Here Jack and Tom are paired with Moll and Meg. Curved open to the river-reach is seen A country merry-making on the green. Fair space for signal shakings of the leg. That little screwy fiddler from his booth, Whence flows one nut-brown stream, commands the joints Of all who caper here at various points. I have known rustic revels in my youth: The May-fly pleasures of a mind at ease. An early goddess was a country lass: A charmed Amphion-oak she tripped the grass. What life was that I lived? The life of these? Heaven keep them happy! Nature they seem near. They must, I think, be wiser than I am; They have the secret of the bull and lamb. 'Tis true that when we trace its source, 'tis beer.
No state is enviable. To the luck alone Of some few favoured men I would put claim. I bleed, but her who wounds I will not blame. Have I not felt her heart as 'twere my own Beat thro' me? could I hurt her? heaven and hell! But I could hurt her cruelly! Can I let My Love's old time-piece to another set, Swear it can't stop, and must for ever swell? Sure, that's one way Love drifts into the mart Where goat-legged buyers throng. I see not plain:- My meaning is, it must not be again. Great God! the maddest gambler throws his heart. If any state be enviable on earth, 'Tis yon born idiot's, who, as days go by, Still rubs his hands before him, like a fly, In a queer sort of meditative mirth.
I am not of those miserable males Who sniff at vice and, daring not to snap, Do therefore hope for heaven. I take the hap Of all my deeds. The wind that fills my sails Propels; but I am helmsman. Am I wrecked, I know the devil has sufficient weight To bear: I lay it not on him, or fate. Besides, he's damned. That man I do suspect A coward, who would burden the poor deuce With what ensues from his own slipperiness. I have just found a wanton-scented tress In an old desk, dusty for lack of use. Of days and nights it is demonstrative, That, like some aged star, gleam luridly. If for those times I must ask charity, Have I not any charity to give?
We three are on the cedar-shadowed lawn; My friend being third. He who at love once laughed Is in the weak rib by a fatal shaft Struck through, and tells his passion's bashful dawn And radiant culmination, glorious crown, When 'this' she said: went 'thus': most wondrous she. Our eyes grow white, encountering: that we are three, Forgetful; then together we look down. But he demands our blessing; is convinced That words of wedded lovers must bring good. We question; if we dare! or if we should! And pat him, with light laugh. We have not winced. Next, she has fallen. Fainting points the sign To happy things in wedlock. When she wakes, She looks the star that thro' the cedar shakes: Her lost moist hand clings mortally to mine.
What may the woman labour to confess? There is about her mouth a nervous twitch. 'Tis something to be told, or hidden:- which? I get a glimpse of hell in this mild guess. She has desires of touch, as if to feel That all the household things are things she knew. She stops before the glass. What sight in view? A face that seems the latest to reveal! For she turns from it hastily, and tossed Irresolute steals shadow-like to where I stand; and wavering pale before me there, Her tears fall still as oak-leaves after frost. She will not speak. I will not ask. We are League-sundered by the silent gulf between. You burly lovers on the village green, Yours is a lower, and a happier star!
'Tis Christmas weather, and a country house Receives us: rooms are full: we can but get An attic-crib. Such lovers will not fret At that, it is half-said. The great carouse Knocks hard upon the midnight's hollow door, But when I knock at hers, I see the pit. Why did I come here in that dullard fit? I enter, and lie couched upon the floor. Passing, I caught the coverlet's quick beat:- Come, Shame, burn to my soul! and Pride, and Pain - Foul demons that have tortured me, enchain! Out in the freezing darkness the lambs bleat. The small bird stiffens in the low starlight. I know not how, but shuddering as I slept, I dreamed a banished angel to me crept: My feet were nourished on her breasts all night.
The misery is greater, as I live! To know her flesh so pure, so keen her sense, That she does penance now for no offence, Save against Love. The less can I forgive! The less can I forgive, though I adore That cruel lovely pallor which surrounds Her footsteps; and the low vibrating sounds That come on me, as from a magic shore. Low are they, but most subtle to find out The shrinking soul. Madam, 'tis understood When women play upon their womanhood, It means, a Season gone. And yet I doubt But I am duped. That nun-like look waylays My fancy. Oh! I do but wait a sign! Pluck out the eyes of pride! thy mouth to mine! Never! though I die thirsting. Go thy ways!
You like not that French novel? Tell me why. You think it quite unnatural. Let us see. The actors are, it seems, the usual three: Husband, and wife, and lover. She—but fie! In England we'll not hear of it. Edmond, The lover, her devout chagrin doth share; Blanc-mange and absinthe are his penitent fare, Till his pale aspect makes her over-fond: So, to preclude fresh sin, he tries rosbif. Meantime the husband is no more abused: Auguste forgives her ere the tear is used. Then hangeth all on one tremendous IF:- IF she will choose between them. She does choose; And takes her husband, like a proper wife. Unnatural? My dear, these things are life: And life, some think, is worthy of the Muse.
Love ere he bleeds, an eagle in high skies, Has earth beneath his wings: from reddened eve He views the rosy dawn. In vain they weave The fatal web below while far he flies. But when the arrow strikes him, there's a change. He moves but in the track of his spent pain, Whose red drops are the links of a harsh chain, Binding him to the ground, with narrow range. A subtle serpent then has Love become. I had the eagle in my bosom erst: Henceforward with the serpent I am cursed. I can interpret where the mouth is dumb. Speak, and I see the side-lie of a truth. Perchance my heart may pardon you this deed: But be no coward:- you that made Love bleed, You must bear all the venom of his tooth!
Distraction is the panacea, Sir! I hear my oracle of Medicine say. Doctor! that same specific yesterday I tried, and the result will not deter A second trial. Is the devil's line Of golden hair, or raven black, composed? And does a cheek, like any sea-shell rosed, Or clear as widowed sky, seem most divine? No matter, so I taste forgetfulness. And if the devil snare me, body and mind, Here gratefully I score:- he seemed kind, When not a soul would comfort my distress! O sweet new world, in which I rise new made! O Lady, once I gave love: now I take! Lady, I must be flattered. Shouldst thou wake The passion of a demon, be not afraid.
