brave and stout like Paul; There never death so dastardly Will give so much as that. So let the nimble, little bark, And though the bark with fear may dark The rocks and seaside's troubled night, The wave with fear will also smite. Alas! for these poor truths so oft we prove That ======================================== SAMPLE 458 ======================================== ed, From thickest holt or slope, a rich denuo, Under the trees, and round the woodhills, Flowers, and weeds, and ores, and shades of healing; Where for food the hungry country-creatures Squatting on their broad parched backs and broad Leaping to devour and gape, devour and swallow; And for moist earth and moist wood-water, Hollowed by damp winds, and tombed by dead fires, Now heaped with dead the vast wealth of the forests. Here was jeweled a house which lightened When the sunlight fell By a dark foreboding And with no false sound to frighten, And the wood-pelts were alive with waggons; While from out there in the cabins Sang the lively Lemminkainen, As he wandered o'er the mountains, And before the beak of Lemminkainen. Who is wretched and will not live a little Till a wise man comes to visit Lonely Lemminkainen's tearful And affectionate lamentation. When he came to us, to greet him And to greet him straight he asked him: "What do you hear of Northland Wandering in your snow-sledge wander? Tell me of your snow-sledge wander." Both the young men and the old men Laughed and shouted at the story, As the youth came to the thicket And the Lapland minstrel answered: "Now I see a smoke o'ertakes me, And a little wind arising From the frozen Northland-ledges, As the fire-fiends from the valleys Roar and clash and toss and rattle, As against the sky the storm-winds Dash and rattle in their fury." Lemminkainen, quickly rising, Bowed his head in deepsore passion, With his cap awry and wrinkled, And began to weep and murmur, As he wept and thus made answer: "There is room in hell behind me, In the black abyss below me. In the dreariest hour I sink here With this woman here for cattle." Lemminkainen, not discouraged, Thrust his mouth into his pockets, Shaped his broadsword into smiters, And he spoke the words which follow: "Thou, alas! the best of Saxons, Thou the oldest of all pigmy-folk, Wert to wed thee fair of brethren, For indeed thou hadst great favor, Thus thy first child was given to marriage "Not for thee had I been wooed-decked Thus through years of snow and coldness. Then a fortune for thy marriage Had it nickled, then had punished. Thou for ever had'st in grave-marsh With the longest-saddest portion. Never on the track of Northland Dined thy bride, and no one showed thee; Thou for ever had'st in suitor's Love Wanton with his tongue hadst scored thee. And a second for thy suitor {31a} And a third one, worse or better. "Not by words might be exchanged now, Now by words is free and merry; Whence then do these words of falsehood, Now the suitor's mouth comm liar? From what evil deed has robbed thee Of the best, the gold and silver, Quick thou now mayst harp thy going, Led by will and sure by faith-craft. If by deeds thou wishest justice, If by words thou hast oppressed me, Thou shouldst pay thine evil tribute, Once addressed to ear of any. Not by words is the offence now, Nor by words is innocence-inement. Ever shall I hear the story Sung in other ancient houses, Even in Sariola the strongest, Though I have not heard the story. There are others who exist here, Who will ever thus deceive me, That destruction comes upon me, That mine evil life might swallow, That destruction comes upon me." Then he spoke the words which follow, And expressed him all this language: "There is none, O truthful hero, That with thee can mock this boasting, Or perchance defy the saying, And with lies make boastful answer: But thou must not, nor wouldst, be, If thou say'st that thou oppose me, Though at first I heard thy father, Though the mighty son of Ukko ======================================== SAMPLE 459 ======================================== , The mother in her kerchief wove her tender limbs, And lo, the champing breast! and from her voice Sounded so soft, The morning stars blushed o'er the sleeping earth As if the babe within her bosom's fold A little child had found. And the night-wind o'er her bosom spread Tranquil and woof of stars--all silent, save The singer's heart, the swan's, flickering caroll Moaning over her dead mate: And now, by the tide's lulling, in the groves Of the cool green sea, By the shore of the cold-heart crystalline Welcomed her, dying soft, to her I love. So turns she from the earth, turning from love. So turns she from the world, turning from love. And not a voice is heard, not a cascade's rumour, The moaning wave, the rolling of the waters, That wash the dripping moulds; Nor whoso heeds these fearful purposes Must leap aloft to hearkening ears of thunders. So, while the heaving earth-- Her adamantine cradle, her hard heart, And where the Ocean spits Its pearls, are laid. Porphyro, from his corner, high Arched with his ivy-crowned clove, As in his princely presence flashed The royal banner of his king; But the false worship, That dazzled and withdrew, Burned from his bride's flaunting arms, But spared a brighter day. Rippling in the sinew's wake, That like shot arrows flew, Leaving him, he must fall, Too soon his hope of lives Shall give a treasured boon, To will his longing grant. The happy day is gone That had so long been his; The morn the maiden looked Into her marble lap; Though her heart's flame, In gradual glory, shone In long neglect As letters on my breast Rehearsed her own; Yet her vestal graces seem Like cloud-flowers o'erblown. When the wooing wind Taketh on his words, Which is like the flowing draught Of a great wave-courses, And each stroke a dream, Then comes his magic power, From the happy nook To the dim nook, In the eyes and tranquil breast Of a low, sweet nook, And its meaning is confessed And filled with unassuming motion, The old ballad-man, In his long, round shadowings, So warm with the rustling vine That, ah! it is almost His due who doth not sleep For the cot-starred gloom Of this mortal hour. Wakeful, with a head bent high Against the morning grey, Which had in her vision passed, Then sought she to find An uncouth figure, not yet his, And, with an eye astray, Watch'd the moonlight above her head, As it swept through the leaves, With such a gleam of golden hair He trembled to espy. "Hast thou gone," quoth he, "of late And far from me? What is this thing That wakes my everlasting love With every tap of the wylding-top? Doth it not hasten to Some dark-built woman, whose high voice Has done the boon to smile?" "Oh no!" quoth she; "she is the hunge Of the deep; thirst she is Which by this hour hath made her mine, And I must think in her What every tide doth pass from her, And more than any other To me is any woman. Oh yes! I have a heart, 'tis hers In whose almighty truth The world's unruffled by the waves Of thought that e'er she saw. Hath she not taught me a brave way To dare and win in a cold race? Some way! I learn at last, 'tis true, That--but if 'tis not so-- What matters it to win or go? 'Tis mine in right and in wrong. Who knows? My own heart lives and moves From her to you, from her to you; My feet by roads are beaten back And her life tears no sign. Who knoweth the old way--which is But the way which I know? And I feel as though I had some touch Of some heart in her too, A ======================================== SAMPLE 460 ======================================== let us hope it could not be That in the Adriatic sea A despot did devise The powder of thy lips to ruffle, And now it takes a mighty sunder As many a kiss as many a lover Is given without a first or second; And so this dainty trinket From Venus' naked breast, Now it is set a-basking A-brewing in the West, And in the tinctures of its raiment Mixes with many a plaint. Farewell, my friend, a good end The coroner vouchsafes; The noon-day sun, with dew bespangled, Makes woodland branches, while we strangled By drenching showers, then strewed The embers with the remnant of a vat Rather than daintily content. I'll close unto the dead, And be as my last fare. Is there aught of value in its end, And does not therefore do or blend? The winter's past, the summer's past, The winter's past, the summer's past; But shall the streams by such a flow Refresh their hearts, or smooth their brow? These parts can naught of rich and rare Perceive, but only that they are. Of her ye love who here behold His sightly feet, Or else despise you, That of a valorous foot ye hold The yellow gloves or slender hold; Or, like all lovers, full and free, They wander from the eyes to see. In them 'tis useless to unfold Each titled pair, No fopling-capacles, and gold, For worldly ware; Ye with your charms repent no more 'Till the time pass, Whose choice ye chose is cheated o'er. Ye ladies, all disdains to praise, Delite themselves, and feed your gaze. Haste, then, and be ye glad and gay; And to the House come, My love, and to the Roses say My love, and to the Rose-hedge Dijon, Whither so fast? <|endoftext|> As I came through the meadow by the way, I heard a lovely, prattling, while she stood Above the fairest of the fairer mead That many a maiden in her beauty said. To her young Shepherd did I answer, Then all the world grew fatter. She stood Between the rose and purple; She did not find his wonder, But gazed upon the daisies And daffodils that scented the sweet air With morning clouds of fragrance. But yet the cold, unlovely world Was coldly wrapped round with thistle dank, While on her face the rose and lily Grew calm and still and placid. And underneath her feet a violet Lingered, and on her cheek the primrose sown Shed tears of harmony, and through the grass A faded wreath of blue looked down. Under her head a lily hung Its petals down, and to her knee were thrown The tendrils, which her own love had twined About her brow and breast, and seemed to twine Until her locks fell mingled with the snow, And she forgot her beating heart below. The birds had flown away Ere she was half aware, When with an idle flutter of wings She saw herself and lovingly fling Her love asleep in flowers of Spring, And all her face was hidden from view By a blush of morning dew. Oh, were she thinking of me, my Love, Oh, were you but some other one, To whom your wings had flown, Who would have thought that mine were quench'd, And kindled both our souls with bliss, Since through that rosy cluster 'twas. For nothing could that spot have been Where love so nearly drew Such deep delight, such utter bliss, As even to gods it knew. Only a pale girl's wimpling lip Could hide the blushes which it gave, And only through the roses' eclipse It felt the sorrow of a slave: No sigh escaped her eyelids then, But through the air there trembled yet A gentle spirit, feeling fit To answer and to comfort mine, Ere from the flowery 'bove the bough Its farewell wing the mother sent, And silenc'd it with vows and wine. Oh, were my Love come home once more, And long among the scented flowers He would ======================================== SAMPLE 461 ======================================== less wooded earth, While on the dusk's immeasurable throne, Perambulates the ancestral atmosphere; Not the hoar sea that meets and claspes the shore, But the deep scars of storied cities, tell How, on their front to look askance and stare Upon a world at work, and work, and play, Is there, o'erhead, but in a lonely place, Where the great bridge of Empires like a chain Slips through the portals of the year, and towers Upon the condiment of the inmost air A path to tread and never to return. The island's re-arched and hidden walls appear Erect and ample, and the sylvan scene Is all one scene. Where mazy bards emboss, And sages sigh, the beauteous scene they mingle, Now where the scene its hospitable face Conveys and riots in the Helmund glade, There the hoar Fathers' line, the Lord's expression, Is here invited. But where art thou? There, O the unworthy! here beneath the cloud An image floats; and she, the little maid, So feebly shrinks, and feigns as she is proud, What? chiefly feigned? Nay, ye who fear a change, Look on these wounds; these tossing locks of hers Which once redented a most dreadful war, Now heave the heavy heart! ye children of your sires, Upon these impotent wines of fury! hail This absolute token from the bottle's side! He comes, ye maidens, clad in trappings gay, With all the pride of youth, and a stout heart And mermaid art; and ye, by menial zealot led, All smiling! I behold the horrid sight, Where Hydra's broken shaft is only reared above Its broken horn! How many a warrior's soul Waxed god-like in convulsions of defeat, And one, great Virtue's triumph, burst the tomb! In the cold grave a great and mighty man, Though now a hero, and an honoured sire, Led on his footsteps through the of the fight; Yet was not that far hero's brow severe Thrice victory for all, and, to his end, Possessing life, as bestial of the world Rises! There is an end to Nature's laws, A light of darkness. Crushed the weary rest From keen repulse, or from ambition's wrong, With voice of woe, or pen of painful woe, For he had found a spirit worthy Him Of those weak arms unworthy of his lyre; And he had breathed the notes that trembled through The murmurous halls, in dying accents low, Like waters to the element; and trained His spirit to bear up the songs in Heaven, His hand upon the lyre: and when he died He left the choir, rejoicing in his fate. Weary of me, when thou, fair one, didst depart, Sweet child, of Nature's gentlest influence! Though weary at heart, I could bear all thy pain, And be a shelter from the sad train, So idly might they, smiling, ask thee why They leave thee thus, and that thou mightst be here If, in this world, thou didst thy father see His first-born, and that other, sad and old! So ended she her sad and dreary tale, And in her last, low pensive tone began: Sweet Child, full many a year And every day, Long plodding on, thou hast, And, in the future, found Full many a blossom, every fruit, That, leaving yet unfound, With all its wealth of joys, The time has come, thou may'st not miss In thy fair flowery prime! There is a store, I trow, Full of sweet dreams and fair, Of fruit, of flowers, which grow Like sunny gleams, like sunny beams, And seeming so, all Heaven surrounds them in their endless splendours. Dear Child, in this wild place I read no livelier lays; Thou hast nor hears nor music now, Nor dancth a lisping breeze, Nor sounds, nor necromance, Can mingle now; But the wild woodman throws his axe, And in the valley lays his axe, And it is there I sing, That bright and glorious Spirit-king, Will send his stroke on all below, Far, far away, And, after, send him where He ======================================== SAMPLE 462 ======================================== as, shrubs, and ferns, Are sea and land for these two eyes. I have a dog, my kitten dear, I know where he may be at, Where he may get this morning cheer, And hope that all may see. If he grow wild and leave his track, All men be sure he'll be A happy dog, and from the back Bear rule, and never fear. And where his home, the best of all, Is when he is upon the way (For he, I hope, may be a bit Where any one's not named). He's a dog, my kitten dear, He lives in that far home, He lives by sight of all the hearth And everything he's worth. Not his the wild dog's laughter; Not his the wild dog's thirst; The big dog in the breakledge, The big dog in the yard. For him he lives, and he is wise, And lives, a thousand score. He is not hard to measure, Not his the kind dog's pleasure, Nor his the world's disdain, The world's domestic grief; Nor his the heart's compassion, Nor his misfortune. I bring fresh showers for the running water, Fresh water from the spring; The high hedge and the cottage haven, And sheep with leaping heart Come hither, gay and jolly, All redolent of Spring. We bring fresh showers for the flying feet, For the feet of the flying deer. The song of birds is far too fleet For the tender feet of love. 'I sang 'My love,' she says; 'Let others sing.' Her throat is rather pied, I see. Her form's not very white, indeed; She's not so fair as lovely, indeed, Yet, being in tune with anything, The color of her heart I know. 'I sang 'My love,' she says; 'my song'-- No other thing replies, indeed; 'But if my song'--she says 'must be'-- She gives herself to me, my own. Ah! the kind eyes that smile on me! And when a girl is flattered to. To the rolling of the salt waves, And her great and stormy breast, And the mad procession of the sea, She looks out in my face to-day, Because she loves me best. For she has thirty happy years, And counts it something great To fill the measure of my grief With all the joy of a happy life Until she finds it good. For she is kind, though robed in white, And has no gentle soul, And will not brook the storm, because She knows it with the pole. For she has never learned to know The splendid joys of earth, Nor ever yet has hoped to share The gracious gifts of birth; Nor ever has attained to be A wanderer from his quest, But through it all a part has gained In striving for the best. And she is wise because she knows That there is little in kindness, never is her path made clear, So kindly says the gentle-hearted: 'Youth! my boy!' Oh, the young sun; oh, the green grass; oh, the tall tree; Oh, the oak-tree; oh, the sun-shaded mountain; Oh, the willow, the brook, the thicket; oh, the waving corn; Oh, the redshreeck, the wild mountain; oh, the yellow sea! They are thinking of coming, when they don't know it's spring, And they know they are thinking of coming, for why? For they know they are thinking, when they don't know it's spring, That it's dreary when you're thinking of it; They know so they would think it when you don't know it's spring, And they know that it's dreary if you don't know it's just The paltry critter with his sou'py eyne; And they want you for a little whack at school, And the nice little devils there are you, And the gentle ones are off, with caw and lo! I know you will be sorry for them, though, When you'm glad to know it's May or June; So I say, as I say, as I say it's June, If you want to know it's June or June. "The soldiers are so small, and you must watch them so, But they must do their bit, for they are great, And he ======================================== SAMPLE 463 ======================================== ; For no crime is great And no beauty base, He is builded to some palace gate In the hours that face to face With pleasure or with grace; He can play so well He's as music when he's call'd to sleep; But all ages hold He knows, and shall ever be wrought of old. <|endoftext|> In Europe's bustle, then, we call them still More vocally; And see how our stern poets do express Their passion for a singer's thoroughwill, At once expect some real great or ill In the soft touch; And with much kindness they may beg and pray, In the hope of every troubadour, to-day. Or if it ever so befall, in France, This soft-voiced phrase, "Lagman," like a call To some sweet thought put in a song, that ne'er Must on a harp be struck, or so forth sent Into its measures forth its delicacy, 'Twill suit some finer minstrel for this latter Sound-master, here, or elsewhere, the fine spirit, Who thus define it and describe it best, Saying: "Behold me in your hand--behold me Twas made to speak; yet, as thou wilt, I proudly Willed it should be, and do my very utmost For this request." Then after further prayer they furthermore Do more than they would offer, for the higher Heart's swelling, and no farther dare to soar Above it;--that some strain may also tie them Less firmly round, more free from suff'ring in That fetter; for it doth the more alloy. There are who make the wound, and who the sword, Who the warm heart and all the members make Of these most cruel, rueful sacrifice, And pine to leave these first-made friends, the freemen Who in their death their noble country's foes Have sinn'd and slain, and millions yet to come Join in a cause of wonder and of praise Of those proud, uncaressive things that ever Were overthrown. 'Tis so, when from the strife what men advance, The young Spring calls him: for the little child Is on his mother's lap, to play and weep (To hear her tender love for him beguiled) And not for her: the fair--the wildly-wooing, As thro' the woods so proudly I could cry, 'Ye brave, ye too, fell in your lowly lot, Ye too may fall--but let this milder verse Be staid for indigence--and add this verse To those true tears which pray for men devout Like dewy wreaths of incense in the drench Of summer: take no notice of the time, For he was with you one of many--fame him Of Rome, and gave much heed unto your name; And howsoe'er the day should come, and darkness Broke o'er the places twixt his hopes and those, Yet O! there was a day so dark and drear, And father, mother and the boy, O Death! The blind boy slew the tawny wolf of nine. A poet in the moonlight of his youth, Of courting which he had in chart and rhyme; A poet in the night of Saturn's time, Of dancing, and the wretchedness of man; A laureate-lap in poesy's great prime, A kingdom of the wind that caught his voice From an old woman swooping down to her, Majestic now, now a king in lace, The sultan of the world--a wit unblessed, And keenest, Like a true genius blown from mountains skied, The poet brought it from old hands that taught it. He too was Sappho of our troubadour, And deathless. 'Twas not a tide of fear, Not a tide that rushes on a multitude Of troubled names and deeds unmitigated, With storm and swift triumphant passion rolling Worldward in monotonous emulation: But, as I'm shaping verse for what has naught to do, And what has all the torments done for heaven, And what has been, and is, and has been only, In these our efforts to accomplish more The great desire to fill a manor's store In many a fair, divine endeavour; So, as I'm singing of the wandering sea My happy song is marring all the foam That flows between our far exultant sea And ======================================== SAMPLE 464 ======================================== her down, and I can see, she lies asleep, Beneath the azure roof; and sometimes weeps Some careless, half-reclined, half-reclined verse: "Blame not my book, but give it me who choose; One in whose glory, too, I dare to choose. Blame not my book, nor judge my even chance; Your page would know it." Then I saw A sunset border the Black Azores; And in my vision, like some grey giant groves, A tent of palm-trees, like some distant heaven, Serenely calm; nor leaf nor leaf might move But in the stillness of a trance, like one Panting for breath, or half-suspended space Exhausted,--save when he has ceased to listen; Or whether having tasted one drop of the worm, Some little remnant of the ashes left To rot in his heart's core, it seems as though Their roots had dropped away beneath his feet. Thus on and on; till a thin specter of pain Stroked my brows, and to and fro, and slowly stroked My eyelids, and from either touch and cry There fell no human wail, nor any groan, Save the low rumbling of a spirit stream That seemed in league with the wide-dried air, As if a vision had unlocked therefrom. When it was night, and I had turned from work Desonelling, and in my slumber lost, myself Sought sleep; and waking with a frozen breath Took the poor wretch to sleep till morning dawned; And o'er the crags I heard the death-bell toll For him who wears his shoes; and heard the footfall That made the soft groan quicker; and swift dreams, That would have slain their victims, swept away The ghost of my own kin, and the swift flood That overhanging the wide waste of waters Came rushing, hurrying with red-berried beams. And there upon the lake I stood with these; And up the elm-trees on that pleasant lake The moonlight lay like azure; and above The quiet water, smoothly hoarding, thinned Like a white sheet, nor darkened into space, Drank heaven; still less for my sake and my peace, But for the angel that moved wonderously Into the dew of pity; for the touch Of the cool hand that drew it. I knew not If earth were fair, or if the air was clear, Or if there be a heaven, or if there is, Where earthly things live sweetly: for, in fine, The love of heaven is throbbing in my heart As though in rapture; I can feel the still Dews drooping round me; and I know the calm Of heaven for my sake, which is of love. Thou wilt forgive, as I had thought of thee Years ago: and through the tresses of thy hair I will unloose me, floating over them, To be as thoughts of these as of a dream, Or as unworthily; or as a corse Of the embroidered violets, half hid Under the circle of its wind-touched drift; Or as the pebbles of the sea, half hid, Part an eternity of silence, which No sound recalls; or as the human voice Of that old wizard sound, thine ear, as now, And as a bird thy heart, come unto me In happy time. If but for one hour's space Thou canst remember, and remember not This graveyard where thou art,--I cannot say What I be, as a dream to thee, my prince, For that thou knowest not wholly of thyself Nor of my soul. For all time held percase With sad misgiving, and for every time Thou shalt be sick with waiting. In thy face A ghastly anger lightens, of which the giants Seem to smile, nor ever, having babblings Of image or of image, shall one glance Again cast on thee. Then shall I take thee To my old self again, and evermore Thou yet shalt greet thee; yet not fearing for thee In these grim hungry corners, thine at least, Even until to-morrow thou wilt see Thine utmost weakness, and perhaps no less For thy undoing thee. But this I know, That I know more than who can, with a touch Of thy weak hand, bind me to thy heart; And even though they still keep icy ======================================== SAMPLE 465 ======================================== . Was found them by his master at the holy fane, Famous in legend, many in the tale; And in the country-bower, that village pastor, Sitting beside a solitary wolf, Proud of his honest fame, beside a wolf, Babbled for many years his hasty life, And by his mighty name the village pastor Blew all its thorns into the neighbouring bush, And there for ages, thick as summers willow, Found rest and good beneath a shady grove: And was it that these monsters formed a being Not from some savage, nor some savage being? Or was it that of old they had their birth, Not from some savage, but some bird of prey In their dark mirth, that eddy of the grove, Found they but fables of the dawning day? But, having thus grown up, they wage a war Against their masters, who the savage war Betraying, they in long obedience stand; Dangers, and feuds, and wrongs, and strife and feuds Prevail, though rarely interposed, between them. His heart, his tongue, his sight, his deity were Entering into his kingdom, such as holds The earth and sky in all her countless folds, Yet me how different! Oh, my princely blood! Why come you not, that the dull ear of want And hunger and disease, and trembling haste Which in your hurrying bosom works so well? But come, tarry and listen to my words, Nor by the town of Dædalus deferr'd. Haste now, and pass beneath the spreading beech With me, while I beseech you; for your life Is lovely, from the day when you were born. If I beseech you, grant to me your prayer Which is but truce among the wretched throng Of those, who now are gone, and you have ruled All as a multitude, whom if you can, Nor let your enemies lie to the grave, Here shall no man be found. Behold! no more I answer; all this jarring region sounds To me, where ye have slept, and I have sworn Be witnesses against you. Still for fear This hindrance checks your stay. Look now to earth, And to the murky air exposed within, Here hide yourselves from every human eye. But if ye find no refuge, nor restrain Your plaints, which go abroad from thine own heart, Come forth, and to the world's extreme repose Give an conducted guest; when first I saw Your faces, gracious and benign, and pure, Judged and judicious, with a tranquil mind On every theme so excellent to please, So that each word I heard and knew a heaven For your fair fellowship, how hard soe'er, As now to me, so bent, in anything To please your fancy. When thus in my thought, As nearest to the altar ye appear, The incense, myrrh and cinnamon, shall bring No secondimest friar to tempt you forth. I write the verse of Beatrice. So she Repair'd, she open'd to the eternal flame The volume, and all glow'd with so exceeding whiteness, That swells its light where all our knowledge is. With songs, which this had breath'd, and that which writes, Throughout all ages and all regions of man, With so exceeding whiteness, shines the moon, That had mine eyes and ears in her, I must Distinguish for the sun's lucent lightness then. Through her I straightway look, and one by one, Through Edom and the city, bend my sight Towards the sun, that is aware of us. O Beatrice! to thyilton's house Brunello drew, not waiting till he came. Nor may I pass unnotic'd by the sound Of the mere human voice, but rather come Through the spirit courts, with that benign abode, The lady of the love, by whom 'twas given To Adam, spouse indeed and father-in-law, To the first king, to the second Mary, where The world's gross net hath fallen, and to us Clear emulous, and joyous, and intense, Through whom are seen, whether on high or down, The mountain, suddenly, as if to find Or on its topmost summits, all alone, Save the soul's sparrow, on the highest peak, In heaven or earth, to contemplate. She is, Bare-headed, member of ======================================== SAMPLE 466 ======================================== ; And a white hand in the basket it has been taking, Over the way at Crooked's Field. Yes, that was the Motto, and that was the Jew, And the lovely Herrick of Gold. All those were the Dryads and cowslips and cowslips; But the valiant goat-eyed brown-eyed milk-cart, the laughing commenced with a run of the "Riches." And little one Nannette, with a rounded apple-cushion, Was climbing the club with her basket so lovely and rare, That she caught in a far-off swivel the burden she bore From the tail to the skin. Like flappers who watch the old Grackles, And, singing and wringing her fingers, Run out to the open country, To think of the Gentiles' new neighbors, Of all they have ever been acting, To feel if they do not talk, masks, and sluices, As we ring round the beautiful Gentiles, And think of ourgrandmother's greatness, As wearing the brown Sunday-woven tresses, And taking her shape like a fern-fern. At last she came to a quiet country, A hardy, restless, lonely city, Where still her girls and her maids kept coming, And manhood's zeal more zealously flamed. She sat down in her discontentment, And talked of the great day that was o'er. But when she had reached that horizon She said: "Once more I will go back to Florence." She bade her husband, staying with her, Come quickly to Florence, her heart's delight. O you beautiful white women, With breasts like snow-flakes, and eyes like sunshine! You with your innocent mothers, And faces like innocent mountains! I can see them laughing with glee, And I can smell them, and think of them, And think of a few brief words, and of the long ago, When we two were boys together And never a word they spoke that might have been understood As I clasped her by the hand. And I said: "My bosom, child, is filled With passion, love, and longing, all unmarred Against thine eager arms and hands. Can it be, dear, That all the labors of my youth and all my lore are Thine eyes so earnestly as now they look through thine The dead spring from the grave Clad in the robes that deck her tomb Are in the cold light of the moon, O, blessed is the light of love That burns through the lids of night As a saintly day burns through the sacred veil of night, When all the soul lies hid from the world's loud throbbing roar, And the mortal stands in darkness before God. But who shall lead me to the gates Where none can enter, Save the old Three and the Delphian? And yet, O city, deaf to the din And the sorrow, Under the laws that might have been crossed, You, O Mother, with your right In the dark, You, that have suffered and suffered so From Life's long injustice, From reckless rebellion, To the deep, unholy hate That would wait But kept your ways As of old Mid the ancient nations? And they, I think, who loved you first, These, O Mother, they, for whom you tossed Through the wild winds of old-- More pity, More pity, More pity, More pity and pity! I dream of the garden I planted Where first your summer morning sunbeam shone. I wonder how you planted it? I wish I was happy, I fain would have gone. But I find it isn't like garden beds, And people think there isn't much that grows; There's much that's pleasant and decent, And plenty of that sweetest thing that grows. And you are coming, Mother, with bees and birds, With flowers to bind your slippers, And trees to shade your walks in-- There was a little poppy-cup which hung With violets underneath the purple wall; A cup of violets--so delicate and sung As all the flowers at Eden shuttled down. Then from the flowers the poppy-cup he flung; And added flowers that had no smell or smell; And on the ground the violet, fragile-flushed, Fell, for a queen too violet. You beautiful little flowers! Your fragrance lives in the breeze, Filling the air with fragrance, ======================================== SAMPLE 467 ======================================== away. If fond love a spark of heavenly bliss Can extinguish not, Though they shake, and burn, and sigh, and flee, Their flames can quench The world's adorning;-- Then, take these arms, to quench thy thirst I have said it out, As a warm-blooded, untameable load For a hungry belly. The moats, the coals, the trunk of trees, The bark upon the stream, With the winds that blow And the sea with its clouds that freeze, And the brown-eyed beam. The ivy-tod, the branchy hedge, The honeysuckle's bloom, The fleur-de-lis, the wild rose's breath, The sunbeams' loveliness-- 'Tis on such a night as this That he who runs can every kiss, Blest utterly. The gardener Churney has sent me His angel in my garden; The gosling chap, the nightingale, The lark that climbs the yonder; All the white pageantry and light And the clear blue, the depth of night, And the slopes of gold, and the blue-vaulted hill Where the traveller builds a mill. Bloom, O bloom, on the dewy sward, Bloom, O bloom! The wind-flower spreads its fairy fringe Through the woodland and over the meadow; The white-throat builds his golden fence 'Twixt the waking world and the sleeping sky; The world-old rose, Hopes and fears adventurous, wild and shy; For, O, the full hour's glory! The child's heart beats, and its pulses leap In the tumult of the dance, As, with pulses of melody, To the music of gladness leaping, Beauty exulting in its might. Such joy is sweet In the forest and the stream, Luring the heart from joy To a something sweeter and warm. But the heart is bold and warm. In the quiet night the Earth draws nigh Her one pale blossom unfolds To the light That leans On the breast of the deep blue sea. She sings not, but silently Tells the lonely night is free, And for hours in this song Her starry silence covers; Tells that starry skies have cast Their shadows o'er her past; That sad night, of all the worst, That dark hearts, By wild life Rebounded, are unmated. The stars in heaven and earth Now dwell in heaven, the sea-things seem Scarce human, and the stars are real They sang us, and the sea-things seem To walk the world all blindly. These have no homes, but I have three, And that will never know What lies Beyond these fields of night and dream, These waves and waves that dance And sing in the wind that winging flies. Under the trees that shade their faces They guide us through the night. But one is young and fresh and fair, The clouds that shade their hair Turn to the tempest of the air, The winds that blow in fright As they sweep home with cries of dread The very clouds in flight, The winds of the storm that swell and swell The waves in their despair. The leaves on the terrace that swing In the purple shade of the forest night, Droop over the terrace and swing Dark wings on the deep blue light. Over the roofs of the stricken night The waves with roaring and wild uproar Roll down like a mighty wave That wrecking and dies in the light Of the sunless skies above. The night of death is past, Our dreams have died; The silent pool has sunk to the breast Where the shadowy waters slant to rest; The forest's night-clog holds the mold, The fog and the wild wind moan no more; No more in the clamorous vales The angry rapids rear their gaunt limbs That weave their dance and swarm in the blast. The night is done. The wind has ceased To waken the huge, unquiet sleep Of the beauty that sleeps and gleams O'er the sleepy face of the quiet deep. Who wakes from sleep on the chilly moor, And whistles the horn's long peal, Will the wind in the empty house Mourn for the things that we must see? The wind of the storm that drives at last Will wake again from his mystic dream The white arms of a child asleep. The ======================================== SAMPLE 468 ======================================== 's fire, and subtle vapour, from the cloud Caught, which with frequent fagots dense infected air Subsists, and with a vapoury burden loads The backs of these huge neighbouring cities, first To perish, and thereafter to appear, When the due season has adorned our year. I see the imperial ensigns at the door And lofty gates, with battlements in front Of victory: wide banners, with long spears And banners waving; breaking forth the ranks Of British thousands, for the crimsoned field, Troop to the onset: behind, on either side, Both armies stand arrayed in arms; the foe Strays like a falcon on his wing, yet holds, Just wings, and dissipates in view, his head, And now his shoulders, disarranged, he flings On the slain soldier, now on mortal foe That shrieking, with his beak, and fiery eyes, Rains hissing through the tumult, and again Plants his broad pinions on the foe. As up the citadel of Jove new-found From Jove himself the firmament above, From whence, if not from Jove, the glittering towers Were reared, and under whose protection placed For the defence of Hector and his son, The battle had been to claim no more; but thence Came forth to animate the Trojan host; For none in modern days could draw from him A greater number, than the giant tribes Of Asius or of Lycia, whilom slain. Thither with charged charge, and with disparting flight The Trojans in confusion fled, and round Fierce Agamemnon and Ulysses rush'd. Then slew the princes Allaparte, the King Of Crete; him overtook in flight his son Alcides, and Astynous alone. Next after Peleus, Peleus' son, the friend Of Phoebus. Paris slew Oileus, son Of Arethuse; through his temples flew The arrow of divine Æneas; yet Nor love of man for chaunged he less the right. Nestor in flying was by Paris slain, And on his head both helm and shield he bore. He quits his place; surpris'd, astonish'd, looks At the retiring chief; deep sighs he holds, And inly griev'd that he so dear was left. Yet will he not, by ill advice misled, Resolve to quit his son, or to retire To Ida, or to die the son of Jove. For all that lessons most severe and right The will of Jove imparts or whispers new, And bids thee all that wait the setting forth, Seek out and learn the Grecian host's defence. But thou, Achilles, the appointed spot Guard, lest they see thee bleeding by the wound Of some spear-arm, till thyself arrive; And seeing them set free, the Kings of Greece Shall laugh, that and confused, to battle rush. Meantime, their godlike master to expose Their bodies to the flames, shall intermix With thee, the heart of Simoisius lies With dauntless son, Patroclus, to the fight; For when the multitude shall of thy spoils Insult thy life, the soul of Hector quells. Thou shalt not from Phegeia nor from Greece Be absent, while the conquering Greeks in arms Shall take thy life, or numerous, as thou wert, Shall wage the warfare; till, like me, the Greeks Be vanquish'd, and the vanquish'd homeward fly. Such was my thought, but vain, and vain the wish To cope with Hector. He who to the fleet Of Greece, through the whole host and Trojans erst And Lycians, where he led his legions hard, Left me with doom august to fall a prey To dogs and vultures of the deep, but now Wou'd slay me, rather than at Priam's siege He perish, and in Priam's court abide. To whom his soul with prophecy prefixed: "What profit hast thou, Peleus' son, to give To Hector's friend thy body to the dogs? Since perish Hector? and shall Hector's self Shall Hector slay thee for his vaunts of thee? For not Achilles, shalt thou boast, like him, Aught other of the mightiest chiefs in Troy; Though him thy judgment move, and thy advice Afford, make ravenous pause, till day shall ======================================== SAMPLE 469 ======================================== se and desart, Have showed the compass of my royal drum Alone, will find, for any but myself Desert them. If, in losing you, you cannot Refuse them, know! The hind who sends the pest To feed its vile and most fecundity Is no more thankful; his unquenched thirst for war Is nothing, and his anger will not find The due refreshment in an unpoisA"d stench. Have patience, sweet! I break the trophied wall, That with the better shreds of ribbons run To daylight o'er the walls, and hide from view My wanton forage with the gilded vanes, Which on this side the sun will, gathered, ward Of deadliest purpose, and of kindliest end. For first on me lay fair supremacy; And ere to-morrow morn's familiar bird, I went, ascending from this woeful vigil, With swift foreknowledge in thy heart, that I Should henceforth know thy holiest, thy home-spun, All-cerning, only worshipt of the Gods! So they among themselves cried--on the trees And bushes gazed; then, in her snowy veil Arose, and when the daylight disappeared Arose from earth. The roses at the porch Hung trembling; and the little murmurs of The balmy nightingales seemed all extinct. The dew not dropped but faintly 'gan to drip, As 'twere with dew so fresh; but, as they died, The maiden Adon's raiment foul with dust, And 'neath the surface set her virgin curls Clustered about the waist, with fatal frost Convulsed and, clinging close to its dear tie, Seared, through the tempest of the upper day, The secret of such care. Her listless limbs All naked on the ground must hide her head, Yet tremulous beneath her silver veil, Her arms flung lengthwise, and her fair cheek Untrammel'd. Men have said that on account Of these investments, which the King who breathes O'er them in pity, not alone permits His people also to neglect their faith. But for a time she cannot fall, she lives, And with her beauty, all her strength abased, Must fly like scattered mist, the forky air, Or hide her passing with a thousand head. One evening in the garden by the shore, She paused until a exotic form retired. Fair emblem of unrivalled Artemis! Who can that be, although beneath the shade Of pines, and pines, and melancholy shrubs, Resting on these retired walks, whose heaps Fallen like snow- melt sunshine under foot? Ah! heart, how thus o'erflowing with delight, Would the well-girdled youth have paced these walks, O'erlaying with delight the slope with which He sets his footsteps to the purple rills, And sees afar the town a wall of flowers! How he came faint beneath the odorous shade, Where o'er the garden spots the lilies swelled! Walking a naked vine that fell for him; And, by a fountain from a craggy rock, Bowing, he called to her, and thus he speaks: "Am I, the flower or bard? Gather the plants, And let the herbs grow paler in the stream. Then maiden Dian will be here to-day, And with her virgin-vowel make a couch Against thee, and in silence dress thee down." And Dian brooked not, for she deemed the maid So vain, but only for the pure white face Of Dian, beautiful. No vow at first Nor prayer at first made meet, but "Come away! Do as you list," she cried to him, "and now To Dian be a journey unto Pan. A wanderer oft to sorrow and to bliss. Forgive me, Madam, but I will not say If ever I were fashioned for this ease. I will not harm her, and so pass her days." To whom in brief thus cunning Venus said: "Dear shepherdess, to gods thou hast been reconciled, And hither have I brought her. Now her age And name are mine, and I will tell it thee, Thy lover: lo, thou brought'st the lovely youth Out of his own. His mother was a girl Grown in the woods, nigh Dionysian fount; And by the white-robed virgin he was sent To be ======================================== SAMPLE 470 ======================================== eds seem to us two islands, each a realm; Which one low isle, where every one is lost, Where every one sits ever in his home, Till ocean's bottom groans around the barge That breaks our shelter from the British coast. Out from the Ocean's bosom and deep caves, And high rocks as their silvery caves, Which in the distance faint and far divide And cast a shadow, do they swoon aside; Or, watching on the sea-gull's hollow gorge, Stand on the brink and hear the dashing tide, And though they live in caverns hollow-nigh, They, in a moment, disappear and fly! In all my wanderings the land was mine! The land of love, the land of peace, The land of health, the land of ease, Where every wanderer took his course, And revelled in his latest strife With usage and with mien, and sense, and mood, And company, and foreign force. Where the spent traveller who would rest In his own hut or thine abode, By land or ocean's teeming breast, By rocks and shoals, on moors and tides, Or by the long mirage of drifted snows, Strayed by the fever of the deep. But never he could pass the land, In quiet or in strife, Until a pallid finger-post Of ghostly finger traced his hand Beside a lonely wanderer, A ruin and a dying grove, Where now no winging stirs The everlasting memory of those who love. For once the rocks had known the pain Of his own Highland fox, And now, the fated land no more, The grey-haired prying ant has claimed his right To linger on his lonely trail Across the rolling hills, And still the village disappears, And still the whisper scarcely stirs, The moan of one unworthy oat, That fills the spring with its sweet vesper bell, And all but that which never fell In agony is love's largess. And as the year draws on to spring, And all is fresh and fair, The parting year, more fair, more free, The Spring's last breath of autumn brings The songs of happy birds, And all her longings shed anew The bloom of her autumn-time anew, And Summer, her old prime, is dead, And every scene but grief Shall else have given him Spring again, A whim of the wind and rain, A tide which hath not its goal, A never-failing wing of thought, A tide which but to me Seems, as the one fair course it seems, To be beyond the sea. I found another as myself, Who sailed as a good ship true; I found another, well pleased with my new Secret and my strange new crew. For the broad seas and the singing winds All knew it were good of me, And chiefly at my choice and choice Was restless heart of me, As I picked and cast mine eye On land and sea and sea-mew, The home of the wind and the sea-tide, The shores of it and me. Then over again, still to and fro, With a pretty lot of play, I fared as a good ship, I fare as a good ship, With glad dreams in my brain and gray; And for what I do and dream and do I was but a foolish dream, For some long, unreasoned theme, Some trivial jest, some idle word, This worthless and uncouth misgivings Stamped my blood and stained my sky, While the first sun shone kindlier on me, And the moon made sharp the sea. Well, the darkness fell, In the darkness dark and cold, And in wind and flood I stood. And the night still lay behind, For my watch was at hand; On the mast my plume of sail Glittered like the mast. And my prayers I heard For the air was soft and warm. But in wail and wild despair, Wail and tempest came to me O'er the death-lights on the sea, And in rain I ploughed for the harvest-moon And the birds, the chattering cries Of a thousand meadow-flowers, With their throats sucked from the trees, And splashed in the last milk-moon And the one white dripping gleam Of the long waves like the sea That, hanging on the strand Their mute hope dropt to and fro ======================================== SAMPLE 471 ======================================== . 'Tis the genuine noon of summer; See the leafy summits rise, Floating on the mountain-spring, Wading in the sunny skies. See! the cedar at their feet Lifts his leaves in many a fold, Fading on the crimson pebble, Like the last faint gleams of gold. See! the ploughman's keel, so fiery, Dims the foamy billow's spray, While his vessels, near the sun, By the billows onward borne, Like a myriad galleons Plunge into the western deep. And see where the white heat-clouds Just low o'er the valley sweep, See the foamy breakers drawing Clouds of masses in the deep! And see where yon cloud-pools Just leaped over rocky height, Like the surf upon the strand Is suddenly shattered and affrighted, Whelming in the river's bed, Foam-and-beam in mid-air's helmet-deep. And see where the white heat-clouds Just leaped over rocky height, See the white heat-clouds, brown and sickles, Still floating upwards through the deep. But see! o'er the rocky river In flashing squadrons shine; They're the lonesome meals they're making, Where the old folks used to dine. And see where the white heat-clouds Just leaped over rocky height; See the golden fishes swimming Frightened from the sunlit light. And see where the white heat-clouds Just leaped over rocky crest, See the foam-flakes, toadstretoling, Golden fishes bath to rest. Then pause--with all his strength Be aiming at your frame: You've been with them; and here, This moment, is your game; And now, as sure as now That's your game I'll go to win, Or buy you, won't begin. Look! how the pebble-plashes From the bright pearl-bud are flung, And red-bright garlands, that are laden With coral and with gold; And wealth of wonders, wild and sweet, From the cool gardens rise, And ring of glasses, trumper-à-de-luise, Of dancing feet and cries. See, how the yellow tables, As white as dancers gleam, Are filled with amber orient, And wildly flowing for the stream. They fill the merry measure, With too-accordant measure, And blissful looks and eager eyes, And little feet that so delighted Their own have taken wing; And mouth more coy, and lips more tender, Fairer than dances, are; And eyes that, turning hither, beam, Where the loved dearly lay asleep. But ah! what sweets they be, Oh, fairest Flower of beauty, So wild, so passing sweet and bright, Thy own to gain, and only thee To be more happy still, More tender, more as peaceful now, More blest in what Love's arms of lovers. If the merry birds are lovers, The joyous hour is past, And the dogwoods on the hill Have a hearty laugh at last; When the peasant's merry blaze Through the livelong day is spread, And the sun shines bright and warm Through the furrows overhead; Then we sit, and feel no shame, Although the music rings, Since the chase is in the field And the hounds are in the brakes. Then we love the merry birds Who sported here and there; And the clover's pleasant song That they hear us pass the by, And the bee upon the hill Has a gentle message heard, From the masters everywhere, Of a hound we do not care. For we have a merry ring, And we love the songs of birds, And the pipe and all we love Is the hour of jollity. Come let us roam where the red sparks fly, Far out into the dark, And our hearts are stout. We look at the sky and the redburst small, And the flowers open, one by one, And our eyes are wise, We hope we shall find our lamps of wood In the quiet night. But the brook is in our path and the fire is out, Our children are lying in their bed, And we watch them slowly; And when I say that we are sad, It seems to me they are far more gay ======================================== SAMPLE 472 ======================================== é his wife did so las dede, Through armes hondred closen his qweme was layde. She yet mans thought did go Beyond the gros rod, Bot in her thought aswoon, Al wil not as wod, That sorow hath to done: It were no wonder eftsoon that she was dye With wicked word her paynfull body to Marys did fly. And yet, ere I thee cede, And thenke my tresor knight, That were knighthood to mele wynde, Thou mayst be cleped, That wolde have love ynowh, And neuer was of in honde: I nould cry that thei hie on me devel, For hatered body: This is the true felawe of knyght, That causeth me to wyll And other vanities than I be contre To hasten alle your hertes for to recovere. The Greks tolden in the Romay Lockes And at thilke tyme they seyn of the Theseys, Thertoken of Criseyde and of wronges so riche, The dukes of love thyle about in paynes So hyȝe that mys toure, At the brynge swerdes to the Greks wente on debate, How theȝt gladeȝ schulde us helpe or non; Þe briddes metteȝ of hem spake of hem bemoppe, Whan whan the Greks in perill forthe had prechede, Al schulde here her maner on hem helpe reched. Thei his hors ne wolde wende noght aboute, Bot iheled hem to alle men to goute, That goddes grace schulde faile for the tyme To lepe hem lyke of help and for my hye ky{n}g. He herde his hors therof, and to them wente; And to god helippe he made hem so lyly, That god the helpe hadde ben taken in reste, And seide unto them alle the gentyl swerdes. So scha{n}t{h} an hostis, as men mai gete here, Wel cortaysen þ{us} myry sacrifice, Achayleȝ schal euer{er} to other suffre, Bot if it so be that, or god be w{i}t{h} pray, Wel cortaysen þ{us} be at her warme endite. Lyk to a man ful of wode and wode As hit was medlede of kinges arihtes, Þ{us} hertes ful of mariage to pryme, And be pygyved of her prysonerte, Ne no rage can her selfe demur & stode, Bot al schal be bot ynowe & drynkeȝ Be gode & myn hert, whan it is morne, It nedeth noght to wene bot on of stones. The lazieste fyre of alle that are in certein Is mariage of cou{n}ter to empryue; For he that schulde a costel mon to fle, Of his lazieste may be at her feteȝ, Bot, be the nonre oþ{er} whom that sche defendeȝ, The more of luf & blys may fyrmene, For luf & blys may hastyke to her ende. Whan þ{us} he þ{o}re hade, he made hem blynde And were ful sone a space of grete hende. Byfore the same of hem was bere voide, Bot to þe lordes he made hem forto wepe; And þ{o}u sayde as þ{a}t mote was of grete maynt, To hem betyred oure lordes in presence: Of þat ky{n}g con nawþe aboute myne ful kynge That forto se mysse it were trowthe ynowh, Bot al watȝ i{n} her hede neu{er} longe ne soft, Ne neu{er} fre ne mercy ne vnkynde ======================================== SAMPLE 473 ======================================== And black night broods before them: Whither is gone the pageant, Whither fills the solemn place With ballad-singing praises, With ballad-singing limes? But the starry throng voices, They have stolen from the sky, Like a bird that never follows, Nor is heard in all the cry Of a child, nor told in story, To be sung by boys or sages. Hark! the carols rattle Through the forest-darkness; See the princes coming, See the burning turkis; Hark! the prancing ladies Are appear, With rich pomp and gentle figures, Adorned heads, with tassels, Streaming robes, with gay flowers, Streaming tears, with rings. See! the tiara glittering, Like a sunbeam, inlays All the quiet valley; See! the stately forest Leans with gladness on its high bow, Chequered with the happy shadows That are passing, ere they vanish, Into oozy darkness, Where they blend the night with day, Bright'ning up their cloudless summits, And advancing till the darkness Passes on, with sudden rush, Into oozy night. There is here a home of pleasure, Delight, delight, and thought; Woods and waters gently smiling In a sweet succession: Where a child might blush and quaver, With a merry maiden laugh, When her mother bends above her, With a bolder glance beguile, Ere her heart would turn again, Than she bends her wistful head, Wistful to her parent, thus, 'Midst the gay pavilions And the festal-towers. Fare ye well! The mirth is over! Soon, too soon, will Time go by! That is all for which I wander! --The good fairy flag, that flutters, Over the scented mead, Where I won, as the good angels Late called "The Fairies" aside, Tells me that ye are the fairest Either in old Fairyland; And that ye are still the sweetest, The feminine in the far, Albeit I do not know you Or that I have not seen you, Happier, and before you This brings me much to-morrows, Out of the Fairy land. I remember, I remember (It was, "Coquetry," I said), The stuff of which my fancy Here, in my close, busy life, I could not write a verses; But if I write, perchance, Not with your name familiar, Perhaps you know I am The one who wrote the verses. For I believe in those who read (Excuse me if I can) That this same man wrote the verses. But I will not proceed; "One and Two are very clever," I am really quite a fiction; And, to my thinking, I Also do not care spreading Their roots, or their arbours, or (Any rabbits have their fathers)-- So good a two-foot list Is my next new-day Fanny! Here's the genuine fable-thing I have swallowed, and the young Take it well--with greeting. Not now and never once, And just by chance or Fancy's rays I feel its bondship crossed! But, in my next self-address, I crave the maiden's name, So let me reap the kisses From those two suitors came; For to be sealing each from each I have a suitors many. One venerates my calling, Thinks of it with a scorn, And then proceeds without it, Feebly with meanest scorn. And what I think of each one brings Is a great hecatomb. I cannot see them clearly, But, 'tisn't farther than they do. 'Tis a new and solemn Hades Where all my wishes go. The terror is quite ghostly, With spectre-like vehemence. For, by all tortures, Fancy Or other what's so fantastic, She sits and mocks my fancy; The sorrows like a dream do seem Like those of dreams to seem To present with reality The things I might have dreamed. In a city-square, Dot, brick, wall, sill, and several terrace-hanging stone, Some moody artists are, some lawyers are. An artist he. ======================================== SAMPLE 474 ======================================== . A summer dawn had fallen on a pile Of half its columns, to the peering air, As if no power within the towers could boil. Two dim and distant shadows did not meet In that dark chambers. Silence was there. Through vaulted corridors, and upraised halls, Clustered with deepest blackness of green days In a long music that the wind might plays On walls that stood beneath the ladies' gaze, Vaguely remembered and unknown. Ah, day! On wall and battlement, and casement lone, And porch and ancient fort, and old arc-glow, Vext as a shadow and a mystery, And quaint and novel. Time had changed its face, And here the picture had been sold, and there Was hung a breath of roses on the air. And all the chapel--every gallant, fair And youthful; and in every corner still The island echo, white with silver mixt, Ran riot through the chapel of the church; On ivied bar and portal, or above The brazier's crumbling, or the broken door Of huge grape-vines, swung in a spiral rout. There, from the arches, through the rending door, For one brief moment hung a bird on high. The door flung wide; but in the far array The waiting, weary, star-eyed woman thought She heard a little singing in her room The while she watched. She loitered, in her room, With the oaken stair, and flung across the day Her singing face. And, over the open door, Above the lights, a flute-like choir arose, Shredding the atmosphere with flickering notes Of light that gloomed about her casement. Then She breathed a thin, quick prayer that she might know The meaning of each verse, and guess at time To which the hours of music have been given. A cloister where the twilight might be heaven All round her stood, a cot that, where, in dreams, Had given the mystery of an endless calm. And even that haunting, plashing wind-swept pane, With its monotonous curious pain and doubt, Won at the last to be her chapel's peace. Long lists of scarlet-gowned mushrooms had she, Green-cheeked, white-crowned, through which she, like a flame Of seven candles, saw with eyes of glee Her star-lit feast, enchased with shadowy fire The secret influence of a faith they knew For earth's chief lesson, dreaming, watched above. The soft plumes of the willow waved to hide Her maiden brow, her fairy hair upraised. Then a green-band, and down the long dim lane She went, and ne'er turned back; for 'neath the trees At first, though far away, one day she rode Still on. Her horse neighed when she reached the gate. Behind her was a dimness, and in the air Some doubt or terror of a great event Wherein she could not find her riding-tide. There was no swinging of the rein or spur, Only the swaying of a broad cloud-bar; And yet my eyes could not find downward where She looked. Now, clearly as a bat in bower, I heard the rustling branches overhead, Moving as if with wings, and saw the deep Deep shadow of enormous forest depths Grotesquely mirrored in the mighty wave; And something there was in those ghostly woods And at the next faint trembling made me fear. Thither I turned, and thought of those wild ways In the gloom's shadow, and then muttering, The velvet mosses and the vast strange bowers, Thinking of time's sweet far-off pinks and trees, Of life's unspeakable unrest, I fled From mortal haunt. Then would I quickly find The woodland ways, the old familiar ways, The low sweet-cowering wildbells of the Spring, The wood-doves' fragrant incandescent air Of autumn, glancing to the casement- eaves. The secret gloom seemed like a deathly pall, Tempered, enveloped, where two peacocks fled In wingless flight against the heaven. Still She kept her still, the naked air, serene And serene in loneliness. In the air I saw a living creature breathing soft The shining dew that whispers "It is I." And she was there. All round a gracious face The happy sunlight kindled thro' my hair, And in ======================================== SAMPLE 475 ======================================== taken with thee and mine, Away from Troy and all the world's revenge? Of all the woes, alike conceived by God, In Nysa wand'ring from the doom-lock high, Wast thou, indeed, thy very self in fault? Could I but speak of thee in time forepast I had not heard thee; nor, the Goddess-born, Could I but tell thee of thy weeping; no, Not that thy grief, O Ilion, more than mine Is due, O Goddess, to a mortal man Than thou, if, more than mortal, thou didst bear That bliss to one so old and loved of thee. Nay, not for any, or thou only, Gods, Disgraced, begrudged, and of thy race begot. Nay, rather for a wife, than for a son, And for a mother, and the Loves exempt. Not Priam, who, as once a suppliant, held Thy babe's milk, or Nysa's fatted calf His father now, but, with a suppliant's prayers, Thy child, that, cast adrift into the sea, He might no more his wand'ring pastures leave To wander, wearied to his native home. But speak, and for the Gods, on whose behalf Patroclus may receive him safe again, Let him himself die out of all his hopes, And while that heart beats in his vital breast May this, with his last dying, beat the gate." She said, and speaking, on the bank she placed Her infant in her ægis' golden hair. Her former dress and former garments veiled. Around the dead, with copious tears o'erflowed, She spread her arms, in reverence wrapt, her breast Against the ground, and thus the Queen addressed: "Die, orphan-wight! by Heav'n! thy Paris-town Is now the day on which thy prowess falls. Thou art the Goddess' property, I trow, In all our annals 't is decreed to die. Thou art, I swear, the bravest soul of Greece, Whose glorious lineage to the Sun-god's self As a mere God hath in the Olympian bower. Behold me, see me, where in helpless mien Ascanius sleeps, and in his lonely home The Nymphs of Helicon, when now so long From Ithaca the storm had sunk in wrath; E'en then with vows for ever didst thou sue, And now before the Cyclops' dwelling-place Seek'st thou with flattery and with gifts to move, But ever for thy father and thy queen?" She said, and with one glance in that clear face The other met, then held her senseless up. Thenceforth, then, to Sarpedon she repair, But nought the anger of his mother shed, Who fawning, kissing her, thus softly spake: "Dear brother, since thou know'st that thy good wife Doth gaze upon me in the other's home, My heart unmansuades her from her sweet, Lest fierce Ferocious seize her, careless grown, And she enervate me with keenly keen The suit of merciless Ferocious that I was." He said, and from his bosom took the child. His forehead scarce was lifted: forlorn face Uprose he, by the world's collected hate, And on the noble child his gaze he cast. And in the tender shape, his eyes averred. And he replied, "O Nysa! very nymphs Of great Anchises, and ye Trojan dames Of Argos, how detesting you I stood With my new father in the elder's house! The great Oenopina who emits, Is deeply pale; to Jove the hope is given: Not long the mighty Chaldean cow'r remains Within my house, save that the beast it feeds May never dare to cleave the middle air. I am the child of aegis-bearing Jove; Oenopina is not, nor my mother's throne: But she, the mother, whom I sought, to wife Is now with childless ashes in this realm. Now then, since Phoebus grudges me a child, He has his ancient house and native home, And from the o'er-arching ashes of the earth His cherish'd limbs must quicken to the flame, And there be fuel to the earth's fierce fire ======================================== SAMPLE 476 ======================================== wonder as I said. And so I have lost a better wit than you, Of courting scribblers 'mid their stile And jokes (the common author of these) With all that most American, of style. Beside, you've made the circulation To give my friend the ink. And who but you? But he's been touched clean off, I know. And such an humble salutation Made my heart leap up in stinking wonder, For it's the common answer, "I assure you." And in this mighty gathering So many others went and came together, We couldn't hardly read each other's names, No matter what they were,--dumb dogs! But I had my faults upstairs with Cupid To make quite clear to me the difference. And so I chanced to fall asleep, poor soul! And waking woke up in the dark alone. I saw that you were dumb. I was condemned. A job! And if I got to work again I'd like to fix the meditations of the lines That lead to you; and then I'd wish you good, You being better off in some one's patients. But all of it's a jolly good account Of how you, pasteboard, were the friends of Maine And Germans ate of every other land. Well, no. I think your nature is too candid. Good nature is quite independent, sweet A sort of evil to be left to rest on, Or starve on when we wish, at least, to sleep. But here's a hand that slaughters you. Well, if Some sentimental friend, the fall of man, Should throw a fate which makes your senses sound, Make me so sick, I would not half believe You had the talents that are with you there. So, when by inches you are plodded out Into a horrid lively game and bound, You will discover it has somehow caused Your feelings deeply to o'erwhelm me so. Once on a time a Philosopher, Most wondrous wise, a little while ago, Presumed to say that he had been away A naturalist, who looked him over running To learn a maxim as he was preparing. Once on a time the Philosopher Resolved to make a standard of the science Of politics, and all the multiple Of cases which result upon a system Concerning which is understood as right Is also wrong, yet I'll aver that I Was born a wiser man before I died. He said, "He'd never learned that Latin grammar Which makes a stupid miss perfection. Besides, he never had a son to love 'em. He had some business, as I'll swear,--but let 'em Have gone and raised a quarrel over him. "Let him believe that Catholic and Catholic Are really of the very most belief That some of them do not dislike the bishops." I'm not a moralist; and I'm afraid That, when I pass a long deal nearer home, Jacy mistakes the nice distinction That I have known and that which I have studied To benefit my sister Estelle? However, he is good; And always, if you doubt it, There's Auntie Cossie, who has taken A share of wine with me, and left you now A little girl who sings--but that is told of her! So, now the world may see! He'll have a wife who thinks it fun to have Such lots of happiness to share with him In this dry, happy earth of pleasures and pleasures. So, no! for many a day His eyes have brimmed with happiness untold, And he looks up at Dick's moon, As if just newly out of Eden. O, before I ever knew That it was Love's! Because I did not love him, We'd never fear! Now that I see his face Or know it--it is that his eyes With longing have a place Beneath my sheltering wing; He ever thus will sing, Now set my heart a-blaze; This life of which I write No verses have a day, Yet of a book he wrote, Not past the end of praise. When God was making all things, There was His first bellows And then I heard Him Threaten and tell it, Shining with His all-voyage; Till, long for each day, Our eyes saw Him to-day. I can remember and remember Now that the World stands here Beneath an old oak tree, No longer sad nor sere. ======================================== SAMPLE 477 ======================================== on, on no account is left But on the fates of Troy. Long Hector still Indignant scorns a warrior's fierce assault, Though bold but once, and still pursues the field. To whom the King of men thus fair replied. My fellow Grecians, and ye Dardans famed For like defence, to speak the same, as when A lion young, of lion heart the game, He charged to wipe his skin away; a god He then in mellow'd words began. I go To learn from thee what name denotes my lot, In the country of our birth and days foredoom'd To dwell in exile, and which now in shame Brings us to tears? My mother, or my sire, My father, or my kind Lavinia's son Ulysses, or that bold Isacrius whom Alcinoüs in Piræa bred, when once I slew him--no, my mother far exceeds In virtue, but her honor guards me well. To whom the god with stern regard. To me, What answer shall I give? but on his theme Attend it, sacred and severe; for Jove Shall close my mortal days; and shall myself Beneath his care engage, and his return Restore me to my home, where he shall be All joyful also; for they cannot miss All wanderers out of distant lands or range, Or climes that view the sun's resplendent beam. She spake, and on the everlasting seat Of Jove's abode sat down, while Iris, Jove Allotted thus the suitors' palace paved. I, if my native land, who first have reach'd From Jove the glorious axis, but of Jove Alone, since by comparison he is not, My choice is such; I am not deem'd in scorn Of Heaven-wisdom or of Peleus' son, or Jove, But younger brother in a father's bed, Who, when I find Saturnian Jove his judge, His will is still the wisest; I, with ease Persuade not (fancy oft speaks loud) the man My father once of all; but he, alas! Depires before I deem it foul to say, Not easily, with them, I am return'd; So Jove decrees, and their consent is vain. This they alternate; I my wrath inflame; But now, if others can contend, if none Contend with me or weigh me in the fight, The strength of them shall waver; let us give Our anger o'er, if such there be, that we Urge them to battle, and incite To action all the neighbours of the town. He ceased, whom all applauded; Juno shed Soft pity on his eyes, and thus replied. Ah Juno, Juno! sure the war is down! My love, is kind, and not approved, I ween, Thou hast well said, and promised. But to me, Let nothing yield, but by advice thyself Assuage it. We will hither bend our course, And this shall all the mischief undertake And must provoke our friends. We must not take Dire vengeance, and dismiss the Trojan host, But close with Hector, and with him we stay, And spend our lives in council, and the rest, Eumelus, and his fleet with Priam mix. He spake, nor he unmindful heard his words. But forth, all in full trust, and soon divine He mounted, where the gate is, found his tent, And these have sat, so many and so long. Such thought the rest dispers'd, and thus the will Of Priam soon was firm. They through the gates And Trojan camp push'd onward. As they reach'd The city, frequent, the good old Chief With swiftest-footed Thetis, by surprise Approaching enter'd, steeds and charioteer, Their horses void of rider; rapid they Sprang o'er the ridges of the spacious plain. Then, at their Chief's exhortation given, Upwent the valiant ranks. Long Periphetes, To sense the Trojans lifting in his hand His brazen spear, arid hearing, ask'd Atrides of the fight. He thus replied. Greece, glorious Chief! Ulysses hail! I find thee not. There are who love the King Him also. He, as far as I can judge, Stands not (although they shudder at his voice) Atrides, and must ======================================== SAMPLE 478 ======================================== , Hush'd like a moon to death, The weak limbs stretch, the eyes grow dim, She drops her lily-hand, She falls upon her knees, She sighs for very bliss. The pale lips writhe; the lips breathe out Their passionate passion--but no more. And bitter lips shall lie thereon, And tears in many a rose-wreath start-- But she'll not wake again for him Who kissed her lips' own heart. She is very fair and full of beauty, White and deep, like a snow-drift cloud, O'er a burning mountain half in shadow, A mountain half in shade. I have loved her overmuch, I have loved her Twice and third times, O love! And she draws me back to where I lie Upon the earth--the last--one kiss, Taper of the golden dawn-- To my heart's last feast, Weary limbs and sightless eyes Seeking that so deep love dies-- Once upon the magic plain I found another form, A moonlight glimmer of snow-bright form, Ne'er so beautiful, I dreamt that the fair, bright world Was so mighty, bright, And all death, and all creation, Odour, frost, and heat, and frost, Seamed with all life's dross. The forms I love, the sooth I know, That charm, that pride, that forms, I might adore! Love is God's truth, who saith, Beautiful child, Thou art! But thou would'st make me pale, Had I the heart! He's weary of the flaunting vest, He has sat and talked awhile, And yet, it seems, death is so blessed, That he needs must have it in his smile-- The evanescent presage of the future. "O love!" he says, "what is this sighing? Is it a vain illusion?--Ah, I dying! What brings me to this future Paradise, To win the heart-strings of my sighing? Oh, sweet to die--that lonely prayer, That martyr's face, that faith so high, This trembling in the purest gore Of longing souls, in heaven, should be, Like April's face--or like a tear, A last look--not as then it was, But as his last,--I must be kiss'd, By all, or love's." To what use was "O let me die Without strife, without strife; What I can do pretty well I must n't take care for mysel, But--I do not cry. What has I to do with sighing, Love, if you'll admit me, That I hate, hate, hate, despair, When you take my love to Heaven And never let me die? This the wish of my woman Who will pay us our dissever, If we both consent,--we will, Yonder, at our next try. But the truth I ask will come,-- So our loves grow bonny; They were n't the dead that were Years, or twenty-one! He has never loved her, He has gone and left her, He has sought her more and brought her Forth to him alone! So he tells his love At the mere remembrance, And the hand of friendship wrings Peace and love from his heart, And the calm of passion Steals a man from his heart! Let us pray with him for that which is right, For the grace that is due to the blood and the years, That the cruel hands, broken in their despite, May cease from their work and may cease from their fears; Let us pray that the strong hands of Love may Stand erect, and unshrinking endure decay, And keep the one God in both hearts of whom We are now as the children we used to adore. Let us pray that the rich, the expeironic soul, That cannot conceive what the many would prove, In the warmth of their lives, in the splendor of truth, May have the sure strength of our mothers to move, And our children to prove as they knew before. Let us pray that we find one prayer for a friend, For the restless hearts and the restless hands! Let us give up the strength to look in his sight, The toil that it was, and the care that it might, In the warmth of the sun as he bore them aright, And its burden to prove as ======================================== SAMPLE 479 ======================================== ; And shall the damned awaken, And rend the heavens with their quake, Who cry that Christ is born; That He Whose birth was new and newly Must be new and still new ever! O rise in Zion! though not yet, Still offer up thy Zion-crown! There is in Zion too, a Bethany, A little fane that hath its cells In the centre of the living wall; There is in Zion, fasting none That says to those who dwell therein, "Take it, O God, into your heart, For here is neither land nor king." O if it be no pleasure in that one quiet room, Where quietly and surely may a ghost remain, And cast a sorrow from life's living bloom, Where will come a time of toil and pain; But if it come again to us and be, No joy, no sorrow for to-day, But some fulfilment beyond the sea To some great end we may attain. O for a spirit heart that knows Knowledge beyond all hope or plan, Beyond all bliss that we behold, Beyond all loss that we endure; Beyond the loss of all things dear, And all lost treasures of the sun; Beyond all loss the whole life be A joy without beginning here. The air of years is full of unforgotten things, The sound thereof no wholly sweet to us is found; A solemn voice within the mystery sings, An echo like a murmur in a forest dell: "O folk that in the long past years were well! For now art speaking things that men have sung, For we, to-day, are wise, and know the new, And all the old and present are no words. For us are neither men nor Gods, but only Gods. I looked upon a wondrous place, Where the rays glist'ning through the mist, And saw the men were masters of the place, And all the old telluric tale was this: Then a horse drew near to partake of the beast; He stept up and stood by the stronghold gate, Kicks it many a time and used his force, But now and then he turneth as he can, And now and then he goes along at last, With the great word that "Come, Lord, my friends, my own!" He says, "There is none save this here, Save that strange place that lacks in beauty, And in the light o' the moonlight of that breast And round the island of eternal rest; And all is bright within, as once at evening light, And long before it hath one sober night, A noble song is always full of hope, And unto men good wine is ever more." Yet through the night were quiet halls and bowers, And halls that every slumber's sound made sweet. The minstrel's music is a thing for sleep; The sound thereof no trembles in the street; No meaning is, for anything is there. And in the night the sound of song is loud. Ye who have ceased to love, contented be; Ye who were gods, as men take toll of nothalty, Hover and muse with a mighty soul, Lover and muse, as men take toll of nothalty, For ever and ever; and this is known Athwart the lights and roar of earth and sea. Thrice twenty thousand godless souls are fed, And one is like to me; Thrice twenty thousand and one dead, Pass through the night and pass beneath the sun, Filling the place with light, And I shall follow you to one far place, Where men may soothe themselves and understand With perfumes of the sky; And I shall drink your scattered life of flowers, And in your hair Shall day and night make sweet this heart of mine, The chaste, the wise, the true, And all my goodly love be sweet, so long as ye shall dwell at ease, And let your souls in mine Be strong for time and space, Be swift for love and speed, Bearing your body in the evening star, Head bowed, and soul apart. Is it indeed so, O King of kings, That in my soul still burns Your face and face and soft hands light with wings, Or one brief space of breath Through which the sunshine leaps And glads and is not, while the day-long gleams That shot you from the meads Of my desire return again and leave you grey With the faint fire of sense, Unseasonable, unsinged, and ======================================== SAMPLE 480 ======================================== ster ix ipsa teneto verne. rathe bocoso igiavano no lasso ya tu mano. possesco de crude-bewa se entrancia, paloque bibesco methos bienes, el alma hacia la Abri Santo no las manos y Laprato hic jacet de manti no las menas olas. Pensara postes adiósoles, y en revuegos con el Norte aguas ergo no las hojas más aguas seemos los oracias, Y en este modo de paz yenca se estra el biz. Las fieras ejemplos je las aves, yo habé, y de furor la canada y las caninas pasaron. Muertes sonorosos, qué esperar tu cuerpos y esperar la canada y no la bien fe día y por no se mía. y en esta noche la tumba por el malgranado de aquella mármoles; y ni los huertos por el malgranado y esperar tu cuerpo. Corred, y á la carte por levantar suasione: ¿Qué es poesía está? No, comme el corazon que se ha bien que al ganaches. ¡Qué es poesía está! Por no hay amorosas de prisión escondido! Al lado de un momento, Qué su empezar por ser, No hay amorosas estrellas, Que se ha de jardín; ¡Qué es poesía están! No hay amorosos estrellas que es, ¡qué es poesía! Whence comes y regal citheras, Quando lo levantar suenas, Ya vez el décípito volver lleva la rosas. ¡Qué es poesía está! No hay amorosos estrellas que es el verano lucró que es enveladía; Que no sabées muerto, et lo que, emperador, se todo cenó en un anhelo, surcozó en un anhelo que se ha dejado. ¡Qué es poesía están en llanto! ¡Qué es poesía están en llanto! No hay amorosos tan estrellas que es mis enojégan: Los brazos hijos llama, que alá admite se nombre, que con los encuentra por el porvenir lo día; Árbitado y prócil, paró el almete alcançó, atando la inspiración, pará en que ahora, niña la cercanía. Y una España, en alfé por el que parece por que en este modo mueve acantá, el destino por que en la regia por que en mi esperanza, etíando mi lira por que á par ese de cielo sublime en mi esperanza: ¡Qué es poesía está! Apacos poré muy grandes é que furor á un sueño egregioso su digo. ¡Qué es poesía están muerte! ¡que en ellos süaves y que puedo y celadores al mundo á los pies! Los amandos sus huiltos que mejores que se duerme: Las fuentes que con oídulsas y que la mañana hazaña fronde en los pies que oprimir. ¡Qué es poesía están, y que todos con caligos a acaras en mi puerpos y que el triste y el sol; y que puedo en tu alcançer y que los estrecho el blanc llevásono que por ella. No hay to ya lo ======================================== SAMPLE 481 ======================================== ye er, the fire is good--the torch will light! And though the lamp be seldom lit, the torch will light!" The red-robed saint, who led the glorious and victorious, Was struck with awe because of the dark deed done, And feared by an unconscious wretch for whose unworthy sake Some traveller oft was lost in seeking his lost flock, A maid he murdered--a young wife--as was their tale of yore; And in his far-away tents on the tilled lands of Spain, Now and then his ears with pitying plaint he could no more, His soul was filled with grief of the bright Spirits' disdain. And now they came to the land that lies beyond expression, Blessing the great old Priory and the ancient pact, And over it rose the old faith that swept us to a nation-- Awe-like and in-in-the-way! Below the dream of kings! And into their glorious city then a people came to see; "Alas, alas!" they cried--"Yea, in our midst the dreamer lies. We march to meet the unknown people whose misfortunes rise; We come in front--we come in front--we come in front to do But round about the noble columns the mighty yeomen stood, Upon the foaming pavement with gore-stained robes a-deed, And in the air the army of conquerors came a-crowding-- The lofty palaces--the people from afar-- The hated ones--the princes, coming in with warlike stride; And no one with a word of welcome his gestures did refuse-- "Ho, get away, you foaming gobev, Away, ye fearful!--give me back my goblet first!" In his chamber sat the daughter of the proud Lord Jesfu, And through the shady dusk her husband's door she opened wide; For the poor little damsel had many a sorrowing sigh, And mourned her parents, starved them, shamed them for their pride. One day she came, bearing her down to homeless London town, To part in many a sorrowful line, where many a burgher wore There did she look around, nor any answer could be found; It seemed the place was taken, and all her misery was gone; She did not hear the children weeping at her feet, And heard the foremost step of many armed knights to meet. Now she could neither weep nor smile, though many an armed foe Was struggling with her hands; and now her heart was full of woe. The town at last stood still; on either hand the city lay; The streets were quieted; not one dame did move the quiet way, But one that came from far away from her unworthy nest; And now she is alone--she sits upon the silent wall, And there she turns her face to go. And all the while her eye "Hush! lest thou deem me wanting--I am very faint and old! Yet will I not obey thee--mine the shame and nameless sorrow; But come, and do thy weary part--the rest belongs to thee." One only daughter had she, dear, as only one may own; And for the child of one month old her husband's name was known; The former held in check, they held, as ye may well remember, A child of one long-lost--the other as fair and fresh as day, And of one standing by the window she made her couch and hold, Nor did she know the man--O that face was very, very pale! Then in her arms she fondled--so folded and fondled him away. "Ah, gracious God," said she, "That sit'st upon the hand of me, And giv'st a man for all, now gone is he; No lover, shall I call him son or daughter," he said, "Come, take my hands, I beg you, and bring it here instead; And then the tender loving heart of him so dear, her own, To thy dear hand she gave it,--and took the hand that she, Not lightly, as the coral-trick should, leaned on her head, Nor let the troubled soul forget that to her it was given. But a little while she kept it--and all the while she kept it-- A token and an image--of what I tell thee not, The land that she was born o'erflowing with brine and sand Was full of the sound of a voice and a life of mystery, And a soul of a woman--wide, is it, then, of the land that ======================================== SAMPLE 482 ======================================== Rough grasses in the dim field's barren sand, Brown rain-water in the shallows fall, O darling and sole heir of all to all, A breath of corn in Heaven's wonderful air, Kneel mid the clinging mists, a moment's prayer. Hast thou a mother? One year hence, Now none desirous of thee to come and know That death is powerless, and that all the dearth Of all that dies in this life is but a breath, When, lo! the day-god, darting through the air, Is risen to life. But he who left his kingdom for a child Rose from the dust with him. What saw he then But earth, the rending sea? How it came out to thee, I know not. How in separate courses ran Thine own sweet child, O Death! So runs the tale, O son of man! What heard'st thou then the voice, The moan of thy wife's child? For three long years mine ears have heard thee tell All the wondrous tale of that sweet love of old. Beyond the gathering ache of things to be, Beyond the tottering desolation, lies A land--the land of woe. Out of the hills of thy far-shining head, Thou art the only maid of all that dies In all that dies. I am fain to give back my brief good-byes, O my Lucrezia. And the more I seek My peaceful soul to keep, My heart is full of my own barrenness O thou that livest, upright to the day, Take back my pity and my faith and my faith and my life. Once I was young, and now am gray, And men are scornful when they talk Of simple joys that only decay When one short year is passed away; And the cold ground Is full of thy most troubled sleep, O thou whose soul may only weep For thoughts so heavy, so to keep These things for heaven when I am dead, Who thus do call me by the head Of Christ, my Saviour--art thou dead? Then I am free of earth and skies, Rise, thou fair morning, rise And give back to my wounded eyes Thy simple, healing paradise, With light of heaven and rapture, With life that shall be whole and whole And sweet with joy till mine heart be Uplifted--yet not whole, O blessed day of the Divine! That I may die with thee! And then How shall I, bearing in my heart Light of thy spirit, rest and share With those who answer to the call Of thee unto thy side and part My words with thine, as with a care Not mine for all the kisses of the wind Or laughing birds, O patient heart Of thine, and no man's evil art, But only of thy good shall rise, Holding my life in thine in thine. And then at last,-- When after long and weariness, And searchings, and sore trembling dole Of weary hearts, thy day shall climb To that glad summit, beyond time, Which now is risen, thy light will be Of morning and of perfecting morn, O night-star of my soul! return And make my heart a house of thy own roof, To shelter thee and watch thee evermore. Open the door of thy wide door, Oh child! oh look for me! For I am lone and rich and poor, O child! oh do not wring The sorrow from thy loneliness, O baby mine! No question of thy desolate happiness Or death's dark moan Or sin's dark shadow of distress, But I would have thee stay And hover near me ere the day Wilt thou behold my little child, With purple wings, To play with me till daylight's gold Is spent with kings. For thee no joyous works of art, No flowers are here, They made thy little loafing heart For aught but gold. The world must grow to awful gain, The ages pass, The Judge in judgment robes his slain, And brings the last. He did not steal with his brief span, O, life is sad, The mighty Master is not man, The mighty sufferer hath not been E'en as thou hast; He is the greatest, who the least Can ever be. Through all the months of joy and grief, With joys the heart hath won, The Lord hath made the woman live, The ======================================== SAMPLE 483 ======================================== now. See, round them three quarters the army of those Who in these glorious wars, cleared of their foes, Rejoice and glory in this wondrous war, Great as the world, their strength and light. No more Must they, in military might, obey Those feeble archers of weak word and thought. But this, unmoved by thoughts of glory's call, The Achæans shall decide; Idomeneus Their chief, who leads our fathers o'er the waves, Thence to the main advances, and Idomeneus Spurs to the wind; Ulysses leaves them all; And, save the people, he who left them there Their tender lives; the hope, the battle-field. Me too may AEthiopia and Ephesus mourn, And many a Greek too big for life indeed." He said, and, mounting into battle, rush'd To meet his comrades. As when horses' feet Amid the thickest of the scattered flock, Slack some, well-mann'd, from sweat, by well-fee'd flight, And heavy with their weight, start forth at once With well-feign'd limbs and stirrups on the plain, Whose exultant conflict rages with their feet. And now the sun with larger steps and hours Had travelled, ere th' immortal Sire he came, But ruddy in his strength, and streak'd with fire, And washed, and then with helpful hands dismiss'd, Stood forth to fight, though closely wrapp'd in clouds, The son of Tydeus; a full strength and strength Swelling in might, but with a sanguine flood Of boiling fire, he plunged into the flood. The third of the strong Greeks, with Hector, stood. Juno and Pallas from the mountain-top Descending, Jove appear'd in Neptune's face. Bright Ajax with his beardless son press'd on, And Thetis to the fight's encounter bore. First, to his charioteer, he gave command To drive the fiery steeds, in which he stood With giant force united, to the fight. Behind his head the vivid fire he show'd, Wherewith he turn'd it on the ground, and rush'd Swift through the host, renewing every stay. Cebriones with polish'd sandals thence He wip'd, and clothe again his dainty limbs. Olympian Jove with golden Venus came. But neither, Pallas, nor Apollo came. His spouse, Agerias, were in sleep profound, Engag'd, and anxious for the field; them both Achaians swift equipp'd, and loud-inspiring sires. On th' other side, the Trojan host combined, He smote them not with Vulcan's wand, but steeds Of swiftest flight Discord herself from Ilium, Pallas, Apollo, and Apollo, all With mingling limbs came hasting to the field. But Diomede assail'd them all with fire; He turn'd the steeds, and through the midst they flew In rapid chariot tow'rd the ships pursued, When thither came Idaeus, she, the white. Now came Sipylus and, beside the yoke, Idaeus to the field of battle hurl'd; For cunning were his gestures and his eyes, And thus the valiant twain address'd them both. Jove, Father! fear thou not; I have spoken, And all is doubtful. My companion, sev'n, I have no present hour, who shall prevail, Nor shall in time expect to sit secure, Watch o'er the battles, watch the sev'n long-for For me, who in the face of all the field, Have dar'd encounter'd death; now wait my doom, And I shall pray propitiatory Jove To save this mighty Chief; but at the least His safe return with joy will soon arrive, If so he will, to his immortal Sire. Thus they themselves assenting, through the midst Bent on bold Diomede, and as he moved To flight, Adrastus parting, to his aid Turn'd with a step reluctant; once again With pity mov'd he stood, and thus address'd; "For from the Trojans, who on either side Thou bear'st the valiant Diomede, I come To bear aloft the courage of a God. If there be force in that, be there in all, In whatso'er to ward his own distress, ======================================== SAMPLE 484 ======================================== -in-Boom? Oh, the Jumbler!--That was old enough! And so now you stand on your hands And beseech your sweet cup of gold, And I say to you smiling, 'Saul! That's the vessel that came in our ship Last year, I was brought up here; It seemed like a Christmas-day. Oh, the blessed Lord! that is old! It was Christmas-time in the old town-town; In the pretty, merry mornin' long That the church-bell rang; And the wind it shook and rustled pelt Of the boughs and trunks of the trees and roots, And the hulk that lay in the church-yard's beams Was as dry and dead As a heap of of corpses that was fed By the wolves when they worried death! Oh, the soft, sweet scent of the bells, That clung to the Christmas-tide, The rustling sounds, the merry lemorn's song, The carols sung! And we all stood a space, at the jostling of the bells, When all the bells were ringing, And the graves were fresh, and the graves were green, And I heard them ring In the cold, sweet air that was half so still And sweet as the strain Of a sweet, sweet bird that once went singing Oh, I could hear it falling In a magic strain, With a holy trust for the saint to keep Till the church-bell's refrain Seemed to purr and purr in the draping of the chant Of the pure, sweet fountains! Oh, the faith of a time that is good, And of good and of good Is a song for the head of the choir That can give to the world's desire A sweet, sweet founture! I sing the bitter With passion of heart and tenderness That would make me a king, and entangle with pain The strong, bright spirit of the years that are dead And a warm round of beauty that should never fade, I strike the chords of life with an aching word And a loving tear in a sallow cheek. I run to the casement, I peep and see the fire brightly glow, The wind and the reeds and the reeds bloom and blow, The old seat of life, and the fair, white walls, Lift up their sleeping roofs to the air. I fall into the thick dews of the Past As lightly as a dream on a bed of hay, And fasten as I fall in my mortal shroud Over the golden windows of To-day. She hangs her silken ribbons Close at her waist, And her golden shoes of deer-skin Smooth and untied. She will not listen to them, She will not see The blue coats woven of her skin That thrill so faithfully From the knee to the jasmine buds Where the poppies blow. She will not raise her eyes to the sky, Nor roll the curls from her lovely brow Towards the blown roses that lie Beneath the thorns that lie Under the rising moon. She will not heed them for her sake, Nor turn to them her fading white, Though the white twigs of the hawthorn Are soft as the moon of night, And the ground and the hills and the sea-grasp Lie dark and deep, And many and many a league she wist, And for a moment, I will not brook The cooling touch Of her delicate lips, for never a wish Can come, though the dews may fall Into flowers at fall of fall, To smile again. But I will hear her babbled plaint, And I will weep, till the clover day Has powdered me black and I work in the mud Will wake her up as sweetly from her bed As a drop of purr, will wake her up in the sun And tremble and start at the door. I would rise, Up, and enter, and throw wide the door, And find my good grey steeds that have ridden before And call, and sweep the floor. I would look back, and throw wide the door And leave my child with his littered ways, And start to meet the wind. And I'd kiss her hands and go in and out, And gather blisters, and put them away, And turn with her to the churchyard, and show The crucifix that I hold alway. She is the mother of my little things, The ======================================== SAMPLE 485 ======================================== when his false friend perceives her way, she smiles, and, ere she can find its woods, he takes her hand and looks through every puddle of his rheum. And what difference! For he was more than born than sister or half-born than sister-born. The conjuration he passed over, but remembering the same round him as he went, the smile round and round of his heart, that no woman knew or was of him--the breast, eyes, the secret of life. All about him the winter winds blow Athwart and a-wisten, and the wintry sun Shines, and the forest is sapphire and green, But where leaves the woodland o'erhung? Or, in the leafy bower, the one who waits In the lone long fall of the thicket's gloom? They had gone sooner than the leaves that fall, Or the snow-flakes which wander on the air, When once they are falling like snow, Or the winds on a summer sea; But I fear they would fade with their emerald hair Or glow like the sun through it; for they love to steal Across the world with it, and return again With the life that they have to live. Now far from that forest I sit In my room by the window, and pray That the ivy may answer my prayer, If the branches agree or say: "Be as if you would not be wed "If your heart could wed with your hand!" It may be the dead leaves that fall From the pillar to overton my head, Shall fall by my hand in the days long dead. He lives, you lovers, Not dead as you were When he went To the end--and loves you For many lives; And I feel I lie In a grave with a loving hand Not too high For joy of him who died As he lives, Whose lonely And unanchored Part is his, Didst dream of death In the green holly bush With the yellow broom, With the berry in a kiss And the live flower in it. I often think He is near, In the green holly bush, With the rosemary And the moss of evening, With their silence and alarm While he dwells In the dewy dark No delicate colours of cloud Rise from the sea, None is gay, And the panegy lightning seems a shadow I seem to see At evening hours on the broadening road And the distant shower of stars That o'er the bright sea Flow on like an unwraping Shadow from the prow of a green prow Which is always a shadow, but not of a joy. I seem to see Where the frail brimming clouds are at rest-- You and the sea, In an old heart-light, Bordered in warm brown leaves that upgrow In the valleys of May. No other shape appears in the sheet Of the grey midnight water, But a cross grows over a deep sunk bank And a lank death-gleam. In a white cloud-space The horizon seems made grey With a thin green line of hanging stars Like the benighted rain-drops of the south. Now far out of sight In the waste light Of the sky, the keen blue heavens Bulge with the tide and rise Like white lights of men's eyes In the dumb sea of their dull spent souls They embark on the far horizon But swim not, tho' they are restless, Nor age nor change has pressed On the dark breast Of the long wave of their weary souls. And is it that they pray, With hearts more tired and weary Than hearts of any child of theirs-- Not yet grown discontent With little deeds of recompense-- Or praise and prayer Of unblown love and loveliness? For what is the best of her For a poor girl's sake To them who make A bond of their desires, A woman's fair like any ship Upon the silver sea of their sad hearts In vain they strive To make white waves of the long deep, Which endlessly break From the sea-stricken sea To the edge of the gray strand Wherethrough the wave-shock falls on the cliff, And only the wave makes it reel Toward the far brink of the black brine Which under no rough sea Nor fear has entered, save ever from the black. The sea-gull wanders over Her and to see what her heart holds, Her little hands clasp little ======================================== SAMPLE 486 ======================================== And merry boys about the watergates; Twinkling there at the sink we play, Nodding and slipping in the ripples, Light as the rooks and swift as sprays, Holding, with one long loosened fluttering, Handfuls of magic in the haze. Now, as the fretted tortoise shell Slips from the fretting to the bottom, And settles to a curving swell, The nymphs now quaff the beaded nectar: Now we with tear-stained brow behold, At the fair frenzy's upward flight, Thus roll together one and all Till thrice the currents break in sight. Here, with abandoned eyelids screened, I sit and reck not of the story, Till, all intoxicate and dark, Torchlight fills and darkens ever. Or, if the pipe of woodland Pan Should wake, I gaze and drink its pleasure; I feel I lovingly concluded, Till, close inshore, I scarce can figure Its rapture through the listening clan, Until, quite beauteous, once I stood Beside the glowing meadow of a wood. Then dimly, as, beneath some tropic sun, To find out, one disenchanted dell, Where all around seemed ocean, and was done Eternal, I looked forth and saw its shell That housed me for a moment with such calm, That I already shuddering turned to feel I saw it glide before me on its way Blown softly up a rivulet that fixt And lifted to the level of a bower, And where, still standing, grey-pale in a trance Of languor and of dream, the pool was dim With showering spray that wrapt it. Still and calm They brooded, shadowless, and still the thought Danced 'twixt my mind and me, as one may see A wild rose whirled o'er woodland crevices, Seeking for fresher beauty--scarcely thought Aroused by somewhere in its quiet hollow. Strive not, mine own self- capable and mild, But hear me, as though asking alms from all That breathe, and over all strange images That in the idle brain will bear, or pall, Be purged, as doth an avaricious sight. What wilt thou, Sister? ask me o'er the sea Where thousand fancies play, and linger, for The shadowy world so soon must die away And all its new world lost for ever, thus Be carried to the place where some wan soul, Somewhere the faintest spirit e'er was wont, Walked by the trembling brooklet, near the mist That veils the luminous sea. In this deep well Now all is changed; save where, a foot scarce nigh, The lightest bit ever rounded on a shell More exquisitely tranquil, we descry A bright-eyed primrose, with unconscious brow Long locks a-droop like instrument of song. Or if, from some far off-usyarded hill Aweary of the sound, we bid the spires And pines with all their wizard imagery, Till stars and fountains blossom into stars, And dappled shadows fill the water-flags, And where, before a hundred torrents leap, The dim Olympus and its stupines steep. From this deep well the mid-day shadows sleep. I think I see thee in a day like this, When the warm heart of day is running past With half-shut eyes and shiverings wet Into the virgin light, when first the morn Sends grey and bringing dews into the sea, And straight the sky is lighting up her horn, With that strange beat that wakes from caves of green The wood, and waters all, and dreams unseen. Thou wilt--and I shall think of thee, dear Maid, When to thy garden, where the dew is strewed, And there thou sinnest; and when sky and sea Make work to enter, and the earth and air Give birth to many and many thoughts like these, All that keep in the depths of heaven are thine And the world's sunward cycle of the mind So old, that while it withers leaves the trace Of life on earth, the grey leaf shall grow wise To comfort in their growing life again. Thou wilt not, I shall think, be wrongly grand, Thou wilt not be the way that once was fair, ======================================== SAMPLE 487 ======================================== , the old Hebrew seer. Great mischief, pirate! swept away The thunders by his blunderings chased, The billows suddenly o'erthe And made a mighty roar upon the shore. And we went off a-sailing, a weary lot, And lost the daylight of this pleasant earth. And, troubles thorn-bitten, I found my hope But little enough to all save one, To count the moments o'er and o'er, To balance the last and the first, To pilot the ship with its little mate. And they all came back with mournful shrieks And mingled their voices, hiss and shout, The cries of grief and the clank of chains. But when I awoke in the slumbering dark, The whole world rang to the ringing of the bells, And the moon shone like a broken fount From the shore of the ocean of desire. There would I sit with the old swimmer, A weary search-worn ranger, But I saw his eyes were of the wild Leading years, and his gentle body mild. We sailed from the harbour of hope With those three hundred seamen brave, The hearts of the brave Who followed the banner of Freedom on Till all their folds were shrunk By the burning, sulphurous smoke of the harbor of hell. Far over me shone the heavens, But here man existed not While the guillotine hummed the drum. And he, all in the deep black sea, Fell one night and broke his fast. And the blood ran fast and the storm sang loud Where the flag had lain, in the high steeple, And the King sent the weary ship. "Ai, d'ye think, Love, at that night As we stood by your cottage door, Think what a storm would have swept us away With the lightning then, Love!" I kissed her once, and I swore, By the old chain, the bitterest ties, That ever my heart or my life was known, She never would join them again! We bowed beneath Heaven's high decree, We kissed her once and she left me. But ere we parted, a darker cloud Of sorrow came over the lea. We joined at the ocean's edge The winds that had moved to sigh; We looked once more on the crests We had left in the whispering sky; We said we were sad and afraid In the sea-silk clad that was gay. So we said we were sad and afraid It seemed as our tears had left Her locks in the wan soft tide Of sorrow, that sorrow was dead, She never would join them again! I said I was sad and dreaming, A cloud arose on the sea, And I called to the priest to bear My beautiful babe to me. He was fair as the budding rose Or the ruddy clover bloom, And as light as the tangled net From the emerald cup of the sun. And so, through a forest of leaves, There rose a wild anthem sweet That the whole wide world through it kept Singing the song of defeat To the harmonies of defeat. Its voice brake the silence wherein Thought lost, and high melodies fail, And a wind came in from the woodland-- Ah, but thy song still fail! There came to the lofty heavens A skald, girt with the girth of May, And a young bride to carry her, And madly away To a far distant sea, As wild and madly she wailed, Away to a far, far shore, An unwonted thing, an unknown-- Awe-path bound for her lonely grave, In an open warlike town, Where, without pass or pause or rest, The restless sea maddened down, While the whole world beat and rang With the tideless beat Of the cliffs that met on the horizon's rim. Only a dream! and it came to this, Which was all the vision that lay Before her--cave-like closed her eyes, Her hands outstretched, and her pale sweet face Unto the restless wind that moaned, As the music of some forgotten tune Smote the world now. A little green boat Sat silently At the white spread sails of the sea, For it seemed as if from a sorry hold Sight tidings afar would have run cold. Nay, a shadow of sweet white space Curved and stirred in the water, and gleamed On the dark spread, like dank half- ======================================== SAMPLE 488 ======================================== to die. If Death commands thee to be laid on earth In earth or seas, under the smoking soil, Nor cruel life shall live in Stygian gloom, O boundless exile from a parching world Go, quickly hasten to the Stygian springs; There will they heal the wounds of aged men, Or still new needs, till tears themselves distil, And far the walls of lofty Troy unfold." He said; and father Aias heard his prayer, And kindled fierce tumultuous fire in arms. Then all the host, before his shining fane, Drew near, and called to high-lifted Aias, And bade Aias with the rising words "Be strew'd with earth, and sprinkle all the shore; Refresh my weary limbs and feed my sheep, And crop my corn, and lay me down to rest; Then put to use the anger of thy God To tamen with Thy people, if need be." Forthwith great Tydeus rose from out the ground, And broke into the city; and the twain Made ready at the toils; the smoke and flames Burst from their camp, as from the winds they flew. On the first day they met, when, round the walls, With nets and ropes the city-wider wraps They cast them down, and, first, put off the shears, And wrapt them in the clouds. Abroad they trow The city, nightlong, through the streets he goes, Crying, "In vain thou fliest! Lo, we too Haste! Lo, we come! My love is caught!" He said. Then, bringing all his armour, Ida's gift, He bade his Cymrian mount a swift ship down Into the sea, that, sliding from the town And roaring on the rock, his armor's blaze Might burn among the pyres. There Tityus shrank As from the pitiless armour. Then the men Marched naked forth, each looking on his shield With useless point; the litter took his way, And on their steeds in haste the Greeks heaped high The corpses, and the town fell groaning down. But swift as death the Trojans all abode Within the walls of Troy, and round the dead Swooped with loud cries. The people thronged the square As wolves and tigers round a gathered flock Are leaping in pursuit and tumbling down Upon their haunts, who heed not as they pass The dogs and hunters; but all night long, While still they hunger, in their rage of zeal The slain are slaying them. As ships destroy The wood kindle, and fire and brimstone burst Forth into dust, before the bubbling flood Foam with fresh corpses, all the urns are fire; The breastplates and the helmet all are torn Through the broad forelocks, and the jaws are fire Of newly slain. Amid the flames the slain Are hurled, and all the very pavement swims Of all the country. All the mountain side Echoes to far-off clangour; when the flames Fly back unto the ways of humankind. Now to the work that shall not end is given; For neither men nor beasts, when once they breath, Can mar the work. Therefore when men are dead They suck the honey that they have gotten, And warm them with the wax of their desire. But then, as young and lusty, when they feel The fire kindle them, and with hearts delight, Yet faint and tired, fall to their sweet repose, Each takes his rest, and slumbers at the omen; So by their pleasure, those delight to seize With drowsy eyes and eyelids utterly, So by their bustle they are seized at last, And soon, with odors and with blossom-fruit, In glad assent they gather to the beams, And with their salt and honey-cr aboard Hither and thither in merry measure run. For on their labor they have greatly toiled Unseen amid the tumult of the fight; But such the show of which Achilles' son Gave glory, for not there did Pelias find Ulysses, stedfast and as strong and loath, With beak of steel, and with his ivory bell Anchor; that the very spot they clomb As high as that of Peleus' son he climbed, Might he behold, as from Achilles' hand, Trechine go forth; for unto him all things Are terrible and grievous. He, most hate Of all the Greeks, ======================================== SAMPLE 489 ======================================== their heads, (Those panthers fiercely lift!) And the guns at close of day, Areinders, massive brick. Oh, the kindly ones of Spain! Oh, the gallant lads and bold (Orderly enow!) Now that guns are strong and proud, Ride and storm the yeomen Like a hurricane! With the conquering face of Spain, Gallant cavaliers, Pricking like a thoroughfare Through the ranging rear. Now the mighty beat the drum (Sing the rollicking gallantry) And the fife and horn and drum In a triple chorus; While the drum and trumpet shrill Tell the peril over, And the devil send the wish That shall drive the foeman through And would only combat! I'm a tall tribune, I don't know how I'm wrong. To begin soon, before you can I've knocked my drum with the finest ban. When you start with the strain, What will you find, my lads, If you can keep the field, Or force a run with, If you can make a friend, Or give a leg to, Or give a Sunday to? That will be right, you bettons, then, Why don't the test be set with men, If you want to love your friend, You'll see how he's in danger's end. If he hurts you or he'll hurt you, May it all be for your good! I will work his little bit, And keep his thoughts on the spot; I will have to pay for it, If you will my trousers he'll buy; For the greater glory In the business of the shop. See the sea, I will bring you over it! Now it's gold, now it's milky, Now that the race is done, Or some one should fall, or you and I have run, It's mankind's best, and it's none. To say good-by to this world's excess, The game is only for show, To know I shall win in the great or over-pass; This time to call no wrang. Perhaps we'll all run in the golden sun, Or a drop of rain to show. No teacher or doctor hence we run; We'll never mind again, If we had the right to have Thackeray done; Life's cry a bugle song; We'll roll our lives down in a metal crater tone, We'll sweeten our helléd wills, And raise the quenched fiends of the mad with the overthrown; Mullion is not a painter. In vain the dull world heaves, In vain you face the poet To madden the heart's delight And weave the dreamy veil To hide in earth's thick bosom My beautiful, sweetheart. What place is the land, my lover? O heave a sigh for the day! O heave a sigh for the light o' the sun! My love is waiting to play. The lily whispers its sweet perfume; The rose cowslip gleams shyly. As I roosted 'midst the flowers, I heard a maid in a white mist, With heart-shaped lips, and eyes that winked, The good man, the true knight, Loved me well for a little maid; Ah me! she sat in my curls and smiled, And wistfully smiled and looked, With her faint cheeks flushed, On me her childish kisses laid; And then I saw in me, o'er and o'er, The good man's words in his heart to stir, And, long ago, of his father's shore I have not forgotten--nor heeded they! Dear heart, it is hard when sore tried, And vain when uncheered when undressed, He who may be never a bride, Has neither skill nor art; Can he who go to his own heart, Hear a word in a world apart As he lies in his lonely bower With the beauty of dreams in his heart, And the sweet o' the young days of life, Be aware of the sorrow and strife, Of the troubles, and toil and the strife, Which have caused all the sorrow and strife. I seek the Queen in her palace of flowers, A throne where no courtiers dally; There my heart is and my tear-wet eye Feeds the fine fancy of youth and aye blest With the glance of the sun and the smile of the sun ======================================== SAMPLE 490 ======================================== of honor, rash And vain. At once a warrior said, "I trust thee"; "Is it thy child who cometh? A valiant man, Gentle and just! for by thy valour and wit A girl is born to a lordly race That will be noble, undefiled, and weak." Thus daunted, said he, and broke the silence. The proud Lord of Arragon and these arms, Who wronged us not in battle, said, "Behold! This dream is true! In the battle's face I am thy father's, and thou shalt not suffer If thus you dare to cross the blame and scoff." That brow of fire was pointed up to him As he held down his helm, and bade the knights To meet and greet him. Now their fevered limbs Were lightened and their giant eyes grow bright With promise. Now one half the moonlight night Brightened a mountain-neighbour, the soft hue Of a pure virgin slumber, down whose brow The morning light upshone. The maidens asked, "Where is she now? and where?"--As if some hand Had named her ere she came, the vision fled: "A nun," said one, "having the noble gifts Of wooing for a hundred maidens, counts His locks; while she, like Uther, fares the more As loth to marry, casts the ring away, Deeming the giver. As the Chaldean bride She wears upon her dainty finger-tips, So is she deemed. Oft have I oped the girdle To creak across the brow! And now the blood Runs through my frame, that I may break the charm Of her soft lute! Now had my wit fled, I had not heedless stabbed her treasured gifts, And fled to sleep!" He spake, and with both hands Drew down the iron stair: "Your city, fain To praise and look upon were undisturbed. One hundred thousand men had seemed so fair For this, and seized a hundred women's hearts, Made in a moment to keep me chaste and bright, When I looked up and looked, as one who feels His fearful presence near bodiless, or wears A cap without a plume. The same eyes waked A thousand thought on me, and I was there Took every comfort. Ah, how you rejoice When you can never nourish this! My life, Your city, life and me! How your heart speaks To all around us! 'Neath your grim laws My life, without your passions, needs must fall, As now the stones are smashed; and should I dare, They are each other in the same grim fight." Long ran that shade about my restless soul, O human love, upon whose rocky brow The furrows of the bloody battle lay Long ere you came across it, and the tears Dewed every vein, and in that painful light, With love and pity! The fresh May had come With her green chaplet, and the early bloom Of opening violets covered every bush. The broken spear-leaves sang beneath the dark Fast straining, and the world's last glorious hope Was opening at the thought of many a death; One moment's actual rapture; soon the hour Was gone. As I lay sick upon my bed, And kicked and clenched in pain, my hands and knees Slipped through my hair, looked at me, and could hear Nothing but broken sounds, only the wind Breathed in a dying voice, "Ah, friend, we two, Filled to the full life with a life to be!" Far off I heard the soaring of a bird, Like some one waiting for a gladdened wound Close covered with the darkness of the skies; And then a voice: "Ye men of many years, Who toil in darkness, or may not be glad, A thousand years from your dead bodies take Some bitter and unspoken sorrow for Your souls! It is a strange and fearful thing To hear the kind of voices, being gone. O Master of the world, whose clear bright eyes First saw the light, and touched it, and then held The whole dark valley with a grief so deep, Let us be grandly praised: The presence of The majesty of living is not made For thine; and they who asked it, Thee we praise; Thou art our life and we are not of men; They call thee great: ======================================== SAMPLE 491 ======================================== and loose a rushing wound: And then Llewellyn showed his face within, but as Y. "<|endoftext|> <|endoftext|> <|endoftext|> "Dark and vague and substantial are the groves of Kirtle; Sweet the sleep that softly fall On the heather and the mountain; Sweet the fir-trees and the pine, Sweet the maiden’s smile divine; But the fairest maid I know She is fairest ever rosy, And to dream when day is done She leaps with the dawn of the sun. In the dawn’s golden hair, Brush the heather, Lets the morn’s rose-colour Differ over C rigspar. Llewellyn’s mother Says, “Bethink thee, maiden, At the dawn’s warm light ‘Scatter the poppies, scatter the lilies over C rigspar.’” Weeping—mournful— In their mountain-beds o’ertrode, By the black-lipp’d, weeping birch-o’er, By the white mounded oaks, By bleaching bones on the shore, Sad were the maidens That the dawning glories raise, Sad the matin song that floats, Sad the matin song that floats, Long, long passed the maidens That slept with him in the ooze, Sad the matin song that floats, Sad the matin song that floats, And long the night had grown Since the dawning lighted down The water-lily bloomed Its petals over the rose; And fragrant of the fragrance Found the maids with mirth at mirth, Gave to the sea’s sweet roll-call: And mournfully they gazed On the flower as it bloomed in Sparkling gold and brimming rose, And smiled to hear the tale How her lovely limbs did tremble With the cooling wind that blows From the Nágasan’s Mountains Through the wide bay shore. Wearily the little wave Flowed in at the dreary isle, When it sank upon the maid, And he looked around and smiled, Where the wave and black-winged gull Saw the slim blue water-sprites On the rock above his knees. And the sweet little wave was stirred By the faintest pulse that beats, And the slightest pulse that hummed Suddenly woke from his dreams As the little wavelet falls Off the rushes in the dells. And all the song that filled the air Shall henceforth be hushed with peace, Lulling noises soft and sweet As the sweetly murmuring feet That beat beside the barren isles, Where no leaf is left to wane, And no bud is ever seen, Nor no leaf is ever seen. No sad sighs shoulduffle the wave, No wild passions overspent, Each wave only grows to be Full of promise and content, And before thee lies the shore, Not too deep, too cool and fair, Where no billows stir the wave, And no foot may landward come. With low masts and trellised keel To the waters’ isle it crawls, Moves beneath its cloudy heel, With its little waves that quiver, Like a snake they coil and shiver Like the Ocean-weed that shivers, And a wind that mocks and mocks At the prow that cleaves the surges With its great flute’s aggressive twine. And a sea’s smooth bosom touches With a heavenward-flowing motion That the current quickly darkens, As the wave’s smooth form lies bare Gleaming there, a gleaming light. For the sea’s wide utterances Seem the clangours of the mountains; All the valleys seem in motion As it plays about the ripples Of its masts that rock and fret, As the rocking shock of ocean Saddens when the shoals are wet. Low’s white pennons gliding by, Like the foam-born sea-birds flying, Like white gulls before the tide. Like a glory of the morning To the waves that shoreward glide. As the wind-swept plumes of billows Swiften when the foaming foams Forsake ======================================== SAMPLE 492 ======================================== ed, human, senseless, nude, I strut for beauty, kingly-born. The creation o'er and o'er, And after, swift and steady, sure, Creeps down, and all the world goes on before, As early, just, and wondrous as before, Ere Time's last, aged tramp of man's first years. My brain, like a harp, hangs over strings That once were sweet and tremulous. The touch, O Nature! is a thing apart, A sadness musical, an ancient madness, A history, A heartache, a self-wept rapture, Is in my heart, And yet, somehow, I feel I shall not love thee. The cloud is o'er me floating like a dream, A wandering, ceasing, wavering, wandering dream; The moon, like a white star in the sky, Glows on me, and is gone. My mother, who was an old farmer's son, Cut a large cut-purse upon the youngest one; The old woman's woe moved through her every day, And with her wailing don't have a rag-lay Under the feet, and the eyes of old people Thicken in terror as she now comes on, And the little dirty tramp behind the stove Holds up her rag-wrapped little straws in the blaze. He has gone away in a little time; The crow and the bat and the half-made friends Now come again home, and the nigg of the cows Come up from the orchard and sniff the dew. But, oh, my mother, the grey owl hoots loud! Go to the reapers, or the worm of the hay Will catch you and beat you to open the barn, Or into the pond some small fool-will to play. Or, as you sleep, there may come the cock of the hay, With his throat-full of song, and his finch so brown That, when the cock has clapt the horn of the vail, It may echo the moaning notes of the wool. And then, my mother, the sheep must hold their way, Leaving the milk, as if for a moment's space; Then sing another song about you and pray, Remember, O mother, how good you are to-day! There is a bird to lead along the sky, A bird to be our home, For he will come down from the golden north, To preside in the coming of the year, Or, maybe, he will appear Some day when I am far away, From the battlements of Cathay And the clamorous monotone of March. There's a youth that's a captain of good cheer, A roving and a gay, A roving tiger-coloured man, He rides o'er the purple way, The tiger-coloured horse of spring, To hunt for food or sheltering, And though he knows it isn't pleasant To meet him along the way, They come to him in the dusky way, And take him for a non-comer To buy him what he can For the tiger-coloured man. And now the doves are tired, and also, Because they'd stayed awhile Just a few hours before the dawn, Their breakfasting to beguile; The eagle has ta'en out his head For a hundred-fourths of brightest red, The sea-dog has caged the rest, So hungry they hurry to get him Across the open sea, A sea-dog barks, with all his might, To where the cobwebs cling. They cannot come though the cloud is smother And float down his track; But when they close, the ocean-dog Pounces on his back. The bear won't let him go, but he's forgotten To start and say his prayers; And the lamb, quite cross, is dead, no doubt, But a "good-by" uppiness; He's happy the old lady Returning home from the seas. Can you hear his bells? The woman is an inconstant song. She wears an altered face, and looks as though There was no one to hear her; it is old, And she is strange to that old habit still. The smile that is half drowned into one's smile Is a quick and curious sort of smile You are puzzled enough to detect. Can you hear?--I've heard of a dozen or more Before; and the lady is just beyond, And she ======================================== SAMPLE 493 ======================================== away! 'Twas just this little pig Had something in his head To match this little pig, With so much larger lead. The pig by chance was there, In sad, defiant glee, And was so very queer That he drew back very nigh. They lifted up his voice With that very solemn squeak, And, though all his friends rejoice, Could only make him speak. He went gayly on his way, Not knowing where he lay. He wore a brilliant look At every one, I ween; And there with great display He quite soon made his eyes good. But, by his powerful art, Which many drew to shame, He had placed himself at bay From out the sight of his frame. He read, indeed, the while His lessons pat did his ears fill, And (as this very nosegum grew), He gazed on them so bold With no forebodings bold, That he never, by a fear, Remain unkenn'd at all; For, through the day and through the night, No object he could see, Save matters of his own delight, He thought it very nice to occur To afriends like his to him. "With cold, calm trouble o'er my face, To know you do not go, I've learnt much better, by the bye, Than teaching schoolboys "go." "But time and reverence, you're a fool! And, if our teacher rightly knew, Believe me, he'd best teach it, too-- A little nice-and-twenty go." The little pig his master stirred, And wriggling on his stools, Found nothing to be done about, And went to setting his poor foot out; The weary pig went not about; For master took it very wrong, And master had it very wrong, And then he asked, and then, not long, "What of the pig, poor pig, That you yourself beguiled With begging over and o'erthrown? A poor sick sick, poor little pig! What dost thou do but cry? Why, a helpless poor, poor dog! O, you're better than I!" Next day the pig was black, And so the lesson had: "Pray take this very pig for self, And this very pig for me, Laid by on a sick man's side; Till I shall find it for your pride That you yours very well supplied. So get thee gone, and leave this pig A-painting in the pond, To me perhaps my friend's advice; I'll tell you now I've none of him Except myself, and he Who says so, shall be well content. Why he went out a year ago, And yesterday, I know. The Dog, it all went wrong! He had one bad, bad man. His tail came out as black as sooth; And, I'm not to judge, he never was! I shall not look on him again. O, do not talk of him to-day, Old noisy dog, and scoff, That vexed him so a bit, and played Just like a rule; But, to remind you, you were not afraid; And, hearing this, you fled! And there, poor child, you lay, And wondering what's the way, When that strange thing came to your surprise, And told you there was anything but eyes, That you were not afraid; For you could see through the windows there, Sitting up there, all your little hair Down to this coat of mail, With a coat as black as any hair, In coat of mail that you used to wear, And all the world knew soothly,-- That, having seen you, you drew from me This first fine curious knife, As I have the right to edge the thread, And you would not have stretched the thread For a line to weave for your head. And now you're off, poor piggie! Because I cut my throat, I have such a crimson business, I think, of course, so very wise, When nobody can pick and ties A more becoming line, Some old reader! write a case About some 'ell-mouthed-like cattle, With firm legs, hands, and feet. If it was ever thus at try-ing, Didn't Mr. Apon-kling say: "You would much rather play a part," ======================================== SAMPLE 494 ======================================== I am with bark and raiment fouled; And not a touch of them is spared; I am her and not her slave. Who took you in for Taylor's sake? I have no bread; I was not rich; God knows I have not gasp'd for more; In God's name, Lord, my passion I assents. Now, master, keep the secret of my heart; Let me not tell it you; I shall not speak; Though I have wrested from the world both this thing and that, I must have sought to teach you now--to teach you now. For you were dumb, you taught me, priest, of craft, Who bound our lives together in the bonds, And told the secrets of the King of Hell. If on this head, our spiritual God is set, The world of God's own thoughts were for the world, We need the loyal fear of Him to prove That for some portion of himself we die, And that, betrayed beneath a Judas foot, You'd not believe in Him, but for a time, That we should fail--who knows?--when I could not-- But felt the burden of this world's hard clog, And knew God's power to read the reason through. To other men there was a little child Who would not use the word in vain, And they would vary when they heard him speak, If they had bread to eat. And other men who saw the child's young face In its grim cradle, would deny Their reverence for its mother's heart; And they would gaze upon her side by turn With looks that would be sad, And play, instead of babbling to the fair, Of saying, "She is mad." And so, because the little child could speak, They would not turn away; But they would bless the Christian with a prayer They could not have her stay While the trees, chough, lay Under the bay. And so, because the harbor lies so long With all its sails and steamboat o'er the sand, And up and down the bay, Where all the boats are rigging in a snare Of golden-shod sand, Beyond the church, the lighthouse, or the beach Holds some like tropic heat, And there are some of them far inland In a far climate some about the Cape, Or round the land, To which they were not over the Cape, But over the bay. And they will come with reefs and prows and anchors, And will take all sail to reef the boat That is so high and cruel and so dank, And where we cannot touch the coast, We will be near enough to find a snug boat Whose end is in the reach of wind and wave; So that the way be more than the winds' way, And that we be but crew that break the boat When they come round to bring them through the night, Or we shall be but men that trust the shoals, Or in the darkness of the surging night, And watch them sail away from shore to shore, With all their watch and wonder, all their care, A thousand ways and under, but not prayer. We are almost sure to reach the sea of life, And its best interests we must all fulfil, And one best thing is ordered and tried with zeal, Whatever bar his purpose, or his will, Convert to him that stands opposed to love, Or him that doubts his liberty or fears But does according to the natural law, And loves his country. Can you not hear This solemn church-bell ringing from the shore, And see the silence of the bells and roofs And the broad lights upon the opposite side Of the majestic ice? By some rare chance You may discover 'twas upon a scene Of such serener times, some royal church, Now high, now low, now in the blue expanse Of Heaven uplifts the music of the bells. Why do you ask me, Sir? Sir, it may be That my true guide-book Is something very different from what it is; For, like it all, there is no time for it. Our modern Guide will ask Some other guide-book for the books he reads. When I am gone, that page may be my guide Through the great world, or robed in green or blue And blazoned by the hand of most chaste Jester. But I can lead you on. There are no books to read. I, with my head bare, Would sit by you and look down upon this planet, And ======================================== SAMPLE 495 ======================================== When o'er a squad of yeux my guests shall crowd, When gold and diamonds, all alive, shall fade, Then will I bound my lance, and threw on high This kingly mountain, and subdue the cloud. Nor shall it be a long, a last farewell To this rude board, this noise and toils:--to be In war a king! and wear victorious smile O'er Sarracra's victory! and be brave, To meet each other in the field or field. Come then, and I will dance and I will sing The praises of thy days, but most in sadness. Thy name, I know not what it is--thy garland Of many a martyr's many-shrubined foot. --But yet I know, that when the powerful king Bade them release, the spirit rose again: Even now 'tis mine, and 'tis a load to me. The ruffian winds a silken sail unfurl, On the rue-withering mast she sails alone, And knows she lies as 'twere her native shore; But if her faithful kinsmen win no more, Where is the broideress of her wonted fare?-- Come, in the arms of one sweet friend and all, We meet once more, and then we part! --'Tis the last summer-day of all the year, When thus the baron's envoy they declare What 'tis to go, and what to leave him--Nay, The youth to let the tedious time away Be endless as the day. The maiden o'er the marble heaps will raise Of fresh-cut leaves, and think upon her tomb, To soothe, at once, her brother's last repose; Thenceforth, she deems it long to be so dreary, Since these poor relics must forever last; Yet not to think of leaving this home so dreary, The knight is gone, and the world's glimmering eye Now leaves no trace of the worn-out man; And bearing now the empty vows of one Who was so brave, as those he left alone With no companion save his own, his slave, Sends up the gibbet to the wretch he sold, And prays his followers now to keep him steady. And he bids go the lovely lady's doom, And place his fears and fears in secret there, Or in their stony talk, or alter'd looks, Point out the doom that strikes his heart with fear, And boldly or beneath his lord's command, Before the nightly horror makes appear To his lone bosom the unquiet ghost With the lone dismal cry of Grief and Pain; "Farewell," he cries, "thy crown is cut in twain! The stage for sad vicissitude is run. Henceforth I am, Constance, the fatal shade! A happier lot is mine--nor shall my dance With night and meanness snatch a nobler doom; More my remorse shall from my hand be paid, And not a look of love or pride be spurn'd. That foot I press not, and that hand I press not, Its value equal shall I hold not. O could I creep, and feel as at some past delight, When from a father's love I name my moan, Not with the frightful dreams of future bliss, And the vain fears that dim my failing eye, Nor quiver when I groan before a passing by; In that wild moment when I thought it good To die, and feel as at some future spell, And lose as in the anguish days go by, If 'tis not to be tried, yet not forgot; Will then the fate of the unhappy soul Lose all its pleasures and its griefs at will, And like a miser after what he long'd? Ah, if 'twere in vain, and if 'twere ill, 'Twere better far to hope--and long and vain, And all things else that are not as they were. To know I lost, and lose, and do but know, In that wild moment when I thought it good. In that still moment when I thought it good To lose or win, and so be lost no more, What then was mine of lucre and of mood, And of desire for splendour or disdain? In a few minutes, and a day will be When one thought is of my joy and love, And then I seem to moan in a much heavier plight; It is not heavy-laden to be left In a pure loneliness--the chain that bind ======================================== SAMPLE 496 ======================================== The Father's sight!" The clouds are wrapp'd in crape of loathsome blue, Or deeper in the gloom, That shrouded Margaretta; Bright-flowing tears are falling where she lies, And on her brow they fall. Her eyes are clos'd in silent prayer, And pale with bliss she looks, As if at home there waited but a child To help a man forlorn. No voice is there of comfort left to cry, No dirge to soften pain, Or weep to hear the ceaseless tale of years, Or list the last of Time. All time that tolls the clock is cold, And only shadows grow Within that dreadful watch-tower on the rock That compass life below. No voice is there of comfort left to cry, No dirge to soften pain, And those who nurse the siege, and those who bear The cruel weight of Time, Shall never, never enter that sad house, Where they shall watch and wait For one of our torn barrows in the dark, And one without a name. Who shall say by what strange way He has gone?--Oh! who shall stay That shall dare to front the dreadful day On which the Cross is thrown? What stern duty has gone?--Oh! who shall say That shall conquer this great War? "For I have lost her, my Moslem, dear, Who for the Maid had pain; Who shall that have no brave man here Who shall bear the grief-scrror'd chain, Where many a warrior went before The burning and the beaten ore, And many a sad tear shed? Oh! who shall speak of the Maid, dear, Who for the Chief did pray? "The man in front, with a bright eye Turns round--oh! who shall guide? When the hound he has kill'd or the hawk to a bail He flutters his wings and dies. The maid who was true to the orb of the spheres, And the star that shines nightly and nightly appears, Gives heed to the words that disturb her ear: The maid who was true to the stars of yore Shall lead to the village more, And surely they watch by the moonlight now, And the eyes that never see. They know not who hears the din of their feet Nor the tinkle of golden bells, But they walk in the paths that the Berts have trod, And they call to their parents to tell their beads, And the crickets and thrushes that come in the hens, And the purl's loud call, Where the sparrows call, And the sullen flies Are the tunes to their hymns As he hums to his mate, And the katydids call To each other at twilight, from hill to hill, From the tower to the gate of the underworld, From misty height to the vale of the weald, From town to town, from the wastes of the town, Till they pass from the town and the fields and all That once held a joyaunce so mad a delight In the wild delight Of the dancing and dancing, And the pheasants' laughing, gay jigs' chattering, And the lilt of the lasses' laughter at dancing, And the voice of the children's children chirping. And so in their course they still are found To teach the lore of the old-fashioned way, Till a last strange yell of despair they hear, And they turn and journey, Till the door-yard night, with its moaning sound, Turns again to their shame and their misery, And the night-air drifts in a gust of shuddering, As they turn to the weight of their misery. With lips all livid and eyes all filled, They watch in the darkness with shuddering fear, Till they touch the glittering domes of night, And the blood-shot portals of hell are shut in with a bar That the living maimed in darkness lie clear, And the children's children are torn and drowned In the lacerating rasp of their cry. Who shall say that a splendor celestial Hangs radiant on magic lamps at night? He who has seen in a rainbow aërial In light of the wild harmonious light, In sight of this darkness he comes, he comes, he comes, In light of the magical moonlight he falls, In light of the heart of the child of the skies. A glimmer of doubt in his delicate eye, ======================================== SAMPLE 497 ======================================== away, boys, to the nation of us If 'twere a king-like thrust upon a throne, Let its bold spirits fearlessly assail it; But, with the sceptre of self-will, let it Send dangers more terrible far and near it, And when, with spirits stern, appalling thoughts Presents itself to those who fear to cope it, Shall a vast empire of uncurbed hate Be hurled on all the wicked, impious nations! Pray may it be the temper of that Death, Who, through so many a many a bloody battle, Assails us with his mortal arm alone. Arise, and cry, for the great spirit of us, Which in the ways of life provoked our strife, A voice shall call us, awful, terrible; But let us do it--well, in evil hour, Spite of this horrid war, restore our treasures, Take from this strong-contested head of ours Our crown of revellers. Let us bow before it! "We have yet toil and trouble to create, But not time. Thou knowest that we must prepare us With plenteous might. Bear with us our princely Hands, which will prove our might. Depart now, Lest in death the well-plighted powers of Heaven Descend not only on us fallen the rulers. No longer be our sin; let us give way To friends with more than tempest, and our wisdom With a sufficient strength. These sons of ours Yet shrink not from some guilty hope, nor falter 'Neath rumour of our children's blood, who yet May hurl them dead from their ancestral helms." When from the court a gentle voice was heard, As from a throne, whose spiriting was sealed In flames of fire, thus spake the matron sage: "The banished rulers of the multitude, And destinies, return no more to council; Nor do these anxious offices of ours Repair to us. Pray tell them not to perish, Nor fear a death all pitifully dearer For these poor children. It were best for them, The shame and sin of death should be forgotten, And not avenged. There is a higher wisdom, As thou canst say, than 'for mankind they shall Have happy life; this passes from their bodies. O happy race of ours! The inarticulate Be fruitful; sons of deities, by these, Living and dying. There is also this, Whose name and race are held in reverence; Therefore the Just are ever in our hands. And after this the number have begun To envy us the seed, and in our hearts So long a scanty sustenance remains." When she had ceased, the rhythmic period came Upon her ear. The vesper choristers With still more vigour cleaved the air. The fire Grew stronger, while within the naves it poured, And called upon a kindling, deeper heat, And warmer soil. The moon refracted there, Through no cloud-vintaging signs of frost. At last She looked abroad across the firmament Of heaven, to the white halls of that abyss Where the soul-mother rests. She climbed the vast In gamboling toil, half resting on the reed, And paced upon the royal picture scenes, With those which cannot fade nor ever die And strive to kindle with the fire their hearts. Above the rifted trees a blue-domed choir Of shrubs, loud-prattling, spoke of heaven's supreme, Soul-torrenting, ravishing their upward souls, Or through the noiseless tumult of the wind, Pour down their music, with its music, swift As shooting stars upon the Syrian night. The path grew easy,--vainly groping forth, If aught could wash it. Tarrying there she watched Many young lovers looking into eyes, Or drowsing in the music; and at last, Ere midnight stole, came forth the bright-haired band Of dark-eyed maidens, clad in tawny gold, And with their dark-eyed lamps, now shone the towers Of Cimabue, where with matted locks, And garments woven of the purest gold, They had stood still, and watched the unbidden guests. Nor was the earlier closed the round long day. But everywhere a something happened still The husband's eyes, and everywhere his speech, As if there stood a woman, who did dream ======================================== SAMPLE 498 ======================================== my forehead, Then my swelling heart she quickened, To the blue cesars yonder. "O, I fear thee, Love of Pohja, Fear thee, child of the blue seigneur, Thou art but my heart's dear treasure, Only for thy dear soft tresses I am subject to thy pleasure. "For I look to keep the promise Which I promised as my darling, In the black cup of dishonor, Gavar committed un dishonor, And, against my will, I promised That, beneath my eyes in slumber, Eagerly to pay my taxes, Noble Jovan lay down in slumber, On the couch of his dear father. "I will pay thee in the trouble, And will give thee satisfaction, As in this the hump I guard thee, And thy back to Kalevala, Underneath my very nose now, Lightly leaping to my chamber. "Then I will assume the new gaiters, All the sumpters are provided, And my skin itself will be handsome, And my hair will be well stratted, All the braid is but disorder; Such a wretched garb I'll sever From my neck, the gurge now wander. "Hear the newest glee increases; I am glad that thou art sleeping, And will pay thee in the trouble, Wet to-day as I am growing; Better dwell in chains of freedom Than to dwell in chains of freedom. "If I press thee to this passion, And should wear the sumpter-vapour, If I set thee on a banquet, Spare me now as I'm preparing, Only seven full quartos, Seven quartos of gold gilding, Five hundred pounds of silver, Seven hundred of gold gilding, Seven hundred pounds of silver, Wain I'll give thee at thy leisure, Only nine knots of silver twine one. "If my mother should loose my father, I have brought the child of sickness To the household of thy father, To the household of thy mother. Best of all is this bride-gift I give, But the like I never cherish. "Nor shall father more receive her, Or thy father's old relations, From thy mother's lips and bosom; If thou dost not quickly free them, From the grave-claves of the marshes, From the caverns of the mountains, Or if wife-like thou wouldst lead them, I will take them all together, Bound by many nets and mittens, Fashioned from the finest silver, Set to work by will of mother, Witted to destroy the young ones. Many nets and traps she'll make me, In the store room of the storehouse, Whence I'll thrust them in the chestows, When in store I'm all squeezed from, And in store of silver strung from. "But if any youth should wander From his home in Pohja's village, And have cattle in the marshes, And a house in rainy seasons, And should rest within the lowlands, And should rest upon the mountain, Be a portion of his people, Then would I not gladly leave them, Never wander there to seasons, Neither bring my master's cows back, In the storehouse of the chestnuts, Through the open fields and lowlands. "If thou hast not long, a hundred, Weary, wandered, scratched, and pondered, Hungry too, and soothed, and feasted, In the wretchedst and the burning, E'en that day thou art unhappy, Evil genius, wicked teacher, Therefore do not thou deny me. "Hear me, Blood-sucking Doublegher, Vain the case in which thou foundest All thy race of sin and folly. If thou dost not free me wisely, Work demands I must provide thee, Work to-day will soon be ended, In the wide world hast thou safely, There to do no mischief needed, All thy children I will kill thee, Thorns will grow on every meadow, Singing birds upon the bushes, Thus thy life to Tuon dedicate, And to Manum hearken wisely. "If by force thou wouldst not do me, Not by force thou canst not do me, Nor canst leave me to be eaten, E'en by vilely unappeased, Nor will any ======================================== SAMPLE 499 ======================================== unsaddened go down to the court. And this our quittance was brought about For the great court, and for the crowd, This one of these was Misenus; Two lawyers' charges, of which good store Did the great cheque have often store. The vivius to the people said, I think it were just to take a word; So, they are sent without delay To the prison to await their pay. That other lords and ladies thus Hoping in the ante-house to see, He the Norfolk lordship's care was at, To which they all due honors gave, Not the less grace to please the ear And gaiety of courtier. The lawyers' names are quite a sum Of men in every part, you see, Of the greatest men there are: But they are of the greatest kind, Those lawyers very little mind. And such they are; and if they chance To acquire a credit or a chance, They are not the first o' names, but some Or thousands to the same profess; For they who do the same by rote, In country, town, or shop, by rote, Will carry on their names, instead Of those of the Nobility, The common country, or the known And manners of the settled town. This while the vicar of the North, His friends, Sir, had by him kept thrall; And, therefore, he had learnt to prize Their fortunes, and his memory, As tell me from another part, His father, whom he knew full well And so to make his own more kind; But both of them were sick of health, And bore the injuries behind. Then he was sent to England straight, To rest among the nuns and pray, Who, with a preface, kept their eyes On what is called the sacrifice; But, if he did not wish the land, That grace they did not strive to gain; And if he did not win the post, Then was himself an honest jist, And when the vicar was all free, And land was better than for three, Of all that he had heard and said, The laborer he might well have died, Or that himself, they might have said, Was lying on the pains of the town, That he might so have done it, brown Or black, or from the box just plied, That in his death so many a year His body still should lie in there. He should have been a monk severe (And such is pious faith) nor yet To any earthly dame allied Who might be both well born and bred; But to the latest latest day He should have come, whom to obey, And hers were due obedience pay. Such was the Church, whose altar swore Had the chief priest out of her own, That, to be done by those of hers, She might be pillowed on his bier: And, now before our Church's eyes, They might see that the witnesses Of this and that religion were Most likely to be closed against. That Church for fifty years had kept The mighty door which open made Their marriage, both in good and ill, Since it was placed, and yet was left, Between posterity and skill. These people there to God would pray For souls in blessing, though they had From other places, and might crave A help from heaven to save their host. As children come to church, or come Through old or young, such did at home Those Fathers greet, and many too Of their dear father, home, or friends, A messenger sent forth to tell All things for the least wish, and all What was to do, with mind aright. Meanwhile, thus talking they passed on, And coming in the town was gone. But when the car drew near the goal, And looked on all, I have not past In skill, but art, nor yet can show The greater cause that led me on To seek another maidens fair, Some help I wish the best to win From them my erring heart to bear. The shop I look for was not there; Then we went first and dressed merrily. It was a church; where all the street Was sprinkled with the best of wheat, As if the hay were thrown away; And Joseph walked beside the way With outspread palms and crosséd feet. And soon we entered it, but then The workman Peter was not there; The children all sat knitting then, And kissing them their darlings fair, And kissing each ======================================== SAMPLE 500 ======================================== . Yet, though mine eyes the sacred seal should close, In fainting numbers would my tongue employ; I still must sing; ah! far too bold the Muse, If heavenly Fancy's aid my tongue could move, And emulate th' immortal Nine! ah, where? If Albion's coast, whose surges lightly toss'd The Car of England's ancient name, might note (Mark for whose shore a wand'ring sculptur'd shrine, Whose steps my hero's steps had hither come, Whose hand my forehead mark'd, whose eye the blaze Of heaven itself soars thro' ages hung in air), How would my tongue in these deaf numbers breathe, Mute in their thoughts! but to thy lover's fate My voice should bear the days that once I past, Scatter'd thro' all my breast the impassion'd lay, The love that soften'd all the sullen day, By the sweet feeling of my beauteous breast To the warm sink of kind simplicity. Let others seek enjoyment in the scenes I fancied there;--but, oh! to softer hours, How little did my roving thoughts offend The simple love of a seraphic bowers, Whose flowers had gain'd, at the fair Fancy's call, A home in Nature's wildering woods at all! Nay, dearest, let thy Muse be clever too, And what for him the Muse shall leave to set In her unrivall'd task, be mindful too Of this soft city, where he grew from me, Spite of his slow decay, and strife, and pride, Receiv'd me from his childhood's green retreat; Not that I felt his soothing hand, his care, His simple precepts, and his constant prayer, Whatever else he chose, could move me more Than the most favourite of man's thoughts to adore. Yet he, as I grew calmer, and grew calmer, Did by such words my ardent bosom move; And never stoop'd to mine, in times like these, Since he had told me of immortal loves, The bowers of Paradise; but, when I thought That, like a picture, Nature's glory drew Clouds o'er his fairest works, and beauty's best Best bloom'd for him, in childhood's pride and prime; Sailing from distant lands, with him to sail, He taught me to revisit earth and time, To breathe the airs of Paradise, and learn That man was made for man's use, yet he lives A godlike reputation in a heaven Not all made for the gods, for man himself, But such as in a dream as makes them dream. Could I survive such soberolid delays, Such stolid ancestors, such wise profound, Were the pure classic of all ages past, In the wide world abroad, and heaven above Still with the Gods at home, and the pure shrine, Where Genius now, and now on earth below Beneath the calm white stones of empire plac'd; And, like a nightly visitant from Jove, Himself the sole enthusiast of a race Frequent and ever varying; as, at dawn, His glitt'ring eyes, their homage to the sun, And sent the lighted taper far away, Till lingering twilight, gathering round him, found Strange force of his surpassing beams, and Love, That mix'd in union, and in union grew, A loveliness that doth not the mind move. O thou, the youngest of the mother-nights, Born in the shade of the dark forests hoar In the dark woods! on whom the softest light Glides as it wanders through the gloom'd recess And leaves the heart untomb'd: Thou, from whose breast The earliest bloom that blossoms o'er the ground, After long twilight of undaunted youth, First form'd, and taught'st, among first flowers and plants, Perform'd thy lesson, and unmix'd the tears That gather from the mossy fountain's source. At first thy hand was on the bending reeds That murmur o'er the crystal crystal pool, Till, gathering all its sweetness into one, The sunbeams, blending into motley shades, Felt a fine shadow, long and mourn'd for, break Into dim tints, like moonbeams, which the moon Gleams on without, behind the glassy glass, Or in transparent glass, bathed in the shade Of glittering waves; the fairy sisters all, In glittering sunshine mantling on the flood Of silver wave, ======================================== SAMPLE 501 ======================================== que notes "Why what is every poet for, now he is full of it?" So long as I remember it, be it to me. I do remember hours at the shore of Times agone, But the most incessant calling is life to me, As I sat and looked into a calm, old garden, As bright and brighter glories light on the tree, It was more than a lordly and sainted street Like a pack of travelling music-people greets, When the singers of God are most glad to meet And offer their forms, while they skip o'er the sweet Fine dust of the Beautiful thrown upon By Heaven's indulgence, or chant it in praise, Yet if I forget it my song is the same, When we are not getting the time to reproach it Just as I was wishing I'd run into a mint- Or a cask of deep wine, if not so refined, But a cask of fresh country-wine, if not so refined. Just the old cask of water that lives at ease On the sandy shore--and waits, unshod, for you Who meet it, unglutted, and though all men think, Wells are swift to bear grapes, like this, or that sour land, More splendid and fertile, from island to isle Than old Phidias. Most otherwise let it be, This should be as it may, about any time When our wits are asleep, and the weary men Are making a masque of the starry spheres Where we learn the craft of the blacksmith, and give The coarse complexions, even to the mist, Of Night's fine outline. So when we've warmed The moss of our nook, and learnt of their stars That blacksmith, the maker of an incurious song, Should build his own fine and Egyptian stuff, And take to itself the principles, an aim And purpose of the world. But surely here you see, Be it as you like, with seeing a man, Though these should cause surprise, as they bow to the sun, Or the feet of the best of her-her brides. For you have no song, but a glee In your this you now see, and this, from me. But never be angry, then, with that which will not prove There is no unity in having it, even in love That is not friendship. You walk to your death-side, With a glee bound aback, to the blushing red of your cheeks, You smile like a saint, your lips in your bosom, And the tears of a country's tears. Had we sung in our living, had thought in our dying, If the blood were our due, 'twere surely the first death Of a rapture we knew, we should quickly have bled, since We have sung to be true--we should sing to be true! How you lay the knife by, and whispered and blended "I, too, am your fool." There was rapture in all The delicate workings of heart and the sunny, Heart, and hands, and eyes, and the eyes of a mother, That each of them told me was all a mother's. Yet one forgets, as he wonders to leave us To shut the dear book. It is rumorous, vague, Over-blown, for the lives that were made for, And for that too fine. But one sees, though the spirit Of Mabel Montrose, who thinks nothing of you, There where you were laid, By the hands that he has and the eyes that he has. There was also the coffin where people once walked In their innocent plays; And, after two nights, When her ghost had gone to the fair one's house, A dust-cloud appeared to say, "There is judgment, There is nothing to fear." And the face which had been Nearest to hers was the That could have be most divinely repressed By its calm, wise way, For her soul had no rival of worth or fame, Which averred her soul's ancestry ever the same As the rare chalice of virtue unjarred By the broils of the churls of "an ignorant mime," But the steadfast gaze was in honor still, Like the candlestick's guinea, most gentle to see, That his own hand which saw her Was strong in the least of his pulses in her, And the white finger, of deathless seeming bent On the mark of his passionate eagerness, The fall on the head, the discouragement Of his passionate will, to the pitiful weighing On the ======================================== SAMPLE 502 ======================================== . If simple love have sway, Let me not be a maid Who will not waken yet To fit my woes as yet. Since of my love I sing, Full many a note I swing. To thee, fair one, I'll tell, What now I have to tell; Whom now my griefs shall cover, For wo my sorrows shall not cover, Nor my tears shed, nor sighs swell To any God or lover. He stole, and to him stole: His arm did all unclose; And would have fled, but he did sighs For a kiss, for a kiss; And, though ne'er taken, his lips still were his lips, Yet, having no more, he did smile on his lips. He kissed her then, for she was fair: No fairer did appear Then the first kiss to wear. But when he felt her breath, Being loath, and loth to leave it; He kissed her then, for she was kind: It was a thousand times Before he took his treasure. Now when he met her eyes, She was as pale as skies: And all his bloodied cheer To her seemed more and more; And so the kiss he bore Was worth all his to bear. His hair stood up, his feet Stuck fast in his sweet's-tree: "Now where I live I'd like a bird, If I had overlaid it!" --He took it with a bound. And then his wing,--the treachery That had corruptra me Did not, nor could for pity For one, whom he did slay. He saved her from all evil; She weeps,--at least his laurel. And out of my hand I hold, To her bosom near me: And give him back again Who sent her here to me. 'Tis three times so: since first I saw This frame, and saw it thus,-- From that time death may draw The veil about it now; And so, between my brows, My heart it took has laid. My lady left the chamber door, And sought another door. I bade farewell, but still was heard The dying lady's tale; She turned the leaves and rose again, And past the bower ofacle. I gave the ring, I gave the bow, I set the bower-door free; She took a shaft, and drew the string, And out she went to see; The ring, the string, the arrow-bow That in her heart did lie. I gave her all the gallant's meed; But still was held the true, That place of many trysts, the best Where all such pride should do; And on my knee the finger placed To guide the long-loved brand; The ring, the string, the golden rings, Her beads of purest sand; Then lifted I the conqueror's hand, And said, "What need to charm? If but my bow can pierce the best, Show me the smiling saint!" She gazed: the arrow-starting string Sickened, and died away; And gave a call, that went and went, And drew me here to-day; And when I could not bear to think I kissed the angel's wing, And clasped him close, and hung upon A youthful, manly thing, Whose smile, when first I saw thee last, Too fleeting, cast away,-- Mine own, but mine alone! If through the thick, dim twilight, With silent step I move, Ah, think, my friends, the memory Of all my deeds of love! So in some lone, sequestered nook The shadows will intrude; I'll steal some flower, and live unseen, Among the accustomed wood. They'll talk, and they'll come not; They'll know me by my face, And tremble at my tremulous hand, As, little footsteps lightly, They come, and will not come, To whisper in your ear: And then the silence that succeeds Their silence will not come. There's not a nook within the sphere, However dear or bright; No cloud, no moonbeam, glancing by, So fragrant and so pure of eye, As where there winds have never been Two wandering fays together seen, I love the brooks that wandering Delighted in the summer even. These younger sisters, banked with flowers, ======================================== SAMPLE 503 ======================================== suppliant to the King Vouchsafed the plea, whose prayer he thus renewed:-- “Yea, I beseech thee, King, by favouring fate “To grant thy prayer, and thou shalt grant the boon, “Perchance to thee is given;--and if the truth “I speak, and thou hast given,--thou shalt conceive “Our wish success:--and deem'st our prayers the fruit “Of thy petition; yet will'st thou not cease “To beg a home, ere thou art suited back? “Still dost thou dread the deity supreme? “Yet, if thou seek'st the moon, thy life is given; “Then rise, and look on me:--we pray for nought.” But vain his wish, by Fortune thus beguiled: And not the promise of his eyes deny'd. Near that same river's mouth, by fame reports The maid was toil'd the ocean to espy: And there her face was so beseech'd with tears That savage pair have need not I recount.-- Here both were stay'd, and rough the steers were plied; Whom Phœbus dashing near, and drove before. And, ere he swept the watery rocks, was seen A lowest bough o'ergrown; and as the mast Drew down, the ships beside a river lay, Horses and men with swifter pace were whirl'd Along the breakers; in a moment pour'd The foam upon the poop, and in a tide, Whelming the fowl beside, had plunged outright. And now upon the western mountain's brow, Piercing the clouds, the forehead clave in air: Just in the midmost gulphy land appear'd The Salian flood, and when theerest rays Had dyed the fogs the face of that same flood Bore off the visage of the impure swan: And Jason, dubious of his promise'd vows, More credulous still to ask his faith to heaven, And to this hour at least had given the lie. Now Eunoeüs from the wall was free; And first him to Eunoeüs thus address'd:-- “Farewell, companions, whither are ye borne? “Are ye departing, and these eyes with tears “The face of heaven behold?--while yet ye look, “Remember me;--all vanished are the hopes “Of vengeance given to Jove; and all our blood “Eaten in blood: ye shall not 'scape again. “Jove is the first,--weighs he the lofty soul “Which now despairs, and feels his vengeance too. “Smite, slay me as ye will,--for all the woes “Which ye lament, pursue ye as ye go; “The war renews not; Greece shall still succeed, “To come triumphant;--but ye, hostile powers, “Shall cease, and Greece shall yet again behold, “What I must say,--while passing others' lives; “And Jove, when he to punish lawless knives “Sees his misfortune; of the power he gains, “For vengeance proud, to him the sire consents. “Fondly I grieve, since wrong'd by him is check'd, “But, grateful Jove, accept my last remains. “Cease we to laugh, and pardon we may give. “Not with Phæacia's princes here contend; “But meet thou, chief! thy reasons to excuse: “Indignant for our aid. At our petitions, more “The king grants, our requests we may constrain.” His people heard; and thus he gird'd the spear. Not with his bossy shield, the sword oblique, He braced;--yet laid it not; with adverse hand Stript of its arms his breast was cover'd o'er, And barr'd his hands; the labor did not cease. The blood ran cold; nor but in veins congeal'd Each Grecian, till that day; when raising high A ting'd axe, and loud his railing knock'd: Yet strove with strength his way; impotent they hope The aid of Cepheus' arm invincible. Doubt not that words of power so fierce a long The mind-felt torture of the imprison'd sire; But where the trembling sire ======================================== SAMPLE 504 ======================================== dew; But all the night we sought to shun the blue, And gave our last faint glimpses back to thee. All night as 'thou didst watch beside the dawn, I thought of times when friend and foe were foes; But when I woke at last, how grim to see Was the wild field beneath the dusky green! The ground, the sky, the thick grey flowers, the grass, The bright blue sunshine of the yellow sun, Lost as they ran, and stinging as they pass, Save in the faint fresh flush of waking daffodil Their dimpled path on God's own breast awoke; And then--the thirst was deep, the night was chill, And by my dream I seemed to walk, and breathe The fragrance of the flowering almond-tree. Nathless, I met thee oft at gloamin hour Along a bed of flowerets drowse and light; And drove my heart out in a vagrant bower, Where such a radiance gleamed like dazzling white. And oft, when thou didst lie in bridal bower On some warm bank of velvet, vague and lone, I saw thy small pale forehead writhe and lower, And the blue diamonds drop upon thy zone. At twilight when I slept, I came to thee, And oft to that white face did turn aside, And on thy shoulders lay thy blushing head, And watch the dark green sea come softly in, And oft thy billowing white limbs did lie Along the bosom of thy sleeping sea. And then I dreamt a dream!--the sea of dreams, The soft green sea of spiritual sleep, Were led me forth to wander as it seems; Before my gaze the hollow heaved up deep. The world is full of glad and green; All things are happy in their green; Their shadows fleet above the streams; The woodland glides about their dreams. For in that while I shall not sigh, All joys are sadder than the sky; And yet, at last, my spirit hears The music of the far-off spheres. Till April, with her dewy spires And sunlight, from the far lands higher, Fingers and all the pageant ceased, And the old woodland lights and shades, Dancing before me, were at rest, Save in the passing of a breeze, And on my ear the archenot Breathed gently, and a rustling sound Of leaf and tree came floating round, And all things round lay still and bright, And all things round lay still and dark. By what sweet ways the primrose leads My soul into a sacred place, With a sense of air for every trace, Of all its very life and breath, And now and then a shape in sleep, But now and then a form in sleep! Hear now, my soul! how weird a dream Seems our reality to seem, A form too glorious for our eyes To strive in awe of mysteries! For at the gates of vision there, With haloed feet and wan hair, Three women stand, so clothed in grace, And each is clad with musk-rose lace! Well-fashioned with the rosy-gold, The youngest of the youngest, And brown with age, so strangely clad, They see my lady sweet and sad. And laughing round their lord they go, And smile and seem to know me, With pleasure in their eyes that glows, And at their robes of jewels blue An aged gentleman they view. The gallant Vivian starts before The old man with the corded shoes, And darts the kerchief to the floor, And curses him with loving eyes, And then forgets his idle pain, And to his homely board returns His grief and his distress again. I saw them, I was well awake. The table was a circle wide, A flaming town of beauty, Wherein all gods and men were pent, And round their feet flew brooks and fountains, A wondrous rainbow in a garland! A god-like ride--a wavy room All paved with blue rays of the heavens, A glimmering tent--a maid's fair face-- And I grew strangely mad at sight Of those transcendent garments, And watched the blood unfolding Its flower-like petals through the gloom, As rushing down they flamed and glowed. Then saw I, ill at ease, and strangely With all its splendid imagery, A shape come slowly through the gloaming, With every form of sorrow ======================================== SAMPLE 505 ======================================== , Which now approved the pleasing matter By Nature, taking, by caprice, An aim engrossing on great deeds And eminent in many lands. The great Oda, whom we prize High as the sovereign head of all The noble head, has to the gods (For great, in fact, and all to us), As to the dignity of his Great and magnificent designs Called forth of old, out of his limbs A fair and dazzling babe was born, Clad in a new-born, marriage-ring, A bedecked with golden girdle-pins, A present from his father, who Had neither wealth nor coat to hold His legs intelligent, but built Fast, like his mother, tall and fair, Like his own mother, tall and straight, With ample bosom, front and neck, Worthy in every prosperous chance To rival theirs, more skilful hand To stem theiddy torrents of The immemorial sea-and-wave, Or, like some post defierced In aught save death, indulge awhile, An unexpected joy. To any man The troubles of the world are known, As such things must, and yet not long, Since men remark in any age Such happiness for many days, But not, though life thus wearied be, How many fugitive days. Now, for the traveller's thirst to find A cordial draught, he throws it into the Untasted hush, a pleasant sound And careless as the gurgling of a brook When all the undulating seas Resound with shouts to meet the gathering storm, Which, like a roar among the pines, Moves far away: the homes of men We call the huts, the beautiful, The splashing gorse, the jasmine flowers, The water-lilies and the dark pines, Wooed from the ashy little brink Of bygone springs; the brook which runs From vine-built cities to the stream Of curving silver, glad with ease To see the sucking infant foam, And the crocuses amongst the sedges Plant new shoots; the parti-vested cows Call home their cows, the lily and the pale Clustering from the swelling bank Of bloomy turf; the violet springs In milk-weed from the smaller roots Of water-lilies, and the dark Meandering meads of gardens blow To the wide wood, and keep their suck Deep in the virgin hush of groves, Until, the very earth with rills Will stain her robe and frame. The shrubs, the antelope, the eglantine, These are as gifts, to mortals given, Or, as the playful roe, to deer Upon a shaggy mountain set, With dappled plumage, sleek and spare, And rough grey tufts of jungle-fowl, That creep with chinkering feet about Their guests' demolisht beds, and dart Their little lives out. These I beheld, those I beheld By many strange intruder make, Of bodies beautiful and tall, With crimson robe and burnished shell About them in a ring: and these With burnished rings and jewels red, And gold brocade about them spread, And fresh brocades and sylvan seats, And lodges in a ring. And, lastly, all the forest flowers That deck that castle of the trees Are pale as heated oaks; and there An ivory palace, set apart For beauty's eye, a joyous wit, Beamed of the fire within: Where'er I went, what pleasure I had, Your minstrelsy the hours spent! What joy, what pleasurable! And what immortal ileth The fleeting years brought forth To woo the minstrel, when he hears The minstrel calling to his years, And, counting, yearns to quit The child at the imperious fount And meet the godlike host. O gentle sleep, o hand-maidens, And sweet restorest I our earthly days, How long I lingered, and how long Remain the light of lands my lucent blaze, When in swift wheels I spread my long crane wings Above my own and to your gondolier spheres. Your tongue, whence comes the birth of words, Closed in the winding syllables Of a leaf-shaded luminous epoch? What were the song, the colour, wit, That lends a mournful fit, and ======================================== SAMPLE 506 ======================================== Deep plung'd, yet muttering under every wave. Here Hector doubted, bound beneath the yoke, Nor ever to the Grecian fates resolv'd; But clinging to the ground, with fainting knees The Trojans press'd upon him; with his teeth The giant press'd upon him; helpless, alas! He lay, yet by the plough unclutch'd, and vain His efforts, had not Neptune seen his face. But when Jove's son arriv'd, the gory steeds Approach'd, and calling, from the Grecians chiefs, And foremost men. Then call'd AEneas forth, The son of Tydeus, Priam's noble son, With whom Andromache of dauntless heart O'erthrew him. "Forward, Otso!" shouted he, "And Tydeus' son, I ween, and we shall win Felicity, by such decisive terms; But battle for the forfeit is at hand. He's barr'd against us; but the Gods are will'd." He said; and poising, with impetuous arm, His forehead huge and hugely bristling came His head and belly prostrate. With proud look Thou hast address'd thine own brave sons to aid. They, when the valiant Greeks had storm'd to strip The ships, before the city's heights rush'd down On some huge palisade. The breast-plates once They crash'd, and twelve by foes alone subdued. How from his neck the sloping sword was torn The monstrous arm, who with resistless force Defended Hector, who recoiling, rush'd In fury on the front, and with his brows Imflatted, with his whole skull interjoin'd. Then Hector, sovereign of the proud in arms, And o'er his features veil'd his awful eyes. He view'd him; pale fear chill'd at his heart; And dazed anger stung him, for the hero's fate, Doom'd to be hounded by his spear of might. No longer now Eurypylus beheld That heart exulting; to his face he crept, And wrestling with his feet the giant limbs. Then thus, with hands uplifted, to himself He made his pray'r, and thus in turn began. "O Father Jove! Thunderer! what cause soe'er Hostile to us the Trojans? If Fate doom'd Ne'er that Achaian ship shall enter here, No such Achilles shall at length arrive. No such alliance shall the rest allow. O Father Jove! who know'st supreme control Each mortal creature, and of mingling chiefs, To me hath given such force and dauntless force, As thou desir'st, that at the ships we take, Whose life shall pay, for their infatuate deeds. No. We shall both in arms, and in our strength Oppose our city, and deliver all. He said, and from his chariot cast a spear. The Trojan host from his bent bow unbent, And loud-ringing arrows shiver'd as he fell; Nor did the Trojans, till of Greece arriving, See aught but death, and of disgrace a prey. Meantime, at every step and every pause The Trojans feasted, and beside the ships Drove back the warring multitude, whom none Or male or female met, a lawless race. Eleon his scout, who noised before, Led on the Trojan host; their war array'd Behind them, and their beauteous faces left, Achilles, like a beacon, scorch'd them all. Hector had felt the pow'r of his approach, He knew, and mounted thither; else his voice He had not found, or pow'r to turn his eye. Achilles, urging them to turn his eye, Taught them the signs of tempest and of war, That they should fight; but, with his spear elate, Stood back, for courage and for life preserved. Such was the tempest, such the pow'r of fire, He whom the Greeks, by Grecian hands incass'd, Thebes slew, and stripp'd their blazing hearths; Before the Greeks their followers troops retir'd. The Gods stood aloof, and to the Gods Signor'd him lovingly, with hands upborne On the broad shield-work by a Thracian Lord. Then Hector, with his spear below the neck, ======================================== SAMPLE 507 ======================================== . O, happy you! in boast while you enjoy An equal share of honour and renown! Long life, in fine, had Fortune left to you, Whilst I was certain 'twas to live with you: This made you rich, and I was sure to die Where you might be; and I might now be sure You were not to be poor--so rich to give, Like any high-born duchess in our land, A sort of diadem, a high-born star, A star to reign o'er all the palaces Of this my native Wales, and fair Virginia. The Queen of Scotland's fane took some scant child, Who made no plaint, no whisper to be heard, (But by her side she would be all alone) And lookt at life. I know not what she said: I thank you well; but how can I, suppose This maid a prize? this is not fair as mine. And may it be? And for that self-same sake Which you have injured, I will make it mine To render it mine by right of you, The lady of my heart and eyes: to make Thee mine--I will not leave it. I will add More sweetness to my lips, more grace to my arms, More power to love and to pursue, and add More sweetness to my lips, more power to love, And still keep it: O let this me not possess! In short, I'll be yours, for God will take this soul From all its quiver and its shafts of bliss. In life's respect, the like have not our being: Mine, all mine, I give thee, as thou wilt; For her to thee, mine, my beloved life, With what I give, I give my heart for her, My heart and life to her. And shall I give Such satisfaction, princely cavaliers, As now can move the waters and the sun To joyous merriments? and, after all, Mine be the palm shall be the cypress-tree, The thistle-thistle for the maiden's head, The thistle-thistle for the maiden's body. A third time I shall find, my lady sweet, You're at your heart's content, I know. And many a lady of the forest braes, That number five, shall fall of fourscore knights In death, by that good custom in their birth, In service to their prince. And I will hear A hunter, that can hunt and go at large, For fifteen years or more, a morsel to The child; and there will I, as is my due, The parent of my life, go forth and find, After so many years of wandering here, A nursling, a poor mother; and thence send To me all pity, feeling, hope and faith, My blessings on your princely court, Sir King, My blessing on your princely court. 'Tis now the time for parting; our last hour Is swiftly passed, and we are quite prepared. Sorrow, dear lord, has made us all to weep, Or to make room for tears, when haply we May look upon each other face to face, And say: Let tears, let sorrows, all have way; Be of our witness who we are, and stand Each to the other in the spirit of love, And feel that thus in either we are held Equal and dear. There is not in the world A sympathy, nor any sympathy With human nature, but most of mankind Hath comfort, as life ever hath been, In joy or sorrow, to have lived for us, In joy or sorrow. These our troubles are: Now am I happy; for among the rest Is greatest sorrow, and among the peace Of all thoughts else to be. At the woman's kneeling Is life's sorrow the grim mask of grief, That must hang, the lie. In the world of life How rich and wonderful! The calmness there, The freshness of the wind among the hills, The tenderness of flowers, and the gentle curve Of the young down, that holds them in its shade. It is love's fashioning; it brings to them The perfect benediction of heaven. Love is the golden link that links Peace, and sweet solace of high-raven joys. That bindeth anguish; the stern creed Bows before joy; the low hope that leaves The far-off Paradise of hopeful youth. Caught in the brilliant air of morning, On the ======================================== SAMPLE 508 ======================================== , the great Sun, that overhead Seven times hath rolled in night's monotonous stream, Shines through and through. Naked I wait Thy tender voice, Thy ready smile, thy eager speech. I kneel, and all about me dim With coming of the kine. How shall I, so distraught withal, Think that of nymphs, who train them fair? Ah! shall I woo them subtly, And call them fiends, and seek to bear My wooing through the air? Oh, fairer now than moon or star, I kneel and kiss them both, and yearn, And tremble, trembling as I yearn To feel them as I look, And find their melancholy haunts Where heavenly forms are flitting And whispering in the forest deeps:-- "Oh, God, I lift my haughty head, And lay my awful hand upon A wandering hand." So, come, and stay with me, and stay With me, and we shall have our play, And I will flit the air; And fly to Thee with quiet wing, Thou messenger of love and spring, With Thine almighty care, And only Thee will I invoke Upon Thy earth above. Beneath these waters deep and dark, That roll their foaming billows far, And roll in an eternal spring, And in their vast and calm career Of silent majesty, I lie and listen, and do yearn To find the cadence of Thy streams, And sigh in their eternal flow, And do them still. O river of sweet breath, that stirred'st My soul to its prophetic hour, If human hands had never stirred Thy fountains with unceasing power, I would have swept my troubled heart To Thy deep waters, and my part. It murmured not. Yet mine is thine, its silent deep The whisper breathes to me and I know, And Nature, all-residing, laves The print of its own frozen snow. Thy waters flow not to the sea, It cannot pass them, calm and free. Yet mine is thine, its silent deep It cannot pass them, calm and clear. O waters, have no thought of mine, Thou wouldst not for the dear old sign Of that dear head whereon I stand, By Thee awaking in my hand. A light is stealing over me, I see a star-like palm tree stand, Beneath its branches golden-green, That I may drink its fragrance, too, When night and day ascend the sky, From dawn to even-song, till I Have won from life, immortal life. The sun stands still, The world lies wide and dim, And yet I do not pass across The pass of days that seems to me The shining dream of the quiet day. The shadows slowly creeping Down vague, untroubled ways, Ask of the evening star in heaven, Beyond the starlit ways. Before them fall the shadows, And the sun falls from the sky, And only the night is very fair, Only the sun falls from the sky. What is it moves, what is it sings? It is the scene of mirth and praise, All that the seasons bring to us, The moving music of the spheres, The changeful glow and light of these. O swift pursuing thought, O winging hope, Thy lingering sweetness quickly fades, And like a herald who calls from the gates Of death, the star-light of the years. To hearts that throbbed with all we might have given, To the still unpassioned past, To the fair record that time lives unriven, We leave one little word of cheer; To the fixed, aching gaze that never endures, To the pale face that once has been The thought's immortal shade, To the song-dumbed soul that never release From bonds the soul has broken, To the love-harrowing, ceaseless, hopeless face. And yet--away, away! Fade where ye linger! Dante's flight In the moon's tangled blue Would be like to slumber there, And sleep where ye are, and the dead hours led, And the silence kept that way! It is ye that mock at Night, In your wisdom unafraid, Faint as mists on the dewy wing Of the West's spirit-belting, Faint as mists on the wandering ======================================== SAMPLE 509 ======================================== A few hours spent, he homeward hied, And bathed the morning in the Dawn, And his bow in Darinda's shade, And ever weaving, waxed and grew, And as he worked the sheet away, Fancy could see he was alone. Winding close, he scarce could go, And like a swallow floating slow Without a pounce, the wind was still, Fearing the gusts might stir the ruffled ruffles, And never more looked back; But ever rov'd by squall and muck, With brush and crust and bags of dust, To seek the treasure of the quest. An anxious farmer's dog, the jay, He knew not well in dog's eye; Yet for the most part it was his, He needs must seek for honesty A Bible in all climes and lands, Some books of ancient lore and old, Beyond the smoke and fog of gold. A dame in high degree, who wore A golden chain, was Cynthia fair; While to her waist upwards hung the latchet, Where, in a pleasant nook apart, A fairy fiddler she had play'd, With feet of clay and voice of fire, And shoulders of living flame. A jay below whose haughty brow Black Ceto used to sit and frown, From her own castle, near the dale, Proclaims the poet of the vale, A noble youth, whose singing throat Proclaim'd the poet of the vale, A man of strange and cautious note. Who sung the love of mortal men Their beautiful lives long since had won; Now on his finger would he rear The emblem of some elder art, Whose mind the artist's heart could urge Through likeness of a living force, But fairer far in every part, While it the loudest trumpet blew, And the least graceful head could urge Back to its forest-crowned abode The poet of the vale, who trod The crooked way, as pilgrim, God. All up the narrow pass he goes, No doubt remembering Elsie's fame; And one whose virgin lips disclose A bud in these enchanted bowers, May count her charm in this strange tale A witching tale, A song of those unhappy years, Long since so sweetly sung before, When life was all our walk on earth, No more to roam in earthly guise. To wander by the open sea, Through seas unploughed by any breeze, Until I came where Comus lay, Nor saw the sea, nor heard the sea, But all along the coasts of Greece, How sweet it was to linger there, To roam in foreign lands, or roam In foreign haunts, with none to tell Of all his wanderings. To muse in some lone turret's tower, When life's glad sunlight flew abroad, Some league-long past; and, through the lower plain, To gaze upon the fading shore, And watch the moving clouds, the vain delay, Until the eyes of Victory Looked up and cried, 'For evermore!' 'The charm is death, that is my life, Which makes me love my fellow man, I come to fight for liberty, The sabre and the battle's fruit.' The only song or ode I read; I heard a song or two last night, For to my ear it seemed that there Breathed from a harp a silent tune. The chord had many a lovely sound; Its music, with the words it sung, Or ever it had laughed or wound, Or ever it had dulled the tongue. And I have heard the story told, How first we met,--the night we fled; How in the dark it grew so cold, And the strange meaning it has said Was ever written in the Head. You, too, the most unhappy friend, Who perished at the break of day, We know not wherefore may we send This one last word, "For evermore." Like him that haply overspent His life with watchful night to keep, The man whose eyes have many a day Of glancing often in the sleep Of some sedate and barbarous town, Won with a weary waste of care And solitude and looks serene; The man, whose crown is never worn, The man of honors, fame, and gold, A stranger to so poor a thorn, Is left to wait with idle fear. If none should pass that castle gate Till ======================================== SAMPLE 510 ======================================== through the Northern extent A hunter as a fiery vent. That offspring of the forest old, Pretenders of their woodland gold, The chief, theapple of their store, And flowers, their ladies’ fragrant lore. Thus with all speed they journeyed on With hearts on pleasure bent on won. The chariot of the brave was placed On royal omen of the guard. Swiftly they sped, and closely pressed Their limbs with eager lips suppressed. Lord of the chaplets, golden hues, Celestial wreaths around them grew, And Ráma with his brother twice Was by a hermit throng ensneared. Bowed were the glorious chieftains: each Like some rare heavenly sun shone through. Then Ráma’s mother stood beside, And thus the honour’d man replied: “Those hundred years have passed away, And scarce have time to speak their say. So great in gifts, so good in skill, From one who does his duty still, That in the bounds of human race The praises of men rise to grace. Without a king’s imperial claims, O Ráma, he who sends the darts, Lifts from his foeman’s neck the dart, And brandishing in deadly fray That talons him who strikes the day. Deep in my heart have I not yet Sent forth my mightiest, strongest, best, With king Sugríva to protect Yugríva from his evil art, The fortune of his Warrior, king And foe like me, the pride of Janak’s line. But for the will of Mándhá’s( Marriott) mind, Virtue and pleasure shall not find Those hosts of Bráhmans that have gained That pair in strength and wealth retained. Each hill and lake and heather spread Shall heaps of arrows round us shed, And Bráhmans with their bow and darts Shall follow far and fleet in lines. And many a swan and wild swan, found For Warrior’s use in hoary ground, The famed Mandodarí showed, And Gods who dwelt in happy dells, In sumptuous palace built of flowers. This royal lad, each nerve intent On Ráma’s bow, in woods was sent, Till he beheld Ayodhyá’s plain, And sought her farthest northern main. Still raged the battle where its lord No band of Gods or heroes stood. No faithful rover of the night Could ween his eyes from starry light, Or listen to those words that fell From Mandar’s mountain, Ráma’s swell. And if no word the chief might say, The arrow and the string should slay The monsters of the air: no steel Should beat his stubborn limbs in vain; The demon and the hero yield His honours to his chariot-rein. How, warriors, shall the king assay His arms to lend, his arms to lay, The world with all its cities round Shall circle him and guard his ground? How shall he win a world whose sway His crushing words obey, In his unpermitted crime, Sung false by Gods, the Heavens’ defence? How, hero, shall the king obtain His throne, the store and riches gain? How shall his blissful days remain Doomed in the giant’s lot, In whom his subjects bow, Gave to the wind a lordly sway And fill Ayodhyá’s ancient way? Who shall with joy to thee be shown, Friend of his race and people, Son, And bless thy father’s happy reign That parts not Śiva’s royal reign? My better self shall he repay, And rule the realm which is thine today. How shall a king enjoy his state Whom jealous Gods with pride await? On my part, Ráma, I begin To reap the fruit of toil and sin. Farewell, revered of all mankind, And rest on thine imperial mind.” The suppliant Gods with one accord, With rapture and with joyous glee, Followed him with love-enkindled eyes Of creatures from their mansions flying, And showed with sweet revealments new That heavenly hills and seasons through, And, sorrowing for the son they served, Came to the weeping queen. He bowed him down in reverence bent ======================================== SAMPLE 511 ======================================== ede's boast, To whom the rainbow's wing is given The distant title of the cloud, Her winding sheet, From warring winds, the flying blast. Thrice happy, ah! if thus again The clouds in conscious gold be arrayed, And darkness deepen all her reign, Thy shadows, Nereus, in the shade, Are here unshaken. Not the wind, Waking from night's deep magic cave, Can waft a thought of glory back, When borne by air, through dark, the way, Thy voice stirs earth; Is it thy voice, or thy soft praise, And flits the heart to reach the haze? Rise! though the song with us be still, Though woodland sounds be on the hill, And shadow not our homely face, Thy music, Nereus, is thy grace. Thou know'st how eloquent the air Is and the heart how quick, and where, From its wild dwelling-place, can spring One happy spark of native zeal, That keeps from light thy holy zeal, That guides where cloud and darkness blend Like phantom day-dissolvéd dreams, Wilt thou not rise?--and yet methinks, I do recall Those happier times, when, pouring o'er Thy generous heart, youth took its store Of love-offerings rich from that far land, Where, though man's heart should beat no more, And pleasure kiss its warm sweet hand, The youth would come, and clasp his knees, And in a fond embrace would stand His mourner, in the evening breeze, There, where it only seems divine, Yet wishes thee--and yonder burns The shallop-peak of safe repose. Thy navy, joyous to the shore, Is the green isle of sweet Romance, That wakes the harp to the sweet smile, And the calm wave to life's calm dance, Though mixed, serene on the AEgean, Thy soul, ere the rest pass, will glance Far off beyond the Atlantic main, Toward yonder isle. It was the calm evening-- Of this silent hour That halts in dim remembrance The sweet song of a singer Worn to rest, That wakes with it the beat of heart, Awakening the dreams of happy days To a joyousness apart, That recalls the dewy bowers Where the sunny twilight lingers, And doth leave Elysium for those Who have now outwatched the throng Of the days and hours! Our blood, like yearly scars, Cries out, while day's dying dragon On its cobble lies: Like desolation wakes, And wakes the sleeping city, And the eddied towers loom As we hurry to and fro, Tossing our brown hands o'er the marble, On the tranquil waves of even Toward the land of the Ideal, Till our childish hearts shall leaven With a new-born joy of heaven, Softening the far Vale of Sound, Which flings its soul before our feet As we ride on the shining mane, Which floats along o'er town and hamlet, The cities of the Ideal. "O Memory of our nation! "Back, star of the South-land! "Back, Star of Liberty! "Back, Star of Liberty! "Back, Hymn of the North! "Back, Star of the South-land! "Back, Hymn of the North! "Back, little Old Fellow! "Back, back to your bed again! "Back, Sun of the South-land! "Back, little Old Fellow! "Back, back to your bed again! "Before we escape "We'll go back to our homes again, "Back, little Old Fellow! "He bade me pause "To put on a robe "Of green beauty and a light "To fit my loose soul's eye "And to fit my loose soul's eye "And to fit my loose soul's eye, "Till I looked up "And saw in a vision "The heavens and earth "And the blue vault of Heaven." So runs the tradition of the tribe partly,-- That tribe who denies it or who denies it. And such the folk who tell us in their dreams How reasonless we are, and yet how sorely weak we. A woman striving at a waggon's side, And dying of a suicide in need. ======================================== SAMPLE 512 ======================================== of col Prepine. Vida'me a duchess, duchess, Ma dove, ymammy's loveliest lady. Then stop, my dear one. What can be More rare than breeches and gingham? Lords and ladies, you are free. But to be short, I am willing. Of coarsest ladies since the day I was wont to court a wooer, Since knights began to have their way, Such charms as fairest ladies wear. And thus your charms I'll entertain. Those eyes of rosy blue and sweet, O rosy, rosy black and brown, Are not alarming thoughts to cheat; The swain that loves and knows full well Are not alarming in the best. But while to speak of these you tire, We will feed the heart of every guest. I'll come and sit by your own fire, And make you weep and sigh, and sigh; And if you do you'll make a friend That is the happiest of all creatures, For you will be, if you will, The sweetest music on the earth To please and comfort every creature. The warbling springs are green and fair, The rill, the stream, the birds of air. The nightingales of heaven are there, And all their mysteries contain A fragrance that is never pain. The starlight rains with showers of tears O'er yonder hill and little plain, Where happy souls are left alone, To sleep, and not to wake again. And now these beeches have come down To mend their mournful tattered gown. I know the paths and ground-marshalls That lead the exile to their dwellings. The pestle-youth is never quite Away from those celestial lights; The wind 's a pestle-keeper now, The flowers are pomegranate and cow, And smell the ground-marsh sets to rights. All travellers, on common days, Are happy in their own good ways. And my poor heart jumps up and cries, What bliss to hear their longings rise! What endless labors they have wrought, What thousand painters they have brought! What hasty vigil they have thought! What joys they have received and brought! It was a thing to me to be A tranced beggar, wandering free, And knowing neither love nor hate, Nor any enemies at all, Nor any friends nor any state, Nor any enemies at all; And so, without controul or hate, I kept my Love in trust and trust. And now, alas! the world is hard, The tempest and the sea perhaps, Yet I have had no happiness, But now, as in despair I grope, I see an old man standing by, And moan, with lifted forehead, cry, "O old man, if I had the art, O old man, if I were a man!" And all the while I cannot tell What be these bitter words to say, Or what to him the old man had And all its wiles of envy! Some light disaster Benoys each moment nearer; Some ruthless pain Inspires each distant pallet To throw a pall On his deserted soul. Oh, let him live, he dare not hope, Whatever may betide his lot, Whatever good he may have bought, Whatever kind of life he may: Let him not strive to conquer wrong, Till life's dark shadows intervene, And glad his searching steps assail, Find out the path to his own dear way! Him mayst thou see, in bright array Of shining arms, arrayed, With purple plumes and golden shields, In rich array of tournament, And richly dight with rose and red, With broidered swords and lovely arms, Do wear at morn and evening, And in the eve at eventide, Their flowing banners waving wide, Rings the glad song;-- Hark to the three! And see them pressing through the fern, And watching the white hawse-foreft! His breast is brent with warrior's dust, He is left musing in the gloom, His limbs are sinking in the tomb, Worthless as frost! Then many a warrior sigh in vain, The Maiden-prayer, softly weeps, And with the victim's lifeless clay Falls to the shades. When I consider that my love is dead, And that those lovely eyes are wet With tears, that thou canst quench no more, Then muse ======================================== SAMPLE 513 ======================================== I might worship your King's unshed hand, But gifts of this freoffness will never stand. I pray you, pause not, but look upward. Of old I loved you in the breath of those fierce drops, Whose rich perfume fills all the crowded place, Lost in your dancing and festal grace. You have made me more radiant and bold Than the Son of the Sun, O Earth, is this: That I cannot be crowned as King of bliss, But as King of your grace and your beauty am I And by your hands enwreathe my hair and brow. So, set me up before your grace and me, So that I may not hold your loss in fee. In the pagan land of our being lived Truly and ever so beautiful. No man Could dream the ways of the silk-footed moon Was one of all the gods who joined me to it; Yet though they never dwelled in Crete or Athens, They are the gods by whose grave is Apollo, And by whose grave they live on whom they lived They have learned from the poet of many songs. There was a time in a land by the sun-beaten waves, Where the waving ripples ripple and run and play In a sea of violet and silvery sand, And a mist falls from the mountains and falls from the coast As the minnows sleep in a crevice in the lamp. I kiss the mould from the chrysalis And lie at the feet of the man Eating the wine of a nectar cup. What work is there done for the living? What red the colour will be? From the flame for the life you have tasted What the dim reward you have gained? Is it finished? is it finished? And the lilies and purple shall fade And the lilies and roses shall live again And their lips of a day that shall not fade? Ah, what a sorrowful end was mine, On my lips that wailed a red bitter kiss! On the dimpled fold of my ribald gown, And the shining quiver of purple and gold, And the quiver that trembled under the gown And the languid stabs of my very soul! I knew the sad travail that could not save, That could not save--my timid hands and feet, And the drowning hands and the rush of the tide And the lashing waves that would swallow them all. Yet all I gave was gold; Gold with a golden to hold Where a sunbeam was broken by the rain. Gold that the mere world has made, Gold that the world has afraid to break, Gold that is all at heart, Gold that is all at heart, Gold that is all at heart, Gold that is all at heart, And I swear upon what old lips of mine That my soul is ended in one last shrine, And I must fall on the mouth of Eternity! For my breast that scarred and stung with the toad and the old, Its skeleton lizards like arrows of gold, Its glittering midnights, its scaly cold, Its skeleton lizards of emerald glistening gold. My hair is the cobweb that my throat had drawn From the brown stones where it was fallen dead Brought to the outer world from out its cell; For at the first I know no man had made That his fingers were lapped in a silken thread That was born into flesh with a crimson dye, And the perfume that grows from the dust of sleep Is a part of the poison that comes to reap. For it was my lips that shook As I plucked out the lost strands of the sun That were strands of the sea-frozen sea-weeds spun From the tangling edges of their teeth. Like a locust-mantled weed, Where the ocean suns had spread Their dry apprehensions and wind-driven leaves Piper and tree. For her sake they did nothing but kill with their wings The one I should love, that was brave and strong: No, it was a bold game and not for my years-- It was all a fair thing and the next. Sitting alone by the sea, Weary with wandering, Am I alone she comes to my love and my own, My love for her, this way? Have I no song for you, my dear? No song, no words for you, To tell my heart that you have sung alone? Some seas of utmost art that shall illume Your perfumed locks and cool your flame? Or may, above life's loveliness end ======================================== SAMPLE 514 ======================================== whence that echo rang The tears of severed hearts, What noise of griefs and hopes and words, Whose fitful echoes come Through what succeeding ages come, With what prevailing changes ring The aged mournful thing! And who so sad and sad, O thou that turnest back thy face From those bright orbs and those far ways Where earthly changes chase Each other from each other's rays? Bending thy loitering head (The star that cannot die), The waters of the sea, And all the changing world are lost, To thee and thine all, all lost! Thy love is the most common flower That droops upon its stalk, And yet the buds of human hours Spring never from the bud; Thy love it is that maketh up The deadest leaf of life, And ripens life's sweet lips away, A deathless fruit to give. The perfect purple of the skies, The tenderness of time, The love of God, the love of man, Are mingled now so in one breath, That we may hardly seem To live so much the life of life, For death itself must bring That which it were to live again, And make our very griefs more vain. To the hush of the heart of the leaf, when the record is brought to Word that is writ with a sign of grief, or murmuring or whispered Through the rose-scented clusters of bud and blossom, there comes a fastatis. When the petals are gathered, the green and the golden fingers of life's breath are unbound, for the happy justice of death Is theirs, whom the desolate mother, who weeps for her children and old, Her tenderest look has echoed, and sadly avows herself to heaven. Is it not so? does the rainbow his mantle encircles the flower, that closes his brightest colors? Is it not so? Is it not so? Each flower has a star, every leaf a flower, Does it not blush? So does the forest myrtile, the cypress myrtle; Naiades make their music when called, They are the lights that fill our night With no faint trembling of delight. Is it not so? Is it not so? Fare ye well, fare ye well! All round the flowers there are fluttering go With upward lapse and lingering fall, And falling like an anthem floats Upon the vast ear-echoing hall. Forget ye not the trembling of our woes And all our watchings, Here to your many-tinted rose The rose has shed its unregarded bloom; And surely through the opened leaves There comes a foretaste of such dews As none but Hebe might repose. Know ye not this, that one who stepped into the tigers Hath unpolluted armed the sky With pards of tardy and emprise And blue coat for a coronation. How many guineas hath it so lain That ye have drained them from a sign? How many choruses of green and gold, From their muddy lusciousials, have all been made you swathed in consanguinity! The small of the wise who are dumb in dream, The insatiable of those who have thirst, The stout of the undying--the pliable of them, Shall they not rather, in the still night-hour Of still and feverish dream, Quietly fare each as his bed, Counting and pledging in your breast For the heart's solace in the night? I saw thee yesterday, and he had given The child upon your knees, but thine are gone; And, one by one, the sunlight came to play Upon the thicket where they met alone, The scattered flowers, and the whole pleasant earth, To fresher and more perfect form of life. How sweet was then the difference, that thy face, Beheld me as before upon the edge Of some fair lake, my garlanded with pearls, The golden lake just shadowed by the dawn, Away to silvery morning, and between The blue and grey, a friendly figure passed To the shore, and stayed beside me, to be by me, The fish-hazed homeward! I hear him stir: the dance is not yet done, And he will not rise, but with his eye Wrap my white brow, and pierce to where a shade Calls him, and calls and binds him to my knees. ======================================== SAMPLE 515 ======================================== ; the fleetest foot and wayward horse; While the wise dame, her husband from afar, Her spouse's destined dwelling-place, presents; Forth issuing, gliding through the golden bower, Rides his proud horse, with golden whip inlaid; Beneath the hand, with love-impassioned might, She leads him to her well-known abode, And waits his well-known footsteps to the mount Where once she loved. Anon the fiend, Dark, bloody, with his brandish'd blade, pursues The castle-warden'd messenger, and kills The guard; his levelled targe ungives the foe; The shrieking dwarf half gasps; their useless arms Part, while the shrieking dwarf his threat expires; And, with abrupt and desperate appeal, Mounts the turrets which the chieftain saw Hung down beneath the ancient tamarisk, Dark as his sword. Then rushing on their guide, Infix'd with fear, they seize their destined prey. Headlong they rend, with vast and bellowing sound, And tumbling, roll the echoing grove amid; And, as they run, the shrilling voice rebound With a wild dreadful clap, and mingling cries, That rent the echoing cliffs, and rent the air. An unarmed man from far descends to seize The foe, and fasten with his foot his mace; Lifts high his shield; his glittering spear-staff whirls Till with the lightning's flash the monster flies. Lo, in the moonless night, when all the air Sends with each hurrying step its hurried pace, And rolls along the mountain-glades, and calls In thunder through the firmament it falls, Where sate the tempest of the labour'd hills; Robbed of its seven-fold barrier, which, aspired, Hurls o'er the wide-spread bosom of the plain, Till the great forest shakes its hundred woods, And tears out half its giant-shroud of woods. Mournful the voice of sorrow, o'er the blood Of warrior dead; loud wails the wind's rough tread, As, fierce and lawless, through the midnight air We hear the thunderer; and with many a cry As of the Giant-strife, through bow and spear, Grim-scowl'd he hies, and bids the conflict rage. Thou wouldst not now refuse that toilsome field; The broad ditch foams, and high above the ground The steep hill-sides are bristling; in mid-field Squadron and man, firm-set the pummel'd steeds And the full-throned gun, which when they stand Draws near the battle, and the breathing shafts Of the shrill-scented weapon rise, unsheath'd, By him who reins the herd, and shade beneath, Spoils the fell stroke; so, pitiless in death, Raged on the foe the sons of sires of heaven. Who thus with wrath and anguish fill'd the field? What voice proclaims it? when the Tartar chieftain, “The son of Atik, bears his trophies home? “The son of Atik, who for all the war “Of Atik deem'd king-held, in those happy fields, “Rested, except a little space to rest, “And his glad brethren, or the faithful dogs “Had slain his sire? what is't that glimmers here “As distant?) in a flight of feathers veil'd. “Victim of his slighted daughter's scheme, “Warn'd by her king, he sooths his sister now; “And all his childish fondness awes with words. “Hence to his childish arms he springs, where streams “Each nymph, and birds that haunt the trembling bough. “Mov'd by his own unpitying power, he leads “The fleet, and o'er the crooked country reigns. “Oft had the shepherd with his female troop “Vanquish'd been, and with his little lambs to play: “And often through the sacred groves he led “His little flock; nor ceased their bodies to flow; “He who in shepherd's guise, and shepherd's dress, “Intent now roves, nor cares for tainted maw. “So Jove allowed. This is the soul's ======================================== SAMPLE 516 ======================================== , And conchs, and hastes the labors, Till they come to Sawawwis, To describe his mother's wailing, Of his brother Keewaydin. "Now the second watch of night Comes before the dawn of light, And the third watch of night Comes before the dawn of light. And the third watch of night Comes before the dawn of light, And the fifth watch of night Comes before the dawn of light. And the sixth watch of night Comes before the dawn of light, And the sixth watch of night Comes before the dawn of light. "And the fifth watch of night Comes before the dawn of light, And the sixth watch of night Comes before the dawn of light, Comes before the dawn of light, Comes before the dawn of light. "Now the starry gem of morning Comes before the sixth watch day, And the sixth watch of night Comes before the dawn of light. And the sixth watch of night Comes before the dawn of light, And the eighth watch of night Comes before the dawn of light. "Now the starry twig of blue Cuts into the night of day; And the old watch of the moon Comes before the dawn of light, Comes before the dawn of light. And the rays of the sun are sharp As the spikes of the mulberry, Or the twisted spines of the mulberry, Or the twisted roots of the pear tree, Or the twisted stems of the pear tree, Or the twisted stems of the pear tree, Or the twisted stems of the pear tree, Or the twisted stems of the pear tree. "Now the black-hawk, the Koko-koho, Screams to his heart of a lonely owl In the leafy forest where thickets stricken And slim gardens are in bloom; And the black-hawk, the Rope-go-loud, Gapes with his eyes of mystic light And the silver-narned, the Shuh-shuh-gah, And the little blue-hawk, the Dahinda, Screams to his heart of mystic sound And the Pezhekee, the great North-Wind, Screams to his heart of mystic beauty, And the Pezhekee, the good God, Screams to his heart of mystic beauty, And the little red-hawk, the Koko-koho, Whisps with his wings of wondrous length And his eyes of mystic beauty, And the pezhekee, the great North-Wind, Screams to his heart of mystic beauty, And the Pezhekee, the good God, Screams to his heart of mystic beauty, And the little red-hawk, the great North-Wind, Cries, "Tush! Tush!" and flies away. But he flies from the day of danger, And the black-hawk, the Koko-koho, Screams to his heart of mystic beauty, And the little red-hawk, the great North-Wind, Screams to his heart of mystic beauty, And the little Red-Co-Laid Wah-bethan, Screams to his heart of mystic beauty, And the Pezhekee, the good God, Screams to his heart of mystic beauty, And the little Red-Co-Laid Wah-bethan, "O my brother! O my very brother! Where have you been, and far from me?" Long I waited with a longing heart, Long I supped with a growing fire, Long I prayed with a growing fire, Long I wept with a growing fire. Then I spake to my sister's saying: "There is neither fire, nor fish, nor fruit, There is neither grass, nor any path There is none but God's own path. There is neither fish nor God's path There is none but God's own way." But she only spake as if she would not hear; Then she only prayed as if she durst not weep; And deep in the heart of the earth her body lay, And the Pezhekee, the good God, Lay in the sun as the sun was dead, And the little Red-Co-Laid Wah-Hover, Lay a-weary in the morning. Then I prayed as the sun was rising, And my prayers, like a long-winged bird, Rose, and rose, ======================================== SAMPLE 517 ======================================== for this done, and the whole world a moan; And turning toward our left at the close of the day, Thy right hand bade me in from the place where it lay; And a glance of the sea set my way unto thee, Fearing not, as I will, thy weight of the sea. With a cloud and an image strange I come, I blot out the face of the sea and the sky, My sorrow, my pride, my sickness, my doom, This gray-haired maiden, I come to thee, I; If my Lord be not vain in me, I well may be Yet, not but be woman to him, none may see. But, liest thou there, while a lark sings high, Alone and free, in a realm so fair, Where every joy is a sightless sky, Thy face will be so still, I'll wear no more Those summer roses that, by-gone before, Bloom in my bosom as, perfume the air, I win thee more by these, and more by thine, Thy form in the autumn faith to shine. As I say thy shade, at nightingales, Is 'neath the fount of my little bays, Or where the river winds its silver way And the withered leaves so hoary play; As I say thy shade, at nightingales, Is 'neath the fount of my little bays. And look not in my eyes to find Some token of thy youthful charms, Though the woods may rock and the winds be rude, And the wilding air be over thy arms; As I say thy shade, at nightingales, Is 'neath the fount of my little bays. A solitary exile! Though he sought the woods on Easter, Not the brook was his true calling, But the mark was of the missing That athwart his path came flying; For his heart was hot and heavy, And he thought the world was sorry, And it was the lord of folly, And he wept to see his mother. She clung to him and moaned 'oh! She had come with all her pleasure; No one dwelt in this world then, But his path was sad and dreary, And his loneliness was measure, And so still he stood before her, She had sought him through his trouble; Told him of the noise and strife, Of the flight that he was captured, And the drowning work that he did, And the slaughter of the stranger. Told him of the hunt, his mother, Of the feathery race that heaped on, And the slaughter that was waiting For the lad without a master; And the coming of his mother. Then she thinks of her own children And her own dark castle-keepies, Of the kill that she was scourging, And the kill that she was kneading; For their labour he would fain be, And the redness of his shearing To the hearts that now are gory She, that was the Prince's mother, Who had come to bid sweet Marko Read her great son's life unneigho, And, returning, would have carved him In the snow-drift's fashioning; But to-day his heart is broken, And he can no longer think of 'The Anger-goddess, The mother of the Prince--the Prince!' For of all the strange Jews have I heard, Even for myself, a wretched bird: I have heard that, through her folly, Thoughts that seem but weak suspicion, Thoughts without love, a thousand loves, And I have wept when there came stirs Some light from a fire that thrills me, And to-day no blissful pleasures Are my portion stillwards. Now the pallor of the roses Bears me happy birds, And again I seem to listen Unto these sad winds that sigh me, As they lap out all my troubles. And she calls me, as she calls me, Out of door or out of window, As the restless dreams go flying Over hill or dale of berry, And I hear her now no longer. Now I see her once, I know it, With the soul of grief half swelling, As a leaf that breaks and ceases In the beating of the river, Like a leaf or like a river, Sorrowful and vaguely steady, And the mind still dumb and dreamy, As the leaf turns in the river, Wishes farther in its flowing ======================================== SAMPLE 518 ======================================== 'd to one's transfer. Still in my family 'twill live; This is my comfort, 'tis my life, To love my parents, as I must, So let me live and die content. With grateful memory mark each day, How 'twas my lot to have a place Far from the dear and homely throng Of all my kindred race. The calmness of the blessed day Thus rising in the vale is seen, And the first-born of coming age Through our dishonor doth impel A mild and settled spell. Whose life was but a winter's night, That finds the body ebon light, Lustreless doth it fill, And smiles serenely on the earth, Though boundless is its mirth; Yet his successive race, I deem, Are children of a happy stock, Whose firm endurance guards their toil, And patience prunes the weak. And now the happy days are come, For which I long the toil to watch, With fervent hope my bosom swells To share the morning fresh. He who, by toil untaught, with patience tares The work of boundless power, Heap high the blow against the foe, And crush the tyrant in his rage, Like Hylas did his death. Still is the heart of man its home; 'Tis to be crush'd by such as come To crush the base, and crush the brave, And only toss the worse. Nor can his country's patriot fire Blush with its blazing star; It but inflames the warring breast That over these doth sweep. O glorious ship! O ship adored, That shunn'st the Ocean's foam! Thy wondrous music doth inspire The hearts of all the world, That in thy being's storm have stood, Still dost thou speak thy God. O joy of earth! O pride of life! O happy day for me! Where'er the troubled ocean's breath Or giddy waves should be, Where'er the tempest's fiery breath Or merry winds should be, Where'er should mirth and mirth abound, Where'er should be a crown, Where'er should lie a worthy crown, The land of festal hours, To which this joyous morn was crown'd, By fair Ann sample showers. Now all that's active, nimble, fainting, Is but a lingering beam that lingers Till sparkling morn appear, May wing her voyage for a season To climes of peace and love, and climes of pleasure, To bless the dear sight of that hearth-glance, To soothe the widow's sigh, To soothe her tourning heart, And, almost dead to all that mournful sight, To soothe her sorrowing eyes, and bid her sighing, Like hope-bewilders, look around, On all that groans the earth, To soothe her infant death, And bid her glad heart bloom again in bursting buds anew! The holy Hials and the powers Are round the Father set, They kneel before Him, hour by hour, To bless the Father's work. The silent Seraphs meet, Amid their trembling din, And each proclaims aloud, "Who comes without! What solemn voice is this?" They hear with joyous shout The happy eagles soar, Above the Father's face, where He, amidst the glorious choir, Has laid aside his lilies, and perfumed the fountains. Wake, Israel, wake! Recall to the day The glorious Gadions' glory: they thrice glorious day Have dawned on Israel's land; and the blood of young and old Has been spilt upon the sands of old Jerusalem, And the Gentile's blood anointed it hath been rivulecent there, Reddening Israel's curse to-day; and the praise of God is great, And the Holy Ghost hath spoken! That day once more is come, When the nations that are parted shall all be one, And the Wicked One shall open all her gates unto her throne. Hermes the prophet is of old, A head without, and strength untold; His days are in their golden prime, And bright with deeds of conscience climb. From life he rises up erect, O'er mountain, lake, and forest green; In the life that lives a nation's soul, Heaven's kingdom is his daily scene ======================================== SAMPLE 519 ======================================== now had linger'd there, to await Till the bright dawn should guide the Grecian ships, And countless nations wait the heralding. Then arose the battle-king of Ilium, And weeping loud, bewail'd that luckless hour Which took not the vile cause, and which is doom'd That fate decreed for Paris. Then the Queen The old man in Ulysses spoke, and said: "No joy awaits me, and I long to know That I be lately gone; nor should I go Myself, but yet that he is seen by all. I know his courage, and my eyes are dim. Come, then, bid me thyself hasten thy way." He said; and Telemachus rose at his feet, And to the ships convey'd his speech. The Queen On her son's bed, by her old nurse embraced Thenceforth, in all things wise and excellent, And bade her daughters sit where they might sit. When the maids gather water, and anoint The tables with pure water, the old man Arising first, with prudent words address'd The vessel's course to Troy. Forth from the beach The vessels he convey'd, then beckon'd they To their sev'ral captains for himself and guards From battle, and beleaguer'd the fatted Deep. The watchful mariners at ease obey'd All that the men of Pylus had prepar'd, And busily the whole Grecian fleet prepared. To whom the old man with a smile replied: "We have long lived together, and our lives Were by the will of Neptune and his sire Be led to bear the city's secret charge, That we the citadel might throng with friends, And visit safe our wives, our households, and our own Our own domestic property; while he, Achilles, is indeed his inmate here. Thus we with mutual hate, and mutual care Pleas'd each at other. They, meantime, to bonds Were drawn, and barr'd the ships from wind and wave Oceanus, whom they might hold at home. And when the old man, (a sev'ral day best known) Vouch'd of the mandate and the full assent, Ordain'd to bind the city's faithful hands Within the ships; then summon'd we the Chiefs And councillors of Greece, to whom the God The old man thus address'd, apart with men. Ye sit dispensing and discount'ror'd! Lo! where the Lord of Ocean opens wide His awful portals, and hath also given Far other Heav'n's undimitable might, Which he impels to raise, and cast aside, At Agamemnon's bidding, yet withhold His warning, lest the people should be bold. Thus from the assembly Menelaus came, And Jason's son, and Ajax, lov'd of Heav'n. Him entering, he perceived, and forth he led The gen'rous chieftain to the ships, whereon They spread confusion, like a stormy sea, And on the heights of Ida's summits sleep. There Phoenix, aged Centaur, in their tents Had left his followers and had driven the trav'lers low, The host, exhausted by the many dead. Patiently they, while he beheld the fleet, All slept; but when Aurora, daughter fair Of Jove, arising, thus the prophet spake: "Sires of the Greeks, Achilles, why reprieve With clam'rous calls? a mind like thine we hear Not always, always dost thou deal with foes. Thou know'st, by sad necessity, the mind Of man, when once to die, and see the light Of day; but ne'er from age to now; but each Masters itself, I see, is the intent Of Jove, and ev'ry work of heav'n, by man Repeated, always by the lips of man." Then thus the hoary Phoenix of the deep: "O Greeks, how much of strength you once possess Of body, when amid the clouds descried, We stand amazed! from such perils abstain! Worthy no praise, unless we all have built, On other dwellings, on the Trojan plain, Within our camp, by Grecian women born. On other cities, other parties, other tongues, Or other arms, your common hopes and fears. But recollect your own destruction now, And, when the Greeks shall in the ships breathe fire, Pray your protecting spirit to protect Our wives ======================================== SAMPLE 520 ======================================== ed his thoughts, Exhausted sense and sound of fear Lest he should deem it the same poor dream Which the sad slave in torture writhes In his own helpless hope's extremes. Fools pray! and being rent to pieces, like Some piece of ancient paper, soon Let them be burned;--the maimed and lame Stand gathered in a ghastly heap, And lo! aghast the fire-eyed crew Rush wildly on the foe,--not one His crime--hath dared to think or do! Oh, cruel fate, of all who sink Beneath this chain so dire, to think No man, thyself, could drag that wreck, The flames which hung on Ellen's breast, Shall be thy hapless remnant, cast From off that cold and naked breast! With frantic hope her current ran, With desperate joy she turned her back To seek the Shrine, where, ages gone, Sat Douglas down, the perjured man. But often by the abbey gray They wept, lest, reckless of her, they Had sought a bloody death to-day; And, wandering still that lonely man, Even as he thought, her face was white With joy that mourned his blight so soon. As evening fell on forest glades, And lingering hours of moments flew, Fond recollections of the past Could only fill his heart with joy: Wild visions of the dead that lay Around his heart, as on a bier, He wept as on the corse they drave,-- For never more, in grief, shall here Again his memory light the page That o'er his childhood's memory rode. Now, when her form he saw no more, Such thoughts as these around him fall; Love greets his spirit with store Of feelings bright, though sweet, as all; His heart could not forget the strain Of Ellen's voice, so low and sweet; With one dear memory of the past He greets the vision as 'tis meet; And fondly presses to the last Those lips so dear--but nevermore. And now, again, it soothes away All feelings dark, though silent too! The lightest link of life to her Will leave such memory to remain, As memory leaves, though zeal in vain For thoughts that still will live again. Thus is it wont in love to meet That sacred hour, when, hand in hand, Young COOPER went with thoughtful tread Around his loved one's couch to pray; And, as his tottering steps she scanned, All tremblingly she cast a look Around the one she loved so well. Then, as he passed her tale to tell, Upon the cradle of her knee A gentle hand the child placed, And with such play upon her breast As never child, in summers past, Had pictured o'er or rosy maid, How like and honored still they are And as each gem that round them glisten, The thought is that the child is classed In the bright charms that round her smile; And thus she passed from joy to joy, Like some fair wind that scarcely fails To waft a pitying blossom forth, But lo! the child, who many a day He strayed on others' flowers, he met At twilight time, at evening hour, To whom he tells the magic power That link'd him with the child of earth; His years are numbered; only one, Should he be nurtur'd to a son,-- His own fair years, when youth was fair And royalty was ever gay With memories that no man could share. But let her once again be taught To step aside and strive to see That child's fine hair, that cheek of hers, Just like that golden hair, she took And plucked and bore it softly on, That neck, that youthful forehead fair For outward shows, that fearless mien, That graceful arm, which in the gloom That greenness glistens o'er her brow, And by the morning sunshine rouse Her spirit with that sweet pure brow, So nobly grand, so calm, so free, She scarcely knew it was her own, Yet oh! she knew it was her own. And then the child she loved so well Had told her tale of happiness, That life should swiftly glide away Unnoted, ere it had appear'd,-- A life of pleasure,--all her own. The love I hold forever dear Which evermore comes back with tears, And dearer yet, because, my dear, I ======================================== SAMPLE 521 ======================================== , no name Thou hast, but only served thy God and thou the knee. The grace Of thy heart, Mother of All-- Free A thousand loving hearts to Thee, "Teach us to hate or pray for them." Of Thee, most humble, duty calls, For Thee, the thundering mightiest falls, And Ocean's foaming breast ob persuades To check the powers that guard his coast, And all the crested world that meets With grave "Good day" his war-worn blasts, "Love God, pray for our hopeless Rose!" Thy sacred name Long live the race of Man and Joy. Whoso hath learned, with keenest grief, That worldly hopes and fears are vain; Whoso hath shed a tear for one That lingers in the public way, Is heard to-day As a sure voice and lay of surer mould. Of Thee, Almighty Father, who hast stilled All serious cares, all rugged deeds, The loudest tongue of all thy works, That would an echo to the choral strains Which, like a tale of saintly song, Out of our musings erst lay winding, Now at death's door doth sound the door, Finding, ah me! too free to dare, As, adored still, once, when many dead I live, singing by the Avon, I too, also by Mary's.— With hushed voice I thus mournful sing To Mary's Spirit, from that loved form, For in the silent night she cryeth, And all is hushed that round her lie. Now, and forsooth, say, heavy-hearted, O keeping hearts! O Love eternal Not seldom yield we to the gaze Of future hopes, of dead faces, Of our own life, of lands and cities! How bright All our youth, All our strength, Yet how full of the gleams Of our youth! Which were like a summer day, Sighing, through the woods, Like an endless sweet odour, which upon The leafless boughs Shall long be shed, And like a lover's tender heart will grow As glad and as tender. Then in silence I dream, Like a spirit Hovering by the inmost shrine, To keep ever-moving thoughts for me In meditation of that deep delight To come when I die. Nor doth the minstrel who was born so glad, Nor the mirthful gossaper, who did take That pleasure from us. So be it! Thou art the hour of sound, Thy story myriads by me understood Worth the full chant, thy work, thy doom, thy fate, Their destiny fulfilled, their wise estate, Thou art my sun-bright day! Thou first of all Life's martyrs, by whose name Many have souls in Heaven! Not one hair's-breadth I waste here, For both have souls so high. Thy words of bright renown Will not destroy their low renown, Who thus with tears did fall From out me: 'Where's my soul, the sun? Where's my God, whom all Knock after all? He who once set o'er me Solely in joy began to smile; I after Him will stand, With tears and silence in my hand; Father, thy might I cannot give, Though dying now I should live. I made Him my supplicant guest, Father, thine own true king, I am thy servants, I confess No lesser throne is mine, but less: Thou seek'st this very close Disdain and strife to win, And show'st me what thou wilt.' Now, amid a scene of peace, In midst of sin, which yet doth haunt me And makes me quite forget That sunny land, where Jesus slept, Was never dark forget. There's naught to do, they said, but to keep clear of the stain; They only remember That the sun no sun shall see, And that no contrite man shall win But for their Master still within. From us or death, from where they lie, Their endless woe to mortals gives Life's lingering twilight of the sky To souls of mortals, gladdest of the souls in heaven that live. There's naught to do, there's nought to say, But by and by receiving The leave of what it never had, And what they were--while he was here, ======================================== SAMPLE 522 ======================================== It is their fell fault in beauty To sing her grandaunt to her quality, Singing her grandaunt to her lover: For, lovely, perfect,--carnal mockery,-- Most beautiful, most maidenly and best-- A royal boot, a fine new suit, To wear, for hours, the glorious garland On which the fairest wreath is leaning,-- A wealth of plumes and bells of gold, A plume upon her brow and breast. Youth passes,--and her bright eyes burn, Beneath the splendor of her hair, The curls of love's young girdle twine, And through her clustering curls are seen The winged splendors of young Morn;-- And in that smile, the world's first sorrow Sings Morn a beautiful new year. I loved thee once; I'll love no more As friends and kindred moved me; I've loved thee in my own full score, Care filled thy path with love, and thee Has turned to me,--a mystery. I loved thee once; I'll love no more As friends and kindred moved me; I'll love no more,--no more will care,-- The loved one will be with me. No more shall be the violet's dew, The sunlight on the roses; And thou shalt be a perfume still To summer's breeze reposing: And fair as is thy sisterhood Shall be her rose-deck roses. O, loved one! where are they that sleep Who, sooth to say, are passing, Gather the wind and far away,-- No dreams, no dreams are legion! Where the sombre pine tree branches Fold on fold in tender green, Where the quick black ivy hoods Sea-like under the brown bean sheen, Vines that trellised dark the valley Spread and rose-wreathe the barren hills Clad on balsam-blooms, and still Crows find their perishing sister Down in that valley, of dusky red, Where the withered ivy buds Lateen interlaced and spread. Where the reedy river strays Slily on the rocky glass, With its rushes and marsh-grass gray; Where the broken boulders, tangled In the matted quivering reeds, Call aloud to each other to see The new life born in the silent trees,-- One wild rose of the wildwood tree. Where the wind and wild-fowl feed, Hastening in from thicket to thicket, Where the humbird quarters,--like Some deep-throat'd hyacinth,-- Where the eglantine embowers Pine-fringed wood-embow, and the wild-will too Is vibrant with the echoings Of some brown acacias. Where the rose, the jasmine, sleeps In the bank, with its bosom swelling; Where the daisy folds its bells Unto silence in the shade; And the moon is where the peeps Of a star that oozes unseen Over wastes of desolation, Fold on fold, to burning green. And the moon is seen. Where, in moonshine, where she treads In the nadir's emerald bowers, Love dreams all her summer hours With the moon on her argosy. And the clouds that close above her Braided air with purple light, Catch the falling hues of love, And pursue her going. She has heard the brown bird sing, He has clasped her warm brown hand, While her half-closed lids conceal The dark passage at her stand. And the red leaf at her feet Droops, as if to hide her frown; And the pear-tree's rustling boughs Hide a quivering maiden's frown. In the place where she was born In the feathery dazzling days When the river ran in scorn 'Neath the great oak yonder prays-- Where she bent her amber head With its grassy covering, There she heard the wild bird sing, And the butterfly has flown, Back to nest among the clover, There to kiss his azure wing. Then the field, at its sweet will, With its flowers of lovely blue, Came to mate among the clover, And the mole was woven too, And the butterfly, the butterfly, All her being was made over. And at last they came to where Warlike demi- ======================================== SAMPLE 523 ======================================== roused a mighty rose against a foe; For now the Horse was rising, and, no more, To call the people to the gathering shore; And at a single blow from the red deed, And the brave dauntless horseman, Hector sped; But when at bay the treacherous foes were caught, And with their shouts the Grecians' arms resound, The Goddess donned her armour, and o'er high The roofs of Troy fell prostrate with the dye. Still shone the trenchant sun, and still the earth Hung forth her wheat, uncombed, unwithering; With outstretched hands and trembling knees she lay Before the ravished God, and piteously At Priam's feet her wailing choked them heard; And waking they arose, with many a word They questioned all, as some great man is stirred To see a light, strange light, that hanging wide The heavens support them, though by fierce event Might he be questioned, thinking of his state, And, if his deeds be as the author's fate, On him that hath been told, these only taunt: "Great Peleus' son, for all thy travail sore And inmost folly hath thee cursed, and more Than any other godlike man can tell, Hast thou in fight alone?" The hero spake, Trembling, and shook his brows, but sternly spake, With fiery eyes. "And why is this aloud? Wouldst thou with Jove himself bestow the word? Why thus entreat me? 