Goblin Market, The Prince's Progress and Other Poems Read Online

One day I heard it said:

'Men are clamouring, women, children, clamouring to be fed;

Men like famished dogs are howling in the streets for bread.'

So two whispered by my door, not thinking I could hear,

Vulgar naked truth, ungarnished for a royal ear;

Fit for cooping in the background, not to stalk so near.

But I strained my utmost sense to catch this truth, and mark:

'There are families out grazing like cattle in the park.'

'A pair of peasants must be saved even if we build an ark.'

A merry jest, a merry laugh, each strolled upon his way;

One was my page, a lad I reared and bore with day by day;

One was my youngest maid as sweet and white as cream in May.

Other footsteps followed softly with a weightier tramp;

Voices said: 'Picked soldiers have been summoned from the camp

To quell these base-born ruffians who make free to howl and stamp.'

'Howl and stamp?' one answered: 'They made free to hurl a stone

At the minister's state coach, well aimed and stoutly thrown.'

'There's work then for the soldiers, for this rank crop must be mown.'

'One I saw, a poor old fool with ashes on his head,

Whimpering because a girl had snatched his crust of bread:

Then he dropped; when some one raised him, it turned out he was dead.'

'After us the deluge,' was retorted with a laugh:

'If bread's the staff of life, they must walk without a staff.'

'While I've a loaf they're welcome to my blessing and the chaff.'

These passed. The king: stand up. Said my father with a smile:

'Daughter mine, your mother comes to sit with you awhile,

She's sad today, and who but you her sadness can beguile?'

He too left me. Shall I touch my harp now while I wait,—

(I hear them doubling guard below before our palace gate—)

Or shall I work the last gold stitch into my veil of state;

Or shall my woman stand and read some unimpassioned scene,

There's music of a lulling sort in words that pause between;

Or shall she merely fan me while I wait here for the queen?

Again I caught my father's voice in sharp word of command:

'Charge!' a clash of steel: 'Charge again, the rebels stand.

Smite and spare not, hand to hand; smite and spare not, hand to hand.'

There swelled a tumult at the gate, high voices waxing higher;

A flash of red reflected light lit the cathedral spire;

I heard a cry for faggots, then I heard a yell for fire.

'Sit and roast there with your meat, sit and bake there with your bread,

You who sat to see us starve,' one shrieking woman said:

'Sit on your throne and roast with your crown upon your head.'

Nay, this thing will I do, while my mother tarrieth,

I will take my fine spun gold, but not to sew therewith,

I will take my gold and gems, and rainbow fan and wreath;

With a ransom in my lap, a king's ransom in my hand,

I will go down to this people, will stand face to face, will stand

Where they curse king, queen, and princess of this cursed land.

They shall take all to buy them bread, take all I have to give;

I, if I perish, perish; they today shall eat and live;

I, if I perish, perish; that's the goal I half conceive:

Once to speak before the world, rend bare my heart and show

The lesson I have learned which is death, is life, to know.

I, if I perish, perish; in the name of God I go.

 

SHALL I FORGET?

SHALL I forget on this side of the grave?

I promise nothing: you must wait and see

Patient and brave.

(O my soul, watch with him and he with me.)

Shall I forget in peace of Paradise?

I promise nothing: follow, friend, and see

Faithful and wise.

(O my soul, lead the way he walks with me.)

 

VANITY OF VANITIES

SONNET

AH, woe is me for pleasure that is vain,

Ah, woe is me for glory that is past:

Pleasure that bringeth sorrow at the last,

Glory that at the last bringeth no gain!

So saith the sinking heart; and so again

It shall say till the mighty angel-blast

Is blown, making the sun and moon aghast

And showering down the stars like sudden rain.

And evermore men shall go fearfully

Bending beneath their weight of heaviness;

And ancient men shall lie down wearily,

And strong men shall rise up in weariness;

Yea, even the young shall answer sighingly

Saying one to another: How vain it is!

 

L. E. L.

'Whose heart was breaking for a little love.'

DOWNSTAIRS I laugh, I sport and jest with all:

But in my solitary room above

I turn my face in silence to the wall;

My heart is breaking for a little love.