I must be flattered. The imperious Desire speaks out. Lady, I am content To play with you the game of Sentiment, And with you enter on paths perilous; But if across your beauty I throw light, To make it threefold, it must be all mine. First secret; then avowed. For I must shine Envied,—I, lessened in my proper sight! Be watchful of your beauty, Lady dear! How much hangs on that lamp you cannot tell. Most earnestly I pray you, tend it well: And men shall see me as a burning sphere; And men shall mark you eyeing me, and groan To be the God of such a grand sunflower! I feel the promptings of Satanic power, While you do homage unto me alone.
Am I failing? For no longer can I cast A glory round about this head of gold. Glory she wears, but springing from the mould; Not like the consecration of the Past! Is my soul beggared? Something more than earth I cry for still: I cannot be at peace In having Love upon a mortal lease. I cannot take the woman at her worth! Where is the ancient wealth wherewith I clothed Our human nakedness, and could endow With spiritual splendour a white brow That else had grinned at me the fact I loathed? A kiss is but a kiss now! and no wave Of a great flood that whirls me to the sea. But, as you will! we'll sit contentedly, And eat our pot of honey on the grave.
What are we first? First, animals; and next Intelligences at a leap; on whom Pale lies the distant shadow of the tomb, And all that draweth on the tomb for text. Into which state comes Love, the crowning sun: Beneath whose light the shadow loses form. We are the lords of life, and life is warm. Intelligence and instinct now are one. But nature says: 'My children most they seem When they least know me: therefore I decree That they shall suffer.' Swift doth young Love flee, And we stand wakened, shivering from our dream. Then if we study Nature we are wise. Thus do the few who live but with the day: The scientific animals are they. - Lady, this is my sonnet to your eyes.
This golden head has wit in it. I live Again, and a far higher life, near her. Some women like a young philosopher; Perchance because he is diminutive. For woman's manly god must not exceed Proportions of the natural nursing size. Great poets and great sages draw no prize With women: but the little lap-dog breed, Who can be hugged, or on a mantel-piece Perched up for adoration, these obtain Her homage. And of this we men are vain? Of this! 'Tis ordered for the world's increase! Small flattery! Yet she has that rare gift To beauty, Common Sense. I am approved. It is not half so nice as being loved, And yet I do prefer it. What's my drift?
Full faith I have she holds that rarest gift To beauty, Common Sense. To see her lie With her fair visage an inverted sky Bloom-covered, while the underlids uplift, Would almost wreck the faith; but when her mouth (Can it kiss sweetly? sweetly!) would address The inner me that thirsts for her no less, And has so long been languishing in drouth, I feel that I am matched; that I am man! One restless corner of my heart or head, That holds a dying something never dead, Still frets, though Nature giveth all she can. It means, that woman is not, I opine, Her sex's antidote. Who seeks the asp For serpent's bites? 'Twould calm me could I clasp Shrieking Bacchantes with their souls of wine!
'In Paris, at the Louvre, there have I seen The sumptuously-feathered angel pierce Prone Lucifer, descending. Looked he fierce, Showing the fight a fair one? Too serene! The young Pharsalians did not disarray Less willingly their locks of floating silk: That suckling mouth of his upon the milk Of heaven might still be feasting through the fray. Oh, Raphael! when men the Fiend do fight, They conquer not upon such easy terms. Half serpent in the struggle grow these worms. And does he grow half human, all is right.' This to my Lady in a distant spot, Upon the theme: WHILE MIND IS MASTERING CLAY, GROSS CLAY INVADES IT. If the spy you play, My wife, read this! Strange love talk, is it not?
Madam would speak with me. So, now it comes: The Deluge or else Fire! She's well; she thanks My husbandship. Our chain on silence clanks. Time leers between, above his twiddling thumbs. Am I quite well? Most excellent in health! The journals, too, I diligently peruse. Vesuvius is expected to give news: Niagara is no noisier. By stealth Our eyes dart scrutinizing snakes. She's glad I'm happy, says her quivering under-lip. 'And are not you?' 'How can I be?' 'Take ship! For happiness is somewhere to be had.' 'Nowhere for me!' Her voice is barely heard. I am not melted, and make no pretence. With commonplace I freeze her, tongue and sense. Niagara or Vesuvius is deferred.
It is no vulgar nature I have wived. Secretive, sensitive, she takes a wound Deep to her soul, as if the sense had swooned, And not a thought of vengeance had survived. No confidences has she: but relief Must come to one whose suffering is acute. O have a care of natures that are mute! They punish you in acts: their steps are brief. What is she doing? What does she demand From Providence or me? She is not one Long to endure this torpidly, and shun The drugs that crowd about a woman's hand. At Forfeits during snow we played, and I Must kiss her. 'Well performed!' I said: then she: "Tis hardly worth the money, you agree?' Save her? What for? To act this wedded lie!
My Lady unto Madam makes her bow. The charm of women is, that even while You're probed by them for tears, you yet may smile, Nay, laugh outright, as I have done just now. The interview was gracious: they anoint (To me aside) each other with fine praise: Discriminating compliments they raise, That hit with wondrous aim on the weak point: My Lady's nose of Nature might complain. It is not fashioned aptly to express Her character of large-browed steadfastness. But Madam says: Thereof she may be vain! Now, Madam's faulty feature is a glazed And inaccessible eye, that has soft fires, Wide gates, at love-time, only. This admires My Lady. At the two I stand amazed.
Along the garden terrace, under which A purple valley (lighted at its edge By smoky torch-flame on the long cloud-ledge Whereunder dropped the chariot) glimmers rich, A quiet company we pace, and wait The dinner-bell in prae-digestive calm. So sweet up violet banks the Southern balm Breathes round, we care not if the bell be late: Though here and there grey seniors question Time In irritable coughings. With slow foot The low rosed moon, the face of Music mute, Begins among her silent bars to climb. As in and out, in silvery dusk, we thread, I hear the laugh of Madam, and discern My Lady's heel before me at each turn. Our tragedy, is it alive or dead?