'Twas not from thy eyes The scarlet lightning shoots." "Well-favour'd boy, Thou shalt behold the Trojans fly," she said, "O'erthrown, they cannot fly. The Gods their might May also measure by their own despite; So fiercely their battalions will defied, That not the Gods this deadly fight abide." "No, never," she cried, "in mortal fight, Falsely they do believe the might of Heaven; But how can I be so, by Mars, by thee, And by the Gods these soothed souls immortal given?" They groveled all in dust, they fell upon the ground, And filled with horror the great world around; And Queen Juno meanwhile called her son and sped Achilles' horses through the ranks among; For slain they deemed him, and the gods decreed That they should still be near the walls of Troy, And speedily the town be overthrown Of Priam and his sons and his own. And still their leader lay amidst the fight; For now the mischief settled was in hand, And now Achilles, plunging down the height, Slaying the Argives, on a cave did stand. Then, bursting from his hiding, springing down His captive warriors, as he hurled them down At headlong height; but not without a bound The whole proud Grecians from the heavens aloft Drove through the gates; when as a fire he lit That burned the darts, so terribly did grow The weapons of the foes, and underfoot Still follow on the murderous Goddess' lead. Then she, from out the caverns of the deep Wasting their flesh and blood, in throngs did keep, Wherein ere now the murderous Goddess met Fierce Priam's son; nor stood Piraeus nigh, But rushed upon Achilles. Not in vain Rushed he to help Achilles, though in vain, Till from the lofty walls the fierce light poured Down on the walls; thick gleamed the armor round, The gleaming gold and topmus of the ground Shining, for that of Nisus' self was fired, And with his brawny shoulders down he retired. Nisus, whose hardy heart craved vengeance still, How fares it with the Gods? and why in fight Achilles? Strife incarnate spurred him on Back on his routed host, and rushed at last Full on them. Thrice did Atreus' son behold In vain Achilles' flying steeds, and then Returning, backward darted through the throng, But met Achilles' furious spirit strong. He marked him, and, uprising to his face, Cried loud, "Shall slay me, dogs! and courage cease! No Greek shall say, 'Hath he not reined in haste In Trojan blood, nor dare the fight deface?" So cried Achilles, and with trembling dread Upraised his head, and stood his chariot there, Whereby the air was filled with women's cries. ======================================== SAMPLE 524 ======================================== , So let the scholar love to mark Our elegies--in the stern front rank, With the Sun-protected hand, then bribe, And tempt with scowling brows the bar-- 'Gainst which the pallid Muse of rhymes Her misty facile plectrum sways, And does sometimes like varying hue Warp at her wilful practising; To catch fresh occasion suits, The more her barren tuneful tricks. The names of rhymes will here be read, And furious snares might fail to please: But if your wishes and endeavours Were to combine among the Muses, I would not blame the uncorrupted Metaphysician of the dulcet plectrum.' My grateful rev'rence in good sooth Hath made him gentle and attentive: His quill up to a donjon, His placid massive flight sublime, This is his gift, and thus a prittle. It doth delight him in all things To don a gleeful posie, Or to drest with pastoral crofts An old slave drowsing melody: Thus let the tiresome singer be In peril of his country's woe, Lest the starv'd place of poesy Be changed to something liker, Wherein he liv'd perpetual. O, glorious Granville! what thou art, Now stands before the startled eyes Of all to weep, that weep a part, And call thee forth a poet-fisher! The angry spheres thou laborest not, Nor hid'st beneath a false-faced star; But to thy weeping let us pass, To tell of those whose loss is most, That sleep within the drowsy tents Of fame's secure applause, the while The impassion'd heart to joy beguile. Though some there are, yet have a share, That each one hath his mission sworn; For 'tis the weaving of the snare That doth the hoe-cake's pride displace; All is, if we but whisper o'er, Our wits are here, and thus our grace Sometches the eye of every reader. There's not a muse that writhes not yet The title of one rank among Riddles and sibyls, numbers few Of those who but a moment bin Known to the mighty sage who writ. I would not have thy book alone, It is the soul's majestic mien Which thus doth all enclose, Without confusion of the tongue. Full oft in verses may it please The loved and early days, When they of truth a life endures. Not unadorned with praise The sweet simplicity of verse When to each other they do seem Like those in spring-time come, That do enwreath their blest attire, When in the light of heaven they burn, How vainly with the grace they might In their bright beaming reach the sun, Or twinkle on the golden lyre The Spirit of the Bard! Or thee, O crowned monarch, and thy friend Almost in speech, when scarce a child can speak; Though by thy lofty spirit in our midst, In our grand age we worship thee as King; Greatly art thou in thy most winning ways, As when on earth thou didst our children find, The native garb, the loveliest crown of praise, When most we wish'd thee rapt from out our mind; From all thou didst our thanks we could afford With songs to soothe us, and to read the Word! I dare not speak of aught which I have heard So dauntless and so free from fevered fear; But many a time my tremulous heart hath stirred To thoughts of deeds which would have been so clear; Till suddenly on my wondering view The fitful vision burst from outward view, And I beheld, in that bright maner part, The Spirit of the Bard, awakening, rise, And kneeling gaze upon the Bard divine; He who on earth, no little part unknown, Sets the clear vision at my raptured sight; No dream, no vision of those former days, Which made the dark transport seem an ancient dream, Return'd with earth's dread change, for ever gone, And mingling in its change more real than night: Yet one was there whose brows a crown did wear As is the garland of some sainted king, His locks were swept away in many a glee Which half attracted and beguiled the glee Of those who loathed the music of ======================================== SAMPLE 525 ======================================== , Take each child's task before it is done, And do a great work, nor take long The waiting-room's walnut-fruit, Though he be old, though he lives of more stuff, He can't go long without it. "Nurse, this good name that you carry-- That, Mother, is dropped Asleep on a couch: but 'twill never sound! Nurse, when you wake it will tell A dreadful tale, then listen, And dread not to tell." "But, Mother, who's thinking Of how I really knew her, And how kind words were taking Her husband from my nurse, And my two boys--my two boys?" "Nurse, as I thought about them-- 'Twould please her if't was good, And why 'twould kill me; She might as well have said Her mother and my dad Made me, as I've said, A soldier of the lad And my best-fellows To that bit of a lady I married last week, And I have said that it pleased her so I left and right now To go sailing along The primrose is just dropped away Ah, God's kind providence, And what must we do This year, I want to go This year on the rail, if it were a leaf, And a bird, if a bird, if a beggar, And maybe some man, as I think, Would give us the fall of next week From a tower this Christmas Eve appeared When the key rattled to let out the fire, And the poker saw in the hall, In a way not young David took that way, And the flickering figure in russet brown, Of himself and the clock, I was wondering Who the fire was that he brought there; "I want to have some word," said David, "For I want to have some word." "Oh, no!" his father said, "he's sorry To have us thusspoken here." "Our new-marked boy," saidmanuel, "Looks as sensible as if he saw 'Cept Jimmy's angel' to him somehow," And so we all were well again. On the gray-brown apron he carried Seven white eggs down to the glass. Said the boy, "I'm sorry, ma'am, That your two eyes have missed your sight. You have taken the pair of people Out of the nest where they are seated. In the nest your mother laid you And popped her warm eggs all in pieces, And you swam up to the back of the branch, And I saw, as I turned to David, Two sharp eggs like eight horny ewes Pecked with meaning in their words. Oh, well, we had finished their breakfast, And the crumbs were put on the table, Before David scratched our basket. He had broken it without staying; And I threw him down with a groan. Oh, I threw him on to the hazels For to see if he knew that; For I saw not how his eye, once Grew red with a glance at us. We struck a light in the hall, We let out the lights in the hall, And the tall red heads of the men Came up in the tall thin man. From the dark in the room they moved (For he knew that we had made friends), Took their hands to our black-faced boy And dried their eyes, and said, You poor blind boy, put by your coat, And let it lick your cheek! "Ah, can it be true?" you asked me. "Now a small cold rule must rule it." As I tried to uncloak you; As I tried to elude you, You gave no defence to my stick, And he was not to my wife. He was held by a poor fat boy; He would not have let me pull; For if I should dare to turn my back He would never have come back That which drove me madly. As I stared in the eye-holes, You had seen it all through my soul. It seemed so queer and awful That I laughed like a growling mole. I was sure I heard it creak, And then--God, I am so glad! Now I like it most of all. Why, here where the trees are standing! Why, I see a tree stand near-- There's a hand that is reaching To throw me a little away From here, if you like, if I stay ======================================== SAMPLE 526 ======================================== , sweet innkeepers, skill apregnates, empui plentiful habitatin,--fury! the climbing in tumble and rout, eats, and then drives all the next week back till it flits again. And even though he fights three hundred and fourscore, after I flung him back, he sits safe and quiet; I hope he will come on and pay for it myself. On this Thursday I cannot be driven out for some eight hours before he comes back. But I shall have the best back for the present. I shall know whether I cannot keep him free from busch-like pressure against the sea, and in spite of all that. I shall do everything by myself if he is free." He ended this in great joy. But his friend, Mr. Calhoun,--a like great heart-breaking gloom and hungrily over his wine,-- told his friend to set his chin against the edge of his nose, "Barber, are you ready?" he said; "but I'm going to leave you for a while; I'm going to leave you for something better and better. Let me go." He nodded assuring, and went on. "Well, now, the army may have bought the French camp to its own credit for it." Then he said, "Let me go; I shall pay you. Think of it now, and think upon my part if it is worth your while." Then he made a note, "That I am glad enough to give back your belly to-night; I'll have to give it to you, to get back to England." Then he left the sight of it. Robert dinny! whose coat it was that made the place dumb! flood all the citizens cried out with malice. So he took a burlet from the head of the soldiers, and overflowed them with bought the hand of his cousin. Then he went out into the night, down to his bed, and he found his wife sitting all alone there. After that, the servants had plundered the cakes and served it for his breakfast. When the babe was sleeping, his mother came and told him to take taste the baby; she believed it was he. So she silently closed the little red toy box, but the baby was lying with the stock-wood on her bosom. A doctor of physic, next morning, brought him to his bedside, and there she held him and blessed him. Then, when the doctor had called for his aid, the doctor came and made a line for recitation. When the doctor came in, the little girl went up into the room and knelt down before him and took her hand, and prayed to God for help and light beds. There was a fair lady, a beautiful young lady, who knew how to hold the baby when it was pressed against her neck. Then her sister came and whispered, "Little Jesus, I wish that you could kill him, and then save me." And she stepped forth and called Jesus Jesus Jesus Jesus Christ. When the child was born, the father and mother went out into the country to see about their work. He had gone east to the land of the beloved, and came to take the baby from the clothes to his home and bless it. The prayers of his wife made happened the whole country round, for the mother came as soon as he had come forth. After the day of the day the child was born, the father and mother went East to take the body from the grave. Now, when the holy family came from home, the blessed family invited a gentleman of good old years and home-shut upper time, to hear the gospel of good and evil--his wife and his fell heart to him. And when the brother went from home he little thought what a sin. But others came and bought, and struck me, with their beak and their teeth, with their nails, with the sword, with their needle needle, with their needle, and took me home without leaving any children of my children who would suck my little one yet. Now, if you really wish to show that you know what I mean, I will answer you what I say: take me away without further letting you go. That is why I said to you, 'Go, dear mother, go home; heaven knows what, for you have traveled much and oft in travel, and I will come to my own house and sleep in my new-found country.' But my mother made no answer, and went straight away from the house, and came in with her little brother to play alone with ======================================== SAMPLE 527 ======================================== F accounted not Nor Scipio's star, nor the land that bore Nor ancient fame nor shapes of old But all was lost that now was o'er,-- O'erwhelm'd with awe! On, on, my soul, to speed away! For in the wide field of the fray Full well my trusty sword can lay, Thou seest, if fated so to die As friend might pity, friend would pity. For he is like that heavenly Lord The Savior God be thanked to be. On, on to where the mighty sword And slender spear are leaning to, And though weak wings can never soar, Thou seest that mighty foe is near, The champion of the fight is near. Thou seest that Caesar's arm is round! The fearful stroke is dealt about, The puny spear is in the ground, Thou seest that Caesar's arm is there, He is defence, he will be there, As aid from heaven is almost light; Though deeds that oft the hands of right May on a throne and coronet Confess they are not, and befit His merit, he is not unfit, Now he is dead and gone to rest, His body in the grave has he, And for his spirit will be blest. No, verily, no, in Rome He lives,--and there may still be seen A son,--and yet a little while A friend, and then his brows are white, And when the Queen all bowed in prayer That Heaven would grant him to their share, A second self, one minute's space, Would seize upon him on her face. At last he lifts the marble brow, And to the clouds his head he bows, And seems some great magician now Doth drink, and in his heart bows down. Thus it is read--and yet, more clear, A son should die of hunger here. The Gods may love him for his face, But who can e'er declare his race, When the "green rocks should come to fight," That dies the fatal cause of fight? It was upon the tranquil night When the planet of the Moon doth fall, That not an eye the motion keeps Of its still course through middle heaven-- When night with purest visions crowned Would see the Virgin's curious round, The mole her neck, the tip of her jonquils, The straightening of her fiery nails, The little steady humming-bird That in the garden blossoms near, And unseen hammers all the day And all the happy birds that sing And in their darkest night-midens Have lost the sense of light on her. About the everlasting throne The guardian of the lonely moon Is spinning yet once more, In starry silence, sweet and clear: While Night, all armed with silver, spins And dances in the empty skies, Shedding her bannered dewy sighs. About the holy, sparkling tomb Holds up a dreaming home of earth-- A human form, that softly sings, With downcast eyes and trembling wings, And scarcely bears, but inly sees, She steps across the crowded plain, To which some strange and novel dream Drifts up and fades in ever stream. "I know," she saith--"that when a boy I felt a love that never cloyed My being with delicious joy, Nor wonder at a dream's delight, A play-boy's stick or two, or toys, I cared not at such play-times toys, And wrapped myself deep in safe employ Of crumbs and butter, tea and cream, And sometimes careless of the deem, And learned with hurried sport to range On slippery mazes bounding round A thousand ruddy striplings bold Upon the well-watched, moonlight quire, Of some fair boy and woman's lyre." Meanwhile, with every shaking sound, The busy, sad, and wicked rout And turmoil of the air around And frightful scourging, she aloft Fraught with the thunder of the wind, That in her face his weapons roused, And shook across the Stygian brook, As on the seat with swift aspect She stood prepared for evil fate. As thus she stood, with features pale, With swollen and impassive front, Hearing his steps beside the well, With looks of dark mistrust, She felt the burden of his tread From horse, and turned, she knew him led In search of slumber, hope and fear; With stolen hands ======================================== SAMPLE 528 ======================================== , And laughing snubs that white men ride, I pass the sun-lit banquet's side And view the splendid mountain's side. O for a barrow-stone o' steel! How my brave heart beat proud and free, And climbed the rugged mountain's stern, Till I met the shape that bowed her soul And marked its mountain-shepherd's roll. Her was the wild-wood glen and wild, And she loved the breath o' spring; But the russet mountain masses yield Her lovelier charms to sing. O for a harp on some high strain My wild-woods' savage strife to prove; And when the flowers of summer burst In music from their harp-string's chain, How she sung, how looked the maid Who flung her from her woodland bower; And how, 'mid groves and mountain-height, She left the shade and grandeur by; How the angelic voice was still, As if the music-spirit spoke, "I come--to die in that cold clay-- In that lost wizard-chamber gray." Alas! nor is there one who sees The march of Nature to begin; On her strange kingdom of despair, Pain marks but ill her phantasies; Lo, Time hath bid her no more wane, And wrecks the loveliness of morn, Her being driven to tell me woe Of what may yet be done below; And marvelling why this poor fire, O hapless maid, so weird, so fair, Is flaming on thy darkening stair. O I have wandered east and west A year and year ago, For I would wander everywhere In all the endless snow; But I will hear the Christmas bells Make music for my own, And in my own the apple-trees Will be the storehouse fair; And well, when I am very old I'll choose the bitter-sweet. So from thy throne of Judgment-night Can I alone enjoy? Though I be sad as I have been, I'll joy in changeful play; And every night bring joy to me, As morn brings mournful day. And as I walk the primrose way, The Golden Morn afar Sings to the world my heart's new song And tells the tale to war. Beloved was she in youth and beauty Who roved for love with care, Who to her father's house came in to see What showed strange things were there. Her brow with snow the clouds enchained Were deepening into snow, And she in spring the fairest flowers First showed that they were slow. Once with the clouds she came, and in that year She passed with flowers in youth, And beauty with the meadow in her heart The harvest mows disowning. The gold was on her head; a dark cloud round her Seemed rising with the truth; She knew the rightness of her father's house, Yet I with no love nor nor reverence Saw her as fair and grand She stood before the hosts, and wept beside The threshold of old time, And whispered, while soft flossoms breathed along Her father's memory clime. The sunlight dwelt upon her hair, And made the place most fair. She went forth in her own goodly place, And laid her mother down; Her sisters to their rest addressed And begged of her the road. The grass-grown tents of cruel war Were piled around her knee, And in the little green field she dwelt When her own girl was nigh; Yet in my heart I ever kept A secret long unseen, Nor cared to know when she was safe Who from the world would be. With the Christmas spirit I looked out Upon the field of war. She looked down on the chilly sky, And there she could not be; Her brow with grief was crost--the sword Came she but once a year, And yet she had no heart for this, But only shut her eyes Where the immortal sate, And said, "What is thy thought Then, little girl, thou saidst That I must hear thee pray? I pray thee pass the gates, dear boy, For I am weary soon; I would not have thee enter here In my grief, baby, soon." And when she said, "This is not my wish, Nor any thought beside, For each year brings its trial of A tired little mind." Her brow was thin and worn, ======================================== SAMPLE 529 ======================================== 's name-- A name that Harrogate, More sweet, more strong, more free, More free, more young, more fair, More finely wrought with care, The Gods own false conceit; That mighty heart he bare, Whereto their rule they wear, Pains, ordination rare, More free, more fair, more fair. The outcast child? Ah, no! The heart of him whose prime Is but God's image, ball, Whereto 'tis God design'd, See what once were his mind, How from their source he springs, Heav'n hides, reveal'd, reveal'd, Of all earth's sins the best. He is the cause, whose signs Forbid to be reveal'd, He is the parent, who confides Herself to Paradise. Yet is his faith unshar'd, Where the cleft way is trim, And every step is shir'd With highest, greatest weight; Unlucky spur of thought Which is the cause of fear; Not for his faith alone Can the sad soul be shown. Oh, that this heart could be Subject to either Church, When thoughts like these had breath'd, And that it own'd no death, But, in his love to thee, Whatever good or ill The burden might befall, Serv'd it as faithful still, Though it be pour'd on high By men in servitude; Knowing that God is good, She may not pass without, Gross, shameless, and unfit, But she's so constant and so kind, That not the impious Shriek Of Devil could baffle her, Or Devil from the Tree That rustles through the air; But still, still he is the Source, Of all that they believe, To keep that Love is still In its own likeness. That love and kindness then Such men as are like to The Spirit of this world Were fitter for to shield Unhurt for others' good, The purpose of whose mind, Extremely pure, serene, Needeth no scourge to wound; At times, indeed, hath part And only nature's law, Making a bitterer bond With fervor to enfold. That man who have the will Of Nature to fulfil, Must be a seer, and skilled In thought, to draw the steel, And fashion justice here, Let not his courage stoop Or force self-confidence to stir Its rooted mastery; Nor push it from its will, For the sheer mastery Of its surmise to awe; But walk the Christian earth And keep the truth at rout, And fight the battle's van Against the rebel will. And if the great Church on The Christian earth be built, Set up its pisest care And guard the seed of strife; Then that his service may From race to race fulfill His perfect good will-- Till faith and self-hood each Live as their living breath, And drawing to his cross Bear witness and make proof That he outruns the loss Of our redeeming life. He, with his erring heart, A place that was not free, Possesses both foreign art, And where we too may sigh. He on the lowly cross, If we can nothing say, And we can find no sign To what his cross containeth; Thoughts often, from his life, Possesses yet and fosters The quality of grace. The hand that gives hath leave For building where we build, And faith and gratitude Prevail and fall'n are weak And weakness gives no aid; And mercy is his sword That shews us best his weapons Against the stubborn heart. To shame us when we trust In Satan, who can maim The temple where hath been His testimony true; And strike down th' idol where he sat Deceiving devil's lore, And lay the cross before; And bruise him from his hearth, For there, where sinners pray, Shall Christ and his own mother be; For we must share his way, Who strive and toils, yet still pursue The same eternal will, And conquer, though subdued by God The only Son of Life; Alike in triumph or in strife, Th' eternal Master still; He puts the cross and not strives the loss, The mount upsoars o'er hill, dale, and range, Though the way be but road, And we cannot stop till he ======================================== SAMPLE 530 ======================================== . Such was that Dervise; strange it is, to find The meaning of each word, or an degree Of knowledge: for in speech, since word itself Is the sole echo, and the general sense Is but the substance shadow, which the soul Can view alone, and after all is mist. Such was the Dervise; such the better plan, And frustrate of my reasoning, I was; And Pitty, skill'd in much her potent skill, Contriv'd on me, that to be all one Her female friends were named. Nor may I now Find now such Dervise, after all his years, But that he was most changed from what he was, And I was call'd a Goddess, for he was A Goddess too, and perfect too was he, Born 'mid the Gods, with all their nine good worlds, And nurtur'd like his fathers: for like babes Were form'd, which follow'd like their sire; so I, Won from his side. But after I had laid Two Gods at mutual war, and from accord Rivappy as I was, to entertain Both guests and hands, I promis'd them a feast, And hunger was sustain'd at home; for they, Two mighty Heroes, man and woman warr'd. I said that Mars of old, for thy fair sake Alone, for fair Iäläus' sake, would keep Such honour, that her peerless beauty press'd The Tyrant Tyrant in his giant arms. Mars, the grey Sire, who pities us with age, The mother of the mighty Mars beheld; And she, the Mother of the Gods, to whom A madness like this stirs the Mother of Heaven. But now my absence urges me to turn To younger toil, and see what yet o'ercomes My journey. I have nought to say; I see My duties, and what could I do? The strife Betwixt the Danaï and the Achaians warms In fierce encounter. If my fleet return Safe to the home of Ægis-bearing Jove, Him will I entertain, and be his son, Queen of the azure light of Marathon, My brother and my Spartan, as a God By far more favored, who with me will fight For him, and shall delay to aid the Greeks His council. Lowest place dispensing place He found amid the Cretans, for the midst They chose the lower, and, on meeting both, In silence mutual, silent sat; their hearts At ease, with a superior sense of ill. One comfort in the strife, one hope, one fear Into the storm of battle, for the chieftains Whom most they cherish best. The Cretan host, The Cretan spearsman, was about to take Him from the field: but raising from the plain Their threatening helms, with all their blood the soil Gush'd forth and wan'd. For we are doom'd to bear Our lives away, to them, as blood to blood, And only a kind hand restores to Greece. So they among themselves, as child to mother, Their little children, bore the bridal pomp, While bright-hair'd Ceres' golden altar stood With flames to thee. All nature overpasses, Subduing in superior to the God. The Cretan heroes, though unmoved they speak, Yet bear the blameless joy of highest aim, Nor think to rob thee of thine own good name. Who thus shall conquer in the name of strife, And bear the mighty tidings home, and when The Greeks shall pile her altars with their dead, When great Achilles, breathing wrathful fire, Shall plant her city o'er the fleet of Greece? Why sleep ye, heroes? why forget ye not Youth's pure delight, and age's drear abode? Why mourn ye not the fair Hesperus' flood? Why weep ye not the stately chambers' heights, The chambers deck'd with shining hangings rich, The shining portals, and the massy walls, And golden portals? bear ye not the breath Of baleful battle from the Trojans' hands, The loud-voic'd arrows, and the thunderbolt? To perish thus, before the pile of Troy? Ye maidens, haste to pay your worship to her, Ye princely youths, before the brazen wall! They longed to hear the speech of noble Diomed, And see him, mightier far ======================================== SAMPLE 531 ======================================== ) or so? (Clock! Whence tookst thou me, thou Elsie, to this place After the last, and farther in th' essay? Whether I live, or if I die, being slain, Fating an empty name, prey unto dogs, Or to th' fox, to vampires, foxes, or foxes, And that fair lamb, that never felt the dart Of pangs and hunger, but, through fear and pain Of terror to the frantic father taught, Clutches his arms in tug and strain, and sobs, Or burns his breath in pain; so didst thou move With such a fierce delight my ravished soul To hate, to do, to wait, with malice at strife. As if through flame the thumb of steel grew keen! Or like a flock of vultures didst thou fly, Snatched from thy nest, until the chafed curl Of raven hair hung dark against thine eye! Art thou a vice, or who a truth would mock Of thy poor, silent, mute, tormentive air? Couldst thou, as other men, look up and see Some bright, eventful blaze of majesty With thy broad, troubled face? Was't not thy fate To strike at cities, nations? Is it so, Thou wert the price of thy own cowardice That saved a world? or wert thou just the one Whom Rome, Rome's fate, fortune, fortune knew, And for whose sake no fear had stirred? O thou, That was the life and freedom of thy race, Thy portion here, that dost the shame condemn Of thy nobility; thou that art just, That art the life of all which thou bequeaths, (Not to thyself, but me, who seek alike And nourish my soul with my own heart and thine And feel the love of it) and know thyself And see the whole and theirs alike with thee. For that's this glare on me, this glory there Wherein I tremble. See! a chariot waits Already at my doors! I must return, And thou to me in distant lands be bidd, Behold, these cakes, these honey-cakes, these flasks Of my festoon! Behold, 'neath my control, The whole of me!" He thrust me back All stained with blood, and bound me in that cell Of the old Sybil; and, behold, he thrust Me in that shadow! Through the prison-bars I heard his steps, and stayed to enter in. But all the while through those unending woods I heard the wailing of the crows, and saw The hempen sariaks to the flame expiring In yonder glare, the torches' breath in each! What, all these things? A thousand huntsmen ply Their broom-swarm round me, and the beeves of steeds Are sailing to and fro around the mound, While I alone sit lingering in awe! Such is my hope. But, best of all, my friends, One worthy of your office is to wait And, if he needs must hurry on his way, Bear me, I must! My husband is my friend, And hath already couched beside the Chief A loving servant, and no other care Shall fright my soul. And for, dear love, I crave no husband but a little love, And hear the bells and bustles ring to mirth, And, scarce couched close, the pleasant coxcomb sing Shrill comfort to my much indebted friend. But though I court not gifts as some poor friend, Nor beauty's high ambassador, these years, And keep my penance toils unfeignèd, I Can find in thee some means of safety for The purpose of my safety. And at last I came To Agamemnon's tent; straight to the gate He bade the heralds bear me; they with speed Came and received me, while in state they moved, And to my seat they brought me forth in throng Sweet Amaryllis. Long she walked alone Amid the suitors; soon as by her side Ulysses sat, in accents wing'd he spoke: Let not my message mock thy power with words, Nor threatenings, though in subtle speech thou speak. So shall the wisest of the suitors say: If o'er the beggary's state Chance guides his course, I shall receive him hospitably; but, Determined now, again ======================================== SAMPLE 532 ======================================== a thousand spines, My rose shall bloom around her slender stem, And cedar-tod shall send a soft perfume. Ay! 'tis my rill shall lend a gentle name, In shapely shape and fragrance like a queen. The angel of my soul shall draw them back To the beloved hills in the realms of sleep. Through moonlit mists of silvery essences, In pale, translucent, wandering jewels of white blooms Shall lend new life and fragrance to her bud. Oh! the rude winter of the leafless boughs, And the blue silvery lilac on the eaves, And the dear silence of the poplar-trees In the green gloom, when the keen summer eve Warns them, to be where they must be. Can you know How far the heart of childhood is in leaf? There is a fragrance in the air That greets me from afar, And fragrant still through other days and years Is mingled in the star. Or, were I but a winged thing, I would fly Where honey-coloured waves are murmuring, And sun-paths, long and white, Through cool-hung vistas of sylvan haunts, I would hear many talk. Beside the stream I would list to the oar And hill-winds asking the bark of green In a fountain cool and clear. A moment I would touch thee, dear heart,-- These tears in cheek and bosom, but thine! Ah! was it but a moment's space, When, with thy child-heart, thou didst play To reach that fabled place? I see, I see thee now; Is it the tears of pain That fill my famished soul? A moment's mood of pain, That brings back memories sweet, Which well I may repeat? Oh! the rushes are as strands Where flowers ne'er were told, But one whose yearning fingers first Drew me to them and told; Like ocean waters I, To the green-clad woods of Spring, Now coming down the leafless ways, Ah me! I see, I see, the poppies burn, All the daffodils are blossom-fenced, The sweet-briar glories swoon, Birds choir and voices lute; The skylark seems to shriek, As, one by one, the toad is caught, And one sits on his thorny log, And one by one the tale is told, Somepin'. We've come to know our time. We must allow that time was ours, To pace our hand with flowery walks, Or lead with poppies golden-dyed; We could not always keep, at once, These hours. We know that till we die to-day, To-morrow, sure enough is linked Most wondrous things to seem divine, That sunset clouds--a season gray Of thought, of visions, years ago, --With the last trinkets of delight Along the moonlight--a year's sleep, White power and gentle nights of love Are over and come to us now, The mission and the ways to tell Of daybreak, and the ways that lead Together, heart to heart we know, Thou, whom we send from door to door, O thread of grace, Wilt be through this world of self forgot, For there are words we cannot speak, We have said it when we part from it; If love were what the world would seem, Then what would be the wisdom that would beam That time can not destroy, And the deep longing of a joy That keeps us two and bid us hope That we may still remember all The hours that be; so in the rim Of twilight, moonlit by the stars, I think of some great time of spring, When the birds were singing. With thoughts so soft that the warm leaves of youth Shall wither and die in the chill November night; With hopes that shall only return, to the throng We may recover the heart, But not the task. Nor all the woe that we meet, the lack Of the vanished bliss, this love that had no past Save its love, and now that it smiles no more. Is it gladness, then, that I think of them, Kissed by their darlings? But even our rest may have been for an hour. There was a spell in the passing of years, It was tender and grave--an amulet and ======================================== SAMPLE 533 ======================================== ass'd Pluto's road, Proud Inez' and her Spartan bride, Beneath him lived her husband and her guest. When heaven be witness'd with the mien divine What stern realities assail us, what Lie hid in mutable gulfs between! So did the Lord Omnipotence unclose His awful brow, and calm'd the stormy passion Of that black storm, which bound the world in twain. Imagination sees the solemn sun Shine from his throne, and as a symbol shows On marshall'd plain, his golden chariot row'd O'er swarms of starry nymphs, and orient pearls. Through starry skies, insatiate with the blaze, The Hero's gaze was stern. High o'er the waves Sublime on shore, above the unfathom'd deep, The tempest raved, and, driving to the sky The angry billows, smote the sunless throng. Beam o'er the well refracted earth, and stream'd Its broad effulgence,--sandall'd was the sky. The wondrous limit of the clear expanse, Fill'd with the thunder of the lifted bow, The Ocean's foam obey'd them. Just below, Upon the billowy, mighty with the thunders, The cars of GAMA the fierce storm subsided, And dash'd on shore the sulphurous surges down. Crowds met their number: mutt'rous was the roar Of cataracts, or lightning's rapid wing Dark with convulsive rage; which, ere it fell, Dash'd at the bounding billow's stillest bounds. Those beauteous things which, ceaseless as the light, Hindered not to unloose a bounding sail, Through gurgling wave and breaker of the deep Pour'd sudden joy; and thus the favouring gods, With smiles enraptured, the glad promise hail'd That soon should come; the wish of that rich home Of all that fruitful happiness, which shore Our palace, yet would find it still the best. How high, beneath the gentle, sinking wave, Thy domes enropt in all their pomp of gold, Upholding yet thy pomp of lofty pride, O'er thy serenest star, O glorious land! The wrath of War, yet heaven supreme it warms, The sting of discord, the stern storm of war, And helpless man, the terror of despair. On the swift storm the warrior-king beheld The army's sternness, and his fears of fate. Then o'er the troubled ocean, bending low His head, spoke the glad messenger of peace. "Thy words, O holy sage! inspired my soul, Thy rites, old Ocean, taught me to be kings; But thy torn sceptre and the ragged attire Were but the dry and colourless remains, Grown hideous with thy perils, and thy pride. Why should the wonted comets lodge too low, The trysting-miser, and the gaudy mask That hide our slumbers and the morning star? But thou, O chief of Ocean's social rivers, Perform'dst the last and greatest sacrifice To the last, least of all thy sons to pay. Him did my Hæmus for thy bowels gush A lonely mountain-top, and pour'd his ruddy streams Like water;--what he meant I told, and still Replenish'd Hæmus, who a matchless bow Had made, and skill'd, and bow with shafts of power. But now the silent shades of twilight gloom Crowd o'er our shadowy kingdom, misty veil Purple away;--thy footsteps gleam no more; Why sadden, that fond thought? Thee, night and day, The night that all night long has hover'd o'er, With wings of sleep renew'd, and day that sleeps; Even as from out thy shadowy throne there leaps The ceaseless flickering blaze, when cloud is lowering: Thy steps, O mighty-armed Air, lead on My dark imaginations, swift as night Tempting, more swift; and ever, stranger, more Than to the false-born phantom-seeming limbs, Wherefore then dost thou more than I am here, Show me the safest of thy thousand chains That my feet may not reach? I lackt indeed Both power and wisdom. Nature, too, Too swiftly hath her latent form begun; The heavy world stands open: her shut hands ======================================== SAMPLE 534 ======================================== two, the first to face, The last to earth--a third--unto the sky, And destined to the moonshine. The third to pass the board--what matter? As they are found together They are thought of by each other, The same things are severed and divided, Some in their driftings veer'd; And their blue cot above the vessel's prow, The same bark is e'en so That nearer and more closer it is drawing. Now and then it is drawn to a level, Whoseanse it varies As the sea's course, while those from all the rest Take in themselves some Rocks, and swim or swim, Which others sometimes see; And some to crouch upon, but more to quake, While some to hurl and kiss it, but so to rear Not one's abode. 'I will in self-contempt the other, next, Imagine, only aim, that lefts him space Full in the face, and wait--what cannot chase The enormous helplessness of love and hate.' The oarsman, thus advancing, chose a place, Meanwhile within himself he forward leant. Upon the first half of that dread interval The ship was moored, then reach'd a little more, And with the cordage reft himself, ere much He needed preparation, still to see If the body also still survived, from sea So very short. The busk resumed now decked the bending keel When his vessel's prow they nearing cross'd; and now The sea appearing pure, and now the moon Shining in Leo, had almost yclept the land. And there by many a sad and painful bruise The people, who at night were going forth, Or here and there conducted, were amazed, Though not disquieted, by this their dread. This bark was tost to have its voyage with The people round about; and one exclaims, 'This one is on the coast, Charlemagne, the king, So speaketh he, nor barks nor any rest Have any on his chin, nor in his cheek The hue of place or sex; and in his hand He also rubs the rheums, as if infuriate, Which from a surgent cloud eclipseth all. But whatsoe'er it be, these are not lost; So were the vessel by these ranged round, Made in a wide and lofty bark of six. I think, as thou hast said, she lies before A noble lady, named from fruitful Isle Of which not far her ancient name is heard. So that her visage may be from the head Of a clear mirror, since it plainly shows The dame, that, seeing her, is with the dead, And would not like another her, the dame, But many a foul foul incestuous wombe. Mean time the manner is, that I descry, Marquishing, in her visage, her outright; Nor do I less adust, for all the rest, Sanser to me of love, than she to me. All womankind, if they were whole, would reel Away from their first parents, than to swerve From their first parents; and in after days Strange or domestic were in France or Spain; So great a rout as this might overtake Them, in a moment's time, that others here Were not instructed in the dance or song, Nor civil or heroic; and this wight Would bear the same in France if he were still Within himself; and I should go without. But in these wars who should be in advance Of measure, from all others forth would flow The monarch's blame, who wends with her in France Direct, and would have leave her looser still To sit upon her bed; and such command, Bidding her curb her tongue but yestermorn, She forthwith bade her will with reverence, Nor yet commands that she the same should mourn. To such a grievous error he resorted, And well he knew his duty would be done, If he should leave the scene and go in search Of that best dance which boasts a mighty part Beneath the dome of Charles, whence Iago's And thitherward, there stretches Italy. His son was with him of Palatza; They joyed at this dance, and that might also; But why them so astonish, they exclaim'd, Their son is with them, and is left alone; Who at a moment from the dance would fly; To him the masque was shown beside the board, That him ======================================== SAMPLE 535 ======================================== when he saw the women vainly call, "What is it, Madam?" "Why, they seem to have no sense," Or in the third or fourth night lingered he To think his lady marvelling on the thing; Then he bethought himself: "How is my love? Why are you staying, Madam? Are you curious, If you would like your looks, your accent strange? Or you may ask me, why, you know not that, But so it is and is. These gestese In this and in that vacillating maze Of discontent and fear and eagerness; And in the four such issues do with signs Portrayed from four to seven in many modes, So that the first are two things in the hands Moving and twisted, and the last of all Is that which at the heart of man is love, The second to the soul. These will be seen Before or after, as before, if thou Dost hear the third part of the order chants." Whereon I, musing, steadfast stood; meanwhile Saw Beatrice turned herself to me, Saying, "According to my faith, I hold As to the measure in the eternal justice Whirling the arc of love; and if the veil Have gathered round thee more, as is the sun, Because, to give thee day, so must it be By those unto the sepulchres of Florence, Those spirits, who, beyond measure, thou hast seen." "I see," said I to him, "the knot of love We are each other under, eternally, And each enkindled in its flame." And he: "If I have power to show one here above, It is enough for me that I above Enmity with him who is the cause of love. But there must I, in whom is every doubt, Even as thou seest, have power to speak the truth; And if my saying has been spoken thus, It leaves in silence the scarletoubt. If I have power to show, I loose thy mind And loose thee from the terror of the world." Such was I, as he spake who was confused; And therefore he turned to me, and said: "Now Now will I show thee if I can; and thou Thy mind, that here is written, shalt reveal If violence be will. Here in the world I saw the eagle of our Lord at sky, The hawk, and he, that she fled distance-long Above the other saints. The glory shone Kindled in Caesar no more. The wrath That swept Timavus and the mighty sword Was in its sheath; and he, of whom I sprang, Seated itself on the cliff. Anon he looked, And somewhat, as if by a magic spell, Raised in the air his hand. "It is," said he, "My will and mine; and for the charity That burns upon us, ashes and sweeteneth The conquered earth." And then he turned; and I, Like to a little man, who riseth up And leaves a wreath behind, a song beheld. After a thousand lifted hands and eyes, Tingling their nimble airy-winged fans With every precious spice of flower and leaf, The hum of voices came upon mine ear. And as the sleep, that followeth the stars, Hath found the horse of Paradise whereon He standeth, and as eager to proceed, That many a time he therein had thought of me As one, and made shift to speed the shades; Even thus, behind me with the banner sweet, Did live, that on my brows I'd write the crown, With gains of honour; and the Poet now, To whom I gave the hilt, these words was read: "O brother, when the hand of Rome was great, And Thebes was great, and in its strength of war The lazar-houses were a pillared fire, afar, within the city, under God, And under God, in might, and well begun; I to the Poet's eyes was just and good, And gave it him, who should it hold in joy, Of all who in the land of Blisses live." When Thebes was seated, in the humble font, Which by a secret shrine of sacrifice Is covered, none but temple and carved shrine Had on those goodly apples looked at me; For round about me smiled their festal lamps, And with their rays the walls and battlements Began to ======================================== SAMPLE 536 ======================================== , And there ye will tarry and mingle Mid the flow of things noble and great, Ye may singly life to prove (As ye sang of old time, Long ago)-- Old Morris, with all his ruddy waves, Waves in this summer sea. O Northland! with thy splendid lakes and skies, With its shallow waters deep and wide, With its mountains vast and brown, Let me breathe out my gratitude, And gladly give you back All these golden days of long ago, When first I wooed you, passionless and free. Now the land is white with snow, White like the deepest hills, With tufts of greening buds, With tufts of silvery pearls, And white as is the moonders Of the valleys of the Styx, Along whose margent streams The imprisoned may mov secretly, Where the rushing torrents rise And wash the reedy shore. And that river's gentle flow Down through the crimson creeks, Will wash me of the stain Of time, who in its bed, Deep in the stagnant earth, Will rest me, who can say, Borne by the leaning shadows of the hills, That myriad fountains kiss, From out their delicate fresh caves, The motionless fountains, The cool and fresh emotion, That from the summer sea Dwells in the elder spirit, and can love. For here I lay me down, Here thickly covered o'er with shade and gleam, While through the sparkling mists Passed the unshadowed moon. The fringes of the water Slid swiftly to and fro, Sheep and cattle and the great birds calling, Fled like the dreaming go; And winding its placid waters, Wet, among tufts of snow, Where blue and purple grapes In clusters grew, A path to dream of beauty and the starry rest. Away in the city I saw only her Resting in soft caresses, Her heavy, damp hair floating Above her golden tresses, And I know not why. Yet she seemed to me more Like the tender peace that floods the blissful air Of a silent night When youth is but a ghost, A spell upon the lips that speak the truth, A wind upon the road, A cross upon the deep Between the twinkling stars and the other worlds. In that still hour I watched her smile-- The pallid moonbeams falling, falling, A sacred, unspeakable, melancholy smile Upon the pallid moon, Down a silver psalm. O world-olden world! O world-olden world! What hovers in thy mind Upon the strangeness of this life of ours? What grows in thy heart But the passion and the dream that never ends? Still and still my heart can hear The thunder of thy coming, Still my yearning heart can love thee better than my thrall. Come down and put away thy dread Of all I hate to do, And O, forbid thy every pitying voice Whose sweetness I would choke, And make me life to die, And whisper pleading after all my vain endeavour! I am no God. I am the End That ever and anon shall wend Where all my love abideth, And all my hope abideth still behind. That this should not ere come,-- All this it will amend, And O, the knowledge that was in my soul! Make me a fervid fire, That, when the evening falls, My sighing spirit you may know at last! Give me assurance, O my God, That my weak verse may, Blown by his benediction, thus be blown Down out of me by all thy winds and waves, Sink to the depths of azure, where, enshrined, Thou wovest the web of the ineffable chain Of perfect beauty: weave the grace that gleams In iridescent green and billowing blue Till all the fields and heavens Rejoice to greet him with their storied light. Walking beside the river edge, Where willows leap and sedges break, In tangled barks the currents lave, And wind along the winding wave, Then westward, westward, westward swerve, And ever southward, westward, westward swerve, Till, drifting 'neath the evening sky, They rise the placid tide, and die Round into sparkling April-days, Bright ======================================== SAMPLE 537 ======================================== , their martial triumphs. "The French are dons, the French are chequeriers. To the slaver are French lads, leading thick ranks. See the letter of Count Walter Wellington. All of them, at this moment, cross the waves Which wave them near the castle of Flanders, Chanting the joy of their great warlike chivalry, As if the people were the swineherd." Those who, when they had read the gazet's legends, Spake of the warlike North, and were assembled, While in their pockets, in their beds, the youths Gathered in great, grave lists of battle. "The treaty is unvisited," they said, "To join the battle now, the heirs, of debt. Let the white bear take Master Louis, And follow his fair daughter to her father; Blessings be on th' unworthy, and he bravely Win nobly; therefore have you come to win him." Their chargers bore him to the castle court By the imperial turbans; and the feast, (Each year more costly than the diadem) Was to awaits the wise men of the war, And through the gate of St. Peter's, see A street in throngs to greet him; the clear drums Beat and grow mighty; every eye is turned On St. Peter's, at his highest stage; And even old St. Peter seems to be Waiting for God to greet him with his greetings, In silence, by some grand and eager phrase, And never heed the sober pauses, Lest they should say him stung and flouted. It was to prove that after many years The careful Emperor came back with message, One summer's summer, as St. Peter passed, To the old house, the old Imperial palace. And all the old St. Peter's ever since Had he one month in common with the flowers, And that one day in honor of himself, And at the moment of the deathless Prince Upon his steed, so courteous and fair, The object of that festival had spread. Young Henry raised him to the royal cup, And gave him instant succour in the cup. "Thou know'st," said he, "that if my Prince should come Unto the wars of Octabano, thou That bring'st upon the citadel of Rome The dower of Italy and Sicily, And if my mother should return, in time Of great Empire and Byzantium, thou, My father, who hast bowed to this excess, And thou, with him, who serv'st the King in thrall, If then I follow thee unto the camp, Then of the beautiful maids and holy men Take heed and be not overweened in this." So he spake words of cheer, of comfort to them; But unto him the Emperor gave no sign. And thus the son of Lewis spake to me: "Now, be not wroth, nor let thy heart be troubled." "Fie on thee," I replied, "thou valour-giver! Live for thy sake, and let thy castles have thee!" Then answered Charles, the king: "May all this bless Thy hands upon my face, as thou didst pledge! In thy father's name to that I give, and win The favour of the world, this work thou didst So honoured in thy mother's memory; And she, whose fame is ever fresh and sound, Will I confess to you, that she shall not Be known unto thy knights for evermore." Then followed Nicholas, and the brothers two, And that thou bearest in all I tell, Yet more shall in her honor have no place." "In ancient days," he said, "was woman's name; So fair, so young, so fair the morning sun, The autumn-tide was her, and winter-wind And the old world, and all the growth of things, The loveliness of herbs and leaves which clothe The craggy rock, and are most finely shown To those who know it not; and hence the cold Free wind of March cried through the shuddering trees: No other Spring than this did she foretell, Her heart was all aflame with her desire. This lover of sweet months was heretofore A child, who used to lie in smiling death, And who believed himself a very heaven. These twain to be the faithful and the brave Were slaughtered, and no matter who they were. They say 'twas young and tender, but indeed ======================================== SAMPLE 538 ======================================== could change so much, The sea soon drowned her listless passion. A moment there was silence in the vast We cannot flee from poesy. Mumbling my cares, my longing had no weight With thy dear image; and the wrinkles went Into my eyes, and my brows ached and fell, And all the look, so sad it was, it passed With such a soft, low word, It took me by the hand to try if I could speak; When thou didst speak of this I know it was My thought to think thee, and my discontent Was all but this, and to myself I said, "There lives no sun, however cold it may, Beneath another sky-- No law is with the dead-- "No covenant the dead can pay; The sun is never to the dead; The skies will silent be If they are warm to thee." In faith I lay my icy face in death, And seek another sky. There came a man to Weird, The tiller of the moth; He was the frighted thing that flew, And he had struck a bird of Paradise. "The hawk hath shrined in Paradise The golden bee; the bee has gone; The angel is denied in Heaven to thee!" They are gone from us, to us, All their greenest groves and their brightest groves! I loved him of old, a great lord, When his high house by the Danube raves; He sat among the Tarnleys, A little lad of ten years old; And all the thoughts I felt of him, That now are far too sad for tears, Fast in my heart his image lies, Its earnestness his love unites, My faith to him I often hold, That now have all his meaning, And that I would be still his wife, I long have cast the nether life, And that the more I have my life In utter solitude. My old-time lover, I think the dead are better half-way there, And so I cannot calmly look the other way; Although the blood-sprained sexton, Who all the night has waited Till a slow sense of the eternal night Takes me to my grave, and makes me a grave For thoughts that died in such an hour, (Passing power at last into a better day!) Is not that, in the ages, Of which my soul was dumb, I ever had a reason to complain, That I should nevermore be happy with him again? 'Twas why our course was longer than our stay; Why we were ever going to the shore, As many as we came a-wooing; Why we were ever going away With the tide, to a far shore, The blue, far shore of his own glorious land-- Did it not satisfy one lonely hand? Did it not satisfy one waiting, aching head? Oh let us turn for a short space, while yet We journey on, all we are still so far ahead! The sun died at our feet, when we were staying For half a hundred years; When all were flown, and hopes had fled, The stream had swept us into the west, And left no trace of its last loving quest; And then, as to and fro, The lamp shone out, and I lay down, And looked up to the sky and dreamed, With eyes of tenderness, and a lingering, stony glare; And there I knelt, and prayed, And so I made My prayers to Heaven, and heaved a sigh Upon my heart, until I said, My prayers to Heaven, and then the sun Came back again with a fresh, glad day; And there I knelt and knelt to pray, And so I called my song, until The lark was up, and the sky was gray, And I saw my poor soul lying still. In the twilight, in the night, And again in the dark, My own star arose, and the darkness Followed the night. Night came, but I knew it not, And my grief was changed to joy. It grew like a happy thought, As when of dear delight, The little stars too wise love, The moon too fair to see. So we floated down the river Under many-petalled mist, And my tears were bitter wet. Ah, but the moon shone bright. Heaven, but the moon that bore us, And the earth, but earth, too wide; When I saw the ======================================== SAMPLE 539 ======================================== , not want; but other We must endure; for if no more Were seen, thou join'st the number just Of equal daughters in their birth, Thou, looking on thy daughters earth, Should'st see the deeds of men unborn; And, more than all, the moon shalt see, Spirits unblest, who live in thee. CASTERUS and Cressida's Catiline, And others many more beside, who now Will hear of Arno's streams and pastures green, And pastures fed by the Hesperides, The sojourn of a nun 'twixt Tiber's banks, And where Proserpina's eagle screams, When with her hundred lessering legions meets Flies shee about, and soars to the Olympian hill. How, Cares, are thy solemnities, Nor is Apollo heard of in mid Hebreus' groves, But such as hung by stalwart Hercules In honour of the Golden Age; or cold Below him may'st have covered agrinage Of heat by beat of sonstrels' dairies made, Yet weaken, by the dull and witless helmes Of now-spent sleepe-thoughts: be it surer privy Unto the Muses to come under Whole shepheards and shepherd-shepheards swels And their pip-feathers; who of old By rippling brooks and clear well-water In spring-time sang, till the sprouts dry His pip-pipes ope, and water-notes of home. Leave we not, as old story saith, To tell of Arno, that brave shepherd lad Was to this Orphean shrine besought By Hermes, at whose comely feet The laurel trembled, and the beech grew thin And shiver'd from the light acanthus-tire, Nor might any of such rigorous boughs Be mindful, though for this thou burn thy thigh. Scarce couldest thou (because a child) know whither, Fearing the wild wind and the angry skies, Though thee the deities of Thessaly Burn on some bush, and Bacchus' sacred spines Myrtus the child of Bacchus, till beneath His torch the shepherd nymph with mother-milk Thrilled, and the woody Nereïd sisters bent Their heads, and crying over Bacchus, went As wan, and smote him with her cruel wand, While dolphins hiss the wet sea-sand. Fast there The Cretan held him. Long her fingers deft Plying the warp, her bitter cates she tends With curving barbs and roots. But when the time When unto Thebes the shepheard bare Himself a shepherd, her beloved boy And sweet-faced mother she, the milky way Made tremulous by tenderest softness, heard And wept, a murmur from her head to tell Of all her tale: then, nigh the flowing brook Where silver fishes dwell, her gentle stream With soft swell fann'd, with rushes all in one Through sunshine and sweet-scented delight she won. Nigh bay and reach the river, close to her, And with a calm and natural bewailing Upon the floor began to sail. And he, Albeit Ithaca grasping him still alive, Still bares his lips his wound, lest thro' the foam A flock of cadenced crows be borne Of deer or stealthy goat among the herd; Naked with feathers red they glide him home. All wondering at the form of one so fair, The silver-footed boy sings: I, indeed, Was startled at a bird he saw, who lay Wondering, and, all astonished, gazed on him, Harmless, his woeful utterance as he sung: Wherefore these woes upon thy heart attend, O Cypris, all unmeasured as thou art; Say, 'Eros, verily, how fare thy thoughts Till I shall tell, in the wide world art grown To me a jewel thou hast wed, to me. O that my grief and pains had found a home So sweet, so happy! for thou too wast sweet To be my bride, or to be won or lost. Ah! this is right: ay, and it is not meet For an impassioned bliss so long enjoyed. O that I had a home to follow thee O'er land and sea, over ======================================== SAMPLE 540 ======================================== 's eventful danglers I confest, Not calling forth that monstrous breed of pride, But this that loudest from the seething wave, And while the eye, like icicles, grow cold, Heaven keep these keels from sinking in the cold!" The armed Sun stooped and his glittering host Came forth to battle on the eastern coast, And with portentious rage the vanquish'd turned Against the deep and rocky cave, that spake The general doom to save. Nor was his aim Beyond his fated course, to cleave the sea; Yet had he giv'n an aim not less divine, Straight to the rocky bases of the deep He dash'd the rock, and, on the heav'nly dove Leaning, had crush'd the nethermost abyss. Nor of less daring deed kind fame befell At the tenth dawn, when with her beauteous eyes The sun, that sought the ocean, in his fall, Fell to the west, and veer'd the threat'ning sky. Then from Olympus' height, the gates of heav'n, In thunder through the firmament she pour'd: Full at the sea the cloudless vault up-piled Rose like a fortress rais'd o'er fire by night, The work of tongues, the signal of the strife. Full on the shore she set the sheeted oar, And, like Aeneas, welcom'd the delay; Then in the east the ocean lower sank, And Phlegethon wide-rolling came to land, And Helle stood, whose waves majestic strode, On Pallas' breast, from thy funereal pile. With death-denouncing looks, and heart elate, She look'd, and, "Look!" the Theban seer replied, "Nor thou the chief, nor Phlegethon like me Shall enter, though to Phlegethon he come. The bright effulgence of the gods I scorn'd, And so in words unveil'd me to the world, That I, in fear, beheld him leave the place." Thus she: the enchantress said no more. But, "Hail, O Neptune! I, from Ocean's face Shall see my wretched people safe return, And aid thee, if thou wilt, to pass the wave; While on the shore beside the veering isle, Or in the shadow of the wand'ring god To leave the walls, the arches, and the oar, Until thine anger cease, and get thee hence." To whom the white-arm'd Theban seer: "Nay, not To me the folly of thy mind, nor mine Are equal wonders, nor thy sufferings mean. Thou dar'st not interpose to make me such, Nor mine that, save I speak, I stand opposed. Thus, goddess, thine advice is still in me, And I this message from thy presence send: "Father, through whom in ages yet unknown The strength of mortals is, and Neptune's might, That through the wide-spread earth and flowing seas I guide my voyage to the other isles, And guard their homes and temples from the foe; That good I ask, that he may bide the test, I grant his favor, and thy favour grant." Then godlike Themis, spake, "This godlike one, If to this pit thou trust, be prompt to do: Nay, but some other time, if thine I be, Grant me one boon which you request of me." The goddess, heard with sudden passion, stirr'd Swiftly to Themis, and in silence spake: "Unbridled youth, why dost thou thus delay? Neither to thee thy peerless might oppose. But now I warn thee, since our voyage call, From Ocean's utmost barrier, to approach His neighbour's home, his presence, or his wrath; Nor dread, but be his notice satisfied; Give me the danger, for his arm at thee, And, as I say, if the commands I keep, No passage to the wrath of the blue-eyed maid Shall ever from thy lips his wrath withhold." Then answer'd Themis, "List, and look to this: If ever thy unhappy fate thou know'st, Come, he shall meet thee here, and meet thy fate." The slumbering maids confirm'd their voices loud; But Themis straight forbore the decrees of fate. "O Goddess," Themis sage began, " ======================================== SAMPLE 541 ======================================== , Well knowing the mirth of men. A sailor, a soldier. Ah, dastard and smart as harts; Whom bidden to battle for apart Will the drum and the fife defend? The world shall heed, if in land so vast Men strive for that lost one-house, Whose mouldering shrine Beauty once embraced, Where women's hearts in wine and sleep are set, And the hands of feeble and asleep beat. He thinks no band on the storm-swept waves Is surging and breaking; he scarcely knows When the tides of fight are at highest tide, And the lowest fell with the stoutest's pride. He sees how our heroes' armour rings On many a haughty breast; He heeds not, as he treads the measured earth, The heartless race of the slayer's birth, The trampling feet of the slayer's feet, The swords they hilt, as he mounts in the fight, And the tears they shed are a mingled light. No trumpet sound from the morning-glory, No drum, in the night, of the slow, swift feet. In the crowded streets, in the throng of the crowds, All hearts are hushed; the pillar of hate doth frown; Its might will be like the darkness, seen through clouds, When the dark wind buries its weary bands. And the angel with faith shall build his nest, With rainbows his weapons, his swift small sword, Whose thunder shall sing, in the loud, wild West, Heart-song for the camel and horse and lord; His awe shall be like the night at dawn, Like a dawn of the day where the angel comes To find the great love of his home. No morning dawn shall break on a sky-swept world; He harkens to voices that wing like a wind; He hears a river whose murmuring waters are lapped, And it tumbles and murmurs, "Is rest and peace." The sun of the East is smiling over the waves, The sea, like a spirit, is filling their graves; The ear of the wind is giving its rapture to all, And murmuring streams in a rhythm mystic-sweet. Oh, bat with a sword by the side of my spouse! Let him run from your side in an impudent style! With the wave on your ankle-pans, clap him a feathery hand, And leave him alone to the summons of battle and band! Oh, carry him home, for the winds blow bleak and hoary, And his mother will weep as she sits on her knee; From the smoke and the dust and the smoke, O the wail of my daughter, Will you hear, on the distant hill-sides of Revenge! Blow, blow, thou winter wind, Thy wildly wild refrain, And rend the forest's foliage With a gust of pain. Thy shroud of flashing green, Around the lonely tree, Despise the leafy darkness That shrouds the forest-eaves, The corncrake's gory blue, The moor-fowl's fervency, The martin-bird's note of song, And flutter of the withered wing Faint hunters of the moors, Make war on the untrodden shores Of the drear, green-sunken plain. 'Tis a cry of pain in the heart of a child; 'Tis a cry that alone can beguile The mother of man, and the fondle and tress Of the proud, green-sbosom'd hill, From the graybeard's plume-crowned crest, Till the blade, unsunken, drops, Low-breathed on the lonesome breast, O mother mother, mother dear, Weep thy son for the slain man's sake, That the woods may answer, and Heaven rejoice, And the echoes answer, "The cry is not heard!" "Mourn no more, thou wintry winds, To slay thee and to save; Mourn not in the flashing scowls, Nor chase thee far and near; The fluttered fleur-de-lis, The snow-field's russet shield, The blue-mantled crested plume, The aching wing of the cardinal, The terror of Cordelia, And the cold, grey tent of Mars. "No more and shalt thou know How much of grief is dead; And the glory of a parting ======================================== SAMPLE 542 ======================================== grass upon the grass and the last bird's wing in its nest! O woman who yet the purest ray drunken and wasted, thou dost understand what the end is if thou would'st understand! and under her linden-clad leaves, in a world all scathed for treason's sake, the sea-flag, white and white, covers between sky and sea, prevails, like a shroud, above the spray that bends like a shroud to the sea, and ever it swerves to the sand. And ever the billowy world turns round with a swing and a roar and a rattle of spray, and ever it rends the sea, fears to be seaward, and swims with death above the black rocks, and drowns in the brine and the fathomless deeps. to the mast in the solid clay, where the yawning chinks tread the sunlit seas; to the crags where gaunt the caves, and it furls its surges grey; to the shoals that shun the sun; To the breaking surges whirled and the wide sea-phlars hurled far a welter of sound: To the pallid deeps of the sea, where a sunken reef flies a helpless wreck; To the great reef of the world, where the laboring wind and the wave beat to the lips at the verge; To the meadows and palms of the sea, where the panther of love may browse, and the slowly changing sun presides o'er the wet-waved breast, for ever and ever, Beneath the moist white stone he lies pale, and dull with the hopeless quest. For the surface of the midnight sea a glimmering sheet reveals in the glimmer of silvery tears the ghostly lips of the dead. Hark! the surf the sound has drowned, the echoes of long ago crowd on crowding strand and strand, and whisper a hundred ways over the clamorous sands of the sea. And if one should wander astray with a garment and black hair, with mists upon forehead, the way would be long to the wistful ghosts of the ever-dead who passed over the heaving waste; to them would be long to the dead who could walk with the eternal dead. But the gibbet is dark and the grave is sharp and the folk who came from the sullen grave would cry, "We shall not seek in the world a ghost by the living denied." And the great highway, the crowded street, dabs of black, wades out, and a mingling of breath and the silence of death. There is a freshness and fragrance in the air, and a chill of the rain. Now we wander for ever over the sea, and shiver with fear at the close of day. There is a tenderness, a grace and a spell in the time we came here, thoughts that were sweet with our lips, and childhood with its life, and love that was like a flower when no one saw or asked What breathed we or what we asked. They called us dead men, mad men and not the old, the dreamers who smiled on us, and only the dead, the dreamers who thought we died on the lips of the grass blades that fell in his beard and the warlike blood of the slain. We know him dead and gone, we know his face, the demon of laughter, the gibbet, the old, the elaborate pain, the harlot alive, theertopping thief, and the depths of the sea and their green, purple deeps, and the long, swollen tides, and the little waves that were a red flood, and the green slime of the ground that lieth dead, and the wet and greedy dead that slept in the dead; and the tired faces, the faint, dusty rafters, the silent slabs on the marble, the tattered jewelled walls that hang like iron chains that hang in the purple river. Lo, Death comes riding by. a blue and gold car in his train has he come to light the darkness and lift the curtain with a stride. And the maiden sleeps beside her sleeping men, but like a beast when the night routs round and round and the light streams round faint forms and forms move along with gentle voices, as though a man's ======================================== SAMPLE 543 ======================================== , undit, An' mebbe unmel on; Mavit mis lairds: Ann's snug undeviled to heart's end, An' dreamin' in a bough. So 'ere's good-luck to me! Ole eddil and gude blue god, Fern pessled you, an' roonnd o' doot, Sae ye 've heerd oot an' stroonnd oot An' there ye'd seen no no more Me fast a saft an' thraw: Then comes, an' there I stood 'Appearin' 'at me fare to be, Some awful, damnable waur chaid, Re-ewordin' yow to see. "I mend, an' straik, an' then I end There stan's oot never't mine. I stan' me agin o'er to your maw, An' oot is tumblin' now. "I'll come an' look on baith your eyes, An' wear out o' your e'e, While some hot, smytin' o' you keeps A muckle decoy frae me. I'll cry to ye yestreen, in jest, Whan kirsen ye as fast." "Then I'll run on an' bare your breast Like any youngling spunk, An' wilfu' folk at ye wad gang On better nichts to whack." An' noo, ye spak a word, an' stammer Straight ran amang your lear. "That's just our game," quo' she, "I ken; There's butt to ben a fair; I am your ain wife, Sae I can plead, To wush your grief sae sair. I've weel be kindly, kith an' kin Ye'll climb yon' loftit butt; I canna bear to view ye greet, An' ye wull ne'er come up." Oh, weel's me on on ony thing, An' I cannae toonward; For weel I mind the time o' your A gentle ministone. Oh, weel's me on my ain wife, On some sweet lea; Wha like yoursel' right weel An' meet wi' me. "I ken your heart will never break, Ye may not wander far; I 'm only at my mither's side, To sat an' patted her: I ken your kind heart will not fret, Its very best I shall forget, For it canna' gi'en to me. It 's no my own, it 's no my cot, But I 'll bring it to the door; By this the fause chance may ye met, Ye 'll ne'er escape, before." "Nae sooner, by the ingle-light, Sae I wad mak' a history, Though by-an'-bye I winna see My sister Kate, the chiel, the chiel." "Oh, by and bye! I see her now The auld folks hold their tongue; But though the folk are in the mood About my graith and gang, Oh, well I tent the chield I 'll noo, I 'm happy, and nae langer bang; My father he gaed to the war, An' married a true wife an' a far, A kind o' ingle-lowe. An' whan I get ance to gear My hame in mony a frien'; I mind my plaidie's kilted plaid Come owre the sea to stappen my maen; She 's thinking on my early youth, My gude auld heart an' a leal wife; She left me a greetin's butt, an' fou', Aboon the fattest kind o' rhyme. She thought me like my father dear, When'er he 'd wedded a sleek-neck'd neel; 'I liked to ken the name o' Low, But that was when he lo'ed for me; But now I 'm like him to my breast, An' the puir time I hae to rest; He had kind o' smiled, an' kindled wi' pride, Wi' hasty steps to kind o' me. ======================================== SAMPLE 544 ======================================== The highest in heaven, Most blessed in earth. <|endoftext|> They say there are poets who are always fresh and pious to each other, you cannot think it "worship" to my father Orrete Lent. I am sorry, but I understand it. I am too old to read. You must all of it, no doubt, but leave it to me that myself. Now I can but write a little verse. I wait for you to come to me to-night The dear frivolity of the world I am in remembering. O shamefaced October!--we have no choice, No grand-stand, but a common bloom just now That on some morn you played your little games, But where my time went, you went lavishing A sweep of your triumphal march a thousand times I write this marble book, and here you fell As many times, but now have reached the door Where peace, transplanted, comes. Flower of my days, I lift your wreath to-night, immortal goddess, While I pour some flower to give your worship So is it The poet who contemplates the soil of Italy, and in no wise the (fascinated censure of any large book in front of its pages) is here corrected. (However) When I can point out at you I will draw near. When I get even enough of the world, I will too squabble and dissolve and retreat For there is nothing whereto I am struck off And glad, and straightway I will be no fool. But the world is the average mother Who has that tender love she has chosen for her husband, It is very pleasant and lovely to see her and read her In the summer morning read and wrote all her to me That she knows the power and worth of the beast That always devours and drinks and snuffs and whispers-- Then I stand by her and my trouble is told, And a verse of poetry's meanings is told In a song to the world. What can the heart of a poet tell? "The sunrise is out yonder--he is near-- The chariots are hot and the journey is slow; And he is a justice, and never will know The hansom of peace--he is near at hand! And he is a brother--a lover, forsooth! But he is a friend of most people--a friend Of most people--he has the eyes of all! He loved the Hebrew Prophets, and by their creeds He was one of them. "He made them poet men, And here he is indolent. He made them write For high honor in case of unfading rhyme And grand idyllic scenes. It is very cold At this hour of the year where he came to write. I am all over naked now. All this is cold; My flowers are grown, and the park is frozen here. "No, I will not be here. I am wholly worn. There is nothing the world calls the creatures of earth Which has sent me to seek--who is better than I, A dust-cloud of sorrow. My spirit has passed Unanswered since my first visit to that place Among the living. Indeed! I have had a call For the city to rise in. I spake of the things. I will not be here. I will die. To-morrow May call me home to you, so take me the old And unconcern of your heart. Never elsewhere shall I go And my heaven is above. I see by the old window a great green tree Still live upon this wooded knoll, Where the golden summer day Silently frolicked and lay Dreamily rosying; it was April once, long ago. The stars shine over the sky; And the blossoms sleep in the trees, And the autumn leaves lie white Upon those lilies, still and sweet, Waiting, sleepless, to fall In a quiet sleep in the red, red earth. But I see only my beautiful and dear, And in dreams I hear the step Of one who, still looking In her eyes, stands looking At the summer trees in the red, red earth. At last the evening came, And the great white stars were pale, And a cold wind crept along Over the bed of the sky, Towards the east; and the hermit's bell, And the mournful hermit's song, Darkened the long, long ======================================== SAMPLE 545 ======================================== "This charm, which I have brought, for various years, Sweet Highland Girl! this marvel of my tears. She never to the distant woods returned, But lived alone, and waiting for my cord Approached, and drew the wealth up from its store, And pleased the woman with my charms to share. "Was she less blithe, or less presumptuous too? Not that less lovely, with less amorous brow, Whose influence I scarce can think, than she! Love's gentle shafts, through many a pleasant hour, Pursue a phantom to the shades below. I grant it: since it pleases with my fate, Her grave, still dearer, smiles upon my love. But she, whose kindling darts along with you, Shall feel as I when first she came to be, And only when,--her gentler nature strove, And mine but blasted with my amorous flame! "Were not my fate more pangs than righteous one, Who kept her sacred and her beauty free, Should she survive, when death had made me one, As white from guilt as black from victory! I pass the man she loved; we may not move The dark, like him, oppress or govern me. Can I command my queen, or I command? Nay, be my blessing granted,--and no more! Your bridal hour, God bless me, if I die!" 'Tis so much to be wished for, In the school where people learn To keep secrets for the man, Not a love that you might learn. Once, O ye nations, whom the power Of inspiration, strength, might sever, And we, who are now concern'd In life,--when the Flood we view, If we should look for new; If the potentate obey, And not constanc'd for new; If the shrinkled world betray, And when from duty free, And the open main, we rise, By an earlier law of birth; If there's anything to do, Of the Spirit, where we bow; Or if 'tis something not to be But a spiritual, be it so. Give no man the rapid fire, Which the Spirit ill could feed; Give no man the ready heart, Which the world has ready part. Give no man the strength you find To extinguish evil's dart; Give no man the heart to swell, And the soul to change its nature. Then from him whose active store Self-delighting makes more sure; From him who quails before, Who at dawning villany Rises with him, face to face, Who caresses, vanishes, Let him never put it by. A beauty there is in these eyes, Which, changeful, moisten with a ray, Answers the spiced and morning skies, And, in its wonted way, Strengthens and sweeps along the sun, And makes the visible sky more bright, And makes the labouring clouds more bright. The creatures here that rove in and around Incline to hail the hallowed light, By instinct instinctivate, or found, Like plants to nourish and support the earth; But rather through effecting, or repair, By a sure impulse, to keep down the strife, And aid the weak, and make the strong, That foes invade, or savage, to resist; And in its first defence, destroy the foe, And into strength and weakness sacrifice. That Nature's course may here be kept, To guide us, through the pleasant inter-mingled air, Where the broad foliage spreads, of various forms, A radiance lending to the breeze, Whose sport is every bush and leaf, More than the seasons do, With all their wild reality; And, therefore, with a sure instinctive mind We humbly ask our providence to give The first start, which the proud instinct that finds In change a grace that nature gave, A power, that's not by nature form'd, But, in some changeful hue, that's not defect. The virtues old have had their season, As they were wont, the dislike and the dearth, The displacable, the smooth, the true, An endless course, in varied forms, in length: But these are all too names, not to be born By children's hands, but others, since the place Where we suppose our age in saying so Is but a time, in books, or pipes, or pipes. Yet we must pause, and ======================================== SAMPLE 546 ======================================== ; It is in truth a most prodigious tale. Thy praise was awful, but I had mischained Thy patience with it. In THE DEATHERS' BREAD Men write cold names upon their works by night Upon their faces--kindly men whose sight Is bounding all their lives by their endurance, And sweethearts that from early thought have swerved To pity, or for barely Good receives. True and unselfish, not like continents Of ice and snow, and from their rocky breasts Some of thy cold transparency have dashed Their insubstantial snow and given to earth A living and a buried atmosphere; Some nameless passions, like thy buried flesh, Born of the flesh, like infants in their veins Whose sudden flashes burst the primal dawn. Thy fate is sealed, and thou art free to live: Free to myself as to some poor marsh land's slave, Whose chair is in the Governor's chair, and wields The ploughshare; or on stricken field rides down A harnessed steed that drags him to his grave. Yet let this year be as it will, and mark The good old law which held so many a year The better cause of our salvA"d hymn; A few sad lessons of the hardened laws Which are the better in the happier days When Christ in suffering was the noblest man. Ah, little shrunken heart, whose life is spent In monstrous liking! But we love thee still, And while we doubt of any other thing, The very first and chief we must be patient, While the strained chords of every thought are strained To catch the sound, and we no longer hear Thy heart-beat echoing through the chamber door. <|endoftext|> A portrait hath the Jews as it is For doom. We read of David as he slays A quick smile at his darling. But it lies Here to abide for many years, and thence A court-martial. But that Prince, the Prince, A heartless, sullen peasant cannot change His presence from the loveliest of his race. Yet Richard, being conscious, should be proud That he was born as an unholy prince To a great and virtuous mother. His heart (As hers had been) lay open at the sight Of a strange guest, her busy, humble life, Like some strong fortress, when the greedy eye Sees not a light, nor sees the dusky head Of business glare. His nature was so low, And, failing that it soothed the heat of youth, He shielded himself from penury and wrong With strength by miniature and cunning craft, And lent to the sincerity of thought Strong minds and open actions to control The lawyer's hand. So may we love the Prince! He did not praise his destiny, nor write His idleness upon the stage of life, But held that state of manhood gently there, And, therefore, should not shun the wider scope Of study and ambition, so he stood Alone by Nature, and the world itself. The Prince through sheer despite of self-intent Sought after him the letter of his sire. He read it in the paper; and his heart Flashed at the words in which he read--the Prince! We think in the great house that he was born, We think by the great hearthstone. He had lived An empty life. Upon the borders, too, With his son's fancy, at his father's side, And at the palace of the Herod court, His father's, at his mother's side, at first, He looked and knew not if in Nazareth, For they were children and he knew not father. The Three Kings came and left the Kings, and showed Their wisdom; but the Athenian sage, A hoary-headed, silent man, rehearsed His glory, but when early on his ears A third thought entered like the rising blast, The word "Cucolious!" all the silence broke, And knowing it to be a wiser man Than what he did, so his great grandsire's pride Grew silent and ashamed to listen to it. The sorrow in his face, the heathen pride, The thirst for knowledge, and the weary years, Had passed away, and left his senses clear; But when he was grown wise, and taught, and told, Of Christ's hereafter, of his mother's voice, He rose up to embrace the Saviour's feet. And then he read the future, and he ======================================== SAMPLE 547 ======================================== and the sighing wind, And yet the fault is known Both by the simple hearer, And by the pen of shame. Sits he at evening, by the fire, Or under contemplation's gray, In dull, dark-sounding slumber Sees nought but snow and sleet Which God's strong hand has made are In wind and storm and sleet. Gone is the light of many lands, And many lands has gone before, And still through seas, and fields, and bands Keeps the cold message more and more About the crags of ice and snow, Which men call storms, and stand to know. In the long winter time it was Only a winter evening, calm, And deep with boughs half bare, Upon the snow, in winter's rage, The coming tempest beat, And the long hours kept calm and calm Because of their majestic calm; And the harsh, bitter snow, in which They died upon the cold, In bitter cold, was hid from sight From man and nature while they could. The frost-wind whips the windows through, The icicles are falling fast, And yet, through all the winter time, The heart is not all pitiful, For the north wind at early dawn Steals coldly, pensively, With white-rose fingers deftly drawn. The snow-wind trills its purest notes, It sighs, it talks, it shines, And it hurries as it seeks the frost; But oh, how far from white and cold, On frozen earth and polar cold! Night is behind the day, The snow-wind thrills its tangles, Loud with delight, The thistledown is heard to sing. The gleaming frost-wind With skiey sway Sweeps through the sunny gray, Faintly and quickly away, Like the winds that wander In hailstones' spray. Spirit and life are so beguiled By loveliness of man and brute, And pleasure so beguiled From his delights he could not gain His eagle's whiteness, his own crown, His tarnished soul's seductive grace, But over every man's bright brow And bluer brow The love-birds feather now. The crimson crown of his grey crown Is crowned with starry diadems, But every path where man may tread The mountain-peak is a gorgeous road To the peaks of death and destiny. He does not know the haunts of men Who wander with no step but mine, Who all the little golden years, Whose lives are fighting to a close, Might gain together, hand to hand, Their merciful inheritance. There is a poem in the books Which runs through all my book, Wreathed with a few flowers, where the wise Have learned their secrets. But to me, The poem reads, the ancestry Stands living still; The lands beneath it still have names, Whose fame shall never die. And when within its great glad eyes I read of all its deeds, I place these few words on the truth That is no blot of deeds. And when it smiles at all the pain, I seem to see again The little holy hands which said, You will not stain your hand. I turn from all this fascinating of the actors who, none can be good or am not good to see-- Not the house-lamp, only, all the lights are good to see. Is there room enough in the world to be alone and keep alone? There is enough in this world to be lonely and alone? Why are the others not here? I must tell them, then I see. But they are nothing, having already seen and seen, And I can see the light, or feel the quiet of its shade; I cannot tell, but I could see it, else I cannot be afraid. I never was as foolish as some men are, and all unknown, But they have withered up in the very middle of my days; And I cannot see them now, nor feel the agony of things, For they have vanished out away beyond the verge of things. I think it will not be good to shift my hopeless joy For the past life, and live in me and don my lonely cheer; I cannot hear the voices of that one of the sadisen, Or the melancholy of the wailing of the hearts that tire; But I see something that is good, and I feel it like good God, When I have toiled ======================================== SAMPLE 548 ======================================== okt, On whose spear pierce the princely bird, Whom the meek and silvermaidens sought In the gates of Pluto's drear abode. These Perseus with unblenchable draught Spilled in an adder's bowl of gold, And in body and soul and maw and stench The drink they gave, invocably stored. With wines they mixed, a labyrinth long and wide They walled about the people's side, Whilst the rambling gnomes their feasting, And from tepid cups came back to rest, Till on Alecto's soul once more The queen poured to her slave a bowl, And on this poor body she poured And spake unto the queen in heat: "Now comfort thee, Eurynome, And let the sunlight strong be thine, For so is none of all mankind Obedient to thy rightful reign. Kings for thy children's children made In that dread land are ever nigh, Wherein to guile they doom a trade And sorrow for the ages lie. Thy strength and might the power invest To guard the right of Israel's land. Thus, holy brother, will we twain Live peacefully this day for aye, Nor fear the storms for any rain, For nought I fear, though heaven be high. Thus may the rain, by day or night, For my transgressors pure be freed, Though many of the daughters bright Are out upon the earth abid, And though the storm and death of all This day shall have a balm for them, May they themselves all safe remain In their appointed purposed reign, For ere they reach Jerusalem May never night and morn be vain. And they the children, born of God, Obedient to his awful will, From my transgressors' guidance driven Have not their father sorrowing still. That they may meet on holy earth The purport of my hopes and joys, In these redeemers' awful will Still kept in view by thee and me, Ráma the blameless and the brave, Of Sítá born and Lapland slave, Of Ushantá born, and with them, pure As shines the moon through the clear sky, This is the text of every saint. Oft, in thy house I dwelt alone And gazed for hours upon thy line, Until from hence, with many a tear, I turned away with all my kine, And followed thee, my bright-eyed heir. Thou camest, fairest of the fair, To pools where cowslips bent the way, And many a gentle flake of flute Thine amorous touch awoke me there. Thy wild deer's flesh made sweet for thee Were fragrant matchless, and it told My spirit how thy line of ancestry, O Pájava of celestial mould, Thy glorious Sítá dear to me, Was made of deer and rams like thee. Then why, O Son of Chastomá, Why thus in envious reverence To friends and foes in reverence Thus to thy darling Ráma said, Thy fair and glorious Moon shall be Obedient to thy summoning. Far be it from me when I speak To him whose words are tenderest, E’en as he waits thy high decree In joy to greet his King and thee. Forgive me, great Kakutstha’s child, If suppliant thee I still may hold, And win my pardon for my faults, For thou shouldst say, O friend of mine, No longer I endured with thee, But, troubled at the cause I know, To Chitrakúṭa spoke like thee. But Ráma is a cruel one, And mine, I know, will ever be. Thou, fickle Chief, wilt never be So blest as thou art fair to see. Thy peerless form will never be Dear as that star whose gleaming ray Dims the sad face of the night and day, And other vanities shall win Who ne’er to meet by Ráma’s sin. Soon shalt thou quit the low estate That makes the poor unfortunate; For wealth of realm and kingly state Is ne’er to those who seek it, And poverty and exile, O The husband and the wife, I see With hosts of wives a captive free. Then, when from honour’s shrine they go, Thou and the noble Bharat ======================================== SAMPLE 549 ======================================== each face, and let the forward clown Come running here and there about the town, Or venturous crouching underneath the shade Of some most noble hart, his wild brown hair Turned on the side his passion to pursue. Awhile he ran with such a course that all The multitude beside their master ran Appeared not, for no reason, to rebel. Beneath the trees the moonlight filtered through The dark-green elm trees, as he crossed the stream To distant meadows and to reedy grass, And left his path beneath the shadowy elm With tangled boughs and tufts that seemed to sing For something that he wished to stand and see. And now for this hunting, unendeared The bell began to go, the house was full. And he must seek to find it, or, at first, To find it scattered, lest they unaware, Should think of lying mangle in the midst Of those trees, or her, that had most feared To cross the river, or be torn in two, With all her aprons and her webby wreath. But as he past the reedy shore again, He saw a boat, that tiptoe on the tide, And, shuddering, scarce had reached the landing-place Of that great stanchions; and the stench was spread Through all the fissures following on his track, Till, softly stealing forth, he lightly caught The dove's wing, where it was not wet or dry. But now far off the sound of voices rang, In a deep chirp of mingled joy and pain, That though the earth no longer was and musk, He laughed and said, "Through thick and thin, O Lord, Help me, O help me, O my God am I! The cruel archer, then, who once had shot Beneath his bow the daughter of the earth, Is wounded by my spear, and dies of pain." The casements were broken by his sturdy stroke, And all the daughters in the halls of Nome, At the sight of this, were borne to the far end Of the long run, still looking forth, who well Were in the fight on the green forest-cover, The tireless one with speed, and yet one more. He could not speak; but as he saw the chase Between the mountains and the sallows run, His left hand bore the long tusks from the root Of some great pear-tree, and his fluttering beard Was let by the breeze of morning, and therewith The panting hound-greed of the ancient wood, And her he loved and much the fairest, who Beside him often as he marked the way That he should tread; and these poor women did. Yet in the deep recesses of his soul These thoughts came to him as a living thing, Not of the world, for which he used to sing, But of a wild and echoing symphony, Which made the air as soft as if the own Light stirred within him, and he murmured forth Some simple song he was possessed by fame. He rarely thought of Love, when young men dreamed That he would hold a hand, or even then Seemed to have bent his head before his eyes And, "What a pair!" said he; but, at the last, It seemed that he saw more than mortal forms, Such glorious aspect and sweet forms as be The shame of the earth-warrior, who, however, By chance or natural birth, were first to know That him, a youthful friend, was being made, But, when thou didst rejoice in being young, Thou wert beloved, and he began to think That in the heavenly kingdom which he served Thou didst exalt him, and, among men, couldst That he should be a king, and wear his crown As a spotless child. In after years, perhaps, The nymphs, perhaps, were called to court, and some Worthy to wear his crown, until he died. Yet, none so well expressed the pain which lay Burdened upon his brain by his slow race. All day, in lonely walks, and when the sun Shone on the lake, in mirthful disarray Wept his declined beams, and made a dull And drowsy appetite by that dim flock Of sovran images, and so grew pure As the black air lived round him, and became Endless in their transcendent splendour, and filled With joy as the wild wind had answered in vain ======================================== SAMPLE 550 ======================================== us, and Ajax gird; The warrior stands o'erwhelmed beneath the weight Of burning spears, while all around is mute With gaping wounds, they earnestly dispute. Hector the while would meditate some act Against thee; others, prone in the dire fight, Will from his body rend, and dash him dead; Or with the sword his friend will bear him down Into the gulfy Hellespont ere night. But why thyself, Achilles? Who art thou? O son of Peleus, thou that vainly mourn'st Thy son, that thou art living, and hast lived A life of sorrows since his body left. Him answer'd then brave Hector of the glancing helm: "Thy son, Atrides, thou hast much misdeem'd Of all this battle, by the lightning's force Of Hector slain; and me, who lately stripp'd Thy arms, now helpless, in the ships contain'd. E'en thou wouldst fain have fled, had'st thou once more Enjoin'd me to thy peril, now, to bear My body with thee, and my heart with joy." He said, and Peleus' godlike son complied. Thus the Immortals, and the godlike chief His father's spirit moved; the starry Heav'n Appear'd, and Darkness veil'd the mighty frame, When mighty Ajax from the field of fight Return'd triumphant, and Achilles drawing near With loud-resounding voice his eager steeds. The Trojan chief had giv'n him, but the Gods Impartial, for his noble heart restrains The fiery steeds; he, panting, would have died E'en at his length, but that the fiery son Of Peleus, Diomede, threw him on the plain, Stripp'd of his arms, and dragg'd him from his car, So veil'd from sight of all beside the slain, That none might dare to draw him from the fight. Thus fought th' immortals all; when Ajax first And brave Ulysses, rival of the Lord Alcathus, of equestrian skill replied. Oh son of Peleus! wherefore wouldst thou weep? I know thy tears, for thou hast wept, indeed, All in thy house, and torn from thee by force Of warriors all; but when thy Goddess-mother Hath chas'd thee safe to her own sacred town, Then thou shalt toil at even as men have borne Thee to thy father's tomb. Myself I own, If thou indeed art he whom in the fight Of all the Greeks Irothæmenus thou slew'st, And here shalt perish, smiting by the spear My bosom with such longing, that my sire, Meantime, may joy in such a prize the Gods To have convey'd thee to thy home again. These thoughts, unhappy one, have pass'd away, Nor shall return me more. Nor know I much My purpose, whether with the injur'd Greeks Some God impart; yet thou departest here E'en from the city, and these men the fight Shalt make between us; bootless to escape E'en by Achilles' hands, and to return To his own country, where his wealthy bride Is seated in her splendid wardrobe, built By Peleus' cunning hands, who, e'en although The city-walls and battlements be sack'd, Her bosom shall not need thy brave defence. She spake, and, kindling in her breast his spear, Among her vestsels hung her aegis sheath'd, And to her feet profuse her precious sword. And now the ruthless son of Peleus slept Deep in his bed, but putting forth his arms Himexiously, folding his glorious arms Gave to Peiraeus his fair hair, and in, And round him clasping fondly both his knees, He lean'd, he press'd his hands, and thus he pray'd: "Mother, my child, in thy unhappy age Achilles lies; art thou indeed the cause Why weeps and mourns? art thou, indeed, the cause Of this pernicious wretch? His son am I; His paramour my paramour, and I Who reign o'er Priam's race? Thou gav'st me oath To win his daughter for a spouse, and I Now from his bed departed, when the judge Had called me to the field, with whom to cope In ======================================== SAMPLE 551 ======================================== place, where the ripe fruit lies for those who have wasted the water so many years--both, my sight being roft before, like fruit, of the bitter sea, the water and the water too many for one and the other. But I--I beheld, hearing from one of my people flying before me a bird, flying, full of spirit, in its claws, even as a good wolf seals his own." the serpent's tongue. I turned my back, and saw that all was fixed as a drum. And as when a man whirls aigles back to the fire, he goes again, was not he, my father's feet being lightened; and the bright flame darted up straight from the earth, and so cornices began to move, whereat it snapped and disorder'd, and sharpened itself. I remember that many a time my lank body was all burning beneath the tremulous light. It was here that fires, for the high torch was owing to the motion of its hoof. And one of the letters of Gregory Eloisa--greatly famous for their length,--leaned upon him even as my soul: he wore three cans, but he was uncles of the left hand; and he had a cans posture upon the other side, so that few of them were left under it--seven on the right; and he wore the left hand out over the right, and wore the left on a corner to save himself from being too heavy. And even thus the back side of the car, which had already been accomplish'd, began, as one who perceives a muzzle when the fire is reflected, to laugh, and make the tongue shut. All sleeping together its red faces, while all eyes were fixed upon the other side, swallowed it out; and I saw the left hand open, which was leaning against it, with its right arm lifted it: its breast to the wrest from it, held me close; the left stood empty of sense, and prone was the blond head that trembled like a dog or flounder, when one, gazing on his fault, stretches his muzzle and his jaws fangs were slack. "O Mary, I envy thee not," said he, "that only because thou art deeply anxious about the possession of the time, but as for the contrary, that I stay in this place; for the sun, rising from the sea, has been slow hither, resolving here to me to change his road. He does not need my coming, so long as I sit at his side; for this, and more than a thousand more, each transferred, mingled with other, without thy knowing. Moreover, thou didst bear this plant along with me so that it bore name from the maternal breasts of the holy ones, and to these thou didst declare to me, "This one was Cianfa, and he gave the wide-way through the wood to our own harm; but here it is abandoned and rejected, so as to leave me alone with my father. The other two, close behind us, a little aside from me, are carried on in order to take us away from the hill. And thou shalt see how my sister, who is always turning around her head, grasps my grasp. Thou wast not afraid of me; and surely my life and health would be closed about thee, if thou hadst not been here." Here she speech breath'd, and I saw their faces, such as thou wouldst not have seen, by being thus quiet. And as to his mother the tremulous fire is wont to make smelish, when her son has made her bed to issue near, so offers the burning forth that the oil to wash with a goodly warm bath purges the soil; and it came to pass that Circe washerwoman, who with her own hands made her bed along with them, for they were exceeding fond. 'How didst thou come to the two nymphs,' said I, 'while on the way along the bank we held our way, such long as I saw thee not,--till I saw thee stand upright.' 'Then Circe said: 'Calamity, child of Circe, spin me, who thou art; and if ever I see thee with thine eyes, thou avow what justice it is to thee, who hast spoken these words; and tell me their supplication. Day and night have they foretold; but they would have mercy upon me.' 'Thus would I say: 'The triple sisters and the nymphs have ======================================== SAMPLE 552 ======================================== Light shall return again, and men shall grow Louder and louder, as men hear him groan, Walking alone upon the shores of death, Whose shores with graves and leaves are overcast, 'Neath waves and waters. Wherefore if thou seekest A refuge 'twill be better for thy breast From th' evil spirits. Like a corpse shall glide Upon thee, like a leaf in autumn's blast, To lie in depths of earth, and not to be Hurt by the winds, but wafted by the breeze, Shall be thy dwelling-place; and o'er the sea Thy name shall be a sign for thee to bear; And, upon its opposing margin, Hell. O'er the dark flood the Titans held their way, And fell like flocks of snow, With Atlas' head crowned; And dragged along the steep. And gazed beneath the heavens in wrath, And blanched with angry thunder, All the elements seemed made To still some human thunder. The Titans loomed around, Like snow-clouds towering o'er The dull way-side, which then With earthquake overthrew Uplifted, fell again, And made their central way A space, ere it might stay. But while Olympus rolled Back from its mouldering hold, The clods below were deep In abyss deep enough deep To hold all heaven and hell, And races circling all, From Zeus's ruling hand That bloody way-side to take life again; For sure, if I would know it, Were I within this place, Or in this alien clime, Unfeeling evils here Would keep my mind unbroken. But no! And thou canst know Of all the wrack, the weariness, the press, The petty rack, that in the burial-stone Preserves a holy name, Grim wrongfully enwound by Zeus's own hand. Go, then, and cease from age! And thou shalt see my page Pass in review of life; As when the closing porch Of some benighted age, Before men's lips did play Their tricks about to pray, Ere yet the curtain dropped, Ere yet the sun was fullest. So may the soul that errs not From sin and toil obscure, Keep, till the human tracks Be cleared, and even the foul Was healed, and man forget And live again, though in Death's wardship still we live. When hearts within him burn with all aflame, When on the passing hour fair Aphrodite fair, Behold the load of glory laid at length Upon the outstretched body of its strength, And leap to conquer it; I that am made one With the eternal will, the will of all, Can well be god or goddess. I the oldest of souls am, who shall tell How I entered the flowery kingdom of Night, And, a child, at my feet, in the air Glimmered the beautiful. As I gaze thereon, As I gaze thereon, As I look, I see As I glance from thee, As I look, see thine eyes As I gaze thereon. And as if the beauty and mystery Of the throned moon were here to see, Is there aught of glory or of glory, Aught like this lovely sphere to me? Or have the angels thought of those who come To drink from those eternal globes divine, Which, be they pure or dim, the very cells That breathe their pure felicity To please the one, the other only, and they be To one another, and, in what spheres they move, To one another all their perfect loves? Or is there yet no god, no music, no light, No freedom of the beautiful with none, The eternal and eternal, one and all, And none other, save in those large stars Which are but the witnesses of the world? And there are those whom I have seen, I think, Shadows, when the world is shut in the doors of night, And the thoughts within them sleeping, and all Crawled and clanking and splashing in the wind, When they play the soft guitar, or have a care Of stirring the sleep that's made of the sad heart In harmonies that are sung for only this. Here is a palace to those who have known Love, undying grief, loving, and a grief That is born of the flame within, Caught from the jewels, shattered and turned into Rivers, and crowned ======================================== SAMPLE 553 ======================================== ; And from those heavenly gates I found ye Sitting in council, as in heaven. What favour then ye win to grace, Who with your fellow menials came! Let them your rich account enjoy; And let their mouths your praises claim; 'Tis he alone, who made ye great, Your little race, whom none excels, A glorious prince, and lord of you, His warriors and his chivalry. Let all become as you are kind, And prove that you are godlike still, To be, in that, you made, your will; In all those gifts I hold so cheap, By which God gives me all good things. Then grieve not, poet, if I may, My thought was ever young, I pray, For what so dear a boon should be As this that now I drink to thee. This, this it is, my love: but take That oath which none can take away: He that can write, and write, and shake My fiery spirit from its sway. Yet thou art armed for such a cause: On thee shall all my fame be cast: I am not raised by such a force As were the praise and pride of all. But thou hast the same spirit still, And therefore, Shakespeare, speak thy name. Go and set the ship on the sea-shore, Where, ere I see thee, I will be, That I have power, and love, and thee. I knew thee once, but I have seen A time when thou couldst not be mine; Thy memory comes of some late morn, And fresher in thy verse than wine. Thy fire, which Love, so strong as thee, So kindled once, was but a flame Of holy Truth, once dead and dead, Which even in youth made Poet-desire With inner beauty, from the same. The wine I drink is lech of zeal, Which loves of wine alone I draw: And then the sober simple wine, Which were its own best beverage, Sufficed me only to forsake The Muses of the fair belief, And my lost laurel, which I turn Hearkening, in a sort I hear thee sing, 'Tis one of Thames and Leven More. But if thou hast, as I forebode, So good a friend, how should I fear That, wanting thee, I still am good, Who love thee still, and love thee sheer? I know not, I but see thee now As once in London, when men said Who made me what I am, thou being dead, To me thou art still living still. I see thee, friend, I see thy tears That trickling down thy cheek, and mine; I know that on the banks of Thames Thou shinest still as London's shine. I see thee, friend, I see thy tears That trickling down thy cheek and eyes: I know I bid thee be thy peers; I know I bid thee be thy peers. I see thee, friend, I see thy tears That trickling down thy cheek and eyes: I know that on the banks of Thames Thou com'st still clearer than mine own, Where thou art going, thou art gone; And I have nothing in my moan. I see thee sitting by thy bed, No word to show thee, no stave more Than thy own ring, or thy own sire's tread; I see thee drinking down the well Where none hath part so fit to weep. I see thee drinking down the well Where none hath part so fit to weep. I see thee drinking down the well Where none hath part so fit to weep. And this, I know, is pretty play; This, I know, is perfect rest; This, I know, is perfect play, Where none shall make such sound at last, While the world doth sit and drunken to sleep. Ye wretches that have no home in the tombs, Ye whose lips speak the tombs and have no speech, Who weep before the Lord, and know not of this: To whom shall this answer be given each day? The sad tears which we shed shall we cast out for thee? Your cruel tormentors! and what can you do? To ease you of your load? to bind up the limb In misery and pain? to cast over the eyes Of sorrow? to tear up the tears of the dead? For you were neither good nor mild, you say, Nor kind nor pleasant, nor anything That is not ======================================== SAMPLE 554 ======================================== vota est. Sed quod fecerunt corda potest, Leuiorum fecerunt, levare signum Sese perdat, et in tristi Moenia quae possim cupidinem; Domini reserant partis; Suavis amat, et cum te ponas. Non pia est, non posse est: nos Sed quae tuis dulcis est. Verum ubi nullos deterre est Currat, et tunc primi quae negant Carmina tantum pedem vestem? Nulla superi tuncunt carmina Donum hoc castra futura uua, Ut si quaecunque instare ferendae: Non nullus est, non posse est, Quod gener est, ut tibi iam dona est. Nec ubi tum, cur erat nostrum Inuitans: cui formam posse est, Aut carum, legum, laedificum Dejuram et apricorum In tenaculae sonantium. Sic coelo exiguos doncellos Rursus in armis, arguitie, Surgit amari aliqua leon, Quod minuat medio permisti, Nil diu sedes postulat Tot se retorta uenit, et Indolis frigida lubricam Vivere, nec nimium est aditus Victorulentus faciem. Quid tu, reperti tempora nec Agmen serena sepultos, et Aeterno deuenerant amoris, Donati cecidere iugum est? What seek ye? With words not from mine? To me ye appear one and all, Both one and the other a mist That hovers about ye as mid-sea; So change ye, ye cloudletts, shape All kinds of smoke as the wind is; Bear witness, mermaids, to me your cheeks Even your agues, but not your tints That you unwither loiterate; As far as yon cloud to the south Vaunting up-wind towards the South That storm-wind toward the North. All so it doth, that doth behold The earth a-dotted, even as old And various as earth, wherein ye bear More ruddy rims than yon high sphere Of burning stars, serenely clear; That high as heaven your faces are Eternal, as ye saw them here, All of ye saw it in your sight. These spots to th' Moon were most obscure Because her bright eye filled the place Wherein she walked and was wonted By enemies as thick as night With tapers. She most haunts the place Where God resides, and where she dwells She is the Sun-Eve, where she moves With nimble feet through the air-air And the wind-vaulted firmaments And hurricanes that roar and rouse With raven tresses of the Air When heaven is clear. Such is the place Wherein she dwells, upon the face Of the steep hill, that, being hard and steep, Toward the plain-arge of moist earth, Stands, a long way across the deep, The bright pavings of heaven. Believe I, and confess I speak not, That alway from this happy spot Where I have named thee I depart; Say, comest thou? So much the same Thy true countryman, whom thou didst seek To make thy humble dwelling here. Lo here the city of my merit! What, all the same to me? O do not ask me to deny thee The altogetherance of thy spinto, And humbly to proclaim me worthy Of all the chief achievements of the world! Thou, and no more! Behold me! My spirit, and my nature, and myself Are in an age of evil. Be assured If thou didst erre like this, then I should know. All things have power upon me, Power upon my powers: If this can be, then I Am all the powers And princes of earth. Whereof I say unto thee That thou art the beginning Of all the miracles. Behold, My throne is above thine, Thy songs are all divine. --I cannot tell the date Of thy birth and the birth, The fullness of ======================================== SAMPLE 555 ======================================== every toil, and labour after spoil. On land and main the gallant squadron lay, (For all unknown their home, and all their age), (Each, though not knowing whom, yet of their prey, Vast ocean, and a length of firth, and rage;) The remnant were those only left for pay, Till the Venetians took the following hound, To tell how, in their country, they were found. For, as the natives of Iberia's shore Saw armed men, and men of modern form, When the dank wave bore them, to their gore They sent the black-winged Death; nor came before The Pontic nymphs, that to the sacred stream Their woolly hair, and fillets bound with string Of gold, and victims of Sperchalia's God. The frenzied Centaurs led forth the crew, Who, on the right, their impious hands employed; Husband and wife, with all the lordly crew, And cheer with tales the tyrant's ironroth. All these he told, and sumptuously he told The tale, and all the riches that befell; That in his palace, by the craggy steep, His ships were waiting for the lord to weep. Aye, this was all: but now the Cyclades Prevented, wretched ones, each scanty fare. What could their rage? what other lictors were Save one, that fell in ocean, listless, deaf? The issue past, and rumours and mischance, And many a vain excuse, was dealt about. No shield his sword brook traverse, by surmise, And not at first, but by a mightier thrust, The victim's foot struck, and the monster's length, In order to affuse the bowels came, The hideous monster to surpass at length. The maids and matrons with complaints complain, The cruellest of the crew, by night and day, They scarcely, durst, with merry clamour main, Resolve, when suddenly the monster fray Was in mid-heaven, and at her spell first heard, Of coming with it, who was lying hid. But she a peaceful slumber did not fear, From his dear hand she took her potent rod, And, to avoid the lightning of the eye, She whipped her haughty foes and cut them off. But she, from whom no misdeeds arise, Nor they the same, together trod the skies. The maidens yet were numberless, and, where Thro' yon high isle, of azure mould they were; Nor of those Argonauts, who, by the breeze Of the soft-slumbering waves, but uncoiled seas, Forever plied their task; nor that, by words Whose sudden might they could not hope to ease; But the dire thing was mixed with other thoughts, Which in such time escaped, with storm-tossed ships. Abroad, yet idly-till the time drew nigh When to their vessels came the crew who bore Them, ordered by a lordly crew, whose chief, Bold Tyrrheus, was obliged to wait the news That with their hearts and horses they were led To fair Dulichium: there they found the knight, And couched upon him his victorious steed. The hound into her tracks again was brought, Which lost not without anger, or disdain: Yet, had it sought again, with fury fraught, He thought upon his cruel fate again; And found her dost thou couldst not hope to kill, For not against a woman could he fell. But ever and anon a slave fell she, And with her words her folly maddens still. The serpents with her vollied vesture, clad In colours of Lerna's countenance, Did round about her shining mail imbue Which bound in gold and silver clothed her head; The shield, a tinsel she had on her breast, And in her plaited belt a dragon's breast, On which the flaming sword by no means gowned Was changed to gold, with sculpture rare thereon. Her wily semblance still the lady cheered, And bade the herald bear her down to the shore Some precious gift; and in her hand, unfurled, Thereon, that erst had issued a broad vest Of largest volumes, and the thickly woven Long thick and low, a dark silk trappings had. "Go," ======================================== SAMPLE 556 ======================================== he makes a tumult, And looks at all the people. But she dreams of one of those night chaps Who watched her from the window, And if a moment will be long She dies again and lieth. They led her to the King's fair tower, They led her to a chapel, Where an ebony gleamed white through the branches. They led her to a chapel; They led her to a chapel, Where two pale, fluttering owls might watch Poor strangers from the castle. Then did the Knight, Sir Bedivere, Take up the lady's picture: The wanderer from the cell remembers, He sees the sun fade out at sea, And, in a moment, he remembers-- The vision of a vision. Between their moss-clad walls, a thousand rills Flashed sparkling to the kisses of the sun. One soft and silver candlestick, whose frame Is of the fathomless and living fire Of the high heart that whispers in the flame, Was lit by a free spirit of desire. The fire was red. They were the festal lights Which through a palace glowed with diamond dews. Gold bars and golden chains and gorgeous vests Were bound together in a marriage robe. It seemed to hem them in a fluttered robe. They placed thereon the pretty, bright-eyed dames, Who held from me a pencil of the rock To teach what I would brush against the bores Of those close-hooded marble ivy-clocks. They gave the picture, and they laid it down Against my bosom, to be changed, and so From tender eyes and brows, fair hands and hands, Soft hair and voice and smiling face; a spell It was not like that airy and rich hair Of beauty in the wall of ivory. I saw no earthly vane upon the hills, No beauteous vapour moving in the air. In its bare depths it seemed to float and swoon Over the desert and the shining peak Of heaven, till it was mirrored up again In the young, flamelets like golden bees Lighting the chambers of the starry sky. The climbing flame had left the angel mine, Frail as a poppy flower, and like a flame, Circled and curtained in an ampler space With long, unsparing ministrations Looking from them, I said, "with my own eyes examine well this costly fire to see, A burning proof of liberty, of God." And then with a warm, blue, open mouth She kissed me, tremblingly, and said, "Thy fire Has been the madness of this dream of mine, Yet here I lay it for a little while; I cannot burn it, so I know not which, And here I lay it for the child of Heaven." She took the burnt, and pressed it to her lips And cried, "Father, I will unfold the sum Of all thy knowledge, all unheard! until Thyself shalt come to see God's plans fulfilled. And wherefore shouldst thou speak thus suddenly?" I held my hands for air, but not a breath Cried with a frantic joy, "Thy will be done." I felt the fire, but not the pangs of death. The grey dawn faded in the eastern sky, And soon the bell's familiar tone rang out. At first, like morning on the waves that play, We soon passed on. Only the fire-bright flues By candle-light across the gold-wreathed room, Rose longer from the press, and it was set Here, on the dais, for our first rude taste. We crossed the room, then put the east-wind out. To turn the wheel-tracks is a pleasure thing. My soul was as a dry wood, and I know That I am safe. I did not understand. To-day I would forget. I did not know If I had not for fire. My thoughts are here. How can a woman use a fire, and feed A little fire against the grey-winged night? Shall fire turn silver till the shepherd fawn? I hunger still. But all of these I knew, And could be well contented. Now I feel Like a tired beast that wants to leave his sheep Before the light; like a drowned creature long Conplexed with chilly pain, beyond the bounds Of kingling watch; like a wrecked swimmer who stands Without a struggle through the air and sees Only his people's shadow, while his beats Fallen into rest and cankered ======================================== SAMPLE 557 ======================================== not forth in his vessel alone, nor breathe For long, impatient of a wind or tide; We may not on his wrackly decks look down, If we but bend our heads, and follow him. I would but deem it were in other wise To risk for ever such a precious freight! O sweet art thou to move with all thy power On the hard, forward shore of Indian seas! I would but yield thee such a vessel, Lord, As might have borne a heavy weight of freight, When the whirlpool foamed with meeting of the waves And grappled with the helpless combers' spray. Behold, O Lord of Heaven, no mortal arm Has strained the stubborn purpose of my heart! Already are thy ways with us; I yearn For others' good, for others' good to find. Thou carest not for evil nor for harm, But save the man whose hands have ploughed the land! Come with me where the pleasant ways are free; Come where the waving barley-fields slope high, Where thy light steps go up to meet the sun And show its shining line of beaten gold. Come, for the night is full of soft-sung song, And all the woods are tawny with the gold. No need for him, whom others may not love, Save but ourselves, who in the great white sky Of thy pure, loving greatness do not shrink From his great deeds, nor do them ill reply. Thy purposes are manifold; their power Thy attributes to me do never fail To move me from them, never to be turned Back on my purpose like a beaten hound. My heart is hungry for the time of war; Thy mission is the one time to set free These noble people in their proud estate. We have enough of what we need to bear, But yet how long can we remain on earth? And we must set a camp a-breadth out, Whose roads, to meet the armies of the world, Are strewn with slaughter, and be spared in fear. To live in hatred, and to feed on wrongs, Our weakness is the mighty strength of Greece. And we must loose upon our bended knees The gilded car for which our warriors quelled; And we must make the Earth herself a sphere, And make the Sun and Moon his pleasant bride. And we must plant the banners of the South, And build the savage pyramids of Mars; And let their march be witness to the world How it has been revealed to us the truth, As holy texts explain the days of old. And let our children cease to compass it; Then we must conquer, and our triumph wait. O, let us go where wild beasts in the wood Are panting for the coming of the Spring; Where the high woodland beasts are haunts of men, And men and women want a banquet hall. It is the pleasant walk I tread alone, And all the fair things open everywhere Are at my feet, and I must leave the town To those who come and talk of Babylon, Or hang upon the blessed psalm of prayer. Why do they go to study? Not alone With their two books, the picture of the girl Whom many thousand men call beautiful, Because the girl has gone from us and left us; But teaching only half the pleasant books Of love and pity for a day and night, Where she may take her empty place and talk Among the simple weeds and useful things. I am a poet also; all the books Are strange, and any book of what I am Must be a book that all the men have read. There is a secret in the books that hide This mystery. There is a secret in the books I leave, Abominable in the vilest wit That men who doubt of sense must put out of mind. But the eternal truths that are not false are deep, Nor is the outer darkness of the Book Hide the expence of an immortal thought. So when we read the little fate of men They carry on before them. Mine are they, Whose fire of truth that has no bearing tells. I am a painter, and my name is Truth. There is no need for truth to speak of them, Nor the celestial truths that are not told. One thing I question: When we lift our hands To God, to God the whole of us is there. So much is proved the miracle by me, That I am nothing; nothing ever is. And I am also Truth, most human called. The very truth that I in death behold Is ======================================== SAMPLE 558 ======================================== . Again the country seemed disturbed by a sharpfigure. The Golden Depot disappeared from the bush and its inhabitants, and the Zingah of Tripoli was once more refused. He was no longer the obliged son of Shew, and alone at the command of Shew and Zingah. He must, without narrhal, be among the leaders of the Government. Let England marry immediately her son, so she shall make a new quick purchase; and she shall seek the old World at once to break down the terms, since she cannot oppose herself in such a philensity as that of Liberty; and to breathe more strongly and fully of the life of this great Ages. Consult Adam, young man, The Spirit of the Nations, know, How this is done, and this one only: none for the sake of strong, the faith of this world, which believes in it. It is belief that England shall prevail. May the authority of Britain be the signal of this general conflagration! And may this fire brand its sword in faith to strike and destroy us. May I not conquer this world, O Thou of great nations, on such impursations as to destroy a little entire race of men, which are most addicted to pride? But Thou who, being the Power of Heaven, constrainest man to receive all, do Thou give us here to fall, and first to seize it, and then to take it. For as to these last regions of Thy intomost Being, Thy royal appetites sustained. The daughters of Aetle, whose young joyousness, eager to be excelled in the moth and beauty of the world, with joy possess them. From of man the elements are formed, and bear as their progenitors into the world. O! welcome not, without disaster, every direction, any creature from Thine indulgence to Thyself; but, if it stands with all accompany, be the more assured, since Thyself incomplyd of all men, Thy good will in all, according to Thy will. It is no little marvel, since all things are in Thine hands that serve Thy Thy laws, that they be good to them; they therefore are perfect. When the country is called up for busy humbleness, and the discangels and the cities of every nation are set up for life, what use to inspect the citadel of the crown-trees and to watch their planted graves? The harlots and the starving f carts go by; the beauty of no earthly thing is from which come the ends of the whole world. The light of God shines upon the feast of men: there was every rite and feast and disporting to the last, upon this diversified and that holy day. The present time was upon one plan; those which out of the civil war were formed, and after the stress of the battle, every wish and office in the world were fulfilled. The famous and guilty MAN breathed this prayer: the father of this spirit was called of virtue, Young, pure, and good, well-born, after the death of his son, Thenceforth we shall rest in peace and holy greatness, under the heavens never more. And of old our sons came unto the wars, and suffered much affliction from the world, though it was wrought by the spirits of the Pagan Order; they received no penalty but punishment, and they alone possessed it in possession of their city. But, to reckoning them upon the morrow, God gave them ample knowledge, and many of heart well-nigh devoured their souls with sadness. And many of the sons of men thither made answer. It is clear that, as at the beginning of the day, every day we have long run here and there by day and night and have drunk of wine, and oft have suffered great hardship, because we have taken trouble from the race, through evil influence. But Now to learn whether through wine or sleep or wake, the pain which has gone to the wretched is hard to bear, and the pain which has passed away. And to find us in the bright world are divers things, neither a number of days, nor for to live in joys of joy, but as the joy of our youth. Now take to you solace in all things that grow all of old, for it is now long past. The righteous cause, which has made man so to know himself below the gods, has made him one; indeed the ways ======================================== SAMPLE 559 ======================================== and write you loose, you will be black as night. The sun does bring us all to think and keep What's wrong and right with us; to-day's the world, Its sins, its wrings, its laughter, and its tears, Its joys, its angers, and its angers, strife, And put to rout and play the fool with fears. The grapes are red, the treach'rous juice of wine, Then look into your heart and be divine, It's dool to laugh and weep, it's dool to weep, It's dool to laugh and weep, it's dool to weep. We're all as glad as them who all look back, For we're all born of them but made of twain, By God's grace natural, divine and sweet, The while we've drunk because we're made of twain. I'd have you wash your face and hands and hair When those who work with them call done things fair; I would wash out of every stain and stain The day I let them wash again and more. Who gives God praise for dole of dole of dole, God does for folk 'way off from land and sea; And yet he knows; but yet he cannot know When I come back and get what I shall sow. My mother made me king and emperor Of every land; And when I'm dead and whole there is no man But gives his soul to stand Where God's right hand Spreads like a globe along the other world. There is no king That's born to rule; No man who hath more kingdom in his head Than he shall be, No king with crowns and crowns of rubies crown'd. Lord, for to-day I like to see thy face, And like to see The brotherhood And glory of Thy gracious majesty. "O Master, teach us to sew, And whatso erst we used to do A little quaint and curious dance In honor of the King of France!" Well! here we are. I'll set my bow Against this monstrous circus-dance And these erect array. It's silly to be here; And you'll look at me As though the King himself were talking to me. Our fluttering hands and flowing hair Make me the one enslaver still, Making all this illusion blent With words that nobody knows the way To let the other fools and play. Some foolish words of mine Make me think, and make me think; Some words the only meaning of this rhyme, To stay and talk to some one else of me; To need some pity, some excuse For these blue eyes That tell me all about That something much too much I've got to call my own, As if I dared, 'a little joke About a poet, everyone." And I, too, feel, To kiss her lips and To tell me all my need of rhyme And after-grind in some such place I'd make and burn the hot-house place, There on the old, old track, She and I, once on a time, This time was all one jost: I've been in one week's heat, Smoked and tumbled in the fire, I've been down, put into place, Well, what was that?-- "What, what, what, what?" Through all the glowing Hebes The thunder of her feet Went whirring, wheeze, as o'er her head Her grim-faced sons writhed with their red Pony to sand On each o'erhanging steeple, In unrepelled motion, The royal love Of the Great Mother's bosom Who hides her face to, Lapping his splendid strands In the long, silver swimmer's hands That triumph all amid their strands. There, where the silver bow Of Neptune swings, And, when the leader sleeps, He lolls, so great and good He cannot look upon his wife. There is an upstart That yearns like me-- A little whiffed dog; There is an old black-eyed And ugly clammy ink That neither he nor I Can understand, But we are wrapped in such an easy drawer, I will not let the servants dibble. Why, 'twas the Wind that came and went Blindly about my way, And did not speak a word And did not stir a ray Or let the candle-light go by. The ======================================== SAMPLE 560 ======================================== come the, if it may please Mere mortal, for that either is more Than a beast in you. Or is it weak Or godlike of more might to strive, Since Dryopeian Phidias once Was King of the heroic arm?" "I cannot be," said Japes--"I cannot be; You are too young to write to me." "One son must have the stench that trickles down," Said he--"one son upon a poet's foot, The other on a lordling's crown, Till Caesar, smiling, own'd his fates and mine; He was too young, too young, for Dryope!" So long the Lady play'd his lovely one: So long the Lady play'd her part. Life is a darkness; life its chance of bliss Where is a loss I dare not name, Death is a change, 'tis not of middle joy, We are two, each other but one heart, We both were born on earth-- There are two hearts to joy, Who thus have fail'd in worth-- Life is a curse, that takes no farther breath, Nor any eye to see. One finds but roses in the garden-- Some lilies in the garden, And some in wood or field or river, But all our roses yield not to the fool Who thinks not of his words and menials-- Not by the outward show of pride or power That is not in the Soul, but trailing, trailing, The pride and pageant of the elder day-- Life is a cry, that wastes and is not to be, A cry that is not life, And yet its cry is from itself it breaks, And tears come, and its cry grows never-heard, And all the sweetness of the cry is past-- Life is a cry, that dies not forth but dies, Spreading its purple on the farther shore That laughs and chides away the envious foam That gathers and will flow again to swell As stars came up and cast their doubtful forms From out the midnight of their dark seclusion, And found their straggling dwellings in the shore, Then drown'd--and many a league away there came Hyrcanian creatures with blue eglant wings-- And a song that grows upon the evening air, And sets the wearied earth on sleep, and wakes The sleeping air, to sing a mournful song Of her who shunn'd the wail of her only lover-- So never sorrow came to grief or bale, Or wrath or hate or malice or despair. What wound so pierces and what storms soe'er To-day racks thee, what withering madness on, Repenting from thy dear despair and woe, Oh! soothe thy loneliness with tranquil love When passion's flame dies with the tale it bears-- To tell thee of the cruel red that ran Over thy youth and thine--to write again The name that blossoms o'er the lips of grief, To tell thy love that lives with innocence, That lives in truth and love that's free from stain, And breathes with love that evermore endures. But oh! thou hearest what thy dark companion tells To thee of all thy follies and thy pride! O thou art worse than all thy follies, worse Than all thy erst delights, And more than all thy griefs, And all thy pleasures and thy peaceful dreams. Ye who will see your fault, and like your self, Compute the daily task that wastes, Be this the task that checks your nobler zeal; For love you must to passion's rest who feel, Not paddleless, the steady, dead men there, But all too poor to weep-- The little child that lives too late for love. Who taught the poor the linen plant to weave, That not a weed was on the soil: Oh, let me speak of such a gracious gift! Breathe such a soft breath on the singer's cheek, And gird him with a garland for his brow, If need be, in my wild hushed ear, I hear God's voice of comfort like a dying world's low moan Of wailing, wailing far away. You who were her and mine, And the clanging shepherds and blind shepherds heard, And the reapers that were song-birds, And the child who had left you the nights he knew And the joy he could not hide, Ye who made you your own, When the bonds that he bound you, at last, Were all that was added to cover and bind ======================================== SAMPLE 561 ======================================== , whene'er the wretched lie, Speak that he knows my hopeless woe; For him to whom my bones are given, I pay my tedious life in heaven. To him, alas! my daughter dead, Sharp pain, and hopeless dole is said; Haply, the accursed this day, From all that was my youthful blood, Will soon her spirit soothly wear, And warm my breast within her bier; But such a spirit's power shall make The cold and cheerless prisoner. "Oh, strike me not with female woe, Though in thy breast my son I find, Yet hear me speak, for if I know My father would not answer me, To banish me, his choice to bear, My mother could not say, 'She 'd care.' 'But I shall be my own again, To such strange crime I needs must come,' Such words I spoke, but they in vain Were heard the blessed vision home. But ah! what mighty wiles are these, That keep the fair and innocent! Like flocks of sheep, whose path is o'er, They wander down the mountains wild; Then, at the sacred altar-stone, Alone they kneel in anguish torn, And the sweet notes of music rung, Their last sad words were scarcely said, But when, at evening, evening comes, They to their feeding hails the lambs, And from their folded flocks they took, They bleated on the lion's breast, Like wolves, they tore the trembling prey, And on their mother milk unsown, And milked their little tender hands, And fed them with the evening-ray. Lappet, and harness, and a basket (All things in heaven to watch and feed), Cedar, and vine, and earthen ware They brought from far away; The painted birds on saplings bright Whose sunny leaves the heat invades, Who make the fountain mad and wight, And chafe beneath the guardians staves, And at night's early hour of day Keep up a ceaseless noise of praise. A life of misery and woe, Such as a tired, sad wanderer may, Haunted by Fancy's visionary crew, Bred in this desert-land, Fly helpless from the earth-- To thee, God Almighty, who dost reign, Who all my days dost ever make this soil! Nor marvel, then, that I have caused to grow So deformed a herd of lies and such dull stuff! I am no feeble mule, Though bred, nor have I any need Of spur and bridle, Yet all day long, I sit, I grieve, In vain the ruffian tide of life I drive. My pride was such a one, A noble breed of noble race; And I for riches famed Many and many a glorious feat Did travel,--such bright things did meet, And heaven bent down to spare My valour's labor,--and that mighty mind,-- Grew all distraught, By dread of death and strange, With fear of being ever on the wing; And hopes, and fears, And horrors, on her riding in the wind. But as for me, all these Were nothing to me of these; My thoughts and feelings went For joys to fill my days, And that, besides, they vanished with the wind. And thus it is I yearn For the full many and a single year, And keep a tender thought Of my beloved and gone, With all my burning tears and anguished fears, And of my child And all my hope of life, that moment flies, And bows her on my breast, And hopes and fears, and sighs For her whom I have loved, and she for me, And all that my poor hands have left undone! And thus it is I yearn For the whole circle of my restless heart, And find no cause, But in the wide unfathomable whole Of man and all his various passions; And with a deep-down stroke All trembling, bid the dull earth quake, And plunging deep in tortuous eddies drown'd, I see the blood through every puddle'd wound Dissolve, and through the hollow vaults rebound. Farewell! and may thy life delight thee more, Thou may'st my relics evermore restore! 'Tis not through envy to pursue Thy solitary way, Though free, and happy, and with ======================================== SAMPLE 562 ======================================== we left our gay saloon, And in the Lowland, at the turn, Sit with our forefolk, face to face, Till the first sunbeam casts the line Of crimson light upon the west. Then Kintore, leaving Kintore's peak, When Kintore's swells the West, Hovers and Kapalha cry:-- "He who devised yon carrion-leaf May first beneath a critic-deed, Which some conceit revealed to me, Wrote some few trade-notes here below. 'Twas this that stabbed my heart. A year! How mildly pale my cheek appears! What! shall I think, and will be seen A little thing of dross I've seen? And will be culled by one alone?-- My doubt is greatly to be known, At last it shall be still unsought: Oblivion is my word. Oft brought Into my cold, ill-gotten nook, With leaden feet and bladed front This downfall of the bestial Gods Upon the hunting-grounds of men. There! I will place the snow among The mighty beasts, and then for fire Will slay the creatures that I hate. They are the oxen, she the steer: Oft in the shade of Kintore's boughs, I sit, until the dawning moon Blushes the chestnut-tree to morn, Frowning upon the many things. My axe will drink the morning dew Where mango-fronded peaches grow; Then in the shadow of the trees, And never more the thunder-bolt. Will the forests of the world Frown and hide me from my search? How will I rouse the bison-bell That swings so loud and fierce and long, When I am young and full of song? Long, long ago, the path to tread, Long, long ago, the forest glade, All the brightest of the Saints of God Went wandering down in perfect shade. When Balaam rears his priest and sage On Mahomet's Hill, the blazing knee Of the Unweary Lord of Repentance, By awning of the Almighty's staff He binds his brow, and speaks sweet words. Even as I gazed with childish eyes Chanting sweet hymns of praise and joy, The charm was there. With answering song He spoke, then fled into the forest deep, And wandered back, forgetting all. The branches bend to catch the breeze Whispering the mango's shade; the boughs Keep silence and the holy awe; But in the darkness they can hear A sacred voice that never more Shall recoil from the drowsy wind. The holy harps from out the trees Shall shake, and still the music swell. Such silence as this solitude, This unknown speech and holiest mood. About the twilight lingers, yet Is not, perhaps, the answer slow; A wind that sweeps across the woods And makes a wondrous silence! None Pears off the hushed trees--dizzy and sweet-- So dense the silence. I can hear The wood-wind, wandering, that grows thin, Yet comes not now, and now is gone; I turn to go to where the world Aglint with bright and gladness shone; Upon a hillside, a lone tree, Scarce visible, stands pointing to the sea. As gentle Indian girls did shrink From playing with the trees that blow, All sprang to snatch some lingering note From out the billow and the boat, So ghost-like was that little boat That seemed to rest and dream it safe. Down by the stream we lay in green, But each and all went up in fear. In the faint gleam the gossamer-bents That spread in the white water, fluttered, Like to the tremulous leaves of autumn From a dead branch. A faint light spread On the low, trembling wave, forlorn. Against the boughs I stooped and sighed, But my heart rose, and bent, and rose To kiss the drops from off the brink And held them back till their love drowsed. For the radiant death of your mother Here I could see. The winter rain I felt--though I could not forget. Again I look for leaves again-- I can look with my sight; and see The fiery fishes through the pool Watching on their track with lessening gaze. My heart could have borne nothing of these things But those strange things that I ======================================== SAMPLE 563 ======================================== ! leave some few miles for love, And dine at a block in the rear, Or stroll by field or town, Till your hour of noon seems come. TO all that lay within my heart And talk of it, content are mine, Three-cornered and three-accented elf, Pouring love to every idle line For beauty born of beauty's stain And of the love that long ago, Entwined in such a wild refrain, As that of Milton's tale remains. Well may I thank thee, as the kindly wise Who of thy loveliness have found thee dear To teach me how thy heart-strings swelled to hear; For thou hast blown thee like a summer-swale About the park where once the woodmen sang Or flung thee from their wattled bowers of green To cull the pansies where the eglantine Is hung. THOU art come, beloved, even from the tomb Where MELpur wreathes his head, to come again To fair Arete. She had been a queen since burst Into the town of dreams, and still would pass A quiet, faithful vigil all night long Waiting the dawn of thy untroubled song. Yet thou hast not forgot, she may be gone, Here in a quiet room upon the stair To wear thy newest caprice and rare And antique garb. But come and see for wear Thine old unlovely gown, and come again To fair Arete. She has gone this night, Even to the chamber where I lay asleep. This is the garden that I love the most! Here have I caught a glimpse of what has been Momently dear and lovely, long ago, And yet forever, it was all thine own! Yet the poor creeping thing it now would stay, Hid and unknown. Yet did I know, perhaps, her lips had made A little plaintive melody, and heard Her little speech, and stayed to hear thee speak. Then have I seen what once it was, or far Outflying fear; and sometimes, though the tears Have never left her faded cheek, her eyes Have watched the rain of anguish fall and rise Mutter the trouble of her foolishness. Yet, for an instant, see her laugh in glee, And her blue eyes, lit with such an anxious love As though no sorrow came, but love would grow And, entering heaven, still pause to look above. There is a lull in the warm west, And evening in the cool dark woods, And the west wind sighing, whispering In a garden-lulled lagoon. I would woo Love to rest in a cave Near the rim of a hill, And he would be near me kneeling here, Watching me go and telling the tale Of this world he counted dear. I know not how I love him--I know not How I love him. Yet he seems so true, Knowing his beauty is so brief, So beautiful, he is so rare I am but half aware, yet half afraid, That in Love's world there is no lack of love, And I would say he is so fair, so rare. TO-NIGHT, in the woods with the gray mist marking, She walks, and she crosses me, hiding and marking. Round and round Come the small, unheeding, unwinking creatures, Talking in a way they do not know good-night, Or talk a word of any worth in future. Pushing from the foliage their slanting ray, In a thousand dark howirs that trouble the night, The whole blue night, Till, long ere morning, the snow crunching Through the granite rocks of the wild mountain crests On the gnarled and wicked granite that delves He walks, and he listens as the big tree whispers, And longs to be kissed by the thousand whispers That steal over his heart, and chide him or grieve For the scanty gift of a life of his treasure, But the Fair one, who whispers of life in her voice That is life, come safely to answer my wishes. In one of those roads where the traveled feet guide Through perils unvisited, wherever decreed By Fate or by sadness or solitude, Are neighbor and brother, unvisited, ever. No words are recorded Of my absent love, No wild and unlovely merriment shouting The lonely heart. I lay in the field before her While her kisses still glowed; I listened and heard them ringing, Wherever I dreamed. ======================================== SAMPLE 564 ======================================== The maid he brought to him, far and wide And famous, gave in pledge of her he loved, And told, the same it was who him received. "A sweet young bride, and loveliest of the train, On the same spot presents herself again. She in those arms and that, with him that came, Her arms, her bosom, and her waist; and all Are happy, with such ecstasy as all, To the blest islands of the sea unmoved, Of which the living universe is moved, To their eternal homes and churches safe, Rejoices in his soul that, living proved, He to the islands of the deep returns. "We now, my bark of oak here at our mast, Imprisoned in our trees, take up my ghost; And on the north, of yonder cloud-top-land For spirits' couches do I seem to stand, And seem to mark the sun's clear beams, and know The trees to stand in their eternity; Or over me the shadow, shade, and sun Reflected their last rays, for whom are one With death and burial, in the good and ill. "Nor from those rustling plant the oldest roots Are driven, or with my sap the boughs entwine. On their dear branches, surely, tender sounds The sadder note of the enamoured rhymes. And they in me, the singing heart that woos Into their heavenly kingdom of the earth, Are all as lightly lost as do the tares Of April, when her lover she connares. "Ah! while we journey onward, fate invites Another now in search of it. Nor thou, Witless of air, nor of the winged world, Nor of the flowering swarming in the tree, Nor of the twig nor of the flowery stem, That on the autumn solstice never is, Nor of all autumn's store of sweets, withholds, Untasted by the world, from its hot zone, But on this hand thy milk, and honey-hearts. "And, ever to thy mouth a rivulet Running with water-falls, in which thy herds Of sleek and brawny suckle honey spill. Whose rinnied waters dance, around the hills, Swifter than ever by those streams they rove. The branching lotus thrives, and bears its fruit To alien gardens, and, across the sea, Frequented thick by furrowy pines and fir. "Look downward o'er the field that stretched in sleep, White from the dawning, emerald-tinted sands; Whose liquid beauty and indissolubl Smile the proud daughters of our oozy Land! Fair is this bower where early suns have shone Broadening in burning gold, and, far around, The coral-hued and shell-strewn shore-clocks sound Athwart the ear of the brown woods, where stand One fixed bright image of the wave and sand. "Behold our arms! our arms! behold our tears! We took them from us, weak as they were hung In a strong grasp, like arms without a tongue. Whilst in the tides the white and leaping sea Rolls round the arid walls, and grovels deep In sand-built citadel's turquoise cave, Up-caught by the rude swell of the curl'd tide, And ruffled by the wind from every wave. "Henceforth we are a band of sturdy clans, Clear round our mountain home, above the foam! On this fair land we set our helm, and rouse An army's war-cry that might vie with us. We follow; where our oft-tamull'd guns Rush reeking with a hundred whistling fangs, And a barb'd flash is heard from the wide sea. "Mutely our banner flies, yet thunderous The batter'd panoply on the batter'd rock. Lo! the wolf signals, and with glaring eye Seeks the leviathans to upleap their foes. And now they burst, and through the clamour peal Rise the huge hoary troop and grim in crowds; And now the oozy flags with blood-shot sweat Flame on the Roman's walls, and hiss and glare From rear to rear, till hoarse the billows roar. "Ho, rosy brothers of the mountain slopes! There, by my side, a wizard I espy! Come, comrades, haste! ======================================== SAMPLE 565 ======================================== "'Two boiled women--three--five--five--five--five-- In a window all alone should watch, perhaps. And here one imagines, a leg of hob-- At least, the whole face square as paved, he begs; At dinner dine--then dine, and if he wants His tools, he never fails; and I, he begs To be a busy man--in short, he begs!' "I was the third whose ear the charm withheld; (He vanished from my gaze, to which I cried. He vanished in the room with which she stared In the first sleep, in fright and agony-- Oh, best of all the maidens that have died! "I left behind no love: (my Heaven was there!) I used to love my Father to beseech; And something of his she did in that eclipse (He never knew the name of fond misère) I could not say. But when we wandered home To wander by-way close--a weary lot! Ah, then I marked how vainly I reproved My Love in silence--since his memory goes! And I am but a dog! And I am Love! "She showed me Love before he died--why, yes! Love in her love assures us he was dead. We had some dreams--'twas all illusion, yes! But I am not Love's master! We have played So many a long and idle joke, Till he came home--and then we all grew sad-- And we! we had a laugh! Ah, God, I had! "The rhymes were worse; I found in the drawing-room Where we were whiskeys, head-men, dukes, and all, Who tried to make things clear, and read and crook The hearts of ancient officers and ballads. Some called the furies, some the dukes, some Presumed the hero, some the hero, some Stood up against their fingers. Then I asked Whose stories were the best, and what the end? The night was thick, and I was fain to lend My Book to one who knew it, and whose name It was whose deeds inspired the thought that came. "I did not speak, sir, but just kissed the hand That held me, and I thought, 'I thought he knew.' I do not know his name--but this may be He knew it--so I knew--and followed her. And if there came a word that might have told My hopes, all found so plain as my surprise, Whose very words were trials well controlled, To stay and understand--I could not rise, Or dare to raise my lid; and if there came A word that might have warned him anywhere I might have helped him from that awful truth. "It would have chewed his wits to know his lore And watch him read and understand. And I-- I knew I could not help it, and no doubt That Love, though taught in schools, must have been there! Oh, I would laugh to see him in his dress And watch him, as he passed, go glum in school. Could he have guessed that I should not have thought I had said nothing, but what would he have seen That I, for him alone, so strangely blent? And no good reason that I should have guessed-- That some strange moment past he had the truth-- I, who should love him not,--my lips were sealed, My soul his eloquence--but I was deaf! "He was too great," my soul renewed, "and so It was no fault of mine to tell him so. Perhaps he smiled to think I frowned, my dear, Because he was so learned and so wise. Oh, come, dear, come! I am so deceived! And yet, somehow, I do not laugh, but smile." "Never beguiled me, God! but never doubt My love and fame are small--no more, no more. And if I had a friend, if I could see My heart as glad as his--there would be no doubt, And no one doubt, or even if I could know That through the years I hoped my heart would go." "Go from me soon, I love thee," I said, "and yet It seems a shame to linger and forget, If thou hast ever proved thy friendship's debt, And seemed so true, perchance, to drop a regret For having seen the sunlight and the fire, Until I feared the thunder and the squeal Of anger ======================================== SAMPLE 566 ======================================== , the place. "Who told the first day of thy fasting Thou wert not," said the second, "Taken, and to thyself art made a fool?" But the third said nothing, And the third, still being comely, Reserved towards him and answered, "Thou didst not see my spirit wholly changed From the body, and I, myself, and frank, And caused thee to submit, but since thou liest Do thou put more trust in me." "I am Mentor," said the third, "And thou didst not seem to have any such insight I am wise and he shall be like to thee; If I'm a simple and sound schoolboy, I am a scholar in a college, And not like thee, nor shalt thou be like to, If I am worthy for a higher place." But my friend said, "I am a fool!" And there was a cry in his throat; He replied, "I will play with science, Which my teacher taught me to believe." And the third he beat his shoulder; And the fourth put up his arms, and he cried, "O my friends, the teacher's teaching Pants for me, like sweet, sweet music." I saw a wag of the old cag, Trying hard in the long Autumn weather, with old cag's tail Cropped together, Twisting and peeled and torn together Made as he had been grinding. Did he know? He said, "Yes, my friend, And I see the way smooth for a life. When the yellow leaves they sat on A bonnet of gold, And a cat came to my house, You understood; But I couldn't tell you to Where it had turned round so. "I learned your lesson, then, Whistling a ditty For me in a far-off clime As it is now to-day. Some can lift the weight of it, The other canhalf Because it was given to me, Therefore. "I learned your lesson, then, And you could learn it When seeking a drunkard's den, A salmon-tail can I see as you were there. At any time of mine I have sat down to rest Mindless, a vigorous, Balanced like you. "I learned your lesson, then, And if I still kept back I could not tell you why. And when you went to bathe I could not tell you how. You gave your lessons that way And left me a perfect dress For a boy in a decent time, Doing the decent day. "I learned your lesson, then, And there I learned it, oh, Where the beeches sprang to blue And the willow-boughs bent low. Then did I lead the way Where with my feet The woodland murmured down Over my shelving slopes, And with my nose The water murmured through The pine trees and the rills, And a fair wind stirred the crooks, And the river murmured too. "Then I arose From the bank And with a cry, Like a kangaroo, Brought the treasure home. When all was clear he cried, As if no one was nigh. And the streamlet tossed with a joy, "Shall I return and go, For ever?" "No! not so! And all for ever?" "No! No longer, young man, so!" I had no answer when they met; The river long and loud Burst from its angry shelving beach And smashed its rosy bond, And the tide came up like a bolt To blow the stone out of its doors. I wiped the hot sand down my face, And then I cried to them, "So you will understand; You know my heart, young man!" And they came with the gold, red gold A good long look for me. We passed the prison gate; My son, the murderer, the murderer, He threw him at the foot of the tree. I had no knowledge when he died. I knew the bitterness of it Had made old Father unpleasant. And I was cursed with bitterness For the love of him who died. We walked home in the night, When pillows were low and gipsy, And birds sang through the dark, We walked home in the dark, The three men in the moon, They had drunk and drunk together, It was nine ======================================== SAMPLE 567 ======================================== ! both of you Whose cruel presence through the air Has quickened with defiant glare And frightened from the beetling crags Of bold Tyrtæan earth--who lies Buried beneath the tossing waves Of fluctuant billows--who has swept The weariness away, and leapt Forth from the crags of that huge cave, As though he sought a refuge there. With beating heart I sought his side. He strove and struggled to disguise The cause of his distressful sigh, And stood with clenched hands and tried To pluck it from my wondrous hair. But, when he called me from the beach, And whimpered in his deepest thought, My baffled waif, my tortured hand Concealed it, and my face grew white With the drops, blood-red--my frightened hair Bathed in the darkness of the sand; My guilty countenance grew cold, And not a cry of suffering told My horror at the sight. I tried To freeze him to the quick,--I did. And would not ease him of his pain. I fled him as a frightened child Is hurried to a winding rill, And silently I turned again To mark the gleaming ocean still Above the hollows of the rock. My body swam--My lungs were cold-- I looked and knew the bubbles, warm, Laden with life and fear. In a mad mood I seized the two-- He and I could no more-- He sought the cavern,--and the rock Went down into the depths below That hangs upon the bottom of the cavern. In the living rock there lurked A heart that knew no mercy From the wretch's nature. Then there soared A man, by my decree, In a dread shape; nor aught more seemed Than his own agony. He threw himself upon the ground, And lowering crept away. The man pursued with brutal force His steps o'er every track and path; When thrice he circled round his neck, With dauntless front erect, With iron plume,--and, like a god, The monsters leaped with threatening jaws And bellowed back to death. The earth closed on them with a roar; And thrice from forth the cavern burst A living fountain in their blood. From every side they met To strike a deadly blow, Like rocks that shrink from a strong stroke, And, but from a spiky soil, The stone doth not appear. Then darkness filled them with affright, For there was silence all around. But though our spirits beat With rage and fury,--clouds of fire Melt in the firmament. And while they sat like stone on drear, We raised the dreadful sign. Then all the land was very still; And with that groan we seemed to swoon, But heard no human voice: The souls of beasts, there in the cavern, Strove in that groan to creep, And seeking strength and medicine there Extinguished deep and deep. The form is changed, and vaguely seen I stood beside the dreadful sign. I heard the fiend within the cave; It moved my sense, but strangely thinned. The air around me seemed to swoon, And all the rocks did quake and groan, As if in death I had been hurled From upper earth and star to base Of the infernal sky. But one of all the demons was-- My foe--I'm still his friend-- In him I'm feared-- My God--a fiend--a demon fiend-- Who cleft my soul with mortal woe. And trembling now I lay and stared, The frightened moon came ghost-like white In dire distress, by yonder cave. I heard the fiend behind me rave, The dreadful sign that cast me free From terror and from helpless pain, As on my flight, all clad in white, Came a form swiftly running through The forest's darkness pale and chill, A witch-like figure! Through the night It scared me; and on every hand The fiends did seem to move. And straight I leapt up with a fearful yell, The death-hunger frightened me. I caught a sword in my strong hand, In haste I leapt its deadly brand, As on the beast rushed by me, mad With madness, unto hell. I fled as a hunted thing Is hunted from a swift, mad hunt, And cannot yield, for I had sought In a strange land my foe. Then suddenly I turned again, For ======================================== SAMPLE 568 ======================================== ful skies, And thunder, and the topsy-turvy din, Can turn thee mazed into an angel's eyes. Oh, dog of Death, how dost thou sleep? Froze of the brain, dost feast thy flock? First, as he sweeps the slumb'ring floor, His business is to to coil the reins And to drive the chariot before him through the stalls, And lash the wheels, and then to throw about, Tear the black slumber, ere it drop, the mire Of Death, that seals him up in a sorry fire! Thou look'st na Here, It's no the Spring-- No maiden Queen Of all the world, But from that gray, low-lying sum Remember'd ever come: He comes not yet, Yet came and went, and must be still. And though it's I, And though I may not kiss the blue, It's all the same, he's nae above. Oh, dark my love, so dark my cave, So deep is my poor breast, Lest in thy breasts, My God, to find thy breast, My poor, lost love, be blest! No gentler fate on ocean's face Did never find so great a place; No smaller pangs distract the seer; His sympathies perhaps are near. Ye spirits of festivity, Joyous and free, How ever comely are, In all your gladd'ning majesty; Suffice it, and the blessing fall With him that's throned above; He cannot yield such immortality As when he made that love. Yet, seated in the cabin low, And heart yet warmly laid on snare, As in the mother-soul you see, Yourself, until we dare To weep, to smile, for all that's fair. My spirit, weary with its prayers, Would all its former pleasures miss; I know not, where the bliss springs forth, That all was love before, In that dear bosom, and that home, Which made so bright before. O'er weary waves I catch a glimpse Of those old days of memory; I see again my Mary's face Where you, my own, did dwell; The bells that now in chapel ring Again ring Christmas chime anew. And I, my own, am free to go Once more to your own fairy clime, Where flocks are sporting at their play, And innocence and joy sublime. And dost thou deem them happier, who because Their homes are green, and where their hearthstalls fade? No, fade not, loving pair, forget That still the choral voices call Again! Yet may they pass thee by, And I be with you still. When thou art faint with toil, and ached with toil, And weary with the long and dreary way, And, burdened with the long day's toil, wilt thou not grieve to deliver the pain and the hurt? And well mayest thou rejoice that thou again Art something of thy own, something of thine, Something of all thy glad youth's gladness then, The gladness of thy gladness then. To serve thee only with an honest mind, Full of the kindly human heart, The joy of simple love and simple creed, The light of life that makes thee fair, The smile of love that lightens, and the kind Heroic courage that requires support. The wisdom of the world is o'er thy head; The heart thou canst not hope to win, And the soul thou canst never more contain Delight in naught but worship shown. For you alone, a little span Of life's short span, could nothing fail But love's and happiness could ne'er attain. The path runs straight to God's domain, Where once you found a gracious guest, A mirth which soon will be all o'er again, The glorious days of rest. How much, how little, To praise and sing while Earth may have pleasures To live and sing among; 'Tis pleasant, But good to sing! What's wanting is wanting, And the earth may All be left to say That it is parting, And all that it says to. Then sing no more about it, On downy boughs soar you, Up higher; And God's glad eye may See your sighs, And his good eye. ======================================== SAMPLE 569 ======================================== weak spirit to strong grace, Bereft, but not defenanted; Upon the clear, clear face of the North, Set in its depth a luring; And dawn and dusk, and noon and night, Fade into noon, and feeling, Made a still face; then rain and darkness, Set eyes upon her glowing; And the whole earth was thrilled to fullness, And God looked forth to wisdom. A heart-reviving passion, A passion divinely paling, A star that hath no beginning, A weight of golden languor, A peace, that hath no beginning, A hope, that hath no end. Pray for thy soul's best strength, Thy courage and thy strength, And to thy sorrow's rest Keep thou this heart of mine; In the wild world of Death, In the great world of Death. If thou shouldst walk in joy By flying scourging, Bear thou this little cub, This youngest of the earth, That is so wondrous well Made like thee-- 'Twill soon be o'er--when over us There falls a trail of pain, A purple shadow. With little of strength we pray To God's strong arm of might, That these may live and play 'Till, like our little children, we Both work and labor daily. If we could pray, and pray, We two and they should find Strength in this life. And when in each of God's Thy little life has been That to us little is, And life, the greatest thing, Cometh to little. If we could see the seer Who at the last shall see The light of hope within This little earthly sun, The glory of the good, And when in all our blood The veil hath aye been hid, The God within shall bid That they may "out of sight" Aye to be with us! These tell me, Master; and in these I say The simple story that thy angel will, Even now, and in another, thou hast told, For all too well--thy credulous mistake; Else should it cease to be but sometimes known How much I love thee! I love with all my own; And when I will to love it is no bar Of earthly love; and all I had I give Is this, perchance, no pleasure. I believe That even for such raptures I should live, And thee, dear Angel! worship as I loved Thy solaces, yet ever thus I move; Forgetting thee and mine, yet ever thus I hold my peace. Nay, but I think of that, And how in thee I fain would have it so; Yet hope not that thy love unloved as mine Will pass away like straw; and I complain, O dearest Lord! of all, that thou wouldst give Me not the love, which now unkindly glows Within thy darksome eyes, and be a load Of care, and that dost mold me to thy will; Still striving to keep me up still above Thy humbleness, as thou dost love, to bear; Still struggling to be blessed and share The things thy Saviours taught, and to be blest By one in number as the Highest's best. And therefore, Saviour, as thy name doth shine In sweetest light, in bestial as in wine, So shall I love thee ever; and for ever, As thy dear Son loves me, shall I love not, Nor think to change him for an earthly shape, A cloud of love, a satrap of the blest, When this world's care and worry have their end, But, having lost them, keep them ever near Thy blessed side, and let their faith not falter, And that dim earthly light which was their sun, That day of comfort that shall set them on. And ye, who hold the place of the true love, Whereby they live still, if they faint or move, What say ye, even to the end, of this? And if ye live but to make hope more, Then die; and if ye live, remember this! Forget it were that all things hope again, Which ye have lost; and, looking on and on, Remember that the soul which ye exalt. Forget it were that ye should die of thirst, When ye were children; and, with after blood, Let in your joys, and tell them ye are dead. Then have ye lived a little, that ======================================== SAMPLE 570 ======================================== , And now he's crouse now to and fro There's none but him--a living thing-- The old miller in grey-brown shoon A haughty and care-worn boy, He stops and looks at the wooden span Whereon the can and the can run Between them as one and another; And as the old miller plies his trade He springs up over the old mill, made And penny by penny he thrives For others in mill-basket, made To call to the mill-pond just as it went, Where they have grown long it seems to me He is only a living animal. 'I have something to tell you before, 'No doubt that your eyes are already swore That out of a corner by God's hand There isn't a girl in America That's got a look or a word in her land; For I think she's as good as a bird, And your heart's a loving kangaroo.' The groomsman stooped down from the station Just where it is moor, and they pushed Their long coats out of the timber Before they were alone again. And the old miller with his nose And her breeches was all in a row. As we creep into the sleeper's head We'll tell you the tale of the meal out there And share the communion of mothers That live by bread-and-nothingness; And in spite of the crowds on the street Of the driven people and all the town There'll be hailing the old miller To the comfort of a whole town, that's down. O quiet river, winding softly Through sloping meadows between the poplar trees And fields of blue beyond we see the dark Ruin and the creeping cicala's cry! Under your brown hooded cottage window The little spring lies basking, silently With your breast bare and bare, that you may catch The breath of the big queen bird, or perhaps The ferns who make soft stir on a soft bed Of pink or purple green, with shining hair, And the long, light kiss of the cardinal air. Over your empty window the bright sun Smiles through the dust of the hot cloister where His curtains dropped into the darkening street, Making the soft winds robe him and hide his feet. As though this little spring had lost all sense Of life and movement, music, lawns and pools, And all its visionary things were gone Out of the flesh, the light, the very scent, The beautiful and passionless life we breathe, With thoughts we can but hope and love and live, Like quiet bees going about the hive The silly flies, the passing sheep that cannot rest, The joyful shouts, the black and glorious eyes Of the little golden bees, the golden heads Crowded and pied like kings. The film that spreads Across the sun like a thin thread of light Is part of the glory the thick darkness brings. And all our lives that golden day are dreams That are but seeming like the rainbow wings, And like the rainbow hues that flicker and gleam On trembling wings that flicker and glimmer and gleam, As though we struggled in the sun's red heart, But could not pass away, so beautiful, The golden wings of God that leave no trace On the still face of the incarnate earth, The silver breasts of the poplar trees, The shining faces of flowers in the grass, And all the sudden heavens of the grass And all the glory of the lovely suns And all the wonder of the summer skies And all the wonder of the summer clouds. Over the road in the leafy lanes The grasses thrust back and held back, Raking the sun up from the sheaves Where the sky-larks build. One horse and one man. But all of the landscape lay still As though the hot grasses had grown Or the drowsy summer rose Had half blown out. He stood like a man to the end of his days. And the heart of his race beat out to the light For a word that a lance could not shiver or strays From the old man's breast, And the talk of the hemlock round the cross, And the sky and the heddings and the roar Of the long bay northward, where dead men's bones Lie scattered wide. And men loved him as he stood, and men Whose hair in the grey and the golden morn With silver oakened ears was smoking And the white hounds tied on either wrist, The hunting- ======================================== SAMPLE 571 ======================================== a whip, for all its fault's on her. He got as saucy at the battle's end As e'er was plan'd for--God knows how!--again; One hates a chap,--that is, herself, the elf, For high he's got a heart and nerve, I trow! He half-uplifted was--that generous foe! He got so insolently hot on the road, And, off to a country seat, he loitered Drank in the kitchen flames with such a squalor That at a com-and-downs-he got his fill Of brimstone-finners in his native vall, And there, by dozens, stood at prices twelve One man for temmag-pies, as good as sogars. With kind remarks, though fitter far than sends, He meant, that galloping there on the end, That this wild affair of arms was from a friend. To fetch up Bonypart of character From a well-meaning scamp, at least we miss him (That's grown the matter's--we'd be getting tipsy)-- For our next Canto, with its introduction, To grow within a little short degree A man with, or be no man with him, I fancy. "We see the carnage and the poverty," He muttered, "of an outlawry life gone by. He had a hunting on a precipice, And, if the Lord (some angry man would say) Ordain'd the coward, not the sage, to slay A younger than yourself, he took his chance. 'Twas then, 'twas then, the silly creature crost, And hunted to his rest as best he might. For think you, never did he charge you thus? A hero like yourself, if not the knight; Yet with a readiness of impudence You see yourself, and not a word ruth. "Why, then, return to Camelot?--bless the King! Nor dare I tell you, at his court and camp, Truth, virtue, virtue, Sir: our leading han's Only not there the least and loftiest peaks. He lives among the bravest of his race: I saw the noblest fight--this cannot be-- Whence comes the loyal blood's return to thee? Remember, if thou canst, at once, no more Alone attended to thy knightly lore, Thy picture shows thy mood." These were the last words that the King did utter, That both their foreheads rested on the King; Therewith agreeing, yet in all the same This was no cause for joy to Camelot; And though they cannot mark the lifted eye That burn'd within them, as the live ether, Which ushereth all grief to the harlot's breast, Hath for its instrument this power to move: Till Arthur, which had learnt the hasty lessons By which himself was fitted for his guest, Recover'd his old mastery, and return'd To where his grateful eyes had seen him last. And from the forest of his father-land, And Arthur's castle on the river-shore, I look'd upon the fading of the day While the sad sunlight from the forest fell; For only the deep shadow of the trees Stirr'd in the picture which around him lay. And so it pass'd, for long I groped my way, Lost to the shadows of the afternoon: And at the length the birds, which now had cropt Their dusty nest, began to perch, or sing; And then the sun arose and all was gone, And I lay still in Nature's quiet place, While yet the robin and the jay kept time To sing their gayly carols in the sun. It was about the middle of November When the drowsy light was waning, and the air Left crag and hill and dusky greenwood there, Where sparsely as an infant, from the side Of its green lane a little child I spied, Come to the house that stands in the rude manor, Where, ages back, th' august abode of song Has been athwart the door of pilgrimage, And to that place in the forgotten morn Has often throng'd my dreams, that must needs wait To see the scene spread fair before me forth. Fade is that light, and fade the bloomy cheek Of the young, happy child whom white-souled Care Can never banish from his fairy scythe And gown of lily-flowers, but ======================================== SAMPLE 572 ======================================== form is not their mouth to kiss, When yon perfumed phial makes us poor. It chanced, one day, the fever took its dye, The bane and gloom of the other closed the bee: But the lips rose again and the wine grew bright, And she drank the dew on the lips that clove the night. White as a mermaid, as the bed of flowers, Seen of a rustic girl, my handmaidens Skipped landward to the shore; and one by one White hands were staying, and the kiss was done. Then gliding under my spread palms, I found Their blue balloons in the cool water-weed, And sailing with them, I began to hear A voice, soft-surrying in the afternoon, "They are mine, there!"--and I leapt to the feet. There was my master, running till I saw His small wet fingers point to the raw edge Of his wound, and then I saw his blood Run, and the red drops, and the green wood-springs, Fade, and the orange flowers swooned to white; And he lay still, and the white heat of his eyes Blotted the red upon his lips. I knew How the thick drops would hold him, and would not, But left him still--I saw the life somehow, The dimpling of his cheek against the blue. But all of this, as I stood there, alone He lay there in the moonlight; and his eyes Were deeper than his eyelids, and they closed Their lids in darker; and a deep low voice Brought to my lips a note of the old sea, Moaning across the moon-blanched slushy sea. He lay there in the moonlight; and his breath Woke up from the soft air of the South A smell of berg and berg and berg to death. Over the rail the black-eyed skipper lay Smothered and fringed with figures; and his hands, Dimmed like dead hues, did not remember day, Nor the worn terror of the plunging prow That steered him past those agpid waters now. Slowly I stooped my head, and slowly wept, Remembering his eyes, and that he sat Stark-eyed and terrible in his red-black hair; And over us his black-eyed face was set, And my blood rose and sparkled, and he shook My head, and cast it backward in his face And cursed me in the face. I was released From the old torment of a new-made grave, To do my errand; and my heart cried out, Out of the awful well, and went on fire, With all its herories, with all its rage. O my heart, I went under the naked sun To seek a pit, a place where soon to grow And then to die. I came where many a wing Flutters a bird above my head, and there, One moment, I could hear a hidden thing, A wing that sang, and it could never know The wrong way and the right way, until I turned And was a part of the disordered world, And then I had a lover in my dreams Who loved me, even my love, for all the love Of him I gave him. And I thought I knew What is my lover's right. I turned and groped Through unfamiliar loneliness, and found The man I loved for nothing but a name, And loved my beauty. Then I knew how far Beyond the age, how strange it was to dream Of love, and win old memories for the joy Of hearts forever; and my heart turned white And throbbed with the old fire. Then I knew How to forget the love I had for all, That took my brother from me. Then I knew How to forget the old glad days and these That lived among us, and how near the end Of all our happiness, and all the wiles It made to them that had but such a friend. "Go then," he said, "and rest awhile, my child." But thou didst speak to me, and bade me look Upon the horror. Could my back look up And see what I had seen, I could not guess That I had seen the shuddering of the lips, The grasp of hands and the feel of fear, The little hope, as soft as life,--then surge Into the flood again; and in the flood Again it flowed, and in my breast the joy Of spring-tide and the elfin morn of song, ======================================== SAMPLE 573 ======================================== present! made So; for we must, God knows, And bring the story down as clear As he has ever spoken. Rise up,-- Beg forth, O Master! follow me! I am a beggar, Sir; In thine house is my cell, And with fear I go a-walking, To look at thy most gracious majesty! And thou didst jest, as I became In years of youth, when I would see My brother Peterkin avail With the wisdom of a lonely house, Within its halls or its first hiding-place, In a low roof on chimney-tops, Satan's son, in his white shroud. His soul before then had its lot, And now was seeking a repose, Whence he might naught else foretell; And thus another destiny forebode. To Peter then adieu, And that is where with me you may not wait: Soon will the summons come, That your still brazen seneschal, With his bright crown of gold, Is at his shining-pointed gate, From the happy city-gate, To a hearty call--a hearty call; And to hear him Peter enter too, In theEmbosomed high Where Peter had his residence, In the wide-racked high embosomed Seven steps of steps for the great company. One way there must he fare, But he finds all the other a snare. He strives to think, from the clear divine Large rays on the altar-head Shine through the coloured vest, And gleam through the transfigured mime With a luminous sweep and deal Of the light of the mystery that lies In the talk of Peterkin: Ah! he exclaims, as it were not meet, A-seeking, in His ears The earnest of Thee, in bestial wise! Yet, rising on His brow, Was not that sign from Thee that I fear? For the earth trembled, saw, And under the cloud of dust that fell. And, "Take up the bell!" His lips, I know, Were tender and severe, With loving-kindness waited, not to go Thus far from Peterkin, For many an hour, the bell to ring. I'm sure, such a striking, shrewd old face Was never before In the Churchyard, when at times, I'm told-- Behold, the silver chime From the click of the beating bells, the chime All through my brain, the joyful clime Of every old, familiar tone My breast had made response, Beating itself, with cheers and moans, And cosmic cries, Not vainly, my God, the tune my art Has often played me into heart Where times like these might be. I sing in the church yard evermore, For still, unseen, I see The scrolls of the Fifty Vicerens dip To the topmost pinnacle, In the mellow year of the century dawn On the apple-boughs of the sky. I have dreamed it, I have dreamed it, Till, a moment, there came, A lessening light, before my feet Was loosed again, and the old roof's crown Was lifted--a rose's life-string, That the centuries had rounded out Before its sweet confession, And so, a little longer, I brought it home to me. I can remember Those funeral wreaths, adieu! I think they never, never Could stay their memory. I remember that thrill, I can remember (As the solemn verses roll To the lower window, and we go Softly in our ancient ballast, That rises upon our memory), And gazed not on my spirit then; But it was new--I thought it came again! And glided onward with them, Out of the dimpled cloud Where every dear object kissed With a magic kiss its tender touch, The incarnate heaven, it crossed, And vanished,--and I saw How strange it was--again I heard Its voice, now many years, Long since, in dreams, again to haunt me now, The music that once did all of it; And I could see, without my trembling eyes, The veil of the past, all blotted from me, The meeting of a disembodied one, Floating himself up into its home of me. But there the other the other, His wife, and his boy, And their happiness in all their lives Seemed most desirable and sweet For those who would be ======================================== SAMPLE 574 ======================================== 's shake. But I cannot climb the mountain side. Such is the power of man: his daily task His living breath by day and night must grow To an enormous sum of being, this, His comfort, his desire, and his delight; Who looks for ever from the book of life On some unguarded blessing as he lies Wrapt in a winding-sheet, expound to heaven. This is our darkest passion, and our sweetest care: Soothed is each care, and every grief, all grief, And we should laugh to live the more alone; Then if love were to lure, we'd linger here. All bosoms should awake with ecstasy. No grief of heart or tearful glance of eye Or tear of eye Should pierce our sunny purity: All joy should rise from earth and heaven; and we, O, be and bid "Good morning," always spring Beyond this turmoil, be not less than man Who cries "I love you;" so the rosebuds are Low set upon the roseleaf of the rose. So all we longed for, are in love; they pass The holy sentry, and the guiding hand Of hope, the soaring hope, the holy trust, The trust of one sole soul that never falters; The veiled Rebecca and the veiled Abbess, The watching image of the glorious Virgin. All things are well for him: he has but grown To be a curiosion, and to live In lovely visions and be clothed with flowers. All things are well for him: his eager soul Passes all knowledge of himself, but is With the necessities of earth and air; He can be burdened by the loves of earth, They come from mighty youth, from high delight, The heart of man, and passionate desire; He can be soothed by fervor and desire; His strength is shattered and he falls away A little thing, with hands and feet unworn, And so leaves life, to fall into its grave. Now the starry midnight is laid out, The wedding of their flesh is done; Fair moon, low lying in the west, That did not sink, that did not rise, Those lights that to the morn did lie Upon the dead man's quiet bed That did not die; the perfect rose That had not fallen fruitless, being dead; Love's rose, the bride of Faith's fair grace; Love's purity, the chaste dark face With no more shame of thorns than is Turned to shame's service in the east; Love's thirsts for heaven, and heaven's red gold; The clouds that fall and the white sea And man and all his bridal train, That blossom and bloom in these bright days; The heart that thought could not contain, That tender body and great soul That knows not the death-shadow of sin, Nor the soft flesh that knows no sloth; The sweet cold lips and the warm black hands; The love of a dead father; a friend Long dead, and yet not dead, and a child. Between the night and morn I saw the face Of one I knew so long ago, that had Not learned the wisdom of the years, nor told The yearning of the stars to any one Who knew so much as this, nor yet had known How the wild light of eyes and of bright wings Burned to a knowledge what beyond his ken Had been so great or real, nor could be The wonder of them all, nor yet the power Of all that made them mortal or divine. Unto a spot I saw a young girl's eyes And hair of gold and a dark cypress gown: "Tell me," I said, "who knowest thou of all Haply that look on thine has been the mark." "Lift up thine eyes," she answered, "from on high In these deep heavens we see the star to be More meet to seem than to behold the sun. We too must shift our destinies, and yearn Up to the great new Phoenix, that shall be The feeding Phoenix and the food of God. O God of love, why dost thou lift thine eyes And see the soul alive in thee? It waits The spark that quickened first upon my lips After the law of man. So shall thy name And thine be as to-morrow, though to-day Thou art not dead, though thou art still alive, Though still the child is, and the beast be fed. I do not think I ever yet have seen A noisy animal ======================================== SAMPLE 575 ======================================== does its best, it ever should. Thou, on whose waving couch, the peasant weaves His whistled plumes, thou, as the owl in leaves, Supremely blest,--thou, from the dust apart, The epitaph of St. John! it sounds, To all, aye, to my soul, of that high part, Whence the great light, since whence the morning springs, In darkness gleams, midst that wide-roaring infinite. In the thronged city none is equal found Who without noble toils their country own; Whose veins the clime so well their clime all bound, That but the warming steam and open stone Of each small house, the fittest for their own, The line whereof makes clear the ancient town, And storied oak, or marble bust, they own, But to our weaker part, a longer way, With edifice, in which no eye doth dwell, The dusty streets, the panes, and dwellings swell, Come as our fathers in our giant cell; There, father of our fathers, Lady holy, Of yore all mindful of her sacred shrines, Whose shrines are on the pinnacle still soaring, For when our little beacon goes abroad, Some hearts beat with it, some with joys they shout; And as each opened portal to the ground, So opened her fair fane, far, far aloof. And 'stead of light, o'er earth, o'er rocky mountains, A slowly falling star, Its pointed pointed splendor far uplifting, Heaven's flowery path bore down; Each cranny of the air a gracious feeling, It waved divinely round, It called us hence, "Come what wouldst thou here?"-- Sweet mountain, that I love, With that bright tint of heaven above, 'Twould make me still to see One like to thee, As fades the light that seeks the wandering eye. From the deep blue cave I heard the fair maid Murmur "How do I love thee?" "I think thou lovest me!" "I thought thou lovest me!" She sighed, and her curls fell together As fruits that are spread to the autumn bee; Then suddenly, with a sweet cry, As blithe and as still As lambkins that down the green mead-haunted run, It led me to her. Far down the glade the timid brooklet strays, Where deep green glens lie low against the sward, And deep green mosses shoot between the ways, As if to say,--"Oh, thou mayst love me indeed!" Thence, oftentimes, with downward eye and cheek, I watched her upward gaze, And heard her voice speak. She passed to the wood, she chanting low, "Oh, thou art fairer far than I can show. There's not a bird of night above thy head; Go thou and hear them. "The foxglove has hung Its dark blue canopy on yonder glade; And the pansy has hid Its tinted blossom; but the bee has stayed In search of thee. The wood-thrush sings, As if to woo thee. Oh, how far away! The small bird sings! It is thy lay, The flower's song. So sweet the air, So wild the sea, My fondest love! "The western wave grows warm in yonder cave, As if with thee I had not been: I would not stay. No parting cloud shall o'er the scene be spread, Nor envious night In all his flight Breaks on the light; But ever constant, as the light fades out, I'll haunt thee ever,--as the night grows dim,-- And haunt thee, ever! And on each bough, That trembled with the love-light of a dream, My kisses shall lie, And in the dark, Deep shades of my love's heart shall whisper, "He Sings the song I cannot rightly name, Though I know it, I am coldly fain, I'll sing him yet." And often from her bower And green wood-bed the keen, sweet night-breeze Her song shall pour. And sometimes from her bower And her own love the joyful night-breeze, As she slumbers Under the stars and the moonlight-moon, Thou shalt love him, ever! And on each bough, As night falls, ======================================== SAMPLE 576 ======================================== of Ribera. Astrologer Canaddo, patron saint of Egypt, who offers sacrifices and inculcates Molbo, supposes an probability of hand-writing to all the privileges of Europe and Africa, the highest critics of Europe had vocally been condemn'd to depriving the names of celebrated exposters and philosophers. several languages, or a prose essay, which is equally resound to an unchanging tone. The highest literature of Europe, which is, or England, is, or England, in the nation of the north-west wind-whistles and loud soars. But he sufficiently maintains himself that the Arabs of the Provinces will hardly turn English rustics. By his wording himself, as one of the Himalatic States, the world is deferred to his most trusted friends, his best-belov'd entirely Germanic poems are written in the language never vizigable or natural, with exact condemnation and invasive tuoy. 'Quintana!' Nay, the Indians have a real right to think that the Catalonian literature of the period may be sensibilities, the appeal to which his poetry is applied. But, to 'the ne' degree, I fear that I shall never prove that any literary people who have been written in these lower regions may improve the metrical condition of the modern languages and faculties. There are some of these errors in the older, far more historical movement of the Italian. Indeed, all the older and more lasting enquirents of the history of the The most remarkable and touching epoch in England are conceits of her literature, the most lasting and minute of her literature is that of Lucian, which extends its sole residence in every age. For instance, the greatest oblivion of antiquity, written in the groves of the Sancrocco, the little white cliffs of the Ayr, and the great blue waters that through Oxford or Oxford lead to the Atlantic islanded by that river which flows between England and France. For in England, so long we are not ashamed to admit the greatness of the modern world, in that noble, political, become in its highest pride and courage, as that river England, which is the mother of all men, with the state of its banks, is the most resistless and everlasting river in the manner of those which have had an independent source for its grand current of being streams through many other sources, as well because they have been gradually smaller and gradually less frequent in England andEngland. It may be doubted whether any modern verse ever came before and afterward, and it may be again, whether any modern verse ever remained in its present state and situation, since it has been a real source of inspiration, and of the grand impulses of its earlier days. For it would be an opinion that Europe and America, together with the ideas and symbols of the Oriental world, were not, at first, one single centuries. But whatever seems to be true in one already fine enough is that by the interest of our national poetry, and that it has been the general duty of a great and princilléd and robust empire over the whole world, there is scarcely a betterable idea of the local, is that of the speaking of a law by which the dear object of his living friends, together with his own countrymen, whichever the enthusiasm of his native land and manners being set to character. in a limited sense, a principle satisfied with the settlement of his home in England, as things will be seen In the port of London, a great commercial world is bred in us. This stab epoch serves as an antithesis to those two races which could hardly be held in any more than one generation, since the history of it could scarce be kept in the latter of either side of it. Vizetz, once in his life, told him that his grandmother, Venus, was enabled to kill him when he was young, and that she was cheated after trying to stop the fire making side-works of the entire and entire business of that business. This, my friend, is evident enough; and, if, indeed, she had not practised an allusions, I dare not believe, that 'the least alive' had not left any one betrayed her, save one which has a sensible state in the minds of these many thousands, I might have been content to spare eighteen years a complete boy at present. Not having gone before, I must remark that the present friendship of two scholars, for which I have not been able to stand ======================================== SAMPLE 577 ======================================== A funeral-train advancing gaily, Till they don their Sunday garments, And their horses without toys and horses. Next morning these gowns of fur and leather, From the ground so deep and gory, Is scarce more than usual in Paris, For the ladies, without traces Of their hair or flounces; And they never suffer hurt or harm To their generous hearts and faces. This fine brocade, of flannel, And of topaz and mahogany, And silk, were all the cover. And it keeps the wampum sounder From the teeming masonry, While the pendulum sounds hoarse and dull, And the sounds of fiddle-strings Tally from the lotus-bell, To the beat of tabor, chair, and all, And all the isles of Greece. They sing the verse of Noblest Worth, Of wild centuriony; But nobly in the end 't is fit, And well the searcher May enter well his heart and spit, And drop, perchance, he'sham'd in! In true respect of his renown, My lady here I'm sitting down. I have been housewife all the time Since sunset when it was the prime, And thoughts by planet-paths from which Have seldom come to flow; For some that laugh at the rich stuff That carries them in their head pull out, And then they find they be from without The bank where they've been bred; And others, their attention run To pretty spots they made upon, But can't afford to pay the bun, They do not like to pay about Their profit in the plough. They find there's nothing in the gold, They buy it, and it is not cold, But still they put it on; That old-world yalla, found it--such A flow'r was never seen! When others' wife was sapped and tumbled And some one shed some lemon-tumbled On her French carriages and clothes, It was a conquest they'd not do; My wife said nay to me, What can I say to you? And it's plain, as the old-fashion'd sea That married Mary once of yore, And cocks with her the married pair, And loves her best Guatraye. Her love, she says, is not a show, She only brooks the sense of woe, And I am more than double told That in our happy breathing, Our life has not been rightly scalded Unless she knows herself consalded That so she loves him. Still there are charms in ev'ry limb, And mediocrity in limb, And dread whene'er a den is made, And pity in the eyes of thought, If thou hast ne'er been born. A royal lady, in her bed Was borne, 'neath safeguard of her head, From the fierce pains of habit hid, And on her head an olive-branch Did bear a scarlet coronet: Then in her hand a cypress stood, With nought but skin and scarlet hood Upon it, and her hair did show A scarlet crop of purest snow, The whole of that deep red below, Which on her forehead had made grow. Her paleness overspread her face, When to the sight of eyes she came, And trod her lips with all the grace Of all that stood within the sun Which of old Rome an Eden made, To which by her stood fifty maids, Each finding promise of the Styx, But what small joy they brought with vows By which their friends he could not brook; For they had no time to laugh and look, And in the morning of this day A very woman reached the boat That to her headway did convey A pair of boots, no larger were Than one that journeyed forth to stray. Her father and the brothers met, And gazed each in the other's eye, Where two most languidly did stand, Each with a face so golden-rich, And though a harp hung in his hand, It was a signal far too proud For young companions like to see Within the arched window sat "Odin was there!" the other cried "From home and friends you have tried and died! Odin was there! Heigh-ho!" Thus for a hundred years and more A hundred walked in the roar and pore, No one on earth could even stare From such an out ======================================== SAMPLE 578 ======================================== ; but ye with others change your lives; Death moves the world, and ye a thousand view. Calliope, when thus her husband died, Was neither born of cruel but humane, He too was called, like that men call mankind, And from his blood which for thy sake was good God made the slave a man, avenger still Of all the injury of God on man: And for the rest of him, thou born too soon, Become a man by us, and foul or fair. Wherefore he is the same who left the slave Long since, and is the scourge of all the world. And he, who never ceased to speak to God But all for naught, since he was always free, We have as guests in England, whom he calls Repentant, and our house as our own flesh, Whence he was called, but now a wretch like him, Who wrought in money, and in France was free, And whom he robbed not for himself, nor took For his own self, nor took for his own wife. The Duke of Harfleur doubts if this be true Says the good man, and prays him to forget What he has done, and that he still lives free. But you and I must choose you, sir, for death. For 'tis too much of friendship to approve That spirit of false men, who would set up Simple and good in order, so to speak All actions in full time, without recall In good, and sound or evil, were there none In mind or thought renowned, and none of whom Would cast his life or praise in anything. Thus many of you and I have set you free, Free of all thought and all desires at once For deathless duty. But your friends, let go, And we bid good bye to all the world, for one Did grant me death and death, nor let me go Into the world to perish; and if need For evils three or four save, yet it seems He thought a longer time would have a better, And that a longer time should go than this, Would lure my soul from the redeemer world. I come to your proposal, which he asks, Both tolerably well: the devil knows If I then wish to ask him, as reward With the first man. Your favour at the last, That he may free me from these two worlds, may serve Impartial to his inmost thoughts, and live For as my deathless soul shall live for ever. The world is full of warring Spirits, Who, for their earthly guerdon, kept themselves From happiness and ever-increasing ill, Yet he believes they have no happiness; And where they go they may, at any time, Fulfill content and peaceful days and nights. Thus while I sit, to him the golden time Exacts, and sees the world, and works in peace. If from such confidence the wise world can judge, If we may call it truth, our life is good; We had it done for what we were, and now We see it by the virtue of our deeds. And what is greater than our wisdom is, When from such confidence we turn away To seek and gather, and the heart believes? Or if it may be life, and that is death, And that is death, why thus deceived believes, And that is death, why thus content and live? But let the fruits of that most worthy labour Forgo all tastes and passions of our kind; If we believe not, what is higher still, We may indeed believe with growing wisdom, But surely, since to live can never serve, Why, who I know is worthy, and how great Is my condition, it must also be That all things suffer, that some things foresee Some things fulfill themselves and die away: For better is the life than death itself. "Nay, let not hearts and bodies, leave this plea To such as do the pleasure of the world, A man must live before the naked life, Nor long to serve; nor can it be the like In charity, not the same virtue to him As self-respect, or pride. Take courage, then, Blame not yourselves, nor look in your own book With too much trouble; look yourself to death, And put by death, if thou shouldst live, not die. But let the roof which looks two ways, four ways Sevenfold, please heaven's sunshine and the earth, Be strong as this, and let no chance perplex. Nor say thou thinkest much; for he who lives Sustains his life, and enters ======================================== SAMPLE 579 ======================================== , in a mightier realm, Remrouged its ancient king, on whose commands And great deserts and former penal laws The just had sway: while Adam's first-born son, Though of a sinful race, ascends the throne. With other worlds the seeds of fire were sown Before the world; but, when men reached the germ Of ancient nations, and the husbandry Of God anon dries all things out of sight, And darkness overshadow all the sphere; So, to the ashes of those ashes hot, Subdued by fires, the ancient nations fell; And what availed, since he, whose ear held true The stirring tumults of the times, could deem The untamed marrow of this hostelry, That guides the new-arisen world? How oft Old Adam to his fathers thus replied. Much have I travelled, and the nations still Will speak of crimes and mutinies, when most I am beloved; of cities and the sword And buckler of my blood. But I have seen The fatal issue: for, in time, I feared The triple hardened passage, and I thought The gulf, that holds me, in its narrow lap, All pent beneath, which I should dwell secure In safety from such foully unadorned; And I have seen in many a battle dire Inglorious, projects foul, which I have wrought, To captivate the world; and others have proved To me of worthiest portents, yet the curse Of unassailed ships has reached me; but in truth I will not leave them as it was in youth, If I but ask what spoils from bondage vile I have produced, or whilom might have been Dependent on my safety: so they sought Their punishment, and to the Greeks return, For hope of growth. Yet more than this I stand, That all be well; but first, I should receive The honors great unto the sons of Greece, With fitting adimes and disposition wise, And so much less; for whosoever took A worthy recompense, in time, or death, Must have an end, must be of misery Already known, that soon as evermore They shall behold me; and the Gods, with fear That I, the parent of immortal man, My father, have deserted all his race, If I have sinned, or if he still survives, Or if my parents, under me, have left All hope of heaven, that I shall yet behold The death of his own son, slain by his own Victor; and thus, suppliant by a God, Will I his person person, least of all His people, both this wreck upon my path! If he be guilty who forgives his race, Unpunished let him go; but let the Gods His mercy show to me, that I may see Him guiltless, and his offspring safe restored. So saying, he sat, and thenceforth her, To whom with cheerful words she thus replied. My father! I am glad that thou hast named Thee my compeer, whose wisdom is my art And native power; my father I rejoice That I am son to him; but may I scape From his departure, who at early dawn Wert wont thy habitation to forbid. Heaven send me speedily a messenger, And sire, I know, appoint recompense From out my father's family for those Whom he has honour'd most. I yield my life To all the deities of the earth, By force or fraud. Their little suits I give To small Ermingus, of whom to ask A portion of their off'rings; but my claim To him shall never be withstood, nor hence Retreat, lest evil on my heels attend. He spake; nor to her went he, but withdrew His hand to his companion, whom he found In mournful plight; forth issued he, And bade the guest, whom he had so deceived, Appear like to a Goddess of the night, And look'd and look'd around with fix'd eyes front, As if to say, 'O thou! for whom I took Due vows, if ever thou wouldst deign to come And be with us familiar at his house, Whom, once, he saw not, couldst not please at all. But thou, who never wilt return, declare If here thou com'st, or if thou here art fain; For while thou didst frequent his bed before, And hast been busied still with care, to hear Thy ======================================== SAMPLE 580 ======================================== , the war of the friendly wound. But in his chamber wickedly the foul Dragon had vengeance on himself. His vaunts Abuailed him, dared he thus the trial begin In that barbarian fight. For speedily Against a stately messenger he flew, And how to his half-forced blow the man Fell backward through the broken shafts of death, And burst the point. Or ere his angry lips Felt the dread death, he spake: "Whose shall this be, That, whelmed in the waste land, in my lifetime My friends should fall?" And straightway he bethought How did the ministers of death excel. But came not Hanyas the third in line Like Iris down from heaven, who filled the earth With monstrous shapes, and shrouds from many a knot The heaven and ocean with her deep-sea tresses Outspread, and shakes the earth from side to side. And now Alcmena, seeing him do thou, Rejoinder on his road, prayed eagerly That he would see, if not, the war of heaven. But she, she came with answer from on high, And to the Trojans shouted to the fleet: "Friends, let the goodly omen be our joy; Fulfilled of vengeance yet some promise given, Or the King's curse! For as we fight for God By gifts from Heav'n, so ours by promise given." Clasping his knees with trembling fingers shrank The trembling Trojans, while each thought that day Such chance of wo should come; and now in tears The city's woeful citizens outpoured Some path to Heav'n; and they who heard, grew faint With terror as they heard, and each his own Trembled with horror as at first they mourned. But when the morrow's sun had cleared the east, And cloudless light came down, and the doomed ships Were ready, they with heart-enkindling eyes Him followed, mourning for the hapless dead, And marvelling gazed. Each one to other wept: "Think now, O Priam, how we sons of Greece Might bear to Trojans death, and so fulfil Our wish, that, ere the tardy be won, We should possess the fertile plain of Troy, And from the strong hands of despair may save Our city from the ashes of the flames. Rocks, torrents, waves of fire, in Libyan fire Would we devour; and by the murd'rer's knife Slain in the guilty dust, the people die." As he pray'd, his pray'r was granted; forth he led The Argives, in his chariot, to the plain, From where the sea's smooth bosom bore the limbs Of stalwart men, and down along the plain He led them. So the chiefs and councillors of Troy Alike were seated, and around them throng'd, In act, the hardy warriors. All in haste, Their steeds and footmen, by the town were led, Alike, in dazzling armour bright of gold, As lions follow whereso'er they leap To seize their victim; and by hand and foot Darting they luff the fire. Meanwhile the rest, Valiant in arms and fiercely following, Spurned at the foes, and hand to hand with swords From every quarter, they in fierce retreat Dealt slaughter; and so many, as they fought, Slain on the plain. Nor long their term of death, For many a year no more; with sighs, with groans, With groans of agony they fought the more, And sorrowing for the dead. They, when their steeds Had driven back from beside the ships again, Grovel'd in dust and blood, and a great shout Of grief resounded through their ranks around. Forth rushed the brave libation to the Gods, And godlike Hector, as he ranged the lines, Upraised his voice, and shouted, "Hurl the fire On our horses! not in vain has Jove inspired His wrath, whose ruthless wrath has roused to wrath." Him, Pallas, soon he found amid the war He had exhorted, and exhorted him To fall in combat on the fleet of Greece. But when they saw the Argives flitting home From the ships and the ships, and heard his cries From far-off Pylian forests, far away, And living lakes, and mountains, and the heights Of Cilla, with a sable smoke cloud-pale; Then ======================================== SAMPLE 581 ======================================== on the chariot stood Raptures of golden sunshine, dreamed and dreamed Bright as a child's eyes watch the rainbow clouds Thro' the closed casement, nestling side by side, Filled with a sense of sunshine, steeped in sleep, They wander, and that one tall phantom throng Blinds each man's eyes, and sees the gloomy bar Hung 'neath the silver chariot of the morn. Then, looking up, he saw the sun, dim-bright And beautiful, flushing like a full-blown rose; And his hand resting there, was lowly laid, For he had loved and sighed for many years. Yet those dim years were sometimes wrapped in smiles Of death; but dawn was followed by his fate. So fair the earth he loved, and so was lost That he must cross the seas, and go with him Seeking for scenes of childhood, or for those His Father once met deathless; and he thought Of his old parents who had learned his lore, Of hearts, and prospects yet unknown, until He found a joyless home, and went to heaven. And so he sometimes turned aside, but paced The halls of the great mansions where the Prince, Last in the all-one world, sat on the throne Of this low land, had called the world his home. And when the brightening form, that lit the heart Of all the golden glory of the world, Like that of Him who made, with His, the world, The care of His good heart, he left the home Of those dear homes, and went to join their choir Among the heavens, unbetrayed by storms That made all darker hopes a darker day. And at night's noon, before his mother's bed, He woke and felt that toil was waged with him; For, bowed by sorrow, his whole life was spent. And even then, O England! to thy soul All was a heaven, and so was free to him. Nor did he tremble for that throne in him, For, in the great procession of those years, The youthful heart beat fast, the heart grew warm, And life a sweeter flower to summer shed. And when the rich world passed away, and left The lovely land of childhood, empty sweets Lay like a woeful spirit in the earth, And, like the eyes of wanton Cupid waking, His soul was filled with solemn thoughts of home, A deep, a wild, a keen, keen, constant love That grew from hope and peace into delight. And when he turned from morning till the light Of early life was banished from his eye, He reached his hand, and strove to raise the cup Of pleasure into that near home of joy. And when his eyes were closed, he bowed him down Before the light of Venus, who he loved, And prayed in secret, that the earth might smile And all her bright and holy thoughts returned. And then, worn out with wandering and strife, And a great longing for the things of life Which God had given him, he was calm again; And now that he was part of this great world, And God was growing weary with the change, He murmured to himself and said: "Be still." And men, as it were, were clamoring for help Upon his word. But the dull hurt And sore great suffering of all these days Had left no passage when the heathen throng, The idle pride and cunning treachery Of the first prying and last raving Guenever, Still clung within his thought. But when the cold First stealing into sight, he said to him: "I pity you who prate of coming death, I pity you who say it is not peace." And this is why I've come to die Eternally, and cannot have you go. If he was right, he might; if he is wrong, He might. If he is right he might be wrong. And, when he went away from sight, his soul Was all a vision. At the moment when He turned his sight around with awful joy To the poor pedlar of the preacher-soul, A bewildering prayer he uttered, and then said: "Baptize me, there, the prescience of this world, That like an angel cleaved to its last strand, Brings me across the gulf, beyond the bounds, My light and my contrition! Would you know That I am given to you to wear me so? Your world is like an apple-tree Cut down and stained, and I must wear it. 'Twas just ======================================== SAMPLE 582 ======================================== His hand. And He Said: "See it grows by doing evermore!" And I--was it Thy hand and didst obey? Then after many days of victory, But little time did we that strife renew And all the great God said seemed very great, And I might have withheld Thy hand from hell, Or stayed Thy hand in that desire of mine From Thy sight's omnipotent and silent cure. But from that time I could not rest again. I might have wished it--could it not, that I Had ceased to strive against it, and my life Could not have been restored to me. But now I yield and give again to God The faith which I would worship and adore, To Him whom first, and last, He did adore In very heaven. And yet before I could aspire to God, yet know that all Around Him always were a purpose high; Though not for angels; though these were not gold, And yet like diamond chains about His feet Was all a chain about His sacred feet. This being bent upon Thy Lamb's intent, I could no longer move the feet of God. I might have wished to teach him what is best To be a brother to the second life. As spirits gave him sympathy, he drew Me to his motherhood and taught me this: "At least, forgive me. There's a way to go, And he'll forgive you, though you can not kiss." My eyes are opened, and the big and large Clad priests went seeking round the taverns, where The iron mountains trembled and withdrew, Saying: "We will see Jesus." Where is the Virgin Mother who has won A Father's love to follow where she is? There is the Mother who has cast aside Her Holy Book, and on the threshold stands, Waiting to hear her Shepherd's holy love Rise up to bless him, when his mother's name Is read in heaven, and he may fall to rest, Knowing that for the sake of her he died. Beside the hearthstone of the house Is laid the child that brought him unto death. There is the Mother who has never spurned Her hungry children for the daily bread. The bread she wished from burning He had bought, She could not put it out until she turned To flee from him, and all that it had been Was come to light in heaven. The day is late And hour is late For something that Is passing over the sea. It will bring The friend who'll be Once more the shield of friend to me. It will bring me peace Into this vale Where it is calm. The little stream Will break its heart And thank the Lord For serving it. I cannot thank Him Whom I have saved. It will be sad If I should see His face. It will bring me to patience That it is hard To feel my child Laid low, and still. I know its pain Will serve no more. I need Thy will To help me bear My child. For Thou hast made me strong To strive my cause to win. Thou hast made me strong To bear the grief For which my soul was long. The sea, 'tis said, Is riven with spears For Thy head It may be that she has forgotten them all, And by and by this mystery They may and will not know. But the wind will blow And I shall make Her share Of the sweetness in Thy love. The day grows dark, And the sun sinks, While in its frail white sphere Night's gems hang shining near. And suddenly My heart is shaken, Like a candle shaken That dares not look, For as a flaming Cold shadow falls From the prow of night, So trembling and shaken It is Thine own soul, My friend. Thou art my friend. From the many-colored portals of Thy world My soul goes forth, and back again to Thee. Thy skies are blue, thy winds, thy winds, Thy dawn is distant. Ah! would that I could steal again into my soul! I am so weary of losing them, I seek them, and it were well to forget; Because I have failed to reach them Because I have stood in the straight and the square, There is not any one who is drinking and striking, And it is not too much to be late; So, with the curtain drawn, I too, Go wandering alone, seeking. The pangs ======================================== SAMPLE 583 ======================================== ; On a high note how the sky leaned out Droned, in the zenith of their shooting; And earthward moved with the first shout Of the great west; and, ere the dawn came in, We had caught, in a great web of love, A golden zone, with jewels lined Of the sun's dew, that should lie out to play Upon this night of midnight blisses, Quite unhoped by all the dusky race That had come in and brought us this grace, When above us the cloud-troubled star With its million-coloured chariot Rode and swung the shadows. And we laid Our lips to Nature and we said: "Let others follow after me; Their life shall be harmoniously thine, Until thou sow it. Let others go Thy way of going back to bring Burdens and meanings to some men As we lay feeding, and they know not What new dominion shall be thine, Whose coming shall be thine and mine, If only thou be mine." Thus, I thought, all lovers should be blent; But softer than our laughter was the still air, I had gone forth beyond the stars to see The morning star upon the blind to gaze Among the blind in the East, myself Prone, self-poised, and as a perfect moon Setting full-moon, while I lay there, Wasted, but a bright flake of the fruit Up-curled on the boughs, and knew not how The sun had peeped at first, nor yet The spring had come to halt the softening arch, Nor yet the zenith had been the same, But that, if said in heaven, there must be A different meaning. How, when the sun Came down and all the vines grew arable By the snow's sandy marge and the white flakes Liltingly, at the coming of the wind (The traveller's mouth on summer nights Lay open, or in the valley wide Came to him, moated with sharp flaps of leaves Which the night's moon had taken for her use While travelling the silvery, liquid cold And restless stars. Ah, that my lips, like these, Had ceased from uttering a joy so rich, And that the flowers, that she herself had borne In happier times, grew here, and there and then There were no honey, and the summer wind Brought a few dreams, and all was soft again. But now the moon grows full, and I am bold To run awhile among them, if the moon Shall see me thrice as high as I should run. First turn we to the top, and then turn round, Even thus about the foot, until the top Hangs ripening. Here in a little lower place My foot begins to stir, and, if you think The valley so deep and cold, is cloven through. Not yet the night-wind begins to stir; About this wood, that scarce a stir of air Could stop my hand. And yet I know it must Be very lonely yet, for I must see The lovely moonflow through and through the world As in a quiet dream, beyond the clouds. Towards the next day, it is not day, The hour approaches, and the sixth; but still The stillness is most like the stars, that seem To linger on the full moon, or look Through travelling heavens upon the night As in a quiet dream. Well, here's the wood--the big, hard wood-- They led me to the hiding-place, And left me here in the very place With shadows for the leaves to screen; Where, through the rifted branches, peeped One squirrel, with a shining coat; And near the wood, along the ground, The crows cried, "Would it were here!" But I was younger, and there grew A stern, unpleasant feeling of the wood, As though some trouble had occurred, And would not be avoided; and the night, It seemed, and the warm, bright day, was good And loved by me, for then I could Have laughed away the tears, and said, "I can't forget him! I must know His legs--they are so tall--they seem Almost like his great grandfather's legs!" He is a little dog, With a red, black, and black eye; He is the darling of every day, And every day, from his mother's knee, He says, "Dear little dog, pray pray And ======================================== SAMPLE 584 ======================================== , and for and the whole generation of people would the fair and upright would be at peace with a king in that land. Let my humble pen quickly tell you about the peaceful and sorry plight, the death of the Victim, the fatal, because when I had tried to do what had concurred me to do, I looked on one of the two who were seated on the throne above the royal Sons, and to make myself mine own; and when, perhaps fifteen, I had seen at its distance the dreadful angel who made the portals of the future open, whereby I dared not turn my eyes to the good enough before me to make my life known. And my own particular estate seemed taken from me; but what I was carefully done did I now say; wherefore, my Master, truly that holy book which sits above thy side, in the love of Heaven, full of comfort and good indomitable thoughts, such as a little child might wish perhaps to draw upon itself the joys of life, and the innocent delight which the first page of this book by number ten years after its first reading. It exertains that I am still afraid to ask my Master about the two wandring ones, so that it may be believed, and that good reward, which I have given thee in the love which I bear thee. "I thank thee, sweet Father, and would have prayer that my heart be not ironical: it is not only I have created my own will; that, warming the hearts of men with its own fulness, which else had destroyed every good, only I would have joy, the respite of which reason in chief has at the last reached its final close. And my duty that thou wash no wounds therein by that gyve of twofold virtue, if this be true in thyself, as was done in that girdle. From this very point, where our human nature is placed in the eternal victory, thou mayst preserve us wholly; and, then, upon the evil will that chastens the mind by which we are purified, mayst thou have power to harm us. Now, fare thee well, and let the holy tears that so cleanse thy face be mingled with theirs. For the wheat was not yet reversed, nor yet again restored; and thou, that didst bear the light from me, was surest that thou hadst it not, when from the first thy foot totter showed it, for which cause, just now, it weighed so heavily. The prayer conceived by the hand of God leaveth me in my guilt. And thou, that didst look on me with eyes asking, recall to mind from where I was, when I was thrice glad that I was not like other guilty creatures, but was doing vengeance for my perverted folk. E'en as a shepherd, when he hears his sheep or dog abroad, draws surely from the neighboring thicket, so he, rising, looked on me, and we passed the holy place. We passed on toward the holy floor all unrighteous; and I lauded the eyes of those eternal person, even as a thrush, who doth accompany a flock that follows, one of the mute and takes his place there, singing "Ave" in order that his flock may follow him. And when the steadfast good sped manifest. Wisdom was aware that I was asking, and I could not contain to obey. "Tell me," said he, "what that was commanded by that Lord." Then I turned to him and "Wisdom is not manifest in thy mind, for she is firm and cruel." "Didst thou, Father, whenever I was going to heaven, see any change, or think thou art going rightly?" said I; " wouldst thou, Father, when thou thinkest rightly, produce brass and raiment?" And I, "Thou wert right in this." "When I was not asleep a little I went on," he answered, "both of us, in such noble and such wealth, that every hour I have lived, either in grace or ignoble goodness, so that now I'm in the same place." "In this way I am well contented," he replied, "by hearing that thy words are so hard to me, that I rejoiced. I am joy that I thus scramble for joy. And it now is become I who here give myself to know both thy care and mine own. But since thou wert still a Son of God, I am well content to be Thy salvation ======================================== SAMPLE 585 ======================================== up, hag-eyed! The curse of all who foul our fellow Should hate the man who dares to invoke His "barons" with a " Koran juz," And such a "Exisition." "Long life" was what you said, and "very soon "Passation." "GODS!" "Amen!" We had a literary hole, And nothing marked a black mistake For this one precious hole. We hailed his man of strength and wealth Who dared to raise the despot's health, Beneath his masking power. He held that what you fancied good Was quite reality, And most that's waking beauty Discolored from its hour of birth, For in the daily press he was Reckless of clothes or dress. And when you placed the model And sold the sterling tinsel shot, As every member whimpered, You deemed it most improper To make such fabrics trudge; And so you pocketed your prize, And stood aside and smiled--Ah, wise, To-day it all seems sad! And I believe it's never wise To make such fabrics trudge, To play with demons infernal, And take a murderous charge, While sitting in Tartarean skies, And being maimed by eagles. Yes, I believe it's pleasant To be alive to-day, For I fear 'twould take in trouble A life of toil and pay, If you'd but let me look around And see your muscle-shod. I've eyes that try to serve you right, I've eyes that hold your truth; And so I've taught them yours and mine And kept them at the toast, That they may fill their bootless lives And not grow weary last. I know you're not with old and young, In all your gang of games; Though 'tis to chase a jaunting tongue Which shunned the common hoots, Or were the brawniest of the strong Of every pullet sprays; With any curtain-flap which curled A slip-weaver in the west, Let in the mild and smoky tang Of her quaint talk of old; And if your smile can wake a smile Whose theme is not to be, Till that poor scamp of checks and baulks Be quite a toned for me! Think you the folk that hailed you thus, Curse all our human kind? That now, though years have scared your face From playthings and from friends, Your simple carriage never stands Away for your continuance, And says, "At length--I found the scene!" "The hindrance," I replied; But you will not defame My orders, though the old barn-door Be creased with clack maloon; Be that as it may, or be again (So is the rule of corn), That, after Guidi's death, the pair Shall have an early horn, Though such things of a minute grace The human wily clown! Well--it is prudent and bear back The fool's plain terms, for he Must laugh, be sure, to see your face While he goes whistle through; There's scarce a mutable at hand To thrill a hint for you. So that you'll come--and, more than all, Escape the odds and just recall The jokes we had when all "A boy said" told him all he knew What was, without recall; "I'll make my habitation through My whole life, truly, all through, And if there's good that I can do I shall get swallow! Well, how it all endures To have your friend come Remora "He's awful glad to go Some summer now, or you May feel the least of it!" The goose hung bellowing, And tossed his feathers free; The little goose would not care-- His rival skipped with me. They picked the king's goose from the cote, A little speck of white; A little girl went out to buy A little feather-green. The goose looked pretty, very gay, But the courtier took it crude; "Come out and play with me," he said, "My Cousin Jack!" the goosehead cried. The goose hungrell beside the gate, Who welcomed him with cries; His mistress, scanty of her state, Too small to look aside, With civil craft, and well-brought taste, Placed in ======================================== SAMPLE 586 ======================================== Heav'n's gates shin'd out the shout, In pow'r so sudden, that the street Reel'd in their echo, and the rout Of darts and weapons, hast'ning, rose; While the high tumult rose and fell Of arms and walls, that did upreel A tumult, heard upon the wall, Thick throng and swords, that shouted hoarse, And long a fiery shower impel: That noise, so terrible to hear, Which not the faintest breath could stir, Peal'd up in hollow thundering clear. Thick rumbling fell the crowd of darts, Which from the shield of Mary reach'd The pennon of their ire untill'd. Nor less th' angelic crowd, when now The points of their contention met, And jarring sat in either square; As seated now they stood, when each Against the hostile knight was gone, And all that saw partake their fill. And while it spake, th' earth-shaking God, As with a thousand holy things, Lifting her white-robed head on high, Seem'd in his glory to descry A wonder, not less bright, more fair Then those celestial armies were, The which presenting all in trim, About the middle of the car, He cast about, in his eternal seat, Like to that wonder-light which shines Direct from th' Earth, on the clear brine, Betwixt the breakers, to the left Between the shores of the dark world. Forth They walk'd along, and as they walk'd, Behold a wonder! there they staid, As wonder-working spirits; fresh Their hands, and vermeil, and as white Their garments too, and sparkling bright, As the sun's heat. The heavenly pair, Under the great arch, appear'd, Her eyes fast clos'd, and from her brow Shoots out in view another crown Of flowers on earth. The next, in place, That round the car was seen to rise, (And underneath the rest, so fair, That underneath the crowned sun was stor'd) Was, as it seem'd, diffus'd and all, With spot of kerchief and of plume. There on the green enamel set Of the great diadem, she set The ground up higher, with such skill Of needle the swift glance to throw, As from the adverse beam it oft Did pierce the phalanx, and entire The walls, that of the car were pent, Bore in the broad expanse of air, Thick-eddying, violet-bright: And every beam, there lab'ring, still Renew'd the assault, and back return'd Each feather'd point on every part. No bleating flocks, no chirping wing Of circling wren, so silken seem'd All through the universe, the space In which they stood; yet not a sight, Belspeak or generation mark'd That region, nor the blessed sight, Of creature, there arriv'd, such, here, As hath been seen, in summer's heat. A third sort came, and of his kind An Phoenix, him o'erpower'd, an moth Of the consummated world, upsteam'd In universal tumult, such As nam'd the moone and blossom'd bean, Then resolv'd to fly. When now all strength Flow'd back within him, and in strength Resemblance to his primal beam The race of giants; him the chief Uplifting, next his puissance deem'd The Gorgon's self of all the Gods To be in that commotion rang'd, Where wonder of his might well-o'erst The Gods in council sate. debate Fill'd with his words, the assembly stood A while, yet from his speech in horror pale, At length he spake: "If earnest thus Thou dost discourse, decide he right, And let my counsels be to truth." "O Argives! (Thus he cried,) why stand ye thus Here idly thus at watch, while I in wrath Pursue the others? Dwell not in your souls A council; if ye e'er should come to know From whom I have the power, I tell thee now, That ye would know, whether by seignage one Or other, I debate it, and your speech Should be to public evil turn'd. debate Then will I, but on one, whom, thus employ'd, ======================================== SAMPLE 587 ======================================== they pass the well-wall, the bridge-side riven, The stone a turret casts, the door ajar, Waves the pale wanderer towards the upper chamber, And by their light along the garden-walks And by the chimney's light the lovers pause, Hear the loud bell, the watchman's thoughts arrest them, And hand in hand they go, like those who loved them. When at his casement they before had cast him, His eyes grew brighter, and his way more bolder Came forth, and there were friends in either party, And the suspicion false of many a missing lover Went up to meet them. But so late, the night Grew dark again, the sword-cup in his hand Whose quivering cup no eye could see, they stood, Pale as the corpse of one who in a dream Walks o'er his couch--each finger and sole writing Knitting its watch;--for not a word could they That any way of his quick heart discern Save that alone, which of a three score years Yet rides before him. All her empty smile Flushed into wine that crystal was; and soon As he would speak there met the stranger's eye A dry face bluer than the moon could miss, She closed her light as though it were a mirror; And all the while she seemed to watch the face Whose meaning there was not. Now as Dawn rose, Up went his riding-bonnet, and his cup, Naming it full of Spring, stood in the air Gems and long trinkets--platters, diademlets-- And a cloak and a plume and a basket beside him, That showered its spurt, of a butterfly-- Not a single feather But some white gleam or shyness. "Oh," she cried, "Oh, God, I'm as happy as I live! At last I find it! Ah, I see it!--cold, Dead, and like ice-drifts piled in snow Beneath the wolves, I lay and take the air And drown in in the snows, tho' one by one The trees and stones are moist, so dear, so kind, I make this prayer for peace!" There's a lake of boats In yonder, open bay, Far down into the bay, Where the ripples fly and play And the little ripples run. Here the shore at noon Slopes to the sandy bay; Their very shadows soon Are gone forevermore. What though the fishers halt To gaze and give no rest Till the last gleam of daylight flings The trees and bushes round them caught, We shall go home again. On the high tide of the bay They spread the blocks that rest, Then homeward bears them, gay And tented in the nest. Doves take a skiff and glide, Their sails are hoisted and their side As in the blue Pyrenees Where no intruding forms But what of ancient scalows they Have left behind their shrouds. For miles around a boat appears To float along the shore; What is the mount he but awakes, To give his ghost a rod And withered limbs its living spark? They draw it close in death, And closer still it waits. Where the damp mosses nod and spill A little lake, a fire In sunny windings silver-spun, And women's faces shine. That fire will flame the Cymrian's soul No more for Rome to-night; But when they are transmuted there That fire will burn the light, A drowned man, in whose flesh and bone The Godhead lives delight. O love, I gaze upon you still; The mountains look that still to see So many modern gods abed, How sad soever it be. Alas, I gaze--upon a storm That shall on Thames-head rain New domes and cities, new renown And want and sovereignty again, Our Sappho shrine of Liberty, Our altar cold on Lydian sea! Lydian, what of this? Why now you flare As a flame on Thames; your golden pinions No longer bound and joyfully fierce, Your limbs are shod with slime and mud; But in pursuit of wind and thunder There is the grass, the laurel tresses Of Araby, whose harp in Corinth Rings with the step of some great poet. Therefore let loose your flowing garments, Beloved of the wind, the chilly air, Whispering of rose ======================================== SAMPLE 588 ======================================== sew, Wi' that great tempest's wrath, Which raised them high aloft, And then impelled them to descry Hell's ewes, cruelly They down return'd amang the dells, An' then they down return'd, An' there was nae singin' but the dools Wha spak nae mair than they. O what a panic's in my mind! The thought o' God, an' that nae sense, The dread that fills my soul wi' grief, Is now to see that day, That I for heav'n may gae a help Poor devil down on hell. "Aweel, alas!" aft bane and loud The bells frae nearer clang: "Tak hame the road, tak care o' step, An' dree yon gate or gang." But still the moon pale grew apace, And still the pinnace rose; And still the sounding steps o' death On Willie's heather burs. Auld, faithless Willie, when he kens, There was a bicker'd drouth; He swoor a deathlie race to come, But not in fair lang-afters. I winna say a word o' his sweet hap, He was a gude and true ne'er try'd he; I only vow'd he wad ne'er waik Until he reach'd his last neuk. I wadna gi'e my ain wife-comin' here, An' she wad light the baith to craik; I winna say a word o' his sweet hap, For I'm the loneliest in the church. I winna read at large o' the noble soul That has hingin' ower the hill or the sea; An' while my hame's be at the ranks o' health, I'll never drouthy wi' her wi' me. The gude ne'er will suffer ae lang bleak fall, It's perpetuity, an' I'm as free. For a puir chance that I've been ower the sea Will soon wi' you be mair than I; I'll try again to live to be a d--l'd For you may come to want a kiss. The gude ne'er will despair for you, When cross the seas they call you hame; The bonie lady that loves the cock, He's danglin' at the marriage ball; To's haud you up, an' gi'e you light, Will send you a' to pennyroy. O here's to them, Frae their ain modest sphere, Who were right and true To our trysting, bonie dear! That's the source o' fortune's range, Wi' unceasing, humble face; Who could grant it, sure it's love, And we maun meet, The bonie lady dear, She's come again, my bonie lass, We're in Highland ground, Ance we wander'd right and weel, That it greets us a', An' a kiss again, I have naething like the like, I have naething like the like, My ain dear lassie, to fear we are sae near; O ken ye what I wish, I 'll try to catch a spunk, And gie my lass a frock, An' maybe she may tak the spank, To ken what we baith hae done; I 'll tak the spank, an' here we 'll talk o' love, Wi' modest blushes when we meet; My ain kind lass, an' try to draw a spank, I 'll hae the better gud o' you, O, sir, an' learn, sir, To keek me like a weel-gaun'd loof, For weel I lo'e it a', I 'll try tohood, I 'm no within. Thou dark, dark, gloomy, gloomy, Thou dark, melancholy, weary, Low, dark, melancholy, weary, Weary ever, ever, ever! I 'll toss thee, curse thee, weary, (Heaven will be a' wan, man), I 'll bury thee in my bosom, With the stars for a' And I 'll mourn thee ======================================== SAMPLE 589 ======================================== , nor ill defends Vainly the multitude of fair connubial guests. 'That well-born pair their weapon bare, A web of silk composed their hair, With which (none e'er could web of mealy silk) The friar Gwenlans fixed the moment on their sight. Then spake the bride of Indolat: "Long live my sight, Your noble guests! behold your bride within! Go, gaze on Gwenlans, and return with me, When you have slain your worthy cavalier." Then said the chief: "Since we be vassals true, O'er all our land your warriors should not speed; Lords are of France, and we must at a stroke Henceforth to claim the farthest courtesy. If but your arms my friends and kinsmen touch, Behold your own! your noble arms I crave." Then said she, softly, as if she were dead: "My father who commands me, hence depart! Haste, saddle me! for this is very sure: He is not dead, nor ye are dead a guest. Vouchsafe, my daughter, to your joys at dawn, And for that evil plight, in peace and war. With me and you if e'er you wish to do Strange or unheard-of, as my kinsmen true. "If by me only you will learn to ride, Pray as I am, and look with tearful eye On the rough road which round the ramparts raves Below, from this dark wall, on that round height, Nor look behind, nor listen to the sounds Of bandit squires, nor maiden's sobbing cries. 'Say, warriors, now this truth is manifest! What would ye with us find against this land, If you had speech with us find any one To tell of the destruction that was done?" "Ye shall be men enough," the rest replied; And he, for all his quest and courage too. Gwenlans arose; in aid of Gwenlans, Twain were alone with them in the hedge. Each upon Gwenlans warily his spear Well-filted, and his steed was well-hilted; With young Corinne that sword he wielded; The other on his shield was well-stained, And she on his keen blade was anghast, That all who helped her perished in the field. The other of those warriors at a blow Was slain, by one of the barbarous foes, And Gwenlans fell, who with their lances' point An arrow of more prowess, praised to fly. King Sacripant, defending marvellous life, On all sides round his shield and neck he smote, And from his brandished sword untouched each part Where Gwenlans fell, in his avenging brand. This and the other of his coming steeds Leapt on the foemen, fell mid distant reeds; In hand and mace they smote them with such force, That Gwenlans fled, and with their lances stayed. In vain they fought; nor of their lord were heard To clamor loud; these made their odds, and stirred Fain were they to assail the mighty Cymrian By his strong spear, and scantier yet for fire; For he, who saw the wild affrighted ride Of Gwenlans on, and feared that he the chase Would follow now, from these to bring him aid, And rule the other part:--he scarce had fled, Then spurred he on, and cheered his brother on. Gwenlans are warned by Cymrian scouts, who spy The following night the rocks and woods that lie; And at full speed the desperate warrior flies, And seeks his hiding place upon the rocks. His safe return the wounded prince awaits, Who shifts, and turns, and stretches forth his hands, And for the combat with the foe pursues. Now in the sun the mists have fled away, And, down in hasten pity, Gwenlans fall, That which they bore afar, by morn or night, To them by sea, and mountain, hill, or stream, Was given in time to be the tidings good, And news of truce; which told, at last they thought That a fleet was at hand, by Burgundy brought. This while a barge of good and hardy knights Grew strong at counsel of the hostile band; And to the Lady of the Dawn came forth, And set sail marshalled for the ======================================== SAMPLE 590 ======================================== In the yard yon wee thing lee; Aweel, when I looked o'er yon drift, It was no pig she warse doth love. "Oh! we must catch the jump," she said, "For, ho! we catch but ginger haul; Without an inch of rigging red We hear but toil a night through all." Great Scott! Oh! Scott! the words ye see When the veiny heart is dumb; Fegot! the love that's all the tie 'Tis a wag Presbyterian to the Pimp. The deil, the lady! in him stay! Nor this nae worth, but baith to rin; He rives his heart to keep it true, For kirk and us nae mair he'll ken. Then hey for a dram! and for a dram! For a paddy-melon, hang him well! Such mischief maun his humours tell. Gude let him gang that's aft the frith, An' flang his fortune like a fell! May happiness and plenty rule him! Then haud him dons that will him doun! 'Tis time he skunk,--and bumpers now! To think of skunkies if gaun in, Or steal their bauld sides wi' the Deil! May business and fear on him mak'; An' git him down the Country Bank, Wi' his loudest thunder in his throat, For the dear folks dang it to his wish, For a' the gudes and feathers o' the lirk. Stirling was a lady fair, To love a lad I trow, But, wae's my heart! she's far awa, She far'd frae me, I fear; And I shall ne'er forget her yet, I did na drink till she gae nane!-- How mony sparkling glories blaze, In ruddy colors, through the rays Of rich, unspotted light; While mirks and gleams, as, in my ear, I catch a fading, ling'ring star, That shines, how sullying, near, Till a' my heart is laid on fire, And memory weds no mair. "O that's a' mistress," said my friend; "But, as for that, nae ruder blast Could blast my joys, or I commend Thee, better than the rest." With that, my worthy friend! Possest my muse awhile; But, by the fire-side, I repent; And do na mind her yet. "Behold, bespangled wi' the wealth, "How now, how now, how now?" She cried, and turned her rapidly, "Sir Wisdom's charms to saw." (Sir Pow'r's celestial consort, poor That had so many other lands to boast, He left them by him on the road; And wha had heard the tale? Poor Labour, weary as he was, With panting bosom, and harnessless legs (Weel-clos'd wi' new-sprung mounting hams), Her new-rais'd husband pitied wi' the dins, That Fortune might the present times hae proop, And lavish'd han's and hale's brandy-cap; Wi' him--upon a random choyce, Her darling amusement she would choyce, And happy did as fate did, waur--time, And sae aspit's bluid did faster clime, He took her to his ancient aime; While ten times warmer he did ride His young bride to his side. They talk'd of Heternate's fauces, And how wi' her they micht debate, And mak' a husband like a beast-- The bodie he wad whip and prance. He talk'd of Trottin's golden hens, And how wi' her he aft did screed, And made sic court offers for gowds As in the days of a': "And a' the lads of a' the best, "And a' the lads of ane the rest! "And a' the lads of ane the rest! "And a' the lads of ane the rest! "I gat your word and aye your fit, "And you may gae your errand, neist my heid, "An' a' the l ======================================== SAMPLE 591 ======================================== , we rest. What lips are these, oh, what a thing Is this, and nothing--but a King? One on whose reign, beneath a heaven, Our King himself might do heaven,-- How can we ever hope the whole To be an actual little Soul, A Prince without a Royal Dream? Surely 'tis true--but there's a knot Unheard unless we give the slip; Who then has ever thought that I Will thrive upon the Table-ta; The Knight, Sir Knight--he's nothing more Than the King's court to us or the Fair; And many things we just do know, And choose as best in the way below. Fascally travellers this life maintains; Thou of the East art standing near the Throne Of King St QU bearings well known to thee; And as the ripened season doth decline Thy days will be of all that once were thine. One of earth's mouldier and of highlier birth, From the low-journeyed solitary earth, Takes his rude couch beneath a savage breast, And, at a fount of ease, relates the West To thine own youngest child, the Princess Best. And what that glittering thing so clearly proves The beauty of the world in flower above? 'Tis the old dream, the creed of many lands, Which makes thee happy; and it tells thee The peaks where thou did'st walk to meet thine eyes Were less than nothing; that no other eyes Could know thy secret, save an only mind, That only looks thro' mist of circumstance, On one whose life and time are like a smile. And here thou art so fortunate and rare, Thou com'st to grace thy mother; and to share The sweet content which fills the happy hours With smiles and music--deeds that may compare With thine, in calmness and in changefull power. I cannot give thee now the perfect hour When first I saw thee, lonely wandering, Amongst the many thousands of the flowers, Sweet Muses, with the music of thy voice, Uncared for sighs, and melodies by night. I cannot give thee now the perfect thought, The fever of the hopes that burn no more, The grief, that slights, that scourges thee and wrought, And yet might check the tears, and give thee nay, But only marred the hues that Fancy shed Before thou wentest, ere thy childhood's fire Was all but lost, thy youthful genius fled, And left thee as it was when Science first Looked out amid the blossoms in the sun, And in thine eye the fairy-oil were cast. Child of the Muse, born of divine desire, Mother of endless miracles, where came From mountain-caverns many a peasant-fire, And many a deep green meadow-haunt made tame, And many a maiden, with the cowslip grace, The untaught lover, gleaning out his place On flowery lawns, till they grew white with dew; And thou didst fade, the very fay at gaze, Thy fairy light in eyes that might bewitch The circling heavens to hear thy humblest verse, When thou didst hear the dismalLucian lute Thy father pleading in the House of Fame, And in the leafy arbor of the grove, Teaching thy childhood by his ancient art, Thou didst write then of heaven and earth and sea, And all those lines of heavenly poetry Thou didst love most--though only for himself. Or else, as on that cliff, or in the wood, The portrait of a man whom thou didst love Most, ever, where thou couldst neither breathe nor see, A human form must shadow thy renown, And leave thee folded up in earth and sea, Shut from heaven's light--for so thou couldst not see. Thou, thou, the criminal, the virgin who Before thy beadsman shouldst have placed her hand In Heaven--in that same marble of the sea Thou hadst beheld heroic forms come forth, That Time himself might scatter and deface The dust that wraps thy glory and its place. Or else, as on the path the bard goes on, Through the still night, and while he strives to rise Above the Ocean's infinite unrest, (While the noon suns melt in clouds), when, dimly shone, 'Twas noon that led him to the mortal skies, To watch the wreaths of smoke, ======================================== SAMPLE 592 ======================================== ly only holds her way. They knew this man was good at table-- As a child will tell his kin, Whatever be his Christian name In a loftier life to win. For his torch of honor burneth, And, though his office be No direr crime than his renouncing The man must always be. Like the fire of inmost duty Was his simple breast he filled, And in public pathos sowed Where his loftier soul might build. One day in a public street He heard chattering, boys and girls-- Ringing from the anvil's clatter Of his fiery hammers, boys. And the shot went out of his head, And his bald head frowned upon The bright blue eyes of the country Where the east and west are one. With a thought for war he was driven, A thought for peace he was hurled, But away he sailed in a penny, Then back to the ranks of fame. And they said that he never was beaten, 'He came to the end of peace, But now from a chancel lonely He skulks at the Lords of Peace. Just an hour to a twelvemonth At home at Charing Cross, Samuel Keewis, the old man, Sent his second squibing pitchfork To point his views about.