Though winter frosts are done,

And birds pair every one,

And leaves peep out, for springtide is begun.

I feel no spring, while spring is wellnigh blown,

I find no nest, while nests are in the grove:

Woe's me for mine own heart that dwells alone,

My heart that breaketh for a little love.

While golden in the sun

Rivulets rise and run,

While lilies bud, for springtide is begun.

All love, are loved, save only I; their hearts

Beat warm with love and joy, beat full thereof:

They cannot guess, who play the pleasant parts,

My heart is breaking for a little love.

While beehives wake and whirr,

And rabbit thins his fur,

In living spring that sets the world astir.

I deck myself with silks and jewelry,

I plume myself like any mated dove:

They praise my rustling show, and never see

My heart is breaking for a little love.

While sprouts green lavender

With rosemary and myrrh,

For in quick spring the sap is all astir.

Perhaps some saints in glory guess the truth,

Perhaps some angels read it as they move,

And cry one to another full of ruth,

'Her heart is breaking for a little love.'

Though other things have birth,

And leap and sing for mirth,

When springtime wakes and clothes and feeds the earth.

Yet saith a saint: 'Take patience for thy scathe;'

Yet saith an angel: 'Wait, for thou shalt prove

True best is last, true life is born of death,

O thou, heart-broken for a little love.

Then love shall fill thy girth,

And love make fat thy dearth,

When new spring builds new heaven and clean new earth.'

 

LIFE AND DEATH

LIFE is not sweet. One day it will be sweet

To shut our eyes and die:

Nor feel the wild flowers blow, nor birds dart by

With flitting butterfly,

Nor grass grow long above our heads and feet,

Nor hear the happy lark that soars sky high,

Nor sigh that spring is fleet and summer fleet,

Nor mark the waxing wheat,

Nor know who sits in our accustomed seat.

Life is not good. One day it will be good

To die, then live again;

To sleep meanwhile: so not to feel the wane

Of shrunk leaves dropping in the wood,

Nor hear the foamy lashing of the main,

Nor mark the blackened bean-fields, nor where stood

Rich ranks of golden grain

Only dead refuse stubble clothe the plain:

Asleep from risk, asleep from pain.

 

BIRD OR BEAST?

DID any bird come flying

After Adam and Eve,

When the door was shut against them

And they sat down to grieve?

I think not Eve's peacock

Splendid to see,

And I think not Adam's eagle;

But a dove may be.

Did any beast come pushing

Through the thorny hedge

Into the thorny thistly world

Out from Eden's edge?

I think not a lion

Though his strength is such;

But an innocent loving lamb

May have done as much.

If the dove preached from her bough

And the lamb from his sod,

The lamb and the dove

Were preachers sent from God.

 

EVE

'WHILE I sit at the door

Sick to gaze within

Mine eye weepeth sore

For sorrow and sin:

As a tree my sin stands

To darken all lands;

Death is the fruit it bore.

'How have Eden bowers grown

Without Adam to bend them!

How have Eden flowers blown

Squandering their sweet breath

Without me to tend them!

The Tree of Life was ours,

Tree twelvefold-fruited,

Most lofty tree that flowers,

Most deeply rooted:

I chose the tree of death.

'Hadst thou but said me nay,

Adam, my brother,

I might have pined away;

I, but none other:

God might have let thee stay

Safe in our garden,

By putting me away

Beyond all pardon.

'I, Eve, sad mother

Of all who must live,

I, not another

Plucked bitterest fruit to give

My friend, husband, lover—

O wanton eyes run over;

Who but I should grieve?—

Cain hath slain his brother:

Of all who must die mother,

Miserable Eve!'

Thus she sat weeping,

Thus Eve our mother,

Where one lay sleeping

Slain by his brother.

Greatest and least

Each piteous beast

To hear her voice

Forgot his joys

And set aside his feast.