Give to imagination some pure light In human form to fix it, or you shame The devils with that hideous human game:- Imagination urging appetite! Thus fallen have earth's greatest Gogmagogs, Who dazzle us, whom we can not revere: Imagination is the charioteer That, in default of better, drives the hogs. So, therefore, my dear Lady, let me love! My soul is arrowy to the light in you. You know me that I never can renew The bond that woman broke: what would you have? 'Tis Love, or Vileness! not a choice between, Save petrifaction! What does Pity here? She killed a thing, and now it's dead, 'tis dear. Oh, when you counsel me, think what you mean!
She yields: my Lady in her noblest mood Has yielded: she, my golden-crowned rose! The bride of every sense! more sweet than those Who breathe the violet breath of maidenhood. O visage of still music in the sky! Soft moon! I feel thy song, my fairest friend! True harmony within can apprehend Dumb harmony without. And hark! 'tis nigh! Belief has struck the note of sound: a gleam Of living silver shows me where she shook Her long white fingers down the shadowy brook, That sings her song, half waking, half in dream. What two come here to mar this heavenly tune? A man is one: the woman bears my name, And honour. Their hands touch! Am I still tame? God, what a dancing spectre seems the moon!
I bade my Lady think what she might mean. Know I my meaning, I? Can I love one, And yet be jealous of another? None Commits such folly. Terrible Love, I ween, Has might, even dead, half sighing to upheave The lightless seas of selfishness amain: Seas that in a man's heart have no rain To fall and still them. Peace can I achieve, By turning to this fountain-source of woe, This woman, who's to Love as fire to wood? She breathed the violet breath of maidenhood Against my kisses once! but I say, No! The thing is mocked at! Helplessly afloat, I know not what I do, whereto I strive. The dread that my old love may be alive Has seized my nursling new love by the throat.
How many a thing which we cast to the ground, When others pick it up becomes a gem! We grasp at all the wealth it is to them; And by reflected light its worth is found. Yet for us still 'tis nothing! and that zeal Of false appreciation quickly fades. This truth is little known to human shades, How rare from their own instinct 'tis to feel! They waste the soul with spurious desire, That is not the ripe flame upon the bough. We two have taken up a lifeless vow To rob a living passion: dust for fire! Madam is grave, and eyes the clock that tells Approaching midnight. We have struck despair Into two hearts. O, look we like a pair Who for fresh nuptials joyfully yield all else?
I am to follow her. There is much grace In woman when thus bent on martyrdom. They think that dignity of soul may come, Perchance, with dignity of body. Base! But I was taken by that air of cold And statuesque sedateness, when she said 'I'm going'; lit a taper, bowed her head, And went, as with the stride of Pallas bold. Fleshly indifference horrible! The hands Of Time now signal: O, she's safe from me! Within those secret walls what do I see? Where first she set the taper down she stands: Not Pallas: Hebe shamed! Thoughts black as death Like a stirred pool in sunshine break. Her wrists I catch: she faltering, as she half resists, 'You love . . .? love . . .? love . . .?' all on an indrawn breath.
Mark where the pressing wind shoots javelin-like Its skeleton shadow on the broad-backed wave! Here is a fitting spot to dig Love's grave; Here where the ponderous breakers plunge and strike, And dart their hissing tongues high up the sand: In hearing of the ocean, and in sight Of those ribbed wind-streaks running into white. If I the death of Love had deeply planned, I never could have made it half so sure, As by the unblest kisses which upbraid The full-waked sense; or failing that, degrade! 'Tis morning: but no morning can restore What we have forfeited. I see no sin: The wrong is mixed. In tragic life, God wot, No villain need be! Passions spin the plot: We are betrayed by what is false within.
They say, that Pity in Love's service dwells, A porter at the rosy temple's gate. I missed him going: but it is my fate To come upon him now beside his wells; Whereby I know that I Love's temple leave, And that the purple doors have closed behind. Poor soul! if, in those early days unkind, Thy power to sting had been but power to grieve, We now might with an equal spirit meet, And not be matched like innocence and vice. She for the Temple's worship has paid price, And takes the coin of Pity as a cheat. She sees through simulation to the bone: What's best in her impels her to the worst: Never, she cries, shall Pity soothe Love's thirst, Or foul hypocrisy for truth atone!
It is the season of the sweet wild rose, My Lady's emblem in the heart of me! So golden-crowned shines she gloriously, And with that softest dream of blood she glows; Mild as an evening heaven round Hesper bright! I pluck the flower, and smell it, and revive The time when in her eyes I stood alive. I seem to look upon it out of Night. Here's Madam, stepping hastily. Her whims Bid her demand the flower, which I let drop. As I proceed, I feel her sharply stop, And crush it under heel with trembling limbs. She joins me in a cat-like way, and talks Of company, and even condescends To utter laughing scandal of old friends. These are the summer days, and these our walks.
At last we parley: we so strangely dumb In such a close communion! It befell About the sounding of the Matin-bell, And lo! her place was vacant, and the hum Of loneliness was round me. Then I rose, And my disordered brain did guide my foot To that old wood where our first love-salute Was interchanged: the source of many throes! There did I see her, not alone. I moved Toward her, and made proffer of my arm. She took it simply, with no rude alarm; And that disturbing shadow passed reproved. I felt the pained speech coming, and declared My firm belief in her, ere she could speak. A ghastly morning came into her cheek, While with a widening soul on me she stared.
We saw the swallows gathering in the sky, And in the osier-isle we heard them noise. We had not to look back on summer joys, Or forward to a summer of bright dye: But in the largeness of the evening earth Our spirits grew as we went side by side. The hour became her husband and my bride. Love, that had robbed us so, thus blessed our dearth! The pilgrims of the year waxed very loud In multitudinous chatterings, as the flood Full brown came from the West, and like pale blood Expanded to the upper crimson cloud. Love, that had robbed us of immortal things, This little moment mercifully gave, Where I have seen across the twilight wave The swan sail with her young beneath her wings.