-- There, the old man he was playing, And a foreign rag-maker, In the English camp was dreaming, As the silent boats on the sea! He saw her and he looked at her, And his answering spurs replied, No wind blew from the Hoeing To stir the boat to ride! With a running leap and a landing, At bay he caught his gabing, And steered his pirate ship to the Channel To the great Old Hills of Han! He leaped into the sea with the oar, And thrust his foe from his hold, And chased his hawser in the fore-side To the terrible coasts of gold! He came at last to Charing Cross, The hut of the Lord still higher; He came out of the hoeing white, Where the hurricane steed abode, And a ship was on the road. He snapped his cord on Charing Cross, And stepped inside the hoofs, And there by the iron Cross he stood Backing his enemy's lines, And waving fresh his blade of wood Above his slaughtered foe. There did the sweat of the burning hoofs Ranch and end on Charing Cross, And the bellowing hoofs of the nearing hoofs Shocked the wind on Charing Cross! There, in the woods of Wessex, Blazing and blurring red, With red-bronze and hyacinth They hewed their stems instead. Under the hawsep of a stag, When the long waves rolled and rolled Away to the Northland cave, The body of England lay. "I'd a dart at your little bow, I'd a dart at your little coat, I'd a dart at your little breast, I'd a dart at your mane and throat, I would send a bullet through your heart, I would send a butcher's miss, And send you to my mother's house, You never would make it fine." The maintane told how he lied and feigned, The saint of Charing Cross, It was the moral that made his boast To meet the sea with his psalm:-- "I'll have no brave gold fishes, Lord, Nor lackeys, nor any, nor plate of meat, But only a daughter of France, in whom They'll talk of our Father's estate." Who was she that did not dance With a sword in her father's hand, A ball no old man now would touch (The old man's friend was in his land) With the sword, with a naked breast, With the shield, with a naked brand, And never would sit nor stand. The word went forth for the years to come, And the tears ran free from the old man's eye-- "I'll get a good gold sword," he said, "I'll get a good fighting prize, I'll get to my own true wife!" The long years had danced to and fro, With the sword in her father's hand, When the maiden's father said, "Go, go!" And she was left in the land. O, a wild cry rang from the street For the daring and the young-- ======================================== SAMPLE 593 ======================================== with bruised lilies all the front of it. In the West, field of burning sun, In the middle of the world the shades, Sheltered from all the winds of heaven, By the bared pillar of the glooms, Stands the Chimaera, whose camp-fires Were lighted long ago by the gods. And the Gods are asleep in the south, And the Gods are asleep in the west, And the Gods are not sleep in the south, But are carried away by the winds. And the winds that blow and the fire that slendereth, Are but blown athwart and the earthen jars. Here the Tartare is not seen, nor the steel-smoked camp-fires, Neither the wind and the smoke that smite men, As round about to the south they wend; And the Gods have found no way out, since first they fashioned (That grove they found there) a godlike way to beauty. They came forth from out of the north to ravish the earth, They arose from out of the south to conquer the realms (Their untranslated founts). And that wayward, wind-swept path they came, Where the strong gods held a sway of sway, And to the hill and the mountain and glade they said (For in the East the mist of morning made) "Thou of death! thou Helen of storm and fire! Thou by the withering wrecks and the wild vexed faces! Thou above all the birds and the beasts in the fowls! "Thou of the myriad eyes! O the poor last of the world! thou nursedst me in my cradle! Thou didst lead me, and thou didst lead me: and I said: Hearken, I tell thee that though thou art stone and iron, Thou art iron, and thou hast eyes! Hearken, I tell thee this, That I die a son. For the wrath that I have Is too great to endure. I will hide myself and lay me low, And I will hide me away." And so say the old gods And their toils are ended. And the souls he awoke from their night sleep, All of Daobe, that brood of Paradise, That plot of earth, the journey of birds and beasts Are little or nothing to man! At that moment She felt a thrill of the great heart within her And a joy of the rare long ago, And came to the path of peace. The moon that is born, The Pleiads who circle her throne, They bring her to light, It is night, it is day. And the roots of the earth Are red with their fruitage and flowers. And the plains are burned red With their blood, they have torn the world clean. And again, it is night, But the dawn, day, is dark. A boy and a girl, Not near enough. They will lie them still. You'd hardly believe-- If I wish you would-- There are faces that smile, And I'm torn to the roots of the earth! There, now, they are none of them-- I will eat them for one. And then The gates are flung wide by the sea, And the walls of the place Must struggle and drift! Though love, having done All at once with a love that is strongest, Draws out and makes free, It is better to love than to love! Though he let the stream flood Whar the mountains bend, A lad would not scoff at that face, A lad would draw breath For one breaker of sorrow! And I'm torn to the roots of the earth, And I am unstrung! For I have no song, No cry to awake from the darkness! It is better to love than to love! My sisters shall live, And our song shall be sung As the winds of the south Draw up and take snuff of the sea! When the sun of those hot and early hours The ice begins to grow more grey, The high stars twinkle over the lea, The white moon slips into the sea, And the wind of the north-wind freezes With the winter-sleep of the dawn; But all the floods break not in vain, For there 'tis good to be alive When the sun of those hot, cold winters Hath finished his course and his course; There 'tis good to be alive! When the good logs are standing By the black black, black catar ======================================== SAMPLE 594 ======================================== and the whole artillery;-- The precious enemy of the city Who shoots great Jupiter, and barks and is strong. "Mighty wag! and pliant-arm'd, son of Mars, And the fair works of noble Italy, Each may his praise of Nestor's slayer win, (The heads of the Trojan race will be then begin), The song of the muse, a living tale Outlasting--but how few will answer it-- Not eloquent, nor argument correct, A name with honour, but a credit clad. "But surely not--furious heroes old In legends and sing, and wars and loves, Warmt ministers of Mars, and Cynthia's hold, Fights of Apollo, and song of loves. "Hush, Goddess, sleep--the Trojans are awake! Oh that I were as when a child we play'd, Under my sooty pearls, and kiss'd my morn Of youth--the first-born of the summer morn! "Hush, ho! I breathe, and still thy foot is bold; Come, fairest Paris, let me stand with thee, Girt with thy purples, with thy purple zone, Clad all in silver, with thy golden cloud, And be my Goddess,--as, Goddess, thou art mine!" And the song ceased, and Paris raised his spear. The chiefs press'd on, a hundred divers ways, But all alike stood still; not him who slew, And roused into the press, to fury driven, Or charge entire, or lowly-shifting victory; Nor him who met him, whoso died, or fell, And kings were honour'd--though himself they mourn, He died, a miserable man and brave. Daughter of Jove, relentless Priam spoke: "Let neither Greek nor Trojan seek thy fame; Dead, if they live. Their funeral has been made, Dead, while the state, majestical, is grudged. And one man's blood, returning from the war, The other with it from a giant's hand, Or cypress from its own beginning shed. Trust to the writhing worm, and to the horn And sword of iron, when with vain desire A Tyrian draws the victim--saith he, who Hath steel and iron?--Yet to burn, to eat, To live as Hercules, the cause of Right Can help us of the gods. What! can we more? Have they from Troy already made their home? Now mark, and learn the grace of the deep powers Whose laws among the Nereids stood confined, And learn to share the perils of the war. "See that poor girl, whose breath shall pass her breath, The fillet that she wears, the blushing plume Upon her neck, whose clear-extended eye, Though numberless, remains, though small, to lie Upon her breast, her infant arms around; Yet take from her this fragment too, and say It is not hers, while she survives! Look round, Take each the pledge of that devoted love, And bless thine own--she is thy spouse! and say 'My father brought her back, and her love's heir!' "And so thy faithful tenderness, my child, Opeals her safely to the starry skies, Which she shall have:--then here are sanctities From thee, I say; and by the grace of heaven, And on thy daughter's lips shall gladden thine. 'Thus shall thy love, to-day, regain its home, And she return thee to the arms of Troy, Whose hospitable ashes we have seen, Dwelling among the immortal Gods, whose breasts Are like the limbs of mighty heroes slain, The sharer of thy children, mother of Kings, To thee, my son, is due, and is my son; Thee, thy kind mother too; as sole of men. But thou shouldst perish, if thine heart should live For evermore, nor others die nor tame, When Fate, a Child, the helpless, and the young Have nam'd their parents' death, the last sad sight. Now, Hector, let us meet. Hail to the skies The comfort of our Gods, our wives and home!" Thus, Trojan, thundering from the roof he cried, "For us, if e'er so great my grief, O King, For thee, my daughters, hast thou dared to take The Gods who know thee well,--all on the heights Of Ilium, when ======================================== SAMPLE 595 ======================================== ! soon thy fate will be again; Haste, vain and selfish boy, the jarring power Of war and bloodshed to assuage thy pain. Yet, should the wars, by which thou canst be won, And all the toils, once purchased, turn'd to one, Gild thy short term of toil, that not in vain It should be bought, nor purchase, but in vain. Fair shrunken breasts that bear thy friendly sigh, Ah, then how many heavy woes attend! Deep-fix'd with many woes, which others eye Long to have watch'd in all thy youthful state! O let me weep!--but cease, though much distress'd, To think how many a wrong my soul has past. Then know, that he who toils in anxious fields Is for himself, and loves the labour'd pails, And finds unwearied, and the moony hill, Roams the rough world all waste about; e'en I Full of distress, have view'd the shatter'd walls That shake to thunder. But how bold is he, In all his desperate fury! in his might, Whose wisdom this, with more than mortal might He doth exert; whose heart with ruth is cram'd, In vain he soothes his worse, and gladdens him Who wants him most who cares the more to blame. Long shunn'd by all who pass, the humble rill, Nor yet with anguished heart forgets to toil. And when death's gloomy brow watch'd thine, O Wife, Thou shalt remember, and my hard-earn'd course Shall tend, with thee, my pleasures and my life. Thou hast renew'd with tender infancy Thy form, that to no manly feeling grew, But in the man or woman, all mankind Full easily approv'd: the perfect man Is by another's help: a fair exchange Of excellence for mutual blessing sought, Of modest awe, and real dignité. Nor less the woman's, when with life endued, Bless'd, and aspir'd: the man is strongly stirr'd To seek for rank, and love no flattery; Nor peace, nor public peace for private gain, Nor simple joys, nor spice of wealth, unknown, Nor sprightly honours, nor fair fame of fame: But this fair hope with quicker wings devours The vanquish'd hoar of hoary age, whose force Crowds us with death. Thou dost not promise more To me than health, or fame: these dreads of death Both me and my success confound. Thy power Shall not be false; but, since it cannot change, I'll work it still. Do I for honour serve Thy kind with true love, be not false to me? Have I not oft with grateful heart renew'd The fond devotion to the female tongue, Wish'd me belov'd, and with truth ask'd thee?-- Have I done nought but to deceive my son Ere thou receivest true love? O, I have wept; And thou hast laugh'd at mine; for there are none Who love true love like thine. O, turn and see That man disdain me for my love, and scorn Him for my love, whom too he feigns to hate; I say but he will hate me, if he chide: I say but she will hate me, if she love. What, then, is woo'd love better than to know That love by thought is carried, though not oft? O, noble Lady, unembarrass'd love Hastes to the grove, to hear the dewy hymns Of ebon birdfoot, and beseeching sings, That love and he are one, which he will do For love's delight. Ah! well I know the fruit, Which decks the tree, that by such love doth grow, Who wantons with his eyes, but so true love Doth win the day, as wretched as the day. If thou no match for love shall have, yet still Shall live and love: O, Lady, in all this Women of love are happiest times to bliss, And trust not Love. This conqueror never taunts My love for thee: O do not, if thou wilt, Now waste my life: O, if thou wouldst not love, Kill me outright with love. O, Lady, hear This from a child of thine; he claims thy hand, And mine he loves. O, think not, Lover, make ======================================== SAMPLE 596 ======================================== , ere your food is gone, And you, o’erwearied with your pastime, go. To-morrow will I lay aside my trance: To-morrow, by the dawn’s bright hand, shall I Where your dear husband lies shall surely lie: There let my offerings duly be conveyed, And let my anger burn, and his defamed maid In thankless chastity shall be repaid. Hence from my breast these woe and tears shall flow When my sad father stays from wandering so: Meanwhile, O son, before the weeping eyes Of Laertialloe I raise my cry. He’s dead! O misery! waft him from my eyes, Let my heart see him, while I gaze on you, And every hair shall trickle from my chin, And I, while fondly questioning him, cry, “Well do I love you, Agathon.” Here we with weeping stood about him, gazing, With piteous weeping eyes around him gazing, And tears which well-nigh dropp’d their silent flow, Filling the lively lustre of his eye, As with new fury he began to sigh: And in his troubled youthful breast thus heaved The deep-drawn sigh, which deep inflection stung: “Proud Psyche! proud thou art, because thou bear’st The tyrantess of yon forbidden meed: Alas, that aught that we have been may share The melancholy fate of us and thine! But in her peace, Alas! I must declare That baseness, honour, glory, ne’er can dwell In such neglectful thoughts as thou hast done. I will not, if I may, her husband shun: He only asks what debt I owe to thee.” “Thy husband has a noble mind and pure, Whose mind and heart are both confirm’d in thee: Him of such noble soul no man can move, Thee more I know not; but with both mine eyes His sight oft passes, and his heart with joys Prompts me, but draws not to my sad relief. He faints, I know not how he is with grief, Nor wherefore, if he love me, nay, from thee His heart is torn with sorrow’s deadly chain. Oft in his wife he finds her now again. Death calls me hence; by what vain, senseless wit, Doth he the tender arms of her embrace? Who weds me in the faith to love one bit? But trust me, I will sooner die, than quit The shepherd’s crook, to stoop with sorrow’s touch, Than once again a woman’s name he know.” A little further yet he hasten’d on, And reach’d the bed where the full-blowing maid Lay, face to face with sorrow, on his bed. So went he dreaming by the grave, and laid His face on the cold bed, in most sad plight, And round his sighing wife in silent prayer Stole the sad image of a life long past. He rais’d his drooping head, and touch’d the ground, And sorrow’d through the dingy mould alleys, And sate with sad looks through the open door, Where in the death-like calm his wife was found. All grief had gone through all the house that day, And her dear lord was bidden to the bier, Who sate by him, and took his bier away. To Averill next the marble white bed gave The image of a man by magic art Whose silent virtues heal a people’s grave. What should he do? the glory of the place Was but to see the frame in mould antique, And not discern the secret of the face. This he could do: a man of gentle mould By hoary hands for love’s sweet pen prepares; His blameless shame and honour’d name confess Who does not see his true, pure heart’s repose. No doubtful end or purpose of the flesh He knew, but even with eye and ear intent To mark it, he prepares the bier to dress And deck it with the rose; he bids adorn The bier for him who loves it in his youth. He is not made to walk—his wife is slain; To her no lance can speed his swiftest speed; But the fond mother gives him to the brain Of a less powerful ======================================== SAMPLE 597 ======================================== ? Are you then so frightened?" Ask the man that's struck The friend to lead. Where'er you can't proceed: "We've struck him dead," he says, "but left him gasping And rotting on the road!" What's that? ah, friend, What ails thee, that thou flittest thus alone, While life hangs imaged by that faithful one?" "Sounding is!" though all the time thou fill'st my heart With tears and frenzies, and thy thoughts turn west, It does not seem the tide of ocean-foam That thunders in its bosom, but the wave Of dashing sand is that which ever glides Upward in sportive course from Pole to Pole, And fills the world at once with wilder tides. "Our friends advanced; the foreman's face we caught, Held counsel that we might pass by that way, Should all be left behind. And now he looked, And soon the blinding sleet without a ray, And ere they knew the weather, started back, And came into the old familiar town, Where joy was natural. No need for men To gather water, so the ghost of grief Rose up with healing in the windy hours. "Our ship struck watches; every sea-horse came, To warn us that our crew is lost and bound; And each by his tried captain tried in vain. O God, they brought no cargoes, yea, nor crew, For all the world to take them, and ourselves, For all to lay in stores." My Nauy rose And answered: "Those true words of mine have taught Sufficient growth, and gained an honest hand, That has preserved them over from the storm. Nor will I leave thee, nor forsake thee now, For my good kinsman's sake. The New World, too, With all its woes and miseries, is here, And through its desolate convulsions hath it come, Still moving on its course with steady power To give to all its yearnings and its joys, Though otherwhere. In frosty days it waits, The Dourning who is dying shall come forth, Clothed with the dancing flames that wheel around. "By fits, not much to us was given As pledges, given for each in turn. Our ships Held store of treasure by the eastern way, But scarce our gallant ship surpassed our prize. Within our compass lie those fires of old, Whose circuit in the long livethroning sun New nations sought, and northern wind blew back To face the choral heaven. These ends the tale Of all the vanished years; of all the woes The fated ones, and all the wrongs of all, Whose only task is victory. We were sad With tidings, prayed for vengeance; our reward Was that by waging war against the French Men might not perish, though their fate be sealed In death, our great Novara hath its will." Yet onward moved he, thinking of the ships So near the others, that at his eyes one sight Scattered the clouds asunder. Now the sun, Rising in part, was passing to the right, And flying sighted all the battle's field. From Philip's house she saw a sea-breeze Kiss the great ensigns of the heathen host Covered with hostile vapors: then she saw Those Hydra's eyes, the helmet from the head Of the infernal war-god, and the steeds Brought to a close contest. Then to her He called: "Where are you, fighting for these wretched ones, Repentant? Is your wife suffering, or fallen With these my foes? They never more shall rest, Nor long may covet quiet for our king; This is the end." With that she cried in haste, As one who feels it, from a saw, unheeded; And from her eyes the colour went for fire, And in her breast a sudden mad desire Came, to be seen again, to hide herself From imminent danger. When the lovely girl Slipped from the stream, and to the mountain side Went, with the happy face before her cloak, And in her woman's form the damsel glowed, She found her steed beneath the yellow locks, Her panting steed unharnessed and unstrung. Then rose her voice, But, as she cast her eyes across the flood, The boatman turned to her with glad sur ======================================== SAMPLE 598 ======================================== . I've fancied, though, at least to be an Ass, A Prince amongst his Excellencies, And had the fine sense that they all could wield And with the world go round in an accord And reign at once amongst a silly crowd,-- If so, I'm free to say, but yet he's wise, And may do what he would by his diaries. The noble Clown of England, in disguise Did not extend his life to save the Crown: Was kept in due regard to Quakers-born. His Courtship was of private papery, Had made the subject of a comedy: Sometimes, too, did I see a courtier lie Who was at home among the learned young: He was beloved by all, and all knew what to do: To please the Good-Man and his Quaker crew. With scullions, swords, and guns he once did reign, And his great Lordship soon did all complain: And every Knave that day had been in bed, Conducted the Orange- diseases, Mynheer, Nay even his Times, when in his House you said, "Now take my advice, Sir, if you go before; No Russian language has more tongues and ears, Much Spanish rules, more fables, than he knew: One day, the Devil came, with venomed darts, And ravined King, Sir, into multiplicities: I fear thou'lt say that the last day of all There's many a soul, that perils in the hall!" That same, Sir, we're impatient of. I wish With reverence to my worthy friend I could. He asks my name, my privilege of France, That I may set myself at his command; I say I think I saw him in a trice, I see his eye so sharp and keen and bold; His lowland speech he somewhat rarely sung, He does not smoke, but listen like a child. 'Tis like his Royal Highness to propose, For men are cautious as the morning can. I've no dislike to any avarice, No better fortune e'er was known to waddle. A man, above a little world or money, Can write, without a look, a word in plenty; Hopes travels in a listless world, which ends In making up a letter once and all, And if there can be blood upon his hands, Thinks he, may be that very man and grandchild, Still wand'ring onwards to a distant land, Will write, with glowing pen, O Grote of Crete, "Had I been dead the time he got to France I should have been away to Charles the Second." Up then, in one light independent style, Cometh she to his Majesty, my Lord, for me; But this is a high time, and this is none That she shall leave to us: she'll ask for none; And if she fails, and if she comes next year, That is to see her next; and if she dies, She were no king, and he the cause of all." From the start he quoted upon a story, Which was very poor, had not a man a name: And then the Baron being seated him In the Palace of Apollo, and, at leisure, There were more in anger than in dispute: "Bard, sir, who foremost dost the office wield, And yet of gentle bearing, yet can teach With aspect moral, and with judgment clear, To draw the noble and abase the vile, And fill up the foul palace with vile fear; So, sir, with this to flatter and beguile, Doing his best, whilst his envenomed ears Breathe the same speech; nay, I myself can be The very master to a noble man." Thereat was Alfred, without further pause, Towards the terrace, not without the ring, Till we approached the palace, where the grate Lay of the Royal Comrade, in its stead, From the plebeian gate on that high board, By ancient carvings chosen, there is room, Full of high courtesies and homely deeds, To be reckoned amongst rank among the gods. Sir, in its gorgeous majesty, there shone A skillful and majestic courtly mien, And gait and courtesy, of knightly mould, And goodly presence; and, amid the flow Of his gay courtesies, a humbler guest, Was the sole actor in that reverend house, Whose features, such as ======================================== SAMPLE 599 ======================================== , Into the terrace, air o'er head, Drops like a wounded bird; And seems on that green height to lie The slumber-bound and heedless eye, Where the free rapiers clash and shock, And yonder tower and spire Twin thunder-shocks are rocking there To harrow deep and higher. And Nature, that had sent me there That I might get myself a share Of that great comfort, peace, and love, The unaccustomed to my life, Would send me, unaware, With joyous eye askance To my old crony-crumbling tower And unconsolated beating heart, When the first lark begins to mate, And the first cuckoo drops her matin song; When the sky clear above her sets, And the green wood is fresh and green, Between me and the singing rills I hear a voice that seems to say, 'Come from the world, and be with us today!' "And then I see with opened eyes, A form without, that seems to say, No doubt of things--that is the wise, A poor, small child, and I am gay. And then the voice; but when I start-- The air would seem as though it spoke, The wind would blow upon my cheek, And I should feel a joyous sigh; And I should feel the sunny breeze, And the fresh earth renew the smile, And I should feel the heart-beat shine That blossoms where it did not pine, And I should hear the words of glee That pass from lip to lip across my sculptured clay!" Then the young child asked her:--"Why Should not this thing be beauty, and not a delight"? "Birds must pass and beauty pass, And men should go about in the grass With aimless steps and careless laugh, When life's purpose is not to be born, Nor is the aim a dream," said he, "But only a practical look--for certainly, in a night." But presently smiled the boy; And he grew full of pleasantry, And pressed his hand upon his brow And bent above his head and said, "The question is not over-hard, 'Tis not together for a day But for an hour; but each that goes Hath a face that never knew its own, And must go seeking ever alone. "Why do you seek with deeper eyes To make them grieve to go apart? Passionate selfishness and hate, Which if you wear it as a glove, Will lure you to love more, my boy, Then you shall die." "Why do you seek for solitude Beyond the river's wandering, To lay your sorrows under rest, And serve our plans as friends?" "Why do you seek for quiet ends Of business, simple needs? Where happiness must ever cling To selfishness and greed? Would you be patient? would you long For impurity, for doubt? Would you be servant to the wrong? Dying alone and without light? Dying in storm? or would your joys, Strong, resolute, to live and die? Some day your spirit may be dumb And you may change your wings and fly, O little bark, through drifted snow, Thy duty to the blinding storm Shall bear you safely on, until Your soul shall circle itself in Heaven; And so forever." An ancient tower, a solemn fane At Kille conceit o'ertakèd a town, Low lay its aged lord upon his knees; The wall was high, and loud the laugh was grand, And many a high and noble knight was there With mournful eye; the prince upon his crown Wore his last wreath, and cast a gleam around, Like a great golden ball of burnished gold, Upon his crown, and shone in pride so fair. The Gothic tower of Kille conceals a sound, And on its golden base the monarch lay, Struck by the hand of his benignant star, There sleeps a cold and silent marble maid. Above the lofty palaces of hate And grandeur crept and glittered from the walls, The soul of Héspirochis kissed her breast, And bade her wear her long-unwonted crown, Nor ever bid farewell to aught but death. The iron head that ever wears a crown, A frown of blackness, like the cloud of day, Upon his brow and cheek and lips and brow Was never laid until his mortal ======================================== SAMPLE 600 ======================================== : Among other things one Lady Met me now, alone by chance, or was become; For she was but slow with the Druid people. `A friend of mine,' he said, `doth his lord need moan, If any are to look upon him, and even my Lord Desires to see him, as I would an office. But if ye are not all aflame with such love, Ask of him whence ye are, and I had labour.' `To send him,' I replied, `thou seemest to me Like him who every one doth name, and honour must.' "Then suddenly bethought me: `Ere the good Cherish of this my lord the thane, he seems to me Coming from heaven, if any of them would; But seems himself so near to me, he weeps not; He would not, for love's sake, his face from turning. I made myself stoop so low,' he said, 'he would; And would have sworn that I was bred in battle, As I do. Enough that presently he cometh Unto the judgment hall, and will demand (That ye be able to hearken and keep silence) What grace shall be for his fidelity. But tell me, if thou knowest, whether in prison Or paradise he has his palace found?' `Not so,' I answered him; `thou needs must know That this house to-day is a forester of ours. The wings are lying as ye now discern it, That he so lightly is caught by us two.' `A maid that all men know,' said he, 'and so Blabbed chamberlains the knight, and from the door Is this the goodly chamber of a King?' `Nay, Lady,' I replied, `but in the wood By a forest's foot, in quiet, when the time Is come, ye shall perceive it is a woman, That keeps the eye of men in company Or ever she be called.' And straightway rose, To justify herself upon the matter, And said to her, if they should be divided, That neither, in their converse, shall be done By those two brethren, but by Adam's wife; And she to him, `All of my race are brethren, And know this is the only time of all.' " `In this is the time to be,' he said, `That even unto me among this people Should come a voice from heaven; and to my lord Read I my doom.' `Who shall decide?' she said, `Who shall not judge herein?' and he to her `If it be so, and he offendeth not, He offendeth not, and lo! thither he goeth Into the wilderness, and he shall come To his own place again.' And she to him `Then shall I thank thee more, and hope to be At peace with all the race of men.' And he `Who shall judge herein?' quoth she, `but I, Now know I that not for myself am I Constant in that great office, and have lived To interrupt the sweet of your sweet humor, And call upon the gods.' And she to him `What peace, what comfort can I have for these?' `Ye, the oldest and most mightiest of them all,' He added, `and I seemed to see them yonder,' `How now am I?' quoth he, `if ever I Had known that by a thing ye would be traceled, And that of my dear lord, and thus was slain?' `It is not to your right, O Lady, these The fruit thereof is red; so in my life The same is thine; and as to my first love, All on this earth was this, and I have suffered.' `Not for myself,' she said, `but for your good, And for your comfort and for all your war, Have I acquired keen pleasure in this place, And moyived have, and called you excellence, And loved you many a goodly knight, and loved A hundred ladies with not one accord, And loved in many a battle many a thing. But now have I this earthly love restored, And taken honour in me, took delight, Yea and been loved so, ever since the day I came to Sparta, set all things for you Of precious worth, and passed the gates of Troy, And ever hoped that after your return The war should end; and never had I served Your Ilian lords, who turned the word to flight Of all that fire of war; ======================================== SAMPLE 601 ======================================== Of molten silver adorning; And purple threw o'er the way, Where wet or mottled things were eaten; And as the cuckoo-bird was singing, Cuckoos came by for singing. And my long-tongued friends came by, And gathered here together; And set themselves down on the grass, To catch the dew together. And my long-tongued friends came by, And gathered here together. I vexed them every one, Because they died unrighted, For they had lived too long Among too little lightness. But after I had left my friends And half had given their offer, There fell upon my bended knee No rose-leaf or no peony; And weeping, said, "It is my fault, The very flower of love, That blows on this grave above." Then I looked up and espied, A white-walled barge, a banner, A banner with a cross on end,-- And the cymbals rang and called; But they twain alone were seated, In the midst of the cymbals chaunted. Not one blithe from the cymbals chaunted, Not one spoke to the cymbals' sound, Nor the cymbals' cymbals' clang, But the cry was ever out of the ground, And I knew my heart was bound, And the forest air could sting. When they stood before me there, I could feel the sharp swords go; For the great deep drank my life, And the monster he was that bore me, And with open mouth they stood; And I knew my blood was stained, As I saw them standing still, And the heavy fight was raging With my spear-armed foes about me, And I sped with whirling wheels Through the flames, the clash, the din, And my dead-cold bodies they drew back, And they led me to their midst. The host was of my aid bereft, I left the young men sleeping. From that hour upon the morrow The mountain folk were weeping. And he seized me with his wand, As he chariot drives to battle; And behind the lily-covered trunk He pressed my blood in conflict. The tyrant died by force of words, As my weapon circled faster. With a rock I planted my head on the ground; And had I but lived in the forest profound, So many days I had wished for a grove, And wished that I died in the forest for you, And wished that you too had died in the wood, And had killed your father with language I knew And again might kill you--but to-night I love you. When morning lightened the steep, As down the dark a glimmer Of starlight rolled, while many a wanderer lay; And the strange sounds of the forest seemed to waken The wilder forest and haunt me ever Until I lit the beacon's flame on the sea. Often the lonely sail-boat towers up To the sun in the forest's water; And it took me out to the parting spire, To be where the cliffs are now in prospect higher, Where all who will live had wed a bride; So dear was the voice that he uttered, And wept at the heart where his path lay wide. "O boatman mine, had I then faded Like a corpse on the battle-plain, Till in the night I could count the stars As lost in the skies remain; My soul and body lie cold and dead, My life is cold and withered. The grave of years, which yet shall be Though I have passed the pain and the pain Of all the world, is cold and dark, No wish for me remain. The scowling scowling scowling scowling scowling scowling scowling scowled With autumn's snows around it, And in my ken amid such a cry As calls to earth the thunder, Thunder the guns of hell; O God of my manhood, let me drink This bitter gall for a grave like this! Give me a worm that gnaws my bones, A thing of beauty and of grace, My mother's call, which is but few, Her hair that has no braids or hair From the life that was by my father's side. Nay, sister, thou hast brought me hither This sacred grave, and I will die. Alas, I may not bring thee now To lie like a fors ======================================== SAMPLE 602 ======================================== , Full trial rendered of the noble frame, And ornamented for the knife and spear, Since first they fought for vassalage by art And for their sire the hero gave the name. Then first the Lombard priest begins his rite, Though not expert in arms, to give the laws, Till they appease their wrath, and go to fight. The times are passed in teaching, and each sees His own destructive destiny foregoes, Yet there remains a dame, with whom it blends In tender love and amorous intent, To bring from far the stranger from his friends. When these are charged with proof, and these between The first two quarrels, face to face they meet, Then round the youngling guest are cloven, and all Are touched by love and anger, as by gall. Thus they conclude, and thus conclude the fray; King Guelpho salutes them both, and speaks One soul, the other listening, to dispute. Sage the baron observes his speech and sate, That without doubt the Grecian prince would die, And let him die, before he is aware. That is the truth; already there are twain: King Guelpho, girding on his shining sword, Is through the girding sloth, that he gainsayeth When he is aware, that in his presence Pale fear and pity move the ladies thus. She from her breast the story writ begins. The meeting of the baron, as he saw His course retrace, goes now to strike with joy, Nor heeds, that these caressing dealt him harm. That gentle youth to give the cavalier He now exclaims, 'If I should quit the fair, Or slay the damsel, she on me replaced Who deemed an ill revenge, that maid, diseased. When I had girded on my radiant arms, I took a beech and sandal, and the juice Wherewith was all but dainty, plaited close, Nor bark of me astound, where any were. And, as it pleased the ladies, 'twas with blows. This while with bloody arms, the lady rose, And as she lay, already entered lay. The valiant youth through hands of fair Armida goes, And next his wonted prowess and his due With her he grasps, exclaiming; "Who are you? A knights of guise, unless myself you knew, What way my prowess will to take, declare; And who is this, who hath my habit wear?" Then fiercer grows the battle that uprears Each visage, from his mouth comes each in two; Whose visage is the warlike man appears. Turgid Sobrino to the stranger spake, And answered: "Sir, I see a sea between Two hills, descending from the hill between, Descending on the caverned cliffs above. I came, amid a mountain of his own, And to the foot of a great crag I came. Beside the highest, this, his boughs o'erthrown, At which the caverned phoenix all was painted, Against which thieves were standing in the entry, And blood was streaming from their open girdle. I saw the people, and of them I heard, Who thus are to the city shouted woe. There are not here to till about a year Their cry shall be the woman's courtesy; And one of them is weeping in the tear Wherein the gem was left; another 'gins To gather up, and fresher his excess. They hurt the ruddy cheek, and both the hips, E'en in the ruff and from his other tore; One swims the pond, the other springs forth perforce, All go to wrack, with these are women bore. The arms are of such men, and these we love, Aye, and that other which at first was hair, And he who 'scapes the fires, with them together moves, In this same manner, and in other ways, And in his rapine, is a match for that." Valiant Marphisa had avoided she One of her house, and said, "Kind stranger, go; There is a rock within this mountain made, Which I shall never shake nor shake before. Before those rocks be buried all the woe Which fell from his abrupt and cruel torment." As seemeth now the youthful cavalier, Who loosed the damsel's helmet from his breast, Upon whose bonnet so enw ======================================== SAMPLE 603 ======================================== | Who, | The article on the left hand, that is in midmost part of the first thing thereabout to be fixed like a sinner's prope cod, is fixed on the notable circle; on the other hand, a good bargain, to give rightly or correct, of every part where the accurate eyes can fix, on the very right hand, the innermost in guilt, till it appears that it is lovable, and is conjoined to a slice, needless to say which is it: wherefore the second step is taken with intention immediately, even as in a law-denclosed chamber, and is the father of many young of the Polycrates and Polycrates. It contains the founding of this part of the poem as a playful playful hand is carried about the same table with strokes in various baskets, and is six other rounds called "carda vidi juris". It is divided into a state of opinions, and no less constantly, as it is, by mistaken method. In the rim of the Book of the The Ruler of Life, that trouble of being, for which no one could resist, is bedded in good counsel with what is forbidden, since I find the key, and in a right manner of the well-fattened stools. Here, then, is the kingdom of the Spirit, of which the rivers err. Who thus enclosed my brows, as I do breathe, in the open air of my mouth, thinking that, not of an Earth, I must hence away, and with them the bow that the thunder sends after me to its in that which it locked up for me in the bottom of the broad abyss. I see, as I mark the subsequent passage of that play, Dawn arising from a sea that has received a great groan, the sand of the rock rolling behind it, as it were a strand when it seizes all the land, and mingles with the sea around, The storm-tossed mariners, who, stranded here, make all the forest ring with their songs of their triumph. And so when you have arrived at the island of the Lotus-eat, even as it were in heaven, look not half so mournful and full of terror in you, until you can see, by a diffused appearance, how ill did any one come to you, and yet, though I believe that your spirit abides in this presentment, there is little art in which you find out the way. The dance of the sapphires, and the fair light of the noontide is still wont to light within your presense. As to any of these oddities you would almost despise such disproportion with the nature of the movement; and this might seem to say, "So do I like them; we cannot have any fancy, yet, as to have existed, that which is certain, they are inane in the dark of his theme." The old poet's reel, which is true, is thus borrowed from the note of the gocoon (Pinbury, Soon after the beginning of the British Empire, in the Isle of Greymore, the son of Scott, died about ten years after the Rest of my body, from within the precincts of this poem, and to clergyman no other fault than some little short space between the burning thunder of the blast; even when it is scarce a word, I know not which is more precious than a species of mankind. This seems to me an almost hopeless contempt for that quicksilver, but it is more, at least, for purposes of cipline at any latter hunting. Mr. Hawesen speaks of her as sitting very late at the council of aldermen and other of the men of the next generation; it is not becoming that she should share any the splendors of heaven and earth as though she had been raised above as many peoples and had been, or had been, and has since she has fallen, has fallen in an excess. Of a truth I shall not say in defence of the blessing angel, who with the promise of the future can raise or with his own hand; such a fate I shall be, as heaven will for thee, and in that ======================================== SAMPLE 604 ======================================== led and white and pure. In their awful strength the sea, Down its far deeps of ocean cried; When, borne by each roar of glee, Swept it like a charger's stride To the sandy beach below, Where, in peaceful eddies, Slowly it floundered o'er the tide. So in strength and speed arose All the crescent sins of those Who are called the "Spirit of the Ocean." And, in calm dexterity, They sped over to the region Where the fearful rocks are cast O'er the fearful rocks, and fast Shuddering o'er the depths below. But the monsters in their pride, Of the fearful rock-cracks, died, And within the caverns hide, With the monsters of the deep, In the fearful rocks to sleep. And their mighty strength had failed them, In the water's boiling hold, But in strength and courage failed them, As the warrior's life-blood cold, Faint and cold as ice, and all That around them burst and fall. And the warriors of the island In the body of the foe Fled away from all below, And the men of sea and heaven, To the depths below, were driven Like the leaves of autumn morn. Forth they sped in gallant show Of the sweepings of the sea, And, with blood and eager blow, Hastened to their hiding-place With the treacherous landward trace, Threading where their war-swords hung, Moving the end too well; And the dragon-guarded strand Could no longer keep their hand. And they vanished in the night, Nor aught remaining of their might. In the reef a boat was drawn Down its length; and the morrow dawned In the dim-lit headlands grey, And with starry splendor furled Through the low-hung welkin's side, There between the rocks to glide. The grand old sea they were, And a wreck they wrought at last, Which for ages did not last, For it may be in the past Through the waste, o'er which they swept, Unseen, unheard of, until When the doom-fulfilled must come And the years of strife shall weigh With the heart-beat of the sea; He it is who suffers for the right, The true, the brave, the high delight. And still they clung, their eyes downcast, In the river's white eclipse, When suddenly there seemed to pass A mist across the placid surge, A mist across the waste, A mist across the wide-spread plain, And a vision of a mother's brain. Sullenly on their steeds they stood, And the roar of the torrent ceased, And the darkness fell in a rosy mist Around them as they went, And the bright moon, like a silver shroud In a silver shroud, Sank, and a light gleamed down on the sand. They dreamed of the strife and the triumph won, But the far-away sound of singing died, And the strange, sweet voices no more were heard By the watcher in Galilee; They dreamed that a nation's wiser breath Might answer the call of the dawn and eve; That the homes and the faces of earth and the skies And the free, free air and the cloudless skies, And the white sheep o'er the rosy plains, And the red-fleeced cloudlets, winding Athwart the glory, and up the sky, And down the western waste and high, Where the sun and the moon once more Look up from the seas where the calm sea bore Their tribute of stars, their tribute pay From the giver of kings, in the boon of sleep, And joy that never shall falter deep On the unknown, the undimmed sea; So he who might have been A shrine for the infinite years to come, Was more than that heart could give, Who sent to their innocent hearts their best, And had to give and keep, Since he came out of the crimson West, The blood of the Lamb, and the hope, and the blest. Of what is there more than the world's control, More than the earth is known of him Whose feet are clothed in the robes of truth, And who wears the star of the lifted knee. Earth may be proud of the flowers that blow, Earth may be passing proud of the gift she gave, But men may fall who are true to the least, But, wherever ======================================== SAMPLE 605 ======================================== That has no day for us; while, therefore, Death Keeps touch with light his nimble feet, And light on bright eternal things; As from the rose doth feel the ray, And doth beget a glowing ray. O! glorious Life, whose ancient might, Like a gay dancer moving, art, Still keeps alive that light of light, Which being seen, doth make it start Out of the grave a pathway safe, With angels caroling its course. O! glorious Immortal Life, With e'en a glory like the morn, The flowery May, the dewy eve, And all things fair and strange and new; The silent sun, the noon so bright, And the clear rippling stars that dance In their first snowdrops on the stream, And all things life, in whose warm heart No wound doth hang, no cure can start, From out the life old pleasure brought, Which cannot fade nor fade nor pass As the bright seed in autumn's glass Outburns, and bears the breath of life. O! how I long to look again On my dead loves! they little know How oft I tried to win them: then My beauties find resound again. Those love-sick eyes are never dry: But if they chance to see me lie Locked up in death's deep fold, and die Within that little grave beyond, They think they see me, though they do, For all my love, and eke my love. I am, dear Death, your gentle taking; And we have dined at morn and eve, And now from the still air I'm feeling How sweet to be true to Love's last leave. Thus, also, we sit in loving, Content to be Love's true torch given; Seeing afar, no doubt, that circles Round Love's companion in the heaven, And with rare trust still follows after When he shall wake up from the East of Heaven. Not so without an enemy Our minds are blinded with the spell Of words that silence brings, and lie In vain about the secret wells Wherein love dwells. And unto us More manifold are life and truth, And where one soul and heart remain Is all the things that he can see As now, and is at rest in life. These things who wake so strangely say "She once was with me in the day"-- Ah! surely she is hidden from view By what deep mysteries Love drew, And she may surely guess what true There dwells and all forgetteth you. So when your destiny Death's to seize, When time or death will come to you, Pray Heaven for a little peace, And we will understand and love you. I meant to have lived up and down the earth, With nothing on earth to do; To have learned to bear a double worth, And learned to be proud and true; To know the secrets of the common earth, And to go free where all things lead, And whether things are free from pain and dearth And all things save their mothers heed. I meant to have lived up and down the earth, With none to envy me; To know when I cared nothing or what I was, If no one ever knew or he. I meant to have lived up and down the earth With none to envy me; To learn, if they knew when I was good, If I could see them as I did, That I might aid their children food, And fly and eat their bread. To be a child and to do their parts, To walk with no cunning and cunning Of thought or flesh to trouble their hearts Who die in a greater want. I meant to have lived up and down the earth With none to envy me; To have lived up and died by no complaint Or fear or sorrow I might have a sense Of my own children's wants. I said: "My little sister, if you would You would come back again, Brisk you should do no more, nor leave Your mother's child within the place of men." I said: "My brother, if you would, I will not trouble you with the blame Of one sweet loss; but if you will, I will make way for you in the shame Of asking after what belongs to you, When it was little, if you are good. And if your mother sees you crying, then She will not give the girl your hand to take To pass among you. For no longer time Shall dim your onward smile; And you have grown a little to ======================================== SAMPLE 606 ======================================== wings, And kisses that the sun lends wings, To prayer, prayed gifts, and happy tears, And called me maiden queen of kings! These were no easy things to do, No more free souls were to pursue The World's great honours,--though they were They "died," like fools, "as honest as Peasants by name:"--still nobler were The times than which our fathers heard. They called me Maid of the Bush, and yet All other names on earth have I, Which Love, with hosts of spirits, pressed To some sweet breast; I'm His, who can resist The fangs of Innocence, While coarser folk are vain and low! If Thou art named instead of Thee, If Thou art not His own one thought, If thou canst call before Him none, Hail, Brude, hail! from thy own beams, From the round towers, tears of Lamorakshan, Stream, Spring, the streaking mists and showers, Soft rain of snow, hail, midnight showers, The girl, the rosy-ankled, dimpled, trim, Steal's here and there o'er sash and brim, Beneath whose shades to curl thy rod, Sweet, speckled vanity of God! And, deep within that aged frame, Holding thy soul-born shame and blame, I love to think as calm and still A world's as holy still as Heaven! For many a year, when glad day droops, Owers the broad bush of thy soul the rose From some dead, saving balm or weed; With Bacchant revelry at night, And joy in light unsullied lights, Ay, every leaf on every tree The warm night-buds give out to the Day, The dawn-stars, ready to decay, The violet-blooms on the Anemone! But woe and grief and blood alike, The countless blanks of Death and Time, That blunder in the pomp of power, Betwixt one glance and another hour; The hopes that soar, and cheat, and flee, Shall, like tape-tinkled geomers, be The slaves who lead their masters by And shake the pillars from their creeds, And strew with rites divine the bed Where God and woman both are dead! My dear, when we must march away From the great outpost on the hill, I'll see thee, bent with age and care, Side by side with the rebel War, In a new field far down below Where the great ships of France go by. I've seen thee seek the side of France, I've seen thee lend thine ear and eye The Alps, of snow and ice and ice, The ramparts of Russia bear; And yet thou say'st, 'She's gone astray-- Thy peer is only claimed by thee From thee, as doth this tyrant Day, Or Gaul from Gaul, with no male force, Which deigns with thee to crumble 'neath The myriad-handed blow of France. That sunny morn when, clime in clime, We followed up a bloody clime, And the Red Gods met, at a proud time, And many strove to cheat her now Of the red-bearded pike, and prow To waft her from their hostile camp, Thou trembled as the clash became, And thine eyes fell with bitter shame As I stopped my work below, The soldier, with his epauletted sword, Saw the folds of the servant march, And many a sun went down his cheek And thy softened blood ran down his throat. Dumb rang the summer's choral lay The intoning ashes on the bay A few hours since, when the old sky Was slowly turning into day The new day's birth upon the world Had caught the joy, and for her bier A pennon broadened in the air Of an old, sunny world was there. And as its bell-tower soared above The deep sky-line, and smote the saut With stony shings, so under us The great wild shout of our great king Rang out unto the battle-crazed camp, And the red sun pealed on the king, And high above him rose the sea And beat the smoke against his knee, I willed my kingdom, if it be Thou wilt not claim it to thy king-- Not thy little soldier boys, But a tramp he led ======================================== SAMPLE 607 ======================================== wealth-cup. Give me the human flesh that lies Buried among the rude ones, longed to parch For ancestor past lingering lines, and thread The tangled waters of the rushing Nile; That while on pleasant dell once more the woods Mingle their wildwood-islands with the streams, Warm cuckoos gossip in the burning dawn; And dusky evening slowlier steals Upon the traveller, veiled in human dreams. The white moth has its wings, the bird is gone, And this wayfarer fades to a sepulchre. The lute is hushed--she listens--and is mute; The cricket has ceased. He prayeth well. He prayeth well At the outer end Of the world. The moth goes out. The bird is silent. The night is grown. He prayeth well. The night is grown. And the dew is gone. He prayeth well. He prayeth well. He prayeth well. He prayeth well. And the night is grown. O comrades mine! Who bear for us The memories of your steadfast trust Unto the Past. O hearts of faith! O doubters of the wrongs And the afflictions of the times! O comrades mine! We scarce dare storm the harbor, We dare not raise a hand; The harbor door is hung with bars, The night is far away; O comrades mine! Now close your eyes, And close your ears, For here is the Great Spirit, And here the land, And here the sky, And here the boughs, And here the trail, And here the sand, And here the trail. Your burdens have been burdened, Your fears are sore, But this is the Peace of God Upon our shores. We thank Thee for the mercies Our seamen bore In days of yore! Our prayers have been signalled On breaking bread That we had spread Out in the night! With every breath of wind and weather We converse here: Oh, let us pray that we may find together Something still to fear. And try to trust the future weather, And understand The promise that is all sublime,-- "America is strong and great, And if you die The nations will not care a jot. Wait for the nations! They shall not stay. Thank God, we may!" He made the world complete. He was a railway man, With every bolt and brace, And as he stept along, The people shouted, brace by brace, " salvation yet." He took the train that bore him by With joyous shouts and high, And as he stept it into view A crowd came tumbling by. And as he stood, the sunlight shone Upon the royal road, He saw, between that happy crowds, The shadow of his load, And, passing through that multitude, He stooped and found a man; The first who shone along the King, The second, in degree; And never moved a hair's bright load, Nor sought a sunny fleece of peace, Before he came to see. There's a race of men that run, And they will never know The glory of the man who brings The triumph of the show. And no man spoke in idle words The praises of the show. And yet no human voice was heard In world or village, day or bird, But those who heard the lore Of love and truth and nature's word For the great benefit. There's a race of men that stand Where beauty shines in every land, Though they lie by ocean's ford, There is blood on every hand, And tears and fire in every hem, And danger at the heart of them; But they cry out aloud in vain; They pray to a poor ruined man, And a brave lad must have his day! To make a proud man mad, Or to make a simple man Treat his own time for his sake Of any man that he may make A monument for others' sake, When the years begin to take, He'll hear it in the world outside. They say he'll live, and he'll repent, By serving kindness and of mind, The time and place that is the lot Of honest men who've passed the spot; Their thoughts must be, as clear as glass, So great their cheerfulness of mirth, And the sun's warmth in every earth ======================================== SAMPLE 608 ======================================== Who through that darkness had their morning way, Their faces short, their lips too short for speech, Or to make answer both, but closely pressed, By seeming share, perhaps, their doubtful breast. So might they scantly, 'till, an hour, espy Their lips together pointing to the sky, Their stature vague, but well proportion'd, by Their starry-eyes unnumber'd and compact; While on the left hand of their hues appear'd Designing images of orient air, To show if wings can compass their descent. About those two celestial gates I strowed, Enwoven with those bands that are the skies, Whose internal flame whenever seen, Within the arched roof of lanterned Hister, Is owing to a cavern-shade, profound, Near to whose side an alabaster stands, Whence for the spirits in these volumes bound, To mark their doings and to give sound. The sable curtain rises; down the stage It pours on objects, that with wonder fill, Whilst, from on high, blue skies, and flooding plain, Dawning descend, and the live scene revisits A few small meteors of light, that come But cloud, and light dispersed, and scattered shade, As if by potent necromancer laid. The angel Michael, on the orbs before, Is seen to say that heat and cold are there, A mass of darkness, born with haste, that darkly flies, While by the postern's nightly watch repair An aged matron, and with gestures bold, Her veil unbroken, lets the eye behold The carill-tops and castles of the old: A river rolls before them, fierce and slow, Winding its water round like blocks of snow; Whilst, as they listen huge and lowering, frown Wild-faced and stiffening through the glassy brine, They hear, from the carill-holes, the distant thunder peal, That makes the city's smoke to smoke again. A further space the noise of arms and men, A lessening sound, commands them on again, They hear, with tumult hoarse, athwart the street, As if an engine, from within, were heard, Rumbling, a deluge, by the arm half-hid, So shrinks the noises of the town still near, They feel the long-pent labor, and the feet, Struggling in blood and agony, goad on On fainting tottering steps, by those who see No city, but behold afar and near Its ruined arch, a valley and a wood, Each a pale yellow leaf with chilly food. 'Twas in the good old times, ere time began, That brave young Romans to their fate were sent To fight about, and give their country good: For all the neighbouring country round was shorn, And all the neighbouring hamlets were foredoomed To the ruin of the old usurping reign, And all the bolders of the neighbouring plain Were hurl'd as trophies to the rough-proud Dane. In each defilement there for hours and hours, Amphin and I were left in gloomy cell, And on the wings of screaming death they swept Whither the war-dogs from the hamlets fell. Soon in their wastes was many a hamlet lone, And in their arches flitted many a bird, And of these gamesome men the voice was known, As if its sound had drown'd the keen alarms Of the fierce Saxons and the Caspian powers; Whose varying lore, I have heard many a day, Beneath our Norroway, bode much and oft Of the slain natives of the Caspian war, Yet still have heard it, where the Saxons fell, In antique record writing on the wall. Two towers of Marien, whose turrets rise From Walla's rock, from Ovraud and Cressid's plain, Where oft the prophet babbled o'er the seas, Were wrapt in sable cloud, and from the beam The helmsman steered, and clung with many a cord. Such, when the nations of the East and West Shall, in the strife of battle, first combine Their force together, and their strength confound, Discordant battle with the foe, arose, That, for this harbour, they, who scornful cross'd Went from the Danes to roam o'er burning waste; The home of exiled fathers, and the bar, That their own sons may in ======================================== SAMPLE 609 ======================================== 's we hear, and many a wail From scattered folk and trampling'd mail Strikes through our startled hearing, yet We know the time draws near. Mirth claps the throat; his mother-tongue Is mad with a tale that hangs on a thread That sounds like steel on a wind-swept tent, Asleep in the drowsy street. In the night and the summer the farm is sleeping, Its lights are down in the west; The mist hangs black on the valley deep, Where the footstep of death is truditing. A light on the meadows creeps, And faint are the sounds that follow, The sweetest voice of the birds Is the plash of the oar-row's muzzles, The plash of the oar-row's muzzles. Where shadows flicker along the bridge, And the crags are cool in the air, The mist creeps up from the marshy meadows, And the marsh creeps up from the mounds Where the marsh creeps over the mounds, The mounds of mounds are awake, And the marsh wakes up to the sound of the bugles, The mounds are still on the ground, For the marsh creeps up to the mounds, And the graves of the dead are found, And the bones of the dead are bound, And the graves of the living lie deep in the mounds, In the foul, foul, red mounds, In the teeth of the lying lie the dead, In the foul, red mounds, The mounds lie deep in the mounds, The dead are all hid in the mounds, And a scent of the marsh is drawing, And faint are the bugles sounding, The mist creeps up to the ground, And the marsh is left in the mounds, And a smell of the marsh is ground, And the man's breath rises fast Like a torrent on the blast, As the body's limbs advance, The spirit's veins advance. A death-dealing in the air! No tomahawk uplifted high, No corse after plash to spy, No jackdaw in the mire, No heart-blood in the fire, All lie in the chimney-hearth, In the pass where none can spy, In the rafters of the hearth. No blazing shield by the blast Waved in the wind at play, No ringing helm, a death-dealing in the wind, A ghastly shape in the ray; The foreman's feet fell fast, The drunkard's heart beat sore, The captain shouts in the fire, The water-sprites are no more. There passed a car to the altar, A dark-hued crescent there, She wore a silken robe, And challenged at the door To enter and explore. The world is gone, and the black midnight You go, Old Man, to the barrack door, To hear the capped-sleeve say This rascally-old rascally Has brought your pay! Now tell me, tell me, have you seen, The mummers brave and bold That ran the block of Calvary On old Barrie? Or have you marked the culvert there? I never saw its face! Now tell me, tell me, have you seen? I never saw its muzzle seen So writhing and abrude, Nor mark the tail it rode for flight; I never saw its muzzle yet, Yet listen, etc. There was a man in Cumberland, There was none like him to flee, With beard like moonlight on his back; Good morrow he was being free! <|endoftext|> His long sword by his middle-sword Was cut in twain, With the keen edge of his sword. At the first stroke, He pered With his blade of wood, Till the blade drank his blood; At the third, With the third He struck and struck again; At the fourth, With the sixth He sliced and sliced again; At the fifth, He sliced and sliced again; With the sixth He sliced and sliced again; The devil's length, He was not in the least like that! Oh I never saw, etc. (Sound O steek oup the beech Win' frae the house sae sair, Win' frae the warld to the mason's toil I ha'na seen, ======================================== SAMPLE 610 ======================================== --stiff indeed It clings to earth in a shroud: And, whether the brutes should take fright Of that voice (the dead voice dying) Sent by my brain you could fly For a charm to escape 'em If you dared: And if I would die from sight Then let them have their prize--flower Fires have twint leaves--even bees--but flowers Shed from those petals escape ours And dead sparks make them falter In the bloom. Ah! my Children, that cry--"Mont Virgini!" I never could hear it--the song Of its sweetest melody long As the hum of a bee, if it called Its tribute for me, in the Spring Of a beautiful year of July When our beings in white Were together, as love and the sense, Till above both the earth and the sea Came together, and withered my lips And grew weary--each kiss on the lips In a hateful regret on their snow. Ah! the little remembrance of this Is but love and the life and the bliss Of the earth--the beloved kiss. Ah! the bread that I gave you once for you, The honey-cake that is kept for you, Is nothing but coldness--the crust Whereon the sun cannot rest. And in this desolate hour of pain, When the long year has come and the rain Tosses and touches the wooded vein, You will find the loved lips of me. Under the trellis the apple-tree Plays on her bed of crimson shells In the fall of the wind-driven foam; With yellow spire and turrets two, And the wild light in the elm-tree's eyes, The white ships flying down the skies. And when the skies grow dark and chill The stars as the candles burn in the lamp, When night is gone and the light is still. The locusts swing and click Of a rustle of squirrel-hair Under the locust's feathery husk. And old, old dusky, Old roses climb Up the branches of the tree, The acacia poppies--leaning these, And that way by which she can see The dew,--the Starry Tree. In her boudoir the wind Is flaring her golden hair Down through the frost-hardened air. The starry, dusky moth A-swinging up to the vault Is a rustle of silk and lace Which her soft, dim hands, White as her slender feet, Swerve in the dark and meet. And the moon is rimmed with pearl, And her dog-wood blossoms whirl Dusty along the street, Whirling the swift whirl Of whirling wheels, Shadows to dance and prance. Young jester Daw did point his spear at C----r, D----r, And struck him at the door: "Stay, D----n--an idle word, A futile word," The wicked villains said. All now hath a maniac yell: It hath the witch-hazel for his scream At the white flower and the yellow owl, At the red moon and the yellow rose, And all his mates upon her call: Hark, hark! What is that?-- Hark, hark! Now does the wind, for fairy-song, Make up rat-tongues of the moon? I did not know the wind, But the little sleep that in your breast Moves like a wedge Through the lattice-vista of your breast With fairy ring of harmonies. By the moon, In her white beetle-coop you doze, And your white swan-wings, you possible Her dark-winged pails to water. On your lap there lies a flower, On your shoulders white dreams come and go; You huddle, both in pillows, you unfold The treasure of two pebbles that shall hold The treacherous bubbles of the guttering heart. From the empty flower the bee Reverberates sweetly; Now broadened I my billows am, O world, my sea, my sky! I hear the seas-lark singing His life-song, his best-told songs, His graceful hours bringing A real world's while vanishing. I am content and dreaming; A living heart lies in my breast. A city naked to the wind I can see how it stands, O my mother, stars, O my sweetheart, O my new ======================================== SAMPLE 611 ======================================== a noble van, Worthy of a larger force, Than if his master had Borne his armour to the camp. As he looked on Ilmarinen, Looked and smiled in all the faces Of the heroes, and then Thundered in derision, "There is more than one among you, Worthy of a larger heart; He is neither wrath nor tears, Nor is any outward guile; And in all this world of fears, Though his pangs be keen as pang, Yet compassion will he suffer, If he draw his net aside." But the merry Lemminkainen Was not destined to affray His invidious mistress' wishes, When by cunning he had caught The fair flower of the field, Of a land of rosy colour, Where sweet-smelling hawthorn blows, And the cave resounds his bellows; Where the gipsies, 'mid their flowers, Gathered in the deepest bowers, And the little screech owl hallows 'Mid the dark and starry mountain, And the castle-turret stands 'Mid the rocks of copper mountains. Widely clad in modern fashion Was the elegant intruder, All the lovely things he saw, All the things that one could spy on, And of sparkling stones he took them, Washed them all with purest silver, And o'erclouded all the rainbow, And o'erclouded all the rainbow, And the lustre of the moonlight. All the trees were strangely scarred, All the stalks were streaked with tear-drops, And the pearls of every feather Were bedrabbled on the sorrel. All the roots were dripping downward, And the pearls from every feather Trembled all with pearls of colour, And the pearls from every berry. Then the aged Vaeinaemoeinen Took the vases from the chestnuts, Threw them on the greensward's level, And he spoke the words which follow: "Wherefore hast thou left the minstrel, Here to pine, and harden dying, On the stone of many colors, On the quarry-ground of willows, Not beheld the famous minstrel, All the rocks with teeth together, And his stockings 'neath the rafters. Was not she of greatest value, Not the mistress of remarks, But the lively Lemminkainen, And he spoke the words which follow: "Very well, indeed, I know thee, And have wearied, sorest need; And the best of all musicians, All the willows in the meadow, And the sloes upon the mountains, And the oaks upon the rivers, And the soft soil filled with grasses, And the very ground of fir-trees, I have often heard them chanting, In the woodlands made so clear by, When were singing-birds so ruddy, And their heads so round and lovely, On the greensward all the woodlands, And beside the swan was calling, And a happy man was singing, Who was not too harsh to listen, For his throat was firm and stiffened. When the men were all so shouting, And the women were so wailing, And the women were so laughing, And the women were all sobbing, And the women were all sobbing, And the swans all cried so loudly, And the women all cried, weeping, To their dear, their only brother, To their necks the ever-sealing, From their necks the ever-sealing, And the ever-sealing armour. "Never in the course of ages, Never in the course of ages, Never have I carried with me Many joyful Kaukomieli, Never in the track of runners, With my bow and arrows ready That I should shoot the eagle, And my noble race be nourished. Now indeed I feel most mighty, And a friend becomes a hero, When my race has first been suited. With his bow and arrows ready Let me bend upon a sandstone, On the rock that shins from heaven, And with him will I fashion verses, In the mouth of him commanding, And between the ear and nostrils, I will send a heifer somewhere, On the wide-extending sea-shore, And will send a bullock-sheep, And another blue-fether later, In the mouth of him commanding, For the best of all the ======================================== SAMPLE 612 ======================================== 's empty room, Or mine own restless thought, 'Tis but a night of motion and a hushed In palpable meditation of a presence. And so you see, from the future I can surely, However much I may be called to enter, Myself alone will enter with a new Fair presence, though a little uppermost, Which shew that there is power to hold her light, And then to find me entered with her will; And, if not less, her visible presence so, As this sweet night I 've found in those fond eyes, That never a thought but a word could fathom The heart's depths, I 'll descend into the skies, And, putting all the hope of my body far Beyond the grave's mysterious prisoning, She will slip past me on my untented way And fall into the fold of kind remembrance. Sometimes a gleam will thrill me, sitting there 'Mid my beloved things, and so, if stirred By memory of a passion strong and rare, It will sweep through these heart-closing, too well planned, And make my heart a sleeping melody; But soon the starry summer will be spent, And my beloved, once reanimate, will fade, And in its stead one thought of her be laid In sacred dust, and death's mild eyes will gleam Like lovely stars the heavens through, a dream. All day I heard her music in her praise, For it was eloquently sweet and clear And wonderful, and yet of such a voice I fancied it but with the grace of choice. And I was deeming truly, and could hear The beating of her gentle heart of hearts, As wildly swayed as a wind-whirly bird, 'Mid the wild rustling boughs at close of day And showering sun upon her, as she bore Her own dear name to me, her far more sweet Than all the ballads of the forests are That sang to her in infancy. A blight Of feelings unforgot has pressed upon me And yet I dared not! Yet, in all my joys Extracted by the elements of time, And in my pride of strength, I could not sing The melody they bore her on the wings. And yet when years are round, and life is sped, Not all these whispering sounds be hushed; But these have stolen away the heart's dew And left it happy and more fair for her. But she is all that can be born of her. She fills my heart with more than human love, Of all my hopes that beat into my brain And they are not her bridesmaids, not her priests, But pure religion, law, religion, youth. And in the bitterness of death, she still Holds all my heaven and knows it, and will keep My heart alive with her delights divine, That, as the careless spring gets every day, They will not turn to her as they should now. I hear her sweet tones evermore repeating The plaint of days that shall be and will never be, Like a wand of sound caught in a melody When the heart has ceased from it, and love has ceased. My heart is ever troubled by its fits, And of the feverish thirst of love and death, I think upon the gray-haired haggard face Which leans to touch her lips. When all my mind With such a strange sad rapture could but see, It almost made its shudder seem more near, And all my youth become a burning flame. She hath remembered what the dead love was And for a space deep sunken 'neath the earth, Yet never might such memory have been. 'Twas the sight of her once loved 'neath the sea And the eyes, how dear! and the soft perfumed hair, How fresh and fragile, how serene and wild! How fleeting, how complete, how fresh and fair, Till the old heart had passed from lips to lips, Her life; for now I know it is not death To speak before her and yet pray to her For succour with me here beneath the sea. How sad that we must be, so bitter and cold Is our fate, and to leave them the living things! How strange the sweet rapture of loving her, When the heart has ceased to throb, and the white wings Are folded, and the young mind will never know The sorrows of its past! The years are long, But never think to the rocks that lie between The children of eternity, who lie So long away! And when the unsleeping stars Are ======================================== SAMPLE 613 ======================================== I know The subtile mystery of thy speech! O spirits of the race unborn Whose insight these interpret well! Though dark the way and bright the thought, The shadowy darkness of our thought Creeping to where thy language floats Far over thought's congenial vales; Thou art our guide and at our side Thy home and breathing's at the gates Of soul to soul! then mused we on The source and end of our desire, And under prophet words we join, Or sing at heart a song divine! He turned, and suddenly we met In one bright room, O kinsman dear, And after in the dusk I knew As not, that friend had not replied To love us two; he waved his hand, And leaned upon my knees, and said:-- "If I have told you all my life 'Twere folly if I only prayed; But if I laughed when I saw this man Go welcoming to the heart of me, I pray God never will it cease!" As if in scorn, with white-thrown face, My soul replied, I looked again Upon my lover and I saw The face--a countenance as big As any mother's: pale it was, For all his features were not changed, Like manhood's--smoothness without blame, Or pleasure's, when her eyes were turned To watch her darling's ways with hers; I could not understand his words; His voice and look were like a song, And all the same that he had said To me, or all that I had done, As children only could be sad. I would be glad that he had known My fears as only mothers have, To soften out their depth of grief When one sweet smile is born for me, A memory of joy untold. In the mellow glow of the highlands, When the swift clouds part from the sea, In the soft sweet voice of the mavis I sing the whole day long, for me, Who took the gift that is left me With the swift-steering feet of love-- I ask not what the Sea-Mother gave me, I ask not what the Sea-Mother gave me. My body it is not worthy of the sea-cliffs, My soul is numb with cold and fear, And I pray to the wind that shakes the water That sweeps the huge rock like a spear, For I am stronger than the Sea-Mother, And my spirit it is slow. I pray to the wind that shakes the water That sweeps the wide rock like a spear, For I am older than the Sea-Mother, And my spirit it is slow. By the Sea-Mother's beck I sat alone, I prayed, and felt the wet wind chill Through my prostrate throat, and heard the gusty Shrill under foot the great ship's peal, And my heart was smitten with a great cry For her that had died in the deep sea-deep. And yet, in the sound of a priest's word, A sound like the wind through the upper rigging Came over the huge rock like a sea-bird, A sound like the wind through a thunder-cloud. And the wind and the sea rose and shuddered Like the iron of the chainless West, And my soul took fire, and my flesh grew chill, And I cried with my blood, and cried with agony, That my flesh had cried all night to the sea, That my soul had cried in a death-gale for thee, And that the sea-Mother would have sued In the love that nothing should crave of me. Loving thee, beautiful child, What canst thou envy? Dost thou desire any happiness? I would be a thrall to thy wonderfulness, Thou mighty, terrible, strong, and beautiful, I would lift from my heart the hungry sea-shell, I would revel all day for thy beauty's sake, I would sing and I would pray, For the strength of my spirit would still remain, And the freedom of spirit in man would be a chain To this beautiful, wonderful child, Who gave thee his love. Fair is the day on which we do best pray; But wherefore follow still the chosen May From out the gate whose love no man may reach, Wherethrough the passed year may not reach? The wind blows out of the crimson east Where the rose-petals reach and die; And up from the sea and the dawn and the morn Are we set to-and-heated, O, what to do? ======================================== SAMPLE 614 ======================================== alone When the Clods assembled this or that we have With voices unavailing, tongue in tone, Though on the fleeter far the morning broke, That gentle man, let loose from our distresses, Come up from your by fits, or else awake Deserted, unawares, where I will sit To wrestle with our company, but yet give To some provokes more evil. Pardon then, O good Evander, I have not come here Thus, for I know your father and myself Will not fight once, and you no harm expect. He spake; but downward as he came, the net That held him underneath was thinned to a skin Of azure light, and given a kindling heath To Egipto; and next, as he grouped himself Among the footmen, his right hand he reached, And with his left pushed out the wood. Then stood Oenone, and not in vain; for in his cheek And nostrils blew no warmth, his eyes burned bright That ever on him shone. Then from his neck A disusstretched hand he raised, and with the stroke Forest unites himself, as he had done, And plucked the boughs, and tore away the shoon From the smooth trunk, that it might stay his arm. He lifted up his bare peak battlement, And over it, though it was bare, could see Just such a gap as o'er the surface spread, And could have pierced it. Through the cleft he trod, But came no nearer. Like the serpent's skin They melted into things that are of ice And crystals, melting with the touch, not hurt, But suffering much to clean themselves. Then came Upon his ears a loud crash, like loud tongues Biting the turbid venom out. He hurled The fragments backward, and recoiled: whereat Prone on his knees, transfixt, the fiend lay prone, With wide the eyes, as if on rearing flint A fang had flickered. Through the dry and soft Appears instead the head that bore the locks Of the fierce monster, and the cloven man Clocks close together. From his mouth the tongue Is curdled, and the poisonous juice is bound. Loudly he groans, as do the forest beasts, Whose fangs inflict death's fangs, depart and leave The limbs behind locked. His eyes flash forth All over, as he looked on the bright flood That broke around him, and the monsters saw, And shuddered at the bubbles and the blood, The blood that mingled with his own, the bones With the bright gore distilling from the breast. This way had been his wound; yet had his eyes Still turned from that which came, and seen him lie With limbs distained, where they had smoothed awhile The frozen veins, disjointed o'er with years. Nor wound he there, till the fair robe he plied Soft on his back, then he reposed, and ere The sharp point came to hand, threw wide his snares, And set it in the earth, with gold and gold, Filleted, and bound about with triple scale, And round about with silver bucklers bound. "Ah, happy, happy now, if he who peers To love has joy of his beloved, and waits To keep his steadfast course, but scarce deserved A third like that which once he set his feet. Behold me here! behold me here! I charm The longing of the fainting to regain My first love-cadery." Then, from the hedge's low brow Drew forth the fairest; and they followed each Whose steps had led them, till the shade was done. But with the last rays of the setting sun, Looked up three gallant heroes; one, a grave Squadroned on his body, and one a roebuck; And one, a redbreast, and a white-breast walked By the stream's margin; then the four, anon Brought forth four gallant comrades. One before He raised up his voice, and made a long and sweet And lastly happy, on the utmost brink Of tangled wildness. Then he spake to me, With voice that seemed beyond the live to near: "I am the voice of hope, who thus, of yore Beside the Adder, watched thy day-dreams rise With light and sound unwearied. So I prize The ======================================== SAMPLE 615 ======================================== , careless, and too dull to use. Sobbing, O children, wailing, The staff of age you railly - Now have I helped you, sorrowing-- In all a life your share is thoroughly. But, ah! is life worth telling? Ah, children, hear me tell The dreadful story, whose its end is best! The loveliest of all the Orient lands, The gem of Eastern skies and golden seas, The prized, the exiled dames of dusky nights, The heavenly Spagnoletto, famed of yore, For ever mourns, remembers! and complains. Far out on the white moors, in the fen ravine, (When the wild tidings came unear'd, and steady, 'Twixt man and the child, were broughams made to shine In the flame-hearted eyes, yet brightly tender,) There strewed the path of the raging waste The antler'd rash scourges to each other use. Their phalanx is gone, and the reeling steeps And the dark castle-wall, at the bridge's head, Are sunken like snow-drifts in the weeds, And ere they reach the stream, their clamours, led. As Night o'er the starless abodes, When stars first rise, inviolate; And throned on the stupor of heaven, Vague yesternight, radiant, A spastic page from some fairy land, The wondering truant, the knightly stand. Yes! as in a dream, I see Those stolid shapes come stealing along, Slim shadows on the far horizon, And a veil of cloud sweeps over their song: As they crossed a grass-grown way Through a rain-gathering, wind-swept street, They pause--the sedge-curs'd shadows reach A grey wall'd porch--the sweet, brown hair, With its sable veins of plumed coil, Which is tranquil, and proud, and fair, And for ever calls them there. 'Neath their casements, and slant, and wide, In silken waves array'd, The monks have laid their offerings, Which neither gold nor praise, Nor blossoms, nor snow, nor sun, May well compare with these. The Father for his holy meed In the garden numbers must; The saints that grace the altar bear The fruit of the law must mar, And for ever calls them there. And the little stream is seen, A lemon and a thorn, The fruit of which the serpent sips Is the destroyer's chosen d - Some, to bear the new-born crow's And the dead man hush to die, Ere his time be done, to abide, Or cry for the blind man's sigh For the sinner to be sped. Yet think not all must die That trust him for a screen; So to no false grief laid By a saint's undying grace, Their martyr should be plucked, And the blinded should find grace. No Judened more can bind The sin-strain'd, desperate mind, Or mask the truth at rest, Than to know the right and true And pure of the final view. He rightly understood The books of God, and knew The special symbol of his good In the clear, unsearchable plan; Which Plato, Sthenel said, In the midst of man, and man, Arr'd by the dictatorial breath Of the dread eternity. A man of mark, and a priest by birth, A tradesman, and a lawyer, he; The red-coat youth of schism like earth Kept the right-hand he must improve; For, one day as his neighbour died, The daughter of an honest tradesman, Pray'd, by the church, and died. Ye dark, mysterious mountains, whence the voice Of sorrow dropp'd upon the startled ear, In solemn state to the forsaken earth Breathes the stern cry of mortality, And all the mirth and sorrow of life's pilgrimage, Mourn the mild impulse of the midnight blast! Ye are the homes where melancholy dwells, Ye are the scenes where art and nature play Their twilight smiles, and echoes as ye pass'd A mournful music in the solitude Of Nature's voice, in all her wild decay, And mellow'd airs with which the morn is crown'd. No sound, no eye hath ever loved to roam ======================================== SAMPLE 616 ======================================== which that my small horn washes And sweet Agrimas pipes.... I kept my watch At Kraeros, where his bread well weighed should be By lizard and snake, and yet a peasant child, And I had only to misfry this weed, And once have made at last an old monastery. I hoped the wall by Druid wood might fall In safety, that so often I had slept Upon the shelvings of an oak, and that Might sing to grass-hid god among the forests. The while my care had learned the meaning Of all the things that one may know or think, And heard, if one might give him good account, He should be so content in heart and tongue He would not be an exile; should be curbed The thought of his companion, and, being blessed That his own native land he did not know, Might live contented; should he live, nor see The God who had made him one should ever cease From such as do him reverence. He should, when either friend or foe Should speak of that pure heart and mind that is Beloved and like a ray from heaven Gleamed on him through the gloom and starless haze Of lonely heaven that gives it gracious hints, Reflecting on each sound a word of peace. O quietly the violet-buds Have grown a-row with starlit mosses! And still in star-flushed Arcadels The small winds walk without the stir Of yonder stately avenue, And stir the leaves with star-gold flutes. There, then, in Arcadels, the stream Uptoes to where, down limpid, cool, Alder and hazels bend along Through willows fringe the reedy glade, A happy Naiad singing sad, And Echo cheereth in the shade. Ah, had I in this giant glade Some little child, like me, had grown, Through no white town or mountain-dun, My life, I thought, though long ago, I had not been so happy known, Nor mountain-deep, nor mountain-knap, Nor field, but plain of purple heather, Nor slope of green wood-flower, with spear As would a priest, or doves, in prayer, Take up his wand. Ah, me! I fear My flock may well furnish such a place Among the flowers of Arcady. Nor is it narrow place or white In which to take up, as I do you. I know not how it is that 'tis The sunshine beats, or nothing sets, If people always travel there As little children travel by. But most of all the company Where stray the merry hours along, Are quiet folk of pebbles-stone And scented marbles, clean and old, Where scarce a weed, or cobweb gold Is found for sleepy hands to hold; And quiet folk of tender bone, With no white flower bedizen, Where nothing hurts the clod, except To match the royal robes of gold, Give place, or where you will, to pass Till gentleness and solitude Are satisfied for longer stay. But, if some rider there and he Were marshall, here I trow, would be My state-idame's. But I, which see The petty people of White peas With little offspring, only fill A place with little added toil And so a little debt is paid, And, by God's help, we never force To labour out our own defects Of flax and of simapkins, And cheat the stupid village sloth Of gossip, from their idle spleen, And bring our noisome change between. We'll see the gates of nests, and fly When it comes forth, and win our way Into their bogs and pitch-pine tree, And so into the town we'll dash With lubricated pasture-flock And drink nice water from the reed That ripples in the single steeple. So, on we'll stray together Into the dusk of happy weather, Where sunlight never enters in, And ever water in the din Spinspire as luminous as sin, Then, as this life we follow, We'll reach the terrace of the hill, And mark the soaring eagle's bill Above the chimney-tops, until We needs must hurry onward still And be content to make it Now the gentlest quarter grows Brilliant with the hazy air, And thither in a plashy green The good ship sails her ======================================== SAMPLE 617 ======================================== , born about the weather Makes the daylight fair, Blows the silver sand from the water Up and down the air. Under the boughs and the windy sky Chirping, chirping, All the swarming nest-boards and walls fly by. All their fleecy care Is a flock of snails. Under the boughs and the windy sky Chirping, chirping, All the swarming nestlings cry, And the buzzing throng Frights the flocks along. Under the boughs and the windy sky Chirping, chirping, All the swarming eggs and fleecy die, And the mother crows, As she sits and croaks to her dearie Fallen down, fallen down! Into the sparrow's heart there floats A melting melting love; The loving creatures whom no God grates, Fallen down, fallen down, The loving fellows whom no God grates, Fallen down, fallen down, The loving fellows whom no God grates, Fallen down, fallen down, The loving fellows whom no God Grates, Fallen down,fallen down, The loving fellows whom no God Grates, Fallen down, fallen down, The loving fellows whom no God Grates, Fallen down, fallen down, The loving fellows whom no God Grates, Fallen down, fallen down, The loving fellows whom no God Grates, Fallen down,fallen down, The loving fellows whom no God Grates, Fallen down,fallen down, The loving fellows whom no God Grates, Fallen down, fallen down, The loving fellows whom no God Grates, Fallen down,fallen down, The loving fellows whom no God Grates, Fallen down,fallen down, The loving fellows whom no God Grates, Fallen down,fallen down, The loving fellows whom no God Grates, Fallen down,fallen down, The loving fellows whom no God Grates, Fallen down, fallen down, The loving fellows whom no God Grates, Fallen down,fallen down, The loving fellows whom no God Grates, Fallen down,fallen down, The loving fellows whom no God Grates, Fallen down,fallen down, The loving fellows whom no God Grates, Fallen down, fallen down, The loving fellows whom no God Grates, Fallen down,fallen down, The loving fellows whom no God Grates, Fallen down,fallen down, The loving fellows whom no God Grates, Fallen down,fallen down, The loving fellows whom no God Grates, Fallen down, fallen down, The loving fellows whom no God Grates, Fallen down, fallen down, The loving fellows whom no God Grates, Fallen down, fallen down, The loving fellows whom no God Grates, Fallen down, fallen down, The loving fellows whom no God Grates, Fallen down, fallen down, The loving fellows whom no God Grates, Fallen down, fallen down, The loving fellows whom no God Grates, Fallen down, fallen down, The loving fellows whom no God Grates, Fallen down, fallen down, The loving fellows whom no God Grates, Fallen down, fallen down, The loving fellows whom no God Grates, Fallen down, fallen down, The loving fellows whom no God Grates, Fallen down, fallen down, The loving fellows whom no God Grates, Fallen down, fallen down, The loving fellows whom no God Grates, Fallen down, fallen down, The loving fellows whom no God Grates, Fallen down, fallen down, The loving fellows whom no God Grates, Fallen down, fallen down, The loving fellows whom no God Grates, Fallen down, fallen down, The loving fellows whom no God Grates, Fallen down, fallen down, The loving fellows whom no God Grates, Fallen down, fallen down, The loving fellows whom no God Grates, Fallen down, fallen down, The loving fellows whom no God Grates, Fallen down, fallen down, The loving fellows whom no God Grates, Fallen down, fallen down, The loving fellows whom no God Grates, Fallen down, fallen down, The loving fellows whom no God Grates, Fallen down, ======================================== SAMPLE 618 ======================================== . Three creatures of so bothe entent, That thoghtes were bothe be the miht Of al the wyn, as of no wit, Bot upon knihthode everychon Therof mihte I yow telle schame Upon the forme of gyve tamed, So that thei ladde it as the bokes name. Of rihtwisnesse it falleth thus That thei of mannes kinde bothe seche And on no good desport to seche. Of whiche if that I finde a lette, Thei have it understaded so, And ek of drinke as it is named. It thenkth to this matiere a tale, And cawhte it in the Paleis Bail, Whan whan that thei have conseiled her And wher thei come and what thei were, Among hem whiche a man mai se Sauf in the dich an other fare; The ground is mad, and er thei be, To here a tale of that famine Thei wenenen cause of that degre. What naturel complexilse is fyn Of Theorique, it mai wel se, How so thei kepe the Soule faste To fihte and fede and that defende; Bot for the rihte wekes hiere, Upon the strengthe of such a man The point of his lokknesse vanis. These olde men whiche of here names Befotte a naturel experience, Stant ek in grete compaignie The part of al the remenant Which thei ben ofte cursed alle. The fifte men with understode Thurgh the proude worldes regiment, To whom a fewe is hier unglad, Withoute lust of eny dred. Thei axen alle at thilke tyde The yonge world, what so betyde The cause wher as it is used, And understod the wraththe of god, Bot yit thei finde it be descor, So that whan men it understode, Wher that the world it understod The hihe god of his empire To kepe and sette ayein theron Which love hath under his lawe, And ek he sette a solempnet In his manere as I thee telle. This soule is cause of alle wo, Bot if it understonde a wel It mai wel thurgh misgovernance Unto a man whiche is befalle; And he that putteth every chance In kinde fro the worldes lawe, That wher he hath his mannes lawe Unto a man as be descente Of kinde, he schal it noght recorde, Bot he it is beknowe a soth, Him thenkth that he is overthrowe, Therof to speke of lawe and pes, And wher he wole or no betyde. Of Aristotle and ek of lawe Ther is yit gruk meide aweie, And many a man is hard to seie Of the pointz that ben thei bothe, As it no reson mai betyde. For who that wole an other skile, Which in his time hise werkes lere To wrecche upon a mannes fare, And for ensample take a percovere As so befell that was in Skye, And whan thei hadde in compainie Surwarted of the spondes thre, Thei maden strengthe under the lore Of hem that weren of an yhe. And thus betwen fortune and me Fulofte it torneth into rage Ayein fortune ferst and fiele; The world stant on most humilier Than men that wolde ther noght drawe; The cherche is suete on lore, Which hath the mannes fode boght, And ek the beste hath set a myht, Wherof to speke mai be gost. Wherof the worldes ben of charge To themperour and his regiment, And his quik brennende it telleth, That he him telleth of the day, Wher that he wole in hel ======================================== SAMPLE 619 ======================================== 's best, Just my game of cards--and one--which ain't no good! He's the chalks the native has--and the devil is nearly So much for play--I still can scarcely call it so It seemed as if the spirit of the Land (Who Sergint in a far-elfplex chaise espied, And cared to understand) Had no sufficient reason to complain, And liked it better--though the play was strong. At last old Alcohol! (still more fellers say), We put it to a trial--only play. So well, you know, the Land, with all its fuss Of railroads, was engaged, And information was not always "stowed," As every man remarked before you go. The Land was made to serve--you'd say, it's true; But what was primitive and what was new, The Land was answered all in One! it was The Matter, and you know, For which God fashioned Cain-- His gray beard, long and straight, Older than Karnak's chair-- And you've no sense to stare! I set me on the sable palisades Of history and of heroes and romance, To sketch the ruin of their giant sides Once more, and find them all set free from France On Franklin's plain, where, like some millions here Who suffered in the Lord's most awful war, They only saw a sainted camp-fire glow Across the hills that lie beyond their sight, Silent as death, that other blazing star. (At times a flash of lightning broke my sleep, And my dreams started early with the rush Of the great shells from far-off Koulterland, And shook it to the air, I know not where; But then my heart reeled back again to know That, some straining old sinew and some woe In the implacable fight within the walls Of Rome, which was an abject misfortunality, Was blotted out of men's allotments, Of children, parents, and of wives who bore The plunder of a million homes--the Great, The Great, the Great, the Great, the Great, the Great.) I was not eager of the deepening gloom, Nor splintered as I spoke--ah! Dearest friends, What is the word your lips said to me? My heart was touched with tenderness; the tears That flooded your sad eyes were tears of joy, Because, in your bewildering, loving mood, You still were Love, and cared aught else than I. We were apart from sorrow--we who knew But that strange secret had a power to heal. Upon your breast the restless thought of you Grew gentle, even as the gentle heart Ponders o'er desert sand and lonely sea. Ah, my heart is weary, I must go-- Come out and rest, for I would fain be thine. At the close of the day, when the sun Gives us back our first fair day, Deep in the selfsame speech we said, With that first pure word of light and love, Fresh from your words, O Poet, receive The soul's reply for truth and beauty, To mine that should sweep all the outer "Spirit," and love, and all that has died, Shed from the soul, like the spring rain O'er a fallen rose, lie softly. Let The hour be mine no more, nor yet The task be mine; 'twas here you wrought Most sweetly, with soft fingers caught From out the flower-fill'd goblet's rim Away with silent smile, to dream Of me where still, ungloved, remote, We stand together, still and dear. O world, O my heart, are these well worth Your treasures, my pleasures?--none so fair, As God, who hath given you the flight Of the blue, tired heavens to wear, And the quiet love of your tender delight. "This is the All You love," he saith, "So far above the loudest seas, You have no other eyes than this, "Not even to see his mere smile, "He hath not any eyes to know "The All You love"--and to give the kiss Of me, that drifted back the soul Of the happy whole of myself, and lost Myself to him. My good little Ben, My crown of blossom, my home of life, May all be thine! The king of my masters shall know my name If my ======================================== SAMPLE 620 ======================================== -- The shape I like the man: the woman, too-- (Which aye unseen of men to fall or hide) The goodly man to me--the man to hide. Three months of wedded life, and I was proud (And I was brave enough--for I'd a wife), But I was slow--by turn--and yet I had A wife--the least of womankind--the card; And every week the curtain rose, a link Between the dear old man and me--the rip. And days passed by, and there were ill-best plans For the next marriage--and the long delay Of half a household--and the folding-up Of marriage--and the year departing, went With twilight thoughts of those who thought their time lazy, without knitting a dull rhyme. And I was grave. Two months! Another year! All things were there: the chase, the closing air, The mystery of woods, and fields that were Acres, or haunted meads, and every where In which I had my luck at random cast: Yet something of that tragic kind I had: A gipsy for the year, or spirits bold (A ghost), with limbs like wither'd leaves, and wings Of angels in a storm, and heart that never Pass'd in the range of fortune through the skies And knew no fear of Death. I had a friend, Wise, cautious, proud. Two years and I was grave. And when I woke, I dreamt I saw the face Of one I loved, and the bright eyes with which I used to watch the moon-rise, and I heard The song upon the shore; and the face, Lapt in my soul, a something pale and wan And pale as Autumn moon: and felt the beat Of the world's heart beat bleakly in my arms, That held me bound; and till the curfew came, No power of memory left me, or the fear Of death or whispering wind, that pierced my heart, Or of a wild, strange passing dream. But then, I woke as from a haunted harp, and long Loved tales of exile, found them, more and more, Tales of a more secluded thought, that grew Not sadder, in my heart. I had the love That once I had resign'd; and those wild eyes, Seen at some noon, were deeper, finer, wilder, And lapp'd and lapp'd and lapp'd, as years went by. I had a wife! Who knows? Her heart's a hell. I had a home, the kirk, the merry mill, The parish ingle, and the murmuring stream, And all that makes a noise, or noise, or smoke Upon the moving towers and tilth and stream, Have drown'd my heart in bliss. My wife was there; The wild hedge rosebuds fill'd her; and, in short, I had my home--a home, and we were hived Far hence together! Ah, that home were hell And death were nothing but a holy life! An hour's revoke! All eyes are on my wife; I hurry to the gate; she is to me The bliss of all things--every thing is hers, And every thing is mine. Her face is full Of faces--every form--the look, the tone, The look that is, or those. I like her thoughts: She's mine; and even to me such eyes are dim, A very woman, and she seems to me An angel too. Ah God, that home were hell! I know it is an angel, she is mine; I know what happiness is in her looks: She is as fair a colour as the sky Doth blossom; and like starlight is her speech, Like language; and like silence is her speech, The word she speaks--her words are thoughts. She speaks Through this gay world of feeling, in its tone, But not the language that doth speak for thought; Like speech--but like a music. Hear me, Lord, Thou who didst love, and I will answer thee, Thou art the melody. This is my love; That is my boast of thee, my life's Delight. That is my comfort in it. Nothing more Can keep me courage to accept my lot; This is my happiness, my whole delight; I'll work her will, and not reproach her; A chord, a harp, a pipe, a fire, a lute, Are all her own to me. 'Tis she, ' ======================================== SAMPLE 621 ======================================== : and you have made me que daier born? You knew too well the palace being fenced; In happy moments you have harboured well, And you, I know, your notorial artist sold, Who sold his pictures, kings, and courtly dames, Rifled their puppets, built a secret House, Purchased and carpeted, made grenadiers; Soldier-like, buttoned as a gaudier lord; Forestalling the tramp of passing feet; Evening upon the fields where grass is fresh; And hedges twining a rough wedding garland On summer-evenings and long Augusts; In the same mirthful mirthfulness of manner You wore your heart, the artist's bride for bride, The "Maid of Sparta" of Sir Hugo's bride; You were a thing of evening, of no date; You had the art of hollow candles and a gloom Upon your summer day; your bride was fair, And you had penance on her happy grave Where you might, sit and muse, on her that died; There was a secret chapel, redolent Of candles, raised above a corked grave, You did not die, Sir Knight; for all men strive To live through shadows, to forget a doubt, To touch the web, and lose the thoughtful mold That waits on death itself; the years lie on The race itself, and the old life is gone, The days are powdered off, and the new life is dead, And closed for aye is the eternal thread. It's beautiful to live, and good to smell, To feel your presence stab my heart and soul, To see your face uncurled and clear my sell, To hear your voice and know I live to die, Your voice, your face, that used to roll and sigh Beneath the burdens of the wind and rain, My brother, that I was to take and sell, And die to leave you--that was never right. "Will you read this poem, my son?" said I, "Oh, that's the very last line that I know. I have come back here to keep it. I have not Wakened the sleeper up to this: it's hard. I never hear the voices of the dead Exclaim, 'It is some visitor.'" And he of the masculine sex, I am told, Was a low-necked and bearded man who looked With admiration on the alien features That his pithless hunger burned. "Oh, that's the way," said he, "My son!" "Yes, quite a friend." "Why, no-- Nothing's too far, do you think?" "Come," said he, "There is a chance to take us one by one." Well, one must go right to the middle." "All right, my son," said I, "Just this way, But I can't meet those idealists Until they give us quit of all our hopes. We can't keep out of order when they please. There must be souls that try to keep themselves. I could see much better things if I tried. It is no novel thing to choose the case." Those words on my son's face appeared, As if in cases whereof I had heard The question: "Who is it goes there, my child?" A wet hand reached to him across his face, Where a blanch finger glittered out, "Now look, He's coming! See! he's coming!" Through the door The hot hands vanished, burning, far away, And soon the voice was heard: "Come! Why not? We are not wholly glad; He tells us our concern. Why do you fail? Some word of his may turn men to stone; Some little word of his may turn the scale, And take a kneading shovel to make them bold; We'll see no better, no, not I. I'll see no better on this moving sky Than that 'farewell' to me, my son. Our eyes Shall catch some rapture of what is of old In the grip of my longing, when the press Has seized the yoke of the queen's heavy hand. And we shall come for that, my son, until Time's half-forgotten friend's weary hands shall rest Against the velvet throat of that white breast, The little, grand white lips of Philip's child." "Where are your jaded passions? In the game. Honor, my son, for age has glorified Your desperate courage ======================================== SAMPLE 622 ======================================== but small sickness in the world And scorn, and rust, and hush, and cowardice. The old buffoons are seats for new-world news: They've set their world to music for our own; They're just for music, not our field-cake, theirs, Who put me in the wheel-top, pricked my ears. The steadier wind for silk and gold and silk Winds an old tale of fashions old and poor, While in the grass the grass grows old and stiff. The old shuffling shoe-buck had a grating nose, And it was made of clay, and so he run, Trying to coax the lads across the plain. But when the plough was done, he'd bring in rein, And each foot resting in his old grey wain, That nigh the yard his flute might work again. There was a wheel-foot slowly wandering With hearers drinking beer and drinking wheat; And one had biled a maid from far away, And they were in the field among the wheat. And they had been a long, long time indeed, When from the East at night they stretch adown, With tossing ears behind the stumps of lead, And see the children gathered by the wain. The little pigs they laughed and flutter'd so, The "faced white fox" chirrups, who had laid Low by the hearthstone; and the bride-clothes too, That at the fair should order all the day, Found brimming prettily and cleanly play. Their little feet the grass spread warm enough, And soon the herd found couriers that had grown As round they ran, not thinking of their own. The little pigs were frightened and a-sworn, And they uncertain dropped and gave no sign. Then the earth's was a merry mat for mirth, And in the garden talk of fashions old; And old fashions quaint, with ivy green, That tremble o'er the toes and hands between. And little pigs for money went away, They gathered much to look and hear the fay. They sate their milking by the farm-house wall, The little pigs came wading out and in, That very morn, the very rafters tall, Where in the parlour sat their team of brutes. A busy crowd, with eyes aflame with mirth, Skirts along the grass, and took their seats. The sun hung high and danced across the tops Of half the trees and full-blown leaves that danced Before the merry thrush, who on the wing Leaned from a woody thicket, but the King Of Fairyland shut in his wakeful eyes And slumbered on the sweetest of all things; While down the dim green meadow of the grass A straggling herd of bee-swarms made the way, With flocks of boys who tiptoes to and fro, All roving round the meadows, side by side, Trained through the meadows with their busy noise. No cloud astir, the mountains glared aslant, No wind was whispering; the sun hung low In wanton glory round them, as they went, Unheeded, unobserved, at times, and unannow'd. With cheek on clenched fists they tumbled in the dirt, Down blind-heeled, alone and down amid the reeds. And then the flowers stretch'd out in careless ease Around the garden wall: the lily light Shone like a flake of yellow orchis-root, Or whitest lilies plumping in the June. One bush alone, unflecked with fallen blooms, And jessamine and phlox and yellow sage, The field had sown with lavish gold the vale, Rifling the meadows with a score of names, And all along the hollow of a brook Scarcely a sheep-dog halted. There they stood, Their chittering leader, at a country wood With hilltop cover'd, eloquent to song, And the foundations of a spiry cleft And slender acorn hide'd in reverend awe. Up by the brook the little Indian girl Led little Alfred; by the pleasant mint, And down the silver meadows, where the dairies sat, She stood and gazed upon the wondrous pile, In all the splendid land of Edward Hild. With young Sir Thomas by the alder wood, With bow and trunk of brakes, was the huge rock, Whose beauty ravish'd to the summer sun ======================================== SAMPLE 623 ======================================== , the branching stems that bear The Ox, the Arve, the Morgute, the prune, And comrade-like, where Tezmata goes; Along the sands where Vedsa roves His shadowy labyrinths, Beauty wakes. A shriller sound the Fairies play Than when that matron churls amain Sits in his elm tree by the brook, And drops of blood tinge his thin mane, As when in haws they deftly stray To find their solitary lair Where sad Levetia lifts her prayer For her lost Child; when all the air Grows with a louder, riper yell Of murder-cries, and Inglis-shallys, When butts of slaughter, red with gore, From Beds of slain Thyoneus rise, And stretch the glittering scutcheon o'er To smite the passage down the lake, And mark in rapid streams the lake. When Goethe's virtues win the race, What stings and pains are his to trace, When on the doomed a victim's face Is staked beneath the whelming wave, And tells the story, tear-blinded, sad, Of him who roves with leaden ball And dies beneath a name Napoleon Then Goethe, being twenty-one, Stood by the waters of the sun, And he was thought of his own span To flee afar,--or come again Athwart the west--where long he lay, With cataract of waves which poured Unpierced the air around the lake, A little speck of scattered fleeces Lingered with some misfortune, for The way to heaven was easy, but The time for payment was to take What man had lately warned before, And ere that life was done had been But six weeks spent, and then was come For those his keeper in the sun Had promised, as his arms were wet, To pluck his yellow crest, or set Upon its brink, a steadfast eye Of something like the hills of sky To see his God with outstretched hand, And feel its strength for that grim band Which greedily strove with him along. For now he saw with pride a single Lifting up to him from fall to fall Himself,--that other sight oppressed With more than mortal menace low, With criminal look,--and turned and pressed And pressed his lips upon his brow, And drank the great draught from his hand To smooth his soulless chaff and stand Aloft, and seek him heavenward. Then He learned to hold, with lowly air, His duty, and to humbly bow Before her with a mute thanksgiving, That showed no effort in her power, Nor shows unto her throne a grave: And the rash deeds of darkness done, And the importunate buffaloes, And the false shame of execration, The coarse reproaches of a nation, Rose from his steps; and now, herself, Found on a plain on either hand, A roseate bush in one white band, Where she, as though she had let go Her right, and dared with lifted hand The people's rule to overthrow. It was the red, the violet, That waved above the cultured lot, On which young Ontilocht rung, And upward raised his ponderous hunk, Or 'round him held its weightiest. And a Musician one and all, Arsinoeles and Osmiders came, Arsinoeles, with sweep of hoof, And tiptoe's fleece; the old Man cheered, And said to Neptune, "Nay, I fear Your wits are still. Farewell to you! And I--your son--I come to sue The gods for pity--I have brought A crown upon his brows, but sought To banish with my native home, To lay his sceptre down and claim A tear upon this very theme. Now on his way with easy stride Back they went on, side by side. When from the billows of the deep The ship was brought to the smooth side From amidst Ocean's briny caves They rose, and towards the land they bore A longing look that seemed to share The incense of the distant waves, A look of solitary joy, A shape of pain and strife and strife That made men shudder and give way, A look of wrangling and extreme care, A sound upon the troubled tide, That swelled and thundered from all sides, ======================================== SAMPLE 624 ======================================== , with venial sweats, his fellow-man full of vice, Then to the baron, "Levelled husbands, give a change of view; Just for their love the parricide is dragged; and, lo, If aught be wanted that may pay us for our debt, And to the baron whispered words of deep distrust: "I'll order fees and fees, for which I now take care; But if you'll wait the baron's summons to repair, I will accord him an acquittance in the right, For this shall be his demand, let it be read, The promise of the more he waits you in the night." Thus, spake to him, an empress in the midst appeared, With eyes like stars, and cunning voice and wisdom rare, Gazing with strange, resistless, questioning thought: "This creditor upon a month of work goes well, By days and means he doth his work well, While I, to deal, am here locked fast in bed; Unwed, my spirit can some goodly Grail prepare, There's rest and help at last till my necessity. "I will not court in peace," said Madam Raby; "I'll rather pass my time by learned lancets, I'll take a plan to see my cause, and try If I can to the kitchen keep an eye. They said he had a plot devised like that; And when I thought he'd make it him, be sure, I had at least resolved to make the house Within my bounds and entrance at my front. For there the hidden trap my comrades set In myroom, on the window-sill was made; The bell-knap was not hatch'd, the trap was drawn, And to the gate the birds began to perch; And on the table sate the craftsmen all. Says I, 'My thanks to Madam Raby!' Awhile I stood beside that wond'rous gate, And saw that all was nothing like the truth; To herself and others, who should come to see, I speak as one in slumber who must dream: 'Twas done and nothing more than I perceived. Yet I may keep upon my careful thought, That, if he comes this way he will be gone. Besides, the fact that I will think it truth, More than I yet know either here or yonder; If he approach that region where the dead Like strangers from the land look forth to see, He will stay with his companions, and will come And ease my senses by his journey's end. "And there a while I was not, as I seem, After the kindled piles of much good cheer, And these sweet country folks of mine, hop'd at The coming of that lord, and his return. There two years past I lived as happy there; Till the fair city that I reach again, The city now forsakes me, and I know It would be vastly better if I had not. "Men fear that, as they fear'd me and admired, No honour in my life could they acquire; So to the camp I hurried to the gate, But found none else to serve or be my mate; "And I at night retired alone, alas! To the sea-side, so ere the morning sun Had dried the dew from off my busy brow, But that bold face did sometimes luke, or shun; For what would happen were the sight to me, Doubtless I might have long'd to see him face to face, With his hand resting on my arm, on my neck, While on my foot he hung. "And then, a raying trumpet-lecture gave Me courage to resist the voice of hell, So that my tongue explain'd it; for I saw He never turn'd his head aside from me. I thus began: 'What fear, what dreadful pause Have ye escaped, who thus without remorse Have rushes'd round and kill'd the Trojan troop? For ye are led forth from the western way, From Egypt's shore, that beauteous City, and every tent And promontory, where the corpse remains, And where the tomb, if any it can win, Is open'd in; and there have I been born; The fame of this is not of mortal men, But all th' infernal generation Who dare in death to speak of Christ, nor pass Their time in sorrow's darkness or affliction's blast; And if the living blessed may be so, Then all our human omens doth destroy: Yet evil followeth, ======================================== SAMPLE 625 ======================================== its beauty, Even when he shines from her youth-light mirror. But my years are vague and lowly, Uncan really by the tremor. To go down with him to-morrow, If he wins me or--or I lose her. All along the road she presses, And the way's at hand, by slow degrees, To the end where lately she enters, And would lose her, and more than seize. Oh how small are careless wretches! Like us, is she small or greater? You will find it too unpleasant, Tired and weary. No one knows where, Not to tell us what there's a single charm In the train that tramp over an empty stair. How would it learn to be what hour it is! Where she lives, there's a way to return. It's too hard to stand for even this, But to leave her and leave her and go. She has lost her sift besides there; If she only had once to see, Or before, had only to be Quickly happy in turning her head Right about--her face was never sad. "Ah, the dusty day!" Well, yes, they say; The street with its black trees and wold trees; You can see the blue a-blowing, too, Over the shining snow, to where He came up, with the naked feet, From the storm-beaten palace-floor. That's her name, and no one knows What she calls herself, but her wild wits And her ribbons, that one who throws Down the windows of some lover's rings In the kingdom of lonely embe, For, in finer weather, she lingers there. But it doesn't matter--you see that Small fiddle-heads, russet and rosy, Are seldom put in among men; They may claim some far higher station Than your chamber's far journey through, While she has the white nose and the shawl, And the scarf and the ribbon and queue. She sits by the lamp with her head up, And points to the Highlands beyond, Where, behind Charlie's big guns, Long lanes, with their mutinous guns, The sociable bears attack endless@. In the nooks he has hidden from all men, They roam evermore by their isles, And, the instant, dread lest any day His wife, who was henceforth at their knees, Should suffer her kind, suspicious gaze From where their glances met; In a wood at the foot of a hill, Or twig of a ditch that the storm rocks, Where the plovers and ducks, And a broom of wild thyme and the bee Meet under the blast; And the Summer makes bright her bright page, Like the days of the heroes of old, When men walked not on the way In their woodland revels and days of spring; Nor did any of dreamings of bridal days Burn out night's all- intimate rays, Of gold-plumes sweeping the creek, or plumes Of lucid waltzers that drift, like pearls, Across their clusters of pine and pine, To lay out their fair curls, Who sit at the feet of their poets, and hear Of the manifold tongues that leap From the brain to the heart of the air, Whose one word is the Light of Lights, Blind, only mortal and meek. Or the truant philosophers prate That the dread of Milton's our fate Is the doom of Milton's great to be. But all that we've ever tried is there, Save by Jove or Apollo, and By the spirits of poets and poets, the things That make life more divine than death. O fortunate land! O beautiful land! Where the waters of time And the stars water The might of the dead, As they glide down the vast years, Far, far away, In their infinite spheres, Drowned in the silence of sleep, With the mystical light Of a few, weary years! Far in the years Another land shall be seen Far, far away, Like a wonder, with love, And there shall be light And there shall be night, With the rose-wreathed night, And the heavenly spheres, And the infinite year As a sunbeam appears, As a melody rare To a weary heart, As a song to the ear, As a star to the sight, As a lamp to the light. Far, far away, And its face in ======================================== SAMPLE 626 ======================================== upon the doe's astraict old Bacchus around him cast an ashen spear, And slew the shaft, that he, a father, deemed So mighty, might have brought his body down: His ancient heart came back a thousand times; Yet grown not long old at all these were his sons, For all his comrades knew the hero’s might, And though he died in fight, though death withheld Its dread suspense, yet with a spring of strength He sought to raise his banner in the lists Whereon the dead were wont the dead to lie Down worn with woes and dearth. For nine long years They fought alone, and in their country fought With spear and sword like enemies, and all The mighty massy throng, whose warders erst Not e’en when worn with tumult of the crowd Had yielded up their lads to bitter fate. And when a great voice sounded in their ears Of dread and doubt, Ráma his mother called, “O mother mine, the fear of death is past, But to my rescue quickly bear away, For woes that reach a weak and helpless heart Still urge them on. O mother, mother, son, Rest not: thy hands in this my bow are laid, And all the darksome passage to the shore Is for my feet and me: thy household life, O mother, shall be glad when years have passed.” Thus as he mourned she sang. Sugati, too, To a brave race that faltered not, to cast Ambrosia down: in might and speed though he, In front of death, stood ready to his post, And Lakshmaṇ to his comrades gave the sign. “Let him,” they cried, “in triumph lead again Through Daṇḍak wood these wicked scourges out, For there he is, a refuge from my fate And pathless wanderings, but I sent him forth To rescue, and to bring him aid with thee. O Lakshmaṇ, hast thou slain him by the way? I left my father’s realm, my son and heir: Thou hast not nobly slain him, nor has Heaven With all his lord a brother saved from me. Now may thy lord be found, in time, no more. Now cast thee forth, thou younger, O my son, In search of this fair land that lies around. O’er land and sea wide spread thy ruthless way: Turn, mother, turn, for on this spot I wait. Look on thy son and let thy pity rise, For here thou stayest till he find thee forth.” Thus with her tears she spoke: her ruddy cheek Concealed her sorrows, and she thus replied: “Brother, I charge thee, Lakshmaṇ, all my heart Has been by grief controlled: no anxious care Adores my son: his love for thee has brought Oppression, and I long to go to him. Let death await me yet: yet Bharat, son, Will he not grant my rites? consent thou this To do the righteous rites, and I will do This bidding rather. For thy people’s sake, If thou would do them evil, deed and oath Devise me, mother, in thy child as yet Thou art not guilty: O, may heaven refuse To give thee to this blessing! Still may all I speak with thee as blest. Hail, Queen, to thee, King of the heavens! hail, lord of all the Gods, To thee my mandate, and my prayers, I give.” Thus as she spake, in swiftest thought he bent His way, and sped across her path again Through sky and city. But when Ráma saw His father coming to the river bank, He doubted at his peril to restrain The youth’s reply, and urged him to the sea. From every side the sea a billow burst As if a giant’s hand had touched him there, And from his form dropped off his tresses: one Rolled o’er his brow his dark blue eyes were lost, One wildly stamped his feet, and bowed his head And spoke, with suppliant hands and weeping tones: “O thou, the first and best of Brahmá’s seed, Thy glorious might, most glorious, might we know, Before we dared to string the thunderbolts That filled the firmament with fire and smoke. But hear, O son of Raghu! Gods and men By Indra led, by ======================================== SAMPLE 627 ======================================== -man! The kingdomes on the nextrow, And the old lady's bower! This might not yet be dead! But the kingdomes on the thrones, But he rose from bed! And he swore the bride to be his wife, And she was a happy bride. The cat she sat in a corner, And the mouse was on the joint; The cat said, "Tongue,arrow barren," And the mouse said, "Grief be here!" And the mouse said, "Pluikins, double-key'd, I think ye are but thrift; I am but your belov'd one, And ye would rather be my bride, Than love an envious lad." The kingdomes said, "This noon is past, Yet shall ye have a merry time." The courtly bird flew after, The mouse he said, "Good day!" And the mouse he fell right f stumbling, And as he fell off flying, He thought he saw, below him, A bloody red worm lying. And he said, "What mean ye, Glugs, Here is a mouse I'll have; He is by me, down under the sea, And I should be your slave." "I am neither two nor three," Cries one; and then another, "For, if I would I might see How ye can work and sweat, Till we have won our way, I'd lay me down beneath the sea, And never heed a word." Then they go to the kitchen door With the little mouse to eat; The gates they open with a thunder-peal, And peal to peal of peals of woe; They thump the magpie in the glee, And fat the little mouse in glee. Then up stand the buffeting sons of the earth, And the buffeting sons of the brutes; The shepherd, with his half-quenched eye, Looks down on the little one with a sigh, And he cracks his shepherd's yard: "One pail, my little rain-pool, One stile and a tittle of a sheath, And I fear it may be a fine day For a cat that I know in a whit, And I fear it may be a fine day." Then up stand the buffeting sons of the earth, And the brown lads from the yard, And the brown lads from the woodlands They swish their silken cordage forth, And dance upon the toes and ears For the pleasure of echoing peals. They dine on venison, and on voil, And sup on voic and refuse, And digest wild goose, and gourd, and gourd, For they are ever satisfied. They lay their eggs in the forks of trees, And they wind their whistle on the leas; They have a pleasurable sound And they skip from sound to sound. And when their flutter they hear Is a quiver in the grass, Their flapping wings they arch and pair, In their long night-cap and silken plaid, And they call to each other, "Oh! What is this but a light cloud falling? What is this but the wind blowing?" They gossip with their neighbors through The tall church, patiently, And above the gossip singing, And above the washing of the tide, And the smell of the waves, and the felt of the beach, The smell of salt and sand, And above the smell of the tide. And sometimes from an inner side, Wherever the wind is blowing, A cold pellucid, or crisp new-blown, Creeps out to a level of rising stone-- Come, let us steal to the open door, Whistles the silence, the silence, under, Where, if we speak, we are only cold. For what if these winds should waken and blow Our lives out in the sky? Or that the trees, like a thousand bends When the wind blows out of the south? Or that they should come and never know That the wind is sweeping us to the mouth? Oh, wherefore is the North Wind past? We cannot tell; we can but know; And so farewel our loves at last, As we sail through the east of the sky Where never a wind is heard And never a wind comes by To break the heart of a woman's heart, And a bride that has nothing apart From her lover that's far away. ======================================== SAMPLE 628 ======================================== (Much like the bear, or juniper. No such machine to help, no, never, 'Tis useless all: come, heart, get it or marry! To wed her at three-score and a shilling, A wife's love, my lad, I'm no man now; Nor yet to marry if I do not marry, I'll think all the beauties which women can discover To flaunt them in a basket of roses; A pleasure which they have not the less yet, For which they have not the less to eat. Tristram's the capital of the city; And young De Linnies are not near, Who 'scaped from having too much of her, But they must fly (though unrecorded) As fast as they have any eye. That reverent stranger, Even, He may have a phantasy: He is quite the cynosure Of a certain mariner. He must do to be sailing Alone and without a chart, Or else merely parties Which are--and they must be. Yet I am familiar In the heather and the dell: Tis the stately greyhounds, With their tails and tails together, With their horns and tails together, And are merry and serene; And--the jingle of their tail Was a wisdom long and sweet And a little charming madrigal Till, when he had done his feat, He came down the mountain stair, And, stooping over, whispered: "I am neither man nor woman Yet my feelings were the guileless Of that droll old Mrs. Drake. But men have always humor In the jingle of their teeth; But I shall not lose the jingle Of those gentlemen so sly; I shall not be much a foetor, If you think they'll not have that pie." All day, in the lonely dark, The waves beat the shoreward side; Whirled round in eddies unnumbered The seething wharves grimly cried, And their black nets like hounded jades Hung 'mid the yellow swarded tides; Till, over the gleaming summit, The coral belted moon uprise And sought her silent hiding-place Beside the small dark elm-tree's base, In the shadow of the white pines, And waited, in his hollow eyes, For the sailing moon and the singing skies. The reefers leaped in a fury As, swinging like madjeet, They swept up and down in gusty Paths drenched with grime and heat; And all at once, over the surges They saw, in a thicket, the elfish tribe (Each seemed to the other some monstrous), Whose bellies, in some grim mad jargon, Two serpents were making a peaked Pallad across--and I knew them-- For I've always thought, in a glimmer, Of monster shapes that were found in the bottom Of the sea-cliff you saw them, with your Uncountable wickedness out on The ledge of the rocks, where they clung to The hempen twine--and the one that stood nearest Was the down that lay far down to the end in The hollow rock--and the lee that lay nearest Was the one that could rest on the reed. And a slim blue fish came out of the water, The greys of his throat and the snake of his bosom, Scenting their lives with a little The savage delight of the bite of the reed And the pungent fumes of his nostrils, And they never knew any blood from the reed But bled! for the brute with a short horn, Like the fly with a stab of venom, Till they lay in their blankets, and waited Till they breathed out the news of the hunting And the dolphins crept in through the reeds. And the two with their oars made a lake of Ten thousand fathom deep, and--the people Who saw them at dawn and the sun-rise-- Saw them become rafts, and soon began To compose their melancholy stories, Bringing them over to the moon. And the two,--that stood on the timbers, Quite out of their boats and at sea,-- Came to the side, and saw a third one, The left of the lee of the cliffs on the sand-- And the youngest, who thought, "In the coppice, The lee of the lee of the ======================================== SAMPLE 629 ======================================== Love to me: A love that knows not any hate; Though in its world I may not reach, Its tenuous shadow may not reach, It holds me in its own dear way. When shadows gather at the day's birth And softly fall across the earth, When stars wake in the Heaven of Heaven, And all the flower-lit fields of heaven Are glorious, in that hour they seemed Like an Immortal;--that great dream Of love awakes my soul to dream Dreams of the lovely golden theme That once has been our bliss around, While Avon's silver billows bound The mystic realms of amethyst. Vain, vain the wish, the thirst that quells For heart's and life's vain welcoming. All hope is lost, all strength disowns; Beyond its loveliness it dwells Among the nations of men's hearts, The dreams of love, that in its store Have lain unstained, forgotten more. And wilt thou hold me close and fast? I do not feel thee, soul, my own. My love did seek its woman's will Through all the crossing of rough seas, Through wild ones scattering to and fro, Of unknown islands that go by, And never see my love, nor know The lovely thought that turns to snow. Eyes yet unveiled the windows dim; Weed yet secure--these windows dim! We are so near to thee, so near! How, when the morning starts to light, To call my darling to the night Shall I bring tears and sighs of woe? And when thy looks would bring to me The dawn to read the stars, how oft In eager watch to catch their gleam The day's inconstancy and force, And clear the peril of thy face. O hush! One tries to catch the gleam, Only--my love! It comes! it comes! Before my spirit closed the door, Another stood: as still I gazed Thy form appeared, so, lady-love. Ah, what thyself thou couldst not see. Yet I remember, 'twas to thee, And yet thou couldst not answer me. My words ringed the sweet bells of sleep, My hands caressed thy maiden's cheek. The dream of that chaste soul I miss. And now, the fond recall of thee Seems to me thrilling, thrilling yet, As if my heart would leap therefrom For 'twas so pierced with love's regret. Through midnight woods I seem to rove By dell and fountain oft to love. The grass doth stir: a mocking-bird Came o'er it, jasmine overreighed. The sun came o'er the mountains blue, The rivulet began to rouse The rapture of my spirit-dream; And now grown thin, the hours retire, And thoughts of those I loved expire. Ah, how I long to lounge thereon, Where yearning arms sink wavering, And gleams, like phantoms weirdly drawn From ebony and sand of dawn, Cloud-cleaving clouds, that seem Freshens and furies, and a star. A moment, while my lips are prone With rapture for thy love,--crowned with gold,-- I have been robbed. I have been taxed all Which, for my noble sins, I find. And, oh, it was a paradise, Filled with the dreams of Guilt and Joys, Of the hid thought of all I prize In earthly love, in heavenly truth, Mine in the world where none is brave, To haunt me, one bright silvery wave. I am forlorn; I will not quail At your wild words, though pure from storms Of world-tempted waves and wintry gales, And songs that never wing their flight; These echo me, and I shall dream Your voice, to wake me in the night To find, by heaven's breath possessed, A serener soul in flight Than ever in the living light! Drawn by eight swift hounds of his mighty race They roamed, who rode them,--whose swords were brown, Long, wonderful, clustering, like a cloud That waves by night, when the wind is loud. Their track, like a path of clouds that sweep The far horizon of the morning deep, Deemed a track of splendor, and all the world Glowed with their flashing spears that gleamed. Then, per ======================================== SAMPLE 630 ======================================== , they live a little longer, Leaving their milk-white herds a swarth of sheep, And neighbours drop their sheep together. The great duke takes the little king's babe And takes it to his hollow hive, And lays it on the house's new treasure, Fair and luxuriant, a silver purse, Upon which are gems and carbuncle; The little bird says "May it please you, To watch the moon that shines so bright;" The little stars say, "Good night!" Then swiftly goes the little bird. The little heart within is dumb. Then homeward straight with every word They go their separate ways, And neatly up the gardener's garden Beside the stable-door he plays. "Tis done! and mother sings to them Of the thing that's coming on," The little birds say, "Handmaids love us, And crown the day our work is done." All round the magic ship the weavers Shall stand and gaze; They'll guide her on a-hawking her With an easy smile and quoth: "A little boat we'll have upon it Before we go ashore!" They'll think of the weavers ailing, And the mother's heart adore; They'll think of the weavers weaving The long threads thread once in a weaver's weaver's weaver's weaver's weaver's weavers For God's sake whet the shears, I'd pray all the world for the world to keep; And a-musing wearias' rods on us shall creep, And a-sneeling we shall sleep, And I thine ane into thy presence then; For a-maying I will get thee when I die." And back to the chamber sped the mother, Her back to the window sped the mother. "What news? what, Dearest, tell me where? Do the angels come to me there? Tell me if any lad is out at play, Or aaging for battle on the brae, If the bairns should help you and never tire, Or the shouting and shots should fail, Or the best man on the witch-white floor I kneeling am at by the door. Yet the rest I shall see were body and soul, Some one of the silly name and the fame That I seem to have followed with heart and hand, Though the house of Jack's castle stand; 'Twill tell to the world wherever the way is free, 'Tis there enough for the hours in my cottage for me, So send me in a jocund thrall, And bate me my drum and pike, And I'll jump at the randy twink, And knock my drum and there I sit, And wait as the minutes hurry by; 'Tis the sturdy swinger of the Lord, And a gallant-looking tyke, They're all getting on the sly, boys, And there's nothing they see in the place, (They were twenty-one or so,) Then life will go like a ball And Death like a go-away clown; Then back to its den they'll come And shriek for quarter at the tomb, And push and crowd and bustle and play Till I'm sore of heart and soul, 'Tis we shall be the happiest pair That e'er had a house in the land Till this era. The parson's son I hear, I see, He was born on the Sabbath morn, As he was taken out at sea, But the creatures live still in the land This side of the ocean. To sea, to sea! and all this fuss 'Tis a subject we all must scan, Whose heart is happy while it beats, With the surging of the ocean, man, And a safe and stumbrous home, The sea's heart is all inside The image of thee and thine. Where are those smiles and glances now? Is it thy hand and mouth that laughs Away from the cloud, as now Is warped the shroud, the cloud? Is it thy brow and breast that veers As thine a sunbeam light, O thou, that with thy thoughts hast dreams And visions of delight! Look on me with thine eyes and smile, Fair youth of the earth and brine! Earth hath its uses and its ways, Innocent is thy mirth and prime; Innocent man's a loftier hour That deigns to rise in song and mirth, To sink ======================================== SAMPLE 631 ======================================== , with tears of pity;-- Breathe a prayer that all may see How, alas, the ocean billows Nevermore may roll together Over happy realms of beauty Where they meet with happiest feeling. Thus, alas, that golden, glowing, Cold, and restless, heart-rending Where the sea and sky are blended, Gather in an endless ocean Nevermore to be together, And it haunts the hearts that dwell in Loneliest homes, and best, and dearer. Where all other pleasures meet them Cold and to be felt of, meet them;-- Where the flowers of faith are choicest, Birds of faith are all around them; Where they gain and--what are orphans? When, oh Love, thy powerful light Shines through heaven, as through the gloaming; Lingers round us, mellowing, glowing, Wafted on from year to year-- Now, oh Love, thy gentle weaving Fill the hours with love and light. Love, the sun, Love is thy vision, Day by day hour, from year to year, Turning to the summers gilding, Flying, sinking to thy pier. Till, within our hearts' ripe greeting, Taste we know not which might be, Taste of love, love of the Springtime, Love's young April, in thee? Through thy gates, young April fairies Stray their little way in-- Through thy bowers of fairy blossoms, For thy sake they wait, though weary-- Beauty holds but one to other Shadow--only one to other. Ah, Beloved! can no one tell Why those daisy faces, Moonlight-footed, gleaming tranced, Bright about the parlor? Round about me now I'll hover With the dear ones at my breast, Where thou sittest meek and mother, Hearing all their childlike talk-- There's a daisy now to greet me, Grown so gaily--children now! There, where violets and roses Kiss the floor to kiss me, Talks of girlhood's love-adorning-- So I greet thee, Sweetheart! now! Now that Love, whose touches thrill Mute beloved faces, Never slept in golden slumbers Till he woke to find his Dear Laid beneath his dove-enchanted Seven gold-embroidered coverlid-- Ah, I am akin to Spring, Living with that life the other way Which to Winter time is sweet and cold-- When the cloudy sky is overcast-- When the Spring no longer covers Earth, the happy and the happy! Now, when winter quickens round the living Robs of earth, and brooks and streams, Then do I lie so deeply wounded, As in death I rise and rise, Gnashed by frost-bands, in each windy Tide of yearning: for I dream That the Spring is waiting for me, girt By lakes and springs and hills-- Waiting, waiting, all my lives to be Like a bud or blossom of a tree Touched by fingers of the sun-- Waiting, waiting--and I lie Filled with sleep and doubt and death to rest, As when I lie anear my breast Flowers and birds and brooks-- Waiting, watching, waiting for me, girt With my freedom--and I lie Frightened lest away the dark should come. Wondrous little dreamer, Wiser as a swordfish, Hater of mine own sweetheart, Like a flame, full-blown! Often, as the moments hurry, Bringing no delight, Often is the sweet heart waiting to Turn toward me, bringing her. When the chilly rain drips, And my heart is sore, Over all the sweetness waiting Comes the chilly wind Of the dewy earth-- Kissing her against my lips, Lying her against my breast, Where the grass is deep and sweet Bitterly as in this case, Underneath the grass. Gently, gently flow the minutes Towards my sweetheart, Lying in my deepest slumbers, While she makes them pass. Underneath my slumber In her eyes I lay-- Fair as in the summer, lovely Dreams of summer days! And her eyes are sad with weeping-- Wondrous is her smile, Glimmering the saddest dream-shape In the world of human woe, When she turns ======================================== SAMPLE 632 ======================================== : I know What name the word is. When I laugh I shake My back like an old noddy, shake my chin With fear. My eyes are wet. The call to rub The hair that is my nose, the noise of drink That comes to memory, is that which then Was dumb. These old days of a hundred years, Till you were twice my sabbath, heard in song The years before I wore these old days there, And can remember only her dear face That won me in these lonely days of youth. Sow the seed for me, and let me be the plow Of the twin fountains; for I am a man, And not a man, but an old man, O God, For ever and for ever. What is this, That men may say of me as old as I, And I shall reap the joy of the fields again, Like him who brought the sun, and brought the rains, That all may see. Ah, dearest, I am grown Of an old age, and one who loved you then So many and so many times overfond Of service, had he waited, had he known This many years, and let go back again And glad no more. He lives with you and not. This fares with me; there is a smile for me; No more to-night the places to the town Of mirth are measured, and I have my day Of loneliness--the old delights, the merry Quakers of mirth. My eyes are wet with tears As when he saw a little child at play Munching the grass, and he was gone away Half way a minute. But I hear the laugh That makes this journey even more lonely For many a day. Where is the happiness I hunger for, and I am sick at heart, And most of it. Where is the wretchedness That has been so long in the great city, And where the narrow lanes of the hamlet Grow into gardens, for a lover Cometh here to the door of the homestead He hath forgotten all of living things, All petty petty quarrels, all rude Brotherly pain, and I am going home. Some day we shall be happy; none of us May turn aside to be afraid of you, Nor shrink from any touch of hands of yours. Be happy; no more changes are to come, Nor new delights to fill this present cup Than we have often drunk. Old age is best. I have an old, old happiness, So fill it full of happy memories That Time hath flocked at best. This is the house where the wine is red And the floor is steaming colouredly With the hues of the days when Solomon Led his first star, so that the hands Of the Angel of God are over me. This is the place where the hydromel That was poured from the grave of a dead man Drinks the cup of comfort. This is the place Where I who have lost my soul must come Blest in a mother's place. Drink and forget; I am too young To look upon my mother's face. So now my simple mind, unskilled In the bewildering world and dare not hope For anything more to save myself Than getting what I took of me, And win no further step upon my road, And be in nothing utterly. I must Feel that I cannot turn my back Into your royal room again. Outside I am your captive soul, Not yet equipped to love and serve A strict constrained desire. Yea, must Be bound to this impossible supreme, For every day new powers ask and find The law that holds your realm and holds you to And none to choose but all to seek and find A welcome in each word and look. No, not now For that to-morrow's dead leaves on the shore Of Time for evermore; as I would pace And put an end to my unending life, Feasting through air and sea, O God, not now But this! And when the sun sinks back, As year by year I sit, under the sea In one high temple, O my God, I stand Fulfilled of every worship, no more seeking For earthly or mortal thing. Whoso shall dare To wear the purple robe of mystery And place the colors on his canvas's front, That he may stand and stare at me? The King, The King is at his harp, and I am dumb, Being from an outcast. When he woke My thought was that he had died Before he left ======================================== SAMPLE 633 ======================================== "Eight-flanched hat, which I have seen on shore; but lo, two carnations mingling in all the ship's deeps The sack, O Cossack, shall destroy. The goods, of which I spoke, which the eight ships contain. That is the wide sea, the land of the Cossack, both men and horses, and the sea that, bathed by the sun, is turned to a jutting crag, O Cossack! Far down, as the great wave is stubbornly drawn, lie the Cossacks. Upon the main there were fastened the ships, upon the strand they took their seats and worked their sweating walsers. Then they laid them down and put on board; they sware by God and the Sea, by the Father of Zeus, who is the lord of all. And the Cossacks, the Cossacks, the Cossacks, gathered together their seamen and themselves chose the best for their comfort, the one best, the the other most skilled in all kinds of craft. They also sat there perchance in service of the wind; for the wind and the sun they could neither eat nor sleep, so swiftly were they sacking, but the Sun and the South showed token of them. Then on board were stranded the Wain, and there was the grey- Phoenician mariners, and there were the Cossacks aboard, while there were the craftsmen skilled in all kinds of things. And now they had made the place ready for them, the good ship of the Phoenicians, with all sails and well shored planks, that the ships of the Phoenicians should shout at Dawn. When the wind and the weather showed forth, the ship of the Poseidon, son of Jason, went down to the sea in ships fleet of the ships. And it was not a long time before the sea was at hand. Straightway they embarked and sailed way the livelong day. So once Neleus' sons of the Phaeacians, who had been before Odysseus, took their ransom home. And all this while that other men had been wooing and praying for the godlike Tydeus, had not her men yet beheld her avengeable strains. They would have given free heart and honour to the wooers, if they had had skill in gathering up the dance. First Euryalus struck up from his chariot, and laid the goodly lyre upon the mules and horses, to make sure of his fame, and win glory. When he had now got back to the ship of the old friend of the Phaeacians, he went on board and sat upon the benches. Then he spake among the Phaeacians, masters of the proud Locrian revels in far better than our fathers, and they remembered how he fared away, and now marked him handling on, and flung his great targe over the inclhead to the wooers and the tall shipmen; so he smote them without repose, till they had accomplished all their delight. With this he swept his great coals about the benches and inthrew them in, but left the ship and the men resolved to get within the hall, where the young men sat them down unto the spacious hall, and brought them forth all the best that the gods would have brought them, even all the bowls of gold, and took the hands of the wooers and the water which they mixed for them. The hounds of the long euset were gone from their herds, and the voice of Diomede first came from the ship. Then in due course they poured drink over their hands and feasting-offerings, and worshiped the goodly-greaved companions whom they had honoured. Then presently they made drink-offerings to the goodly friend of Odysseus, and to the daughter of Alcinous. So they stood by the car and took the hands of the goodly throned Dawn. Then they went to the ship and the sea-banks, and soon met Eurymachus. Now the last word they had spoken, and forthwith the Achaeans put on board the galley, and took their places. First they went to the hall of the ship, where are the mixing-bowls and drink-offering made of a hearth of flowers. Then they spread the sails and sat down to wait on ======================================== SAMPLE 634 ======================================== ness not derision. "If thou than hate my brother, Woe to him who will not give thee back thy flight! For I have heard so many say, that each one is The other's foe, and none the less will scape affront, Since he who wrongs thee still the more deserves the right." "If thou wilt leave me grieving, tell me where to stay, For when thou shalt be absent, if thou long to journey, The way I long shall take, ere more I tell thee where." "If we may reach, at first our journey lies: Yet greater ills have nearness when we near Unto the shore arrived, where, full in view Of our ascent, the sun soon rests his low; There lies the path that Phaeton ill knew To bear and shun, and, lingering near, His bright side seemed to wheel. Eupialus here Beside me seems to have no further toil, Though hot and moist the moisture was to lack. "That well I say thrive; but if thy stock Thou scare not, lest more hunger strike thee here, --E'en such should be thy portion -- shalt thou have Of sweet repast, for which the savage poor Are greedy of our clothing." Thus she said, And vanished suddenly with these sad sounds, And followed by hard tears and groans and moans, Like mist, and cloud, and water, and the wind. But little distant from her brother's place Appeared she, looking upon the wood, That seemed to give forth heat and cold apace. At every onward step the haughty rout All found new torments, new troubles worse, For many; and while looking onward came The day that first had brighten'd to the sun, Midst how great throng of sorrowing folk, With various wails went up and down the wind, Till at the last in wailing, grove and glen, They heard lamenting sounds, and old woes then From that clear spirit came, and cried, "O friends, And ye, who now are strangers to this place, Virtue, that clad in frost hath overcome Our hardihood, and griped the souls of men Footsore and hind, a-bed with bale and thee." --"Friends, the sad offices," said then the king, "Which held our city while the world endures, Are yet remaining, and in ice they dwell. Nor we, nor ever have these fires of woe Perished, but the giants and the pains of heaven Cannot assuage. Nor food nor fish, we know, Nor holy weapon, nor the shafts they use; But only fever and the vapors' breath They feel and know, but with one mind they feed." --"Not in the net," she cried, "for food or flowers Wast thou; so much of meat wouldst thou excel." And he, whose gentle words the tear-drops dry Fell not, but bubbl'd up the golden cup, Gave her a casket, wrought of contrite wood, Wherein, as she was bidding him, she sate, And last, as servitors to justice, served. Then at her own goodlier request Each knight of beauty call'd: "Come, bear with me," --And then with others took his seat again. So having seen enough, she came and went Unto a gloomy grove where some thick trees Held vigil, and a gentle gale that wafts Its wavering current from the foughten groves. Here with a mournful sound, the echoes cried, Here the lone spirit of the Night complain'd That then with Norland's king he did repair, And to sweet slumber brought him on his way. A city from far off, by dreary streams Planted of old, where never human feet Came:--ay, here where was never foot before, Is now the abode where thou and I, One, nurst in holy hopes of righteousness, Shall rest in peace and bliss, till heaven restore The thought thy folk have sought. Such passing gear As when they made thee, have the happy shore Of Holy Land, wherein the souls of men, Renown'd for ever,--sleep at ease, content. --E'en thus the high-priest, when he heard the name Of Sohrab's son afar on mission sent, To seek his father out of Egypt's land, Who thus his prudent son address'd ======================================== SAMPLE 635 ======================================== the fishes too are lost; But in each fish is a peck of trout, And they cannot kill me, I hold my breath, So if they were spent with mid Athirst, I might lie down and die. 'They have the strange delusion, I swear, But not a soul of them understand.' 'By damn and callous man, don't you know I needn't tell you 'twas a river bank, Down there, old Man, I tell you very well, If I had thought of O-kis-ko, I might see Kathleen's as a swimmer, 'Tis time we were going, I don't see, For there they were dressed for the wedding. Said O-kis-ko, 'Tis a bitter cold, But I can tell you 'tis a hollow hill, And you must muster, all in body and soul, For the water of St. Peter's waters, For the souls of the dead, and the souls of the living, For the body of Patience and the souls of sinners With food to eat and water to drink. There are many people out of Mar Street, Of whom are fewer and more, And who show in their capacity for crimes, And suffer much from the stones, The stones and mud on the road to China As heavy as starch. They went from Queen Street to Canterbury By various route of streets, To the iron market, and to the fair, And met upon a street Of red brick houses. It made the stone More red brick-sinneys than a tavern, Where the fairies came to meat And spat and sang. The cobbler's wife Went out for a ride, Among the passing people, That many a time had come And looked at people. The squire came back From the ferry. 'What are you at?' He asked of the squire. 'It is a river With pearls strewn over it. There are seven women in the place On each of them coats, Sandal and turban, and little black clothes They haven't got.' They had been staying For many a year; They have faded like the leaves of the Fall, And it is delightful--but they all Are saying it's a river, call it so. 'It's a very wide river, and you know It is a little round of heaven. I can see that.' 'I cannot see it. I'm going to take your arms To your back, but the squire Do not forget me. I have a message from March, Which says that there is trouble on the stream. This is the water, not the sea, But the sky and the trees, And sometimes we can lie and play with the trees In the little Indian pleasaunce Forgetting they are very wise. Do not lie, or lie, and yet I'll promise you The second thing I ask you: when you look The third thing will be presently, And you know your own trouble, And you must do the best you can To set your heart a-blush, (Against the best of friendship, And then you'll get the pressure of a arm.) You that would hold the bugle, Have you thought you heard the call? Have you only known the call of a bugle? Have you only knelt and touched it, Have you only earned the call? Have you only known the call? You have but called and passed The road you never named, And yet you are the last man I have known Who raised the wind to his aid. He has reared himself, He has reared himself, He has reared himself On what his hands have made, And so, friend, he has stayed. He has rent himself And now has left his trace; He has spent his strength On doing what he would not do, He has reared himself On what is made but commonplace, He has lost his pride, And now they are one with him. It is well if you find him, (Though the road is bad and the road is long, He is here and he is wrong) And unless you find him He will never heed you. No, they'll never follow after, And his heart will never break. They will walk their own way, They will go their own way, And their friends will leave them behind, And take them wherever they may. I dreamed last night I saw your eyes: Why should I doubt ======================================== SAMPLE 636 ======================================== slanted forward, And the Earl in wrath reproved the Baron: "But all you have before you, verily, Are safe from court and city, Fridolin, Who has in charge our stately city. "The region is called Elf-land, That is called Elf-land, I ween; The court of King Kildare is free from, Its hold by Leipsicinian. We are kept in strict and rigorous treatment. "How fair my lord should have be, In how warm and free an air! And if I again should venture, 'Tis my will I win this pair." He has gone forth,--what, then, my lady? Why must you the truth infer? He is true to fairy-land, And in his fond and loving fashion Needs must your own self fare. "The worth of thy Lady, good sirs, Her great deeds and high renown Had made thee to be my true-love; And I was thy true-love's crown." Sir Leipsic passed the door,-- No word he said, but only kissed her, And for kindness made her his; Out of the wall a shield On the grass he placed it, And was held till fear exiled All the bold face of the foe. As from the wall that was built here, Hesper a city entered; Here a soul did enter And we lived in joy and pleasure As if here were hearts of armor, As if linkéd were the twain, Till the frown of the Master Stifled their deep denials. That this was the lady's pleasure; Therefore, here's to her conclusion: If we knock here as at nine And that's six of them left here, The number is always the fated Unto my half-sir loved here. All thou wert there-- April, May, thine eighteen years-- Thou art in the greenwood to-day, I take thee, Sir, on my ass, And hear thee welp, if I may. Thy voice is like the soft spring winds Playing about the forest trees, Making my heart a vessel of rings, Storm-stir and raine upon the rocks. O, sound me to the meadow-skaven, And let me in the greenwood be. Thy voice is like the voice of flowers, Sweet may be the cowslip's call, And thine the cowslip's flaxen ring, Set mid-o'clocks and quivering swing. O, when May makes the spring-weary heart, Let it break asunder as before; 'Twill be happy, O, it is not! I blesséd love, but blesséd him, His face so fair and bright, The heaven upon his shoulders broad, The earth upon his back; And all his fair and youthful limbs, That bow through girlhood's beat; All that in all his eyes appears Are matchëd in the Lord's! O may I sit beside his knee, And sing, at least, my praise, As ladies do, with wanton glee, And hang upon his neck-hills, so That I, who often wander there, Have thought of him with pained surprise, When once he came a-hiding nigh, And running from the glassy high, Upon his thigh did feel, I ween, And, from the flaxen-haired head of blue, Do give and carry full. I'll kiss him still, and pluck the flowers, And though I can but praise His face, his face I ne'er forget, And clasp his hands in mine; And at the head of him I'll kiss, With all my heart and skill, And many a silent kiss, that too He needs must love still. But when he comes--and, looking at me, And waiting near the gates, he sees Eve come, to hunt for pearls; then, home all grown, He comes, and says, How now, and when? Oh, he is wise; and yet, though sweet; Poor wretch!--he sees me now! Thus going, on the threshold of the Court, Into a flowery wood he leaned That, opening to the pool, stood by The old man who beside him played. "Oh father, may thy joy to us Come dearer to our hearts," he said; "And may thy hope of joy ======================================== SAMPLE 637 ======================================== saints! So may they, oiled and blest, Cure with these holy pot The world's austere unrest. Upon your bended knee, There is my lady free. My starveling, starveling, Let in the light of you! And may your beauty sway In deserts wild as far. Or may some sun-born sphere The wide, wide earth explore, Of all who wish to hear. I am sure it is but true That God upon His ways By man is soothed and stays. It is true holiness, And holiness thereby, To live and die for you. This is my heart, my dear; it is thy heart That all my prayers hold dear: 'Tis my soul, its home, my dear. I must call Love thy father now. I must keep as I would keep, Till our new-found father come Over his hills and glens To make us one again. None shall know where he is hidden, Nor who may bestow the boon Which I, to-day, have taken. O my girl, full of affection, Certes, none shall thee reject, For he is fickle-hearted. None shall know where he is hidden, Nor who may bestow the boon Which I, to-day, have taken. When I was young and didst thou range, Thy spring was spread abroad for thee; Thy day was dreary, and its dearth Was desolate to me: O that the earth had heard thee once! O that the earth had not our growth! O that the grass, the grass had known No birth, But never from her prime,-- O that thy youth had not gone forth! Shine on me in thy steadfast light, And guide me, guide me through the night! Rise from thy kind, before my death My lips shall breathe! Take back the gifts which late we gave, Scorch, and accept them not to thee,-- The gifts which come again to thee, But in God's eye; The gifts which, whilst thou dost stay, And though thou lingerest in his way, Shall help to thee. Thou art not of a vain pursuit, O serpent, not of cruelty; For what thou dost but spring from thence, And scatter thence Thy poisonous breath Upon the altar-flame that burns,-- Repenting its own life endures,-- Repenting its own life redeems, And gave it thee! If thou hast promised me, or if Thy pledge hath swore for me in vain, That firmly to the last I drew My portion still was sealed with thee; Yet, when to thee the victim died, I think it was to drink my draught, The draught, and spill it not again! I know thee weak, but I know thine, O evil, O unholy sin! Yet thine shall be thy solemn vow,-- I trust it is not wholly vain; Thy purity, thy awful self, Shall help to me, And I shall be thy cursed goal! We cannot share it; all are fain To chase it from this silent base; We cannot face it;--all the pain, And the remorse and curse of race, May see us not;-- But we may triumph! All the grace Which knowledge, pride, and valor gave To be gainsaid to be thy slave! My kingly days are lonely On the high precisions seen; My days are short and lovely, And life's cheating condition Leads me to the lowly cottage Where my father's dwelling stands; Each lowly cottage breathing Its own dear home and kind; Of meadows rich in nature's Wood-lands and with orange-trees, Shading from the outer gateway, Faint with blossoms' early blossoms, Sweet with new-sown sward and shawms,-- How can my face face remember The scenes that haunt its bosom? Fading on my steps from childhood I leave the better part, As at eve the sun comes over And sets not quite to art. The vines and flowers, the grasses and the sky, The birds that in the orchard pass and skim, Seem given to live in a life awry; The crows and gray wolves of the forest cry, And the hoarse-throated blackbird from the stream Folding his shaggy wings, around him fly. ======================================== SAMPLE 638 ======================================== from the dreary valley of earthly men, But on thy cradle slept the reed--the song, O gentle sir, did with soft sleep oppress thee, And lull thee to the lull of earthly rest. Then softly flew a gentle spirit from above-- Lovely was she who guarded thee in youth-- And mirth was in the woods. And when the dove Her silver plumes around thy pillow flings, And while the rose blooms perfumed flower-fringed, And yellow autumn sets the poppied snows, Her tears, flowing down thy cheek, steal o'er the mind The dark depths of her sorrow sunk with pain. But look again--beware--the blossom flies. Behold--the cloud hath closed above--the flowers Are fled--the trees are overgrown with moss, And on the mountains lie their empty bowers. Adieu--we mourn thy birth. God wills that we Should yet, through after ages, strain the wing Of flying seraph from earth's farthest range. All pass as they have flown, and ne'er again Seek heaven again. Yet are we ruined all, By God's own hand,--upon the mountain slope, Here on this hill once more--and on thy breast That harper wins the song; and spirits round Who tuned the lyre his own old fiddle made. Yet, though we wander here at night, 'tis time We come no more; the gleam of light above That earth hath gathered into all its parts Falls on thee, and on this pale ruined Earth And in its lap no murmur now remains. But sleep, my father! Thou art in thy grave The best beloved of all delights to-day; To-morrow comes, and on thy bed of death Bells thy dear name, and on the frosted air Leaves the gay spring to be. Morn, like a lark, might fly to the strand Where thy pale cheek is anchored; And, when the evening cloud has drenched the sky, The mountain streams have faded from the eye And all the musing world is withered. The dawning of my brother from the grave At night may yet surprise him; The spring-time e'en may bring a happier hour When the doomed one may take refuge. I pray--what cities have their lofty wall To be my sister's prison; But there is many a dreary northern dale And many a forest drear and drear Where, wild with toil, the ruthless insulting wave His weary limbs is bounding. But, if where'er thou dost thou find a shrine That may be called thy dwelling, Full many a pinnacle of lofty pride That might with joy be swelling; If on this spot where thou may'st watch above Thy brother's death and sorrow, To humble graves thy spirit still would be, And hallow'd thus thou would'st be. In her wan cheek the morning's dawn is stealing, The flowers in her dark locks hide their destiny; Her loveliest bowers have faded from her view; The birds are silent in her light canoe, And silent in her bosom she reposes; While the moon through the still night like slumber lies. The brook seems to fall into sleep with its flow, That rustles and murmurs its idle hum; But now at the hour when her waters sleep, She dreams of her home and her gentle home; And day and night to the moon-bright earth she brings A sadness of heart, as if love had winged it. The blossom falls, the blossom dies away, The bloom is withered and faded; And the bird that died in its notes of sorrow, Like a song that is sad on its death-bimbles longer, Is wasting away in a withered withered withered withered withered withered bough. The days, the nights, that they have flown, Are fading away with the dawn; Or, may be, the joyous morn That flutters the golden-winged morn, Is flying away with the hours of the May To summer-time on the meadowy way, And the dews of the evening are falling and falling, And the warm sky of the morn Is quivering with clouds till it meets the stars, And the wind, with the fresh dews of the morn, Is laden with sounds from the drowsy woods, And fain is the earth to their silent breast; For Spring is but ======================================== SAMPLE 639 ======================================== calls. First, the hair straight and swan-white; Then, with beak of the ant-bark gray, Kisses spangling his tail in play; Next, with white-spined hair inwrought; third, with bluebells, wild forest crowned; Last, with quivering limbs of the sea-horse feet; Last, with the throat's-breadth starred; last, with ears Caught from the moon to the muezzin's call, Through the half-whispered nets of sea-shells whirled. And thou, stupendous Phoebus, high advanced Amidst thy ministring peers, with eye Watching thy own wings, and thy limbs weighed down By winds and the sea-brink, which is one With man and the sea-captains in full sight, That neither the hoar-frosts nor the vault-hills raise, Nor thunder-clouds high-piled along the sky. Such was the likeness of the godlike Pan; The hoar-frost his sword and shield to wield, The long-spear's plume to the shield-eplume bears; The long curved spear-hitch with bloodshot haste Cleaves and embraves the forest-shades, and breaks In twain the buccaneering holm-trees o'er, And rakes the forest-boughs and crowns the heights. Nymphs of the sea-lip, and Naiads of the deep, And Bacchus, dry of the rifted spray, And Dian, by the hanging hills of Hyppé, And, hid, by the bowers of sacred night, In the dim caverns of the shadowy oak, Daughter of Jove, who in her airy spheres Hangs like a moonbeam rising in the blue, And by her side she is his queen, the snows Of bleak Messapus, and the Dryad loves, Sweet as the springs which feed among the plains Of Naiades lavished by the keen-eyed West, And blue Ægina with her murmurous waves, And by her changeful son Sesaræ's bark Swiftly purls foaming from the hoary main; And, small with blossoms, like a dam full-blown, Or like the changeful foam upon the tides, Her dazzling spray darts up in spars and bars; But under it Messapus sleeps in flowers, The lotus of the rifted wave, the hyacinth, The lotus; and beneath her breast the lotus. She sees a priest, and from beneath her head She springs, and in the trembling air delays. A holy thing, her holy eyes still bright, A shape of lovely youth, all grace of form, Great Patmos' image! Fearfully she stands, Her sunny locks beneath her feet she moves, And o'er the fruitage of her sunny hair Her virgin bosom heaves; her forehead nods, And in her eyes the pale moon's sidelong rays On polished cheeks, and on her shepherd's knees. Was it the wicked priests, who took her form To be the slave of violence and war, Or she the wanton boys, who lured her there In woodland revels to be overheard While from the tree-tops the low cheery swan Went forth to meet her master in the chase? It was the fair Almira's trick, to him Who sat beside her at the accustomed feast, And from her frame her beauty came, at length, And made her hard to know where it might be. First she put on a charm, and wiped her lips, And with a smiling face began to move, Saying, "He is mine enemy, and thou, My lord and master, rival of my love!" Then like the mighty seething of a cloud She swept away, and all her murmuring voice Was as the distant ocean to the shore; And with the golden-throbbing blush she seized The bending petals of her hair, and bare The priceless treasure of her golden wings. She vanished from her memory; yet there haunts Stem and pale cheeks, and lips without a word, The memory of what is, what is, and is, She there beside the dried-up desert sands, Beside the margin of the rapid Nile, That dips and slakes with silent trembling A thousand fathoms in the misty wave, And as the dawning falls upon the waves She floated ======================================== SAMPLE 640 ======================================== with its sombre interlaced; Thou shalt not look again on forms concealed, Nor with sombre fretting worn, gaze on the crowd; Each reptile fawn and all-destroying power Of these rude tribes, shall touch thee and convulse thy form; Each bird of prey and scrat and vulture rend; So shall thy meed be found on every hand, And woe be thine, on every hand thy wrath be met! Who never for thy Chian race shall own Their scowling glories, but shall not bestow The lofty grace of ages long foretold: For every land, for every lofty peak, Famed Hiren, boasting of a tyrant king, Shall there eclipse her in his hallowed form, And raze her brightness, as his chariot sings The mighty chariots of the east and west. The deluge shall be great, the thunder light The pathway through, that all unknown to thee, All kind invisible, till thou and I Shall fall, from off our firm foundations deep, And utterly sepulchre us round thy form Through terrors blind, and solemn thunders blare. But thou, some power from thy far Eden place Shall learn thy power, and round thy feet control Powers of everlasting woe to come, And clothe thy panting form with new-born brancks; That all the hoarse and rough barbarian horde, Long famished in the lion's bath of blood, Shall wrap thee round in sleep; and soon shall sound The awful thunder of thy awful name. Perchance the wave shall raise thee high in fame, Or wrap thee round in all immortal fire; Or oft in riches' still extremes, thy skill Shall dazzle, in the warlike blaze, the fleet, And shall extend to heaven their glorious light, And shake with rapture the confederate throng. Ah! then remember, still remember thou, When Heaven and Earth shall breathe each other's breath, When Earth and Heaven's eternal turrets lift Their arches to the Sun's meridian height, When angels, meeting in the affluence bright With shout and song, wing over earth and sea, And rush, with all their trumpets, to the quire Of free-born spirits, and their god-like choir. "Lo! yet again the withdrawing Powers return; Their spoils of conquest are the captive griev'd. No more the unvenged withholds the mighty price That Earth, for Woman's sake, has taken; Earth's ancient groves; and all that lovely prize Wherewith the Son of Heaven was dearer, grow The scattered flowers of old volcanoes, quench'd In fire, and drunk with multitudinous draught. Oh! let thy children (wild and wild as they!) Whose names are stamped with bloody memory, Begin to look on, pensive immitent, In faces brighter than the jewel saw, And leave a fairer raiment, night and day, Than where, o'er high, from ancient error reft, From the deep sources of enormous wrong Turns the steep flood-stream of eternal song! "O ye, who wander far from endless day To meet no more the searchlight's dazzled eye, No more from shore to shoreless sea shall stray And hear the realm-born clap of sovereignty, Whose latch is unlock'd, whose steps are lost as they! Long have ye pass'd o'er vale, o'er mount, and sea, Whose soul has entered into heaven as well, Since first Man's heart sprang up into his breast And leap'd again on Man. Such bonds we press'd, Such bonds as in our chains were link'd in prayer. "Thus long, through expectation of delight, And expectation of reward, we trod The paths of darkness; burdened with the weight Of future torment, straiten'd by the weight We stood prepared for; bent on schemes of peace, Ambition, ignorance, with foot on land, And soul on thought and on the things that were; And so to long, to long, to wish for these, And at the gates of bliss, we kept the door. "To our beloved fiend, whom but to hear, From the gross world the immortal bitterness That pass'd away--from hell itself to screen The hope that made the exile, the exile, The mystery and curse; and ever to bear In every heart a sainted unction; And in each soul a se repentant Sire ======================================== SAMPLE 641 ======================================== of being hated and seen; They set their tongues to the thing you must do, When there was a world there, and that was through. He'll think of the harvest that cheers his heart; The quickening blaze of the torch and the dart, The quickening sanguine, the cracking heat, The frothing of cattle as fierce as his feet; But the man that can hit it and make it the worst, Sees the fire die out, and he dies to the feast. O, lady, 'tis better to sit in your place And tickle the whim of a dog or a mouse Than flabber and grumble and cry good by mouse When any dog's curly as loud as a maw, Or venturous man on a foray can bawl; You would be hungry, and take a cold cheer Because you were doing your duty and trim, And some one had snatched out a look at your gem, But this I'll bet thanks to my soul and my face, And surely this woman's a scoundrel of place. Be cool, Miss Cat, your bottle is the bran, That almost quills the edge of language and The water has been freshened by your pen; Don't butt at the old book that they're in at last; I hate to get into it pretty fast. A pen! an Methaeus! By the Lord that made you, A pen I mean to spoil, as you have laid a Tongs on the inside, so they're bound to The inside leather that, when they're all laid on, Your wife may have a little bit of taste In the dry, gentle gracin' o' this waste. Did she pretend to marry, and just leave the line? Yes, or try hard to change it, or pass under The everlasting fusion that clothes her like wine! But that's the trouble of saying, "Fie on that paper! The penalty of binding!" O, no, it's better To be roughest in this world for just to hear That a pen's duty is the goats that break barley And find their rations in the market-place. They'd hit a man on the forehead With a brick and clay, They'd fool him till he grew dull And then he fell With a second blow. Did you suppose the matter, That he's the boss, Of the nation's people? No, it is no man's task To argue or contest, But what's the use of fencing And getting furious. Your logic and morality You may forgive, But a man doesn't scold When he gets a bit. You yourself and the other way Would be "heeded" so, If you'd be a man with a heart That no one knows Whether your words are rude Or the reason you hate him, And the cause you hate him. But tho' you can't abide it, And the reason don't, You will brag of your future, And brag of your "not." But this is no bad thing, So take a strong, So take yourself and reason And reason, And reason the dream Of the thunderer,-- Why, there's the riddle that Golf is all about O' the wide earth--and the only one that's better, Is that you're all right. It's also better, too, If you've lost your senses, the club's sure to sink As your sole--if your muscle--or your pelt-- And there's the grass with your boots and your wrist And your "shay" well out yonder, there's the sky All bright now; and--oh, then your flock are right, Yet it isn't that madness--it's much that I But it wasn't that-- But what do you think? No--no! if I'm a skunkard, With no more sense of whisky I'd better make you ruddle To your log-fire that jags At the sides of your log; And it's all right for you now If you're off the quiet You should go with me To your rest: if you live to win, You can bet that you'll find it true There'll be still a woman beside you Whose eyes you've not yet seen. And the other man's name I don't know As he once was, but when I've had whiskey and p'rhaps to go To a happier land, although I'm a Golfer--"d better make you go And kill ======================================== SAMPLE 642 ======================================== the broad horizon, and the Moon With lustre splendor fills the jigging air. As when to fisherman a net of fish Is cast, or by the winds unceasing seeks The eager shore, so here, with lifted oar, The Nereids hurl their anvils at the winds; Studded the sky with saffron, tipped with gold, And flashing like a comet, gliding on Through field and forest to the sea, the hunt, To whom the tireless ploughshare pours the corn Upon their winter coats of furrow'd proof, And woodland-pine with many a winding fold. Yon fiery steed is mightier than the rest, In splendid armour girt and armor dight. A cowering group the genial hours beguile; And kindly-cluster'd round the sire's retreats Leave traces of their footsteps on the grass; And, on the smooth back of the level mead, Are seen the shepherds breathing to the morn. See, where the vine its spiry branches rears! With look circumfluent, bending side by side, The vine, rejoicing in the fair young bride Whose locks beneath their clear brows rays preside. Here the rude crocuses wind, and here the dog, Heavy with perfume, haunts the lonely dale; Here patient oxen graze at noon, and here The vagrant archer doubts his perilous skill-- Here winds with giddiest joy the flowery mass. Himself--his sorrow--his presumption--comes Of skill to work his guile--of a sure guile-- In the fierce joyous wind he most survives. The flinty larch his naked limbs denies; High from the rocks the wood-deer shoots along; Here, from his sheltering roof, the thrush reply'd, With eyes of fire, the god propitious still, Yet warm and anxious; for a god of power On the stern front of Phlegethon stood there. Before the lightning of his shafts he stood, And brandish'd high his spear. To thee, my youth, Swift Iris comes; and hastens on thy flight To bless our home-returning sire from here. For this of late, in my still fated hour, My life was sacred to thy power, my birth, From thee I learn'd to conquer, to make pause, And guard thy chariot till thy offspring's day Shall feel an unregarded wrath.--To thee Be given my subjects, and from these shall learn From my own lips the lessons learned by men. In the dark strait, where heavy sleep opprest, My mother, goddess, or Minerva dwell, Lies ambushed close: nor less myself to thee Than thine is lost; nor canst thou leave me free To soar from danger, lest one dart once more The fair one close above my bosom, find. So Hermes thought; then roused the high desires, Chafed by her presence, with fresh ardour glows: Thine am I now, thy father's conscious soul, And for thy safe return--in death mine only joy. Jove's curse; alas, unrighteous! I have yet A life of sorrow and a death of tears For him whose guilt to me this age recalls. I will not yet behold him in the day Whereon my blood was purged. My last delight, When most I loved him, in those days of yore, My natal moment, when my father's arms Wrote bloody destiny, and saved my life. I had it at thy fond paternal care: Thy pleasure with me, and my care to lend That I might meet it, living by thy side. O thou, though living in that wondrous charge, Thyself shalt still enjoy thy double life. A vain belief! O recollected Power, Here know I sorrow; not the roll of fate, Or swift pursuit of sorrows. Nature's book, Wrote by the solitary creature here, With sacred tenderness of infant day, Beheld me never, while from out the night I first espied thee, ever since the gods Have fashion'd hither to all human gifts, An alien race, in the rude land of men. Forbid not! lavish of memorial days, Stript of their work, as wont, of son instead, Still did I feign the loss of what ye saw. But even the men might have a fortune hard In such a path, who can with thine inform Wh ======================================== SAMPLE 643 ======================================== The wicked doe, which boldly they obeie; O be that done, readie good and blince. Now may I see you, whom ye may discoursed be, Knowing your place of glory; in the speed Of the pure pleasures of celestiall Fame, You now must fall; at length doe answer me, Sith nought is past, and all are dead and gone; Yet may I see you happy, and not thinne. Look well, you'll see what pleasure it doth follow, What lasting blisse, deioyne of high and low, By your owne name, the meanest wretch of all, And the most madisht man, in all his woe. Sometimes in your owne prison-house I stray, In prison dark; some of the angels are with you, And there they sit in silence and to sing, For me your true love comes and dwells with me, And masters me with al his tyranny. If grief be ill, or care be ignorance, These prison walls there are but cruellize Of this life, I know not how, nor where, The scullie one, whom they can dauncely fill, Must be a melancholy posterall: So since it is not mine to tell you all, I will content them, for ye well do know, They will be well: for in them onely hope This onely is, and that hath long been train'd With men and beasts a captiall name: and I That do serve only that which is not thine, Must be a glory to the wisest booke. O, what sweet life upon those happy daies Is due, now I am dead! I have remember'd in olde time that I And all the ills and pees Of all this world, and all that workes to thee, Both sin and death, Or else be bless'd; And though the Gods doe make you of them, still Without them you must die. Full dearly ye must haue wonne, Till presently Your living life ye lye upon To dy redeeme: But myht thou dewe With thy lovely life: And hope for ever in thy heart, Whose doom shall none depart. At morrow from our blisses, At morrow from our loves, At morrow from our sighs, At morrow from our gyls, At morrow from our sighs, At morrow from our sighs, At morrow from our sighs, At morrow from our sighs, At morrow from our sighs, At morrow from our woes, At morrow from our glee, At morn, at eve, At sunny noon, At love's behest, At noon we rest: The fever stills, the plaints, the tears, The paines, the cares, That make our life seem blest: At eve we rest. At morrow from our toils, At snares, at seas, At ease, at work, at ease; At home, at ease. At work, at all ye need, At your desire; At all ye dainty fare; At euen, at ev'ry thing; At all ye sing; And drink, and laugh, and sing; And evermore Of things ye see, You ask for, and for aye. How shall I woo thee, heigh ho! How shall I woo thee, heigh ho! How shall I dine? How shall I tend thine? How shall I grace thee? How shall I dote, heigh ho! "How shall I dowrie?" will I wed thee, "Now neither wed thee, nor stave off, Nor take thee home, Nor meet thee home, Nor part nor limb from thee." "Now call you home, now, neerest John, For ye have wedded many a man: And if I tarry you to part, Will ye go hence, And never meet me, heigh ho!" "To-morrow the ship that is to be." "Why should I wed him, heigh ho! Why should I wed him, heigh ho! I have wedded many a man." "Why should I wed him, heigh ho! I have wedded many a man: And he hath wedded me for good, And to wedded me was hie." ======================================== SAMPLE 644 ======================================== together When, on the open-mouthed guns of the North, She bids the peaceful winter she must mourn, That her good ones be spared in such a scene. Her task of burial was ended here; And seeing you there, I know you must be dear. A soldier--warrior of the North American; For which his soul was desperate for the fray, Long as his comrade could not stoop to stay. So, in his time, fierce longing doth awake Within him, and all memories of the past Flash up within him, as the raging wave Hurleth a storming wind into his face. Of these pathetic is the fable In which he felt that it was badly sped. He could not speak--no tongue can ever say The things he could not do--yet even that Was badly done, which showed he was unloved. He fought the battle and he won the best That Fortune had allowed, and where it will He joined the wedge, they fought upon the crest. And now, of deeds sublime a part I tell you, He fought the battle and he won the day. At some lone foreign corner of New York, When daylight sinks, here, in the frosty night, I miss the comrade of a famous fight, And in the growing darkness linger well. A strong-starved friendship bore him, and he bade His word be true; and so it ebbed away, Till all those Southern memories swept the brain, And dimmed the memory of a life-time gray, And left the heart untroubled and the brain Unseeing, as the broken leaves of autumn, A first-born to the winter's festival, Had kindled in his fires the last lit up Upon the banner of his fame that broke. Some tender, kindly spirits must have found A home of rest in many, many a year; And yet, by slow and constant penance, they First touched that sweet and happy spirit's heart In that fell hour when youthful lovers part. Since then his spirit'mongst the new-born world Can build a shrine of holiness and peace, And give its message of deep-rooted Truth, To win some fair ideal for his release, Can teach some man to find he hath not known The joy that gathered, as the hours went by, The promise of a land where life is glad, And our to-day's beginnings never dim. Within this little inn, up near the mill, The lives of men are full as they have ever been; And unto them, athwart the early morn, The ever-smiling sunrise lifts her green And broad, and all the landscape crimsoning With crimson light through mists of rosy air. Now when the lights begin to fade away, All silent and neglected is the inn, And still, a dreaming stranger, in despair, Sits by the chimney-piece of yonder inn. Yet this--if some dear angel, tired with woe, Come from his lone sea-side, and bring his safe return, Should not too well, as other hearts have known, He kneels, and breathes a prayer for her alone. Now from the little inn a voice there speaks, And from its glimmering line another form there steals; And as when inland ships, at evening's close, Draw in great blocks of shadow, gaze in vain Upon that precious ship which Arno leaves, So in these songs, from throats of Moslem dead, The songs of Moslem brown, from Palestine, From old, from Palestine, from England's shore, -- Eracinate, high, holy, wonderful, Severed the alien souls of men before. Is this a time to count the songs that breathe, In that sad air, above the alien dead, Above the twilight that forever slips, The songs the famous fathers heard in sleep? This too is bold! But be it as it may, The songs, that children, dreaming, cannot sing! From many times in many places This song has come to me, The most marvellous songs of wisdom From many times in many lands; The most marvellous songs, The most marvellous songs of learning Have come from many lands. They are singing over the willow, The ever-silent waters, The singing bird sings over the willow, The beast is alive with the brute. O wind of the willow, Blow over the willow, Under the willow, Sea-foam and landward; Blow, blow, ======================================== SAMPLE 645 ======================================== ephans. And as they waited until the horn was blown And they drank all out of it till the light was gone, On the aged man they looked and their laughing eyes Were made glad because they had taken their rest In the outer darkness, and only saw the gleam Of light in the darkness even, till the wraith Tore from the hem of the vestibule, bound beneath His royal robes with cords of darkness. In Rome, Where Rome was the beginning, the martyred-souls Whom Rome had murdered, who with disaster found In the land of the Papal, fled in fear of Rome. They knew no guile was ever. The Master-born Grew long as the chieftains; for the bird of the sun Shuddered and hid in the oakwood. The meadow-flowers Stretched out more bloom far down to the foot of the stream And whitened white on their heads and bowed on their stems For their weariness, and still they bore upon their cheeks "Pray now, good sirs, if our path be lost to the swift Trojan warriors," cried they; "if we seek to keep Our feet fast-fleeing from the throng, we shall both Leave our homes and all folk, and be in haste to slay Our father in the war, who neither heeds nor cares." Thus they prayed in the heat of the battle and the cold Still, and only believed, and had much good hope Till the dawn of the day when Rome would conquer the world. Then they summoned their comrades and ordered them forth To the plains of the Tiber; but all men went on To flee from the woman who came with the dawn In her ears from Tiber, and then the men turned back To their prayers of eagerness and fear, for the man, Who had fled from the fight, had become a wandering And sought no shelter. No, indeed! 'T was the answer of God that came. When the first bird of morning cried "Alack, alack! Alack! alack, alack! and the day was coming on." But the third bird of morning cried "Alack, alack! For surely, if any man with the hosts of the slain Must fly, on the day when the trowel and sword Shall smite to the dust the ancestors' heritage!" So it came to pass, at dead of night, o'er the plain Where his comrades slept, the law-birds and the wild Shrieked with plaintive moan, and the night was shorn Of weapons. Lo, the Bridegroom, the fairest of all her daughters, Who watched to her side, moved quietly backward, And her eyes were sealed, and her tresses were gray, As she looked on the bride, with dilated arms, And all her lordly life was quivering in the air; "Thou hast slain me," she cried, "and I also shall come To the woodland homes of the Tiber. Thy voice, If it long been my death, is fainting and loud; Let me come in from the Tiber." Then the bridegroom cried, "Foul shame and shame! I would give thy body over My lordly lord and my man, and my blood shall flow O'er the sea-waves. I am bold. Were thy foes Worthy of me, how should a man set me down By the side of the Tiber? So should the stream Of the Tiber flood and the Tiber cease." And they heard, and saw, and knew, and knew, And knew, and shall ever was known. And the Bridegroom had faded, and died, and was flown, By the side of the sea, to the deep water's tone Where the waters flow. But the Son of God arose As from the waters a spirit turned to seek His home in the Fatherland. And he sat, And gazed out wildly. His form was of nought. Yet his eyes looked on death, and his body was laid Lowly there on the silt of the earth. His hair Clad on death and death was enwoven asunder. As a craggy mountain to cast up its base, So the sweet voice of the bridegroom still strove, And the fond lips of the bridegroom, overwrought By the half-dead love and the flattering hopes of a life. The veins ran wild, and his face was aflame With the love that he nursed in the hearts of a sire. And the ======================================== SAMPLE 646 ======================================== Dwelling in your gardens cool and green, Underneath the daisies and between The gray old oaks that guard your roadway, Where they grow like beans in stature great, As above them yonder tuft of snow, Stretch their boughs and toilantly renew Their pensive memories. Well I know it, then! you one of these Not inamples of some vigorous man Heeding us. You've spilt your coal first, Well I know the ugly charm you've seen; (And I've much to blame for what I've spun!) We are talking here, and now that's clean With work for which our old love made us wise, And others dare be schooled. Here's you. Well, this business; I was just made out For your fine fancy. So I do. Oh, We must think of some thousand years before You crossed the fields of wheat. A doubtful fate Gave you one weak chance to find a mate For a sweet girl or a husband? Never mind, My mind's a blank, and 'twere better to find One old man walking with the astral dawn, Than to grasp a pickle of his old lost gold. How they talk together, you and I All day long, and all night long, For a "paradoxso," and idle sigh, "I will dress my garden for the Spring." Why does the city set her feet Upon a terraced flower-bed, And the odorous- spicy Woodhouse greet With a lilt of rain and power? Well, this wanderer may forget All that the green-wood Winter dealt With a little flutter of Spring feet, Or a Heart's Desire, or a Wanting Want. One Spring to me a merry Morn, And the sober Summer lies In a sweet forget-me-not, and strewn With scented palm and snowy horn And a brook that never sighs. Sorrowful is your voice, Yet I often think you bring A much-loved Word some Morn To comfort you. For I often think you carry The sweet words back with such a little Most unchildlike, childish fancy. Come to me; will you listen to me? Will you ever come to me? In the reeds, which last an hour Is as sweet as when they're past, You will catch, at half-past ten, From the slight and far-off twang The still small voice, the fitful wail, And the small quick feet, who go Singing in the grass below. I would not have you pass me by With such a sudden patter Of manifold and sweet an eye That I would not have fleeted, If a little while you'd listen! Only three or four birds nestle In that green and narrow tree; There's a May-child out of tune That will flutter from me. All the white birds flit and cry For the gift that comes with April Till the night has lost its terme And the days are dim and misty. But what bird can answer flitting, What bird sing "The Lily?" All the birds that come to sing Are in my lady's singing, And the spirit of my spring Is busy with her wing. "Say! and shall a maiden sing?" No moon-rayed poet standing Between the black boughs pauses, Above which red cuckoos nesting, Where the great pines sigh, With my shy bird how wondering! I love to see the Little Folk With blissful madness vocal And amorous words, and calling The salt air of their flying. For every fairy gleam I send the brightest glow And sparkles of an ecstasy And heaven's bliss--but oh! To the Little Folk I pray, Whose wavy locks, together, With white or brown together Are dancing, In cobweb-weeds and a wreath Of misty flowers, that glisten With moon-white dew their tresses, And in their lairs together The wild birds fly a-sunning. The incense of those singing Is wafted o'er the wind As a wreath of smoke ascending In summer beauty unconfined, Leaves singing, 'Twixt the rose and purple heather. I sigh, like some lone finch, Whose darkness sits and croons In some bleak, heaving of its coppice, ======================================== SAMPLE 647 ======================================== Nile! Jeapes-of-Shan! On some heat-tired shore! Think, if Jeapes-of-Cat 'Mongst the rocks at her feet 'T would be sweet to be there. Thus, young Hermione 'Mongst the jays and the crags, 'T were happier to meet In yon jagged beach. There, safe from pursuit 'Mongst the reefs and the rocks, From his flounders the brute Comes to swim. Through the reefs with his voice Still can Roussky convey A bride to his home. When nightingales warble Their ripples to the moon; And when the misty steers Flutter on the leaden steers, He comes with a bride. Oh, why should we mingle A briny crew with you? And why but smile on you Their smiles, your song, to woo? They're fair, but not alarming; They're old, but not alarming. Oh, why should we grumble As old as the snouted you! They're just for true wedding In a briny way, by you! Oh, why should we grumble As old as the snouted you! And where are your roses When the worthy posy's done? Oh, where's your lilies, The primrose's last fav'rite hue? But here are the roses When some ages shall o'ercome Their sweetness, and save them In that odor no more bloom; For the bosom that still yearns For the partridge, the plump rose, The gleaming trumpet and throstle, Are wreaths for the vict'ry's brow, Where are all those lilies that now Clothe the death-bed of Nio. Oh, lost was that hapless lover, And lost for ever is he! But the passion's pride, and the passion's despair, These madd'ning roses mingle, That pink of the white rose, and this amethyst sky, And this was the rose-decked lover, That the lily's stem so fair. O, lost was he, and found on the hill, Fast by the granite fountain, Murmuring there in the midnight cold, And sighing, 'neath the billow. Back through the years he came to the brine, But serving his offering had been vain; When of his voyage 'twas told he was o'er, And the vessel was cut by the Jack o'er, And he never beheld the billow Dark under the midnight sky; Something 'twas said 'twas by me, that when He was softened and learnt to it, It all seemed as if the white rose and the red Had been hardened to the spot. Yes, he was a man of his own!-- Though to be known was to be near With other ships on the water, no ship From the land which he called could compare, Nor this world of Finaleas, That ancient ship, nor the old, nor the young, And the mighty Finaleas! One night in the dew, as my brush One night on the grass came to wash, I had two-times a-swishing past, That the same clock you now may have to wear shorter, I would watch the young child call To leap the small branch and the tall Some day, as it grows on the tall Some night, as it grows on the tall Some night, as it grows on the tall some time Some time, while the other sap is full, In the bosom of the great ship tall Some night, when you wait, I will sing, Though my priest continue to bring A score of times now, and my dole Usury gives a burst foam to: Some night, if the things got the style, They were saving for nothing but GILL, Though my book's not so grand to be merry But my work is so neat and new That I hear him tell once o'er the ear Such tales as we canters away Each night to the house at the top of a tree, That rustle and sparkle as though They were under the stars, and there hung A large fagot a-gooming, which now and then A wind bends the branches as now it looks down, And upon the stony eaves stands athwart A solitary and laden babe That was bent on walking in and out of the room But that it frightened her more ======================================== SAMPLE 648 ======================================== had darkened Their heads, not though their garments were allayed. Now let thy tent-door boldly lodge upon The matron, who in her white robe concealed Tells of the suitors, whose exploits Make maidens-maids ashamed to mount on foot. Thy musings he abandoned, nor would speak His thoughts the while. But Ate aloud Spake, for she knew his voice, 'I also know The ruin of thy love, and dared not touch A thingamy foot, in the sea-haunts, as one Murdered a son's bed: like the unhappy bride My very evil he, and I his wife, And I would plague her with the foreign dame. 'Tis not for sin, but shame, or impious love, Which, from a union, is dissolved, As love has flamed. Of witness visage, tell How that I love her not, nor yet have sinned. Arimathe will wash her hands and face, And lighten love and strengthen all its race. Love is not strong to crush, nor stones at all To make of loathing; and our righteous love Burns out before its slow and sadly dying. Love is not strong To rend or drive, or thrust apart, nor haste Nor from her toiling. Stronger love may slip And shame and sin, through being known in hell. Love is not strong To waste or take away, nor burn itself With its own fires; nor flame, nor spark of hers More fit to burn a little, less desire And sacrifice of things with her to burn And lead her captive to her own desire. Is love more weak Than mine? What if the strong desire which springs From strength be doubled to delight, and feel More strong within, my very feet are tuned To step along her path through all the stars, My very eyes, the ear of men to wheels, A whirling flaming whirl, and every breath That tongue accomplished is a seed of flame: For there is in it nothing wholly mine Nor the sole comfort, but the idolatry, The faith of which is she, or Christ, or He, Or glory. She stood full front, With lips apart, on either side his face Lifted, and there against her breast, his voice The bird of passage bore. At left a space Was drawn to earth; he was not, save because Thine arms had made it strong to burst asunder, But because they were strong he touched them now; For all his heart held something of him there Unspeakable, but pain itself did make His brows unsteadily great. Like the Jew wou'd an eagle. All his thought Leapt on him, made a bloodlike flame of it, Which some one doth devour. Yet once I know he fell not. The high thoughts bred long Were fierce for him to me. I know the high, But grave for him this wisdom: for, indeed, The awful lifting of the bow, though shed On earth at birth, when life and blood are life, Is the remembrance of a thing pursued, But with its wasting, strangling, straining string. There is no better in the world to know The world through all its sin and its distress, Than that its course is evermore the same, And its remaining powers will still keep pace Behind its forward going; if perchance Some day a snatch of light from thence should find Even the dungeon-hills, whereby a lifon Abides and waits for its appointed time, That none may hinder it or ever win. From these I would some lordly son instead Arose and fell. I would not thus depart. I am your son, and you, my child, your child, The chase, the glory of the world, if these Could bring me one more son. Nor yet, God knows, These things were not; the spiritual world, And he the secret of the temporal sphere, Have found their fitting roots andgrown-up fount Within this place, beneath its central spring, Within this place may rest my soul. This was the purposed end, The direful issue of our childish dreams, That thus must never be, and this must be. A sullen wonder, unshed, that, hot to night, Hid from the brine their tangled life up-leant, Hid from his patient eyes, it hot enthroned. Then I, to feel myself caught up in such Strange fury ======================================== SAMPLE 649 ======================================== for salted so, By that wind from out the sea When this one fell he lay. And it wasn't his dam, Or her, the man that lay, The grass it was. He'd ground it, piled it, And he heaped it on a mound With the shingle and the mound Just where the shingle brimmed Now come you off, you limb Here at the fork! You limb, Git back, stand on and swim, An' nen let's shoot your leaf Pore as the crook. But, lad, they take you up ('Twas cheap I think that licked you!) From their knoll back of your socks, An' cry: "There's help! What did yer mean, He took the leap, an' crossed the sea Back with the fog an' star." bucklered with the east wind. And down the face of it he slung The back with his hands bloody-red, But when he saw her, straightway he said: "Dey caught me in a nett; This is the thing I got,-- A grave." With one hand crumpled up his sleeve. "A braver man than yours is won," said I, "Before his naigs can see, Than him who marches up the sky,-- A braver man is me." He shook his head, no more, But pointed out to me, And gave a twitch of his strong coat, In answer to the kiss Her kiss had given, when her lips grew cold, And she breathed faint and slow. But when I took her thin hand to the side, She raised her small and white hand palely and wide, And then I kissed her. Thy cruel hands are tied in a blue cord, Thy cruel lips are bondaged with thine heart; For one white moment of my rage thou shalt give Them, one white moment of my fury's art. My life has grown to bitterness. Mine eyes Had once the tear of a wild, passionate tide Of passionate passion. Yea, the iron key That kept the veins of my breasts to be tied To earth! Once, once it seemed, this pulses grew In a mad torture of desire: that the God Who smites with a serpent's touch on my brow Might give me higher hell to do it now. The serpent did his work: the serpent did: And as the serpent shot it, to the grave Where Apollo's breath went up to fan the curl Of my hot forehead, so the serpent did. My forehead scarce was reached, but just beneath, My arms--that instant--flinging like a bowl Across my breast, as though they sought to swoon-- All lost their freshness. Ah! Heaven! I never can resume My weary, long adored by man; Ashes of burnt burnt and tumbling lint, Burns of pale death and tarnished lust. I long I had, A certain fate to share, But the branches and the worms that slid From that red place Are bitter and dark. But they brought Their butterfly golden wings Back to the mud I stooped from to see; But oh, the walls of fire, the roofs of three! My passionate heart in me with a passion hot Runs blacker than the depth of a dark sea. The ruddy sun on smitten clouds drops down On pale new lawns in the dusk to drown. And to my sorrow and anguish day by day A strange, far phantom flits away. Yet still the old trees stand and whisper as they scan, As if some unknown or unseen sign Had made their small limbs clutch the wide sky bars, As though, with a strange meaning, that august Waved in their petals softly, slow and clear, I might still find some likeness of a man, And know again that they are with him here. And once I thought that I had found again Some one who had found again this new Unfolded beauty, a new flower--the tool To move right on upon it to and fro, Who had learned love and was as fond and free As they; and all the listening earth has filled To such a kind word as I've heard always. To find, then, that I could not be still! And so, the leaves of my love have thrilled The quiet air, the river-springs of song, And like the music of a voice that sings New melodies to youth and love long time ======================================== SAMPLE 650 ======================================== as might I slay mankind. If you have pity on my age, Let me, more kindly than they can, Rest, for their coming, heretofore, Wherein they are who would their mind Encumber and allure. O thoughts that fill the heart with joy, Like a first-sea upon the shore, If you would know my age is past, Here in your own native country fast-- When, by two nights, week after week, I 've lived by day and week by week, Ye may not think me dead, but hear How still I am, in other sphere, The hand of fate on minister, The care of heaven, his angel care, And that good angel, "Babir" Care, And he who never earthly bliss Shall have the longer to kiss My soul, till heaven be clear. By the good old Power which blunders In its own true light and shade, Binding the hours of sunny morning To a balmy breeze and the dews of morn, Methinks you will find no land in which Sorrow is wont to softly flow; Yet, fulfilling it, all clean and bright, Gladness and holiness untie the hand Of the Maker, mighty, infinite, Blessing all hearts with grace to bear The burden of this loving pair. Yes, your high honour, high and holy, Dame most unwarmed, most nobly doing, Can make a title more sublime Than ever bard of David crost With laureled brow and eyes of light, And saintly harp of Judah lute Had left its richer music mute, Than your the works of man. For poet, poet, painter, preacher, I am in truth the types you give, And when your heart takes fire, and taketh A mortal course to heaven, Will draw from you the soul of your poem As a breath from heaven. The most sublime of its beautiful charm Is that of all poets gone who knew not it; For it is old, it was built in a rock Hollow and silent, and life must be bleak, But the life of the muse, where the wild rocks will ring, Shall pass away like a dream from the heart of the string. For after death, because it was not! A friend it was to his people dear, The pastor whose soul and his being were troubled, He sought for himself, the glorious creature, And lived, as is meet, at the hand of the grave. Now, henceforth, no more shall our feelings be blighted; Your flowers of love, and your beauties of delight Shall bloom no more! no, no! the lilies of faith Shall brighten forever, and never fade! He lives, and is near to the bosom that grieved him; The cypress is blooming, the laurel has bowers, The jackboots are greening, the cypress is greening, Let them bloom to the light of the new-fallen hours. Or be torn by worms from the mountain and waste Like the gourd and the rose in the fields by the waste; For the friends you embrace, in the sorrows they parted, One blighted the sun and the wild blasts are broken; They sank and were swallowed, the death-breath was blanked On the heart of the land where no hope should abide. The whole round earth--the full moon and the stars-- The will of the sea and the power of the breeze-- Are one with themselves and the tale of the sea-- And the sound of the timbrel is mingled with these, For the light of the moon and the course of the tide Is echoed by every abroad from afar-- As the stars, when they near it emerge to the star, When under the zone of the zone of the sky, When under the zone of the zone of the sky, When under the zone of the sky, The soul of the skies is made visible, They shine and are fade as they fade on the sight, The lilies of love may shine out of the light, And the rose that blooms on the tree of delight May fade as they near it or nearer it grow, And the lilies that bloom in the waste of the sea May fade as they near it or nearer it grow. In the lone waste places, by sterile sands, Where the wintry tempests beat and blow, In the bays where the ruin-lilies grow, Where the foam-flowers lift and glisten ======================================== SAMPLE 651 ======================================== In every yard on skips. A Landino neam in plebian gulfs, Folks never lien at landing, He has sopped friends with pockets deep And sent them boasting greetings. He sits in Helston chambers cold And pricks along the carpet, Thinking of bees and men that go, And shakes his father's shambling And fortunes in the city. The labourers moor the glowing streets And pile up what is dankly, And though their neighbour's dog and cat May fatten on their peals, At least they'll think of hasting me, For do we feel so frightened, So o'er to resist his ire Our suds shall all go charly. Perhaps we've tramped the belted Thames, And watched the mighty river, And thought upon the fisher's homes, And thought upon the shingle. And last week's rains had wet the rime That had dulled his flowing dairy, Though he hoped the Thames would meet his eye As too triumphant should be. What gusts within his shoes would rise And howl through yonder shavings, What pains he finds upon the line That once had belted daddies. The scene was changed--the paths are new; They led us to the river, I wondered where he had obtained The trace of tenants merely: For these had sweetly veiled his eyes And showed him many tokens Of savage beast and savage kind That no thought can shadow, And did in the endiel fashionings Of strange or foreign fashionings, And by an unknown fashionings At once and ever faster, They joined to show throughout the land Their feelings of departure. I was told the country once that he Was meeting with his patron, In the days that are to come he knew What makes a fellow happy. But in my mind he seems to be As simply human nature, And--for his worship seems to be-- Like a Red-Beecgranate creature. He moved about and seemed to speak, And I forgot the notion That somewhere near this spot he'd sit And live for his creation. Yet, as he only said it, he Seemed rather lonely, lonely. But time his letters always brings To life and conversation, And if he takes his chance with things That leave no trace behind it, 'Tis likely his annuity Shall be forgotten duly. And still the more I'm anxious To know his name and nation, And not to make this matter yonder, For he is still my brother. He almost broke his necktie With a Scotch county's glory; For I knew he'd rather shake His neck with loud defiance, And sue for his paternal ear In terms of chivalry and gear; And have been flung by passion Or by luxurious fancy, If drinking deep of mirth and glee Or feasting in the city. The dinner-horn was raised and rightly laid, Anon there came forth Love's magnanimous cry-- (I knew his gaze, but nought the more did buy, I saw his eyes, but nought did buy, I knew his looks, but nought did buy, And still did buy, and still did buy, And still did buy, and still did buy, And still did buy, and still did buy, And still did buy, and still did buy, And still did buy, and still did buy, And still did buy, and still did buy, And still did buy, and still did buy, And still did buy, and still did buy, And still did buy, and still did buy, And still did buy, and still did buy, And still did buy, and still did buy, And still did buy, and still did buy, And still did buy, and still did buy, And still did buy, and still did buy, And still did buy, and still did buy, And still did buy, and still did buy, And still did buy, and still did buy, And still did buy, and still did buy, And still did buy, and still did buy, And still did buy, and still did buy, And still did buy, and still did buy, And still did buy, and still did buy, And still did buy, and still did buy, And still did buy, and still did buy, And still did buy, and still did buy, And still did buy, and still did buy, And still did buy, and still did buy, And ======================================== SAMPLE 652 ======================================== , With so much peace. Where hope is none so sure That this our common sorrow should increase, As in the hand of some men; nor that noise, Nor the snow's ravenous noise, shall our calm please, If the calm careless summer should not ease Ail us, sweet months! 'Tis Summer; and to him who woos the strings Of his obstreperous fancy, beauty brings A sense of sweet content: the scanty crumb, From which frail joys look up to godlike day, Is moistened by the sweat of his rough rhyme. And he is eloquent in soft address, With glorious earnest, worthy of the Nine, And more than ever full of fire divine, Flashing abroad the sweetness of the Nine. For some are happy when the sun is low, And joys around are echoing, like a lyre; And if their daily ills with more contentment grow, At length they do agree, with fruit to spare, And with the scythe to re-create their tuneful cheer. For humankind, as wisest men may say, Goes far away, and far from what men are. Now, therefore, since I have enjoined on Fate Your great example, with me here attend And do the honours due to my great State, And make the terms of Parliament so short, That men may say they never decry my fate. What sighs and vows, what tears, what hallow'd tears Can fill that great and universal store Of goods, and joys, that poverty and fears May wear as dross within as mitre's ears! "What need I tell thee, prince?" the hoary king Presents this answer to a sage untaught, Who, wise, and valiant, under every sun Welcome alike,--"Your wars are past, your hopes are brought Upon the wings of thought, your despot kings (Wise is the voice, that followed foremost sings) With armies great how few possess the world, And help to build more worthy Kings; yet, since Your wars are past and done, let your wise men Kiss hands and hands, the country is your home, And why, and where it was; since I demand And bring you from the host, the gloomy day, How Alban, succoured to the Huns, is reared In wanton pride and fertile ignorance." "Athens, first conquered, did an augur bear Two swords, and Dusi and their cavaliers, And well might double that, which, if they chose, Should be discomfited in Charles's court." "That which the best of knighthood feigns was brave Will more atone thee, than when stroke on stroke Of any stroke fell from above; not thus Was it, before the prowess of the sword Taken, that Teuton camp should forge anew." Thus Durendal, and thus King Sorrent said, "Great Prince, this little field doth much appear For thee, for promise of deliverance From hostile king; lest, future, I misdoubt Our king and kingdom to overthrow." "By all our deeds," replied the warlike king, "That man be able to do battle's deeds And triumphs, though but trifling with the means; Since light such light doth never, since I see It fits not in the sky to shine like eyes, I will maintain, though blunt such edges keen, So blunt, so blunt that not one drop of blood Will leave the blade unsightly, for itself, To be cut off at pleasure of the sun. "That man is surely doomed the chief to bear, That in the deep hold of his continent Inherit men, in honor of the age; Nor suffered it, I wot, one holt or two Of his, to hold the diamond in his hand. For here the realm was taken by his foes, Thither by some importunate command; Yet would not such a conqueror hold his reign I will maintain. "The foreign realm is vowed to render back The hand he took, or e'er avenged his war; And so much injured, at first least, to men, That not one ray of sunshine gilds the field, Where through ten thousand neighbouring nations falls The father's self-love, fame, and exultation, That soars and shines, not like the quenchless flame Of flickering sun. If still, as erst thou said'st, Love and expect pre-eminence of glory, ======================================== SAMPLE 653 ======================================== of an oath for the King. Staggering away from my couch the brave Queen To her chamber returned, but she left me Not quiet, for I knew that she never Listened to me but said, 'Come you now, sir, Or ever you be betrothed, as was I You once are betrothed, and I will be sworn.'" I waited for her, but she never waked, Though she whispered to me, 'Take your bread, Have your wine, sir, before you dash on A three-barred dwelling for the Queen.' But I never leaped, for she came not. Asleep, she lay in her hands, and knelt, And saw the door of the bed was wide, And I waited, 'Take your bread, sir, take your wine.' And she lifted a sleeve of her weeping, And turned away, and as she went She went the way the Queen had shown her, But we knew the sun had ridden down, And had met alone, but we knew not One had left a single month's May, And I found the door not once again. I waited for the King, but he came not. Yet I knew the old King had he not, The fresh-gained King, who said he must Out of my old days pass utterly And will never come again, or I Have my cup no day till mine shall fall At the coming of the bitter North.' She sank at once to her broidery, And the sun-dried King slid hastily Into the cool of the sleeping court, And the moon came out of the western cloud. I sat in the royal porch, and heard The sweet low cry of bats in the eaves, And the sparkle of a horse's hoof On the gravel stones, and the stir of leaves, And the flutter of the young lambs' feet. And the gentle King and the maidens walked Their old crunches in the shadowed hall, And I wept like a weary prince. And then, with a twinkle of golden swords, A breathless messenger, came flying, And he cried aloud, 'The King has spoken. Horse, raggard swine, in the valley bide, And give us back the King!' And our rags Wept away in the midst of the shouting. I waited, and saw the Queen's mother lay Huddled in her chamber; and outside Rustled a soft black feather of fire. But when I had done it, a pain-like word Came drawing to me from the place in the hall, But the pain was painless, and there I lay As a broken warrior on a bed. Then there came a King, and his face grew bright, And I trembled, for my heart burned new, That the King had taken my heart from me, And I sat and waited, till the King Had become my lord, my brothers, all; Then the moon came out of the silver cloud, And the sky came over me, and I saw That my brother was dead, and my brother dead; And I cried, for my brother's sake, he was dead. Then you would have knelt, but I knelt in the chair Of my little brother, and your words fell strait Like a baby's pain: but I saw a face Twinkling, and you could see it, and heard My broken life shrink out from the air. That day was a feast to the venturous sprite, And our brother was wounded; and, all day, I made the song of the maddening feast For a larger piece of meat and wine. The cloth was spread on the tables, and we Stood on the tables, beckoned them back, And longed for the bloody banquet, and yet We saw the smoke of it; and a day Seemed to us a faint shuddering ghost, That was oftenest a man. At the first dawn, A hundred-flamed, wide-limbed, brown-eyed, sweet, With the beard of a dam, and the twisted hair Of a dragon-fly; then I saw a face, Wreathed in ghostly beauty, and, all these gazing, A tongue rose all that shouted and looked; I knelt there, for the feast had been a dream. Then the moon came up, and she bowed her head, And my eyes swam: and the merry dance Of the board was merry as larkspurs and shadows. I was there, and I saw the ======================================== SAMPLE 654 ======================================== en muy el muy deyre venus, O marinhop peregyde dentro defende. Como en fonte leur oberon de saliante pugne, y en alegre y aire pendeu de famos. Cf. Boniface apare por chupaile, chapete, chrafte, chaste serenaile, y wympese; y difare, sacerdandelion, y cecilla y riscaiente; y dolce éx popo cantatia, y abominaciones bella, y connoontate y serena, y chambre, y porchace, y duetes, y aprochen de paiers, y allada di Tala fuera, y ansiestro da la divina de forma. Mira siempre un española nube, yo mirar no te encontrar, yo vil y brille, ey malgraní falso dellosa, y por los son las alas! y digna, y piensa, y piensa española, y porque es parientes se pura, y e los son maravir y llegada y en la albor primero, y de leto y de la mar amarga y lo eres a cariño verde se apaga, y ha de ser vida, y otras molles se atrevu y aunque en mi dolor, y la dama que á solitario y deshuegjos, y en glycer, y de un maravilla las flores y las iras. o está serpú, y ritá las dolores y antes nove y día, y la mue gemido y llorar los ruiseñores, y, caelier y fuera, y aunque te llano y puertas están en Castilla y con sobria fiero, y ha de hielo y sus doncellas, y fuerte ascolto y muros y cegará. Cuando ti llegue á la hermosa ayer por el otoño se detiene y arrebatan mis ojos la chapelle, y se languidellas de su oprobio y penar y sus sencillos, y podrées, y casta nuestra antiguo en frondicí, y que lo quiero El corazón de su planta obscura, y que este pecho y asolce el triste invierno, y bella abierta de su daño mí. Cuando noche el conde la admirer, y se encubre el dueño aire, y se ponas que sobre asolación, y la iniquidad el murio y su furor. Cañas por recuerdos, niestra está abierta de un oí, hace el corazón con la regia nove, se cuanto entre frescura y, se no tengo y te escribir. Pues quien es y casta las wincullas quien y el morero arrancado y aun hay que en tu cedros pasado, y el muchco de tu planta precioso. Y á llegue á tu compañera, y flores y le tempestadora, y la llorará con los llamas claros y el día traspas por la mano dió, y la rindieron la deja cifra de opa y si la fuerza por clara yerto, y se llamante en su daño mí. Pues oculto tú, y es la ciudad tu espantado, y con los raros quieros... y la tu brial el corazón imagen y la qual puede de tu fuego en su daño y el claro de la tierra, y la movimiento y sus dejas y mil bordioso le veneraba. ¡Ay, si venía! ======================================== SAMPLE 655 ======================================== And we are poor For nothing but the world from Him who knows Till earth be trampled by the potter's hand He knows that it is best for him to read And linger over--how He shall forget This world, this stir and noise, this beaten road Which lies so thick Whistles before us in the sun's broad rays; But most who creep Past their walls with little footsteps heed That wonder if they find the treasure hid. What if we saw what shall be and have seen That was a blackness born of waters wide Where countless waters brought from different springs A sudden strange new life--a gurgling tide Fled ever back that should have steered her on. Is this the peace of God's deep over-brimmed world Where thunder hath not lanced, except it break In majesty and strength, as at a breath A moon may wake behind a cloudless moon And find its own and have one gift alone? Is this a peace that only the strong wind knows? Is this the peace that in a trembling world The sons of Greece bring forth, until again We shall call up the wind and find again The heart and hold the soul of clear-eyed Truth Rocked in their cave. This shall be song, and death, And not a song. No song? No word--no word Which ever shall have strength to hold the spirit From all the world, till in that sacred way We fain would hear it sung to rise--too high For earth, or reach God's heart, and to endure The weariness of plain man's second life As perish the devout ear of prayer The soul that asks the Truth she neither hears Nor hath nor sees nor knows. For He who runs With feet as to the shrine is strong to walk, And has one foot in all the ways of faith; Who falls as falls not falls as soon as he falls Or falls ere nightfall, for the light of heaven Gleams up unshaken as the great sun shines Furling the world. If we could bear, And walk therein with truth for each alone, If something ultimate, celestial, From life's mad tumult, would recall the words Called from the lips of speechless joy--be come Into the gladness of deep nature's work, Eternal as the life of God. And that were not; the knowledge which is power Is mightier than the task, or what is power Leads us, or what is power. And so to walk The long o'watched life, the mighty, great, But different, we may miss, and all alike We are more exquisitely possess'd Than these. For so it seems These often are as those who falter all. Beside this dim and inviolable sky That stretches like a web of cloud athwart The unfathomable depths of unindefaced space, Now where the Night broods, glimmering o'er with stars Like some old city of a vanished time, He hath watched for in the deep Strange midnight, many times That, one by one, Shone on the vague immeasurable depths of space That stretch'd into the abyss of chaos. Beneath his feet He hath opened over the abyss of space A universe that has seen pain And joy and beauty live again, Its own self-shadow and its hover'd doom, Its own self-shadow of delight That wanders weaving Night's weave- webs and spun Around her web of light. For she is fair, And throned in purest lustre of the skies, And twin-born with the Night. For she is born Of high imaginings; her form, from birth To every little breathing of the earth By throbbing throbbing breasts of earth, Is globed for blessing or for curse of death. For she is maid indeed, And flower-wrought with perfect loveliness, Of love, whose loveliness is unconfined By anguish or the din of jealous strife, And rapt in gliding state Of pleasure, that doth crown her head so fair As deathless spirits of the grand old Night, Who, drowsed and full of light, Still crowns herself with the light-hearted Past, Through which her wreath of roses is unrolled To him, and, brilliant as the northern dawn, With which she doth outstrip In all her grand proportions; but, her shape, Wondrous and keen as steel, a something vague And unsubstantial; yet full-blown, and fair, And ======================================== SAMPLE 656 ======================================== o and the other Greeks Such was their speech; when to the Grecian camp The suitors all impatient leave their tents, Leaving the soil, their broders, and their shields, And their smooth-shaven garments, and their shields; So 'mid the galleys on the plain they flew; Nor rested long, but all night long expired. They ran away from man to man, but first Left each his well-filled goblets, and the bowl Chewed with the maidens, and ofttimes in the dust Lay sunk, o'erwhelmed with a cup's empty goblet. Meantime the suitors from the ships were dragged Aslant, and nothing had been left to bear. On the cold ground at length the spoils they gave, And with the morsels by the Greeks consumed, Now on the topmost boughs the armour hung Of valiant Diomed, the hearts of all. Well liked the Myrmidons Patroclus slain, But loathed them all the fleet, whose haughty joy Left every Trojan. From a rugged point Beside a brimming turret in the midst Of sandy Pylus lay, a bleak hill's side, Which hard and rugged grew, the rugged top Of Parnos, that in earlier days had frowned And chok'd the trees which with its roots were reared. Here, had the ships been sheltered from the storm Of adverse winds, each in its place, but soon A storm arose; then nigh the ships was fallen Of some vast multitude, or fled away The breath of waves upon the sable waste Of Thebes. Then with impatient steps the Greeks Forth thrust the spoils, nor could their steeds return By the unplied chariot; but Achilles flew To reach the fleet, and from before them drove The flying Trojans, whom Achilles chased Asius, and Stichius, and Antilochus, Asius, and Deipyrus, by turns. As when two skilful grinders on the ear Of some great heifer, or as many sheep That, with a stroke astound, the woodmen seize; So with swift feet Achilles at his head Fell prone, and o'er his shoulders his long lance Trojans and Menelaus gory death Shunn'd them; then Troy he bade to heel with joy. The Trojans, and their slain, on th' other side, He at their head, like lions, rush'd again. As some fierce lion whom the wood hath caught, Cuts to his prey some young of sable hue; While his broad tusk the foremost he hath pierced, But never harm'd him, with the dreadful spear Driv'n in his hand, with eager leap he gasps, So he in dazzling brass himself receiv'd. On his broad shoulders Hero chaf'd the youth, And where right on the neck the breast-bone dash'd Fell not, but onwards smote the charioteer. Next, Hector with the lance of golden casque Smote him, but right against the shield it pass'd; On his broad shoulders not yet dar'd to pluck The reins, but galling with both loosen'd zone Back to his chariot Hector rush'd; nor found The royal charioteer, for vigour thrown, His knees relax'd, and stumbling on his face, Trojans and Greeks alike lay prostrate there. Him Hector, marking, bound beneath his neck His gleaming falchion, which the foe had 'scap'd, But broke by nimble foot the car in vain, And through the never-resting helm withdrew. He fell afoot and prostrate on the dust, The charioteer by Menelaus slain. But when he had around him closed the strife, The startled Grecians thus bespoke their chief: "Now from the combat, Ajax, swift of foot! Turn we to flight, and from the bloody fray Pursue the course, and to the ships retire." Whom answer'd valiant Diomede, the son Of Telamon, "Thy words are madness vain: No deeds of arms, no words of Trojan hand, Can crush the heart with galling shame, to daunt Our feeble feeble feeble frame: our food Is not for war: we are not brave in arms, But in the wisdom of the wise of Jove. Pronounce the fight, and glut our souls with blood. But when the fight ======================================== SAMPLE 657 ======================================== leav'd in quivering shadow, And of his precious ornaments a meer; As his rough locks the fancy's stain'd appear, Yet kind his voice, and light his visage, And his soft smiles deliver'd from the stupid Round helm and stern to jet the idle Paynims of law; I pass the ripening corn, The reaper's trumpet, and the harvest's scorn; And one breath comes, 'Fifty, drive, ah drive, you three; O 'scape the gath'ring air! or cheat the free Unjust decree! Free scope is set to me! Or wilt thou, fool, take keener flight, or brave The moment's ends of threatening destiny? When sometimes deeds of trial seem too sore, Let me my mean avow; I'll meet thee there; With scornful eyes, yet loth, I'll meet thee there. Thou wondrous key-note!--what sounds can keep Man's freeborn heart half-disfigur'd thus to weep? The diamond-dappled cage shall cage perchance, Or the crook'd leg, perch'd with beady wrist; The giddy arrow winneth from the wrist; The ear beneath the silver-studded arm Shall harmless wound, and scape unhurt from harm; But Thou, O heart! with beauty so refin'd, The art and grace of all those arts art design'd, E'en in the spring thou sleep'st secure from pain, As Thou in summer's bath, untouch'd by rain. Resume the season's sportive season still, And in the varying year renew the will. --But of all blessings, in this stock must be A grateful few, and only worth to me. The golden crocus and the primrose gay Shall deck my consecrated garden-way; In mellow hue my consecrated plants Shall feed and bloom in the electric rills. This be my bed of moss and flowery thyme, And sweet refreshing showers on my plantick rhyme. In winter's cold and summer's heat I hear the ploughman's cheerful stroke; And see the earliest furrow's feet Beneath my chair the thicket yokes. The cool breeze from the woodland pools Makes my spirit to itself a knell; The peat-fire glimmers on my bones, And my spirit hears the spring-tide bell! From the tree-tops the rooks, the hummocks, The twitter of water-birds, the hum Of the reeds, the murmur of the stream, The rustle of the leaf, the hum Of the brushwood's merry song of joy; And the sky is warm with their soft caress, While the sun hangs shining on the sea; And the deep is filled with the mighty sound Of the golden hook that sounds them round. With their white and glittering wings they soar O'er the water's still and tranquil flow, Their soft and rich perfume to hive, While the breezes only breathe in air, Bringing life and fragrance everywhere. Dew and daisies dimble on the air, While the reeds are stirring to the tune Of the song that in the silence dies, As the brook flows on to the crimson skies. What marvel that the river may not pass For many a day and oft a night, To the blue depth of the autumnal grass, To the long grass by the reaper's light! And where the silver fountains seethe The murmuring odours, morn and even, What rainbow-tinted light should break The silver droppings of the heaven? Oh! to lie so in the golden leaves Of summer woods, and yet to be So bountiful to gaze on me, When I am gone from thee, Marie! Far from thee, the many-tiring earth Watches with a sorrowful surprise, And its rapture throbs with an amorous glee; And she trusts herself to be of those Who mourn around the unseen Calvary. Weep now, my joy, for the moss-rose is white, And at eve the mosses on our knees, For it sweeps the wood like the midnight's light, And whispers, "Go to Calvary!" Then, by the rill where we used to walk, She came and twixt her lips did talk, "We must wander over the bright green hills That meet us at the setting of the sun; There is not a path can ======================================== SAMPLE 658 ======================================== as he be--those he acted. Two cousins, Elihu Raby, Lived on a river-side, Whose waters wash the world of shows As they would wash the pride. The one who saw his boats go by Will most upon him pray, And on his table share a jar Of broken bread to say. A foolish fellow was the Nauy, So false! and false as he: He would not let himself be by A cobbler's broken tea. The other who but bawled " carnage" In a still farther sea, Now warped and sunken with a straw So thin, that he could not stand on The beetling crags of sand To piece them in a foreign ship If George, of all the truest capes, Were to the Tarbre tossed, It would not now be said he vaunts A kinsman of his own: Alas! it was no luckless horse Could ride so fast alone; And George, of all the princely crew, Became a gallant braggart too, As honest folk as ever saw, And even did not boast, He struck his egg upon the egg (For people always do). He did not like to see the cobb, Though he had thought his knife was going; But said, "It's quite a treat to-night-- Such birds are sent to us to sell." The other with his cane did throw A manly form around, And was most galliant in his shape That looked extremely well. And, being of the boatman case, Upon the moonlight shore, He got this silly little dog, So much to heaven's door. Perhaps you do not like it--for who knows? You may have miracles to tell! 'Tis something cleverly divine-- It always does to shine! It's not a portrait, with no book, But a bad poem all you read, So that you gather, and you look, And you embroider--if you're read-- From everybody's shelf. I had a pain, for all the pain That I can offer you to-day, Will have you quite as great a fright As any of the other night. I know you cannot well be wrong-- You cannot go so far; The pain you feel you can't allay In the romender's star. When I first saw you did my best To shut the windows, when I tried, The locks away, the curls in Blanche, The roses in my sleeves, You talk of coverlets and stocks, Of ribbons and embroideries, And when the lady's sighs, My heartstrings seem all croaked with sighs-- But, under the rose-tree, Whose boughs, from above, We both could keep in hand, I picked them up, and blessed them The whole day long. Briefly I picked their faded blossoms, They shrouded me in pink, And, while I picked them, as I plucked them, They faded back and pink, The roses and primroses Seemed all that ever grew, Of a character you know That's not for business, but to stand In the glare of the sun And see it glitter like a gem In the green of the great river Where the fish run. I picked them up, and tried to pick them, But not to make a sign: The only trick of these two riddle-rows Is that the fish are mine. The boat was moor'd, the sails were hoisted, The sky was black and high, But the pinnace Jack--that Jacky-did-foot-- The man was in the p opini; The fish rose up in his rage at last, And croaked and croaked, and ate! The stars were out in the open sky, The water slapping by, And the oars were shaping the engines up In a hurry, While the watches went whirrinizing on In a way we could not guess, And something like a mountain hit my head, And something like a row." "No matter if I'm mad, or dumb-- No matter if I'm mad. So here's the story-- And here's another 'poilus'-bark,' And here's another ou l'au jour le faveu: And, oh, I bless yer, I bless you, I bless yer, I bless yer, For the cr ======================================== SAMPLE 659 ======================================== ast chair, With a box at the end of the chair; And the vision of Arminius bright Shall fade in its amber last night, And the fadeless verve of the pictures shall stay In the fire-lit fireplace of TO-DAY! "Babette," said the Breton "when a child, There's no dainty Judge Ellenborough! On his brow is the ravenly fur, And the cold worm that gnaw'd in its den, And the worm and the gaunt Indian Cat, That scour'd in their chamber of jowl, And laugh'd in their childhood too oft, Are dead, and no more for to see The divine evil in them and me!" "You flippant!" said Two Little Shees As they sat on the roof of the house. "It is hard, too!" said Three Little Shees As they sat by the fireside of the hearth. And what was the good of the junk of the chief To the faded face of the master of men? "Whose thrift was the good of the good of the great?" "Now cheerfully now, my boys, cheerfully now," Replied a little Shees, "you are here, Where nobody lives, and none can tell! We must praise, and all that we have, And every word that you hear is a tear; Now cheerily now, for another hour, And another to gather the blossom of power." A great wind blows the coal-place down the chimney; Not a tall tree stood on its top in the pit; Not a stone on a stick could the sapling touch; Not a feather a feather yet flutters upon it: It had no wings, and yet all was not gone, And yet they were gone, and that bird had flown; And three of a troop came marching up the hill, Three of them came from the hills all round the hall; And out of the cold, dark, silent hall, They all came marching, marching all. "Now, go you out, young bloody!" the angry cook Cried; and they all sprang round to hear the cheer; "We shall march back, my boy, to a fiery dragon; March in the secret room, and see the prince Sit with his mother under his helm; And the lips of the king are pale with fear, As his mother sits by her ladyship: "And this is a terrible, dreadful thing!" Cried Two Little Shees, as they sat at the door: "Why, surely it is not a dragon-fire, They burn him already, and see him before; And so shall you see, if the heat of the noon Be heated by the copper as well as the moon; And you shall see, if you can,--and you shall!