The mouse paused in his walk

And dropped his wheaten stalk;

Grave cattle wagged their heads

In rumination;

The eagle gave a cry

From his cloud station;

Larks on thyme beds

Forbore to mount or sing;

Bees drooped upon the wing;

The raven perched on high

Forgot his ration;

The conies in their rock,

A feeble nation,

Quaked sympathetical;

The mocking-bird left off to mock;

Huge camels knelt as if

In deprecation;

The kind hart's tears were falling;

Chattered the wistful stork;

Dove-voices with a dying fall

Cooed desolation

Answering grief by grief.

Only the serpent in the dust

Wriggling and crawling

Grinned an evil grin and thrust

His tongue out with its fork.

 

GROWN AND FLOWN

I LOVED my love from green of Spring

Until sere Autumn's fall;

But now that leaves are withering

How should one love at all?

One heart's too small

For hunger, cold, love, everything.

I loved my love on sunny days

Until late Summer's wane;

But now that frost begins to glaze

How should one love again?

Nay, love and pain

Walk wide apart in diverse ways.

I loved my love—alas to see

That this should be, alas!

I thought that this could scarcely be,

Yet has it come to pass:

Sweet sweet love was,

Now bitter bitter grown to me.

 

A FARM WALK

THE year stood at its equinox

And bluff the North was blowing,

A bleat of lambs came from the flocks,

Green hardy things were growing;

I met a maid with shining locks

Where milky kine were lowing.

She wore a kerchief on her neck,

Her bare arm showed its dimple,

Her apron spread without a speck,

Her air was frank and simple.

She milked into a wooden pail

And sang a country ditty,

An innocent fond lovers' tale,

That was not wise nor witty,

Pathetically rustical,

Too pointless for the city.

She kept in time without a beat

As true as church-bell ringers,

Unless she tapped time with her feet,

Or squeezed it with her fingers;

Her clear unstudied notes were sweet

As many a practised singer's.

I stood a minute out of sight,

Stood silent for a minute

To eye the pail, and creamy white

The frothing milk within it;

To eye the comely milking maid

Herself so fresh and creamy:

'Good day to you,' at last I said;

She turned her head to see me:

'Good day,' she said with lifted head;

Her eyes looked soft and dreamy,

And all the while she milked and milked

The grave cow heavy-laden:

I've seen grand ladies plumed and silked,

But not a sweeter maiden;

But not a sweeter fresher maid

Than this in homely cotton,

Whose pleasant face and silky braid

I have not yet forgotten.

Seven springs have passed since then, as I

Count with a sober sorrow;

Seven springs have come and passed me by,

And spring sets in tomorrow.

I've half a mind to shake myself

Free just for once from London,

To set my work upon the shelf

And leave it done or undone;

To run down by the early train,

Whirl down with shriek and whistle,

And feel the bluff North blow again,

And mark the sprouting thistle

Set up on waste patch of the lane

Its green and tender bristle,

And spy the scarce-blown violet banks,

Crisp primrose leaves and others,

And watch the lambs leap at their pranks

And butt their patient mothers.

Alas, one point in all my plan

My serious thoughts demur to:

Seven years have passed for maid and man,

Seven years have passed for her too;

Perhaps my rose is overblown,

Not rosy or too rosy;

Perhaps in farmhouse of her own

Some husband keeps her cosy,

Where I should show a face unknown.

Good-bye, my wayside posy.

 

SOMEWHERE OR OTHER

SOMEWHERE or other there must surely be

The face not seen, the voice not heard,

The heart that not yet—never yet—ah me!

Made answer to my word.

Somewhere or other, may be near or far;

Past land and sea, clean out of sight;

Beyond the wandering moon, beyond the star

That tracks her night by night.

Somewhere or other, may be far or near;

With just a wall, a hedge, between;

With just the last leaves of the dying year

Fallen on a turf grown green.

 

A CHILL

WHAT can lambkins do

All the keen night through?

Nestle by their woolly mother

The careful ewe.

What can nestlings do

In the nightly dew?

Sleep beneath their mother's wing

Till day breaks anew.

If in field or tree

There might only be

Such a warm soft sleeping-place

Found for me!