Their sense is with their senses all mixed in, Destroyed by subtleties these women are! More brain, O Lord, more brain! or we shall mar Utterly this fair garden we might win. Behold! I looked for peace, and thought it near. Our inmost hearts had opened, each to each. We drank the pure daylight of honest speech. Alas! that was the fatal draught, I fear. For when of my lost Lady came the word, This woman, O this agony of flesh! Jealous devotion bade her break the mesh, That I might seek that other like a bird. I do adore the nobleness! despise The act! She has gone forth, I know not where. Will the hard world my sentience of her share I feel the truth; so let the world surmise.
He found her by the ocean's moaning verge, Nor any wicked change in her discerned; And she believed his old love had returned, Which was her exultation, and her scourge. She took his hand, and walked with him, and seemed The wife he sought, though shadow-like and dry. She had one terror, lest her heart should sigh, And tell her loudly she no longer dreamed. She dared not say, 'This is my breast: look in.' But there's a strength to help the desperate weak. That night he learned how silence best can speak The awful things when Pity pleads for Sin. About the middle of the night her call Was heard, and he came wondering to the bed. 'Now kiss me, dear! it may be, now!' she said. Lethe had passed those lips, and he knew all.
Thus piteously Love closed what he begat: The union of this ever-diverse pair! These two were rapid falcons in a snare, Condemned to do the flitting of the bat. Lovers beneath the singing sky of May, They wandered once; clear as the dew on flowers: But they fed not on the advancing hours: Their hearts held cravings for the buried day. Then each applied to each that fatal knife, Deep questioning, which probes to endless dole. Ah, what a dusty answer gets the soul When hot for certainties in this our life! - In tragic hints here see what evermore Moves dark as yonder midnight ocean's force, Thundering like ramping hosts of warrior horse, To throw that faint thin fine upon the shore!
THE PATRIOT ENGINEER
'Sirs! may I shake your hands? My countrymen, I see! I've lived in foreign lands Till England's Heaven to me. A hearty shake will do me good, And freshen up my sluggish blood.'
Into his hard right hand we struck, Gave the shake, and wish'd him luck.
'—From Austria I come, An English wife to win, And find an English home, And live and die therein. Great Lord! how many a year I've pined To drink old ale and speak my mind!'
Loud rang our laughter, and the shout Hills round the Meuse-boat echoed about.
'—Ay, no offence: laugh on, Young gentlemen: I'll join. Had you to exile gone, Where free speech is base coin, You'd sigh to see the jolly nose Where Freedom's native liquor flows!'
He this time the laughter led, Dabbling his oily bullet head.
'—Give me, to suit my moods, An ale-house on a heath, I'll hand the crags and woods To B'elzebub beneath. A fig for scenery! what scene Can beat a Jackass on a green?'
Gravely he seem'd, with gaze intense, Putting the question to common sense.
'—Why, there's the ale-house bench: The furze-flower shining round: And there's my waiting-wench, As lissome as a hound. With "hail Britannia!" ere I drink, I'll kiss her with an artful wink.'
Fair flash'd the foreign landscape while We breath'd again our native Isle.
'—The geese may swim hard-by; They gabble, and you talk: You're sure there's not a spy To mark your name with chalk. My heart's an oak, and it won't grow In flower-pots, foreigners must know.'
Pensive he stood: then shook his head Sadly; held out his fist, and said:
'—You've heard that Hungary's floor'd? They've got her on the ground. A traitor broke her sword: Two despots held her bound. I've seen her gasping her last hope: I've seen her sons strung up b' the rope.
'Nine gallant gentlemen In Arad they strung up! I work'd in peace till then:- That poison'd all my cup. A smell of corpses haunted me: My nostril sniff'd like life for sea.
'Take money for my hire From butchers?—not the man! I've got some natural fire, And don't flash in the pan; - A few ideas I reveal'd:- 'Twas well old England stood my shield!
'Said I, "The Lord of Hosts Have mercy on your land! I see those dangling ghosts, - And you may keep command, And hang, and shoot, and have your day: They hold your bill, and you must pay.
'"You've sent them where they're strong, You carrion Double-Head! I hear them sound a gong In Heaven above!"—I said. "My God, what feathers won't you moult For this!" says I: and then I bolt.
'The Bird's a beastly Bird, And what is more, a fool. I shake hands with the herd That flock beneath his rule. They're kindly; and their land is fine. I thought it rarer once than mine.
'And rare would be its lot, But that he baulks its powers: It's just an earthen pot For hearts of oak like ours. Think! Think!—four days from those frontiers, And I'm a-head full fifty years.
'It tingles to your scalps, To think of it, my boys! Confusion on their Alps, And all their baby toys! The mountains Britain boasts are men: And scale you them, my brethren!'
Cluck, went his tongue; his fingers, snap. Britons were proved all heights to cap.
And we who worshipp'd crags, Where purple splendours burn'd, Our idol saw in rags, And right about were turn'd. Horizons rich with trembling spires On violet twilights lost their fires.
And heights where morning wakes With one cheek over snow; - And iron-walled lakes Where sits the white moon low; - For us on youthful travel bent, The robing picturesque was rent.
Wherever Beauty show'd The wonders of her face, This man his Jackass rode, High despot of the place.
Fair dreams of our enchanted life Fled fast from his shrill island fife.
And yet we liked him well; We laugh'd with honest hearts:- He shock'd some inner spell, And rous'd discordant parts. We echoed what we half abjured: And hating, smilingly endured.
Moreover, could we be To our dear land disloyal? And were not also we Of History's blood-Royal? We glow'd to think how donkeys graze In England, thrilling at their brays.
For there a man may view An aspect more sublime Than Alps against the blue:- The morning eyes of Time! The very Ass participates The glory Freedom radiates!
Captive on a foreign shore, Far from Ilion's hoary wave, Agamemnon's bridal slave Speaks Futurity no more: Death is busy with her grave.
Thick as water, bursts remote Round her ears the alien din, While her little sullen chin Fills the hollows of her throat: Silent lie her slaughter'd kin.
Once to many a pealing shriek, Lo, from Ilion's topmost tower, Ilion's fierce prophetic flower Cried the coming of the Greek! Black in Hades sits the hour.
Eyeing phantoms of the Past, Folded like a prophet's scroll, In the deep's long shoreward roll Here she sees the anchor cast: Backward moves her sunless soul.