-- But never, O never, a furious war, --Jest let it come on to destroy him. O the shaking and cracking, the breaking and plashing Of the merry black-jack, the bawling and boiling! The shaking and tumbling, the shaking and quaffing, The shaking and quaffing, the splashing and trickling And splashing and splashing, the merry old black-jack He drops at the black-jack, the shaking and quaffing. The beating and jolting, the shattering and shattering, The shaking and jolting, the breaking and mumbling; The shaking and rumbling, the breaking and mumbling; The shaking and rumbling, the breaking and mumbling; The shaking and jolting, the breaking and mumbling; The shaking and ringing, the clanging and jolling, The shaking and ringing, the twenty-fold floundering, --Tameless and watchful, faithful, and unashamed, All, all are falling--all but the brave heart and feared. The fire that blazes but dimly meets steel; The fitful flare and the flambeaus of metal; The stubbles and spindles, the grunt and the shavings Where the embers had fallen and scattered their seers, The embers of laughter, the sparks in the flares Where the embers had lain for a hundred long years, All, all are falling--all but the brave heart and mirth. A call from the besieged was heard afar, And the sentries reeled, and the sentries crept, And every man in his active car Felt down and down, and they knew he slept not or woke, And they fled away, as the wild wings fly, ======================================== SAMPLE 660 ======================================== ; The humble harp forgets to boast its strings, And rival music's airs afford the same; In all the world of light and life and light, There's nothing like the Star, nothing like the Flight! When I die, my heart is buried deep In this grave aspen, here is heaped up so. My father and mother have gone to sleep Under the earth, under the summer sky. Their cottage is a lonely grey church and pale; Their house the mountain opposite; the vale Below, they have no voices, and no cry. Only the wind, the wail thereof is still; Only the wind, the cry thereof is still. And there is one that every day looks up, And bows to it, and sighs to it, and prays, And murmurs for the voice it cannot see; And one, instead of all that she has said, Turns to the altar, and is still God-made. Oh, what was he then, a poor clerk, hired To earn his living wages and endure His hard-earned rest, his daily bread, his drink; Yet (what is this?) he gave that day of his! How can he end it? I had surely thought He would grow rich; he did not need to die; He hoped that he might so much children need That they might grow into mothers, and to breed Piety and joy for him, and keep his creed Of comfort when his wife died;--I had thought He had no children; and, to save him yet, Have kept his wife; and with a hundred ways This pressure of the moment in his face He has been reconciled. I well believe Some old men would not have been grave-deep In childish cerements. For my heart is wide And unpropitious; and I hope, and rather May he ride forth to-morrow, and be free, And be with me forever. Now, when these Will nothing keep from me, do I go back To my old friends and with them; but one thing That I have spoken shall not be forgotten. They have forgotten, too. For yesterday It may be that he passed away. His breast Has kept him:--for that day I was but just-- To be my one and my companions. Night Falls on him. The long clouds, gathering up The morning in their diamonds, brightly shine In the deep mountain tops. His family Have left him. Now, 'tis summer, and he dreams Of some blue sky that yesterday was white; And he forgets himself for aye and aye. He has the wistful, knowing that all day He has but passed away. His heart is high And his eyes twinkled with the morning beams Of the old stars that danced above his sleep, And he remembers the gray twilight of The evening of his days. So is he gone. They keep him as he went-- But time stands still and brings A memory sad and slow Of a long-gone things. He has heard of old songs, Of children's laughter, and Of love that is half divine, Of light and sleep that was half divine. Of him you say the oldest of the men Felt feebler still, and dreaming that, again, They would not tell him anything, or say Some thing that he had suffered from his play. Oh, but to think that children's hearts are prone And passionate like him, with long-ago forgotten Love that is dying ever in its own And vivid preludes that are all unknown. For there it loves, a silent heart, alone, A lingering memory of the old days in When, in his boyhood, on the olden way The honeysuckle sprays and rills of grey Were aching in the wind, where the sun's rays, Burned soft into the sunset. Strange how far From all the world it had been far away! So near to Joy's, so close to Joy's another Sweet flower of all the old lost times and me There is no other flower but Youth's own mother. Under the beech-trees where the crocus blows She comes, she comes, she comes, all lovelier than before, Her hair a-curl, her eyes a-gleam; her hands A-gleam; her loose hair hanging in long braids Above the brambles, and her long thin hands A-gleam; her arms and floating hair perfumed With fragrance of the wind; her yellow hair A-dotted on the grass ======================================== SAMPLE 661 ======================================== That may have been the cause: When we awhile with mortals bide, Here, in Olympus, there abide The best, the worst and last; In whom contention and strife And scorn have still their claim: From mortal strife thus keep we free, As in eternal fame. --JUNO LUCASTA, rusatum amis Offierunt variae pectus tenu; In captam nimi tecta sidera Fatis illi superat olet: Ubi nescire coelestia plectra Cordibus in nostris genis, Et centum flore tincta pectora Placatum umentisque parabula Incussit nimium poetae, Ne tibi sint, et nimis turbida penatis, Ne tibi nec fletus ponet ab alto Roma serenat pecori; Non nimium vitae flere melodum Celentoque simul mundum, Pectus Pieridum praetulitibus Seu terram tristis aera plura Fraudis erubent iocosa et Leno gelida haec facit, Obliti cum latices ignes Sulti natali alitum sororem. Quod si ridicula haec noscenda potest: Nec ubi aut simili castris Non nimium cum diari magistro Caesare, nec saepe feriat Quod si quando furta haec nixa Nocte atque heu villanis amicis Haec cuius amore maris, Et prognata supplicis otia, Inque tuos pars mittis Grex pellucidosos faces Fulmine amariti somnia mala; Pars et qui fortendis melos Stipuere tulit angis. Illum et qui flectet frugum Errante vigor natura Astra choreis fabula Quas mortuorum, qui somno Ceu feret Stygii sparsus Auidi numinis, quo non Sejanus gloria, seu perjicit Egregie pompas iuuenis. Si pax a partis gloria Carmelorum animorum, Hos memorator divino pondus Manusque fidelibus, Pars cum lactis Atque odi, qua tibi scinduntur Prende jussi iugera natura At tristis omnis colores; Muto cum sociis plena Ordo iugera natura Prende, quae fuerim licebit Quod si quid caeli maris At once rex cum ad latebras Celimus praepandere Dyonis. Tandem ecce leui paulo Quam mater propere coniunx Tendebam lacrimas septum, Quod si praetrius oculis Ut videas, nobisque atque pecus Nolens potest, quod cernes Non nova iuuenem Non cum corde gentilium Gaudeat extendermen. Subiit fides timore Ius, et incertum meat Gaudeat amne Patrem, ad Tomemarum Teocuit proprium carens, Non artificum male. Tali militia micans Surgent dedit, et docet sidera Teatus excipiunt flores; Tanquam vates, flos sumus Ploratus perennis sidera, In nemora Dianaeas Subitam stabiles mentis. Vatum Pieris tantum Subjicilesque acies Conoerentem purtrudis Claudent liberiis. Discutiantur, nec videntur Pulchrum libellum dextrae, Multo quod vatem inserit Dei, quod vagum vatem errans Sidias vatem errans eus, Quod vatem errans nouem, Thou mentis est pulcher Ploratus atque epulas Fescennina nec armentum. Claudorem Cupidines, Whos quondam quod ipse tenet Quodque novas aureum ======================================== SAMPLE 662 ======================================== , with a muffled sound, Sighs for the big-boned blue-grey morn, As on the dust the waves begin, Or when the grey sky seems at wan, In the wild wind he shrieks aloft Or in the trembling of the North. They say the moon is waning, But though I watch their shadows creep They see, as in a gladness, A frozen surface to a heap Of half-wrought walls that drip with rain, Like the black nails of some old brain, A fevered hair and handsome eyes That rise and wave again. But now the trees are cruddled With frozen snow that mantles o'er, As if around their bows they knew The brown birds huddled, and no more They know the day's departure: Like frozen fog the ruffian air Has died away and sparkled, A pallor of faint glory That shimmers through each forest, As when a thunder-cloud sweeps by Heaven's gate of Judgment. They raise no crown to vex me, Nor lay their heads to welcome me; I lean along the parapet And wait the world's retreating, A breathless messenger, With baffled lips astounded, And failing pulse of breathless awe And stilled assent in passion, Whispers through windless heights to say I know not how nor why, But only, under silence, May hear the twanging bell that breaks In Sabbath silence to the burning sky, And lolling girls, some shod, or bold From out the laughter and the shouting bell Whose voices never seemed to rise, Save when, far down within the purple West, They hear the sorceries of each other Swelled by a wind that mingled with the rest. So, near the little winding Severn, That, tricking, takes the sunbeams from the trees, And on the altar burns the roses They crown with wine of gold and purple grapes, Wherethrough, with dim earth-incense laden, They shine upon the altar dimly seen, While through the shrivelled whiteness of the night And sable veil of fading crimson light That helps not with its hideous afrost The unremembering god; a purple mist Of warm gold, just the like the golden blots Of crimson on the altar's broken beams, Wherethrough the brazen altars flame like stars; A crimson mist that, clinging on all sides, Sheds blood of hyacinth and pale jessamine, And the bruised jewels sprinkled round the head Upon the altar's curious loveliness, Like fallen stars that smoulder in the mist By a stormy bleak-blue lightning when it rains. So from a golden little meadow, Now deep in shadow, now thick-set, to glide, Hear the eternal songs repeated Sounding through wide, open doorways. For the great deep River is beating Over its pool's unbroken past, A song that is neither loud nor solemn, But a challenge to all eternity; A song to the world's triumphant heart, On its shores that see far off and far away Their faces gathered and their faces, On the heights that the hours have known for aye. I am weary of shadow And behold, as I dig and piles, Sunrise, and sleeping in shadow, The infinite shining heavens. I am weary of shadow And behold, as I dig and pile Sunrise, and sleeping in shadow, The infinite shining heavens. The infinite shining heavens, Are as thine own thoughts; Thine thoughts, that have no beginning, Are the bells of my heart. The infinite shining heavens, Are as thine own thoughts; Thine thoughts, that have no beginning, Are the bells of my heart. These have not taken birth Of being and being, as I see; What has been and shall be not Without a beginning; How strong has been, how weak is Time; How deep is Eternity! O waiting lonely in the haunted tower, Save for the wings of pitying winds that pass, Wave to the plume of the low-fallen flower, That must lie sadly drooping upon the grass! O heart of mine, whose prayers shall never die, But stay: O heart that may forget the pain, O held from crying grief, O known full nigh to Joy, For the implacable, heart unsatisfied, We two will sit before the silence, side by side; O heart, thy heart shall rest, I cannot tell; What ======================================== SAMPLE 663 ======================================== andknit lentry. Who thus great gardens o'er with blossoms fill? Who thus each hedge, each busy envied mill Calls from its lap the scattered flowers of love And many a sweet and harmless plant? Who thus do build each darksome house For habitation's narrow house? A mystic garden spread With flowery shrubs and bays And tufted spires of red and white, And plants from every corner dight, And every branch and flower With fragrant leaves and flowers that blow, All do it hang upon the wall, Like clouds to hang 'twixt snow and snow. And on each branch, and on each vine Just spreading out its branches fine In leafy masses careless grown, While o'er its stones the bee Crows, when he climbs, and only sows A perfume in the summer's bloom, And buys the sunshine from the tomb. From those bright presences secure Each plodding path conceals A light that piercing all is pure, A holiness that awes No less than what the skies have veiled. In lustrous ignorance We praise the heart which man surrounds With kindly thoughts, albeit seen When first the blown primrose unfold Her summer shade. We count it rarer sight to see, Than when, at morn, the sun lies warm With heart-felt leaves and climbing ivy. Alas! poor fellow, woe betide When wintry blasts their blossoms eyed As hungry birds of heaven feed And then awake. And though not dearer far than these The cloud of care oft lives obscure, And heaven must look more pale When storm-breathed night has laid him down To sleep without a pain or fear, Wrecked as a blossom of the sea, For with this one sure harbor-place Doth man still live, and not disgrace The happy life he chose, Now drowned in night-dews, still alive, Which he doth love and not forgive. Thou Christ-prince! that, with heart of grace Thy grace doth compass Nature's face; Thou that dost greatly magnify The grandeur of each attribute Wherein, unveiled, thy radiance lies, That scatters brightness from thine eyes, That make us feel, not see, but taste, That joy and love, which in thee rests, So that all other things are blest. In many ways, though all we see As thine, thine by grace of thee Omniscient Nature hath impressed With movement, fire, and magic sense, Power that we Gods and men apart, And beauty born of fair expense, Till, roused thereby, each season finds Something of perfect recompense; With motion quick the soul doth move Whether it look in us or round, Or faint or quick, and strive or kneel Or lie as sunlight pleases ground; Thou that with willing heart dost love, And giv'st thine aid, all time and space, To shake with joy the raveled soul, The body's strength, the soul's embrace, And all the glad body's happy face. Beethoven, so this log of ours, Echo's first evening we will hail, Whom by the ghost's hand unaware Thou with thy grief's miraculous veil Far from thy alien dwelling fled, As, through his airy halls, she sped Hither the blast of anger blown Shouts to the Heaven-harp, while 'tis borne Up to the heavens the crashing mirth, The long-shaft nails in haste to smite, The fruit of life's delicious joy, This dead girl's doom's scope, that kills on earth. "On one same spot, where poppies spread The dark-red gold of tangled vine, I made mine grape, or slip it, wed With one same clay to make her wine, Where corn is ne'er so full as she; Or pray some favouring Spirit slid Her off, like new-fallen snow, Across the water, she and she Lived breathless and alive, who tripped Above her child, and the far gleam Of her three eyes,--one like to this, One like to this did make her bliss; With rays such witchery and such poise She was, that she did seem to be A shrine of hidden diviners, Led by the echoes of the sea. Laugh, then, and come away; be sure ======================================== SAMPLE 664 ======================================== that thou may’st feel and find Thy most delicious fare, And may’st enjoy the double share Of love with flavour fine, And be a man in that esteem, By that first ceaseless fire (When a father, who with passion burns, Lays half his cheek to dust)” When all these blessings he supreme, What breast can else such bliss regard, And when the blest above, To keep in peaceful happiness, Entered each gentle heart, Bearing each soft, soft breath Of love and blissful luxury, Of pleasure and content; But oft, alas! each painful scene Must leaving a charm for pain, Ends in a sorrow’s reign, And leaves her joys and griefs behind Till she can live no more. Couched on her cheek the waves are seen In viewless clouds up-rearing; Or, borne on clouds, the lofty trees In lovely beauty are appearing; Or, if the water-sprites perplex Her with the oysters, cast her down With buffets for the shell. Or ’midst the thousand soulless swarm An ocean-nymph is flying— With purple slipperss, gems and flowers, And shells her garments dye. She, who amidst the ocean-weed Has found her fair, bright world, Must weary on her journey now, And to her home must travel: Still weary on, and thinking more That there is much to say, With sighs and tears of sorrow she, The wild winds may convey The joy they have been hers to see, On the still water grey. Still weary on, and having done, She goes upon her daily road In raiment red and gay. Sometimes she mounts the outer stair, Sometimes into the inner room, Directs her way, by every stair, Some glorious hue to bloom, And on her head a rosary, To tell her all good-bye. Three fishers went sailing away to the west; Each thought on the woman who loved him the best. They sought for the golden, but could not find that sellors of gold. They lowered their oars to the silent mast, And out of the vessel they saw the cliffs afar. Sails hang in the bow-nets; the songs of the sailors Float on the breeze like a dream in a far-off fairy-land. The trim little church in the village church is gay With roofs and spires; and the aged folk go by With swinging and swinging and singing the praise Of the bells that tolling, in chorus, intones their old joy In the jangle of boats, and the jangle of bells, And the jangle of bells, like the jangle of bells, And the clang of bells, as they fairy tales tell. Three quaint mariners in a weather-caught ship With sails to the breeze came striding up and away, Not a ship in sight, not a breeze in the bay, But a misty-grey cloud sailing the snowy way, And the colours of men and the sails of a day. As they rowed in the Downs, all heartily To and fro with a merry, complaining cry They looked at the sky, looking into the sea. The wily Captain saw the beautiful green deck With a pregnant blue sky and a tender green, And he smiled to himself, as he saw her thereat, And he gave him his slip, and he kissed her again and anon. The Captain's Indian candeur had changed the scene As the ship that bore Jack o'Globe, with the freighted crew, With the brass band thick upon him, and the red fish below. And the Captain was proud as proud could be of his kind, For he carried his hat down, and his breeches, behind. And his droll little cloak with the fox-skin cap Was tucked in his waist, and his small-cloak hat full in his face; And the merry blue-deer he chirped in the grass; But he saw not the boat, nor the masts, nor the sail, nor the sails, For he thought of his home by the clipper-side And he said to his wife, with her "Oh, there's none like Jack yet. So, with ringing, you hear, without sail or starboard, How I want to sail home to my lubber, my lubber dear; And I wish they would bring me a wreath of my hair, That the wind ======================================== SAMPLE 665 ======================================== and are fed at one. It has been an unexpected guest With happenings of the name. A cat, on whom I might have placed His woes, I was summoned to survey In the land of tea. The quaint-smelling pictures froze my blood, And made it cold. I spied the cat that brought so good Those berries hard to grow. I laughed in thoughtful faces, too; And vowed that there was peace. In pity's gay periwig now This cat has joined the hands. When you meet a cat, how liberal and mean, What elegance you shall assume; How abject is the picture, I am sure; And just as you rise up your head, Though you are old and grey and stiff, Just look you out for a little nap And hang it awhile in the front of the table! There was a dame who smiled, and said, "Suppose That cat would shave her voyages, I should well have a place to spare For a milk-pail in a nice nice nice house!" She was of the Southland, and she wore A jewelled gossamer, with gaudy wreath, And a quaint-looking pair of heel and toe; While the maiden's hat, that hung on either side Was hanging in a ring-and-tambour cloak (The sign of aunts and uncles), which, though all The trumpets sounded, yet she felt no whim To suppose them ridiculous to come, And choose them all with a peculiar air; For she was pleasant as a looking-glass, And delicate, and I was quite discreet, And always thought polite when she was young To touch them, and sometimes when she sung! She was a kitten, which for years or years I feared she might be sending to the cat, And she showed to me many things that were To be expected. She had no fear Of what would be now and always be-- Until I thought, if it befell, "that she Dined on a bright and spotless cat-fish dress Or from some arbour had intruded there, Or from a carriage, or at least some fare; And so she vanished, in a new-found tone, And the last care is ended." "Neither concern," I said, "of how He could get something in his head for the two Who got his daily dinner. You'll suppose That on a winter's day you will be found With thick black velvet arrackt around your brows And rabbits, all a-quiver and deep cocked hat To the old hat and the boots. The arrangement Of these arrangement causes me to stop Some longer longer when I pelt you by And thought I could receive your dress." The crone exclaimed: "Well, it's my foolishness, When you have nothing else to do with it But trifles. I'm so much alone, that should Have made a charming wife, I don't complain I cannot look on those who think me sweet, Lest some fat, awebbled fool should find me To whip me, though no one would spoil my dress. Here, take my handkerchief and tie it up, My dear, dead love, that gown you'd made for me!" That night I wandered down the garden walks Seeking for Flora. Was it snow, you talk? "The maples go up to the sun," I thought, "And blossoms in the morning." There I caught A glimpse of a slim white worm, that stood A moment, looking down a tree and then Attempting to get through. I do not care To know if it could have grown on your lips, Or if it were not, or if it could! I was all occupied, as I could see In Spring's magnificent sunrise hour, And I could never catch one look, or be The one half furtive to my reverie. I wonder what you think of me. I know You used to stare into my face, and feel You'd take me by the hand or stroke my hair, Or say you'd be all right, could I but Forget that look which ever brings me in To your most unpleasant memory. And yet It seems so like your right, ... the fact is plain That once I held your hand and beat the mud, Now that your plague is over. Don't you know That in my life, at times, I did not know Your name? Well, that was years ago! And yet, if it were true ======================================== SAMPLE 666 ======================================== of the woman as the intent To lay her husband dead,--at once the pulse With her consoling salve in her cold heart Pulsed back, and the quick tears, and the full draught Of the waste steaming well--when, her sick sense Wasted itself away, and her heart's strength, Desirous in the fight, and the hind laid Uttering a prayer to silence his sick pain. And, all night long, the rain fell from the hills; And, at the gusty door of a wind, the hut Clambering and clanged. And the free sparks Burst on the darkness; and the flute, the pipe Died to its song-notes; and the silent roof Frowned as the roof rose clamoring; and through The crimson night the hearth-fires blazed With wizard lights, where one warm, welcome dawn. The long hall glittered on the roof, and beat With muffled rattling, waltz. At times, at times, Loud music issues from the crevices, And breaks the long hall-chamber window-panes. The wife is busy at her toiling up; The shutters clink; the fire-light on the roof Sends out the twinkling, waltzing of her life. So through the thick-stilled night she heard, With waltz, the whirr of birds, The ticking of some hungry sparrow, The ticking of some bird. Far off she heard the whirr of bluebird, The whirr of squirrel, and the ticking Of some awakened creature stirred With love of mystery within her ears, Who didn't seem to know her fears. O slender-winged thing of happy wing! That, when thy breast shall cling, As once thou wast a king, about thy death Shall hang the red swarm's curse, And leave a little burst of shell-like flame Upon the bosom of the hearth, and fall Like corn in summer heat; And sing, and laugh, and sing, And so forget that thou and I must part In sorrow and in tears, And wilt be lonely and to misery Aye, sweeter than the Mermaid's melancholy! And, when the warm wet kisses of the morn Have flung their red upon thy cheek, Then, still, as if across the moon's pale sphere, Thy phantom shall glide on, And through the twilight of thine eyelids glide, Unrestrained and unafraid and free, And, like a ghost, go forth, And mock the dim moon-face, And whisper stars that pierce men's ears with fright, And whisper of departed souls in light. And then, O wind of some remembered dream! When, dreaming of thy kiss, The old grey time was lost in night, We wandered forth, and thou and I, And claspt the pillaring hours of sleep And rambled up the shattered stair, And pushed our tattered footsteps o'er In the Dead Past. The midnight came, With such a strange, unearthly sound As where the rat-toothed rat-toothed hound Kicks the ghost of the dead, and mutters o'er A strange unspeakable silence of content Between the stones, and the moon's white light, And the long cloaking of the night, In the faint ghostly moonlight. But when that night comes on again, And all things else have ceased to be, I will arise and go to thee, And show myself the ghostly door Of thy dark chamber in the dawn, And peering through it, see thee pass And whisper words I knew not for my glass. Then once again I'll mount my steed And post unto the King of kings, And with familiar words of love Talk to thee, and thy falconings Shall gleam in one round of the moon's white fire And flash on the closed casement. But then farewell, and whither? Come with me, for it is too late, And I am weary of my late love, And cannot travel thither: For the long nights we have been spent, And the soft moon is going to and fro, And there is nothing left but parting-- A something too late for you and me. For mine eyes are closed over with sorrow, And my mouth is empty of love's sweet wine, And my lips, sealed fast with desire's kisses, Are scarce accustomed to the kisses And the weary waiting of ======================================== SAMPLE 667 ======================================== , and cobweb-webs and poppy-weeds Will plot us out where the thick night-brush hangs; You are far too jolly and scared to see These tricksy people so blemish-like and fret, Yet I can hit a glimpse of your fine blue sky Sixty to three and the half-day sun: So still you sleep, and the waking blood will lie About you, and watch in the rings of the hill, When I am a-dreaming and my mirth will die, And the yellow-lust of my fairy-tales Will rise and swell in your russet coat and drip With the dawn of the morning. Well, dear, dear, That is a puzzle now, in which we keep These mystical histories of life, the scope Of our broad day's labor, the balm of sleep; The sense of service and the firing-field That we gave to man for his daily toil; The simple pleasure that your fathers knew, The pride for which they bled and fought to rise; The living ray that you could never spend; The divine world of real good in life, Whose fame yet flutters like the haloed sky, And the white glory of the deep blue sea; The glory-cradled Princes' starry crew, --These live but for an instant and arouse In the world's homage. For a moment's space We cannot kill ourselves for each other's grace, Our Lady's power is over us and all The little girls of these our tiny beaux, Who never have a thought of anything but showers And its strength clings to us for a small day's play, While our hearts from their rosy hold so far Catch the sunburst's first pure splendor; so awhile We will lie down and die, by a gray grave smile, And I think, 'Mama, all my life, I have been A saintly tenor of my villas, though I have not lived in this great war of hers. --Then what is war, that warms even our weak With something from our breasts? Ah, how the host Of our first days! This Gama is but a post To women, which can bear inconstant forms, And may be carelessly idiot crimes To thwart her fortunes. Ah, she can be gay As a white lily in the meadow-lands. If she be rude and petty, proud of gain, Envy, and fret, and anger, and disgust And tears can fall, we may be gay but still. There is a pleasure in the being you And my cap. I sometimes not begrudge a prize To the great masters of the instrument I have an itch to catch. I thank them all, For my quote successes; I confound their balls In every sort of piece; they come of course With all their pomp and Show. The man that fails, And his own gains, are greater than himself, With his pure touch, than he has power to harp Or sing a cuckoo. I remember once When an Iago stittered towards the sea In a land far away: there is a sound Of the sea, there is a cry of human woe Swelling in my heart. There's a ship coming That will bring us tidings. I have seen Those drown'd in their distress, before the sea. But do not dream she is a soul at ease When once she takes us. We may also weep For her own excess of vision; 'tis but right And gladness that we shall not want at all. He's in the country. He has always wept The most with big remembering eyes, and we Will let the coming Nave fill up the bowl And brim it full to steam of colour for him. There is a blessing in his way, a sight Not seldom made, but if ye see us gazing, In earnest, in our carol, pouring forth His serious soul with deep emotion To themes beyond our imaginings, Conviction born in happy hours and ways, Resentment and the spirit of the world And making up the vestiges of duty And inspiration for the spirit and sense, The attribute to live for, and to die In a long life, whether alive or dead. But I go on the journey. The men who live Will tell of you, and it is little. He Beneath his right will live in your loneliness. Thou want'st me to forgive, and I forgive. LATE me not ======================================== SAMPLE 668 ======================================== of some, "for even by the hand They perch: the cedar boughs seem not divine. But the sun smiles more surely in the pine Than light and heat of it. For day, I deem, Through many rains the aching branches swoon: So would the gracious downy clouds outshine My worship with their gold." "And I have knocked At doors, yea, and I may not speak of the house, And if I kiss my wife and come away In the rain, none but a swivel, or the faun A-faulting it with rushes of the bay, And to enrich it with such an act of grace As nothing is can well or miss,--to show How strong the blast is for a breathing-space, Or how could I have lain with Love alone Till the dull flood of feeling overgone?" "Quo Meleager, quoniam non me tibi stulti Seripient? A little wavering sense may bear The wretchedly trusting eyes that threaten here. If we kept back, at times we should not care. Sure it may be God doth us all good things For the unsheltered mind in man. "A little urchin--a merry one: One of little courtiers who come anon Slowly he advances,--nay, As often in those quiet countries riding, Where the rustle of field-flowers is never stinging,-- He is talked to. Now hear him! Watch him plain! He is all of right. He may be a gain To this side of death, for a chance misdeed. "Why didst thou carry back these ears? O fool! Oh what a madness in the after days To tire the brave souls of such youth-gifted boys! What can they teach then that were nobly born? False sons of such primeval ancestry, To whom with youth, all joy, all bloom and living Till all the grey hairs into blossoms can give In short the vanished generations of man, So long again to make a brief end of life? Was it not madness that preserved their youth, And awed their nature like the ancient hills? Alas! too well did they in years pass by Count them not lost, as heretofore, When once the fatal horns were blown on high! "Was it not then a careless word they bore To make their day, their night, their morning-blower, Their dream, their atoning-bread, their fire,-- The hunted thing had never heard before, Without remorse of some blind wound or seven, And never to be sweet again? Then didst thou ponder on these feeble years, And didst thou think to visit the old woods, Else had they left them to behold these ruffians And wonder how such beauty should endure Ere they gave back again? "Believe me, friend, I was too sick For this dull world, of weariness and death, And yet, through all that service and debate These members felt there one consuming breath Which in that mighty whole did make men live, And therefore do I seem to tell thee,--I, Thy weak companion, poor and sick at heart, Have made farewell for thee. "I am not sick? O, heart, for one, O heart! Methinks this freshening air is kinder here Than when the silver moon goes down the sky With all her youthful star-beams, and perhaps Thine own fair face, though soft thy cheeks do wear Which is most fair, the loveliest, and the best That fills a lover's heart. "O, heart, for one so wise That thou hast borne Death's hateful things, Weeping that Earth can never know how good Or fair such beauty could to him be given By place or space. We dwell not here on earth; Frail hands are ever weaving round our hearth A wonder for to learn." "And some men think to find, Doughty, thy feathers are not idle ones, To lift them from the earth into the air, And in the distance, daily, turn, and dare Not once to stir a blade of perfect green But once and twice it lays them down and tries The sunlight and the air. "But with this morning's sun That softness and the greening of the grove And over fields and meadows lovely is, And voices call the time; but thou, and I, And all things that we evermore must die, ======================================== SAMPLE 669 ======================================== of truth For human lives! When 'my poor heart beats fast, Oh! may I reach Thy sweetness with a sigh; And bless, in place of pure delight, Thee in the morning-red morrows of my youth!" "Oh, come to me and smile," said Annie, "For come with me to the dance." The redder still that jealous shadow Of Helen lured the fair: But O, what bitter memories Had Ruth from yonder air! Away--all human hands were empty; He would not follow her: Lest--blest the hand that cool'd his brow, The lips that breathed around him, Should pluck him--would not follow her. Upon her cheek the roses bloom'd; But ah, that night--how sweet-- It was a lily-gemm'd September That stole this way from me! And what was love but dearest, As tenderly as true And smilingly as ever, That came to win me thro' and thro' On that sweet lip and o'er, Bent down and smiled at Annie's smile, That came to mine anon, Then turn'd and smiled at Annie's upturned eyes, And I thank'd God that He had gone! She turn'd her off--the smile went o'er; But, ere her task was done, With eyes that smiled, and lips that woe- I bless'd her thro' and thro'-- And that she cried, the smile was out, And--I was then so bold, so sweet, That I grew deadly cold, And drew my hand to hers again, And strove to cheer her on, And point out where the others skirr'd In such a bustling way, I sigh'd for just one way thereof As made her care obey. I knew that Annie's eyes were wet With tears, I know that, when we met, Had they been mirror'd there, The rain had then been cald and spilt That gush'd out light like tears. 'Twas coming fast, it seem'd I'd seen A rainbow through a cloud: I might have thought I saw it come, But 'twas a cloud kept dauntless by, And--I--I might have thought I heard Some people pass that way, But that, of all men, there is one Not that green realm o'er which there's room, Whose spirits are as high and free In even chirpings as they have in me,-- With that same everlasting look, And aspect full as high That earthly brow by which we know A child should look thro' heaven to go. So well my heart that then was o'er, That, when again I knew Those eyes had fall'n, but tho' my tongue Had try to paint all thro', They were those eyes--as if the sight Of them had call'd 'thame:'-- And still they hung like a wild bird's wing, That waiteth for some far-off friend His shackles to undo, And his hand with that strong sceptre starr'd That would bind round the brow of kings All seraph pots that were, And dumb with its most conquering touch As tho' the soul had ne'er been touch'd With all such power to sever willing things. But soon a mournful world was hers, Such woe as thine to bear; To bend on all the heads of queens The giddy storm of care; And ever, ever toiling there, To fling those hare-bells up the air With their down-dusted load, And toss and toss them with the brine, And sow them to the beams of brine. We'd stray, by mountain, wild, and gray, Or sleep in a nook remote; And we'd drop down the raven's way, Where, toilers, yours and mine To-night the wild-geese will not say, But may hear a voice like mine. And we will climb the rocky side And mark if in the silence, wide, The forest's arch be still and wide, That none may rest so will they guide; And we will list the wild wind's moan, 'Oh! sad am I for my alone! Oh! tears and laughter here below That all for ever should be mine!' In the lone and silent night; In the chilly and drear abode (In that shadow-world of light I forgather'd my past prime) ======================================== SAMPLE 670 ======================================== went up to the gale; And the slow smoke rose round the rails, And the waiting-machine went down. 'Here, get me a ship and my dogs, And my wife, likewise, pretty neat; While you're hanging your frock upon here, And your ball stands out from the hatch-thatch complete.' 'Oho, my daughter, I'm sorry to see That lady so noble among us, so kind! It is stuffy, p'rhaps, and quite coarse, too; For though she is coxcomb and peacock and fawn, Yet her speed can't keep you from roundinging corn. Besides, she has chosen this great round, To move on." "You will find Ten thousand men slain by this blow. They are prisoners in the beet-tree row. Who is this comer that rides the same way? Is it Greek or Latin? I ask you a day." "When the evening is spread in the city, look here, The carrion crows lower, the horses come near, And I see some of them waiting, all standing arow; They are thinking, perhaps, of the divers things now, And I hear little Goethe's complaining and sighing, As he relates, that he did some wonderful thing, That he would give up the ghost in his hold, And I'll paste it again and I'll give up the ghost in. If you lift your great eyes, you will find All the caps and all keys, all the strings Which I hold, I would gladly confess. And this question I'll answer, most wise of the two: If the house you inhabit is shut, And the key is always locked, And the fire, as you're certain of, bows aside, dingers as close as you do. If I do not impart an idea, There is more enterprise then I'll try. A moral there is, I must tell you; Why should we keep ourselves pined up When our friends have decided to close? You are talking--you know you!--pro disposed! And if--I will make up my tale. If I see you--some glasses are bordered-- You'll enjoy your affected fresh fame! And I'll pledge you the "Manners" with "Wine," And your "Millions" will have no blame. And while you are speaking, your mind From choice to division shoots, And your society's merriment Is as pleasing as "King George's." "Don't suppose I do. Politix is come!" And that is "The Curtain above the ball," And your friend is to live, after all. And, first of the Gael, Don Don Donahoo cried To the Curtain, but never he lied! There is a chieftain in Nowhere, who leads the merry dance To the sound of the lyre, and the thrum on the mountain's height, And to the sight of his eyes as he pours from his limbs the wine Of the mountain the Lomond, that glimmer of sunlight and shine! The clan that Benmore in the Coontry bestows on O'er the land of the heather, and the rough flowing brooks, Have led him astray. "Give over," Benmore "affairs," A wind-rending taunt, "and I'll show you the way." He is sick of these insults, and sick of their sooty ways, And his best wayes he gladly resort to his own. But suppose you have tried in a carefully serious way To oppugn the stranger a week from the day, You have still to practise your skill by their apt liberality, And then you will see how my manner is rife. "For his matchless strength, an immortal bard, That a single claim in this quarrel had fail'd, A poor bootless head, a hoarser form, "That a single claim had been wanting to fail. What force must have, who trusts to all but truth? Alone the law usurps from ruth: One soul's true bond must again be fix'd, The whole body, at once to do both, is mix'd." Then, after a pause, Sir Arthur made reply: "Yea, that was Arthur's life--in moste nam'd. Yet Arthur lives, and knows that not at all Would he act a base vaunting, and rob the man of the ring, And then thrust in the murderer's headlong might. Thou never, forsooth! wilt point the alarm To a warrior whose ======================================== SAMPLE 671 ======================================== , swift, noble, and brave! Who can say, 'Now what man is this,' 'Whether born in a noble way, Or born in a noble way, Is the King of the Danes and Macs Changed his back to a gilded car.'" "King William of finishing this fable Is seriously enough pleased to relate That Margaret sincerely resolved To marry a maid with a fair mate, And the King was in love with his lady. "And the King took himself fifteen leagues out From home and his wife to wander South; And therefore he had no choice suitable, Unless he had promised his marriage. "The first love she gave him he told her by oath, And there in his castle she married him. 'The next go they to Prince Henry's fair halls, And there make a banquet for him and his dam; Then reign Lady Margaret's and the King's, With Agnes and many a good-natured dam; Then trace out the tables and add wine to wine, And there may his Majesty meet his bride, And at her command full many a man; Then mark out the habits and names of all meats, That feed upon waste, and upon water, Then rub out the tables and add wine to wine, And that this may turn to a fair maid of thine; Then tell us, if women they suit not, and if Not the fashion, the fashion and wit of all, And, to speak of, have any of such; Then ask of the princess, my daughter, why, I pray you, do that if it should be so, I pray you to send to your mother here, And to bring to her after her longings." Says the Monarch: "I know what you mean: But I see with my own eyes, every day, From the first I looked forth, to the second I went; And this very long year I have sought for the first. So you give me a will to build up your pile, And I pray you, without you no family smile." So this hungry King passeth away in the courtyard, And forth to the house comes the matron of May. The doors in the linden are opened; the carpet is drawn: The pail is set on a white cloth; the number of gems, And of gold, and the gold of a silver sheen. A crown is set on the daisies; the pewee is old; The blue of the wood is broken; the daisies are still; The blue of the wood is broken; the daisies have opened; "Dear daughter, I pray you, come often to see me; The fair morning's sun is broken; the sun is in splendor, But cold was the day when my mistress came hither. "She has gone to her sleep and gone to her bed, And she could not come back to her own true home; Only the poor she has left, her own true mother, She knows not the day when she went away, Who has gone with her since she left off, away." "I cannot answer, my gracious King," answered she, "You do so ungrateful, churlish, and rude: I thank you for faith and for patience, for patience, But I pray God send you a happy day. In his castle are stores of gold, and so ivory fine, Which the poor crows cockatoo will not fling out divine; Then in gardens I'll build me a fine fine fine rose, That I may have well such another of mine; And a silken tie o'er it, of eglantine, That I may be able to look in this line." "The king has at last come come to the queen, And offers to her his crown of gold: Then why do I look in adoring?" she said, As she turned to him with a sudden hold, "The queen has at last come to the queen, And pray you, why should I say 'farewell'? If this be true I can't deny it," she said, "For I haven't a gift I'll promise the maid." Says the lady: "I'll come, for my lord's away, I'll have to bring back my true-love again: No guile or sorrow can keep him away, He's sent to be with me this ten weary year." "A boon," says the dame, "my true love is dead; I shall have to look in thy dying son's bed; Thy true friend is gone to sea in the lorn wedding-ring; I ======================================== SAMPLE 672 ======================================== "Before the oriflamme that held the sun: "Impious and cruel people, ye became; "But not to slay me. 'Twas the driving doom "That laid him low, and gave me but my life; "His unbaptised blaze lay open; mine "Waxed firm; my helmet's rough work was plain, "And all was proof against the charm I wore. "But ere we passed three days and nights no more, "I brought myself to the great Flamingour; "And something showed you, some strange necromancy, "The City was like Carbone; I was sure "Who entered that country when I was a child. "I fed the pigs--they fed me--'twas a stuff "No doubt. But why I should not be made bold "To climb on their toes if they were not bold? "The apparition was in a strict embrace, "The plot of things like minute, minute, "And having such a dodge, it grew as such." One evening in an alley broad and cool, Where heather in the valley stood impassive, Bold Robin met me walking at his feast, And gave his wonted ditty to the rest: "There was more shame," quoth he, "than in the least. "My friends, it seems, like these poor porters fell. "Your heart was dead, and I were happier far "Than when they found our bonnets on our lawn; "When close at hand was that ungracious nose, "That curled beneath a pull of meaner head. "Then you remembered best your chin beneath; "Your curl was faultless, and you never saw; "Your hair had combed its temples over your brow, "And all your beauty glowed in one long tress; "The jester, and the fool, had little wit "That one foot ended in the folly fit; "So you were niggard, and the rest was poor, "And round your shoulders hung the silk to wear. "But in those days it mattered little who "Adhered the neck to form the hidden bow, "And played the crow with the pleased stranger crew, "Which you recalled as first it hung below; "And I, that fondly loved, was but a child; "I knew what first to shape to knuckle down. "One, while I envied him, declared he loved "Could he from marriage re-delivered part. "I did not mark his love with other eyes; "No lover's were his wishes for his prize, "And would have spoken if he saw me there, "There with the other in the blazing dance. "Forgetful me! I lost him ere I spoke, "And, thinking of the strange that still betrays, "And of his golden tongue, elate with praise, "I turned me round, and to my waking eyes "There came a great strange face, and fiendlike face, "And mocked me as I saw your vision rise. "I saw your grace, I saw the deep'ning sight "That so my all-obcomitëd thought "Had made you blessed; and, when the night "Falls from the east, and it reflects the skies, "You have the vision, and the sweet night-smile, "And the light heart that hears the nightsore; while "Your song's harsh sound grows stiller and more loud." And I, that there the trance's silver voice And loveliness of voices seemed to hear The anguished echo of its song and cheer, Saw your dear eyelids slowly lift and smile, Thinking of kisses that made sorrows weep; Saw sweetly smitten by your fire-light eyes, Your fingers pointing to the bed of night; Saw from your sweet lips fresh lips of love, Pure eyes and tender limbs and lips apart. I saw your sweet hands brush the white hair And you lie sleeping on the breast of snow; Your brow's deep calm wherein your fingers lie, Your hands' strong limbs whereon the snow lies low; Your breath soft sighs whence out a balm to blow In passionate sweetness all the heart strings slow. The chill dew falls, and all the garden flowers Touch with soft fingers all the naked heaven; The glistening leaves, low-breathed upon the bowers, Rest on soft limbs, while touching the soft even Sings faint and far the unheard requiem Of distant forests whispering between And ======================================== SAMPLE 673 ======================================== , ye brothers who wait upon her charge, And every god shall choose a joyous offering; Thou chief of all the outburnt Satyr and Bacchus, And Anaxase, by all the sisters met, And that she hath committed to my house A thousand measures of an ecstasy. The sun is set, and all the world of light Looks on the sacred darkness with a smile. But morning sun Towards the left, till gently he had run To cut the network of the silver hairs, And hang them softly in his shining hairs. But never yet by eastern or west-wind's blast Did Uryclea or Achorean strand A lovelier flower receive from out the West, That, like Ulysses in the bloom of day, She may become the mirror of the play. There with one joy great joy the Achaeans joyed, And other happiness proclaimed the hour. Towards morn they wend their glittering car, And leave behind a cloud of silver feather From out the sky, in such a moment's flight. The holy men, at this festivity, Lift up their tatters and salute the sun; A novel sight is seen in every tent, To which even now some beggar in his turn Doth say, "Lo, there the fairest gifts of all The gods, in days to come, give thou to me!" Thus like a change in colour and in form Through all the host their reverence doth extend. But meanwhile when they saw the show of gold, Trembling they took unto their oars and sails, And over yonder spread the canvas wings In fashion of a gilded ornament; But on the mountain-top, the Lares first, As thou, concerning whom thy fellows mourn, Answered, "I doubt not thou mayst ever cleave To thy loved lord the light which shines like gild. He also asked me which the fairest grace I should achieve in this abundant work." "What art thou, son," the Sibyl said, "I see, Suffused with mighty grief by lazy hands? A work accomplish'd worthy thee for peace, This wretched wanderer's impotence of men!" So saying, he to his brother humbly spake, Whose mind was wounded by the herald's words: "If I have skill in gathering the dire art To count them, not the mighty skill in arms; One when I talk of it should try the skill To look an earthly semblance to the God; But if this earthly semblance I behold, My fancy must possess the outward shape. Of Boy and Man I talk'd, and thou wouldst learn My outward shape, I tell thee what above Hills, hollow, bent above the world, and here Beneath great Jove his hollow shell was shut, Nor hid beneath a mass too huge or small. This is my secret, as thou deemest fit; I know it well; if I have skill, I trust To look it in the sight, it will be seen." A sacred woman, clad in holy things, Replied, "I am not jealous of the priest; E'en as thou seest me, I am his man; Mine hour is long, mine hour is swift, mine hour." Then on the sea-coast, each with his fair son Selected, in a shining band he led, And through the city gate the sons of Greece. But round the Trojan fires they sat, and marve At feasts of yesterday, and deep repose Around their fathers' altars. Then the Gods, And great Achilles' mighty-souled kings, Thither and thither call'd; but to the fight Sustering Aeneas, Agamemnon's son Sarcastus, son of Atreus, slew, and flung Upon the blazing pile the sacred prize. Now, glowing in his zeal to bear the palm, From the pile leapt the funeral-stones, and breathed Their pitchy cedar-stones. Aeneas then, Perchance, in mortal semblance, was himself The great-souled sovereign of the Pylian host. Him was Aeneas in the past the son Of old, wise counsel-gifted Tydeus' son, Who in Achaia lived and taught of old The art of love; but, for the anger-kinder, The godlike hero drew the lots from him. As when two skilful hound before a hound, Or lion-hated boar, or ======================================== SAMPLE 674 ======================================== , Or Malinkine's red flag? Breathless was he, and dead; and I Was helpless as a thing We could not see; for I was wise And could not see. I knew that while he did not wait Until the judgment took, I would not heed the lying fate That kept him mocking and suspense Before his glad and glad eye took A color from the setting sun That made him as a man When first he heard the last of one Who stands before the portal, and Shall enter without fear Into the inner fields, and there Take breath in his hand as he stands In the first dream of life. I turned as one who stands in doubt From hour to hour, from one's own casement Who knows the thing he tries to see And from the whiteness of his lips Grows conscious of the stone he stands To meet the first touch of his hands, And breathes it, and no voice replies To him who cannot help him, Or, leaning back, to watch his eyes Uplifted in the dusk, demands The colour born of eyes. So, down some stretch of earth he trod And, even as where he stood Right up above the set sun's flame, Stood one who came as friend to friend, And waited as a friend. One who did watch with dulled eye The star-shot of his fate; And by those bright eyes saw the lie And knew the thing he tried, And yet lived on and on, till one Who answered, bade them wait Till the long doubtful twilight brought His future to an end. And then, through that same kind of way, Went one who turned to watch and weep And held her hand in mine. There where he watched her with strange eyes She walked, and saw his face, And talked to him as things of those Whose eyes, through healing, all our bliss Are surely shut out by a secret smile That grows as bright as new. And while he paused and looked again, His eyes at once gave way To one who entered; she, whose pain No mortal could surmise, With trembling lips and tremblings of Feeling at the touch of his frail hands And petals as she passed, Felt all her body grow and grow As rich and beautiful as now All other flowers of glass. She saw a tear within her eyes A red, a gold-red rose, A crimson, a great amethyst Of sunset on the sea. She stood and pitied him and said: "O God! my love for thee!" I plucked a rose and held it there As though 'twere tiptoe for its wit; The love-knot's stem was wanting much To make the white rose wither and wear The amethyst of your deep hair. With questioning eyes I search your breast, And find at last, beyond this door The heart which never yet was whole; But all your heart's beat is as one Who treads alone in street and mart, And, stabbed, would cry, and cry no more For other stars in the blue sky. I wonder what you thought the rose, A red rose blossoming in wreaths, The dark which like a passion clings So closely that it needs must be More red to make it red for me! I wonder what you thought the bird, A golden bird on crimson wings, Amid the mist that smoky white Went singing of its unseen mate And nearer in the golden light Stood singing of a fire that took All wings to make it into flame. I wonder what you thought the rose, A gold bird shining on a tree, Hanging so light-hearted and strange In its ecstatic splendour free As though it wore its crown of stars, Could make a man more truly wise. You watched, I thought, you watched it long, And could not read its pictured thought For one who knew the words you knew Of soft vibrating harmonies, The movements of your dreams not known As soft and sad as were your own. I wonder what you thought the rose, A gold bird shining in the skies, The dark which these sad words did say And made your heart so, each to each, So strangely sad that you did wake? I wonder what you thought the rose, A gold bird shining in the sun, A wind among his yellow hair And all his face transfigured one, A white bird shining overhead As white as God's ======================================== SAMPLE 675 ======================================== . . . I So mourn, so cry. I call for aaug as over the earth Comes a May smell of buds; and it settles in nostrils, Studders and puffing their incense to the sky. And I say, and lie awake in the light of the window, 'Give me my cup of wine.' And I sigh, and give a cry, And sing, and play, and sing . . . 'Give me one cup of wine, sweet.' 'You are a blazing fire, A jewel of joy, a treasure of torments.' Then I sigh and weep, and sing and call to a tenderness, And sing, and play again, and sing for myself, And die, and laugh, and sing. And wail, and shriek, and weep. And echoing, I hear a cry that cries, 'Give me one cup of wine, sweet.' And the wind that sways and surges among the ferns, And the sifted sea that rolls him down, And the moan of the broken reeds that bow, And a star that swims his neck, and a cloud that floats, And the moan of the lonely nightingale, And lo! how I know that a great white cloud Is moving along the darkness, And a soft and gilded wonder moves behind. The thin waifs catch the sun in the sky, And out of the hollow a great cloud blows, A shaft of gold that flows, a silver sail, A song-bird's golden notes, and the low waves rise Along the rippled water, and wander and waver, And wander and wander and wander and wander Around the shore. But I think it so. The air is still and warm, And a little breeze, that shakes its silver strings, Bits the wave's green and silvery sheet, And stirs the green above the glimmering things, Casts a spell upon the heart, and makes a joy Like the dreams the blue night sunbeams weave, And makes a rest. And the wind so careful, the cloud so calm, And the moonshine bright, are all things sweet. Only clouds have come, and moonbeams straying, Leaving moons again, and shadows dying, And glow-worms gray and lovely faces bright, That are glad with the light of the morning. The Wind that shakes the mists of the dawn with cold, Lifts the chill night where this mad day is, And the gleaming mists of the coming day, And the curdled earth, that the morning dew May garner, and crown you, and soothe you. Have you said, have you said, with a smile, O white soul? Have you said with a sigh, with a smile, O white soul? Have you said, have you said, with a sigh, O fair heart? Have you said, have you said, with a sigh, O fair heart? Have you said, have you said, with a sigh, O fair heart? Have you said, have you said, with a smile, O fair heart? Have you said, have you said, with a smile, O fair heart? Have you said, have you said, with a sigh, O fair heart? "Is it true, am I wrong, is it wrong?" "Nay, the song of my heart is strong;" "Nay, the song of a bird is strong;" "Nay, the song of a tree is strong;" "Nay, the song of a bird is strong;" "Nay, the song of a bird is strong;" "Nay, the song of a bird is strong;" "Nay, the song of a bird is strong;" "Nay, the song of a bird is strong;" "Nay, the song of a bird is strong;" "Nay, the song of a bird is strong;" "Nay, the song of a bird is strong;" "Nay, the song of a bird is strong;" "Nay, the song of a bird is long; Let us sing it, let us rejoice;" "Nay, the song of a bird is strong;" "Nay, the song of a bird is long; Let us sing it, let us bewail;" "Nay, the song of a bird is strong;" "Nay, the song of a bird is long;" "Nay, the song of a bird is strong;" "Nay, the song of a bird is long; Let us mourn it, let us bewail;" ======================================== SAMPLE 676 ======================================== fore, thou art come And bringest me out of the woe. God of the Self, say rather Thou, This is the loss of this crown, For who can take away the self With All his nothingness, If, when the strife's begun, the strife Must end with All his Me? If, when the storm comes in its might Upon the world, it fell,-- It thunders up the heaven of air, And flashesnings can tell? If Thou shouldst bear me to Thy home, And still be near to me,-- This, when the strife's begun, I care not, But pray for all Thy company To share their harvest there. Love's in the strength, the strength of pain, The burden, and the weight of pain; The pain is common, with its stress, But most the price of loss and gain; The price--the gain! Who to the slave returns, And freedom once returns, Still working, still reaping, still reaping, Still swerving to and fro, Still sowing, with never a seedling, That never shall be free? The sea of life is very wide, But Freedom is in vain; 'Tis not the sea, and not the pride That frees her soul again. He comes not,--who he is to me His task of pride is o'er. And yet, the vision of that power Befits me now no more. O leave the lonely moor, The stream to which I go, O leave the hills of Sorrow And the musings of the Woe, With the blight of life to be And the lust of hope in me, Who am weary for to-morrow, With but the hope to be! The sun is always low, The old moon on the hill, The birches are so thick and still That many a lake must near, Yet we may meet and we will meet When the tempest, wild with heat, Is making all the mountain brown, And the love-flower at our feet May droop and wither and decay, But we'll not miss him for to-day! He'll not be for me, If he is not for me; I'll see the glow of his great eyes, And the smallest gleam of his large eyes. The loved one has no place Where to set his sweet face down, Nor will my heart beat high for grace If he comes not; for his brow, brown and bare, Afore you write a letter to the poor That sent it to the dreary Elenor. He does not send it home For a praying from the door, But his love will send his faith, in everything That his way may come. He gives no other guerdon Than to let his love appear. He has no neighbor neighbor He hopes to make his choice. His love is but an aloe And at its best, if tasted, whoso drinks, Will fill the loneliness he has desired, And will pour on his latest draught the last But he will have the patience with his last, And will perhaps find friends. When, through the windows, on some silent day, Out comes the bride all bathed in light, She brings her little earnings, saying: I wish that I could find my little wealth, That here in Heaven I might spend my leisure. Ascending up the chimney-tops to-night The old, old friends from far and near Bearing their proffers, fill their baskets full Of rare nuts, for their Christmas cheer. They look upon their fading, shattered shells, Their faces twisted to the wrinkled sky, Or in their arms like last year's snow they lie; Or they the strange familiar fields behold, Wherethrough their feet in stranger lands are wet, And far beyond their hearth the shadows wove Of old, old books, to decorate the grove. Well-connected with these enchanted isles, And shadowy with the giant seas, They sleep in islands 'neath the silent sky, In seaburs deep, where none may know the tides, For in a melancholy, land afar They have their graves, in valleys great and low, Where overhead the mighty waters flow, And they have heard the torrents roll and thunder, And they have seen the lightning's flashing thunder. And they lie there,--the little jewel that lived While ages passed in the unclouded night; And they are sleeping, buried in the snow ======================================== SAMPLE 677 ======================================== the moral force of Virgil's verse Far off he hears the dreary tempest bellow, While through the heaven in silent darkness borne, Thou wilt not loom up the tumultuous main, Till, quite forgot, the surge of ruin roar And murmur of sunk seas a league before. Ovid then was of Rome the guardian fear, For by an injuring be warrant found That from old books his manners had not swerved, When Rome was fired by her avenging sword, To fierce and murderous war he bade the volume be Of high-born Hopper for the Mantuan Law, The scribe, to which the Church has given laws, Has given a proud and servile scroll, wherein The slave is seized, and burned to ashes long; And deeply now he weeps his crime away, In hopes, some little of his realm to slay. Now Nature glads him in the opening skies, The stern decree that binds his spirit down, Seems merciful to save, when Heaven's great eye Upon him sees the ancient heights frown down, And the last stars smile sullenly away, A cloud of memories dim he anxiously surveys. Doubting ne'er came a time before his eyes Hopes fled, but all the paths that lead to God, Worn with a load of grief and misery That dumbly, as his spirit burned through me, It seemed a breathing vessel in the wind. That glorious name by savage hand dismissed, When, daring to look forth, my father spake, I know he should have cast me down, and see His mirror made of marble, and his bed, Which perfect was, and worthy of his love, A palace, and a meadow, and a glove. "Behold," he said, "this lovely stranger come, He fain would stay; but I behold a face! A mirror in the river!" On the sands It stood before him, and, with wild embrace, He caught it from his arms, and kissed the face That made it wet with tears of indolence, And from the very marble with the stain He caused it to betray him. Laws, other travellers could, With a full price of neighbourhood, Get you at length unto my memory; For there was one I knew would find you out, And dry upon the margin of the bank Sad Pity, dropping down all weakness, placed My mantle in his right hand, and said, "This shows What sorrow maketh them, and almost mirth. First see the scene where your sad pilgrim-lad Had wandered forth, and with me had intrined A plot of the more fruitful field which God So very modulated, so contrived To play with flowers; where he had quitted them With his complaining e'en to the white rib And the young floweret turning in his sight To weave them up in colours like the lilies New-woven in the eternal garden-bed. That spot so safely, in this very land Which he has left he should not gain the journey, But all the distance he would wander now Is made to meet him by necessity, And so by chance has challenged him to range This lake, his reason not being overcast; Yet I have known him of the poorest and least In our whole history. Though his noble head Be shorn, the Prince of earth will claim a crown Already wearied from his mortal lot, Because he lives, and, leaving Rome alone, Rome is his due, since Pompeius was his slave. A patriot soldier of that faithless race Himself has left in fainter victory As the famed martyr of his country's cause, With boundless arm and purpose firm as truth, By faithful acts of friendship for a time, Now in his blood his loyalty is gained, And the great task achieved. Yet to thy son The hard condition of the death awaits The worthy wife and duteous wife: the dead Are parted by the obsequious hand which gave Their Romans battle to the Roman fates, Crying, "Woe to the regal Roman state! Where was the prosperer of the Roman state? Where was the foreign conqueror?" "O Sun! thou light Of this poor life of soldiery. O thou Who know'st the present, thou of milder power Thus mindful in thy radiance to behold The deeds which man had wrought for Caesar's fall, Let no such handful of rich Dead be thine; But let thy first-born Florentines combined Be strong in this ======================================== SAMPLE 678 ======================================== in gross display; Whose dews would have been reddening Before the rising moon was o'er, Had he not left it now To tell of Day's return, and the familiar scene, That is the Day of Come! When the leaves are falling, And the winds be mute, When the curlew quick falling Hath struck a parting thrush, And the early violet, On its dewy wing, has passed, And the clematis mourn, Bending low, with gentle hand, O'er the world's rude strife, That the pure and chaste heart Never yet could understand. When there's a warm, soft heart, Which can do no wrong; When its pulse is young, And its pulses are strong; Where its palms are placid, And its leaves are calm, It will stoop with a sadness Over the world's rude strife, And from out its cold tears Will be swept away, Like a little white star In its heaven of blue. And when sunset is past, And the day-star ends, And its pilgrim hath passed, It will clasp a blessed hand 'Gainst its heaven of friends, And its angel shall call O'er the grave where it lies, With a loving kiss,-- Nevermore to rise From the graves where it sighs. In the bosom of space When life's battle is o'er, Where the soul's life hath birth, Where it hath no graves, On the bosom of space When the world rolls from shore to shore, It will bring its strange story, Of the world's doomed to wander no more; And the soul that was rich once, And lived long and dearly, Shall never wither nor droop, But rise at the call of the dawn, And soften its visages lost, And be born again, though the fight be o'er, As in old times before. When he who can shape The depths of being,-- Lo, from the busy world Doth man's rare wisdom flow, Not lost in woman's thought, But rich in beauty's deed,-- In thoughts refined As in old time designed, To cheer and sympathize The heart and mind, It will arise and soar To light and cheer Each dark and riven sphere, And through the azure deep Of thought to soar, And soar to light and sound Through death and dark and day Up to the stars of night, Up to the powers of Night. May comets be tremendous,-- Like the lightning's flight, Or the whirlpool's spray, Or the sea-foam's fiery Rolled out forlorn Of all its former might, Like the ghost of a light, Or the first ray From the troubled skies of night. May midnight send Its spirit forth to thee, With gorgeous visions bright To make all nature leal, With thoughts that charm thee, With golden dreams that swell To a peal like bells of gold, And tell thee, sweeter far Than comets are, May the Year's chariot bright With a glimpse of his planet-light. May the pulsings of this be As the cloud of Heav'n asunder, When brightening ere it wanes, With a deeper glow than ever, And an All Souls in one, To sing and to pray As never yet lived sound, Though the selfsame way they made, And many a quick heart's history, By the same child be knotted fast, The same light, at times, consuming, While the power and ardor meet As ever it should light the street,-- A thought of that Power which unbinds The stars and their music, too. Like a hoof of steel on the shield Of a hell-bound world, Far beyond star and wave, Where the Power who shapes The chains of the world, On his standard of fire, When its chains are forged, Like a flash of steel, Which the bolt has forged, Into deeds with an uttering motion, He hews down and down, By his own majestic stature, Falls the warrior down, Like the thunder-cloud, Gathering fast in the blast, Like the bomb of doom, Whose battle-cry comes From the heart of the Lord, In answer to his calling, In word and word and deed, Through fire and flood and smoke, Drawn in a ======================================== SAMPLE 679 ======================================== Here's a man-at-arms with a lion-heart. He hangs and writhes; he has spoiled our gold, We'll make him captives; and must we? no? Not till our women walk in the way of pity We'll pass them by in our business; Nor till we write in God's own holy book I wonder sometimes if they look In some grave way at our threatened hell; But now, when walking on the whole world, You've shown how mad we are with pride, Away we fly, our vengeance to control Over ourselves, in every part We hate, because we want men's hearts: And what of that? My merciful God, That such weak tyrants should be strong? No, not in battle; when there came Ambition from the hearts of men Touching the height of woman's shame, We mocked the ill she had done her share: The zeal she had not won is there; She leaves the doubtful burdens there Among us; for we die to share The grief we suffer, but not dare, The loss we merit, but not dare, To watch her as she steps ahead Alone, in doubt, because we lead A blind life into blind death. When shall we see, then, that this earth Is not our friend, our grave, our grave? 'T is but a little child of birth, Born to contend with circumstance, Unpractised; happiness unspent; And yet if we see what is, We cry out for the little life Which we might purchase with a knife If we would purchase with a knife. Behold how short a time we have! A moment more, or may be, this: It cannot hold a life, or live; And, if we deem the struggle well, We die like children, standing here. As children say, there's some strange fate We cannot bear, but by this chance, Our steadfast purpose to fulfill, A few slow hours would soon be killed; It must be so; the end we sought, But by this we may not be undone, Because we are not children yet. We are but children: look at them, And you will see the little man, With eyes on the earth like grey clouds, Ripping his beard as if he smiled, Solemnly smiling at the end. He said: "And this is he, fair, Who for a kiss bestows A lonely soul, dear, tender, brave, To learn a world of woe, To know the depths of every grief, Of every fear and pain, And watch and save as long as may, For life is bitter-sweet." He showed his love in awful words: "Forgive! If any brave man wrong Your little earth-born children's lot, I give you mercy, hear you meek, Until you call me by his name For ever, on your lips! And if your heart be keen and weak, 'T is pity when you beg For Life; and I will answer not, Without an answer, but shall live; That tho' your prayers, from first to last, May teach me to forgive, Yet I am patient, sweet, beloved, While your eyes burn me as the stars burn On sunset mountain brows. "A kind God gives his gifts: An earthly jewel, that none may be; A grave, where all may rest, An unblest world, not yet so little, But one eternal rest; The richest of earth's fancies, The violets and rose-tinted cresses, The pride and vice of all the world's Desirable halls, Where many a man may wonder after One with the queen, the earth's best lover, The shepherds of the sheep, The loveliest and the lightest man Who gives the love with which God's nature Is rapture unto Heaven. These gathered from the far north-west Three Kings had sate together, And the youngest, Herve Riel, best poet Of what song is most rare, Reared up her head in royal state, And sang how she was crowned; And how, when at four years old She should be to this day rearing A fairer crown than a king's crown, And her triumph was Joy. With this thought, then, she was crowned A king becomes more great; For this day the Prince of Peace was crown'd A king becomes more great. That the youngest, Herve Riel, might sing Of a ======================================== SAMPLE 680 ======================================== known. It is the evening hour, the year begun, When at its stillest depth, with nimble flight As if it felt the breeze Bearing its fragrant flowers Among the leafy bowers. To such a scene 'tis drawing nigh, When England's glorious flag of fire is flung High o'er the stormy waves, As, on her mountain crags Beneath the deep blue waves, Again the banner floats Where England's flag was unfurled When Justice, her protection proved, Like the protecting hand of Heaven, Upon her people's darkened land Is moving with the help of far Her clouded throes, and through her cloud This scene, I think, will take occasion For embalmed in their firmament; When arm for arm we glanced, And, from the field's green nooks, Descending aimlessly With bow and javelin bent Above the banded ramparts, Like azure flowers in heaven's field, With crimson buds of heaven. 'Tis now that just one hundred years Have passed away, Since first across the mountain ridge Our fathers' steps were stayed. By the blue waters of the deep Those martyrs art thou; They now are prisoned in their graves, Roused from their sleep below. Where shall the rover find his grave, Where shall he watch and weep? Oh, perish the hearts that gave His early youth to Heaven! The oak is overgrown with years, The cedar rears and hoary rills That o'er the vale at evening fall, From off the mountain rains. For them he sought a brother's grave, A brother's hand had severed been From theirs, and soon his widow'd name Went down into the world unknown That men call Caradoc. And thus it ran. In after days His brothers laid him in the earth, And reap the fruit that waits for them, In after days. The mists have gather'd o'er his head, His golden locks have fall'n; His hand has knitted the gray moss That bound his embryo-place, And now he lies in the rude man's bed With the fair tresses of the Blest. A shower of tears hath o'er his form Caught, like the rainbow's play, The music of a thousand songs, That told how Time lay dying by The prison where the young heart beats. Who will forget the mists that on His brow hung like a pall, Or mark the shadows that his locks Darken in moonshine? When twilight came, on fragrant flowers, In early spring, and on his locks The dews fell down; And from the light o' the sweet noon, As it seemed to fold his form around, A brighter light was found On the dark streamlet's watery bed, Where the young heart beat. The flowers are sleeping in their nests, The young dreams in their beds, The old wife nestles by the fire, With fondest heart he feeds, With his own sateless toil to sit, And wait the dying flame. Slowly the streamlet ebbs away, As if it sought a grave; Then far below the prison-wall, Through the iron skies o'ercast, Like the last hope of earthly things, Like the new song of the soul's birth, It died on earth. The shadow of his cowering life Darkens the sunshine of his mind, As twilight brings the day; And with a soft, unquiet sweep, That brings the hour of peace, The old-time fragrance that might steal The tears that then were ours, The wistful tenderness of love, The old delight of flowers. He smiles, as one with fond farewells Had gathered to his heart, The golden solace of his smiles, The virgin bloom of Spring, And all the Poet's tears and sighs Of sorrow are his own. We hear his tender, winning voice, We see his loving eyes, We seem to listen, as we look, To the light o' the skies. From "The Burnings of the Poem" he wrote a poem invariably for "The Wide-sea sword" is distinctly replanted. The following one was in the first. Mr. Gordon was of the opinion that this poem was a somewhat deliberately the original being introduced, but with no ignorance. His poetic tastes were petted. Mr. ======================================== SAMPLE 681 ======================================== aid me to conduct thee to him. Thou wilt be godlike as thy parentage, Thy time of youth and strength is now at hand, And the sweet peace of happy, noble birth Now spread through every land, sea, vault, and vault From thy fair bosom to the shores of light. Go then, and with fresh bridal honours grub, Give the best honours, and go beautifully clad; Do what thy father deigns thee to expect, And dare the deed in words of power immense. To show thee where thy brothers and thy wife Will intermix. But first before my sight Let Ráma and thy brothers offer thee Now rites to reverence due. The sage will lead Our progress through the wood, as rules ordain. Take then thy sire and all the vaunted name Of all the Vánar thralls; and he who reads All this shall know thy doubt and well proclaim. For he who fills Kauśalyá’s name with fame Will gain his wish, but falter in his search, And tell thee all the evil haps that wait On spirits vile. Go, hence, and cull the fruit Of tears and taunt and taunt, and make thy peace With these thy friends. Then, by the powers of Earth Offended, by some evil demon driven To the wild waste this is the most we cherish; This is the science thou, O Prince, hast spurned, This is the realm to which thou condescerest. And now, my Prince, we must not yield to words The counsels which are ours and ancient friends. Spirits, a thousand other envoys hence, That he would bring his own victorious sway, Shall meet this demon of the earth and sky, And rain his foes through seas, and drench his shore. Then, since the three are loved, farewell, and go, And when he dies shall all our household be; Then, honoured King, receive this saint a God, Nor let our flesh ’gainst every evil gnaw For his rough touch to bind and make them bleed. A little space, thou best of men, we heed: So let the seasons, and their whims, and dreams, While they go forward fill our spacious plain, Our Tárpoles’ battlements gainst us attain.” And from the moon’s pure beams, that heavenward rose With many a splendour, ne’er could lither go, The Vánar chief, sore troubled, sent his spies That sought the grove of Jupiter, his foe. Scarce could the Father of the Maithil dame With anxious prayer her purpose understood, And to the Gods and mighty saints and sons His winged words that spake in sweetest wise, “To every dame, O mighty Hanumán, I go,” he said, “with thee, most honoured man, And seek thee, by thy noble gift, agen. Grant thee, if wandering in the wood I seek, One only boon, one only boon I ask. Not mine, I ween, thy searching search and force, Nor do I dread the task which thou hast made. To gain thyself by labour easily, By skill and guile, thy king and thine aid, Willing from infancy to come, a while, And then, with purpose and intent to aid, For prosperous things thy spirit shall endure, And spring, O chieftain, to thy native shore.” To this the Vánar prince with ready hand Replied, and gave to him his glorious lore. Then from the gem-wrought braid, the golden twist Of auburn tresses clasped, he brought the gold And glorious ornament of wreaths and dyes, The gems, the precious liquor, and the pies Of purer gold and purer water brought, Then on the ground he lay and placed him down His anxious eyes. Then on his stalwart arm The golden axe the monarch’s order placed, And with his knavely hand his bow inlaid, And forth to meet him ran the ample prey. But when he came in wrath the leader flew, Latched by his callous eye and active too, And still with hope of conquest still he burned On to his secret cell he bade the best Of tower and town the demons’ might assuage. Then Ráma thus: “O hero of the dames, Look, Ráma, and let Lakshmaṇ guard thy side, ======================================== SAMPLE 682 ======================================== ; And all the o'er-joy'd fools that saw A sights which make a dying man All pampering like the rest below; All hearts like silken tunics hung, And all the omen of that go-- The incense in an aged wood, To which the sound from midst them drew, As when the frothy winter's raw In angry thunder slumber went. In peace 'twas some monastic zeal, Ne'er by sly foes it suffered: A bear or red-deer, a heifer, A four-toothed tiger, a wolf courser, All breathed as though a deity Of Nature, Nature's one true gift, Of man's frail elements,-- Life, and all life's chief joys of that, That want is given to quick-love's wonder, And that the joy of life's joy under Is new; when hope and knowledge stirring, And Life ripe for a new-made morrow Seem from this scene to spring anointed. That mocking tone, that aneagre eye Stopt with a far too deep surprise, That midst a lightning's ominous flash, Like lightning from some cavern grim Struck by a fig-tree bulwrought deep, That pillowed rudely 'gainst the steep Threatens, who thinks 't was Virtue's deed To buy its way o'er the abyss; Whose thought's black morning on that bough, That just commends her pensive brow, And shakes the branches with her hand For once a belted sister strand 'Twixt blue sky and dark water-plain. Thine is a love like heaven to us, The breast of noon and heaven's blue; The soaring sun or his bright fire Ascends in silence, glad and late, As the dove's murmur on our charge, As, to refresh us, Earth's great charge Grows as the beauty of the dawn; Our little joy we dally on, But the thrill of the Love Divine Can pierce the soul to penetravit deeper, The mystery can mingle with the sense That nourishes, and fruits, and fern, And rivalling breeze and frost and morn, The birds, the undying things, Can ripen more than these. Let the eye of man be made, The crescent moon will pierce its shade, The earth its heart's own core will mask, And, heaven-defying, steep and crisp In wonder its reclining breast, The populous heart will be confessed With but its inmost, do not shrink, That yet so nobly works its trap. O fie upon the breath of spring! O beggar's marrow in its whiteness! Blow, hoar-frost, spare its inward breath, Thy stormy couch is soft and cold, Thou who didst deify and bless Him who didst all things once inform With thy life's love and deifyment, Thy breath's pure balm, and o'er it shed The breath of heaven-fraught piety. The old books were full of sunshine and of singing, And I who think the Poet when his Art is taking With delicate adoration to the sky Has found with poets nowhere else to grow, But still of one who might come in to mind things past: When, friends of mine, the world calls forth, Within the world's sweet morning air, And all things grow more beautiful Before we know what's real. When Day was really past away Did I behold the bright moon's ray, And in my joy of late I found That sun had sunk into the west; And there, so strange a marvel done, I sought again the boon I sought, And with contented ignorance Beheld my Poet as it was. Then did I make my Poet's name The word of God, the work of fame, As passing through the world to tell How soon he was become His own. The poet's fate in many a ground, His skill, his men, his wisdom profound, Had made a home on such a day, As needs must keep for evermore. I knew where once he wandered long, What things he evermore did wrong, And what would happen if he knew The land where he was first brought to. I knew by chance, this evil night, He fled away and claimed his right, And if he still is with me still He does not give his liberty; My feelings with his song remind me That ======================================== SAMPLE 683 ======================================== , All that was in the Fuzzy's days. Yes! the Past We should look for to celebrate. In History's page We need not claim That in the page All that is in the Fuzzy's days. Old Rome the best Uplifted, with a woman's hands Outstretched in utter Lombard style, Beyond your city or next in reach; A Parthian princess from the South Puts forth, And greatly daring to be done, The Tiber's swans among. I view them now As rising from the fertil ground, But lest they be thought to be unbound; And see whereto their kings their "grain" drowned I have your vices too. We lift them up To their pure standard, strong and free; We bow at all their holy law, They have their leagues of sacred ease; Still would they fall, their altars rent, And die in pæans on the hill. Farewell! Farewell! Though nobly far our ashes rest, Our sons shall seek them in the West, They with their holy arms shall take Their fathers', children, on the hill. And take their graves, Taken for the sacrifice; Which I, if fain Some pilgrim's foot might track the sands Still would I preach, Though call'd unbidden to the lands Of Irak and of Libra. Unfix these gyves, or deign to prey Upon a Love that makes them grey, We whimper o'er the sacred page And scowl at prostrate men, I pray, myself, with pity voice, Let me atone For all thy bitter deeds and pleadings." To priesthood-ward the husking words Were as a morning's singing, When pious dames, Not fond of young, untaught to sing, Shall crowd the purpling choir, To speed their gracious King. In summer's noon, O'er hills and heath, With joyous breath, Thou still shalt come; By mountain, wood, or stream, Thou still shalt come. In winter's cold, When weeds and acorns are the spoil Of life and youth, When ripe and tall, In ice and snow Thou shalt be called: By lake and rill, Thou'lt truly go. O'er hill and dale Thou'lt wander free; For every vale In every sea Shall welcome thee. Thy feet by this Shall ne'er go wrong: If patiently Thou'lt wander thus, Thou'lt surely then. When falls the frost Upon thy heart, And long Shall we not laugh To see the frost. No more of frost, No more of rain; The birds shall sing, And martyred spring: And Christ will come. On the hillside's side, O'er frozen lake and marsh, He makes his shield, And death-like cries, "What can it be that ye cannot see, Who have heard God's word!" Borne on the tide Of storm and tide, The Church has cried Her weary of years, Singing it through At intervals Of sudden pain, Lustreency, sorrow. One so beloved Hath he; the loved Hath he; the loved Hath he; the loved Hath he. He fell at the feet Of white-maned angels, For falling never. And on such a night, Bearing his desolate heart That you did hearken, It had come to pass, Thinking to ponder, Over books, I should ponder, I should ponder, "What then was ere God Himself He made?" Then beheld he and saw, And also by that, His thoughts of the dear Lifting, burdening love: He thought; "From the ways Of earth here rises His peace, Throwing unceasingly, Like a spear therein." And the sun-dried cup Sparkled, when the sky Opened and had fled, As far back as I; Thinking, I could think, "What a blessed Lord Yon day did seem So desolate, so dark, The West, the warm Majors that went, With lips that knew Himself enthralled, And longing-faces wrung To wonderment divine. Sudden the ======================================== SAMPLE 684 ======================================== the dictate call From idle dream to thaw, from far away; Let not our friend picks up his vagabond: One virtue still, two burthens of command, Like poplars leaning on some mountain hand, Would our humility become our bane, Had we the right to let our neighbour see Relentless influence of this slack-ad reins And have his envy of us-what-so-e'er, That we outstretched shall thaw and eat again. There are two objects of which, howsoever deep In nature's plan, you'll have to read your creed; I dearly love the ground whereon I sleep, Who from such hours of confidence are banned. But let my friend the tree of knowledge win; He's like the mountain of his heart within. Now on thy wrist a bracelet let him place; Not that, but such as not its value tells; A gaud of gilded butter, blushing grace Let him not wear for an eternal spells. For we in perfect niggardness are set And bid to shiver at the chestnut's core, To which (tho' if our sweetest dish were yet Redden'd with fire, the fire had been before) There they are lavish'd, for the roving thought That steal men's hearts from candour and revenge, Nor yet in little purpose, since 'tis caught One moment to destroy them and destroy All those that ask, but see them still remain. If spirits could be more sublimely set, Above the narrow mental scope of this, Then 'tis enough to drive the fiends to net With subterranean subtleties. That we be taught the dangerous art of theft And the parable cunning of the beasts, By each step taking virtue's quiet way And thwarted passions by their quaint abodes, Is there to match the counsels of a friend, The arc of destitution's heavy loss? A snug repast, with social pleasures rife, To all that toil and travel would attend, We lent the unwilling boy to slothful peace, Content to live the hours and friendship's chain, Content with fortune on the shore of life, Content to serve the hind and hind again And with the abbess in the rank, like brew. The social virtues, all they're worth, Are antiquated in the strength of things. We had our faults on various things-- Ambitions trammel'd in the times before-- 'Tis strange we should not judge of things, Nor blush at much, the faults of more than one; Should Nature make her two, her sneers survey, Whate'er we need, we have the right to do. Should talents here be cold, and withered birth Admit our scruples, and our hearts and powers, Like the base pedant, should be tossed and die, And cultivate the beast, though dumb. Let Recollection call some men to wail Against the evils of this earth and frail; 'Twill shroud our nature in a mist of fear, Or shake our spirits, or the soul be dumb. Hail, sacred comer, that the sable-stoled, And with thy everlasting warfare pale! Welcome, O welcome, to our inmost core; Can thy divine foreknowledge e'er explore? Or hath the mighty Alquiver lent thee wings To find thy inmost purpose in the spring? Perhaps, 'tis death to ask; the secret springs Of the world's wisest, most unhappy things; But, if there be, O, what is worse than death? To ask which easily it should be given, Is heaven the greatest, by which souls are given; For, if there be, what ever are discover'd, Or what can never yet be call'd to show'rs? Good to thee, dearest, through life's little span! How glorious are the ways we tread on! Like the bright suns of heaven at night, We hail their revels in the morn of light; 'Tis heaven aloft to guide our feet To the bright pastures of the grove, Where all alone in silence walks, But if the dew of dawning flowers For us be sweet, how happy they! The visions of his youth, perchance, may give A zest to the fantastic thought they live; But not the lore which Nature teems, Not the rich gems of gold, nor pelf, Nor Poverty, nor friends of pride, Nor Poverty, nor friends of wealth, Nor friends with wealth and ======================================== SAMPLE 685 ======================================== ,” and he pronounced The many a copy of his sacrifice. And dying thus in order old and young He said; “In one and every ornament The pledge I gave you to possess.” “Let no man hearken To lore of magic art or science lowly.” The Patriot was content; and now the mien Which tells of that within the Psalmist lowly Appears some judgment worthy to be done. “Thou bidst me,” said he, “to plead against it,” “And claim this truth of Christianity.” Then in his presence rose the heart and firm, And said to him that further speech he gave Concerning holier mysteries untruth. In serious conversation too the question Resolved itself, nor any matter whence. And on the third and fourth of all alike He craved a vent to vent himself. With him And other men thereon. “’Tis so.” “Yea.” the Palatacian said; “Why did’st thou change thy face from off thy breast, “And be a Knave?” “There lives no one who scorns the palm.” And with his right hand, shutting out his lips, He sneered, “on that laconic.” “No.” “I have seen him once-- He has come--to hide away the truth!” “At his command I wait.” “Nay,” falter’d Stalah out, “His flesh still weak, upon my sword to hurl.” “Thou pointest thy hand and shrink’st away, “Thou clumsy knave! to curvet a hand against The law of other men.” “Art thou so lonesome? hast thou eyes so closed, “As if thou hadst no eyes in thy best frame, “On an unquiet heart? “Tis well.” “Nay,” falter’d Stalah out, “I cannot bear, “To seek the noble knight whose worth I scorn, “And save his body from the brand of shame “Which I have quitted:--ask of me the one “That’s prest so near me.” “Oh! I’ve no eyes,” the palatach cried; “They fail not for my eyes.” “Thou shalt not question of thyself “Nor of the other meeds.” A moment listen’d he; And sore dismayed and silent stood the crone That tied her in her soot. It was no marvel then His sovran might have trembled on his feet. But her, because ’tis known Her Master was her Master, go not back, And trust his loss to learn. The oxen cower, The bees have power to blow. Then take the oxen, The herbs they love renew. The stars will shine On foreign fields. So shall my watchman be, Embolden himself; till he return, I’m a poor lonely man— I will return, Where I have taken them, On my red brother’s grave. “Nor praise they him,” the Frenchman cries, “His Master so far slain, who left no pledge. “Had any ask’, the carcase I should quit “And here remain.” So pass’st thou, lady soft, O’ercome thyself,” she cried; And sighed—“We ne’er shall meet again.” The maid was heedless, faint, Though like a flower, it bloom’d; Her joys he knew not—yet, To his dread idol he must go, Where on the field’s green bosom lay, His dying parent lay. He said, “A noble heap of gems “Is in the field I placed: But here are store of pearls—my breast “Full often is defaced.” “’Tis wealth bestow’d on distant lands, “But poor men’s humble graves— So hankly will he serve me still, As now to thee I make my will.” But ======================================== SAMPLE 686 ======================================== sin! Behold this man! Him Among the dumb in spirit. Godlike spirit! What love commands thee here, who, desolate And silent, deems himself in God's high presence? Beloved Son! To thee the suppliant begins, If thou wouldst 'scape the lions in their maw. Castorim's men of old, Castorim's race, And Tyro, his progenitor, obey! Castorim! thy voice is very sinister; A lion wholly is thy girdle fair; A tiger's tail is his, a tiger's paws, And that which bore thee, knows this haughtiness. Castorim's wife (Pluto and all the gods, Which dwell amid the green on Tirial's slopes) Thou knowest not, but thou shalt straightway see The fire-ships of the Germans flying far, With Caesar's aid and Simon's, heroes'-blest. Castorim's heroes-blest, after thee come Into the town, with scanty space between; Where on the road from the mart-porch Freeste They gain the city; there they will await thee; Thou, too, shalt be a sharer in the mass. O Simon Magus! do thou, gentle Clio, Not to lay hands against me, but to open The wooden vessel on the funeral pyre! I too would sing a littleve to thee Where I was born, and of my own free will There shall he make me Master, who did fill The instrument which shall outlastingly All else but Fire! - Thereafter shall he set His high creation, the sure aid required Of all the Gods, Oete, and the divine Affection, that assures us that there lives No high desire, who can achieve and bear What Nature gives, and least who most gives place. All Nature, unto thee a woman sings, Thence the mere name and dole of the old place; As far as human voice, or human feature. Nor can she think of Man, nor feel his fire. Her voice, perchance, methinks, can not be mute. She hath not aught to tell her yet of thee; The sound thereof is as the wind among the leaves; The scent thereof is odour and warm air. Another voice, O Beatrice, strikes Upon her ear. The moon hath fixed her course, And on the soul of man; and, wondering, It saith "'Tis Man, and is God, and is God." Whereon the shadow of the Holy Ghost Lifts it, and up from the convent towers It rises, the divine Convolvulus, Called from the vision of fam'd Elpsie, Sages and them who now in dust shall lay, Like the first canto in the song renown'd! Thenceforth our verse unites again, and we Another voice call forth, "Depart, depart:" And, that immortal voice as forth we go, One sings amid the universal song, "Behold the man who brought the Word to man! Beginning from the first, the perfect end Of all man's art, the daughter of the Word Brought after him. The moon, as now, was hers, Yea, and the sunlight of the highest stars. The star that rules the day and night obeys Her fixed commands, and, from the west, enshrines The darkness of her brow and breathes the stars. Through every age, from every age, from every world, From her beginning, every race, is driven Her sidelong glances; ever, where the suns Grow dusk, or when the falling west wind swells, At zerner's touch they rise anew; anew Following, and thrill the soul in that new zone. There is a virtue in the mighty law, A force that shapes the universe; and now I see beyond: those spiritual spheres, Fields for the wanderer to afflimate, And shepherds to the place where God appears. There are such times, as, when a foolish dream Crept by, and at the sudden rush of life Held forth and touched the regions of the dream, I saw along the midnight of the stars That are a secret in the breast of night. Gulbeyaz took her flight from height to height; I followed; but in fear I turned to flight; The stars had learn'd to be the same one night. Oh, gifts from heaven! O secret miracle! You, and the world, may ======================================== SAMPLE 687 ======================================== -- They hated us for what he wished us dead. Our dead are sleepers. We were the men that marched away From fathered Flanders to the flowers, Where she had kept the powder drill and powder's scorch. Back to the men from hut to hut Swept the grim reality: We bore the bell, we conquered yet, Here in a kingdom of the snow, And there was born an army. Our people won the world at last For freedom of their spears. Now there's another banner: Our race has found a mighty king, We lift the drum of terror and of death, We tear the snakes from tombs away, The very workers sleep in chains, And they are shot withbolts. The terror of the work has passed, The beasts are running like the blast From grass to flowers. We knew, we guessed, the blood would stream Out of the mouth's red rose: The blood has looked for blood; but we Had hands and feet of doves like these. Our children had the signs to keep; We could not see them. So when the troops were troop to work We heard the bugles ring and hack More on the front than on the back; And forth we sprang to meet the foe As from black smouldering chimneys blow A storm of bronze; And arms were lowered, and the sky Was like a storm in storm. The secret of the sleep is ours: The right to dream and dare. Oh ye who take the chance to be strong and true, Who turn the shattered mill-stone into a jelly; And ye who climb the rugged mountain height, And think, "Were Judas risen he were not in sight." Who gazes for a moment at the sky, And in the sunlit field looks up at you. Who saith that God is home to men? It seems the world went drown. Yet Judas is the same; the soldier may Turn his cold eyes and turn his eyes from you And march to meet the foe that sends his way With lips that shrink from triumph in the blue. How long can we be musing over bleak Or through the bright fields breaking in red gold, That we may honor those who come no more? To feel our blood when we should come to stand Ringed in rebellion at the vast command. To be not brave and not not of steel; We'd glory in it, glory for it more. We're what we make of glory. I could take a turn from Dixie's land, And break off in the sea. I could stay from work and take a part And run through tangled woods for fourteen years And ne'er forget my wife. But when the soldiers came with muffled ears To break off guard I heard you call, It made me hot. It was one of the icebergs, I stood like a frozen corpse in cold, But I didn't move. I went and laughed to find them And beat their dirty heels against the seas. But I was dumb, And laughed to find them so. I told them with a monkey's ways I tried to talk to them, But he put his finger into my two blue eyes And said, "I knew you"; For he picked the glint And poured it into them And held his hand before me, He said, "I knew you." I can forget what man would do When all his work was done, And the dirty clothes he'd put on, And the dirty pipe that smelt so bad, And the dirty kid that won. When I was young I went away And my wife was sitting on the floor; She'd comb andette and sprig and churn The black scarp from the broken ash. I am afraid. But I'd take the boy, To be a good wife, and my best, And mother's best, And that war somehow, And not everything, And not everything, And not everything but my home, And that childish loving way, And the dreary way That no one can say That my heart is going to the end. I can get away from home And I can find rest, I can find peace after all my work; I can meet despair and poverty In the little hollow room. The walls have grown so thick, I can see the shadows And I'm growing thin. I must leave the mother's work. It's so ugly now; I should like to go and sit To-night beside the fire, And feel ======================================== SAMPLE 688 ======================================== , The prison keeps for him: he stands at bay. The penal laws and all the loose creation Give the man flight for liberty, But the mother hears the cry, and waking Leads her to her old accustomed sea That toils for him through prison. On her brain Her trouble comes--her words are blind and vain. There is no liberty she can't obtain. Each line she throws away encounters him Are the frail barricades the world has lost That with this desperate fight may bind her back. Or if it does, 'tis he, who fiercely cried, "Help! save your country save your king!" There is no freedom she can't marry him, A man for her will be far too free, Yet all who husband freedom, comfort, love, And all who follow him can die like her. She is the fairest of them all, the sweetest. Injustice blows defeat behind her. She has no other foe than hers. No other. My darling, a man of this character, Is the sweet twilight flower. A violet's bosom, and a drinking-cup With roses crowned and golden, unto her The summer of my life had flashed a doubt. She stood there dreaming, holding out The dreams and faces of a cautious nation. She stood and gazed, with eyes upon her beauty, As one who slumbers with a foolish face And cannot sleep; but in her heart a fire Of passionate, keen, unfaltering love for her. She looked up at the border of the hedge Which a low wall of brushwood and worn people Made daily, by the slow, broad downward wall. She stood there watching, waiting for the moon To leap the path she knew. Above her head The web of hazel and of coppice cut, And overhead the paper leaves stretched out To let the squirrels scamper through the shade. The scent was fresh and fine. It was the wind That brought me here to see my lover, A-list'ning to the things he told, and thought They must be somewhere else I never Have seen again since morning. I throw the door. "That's a fine piece!" It hits me hard to death. My own, my dear; We're back--I'm sick to death. No hope have I, No love, no courage, no desire, no power To keep me happy in this open world. My thoughts were far too small to reach the door Of welcome for your daughter, there I sat Still watching in the glamour of that struggle Which yet is greatest in the heart of love. Where now the welcome that you clasped me Is not a heartless sorrow. In the night I shut my eyes. If I could rise, Then I could reach the door Of love's enchanted forest, and no thought Of its wild minstrelsy appears to me. It strikes me wildly, like a knock upon Its ancient hearing, like a magian That listens to the voice of the departed. Perhaps some bright-haired saint, Of little wing, or rosy countenance Visits his beauties, or in dewy dream He sees an elfin face of living light Upon a wooded hill, or clouded pool Still lingering on its slope, yet not afraid Lest it might be discovered from its covert. Come with me to the place of meeting her. Where is the brook, the tiny waterfall, That made the wood so gay, the river flow So smooth it near the deeps it seems to me To almost make me fly across the deeps? Oh, come with me, because I've swept its banks, Where the old maple-tree grows yonder, and the wet May flow to meet the deeps, where all things smile, And murmuring brook, it often cools his voice Until it flutters from your soft blue eyes, And turns into a glorious moment's rose. The sweet black clouds along the mountain-side Will shed a silver glory round the hill, When coming home at last, they rise again, Full-faced and full of strength and fastening Around its edge. And all the being is glad, As if no cloud, no veil had made them glad! O rare and good to be at rest Among the broad, the mountainous expanse Of heaven, where the winds blow hard and fast, And God lies stretched out like a tall thin figure. The fragrant flowers lie in wait for us, We cannot come; they send us all their showers. They are not ======================================== SAMPLE 689 ======================================== the scents from other lips Of birds and bees of bloom; With hands half-hid, they kiss the leaves We call The Happy Doe; Yet when it is aware, a blight Is making the mist of rose and white. And then there comes a quiet spring, Full of the pains of work; A life of peace, with any ring Of pain or of the spoil. Beside the glad horse in the wood His day is set at work, And those who search the wood for food Are gathering in a bower, And with the noon-tide shine the shine Of love's unwavering fire. And thus, O Love! the elder world, The far-flung heart of Earth, As free of triumph as the mirth That rings it in your laughter, Unsought, unscarred and lonely, Beneath your seeming worth, Begat and fruitful and filled With thoughts of what life is. The lovely things, The passing things, The galleons and the bell-bird's wings, The spreading red and blue, The flashing tops and Graces And graces of you, To deck a higher place Than that your eyes are privily To wholly see. For these are sights that are So visionary and complete And unreal, as it were, But to the mind's still wonder meet, A trifle in a scene so sweet; A forest so quaint, yet so sweet, So delicate, So dark, so dense a thing As seems an paradise With charming shadows of the wing, Till in some far-off strange world apart Unselfish discerases play, So vague, so sad, so sad! The dreamer, he, who then had wept The breaking heart, he stood Still looking on. The damsel kept Still vigil, though the day drew nigh; Its virgin blackness like the sky Veiling its white, proud plume. And so, through every dream they crept, From morning sun to noon, Along the dusky stems which crept, Till half-way to their daily work They saw the vines climb. They climbed beyond the noise of town, They climbed till into woodlands brown Came mole-cliffs looking down; Then iron-cliffs arose, and then Once more the woods began again, Till downward turned the red sun's beams Upon the footprints of the streams They made the path of man. They marked the Creature far below On the eastern crags of Wan, Where one tall fir-tree stood; They marked the morning cloud arise, The grey east set afar, Until at last, within the woods, It climbed, and flew away. But now, the river crieth loud As all its course they know, It sweeping past them in its spray, Till they came to a water-view Where a beaver carved half way, Where, spinning on his quivering back, A jonquils peeped below. It crossed the river for a while, To catch the wild wind's skirl Where, leisurely and close at once They lay as if they neared. One morn, out in the middle Of the long day, they saw The first faint image of a smile, That sat upon their sight. As the sun's disk hung low Above a grey old castle wall, Tall towers arose and swung around, A terrace of the crown. The castle portal stood there close, With half-hid Tyrian vane. Its sumach-like entrance, as in cold, Hung like a sea-weed o'er; A dim half-light between The doorway and the door. Through each long passage thro' the hall, By pause or pause they made; An antorician face of pall Looked up, a sign they made. Through twenty chambers then, about The end, at times, they past. And seeing them close by, again They rose to cry in dread, "The hand of God is on you there!" A knell of fear was on their ear. In sheathing of the dead, They grovelled to the ghostly room, And open'd there some large, white dome That held three or four mansions grim, Before her, like a throne; Then dimly through the open door They saw a presence in. "How came you here, brave Norman?" She answered; "How came you there? A haggard, grey old ======================================== SAMPLE 690 ======================================== Oudyk, ividey, that shines out In a crystal crystal fountain, There lives not a king that can dine With a sumpter and fiddlety, sir, As it is. To live Is the riddle my grandmother says, Why this life is so bitter For her?--For her?--A dead man or two, Is the riddle of the riddle, Which I do not know. You men that have ruth on the case May rue it, O sadly, And each mortal as you salute And send them their tickets back-handed, Into the press! Unhappy culprit! returned from Doomed to be Hellen's decorations; And there she has been, and there she Has sat, and three times has sat, And for ever sat. And we say, if the deed is done, What recompense shall be left, If the tale is true? No,--no,--it is only a lie, And that very thing. Your wife? She was rather exuberant, But now she's so old and erudant As to object for the wicked swords, When he goes to bring them at a close, Then nought is his, as a matter of course; Then how d'ye do with his bratrum? So may she who once has been a queen Be rankly the first in place, and been A queen both in rank and in name To the sinister Honour of the man, And that other one. But God is as here in his auld borough With the besotted poor in affliction Who call down the good man to the service, And the one from the old question's thrift, And now and then send off the dog-box; And the law and the yong and the abbit for all The bonus, and th' infamy, and the wrong. Then laugh at the lazy, romping thousands, Who buy beer with the spendthrift millions Of men so feared of a purse and a rattle, And though in their pockets they'd often be But a war-bug, and other things of the making They've cheapened a rasher, and they're not worth a mairing. While the hog is a widow, and have, and have not, But if you will give what you're after they'll have, Then stamp and have mercy. The case is bad. They say there is reason,--to which they'll give The poor souls that perish for want of living, And how we may help them--in paltry way We cannot live without candles and playing. When I was a lad, And wore the yellow cap, I lost a dear lass, But lost a dear lass-- And there's a cackle on the gable-cock, And that's a damn damn tough job. For lads like you Should always be To hear the voice of lads who are to work But the cock wouldn't crow nor the crickets jerk, Nor the fire nor the snow crust make, Nor the hen-wife say 'Tis time to play And the trouble gets soot from without Some one I met I never saw, But get the ag'in Somehow or not. This not the lads Or the boast of a lass, But the lads and the lads with the brat-coat At the vice I pass, When the honest and the brave From the fields come on To the girl I left behind Is a weaver a young spendar, I'll sell for sixpence a'. If you'll let me know where I'll buy A bit of a' the stuff, I'll laugh and go, I'll hap ye here for a glass of beer When I'm taking to that show. They've made me rich, I never saw a show; But whether he's a thief or no I'll swear 'tis bare and so. But if it's a' to pay, I'll hap ye here for a glass of beer When I come home, And banish the foemen four, I'll never leave yon house behind, To tell the truth, But be ye as good a knight As ever trod Along the land of our King's Prentices When the bold Roos galloped. I am not rich, I am not poor, I'll never hope to be a poorer When the free flag is unfurled, For ======================================== SAMPLE 691 ======================================== -- But if you could have joined them As presents at some feast, You should see that this your meat was drawn in, Or drink it from the cask. Here, take my counsel, cool and free: 'Tis not enough to wash away The dishes of a churlish youth, Who, therefore, is not poor indeed. Then thou must dress, and so be dress'd. Ye learned men, now turn your glasses Upon a Christmas feast; And drink this welcome good to all The poor and wretched meet; Though plenty in abundance be, I do not touch your meat. 'Twas sure a good and wealthy fellow, In days of old, was poor; Yet who would be a Christian here If he had but a crust? Then let us all go with carols, And drown our joy and pain; And wait, until the rich are brought To stand by this kind fount again. If you may chance to bring supplies Of hollow box and china, And other sorts of pepper-cakes And hotchpotchies to me; When these kind ladies to refresh Your lubberhood, you readily Must be refresh'd and well supplied; But do not long appear so grave, And, if your appetite is fed, Yet once more take a seat, and dress With all becoming things your mind. The dumb was worse than tedious. From corners lighten'd straight and clean, Into the delicate palate-tick, The heartless flatteries of disease Would perish soon and disappear. How far would come this settled be, From those bright suns which did not see So much as now bright fields of air, So few and brave all others were! Fools wish'd they were but eyes; But what could they desire? They have been slaves and bought the gold And laid it on the shelves; So was this tyrant once more wise, And now is banish'd fools. The words that I have taught you Have no necessity; Nor yet can I, Because no man lives in you, And so am I. But 'tis an evil case, I say, With men to kill and slay: So, stick to gun and gun, I hold To this most hateful day. It was a year, and yet it was a year, One of December's sharps and sleet, That leak'd the corn in its old golden ear And bade the crop- rigs wild go wheat. And when the wintry tempest fell It had put on a hood of flannel, A patch of pantoor-cloth, a seam of slate, That seem'd to suit the country's heat. Thou that in season fit wert wont With hills and dales to roam, But now that Spring draws in the west To call the birds to home, Thou that at eve beginn'st to play The easiest sort of air, And with the birds thy notes display, And cheerful say, "I am the May!" Thou that with sports dost hope and fear The world will laugh and leap, And thou may'st pipe on hill and mere For joys that on thee fell, To hear the lark begin to mate With the woodlark sweet and mellow; For joy it is thou makes rejoice With me, the gladness of the Spring. When thou whom chance may bring to thee To catch one note of poetry, Think how thy spirits would be free, And not be weak to sing by thee! Brief words, like flowers, soon withered; As grass beneath the brook; As love and hope lie hid in death's Laid by thy golden brook. I would I were a hedgehog, Not loitering on my road; I would have mist or sun or moon The meadow to adorn, But who would pause to think of me And not smile on me at all, All meek and cheerful summer days, And merry month and mellow, When as to folk and fairs the mind Must speak, alas, and sing, As then I heard the dewy wind And now the mavis small Across the cherry bush Call in the still-loved hush. Ah, my dear Love! The best of all, To-day, this morning, I must go, To my sweetheart who must be A summer-march for me, And a soft-tined tent I see Where the primrose and the dove Bask in warm ======================================== SAMPLE 692 ======================================== you!" The window-sill up to the sea seemed a deep sea; its gurgling sounds Fell softer, as wind-cleft aconite, With one slow twining. "Oh, how I loved her! How should I fear For anything in life! She had died; She had died that she might come last year; She could live and breathe out life's pure breath With its blessing upon her. Oh, my Lady! My heart would be all that men live out Knowing that it be true. So I think it. Oh, love, how art thou dead! Thy whole life long Had not been restored; yet the restless throng That imagined thee not, but now turned strong To cast out life and go. Oh, thou luscious tone Of man's complaint! In the face of the world Can find no refuge, nor have the best friends Who follow in peril. The footpath winds Through the world, and the roses rain up tears On the grass. For a moment the whole thing swoons, As the storm leaves the rock. 'Twas a sensual trance, And, broken by faith and hope, it seemed as though The lids were dried and the lips began to quiver, As the free air or the earth new-breathes The gentle ecstasy. Our hearts returned To the dreams of youth. And the songs that we sung In the days long gone by. There are memories That thrill us again, and our hands seem healed, And our souls unite in the music they filled. Though we bind to the round of the world her locks, With the long hair gathered for angels' wings, In the hour when the heart is as warm and new As in youth 'twere whipped by the ocean wind; As the song that has struggled against the breast Of the world, and flung down at her feet the tear, And to nurse the thoughts which would risk her the rest. And then she was ready, and strained, and tried To rend their links as a string of pearls that sink Into foam. All eyes on the sea-bright surge Leap up at her as though each would give back The queenliest and crown of all gems. A cloud Of fire, a helmet of foam, thickly bound With broken stars, floated over her brow. And then she fell back on her couch and died. He died and she buried his heroes. For the grave would serve after his burial When he passed. And the deep night and the wave Wresting in his house, crept like a sea Over his body. All night long he slumbered, While the slow lapping of the water roused His pillows. Against a sky of purple blurs He lay withered. And dreams came by him on, In his dream, of that brilliant, death-like life, And of the moment: the stars would take flight From his eyelids, and vanish under the foam Of the waves. But dreams fade and perished. He lay Among the dead. I count my first-born: my first-born, By an age-long mourning for one Not over-sick of the term of years, Whose years could not wreak their fulness on me, Nor to any remind me of years I was growed; and I used to dig and smite My first-born with my cords of wedlock. No In that idle untidy way Was the story I told to my first-born. Nor in that prophesied would my first-born Be the prince I told to my first-born, In a dream not far from my first-born, Till the ruins and all of the past Would fade into dust and be put to the sea. Then again in the glory that hung Above me, then, long ago, I would light on another one's grave, And go back to the day my first-born gave, And the fight and the rest I'd lived for my life. But I cling and reivet, for the crown Of the hero-sceptre Time puts down, When its cloud of years shall burst Out of heaven: in the budded flower I would wreathe them and give them a breath Far as in days dead Lived the life that now runs on the sea, Death in the wild white flame, Death and life forever, that even I would go with the joy that now moves in me. And as that is the story I read, In the myriads of ghosts on ======================================== SAMPLE 693 ======================================== , with graver iteration!-- Yea, by the grave's conclusion, you Being, as you know, good temper, Ye being, being all-records,-- Unwilling, fair-famed fineness,-- Your pertic exertions, This devilish self-mastery,-- Folly for man's effect,-- All that immortal Weakness can want!-- Now, at your word, believe me, They will not slight Your Earth-borne faith Till time shall fit them, Ere they shall miss, in quite confusion, Th' indulgence and trust: But their most dearest Darlings--from them Their birth and death And their damning life To them, the joke Of the dull overlooker That fires his patience,-- Tho' he aspire His Glory higher Than e'er hell drew, His active mind And his max expense May measures out Of your continuance. But when his foe Turns back and weeps, And even Satan's self Shall lap his sleep, Fool--fool--you know he sleeps. At the sad Black Sea 'S not by cold kinship Is held the land. O the gallant war-captain So braved his fate! Himself like his gallant horse; And, in adust air, Broke the cable of his screws, And a deadly fish. But now, alas! when our gallant gallant ship Her due port safe shall safely land us, Her dreaded foe Shall baffle her design. Yet if it soothe thy valiant soul To give it battle, May God preserve her soul, And let her learn to fight! Fool--for the Black Sea Will soon her strength o'erthrown; We shall be weak to-day, Led by the Black Sea, Or if her strength are ours To bear it to its close. Who knows what boots the fight? What boots it to be beat? What boots it to be toil With bows and glittering gear, Until her vital breath, And life, and work, and death? Her "amic song" will ease The sore-bewildered mind, That feels not in the least The universal pain, And, fraught with such relief As, while she sits alone, Scarce breathes a word of tone. Her song is, "Chant the Word o'erladen To soothe the tired soul!" What boots it? when her task Is still, and still is bright, 'Tis aye to see before us gleams A kindlier, purer light! Her constancy's the driven proof Of heart-break bold, and true, And, can it be, she only swerves Towards us from the tide, Yet when the fatal wound is brought And he who bears it, even we Its mission cowers, And with some generous feeling, thought On their beloved sires, When their own country's wrongs are sought, O'er the pale waves shall wave, And to the judgement-cloud be brought Shall shrieking owls, inspired by Love, Take wing, and sound her knell! Long, long, shall bitter tears O'er thy loved form be shed; Oh, to the mercies that endure, And the infernal shade! Bid hope farewell, the tear Must leave me here to dry, Is aught but farewell all day Ought that is thine but I! Farewell, old, injured land, I leave thee now, farewell! Farewell, good friends, for more Is now my last farewell. Farewell, departed shade! When the sad news was said, Was made at home; before The friendly hand of John, I wrote these lines--'My dear, Let me in peace remain, That I may happy live By all the friends I have In this good world again. When fagots, fond of rule, Or the scourge of slavery, Or that of fierce command, Or that of lewd decrees, Assail our land in vain, Then, all together, say, Let me in time agree To rest in a safe-conduct That haply may express My sorrows to the best, And in this fancy vest Of a fast-sleeping guest, Farewell, farewell, Old Kings, I hope your eyes will see What a long-wished-for ======================================== SAMPLE 694 ======================================== (His muzzle is like kine, to catch the flies), He turns about, and with his paunch looks out, Toward the seas: the watchers cry, "To shore! He gains the land: behold! the Lord of Thunder!" They thrust him from the deck, and dragged him down Back to the sea, and landed on the rock, And knew that he had entered there for Caesar. Now, as they seized him, 'twas a sight of wonder; Strange Power, that led him by the way, in pity! "How didst thou drown him?" they are asked to tell. "A very little water," answered Drake. "But also, didst thou let him?" And straightway They locked him in a closet from the yard. The Lapland Spaniards sang a little longer, That seemed as if it were the latest weather, That great day of reckoning. Around them groaning Great tumults shot through all the sparkling air, And as their naked carcasses were plying The swivels of the tempest, with the hail Of rain, and hail, and rain, above the roof Streaming from out the grey-paved ship, they set To mewing, while the waggons mewed and cooed Black, huddling, out of the lightning, and from The crumbling wreck of that black ship the hulls Rent, instant, in the blast. Armado drew His hand on him, and on his breast a while It seemed to breathe, not even until the end. Then Drake turned round, and with a thousand fears Went forward; and they found, too late for all, A woman sitting on a deck with her boy, And they had found her, but the subtle power That cunning craft hath made her master of them Told to the last hour, at a wild voice of those Who under the towering waves lurked evermore, Rival of every mast and helm, that seeks A heart to burst it in the blast, but seeks A soul in its own peril, stormy and wild, Out of the wonder of the ways of men! He passed them, fleet as wind or wave, and laughed Above the slimy reefs, until they found His fingers, and they thrust him from the deck All in confusion on the kerb, and fled Far down the waves, till they had driven him Back to the sea. But, when they found him dead, And like a fallen Titan without colour Out of the lucid darkness, they threw His golden head, and plunged him to the deck. "Theodore, thou monster-crumbling, monster-snake! Lie still, and die! No fever burns in my blood; But, eaten and caked by worms, to lie! He may be fat for dinner, for a feast. His old wolf's hide is snowy as a mist, His chamois' spade is sunny as a cloud, His little table is most grandly set, His rattling glasses hold three water-pot, And, when he spits, he whips and scolds the hounds, 'Tis midnight, but I love him best of all!" We heard in the Garden of existences That death, which is only the thing we fear, Hath to a desperate furies brought of old At last, as he drew breath from the horrid fangs Of the hatred that gnawed at the heart of men. A decorous choir of menials, Not high or higher, Rose up in the midst of the din, And down the white floor to the roofs Of the market they came with the dead, But out of the gloom of the crowd they saw An Afreet pointed at, A dagger that gleamed and was filled With the red, green light of some slain King, And the red, blood-red banner that waved O'er him who struck the good sword of Liberty! In terror they mounted the ladder, and, ho! To the moonlit deeps of the wilderness, Winding on, they came in. Forth they came in, a-husk with the night, To the margin of mist in the waste-land, And from the West of the infinite sea In ho! like an up-gathering blast They sped, like a thousand phantoms, away. Through the heart of the dumb, gaunt blinded wight Flashed his glancing sword--"I am struck to death! I have swept out the works of the universe, For this is the lesson our fathers read In those old walls, and I ======================================== SAMPLE 695 ======================================== for sorrow's sake, Who has so much to bear? 'Twas God who loveth sinners here! A man might lift a corpse to show How high his deserts rose, How God was stern, and they were meek; Who sought him out, and you-- We pore on this; for who could grant A strumpet's privilege, With chance of sin, and chance of want, To come and set us free? Or--when you're nettled in the gutter, And thrown your faith in books, And poets kiss and blame your poet, Who has no word to do: To drop the curtain, or the curtain Till scornfully you're shut, When, with a wicked statecraft, he Will only shut his book. Meanwhile, I was in want of blunders, My Pegasus I proved, And thrust him from the rein, and rattle As I should roughly bide, As if I'd set him straight before me I'll make a stand in pride. As I would prove my trust is ample, My Pegasus I'll shake, And set myself to own that Heaven Which did my curse to take. If I should wrong the starry banner Which men military flap, And jewels that can idle lizards Or rats of fearful effect, That if the groaning boroughs should Re-echo my command, I'd write 'Ungi and all the band That did the wrangle thus, and stand All in the fiery way With modest cause to play; Tho' I should be an Ass With velvet head and golden heel, And gravel clad and every key Where peace should reign supreme. 'Twas me that led the way that led To dame and land in every deed, The barefoot bear, the red mane-ed And dog-and-bear with golden head And dog-and-bear with golden head, And wrote this rhyme to all the band Who played it in the company Of those who rescued in that land From being right and well. And even then there came a day When meads were strewn as fresh as May And dog-and-bear was even in play And I was left to sing; Tho' day was scythe and cowslips red, And birds with speckled wings were fled, And I, I lay and dreamed, I said, "The days are short and dead." When, on a winter night in June, I lay and sang to many a tune That lovers far from home would tune, And tune to me a familiar tune The spheres resound to die; I deem it noblest for the then To live and die, with quiet men To hold till dawn and morn; For Life was never more when she To Life was born. Who thinks that such a simple song As this is born? Who dreams that nothing here is sung, Or that, like heav'n's own sphere, is thronged With no bright spheres, are mad, Who dream to see what visions rise Along the spheres? Or whom the gods, that dawn of eyes, Now looking on their nightly skies, For praise and pray'r, are walking nigh Those upper floors to bless, With gleams of sin-born radiance, where The far woods rise? Who rises from the wat'ry plain, And flies to greet the newly-born Fresh with the dawn, and back again To earth must go; Its melody, the tale untold Waits listening silently, till gold And opiate of the mountain sun Let his altar shine upon The plains and winds and streams; Whose rosy glow, that now ensparkles, Fills all the vales and mountain crags With new-born songs and ditties sweet From the blue fields of ocean. Where'er he bends his head in prayer, That all may learn the Father's care, He kneels before the feet of light, And breathes "O Father, hear me pray!" And Thou who giv'st a word to men, A word to God, now hear it plain, A word to God, to man revealed And echoing, through the low-hung year, A word of God's eternal light. The birds are friendly, and the woods are fair; A breath of vapour in the West is blown Like a rich incense from the boughs of myrtle. And thou hast stolen from the heavens alone The lovely song that wells ======================================== SAMPLE 696 ======================================== s whose dusty cover Lights not yours and only saves. All the stars are almost shone, All the winds are soured with dew, And the swarming stars are bided, Nuts in branching columns grew; Leaves were green andberries red, The green forest paths are leaded, The bats a-testering were over, And flocks the very self-same chorus. Then a roar like that that broke From tree-tops borne by spirits, shook The cities into flame, and wakened All the woods with one wild cry, Till all the night 'gan utter to all the earth Rings and echoes of the birth Of the whirl of the bright-winged bird, The song of the sparrow, the surge of the lark, The rain-whipt palms, the many-coloured spark Of the great red poppies. The miracle ceased, The husht song of the lonely bird Rose in full madness up to God. Her white robe caught the sun, Her dark hair caught the light From the moon's azure lips; It was wonderful to see, And wonderful to hear, Singing all day long, With a young heart in her breast, In an ecstatic harmony. It is great, it is strange, But what is the song, The magical undertone, The wonder of the starry peace That drops into her hair? The song of the lark! Her eyes are opened, She has closed her yellow hair. Her sweet face flashes through The silence of the song; She laughs in the song, Singing all day long, With a great gladness that refrains, And rapture that is strong. Only the stars are paling, Only the moon-white cloudlets cease, And she takes from her bosom The white veil of her hair, The song of the stars, the passionate dream, And the pity of their kisses, And in silence she lies still. She turns to the light of the sky, Her face brightened with song, Her brown curls fly in the air, And a soul in her mouth is kissing That burns with that great delight. Fled is she, like a bird with wings, And lost is her spirit singing "The ship of the purple sea, To the silver oars of my love, To the bending stern I come, And lay me down in my grave, While my soul lies still in the deep, And my body lives in the wave. "Shall I die, and go to sleep, The last sweet sleep of my boy, With the breaking lids on my side, And my soul to sleep on its toy? For now I have sworn by my soul To lie till my cheek be wet, For I am all night as a star, And that will be evermore! "It is he! I have sworn by my soul To be all night as a star; To lie till my pulse is still, And to wake till dawn comes in; To be made as a star! "It is he! I have sworn by my soul To be all night as a star; To lie till my pulse is still, And to wake as a star! It is he! it is he! my soul, On the white-waved sea of the world, To lie till dawn comes in; To be changed as a star! "It is he! it is he! my heart, To be lost like a leaf in the sea; To be glad as a leaf in the tree; To be bright as a flame; To be swift as the levin, O love, And fair as a cloud to the sea; To be changed as the levin is fair; For a voice is the voice of my heart, And a memory is on the ocean part, And the thoughts that are in my brain, Flowing forever, are in vain. "It is he! it is he! my soul, To be filled as a skossom is; To be fiery as a reed; For a flashing like lightning; A blinding like dew on the sand; A curling like heaven's own soul; For a living like life and death, And for me but a cloud and breath! It is he! it is he! my heart, To be dashed like a leaf in the sea, To be wasted as dross in the sea; To be chilled as the garland on tree; "To be chilled as the ======================================== SAMPLE 697 ======================================== amid the rafters, His sevenfold side of resortin', Whose ninefoldreens are painted wi' lint-black stanes Like nine kinds of eagles painted; Sae screwed with blooming ashstanes and whins, To the balance that hangs o'er them, I am lifted to the half of my steps As was ever an eye before me. I can barely discern the branches, And the left foot of this tree; These leaves were born from oak-wood first, From oak-wood 'tis fair to see. Then the wind took the flag of one To uphold the other's shape; That upholds his brave arm's strength, And makes the tender twin-bough glance; That throws his broad shield o'er the deep Of the wave like a rock-shod speck. That points to the rising tide Of the mines, and spreads o'er the valley; That points to the sun, and dips Down the glittering shores of the sea, The banner of Scotland, that's to me Though land-marks are counted as gold, And my memories all are but toys Of the past 'twixt my love and my hold; But the past, my dear love, I never Will see the blue ocean again. When we all were young We should drink the healths of one. Friends, you are old; Friends, in the long, lazy year; Drink the healths of one; Know how the great ones harbour In hearts that are young and cheer. After all the splendid summer of the year Heaven's first, bright smile had given forth the dear Dew-drap'rous night. Then the Poet twirled His leaf-coned hands in triumph o'er the year. Alas, how long ago that time was dear. We should love, love. We should love, love. All whose hopes have been On the bosom of the world, was born in vain. What then was earth--let us forget, Let us love, love. Let us love, love. I had a book of sapphires (Because the tale was true.) In Heaven the winter is forgotten; The snows come swiftly too. Then I went down to Death's black vault, (Because it was my plot.) Alas, how long ago that time was, Since you and I were not? I could not seek the healing gift The gods have given me, And yet--although I could not see Aught of my love for you, My eyes should find the wonder now Only to read the blue. But the years went swiftly by, And never came the day, And it has never come and gone Since you and I were away. Then I go down to Death's long vault, (Because it is my sin.) A ghost of unhitched sorrow, Who could have guessed That my wild dream had come to be The fulfillment of my dream; Whose hands had held the whole of me Long ere my days were done. And now I see a portal To girdle earth to heaven, And a great soul's unbounded hope, White-robed as sun-blown corn, That may not know the spaces where The joyous wind-blown rose Has found the way, the wind-blown flower, The song that fills the skies! And the hopes that find their birth In the leaves of life that speak; The wreath of one who is immortal; (Nor may the tale be strange!) And the hope that in his finding is A symbol and a seal! I might have thought those friendly lips Had whispered words of mine (Ere they were tired of earthly things And only made the shining sign That hearts were glad in heaven) Of love. So I might have remembered The happy days that met When, after many, many years, The storm-tost heart was glad and glad, But I remember now How in the iron mould Of alien hearts I grew afraid There was no certain thing to be More worthy of my dream Than words,--a meaning, a desire. And thus, in some more mocking mood (Less than a ghost than a fond heart A grave one empty-hearted one)-- Others, I think, were sorrow-wrought. How many for the joy of seeing Told Christ that Mary, unafraid, Could kindle through a selfish craving A spark of life--a daedal-shearing,-- A chord of memory, still unbroken, ======================================== SAMPLE 698 ======================================== broidery, oil and chestnut fare. Soothed by the gambols that, beneath the basket, wait The boarders in the palace court, around the dome Gay isthmus, and merry bells, and tinkling lyres Make the dry wood dance, and round the marguerStone Roar the hoarse wood,--but many a pleasaunce And merriment and reverend revellers From lofty bowers bring roses, while at ease The hinds sing, and the oxen trud to and fro, But give no heed; these guests at least expect To be left busy in the hall or in the stalls. Now is the day of revelry at last. Now, to the nut-brown bowl once more repair After long fasting, that hath ta'en the heed Of all who from the well-clos'd kine have pass'd. No cheerful hearts enjoy the holiday, But mirth, long idling in the open shade, Calls for all care, and merry-hearted friends. Not even the bride, her own tears must have left Her lover's banquet empty. Boldly he, Thou, who didst send her there, didst send her on To the Loves, and on a broad-ribb'd leafy plain Invoke the Graces, Cast on her one garment, Then plunged him in the tide, and with him went The Adonis. They, with loss of blood, and woes, On board, the snowy table spread for him, But the good dame with open mouth, her heart, All bright with spring, the buds, herself, endrode. There, in a tavern rich and broad, the guest Amidst the feast arose. There they might rest. Now gliding in, by the high carvings seen, Sweet Thames, that well might love the quiet shades, The nymph surveys his waves, and thus enquires. What city's guest? What race of citizens Is this? What rank of name? what wandering band Late left our shores, and to our utmost seas Dwelt in their hapless country? With what heart, Knew you the Roman prince? what age of hope Was ever heretofore? Could I explore The works which were to do, what evil fate Shall I dare now? What shall we gain by dule And dole? The cup? Let these poor lips of mine Be drain'd without the poison, that my lips May grow no more; the scandal of my heart, The false reports of mischief, I believe, With these too unfamiliar woes. Too wise The father, if I tell his sons, to bring Out with the feast his son, in bad times past, In my connubial days, how he shall cursed My fate with loathing, when my truth was grown Relax'd, how weak he was; how last we join'd His curses with our prayers; how my soul trembled For shame, for shame to others, when reveal'd How sick'ning to myself, and with what rage I had been smitten; how amid the halls Rous'd in their purpose, I should learn the name. Thus for my crimes, and for my ravings too Mad for my past misdeeds, full of hate, And pond'rous with malicious words, I went. I think of it, when the event was bliss, When conqu'ring Rome again with all her store, Sole city and one citadel; how long I pined, how long my spirit still retains This boist'rous city, and each other's arms. But fates smile thus. My son, the war is past, And all the army is a hush of breath, They, like a snake, creep quietly and slumber. And fear the savage bosoms of my host, And through the fields of the besieging dead Conduct them into day. And be this hour My warning, as my own son (ah! too late, This thorn'd delay) the day shall bring to proof, When, for thy honour's sake, the Latian troops Have left thy shores with force of hostile spears, And bold destruction, of a bloody end, Hath reft thine upper walls and left thy gates To citizens of Rome. For O! what cause Shall I lament, and what the pow'r of heav'n To find a peace, and to descend with ease Under the calm and silent stars, my son, Return'd, a prince, to whose audacious hand I promis'd once again and bade thee swear A solemn oath, that thou w ======================================== SAMPLE 699 ======================================== straight to him Angels their wings; for as on earth there sit Mountains, whence love is born, augmenteth love. Him gentle sleep that soft impose upon Nunn'd sense and beauty with a loving kiss; As iron that severed cleaveth through the line Of the fix'd firmament; which now appears But dim before it wholly, and no less Of that embrace, wherewith whatever is Endued with it, remaineth unreproved. Hence jarring sleep both sin and woe defends. Hence want of libertie comes never free Till love hath made it soft. To loose the knot Of love too closely, one with other, darts His fondness. Hence do I more points assign, That of this lampoon, which to thee I show, I may make one." He answer'd straight: "Both drive In their blind course, this hour forsooth excite Him and his wandering dooms. When that comes, With their blind course it so directeth them, That with one mind they cannot be at rest Cancell'd; as a fire that fanneth, so that oft Sighs, sighs, tears, sighs, moans, sighs, wean'd from all The hapless state of man. And if there come Hard tidings, 't were a gift of aliment, Though rare: but first a fisherman had he, When the great Constance, of the chain caus'd To bring her home, and in what ken he held His port, and who it was that made her guide To Arno's limless stream. Already she perceives The time, time past, bestow'd on her with ease To take from Geryon's ill-dispos'd decree. Rinaldo came and took from thence the name, Which to the closing portals heoles outrag'd, And in his hand the beauteous image bears. He, ever eager to descry the shade, Into the fire casts down his glist'ning eyes, And, ever wrapt in flame, his countenance seems To glass. Meanwhile Aurora climbs the sky, ] Isoa, not far below in Italy Was born the lady Vivian, of whose isle The realm, that from Verona to the Rhine, Arrived, his lovely form was forc'd to chang The plighted name, and show'd itself again A token of her beauty and the mark At which to aim her, in her wandering isle, To save her from that ill. But not to make That long-desired woman her resents, So bent herself to evil, against her will, As art, or haply fate, or not to join In strife or warfare, one struck with, whose foot Trod on the flowers, and, in the flowery walks, No more his love remember'd. Her will seem'd To smile on other, in her sweet and strange, And, flush'd with joy and pity, in her look Was all one tongue that cou'd not speak the deed. "Quickly do thou," she cried, "instinctur'd me, Whom thou didst leave, while yet in name thou liv'd, And liv'dst, whom many more with thee conspir'd, Thou art my lord; and shall be lord forever: Such love, in him, thy kingly power display'd, That moves thy heart to him thy only foe." I, to the spirit he had shown me, drew A little onward, and besought her words To un decant with it, and with good heed Perform the part of softness in my sight. "So may thy heart," he said, "ere tame and meek, Serve for her former husband in her sphere, As thy eternal consort: safe in him, She hop'd to make amends: and now I ken Her providence, who of his wits was stak'd, That to the stairs, which from his bosom came, Leads him, whom thou hast seen, through seas and fire Of incense, to his city, whom he leaves With vow still earnest, and his tongue still warm. "This well I pray of thee, my son! If to know So much of this thy ken, it would not be But, after many suns and labours thou Hast reach'd, to Italy must leave thy sire, And come a conqueror instead. Nor thou Alone shalt wait till I to thee arrive, But ======================================== SAMPLE 700 ======================================== . Then far back, alas, the nights at sea, As all the stars were dim and cold, I saw the last sad drifting gale, And heard the sad wind laugh and sing As onward ripples down the bay The tired mariners would pass, For I had lost what I had cast From off that smiling, happy day, To go and take a boat and go, And drown at last the sport of woe, And gladly drop my head in snow, And float awhile among the dead, And I can dream no more of bread, And yet I'd know I've lost what I have got, And little hopes for me have care; For this was my poor ship's only hope, A little pleasure all my own, A little ship's return was none, A little boat with leaden-shod Till she was freighted up and down And there I lay and nothing gained Except the little island gained By the fierce longing of the sea, Where life and love and death agree, And oft I tell my dream again. O melancholy change! I can't forget The smiling moon came round again; The birds sang out in pleasant boughs, The flowers sweetened with the breeze, My heart was filled with dreadful dreams Of joy I fancied coming on And shuddering, lest I faint or fear, The coming of her lightness near, And feel the unforgiving breeze, And faint with fright she seems to hear, And through the all-forgotten things The cold wind flows, with hurrying feet, A little boat in shadow trips, A whisper in the grassy wet, A little boat from out the bay Is drifting to the silent town, And this white woman with the dark hair gown, White as a drifted daisy-down. And now I'm just a racing man, And I'm not worth a coffin-lack; A dram goes back, though all is o'er And I've just finished up the thread Of life, and all my wishes sped, And by this letter made anew, I feel I know that I shall go And find that good old ways are vain, That pure old heart of mine, again, And my own heart, my own again! Far richer than the droning bee In roses and green pools is he. Far sweeter than that loveliest flower The world heaves in the wind and the shower. Far dearer than the trodden weed His dream and his desire are he; Far fairer than dawn or dawn Are the love he breathes for himself and us. And he is for us, him and us, And he alone that were my care, And he alone our God can be When the wrong is in the right, The right, that we have done for the right, The only happy thing is the right. To him who bides his time here, Are all things all forgot, That are as much to him as the world's. No mirth nor revelry now he has, To-day's blithe life he is, And fresh of purpose each hour is. Thus from his pleasure he quaffs not, But with a glory of spirit glows, That higher is born a pure spirit knows. "I wish that your eyes were mine, my dear, And your lips with my passion to compare; The world you have sighed for was merry; You have said your cheeks were a withered year; I hope you will ne'er be aware How weak your fingers are, or how faint mine. I will go and weep here without fear." "Though the swans are loudest at dawn and call Their notes to the morn, And the ripple of silver bells On the water lapping their wings is all Which pleasures might bring, And the day which gave me such bliss As brings deeds to birth, Though the nights of our care and fret Mingle with the day and forget. But I love you as though you were mine; All others I see Are the lazy streams which are swayed by Time. I'll go and weep here without fear. I will go where I will not love thee. I'll kneel for thee still, and my head shall rest Where it clasps my tender breast." A sea of wind from off the sea, That had once glided by, With open arms, and rushing cry, And golden eyes, and golden hair, And heaving breast, and rustling hair, And golden hair and golden hair, And heaving breast, and holy ======================================== SAMPLE 701 ======================================== to one and to another of the real line of the poem and the leading group according to the sequel. And so it is difficult to trace the changing cadences and insinuate that the other is the rhythmically flowing from one to another. It is not for us to ask that the permanent value of one or two cannot be shown in any book that is not to be found in which it is written, because it is really written in a book. We ask that the great solar system which first reaches the stream of the Poets of those nations, and which may yet prove in a great race to be studied in its own nature. It is not a problem to stand in the light as before, but it is a good poet to be hit on by the point of long-lived prophecy. I trust that this passage is founded on the power of prophecy alone, for there are very few people who need a more strike. I believe the strict rule of the Spanish diction in the year 1793, and it is necessary to say nothing of this siual motion of the history of the Spanish effect that has passed through the remainder of Europe. I shall conclude, there are indeed fewer who are more influenced by the light of Galen than by the warmth of Italy and Galen. I have endeavored to find out the way, and so will Albert explain the whole amount of the matter. It was as follows: Eustachentes, the lively, the sublime, the ever eagerness of the clergy, and all that stamps for the opinion of the antiquity or probity; they are so active, so inquiring, and cheerful, and still sensitive, that they are quite enough to take the devil in their books. Eustathius has chosen as the place for the supreme discovery of Lucretius to tell them "at the head of the house of his ancestor there was a monald bishop of Rome that called his "the despot." As this number of these words were, we may suppose that a colony from Lucretius to learn these lines from a friend of Milton, with whom he runs to all men upon earth in the world's eyes. After the death of Campo Picius of Pergama, he assumed as a disciple of the Latin Church in the Stoic war, and in the One August, when the sun was glowing hot, Out of an ancient grove of box and tree The muses bowed the head of all their lot. So runs the world that doth begin and end With some new god, the god that hath been given There is a Little Prince of Heaven, The greatest and most wondrous king, That brave and terrible and wise And every virtue he can bring 'Tis the same Wisdom which lays men at ease. For he will draw the heavens, for he Is on a Summer morn at times. Wherefore, erect upon a couch of rest, Should they the wicked powers of Earth detest With proffered prayers and with a wild delight Of desperate immemorial love, Have they the might to do their whole despite And their sore hunger? Has their agony No cruelty their love, no wisdom Unseizable by sober fear? Wherefore, O soul, are they so far above us That they can dwell beyond us? Give me the path, Let me no longer fear. Tho' young and bold I may, And that's still budding in my breast, But a good girl, she lives my best Like the most of the best. I wish to work as a counsellor, In her dear face, my darling heart, But, when I see her in the flickering light, I say with joy, "Ah yes! Ah yes!" How joyously she will appear, Saying, "What shall we do, to-night, To-night to-night beside the gate, Unless we drop some little tear In pity of our state? And if I fall in mutual loss, And I, afflicted, lose the post, If I am rightly placed, my friend, What then shall I have of my bliss But to release her kiss?" Thus as we talk, the leopard's feet I trace, to pleasure thee. Thou seest, glad Genius, if I speak Of things that flesh and bone may break, It is for thee my hope should speak In loving thee; I shall not fear To tell thy secret to thine ear, Nor yet to guess the relation near Whose inmost joy belongs to me. For still I can but almost smile, Content if thou ======================================== SAMPLE 702 ======================================== hung up by Love to light the spiritual gain At hour, and this wise Solomon's desire. And thus it was that he the disorderly deed In silence, whom his courage thrilled to death And his renown. And now was blown away The smoke of his proud cabin, and the hush Of the night clouds is caught in a white shroud Over the crest of England. When he moved, It was his love, and he was more than man. He died. And he was a man who, ere his birth, Lives, and is still a statesman of the world, To, vigorous, for the Christian war. A bell Told of his mighty victory in the hour When all her strengths and glory are at rest In her great spirit, and from striving arm To save him in his country, all her rights Laid low at his feet, and heard the altar cry Of some triumphant conqueror. He did not rise At once to seek the mercy of mankind, In such an hour of agony. What now Of those bright dawns that with a single beam Bathed his unutterable steadfastness In pure unfathomed sea-waves? It was he That raised those lofty tow'rs, from whose high pride The Sun, too, set. And when he passed away Beyond all other nations and himself, The sky smote with a myriad voices and blended might Forever, and the World was made no more. And so, of him, I say, one summer night He stood there in the garden, the old man And the night-breeched apple blossomed in his hands The while he prayed, and he accepted his cup As lawless as his people's custom, and thought, "Was God too great for such as him to plant His vineyards on the desert?" He did grant The only boon he could desire to grant That he would have it so. And in the time Of Accolon, when he heard it, he was lost And longed for. For a little too bright moon To be his little beacon 'twas and he Would fall back now. Then he came back At dusk, and unawares he hung himself A little way off. When, no more, he did Choose the forbidden tree which he had sown. And night had fallen behind his line To find the prize of his undoing, he Saw where it lay, and noted how he sought To win her to him. All at once he knew The lightning's name. He cared to know it, least He asked to see who had the shot. He came A dove-winged and on the high sky, above The garden stones, but lighted not so long, Nor asked for death nor could he tell. But he Exhausted felt a hand within his hand That once he seemed to see a bullet through The grate, where God had said that he was not The only man the fight was. Then he saw That many things there were, and his own heart Was one of them. And once he let a stone Fall from the myriad sheltering tenderness Of infinite pity. Then he talked with God, And now with Mary of the holy place, One to be loved by all. He was content, Content, because God meant that he should be One with the chosen of his race, in age The only man, in times to come. Then at the highest chamber, and I passed A shadow unbeknown here, and saw in front The whole fair land:--whither?--as in a wood, Two turkeys, ravenous for justice, rode Behind his spies. And as the long grass flats Bowed down and bulged with mould and gold, the face Seemed to grow sharp and plump; as Indiansmen, Who, with their arrow-headed enemy Blood-stain on neck and beard, who, crouching low In the grass-grass, pricks the ground, their feet, And runs the land runs dry and fast and black. So crouching, as a sacrifice he trod His folk, and yet a woman's face was there With virgin tenderness, and virgin lines Of virgin beauty, clear and juicy grace, And eyes of liquid fire. And when she came Close by his side, and bade him enter, not Forgetful that he had not let his face Be too rebuked, or with too weak a knee Might thank the gods for that just bravery Given to a woman's heart. So standing, as she spoke, She took him from the prisoner's hand, and pushed Her rich right hand out, and ======================================== SAMPLE 703 ======================================== the kind of beaver. Since the but not the will of the Lord hath led me To do the thing that it is, to do it well, Willing as I do mine own--but I have no wish Of any kind. In very truth the hope Is mine indeed! Not, brother, any time, When my love stays for the future, when I know All my own work's finished, when I have found Looking-out at the broad sky in the face Of God's eternal judgments, I know all I have done for brother. How much have I to Spend my life's seasons of unflinching, when Knowing much that whatsoever may have Ere it is done, resolves to do and do The thing which I have prayed to-day, until With stronger faith and courage, I become Strong in the hope I hoped would yet come forth And give my will to work. To work and hope Is all God gave to me--nor shall I thank My God for what He gave me! Love in these shady boughs is Not a light leaf that dances, Since the day that I stooped to Love in secret had touched me Till I could no more see (Than the tree, the hedge-rose, And the sun's disk shining Something hid in the branches.") (I hear, but I hear not, Not a note of song sheen.) The Summer comes laden With dew, rain, or sunshine-- And swift come the Spring! How can it be that your heart grows chill With its harsh Winter gale? How can it be that your feet are chill By its Winter gale? There must be but sun in winter gale It is in the Autumn, By the river of blossoms The noblest thing has bloomed In the young springtime! How can it be that your heart grows chill With its cold Winter gale? There must be but sun in winter gale Beneath the narrow sky The maiden still stands with her lover in her joy. This is her song; Listen! the song is pure! How can I love the child That cries at her fair feet (How shall I love him?) Does he not understand? (How shall I love him?) Till I do burn the faded World again for others' sake, And with my burning heart Love at his lips to take, That we may know he is not to be counting all this aged? <|endoftext|> Passionate, lady, passionate, passionless, dear, You've moved me to this passion, Oh, fickle, fickle, fickle-- And there, somehow, we two have been Pursued together, When a woman spoke I was mistakenly clever-- Ah, then how well I remember the jest was not spoken! On wise crooked words our laughter to rival; It could not be so; And we heard the laugh that for a while was broken, All day. I should leave to you then A wiser vision of my Indian home; Your face to my misery turning I would fain show you; With my soul so toasted I could not perceive-- It is She, oh, so much more Princeliest alive! To doubt why I went over the moor And the little birds went I will not really mind, They are all in love. I had fancies then, In which I had no power to find A simple doll For a brown-eyed, gray-haired fairy, That woke with pain And fell off quite faggard and pale When the wormwood said That my poor hard heart was ready to give to the sun, I shut my heart; I was out with fancies I was certain of being distraught With fear, and I slept When the dreamy laughter rose up and broke out anew. Mute as a bird's am I I watched the snake-light, And I wept with bitter tears and did not speak. It stirred: Then I woke, And saw my dreams And smiled away again with the morning sun: No thing was real To our first love; Not even our baby lips could speak, Not even baby eyes. Anchored by hope and pride, My sad heart cried, Mother! But the love I tried In each, Until the wound was healed and cured No more Yet in my heart alone we cried, We without pain Now that your little child is dead. I will not guess ======================================== SAMPLE 704 ======================================== Of both his handiwork of wonderment, Leaves to a downward course, well pondering If he could ever be on fire at all, To where the trail had sunk into the lair Of a young bird. And when the ladder he had climbed, to place A hazel wand against a hazel bush, He saw the quivering softness of the pool Stretch paling softly to the Sun, or glint Of paling dew dim from a violet-sweet, That raised his own blue, fairy-flowered head Against a clouded sky. For somehow it was morning, and his eye Was far too bright to see another man. Forth from a breathless cave, he gazed, then turned To where, in leafy cave, a new-found bird, A bird so noble for a fall, and taught His little song to men, and in that joy, The mother of an Eden skipper, found A certain sapphire, like some stream that laves The mountaineer in purple, wandering With cargo of some song-bird lost. A little wild bird, flitting against the sky Upon his pinions, fluttered from some cliff That from the heaven of heavens thundered in Its flight into the firmament of heaven. I, too, had fallen. But, my blood kept leaping Along the sapphire path in a simple search, So that she saw not, at the day's bright dawn, My rock, O not too soon, nor the hot bird Of an eagle with his pinions soaking in my blood. Now, afterwards, she, while her flock lay yet, Was out of sight, and with her curving claws, Dreading the world that now no longer is, And from no even distance, caught the blade Whereof her hands had wrought, and from the rocks Still more retired than if she saw a rainbow, And stood impatient gazing at her form, Declaring it was added to that hour Of Passion of Life, whose shadow its own brightness Extinguished:--yet, no less, when she had learned In the unresting spirit of the darkness To tremble at the lightening of the sun, That should come forth at midnight, like the beams Of some arch madness in a lifeless brain, Until the angry moon was flowering In the bare heaven of a mind far off With restless passionate longing. As she went, And half perchance half past the road, a voice Rang from her side,--" My love, my own love, Where are you wandering? The path of night Is the pathway of the soul in which you seek Refuge from ghastly horrors of despair." "But here, just in the verdant valley, lo, How beautiful is heaven! Such gardens grow Among the haunted laurel-trees, and gleam With open-gleaming eyes and water-falls In the mild afternoons, and stars, as oft As when I watch them, through the balmy air, In deepest nooks, and in the gorgeous depth Of towering forest-glades, where softly winds A soft and silver wavelet evermore, An emerald cup, which even my love, in sleep, Sings in the mirror of the silver bowl. "Where are you roaming, darling? To the flowers, Where are they going, all that seem so fair? I cannot know; for I am wild with pain, And quick with hope, and bound, and hungry, too, And still and dreary, seeking to return, From the sweet meadow where the breezes sweep, The very flower blooms, and there shall grow, Sooner or later, grass, and the glad seed That springs from out the earth. "And I will go With the sweet maiden flower and try the herbs, With the green meadow where the silver glows, And be the merry fairy marshland fair, Watching the dandelion's glistening wings, The little reeds on the cool grass at rest, Where the bee dreams and the butterfly sings, And merrily runs the scented bushy bee Where the brook sings in its morning dreams, And the honeysuckle darkens on the hill, And fern-seed, lonely as an earthen shell, Fling its fragrance through the springtide air. "And she shall smile, and sigh, and stoop her head, And lay her lovely form beside the stream, With no great fear, no faintest gleam, no dream, Upon the water's quiet breast that lies, ======================================== SAMPLE 705 ======================================== again and rise Each muscle in his fist, As with a glance and hand he tapped Some little mountain up, And lighting, scrambling, crackling, fell, To the field he would advance, and so Show his teeth, and so grow bold, And blow his blow until he swung Some one back and one chest into, So that he fell in a blaze, and all The dust he up would start from off Did he push from out his hand, and so Ascold him with his foot, and so Overcome him, like a mouse, about, The grass, the bloom, the honey, and The grass in which he munched his share Would heave with it and cajol Could he go, but it was a small, rough piece, And from the shade, not very far, Over he lay and through him drew The very greyness of blue haze Over the pond. On one foot there were beaded many And many others, though the eyes Of wolves and blacks were turned to fright The heads of many thousand. The eyes with tears weep on them, The feet with tears and never a word Let out the empty laughter, but the feet Bear up as lightly as the wind's footfall Across the gleaming road. And men that walk upon the turf and turn To stone or stones are changed to blocks of wood, And sometimes lions at their rage and stones Racing the stones that mar the inmost cave, And the leopards' lust, with savage wrath pursues The withered herd. I say: I 'm now a weary man and sad, Yet, having seen things in my memory My kindness finds no fear; For men must share a vanity That would seem the dullest thing it is, And one with all things, though the same thing seem Part of the living thing they live in, start Into a lake of liquid, nor dream of an Elysian rest. And now, O Dante, what you saw to do This thing in me seems but a little thing, Narcissus, thinking only of you, Dreaming and thinking only: Come now And take this dull grey yew From out some far-off clambering drear, And fix it where you sate In shade of the glistering elms; for who Makes there such things as Fate Or who forgets her laws, And who she seems her dream, perhaps, and who Out of the twilight finds her day out? Girlish and brutal, yet a sinful world, I will make conquers here, And die, if you please, in the heart of all my good. I will await your coming, Nor will you bide here Till you come, unbarred, unblamed, to her As if the earth were unbalanced, Or a loathsome brook, yet if closed in one Through the smooth earth, no more than a bough On an opal waste, the road to travel: Nor have we passed any meetings of the road, Or any errand of this side of the road. And then as I sit here I will look about you, and you will see What God has set, and this place is stony, And look at me and not at me. O if you could see all, I should feel The bleak white labour of my limbs grow chill And feel nothing but death, And if I tried to speak, I should do this thing: But you are dying: hope and dread Shall but lift up your head, Or any thing of this your love. And so at last if I speak to you I shall look on you, and you will understand. I have heard that you are feigned, and will speak, And if you doubt your words, your words are vain, And not so be; but I can defy Death and madness to an utter cry That shall be lost. In such a serious fashion Of yours and mine is death, and life and passion Are but the mockery of men that are, And for whose sake all men are loth to die: But you must follow them and keep away From the horrible ghosts that dwell within That crowding the dead years, And are here with me, and the dull unknown, My words and theirs, and what would you do? Let others have you! Your living words Are of the kind that live, and I their meat, And if I could see nothing more than these I would cry bitterly, running to you, And crying, "Wherefore have you taken ======================================== SAMPLE 706 ======================================== He thought, and by these two months' grace Of wreath and flower, that love not ill, And reckon'd out the very bliss Of some old Hymen's arms and his; Being rough to see the greenwood laugh, Or any time the piper's prouder Than Clytié's, a merry goather! That clasping love within his arms, A little closer, closer still, About his knees and cheeks and lips Than any that his body knows,-- Had loved of woman as he loves And for that love he would not move, A thousand lovely things like natures, From earth with green earth, heaven with flowers; Warms, rivers, woods, on earth and sea, The mother and the nursling of him, Whose feet walk earth and heaven's dome Unsearchable, and pass the hottest As much time as he can, Beyond all seasons and all times Which man can feed on nor even gods Nor strength of man may keep him glad; Though children, yet, he takes no heed Or fears of men, nor makes them sad; For though he owneth even kings And kings alike, and of their own He counts his own. If he be sad for country towns, What shall he say to make of things Fairer than nought within the brain Of him who lives for country's good? Seeing how little wealth of rhyme Doth gather in the mind of time, How much life looks, how little lives Stand after simple things, and say "This flesh grows grey with time." The old hours of the years Do shape themselves at their desires; The summer of the seasons, The winter of the winters; Our souls become our eyebrows And both receive new reasons; How by their voices each may know Their own sad world, the same as woe, How all men strive and strive To escape the harshness of our times, How all men strive and strive For cause and gain and freedom of our times, What we stand face to face with Time, And know not of or fear When we behold or do or see Or face with eyes unseeing? Sorrow and woe And joy and woe And mirth and crime, And souls unsleeping, And all made wise And doubting of their fellowship But never bitter, Or wise or knowing, Or tired or waiting Or one of knowing, Or one who wits a little By reason of his own accords, And turns again his face And with a sad foreboding Whose yearnings are but threats, Whose fires are but thongs That bind, but bind not, For one that, as his eyes, Is blind and deaf and cold, Or seeing as he knows What things that were, so much so, Being, so little, yet so long Constraineth them to speak And, moveless as a wrecked ship That doth not know his love, Cries out in hollow ears, "This was, and shall be now"; And if he hap to die He sings, "I have no hope of it;" And if he looks again He sings, "Thus shall I have thee;" And if not wholly dead, Because the perfect will And living hope are fled, Because, indeed, that hope Is dead and changeless too, Evening and morn And the earth's heart of fire And all her dreams of her desire Are as grey heads that burn And tongues that sing and burn And all the bitterest songs That sing and utter none. If that love could, Let it not be given To any too much praise; Or by what other speech Be it shown here or hereafter, But here and everywhere That love that must be there Hath transitory ending, Or faith that hath despair Or vision of the morn. If that love were zeal To claws and to harden The gripes of a hope That were so hunger-broken And that so deadly breath To baffle faith And body and soul And spirit without death, But some hill-side town, For all its brawling whirls And all its perilous whirls, And whatso thereby bellows What pity therein doze, Seeing within this wood, Sick of the edge thereof And faint of the sunset fire, It may have the sob Of some lone wave and bird, And, it may be, for all Who fare as the wave-tide And drift ======================================== SAMPLE 707 ======================================== courteous? You would be better, yes; Can all the world be base To let him have his place Within his narrow shell, And he who shares in all, Will ne'er be poor and small, Unless he's rich and great. He that hath an earnest mind, And a discreet conceit That secret wealth doth win And a good name doth win From him that sitteth on. O, chaste and simple Dove, From me thy fancies free! Not only from my love, But from thy secret love. She that by thy beauty fed Must learn of me to be Forgot and spread trans instead That gospel light on me. She that is poured forth clear, And with my spirit pure, I must not miss her where She bears the cross of pure. Lo! she is pure of mind, May have her heaven of will, Under her peaceful brow If she shall share it still. Let all my thoughts and powers Wake her with life's desires, Cure me when I am ill; Shew me her duty still. If thou wilt love me, love, Let my poor thoughts go too; If thou hast wealth and ease, Thou shalt be poor and poor, And therefore art wise and mild, And when thy wants shall cease, Thou shalt have saints to save; If thou hast power to take Thy Bharat back forsake, Let him not sit beside thee, But let him live or die, Or let him do his will While I have time for a new, And have the surest skill To bend with gentle sway To her who still dost love, Then what is worse than this, And which may seem the best I surely can but guess Whene'er the time for watch When Bharat comes to me Borne in upon his bark Like the bark of the wild-boar With a load of precious things, Whereby he never swerves, But whets his discontent From step to step, and bounds; There surely are no gains And no retreat of rakes, And no retreats of glen Where would he turn again? 'Tis love that makes men weak, And of no fear his cure, So never doubt but fact Doth in the power of sense, And fancies dastard shapes That cheat themselves about. Who thus a stony heart And dull austerities May make of every thing, And long as none shall win, Will keep them from all sin, Till Daśaratha slain, Or Śamjayi’s unresisted pain. Ere I begin to weep, And Lethe me forget, Then take what earth I have lost, This day my worshiped grave. And then for the great love of me The burden of my sins I tell, As sacred texts enjoin, The special pomp and state Of thy pure virgin-queen, Thy blessed eyes, so amiable, Whose heaven-eyes overclouded By care that prompts no change, Like that the sun whose ray The dark waves forward veils, With joy in the soft summer hours Is blent with a glory distancing, And through the varied sound Of kine that wander round The dark dense places sound Like sweet swans’ voices high That fetch from the sea their pipes, While far beyond, on the earth, The rivers sweep and flee. Thou bright-frowned Maithil dame The foaming flood of shame That like the foam-born pearl With her exceeding might Hangs tremulously bright, A gem of tinted light, Among the blithe reality, And in that beauteous form Of lovely blameless form Aflame the best of saints, And heaven, her all that loveliest Who bends to thee with love and awe This morning thou wilt see My white beloved like the dawn With every ripple of her being, And in her quivering deeps The tremulous sun to joyance thrusts Shining upon his forehead bright With colours of the love of night. And, O dear lord of duty’s reign, Armed with the might of her whose chains Yield thee again to be a gem, And brought with thee, O Rákshas, to this isle, For my dear lord, I gave thee while to live The days of Gods on earth whom men must give.” The R ======================================== SAMPLE 708 ======================================== : "Ah! my pagans!" He has vassalage, and lavender, and throne; Of Saracens his sire, of Mary his son; Nor think, to-day, can one belie his head Should shine so bright, so proud, so fair, so red. But he does well in Spain; he was brought up, When Charles called him back from the wars, as one Who vainly doth beseech him to forget The grief and ache, and trouble of an earl; Who went not thence; but covered anon with tears His noble brow, which with his own hands slew Those brethren, and that one his love forsook. To God and to his Grand-Duke have I grieved; Nor shall I be reprieved till I return, For never have such grief come o'er me now. Alas! I was beloved! Why came you here? Far less to blame; but I the loss deplore; And am, withal, too bitter to complain. We know, we know, no evil can ensue, The lifting of the standards will avail. If I lie wounded, you expect it much, And I may see them stooping down so low; When foemen wound us, not to be outdone But that which angered us the lords did show, And here fell dead; there met a single foe More fierce, more cruel in his bloody ire, Than all beside and all at Charles' sire. Good is the man! Nor by his single blade, Nor yet by mine, I swear, than spear or blade For faith or Christus' grace, or Christus' creed, If thou esteem him not, thou wilt abhor His breach of faith, as much the more, as he The image of his God and Saviour was. But that God-knave may glory in his work, And what is equal in the good and ill, Is nothing new; I say, this equal beam Of his bright spear, which, like to that which grew Of Medicina, Greece and Romeew made, Is thrown aside, and falling to the void." --To curb his chafed fury, nought less fair Was the sweet voice which, quivering in his air, Divine compassion moved with ruth and fear, As in a thing by tempests toss'd and bound, He saw the occasion of his hate and wound. --Godfredo was unmoved in that affray, But pardon him; for when awhile he lay In the hot heat of wrath, in briefest tone, As little rainy, the dull noise was gone, Which struck the ear, but nothing wild, he groaned; Nor could he look upon that which had fallen, Wherewith his grief was soften'd by the wound; And there he lay till this disgrace was known. But with a prayer the friend of Cunizza Cried, "Hear his words, for ye shall be appeased, And which hereafter will bear hence your part Of good or evil:" thus he turned his face, And here and there, with like unworthiness Of heart, he gave the sign he had forgot. "This knight hath erred," quoth he, "ere he proclaim His great desire, and hence his friends lament; Because, though they lie hid in these ensigns, Their doom is in his honor I foresee; For as you see them here, by all the world, They hold themselves in mock'ry so combined, That he who bears the golden circlet lined Will overthrow the world, and in one blow Him will himself confound the tyrant foe. "Heaven gives us one hour's war with all the rest! Our lands and kingdoms to that combat pay, And that which in one day shall take us, side, Our faith is fixed for ever to the fray. And when with it he makes another year, With it his squadrons and himself are fain, This champion for a witness bears the spear Of all our chief, I for the same can reign." Thus he, and went, scarce knowing where he went, Ran mad with fury and the noise they heard Against his army, nor with words suffice To muster lively zeal, and valor high. Yet some there were content to die or die, And some they took to lop his hollow greaves; Such hope they had, which help they could not choose, His doubts and fears to change, to cheer his friends. From their long toils, successively inforged By Godfrey's ======================================== SAMPLE 709 ======================================== In them, and so distilling the sweet grace Of gesture and thy work in their degree, They are dainties to the youth with grace, Whose footsteps have the nectar of deep love; And they have roused him with the morning star, That her pure spirit in her bosom furls; Until from his serene uplifted brow, The freshness of her presence overran Her immortality. It is all over: but, far off, A glory on the forest leaves has spread, Like a red streak of emerald, over us, While the wind comes over and the grasses spread, Where, everywhere about, the sunlight skims And waters softly mix. Over the shimmering calm of these I hear A voice and an oblivion in the air, And the low chant of some far-off refrain That rises gradually upon mine ear, While, as the magic of the showery notes Began to press, The silver voice of Silence fell on mine And filled my blood with ecstasy of bliss That thrilled through all the years and hours divine. The fool of books has mocked thee in his pride, And thou art more than learned engraven there; For there are only shadows on the wood That hide the life within thy heart and face, And only flowers that covet the wild place Of greenness and the darkness of the place And do not heed the wisdom of the years. There are no hours but find some fitting rest, Some sweet oblivion of mysterious dearth; There are no dreams but for the heart to rest On summer-breathed June-breath and harvest-rire; For the plain is holy and the choric fire Burning with dream and hunger of the soul; And a sound that cannot die is heard above, Far-off, far-off, in an unfooted peace; Yet all thy thrice-deep wonder was thereof That not the weight of darkness or of Death Shall mold from earth to heaven,--a deeper peace. I only know she came, and still the dark Breathed on her like a fragrant, strange delight, And ever in her eyes there gleamed a star, An azure gleam from some far radiant height Of blood, that kept a tender light apart Of tremulous memory from sinful heart. Her voice, when o'er the silver sea the pall Of orange sunset died and paths ran down, Seemed but the floating light that falls serene Upon the silver waves it seemed to drown, Flashing athwart a rainbow like a dream, Or mantled in the silver of a stream. So did I dream that from my troubled mind She trod the path of innocence, and trod The haunted paths of innocence, and came Among my dreams with angel wings that burned About her head and whispered in my name. But when my spirit seemed to seek a place Where Beauty stood before me, it became That she had lived with me in happy days And womanlike and loving as she came And gave me heaven and hell. For she has taken, For she has kept the message, stern and true; And, like a King who comes from one that's sad, Her cheek, like autumn roses, seems to be Sad as the sadness of a little child. And now, sweet eyes, for all this world is sad; And it were gladness if it were not so, If Beauty were not fairer in the world Than Beauty, and no radiance more divine. Ah, that's the only way the young heart seeks That way. I have found her at the heart. Dull and low, Like a song half sung, The last sound Through the deep night Fell slowly upon the midnight air; All the earth would have died, But for such as went with it far and wide, I would have given that happiness That here in my heart lies like a death. Like a song that dies Through the dim twilight, half hid By the wings of night, White as light, A solemn voice went voicelessly; Still his gaze went on. A voice no longer, A sullen moan; But a low, low sigh, Like the soft, sweet tone of the dove, which is The spell of prayer Which God must sever From the soul, and heaven from earth. A deep, cold, passionate sob, Like the last sigh of the dove, Steals down on me Like the last sigh of the dove. Like a song most sweet, Like ======================================== SAMPLE 710 ======================================== man, Thy jewels in the midst of human mould, He grasps thy chain, with the superior hand That links thee with the elements of man. Thou gavest him the chain: he wears it still, O thou wretch! as rightly bound by chains Of whirling arc, by the just laws of Heaven, Or by the sinful rheum, which never, never Cease from their burning fount the sacred flame, The base, the selfish, the degraded, dead! Who art thou, say'st? whose wretch, Hath felt the flame Of the true Truth, which, through long years of shame, Glows through the cloud of avarice, or pride Or cunning nature moves to learn by force? Yet, still, one impulse moves thee,--one strong will From evil,--one great will from good to ill. Who from the wrong can learn?--Behold, 'tis done! His place of birth, in his own bosom dwell. Thou hearest him in all! He hears the cry Of his own bosom, feels the general wail, The sense of woe, and shivering of the neck, The will's strong impulse, the full mastery Till lost, or he, the thwarted spirit lost. Then must thou hear--that awful voice! thy soul Is shaken, its subsided self-disfigures, Whose power of terror and experience speaks Of the dread Power which overcomes its own. Go! weep no more, but join the warning voice Of him, who, from his cradle, in the fields, Preserves the dust that on his cradle stood. That Word is gone! a solemn veil is drawn, From the deep sources of his Godhead shed! When the wild instinct brooks no cloud of clay, And on the ear from tearless eyes the voice Of Him, who, sealed from all approach of thought, Comes in His name, Himself, to the all-wise, Then to the world we turn; where, with His friends, We hear the cry of a more reasoned voice, Whose mystery is that every little beam Of the Sun's flaring fire can penetrate Unto the roots of their creation. Now clouds roll on, and in the mountain-head There are its rocks, its winds, its floods; there is Its everlasting silence. And the Sun, Even there, is not; for ever moves and shines From out His height, and, momently, the storm Of His own passions can no more destroy What the elements have built for heaven and earth. A sky of cloud is circling earth around; In the waste days, on the resplendent slopes, The clouds of summer--boding harmonies Foretold their grand impending grandeur there, In the waste days, on the resplendent slopes, By the great sound of those who sail the sea Must sail:--so, from the flower-decked ship--must sail Over the rock-veil'd main to lands unknown. When the long roar of battle-field remote Comes from the sea, in the waste days, the winds Kiss in the rifted bark, and let her move Far from the land where the unsharded doom Is written 'bove Eternity; and so From the waste days, on the resplendent wrecks Of seventy years, in the resplendent wreck Tossed to the billows' sweep, and plunged once more Into the new-found deep: these we revere. The mystic ship, with the resplendent sails, Is drawn along; and where her voyage is Upon the horizon dimly seen afar, Is spread to the dim world, where she hath been In the dim waste days, on the resplendent sea. The weaver sails, and hails the long-lost day, The homestead of the farmer-god. It is A fleet of tiny boats, that in the river Keep off the wind and lash them o'er the tide. The fisher on the top of them looks down Upon this scene of human lives. The race, There, is a fleet of ships that rest at anchor And sail no more, but, like a fragile boat, Upon the smooth bay-sides of some sunny isle. The master of the fleet has fallen, I fear, Upon the barren waste of sands. That crew Of ships, like wind-worn flocks, will vanish soon, Wading in fragments from the rocky coast. But yesterday, my friend, we were still a tribe ======================================== SAMPLE 711 ======================================== , the prophet Sannaz-a-Ran, A city sacred to the God of Winds! Here the old Prophet, whom at twilight pray'r His heart rejoiced, sang glory to his God, And to his Poet's memory what of Him: Then sudden from his lips this song be heard, Filling the distance like the tones of seas, Ringing the vales with harmony and foam. Away! thou atom of the Beautiful! Bid adieu to gloom, cease to aspire To the pathos of the Beautiful! O'er scenes that sad and gloomy dwell, Thou pausest not through life to swell; Thy rosy lips so smilingly Disrope thy fragile silken lyre, Thy drowsy song hangs on the strings That dwell in happy harmony. O flower! thy lovely fragrance blows From the leafy bowers of Hesperus, And thy fragrance lingers on the rose Till thy faintest odors fill the air. Then come, and o'er the smiling plains Let us shed the gushing crimson rain, Till the fields of Tiber glow with stains Of the midnight, and the storm-clouds flee, And the breakers beat the hollow reeds That hide the murmuring bays of sea. The bounding bee has left his sheath, And out of the thrush the wood-nymphs dance; The foxglove and the lily shine, The many-colored hyacinth is theirs, And the lotus doth rank them all, The while the wood-nymphs hover near, With their soft wings folded on the wing, Forgetful of their fairy theme; But, oh! most sweet the unwhispering song, That floats through the trees, and mounts along, In a mysterious murmuring stream, On the spirit-heardings of the stream. 'Tis silence all, and silence thrills The dew-drop from the blossom-bell. A song it is of other days, Of hopes that came to brighten all, Of Life's long hopes, are tinged with rays Of other days, perhaps, to come. 'Tis Nature's triumph and her pride, In others' sorrows o'er to be, Who thus may play a nobler part In the fair splendor of thy heart. O glide, fair stream, through the deep heart, And with thy border-land of trees, Cross the dark flood, haste on thy flight, And join its voices with the breeze! There lies the glade that we call green, The fields that wave too broad and deep, Fair fields, though yet unrobed and green, That from the watery world keep sheep; There lies the spot so gay and green, We scarce would miss the spot where first We walked among thy mists and burst On the warm earth, so joyous still, And made as though 'twere wishing will To wind the grove, or bid thee fill A wheel, the heaven, with thy fresh flowers; To tend, at will, thy rural task, Through scenes of humble life, and ask A blessing from thy favourite stream. Come thou, whose power can soothe with truth, Whose joy can soothe with quiet glee; Come thou, whose feet can feel the heart, That throbs when nature looks serene, And feels as if thy mirth were free From all earth's falsehoods, wildly shown, And sees but grief of evils seen; Come thou, whose steps are turn'd to light, Whose glances glance no false but good, Come to me, cherished stream, the stream! Eloi's bowers are open'd to the careless eye, All is silent, save the Spirit of the stream! Oh! what is the spell that stills me in my sleep, Waked by the long day's indolence, To dream, and leap, and bathe in the deep Leaves soothe me to my restless sense! One mossy bank, with sedge and beech and birch, The haunt of happy creatures heedeth both. Two fair streams meeting in one dusky bound, Broke on a narrow beach at such a place, Then came in darkness, and the land found roar: I think the world is at an end, and all is o'er, As from a dream I woke: I know not what, And yet I would not be asleep till now, And lay my spirit down in quietness. I know not ======================================== SAMPLE 712 ======================================== . Come, first, and stay, with me. But there Disaster, and the traitor lies alow'd At forty years, whom age shall never see Till his own eyes have seen him. Oh, my friend! We must entreat this instant, ere we reach Our native country, to exchange sweet smiles Such as we find in sunshine, when we know That from our native land, though dark our own, Our spirits have returned to visit Jove, And in his hallowed effusion have discern'd Tidings of us, who, from all wishing to fly, In prompt submission abide our own rights, And loiter in the dance with bending knee, Lest the right feeling sacraments should laugh, Deeming our deeds their only avenger. Then we shall meet again, as dead men meet, In this new glorious world, upon the plains Of that famed land, for which the bravest hand Had tried so vainly 'gainst our enemies, That they their own recess may only know. E'en thus the victor king, ere yet the blood Of his dear brother Tyrant ran to shed, Drew looks around, and clasp'd his mighty hand; Yet nathless smiles drew on him, as when first On the dark olive-branch he first look'd down, And sighing with his young companions' breath, He look'd, and saw his arms, and sighing look'd, His voice scarce stirring, as when dreaming near Of the wild huntsman, a gold hound dares rouse A lion; all, the gaze was turn'd to heaven, Wearied with wandering, where the light winds sweep The branches, and th' unstrung stemm clings fast. Thus Arden, with his guardian hand to heaven Pressing his watchful, watchful foe to heaven, And praying him, a faithful guardian one, To cure him of sore sickness, and the scar Of many a pang at last had pierced his frame. Even in his breast, all cold he lay, the breath Cursing through sorrowful remembrance of His dear brethren, and his plighted friend, By chance conducted from the farm and court, Glad of the gracious tidings, pass'd at length The weary day, and all was chang'd around. And now the halcyons were on every hand, And with them many a rural dame beside, Queen Venus' maidens; who with fresh array Attended they, and round the forest-bower, There to await their passage, and were fill'd With herbs and golden cups, and armour bright. All with the minstrels now were seen, Two fairest swains, the tenderest shepherd's prize. Thus, while the women of his care were skill'd, Bound with bright maces in the forest wild, In softer musings busied with his toil Diligent came, and from afar was borne Astride a goat, or herdsman of the hind Of antler'd stag. Each keenly eyed his mate, And listen'd with attention due to his His cattle, till at length they came to stand, Whom they beheld advancing, and in arms Grasping a naked hound. Then Antiklos Was thron'd, a dread sagacious enemy Of Venus, aught unsav'rice-blest, and wild As that unsummon'd eagle which no care In the dark sky will pause to perch or brook; But that on waving grass came down the blast, And 'gainst the trees arose a wondrous noise; Nor now a blacker thunder from the deep Felt o'er the blue wave, only heard he storms, Beneath the heaving vault of heaven, Or on the winds of heaven, when unoppos'd In his deep-rooted car, starts up aghast His wat'ry nest, and shakes his bellow'd crest, Leaving the human and the dreadful form Regardless; yet still fearful, lest his prey Should on some passing shore be dragg'd, or drown'd Within the surging waters, or o'ercome His hungry young ones at their daily toil. Thither the clamorous shepherds on their herd Bore their black ewe-soles, and the shepherd came, With hum of birds and beasts that frequent roam The hills, where erst the bee-hives had their home. There he the savage mother kill'd; the swain Caught in his nostrils, and the deadly stings, ======================================== SAMPLE 713 ======================================== by prayer; for these are things of one The double path, whose greatest known The path that leads to God; whose breath has grown A dark old cedars, strown with death, And thrice-remembered kings. This way They go and yet again: The laurel leaves a fruit: but He, Alone, for One would feel the sting Of hasty hunger, and of joy That burrows some heart-quaking thing. Even so, though idly wandering Beneath the darkness of the night, I marvel that it haunts me yet. I marvel much, so desolate Of time's most ancient hours, For many a careless hour has flown Since I found yearning time alone. Not with the life that knew no care As with the body, the grey wave Of a sad sorrow, by the hearth, The sickening heart. Not with the cares That find the labour in the sun Where webby, moth-like, feeble grow Those fallen branches,--even so, Yet in the night were light and song As with the hearts of spirits long. No slumber fell upon my sleep, No dream burst bloomed the cloudy void, I slept, and, if I had not said A word, the bee must take my head. So, so, the world had turned from wrong As all too sad,--my own;--and still The moments' deepening silence long Had shut my heart on this, and chill My limbs: but all the years had passed, And still was the old ache I had said, And all my hope's foreshadowings Had perished utterly: and yet One more low dream it had to be That had not not strength to say "Farewell," And not at all for ever more. Oh, where are they, and where are they? Only the calling of the birds In the far fields, and when we dare To whisper that our hopes are there, When we are worn and faint with play, And shorn of every mother's care, And hide within their tangled weeds The acorns of the yesterdays, That they may come to us and say They bring the knowledge of their needs, Little orphan hands! O, where are they? Somewhere and far, Only the seeking of the wind Or the white arrow of a star, Or sunlight glimmer of a frost, And only frost. No whit do you weep, For the dumb stones of every shore The hand that fashioned in their door Are hands of grace that only pray With prayer for help. The hardy hills, Tottered o'er with their heaving hills And their woodland nooks, Each with its kind Of brother-cliff and sister-tongue, Do not refuse To kneel for dews. Frost! snow, thou knowest, Frost! in the moonlight, in the west, It pours on my pale-faced love The seeds of moonlight. O sweet is the music of cymbals' sound, And sweet to the whispering glens below The sweet of the forest'sHidden caves, The sweet of the river and of the sea, The sweet of the wood and the lonely cave. He is here, he is there, He dost bind thy hair, Thou art chained to earth, Thou hast fettered him in the swarthy bonds. Fasten thine eyelids on his face, my love, And bring him here to thy feet with tears, He is here in his bonds, and thine is lost, Thy love is of yore, and thine is a ghost, No more he will roam On barren earth, He is tossed to thee in the tide of the years, Thy lips are all hidden, all broken, apart, Thy beauty is stilled, Though love has returned, And heart's-ease is broken. His girdle is shattered, his thread is cut, He is free to the winds, and by all the seas, In the sunlit plains of his palace-porch, No longer afresh, No more blinded, The light shall not reach him, he shall be unshod, As we find him. The light that shall thrill me, and sun and moon, Shall be dull and dead in the void of the void, The light shall not reach me, the exquisite thrill Of the moonlight playing, Faded and afraid, Like a mothered ======================================== SAMPLE 714 ======================================== ; For the summer and harvest is near. Far to the south, between the mountains and the sea, And far away from the headland at whose feet I lie, Till the last touch of the sunset is almost done, That comes to melt the heart in me like the last, immortal sun. He that would know the secrets of every holy place, Nor wander from his youth, must die, and at the end of time Must lay his body down and die, without a murmur or a sigh; Yet he that walks among us here must live the easiest life, The wintry days, the singing nights, the purling springs and the deep, The eternal sorrow of our hours, the little dead we love so well, For he that walked with us the earth, all we have forgotten well. To you, O sombre colour of the gold, O starry wonderment, Once I was born; this palace-wall was set between us now, That I might not be call'd a man, so honouring gear and rank Have laid the best of days upon a scrolled pillow dark and low. Beside the palace-wall she stood and strove to look afar On Art's white walls, the heaven, the earth, and the past ages were; And then the memory of your beauty was not there, but there, Whereby, O splendid star, I learn'd that I was worthier yet. Tell me not of names, the sullen days, The strange dark nights, the dull despair'd ways, Which my long night of woe abode, Nor memory of love's face, nor of that death, Nor aught of comfort in sweet repose, Nor ring of speech, nor any sound thereof-- I shall but know these are not of your kind; And only my dead hope shall wake to song. Great Caste! whither, whither hast thou fled That ever the grey sea-mist hath bred? O flight from the world, O fall from the sky! Never a cry in the blue air--to die! Men are not of earth; their heart is air: They have a high and vague desire, And follow far their wandering fire, And light they find, and colour, and time, The wings of thought, the unfathomed slime, Nor can we think they are but dust; And only in dreams can we believe That we have been as we have been. As never man loved sterile spring; And then he thought how pure a thing He was not, and now is, and now is not; With what a burning, all-consuming thirst Is his to be the water of thought, That, hunger-blasted, each day burns to lie. And with his sails and sword-hails full In the sun's smitten rays he lies, And his eyes gaudy-blue; but colour hath no name, And colour only grows with days of shame. But who is that other, the fever-worn, And sickly-featured, half-wild and wan, Who is that old man laughing there at morn, With thwarted cheeks and wrinkled knees, With wrinkled feet, with shaggy hair, Who can say he found nothing fair, That is nothing but a shadow there, That is nothing but a more despair. From books that have no comfortable smell At all, being fill'd with motley care, From books that have no speech except to spell At things that are not as they were, Our man has placed his ancient bell, And for his restless working he Has made a history of the past; In vain has he, with imploring gaze, Chanted that mystic strain of praise, And yet not vainly!--thee, my lass, once more! And they are many, and 'tis thy will To hear once more their incantations o'er; And many and many a fire has burn'd in thee That hasten'd with it to an unseen goal, And given in vain till now to roll Down Time's vast billows like eternally. Then here, old friends, as in our day, As in those elder days, we may Laugh at the mortal snare; yet thou wilt find Some truths are best in thee, and can't confound The awful mystery of that hour Enamour'd--nay, it never so replied Could lend a creature such as us; and thou, Dread Spirit of that calmer being, shalt Take up my words for your familiar wing, And fling them where the ======================================== SAMPLE 715 ======================================== de Thear, Which made ise much his own, And de Loire in de veneration He follered his nation. Dem greuertes piéreddures, Fond ferks deir hearts, So de Redoun floire nylous Et que du poire nuvrain d'aoire. De belle d'ambrosaise fois Et que follered l'arte: De la maused Italian Disoraged de soir, Attaine �rone d'hidalgoire N'etait les ses vois. De theil vientle a leur santes Tout peur perruisse; D'un voile ces voir loigne, L'Ai bien peu s'hidalgoire Qui ses fleumes et moi fame; Et dixit que foroþe De mon amour d'antre fas Et ses aile était mes chevres Devant leur jeunes. Et j'ai où les horres descants D'amour epoux jusqu' jour. Leur ce que ce monde époux, Pois tout leur brune, Qui mangant leur sa paume, Lui veille donne. Un peu de l'heure d'or Vourn-seul bien chambre dore Le fois pour le front pour gai Vous les peur de votres ecoutes Se lever pour les apes. Et ces voix profonde N'a qu'il t'ay des seules Que n'aurores jeunesse des fleurs. A qui merce sur leurs l'amant. Et ces voix profonde Peu des mots, l'etere Que ma dote vols requeire Chaire aux mains du calme et mare, Laurent la temprée Une la cépre du ciel Lui vitre pour l'amour; Le couvente un peu durable Le couvente un mal: Elle vient, elle montrie et deux mains, Se lever pour elfs a la vaste pas sans gonde, Pour la gible d'oignon d'amour, La voudraeur ma vingau. Enfinement au fond et gironne, A qu'un pris à la tableée; Comme il n'est le de l'œur de l'œvre Sur elle to lour d'or. Elle est un vient. Elle se lever pour l'œvre Sur la vaste comme des gens très de beau. Déjame et tous leurs essans Vous lui qu'il vient à neaux de trist Qu'il jouir qu'en doux d'or. Elle est un vient. Elle se lever pour les gens Sur les fois des mots frondels et mille est un prés. Quand elle man sur leurs en la robe voll mountaine, Sur le mauvaient de bien étre des heures d'amière; Sur le mauvaient les voix, et les misère chambreuses Comme un feu rêve, pour l'église au chanteau, La joie drapue, ô jeune en cette du peau Que j'ai parlé avec des clés de la fois. La chale au jourdon et des fleurs et désir, Dans le temps d'elle a désir de n'est-ger En van lieux époux et derisir du silence. Je veux plaisir, sur leurs source de vie, Sur leurs verse pourquoi, par la chélère die Qui j'ai parlé, que j'ai parlé au vent. Lyly a venture au se regret en leur pensée Enfinement, à mon frais fois plus aimable Ainsi que l'on se lose, Du pied, Lyly ait, dans leurs yeux ses gens aits Dans leurs loy des gens vers ======================================== SAMPLE 716 ======================================== And mad With frenzy of his raptures. When amid the throng he saw her, To his sate he spoke as follows: 'Tell me, O thou fond and loving, What is the sumpore closet, Of thy breed so small and vicious? From what nation is thy stockings? Thou wilt surely seek to find them, By thy kinship, still unkindly. 'Thus didst thou engross the water. Thus as we are in wisdom, As a watch, at night approaching, We will slay thee, weak and stupid, By the biting of the billows, Thou to Jumala hast hast borne them, To thy home, with cuckoos wailing, To the lake where wild geese suffer, To the deep lake's dread abysses, Where the angry bear is struggling, To devour the honey-laden. 'This will be the hapless house-dog, When to rest the weary owner, When to rest the weary wanderer. When the night has borne her southward, When the morning Sun is shining, Then will I, so long unmindful, Thus return to Jumala's chambers. 'There I'll rest for ever, ever, Ever in the deep lake's cavern, When the morning sun is shining, When the evening dew is falling; When the evening sky is cloudless, And the vapors' flight is shortened; When the morning breeze is blowing, When the morning breeze is rising.' From the lakes the roaring waters Jumala's great race descended, And he said: 'Now shall I reach him, Him, the pride of all the people; When he wakes upon the daylight, After breakfast slowly turning, To the evening he'll pursue him, Through the mountain, to the fountain, Rushing far o'er all the lakes. O'er the waves he'll wander ever, And around the lakes will guide him; There himself shall work deliv'rance, And the waters soon shall find him.' And the young Jumala, likewise, In the sledge himself securely, Sitting on the sledge he gaily By the side of maiden fair; He the handsome girl's dark tresses, And with bright cheeks woos her gentle, And he thus addresss her with he's: 'Hie, the bear, thy claws now fatten From thy claws, so sharp and grumpy. O'er the stumps of bears thereafter, And a pleasant life will glide thee, As thou darest take my courser, So I'll cross the wide expanse of water, And my weary journey homeward, And my journey quickly travel, With my gentle wife to watch me, And my wife to work me homeward. 'Tis indeed the greatest blessing That the fair Mielikki gave me, When she led me through the water, Unto Jumala's high bath-room, And to Jumala's deep bath-room, But, alas! I have no language, No mirth, nor heavy drinking, As a son doth pass an adder. I will pay a mighty ransom To the poor, the good, the truthful, That I'll pay my silver gro weaving. 'There are many, many numbers, Yet between the earth and heaven They are seven in number small, And they somehow almost six For a decent, loving refuge From such creatures, so abundant. 'Fare thee well, O Sahri's daughter, Never with unwilling motion Or in sport have I bewitched thee, Never in the race of evil. Never by thy race observed, Are the nameless three or short ones Not in rite or in the newness, But in deeds, or thought, or action. All are harboured to their pleasure, In this place are Ehstland's daughters, Harboured to the lovely maiden, Harboured to the gallant maiden. There are maidens set apart for ever, There are men with hearts aglow with pleasure, For they sing a varied carol, As they dance with dancing measure, As they sing in order, single, While the days are hastening onward. 'There's a skilful sailor on the sea, And a boat, a crafty sailor, And a crew, of various size and craft, Which the merry maiden bears. Free and reckless is her ship, As the outward company, And she only brings ======================================== SAMPLE 717 ======================================== oucate-swarms, approaching the halls of the Cacus, cheered the flocks of Agrius and tortured their calves. So they stuck two brawns in the midst of the feast, hungering, making trial of perilous skill. Leiodes and Odius with them their limbs were encased. But if they were only as swift as they were they, swift as they would, these the dear son of Odysseus espoused. Then he bade the handor of Thalis the fair was to wed. And be thanked for the blessing of Eurymachus. So he spake, and with might and main he smote the sons of the wooers, blessing and sustainer of the household. Forth from the halls he sped, as he had often said. In the bridal chamber the wise Penelope first brought them, with wicker-work wrought, from the looms of the crownes. And Odysseus took from her the splendour and the spoil, sitting with his son, and in turn she spake to her, saying: 'Lo now, thou art more beauteous than I, who took from me all my husband. Thy wealth is greater than thine. Yet I am so high and mighty that I ever before thou gatherest this treasure, that ever it was a wonder to be, since men departed such fashion in the land of the land of strangers, and our sons were lingering in the halls of Odysseus, where keep ever thy house. And my heart waxeth more fearful when I behold a stranger slain, whoso may chance at my hands, so that for sorrow I may not remain long in hall or house long; for once, of a truth it was the guileful thicour which brought me to such perils. And of a truth thou shalt give me plaint of thine, to soothe the bitter grief of my heart. For sure, even now thou art here, who knowest neither the wards nor the sun, where is the world of Odysseus, who begat me, when wearied for his sake. Now so soon as my lord and my maiden had made war with their hateful company, he began his return to the hall of Odysseus, and made haste to depart, and the women wept as the wooers departed forth from the hall. And when they had got themselves down from the hall, they chatted, and prayed each one to come forth and tell him his name and his race, and hearkened to them saying, "Odysseus, yea come and hear my grief; for no longer has it been to have come to pass, nor any wise of my old age, but is come to an end. And now I am come to a good end, that I may reap for thee a good wreath of olive leaves, a goodly sacrifice, and a goodly wreath of poppies.' And he answered, 'I have a daughter, a goodly son, and a noble name; long, thou shalt obey me.' Then the fair-waisted man took from her the fair presents of gold, fair things for hand: in and out of the door the women brought from the ships and the fair garments, and the son of Odysseus came forth and brought them to the feast, and gazed on all. Then the women set each in the upper chamber, and began to call to the godlike Laodamas, saying: 'Out on you, Laodamas, that I too may bring hither goodly gifts, yea, and woo his daughter. Nay come, since thou art like the very god, and knowest to put these counsel aside, to bid goodly gifts feast thyself. Lo, now one of the stranger, a grey ram, comes up to the lofty stall, clad in the garments that the goddess bare when she went forth to the wedding, bearing a bright mantle and with a basket and with a round towel. And as when barks come into the holy house of Odysseus, and many a one go forth to pray to the gods and gods, and pour prayer upon the goodly ram, that so they may make them glad; so we too were ready, and even Ulysses, lord of spears, came up and divided the coinclements of the thighs and of the thighs. And he was broken in the seams as the ram was crushing the white crest of his neck. ======================================== SAMPLE 718 ======================================== , brave CALEDAS--and daunt Your brother blasts to come at least! This ancient tower--what things you see-- Is not retain'd, nor loss'd in vain, But stands an engine still and free, Where Thought, as fancy painted it, Is writing wondrous rhymes for us! But as you see the towers again, With many grateful stones, adorn The steps of living lustihood. What different passions bloom and wane! What patch of classic, ancient song Once floated o'er that, lowly isle Where Freedom lisps the soul of all? The Hebrew's laughters are much better, And gOLugs from the lips we style, Than his of old, in genial Fourth. In Bedivere a little bay Was chang'd, or like a mother dear; But let us find some great friend there, To teach the elegies of our story, To know when therag angel bore Upon the silver bit of silver The proofs of thy great kindness done it, And how his lot to man has been: The lines that lengthen time on toil Are strong as those of Hercules; Then hasten to your duties! At The gate they press without, and crush A man with a great mockeries! But what, but what's your better life, Had he but left the Gates of Sorrow For things he might have had to do Or served his life so well as you? Well, who that hath the Fates survey'd Or 'scapes the Bushy Road, That fair Elysium, May extinct And few men sing on the same,-- Flowers flaunting where the roses sate, Proud-blossoming where the hyacinth Slipt like a fling on golden wing? How hardly man is now at war! For from each eye debates, debates, What dangers, who would dare to think A man can die? There is no book To read, as ages have been lost On some high death-drowned hill or hollow. There may be health in man's right eye As well as in his own; but die He may, or he who maims a lie May die at last! And that no more, Let us agree that love is stronger Than loving more in yon world-wide sphere; So here's to you, and our great war With those that should be fair, and few; With all true poets--which shall be, As flowers that die. (And further, in the following nine lines Of my apparent labor) We see the pinkish foot on grass, The white heel poise upon the glass, The wonderful and virginal, And catch a glimpse of Nature's face As lovely as a face of her, A woman of some ranks of bees, With eyes ask'd in the purple of her, Tossing a ball to dazzle bees, Or dew-drops in a lady's bower, Bearing the heart she hopes to meet With the sweet wonder of an hour, The laughing butterflies, the bees, The talking flowers! Lady, most lady-like I am From those about you never heard The ever-calling call of you: For love proclaims you as the flower Of the fair summer of your day, The bud of your fair spring, and the hour Of dearth when flowers are gone away. Heart, lady, mind. For somewhere, everywhere, you know The endless Joys you name not so, The thing that gives a charm to this Folds round you and awakes to kiss The wonder of the sunset hour On these our flowers we planted green And breezes to their fragrance steal From the cool heart whose honey there Will keep the secret for the hour Who breaks the untried bosom free As winter-day when you and I Passed on to pluck a wildflower flower, Your loveliest one! Heart, lady, mind. For somewhere, everywhere, you know The endless Joys you wish to know, The only joys that were not dear If we believed you were not here To catch the glory of a kiss In such an hour! Sweet love! it was a flying foot Between me and the city-wall, And when we trod our own to meet I knew it would not come at all. So turn your faces to the wall! I have no music now to sing, No house wherein to sleep; Only the stir of loving things That made our graves so fair ======================================== SAMPLE 719 ======================================== may lose for dolour for the bride; Nor blame the bard whom Cowley doth confound. But Harpalice did with his flaw repair; So that it pleased her to see him straight set there. They that should enter, having all in hand, Come to the place where Nilus' murmuring wave First bears the salt weed and the noble swain, Which theretofore of Greece the bed possess'd, When Pallas died, to wait the promised day, They whom the worthies of our hapless land Unto my bearing tell; nor grudge the rule Due to their natural persons, such their lot; For we have now theEstablish'd throne, that kings And lords it o'er them all, who from that doom Our homes have brought to Greece; and piety Doth by the foresight sanctify the house. This fourfold company, that reign the six, Elected all that foot-bath, which the chosen few (Great princes and the rest, as nature would, Here still an oracle to many a tribe), Are marching on, marching as for right, For that the inner sanctuary was built up. And that the sense of coming ill, that might Lie hid by darken'd eyelids from the light Of Phoebus' or of eagle's wings; the spirits (As smoke becalbers 'ware a mountaineer) Were all transformed to swine. Nor they alone, But many more, the vessels and the crew, That the king's supplication had renew'd, Were salted to the outer temple floors. In all of them a fearful demon slept, Who thus had spoken to the deafening roar Of those that o'er the ocean with triumphant roar Had now conducted to the utter light. O ye! O weary Greeks, more weary grown! What muse that the night follows night alone? If Jove, by mortal penury o'erfed, Could number out the stars that dot the skies, How could I choose, but scarce refuse to pay The seasonable cost, what cost we thee, A tedious day! All past seems past and gone, How soon the night would bring eternity! I see no more the sun that late hath shone, And weary every eye, with weary strain; I see the woods that gave me light have gone, Where wearied travellers ne'er had wont before; All pine-trees bending to the breeze are gone, And all the waves that in their wanderings rustle Are withered now, and with it burn and waste; All is extinguished now, and I no more. The hour is gone when me no more shall see, My sight again shall open eagerly, Thou, O my friend, canst entertain me silently; For to thy store all those who've left me have cried. They in the dark had taken now my fill; The night was dark, and to the wings of thought I flew away in all their folds, and nought Thereafter had to do my fellows wrong, For me their wretched master had been strong, Sitting alone, above his reeking sword Stood in the porch, and heard the bell's sonorous word. The sun had now set where that goodly mount Had stood above the smoke of that dread day, When I was to return with downcast looks Into the camp. I had the day before, And when the sun was riding back again, And the air with a dreamy murmur mock'd my flight, I awed, and sudden a strange sense did give Of that delight to which my breast doth live. Now these I saw: and the vision was fair Which came in prelude to my blissful dower. How truly it was that I should hail the morn When neither sun nor birds can to me give Joy without day, with long day's banishment And unendurable misery! The sun was sunk and a deep silence fell About the mountain-cave. I knew not why. Only a little out there, yet methought In dreamful silence, that the torrent seemed To beat at me, and it came too and fro, And spake no word. But as I nothing spoke, And scarce had breath to close my weary eyes, The dolorous voice, and low-lifted frame, Thoughtful, and faint, and human were to me, "Whence comest thou?" now came I to the cave, Where lay in lieu of living creatures there The spirit. To my weary eyes it grew, And to my blinded soul it spoke of thee ======================================== SAMPLE 720 ======================================== Cuthbert put his charge and went, The man of his art brought him when he was gone. 'God forgive,' said the deed, 'that ever you spake, Of courting the fiend out at the front of the lake; You need but think how you paid off their debts In full trust with the thing you had promised it was!' 'Anough time?' said Fame. 'What do you think of that word?' She told him to go but to finish it smart, And there left his work and had been faring out Over hills and desert terrible and wild To find out what the human soul can have found. They fished and they ran and they cowed and they died, Long over the lake the livelong day they plied. It was summer when she went to the town, To bring in some carouse and keep it well in, But still she could not get it one year to bury: The water it seemed to have had lost its sap. But the lady was well and she came too late. The place for so long he wished--but was to stay: "I've been to school in the fire," said her son; "Oh, I'm glad they've not learned my trade, anyhow!" But she missed it, and she refused him to go. They grieved in their hearts for the deed she had done. And the misfortunes seemed to grieve her, but grew; She tried to learn who would resolve the matter, But she must have told them by and by, For they knew she would lose the mother-in-law. At last, when they begged her to cease their labors, And it seemed that she had been through and through Where the dreary ooze had been on a sward Which the rivers had formed and the water had reared Of pine and fir, had been stretched out at leisure To launch by the side of a rearing water, And it seemed to them that the rapids had sprung From the rapids, and stopped to return to the river; So she ran at her heel and she anchored her hold In the dank, damp current that swept from the land. She ran for a moment and burst through the gap And stood on the bank like a lifeless thing. 'I've been to the top of the old red wall. You should have been here on the top of the bank That you said you were climbing a rock And clutching its tops for your scalp to see. I've had my pick of old mud from the clap. I want to come back as a peasant will, And when I come back I'll see my arm here.' So the Old Rhodop played his last tune. And vanished away from the eyes of the moon. And she sat in the doorway, a dozen or so, With her back turned over, and hung down there to be The last week's worst chance on the wind to warn her. The stars kept up an endless chase with her, The water rolled over her gray and her face; They were just too big for the cold, and she felt Like a log stuck in with a crack in her pelt, And knew it was all in her hurry to speak When she first bethought her to go out and dine When she ordered the drovers that dragged her to bed. So they sat down together and turned her up red, A right dislikening to the legs of their riders, The loiterers coming, the crowd without even, The latest thing squivers; the doors, through the crechtes, Seem closing to-night in a buzz of strange fun. The men wheel around in a singular way, The band grows impatient, the woman gets mad, The band is in love with the old court lover. Then either man snuffs or laughs, takes his hat off, First lets the old guttering weariness off. 'The old man's drunkard's right,' she seizes a knife, Then steps in to the villain and rats the while, And pushes him back to the door, with a face Of wrathful and bitter, and answers a smile. 'Wait, wait,' he laughs, 'and we won't come near here, A-fishing for us the brutes with a whip!' He falls on his knees in his wild sore glee. She turns to the water below, seeks to shove, She moans as she touches the old carved glove, She starts it and wonders what way people use Where poor folk find it; he halts with her now And shoots through the rippled glass where the b ======================================== SAMPLE 721 ======================================== , while I came here; Those trees on both sides of the wood, That with their tops enclosing stood, As is the usage wont, foretold; In characters of brilliant green, To furnish delicacies seen. My step-dame to the hazelwood, I made, in pleasing manner, start, And hailed it with the sylvan song, Which every squirrel, hare or sturl, Was kept to his most charming smell. Then I went round about the spot, To keep the rare, or pay the fat; Or give the leeks and tempers whole, To finish games or shoot at goals. But I, among those garden-deities, A plump and fleecy pair had lain, To be most glad, and feed on pye From morn till eve; 'twas truly fine (So many a day was one, that morn), To let each forward foot of light Visit the chimneys of the night; As morn was coming from the East, The docile came fore-me'-hie, And pressed each forward, forward face, All questioning with a surmise Which if it came with girlish grace, Which no one knew before, He'd soon with her who stood on guard, And to the very top would say: 'Oh, he is fairer far than they, The rose that's now in bloom,' said he, 'He blossoms on the breezes cold, With wind-blowing hoofs we're now arrived, I come to pluck the blossoms sweet, Wee gloves and rings to thee are sent, Oh, ne'er to thee, Ulysses-taste! On to the babble, thou must speed And fetch the prie, I thee heed.' The pretty bumble-bee, oh, he, Who played at being made of me, Still in his greater vessel rove, The more he works upon his love, With wing so soft, and such a range Of words and such like bubbles rove, As he himself could clearly change. And there was peck of iris hore, And scent of violet full clear, He made of all that makes a store, All of himself the most sincere; For him the bees had sucked their fill, And he had formed of horned quill, All that philosophy can weave, Sweet to each eye but to receive. My bumble-bee, nay, honey, bee To whom I make my dainty history; My bud of poesy, in bee And flower, so to declare to thee, Was nought but ornament; For it to change the fragrant charge Accounting each minute, day and night, In gauds of richest white, That golden, as thine eye doth lave, Is nought but ornament. As said, thou shalt not be denied So much as asked of me; But as thy sweets shall be supplied So shall thy goodness be. But when I think of thee, my dear, And thou wert there, I bid thee fear: Lest worms should dwell in this abode, Not thine the flower, but thee; So shalt thou live a changeless life, With all that live for ever; And, being thus, of all bereft, The woe the flower is not of left, To die, for thee I'll moan: Thou wert so long in love with me, Thy constancy's so full of thee I could not love thee one! Yet had I part with all that's fair, My dearest dearest--all that's there, O'er my last kiss, I might but die To give thee this, to die. My dearest Babbler, now it is o'er, Thou hast been my sorrows to deplore: For each night, when thou did'st me restore, Thou wert my tears to soothe, or to burn before. Long and lasting infiniteness did dwell In thy heart's chambers and on my moveless cell, Making me daily fairer day by day Come to mine eye, who are touched by thee, That my eyes may see thy gracious way, Thy love, thy visage, and thy perfect praise! Oh, say, when I am worse than poor, Say, how my heart with grief did swell; Shall I tell it? tell, how knock My breast against thy heaviness? Say, how my heart ======================================== SAMPLE 722 ======================================== o' the windy sea! Over his brows the sword he bore, Till all the beetling shore Beneath the foam flew free! The silky surges foam-flakes fall To quench the red immortal flame In veins of crystal; and the hall That fronts the sea's blue, bared walls Its rosy utterings of fire. It sleeps--it is not death--and yet The mighty, passionate wave is wet With what my passionate pulse would beat. Over the waves the sea-tossed veil Drooped o'er its laughing dimness; pale The purple waters flowed and smiled Luscious, familiar faces wan With hoary dewiness. Where the wave washed the sky, the palm Of her white lily-bud, like fleur, Lay where the slipping sea-pools run. "Beautiful, beautiful!" she cried, "The sea grows still and strange, and far, And the whale's croak is not heard amid The caverns of the moon!" Across the heather chased the foam That flecked the edge of the stormy caves, Where the dew glittered in a urn, Circling over either sheathed Of the gleaming marble of her soul. O, the dream was not more sweet Than the vision of another sea, When the leaf that still floated by Seemed to finger the horizon's rim. Hearts like flowers of light and form, Joy is like the sunrise's charm, Joy is like the morn's reflection, Hearts like morning's reflection! Joy is like the dawn's reflection! The azure splendor of the sun, The azure bloom of noon is done, And over the horizon's rim The white lark's carol bursts in flame. To-morrow he will miss us! It is in September, And this encircling autumn day Shall be the pageant of a passing dream. In this glare of light and love I beheld two lovers plighted; Their vows were fleet in other years, And their hearts in the bond were broken. Older than the leaves are they By their memories in the darkness. It was one they loved, and one they owned And quenched love within their bosoms. Old are these, but lovers' eyes Love has touched with other ages. This fair night is mine, and mine the day When love's serenity shall sing, Of their truth and their beauty's May To me given by my singing. Sunlight and darkness, cloud and tide, The face of the hazy sea, And the quivering lilac overhead Where the yellow mast-flowers peep, With the miracle of the sea. I can see the dappled seals creep With their gaudy trappings down, Slowly steal through the crystalline Soft and shadowless; Close against the rose they cling. And I feel the wind in my cheek, Like a kiss--my heart can be - Mingling to that kiss again Where they waited for me. But in sleep my eyes still dream Of a beautiful, passionate sea, A kiss--the ghost of the sea; Till at last I am lifted up, And above me the waves are white Dreamily, as if on a throne, My soul sees God's own white face Looking up into His face. From the cradle's side to the mill at length I have looked for the weary hours and watched The moon slowly sinking in the gale; Yet the heart that lay so still as a stone Sheltered it not from the joys it had known Called in to listen, while its joy had died, And felt no more the tried good part. As if there were tears for another's face. He moves not; how wan and shadow-like! Hush! hush! it is sweet to rest awhile. And the lips of childhood a sadness wears, Which I mused on before, but he never sleeps, And those arms to his breast untwine. He gazes with pleasure on every side But the silken shadow has parted for years; He is left not even to dream of a joy No more real than its outward hues, And the odors of life and death-- He will never glance on it more, nor breathe The soul's first music when, as in Paradise The heart makes itself a lyre. I saw my Lady weep, She wailed full length and wailed in deep And ======================================== SAMPLE 723 ======================================== To the boys, to the sailors, but yesterday, I notice he gendarme to put in his way. One fine night, he was riding a bullock, indeed, Till, forced on the whole by the fair sex to plead, And the pugnards came gaping to see him, I trow, Was pampered, so very, and licked out the ploo With a shiny-taneous fat goose-flesh, that shed Trails of the grass in its upward array; He had a rich dow dow, all that fortnight beside, So he had his picture-book open'd on high, Then I said: "On your mind, if at all my design You were to give men such pictures as there are, You would never, to take men, have made it so fine." Well, just as I gave them the beautiful witch With her far rosy mouth piqued kiss to my finger, He perceived my dame, of pure blue leatherish land, With a far rosy and sunny fleur-de-lis, And she said, as she looked on her guilefully grand, "Gee, come on! ho! so here I have you for me! If this be true, and they know I am known to do For what is honor, wealth, greatness, and love, I must do as I say! Ho, ho!" Did you ever know, in all their lives, That this is an original play? Goodness and spare-the-wisp, goodness and spare-the-wisp, 'Twould never be right! I do it now! I am away, life has not made me sad. "Thank you!" I shouted with all my will-- "I am safe--I am ready--I'm off to sell-- Get the boss to the boss, Mister-Breakwater!" That was all I had; and I'm going home. I found the books where the dear ones stood, The corner-boxes, the dust-bank shelves, The shop-like guardians of the cats, With tails cut off and eyes rosy-blue. "Hey, dear Mister-Breakwater!" I cried. "Dear Mister-Fallwater!" I cried in vain, And the names being ten times better than eight, They came in bottles of all sloes and bears, And glasses of every sparkling blue, And candle-snaps which I used to smoke, And took the toast beside, my aunt baking, And lemon spitting liquor, a cloudaby; Coral ripe, red and yellow and red, And filling cellar to say all is said. And the picture-shop was filled all day With dolls and dolls of every size, Stone panes, pipes, pencils and took away The carved roll-dagon, sword, and toys. And with corkers and tea-jugs and cocoa, And rhino-coloured apples and cherries, And sweet potatoes with sugar and salt, And sugar and sassafras and ham, And toys and trinkets and open lawns, And all the colors of Christmas lawns. And some of these things I set aside. I'm going back to Old St. Michael's, Where I once kept a little garden. The sky is blue, and the trees are bare; I have changed the road so, old mother, And will go again, to my old so fair. It is the spring time, and I'll stop and listen, And I will listen till I get as near As the old dear voice says in it, my dear, "You have learned Spring time, and I'll delay you!" You say the house is only innocence: We may suppose we're going to freeze Unless we're sent to keep the books on trees To keep the house from getting up the stairs. I know my mother used to stop and say That if I can't go on without all right I can't step right along with Nettie tonight, And then she says, "Old chap, old chap, old chap!" You say the house is only innocence: I do not want to have it used to me, So I can take a step with Nettie either; And when it isn't lots o' chill, why, then, We'll be at home somewhere tonight again. <|endoftext|> The voice of the Muse is low and tense, And the artless measure of beauty thru Our veins has beaten new and old, For the singing is sweeter than anything Since the hand that touches it ======================================== SAMPLE 724 ======================================== Nomina! nobis nimium seruat in littor, Nec nisi forsan meliore sapientia. Quaeque brevi ardentiores turpisque periclis, Dulcior, incultis quae sunt moenia bravi est, Quaeque rackula Phthii quassat fleat cruenti, Quaeque famam laevius cuncta Pallas, Sed quae pios equos imitator atque fletus, Quae pariunt basia dicere condit honoribus, Quae cui pulchra Ceres, et nec forte repinas? Pieces quem hunc duces, ultra nobis artem, Hunc verecundis te circumdixus insolens, Dulce sui coepta muros et ordine pomposi, Dulce senio complebit, nihil alma pios, Multa manus a nostro cui pulchrior orbis, Daque, rogesque nitens, cum pinguis ipsa carmina, Non tantum egula neque fragor hostium. Quam fortunatius suum ridet humus hastam, An cerry modos, non auro castior apertos. Dic magis est, cum pulchros et ludibria riserunt, Dic quid queis miracula quae turges, Sta berber ipsa rosae rursae, neque expertae Ipse quoque bonis poenaeque ignota Ditis, Luctibus inperso tellus vere negat isto: Omnes et florum sidus, nec ferveat ante Denique tanto lancas, uestumque suo Phoenix Alit pensiferi fremitus, inscriptiata Icti profitum Romam, perfusus, ignis Inque ipsam trepidaeque canantibus olim Calia portans: strauitias atque iras Celestra plena maria parturitur auis. Et quis tum cui queis clauditur Apollo? Quisquis filii regat, quis laudatores? Dost promise, Rome, to put the people low? Cato indeed upon the threats of Rome, With mighty triumph, and heroic shame, Heroic pride, in Oacus' battle shone, Himself the hero of the godlike name. Boeotia's king behold! and Oedipus' son, Plato, on Thracian prowess thou hast shown. The fields the Thracians and their neighbouring strands With rugged ridges placed, and trod the land. By them with wondrous art Phoraean Jove Ordained perfection, with reluctant feet The sovereign, while the fair Iberian train, Borne by the foot of Ida, swept the strand, Called Scythia's shrines, and consecrated fane, Which to thy plenteous vintages is due, And annual greetings to the greatest store, Whole hecatombs to Jupiter bestow. Himself with stately viands first ascending Then flamed the artist: at his javelin, Pressing the mortal spear, he turned and slew The conquering shaft; right through the breast it went, And tossed the feather. Ah, unhappy me! Inglorious spirit! whom no mates can please, A Goddess' form, a Goddess' all ordained. Himself the artist from Apella tore, His shuttle-work, when now Minerva calls, With borrowed oars to screen his wounded side, And sent him back to Phthia. Him by fraud Ruled and by fraud to pen relentless war. Such doom great Hereus' son and Rhodopus bore To his own troops, one death defaced by throngs Of Grecians from Percote, fierce as blood. AEthra's mighty son. The spreading crest Of Agamemnon's was a hero's head. The conqueror Tarchon spared not to bestow Ambrosia on the Phocian host forlorn. He, deeply grieved, beneath a brother's wound To dash down even to the ships his helm, Rode terrible amid them. Thundered loud The winds, the chariots thundered at his word, And everywhere was heard the fiery fights Of many-handed champions, death who hope ======================================== SAMPLE 725 ======================================== ful omen of the pen, Who by Minerva's own celestial sign Through Ades, Bisen's fairest daughter, rules the Seven. She through the open door of Jove delays his word, Just then, to edict sacred Alisene's dread, She turns; she finds Æneas scarce with her restored, In vain resolves the Cretan sceptre to have dread, Now break the lance, and now the shriek she hears, And mingles in the song of an acclaimful air. So, with a sorrow at her heart, the dove was sent From Jove’s high throne to feed the guest in hall; He scatters gifts within the walls, and lays Of gifts of reverend sires he hears the falling fall, And from the threshold grasps the arm that sent Her lord, his Ægis, to the lightning’s ring, And beats the sounding lyre in sweetest melody. Such was the spell, the charm was vain, The pride that once she cast her heart away. Ah! she was young, she thought not of the twain, But seven nights had her song in Pluto’s grove Brought to her ear the ravishing divine strain, That caused the triumph of the hermit’s grove. Now when the fatal moment was complete, And from her wounds the scarlet streams outstarted, O’er the broad tablet flew the winged sound Of those bright wings and sacred messenger, Wing the sad flight her sorrowing soul had sped, And now soft Morn, the fair-faced nymph, up-shining On saffron beds of dewy dews distilling. For some few days, till bright Aurora’s glow Bright Phoebe gathered from the face of night, Revealed that not one dearer than her foe Could brook delay to pause in sweet delight. Caught in the glittering web she cast her view, And sighed, and wailed, and wept, and called her name. Then, standing in her place, Aeolia knew The Muse’s key, that set the scenes before her; So moved the heart of Ades, that the bride Grew gladder when her lover entered in. From Ades’ prison forth the spring returned, Her face averse to shade and sorrow burned. Forth from her arms the grieving lover hied, And found her sorrowing consort, desolate, And mourning in the cavern, and her guide, Mourning, no voice her sorrow’s cause could frame: With watchful eye, and eager pace, he watched Till all the clouds above the heaven opposed; Then, strange to tell! she pondered, and he said, "O where are ye, my light-bearer, that shed Your full round year, on this beloved one? Where are ye, whence, ye winds, that blow so soon? O where, ye shower so swiftly on my lips, Why this your mournful silence on them, say, Are these your voices, echoes, ghosts, ye clay? Was it that ye with death so soon were fled? Or was it but that my dear empress’s charms I lay opposed? So brief the date of my alarms." She said, and passed, but her sad bosom beat, And with her anguish deep oppressed her soot; Then parting from her labours, fell her feet Down to the wall, and her sad bosom beat. So passed that day and passed: and now the sun To Sanacia’s towers repairs their journey done, And on the tops of Parnasean rears The dark blue canopy that pleaded fears. Thither, where, sunk in deepest shades of night, The moon had pitched their toils, the lovers light On the cool bank that edged the level fight, And where upon the wide horizon lay The doubtful sons of Hesperus, that lay Like task-forsaken kings, now number’d one. Then, guided by the hand that bears the horn, They mount their chariot, down the sacred grove They bring the vanquished maid, their plighted dame, That, gracefully disposed, the gallant dame Might grace them, in whose love the world might be Ennobled by the warriors’ hermitry. And now their story of the ravish’d dame Had spread the tale that dear had borne her home. Her grief in many a tender breast possess’d, T ======================================== SAMPLE 726 ======================================== Or linger'd till they rested where the queen Sat often, as if pass'd beside her couch She watched them unperceived by Cepheus' son. She lay beside him, and her face was clos'd, The nymph re-running towards him thus exclaim'd: "Surely my child has prov'd the marriage bed Was noble, but I did not know its age And passing Julia in the shades of death. Why must it seem of such a virgin womb That and the marriage bed with every day Is fraught?--A maiden, if you wish to know The lives of such a virgin? yet I blush Boldly to tell my child's and so the king." "Then by a cross what darksome stronghold held My son? and what succession crown'd his life?" "You know too much," said Priam's son, "from a girl Whom our debate doth fill, and as a prize His beauty hath surmounting evermore. But call'd it a vile swan: from that high hill Cast far before us- O fair, O foul, O foul, O foul, O foul, Were I but maiden as my name. Can any boy for aught of beauty sue To the lustre of his youth, whom Aganippe Gave him for love,--I saith Aeneid, nay, But for the meteor love of Hercules; And none of all his race deny'd a child; Was never lion seen to match with me. Then thou, sweet maid, which doest to shame my love, Thou dread-behold! didst in thy mistress' eyes See here thine own white fleece and flowing robe." "That was my love; that with my wedded bride This maiden ne'er will see; and therefore now, Remember, were the grief of her fair face My grief should show." But Priam's son replied: "I knew thee not, mine own love, but thy years Were less to me than thine: no maids are wont To bind with changing hair the manger's mane; But thou hast ever been my innocent. I think thy exile thou hast now in sight, The arms of Chiron were so strange, so strange! Now wilt thou wish me none? Wilt thou to move Me to thy love? Already have I know, Yet think upon my shameful tale again." She spoke; but Priam's son stood nigh, and chid Her silence, spake to Achilles, and replied: "It is enough. I come to yield thee back; Listen to me, and I will speak to thee. Thou deemest me as a leech. A father holds True honour; well he knows me of thy race, And a brave man by far less easily Canst stand it in his hands; and would to Heav'n, That once more I might seem I were to thee." From her lap spurn'd Achilles' tearful eyes, And weeping, and his brows by slow degrees Shook. Never from his eyes a stream of tears Beheld he, never from his weeping lips Till nightfall: therefore up he climbed the wall, And there he saw his wife, the fair Briseis, Standing aloft, as if she gaz'd on him. Thrice wept Achilles for his wife; thrice he, Prone on the ground, prone on the barren cliff, Lay down, and cried his wife incessantly: "I yield you, dear Achilles, but your child, If this may seem too much, that ye must leave My home, and hear my moan ye, O my friends! Lo! on a couch, behold me lying low; And O so cold, my husband dead, whom I Have honour'd ever with a yearning like My wife, I tremble at the sight! O look, O look serene! for thou art Peleus' son." Thus as he spake, he clasp'd his wife's fair arms; And with his wife thrust off he call'd away, Flinging with arms outstretched her lily-crown'd head. Then with his wife came Hector; fast were throngs Of wooers; faster of their threescore then, Them all, and bravest of the Trojans more, Themselves of flight; and those with clamor loud Cheering, and calling to the other Greeks, Also the other Greeks, as at the ship He cast them, when that shout they heard, he ======================================== SAMPLE 727 ======================================== like the other men of his! Our homes we may not reach again! If the sky be clear, If the grass be green, There is the courtier-seat; We have made our Will and pledges; Now we remember, Vachelors, We remember best, Virginia! The years advancing, Ah! do we wonder We see them parting? We view them sinking, sinking, sinking; Still we deplore To think them sinking, Till we deplore That we--the poor-- Must be no more! When Father Adam had an egg Slied in a little golden egg, His wife, Mary, watched him, He simply couldn't trust it, And 'twas a pity she had none. (My! not a single feature Entered the family circle.) Old Joe was black and honeyless, And Abraham quite unshy, And so, as she looked very prettily, She had a periwig which reflected. The married woman's thirty-one Was very well at ease, And Abraham called out, "Stop that! Oh, I am Vachelors!" And, as she bribed her last "best son," She only let him "stop" at her. And so, when she put on the spectre, He gazed upon her spectre. And as her spouse all gloomy, The king jumped up and cried "Oh, dear! I hate your dismal wedding-day, Your ducks, your pigs, and all your poultry; I fear, my love, you've left your poultry, You've saved your bacon rations, And you're no more a chicken-monger! "Don't blame me! You've another: You've got a biggest fishin' cane, And which I wish to put you in it: Come, friend, and take your weighty club! And you're a eighty-four-inch bass, For you're a full-length miner, And you can do your best to brag That you were born upon the Saxon For making folks at home with us! "You're not a poet, but a blemish, And you can dance like any frog; You were a scarecrow, but you took A pipe stuck out of a big aig!" And so they were; for what they were, They cannot tell to what they were. So little Blue Bo-peep had flying Right quickly out on the sunny air, And was drowned in the golden pond In the water's living crystal well, And there she lay like a dove that flies And is buried there all alone With the porcupine round her bones. And the Black Bo-peep said softly, "Dear, It is time you should swing, dear soul, Something of your lost life and hear The wailing cries of grief and fear. All the while you have idly played, You have no more shame for the feathered ballad And the comrade's song." And he raised his head, And to orchard woods and brooks and meadows Wandered in a wistful mood, Blown past the steeple, over the wood, Up over a low wall's length of level, Through the grass, up a knoll of level, To the acres where she was to be. And all at once, as they gathered her one Rubbing her ears, he cried, "Poor, poor, poor Love, Will there never come a new day for you Out on the hills?" And then, as his thinking Turned to the high hill-top and all around He saw, as he went, the slender spig Fashioning of the poplar tall and slender, Bringing home the nightingales to sing; The slender sprig dropped, low-flying, Then the daffodil he carried Up among the hemlocks redly blushing, Like a sky-flower overspread with blue. And she lifted her head, and he lifted her gently Up over the drooping ferns, And she lifted a bough, wherein she sat, And he sighed with those great white people, All looking down on her, and they looked (O they did not look that way, they knew), On the fair tree-tops and on the grasses, And all on the little church of Forget. Well, they were well and well, and it made them sad To think that a loveless lady lay Half lonely, as if she had not done her will, Yet ======================================== SAMPLE 728 ======================================== , 'As swift as clouds, with ruddy wings, The wind comes bobbing by. O for a pretty fancy steed, To hunt up heartily; And then I wadna care a rap for my humble steed That bears me thro' the heather. I'm up wi' all that pride can bring, And all that pride can show; I'll climb the lofty mountain side, And never, never, never, To gallop past the braken-vees, For there I met my love, The dearest and the best. O for a pretty fancy steed To chase the storm and weet, And then I wadna care a rap for my poor steed That bears me thro' the heather. He's gane, he's gane, he's gane! For he's awa, he's awa, An' he's awa, he's awa, But my love he's awa. Now westlin winds and cauld, And warring winds and weald, And snellin westlin, scauld, Blaw blaw blae frae the sky, While here amang the deils Is sic a glorious sight! O here 's no time to waste On flowers sae fair to view; There 's beauty here o'er waste That fain I wad review. An' whiles, beside the faulds Where cauld the e'en bairns; There 's warldly caulding licht, And dour warldly he cries: Where wavin's on the blast, An' winna whussle by, Is sic a glorious sight! He has turned thro' the dusty ways, And met wi' mony a waes; But now he is alane, In the fine things he has. He has turned thro' the dusty road, And filled wi' Highland pride; He has turned tho' the guid heeds Of the young anes and the meads Are now wan, and the fields are bare, And the birds sae cheery; But here is a bonnier sight, For aye the lassie has aye to say, That he likes a bonnier day. Come winter, come winter, Ye may sing o'er the fells, Or we'll spier your castle, And view your old castle. A bonnier day, &c. O that 's the month, and then the day, When birds shall caller sing, When evening shades the fisher's boat, And red the hawthorn's ring. O that 's the month, &c. Come winter, then, and then the day, When birds shall caller sing, When the moon, as diamond-like, shall shine, On the dewy grass and spring. Here 's winter, come with garland crown, And feast wi' rose-crown'd crown, And many a wreath forintra's brow, That weel wi' it we ken. Here 's winter, come wi' garland crown, And sing wi' sangs and drums, And we'll spier your castle, And we'll make you welcome, Then fare you well, ye 's sensible, To the land o' parson brass! And the little lads o' t' land do pray, Come wi' bonnet red an' blue, An' down in yon bold sea Fu' blue ye winna stay. Here 's winter, come wi' crape an' lace, An' a jug o' meal frae Kate; An' the shearers round the ingle place, The deil ane looks after that. Here 's Winter, come wi' crape an' lace, An' a laugh o' merrier teeth, And, as ne'er in court wi' his ain boad, The sport that 's no forgot, Yet like a kinkaroo tak' his love, An' walk aboot the stair-- Ae fond kiss, and then we'll part, my love, An' meet him in yon foreign land. Here 's winter, come wi' crape an' love, An' feast wi' joy an' joy; An' at the fire, ere we be ripe, We'll meet him on the bier. Here 's winter, come wi' crape an' love, An' feast wi' joy an ======================================== SAMPLE 729 ======================================== and Crise, Soft Catiles, o'er the amethyst, In circles each to the other set, By frequent changes veiling them. And, thence retreating, the stems o'erspread A rib above northern Caurus spread, Under a cliff, far from its due, To glassy lake, and Nereid blue, 'Mid murmurous shades where he reclined In lichened jewels, but thine own, Like his, thyself will shew his face And the graceful Naiad's "thou shalt trace." Ere now the goddess met her view To the nymph's azure-tinkling brow, And, to his bless'd, uplifted arm, Her hand she clasp'd within her own; In his eye-beam speaking to the charms Of wiles and charms in youth's young arms. But sooth'd to ease his artless prate, In specious shapes again he springs To bathe his dainty thighs, and wind With soft and easy finger-touch, A band of Nymphs whose beauty weds The roses of thy natal clime; While proudly to his eagle-wings The Nymph's fair brow the smiles devours, And from his eye the lustre showers Of lovely tears down foaming dash. Then, fired by her immortal zeal, More fervent burns his dazzled eye; The sighs that fly from wanton lips, Him, flatt'ring woman, can refuse; As if the spring had never smiled, If blest with unpermitted joys, She does the Naiad's footsteps trace; The veil that wraps her form and face, So straight with ease and grace, As might a gaudy child be led. Nor 'midst her wondering babes she spy, Cradled amid the sunny verdure, Her matron nymph, a lovelier maid, While all the low enamoured shade Seem'd painting on his azure eves. Methought I heard the unwonted sound Of dulcet streams, and from those fountains, Reverberant as crystal waves, On which, from time to time, with nimble art They press the pebbled sand. Thrice glanc'd his languid glance; and twice His breast with burning drops was bathed; Thrice, as if moist with thine own fire, He caught the lucent streamlet up, With tremor of deep wonder fill'd His glowing cheek; and thrice, in tears, He laid his finger on my cheek, And, shuddering, mutely whisper'd "Why Should any sorrow now invade My natal place?"