 

CHILD'S TALK IN APRIL

I WISH you were a pleasant wren,

And I your small accepted mate;

How we'd look down on toilsome men!

We'd rise and go to bed at eight

Or it may be not quite so late.

Then you should see the nest I'd build,

The wondrous nest for you and me;

The outside rough perhaps, but filled

With wool and down; ah, you should see

The cosy nest that it would be.

We'd have our change of hope and fear,

Small quarrels, reconcilements sweet:

I'd perch by you to chirp and cheer,

Or hop about on active feet

And fetch you dainty bits to eat.

We'd be so happy by the day,

So safe and happy through the night,

We both should feel, and I should say,

It's all one season of delight,

And we'll make merry whilst we may.

Perhaps some day there'd be an egg

When spring had blossomed from the snow:

I'd stand triumphant on one leg;

Like chanticleer I'd almost crow

To let our little neighbours know.

Next you should sit and I would sing

Through lengthening days of sunny spring:

Till, if you wearied of the task,

I'd sit; and you should spread your wing

From bough to bough; I'd sit and bask.

Fancy the breaking of the shell,

The chirp, the chickens wet and bare,

The untried proud paternal swell;

And you with housewife-matron air

Enacting choicer bills of fare.

Fancy the embryo coats of down,

The gradual feathers soft and sleek;

Till clothed and strong from tail to crown,

With virgin warblings in their beak,

They too go forth to soar and seek.

So would it last an April through

And early summer fresh with dew:

Then should we part and live as twain,

Love-time would bring me back to you

And build our happy nest again.

 

GONE FOREVER

O HAPPY rose-bud blooming

Upon thy parent tree,

Nay, thou art too presuming;

For soon the earth entombing

Thy faded charms shall be,

And the chill damp consuming.

O happy skylark springing

Up to the broad blue sky,

Too fearless in thy winging,

Too gladsome in thy singing,

Thou also soon shalt lie

Where no sweet notes are ringing.

And through life's shine and shower

We shall have joy and pain;

But in the summer bower,

And at the morning hour,

We still shall look in vain

For the same bird and flower.

 

UNDER THE ROSE

'The iniquity of the fathers upon the children.'

OH the rose of keenest thorn!

One hidden summer morn

Under the rose I was born.

I do not guess his name

Who wrought my Mother's shame,

And gave me life forlorn,

But my Mother, Mother, Mother,

I know her from all other.

My Mother pale and mild,

Fair as ever was seen,

She was but scarce sixteen,

Little more than a child,

When I was born

To work her scorn.

With secret bitter throes,

In a passion of secret woes,

She bore me under the rose.

One who my Mother nursed

Took me from the first:—

'O nurse, let me look upon

This babe that costs so dear;

Tomorrow she will be gone:

Other mothers may keep

Their babes awake and asleep,

But I must not keep her here.'—

Whether I know or guess,

I know this not the less.

So I was sent away

That none might spy the truth:

And my childhood waxed to youth

And I left off childish play.

I never cared to play

With the village boys and girls;

And I think they thought me proud,

I found so little to say

And kept so from the crowd:

But I had the longest curls

And I had the largest eyes

And my teeth were small like pearls;

The girls might flout and scout me,

But the boys would hang about me

In sheepish mooning wise.

Our one-street village stood

A long mile from the town,

A mile of windy down

And bleak one-sided wood,

With not a single house.

Our town itself was small,

With just the common shops,

And throve in its small way.

Our neighbouring gentry reared

The good old-fashioned crops,

And made old-fashioned boasts

Of what John Bull would do

If Frenchman Frog appeared,

And drank old-fashioned toasts,

And made old-fashioned bows

To my Lady at the Hall.

My Lady at the Hall

Is grander than they all:

Hers is the oldest name

In all the neighbourhood;

But the race must die with her

Though she's a lofty dame,

For she's unmarried still.

Poor people say she's good

And has an open hand

As any in the land,

And she's the comforter

Of many sick and sad;

My nurse once said to me

That everything she had

Came of my Lady's bounty:

'Though she's greatest in the county

She's humble to the poor,

No beggar seeks her door

But finds help presently.