Chieftains, brethren of her joy, Shades, the white light in their eyes Slanting to her lips, arise, Crowding quick the plains of Troy: Now they tell her not she lies.
O the bliss upon the plains, Where the joining heroes clashed Shield and spear, and, unabashed, Challenged with hot chariot-reins Gods!—they glimmer ocean-washed.
Alien voices round the ships, Thick as water, shouting Home. Argives, pale as midnight foam, Wax before her awful lips: White as stars that front the gloom.
Like a torch-flame that by day Up the daylight twists, and, pale, Catches air in leaps that fail, Crushed by the inveterate ray, Through her shines the Ten-Years' Tale.
Once to many a pealing shriek, Lo, from Ilion's topmost tower, Ilion's fierce prophetic flower Cried the coming of the Greek! Black in Hades sits the hour.
Still upon her sunless soul Gleams the narrow hidden space Forward, where her fiery race Falters on its ashen goal: Still the Future strikes her face.
See toward the conqueror's car Step the purple Queen whose hate Wraps red-armed her royal mate With his Asian tempest-star: Now Cassandra views her Fate.
King of men! the blinded host Shout:- she lifts her brooding chin: Glad along the joyous din Smiles the grand majestic ghost: Clytemnestra leads him in.
Lo, their smoky limbs aloof, Shadowing heaven and the seas, Fates and Furies, tangling Threes, Tear and mix above the roof: Fates and fierce Eumenides.
Is the prophetess with rods Beaten, that she writhes in air? With the Gods who never spare, Wrestling with the unsparing Gods, Lone, her body struggles there.
Like the snaky torch-flame white, Levelled as aloft it twists, She, her soaring arms, and wrists Drooping, struggles with the light, Helios, bright above all mists!
In his orb she sees the tower, Dusk against its flaming rims, Where of old her wretched limbs Twisted with the stolen power: Ilium all the lustre dims!
O the bliss upon the plains, Where the joining heroes clashed Shield and spear, and, unabashed, Challenged with hot chariot-reins Gods!—they glimmer ocean-washed.
Thrice the Sun-god's name she calls; Shrieks the deed that shames the sky; Like a fountain leaping high, Falling as a fountain falls: Lo, the blazing wheels go by!
Captive on a foreign shore, Far from Ilion's hoary wave, Agamemnon's bridal slave Speaks Futurity no more: Death is busy with her grave.
THE YOUNG USURPER
On my darling's bosom Has dropped a living rosy bud, Fair as brilliant Hesper Against the brimming flood. She handles him, She dandles him, She fondles him and eyes him: And if upon a tear he wakes, With many a kiss she dries him: She covets every move he makes, And never enough can prize him. Ah, the young Usurper! I yield my golden throne: Such angel bands attend his hands To claim it for his own.
MARGARET'S BRIDAL EVE
The old grey mother she thrummed on her knee: There is a rose that's ready; And which of the handsome young men shall it be? There's a rose that's ready for clipping.
My daughter, come hither, come hither to me: There is a rose that's ready; Come, point me your finger on him that you see: There's a rose that's ready for clipping.
O mother, my mother, it never can be: There is a rose that's ready; For I shall bring shame on the man marries me: There's a rose that's ready for clipping.
Now let your tongue be deep as the sea: There is a rose that's ready; And the man'll jump for you, right briskly will he: There's a rose that's ready for clipping.
Tall Margaret wept bitterly: There is a rose that's ready; And as her parent bade did she: There's a rose that's ready for clipping.
O the handsome young man dropped down on his knee: There is a rose that's ready; Pale Margaret gave him her hand, woe's me! There's a rose that's ready for clipping.
O mother, my mother, this thing I must say: There is a rose in the garden; Ere he lies on the breast where that other lay: And the bird sings over the roses.
Now, folly, my daughter, for men are men: There is a rose in the garden; You marry them blindfold, I tell you again: And the bird sings over the roses.
O mother, but when he kisses me! There is a rose in the garden; My child, 'tis which shall sweetest be! And the bird sings over the roses.
O mother, but when I awake in the morn! There is a rose in the garden; My child, you are his, and the ring is worn: And the bird sings over the roses.
Tall Margaret sighed and loosened a tress: There is a rose in the garden; Poor comfort she had of her comeliness And the bird sings over the roses.
My mother will sink if this thing be said: There is a rose in the garden; That my first betrothed came thrice to my bed; And the bird sings over the roses.
He died on my shoulder the third cold night: There is a rose in the garden; I dragged his body all through the moonlight: And the bird sings over the roses.
But when I came by my father's door: There is a rose in the garden; I fell in a lump on the stiff dead floor: And the bird sings over the roses.
O neither to heaven, nor yet to hell: There is a rose in the garden; Could I follow the lover I loved so well! And the bird sings over the roses.
The bridesmaids slept in their chambers apart: There is a rose that's ready; Tall Margaret walked with her thumping heart: There's a rose that's ready for clipping.
The frill of her nightgown below the left breast: There is a rose that's ready; Had fall'n like a cloud of the moonlighted West: There's a rose that's ready for clipping.
But where the West-cloud breaks to a star: There is a rose that's ready; Pale Margaret's breast showed a winding scar: There's a rose that's ready for clipping.
O few are the brides with such a sign! There is a rose that's ready; Though I went mad the fault was mine: There's a rose that's ready for clipping.
I must speak to him under this roof to-night: There is a rose that's ready; I shall burn to death if I speak in the light: There's a rose that's ready for clipping.
O my breast! I must strike you a bloodier wound: There is a rose that's ready; Than when I scored you red and swooned: There's a rose that's ready for clipping.
I will stab my honour under his eye: There is a rose that's ready; Though I bleed to the death, I shall let out the lie: There's a rose that's ready for clipping.
O happy my bridesmaids! white sleep is with you! There is a rose that's ready; Had he chosen among you he might sleep too! There's a rose that's ready for clipping.
O happy my bridesmaids! your breasts are clean: There is a rose that's ready; You carry no mark of what has been! There's a rose that's ready for clipping.
An hour before the chilly beam: Red rose and white in the garden; The bridegroom started out of a dream: And the bird sings over the roses.