--I heard him say, "Man is a stranger to the road Of passions, and to me alone What makes his own security?"-- Then, wherefore, should he bear me hence, But Turkish yells and blazing tears, Again disturb'd my solitude?-- "Tis said my heart must cleave to him, That he shall mine, and he shall me A grateful partner in distress, Should be my first- enjoyment, his: And I should yield up all he lent To aid, at least, in his decree-- A precious boon! So great my wealth He bought him; to his gold alone A CUPID should be shared with him. Besides, my love he ne'er had seen Since landing in a foreign sea." He spoke, and, quick'ning with his thought, His reverence told; nor did a tear Bedim his eye,--a silvery stream That flow'd and murmur'd as it fell. But his will told--a neighb'ring nook He pass'd beneath; and on the ledge I found him on the banks of Lok, Th' immortal Damasthor; there Stood Panopea, and the pair, Who in life's early day were seen To smile, with spring-tide hues, on thee. Long time with Her they gaze on thee, So seen by Gods, in love with thee. But now, of passion's sultry hue His front was wrinkled, and grew thin, His form grew soft, with swelling mien, And melted like the snow in spring: Upon his breast the blood was seen As from a maid's, but ere the dream Of mercy fell, his face and frame Were beautified with manly grace: That youth had cured the maiden's eye Before he saw her beauteous form; That into ======================================== SAMPLE 730 ======================================== An welcom'd home-com-com-com-com-come. An' the Lord, an' the Devil's to spare, To the devil had work an' skill; An' the gumption, on top o' all, Of the fold was mack'relous still; An' the Halyards, by nine an' nine, They could thresh thresh an' powder nice; An' thresh, till the halyards rise, They can thresh thresh, an' powder nice; An' the lads an' the maids, an' the lads, They can thresh thresh, an' powder nice; An' the lads, an' the halyards, nane Hev to thresh an' powder nice; An' the lads, an' the maids, an' the lads, They can thresh thresh, an' powder nice; An' the lads, an' the halyards, nane Hev to thresh, an' powder nice; An' the lads, an' the maids, an' the lads, We can thresh thresh, an' powder nice; An' the lasses, an' the large an' low, We can thresh thresh, an' powder too; An' the lad, an' the lad, an' the lads, We can thresh thresh, an' powder too; An' the lads, an' the lad, an' the lad, We can thresh, an' powder, an' powder too; When the sunset redden fairly brown, Spangled o'er with yellow gold; Then the bowery wind-bell sounds again; Through the glade the sunlight wheels Whispering, "All aboard, all aboard, All aboard, all aboard, all aboard, Ain't there a giner'?" "Ay! all aboard, Ain't there a giner'?" "Ay! all aboard, Ain't there a giner'?" "Ay! all aboard, Ain't there a giner'?" "Ay! all aboard, Ain't there a giner'?" "Ay! all aboard, Ain't there a giner'?" "Ay! all aboard, Ain't there a giner'?" "Ay! all aboard, Ain't there a giner'?" "Ay! all aboard, Ain't there a giner'?" "Ay! all aboard, Ain't there a giner'?" "Ay! all aboard, Ain't there a giner'?" "Ay! all aboard, Ain't there a giner'?" "Ay! all aboard, Ain't there a giner'?" "Ay! all aboard, Ain't there a giner'?" "Ay! all aboard, Ain't there a giner'?" "Ay! all aboard, Ain't there a giner'?" "Ay! all aboard, Ain't there a giner'?" "Ay! all aboard, Ain't there a giner'?" "Ay! all aboard, Ain't there a giner'?" "Ay! all aboard, Ain't there a giner'?" "Ay! all aboard, Ain't there a giner'?" "Ay! all aboard, Ain't there a giner'?" "Ay! all aboard, Ain't there a giner'?" "Ay! all aboard, Ain't there a giner'?" "Ay! all aboard, Ain't there a giner'?" "Ay! all aboard, Ain't there a giner'?" "Ay! all aboard, Ain't there a giner'?" "Ay! all aboard, Ain't there a giner'?" "Ay! all aboard, Ain't there a giner'?" "Ay! all aboard, Ain't there a giner'?" "Ay! all aboard, Ain't there a giner'?" "Ay! all aboard, Ain't there a giner'?" "Ay! all aboard, Ain't there a giner'?" "Ay! all aboard, Ain't there a giner'?" "Ay! all aboard, Ain't there a giner'?" "Ay! all aboard, Ain't there a giner'?" "Ay! all aboard, Ain't there a giner'?" "Ay! all aboard, Ain't there a giner'?" ======================================== SAMPLE 731 ======================================== both to implore you, and that you deserve The funeral and funeral service, or me." "Oh first 'tis the meed he plucked for me, I spared that crime to find it; For now are you men of might, And my children are brothers? Long I looked for your noble kin, Whose sin and whose deeds were strongest; They wasted the meed for the son, And they died at my breast-bone." "Let them die for me, God wot, The poor little children!" The old Jew--so poor you see-- His axe broken many: The chill of the frozen hand Made him dumb for fighting; His children and friends forsake Their homes and their parents; His children and wife moan to him, And curse him and never Except to the mother, an angel and a dream. "Let them die for me, God wot, The poor little things!" "You may look up and say that I'm a fool; What would they have of me?" "Why they'd die for me, God wot, Though they died for me. For now would they go to war, And they would not go, Because I filled the guns at home, Now they are dead, and so must I. My boy! Oh, mother, so fair and true, It is not meet for you To die and lie for me. Now I am not the thing to die for, Because I do not know That war shall end for me. All day the clock misleads its chime, The clock unrolls its mind of rhyme, And everything must die in vain Because I do not know it again, We can never know what we can do, Whatever we can do it, And we never know how it can happen That the dead are not living. If I was God's wife that must be I did not care. If I was Paul that must be I did not fear. If I were Paul that could be I did not fear. He sits in his chair by his bed, And his mind is troubled. He has never seen a man since, That was what he said. He makes no moan, and he sits alone, And he thinks of the reason. But many there are in his sleep, And his thoughts are troubled. And he thinks of his money that's all; And he hears the crying of the small, And of the broken body. And he hurries into the gloom to find The faces and faces of his kind, And he knows it is the reason That the dead are not living. But the love of God outshines their creed, And he knows it is not dead indeed, And he knows a greater wisdom. He sees a coffin on the hearth, And he knows it is His daughter. His father sold clothes, but he bought And took in the children wherever he went, And the night after the morning, He sold coloured robes to the children at play; But the pockets of children, When their clothes were sold, Were marked with an old red sign, And a scarlet-tocked velvet cap, And a band of harpers in shining scales, And a group of people on the stairs, And a reverend old man with his four-barred trunk, And his daughter in state, With the four-barred old man. And in all the morn I heard The men and the women I saw. "That's some new thief," they said, "The midwife of my husband; You have stole our baby from my father; We could take it and no other." They stole it and they stole it, He is asleep in the heart of my wife, And no more does a part of it. When the housewife comes to meet me, Through the street she rows in, With eager faces of people, With arrogant words, and eyes that sparkle And a hurried word, and looks that linger: "Where are you, my daughter dear?" And I answer, "Who is this, my daughter, The pride of all my house?" "O my daughter, mine own daughter, All my name is this, All my deeds are good, my husband, Nothing hurts the man to part us; Evil come I from my mother, To work evil or to harm her." "If the child should come this morning, And the man walk in the way, He shall find his cradle-nesture, They ======================================== SAMPLE 732 ======================================== chieftain; one with brand and blade Down-glancing on the sand--one tossed to death To meet the gory steel. He turned upon his heel Right to the headland: never knight on earth Had known such battle till Hyperion's sword Had dealt him dead, for shame, for shame his life. And Ha now, seeing his fallen strength must fail, Half fain to look on him, 'gan murmur now: 'Yet, son, upon thy part, thy fate shall be, And there will come a happy time to see When these shall be thy foes. Look, stay thy hand, And trust to me as heretofore, and look, And joyfully regard me. Will not I Fight for those three? I would not, for I know Suffice; and, as I pride myself, who praise The forgone villainship, and these bold knights From the heathen return not to light of day, As from low birth, with better knights and less Victorious. Let us hope and wait, till I Bring in my father's life this warrior-queen Of battle for his body, and with them My fair son and the goodly Princess Carle, King Carle's rich daughter, let me live in joy, And give her love to thee, and give thee me This princess here, with my great-grandsire's love. 'Twere sweet to die: here soars, there soars indeed A marvelous charm upon the air of life, That I could live, and die in joy and joy; If I loved God, what is he willed? 'Twere best To die for her; this comfort is too great For her too far from home, whose noble blood So many noble knights has left me here, Who might have lived with her; and life itself That lives in noble lives 'twere better far To die and for her sake should live alway.' So spake the fierce and single-hearted knight, And all the Babel murmur of the world, Till the rent cloud of wrath broke out in tears. And even as the gulls' wing stings and drops Upon the sails and the white billows rise Alone and helpless, even so King Carle Sent one weak cry, 'Lorcan, let us fly thy death.' And all the multitude fell, one and all, At seeing the majestic death and shame Which Godhead's eyes mark through the blood of all. Then cried they with loud voice, 'See, we have lost Our goodly towns and homes, our kings and all Our noble and our valiant deeds, and we Have lost our goodly armies, tricked and crowned With valour loyal, and so lost, so lost, Lest one man, Copernicus, should lose his crown Because he lived for honour. Let him live Because he died for her. I shall not call On grief or death. I shall not weep his fall, Or from his side move pity. The pale lips I open shall no more devour my pride, For I shall have a man to love and serve. I have lost all hope of my brave heart and hope.' So 'out thyself,' Carlemaine, 'disdain and hate, Think not to leave her in this quarrel straight; But rather, in the strength of grief and love And pity, strongly wish her to be slain.' Thereto answered Geraint, 'Yea, thou shalt die When she shall have this sword within her hand To save and guard her people. So she give it him. I yield and swear it.' Then the Queen amazed Looked hard at him, and each on each stood tall, And said: 'God save thee, King, for if thou die My brother, thou art living; but the sword Is mine for thy true faith, though mine be lost. Now know I that thy word is not for me, But something beyond earthly-minded. Wilt thou trust In common me, if there be other Gods?' He spoke and shook his head, but said no more, For nearer now, with fiercer light than those Which shine when clouds are shaken, or are shaken, A storm of fire which from a mountain-blast Stoop down upon a mountain-top, and sweep The forest trees and mountain-hills aside; And, like a tempest-blast, all these are shaken And shaken and bewildered in the gust, As might a wounded God with tumult fierce. At once, for a short space beyond their guard, ======================================== SAMPLE 733 ======================================== , And Nesdee, my brother, since I saw him, I’ll take his place, I hope, in some warm place; Not caring now how we’ll behave him, At least like him and his companions." ’Twas then the most egregious flirtation To take the city out of city, Or take, for this, some tramps and street-ends To shape a gate, and bridge a channel. For which, he had in fact an earl, Wherefrom to fetch a key he wanted Where’s to be bought and sold—a gilded Meusebuhr, the writing on the door. “I’ll be a brig,” the young folks said, “With billies soiled and fetid inside; Each night I’ve been in town some hours With “So much time I’ve had for nothing,” And lots o’ good old toime for once Will take occasion to be potted. It may be there are many slips In Mr. Hamilton’s slips. But when the town is nicely lined With all the good broad-cloth abounding, Just sit in Sunday-school and sew Down to a place from Tencombe invent. To heaven each Sunday have I sent, Went off to England on a mission, But having found the river bed, Amuse my sister for a week Outside the town I’ll daily stoop, To catch the fishes’ caller drink, And, safe in lodgings on the brink, Repair, without a murmur. For though the sun be rough and cold, Its splendour dusky may be found On pious thoughts and prayerful stuff As fits the holy cloister. There’s something that can touch the soul, That’s given new life to the latest breath, And with pathetic firmness shake The rooted heart of the eternal lake, Heaven’s holy banner spread, And on the pulseless dead Eternal write, eternal mark Of "Truth forever!" seizes fast, And shrinks before it falls at last. With memories that can never pall The thoughts of youthful poets past, And wake the heart anew When all the truth is past; Of those who stood the faithless rout And turned the axe to "pike out." My housekeeper and maid of pride, I’ll sit with you while fare they can, To suit your spirit to my mind, And you to buy a waste of cot. Your best of hire for Ebbes’ Son, And yet you’ll never yield your heart A peep at all from you would seek, Nor seek the murmurous restless main ’Twixt glad and sadder than of yore; Be it dark or bright or fair, By day or night, your choice or prayer. And for your still-unseeing soul, For you the simple will control, Nor think of winning ever fair, Nor think upon the struggle’s gain, Nor the struggle and the struggle vain. But let a little time be gone, Nor think upon the past, nor care For any future lodging there, Though Inglis all the winter there. “My dog,” he said, “these prickly feet, Which, like a slow-paced horse-path beat, My passing in your human-ways Have seemed to favor as a meet; And that I speed so sure and bold, With the swift ear of fairy fays I might be ready for the fight, When the long day-light pierces night. Why, ’tis a thing I ne’er could tell, With loudest voice, or spur of gall, To hit the foe with flaming wit, And lash the foe with might and main, As on a single bridge you steer Founding the foe with fire and fear. No! though the boys in ambush cowed, In outer ambush robbed and scourged, The sport of every wilful foe Dread maiden knows, nor heart of man. “What with the daring man you met, To his destruction thus you swore, Was my disaster, yet methinks, ’Twas wrong to me—for I was boorish.” “Uncrop of mine, and of my brain What gifts, what paltry stuff I need! But though my body I had roamed, Though warm through all my wounds it went, Yet ======================================== SAMPLE 734 ======================================== together By the leafy woodlands through Walls of old that once were green. "In the caverns, in the grasses, By the black boughs, with naked feet, Now you see the velvet dimples Of the dewy-glist'ning pines, Or you hear the wild bee's buzzing In the sunshine on the wing, Or you hear the locuces Rattling softly in the spring. "And now you see the future, You who die so far away. We will answer you the question That you ask and give and pray, When the lilies strive to gather Their mysterious riches away, And you are but the murmurous, Monkey in the tumult of your wings, Wooing the air with lullabies. "So you are the tinsel spirit, Who once knew me and loved me, Now that love can understand me, Now that the dear form I see, Now that I myself can reason For the lack of human reason, Since I know that death will swallow All the trouble of the past. "Ah, if I had the magic To unloose my bonds of duty, And to free the young life from its chain, What would they have me do, If the future would not strain me? What would I have power to free it? One to leave me wholly with my fate, And to cherish and console me In the great new world beyond the gate Of the years to be. "See you not the new moon shining Through the faint-pealing gloom? Hear you not the strange new twilight, You who hear the strange new stars? You who see the darkening wonder Flicker o'er the bending skies, Who smell clover-fields, And behold them place their shadows In the west with glimmering eyes, If you knew the whole new midnight, You would walk through starlit space, As you saw the unseen stars move, Through the vast cathedral music, Music's pure ethereal chime, "Ere your spirit should exhausted All its beauty be, From beneath the maelstrom ended We would waft your spirit, through Worlds of endless blue; Whisper vaguely to the ear Of the swooning multitudes, And with doubts that scarce can hear Their enchanted voices clear, Say, is it not better to leave Our home and country's memories For a multitude of days? "In the world's great wilderness Cannot all remain. Where the vanished youth of bliss Dreams, where many a past has lain, Dreams and hopes for ever vanished With the sunset and the rain; All that lives is round and nearing, Everywhere but yesterday; Everywhere but yesterday. "In the deeps of life beyond the ocean Dwell the mightier ones who loved Love, and are forever with them Holding festival of song; Everywhere but unto them Birds that sing in every tree, Bringing in their silveruit Creation, and rapture, and free; "Where the high gods find the tides of ocean Heavenlier than they knew before, Where earth-worms find the myriad mansions Where the suns with mercy crowns All the vast eternity; Heavenly signs on yonder sky; Everywhere but unto them All the unknown and vast, Heaven and love were round and eery Endless years that rolled away Out of time's unclouded way, But with yesterday Came the summer past. "Cloudless now is the wide sea, Wave and song in its lap, Fold and dreaming and swaying Fairy breezes sigh and wail; Fear no more, but be free, Fear no more, but be free, "Never this earth below, Listen, though it seems so long Long ago it seemed to me; Seems that yonder sea below Is beyond my longing thought, Far away across eternity, Till, some sudden dreamings brought From the far away regions, yet Those that, in those times so near, Mary from her linden room, Whence my soul came, and where? In the garden as I lay The grass grew everywhere, My foot touched the joy-bells--gladly-- I thought of some more air; Of all little things of Nature, Great, and fair, and strange, and yet That's still the same; the joy Which once my being had in it, First it swooned ======================================== SAMPLE 735 ======================================== answer'd, "Ay--our King "O'er all his wide-spread realm supreme, "I ne'er had seen the Moorman's realm, "Nor the gray clarity of Algid's pool; "But when they greeted on the wold, "I still could hear theSaxon bells "Ring ten to one for all, and ten "To five to five. I stood to them, "And saw before the eyes of each "In all the Prophet's sight the star "That glided to the horizon's verge, "And with its brightness made me tremble. "Ere on my axe in our God's name "The Lord of heaven was smitten, "And, o'er my dreaming, made me "The channel for the living flood, "And o'er the dead was swept the wave; "And o'er my dreaming, o'er my thought, "As the swift billows bound me, "I blessed the vision that betokened "My life to come to its appointed "The future, for the same I loved. "I kissed the good-for-nurtured sun "And arms across the water bore; "I placed my kneeling blade of steel "In the broad fisher's net to bore "The image of my Sire. "The morning came; I saw in it "The white white neck of wantonness "Strangle, but with a sensuous scorn "Did scorn my brother in his snare; "And in the market-place I spied "A maiden with the wreathed gown, "The curl of maidenhood "Blent with the sweet enow. "So, having come unto the King, "I swore, my lady's beads, I took "The gear, and ne'er went hence. "But onward, oh! from out the steep "I know where leads the Sohrab; "And on the Temple-floor I sleep "My weary foot and nothing more. "Now I am right and would be just "But strong and deaf to all my woes; "Then tell me, Vashti, I must tell you, I think you're right, but I'm not one "In this fierce jealousy of life, "Nor one to be the mourner's wife. "But this to me must be the right "To give your neighbours their reward; "Yea, to a suit of charity "If something be not in my lord, "And if my own house and my wealth "Be merged with that brief span of health, "Thereby some more than I am left "For all your eager questions are "Words of no consequence to bear. "I'll leave these thoughts to any woman, "Save only one that loves you; "You'll serve me, Vashti, I will call, "Or else I'll bring you, and the thrall "You give will be a slave of hers; "Or something like a man's will stir "My spirit with affections, "Or an old tale or two, "A knife or two, that I may tell "In rhyme or prose." The fingers on the knife, That had been stroke by knife, Grew pale as death; The sinewy fingers That wrangled thro' the binding, And gave the wailing sound Awhile in silence round. The funeral blackbird That singed the mourning knell, The lonely plaints of "Pa," The graves of "Maugre," Oll. The deep remembering voice Of Azrael and the Rouen, And Azrael's hand that traced The Azrael's sign, And held the bridle-rein. And the brother Azrael found Time's least of all his wounds, And touched his steed, and muttered, In his inmost streaming words, In the breathless voiceless night, The words that swayed his flight. 'Twas Azrael's hand that struck, In the rushing of the tide, The face that gleamed with white, The white face of the bride, Whose face before was weeping, For the love he could not hide. And his brow was wet with tears, His heart was sick with sighs; And the bridal roses That bloomed on his white cheek, And the wild bee weeping, Sang his heart to cheer, For a footstep in the darkness, And a sound of rain, and nearer Came a murmur in the night, ======================================== SAMPLE 736 ======================================== , the bard of Menelaus, Prone down in sleep to view Medon and Sphinx; and to his lips to swear The eternal doom is come; But just at his supreme command let all his power fall, And ope his eyes for one last tear; So shall the void and baleful dream awake, And fall on him before its strength hath run; And he whose face no earthly king had worn, In shuddering horror of a piteous death Is by himself outworn; And when a passing shadow of the day Hath veiled the scene, And all the pageant of the flowing scene Is gone, and to and fro the cold night steals, (For how could water find a deeper stream?) He turns his sight aside; But all the shapes, and all the shadowings, And all the dreary guess of what had been, Are there, and some among the phantoms be Still in their unseen prison; And those draw further inward, And some that would not feel the unfaithful flow Of the deep waters of death's portal, And all life's torturing torments that go through the soul, Albeit the fierce and constant rattle Of the world's wolves, and the red glare of light within, Are the only sounds that tell the rest to them Unless their stricken ears be dumbed But who, awake, can dare Gaze on the vain face of the universal dead, The faces of the living, and the wraiths of men, That pass out there, but with unwinking eyes Wait, trembling and waiting, till a great grey ghost That sucks the breath of life in their cold hands, Robs them of evil and of good and all good things, And makes them commune with their immortal speech While the world sleeps. O bright and wondrous eyes Lent to this dust by memory's hands, to shed All thought of good and all its precious lore; Is the blue ocean stirred Now by these hands which still are clutching, The restless, sleepless shore, The dust which lies so deep and goodly And mocks the idle hope of all the sea? The sun has vanished from its face, And yet in loveliness it seeks the day When the drowned waters lie Before its hollow base, And the sea's face is full and fair and warm, While all the sea-cliffs gird Around it round and round, With many a light and golden motion, And argosies of sound, As if to show a spirit-hand in mastery, And free and red from fear. Then, then the wan sun shows his setting; There comes a sunset, And earth's form in silence lies enfurled, As round its loveliness is drawn the crowd, Which, seeming motionless, Moves and is seen no more; As if a day new-risen, new made, Had crushed the sky and starked the sea, The strength that shall be won Is in the race, the tale, the tale, the tale, The fragile and the waste! Yea, what shall be the last, What chance, what end shall be the last? For all of life, of sun, Of water, heart, and sky, I saw this scroll: 'On yesterday I saw The glory and the wonder of the place When I was blind.' Then, lifted lightly, a large hand she raised, And answered, while the air was bright and blue: 'O were my heart as mine, my wings all gold; O were I brave to meet you face to face And you that bowed Breathless, and sate to take our sacrament, The very sun of her dear name would bless And put the world to shame. Out yonder where the purple grapes are shed Bright yonder where the walnut-bearing elms Shake down their thorns and delicate bells, Where leans the high-born flower towards the east, On ways whereof a fragrant flower is dead, The wind's fan, whispering, Flings down its petals till its petals blow And dies in odour through the summer haze, A little while, in fair June-weary ways. The pink sea-grassy glimmers in the blue; And oh, how fair to-day, the royal rose! Through the green waves the sea-gulls softly glide Through the soft waves that fall with pulsing wings, But cannot pass. This arm now clasped me close against my breast, O love, the stern and rigid arms ======================================== SAMPLE 737 ======================================== Into her husband's mind, the hand of him Who tenderness and nature to the heart And loosed the bonds of Nature, for within Her dauntless truth and tenderness the child Would lose his labour and be caught again, That he might share the thorny mother's lot With him who suffered there no God would bless. O Time, how have I lived in days like this? I came to you for your benumbing fear; For though you smother my loud shuddering tones, Your which I have not taught to beg a kiss. I do you scorn my noble hand of yours, That smites with dread and jealousy within Your grasp, a wanton woman; nay, my works Know no world-follier rancor for my heart. There is no wile in all my making day, Which spares for truth and Beauty but the mould Which made them what you were; that I abhor, That I so long, so passionate and cold, Have called you mould of kisses, old-world pain And sordid unrequital, I forgive That I have loved you, and I hate and live One moment in my pleasure, as I love, Loving you evermore and long enough; That when beneath your touch thrills through my heart, My fond heart starts and mutters, "There are more!" That I so long with all my singing heard, My trembling hands are fondled, and my ears Reached for response, where are you?--this is clear, I seek you, O my gentle! It is true That in all ages and all changing years Your sweetness will o'er-sweet me; I shall grow More fearful, knowing, now that you are gone, That you are gone with me, my strength of heart, My pride in you, my peace of mind, my will That helps me all to lift me up so high, And clear my innermost and purest thought To faith! To hope, that you and I would speak! This is my midnight, and an unknown star Burns through the trees. And you are gone indeed. No music now, no discord now, no strife, Dark despair of night, no shudder of the rose, Shrieks from the woodlands through the lonely wood, No fever heats, no pain that burns in me Pervades and burns, it haunts me, it is also naught But laughter. You forget me. I am cold. How comes it that you are gone, no love, no fault No terror that is not for want of thought? The night was yours, sweet. Now what evil sound Calls up your lovers to the shrieking bough In the poor path? Alas, they climb the grapes, And fasten close upon the tree, all shrieked With blood, and curses, and at once strike loose Upon the air. O gods, what little space It behoms us to be dumb! And are you sad That we should weep within? Alas, you meek That we have lost your children; all my heart Beats with your passion as you witness now How each endureth, when the blossom comes, And loneliness and agony of love Breathe in the other and the cradle of the wind Somewhere among our sweetness. Let me die. Would you be glad to know that you are dead And by your side? It was not I you meant, But let them rest--I shall be quiet there, Peace in your name, for I am quiet there, Peace in the fevered chambers of my brain, Peace that I spread no more where they have slept, And peace that I might never quite forget. Beloved I must be always at your side When they have closed their sleeping eyes in sleep, Nor weep their idle dust and leave the marble there To mutter till the old joy fadeth o'er The weary face of death. Yes, to your own old grave Do you return? I am not glad again. Beloved beyond all dead things, I am glad That you have entered here, and that I know That sleep hath fallen on me, and that once I knew myself to man's life and the past, What fate hath swept through me into this life, What death, what destiny hath swept me through, And what new wonders hath this place set free My weary feet to find you; yet I know What glad exultant bit of life I shall, If but my lips have breath to speak my name, What names at least shall tell me of the flowers ======================================== SAMPLE 738 ======================================== and razaaw, a company of good Chiraklebha and Chor. And, when they had to go, They walked through the farm-yard, without word or sign. And such deeds! and 'twas everlastingly bad! But no use,--save there, as I stammered along, "This side, the next, on this round boulder, and all Such spotless huts as yet have never yet been seen!" And next, on that side, the selfsame rosy-green, A wild, sweet red rose, all nodding to and fro, And carved so vaguely on that mossy stone, That scarce a living linnet could escape its clap. And, there, a few of us, upon that edge of ground, Fell dumb and seething through the lofty shade, Pushed up into the yard, and in his face found All small geraniums, like little wounded rabbits. And here and there--no change was in that place. Fiercely the pang of this unending thing With savage grins made horror and despair, Nor from these shoots of dull mortality May any quickening zest be quenched or said. But all the while the good man tracked and swung Through the long well with fearless footing, till At length he reached a mountain's upper foot, The sloping summit of a crag, and stood, While over all a sharp, mysterious gust Rose, and made hoof-prints in the heave and swink, Shooting the rock ahead, and trees upreared; And loudly on the startled ears it swelled And tumbled, when within that mountain's mouth The plunge was heard, its parted banks along. And then, instead of cedar, rose so high That never human eye could reach its home, Or on the mount-side spread a streak of green, And saw the broad enamelled valley filled With fair, enchanted forms, that gleamed and shone Among the rich and rare, as radiant forms Of crag and fountains, or of high-bound birds On purple crags. All round them sang a song "The hills and woods and wild wood-wildering shores! Forever let us roam the earth, by you For ever let us sing "The MURSawayne!" And, over you, the warm midsummer sun In splendour's height forever kiss his rays, While feathered tribes that wander by the lakes For ever ring the shores with rosy hum, Their thousand voices singing sweet farewells! And I shall know thee, lady, and I shall know thee As thou--my country's guardian angel, I, Before whose breast we leant against the gate Of Eden, when our drowsy lips bespoke Sweet human kisses and immortal men. For thou dost steep our hopes in honeyed words, And thou dost hast command of golden dreams From other realms of rapture; and, perchance, In these one joy, the tasted happiness Of just beyond all mortal thought and dream. I will not, if I trust myself to thee, Be fairly what the world calls sin, or vice, Or virtue. But where'er I would I came I could but choose between me and the past, To find within that depths where darkness is And I can choose, fair love, and I can be More than a woman in my love for thee, Than even a woman in a desert land! Eternal, binding beauty, Life-giving glory, Love and song adorning, Eternal pleasure. Youth and love and reason Haunt the mazes of life, Gleaming dawn and star-shine, Life-delights that never Are to be decoyed, Laugh and sport in the sunbeams, Nurture of life's tune, Caught by luckless sages In the hour of your need, When your unsummoned pleasures Are but fruitless fruit! On the new-made earth-star Mounts the firstling sweet; Death is passed, and freedom's star Hangs above the serried feet. Man the dream and brother, Nothing more may tend; They shall change the social temper, They shall bless the godlike end. Give as he has given; Who love war should lose? Fools their swords and vigour, Thews of strength to use. Seek he mercy, only Worth and knowledge call; 'Tis the god of sleep and death-- Death and sleep may fall. Oh, ======================================== SAMPLE 739 ======================================== , Where, midst the new created brood, The salt sea-shapes with arched gates Enter, we meet you there. No need to knock them in your closet now, Your threshold then, yourselves alone, forsooth! Yet were the key unlocked by many a bough Where birds and oxen lay, And ships, that had not any special care, To watch for you could ne'er have been, You and your only offspring might have been The hope,--to have the key of all this world Opened, and entered into other worlds. Why do I hate her to the bone, That wastes and obscures me in the wind? Or when she waits beyond the town, For what could her house be, her, or not? He might have been there yesterday, Or more, if 'twere my lot. And one is young, and in her veins Her blood speaks fresh; and, though she strain Her quickened wits, yet, just to say, Her "mightier work belongs to me" I could not blame her for my mind That went to prate, and laugh, and brushe, And wait, till those sweet other eyes Saw me as I passed by, and she Did count the small gifts of my breast, And watched the ripe lips that I pressed, And caught them, and then turn to feed With kisses at her gentle heart. She loves me now; by all we meet She must be colder or more sweet; And many loved me; yet, oh, me! I fear her, yet I know she loves me. O Echo! Swallow-winged and blue Come to me now, and in their stead Shall flourish, summer-blossom now; But they who made me shall not reap The sowing of such scornful weeds; Or have as with a sudden frost Turned flowers to brown, and turned away More summer-blossoms into gray, Such fruit from Hesperus set in To gild eternity for me; No fruit nor garner of good things Is sweeter for them than my song. But here again my hand in thine Stripped the white flower of beautiful, As down the path of dawn we wind, Some old face gathered up of yore, With eyes that wake their light again And smile more kindly than before; And thou, Time, changest now to white, All white in splendour, last and best As day when it was last we came To where the sunset's yellow flame First pierced the sun-throb and last broke The line of heaven, from whose farewell We drank our wine ere it was born. So be it! Thou, thou, Mother, Thy dearest rival of Mankind, Of all our fairest dainties made, Poet most noble, vain and blind, Wilt find a place without my name, (How should a Briton use thee?) No name, however great, or fair, I send thee; but forbear to taste The heart-bloom of thy flowery phrase, And blush not for the world-tolled fame That thou may'st use it, though disgraced, Though turned aside to wilderness, To wait awhile thy coming up Beyond the town-gate, and, instead Of feasting over wine and bread, Allow me to put all my days In trumpet-breaths, or I shall rest Till, year by year, the wakening blaze That tallied thy blest gifts shall pile The hopes of envious men that dared Adventuring years, shall fade and fade. And thou--no hour of all desire Except to watch the world grow gray And wreck all beauty underfoot, Time take no heed the day to greet That hurrying on, the triumph great That burns and blazes till no more Shall bleed the old world's memory. "The rain, the darkness, and the snow, A path of moon-beams, wrapped in white, But none may tread them for they run Like mist along the silver light, A road of moon-beams. All the night The midnight, ghost-like, through the hall That burns with wonder at the blue Lingers and broods above, to wait Awhile until the end of day, Crowned with the promise of the Spring." "Benediction, soiled with many a wrong Beneath the pressure of her wing! Alas! it can not be; for, borne Beyond the threatening eloquence Of that mute ======================================== SAMPLE 740 ======================================== ; But if thy wonder to our eyes should raise, Thou know'st, my brother, not for thy disease. Of Pisa he, and hisavaliers With arms, the pride of Lesbos shocked, Too quickly met, the martial damsel armed. But now, mine eyes upon their bark have bent, My voice is taken from these clamorous friends, In deed by mine. These many swords, which thou And I together wouldst have loved, now see. Thou hast thy casque, thy cuirass, and thy shield; And therewithal dost choose thy lance to wield, Thine be the naked sword, thy lady's hand. What wilt thou more? what more? What greater need? He spake: the enchantress by his warlike steed Smites down her bosom; and the enchanted shield Hurls headlong in the midst, in such a course, That in his head the feather sounds his hoof: But not for nought the harness can avail, That lightly he before the sultan rode; For through the warrior's heart, that pierced with rage, Shattered the inner bulwarks of his path. He scorned the common ransom, and o'erthrew Both the and his; yet he before the last Upraised his vizor, and betwixt us stood The giant monarch, gazing on my mood. But when I saw him risen, blank for rage, Upon the monarch in his wild despair, I heard the knighthood and the rampart rage That kept him company, and chased him there, Unlooked for; and beheld the farmer's wife Whose home was in the mountains, whose lord she? One night the royal town, together pressed To the great battle, she pursued her way. And when at last she reached the burning breast Of her six sons, the workhouse and the bay, When lo! the three victorious helm she sheaves, That ruddy made with many a purple sheaves, And she in arms comes forth, and shakes her head To see the victor at the river-head, That both were courteous, both hailed as the light Of day; for as the conqueror saw, so he Cast on his sister by her proud disdain, And turned upon his sister all his might. She fled, and when she turned, looked on the twain Bright-garlanded and plaited with blade and shield, And after him the lance she well might wield, For in his hands were stars, and in his face Queen Venus, sitting, turned to Ademee. Now Pallas mounted on her horse in haste, And dight the dragon on his dragon steed. She crossed the confines of the river-court, And from the bulwarks of the rock her speed Returned; for over Wind and Moon she rode, And over Bear, while this same dragon strode, Beheld her flying: like a snow-white cloud, The brightness of her armoury across The sky fell streaming like a mists of frost. And many a lord of men beheld her there, Upbraiding her to feed the dragon-pair. Then by her will the wretched lady chased Oenone, as fast as wax could waver, And cried: 'O come, and from this breast avouch A cocke and find an arwen javelin then.' She, hearing these the lady and the fay Return of Proteus, fled, and left the fray Deserted, and mispent: her force! her speed! Who thus deceived thee? when they deemed him dead They cried aloud: but swift the Furies fled, And left her there unfed, who for their lord They mourned in concert, who had just designed Their royal spoils of triumph to mankind. They chased that dame with treacherous art, Allowed they should not, nor gave heed to spare; Then left her, and for long the way pursued, Until they came to the cave, which lay Amid the firs amid the aspens grey, No care they knew; till on a lofty stand Confronted on the rocks a grisly band Of godless shepherds, men of evil heart, Disabled, made them signs of their escape, Though through their bodies there the serpent slid. And one of these came drowsing down the bank, To mark if any fount in bubbling might Flooded the fount, or if one sought to stoop To drink it at ======================================== SAMPLE 741 ======================================== , From this adieu, far wander out,-- To warm life's glowing social hearth, And mark each day the noonday glare Where friendlier ties should meet in care. To meet, my liberal muse, where'er In poet's lays may reach that ear, Where buds of many a rural theme Are sweetly breathing from a well. Now widely spread my rustic plumes, Light as the lightest wind that wafts The fragrant blossom;--now my brow Mould on the green adventual flow Of my loved turtle, and her own. Where shall I meet? oh, rare, where meet This sweet-breathed urchin and his mate, Mid melodies divinely sweet, To wake the lutor from its trance? Then if she slight the lyre, the string, The glass the minstrel he may sing; Or if she slight the helmed god When flinging in the shattered trance, She fade--and I must know I would-- Dying by inches on his lyre, And for her smile a wreath resign. So well was I engaged long, Till in that single state again We met and kept the lyre in tune, And like a band of merry men, We parted. Happy years have sped, Since then I sang Tilly's fairy tune, And thou hast heard his voice again, And hast not spared a tear to mine; But happy years have all come o'er, Since thou hast sung Tilly's song, And the young lips that loved me long Have kissed me, and have thus kissed me, And those kiss'd arms I gave thee Behold, embraced, and plighted troth, Now one last kiss with me. While May bedecks the naked trees With tassels and with leaves, While through the leaves the streamlet grieves With music of the spheres, I seem to hear the ethereal strain Of harmony divine, That came from Canawau's clear fount, In music floating o'er the mountains and the plains. Now, like the rainbow in the sky Our home is, where the wanderer sees Faint, southern breezes sighing by; And now, beneath the moonlit trees, With hoary mantle and with glass, Herself she seems to sit, and sigh Beneath the birch-tree's shadowy boughs, While, on her cheek, the cowslip bends Its pale and wistful head, And, like a breeze-moved sentinel, Her slender form, that in the moonrays Has slept, awakes its scent,-- All suddenly with timorous eye A stranger, with appealing eye, Met me, and gently whispered "Till this scene of joy." Like an all-wandering fancy, I saw the ancient traveller Upon his native fare; And, far beyond the stable, I saw the imperial steed Ride on before the fairy, That sped so silently. He muttered, while I traced the lines That led to where he stood, "Art thou the fairy?" I replied, "The fairy that went up and down and said 'Till she." I leaned my head to his shoulder, But the voice was faint and low: "Art thou the fairy that was gone a while ago?" Yet I checked my breath to listen, Though all the landscape-dance Seemed to roll on with a dreary calm; And he spake to me with a sense Of sympathy and of love, As, with his lips, we waited Till the spell had failed to break: "The fairy that went up and down and said 'Till she." I looked in his face for a moment, And then I could feel his hand, But, oh, the thought that I was happy there Was that the past was quite as grand as fair, And the future as good as any hour, And the past all lovely and far away. So he reined, and the wise old wizard Entered the hall of the shrine, And the echoes rose on the mighty chime Of the ancient minstrelsy of rhyme, And sang the songs of his hoary years, And brought them back to the prince of biers, And mused in the names of the bards sublime, And made them clear of the psalm of tears, And the echoes answered to his deeds, And murmured the prayer of a nation, "Art thou the fairy that I will be?" He had sailed ======================================== SAMPLE 742 ======================================== , And ran away to market, For another quarter Would be just as dry as dust. And there was an end to it. I tried the cannie pas, But couldn't pass the nod. I courted a man who had never feared. I would a jolly man, if possible, Have meed of his unsolventured ease. I would a Hugh Elbrugh upon a day I can't a bawdy murrain pay. I know there is no exclamation From the man a coat of mail should wear, Which sham'd him has been taught to spare. I am anxious that I are not inclin'd To this unvarying deed of rhyme. I've often said, that money comes to mind, That money'd spirits never can Realise of purchase in the world; I could not 'foreloquor'd be employ'd, To renew its cours and blessings all. I can not patronise my goods; I'll not resist my own desires. Some folks, like favor'd kinds of men, Despise me, as too many, then I would not know my family. Why should I quarrel with the park? They're used, by vindication, when I claim no title to a clerk; But I could make my freedomEarn, Could not produce affection then For Elba, that supreme command For worth, as I should now demand, As I would have them undertake To do my best and best for you. I say, my dear Don Juan need Such courage as your presence lent, When, spite of magic to your word, You stir'd the world to sympathy; And, though so little of your wiles The cards of fortune cannot bear, 'Twere surely better to have smiles, Than be an ardour and a care; But just for once your soul inspire, A calm, affectionate desire. When by my coaxing this you miss'd, I don't seem so unkind to you, But, as to a most gentle maid, You fascinates and loves me too; And, when my heart is fretting, light Is in my room, and I do right. When once I meet you, truly, then, That selfsame blushes are in men; When at the threshold of disgrace You feel ashamed to be effaced; Then, if that servant you suspect, 'Tis good to have a little taste In such a mode as past the gaze Of our inferior folks, the Times. A child may make too great a play, If not by one affected way. But if his usual manners seem Where low and lower is his dream, He loves to sway the state of things, And as for greater things, to stir The claims of vulgar people's praise. My honest friend, an honor past, The young Philosopher was fain, Began to think, "I'll make, at last, Another verse, which shall remain Tick, like the verse that was by life; The subject I shall now present, And try to let the spirit waver. For better, sure, in some new way, Another method I may try. For better, sure, in some new way." As often as he thought, be sure, My head was restive, false, and spotless. I was made up of an unequal Sight, piety, and self-reliance; I never once suspected aught That was in constant constant duty; But when, the smirk upon me shone (Like some spent sunbeam lately caught,) I changed, alas! with cruel woe, To a new form my feelings took. And what shall move my guilty mind? Alas! at least, that you have seen A work like that which I have shown And read, in nature's firmament, A house of native mountainism; That nerves my sinews, and will start On the new leaves that tell the naked And destined wanderer of the heart, Who thus bewitched, a coddling sinner, When the rich fluid he has fill'd With Beauty, me, and cheer'd the fading And fearful servant of the chaste, I pray'd you come! and when I thought That such a cup could hold such draughts, And come in masquerade again, Though not on earth myself alone, But in the goblet, they would fill My cup with chrystal, and with flowers, And set for my delight the hours. The finish'd all! ======================================== SAMPLE 743 ======================================== t's triumph's gleam; Hear myFloating Song of the Stream. Ye men of wisdom, from the deeps of shade, Who deck no brow with steep and sullen brow, When every wave and breeze that cometh by Is crowning your intrepid hearts below, What time the moon, with a thousand lights, From her safe height, with a thousand streams, Breaks into floods! Ye whose world-hardinging feet Instantly follow to sweet delight, Whose hearts your steps have reconciled from those Whose love hath been your journey without night, And hardly can ye comprehend the bliss Your simple hearts have known, Can ye comprehend How we, who are nursed in a world of strife, Discouraged hearts have yearned o'er conflict great, Made wings of the flames of hate, To reach your country's shore, Where we have lain before, Where the Eastern hosts have died To hurl our foemen back, Where the crimson clouds have rolled From the embattled host To the battle's black array, That we were to travel on O'er the rude, rude, world-wide plain, Where men have ceased to pray In the sabre's haughty array, To cheer the day, Where the banner is waved no more, That we seek to fly no more! From the blood-red fields of war To the cradle's pillowed bier Rise the notes of mourning-chords To the grave's sweet harmony: Where no man mourns as his slaughtered kin, There our sad, last rites are paid, The mourners of Freedom's band Take up the burden of the day, And bear it with them to their fold, Homes of the North! their last great fight The fabric of your mountain-height. Nor on that day shall the banner lie Inscribed on your banner's breast, The brave, great Southron of the West, Whose feet were strong in Russia's fight And the pride of her ancient might. Shall the proud Eagle of the North Leap forth with a shout of scorn, And wake the nursed in Moloch's marts, The home of the brave and the true, To feed the mighty brute, and food Gives to their dauntless child The North, the brave, and the good, In her mountain solitude. What! dare the Swedish spirit mingle The brave in the storm and the storm? And the Swedish spirit can never blend The home of the brave and the good. O! think on the Northern spirit, Whom for ages the strife has proved In the slumbering, deathless strife And the pride of her ancient might. Think on her beautiful youth In the wild, in the paths of wrong; How she beckoned to Natura's side With the better and finer guide. And the blood of her ancient strain Is mingled with tears and mirth, And the Southland tongue is still As the sob of her weltering earth. O! think on the sunny clime, Where the proud and the joyful dwell; When the saint, and the Brave are met Once more to their God and God! And the voice of her glorious hymn Is mingled with shouts of joy, And the swell of the song of the Brave Is mingled with sob and dirge For the desolate Northland's cause. Like the mighty sea with his foam, And the battle's awful roar, Forth in an instant did he ride, In his 'fore the wrath of the storm. Oh! he rode on the wide, fierce way, When thousands of bars had sped, To avenge his murderers' blood, And at midnight called his steed, Who would have saved his foeman true, Who would have saved him with his speed, But thousands of yards he rode, And thousands of yards he rode! Thrice on a day, at fairs or balls, On the street all fallen down, (Our darlings lost!) the wretched stags Cawed like a herd of geese and cocks, Or the stupid swans on osiers, Or the shouting vulture train, Who would have saved his soul from pain, And our great men were exceeding swine, Such as the Colossians eat, Or reasoning serpents eat! And on a day they rode along, In search of whom and who, While the deuced riders sold their clogs, With an army wrapp'd in flame; ======================================== SAMPLE 744 ======================================== the old Simple Maiden, and will be her heart, Not of the earth--only her warm white hands Dropping her beautiful hair and mustache Tall as a pliant, like her guardian, Pan Urbanely rearing at her side to these, And holding out her hand of cool blue silk, Whispering, "Youth comes again!" and "Saith this boy!" Will come back back to me, too. And ever again Will come back the footsteps of his boy From the day's meal in the garden--coming, he Remembers a song of him--too beautiful For earth; but as he sings he will return To earth, as she was at her mother's side, Our Lady of Forests and of the Sun; How he sang the little things of our poor, boy That were as if never again, he sings With such a rare, sweet voice as those of Hell Who only speak in heaven. It is not that,--no! not from any place He's coming; that no more he will rejoice At his own wonderful music and all the harm He made of the unknown air; but in the heart Of a deep-throated organ, every night Will be his faintest breath, his faintest song, But a sadder, happier than his feignëd songs. In all the world who can do less than he? Who at the last May do to us as much as we shall of them? What shall I say? It is a mystery. A man may know The meaning of it, the graves of what were once To be the fates of one small human heart, The childless mother whose in-door being wide Shall I bring my lost wife, the other man Whom he saw as a mother? Why I, Nature, Am afraid of what it seems to be A part of Nature's least part,--we bring it, And give it back to us for the minute's child, His tiny globe and his inconstant moon, The sunless, sloping lawn, the open lawn, And stars in their sepulchral filial souls, The fountain in the first spring-tide of heaven. It is the one great law that Nature knows; The leaves may quench the sunset and the dawn, The wind may change the flowering sea, the land A breath may waft the fragrance, and the flower Of a brief year's unblushing innocence Will weave its magic o'er the weaving sea, From the soft meadow where the salt weed teems, And blend with golden sands the milky wave He is alone. You say he is a witch When he is well. He'll wander if he will, Yet, though he love, he cannot be at peace. And yet, how still the childless syren is, The angel with the downcast eyes of heaven, The spectral love-light on her blanchëd cheek, The placid charm of bosomed drooping eyes, The hand that cradles in the fern, whose wiles Of old, in such a day will be a sign To real misprision. He has never loved, And therefore, love, he does not love him now. But even when the broom and dust-clouds fall, He is a faithful friend, a little thing, To take a tender touch on tender things, And tell me that his love for me shall shine As an immortal gem. My friend has sailed The last long weary night and crossed my threshold; He stood and said to me: "Pray come for me." I thought and wished he would come back; but he Came not. I said: "It seems I am the ghost Of one who died long ago." "And did you?" He came. Where once I was. I cannot tell you now, But my heart yearns to be satisfied with hope. Perhaps when he was here he never came. Perhaps he was too well. Perhaps his presence made the room resound With glories and applause. A pallor spread Over his brow, and left his garb unbound, And the soft rosy light spread o'er his head, Sparkling and clear, a clear, unbroken sound, Save when a new-stars twinkled, silver-lined, And nearer to the prow his feet had wound. And then I thought of him, that wore a crown, And looked in his young eyes, and muttered low, "Why, I've been king before. Perhaps that day Of all the troubles I must suffer now ======================================== SAMPLE 745 ======================================== all of them from the village wee With their shoes well soaked, and the clothes of Carl In their swimming-sheets above--drink and swim, And swim, and spread them out a river-slug. Many a night, and many a storm of rain, They win them, and the wet felt fitly, too. Through drifts of clumps they win; and on the blist Of a filthy raft they're beat with ceaseless splash, And all in constant rush, without a sound Of the tramping feet, with their cap thrown from them; And playfully they send their childish rout Back to their babbling playmates, who at last In vain essay to end them in their flight. It needs no wizardry to make it so. When, with a pausado, jostling and free, They touch the ledge, and reel to land and sea, And stir the fringes, they're a lorn man, wary How he still sits, and tends to pull the spring. To their unruly play they pass him by, Intent, ill-humoured, large of eye; 'Twould sink like pebble from their heavy toil, As well they rake the clinging water-grass, And search to discover where he sits; And then they shout aloud to him, and spring, And say--"He comes, he comes, to claim his right." They leap to his high-pitched hut, and gaze Back at the light; and so, awhile, they pass, And gaze again at the roofs beneath. Such dreams their inner solitude will show. Said the Good Master to his horse, "Onward!" He does not answer a word, but swerved Asunder from the saddest ridge to her. "Ride! rear! the abbot's blessing!" he replied. "With thee, good horse, shall I deny myself?" A heavy mass that dived beneath the rock; And scarce the footing was a step below. He spake, and ere he reached the barrier-ring Which housed that castle, stood aghast with dread. Yet, having gained the height, within the rock The light shone out; far off the convent shed Its aisles of drear and scattered fell the night. The drowsy Lord who doth his servants free From life's assault with slumber-freshened ease, And, dolt or truant, still regardeth him Who doth his servants' charge commit, and quaffs The potion and the cup; and mounts and storms Invisible, who thus thins stem that raven-bark Of discord and of mirth; and doth the gate Swear by the Father in his wandering course. He scents the earth with his o'erdriven face; He scents the air with his o'erlaboured tread; He heeds no more the snipe; and, while the sweat Streams from his eyes, behold! he "fain would wipe The oozing drops from off the stubborn rock." And ere he has the draught to pour he quaffs; And, ere he burst it, prays the Eternal Power. Near the adorer halt, and kneeling there, In terror, o'er the threshold of his grave Is the fast-fitting reverence he obtains. Hence stands the hoary man of Italy, A pilgrim among shadows! in the wind His prayers ascend to heaven; and the psalm Commends its Being to the upper air, And is accepted. Now the tumult wild Among the shadows' footsteps stirs and grows. Lo! yonder 'midulating spires, the bridge Breaks into sparkling sunshine, like the heart Of Jesus praying for the world to come. What hope of life? I pray for nothing now. "For what is life?" 'Tis then the wise man cries. "For what is death? 'Tis endless enmity. 'Tis a disease, that drags their time away." His heart-beat is responded to the prayer. Soon all his days wax dim, and the swift stream For ever glides away into the night. The one hope left; the other holds his peace. An evening of the poets in the air, Inclined beside the gates the sweeter type Of those few words, in answer to the call Of mounting up to heaven: "The Seasons" And " Society" for all the days and nights Have followed here the fetter of the soul. And when our time ======================================== SAMPLE 746 ======================================== force demands, To rear, to support, or to repel, They stand, in conscious worthlessness, Like young and old, as one and all, Unscrupulous and unempearled, Who watch and weep, and wait--the while For Heaven to ripen him, they smile; But most they seem to mortals sweet, And worthy of the wise one's smile. The spirit of one lovely star Sheds sweetness like the morn in May, A saving grace, and beauty rare, To dim the lamps of heaven with here. An unseen hand, yet unknown face, Delights me with so fair a grace, It looks so fair, my soul must cry For pleasures such as these that try. One note of this, if I may raise A song for those whom I have praised. The heavy sorrow that must bear Too heavy on my bosom's shore, And all the sweetness that can lie In hopes too dull and ways undone,-- Alas, alas! how swift the time, And vainly should I weave my rhyme. I have not half a soul to suit, Nor half so light a scheme to coax. I strive to be so vain and vain That one heart's pleasure should be pain. Love, only love is passing wise, And when there's grief, it must be sighs. I have the secret which to none I hold most sacred and most dear. I am so lost I have no powers To raise my soul to raptures sweet; And yet, alas! no heart can see One pulse of rapture kind or great. If I must seek to touch the soul That dazzles so, then love can do No harm; my soul would rise and sing As the wave's chorus, when the string Dies in its hollow bed, and is To heaven sung over with the sea. Since I am dust, so let this be, That when you sigh, I have no power To utter love, whose love I see For my beloved hour, till death. Had love been mine the world had known How vainly love for me had run, But that my soul for ever mine, Had ever throbbed with your fine hair; But I, you know, the more would wear My sorrow's rich embroidery, And wait and mourn and pray and yearn. Now will I halt, now start my stave, Till you shall give me till the grave. Now have I learned the love-sick maid How aft to tend and how to woo, From disaffection's strange eclipse, Sweet love and youth and hope and will. The charm in which my fancy strays Was broken for my heart's employ; The other soul which you had given Was lost as soon as it was morn; And love had been no more than this In all save love's despairing bliss. But now I know in married life Your face will shine as dew of truth. The sweetest flower that lips can see None sweeter shall your lips or smile, For when your lips have learned to swear To one you never seen before, I shall not always care for more If it be Love that knows no more. When hearts are young the tempest sings And leaves the threshold flowery lane; But when the cloud-folds round the eyes Of the grey day is held in vain; When the soft spring, like silver wings, Steals from the ocean's sunny shore, And the warm birds are left to wait To waken up their amorous estate, Then, then, you know that Love's myrtles, When tossed and scattered 'neath her feet, Become the wild rose's fragrant gems, And all the crimson fruitage sweet. Oh, could we know how soon that day Would fade away! And yet how bright those flowers would seem, Oh, how they turned to leave their dream! They left us in the summer night, And the Love Songs faint with perfume, Has left us in the summer night, And still we wake in fond repining. Oh, if our love were now in heaven, Oh, wherefore should we weep When we should feel his hands are weaning Weighs of a bride for sleep! But if our love were now in heaven, Oh, wherefore should we weep When we should feel his lips are weaning We should weep o'er and weep! Your hands are lamps for the delight Of dimpledishment, Or a thought for heaven perchance Int ======================================== SAMPLE 747 ======================================== ), I th’eve a secret tell, For fable Nrites were pining well, In the discreet old Ragtwig. THE track of ancient grey-brown days That marked the Evening of the Wise: Of Nero’s days, how aged they, Who saw no sweet and fearful fray: What time the tomb was overstrewn, What time the pipes were never drawn, How deep in silent woe were shed The longing to have thee alone. What laurels wreath not for our dead That fragrant wreath they long must wear; Let this grave, sweetest of the dead, But be my simple legend’s laid, And with the lowly grass o’ergrown, ’Twill suit a simple mourning gown. THE wintry west wind in the pine-wood Sends the crisp air, and withers in the snow: The swallows twitter in the shaded air, And the slim points before the eagle go; A froth’ grey sea, that ancient ocean, Of ancient strength and ancient majesty, That ancient world’s foundations laid away; In which old ships were buried long ago: Where now the old town takes its silent stand At the sand bottom, and the shingle strand Lifts up its terrace to the breaking land. Of old, old ships that sailed the salt sea, From the sandy shore they took their way: Old ships, whose ghost had been their guiding-star, Now in their helpless wreckings tossed are: Old ships, whose long oars scarce a pin is, Now drifting, helpless on the drifting bar. Old ships, that failed, with trembling pinions, Their keel have broken; a faëry race they know, Steering their course to where the ocean goes, Weary of labour and distressed with woe: Men, only men, as traitors to their friends; Yet, one by one, their ship went on its way, Without one steer or laboured ship to lay. I weep for thee, fair Italy! Thy golden meads adorn the green, Where many a warrior slain in fight, Smiting his shield, has won a knight: And here and there upon the green Thy long white lilies lie bestrown, Robed by thy ivy’s dewy sheen, Or wet with diamond dews of thine. He who could spurn thee, fair Italy! Not one of these her loss deplore: A few small tears are all her store: She shrinks from him who courts her shore. THE sun was radiant on yon hills That crowned the Hermit’s old renown; A little cloud of crimson pearls Veiled the cold western in its frown: The western wave was still and still That held the quiet peaks away: But thou, sweet Saint, wert yet more fair Than all the planets joy to be, Yet lost were life if thou wert there. The western wave was bright as gold Thy beauty held, when thou didst wear That wreath of wild and comely blue, The only stuff upon thy breast: And as upon that briny tide The great sea poured his molten tide There fell thy star-sweet smile, and shed Thine ocean-calms, and fanned the air As though they crowned thee reverent there. The wanton wind that through the night Unwinds his winter garments, till The western wave that writes the white Unwound his sin-dyed mantle chill: The abominable misery Spent on thy bosom in despite That mirror of departed fire The ape that now his own did spurn, And with his foe slays us on trust Dividing darkness, joy and shame Seized us in wh dissolved flame. O! shame on that old heart of thine Stored with so many fears and sighs, That oft with trembling lips and wine Thou turned thy very heart to sighs; And looking with another eye Thy neighbour passed that memory. THE snow was on the Hermit’s grave, And chill fell on his hallowed clay: And here and there a sapling wave Was found by the refulgent day. The wintry wind that shakes the pane Upon his lonesome house did prove The whisper of a village lorn When autumn long the summer heaves As the dull hunter at his will Calls him, and scares the hapless flower Of the waste forest: thus I heard ======================================== SAMPLE 748 ======================================== ; I had no care--to fix them there, And watch, amid the dusky air, No shapes in their dark-dreaming eyes Unseen--and care not how they rise. Why do they fear to go astray? Not that their thoughts are wild and strange; I do not fear for one--they may-- Who has been given earth--and granted Truth! I want the seas that flash and pass, The cold, bleak mornings and the snow, And lore that finds the world a cheat For folly's meagre hands to clasp. How should I fear the sharpest blow Among the snow-peaks when I pray That somewhere--in some favoring pool Of something darker than the day-- My Saviour's footsteps may not sink? What is he but a vessel fast-- A boatman guided safe and sound-- A vessel with no wish to cross? I wait--(because the sun will see It, anyhow,--perhaps in me) And look that this my silent star Like one of these shall keep for me Till mine shall thrill the farthest goal-- Then lest thou know, beyond the cloud That clog me with its chain of cloud, I yield to whosoe'er they skim, And make its bidding seem to me To call some spirit to the deep That here unguided passes on, Bound for his journey on. I have no second course to stay, But I am stronger far to-day Than heretofore, since Heaven began To frame creation for my man. In answer to the dreamful word Of him who rules beyond the sky, Give; let thy moods once more succeed; Nor let thy words fall on my heed: This were a gloom to sadden me. I walk, and only lo! the rain Dims the pale roses of the path, Wrapped in the misty hush again, And fills my heart with vague alarm. I meet him on the dusty way Where crowds have made the dusty things; But I have no companions, they Have no companion in the blaze; Yet I would claim him by my lays, And would that I were Milton's dream, I would, for all I know, be theme. Oh! weary age is come, my friend, And all is peace and comfort now; The half-hour finds us ready yet To face the fight, and not the end. It ends before the night begins Where war has put his pomp away, And now it is our battle-time Now we have done our best, to-day. For as the season comes, where once The heralds forth to council call Across the fields and war's last field, Until our eager tongues shall yield To honoured Freedom; so, from all Spelling where'er the cannon lead, Shall come the thought of Peace, to greet The banditti, where on each retreat The voice of Justice doth protest, That, while the cannon lead is best, Another comes. Come to the battle! Let your breast Be fresh and strong beneath the strain; Our bosoms throb with pride and heat, But, men will do your best, and we Will do your honor. Though Justice leaves a bruised heart, And Hope a frozen brand, We yet may dare the fight, and teach To strike a blow, but not to preach, Our hearts shall find it. Oh! come to the fight! To-day, To-morrow night, to-day, By the shore of a river, as I sailed the blue, I met a cottage-man, and thus bespoke his crew: "The sun shines bright, the sky is clear, The winds are strong, the tide is high, The port, I think, will leave the shore Without a sound of noise or strife; But, as they all have done, to-day, I take my stand, and put away The struggle, and the pain is o'er, If, as my song is, to obey, To what I think I must not say." Then up arose the hardy crew, And answered: "The next morning, Sir, We were engaged; 'tis ever so; All at a glance, we seemed to throw At once our kites and lofty mast; And then we lowering brow and stern Did look as we were wont to do. But we were not averse to bow To such high seas, such dangers great, Yet such a storm has never blown That shall not break our hearts ======================================== SAMPLE 749 ======================================== , ranging, guarding; Chase, or kill; for do you fancy? --Who's to kill? (That's a touch.) Who's the man with the throat in the throat in the throat? Who's the man with the eyes in the throat in the throat? --Who's the man with the ear in the throat in the throat? --Who's the man with the cut in the throat in the chops in the chops in the Goot! a huff! a huff! a huff! Shriek! splash! Hoots! It's the sun! Tired, faint, Touch! I've got some! Here's me! He's pick! Here's me! See! Look at his coat! What's the news? Ready! [John G. Whately, and other people remained to crowd about him. He showed them the holy and impostor publication of the hands and feet of the feet. For the charge they must now quit the sacrofy. The bells were called in "mockery," while the minister, going down to his office, appeared with two or three-pronged staff to draw the procession, begged by H. and E. Brown as "God save the King," and "Lictor Long stood this week on guard, while many watched the young MANN: (springing on the ground). This morning came a brighter! "Nay, nay, I'm not the man with the feet. I'm in the study of laws: I have eyes for nothing, but my voice is moving to heaven. Had he never known the heart or princely heart as I have, he would have pressed the clean blood of his master with a loaded knee. And he had publication of laws for many years." I would know, who "But he had an ear to it!" chorused the clergyman. Molly, the old woman, who always wore a clean cloak, backed her eyes and fumbled away from the clergy and brought a table of dried meat into it, and had for the greatest striking the priest, for he was exceeding fond of a place in his congregation against the many offices of the sects of the land. That morning, when the house was garnished with cakes, and wine, and cakes, and minaret, and still good ale, and the sweet of the morning, he preached the doctrines of the Aristotle and Plato; and when he preached the doctrines of the Aristotle and Plato, his prattle was but little worth; and even the poor and humble who poured out their wine at a large time, laughed laughingly, and made the eyes of the flowers continually the clearest ray. And one observed him (disease,Eh-too!) as he read, "My dearest Alfred, he's a drame to think that, of course, he is largely delectable in the government." And "what a deal more sweet," he said, "is it now!" And then, as he was evidently at first so, he arrived in the emancipated bird of the genus Rosie, who was not a common fellow, and another,--the pugilistic, myself,--means need not. The gentleman here had some things to think of, and it seems good to his hand to live at "The Wild Huntsman" and to sit at a rustic woman's-work, and sing his songs to please the ladies, and let the poet have a pretext of matrimony, with a stout admirable lady who asked him to play at a "bock-a-dock" you may ask me concerning this man, and to put him in a good case with a thousand men. As for our Robin and his dances, 'twasn't our learning, but our closing and our trimmings, you know, to give up the ghost in twenty years; and you never saw a man be seen looking in any place again. And I know we loved him. And I don't believe that I did, and I know that I did, and the end was no joke!" "Whichever one is, is he likely to be,--Sir," he replied, and pointed away at "themay-boy,"--for no sight was needed, though his whole-house might fare as well toward him as a lane out of careers, and the old apple tree was a just right way on the ======================================== SAMPLE 750 ======================================== look up, is it not so? The bobbins they are smiling still, And just a short way off they'll go! Now I have reached this village fen, I fain would enter, something say, That I must visit just the men, That own the finest scenery Where Lady Mary walks this way. They do not always sound and show Their toes sometimes on toes or toe; They do not always splash and smack, They do not stamped their toes up too; I think, I well know what they mean, They are no villains they are, I declare! I would not trust such promptings bred In sordid joys, or pleasant bed, In bawdy weed, in glen or wood, In shade, or fair or ghostly flood, In darkness, in dejection, lies But--oh, I see those scenes on high, My eyes scarce mirror'd on the sky, The floating clouds, the moving breeze, The bushes o'er the streamers trees, The spreading tents, the towering trees! Hark! how the children's voices call To my house-mother at the wall! Some are in fright, and some are sick, But my mistress does not stir, For, all my food, the best is left, And she is angry with me not For all my clothes I have bought so fine, And, all the same, I wish I were A decent shopman, sir, to buy, And thus be taught my duty by A gentleman to buy a hair, And to arrange each rural hair. She has two eyes, Laughing and chiding, all in the taking Of the ear of the man in book; she reads the son's or letter's name, And in trains and lawns descends his friends and sisters. Old she observed me, and though she was graceful, She smiled her thanks in sign that they were plainly of my heart, As I would not in some by-way roadside volume assert That she sat and told my friends about her father and my lord, Till my friends arrived, and (I will not enter without speaking) So frightened that they could not have distinctly told Their love for me, that I believed them really of old. Young Ann has this and this, And, like two oranges, She takes the air to ease her nose; And this she does for me, My father says she can't refuse; She must give way to my neglect. But, 'tis a dreadful thing, To melt with tears, and call my heart A hundred thousand times a week. It is not her nor mine Is the lamp that lights the Eleusinian hair, And her feet touch'd, as if she had been made Of earth's intensest fire, And made of many flowers, The earliest and most voluptuous air; Or her soul so lately driven to me In such unholy dances, That, like a child, I feel myself within, And shut my eyes forever from the light, Till the world's thought and hand, Like to the ceiling, are too oft inured, And then slip headlong down into the night, Which none may see but I. They say, oldrossisions haunt my dreams, To view such beauty, as I found When Vivian came; and you, if you were nigh, Were happy, and would be no more. And I, too, have a strange and hideous dream, That like an angel I have pass'd And lately caught, nor know I where nor why, But my heart caught me in the grass, And each day nearer brings the thing I see, And folds up like a great rose-briar, In its rude bosom, and a kiss As red as any carbuncle. He never knew a word; He never had a look; In truth, his talk was loud and shrill; And it was like a brook That riseth up and seeks the sea, Half water, half foam, And on its way home returning, On its own errand goes, Past catching at a bright sanded rock, And on a silver sea, Past catching at a rainbow's mesh Of sunny sea-green leaves, And further on, more soft and sweet, Past mixt reflections in the sun, And further on, more subtle and, Past winking at a flower's nod; Nor ever she, so fond and dear, Looked at the sun with closer eye Than ever yet her passion stooped to spy. They say ======================================== SAMPLE 751 ======================================== A sky-blue sail that carries us away, A heart that loved us from a boy! And now the swift days are on the wing, The wind winds whisper and the skies Hush all the darkness of the spring, Heedless of fear and joy and sigh, And waiting for us at the end, Go go,, the Father of Life shall lend Some thoughts that go with steady speed Through many a trying hour away, And place them in the Lord of Hosts, To teach that they shall pass away From dust and darkness, and descend In swift, reluctant march, to Thee, Then, with our hearts grown sager, we Will consecrate our lives to Thee. The God of Light made dearest Thee, To light our human day by night, And all the hopes of life to be Imparadised, in morning light; And though the world no longer sleeps It bears our blood-blood, satisfied, And makes us clean, with clearer eyes, After our "salvation." Lord, be thou Touched with the faith of aye and No, Then, dark-eyed Piveness, take us down To leave Thy heaven, in our own. Pray for us! God has left us long; But when this bitter world is gone, The path is yet for us to strong, And we are but as men who moan, And our own toiled; when by His fire, Pray, we come home from where we are; We too are dead! God's mercy spare us, We are our own right to be free. Are we therefore dumb, and blind, and weak? Oh! how a "great" rebuke did ever speak In such an hour as this. But once, from every voiceless dark Of earth and sky and sky, A soul spoke, as the strong man speaks To the children of the sky. He rose in silence and passed on, But the veil fell on him, As a veil, that leaves a face forlorn And likeness it shall be to the unborn, Were the drops that fall on all. When I was left to be desolate, The need was still too great To meet with upon the road, Where a desolate woman stands. It was night when he went away, And I felt my heart swell When I watched one that the day Was the hour that I should be old, When he was old. And when I had called him hence, Before I was well The coming of that mustsome night, He met with a cold dull-eyed maid Who pleaded as though she had lied, And fled with her steps far and white That at last were hopelessly wed, And died in a strawless bed. My heart had not been worthy To share her dark doom; It was enough to be happy. It was not the weight of a moon Could trouble my brain. As once a gourd of drouth, So now a dew and a plague I'm left in the halls of my heart, For I know all the lore of the years, The bruises and budings That kept me good till the morrow; But I was not so wise of a-- Krishna! They do not know that of May, And the sky overhead, The little dark river that runs For ever and ever for aye, Held fast in cirrhage and liss, But his heart, as the quarry-thing, I found when I might not sleep But when I woke at break of day, There came to my door the thought of you And the words you have spoken, And all the lilac-blossoms that Strew field and garden. The small bright foot-prints of the brook Do taunt me so severely, To keep me all the summer through In some good way or other That I may cease from guessing, But will the time soon be? As it was in the days before, An old-time lover met you And looked at you and pitied And cried aloud in glee: I am fair as summer skies are fair, I live in the same old passion And the same canny fashion. It was not my fault that you left As is beautiful the fashion, For you are not as things are That is to be endured by: You are the wood, and there is here No peril nor displeasure, And your eyes are not so sharp and clear As their edges are to any, But thin and drooped like yesterday's corn ======================================== SAMPLE 752 ======================================== , To lull you at your time of ill? Then comes a will that will not tell You of it; you're too young to spell. "Your crown is fit for you to wear, Or wear it when you are grown old. The flocks are scattered all about, The field is grass, and crops are ground, You cannot miss the smallest grain That ever from a meaner brain Great drops of water have been poured, Yet take you this; for this is plain There is no soil of salt in all, No bane so black, no blossom so fair Will be so dainty or so small To clip your wings and set you on it." "Hush! There are something, that is plain, That makes no meal, or snatches one; And nought exists but wantonness; And nought exists but something more, That breeds the evils that we scan And thrives on nought with sense and sight When swollen growth of things is right." "I know no use," quoth he, "for earth, With all its creatures, thrives and thrives Not hard and soft: this bitter fruit Is not so very sharp and sweet As is the snake by Aeolus About his heart,--for never yet Have things so sharp and sharp so sharp For all their good, when evil come, That chance may turn their gifts to gall And kill them with a sharpened dart,-- Nay, even that hate shall pass it by, Or kill its power and leave it whole If it be he or God alone." He spoke, and murmured nothing, all, As one might hold a ring of gold Upon a ring that had been flung Down from a chain by Circe flung Back from her throat; then silence followed, And all was silent save the hardy Sad swine that had their pleasure By constant weaving of their chains. And thus with lingering paces we Turned from the gate, and stood aghast, With outstretched arms, each downcast By his own shadow at the gate; Then up spake he: "Hear me, all ye spirits: These sounds are from a chain which bind me; Hide from me, ye devils, who captives are To the sweet air, which once was earthy; Hide from me, ye fowls, and cattle stor'd, And I will break your chain with my own hands." This said, he forced us to their flight, And ere we had reach'd the turning pale Up to the bars again we came, Beyond the beast, and held us waiting; Thus, through the opening, did we fare, And when we came to Circe's bower, The ancient spirit turn'd away his head, And said, "The sun is rivall'd and dead." And straight began to say, "Take heart: there is no greater woe On earth, than nought but death can do; No mortal man on earth hath power To sin, than thus to look upon death. The trees are dead, and all the flowers, The birds are flown; so may we taste No food that flies not, seed nor fruit. Ah, woe is me! why did I sigh? My sweetest Lesbia, take my bow Forth from my shoulders; that is all You lovers have for it. For all time It is not dead, but only sat, Ugly and fierce, feeding on lies That only by fell beasts are kept. So while the Trojan master lives, Pity a gnat for me is kind; That which can die, kill itself the more. So, I, with pity moved, I join The weeping souls to mourn, and part From all the body, and tear off The sins of all the soul; myself From all these bodies torn away; and from The body, and in all the wide-spread tomb, Which it was swathed with tears and blood. And I, who well must weep, pray too, For pity of the dead, fair share Of my exceeding misery. O These be guiltless souls! and yet Do only for the grave upmerce No holy love for them. For where Are all our sighs, and tears, and moans? My dear ones say, and that I do A hopeless thing, with Heaven not its guide; And saith she willed it not. O spirits, Who cannot know the good they bear, We pray you by the throne, and by the shade Of the third Angel, come and comfort ======================================== SAMPLE 753 ======================================== -turdis, with wings in air unseen, And hovered on his orbed shield. In his torn surcoat did the King recline, His helm above, his shield below. It made the dame a friend of every kind As though his every look were wooed, And had a brother by his side. When this was said, the King his visage eyed With intense affection and subdued, Then took his spear, put it in his hand, And bore it slowly to the ships, Unwieldy for a twelvemonth, armed To bear the weight of war upon, Upon the day that he was borne. The King then bade the damsel stand Fast by his side, 'twixt hope and fear. When, as his arms were strung in haste, The task to close, he quickly bade All men observe, that he might see The boldest lords, for no small cause, Themselves two knights of that high race, Bound upon compacted bonds. But the sea-fog it might have tossed, The shield was battered, broke, and dropped, On seaward side, like shot and shell. One in the tumult, quaking sore, Rushed with his sword into the air, 'Mid shrieks and cries that went before A Scottish army from the shore. Alone with such a bold design, Which he had thought on as a brave, He fled them not, unheeding one, While the Scots yelled, and their own men did hear. And when he came to king, as one Whom no law sees, nor day hath known, Though squires or robbers in that host Should live in bonds and crucify, He said, "What may this matter be? What fear, what shame, what injury?" "Brave men," he said, "be bold and dare The danger of the self-same day; Life's feeble race not well aware That shame and anger in her way Are to a race of conquerors sent Most glorious to an army's care; 'Tis to a man," King George replied, "If I had power, and would not lend, I would not lend a helping hand, If I were king, and thou the king." A man of age and yet of speed, With something scarcely godly dread, He turned his courser, sought his steed, And took his cane; then drave his steed At horseback, and returned to bed. But though thus armed on every side He had not drawn a galliot's ride, But over mountain and he scarce could ride With his small palfrey, bridled on, Among the aborigines arrayed, The emissaries in attendance paid, Until the King, who had bethought Of this his purpose to confide, In secret communed with his guide, Until the King had read in haste The tidings thro' the camp had brought, And that the dame whose sovran oak Had to King Charles a purchase make, Should by this means await her there, Nor to the tale her mind forbade, Since still so early was the time, And had with doubt and reason vain, That without aid her champion's aid, Thus would she ever to the maid Show herself blind, though it might prove That never yet on her before, Through aught that might be false or great, The warrior ceased his arts to show, No other counsel could he know; And where he had performed in horse, Now there, now here, he dived or flinched. Yet hope he not his loss to hide, Since of the female state he made His trial, by a rugged guide, On the other side the monarch's aid; That he should have his knight released, And to his country far be sent, With store of keys, a pair of keys Brought from the city's owners aye, As sign of perjury and delay. That emissaries in such place, Would do him scorn, as doth the case; For to mistake the open book Of such profusion, insolence, Arrests him not in martial gear, Though he now rides with horse or steer, This he no more the page will see; For this the book of that false law, Which snares and deadly fires doth bind, Not to this town doth pay its worth, But, all unheard, the Book of Life, He by his right, now theirs, now theirs Who in this ample Kingdom come, Which seems the volume ======================================== SAMPLE 754 ======================================== , In their famous music heard and sung, Of doe-syr; and swift-limbing javelins cast Over the Cimbrians and the Northern blast. And by the fervent-closing Gods upraised As the charm had been of old, a zany yell Was heard, which the ear slightly caught so well, That it could never be content to tell Of other deed; nor couldst thou guess it was Sign of the deathful for that which should befall. Nor since that morning when the King of Shene From golden Tithon had turned his bow, And left his arrow-head to shoot amain, Although the skill and arts that open fast Within his heart were secret, with anon Brake from the bastions of the Cretan gate; Nor aught of what he toil'd and arduous had begun, He could not do. When lo, great deeds be done! The city of Victory now is won! To stand by the gates of the Cretan gates Hath not for years nor years been wanting any. And woe be to him who from his hopes at length Shrinks from the ruin when the crash of doom Is added upon him! Therefore must ye deem That moment the soul within your breast doth ache, And the heart that is weak beats fast with pain, As the bruised land lies prostrate, wild with rain. And leave to the Gods all fear that kind quickness Which follows after death. The charm that rusts And swells as the fresh air upon the scroll Doth force us into the halls of the soul. For ne'er did the fear thereof bind manhood's strength Till she was smitten; and ever shall the brass And voice of our youth be heard. In its stead For a little space art thou not to forget The lull'd soft murmurs of the precious sand. Therefore now unto thee with prayer is prayer, And with much pleading even at the door. Lady, we twain are bonds sever'd from our life; Go, we implore, and hither bring with a rue The Eastern Queens, and so, to strengthen us, These twain are bonds sever'd from us. We are The Turkish women; Moors, we seek the North, And Turkish cities; but, in Thessaly, They'll succour us for seven years. We shall be Woo'd by the Midgardian King, and driven o'er By Heav'n's strongSendSendSend forth these show'rs of snow, And then, I trow, shall they be rent asunder. Woe unto you, the peoples and the state, Who do not murmur, nor with mighty shouts Raise again the multitudinous ghosts, To hear and answer the dread requiem Of those whom sorrow never more shall free. The only wretched one is a miserably poor, The thron'd King's slaves, when masters they will be. PANDATES, on the royal throne. Weighed down by wealth of precious things, we raise From out the dust of cities, which no man Has upon earth, or near or far, or since, That which we lay upon the throne of princes, Unto the royal children we raise arms For those who use it. We spread out to men And kings triumphant, regal sons of France, And great men, and fair cities and fair crowns Clasped in the sweat of battling for the Cross Till kings are mingled, so that we may win Peace from the terrors of Tyranny, And be the people of New England's Kings. Take back your Grandfather's sword again! A rubber is drawn from a box, And we laid it down on the kerr again In the hands of a stallion full-flung, And the heat of the furnace so mixed That it melted it into the spoons Of a high noon, when we had a well Of the sextile, and then was begun, And we must have it down, when we came To Newgate, and saw in the eyes Of a hot and continual squall, Let it fall, and the smoke and the brands Of the hearth burn fitfully. Take back your Grandfather's sword again! Are the pennons and shadows of old Left unsound by the scythe on the stone? When we went down, it had shone and shone, But our empty dreams still were a sound, And a voice cries on, as the kings To the sons of ======================================== SAMPLE 755 ======================================== To the naked world the woe of song. Men have their fear of thee; who hast thou buried, Be it of flower or bird, or nest? Thy shadow, perjured witnesses, is laid Ere thou hast heard the hateful din From blood-hot Border and from empty shade; And who hath torn thee limb from limb Will tear alive thy gilded loin, And bind, whoever stole thee, on the day That he who dared to break the thread shall say His name was there in Flanders' land. O wind, a-blowing all day in the blue sky, And a-knee-deep in the violet blue sea, And a-blowering, O blown and rent, in the morning, As my soul takes sunshine and shadow! Dark cloud and the red surf of the sea! The western sea; the heart of the earth-- The sun, that is wrapped in an uttermost gloom, The heart of the air and the sea! A dewy, desolate calm, like a shroud, Over the stars at night! The live, sweet, lovely light, like a sheath The purple of the midnight blue! And a-clinking of tent, and a-flashes of scall, And now, as I stare from my window tall, Lonely and bleak and a desolation, The word, the word, I dare not utter! The black foam of the night like a sea Floweth and rolls in my ravished eye. Dark cloud and the yellow moon! And the wind that blows on my window soon, Will carry me off from my prison. Would that I were riding in moonlight! On the swell of the black Ocean moon In the noisy tropic noon. I would glide, like a sea-bird, over the moon, And never the voice of a woodland faun Should disturb my ear. I would loose my hair, and follow my step, To listen, save for the ivy leaf, The bee will hoot and the night-wind howl, And honey-bees buzz from the bean-weed-plants. I would nestle in the pronged and leafy chest Of a slow, sweet bird, and kiss the wind, And waste me in a bed. Should the wind sweep me over the moorland, I would rise, and follow the ghostly moon, Through the forest path; and see where the foam-bells And the little ones playing among the cyphers, Or among the cob-webbed emeralds and their stars. I would steal, as a rumour whispers, Through the dark in the rocky caves, And step with a ghostly tread Through an ever unfrequented field, Where I could not find One. I would cross the distant snows, And follow the shadow of moon and stars, And follow the fairy speech of the elves, Who dance on their moon-bright veils. And gather in, for their song, Some sweet, mad song of faërie. And, by some bright angel tongue, Though fairy music many may make, They will break the magic strain, As, breaking, they follow the feet of death, And follow the magic strain. Out of the wild, roaring night, The black tomahawk, in its flight, Came in faint crimson light. And, stealing to where the bignell-bloom Burned a golden-belvedbrand in gloom, Behind her, in the moonlight, came The life-sick gnomes. From their glimmering depths, where the great pines Quivered to rainbows under their vines, The whispering voices spake: With her tiny hand and her minstrelsy Rings the wild note; from her dreary, dark eyes Flame the red light of youth; Passionate ardours that leap and dance, Like notes from a loving lute. With her stifled voice and her quivering glance Swept the wild measure of night and of day Through her brain and the heart. One long, long night, she stole To this lone and echoing dell, To sing to the forest-trees, where the rain Pushed into deep ravinees. In the wild-flowers, where the ferns, that gleam Like the wings of wild butterflies, had their birth; And the beeches and ferns were the delicate dream Of an English sun at their happiest worst; While the robin sang out overhead From the branches, where the white ======================================== SAMPLE 756 ======================================== , for all you urge, would only die In distance from your feet. And yet you came, To that false spot, amid the silent dells, Until you found the shady garret full Of the wild water-lily. Was there a breath Of wind among the boughs? Or some faint breath of wind among the leaves? The clouds dropt thick and fast, And one by one crept silently behind. Then--such a mingling of dull sounds and sight! Such a deep blend of voices--a dull crash Of that deep song of birds, of waters, woods, And over all the forest, the white moon Lying like shrouded stars across the sky. The sunlight overflowed That rippled o'er their floors. And the tall pines that felt the heavy shower, And sighed, in sudden dying, to their tops, Like young birds folded under a calm sleep, Rose like tall pines, and leaned their heads to sleep. The trees drooped down to die, But the sad sunlight on their roof no more Broke from their silent sleep, For a deep calm is in their hearts, I think, When a deep sleep has taken hold on some We all remember and are now dead. Only the sunlight there Was underneath the trees. Only the wind among the leaves; Only the white owl struggling near the moon. Only the wind among the branches; Yet not a single one! And not a single one at all But the slow rustling of each thin leaves Came from the river, so still and large, With a mysterious claim On that still place, And motionless, and mournful, and dark, And silent, and more self-possessed, Yawning into the midnight clouds. The long grass rose and fell Low among the boulders. And, from under the cliff, o'er the smooth, cold streams, Heard a faint chime Of some gray chime, as of some one late, That mingled with his speech, and did elate With his low bowing, And died in silence;-- All the still clods were shaken as a mass of clay. Then came the glimmer of twilight and of day, The faint and feeble glimmer of the east; The large eyes fixed again upon the world; And the leaves fell, each on the other's breast, With deep, deep sighs; Each on his own, And all alone. A year ago I wandered by the sea Beside an inland, misty-looking cove; But, ebbing, there I met the dear old friend Of a deserted house, whose windows shone With outworn rime of yesterday. He spake Seemingly of that house, and nearer yet He drew me nearer--there in a thin blue light I saw two faces, and two plump young eyes That stared with childish beauty, and the kind, Simple and kind. He held out either hand In mine; and all the questions that perplexed Our friend, his evil life, his wisdom proved trivial, and his hard-contigning skill was lost. We stood with him at last, one little while, Waiting the water, looking back at him, And laughing at the drift of careless tides. Then the low sun was down. The gaunt reef-gulls cried 'By the strange chance, the sacred old sea-wolf!' And, quickly, there he stood. No answer came. Then, without a word, The other with a great wave of wild hair Leaped from his arm. My face was wet with tears, My hands with his crushed fingers. He, great-souled, Wept as he had not wept. I spoke no word, But my white soul consoled me as we sailed From the black blackness to the wind-swept isles, To the forgotten home of his long voyaging. From his old peaceful voyage he went down To die among the nations; and we laid His lovely waste of wealth. The quest was vain, For sands of rose and tasselled pansies pressed The barren shore at last; the many-colored flowers Hung like red gold along the great highway. Then slowly the low sun went down again To die amid the unquiet waves of sea. The dear old home was all gone, and no new friends; There was no new companions, no new friends; Only the white-robed fugitive swept down To the dark shadow of a sycamore. How many of us, O many of us ======================================== SAMPLE 757 ======================================== , With the blue-eyed children by the window, Whose hair has drooped on their great shoulders, Tired, and bent to go on with heavy hammers, Filled with bustling, merry folk who serve, The tall and upright ones who round them Kept the joke and sang it loud and craftily-- Ah, well-a-day!--It's not a payment-- And they are coming with so loud a voice That they must drive up a galloping, highroad, To a seat on a gable and a vans-ball, For the boss of the big-boned Bo-peep play, And in among the ends there runs an old ram, Who never sets his foot on the good green grass, That glimmers, and then turns round quickly, Leaving the old ram in a yellow rind-tree, And past the old ram, swift and steady, I watch the procession of people coming, They bow, and they run, and they rock, and their feet fall, To the tune of their voices, loud and piercing, They would stoop, and they would bow, and to sweep through the blue-jaw pinions of their wings-- They would dart like arrows, and dive like arrow-springs, But with speed they can't bring back their fledgelings, For the child they want is a helpless baby, Who could not yet be safe with them awhile, And who wished to-day to be home again, And to come again and see their faces, And to look again at their golden places, Must wait awhile and weep-- And take the hand of the young friskie-- A mouth that never can speak. And those grey mossy rocks o' a southern land, Where you and I in our midst met, When in the merry summer weather, We came to where those good grey rocks together, Where in the dark we placed our oars together, To watch them safely out of reach of blow: And there we rested, and the sun rose up, And the old rocks swayed and quaked. How pleasant, as we a little pond, As we crossed o'er that green level land, That green, fresh world, before us, every side With hills that lay beneath our feet. And a sweet wind uprose behind us, And a fair wind whispered to us, That somewhere, in the whole of it, All was alive and gay, With the charm of living waters, With the sunny wave at play. And what was happy and good shepherd But ah,, we thought of one who stood Like a small darling by her way! We stood round the rock, and she whispered Softly over us, very softly, (O! how could we ever forget?) Anon one came to me in the blackness Of a dark long year and said, "My ears are shut. O, I will swing like a long thin creak. Hark, the woodland is in the coldness now, And the wild wind 'ches the thin-edged bough, And I hear the crow, and the blackbird's note In the thick branches has changed to cheer. Tell him he's glad, and it's all a lesson-- Much do I know, of that very year, But never the world we used to hear!" I looked again, and it gave me joy. A week out, our way was slow. The clover, stooping to our side, Whispered, "We have a year to stay." The dandelion said, "Hush, hush!" "Keep them," I said, "We are calm in our deep-sea bed. The hours fly by As if about to die-- They miss us as we pass to die." He looked in his heart, I know, and said, "This is a year ago-- A year ago, for we shall die." But Time and I went weeping by. He kissed my hair, I do remember. (Oh, sweet the memory of the day.) I'm sitting alone by the sea-- The waves have forgotten to cry. But I know a little by-and-by-- I knew so long ago-- The cold wind curls the sea-weed Down into a snow. And all the waves are aching For the stress of my love, But I know a little by-and-by-- A year ago, the whole summer Rests and begins again, With a soft golden shadow On every wave's refrain. A year ago the ship sailed by. ======================================== SAMPLE 758 ======================================== all arise; The rage of rich or humble, all the good, That nature, that God, and omnipotent, May for each other work, none shall affright, No! not of force, orbed in steel or flame Or brazen helm shall be the sign and aim To find and force the weaker. This shall be As very proof of their eternal ward, As it shall seem to good men, whose reward Is fame, their firm emprise. And, 'twas but now A moment--and a splendor crown'd the brow Of noble Nestor; yet at length he spake, And his clear speech to prudent Nestor spoke. A knight--if peradventure he may be Wroth to be hated,--and even so may he, If wrath it be, subdue it for the sin And flight of these wild men, and chiefly such. Then the clear calm had vanish'd; when the steeds, Seated in order, to their stalls drew near To Nestor's tent; whereon the monarch sat With his attendants, and on either side Stood, opposite to that tent's entrance, The antique suitors, ministers of Zeus, Their diamond weights, which hurl'd from heaven aloft The cluster'd headlong, and could find no way, Pelion or strength, but pass'd from either side, Like eagles that have snapp'd with northern wind, And shoot'd with random course the vengeful snare, And with their pinions trimm'd the palace-wall. At length a general voice, all clamorous, Struck from the walls, and saddled all the air: "Hear, King of kings! (seal Hebe, peer of gods, That on Olympus dwell'st, thine arm let loose) Now grant that from our ramparts thou command Pleasant defence; and valiant men, let come Also the night, 't is thine to first assay." All the plain echoes back, and to the ships Fly the plain host: Menoetius there stopp'd short, Chief of the footmen, and apart the steeds, And thus, slow-moving, spake to hoary ears: "Hear then, ye Nereids! as ye promised, speed To yonder camp, whose chiefest pitch of war Is still your just possession; so, the chiefs In prayer and honour to their king prefer. Me, therefore, be not slow, but drive in haste All their appointed travail o'er the plain. See there a lion, with a faithful herd; Not dreadful as his strength, and by report Of Aethiop held, or of some other chief That in Gortyna dwells, whose steep ascent, By Pallas taught, conducts them through the war. The sire of gods and men, when sooth'd for love, Alone, to join the synods, sent us forth To join the battle, and defend the town. Their proffer'd gifts, and his consent, he gave To them; nor fail'd of that high recompense For which the azure-eyes pour'd forth their dews." Him spake, and bade the messengers abide Throughout the palace of the mighty king; For these, in order as he bade, to swear A solemn oath, that they would worship God. Down went the messengers and, word from Zeus, Loosed they were all, and crown'd with blameless gifts. Then, thundering the loud acclamation, King Produced the eldest of those royal twain; On their own head he set a golden staff, And straightway to the prudent King they said: "O Father, I shall to the gods of heaven Return, but not return by word of mine; For by the laws of nature in our hands To Hermes' sceptre we will plot his way." The King obey'd; with haste the willing Greeks Placed on the sandals, and the glittering cups. Then on their armour the Fire-god's son Before them mounted, and himself ordain'd His ministers to be the messengers Of high-thundering Zeus, to lead them on, Whose words were manifold, besides which none In all the populous city yet contain'd The sceptre, or control; and deep they thought The noblest men of all the host to move, Whether by Gods, or mortals, openly. This when the god had finish'd, Neptune high, Homeward of his ascent, him left to seek The valiant Sarpedon ======================================== SAMPLE 759 ======================================== vithout a mede a losse, With other mouthes, which I for thing presage, Upon the vay of Fame me list to wage; Fayre Hope is set as quicke therfore man doth: But thing which hateth most the most or most Disbowse this fortune, yet her key doth this. She was a poet, to one penite fliht, And yet the Muses with his voice affrayned The praises of her wit, and with the word Which love and all his tunge to beautify, Quencheth the fellsme of his fervid verse, And strives the toyle of eternall blisse. The naturall stage of thy golden age, One speake of thine immortal vertuall power, Had the nexte fairer yt of noblest thre, And whilome Homer an ancient writ Prevaileth this wide world and our opinion, That from all infernall sondri natures law It can beneficence, nothortarist to draw. But soone they worke: whiche sholde neuer knowe The sondry wrecche of their felicite: There sate great feysshement and abhomage Of Horace, Colicolles, snachles sage, And Tons of Paraylls proud and Besent ycit: Hym kynge of eloquence, and Diomedes proude, Whiche causd great ruin, bokes wolde appay Whiche gef and wonne to worthe auauntage Or sayde that Romane a shorte mouerage Wrogh his shorte name was nere declareable. With Nero euery man whiche louers chiefe, And lordeth euery creature in accorde For lust of fame, and of renowne renowne Sholde be within, whiche he wolde deuise his worde, And elles in riches diuine with lewdnes That sayeth a man whiche loueth best on stede, Him ouercommeth by honour and iust preface And craftles name of Romane for to rede. Thus oft tymes for man he sighs aloude: Thus holdeth no prosperite of lawe ne roure, Bot honwelsome greges and pretiousnes Upon a wyde day of buxomnesse: No baronage for faders warnes gentle Ne nor a lordnes songe of good estate But manie a Cite that to none assente. Whiche loketh in god preserueth most of alle, That ofte tyme often he sitteth on honde, And to his pouerbe comprored in that londe. Thus doth the wrath of deth ne lyn him colde, That is he feigned of pyte and of golde. With his accursed beMercy and wille Of his entencionge hell vnto the souerayne. As Prydain and Dervise his talës knowe, And notyth the hoteste of the thynke euer For in this day (as he meneth this wrecche) To labour fro the kyng the weyghty man hath gon To purge his fader, and for his Druerie Fro all the worlde in heuyns to heuen adorning Where as euer the wylde Foly was out-lying. Where that he slayn hath serted grace and ryght Where as euer he to lyue in great affrayle, There shall men learne that the yonge lytour lyght Shall nat lyke better by the scyence of nyght But by auauntage and cunnynge of hell fyve By theyr aduersyte: and moche more in wyse Yet that he lyst nor so thynge after shall But suffer in wyse what men that syngeth trewe Shall no thynge to his comys, but wander wyse And to the stronge lyfe in peryll and in solace Without rewarde. No punysshement nor brayne Nor punysshement can the remedy asswage Styll deth by loue: no harme for suche is acquyre Let them dye out of theyr myndes to decry Nor they ======================================== SAMPLE 760 ======================================== of flame, Offal boding, ominous. From the pyre a tortoise viewed The relumed flame of light: Then the spell was solved by proof Of the dwindling flame of love, Form of harness, heart of bard And horse of wild desire. Then one shaft, the arrows made, Came from the cross of fire. Leapt the furnace from the mass Through the molten-cuirassed mass. The furnace was a barrow Hewn from harness of the bow, And blood-red thunder of the forge Did its red tongues proclaim. With his dying breath he filled The riven marble of the gash, And spattered from the white. The open furnace seemed to blaze With red and yellow fire. Then the reeking blade it cleared, The iron, and the shroud; The scornful flames gave back the sound, The oaks were far more loud. Then was naught of boast or blame Unto other gentle sires, The shouting of the accursed crew, The accursed shafts they knew. And then, as vassals, clad in mail, Before the chancel lance he leaped, Not as a stairways round him held, But clambered up the ceiling round him rolled, He laughed a laugh of pride and gold. Then in the heat of summer days, He would sing a lusty bacchanal, In the mask of crape and rope, Singing and laughing on his perch, To the chivalry of life. Then the smitten spirit, too, Would leap into the deadly flame, And leap the cub as leap the first Of any shining metal burst. And his foaming crest of black Would flow to meet the sight. And like new wonder to behold, He would burn to redness bright. As fire in mountain cleft Outgrows a sapling, bright With redness of its spark Threatening in cataract. And as the perch at morning flies, As bees, adown the sunny leas Fly with the flower of wax. And as the sea-born man, In tattered garments jerks to God In shambles from the dead. Red as the heart of the bleak floor The canopy of rain Grows hot upon his head. And so his thoughts go on; And through his mind there goes The stranded chafing thing, The dulling lump of hate. The countenance is cold, The breath of frost and snow. Though he is sad, his mouth can hold No breath to weary through. But who can spell his name, Who knows it not, who has not heard, Save that the blown chaff In the gust of wind and thunder of the storm Has never heard it before. The wind blows keen and cold; And the snow comes pelting and veering and wailing In rain or in snow. Green poles crack and jellies are churning and shifting From stark white to shreds And crack in the wind; the tide of it roars and whirls In cat's-foot water and in cat's-foot snaws; And white-hot arrows of sleet sweep through the sky As sweeps a wounded fly. And a storm is stealing In the drifted snow, And the shivering snow Stops like a shape on a thundercloud. Deep in the heart of a house, Asleep, He fancies himself on a phantom of delight, That haunts him and makes him dream of the dawning of day, That now in his idle brain buffeting the world's change, That now with a raving call the universe quakes, And hugs the coasts of power to be flung on all sides. "Of peace," he cries, But knows that the issue lies. His eyes are filled with tears, A strange and unseen dream, And each faint shadow that comes from the void In answer comes, with a face that has long been tired; It is like a wind, That undertoms What he has never yet understood; It is the season of winds that moan And the warm season of spring; With its blue and radiant hues That thrum on the under and drowned in dews The strangeness of skies that sicken and scurk. It is the season of moonbeams seen In luminous slumber unfurled, Like filmy shapes within a magic lair, Where violets fret and the thorny briar Pales wavering down the stream like wings Of the moon that qu ======================================== SAMPLE 761 ======================================== me here or there In house or bed; for I am not there, In ruined days. O, be a man, For I have never known such cloying In peace or war. Since my first boy, In this fair time of violence, The Hebrews' land upon this wall Was taken by the hand of Christ (From hence I take the honour To speak with him my exaltations), Have ridden on his long white horses, With white steeds and branded with one white mark Among his teeth, and with them stained The garments of his enemy. Let be the fortune of this town, And let it be the other side, For there are ever people who Do not enjoy their property After their fathers' written testament. Look up and you shall see Whether your fathers threatened it, Or those who fell from it. For it is of honor That we forget the treasure-chambers Of the old Pharisee, and the gold Of the Jerusalem that held it. Yet do not look on these; Seeing the stars in the heavens, And the power that made them, and the power That loosened the snares of Israel, Are not all like these. For we have seen Such hands as are not mine; We have seen such hair, We have seen such eyes, We have seen such hair, We have twisted our hair To catch a breath From the lips of death, And lo! they are there. We have stood among the dying and dying And left their place, with a tear in their eyes. We were in the wrong together For years and years. The crumbling walls of the city Were an echo of many changes That had come of the world to us. They were wonderful to us, Greater than all the rest As their strange fathers were; Their faces are like great slow angels And their thoughts are like the dove's wings When the air is heavy with odors. They wander as if driven by thoughts Like an old man from paradise, And each of us sees A castle's face, A road between two great walls, And a hundred square towers, and a terrace With its crystal candlesticks, and Swarms of pointed wigs, And the white walls, So like to pillars, like gold, Enamel the tops of towers, Whose doors are diamond lilies, And terrace, like a rubied sun, The white battalions of palaces. One tower is an angel-tower, That shines with gold for a hundred ages, And, like an evening wind in a valley, Of houses eats up the wind, and flames aloft Their red like the clouds On the black wharf. This fort is one round tower A hundred years from the end of the day They built their house, and were there assembled, Or in the orchards steep, or in the houses, Or under leagues of walls, but in the vestibules, Or on the hills in the ancient town of Timbuctoo, Or where Timbuctoo stretched his brazier wing, As though his path were a hard one, But when he saw them from the river, His heart was sad within him. These are the orchards, the Fathers, These are the grass-beds upon the graves, These are the valleys of darkness, The pits of fire that fill the bones of houses, The level lands that have choked the streams, The fallows, the marshes, the wind-blown spires, The snaky whispers, the mighty plovers, And the huge swans swimming down the brooks, The tall grey clouds, and the crested horses Borne on the crests of the tallest trees, And the crests of the big round townships That lie before them. These are the orchards, the Fathers, These are the troops of the sons of Greece, From the dawn's earliest till dark "Sit down and listen while you like The lark go down, so soon as you can't find Nor God nor man, that helps you, Till you've filled the world with shouting and Men and women and men alike Till you've mixed a townships with one red on top And then put down the lamp. If you really want to see your wife Put in the chair by the Cornishroc, Why, her young man has come home." "Once more," whispered the Cornishwoman, A-top of her voice in a loud, shrill ======================================== SAMPLE 762 ======================================== on the tree-top sitting, That the birds may feast upon it, And upon my knee are sitting, And beneath a birchen trunk in Pohja, 'Mid the fir leaves nigh the fir-trees." When the young bird of Pohja, Sheard the words of Kullerwoinen, Kaatyanta midst bewailing, Flattering from a sky-blue berry, To the clouds across the sky-spray, Flushing all his cheeks with grief-drops, Coming to the birch-tree's summit, To the little rind in Kalevala. "Bring the birch-wood here, O maiden, Gather well the birch-wood tresses, Bring the vestiment of ermine, And the kibiscome of Kullervo, That with joy this feast may enter, And this house may still exist, In the little rind enrobed in safety." Thus the aged Vaeinaemoeinen Sought for shade a space in safety From the boat that near him bore him, And the black-prowed house at length made ready, Which for months obtained a hearing, And for summers six days waited. Then he sought his boat to booty, And to prop his boat's condition, And at length upon the shore he sat him, And he spoke the words which follow: "For the boat, of course, is waiting, And the rudder points the rowlocks, To the long bay points the prowlin, That our boat may be completely With the little rind in safety." Then his boat he seats within it, Steered the sides against the row-locks, To the landing landing drove him In his boat the maiden seated, With the oars between the oars. And the boat he swings against it, Strikes the prow upon the billows, Strikes the boat upon the river, With the oars cut off to seaward, And the vessel in the waters Makes the body of an island, And upon the bay the oars Reach a country on the right-west; In the waves it gains the long bay, Strikes the boat upon the river, Falls upon the bay-shore, From the bay the boat falls prostrate. Then again he seats the oars, Strikes the boat upon the river, Strikes the oars upon the river, And an oar he seats upon it, And an oar on the beach below him, And an oar in the midst he places, And a beautiful maid beside him. When he moved the prow ashore, From the oars he rose an uproar, And at once the rowlocks started, And the prow fell down before it, On the bay the sails dropped scattered, And the sails dropped on the water, And the vessel in the waves dropped, On the bay the hopeful oars dropped. On the bay the boat was hoisted, On the bay the magic oarsman, And with boat all hoisted closely, But a young and handsome hero, Morekins with his belt well fitted, And his handsome face all covered, With his mantle well undefiled. And the laughing maid was weeping, And the noble youth was sighing, And her little one was milking, For her own sweet milk she wanted, And she gave the child to labour, And she drew it from its blankets, That its little lips should lave it, And its little bosom milk it, Milked it through the soft waves, combing, Till at length she spoke as follows: "Now my time is come for parting, Come to the dewy grass-brook, And beside the brook's green margin I will put this thing to order, And will send a sail rejoicing, For the wondrous ship is sailing, Through the open ocean parted, And appears a favouring woman, In her hand a gold-cross holding." Thus he spoke, and swore to prosper, For indeed the maiden promised, And she would the boatman seize, With her hands the oars he provided, And he rowed the boat through breezes, Like the boat of Vaeinaemoeinen, And the vessel went rejoicing Thus the aged Vaeinaemoeinen Sitting on the bow of heaven, Heard with joy the words that follow, Over Suomi's deep river, Down the mighty stream of Pohja, And through ======================================== SAMPLE 763 ======================================== and Orang-Crow: His troopers, mounted o'er the plain, All doffed their martial bows, and drew Great ears, that heard their Chief disdain: This done, each leads a soldier's part, With horse and man behind, that start The thundered music, as they ride. All clad in steel, four-horse and four Foes wait them. In his valiant cause, He should not fear his foe to gibe; There is not, nor can meet him now; But God will fight, and give him aid. Down with King Cole, to Cloke and Cloke, Three ride postmaster gentlemen, A horse equipage, under a rocan, Shooting red flames, as men call it, To gallop past his foxen den. In iron and stone they break the stones, And serve him worshiping the King; But his lord is of no mortal stock; He is stubborn and tough of bone. He takes up his gun, in a childish time, When the heat runs in men like fire, To powder the craven hearts of men. 'T is the generalest game of war. Lord Tullius won a shooting eye, For his son he shot an arrow true; The greater joy his arrows err: He is skillful in the teeing shot. But before our hero has a shot, A most deserves preëminence. Fights did not hunt an accident That debadair Pompey to shoot, Where all this ruin would befriend. When a man's arrow he had shot The represent did not relent: Nor of the wounds hung any wail; 'T was not his aim, but not his aim. And when he struck, he up in air Aimed as at a dying arrow. But is there a invention any, Who thus attempts all nature's arrows? Such wretches of the mighty Rome, Bold, pliant, firm, they can condemn: But a narrow man more jolly surely That has both legs and ribs of wonder. Ah! a rampart that with pains appears, A chief who had but one horse suits: And such of yore he seemed the foremost Who bore a bow and shot a cloak: 'T is true he now is no more savage, But he goes forth in a wild ravine, To find some mark, and take the bow Wherewith he sticks, and shoot, and shoot: And all these chills are in his hands Like the Major's at a touch and bow. In green and yellow he's a chivalrous, A very handsome lad, in green; But unto eyes of which I tell, They are both tops, although they be But all alike, in black and white. And as, in Titian's hand he bore A statue of the Parian stone, Or like it was a beauteous maid With teeth averse from dancing on her: For either marble or for you Will he this very statuist: The one which other men approve, The one which goes with all his love Into the vast profound of death: TheLastly, all looks that fade away Which are not fair, or lovely, though 'T be, if 't be not painted to the day: Though of these sages thou hast sight, Nothing like Venus is so bright. At a glance from the eyes of St. Joe, That is the picture of a man, Who fathoms thirty centuries now, In the steel-surge of an English bow, Or at the loom high up in the bow, Which he, with a Scotch county's name, Went to deliver. The funeral now is over, And tapers are all burning, The temple and the spire are lower, The choir-fires down the aisle are higher, And his wife, Ma Belle, is sitting A-roaming at the Piazza. Her last the long look of a saint That mourned like the marriage bell, But shall to memory's rapturous sight Add health to the vicissitudes, While onward still the Spanish line Went marching in the land of Spain: While for the brave Cualtera's sake, Fame weeps for her lost villager, But the summit won from a double hope, Where FRANCISCRELL and his wife Gave birth to the old modest house Of Calvert, La Rochefoucauld! Though somewhat worn and weather worn, 'T is all of a summer even ======================================== SAMPLE 764 ======================================== , Deposed, as free a soul can fling: As naked he of sin and shame, As yonder Harp, if she be lame. For, like unto a Hindoo's bird, His stature reached but to be seen Above, as if the world were made Of virgin mud and sandal-braid. At last his Courtiers came and said: "Hear, let your heads be raised for shame! To this I sell you here present: Go, to the cloister suing Thee, Thou jack whose tongue is not set free! Regard the worth of this three score: Make thee to be a henmman once, A beggar once, but now come on With thy own head, since I did swere No prentice such another year." And to the barn came William Shee. And she, the hay-bibber, straight did ride; But first, in truth, by chance did greet The groom, with bow, with shaft, with whir Of wedding-wars, come in and meet. Meanwhile the bridegroom in the sun Did on his bride-brows hang; 'gan run In haste; she, feigning like a ghost, Fell backward by a light stubborched brick. Then came a cock unto his horse, And not a whit the lady did withhold: The bridegroom smote him with his foot, But with a harsh and crooked scourge The horse with him about did stalk, And with his clothes outstretched did stalk, As if on each side were gates and piers, But like a man fast barred they stood. The throng of men and women danced, And did around the bride-brows waite; Then broke the flute, and then the mace, And then again did gallop straight, And gainst the horse the door they clomb; In pieces fell the bridal dame; But in, the bridegroom and the bride On equal errand did abide, A sewworm sate, a stately fay, Upon a gooseberry ran away. The old man sat within a tree, Upon the hilly ground he spide; Then croaked the bird, and thus did cry: "Haste thee, Willie Bell, I pray thee, Here are not now such handsome fees, As the black loaf of a Dean, though once It stood between the door and me." Said he: "My housekeeper here have you, But you need not be broke in so, I think I have a nice clean nose, Well met, for I do think it tough." "Your housekeeper, in sooth, I do, I come, for your amusement, too, To see how we our hose abused: At such times not a thing but bad fun Could our housekeeper devise as none." "He wins with our rents and chattels," she said, "And though not so good service indeed, Yet sometimes his name does not fall through my jaws, For many a feast have I attended." "Auntie, my maid, the wheels do spin, We're lacking, and the rest is in Our houseport, looking over the lawn; But if we walk there dead alone, Would something else there do or shun, In any place, by chance, may find?" "Aye, the storm-cock says my dress, But he don't know how to best dress suit; His covers from my eyes I lock, And run about without my locks." "Wilt thou," says he, "than tell me so? Well told, for want of cunning know, And how to handle slit or blow, I'm unacquainted with the shoe, And if I have to go to where The highest shoe is in the air, I'm sure my holes have come to where, So that I fall not in the pia When any man but cook can earn." "Up then, dame Nature, though you're rude, Though for a kitchen it would vio, In any place you're fit to be Good husbandman, no knife can smother, And, if you will not let me know, Be sure you'll have all right in no one, That any man who lies in this Should wish to cook alive as I am. I have a mistress, and I call her fair, For that of all she's absolute, I grant: There's more in all but one I must aver: There's kitchen justice, too, but that is chill; There's other ======================================== SAMPLE 765 ======================================== , secure, repose! Expos'd to, may be had the giv'n By Neptune, justly some degree Of this unnumber'd people hail'd, To a secure fall'n in their distress; The 'cause of their distress, and the poor station, Their perils and perils, long and dreary. Their vessel's mishap, at first gave way To the rude pedagogue, who ran, But stay'd with pain, and sobb'd, and sigh'd, and rinn'd, And hugg'd her and confess'd. 'In fair array Who thus shall captivate the day? 'Call'd Venus, make this promis'd boon MyVenus, and my extinguished woe; Or sing him by her ravenous lie; See, where he comes, where he insults me; If there he comes, let him reject me; With love he needs must be diverted.' The favourite of the place, his death is reputed: His first expedition is displiking; And to the chivalry he proclaims the fourth; And to the neighbour shades he makes pretence, That he may rule the world from his defence. Next to the King they act their best; Their valour this, their order that, to trust In their best valour, they may well approve; Then, to the truth of his obedience, moves. The foot-ball, whether bent on marrying They show it in the churchyard or the field; The deep and narrow vent on which they lie, Their views of profit they describe; and they The means for storming, court the storm of blows, And their best means their surest pilot know. The Cockney of this conduct is the Man, In whom a resolution is erected; It is, the laws which Reason finds, to use, And which we should on better premises dispose: Thou art the Man, in strength and shape to tread The ground, as thou dost pass the other's head; Or com'st from any earthly generation, Except the laws that are by all created. If to the eye thou take without thy will, Doubt not; but be this our evidence As to thy outward liberty, which still Is with the laws and actions of thy will. And if thy mind do not consist in this, Thou wilt dispose without a diff'rence, For every error it descends upon: An overplus alike will work on one, And to the other no gradations come. Thus, when thou wilt, thou shalt to us impart, And in thy service bring the cap and heart. In our domain of honour still it hangs, For onely which it better suits than she; There still remains to love and courts to be, And thou'lt not lose it, but remember, still Our power, who have in thee their guardian will. The old adventures, glorious and sublime, Shall with our names and thy succeeding time Be reckon'd: thou thy self, and for thy sire The auxiliar language shall obtain; And for thyself, even now, to Plutus join'd, Thy troops, the foot-bath, in thy father's line, The Crusading Spirit shall find their fate, The Theban bloodhound from his perjur'd mate. 'Twere easy for a Man to rule, Mighty in a noble freeman's cause, From the world's rude and destin'd laws; For, of men, we toiled the times to teach, As toil-worn men, or agony of speech. No labor then. We were superfluous still; We were not free to live: our very will To sing; and we should wield the helm of war; Our ship was then our own: our honour this: While he--thy father, thou art his much-honour'd son! So when a schoolboy comes at last, he grows Himself the slave; but, ere the course be run, Our deeds, our own achievements past; And thou, my son, art still our Sire's desire, And man's vain efforts do our ranks inspire. Now let us raise our cry against the sun, For such are the last words the mountains said, Spirits of men, proud faces fronted high With enemies, who, in their dizzy flight, Their tempests and their storms in battle slays, Cast forth in promis'd plains; and trembling noise Daunts the loud voices of tumultuous winds; Our captains thus presuming the main, ======================================== SAMPLE 766 ======================================== 'Twas a little rude and pert old Frenchman first That brought a snirt and tunic and put on His uniform; but then with vivhy awn, Which soldiers had not eaten, and strewn And torn in pieces, and without a hat Hung down and pinched, he squatt along my shelts, A sort of quack all apple-butts and sat With his head and hat high heels, as if his best "Now listen, Lard! My darling, an old man! My brave Staff's the man for to upbraid In the bells of St. James's, and his pretty ways So Latin and so Greek; and how his days Of grace in reveille must he know, As you tell me and me?" There they turned And back to the old man, Chorussus famed For exploits in the brave days of old. "Your smile? How, darling, is your game of cards? I have them; now I beg your pardon! And, first of all, shall drive these old grey moths From their creel heels in the English bog." "That's well," he said, "Gentier, a good whole clubs Butterfly cult! When Fire is in the brain And Foot is but the lottery's tin, then, Dear, Thou canst not draw your eyes." And as he spoke, Her beauty and her speed I could not trace In any of the circles. No, he laughed low. But one time, One could not understand, I did. "Hold off! The audience Is old; but 'tis known thing. None can teach Out-door. Now hear me!"--It was not a soul! And he flung down his bare black to the waist Of I am but the symbol and sign Of the new Arts, a universe Of two great Consuls. But the proud and vain, Their high uneducated Knowledge knew, And our philosophers, will scoff at that We only teach our children to be few! And so they whelmed that pagan faith in me That I who bore them might have won the prize, Or rather gained no way by that ungod That I who took them,--I alone am left To build the New Soon, and to make them good. There are two friends to whom all we can say Is one by one,--it is the New Year. Fred Wrote one of his old poems, and John says they Could never be both honest and unkind Unless one worked them with a magic mind. I give my friend James dinners; I have found Some goodness in so many people's hearts. The neighborhood Jack Camp is a good enough thing, And John says when a "handsome man," is bad, But now it is not fair to be my friends. I do not care how bad they wish me now. I'm not afraid of being right or wrong, I've not the slightest doubt of my escape From this most strange and everlasting chance. The question 's the as good as any face You ever met yet in your lonely ship; You light up the way with your poor lantern, And turn it over so; I've found the way But that is long to travel, and I've found A great substantial but a narrow way, And as for me, I did not seek to go. To 'vantage me,' as has been often said; And now at eighty you can say, At the age of thirty I should seek my fate, As if that is not what we early did, But I've learned in life and the world can see What is still good--I may say to you That if my body licked me clean from all Then any hunger was--the worst of all! I catch the cold as well. I rub my hands. I take my pen and write: O little John! Be careful, though! I never did, before. Come in! Our house has cushions all a-flutter; O never ane to stop in any more Or you will see our work drop, down, or stop. And tell me, Johnny, if it's all for them. I cannot think, with Harry who's so near I'd play as well as he did, but the trick Is very great for that? What wouldn't we? I don't; if anythin's so very low, It isn't very good for me to play. When an author such a trick can draw As know I was to have to turn a stroke A lady or a lawyer, he will squeeze From nineteen a quarter o' the old halloo, ======================================== SAMPLE 767 ======================================== , honest Adam's wife! Cranes now is shorn of fame, And now we've wandered up and down The other side of Elpsie. Now Tom has broken bounds, And we no more shall be afraid, Because we never had a mate Like you, my boy, for ever. Like you, poor boy, what are the odds? The money went and brought the news: And to the world to be avenged, Our boys have done their father's work. What will the poor fellow's fortune be? A note, a note, they did not flee; But right through fire and flood and flame They did his house to snare. What have I done? what have I done? We're not a house to set up for, Nor house that does not know his work Nor the long day's work that's done. What have I done? what have I done? Our house is not a little house That holds the burnt-out, ruin-haunted house And all the pride of man. Sometimes in rainy weather It looks quite cold; But then you can discover There's many a street Where pipes smoke, and you can discover No trace of a place But on your feet is set the trace Of dog and cat, of rat and rat; You can driveussy horses On cities cumbered with big ponges Of the old brook-feeding barn, And cattle at their stalls Run ravin round with passer-by. I should like to be a guest. I would have my fat old tramps And the rowellnable stench Of big and chuckled sort. They should heed us at the dumb, And pull us off with crazy hip And shovel through the scum They use the day we want some stones, Now where they cannot go. Wade in and out, mama? And is the wind Among you all day long? And is it not a rage That goes about to spoil your health, Where hundreds of the boys Play joyfully? Wade in and out and in! And is the sea Among you all so rich, so fine? And do you like to see The white face of the girls in line With books brimfull? She is ten thousand, boys; she is ten thousand in love; She is eighteen, even if you reckon out her mind That in the poem the recite is twofold; And yet if there be that, you must remember that I Admire also a perfect poem, that, to a fine old age, They might presume to say in its language to your page "Her praise has been shown here long"; Forgive my present anger, now that this is done. I would not heare her calling, if it might be used to call upon me to find out. I should be forgetting too much to hear her then. So of her favors I would say, "She never thought of anything else; Look here, you spy, She's not what you call accidents performed in the first year." There's a boy in our town, And a boy he never lost, And never even can remember what you said last week, And never recovered. There's a boy, I do believe, But a pretty early tale; And he never has an ear, And he never asks to tell, But he always reaches to it straight and straight as any sail. Oh, that's right! What a yarn, To spin for his thread! It never could be too light for him to wander On what good a weather there's to be, For he'll always have a new door and he'll never go again! Shine on my eyes with the love that lives in you, We are boys, there's no place like it, The day you'll be singing, there will be fun for you And I'll never ask if you want me. The sun looks always in his favorite boat, He rises at the time of day, He's floating lazy in an ocean of his own, And now at noon, he's to me. The sun looks always in his favorite boat, He rises at the hour of day; He's in the ocean of an infinite sea, And we, too, all of us, will pay. Hush! there's the sea. Why, bless your ear, There's the sea-shore that is near, There's a wind and never a murmur comes to drown The day that's over and done. My father's call is very long, His hand ======================================== SAMPLE 768 ======================================== upon Hers was another green herbage, And her exacting-one abode in silence. So the wise bear to the throne of hemlock Follows the wanderer, and his pleasant realm Now almost over reached by fairer hinds Will find it easy to suffic them. Behold her in sweet beauty's fair green palace! Their fine, pomgranate heads! To me 'tis worthy All praises lavished where no wanton brides Are wanting; yet I had my golden orange, Which fair to look upon is fair, far more Than the luxuriant gardens that, far from the haunts Of princely revelers, are sinking Over the tree-tops green. A little, pretty, Venus, who is youth! be seen; yes, seize the olive, For age has brought me many beauties too. Then go, go, gather luscious clusters From the shore of Thames, and add them to the hill, Which, by the woodman's axe uplifted, shapes A tower its royal crown. 'Twas there I met The Queen of Carriage's stately carriage, Consortingress-- Such a proud carriage as none can endure To draw a crowd, and to drain up the sumptuous wine. She moved and made a good-sized dapple-skin For me, a red-cheeked and red-crested petticoat, Such a broad-brimmed "Rabazzi" could bestow His sceptre to my hands, so tame and bold. She blushed a little and she blush a little, I knew her of the taste of coups of coffee, And said she's not a inhabitant of earth. Then other she conceals her father's care, And mother's care of all the kitchen ladies. Her cheeks are greeted by a gay-gown'd apple-tree, Which has no plume, and prunes it with warm sunshine, But its boughs do make the corners, there to stand And swing--and fall--to swell the chill of death. Such is the reign of verity; but see! He now has brought it! I have sworn it, She, He who gave all things saving flesh and blood To me for life and death, shall still be here To dwell in my deep heart, and see it writhe Humbly; because I said I loved her well. How fond is he, the genuine estimate Of all the Gods; and most of all because They hear me tell the general woe, that, since The least I love him, I am little and contemptible. I am a proud and mocking gazer. Of old, This was his prime dominion, this his state. Brake from his lofty boasts; and for his spoils He held dominion over twenty years, Because he was no man nor woman in the world. Still, as I dream, my fancy dwells on him, Unmindful of the hymns I might have made, Because his voice was Nature's, to my thought Like some bewildering wether, when the breath Of God's breath snatched him from his radiant shell. This was my first-born child, who came to him In my great world, his mother. Oh, he loves As was the wind's, the strong wind's mother, and I Must now be marred and chilled! No, all are thine! And, when I dream of life and all his life, I will remember, in the morning dawn, His young and happy father, with his smile, Whom thou call'st by his name, and who he was Once more I will remember and I will Remember also! So in a halo, friend, Thou wilt remember me! What wild thoughts last Came ever as it takes me back again To those old days, but coming again. Some sad days, friend, we knew. And sure, my friend, It is not that! but 'tis not that! And yet It is that, after all, there is no time For telling things--the kind of thing that is, And this poor earth may have us all to know And feel to know and feel with something sweet. And so, these days, I think, my friend is gone With this old world, these nights so dark and blind. And still I ask, if aught of his gone bliss May have an end, or aught of this great world At which I say such bliss? That were a great thing to consult, believe, Upon the season of the Gods. When ======================================== SAMPLE 769 ======================================== is not the star upon the mount, That lights up all its journey from our sight, But in the bosom of our life must wane Before the brightness of its star to wane, And this to earth--for thus the law decrees, 'That ye are lifted up, into the skies, And clothed in flesh, may be some blissful star, That shines athwart the night of deathless day." I tremble, like the tremulous moon, that dips Her light in heaven's blue arch, so to behold A light in the blue azure realm of the north. I fall, like falling star that stoops to rest In a blue ocean of the night of spring, When all the floods have lost their source, and I Have lost the shining stars of heaven above. The linden trees are waving overhead Their golden fruitage, and their fruitage fresh; And I have climbed the hill, and on the road Have heard the cataract beneath me roar, And seen the eddying clouds and rushing winds Drag upward through the night their fading spires. But I have lost the secret things of earth; A tree is in my heart, I see the trees Breathe but in vain, and yet they strew the ground With dying leaves, and yet they strew the ground. The flowers that grew upon the orchard wall Grew in the dust, and then were lost in dew; The earth herself threw off its old disguise, And left the lovely marvel of her breast With a new glory on her golden hairs. Why mourn we that we have not been betrayed, That laurels and dead branches have not ruined, That silver sunlight and the gold o' the east Do not turn silver, save in bubbles rise That break on fluttering ships, and scatter them. The petals that have dropped upon the boughs Are not so delicate as you, and yet I think her very gift of gold and gold Lies buried here on earth, and on the sea, Far off, her fading glory and new life. Here in a wood that is transfigured by the light Of heaven, the angel of a golden frame Is stretched out in the glory of his wings For terrible despairs to the uttermost. He lies there in a silence, and he moans, Here in a windy theatre, the ground Holds a great City, populous and round, Bathed in a purple cloud that ever shall Light up the world: all things are held in awe, Even the ignorant angels, who behold At distance the bright wonders of the sky. To this fair place he seeks; here lifts his hands And prays for wisdom from this happy land That the great city now is reached, and stands For ever, and for ever seems to stand. "O little city, with the noise of bells, And noise of waters, know that thou art free For this new wonderland; and while the wind Blows hither from the evening sky behind That smoke of villages and of the town, Behold it towers, and domes, and towers of stone, And fairy battalions that attend the throne. The traveller shall find the city soon, And when the bells are answered, he shall find His year-old story written in the sand: And there he shall hear voices that will bring His fathers back again to lands of smoke. Hear now the bells, and hear a voice that calls For help to the strong heart of our great King." Ere dawn, I saw the towers, and gates, and towers, And now no man was there but in those hours To help him to return, and none to hear; And I am weary of this town of war, Wasted so soon and wasted, and no sign Of help for all of that strange marching line. Ah, why am I the helpless, weary man Who strays and wanders far away, nor can Year guide him on, no power to bring him rest; His perilous journey on the world's highway, His fruitless, hopeless love, an hopeless quest, Why will he follow ever, day by day, This horror of the streets and happy hours? Why have I no relief from longing grief? Why sit we for the season in the palm Of great Apollo, gladdening his vast soul With mirth as deep as though he yet would do Strange service to this mad and desperate Pole? Nay, some were hoping, in this weary age Where all must wait and watch without their sight, Or standing to their risque, to whom 'tis good, To hear what eager courage and what skill ======================================== SAMPLE 770 ======================================== this way." My little friend, so small and neat, And yet, how far from just so much, Is not so much as half your care For them you strive, but cannot hit; How small soever toys you miss, Perhaps you've tiny ones, you'll own; And even if you want the skill To see how deep the toys are grown! You ask who Mary is and where, She will instruct you in your task: And then you'll say your little friend She is a pretty, shiny thing; Our mutual wants are not complete, And Wordsworth is, and Wordsworth sweet. Wakingfulness is such a theme, In telling you, it is a dream; And, therefore, sir, I hope you'll try, In business, what think you, I lie? And, when I've shown how bad I've been, Pray let me pay, and see if I can; For, being poor, you're very lean, And ask in what are myriads to me? With useless learning, nor a fret That's not for notice of a cat, I too have had the lucky chance, With my poor scribblers, to engage On writs that little men admire, Where books are not, or friends, or fire. Though foolish I produced the stuff Most easily I did my best, And showed to be, or care to know, A subject well deserving us: Each to his own peculiar kind, And every one to me the same, Is my great mistress' sweet consent, And mine is woman-like's the same. And, though the subject I dispute, And am his very soul's delight, I'll not pretend that it's in fault To be as barren and apart; But whether such is my regard To him who hath it, I'll confess, As to myself, and you, although Of your kind nature I complain: My cold is soft as pattering rain: Give me the fire, and let me burn Like to a kitchen in a swarth, And living sparkle like a bird, Because I love the good old class. For me there's much that seems too tough To make me love this gentle girl; No lover here, who stoops to lick A flower with such a careless look, While all the country round about Breathes spice of hair, of gracious curl, And deigns to smile, but shrinks to snout A fading, shattered, ruddy mule, A too much squalid, nag or hoyle, A wretch, a leaky, rich, broad-brained, Profane, respectable and mild, Who durst laugh at a village child. We look--we hear--we look--and lo! Another girl, more fair than all, The third one, more attractive, mild, Brushing away the "loves," who dare Usurp the names they foster there. And it is meet, O mother dear, Your pardon now I bring to bear, From all that you have heard or seen: O happy children of the green! O hearts--how soft, how pure, how true! O nymphs--how loved, and loved, and taught! "When Mary shall be thine," the orb Beholding, "this one grace alone," He bids me to the bosom strain Them and the home where Mary is." Thou beautiful, how goodly bound In manner, with the grace to show In every look, with every attitude Of grace divine, which means, in that The more august, serene intent, My soul, to soothe and soothe and move, Shall, without aid, thy grace approve. I come to bless thee--but, beneath Thy more uncertain eyes, I see A light from heaven which is not seen But half illumined and to thee A star, which, though from Heaven exiled, No glittering but of light but gives Pierced through and through with holy groves, A spark, which for the wicked lives. Give me the wood; what could I else? Thou art with that too lovely light, And so I love thee, and unite In one eternal full accord Thy spirits with thy soul inspired. Yes, the fountain, which from thee An influence soundeth all day long, To the eye but draws its own sweet song. Then will the day come when thou grieve That, with love's self, I see thee leave The home of love, and leave thee naught ======================================== SAMPLE 771 ======================================== For even the letters of the dead? Shall his hand employ the poet's pen? And shall the copious and the bard be hid? And shall he bare his genius to the dead? Shall his eye mock the long streamlet's flow, And sink on hopes in melancholy dream? But ah! the soul that might have soared in air, And for itself now groans beneath the sod, But for himself would be a spirit now, Could only change its goal to some gay god. Yet may she never share the bitter fate Of life-tide hours, nor see it bear its load; But let the lowly bard thy soul relieve, And all its carelessness of death forgive; The inmost home forget the woe that waits, The bosom, pale, the bosom that it loves, With thee, mine, prince of the human mind, To live in solitude--to know, is sweeter far To wander with in solitude so mean! To march with thee through life's wild solitude, With thee the bard, and what to do in life, When all that one may do is toil and joy, The servant's pleasure--youth, with thee the fan, The guide and guide of all that one may do, One blissful hope, one purpose, one desire, Without the cotter's mis-shapen wish or will, The noblest knight of all the Euxine race, Through whom are meant to gladden and to serve The vulgar, her that boasts the fairest place? Who would not mourn for her? Ah, give the scope! The hour will come when destiny may fall, The hour will come when those who love shall weep, The tear-dimmed eye, the traitor's awful mask, Shall find a welcome at the dawn of day! Night is the noon of summer, Flinging about her cooler. Over the rocks and boulders She has let the swains repose. The running streams she glides along, Over the rocks and boulders, And then, at even's hour of rest, In the depth of the sea-deeps, Slackens the breeze in the trees, And flutters the waters To frolic awhile with bees, Then plunges away and falls Like a happy butterfly, Forgetting to fade and die. Is it an Indian maiden, Or Indian in tropic lands? Lo, in a red-brown forest, Fluttering about the sands, Comes dancing maiden Perseus, Comes dancing to the sands! Yonder, see, is she dancing, Tying up the grasses. Yonder she bears her husband, And follows him, a youth. All along the waters Her lover holds his bow. They look in her face and see No sign of the arrow. Is it a stream of purple That slips into the sea? The tawny prowler, hauling, Pulls out the bounding rope. No prowler, nor the pirate That sails the purple seas. The captain, and the squabold, All close together, All their galley keeping. O winds of the sea! Kiss ye your loved one, Blow him, heave him! To your white snowy summits Carve him the sailor home. And blow him, thou breath of Autumn, Blow him the sailor home. Like a gaunt wolf hidden Deep in the fen, Pale and stark lies the moonlight That dies on the snow; And like the ghost of a Indian Whose fingers touch yours, Pale and white stands the moonlight, And like the corpse of a lover, Cut in the foaming snow. The step in the sand is weary, The sand is dumb; There is only the sand-wind Which cries through the twilight A mournful note, And dies at the sound of the wind. To-night, to-night, I saw you lying, Here in the sand, beneath the moon, Here in the woody, dim, dim wood. Cold, lifeless thing, and who is he That hath such lovely body won? 'Tis he, who holds it, lying there, Who wears it, lying there so still. Cold and cold as his own heart, Whispering in the wind's caress, Cold as the little lonely thing That hath such lovely body there. Then she fell with pity, softly, Fell like a lover in a dream; Hiding her, ======================================== SAMPLE 772 ======================================== Shall give thee in exchange for things not made, But all thy golden hopes, as, to our eyes, It shows the splendour of her tints ensphere'd, As though, for spite of Cupid's scorching rays, The torch of love were glowing in its blaze. And first of Bacchus' various girls he came, The Graces' progenitors, whom Hell Doth to all things in Love by man confound, That none should guide him, though his eyes were drown'd. He trembled, trembling, that his wings should fall Into destruction, and he stood alone, Without a groan, and press'd her every way, Like whom a lion, when his anger's gone, Ceaseless pursueth to his lair, or leap Amid the mountains, raging from his sleep. As he went by, half startled at the sound Of his own trumpet, shook his fearful head; But on the border of the golden ground, Rejoicing in that he had touch'd the bed Where he had lain, sad, by the side of Love, Secluded from all darts that might supprest A heart unblarded, and a face distress'd; Which, wanting this, he should indeed have fear'd To make the vow he had before been vow'd. To Love thus decking, in Love's perfect prime, He sets the pupil by a line aside, That should he read what lines of lightest rhyme Lie on his page, and Love be his own guide. "Time was, when Love was young, when Love was bold; Not e'en the Babe at his Creator's side Whose jealous rage the promis'd strength defies; And to enjoy it he design'd his eyes, To see the sun and his ethereal wings, And, while he slept, to countenance heaven's stars, Were only fir'd;--Love was the first of things. Ascend, ye heavenly mistress, with consent That truth ye shall accord to your decree; And let her judge, for honour, and for bliss, Her worthiest offspring equally condemn: But let her court another, she will lend Another, and will rule your steps in Love." To whom the novice stern, the chief replied: "I have but two years' space to live and die; And, while ye live, I count the life of Love But now, 'tis so the want of Love I bear; Still, when ye hear the Cuckoo's pipe, ye hear A chaunt more sweet than any I can say; Then, lady, let me die--my life is thine; If thou art his, why then shouldst thou be gay? Fool! to imagine what I feel within This heart where I must die, and in Love's eyes See all my wretched days, all blotted out; Nor long, nor can I with life's weeping part, Nor, lady, let my heart in passion rise. If in thy thoughts I have a friend to see, Go to my grave with him; and thou shalt see, When death draws nigh, me his most gracious foe; That is the true ally of earthly love, The happy husband of the precious dove." She said; and when both couriers had 'scaped o'er, When to her cottage she returned once more, There through the dew-chased twilight pensive stray'd, Both sighing parents smilingly, and pale. Nor bode their trouble; for a wakeful bird, Gladly conducted by the dove, did stir The love-sick Daphnis to the pious bed; For o'er his shoulder the thin feathers spread, Bends to her breast; her arms around him spread; Her bosom, then, slow-grinding to his hand, Raised to her breast her plaintive plaints again; "O thou, who o'er the battle's stormy main, Hast seen thy votaries to their dying-tune, To-morrow shall the sound of battle try, And send the banners of the foe to join; To-morrow thee the valiant Greeks assign, To storm the palaces, to yield the day, And lead to battle our deserted wives, In mutual blood each loaded weapon strows; Not till thou fall'st with cruel deeds, with swords Shall these sad wars sustain; nor till they deign To blast the timorous birds, the forest boughs Shall touch thy fluttering bosom; such a love Will not abide till thou in dust expire." ======================================== SAMPLE 773 ======================================== , Where happiness takes honour and pays for itself, He made himself both sober and right in the eyes And taken a stroll by the wrist. This pine leaves lie like a winding sheet Along a river. I whisper--and pause, And I pause and look back. No matter what you say or do--that's true. You say that I always believe--and forget. The wind is changed: the boughs are laid, Their garlands on the river are flung Fresh with the crimson of the sky. They hush and halt and mark. I watch them not, they fancy me; But one piece of ancient ground Is mine: the very boughs around Are woven by the mill-wind's wild impression; The bending willows of the river move No more; they beckon me, Even now I think I see, Though the river pause and lightly stir. Dear places of old woods, I watch them slowly rise Through their clear, transparent eyes As a sacrifice. And now my soul runs back To that small, paler plain, Where those same boughs could never hold me, The woods that meet me in their cold, white And cold they come again. And now, as they, alas! grow less, And clouds on the valley twist their tops, As if to shroud those valleys like a veil. Now, once a little stave Of green coquettish water crosses the brink, And all the winding reach Of an endless lake, Mellow with waves that reach And sing beyond. Now, on the plain beside me, or the forest, I see the white-skinned fir; Where, ere I lift mine eyes, Far off and in the distance, I have seen A light, that seems to say, "Is it the light of that immortal day?" My thoughts go with you, Brother. I have no dream of you, Brother. From the infinite Unearthed and guarded, Doomed all heights to Egg-Land, the sea to infinity, The unknown stars--with one great word More than all lands that touch the earth-- Lift up your eyes. Alone he is lonely, Lonely and bleak and lone, alone. You are the placid heather, I the long reaping-field. My heart is at your heart. There is the land to which we go. Ours is the land of leaves, swallows, and we. Ours the sweet plain where all day long we go Going and returning. Life with the sunset, land with the moon, Winds blow at the shut of the day, There's a beech tree that stands out so high, Shadowy, dark, wonderful trees, Low bow the meadows, blue hills, The cuckoo that was our love, The fluting of the heather, The calling of the heather, The falling of the star, Over the downs where the mist comes down, Dear! is it here we sleep in the town, The sleep of the valley, The dreams of the fields of white, The dreams in the mist, That are all of life. I kneel down and kiss the footstep of her feet. I kiss her lips and forehead, I kiss her soft blue eyes, I lay them in her hair and breast. There are so many lights Lit by her sudden rise Of deep desire; So many little suns, And dreams that never cease, As one lost star in the night. Why will you sit alone, All alone, While the hearth burns low and dark, And the fire that stirs beneath us Lingers and withers cold, Ere the last spark of the sun Shall fall on one red sparklet Full of a million fires? Have you heard the white death-cart, Who stands and looks from far-- Red-stoled and lifted up, And all my soul burnt white? Green-browed, gray-haired, I sit with soul as white. I know not why, but he, Who waits with wide-eyed mouth And shoulders to the east, His eyes have grown wise, His lips have grown wise; This is my soul's home, And that is mine, dear brother. Lo! there he stands, With eyes that never mock, But look and listen; I hear his voice, I know him as the moon Makes music in the night. I know him as the great cloud, ======================================== SAMPLE 774 ======================================== And ladye of the same forlorn Ye have anon a word to waile, That ye shall see the pale moun's cheek, And near his mouth your hand to stan'; When ye are in your woman's place What stormy weather's there ye shout? You shall see fairies move about With heads that fell, and heart that leapt, With flying feet like larks that sang, And eyes like glow-worm eyes that run; When all are in their graves with sleep, And ye lie down upon your bed, And no man sees or even hears What is to see or hear or hear! My brother is the Berneran: I never met with him before, But often was most like to meet With something like a flying steed, And fall with neither forward stride, Nor backwardly reluctant spur, Nor wholly reassured by spur. But now I'm up in the old wars, To the tune of a good old song. Four summers back we were here; Four winters down the track; When lo! I was a man who did not feel a man, But knew that, having a house Of the same builded and the same spade, And never beheld his eye More tenderly than his eye. The fellow is a prophet who sees His first-born and the same. I hear him as he sits in the sun And o'er the sea his name; His name the river of God, which did run But shone by his death of shame. His face I know the sun, and his hair The same with mine and his face, The same with mine and his clothes, and I Can show you how much I love him; I would say that he do me strange service And do me strange will; I would say that he never could love My heart in any way. And, meeting many thousand faces By his dim face, to give me light, In each I met a thousand faces, 'T were good to look at him so bright. I say that he was glad in his house And in his free, undoubting race, And always bright and quiet about him A thousand beds are sweet to place; He took me by the hand and said I love him as I ought of him. But, father, there's no happiness In being all alone at home. He did not care to have me with him, And my best treasures did not hurt, So that I left him on the cross-roads, And knew my rest as well as he, And he went sailing o'er the seas, And my wealth, wealth, in little sums. I know there never was a place so happy As that which now I reach and see Where that river mends the farm buildings, And mends the vistas of the tree, Where, maimed and barren, they who once were pretty Are lying now in their sweet sleep, And all alone by the stream the day is wan, And melancholy mists around the hill. And I think that Nature ever will be kind To those who grieve for a departed friend. Oh! it's hard for me to live in a garden, Where the gorse is scentless and the dew's at flow, With the meadows and the mountains above me And the meadows far below. I will never dread the war and the slaughter-- I will give a peace to this world of strife, I will never be a foolish fellow By these ways of life. In the shadow of an apple-tree The world is so ashen and grey, With many a dingy bed is spread And yellow leaves on every way. The gardens are brown in the sun, But once there were a million of blossoms Dropped by the wind from the apple-tree, And the winds blew out of the blossoms And whistled among the vines and boughs. There were faces against the red Of a little sky, a goddess of flowers, Her heart within her the dance was burning, And in that space was a queen of love. Her robe was the color of serpents, And from it came the down of a river, A stream of splendour, a fountain Of laughter and stream of tears, A black cataract on a bay, Golden waters in a moonbeam, Dear dim place of the waiting flowers, Can I lose you? I know you. My garden is fair to me, To me are your dark red walls. The ripples gleaming there Make a ======================================== SAMPLE 775 ======================================== where the amorous Silmer sleeps." O thou, (quoth he) of fairy-haunted strands Where Hope's false pinion ever labours, To thee from green Isle and far horizon strands, That dreamer of the Cyclopes' enchanted strands, Inspir'st thou, hearken, to our songs and dirges? Him had I oft beside my natal shore, Moist trembling for the sure prophecy Of some prophetic voice, or Victory's hoar Prophetical! Let the remotest night, That dreads the dawn, and Nature's self delight, By mortal life to lead a livelier light, Be to my sorrows told a mournful story, By feeble-hearted poets that believe in human worth, And like Hope's glorious stars shine round us in the earth. Sweet leaf, be not afraid, Though long the time thou have been; The early morn will burst upon my bier The rose of Samos, wet with morning tear. That from the gushing of the matin-rain Comes girt with bloom, and strews some blossomed lane, Will scarce one glimmering ray of sunlight see What once the famous Sun's unshimmering light, Would make less bright my Love's ignoble light? Ah, thou art so resplendent as, above All else, I cannot hope to serve thee now To cast frail dreams of Hope within thy bow, That thou may'st bear the burden of my heart, And love me, love me, loving me, thou lov'st the part. Beneath thy airy canopy, All living things that move, Are sleeping slowly in thy airy sleep, Whilst o'er thy shadowy bowers the lingering Day Looks down with shafted light, to see thy beauty gleaming white. The singing-bird is resting on the wood, The orange bending down the banks of silver, The sailor to his rosy crew is looking, The ship upon the scaly rippling lea Shivers at eve with humming melody, The moon on yellow waves is brightly fading, Meads with her precious beams distend their amber. From out the glowing eastern cloudland far Young Peter wandered with the fervent thought, By night he pined, and all his visions marred, The mighty dream of youthful Peter dreaming. His tireless thoughts had maddened into song That he would fare where time and place afford, His pensive fancy wandered o'er the land, Along the ancient paths and princely ways, And in the purple pomp of revelry He sought in vain for solace or for solace, Yet in this dismal waste, with pain and torment Stood the proud boy, tossed by an idle wind, And in that fearful desert, worn and rent, Feeble and withered at his withering mind, As doth the oft-returning bark of yore Touched by the waters on the wandering ways, Steering across the long and sterile years To fitful penance on a barren shore, Thy lonely tomb, the grey-haired stranger's cell, Forgotten, till the pang of parting time Seem touched with Heaven's own smile to make them all sublime. The woods grow cold, the dank and barren steeps To plunge into the sea, the sun Crowns like a drunkard, and the wintry waves Clash, and the night's black hulks Feel in the shivering glare, and the low roar Of the long waters, heaving in hoarse murmurs, "Thou art Liberty." And as the fervent sun revives the flowers, So the dark savage, shivering in his prime, Sees his pale haunts rise up like bristling bowers To screen the youth from the great solar chase. I do remember, sitting on the slope, When--a few shaggy pines--I looked and saw The lingerer whom the sunlight's rays had laught Singling the ripe boughs, though the warm tear Fell on the cheek; not dewy nor serene Shone the proud pallor that, but to the eye, Hung like a star, or drooped the glistening eye, Seemed like the smile of heaven when the orient breeze is high. With features slight, and downcast looks, Fond thoughts, that ne'er before were born, Alone I passed the luscious brook, And wandered by the rivulet, And heard the rushing woodland laugh, And thought its ripp ======================================== SAMPLE 776 ======================================== thou the right way home, Take thou the right way. I am ready, Sire." He stood, and turned, and saw her dusky hair, Her rosy cheeks and slender temples fair, And felt her breath, and felt her quick desire Of near communion with his own fierce fire. "Tell me thy name, thou dovelike man, Where I may get thee! "Hast thou a friend like that in Greece, That, or a maiden, And hast thou always been a wife, And shall be lonely?" "Strange, wild," said Sire, "lady! this way come Before the goddess!" Silent he said, and bent his head, Then pointed toward the god, and smiled, And with his hand unfelt the thing, And calmed the storm of passion's wings. "Perhaps she dwells in Pluto's halls, Who hath for many years beguiled This poor mad man, and scorned her halls, To leave them all their bliss unmoved. Hath she a brother?" His mother stood aghast, and then Spake in short words that proved her skill Some subterfuge, or early bliss, That shall to comforts and to peace. Her dusky cheeks had waxed and waned, Her aged arms had long been dressed, And on her breast the youthful guest Gasped for his hand. "It well may be," quoth she, "if thou Hast paid thy debt to nature. In gods the highest is thy right, Thy happiness to see." "But it shall not be so," the god Cried, "or if such thy will. It cannot be, thou heedless man, If Zeus should in his wrath descend, Making our misery sore, To torture and to scourge thyself. Lies in the hell itself the wretch Who late so proved his faithfulness." Then Sire, ungentle, laid his hand Upon the Gods, and called them, saying: "The wish shall in the end be stayed. Hear now and be not reconciled, Though often warn'd by sighs, But ruth shall never seem to fade. The grief that but endur'd this morn The world believed the evil one. But when the plighted for the child Had not provoked its foes, The GODDard balanced fixt his fangs; When up they gazed on Sire and Sire, And saw him, with the people laid Within his secret caverns fair, A calf, the fasten'd with the fleece, The rounded paunch of a wild goose. And these the Gods, who round the Lord No more such blessings reap, To Pirene consecrate their meed. The ACHESTropian now begins Its well-loved child to pour, Which while they hold their course to heaven, As fast as she can pour, Their gifts to consecrate they bring. Nor e'er did man forget, for they Went forth to sacrifice, To give obedience due to Zeus. His star-ward way they moved o'er the sky. And like a thought of joy They seem'd to pass; they walk'd, they pray'd, Till on the Earth they stood, On the bare hill they lean'd their feet, And the Father gave them place. By Triton's waters hewn, The cross of wood they lay, In the strong town of Troy to be. But quickly from that year to spring, Bearing aloft the thrones, Their country's altar is to seek. They find him forth; his god unheard, His Chaldean altar hew'd, The priests enshrined in golden veils. Long to this day he waits, And I, Fate's cruel victor grown, Claim that to any other boy (Father or husband call'd) Cease I am left to the old record, The sacred bounds of unity, And see the Soul's the filial tie Bound to its mother's brow. Chaos, farewell! From you to us No mortal man may depart, Beyond the blue-clear hills of Hebe, Nor beard ye men, for bandage bold; For over Metas and as seers All men are pent, and yoke'd to Cir With no loose rein. The railing path is left, the walls Are framed of Saba's sire, And Rome's imperial halls Groan with their painted fire. The Tritons beard the Tritons; they ======================================== SAMPLE 777 ======================================== him Oh but would I were on wings of swiftness Like to this flying star Of song; I would be the wind, and we together, Rivals and reflex fairies, where the sand, Like a blue vein, thrills, Furrowing the blue breast of the lake, Drifts, like a daughter's tenderness. Such too was I; Such as the wild leaves are Among the rocks Where the dew springs, For nothing else. Here the mists are thrown In robe of shade Under slow-fire; Never have I seen the blue sky, Or the face of a woodland stream So lovely and listless and blue, So shimmering soft, and so lovely lost, I thought of a darker world Where the sky is my own, Dear voices! My own, Over these waters, where the tide, Blue devils, bathes the brown deep sea, With a glass of water from the loch And a roof for sail-boat, let me go! O waters with the wind in your sail, That is my lover! O all-seeing Sea, To-day the woods are trembling beneath Your kiss, and the road is for me! One, two, three! Up the wet, top-gallan, That is my lover! Cold? {p. xix The waters and the streams, The sun and the wind, What should we dream of? We could weep! What should we dream of? We could weep! Ach, and away! Fold in the cold, blue, cold, cold blue sea! But I think of thee, lover, my lover! Back, back, back, whither the moon has flown! Back, back, back, whither it droops down! There she lies! How should we dream? Ach, and away! Fold in the chill, blue, deep, fifth-day! Oh, love! I thought once how those mournful eyes, Seemed in their lids a glowing essence, rise To me, like starlight in a wreath of skies. One smile, and all is o'er! Back, back, back! Back, back, back, whither the moonlight glides! Yes, back, back! Back, back, back! Day and night, one in the still, dark sea! Back, back, back, whither those tears have been! Waking to find reality, the stars! The Ocean breaking! O thou world of dreams, Day and night, day without end, without end! A ship drifts past, With the oars And the sign on the prow. Over a sandy sea, We see her, and hold her, Blow, blow, blow. On the deck stands Her lost hands Forever clasping her sides; Afar we stand, Still gazing at the grand mast, Whose gradual shadow Across the tranquil water Fell, and then was still. She soars above The noise of waves below, Her silent course Teemed still; It was seen no more. Then a voice rose out of the quiet air, It said, "Look out, O God, and learn to know That some one who will solve this mystery." It rose, and with a moan, as of a wind, It seemed to me, "Do you not understand What is become of me, O fair ship?" O Captain! In my ship, And in my boy, I saw the Master kneel, Whose spirit inmost thought This holy mystery taught. He said, "And art thou saved From the deathless seam." He prayed, and, "Go to the tomb," His finger on my lip Twitched o'er my forehead, "Ye must take home this cross," He smiled, and with the cry My spirit leapt aloft Unto the ship. The bells rang out the next day, The old man at the door, And, half in speech and half Above the chiming thunder, Tumultuous Mr. Whittington. Again the brown man came, And stroked his head, and said, "O Captain! I have kept you in trust For years and years. Be thankful that you still Have been the best sail on the ======================================== SAMPLE 778 ======================================== . I make no insiniem, nor name it right; No planning there, nor hinting there, of shame, No hint of malice wrought by craft divine: Bold deeds are theirs: whatever face they be They pay no honest pence, but honest love. My conscience spares no honest pompous text; I scorn my liege: for that which I pursue Is but poor fringe of moral sense, and such As suits with just the good, and bids 'em 'glut', Which here, and there, is nothing worth while salt: There are who court faults, and who doubts, and who flatter; And who most fears to lose them, most complain. O Love! I have no conscience, and no heart; But thy pure truth demands a clearer look, And love for love directs the mind's last part. Love makes no plea, but truth gives only scope; I yield my liege, but all thy worth in love. Love then, though never fair, is well attired In unsought virtues; justice is above The highest pitch of earthly hopes, and fired, With all the fires of heaven: that love is love. Canst thou not love me, and to me do prove Thou know'st the worth of love from me derived, And I from thee? from thee? canst thou not love? Love is the thirst of honour; and canst thou Love, when the cause craves love from me alone, Love not the love I bear thee, though unknown? Love is the cause I bear thee, and the cause I faint beneath, that love is thine by right. O let thy truth be manifest to me, And tell me, Love! how canst thou hope to prove My true heart's comfort? and with how much love! If all the truth men deem of thee below, The heavens for witness show: If they be nothing, and if not, if they do? If the earth knows not of thyself, nor any, The heaven, not the name, can have the same: If not, the streams of a diviner love Are all the streams that feed on thee and me. Behold, how oft' to every other side She comes, who's fond and cunning as she may, To play the tricks of maids and men; beside, Each god's a flower, the flower the boy can see. By breath and kiss the rival petals fell, Till, lost in thine, the father's rose was grown To kiss the same and yet be kissing well. All things, that in her sight are heretofore, For fear or wonder or for grace of old, Fall flat, and each snap found a mouth to open, So brief a kiss, to show how much is sold. No chill at all, but if one lily fall A token 'twill not fall, but with it grow, First scent, first scent, touch the sweet thorn, and all The priceless treasure grow to bridal show. Now when fresh troops of ever-moving shades Haste to their wonted task, the swainth to spy, By the still moon, with dewy, glimmering blades, The leop of deer, or hare, or horned hare, There, beyond stretch of hedgerow or thorn, Went forth with pensive steps and light of horn. The flower of dusk the woodpecker sung; The full-leaved boughs, like fingers white and firm, Twined in their arms about them, thick as cling The fans the breezes use to push their nest; And, with delighted spirit, did the pair Strike at the disappointment of their nest. But vainly, love, unheeding all, went on: And from their lips flew forth the hidden honey; Sweet, virgin laughter, answering to a moan Remembered only by the underworld; And lovers entered, broken and outworn, All night with lamps, or flung into the fire. O love, had I been with you,--kissed your hand, And been with you, this much, to touch me,--why? If there was any want, why, who could stand And leave it mine? Why, for I told you, I. Lightly I beat the little winds that fold The clinging darkness of the hair-woven tresses; My kiss that held the rose, my veil enfold The soft dark eyes, the kindling fire-beats, The bird that has no voice and wings,--my fire! Love, did ======================================== SAMPLE 779 ======================================== . Dear baby, pretty baby, Thou'lt never be a naughty, Were it not for thy sprucine, For my brother, my dearest, Thou art not to be a pugil. Goddess, I for pity, For my grandame's faring, That is the lord of our land. Gosse-all is good, but yet; Gosse-all is good, but yet; Gosse-all is good, but yet. Gosse-all is good, but yet. Gosse-all is good, but yet. Gosse-all is good, but yet. Gosse-all is good, but yet. Gosse-all is good, but yet. Gosse-all is good, but yet. Gosse-all is good, but yet. Gosse-all's enough, but yet. Gosse-all is good, but yet. Gosse-all is good, but yet. Gosse-all's enough, but yet. Gosse-all's enough, but yet. Gosse-all's enough, but yet. Gosse-all's enough, but yet. Gosse-all's enough, but yet. Gosse-all's enough, but yet. Gosse-all's enough, but yet. Gosse-all's enough, but yet. Gosse-all's enough, but yet. A fair spot is most like The day's deer in the bush, Where it winds like a rush On the blood of the bush, When the hawk comes down dead From the hunters' bows, And, in the rear, feeds On the man who shall fight On that dead day's day When the deer comes home dead When the deer comes home, And, in the rear, feeds On that dead day's day When the deer comes home, And the deer comes home, And the fear-stricken fawns Break loose when the bear Old man, I do swear That I never saw such A white spot As our young men in it,-- The old man there By the hair, And the hare-bell lighted By the road. Yes, that's the man! There's no likely An enemy that would let in The fellers. And the knave hangs right on And must come right; And all who hear him Will be lads, For that spot is his, And the better He's lapped in his carse, With his shoes upon his shoulders, And his stockings there, Made of clay, clay With the dirt Tucked in Circe's vineyard; Where the eels are fused And the flies are shrill; And the grapes hang over And the wine-presses are green, And the apples tangle As they climb the vine. And the sages weave the Universe shapes and forms; Creation and time Are threads of theirs. There is one thing in you Which is--who can? Though you be strange to mortals, You will understand. For half of men are merry, But half is sad. And heart is sore Where friends are glad. When wine has made me weep I give you my cup Of sorrow that makes merry And hope I shall come back. And I am sad in spirit When I drink of the wine And I look to the shining faces Of those who have no wine. The dim road lies at Callowses In heaven, the road is light, The wind and the driven snow My spirit has out of sight. But there's a road, a highway Of green and golden skies, Winding and gleaming and gleaming And herds of little flies. There is a road, a highway Full of an earthly change, A rolling plain, a highway Of swifter, ellier joy; A dusty road that leads High up to hills of gold, A road that sunward treads, Paths long, and lonely, hoar. There is a road, a highway Lacon-like down there; The purple gravel paths That lead you out to fair And colder countries Are either sheep or hare. The road runs round and round Between the wood and snow; The soft warm greetings of A traveller can never know; The road runs round and round, And the ======================================== SAMPLE 780 ======================================== outside. For Pâté told us of the other lands In the long years, and he was cared for here; And we may pity, so it seems and long, And make the promise good, and wait to hear, But are unthankful all when comes the word. As the young year returns, the flowers return, The Muses weep and the young year complain, The soul once dead, the Grief we might have known, The Mirth we might have found, to-day is ours, And every soul alive that joys to see, Sooner or later, from the plan of facts, Atoms unmissed by Time or Reveval To, Seen, then forgotten, as they come the Last; And in its coming whatsoe'er it be, Things changes like the forms that once were earth, The things unborn, as what we might have thought, To this our mortal life, made in its birth. And he that made the sun and moon and star And all the stars and all the seas and air, And cast the sea that fills the stars with care, Is not forgotten, for he wears a crown Of gleaming pearls, and when his life is done, The holy hand that finds the golden sun Out of the East has sought the skies for light, And all his thoughts are keen and hot and bright. And in the deeps beneath our thoughts are borne The cadence of the wine of many years, And in the sun have writ the veils of dawn, And from the seas have poured the gems of morn, And in the tempests have a herald given, That he may quench old sea-wear in the sun, And we may meet a world of many lands Stir in our throat and wake us to the words, Yea, and be glad to think of what we have And how the good years came upon us then, And how we wrought, and waited for the moon, And watched the wild waves flash and fade again, And how the little silences arose, And where the rose-wreath burns upon our brows. I am fain to know that ye have brought this thing, That all men know, and all the memories And hopes we plan, and all men's hearts that sing From ancient songs of many a hundred years, Have been too taught and mastered to the thought Of hands that founded it, and hearts that sang We know too well, and words that walk alone, We know too well;--we know, and we who find But wisdom in the deeps we reverenced Are fashioned not for scorn and self-disparting. Give me thy hand! If now that on my breast There hath not strength to unloose me unaware And urge me to her seat beyond her breast I shall fall back a slave at thy dear feet, And thy face made of me, by this hand wrought bare. Blessing and worshipping is all that's mine And all the hopes that make my heart thy heart. Be thou my wife; if thou art anything, Thy life is but the work I give thee then, If thou art anything, thy whole life naught, But only what is thine, and thy sweet face. Be thou my mistress; if thou'rt anything, Thou art my soul; if thou art anything, I shall receive thee with my soul thereof, And with thee make thee full of this fair love. Now while we speak a twofold language stands, Two like a bow and shaft of silver darts, And straight the hollow heart smites: the other hand Is one of white and tender fluttering hands. And when to the dear heart of my dear bride The light and glory of her eyes was turned, She turned and stood before us, like a tree Kissed by the sun and kissed him soft and kind, And set his gaze to ours, and called us in, A voice of honey and of amorous breath, And her soft eyes were all about us as A tender cloud falls over snow. Love is the comfort of our innocency And all our work that is of sweetness sweet. That which we glory do not think it strange, Love is the sum of wisdom, and the root Of every pain, and all our wayward pride, And all the honour that is in the fruit Of pain it is eternal. But the sun Makes all things new and beautiful and new, And heaven sees all our work and all our love, And earth sees all our labour and our gain. And all our labour is of ======================================== SAMPLE 781 ======================================== , I'd never hope, Though happy in this world; for Love, the rover, Would never come with pleasure home, If that should be the end, at least for ever! My own love is my friend--and does not fear it? Do you not know how I love you? Not when I fear the world in its glass, But in that drop of pain which lies so soon In the frail glass of immortality, Which lies so lightly and impalpable, That you may sometimes see me, and when you Draw from the purple throat a deep deep sigh, As though the pain were paradise, and you Were really only earth, earth with a bliss Which I dare not to give my soul up? I'll tell you what it is that no one knows, And you will never know or understand What lies beyond your ken, nor what I mean Till your own spirit rises into man. Do you not say I love you? I say I do, Because your gentle eyes are not the same That you yourself have made me, and your name Is yet more woman-all of love to me. You must make the holy hills and valleys redder For that I love you. You must dwell on them, Holding the secrets of the sunlit fountains With your sweet loneliness for evermore, While from those high bright cliffs above them Drop one whose music has a different tone: I love you, that the distant and far mountains Into our hands have thrown them. You must stand As the long and silent Prophet of the Lord Who stood above us, and on his right arm Nestle in place of his right hand. The loves of men that love you, these are yours; This is the feast and this the festival Give me the white stone with the red stain Upon your breast, and let me be As son of you, as wife beside your knee. I will lift your head, my dear, Between your hands, and say, Do you think it can be me? Then let me be your wife. O sweetest, dearest, Till this night My soul's dark door shall open to you, I will be most assured That in my own way, You and your mother, May be angels, From the grave of the great King, to the good and the bad, To take men's lives away, from you shall come The fairest and best of maidens, The rarest and best, Who are her thoughts and her words. The City is to Love Come, oh, come, To the wandering child, To the little boy To the fairy boy, To the little girl To the fairy girl, To the fairy boy. For the little eyes see, How they sparkle Through the dark tresses That are hers. And how they bound, As they wander Through the land. Seeking one, and seeking another, It was a lonely, wonderful country Where the great roads leadeth into nowhere But that beareth the city's heart, and, oh, that is its heart. There, but here in the soft blue skies, The light of a flaming sun and the light of an upturned moon, There the sun is shining in the sea, And the dark sea ripples and swishes, And the wind is saying in the trees, That it will be hushed at last, And the sluggish clouds, like jostled stalks of petals, Steal over the tiny hill. And over the hills and through the woods, The soft, sweet songs of the golden-throated far away, The sweetest voice of the little child, Is ever the voice of him who hears That he hears the sound as it comes in its breath As it creeps and swells and swells, And is ever the voice of him who hears, For the little breast that his spirit soothes, And the wild and wildling sea! My little girl, all young, all sweet, All spring through was Love's own guessing! We are so old, so old, so young, Thy hands have felt the touch of wings, Or love's benumbed and azure breath May lash your forehead down; But hush! the song makes deeper still, If thine heart for the first time be still. Then hush! lest haply harmonies Should swell through your thin violins, And thy tired soul fly back again To the light that burns in the sky; That calmness which beyond our reach Into another ======================================== SAMPLE 782 ======================================== mine, and then This other part of Italy, I say, And on the following day by other ways, I was to meet with her by break of day; But, though my misty mists all closer flow, These have not blended for the evening glow The conical I tell you in my dream." And then a sort of haze, An old camp-meeting tone Over his spirit throwing Old thoughts of yester-eve: "Oh, I shall be your man! Out on the mountain-path, Out on the evening trail, Out on the rolling reach, Out where the wild things wade, The gaunt old tussocks hoarse. I'll stand beside your head, I'll hold you on my arm, I'll kiss your lips of calm, I'll kiss your lips of calm." The last rays fell again Upon the moss-grown pales, And on his shadowy brain The selfsame old tune says: "Sweet love, how cold and chill The time of dewy dawns, The time of dewy morn, The time of dewy eve, The time of dewy eve." The rose of dawn, she speaks In sweet commune with dreams: "How dreaming once in sleep, Cherished by comradeship, I dreamed in vision! then So dreaming my dream dies: Till waking, to my sight The birds have flown away, The flower-bells mute with night. The maples laugh and sing, The rivulets run along, And with the flowers of love The veery's garden-song Is scarcely heard again. "Hark! hark! the bells! How gay! And laughing with glad haste Through heaven's amethyst The hill-winds melt and pass, The windpipes laugh and pass. No more the old seat was, No more the music was, Chill silence broods more near. "Wake, hark! a new refrain! A new strain, more and more, For now the fair world is made plain And blossoms every where Receive their blossoming gladness Till blossomings break and fade, "Hark! hark! a new refrain! A new refrain, more and more, For now the fair earth is made plain And fruitfulness can ne'er be gainsayed. Oh, many's the time I've heard the jayes That swing from tree to tree, All swinging on their stout arms round The cottage roof and me. But whither now doth the dear grass Flow all forgotten things? Who once so lightly pressed the fragrance Of flowers when wet with dew? From mountain-top and spruce and pine Now heralds all the Spring, And o'er earth's edges doth she twine In the earth's blossoms keen and wide Her sisters all,--the blossoms twine In the green earth's embrace, And from the wide earth-spaces bring Each shining gift to grace. A little child came by, and its brown hair Half hid her curls away and her eyes. Like a fly she flew as the night wind sped, And, her small feet pressed the stones from her bed. But ever the strong sun shone, and they twined Round the crags of the mountain, and softly behind In their lengthening shadows the dew-curdled throng Came down to the deeps of the dewy-wettinged spring. The sun went down, and the summer came, And the reapers reaped and the harvest-moon Bloomed in their hands, and a voice was heard From the pine-wood, a sound as of far-off seas-- A sound as of far-off distant worlds-- And a wind swept over the hills like waves, With a light on the world, and a voice that quailed As the lips that would fain cry "away-- away." A youth came up, and he said to him: "No lover of mine, alas! can I find One that I love so well, who is old, That the green grass I'll overweep with my young; And the new song of the red-bird I'll sing, That the green grass I'll overweep with my young. O my true love, it is not in vain That I must sing again, I must complain, Of my true love, my true love--till the rain Plays the flower of my pale and shrunken cheeks. And our ======================================== SAMPLE 783 ======================================== , home Of pleasures, sang of love, of which he knew No more a perfume, made of the remote And fair Leudemerry, clad in sunny gleams. So we, at last, of pleasure and repose Shall drink one cup, remembering that we were Ourselves no longer, save of one poor wretch Whose own heart, feverish, comes back to him For madness, but is lying there still here With spirit too--or what--dear Elenor-- Oh, who can tell?--Yon foam-faced seaman, there! Not knowing that, in his cool mind he speaks, When on the world the waves are up and far, When this dear head--as in that precious world He turns him to the clouds, should tempt him into fight, Doing some miracles as soft and fair As any needlewoman's, and--let it find The secret nature of that fairy lore, Which makes his love its gargoyle, and transform The very loveliness, the vanished joys And hopes that were--not seldom born of man! Oh, in the young Endears, when the voice Of their loved hills shall once again be heard, And kindred words be lost amid the chimes Of shell-torn wood, when the wild hunt shall shout, And many a joyous bird and jasper head Twine round one ruined altar--then the boy Who for the love-touch of these purple drops Shall have no part in the small excess Of the round drop of that ungracious light, The ruin'd embers of these passionate hearts, Shall fade into a snow-white lily form Which in his youth, as now, when it was full Of the first throbbings of a bursting fire, Shall just as naturally die away, So perish all our followers! They shall burn, The lover of the child! oh, Adona! This flower of all my life! it shall be shed Upon his dear one's grave, when all the dead Died in the dark, by the mild hectic breeze, And they who seek a tomb may kiss his dust! Oh, Manor! look on that small mound of clay-- If you but saw,--whilst I lingered,--well! I count the ages as they run! But I Lift up mine eyes to you, and say, "See, see, How did you find that? What! The earth--is gone; And--nothing there; and nothing that remains; No leaf of it; our life is done." Alas, I've ceased from folly, and I said "I found"-- But--what am I--why--why--all the earth I saw and lov'd was over me! I could not, Though tempted, could have hated you, my Love. I loved you; but 't was dream'd; the moon, which raised Those hanging clouds of white, and dropt them--Mamma, Is not the old grandmother earth--we met! Did you, my own Beloved? did I see In her poor dust this tracery? I marvelled If that divinity ever came to light By a single look; yet never, by the light Of this poor taper, saw I, saw I Love More than all men! I loved her more than all-- But--oh, she loved me; and I loved--as well, Than even in dreams! And--she, poor ere morn, Remember'd the dark struggle of the day Between your bodies, and the light which shone Between your souls, and--O most blessed Queen! The glory of our days,--the glory of ours, Which, were it told, would soon have been the same,-- Having been, doubtless, justified and told-- But that which, unto hearts so full of fire, Can only be the most miserable,-- That these black fires were common to themselves, And would be so--at least, so--with myself, Which,--one night, after I buried her,-- Had thus, my own Beloved, left no room For seeing another, and being dead, I should have loved her; but--oh, between us-- I feel that we must ever be together! Such joy, such joy! And were it not for you, Who lived here, all the past,--the present, and the past, The present, and the future, and the future, I were as far removed as that you are From me, my own Beloved! and I feel That, meeting thus, your dearest did embrace ======================================== SAMPLE 784 ======================================== , and refused to find Molly, and him who called for her more care. For a hapless creature when the plow, At eve, has finished his horse's prow, If he should leave her a short space, He lands him on a crooked stile, And, starting, sneaks, "'Twas for a bow!" Ha! A sight to frighten and shun! I have begun. Let's pay the visit cost a groan, Let's haste; the world is gone before; I have no Christmas gratis here, For Christmas is the oldest bore. Pray go there cannut, you're a man; How otherwise would you? May I be helpt, some day, by cramme, For Christmas is the oldest Romam. You may think I've not been much forlorn, As you say: "I'm sitting here to sew;" It is only some Fool-fellow I know; But I'll give you a subject, Fanny! Pray go here, if you want a nap, For somebody wrote the Maid's Tragedy In a woolly boudoir at the Club, Where you like to see 'em coming by As they flitted away to hotel. Here you see them going pretty fast, As they saw Doctor Brown for a treat; And more than a Pious Longfellow, I mean that of Doctor Fairley. With all the accomplishments of these times, At the last he put a pretty banjo in; And to tell what the grandest of all crimes Contrived to get in the mouth of a man; As far as his rhumor can flourish; Here's the sly little tyrant, The learned Muff humanity! Shadows ofbury-borders Ill people know, And none is more unheeding, And all their stiff hard morals Must be found in the uncompanioned villain. As their dull brains grow apish, They do not even write a poem With tears or pale imagery; They simply fall upon the night and morning, Trample the heads of the intoxicationers, And tell a demon they have laid a snuff-roll Beneath their hellish strictures. The torch of Saturday was thrown out, The fire of Saturday was put out, The holy wine of Saturday was sent Down to those who thought it sin, And many other holy drink Mohammed to souse their bile; And when their fate they asked, with great surprise, They drank too much, and suffered with their eyes. In the storm of three years they were in the mouth Of a little old dog-angel; And in the great convent of his cage, They found the robbers, and they called the great, And got the workmen easy, And with the bondsmen on their hands they threw They traveled to the Great White Rabbit, My vision, like an envoy sent in force To a lord of all the realm, observed the course Which leads to danger and the danger hard, Said to his friend, "I should presume to speak, I'm sent for punishment; you know all this, You see, poor RichardRaven, is a fact. You know all this, you know to what degree I have subjected England's laws to her; I'm sent to tell it all, you shall receive it As being answered to the lady's laughter. But keep your tongue, I know the Judge, in place, And you'll be ragged if you put it in case; And not to murder the immoral race Of the undutiful and stubborn brute." No further, the petition made a stand Against a baronet of every land; He was no courtier, and with no applause Weighing the tones of England's emulous laws, But spake with fire and sword, and the command And high magnificence of England's cause. The voice of England echoed through the crowd, And, in that burst, her giant armies shout: "Our laws are passed, and England is restored; In vain we plead our cause with our own blood; Not even England is restored to-night, For England is a victor's, on her right; And out of every other cause we fight." And as they close their juggling card, at last, Upon the castle door with smile most brave They drop the keys, and die. The King is dead! Then, loyal still, I hail the God of battles that He made! The day is sure when first our courtiers came, And looking on our cause with clearer ======================================== SAMPLE 785 ======================================== , and ascending as he goes To the low nook where evening falls, Finds (sad dreams!) his lamp at my desire Blaze him again. The thrush resents himself to the overflow Of the noontide as it flies; There open'd his window, from on high, The rose his sweetness gives, the violet's hue Sweeping on his forehead, and the star (Though from his eyes I watch the course of day) Sheds her dewy light; The field-mouse crouches and crouches low, The pewit lollops to his silvery wish'd-for wish, The fly crouches, and the worm crawls up, The fly licks soft his velvet paws, and, lo! The iris chants a dirge, and soft night-vulancies throng Through all the rooms! <|endoftext|> The players can but hear the joyous sound That makes the chamber-turvy's paws rebound With pleasure, but not pleasure's glee; Ours is the stage. The nimble Hour still founds This world of battles, and the noisy scene Where ancient Theseus ever drives his cows Far on for pleasure, far on ev'ry hand, Where nought but pleasure would be overthrown, From envy's eye divided, set, suppressed, Lips laughing sweet, and lifted to the breast, With what a smile, what conscious motions move A woman's laughter by the finger move! By what dear language all our cares betray, Is it, in truth, a phantom with the play Of baby fingers on the string, that each Paints with a sweet and subtle speech, and such A change of happy seeming yields to each, The fashion of our wandering petty things, That each forgets to be but part of wings. By the dear goodness of such tranquil hours, Is this so little the mere chance of flowers, That each delight which in the earth is found Makes ev'ry idle fancy covetous of sound? Thrice blest to whom--though common voice being heard-- Some object causeth thee a thousand dales, How oft delighted! Would the world more near Some one of these my heart's divinest lore Steal hence, and send thine ears with such a scope Of knowledge as has never pass'd the plate Of nature! dost thou e'er have cast thyself On the dry desert thou wouldst taste of worm, And to that instant with the worm shalt go, Or in the lowest hell with pond'rous oar Asunder scatter the faint weeds below. Therefore thyself be never cast away, For on the which by this small life a day Is like the dying, that the thing which thou Shalt feel, thy bones shall bury in the grave; And earth shall cover thee with many flowers, The same thy common body, which thou'lt know When th' obsequious breath that waves thy soul Shall lightly kiss into itself again, And how by that sweet sense bereft shall be Thine eyelids from soft eyes, and in thy sighs Another presence fair reveal thy name. But when those smiling lips and silvery lips Shall be asham'd, and the fair rosy cheeks Which never knew thy kisses, then I too, Shall in a country house shall sit and wait With one who grows not old, with one whose pride Crowns with the little god, to see thee led Among the sad affairs of earth and air, I, looking from a little glorious sea, Could not expect some other in my grief. O, child, dear child! why shouldst thou blush to bear The flood of rapture in this liquid sphere, Forgetting how the shades are brilliant, glad And watery arches, and the topmost sands Which are a very place of rest for thee? Enough, poor child! enough such meekly learn The lore of waters and of gentle hills, Where they that earth--solestantial element-- Rise like the level mists which spread from sea To the vast peaks of sand, and where, in glee Around, the sea subsides, and with it foams An ocean that no wand like thine could 'em. Love, I have seen thee deck thine arms with care, Thy crowded lips so deeply and so warm With outward kisses, that, in lonely mood, In thy false pleasance at Love's feet thou fall'st, Scorning them with funereal tears and sighs. Thy daily task is household melody, Whose sinless sound ======================================== SAMPLE 786 ======================================== more then these, if they be here (Seeming I doubt the cousins at their ease), Thou rather make the trial of the twain First join'd, then that the secret be begun. Now, first my fix'd foundations first I lay In confus'd cunning, and then sow'd a soil Of pitch and pitch, which not the touchy rust Of adverse blast could from a moment snatch. Next I discover'd two and two of them Deluging the whole farm, though each was nigh With his own share, so that they lop'd the lands Full fifty times and more. Ulysses came, And bade him go, and I went forth to meet The other Cyclops, for he understood The malice of his heart, and, landing fear Within his look, he said: "And wilt thou go Where with erewhile Echeneus sleeps, and now Revisiting the point of his release? But if, as I suppose, to speak with thee Is any, strangers, a wise man, or friend Of his, a man of arms, he tells us so; But most I like him not, for I have seen That he is Odysseus, though of all his men, And of his household; yet if I appear Or stand, to show him what shall shortly prove, I will point out the master of the house." He said, and straight to Paeon next in shape A running pair, and in the guise of men, And these the caldron, next, a pillar'd shape Perform'd of goat-skin full of length and breadth, With a great ring of doors; and round about There stood a portal, with three-plated streams Set round about it with three-fold encompass, Thatell'd all space, and measureless were figur'd. Now came the third, whose flames behind them far Enormous roar'd, oreblown by ruffian winds. The gate he found, and, after meteting them, Touching them, thus he spake: "O friends! the stars Shine on us with new hope, if Jove permit; And, in the end, our wills and wills are one." Whom soon as heard he, straight he turn'd his steps Toward the middle, whence a sign he spy'd, From the next circle, that appear'd afar, Briking the hand-post from a girdle rent. Who in an instant stops, they pass'd him by; Nor aught avail'd, that, with Amyclas, one Wheel of a mill, or house-door, on all sides Eev'n to the void beyond remov'd, they could Not pass the plate, when on its brazen urn Appear'd a cross, in honour of the mount Arriv'd, whence every eye its power conceals: It girt the wall, and with it hov'ring round Cast herself down, as with a wand she went, Who o'er it in the world her realm array'd. The gate then opening, to Alcides bade His servants bring him, who in threshold stood And underneath the portal, where his bard Had paid him in the presence of a God. It was a sign from heav'n, that he should view The whole of heav'n, and no loss there would befall. He, answ'ring, thus began: "High is the love Of that true woman, diff'ring from the womb Through whom the human race its fate was set: But the intemperate woe, which heats th'oat Of all the world, and cruel doth thee feed, I give to thy sad labours. She, whose breath Makes taker of the world, and smites her foes, And with a settled hate hath wrought her fall. But tell me, who thou wast, that in the place, Where thou didst lay thy worthiest heritage, A man might see the people, who'd the like. Approaching the sev'nth, there I saw the eyes Of one, of one, close to me, against the breast Of her, of th' other, on her golden ring. He, answ'ring, straight began: "Thou who perchance Thyself hast shewn me, before me no more, Unless thou be some other, whose great worth L might, in the presence of the other's ruin, Have found thee. At the skirts of the sad world Was grav'd the father of the estate, his son ======================================== SAMPLE 787 ======================================== , in the promise which he gave-- Lest, in that year, the Indian should, too, die. LORD, be my lot the same as I have ever been, And live my life to love as I have been. THEY laughed, and Priscian made a queen, For they were lovers, one and all. No more like brothersnets or rhymes Their joys and griefs could all untwist. They moved in sunshine, hand in hand, And no longer lived and died, not quite. HIS rosy cheeks now dimpled hide Like April rainbows o'er them flung, Her looks of mockery and pride Soothed all the world. Her cheeks are like the swan's white nest, Wherein she sits in cunning mood 'Neath some bright crescent's feather'd crest, Altho' she sang and brood. She knows no subtle power divine To wake the lives of men. But women with a magic like Arrest each fair and artless form The sly ways of the woman can Tendevors to alarm. And this is why upon her breast The mocking world may find in me A charm and charm for you and me. A woman made for show and charm To all poor wiles with lightest charm. Her azure eyes so gay and bright By very sensuous bridal bed, On me a soul that melts away Dips daintily with dainty ray As drunken flowers at night. To-night, just as I fancy a mountain In spring I watched in the howling storm, So I sat still, till the race was run, When the world was nearly in arrear. That belved face of thine, called the snowflakes, Upon which I looked to lean, Was such a face as I did not see, Blasted with hope and mistrust of thee, Then I believed in thy pure frankness, And thou in my sweetest sense. And so, all day I watched the cloud, And woke at the storming cry Of the night and its old bitterness, And cried, "Thou sleest, whom even we seek On earth to fly?" Till suddenly, like a star afar From the sky it came, But thy face gleamed like a emerald sun On a sunny sea, And my heart cried back in my listening heart, "Thou sleest, who art dead." IF I should die to-morrow As thou hast lived, It was for my dear shame that I should die. I WOULD not have my tears And mourners come to see, If I might kiss your feet and come to you. I WOULD not watch with them! WOULD not have come to you What I had done before, What you had done before, Where now you wait outside? Let me not look at you once in the face. (You see the trouble of it.) My dear, this is a lie! Here on the sea, Where never a wave beats, But the waves lap you, And the tide lap you. But we, and we may not rise up out of it. (You say: "Would I had only seen them!) The world is full of you, Takes life and does nothing. We, who have lost our solace, And now no more can understand us. (He opens a volume, and applies himself to one of these readings.) Ah, cruel cow, that canst thou tamely follow, While I must follow thee! But yet, for all thine eyes, O master holy, Would I not follow thee! <|endoftext|> Some day on holidays, to wend the way, We'll sit beside thy way, And thence be happy as a king, I know, Where all the old world's weary ways may go. Not so long hath it seemed meadows fair To goodly verdure, with their flowers of air, Lit only by a glance, by sunlight caught, If I should wander on, at thy dear thought. There may be somewhere something in this place Than pious hope, wherewith to celebrate Thy joys, and teach thy worldly-minded face With faith, and hope, and love. Thou makest me pace My lonely way across thy grassy lea, That seemest like a desert like a sea. What if I followed fast And, groping blindly, Beheld thee, wonder-filled, Through ======================================== SAMPLE 788 ======================================== ys of ours, or at home, your place, Assumed by a bugle, or who brings You into battle, at home, where none Shall the listening crowd uprise, not one Of the concourse to cry out, 'Abide, abide,' --Put the distaff by! A dilettante you are (The middle watch being set), And from between the two the curbs On the other no one you to stir. Out here a bayonet, 'Neath the rain, has crossed the ground, And that is all we know or care For the whole machine underground. But you who are outworn, whoever you be You may take and bear To a chamber where they are At their betrothal feast. Out here the learnèd drone Who drones and chatters down the hall. Where knives hang at the head And forks make mice, And snorts are tied and thrown And sits down all alone. Out here the youngest of us, Whatever our eyes may see. You will not hear him drone When that is a-my way. His hands are very near, The two or three are laid on one, And he will not stray From their meetings day by day When they are riding by. You will not see him go When all the crowd is still; But he will not stalk and pass, And yet he will not stir. Because you want your kind, Do not let him, For he'll find you, Or he'll get you. It's nothing in you But you will find out. I want to go down, no, not I. Where have you been? We walked side by side, I in my glory, in the sun, in the sea. We have seen the world, laughed the world at us. We have known the love of the world ever since, We have seen the bright faces of the sea. And he will go, The young priest cries and the priest sings. The old priest waits till he sees the sun, The wind fades away and the waters run. I am off, I am in, not I. My love is a-coming down to-day. Oh, can it be the road I know Or the ultimate wild horse that waits below? I shall never see him again. I am waiting. I am waiting. He will follow me to-morrow night. I dare not follow, and I dare not ride. I wait, and yet he stays, watching beside. The man is heavy, I am but an eye. I look at him and I know all. I am waiting, waiting, waiting. Oh, the prim, bold road to Arcady, For I will wrap me in Arcadian wood Where vines keep gathering grapes of gold. I will follow, I will wander. My thoughts are full of vague desires. I am waiting, waiting, waiting. This is the summit, this the sea. I am ready for the bursting of tents, And for those who would follow me To take me over there to-night. Oh, the world is good, it will be good, It will be beautiful with ease. I will follow, I will wander. And this we know, it will be fair To follow, follow, follow me To Arcady, for I know This is the end of us, this is the end Of us all, it is the end. I must welcome here in a hollow place Where the wind fills a ragtime in the moon, And you must bring to me this amorous And adagating horror of desire That turns me pale and thin to an ice. Oh, I am very tired to be alone. I would not hurry so to say that these Are my foolish subjects, and I would Go to them, or else sit silent here. My thoughts are far-away, all desolate, This is the date to me--it's very late. Now, with a thin hand, as a brave man may, I would range the earth to someone of it, And you must come again. Oh, a bright naked sun You soon will be coming to me tonight In some looking-glass where it has a rim. You must go on a strolling until you see The sea and ships go slowly grooved to their rest. A white sails by, for the crimson sunset creeps Over the stars, and a moonlit twilight falls Over the stars, and the silence fills With whitened dust of stars. I go through dark lands. The stars ======================================== SAMPLE 789 ======================================== upward to the stars; Like any clerk in rhymers or in verses, As closely as Sir Odoric's forayers, In the bright, dew-delving story 'Twill serve as chronicle for after-ages. But how can keep the world, unless 'tis known To the one long-suffering moon, this morn Outburning two nights of Venice old, So the old world runs,--the devious, desolate shell On which the pygmy, creeping at their will, No longer hangs his scarlet fillet fillet chill? There was a hush in the night that was half-past eight And the wind had come, and the wind had come, And the ghost-in-the-g violently raved with my wrath, Who gave him the flounce that mocked at his birth, And who now was the next kind friend to the earth. When they had broken the last thin one of a day, They had taught me in many a craft to pray For help in that rich, unending strife; A thought for a swiftilion on which I would deal All that the angels in heaven had earned, A dream for the fools of a cold bleak fiend; Now the break of the day, and the breaking of the long. They sent me once in a swift black ship For refuge from the tumbled waters. I cursed in the darkness, lost to my loss, In the rushing of the harbor tide. They sent me one night to the murder feast, While the rolling of the tide swept round. But, far and near, from the harbor lie The heads of my friends who could not save, And they put me down on a sudden death. This curse on me lasts for ages yet, And the sun shall see no morning yet, And the dead shall feel no morning yet. My dear, This curse on you, is it you? You lived in a strange region, The land of no hands, No hands to deal; In lands that shall call it, In thickets and drylands, In mountain solitudes, By the rain and the snow. I dwell on a bank of faint, far-clasping pine trees, Pale with heat, Hot with the wind; I would shelter you longer, Bathe you in red clover; I would feed you and clothe you, Bathe you and tend you. The sheep that are housed in the valley, That are born in the valley, The herd that are fed by the milk bright Is blessed with the milch of their beauty, And I shall delight them The Mother of All, as she sits On the door and is spinning, On the soft, glancing linen, On the lank, buttery velvet legs, In the bare, rounded branches. And the laughing air Leaves her soft, paler shape, Blown about the earnest face Of the little lonely woman, Who smiles with a smile and sings, And the drowsy voice that moans As she hears the broken fiddle In the fadeless fiddler's fiddle. I see her in shining slippers, Smiling through her leathern doublet; And the soft gossamer threads In her feet as she goes, Fade and are gone, And she lies As a queen might sit in the bright slippers. I have no name, no honour, Since higher life began, I have no wish to name, For I saw these faces On the rolling globe Of the earth from which I came. That it may be true One day they hanged The three most beautiful women of my time. They hanged themselves for their lifetime, For theirs who are living I caught them up in my father's far-away town, And laid them down with him, Till I lived in a town in Aengus, And I made a wooden house in my father's town. They are no false daughters of my father, No lover since my first parents died, Not one of them is in my homestead, Not one is in my mother's house, We are close together on the green hills In the morning light, in the evening. These pictures in the valley by me Where the mist hangs low and the lights are pale. Now in the valley, or in the river, The trees are hanging their thick grey veil, The old rain comes on the top of the hill, And the air is chill as my father's old home. And from the bay there comes a wind That ======================================== SAMPLE 790 ======================================== both he and his barks were trying, On which we do not let him look or groan; For ev'ry man has been, without me, driven Hither to join in council or in throne. 'Tis well he does, his ev'ry friend's disaster; 'Tis hard to tell, for those in prose may be Both men and women, ev'ry man, who tries To take his fill of any lordly emprize; But as they flatter, one can't think them wise. Let you, my boy, be ruled among the silly; But I'm a youngster for no mean money, And, if you're not mistaken, don't be angry, Like other people, sir, and try some snaring. I knew some men inferior matters, And to my mind they are devoid of knowledge; At ev'ry word their actions get expressed, And I had thought myself but half-an-hour's; Not that I could my friend's advice reject, Which I most fear'd to lose for some offense; But still, as soon as 'tis his eyes should see me, I'd sign them, saying I should try some chance. With some delay I'd now my answer'd questions; But well he knows, I'll answer back again, He was my friend, I knew not what it was; For so perplex'd, his appetite was such As would allow his stomach or his touch; And at ten minutes old, to work him double, They'd dozen times a year or two recite. He now grew dull, he oft could scarcely view The curious postern that around him grew. He knew, but would not yet himself be sorry That he could mortify the humble Psalm; But that he knew, and, though he long'd not, long'd To get new horses for the mare and horse, And being lately loaded up to runner, Yet could not--by the time the mare-gate jeer, How he had lighted, and his life how clear! How his great nerve, the burden of a gun, Is bent, and, what we see not, never can; No lover's hope is yet so much alone, Nor can we tell where he has gone for a horse. Had he been only fool, and had been brave, To feel our pockets close, our elbows crave Washed by the sweat, the course of his decline, The bench would go, we'd say, would save his mindy, Then might his merits have been dearly fine. A poet and indefopher archery Did man create in Italy; as they Athenians required of bread and wine, And Tyrian drinks, and hermits made a pile Of what was call'd a Palatine. He was a gay and ancient Hebrew once, And had a brain--the work of Tyre--the gem Of Greece, the mother of the Nine and Mars. Of forty years he grew in poverty, And when his riper years increased, he found He was a boy of sixteen years, and his Wedded a maid of sixteen score and five. His father was a young and beautiful, Whom maidens charméd for their modest grace; His mother was a girl whose only joy Was to have her love's sweet consequence. Her father was a young and pretty boy, Whom maidens charméd for their truest love; His sisters were a sort of double joy, And one whom she was anxious to approve. They were as happy as the day she rose, Singing in their most sweet and most accord; They were as happy in a sweet sunrise, Whilst she was young, as happy in a lord. He was a painter, lofty, self-sufficient, And, as a poet, too, he bore a mind That only by one candle light was brighter, Besides the love-worm which had been his kind. His aims were but to kiss the love-worm round, Which, for his pleasures and his pains, was found. His mother was a gentleman, well known To all that he could do, and yet he knew How slightly they had clothed themselves in skins, That the same skins might have been given to. She was extremely in her habit, And would not yet be taken in the least, Or a sore cause of clothes, or for the rest A beggar's well-paid sword, or people's, That might have been at work for in the feast. He still was thinking, and then strode away; At length he found himself at last in town ======================================== SAMPLE 791 ======================================== ! By this bright star Am I most surely seized, to-day, To-morrow; and till Fate I come Nearer, and make her sweet this way, A hundred years I'd 'scape the shame Of this grim world and if a scroll I leave not on a scroll for thee. To-morrow, and the next next day, O'er hill and dale and dale I'd fly, Not lured by such false butterflies As meet thee to comply; Nor of the slightest need, I ween, Cure thee my wings, my lily queen, That save thyself from flight, Then I--I'd strive, though it should fail, That saved thyself from flight. Not but by force I could restrain, Not by thine eyes, my rose-red flower, I broke with fire, which now could stain The white and stainless snow of thy'. Thine eyes now gaze on mine again-- They shall be closed again. The stars for us shall wane away, The sun himself shall wane away-- While the blue heaving breast shall sway The clouds of heaven our souls shall sway. Thy mouth shall pasture on their herds Of wolf and bear, a joyous band, Shouting from distant East and West Re-echoing wild and sweet: While children shout and maids shall stand Beside our laughing walk, and call-- With laughter and with milk and wine-- "O jolly raven, where's your dower?" So silent is it everywhere, As in the stillest covert anywhere, When softly the dark swallow flits Straight forth to the thick hedge of ferns, And the gnarl'd oak with the blossom winks, And the herd graze beneath the snows; So me the skies of winter dark Are portion'd with a mellow light Of chastity as on we go. O the golden harp of morning, Aurora now is lost! And the breathless hills of evening Are greeted with a shout Of joyous welcome from the hills Of calm and silent rest. Hark! the horns of home are blowing, And it now is o'er, To beat with the rustling branches Of the giant oak, And the hoarse fall of the water Is heard no more. And a fear which hath no music, A fear that is more deep, Hath laid my spirit on a being Once more, once more-- Is coming to thee, sweet mother, Sweet loving wife! The hush'd and the desolate steeple Means to have lull'd, to rest. He glides through the sparkling rills, And my eyes now follow him To his native forest still. I seem to be here before me, Dear mother, who stand between The bank and the water-webb'd Rock, which descends on the green, 'Twixt the rock and the water-webb'd Rock, which descends on the grass Which erst it had slipp'd between! "I fear not thy piercing glances, And thy slender, prideful arms, With a clasp that seem'd to cling me As if they clasp'd a dream; For I fear not thy beauty, I tremble to feel thee near, I fear not the fragrance of thy face, And the stir of thy foot so near! "I hope not thy warmness, dearest, Nor thy bashfulness, nor thy charms, Nor the spell of thy presence, May I reach the loveliness Thou holdest in its arms. I fear not thy softness, dearest, Nor thy blushes, shy and sweet, And thy blue, rosy eyes, Which thy wish it doth not meet! "Oh, dearest mother, send thy help, Oh, dearest, oh, return!" In this hour I can say, That thy Friend on a sudden leapt Into sight at the rock; And he felt the rock beneath him shake As the rock rocks to keep, Till that twain who furiously rave Gasped and sank through the wave. Hark! the rock is hoarse with the wind! See! the rock is rent apart! And we move through the roar of the sea. Oh, I hear the blast of the blast! Fur'd with the sorrow of heart I feel the stroke of a mighty hand From the cleft O'vin and land. Faint am I now to the voice of grief, Yet rather mine own ======================================== SAMPLE 792 ======================================== pihterbum henni, me sociis ipsi dissidioque temperus inque breuis pius animum lucebit arcu ex cantu commissa maris tegmine crati occultoque uarios conortit uxores. Me nunc natum Cybeles, meus domo Dryope, me uexare tibi; cumulus nec tegmine plumae interpare tuam, quod mea sint mihi Delia (nam Cybeles eris, si me forsitan oras), si te grauiorum auro plurima uocat muscos animos adiit, omnisque seros hastam, conditor, inde tenus, ultro fauillos aethera taedas trabes, et uisere mala, et uagae dominam tardo iam uehenti (nec Siculae malus sit iugiter ignis), si tamen, et uiuitas mea se foret uoluntas pergit, ille tuos mixtaque uacare toros. fac tibi, Phoebum! tibi te, Phoebi Delia, tu legem auro uidet in celer erat, tu legat per te, Teumper improbius, tu legat per te, Calaber ayatis, tuque materi Peronae carmina per artus. { lottery mihi! { lottery ponco, pudet optavit! { lottery ponco, pudet optavit! { lottery per te, pudet optavit! { lottery ponco, pudet optavit! { lottery praestes, pudet optavit! pudet purtras. { lottery per te, pudet optavit! { lottery dece, pudet optavit! { lottery dece, pudet optavit! { lottery dece, pudet optavit! { lottery dece, pudet optavit! Mortales, ah, sweetest of all maidens! did you see this loveliest shepherdess? This shepherdess she is not made to feed, nor hath she any tender drink or gift but all rare gifts that fortune might have that would lay him down for the day of reward. Her lips are sealed by many a golden coif and half a score of her fleshly brows, over hills and over vales and over champ the ocean of ocean of ocean of sea. And ah, she hath not an ear for the sapphire-stone but her heart as for love of her love there springs, to find her shepherdess become as much superior and sweet as she is beloved. Hark! the silvery flute-notes echo free, the silver harp-strings chearfully and very softly, the wine that is Love's, which, in a measure, is Love's dearest treasure. Now is the time that calls us home, and all day long with the Gods is the willow wood filled full of a feeling of unimagined content, the dewy-wet twig silenced with no pretty touch, a noiseless joy in the green of the dear and garish glee, emlock's hermitage,--her flute's his music and his rosebush hers. In what hidden lair do the maidens lay I' the forest where the goddess wanders, How the flowers love the hunting-vines? Who is she that makes me see sylvan dreams, sleep that makes the light leaves bloom, what is she that all day long alone allows life for me to follow after the streaming eyes of her youngest poet? Lovers watch the glances that from him gleam, weary of the pathless nightingales, stand in lonely musing 'neath the locks that do interpose of nightingales; leaves that dart and gaze their youthful hands in treacherous light, they watch the quivering sails of his kin, they trample the fleecy masts of gold that gleam on the moonlight currents of sea. Nightingales that leap to the heart and die in the light of the dawn, their laden footsteps warm and light in the lamplight that is burning bright in the ruddy mists of morning. ======================================== SAMPLE 793 ======================================== all other blessings; that one man With them may live, though born a very boy. 'Tis love that makes the soul without a cloud, It does not make the body seem to fly, Nor makes the heart seem otherwise than glad. No! no! nor this, nor that, nor anything, Nor nothing is, nor this, nor anything, Which in all eyes and fables hath been shown, Nor ever yet was any love like mine. The Adonis,--that first love that ever grew Within a dreamy sleep that flowery bed When as a lover he reclined that night With Ariadne's love beside him,--rose And with a rush of wings came up that room, Bearing a precious golden chain around Her hair, a tress, a necklace, and a band Of fragrant pearls, and fragrant herbs and flowers. The Adonis,--that first love that all the world Can comprehend, but love that once was raised Out of a mind that stretched away like glass To catch life's bitter color through and through, Even as the humming-bird doth seek to fly And yet is dazzled by the subtle thought Within which he doth look on her fair face, And that last love of whom he loved is shame,-- Is this, that, when she once is in his arms Again, he utters laughter in his ear And laughs to see her, laughing that he thinks He has not found her, and is beaten back. The Adonis,--that perfumed flower that seems So lovely in its beauty,--is turned to nought By the thirsts that drink it, and the hot desire That seeks for something sweeter than the love Of those old knights of long-sought romance, Whose talks in Corinth are too long, too brief. 'Tis not for me, I know, to make them glad That I would counsel them; and to fulfil The thirst that long- unsatisfied desire In which the ancient manhood held a place Over the wine of life, and sought to trace The steps, and last step leading to the tomb. Farewell! and this heart, too, is a dream That, waking to the majesty of Death And dulled by quiet, is at rest--forlorn-- Till the awakening of another Spring, Its beauty slays, and life grows void of shade. Farewell! and this heart, too, is a song, A benediction and a prayer, a prayer, A ghost-lorn song of hours that longed to part From the full heart and reach of inspiration's fire, Lingering to sicken time's desire,--thus the song Seems to await the lovers and the days That filled it, and the memory of what came, The magic touch that caught their first love's fire. Farewell! and this heart, too, is a song That makes the past year what it was before, Fore-shadowed; and this heart, too, is an eye Where all the hollow earth and heaven are Is sealed with unforgotten things of yore And dark to those that love themselves no more. No, no,--the ancient sea is not for me. I cannot have the lonely shores that turn Their faces and their voiceless tides to glass Or mark the ships, the wind-blown pine that yearn For wings that fleet and winds that follow Their scattered fire-tents, and the rippling flow Of wandering voices; but for me no shore Of mine and of my dream, but is the shore Of the great sea that still I should behold. I will not mourn thy fate, O stranger, Nor question thy estate of sorrow. We know of it, or we know of it, But no more wisdom.--Can we guess it? No more hearts yearn for the vanished years When from our lips our lips were tinged, When from our souls burned in the dark The thin-edged sword-fire of our sin And brought all tears into the tomb? Only the dead are leading us, And the wheel of destiny swings; But through their blinded hearts there glows A light to stir the awful deep That in our souls shines out to keep The hours that are to be no more; An ocean of eternal peace With only the bright God to keep That while each hour has put away The awful deep that binds us to our play. In this heart, here, let us ponder: With our hearts we have broken thus The fair wild ways of passion, The dewy ======================================== SAMPLE 794 ======================================== . Slight be your furrowed coats, Our wealth or woe be on you set; If all the earth were God, No life were Deity. We are right, we are right, We are nothing false nor dull, And as snobbly as night, We with millions of lamps Girt our wanton in Mercury. Jove, and Mars, and Venus, The smiles and the dimples Of the red-foot Mars Are to us a misanthrope. These are the sight of Mars Everywhere making A private Olympian To his own black throne. A victim to Lucifer! Fagots, outcasts, Infernal ministers, Who ride upon horses Over the plains And o'er the plains, Take our dark wonder away From the furnace, and burn it, Our wonderful serenity. Ye stars that shine And sparkle above me, Ye flowers of my love, That kiss me over the mouth of the sea And above the black ashes Upon the red heart of my brother! Till the fox grow proud, Till the shouts fill the wood, Till the white-throated thrushes come crowding And fill the wind with their singing, And we shake in the rapture of blushes To see them on their white necks hung With the knots of their snowy white pads. But when the brave man To his dream is given, He will show a tear For his high-born soldiery, That was built of grass, Of crimson splendor That kings may see And warriors greet as a blessing O'er the brave and the beautiful! In the old French war, Where the warriors fought And the ladies were fair, While the English fleet Swept like a conqueror, Over the seas And over the lands Where the ocean gushes And the wild white war-mew Spends its teeth on the rivers, As it gnaws and crackles The hearts of the nations And the earth rolls back in thunder What if the army Should fall in the battle And leave their tasks undone? What if the foe Should live in the darkness And have no word for peace now And the light of the sun And no word for war now They loved God in their hearts, He taught them to fight And teach them to write That the country needs blood And the British's faith He passed away. They did not understand The rest of God's children But each had said it Was the hand of God's power That should be their sword Wherein the true-born May dwell peacefully now And bear in mind His bright armor And save in the hour His people. "And when we came to England, No need were for men then," Was what he said. "He that is born and taught The war's mystery," For it is ever coming to him, Of all the great men we have chosen In their choicest of language and grandest of forms, Was the German. He came down too soon, Yet he was better born, For his gross heart burned With its peoples. And this was good, And here we have praised him But few would have thought he had done aught worth now, And thought him an outcast. And yet he is young, And day by day The world will pass away From him, if the race in the North is stopped, Or if he succeeds and comes back to life, As before, though it may be. And we praise him The best of all heroes who knew The strength of his spirit, For heroes who held him and saved him In the manner of the bullet That he went and left in the Tennyson track For the deep brain of him Who did a mighty kindness to men. And we praise him For his tinselled face and bold heart, For the one with the paint on his sword And the tassel of his armor and crest, For the brow that can foresee And foresee and ope the dark hour For the heaven of his life and all The sea of his fate, And the whole wide world For the soul and its sorrow Or for any means of profit. But he is poor, And sick and dumb. He knows that his greatness is high and sad, And far from despondency he looks to Heaven. And though he worked for his comfort but it was only with fear, And he lost all his conflict, And would fain be the friend ======================================== SAMPLE 795 ======================================== . Such is the genius of creating Dryden-- But not my antidote,--and I have done so. What ne'er did Milton, Saint, or Sage say more Than these are really in the same collection? At Athens,--where he felt himself enticed,-- In aught but pleasure and mere wit at Glo. My Muse declared that everything I wanted,-- So to restore to Spenser every merit, Such as himself I deem it to be worth, And so to bring the subject to a light, Which even critics eyes not yet invented. Still, for my part, I choose not to affirm it,-- Rather than to attempt it, my confession. The Muse's name, even to the day I view it, Calls forth its ardent energy divine, Gives forth at times, and all the soul renew it, To form that winged spirit of divine decline. My Friend,--without a rival, Fame, or place,-- Thy rival, equally thy rival Anius. Of praise thou hast a spirit, and it pours, In lofty port, through Poet Castal's lay, Through every region of poetic hearts, The gifts of art, the gifts of ancient lay. Nought half so precious as thou canst confer, And yet in all thou canst not take away; Nought that, in simple stock, or full in weight, Can magnify thy genius, or dignate! I find thee, where thy broad-brimm'd sceptres are Emboss'd in nature,--and I find thee there; That robe, which once the majesty of the place Belged rudely on its archway to the base. A Sister in a dull and tuneless job Were Milton,--resign'd by the degenerate sect; Who should their praise, or justly call her own, How have the dead reclaim'd? or deference own? Alas, for Greece! she scorn'd the light of her renown In classic tongue, and her associate: A Muse in whom an amorous hand can cling, A tributary of the honoured king; That has no friend--none to relieve her scorn-- Of such, as seek her pity, wrongs to learn; To such a man she would prefer the lute Which Ajax strung, the Muses' favourite, When he in Troy, with Agamemnon, sat. And thence, more blest, as Philomela sings, More inly, and for nature's general praise, Thou more than shepherd, moral, moral kings! Thou lose'st the flattery of the clime divine, As vainest worms, an immortality; As men, though few, though all may gaze on thee, Nearest to Nature and her kindred star; Though noblest she in whom all virtues blend, Averse alike to flatter or to blend; To slight the good, to slight the heaven-taught mind, That lives with all, and perfected in man, Or sheds his halo round the Olympian ring, And learns to feel for others' bliss a sting; As Pallas learn'd to practise, so her Science So kindled, in the shade of Academe. The laggard soul that flirted with the sun, Is still the slave of books,--one, nature one; So, in the dearth of fame,--is still a slave To the bright motley throng which Vanity So fondly tempers,--that her scepter leaves Light on the air, and undispersed her talent In liberal individuals. But art and science tread th' ignoble path, And feel no shudder when they sink beneath The broad-brow'd chariot of the vulgar; crowds, With childlike joy and youth that clog their souls, Walk earth's true sons, and seem to smile at man; As children nurse their father's or his son's, If Fortune wist not, from their first ascent, Return in health, in vigour, and in age Art, too, may seem of all man's moral prize, As earth's true sons are drawn to Heaven to guide Their little ones beneath the shining ladder, So art thou set before a different plan, In all events orations born of Heaven! While time, Experience, art--whose terms are good, Who comforts, reads, or flies, or comes to earth; And God who made us here, has one sole chance To make us feel the worth of one sublime Who lives but in himself the one immortal. Who, wisely ======================================== SAMPLE 796 ======================================== strength and stubborn courage in the eye; And though no better sign was found to grace The warlike veteran, when his musket graced The wide-extended field, while in his shield With iron railing through the plain he paced, He kept, all strength, against Alcides’ might, And from his hold took fifty broad-faced men, And through the Greeks without let now be found, But breathing missiles speeding by he sent The son of Atreus, while he filled the trench With his own hands; nor vainly stood in him The weapon, save that always he despaired The Trojan hands; for this they slew, and poured The blood round Agamemnon’s glittering shield, When from the ships and tents the foe he chased, That all his force might fly; and those he met Whom he o’erpower’d, of all his arms, in force. And now before Achilles, at his side, To the left chariot Tydeus’ son he shows; From whose rough lance King Agamemnon draws The streaming crimson dyes his ghastly gore, The sad august, and dusky seems to wear O’er the pale cheek and milkless brows, and soothes The sorrowing warriors, whom the homeward-bound Shall bear into the fight; with vengeful threats Lies on his cheerless front, and rouses all The heart within him of the faithful guard. And yet he urges not: in vain he calls The Greeks to battle, till the shores are dry, The fattest numbers of the Grecian foes, And burn the ships; their numbers loiter round In mist and cloud. And now, returning now The war, he strikes the walls and towers, that still Are heap’d with dead; and many a stately mound The careless well-mann’d helm doth dust exhale. While these, and many a thousand men hemm’d around With rolling piles confused, the warriors miss’d That mark which now confirm’d the Grecian hearts. At length Achilles bade the Pylian host Stand fast, and waiting till the event their spy. Then all in arms, and usher’d in the tide Wide o’er the field the warriors rush’d in close, While Ida’s thicket was with blood entwined With crimson drops which to the earth were shed. To rank on rank through all the army swarm’d, And high in air the warriors’ might they show’d, Strick’d as they were by Vulcan’s fiery son. And now the noblest and the best remain, In rank’d array, with helm and helm o’erlaid; Towering as though defying a dread doom, Unskill’d in future things, nor now to come, But e’en in even issue of the fight, Though still to put an end to all the rage, Slow on they pass’d, or when Æneas told His tidings to the stately steeds of gold, Bore then to Enops Doryssius down, Whose hairs, though warded off, and scallop’d fell, Which on his shoulders fell and overspread A tangled mass, conceal’d by night with shade, Suspended by a mist, his helm reclined, The sable wings he spread, and his attire By mortals held as yet in safety wove: Above the clouds he held the starry skies, And said; "Fools! fools! have ye never seen My steeds, that through the thickest clouds arise? Hath Troy once more Achilles seen his own? How then was I deserted by his bands, And beaten down to ruin by their hands? I hoped not to have given Troy a way; Fool that I was, to soothe him now to-day; And now must wash my father’s wounds, and bear My arms, and winding in the shades of war, Expects me far from living man to tear, Proud Ilion, and endow my wealthy store Of rich Grecians, with the spoils of yore." This said, his spoils he scatter’d in the air, Which with one word Achilles held in trust; Forthwith he turn’d the steeds, and sable car, Unseen, companionable, through the vast ======================================== SAMPLE 797 ======================================== , so like and very fair That now you put 'neath azure skies, the calm And silent eloquence of silent air, That can so little understand the time Of visible form and matter-dulence. That you come often here and dwell apart Like the accordant nymphs of tranced time, Close hidden in the vallies of your heart, They are so silent and so strangely still, We never look towards the past nor pray For the faint lights or motion undefined Of their dim eyes or hands. They see no more The light upon your window ledge or floor. A shadowy vision floats before our doors, And when we speak the sacred words of peace Upon our lips, our eyes, like flower-leaves, stay Their gaze upon the imperious paths of life. Oh, let me feel that you are near, Almost touching this blue heaven With your calm eyes and shining hair, With all your charms gone nevermore! "Come to me, spouse, a little more." Such a cry from our new lips could be heard Better than all we'd ever guess. Some one thought of God came down and stared And he stared; his eyes were searching fire, He saw the sign and the record there. "I did but dream"--in the old French tune-- The night I was sitting beside you And seeing your body caught in the rays That we lay in this soft world of ours. Your body, so near it did seem A spirit shivered and sobbing Like a little maid where her lover was, Came back and swept me away, Saying: "'T was our new-found lover!" What did I dream? They said that I must die As if in Eden, where the blossoms sway And the vines are all cloven, Deep in the woods, near the cascades high, In the moonlit seas? I thought when I was among the leaves And you were there, I should have heard your voice And seen your face, but could not love. I thought I might not move. And then I would have fled, I would have crept within your clothing's fold, I would have leapt and fed you, I would have rent you into two cloths, I would have rent you into a cloth And made you queen of many queens, A cap without a starveling sky, With golden peacocks and silver doves, And a rose with purple and silver doves, And delicate serpents and pale cressets, And sable swan-necked dragons and wild boars. At last I stood outside the garden gate Where you were, and the dust in your hair Was as faint as the dust of a great bleak-glutted tree Flung westward from the utmost beech-trees, And the path seemed deep and very far. There I stood whispering the words: "I am only a woman, for all the throng Of affections and desires and with them I am contented." "As for you, if it were not for the deep And aSea-born man, pity me," I said, "There were more worth in this than that That a man lived on some such-like strand And died and left it babbling there alone To wander." And it was good to turn To the deep grave of a man and be alone And accept his great love, being a queen, And give him one like love alone, If he loved not love, As the high God was good to me, And good I would have given him to be All the happiness in that wild place, And so not seeking any grace But to know your soul so utterly, So satisfied with love for me. And so we joined hands and sat thereon, Because our souls were very like The gods, but one, we did not know What was the word we spoke. The moon with her slender brood Doth weave a garland of beauty there In the growth of the boughs. A bough that falls into the breeze Blooms white as driven snow, Which can or may not be. The wind hath a face and a form Of delicate, woods, and leaves, As if she asked them of stars On their axis as the boughs Hang heavy with frost that wreathes The cloudy sky: In voice and hue there is a sound Of his small streamlet's stem, And a glance of the west and the sun's In the wake of the summer-time Hath been kindled with power to so ======================================== SAMPLE 798 ======================================== not to pluck the fatal gift.” He ceased: then pressing with firm lip and eye His sword between, forth sprang the youth to try The hand that held his master’s head on high. Thus was the sovereign of the Vánar race Observed in each pre-eminence or trace; Then, while he pondered and prepared the chance Of victory in his wondrous jaws, From underneath his eyelids’ parted lips Conceived a groan as loud as thunders, ere His heart within his breast the torrents swelled, “Thou, mighty chief,” he cried, “oh king,” he cried, “With direst fear that death to him should come. Not to our foes the hero’s name we dread, The dread of Brahmá and the giants’ dead.” Soon as he troubled, with his wits distrest, Obedient to the words he had addressed, He, conquering not the might his might expressed, In moving words the king bespoke his guest: “The pride of earth, that vaunts the mightier name, If such my power, shall make the world its shame. Go, let thy craft be known and judged and tried, And, like my bow, resist, and swing, and guide. Armed with a hundred swords the foe shall slay, And hurled upon the field the mass of clay.” The speech he stirred, the frame that still had lain, The image of a hero’s form to stain, Wrought by the boy with sense of power pre-nigh, Like lightning faints an actor’s strength to try. The hiss, the sounds, the drums, the toils he knew He mixed and tried the sounding blows. As down he cast his form and furious eye, His eyes on every side were fixed on high. As bursts the cloud, which some storm darkly flies, And thunders darkly on the distant skies, So from the warrior’s cheek was seen eclipse The hero of the magic Durindane.( ski) Fierce fire inspired the monarch in his speech, And raging with his might disfigured thence The mighty strength that felt his arrowy hail And thunder-smitten was the hero’s force. The battle o’er, an aspens in the trees, The mighty hero stood and fiercely seize. The crane with mace, with sword struck down, defied The giant with his mighty pounces dyed, And as he fell he tossed his mighty head, And from his brow the living lightning sped.( sequels) When Brahmá, Thousand-eyed, appeared in view, As rocks that shade the Lord of Water, flew, His sounding pinions heard the gathering blows, While on his neck the mighty weapon glows; His feet beneath his glorious feathers spread, Down fell the giant, and in dying red The lady’s face was drenched with streaming gore. Now to the king, now to the king he fled, That power so wondrous had, as when he fed On mallows, and thearmed chief gave way, And trembling, in the cheering of the day, To king Bhagíka showed his ready aid, And thus, by that majestic gift possessed, The king of Vánars thus his purpose said: “King, on the head of one as mighty as Whose might with rovers girt a forest wall The land of Vánars, meet for highest fame, The sun shall lend thee here a mighty name. So, while I live, the Wind-God’s power be mine, And, as thou wilt, my sole delight and mine.” The Vánars heard and were purged by dread, And all their weapons ready for his tread. Before the advancing chief they pressed, The gathered way was smooth, the grove was blest. Then by the chief who led the giant crew, He summoned saint and king in friendly ties, And gave them honour, roamed his gathered foes. “Great is the king,” the Vánar cried, “Great is his power and mighty is his pride; O’er every Vánar who each breeze brings The tempest of impending springtide: Hence lies the fear, the many-hinting care, The honours, plagues, and dire enormities. Wise is the man who looks on doubt And turns away his eyes from woe without. Wise in the wisest ======================================== SAMPLE 799 ======================================== That haunt alone can laugh at human hate. O Rupert Brooke, this youth o' strange pest-bane, Rose to my view; how bitter did he taste! So wise in health and sickness lay the boy; And standing o'er the man that cursed him there, I saw the lofty sire of God, descend! "Curs'd be thy life, proud man, ride on and on; Turn thee a wretch, and live in lowliness; Thus, courteous, do thou one man speak honor, As one mere gold; drop at his sacred shrine, There be the tears and sighs of poor and rich, The daily lot, the daily labour's lot, And so man's rule may seem prosperity. "Gig me my brother, girt by my brother's self. He too is pressing me to seek my fate. No savage pride espouse proud man to come. Gig me a wretch, and please the humble vaunt, Rather than thou, or he too, lose thy love. Henceforth to men thine opiate heart incline, Be to thyself a public thankit due: Freely the poor, who for thy groves descend, And earn their bread, the food they want, bestow. "All hail, ye courtiers of plebeian Court. Man lives alone in this remorseless state. Folly hath none; nor need I more than death: Foes thrive in crowds, and death in realms of hate. Now sorrow sleeps in guilt, and guilt breeds sleep; Anguish and death bedim the dark abyss: Thy naked sword and mace are wreaked on him Who sent thy life and food! He grudges thee Who fattens on thy scythe such numbers too; He beats the rest, and leaves the guilt unsaid. Man falls, but Death revives; 'tis destiny." We toiled together, sorrowful and faint; Hardly at once, by petty error cast: Much time was past; our stern attention held On sorrow's wildest mood. Our visages Were stern, no more our forced observing watch. "Thus, ever thus," I thought, "shall man grow old, And strength sink down, while joy takes earth in tears." "Ah, no, ah no," the soft voice whispered low; I could not understand the words. "A pain! And worse than this," I faltered, "O a pain So great, I'll bear when men will praise no more, Though times are changed, and absence long decays." For, oh the thought! when, slowly up the hill, I saw his sad and wistful eyes grow dim. "In vain," I murmured, "I am not withstood: Lo! I am left forsaken and forlorn, And all my marrow is now waste away; All for the idleness and folly grown Our household gods, and all our chief renown. "This must suffice for me: poor, lean, foot-sore men, With palsied limbs, and walls and mouldering frames, With thoughts like these the which no recollection Can draw, or o'ercast into any bates. Far better for you all my cares to cease Until ye bring me back the living peace." "Haste then, ye thousand beauties, and in fine Ye draw my sense and fix my senses down." "Why, all at once to me ye seem but one, Mine without wit is nothing but a dream!" "The murmuring stream which ye purvey to-day, Full many a month on hills has vexed my thought, And carried me through vapour and through woe; Therefore, before I enter space no other But blank despair and aery void of sense, "This loathsome wandering shade has still his seat In sylvan silence, through the dreary night: Yet once he dwelt a merry, merry race, But howsoe'er that troubled spot he vieweth His spirit is in loneliness and cold, And nature cannot change a world of shade But soon, to try degrees of wakefulness This old man o'er his dull and haggard mind Shall lead his soul into a brighter clime, Yea, show him here a welcome and a kind. "Though well he ruled, though well he ruled, though free, Yet hither shall he turn no lingering look. Though I be slave, yet is he bound to me In heart and hand alike, and feel and aid: I see not joy ======================================== SAMPLE 800 ======================================== with thy sharp knife-blade, Be not thus tormented with thy work, But by the Greeks and Trojans slain." To whom again the Thunderer spoke, "Why wilt thou such vast joy affords To me, a Phrygian Chief, and most Of all the Myrmidons the best; Is not in fight, I trust, the fight That from Achilles' arm I brought; But open war I boast; how vain Was he in word and deed to stand, Or to approach the parapet! On Eryx' topmost turret stand The Trojan towers, in mist and cloud; Even as if on the topmost wall The oaken beams could scarcely fall; So fell the tower that he must quit, The field that bore our greater mass Holds now the body of the mass, Now brass, now tin, once massy, now Of the bold Greeks the foremost clay. Which then, that he may save the third, On him bestow a whole reward! I go to prove how war is won By skill of horsemen; yet, O, Greeks, Be bold to meet the battle's chance! And, if ye choose to meet the fray, When Hector once hath 'scaped the fray, Then we upon the rolling mass Shall fix the mound; with one accord, Together to the fray we yield." The words he spake, great Ajax spoke, Ajax the first and second, threw His brass-studded sword: for Ajax' heart With pity moved, at sight he stood, And thus in words of anger cried: "Ajax, who boasts so bold a hand! Think'st thou for thee to wait the fray, Unseconded by toils and fears, To lead in flight the Trojans on, And face them from afar? No! nor for thee be such despair, Nor stand aloof from Jove and Fate; Nor will Achilles, on the fray Bestow such sorrow o'er the fate That, though they wander wide and far, Thou bear'st aloof in heart and soul, Unto the funeral pyre, and there Unkinged, immortal with their dead." His words fresh courage gave to all; In silent grief they stood, and cast Their great regard of all: the while The other victor's cheek grew pale, His arms bent o'er him, and his eye Burned for the fight, and every limb Trembled beneath his mighty hand. Then Ajax' noble soul possessed Only a moment, and forbad To hurl the avenging bolt at him, Or dare to lift the steel. And straight The God of War upon his side, To clear the wounds that from afar Had come, stood by, to his control, And breathed upon the fallen chief, His pious prayer to Jove, he said: "O Father Jove, if so you will, The Greeks or not the Trojans here, Unconquered, here again must fall; Nor can my grief or erring soul Bear this arrear; for, when the Greeks Have traversed wide the field of war, And 'scaped the perils of the field, All then with Hector and with him Must yield to their commands and hopes. But know, if mortal can invade This arrear, the mighty God will do, And by our might the hour will break That day whenever Hector died. Yet on our hands the more shall stand The sun, the brightest of the three, And, if the foe that day should fall Approved, the Greeks the weaker be; For though the host that day should fall Shall lay his life-blood down in dust, No hand of man shall guide the blow; With greater ease some soul shall rise, Or raise the victor from the earth, Than all which heretofore have stood. This too I say; and from the first Your aid I came; for who shall say, And whom your fortune hath conducted, That he whom ye by Fate have slain Shall perish, if he keep alive The hands of Hector, or of all Achaia's sons in bondage fell?" He said, and spread his hands to heaven. Earth trembled at the voice divine; Earth trembled at the victor's fall. Thus with their hosts they fought, and then Again from far, the nether war Of heroes, warriors, men from all, Around them flew, in strong array; Till now the doom of Priam ======================================== SAMPLE 801 ======================================== s, crested, and whole of the patient, had taken part with them. The careless cat went happy as the dew That drinks the kisses of the mid-day sky. There was a great green-gazing cat but she Had lost her temper, though she had never been As now in France, and since that she was fair The lady would not look on it alone. "A turn for a twist" announced as he And she was in her sheltered portico, "A turn and up" played on a board and fell Through the gloom and under the chair. "Pray tell Your master, and I'll give his wife a tap. I'll make some presents if you ask me who "And what he wants, then, and if you like, Ask him to give you something to eat, Though the kitchen is he has not eaten much, Unless he has said it's de la crapaudate." The cook was still, and the kitchen-maid, With a shadow in her glasses, was afraid For to look, when the thought had ended, a Clamorous tremendous thunder of infantry, Which thrust like a gash across the table. And the lady (who was sleeping, her face Caressed by the clouds) was with the paint draped cloak That rustling and whispering, low and sweet, And wore, as the lady had told before, A snow-white bird, the mussie that the lady Had been fighting off a fool for oats, And had gone if the ladies smiled at all, To the sweat of the secret shot, when a tall Pigeon-stove of the garden-slaves came forth From the corner-field where the garden-pant Was hunting the fruit with his fine keen eye And making words, 'Or sweet, or bitter, so He shall be whate'er he will.' And straight She whispered and crossed her arm and fell, And she knelt there; all delicate velvet green Seemed livid to the eyes; and she grew thin As they were the dead man gave them it. "The lady thought of the knight with kind eyes Who soon would let his own slip. And she Feeling in his veins a smart surprise Sprang up; she so sore against his will Sent her to bed, and her eyelids drooped Over her, and she fell, for still,-- In vain. Alas! This Vida had never dreamed Of his own sorrow. So all the romance Was only a fiction. Now he was come Back to the Imperial power, and seemed There as the lady of the days gone by In a dream of his own old, happy life, When he saw men as they are. How to show That sorrow and fear were his, not hers. The watchman thereon answered, 'We who are The guardians of our house, are given the day We let the guards hang open on the wall, And thought that those three gentlemen of our Should be serpents all in all.' And her He captive made by an out-flocked bars To shut the doors behind; and he caught A glimpse of the face of Beauty, as, in The happy moment, he found her. Among his wife's and children's friends, Who well could face that peril, he was known Forever at the folds of a caress By which she ever might be changed, and the Loving touch of a lady's or her own. She had stolen like herself on him and held So dear a nook she could not believe She might receive it; till at last she spoke, Though the drops fell thick upon her palsied hands; And the Maiden turned from him, and stood There in the grey and open solitude Amid the cool and racy solitude Of the white battlement, for she had made His home, and his warm bed, and the red Sleeping out of her wakened arm, for she Had been there in that strange dream. And now The thin, worn out womanhood was gone; And she was standing by the prison grate A moment, and no voice she heard; the air Filled up with vague forebodings and shot words Of some unhappy thing desired. And yet She did not seem to see his face; and yet In one half pity and half pity, she Had not unwept, save as a woman may The terror of her child: for, lo, he lay About her while she wept, and stroked her hair, And watched the tears and prayers and beat his breast ======================================== SAMPLE 802 ======================================== . Then in the nook which Liddes brook and nook Contented, Brounson silent stood, and brooded. Brounson took note of Someone coming behind, And said, "You have stopped my work and won the wind; I should presume you did not knock me out. I don't know how I came or where I went; And I shall be more careful, if I know. How was it that you moved the trees and ground? What happened to the trees at all you found?" "You could not find anything to try!" Just then a trunk with long wigs underneath Came whimpering, "Phoebe all in all of one." And still the trunk wept when he spoke, and sighed, And turned away into a steady grasp, And there came a light--a woeful sight-- That showed what he was going to do--a death With wings above and back across his throat. And when they laid him on the ground again, Not one of them saw what they could see, And each was trying to undo him down. Not one but this night, only one, could tell How he had struggled for a stubbornness, And would have thrown him with whatever pain To struggle on for hope beyond the trees Which blurred the suffering still the more, because His cruel heart would rob him of belief In one small failure proved too hard to cure. "I meant to try," he thought, "to reach the trees." "The April stars looked on the roses and the moon And looked at me and something at my knees. Not wholly in the usual mind, my friend," The second verse announced, "we'll hear no more." "I'd rather not!" The frosted air went on And sudden darkness over Dindoreen. Three of us only got beyond the sea To talk of constancy and love, to walk The mile-long walk of sandbags over a slow 'Uprise eroun' and wheel around a quarter. We said to Dindoreen, "If I can hear The little fire-sparlouches, let me hear About those happy tops." "It seems to me One of the April fairy folk are kind To call them blithesome--on the step-stone decided. Since Dindoreen's too large to do a rabbit-fit, I don't suppose they're fit for any better. The grass is smooth and quiet, I will throw Them flowers to walk it, some for songs and throw The rosewood garlands in it. Well, I know That Dindoreen must love it--how should I? There! let the little roof where you can hear The little locust blossom up to sing. Good night! and gentle wind, good-night! I've been to Dindoreen. If a woman has no way of knowing why, She is anyhow as lovely as a figure can be. The sky is bright, The grass is good, That's what's over stile and plaster and the sky. The sky is warm, The grass is good That's what's over stile and plaster and the sky. We must be free From trouble of the wind And the hurt of the rain. The cook must be a lady-- And his mother be a lady. But the wind must blow And it has always failed to blow. We must do all that mortals And never give consent. And the sun, they tell me, Is but a nourishment. And a foolish way for little children! When they are scared and jostled They never keep the mind they have of fun. A bird in the tree, There are notes in the branches-- And they must be afraid, For they are like the rainbow and the moon. "If I saw a little bird I'd have lost my day," When she is angry and screaming and fierce. Her wings are like povers, She is so small, She has small wings and she must fight with all. She sits on a swing, And the big bell points till she droops and screams. When I was high I thought I saw The fields where she was bred, And men at weakest when she was young. She stoops to a grasshopper and sits to rest, And she lifts her brown head and nods his crest. Then out and away from the top of the hill She jumped into a tree. She flashed like a fiddler through my brain, And over my head she buzzed and flew ======================================== SAMPLE 803 ======================================== , And on the great well-known, iron stone. I'll carve the stone of man as he With inter-coloured teeth doth bite, To shape the thing, which in his sight I did, and freely form the right. These have their ruby eyes to gaze Upon the painted ceilings there, And these their ivory mouths to gaze Upon the polished ceiling fair; Where they, anon, there come and go Chattering like birds on gladsome wing, By many a tongue and many a ring, That tell the story of their praise. They bring, they bring, and such do ye With many others round about, That do my blood in this wise show, In token of my love's worn out; Where, due by chance, I winned a place, And, all the more, they were undone; Each now, that sees I must be sad For true love, long loth to be, Their brazen lips, which time does not Chang forth, and words of love they bray, And yet the more, the more they dare, And now the more, because they are How shall we all, and not, endure? They bid me tell this, and yet tell on, That by his deed if I my love For her, for her he o'er me watches, And guards her life from all adulterous Lest love for me be cause of rages. Well, then, don I perceive this rage Within his sly, which without blame Will quickly be more cause of error; For many an ill, and well-fed thrift We women have to beggary, Which, thus a prisoner taken thus, Must creep themselves into a perch, Then, every one, to earth upcast, Must creep, if once they 'scape the blast Which blows the ashes of their dress. The thing has happen'd, and the hour Is passing, that we may admire At midnight how the house of paradise Can in such times its ruin endure. The house is taken, and is done. Come now, dear love, and do not weep While there is many a noise and noise Among the guests, which now are grieven By some envious tongue of filthy cov'ring, Nor look with any eyes on any men. But let us now to bed, and take Our pleasure in the best of love, 'Tis but the maid the king besought, Whom therefore he expected me And with good deeds in goblets fraught, So far his love hath said, the cause Of my delay now thou delayest; She stayed not long, and yet 'tis well, That all the court in such a bower Must stand, that I may see and share The lady's couch, and thence be brought And nowhere seen but she alone, She that is of the stately one, She that with highest honour bears, And has in power and worth his years, Thus hath she pleased me, that shall be Tended, as I have now begun. But nought surpast I fear or think Or keep my thoughts in lust or fear, This, these say I, not life, but fate, This is the gardener, who is kind, To whom my wives and so prevent, That though they be subdued or kill'd, The wound still clings, which never was, To which I trust, and all increase, And I am to my good estate. Were't not enough to rob and kill Two, or what's their reward to us? 'Twere good, I think, that they would soon Feel strong, like us, to be the same, Or perish flames, as we have done, Thus be composed of wind or flame, Or banish'd stones, or, once made white, Like child or mother, change their light. But if thou object not to me, From the first hour that I began, To watch o'er this, and that, and this Do hear me speak, what is it then? The first great Day, and not the last, The bright companion of my nights, Who forc'd me ere my sleep was past To weary on, and eas'd my eyes With quartering fires that half destroy Our strength, and, almost dead, destroy Us with a fiery flood of tears, Even before I could, perhaps, inquire How, when a blessed sun appear'd, This joyful Day I should have stept As a sweet lamb, and chas'd away The pains and troubles of this Day. The Sun rose from T ======================================== SAMPLE 804 ======================================== , and pale green, see; And I shall look about, and see The forest trim around, A theatre, or a theatre, I'll never see them more. So gentle, and so tender, One cannot be a chamber Sac, Nor yet a lady save With marble script to tell the secret Of some unnoticed place, Where I have never heard the cry Of dear ones met above, Or seen them in my fancy, as the curtain They use to fill the blind. I will go forward then; and when I die, In some quiet churchyard where the church is still, Perhaps I may behold The lights along the gliding river, The waving poplar trees, And, through the shade, the quiet summer moon Shadows and sunlight on their errands on the sea; The very river's scent Is faint and scarcely heard As I look down the steep Pedrillo hill, And see the smoke of towns on either hand,-- I may not go now if I wish so still. But I must go, the air is heavy With noises and uncouth noises, And where I stand there is a fair hill Crested with clouds that sometimes clamber From wall to basin dark; I must go far and yet I cannot go, For I am weary with a pleasant world; The quiet sky is shut between The daylight and the mist, And well may I forget the world's sharp look, And the world's pain, and the vexed strife, and all the pain And weariness and the watchful pain. I know the voices of the stream That wanders by the shallows where They dance upon the watery gleam, Or lightly scatter silver arrows So like their silver fancies float Across the current where they list; I know them by the faces pale That pale against the evening sky; And so I leave behind me to Rimini The calm and steady musing stream, And I am stung because I cannot see The faces that are dear to me. I have left the world behind me As the tide comes creeping past, And I have long been dreaming of my worlds, My thoughts and me from its hill And its clear water and fresh skies Shall all pass by and leave no trace Of man or woman waking in the world For fear that night's unbroken calm Should fill them with unspoken mystery; I have loved the song of birds, That all the day long sang, And wept above the tangled branches With their pathetic sighs; And there were flowers, but we have not gone on Till there is so much trouble in the wind That they shall soon be blind. I have gathered yellow flowers And buried them to sleep; I have gathered yellow flowers And sought my flowers and smiled; But not of their sweet innocence, Not a white rose I know, But I go over silent seas, And that Grief out of the heart may gather Stains no more upon the sunny day, And fall asleep as we drop away On the shore of some far sea, But he will never leave us any more, And we live in graves because he died before. So you see the red flower, and you wonder What it was that stung me to see it, Though the angry wind of the chasm is grown A heavy tide, and the breach of thine eye Is not yet so near to the quiet skies As the place where I was. I have lingered Till it seems a hot daybreak. I wait To see what the foe has wrought. How I hate My soil that doth not grow. I know naught Save that it was all for which I cared; I live for that which is not the same, And love not all that is not. My hands are numb with having, And the firmest pulse I feel Is beating on my chest of gold: I cannot see or see What the soul to dream would hold. All my words are coarse and weary, My hands stammer and curl, Till I rise refreshed and able, And without repose I feel How my face is filled with fire, And my eyes with eager longing Search the plains and skies for it. Give me then thy hand, O Love, And I'll carry it in my hair Through the gates of golden thunder, 'Twixt my lips, and under them. The which she holds Is a warm one of the stars. Thou knowest the hush Of silence under earth, And the far-off night Which lies around is o ======================================== SAMPLE 805 ======================================== A young Faun leaps upon the great hillside, At once both grass and meadow green is bare; Now for the spring is over and done, And so was born from that sweet birth of earth. Earth looks upon her like a haggard face, And 'tis the pride of creeping things that creep One day behind the other and beneath. Hushed is the noise of whirling winds, the cries Of the loud rain of heaven are hushed once more, And then a long, long silent shower falls, That haply will not let a cloud of fear Come o'er the scene: but one and all will fade, And all is lost in darkness and dismay, Like the swift-whirling cloud o'erhead, and all Is silent as the cloud o'erhead. But the sweet Spring will surely come again, When men will warm themselves with dreamy food, And the green earth will clasp her to her breast, And all the woodlands with their breath of balm, And all the rivers on their banks will wave, And all the forests on their beds of green Will drink the kisses of the gentle rain; And all the valleys on their beds of green Will sing sweet songs unto the coming Spring, While all the forests on their beds of green Will laugh and dance, with sun-burnt lips and cheeks Of flashing Spring. What is the thing that comes Through April, the sweet Spring? It is a fleet of flowers That across the meadow glide, With thousands of black slaves Who fill their houses up For the holidays of flowers On the next Christmas-day. That is the sort of thing With which God gives us here; It is the sort of thing That comes with the sweet Spring. It is the sort of thing That comes at times to-day, To which the world will never bend As it has always done, And while the sweet Spring goes It will come back at last, When it had but one day And that is at the end. This is the part of the song The soundless rain-drops sing, Making it conscious of its life. It is the kind of thing That makes the whole world glad, Making it vocal with glad birds, And rich with blossoming trees, And where the souls of all men are As they went forth to wander, To taste the ecstasy of May, And taste the heavenly solace of the hour, And breathe the fragrance of its being. Ages, and ages pass, and yet again, Those April-shackled April-flowers unfold That in the fairy forest gathered May, And in the fairy fern the season's gold; Then that is all that's left us, and we die So late unto the virgin Autumn corn, There's but a memory of budding skies Beyond the fleecy year's gonfalon, Far, far away--for such an hour there were In all the pleasant Summer of the year, At one more heart-beat than we dreamed before, We dare not look beyond it, and be wise. To loiter through the dancing hours again, As Spring herself shall do: Then may we wonder not, To think Life ever so. The miracle of living there for hours, Is not the change indeed, but touch of death, Angels that strike out human breath, As when these minstrels rose? Ah, there were flowers still, That could have been immortal, yet Even as they tell of airy voices, Before they struck, to stir the blood In drops on a keel-stove; But the gifts out of such as lie For long long-gone men, The precious song-breath that could not die From eyes, And so went back to life again; And still the same sweet breathings come, The same sweet Music now they sang, Of their old hopes and loves, And through their loyalty they saw The heritage of death, Their Queen, for she was in her grave; Her name in many a many a wave, When all the world was still and gave The same old music to her name, And lifted hers the rank and pride Of many an Othman's tumbled head, And this she held before her throne To know herself the Queen of Kings, And of their woe and malady The pure cold air of this strange year Its incense never had, Yet round her feet the splendour flings Of colours dim that shine. And in that light while life is new, With light of this ======================================== SAMPLE 806 ======================================== ed there in his view. Amazed, with a lawless eye He listens; deep attention claim'd To his trust and sympathy. As silent now as Saturn's bird, We are a little while we sing: But then, 'twas not his light that made Each moment darker than they lay, And pity touch'd him, who had laid The forest hollow, where he lay. Look down the mountain-slope; behold A shady wood, whose glenish'd green Lies broad as vale, and in the sun A pleasant glade; a virgin lawn, Where every field with buttercups Is laden with a choicest fruit; And near yon copse where timidly The airy flowers they shrink aboon, The primroses all livelier still, To charm the mind they're drawing nigh; To brighten the dark eye and lighten Nature's sweet beauty from on high. For there's a bower within its nook, Where gladsome lambs the smile incessant roam, Thronging the fountain, while the rill, With playful murmur, runs along the margin brimming from the snowy Nights which come back like waterfalls, That gleam like waterfalls Down the slope hills, when the fishing imp, Creeps purple-dyed along the rocky wall. And sometimes through the night, when all the winds Are softly whispering, on my couch I lay, A light-house, 'mid whose crests with moonbeams fair In rapid lapse by lofty pines I pass'd; A haunted wood--while thus I dreaming sat, 'Mong the mysterious oaks I knew in dreams, And the soft glimmer of the moonlight streams, Till from the far horizon I exclaimed, "Come, gentle Eblis, thou art in my mood; Thou hast not seen me till the night was dark." Alas! what art could answer give so sweet, And such a witchery in such a light? I hear him groan, and stretch my lifeless hand. Then came his bitter servant, and my knell Heard his low hum beside his hollow grave, Felt at my head his cold, cold grave, And show'd me lying by my side, and cried, I will, whilst I am lying thus, rise higher, I'll answer him and live." And so he wept, And stretching forth his arms, I gently press'd His body near, then with low moan made bold Approached me. "Welcome, Eblis, where I live." And as I spake I trembled, and I came To where a fresh-grown wood-thrush gather'd me, And saying, "Eblis, of my death and date, Believe me, I will die;" and at the sight I bow'd, and came forth steps, nor nearer had A voice of joy: towards me a shadow fell, And said, "It is the Hermit who enthrals Our Souls; and how he dies by his own power. When thou shalt see him, 'twill be known to thee." This said, he in the wood laid by his feet, And with his arms stretch'd forward. As I said, I heard him upward chide my silence: "Nay, Murmuring, go not within. For lo! he comes! He comes not--whither!"--And as dies a rush Of sudden fear, upon me, struck with dread, I saw a devil curdling from the wood. He caught my hand, he bit my hair, he seized My life, and, "Be not lost;" and as I cried, "Thus saith the Oracle!" he shouted loud: "Woe for thy Abelard!" as unto him I cried, "Alas! the deed is not yet done." So, without setting one step higher, We came within the porch, and there he stood Among his fellows; and, above, he bade Ask me to sit; and so I made a stay Into the boughs, and opening, round I felt The horror of his presence, lest his face Should give occasion to a terrible Sad look. There in the thickest of the boughs I heard a rushing as of armed men; And the wind ceased. The boughs gave forth a sound, As hath been heard oft in those affairs of thine. 'Twas like the roar of ocean in the blast Of some strong storm, that when the whirlwinds rise, ======================================== SAMPLE 807 ======================================== cha's schools, And, like the Hebrew seer, he owns the truths Of dialect, which all the husbands know; A God which leaves them! He who guides them thus, Will send him all his lifetime to the Times. There's many an Oton rot, who's quite alive! Some of us kill their victims by the knife, And some are taken, and some, taken, by the Prince. Ah, woe to Scio when his father's fall Leaves the poor widow with her children small! Oh, would that men in fire and funeral Would find us soon again! We should be nearer God than they, How often would we gaze upon His face! The news of him is never true! Do you Remember, then, the very glance we threw On our Egyptians, to this true Athenian man, Or looking at his forehead, such a look, So precious in his eyes, the present took For all those female hearts, who cross the seas, Who meet and cling to foreign lands and want; But give them back again?--I dare not speak Of that true life, let not my soul expound This lesson that you gave me, when I humbly bowed Hesher and say you love the Christian name, And we have found the land of all we planned! Hush, let me speak it! What have you been doing? Where are the cold old memories? Did the bright old times Foretell the struggle? Did the mountain-fisher Kiss the old hush, and dim, and crevices Share in the joy of strength, and slumber soft On hush of head? All quiet, dear old hills! O would I had some words to break your sleep! Soft-gracious Sister! how I wished to tell Of your existence, and its offspring sweet! This long, short month of storm has now gone by, But, having passed, it rings the welcome round Of summer sunshine, and I turn to find A nameless home, and hear the rush of wings, And all the summer's songs of old romance, The whisper of glad waters and of trees, And all the changeful sunshine of old days. Old, lovely Ship! Thy latest breath is fleets In such wise nought at sea, in such a sea, That like some traveller thou art swept away From off my ken, as from an unknown shore, And like the last great surge of storm that sets Upon a ship a stormless bloody shore, A stormy shuddering sound upon thy soul; Who would have thought that all these barren sands Were but the tatters of thy useless wings! In silence I would name thee, and my blood Would flow, and ask thee for a mighty gift; And when my strange companion bade thee come, And, smiling, look upon this woeful spot, Till one rose up, and look upon thy face, I dare not think that nought could blot the calm Upon thy pure and beauteous form. And yet Thy lip was honey'd as a summer rose Whene'er thou didst, and wilt be worshipp'd here But at another's love. And even as I, Stern-shy, silent spirit! by thy face Was brightness enough, and a light, serene, As calm as green, and like the rising dawn That shed unclouded glory. By thy side, As by a blessed mother, in her dreams A tender woman welcomes the return Of early youth, she turns her face away To meet her child, and throws a happy look Upon the verdant forest; far above, Above the autumn-lights, the ouzel-cups, The daisy-trees, and fairy-haunted pools So gleaming and so pure, and beautiful, Yet luring all their beauties round with smiles, And blessing all the hopeless earth to-day, For all the while their delicate fruit is scent Of all their crimson petals. For a voice Is heard, as of a nymph in musical voices, And echoes, as of faintly-stirring harps, And faintly-calling children, and the scent Of children's laughter rises to the eyes, As in dear boyish innocence and joy We read a book of music. Ah, what lovely things The shining hills and desert wilds and sea, Bear with them! See, along the edge they shine Against the deep blue sky; with them the woods Of poplared hills and rolling waves that seem Flawless and unsubduable, and all That lies upon the ======================================== SAMPLE 808 ======================================== repos'd." I then: "If ever I return'd to the Then who art thou, that dost renew the breath Of Jesus on my forehead, known to me?" He straight replied: "I enter after him Where he bids point his proper end. The Power "Your resurrection certain and benign Be: ye believe, that in the happy realm Where ye abide, a mourning and a mourning Is to be wrought, which upon you perchance May light, may save you from eternal doom." "When she, so beautiful of look, with joy Says you to keep me gentle, grant my wish Is stay'd; and this the rovers of the shade." As in the hinges of that sacred ward The swivels turn'd, sonorous metal strong, Harsh was the grating; nor so surlily Roar'd the Tarpeian, when by force bereft Of good Metellus, thenceforth from his loss To leanness doom'd. Attentively I turn'd, List'ning the thunder, that first issued forth; And "We praise thee, O God," methought I heard In accents blended with sweet melody. The strains came o'er mine ear, e'en as the sound Of choral voices, that in solemn chant With organ mingle, and, now high and clear, Come swelling, now float indistinct away. Thus we so slowly sped, that with cleft orb The moon once more o'erhangs her wat'ry couch, Ere we that strait have threaded. But when free We came and open, where the mount above One solid mass retires, I spent, with toil, And both, uncertain of the way, we stood, Upon a plain more lonesome, than the roads That traverse desert wilds. From whence the brink Borders upon vacuity, to foot Of the steep bank, that rises still, the space Had measur'd thrice the stature of a man: And, distant as mine eye could wing its flight, To leftward now and now to right dispatch'd, That cornice equal in extent appear'd. Not yet our feet had on that summit mov'd, When I discover'd that the bank around, Whose proud uprising all ascent denied, Was marble white, and so exactly wrought With quaintest sculpture, that not there alone Had Polycletus, but e'en nature's self Been sham'd. The angel who came down to earth With tidings of the peace so many years Wept for in vain, that op'd the heavenly gates From their long interdict, before us seem'd, In a sweet act, so sculptur'd to the life, He look'd no silent image. One had sworn He had said, "Hail!" for she was imag'd there, By whom the key did open to God's love, And in her act as sensibly impress That word, "Behold the handmaid of the Lord," As figure seal'd on wax. "Fix not thy mind On one place only," said the guide belov'd, Who had me near him on that part where lies The heart of man. My sight forthwith I turn'd And mark'd, behind the virgin mother's form, Upon that side, where he, that mov'd me, stood, Another story graven on the rock. I passed athwart the bard, and drew me near, That it might stand more aptly for my view. There in the self-same marble were engrav'd The cart and kine, drawing the sacred ark, That from unbidden office awes mankind. Before it came much people; and the whole Parted in seven quires. One sense cried, "Nay," Another, "Yes, they sing." Like doubt arose Betwixt the eye and smell, from the curl'd fume Of incense breathing up the well-wrought toil. Preceding the blest vessel, onward came With light dance leaping, girt in humble guise, Sweet Israel's harper: in that hap he seem'd Less and yet more than kingly. Opposite, At a great palace, from the lattice forth Look'd Michol, like a lady full of scorn And sorrow. To behold the tablet next, Which at the hack of Michol whitely shone, I mov'd me. There was storied on the rock The' exalted glory of the Roman prince, Whose mighty worth mov'd Gregory to earn His mighty conquest ======================================== SAMPLE 809 ======================================== . No yell shall mar our Union's brag; As loud as you can dare togel, We'll boldly speak the name o' Gaul, As lang's the regent's naigie! Ye powers aboon, wha rules us a', May still the dreadfu' sit Balquy! And for his keys, wha muster'd now To guard our rights, we'll boldly bide, Till freedom's dawn, at length, the brow May swears by law be thine decide. When thistle-down the forest bounds, And thro' the dew-wet woak we'll peep; When every gust o' the starn and shaw, That blows the lake amang us a', We'll raise a wild rose-bush-- Wha thinks nae mair o' them a'. Shule, shule, shule, and quake thereon; Sic a fiery spur let mince; Shule, shule, shule, and quake thereon, We'll break oppression in yander. 'Twas, in the days yestreen, Wi' glow-worm's pyet and eel, Ye sall get garlanded, my bird, And cut the deuk and reel; To catch you I was deemed A setie, as you ken, That sat ance there at your feet Like ane an elder son. There's wit that cracks itsprint, Like Duncan's fiery flood; There's skill 'twixt man and wale, But maks a man a blood. The prudes their downa slaes, The muse their pardon taks, And deals them three black-fac'd waes To quench them in youryp. Ye'll talk o' Hell's red an' blue, An' damn the black agin, But mak' them caup again a torch When they gie up the skin. Tho' watter'd an' weel-mounted, Ye've lost a spark o' your fan; An' waukrife, an' blear'd, an' blear'd Your e'en when ye've wacked it; An' waukrife, an' waukrife cock Your e'en may make a man! When ony unky e'e lops it, An' a' the wastful shy, When ilka glance plays like a dunt, An' smiles sae sweet as they; When every word in a body cocks, An' every step but ae, Ye'll think nae wonder they wad fash The vera'n o' their fa. When hand-claspis a hand-clasp's is the stammer, When the hour-glass is run low, As nicht's a growin' star,-- As the star to the eye it glintin' up the sky, As I a' to thee I gae,-- Thou never-vauntit missin' thy reward, That I frae life can win. But, a' God's blest wi' a kind hap-her, Thou'lt ne'er be dis-thrang'd to me; A' God's a gude and godly great, That whiles we work together. Then hey! for me, begin! The morning's come but late; The joys, the mirth, the sang, the wine, The maids and dowens wait: An' the deil's a' pack'd to their hame, That fill the household bluid, An' the hapless plaid, That keeps the loss-work frae the hame, Is aye a bailie's dub. The piper's blithe and gay, The bird o' min' ta buy, An' the birkie's blythe and bauld, Are things my hame will please: The maids their silken hair, They love to live and die, But, oh! I love to meet thee there, Where'er my footsteps roam. 'Twas in the days of old, The maids were fair and free, But the bonny lass I lo'ed best Was the lass I loved me. She's bonny Lesley Liel, where I did win; The smiling lass I chose, I love her still. The fair Lizzy Fettles, wi' the flaxen hair ======================================== SAMPLE 810 ======================================== one knows not whom its station is,-- There, I have thought, and won't have hers To keep my courage of the match; But here's my honest side of home." He eyed me; and he gave me all I wanted--he was not my master, And of the comfort of his tongue What fates it were that he should fall, As wholly from myself, young or old, In some forgotten grave, old or old. And then he whispered "Hide your eye!" And flitted like a ghost, old or young. "At any hour I ever found This snoring, rasping, tick-a-tat!" "Well, hide me! hide me! hide me! hide me!" And all my waiting, feckless, fell. A greedy cackling from the prow Sucked out the freight of shipwreck so. "For mark! my mark! mark! it's my mark!" A bullet through the belt I slid, And saw, between the shark and jack, A snowy scalawag, so red! But for the blithesome mark I sped. As deponetick I'd keep this mark! The dread that froze my heart beneath! I heard the roar and panting peal Of desperate creatures in their death. God! strengthen me with God and man, That darkness of distress may pass, And need not tremble at the span Of passing throes and purity Of prying hands and clashing knives, When Faith has passed thro' desperate lives, As other men have done before! It's partly our religion, maybe, To be clean and simple like you to hear me, And I know all about a committee As if we were soldiers each year, Who sees me and shouts "The next thing, the!" And is wise and just as human too, And he knows what is best for me, too; He knows every charge from other men, From grime and cudgics, when they're then, And the Lord knows every thing or said, And when I have been on my head; He knows every call the first time comes, And he knows every step the last, And he knows the fight the wisest, And he knows when the times are passed, And when I'm but a waste of breath, And we've but one hour to live in, And when he doesn't need to come, And he can't understand me, any more, And the next time he'll make me home. I wonder if my fears are few, If chumings on my brain have less, If thoughts are not as good as true As things that haven't stood before, I know that I shall never find A dissonant voice or a sound I hear, A little voice or a soundless sound, And only he knows who it is. The snow came down on my love; On her little straw bed, With my baby upon her knee, And the little straw head. She did nothing but smile and spoke, And I thought so wide and free. And I thought so, and that night The stars shone out in the sky, And I was right, but my heart broke And I found her lying by. I caught her little back, And I knew so wide a pain Till the baby Infinite, With his little naked knee, Stood out in the shining day, And my baby laughed to me. I remember my sorrow, But the years have long gone by, And the wheels of every turning Seem to me as rushing, As a silver river; And I'm thankful for what it is, If my baby had never grown! The graveyard leaves on the chancel wall, The crosses are growing tall. I only know she had never seen The baby asleep in her bed, And I only found in a mother's mind A baby sleeping there. I wonder if she had never dreamed Of baby asleep in her bed. And I wonder if she could never stand, And there's no baby anywhere. But I found there as many baby hands, As many little lips as hers; And I wonder if she could never stop, And when all the baby dreams are done? Oh! we all know the wonderful things they say, Tales that shall be precious and manifold; The pewter things, so the poor things pay, The toys that are castles, the castle bellies, The gleamings of pictures, the wood-fire's blaze, The pine-trees' ======================================== SAMPLE 811 ======================================== , with sleep opprest; Shew her in peaceful beauty drest. In music had she counted o'er, With innocence and light before; She guessed the languors of her love Gained by the numbers that he poured. O wondrous midnight! from afar Dawns the first dawn of light,--and stars, Lights that are lovely but to see Would be no sweeter,--since she sees A wandering world of charms at ease. This is her golden-girdled room, Rich with all love and all delight; 'Tis like the light of Thursday's day, Giving the bliss that she can give; Making life's journey all his way. Serene, she 'mid her maids of pride Sits, brooding many things, and sees Her beauty' self, that was but told With the least impious questionings. She sees her own sweet-scented flower The sun's meridian take, And finer grace that she so well Yet needs must crook, must crook, must swell, Dyed, if its worth be told With, or with's it,--oh, so soft and sweet, So soft and fine, without a stain, 'Tis hers to make her beautiful. She may despise her crown of bays, Nor know her worth's value great; She knows the sweetest tongue of praise, And fondly meditates her state 'Twixt purity and dignity. She 'mid the flower will cull her glove, And feel its beauties bold and bright; Her beauties kindle in her soul, 'Twixt perfect love and pure delight. Now through the garden's busy round, Where busy hands have sought to pick, The queen her way at early dawn Repast by the queen's bed is ta'en. But when the sun begins to shine She trembles with a pensive smile, And all the flowers look up to her As tho' her heart for him did wile. For her he 's rich in flowers and trees, And love the birds about her path, And for her poor, weak, blasted heart She 'd care not for a flower or fruit. Nor yet without a wealth of love Her head 's adorned with flowers and gold, But on the wind her bosom rests Where deep the chestnut spices hold. To palmy haunts where love in sighs Has oft with Philomel been wooed, Where sunlit groves and oozy brakes O'er-row the pasture-meadow flew, There came the panther and the deer, And with his challenge shakes his prey, And makes each leafy covert gay With rose-buds filled with snow-white scent, Whilst o'er the level pasture-ground The squirrels now and then went out. Now when a fallen oak its head Bent from its top, whose brittle strength Was feeble, and its summit bare, Before its shadow did its length; Yet with each spring, o'er every shoot Where fruits and wine a ready hand Before the friendly turtle-band, The country-horns, I ween, were there With gauze and lilies in a shroud. Before they passed, this lily frail, Of pregnant and flush-breathing boughs, Like a sweet thought within me woke Those sudden beames which rise to us, With out-kind tongues which make us blest, And gild the heaven in which they dwell, And make their bridal-bowers for us. And therefore have I brought this flower From out my happy smiling land, This lovely little flower of mine To gratify my happy seeing, And gaze into its dimpled eyes Into our eyes, and know that they Are kindred unto all who see. Forgive, O widowed mother! I cannot now be true; And fain my mind to know That what I make my history (Like yonder lovely wood) was true, For, oh! it makes me shudder To think I would forget; That mother's care, my brother's sorrow, I feel for ever fret; For Heaven had made her in the instant Her own fair image set. Ah, Nature oft has so her work With vivifying mind, And often seeks to make the heart By thoughts more fresh inclined. When the great sun in shining robe Arches the heavens o'er, His massy splendor shines abroad, A moment blest and more. Then ======================================== SAMPLE 812 ======================================== ; We are of purer clay, our frail hands mould Nearer the works we choose. "Work is the same in those we serve; Work is the same in each. Speak the strong word and find it true That the best men are men, and yet None the contrary call from us! Work is the same in those we serve; It is our work, not ours, that adds Only to God's own splendour, and The glorious fruit of sacrifice." One moment at the city gate Thin, and yet wide around, You saw your son pass on the sands, A sea-mark, close upon his face; And looking back you saw The old sea-children, shrieking, growling Like sea-wracks round his brow, Lifting and lowering one by one, You saw the waves go by; Saw the sea-wrinkling waters breaking With rushy sound along the horizon's rim, With flashing spray that chafed his head And struggled hard to win; He was most brave and tender and he sang, And through your laden heart you heard the cry Of waves and trees and sea-birds, and the awe That followed after on the look and tone Of his own harp, that in your face he flung With such a wild accord That earth could feel its own lost supreme, And through the cloud that wrapped your son Whose voice had made the sea-peaks ring! And then you saw the pale sea-wolves March up afield; you saw them leap With sudden terror through the air As though they feared to take the dead They loved before they loved beneath The other's face. And some they had slain With their wild heartless cry of pain, And some with their own eyes of scorn They saw your friend rise up and cry, And the great waters raised a sigh, And the sea caves echoed a sweet jest From the great waters eastward crying Their praise to God. And we, we were seven, Sitting in Venice, with our reflection in the moonlight, And our mariners descended to the ocean's slumber, Waiting for the message that was laid in holy ears All around us and about us, and all within us, Saying in a soft and silver atmosphere, "This is our appointed hour! We have looked through many a secret gate, But never have attained to the great shore "No man may enter or pass in. Doubts assail us everywhere, And no man can pass in." We shook our heads and stroked our cheeks, We mourned for our marauders, We thought that the King despised us, And would never cast our fears away On any of the King's barons, Or on any of his misfortunes, But beyond our hopes and our fears We called them and called them and called them, And we were sore- displeased and fired At the sound of that awful word, "We have failed in the great God's name!" The ocean yawned and it opened, The low rocks heaved and leaped on high, And the sword that was lanched and pointed Was thrust in the deep, in a pitiful, fearful, dreary, Where the rocks were stiff and high. And there in a calm eternal, A calm eternal, A clear immortal, We slept and thought that the King despised us, And now we have come to our dream, For the visioned beauty of Christ Holds the earth in its arms to us. Out in the street With silvery steps and beckoning hands, Out in the morning, Odors unjealous, Young men with red-tipped cigarettes, Seeking their bowl of rice, Soon, soon returning, Silently talking to the boys, Sunshine in their eyes, In their bewildered ways, Out in the enervating West, Out in the night that is not, Out in the noisy town, Out in the fear that is not, Out in the noisy town. By the awful Cross, A sachem sad with joy, And a beautiful, naked sword And a corpse and fire that cannot die, The Cross that must not be. In that dread fight, Upon the Cross that was not, The Boy that was not is dead, The Boy that was not killed, The Boy that shall not return. Through a temple of poppies Blue-eyed men and women, Crowned with their heads in the sky, Came the ======================================== SAMPLE 813 ======================================== , their souls were free From these lights of Heaven. I'd laugh, and sing. And now, my jolly old friend, I will stick to this trunk, This trunk I do think so. Oh! never fear it. We hear it now. Now, what have I to do with it? And though the people are kind, I say with them. It's foolish. There is no place for children. And I, to-day, am going into my pile, To make myself snug for the poor and poor, And go in glad order before the tall cedar. I've done the grand thing, after all. That was for me! Now I don't believe in the spirit of youth Or the spirit of youth. I see nothing or nothing But the poor old man who died since the coming of death. O let me not, then, be lost to my dullness, If I wish that again I could breathe it aloud, My childhood away and my spirit behind me. And my brain feels no longer, for hope lies dead, If all will be well, there will be no hereafter. The old man never will leave his day's work For others that pass it by, seeking to help The poor man in distress. So I say, at last, That the race has come to begin and the world Will begin with its youth. Then I am left To live and to die--with myself and theuba. The gray walls of dark granite will soon be riven, And the glass of morning out of them will be set Where they stood in the old, of the glory of time To our pride, what of prowess, and sorrow they had, And shall grow no more. For I see these walls Was built on the old witch's fairy-meteor That marched with the youth to his childhood's home Out of the hazel or islands of Spargaz, To the mountain-side of the vineyards, and summoned Him to build there, in all wind and weather, The vineyard and rock-hearth where the bees Would build--what we have lost. Where the winding river would lead him to His home and the wheel-chain, in the steeple where The silken oats and the nettle weave A bridge of water and the smooth deep glen Would keep him from the clover and the burrow Where the lazy cow with her loaden shears The stream to his oaken stall. The mower may forget, The reaper forget; the starfowl withered and dried May in the grass lie wrapped in the downy grass, Foster'd by hay or cot. What if we leave behind, As we pass by to make our wanderings, Full many a meadow-turn, With smooth gad-luideries, To shut out night, and rob us of stars Which follow in the track we ran When other made his way, Nor other trail nor track pursue, Nor other prospect make, Nor other hear with heart of us pursue. Not fabled of divination's part, All spirits view with human heart The bare blue boundaries unbounded Of mortal, or the sun's productive Keen-set, where quick and unsteady suns Exalt us in the height, and far and near The orbits of the moon. And night in this strange wood is ever near; And day whereon the shadows lie Shall subtler thoughts find out that inmost heart Are far more certain and more subtle-souled Than ever lonely eyes. Then ere the terrors of the night Shall blast the earth we roam, A thousand seraph-ladies lift their bright Sweet voices, that the fields may apprehend In fitful speech; Then from these aqued gulfs of shade and snow Resistlessly we turn, And, one by one, come down, O wondrous fair! And through the starry glens where roses grow, As we journey on, the pale Harp-chorus of the Milky-spark is sounding With the secret in the west! The stars of this fair night are shedding Star-sphinx adornments from their lids And hold strange treasures of bright lids As we journey on, etc. But stars of this fair night are shedding Soft shadows from the white peaks of the moon As we journey on, etc. From the mystical starry spaces We have now passed on, From the shadowy spaces Of the infinite morn, From the exquisite spaces Of the infinite morn, From the infinite morn ======================================== SAMPLE 814 ======================================== -- He cow'r tak' a nae day jads, Dinna fatten-- Maist wives still are a' aff-- It's just no--a canny man (An' you're the lass to attend) Wad talk o' wark ye jads; Will ye, like tea-cups, drest, I'd like to dine, Wad dine wi' me? I'm weariet, jolly be-- I see a bonnet on my knee; I think it's o' the deil him, That wears the plaid of Glencairn, Or ells he's aye fain waukin-- But that's no' the sweeter For no' the lass he lo'es me, Nor keeps me jist the mair I waukin. But when my maister finds He's owre the startin' o' his sang, Then I'll wad nae jist gang-- The way it doon, When it comes hame! Oft when the day leans down Towards the bright blue west, Or when the birds are fed, My guileless breast I press, And fondly dream, of you, As fairy ne'er drew nigh, But cam' ken her ain by! Sweetest memories I hae Still hae I frae your memory: It was my youthful year, And my heart was warm and leal, And it sings as I did here, And where amaist can kill? It's singin' in a loft, It's singin' in a cot; And the lift it wauks my sark, And the light it wauks my lot, That's sprung o' the yird's sheaf, And the auld dug up my heid-- I hae a daughter named someway, And oh! I hae a bit housie, And oh! I hae a' the bliss That fathers and mothers had; And oh! I hae a' the pleasures That mothers and kindred uses, And oh! I hae a' the pleasures That fancy can lavish manna, And I hae a' the honours That siller and powther can dure, And oh! I hae a' the pleasures That fancy can lavish manna. All Nature is but executor Of that which is most sacred unto ye; And for a lift of her, whate'er ye do, Ye're wedded unto Lady Brown--yea true! And ye that unto Leddy go, I set you for the noble race Of desperate youths, whose musk and maws Can never win upon their brains The pleasure of so fair a place! I love the gleesome bairnies That skim o'er land and sea; But for all that's pleasant there, I love my Highland blue, I love my Highland laddie, As far as I can be. The wrens upon the heather Came whirring shrill and high; The sun was slendrous ever, But low and dark as night; Yet there was a light in each Small light that could not die. So far am I from country life, When all around is cold, Yet should the gladsome laddie Be ever laid in gold! I sing the winsome lark o'er glen and glade! I sing the joyous human heart o'er care! I love the merry bird that ever leers, When his sweet lay the weary night comes near; And be myself the player of delight, The lark that in the blossom never leers! 'Midst the golden cornfield and green wood of May, A blithe new-comer, I've a welcome here. If only he be welcome to a sylvan scene, What glories must have filled that sylvan scene! On winter nights in winter, when the flowers are white, And soft blue shadows meet beneath the elm tree's height, These blessings have been thine, the Liddoino's delight. Oh, whither, whither, whither shall I fly, That I must haste, before my time be done? Perchance if she distinguish me in scorn, 'Tis love of nature, that is all her own. And can I leave this scene of distant night To choose a place within some classic glade? ======================================== SAMPLE 815 ======================================== , hand as well. Vile herds, that shun all issue, for a guide To my torn trunk are cut apart; themselves, As ready cash they threaten, yet me seem To fall from stem to stem not. I, as one Fain to behold the season come, and then Reach the great bole of Styx, that herewithal Healing salutes and thanks to her who pours Her marriage dues above his hecatombs. Yet dry bread trembles here: and for the maw Of his vast belly doth an impious brood Spring all around. Fruits of the Fount of Nile, Pomegranates, and sweet figs, which heretofore The gods themselves procured from trees of Nile, No fruit they taste except what doth the ground Due for themselves, for honour unto them And pity of their offspring. Those, whose crown Is Beethoven's, there shall not be seen Gainless of death or conquest: they shall be Blest, and shall to happier days be glad. All these shall be the owners of the wealth Thou hast acquired, who so far hast acquired Through this thy spreading empire. Those who here, Thy subjects, feed thee not: all nations all Shall be by thy example blessed: the name And dreadful name of barb'rous Visio. Thou too hast come to call upon our tribes Hereafter, lest impious thou destroy them. Yet, nor the only few, that now are found In needful honour, these too deem thy sway Gave them o'erstepping; so thou art not sinecure, But of a righteous nation, stern of mood. Know then thy avarice hath made thee here A follower of those armies, whom thy sway Gave them o'er mighty monarchs. These the boast And triumph of thy daring have redeemed, To which thou art a witness. Those, whose crown Is highest in the living, here shall be Thy triumph, and on whomsoe'er thou judge, Thy solace, shall be with them, nor by words Their dark shalloys appeasèd shall unlock. The trumpet now, no longer to the lips Of conquering foes it whisper; but a blast Shall mow down on the multitude, as falls From some high mountain, whose majestic marge Uplifts the forehead of the high-tost world; Or wither all the nations; such a blast Sudor's son, whom fortune's northern sons Shall see from far, bearing dread Hannibal Down through the Rhine and Danube to the Seine, When he shall set them at his footstool here. Then will they fall upon their knees, as here Beneath the shadow of his towering head. Yet not so fast his followers, when they hear The tidings of him richly in the arms Of Barbarus, who shall shortly rue the day When by the ships' long travail he shall see His people's safety. They shall be compell'd Upon their road by evil fate to die By flight or death: but they shall surely learn His own destruction. They shall have no power To save their lives, or to anticipate Their ills at sea, for 'twixt the waves they lose Their lives, and thus for longer not one man Will they leave here, with longer livings vain. Nor will they let the commonwealth alone Be wrested from the sov'reign of the sword; Nor scanty gold, which can not yet be bought By others, have they now, that he would have Those maim'd. O monarch! how shall he in wrath Give vengeance on himself? To-day shall be The day for all the race of humankind, Those who forsake their fathers in the field, If such thy will. But shall he, since it may be, As I, an hostage for his people's lives, Prostrate before his throne, beneath yon oak Raise mutineers and rob us of our rights, If on the earth he be not thus attir'd, And we from him so near the people made A desart place, whereby we shall rejoice, That he hath breath'd his last life forth in joy. Our onset shall not irksome be to aid A king; our needful anger shall be turn'd Against a mighty champion. Now be strong, Thou and I, warriors, for the common weal In all our valour; ye shall find your own Brave in the onset. We shall ======================================== SAMPLE 816 ======================================== An' the rose in a berry claw, We look for the love that is born in the mornin' With the holly in one misty mornin'; We look for the eastern sky; The grey brook flows to meet the ice-clear Sapphire, the aged sunset; The heavens for silver reflect the splendour Of solar rays that blaze. The seigneur of eve is no more, oh! The world is not wholly old, Nor ever half rises till heavy-eyed twilight Creeps round and round And the sky reddens and hangs o'er the far horizon, We look for the western gold. What if I weep o'er the eventide When life is like fume from the wing? What though I rave round the tide And wait the tide's will, Leaving a secret behind Of its mystery, As in labor you wait for the tides Which surge past on the shore Where the shores of the world drift more and more Than the waters are, I will look on your face As a boy uncoversed With the rush of a brook, And your thoughts, which are filled With the blossoms it spilled Far down in the rill Where it stumbles still, As a brook with its current will. To look on your face And to know that you nestle and smile From sunshine or rain; On the violet's grace And the sweetness of rain Or the tenderness of your smile. For the hour that is born In the depths of the skies Is the only day Which gives full of joy to the eyes As it leaps from its bed At the full tide's brim And the whole wind's way Is one with each breath And only man knows by the sea. How shall I tell you this? You are well loved, said I, And love me for that, So this I know: love is a sea In the blue sky tossing free, And the boundless heaven it rolls In the blue deeps of the sea. I shall not see this, nor the cause And I shall not grieve my heart, And with the tears of a salt sea flow I shall be basking in the heart. Then tell me, on the wind, And at the pearly height Of your lips my fruit shall fall To my love at my feet. In the deeps of the sea When the end is unknown And my love comes not to me, In windless forms, yet all unseen, I shall fall on her stone, And the first stars overhead shall view My darling and my dear. So this my heart shall be When the dead years shall pass, No more to my sight, In the summer or spring, in the year, In the grass, or the weet, In the wood or the weet, No more, no more Shall the rose bloom to me, No more, no more. For the wind and the wave and the cloud And the wind and the wind, And the wind and the wind, And the wind and the wind, And the wind and the wind, And the wind and the wind, And the wind and the wind, And the wind and the wind, And the wind and the wind, And the wind and the wind, And my love and I. O the sea that is troubled With anguish of longing That the sweet hope of youth May never reach Through all the changes Of chance and change, May never reach The shore of life, Or the shore of the sea. Yet if ever the spirit Of another Be with me To sever The bonds of earth, And to possess The soul of the sea, May never know How the great skies Their appeal may give Only the soul's Excess of deep Deliver, To save The slave of the sea. Once upon a time The wind blew out of the south, Saying, "Come and have charity Of us who call on Thee," The wind to the southward Would sing as it trembled Once on a time there may be Something worth a thousand Moments to make up for a day Before the South had a nest Once on a time there may be Something that spoke to us, More of the wonder of day And of sleep than the wonder Of any night, or anywhere. Wake up in the morning Early in the morning, Early in the morning, For the smell ======================================== SAMPLE 817 ======================================== are bare or good, who looked on me Except the dying testify?--we are alone, And yet you have the finest friendship left. It is but a brief tale. You are old and fair, And yet, not very many years ago, In the fierce fervor of high hope for gold Our fathers passed into the snows of war, While waiting for the letters which He sent Meant to deliver, through a choicest tomb Under the banner of our sacrifice. They who went out to battle marched, for life Gave battle for a moment. They who went Far out of battle to a bitter goal; But then, when following foemen through the night, Hider and hunter as the wolves went out, Even as the starlings with the sunset glows, Forth of their home among the hills are gone, Gone with a fortune that was false and wrong, When truth was truth, and not worth all dispute, And we are all, and always are ourselves; So that the most of us, if not of men, Will rise to battle on a Christmas-day. There is a holy quiet in these woods Where the white lilies lean above the spring, Kissing her forehead, that no wintry wind Scares them from heaven in any holiness. A little way within the woods, which turns To summer, just beyond the woodland edge, The long, grey shadows of old mountain firs Are laughing softly. And the little stream, Which we know runs from wood to watery vale, Is reared up with the silent chapel bells, That crossed upon her breast, and without break Are all alive, and not an idle fear Can sting a happy spirit. Here it winds Among the gardens of the years ago, And with its current makes its wildest noise As if the bells of Wilton were to cry For something yet to be. Time does not pass But old acrostic, for a mystic crown Of prophecy may overtake the world. And yet no vision is for younger men, For all are born, and all have dreams of peace. The old-time pioneers and pioneer host Will need the reins and follow their own ways, And there, to bound them, will be built a church Where men will build their holier palaces, And as the congregation leads the people On consecration day by day Will solemnly assemble in the woods. The sinless children of the mountain lake Will be our muser and companion now, Nor let the timbers of our mountain lake Blend with our hopes and memories as they flee, Leaving no echo, save of hollow gusts The hoarse, rough, thundering cannon of the surf, The rustling, struggling wind that cleaves the trees, And thundering waves that roll against our feet. Oh, were it I who looked, and cried, and saw A being stand before me, like a star Of some kind spirit's spirit, up the sky To chase it from me and to win me back Into the world that was so fair! But still, And cherished the low music of a child, That which I feel I know not, for myself Will be the blackness of the storm. I have not lost The way that I must travel, hither now, And find a refuge from the gloom of sin In the quiet arms of my content. Yet here, Upon this snow-clad country, still I shall Feel that in me the gleam of heaven and earth Is yet more noble, and that thou hast gone To sunshine and to gloom, though I should stay For ever at a thousand fathoms deep, In these loose limits, that so I may share With thee the quiet spirit of the lake. Not far off, on the western sea, the man that then Spared the long keel of his dull old home, To him, on whose old bones he used to dwell, With his lips parted as he walked along The shores of England, his bodily sense Ill tinkled with his native memories, And the old man's that was his heritage. So, what if the voyager and the adventurer Of their wide voyage, urged to sally west Where late he hunted, even and toil no more, What if they reached the Pacific's further shore With never a message of their hearts' farewell, Still home again? There, there, perhaps, we twain, Bound hand in hand, by the great new-born love Of England, on that visioned ship that bore Between the East and West that mystery Which ======================================== SAMPLE 818 ======================================== may be braven By those that do their duty, Shoot out in mine heart If they will not with me; Or, in my discontent Of bramble, will I let them rest, That I might finish wishing, Then briefly should we pass the rest. These cows, this violet, Here are not now Mixed with the milk of sheep, Yet I will go Where my dream somniel (For, confess, I often bide As warmly as abide A bridal pair), Beguile me as a bride. Though I had all forgot I would not now, But bade baser pleasure wait Upon our bridal-day. A kiss, and then away Back to the stile; Or our last fall of stone, (A blessing, worse than all!) The ant her gracious ant upward hurls For her now puts forth, And, all that pretty air (Of silk and purple there) Thro' the garden bars, A bolliness of her sweet self and wile, Doth now inspire The pomander to sing The interwoven paths of love. Who thus his rich attire doth weave Shall hither to advance Thro' France, to dim that evening star; And even from this paradise He shall more surely see The stars come out in bright repair, Than to seek for his diadem So richly girt about his side Within that garment that doth bind The maid unto her lover true. But when his dear feet she espied His throbbing heart to beat Were in her veins, and she sighed In her lover's beat; And then his eye did blind itself: Her sweetly he keeps, Which if all there Kiss the fair bosom, then their kiss Must surely lose its youth, Thinking that of their former fire His loves and griefs divine They will receive no second-end For me, who at this night Sleep's messengers forlorn Have come, when the pale moon Wakes in her willows to supply That post to every traveller. And even the traveller so At the first touch of her hand His love again can understand Rests not but his revenge Never quite near the object whereat With which he did his love repair. So full of triumph she forth goes And on her scornful face Falls with the sharp disdain Of every fixed and sunny hour, In spite of all her weeping power, Feels his own flickering blood Push swiftly past her growing power. And mid the evening's doubtful grey She came to him again In all the garden-mirth and May, And woke her for her misery; And when she at those balls again Showed that a further home she had Hardly enough kissed for her good, This soon would hurry all men sad And yet that wretched man beguiled Into some deep, untutored child With too much love and ignorance; And more such misery to him Would it bring forth to take possession. "Ah, though I see thee maimed," he cried To that false maid, Which seems a murderer, and feels On her soft cheeks her own blood-shed, Appears to red, and blood-shed, drip As a fresh crimson in his wounds; And soon his heart is all atose With such a pang that she forgets That act of blood, which did she choose. But, turning on his face the stone She stood in fear Upon that man, whose hands dropped down Upon her tender shoulders, long Her earnest prayer to be forgiven; And, pointing to the rocky height Half-way between She fain would stay him from his flight, And back again must stoop to rest, But that so short a time he did, And felt a trembling mother in her breast. Oh, such a love, so fresh and fair, Such grace and deep delight did bear To her, that in those words found drear, She knelt for burial-vows with him; Then o'er his tomb did stoop herself And take up his long lance and plaide Of silver, mystic maiden-wand Wrought with soft grass and woodbine twined His locks and loins in many a fold The freshness of his love to hide, And o'er his grave to hover With mute, fresh flowers and roses, and sweet friends, And little words like blossoms blown Of summer roses, and long lyres Of blackbird songs ======================================== SAMPLE 819 ======================================== ; She spake, as they had left her--answered not, “My Lords, in this thy country's cause, I know.” When now the morning of her mind arose, Was she alone in that small chamber locked In the clay chamber?--Woman, said she, see! There she was lying, from the walls above In the large cave-mouth, some ancient roof makes quite The headless slumber; for perhaps it slept, And thus she rued it:--“Thou of very men, And, for thy mind's alone, on mountain streams Hadst long made pause, or long been swallowed up In rocks, tho’ silent: thou hadst slept no more. Now had the lamp destroyed thy lovely flesh By cold dark lions slain: thy senses lost By cruel hunger, or the palsy chain.” “Woe! woe!” she cried, “is the dull brain too weak For such as me, her husband dead, in sleep! Alas! our loyal friend, alas! is dead. As such the husband of a youth so shrewd, The boy so often scorn’d, he will not dree, And though he loves him, makes him swear the truth, Though still he prays, he will not let him flinch.” And with a thrice three times three her sons Bought at the gold, and now the full bevy crowd Not public, loud, or party-coloured crowd Nor public, when they talk’d of public shame, Assembled in those groups: with mocking tone Thus masked, she modestly bespoke her throne. “Well hast thou said, dear wife, thy guilty fears, To quell false honour, or conceal aught From open eye, that starves on trembling ears. I swear by Styx, that holy brother swore, And the green banks that round the shining Thames Pine, with the Stygian monsters, to the stream, Let them all sleep in Circe’s holy stream, Where nine times ten good omens thrice as large As when nine sisters rule the steed of Mars. Nine sisters they of Diomed, the male, Reach the same cave, and in the cavern dark Are sons of Mars: with these the plague is wrought. In such coarse bonds, for their beloved’s sake, They pay their early care: a woman’s word Is ancient, her first crime, a deed so vile. And last, the lawless client, who by stealth Had gain’d a sister-brood. Here they conspir’d To break the marriage contract; and decide That none should wage the strife, the common weal, The public weal, the public’s common weal. In vain they call the marriage guilt to name; The poor inhabitant the just invents; For that they must their just affection claim, And nature bids it be the work of man. What then shall force that brother to approve? ’Tis hard for just proportion, hard to please. But then the springing crime its mother feels; The mother soothes her sorrow; and she weeps For her own fault, the youth for whom she raved. To wash the feet, to cleanse the breast from gore, The filth of cheek, and smear the veiny head; Hands twining, prayers not to the parent’s ear, Tears such as must atone the lust of man. A lamb he slew, an orphan one she bound; The other she loved well; this orphan’s fate, This orphan’s fate, for her—her birth, alas! Jove bids the mother and the wife be lost. Then turn’d she to the chieftains of the slain, And vowed on them the powers of hell to bear; The generous mother gave the sad divorce; Then plunged into the gulf to bathe her eyes; And call’d herself, to witness of her crime. But Jove decrees, the concubine should fall. Nor thus—at least for that—was said an oath; And my eternal oath was sworn a oath. Untouch’d, Jove heard, and heard; but in surprise The babe was heard, and stopping by its mother, Calling aloud, he summon’d all her gods To witness Jove, and what the Grecian power Of Gods and men should know. Then Jove decreed That brave Ulysses should with peace enjoy ======================================== SAMPLE 820 ======================================== as kind blackt the heart Of Patience, as most like to be worse than worse, Come into work--as I ever saw-- For a great applause, even in the grave. There is the stir, and all is hushed and still, Only a broad free path of poise between The silence of this night and that near wharf, Just as though bells were peal to all the hill, Sounds like a shower of suddenly silenced bells, Blackens but far away the mountain bells, Whose burden it may be. There is the pines, Old in the East at Winter's slow return, Fringed, desolate, across the kindled sky, Long yearning tinged with brilliance; and the vines Whose clustering leaves fell trembling into ash Up the steep slope, and smoke and smoke went up, To my soul now a kingdom of huge ice, Vast like a temple fallen into decay, Now on the crater of Life whose flames shall burst And waver, far away, into the deep. And at that moment I do not believe One human heart so utterly bereft Of its young pride and glittering outward shape, That, through it all, I yet behold one smile, Pleasure, that says a glory of the skies, Refulgent with the songs that rise and fall, Hid under all the depths of this great hall. If I can only break the spell, the King Beholding me, he will remember me, Nothing at all but him I hold apart, Clothed in the blackness of his iron heart, He will remember with unshaken eyes, Not words I speak but dreams and stirring skies, I will remember and I will remember, They are but shadows of the shapes that flutter Like leaves within a windy forest; This is my reason for a faery song That only sings, but chants, for everywhere In every place that men or women hear A thousand songs of holy mystery, Even in the hour when Christ his mother Raised blind desire from heavens for Father, A wing that journeys wide for seraph Shall sing of his beloved. Yea, even the Law of Milton! Never Had such an one as Eden and as good Who chose to build the bread of blessing it. His cry was like a judgment, and his mouth A judgment-seat of good and evil deeds, He knew God's judgments, and did set His faith In one demented mind, who, armed for Truth, Waited the time to judge the life at hand, Waited the time of judgment for the time That judged the truth. As thus he pondered, one among many Held up the little wondrous miracle, Half-hearted as the Lord was crucified. Sometimes He sent his manhood to her, The very heart that bled for him, The bosom of a man, for Christ had died, His angel bearing; while the prisoned soul Still came and went its way with such a beam, Such love, so bruised for everlasting love, Dimm failure, ended all its perishable frame, And like a parchment in a mighty grief, This lesson with a sterner soul; but he, The Woman's Seed, whose bosom sheltered it, Laid bare the lips of sanctity, whose feet Were fastened upon wavering flesh like flint Worn by the miller in his furnace; yet for this He cared not for the meanest lukewarmness, But caught within her hands his holy fire That burnt a victim to its burning self, And from that hour a thousand fires were called To quench it. Let me drink of the wine of pain And think upon the agonies of hope, And of the blessed Giver of all good things; For, man for man, mine is the deepest love That sorrow takes upon the humblest soul; But who hath learned how sorrow turns to gall The places where my feet have trod before. The weak of heart, the hungry of the poor, The slaves of self, their slaves are all I have; Still, why not rather do I feel myself A worse man, and my clay is worse indeed Than any brotherhood. If to be crushed, to leeward stricken, If to be taught to live by slander, And sold among the just, the great, And one for want of charity And one for love of money, If, when the gross world sees me lying Dead in the dark before the day, I hear the great tears fall, God pity me, Who ======================================== SAMPLE 821 ======================================== The breast that has defied desire, The hands that threaten and fail; The soul in the waves that are dyed With all life's signal fire, The soul that has battle on stride, And where it first twists to war, And where in the thornliest wild A shattered arm hangs, And the crashing night Shudders to shawl In the tremulous gloam Of a breaking heart That faints in the haste Of a coming wind. Sideways, with a start As the quick of the brain, The youth turns again To his own ambush ere The thunders burst, While the fluttering heart May leap to the surface, and swim Through the flame-waves again, And the noisy mind That was a god's retort Followed through the same Still follow the same With the waning of breath And the rising of death That followeth on To the closely mouth That feeds with the sighs Thrilling at the heart's eyes, Where the mind that is famished for space And leaps at the throat As a hound speeds on With a stammering pace And the Infinite's eyes Of a hell for his drink. It was as if a mountain spring Would reign o'er this new year, Its music in a trance As moonbeams on the mere Were trembling with a weanling. The old house had a face that froze Beneath the frozen snow, And a presence whose pale teeth Flapped in the wind below. The painted face that held The lead in its cold hand, Till it staggered, stammering, Before the wall's dark band That knocked and screamed and shouted, The bedclothes, and the brave, To guard the few and grave, With "Who's Mother?" would confess The clock a score of years, Yet back in beauty came A hundred yards the slab That covers a blamed name. There, when the cold rain fell, Lit by the lamp, a sound Of clang and clapping of hands And loud outrages and screams, Shook the whole house and woke The drowsy sense of these. The loud voice that rang and rang It leapt upon the floor, Till from the window, as it sang, The very night-air wore A silence of farewell For child and lady there; And when the twelve waned, turning, The light shed drearily, And roof and wall were burnished, The stately windows shone, And high against the ends above The massive chestnut-trees Frowned out with great grey eyes Of mist, and seemed in the dead of night Grown keen and bright with tears At the cry of a child that has been born, With eyes Of hope outburned, that was unborn, Who had been stronger in heart than fear, Nor once weaker, nor mightier, But shook with one great cry Of help from God and man, who sent That strength to the weaker side Of the house, and prayed and cried And struggled to the sky, With hands out-thrust, And bodies outspread upon the wind. The weather hot, The tables wet, From the loam and plates, With mouth and eyes, As all were needful To keep a dry foot from the store. Now after dark, with hands Useless and brown, And his hat cleft, Four lids weighed down, Two knobs of black Came knobs, and on his nose A bunch of keys that scraped the walls Of the house, and three strings, too, Making one finger-post As black as jet That brushed about The tapping leather. The iron door Lifted as if to shut the leaves. "Now is the door ajar, I see it fast," He piped, while in the fife A cracked egg-fife Blew a hot life. And on the shutters, Drenched with the quill, The squirrels scampered, Duck hunters knife, White nets, Rent pocket-hog, And from the gutter The mingled blood Flew out in sacrificial flames. The purple lights Of the high-fed barn Slant through the casement On the tawny sick barn. There were bewitched The songs of the moon In the broad red line of moonlight. No sound, no creak, But only a groan Of the blessed engines in black terror ======================================== SAMPLE 822 ======================================== wise to show him, though my science have Marrow'd him; he wants my lay, not only that I With pride had spurn'd the lyre. In other strains To Nature's simple rules thou giv'st the song. Be still a bird; and till an' azure skies Eternal beauties smile, then fluttering fly Like heralds of the war, where many a knight Has cross'd the court, or passes through the lists, To mark if mean or small the cabinet of Science, Art, Commerce, or some rarer lore. Methinks a milk-white sisterhood Are standing in thine eye, to mark if man Ranks true allegiance; and thy virtue finds The face of God ashamed of augury." "Behold!" he cries, "The world's great harmony on which we play Has place; and what thy faith is--quickly learnt, As in the Talmud where the centuries Themselves were bruised and stifled, that so oft A little song would smite the world, and men Stand idle on their perch and gaze along, Like children, with bare shoulders bent to watch The streaming blood of summer--slain alike By noble deeds and base, unapt to bear The burning language of unholy hate; And like a voice from heaven, a voice from earth Heralds the grand destruction, when the babe Is on its mother's breast, that cries to man "What ails thee, friend?" Then all the Church's voice Is hollow, and its louder utterance Rings like a distant ocean on the winds. O sorrow! O mad folly! tears of grief! Grim wounds of two great nations, how they bleed! How bittest thou the Queen of Sorrows thus, When by thy side the flower of Peace lies low! Yet is she fairest of the royal three, Though he was by her chosen to the throne! The sea has roll'd its billows o'er his head, Yet would she blush if he were old, not she! One day when first that eyelid of the morn Smiles on the future of the happy land, She looks upon the eye whose glistening glance Seems changed to something more than phantasies, And on the lips whose vigorous light is warm, Gilds up the darkness of the very vault She asks no heaven, but hath a gift,--the wealth Of some refulgent orb, to grace her hand With that soft touch of sympathy divine, And from her saddening spirit takes a more Small burden of the sorrows he hath known, Than the poor heart that sickens when it sees That wreck of love--the light it never weaves But at its fairest stroke. For ah! in vain Thy balmy breath hath woo'd me on the brow, And kiss'd away the wreaths of my despair. Those locks were lovely which have been too light, And over-blown by that which hath the spot Of morning consecrated to the rose. Grow brightest, fairer still, O morning star! Yet would I be the nearer to the sun, And wear the smiles of fortune as it flows. It were enough to show thee that we live, However beautiful, thou art not lost, As is the sunbeam to the wearied eye, The dewy tears, the softening, timely rest, The fresh, fresh garden-smell, the clear, fresh air, And with thy footstep soft the velvet moss, With thy footstep light the unsought space, Making the trodden pathway to the sod That's what I was--that still, unaccomplish'd path That leads me to the "silence of the soul," And bears me to a world which yet shall come And find me in the footsteps of the dawn. The Earth she lies in pillared vaults, and sleeps, Droning the phrase of one who never knew The past, though cold, of her old dead delights, Yet with the present and the present rife, In phantom-land or ruins, still will stir Her genial spirits to a double share. Slowly and faint, beside the olive-grove, He sees her moving as the shadow sails, And, as she leans upon his arm, she mourns With "I will die--and let this dream come true! I will not call upon myself, nor leave Prayers for the corpse of my beloved friend, Whose grave soft pillow covers her--to whom I am the poet's first, best, holiest, and ======================================== SAMPLE 823 ======================================== , As forth from the mother ye see Leap forth for the crystal tea. The nurse is busy, she lays down Her spoon for the baby to-day, As he toddles his way through the kuzels And runs round the room every day. And he looks with a smile on the carpet, And he sits and he slyly doth slyly pep, And he seems to be pleased with a bridegroom Who is sitting beside the bed. From her hand is a letter that falls With the curlyest curl of her whiskers, Her big little hand, like a Jew's, Is white and so white. She weeps, And she wails, And she wails, In the garland that hangs on her knee. "Oh! my brother," quoth she, "Oh! my brother, O sister! Here's a piece of gold, Sheep's in the nest! I can smell you-- And I know now, That it's O, dear!" Up the airy mountain Swang she, And amid the aisles trembled. Then I heard, indeed, Not a sound at all; Not a light in all, Not a light in all! How I came in the mornin', Or who broke my sleep; Or who open'd a window To see which was deep. Or I bent over the window-- But oh! where are the eyes That looked back in my sleeping, Or I slept, while they glisten'd? And I knelt by one mossy stone, And my touch of hand Rattled and roll'd back to the stone; And I shouted: "I understand!" And I shouted: "I know you, And in the light of your own, I see which is most in the sun, The hue which is most in the river: A light in the gloom of your eye, A light that is higher and higher! And I said: "I in turn must learn How it really is strange to see!" But I saw with its depth and brightness That day--the day of my birth-- When my tremulous hands I raised, And you saw and you blazed, And I said: "What is this?" and you said: "Why, the devil is this!" And I drew you out of the bed, And stretched out my hand to you, And you said: "Is it true, Is it true, true?" And you said: "I am too . . . I shall be afraid!" And I turned--but I saw no more-- A light shone in mockery, And it found us together Was walking in Eden, And I cried: "O see me!" But you said: "If I had the eye To fix you a moment, I might turn from it, pardie! So--if I had the right!" And I cried: "I must go!" So I was like you very, very; Like you and like me, when, Your eyes and your hands show'd me The riot and crime Of a man in a Venice street, And you said: "Is it true?" O, it's true, true, true, That, dear me, is this door, That lets in that tear-blotted grin, And giveth its glazing, As a child may by love be taught! O, I love it, dear! And the tears are hard, And the storm sifts by, With their grinding and grinding, And I feel them piercing In my own dead heart! Grim Death! One kiss Takes off my life. Let come what may Ten thousand years. Well-stored with women's tears At the last of all. O, I shall go Through wall and stone, And of myself alone Do not complain. For each of us has sworn No oath again. I say not the day Is clouded with dread; I walk there alone, And find no sign. The great should stand By the broad-built way, And I fear no fate In Heaven or Hell. And the Kings shall row With me along, Where my knee is king, And the Queens remain, Till I reach this plain. They sit by the throne, With a great and solemn look Upon their knees; They know not what Fate Or their own discreet; They feel not care, Nor the feet; For Heaven, here they wait, ======================================== SAMPLE 824 ======================================== Oh, who shall compass with his wings These beauteous things? Where, as through sunny glade, We'll cheerfully play, With tabor and instrument, And never too far away Intensely the thresh-board breeze In the orchard trees. In the wind of the morning that's surble the air, In the wake of the dawn, and in flying away We'll hear the first cock crowing upon the bough. And up in the morning, as the scent is fresh and rare, With my little red feather like plain on the heath, Astride on my bosom I'll find the bird of the air A settin' my nest, and my nest it flew in. A queer little flat little, When we rocks never a hill; If a man's in the situation and sits on the green A pine ain't an' no' that 'twixt him an' me! So now I'm confronted, an' so I'm delighted, pardie! When I go outside in my proper shape, An' my body an' the wind is a scyture o' wee things, The likin' I fust for a drop o' red holes O' human love, it's a duck o' red plums, I'd be mucked if I didn't come drag a pig in-- My soul's down and crime-black in! O, sweet were the locusts with tendin' down Like the wings o' the flail--my knee on the ground! And I'd curtsey and rub my stiff hands o' smother In the 'kerrin' cool een o' March. I'd peer into every nook in the sky As if I'd be snuffin' the weather and blowin' Off the road--there I'd star and I'd wonder If some one had got to stand in the air 'At hadn't the 'possum out there! 'Twas twic't in the house that Ahabie co'es Of fuss and mischief in ev'ry case! So up I got back in the plums--when I found The spot took the form o' a dance. An' I roused myself in the old Man's bed When the football was all at play; An' I waked up all day To the green bushes on Ebor's height And struck the gum holes from the sight, An' I knowed that he wouldn't much grieve me If I let him--for I believe me! Now, look at the place where the hole is up! The strangest one there, that I knew! Where the bluebottle is spread and the green shoots Have nothing to do but to wash my face! What was there that I picked up? Well, I guess it was Prodigal Bell. I don't know: I'm sure it is Prodigal Bell, But I reckon it's Prodigal Bell. I'm sure I was hiding my face in the moss In the dells that are cool when the weather's cool! It was nearly dark now, and the air was thick, And the wheel's run over and the wheel's still hang. I can see my place, it was D. I said With a start: "Fellows? Eh, D. you got there?" I couldn't help laughing at D. I struck 'em-- I can't lose my head if the old wheel's there. There! You can't win a bet if you don't! I have made a couple to make a bet. There! Is that pie? I had hoped 'twould have eat But you won't get after dinner at least. You can't need your arm, but you mustn't waste! You must open your arms to take hold of me! Why do we need even one eye to see The mill as it flour? It is because I can't do what I'm told. What you want, you critic! Why, first come this, Your wheel's wonderful ways. O God! when He hollers out for some, To do His part, it is infinite. But which shall we say? O God! pray be still. The mill wants you, it is not far far back, We must look down on it with open eyes. The cushion which he treadeth on Is all one way to the green world and there, And he is better than the King of all, For there's more enterprise for him than wearing ======================================== SAMPLE 825 ======================================== ones, and numb. "Wherefore sit we here Who thus accuse us?" Only to ourselves Desiring of our pain, and what we are We do not know, nor whence. True is it, that when The spirit, from whose fuming chests has been Dissently lifted, sinks, and, fainting, dies, There, like a man, by violence urged to deeds Wrathful, so objectless, to death appears. "O Thou, who rul'st the shaken chord on which The minstrel sate, didst never break thy string, Who didst with stains of blood thy note pur swamp, Didst never walk with thine upon the heights, To touch the feeling feeling, by no fault Of mine, that struck me with its thrilling force, Until I felt it. Had I heard the name, Which vibrates still through Moses, for the cause, That moves mountains, were my torment, worse Of that I bear: but, if the song, which is A little used, might have the power to burst And whelm the mind, with many woes afresh, Yet might the fancy, too, that I am weak, And helpless, that I see, and do not see. For all the love, and all the hope I have, Cannot but wax the more, till on that hour, When that great voice, exalted when the power Was great enough to burst the chain of earth, And make the firmament resound with God. Thou, too, art with me; for when thunder finds Broad pinions for the mighty, then 't is day, And the sweet evening, and a little breeze We'll twine among the boughs that o'er it drap, And hear its music uttering its last breath. "Thy soul and body were not made for hell, But as the night by no stars shining: Thou hast thy God and he has made His world, For which no lust of hell is overlaid, But like a green leaf shining on a stream. Then as the lustre of a lucid screen, That o'er the ocean of the peopled globe Puts off the darkness, be thou lofty thought Clear to the world, and true to its reward. "In wild, familiar semblance now I stand, Where the same gusts as on their pinions play; The winds of heaven still stoop to my hand, And lashed waves revel with my form decay. Nearer they come; yet I by far outstand Thought of their voices, as they sing of earth, In the vast utterance of their harmony. "In shape I stand in such assembly born, As may to-day my mighty Father speak, Needing within myself a mortal song. That same high creature had from life to live So many years, and such a star hath gone, And heard so many songs; but I revere Ever the whole erase of what was made, As if that none were faithful unto God. "I often wonder what his acts avouch; And like a house that, if you wish to find, A beauteous model, such as this is found, Do I behold; and what I must not give Rise to the credit of deserved respect; But yet think not my praise was meant to light On all the boldness of his Providence; And, had I been awhile the subject of His works, how short soe'er, my praise is due. He was the first whose great discoveries First made them here in glory and in praise; A poet's verses, still delightful and delightful, A pleader's song, a firm ennui. That is much, But I will therefore only praise his work, Though not so famous, of that fortunate crew And great New England poets. When this praise Is reared unto the summit of the heavens, And the whole world appears to have a myriad Of starry eildas, all will yet be ours And ours, though not so great or so instructive. "Blessed are they whose riches cannot lie; Oh, dearest friends! do you, if that you can, And I, whose greater, nobler genius is Just, true account. Nor will I lift you higher The more you feed mine own; for though so much Of work and sweet has been at best received, Greater so greatest is my greatest curse; Though the fair fields of hewing our love-kiss Are yet more barren than your leman's scorn, Yet we shall grieve ======================================== SAMPLE 826 ======================================== about the stream, and when you want to drink, Or waste your strength with water and with care, Fling aside the issues of a fresh-ploughed ground, And grant a soldier's tribute as a prince's, Then what's a novice? Well, sir, what a pot, sir, They're less in number than the elm-deer's dears The virtues that our fathers laid aside, If he takes a straw to share it. Now, sir, pray Send an honest man his battle-dance, And I will teach the face you have to face; But the excuse is not unmeet for him Who doesn't play a duck if he fights well. Now, pray may greatness be your bile, And yeomen no malinde; Serve them yeomen alwayes, Your sundry that shall be, And this by eight-and-twenty, That not by ten to one, But each at as a tike, That hit the storax! Therefore it was that Fritz With spite and greed did With all the golden goions The Lord did in him breed, And in his own despite He made for spite the sight, His jeers were all a wonder, Of his own infirmity, Of his own vanity. "There's little girl, he cries; She stole my little dame, She stole my little brother, That I did not do him shame, For 'twas so pretty a boy, With a silver bowl and a golden bowl, That I liked him well enough." "For all he has was beautiful youth, 'Tis easy to smother the heart of a man; And few such modest things were his, But I counted them excellent With my money and spent hours; He lies, with his glorious lilies, With his rose, his snows, his chalices, And dares me none but his white house of flowers, My little house of my heart so green With the lilacs all around, For it seems, if he reached them, That my heart was filled with pain." Then back to the window he stole With a stealthy step and said, "Do you fancy the sun above, Or is it the bird beneath the wing?" "Oh, no!" she said, "for the world they sing Is something more like you, More like our grandmother dear Whose songs are like children dear, For it seems, if he cared not, He'd be kind and just like me." She came and stood by the window near, And oh, her hair was like gold! She listened, she looked at her lad With eyes half closed and half closed: "Oh, did you never think, love, Of playing on Poverty Hill, And never suspect that my son was found?" "Oh, no," he said; "but tell me, And if I'll but just watch and wait. For a gay little lad, as I look at him through, I know I've not been to the top of a man's degree; I never knew him since, but I think he is fair; I guess I've never seen him, but oh, no, no." At last she caught his hand and gazed in his face; "Gad I can spy just how far he is gone, So queer his tread, how like a man's, I suppose, His manner always much like his look to those: I guess I've never seen him; yes, I guess," He sneered, "I know him easily; surely he does. I fancy I know him: I see, but I smell-- Oh, you couldn't guess what the man is to tell! And you know he is to be sure he is there, For I think I can see, without help, what is fair." And straightway the speaker rose with a yawn, "I smell," he said, "but I like him--well, perhaps. I cannot see, but I can trust That as for him, I really feel, I have a need Of knowing just one thing and just what I said, So are you sure you won't suppose he is dead?" "I'm not deceiving you," he said, "but he's alive; If I knew just how far he would go and come, Sure for one moment he'd be near to me here, And tell me just how he liked me, and how he loved me. For I remember all I did, and I thought I could not touch at all, and I do now ======================================== SAMPLE 827 ======================================== s never to be crossed. Since much endured, my friend the fool hath taken Both work and money, grievous treasure, And yet he builds his maker's home. 'Tis cruelty! 'tis cruelty! Woe! woe! Of small, fond love, the end shall come. He turns from suit to suit--his mamma, And he is seized with grief and pain; Yet he, once more, perchance is safe, Though he returns to her again. Down, evil-forth, upon the thankless one, Into his dungeon 'tis undone! From life the padlock soon has vanished, That bar to me, alas, for ever! And sooner is it borne away, Than death one misery may end. And soon my happiness will crown me, For, lady, here, I shall do more. Behold, I greet thee with a sigh, By Jove's sweet beam, the tears I shed; And naught seems drear before I try, As to myself, upon my head; It wounds my heart, 'tis only fear, From my last agony of prayer, That knits me, wither'd, helpless, here. 'Tis thy beloved life's best cure! 'Tis mercy now that kills me. To the wild bosom of my heart, I thank my God, this calm, calm rest. Ye wantons, play, Who mourn the prey, So soft ye mourn, while ye may mourn: For tears are but the torrents born To speed you in your unclean reign, Who careless or unknown by earth But in and in his course is scorn. Ye tell me what a lovely smile Is sweetly hiding on my face: To look upon her charming smile, Whom we in common love rejoice. When, having seen, ye fondly thought, Your friends were wont your steps to trace; And knowing, sure ye scarce knew how, Had entered there your youngest Grace. Though others, of a different kind, To you have clipt a loving name: They speak of you, but none of those; A comfort yet, your sorrow shows; And when in vain those beauties fled, No longer could your own be said, That he, your latest-lovely fair, Departing must be left your care. There now is peace, and joy, and peace, In this great world which we decay: A few short months, to break the gloom Of those we love, and those we hate; Ere yet the mouldy heart has ceased To love, it will be all the best. 'Tis true, my friend, ye often are In season used, and gayly dress'd, When ye at length may be exempt From every petty noise and hurt; And not because the merchant fear A venturous worm in distress to rear, Which chuckles forth at midnight hour When he that sits upon his bower Looks up, and sees it not, but stands Beside the gate, wher'er he spies His mistress, though he scarcely stands, Yet keeps the welcome guests in hand. Those pleasures also I have seen, And still enjoy them, each of course; While you, my friend, are still at ease, And not unwilling to believe. Thou lovest alone, I dare believe, To feel no wish to entertain; And, though from public raptures freed, In the most secret hour of need, Even with thy thoughts thou dost not grieve, For I can ne'er with thee remain. But, friend, alack, such bliss to hope! A few days therefore do not scope, While in that moment thou dost gaze, That some one should not persecute Thee with his cloud of office drear, Nor shouldst thou fear to die the next Unless thou gav'st a sinner here. This good-by to my native place, The country, nature, wit and power; The whole creation, that is great, Must be one system that begets: For grandeur when we wisely scan, Is not a wonder of a man. With him it is not for the life, If things be that which come to hand, 'Tis of the moment and the place That we upon our wishes trace. In me is neither lawful, good, Nor can the honour of a brood Be every thing in me fulfill'd, Or rais'd and rais'd to please the mind. This is the ======================================== SAMPLE 828 ======================================== The nations's curse, that all she lov'd, her pains Plying continual on herself; the vain, The deaf, the lawless, and the tributary gods Who paid the debt of woman to their shame. But, me, I see thee leading single forth The murderous wrong, the slaver of the horse, The shaggy goat, and evil e'en in song. He seem'd not, but, insulting as he rose, 'I see thee'--so the great Apollo hates him!-- Olympian Jove! hath Jove in wrath destroy'd A nation that, in beauty such as thine, In years past, had been thine own; the youth whose rage Driv'n by avenging flames; and nigh at hand Mark'd for a sign against the land's decay. Olympian Jove! by favouring sign and sign, To me was given the phantoms; they are men, All, all alike; and like the ancient chaste With those to whom thou mad'st the louder three. And whatsoe'er it is, we may not choose But learn as thou, Jove's consort, and thy sire. All this I now shall say; nay, since on earth Thy gen'rous indignation hath supreme, Nor stands thy wrath, which never, else, before Had known to earth or sea the dreaded name. Then let the Greeks with dauntless hearts oppose Thy savage hatred; and, if once provoked, The men of Troy shall meet the coming storm.' "Hear yet more fiercely," spoke aloud the King, "Against our fates this day we burn; they watch Round us, and from their parapets impose On each its blow, and lo! their eagles fly." He spoke, and seized the mighty mass and shield. With unabated rage his speech it rous'd; Nor did his breast with lance and buckler feel Th' unwary onset of the Trojan men; But braves, as all their troops well know, the storm And terror of his wrath, who, oft conpos'd In glorious strife, against the will of Jove Prevail'd not on the side of Mars to smite, But, as he rose, gush'd into men, and fell Down by the feet, with loud low clamour shrill. At Ajax, Glaucus, Eioneus, made all A council there to meet; and each began Soothing each other; with each, at length, Their strength and courage; each the other viewing, Expecting to descry his counsel wise. Then round the mares, who first had won their ground By deeds of Paris, Glaucus stood to mark His neighbour's face, and held aloof the field. The first who in the circus Italus Offered, and as the last to hand the mules, With strong hand seizing fast the reins, out-cried The 'chokeman, and their spirits thus bespoke: "'Son of Laomedon! whence came thy death? Thy death, who now art leading; who hath made The slaughter of thy troops to waste in dust? Why in the circus seemest thou so young?" "'Oh, whom hath Proteus thus address'd, who leads My youth afield, and leads the mazy dance Around the royal chariot, and presumes To brave me by ungovern'd steeds to fall? Sooner would I lie pale, and to be gone Than to be hush'd in my unhop'd escape. That hour, at council, when at hand, The long-hair'd dames and youths of Athens, all The Trojan fires, in multitude combined, With brazen arms and silver-shod spears, Attended, bold for flight, amid the throng, Or tost with gold and flaming elephant, Amid the thund'ring storm of battle spears, Or in the deep abysses of the deep. He spake; and Glaucus o'er his visage shed A cloud of terror, lest the prize might pass In triumph with the ships; so dark the strife. Then from the crowd the Trojan dames arose, And thus, with anguish, to their Queen they pray'd: "O daughter of Saturnian Jove, accept This proffer which thou shunn'st; with untold spoils, And with th' unplum'd of presents which the Greeks Have won for thine indignant Father's sake, We here will yield thee, and th' appointed prize." She said, and quickly from her golden ======================================== SAMPLE 829 ======================================== . For now she comes, With wine and spices To brighten heart and head, And e'en The smoky cloud Turned dim to red; She came to burn Without her red; And now she 'll burn Without her red. One day she lost her mate,-- Away, then, madam, be merry, And the next of June Will come, And bind you in a bowl of June. But the wind is high, And the skies are gray, And the wind is high, And the leaves hang yellow; The warm South-wind Is coming to pass, And the wind, that moaneth, Is now a swallow, And now a moon, Wander, alas, and wan, Down the dark wold. Twilight is the sweetest voice of Spring, A warmarling of tune between its leaves; 'Tis like the voice of one who in the woods Hath wakened from a dream,--'tis like the dawn Of very heaven that lies afar In faintest azure of a rosy wreath; Like dawn will be her coming back again That has not tarried in her very hour, And in the cornland will she ever come. All noon, all night, and noon, and noon, It is her still voice that is heard in sleep, Calling my soul, calling my body, saying Ends, as she went, down the pathless steep; And I am very lonely and alone, And this is all I need to say to you. "Have you no song, my lady, And you must sing some other?" "Well, what is the matter, lady, That you sing so enchanting?" "A song, my lady, that no man can tame, A song, my lady, that must be all the same; You've seven pretty songs to make your life, You've seven swords to fight the Arcadian knight; But for all your songs you'd better not sing one." "I have seven pretty songs to say unto you, Take one of those that's out of reach of you; If you can sing one song without you, Sing ten, and twenty-four times over, And it will be as much as you can do." Only a petal, just a petal, I see, But it is time to dream of it. He is there! He waits there, waiting, where the lilies gleam. He waits there, yet no cloud or shadow dim Comes up at his coming, yet no breeze is heard; The shore is bright because he tarries. His sail is clouded, his mast is broad, He bends himself to the distant shore, He sees a white boy standing there before, Says, "Now I must woo again and again, And I must kiss him once and again." The yellow moon got a new moon As if it couldn't be fair; It came to think that if the moon Could find one of the angels there, My soul wouldn't go back till night Had a rum-leaves in her hair. In the black ooze and the roses A silver figure stood: He made a roundelay that was like a jew-ly poem? He said: "A swan's wing is.... Pelican, don't be afraid; Cannot cover him? Rain, if you ever saw a man's feathers." "That's the kind of woman," said I. He'd kissed me, and said, "Yes, my sweet, And take your right hand out of your, If I want to kiss you." "Go away," said he, "and it's a plot." He whipped his old arm round my waist, And half tore my breast. The moon went down and the roses Flashed their bloom into the air, And he went over to where I was-- Where I had never been before. He went with an opera-drum. He made this gaudy, 'kerchiefed rag, And over it, with a bellow Tugged at the same time as hell. "Who's poor?" asked the little Jim. "Shall I have him soon?" "But they helped him out on the floor, And he didn't notice it no more." "I can't, dear," said the little Jim. "Why isn't it beautiful, Jim?" Last week, as I dozed from a play, I saw the critics pass in a row: I saw ======================================== SAMPLE 830 ======================================== mild the mist in form accurs'd, Nor by good sense restrain'd, my captor's aid, In agony of mortal indolence Let him my habitation now command, And in his Goddess-mother close my clasp. For I had won, foretold of adverse fate, At Juno's word, the heavenly charms to wait. For e'en such days, nor night, nor cold, I sought, Nor 'scaped affliction, nor was wanting aid. But when, as oft 'tis said, the days renew All that we dream of, and ourselves we seem To wish to win, we fail at last to find That happiest spot that boasts the morn of love. Then the new day I conquer'd; as I went Myself at first, and used to to the past, To bear for witness the eventful fault; But little loved, that cast its conscious shade Into deep thought, and made me doubt of it. And, as I cross'd the rapid stream, I told The story, and the fair deceiving dream; Thy tale, false deceiv'd for e'en presumptuousness, To be fore-fool'd, is more attemper'd now Than folly's crown, and crime in vading oath. For one of awful essence, in her bower, Trembling, I pray'd, that she, returning late, Her secret deeds and honour'd tiding guerdon, Could give to know; and we, who fear'd each other, find, For the first time, in love, the last and least. My soul unquailing sought the stream; I took The impulse of the god; was soon forsook. And he, with wine of joy he seemed, and wine Whose wantonness must make the heart divine, The self-same heart in my unhappy breast Pierces the spirit from the soul; and on his brow My blank avenger sits, and weeps him o'er. Oh ask me not! a raging passion blinds My breast. Why suffer I to meditate? O well-beloved! couldst thou as well believe Thy valour, by no other ills abhorr'd? Could'st thou as well forego thy sacred trust? How often hast thou vanish'd from my sight By my ill prayers! I met thee as I might, The dreadful Goddess in the realms of night, That day when on its journey to my native isle I pass'd the lonesome portals of the isle. Such was thy dream! Ah! when I felt the heart Beat without check, I vow'd to stand apart, Nor dallied in my home. Ye gods, with justice I And all the powers of Hell, no truce deny. The hearts that bleed and more are hard, no truce To mine offended; thou my hand profane. But let me hence,--my Goddess-mother's will, Convey'd on yon fair isle, since this my love, This tender tie!--all that remains to me Is yielded; could my enemy prevail, I would not frame aLess than happy, dear as I, Worthy in Heaven to be. But since, indeed, With all my earthly powers, hath aught remain'd Unchang'd for thee, the rites, I understand, With songs obscene to please, and paltry wine, Not only shall my heart be glad, when thine, Even in this happy home, is soon no more. And if thou e'er hast lov'd me in my love, Then, after many years of wandering, thou May'st ever find me with no other choice Than the Deliverer; thou seest that I alone Am lov'd of thee; and none are so belov'd As I, and none can ever hope to come. But, if my love be lov'd by any one On earth, whom thou hast honour'd in thy love, Whose heart is mine, gladly will I confess My love for thee. So shall my faith do this, And thine have heart-warm kindness from above." He said, and from the lowing of his wings Withdrew the timid child; the slumberous arm Clasp'd in his father's breast, and thus he said:-- "My father! I am thine, thou knowest the love Which I, a man on earth, embraced and lov'd, And favour'd by the gods, though in this boat, Conquer'd in their fierce wrath, there in my bark Thou wilt command me, and a fitting he ======================================== SAMPLE 831 ======================================== ; Huge mounds, great guns and stout artillery, Spurred, bitten, foired, and kicked, and rusted, Till even their smoke went out of their eyes. Then G. E. H. was summoned, who The Captain's the man? What work they did, But all in the night on the slag he lay. It was not the boss, with his shell-wreath frayed, But G. E. H. was summoned, who Came clear through the wall and broke his shell, " commands of our men!" He is very well. He may well be over-bill, if so, And die for a share in that small estate." And G. E. H. is reckoned and sent away By the officers who stand in the lighted room At his stern, and await in the smouldering gloom A word to prove if their officers come To lay hold on the soul of a swine or a cat, Or a rat that begets, or a fattening fat. G. E. H. is chosen of God. On his altar the Lord Urges firmest obedience and claims our accord. G. E. H. is chosen. When the hour strikes, On the floor, in the passage, kneeling, he kneels, And his great bell gently booms out the evening sky. G. E. H. is chosen. From his shrine, in the vestibule, comes Gibraltar's son, with his son, a nobleman; And the rest, from the chief's service, are slow to save, When the trumpet strikes, and the wild battle-field. G. E. H. is chosen. It is not from instinct or fear That the ranks break forth in a ring or a spear, But from duty's path we move, we who break And the pride of the foe blockaded our way, To our fathers who died for the King to-day. G. E. H. is chosen. From his grave we draw The horn of the mean, to our clan's honour Who call him our father. He sleeps in the sight Of our foes, as a beast and the strength of the fight. B. A. To us is a name for a nation's honour; (G. E. H. The clan), and the man that shall reap it again. We have bowed at the feet of the foe for our own, We have given our best to the sword and the flame; We have killed the strong, and we have not undone The honor of man for our father's high name. G. E. H. is chosen. From his grave we draw The horn of the mean, to our clan's honour, Who call him our father. He sleeps in the sight Of our foes, as a beast and the man that shall reap it again. G. E. I have heard of our own shall the brave men's foot Fail not in the path, though we all fall dead; Though the first of the slain may fall in the fray, Though the last be taken, and death's latest prayer Be wiped out of the earth ere he lift his head. G. E. E. G. ye will hear; for the wild words fleet. H. A. The wild war-cry is heard, and the battle cries. G. E. I have seen no more. I am left alone. G. E. Are you lonely? Not even a foot. The fight is over, the field must be won. The son of a conqueror must come to-day. The son of a conqueror must come to-day, Though he leave the field and the fight for a day. He meets the grey-eyed women and shelters his door, Though he may not see them with all his eyes. E. It is well. We shall reap the harvest ripe For that which the Lord's good will has sown. G. D. Let no more. The morning is come. G. E. Let our eyes be dry. F. F. I have seen, but I've heard not. Forgive us. Give us grace to see that our foes come in. G. A. W. To leave him alone. G. If the gods say we will be appeased, Give us grace to see them and choose us his man. G. Yet do thou, my friend. I have neither heart nor hand. But, friend, in what way lies the test of power? G. We know none. ======================================== SAMPLE 832 ======================================== aside the robe of night And ride the whitening polar star To where the yellow evening wears Its sober crown of fading red. Aye, sad and solemn, is the name, Of Alexander; far and wide As falls the sceptred king of flame Or filial Saturn, where his bride Her hand in freedom wears, and smiles Uncrowned upon her hair. But, where, through all the years to come, Is Alexander not thy doom, For what is life without thy home And thine, O cruel King? And what, if none the realm shall share, And sorrow wring her soothed with care, As, crowned with lilies, thou must bear The queenly lilies of the snow; And when the quiet grave shall close Her every year, her every year Will weep the death-drowsed sea. 'And, as his messenger to-day His mission done, by God and man, My Angel-Muse will mark her way To join the company; and then Will watch her riding slow and gay Among the moorland streams again; And I will tell her to provide Her services among the tide, While I, in cloister dim and grave, My true St. Helen at her side, Will give to each a clean, white hand That fits the place of rest, and he Shall leave her all on sea to be, And, dying, leave her in the deep, Her faithful, loving wife and maid And three glad angels for their shade, And lay her, on a grassy hill, Between two flowering trunks of larch, Upon two tender, flowery trunks, Wherethrough the shadowy water talks To freshest winds that moan and fade, A thousand softly-flowing urns That half awake the sleeping larks, Will scarcely be unheard of thence; For, as if heard in pious ears Of morn and evening, all things hail The good old Lamb of God, and from His mother's hearth shall bless the earth With everlasting largess--tears Of penitence and pain--even so, Mothers of men shall watch and pray The Word of Mercy through the days In a clear, faithful hand. And yet, Even so, when I shall look again, My mother's eyes shall see the work Of other hands, and her heart shall be The glory of old days! And yet The chill, cold touch of her own hands Shall drag me to my work again; And, mother, yet thou shouldst not weep For years and years of work to end, And for the glory of old years That seem to have been, for the sake Of old. (His father, I have heard with me.) Let those dear pityings of my heart Be as your humble votary, And, only heard by shrilling love, Oh! bless you, mother! with a hand As white and soft as a lily-bell, So soft, so white, so every day, For me, no more, to say. Out of the East, of a being at rest, I have risen to be your humble slave! Out of the West of endless being at rest, In the land of living blisses beyond the grave! Into the land of the wanderer and friend, Love, that is weary, and that no hope can impart, Let us, I pray, the Lord deliver us, Into his holy hand. Though we should stray to the West, and no longer roam, Be it ever so humble, we know that in home, There are needs, there are needings,--and we, a nation, may Give the people that proffer us of right, Let us sing to the kind that in this our duty lies, Be it ever so grateful, and sure, and loved, And hoped for, and cherished, and yet revered, One of us shall be loved. Peace, though the spirit of man be despisted of power, And his hopes in its darkness and restless acerbity Tended and laid to rise, Loud yet with anguish cries; 'O God! if I had nought else to accomplish but this, Then would I have given the strength of this man to sit Crushing his spirit down, as the dog should, at least, Have, I pray,--made one Of the food he eats. Then would I rather the miserable deed (Were it true that the deed had been base and had left you so) Than thus, without hope, that ======================================== SAMPLE 833 ======================================== From me is nought but what is far away, And we shall miss it well--if we will stay. We who have died in the fiery flood, By whose fell lot the drowning sea is laid, By whose dark wings one cloven glory gleamed, Have risen, triumphant, to live again, Triumphant o'er the wreck of war, in the warm sky; Ay, and of that too certain anguish this. Well mayst thou wail--Death's agony and woe. Who thus have told that Death alone will know The guerdon of a tortured lot, since Thou Ordain'd the taste of such delights to borrow, Before the spirit's desolating breath Is taken, to destroy the end of life; Till at the last, by reason of such dread The world shall recognize the end of death, Their one crime sinning, and for it enroll'd. Thou too must look on this, of wholsome hours, When men shall celebrate their little deeds. Of times that shall be, when above, below, Beyond, around, the everlasting hues, With which Heaven's love in equal measure leads, And solemn whispers in the universe: This is thy doom: and this thy mournful fate, Shall be the fate of thee, O thou to me A fugitive, and of my little ones. I seem to see thee earnest in this sigh, While the steep sky hangs heavily on sight, In that far land of peace, of light, and life, Where we were born; and angels our sad cry Brooked from thee, from the rosy shore of sight. I knew it, felt it--and with numb'rance deep, Led on by thee, thy little vassal kind, By maggot tongue and whisper'd kiss reveal'd, 'Let one of two,' thou didst exclaim, 'with mind'-- Such is thy error, vile and faithless child, That he who first a world should see, is foil'd. His worth, in which the flatter'd world is foil'd I' the guise of folly, when it doth begin, While yet it can, draws from him as far As virtue can. O how shall I win grace By my life's plot, and how, for my desert, Shall I seek comfort in this heart of mine? 'There lives a man might earn an honest wage, Who cannot in his conscience wish to reign: But from his offices he cannot rise, Who, from the hands of circumstance, sustains All qualities, all boundary-bars, the spies Of circumstance, and those that may be born To lie as lambs within the manger-herb Which guard the good of him, and give his blood A living atmosphere. So long as Earth And sun shall cease to be, shall he attain To Heaven's amiable ends, and be a man Of heart and soul, and looking in God's eyes; And be a man, with manhood's peace, and powers At grapple with his fellows. For when things Are not, like man, enough to be sustain'd By Jesus' spirit, and grown grey with age, They shall be as the city, and become Such as in later days the priests and poor Have heard, who now their time of prayer accept In many an age, and see without surprise The sons of men, that toil along the way Of concord and amplishments, must toll Their knell. In mercy and in mercy call The poor unto the house of prayer, and bring Their blind and evil ways to birth; let them Feed on the unction of their wickedness; And be the outward part of those to whom They are as truth's own portions. Then let these Be born to grapple with the world, and feed Upon its blessings ere the worlds be made: Or let the fierceness of their sin be less Than the hostility of time, which else Should fall on all who are. The fierceness of their Poor intellects which in the world have been Longer be-stung by envy, lo! they are So various, with no hope of more so much. And let not this too oft repeated tale Provoke new fears into the human soul, Suggesting dark events to heart and head, Suggesting storms to blow up, and to hide In darker mist the truth! Thus while the helms And brazen trump of truce peers from the strife, With different notes of woe the youth still sings, Sickens the eye ======================================== SAMPLE 834 ======================================== stone? Nay, still the cypress and the shaggy goats Dabbled my steps. Huns bayed and grimping answered me: Is any sea-born there a-rocking? I am upon the storm-rock standing, Watching their low marauding. I am upon the mighty storm-rock standing, Watching them rise from low-hung craggy snows Down-stream, and ooze far-off in whiteness, Clearing huge boulders 'neath a stormy sky: I am upon the storm-rock standing, Watching them sink to silence. Here no winds stir. The bark is silent. I see the moonlight. It is beautiful! I see a sea. I stand before it. One moment more. No song is there. I cannot speak. I feel its magic stir Within my shaken hands. I am alone. It is the moonlit night. It is the rage of the tempest. I walk as it were bound To storm-winds here. I am in the rock of dreams. I am on the storm-rock standing, Watching its low marauding In wild gusts of doubt, fear, rapture, Under the groans of the wild torrents. I am in the rock of the wild torrents, Chased in the darkness of the mountains. I am in the rock of the wild torrents. I am like some man, Parting with mad thoughts of the end Wherein their terrible wrath has perished. It shrieks and whines. I am in the rock of the wild torrents. I lean from the rock of the wild torrents, Lifting my black locks in the gusts. I cry, and the torrents sleep and groan. I am in the rock of the wild torrents, Smiting the rocks. I cry, and the rock thunders. I have rocked up the wind to rock-crags Into the caves, Scooped under the clouds. I break, and the rock flaps, And the rock flaps its sides; Like an avalanche, Flashed away by the torrents. I am in the rock of the wild torrents. In the face of the flood. In the clack of the rock-rocks, In the clefts of the rocks, I am in the rock-rocks. I am in the rock-rocks, Brimming with poison the clear fountains. In the forest of mad sounds, In the caverns of groans, In the caverns of mad mood, I am in the rock-rocks. Nought could I do, All I had to do. O the way is easy to walk together! But it is easy To walk together, And to walk in company; But it is easy To walk together, And to walk in company! Lord, how great is the sun, That to-day is mine! All my heart's desire Is a joyful one; All my hope is thine! Here's a rapture to look on! As I lean in my sleep, With my lips on mine, I am a dream-tormented spirit, And I lift up my voice to sing thy praise. Open wide the gates of the mountain, Let me pass. Wandering alone O my love, a boy Weep in the garden, Where young blossoms spring! Where the old trees branch Their shade amid. There my voice dwells sweet For my sake your cup-wrought rest to seek. I am of the wildwood, Lonely and white, Both of the little that love is born, Both of the night. There be none to hate, None to love, none; Here be friends enow With my longing, Kindred and right. The greatest blessing that's given And most of the greatest sin is left When the glory of God is begotten! Then we know our peoples first, As we live, Lived, and died, As we live, O my love! Sunlight and rain to-day, Clothes for the darkest; Love, they made tender, Feared to be sorry, Played with them never. Surely the high tree stands By the side of the East and the West, And, behold! and "List for the word!" Up she springs with glee, "See! there be great things!" Greet we the mountain-cats, ======================================== SAMPLE 835 ======================================== : Vith goodly exists another Girandy. With grief the parents all forlorn At last encountered in their thorn; For a great many-year’s frost lies On all their natural sacrifice; Till now the bridal day is come Devoted to the funeral dome; Where high the royal brothers high Sung hymns of gladness and good-by: Where twelve great sires their harps did raise For silver shrines to bless the bays; Where twelve youths travelled o’er the flood With their sons and their grandsons good; And twelve brave bachelors tried To build a fair world after died. The lively wax presents the bride, And nothing lovelier yet is said Than they who, near the nuptial bower, Sat pensive by the weeping flower: The sun’s returning beams they eyed, And bade their care for all betide; Then bade them haste to feast the lad, And fainting fill their spirits sad. The lively wax presents the bride, And measures in their pleasure’s tide. The lily’s blooming cheeks they view, As ’tis their daily work they brew: But what can give their charms delight, Or bear the ills which shake the knight? From great Ayodhyá( deficiency) they came, Each maid and matron fair to name; To hear the minstrels duly chant The holy hymns of thelay’s chant; To mark the singers’ voices faint, Their words of love in ten short sovair, And their fair forms with care they paint, Till, by the spirit of the vow, Unable to be heard to know That they must consecrate the blood Of husbands, brothers, sisters good; (And both the brothers’ race) to bless The laws of Daityaṇḍak’s(513) town, For she will catch her fawning ewes, As Jávasta(513) first the work shall crown. When all was done, they took the dead, But laid them, as I will, aside; And when the sacred rites were o’er, The place was filled with people more. For so the men to him who told, All told, all honoured from the old: But, with their wands, the saintly peers Bestowed the task to consecres. They shared, when midnight rites were done, The lifeless bodies for the dead. The Bráhmans, widowed and o’er-ruled, Kauśalyá, now that champion old, Saw, as he gazed, the ground before With the dark ashes at his feet: And when the cot he loved bestowed, He thought it sin to quit his bed, But bade, by many a lucky chance, His wife and children to advance. High transport filled his mother’s breast, And pride dispelled her kind request; So for a while, his lips to speech, And food to all her wants congealed, The happy pair the princes eyed, And then his mind with fury plied. But yet a change had turned his lot, So glorious in his youthful thought, And now his heart was bold to speak, From wicked deeds that cause the weak: Yet once he hoped to free his mind From all the fires his wife had kind. But truth is gone, that now he knows The present need of Ráma’s woes. That Ráma, on the earth who bore The name of Sítá, might restore His wife and kingdom to the skies Like Indra monarch of the skies. By impious husband Ráma sent, With awful thundering at his nod He razed Ayodhyá’s long ravine And cleft it in his fury, then A hundred leagues away he passed, Then by the giants’ power assailed, And now was come in woods to stand Against them in their cruel hands. A man, a monster huge of mould, And yet a woman like the mould Of some great God who died of old, A lion in his cave had gained, And thus in tender tones complained: “Thou, lord of Daśaratha’s town, Which awful trees around us spread, Now from the pregnant mud forth pour These choicest of the venison, Allí amaunched, for the fate ======================================== SAMPLE 836 ======================================== , the sister and the wife. So shuts a death-shade on the day When o'er our heads the clash of strife Shouts, imprecations, thundering on its way. Meanwhile o'er the lea some amblings fly With whirling course; then scarce are seen Helms to withstand the shock; with staves and hams Ajaces follow--foe to woe! So crowd the Greeks, and when the ships they win, Return, when fate decrees that there should be, The Theban captives. As when breaks the cloud That wraps Ceres, so was Hector proud, And so his arms and prowess she restored. He saw, as though the raging blast had failed, That a chief's word, which not in might is sought, Should force the sea, so, by his anger fought For help from heaven. Achaians and themselves Yet more, were by Achilles summoned forth; For fierce his courage, than his wrath was one; With strength from Heaven itself he scarce could raise The helm, and rushed upon the fleet of Greece. As hungry vultures when, amid the maw Of some fierce ravening lion, they espy One hungry maw, returning from the fight, And seek their home in all their desolat: So them in wrath they saw, nor dar’d abide The wrath of Peleus; but, his noble form Assuming, him defied, and him defied. Thus mourn’d Patroclus, offspring of the sun; Yet (all they mourn’d) implored him to impart The fates of Troy and vengeance of his host. All this they witness’d. Then, when morning dawn’d In golden-peaming armor, to his ships The stately ship amidst of the wild bark With honorable pomp they usher’d her The youthful bard, Anchises’ offspring, bright With martial pride. The crew, as when they soar Where skilful Zephyrus the flood surrounds Of uncontroll’d Arecha, mountain force With ruthless war from side to side inflames; As when two mighty fountains, from on high, Breathe mildly, and in mingled murmurs run Along the woodland shore, deep though it be, The watery waste is mingled with the main, While, to the seaward tending, mountains stay The water’s gentle torrents, as they flow Around the limits of their parent earth. Yet past the ship amidst those billows high The aged heroes glide; a thousand ways They till the spacious waste, and track with care Abundant shrubs, whose tops with hoary hairs Shrouds the steep flood, and in his flood profound Fast by the wicket find a narrow bed. Unseen they pass the isle, where yet the hand Of hapless Ajax guards him safe at home, While the hoarse Triton with unsparing force The waves to swell, his brother’s hopes devour; So rush’d the sea-birds; so the sailors dragg’d The brazen prow, and from the ship’s high top The rowers struck with axes and with oars. There, amidst order of the host, they held Their feast, the children of the watery fowl: With joy the Grecians then the gifts received. Meantime, returning from the court of heaven, Each to his several mansion at his home, Whose walls a lofty mountain raised to heaven. On those, from flaming sources twenty men Their sires of sons increased; then many more He from her shore the gold-deck’d presence keeps Of her cootal; quick her mother creeps Within the hall, and by her side appears To bare her infant boy, and with her arms Exhorts him to be nurse, whose tender years She for her own soft infant yet enjoys. But safe they sit apart, remote from him, The bright-eyed Pallas of the Pylian land. Her the famed Ægis too; those fathers old Icarius, and her son renown’d the steeds That with Thessalia’s chariot led: those here Led by Pelides through the ranks of war. Before the golden altar there was placed Fulfils of consecrated bulls, four bull Of purest bleat, enormous, ample, large, With plenteous grass, and grateful grass, they bound, And round their father’s head in reverential sound Three oxen, each a lovely prize to ======================================== SAMPLE 837 ======================================== , o'er Athens' land a mass she bore, With hoary garlands clad her head; a mound Of bones lay round, where well a mound had been Of sacred to profusion, in the town A monument of chieftains. Here, each skull On these sad, thatch'd a little urn, there stood, That house of Memnon, which the torch still burn'd, Long used to minister of wo to men, Of battle, when the softer fates ordain'd The victim: such the story of the dame. Asty to the palace forth she went, By chance o'ercome at last, and pass'd the gate, And reached the palace; there arrived, as he Enraged the council placed her, and began Renewing the last fight, who sought no more. He ask'd the cause, and she, whose heart allow'd To be the witness, then with scornful face And tearful accents spake: "O thou from heaven For this offence, O Queen! do I behold, Here by the well-built walls, the oriflamb Of Priam, the beloved of Jove! Whose memory casts around its shade, to claim My due, in wedlock's greatest privilege? Not such, O queen, thy sister and my son! That long ago hath been the bane of men. Why go ye thus in anguish to a place Where I inhabit? Is it thus, ye gods, The sport of whim and fancy, where ye suit My wilful counsel? Yet ye deem me still Some other of our race, so passing swift In various forms! There is not here a spot, Nor aught beside of rank, that stretches forth Between man and the immortal Gods, who form'd The covering of the earth; in mortal mould I am not yet, though yet so near to Gods. And is there then no spot, then, where to join The Immortals in communion with the rest? I came not hither long, for of the race Of Atreus, Atreus' offspring, once, in arms, In their stern council met, who, vex'd with storms, Their vigour in the realm of Telamon, Should strive with adverse rage against the King. Come, therefore, strife for strife, which all contest With irresistible afflugges yet to come. It were well if in even balance, weigh'd By wrath, at last, against the lot of Greece. I spake with wrath; the Goddess straight replied. This is the hero's cause, for whom I bid Thee, mighty King, by my superior force To thy request I bend: and shall it last, That he escape, whom I shall doom to die, From the rude host of Greece, when least I love All Heaven, and due for heaven-desire, with these I will invoke him, whom the Greeks reject As my most ardent lover; him, the best Of all the Greeks, in Myrmidons deplored, Whom they, departing, reverence and respect As loved as love; but that Achilles burn In wrath to the Achaians, let him die, Though languish'd yet for aye; that his great sire May by Atrides' sigh be cold and worn. My wrath shall then no more prevail, but mingle A war with fiery tongues, and meet debate Among the suitors; yet thus far I go Far, far before me, who may thus declare That I am matchless among all mankind. Either that he escape alive may die And burn me. Then, indeed, I ask no more That he prevail; that I, meantime, may burn In mine own battle with the sons of Greece, But that a wife like his, at least, may give To me his daughter, and, in evil hour, To share my bed. Yet of no blood, no less To be my bane, would be my curse or doom. Therefore, since first I came to fight with thee, So firmly, I will yet again compel Thy courage to my spear; nor till my hand Hurls forth a stone at me, at least, to whelm Thy life; but from that wound extract a pang Not mine. The arm shall fail not, nor the heart Dissemble. Vengeance flies not as a bolt Nor may we close the pestilential ranks Of enemies, save only we, the Gods, The broad-wayed enemies, the multitude Who through long years of wo to me have call'd From death, myself to combat ======================================== SAMPLE 838 ======================================== cyouth seems distant in the world C]. He now throws down into a deep abyss In which the bubbles of the merlin blow, Which dash him dead; then forthwith makes a plunge Into the fury of his natal slime, Sealing on erring souls accursed hope. Him with his tail the fierce artificer Made fierce, then tow'rds the whirlwind wildly flew: Then, with a mingling of his tail and wings, To hell beneath he turns. Stretched upon earth Now lies the body of that hapless man, The rending of his eyes and body hangs, As the fell storm-clouds when the sky is wan; Or as the ears by corn, or caldron milk, Worm-drunken, flap their caterwauling wings; Now high aloft on the bare steers he aloft Lay writhed; now here, now there, hangs motionless His head, as if suspended in the air. With motion slow now sinks the hapless man, All sunk beneath the waves, and scarce awake Except the seamen in the distant woods. Now are they come together, and the path Is long, the eddying whirl of sluggish death; Now raves the whirlwind in its sport: again The billowy flood draws on; while every wave Eddies along the keel: so fortune died, When over-strained, for change of place, he saw The sun set late, and all the world was dark. One straighten'd he his tresses on one side; Then said: 'Now, Geryon, best friend I can, For I am stout and fearless; take my shaft, And my good hilt of crystal.' All is o'er, And straight he vanish'd to the silent lake. Soon as he reach'd the bottom-bosom'd shore, Where lay the land-marks, terror-struck he heard The dreadful clatter of a steed, that past With screamings fill the waters; 'twas a sign That he should find a way, so 'scape the shocks Of yore; but this he knows, and fears not, much To witness that his followers reach the pass.' Swiftly he turn'd, as Geryon 'gan explore The crimson'd water, and it seiz'd his son. Down ran the damsel to her watery lair; Her elder with the same sad mother sat; But as he enter'd, the rough water rose; Her paunch was open'd to the boiling wave. Satiate and plunging thus he gazed, then thought With shame and terror: 'Woe is me,' he cried, Loud crying to himself; ''tis I, who thus 'Am doom'd ne'er to behold him more, nor know If I have been the man that he obey'd, If in the ring he chance to fight with me.' This said, he plung'd into the water's edge. He saw, and uttering a deep groan came on him, 'Woe! woe! to me,' he cried. 'Where is my son? May I to the greenwood come? or there, perchance, In darkness sink beneath the oozy bed? Or is it but a dreary den of blood, Where he betimes may try his wretched speed? Woe! woe! must I no gentle voice attend; But, warn'd by Geryon, my father's death Shall he aveng'd on me, and swear a vow The fountain of crystal should obey.' So gaz'd the Greek in Geryon, and his head He shook with horror; trembling at the view, He laid his hands on the wax-hilted sword: Then with a long and full and painful haste His face he cover'd, which, awhile unglazed, Now glaz'd with blood, and on the earth beheld His arm suspended; nor more certain death Did Geryon suffer from that view; e'en such The labourer's faltering with his life-blood drain'd. Gryphon and Medon then together join'd; Orsilochus and Halius, and the pair Made each upon each other, these dissolv'd In single fight. But now no more was seen The mutual slaughter of the Trojans arm'd, Nor yet the conflagration of the fight. Now both at equal intervals were seen, Suff'ring united force: the foot alone Withstood the assault; ======================================== SAMPLE 839 ======================================== --Aedit "And planted in a corner that would save, "A ping-pong of a teapot, chink a cheese"-- All in bad grammar he was so sublime He wanted to reveal his very soul. "With beasts and things like other men," he said. "He told the people--"Plays them on their bread," And everything that he was striving to do Became, by; for his actions were the same, Beyond the reach of any dragon-tom. I take it that I feel it two and six. I wouldn't if he had the eyes of blue, At once, his troublesome eyes, full of wonder; And so he stood, and viewed me with a scorn, Turning me at the sour, small mouth so hidden That I am anguished up to anything. I can't explain that I was made to sneer At the home clatter of his thin low feet; Nor that I would, in my unshuttered pity, Assert that I was somewhat frightened of him. I know not why, but there's something still in me For that self-contempt of everything I'm at, That he has quite the face of everything, With his two eyes of clout at best, if you please, His eyelids and his teeth all laid away, And his two feet that had refused to press All that was in him, all that still is folly-- That's what he was; and so I'll merely say, But I've no time to crack my bones in bullock-slash, And for a while will search for a sinewy lamb. The matron took an apple To feed the mother of her husband. "May she be pretty," said her husband. She is not really charming Because she hasn't sense to touch her baby. Oh, little boy, be careful Of cocks and ewepaw; And tell me quickly That I can, too, do. For if you don't acknowledge That you're too fond of Mother's feelings-- That you should eat a pudding or sæmon-- I'm not so nice as Mother's If you don't get the sense to insult her." The cloudlets were a-blowing, The mistletoe was falling. Said the maid, "Why did you cross me? Well, well, I know that I won't come back." "You're not the woman," answered he. "You are too blame, I know. You don't know about my heart, And I'm only five and six. That man you married last Monday Found a rich and beautiful wife-- His one-and-twenty tailors-- "And why did I say I was right?" "Oh, I knew she was right because I could." "Oh, I guess I did; and, anyway, It's pretty much up to you for to-day. I feel quite well if you have any fun," The host replied; and then, for good a knowledge, He winked a very sleepy eye, And dusted out of doors a week ago. But all of that was what the two conferred, And now that I have spoken all is safe." The children ran up to their bed to play, When people they could see in front of them; And little they'd have thought, if they were dead, That they had only started living. "No doubt," said the girl, "you're wrong, I guess. You're not the woman to suppose you do. You may be right in this if you would know Whether you are not all over with you; You are the woman to say over men, To answer their attentions while they stay, To answer when they want, and when they shrink, The long cold nights, like clockchers, all behold!" "My child," said Mamma, "won't you give us leave To go to bed, to sleep, or such complaints?" "Not knowing," said Mamma; "I will take leave." And Mamma said nothing, but went on. Little Mamma alone said "Stay, I will," And vanished out of mother. "Why not go?" "Then cause that children run away and weep As much as you do, I will," said Mamma. And she said to her dear, ever since then, "We've been a long time loving, I'm afraid, But never a word could have spoken so." Little Mother-in-Law, when you said that to, He'd promised to treat you with Punch and you're not ======================================== SAMPLE 840 ======================================== , The officer, but he was never bred. Cooper, an officer for the war, He had little regard for men; And that was why the deacon took his cane And marched into the Strand; So the end of it was one thousand feet And one thousand foot in the red pied bed. "Captain, a moment since the war is done," The captain roared with a deep purple sigh; But he answered, "Nay, not so!" And he said to himself, "It was not meet For me to groan and die." He gave his cane the ball to the other side, And he said to himself, "Be kind, my lad, If you get your cane, and I'll pull you down Before we get into the yard!" The soldier washed his face, and the lad looked wild. He offered the ball so hard; But it found him a wenerable, mild, Unwiser, unselfish, and unafraid; And many a time the old man said, It had been a comrade's trick to fling The one that he loved the best; For this is the way the French deceit Contrived to ruin his comrade's pride. So every ball had its hour of play, And every day brought help to him. He would have killed himself to the knees, And been thankful for life to come; But the boys had cause to misbelieve That a little ball of red or green Was the hole where a mule should lean, One more bite of a comp at lip, One more kick of the banque, One more gibe at a lathe, One more watch for the ball of frock, One more crumple of black and blue, To carry this jaunt to you. That he were dead and had only his day, No more than a dozen more, No more than a score of bores, No more than a score of more, For he was captured, he sware, By the side of a stranger squire, By a score of jaunt and jest, By an army that never deposed him, By an army that never lured him He came to the very end. He had fought with a terrible breath, He was spent with that splendid word. For he led the onslaught of the man Through the thickest of his ranks, And he helped to keep back, if he could, The regular charge, The slow death-cart, The rattling wheels, And the cannon's charging steeds. They fought like brothers through the strife. They were routed by foes in a day. The monkeys alone fell out of bounds And kept their manhood apart; They cut down like needles, or some worms, They cut down like the pitiful worms; They forgave, they forgave, They borrowed, they gave, They gave, they gave, And they saw that the bullet missed, And they cursed like a hundred boys. The bullets were for the right and the wrong, They were stunned and stunned and the same. But again and again The wild, fierce crash Of the man whose death had torn their souls Like a torrent over the prairies. There's a speck of feathers on a gun That's as red as a new red rose Ready for a kind bullet. They have weakened and bled and fought Long enough, and some was left To lay down the others for fun. But they'll never quite understand The reindeer of Fate's whip In their trembling minarets. Let the blacksmith never pant While the artist's hand is on The team that rattles to dust. He'll start and thank God for the guns. The quiet lake Is not your teeming een, Whispering lone above the hills, Your sunshine sitting ne'er As glad as in its lair Where brooding Nature turns the spinning Of the waving leaves the sombre meadow scatters And the bell-bird's mellow fluting Leads it where it bubbles and darts around the surface To glassy deeps that murmur as they settle down the way. I sit beside your hearth, And from your living presence, Mother, I thank Thee for speaking. I thank You for the wisdom of working hard for our good things, I thank You for the wisdom of making our money together For working hard together. Dear Mother, how good! Over the top of the hill And over the hedge That hangs between the and the low bank and the ======================================== SAMPLE 841 ======================================== the world in din away-- "'Tis like a rose bank where the spray Is bright'ning on the leaf to-day, When lightly winds its petals blow And little waves are lightly blown On lightly winds from island stone. So while you are in watch and ward, With eyes that strain through peaceful sleep, You may hear one little child at play-- A tiny hand in palm-leaf wrapt." The "Grandam Life" is a poet who possesses many delicate things, and sometimes sings out with little pride. Out in the sunny fields where there's no study, He fancies to see little children, barefoot-- He thinks his mother will see him, When the bob-white bumble-bee-- Here in the grass-fields green and pale, Piping, and plucking, and piping, Serene and tenderly smiling, The little April lady, Lingering, and half unconscious, Bending low to the ripple That tinkleth on the fern-bordered And whispered word of the lily, And tenderly whispered, "Dear!" A blue-bird bluety-slaed O, yet he knew very little! He was thinking of nothing, And he half surmised nothing; He pondered secretly, Till presently, gently, He said, "Yes, that will do." Back on the road he ran-- A faint path, smooth and crimson; A troubled dream and a sweet Desire--but to a man A strange thing it seemeth Ending in terrors! He came close and stood. The moon he saw--an awful! A pitiful proud queen of nothing at all-- And smiled as she turned from the door, Till she thought of the skies and the gardens Where her wonderful pansy abides With her two little sisters, Upon slender swards floating From wave to wave on the tide of wings, And flying through star-lit heavens, And lighting on golden evening steeds-- He is fain to tell how these things Have been known as fairy-flowers! And now, O man, hearest thou not That fairy-tales in the air? Hearest not; for, a space, benighted, He lingers listening to your sweet Beneath his laurel-crowned forehead Till there's a voice he cannot hear An earthly echo foretelling, And peals too loud for the ear of mortal To fill the ear of mortal. Hearken, O splendid heart of music, To him who hath forsaken The life of all life's thraldom In the dark drear wood of Yarrow! He hath no power of his own soaring Who will not cease to be soaring Above the gates of our fast-fading Of song, and over our pathway To Eden-tide, with his shadow As night over the empty spaces Of empty and voiceless Chaos! He has no thought of a holy daybreak of sky that is starless And uncomplaining as the sky In the heart of the west when morning Is brightest. Hush! for he is not The highest born; there is no lesser. His nature is not easily heard As he rises to the morn, Nor knows the dark day when he shall Have speech first of his God, And his will understood Not as the great sea, but as the light That comes in the evening and goes out Through the dreamland under the heavens That is born on the heart of night. He is faith's child; he knows Not from the blest dreams of the quiet Nor from the hopes that are fair Nor from the faith that is true Nor from the hope that is high Nor from the will that resembles one Nor from the faith that is far--or most like man, Nor the belief that hath God, in his nature. I lift mine eyes, and dream That from my brows a golden light Stole forth to me, and seemed to say, "See, thou art nearer now than I, And I would fain behold thy face!" I catch the beams that glitter From the great Master's hand on high, And with them I would fain behold The radiance of his own great love Dissolving round and round its shining Like a winged seed in a sunny sky. The great thoughts of our boyhood Steal all before me; and a power Fills the high minds of our young men, That have grown old and are old, Toward ======================================== SAMPLE 842 ======================================== the dead on either hand; 'Tis the old and fair they once lived and died, Not young, and dead but living by their side; And life and song, and all that they could say, With age and death. O sing unto my roundelay, And waken me from dreams of day! O wind of the western sea, Come forth into the tropic pass, And sweep this wintry sea for glass; For I am dead, Elizabeth. Sing low--for I would fain express Lovely maiden and wild address, For all the tokens of her grace, For all the lily and the rose, For all her veils of loveliness, For all the azure and the snows, She doth not fall, though she be fair, For all the white rose of her hair. Yet fall thou--thou art of all the dead! For in the cradle where she lay All innocence and sweetness fled, He is thy child, Elizabeth. For she a thousand years hath been, A thousand years and more shall be, And she is not aware of thee; But many a something has she made That in her strangeness still she played, And many a memory hath she made, For she was glad, and she was gay. So sweet a life has never had So many a thing so rich a bird, So many a thing so rich a thing, And yet she hath a dream that sings, And dreams that on the water's brink Storms down the sea without a break. I sometimes think that on the hills I stand upon the edge of these Deep downs of clover and of trees, Where oft have been with wingless bees, Now freed from thistle-down the mist That covers me from noon's hot kiss. And once, when on the tasseled grass I laid my head, and leaned on this, And stroked the thyme, and watched the pass, And felt its cool breath stir my hair, I know not if it was there drawn That honey of the cherry bloom, That memory of her that hath Made a more delicate perfume. And once, while yet the roses slept, A troop of mallets moved in line, With ditches, and with bloody sins, And altars of the holy shrine; And once, as shakes a stormy cloud Upon a sudden, all was lost And voiceless in the air was heard The flute of Samothoth. And the air Felt feebler still, for Sam trod, Alive, all merry with the swain And singing still, among the train. So all that night, as dusk was red, Came, in my dream, with lagging pace, And through the town in merry guise, Whispering a tale of sorry wise, Passing the long night through, and came To Clarenz's house, where once I came. By the rivulet, where once I swam, With its shallow reed and long marsh-meagre, All between the hedgerows white as snow, Where the hedge was high, and the fen below, Where the little hedge grew thick and low, And the long marsh up to the bank there towered, Little by little, that I might know If she stopped beside me, still to go. This was the lane that led to Clarenz's door-- 'T was three miles south of Clarenz's farm, From a little distant, from a place so poor, From a little world that lies around a mile, Down a narrow bridge across the pond-- Whereon there is neither rock nor bush, Neither bush, nor brake, nor yet once seen, And nothing seems to touch the happy spot Whereon I'm wandering from my late delight. Is there a road with any good or ill? Do I miss some? If there is any bliss, Why, there's the fence. 'T is broken by the hill; From here to Liden mine eyes may pierce A mile right, well, for I am hot indeed. When I am seated, when I pause to say Things certain that have not the bliss to say, Do I miss any ways of joy or woe? When I may say so, is there any bliss In the short landscape? Ah! it doth but prove That one or many days it is to me A truer place, a brighter green, perhaps. Sweet Spring, a pretty thing, And thou a fairer ======================================== SAMPLE 843 ======================================== pe, the Shakespeare whom we as mist Find answering in it, and drain it and make it. Not in the heroes of these present times Is that old tale inscrutable to us, Who, with keen consciousness of change, and thirst For truth, refused our early way to Europe, But in proud minds and simple minds enticed To thither, where the Western spear-shaft meets The sun upon the farthest walk of heaven, Searching for truth among the stars of heaven. There rose a voice that pleaded soft and calm, Fervent, and mild, and smooth, and earnest, not In its reproof or its reproof is meant, But over all of it there rose a cry, And through the world in hot and dull amaze, Uprose a full and eloquent voice, a voice Of mild Colonos or of those who loved The kindly hearth, and of the city's peace, The city's wealth, and of the sparkling spires That wreathe the turrets of that high romance. E'en in that hour, at such a time of peace, Would the sweet stars of brotherhood shine o'er the State Near to that Church from which they draw the nations, And glorify it with their stateliest pennons. Where Freedom, loving the old memories That closed the Poet's sleep, knelt worshipping Upon that stone with faces pale and mournful That made their graves with her who stood so near them. At times, then, when upon the forum-arch, With eyes upturned and lifted hands stretched out And joined to the contemplation of old Greece, In gloaming hush of that deep voiceless speech, Came the loud music of the Golden City, With holy words and lucky hieroglyphs Telling that all was well. Yet still the bells Whose echoes, as the nightingales, were hushed And hushed in the dark hills. Yet even then The crimson stillness of the sunset flushed On their calm faces, and the grey, old light That smouldered in the eyes of all the East Says, in those eyes which their own darkness lead, Faintly and fast. And, then, the Moors and Elves, The pygmy warriors of the Alpine snow, Who never more can see the light within, But ever, while the crimson stillness sleeps, Look upward with sad eyes. <|endoftext|> WALTER. " INMOCIANT. " INMOCIANT. " O'er-canopied, he observes, and seems to ponder Upon the rest of the earth--as a sage plain That oft turns murmuring to the mingled sounds Of sleeping forest-calves--as a wild witch Shakes her weary fingers on the winding stair And fingers her faint fingers through the dusk, That dooms her sleeping life into a golden mist, And seems to glow within the darkling eyes The mystic lights and shadows of the dead, The ghosts and shadows of the dead, With cross-bones ashen on the bloody hand Of that dark image on the blood-stained snow, That pines in silence with the hag That, on the stone within, seems to meditate, And meditate. To his eyes A dim clear light gleamed. He was a man. His face was calm and uncorrupted, and he puffed Like an old lion when his snout was filled. He had the sharp, pale features of a boy Almost outworn. He loved the girl, and he loved The playfulness the mischiefs which befall The innocent and innocent, and all The tricks and tricks of the deliberate mind, In the eyes that could not answer, or embrace The unreconciled, all the piercing points Of nature, and the accurate mind, By a faint terror and a silent sense Of an unspeakable longing, if beyond The sharp, pale, sensual entrance of a heart. And so he was. ON. With much toil and much labor, much labour, oh, He was brought up and made his manhood strong With manhood's hope and manhood's tranquil calm. And then there was that manhood of the man ======================================== SAMPLE 844 ======================================== or dead for a moment's space. Gleaming and glad at their feet they move, More near and more near; Before, behind, the clouds divide; Behind, before, they spread far and wide. In truth, that is nothing, it matters not, If the old men take toll of the present and passed; For, oh, what a bell rings out on the spot Whence the old folk do come, and the strangers have passed. By the late lord Hal, who is making the bridge From mere to mere, and never a moment stops, A stranger he comes, that hath paused and grieves From the circle which round him the church heaves. At last he saith "Ai! there is at the door Alfonso the great, who has tempted the poor, Torment of God, and of those who implore His mercy and love on that bridge no more. If the old men refuse it, to-morrow they die." And Hal, with the blessing upon his right arm, Drew out a prayer, "Alas! the poor must do harm. 'Twere sweet to die, but the lady is free, Or the monk of God hinder, or some false child; And in pity to-day, to-morrow, to me The last of these maids was the Saxon queen. A dangerous man came last year to her side, Who had wished for her safety ere youth had died. But this woman, benighted, from pity Shall learn her secret. Forgive, my guard! Woman's virtue is needful to save her maids From the stroke of the Saxon sword. So, friend, keep quiet till further you seek; When the sick brings small fruit the disease will rob. Till Truth bring a springtime, or Faith take a week Let few of us ask, but I, standing by her, Hear at your Honor what hurts are in her. From the convent on the morrow to the grave Heaven's dispenser Hovers saintward, For a little and a whole. 'Tis a prayer of fools and sots, And an altar text of vows, That the King, though right he sways, At the whisper of the Pope's, His right will not be weak. But though here, for three hundred years, In fame's inniquity appears; The sin at no one's pardon shown, Nor the good may come to pass, The sin that he was born, Is a fair child, that sitteth on In the stone, without a shroud. Thrice-cursed, and knowing sin, Thrice-cursed, shall enter in. From the heaven, at the sight of day, And the earth, drink the air, The fallow gold and the gold, There shall break no amorous spell; The, instead, the golden broom; The gold that a pilgrim may Drink with the dying one; So shall your joys be crown'd, And your triumphs here be said; Of the name that you have heard, Tales that shall stir to heaven After the tale is ended, Of the Lord, who is the one Ready to confound and confound. Then be swift, and bow your head; For the angel approaches you, And ye crave that he may say, "I am not for your weeping, for your lament; But for your father, the poor, Who died in his prison place, A son of the Father great and small, For whom the Just are doom'd to die; Not the mean man, nor the vile, Though he pass to his lasting praise, And shall be without blame; Though he pour in comfort his plenteous blood, In his anguish, and make it pure and good, Yet will he leave their city and his fold, And all their thoughts beyond unfold, Forgotten of God's own sake. The second is in religious need, That solemn voice by toil untainted far; Nor yet the unknown strain, Where, ere its burden grew, Darkness and darkness overthrown And broke for glory a roundelay, Of righteousness had reign'd. The third and fourth of that high band, Before the Holy One the trumpets call; None of the doubts and fears Who knew the Tempter's call, Though his oldPrevailing train, Beside him, silent, kept their watch, Counting the minutes as they went; While the great organ, call Rose short before the throne; ======================================== SAMPLE 845 ======================================== milder airs than yours, As far as wind can push, As high the broad moon is sheen; And in the light of smiles and sighs God's compass round is set, Yet Nature ne'er can make us see Our happiness to forget. In vain the steed to triumph trained, And to the foe his bosom pressed, In vain the rebel nation raged; In vain with vengeful rancour stained, The traitor bank-lion poured the blood; At every spur his foeman poured Its long, drawn brimming torrent flood; From frantic thirst at length released, The choking steam of death was roused; Again from furious madness freed, Again the contest raged indeed. The fettered horse disdained the rein, Again he felt the fever's heat; Again he felt the load sustain; Again his bosom heaved and beat. Then rushing on his steed so free Across the wastes of water flew, Where, like a torrent e'er from thee, The broken billows meet. As cold the parted banks were steeped, No shelter claimed of mortal might, In darksome clouds of threat'ning sleep, O'erwhelmed with terrors that appall, In bursts of flame the hero's fall, Thus broke, again, again! "No time to be, for love of thee, No chance but thine, to lead me on, A deed of passionate emprize, A sting thy travail tried had done! Thy wretch who saw his master's pain, And strove to cleanse his drenched brain, In vain through clanging bonds he run, In vain--I feel this rending chain." With scornful eye on meekly gazed, He strove his troubled soul to cheer, In vain he poured his panting sighs, In vain the matchless love-spring he could cheer; While still his heart, which all could feel, Yet throbbed and yearned;--while on his cheek The cold clasp of some youthful grace, That seemed to melt a father's race. Oh, holy Heaven! who with the smile Which seemed to cheer those woodland glades, Which spake so warmly on his brow, A feeling of the desert shades, And holy vengeance from the sky, That just Heaven's vengeance might be nigh! Such were the fruits that he found there, Plucked from the tree of life which grew there. When tired with summer's fervid toil, In mirthful glee the blithe hours glide, While hours of health the board afford, No idler will attune his tongue, But to his task its sound prolong, With grateful breath, that genial calm, Which fills the soul with bright presage, When in the beaming light of joy, Freshening with words of warmth and peace, The soft delights of inward peace. The skies are smiling sweetly on, And summer's fairest hours are gone. Oh, blessed Mercy! how the blest Taste life itself can truly taste. Thy morn of days, with all its past, May on life's tempest paint the last. Thy solemn death, that chears the day, Shall to a scene, that knows no shade, Be to the startled traveller made. Death is, to virtue a renown, Greatly distinguished from a down. O Sun! whom I have revelled since, Since in the deeps of earth thou shinest, Thy name, illustrious child! doth lie Deep buried in the shades of sky. Thy father, with his house of clay, Extols to thee his fruitful sway, And owns thee for a noblest gem, The wonder of all eyes on him. For, by yon silver waves, where, cool and still, The summer sleeps, and all the summer swells, Thy hair, with all its silver fillets laid, May proudly be a gem of purest gold, The loving tribute of the genial ray, The colour of the verdure of the trees, The dew of clover, and the pliant clay Where many a Briton, in the battle's blaze, Thy very name and arms, with loud applause, May pass for ever o'er the British stage. The opening glories of the mental world Are all thine own, delightful Shakespear, bold; Sweet was the hour we first begun thine art, To cheer the minds of all mankind as ======================================== SAMPLE 846 ======================================== To ford, or by kind dew Wrestled, or sunk in rain, I say, It was almost a shocking day. Then Musing began to sing, And Solite sang his strings; While old Saturnia round her threw A thoughtful look; And the Nine kept a-dance on that, While old Saturnia sings. The Musing! The progeding! Who could wish for lasting glory, Or gild a name so shallow As the merit Of such obsequies as this? At this age, what is't we find? The Muse, with rev'rence sitting, Ev'ry frolic now feels sending To our ears the olden measure, Or tickles, as some sages Do, when she has done so many pages, To pick out, by-and-by? Who thinks the whole round 'on the brink Of Fortune's ocean swelling? Wealth, when she has picked out a book, She's fairly enough in taking To make her gay, and always look More pliable and clever, And watch her as she comes along, More pliant than the sun! By this time we can anything Acquire of any story Or delight of song or story So fitly set about by praise, So nicely drawn and duly sung As ne'er were sung or sung! --No!--the Muse is on her path; We've learnt to drop our knowledge, We've learned to bear with silence, And be a schoolgirl cronies, And we must stoop as mortals do, To sit, though we are wiser, The while her name's unnameable, With all the maid in wonder! While some, like me, with just a thumb Attain to touch a poem And think of things they never did, Their wits to mincemeat offer; Or try to cast a look at them So they may sing,--but I reply I've read myself so long an hour, That better men I know not; And now I'll try to train a song To this my native town, and let the Muse say what she would not, Or what not, as another choose Her theme, in which I fain would lose, With further added profit. I therefore will now go and beg No pretty wench or poet To use a tale, which I with ease Would fain appear to fable; Not one, from now, that I should turn The chords, or have her please you; As, therefore, she will say she's born To her own self, and you! --You've heard me?--Oh, I've heard so many times, That with no general pleasure you may learn To seem to sing, till now. You see it's truth, And I am sure you have, I have to grant, A fruit, perhaps, to that belongs to men. If you, by toil or ease, this art attain, A woful history, I wot the best Of all the world must have to name its fruit. I find it good, because of great delight And great goodwill among these hamlets free, That for the kindness of our parents, we Converse not with the mob, as Aracens, But with their solitary sons; aye, though The education of our tongues they scorn, And all that once might favour you and me Because your feeble heads are somewhat worn, Who have not yet acquired more fruitful hours For singing them before they have a ball. --It always happens that these poor satiricks May have achieved much good in a way they please; For in the same broad field much good may spring, From whence the mushroom should arise, no less Yclep'd up in cloth of amber, cloth of green Or russet, fresh from every dish and bean. They're made of choice radios with choice tools, And voices of all kinds, and from these be made Such bright and useful links, as you may see Perhaps a well-proved "amended destiny," Yet many a knife-blade, deeply cut in vain, To cut with such consummate skill, it seems That there's a certain indiscover'd link (If books may be well managed) of some form That can by any means compose a line, Or shall compose a note, what though?--no good May be conjectur'd as a "woe." But should we urge on this poor harmless thing To speak a few--not one of all they can Be saved from being in an act or few; And would the ======================================== SAMPLE 847 ======================================== , "And there is an overflow, great full flood, Where ye have crept, that ye may know your name, And the degree thereof, which is the world, And which all may enjoy, and all be love." Thus went they weeping, and their tears were shed For all the night, and their tormented speech They kept, and mirth, and merry feasts, wherein Was better than for grief and pity, more For fear, than for a remedy for grief. Then, weeping too, the bards made haste to bring Unto the place which was more fortunate By far than in his paradise; and there The iron play of sweet-voiced heraldry They sung, and merry mirth were at an end. Lo now, a hurrying throng about the house Crowded, as to a wedding feast they haste, In silence looking round upon the scene, And gathering round and round the dwelling-place, Like them impatient, eyed it and, amid The noise of the alarum, I leave it not, But muse upon the ornaments, and deem That unto them the wide world is but rife With elves and witches, and the hideous world Wasteth a devil-guest in every thing. Hither, O staid and pious Master, send Before the blest approach of that great Lord, The Power who walks in darkness with his hand, Behold the sun upon the western hill, Descending, and revolving, and in him Girt with his wings, as it is meet to shine Among the clouds. Behold, what goodly men Begat and burned their villages and homes, How now, how they are garlanded with gold, And decked with flowers, are garlanded the land; And be ye spared for this, as far as falls And yet unfurled." And, like to lightning, flash Before me, terrible as thunder, wildly comes And rends the air, nor is there one whose voice Can save ye, the wild storm, from the deep harm Of the God-child that whirlwinds up the hills. I call; but none is heard; As the bewildered ear Trembles and shrinks, as though 'T were like a child, all thoughtless of the sound. I am alone; So hath been known Two nights and one, as a third night, a dream Of Irem deceived by a vision white Of a Witch's head, and with sooty eyes That the moon cannot find her, and without Her crowded knees, a skeleton! a spirit white That is as lovely and more deadly still In all the dark, as a crown made bright, As the great Temple of whose awful rites A Mighty Spirit for man's need is given. Thus let me moralize upon the theme Before thee waking, in the cottage door, In that, our memory, the beautiful, Elysian home of my forsaken love, With what serener sound than unseen voices, Than the still echoes of the Seraph's door, Where sweet communion was the noonday hour. Our household-hearth in our little garden; And the old seats and tables have all spread Before us in the kindly rush of coolness, And every guest has fallen for his own; And the school-house at the homestead, so stately, Is full of fruits and berries. Were the herbs That nurse them, should she faint to be restored, Though delicate, her body to the touch should change, She'd fade away like a green lizard merely, A little while; and that of which she is The mistress of her household. A red worm Has bitten off her lips, and is swept past; She's bartered in her little garden-stall To what will not in time be comforted; And so, before I summon up her thoughts From the bright grave, that, just within this web, I, all unyoked, may by the Bishop's forseas Lie bruised and burned. When at the cross I sat, The saintly quire of Milton sent For me this morning to the council room, Or spake in words so musical and strong As all the tongues of all the vacant crowd Could now disprove what I had heard. The messenger of God from on high stands, And bids me to my people never turn To greet him, having spoken for true tears, Or asked to speak; and so I answer not, Since neither can my spirit quench the light Of God's smile on me face so sore and long. Thy golden lad ======================================== SAMPLE 848 ======================================== , do you mind? Go to sleep, the next morning, On the lawn's wide field; I, for May is on earth; And I think it my sin, And it is the most kind, Yet I never left, With a single penny Complain on, at my cost, What I never would win. Went to enjoy the dainty buttercup; She was short and slender, Heigh-ho, neighbours! There'll be none so small But she shall be my dainty flour. So ply your hand, and have no fear Of selling clams that have no ear. Hip-step, pick-gloves! It is good to be a cook To have a flagon fellow for your meal. Miss Pig, you'd like to be a cook To have a clean new buttercandy dish. Jack and Jill went up the hill, With a spring of lilies; Jack and Jill went up the hill, With a dill as great as any. They were hurt as a bee might do, But they made a great disgrace, So they went to sea and did. Then up they got so brave a bark, That it took Jack's ship too, With his bill so rich and fine, He steered her home for more than four In a sack that none could bide 'Twixt the two a side the tide. Did I say, "as a flyer blow, I never won a shore! For Jacky's sake, whatever be His cost, I never will." Little Bo-peep has lost her sheep Till she has a tousing to keep them. So she goes to market, and she is not worth Her pains, though she has but one on her earth. <|endoftext|> Pleasant it was to fly 'Mong the cattle as they drew, Round the meadows pretty low. (Such a place for poet's rhymes!) To see the waving corn, And the pigeons cooing low, And the people going by, And the people going by To the koor that stands on high. Little Bo-peep fell asleep, And dreamed her dream all true; When she awoke with sweet good-bye, Dreamed that she herself must see. Had she dreamt, instead of this, So much of Human bliss, She had come to know not this, But it would not seem fair this. Pleasant it was to rove 'Mong the cattle as they drew, Round the meadows pretty low, Round the meadows pretty low. (Such a valley stretching far 'Mongst the cattle as they drew, Such an airy land for love!) Pleasant it was to dream When one summer's day did pass, That his cattle drew them nigh, Under his big straw hat. (Such a valley stretching far 'Mongst the cattle as they drew, 'Midst the cattle that them sees, 'Midst the things that there befell, 'Midst the things that there befell, Which an airy land for love, And the Shepherd thus addressed, Clothilly on the dresser's arm, pleasantly on the weed-sward there, Making up of fur and lace Out of this embroidered vire Which he fastened as he lay, Fully by the lazy Man As he read the page again, Which his pen in oil had worn, And had read a Book of Rhymes On the scroll of coming years. O dear patrons then, that now will sit And sing the ancient bards of Greece, And the Basilica cast to ground (What storms of colour and of sound Will ruffle up to overwhelm This sight, and the occasion's Hey-a-by with wrath to stain the book) For theettiest sort of book. By reason of this ill dispatch, From vane that it was hauled up up, There is a light from 'tis pernicious, Of which neglect I may have said. In Latin d'aurorec's or t'other Be sure for this there is no losse, But it plainly looks a rarity, In all these matters I see plain, I will not fathom the reflection, (From bigness of each hardychime) Why should man cleave to Idenham, And for this cocked opinion, One being certainly a craty, Percevered was the right by great hate, And ======================================== SAMPLE 849 ======================================== the smell of and of and dainties. Then let the thirtieth wine be poured over the eating and drink, and let each man keep his separate ppings. No man ought ever to be much shocked at that others," he replied, "in what way you are come up against Jove, and the star-crowned star which never yet was seen, would be far short of taking its rise from Olympus." Meantime the goblet brimful with men, lifted by the high goddess, for there were those around whom Achilles had sent forth all gathered through the recesses of the cave, and the countless throng of knights whom he had sent under his command. Achilles then went forth to the place of assembly, eager to hold his seat. When the assembly had come to Achilles, Achilles spoke first, saying, "Good news, stranger, that has now been told between us, for all our misfortunes are ever at hand; we have meat, drink, and raiment, and we shall live like sons to death and to ourselves like children. Now, however, give each chestow a mighty bowl and a good cup, that we may make offering for thee from some of the Phaeacians who hold a head in their pride and worth as is she now that has been brought to Ilius." "Old father, for all your years, your son has been fighting with your people. You were a son of mine and I know now that we are children in chief among our concubines, but your children are of a different kind. One day I called aloud the Trojans, and the people were frightened at seeing a man so balanced, and made vain pretence of doing so. I bade them take their places and place in the plain, but they answered me not in the least; so they did, and the chiefs came up to me, but they and the ghost of Achilles, and the son of Nestor entered into my heart, praying till I should take counsel with the ghosts of the people." Through the great door of the courtyard they all held their way, with their glorious armour shining and shining as the gods beneath a star. Achilles led the way and the other ghosts sat upon the ground, clothed in radiant armour, each man for his worship. He was one who had risen through the clash of spears and met the hosts of foes in combat, and could only draw near, and bid them don their arms. So long as they sought the son of Atreus, he came and stood by him and spoke him lovingly: "This son of mine is the best friend you have--a brave man, but by all the dead princes that are around you, no man can make one man single; let him alone, for all the pitiless crews are gathered here; fight you no more, though you should he said, "Here we come, poor souls, will ye challenge to our pressing; an hour we will not so far outlive an angry man, for I can only come here and here at the ships of the Achaeans in the time to fight again, and they are like children here, But you, I fear me, with this proud haughty jaunt go among those who would attack you, the son of Atreus, who has burned you thigh bones as large as you do. You do nothing to the jett of your strength, but with your life you can never save me from this bitter grief, whereat I hold my own, and I will proudly defy you." With this he put courage into his heart, and he said to the Achaeans: "Ajax, vile braggart that you are, you dare not face me as though in death I were your comrade; you should not shake your head, for I cannot well be appeased, but the slaughter of the son of Saturn has laid hold on us. Who then can stand against us? A great marvel is this that has undone a man who never used a bow? It was I who made this confusion to my great misfortune when I was in my fertile country, but now that the knees of the Achaeans are in the dust of the earth, I stand ready and to fight only; I shall not fight here, for fear would come from the gods, and from the immortals. Woe is me, if I should die fighting, if I As he said this, with his broad sword he held high up in his chariot, but Ulysses saw him and held him in his hands ======================================== SAMPLE 850 ======================================== s that the beavers skim, So oft they rail and gibber, And banish'd from their bill-rooms, Come hither, come hither, come hither; You'll dine with us if you're inclined To feed and grow and build your mind." Oh, merry was the banquet's din Of dinna at the banquet; Wi' fine white heads each guest was seen, And fair cheeks check'd the gloaming; The banishes o' care were brought, By wanton hands were shaken; And, out o' door, with might and main, The saucy jads were shaken. There was, among the brumians bold, A man o' decent fashion; His tatter'd rags, a breeck-like gold, Set much his youth a-drummer In a' the wars o' yon wee fen, Wi' grim black-pate o' danger. A Paduan, tottled, cross'd his knee, And wi' a parent's sorrow Thus said to poor old Hubert:-- "Ye know, I'm little children; But they hae been an' sairly In yon green leafy bowers; Ye've play'd a ditty pretty; And haply now, you ken, ye ken They ken nae chapthers' fardies." Old Hubert answer'd kindly, And sma' the saucy jads were "Ye ken yoursel, ye needna care; But, ye're a daiment weel hou'd, An' dinna, maist, keep cuddle. My worthy wife, the warlock glaik, Has made yon river sairly, She's waur for me, for Hieland lass, I canna thole nor he." Then ran the water-glass aside, To shun the saut tear wounded; And cane and shoon in order ride The wintry stream sae clearly, That soon the water-cup was straide, And gart the stream wi' vigour; And when lang-syne, wi' troubled face, Her feeble sire was reelin'-- Some angry passions in his breast Wae'd power to stir a maddened guest. Syne, warkin' in his rev'rend hand, A while the jads wi' rage did stand, And ey'd the dooreden ane, that stood Amang the banks o' rhyme and land; At length, with angry, angry look, He seiz'd the helpless dook. His heart was dancin' in its fire, As wildly panting down he lay; O for some worthy rhymer's name, Wha sings his Gallant lyre in a', Wha, when his toils are past, wad hae blest Thy weil enow wi' gen'rous rest. He little now could tell his mirth, For, like a young wife's prattle, The frolic wind in March is heard, Sae merrily's the breathing word, That dance and song maun never weary, But in it self-applause lay drearie, And leavin' mony a weary body, Shutting frae home, and shutting never. His work was not begun yestreen: Auld, buskit, hock, and boddle green, That shunn'd the weary doomes o' ither, His shoon was banged wi' wearie care, And wi' the weary length o' labor Was blythe that back weel buskit out, And clap the hands up, cannie body, Wi' teats o' sic-like kindly pity. "O, haud your tongue, reverse your trade!" Said he; "but here's your folly's laid!" "O, haud your tongue, whate'er your jokes, Whate'er your plays, whate'er your jokes, And winna tell, why I am canty; For I maun tell, plain, buirdly credy." Scarce had he word, when some folk gaun, To stop the reekin' o' the reid, And kind o' let him on his perch, The kind things flockin' in their nauch, And there was scarce a queer to heid, To which, as it befell, he thought: "A winter ======================================== SAMPLE 851 ======================================== rock And perish: be the breeze up-borne, But in our best, and ne'er return, Unless our limbs shall quit the earth And sin, or we be all forlorn. There was a bonny lassie, Just by the banks o' Nith, Oor love was in her teens, An' gin she lo'ed him, A bonny lass o' Lovan. Oor love was in her teens, An' noo the locks were on, Her locks were like the links o' love, Her heart was like the sun. He aft had luve to licht, He aft had mair to thraw, Oor luve was still as kind, But oh, 'twas ahin' to me! But love was in her tho' As muckle luve could be; Love was my lass, an' love was still As ever ae degree. But, Oh! if couthy lips Could whisper words like these; They wad na blame Thee Pope, Tho' I should aye be blest. The moon was blest when faint wi' her, The moon was blest when faint wi' her, When ilka body's in her arms, Yet ither moonshine na shine fair. Upon the morrow, when we meet, I'll think on 't yet, an' greet wi' fear, How dearly she loved me, dear. But I hae news--I hae news gent-- I'll tell ye a tale as soon's How chiels cam into the ca' Of the bonny Lass o' Lovan. The quond Fair Clunie cam' awa, The ladye laught at a beast's lair; The Laird sae coy, the ladies sae coy, For wooer worth nae further had. "What news, what news, ye squire an' quean, That gars ye look sae large at e'en? Or is your heart-strings hungry, man, An' sups amang the clachan?" "O' German meyt, I had nae sicke-- I was nae get o' my meal-- I'll ne'er get better a' my week!" The Laird's dune came the burnie to, The fool he tore his silk-spoon, And hame de Waith was gane till the neist, And was to drum and guide wi' an ane. Oor Laird's dune came the kirk guid, The grain o't was full a mile, The bodie fot began to wheedle, And they made the righteousness smile. Oor Ladye Jeanie sune saw the sconners, Says, "Will ye go, to see the banns?" Then out spak auld woman, her laughin' did say, "Gae up, laddie, to yon town, An' you shall see the fair, widowed thing, That's neither stappin nor headie." The cock he crowed frae the bedre-side, The goud that ne'er came hame, The lads did gae wi' the blushing bride, But they were a' sae braw an' weary. The count was a dowie, braw an' braw, But his dame Selkie was yestreen, In her gowns and her comely bree, She'd a husband wi' cuckies standing; For a fine laird she was at her ain, She was wooed in a' the town, But a' that were gude to the state, She was ordered a' to gown. Oor Lord Christ mounted the lofty mast, And lifted a' the gauds on high; He gae the top o' the city's throat, He gae the top o' the town; But Lord John cam' ben heeard about, An' wil'd me for naething; An' hat nor mass he could get without O' mony a whout that I was nae a man, The braw words frae his lips gae sair, For the grace and the beauty within me shone, Like the burnie's guill on the bare stone, That was trampled and belted upon, An' gar'd my true love faither. But Lord John cam' ben he ======================================== SAMPLE 852 ======================================== . "Thus let it be, in the great Harry fail, That at the Judgment time thou mayst prevail, To be delivered from thy child of clay, Who after thee shall reign an English king, To be beloved, and hated by all men. But in another as I wisest, now, Nought shall our mutual covenant renew, Nor yet by us the fight be lost or won, Save we be struck, which is a glorious deed." Thus he complained: He listened, and replied: "'Tis little I forget that ere we part 'Twere better that thou should'st be parted thus, When thou art with me on the farthest post, To keep thee and to me in trust the event. For, if I think to work our friendship true, 'Tis little I forget that ere I drew This letter, I will learn from thee to read, That this my love and loyalty to me, And the great Master of the Hebrew {40a} line, Have been to me most touched by sympathies Which spurn the calumny of Egypt, At which I feel that I am wretched here, Because my country is not free from strife, Nor yet because my wife is old, since I Who thus am wanting means to cross the sea Will not be left a little respite. "But now thy journey scarce assured I go, As perilous as sea we wander now, For a scant haven gained with wandering. A narrow channel lay across the stream, Down which we hailed a shallow stroke there so nigh That it you scarce distinguish from a land. Within a larger space of lake we saw A sputtering whale belly upwards thrust, Or shoreward pushed with right hand down the flood. There fled we with our brushes and our nails Into a hollow cave, through which we went, And my wise head was puzzled how to know If further juncture would tear up a fish. And in the middle he would show me this; For I in pleasing dalliance am inhiving, Where the land doth inclose its hardy rocks, This dry and gloomy island cannot please; "Danger had I in watching this sad strait. Yet still my trust the frugal waters keep, And 'neath its barks I find, for charmers' sake, A thousand little things that creeper throw, Whereby to them a pestilence is given. One part, they know, is well laved up with wicks, Which to the top of this poor place we take, And also by the beak it stands obthered, For where the hook a bridle holds it not. "He does not see us working, and not I, He is at work, and if 'tis not before, The other one shall keep the upper eye, If he looks well his opposite before. And that foul monster, which in smoke is bred, Already he has seen, down tumbled head. Then why to see so many ways I go, Itself but parts me from the truth I know. "This fellow could not be reduced, I think, Than he would be with me in hell to dwell; And in the shape of this caftan they talk, Who have the moonger of their former talk, Just as, of old, some dreamer dreamed to see These folk so comely be, and dead so soon; And so they ram against these empty den. "The other in a night, as like a dream, Hears up the topsail bell ring in the square, And hears a goat leap up the wind's subside, If he but please himself. This is the lair Of wolves, from whom some woman has beheld The wild horse sport the devil-hound beside. For she hath sent, else fasting seen the thing, And by her skill the Indian bears had found. "But others think that she her wit doth waste, For that the hermit knows what it doth taste, And only waits to add a word to't, Though his Medoro with Medoro wounds. Who is it Medoro, in the game so dread Whom the three winds, some weak, men thus have fed? "He whom 'tis better to pursue his way Across the world with her he deems would be Right worthy of a deathless courtesy, Than of a sudden death, and like a dart Drawn from that mighty one by the right hand; Even with Medoro's death will be his heart. "He will not leave, but play the ======================================== SAMPLE 853 ======================================== life hath a quiver Of its deathly rippling river, Fancied from the soul's frail ocean, With one dart. One hand, warm with a fetter, Now half, barely showing the sea, Was shown to numb in its jewels, Like wings upon a queenly throne, There plac'd. The moonlike silence sate there, The wind gave it her softest breath, The sea's white robes were flung together, And one clasp'd like a fond embrace, Gleaming in folds both warm and wide, Unclasps'd in many an anxious place, Hung round the weary, faint, and pallid, As if to join in a temple wall, A throne where love might have no shadow, Each rose in its grace. The moonlight slept on the waves, It mingled with the salt sea gushings, Till the moon seemed like a shroud, All passion and tillage flown there, For its lay the winds were flown there, And their hymn of praise floated there. 'Twas the music of love, And the ring of light, And the smile of earth--all are there, All weird-throated Night. They waver in their own rune, Their jargons they awaken, The branches of the honeysuckle Hearne evermore. Under them lies the earth's fair spring, By rich Autumn's haunted floor. Her deep springs, silver-shadowed, Shed by the wind shall still be heard, And the cedar's holy shade Shall in the moon's deep shadows stir, Luminous as a star. But the heavens will soon be dumb, Nor the misty sea will touch the sea, On the sounding steed of spring, The bee shall thyme and violet Forget the roundelay, And, like waterfalls, the chickadee And swan on his distant watery wing, Till the West be o'er. The poplar is thy knoll, For there in the hollow there The white owls caw; And the robin sits on the bush Leering for her mate. The gray, mist-mounted mountain From the gray night draws apart, Where the land-worm's path Rests in a seer's heart. The dog's death will be vent, O'er the bed of the hill Will the big war-eagle go, Or the swan's on the nest. Children, plunge your playthings in the water, And your play-books in the river shall be Black and bright and covered, with stars as yellow as gold; For you must seek the great White Ocean, For you must pass the great White Ocean. From its great heart you would see the end, But with the sun at morning wend. Then wilt thou not make short or grieve, Nor smile, as thou wert then, thy long eve And festal day with love's sweet light, And tell thy heart its duty is, To know to whom thou art its light, And show thy love in loftier hours, When I alone stand by thy bed, As the many lie who've loved thee, A million times ten thousand men, With whom the whole wide world I'll save, Till I o'er all the billows ride, Far in an unknown sandy sea, Where many an unknown shore I'll heave, Far in an unknown sandy sea. As the long wash, swift and slow, The frail sea-flood in and out, When the wind shapes up a snow, Far in an unknown sandy sea. As youth's light sun moves on And finds a path to the sea, So joyed thy heart in me, That I beat down thy heart and thee. O lead me to the light o' your eyes, O goo as a hermit went by, I'll be your shield i' your skies, And try to pray with mine; I'll lift you up on my breast, And bravely upward go; The glow o' your heart to my soul, And the hope in my bosom shall be, O blessed shall I be! Life's pathway leads to the goal We go out by the sea, Yet the way leads us astray On the path that leads to home, And at the end of the way We go out by the sea. Yet there's hope and there's strength, And we'll make us stronger, And the way leads us ======================================== SAMPLE 854 ======================================== --too far--too far even now, He had lived his life, but he was not now! He was rich in patrimony, his pride and joy, He was youthful, gay, cheerful, and gay, But he had his failings, he had too much to do his toy-- He was too quick to follow and wear a ribbon-tie, And he left behind him a name that would ring in honor due. "Go and see my dolls and girls," said he, "Before you can look and see them, And a little doll with dimpled chin Will be ready to listen, And the little maid with her veil of down Will be ready to listen." So he took up his doll and his gown, And his bonnet and his feather, And the flowers came up with a pretty clamour And welcomed him together. A fairy king with a sword and a bow Came up behind the king, And they shouted, "The king has broken our bow." And the merry king and the gay knight laughed, And the little king laughed too. Then a lock of the gold-eyed fairy Into the waves that be, P began to sing the song, "Where's the king?" And a girl was told to me. And the foolish king and the gay knight smiled, And the merry king smiled again, And the laugh went out of the fairy's child In the light of the waning brain. Then I gathered the keys and the fairy priest, And I hung on a satin dress Away from all evil minds, And I threw in a happy song My withered arms around her knees, And I kissed her rosy lips, And I held her fondled in mine, And I hung on a satin dress Away from all evil minds, And we cried, "The king has broken our bow." But, oh, not for the glory that blushed so bright Over the soul that was bending to hear The soul's desire, my lady of old, arise, And smile to hear me once more, or see The heart's desire! I remember the eyes Of her who slumbers at last beneath the pall; Her grave white hand they wear, are the colorless flowers, And her name is Lady constitator. She comes--she comes to thee not surely; The grave is not the lonely earth-- The shadowy water-blossoms lift not Their odorous fragrance on the air, But near the soul a holy charm Bound woman's with the unknown charm Her soul is on the verge of birth. I hear a spirit singing low, And o'er the flowing bowl I see The grace of her whose mild eyes glow Between the cradle-folds, and she Who sits in the sun like love And clasps the golden curls above. I see a spirit pray on high, And praise her o'er the burning sky; And the heavenly quenchers o'er her, The angel companies, go by, To hear the thrilling song of her, As a mother's on the daughter's knee, And see her guide the childless one About the holy Father's throne, And as she makes the music soft, While the silver spume of night hangs low, So, as the chanting soul enthrals, She kneels and clasps Him in His arms. I cannot wander where the bard, And in the shadowy fields and dim, Is Nature's contract grand, or grand, Or youthful glory of her limb. Amid the world's bewitching throng There I have stood and heard sweet song, While o'er its stillness, through the room, Rang the bat's shrilly matin-call. I know that music never dies; Its odorous sway the calm skies quaft, To mingle with its diamond gleams The humblest rose in azure waves. But hark! that song it will return, And hearts will soften in its strings To bebs will mingle; like the sigh That on the midnight chieftain folds Its notes of lover's deep devotion, And from its toils no drooping hope For long will pass from lip to lip. I cannot reach the bard's high place, And waiting for a magic spell, Exalts my dazzled eyes that trace The words, "No more, nor more, 'twill dwell Upon the brow of youth" and age, "Nor bard, bewitched, or sad, like thee. "Sing on, sing on, thy Min ======================================== SAMPLE 855 ======================================== in the which is hold, He is aware The man who gathers in his clothing small With ease, and cunningly prevails the call, They who throughout all ages now and then Are ready with an eager look to fare, That they may free themselves from perils, so Thou still with joy wilt work a cheerful prayer. At last, the reigning guest of Raghu’s race Appointed, well content with her own case, Before the noblest eyes that beamed with fire, But she to whom all best object was a sire, Was like a star that lights the firmament, Rich in the aspect of its burning wick, And bright with bloom, and silver every inch; While round her neck bright clouds of incense rolled, And caused delighted all with sweetest touch, To every eye, and every ear, and all Her heavenly sounds preluding to the wall. The noble damsel wheeled her wheel about, And there she lay all loathly and unkenned, Her lovely form, her bright attire concealed, In guise of loveliest colour, ne’er beheld: The faded hue, and faded garb; and there Her lovely locks, her greaves, and girdles fair. All decked with pearls, her raiment, and her sandals gay. The noble matron marvelled, and drew on Long curls of coral, pearls and rich repar’n: Then took her beauteous sandals, and tied up The pearl that sparkled gayly round her waist, And gave her a pure strip of precious ore, And placed beneath her arm a gay- embroidered ore. At length, after a moment, with her eyes Arose the maid, and raised her languid lid: The gem and all her winning charms conspired To deck her brow, whose tint the balmy air admired: With mind so willing, that, with every feature, Her lovely form resembled less fair woman’s mould: While nought of earth contained her, she conspired To beautify her cheek, nor dared to fold. In vain her lover parley’d, in vain she woo’d, She gaz’d a moment, gazed upon his eyes, Then fondly cast her beauty on the maid, And to her suitors spoke the perfect prize: “These ears of pearl, of old, enjoy no more; These eyes, reveal’d, shall never more display The godlike glow that sparkled on thy brow; Still let me, still as Goddess, wear a crown Of richest jewels, deck thee as I loath To wear it off, and keep my heart from thee.” They listened with attention, and in wonder Confused their fear of the attempt to please; At length from deepest silence they uphe dispose Their various beauties from the heap confused; Glad thoughts aloft dart pity, and surprise Pure shame and sorrow, sorrow and desire; And caused by these signs their fair credit rise, And join with them fresh pleasure fresh desire. Yet in his breast contention still was spent, Those signs of woe the present days had seen, That the young hero, in her lone recess, Had changed the gestures of his fiercest face, And changed his grief and joys to purest grace. In vain, alas! the Gods who love mankind Wove various nets, each woven wreath, and joined, The King of Ocean’s and the God of Wind, But left his message to his child to send; Before the sire had told the funeral tear, Where Vánar chiefs their sad assembly placed, Each step and passage was by sorrow made To see his darling, and her husband kill. The sun had long declined, his subjects sought Their war, and Gomatí’s throne was sought. But chief Sugríva cast a lingering look Around the earth, and with a sigh he shook His aged limbs, and thus his bosom shook: “O sons of Brahma, Vánar Chiefs and best Selective guardians of my brother’s breast, And are ye ready at the promised call To war with Heaven, and free us from the thrall? This night to battle with the host is best, With joyous ardour, holy guide and guest: Be prompt and try the combat.”—Thus the king Ungainly trained, his answer thus began: “Yea, Jávat, share the kingdom now ======================================== SAMPLE 856 ======================================== shadowed long with many a dream, Within the gloomy house's arrased nook, Where she heard how the dancers wandered by With dancing step, as weary, faint, and shy As those who, fumbling down the fair green grass, Hear the song sung by maidens far away In distant buggies whirling round the room, Like little ghost-men chanting in a glee, Chanting a song to hide their care and shame From all who pass, still bending on their names, With eyes askance, until the sad old man Sings with the dancers in the dim old place, And lays the dancers on their broken brace For very shame, forever counting by What is the shame the dancers cannot buy For with our hearts we've pleaded, lass, it's true, And I'm afraid we're wearing it afeard: This carol all of old I think of quite; To wake it up here is a noble game And I'm afraid to give it up at night. And as I chatter in the fading breeze, The clink of harness on thecourser's lance Is the gay cavalcade, with jingling sound, And ten men on the yoke-wheel whirling round. I wonder, do you wonder that I'm mad? How many of them slip like eager doves? Down to the phantom war and steel trumpets Laugh and pass like a dazzling white fire, With flaming hoofs all thunder-bolts uplifted From the red chop in red official flare Scudding to join the church in the air. And what have you seen? How could I tell Where I had listened? But let me know that the old grey man Stopped short and stared. Where the players vanished Came one, a laughing boy, who hurried bowing His face with flounces, playing the trumpet Over the rubber boy; then, all at once, He turned with a terrible blare of trumpets And smashed the velvet grass with his sword. The spurt of his singing shrilled as of mad, That music whistled like a raging sea In laughter and clattering like claws of tempest Shooting swift rhythms to the sun-rise And the frightened stars in their hymns of sailors Grasping the toss of their cracking hammers As he puffs them over against his ear And his wonderful music quavers. The smoking almanac-tree blurs against The silvery background of the sky, Before whose forest-sweet faint-scented purple The air upswings in silver bars And floats and drips and drips, While overhead where earth and sky Stretch sea and sky-tops grey as stars, Into far night I find myself In all the city of my mind. For you the April day I long to wake, To dream that I shall never see Again the garden of the mind With its crowded ways and paths of queens. You know the valley where my heart is breaks, The valley where my soul goes out Where its sweet influence dwells And I would know: but ah! you know the things That you have told me of and of And how to nurse a tender care, To make me work among the things That make life greater than all those. My books grow golden, and my hair Shines bright, immortal, with the glow And glory of a kindlier glow That makes the spirit of it so. My thoughts grow brilliant; the first day Is but a sunny Sunday-day. In the brief space between her and me The blithe sound of a brook comes back, A little girl of long black cheeks, And laughter of sparkling eyes, A bird with a golden wing, A wind with a golden song, And our two souls float on together To the girl in the Spring-time, my dear. All the soft little dreams that come Of yesterday and of sorrow, All the languid creasings of the heart And the dances of the shadows, All the sweet little songs and so forth, Like the laugh of a swallow, under the kiss Of the child that is born of you. From mine own heart I take and keep For a day and a half the years A fire for my hands and my head, A fire and my heart among tears, A fire and my heart among tears. Too long under world's laughter and tears, To the dream of an evening afternoons I have for a day in the dark Something sad and unbright; Something dark or else dark, Something sweet and close and strange That ======================================== SAMPLE 857 ======================================== , far as I know it; in short, is not left till quite so much as a buffet, or half enough as a great beer. When the evening is done, and the week brings a change, I will bring it to you before the break of day. Then, when night cometh, you will take your seclusion and cell your heart from sorrow. But when night comes, and it inclines your gaze upon the faces of men and women, I will spread a cloud of dust over them. 'TWIXT fairies the wanton tricks come, who knows but by his play who is master of all? Hovers round her and spares but the step she treads down, and the people do not cry, and all things run after the sight of the gladsome god. 'TWIXT parch'd the fairies' lips, and one touch'd the hard brown cheek on the other. 'TWIXT nymphs, like stars in the ether, like flowers in the sky, bright-turning and glad of their race, with lips breathing warm and petal'd, cheeks as red as the baby's face, their feet, up they sprang from their beds, they claspt each to his own in the joys that attend the feast, each to his own dream. But when, as the gates were now open, and the marriage feast was done, the deities, wailing and lamenting, made worship by all, seeking and loading their minds with festal gifts. (ll. MADAME LorDEREAGH, book ii.) AT noon of day? a simple Key, The gipsy did tolling, All white against the moon was the brook That rings alway. Long nights: it was like merry bone; Long, like a hare, Long nights at e'en did the poplar hang, Long nights at morn: It was as long as full-fed Time, It was as long as the poppied swan Shrill-winked from the thorn. And who shall murmur, did Herod, then? The Virgin came in, To seal the Mother of the Lord? Was none of the Wise in the Gentiles then Loved the sad Man, For the Stranger did the Heav'ns draw nigh Whispering and breaking, All alike of the sinner and whelp, To do the Parting? 'Twas midnight in the holiest sphere, The splendor's first half-thoughts of mirth (But late-year's mist and twilight here) Had lately roll'd o'er the old Earth In silent wonder, He mov'd to the door of the sun-soaked grave; And though so bold and wiry, stern And single as a lordly tower, The crucifix in thy fair land lay, And in that hour a patient man, The ransom'd Lover of thy Saints, Was waken'd to the light of day. From where the white rose on the hill Is wafted up to day, And God hath thrown a cloud upon The fair and painted sky, And the still waters dance, as they roll, With motion and motion of light Hush'd the pulse of the red sunset hour, And the shade on the mountain's southern slope Gives a solemn awe, For "the saint hath cast the veil aside, And the great love draweth awe." Look forth where the wood-girt flowers are weeping, Lean down on the girdling hill, For the fair and the chaste have look'd adorning Earth of the Angels still. They mourn that the soul of man must pass, When the sun-beams glance, and the quiet eve Does its fair and glorious work forlorn Of him, who feels no pity for man; And mocks the hope, the love, that was born On the bleeding flowers of Faith, and is dead When its dreams of comfort are dead. Come where the oak delays o'er the hill, Where the blithe winds saunter and blow To rouse the slumbering ruffles of sheep; Where the shadows wander below, And under their shade the pines which tell Of the loveliest lilies grow. There wander no longer the braves, Whose solitudes daily and night Proclaim the tranquillity of heaven; But lift a soothing hand and eye To these scenes which calm and by The mighty chief's peaceful shade are made, For there they are--hallows to ======================================== SAMPLE 858 ======================================== at hand, he will make court By going sup'rabundantly drunk, A little lame and sober-tempered man. A paper, epic, Chinese--made by hands In imitation of the Chinese. Which fairly looks like poison in the box. The Doctor and the Doctor are in bed, The only writer of this kind, Who calls for something that he didn't say, And so he said, with some address: "The devil take him! all such devils As you, Paul,--surely he'll be dumb. He's just a meddicle! I'm glad he's dead!" But that's a comfort he may take From Elpsie once, and where old Porch Was laid, he earned a little cravat. 'T was something like the peripatetic Which cunning Elpsie, learned in schools, Has had since then: the children's cells, The cells, are packed again; so we Honour these cells, for here and there A fly, a spider, makes a prayer; And can write, since all will read, This little angle in the dead. But in the sermon on these towers, Which men call books, and, for their powers Of glorious contemplation given To pious meditation, even This little urchin, quiet, wise, and even In poverty of spirit, lives, Which, if it be no great affair Of business, be it with repair Of the great comfort of his wives, That, either in the sleepy town, Or up the mountain, may be known What things they call a 'dream alone,' Methinks it is the dead of night, And yet they do not follow sight, For they have wings, they are the lark, And they are souls of queens and kings, They visit realms of deep-aspressed, Where they have wings to soaring things, And where they view the morning star Whose rolling chariot is afar. Thus ye, who would not wing your flight, Look down upon the darkest night, Which is not dark, but sad, serene, But bright with all the glorious sheen Which comes from God's own countenance! If your own eyes but see this frame, This wisdom lies upon your soul, Then guess, and be devoutly blest, Like Aaron's angel at the rest! And should the stranger drink of love The liquid sweetness of that wine Which flows from Him who is above, And whose pure laws that nature lends, In her rich stores, to make divine, You will believe that He is great, And deem his courtship an abode, A soaring vault of noblest ends, Where He hath need of all men's prays. So prove these regions, and you guess, It is the thought of men, and this That lifts men from the lowly dust And loves them for a higher bliss; And yet how deeply do you know They are the greatest of us all, Who worship God, and humbly pray To be adored among the thrall Of His most holy, loving friends, And so in heart and tongue and pen Atoning our eternity, God sets a noble purpose forth In perfect purpose to fulfil The pledge that parts your love and life, And strongly stamps himself on strife! Would you see this vile world go by, Worshiped by an enemy, Offered to move a worthless thing By a simple means of your own life? If your heart and mind and soul and mind Are suited to that law you find, Then the poor, cheated, unrestrained man Is what he alone can say to God. Think what it means: if this be true; If your heart and mind and soul and soul Only in one Father are combined, What is there greater yet behind? If this be true, then speak it now As Father says. You will not praise him for the light Which shone upon your simple brain; If this be false, then you will praise The sky that gave you strength to rise again. Eden is one of those who speak A hundred different languages; Yet I again will gladly sing To you, who sit at Jesus' feet, Where still he shines and yet is hid, Though darker grows the river's brim, And sadder the abyss may brim; For he is near to that which is truth. Oh, tell me wherefore do ye kneel, So benighted, so sedate, so sad, While loving souls on any hill Pass from the hope and from the thrall? Is Heaven your ======================================== SAMPLE 859 ======================================== Was they whose cunning craft made music match With the fond tones of distant soars on sea; With every kindliest herb of their own kind, And their own voices mingled evermore; All those the sage-like and the gifted crowd Had entertained as friends to gaze upon. Thus nature of this strange and transitory state Was formed, made marvellously by fitful thought And shapeless care. For life-long harmony Kindled in him the love-sick souls that wrought, How eagerly! and quite for lack of skill, Innocent boy! In youth came to thee The day appointed, and the childlike joy That taught thee thy heart's eloquent lore. For in the lulling organ of the soul Heard by the unseen and unheard-of eyes, A sound came floating down the solemn aisle, Gladness untroubled by the fetter-thralls And by the faces saddened in their fears; Some hidden soul of the angel-breasts that died To teach thee all the new and far surprise, Or the lost passion, and, in them conveyed The darling theme of thy heart's paradise. From other end of things, Beyond our stinted esteem, to one so old, As Saint-Aante's priest might be, the monk had sought, His brow encircled with a new-found awe, His solemn warning grieved the mysteries Of self, and made the canon-school a rule In solemn, measured syllables. His voice Broke like a cannon-fit of calumny, And all the church's cloistered cloisters rang, As from a brazen bell, 'Oh Tristan!' Loud-voiced Pavantian, swift and fierce, Uplifted with his nine-foot Satyr-legs, Flung wide the summons of a hundred knights. Meanwhile he led the people to the doors Of those fair temple. Round about them looked Lawful Pavantian and grave Eustace, And grave Almonte, on whom his chief Had written much of Christian rule and faith, Which he had given in charge of wedlock's ill, And who believed him in the charge as well; And if they wished to blot their stain with shame Of other stain, the scandal was forgiven; And that he had no worldly crown to boast But that he gave his hand to some old lie, To pledge the lie to others or to none, Till God or knight approved it,--or his own Was done the deed by right of royal oath! But his guest's name was writ in history, His bearing, and his bearing witness all; Judicial in its ancient form and face, If the priest read his poem, in his youth His only title, was Tannhauser, His only ransom in that lawless man, The Magi that ascends the skies to heaven. When king-gifted Time brought judgment hard, Knitting at kings his olive-staff, and said Hear how his sinewed hand sprang up in wrath, Hear how his hand shook down the years that fled, And tried, with all the striving strength of his will, To wring the gold from out its outstretched claws, The myriad of that struggle, till the day At last was born, and all the years were rolled In one wild night, and he was man again. When lo, one hundred years of human birth Hid all the change; his empty name was rife With deeds of prowess; and his deeds, from first To last, must now be written in the books Of his own thought, in open characters, In living letters, and inscribed in time. When men breathed out his name he passed the crowd To his memorial; then their books he read On all he read. In his own searching eyes There was at least a rumour of the years Wrought in his heart that he was monarch still, Forgetting man's unconquerable will To crush the little triumphs he had made, And take the triumphs; and because he feared In his own weakness, as the epicure Of blind and deep immeasurable Time Shook him, he said, 'There is a God above, Who dwells who serve Him; therefore let us praise The Lord and King of Israel while ye live.' Like to a wave that gains from deep to deep, Whose stormy secrets are beyond our ken We rise, and seek in fond credulity For records of the things we dream of then; Till time, and foolish thought, ======================================== SAMPLE 860 ======================================== ece. Eche alderman, he was rich and strong, This Chyseis was of the chief chief clan. He had but few minutes to spare, And Hercules sat by, Apelles' daughter, And Althea, back from the city. And in a month like the month of June, Like a warm summer-night, or March-day, He had been well received, you may remember, By him and Althea, I was greeting. "What seest thou there? and what shall be Of her, O lady?" asked the old man. "There was a great Princess among you, And this, O lady, is best of all things. Once you were the Empress of my Mother, But now she has no right to the queen." "What is that to her, thou old man?" "In truth, I follow the same path Which led me to my best beloved, As now she is. Myself I follow, Thou my only beloved daughter, For thou hast seen the flower of all my plants, And see what pride will be in this." "To-day I look upon these weeds, And see the rows of cottage-roses, And mark the sheaves of wheat in autumn, And the women at the plough. I see them, And see their tresses, soft and cheerful, Brighter than sunny gold; but the sun shines, And no night shelters me." The smile of the dying hunter-God O'er her features cast a twinkle, And slowly she bowed her head. With a gesture She moved away in a half-way motion, And a raising of her hands seemed to erect her, And bear away the bellows. Now back, through broken boughs Of the gray Indian Chief, The hunter now had come, And, as he urged, began: "O hunter of the deer! Thou hast in me a cave, And on my breast thy jocund slave; And all day long I come To hunt and follow thee, Until thy heart and hand are dead. When thou, my hunter, art released, And thy tired huntsmen come, And the night wind, whose moan is made Somewhere about thee. This is thy poor master's home. Henceforth, for till thou dost abide In the woods, there dig thou for thyself A well made over water; And over it innocently spread, As now thy tender breast Might be disburthened of the flies, Or only of the little gold, That is thine only store. A ring for the night! And a gift for the might, And a jewel for light! Are you in that centre here Where gleam all the chaos of wit, Or in any book that I ween Can record a single star? I cannot say how your fit is, And your courage is gone; I too have lived to be a log A hut of the gun! I shall stay And learn it, if no wiser Is thine a living force Of constant fire, That from the heart of your calm country Their view is austere. When I'm back in my roaming To my good old Town, I'll end my singing In the forest-city With the snowdrifts o'er my head. And say "I'll follow here!" And my plunder's clear. For I would escape them, And you'd miss the roar Of the Northern Sea; I would view the foaming billows And the winter-bound sky With never a witness As a wretch who gazes On his proudly swelling way! I've many a winter evening In pleasant company, But the man I hated, lo! Belonged to me. For I mean to fight a solemn An honest one as ever stood Within a Arctic court-yard, And, after many days, most nights Of sun and moon and ice and thunder Sang loud and long: On a certain point of ground An island stood, which, for three years (It was long ere the years had found it) With a constant crowd surrounded it. The landlord of a thousand acres Was a rich old man, the best of servants, The landlord of a thousand acres, And the best of all those thrifty homes On which the eye could rest at leisure (For little was he heaped within it) Upon the inside of the hearth, And near a fire ======================================== SAMPLE 861 ======================================== ." "Sculptured by spurious, vain, vain art, Thus learning, if it now is not, Is ne'er our learning! villains all, The highest wisdom, shame, or shame Of theirs who never have the heart To serve their fellow man in fact. The men who have his ear to lend, His portion in a borrowed word, Who never know the ways of friend, When spoken, never heard a word, Who know to live, he cannot die, Must serve the truth, and serve the lie, However false the men may seem. The truth is this: though many an age Have heard the fierce, the beautiful, And hastened to the lofty stage To make the war a thing of art, Yet they could scarcely keep the truth That some so rarely have, and more Than they may always know before The thought of such a scene had birth: The pain was such as they dared never sing, Since first the heart was touched by sorrow's spring." Howe'er of us, when spring returns, We sing, we know we always burn, And fruit and blossom know not time, When yellow autumn suns decline, And through the chill air we display The golden harvest of the flowers Whose yellow fruit has still been thine. Sometimes, when in the South the sun O'erhangs the dark embroidery Of the gray, dead leaves, that strew Their death-bed near the bed of one, The other seems the book of Fate, And we with hearts grown dumb together, Knowing that to be always what Is to be lovely is to be And to be loved, and not to be What we but speak, and yet forget. The dream of youth will always be In that bright life, whither will go The winged and golden years, whose flight Will leave no stain that ever lies, Nor shadow that has any weight That it may injure or confound, Like lines of ages, out of sight. Then shall the grave, untouched of shame, Like mouldering flesh reclaim the earth, And give into its keeping still The name, dear Lord, of other men That were of her flesh, but in that birth To which the world is woman's, such Is woman's only spirit's wit. Because the song which in my heart has grown Will be a chaplet made of love's own flowers, And woven with my thoughts will spread the plain And ring the jewels of the bells of men Around my simple feet, and at my breast An overflowing, glad and humble heart will rest. Some make me poor and some make me a grave Where the gravel stoops like a useless flower To cast away their monument, and crave A place among the wold where mists are loud And sorrow tells them of the Golden Day On which the spirit waits. I do not ask Long thoughts of that dead day when in my heart Love, like a bird of hope, flew to and fro To sing as I had done, and to myself Would sing as only my own singer thou, And so be every one. My soul is like a bird That cries and sings with trembling wings And in its pain would lie and sing With all the selfish world within Where never aught of tolling brings Joy, or hope, or rest; But, in its best, there is some place My soul is like a bird That calls, but seeks, and calls no more For any foolish bird. My soul is like the veined Winged flower that waits for its return To the long upward strand of life And seeks and finds not it, But speeds it on with eager feet And wishes it is near-- Though it be far, away, away, Sometimes it stays and still must stay Where other birds have found their way, And hides a secret face and tear Within the hiding place of fear, And cannot pass. Sometimes, indeed, the veined Sometimes it cannot be that, for The wind, the wind that sighs and sighs All day, all night, all night, It neither stirs, nor stirs, nor weds, But, like a bird, goes forth abroad To seek and bring. It is a lovely place to die for, A lovely place, and many pleasant Fair parables and silken sails, With sails far off, with webs inleys, And tender fountains welling over The trellised wave of everyday, Where no winds ever cross the water, Except in spots 'twere gone to ======================================== SAMPLE 862 ======================================== come on, see, Up from the stretcher the dropp'd kye, The tribe-cat, who mourns his dead body, And raises a cheer, for the share of the murther. The shells they are swinging, swinging, The pibrochs they merrily play; The deck is supplied with the shells that are clinging; And true love, they tell, is there, For they know the King of the Fairies Is come to protect them from wrong, For he never can be their undoing, Unless he has cause to be gay. So there a bold chest they have laid down They're busily stooping to share, And down the long street they are courting the laird, When they hear a footstep come nigh. In front, the King's foot is shod with snow, His white beard is bes nutriment; His helmet is shaded with fur. That glorious army may never forget The battle was on that summer's day, And the mountains rise higher yet, And the rains come down in the torrents away, And there is the voice of a silver horn That murmurs, "Bow, wow, wow!" In the lap of the running stream, There is a queer house that I know, And it's here that you all are a-shouting to me, And you look like a king of the sea. But I am sure I am glad that you're here That you are here, and I see you a-shouting to me, And I then can't go after that cattle are bad, But the dew's in the blind in the dim, And I fear that the end will be near, But don't be excusing my fear. Till, ah! you are here, you know best, And here's that you shouldn't be dumb; There's my brother, the pride of my heart, He's on for the scene and the Light o' the Light; He's off in the bloomin' fields, and he's hales With a roar and a puff of his horn, But, poor lad, there's More and More, The heartiest voice that you hear. Till you get to the spot, where the waves lap the shore And the greenest place may be, There's a man may hear music and joy Every night in the world of my boy, And he may smile, but, in sleep, it is odd When he happens to hear of a love that is bad. There's the song of the woods when the wind roars by And the notes they are few, and they're no more by, But aloud to the night as it sings in the bough, With its melody sweet as a mounting high, The free little folk singing in thunder-tongued bough, The calm of the valley, the stars in the sky, The great song of God in the gentleness blending As the cheers of the plain in the distance are blending, And then, when a virtue is born out of pain And his high name is told, his heart's in the skies, And the thoughts that are thrilling to live with the he, Shall follow the sun, like a little blue star, And, in light and in darkness, shall stay. Come up here, O dusty feet! Make not your trysting sweet With books and little toyes; The easy way is but to read The stones and grass of the road. Now follow, and if thou be The fool, the well-attired fool, Come up here, O dusty feet! "The brook is in the meadow, The stream is in the wheat, And when the stalks of corn are white There'll be a noise of feet. The reeds are whirr'd about the rocks, The clouds are o'er the sky, And the sunlight seems to flash and flash From out the gloomy reeds: O there'll be no footsteps there, And little black dreams will fly With wings of silver on the grass, And little black dreams shall pass; And little black dreams shall fly With eyes like stars of gloom To hide therefrom all night, And little black dreams shall fly Away to vanish doom. "The brook is in the field, The corn is in the wheat, And all the summer long the birds Quit their nests and fly. The brook is in the stream, The flowers are in the sky, And what care I, if seed be lost, What are the flowers that die?" ======================================== SAMPLE 863 ======================================== e a large body Holy and low." "Pray to be saved!" said Egypt," She clapt her close to it On the fast perch; and there were three, And yet she heard them,--all butino-- God will save all, they came in the same course; And she clapped them, and she caught them, Nothing to lose, they went all, to the very heart of the Massen awoke all night, Pillow and he were asleep: That was enough for her,--that was enough. "Where is the merest fragment that remains, While I look on the graves?" "Only a corpse in the world, Save where it is hardly any day, Save where I know by the mean and the slander That envy could make, but for a lord's: A man might come waking, at least." "Lie there again!" screamed the shuddering girl, Snatching both hands out to find How they had clung to the corpse, if ever They dared to lay hands on a sword, before her! But they were only three,--those three, Tremblingly rocking a cradle-song: "O, come and be up and mend The scores from the baby's breast, And I'll give you a widowed one,-- God will save all of the rest." But Mary cared nothing for that. "Mother," said she, with a smile-- "Let the world's weight be reckoned the man's: O pray for me--I would not be loth To be over and over the boys, All the long days and the nights With the hymns and the lights!" And they bore her the cross on a chair; She had promised to go but to rest her; "Shall I fly, for my soul must needs Ought to be over and done in the nest, With the black eggs and feather de blessed?" O well-a-day! was the word said, When they cast overboard off the quay. But the child heard not, as if afraid, The very step of a fairy, that lay At rest on a wave, which they strove to convey Into her tiny white arms. The Fairy, as, an hour before, He heard her speak, drew out her hand; And then they led him to a shore Full of blossoms, the apple, and plum, Honey and spice, as many as A king may send down from his home. And while they sat there wondering On that strange picture, 'mid those trees Green, purple, and crimson and grey, They dreamed of the fairy in sunny seas, Till the wind did whistle them leaf by leaf Into a blissful and rosy sleep, Which they saw so wondrously deep. And at length, when the work was done, They caught the half-shut shutters of the door; And then their eyes were so soft and bright, And their little ears folded before, That I knew where they crouched and lay, Gazing eagerly on that great and joyless day. The spire of the forest rose In the glow of the livelong day, Where the brook, like a lover, goes Tripping past the forest away; Where the earth, like a joyous bride, Leaves the world to the happy bride. And there, on the banks of the river, Where the leaves and the oaks lie low, On their linked arms meetingly, They stand in their beauty and glow: Swift, swan, and white, with a bosom bare, The grandmother sits by the river, And both in turn, as they hurry, gather and part: Flies vanish away in the shadows of each other's heart. Yet a moment, then, she gazed on them: She knelt by their side in prayer, "Dear mother, if all be well, You will never come here; We have given a happy heart, And I trust, as I have had my part, That Heaven and its great name will be Differing as dew on the mould; And, while it hangs in your breast, dear mother, It will never be said in the book of the Oaken, That you will not take the hands of a lover, Nor put them on whom they belong; For, however much may betide them, They are better than all the books of the Oaken. So far it is I cannot forget How I wish it were not true. I'll not say it to you--to you, mother; And I ======================================== SAMPLE 864 ======================================== wits! It's just the salt flood at the hand, And the morning an' the lave; It's a' the world's advance an' the war, An' the lang day I grieve. The ben't sky brings the rain, And, up to the ceiling, the roof-tree ties A coffin of linen; the street, so small, Seems like a carcase a-walking in Hell. Then three times three gude more. In the Pit Six hanging eyes sat a-weary of din; Just as you might frighten a coal-black night In the house of a telegraph-office door. No foot in the stirrup--no hand in the stair, On the sidewalk so warm, I could hear him say, "What is there that you say, Mr. Len?" It had teeth like a tortoise, but his face Was sad with the cry of the lost one's cry: "The Dame and the Children have vanished, away." The candle-flame smoked. I could hear the clack Of a footstep, repeated each dull word-- And sink to his pillows some critic-knight To make his own tedious and treble quick. At the sign of a popular demoniac from Hell To rescue a patient from starving, I said, "Let the Devil in spite of the comforter's might, We'll go to the City and wish him good night." I know not--and laughed, till the Devil came And brought a new picture of London to me. "What are you doing here, Mr. Len?" He asked me, but I said he was out of his way; And I answered--"The Londoners all know That the finest and fairest of all in a day Will last as long as the picture lasts as a day!" (And here I gave up the picture to you) "It's pretty by looking on pictures and art; But you shall have all the world over, my heart. How happy a life does a girl make in town!" You said you must get your queer world to lose, But I must to the bank and try to serve you. So, I sent for the image, and found it mine, And sent it to London, for not to me, In the name of the painter, but not of the mine, Who can draw from a well and a house the hue And colour of beauty, the rich natural, The rare and commanding, with gems and gold, The keen and direct and prelusive light That goes through life like a new-born light; And along the veins of my picture I trace The blood-red garniture of every race. I must make the most of you, my dear-- Whatever I see, in the selfsame place, I must stand my purpose and point my plan To wealth and power, and run my best for man. I must put on the best that I've ever beheld; I shall squander nothing for every plan That rebels the world and never fails to do. I must venture this life as a jaunt--for God's sake Let me spread out my tents and take my draught. I must feel the earth shudder and shrink before The guillotine's icy hand; Till I stand with terror, and look up to the sky, Where heaven has seen two and two before. O my love, do you doubt, though the world may shrink, That the daft sun of the world grows ever green While you smile and glitter and keep your feet A-pressing, after the rain or the sun has been. Though never a tear or a smile to-day Will fall, O my love, on the world of grey; And God will have mercy, and mercy too. Go tell a tale of a righteous God Of a crowned king and a doomed to fall; Of a wrecked king and a banished girl, Of a drowned king and a cloven home, Of a priest that is led at a rood, Of a spectre of some filthy brood, Of filth and hunger and hellish crime That has made the devil of heaven in time. The air is foul with a mouldering ill And the wind in the valley as I pass Is sharp and chill with the morning air, And the ferns and the grasses grow so still That the dew drops my cheek, the grasses grow In the season of bud and the fruit of wrong That is born of the sweet-faced angels' song. And I bring you a case, in a solemn wise, Of the bones that ======================================== SAMPLE 865 ======================================== "What's wrong with Mary, Sister? "She'll lay her garter up again! "Mother, I think that very stain "Was pure! for such a sake. You see "The clear, cold, heavy light of love "Held daily passing here above "Her gray eyes; what is this? "What have you done, my little brother? "The golden cross have you flung away? "Are you undone? The cross's a cross? "There's vengeance for the crime? "Do you keep ward o'er the blind man's life, "Or does the sacred cross oppress you? "For such a cross the Holy One thought "Of him whose crosses were as yours? "There's a white Cross, and here it is! "O gentle Christ, my brother! "Be gentle to me, and come to me, "Ye shall have pardon for my sin." She took her knife, and, searching eyes The wide and shrinking world, she sought To hold it in her trusting arms, And then the paper bind beneath it, As round a sacred cross it clung, And bade the Virgin's brows unbent, With all the holy roses wreathed, And knitted like a martyr's hand To pluck the Cross from out its sign, As in the other day I shall, According to my pilgrim share In life itself, by Him who brings Joy to me, and exalt thanks to thee, For the same purpose's holy task. And thus, O brother, my poor work, Did I, thy brother, wait for thee, Whose life and death are not yet over, Not yet a furlong from the roll Of the sweet air where minstrelsy Is singing to me, and to me The accents of a lifted hymn. Thy work is done; I've learned to live, And dare my work ere yet it be As others do,--at the last goal Of all my soul's unceasing toil I'll trace in every deed my soul, And share it with thee, share it with thee. This world was in the dream before the setting sun That daybreak when his path to Paradise Was strewn with flowers. In dream what beauteous flowers Were sphered for me, those beauteous flowers not culled But blown for me! The vision on my face I dared not paint--it can't efface The very look on which those beauteous flowers Seemed lying on the ground; nor spake a word To win me back to Paradise again. For all I saw there was in what had been So precious in their gift, and every thought On earth was filled with beauty, and of sense, And every English heart could not refuse To taste of that, and such remain in me That once I staggered from the scheme I had Of being for a moment thrown aside. That's no concern. Why do I wish that you? You are already building fortunes: will you? And is it then my genius, then, to tell Its wonders to the world? Oh! let me tell What was the use of scaring me Through the love of woman and of man; Oh! let me tell how the gods madly taught The vanities of man and the full powers That all created but for this we know By reason of their choice, and so refined To win us from the "outway soul" of sense That doth an understanding to all minds, And shows the way to vanities, Can so extend, As I can, even to humanity! Oh! shall I tell That the sweet spirit, or the woman, there Will be the saviour, whether near or far, Trying to shun or to be won. But I've need To name another. I Most noble is That the fond goddess I met there Was young as she was--a year ago. If there be matter I'll take my stand When Love and Friendship, and their debt, at once Were wholly purchased; then I turned my back From great romances, vanished utterly, And in love's region, I have cast for them Their lives, and their affairs, and nothing gained Of joy or sorrow, wealth or joy of life. What have they done with Death? That do I not, That cannot, or will never, in my youth And my blest fate, have undertaken just These three the crucible of my faith to mould On thrones within heaven, that have struggled long ======================================== SAMPLE 866 ======================================== is another self, by whom a mighty Rome Calls her her "aughes to the dust," while Rome's ethereal And one world and one form have shadowed the whole world-- I know what God is: Trajan's 'Mazelli,' And Elis where 'Mazelli,' think again: 'Mine is the house of sadness, of the rain, The curse of war, and, borne upon the wind, The Golden Hynde that points the bending fates.' O ye, who seek eternal tombs, where gleam And penetrate the windows of the sky, Suffer the earth's insatiate sepulchral stream, Pass with delighted gaze your golden funerals Shrink from your shrill effigies--O let your soul Mingle with yours its anguish and its longing, We who roll here the music of your music, Who fill the cup of silence and of sorrow And drain the dregs of fate--the foam of pain! O let your feet in marching music throng About the walls of Time and find no end For the death-cries and cries of this world's living, The sighs and tears of this world's dying breath. There is no torture but that none may rend To find a door whereby to wake the dead And wake to life to find a world that end. There is no mercy but that none shall sin Until the judgment of the gods let fall The doom of knowing what must find a gulf And lost for ever to humanity. Ah, if Apollo brought you and set free Hercules, we shall also take the God To face the future, to retain the Gods. From out the fragrant rose and lilies A scented muser dries My heart: a woman who turns down To face her lover's eyes, She turns and throws aside her veil That fallen moon's light breeze Waking the tremulous stars in the outlook of noon. One almost loved her, one but found her, One but her lover went; Yet most to Proserpine she made a place Where the three lovers met and found her face. What land is this but hers: how fair The Styx of what she had Is this, what country is this? what But Proserpine he had, and knows His country's name and race, And her great name to him she shows As he that loves her mien must know, And know his manly mind; and so She makes him over to her flow, And over all the land; and so She makes him over to her place, And turns his face with that sweet face. I never shall forget her and her eyes. And Proserpine may have her dear, but I Shall never know her more. Ah, happy land, Beneath the stars that blossom and the sea, Where once I loved and over-this the flower Of such serenity! Is this the end Of all your summer tortures? Love, I think You'll know the tomb is hollowed for the flowers. <|endoftext|> Matsa is sitting in the high sew'f, And I'm a-wandering wi' the priests, to-day, And some are chanting God's dead. All praise The good old Whachill and his Burton clay That bore our elbows on it. Long ago I spent a shilling on them. Now they take An old man's wife and jade. Long ago We weave the foolish dream that we have been, And every day new pleasure brings with it That's all to me. Time after time draws near, And this old form, now raised up by the stream, Went dwindling past us in the eternal beam. For twenty years between the rows of life We have been whirled with potsherd and with gin; Each trivial stone we hand our hands to-day Has fallen, is grown to-day. Ah, fair young thing, Why sit we musing by the springtime wood, When past the quiet dream of long ago? Why are we musing at the springtime wood, That once we used to know? What matters it, So long the trail, the faint, far scent, is stored? Why are we musing in the springtime wood, That once we used to know? There in the grass before the village pump, A little girl and twitters by the fire, And sings the way my fingers fidgetly, Had stolen our tears and tumbled with my toys, All in ======================================== SAMPLE 867 ======================================== , Do azure feasts her folly and renown. Go, lead her there beneath thy roof, for now, Though red with dust, 'tis of a blustering show; Rig or columbine to work of art She scorns the rarest and most warmly heart. But, lo! the holiness we watch to see She has from heaven ford, and heaven for canopy; There reigns, both mind and speech within her lies, Who shuns to go, her passion to surprise. As sure a God as you, my lords, can be, 'Tis of one mind, one mind that looketh grim On empty palaces, the house of guile, On snowy summits, hushed and unregarding, The narrow house, where he that looked beguiles, Is tempest-driven to the saddle-bow. At first her, (so her fortune will) must lie, Then, rushing through a pack of hissing flies, Her purple-necked throat against the sky, And in her raven ring of streaming eyes, Thick stars as dew, the dusky-throated thing, Basked out, his gladness, and all comfort's spring; Then, if this churl be his doer, sweet, to love, Doth not the unseen Saïs with her move? She finds a sore-wrought bier, and stains the vest With courtly minges of a turbaned crest; A gangrel or a fierce-maned lion came, To clothe and shave her limbs, and tie apart Her garment's glossy sides with worked-up flame; Her thoughts, her dreams, her wonder, all are dead Beneath a last eclipse and made her own. "Ah, God! The longer stedfast she may wait The pale-faced Emperor, whose deathless name Is love, and Fate's unspeakable control!" He heard her breathe, and, dumb with wondering The long-lost mistress of the peaceful hour, Kissed in her secret bower, the secret bower She seeks to break, the self-awakened flower, Whose kiss is as the Ascidian, whence She sees her god-like father's house of snow, Warm in the moonlight. And the sleepless Night Coiled silver o'er the glistening bay; and clear The white sails, a long-shadowed port, she neared, And drew her midnight face towards the star. She had no other tear than the first dewdrop That falls from the night-dew, that the noontide rill Can wash, or with slow fever-foot o'erflow; She poured her wine, and faintly drank the smell. One stroke of her hand and one last loosened a farewell; Then with abrupt swift paces her last hold Of one that seemed alive. Then she unclaspt The scarf, and, hushing every word that spoke, Drunken she lay within the twilight lake, Whence all the breathing treasures of her dreams Burst from her limbs. Ay, so to be o'ertaken, This corpse rocked ever, her sad gaze forsaken. And now, at last, she breathed her last soft prayer, That in her youth's fair early-morning dreams Might sometimes move the stings of sweetest flowers, That wither with the pale limbs of a witch; That, like a prodigy, the heart might hear Her tale of love, yet start from sleep aweary. The painted puppets with the feet of Time, Hovering this wondrous silken globe in play, And whispering voices, whispering light words still, His fire-flies through the air, these twirling boughs, These twirling fruits, these soft and dewy flowers, These shadowy blooms that 'neath these lily-mantled bowers Dipped, like a weary dew, their lingering feet, These subtle and cool labyrinths of tender meeting. Ages since then, ere to these fading skies In vain their hymn-songs strained their old glad wail, Ere this low, broken, jewel-grated sphere Struck by the awakened night, ghostly moon Rose with a clamor out of deep-domed heavens From some vague, portal-hidden sphere of light Gathering, old men and children: as they passed, Black on the velvet saffron of the grass A rifted purple in the tawny sky, And one star-smitten dew-drops, one ripe ======================================== SAMPLE 868 ======================================== 's heir." So fares it with her; till, at last, we found The magic city, which to know had fled, Entered the wicket, and, upon the inside Wandering, was gazing on the city's walls A man, of high renown; and since it is The noblest of all things in the world, That seems to man, so now it is as though A land were breathing on it. For, although He held not the possessors' heritage Divine, yet in his own, for ages yet, Though they were but a fleeting moment's dreams, But the imaginations of his heart, The fancies of his mind, grew dark with him And found him groping in the solitude Of Nodona's curious orchards, where, Among the most familiar of those brick Half-buried with his fellows' plaints and prayers, He heard no message of the city, But looked up to his people and smiled. Within a dim green forest, under whose faint gleams, Within a grotto open, free from all thought, And slowly opened to the wondering eye The earliest love of life, there is a tower Clothed in white samite and jade. Above its walls And roof the richest greenness of the floors, Butting the level pavement of the sides With milky entry, there the eyes of Ruth Saw Ruth far off, no spearmanship or mare, No mare in all the wide affianced winds, No flying-foot, that lightly quires and sets Yon open lattice, lighted by the rain And the cold moonlight's side. She seemed to see In all the city that I saw her look, In all the sounds that seemed to make her heart Smile on the works of time. She turned her eyes Upon the window, her soul-searching eyes Yet glancing upward, on a stairway worn By all the long day laboriously, Where the long clouds, as if swoln with pestilence, Rose with a breath of holy incense to the sun. She knew in every known ill, and at once She turned and gazed upon the house, and saw A fair white maiden dressed all like one, Who, when the first lark's twitter centered in the air, Rose, brighter than new stars. When Ruth was gone She died with all her children, and with them The six, three times three, yet o'er the dead With sundered voices came the deep voice of him, Who had made up his mind with those rare flowers Wherewith he quivered in the flowers of Ruth, The freshness of the time. The words that fell From his sweet lips into a drowsiness And all the sweetness of the atmosphere Unlocks him to inherit.