He went to the door, and there espied: Red rose and white in the garden; The figure of his silent bride: And the bird sings over the roses.
He went to the door, and let her in: Red rose and white in the garden; Whiter looked she than a child of sin: And the bird sings over the roses.
She looked so white, she looked so sweet: Red rose and white in the garden; She looked so pure he fell at her feet: And the bird sings over the roses.
He fell at her feet with love and awe: Red rose and white in the garden; A stainless body of light he saw: And the bird sings over the roses.
O Margaret, say you are not of the dead! Red rose and white in the garden; My bride! by the angels at night are you led? And the bird sings over the roses.
I am not led by the angels about: Red rose and white in the garden; But I have a devil within to let out: And the bird sings over the roses.
O Margaret! my bride and saint! Red rose and white in the garden; There is on you no earthly taint: And the bird sings over the roses.
I am no saint, and no bride can I be: Red rose and while in the garden; Until I have opened my bosom to thee: And the bird sings over the roses.
To catch at her heart she laid one hand: Red rose and white in the garden; She told the tale where she did stand: And the bird sings over the roses.
She stood before him pale and tall: Red rose and white in the garden; Her eyes between his, she told him all: And the bird sings over the roses.
She saw how her body grow freckled and foul: Red rose and white in the garden; She heard from the woods the hooting owl: And the bird sings over the roses.
With never a quiver her mouth did speak: Red rose and white in the garden; O when she had done she stood so meek! And the bird sings over the roses.
The bridegroom stamped and called her vile: Red rose and white in the garden; He did but waken a little smile: And the bird sings over the roses.
The bridegroom raged and called her foul: Red rose and white in the garden; She heard from the woods the hooting owl: And the bird sings over the roses.
He muttered a name full bitter and sore: Red rose and white in the garden; She fell in a lump on the still dead floor: And the bird sings over the roses.
O great was the wonder, and loud the wail: Red rose and white in the garden; When through the household flew the tale: And the bird sings over the roses.
The old grey mother she dressed the bier: Red rose and white in the garden; With a shivering chin and never a tear: And the bird sings over the roses.
O had you but done as I bade you, my child! Red rose and white in the garden; You would not have died and been reviled: And the bird sings over the roses.
The bridegroom he hung at midnight by the bier: Red rose and white in the garden; He eyed the white girl thro' a dazzling tear: And the bird sings over the roses.
O had you been false as the women who stray: Red rose and white in the garden; You would not be now with the Angels of Day! And the bird sings over the roses.
She can be as wise as we, And wiser when she wishes; She can knit with cunning wit, And dress the homely dishes. She can flourish staff or pen, And deal a wound that lingers; She can talk the talk of men, And touch with thrilling fingers.
Match her ye across the sea, Natures fond and fiery; Ye who zest the turtle's nest With the eagle's eyrie. Soft and loving is her soul, Swift and lofty soaring; Mixing with its dove-like dole Passionate adoring.
Such a she who'll match with me? In flying or pursuing, Subtle wiles are in her smiles To set the world a-wooing. She is steadfast as a star, And yet the maddest maiden: She can wage a gallant war, And give the peace of Eden.
BY MORNING TWILIGHT
Night, like a dying mother, Eyes her young offspring, Day. The birds are dreamily piping. And O, my love, my darling! The night is life ebb'd away: Away beyond our reach! A sea that has cast us pale on the beach; Weeds with the weeds and the pebbles That hear the lone tamarisk rooted in sand Sway With the song of the sea to the land.
UNKNOWN FAIR FACES
Though I am faithful to my loves lived through, And place them among Memory's great stars, Where burns a face like Hesper: one like Mars: Of visages I get a moment's view, Sweet eyes that in the heaven of me, too, Ascend, tho' virgin to my life they passed. Lo, these within my destiny seem glassed At times so bright, I wish that Hope were new. A gracious freckled lady, tall and grave, Went, in a shawl voluminous and white, Last sunset by; and going sow'd a glance. Earth is too poor to hold a second chance; I will not ask for more than Fortune gave: My heart she goes from—never from my sight!
O my lover! the night like a broad smooth wave Bears us onward, and morn, a black rock, shines wet. How I shuddered—I knew not that I was a slave, Till I looked on thy face:- then I writhed in the net. Then I felt like a thing caught by fire, that her star Glowed dark on the bosom of Shemselnihar.
And he came, whose I am: O my lover! he came: And his slave, still so envied of women, was I: And I turned as a hissing leaf spits from the flame, Yes, I shrivelled to dust from him, haggard and dry. O forgive her:- she was but as dead lilies are: The life of her heart fled from Shemselnihar.
Yet with thee like a full throbbing rose how I bloom! Like a rose by the fountain whose showering we hear, As we lie, O my lover! in this rich gloom, Smelling faint the cool breath of the lemon-groves near. As we lie gazing out on that glowing great star - Ah! dark on the bosom of Shemselnihar.
Yet with thee am I not as an arm of the vine, Firm to bind thee, to cherish thee, feed thee sweet? Swear an oath on my lip to let none disentwine The life that here fawns to give warmth to thy feet. I on thine, thus! no more shall that jewelled Head jar The music thou breathest on Shemselnihar.
Far away, far away, where the wandering scents Of all flowers are sweetest, white mountains among, There my kindred abide in their green and blue tents: Bear me to them, my lover! they lost me so young. Let us slip down the stream and leap steed till afar None question thy claim upon Shemselnihar.
O that long note the bulbul gave out—meaning love! O my lover, hark to him and think it my voice! The blue night like a great bell-flower from above Drooping low and gold-eyed: O, but hear him rejoice! Can it be? 'twas a flash! that accurst scimiter In thought even cuts thee from Shemselnihar.
Yes, I would that, less generous, he would oppress, He would chain me, upbraid me, burn deep brands for hate, Than with this mask of freedom and gorgeousness Bespangle my slavery, mock my strange fate. Would, would, would, O my lover, he knew—dared debar Thy coming, and earn curse of Shemselnihar!