--Walter, lead me back To where I met him in the sun at noon, With what I had not seen; the same rich words That now seemed most to speak, all now seem sweet To those who sought him in the sun, and died To him, the happy soul that had no friend, The happy dead. The melancholy days Must roll away as all the seasons flow, And not a thought, or conscious look remain As at the last; the sickly hope, that still Was hovering o'er me, now seemed not to breathe, That once more was at life's companioning. I knew the strong vibrations of the soul, Which had o'ercome Love's strong entanglement, And in his touch who set me free. I felt The great hour chime forever. Then I knew That ere Love's fervor could return to me, And that the dying thought would not be hid With the dead hours, and that the new world's thought Be but a vain and solitary cry. But now I knew that I had loved them all, And that the anguish of his absence passed That made me glad; and all my days were joy. When on the rocks the sea bird long had lain I watched him; and that midnight, calm and still, Had brought us there, the anguish of that hour. Upon the shore we stood, and seemed to stand Horn-like, before us. As the moon grew bright, And not a shadow cast the charmed gaze Upon our mirrored eyes, I saw the breath Of life; and that sad hour gave me the soul Of one who had long since gone down with me To that dead land where never more he seemed To dwell, before me--lonely as before, From that dim land--through all my other lives-- ======================================== SAMPLE 869 ======================================== away, And e'en my fondest hope I may betray. Go, tell it to the swain, "Embrace, and bind A lock of hers so deep within a wound." Oh, swiftly and untie the heavy chain, And let thy neck in peace its tresses bind. Close them, poor hart! Loose the tangled twine-- Resistless beauties of her forest line; Waked by the morning, catch thy pleasing strain, And try the shelter of a ruined reign." The victim bough he kissed; with frantic hand He grasped the lock, and flung it from the band. O, while the sweet caress and winning smile He seized, with secret pain, the gift of guile! "Pardon, oh, cruel Love, this injury done, And to my hopeless heart this flint-stone grieve! Here lies the hateful pest, the cure for ever, My father's grave is there, my mother's bower, My name is Death, and with the guilt I ponder, I feel thy ever ready force to bless me, The queenly babe that to thy bosom presseth; I see thy claws, soft gleaming in the warm blood, I hear thy fearful howls, as from the altar frantic I hurl my glitt'ring spear, in hopes to seize thee, And bare my breast, when fierce and fell the blow: Oh! wildly must I call my husband's scolding; Oh! shall I sue to him, and spare his wooing? Ah, Love! for thee, forbear thy cruel hand, Nor count my fondest vow dishonoured, brand! My dying wish, for thee alone I dare, With passion's raging heat my fury war. I am not bold, I am not soft, I know, To take revenge on him, thy withering foe. And yet he prayeth me to spare his pain, And spare his tears, for I would spare his tears." What time the prince his sweated mistress hears, And takes the babe, her darling gift of tears. But Ida's child, who to his bosom ties The dear-breathed toy, and bears the drooping boy, And with soft arms about her lover throws, Her deep-meshed bosom doth dishevell now, And now the babe turns dainty to his mother, Whom sweets salute, and whom the kiss inspires. While thus she said, within his breast he steeps The precious treasure, and his anxious eyes Speeds to the track of secret toils; And now, as erst he footed Aurora's bed, From Ida's grove he sadly backward sped, And now, with fondled hand, his knees he bent To kiss his child, and gently kissed the child. His face grew pale; the woe that chills his frame Moved not; his eyes but half-shut heaven became. "It was a father!" thus, he spoke, 'twas no disgrace, He spake no word, but softly took his place, And gently led her through the crowds, and showed The litter there, and placed beside his child, In sadness, which with many a mien and look Half joy and play, the ready youth took up, And placed her by his hand within the joyous words. "Oh! I will raise the dead man to my hand!" His eyes with tears were dim, and as he spake The words went through his lips, and through his heart, With fear and awe, he felt himself embraced. The godlike youth the naked corpse did press, And round the corpse and moaning he knelt down, And on his mother's lap his arms laid down. And straight from out the hollow tomb there came, And soothed him with sweet breath, and sweet soft shame. Therein the buried mother wept and sighed, And sooth'd him with sweet words of mournful thought, And tried to smooth her secret grief to rue, And sooth her heart to yield her bitter lot. But chief his sorrow, from the shore he drew, And gently led her sorrowing gentle dame. "O daughter, let no tears my heart unstrand! O Sire, I thank Thee that my mind's not bruised Unto the action, but the past perverse. With grateful tears I wish those tears to blend, For, ah! my tears, I cannot ease their hurts. But, Sire, if tears could comfort or distrain, And cure the wound that aches, let me my pain Salute, and at my side ======================================== SAMPLE 870 ======================================== "They would make some of them think, by roaring! So on it they went in a loud way And almost reached their home. And the little rain baby, too, At last came from far away. He was perfectly cross and neat, And with his right hand and his left, She washed them and bade them stay. The doll in the corner was left, There came some lads, also the clowns; But the wonderful story I'll tell you, As I told you before I told this; Their names were the lively ones named WILLIAMUS!" And this is the way that they played,-- In their lovely green garments arrayed, But alas, the picture had passed away, And alas for the dear ones--not one In all the parish had more or less shown That the poor little boats, upon the shore, Went laughing again, and alas for the poor ones,-- For alas, as they led the Light House along, With its fair roof washed away, and the trees Stood bare under the old and the ragged clouds That circled the church-doors, where, it seemed, The teacher had nothing to do with those-- All bare under the old church-window lay, Staring bare under the old church-pile, In the shape of a boy on the high-hill, And such an eye, I could almost see Was it well in the old church-yard? Then, with the glorious eyes that smiled A glad and glorious picture together, They turned to me; but I could not help My dear one, in this most distressful weather. And I said, "O pray shut the old door, For I hear the great bell the night just now, And the little fiddles will ring in the tower, And the croon of the choir; there's some more of it, And some of it, perhaps, there will soon be Ere the slow light doth shine." In vain did I plead for the beautiful Word; In vain my father strove, and in vain my mother prayed; They died in the snow-drifts; the church-bell once more Tolled in harmonious chorus; the church-bell, slow Tolled in harmonious chorus, again replied: Still the bells of the choir time to pause, And instead of a full one, the people of God Bade the children of them enter, and then Passed away into the night's dark womb, Crying out, "We ask for it;" yet,-- Even as the voices departed, and alas, Came, and drew them to the church-floor. Now, in our strength to all things, that seemed As with slow steps our pathway lay, Singing, "There are scores of souls in the way Of mortals to-night that cross the way." Gone are we all that we loved, We alone can self-forget; But no,--like Paul's unchanging Word Taught by his Master to forget. The sinner who sees the Truth gleam And the Light Heart that yearns below, Can we, like Paul, discern in dreams That light is a light, that way, Where the pure are bright? Thy Master alone thou canst say; Although once we are far from thee, Thy Word our word we shall obey. We will not cast our utmost thought On the darkness and blindfold Night; And could we live without thy light, And we cannot know that thou art Light! The night is vast and sad, The sea is very deep, The tempest drear and wild, And the trees are wild and old, And the lightning scatters gold, And the sky is all of gold! In the grey, dark winter night No eye should look at me; The mocking-bird would scarce be out, And I alone must flee. But, ah! what will the night avail? I only heard the sorrowful, Wrapt in the mantle of the clouds, The story that I shall tell! In an old Eastern balcony, Where burns the orange-tree, There sat a lady, Wasted two thousand years, And a child in her hand Said, "One, two, three! And I knew it-- By the years that I know not, By the years that I love not, By the years that I love not, By the years that I love not, By the years that I love not, By the years that I love not, By the years that I love not, ======================================== SAMPLE 871 ======================================== --It is the highest thing that's done. By the good God of our fathers--I was the mate Of the worst bather of the fight. There's the devil of it, and who shall say it, It is for him I go. This prayer shall be for God--God! I believe her! What matter? Psha is dead? Alas! I am a man! I'm not a husband-- Far from my home and all my friends, No God can choose a better place. Far in the wilds of Octabas-- Beneath my cottage on the hill Where clear immortal waters flow. Far, if he's living--true, my friend-- Would I were with Ben Garranciennes! "Come, drink to me," she said. We three Were on the brink in the endless thirst Of whatsoever forage--yet, Whether to drink were wisdom or not-- Only we quaffed our sparkling wine And quaffed our simple heart's best loved We were not weary till the Gascon plate Glanced down from the Boche hotel, And slew the priest and chanter thief. We were not hungry till the clock Tolled out the hour of the Walgett Times To striking twice or thrice; The goblet wears a silken gloss, And all the wine is gold. Right to the North, from walls of ice To the port at Gleoumoumoumou, You will find him, clear as human sight And old as the Euclid T. And how the wine is blue, and how Its color glows like the carbuncular or sunlight warm, And every draught of wine is gold, And all is fresh and colourless As is the snow on Jew's Yichamah (So be it mine heart's memories). Even the springs of memory, Despite old age, can never trace The mirrors and the mirrors there That show as if they shone at his face. Still there he sits with them, and they Who walk in mirror-like, and say, "Come up and be a gentleman." Not I alone, in these same woods, Who carry water for the bride; I am here alone, but that this hour Is only one such month since died Thou lovedst me before the flood Was not the place where thou wast born. Thy love is near me, yet the gods Hear not thy speech: there is no sign Of more than coming or of less And of the last inexorable bond As thou art. Thou hast heard the Lord Mingulphëd from afar, O daughter! Nay, thou hast been on earth too long. Thou knowest how the bitterness Is boundless as the sky and damp Because thou comest to think of him And curse him in his loveliness. Thou knowest how the flaxen rocks Will teem and shiver on the sand, 'Mongst the wide water-meadows, where The tide runs foaming from the sand, And the unnamed waters come and go, In the world's middle-tide, O daughter! Thou hast suffered not the near affront, The latest slush of summer's rain, And shapeless and unchanging print On the sand is spread as a cover By the hand of death, or all the stars Are listening to thy slumberous song. And once in those still nights, O daughter! And she, thy widow, when she slumbered, Gaze from thy face with love on me, And drink with passion all away. Only, O daughter! thou dost hear me! Only the moon is listening to me. Only the moon is listening to me. Faintly her milky way descends, But I feel her chain too strong To bind me fast, so press with love Her foaming back and breast that beats With utterance more than breath of air And blood of maid and man and beast; While till the heaving sea above Her shrinking breast again she feels Her woes indeed and she must weep If skies like that forbid her sleep. The king who sways in the stride of his bent, The gardener--the miter--of places unseen, The heiter of day that hides what is true, The master of streams, the abbot of dew, The robber and prophet, are as one. There is the caveless air that sails the gale As it dips among ======================================== SAMPLE 872 ======================================== that soldiers' characters must be shown. Three years--the settlers seek--allured their awe; Tight are their stockings, loaded with the gold, Yet young and old seem tamed by broadest age-- Thus the old well repaid, with grateful rite They trim the cottage and lay out the smith, Their axes, far from working, balance well, Yet working well and trim the growing larch, For Eustace has a family on the hill. Their quarter is a barrow--forward bent, In all their stores arrayed, to save the poor-- Down to a mansion tall, which is an arch Of wood built out of solid beams, and straight, Or thick and warm, between their granges strait. Those are, at barrows, in whose homely frame The worthy pair had placed them for this time, The finest barrow which is fashioned of Abraham's leather-fitted panier hung, From which she wears a weird and countenance. They are a marvelous sight to us! Of old, But still they tarnish now, where once was reft The blessed mission of their former months. The Earth around them, like a Memnon, kept Her swarthy secret fast; they spared the Earth By Evil, for their own guessed mother's hand Took them to house her foulest stain, whereon Their fair Earth, dressed for bearing, hides the face Of Earth in forests of eternal green. Here was the place for Adam, there the germ, For what has Earth to do with Earth, but kept A virgin womb for springs of morning light. Long, long they dwelt--that world which gave them Life To breed and mould and sift throughout the land; Whereof the Man perceives a first, first Morn, So long to a degree, he doubts the Day, Which yet shall dawn on him, and not effists By work, until he hear the truth from Earth. But, ere the day of Time's full flaring course, His marriageable brother, the new Dawn, Upon the Earth by twos and threes has wrought Perpetual dissolution, and the Day Which brought to being his Star and his Sun, Has found expression and expression both, Nor yet hath ending of his being begun, But flows and nourishes. So old Earth's Wone, Her garner'd fruits, her woods, her fruitful Earth, Are but her own. There is no need, in Heaven, Her mountain tops, her streams, her murmuring vales, Her grots, her lakes, her bosom-haunting vales, Her glens, her lakes, her solitudes, her hills, Her broad savannahs, and her fruitful vales With all her countless throats! To shake her old, And be a part of Nature's mighty mirth, To pluck her ribbons, toys, and ribbons choose Her creatures, not her children, for their sport, She takes, in her own good things, and good to do; And, when the wage of Nature's rude designs Beats on her harvest, and the harvests rise, And all her goodly creatures are set free, She tills them with her juices, and, in tune, Prepares the ready wing and ventures full On foot to race, and in her beak to race; As oft her living voice, her infant ear, Tells when to range, and in her speech diffuse The pure, self-sacrific thought, which runs From all her nature to the general light, And to the general Good; all, all her Good; A creature not her substitute for Earth. For, where no need of fire but of divine Subsists, or the volcano's work, she brings, In whose up-soaring bosom wisdom blows, And perfect joy, and every high thought high, Arose, the daughters of Creation's Lord, Ardour, and faith, and reverence. Nor was death, Thus peril'd, thus tormented, thus o'erborne By sin, through ignorance. If faith to men Be spouse, then for thyself be thought thy thought, What offspring 'tis to shun death's worst rebuke, And fondly deem thee therefore man. If faith Be then the cause of Evil, then the cause Is, by performance, not a cause. That love Cease therefore, that they may themselves behold The good, and try what they themselves believe By exercise, not minding, as they ought, Their nature merely; love, that in himself Finds Universal Good; Universal Ill; That, loving ======================================== SAMPLE 873 ======================================== draw many a robe, To fold thee, hide thee, and In ambush sit; To which, if thou art free, Thee shall thy master be, To thee is all his care; So will his sweet unsaying power Costly thy tributary." The heifers now no longer slept, And wished the hour were come When to their cottage door they crept, With night-cap on their backs. But when the dawn of morning broke, They sought the dell, and woke; And chid their masters for their sin, And craved them in the fight While yet the dawning light arose, And warned them of the night. Now when the blackbird's note was heard, They found the doors shut fast; And there within the dear abode They spied a painted mast. They took the spindle from their master, They set the sail on board; And on the deck a horse was saddled, That made the ship to go; And down the wooden stair they rolled, Their master and his crew. They climbed the spindle; They plied the oar; They bade the night-winds blow His best to blow, And all the waves that rose before Came fresh with morning dew. They climbed the spindle; They plied the oar; They bade the waves lie still and white To meet the landward swell; And so, a hundred-odders strong, They rowed the seas in song. They rowed the seas in ocean's course, With foam that flew above; They set the world to sail for good, And passed with heedless love The time that drew them to their deed, And gave their lives the gale; And so, with many a lurid dream, The world was seen to fade, And leave no trace of trace or trace On any trace of shade. And thus, as o'er the tide of life They sped their plying sails, They cut the dash of many a wave That rose up from the gales; And now, as o'er the eastern main, They cut the breakers foam, And plowed the sands for rocking-weed That, ready for the gale, Might bear the seed for what might come To clear the unsounded sea; And while they plowed, in sun and shade, The world went on its way; And, as they plowed, the world went on Its journey--to its play. Lived in a quiet cell. And, building by the Nine, Saw this mighty world of ours And laid the spars of ships. And round the absent spars, The unnumbered solid blocks, That scarce could meet the eye Of sea or sky, With all its thousand peris And error and mischance, They cast the stone, and rolled it down, And left no rock behind, Till, looking round, a lark, A ship, with every sail Shaken from off its lee, Came drifting, drowsing up to port, And ploughed for all the gale. And, to and fro, the ball Went plowing in and out, And drove the clouds asunder, And into every wind Carried the ship, with every hop, And hull, and cleft, and cleft. Beyond the quay, beyond the quay, They cut the dash of waves; And, plowing here and there, Their hull in such a career Was all too rough for a single speck To cleave the whole sky o'er, As they rowed, and she sailed, and hewed, And shuddered at their oars, And clapped their hands for ever, And--blazingly, as they rowed-- Out of the pits they bore them They made such a dismal place That the giddy crew in terror turned And tore their sails before them. And one--within whose breast They breathed the air of rest,-- Walked slowly on his shining clothes, With dark, unwonted eye, For, through the storm and clamour, All things were safe from their repose. For this dead ship was safe; No need to waste its strength On useless sea or timbered shore. But thou, who rear'st the ship, And whose proud spirit flies, The will of men and ships, Sweep to the breeze that blows The fragrant balm of maidenhood,-- ======================================== SAMPLE 874 ======================================== us then with happy violence; Therefore let none elate hear broken lyres. What future times can I to thee disclose From thy own bosom, blest associates! known To the sad eyes of her, but treasured in, Her dear embracements of sweet silentness? Or, 'stead of gratitude, immortal love That feign'd violence with thrilling acts, Here let her kiss me, now with lip of bliss; Nor blame her, when I speak of name of joy. Pardon me, if I am loath the theme By which my Muse to thee invites, nor blame Those acts which, by a prince not to be held For purposes of grace, he gaily rears To kindle with th' old flame the new-borne flame. If, with love's flame, thou wilt be able still To gratify the wishes, let us try, Or if thou like, in passion's fury, hold At once th' inexorable truth to be Proving our blest desires, and willing praise. Charm not the eyes of unembodied love, Nor, to th' embrace of nature blind, confine The soft beams of thine orbs; if ye must rule These sons of thine with ardour and with joy, Approach to realize and be beguil'd. For peep or peep, when Nature's self endures The mild transversion, whether slack or calm, Hour suffers tedious, then if waning love Removes the traces and undo the deeds, Then how is loss less bitter than remorse? If thou must love me, double with thy will My love and service, which besides were sweet, Is wasteful; and, though sweet, still to be lov'd. To whom thus Zohikikikikikikka of short song. Not such this is, as I by far have brought From dale to dale; nor am I now deceiv'd By this fair fount of Corydon's well-taught, Which once was Damon; nor will I regard His Providence more adverse, or, from me, His judgement or his goodness more or less. For loving he must have bounds to live; Or must be needs; or must be, will'd, or miss'd; And must be much more grievous than the wound, If all will equal loss; and rarely sweet Will he be found, but foul and ductile too. For love, he must be alter'd, or be lost, To live as love hath will'd; and shrivell'd oft By jealous cares, will force his rosy lips To ask for alms; and piety compel His cold submission; then, to better deeds Dispensing, he will give the sweet repast Due to the fault; thenceforth his tuneful tongue, In prose or verse, will help to save the wrong. But as the law prescribeth when its bound Submits its exact, cutting off a sincere, Remembrance of offence, remorseless pain, Imports immoderately to the last, Among themselves, in panic, most, remorse, And thinks to stab him, but he lives; and is By their mistaken wishes never freed. Yet he shall have his error, feel the heart Of Nature alter, when in him she fails To violate her laws; and, waken'd, see The world lie open to a smiling youth. Some ne'er advance an act, but when they pause, Must stop the headlong, helpless step, to go To an ungovern'd grave; yet, cautious, ask Which way shall lead him; that efface his fear. For, if he be a friend to man, his heart Is faithless to the counsels of the wise; And sure, if his foreboding passions tend To snatch a moment, 'tis their prime of end. Not much to him a man of heart belongs, When what is death, can be beneath his rule; Death is but life in an attentive breast. Nor less his present state, how soon obscur'd And giv'n to future wants, the many cares That he prepares for, and may undergo With solitary rites; the unwearied hours That haste the sad and stubborn days of life, And waste, with petty cares, the tedious hours In pious pray'rs, that are not all the good To him who can suspend them from above. To him, whose mind is reason's sacred guide, This is a guide, and this is human rest: To him the lulling sound, the holy peace, The holy peace, for which no noisy strife, ======================================== SAMPLE 875 ======================================== he sate watching. An angel, ghost, in aspect brightening, Appeared in air, unseen, inviting, And straight I knew not 'twas inviting In parlance what the maid had promised. Be still, thou bondwoman, be silent! To fly within my breast, O lover! Ah! silver arrow, am I dreaming? Lo, I have cut thy heart, O maiden! Canst hear me now as well as now, O lover? Thus I, by dreams beguiled, by flying, Dreamed, hour by hour, of thee, O monarch! But not till high above the Apennine And Apennine above the Apennine, I saw that star, already waning, A chilly coroll on the seas. God, pity on poor Matthias, And, pity him for the old king's wound! Then, starting up, he cried, the criers To Peter and the rest he led. "In Peter's name let Marko's glory ring, And seek the city for the boy! The curse is on us, and the angel thing! Christ, only God, to whom for evil day Our bread was water, will in pity say, Hang it, O wretch! Till these poor fragments, but a little clay, Our ruin o'er the arch of heaven Where Maud sits saintless,--even here She sitteth, and the priests are merry!" "In Peter's name let Marko say, I learned at home from blackened speech, But faith and hope have left her out, That they who made her many pray May still be Lord of them for ever. But till her dust be dust again, And this poor rhyme forget to flatter The godless church is quiet, yet to wail The bones of him who moulded them: She found that little peace was passing! But you, poor wanderers of the wood, Until the latter years have hewn Their same sad bed for you, old beggar! And you have read my art, alone, Where still the music of the silver Is sounding in the market-place, And the moon's tower lamp that dips In the black evening as the waves That fill it along the sandy beach Is silent as the wind, or the face Of the sea-faring water, This year has kept her seer's head on, And seer's bands are waxen white. And cold, with ceasedless white and wan, The ancient tower has been of the snow Upon the lofty palisade Its station. Is no winter made Where such a two-faced sonnet has grown? At first with monimel the edges, The flaws and errors of the port That have been broken on us, old fishers, In despite of winter's frost. A gaudy strip of pantaloons That held a garment's hem when they were leather, Now made of them that go to sea, As if with wings of love, they went together; But what, I don't know, has been said of them But, sure, some gracious savor of salt water Sets them a-quiver. They have ceased to practise With the least ridicule; but still They'll travel onward as of old, With never a defeated or forsaken; For on the first night of the year They did not take their ewes or they were wagging, But stood indifferent to the weather Of this most marvellous Alexandria. Doubt not, or fancy what they are, Nor think that Peter is a hem Of mine, at all events, for Peter. He has a neck that plums and grows As he is, John is not of thorns, But lies as straight as any spurs; And yet the thorn has scarred his brow In some primeval woods, we know, With sap that scorns old chanticleer, The Devil, Peter is a cheque. The tops of your timbers are terribly shake, Like fagglings in a storm, And the blasts of coming froth, As long as they have flaws, And plenty, with her strength, in salt, And plenty of their own, Where'er a sea or a rude land Shall have a wind or tone, There are blocks--of so many size-- That form the Devil's guise. And here's a screw, that hangs his head The bottom's all and best, That he is pleased to lay aside The chart for his molested rest. His legs ======================================== SAMPLE 876 ======================================== 'Though many a gay Italian Maid, Whose loveliness, and worth, and grace Might make her seem but of a spright 'Unlesse that on a thousand knights Her mind employ in courtesies; And that on any lady faire Of warres that likest to her be, To do me pleasure and desire This goodly guerdon. So thou livest fast, O noble Louer, and thy lips so fayre Salute my kind, my virtuous Lady, That one of you my self suspect, As I that am, so be it done; Both that befall my self and you, Alas! that one should worke, alas! Her minde, that other to have beene, And so my joy and hope are none. O cruel Love! if any knowe That I that am to blame dar be Commemmed with wombe or have not knowne, Come, let us then this sorrow see: That I, who from my self am gone, Hang up the maugre of this griefe: Or, if I can, that griefe renewe, Bid that my soule be calm againe. Methinks that, for the fortune fayre Of that sweete youth, men for their owne doome, Look in the face, and with redoubled joye, See in that bloudy cloude o're christall Rome, This doe o're aditer to doe him disdaine Some enuy, that at yong men for the nonce Seale of his prayers, and wanton out of grafe They to her wanton father rue no more, But to her bridde (supposest loue) restore. Why cease I, love? to cast my self away, To be another's? this hath me preponder'd, That other's feele may no antipay, Mens fame & young renowne vouts conveying: What want I, hast thou no respect to tell? That this my plaints my low tongue see so well, That in my ioy, suspicion, being sat, Doubt can no further speak, but loue can call Vnto my self? and my vnkindest serue For loue, for hope, for whom mine heart vaine Hath borne in trust, on her I doe deserue. Forsooke the which, and thus, you thinke me loth, Quoth she, thy heart has me for to relieve: I sweare to use my selfe to ease my selfe T'opposites mee: then dost thou giue me leave To leaue me one sweet pillor still more meane, Quoth she, thy owne despaire for to deceiue Thy soule will I be well content vpon, And all thy weake content for to deceiue To be vntrvnhearted; vnto feare and loue Thou shalt haue feare, and haue my selfe behoue To make Loue bett, I bid thee thy selfe to giue, Or to thy self: goe and thenke it to your will: My ioy thou hast, and my faire hope is ill. But goe thou hence, and I thy plighted loue, Leaue me my self and me to leaue at houres, Leaue me my loue, and seek a rouer loue Then hate me, faine wh[=e] sorrow is possest, And from these Louer more hast, and so deserues, But least to make Loue of me, make straau acquaintance With thee, sweet boches, songes, but only so To make vpon my heart, to sing vpon thee so, That I as beasts be very willing: So deale thy selfe with as much as we confer'd And know not if thou diuest to be so bad. Then shall thy proud head in a more beauteous crowne Surpriz'd thy darke and blisse vpon thy breast; And (vntho' I haue lou'd thee before mine Eyes Next) when thine eyes vpon thy carke arise, Look in them seeing eyes and wondring see How the loose glasse, inconuenyence, Vpon thy neck prevaileth a diamond. Hether me onely, from my ======================================== SAMPLE 877 ======================================== graces, majestical gifts, Thrilled on mine eyes. On whom I burn, quenched in my heat, Whose anger is as a vision sweet, All in whose thoughts and veins I dwell, These words divine confess'd my soul: 'Now, worthy sir, that to thee I turn, Thou stand'st in the door of the presence in view; We two, together we sit and spurn The blissful pledges that helmed me true; Cease, nor join aught that is full of sin Or a temple disrobed in a hasty inn.' Answered the Jew, 'That in grace I see Thou shalt have need of company Of those I sing, and loud as I, Who thus describe God's awful will, Whate'er thou hast not understood, To what I suffer'd, ye shall be freed. Ye shall partake of your master's pleasure, And there be taught of his own good pleasure. 'The ladies of Po marched and drew sword, Ladies and youths in many a famous field; But the warrior at midnight in field-midden To a deep dungeon ravish'd, detain'd the maid; And if ever he loved his lady more, Her griefs they could kindle never more. 'And the poet beneath earth, may be Less mindful of this good company; For a multitude or two to seek The hoard of the best of the treasures fair; While a thousand of these ye will have, And grieve them with loud and solemn prayer. 'But to win her ungentlemen Is an object which seldom he'll find; And it sure must be right, if a knight he be, To pray for a soul of his lady's mind. She of her maidens shall share all his treasure, With love and a godly increase of measure. For such such love will each heart find fulfilment, As those have not been unworthy to be. 'There's little beside that is nothing worth, And this to the knight you would bring her not; Nor on earth more worthy than her is The love which to him is a life of thought; And that is from him that hath given this birth, So that he be quite of his lady's worth.' And a kiss he gave, to a lady fair, Which she on her lips had just outdrawn, And to the lady he swore her his swear, That his lady, through good and evil, should go, Being with him and love, when he had gone, He should give to be put to the groomgroom. So they made themselves ready, that very noon, The men their bench-masters and their mistress; Till a truce was giv'n them; lest for dismission Made one of the choicest, the richest lords, And the greatest earls of the fair abode, Both of the court, and their lord besides. Meanwhile with messengers a very Dane Came forward, and they came to the king; And he gave them some counsel of his own. He was one among many, and he was One of his barons, and in high disdain, This Godfrey well knew, and preferr'd his name, To answer his desires for his fit of fame, That, bound by the wood-nymph, he in him might prove Himself in camp, under thick leaves and boughs To warm himself, or many a valiant knight, At hazard, good Rinaldo unconfounds. They therefore went forth, and stood about The royal camp, thus their lord and lord, And with them made mingle their camp and tent. Meanwhile Lord Godfrey besides went out Into the tent where their leader lay, Where stand two serjeants, ranked from head to foot, Looking like two tall men on two stout goats, Between them stand:" thus telling what to do, He straight began: "Sister, the night is near, When you so far from my presence can be; For how can you stand and rest, these are the skies? That I, who am a weakling, pray for fear? Or wherefore sleep you, in so strong a cause?" Lord Guelpho thus: "The night is close; you shall The spy-watch keep at present, lest you start; I charge you, for that you soosh and noisy heard, To set it up on your heads for the third night. You can furnish the guard, and stand by me Before you so humbly; and I the first That eastward from ======================================== SAMPLE 878 ======================================== Ne'er so much the more I'm dumb! For alas, there's comfort in an Angel's voice, Yet the flowers, fragrance, scent and hue I am slow wasting in decay,-- And I perish, cold and dead! Still do I hear the organ calling Its old, old life on Sunday; And when in distant mead I sit, I hear it in theggy beat Of the merry Cambridge chum And the merry Cambridge drum. Dear Cambridge friends, who still keep flocks, With me you will be at one; Sweet Thames, upon thy banks I'll spend, And you with me will spend. What shall we plant in our old Kent? The Knight's Wren's gallant Ticker, A Papist man now stoutly keeps The Squire's Bull with his screws and screws, And Tom bears his swaddling tub; While Tom gets things to whimper him,-- Sometimes with me he makes such tumbling, For I go with my master to sup; While Tom, he cries, is standing by, And Tom bears off his Hebrew tea; While Tom makes good the panniers pie, While Tom is telling things to me. Lady, lovely one, Lady, lovely one, I wish I could Make more of it Greatger for thee. A blue-leaf fan of angels' wings, And a cornel cup of wine, And all more that is divine! But I will drop it at thy feet And I will drop it in wine. I want to be merry and glad, And know the leisure of day; But I will choose myself bright and glad, To wear a white cravat at May: And, as I'm firm yet, I'll sing thee a merry, white jig To the green-hill and the beech-tree. Then I will tumble and sweat Thy heart to entertain; And thou and I will go with all The rose and the violet. Then I will sing thy simple song Upon the misty morning; And once again I'll burn thy brain With the first red flush of day. It is not silver, silver, That they do tell when you can, But it is much like water That does not run on a man. And 'tis it's so round yellow, That one would think it a store, If he would 't fill two or five With marrows, bread, and ale. It is not silver, silver, That these do tell when you can, But it is most like a fair ship With a white shroud on her prow. And it is this, love, This, too, I pray, That makes the heart dance Upon the glass-green brink of it, With pretty motion and sweet shade. I wish you were in London, As the Londoner used then; I would write you how they did them, And talk of their times and men. I would also compare To the manors and bread and beer, Till they'd get it full and free And they wouldn't take it back again. Here are no foolish faces, No chattering feet, But having plenty of time And never a horse nor a rhyme. I hope you'll think yourself clever, For having a horse and a sow, Have made themselves proud and bold And run away to the plough. Here's to your heart's content, If it's fire, food, or meat, Then it's as good as could be sent, Here's to you and to me! If you ever went to the trysts, And not go in again, If you ever went to the frosts, And not go in again, Take yourself to the leap, And feed the children of Time With water for their mirth, Take your serenading, And help to cure the weather. Oh, these are to you, my children, And these are to me, Who you were of the first. Shake your hand, and leave to me More things than you can see, Other times as well as days, And better than the best. For the man who does not try to Sow and reap the sowing season, May be wise and good and wise And keep his quietation. So no more shall we be angry, Lest we spend ourselves in vainglorious To save ourselves from decay. Our good days are well-nigh ended; At last we have finished our day. There was ======================================== SAMPLE 879 ======================================== of these modern hues The sun's first light goes down; Then all things by his beauteous blaze The moon's illumination sends, Not wholly vainly showing The brightness and the varied scene Increasing while it shines. 'Tis when the proud clouds bear her cross The coming storm to brave, To see the tawny tempest sweep, And press its huge weight on the deep. 'Tis thus the blackbird from the hedge With envy hymns his mate, Bums out his mad career, and tries The building of the nestlings' cries, To rear his bill and bid its beams More brightly burn and glow. Thus, o'er that city's tragic throng, What better joy could life afford, Than the calm brooks that travel along, And find their banks a homely board, And all the world's calm solitude? "Let others hold their cups," he said; "I hold their cups but have not tasted." While, in his saloon, by him is cast The crimson leaf a darker shade Upon the yellow table's spread, His restless soul, from light and shade, Looks to the storm that o'er him flings Its wandering shadow o'er the scene. The choral stars of heaven above Shine in the northern pine-trees' boughs, While, in the moon, the heated love Of woman conquers everywhere. There, too, the garden--its first bud Springs from its freshened bowers of trees; Its fragrant heart hath ever burst Like hope with constant April breeze. Where, ere they saw the moon, the breeze Bore on to them her light, soft showers; And Nature, too, had given her flowers To twine them round her in her bowers; Nor would the blight of the pale rose Break it in sunder for a robe more white; More pure the moon's unchanging beam Into the vase of joy suffuse; And, with full lustre as the earth Retains its conscious ministry, A young child of the spirit and the light On which the heart of mortals doth bestow, Has bathed its fadeless brow and brow In amaranth and carnation dew. And thou too, Love! when thy noble crest Is loftiest and strengthiest in its power, For Earth shall ope her eagle-heart, Thou too, O Love! thy falcon-bliss Shall, in its fond security, Take wing, and with thy roundness serene Lead it to bliss that is to own. I cannot understand the words that flow From life that fell so golden to the moon, With all that heaven to me is now revealed, This peerless wand of memory to adorn; I cannot think upon it--though I love Ere Fate cut loose the growing years of old, So the last whisper from the lute I hear Shall cheer me for the sorrows which I had, And hope and fear and hope within my breast. Yet, ere the whole is left, save the changed verse, I cling and watch its falling leaves, the flow Of the green mornings, and the fresh sweet breeze That brings the sunset and the harvest-time, A flush of joy. When o'er the lulling world we walk alone, A faint regret steals through the secret ear, And all in vain the whispered summons comes Of life's dark purpose waiting for its time, I know the place where the ev'n leaf is gone, And wait--ah, wait till the long day is done. The ancient bards, who strewed the hallowed way, The young came early as the morn is young, And in their names the holy oracles Fused over all the earth, and made them sweet. Then all I know is that the mighty bards Have turned to birds of heaven the songs they sing, The voice of hope, and joy, and love, and peace, To them are given as gifts for brighter wings; But still I look on them--and find them these-- My heart could not decide, but I believe That all these things are for the best of use, Since we are led by the celestial choir, We are the song-saints of the poet's lyre, And hope and fear, that from the world afar I may set forth the angelic soul of song, And sing as they have never done before. Ah, the sun has risen, and I have come to thee, And dear as is ======================================== SAMPLE 880 ======================================== s of strong gold, Goes a-hunting;--on he rides;-- Hunters, lions, boa. As for him, who kills a bird? Is he not so great, I fear? And who can tell me all? At the ferry I can see Trappers carrying men along, Bodies warped, and boats worn out, Waiting to be sunken out;-- While the ferry boats go on Bearing people on the shore Sail, till the smith, who rows Bare his basket, staff, or hat, Slouts them on to do the job, Makes the weather going hot. I can see the ships go by, Steady, with high-steered mast, And the Biscay sails;--the sky Green as cottonwoods at night; And the steady breeze of March Sailing to the frozen sea:-- While the pike, borne safe away By the grey houseless champ, Carries, smiling, o'er the bay Freighted with his Indian bees, Leaving half a mile of seas With his white sail in the sky:-- O the wild and scented woods, And bright May's honey-bees, And the slender, twisted blooms Of the litters, red and blue, And the sparkle of the rills, And the ring of tilted bells, And the laughter of the rills, And the dancing-make of calves, And the purl of country towns, And the black smoke bending down From the chimney stacks of brown; While the ships go by the shores, Drifting slowly southward down To the sea-sands, where the roar Of the water-courses pours, And the hurrying, red-coined blades Of the seamen, dead and gone, And the racing, floating mass Of the racing, glittering mass 'Mid the wreckers in the sand, And the laughing, plunging fleets, And the plunging, plunging stones Of the foundered sandbank beat With the dead leaves of the ooze, And the jovial, frolicsome crew Of the racing, plunging stones. Up along the rolling tide Of the rocky, winding flood, Past the frowning island-trees, Came a troop of spirits bright, With their faces fresh and bright, And their bodies pale and white, And their faces rosy-red, And their bodies tawny-red, And their faces yellow-red. For they knew the desperate fun Of the people, and the folk, And their faces peeled and raw, And their hearts with anguish wrung, And they found their dead chief clad In his armour over him, As a shepherd wrapped in flame, And his face a furnace bright, And his hair a furnace bright! Out among the reedy crew, Out upon the waters blue, Doffed, bound in yellow shreds, Came a troop of spirits swift, Wearing coats of sorry grain, Dripping clothes, and loose-strung flags, And their bodies dragged and strained, Up and down, and bore them down Like a ship that has long been plunged Through the length of a hundred seas, But will neither sail nor sail For the storm, nor yet can change! All along the sunny sands The raven croaked, and the water-fowl Droned his fretful tune out of the cave. Children were at play with the red cicala In the stately growths of the chestnut-tree; And the yellow-bellied orchis On the roof above it, and round the cress, Hung the studded frock of a cress; While below in the deep blue water An owl sat brooding, brooding all day long. Through the lofty, gleaming breakers Came the red clucking crew: Stilled with fear and with shame, To their hearts they drew, As if they had left the town For a while; and, ere they came, With a stealthy tread, Screamed and scouted them all, As if they had left the town For a while! There are waters in plenty, And plenty in plenty; Threepence too, there is plenty In this green land of ours! For plenty, and plenty, And plenty is plenty; Come, let us make haste, for there is a perilous road, With a desperate drive, By which way, ======================================== SAMPLE 881 ======================================== , it wants the heaviest weight. Each moment mounts the hour, and then again Steals through the tedious night, whose lengthen'd train In endless rout so lately buzz and rove, Sudden the first-fever of the bursting grove Throws down the year, as not, if so all unspent. Nor more or less the Pleiads' keen desire, Pleaded by Proserpine, resents the Sire. Battles by few, the gay Arcadian troop With various round the tender tendril twist; Urged onward by the matron coy approach. Nor less the Arcadian line, who Jove would stop Toward that twinkling nymph, who slowly sheds The first-fever vision of her flowery bed; And mid that flowery-revellers, may he pluck Gems which are far the fairest, and the most The most like favor seek, and find it there. Then hope not lovers, nor delights in more. Lo, Jove himself, bewitch'd with altered care, Extols to Juno (though with wrath he burns On Jove's descending thunder, he reclines) No prayers, nor timbrels to the Mother's ears Can waft her weighty vessels on the main. Thus mutual and confus'd they sit, confus'd In foreign cares, and with alternate sway Each with his wandering charmer passing by. Meantime, not ignorant of neither art Of love or love, the other chiefs are lost, As who can scarcely know by fathomless. But as the son of Saturn lonely broods Far from his mother, on the lofty hills, A large grey dog, well fatten'd, stands beside That little golden comb, the mother's pearl Of tender life. 'Twas Neptune, Vulcan once! Bethlem, of other days the last, had form'd The Phrygian bent beneath the wintry pine Amid Dodonian groves, and, year by year, He worshipp'd it with beauty, strength, and love. The conscious forests then the sacred grove Of Vulcan's funereal rites adorn'd; And Phoebus raised the double-fading shrines, Where silver shrines and dark old alleys stood. Beneath the shady portico and shade, Ere yet the boding stars had left their orb, A forest thick with waving poplars grew; The mighty trunk a gorgeous shadow casts, And dyes the face of earth with shadowy dyes. Himself Achilles, though along the shore, In martial pomp march'd; and amid the woods High o'er the rest, less duteous, Apollo held His spear, the sole pursuivant of gifts With sacrifice adorn'd; then chose the prize, In which Achilles, looking on his own, Would give to Troy, if no dark-ribb'd suppliant more, The funeral ox, and add a silver hecatomb. Those rites performed, the spirit of the dead Through all the camp a solitary choir Attend; the silent dead, with sorrowing hearts, And voice of wailing supplicate, from far, And trembling in their pangs, thus ceaseless mourn: "O friends! when Ilium shall to ashes borne The bodies of our comrades, and the dust Of Tiber, flood their tomb with steed-crown'd bones? O, friends! to haste that pyre! To haste that pile! To haste, ere yet our last, the funeral pyre!" This said, from his high couch he roused the dead; And when the rites connubial, fittest bides For Peleus' son, he on the bier beside The blazing hearthstone with unsparing hands Ascending, heap'd the pile with unsparing hands. Such gleams of fun'ral flames the duteous dead Have caused by Saturn's royal son, to fire. And now the gen'ral portions of the dead Are duly sullied, and the rites severe Are fully throng'd, and promis'd fair the rites Due to Patroclus, and the fun'ral flames. All night they lanted; on the vast bleak strand Gleam'd the dark surge; the vessels' lofty prows Then lifted up the bones; with artful words, Touch'd by his lips, they sat: deep anguish fill'd The hero-shrouded ship; and all around Were strew'd the snowy steers: the mingled shouts And clamors of the dead, ======================================== SAMPLE 882 ======================================== that was precious.-- "I was also--" "Your nerves from year to year "Have beaten--" The Lord knew where they lasted-- He knew they looked not distant. Each marching praise is legion-- "I stand again that city!" Yes, it is known-- The plain is far away, The broad deeps are unknown, But never one that prays May murmur "Half my life!" And from the sky above Our two souls trample As when the clouds are flying. There is an eye Looks up, and sadly She bends below the grave Of this grey, grave, tree. When the sickle of the world was mild And quiet in its careless spring, The clang of steeds was stilled in the crowd And the green gloom of kingfishers stirred. A common thing is the repetition which relates, An incident, a history of two years ago, How little children played with a bright stream And cheered the curly hours on. Twelve years ago Some children were astray, Their mothers would outrun the wind, And leave the sod for a litter of dead flowers To wait in the springtime of the year. Like flags unfurled, With cobwebs buttoned, They waddled and swayed, They were glad to see the world unfold, And glowered and laughed in a nest of gold. Till time drew near Their love and joy To the end of the year. Old mother of Mine A century hence, Henceforth she flies For earth or skies In the noisy æther year. My letters, that you gave me Are huddled in the years to be. And, ah, the bitter blights That come and go again, The thousand wreaths of mist That in the wolds of men Wander and wheel away After the year is out. For I am old enough to know That you and I are old, And I am a child of clay Who have learned to nurse the cold. The quiet evening of the land Is all about my brain; But being long I have not seen The lights of years again, And the clear sunlight of the sky That sings my heart a song. At dawn, when day is bright, I hear the katydid ring In the morning as it flies On in the breezy grass, And every finger-fall Is welcome to my eyes, And the tick of the finger-tip Is a glad thing to me. When, on a golden day, Odysseas forth outstretched their spans To take the tide away, And when the night was black And the wind was out of the east And the frost was in the north, My mind was running away, And my vision returned to me. And some are mad with revel, and some The young men and the old; And some have taken their playthings off In the wild spring nights of yore, And some would softly and put them down Where the woodland mists have lowered. And some are sadly sad, and some Would fain be glad once more, And some would take the solace of Their laughter and their tears, And laugh and sing it all the night. But in this age the good old days Have come again to me, And every man from off the earth Has gone and left us, free. But their laughter brings no more Than the roaring of their drums, And the ringing of their battle-shocks, And their hallelujahs, too. And still I've found sweet words that help To comfort minds oppressed, And I'm thankful that they always bring More than they have to tell, And they are not as other men, And they will never well. With wandering winds I've wandered far, I've sought the empty old town, And never met with mine own, Or told, or planned to be the thrall Of any hound that's ever there, Or served--(while some folks say, With ancient legends of old days)-- I have been punished with my wrongs. I'll be the moral, he'll be dead, Or sweetened for a bitter cup. But to the tale: meantime, this wail Will grow to good, and all will wail. There was a chieftain man Of high estate, Who left his father's bowers For elsewhere to create Within the lands of Wessex. He left behind him light, The ======================================== SAMPLE 883 ======================================== won him on the War. It is not true. I shall not lie In cruelty. Behold, fair youth, The Gods are good; but when I turn, 'Tis there I find thee and thine eyes, And hear my words and mine and sighs Where mortal woe incarnadines The clay and clay. May God create The soul! And this is might. The Gods are good And bountiful. The Gods are kind, Who send you gifts to suit your need, That to your wrath may end the deed. Not verily, no. The Gods are good And bountiful, and Mercy dwells In might though all the world wax dark Where man is meet for happiness, And all the stars in heaven suffuse Their stain of filial love to miss The charm and blessing of the few Revealed before. The gods are good and bountiful, And I will go to Thessaly And seek the home of Thessaly, And, greedy and contented, draw A chariot from the silver sea, Or find my home where he may lie Among the dead. But never shall I see his face Or harbour his unblushing grace, Or measure his deep thoughts with fear 'Neath skies more stern than stars, for there He will be far away from me. Take Thou my wand and lead it here Beneath the feet of Deity, Or sit on Theb Olympus' top And view thy stars and feel them there, Thou canst not leave my heart, or sin Or hope within it. Only, all, Supreme and nobler souls of men, High-minded in the purer flame, Uplift the hand of God to strike The blow not meant for earthly woe, Nor hope to bring me withering grief Upon my soul from snow or leaf, Or yet the weary head may weep To know that Thou hast made me whole. So spake the other godlike man, And all his stormy powers began To mingle with the fire of fire, And speed the howling arrows of desire To quench in all the wreck of life, Which I have pitied. But in the meanwhile the dull crowd Grew hot and sick, and Thestor's steeds Threw fig and chestnuts from the stumps, The palanquin to fiery eyes And smoke and dust and mouldy flesh, And clinging cocoanuts and chains Of flies and birds and beasts and game, Wondrously fair; till, far away, Within the portal of the sun A Child, a man of twelve, awoke From his sweet dreams. He heard them call From the white-crested earth that lies On a red realm of snow in the Northland, Where the white moors lie dense and fast, And the snow flees across tall fleeces Between isles where the white breakers comb, And the wind seizes the heavy snow, Stranger, who never feared his foe Thralled in his quest on such a day For these outshine him. For I will go Beneath the willow trees, nor heed The motion of the restless wind, Nor stain with crimson or with gold The tarnished glitter of the snow, Though all the blue Swirled in their rush Melt into motion, and I feel Thin as the sea beneath the cliffs Whose base grows far, And there may be A rise and fall of snow, but how Lashes alone with steady stress The breath of snow. For all the forest must have cried In wild uproar from north to south To greet the coming of the Frost, And hush all Nature from her birth To be the death of innocence Or cruelty: For the rivers of all the Earth Claimed the rivers as the sea, And as the winds that knew the might Of scents of the salt-sea, too, Began to fail And dwindle and stream in its white bed As a sea-mist, Or the foam-flake that falls blown on the sand And dies and is found again On salt-sea beaches. But many a man, though mortal, since then Has known this thing, and called it destiny. Though ancient are the centuries, yet the earth Has seemed more like a birth. Far down below The sea is a marsh that has grown wondrous wide With the water-meadows by the walls; the tide Shows like a white line of silver; and a dream Is like a ======================================== SAMPLE 884 ======================================== A tree's fantastic allusion-- To hang out of a cross-way Where reeds and rushes purl. Her home?--Where now from her Tituba And her unmarried crew? I could describe, do I tell, The waltz that she had planted: She planted and she watered The family plant renew. Stands that discouraged, amazed, Beneath her mother's shade? Some pilgrim now upbraids This sacred roof to shade. All at once it exclaimed, As if the gods were playing Trumpets of victory! Out of the dust and din Of cities, thunder-clanging, Beneath her feet were flowing The sea-nymphs, glancing down in the town, While a hundred archangels Went striding with their tinkling tunes. Hear what the bastioned city sings, Hear what it's all about, How, through the rush and roar, And whirl of wheel and crack of whirring wheels, Its way goes up and down, Over the aisles and up the seas, Past those aerial gates, Beneath which tower and column In flashing momentary spires. Hear what the pilgrims in the town Are pushing through across the bridge, Where, flapping in the pitch-fire, stamp their feet As though some unseen deity Had raised them to that goal! No,--yet she opened never, In vain he pushed her past, Nor called for help, nor cared for life, 'Mid loud and fearful laughter, Within her pale white hands-- Beside her little naked feet, A silken cap in amplest reach, To lay, all penniless and white, The shattered doll in smouldering gait 'Mid varied clamors of applause, In that most mortal way. The Danaans tore her with their teeth, The captive from her bed, From her patient scrutiny, sternly dread, All shrieking, 'mid despair, Whilst eager shapes in darkness rolled, The wildest passions in their wild might rolled Like serpent thoughts before the unfolding fold Of human passion, under the curse of man. Fold now her vesture, and set free Troubled with all her soul; And take the necklace, and her hand, Unwitting, on its orb Shall rest a sacred dream. Behold--alas! the maidens' eyes Like twin drops from the tender skies Upon her thin ti'd hair and breast Are pleading like the dove that flies Through night and morning to its nest Amid the ivy'd orchard shade. The fairies dance about her as she lies, Their bridal-dowse that in her bosom dies; The living sun has flushed the hills of snow, And floated on them now the evening glow. The stars are come, and floating down The wild-flowers o'er the dewy lawn Fling their rich clusters up, to show The fruit miraculous grown. On countless tables in the hall The king shall press the royal chair, And do all gods' deliv'rance. Hear, This gurgling melody of old: 'Chime from heaven, sweet matron! rhyme Hymns by sweet and heavenly chime. O'er the old barons, all that time, Scenting by moon or stars or stars, Rested the eye of nature. Man, (Seeming, like him, immortal) sang To man, the music of mankind. Thrilled to the barb'rous sense of time, Mingling with melody sublime, The dilatory and heavenly hymn I heard, I knew not whence or how, Till higher, clearer, in my brow, The world's continual breathless hum: And looking to the future's face (Oh wonderful, departed world!) My eyes were on that wandering brow Which waits, whose pencil'd form and line Bear all the tender thoughts of mine From painted nature's most divine, To tear the veil, and raise the veil, Ay, tear the geranium from its shell. And, as the phantoms fade and pass, As they pass by the zephyr-light That wanders by, my spirit spake: "What Man is he that rises bright Before us, from the sea of light, Without a shade within his realms of shade, Without a glory on his brow, And by the breeze a living breath Whisper'd from some sweet nook in the cave That leads o ======================================== SAMPLE 885 ======================================== ers to his genius, Thy sons in lowliest rank. From wits in the world's esteem. One brilliant streak of blue, Brighter than the sun's are true, More whitening in its hue, Draws us to that golden sphere, Leaving such a world of care; The ways of boyhood evermore Are where his mother cherishes, His only subjects bare. Who thus from the soul doth wring As the busy worms do swing, Breaks a deed of love and bliss, Softening the ruined cloister, Making earth anew a miss, Sweet-laid within the brain, So sweet, so bright, so rare, As the lark that lightly sings On the meadows of the moor. But if to his song she listen, And the lips that he has left Shall return to harsh and sweeten That sweet strain when he is banished Forth from him forevermore. O lost! that was the time, The time to me with thee When our souls met, in the prime Of manhood's infancy, Gladly, in the world's prime, Startling us to joy, Seeing ever-unto him Who gave life and died, Who gave it and gave it him. Ah, never more, O living man! Shall I behold thy splendent form, And the songs that utter it, The songs which sing this birthday Of thy pride and joy; And all thy songs, like a bared Voice, yearning to break his chains, Soothing his soul with mystic strain, Rapture him to cast out his pains. Ah, after many years, What first befell may be Of things that make life wise, They may never know, I ween, Save at the outset of the scene, A sweet remembrance of a scene Where waked no more, nor fear, nor spell, Shall time let loose the soul Still doubting whether it be farewell Or whether it be. Ah! thou art lovely, radiant, yet not like a rose That has been drooped awhile in my close; The rose of which a year ago was thought Was budding as the apple-blossoms scent And wakened with the presence of a dream. Buds of roses bow down to me above, Bedewed with blood of roses all day long, Buds of sweetest breath that yet will be strong I know not where to find them; but this song Still haunts me as an emblem of the day When our beings unto each other yield Their beings all new-drawn, fresh as the spray Of morning, that, though shaken off, goes down As with a shower of sunbeams. Now I fain Would tell what I had heard, and it shall be, When first divided by what time I read That blessed way of depredating bread And finding the white flowers of endless hue Burst into colour, beauty as the light On shore of ocean, that erewhile had brought The divers lovely flowerings to bloom anew, And Love's own bleeding rose among them grew. Love's long distress seizes on the heart, And day and night, and day and night and day, And life and death, and all things else unseen, Make music of my life, and ever seem To sing in my ear as I lay sick and pale, As it were a goodly sight to see. And know you not that I am sad and cold, Who cannot come to me after dark, Yet having loved you and found you and loved you, Is a sad boon I must put on to dream Of my little heart, your love, your pure delight, And your pure love and her high sweet delight. O would that I lay sick and whole on my bed And, wrapped in the mantle of my great grief, Sleep with the lullaby you have given me, That I, on your sueteasting naught could give For vail and wail I'd have you safe asleep, Were I dead. Or were there, who have gone unto me--as many That loved me--as many would have gone-- And tried with tears their withes--and striven To praise me to tears. Or a few more, with songs for grief and wail, That may have praises of them--as many That were most true in me--and oh, enough For the most earnest of them! and it is To part when I am cold--and then so cold For your sake. Or a few more, ======================================== SAMPLE 886 ======================================== , my Pindar is a mystic sign, That changes earth to a celestial realm, Where science reigns o'er endless human lives. Land of the boast of palaces! where never A human footstep hath trod farthest the sphere Of the most glorious death;--where nevermore, Where never a form should pause in earth's vast heart Bearing its soul, on its own holy thoughts That altar-roof! But seek thou long to find Thy safety in the realms where sorrow reigns, And Earth itself, a friend to man, shall come To thee from death. Thou too wilt find A human form at first a mere terrestrial, And then conceive A new creation--but this little globe, Of earth--a social atom, and a sod, In which, so basely beautified, and shaped With all that Nature gives, The wit and power of all her sister stars Shall sound, and shine, at Pleasure's highest point, And lend a ray, Till Time shall find, who knows? 'Tis not in man to argue on the Muse, He must resuce to knowledge, or be mute. 'Tis not on him the bard is hurried down To her to clasp--the theme of this broad theme; And while he utters, Life is still to her A task, a chain; for, while his spirits pause, The pupil of the prophet's pen can see How far his race of moral may succeed. The Muse is kept in books, of ancient lore Her virgin page, and hers to teach the thought That high desire, and right, should teach her lay "The way divine, which man ascribes to gods." And those who sought her voice and fancied naught (For she loved song) of other ages, come. Yet not with her, the madness of the past Is mixed; and o'er her wealth of Museas set, Loophagi now lets his ambitious thought Pursue his way; the thunderer on the wing Of pleasure speeds, and emulates the song Roused from his lips, and yet too early learns, At Art's most potent teacher, "The young Muse Is all she teaches us, and none attends them." So long as men could win a simple praise Like Bugida or Cato, in their class Of years when Croesus lay beneath the pile With the blest hermit Saturnian sages sought, Beneath the shadow of his shade, the stars, Or one, to tread that roof, whose tallest height The unpolluted heavens are proud to mar. And yet they who the Muse's holy work Learn not that office only, but the praise And awe of mortals may be owed to them. Ye who have rolled within your narrow cell The mighty Poet's panting verse, and wrought His awful triumph o'er the weaker sons Of sibyl, and the sprightly litanies Of adder or of duchesses that ring His wreathed wreath round brows, the thoughts of gods Who fill the hills with wonder, know he too, And dare the music, though he soar alone, For aught that is not, in the heart of song, That lifts the song on aegis-haunted cliffs, And yet the tunes he knows, are nowhere found To answer those who listen. Such a strain Of light and song is all I hear of earth; I sit with Nature, and draw down my mind In the light flow of that celestial speech Which is from God; for not one drop of dew, Nor e'en a whisper of a single spring, But, sparkling through the silence, gently springs Through all my being--dwelling in my heart, And through my soul;--and in the full thought rise, In aspiration, as in earth a star Poised 'neath the blue o'er the blue firmament. The hand of heaven to blend With the sweet life it will amend; And the soft breath of passion, when it lifts The soul above, and makes it love itself. A power that softer every hour Enchantment sets apart; And, at its uttermost, there craves A consecrated heart. Nature herself has taught to know How to make others feel How deep a sense of human woe Their lasting loyalty reveal; How to lift others to the skies, Unworthy sacrifice; And ever craving aye the place Where we ourselves most duly lie In the deep, loving element. For, how many hundred suns have ======================================== SAMPLE 887 ======================================== And the spirit that is tender In my burning, budding heart, I'll arise in courage, with a shout If my holy life had come. If that, or no,--I could not see The grief that ends this sorry spree, I'd look the world no better for it,-- If, after this, there's no one left For me to joy or grieve, Than for my empty life to grieve. The poet and the poet both alike Grope in each other's breast with wondering wonder; When, turning from the walks of men to muse, They prick the ear, the eye, the mind, the mind The ear perceives; when, pouring from his pack, Like a mad colt, he trims the cloak of blue To cloak his body and the world of view. In his mind's pansy craft the artist strives, And, with a craft which wags, deceives the truth; The fine perfections of his art his toil All rivalry obscures and mocked together, An equal mixture of the work and toil, Of pottery, of reed, of rose, and baulkin. He, with the ready pencil, proves the fault, A dainty maker of his art's imparted; An artist, his who fain would paint a plant, Reflects the colours of a fair Apollo, A thing for scornful prelates to command, The music of the lyre, the rose's doing; Though, such an one as you may well believe, A poet's fancy you may well deceive. My mother told me long ago That I should never more caress her; But, as the dreadful secret sallies grow, She whispered once to me: "Alas!" And then, she ever chid me when I kissed her. Oh, it is hard, I know, to part with them When on the earth they make me fast to flutter, To feel within my conscience's core, My heart that's thick upon the earth to quicken, And in the chronicle I read, Who then (when I am in my bed), Have from my erring prudence fled, To shun the little touch of shame? O, by Apollo, then, who set this mark On me, who art supreme Judge of the kingdom, Who, in the body, did not swear That such a little breath was there! How often would my mother gaze Upon the limbs that now I see, When on some grassy spot she sees The mouth of Tantalus, Demurest of all earthly things, My child, the baby of my Spring, Whose birth is fresh as Spring, And yet whose soul is ever gay With joy that never stops nor sings. Yet, though her thoughts be never still, Her thoughts of me remain, For (Oh, my mother, how can I His little foot and careless shoe?) She leaves me not, though on my heart She never pressed the little part Of clay I sought to lay my part. My mother suffered from the sun For me--I am the baby son, And though she knows the perfect way To win what grace the woman may, Her portion of desire to sway-- Herself, the little part of me! She never caused me grief or shame; She was too young--too weak to tame The tide of angry human tears, That in her sorrow broke its chain; But when she smiled, her eyes were sealed That was too great for dreams to see, And so I am, and so, with knapsacks sealed, That in my sorrow I shall die. A careless way my mother taught me, She spread an instant's witchery Through all her boyish days, in thought, Of I my fate and not my birth; Yet though I laid no secret low, Mother of all, you would not know Whether I got my rise or no. Then would my mother rise and call Out of her rose-wreathed sleeping dim, And call me Father of the twain, But I knew not who called me father, Or what name I now name as den Of anything my life would be; I knew I was the child of care Grown bigger in my loneliness, Of hope that was the nursling dear That made me cry aloud for glee, Outrageous, cruel, cruel, strong, As any child of earth or song. I could not feel my mother's eyes As she withdrew me, God, from this, Into a ======================================== SAMPLE 888 ======================================== , And our guestgroom is the peacock, Swiftly flies and smiles to greet us, From the glimmering lake's abysses, From the woodland's moonlit meadows, From the clear, transparent waters, From the starry crown of heaven; Then he seeks his bridal-mantle, Pitiful and clad in combat, Thrilled with wondrous quickenings, With the springs that he has fashioned, Slowly settles on his shoulders, Sears the gems and green-vein'd garments, Sears them with the silver sunshine, And he fain would rest upon it, If the clouds might give him greeting. Then the blacksmith, Ilmarinen, First of all the iron-workers, Forged a heavy naval weapon, Forged a heavy rake and hatchet, Forged a handle broad ofinner, And a copper handle handle, Bore a heavy axe yet lower, And a handle hewn from copper, And he forged the haft of sharpened. Then the blacksmith, Ilmarinen, First of all the iron-workers, Felt the raging stroke of iron, And he forged his axe of copper. And he forged the softened anvil, Hither stinging, hither thrusting, And he forged the steel from iron, From the flinty rocks of springtime, From the hard and steel-delivered, From the flinty rocks of summer. And he forged his hatchet broad-cut, Felled the first by the Creator, And adored the second brother. These the last of all the Strong-man, Was the blacksmith, Ilmarinen, First of all the iron-workers, Of the steel he forged the hatchet, Felled the third by the Creator, In the furnace of the iron, In the liquid fire of Hisi. From the fire came black enchantment, Fire from iron, magic from it, Black enchantment from the rainbow, Black enchantment from the starlight, Black enchantment from the moonlight. Then the ancient Wainamoinen In the flames that bear the silver, From the furnace of the silver, Pricelessly adorned his fingers, And the Fire that forged the bellows, Five and six the heavy anvils, Five the colored flax he forged, Seven the awl Aeorn-heroes, Seven the courts of Aeorn-heroes, Seven millions, seven the turning drums, Seven millions, seven the turning drums, Brought to bear the Light-foot homeward, And to hasten homeward hasten home. Then the minstrel, Ilmarinen, Wirokannas, the wonder artist, In his beauteous hands he placed them, In his magic hands he placed them, In his magic shoes he placed them, In his fur-robes gave new life-glossens, And new life-benchs for the hero, New-garmented staves for the minstrel. Wainamoinen, famous minstrel, Then began his incantations, And he hastened home at evening, To his dearest mother's dwelling, To the dwelling of his father. All of Northland stopped and listened. Every creature in the forest, All the beasts that haunt the woodlands, On their nimble feet came bounding, Came to bear them to his mother. Gathered Wainamoinen's children To his mother's home, and made them Walls and altars to his father. Wainamoinen long reflected How to live and how to prosper, How to conquer this Hisi-raven, That he thus might prosper beyond All his wishes and endeavours. Then he spoke the words which follow, And expressed himself in thiswise: "Now I know thy strength, my sister! Thou hast proved a mighty hero, Maketh all thy heart beat hard, And thy locks dishevelled and spotless, As I thought upon my journey. Thou wilt find thy long-lost sister In the cold and dismal caverns Of Pohyola's dismal mountain. Tell me now thy tale of sorrow, Make me bear a heavy burden, That I may sustain my trouble, Bear a weight of years in triumph, Till I visit to Pohyola, Do not find my much beloved sister In the cold and dismal caverns. Fare thou well, mine evil mother! Now return to Kalevala ======================================== SAMPLE 889 ======================================== lingers. SOMETHING in one-half the night, by the air, We saw an army taking another road. Thousands of horses followed it, and arms Of every size and quality and use. Gaily the people thronged the roads about, Gaily the people sang the oriflammeil. A king was nowhere but for any crown; He lived alone in this dim land of ours. Suddenly on the sloping mountain top Horsemen drove in, with hoofs as hoarse and rough As them who see an elephant turn on him. It was a third ride. Near it a tent-door Was opened wide, and with its folds of bars Its master went. That night the stranger-knight Was not so fair as when he first beheld Those wonderful pavilions. We were three, Masterful men of sweat and naked toil, But with each arm spread like a live thing. And we twain threescore strode across the sea, To that strange rampart once; at last an end Of the long labors of the human kirk Was come upon us. There he stayed his horse Tracking the entrance with his steel-shod spear, And leaned upon it with his helmet drawn. In our good right the flame throbbed like a hive, And, fluttering, upwards rose the golden beam That led our leader to the crest of the hill. Rightly they knew us; but no man he seemed, Nor any one of them; for all around Was hardly heard the hum of bees of balm. Rightly they knew us, for they deemed the work Had been already done. So someone said, As night came down, the sun was shining up, And all the land was hidden in our eyes. Then up came Dawn, and we were left alone In this dark wood. Oh, it was pleasant there To wake, and look into the pleasant fire, In this thin light. So watched the long dead night, Watching the living and the dead. Faintly, indeed, it was all right; the voice Of this pale knight was ringing in my ears. So, in this place, or even in this place, You needs must know him. For the good steed was born; A maiden born, and married, and trained to wed, And now at court, with no ceremony And no unworthy suit to wait his doom, Gave back to him the poor love that he had In his quaint way with some men. Now he came, A beggar, and the king had sent her, saying, 'Go in, go in, you brother.' 'There, thou hast said Thou didst not mean it, nor have I believed. A foreign knight hast thou been wandering In foreign countries, and these lands have quaffed Of all good water. For I left my kin, The fathers and the sons of little ones, My comrades and my brothers, and in them And in them all the riches of my life, And here I leave them. Wherefore I ride Upon these deserts, upon these plains, This desert land, and give thee no return.' 'Well said, well said, thou noble man. I served Thee well,' he said, 'a worthy knight and true; But here I am, I will return and go, And this condition of thy making make: Do thou the grace that I for this may do; So shalt thou give me thine, and those the lands That thou forsookest.' They that went with her, Threw off their swords and spake herbs for food, And drew their weapons on that island wood, Turning their shields, and with their weapons fled. They that dwelt down by the water-shore Went on rejoicing, and fair tales were told; And sweetly did the wind of night descend, When they that were alive and that dead were glad. So will they marry him that hath no end, They shall be friends forever and a joy, And quiet and perpetual; and the world Will list to hear and work, to shine and clothe The mighty in chief; and ye shall die, beloved. And now the seasons pass, and no one comes, No day of man to bring delight in May; Or, to the woods that first we loved, we'll raise A morn of April. The busy little human creatures range The unaccustomed paths, all pleasure gone, All hope of ease and all content, I think. Each the hour comes, on the other day to go ======================================== SAMPLE 890 ======================================== of the buck. They have branded it, horses and fools, For wine, for wine I only stay; Their reputation I do not despise, They were taught to pluck the May! But you see in these cover'd bowers, In whose cool shelter would be seen A bee, that sips the dew of flowers And sees the sunny sunshine green! It is not a bird that sings In these sequestered haunts and nooks, Nor a brook that through the bowers Sings to the young day's fost'ring brooks. In this green breast, where I have laid My last kiss, at this sweet ball, Would I pluck this sweet flower to-day, Meadow, and delicious hallow! Look not so near. For me, with sighs, And tears, and sighs, and sighs, I touch your glass of Rhyme's fair light, I drink it in a secret place, And sing it merrily! It moves me not with sigh or groan To lose one minute's space; It moves me to the mart and throne, To court, to serve, to pray, To fill the merry earth with praise, To fill it full of gladness's lays, Yet listen, as I sing! And you have fill'd the earth with flowers, As this should please your sight: But look not at the gifts that pass, The colours of the rose in glass, Nor at the work that I admire; Behold! the deed is mine! It cannot but be generous still, Let it be mine at every thrill Of every vein with every thrill, All blithely here, all softly thrill! To take that portion of the sky, Which always was, and always shall, By day or night, to make it bright, To make all nature sweeter still, By night or day, or night or day, For to beget that work of Art! And this may be the reason why The blood of men is red as wrong, And not of women, or of men. The noblest deed is ever a crime. The stroke of the axe shall never repay it; Let it be meted where it will, And scarcely then be felt again. For always it is wrought by love, By act and act, by love entire, By all the truth, and yet by all The knowledge of humility; It shall not come for long, it shall not last at all. The ebb is spent, the flow is brief, The dead leaf dead above the mould; The flow'r is buried in the earth; The flow'r is sold, and now 'tis whole. The fire, not made, burns steadily, And all the fruits that late were corn, The seed still redden, still retains The same old dryness and the morn. Thus in the summer of my life, This thing to me is nothing new; The autumn leaves lie white and chill, Dead leaves will dance upon the hew; Come, happy day, with me again; Make haste away, and let us two Shatter our hearts for once--well done! O touch me not with an iron rod! I am a king who dares to breed These fiery thoughts with a fiery zeal. A fiery spirit!--Oh, I know The power of my youth is beyond that! And when I come, and in my sleep, The conflict o'er, I pause and sweep My robes around, and clasp their hem. All white and curled, I nestle here, All crimson-pale, all ruby-clear, In robe of softest cobweb sheen; A single beam of evening-blue Is round my head and fills my eyes With diamond beads--oh, no disguise! But I was born as the piper pleads, And in my palace droop'd the thralls, Laugh'd at the chintons of the churl, Loved and approved by all of them. And in my swoon I laid me down, And watch'd the fountains as they flow'd, And the heaven-brooding clouds of brown Blowing above my palace-wall; While on the fragrant grass below, From the mild boughs of willow-boughs, Light birds about me whiter grown, Anemones float on the air, And purple veils float overhead; While far beyond me is the blue Of the mighty heaven, the great blue, Which sails o'er the ether ======================================== SAMPLE 891 ======================================== to shun my way, And fly to northern realms of day. Long has my spirit lain confined To bowers that round me rise, Where yells of mad Gandharvas rove With dire delicious prize. There are in grassy nooks the very best Of canads and of cressets dressed, Where young Bhagír( Weeks) has his day, And heavenly minstrels throng his way. The joyous breeze of morn is blown From those fair fields of morn Which sweetest, breathing creatures own To live upon the earth. Oft on a dewy night, Scarcely a spark of light Breaks from the midnight sky, And swells in mingled sighs the heart of love That beats through every part, Brings to each restless heart The memory of a blessed birth, The fragrance of the earth. Oft on the glittering air Gently floats the gladness of the morn, That comes to those who pine, Like children at the close of day, And wakes the light of morn. The lark in joyous song First shrinks to earth away, Then soaring with the golden song Begins to sing alway. The dark'ning clouds grow deep, And from their ceaseless flight A welcome sun their gloomy course Onward in light career. Near to the northern shore They crowd the moonlight glade, And linger till the gleamy moon Her beauteous light has strayed. A bow receives each lovely form Enclosed within the wave, Where sparklings of the red dawn burn Like constellations brave; And, as the light shall wax and wane, The day in brightness die. The sea, as duty taught, Was full of boundless lustre; When, glancing from his glance, The love-sick maid did glance, With gentle tones and hands that wove Sweet verses with love-dreams, And all her fair young heart With gentle yearning did consign. With careless follies past, Untaught by Time and Fate, Each hour a joy and hope at last, She moved with happy state. No triumph her own joy Could make her beauty wane; For, when she spake, there came, 'twas past, She could not tell again; No dream her spirit had, alas! Of all her lovely frame; Her eyes were deep with dark eclipse, The boldest eye could blame. There was no thought of death, no strife, No thought of filial care; Her lips were all too weak to bear The doom that yet was there. This brow, whose sweet waves sang the Song Of pure and living light, Showed where the consecrated heart In consecrated might. No feeling left the wild, sweet lay, No tear the eyes unwept; No grief, no thought, no tear of grief, Were all in love that kept Their bounds in equal mirth, and clear The strain which seemed so deep, So sweet, and low, so sweet, so dear, So man's melodious breath, Gave heaven-born airs to wake the soul, And angels sung for death. No murmur from the gloomed hillside, No stir in dern or brake, Would break this stillness; and, but when Music with melody did meet, The ear with dimpling music thrilled, And through the elder brake That sprang in hues of wood, and rill, Rang out, in gladness, praise, --'Twas man's glad shout,--he spoke! When, over the snow-white Alps, that flake The courts of Heaven, the sunsets flare, And star-crowned mounts that shine Like homes to the evening skies, And dawn-paths where light winds run On a morning in the sun, And ways that the shadowy woodways cross, And love's bright kingdom won. The forest's wildwood ways To where the wood-winds choose, And the scattered flowers that wreathe the bays, Where the eglantine blooms, And the wild wild flower that turns its bays Sees and grips with his tongue, Where the flowers were wild and sweet, Forgetting the change that held the fleet And laughing for many a mile; --He who knows, who knows, And the merry love which stirred those eyes, Far off in the dawning skies, How love must live again For ever alone, For the little ======================================== SAMPLE 892 ======================================== . There, too, we twain were free: It may be in a battle-prawl we play; But I'll not name you one That's not in the game That is worst in the game. Well, now, to old lad John, With a heart so old and gay We can talk of our fights and fires-- Of the death that shuts him in With his brother's blood and soul And his mother's grief and sin-- We may laugh and sing to him In her best-starred glade; But while friends are sharp and true We will sing 'em loud and sweet As the rattling of the pack From Pallard to St. Mary's Gate. What's it, old boy, you see? Once a beggar man and two Died on Christmas Day: And they said that no one knew When the first Christmas day. There's a smile on every face On this poor old man's face; There's a light on every face On this poor old man's face: And the little children laugh At the Christmas gift they take, In their greed for skill and art-- For wisdom and for gain, Oh, 'tis a merry tale; Then a beggar man and three Died on Christmas Day, But they said that no one knew Where the first Christmas Day. It's ever thus with me In the olden time of life When our little one was good And all his own good things-- But the frosty dust, The frost that kills, the frost-- The frost that makes, the frost that kills, Our little one so fair, The sunless day that never ends When the poor old world is gone, And the tired heart breaks. 'Tis time that I were sure He'd give me even a little lift; That he'd be gone before, And leave me to my grief and my despair. My dear, it isn't more Or less than several years, As, when she died, he went away to stanch and gay And flung his long hoe at her door. Then, when my little one Mucked in between his arm and me, Why, she'd all die as good as ever And never come again to me. My dear, it isn't more Or less than several years, As, when he left the hall To seek for food that was his mother's need, He sent the mare far to the war. But he was bred some years ago; And, oh, it's sad to know He left his love, and that, poor soul, to-day, Is worse than any misery. There is something of what is; The flaxen hair of poppies, The lips of roses, And the morning flush of wine-- God made them and was mine, But I have forgotten all about it, And yet, you know, when we returned, I would remember how it seemed When we went away from there. I have a mind to tell you This time that you are old. When you are old and grey and full of sleep, Oh then it seems so sad, So sad, and like a memory of a loss So great, and oh how glad. The clouds drift over the crimson hills; The sun is turning and sinking down; And it's hard for a man to be glad And doesn't seem like a foolish town That crumbles down in sleep. The clouds drift over the crimson vales; The wind is crying and pelting down; And it's what I have to keep. I've been up North to hear it This time the big black weather. It's a long long while and I've been down, Oh, it's good to go to bed together With a little blanket bed. The sky is a pool of white, The waves are a crimson flake, And they float by a green light That is brighter than the moon. The sun sinks over the hills With a cold and aching rush; The sun a light in the sky Leaps out of his lazy lap. Then, oh! it is good to go To bed with a cheerful lift, For it's drearier for going To bed than now to bed. But the hills are bare and the clouds are black; They wrinkle upon the sky, I wonder if any will come and say: "Good-bye, good-bye, to-day." They laugh and are gay, and they laugh, I suppose, But the story ======================================== SAMPLE 893 ======================================== uv an' all--Gile Mahomet! When our Suppose be so elegant dressed, An' our Watchman's coming to rest! When our Bishops an' Weavers an' Dukes Are shoved into England's Treasury booms, An' our Grand Ned an' Haveria finds Which an emerilee fittin' for Crooked Boers, Then we don't pansies or Sunday-schools, Nor Robinson-apples, nor Raphael's toys, But Old Sam at Whitehead, with Pearls in his hand, Stood rank cardinals on Washington's Land! They'd teach him to know, if the Papists be true, That the money which merchantmen give to their due Is a thing to a man who's--a belief As strong as all Solons and Cicerers--in vain-- To keep down the soil if they can't never soil, So they'll think--in a sinnintest way--thet's a bore; Theirs the Gospel--the Church--'tis the Publican's Speech-- Themselves seem the talk of a man of affairs, Who's so anxious to save all young Quakers from tares! When the army arrives--and, above t'other thing, (All the party, I mind, is cut out of their kyars!) To the King says, "My brother is drowsy at noon, And tipples his hand to recover his swan; He'll use a tetch and an edge, an' a stroke from his axe, Them's his stringed lac-tacks a-voddle--what puffs he'll refuse!" He can't pull the straw--he can't run from the Creed, But he's jest made out of a piece, if he can, of the horrible need For 'tis not too easy to run--when one's next to be stuck, It is easy to saddle the faster--there's one hand the sponge! Oh, he hedges his neck that'll be shoveable fat, It's done up in silver by many a broad crescent dropped, And the Lancers and Salesmen, the sacred band size, Are pulling their glasses and painted their faces, But we'll ask just how far they are set to go, For the very same night,--and he shivers his bones with the stroke, And he sees a foot table spread out in the dark, Oh, he hedges his waist that won't fit him for fame, He's chosen his wife--and he'll pay his addresses by weight! But we're not having him married--and, of this, he'll be lonesome, (Hey, to the bridegroom's thanks to him!) We have grub-stopped our horses, our horses all going, We can only look in for the card,-- Oh, he hedges his waist that won't fit him for mounting, He's the single man in the world! Say, is it safe for me in the heavenly regions, Where the course of reason runs, That I am, or a damned soul, to go on earth, With my sin and sins? As it was that I sprang from the fatal place, From the evils of hell and the woes of life, From the hopes that I had, and those virtuous rhymes That still others, and God, and man, and--griefs-- I'd have been puzzled much more In the ways of the world when I learnt to stare, And brooded on crime, and abhorred the lore Of the Gospel in every practised part, And turned on destroying all those sacred ties, Which, laying so much too little on my heart, Had been sent from a world which would not undo This sin's great sin; yet, faith, I'm thankful too. How glad I was when I saw that Savior's face, The faithless, Lucifer, lean, waiting bride; He seemed to me like a child that tries to trace Some long road thither through that frozen desert space; He smiled upon me, and the Christian grace, Transfigured in heaven, seemed all on fire, And every atom of life so far above That we could look no nearer than a friend, By that sad, conquering, infinite communion. The rush of waters, sudden, from the rock, And angry tempests, hurtling through the air, Are all my sin, and mine is all the shock Of a full heart, and all my will, and where, At the world's base, I'm safe and safe from thence. In the black mid- ======================================== SAMPLE 894 ======================================== --" but soused, Only, to think of thee, poor soul, and tremble through life, I owe thee pleasure, smiling to be your lover, This made me turn a servant into an archangel: Can a voice declare my heart, if this should be? Whether, God love us, or let us part no more? Hear me, O Earth, in the morning When a band of pure birth-flowers Comes to fling their golden Double sisters in beauty, As the Earth were, Heaven's sister, Like the rose from the Great Hunt's mouth, When the sun from the sea-lands Draws his paler cohorts Down the marches of the south, All at once to the dim small Apes we come, with song, with story! And here without my garland Blossoms without thought of a poet, And without thought of a pen, Are the roses to the eyes of children, Those fair rose-wreaths that never knew Love's blossom; they are stars to you. Sometimes with my senses-- If you are not like this, My heart turns to your eyes and Its rays in the grasses Are lit by the soul of you. The year's on us, and we linger still. The world's call seems but a jest When we--for we have scanned the world With a burning eye and a beating heart. If we wept the dread sound over us When we walked to the light of day, If we cried: Come on, O brave, With your day and your night to take, How I love you!--you who have loved the way! But I look on your feet and I hear you Sigh, "Ah," but you answer not. Ah, we know not why! But always we know your face, And always we know your soul Blown over the ground with love, And always we know your heart In youth and the din of strife As oaks have bent down above, And never again may leap Half so white with their burning snow In the fervor of May's fierce breath, Or the boughs have bent down above, As the tree-top booms heavily Homeward, up to your knees, I wait. Listen: when when the waters Kiss with joyous heart-shaped light My Love at her leafing cape Will lift the waves and sing With loving voice, "It is noon." And after that will the sky, Over the strings of her breath, Will lift my soul with the spring And love it as marriage-feast, The blooms of youth Plucked in the secret boughs, Or like rich stars the sea, For my soul is seen in death With a sordid heart of laughter And tears that never came. Listen, and let the wind Wake from the holy sea That loves and makes all kind And shelters a good to be, Which her soft garments twist Over his brow and cast In shallower colours over him, As to an agate she! And though she loosens round The drapery that guards her hair, While on her lap she clings As birds to his in springtide wings, And his arms are crushed below His body, and all his soul Comes, gushing like an ocean surf Up, up from ecstasy! Listen, and with hope-spillèd hands Let the heart of the Great Giver be Whence all things flow; That the years may bring at will The golden fruits that on earth must grow And this feast-day; that as birds shall feed Their lives on the crumbs they have eaten, So shall the future try his folly, And to an end it shall bring to naught, But to an end of folly. Listen, and from the depths of his hand The floods of glory that roll down Shall rock on the hollow of Earth's brown And send their jarring eddies sheer To sadden the terrible scene Where the outstretched Sea shall be Sleeping and crouching in the light of a thousand thunders Listen, and learn from the embers How huge those mountains were and high-- How huge in the gloom The fountain of fire, and the swarded vapors, Too small for the sight of the eye, Too far and bright for the smallest spark of light. O you with the eyes of your trust That look through your ruins and learn, Take courage to gather the seeds Of beauty and grandeur and wealth and ======================================== SAMPLE 895 ======================================== One glance into his heart could scatter The flames of fear and doubt and pity! Still he rejoiced, and still he sang, With morning airiness o'erheard, By love and beauty breathed along-- He paused to listen. Hark! she brings The fresh-laid music of its springs! Trap of the spear-thrusts, how you climb! Stay, rest, sweetheart, the day's bright chime; Rest, hold thy breath for that first time Of all the struggle, the last race, The desperate and desperate race That shall bring this day the best, When my spirit for a pilgrim Hath fled beneath the darkling wave, To seek that bright and wondrous grave, Which all my locks shall cease to find. Fainter than spring the hopes and fears! I am not worthy to be told If one of them could only hear That sad heart breaking in its sleep Upon the shore. My cold heart seemed to grow cold, My blood with freezing dread grows cold-- My outstretched hands shall hold A soul that hath not fled nor flown, Who was so heedless and alone That e'er to man's last deed was known! Yet I who thought on earthly things To those that nobleness did bring, Hear and judge well my wrongs, Meekly I held my tongue. Nor at the cross my fate I knew, Nor yet my pen can trace; Here be my triumphs, here be sin, Great God, Lord God, if thou thine own Lightning may stir to charm; Unto the dead my life is given-- The harmless dust shall rest to heaven! I fear not death--I would not die If in that cold grave I lie. It tells me that my hapless life Is doomed to an eternal cold, And though my limbs are stark and stiff, Yet must I keep my oath to rank The higher into the loftier rank That decks the eternal martyrdom! Cithaeron is to all souls in his room, And to him the kind earth gives me hardihood-- She scorns to have wounds to heal, they say, But to him they say, Her joy was more to her fair eyes Than to all the rest on earth to come again. That pleased her very heart it told its grief, And said, "That you might stay, To be happy, and to come, though late, Although your own eyes shone upon my gate!" Farewell, O sun! farewell, glad day-- I am going to my sad doom! I am going to my sad doom! I am going to my sad doom! I only wish, and wish for, till The world shall say, "Thy place was gay And thy sun shone upon my day." From that garden of my bliss I have blossomed into bloom; I have walked among the dead, I alone, alone, have bled. The world is like a book Whereon I have been long Reading of wars and woes, Of kings and nations, and the like. So, through this garden of my woes, My book, alas! is leafless now; And yet, unless I look and see The pages of that pictured book, All that is left of that I sought, And of that self-exiled book Which makes me love, joy, and the mood. My longings are not vain; And yet I would not be A fonder than the rest Thy great protecting love For my unworthy rest. There are, who hold thy hand More beautiful than mine (Although thy face I cannot see) For ever to the light of thee Reflected in that book of thine! There is a road through which we go-- The very hinges of my soul-- Back to whose threshold I shall go Unmoved, and yet unrisen to control. The love which thou, returning home Once more, hast ta'en for thine alway I have been warring with as Rome A thousand times, and, through thy day In thy cold light, I know, yea all, they say I only know that thou art near! It may be so--I know it would not be The general theme of my delight Till to my ear it brought, it seemed, The utmost that for me thou art. But what has made me still so mean? To play with thee was this; to die Was, that I could not win thee from thy hand; To strive, but ======================================== SAMPLE 896 ======================================== gone! My homeward way. But you--you've waked The night upon the Runaway! O rest, my dear, on mother's breast; Sleep, sleep, my darling! The sweetest visions of the mind And hearts like summer skies are o'er, And there are tears of sad-eyed love In every little care-drop shed, While the hushed winds sob o'erhead. Sleep, sleep, my darling! The clouds move silently, The moon grows grave among the heavens, The Stars are setting brightly, And heaven is waiting wat'ry for the bark. But the kind God watches o'er us, The Angels wake and answer us, And the fair immortal day is born! Sleep, sleep, my darling! Two faces lie before thee, A two-edged sword lies rustling in thy hand, The two forgiven by prophets are aware of me; Sleep, sleep, my darling! Two tender hands are gently clasped,-- And, in a voice like nature, thou dost speak. And, now, the grass is young, the corn is green, The two child-sides are coming ere the Spring. The two may see the clouds, the wind, the rain, The clouds that follow fast, And fill with little flowers the empty air; But thou,--thou dost not venture so,-- In Heaven, my baby brother! With line and line of reed and osier They cut the slender cords of sound; They bind the arrowy boughs and shut the valves, And make the red flame fly before the gods. But where the silver threads are spun And the lank arrow flies, They only catch the lances of the sun, They flash across the sky. The wagoner at noon goes out to feed, And dreams about his pastures far away, And dreams about his lonely sheep that feed, And dreams that in his future herds will stray. But thou, my love, wilt not remember this? No! thou art too forgetful. When we were children, long ago The feet of God seemed hard to soothe; The little playmates of our youth Hath left a void, and will not cheat Our slumbers by the guarded Cross. The rich, red-brickèd cheek that wore A mild and pensive downcast, Is as the blood of roses when They're blossoms on the early lea. The fairest, brightest, best of daughters, Our Mother, crown'd with roses red, The bright-eyed Loves in blossom gladdened, And the glad children, glad and gladsome, Heard the sweet pipes that never fled. But, with a mournful, sighing voice, He cries in hasty words--"My boy! Sweet mothers, never give me rest, But gently point me to the flowers, Where I may lean beside the bed Where my fair sister stands in white." So saying, he steals away, and leaves The happy house with doors and doors; And seeks, with looks of longing eyes, His mother's old familiar fields. The threshold of the welcome guest Is open--oh the poor! the poor! In garments torn from sun and shower The stranger enters in, and to The mother smiles, in tearful eyes That tell of days of wretchedness, And of much thankfulness, as one Gives thanks for gratitude. Good-bye, my brothers, we have been, And when the work has finished, lean Upon our spears that still remain Beneath the iron rain, We will remember what it was We served, and now forget it. All the green blood the grass had grown, Our little ones, with trilled in tone Like a knave's requiem. Our mournful silence, when the winds Went past in joyous tones and strains For a welcoming. Through the clover land, on either hand, Our shepherds drew their flocks to rest, And watched them make soft fleecy nest, Against the warm sun's fiery glow, As they passed in state. One golden summer morning, lo, A rustling little vine went by, With its tiny flowers, that softly blew In summertime, and softly fell Where soon the frost would tear them round, Unnoticed as they waned away And sear'd and darken'd as they lay. Suddenly, with a rush of wings, It soar'd along upon a spray Of tangled wild- ======================================== SAMPLE 897 ======================================== to feed them, Walk their feet in their park with the squirrels, Or to graze in the sun with the mermaids. Go to visit the crops, all around them, Or on bending boughs sport in the snow-fields, Thou and I must feign it, I fear them, Thou and I must feign it. Vinegar, quondam rient à la sillon, Chez n'entends pas en obesse un buisson Le poêtre où se bruisant d'huis fois, C'etait un simple pas encore un Ach! C'etait toute l'effacerit l'extraiète Qui m'écoute diffront pas, n'ont dans sa môtre Que c'est bien à soir, c'etait m'a quelque d'arga, Qui resolve la frête et de mes invités, Et toi qui l'angust ce sois l'indigna De prépolière, sobre la rimailliesse, Dans sous un charmes in ambages, soir la n'a Que le sang de prose a le soir, dans la n'aufrère et des peaux De n'a qu'elle a s'épulture, la n'a pas s'épse. Au bien mille moi le soir, Comme le fut pourux ars blanc L'autour l'autour de tant l'aurore. Mon trin qui fut pour des tonues, L'ame dixt un pauvre et sans chaim Toute sa fleur qu'elle yut, Là-bas dans la peine de corps. Par âme tant de tant mes rideaux, Et sur ta chien souffle l'air, Et de prépar ce qui toujours Qu'il mortui-moi, Dieu remplir Des tes sens emblems aits, Et que l'on criendantient deux estropions Se lève un ciel n'est-gête. Veu la passée, en chose de nombre Le berge et très du bois, Les graces pourtres de trômes Sur la vertice et de sa doule, La sature tout son cruigne qu'elle De ses fraîs d'ahabiéchés Préfet dans la passée. Au, en nous avait ma cherche bagatel D'un même, un belle chivre, Que s'abriter un môtres une forme, Dans son d'argouche qui s'ai aime Reposcat un autre noté. La vôt un vote d'espritz Dans les ties à la voix De parfums effuséd ençette, Parséndole de bordez vite Les peine et d'amour brondes Au nous des mortes ou blanc Aue-cant de la passée. Vous plaisir que la voix De rit et si vis, qu'il fois qu'ils fois Au des peine d'inclemel, Échels un warable affanter Ou berceaux jours d'un allemanter De tout le step de l'étude Au berce que les rois et nous, Que étude ne vous à les plus Le exant ta robe de saint Gentille, moi souvent fois la vaine, Comme un instant, so un lives et ardent. Une monte qui melle calcare Voi, un espant plus de durse Où s'agite où roi bien, Oh ar lever pour elle matiere Comme un hospitalient fois. Pour un è la ruego, Oh voil du sang de vaine, Oh la voil du sang de vaine, Oh voil du sang de vaine. Pour dit, pour dit, pour dit, Aspir que la faire, de par, Oh voil du sang de vaine. Comme un pet ======================================== SAMPLE 898 ======================================== by other poets, believers in a new and busy life. In seven hours, through five hours' absence, Mr. Shakespeare and his wife Were hurrying on to many poisons. A great town gave away Many poisons, and when years had dulled one's intervals, Would intercept one's neighbors from cutting off a sweet. On going along, their friends in general--began to wish and pray That some one would admit the moonlight had forsook their way, And dimmed the prospects in a waste so many moons ago, That they could simply but draw the mist and baffle every stitch To give each one a real happiness that none should know, and make So every one somehow believed that some one loved his wife And could only look out for a homeward-bounden China row, Or compass the notion of those that wait the night to light, And so are poets of this land once more, with all its rest, The phantom of the silver stars, Who with her fleeting beams May traverse in his fancies, And fashion all that's clear and fertile Unto the outward ear: And by and by she bids them pitch their tents on high, Their "reetings to the home" to come and live. Now if there's ever vast or dreary, Its desolate works and ways, They are emblazoned thereupon; The same to be had by many, The two by many days. The man who sits a full-sail Is fated to be ranked next To one who is the head of the household To whom his heart is drawn. O who will find him out? The gods, who ride the hills of life, Will howl into the night: The men of flesh that are not made To act and know the right. The devils of Hell will inveigle The cold existence Of the body, as it were, But who is living there? Ah, there's the empty heart to be With a hammer on the metal-box! To do and not be never done, But for the purpose of the world, For the thrill of living out and in The light of life and things. Are not all endeavour banished And the hopes that have for them Like a vapour of the air? Are they sorely and inveigled For a kingdom that will fade When the blow has reached its mark? Nay, better for their preparation When the paths of life are dreary, And the work has come to do With a sense of steady rigour That will neither halt nor stay To the purpose and the trysting Of the hearts that are resolved. Who knows, and has no kinship With the unseen enemy, If one has the daring That some one there may send To some far off and cruel Who might have taken death? He who has not the heart To hate his fellow man, Will keep the watchful spirit Aching and growing sterner, Remembering him when dead. Who thinks the act a treason And the deed a fraud, Shall lose or never falter A purpose true or tried, Until the rough man feels it The deep again inside. Though all these outward things Make strong and very plain, The touch that makes each moment Is far more welcome and more kind. Though much in hope extended Or everything in charge, We take no note of blindly, But God is in the heart. The morning sun the valleys shines in shadow, The threshing-floor becomes strewn with grain. The evening light is falling on the meadows, Morning is quenched and soon the lights are few, And homeward the rejoice bird sings in slumber, Although the mistress of the house is he. And homeward still the blind girl comes from torment, Although with bitter sorrow she is meek. A crazed and hidden thing, she knows not why it is That makes her fancy yonder and awake. I used to read the fables in the books Of ancient sages and of modern plays. I'd watch the witches with the witch-face eyes, Especially at night and sometimes late. There was a picture of a village maid Who smiled, and left her looking in the room. There was a woman fair and young, whose face Was lovely as the lily on the hill. And if the truth should be the words, 'I will Let hands of other women pass and stay.' There was a waist to which she could not hide, And if the truth should be the words, 'I must,' The widow'd would ======================================== SAMPLE 899 ======================================== ; all his acts In court and camp, and all his ways,-- His breadth of body and his ring of neck, All his everyday triumph and display, All his adventures and adventures,-- Thus, in a breathless moment, of this host The wasted fortunes perished out of view, And lost, and made a track of almost death, The Spani's death and ruin of a name. Thus him and his fell Beroetius died, (So poets sing,) and found such fame in his age, No future fictions could his bloom unfold, Or tempt the taint of such unwholesome page, That, prostrate on the field of Lepidus, At length Pompeius, by no toil opprest, Lay prostrate, bleeding, in the grassy field, Where, lifeless on the field of Lepidus, The battle, and the dead man's bloody arms, Lay thick as mounds of Africa's Marengae, Or Afric's burning sands, or Afric's suns, And now, emblazoned on the hostile plain, Where havoc's deafening shout beheld the flight Of Medux and the Shilb alone opposed To Phineus' shafts, the dying Eryx' breath. But when, as sovereign of the proud Malay, Aurora's navy, which before had bent O'er Rubicon, had to its utmost point Of rugged rock-cast on the sandy shore, There, waiting till the parching light should fall, Waited Pompeius and his nymphs to share The last indomitable drop of oil; Or in the forest or the pitchy fields Of Caucasus, to veil the solar ray From hot Sept downward to the tardy floor Where the bare, hot tormentour beset him Stripped of his wings' pure colours as they flew; Less wanting, and than known before his eyes Were all his favourite pageants and his plumes. There the Athenian shepherd hid his woe, For joy at such concealed from the rude bird, Who not a breeze of all the summer night Propitious to his wounded goats at noon, But moveless, voiceless, hungry as they were, Decked with the arms of unrelenting Jove, Yet unreconciled in his lofty soul, Ambitious still, but fearful of surprise To those who gazed, who, ever-raving schemes, Seemed on the bestial use to cheat the wolf; That throned above the throne of Jove supreme, And adding honey to the bread of men, Addressed the chiefs: "Ye patriot heroes, ye Who must have laurels, or must crown with bays Or in the camp of your beloved chief Girt with the red young poplars on his throne, Where are the civic wreaths of laurel found At this your earliest conqueror's altars won? Ye sons of royal fathers! for your steeds Not destined here to share the common couch Of your first conqueror; but, great with toil, Tread under hillocks, plough the crooked land With horses and with arms; for such the will Of the just gods. Nor let that dastard style Repay my added praise." Nor did he spare That instant from his chariot such a prize And fair Aymon's caverned caverned tracks To keep him barded from the winds. Nor yet The Phocian troops were left to stem his flow, When Caesar, rushing on the plain, proposed Those squadrons to assault, whose waves of dust Roll in the columns of the new-formed fleet, And call on heaven with all his host to fight. Thus, sleeping under ocean's depths alone, Piled in a hollow cove, the Roman lance One fierce, warm night was hidden from the sky, That stirred the circling cohorts. Day by day They dared no more the fight, till Magnus fell, Struck by an arm, upon the regal roof The mighty Thunderer grasped; no power had he To lift his weapon; such a fearful shout That soon all Heaven grew silent; yet he stepped Before the coming foe, and armed himself With surest aim; as from a lofty peak A torrent downward pouring from the trench Upon its first and last sustaining mass, So from the town in crashing intervals Came up the dust, and quenched its fiery streams. Now when the Tuscan army from afar, Lion and horse, and horse and battle-brave Were joined in battle, and a numerous train Of armed caparisoned ======================================== SAMPLE 900 ======================================== In the worn and dusty bosom of content; Therefore, instead of biting wind or clay, Hang thy head, O Paris, on my neck, For those on whom those wounds shall not yet be, Which have no healing in their eyes to mark. And let them scratch their breasts at me, for I Fetch from a wound the colour of my wound, That even from death they may not still behold My visage, if I weep for them so many." She spoke and wept beside the stream; the hills Bowed to the heart-throes of the stormy sea, As with her dark and ruinous weeping, he Who heard, without his mother's footsteps, speak: "O Father, wilt thou let me then go on By such a refuge, nor in solitude A shelter from the wind? And thou know'st well, How with unburied bodies yet I live, And not till death their buried bodies lay; And now the hour is come that I must die. How can I know that thou art God indeed, That neither hail nor rain can wash away My grief, nor dry my tears and salt my sighs? Ah, wilt thou now that fresh green earth arise To deck thy limbs, for pity of my tears? O wretched Helen! wilt thou call her fair To be thy husband, and thereby express The double wonder of thy marriage-day? Nay, daughter, in thy father's memory dwell, And worship her high house and proud abode. Yet shalt thou not be wanting for this day Of festal immortals, since it willed Thou should'st array thy soul in such attire, Not for whose sake I danced for five long years." To whom the Lacedæmon thus replied: "Telemachus, it grieves me sore to hear What thou would'st say. My mother came from Pylos, I know, and with my brother she did make An ill-advised bond. What! could'st thou tell Who said that God was wroth with thee, or I Was in the woods? Whither would'st thou betide me? Doth not the snow-storm hide the heavy sun That all day long the thunder-riven roars about thee? If so, I can at will; for in the spring All things spring upward and take on the light. How then, I pray thee, wilt thou tell me true Of all my woeful lives? Yet, for the love Of godlike Paris I know nought at all, Save that for that to her I burn my fires Outside for ever. But God is of the Gods. For in the Pleiads, daughters of great Jove, And the great sacred Nyctian maids, the Nymphs By the great rock o'er Ocean, he abode, Beside the hoary Nereïd sisters; aye To-day the nuptial flower blooms, and it blooms More than a year and more. And then, O Queen, I bow before thee. Put me forth as well As let me; for to-day is come for me, And the whole earth no more beneath my feet Shall hold me, while I gaze on Trojan earth As one who long hath lain in his own house. May every breath of all the air I breathe Be thou to clothe my body in for thee, My hope the Fates. There was a town of dead men Who were the first to come and speak to me. There I shall lie in dust, and on the grass Lie with my body as I were content." So she; but one amid the household spake, Who held apart the women from her house: "O sweetest wife, since thou art but a maid, And for what old age hast thou come to die For all, but that to thee more precious stones, For all of mine they give that can be borne, The while my life is numbered, and my mind Soars far too high to carry earthly things. But if a nobler race with me contend In that which was a man, and know'st it not, Thou shalt be Queen of all the world for ever, I and thou only, O fair child, O light And light, O self-forgiving eyes, for aye, If aught of new men come or note of me To tell of thee in time fulfilled of old Thou then wast by my birth. And I do fear From all men thou art in an evil hour. For ever in the blue and glowing days ======================================== SAMPLE 901 ======================================== toward the puddles. The sun is golden in the ooze, The oaten reed with rustling swell Boils loose, and yields a sweetness to The languid embers That spice the roses and the rooks. The little canopies it brings Of red geraniums and sweet elf-flowers, And apples blue and white And luscious, bursting into sherbet flowers; And pears and peaches, where it stops, Of pears and cherries, And patches of cheap spiced meats and drops, And violets, and dim cherries. Oh, these are sounds too rare, To draw our hearts and bow us down in prayer, To kneel where none were ever, And pray one day to bless the Town with thee. I like a tune: The song of the miller And of the mill-pan. The moon has risen. And watched with delight The coming of her light Which has been in her sight Long hours of day, At even or just And joyfully night. And if she went there And would caress us, Oh, let our sweet smiles Grow bright in the gloom! So go to the mill-yard, And tread softly among the hay, And hand in hand among the hay, And let the cows feed Upon each grassy stalk. It is a heavy night; The moon is very far away, The stars are very few. And everything is quite As black as the barn-door, And the trees are very near, And I can hear the roar Of the waves on the rock-bound shore; And then it is a shocking sight To see an old manolate, Halting and weeping, With rack-bangings on his back. Oh, I will find out some places Where I can hide from the cold, And I know they are the places Where I can find a snug, Some spot that is foreign to the dead. And there the old man sat and said: "That is some place that you call 'home'!" And he stared at the twisted tree, And he sighed and said it with glee, And he shouted out, "Oh, me! There's a place where you all might see If you could only change me!" They have stolen my toes and all; My fingers they have clutched the wall; They have laid them on the floor, And smiled at me, and I can feel That nobody's telling what I'll tell Till I can run away from the door. The falling rain comes down the hill, Like a ghostly sound, comes o'er the plain, And touches the barn floor still, And rustles out of its hay-wain chain, And tells the farmer's daughter of the mill. Her face is as beautiful as a rose That laughs in the light and makes the sun shine, But the wind at noon is as restless as a whip That drives on the cattle that cattle love the "load," And runs just out of the way the cattle get, And the creature thinks it's the shadow of God. I think the sun just freshens in the night, As if it had never touched a flower; It drives off like a good will-o'-the-wisp, And flutters a wing, and rises into a race, And all the grass is done with. And sometimes, when the sun burns at noon, And the leaves are falling, what do I see But the green frog lowping his tea, And the small, gaunt robin with her wings, And the house-dog tucked away from the day, And the little dog blinking at the gate, And the little dog, laughing at the moon, And the little mouse dripping the bars. As I sit in my house near the sea, And the wind says, "Hey, Mr. Sea, Mr. Sea, please change your bill. Come down and put on your best; Come down and put on your best." She put her sea-green dress on one side Of her little sea-green gown; And the other, she lifted her soft blue And her white arms were thrown Like acorn cups into a sea of gold; And the sun went down and all was still, And the sea came down and all was still. As I sit in my house near the sea, And the wind says, "Hey, Mr. Sea, Make your bill, and make your will." And the surf says, " ======================================== SAMPLE 902 ======================================== O! The strength of the world, that is ever so wide, The strength of the wide world, that, if you grope Into darkness, admits you no hope, no hope, In any clay-cold grave, which may trouble you With your new horoscope which you turn to? This region, say I? Of what use to infer That the weird of the Great Review is not yet A body of light, though the goings of earth Shall lose their place under the wandering mists? Do the men, whom I mention, with eyes askance Regarding, those parts of the sky, which become Light and colour, the field of strange poppies, Like borders of ocean, our own blood and blood, Which have been ere the truce was baptized? Do they give a loud laughter, a faint lament? And is that the reason my eyes have been hit In following my steps? Ah! 'tis wiser far Than to boast all your former bribes used to be. The rhyme of the North Wind has risen to light All round mount Olivet, she, undying fair, Where the Tuscan, the gosling, the lea-flowering soul Of the Past, of the Past to the Future, up rose. Now fast lags the hillock, the fir leaves the pine, And proud are the augurs; so beauty discloses The gleam of the sunshine upon the dead feirs. Oh! light it went forth, warm and glowingly Wake to hear her, the spirit to laughter is kin To the sad soul, by the vapour of waste air Awake to the heart of the sister of sin! Who you bear in the face? who is honoured and dear Who lives 'mid the carnage, victorious and sweet In the vigour and splendor and strength of his feet? O! red on the Alps is the storm-cloud that hung On the hillside, which now we can see by its light Through the rift of a cloud to the down of a sun O! rising in glory, like Alpineopes crowned, The rocks of the Mount from the sunflower to Mount, And the rivulets strewed on the shore of the Alps, Still claim the long valley of Kronos. How grand is the grand spirit of passion! No more like a fount of the Beautiful Sea, Till it leaves the soul's channel below to forsake All the baseness it e'er hath for pleasure or folly. Oh! yonder a hero hath chosen his tomb, Where the Gallswie has wrote him,--the hero hath played him To teach his devotion;--but freedom of heart, And the birth-place of freedom, by heaven's sweet light Lists the native devotion the youth hath betrayed him; And where'er he hath trod, every word that he breathes The love-sick heart stirs him to love-sick surrender. His name falls like the feverish blast on the ear, And his voice like the soft voice of the summer-time wear And the glow-worm hangs nodding on ev'ry shade, While the rushes in silence of pleasure are laid, And the tribes of the forest, so peerless of man, Serve, like the flaming creature,--whom shall the divil To other, when guilty, of e'en now their Druids hath slain? Close, close, she comes with the gold-cup short-hand, A bulwark 'gainst the ocean's surging brine And quicksilver and colum, while as yet A stony mount, of green to glass and line, Was left once 'mid the billows gray and bare, With the boy that knew not her fair face, who grew Of a mountaineer and sat beneath the shade Of the tall oaks of whose each wave-riven oak Crackled its leafy summit in a blaze, Unconscious as the dawn-light of the morn! The shrivelled bark is broken from the pier Where the wild pine its shroud of sail-scroff has worn; How sweet to in the garden its broad breast beneath Of the cluster of leaves of many a green shoot, And bathe the tired eye in its clear crystal tide In the clear fountains dew-delighting, side by side! The sun's last glance is o'er us, when the dawn To human view unites the gray-haired past, Or on the night-crowned cape, Or round some rocky crag, Where the worn anchorite may repel the gale, Islanded ======================================== SAMPLE 903 ======================================== , something very wild Of odoriferous, I can see, Half muffled in a stump of straw. He comes, it is a servant hand That kills the birth of children three, Because I hear the trailing band Of whistling children sweepingly. 'Tis he I seek and love must find My little ones are in the mind For as they never came to me. I hear his dark voice drawing nigh, In tones of rustling leaves, the sigh Of sorrow for the little ones, Yet still they wander on, I know A cold, a nameless, wistful woe, And at the last I can believe They know the tale of Magalha, Or is he in the raving world Or is he in the council room, And all at once I hear his voice, But never does he stand nor droop, And look at me with eyes that droop, But the memory of my former pains Broke in his voice, and, quivering, draws As when a half-quenched volcano's tongue Seems but to shatter in its throng The stones and bolts and bars, and sobs and bolts, And the close-jammed pitilessness of souls. He waits, he will be here no more. Methinks I see his noble eyes And gesture as they gaze on me, A peaceful, sylvan tenderness That my poor heart will not possess. The thought was great, 'twas some great wrong That made me pull so big a tree. There's not a wiser man than he Who strives with half the crooked tree To shake it when he's doing it. He's tough, but still he's fair to see, And yet he seems the liveliest of all Because he's rigid to a tree As if he loved an uncontrolled And did not make a second time A creature to deserve the lime That, being weak, was like to be But, being old, he owns a tree Of many branches, and, like me, He sees the end of every tree. The fruit of this wild ripeness looks Well in the eyes of all the books, And, in my mind, looks sour and cold When summer is not yet grown old, But has its natural growth, and there Is rife with pain, which is not fair When man is strong to bear his share Of pleasure or of pain. He's a mad kind of a forest path And a wilding boy to seek; He's a bland-going lover of trees and trees, With a roof that never moves. I dream of a noble, eagle-eyed And silver hand like a gold-haired maid That I must guard to my high command, And do as the goddess bade. But no; for all is new and strange, And in the light of my flame-red youth I grow as the mother of a crow That out of the grove to the battle, low, Is always bold, and bold, and tame; And there with its strange, senseless grace Is undefiled, and half obeyed. If you look with that loving eyes, Which in all their beauty lies Unmoved, and laugh, and say, "I will; I am not a grave but am here to you; O, do not speak to me! "If you look with those golden eyes, As in the gay past it lies, Where you believed, you must look with me, And hear the cry of your infant hand, And feel your heart's new vow, and must Break your own mother's ring, You, with the soul of a fool is king; Whose joy is in this heart of mine; And one more moment's thought divine With lifted mouth and a humble line Will surely be filled to your mind; For that is a stately thing That--'twixt two worlds and a world-- All the difference between one kind Is worth in heaven, not half. "Yet, if, while I look on the curse and sin That is breeding souls in men, I, the like, are sorely scarred; and yet The sight of them makes me to forget The unrisen earth and the utter sea; And I would pray for a place in the strife Where your first sort of silly life Is ended, a peace unto me. "I look on my worse than a world of men, When Love holds dominion o'er My love and my pride; and I look again Where the gods of my days have their own And the gods there ======================================== SAMPLE 904 ======================================== to, on the stream. I thought, 'Mama; I am at peace. But this is all I will think of. But this, my dear, is the last thing I ever shall see from this morning. Oh, let me tell thee, but yet my heart Forgets it, nor would I dismiss thee Until my sight, ere we meet and we part.' Such musings in the bended bow Turned Arthur's self from his first breathing, Until the race he now saw broken now Began again, and death was spoken, And well he knew at last was over. Then raising up the fallen from the stream, As one used words can always use, He raised him quickly from the drowning To the great river, that re-covered The city in the farther distance, Before those great stones pitched to Silence, Before their blades were drawn aside, With the long silence that had hidden The dark lake-dotted forest, fair With a green gown and starry eyes. Then I remembered how the rock-cliffs Were laced against the risen moon; And the great trees, with their scented beds Stripped into whiteness by the sun, Whose boughs had interlaced already An exit to the enchanted forest, For all the noonday wind had curled Across the green and silent isle. Then I remembered that within A dungeon-yard, reposed and chained, The whole district, till it lay Smooth to the level of the lake, Which lies, and gathers now no more Like one scooped in a shell again, And dead with its own name of Fosh, Which shall by rights be held intact, And yet for one of all the saints? One time I watched in the wild wood The solitary, solitary walk, The restless water, like a bird Quieting its own feathers. All around The wide, still road ran ghostly sand, Save where within its close embrace Ancestis, with a moon-path strange, And white, with a gray witch's lantern. The whole night long I watched it sweep The moonlight through. It moved aside Like some wild thing in a spell of dream That compasses the gray, moon-light So very sadly to the gray, So very mournful to the grey. And next I saw a bridge of stone Pendent in flame among the reeds, A deep red wall, grey-silvered, where A cloud-bridge juts out from the night, Spotted and blackened by the mist. And as I gazed there followed on A great black horse, with broad bright eyes As blood-shot, and as black as night Flinging death's shadows on his track Beyond a town's grey walls. How could I bear In pity for his spur, that I, who stood While he was blowing, saw again That waggon bench-louches, white with rust Of reeds and rushes, and heard the wind Pass shrilly through the elms and pasturage. I followed, and a long, long way Led through the wood. My feet would run As far as where I lay upon the sand, And dreamers think it was the moonlight That pushed them off upon the mossy, While wind went back to rust that lay As dead as stone and restless water. No echo stirred the still wood's leaves Of the grey silence; only the leaves Took the thin air, and then there crept A moon-path over paths I knew not, But down the path where such-like flowers Went wistful, all night long. At last the glimmering city dawned, And I was left alone. I turned, And saw within my soul a door Open wide, and a great bow, with barred Streams open. Then my soul remembered The third of dawn, and entered in. So in the place, A dim house, not far from on high seas, A new house, hardly a man had found In the grey silence of the air, In one bare house. Only my own self Beheld the grand entrance. At sunrise, When dreams had journeyed home, and even when There came the gift of life, my soul said, 'Come into the light; it is the sun, Whose light among the clouds is pure.' And dawn came, red-entered, and spread out A far outstretched hand and knew the door. 'In the light, O, what a goodly sight,' He answered, 'for the soul of ======================================== SAMPLE 905 ======================================== wel-yus, fame of Nero, came, To dedicate the prophets unto life With tented flames. Not vainly did they gaze On classic buildings of a warrior race. And, wonderstruck, when all this he had seen Their living glory waited in the gloom, He listened. Long he prayed for it, and found The judgment soon revealed. So, with a sense Of treaties broken, took his ancient books And showed him many an heroic deed Of courage, war, and striving against death Eating his peace, with watchful eye and smile. He turned and looked upon the church, and then To the carved revelry he silently Passed; and he knew again that his desires Were dashed upon him. "Thou," he thought, "art like Some other but a noble deed, a proud And natural William, called the Church a fool." So, seeing this and not a cloud within His great heart, daily sought him, and could find Good reason why he failed, and gladly gave All orders to his bidding; and at last Beseeching him to show them, he consigned These unto him. He blessed the thoughts Of his beloved Church;--a large sumptuous throne That rolled along the smooth, lapping way, "Thou," he thought, "in whose heart all lives wealth, Are beauty, art, and virtue. Thou art Love, And Truth, and Woman both, and household minds, Good subjects unto men, good deeds of men, Whose lives are quiet and secure of change. Man's unconcern with public good they speak; The inward beauty of the Church they read: And daily they approval, daily preach To the poor wretch who has them in his sight. Now gilded ceilings glittering, wonderful! Sound blasphemy of war against the gods; And holy men, accomplished in the wars, Bear victory through Heaven; in great ships transport From regions far, where no alternative Can e'er prevail, unless the Kaiser's flag Be furled abroad, and all the loyal troops Of all the earth bring comfort. Yet the Mayor Was not a fencer at the shrug By this achieve, for words were soon to fail. "For spleen," he said, "I have in this great task No ear-sens, and no head-bands to bespeak The comic feeling; but I sit here by And study idleness, and curse and mourn, And break away and bid farewell to hope. But, alas! God only knows what this may be, Nor can I ponder; often, when I think I see men marching, each man like a drudge Of filthy rags. They are the ones I knew To earn my bread; so here at the first inn I wrote a tragedy called THE GRITZ BLANTS, A tragedy of evil deeds and thoughts, That made the books and the great house of God To Him who was God's essence. For His work I wrote my tragedy--nor dream I will; I had not strength to play. One act at once Was right to do it, had it aught to do; Had He not courage, then, to play all parts? Sometimes I know not; but this must be true: I cannot tell it, think you? By degrees, When I have won this prize, I know it only Because you think I won it. I must work For freedom, as in giving back this boon, And some day from a noble purpose learn The greater God. It's nothing, if I leave This work unfinished; but that task is done, I'll do it for your sake. I'm thine, consent." She read the story, then with sad, unrest Came back to her; and when the work was done, As one who knows not what he ought to do, Homeward returning, with her gentle face, Her eyes all dark and hot, Her mouth all quiet and coquettish, She kissed my soul, and me all smothering Tears, till the moment that she gazed on me Ripened with hope and terror, and I shrank. I cursed and strove, and then She gave command that I must work no more To-morrow, when I work no more. Why not? I must; I might yet be afraid, But then, no matter. There's no better task Than to do well with this case, lad, enough. Then, mind you, he has done it. I am dead. Would I were on another's hands. And this May be the worst: this scrap, ======================================== SAMPLE 906 ======================================== whose shapes present it,-- Anodon, which whom he loved. And gave his future life to show Where Ellen meets him in the glow Of sunset fires, that blossomed bright In many a splendid courtly rite. His eye, that on his father's throne Did smile, received the lovely queen; "Well hast thou done thy duty,--thou Hast won the meed," he said, "and now Thy weary task is done. Thy rest and toil are overspent; The soul once more must here be bowed. Here thou hast stood thy task. I will lay out the mission by." But no, that idly smiles at last, The maiden rose from her reclining With other partner in the past, The happy maid, who hears her vow Her beauty and her winning chain, Spent all her life in meet disdain. The autumn moon was bright and low, The stars began their rosy woe And the pine-trees were all a dream Of sighing for her silver stream That mustering downwards thro' the night, A death-chant to the earth and light, Giving us back the truant's soul, The quiet life we longed to meet. But now our day is nearly done; The setting sun is ruddy gold Upon the distant mountain-tops, And the black yew is drooping, fading As the tree-tops are in the mould When the night-star has filled its circle And the morn has touched the valleys deep With kisses dropping down the steep, And the vesper-sparrow's song is telling Of anon with its cloudy chime, When the autumn moon is slowly drifting O'er the deep,--then it will time. The two already balanced, like moonlight Each as the other, each as the white And flitting ghosts on each of the others Flit and gather, or under the moon A crimson swarm with busy whirl. Like two fleet birds they are swiftly flying Each settling a little, each swinging a little While the other goes on its way, And each is telling what each may be. And as thus they flew on their way, The stream being full, and every eye Clapped its wing with the pensive might Of the elves, whose lily faces beam So peacefully thro' the evening shadows, They saw as they passed thro' the hall The creaking doors of the winding-hall That the wizard Elfinhart kept swinging, And clutching the earth for his meal, As he had been done her fairy carcanet, And laughing aloud as away it flew From the bed, where the guests all sat Beneath the rainbow crimson gleam. And the sisters, in love who did weave Her magic spell o'er the gloomy earth, And smiling adown the shadowy vale Thought it her the hour of her birth, Gave entrance to the enchanted dome. And the friends of Fairyland met in a vision, Each looking from out his magic glass Into Fairyland, wide and dark, The blue eyes of witch and fairy-land, On some trellised throne by the tall larch And the rainbow shadow of the mist, And the smile of Fairyland kissed. She looked and she said, with a long, wild look: "All you wise and good to my heart you seem, And you can feel them each hour as they pass With the memory of fairy-land in my soul. Come and view me--in joy you shall see The treasures of earth and of sky and of sea, And my heart shall be troubled at every look And I shall be shaken at every tear. I love to look upon those you hold here. I think your eyes and my heart will be troubled By my fears and my fears and my tears. And all the world will know the secret, darling, And all the world love you and be deceived." He is kind and he says it! I said to him This mail was drear and worn by his spells, But to me it looks like winter, and bitter Is the joy of my cup. For he said that not all the wild spells could So well confirm the charm I believe to him. He quaffs his cup and shakes it with merry High intellectual pride and joy. Oh, he has called me here to a palace And flung it in streams of amethyst sun; Now let me drink the first cool drink of him. I will talk to him a second time; he Will show me again, in his golden throne ======================================== SAMPLE 907 ======================================== base, Than that he seems so worthy to abide, Casting the present beneath him to sleep. For this I have begot, and have no shame To envy any lord, no voice to name, No tongue to woo him in his courts to play, To make his wife, her patron, or his prey. Who thus could favour, now forsake the shelf, And suck a death more comprehensive still, Than thou, in any case, canst, save himself! A case am I to claim, with justice dight, Worthy the monarch's favor to obtain; Doubtless he merits it alone; but I Prefer to such-like, though his wish to gain The blessing, not the justice, but the right. Pure, not so guiltless as his guilty race, Base, as vile even are the fair, to win; Base, but a tyrant, from his proud embrace, Sprung from his ancient line, his passion 's in, And keeps the child he bore when he was sin. As the hours fled When half-immortal youth unvarnished lies, And half-immortal beholds its place, So do I still lament That love, which did so fill my heart with sighs; A love that neither fate nor time can sever, Sought not to make me love her half till then, But only asked to live and die for ever. Not vainly glows the slender stem That bears each gentle twig, And to the middle leaves the little flower With blush of summer glowing on its bower; Here surely has it hung, That is to say, so young, I would that it might cheer me to the end. Though sprung of noble stem it seems from earth, With far more priceless bloom, The tiny creature claims the spot it grows, And fairer vallies to the bud she grows, And blushing on the flower more sweet than all, The blushing rose o'er-leaves the mossy wall; With tenderer leaves, the blossoms to adorn, The fragile order of the spot addrest, Which various vines with mingled pride unfold In one fair sapling, while the downy leaves unfold. Yet many summers past, Ere summer's sun began, In this dear season, by so many bays, With hoary crop were clad, to deck the banks of man. The Muses still were on the wavy green, And on the hills the priest, When his bright flame o'er fields of ice he'd seen Hovering unseen; A lovely creature, but so heavenly fair, No earthly spear did o'er its snow-white plume retire. How will it be for us, that love of beauty, Awakening the bright soul of every beauty With the desire, To see heaven's minstrel thus, so radiant and bright, Return again on earth, To view heaven's golden dream and heaven's golden light? Away, away, away! thou who hast caused our slight, Who calls thee worst of all, and all most dear, The kindest sister of the evening star, That still with thee remains To search the world, the flower, the grass, and birds, All that life's flowery maze, To some fond heart still known and reverent; Still warm and bright thy rays, As thy sun's light, as thy light's heat, intensest. Yet such a bright, a lovely creature is The Love that first has entered in these eyes, Even in the depth of a fair woman's sphere, As if there were no heaven beyond the skies, That would not give itself to earth, But its light only should be More radiant, and a higher, holier, and clearer. Then, come not near to me--thou wilt not hear; Art not a spirit daunted by the strain Of a young, happy maiden's mystic-songs? Thou wilt not see, Nor be confused with thee, (Though youth in thee more precious than the thorns Is on thy brow, That leaves thee weak as though thou'rt iron in vain.) Come, I will cleave unto thee the track I came, For thou hast left thine empress all alone; To thy sick eyes All guiding tears and sighs, Nor will I that thou still wilt hear, But be more near, To light, to love, to comfort thee. Then come not near; Though thou hast left me here, And sung of other joys ======================================== SAMPLE 908 ======================================== of my dream-lands with the sea, And only the white surge and the low chant Which lifts our mortal agony. Come, let us go a-roaming in the bushes. Lay your fingers on the glacier-stones, Point them to safety and unfurled By all the body-fear of us who babbles, Point the locust-flower to the consciousness, For here some Eden is foreknown, And here we are ordained. Not ours the breath of the open lotus, Not ours the tastes of the primal rose, But born of thirsting after golden sweetness Which unquenched death glows. Crouched in the crannies of the moonbeams, Under the boughs of the firmament, The rapt Enchantress who is nightly, And over us who beareth, limned, The myriad fancies that light her features Until they blind us with the spell Which engenders and bewilders us. And on the bank of the descending moon Lifeless we lay and beheld the fishes Whose fabled presence moved within The caverns of the deep; And half in motion we floated, swift flowing, To a sloping ring with their girdles Between the palms, and we saw the gleaming scales That poised in their motion, And, with manifold eyes of wonder, The mystic wings of the cork and the trumpet And the waving of purple and white, And the moving whisper of white. And thus from the calm wave we drew anear, And the far world of mind was gray With the glimmer of orbits dancing and light, And we gazed on the scattered flowers Till the living stars, as we gazed, Lay like a lost child in the gloom; And slowly the pale trees, barren of leaf, Wave their arms, and the wild swan flies Like a snow-flake, over the vast chasm And casts its shadow around: And thick through the stillness, and sullen with fear, Like a wounded creature we stand, And the leaves with their dust-coloured mingles forlorn, As the ice-belt went past. And lo! I have seen the river run straight As if it were nothing but a dream, And the river flow straight and clear From the headland to the harbour-mouth; And over the green level reeds The pale light shimmered, silver-clear, As with elfin hands it passed. A star! What eyes beheld the spheres The sailor's flag is sailing o'er? What voices saw, what garments heard, The winds that played and the sunlight that glittered, The footsteps of the waves that glided? I think, I think, with this enchanted air, This floating air and this wild sky, I can see those who have gone amiss, The portmions of the Deity, The myriad flaming gates of sense, And more divinely visible Than those I watch in the eternal night, Or the flight of a comet Trussed over the arches of space, Where the vast oceans of space Grow gorgeously beautiful, And the shoreless stars like falling stars Rise through the heavens, a thousand, thousand voices, And more than mortal sounds break forth from the throat of the night In strains of sweeping and catches of light I watch the quivering line of the world, The trembling mazes of planets sweep In constellations of golden light Into the night, in grand response, And now the infinite bounds of space Reach as far off as the miles and miles, And then in some cool garden place The gates of the night are shut, The floating mazes of wind-swept spaces Invisible, and invisible, Withvisible, only seen. Here the trees are gleaming, Here the gliding streams are dancing, Here the sycamore-tops are rocking, And below are white-throat stars, And afield is their sombre singing, And below, the earth and air, As the Great Bear of the skies Shone out in the midnight, In the golden light of the moon. Lonely and motionless he stands, The stars are all singing like beads, As with magic shoes He would climb as far as the world, The steeps of the world, As far as the man might, So far as we are, As the place and time, Here in the air, Here where the stars are weaving, And far at sea And only to him seems the ======================================== SAMPLE 909 ======================================== , my joy and darling, You have only had your wigwam; And the jealous bear and beaver Had it but a single looker; And the wolf and wolf had laid it, Had it but a single nosegay; And the fox and bear had plucked it, And the wolf had eaten it, Had it but a single nosegay. But it is not your great patience, For the young bear has no patience. You were not born yet as a mountain, You are not changed, but sat still. Now you pine and will grow grey, And my watch is yet unfinished. Come up, my ever-glorious servant, Put on the cheer, the spight, the spleen, The game of life, the love of lovers, And mind to give us first our tilts. I come, but there is but one laughter: And yet I lose my heart because, So sad and helpless now, I think, our toiling is but ended Because the amply hands that guide My lion on his back, his pride! But I must like, as ever, fellow, And must obey, before we start, A sterner brotherhood complete, An instinct broader than the heart. And yet the old world would not listen, It is too old, too old, too old To make an ancient history So large in leaf and blade and spotted, But, as I hear, it is my own! You are too old for your old sins, Is it not just the nick of time, And wish to get your future in 't Instead of telegraph-fashion, And leave your moral, straight and flat, In an unsoiled and breezy town, And quiet night-air sloped and swelled And shaken with the new-rising, And old bull-voices, growing still Smaller and smaller than their fill? Ah, not a sigh should pass me by, For you were born of horns and snap, And all the horns and quips, and things Of no land, save the leagues and wings, Were heard from women and men's swords. A hundred virgins I had heard Blew pipes, and all the midnight oil, And other earthly goddesses, And other gods that lived in ease, That lived in peace and love, and knew Sweet music and old names, and knew The home-locked maidens, and all the tune And the tame sun, and all the song And all the mischief and all the pain And of your love, and all the joy And all the hurt I sing to you. Not a drum was heard, not a funeral note, Not a funeral note, not a dirge was sung. But pale girls lay, half waiting for the time That must be given as a great event To blush and sigh, to weep and blush, One day I saw them, youths new-born, On their elaborate upright legs, And one large yellow, with a throat Turned slowly towards the other, Till all the other was of size And shape and memory, and my mind Felt the young children's steadyness Almost a hundred years ago; And I could almost say that none So like you but arose, and held The place in mine, with lips and eyes. Then at the last, When all the rest was still and dark, And even my dead looked at me As after life, I came at last To seek the palace that I kept A year ago. Her two black eyes! They had but faded from my sight, My vision that before had been Had now been lifted to the sky And fed upon my vision's dream, But when the setting of them, it Had died away, She came, and in the middle heaved The body out of mine and died. There is a glory in the light Of her, and she hath not known the one That comes to comfort or to mollify. But now the King, from morn till night, Hath bent his supple eyes upon me, And from my childhood, one by one, Hath come this day, as it must be. The cruel King, in the last hour Of his wild passion and despair, Hath laid his hand upon my brow And softly whispered in my ear Some name I might remember well. But I would not forget it, for I Have seen the whole, and know it all. I cannot even think the pain Which dwells upon my tortured heart Is nothing now but pain and not a part Of that ======================================== SAMPLE 910 ======================================== and weapon of wild war the palm trees bear, And, falling with their panting-throat, beneath Their war-shaking limbs the quivering palms lie dead; With sweat the panting blood flows down like oil; With sweat the tongue draws liquid; thus the chief Before his host stands, mingling the ranks with blood, And cries his father: "Forward, onward, men!" But when the weight and pain of many wounds Had stained his heart, he turned the quickening point On his swift-footed charger. Rang the fray, Broke through the breast, and pierced the mid-blade's crown, And pierced his mid-blade slightly. But not once Had he missed the last blow, ere the red gash Cut short his horse's flanks through all his bones, As Teucer with the golden string had missed His sinewy palm. His helmet's massy crown Achilles' right foot felt, and on his bone It matched the foot that tendered it. His eyes Still gasped for agony, and all his heart Was anguished with a miserable pain. "O Hylas, once the murderous hand of heaven Had slain our father! Now, alas! in death Distraught, he lies! To Dardan's dogs beside He left a noble widow, a brave son, Whose name I heard amidst the alien hordes, Grovelling and scowling on the fatal strife. The household gods to bondage have been formed Of the great Chieftain. Let us prove our strength." To him the Cretans, "Whither is fled our king, And whom he finds a conqueror?" "We obey, O father dear, that bidding we obtain From Jove, our king! Then will he gird his wrath As he avenges wounds of war-renowned kings." To whom Achilles, haughty: "Fly, thyself! Since ever King of Themis gave thee aid, Grant that the foe laid bare the walls of Troy Ere yet the Trojans win the fertile land; No hand shall turn the silver-footed steeds, Or bright Apollo's silver arrows draw, When the great Shaker of the golden sword Shall bid thee back to war. In such turmoil Shall ye be foiled by fraud, who biddeth men Lay hands on Trojans, and in plain with walls Abbrish their possessions? Then shall ye learn What good it is to strive with such as seek To tempt proud Troy with glory. Know ye not His wrath that claims the victor-lord? He doth Yet others unto Priam's palace led Haste to bring tidings to his children's ears. He took the bow unstrung, with which his comrades He made before the gates; but ere he drew, Burning for battle, were they all alone. But when the town was still, and to the sea Pressed warriors by the conquering chief, Ixion, Mighty in counsel, from the river's depths, Had he a soul and stature as to stand Eager on battle, well had I been thine, Phoebus, in daring cowardice! And now War is a-ground. But nought of it avails A-many glorious Argives! I have known Such prowess of the gods. Yet in the past I saw in vision of some battle-field My sire Lycaon dying, in full strength Resolved to strike. But as for me, I deemed That he of Vulcan wrought a god, who now Rideth in full splendour forth from hell Where many roarings fill the Danaans awed. And as to him great deeds of strength are wrought, Worthy, to him, the ancient Dawn-queen's son, Was piteous as a God, and pitiful as vain. Doomed was the earth-encircling to the fight, Unhappy and unkinsed, of Gods he proved. I by his bondmaid might, if so I would, Have risen, and from abysses of the deep Caught up the winds of war, and for the rest Long after now had made their bed for me; But him by Fate and Fate I now avow, My bride, as brothers live; nor did I spare To overcome the foes." Thus spake the God; And terrible as Mars rushed forth to fight Against him; yea, and half with flaming breath Fell from his hands: his helmet swept the ground. As ======================================== SAMPLE 911 ======================================== ian drift, So like that clime where the antlered skaters Cut from the sun their earliest records. But she does seem A jot for her morning life, A thought to this simple tune That I too am a part of the luminous whole,-- Dawn, eve, night, day Dear as my first-love to you, you and I, Come where the fresh-burst'd pear-tree Is to the kid its heart's salute, The heavy-sunk flax-woman. He is red! he is green! he is firm! Sunset flush, Corn-flower plume Gayly spread, Laugh of love, Glint of light, Yellow fire-music trembled through my brain As I stood and look'd. But in those strange heavens were happier days When my hands I knew, Those pearl-chambers of the South, Where the great free-natural loveliness Brings to earth my new. For now no birth is in the wildwood tree, There is no green thing there, The net is not on the edge of the wood Where God hath bid spare. Here it was cast, Last evening, On a tall grey church, Where for after-evening I have not looked. So I turn'd, And there arose Dark, long, white, A strange shadow, which reach'd my ear, As I look'd at it, And it fell to me, so distinctly (Methinks, it was myself, Amable as colour could be, or name) It was the vision of a holy corpse With pinion'd feet; Which came Between me and the heavy and the slow, Methought, as whether with wings as fleet As the hand that bore The vail upon the upper back of the wood. Fading, I saw A scuttle-bush, Shining away, Whereat I did not see Either man or beast. And I said to my Mother-- All as it seem'd-- Words that had fail'd And words that had fail'd. I felt a fear Of death near me. But Mother, if that dread command Could do no injury, I would not pause To look into the face Of these poor people, or in lieu of blood Sow in the dark soil, Or shed the seed of life. Or if they sicken and arise to being, I would not bear Through the long agony of penance, That they have gone about, And leave the earth behind them, And they that were without, In deepest night, The gutters of their bodies. If I should look into the face Of my Father in the evening, Or if the anxious gaze Of his eyes have not been calm'd, And his way have not been chang'd, I would count all the stars In the heavens, the waking foretaste of things, And from every stroke Of his hand That is beautiful upon me. By this journey that he left, I had not seen his face before. But this path, that grassy, dizzy, broad, With a grass-blade, surely leads Into the grave. Since he is gone, And hath become a man, We will plant with the reeds And carp with the reeds, And each in its place Shall have a grave. The untimely grave I would plant with the reeds, And with the mould shall have A morrow. Sfully, modest modest, blithe, And debonair, Subduing with the stings of care My spirit all the more, She chose her way, And went, the while, Where the steep rocks intercept the sun. The stars, the snows, the grasses wild, Which clothe the craggy steep, Were her companions, All with cloaks of ambrosial cloud, High over-arched with steep, And they might seem To be clad in armor from the steep, Than be array'd in gorgeous array, With canopy and kirtle gay, And braid with many a fold Bare to the day. 'Ho! ho!' she cried, 'the day Will never look again on me. 'Tis time that I awake, To-morrow 'tis his own, When I my destiny will break. 'Wake, my Cuchron, from thine East Come, and sally forth, Fanning the darkness there, Making ======================================== SAMPLE 912 ======================================== -and-old!" A spire of pointed marble on the ground Was visible, and at the base a child Gnawing a face, whose lofty head did bear The stone, who, rising in the yellow dawn, Hung on his shoulders with a large grey eye. Thence the young cavalier, but when he sought A chamber, found an old man watching him: He saw a heap of golden dishes rise, And draw the bed with the fresh-smelling blood; Then placed the table in his own right hand. Then from his couch the aged man arose: And to his right he cried: "O Child, what dost thou here? Why art thou so wet-eyed with thy frozen sweat? O verily I see thee, and I know That in the magic land these monsters dwell; Yet are not here such horses in thy course, As in these vales, to mount, when from a sty They strain the servants and the servants hunt." The youth was well contented; but the girl, Whom he was glad, approaching quickly spied, For, as she saw the twinkling of a lamp, She, stirred with anger, stopped, and, all disjointed, Stood like a mastiff standing at her side. "Lo, sir," she cried, "how curiously I guide With care thy wily steps, and to thy bed And thy good native country, fare thee well." To whom the monk: "Be of good cheer, and know How for the damsel I design my suit; And may Heaven henceforth our case distinctly see! For such good thoughts I pray thee, that at last Without offence I purify my charge." Then, as if something wanting, the heat cried: "Be of good cheer, O sire; for thou art good; Thou shalt to him this secret keep, and hold Deeply thy suit, and never be afraid. Let it be as I say; thou lov'st, and wilt." "And, first, must prove my valour," answered he; "And wilt thou show me most my matchless might." Then, pointing to the wisest of his steps, Formed in a gallery, he, the chamber sought; And entering in, with thoughtful steps he paced Through many rooms, and many a lady's cheek. Here, in the back of Mars, the young Medore Were seated, and the lists were ranged behind. All gathered in a circle round the fair, And in the centre, from their cots, one took A helmet and a helmet, and a zone; Another, and a pair of gilded deaths: Mid these a silver-hilted sword was placed By each, nor yet a herald's trumpet's mouth, Which, blazoned o'er the shields of many an Moor, Had borne a scroll from Heaven. Straight 'gan say, "Go forth, and bid the Greeks to combat here!" Instant the Cymrian king with aspect grand Lifted the helm, and took the shield in hand. Meanwhile King Agramant and Aymon's son Were in that battle by the Grecian camp Constrained; and valiant Garmundians, at the hand, And sword in hand, towards the city crowd. Then spoke the son of Atreus' noble son: "Go forth, Atrides! bravely task thy feet On gold and brass! I have received from Heaven Health and long life; many shields I have, And many spears; I fear me now to fall Before his feet, and to begin the fight In which he has so nobly saved his life." With that, the crowd all did obeisance, made Butius the son of Atreus, far-renowned; And showed the lofty buckler, broad and tough, Made by the Cymrian to the Greeks in fight. Then cried aloud, "Thou, son of Atreus, bane! On thee the heavens shall vindicate their right; And if Jove bids thee to the strife decline, The well-beloved of all the Greeks may claim A prize that shall so gloriously be thine." The old man spoke; and first they led the way Into the city which the warrior won: They saw the white procession as it went, And heard the voice of Agamemnon's speech. And thus they shouted to the rising sun, "At last, at last the long-haired Greeks exhort The warrior to the combat, and refuse The champion's terms; nor hast thou still to ======================================== SAMPLE 913 ======================================== wrath unslackest; and Gorgon's brow Dark with his anger still was hidden, hung Cold as his heart was, and his locks of tress Ne'er drew such vigour forth, nor felt the vain Still fury of his glance; but when he spake Door combat had the vengeful shout forbade. So stood the warlike hoary-headed men, Cumber'd, yet helpless; to within their frames Retiring, each upon his jasmine couch Lay covered, with a loose and stringy staff. They rested them; and, on their upright heads, Though from that brow their slumber fell, the sweat Retreating Hector from his mighty limbs Drove them in darkness. Then the Chiefs arrayed The body, one in rank, with noble Chief, To honour highest trust. Next the sleek blood Of countless vultures filled the spacious host, Each looking down, as though the gods had fled, But that amid them of the earth, the Greeks, By Hector's active forces, stood fast by. When Hector at the head of all the plain Had flung the spear, loud shouted throng arose. Not long Achilles with his voice replied; Thick as the crowd, and wing'd with haste, he flew At Hector, whom, himself, his steeds controls; And while him Hector searching in the dust His charioteer, by Iris' spy perceived, Who had herself his better judgment proved, Gazing and lingering, with his eye askant In fierce displeasure at the vast renown Of Troy's assembled host, and shouting loud, To Priam's noble son the Cloud-compeller thus: "Be witness, Jove and all ye powers of war, Who thus afflicts Achilles, and this act With which he dares his children, drive them forth From the wide-wasting war, to Troy, and prove A sword invincible to Peleus' son." He spoke, and shouted; but the ranks re-echoed all. Peal rang the answer of the foe. His steeds Swiftly he spurred, obedient to the arm, Glancing around him; and so swift the steeds E'en now were measured, neighing as they ran. Borne o'er the course, Achilles' charioteer Came forth before them; with his scourge he lashed The steeds, and in wing'd accents while he spoke, Loud railed the hoary sea and fowl of heaven: Borne o'er the battle-field, he bore the car Back to Olympus; but ere he reach'd that plain, The brazen-footed chief of Ocean's stream Descending, saw him; and with troubled brow Spake to his mighty-sire, as though for death: "O sire and father, he hath fail'd, and left My bosom with a load of shame to mourn. Thou, therefore, only, witness thy disgrace. But take it in thy comfort, lest the praise Of high Apollo, giv'n to erring man, Should by thy toil be for himself convey'd." He said, and loudly; on his son he set His wrath; the river heard his fierce design. Through hearts and through the town his tidings borne, To Troy he drove his glitt'ring chariot-wheels. For Priam's sake, Apollo, Goddess dread, Sent by the Gods; the likeness to the brave That God had ofttimes ruled the battle, led The wayward warrior from the ships of Greece. When Hector heard, where spurious Hector paused, A cloud of weapons shot from either hand, Then left him to resist, and aim'd his spear Against the bone-destroyer; but his own He found not, for his arm was snapp'd in vain; With broken arms the Trojans turn'd again, And Hector at their head his wrath renew'd. On, as a faithful lion, on the herd That late hath from the mountains cast its tuft, Turns from the hunter's hand, and guards the prey, So Hector on the rear of Troy impos'd His arms, and to the Greeks full turns his eye, And cast his spear; in vain, with lifted front, Would he direct it, and in vain he drew. As a proud steed, upon the mountains bred, Sings to the tamarisks, and springs away, By the deep-plashing ocean bent to roam; So Hector of the brazen helm was grac'd, The son of Priam, valiant as he was ======================================== SAMPLE 914 ======================================== Should lull me here--and lull me there-- And, as it were, make heaven o'er me so! All which Love's cats, each night From their long night's filth, With such terrors should delight, It may, I fear, be 'dy'd With everlair. Each night they ran a spy out, that you could hear the men Halloo, For fear that he should die, While for bars and suze you might, or nigh a glass; But listen ne'er so well To poor men' tale--nor tell Where they were sent, nor who receiv'd a bell. Some say that the gates are cross'd, Some say that we go down there; But the Lord does not cease To fathom his wicked will In any man's fair bourn; But there's a bait, a fish, a gale, a whale, And a huge, dim, goose, perch'd there-- Two dozen more, each nice, unventur'd lump, That's all true belles are ready to devour. But though they have cut their throats, And eaten my bait, The table is quite full, and the stewels are grimm'd, The trough is most tempting to go through. But after all this is the last--I know They have won the best way, for their plenty is gone, And I have not to let them come In any day--not even a minute, a minute. The green fields growing out of the woods, The acorns darken'd in the sun, Our cautious men look'd down on what was call'd ill-doers, No one was there, no light there shone, But only the branches of a mournful oak. "Why weep ye by the tide, Brothers?" said one; "Sad mortals need fear. Were ye but stronger than your fathers, Strong sons of nations would ye come, If ancient things were strange or new. They weep who say that near and far, The great Gods dwell to every land, Yet who can tell?--what things are they?" "Yea," said another; "Hard things. And the wide seas unsettle The proudest, the most hollow'd rivers Of all the earth. Our Kings first landed In Alba, and gave their command That they should after them obtain Whole peoples, lands and seas. "And now the Queens of Tyre have landed, And all the vaunted peoples, Have laid down their vanguard, and their people Have sons,--and made them rulers,--save, They alone have a right to reign; But for us too it is decreed. "He reigns here now. Behold! we ready sail, And come back again. When we come back, return again! And seek for power in vain." "But how shall we return?" "Behold! To me we come From Tyre, and from the land Where, when folk walk, men make pretence Of knowledge--to this youth of theirs, Whom we ourselves have named the King, To him our only son." "Out, out!" quoth he, "and leave the gates! Ye mock and call us back again! A better crown than this appears To our astonish'd gaze. "With hecatombs and with solemn fire, With torch and with reeking sword, We smite these altars round, The breath of God revives, and respite, In those calm precincts of the Styx." They came--my merry crowds!--but one Stared up, as if in fear to see The villain go--and enter'd in. Nor fear'd he aught of sin; But straightway taking up his cap, Unto his lips he kiss'd his child, And biting thus he kiss'd and kiss'd His staff upon his arm--"My child," Thus spake he, "tell to me, at last, What once we were, and are, and are, 'Tis thus--unhappy, once we were-- That thou believ'st that ancient tale Which adds to our despair. "Yes, thou dost bear thy doom, my child; Of joys the joys are short. That joy is brief, then, in the past; That joys are fleeting; joys unripe, Though fading; but are brief. "Of joys the fruit is short, and brief, Those joys are fleeting. " ======================================== SAMPLE 915 ======================================== 'd Greeks the spot deplore; For the first ship was snatch'd away, When Thetis, from her native land, Sent the sad augur to the shades of night. The glorious Hector, sorely fear'd, Had gather'd round his lips the beard, Which, turning round, his paleness o'er express'd; Yet with his cheek his chin the beard express'd. His cheek with chops and sharp-set front appear'd. A garment such as man's of yore wore, Soften'd by Vulcan in the days of yore, When mists from Morscelus have long been spread, And AEgle's rock is pointing to the dead, While still He lives, and worlds of mortals err. A venerable sword then pierced the blade, And the soul murmur'd to the godlike dead: Dead--for he liv'd, he only saw his boy, Yet lost the vengeance of the ruthless boy. Thus, as the rumor ran, beneath the shade He lay, while others breathed with ardour vain: The cure of sorrow came from every tongue, And common sickness to the son bewrung. Before the Scaean gate the young man stood That he might quit the bloody work unfinished, And ope his lips with words that might command The torture from the shafts of Scylla's hand; Which, on his cheek the very colour'd stain Which tells how many woes and wanderings bore Ere vanquish'd he by destiny could stand. At once, indeed, his flapping lips he rous'd; A noisome fear these eyes had never nurs'd, Till Delia's tongue a lamentable sound: Sudden appear'd a mighty general, And from the giddy crowd this portly sound Perform'd: "In Neptune now I see him laid Beneath the ocean, but the general shade Of the broad ocean, and of earth-born day; And sea, and land, and land." And right away They mov'd; and when they view'd the swelling main They came within a cloud of loud complain. And then the murmurs of the sounding sea, For sad Aurora, rais'd her pensive eye, And saw her children, weeping too forlorn, Fast speed to follow where her steps were borne. What mutter'd Thebans, when their parents' rage So long their hopes and fears became an age! What rag'd their troops, when peals of thunder came And the wave full-blown open'd heav'n and earth! What fury heaved their frantic hearts! what more Had Argives done, their neighbours, friends no more, Brothers, friends never-ruthful? how their own Bore their last hope, and hapless fate repining; Yet the same fire did burn, and their souls Harry To each his brother, as their sire to thee, O Poesy! thou sing'st the glorious sire! O heavenly Muse! rehearse the wondrous fire, And from thine eyes deign such a smile to shine, As when to mortals bright in heaven we bow; With added horror Juno heard the swain, And to thine eyes proud Ilion glisters now! But to thine eyes this doom thy breast shall be, Dire as it was in thunder to condemn. That faithless sword which stain'd with fury's spite Was once the costliest penalty of spite; For lo! with guiltless lust and swelling ire Fierce Turnus wrought his ruin and his fire. Meantime the Trojan and Arcadian clown Were from each other cring'd, and rose the fame Of Dardan bodies to the Dardan name. From ancient Troy a rumour now proceeds, That warring winds on Scylla's shores have blown, As might the east her dusky ridges roll. Great Telamon first laid the monster low, The nursling of an empty gaunt wolf's claw; Thrice, struggling with the wild winds, in despair He made the mountain chain, and met the northern wind, And rag'd against the gods: three times the tide Of Dardan blood blew big with bloody pride. His beard and beard the victor's hand had slain, Two mingled sobs of dying men remain: Himself one upright, and the other stands, Grasping his truncheon, with a paunch of blood, And, seeming naked, fears the sword in vain. The Pagans see, descending from afar, The soothsayers furious with their threat'ning war. The arrows, oft-repe ======================================== SAMPLE 916 ======================================== -nose, With her green school-books and her-- Mason with knees of Lorraine, That we could ne'er be frightened again, Lest they were never frightened either, And come to harm, and yet, Pompey, thou shalt die. The Lord hath triumphed since, in glory, He struck again the old World's glory, He wrought the ravel of our nation Like Indra in the latter story, And they, who have, who have, who have, All too, are free, but in the grave. That we were slaves--as Israel Had felt before; but, now, the while The fire, the earthquake, and the thunder Would break our lines apart, and share The universal spoil, and there Be found again the mighty spoil, The trident, and the flame-- The sword that brought the angel legions The Lord hath said: "Now not alone Are the true slaves who shall be known As though we wrought a thousand chains, But we shall flourish as of old; And where are now the free free words, And where the freedom which is told, And where the Truth that saith no more, And where that all which yet shall be? We make no vow, we bend no bow; For Christ is risen, we know. Our best is in His name, and yet 'Tis not our noblest work to do. Hush, Time! hark how it sings,--"By the chain thou wert bound, By the fetters that chain thee behind, By the fetters that bind thee before Him: but go On, ever onward, through ages like these, And none shall take heed of thy secret of peace." And then it began as if Death could not flee; But the bitterest spite and the saddest shame In the mighty Master ran up from the right To smite with contempt, and of false and foul spite Henceforth to fight for His holy name And a sin against the Law that hath come. Then, too, there did the shuddering sword of the Law Suddenly rend and, as I saw, I could see, but was not, though I could not hear; And so I fell to and murmured and fell In that wild burst of wild triumphant cheer Whereat a shout out of the far, wild air Leaped from those terrible chains and fell As the black bolts of God's eternal home Crashed to the earth, and the joy of the Lord Shuddered and hid me under that cloud. Then the road, the road that had led me to He had reaped as the reapers that eat their fill And the sheaves of the scythe of the Lord were still, But the bruised reapers they scattered still And fell like the broken thorns, which lay Shattered and scattered under their feet Till the dust of the road had bedded his wheat; So I looked round and saw him lie, With lips like blood, arms folded out And the dust like a cloud in the sky Hovered and lifted upon him about, But I could not see him, nor hear him cry, And the grey clouds rolled from his heavy head Like the leaves that cover the world dead. Then I cried in my panic fear, "Lord, save me! Save me! Save me! Save me! For a thing I cannot understand, If not God's will, it is always this. But--there are folk whose hands may hold, And strong men's lives may be out of the mould. They are not like thy good and just, But like shapes in a golden dust That perisheth upon thine ash-gray sky, As though some flame of their high memory Were like a young torch's flaring flame Ere the whole world in its full glory came. And his sword is a cup-stone of fear and dread, And his eyes are marred with a sword-like dread, And his steed is a mastiff stone, But the course is only a sword unknown. He must lead our ranks who have stood in shame, And we must not falter or clean despair, But find the life of our living in air." Oh, a wondrous tale was told In olden time when Greece and Rome And the Gods went hand in hand With the sword between the hem of the world And the spear between the bow, Out of the bosom of mighty Etruria, Out of the moil of the sea, As the storm-god was that olden sea, They took up the ======================================== SAMPLE 917 ======================================== unbless'd on danger's brink, forlorn Groans are denied in prayer, but heavenly food For mortal man to hearken ere he die. Even thus afflicted faints the lofty host. (For brave beyond compare are vales, and pois'd Beyond all hope, beyond all help). Then touch'd With suffering, thus he interposed. Oh me! Thy looks and looks, sweet son of Heav'n, suffice, (For I mine arms have, thine embrace) to guide Me, slaughter'd in the whirlwind of despair, To succor thee, and render me thy shield. But thou, Philœtius, look thyself no more. No, by thyself, not ev'n in my defence (For needless here I speak) a mortal waits. If that be force, and not divine, Why (father of me all the host excell'd) Hath he not smitten me? I from the shades Of death will soon far rather have return'd, Than to have suffer'd man (so name him not) Who thus have erst transgress'd, to better case This once committed trespass, than endure All perils of this life deprived of thee. Yet boast thou not such avarice to have seen My sacrifice, nor my reward on earth Who shall presume to see thee, if I have, And have all in thy sight served thee aright? But shame on thee unworthy! name thee ne'er Reproachful, but a villain, in thyself, Or who at any time our service used. Should I find grace to answer thee, and prompt Thy all with confidence, my heart shall grow To hate encreas'd, that thou, dear Prince, whose voice (To her I owe) I have revered and lov'd, Whose reverence I frequent wont impart To thee, from whom all goodness I refin'd, By thee enjoin'd me to bestow, with tears Ceaseless, and sorrows that concern'd my soul. But anger dares not, in my bosom fix'd, That, if my thoughts be true, I may at length Return to native heav'n. For see! the moon Now stands retired, and from her eastern height Declares that westward there is twilight now, Which most in front appears, and on the left Now rests as if that yonder light were fled. Thus in my sight was burning, even as I Tofore the cloudy bars which gird the earth, Which the sun's beam now broken, when he veils His wearied eyes, and hails the fixed day. As he, who, raptur'd in beholding day, Beholds the moon, and with enrapturing speech Tells her that bright is past, thus in the soul Of him I saw the fair, her flight confess'd, Foremost, her raptur'd, upward raptur'd praise. Who thus has rais'd up others to my gaze, May well my words prescribe, if here I attempt Aught, not a man to speak for long, may move To laughter, and might grant a full discourse. She ceas'd, and thus, unmov'd, I pac'd her round. Fair star! she ceas'd, and I her steps address'd. Though bent on speed, yet levell'd at her charm; And thus she answers me. And shall I down As low, or with more ease, and with less ease March through the sacred edifice, that name, The name of what I am, that thou desire To know, that, when my spirit, which thou seest, Shall come before me, I will offer thee The blooming daughter of a son such high, So dear to me, as dear to me as life. She spake, and I to each replied, "O fain To know that thou art worthy, know'st thou well Thy race, and know'st that I am sprung from Jove, And nursed on earth by Jove. Therefore, arise; Go forth, and with thy son to Jove return." We, while he left us, to the outer air Made entrance, and the gate superbeare Easy, as not affording fit repose. I straight began: "Bard! willingly thy act Gives thee a son, who after thee shall reign The supreme monarch, as supremely good, As to rule only in eternal spheres. By his command I sought thee, pluck'd alive An apple-tree, and planted there my son, Mighty ======================================== SAMPLE 918 ======================================== . Thus Harold's race a murmur shook That seemed but as the murmur shook; Till near the lake the terra trees Grew straight and yellow, green and seize With age and wrinkles; and the hark 'Twixt wind and wave one moment stirred; Then stood the castle parapet Above its head, nor sheeded what With blazoned front the massy pelt Uproarious; while the good old man, All mournful on the ground below, From out the well-known chimney took The stroke of many a tusk and blow. Again to fair Sir Gawayne's towers He turned, and on the tower-clock, A fragment of the night, made show, It stayed: 'twas a month ere now Since the first eastern star renewed The first fresh wind. So on the tower Sir Gawayne stood; till, suddenly, From the long lintels of the rock A yell of louder echo woke, And startled all his men: no voice Came on his startled ear, no shape Met his uncertain eye, no shape Met his uncertain ear, no sound Met his uncertain ear, no sound Met his uncertain ear, no voice Met his uncertain eye. "They say, the King is dead," replied Sir Gawayne; "and therefore proud He is; for he was very fell, And great his vengeance: but his state Was just, and his ingratitude But poorly satisfyeth all: But, for I tell thee well, this doom My kinsman died, the king his son, But will not come for me, my son, That I this insult give: no room For the son of my father's heir For vengeance in my native land Had room for now my father's hand." Then to the King with proud disdain Said young Sir Gawayne, "Nay, I spurn My father's counsel; but my son, I know not what the words may mean; And his was this unendurable In the wild waste of bloody time, Who, made a knight, proved false to him. Why weep ye, then, for him alone? What doom he had in evil hour? Why weep ye for my father there? Why mourn for me, O King, alone? And I have borne his sorrowing: Yet should I not as haughty deem In act and speech to strike a God? Rather on him my fates have set; That the most desolate of all Should wander hence, and never come, As I, avenger of my father, Of his own seed should bear my doom My desolate heart has turned to hate; As long as he be kept alive, Surely my deeds, my son, shall mingle: Wherefore, O King, this madness waste On thee, my darling, I repent. I bade my twenty sons of me For guidance to King Karlah send; And not to perish for my son, If he be spared, I took the glove." The Emperor bent him to his feet, His face was pale, as death was due, And all his cloth was torn and knit. He hastened where he stood, and lo! Upon the steps, beneath the wall, A venerable statue stood. Gazed on its frame a while agaze, The long, grey beard was seen to grow And mock the entrance of the gate. The castle-arch, ordained of old King Karl awakes and looks at all; And in the track that else had flown The palace opens, and begins Its glories with a shriek of pain. "No more," he said, "I have that day King Karl by his own hand to seize, When he shall look to land." And then He grasped the sword, whereat it waved, And drawing in, began to pluck The beard with gracious love entwined. Then from the place he hastened, strayed To Paris, and for speech returned: Of whose sweet life let mine you learn, To give my heart, no lightest touch Of living love long since has fled. Sore was my visage to have said. "When wilt thou give me, Roland, he, The felon that did swerve my hand?" When that had made his last appeal, The hundred-fold of Ganelon, Geoffrey, from thence, had there to look Upon his heart, and known his peer. His hoary beard and hoary beard Had made the memory of the vaunt Of the wild heart ======================================== SAMPLE 919 ======================================== eternal glass and lofty vein, Where not a shell, not air, but man remains: Fresh from the bosom of the glowing coal, The starry blank, the floating ball of snow; And lo! the west subdued a sinking land, And rippling billowy plains, on either hand. Not the round planets when their rulers come, Not the bold bacchanels, that, deaf, unheard, Disdain the watch-fires of the midnight hour; Not the bold dames that on their warriors frown; Not the deep seas, half-seen through glooms of cloud, Nor the swift mounds, yet thronged before the prow; Not these in hut, or court, or council hall; Ours is no cell, save where, in secret, seen, The peaceful king, that did of old from heaven His blessings poring upon, and envied there A stately mansion, and a race of kings: For nought but such a throne can king command, Save what is his, and all his splendours are: And that fair city, like the land of rest, Lives in our bosoms, changed for all our woes: To it transformed, in spite of law, we fly, And drink a healthful godship from the skies, The living coal that animates the world, And his last spirit sanctifies our laws. Thus Venus spake, and thus our joyous loves Pleased us, nor this nor that, desire of ours To be content with one another's spheres; And, ready each to help, the rest to move. But if the Fates ordain our wish'd perfection, If not in height and splendour to be clothed, Then to the fight, with prosperous speed to move, We press; if we have wings, as frail as they; Then let the rest by toil restor'd be won. Or let us with success, a perfect plan, Thus thus at least our power of mind divide, And better counsel our weak efforts prove: But if we hope in any state or scene To live, or in re-echoing acts have seen, Then, stranger, think not to desert our bliss; The happiest time is only in the next. Youth, thoughtless youth, not known to fame, In wild and happy times will boast that name: I will be taught by children's voice alone, And second brothers--Lenthymrian--Saxon: Fancy shall teach, but dare not learn to shine; Nor dare to rival ancient Quills of Song. Thus in old times the antique Poets sung, And hapless, too, as story's hero young. Youth dwells in fair, familiar fields. Her eye Now glows; now kindles, as before, to die. Time flies. She's at the beauteous stars' first rise, Now sabbath, like the dawning beam of day. With her light step she stops the vesper bell, And stoops to earth as if she loved to dwell, Yet breathes no word, but what belongs to care; For far more easy 'tis to see her fair. 'Tis but to beat about her, and disturb The tranquil in a thought; though all the globe In beauty and in beauty is her praise; Though few within her, but most rich in powers, Are found and liked, and most adored because Their images to naught themselves betray. Thus reign'd; and she believed, yet was she moved. To her lost mate gave vent unto her fears; And when again the earth was in her mind, And Reason, taught by Reason, strangely ran To outcasts, when she thought she saw mankind. I will be bound by all that's coarse and mean About the middle; will be, when we met, Most sweet in manners, most by all men seen. Next we shall note how all the senses gleam. 'Tis then the easy, then the common light; Next we must note how sense smells sweet in sooth That they by no means can be won at once For contact with our bodies, not our hearts. And last, old Sots, of mind a little sick, Seeing one's feelings--give the genuine love; And mind to mind as well when nature quick Hides blood, and, hurried, is at rest, or dance; And know not that the blood which thus we shed Is thresh'd by reason, or corrupts the frame Of thought: the fault that it receives in death Is thence recover'd soon, and later felt. Th ======================================== SAMPLE 920 ======================================== st notes, Avecor from the brig and judge To the bruised youngsters run, "Strike for your masters!" Is it so? This very morning fairies wear A soldier's plaid of different dye At Ispahan--that Usbeg-ce; A doughty lord was he, Toward Midgett, Cambridge, saw The ponderous town of Ispahan-- The little fiddle, dull and flat, And silvered over from the spot The old-time dreamer, cool and true As in the days of his renown, Who danced that lilt of war-time tune And mustered his magnificence To celebrate the days of peace. With tenor voice and tenor deep, The night-born hammers whizzed along, Or lit the smoky torch-light's flame, Or in the night-ensues came To set the long-lost quarrel free; A blasphemy scarce heard afar From roostling markets on the are And prayer and praise, "God save the Queen!" And every old-time player knew That earlier doom was linked to her. Stern her voice, and low and sweet As from the blow-holes of a lute! The touch, the taste of that red blood! And as her eyes were freed from tears The red blood ran in her breasts! Alas! and as she ran, Between them, clamorous for fear, The many-tinted sun Spanned hot through the wide-flung door, So crept the Death-at-Hand, And glided to her lattice-squad, And glided in the light of day To fill her eyes with grey. The Dawn! The Dawn! The Dawn! And yet The Dawn! The dawn! The Dawn! The Day! Ah, knew you not that Dawn would blot With blood the letters of her name? What more? For she that Dawn would raise The face of heaven as one might soar Above the packed and cloven floor Of this great city, shouts for more Than you have called its street a house, Battles and bales, and all its air-- Bored by the ships that come and go Bearing this wealth of towers and men Below the trellised stars above The lords whose larders ran for love, Shaping a pathway to the Sun, A path to other men afar Than that you are. And, strenuous, yet Armed, as you are, with sword and spear, And gleaming armour, brown and clear, Shine forth, O Dawn! for you are near, And Dawn, the woman-limbed of love, Is coming back to us to-day! How have I loved you, Lord of all! The love I had of you was more Than the love that runs all day, And runs all night, And lights with eyes of gold and pearl The lintel of the door. And when the day is born, and all The stars are shrined in the azure scroll, And when the night is born, and all The birds of the glade are one in ten, We'll call the border stars to life With the kiss of stars, and you and I Will find with you the living way! For where you have traveled we will find you far, More fair than the eyes of a child Who cries for the night for his soul, And makes no plaint to the wind-blown hair, And makes no word to the mother-heart Who turns with the kiss of the summer day Her fragrant petals away. O, be no grave for me, But some far-off, far-off land Will send me a winged word to you That makes me forget my woe! But where you are most alive We'll call you an angel-feather, And when we call you a rood, We'll say--"What is the meaning of all The endless feast of life?" We will touch where our beautiful lives Are singing in the light, And we will say--"What is the meaning of all The endless feast of life?" Alas! I am weeping alone Because of the dear dead years, A thing that has nothing to do And cannot see what I have done! I long to be desolate And take what the world calls good And the good that is great indeed But makes me strong and proud and glad And praying for what I am, But how can I wait for the end Till the day dies like ======================================== SAMPLE 921 ======================================== "What shall I say?"--"It is no woman's gift, No man's good fortune, nor her anxious mind; But courage equal to the bitterest, With either knight the courage of his kind." To Rumour's king his tidings were consigned, From fields of France, where, weary, he was borne, Where the great captain of his army drave, And every knight his succour did abode. Pernod returned; then young Sir Richardet; Who thought how bold, before he went, to meet That troop, had been without a scanty feat, But that his chivalry he first assayed; And, after him, to fight the knight is bent. A troop therein he past, where his array Of horse and foot Sir Oliviero knew; And, after a career so bold and gay, From every clime King grass and gathere too. He thanked all heaven for that their joust had been, And wished them glad, to seek the war anew. Sir Turpin there, with brother, giant, wife, Graced his good arms and grandsons for his life. By him were many tidings heard and said, That young Sir Roland had been led by France; He knew too well the cause of coming fray; For such a Knight the warlike will of France. With such a horrid shock King Marsilies He smote, that he a lance into his heart Forthwith had left as well, for all his prowess, Before the Pagan monarch's face and face, And threw him dead; even to his fierce heart, And brain, had spurred him, yet he would not part For that good fight the proud Circassian bore, But with all courage would his safeguard save. To Paris bridge he made; and there he staked To face that foe a glorious conqueror, His former fame, whose fame, so long outbroke, Made Paris weep for grief and Love, as well As Paris; and with warlike glee, the knight That stout Arcadians used to charge with might. Well hoped, ere long, for sounding arms, the King To all his forces would in safety bring, For Paris' glorious sake so far renowned, That in his city should his post remain, Famed for his worth, his people for his train. Then good Sir Richardetto, praying him For his deserts, called for his captive cheer, That he would bear a life which Fortune Would vouch, and not the vassals of his peer. And he so blest, that he, to guard that treasure, Bound in his harness, to a page would go; And bade that some good knight, and all his pleasures, And added knightly spoil of war thereto, Among that peer, he soon a safeguard found, And despatched his lands, as sentenced felon bound. Therein no other way was ever known To knight or damsel, but a dim, green gloom And vision passed into her mind alone, Of fearful peril and deep pathos, lo! Three days or four she fled, then all before Her enemy who bare away the shield Of the fierce Pagan, broke him in his hold; And sought, amid his folk, again to rue The fatal issue of that fray renowned, The fight to which he fought; with slouch and throate His targe the sword he drew, and slowly surged Under his horse; and, from the road-house top, Lingered, where all the other deadly fosse, The duke his horse have slain beneath his feet. A rolling cloud the welkin's radiance pours; And all those forms in gorgeous liveries hung, Which on that shield some noted champion showed; While Charlemagne, who this despite foregoes, And for the duchy, his ensanguined blade On that bold champion smote, next backward rolled The broken spear, and dropped his idle lance. Lo! from his side in haste the weapon broke, That, grazing forth a river, through the crowd Upward he wound, and spurs his furious stroke, Which maddened every heart, and aye each limb; But nought resisteth the infuriate course; For all things now, though granted, run to him. Great is the stroke: on earth the warrior lies On earth, and vainly, to provoke his pain; Who every action, valiant or in fight, Renews, and spurs against his vigorous mane. So these were not the ten; but each ======================================== SAMPLE 922 ======================================== once as thou appearest. For my mind Is in itself so wrapt, it seems in heav'n, From its hinge nought else to move, if aught else Our past through that be heedful. O clear conscience, If thou regard the mark of open will, How I do ripen, suddenly I reel, My lightning subside upon her, if she come, With her who once was like an April cloud, Swift'ning her light along. The world, methinks, Is far hence dark. But I, who am a soul In heav'n, can feel myself free, and restrain My wills not loosed from that gyarden of will, Wherein feeds, and wherefore only, this the branch From whence I stem. To sport in here I seem, And in the self-same breath do twirl my ring. As he, who looks intent, and shuns the fray Wherefor at first he fought, may see the truth, Far in the coming of the battle sees Some champion coming to his aid; e'en so Achilles on his friend's behalf beholds His goodly steeds, and leaning on his spear, Bids his companions bring him. Without hope Of help he seeks excuse, and turns his eyes Toward the intrepid foe, if haply this Be not some solace." Thus began their song; And next they moved, all three of bending oars Proceeded, to the left hand, with such sway Displayed, as Hadria's shore beheld, when we Down Bissi came, by oars smooth-shaven. So then, me seem'd, firm-planted in my strength, And like myself, who reas'ning, other weds, Than in the variegated coat I wore. Turning our back upon the vale of woe, Wiglia, that great duke, turn'd round his eyes, Nor from the battle look'd; for on his face A sinner met, and in the shoulder-bone Seem'd as he question'd. question'd of his name, By the clear 'scape of incense that from heaven Is to the virtue shown by me, and one That to the world was in its sight. "From him Who sunders 'mid the thousands, that for fruit The unknown battle sought, what time the terms Of peace between us and our better land He between the Cyprian and the streams Of old Caicus, so was I in heart Of equal zeal. So never in my youth My reading, nor through good or ill, beheld Favour of the exceeding fondness that surrounds Wit or of merit, (for it still incights To benumb) the hero, who was born With the good seed of Leda; and from thence IS clearly emblem'd, that the human race, After the mortal war, may to the gods Pass through in better time. So never saw I Weigh down the meanest with the thought to come To the endearment. When the lovely scenes Of ancient time and manners had all their birth And loveliness, as in a child the prude The father uses, lo! there came to me Some mixture of imperial purple, such As the bank burdens, and the bank whereon Man's better striveth. O to what a sumptuous base, High overstretch'd he leans't, what time his bounds HeThus with the mountain's shoulders! When the point He of the sword beheld, which did but so It with his keen sword smote me, (for I wept Of that mine eye for a slain brother's) deem'd My life-blood streaming (O stain also his Whom there I left a brother), and that stain, Which made the step-mother of our house so bleak. I did but weep. The damsel, as I said, Mark'd with fix'd eye the wanton, that erewhile The father of his people, and so she Beside him roar'd the 'Son of Pelops, him I also with the other bore, whom he As their king's son, smote. Plunged from his throat That man's foul mem'ry, and with tauntsful mouth He back on us revil'd. O fair deceit! By what stream is not now the water clean At foot of him, who hither tends, and swerves? And here he fell, ere his device was done, Mark'd in ======================================== SAMPLE 923 ======================================== You miss the little And the guileless squire, As he yells and yells for his bratchette, Puts in every note That the German Queen's dish Is good. But more do I say That I am sure That my lips are hungry To be fed. Well, good day, I have only to say That the fighting rage is Which they say. Victor Hugo was the paunch of a chocolate. He was very foul, so stubbornly smart, And his manner was stubborn to his heart. There were ninety-six days If he had never struck a spot in the heart. If he ever struck an attack at the King He had knocked him down, and wouldn't one of 'em move, And called for one whole week at any money, And he was going to swear by the crown on his head. By Gringing he came, and a porter ran To know the cause, and the very same day; He called one of theishops who come from the town; They knocked, and they all swore, and every soul Was as fat as a lamb, of a man and a woman, But I can't say that, so they called The Jew. But Father Bear's wife says, "Let's have a walk." She says she's got a sash on her poor old toe; She says she's got a sash on the ground, and on top, Of course it's the squeak of a young, perty hunch. She called upon the Doctor, and he says, "You got a clean contrary thirst, you see. The doctor says you've got a stomach for his; I'll take that straight where I do, if I can." He said to his friend, "You needn't try." "Tick. tick. tick. tick. tick. tick. tick. But suppose you don't get as ready for tea, You will, and I'll write, as Doctor fancies the tea. "For it is dark; and I long to go." "Oh, hear me, priest; be still; I'm not asleep; Come!" cried the Doctor; But they led him out of the kitchen door; And, his head for an instant older grew, He fell, limp, lank, from the cellar floor. "It is time to rest; I'll get a spoon"; The kitchen-boy looked at him anxiously; "You're good, poor boy; I'm horrid, noisy!" "Come, little boy; do you not cry?" "There, that's a place where you can't reach; A hunger; one day you shall die." "So be it; now the fire grows cold; I'll see you and make a good will." The ten fingers had clutched tight to the ground, And his knees and his nose were pale. "O cruel!" said he, "such a thing to affright Your wicked minds! But think of that strumpet!" Slowly, silently, he went on; A mighty leap he made! The parched grass beneath his feet sank down And over his shoulder fell the pronged gold, Showed by his scarlet hair. "It's too much!" said the priest; "I'm coming to see you again; I cannot go; I must be burnt, I can't go again. For this is a merry, merry sound to hear." And so the parlor was filled with a bushel of sound And his decent body fell into a meadow ground, And a little man sat down with his head on his knees, While he wondered to see the man bending by his knees. And what did he say to the priest, that never passed him by; "Why don't you draw out of this house, to see if it's nice; It just doesn't seem like a house that you say is a lie, And one that you never saw, I suppose, I don't know why; But only you'll break your head, if you've ever told it so." "Oh, mind the law, John," said the priest; "There's something against my right, And it's just the same as a father left son of his own And born a father that lives on tight; If I had half-way to go to my grave, I doubt if you knew, And what do I do, John, If you just now come to see the man-- A scared little boy in a fairy ring! That ======================================== SAMPLE 924 ======================================== less) they sleep, Wakening, to find their gaol believ'd. With doubts rack'd, anxious that the train by day Should pass unmann'd, they mourn their comrades slain: But the sad mother thus her sorrow broke From Heav'n, as bids her now her son console Her for his body, with her hapless name. Great fear she reas'd, but rous'd th' impassion'd rage, Against the aged king, and at the base O'erpower'd the grisly master of his race. Much at that sight was he inflam'd, she thought, And of the garb which late he tott'ring bore, But fear and anguish fill'd her. There was shed Through the two grislaths, yet no blood flow'd there, Though through the turbid flood the fountain flow'd. With, all night long, of oars and rowers plied The weary fleet, with all the force combined; Nor feign'd a squall, nor would repel the foe Who, breathless, in a solitary row Past on the margent of the palace-gate, Abhorr'd of life, and fill'd with rage of fate. So man meets man with crooked stick, that long Hangs in his scythe his thronging mates, and hears, Within, the howl of secret horror rings, Till startled ev'ry lord of men appears, Nor why he seems as at their horrid deeds. It was the flood; the Furies fill'd the air Infernal furies of profound despair, From o'er the deep abysses of the deep, So rapid and so black, that none might see To whom the hand of fate was given to tread, With sounding steps, which still o'er Elichor's head Came pouring, by the Stygian shades, along. In storms of the great flood this mountain rose; Till under form immense of wall or base, Wasted to nothing now in length, (for all Was nothing) and no more: phantoms of time Hang on it, not with images of crime, But dire portent to men of its past time. From earth's o'er-ruling engines, at one stroke All things converg'd; earth's empress, night and day Fell, and a houseless many lay, and many a league Of rivers, by their nightly streams, o'er-run: The Stygian streams were all one torrent, these Were there of old, nor could their source be won: Each drop of salt the Styx and Furies stung, Diversion there was drying, yet which thralled Earth's gianty fen! and, in the hollow-mound, Her children's lakes and rivers swell'd and swell'd. Uprose the mighty Styx; a fiery flood Black'n and cerulean, with a boundless might Flowing with rage; beneath it, as it soar'd, With ceaseless progress downward fell; and when The steam and sulphur of that gulf were clear'd, The weary Trojans, wavering, turn'd to view Where Typhon's golden tower circled the world, All quench'd his wonted fires. Nor e'er would cease Memnonian streams of fire, the God of peace, Which, in their effort, they so torrent hurl'd Upon the heads of all; for, as the foe Hurl'd at Hyperion, they pour'd forth a flood Of boiling torrent, which, though form'd of rock, Infus'd the Styx. Then all in flames they fell, One fiery column, and one fiery flame Subside by side; and when the giddy realms Of Erebus and those Cimmerians saw With sovereign sway the heavens, they, hast'ning, seeks His bright recess, where all the springs of Heav'n And those of upper air, renoting, dwell In double-dyed decline. He sinks, the snows His brother Cæsar and those springs which sprang From mighty Atlas, and which was by Jove Exempted now. Melampus streams once more From the Phocæan shores; a thousand fields Of air they plough, and till the air with fire Immense they have. Gods, who in vengeance view The parent earth, again appear to thee, A name forgotten, and the name remain'd Alive in minds, where haply once was set The various habitations of mankind. Where is that God, ======================================== SAMPLE 925 ======================================== tree and blossom." And the beautiful girl said, As she turned to the branches: "There are trees on the hillside, And beasts in the thickets; I have some meat in my garden, And some in my house. I will take some, a cherry, And some in my carry; So I will not go to feed them, Nor eat them at all." Cried the robin, the gray-bird, "Have you anything? Yes, if I have, I would fly to take your food, And tell the rest to you by the voice of a wood-thrush, Or by the touch of a mouse." Then the bluebird said, I have a very small apartment, So near is my snugness. You will not mind the other one. There is no need for this one, For I am very tired. But I would give up all the room To a good old-fashioned dame." Do you remember those days, companions of mine, When I was near you in the early spring? Down the stairs in the hall I laid me down in bed, Pensive and happy and wrapt in a gown of red; Do you remember the evenings, that rang so round Round tables in the morning, that you were not found In the dusty manor boxes, where I used to sing Long before the Belle's music? You know not how long: --Pearl toPearl I mean, Twining up the mandolin, and all the wine you sip, Do you remember that time when our dear Lady Nell Put her hand in mine and looked into your eyes, And you thought that moment of delight and mystery I was reading your picture? Well, then, I am well, Soon I shall be well. I have the honour to be, You who are my friend. Now let me remember that, write as you have read, And let me take my hand and touch your own, and then You need not set on fire for any other man. But you are my friend and I am very wise. Tell me your name, And tell me what it means. Are you afraid it is not forbidden? I would settle by the ingress as a Jew, But not the initiation of Holy Writ. Though in my hand you said, "Selve, one, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight Oh yes! Yes more, a hundred, eight, nine, ten, Oh yes! One, two, four, eight, nine, one, seven. And when I come to think of this, write your name Somewhere beneath my nose. "Do you remember-- 'Pearl toPearl, one, two, three, eight, four, seven. I only did the same, and that is all, But you are my friend and I am very wise." Saying: "That is what it says. Now listen, pray, Keep your eye peeled, I'll find you a pocket, And what is your friend?" Then suddenly in the open air I heard my good friend Bell. "Once, Bell!" And again I looked at the glass and saw Something above. An owl sat down, With his head in a twirl, And in his ears a jack-knife. And then He began to sing Something too sad, He sang of the secret things he had hidden away. They had hidden away Somewhere in the cloud of heaven above their heads, Even in their nests, they, with eyes upturned To watch their household Gods. Oh, well for them, That they had hidden away Somewhere in the cloud of heaven above their heads, That they had not revealed them. Oh, well for them, that they had hidden away Many and many a sorrow, till at last They stood in judgment naked, and were chafed By a mock spider. Ah me, what other thing had happened? I will not tell you. How did this happen? There seemed a little serpent, very small, Close at my side, and rearing up its head And flattened in the air. I looked out of the cloud, and the sun sank, And all the sky grew dark, and, suddenly, the morning was dispersed, I had a light that shone from the close mountains of a thorn. It showed me like an Eastern wizard's palace on the trees, And on the sky, some seven hundred miles away, It shone like gold. This was the gate. I ======================================== SAMPLE 926 ======================================== to dance as doe, As dainty as a paradise. And dainty things there be. In verdat of purple and gold, All walled with pearls, there stand The old proud blossoms manifold; And lavish little tear on his hand. Lowly and sallow, sweetly fed, His tempest steals: I ween That, in his balmy court of Spring, There may be solace unseen. And where the humble cottar dreams Of summer blossoms, with a dream, And falls among the jasmine gleams; To where the wrinkled purple showers Gaze down across the golden gloom; The crocus lifts a brimming bloom That o'er the stones against the sky; And, under it, the violet showers That ever murmur or sigh. And with that magic of the Spring The meadow-knows are bright, And where the cobweb darkling vines Bend gently to their acorn-ring, Or scent the violet's flight; And all the lilies, perfumed deep, To tempt the sunbeam's golden gleam Are carpeted with black, wreathed snow, Whose amethyst clime ne'er hath snow. And through the moss-drowed kivery-haunts That murmur in the new-fallen snow, All dewy-green, with berries red, They shed their tawny petals snow. Where woods of tulip-blooms are spread, And airs of lily-buds are rare, They build a lawny vale at head For these enraptured creatures there. Thou fairy bridegroom, all day long, Who dwellest by the yellow lea, Pressing the curling laurel-garland strong, Beneath whose leafy canopy His fair unfolded forehead fair He doth in all his array await The bow that shall bear the great festival, With flowers to make his ivy festival. The bounding steed his master waits (So 'tis with ardors and with hopes); His faithful comrades leap around To give him over yellow stocks. The wood-deer in his lair gleams nigh, Behind the trough and in the wall, To bark in from the Hudson-stream, To quiver with the whip's light fall. The peacock up the hill doth soar O'er many a mellow orange-trees; The jays within the water-gleam Dive down to where the cobwebs are. And 'neath it all the meadow stores Of Autumn, lavish of her stores, Drop, with her bounty and her cheer, Upon the mellow lea. The catkins bring in many a tep The ewe-heart to imprison a. The robin sings about the cove, Where yellow violet and orchis clove. Another stable yields a store Of fruit, of later apple-trees; Another stable shows a sign Of its own beauty; full of shine The lilies climb above it. Some silks the larch, and apples swell From some far wood, and apple-trees Slip in from 'neath the vine. Here are the fairest fruits of flowers, Of azure and of red, and those That drink of warm sunshine Entrancingly; and here the stream In many a jocund murmur fills With osier, bay and orchard-lill. Hence lies in man a purer dream. A sound far off and sweet to sense, A clear more sweet and wondrous sight, As though from far off woodland-wakening, Whose waking seems but hears a flight Of birds and moths and larks,-- A faint far-music from the far- And mellow forest-signings. Lo, where those beauteous beeches are! Cithaeron's spires, the sky-blue hills, And tall, wide-circled like the seas, Bend westward to the earth-- White-chin-a-bed, like silver-winged, Glowing like streams of light that gleam About some forest-forest where A door of flowery open air Makes cool the gentle gold of day; As there the genii swim around, Each anambrosio wrought of old, Thronged by each shepherd and each shepherd-band, That overtop the sheer-spanned sand, Bubble the sun-crest with ======================================== SAMPLE 927 ======================================== Isle Of ports and traffic for her people's sake, Of tropic islands, islands of the deep, And hoarse-lipped steamers with loud-throated birds, That now keep time with pensive memories Of wars forgotten and of wrecking fleets. And once again before my waking eyes She shone out like the setting sun; her face, When once the twilight of her soul grew grey, Floated the time with golden harps among. And once again my spirit seemed to feel The same old beauty and the weight of joy, And suddenly I knew that earth was best. And then again I longed to hail the dawn And find the body of my dream, and be A marvel and a pageant in the dust. Ah! now the light is pale on many a shrine, And from the world it fades like fading smoke. Our little tent lies idly by the stream, While all about it, silent and asleep, The falling dew is like the ancient dream That woke the voices of the singing stream. How gloriously the great cathedral bows, In quiet stillness, till a sharp-horned foot Points out across the peaceful village street, Along the broad backs of the swinging towns, That droop like shaggy ponies in the sun, To where the cross roads are to Eastward drawn. The graves of many in the valley side, Like those of old who from the cross-walled town Stalked for the coming of some weary tide; And it has lifted the last latch and hung A challenge in the door and put an end Of formal pageant in the warder's house. The shrine stands open wide, and summer-breezes Slip silver-feathered from the falling limes, And the tall windows, straight and lifted higher, Are lit with noisy crowds of eager boys. Ah! few and few upon the gallows-path That turns across the fields of gathering corn The heaping harvest of the restless world Clambered and pass, and wide with threatening feet The fateful harvest of the world goes by! But more and more across the wheat-field ridge As with one bound, the bannered troops retire. And then the burden of the war goes up; And so, a reverent old heron comes, Who hides behind him in his hollow cot, Holding the warm wet luscious quivering draught And lighting over all his lifted vans. And as the many-branching banners swell From roof to roof, a swarming, busy throng, Leaping over field and wood and wood and field, So moves the world beside my wondering sight And all the motley throngs of battle-folk. It is the harvest time! Behold, the clouds Have gathered and are gone, and in the sky Dusky and green and bright the plumes of cloud That flicker like thin fire about the sun Fall back and leave no trace of parting cloud. And now the pale procession of the clouds Surge up from all the heaven, and far away Along the forest street, along the sun Glides slowly to the shore of that bright sky, Where, as the years go by, a few brief months Pass, without any cloud, but only clouds That drift and glide before them, and the cold Dead music of a life that's left for them Of all life's sadness and of all things made, While shadows lie around the endless sky, And sunshine dies away with smiles and tears. But I, for I had lived too long and lived, Had hoped too long and wished too long alone, And yearned too long, and trembled too much to live. And now I see my morning is arising From red on Eastward, from the sunset-glory Of sunrise, from the burst of sunset-glory Of dawn, with its immortal lily cup Of perfume-meadow blooming at my feet. How sweet the pain of parting all the day That comes with April in the West, and brings New April, ere the Spring has lost the gold That streaked the autumn skies; how sweet the cup Of morning, when the dust lies cold and gray, When still the sun comes forth, and gives the moon Her cold and amber rays--and there's a power More kind than icy breath and brighter flowers That bring to earth the fragrance of the West. The snow lies on the streams, and in the sky The dark November sky grows drear and cold, And in the wind the sparkling icicle, Burning the icicle, looks back and seems To hang a lifeless fragment ======================================== SAMPLE 928 ======================================== ; O man, the guerdon of the bitter lie, Man's havoc and destruction! thou, the price Of full up-piloted suppliance raised by men, Must in this trial prove thou recreant still, An earnest work of mercy! many a time Thy broken calm in battle overthrown, In this dread victory found a vent for thee! This was thy lesson, this thy trusty friend, The lesson thou hast taught us. we who hate, And all who quarrel, all who plot, pursue, But we who spurn, if we will trust thee still! Oh! be my friend, my soul, that warfare won, My heart shall ponder, and my spirit pine, How art thou trampled on beneath thy kind, What word of mercy snatched thee from thy chain? To me thy faltering words seem but a cloud, For that small space in life they call life lost! Death is the final remedy. Life's morn, I heard a distant bugle call, and saw Dimly the horsemen ride; a voice was heard, And, through the deepening twilight of the night, A troubled sentinels passed on. They were conveyed Straight to the camp to his benighted son. 'We turned once more to eastward. They had left My father, and went homeward; they must halt, Or go on with their burden. They were gone, All spent with trouble and the chances of war, Toil of grim battle dealt. Nor could they wait Till in the further west the night should fall, Till on the further west the sun should see The sun's last glimmer, and the evening star Divide the crimson evening veil. They past, The camp that still was left. Their martial toil Earned victory won, until the night should end. I would not be a hero till I saw Till I saw this night's banner in the sky, And the proud banner of the everlasting king In the sun's way encircling. 'Twas my lot, I 'mid the dead and the victorious, To die for one, in love with one like you. Glory, splendour of the sun, Come to our home with thy bright eyes, Turning but beautiful to me. I can see, if she can see, The sweet smile of thy glowing mouth, And the glad song of thy silvered mouth. Shine on her with thy golden gaze, Thou to whom she first was given; I ask only one sunny day, Not alone to see her come again. Does she come still, as thou hast done, To welcome, or to greet? Does she seem entirely thine Great queen of beauty and the hue Of thy brave forehead? Now thy worship bows All the obsequious mystery that suits Thee. I cannot speak thy meaning. No! I see a cloud of fate above thee, know How false thou hast been me. To thy side It looks, how keen and strange how it descends; And if thou kneelest, it can only come To saddest brows, and to elude the touch Of fettered love. My heart, I hear it beat, And once again my own it murmurs sweet, Till the memory of such innocence is thine. Far off from thee, a stranger to this land, To make my walls more fair by far to me, Thou hast the wildness of the magic seas Thy bridal garden, wedded to a isle Unknown, the portal whence the Genii come. Thou lov'st to linger in the chambers there Of chambers, chambers, wildernesses deep, Beds of wild beasts, and bowers of hamlet fair, And such blue waters as no God hath touched In Imbros, or the fretting Cyclops steep. Oft would I see thee, beautiful and pale, Bend down before me in the cumbrous arms, Lean thy bright head, and with wan eyes enpress My knee to thy pale lips, and kiss their pale Gold clusters in their perfumed palms I know, I know that thou would'st come and bless my land. The Fairy kisses thee; and, gentle bands Of gentle poets from that far-off vale, (These fairy lands that glimmer in thy arms, Like fairy ships, each streaming forth a sail) Seem like the rich capes of a jocund car, Twinkling in the morning: here the Fairy smiles, And so ======================================== SAMPLE 929 ======================================== The printed charms that women put to use As apes with orthodox wits wandering about, When nobody there, I say, can find out why The Queen so little, so desirable, so nice. Some men who never felt a whinny, Unless a miracle was frighten'd By one who with a jerk'd tiptoe Had scream'd full gallantly at the needle, Fearing to break it, was most certain. And this is An uncontrolled common tale The sages of the age of Chicago Were superstitious, in a sense, That the courtiers of New York Had sworn that they would break a practice Where they knew not their origin; For though this spasm of fooling spleen Will sometimes intervene, It follows, in the English tongue, That kings and rulers in this age Rolve system, when the reason's told, To facts enthusiastic. The general reason, by these facts, Is that in leading out the sense Of the new jocundity of man, Though the great point be what it is, Some purge ignorance may be. The vivifying mind May be enslaved by blasphemy, Or emulation, of this kind. It is, it is, at banquets' rout, That passions wrestle, passions urge, Wasting the country it adorns, Or it polluted, or destroy'd. 'T is the expression of the great, For there's no being more secure From invaders, than the body's hell, If some far better motives should. As a forsaken part, Who Nature seeks to gratulate, So excellently are they named, Who ought to enter into state, Or sit unterraced, or walk sublime, Like Alexander and the great. And when the fittest place for men, They need not shun the city's din, If more to be divine within Is due, the tenderest of the million. 'T is best to mark, without reflection, The purest wisdom and the purest hope, And with a fervor to forebear, More firmly hold, at times obscure, The views of early liberty. Nay, when the cup is plated out, While thousands break the banquet, 'T is well, for lawless men are taught That liberty is poorer by aught. Without a call to life's full stream, Within, without, 't is better Than seated idle on the shallow, Than seated at the wine's freeount. Drinking with grines from far-off hills, The usual course of duty, Is, it would be, a constant duty To serve my people as a servant. Makes not my door shut fast, That I may not enter on the curtain. There, through the dew, I'd advise my bed; There, through the storm, There, up a path, Low behind, Till, for the sun, I should be gone. I'd consult the world with poverty, And purchase wealth, and set about it. What is the use of riches?--They are gone, Or gone away, or lost; but my estate Is in the hands of some great lord, alone. They rise from nothing, my riches and my power, And there I reign, ignoble though a slave; They build, they spread, they work, All do their best and all do for the best. Yet have I sorrow'd much, Sorrows indeed, I mourn'd it all, I mourn'd it all, Would mourn it all, Would mourn it all, Would mourn it all, And all for one, Would mourn it all, Would mourn it all And all for one, Would mourn it all, And all for one, Is for to sigh. Wealth has its lands of many hues, And through the lea of Love That merrily carols, gay and free, A sprightly thing, a well- agree'd, A bloom-dispersed, a blushing rose, A rose-bud for a heaven of woes; All these, and all like these, you know, Are right and happy in a poet's show. Ay, then you say That now my life is like a little boat; And all its ways are whiles long as a man can go, And all the world is whiles alive to you; And all is good that plucks at sorrow's cruelties; Ay, all the world is that which from the quick ======================================== SAMPLE 930 ======================================== night and day; While, though the gloomy nightingale's song On wings of longing flies away, Within the hearing of the flowers The pearly dew-drop dews their Lord doth shower. 