A ROAR THROUGH THE TALL TWIN ELM-TREES
A roar thro' the tall twin elm-trees The mustering storm betrayed: The South-wind seized the willow That over the water swayed.
Then fell the steady deluge In which I strove to doze, Hearing all night at my window The knock of the winter rose.
The rainy rose of winter! An outcast it must pine. And from thy bosom outcast Am I, dear lady mine.
WHEN I WOULD IMAGE
When I would image her features, Comes up a shrouded head: I touch the outlines, shrinking; She seems of the wandering dead.
But when love asks for nothing, And lies on his bed of snow, The face slips under my eyelids, All in its living glow.
Like a dark cathedral city, Whose spires, and domes, and towers Quiver in violet lightnings, My soul basks on for hours.
THE SPIRIT OF SHAKESPEARE
Thy greatest knew thee, Mother Earth; unsoured He knew thy sons. He probed from hell to hell Of human passions, but of love deflowered His wisdom was not, for he knew thee well. Thence came the honeyed corner at his lips, The conquering smile wherein his spirit sails Calm as the God who the white sea-wave whips, Yet full of speech and intershifting tales, Close mirrors of us: thence had he the laugh We feel is thine: broad as ten thousand beeves At pasture! thence thy songs, that winnow chaff From grain, bid sick Philosophy's last leaves Whirl, if they have no response—they enforced To fatten Earth when from her soul divorced.
How smiles he at a generation ranked In gloomy noddings over life! They pass. Not he to feed upon a breast unthanked, Or eye a beauteous face in a cracked glass. But he can spy that little twist of brain Which moved some weighty leader of the blind, Unwitting 'twas the goad of personal pain, To view in curst eclipse our Mother's mind, And show us of some rigid harridan The wretched bondmen till the end of time. O lived the Master now to paint us Man, That little twist of brain would ring a chime Of whence it came and what it caused, to start Thunders of laughter, clearing air and heart.
ODE TO THE SPIRIT OF EARTH IN AUTUMN
Fair Mother Earth lay on her back last night, To gaze her fill on Autumn's sunset skies, When at a waving of the fallen light Sprang realms of rosy fruitage o'er her eyes. A lustrous heavenly orchard hung the West, Wherein the blood of Eden bloomed again: Red were the myriad cherub-mouths that pressed, Among the clusters, rich with song, full fain, But dumb, because that overmastering spell Of rapture held them dumb: then, here and there, A golden harp lost strings; a crimson shell Burnt grey; and sheaves of lustre fell to air. The illimitable eagerness of hue Bronzed, and the beamy winged bloom that flew 'Mid those bunched fruits and thronging figures failed. A green-edged lake of saffron touched the blue, With isles of fireless purple lying through: And Fancy on that lake to seek lost treasures sailed.
Not long the silence followed: The voice that issues from thy breast, O glorious South-west, Along the gloom-horizon holloa'd; Warning the valleys with a mellow roar Through flapping wings; then sharp the woodland bore A shudder and a noise of hands: A thousand horns from some far vale In ambush sounding on the gale. Forth from the cloven sky came bands Of revel-gathering spirits; trooping down, Some rode the tree-tops; some on torn cloud-strips Burst screaming thro' the lighted town: And scudding seaward, some fell on big ships: Or mounting the sea-horses blew Bright foam-flakes on the black review Of heaving hulls and burying beaks.
Still on the farthest line, with outpuffed cheeks, 'Twixt dark and utter dark, the great wind drew From heaven that disenchanted harmony To join earth's laughter in the midnight blind: Booming a distant chorus to the shrieks Preluding him: then he, His mantle streaming thunderingly behind, Across the yellow realm of stiffened Day, Shot thro' the woodland alleys signals three; And with the pressure of a sea Plunged broad upon the vale that under lay.
Night on the rolling foliage fell: But I, who love old hymning night, And know the Dryad voices well, Discerned them as their leaves took flight, Like souls to wander after death: Great armies in imperial dyes, And mad to tread the air and rise, The savage freedom of the skies To taste before they rot. And here, Like frail white-bodied girls in fear, The birches swung from shrieks to sighs; The aspens, laughers at a breath, In showering spray-falls mixed their cries, Or raked a savage ocean-strand With one incessant drowning screech. Here stood a solitary beech, That gave its gold with open hand, And all its branches, toning chill, Did seem to shut their teeth right fast, To shriek more mercilessly shrill, And match the fierceness of the blast.
But heard I a low swell that noised Of far-off ocean, I was 'ware Of pines upon their wide roots poised, Whom never madness in the air Can draw to more than loftier stress Of mournfulness, not mournfulness For melancholy, but Joy's excess, That singing on the lap of sorrow faints: And Peace, as in the hearts of saints Who chant unto the Lord their God; Deep Peace below upon the muffled sod, The stillness of the sea's unswaying floor, Could I be sole there not to see The life within the life awake; The spirit bursting from the tree, And rising from the troubled lake? Pour, let the wines of Heaven pour! The Golden Harp is struck once more, And all its music is for me! Pour, let the wines of Heaven pour! And, ho, for a night of Pagan glee!
There is a curtain o'er us. For once, good souls, we'll not pretend To be aught better than her who bore us, And is our only visible friend. Hark to her laughter! who laughs like this, Can she be dead, or rooted in pain? She has been slain by the narrow brain, But for us who love her she lives again. Can she die? O, take her kiss!
The crimson-footed nymph is panting up the glade, With the wine-jar at her arm-pit, and the drunken ivy-braid Round her forehead, breasts, and thighs: starts a Satyr, and they speed: Hear the crushing of the leaves: hear the cracking of the bough! And the whistling of the bramble, the piping of the weed!
But the bull-voiced oak is battling now: The storm has seized him half-asleep, And round him the wild woodland throngs To hear the fury of his songs, The uproar of an outraged deep. He wakes to find a wrestling giant Trunk to trunk and limb to limb, And on his rooted force reliant He laughs and grasps the broadened giant, And twist and roll the Anakim; And multitudes, acclaiming to the cloud, Cry which is breaking, which is bowed.