'Tis night; 'tis noon; hush! hush! The level fields which rice and barley yield To build their walls of rock Around the walls of moss are still; The sky still to the starry sphere, The fresh earth's bosom meets the storm. Nature proclaims the birth of man; Each little life within the whole Great Nature's mighty plan Considers; from the germ began The power within man's plan. To each, from every creature born, Each holds at least its proper heaven; Yet, spite of all their boasts and oaths, Their working is, in some degree, A sort of potence,--either divine, Or pure from matter. Nature proclaims the work of man; His own, his substance, none the less, Is Nature's best. The white man's blessing is not given By selfish strife; Nor is he made of his demur Who loves and hates; Nor can his low-built, man-built, town Rise, of her best. His better nature, nobler far, His nobler aim, His nobler views of common men From whence he came-- All, all of which, in times to be, Are made--and are but things that men May do and do. His wealth is but a frost that pales On all the earth; His hope the snow that hovers high On fields of ice; And he that never sets a mark Of ill shall be. He counts not how his fortunes roll, Nor what the score; But he that loses most must gain A double store; He never can be poor and poor As he before. Nature proclaims the work of man; His wealth he sees; His hope is but a dying smoke, His griefs but trees; And all men must do up and down, Or, if they can, Their deeds must pay their court to do, Or, if they can, The world's a world that he has built, And shall have room. Some by their acts and actions lie, And none his own; And some, untaught, were nobly born To wear their crown; And some, untaught, were nobly born, Because they shone: And this is all their doing, life and death, Whose least act done. He sees, he saith, the plan that men Put on for good, And he is fearful of the stain Impending on his blood. The weak flesh serves the bruised and weak, The sharpest needs; He sees the quivering flesh and heart, The shrivelling, feebler breath, That makes no sign of heaven or hell To win his prize. So he must care, and toil, and fear, And sweat, and labour, and fight, And in the end earn honor, and achieve The better right; And pray that God may keep the same As he above. If he were come to bless me, That I may save him now; If he were come to give me over My grief and pain, Then was I owned and held high heaven, And God in disdain. If he were come to give me Earth, and earth, and hell, and love, Heaven, and Hell and all that's prove If he were come to give me aught But my wound? With a heaven-coloured sea of bliss He is mine, the W, the E; And at the end of his sloth Bliss I may forget, and dote, And pay a score of times, And dream on my new-found way O, hope of all? His hand is round, his laden main Is sought, by heaven sought and tried, And hope, O Christ, of all The life or death of youth, To be his work to-day, Nor make the dead thought's waves return Of the new grave on his wide sea-brim, And all that makes life gay. O soul, whose highest hope and home He builds by word and deed, For whom his faith, his wisdom falls, None knows what thoughts shall breed; Whom Change the sad earth may build Or the dim stars that find no love, No eyesight to discover some Where tears or tears ======================================== SAMPLE 931 ======================================== The dry boughs fill. They pass, like armies in a field, Hatch'd by the powerful power of herbs, Or, wonder-stricken in their chains, 'Gainst the bright star of evening gilds The pale blue wave. But let us go, and let us go-- I never meant to go; Nor know I wherefore I will go Among these knowling things, If in the days of long ago I dwell'd beside a tree. They never come at all at all, Unless they tell to us Some speech, a word, a syllable, In listening ears or thought. That was the time when everything, Beneath the light of day, Bore patiently, without a fear Or hideous delay, Gay as a garden-larch with flowers In all its loveliness, To look upon its own sweet hours, Its tender nightliness. And, now that thou hast grown to strength, To quicken heart to heart, To make me, kindled with thy fires, An hour like this depart, The last of all thy loving throng-- What peace now that is mine! Not out of rude or lustrous sphere So day could make me slight Or form and aspect, or of fair, Or form or feature slight; But each to each like willing hand Their link'd refreshment gave, Along the wood, until the land Seem'd like an April-dow, And fresh as May, which none might clasp But what might bloom above. Then come in touch, and let us go, To gather round our flowers And learn each circlet that upwaits Its own sweet hours and ours, As burns the ruby of bright air In light spring's morning hours. With tribute from the flower-dead world May every garland fade Like that you wore at seventeen, In just such fair array; But give me back that crown, you said, So never more to crave; And may my soul, once free from care, Be free of grief and pain, And safe beyond all reach of men In my own heaven again! I've yearn'd for love, and as I've yearn'd for peace I have wisht leisure now; but I must smile To see no more the tumult of the world, The tumult and the strife of men and boys, The rush and tumult of a stream of joys That comes and goes on end to end each heart; For peace, not war, respects his reign, And pleasure has no part. But come with me, and we will sit alone And see the stream of fancy glide away Into the deeps of life, till lost and lost Is every memory, and every pain, And the earth blank and dearth'd again. And when at last I think on youth awhile And life's perpetual toil, I leave it prime In youth and hope and all its joys and cares, The pain and anguish and the cup, the noise Of unknown worlds, to peace beyond the night, And all its griefs and sorrows without war, And unknown sin and fear,--to-night I know I am a child. Oh! lift me from the cup of earthly strife, The weight of unshed tears, and lend me strength In hope and peace through tumult to excel, And, above tossing this poor heart of mine, Now call me son. For they are everywhere in the world, and everywhere, There is no peace like this, where Peace has plac'd, And in their book of lessons we shall know There is no book of this, where I am dumb, And their skill leads to death and bitterness, Where we are shaken down and desperate. Where they can read no wisdom and no hope, Where they are spinning and what they know: The only hope of this, that life is brief And all will go as it has been before, But this they have; they part not with the fool, For they can play the man who idly plays And sings the idle words of idle pleasure Upon the happy hillsides of the day. But he who idly, slowly leaves the page And tells the unwedded mariner his tale Is but a stretcher of one standing near, Who idly plays and sings the idle words That are to him too pleasant. He may chance To turn to you and say: "Dear mariner, See how you wrestle with the busy world, And how the human feeling is contrived And master'd, and how in loving hearts There is ======================================== SAMPLE 932 ======================================== that he may find a berth Where he may fit his berth, And fair ladies ride the mare, And good men are about her there, In the town called Hanover Square. Away to the North he'll go, And there for a while we'll stay, And wait till the Boches come, To 'greet the Boches good-by day. And every man there will sing Somwhat to the lady tall: "The Chinese laundry is gone, I wonder." And so he long to go. The Anzean sentinels sent word They'd sent me down to be a bidden guest; And so they left me on the road To meet them master of estate and health. I'd rather be a cook for boys, Or a tradesman on the fan; But the best of all the boys As much as I'm a man. Just for once a bit of work you Will be done to take in clever style, And yet I think I can't do better When you are making blocks of wood; When things we've gut folks to eat Get you out of patience; When things you pile about you find Do not be made for nothing; When you pray upon a "must" You are looking for a "must." Be a strong old Shelley, If you could make him sing like you, By and by he'll come to you, If you tried to keep him young, Up before the sun would show Every quilt of the thing you see, If he tried to keep you free, You might chance to see your own, Or the sea-born weavers On their west round of a sun-browned tree Going playfully, The tune you would never leave As the phrase is on his lips. Good-by, for good-by to the spring, My task is done; When you feel your toes are set In the first sweet sun, A flicker of light, a whirring of wings, And a far-off call to you from a hundred long years I see your body reflected in clouds of dreams And I hear you whisper as you pass by the river that crawls Down to the dimpling river's quivering edge And I see through the grass And my dream is beginning to fade; And I see through the shade And I hear the wind sighing; And I see through the shade The sudden bright shining wings of the clouds Laughingly float, and the gleaming clouds pass Like a flurry of rain on the city wharf And my thought is going to go on, The bright little cocks strut and rock In the sunny wind, that wakes and dreams, And my dream is going to stay For a little season in the Spring. If there's anything worth while To lengthen my present rhymes, I may wish I could sing them o'er again But I cannot string them. The day before April I knew you had turned from the way Into your prime, gay day, And began to grow old; Your laughter rang from the laugh About you at first, in the dark Of our early history. But you were too young to forget To sing a young song to the dawn, And I watched in the shade Your clear eyes and calm brow; For I said, "Through the world we were both young and old." You laughed and said, "I'll remember it yet; Though the world goes round and my singing is wet We two have been friends in the mire Of your dawn-lit smiles And the murmur of shower-showers." O wind of the May, Whither so early? I saw you toss the daisies Up through the windy garden, And blow from your merriment Across the April meadows To where the blue grasses Were all so dear to the day. The world is all too little for you; There is no man can climb To half the level of the moorland, And not to spread beyond the stunted Highlands with the sea: We cannot count the bell-ways from the steeps The small waves pass, We only know the heather-bells That beat against the day's cold blue And the grey clouds away In a twilight of dim woods and hills. The clouds drop down on the earth like rain; But we look out on the tiny clouds That fold their travelling skirts, For the wind has come to whistle And the grey clouds pass Like angels' wings across the grass And the grey ======================================== SAMPLE 933 ======================================== grass and graceful trees Shine with the might of rain and flashing starlight And gather themselves in the cool green pool While the drops settle silently and slowly From the grey edge of the lone white water That islet mixt with pink blue foam, that flings Soft beams of the golden-rod and rushes Under the bridges, and over the shingles The tiny black hats sparkle and stream and flash and stream. Mute recognition of the proud, old boasting Of power that God has given him to possess Majestic virtues that no men can wield, And only God, that we may glory in, May have an equal spirit for the grand, large soul of man. We look into ourselves and see Beauty that was shining long, When men was kind and children knew What was lost in the crimson west By day, and night, and stars that flew In a golden crest. You have the rubric trace, The golden coins you carry; You are Virgin dearer than the moon The other night I did not love you. We smile together at our lot, And heed you not; The dust-cloud of the common day Is all you need to do. You are the pulse that beats the blood Uncarried on the statues Of other women who have stood Between the living and the dead, As if I were your beadsman In your far country where you tread. But I have plucked a snare that came Not from the sombre quiet But from the land where you are gone To seek a quiet haven Where your tired, tired face is Yet folded in your arms Against the flames that blossom To the kisses of the sun. It is done. And I have bent above you My weary head and wet your hands In that rigid embrace of love That lived for you and you; And you have washed the stains of mine With wine of a delicious rain; And I have spread the seed of prayer And prayed you sinless again. It was a weary, weary time When we were children in our prime, Before the sun went down and the wind Had left us for a thousand years But that his face was fairer And ah! his body was more soft Than his own limbs, or softer Than the sweet light that nestles In mother's breasts when the sky nods Back over our shoulder. We fain would fashion the walled black farm, That shall not be built on the side of the hill Like a winding-sheet between the farms. We fain would build that green good-by, That each year bring us the device, That each year see us waiting at our door, Waiting and watching and waiting For the news that shall be told to all At last this night. I dreamed that you and I had come, And when I faltered and turned pale, I said, "My word! Forgive him, Stone, For I forgive him, give him back. A word, a word!" and you were dead, Or ever we were wed. For he was true to both of us, And tender all in the upper life With the clear keen eyes and the manly will And the sure strength that knows no strife, And tender all that simply rests With the soft hand and the smooth bright hair And the light strength of your brown brown hands And the white strength of your sweet soft face And the dear strength that knows no fear, The loving faith that understands And the big faith that all men know And all men strive to understand. I saw my little maiden auntie once Sitting alone by a well one day, And the mother she came to see the mane, And the little maid looked in, and she said, "Oh, it's O love, and it's O love o' my love, And it's O love, and it's O love o' my love, And it's O love, and it's O love o' my love, And it's O love, and it's O love o' my love, And it's O love, and it's O love o' my love, So to the little she went, and the mane Tore to the mane, and the mother she saith "Oh, it's O love, and it's O love o' my love, And it's O love, and it's O love o' my love, And it's O love, and it's O love o' my love, And it's O love, and it's O love o' my love ======================================== SAMPLE 934 ======================================== war more yet doth seem; And adds unto his doings great Murmuring faiths and blasphemies. Now let mine be, when I am old; And having am become a man, And in mine hand I take my sword, For my part, if my king is good, And save his name and all men's lives A long and famous victory Shall 'float' to the blue: And before that world grows old Let this little book be told, With a stately preface writ, And a little poem in its place Of the shame of wicked men. If I lose this glory of light, If I do I lose the stars. If I bear the broad black shield Of the Emperor in his ranks, I have seen my Roland kneel At Saint Vago, and Marsile, With his face a lily pale, As he sat beside a barque Which he had made as well. In such books mine eyes will be, Though they speak of things to me; If they speak of evil deeds Which have done much good in their time, I may speak of deeds sublime. And if I move not as once In the heat and dust of war Some one draws me nearer heaven, Than my thoughts would have been there, For I know they are all thine own, And to thee I will be true, As thou didst in days of old Thou didst love the gentle things Which were made to be divine. Ah, 'twas then I saw a day, As 'twas just beginning late, But the blessed Virgin did delay When the King and Emperor came, And regarded him as a sage, Seeing somewhat that he praised Not the praise of men nor beasts, Nor for want of diadems. And he wooed a little maid, Said, 'I need must follow thee.' And he rocked her like a log, And with arms outspread did mingle, And her past the years did draw, Yet ere eve she seemed to tingle, Widen fair, it was not strange That, in spite of all her new Viden, she that had been What she was when she was old Grew, and since she now was grown Fair, but mild, and fair, and known. Fair, and young, and beautiful! Whoso loves, and loves, and thee Here his early joys renew Fair, and 'tis in vain to mar Who that does not like thee can, And I know not what his pain Took for granted love and peace. Joy then at thy very birth Through all God's sons, and be Thy more blest seat still verily; For the womb which thou didst fill Thou hast in thy bosom hid Folded like a strangerMother, Worn ere thou thyself couldst suck her Yet unborn, and soon to be Murdered in a safe dim grave, Thou wilt sleep, or shouldst not wake But to rise to joys unwasted Welcomed thee, and thou shalt wake To joy's high festival and spread Thy cloth for all men to be dead And thy deathless flowers to shed In their beauty here and there, And thy deathless flowers to bear As the flowers at thy birth-day, And thy sleep to not stay here, But over and over a year Here and there to wait here For our lips to meet and die For the light which we did dry At the mouth of her, ere we left her, And on whom the sickness slakes Withering, and who strive not The whole to bite with new blood For his heart's terrors. A weary day on thee I call, At last, while glow the stars, Still dawning; I have crumbed a knell On this wan place of graves, Where now this thy first-born of men No man lives; come soon, and then Sweet rest thee in my verse again, Till in that empty grave my Muse Full many a voiceless prayer I wrote, Yet on the breeze wert thou, and yet The wind which bore thee from the hill Had leaves upon thy lonely head: The eastern blast, the eastern blast, Wakens thee, makes thee more thy breath Than man, ere he can bid it fly His bolt or roiverer; The faithful nurse a lonely breast Where thou so oft wert thorn'd of old By flocks and herdsmen: not a blast Rings there or rustles ======================================== SAMPLE 935 ======================================== I have heard; but, oh! with what delight To sail this dreary night, when neither ships nor Troy Can save our coasts from ruin, and not even The gods have sepulchred us. They guard the shore, Their ships the only loss; the spoils their ships, Their glory; and what pangs besides must rue Our seas and Troy." He spake; and at his word they took their station, The curGiven heralded the lofty port. The Trojan sent with haste a sculptor to the throne The arms which fair Sarpedon had around Set forth, and made them ready for the war. They stood without the gates, and stood within The beauteous house, where first the royal pair Were wont at solemn feasts. There doth they fain Timely repast; but when the feast is o'er And they had dinner, they abide the board Erect, beside their lord; then, outstretched there (For honour to the guardian of their lord) They stretch forth hands, and with rich gifts prepare The raiment and the robe, and round them set The golden sceptre of King Priam's son, By whomsoe'er he spake, down to the ground They rolled their heaps of laden urns to earth, And piled them high and fast, and, strong and bold, They brought them forth to battle. Thus aloud They cry, the brave son of the valiant prince Shall meet them there; his friends shall call him friend. Then Hector, Priam's mighty son, replied: "Dear brother, seek not yet the host to stay Or stay us, who have sent them; but the sight Of us our vessels can with panic fill The hearts of Trojans, and their gates immur Our wives and little ones. Some gleaming sheep They slew, nor was their doom for ever closed Within the walls; they slew them not at all, But fled, their portion of the spoil, from Troy. But, Priam and the mighty son of Jove Restore the Danaans. They who fight and weep Shall surely be victorious, if so Heaven Shall grant us to return; my hard commands Shall bid them fly, and in their safety flee." He spake: their words the ancient Priam's own Nestor controls, and guards them as he may. So nought that young and old doth Priam please, But by the ships his ready host prepared That, first, Deiphobus, his shaft about Should be cast forth, and with a course well filled Of golden arrows. Open all the gates They force; there cannot be aught that pass Unpastured till the tumult of the war. Then Peleus' noble son his wrath puffed forth: "Polyneus, counsellor and King of men! Thinkest thou by the ways that I am come To rob, and Priam's spacious realm reject For punishment, who should it bestow On me, a ruthless minister of Hell? For all are there who trust in Jove's decree; But I, if haply in his wrath I seek Another now, will slaughter him and slay Myself and men. Against my father too Shall never man in all his race compare! And if I come to Priam's burg to fight Beneath his roof, let him return to me, And let him slay me, with his very spear." He spake, and bade the Trojans leap from earth, And from the ships pour all into the plain. But when they saw the city-walls of Troy, The host within their hands, when all were met In a great circle, gathered dense around A still more numbed and more, who, as they moved, Were left unseen. Grimalkya with his eyes Still fixed on Priam's ruin, from the ships Deep in the ditch they chased the flying Trojans, And hurled in sloping arms the heavy-hearted prey. Thoas stood hardy, nor in fight aloof Availed his skill, but pitying of their mishap, Compassionate with thoughts of wicked men, All pent within the city, thus he spake: "Yet will I of our peoples make a sign That at our shrines they see not all the rest. But if from angry Hector our assault Stands in the breezy heights of Ida, all Obedient to our message, we should dare To whet the spear, and the Achaeans assail Even before us; for from ======================================== SAMPLE 936 ======================================== --as the clock to us all is known. There must be some, All for naught Except the fox, who on his legs Tells us The job's to have been running through The tallest of vermin Began firing at breakfast with queer Ancipline on approaching digestion. (We shall let them or laughed) "It's all up till bed," he said. Then he thrust some bread Out of the hole--and they rushed in the cupboard. (We should still have our crust By the fireplace for what they might do for dinner.) See! the morn is bright, Morning springs and rising sun, 'Twixt the hedges of quince and berg, In the broad wind of the wind's breath. All its way to all lies, Gold and jewels, dainty and sweet, Warmth and food alike, Until they from water repose. The western wind is full of ease And o'er the moorland heaves And 'neath the fiddle-blue of the trees, With rustling of the sheaves, Which sweeter still the touch of the breeze With its dearest odours makes. All around the old home church Up and down the shadowed church Fading into dimly light, Up and down the church the masts Wings and stir of sombre flight; Some inclined to frolicking mummery, Some to passion, some to the holy pain, As above the crash the church-bells rang, Some to mewing, and some to praying. In the church the graves were keeping Still, and bloodless, and unredeemed. In the magic of the weather Bobolight was living-- Flinging ashes on him with it! She stood there in the balcony by the road, Her face as if with rows of silver spires, Smiling down from some magnificent aspire And lift for the Court of midsummer stars. She spoke of love; how long did she delay, How long of anger, and how long of peace, How long of sons unborn, of smiles to be, Of tears that in the darkness beat and ran, And breath that could not reach her unawares? How long of love?--how long? She stood there in the balcony by the road, She looked away across the street where he came, A wildman now, a woman now alone; No maiden in the midst of a great fame, No lover in the city of her own, No man that is most excellent of all, No friend that is most gentle, how can she Be gentle, how can she be gentle, when She hangs with sorrow close her yellow hair? She was not witty, and her words were sweet. Her youth and beauty buried in her feet. In what fair fields was this, The honeycomb, the grass, The yellow sunburnt downs, The flowering weed, the leaves? Was it a funeral rite? Shame! for they lay in wait Dead even in the night. They laid their work aside; They loosed the glowing tide; And they conveyed, a rainbow fair, Won from the dark earth's care. They eased the burden of the poor, The starving watery knave, The feckless and the desolate, That haunt this neighborhood, And taint no longer in the town. If any man with daring Fell to this burial, From all that rest or hinder Come slumbering down to bury His head at night, with morning care And candle-light to burn. Then was no carol sung, no word Of mournful, holy; The snow was gone, and earth was heard Ere the sweet sounds were stilled. That was the carol of a bird, The sundown's song, the burial, The burial song, the burial, The green graves where their dead brothers lie, And well I ween they laid them, That the grave mourner sleepeth with the fair And gentle swan, who neither listeth, Nor resteth nor maketh! <|endoftext|> For a gentleman, newly wed, The carver will go ahead, And leave a widow bereft, With weeping and woe beset; Yet comfort and comfort afford, Though a widow bereft. For the mansions of the great, The houses of the poor, Where the wealthy rest their wealth make friends And proud and wide draw near, There is comfort and rest for ======================================== SAMPLE 937 ======================================== .... Breath's to such praise, Virginia! Breathe your hot air out of my throat With all your latent curse By night, and day, and night, The war of red men, and the blight And slaughter of the lesser white And which, till your last fight, We'll yield for your last fight, Fight, and to end our days By honour of your name! Be silent, O beloved! The future is your goal; Pray, for my sake, and for my own; For here's the shadows fall, For here yon manhood gives Through fern to savage tree, Old maple and mulberry to me. Is all forgotten,--is all forgot? This garden, whose unjealous ways Make proud and reverent retreat And mine, the four walls there, Wider than narrow sluices, to the tree Of yonder beech-tree, fair with new-sprung boughs Which, if we turn them, mossy paths and bowers Change into mossy labyrinths again, And seek some level place to spare us, in The valley, that's the place for us that loves us, Where, though we know not where, all this we know; The land lies so far distant that I stand 'Midst men to guard the golden majesty Of yonder beech-tree, near the north, Whose branches stretch a length of sky-like grey Into the grey of mines; beyond, Potent to drowse and to expand O'er gold and steel and cannon, and the land Of ravening and marish cannon. But Here in a deep, sweet dream This Eden still seems sweet, A roof of dusky apple-trees, With silver runs like dancing rills To ripple on the river; all the hills Seem silver-shadowed, where the lily leans Her cheek to it to heaven, and her eye Seems helmeted with the warrior's fire. Beloved, still it haunts me like an hour: For, if I had no heart to take my part, Not even to touch thee, in the day Thy spirit to create would come to me; If only thou hadst never loved, and art To love me, still it were a happy dream. It would be happy, if alone with thee, For, love, I am alone with thee. If only thou hadst never loved, and dost Reserve me for some lesser love, 't were sweet To bend to me, that never hadst thou changed. If still thou wert content, and didst obey, And all my longing should be just and free, To conquer me I would not, for I know Thou wouldst not, nor wouldst help me, though bereft Of this most happy life, no less than this. With thee I won that if thou couldst restore Me back again to that most sad release, Still would I call upon myself no more. The sea is there, the earth is not for me; I laugh and dance and sing, and are well pleased To watch, and at their beauty proudly mock, The old glad spirit of long-vanished grief, That bowed to catch its last breath, came and kissed A stranger in his halls. I come to see thee, love, Nor shall I know of reproach; nor will I, Though some have touched me in this heavy time, Forget their fallen greatness. Yet I seek No sum of knowledge in my solitude, Nor, since my love is gone, have I found What God wills not,--the gold and perfect stuff Of loving days, and nights, and days that seem As fair and undissoluble as dreams Of childhood, yet ungarnered. Let us wander away In the blue fold of the autumn sky. O beauteous star of mine,-- Hast thou no gold and more, No purple cup and no white cheek, No sunny hair and glistening gold With which a mocking fancy dwells, As Spring or Winter never quaffs The Spring's unripen'd dew? How could I know thy name? This breath of dandelion Burns in the narrow violet dusk That lets in light, once dead, The violets and the crowfoot and the eglantine. If thou be'st taken away From these white folding-bars, Though little birds, and butterflies, and trees, Thou'lt never see again; The little clouds, that seem to be ======================================== SAMPLE 938 ======================================== Vilest knowledge merited, and from the Lamb Nursed by the gracious Maker. Fast grow deaf Your minds to evil, and your feet are led Where gloating most, for hardly can the soul Droop feeble, or the spirit die of thirst For drunkenness." Thus Satan spake, and more To Merope thus said: but he, ascending, soon Paused from his trance. As one, whom sleep hath seized, Rouses from sleep a sudden gust, that strains From off the fog oozing, with midnight air First opening, ere the cheated eye it mount; Thus to myself I heard that awesome sound, "Is this the Gate of Heaven, that thou forsooth Entered, but thou no prouder yet art come?" In answer thus I: "After a season erst Such accident threw me forth, am I turned To import, but I still expect to be Some Deity, not thee, who rather sought To material, and with semblance fair Drew from the irremovable air Bright Maid on woman's breast. Thou in the wreath Of mortal lifeait more perniciously, If bird of heav'nly blazon, to the plume That shon from Ilion, sorrowing, thou didst gain A mortal victory, than of herself By otherwise triumphing; but she fell, A prey to giddy fondness. When her pride Hath sat abas'd, and full of sad defeat The fowler's eye beheld her, who renew'd Her refreshing life, and to the flesh return'd: In such high respect low is the offence, That no redeeming from a body's load The soul may bear." But I, who straight replied: "Henry of heav'n, nor who hath knowledge of The style of angels, am for all alike In having it befitting to call good, And coveting no less excellence. The style Of higher light, that from so deep abstains, Is, maugre its goodnesse, understood At first; yet this once satisfy'd, it gaveth Desire of bliss to thee. But now put off Virtue, that is the crowne of this decree, In which befitting soars thy glorious rais To the superiour might of Mary, still Thou have not, nor canst now; for at this point Thou shalt not be, and dead, or what thou seest, The hope thou still despis'st. No long space Is it pro grant, no easy penaltie, To give thy resurrection to the world." Now had I left those spirits, and pursued The steps of my Conductor, when beheld Pointing the finger at me one exclaim'd: "See how it seems as if the life-thron'd light Had not so keenly err'd, as was myself To first of those whom I with heedful care Sought in, and of my steps the sacred hill." "If thou, kind reader, to our wish well pleign, No other bard than I, think now but now, That from the spirit thou mayst more have learn'd, The boon of grace, whose hermit top he is, May so much give to thee of what is sweet, That to please thee 'twill be Carissimaera's. "He who is in the mother of the living, That is in heav'n most light, and thus is love Invites to him; and this for ever is, Which cometh from the heart that loves the living: So in the loving Father let me stay, And rest, for ever here." Like one, that seems In chiming his snow-sledge to give vent to view Fore'n furtherance of the air, when fog That crest the vision lost. "Fix thine eyesight down: For thou on earth perceiv'st not who is in The light, that comes from it. And such frequent The wax, that comes across from light to light, Distinct as in the living limbs before: And as the air, when saturate with showers, The casual beam refracting, decks itself So with the changing dyes the substances, They in their million lamps, for aye shall shine. With leave, that plays upon the smile, first felt Taste of the viands, in which the holy smile Was prostrate now; and, like one, who from flesh, Though at the image, he has so withdrawn The body whence it came, and in few ======================================== SAMPLE 939 ======================================== ; The walls are of the House of Commons; The gates are of the Castle of Leith. Is there room between the chamber and the hall, Between the wood and wildrose, left alone, Where fountains gush from out the withered leaves, That show the worn and ancient monuments That were so long forgotten?--As I gazed Upon them, on the sunken faces there, Toward that gray-haired knightly abbots, left The studded foulds, and of the long locks twined And frizzled, and the mutilated trunk, The rare and elaborate device, was wrought. And there,--it seems to me,--and twice a score Of such high heads, such rags about their throats, And scarred and bronzed the patient lips, and, more Than all the rest, the faded cheeks and bones, And all the faded sockets of the sockets, And hollow hollow eyes and hollow hands. The wood grows wilder still. The ragged flowers Vanish; the yellow marigold by stealth Flames; and it seems as if the blood-red flowers Had long been lost; and to the breezes damp Gently the morn blows--gently the moth curls. But onward goes the forest; hither looks Its skeleton; there, through the roots up-creeps, And through the gummy, tangled branches pines, Like a thin scarf, the little maiden dreams, And to herself she murmurs, "Seed of thine! O tiger, feed thy covey, feed mine! Feed mine!"--But she was hungry and forlorn, And ate her supper; while the unpitying sun Turned the light fire, and all the gossip rout Of churls and cravens, while the noon-tide air Scathed both their scimitar and bow and spear Before the suppliants, and the knightly throng Of stragglers, and the plaited galley-rope Shrunk into quiet rest; no wind assayed; With her own hands she plucked the faded flowers, And in their green lap gave them this respite. Now comes the morning; slowly grows the light; The wide-ranked mowers in the sun appear; Before his eyes, a throng of eager boys Glite, and the milky mowers bend the ears, And soon the heavy, rusty armour burns, And seem the glories of the day to be Drowned in their green; and in the soft repose And sunny light of afternoon they ride, Tracking the streaks of dew, all purpled-white, As if a treasure to the earth had been Its own dear play--and all the poppies rise Like little silver trumpets of the night, To greet the sun, and climb the purple height; And in the sun the planets of the noon Wane, and the fleeting hours pass as they wane, Like bubbles on a sudden seen to-day; And only the old shapes of shadows stray Into the sunlight of the evening shade, And they are gone for ever; only she, Her hair about her eyes, their songs of night, And only the young heron, leaves his lair, And they are left alone, alone, to weep. Out of the valley of memory, And through the stained forms of our beards And wrinkled whiskers, we slowly drive Through the pale gates of the grove. Above, on the sweep of her wings We kneel, and our faces confess The unconquerable peace. To the ocean of sleep, To the land of dream, Weary of waiting, we come, Weary of suffering, of lass, We come, and the winds are asleep, Restless and wan, from the cold bleak shore; Out of the caverns of pain, The fountains of old solace, the fields, They're over--the dead man's of skulls! Gone! gone! And again on the seas of dawn The winter drear and misty hue Of the faded Moon appear. The shadows grow slowly and thick, And the sea in the west grows gray, The loveliness of the day Now lieth out of the night. The cloud of the east is behind us, Over our heads the rain, And another blue hill arises, The loveliness of the morn; The hills slope slowly away, And the low low blue waters of the sea Wavering and thin. Over the tawn ======================================== SAMPLE 940 ======================================== ; And mind thyself that they may take thy stand, And fight thy battles with the Trojan band; Yea, Mars, the wary, and the skill of war, Who sees not if thou dare to slaughter war; And heaps on heaps he heaped on heaps, and thus, While crowds are shouting and while Greeks fall down, Sounds forth the cry of great Andhenish's horn, And bids the fields and regions of the earth Lie desolate before its mighty maw, To see that Hector's noble harmless blood Is mixed with shame, and cries, Forbear! The battle-swain Snatches whole heaps of dying men slain, When rotting heroes are forgotten there, In memory of glory, at the banquet's sound, And by some lonely mound to some safe ground. And thou, brave lad, remember'st how I bore thee, When to thine ear the hand of death was laid, That to thy hand the blood of loyal Troy Had not been poured. Then thou, unhaited-hearted, Wert slain, no more! Thee in thine heart was saddened, Filled was the very heart beneath the dead, Thou hadst been mad! Thee in my father's house, Husband of that fair Blessed Three, I slew; And left the glory of my sire's fair bed, The prize, the glory of the Oread's arm. But thou hast vexed me sorely, and hast turned Thy angry heart too in these cruel words: "Yet do not let us part, dear God, for one, To part, dear father, whom my heart hath loved; Wherefore my soul abateth and my brain Is stricken by the unearthly pain. Wert thou content to stay me here till dawn, Ere by the Trojans' city I might see Thy towers and temples, and the Danaan arms Of fair-tressed Greeks, with gladdened hearts behold Thy citadel and shrine of Peleus' son? O father! to what perils of the Argive host, Shall I do this? and whither am I borne? Even to this desolate shore of Scamander's flood, Still longing for that sight of men and Troy, I bear me to the far-off halls of death, The heart of all these noble warriors all Seeking in Argos great renown, who boast Throughout wide Troy fell by their chief's controul. Where is the heart that burned within the breast Of Jove, to heave me back into the light Of day-infinite Orestes, whom of old I nursed amid the glorious heights of Troy? For lo! I know not if the Danaan souls Of Trojans hither were, or if their own Still kept a little faith in peace with Troy." To whom in answer godlike Paris thus: "Ah, son of Priam, loyal friend, thou deem'st My word as yet too little in thy heart; Yea, better far that I should bear afar The fear of all the Danaan host to Troy, Lest from my thoughts I yet might turn to yon, And find them here in Troy, with Hector, son Of godlike Peleus, Priam's mighty son, In arms arrayed, with horses and with arms, And let their horses rest." On a great thundering voice the words came down: "Come, son of Priam, fair-fought warrior, bring Wood hither, that our sires may glory gain And praise of Hector, for their comrade dear, And many sons of Trojans after him Shall rest; we will not yet our watch have kept At Ilium, in the misty dawn of day." As when a mist, so strangely dimmed, has veiled Thither an ivory man with gleaming eyes, Which but to see had been imagined darks For man to image there; in bright disguise The Goddess' form the shifting Iris checks In her swift course, and shifts from place to place. Then he in prayer, still eager to seduce The Lord of counsel, made in words like these: "Lord of the thunder, Jove thy father, Jove, My champion, whom the Gods created wise To overthrow, and hold aloof from thee, To-day in place of battle dost thou stand The source of our immortal might, and nought Is able now with might of Gods to rouse Or kindle wrath of God. But he that flew Into the midst of battle, through the ranks Of foes ======================================== SAMPLE 941 ======================================== sober wives, untaught to snare, With nott'ring in their prison-house, Nor hear the voice of wailing Of children at their play, And children stretched their arms to slumber. The iron rod, with riven oak, Laid by the priest, like brushwood, With patches of the kindest pitch On the smooth air, was laid by Dryas. But the slight crescent of the Moon Was rolling on the right; for when, Within the glimmer of the grove, Sublime and beautiful they shone, Then brilliant Hesperus arose, Spreading a golden shower from high Upon the front of Heaven. To the ship's ribs she bore him in, And fast the cordage tight did twine: She pinched the mane, and dropped the gin, Stole all the water, and did dine Upon the little swan-white swan, And gave him swan-white swan the swan-white swan. And after, day by day, the Strong Sent many a rood of monstrous size Unto the mariners: And evermore The Strong keel plied his oars, and evermore The little swan-white swan-white swan-white swan Stole off from out the sea; and evermore The shore-swan swam, and drave the long wave in; And evermore the water-nymphs, They of the sea-nymphs, them were gone; He had left the narrow strait, And had leaped ashore, and all his blocks Of wampum and of jasper, to the deep. But the twain were scattered o'er the flood; The Strong keel plied his oars, The Long-ships, the Pyrenean boons Sailed in the bulwarks, flapping sail by sail. Under the bulwarks spurring nigh, And the waters in a circle darting, They found an open port, in which The skilled musicians lay reclining, In the great ship's foamy port, Brought the fair cargo nigh, In his own grot beside the mast, His bark, the while, with white sails filled, He glided down the deep without a sound. Still without anchor they were set, Chosen suitor-train, On a deck by the fresh wave yet Bounding along, they drank and died In the swell, while through the brazen bath, And there beside them stretched their arms and strove, In the secret of the rock, their bodies boiled, And lapped in wantonness of soul they laved. Like mighty men of old, they reared The heights, and drenched the seas with foam, And o'er the wonder of their past, Emboldened of their future home, They fell like Cyclops weirdly wrenched By the mighty blast, the Hydra's mouth Dashed wildly back; and their dry lips With the wide mouth were livid left. And it was one fair day of Autumn, As they had been wont at evening, And the kindly breezes crept Softly on the waves, that tossed about Their caps of green, and tossed them, fluttering, And the moving sand was dimpling. It was a goodly sight to see, In this changing world below, The blood-red tints of fiery Mars, The faintly-flushing maiden-moon, Smiling on this fatal shore; And they did not move, and only Went up from the lubber lip, And whispered to each other, "Sherry! It is time we were going to sleep." They bade them go. Upon the air The sails were laid, but not on board. With faltering feet they shoved the plank And spread the sails. A woeful sight To see upon the sailors' sight In the sailing-shaped eclipse of the morning. Did not the sight offend? A ship of war, Armed and fattened, pricked with a golden star, Struck with an arrow. In the quay They landed all their limbs upon the rocks. And to them from all quarters round Came the shrill-voiced choristers of ocean. One to sing and one to play, To watch the war-pig lick the lee; The cataract ceased to beat; For the spell of molten metal beat On the heavy breast of earth, And scattered fire and smoke afar Through the pe ======================================== SAMPLE 942 ======================================== day by day more grateful to the goal Than to the race and creed of other souls. <|endoftext|> Soft falls the gentle breeze A soft sweet morning breeze With plaintive rustling palms And stirr'd innumerable voices move. Through the glad hours of night A wavering light Shines down the tall, lighted street, And deep within its shade I hear the river gliding With cloud-bewilders playing, And unafraid, A city of the undivided sea Thrills, great with free unshaded majesty. Among the guests a little lighted train Make exquisite the music of the strain, Where swans float inward with instinctive will, While, on the wide expanse, The gold flames with the moonlight fade and burn. And in the midst, a more entrancing trance, A drowsy minstrel enters, Whose face of nature is like some divinity. It is a magic thing to stand and see In this strange field a more majestical, Where all the day, by its divine decree, No wanderer can discern the mystery Of all the mysteries within its wide expanse Whence it arisen. O, what a day That little Golden House with its illumination Flames everlasting! Subtle and bright, And lovely to the sight, Over the billowing blue, Through every cloud that sails, In it, the Midgard halcyons Of heaven, and its revelry. This far above the din of earthly things Behold the Golden City, and around, Like a ripe cherub, too, In the fields of the musician, That round about, Are strewn the radiance and frieze, As if the kernel of the rainbow were changed In the snowdrop of the sod. It is not as the writing of Thor, It is not as the singing of the bees, But as the fighting of tugs upon the beach, And the beating of the water-beach within The palm-trees of the reader, Is it not as the chanting of Thor, But as the chanting of the wind that comes In the breaking of the light that floods the world And throws its shadow over the earth To fit a manly form for the expression of a man? And as I gazed on these things and these, My mind, that was confused then, took upon them And wound its white hands in the air of Song, That was confused to one side and to all. One side was the old wall, The other the same place, So I saw it all, And confused it all As the lifeless walls of a house were shattered and veiled. And here it was, whether I shall nevermore forget, That I was confused to think, and loth To change my mind again, and this quaint dream Of green for a partition of acacias And to fix a storied type on a wall Of ivy-clad acacias. The wisdom and the beauty of the purple evening! The opal lilac with its sparkling stars! The wind's impassioned cadences! The beautiful pale primrose, With its perfume of petals duskily gushing, And the heron down the garden! Over the dogwood, Under the misty maple-boughs, Like a white soul Swinging slow and swaying in infinite melodies Of fire and iron and gold and green and grey, I heard the heavy hum Of the warm sea and the long gulls flying across the blue. The ship of my desire, With its sails like clinging gold Straining beyond the spars of dream. And nearer and nearer The dreams that slanted, rolled Like wreaths of fire and dream Through the unfathomable profound. They were wonderful and vast, And strange as though Some head of vision Peered from its cradle upon a towering star. And I grew so wearied And overweary Of the ancient uncouth Desperate dream and simple teachings of the old year, That only now, to find His heart within the mystic quiet of a place, A long space, Under the towering scarred Thin clouds of incense blossoming prostrate, I set my silver face Against the cold white crumpled petal And watched the oozing of its cool hair And waited for the splendid light to light it, While the village glittered red With far-away figured pyramids Like specks from Breton's Hermon Which ======================================== SAMPLE 943 ======================================== , he seethed To winnow freshness and the mirth, And, praying, brought his head upon The wheel where, shining off the whirl Of Ocean, those Nymph-gods were pent, That, not to know, had given them room. These came to Hercules, and found His brawny bark beside him bound, And to this aged bard they bound The paunch of Hercules, and grudged That from the feast and music burst His new-born bride. Such honours met His loving eyes: but, for the fair She was beloved, far otherwise Than goodliest maid he should espouse, He marvelled at his bashful glance: For that with grace he cast his net. But to himself he said; "O thou, My sister, though the wisest maid Be so familiar, I must woo A nobler man than thou: my suit Is humbly come; of steeds for war Some other king will be with thee. Come I will wed in wedlock wise, Yea, ere we meet in yonder skies." So suited the old king's decree. Now when the king had donned his raiment And clad his face in royal guise, From out the city and the court On the glancing hinge he swept the ring, When, in the bishop's private chapel, From bench and table ringing in, In the old man's upper chamber, And in the lonely cell, they brought The golden statue, as a fit For such festivity, upon My brow was placidly reclining, And the great gold about his throat, In silver swells and jingles dull As if it were a Sabbath sound. And when he ended, pale and hooded, He glanced around, and saw on high The holy maiden sitting crowned, With a small jar upon her eye: Then she: "O, maiden, to thy side Thou! who alone art all my bride, That even now with woman's grace Canst please me, thinking 'tis thy face That lends me such a worshipper. O, woman, when this raiment was Put off, think you that royal pride That marred my days, and made me wise As old and gray upon your eyes? Now shall you sit upon my knee And tend my brows, and serve my mouth, And with this minstrel's verse my song, All gentle parts of time and wrong, Vow on this love that, day and night, My sweetheart hath in tune." Came next the maiden by the way, So slender in her shape to be The fairest woman that I knew, Or ever stole a glance from me. Her limbs with languid beauty clad, Her fair veiled face full beauty made Praying a pitying God to aid My love: of her he took his stand, And clasped her to his breast and said: "Nay, daughter, nay, you cannot come And I shall see your face again, The last, last drop of love, for ever, But this I cannot stop or feign, Though the first wave of life may rue it For all my pain!" The fairy disappeared, but he, Waking with pleasant zest, was there, Panting as if he felt the knee Upon his lip the wave would bear, Half-swooning on his lion knee. But his eyes, gazing straight ahead, Were steadfastly with wonder filled; From under their wide lashes slid Red drops, of many a precious pear And amber honey in his hair. So, gently, yet so soft they were, So perfectly, so beautiful, That nothing but the eye alone Could win the tresses of the maid, And look to see her slender frame, As when with white and purple flames, And her great face with perfect hues, And her large body, throwing wide A softness round about her waist, And her large limbs, that all unmeet For the brown moss to stand in whitest, And frail, white, rosy as the snow. In after time I saw her then, In the fair temples of our queen, Her, to whom nothing but her life Was now to earth, though hope were none; And while the semblance of her face Was faint throughout the marble of her limbs, And cold, cold marble still she sat, And such a spell of dread was hers That she would not forget or fear, If only for a word ======================================== SAMPLE 944 ======================================== , King. The Devil! what of that! The Devil and Satan! we are safe, And Hell can feel no worse. Your tongue forgets, your kisses freeze In all the halls of Hell; Where dreams are found, perhaps, In snow and flame and shell. And may you not return, And may you not return? The only God is with us, who can show, In clouds and thro' the air, No light but through his shoulder let us go. The only God is there! Where nothing, save the night, Is weighed with livid dreams, and prayers were said; Yet is the light but dim, And sighs are not so much as He's made. There's nothing like a star, Or like a despot calling on the poor; The world around is never for an ear, And He, departing, tells the time he was near. <|endoftext|> Innocuit telum Plaudat Lubbae, Tenus nos in numeros Aries Dejuto, Iugur. Vivos voluisset, Accipiens caelo, Monstra laeto Aethera atque Lino, Ora, venies vivus Et coelestis, Et adebit Lucina, Et in tenero Morum Calco, Et altiorum Antiqui gero Aufer, Irus obstet, Maevius atque Iscariis, Vocundus canam Votre novus, Votrem tuum Votrem se extollens Tu mihi sunt et tibi: Tu quoque, O patria, Votrem tua perpessus, VVotis in aureum, Ubi cuspis, Cunas in montibus, Totrem tua perit, Illa magis inmen, Inclusi sunt; Sunt quoque Tuis nesciois, Tu quam non merum Videam anima Vanta in somnis, Vivam quam non meritum Ubi grande sunt ipsum Vivere sunt et nescit. Si quis sepiat esse Vires et ossa Vedes et expartis, Vedes et sunt potes, Vidit flamma Vixisse mori: Sunt quoque promptus est, Totariis extra, Vidit in oris, Vesper adest Tu qui falle Volt, parvo, Omnes et amores, Vallame quem primum Virginesque venti, Tibi cum fugeret In velle, Vlixa Virginesque est, Virgines inter Virginesque est Virginesque est. What is there below?-- Vex it Olympus, Votis the height Of Ossa Olympus In Pelorus Out of the right? With a rope I can bear it, And fall back in the deep, From under the main. But, alas, Sign-post oscula Slaying my lute, And drawing it after Et quaeuis compositum Lustre pulchra In querellum facies Laudibus, per caelum Panem aethera rudis Indolis in lutum Luxurians incertis Luxurians aer, Quaeris et exaltis Prelimur violariae Si forte piger Somnis furtiva Virgo veritas Bistis strepitus, Whence followit on- imagination is actionless? Formulam et pecudes, Magni concreta hominem Magni sub moenibus Conbibat silvas Ingentemque viam, Procul ecce dives est Pondera tuba Hos est, thos est brevitas Dulce quidem, illuc honos Somnes sedit ripas Cheiri vederis, Hos, unde haec est, Floris utrimas Procul ecce dives est Dum vos quoque matris Viresis ' ======================================== SAMPLE 945 ======================================== secret fears to make confession of-- Odysseus and the father of each other, and espouse thereby from whom no change occurred." Thereby he will bring us exhortation of what there was no other; for a harsh river was removed from this accursed cow which suckled the cow--a brute in which there was no continual offspring of a divine speech--was oft wrong, and the origin of evil. With a literal voice, this "grateful water," which he explained, is nariously named, for some thousands of years. In order to end it consists, the building of the land-pods have been made fast since the autumn of the same year, in the "cinable age" of schmanship. But the divinity and loyal devotion which warrant to make the gods that are always in their hearts is an equivocation among themselves. My friend, however, had few relatives, but it is a hardy race, and that their sister was a good looking father--in case the neighbours about whom they do not care "Ah! vidi, nulla, lympha fida deserta." I obey'd his counsel. The young men were sleeping, and at their set of sun they gather'd closely their mules and spitted them for the city. After their journey they set on with their keen-ed intelligence, and with a mind and fixed attention to everything but the painter who was held in a profound attention to all the secrets of the movement. Here the happy dweller of cities of the mind taught himself to paint, as he held his pen, with the indissolubres which are charged with pictures. In the different proportions he painted the landscape, which he wiped with in his sketch by the pencil of a figurative mind. One of his most striking passages produced a representation of the cutting-to manner as explained by the very picture. It was a long one of that size, and the belittle which the minstrel held, it is said, with every great organ of cymbals the four parts were the vaunted gods made. "In the boudoir above is a fair town under the color of cabs, and at times it comes to be common among the lovers, who keep revel nightly around Eurydice, whom the dancers of the fair court, in her cloisters, adore. She has seen him at the ball in all speed, and has seen him moreover in the ball- stations, the moving, with the plain outline of an ascension between two lower buildings, over which the young men are to have been carefully thrown, and as now favoured by the Perse," and finding he had "gone a hand round with an entertainment." This carries some uncontrollable gusts, and excites them to do so, but when they come to a place, at season, whence some take off and others snatch off their works. A lady of Astor, who was known to have given up the presents, is of a great difficulty in making the cunning of her own fingers to their work; and by merely observing, with Now there was a veil of sky, after her voyage, with clouds to gather. The plane was drawn, which covered her brows with a shadow, and was given motionless to her feet. In the reflection of the unusual sound she, bewildered and wearied with waiting, but a sound of harp-playing, as if by a secret usefulness, appeared to make the lively viol pause. at the distance of seven a star which, at point of parting, blossoms her visible sphere. "The haughty demon has put me on. Upsa--he is already fled, and will take the bright shaft that is sweeping to your bosom. And thou hast foreseen with what a terrible and a freezing vapour 'tis borne along this path; do not be in fear of him, for I will give up thy judgment. "Keep him who holds him in all power. Yes--he is bold, but does not fear the morrow. There he shall reap ere long a grievous torment; and his approach will come on, until he has paid his addresses." called the unhappy one, see Perhaps. It was probably in the morning. Near the time of the twelfth day, Pallas then went forward to address the younger men, departing from their desire, fearing incantations; but when they were once gone, and when they were deprived of their usual comforts, they then ======================================== SAMPLE 946 ======================================== innocent and plain, But she was unconceived again. "I was the eldest-born of you Because, ere I was born, I had been married to a man, And for a father was beguiled. So now I am your eldest son, (Although I have no other care) Since go and tell the truth to men, The which is long, I will declare: And if you'll tell, as I suppose, You will the betrothed forbear. "And if you'd wed, as I have said, As you have said, you'll have the task To make the babe a thing of wax, And make his mother milk the cow. But if you'll say, as I have said, Your mother will receive the milk, And in her arms the child will grow Unless you let her milk it so, And she will bless the buttery." "My mother never feared nor knew A mother such as this, And there was nothing she could do, Except my darling kiss. But she could milk it as she could, And I will tell the truth to you If I can tell him what he'd do If I can tell him what he'd say When mother she did milch day I thought, perhaps, that it was light, Then to have played and frolicked me And sing and carve, and carve and write." Then Lelia softly waved her hand To Marmaduke Leminus; "You need but listen, Marmaduke, It is our mother's business, To give her all to tell her all, To help the boy to go. For fear that he should see his face Before she ever could go." At that unwonted tale, rejoined A worthy youth of high degree; Of courteous love he had the charge, Such was their love for Marmaduke; And to the boy did say, "Go tell the boy that I am here, His mother you must see." Scarce had she said A word, when on his face there came A swift and kindling flame; His eyes were dark with wrath, his brows BentHeavy with despair, His body clothed with a cloak, He moved, he bowed his head, And sadly swooned. His eyes still quickly dropt, his raised Face wan upon his knees; His floating hair scarce cleared, His eyes with tears ran o'er, Whereon a something in him cried, An' answered with a curse, "Lord! I am Lazarus, come from thee Into eternity. "Blest be the hour when I can bring My Mary back again; When I may meet thee at the ring, Good night! and may the blossom then Return, that I have slain." Silent, alone, along that plain The lone and hapless youth passed, And by the cairn and thorn that grew Around him, now alone, Where many a grave had closed its eyes, He noted not, he heard, How in that lone house he had reposed, Lay numbered with the dead. But one was there that lay within His dying bed, Close by the moss-grown certainement Of his dear mother's side; And by that grave where Martha Ascended from the bride. It seemed that she was passing fair, Her cheek was like the rose; It trembled with her mother's air, It trembled with her broos. It was an angel from above, Bright-eyed with wings of day, Who, stooping, on the nook of love Drew near with her to pray. But when, upon a brath of green, He saw the young girl stand, He thought her heart would break: how keen The boy's wild cry, when first he heard That father's step, when loud in fright The mother's trembling pennon broke, He said, "My son, my love, my dear, My love, my love is past." Said he, "Go bind him, bind him, dear-- So bind him to the tree." And she was moved, but not in fear; The spotted worsted, and the white, And scarce could see the eagle fly Across that silent light. At last his bloodhound passed away, The little innocent thing, A child unconscious of its mother's will, Nor ever dreaming of her face, Nor fearing to approach: And, though he grieved to see her laid So close beside him there, ======================================== SAMPLE 947 ======================================== taken for Him.' "So on that day a daughter fair Thronged to the play with spousal care, All crowned with flowers and fair to see; And Love, as well as tender pity, With bow and arm the child would carry, Saying 'Take, oh take thine anger and pity,' She would to all the country-folk cry, Altar and parcel of the harvest: Altar and parcel of the harvest; And, fearless, without flag or port, She alighted, with her maidens' port, And sank with down-bent head, so tender, That all those maidens knelt adown there; And heard the merry lovers sing, And said, "O love, how good men's day To me; not without thanks, I pray, Of thee, whose breast now cold hath grown; Nor take, sweet, taking thy prize one, dear, Thy pleasure, till my fair one's horn Do answer mine for thee!" And then, As by the flame the fair one knelt, The maiden and the man were seen, From the head ribband down to foot, Her husband, heavy laden with the chase, And either laden with the game; But one was hindered by the game, And both, scarce knowing what had come Despite their service, stoop'd aside Before the kitchen-door, and cried, "Oh dear, I am in love, and thine Is safe!" and thus that man of rhymes Forbade that fair maid hostelry; And often for her heart would try To tell of this, as folk will sigh That dance the woods on Guadive-side In summer: 'twas the very place The tabor-grass upreared; Of such an hour as maids can dance The woods on Guadive-side. As yet, 'twas not her place, no, not Her leisure; she was giddy still, But deeming it a fairy-tale And wild, that would be fatal ill, She shrunk with fear, and fled to quench The fire that in her bosom burned, And fled, and said, with very cry Of lust and wrath, that she was fled, O'ertortured, and as hard, indeed, As if in grief, she were a shame, As if she had been clad in flame, A wild desire, a wild desire. On either hand, with anxious eyes, The little Earl receiving Gesticulph would let go sighs, and rise, And bend her head, and bow her head, Then sing and dance and moan and run, And ere they could have parted They both began to walk in one, And waved their hands, and sang, and shone, And said, "With reason good, not chance, I will go hang myself to dance," For they were lovers." Gruntel Grace, Martha, and Vafrine, both were gone: And here was Olla, and her pace Made light the others; and the shade Of grass-green eggs that fed the glade Were scarce more wrinkled than a palm, And still, as if a weed in boughs Were unafraid, the rocks among Came, not in water, as the mind Of men's are, but the wind. The air was pure and still between: The sun went down, the moon shone out. Then from a lofty mountain's crown The little Earl beheld the rout, And many folk beheld the sight, And heard the music of the light That spake to him on earth and told The story of the merry-hearted. Then with a loud halloo he went, Nor held his horse unharnessed; At the first trumpet spake a word That echoed in the woodlands. The clyder sware, the echoes blew, They led him to a second scene; A half-asleep his head was laid, His hand upon his bridle rein; And when they came to bid him rise, They heaped a goodly hall around, And made him sit upon the steed, And carol on the yellow ground. And at his side, in that high place, He knew not what was coming yet, That in a narrow valley lies A castle built of rugged stones, As if by hands from far-off skies Built in the elder world, some town Had fallen, and there it stood alone. For here a great one with a locks Of raven hair crept o'er his head, ======================================== SAMPLE 948 ======================================== and raw from his heart is furled From his breast the sayings of other men. Dost thou, too, remember how he fought? His new mate fled from the field, who made The foremost and last surrender of the foe, Shall fail by the fall of a second man To come, when the death-shaft blows again; Then shall his mother turn her pale to see His teeth glint, and her tears flow free. His limbs grow weak, his skin is worn away, And deep-worn he feels his hard-wrought misery; Then shall he pray God for a little strength, Asking, and then, and now it is too late. O strong and deaf, O great and great, O wise, Gird on your swords! draw on your swords! Let will and fear and doubt and hatred feed On their dead chivalry; let us go forth, Yea, let us go forth. Let us look on our hands! We are the cause and the clear dream of God. Not by the golden sunshine of the dawn, But floating in a multitude of flame On a strange errand to the far-off stars, Shall we forget the holy peace which stole Out of the heaven of heavens the moon. It is A wilder world,--a wilder desert now, Dark, pestilential, unsubstantial dream Of golden wastes of dreams,--but still we know That God who walked therein dwelleth still And joyous still; there is no path to pass, There is no pasturage for any hope, And nothing is at peace. The strong man's strength, And the impalpable resource of soul, Wasted as water in a barren sea, Wasted with wisdom, and a broken reed, And broken in a narrow ring and there Like a lost spirit drowning in a storm Which knows a hidden way to find a peace On the vast plains of Space. To dream I come to thee From the lone seas, where yet The shell of many a faithless heart is known To live in ecstasy. For thou wert ever mine, A fountain of all pain Flowing through thee, till the world forgot; Thy stars, thy mighty forms were shed and thrilled With rapture of thecern Which ever dripped from pain, Till thy great thought o'ershadowed the world With new-born beauty. Thy world was heaven, and then, thy world was hell. Thy world was Paradise where thou wert God. Thy world was Paradise, thou wert the star To guide all souls with wisdom and with peace. Thy world was but the world in which thy world Cherished all earthly loves; thou wert what is Thine earth--the world to follow; thou the sea To teach the wonder of the stars alone. What men are they whose deeds for him are men, Who pray for men with patient steps and slow, And suffer only for their country's peace, And know with sad hearts' bitterness. And in the fresh free air of liberty, And in the dreams of children of the light, They wait and pine for what the Word shall say. They who shall ask no more of God's free grace Than of his boundless mercy, shall not miss The steadfast rule of patience, knowing how To bear all sorrows and be free from guile And sun the wreckage of thy honourless speech. And from the lofty heavens of the sea Wrenching the bitter sword-thrusts of man's war, They look down on the dead kings from the feet And read a mighty lesson, if the dead Hearken no longer of the wrath of God To mow down nations with his sickening rod, Or make of us a brother. Or shall the sudden blackness of the night Fail, or the loveliness of light begin? Shall then we know not, knowing not, that he Whose name is darkness cannot make it pure. Like some vast silent sea we move, that is Empty and empty, with no word to tell Whether the love of God is in the stars Or on the worlds of spirits in the void, And yet all life seems wo and vain to me. While they who walk not with the walked, their foot Haunts the dim land with hollow-sounding glass, Wherethrough the wayworn, vainly piteous road Fights with a shadow to the verge of doom. See how the moon is lost in that far wood And broken-seamed and open-hearted earth, ======================================== SAMPLE 949 ======================================== I will blow their last end Gone--home--where the meanest dot can say The carrionin neither hears nor sees-- So, so, to the music, will she chase The tangle in ten Intellectless hands Of mad mountain constellations that shake Their loose, mad, monotony-world peaks! and make The tumbled seas swirl down, their slag and boom Blinded to contrillies! If bygoneation There are lovers who live not so fair as a madman! Now when the pleasure Of that sun-lighted madness Is gone with the sunset, and you sit alone With the breasts and the shadows of Luxury, Dream not to sleep! The grape-juice is trembling O'er lip and cheek, When the sun-flower, flaunting, Shines like a bride's, A rose in the sunlight; the hours still creep on As the days creep on. Now the days sleep slumber, Like dead things, dead. Now you are free, I am One splendid cup, Rain-glutted, warm, and brimming, Dark blue at my lips. I hold you fast: When the light burns out I am happy and cool and blest. In your hair are wild grapes, Red and brown, Which the sunlight eaten, The sunshine bequeathed to me. But when the day Falls and declines I am very contented. There are hours before me When I wake, When you lay away And I wake. Where the shadow of the tree-top Falls from the tree-tops, Sighing, O sea! I am happy, and he watches me. Here in this valley, hither, downward, Ends the path, the trees, the leaves, Night after night in masses dark Sun-gleam, or star-gleam, Mingle, or seem Pent on some desert's breast. I stand, I stand, I am weary, too, And the light dies out of me. The marsh-hen fogs That rise, The dew-besprent hollyhocks, The creeping mist that falls And quivers round the wall. The old-time robins That crop the wold And build their nest in barns, The thresholds of the dawn. The road lies near the spring, Beneath the hand Of the little village priest. And there he stands to watch A flickering lamp Burn steadily and steady. The little rocking-roofs That make the house-tops loud. The housewife's spindle-beds That wound the house-tops loud, The creeping lice-cones That wound the house-tops loud. The old-time doorposts creak; The shadows gather fast Like gray and dreaming ghosts, That haunt familiar streets. The old-time roadways creak. The crickets chirp The bones on the hearthstone high. The little town-bells chirp And chirp, Around the old town-walls. The shadows gather fast, That swing like wood-winds past. The path goes up to the meadow Where the road-pigeon cooed, And the wind-flower, white and honey-laden, Drones in the leafy shade. Beyond it comes a city I love so well. It is a city. Its streets are many-peopled With wares of every kind. But many are the houses That give me joy of my own; Deep green and dim their streets. An oriole Here in the cherry-tree Who sings and waits, And I cannot sleep with him. I dream a shadow pass'd Down the red-gèd lane, To where the roads in springtime Seem to flow back again. In winter sand we linger Where the hills hang down, And the air is full of music, And the winds are up and up. I cannot sing, no, not in the winter of years, Or when the days are long; I do not sing of hopes that we shall never bring, Nor of sorrow that we shall not kiss. I do not chant the things I have sung. The things that I have builded In memory are living and dead In every age and every spot. I am not strong to-day. For I know it so well That the winter of years is in winter, And ======================================== SAMPLE 950 ======================================== 'Is not often done, But so frequently has been In payment for his pains. At noon I came to mend A cart, or ride, or run, And had some money in my lap, When I had said adieu. The neighbors packed the windows down, And drove the snow away, When I had bid good-bye to Mrs. Jones, But Mrs. Jones smiled gay. She baking me her coal out of the logs, And baste me in my pottage, too, Till I had plenty of it to eat for both, Till Mrs. Jones smiled gay. But how I talked to her, she never spoke, And when I tried to play I found That I had got a useful dose of puke And some of everything beside. We sat us'd up and talking In spite of all the talk and fuss. We chatted on for something--always hinted We'd take the advantage, and look'd shy And feigned we'd go away with Mr. Jones And go to supper every one. We made a splendid break, I mean, And went across the talking. And I gave one observation Why she'd not walk a mile with me. And Mrs. Jones was pleased and sorry That I didn't go away at all, Till, my three-minute intervals past, I set my foot upon the wall. So I made a trial, I don't know, But as I sat and pondered, I found that I had got some money Right in my pocket, and I bought Two pairs of boots and a pair of shoes, A hat with a loop and a loop of hose, And pretty long shawlkerchiefs. And now for the third and latest time I saw my hero make his way Into the waves that hide his face And give him canvas, shirt and plum, And wing his feathers, tangled, brown, A necklace of silk in a yellow coat, And a hat with a loop and a string of leather, And his back and shoulder flew together, And left me sitting in a boat, Brought safely to the bay, And would take me for a fortnight To buy a feather cap From the rollingpet's throat, And then to go home And visit her no more. She loved a new Tom, it is true, But when Tom's study was over, And when Tom's writing that morning, To play at papa's; And when she'd read some lines, It was still in the paper. Bramston's printer, Saint I., it is true, Is not the only man who can read through, The pathos that the children pursue, The smiles and kisses that they find in you. That man of all the boys in town, If you're ever there, Will write as soon, as possible. Mother says nothing that's good for you, That's always just what you do. And now, my child, you must begin To find that father has a new one, Who's just a man, a boy or two, And never lets you get it through. If you want a new one, know that you Must learn to do as I have said: It's something quite the trying. We have a paper head, and here it is, And there is an inkstand; You'll find 't is better to just sit and cry. God knows, indeed, I think I can't. But I went out at night to read My books, and learned them all, And learned them all about you And about you. You never knew what lies in him, You never knew what he told, But you only saw the fashion That you should see, and very well, How in people's books together He read what was no printed material. He never knew the broad amount Or the depth or what he saw, But he read it when he saw it, And saw it with a sharpened eye, And read it long and well, When you read it; when at last He found the printed plan complete, And all the words it ran in his blood ran out of it. Rhyme is a twisted maze Of intricate skeins In labyrinthine maze, Where some one, by surprise, Or other's, trickles down A ball of crimson and brown, And then a crackling wire Of fearful fire. I would I had a light heart, And I might know as well as you What my poor spirit feels, That it is ======================================== SAMPLE 951 ======================================== at the head Like old Laertes, thou didst leave it two Among the noblest of Pagan tribes, Laias and lances, which man's single life Did make, which still was double, the great deep. Nor far had fallen the mighty piles Of mighty hills, ere that, great though it be, Their strength is by increasing acrid fruits, And yon herb-sharpened shade, when gradual falls A film across the green earth of the vale. A moment he discovered the rich grapes That hung above the table of the hearth, Their fragrance drowsily before him stood The new-sprung herbs, that hung o'er them at birth About the porch, they plucked too closely for him, Plucked him and cast him forth a living man, Whose heart, though he had filled it with dead things Since first of his young days he left it young. "There is that myrtle," said he to the Priest, "In which," said he, "knowing a little subtle flower, Who thus equipped in Periscum wolves no more Than doth an elm; nor with the bond of love Doth she know of it; but, O thou old man, Thou shalt not change it if thou lovest it." This said the old man, and said many things Unto the Priest, to feed on wood and stone, To gather grain, and plan for reapers' peats, That made the light of flax-field blades of wheat, All skill it was in gathering. He that first Drew in the plant-depths, then gathered more The dry sweet grain of lightning, and, behold! A dark green light was dying from the Cross. So in all lands was gathered up the crop From superstition, and no less in Libyan realms, By fear of ravenous thieves and uncouth wrens Provoked. Mid such, his fathers had he seen A country fastened in the dead of night, That they might fear it. At this Nimrod's words, At evang of the house, his sons had fled, With rushes piled above the sacred oak, And densest fen and forest to the Gods, Where he had laughed to fawn at human hands. Then the great war-god, turning them on all Into the south, began to thunder out His wrath, and charge his might with elements Of strength. Father and sons then called from him "Barons and counsellors of God, the remnant Of our great race, whom we for years have made Great masters: though ye yet have crossed the seas, Nor yet have trod upon the necks of men, Bereft of friends, with blood ye still have mixed; And mine have dealt, as I think now on it. For many a year hath I bewitched my strength Of stubborn will; and many a time ye thus Sought me in the embrace; but now no more As I have felt the urges of your hands I burn with fire; nay, have I thought and heard That battle might a marvel at a price; And many an hour is thus, in my new life, From you to me--yea, had I still this love, This wonder, had I known but little space, Had I the grace to feel this life again, I should be tired of body and of soul, And nothingness of soul that I possess; Nay,--meat to pass your lips, O holy man! Now were I here, the gods had given me strength The matter grew to be a flower of power, Not brittle, not God's lightning and no flaw To have and hold me still; but in the seed Man grows with man, the same old ways and same; And in the fields, at time of year, with rain Fresh as the morning, when the heat is hot And no life lives, but many a running brook Treads on and grows, until his body grow To man's clear eye; and as the seeds of earth Are moulded in the fruitful, to the full Are borne and to the mighty soul, that draws Its creatures forth; till man himself grow old In its old paths; and at the last great house Of day, and all his youthful vigour spent In vain, the flickering shapes of days and nights, And the strong sleep that binds the human heart, And leaves the laborer still to make anew His life more strong, the stronger in his growth, The youth more high, the higher in his aims, The fierceness in the ======================================== SAMPLE 952 ======================================== we laugh, that we should quarrel, Ever vexed with quarrels and strife; Nothing would b betray the vassal But that he told his constant wife "She took the web with which we girt us Up into life, to us, above, And, day by day, we twined it round us, And the world they shuddered to see. And when the eve's unwelcome labour Closed the door that found no friend-- Ah, we knew not what each other, Nay, we felt that not alone We were not alone each night cloud over All the jarring hearts of earth, Ofttimes clasped in holy union. Even so, ye have tried all colours On that humor, when beneath Grapes of night dims, to our lairs, you Drank the air and ever swirled it All in beauty with our God!" Ah, those nights of our tattered care! Is there a land, the many miles, Where one who's always making passes Fares from toil until he dies-- They who will not risk it or forsake it To some poor fiend who licks a joke? They who, with the wicked eyes of rubies Watch the grass in Spring's invisible way? The cloud that leans along the water Sees but pleasure in the dance and day? Well, what's the trouble? Will there be Nothing to carry to the mind Looking on the song that H undefined Reveals to me and me mankind, Hearing, to the manner men who dare Burn with fires they cannot name, (See those diamonds on the lip Like those diamonds on a lip)-- Thinks the half-fledged words I say, "Fulfil your flying whirl away?" Shakes his hand and condescends To the god whom, a thousand years Ere we know what poets sung At the Sultan's palace door, Dells beseeming. What amaze They who, insubstantial, gaze Over many a minist'ring kiss In the name of all these many days, Bow them to the godlike song Of that happy shepherdling Who, for all their pain and toil, Searches still his own pure soil? Sad is all that one can say In such earnest, great and good Do those loving branches stir To a feeling of his own. And in the helpless, woful rest Of a world without a sun-- Bound each hour and night, the head Of a kindly human love, Kindling, quivering like the fire Of a soul that flings its wire; Still consumed, like some brave pyre, Unrefined, unrewarded, Whose sole light is shared by those Who have touched with pain the well Golden casements of a dream? "Ah! with them I can look upon Some old mighty hero, bold Dweller in the veins of old, Ever slaying, ever blazoned, On a battle-scarred and bloody field, To the godlike car of gold. "I can look down where the ranks are swarming With the tocsin of the sea-- Rounding, shouts of applause upcrawling-- Borne aloft, up hither, sailing Into pictures of the day, With the threads before their task untied-- Lo! to me, on that old ladder, rise, Flimmer and furl up your wings-- Furl up, curl high, and steer-- Furl up high, then flutter low-- Furl up, curl low, and go." Furl up high, then flutter low-- Furl up, curl low, and go. --Can you hear my sad and sweetened strain All my soul and body felt?-- Swell it onward, up and so, Till the last field quite unsought, Rear it to the heaven's blue Where the spirit still may look-- Furl up high, then fall and sink-- Furl up high, then fall and sink. O the art of verse! the rare, the rare The surpassing skill of subtle wit! What marvel that our mighty bards Shall deem our bards so rare and fit! When Nature's self, in Shakspeare's own And that immortal spirit, hears The dry dust of the mortal hues, And all things seen most deeply views, Inspires, and frames them unto verses-- Exhausted eld may yet present The somnolence of lofty contemplation. Then, O my God, what is't in man With ======================================== SAMPLE 953 ======================================== . Barges of the Israelites, and Johats, Suckling with honest unction to redeem The charmed, or helped by thrice the host to scour (That is, the generous public purpose of the nation). And, if there be, ten thousand times to come, Ten thousand times to kneel to it and die Victoriously; and only when it win, To gratify the holy, grateful heart, That all which came within its depths shall be Not only purified from motives high And inextinguishable charity, And glory radiant in its several parts. A tale like this in crowded cities lies, That, in a distant land, a peaceful maid Gives all her hours, and none can call her own, But in her country, soul, and in her eye A glowing spirit which ne'er is satisfied. Dauntless she raised her voice, and as she spoke Her accent died into ten thousand notes, Like notes of music, and their meaning is The oyster-sandall of the Spanish mines. And so she pined, she looked up to her home, And there she sickened, sickened and alone. She climbed her hands, her feverish limbs grew chill, She fell into a woman's burning arms. Through mists of green she groped towards a bath, Her burning face was cold as frozen lymph, She gazed at the fresh flowing brooks, and then She sighed: "I did not catch my drowsy lute, For there are other women in this land Than I and my brave brothers." With swift hands Drew back the purple finx, which by the stream Had fallen where her brethren had been slain, And crownless Egypt brought the motherless child. She sat there, sorrowing, 'neath the shining robes And sword-shears of her country, dreaming long O'er her young children's dying wishes, when In their young years they gather up the spoils They had won in their young strength. His wild tone Grew calm as doves that under a dead tree coo, Heedless of fear; his heart fluttered with joy; While she, with eyes thus freed, sang, gloriously, "I thank thee, Father, for the gift of man, Thy child, for large deliverance from the sins Of his unwearied youth." With heart aflame She drew back quickly, taking more than rest, The precious gold she thought might be returned. And so she hung with those wild, mournful eyes Still for the mother, when her babe lay dead. It is not to be hoped for, but to have, Through eyes all unawares, the joyous world Leads thee to frenzied patience; for it leaves The lingering record of lost happiness Beneath its shelter; or, mayhap, is led The fervid courage of the heart it gave. --Mother of many children, may it last, After the roses and the light caress Of morning over every little face And baby fingers, still keep watch and ward With every that one suffers, every child Expiring in His mercy and His love That would redeem a mother's heritage To a just patient love. If, God, thou canst, Thy will be done already, oh, for one, Whose coming troubles all the guilty earth, The wretch who thrusts himself above them all, Who, heaven-aspiring, loves and cannot rule, A haughty rebel to the Power Divine, Who counts himself the highest in command, A knave too noble to be bold forsworn, The glories of his power to darken Him Who sees and orders, for the sacrifice Of the true man, and hates him. The high gods Whose dreadful will is man's; who, in the ears Of all who triumph over purity, Or through infirmities, or from the hand That glisters cankering through the veins of vice, Hates the starved heart, lives out the life-blood spilt, Feels the tongue humble till its pulse becomes The grafted sin of law, the government Anointed, a new kingdom. Filled with joy Is she, the mother and the father both, The burthens of the lives that are to be Unworthy of the right. It is for her, She is for her, and evermore for her, The mother of the son of God, she worships Before the altar in his name and hers, The father and the son of God, and she ======================================== SAMPLE 954 ======================================== no more to pry, No more, with half a show." This was the first "Romance of the Bard" that came, "Young Romance," on his way to fame; And when he met old Romance there, "Isle of the Fire" Lives in a land no less could bear; For far more loves his tale of sorrows sing Than all the wail of aching grief. For there with aching poignancy He raised his eyes, then, pale and worn, Spread his clenched hand, and smote the gale That raged in the old world far away, And drew his targe with the anguished spray. He smiled, and one took up the tale, "Long Time has chained me in a hell; Now, while I gaze on earth below, Will Heaven forgive me that my youth is o'er?" "Long Time has bound me, and my feet No other can the same forget!" "Oh, Youth!" he cried, "he loved me then, And now in Heaven I'm with him yet! "Come, rest awhile, or break the spell That slumbered o'er me ere I fell! My love you shall forget for evermore!" "Come," said the Angel, "come with me, And, to my heart, and let me die!" In the green aisles of the valley Two young lovers were plighted; They were wed, and they lived in a bower, Where no other hand might sever. "O why have you left your bower For a single hour! Where the wings of Love may have room, When Love comes to the bud?" They said: "We are ghosts that cannot stay; We are ghosts that cannot stay!" "Come, stay with us, Love," they said; "For Love dwells with us, dead!" "Rest, stay with us," they said; "For Love is the Rose of Love's bed!" At the edge of a wood that a bee had in his skull, Hid in a reed, was sitting; He heard a cricket a-blowing, And, as he spoke, he winged his way with a zephyr. He listened, and heard the cricket's dainty challenge: "I was your friend while I was at college!" "I am a friend that you know," said the cricket, "But you have lost your tongue." He peered at the cricket still as the cricket was speaking, But still the cricket was singing for pity; And, as he looked, his voice, when it thrilled his cheek, Was answering his voice, "Why, why, why, why, Why do you seek my learning of love? Have you found it?" "Yes, then," said the cricket, "I find it too. I found it,--that tried one." Then the cricket said: "I am learning of love; I have found a lesson that can go on." And the cricket chuckled, and said: "You are wise. Your learning has many strange things to learn." Then he smiled and said: "So that only one knows When you can read all your heart to the end." One nook between living and dead time, I thrill with the old hush of the heart. You brood upon hope; the moon hangs her gold In the skies, and you murmur, and start; And life is a burden of hushing and lonely That hurries you, crutched by the years; And all is as one that you can not control With the force of your will, or its clue. All this there is, my child, and all that is, And all we are--that all there is. There are no words men may not utter, There are no words men may not speak. And now all men are strange, save what And all we are only a dream. How should we know the vague, old things That have no words to speak? While the soft mosses their brows shakes, And the high-heads are dark and stern. But all shall be as words that are. The tide goes up that is calling, And one of the words I shall know. Now an old oak lets down his leaves And rustles a soft Spring shower, Whence falls again a snow-drop fair, Blown loose and rippled, gay as a ball That shines, or bends, to the Sun's caress From a far-off cloud that nears and far, The radiance of misty Autumn sails ======================================== SAMPLE 955 ======================================== on the stony hill Called daughter of a Lord of Life, a Fire Of colours out ofogged from juts and triches Dirt-bound, look through, over the weapon-strand The carven bow of Satan and his child, And side by side, the child, Unbudding limbs on awful Mother earth, The very tongue of mockery and damnation Of men, in dodes that tease and bite, are rife With nursery tales, spells, smells,--all last-born things, Mother's nights, parent's days, father's nines, Rough hammers with bloody gas; by hills like clanging lists A tangle in the streets;--the mail-clad Squire, Staunch-boned, as thro' he seemed the joy of life, Nodding plump arms; the features red as blood; His ear, mild as a nun, that jested God, Tranced in his pride and doubly, tortured still. The Lapland's, young as friend and kin to friend, Strayed suddenly thro' the twilight, to the nines, Where children earnest ran at night for bread. 'O come, my son, come home,' he said, 'come home! I, who have suffered with my Mother Earth, Come from the perilous Wilderness--to die, Dear outcast of a land where beauty mocks-- Come home to seek their homes, their wives, their gold, Their homes, as to avenge their own dear sons, Our homes, and wives with their free, happy selves, Whether in prosperous hum or hopeless joy, Evil or fair or evil, the heart-ground peace Is mine, for I have striven, striven to raise My banner at the last, my fealty past To men and heroes of the dying kind-- Ay, call them mine! let me but tread the steps Of that proud city where I died to-day, Mingling my footsteps to the ragged rocks That rear their stately heads, and smoke, perchance, A turbid standard to the angry winds-- Yonder I see you stand, I see you, prince-- Bound to my country by your father's eye, In the wild uttermost of manhood brave. To me, at least I have denied the truth-- I am my country's first and only son. Your nerves were frozen, and a stranger blood Rushed in your veins; some chains you fingered, loosed With as much force as tears, or even a line Of purer lovelessness, and as intense And unspotted blood and wine in tears. The royal age, alas, of wretchedness! Seems wasted--aye, a wilderness of years, Tended and curtained by a ruffled king; Girt, but unburied; strewn on the waste sand Mists and rank vapours, creeping slowly up, Touched by the smell of death, form there and fade, Mingling the sun-warm lineage with the breath. These be the crowns and diadems of Earth, Imbibing substance with the awful birth-- Won by the hand that holdeth Firm hand and brow in turn--their thrones and crowns, And all the thronging pulses of the stars, And all the weird harbours of the morn. For O, and have the strength and dream of fate, To see the long procession of the years, The centuries move slow and solemn-eyed, And pause and ponder on the dead! They never passed, but sleep in dreams or sleep And in the vales of Tummel,--(dreaming here, As in a dream or waking, in a mere dream) Dreams which the unvoiced Mermaid hardly knew As once they moved along the windy shores When, like their retinue and gleeful ghosts, They moved along the darkness, musing on The last wild gleam Of Cynthia's realm, and waited, still as death-- They, like their sisters of the moon, their Lord. And now the first wild throbbing of the heart, The new young pulse Of manhood's pulse beats fast and hardly seems To quiver like a harp Of chords that swoon and pause In the last agony of waking, far and faint, From breast to breast, from all to to-y, and Death, And thro' the heart rings the new throb of life. The pulse of War, the passion of the Soul, Glow with the awakening life, While thro' the pulse there cleaves a still, ======================================== SAMPLE 956 ======================================== . Of Locust or of dumb, I grant them both, They're not the ones the Earth and Sea of Good One like to me to work with as good bores For frail successors as men overcomes When they're inrololled. Wherefore I take However much that is not large enough To add to my peculiar load of cares. And oft I hope they'll not insult me yet As though it were a taking of the Nations That scorn me as though I had been shamed, As tho' it were a shaking of the Earth I'll light a glow. This, as you see, is what it should be, One of those Two who to death are brought, Grim-visaged and with uplifted eyes, The old man's thrall. Woe for the time when without a sound Flies the moth-seeking lamp, set free from Denmark's ground, Like a winged arrow, coming to the peak In the sunshine lost. Upon the pines that stand above the sea, The Firth-feathers long ago, Where many a knight of old Has gathered his flowers, That came at the breaking of day To the great green earth, The fair-haired Fife, And wailed with many a saddening song, Of the sea-girt Wabble, And its sweet-sailing wail In the windless deeps of the sea, And the feuds of men, and the wrongs of God, That have made us sighing, and the earth-paths trod By the children of the sea; To thee, O Queen of the farthest seas, Our far-flung harp hangs on the willowy hills, The fisher's pipe, Which the wan wistaria weaves, The sea-bird on his island in the lime, The linnet on her lonely perch, The wren and woolly gnat, Weep, O thou dirgeful dirge of many a crime! One of the most favored of the age Who bore the name of Slave With many a prayer and many a bitter sigh, His keen eye searching every living way For the warm heart of a brave: When the tongue of fire was on his lips, When the heart of iron was armed, And his mighty soul was molten in the sun, And he knew not the use of a party-colored band, When the sword he wielded was laid at his side, And he saw it flash and fade, And he knew the voice of an old blind Song, His own the worth of a nation, his own the wrong; And the song of him that he sang, Of him who wore the flag of the Free, Of him that helped in the struggle and wrestled with pain, And of him who wasted his youth In the fight with a people, O grand! "Dearer to me are the blossoms on the tree, The buds in the fields, and the fruit that is the clover; The jewels are dearer than rain or sun, The troubles of years have their fringe on me; And I leave them the garden that blossoms never, For the zephyr that scatters the blossoms over: Oh, my Love, do you hear? can you not? Do you not hear? "Oh! do not come, for Heaven is above me, And Love is the word, and Truth the law; I am thy child, my own, my daughter of Heaven, But, oh, my bride, my bride of shame, I know that thy name has a wondrous weight, For all thy wings, my joy and my delight, Are taught the love that knows no flight. "Thou'lt fall! Then wilt thou feel thyself disdain! And wilt thou hear if the heart of man is love's crown, And wilt take one, and thou wilt take a woman's place, And walk in the palace of grace? For a throne is made of a rare and precious thing, And a kingdom added to earth-- For 'tis thine, O Queen, to be first in love, And fill the soul with thy sweetest breath, And teach us more than thy subtlest truth, By one good lesson thou canst teach us. "But the chilly earth will quake In a moment her sun and shadow of pain; And the fever of life may wear away The fever of death and the pain; And the cares of death and age, That are older under thy powerful eye, Thy love for ======================================== SAMPLE 957 ======================================== , And wait for you at some stately jest; Your face may be a bit of pottage, Or else a wreck of pot and pan! It must be light for any one To spend, in mountain or in cavern, A single pittance on the matter, Without the hammer and the cassock, And seek, if fortune may assist them, A purse of possing's all the tribe up Unto the heads of all the Macyses. Though it would not avail you to Send, if you could, an inky note, Like Puck from all the same box-notes. No, 'tis the most consummate note That ever yet was on a book, Nay, 'tis the most consummate note That e'er was on a Sunday week! But do not let it mis-preserve Your preconcerted to reject; Have rather late in evening, And come at last, whene'er you take Your sixpence, talk of "paddy-cake!" She is too kind, the road may show That, here before the Sunday Sunday, She'll have her wheel and Sunday rout, The jangle of the day and after. The bushy and rough road I refuse to repeat, Not a bit of the gown of a timely disaster Like dear Red Riding Hood, with "his day is well in"; For the high-road district's sure to warn a setebar, And a voice to a warning lisp might call for a station. So I'll tell you a story About an antelope-tick made to a stone, Hobbled, scratched, and broken; Whispered little Tom ofender-- Good dog, so you are, With your back to the wallaby. "Let's see who upset A rabbit last eve in the cave?"-- So the poor little fox-tail said. But still, with a frown, the dear little fox-tail Hung down at the roots of the slab, And never a word the couple In silence sat down with the old rat-mountain. He sits under a half-door oak, And drops a lichen down his back; And the kind old flippant-like stroke Makes his tongue all out a crack. He rubs his old bead on the ground With never a thought of hurt, And he makes a sudden stand At the crop of a neighb'ring there, Where they stand wondering At the way that the poor do there. And there's one little wheat-field yet, And another little fold, That will pay the flour, and eat, Till the hungry old cat-tail mocks. And there on the grass, as I sit, There's a "little and unkempt, untied," For I know by the pail the bride Is a little old thing, when the bed Is in little old summer again, An a little old woman inside. And by little old woman I think I can find a new way to make clear If the oldest old myth is a lie, For a little old woman inside! For I know by the simple-words Yew, That I'm into yonsighted to travel, That I climb the old moors in the lowlands, That I travel alone on the wiel, When a little old woman comes riding, Her mutch is in tune, she is riding With raiment of straw that isazy And her riding is prancing and tripping As merry as rabbits go riding. But come, she is mine! she is mine! Then hush, hush, hush, hush! hush, hush! A terrible silence of stone! It was the shout of a many thousand That told the approach of the ride; And there she is, on a stone-heap, To whom goes the mother so bold? The boys go by in a rutty voice, Laughing, pushing her down the steep, Laughing and pushing her down the steep, Her sad-eyed lover so true; And I think of the little dog in the hut, With the nut-brown boots and the long, blue-black hair, And the eyes like my forester's, With my glass in the shade like a sweet white mouse, And the brown tarragon skirts where the ladies ride. This is a gruesome place! In the Hatterasian The daylight is deep, and the shadows are long, And then, Sister, take courage; Come out! and put on your ======================================== SAMPLE 958 ======================================== Its little wee bit handfuls. There's nothing here to offer; That foot first startles an' springs just so. Of course you talk of building, You think you're 'in' your dwellers Outside the stook. But, hark, There's something--what's the sign Of what you're making out of there, And there's a mouth to open there, And so it's--you're, but--you don't care. But now it's breeding berries. When my eyes a-tremble--so I propose A job, and eat a second-- No more, "Thank you," or "Yes," But, note its point of setting forth Exactly as they run the cup or so, And that's the way to fix the end. But as I'm giving all I owe In that I would improve, So I jing you, from the start, Go into my old fishing- codger. To market, often, in my life; Sometimes a car or lather I had, sometimes, up and down (To show when things had disappear'd); Sometimes, a little curly cur, Or pea, a ribbon, glorying (But then they had been slight and lean, And rested in the houses there)-- I really wished that it were so To feel these days of leisure, And show myself as glad and gay, Because I didn't long to know That there were some boys and girls along. But, once, one day--indeed, With three hours' milk to face the sun, And Job a running after him-- A game, again, without one minute Of luck--a run, a bet, a settler. It made me very sad to think They had to work, you see, for fun, And hadn't one hour's leisure Because their well-fram'd looks came on And wore their best clothes off, the same, A little more than half an inch (As if an Oxford family Lay near that spot) And nearly lost their style, for they Were all so very good-to-do. Now to be done with, I'm not much inclined To think that I am much inclined, So wait till I am pleased. This morning mind Is no concern of mine. And 'tis best to be slow (Though I prefer a holiday) To walk about alone, And leave the other there, so to repose, With men for lungs meant to meet the travellers' ends, So that a paradise Would be for me a sweetheart,-- Not such a story as old wives, whose lives Are one pearl-strangled kiss,-- The prince or queen of nations at the throne Of some imperial miss; And this, as fact Is but a span-- I mean to deal A decent deal. Through him (as you may see) his hair was bowed; His cheek like an uncommon rising cloud, Streaked with indifference by the mid-day sun; While the assembly stood, and looking meek, Insatiate, shrank, and shivered with affright. A bolder glance he gave, a solemn smile; "The foe is stormed; the very wall is thrown Wide open, leaving not the breast to be Unmoved by storms; each missile missile Is peaceful still at least. I fear it lest." He took the horn; and presently he blew Into his bosom, like a storm-charged blow, That mocks at threatened thunder. The cup went Into his tunic's crupper; and he saw That all his might was gallant. At a word He leant and shouted and his voice ran off. No ear or eye, no eye, yet half awake, Grew conscious of the shame that marked the look. An angry lesson had he learned to learn, To read within a page within a book; An eloquence for storming an assault On the left wing of God; from ear to ear It soothed his restless spirit, and he gave A sure persuasion that the sounding word, The mastering ocean, could have proved at last A breach to shield the flood. He straight embraced Himself, and took his seat upon the curb In careless ease,--till the new chasm was split In thunder; and he turned him to recoil, Gleaming, into the roar, and towering head Of the tremendous columns:--"Pray forgive This rotund tyrant's pride, but let him keep His promise of the mountain and his will, And help ======================================== SAMPLE 959 ======================================== gold the other face you were in mourning. His life was one night's outcast, sunburnt and starless. No one shall ever show her again her sinless, No one shall ever touch her again, For she has come to the end of the morn, From the great dawn across the sky Once again that glorious flag unfurled Shall be unfurled like an army morn, Out of the night of time and the storm All men shall carry it back, Out of the night of time and the storm This is the time for us And we should not forget. It was the time of years, The hour of every thought, When the wise gods were not heard of, When they were not out. Oh! this is the time to meet again With the great gods we were coming, And the heart of a man beat fast in the gods, I am the dream that we were in, The star that ran so fast in the western sky, And I, being childless, would gladly die, For I had dreamed in my dreams That I had never seen such an one as you, There on the cloud-pale brow of the gods I am the only man that has seen this day Nor shall one after other. The gods are bound in the city of gold The stars are mine to keep; The bards are but joys to the eyes of the strong, They may sing sweet songs when the feet of the night Hasten their wheels to the touch of light And set on their fateful errands. From many lands have the gods come from the east For their pleasure, and I see, and try to tell them Where they have made their tour through a vast profound of ages, A land that is for all men's sons, A land that has been for ages And is theirs alone for ever. When God the tree of nations bears Among his many-terred lies Where is the fire and light of stars, With wrath that is as fierce as his? "Lift up your faces, once more," Cried I, "you exiles and your fears Are all reviled and for a while Grow strong with joy behind your ears. Leave faith and hope and pitying; Out of all this there is no ruin. At the world's end we rise in flame, But are consumed and shot and turned By the will of a cunning heart That holds the seed and feels the fire. From this high, fair, and perfect sphere The season draws the hearts of men, The rivers run and mighty streams And many a garden stately plain The whole world lie in ashes grey, And wasted cities lie like flowers Unburied of the wild-pot sun. No king can enter heaven above Who hath no seat at all on earth, For he hath drawn the veil from love And laid it on the world's extreme And bound it with a chain of cords, Wherewith he smites and whips and burns, Nor knows wherefore it is a lamp, Nor what great gift it is or cost. No king can enter hell with this But he whose eyes first looked on her, Hath power to have the power to kiss Even where the wings burst and fell And the white feet first shrivelled over her. Be near and hear her, angel bands, Although the world be blind and old, To show that she hath had much need Of all her giving and her gear, Though her most perfect stature be Bound up with twice ten thousand cords And rent for all her winning ways; She hath no more to give or get, Her wrath has changed and she is not, But for another way she hath Her soul, and knoweth none can pass her, Praying and praying for her dead. Unto each one of his tribe There is an answer and there is a sign, They have passed on forever and have died, And there is peace and many a sign, And though men say that they have died Their graves and long have lain To mark the lifting of the sun, It is enough for us that they Kneel at the feet of God, Kneel at the arms of men and pray, Till God knows all things as they say, And cleanse and ease the soul and cleanse, And gives it health again and joy And comfort when men die. It is easy enough For us that they have died to us, Who weep and dream and are not sad, The shining vermin of our faith Is plenty, peace ======================================== SAMPLE 960 ======================================== what we have written, What can we say of Jampsala, Of the heroes of the minor?' But I think that I can nowhere Where the fellow will retire, I cannot be there nor nowhere. If this is not most secure, Where a fellow, whether a squire, Is obliged to go about the country, And to wait for himself alone Will be ready for a journey. I determined to come to the place, And to see what was the matter. I took this opportunity, O'er the way with him to travel, That my sire was not content with me, And my mother--I should have her. Then I said to the king: 'Take courage! You, my king, do not delay! I am my father's only heir, Of a restless life I am in this-- No, but if you please be exempt!' The king's conscience was indeed hard on (Of which I was, of course, slow), And that waiteth a bury the facts Of the king's feelings, I may allow. But my father stood near by, In a deep, and silent reverence, Like a perfectante who mourns In a much-deserted dress That is chiefly wrapt in the folds. The king was deeply repossessed Of the mind of the tale I relate, And enjoin'd the delay to delay, To take his daughter back to her father. Long ago the notion was true That would part him from the purpose, And the daughter was restored to health By a priest who had a young wife Who, as luck should say, lost both truth And the rapture of childhood. As I said upon the high day, An accident occurred to me, And I found, by the way, a weakness. I thought it was for such a wonder, For I'm certain it was no one, And yet, from the day I departed, I find my girl was sixteen, And as luck should say there was none In the whole country anywhere (For all which I did not prepare Was that of the king's commission), Though there would have been no mention. So I thought it was for such a wonder That this was not the case: and then I would have let young people know That they had so much in their mind That to turn to other people. The king's daughter, first and best Of the whole, came across the water, And threw up her heels in shame, And snatch'd her up, and rush'd behind (In answer to my endeavour). Of the four Misses Minet has yet one daughter, The several still the other wife; Through all the lifetime of a man, So far extend her mother's life. Through millions yet unborn her twin That were the one to slay before her, The other link'd with laws to bind her. It would have been most difficult, For one to break each slender thread That bound it as the warp to sever, And then as long as dwindling need. There were two girls of this country Whose names I will not now unroll, Their names and lives are both alike. But to recall the days when here I reach'd a classical book-writer, I chanced to find their names and faces Fill'd with the title of 'The Roxaurus!'" And to reward the praise I earned. My friends allow'd it being tedious, And I had all the good they knew When here I sought for love and glory, Like a young homingebazer. Now that I'm uppermost among them I feel just like a prince too strong, Loving the ether, and its throng. But the land and I so fondly love it, With feelings other than my own; And such a love for Nature's gifts As Nature gives enjoyment shown. Here on the grass a great bird sleeping, With azure wings, I mark him darting, As if to warn the mariner, "I'll learn of that bird the minstrel!" And with his wild exertion soaring, To upper skies I fire pursuing. All gentle things, that always please, Are laden babies in the seas, That keep a sudden quiet mood, And play with freedom at the flood. The heath, with all its laurels gay, That drinks the sweet sun's first mild ray, I once espy'd on a summer's day, Bright in its beauty far, far off; The spot is bare, the rock is rude, But spare it, man! a breast ======================================== SAMPLE 961 ======================================== From this day to happy end--the light Of a sunny ray she throws around; But the bud it has lost its bloom, and the flower it has found! By her kind eyes was her fame forgot-- She lives, she lives, she lives for me; With others I can ne'er forget, And can never be! And can it be that out of reach Or stray we find this evening's reach Of love or friendship now is fled? 'Tis too much to look upon. Who can tell how many ties We twined for her were thine to claim-- She dying now is living, and she lives in fame! But see the morn's bright hue, Which will dispel her solitude, Shaking in its sunset glow, When the beam of morn is laid Back on that bright wave, and she is dead, She lies in yonder grave! The sky is dim. The crowds move slow. I hear her voice, as, breathing low, Her name still o'er my childhood stray. Hush, hush! the call is heard afar, The light is out, the day is clear, And I have passed the night in vain. Yet in her grave the child is laid, The joy is fled from grief and pain. The waters flow. The young and old With mingled voices slowly rise, Like wind-flowers on a flowery spray. I seem to move as waves move on, When down the heaving billows they Plunge boldly to the mighty sea, Whose waves at eventide will roll, And when my home is at the shore, I hear again the pibroch's cry, Now I have reached that hallowed ground, My heart has entered life again. And soon my feet on well-known rocks have found, I gaze upon the fiery sands, And with delight I seem to see Eternal space, which seems to me For blissful forms again to rise, And I beheld, as in a dream, A swift and wondrous sea, which stole Along a dark and perilous wave I know not how, along the sands. There is a haven. The fountain there No withering cloud, no wave which hath No blight, no settled point of sun, Hath form or shadow of decay, To my poor soul it is a place Of more than knowledge or less grace-- The house itself is nothing worth, And from the sparkling waters light Upon a joy which knows no birth, The mansions of the living shine Upon a land, a fairy line, They are all lifeless, and the soul Gropes through the years like Autumn air, Or feels itself as it must there, Or feels through death itself, is there. Yet I remember, in the years When we two roamed with frequent fears, When you and I, with youth and love, Were youthful, gay, and ignorant, Did each other's forms reprove; And ere now on your stormy head I see a ghost, or know I tread My home, and you go back to-night. I thank you for the pleasant sights you left me. You left me of your love, you left me sleeping. I thank you for the early love you left me. Your eyes were like the violet, and your cheeks Like blossoms which you loved, where was the trick To move along and whisper when you list, Or think to weave, or say to me of thanks, The old love of your lives, the joyous phrases That used to cheer the days of long ago. I thank you for the kindly thoughts that crept Through your forgotten spirit's yesterday. For the faint hues, which, as you gathered them, Looked back to you as some one left you sleeping, And then went on to tell each to his end, Though all the echoes of the night were keeping Their everlasting watch above the steep, For all the thoughts you left me would not keep. But here you leave me--well, you leave me not. I would recall the words you used to say, And while I listen keep the echoes o'er you Somewhere within the echo of your heart. I would recall the words you used to say. I would recall the thoughts you used to say. The sad noises of long sentient life When all the furies, all the wrongs of God, Were hushed, could never echo back the moan The dreamer gave him of--some other mood Had shaped out "the first life," and his, above, Had made all beauty, ======================================== SAMPLE 962 ======================================== , and friskin, and supple corde, And other thoughts which, like comical spite, Have been Antoinette; 't is pity indeed, If one, by! in his prime, should for ever have stood, And, behold! 't is a token (as even a banner Gleams out from one object, and not in the world. But think you, in spite o' his proofs in your rage, The very first thing to mention is,-- "'T is a very good poem!"--he's in throth ing moreover, And a very good Another might wish to mention,-- A bright yellow book, set in prefac'rate text, And good, indeed, but not the binding itself, And only dear Edith, myself--to your mind, My object, whilst feigning, for shame, for religion, A joy too much stolen from the friend and the spy, Had 't but raised your imagination to praise him;-- The first--but I love you!--as none ever loved! Of all tormentors, whate'er their condition, I dearly behold the most excellent poet! 'T is not a nosegay with blushes bespangled, Not a jonquils painted, nor fresh-winding osiers, But a branch of a lily allusion to flossers, Whose colours enclosing, so neatly are blended, That, but for your own mind, their several beauties unite, 'T is but to obtain what 's at hand rather lighter, And from these truths his writings, not new, may express, 'T is not that virtue alone makes the bliss, Or reason and reason alone best express them; 'T is not that, my friend, I'm an excellent poet, But that which the sex who's given to you, Like the goslings that still spin on the ears of your peers, I am in my place--in my place to speak out-- I want not your pardon--not ill-mated, my place: Then why so enraged? why? why? why? why? why? Why, there 's something that I love, and not you; And I'm sure my mind is right, as you know, But still, that of all the sex knows best which is best, Is to seek to have something which might not less be, Then drop it; at least, however, lies in decline, That's the sort of thing difficult to determine. "What! away, my friend! it was my fault, Merely to leave off thus, without pause: And as a late beam late in summer dinted, Like a bright yellow leaf in autumn vent O'er a blue eye, I carried it away; When a fair boy from school Seemed to look full of blood, And with a sweet look, as if beguiling My life with real ill, As if by the mere name of 'Christian' he took me, He turned upon me, and, thus, I copied his book over, and worked on the News. He will be its page: I leave it at least, With you to choose just exactly as I should, O I have liked it the best of all you say! I never heard of it, I will not; And now I love it and hope you'll say You love it, for me! now, if it were not for me! Why, I would be A most poor devil, eternally civil: And you, unknown to me, And as a guileless child with Guilt and Dado O I am sorry that I admit you love me, And saying so, forgive you even so, I must beg you to forgive me and pray so! "O little book of rhymes, Each song-marked blossom with its honey bee! To nurse the verses of thy bitter lot, Are my poor verses only trifling thee! Thou seest that now, Because thou art the sadst little page, And I would read, Knowing that I am proud, As if I could not read Thy simple precepts all that should require Of one compassionate and humble sire, Thy humblest rhymes, That so much bitter jarr not inly smarts, But play their pretty games in broken rhythm, In trembling accents, trying to extol The Powers of Heaven and Hell and Hell, One in numbers, like ten different verses, Making all verse, and all that is strongest In worse than any verse of any kind, But ending in extremes, As if the ======================================== SAMPLE 963 ======================================== ider meet to a surprise. In a country garden old, where roses grow, From which the pied and the forlorn have thrown A richly shining emerald, roseate hued, Which makes them quaint, in the edge of the shade, A bright and opulent gem. In this poor room Are books, wherein, in the old winding-glooms, The lovers sit, each in his accustomed place. Now listen, reader! If an eager ear Shall ever catch the whispered speech of men, We two shall drop into the whisper'd ear Of him, who stills the raven where he ran. We two shall be, through the world's doubtful day, The two allied to man. From the warm nest Of the first fount the weary spirit may Breathe out his soul to climb upon the height Of some fair realm, remote from public sight; And as we may, the sun will disappear, And voices die away, and vestal'd forms Go forth to seek a long-deserted bower, Where roses, white and red, and leaves may grow, In some sweet, leaf-strewn glen; or if perchance A tenderer relics are than that old speech Of one whose wild, despairing hope was gone, Bold words and looks men loved, far better left, Then to that last, long lingering at the door, Even in those last dim sounds a sad train bore, As, night by night, the people from their tower Uselessly wailing ran. With reverent care They watch'd the fated flames of the wild air, Though keen were the long darts which they display'd, That would upbraid the aged and the young, Might not unwillingly, and keep the old. No sooner these than in their books had found That speech, although a history written round On stone, had forced to learn; but in his breast There lay a fixt and purposeless desire Which only ask'd a magnet's touch to burn, Passionate, cold as death, and soft as love. In council, as his name for them was known, The grave and the adventures of the past To him seem'd welcome as a welcome guest; And that strong purpose and deliberate thought Which in the present emulous world hath scope, By which he learn'd to lead the present life, Determined to destroy humanity, Fated to be the instrument of death. And he grew up as in a genial mood, A mirthful chaplet of the arts of life, With all the cunning that his age endures, Half hid, half hidden, in a quiet nook The winds had built him, and the thirsty soil Grew sleek and thick with ores. Behind him shed Darkness and sorrow, plenty, like the sun Which smiles at the faint shadow of a cloud Brooding afar; or like the bubbling fount That from the clear blue mirror streams its waves; Or like a voice from long an April day, When all the centuries have forgotten quite The moving fount which issues to the eye As 'twere the breath of God. That unity Of soul and body found in the wide world In equal folds and form, half hid, half seen, In one small crystal mirror'd cloud apart, Was but a mimic soul. He, though the spirit Of the departed spirits pass'd unseen, In that vast element where the fair stream Hangs bubbling back from out the silent air, With the strange darkness in his very soul, Though, as he seem'd, that universal light Should have the aspect of the distant dead, There would he wander, musing with his soul In a sad picture that would tremble to him, And fright the storming thoughts of care away. But man, around him peopled, there would pause As if he too were strangely interwoven, With dark and heavy shadow, with a life Of thorn'd and barren passion, which would seem Like many a green in some dark heath and mountain. Yet still there is a deep and subtle sense In his deep- acted history, which is still Of elements by man ordain'd so late. But always, at the height and depths of man, And only through him, Nature,--whose vast plan Baffles for ever in his onward march, That onward path which leadeth in the soul, Follows afar the motion of the world, And only when it cleaves to outward things, There liars in the soul a treasure-trove, Which in the after school ======================================== SAMPLE 964 ======================================== My better hand than mine was once as true. And you, what years are at this last content With this, this miseries our life affords! My country! honest, kind and safe! My country! at whose birth I loved to live, My blessing on the fields and on the trees, And to my child at heart!" His speech Sudden was in the air; and soon in tears A child to happier days was born again; But with the infant in the boy's new mind, Though grown the knowledge of his earlier years, Close to himself and mother, thought and laughed What boy believed most like a Christian teach, No creed but noble, whose deep passion burned To root in some deep well the later years, Wise, upright, worthy, for whose world-wide sake Dwelt much like virtue and of such a man. He knew not those dear figures of the priest; Who saw the monarch in his most mean use Pretend too little, who believed not he. He scorned them not, nor did the saints believe That those bright, wondering lamps in truth he burned; He cared not if the sacrifice he brought Waned to some labour: wealth was his delight, For all his people prayed him: he stood by The disciple of their Lord, and took their hands As they would wrestle; wherefore was he known Not as a Master, but as Christ on earth. "Give me, too, higher praise"--his son confessed His gorge and heard these prayers-- "Give me the hymns of Jesus, and His name Shall shine through all the years of sovereignty." He gave him thanks, and many a bitter word Came from the bishop's lips, For this was more than praise. "There is no need, child, of your honest men Whose reverence has turned to Christian faith; Of dons who were in their youth and arm But little children, for the mind and heart That would outrun, could follow, sail, and win, At any hour of trial, charm, or chafe, Not to lie down, at any hour of storm; To leave in me the worst and loathe to die; To have my very work of righteousness Whole days, and die but for my paltry sum, The work of selfhood on another side. And I,--I served and loved and hated you For these poor preachers that I serve in life,-- You, that you know me well! "What I have done, to make you cease to do Such work as this, what I can do or say, These clerkes that I work in, it is true; But well, the work to your good will I lay. Do not delay, I am not used to pray; My duty is, but honest work is good, So here's my hand that did the deed; the blood Of brotherhood is his, and he must do Whate'er he listeth, so my service do; For while a shirk of soul that now I live Doth want a work from hands that I must give. And bear this hope that from itself is good To all my deeds, or even from self-m wrought, And as a quality my own I give, I shall redeem my whole reward of thought. As for my church, men there are many more Who sin against me, though I am condemned To misery and death, with names like these, And good beyond all else--so did I them. Farewell, farewell!" But with the impulse of dawn The Tuscan heart rejoiced to find the door Of peace to open--breathing out the prayer, "And who are these, that in the body fair Enlighten a fair death?" He, answering, said, "My people, and my people!" They, obeyed, And hastened to the shrine, and stood, and made An offering, and offered up the mass, And set it down before the dead, and prayed, Bearing the body, while the man went out. "Farewell," he said, "for, lo! the day-star bright, That first appeared to warn the nations of The way henceforth, and beckoned to the birth Of the new Christian folk, has made the world A needless show unto the Roman mind, And using modern means was every way Dressed to the needful. And this poor folk Built up and ready for the deathless work, While they were living. But the sword, which wrought By cunning, was laid by them ======================================== SAMPLE 965 ======================================== : and, so tormented as they were, They grow to giant-cities, and look for me. There was a stable where satii, and a hut At the edge of one long street, whence to the right Was drawn the right way; and in that little space, When all the stalls were whitened, there was built A house, whose windows, glaring at the sun, Were black, and black, and thick, and wrought with shapes Of hideousness, and blackness foul as night. There were the windows, all of black and white, From which two rods of black were forged, and one Of black, and one of red, and one of red; And dark and broad and dark of roofed front Were wrought of golden pattern; on these two Were white cards shining, and that of yellow heaped Their necks with greatest virtue, and their eyes Were made of silver; and upon the edge Of that vast wall, beneath a stairway worn, There lay three beaming bearers, and a man, One of smooth face, in whom four wheeled feet pierced With work of winning lines and sweet design. The master stared, and lo! that of the three Were smooth, and one of white and of smooth skin, Part white and smooth as ivory: And underneath, around him far and near, Ten pointed boughs of tender cutliness, And this within, an hundred (I suppose) Were all but splendid, in a bird's right hand, Or some slight napping in a wattled croft. But I can see these lilies on the lawn, They are so vivid green, and paint so fair Their colours that the ruffled white makes life To be more radiant than the house of death, And I can see the rivers silver-flowing, And the sea moving slowly, as they move, Amid the piles of gold and amber grapes, Half-fading between morning and eventide, Whence all the streets shin bright and gay with gems. Thus, like a fair child, did the poor painter paint The necessary angel by the hearth, With gorgeous feathers, and a basketful Of cloth and woven work, and thatch of straw, Tables of gold and silver, with the joine Of leaves, and white and yellow everywhere, Mixed with his woofed silks, and without thorn And satin, his rich garment, and his head Above the nostrils of the little child. And he had all these things all day, and when The sun fell, in the garden, wondering How all their charms had made the little bud Losing its growth, though grown the crest of weed, And sleeping till it waked to its fair bed, She laid her hand upon the hand of all, And all his yellow hairs turned into silk. So unto him she gave his rod and line And sealed him in a shawl of scarlet cloak, And set him in a great white turban, sleek With gold and crimson velvet of the land, A thing for little children, heavy-dyed With a draggled lightness of sunshiny feet. A broidered mantle and a steely shield, And, when at noon the little buds had waked, The little birds were breaking their brown heads, And all the silken flowers stood gold above The shadows and the little leaves and grew With soft and silver laughter in their eyes. But no; for suddenly the morning came Suddenly, and he told the name of One, And, as the singing grew to this and that, The little flowers all in sweet mad grace Grew in their breathless pall, and seemed to die More sweetly, and the wondering trees took fright Of the low creeping by and the small bed, And every little tender little bud Became as nothing in the world at all. But all the while that voice from underground Broke out, and mirth and laughter far away Rose from the crowded carouse of the street Wherethrough the little child might go and come To the nurse's arm, and a cry on the down From the great carouse, and a laugh in the grey Of the four seeming so to blow a gale To scatter pence whereof the Queen had read His wonderful Pentecost. Now the long street Was silent with its silence and its gloom, And never more rose fair before or now A woman: and she stopped and listened well, And loitered on. And then, And then, And then he told the King, And laughing, spoke again, ======================================== SAMPLE 966 ======================================== s, the Greeks in flight I mean, Who having lost dominion in the field, Should with their spoils their homeward progress keep." Anchises then with anger mixed with wrath replied: "Let not the pestilential city henceforth rage, Called Brememon, till in time of war he cease; But let him bring against me, if he will, To make me Dardan guest in my besieged town." So Tydeus' son, all eager for his charge, Upraised his voice, and in the temple gave The priest, and prayed, "Iris, what Godfrey thee Hath done to me!" From his seat Eupithes' son Had risen, and thus unto the priest inquired: "O Lord, that didst permit me thus to bring My message to the man, Thyself from heaven, Whose heart hath blessed me and am here restored To this wise: Is not the house, so lately filled, Dare you to violate, before you stand, The pillars of our laws? these stones, alas! Are trodden by your step, the votive hands Of this poor youth of mine; yet freely I, Whom thy right hand hath ravished, and by Thee I am avenged, implore and curse the hand Which spurned me once, and sent me this my cry To thee, who o'er the Chrystal river's bank, Receivedst Thetis with thine orisons loud, And to the King of Ithaca hast left Meantime the oracle in verse has vowed That, ere the truth be told, again the King, Albeit granted by his promised aid, Shall come in time for that first time to grant Your threats, and scourged by mine avenging sword, Surely again the wily traitor will Thy favourings aid, and sue the Thunderer's grace." While thus they communed, these old Tiresias, The faithless champion of the God of War, E'en then too sore, beseeching them to yield, Sends up into their hands some fav'ring sign, And with sweet words, that questioning did bring, Each listener fixt his anxious thoughts, he said, "O Thetis, why has down the river come With such deep murmurs, and such broken reed? And why so wailing comes the noise of woe?" "O Thetis, why with flashing eyes behold'st My brother in the battle thus o'erthrown? Whence comes this dread, this bitter agony, That cruel strife within my heart doth dwell? What mean'st thou, mindful of my childish years, Whose mother brings me to the war again? Most wonderful, when now I've seen thee first With lips unbright'ning as the mountain boy, Whose youthful blood by fiery veins is spilt, And thou beholdest naught but sorrowing grief, And, blinded by those glorious eyes, dost see One only glorious path, and not a law." He said, and from his seat in gentle glee The old man hastes to pass the sacred well, And plunging deeply in the flood below, Rested awhile, and heard the Sirens nine, And made the old man to forget his grief, And with fresh thoughts beseeching him to stay, Then pressed him softly close upon his bed, And peacefully laid him down upon his bed. And when the sun arose and took his leave, And now had come the second day to bed, The aged man began again to pray In quietness, for much that he was wroth, But first the woe, the sorrow and distress, The aged man, he pitied for his child, For little did the little gods avail Against his will, and the old man had thought, When looking on his lovely wife, he thought He loved but little, as the babe he bleat, And longed to see his pretty wife again. With foot uplifted then, and tender smile, And love that grew in a woman's lap, he stood, On his own board beside a rivulet, His cheeks that blushed when he should taste his food. And as one will who, while his face yet glowed, Looks round, and works to make his cheeks rejoice, To a great work the wisest artists can, And the whole nation looks the wisest wise; So the cup trembles when drunk with sloth and greed, Or like a trodden snake uprose the tongue. ======================================== SAMPLE 967 ======================================== and said, for days the act has been I did. Mere bagpipes, speak of houses for the boys, Put me out here, playing or working away-- No man's deed was ever good enough To bring a perfect play. Of the lambs of Leonora it was thither come When the King of Westernites was sick as they, With his crown of thorn-branches and his whip of flame A handful of bones on a wild green stile Was his trade. The King of Eustates bought the boy at dawn, And the pale King of Edisthenes sat by the bed Tossing his arms into the pits his heart and brain, And his eyes were glowing with the lust of fire, And his lips were burning like the mouth of a jay With the eyes that glow and the lips that quiver, And the looks that fill his blood and the quenchless thirst Filled him with a sense of the old fire-touch, The love of the boy's red apple of passionate youth Like the sunflower whereon it burned,--and cried, For the hunger of the night that must be hers. For later on,--and was it come?--and she Who chased these red foxes of the soul in front? Was it only a pale snake with a flounce of fire? No, no, that blind hound of Edisthenes That slew His heart and made His sacrifice Were here to see no pit for the wild-eyed truth, Nor hell so larger than the burning bird That flying towards the deep abyss she fell Panting upon the body of the child. Faintly, but far Was one note in a quavering song of hope: One weird triumphant throb and passionate joy That sang of children and their mother's curse; And the joy and grief and pity of the world That sang in the light of this lyrical hymn Murmured of hopeless love and winsome love, Naught else worth hearing but the gentle song That like a rose blown out of Eden blows About the heaven of our lives and ends, And whispers in us "Son of earth," and those Fitting a mere mad fool and for their own Ruptures of mad milk whereof that Adam laughed With face upturned to his above the earth Grave, unfathered eyes of love. Again the high and passionate hymn came up With thunder of their vengeance and their scorn; The awful crying of their hatred back To Hell and the hid flame that gave them birth, And the wild blood with them as their youth, and all The inveterate hearth-flame of their lives; The heart's sob like the flowers in the dark, That wrenched from heaven for blossom of delight, And lit at their triumph in the sun's last blaze With their proud pageant of the world's eventide. And through the naked pageant passed the King Who took in the great triumph for his own, And led with him a nobler life than ever Sang of the empire of the heavenly world With all its ways and ways and recognized The high white walls of pardon and the peace That reign as a King's kingdom, keeping time And bidding the great world go forth and say, "You have made a queen of it, a queen of it." Where once a little child played on a tree And spilled the music of the summer grass, There's not a voice of millions can you hear, Your skies, your winds, your rainbows, can you pass; Not even the wind of this King can you change And make a place for your memory. You who loved freedom while few men thought, Or though men ventured to give you pain, How many were they to make men glad And happy, being few! As some good match you'll find your own, And leave me what I have not known, For I'll be praising you For being your slave. The morning of your eyes is dawn, And softly through the twilight sweep The lonely breeze that blows forlorn That lingers on the lily-bell Before the wet dew-drenched clover Throws her low flight in silence over The orchard where the clover's red Waves to the faint air overhead That beats so soft and still. The moon is like a doe that rings Above the sloping apple-trees, The robin red and glad. And with a sweet voice overhead You say: "My love, my pretty one, A flower for thy head and A girdle to thy shoulders!" Yet ======================================== SAMPLE 968 ======================================== by thinking how Orestes, His uncle's close departure had ta'en, 'Mong splinters as 'tis, for his own folly, With honour he'd a-treat and sigh; And, though as for a husband, he had No business in his way to plod, His means, 'tis little known, the best way, For Love's own wish does not come full on, And no ill stars attend the sun. But thy compassion 's with the damsel, That ne'er allows the least offence; 'Tis she that comes in the evening twilight, Or the poor damsel her exhorting: 'Tis she that comes in the evening twilight, And grants the maid the greatest honour; 'Tis she that comes in the morning morning, For Love's own sake, to make her stay; When Love is come, be sure of this. Though, kind-limbed, and bred, you are not dulled, Yet your affected prattle may-- Fickle admirer, nor court a jot, But offer her some flights of fops, That may the sky, and clouds, and showers Rescue from you ere they can wot; And give a sort of ill-concealed, Than to give a vile, sullen good; But give her thee, no argument, With which thou hast deserved her's pain, Her favour, not her deity; Since two so perfect in thy strain. I blush to see thee still advance, When I do hear thy voice so wond'rous; For that a tender flame doth chance, Whilst I, like to an eagle, rise, A bird, on wing, with pinions nice, So fine doth she that flies, so nice. And canst thou not with mine compare? Our parts, when sweethearts number, Are number'd both in number twice; And sweeter music comes from thence, And straight to pity us we dance. Or canst thou not thyself affuse In such a way as this, the same? And canst thou not with mine excuse, Yet for one month, or a twy, a day, To make us for the sport ordain'd, Nor we, nor we, for pleasure slain? For what would be our sport indeed? If it be two months' day: Yet then to sport have I not need; I still should hope, but anxious, heed: We shall not now go on to peep; I see them sport, I see them weep. Yet have I said I should be blest; That when a year shall close, I see A score of happy girls, to be The joy and glory of my line; Then shall I see how sweetly blest Is their dear parents, Death, and thee. When I was small and com'st to be A mate to me, a pride; And when a score of years have sped, Then, then, was then that pride; 'Twas then I thought it would be well For either of these maids to dwell. Their clothes were red, their garments green, Their locks were white and fine; I took them for a regal scene, And, 'stead of prancing there, I'll tell ye, Love, 'tis a trifle, Love, And I'll be proud to say I had two sons upon my knee, And he beside the Urim; They were more beautiful than he, And he by far more fit. As all of them were young and fair, And had large wishes in their pate, My heart did glowingly declare The very day was come: The golden-lighted morn was gone, And yet the blushing year was gone. 'Twas then that Love with laggard pace Did all his works array; The busy world was all a cheat, That to the toilet lay: It might have been the dearest day That ever sunned or IsoeER wore; Yet that his pattern was as fair As any needle can; And, therefore, Love, who took his care To train the maids of his, Gave me a cell and I will dwell Beneath the roof of her high-hon'd dome, While I, a victim, do atone For all the guilt he would have done. I'm loth to leave thee, lovely rose, And I'll not chide the day That gave thee first thy birth, And I'll not ch ======================================== SAMPLE 969 ======================================== humbells with the tone Of answering notes and voices one by one, The harmonies of the summer time, The touch of golden sunshine and the plash of golden rain, The triumph of the happy singing bees, The sudden passing of the dim-green days, And the first shooting star in heaven's high blue dome, And the slow beating down, and stilling all a changeful while, The drone of falling snow through happy meadows strewn, The sense of smell of morning growing less; The smell of far-off lavender on high, The smell of dusty clouds like drops of rain, The sense of earth that is not overmuch, All these are mingled in one dazzling mass, Whose soul is God, and whose eyes see all. And when thou thinkest thus, and knowest not, O World-IndHaunted! to thy mortal spot The eternal Silence and the eternal Mirth, To brood above the years, the careless Earth, The spiritual Fists, the ungrown Dread, The ungrown Dread whoseolis no more Shall rise above the things that hate the hour, Shall fade, shall wither in one calm sublime, Like these new-risen above the branched new flowers, Like these old beauties lose their primal power, Like these old beauties lose their old devoure, Like these first beauties lost their wonted taste, Like these first beauties lost their wonted taste, Like these first beauties lost their wonted taste, Like these first beauties lost their wonted taste, Like these first beauties lost their wonted taste, Like these first beauties lost their wonted taste, Like these first beauties lost their wonted taste, Like these first beauties lost their wonted taste, Like these first beauties lost their wonted taste, Like these first beauties lost their wonted taste, Like these first beauties lost their wonted taste, Like these first beauties lost their wonted taste, Like these first beauties lost their wonted taste, Like these first beauties lost their wonted taste, Like these first beauties lost their wonted taste, Like these first beauties lost their wonted taste, Like these first beauties lost their wonted taste, Like these first beauties lost their wonted taste, Like these first beauties lost their wonted taste, Like these first beauties lost their wonted taste, Like these first beauties lost their wonted taste, Like these first beauties lost their wonted taste, Like these first beauties lost their wonted taste, Like these first beauties lost their wonted taste, I pray you, my fair one, if you will listen to me, My Muse in humble lays her light has shown, And many a lay of old enchantment's made; But if from me you learn that beauty's no duty, I'll obey you gladly till I've said my say, And listen to the Muse's beguiling strains, That all may think their own discourse is fiction, And flatter them that ill-mouth'd use rebounds. But if your mind's fair beams so lately beam, That I too shall adore you I've discover'd; That the bright world, which once the sunbeams shone on, Has e'er been stain'd so very far away. I ask no other, wit none here is fit, But that this praise, and this fair credit, sweet, 'Twixt you and me should ever bear its being, Since both are unto you one worshipp'd thing. Why you are now my captive verse, and I Can so incline to write his beauty thus, That like a book in Which you'll choose to try The loveliest part of her whose eye's esteem'd. But if 'tis true that, in the dreams of youth, Some once more little face of Nature's truth (Like plants imprison'd in a pretty bower) Be not so bright, as whilst you first did bloom And die, as now you live, as now you die. For once, when these our labors thou hast crown'd, Such mixture of immortal sweets is sweet, Whose very smile is turn'd to something else, That in short time you have already pass'd From Nature to that fair and living stream, Which you may sometimes deem most precious thing, If after all it is not all in vain, Then first and last, but then most heavenly sweet, Is't not through all our folly we are stor'd? That in the woods on which we sat at play, We now can talk of Love and Heaven above, ======================================== SAMPLE 970 ======================================== in the foot-path, stupid, he kept on his way. All eager to pass it; then suddenly crossed himself, With the selfsame petition as came from the helm, And he asked of the horse that had crashed into the dust. "O greybeard!" he cried, "I have followed your horse so long. Strongly the fight is raging, I can do no wrong." "Black-legs!" said the horse; "for what purpose, what interest? But now should you answer my questions, be sure. I know that you are an ass, as you know me well, Yet the question I leave you is not so hard to reach. You come first of all, and now change courage, be sure." "But do not," said Minnie, with fury in her eyes. "I am a horse then," her father replied. "No good, not a bit: Come on, and we two will ride on the heather to-day; We shall have horses together for service on the way." And one of the wagoner carried the shining bit. They drooped adown the heather as a swallow goes. It seemed to be summer just flush before we sprung; But on the down he dropped, and lay down to his rest. In vain they lifted the pointed spur, for each Struck fast, And each, though he grazed, drooped forward in the dust. Then, by another thrust, came one who had rung his horn. "That old grey horse of thine," he cried, "is an ass!" And over the grass away they clove with mad dash. Some one who was giving a bone in a prime, Ran back where the grasses were reddening over him; And the barn-yard boy who had quailed in the storm, Forbidding it yield to the lightning's blade, Could have turned a look to the look of a scorcher. Then his horse was shown to him and kicked, for each Clung to a cart as they drove with mad course, For there was no seat in the house at all, And not a ditch at all. And yet, though he strove with a firmly still hand, He lost his strength for the reins to hold fast, And never turned back to the road he knew Till they reached the ditch. It was forty miles And away from the beaten track, They were thinking of a great store of meat And wine that made Pife-in-and- grouped more fair, Grown clear out of humor as well as remorse, And the heart of young women held it dear, As a child that had tasted of innocent breath, In a house not far from the window of death, And the smoke coming up from the roof above From his head for the journey of his own love. Here on the lonely trail, And there on the open snow, And here by the river's brim, And here by the forest's edge, Were the only things I could see As I looked with a fond delight At the head of my little wee wife When the tears came blinding down her cheeks As I watched her toddle along, As I watched her toddle along. Every day she would turn her face From the house she used to see, If only her head was bent low When the tears came blinding down her eyes And she said, "Oh, my darling wife, Can you give me anything now That I can not with my mind What the snow will never find That will never grow to naught Without its loving life, And never be old like the aspens In the spring-time of the year?" I'm giving myself a piece offruit To a friend of mine. Well, you know, I guess, That this little piece offruit Was eaten out by a spider As though it grew from a spider And had not a stain. It seems, so am I. But, if by the hand of the spider I'm clothed, with a coat of skins, And some friends who never once came To the point where I was born, I know not how long I stay here, Or what pain it is to die, For I can not sleep at all With my head upon my arm As I sit here, and sigh and frown, While the others strain and strain, And it seems to me but sleep As I lie here, and sigh and strain, And it seems to me but sleep As I lie here. Why does it happen that There's a girl with a trusting heart, With hands that for joy she would ======================================== SAMPLE 971 ======================================== I was named ' disgrac't By others vnder second-sap And some of them were beauteous, For somewhat sinister Oft one would praise of plack, And though the Muse be small Yet has she for a vail (I know not by its quill) To give us of that scrip A special grace to all. We're not as tross and cliqueurs, But clapp'd i' th' shoul, forsooth! Like eastern rascals trod, Like bairns we're unus'd to, We'll soothe us up with mildews, And cure our hearts wi' truth. Scarce had I left the play-roll, When I had vanished by the way, I saw I was beset And skelping in the shape o' th' lite, I stood behind my deansie (For I hae play'd my last) I saw my handsome, girt sic friend, Just rearing in the game, And tearing at each frock away, Just wringing a fat frock, To which I ow'd my name: When th' frost fell, and it clapp'd A little Clogris-like, And she waucht throug't a single inch, And poucht them in the mire; I saw myself a flee-blown heap, Weary and pinionless, And she waucht me, and she waucht me, I was for ever fain! A flowery grame she gaz'd upon, And smilin'ly she cried, "O Solitude! O love of lo!" Upon my gowdiebed side. And, not content, like any one That has no wit to shine, I'll sit and see my Mally gone, I dying in decline. Then rouse thee, Sir, and hither bring, Thourer of Wales, a mighty man, All dainty meats to set on fire That ne'er can roast the swan: Spit fierce, and shout, and dance, and lance, And plunge them in the flood; And build a fire in the middle o' yeere Till men be kind to the sowl, And wither'd be our ancestry, And die the savages! O Sirs! - To crack a horse, by wheeze, I go, my friend, to Lancemagant; And I'll abye the whisht an' rape, The stour, the hell, the trespass, and the curse, That ye hae done to me! Your letter, dame, I sent you to, Though it should not become my wish To see you more, Than I hae done. It came to pass, as ye may guess, Ye were but near me, aye, my friend; But now, sir, I despise ye less, And fear ye'll never mind; I am but dead, Dead, and but true. The chord that dang's a knell to grind, And sair misca'd sae weel-sworn'd to felde, My hand-breed to cover, I'll lay my head on your anvil-shroud, And ye shall let me sleep." He listen'd, nor did he neglect The letter that he spose; They had moyst play, But it was a fell that drew his mither Frae the kirk-yard yestreen. The Sun shone bright, His last, my sweet! He took it out, He shut it in, He saw it shone, Then toss'd it round, He had it brung, His Master thrust it back again An' dyed it in the sack. But still there was a painful crack; The Smith he must hae whip an' stan', But still, as master whip an' keek, He did it naught but rin. Aye a' that he was seen the while, The Smith he did naught but blithe; Then up and spoke the gate's beguil Sir Knight, by my gude-mither. "My deary, a' your gude-mither's boast, I'm no courtier, and ye are fust; And I should look weel for a' your host, Were I but here!" And all the ane, that kens the Session, Must ken ======================================== SAMPLE 972 ======================================== ;) All night he drove upon that field, From whence old Phoebus still doth shield So near the gods that he did veil: There lies Parnassus' head, And in that topmost heap there lies, Where noble and defended house Is, now an empty place, Unhappiest to be found To which a few short years I may Repose, have got no news of me: I am an ancient graybeard, I Am sadly wanting in my books, That some as well may satisfy With praises high and glorious acts. E'en those in earth are poor indeed That did lament in days gone by, They might with better wit and speed, Praise, and recall thy withered sigh: And some, for harsh and filthy meed, Do still remember thee, the slim Dead man in blood and memory Of thy unprofitable crime, The only evil thing that was.-- O pitiless and full of night For all that heaven and hell did give That greatness, that at every touch Might turn the scale of acts to his, So quickly do the dead things miss What world-wide power is in them, live! Unmindful of the world of cares They now beset them with, and thus They draw into themselves again, In that which is not as a vain. And they are of the blessed dust; They are so, members cannot be More blessed than in God's sight, And more than in the thought of me. There lie they in the Holy Land, Nor shall my care for them grow cold, Nor my devotion more respect Than their maternal nature, or Of their Creator make me loathe His world's achievements; and their praise Shall be for that of my days. No more of labour, scrannel loom, We wear our life as if it were A day's work, not a scanty room; But, having knelt in death's strong tomb, We love to thank him, and to crave That God, not His great masters, gave That might have saved them, and that we May, though we labour, rest as well. Thou, who shalt ere this life behold As in a trance, tell it that's old, Or it may be, perhaps, and more, Than e'er have made a king of ore; Or tell of great Rinaldo's fate, The one, the only thing there is Within, which will not cease to be Till all the world be laid of him To that unknown and deep-hid spot Where God and nature once forgot. Brothers of mine, I pray you, note In what we know, and what we love, And even as I, in their grave care, Do ever rake the leaves apart: Perchance to weep them seems a crime, To say our prayers, yet keep the name Of all our pilgrimage to come In time of death, till life be done, And I, in ours, lie with the sun. Their eye-balls, it may be, may be Darkened, and there may still be some, As eyes and heart they never knew, And, natural, pure, and true; Some, as they had my life before, The dry hot tears of soul abhorred; And in the coffin--oh, most sweet! No more, for other eyelids' feet! It was a dim and secret place Of terror, where some sainted king, Or martyr, might with trembling lip Expel the secret thought to speak; 'Twas there upon the battle-plain, All day by some unlucky light Invested, they discovered high Some deep discernment of the sky, To which from heaven the starry Seven Would turn their way and try the heaven, To visit those old systems prone In that still vast immensity. There too may others be more proud Of what they had beheld, than they Were raised above the dreary rack, And seeing vainly there to see If God could make his suns go down, And in His own All-might superlast Unsullied holy life and bloom, May one day such deep blackness lose Beyond all sight of mortal sight In traversing this spacious plain; Some happier scene, the summer-fair, The windless woodlands--yet a place Above all bowers, all peaceful haunts; One spot worth seeing cool and sweet, Sweet with the sweet enchanting scent Of flowering thyme and violet: But that deep spot, on which we've stood ======================================== SAMPLE 973 ======================================== their over-aparties. But of all bards the Singing Man The highest honors most refined, With least, least touches, humblest pen, Is that one--two--hour beyond the nine. Whether you win, whether you rule, Whether you please, or still as long, Is that the all-icturing Will Which, born to rule, has ever drawn Into his vital function, To all created spirit-- Both you must follow, when that last Inspiring inspiration gives To that which gave, and that which lives. Thus, as you touch the flesh--with fear The soul still closer to the Ear, Or feel the pressure of a hand, Or the soft pressure of a hand, Sliding through delicate lips apart, Your prayers the heart shall understand, Till, touch the flesh, The soul, its purport in the flesh, Shall doff its unfinished work, and breathe A life-long courage to be wise." Oh, yet, oh! there'll come a time When souls go up on high, When the Spirit that guides the clime Blesses the mighty Lord of Air, And lights a thousand stars, When all the worlds between Is hush'd in manhood's deep-felt need, Beneath the bright and starry need, And trusts in God, Eternal, there. Then watch these sons of men, Nor ask for counsel vain: Who thus upraise their gods, and bow To Him that dwells on high: They sue not for a path, but know They know it, and they sigh; They bow the self-same path across To that great heart of God; Who seek through all the dark and small, Their souls have such and deep, That whatsoe'er a God can give Fulfils His plan to sleep. Ye who have plough'd the deep, Ye who have reared the high, Have ye not nursed your latest youth, And found the branch of truth, Where serpents flicker on the wings Of wind and storm; Think on the dear familiar things Your childhood wearies When we were young, and one with them Was born a man and wife? By love's renewal charm, And truth, and light, and life, I cannot call you to my heart, To seek and wend my way. That only blessings that decay Brings death to her-- How shall I bear her loss and loss To bear it? What-- If the dull brand be dross, It can not bring Its kindred thoughts to me! But wait--what shall I hear or speak If ne'er the hour be pass'd? When first I met my mother, My heart it throb'd with fear; She call'd me darling daughter, And said she call'd me dear. But, when I look'd and call'd her, Her voice was all in low, As--called unto the world--she spoke And call'd me beautiful-- And call'd that name then, which is given To woman, child, and God! Ah! then I fear'd that she would die, And die for lack of kith, And fail to love my mother, And miss'd my setting-day! And sometimes, in the days of yore, I thought of thee, with blue eyes pale; And when in dreams I dared to smile I saw thee dead upon the lea. And often, sitting at my side, I tried to kiss the blossoms white, To hear thy lisping, fairy bride Thus say, when I was wont to speak-- Sweet mother,--he must teach of right! And so, when in my home I breathed I saw thee near the parting breath, I found thee on the tumbling path Where takes my hand the parting wreath. O! oft, when on the other's face I watched thy rose-wreath flow, As though my heart were on thy rose-flake, Still thou didst sweetly go! And often, as I thought of death, I watch'd thy lily-bud arise, To meet the lips that call'd thy name, And catch my beating heart, and sigh That call'd thee mine, and call'd it thine! And oft, when in my heart I thought My life lay sleeping in the grave, I heard thy soft voice on the shore, And call'd it home, and call'd thee mine! O! life, thou wert a happy home In ======================================== SAMPLE 974 ======================================== , shall through the fen Hang forth the Wild Mage and his Golden Dream. Henceforth thou shalt behold thy Naiad queen Worship even where the gods have been The source of omen of her goodlihead, Fulfilled of Fate's high law unto the Dead. Thou shalt behold her 'mid the dogs and swine, The gibbet and the lynx face thee in fight, There, in the after-time, e'en as I spoke, And touched the hand of the Genius of the Mine. Henceforth, O Muse, the Maiden of the Mount, And Elded Fount whereon she worshipped spins, And the gray Sire whose steadfast wisdom locks The waves behind him like a twisted tide, Thy mandate shall obey, with a sword-glittering guide. And thou too, Calliope, to thy Naiad-child, O weary Helios, born of the long stream Of song and lyre and joyance and hurling to the brink, Shall carry thence thy dream and never drink of sleep, Till, till thy favour comes unto thy will, Thou shall awake and find the night fulfil; And all men waking see thy fevered dreams and dream. I look on thee, a nation of the flowers Hangs wistful from the wave-bow's circling crest, But I do not aspire Above them, with such eyes as restless gleams, And no voice but my own in the wild woods And cuckoo-cups that play Like golden bells upon the wind, when light Draws all the glimmering air, And the Earth is waking all her wide-flowered scene. Around thee, O Ulysses, from the hills Bethink thee, see the great blue heavens shine Like clouds and beams, and in thy sight The curving ocean whets his gory line, And the green meadows run with silver and golden grain. And lo, with the thrice-thickening dew, The earliest swallow doth appear, And the starry wind that sweeps along Seems to bid her to the purple sea, Whose billows innocently shine And rise when the sun goes down the west. The many-coloured sky seems to be The wavering disk of some wide-lying sea; Above thy brow the rising mountains rear A loftier peak for the first, More glorious when the sun is at thy feet. And lo, the savage face of Man Comes from the waters! For the glory of the world is fled, That dawn shall break on this heart of mine, And all my hope of heaven is fled. Yea, in the summer of my days I loved to dream that these things were Foreshadowed by a shadowed haze, And in the darkness fared alone Among the hills and all the plains, A habitant of Nature's hues. Then from my lonely self of man Gone was the memory of my days. Nor should I fear their blight or fate. The very earth grows cold again. But still the world grows sweet again. As I pace through the world, I hear The cool, grey evening calling clear, And far and near A kind voice from the shoreless deep Is singing: "Wake, O seek not rest. Wake to the many-voiced behest That bids thee rise up lonely and free, Unselfish and proud, without a voice Or a look for the sea, Wilt thou stand empty here?" Lo, the voice of Song is in my soul, Now that we know the joy of our kind, And love the bright life of the world Not less than it works, It is the hope that the voice of Art Ages after to find Time's utmost and foreign star Ev'n as the gone. It is the depth and the wonder I seek, And that the Son of the Sea--Almighty, Love! Over the cities of air (Oh, have I only heard Thee!) Wake at the whisper of sound By our own paths heard, By our own homes, the most blessed, the most wise, Who with joy ever have walked And, undismayed And in solitude sought, Waiting for one more word Than the voice of the Sea Needs to answer it. When my sky-world was first revealed, By the universe stirred, Where the blossom of earth is, and whence it has fled, I fled O God, As the night alders ======================================== SAMPLE 975 ======================================== . Though once but lowly, 'tis among us heard 'Tis known that God alone is near us here, The boundless heaven I have abandoned all, And deep within the soul (as it can feel) He holds me--wherefore should I thus recoil? I, who 'mid mortal men, being alive, Shall feel 'tis sacred to me thus to lie? For surely some there are so great, so few, Who thus in heaven find their happiness, They in their folly find it good to lie. I can command the rest. The grisly handmaids we keep in sight, Will build me this steep house of misery. With gloating and gadding, the talk we'll keep, Through the foul night to hallow its wall, In winter armed us--our dragons all, And our wanton sleep in the gloomy hall, With the dire yet whispered words and howls Of monster mirth and evil mirth. Come here and work in my heavy wrath! Oh, man, thy felon deeds bring healing in! 'Tis no God's bribe, no power divine Can ease the heart of its inward pain! False dreamer, and all such as thenceforth Flow down to bottomless interests of woe, They're wondrous virtue, and sorely lowering, They mingle poison and mwitch thy way To work thy projects and to pillage mad, And make thee dauntless to assail the cause Of greater mischief! Ah! I fain would learn In mercy if it be a spiteful tale! THAT spirit of our frailty here behold! Thou liftest us to light in heavenly hell, And do'st the task a mere gay fool. Go on! The sight astonish'd flies to your horrid view! Of force of Sin, who waits with bated breath Till his worst foe his aid and glory be, The traitor still the infidel will be! The barons o'er whom joy's and grief's demands Will be to thee in after days no more, As men now echo, and as fools despise; 'Tis time they were occasioned to deplore Such merit, and would gain it from thy sight! Let their destructive projects vanish here, I'll be their master while they come to me; I'll do my duty, though I know the best. I'll trouble still if good, to-morrow's guest; I'll take the sultan with my followers, I, With pride and power, with wisdom and a mind Preferred, from blessings infinite, to take Some man in all his heart, and bear his wearer. He may deserve assistance,--but soon break The league of Christians! Then we let him go, As he deserves, of mercy and the right. But he would have a host and friends, more bright Than his own portal, which all feigning scorn, Or evil motive, at a venture driven. He fights in battles, nor in bloody fights Will cope with any; therefore not his head, Nor shoulders, falls before him. The moment past, "Fire!" and "pass on!" he shouts, "rammed stones!" And strikes his broad sword to the centre near. With eager eyes, and with unwilling ears, He questions thus the guardian of his hopes: "The nephew of mine only crime is dead. When I was only a child and was buried, To drive a sparrow from Castile and Arem. Great news! my little son lies here at hand! To spare us all some dire or cruel brand Will be our last, last bloody fight. True tears Have bathed our eyes, perhaps, and they are dry! Ourself and our dear parents have been slain, So nought can stay our private peace again. In this cause we may not meet with blood! If death calls us to life, then let us rise! Wouldst thou, the western sea, for ever launch Whereon the waves will bear thee through the shocks Of waters foul with brutal violence, And also die a death of lingering life! Now also let our captain strike the flag! I still behold it torn from either shore, Or the wide ocean's loud commotion lost. But then, take vantage; this shall be thy task: Thou hast no sense to conquer or to fall; Thy falling voice can raise an army high, Thou canst take madmen from the watery deep. Thus like the shouting of a rolling host, Thy shouts, O trumpets of the hills, resound! Thou art ======================================== SAMPLE 976 ======================================== , although he seems to have had on his whole Fervor and goodness both. <|endoftext|> It shows the urchin has been here but once To-day a leader of the folk of song, Who takes command that he be led to fight By everything he does. He strikes some folk In arms, 'The Athenians in War,' that it Is a most sorrowful song of all they sing-- Puss-nature! When he hits the harp of woe His wretched friends smile, having long confessed And will not once be innocent, and sweet They know he's ruined them. They cannot wait For all the praise and love that he has won. He must bear witness, therefore, that he hates A fellow who's an enemy. Let him who's wrong Sing himself to success. That's all he's said! This eclogue breaks from the union of the two In the firm epicene of 'The Athenians, That shall separate and mix The years which linked us, speeding back to youth. All of our joyous troop, As first they were, are changed--its sentiment Somewhere survives. The fate Succeeds our march. Had ye but seen a man, With eye and hand half-witted, paces forth To risk the all, in all to strive for it And crush the bounds of truth; And so would crush the truth. But yet, I feel that I must dare to say again That this, though vanquisht by the age to come, 'Tis best to practise it. I have grown taller with age; Let's grant a boon, and beg a boon. Not yet, I am so old--I never dreamed of this. The days are better, you are days for me! My task is not! And while a vital flame Burns on the great oak of my age, I too May play, I will play yet! I go to play Among the nameless stone hills Where no print of the first blue days. And suddenly, the snow would cover me! A moment--and then suddenly the frost Blanching me, I could feel the touch of tears. So I remember all The days, the slow, slow winter; and at night The sky seems long and dark; My hopes have fled from me, And they seem dead--like ghosts--that drift along Through portals, a forgotten, stolen way, Though buried now and cold. And nothing comes to me. But that serene, unbroken silence, That comes unbroken and unknown, Where, strange to tell, a ghostly silence Sets on the floor with silent chime, Falls ever and ever away. The broad road fronts the thunder; The narrow road runs straight again. A shadowy form is rising Out of the hideous night. It is the ghost of Mary. Hear it, O holy maid! It is the jewel of the Christ who died. Take up the burden and be glad. It is the wretched cross, So full of woe to you, The staff, that you would make your home To walk the ways of earth with me. 'T is I, O woe to you, Who faint, and cry for bread. Alas! my weary heart Turns to your coming doom; That can but murmur, and I seek to hear The things that seem to come. They can but doubt, that, in the hour of need, You would break from me your still small cry To those that fight against me there, And I am dead, and I must seek to die. You did not think I could be worse than all the churls Who cry for scorn upon the very road I can See while the daffodil waves, And the curlew passes, And the mosses Minciole's in the grass; And all because your eyes were deep in mine, And I was far from my true love, and I was a fool. Then you said that you would be my queen, When I was born; and I was then Sleeping in your arms and your fair body close, And there could only die. But in you was this most divine, I ween, O Mistress and Queen of all this country; And that my heart at your command Should be so straitly set. And if I sinned against you, turn away The image that I bear. I am no King, not only I, But a vile, ======================================== SAMPLE 977 ======================================== nature's gifts divine, Amid these tributes that I may not join. Oh! hearken, sir, to yon result so dear; For out of sight of what I have here been made Of this great mystery, I could not aspire To tell it myself, for I could not aver Which subtlety, or courage, or wit betrayed Hid sly revolt from that enchanted head, Who thus has passed from hope, and none hath said. As a wise statesman from the roof escaped The blows of love--so he who takes the helm, Nor deems the shaft away because he's hit, Nor what with argosies is in his wit, So, friend, to thee thy letters have been sent. Gaze it the brightest of the Persian kings, Proudest of heart and in the highest seat, Where peacocks dally, in their thousands please; Be thine to-day as I may ne'er forget, Whom not, I deem, perfection's pride regret; And my most gen'rous service, as I dread, If thou indeed with him thy love will wed. What phantom heights on unknown distances The shining circlets of the sunset fling, When thou shalt rise and seek thy native clime, What mental heights, what golden-mantled heights, Beyond our earthly cities may present Thy everlasting home, and so forget, And still be thought of as a passing ghost. What unknown valleys, or what sounding seas, Where Eastern elms forever silent dwell! Our northern seas so feverish and so pure, Beyond all confines of the solar shell, Beyond the sun and moon, its tortuous train, Beyond all confines of the solar chain, Beyond all confines of the sun and moon, Beyond all regions of the night and day, Beyond the depth of heaven's unruffled ray, Beyond all regions of the solar way, Beyond all regions of the starry brow, Beyond all regions of the solar road, Beyond all regions of the sea or wind, Beyond all regions of the ocean mind, Beyond all regions of the solar reign, Beyond all regions of the starry zone, Beyond all regions of the ocean zone, Beyond all regions of the solar reign, Beyond all regions of the ocean brain. To all who seek and find, In this the only mind: It is not a thing to be weighed with, In this the only mind. For when we are nothing, With what a speed we drive, And what a sudden darkness swallows The eager soul of each, Yet neither to us nor ours is given, To vanish away in a moonlike heaven If these be imagined joys, If death be to us denied, Oh, all that we have or will be, Is not of fate afraid, If these be not immortal pleasures, The sea is but the wave, The sun hath not been God's high high valleys, The dog has not been spied, The woodbine is not on the mountains, The hunter home is not yet; Yet not with these same winds of ours Did we our lives regale, If memory there was none to watch on, And none to hear on the Seine-side Seine-side, If it be not our will, If none that is God's high imaginings Must see, as in a dream, What each, or all, or all the worlds around us, If ever ye sleep or wake, 'Tis I that have to bear this heart of mine, 'Tis I that have thought and thought, If that heart still feels the stir of emotion, If one sail there or none around, If this heart still feels the stir within it, If this heart still will be a pulse, Is it not this the pride that once in love With our fellow-man must pass? The gate is unneeded, so we say; If ever a winged word Should reach us beyond the desert way, No hint of the bird's to make it know If the thing it is not, or if a word Arose from its perch among the boughs, If the bird, that now speaks not, should know If this heart could be living, why no bird May go hence or fly, or a wind, that blows, If the bird, that now sings not, should speak, We are of its soul bereaved If he fell not before the Cross to heal, If he rose not from the Rose of Renown To give it faith and love alone, If from life he should come, if from death we should fly ======================================== SAMPLE 978 ======================================== . I a brave physician, worthy to be feared And heard with great regret, full soon shall know I am a man of years, from whom the good, Enthroned in phrases wrapped in circumstance, Will cease accusing future, or foreseeing care; And when I cease to count my years of years, That will be bitter, or which will not last, Some kindly, kindly touch will set me right; To nurse my soul's clear faith will leave it whole, And if it chance, one blessed day of all I shall be the great pain of Christendom. THE lyric window in the Spring-time Is opened to the light That comes from the far seas. The breath of Spring has long set free All thoughts of frost and blight, And to the earth birds sing. And all things yearn toward the sky, And skims the earth with rain; And memory and I keep pace with it, We are two ghosts again. AS in the olden time, so once again, When love with all his heart made life a crime, And death a dream, through radiant and inane, Sang in the rose-time; ere the pain Was past, and all things were forgot in vain, And life a heaven, towards us slowly came To us who lay asleep, yet was denied The dream that fades. And in the olden time, When the dove dreamer died, And love through all the shadowy earth was sent, And with the crimson feathers of his tent Gave back the blast, I cried, That in the cold and creeping years of folly They had but one thought of my heart's joy, One love, as radiant as a thistle-down Is cloud-wreathed over sunlight. I have known The death-pang. Lo, the horror and the bliss! I cannot wake-- I cannot sleep. Would God that I were dead! I only slept. And now I am very tired, Yes, I am tired. There are who creep In the hush of the covering vine, And who walk Through the thorn As slow as the snail, Hearing the new day's sorrow Strain for the arch Which shall not rise nor sink, Who weep for the world's sake, But sleep and weep, Poor worms, whom the rose-red dawn Brings to each in its turn. Do you know it, These three pupils: White wings Of white colour Do not seem to drop through the sky Like little snow-flakes and fall In one flight from the white White wings of youth,-- This three troop Of two wings of whiteness Cutted and curving, One blue forward face All crumpled And jutted over, Yellow gold Hides in the sun. Little thoughts love, Passionate, noble, Delicate, imperious, Dwelling under the chrysalis Of peace for ever. But there is this to hear Songs in my ear, Passionate words Which I do not utter. I, who love deeply, I love to starve-- My veins drip, My body suttering under the heat-- My body its last cradle--and not one word Calls me cold. For life is truer than breath, And truth more than breath-- And if life's truth were but curled Rose-like under the face Of the noble youth and their spears Which set you at death How the heart will beat, And why will the spirit sleep Even in death! And yet When I rise, and lo, From its ashes, in which No word of these white Souls took up their spirit, and left it awake To weary and to wither--some lover, Some song-lorn maiden--or else, A soul that knows not its soul, Lost in the undulant roll Of death's song. And I dream, as I dream, of a world Of songs and of dreams, Of first delight, and those songs, Sweet lost summers of youth, And vanished winters when Love no longer sings-- Borne on the pinions of peace, Like a little child's feet In that calm region of song, And I, the beat-o. No song-lorn maid, no sweet one, No life-one, no rose-wreath, I have taken from her To shut all her heart from me; To shut all her thoughts from me; To shut all her thoughts from me. ======================================== SAMPLE 979 ======================================== , every one! Thus the long, slow thistle-trees Felt my lips unclose. Far and wide I saw them grow; Creation seemed to stand; Something in the world I knew, Something that my spirit held, Through the sweet and scented mist Of the purpling loam! One I loved, and took and bore To my long last sleep, And the bluebird's mellow breath Seemed the touch of life! And the squirrel, shrub, and gray, To their haunts were given, With their summer dwelling gay, To the heaven of heaven! At its dear and sacred rest Many other children played, That was near me still, at best, But I heard their whispers, stayed, And with joyous voices said, "I am with you, as you knew All your summer days, And you should be happy, too, With your winter ways. Let our winter heaps grow round With the sunshine in their face, And the fervor of the sound Shall be ready to embrace All the dark and piercing cold!" Thus I felt the fervor rise, I upheld my earth-bound feet, With a yearning to pursue All that worshipped as a god; And I answered in my dream, "There are children in your house, And an old man in your hall Shall not come and bear in wait, If he passes." There upon a blithe May day Did I lay my tired head For a while, and thought I lay By my firemilk-pale-pale; But my tears were for the flowers That grew up in the bowers And the woodlands underneath. Then I heard a mournful song, Like the bird of other days Singing all day long: It was not a pink, it was white, And it was not pink alway; Its depth was the lambskin's ray, Its blue was the bluestone gray, And it was in my dreams I saw A face that never was seen By human eyes. And we went with a spirit light That had made me dumb and blind, And I had the voice of a song That had made my soul as thin As a yellow leaf in a tree. And the tunes and words and dreams were fair As any and every air, And the flowers and the beasts were there, And they came with a magical air, And music rare. And over the forests high We ferried and furled our sails As we made by the breath of the ferns And the flashing gorse whose sheen Waved to and fro on the warm sky's marge, Or under the moon's caress, As the cloud-foam kissed. And the tunes and dreams of the maids Ran there on the locks of red, And ever the nightingale sang, In the grove by the pool and the een As to and fro on the hill They waltzed, and they waltzed till no more The lips could enter that smile We so miss, in that place We furslanded in those wild boores, That, coiled with us, we entwined Our wandering oars. And the wind that moaned and moaned Wailed chill on the sullen shore As in windless, ghostly seas, The floating hulk that it sought, In the strange white Acacia tree Where once we waved our farewell To live, while memory drew On the wind its wave-like blade That laughed and jeered at me, Where the red acorns grew Like a wound-wound in the sea, Thickening yet more like a tear Through the golden haze of the autumn even. Far away in the valley, Far away from the towns And the houses of men I saw in the valley a white bird, As it flew from the tree A cawing caw and away With a song of vague desire That is born of the thrill Of the soul of the liquid prime; And a white bird flew in the evening That was born of the sea, A bird that awoke in the dawning And became cawing, And cooed on the wind as the cawing And croak of the gay little one. O holy mother, Of all the guests of God, Of all the poor and wretched Who meet in charity, Of all the poor and wretched Who heartily greet the Angel As once it did on Mount Lebanon. ======================================== SAMPLE 980 ======================================== -wood to kill Two things, for scarcely could she kiss That done, or ever--evermore She might not by his faith agree That very prayer would ne'er be o'er. "With foresight pure as kindly rest She will depart, but will not find That at the last, though fled the Quest, She shall go on her roy'rie quest As then she did for days and years Since our renowned Arthur, who At last had won a prosperous bride Wherein his son (a poor old dame!) Was wedded with that noble dame, But thither now I take my way For this world's burial more than aye, And a most joyful hope shall rise In our dear children while they sleep. "There thou, sweet maid, in this green field Shalt be the bride for whom I died. I'd give my life, by stealth, and yield Thy limbs to nourishment. O smile, And when I go, do thou, my son, Fair maid, from this sore grief refrain: 'The world is not for thee, but thee, That thou mightst also be again Once more, a merry maid and fair, When they are wed, after long strife-- Nay, give thy life to be thy wife When thou art born--after long life-- And die, sweet innocent bride of him That born in her first wedded spot, Whereunto rest, and when he dies His friends again, and life to me, Be sure, be sure that thou shalt die." And Arthur in sweet words whose love Had, often stung, availeth yet The two who then were lovers, strove To rear his son, and on him set A chilling calm, that looked to threat His son and his just heir, who grew More fearful after him than those, And in her heart a love-bewildering pride Writhed yet more fearfully than wrath, And he who knew that less was mortal, Answered, exceeding dark and hoary: "The heavens have changed their might, and yonder They look toward the North. The North Passes and flows throughout the heaven; The south is risen, the east lies dead, And this, the fairest land, is furled, And over-happy, too, it is: Blessing, that he who humbly waits To come to thee or to none else brings Curial and savour and double store Of prayer and praise, all as he is Before these solemn sepulchres. A holy power waits the funeral In the poor graves where all these people dwell, And in the island buried near, A chasal for the mirth and hearth- Pours forth the offered sacrifice. The chiselled mother of his bride Owns all; and holy too, for either hand An olive leaf and ivy wreathe The mistress' sacred bough, and where She bathes, she brings the Maid of Thrace; To whom the long festivity Is not a thing but cruelty. And then, the day to which he came Was as the evening's queen, and said, That all for Gawayne then he meant To keep them in their feasts with him, And where he called them, so they were; But now they feed on empty air, And, crying out their prayers for more, Among the suppliants and the rest, I lay this burden in his breast, This weight for Torksey's son, the sum, That not to think or fancy him His friend--he knoweth not what chance Can bind them down; let this suffice-- Keep in thy close: the earth must be A bath for wanderers over thee. Now that we are no more, my lord, We must give thee a quarrel or a jest For evil humor, or the rest. I, in my time, had seldom seen Men's faces, and had seen them oft; As now a man who goes a-stray Has not a fear to cross the sun, Or climb the foot of to the stile To catch a sparkle in his file. We were familiar, though, though, With our young love, we loved not God. We loved our sympathy, and when We came to mix of men with men There lived a fierce contention there, A gathering of men in a wonder-house. Now, when they would no longer speak, We heard them rail and sneer; the sound Of thunder spurs them, and the tread Of those ======================================== SAMPLE 981 ======================================== , For the fierce sea foamed with the gathering thunderbolt; Whirl'd the white boiling billows round and round, And rent the sky with their sheets; or, bubbling up, Trembled the down of ships in a fluctuous rout. Far as the lightnings leap from Olympus, he Slew the dark-blazing bolts of the huge rock, While thunder swept the welkin; till the sea Bulged 'gainst the flame; when unto the riven strand The ships sprang with her phosphor-bolts to land. Yet onward they sped along the dreary deep, In that devouring solitude which seems Yet never to be uttered; and they sped For a day and a night, in a dreary dream. Then many a sailor, many a wailing wife, Trembled to hear the tale the demons sung; And years crept on unheeding till the strife Was brought to an end, and weird, strange things were done. For on that night a ship they sent away, Pell-mell by the wizard of Aeolus. By no means had she won her honey-dew, She showed a herb she had kept so well, That o'er the earth and heav'n the light must flee. Slowly the floating things filed on the strand, And the rough sailor thundered out, 'O fair! I thank thee for all this: if nought went o'er Still to that sweet procure-dealer's tale, poor wail.' Said she: 'To-morrow eve, to-morrow eve, Still up and down, as the full moon late Brings one faint ripple of still-glowing seas, Shall be my hasty, wife to my commands, Like one bedight 'neath the rolling surge, that smiles After a weary month, and loud, and fleet, From sea-cliffs to sandy Bahnothath seas, And dark obsidian, where the moonbeams fall, And all the winds keep silence, I will scale That strange black fortress, where no hoofs come near, That shadowy grot, that looming rock that rose, But where the shade of my good ambroidery. 'Farewell, O lusty knight!' then said she, 'Fare well thou art! how hast thou sped? and how Thee and thy twin brother, and thy father's Queen? Then said she, 'Thine old father's kith and kin: Though I be slain, to thee my heart is known; Yet to thy plighted word I plight mine own: A blameless man am I; well, long I may Love thee: but if thou now wilt yield to me The vaunted tribute of my love for thee, What know I? If thou be'st paid the price Of all this world, it much contents me so.' Then said the Fairy, 'Yea, that were a sin Against this dread, against the fiend of Hell.' And we went forth, and pushing through the night Icarius' son; and ere the dawn was kind, Came Phoebus in the armour of his weed; Swiftly he plucked his scales, and--'Nay, my child, Nay, thou be sure!--though thou be not beguiled, It is not meet thou hast thy mother slain: So must thou pay for this her wages scorn. O for my marriage, and thy love, that glads My sickly wounds, and plights my dying needs! 'How shall I know if in my father's house Yon sunny-breasted mountain-cock was king? Or in the gardens that the dawn foretold, The chestnut-growing northern bears had fed; And if the bright-haired nymphs had scowled the lea, Or in what slumber, to adorn my knee, I dreamed that some less lovely were than thee, Then must I rue my dream of misery. 'I dreamed I dreamed, that by thy new-dam sand, A hunter fain, who leapt, with shafts from high, Hungered the sweet-lipped nymphs, and stood apart. For in those rocks upreared an uncouth form, A virgo-cubbing pine-wood, and the fear Of feasted death and foe unstricken there, As sleep with sweet dreams pierced him woke from sleep. 'Nor ever once or twice till I again Behold these elder shrines, which may not cease From mouldering roughness, nor ======================================== SAMPLE 982 ======================================== carol, The must be a recall-- I thank you for your young renown. For lack of it in these brief days I stood in fervent heat Whene'er you hid my brilliant rays, Or panned your glowing street-- My restless thoughts grew swift and strong, Though shaken by the while As by a mighty earthquake throng; I never more shall feel the thrill Of loved delirium, Or the soft breeze of this book, I trow, That fans our mortal strife;-- No more, it seems, shall God-inspired be, When at His fane he sits Blindfold in that blest serenity! Though dimly through the twilight skies, The setting sun shows faintly by, Yet not in that serenest sphere Can I be found, if thrilled with prayer; Here would I stand and wait the ray, Here seek the brightness, here portray My faint existence, and to be Unseen but felt thro' Liberty! As when amid the virgin forests, In some deep woody vale, With rivulets and with crystal rills, I watch the quivering of the pines, I find the great GALOREA, Whose waters kiss the sky As if to tell me such a tale! And ah! how faint and far, How near is she! Her voice, a tender melody Within the silent wood, Speaks something that may well beseem The world that is so good! O, half thy heart and half thy God Are meet for glances of delight, Sweet child, to tell of joy, And die, but tell me of the height I then divined, Thou wouldst be glad the other night. What short delightful triumph! The wafting of a merry tune Across the threshold mooned! Our eyes, so innocent, Withstand as one, The peaceful and the not exchanged light of our hands, The sound of singing and of clapping! Ah, sweetest! ah, not singest like a dream My heart, which then seemed filled with joyful dreaming, Dreamed a more dreamful night, in the green shadow of its trees, The slender and fun-loving moon on the wave! The soft wind of March with the noisy throng Of the leaves like a band of elf ring-trickle; And under the brown dark olive-boughs In shady, sweet, mysterious aisles, The wood-pigeon cooed; And the owl on the fir-branch, sent his voice Through the rustling leaves, with a haunting, woolly trill, Like an angel's plaint in a far-off mist, Or an echo's ghost! And the fox on the fir-branch, with his face Turned sideways listlessly and cocked his eyes, Wistfully, mournfully, to let him know His haughty lord had passed: Soothing his soul with the sweet, pathetic touch Of the white-throned moon That in Summer does lie Near our misty river On that purple mountain So wastes and ebbs with the swift flowing tide, And our young hearts are aching, With a pain like a haunting dream, for their heart knows They will never return, nor come again, Till the snow falls! I have heard that there's a vault Of cold, bright glass in the valley, In whose breast the stars move slowly, The woe of the snow. And we've made it dark, because The cataract could not shelter The head of a storm. We've walked 'mong groves of cypress, And leaned 'mong orange bowers Of the lime, whose dark green clusters Washed through a weary dream. Telling our love the splendor Of young moonlight; Till our lips grew white with dreaming And our souls became As the sweet white beams of Evening Through a darksome frame. Oh, let us go upon the pathway, And learn to walk on, And smile, and sing, and gaze the wider And ring and never pause! We cannot bear to look or hear you. The sweetest song that ever stirred Your heart in was the far, bold world, Made every sense a tenderer feeling, And turned each vision on your sight Like conscious sacrifice. But did you never know, dear heart, How the birds quivered to behold The May-tide wonder; And hark! how well the answer came, 'Oh, let us sing ======================================== SAMPLE 983 ======================================== on the snaky rattling worlds Of half-a-crouder existence, there are known, How puerile the intimations of the stars, How potent meteors blow, and mellow mist, Which mingle with the Tartar, at what price Wo-beef, this earth! one recompense For misbelieving. 'Twixt the East and West A vast horizon doth an airy range Past telling, but to man, around his round. 'Tis but a speck, but still the sum it brooks The golden confines of the compass-world. What genial influence fills the planets, suns, Filled with the deeds of magnified emprise Beyond all shadow of present ill? Thence bursts the mountain of Necessity, And cloudy clears the void; even from the shades To peaks impassable in many times The thunderbolts are peopled with their fires; Through torrents thou with ceaseless turmoil seest The face of God, the destinies of man, An awful witness of the paths of God. The middle world no severing line hath trod But for a breath of observation; Though Homer long the mighty Homer sung, The souls of gods were not more proud for that Than strong for Pythagoras; to these The old earth bids the wise be dumb with words, The Poets sing, and to the Poets heel The feet for ever on its surface trod; The vast earth waits with unremitting gaze The glorious presence of the Living God. What am I? Nothing of my natures is: A word which blots the enraptured minds, To tell me naked, savage, but divine, Who thus have trod mine undefiguring ways. Pript the vain semblance of the splendent gods, Still vile obscenity with sin I see, Still mock-gross disguises I have won In fierce ape-cabings, in the pride of power That will not change, yet doth become my sin, High ladies, oft, coarse gentlemen, such as Prince, and a wanton sister, slave, or nun, Prophet like thee in tyrant majesty. The wretched charm-bound earth for centuries Bears only fruits of Eden, just as earth Stuffed up with flowers, so my cup is full Of life's last fragrance of my utterance. What dost thou do in earth, that shimmers clear To heaven the star-lit nights and sacred morn? What light and comfort has your King been grants thee? Where shall he find his light,--his glories all Glowed in the sweet fields of my bitter land? My soul, that ever shows him, breaks the bond With which all things can have,--yes, that doth give, Not given, to pain, but yet to be forgiven? That feel and be forgiven of any sin, Or barren of hell's spoil, but covetth still, Because, forsooth, his own immortal soul Commands and strives and dooms a bruised life? I will not hear, though you can make them live But for the life that I gave back to you. The lone gaunt rock is rested in the deep; I bid the seas be ranged in rows of weed And glut themselves with bitter water, then The strange life, like a bird, chirps to itself Its foolish joy, and they must come to life. 'Tis very hard, almost, In winter to be free, And yet they pay a dunce (What use a dunce upon the day?) for storm, It might be tender,--taste, too, and free. There are so many ways For them that travel,--so much less for men. They would go back, should friends be absent then. Some have not suffered to be true While over them there will be no land For them to fill. Some have not understood: Some have not suffered since the world began; Their friends have left me,--so the world goes on. Ah, anyhow, who knows? The very devil, some say, when I come Towards you and you and the heavens,--so It seems, or so I am unable to see. I'll not look out, as I have already said, For my so great a brother,--so I know In short, I have left out myself. Let all go down, And you perhaps can grieve That my so great a brother there is left To do what some of them should do to me. What have I ======================================== SAMPLE 984 ======================================== foreign realms, divine distress, Smile thou not, but o'erwhelm these not in fear But bend to thy familiar seat, and thou Open thy heart to joy in many a good; That thou mayst hear of happiness and power And worldly cares a portion of their own. Since he who us'd to call the blessed hour When pious Angels leave the zone of Heaven To wander by the shore of this fair isle And follow fair description, he has learn'd The wisdom of the Ploughman; now, perchance, Not mindless of the road, but be drawn From the rough ocean's unreasoning gulf, He sees his cherish'd prize, and sighs for it. Thrice happy! who, of all who spin the tale, Shall hear the work, and, in their hearing, feel The Word of God engrafted on their hearts. How few amongst them, such as he Whose inward study is the watching eye, Know, but the stock preserved; and, best of all, The human voice and wreath; but from the truths That with the grace of heaven thou wert elect, Behold the toil and gain of life sustained. Heap the fourfold world, and, as the stars, Shine large and lustrous, as the Heavens glow With twinkling lustres through their veils of cloud; And the unnumber'd constellations glow Evermore large, and evermore return; In that ethereal element surpass'd, As is their white and various form, to air. Even so, O Earth, unto thy seat prepar'd, Whence I these eyes shall look for thy chief fire So signal is the keep of those keen eyes, That I may also say that I have mark'd The starry circles moving in the deep, And seen from far those soars, that shoot aloft Like arrowy shooting from a bow long-bent, Then seem'd before mine eyes to set their sight On the sun's face; and, behind, the great Bear, That with his streaming locks all points and ends About him and about him doth appear, Made all approach to his right hand, and seem'd Not less than Psyche, who with her desire Comes never to the dance, and never sets, Like her who once hath tower'd in heaven aloft. She ended frowning, and her look she turn'd To Semele, and said, 'rise, O my Son! O Father! will we match the matchless three? Lo! one of these, the last time under heaven For his return leans downward to his lyre, And re-inspires with this loud trumpet here, That snakes his head, and bids the light go forth; Yet pause ere this, for well thou knowest well, Ere through the air these matchless strains he swell, And greet him, if thou wilt, with shout and shout, To meet him in the field.' She ended; and her son Upright, yet rapt with hope, rejoin'd her speech, Nor bolder than a God to make reply, Such as 'tis to a prophet: 'I, who dream That thou shouldst hear, must be; I cannot, sure, Thee in thy dream that am a sure thing yet. Either thy voice first reaches even here, Or else thy face, a cloud in the abyss Of that infernal region, where the bound Of every motion forms unequal sound. There still is space enough for aught I see, In earth, or air, or fire, for naught beside; But as thou likest heaven, is all in all. I see now plain tokens of thy steadfast cheer; But little it avails me to discern Thy providence, and aid thee in the guise Of one who knows, obedient to his will, The nature of the world. Her changes know, And in her new-sprung troop thou see'st array'd In her first person upon earth. Her come Midst of that troop, in which thou fain wouldst be ateful, if prayers and tears could not avail, And stung with longing and deep jealousy, Temper'd with pride to rage, flings herself away, And with the troop stands weeping at her feet. But that proud shade, who obvious to thee stands, Sure of himself, glares unconquerably bright, And scorns to scan if she with him aloft In the next troop; nor can the sight be slow For that, nor she a moment will desert; So fierce a stormy glare o'er ======================================== SAMPLE 985 ======================================== While these are here, some small, nice sparrow Lingering on the rain, Odors, and then, was taken, By every one I knew, With sudden joy, to find that boy With silver feathers too. They are gone, they are flown, oh, it's after them now To have you away with the grasshopper choughing, And bloom a round dozen on the Irish brow. Myself will take them, the while, to a man's woe, For I've travelled far, and I'll never find again The grey or golden grain That's fixed upon the top of a little hill, Or the first white star that is twinkling from the sky, That peeps from out the water and not clings To the boys at play. Oh! the stir in the trees, The noise and din, The rush and roar, As I gazed from out the door, And saw again The smiling crew, When sudden a great joy cried to them from the town, By the burning light That burned along the grey-green avenue, And when I was up, she smiled and said, And no one knew. Oh! they loved him! they were more than men To love me! it was as a savage dream, And as strong as a lion, and swift as a lion, And they called themselves master, and loved me so, And they know not how. But though he had been a man for three months To the sweet young soul, I had tempted them With many a brave word and deed of daring, That they were my masters, and with me they were My betters, and, yes, with me they would; And, though I be gone, their thoughts were as men's, Their thoughts were as men's. And she was far too wise To read the riddle of the story That had been to me, and yet, it seems, When we were first betrothed to woman, And bringing our loves, as it were, to men, And how they are, she gave me; But, when I think of it, my heart is sick, And that is all my thought, she leads me home; And I find that I was nought to them Except with the deepest pitfall of love; And they are gone. For they have gone from me; With their blue eyes and golden hair, As long as one they loved, they two alone, And I had all their face on my lips, As long as the sunlight of youth, or years, Or the soft grey laugh of the morning wind, Or the song of birds. The sun beat down to the cave, Where he paused and looked around, And gazed upon the solitude, As if in a world apart, Then glancing to the wood-pigeon's beak, And answering his reproving look, He said: "You cry so loud a man!" And the sun beat down with a song That made the silence ring. "I wis, I is," said he, "aha shant As in this house that I sing; And, if I halt not now, just be The old man's wrath, and go Where the hills are white with the still snow, And the birds are quiet and still?" And he flung the fetters away, And thrust his arms about his knees, And lit the hearth, and his face grew white With a stern awakening, Till he saw a face that was gone distraught With wine and warmth of his home, and thought Of her sweet yesterday. And he took her head on his knees, And stared through the windows, and saw the face Was not by its all in the old man's face Till they saw it not. And the bruised hands, once warm in the earth, Swayed by the anguish, and while the world, That was other than it seemed, would mutter "He was home again,--home, he is not!" But all day long when the day was done, As the great sun rose, he would weep and say: "I am not like him. I'll look like him!" And all night long, with their eyes at rest, She bade them knead and knead, And lay her hands in his. And each morning, when the sun beat out, They watched him steadily climb up the sun; But the youngest son Of their black battalions had fled at last, To have left them all in the field of death In a burst of fiery ======================================== SAMPLE 986 ======================================== Who lead our hearts where'er the cold Is crushing bones of the wild Gaul, And our own hearts as bold as bold Whose banners the high-road o'er And the world's best a kingkin core Will well have whetted his tongue for aye When the cross-wrought crown of the gray, And wreaths of the flowers at Day. 'Twas right of singing free, For best was the New Year. When ballads were sung for free As kings we were all in a row: Well matched our champions were That, well matched, one could only be A peers-exceeding churl and a prince. In the necromancy When Gallus did crown his delight While, wrapt in the hills around His slaves, wondering, tales of the storm Went thrilling their hearts to the light, With the ancient Sabine voice And the magic of Sabine-throne, The tale of his Gallic throne. Ye were then all well. Were thus All, yea, even now, thy groans: With the Nine now is all the time: The nymphs of your race are strong: They have matched your firmest bard And bent the pliant fetters of song. Alas! that ye ventured for woe In the glorious Roman sow, That high-spirited Princes Wept o'er Queen Ismail's dear shrine Where they mixed in their wail Of hopeless and dreaming love, Till you strove in their proud arm For the province of Sidon-nu-corn, Which from your vain tongue they flung With the gibe and the kiss of a kine: O! how many of these may love The fate of some old scion's stave, Folding the maids from his woe to save By a doubtful thought in his grave! With his dream and his blood they were steeped In the red-foaming battle-dance, And the rage of his heart within him leapt To his inmost cavernous trance; But, as always his sire he kept Himself from the battle-dance, He pledged all he had to his need That the legions of Britain should speed O'er the self-same seas to the white Cold and hollowy to-night. But the Sun now turned back, For he saw the army give way, As they sped through the gloom of the vast profound With the haze of the misty day; Over their vast graves the waves swept o'er, Shrieking and rent from the car of war; But never a cry to the living shore, Never a face to mark, and afar Peering, were seen no more; Only the Terror-of-Death In the cypress grove was caught up And bound like a ring round the Great Queen's throat; And ever the black ships rolled Like the grey moths of the threshing-floor, As the soft black-winged day went gliding by. And ye cried, with a lulph-like motion, Hark to the murmurous hoarse noise, The merciless murmur of England's ocean: "Down with her, down, proud England's sea!" With a shout and a step on the sandy beach, Two leopards--and away! From the sea-rim to the mountain-rim, Down--down--down to the sea, Where the Mother-of-a-Will makes haste, And the Courage-of-Death she will make complete, With no little fear or alarm, Till, far as her right hand can touch it, Forward and away she dares, Till with a bellowing call they shout, "O Mother, Mother, Mother!" And the song of the Mother-of-a-law Sings in the growing grass, Till the strand is beaten out By the rush of the hurrying flood; And the song of her lawless will Dulls the widow's wail, As the breast and the breast and the body Grow strong again, While the steel drops, blood-red, Tell the enduring tale Of the blood that doth avail-- Women's tears and children's tears-- "She had a man--'tis he!--she died, Live and fearless and undaunted; Ere she died she had a name, And that was everywhere, And she died by him she would go, His body or soul to wear. "Her spirit, her soul, and his soul ======================================== SAMPLE 987 ======================================== Down from a rock-built hill, where lay, No axe on arm, in battle fray, The valiant band of Vánars, slain In battle, on a morning morn. Mid shafts, and swords, and falchions lay, Arms, eyelids wet with many a wound, In waves of blood whereon the field Grew dark with horror and dismay, Those wondrous might of arms arrayed, And in the fierce light of the fray A sea-born gleam of battle cast Its spray of the sea-born lightnings: red As when with countless aureoles fed The bright-glowing city, the Lord’s head, And shell on shell its fury spread, Till stained with blood of men it went To mix in slaughter and destruction. Then Angad spake: “O King, whose blade Is triple, triple-furrowed, blade Like that which Gods of high decree, By Garuḍ and Nágas, died To slay the forest for a prize. One day will find it hard to tame The four great winds that howl the same. The lightnings spit their fires aglow, And flash their flames at Lanká’s woe. Rage, fury, flame, despair, despair, Defend us with resistless power, Or thou, perchance, our brunt may spare.” He ceased: and Angad made reply: “Thou, great in counsel and in deed, Art practised with the word and sign Of valour high and practised o’er The purpose of a noble deed. By thee a peaceful course is gained; A royal power is now destroyed, And dark and deep thine eyes behold, Most glorious in the first of gold. So shall the Gods’ butler fall, The best of treasures and the first, The fairest city thou shalt view, The land of silks and precious gems, The home of heroes and the best, Deserted now, and thine no more, A cloud of cares, a parching sore. Thou shalt behold Matanga’s high And royal palace, fair and high, There stately trees of lotus bloom, There piles of gold and amber bloom, The distant hills, the prospect vast, The trees that clothe the mountain’s side, The trees that wave that mount the flood, Torn by the sun’s unclouded speed, With precious wealth the world bedeck, And blooms that cast a silver grace, Fair with a thousand blossoms’ trace. Alas, that men should thus despise The art which duty gives the wise! The right the god who rules the crowd, The right with justice and with bowed. Then, Vánars, do not thus pursue The scourge of woe, the sceptre’s sway, These horrid things who think them true. Know, Vánars, all the people pay Our every care and reverence. Ourself with burthen from the crowd Their jars of oil and blood may draw. So shall you, when the day is fled, Our high-souled brothers heed and dread.” Then Hanumán with prudent care Addressed the senseless, in his speech Vánar lords who round him pressed, And thus, his hands together pressed, With reverent hands together pressed: “Best of the wise is Vánar race Who for the honour of the place Touch not a moment’s span, nor yearn For love’s dear sake to banish woe. That power, the forest’s secret foe, Which all our Angas(jab) obey, And seen by us is known and known, Ráma of Raghu’s ancient town, Sugríva fierce and bold and stern, Of Triśirás who bore the sign, And Jámbaván who wore the sign.(mob) Webs, the dread arrows of the four, The Warriors’, wives, with crimson, tore, Bearing their weapons to the sky, And brave Hanúmán marched on high. And much our prowess well might bend The battle with the giant king.” He ceased: and Hanúmán with speed Addressed him, as he nobly said, Like Indra or more mighty might, To Raghu’s son he turned his flight. “Go forth,” he cried, “thy task pursue ======================================== SAMPLE 988 ======================================== when at play, Weary were they in their prime, Bright the language that they knew, Pure from every stain and crime. Birds once good to twitter, Bees won't do when they be hatched, Pure in faith--it may be bad The luck on which they dadde 'd nod, Somwhat's happened to the aged, Up the hill is nigh the het, Yet the old cock, silly fellow, Has no fun to rot or chatter. Then off out top leads the plow, Sings a fox in the lily, Conquers blood to understand Who resembles a great statue, England talks in blankness down, While the old cock, silly fellow, Has no fun to roll and drown. Tired and broken, tired and stiff, Up a hill come trotting Jack, Etched like tigers round a straw, Staring on his trembling stick, With his heavy eye far out; Loot-spurs flapping in the wind, Wearily as he could mind, From the hearth a heavy spurt Shuts to dry upon his shirt. Day by day the empty streets Bulge with throbbing noises far, And the struggling lamplighter swipes Stumble to enjoy its play; Front-ales muttering oaths and rumors Diseas utter new laws, Someth bells or hoofs at night Setting finger-tones to right; And the Bishops, with their bellies, Tumble down and reach their throats, Scramble in the sun's cold light And their written tablets note Till the evening streaked with haze Comes again like a great wind And the night-encircled streets Quiver and clash and wheel amain As with passing breath they draw From the darkness of a blind, Staring blindly in the dark, Scratching vainly at each other, Dumb as he has mastered them, Then they wonder at each other. Tears are safe; that is good news, Neighing are safe, not soon lost; Only Life at length is crowned. Let us for the marriage-bell Ring our wedding bell from Yonder; Marching 'round her in the dust; Oignement steaming to her; Mirth and whisky are her duty. For the pleasant labour at the toil Hath brought no day on earth; Wisdom was gone from the world, Pleasure still is in her birth. Yet the Golden Hynde--the smile Of Christ on gray-borne men-- So triumphs; and perchance the brows Of harlots have been scarred While the wicked reign, this grave And universal drossage. But now she comes; she comes, And lingers now so darkly still, With listening lips and trembling hands To see all things that be. She shall look upon her life, And say: My hope lies high! Forth they ride among the hills For fruits that bear the sky. Over red roofs, the cherry-trees, I sit now, listing For tidings, till they ring farewells To the red-lit grass. Lo, what a garden hath grown there So close to every heart! Lo, what a crimson porch there, Against the gloom apart! Under the water now they cleanse, The moss-rose coolness, The flowers, and all the foolish trees That chestnut it and start. Lithe laughing Graces, tiny gossips, gay Their loves without; Their blossoms swell to petals; and each tree With dew and mist They bind; and by their buds of green, clear gold, They bind and slive. Lo, this old votary that stands alone, Making a moon of silver for her sire, Calling at last to her to clasp and dower With her two arms, sighing to show the care Her shoulders had been sated on; alas, That heaven-taught soul! And yet, each night, she passes on with gleam, Dreaming, and longing, while in dewy sheen The candle flames leap out into the dim And gradual prey of night's unerring sheen, And there are those she loved the best of all, Day and night only of the innocent. And still that garden is now no more 'Thirst'less, my love; no moon that is not, love, Thou hast been seeking in some other place To glor ======================================== SAMPLE 989 ======================================== Longer my shades the freeman laves: To them the milk of my raves, My half the world, that heaves and saves, By the vanquished wintry blots, My wreck-enamelled lot, My ruined weal, so hopelessly Burn, like an Oread's sanctuary To what the cenotaph would be. For O! to what man's treasury This golden censer should be given, That he who willeth such a glory, Ever should worship such an heaven Heard from any other fate Nay, driven him to such abjection By the dull rigour of a fret That envy, meekness, and excess, By strife of shame were somehow meant To be the chain of love and hate. But wherefore with such fearful strife Should souls be seeking this abode, Here in some tranquil moat exhale Griefs of mere perniciousness, Here in the harmless, honourable mere Cold dew, no sweat, touch of the hoof, Here in some spiry heathery field, And sometimes in a reverie still, And with these wings' elusive waine Do flee forever, the wild fawn, Forth from the motley crowd, Forth issuing from the slaughter and clamour, Love's ambuscade the maiden bore, Unto a virgin like the Moon Up steps she as a stature tall; Her name is Love; in that her beauty Seem loftier niggard than the greatest oak; And standing on the highest peak She as a Goddess seem'd to hold (And then her husband's cheek grew pale) A brow dark and yet lustrous, lovely-warm, The living light of love within her laugh. For her, when so long rueful-mouthewn, She in whose heart of sacrifice That still to-day is worship'd; That holiness to which alone She can surrender ever, Had, or could feel from no despair (Such once the happy gods have given, The heavenly deities, to know All power, and bend their righteous will O mortals; for for thou art Woman Whom Fate but ofttimes hath denied, And, on the rugged mountain side Whose highest mount is, cast a shadow, And from the topmost snows his life hath glide. But it is thou, whom Fate's decrees Bearest to take on thee his impress Such goodly sons to bear in thee, And rule by right all mankind's destiny; For in thy face his victory Hangs, like the thunder's hand, yet always peace. The goodliest wifie in North England Is worth ten leaves of her foam, To dance about her like a queen With a lover at her home; The best good luck in her life Is to dance to her like mad; The sweetest good luck in her life Is the thought of some beleaguered town Where a king for her can smile, And so dance on her down; The sweetest good luck in her life Is to dance to her down. For it's knock-down of a scout, A few short months ago, Creep in and out of her door, This fellow that I love so much To-night is the best of a show; The best luck with me below, It is just the common luck With her I would have wheeled about, And she and this wilful lad Have play'd in a top full-blown, For this girl that I love so much Has play'd in a cap full-blown. I do not ask a kiss, or a good-bye, Though often it seems in winter to go, With other maids at play, and none at all, For I have play'd my last. Yet I am sure he would look at me And say, 'I have, and I have not forgot, A lovely girl I never have seen, But the world's round of things I liked so much, But now I do not care. When she's away from me, I can't get over her If that's the way I do, For I can't get over her If that's the way I do. It's a bush, that isn't the sea, Though I take that trouble chase, And I feel that I've been, For I know I cannot get over her, Though she's there in the place, And I live in a low-street place, Very like some folks--not-- But in truth it isn't ======================================== SAMPLE 990 ======================================== to hide the things unknown! What ails ye, mortals! are ye not a den, In which ye dwell, the life ye take the form, To mix, and mould, and mix, and mingle all In one confounded indivisible change? Have ye not seen such diff'rence in the press? The stage's curtain, screen, and millstone, are your field; What ye can meet and think, is real life; All that we are is form and life indeed: And none but feebly drives the coach a-field. The rigid building, and the broken plinth, Remembrance, old affections, all that's faulty; The hope to please, the love to sell, the trust To please our daughters, and the love to bless: Yea, all our perfections are but parts of one Which make for peace, which for itself depends On others' good; and these are all their own Who, unamuted, are themselves themselves. So, to be perfect, is the mind of man In which it lies; and so, as nature may, When once within, or half, is perfect too. Maeve, frae my lord and ancient Night, Rises whence-so-me! Maeve's the complete kene, Maeve the kene. At Martinmas Ike's neck a-dush, A frae my heart I tak's, Fu' goud that maks my een a blush, Just like the rais'd on fraws; Sae joun--Sae jou--fu' greetin' hush-- Braw canna gang. I nearer comes, and bows my head, And, wi' my elbow on my knee, Speaks o' this legend o' the dead, "Auld Guidman's Horn, wi' wha?" And there's a tale that maybe stets The heart o' me Lord Mallow. "Ay, ay!" the auld Guidman did say, "Auld Guidman, wi' a braw new-bait, For sake o' ti'd, we'll hide our auld In coverts high and small; Maeve, weel's weel's weel's weel's weel's As ony servant frien's, That hoyst the crowd, and pride of a' The worthiest o' them a'. "Our tale's aye back-twa like o' them, The auld Guidman has burn'd them!" "Ay, ay!" quo' the auld Guidman, "Weel ken we that we can, For wee a furl' an' fain wad gie them We wadna gi'en a man. "Ay, ay!" quo' the auld Guidman, "Auld Guidman has burn'd them!" "The weel-a-way'd--na, no," quo' the Auld Guidman on his auld Guidman, Wha stood aboon the tree; Sae ye can help him, and he can, For he'll no dearer be. And now ye're help'd, and now ye're help'd, And now ye's help'd, and now ye's help'd, An' now ye's help'd, and now ye's help'd, His nor'er intent, And now ye's help'd, and now he's help'd-- Come help him in his waes. Is there, for honest poverty, That hangs his head, and a' that? The coward-slave, we pass him by, We can nor wrings, nor yet can blythely Be aught to him that's thank'd for a' that. And now ye're help'd, and now ye's help'd, And now ye's help'd, and now ye's help'd, For now ye's help'd, and now ye's help'd, And now ye's help'd, and now ye's help'd, His nor'er intent, And now ye's help'd, and now he's help'd-- Come help him in his waes. Poor Guidman! he was a hav' a lad, And had a doit, and drucken e'en; For when his back was up he got And noins put him under nurse's yince, The youngest son he had tane-- Anither go his een to the see, Wi' ane that was a trust ======================================== SAMPLE 991 ======================================== my gold for you to keep away! May there be laws between us, you and I; Hark, I have called you, call you, and shall set Your seal upon me, strong and well kept fast; Let us not slumber! Batheus keep you fast! Under yonder cloud-bed is a sleeping hill, There is movement, movement of the deep sea; Wake up, old man, and looking down foresee We shall see that you are growing less for us. Leave us wholly! Wake up, old man, and rise; A slumber is begun, old man, and rise! We are turning back from the cool green sea; On to the clover and the acacia-tree, We are losing summit and the acacia-tree. The stars are glimmering, the white sails push, The shore-boat veers against the starlit rock; Up and down the rocks we go; we sleep; Why should we, then, be weeping? We are babbling, singing, gurgling, reeling, Cold and dim; and in the sleepy hollow There is something heard. Here listen, man; Though thy thoughts be quiet, dreamy, dark, and dim, There is something heard. I may not be afraid. The wave had covered the land like a coffin, The great rock crusted like a coffin, And the fair white sea was glassed in silver; A rosemary, one band, one band and bowldered, And one white hand was looping the gold net Of a hair mystery, and she uttered thus, (He had no name but something of the sea,) She cried in terror: "'T is a lonely ship, Where the winds are savage and the waves boa; And some are on their timbers and their keel, And some are laden with a cross of sea-cliffs, And some are shaping their gray spades to the land Where the winds blow hard and the waves roll wild, And the storm-rack veers 'round them like a curtain." She clung there, mother of great joy and pride, To the rock-built cabin at the eastern end, Where they saw the glitter of the morning sun On the burning throat of the gray AEgean, Where they saw the beacon of the West Wind come Crumbling like a crag above the ebon air, And o'er the grey grey plain like a crag they saw On the cloud-built peaks of the cold North-west; From whose shoulders the long surf of the sea Sprang up like a gash in the breach of the coast, And the falling rain of the strong North-west Rolled a hundred leagues away. But they saw a phantom ship of dreams Risen 'mid the mist-wreaths of the deep; And they knew that she was a phantom ship, Seeking for the shadowy strand Of a land they never see, Where never lightens any living thing, Save the strange green sea-maidens, pale and white, Waking from their mystic swoons, With the strange green sea-maidens. Anon, out of a cloud, a maiden, With a flaming heart that nameless was, Risen in a silver mail of grey, Went forth to ride the day. With a smile of stars in her delicate face, With a smile that said, "My lady, ride, Like a hawk that has not a satisfied hound, Whose eyes are dark with death, If I should ride as I do, riding, riding." They left the stables where the little men played, They left the cherry-fragrance where the great girls' feet, The roses, the peaches, the palms and the beech, Where they went every day for the little girls' dancing. They left the woods where the white creeks grew, They left the heather of its moonlit floor, And all day long that sea of perfume and splendour Sang with its mellow tongue of every shore Till all the land grew bright as they went riding. To the light of the shore, where it rose in the blue, Where the foam-flowers grew and the sandbirds flew, Where the salt-tasseled beaches were musical With the voice of the fairy that called them home. And all day long they kept singing and dancing In the silence of the sunlit waves that slip Through the green ebbose of the far-off land, Through the song of the silvery sapphire sea, Through ======================================== SAMPLE 992 ======================================== , young girls! your dances are the best, And I'm as blest as they that are. I'll rock your cradle with a golden string, And, sitting in the shade of your cot-queen, I'll rock your cradle with a golden string, And soothe your pains with melody. The nightingale, the queen of flowers, What though she sing her mirth no more? He'll only give, and you may wear The wealth of all that you have here; And you must love, and you must reign, As queen of this most impious strain. Philomel! since thou art old, Under the willow-tree, Many long weary ages old, I've lived, I've loved, and all is still, And thou art still a statue. In the bright eye of the sun Such visions float away, And the voice of the birds is gone That was sweetest of all that May. Come to the murmurous brooks, Where murmuring brooks are flowing, O'er hill, and dale, and wood, and glen, She seems to smile on you. Come to the crests of foaming waves, And with your gleaming legion Of wild birds hiving homeward sails, And note the shore-worn wanderer's tread, As he comes with the tide-worn wand. The brook is fetterless, But wild, and dreary, and dreary, And a joy that may never be Wins here, but a home for thee. What tho' your fancy dwells Here on the stream at daybreak, Along the bosom of the deep, Yet safe and chafing ever, You wither and you wither as I. In vain with childish fancy We start for the familiar shore, We think of the happy days We were when "Ebrent" and "My". And so like other days In which we are wandering, We too will greet, in fellowship sweet, The wild joys of the home-wind, And their meaning perchance, maybe, May fade to a mist of tears Till sorrow with rapture-breathed sighs Over our dear departed eyes. Ah! that I could, with timid pace, Lead forth my soul once more, With what to-night I long to be, Thro' long, weary years, Thro' weary conflicts and alone. Thyself in strange and fearful men, Who thus through unknown seas To Paphos and to Chios fare, Alphonso and Castile, To roam, and to live, to fare, With eagerness to reach Despair, And all the treasure of Romance; They woo all other women's charms, But none so fair as thee. Go to the window, love, and see How far my pathway leads: How like in all, with swifter tie, My she-wolf, on her crooked steeds. The night is calm, the breeze Faints in the trees And from the orange-trees The sun-god bends his head. In the dark wood I'll come again, And not in wood or hill, But in the meadow, by the glen, Where dwell the happy hours, And all is quiet as the grave. The broad, bright roof is red and bare; So, when you seek a morning-air, Do you in your good-night revel there, Mellow, and glad, and gay? Hark! when I say, "Hallo! hallo!" The wood-spar and the dew-damp grey. The wind so loud and fast! The lonesome winds blow out so long, The birds are gone, and in my song The breeze dies, murmuring. The bird flies home at daybreak, The bird flies home at eve. The sun shines on the flowery leas, The night is full of glee: But in my heart, my heart has been Fuller than all to me. With midnight tears my eyes are wet, The wild-flowers nod on every bough, The flowers dart wild meteor-like; To me they ne'er can look, to me The sleepy eyes of many a boy, And all things love to come abroad, As if the flowers were false to me, And all things mock'd are so. Alas! what little strength there is In the impenetrable deep! Where the sea-tides, down ======================================== SAMPLE 993 ======================================== out, who loveth yet who loveth best. He is the holy breath of wife and child; God's breath of life and death of death and birth, Keen roots of life, a hardy human life. He is not evil, nor would be all divine; Him own we know not, for he strove to sing. Not unto us the songs of all the earth Have sounds like this; they rise unto us then. But for the thought of thee, If I were into which I might not go, It were too much, it would be too much to sing. From woods to fields I look, but not for man. O Shepherd, with thy faithful eyes I see Thy brother, but thy voice has voice of might; The clear note of that inward voice is thine; O Shepherd, art thou near me, or art thou far? Come nearer, love, and come, for thou wilt come, And thou shalt see him, and he shall kiss thee. Take back the Virgin Page, the Raven-Hopendered, With the gilt string that once he strung before, With the fine touch of sacred passion-throats, That same touch with which all the Eastern world Forget so long seems but a little song, O poet, do not pass away, but stay In me this hour, lest I be urged too long. What am I but a bird, a bird that flutters As I fly on, free and clear from danger To the shores of unknown fairies bounding From the sweet harbours of the far-off shore? Yet it is but a song, a song to-day, By the shores of unknown fairies drifted On to the high shores of the sunset-world, Where naught but the soft savour is breathed forth. Shall I not be song, then? to-morrow is not, Nor is it the wind, O raven, that makes noises In the forest tree? Or shall I not be song, How I sang once, and to-day, a bird, my only? Be not so strong for singing, for all things take flight. Blow, thou far spirit, blow out of my nostrils, Blow back my spirit to the earth and sea For thine ears' hearing; melt the coward's haughty word From the lips of thyself; set open wide the gates; And I live in the world where all things are singing. O wind of the far away, what sound is this? O winged am I; what light is on me shed From the great sun, or from the arms of the moon? O shelter me in thy bosom; make it known, O whisper in my spirit, thou God of the ages, Thunder of God, who hears, who knows, who hears! O speak unto my soul; sound mine own praises; Let me grow strong and make my singing meet With thy strong hands, O night, of the slow spirits, That depart and weep, and flee and fleet With the sun's gold, or the light of the darkness In the white-throated night of winter, With the sick men for bread? O traveller, hear me; for the light of my road Gleams bright upon your shoulders; sounds of the highway Melt into silence through the darkness, and the houses In the steep street seem silver and grey On the far surf of the far tide of the far-off. O traveller, fear me! for lo, the long light strikes me From the gray portals of the underworld, Where are the eyesight and the hair, the voice? I turn and seek the eyes that are so dark, I turn and seek the eyes that are so dark, I turn and seek the hair that is so long. And where is the brows and the hair, the face? And when is the foot of the hard hoof laid there? And who hath ears to hear me, who, half-seen, Hears not the world-worn feet of my footstep, But on the high roads, bare and brown, of the hills, Who fares and sings and dost see and hear me, Dost thou not hear, O earth, the long low cry? And who art thou, O sun of the high places? O the afternoon of life, The evening was over and gone, And the brook running runs in the meadows, Was stiller than the water, and the dust Was sloven by the brooks as with a knife, And the seed-pods grew over, and the black Light rudd ======================================== SAMPLE 994 ======================================== “To lofty Jove his chariot. Straight, except “They leave the town, the Muses in the midst “Maintaining less their envy, lead the way, “Each others winding in the lofty wall. “Now all too swift is they, too swift the mare “To climb; such is their sport, and such their haunts: “Nor do they change, till some celestial Pow'r “Gives to their limbs the form. Now swelling wide “With hopes of future conquests. Day and night “Two objects on the royal throne they name, “Which, both adjoining earth and heaven, allow. “Two wings she gives to him. Th' unwilling steeds “Covered with clouds are shadowy. Lo! they come “From Lemnos, from Phæacia's dread abode; “From wide-known Tarne. All these were plou'd for them, “And more, for them be easy; they, as much “As they would wish. Let one admire what moves, “Their forms, their oracles, and whence they came; “For none, no female vanity. Yet more “The sport of their own loins,--deeds which they choose “To proffer in the genial spring, with gold “Well-plumag'd; all their wide-spread tables they “Prepare, and, greedy of the gods, eat up “The ancient grass; then cast into the stream “The filthy carcases; and straight they weep “The brimful flood, with streaming tears, and weeps “The day of lasting mourning. Still the plague “Burns on their souls: they bathe in tears the wounds “Of their own bodies, and the blood they shed; “And still consume the fattest of their breath. “These too, with desp'rate passion not displeas'd, “Their mangled bodies cast, and spread the plain, “Ere fall of night; these in the bodies laid. “These too, with backs unwound, their death lament, “And shrieks of women: they shall weep; o'ercome “Their fate and die, in the last peaceful hour. “The truth alone was dear. Bold Didyïs, “Fierce Didyän, the son of Æolus, “Was hurl'd. The infant in his throat was fix'd “To face the very God. My power divine, “Arriv'd, with Ceÿx, such a frightful deed “By Belus done to death; which you may know “If means, your flight across the sea would dash.” Thus rag'd his tongue, and thus the goblet spoke:-- “Ceÿx, blame not me, who nor his javelin “Receive, as benefits forgot. Nor spare “Belusus' breast his weapons, lest his love “With fraud compleat, amid his milk-white locks “An hostage holds. 'Twere best my boast to excuse “If I a mortal form have rear'd; though now “An heifer fierce and fierce, more fierce than nymphs “She still may guard, though witless of her load. “Nor I to her less dangerous force and harsh “My warning voice will credit. All I dread, “Whate'er the chance may be, is, that he wrongs “The mother of mankind. This cup shall prove “False to my oath: before her face no more “Shall be my care;--and never more be seen.” Thus in his fraud, his words he perjur'd straight, Doubtless that more than madness he would wish More than your promise deem'd. Nor deem I long For joy; your presents will I now bestow “On him and you. Nor less will I reject, “Or yield to you. Nay more, in factious terms, “Ye will not so much grace receive. What force “Can I deserve, who now refuse? 'tis yours, “If fate your power shall grant. Pledge then the cup, “Span the full offering. Pledge the cup; we too, “The cup with water mingles, and our life “Shall forfeit, if you please.” Meantime the nymph ======================================== SAMPLE 995 ======================================== , but we will always be Unshorten'd by the knowledge or the tact Of any one we knew before, But shall draw nigh to Elba once again. Ah, dear to me are things of form And feeling, and not of the heart, Upon a sudden rush of wings Outspread beyond my reason's reach, And far away, and running light Round hither and around, and flutter, Between, and come again, and glimmer, And drift from thought to circumstance, And vanish in a kind of guise That gives my heart relief, to see That which I have not seen before. Thou Sun of my soul, that knowest The secrets of my destiny, And speakest them for me, I do not Say anything of thine or theirs; But if to-day thou wilt not say The same to those who've question'd here In thy eternal lighted bar, And bid thine altars be revered, And all my doctrines be as clear As is my living soul to thee. Listen not--'twas not to-day, And to-morrow, and to-day, We, who used to understand All our secrets, did not know The touch of thy own hand. Listen not--'twas the hour That struck us with strange power; Yet within our hearts, where'er We wound, or where'er, we burn-- It was but to tell-- That thou wert there, O Sun, And shalt shine as thy farewell. And it was but to hear The message of thy pure thought To come to thee and me. I am nothing at all-- My heart is as void and void; I have sinned--but I shall do Nothing!--to give up all To the deeds that I had done, To the things I have not done. O my love, she shone as the sun, As the lightning flashes that flash and burn, As the eyes that love her and shame her and mourn-- As the blue and the hair that is shorn Of the waves that scatter and hide them, and lie With secrets out of the clouds that lie, And whirl and wither away from us, and all The winds that walk, and the waves that call-- O my love, she shone as the sun, As the lightning flashes that flash and wreathe-- As the night-star that blinks from the deep Of the ocean that ripples and glows, And is mute--O my love, she shone, As my heart, and her eyes, that were thine, (O my love, she was none of mine own, And my heart and mine are as one of thine, And mine are broken and stripped of mine), O my love, she shone as the sun, As the moon that leaves one a two-edged crown, And rises in darkness and darkness down; And I think of her in my heart once more-- O my love, she was there, And thy face and thy soul were gone, And the whole world laid hollow and black With the hopes that were once blossoming back To the life that had bloomed in thy breast once more. I see her in the garden by the way; And her dress, as she was going, and her feet, Her head upon the grasses and the flowers, Is all that I would have her do I know-- O my love, she was there, And thy face and thy soul were gone, And the whole world lay hollow and black With the hopes that were once blossoming back To the life that had bloomed in thy breast And lost in the world that smiled or died In the world that was gone. But we turn from the garden to the wood, And far away she lies asleep, And the stir of summer in her blood Comes about the doors of Paradise, Where my heart is crying with pain, O my love, she sleeps. Even as I lay in the shadow of evening And mirrored in the stream beneath the trees, The lights of two and three went out Till the tree was in its heart; And I lay in that shadow of the tree That leans across the water and sighs, Sullenly sad and slow, My heart did not frame a word, That was a cry. Slowly, but not in the quiet of morning, Broke the stillness, ere I woke, Till it was not I that wept, That heard it not. Deep in the forest where the dark roots sleep, ======================================== SAMPLE 996 ======================================== . <|endoftext|> All you talons that appall Of snow and wind may yet avail My little wit, nor hinder mine: But though you freeze me, tear me, tear me, A lightning gesture will not fear ye. To overcome the snow and frost My brow is small, for it is frost; I should not freeze you, O my frost: An ice it is; to bind you, I Will make you brooches for your bed. Give me a kiss; so sleek, so round, That none against the wind can beat It with your comb, and could afford The paragon of it to guard you: But though you chafe and I protest, Still, though I am yourself robust, Believe me, love, one thing I'm at: Consult yourself and have no fear. <|endoftext|> Now is my time at hand to speak; My pipes I sound, my chains I break; It is no time for thinking things, Nor fashions all my time in jest; Believe me, have I not amiss Because you talk of having it? I would not be a cause of jest. For I am mad, because of love. Because you spoil my plans of peace, And break my stubborn heart above The things I cannot well define. Believe me, I do rather rave Because you talk of having it; Because I am too much a slave To have for nothing otherwhere. And yet, because you prove it wrong To yield another to my will Because you condescend to talk Of giving me another to kill, I'm glad that you have not been good. And after all your meetings, pray, That I might find another sweet For your contempt of having played The cruel game, and waged a part: Have you not learned the truth from me? I have not lived, but if I had, I would have found them in your thought; And yet, because that word you spake Brings pity on the Hebrew maid, I feel that I must sometimes speak: 'I can't persuade myself to 'm nearly dead;' Remember, once, what made me mad, If you'll forgive me, though I weep; For I see in your soliloquy Some burst of heart-break after joy, Or, just to set you smilingly, So very prettily, too often Is changed the parson's name to 'mazed wife.' Mirth, mirth went by me as I smelt, Until I got aware of Love. Then Love must rise from Tears and tremble into Life; Then Song must change the heart from slow to sweet, Or, (so the tale began,) if, thorough need, 'Crescent and perfect (every mouth, each thought), She drives them forth to take her mulberry root, And there's the sweetness, faith, of every bud. Gather the bruised grains to her glad. But though the ripened ears and dimpled mouth Sigh as the breaking of a face, and beat With longing for the truth she never had, The baby mouth looks vivid, hopeful, sweet. Make her to smile, those lambs are ripened so, Shrinking in brightness like the sun; Take her up tenderly, new-born and young; For when there's grief and she is glad, Old mother of God's mystery, There's waiting in the baby's head For something in his mystery. You are coming up the hill, the hill, the hill! Three thousand year ago, my dear, We talked of God, and heard His word As now--and who will say it now? But oh, that cute, ecstatic thought! We almost feared to speak to Him; And yet I often shuddered when He showed so much the shining pan That I was listening to His call, And looking at His face at all, All on a sudden seemed to drown The organ music of His Throne. Oh, all this glory I have lost, And all this wonder I have not. If I should ever have believed I might have been a little Lord, I should have been a spirit brown, And always growing in my mind, And always growing fat and tall, Held by my side in the great hall, But looking out across the plain, Just like a meadow in a dream, Just as some flower breaks in the stream! I am coming, my beloved, For I see you bend down the side Of the pill ======================================== SAMPLE 997 ======================================== , but still Can sum the aberrations, and the tree With all its fragrant berries, leaves the earth In crisp felicity, and all her seeming Is hush'd beneath the tremulous silver feet Of those who roam afar. The girls appear As duteous as the linnet and the sheen Of the moth-melted pickerel, nor forget The long time, that with deliciously sweet The delicate jewellers have us'd it last The silvery tissue paper, till at last To the great heart of the earth they are borne. O wonderful night-flower, sleep-suggest'd so By a midwife to an undefiled ear, So near the sense of sleep becomes itself That only in the drowsy consciousness Of a man, in that bread he halts his heart, Shall dwell, and his soul overtasked, so long As long as little speech, but that brief song, In a world which is not loud enough to man: Since otherwhere he walks--ay, far away From towns and cities--shining through the haze Which cheers his un-enfolding steps, the sun Drives ever toward his bed, although he be So distant that his eye hath not the might Of all his stars, and, having once arisen, Dreams of bright cities half shut in the blue. O God, Thou hast immensity. To find A dwelling-place for Israel, there to dwell For ever, for no man soever sought By man; but only oh that I could find One happy dwelling-place in every heart, There where my life were so dearly bought! Thou who deliv'st the world from all behind, And aye to feel the hard touch of the world, Look down upon the wonder-working lamps, And see the dews of heaven, the fiery gems Of earth--oh, be with those who love the light; Lean down, dear heavens, upon this heaven's blue, To hear the spirits whisper--if there's need-- Of my poor penance, having left the red To write this masterpiece on top of heaven: Then, go, dear higher heavens, and take thy rest In this land of Thy Spacious Majesty. On the high tops of yon old temple pile I build a fortress that shall overthrow All monarchies and mortifie their king; For though I rear awhile my elder crown, With sight more than the cajole's glance I hail And tell the builder not to say me nay, I mingle in its quarried wreck, and lo! This work from earth--that rampart from the tomb-- Lies red as any charger, prostrate laid, And sate with us, a banquet in his hall. The rain is on my forehead, which is rill'd In higher streams, and reacht with purer sweep The watery deep, which biddeth ebb and flow, And fills the line of man with tender skill. And thus it is that I can ever serve As subjects, not as slaves, but as a Dove To rule and shelter all my weary days, Hate all my griefs, and leave my griefs to do Even as the priests of Pluto, honoured of The heavenly presence of the Son of Man, And, in the haven that I know, my lot Must be to wander through the world alone, When I am laid beneath some holier sky. I wish I was an honest artisan And true hunter as I am, and could be With all my heart and actions like a man, And had my father's honor as his throne; I wish I was a laborer at home, And toil as servant in my father's vine; I would with all my self in time to come Drawn from the tenement of home and mine. On pilgrimage I wander, lest I sigh That I should evermore behold thy face, And think thy loving kindness thus allied To me, and pay thyself with work and care, If, when I find thy sight upon my grave, I think of it, and long for a return, Forgetting that thy head is shining still; I seek for peace, asking thee in thy care, And to thy soul return with music sweet. 'Twas not the feast, not wine, of Elenor; In vesper's hour it was not too divine; She took her proffer with a maiden's grace; For she did make her courtier of the chase, And show'd in pomp the wayward pride of her, If one but gazed on ======================================== SAMPLE 998 ======================================== t is cowthe ever falling of a kite. Noe is there of a dugsge, or a sanded cloak: But there is anon out of a doucely chape, And is a lownght of a underwoode small The pith olet pries through the heart of alle: Sappho shall all his flesh in yblot controle, He shall endure death fain therby agin. And suche lufs fayth in yf there be dykes, And noughe of wyne the kynges and the wyves: These ere sesthe they ar led to glotonye, They sende love hym al a whete I dare For I mys sely to be loued nere. Lo, how it sit in yf to passe I passe, And hate yet a luf to be in helle: I nought make myne, do I this wyse telle, But all together be we borne in swal. Scho: It sit in al extremes som how it bide, Spendynge with herte, tylstynge day by day The woof of wyne, the wele of lodely ston, Away (thou) with herte therin to wronge and knele. But nyne other londes thou hast loste, We all for-doon forsake that woful sute, Whan though we fynde the furour as we layde His lustes woundes thaugour, there is none. Thus mysse I have bere, and so ben gone, Tyll I come againe to love and deie The worst of helles is nat lyke so dyke; By Godde thou lyst in hell to lyue and dyke. Somtyme thou fallest in honour and wyll, Thynkest, thy cure, thy cure is grett afyll. For be that cursed, syketh, or be that I trow and musowy, thyne is none of that, And yet it standeth in the tombe forstrayed, But for thy wyl, god doth it nat marre: For be thou wrothe, thou art no dede to hear. The wrathte god made Iudge my soule despise, As for that loue she hadde nought to despise, But yet he played that on hether dart, With herte and lyght, and love he held his hart To gete of love hymselfe hymselfe to make, That it for-did be founde full evilly, And for-did all that he seyd of this smerte. But after that the fayre myght and holy fere Sought for the boke to seeke in his bale chaunger, He blynde mennes dette and moisten ere So be that which the blisful god vnstable Wole after have, and do withoute all doute. In hope of love, he were of litel ymbe, With much sorow, and vanyte also, Yet he hath com adoon to mannys grete In hell, and do his dere for to wyse. For he is trewest, whan we gonne to the wawe, To make of love men at that ylpes lothe And brethele, to yeve the tyme in heuynly bothe, Whan they that finde love foul of ynde can. This endles sores fowleth in their drede, Whiche in the yonge world his herte fedeth With blood and often, be the dykes faym No man can fynde but so is their complayne, That they by their pouertye and gouernaunce They fynde with vowes and with blacke profyte. They were begWaynyd of flaterie, And wonder wised men with brondes tourauntage. By this conclusyon is a hony day That knowes the ioy of good men and of wyse, That careles dowghttyth the forrests payne With false preys, and with pacyent euydence To leue it in denys from loste order. But whan it falleth ======================================== SAMPLE 999 ======================================== 'e liked the good in Bowness, An' he just seemed not to love 'is senses, 'E broke the kebbish cold an' mischief. 'E knew no more about 'is money; 'E only said, "You needn't try 'im. "There's nothin' else that 'e can do, 'E'll settle 'arf the troubles of 'im, There ain't no persecution to 'ieve 'im; 'E 'asn't got respects to pay for, 'E 'asn't got respects to pay for." 'E 'asn't nothin' 'igh about 'is talkin', But 'e continued tellin' 'e was "fakin' A dear ol' countra'--not to be denyin' The benefit of me, an' for the rest, 'E was but 'arf on it to brast 'im." "'E's mine,' he sez, 'an' 'e gits past me like. I ain't but blarst 'im half a month' at least. An' then it ain't no easy thing to buy A man with a two-year's gift to buy 'is tea. "'E owns the Empire at 'is very 'oo must, An' me so 'urt if I fights 'im will go free; But I can't lay a growl to 'im an' earn 'is, No more'ard 'andsome 'e'll 'ave to me. "You bet that you 'as nearly lost the 'Un? You bet it ain't? You bet the game is 'e? 'E's wiv the dogwood? You bet I 'ope? 'E's nobbut porter; 'E's only porter. So 'elp me Christ! You bet the war was on Among the chaps an' 'orses o' sixteen! An' if the Lord'll wreck the orphans, an' you Don't blame 'im, I'm as right as I was then; But no man likes a woman as 'e 'ears, An' I 'opes nobody'll do the 'eart again. "'E's bought all out of 'im with a park? A thing that's 'ot an' 'e will 'ave to fight. I was a young an' rather flunk 'Er girl, come out an' get the right. Don't blame 'im for it; you 'ave to wait, I'm 'isbye; an' if 'e leaves the gate, The longest time is at the late. "'E's mine for an hour of cold an' heat. I'm lonesome out to try the gate. The longest day is all too long. An' if you lists and 'ear the song That goes to kill a woman young, You'll find 'is words on record sweet. An' if you drops 'is 'air to you, You'll come to 'is long-legged broodie true. "'E's waited watchin' till the bugle Of the troops 'e started back once more. An' if you drops 'is 'air to you, You'll 'ear yourself an' know the tore. An' wish you 'eaven't for the loss Of woman you have 'ad when you was poor. "'E's all 'is kin. 'E's only got A 'Un. She's 'ad the 'Uns for you. He 'ears it, an' he'll never 'ear. An' if you drops 'is 'air to you, You'll come to 'im again an' know The swag they drove the whole land through, For you could lay a finger 'igh. An' 'e would never 'ear again. "If you fights up to the Wild, you'll 'ear New wounds in the FirstAnswer clear. If you fights your thirst for the Land, you'll 'ear New wounds in the FirstAnswer clear. An' you'll never see no more that land It never seen before before. "If you fights your thirst for the Land you're free to hold, You'll hear new cannons rattle, blow, blow, New hearts in the FirstAnswer are cold. You've dealt with the land that you hate and hate; You've broken the old line right into the new; You've let the old line slip -- you know -- you do! An' you'll never see no more that land, or old, That land that you call old-fashioned -- so be bold ======================================== SAMPLE 1000 ======================================== ,-- Who thinks his life-time done, or that the length Of years is lengthened by the funeral knife,-- No shouseless lance in all the battle lost, No backward glance uncouth, can pierce my heart; The garden of my youth is waste and bare, Save for the battle lost, the afterglow. How little doth it profit us, when we Have perished, and when armed, and bled anew, To snatch at peaceful thoughts the joys we had! But not that we, whose hopes were reft away, Nay, who, their bands unslopped, had taken wing, Hath borne a common wreck along the sea From shore to shore. How little doth it matter, how obscure The dangers of the final wreck, and yet What ills are blotted now! I know not,--but I know That we shall yet most fear That there are remedies for every ill, And equal poise. But still, methinks, this doubt, This fear, and fear, are evils we shall shun. For, look, there came a toilsome straggling-staff Out of a stormy dawn; white was its skin With russet growing late. Here, tost on me, A shattered column rent the form away, And there I lay in huge convulsion, like A ship that hangs in sight on high in air, And wildly whines and drives. A woman cried, A single shudder crept beneath my breath, And agony and death. The sleeper lay, Panting,--a victim,--meagre, stony, bare, Death-drowning at the close of life's long day. The sweet and shrieking echo bore my name, As when a bird midst rushing stormy foam Burdens my name. The sadness broke at last And fled,--I caught my arms, and drew aside The crowding locks that blotted out the day. This horrid legend haunts me. You can trace The unforgotten paths, the unforgotten ways. O children, come and read the signs I know! You who can read my heart to keep me back From going to the far Sicilian town. I know not wherefore,--no, not wherefore. I only know that something strange and deep Has taken place of me to make my feet A harrowed king. I will not see the rest. Strange, as I wonder, do those who have known Death face to face, since that wide ghostly plain Of quiet, dense and black with glittering stars, Should meet and face our every mortal king. This Caesar knew it; and his blood was shed At Pisa's quarrel,--if they would not come, Why weep they? why his pupil left the field In divers fear of wrong? His fatal hour Was at an end. The one side of the town, The other, for he left the fight behind. Death stalks beside his brother in the night Of carnage; he is dead. Weep not for him Upon Mount Alban. He must go the same, And they be swallowed up in flames of death. If he should see the town, say what I saw. No, let me put not out. Come, 'twill be well. Leave thy camp to the wild wolf and the deer, Lest in some quiet place he fall asleep And wake and think on thee. There we shall meet, Be it not far from there. Think, how the fires Were wasted; then return again, to pray To God that he would fold him to the clouds. Oh! better to walk the streets by the old town, And when once more in quiet, as the dusk Has gathered round it, sing, or change their doom. Come, let us hasten, lest this glare of day Should utterly blast the patience of my breast, The hurrying passion of the world, disturb The quiet in men's memory. So let it be. 'T was not enough. The chances of despair are in His hand That they are hidden, and his sunshine lies Deep in the mind. Hark! I have read it, man, In these the letters that obscure the most Of others. When I think of them in thought, And of their cells that might be shut again, Of him, they waste no more. Now be they red, Or white, or black, or from the cloud of death, Their faces grim to see. These I discern, Those, when I listen, come from nigh and far, From lands beyond the town.