Away, for the cymbals clash aloft In the circles of pine, on the moss-floor soft. The nymphs of the woodland are gathering there. They huddle the leaves, and trample, and toss; They swing in the branches, they roll in the moss, They blow the seed on the air. Back to back they stand and blow The winged seed on the cradling air, A fountain of leaves over bosom and back.
The pipe of the Faun comes on their track And the weltering alleys overflow With musical shrieks and wind-wedded hair. The riotous companies melt to a pair. Bless them, mother of kindness!
A star has nodded through The depths of the flying blue. Time only to plant the light Of a memory in the blindness. But time to show me the sight Of my life thro' the curtain of night; Shining a moment, and mixed With the onward-hurrying stream, Whose pressure is darkness to me; Behind the curtain, fixed, Beams with endless beam That star on the changing sea.
Great Mother Nature! teach me, like thee, To kiss the season and shun regrets. And am I more than the mother who bore, Mock me not with thy harmony! Teach me to blot regrets, Great Mother! me inspire With faith that forward sets But feeds the living fire, Faith that never frets For vagueness in the form. In life, O keep me warm! For, what is human grief? And what do men desire? Teach me to feel myself the tree, And not the withered leaf. Fixed am I and await the dark to-be And O, green bounteous Earth! Bacchante Mother! stern to those Who live not in thy heart of mirth; Death shall I shrink from, loving thee? Into the breast that gives the rose, Shall I with shuddering fall?
Earth, the mother of all, Moves on her stedfast way, Gathering, flinging, sowing. Mortals, we live in her day, She in her children is growing.
She can lead us, only she, Unto God's footstool, whither she reaches: Loved, enjoyed, her gifts must be, Reverenced the truths she teaches, Ere a man may hope that he Ever can attain the glee Of things without a destiny!
She knows not loss: She feels but her need, Who the winged seed With the leaf doth toss.
And may not men to this attain? That the joy of motion, the rapture of being, Shall throw strong light when our season is fleeing, Nor quicken aged blood in vain, At the gates of the vault, on the verge of the plain? Life thoroughly lived is a fact in the brain, While eyes are left for seeing. Behold, in yon stripped Autumn, shivering grey, Earth knows no desolation. She smells regeneration In the moist breath of decay.
Prophetic of the coming joy and strife, Like the wild western war-chief sinking Calm to the end he eyes unblinking, Her voice is jubilant in ebbing life.
He for his happy hunting-fields Forgets the droning chant, and yields His numbered breaths to exultation In the proud anticipation: Shouting the glories of his nation, Shouting the grandeur of his race, Shouting his own great deeds of daring: And when at last death grasps his face, And stiffened on the ground in peace He lies with all his painted terrors glaring; Hushed are the tribe to hear a threading cry: Not from the dead man; Not from the standers-by: The spirit of the red man Is welcomed by his fathers up on high.
There she goes up the street with her book in her hand, And her Good morning, Martin! Ay, lass, how d'ye do? Very well, thank you, Martin!—I can't understand! I might just as well never have cobbled a shoe! I can't understand it. She talks like a song; Her voice takes your ear like the ring of a glass; She seems to give gladness while limping along, Yet sinner ne'er suffer'd like that little lass.
First, a fool of a boy ran her down with a cart. Then, her fool of a father—a blacksmith by trade - Why the deuce does he tell us it half broke his heart? His heart!—where's the leg of the poor little maid! Well, that's not enough; they must push her downstairs, To make her go crooked: but why count the list? If it's right to suppose that our human affairs Are all order'd by heaven—there, bang goes my fist!
For if angels can look on such sights—never mind! When you're next to blaspheming, it's best to be mum. The parson declares that her woes weren't designed; But, then, with the parson it's all kingdom-come. Lose a leg, save a soul—a convenient text; I call it Tea doctrine, not savouring of God. When poor little Molly wants 'chastening,' why, next The Archangel Michael might taste of the rod.
But, to see the poor darling go limping for miles To read books to sick people!—and just of an age When girls learn the meaning of ribands and smiles! Makes me feel like a squirrel that turns in a cage. The more I push thinking the more I revolve: I never get farther:- and as to her face, It starts up when near on my puzzle I solve, And says, 'This crush'd body seems such a sad case.'
Not that she's for complaining: she reads to earn pence; And from those who can't pay, simple thanks are enough. Does she leave lamentation for chaps without sense? Howsoever, she's made up of wonderful stuff. Ay, the soul in her body must be a stout cord; She sings little hymns at the close of the day, Though she has but three fingers to lift to the Lord, And only one leg to kneel down with to pray.
What I ask is, Why persecute such a poor dear, If there's Law above all? Answer that if you can! Irreligious I'm not; but I look on this sphere As a place where a man should just think like a man. It isn't fair dealing! But, contrariwise, Do bullets in battle the wicked select? Why, then it's all chance-work! And yet, in her eyes, She holds a fixed something by which I am checked.
Yonder riband of sunshine aslope on the wall, If you eye it a minute 'll have the same look: So kind! and so merciful! God of us all! It's the very same lesson we get from the Book. Then, is Life but a trial? Is that what is meant? Some must toil, and some perish, for others below: The injustice to each spreads a common content; Ay! I've lost it again, for it can't be quite so.
She's the victim of fools: that seems nearer the mark. On earth there are engines and numerous fools. Why the Lord can permit them, we're still in the dark; He does, and in some sort of way they're His tools. It's a roundabout way, with respect let me add, If Molly goes crippled that we may be taught: But, perhaps, it's the only way, though it's so bad; In that case we'll bow down our heads,—as we ought.
But the worst of ME is, that when I bow my head, I perceive a thought wriggling away in the dust, And I follow its tracks, quite forgetful, instead Of humble acceptance: for, question I must! Here's a creature made carefully—carefully made! Put together with craft, and then stamped on, and why? The answer seems nowhere: it's discord that's played. The sky's a blue dish!—an implacable sky!
Stop a moment. I seize an idea from the pit. They tell us that discord, though discord, alone, Can be harmony when the notes properly fit: Am I judging all things from a single false tone? Is the Universe one immense Organ, that rolls From devils to angels? I'm blind with the sight. It pours such a splendour on heaps of poor souls! I might try at kneeling with Molly to-night.