I pray both night and day

For her, and you must pray:

But she'll never feel distress

If needy folk can bless.'

I was a little maid

When here we came to live

From somewhere by the sea.

Men spoke a foreign tongue

There where we used to be

When I was merry and young,

Too young to feel afraid;

The fisher folk would give

A kind strange word to me,

There by the foreign sea:

I don't know where it was,

But I remember still

Our cottage on a hill,

And fields of flowering grass

On that fair foreign shore.

I liked my old home best,

But this was pleasant too:

So here we made our nest

And here I grew.

And now and then my Lady

In riding past our door

Would nod to Nurse and speak,

Or stoop and pat my cheek;

And I was always ready

To hold the field-gate wide

For my Lady to go through;

My Lady in her veil

So seldom put aside,

My Lady grave and pale.

I often sat to wonder

Who might my parents be,

For I knew of something under

My simple-seeming state.

Nurse never talked to me

Of mother or of father,

But watched me early and late

With kind suspicious cares:

Or not suspicious, rather

Anxious, as if she knew

Some secret I might gather

And smart for unawares.

Thus I grew.

But Nurse waxed old and grey,

Bent and weak with years.

There came a certain day

That she lay upon her bed

Shaking her palsied head,

With words she gasped to say

Which had to stay unsaid.

Then with a jerking hand

Held out so piteously

She gave a ring to me

Of gold wrought curiously,

A ring which she had worn

Since the day that I was born,

She once had said to me:

I slipped it on my finger;

Her eyes were keen to linger

On my hand that slipped it on;

Then she sighed one rattling sigh

And stared on with sightless eye:—

The one who loved me was gone.

How long I stayed alone

With the corpse I never knew,

For I fainted dead as stone:

When I came to life once more

I was down upon the floor,

With neighbours making ado

To bring me back to life.

I heard the sexton's wife

Say: 'Up, my lad, and run

To tell it at the Hall;

She was my Lady's nurse,

And done can't be undone.

I'll watch by this poor lamb.

I guess my Lady's purse

Is always open to such:

I'd run up on my crutch

A cripple as I am,'

(For cramps had vexed her much)

'Rather than this dear heart

Lack one to take her part.'

For days day after day

On my weary bed I lay

Wishing the time would pass;

Oh, so wishing that I was

Likely to pass away:

For the one friend whom I knew

Was dead, I knew no other,

Neither father nor mother;

And I, what should I do?

One day the sexton's wife

Said: 'Rouse yourself, my dear:

My Lady has driven down

From the Hall into the town,

And we think she's coming here.

Cheer up, for life is life.'

But I would not look or speak,

Would not cheer up at all.

My tears were like to fall,

So I turned round to the wall

And hid my hollow cheek

Making as if I slept,

As silent as a stone,

And no one knew I wept.

What was my Lady to me,

The grand lady from the Hall?

She might come, or stay away,

I was sick at heart that day:

The whole world seemed to be

Nothing, just nothing to me,

For aught that I could see.

Yet I listened where I lay:

A bustle came below,

A clear voice said: 'I know;

I will see her first alone,

It may be less of a shock

If she's so weak today:'—

A light hand turned the lock,

A light step crossed the floor,

One sat beside my bed:

But never a word she said.

For me, my shyness grew

Each moment more and more:

So I said never a word

And neither looked nor stirred;

I think she must have heard

My heart go pit-a-pat:

Thus I lay, my Lady sat,

More than a mortal hour—

(I counted one and two

By the house-clock while I lay):

I seemed to have no power

To think of a thing to say,

Or do what I ought to do,

Or rouse myself to a choice.

At last she said: 'Margaret,

Won't you even look at me?'

A something in her voice

Forced my tears to fall at last,

Forced sobs from me thick and fast;

Something not of the past,

Yet stirring memory;

A something new, and yet

Not new, too sweet to last,

Which I never can forget.

I turned and stared at her:

Her cheek showed hollow-pale;

Her hair like mine was fair,

A wonderful fall of hair

That screened her like a veil;

But her height was statelier,

Her eyes had depth more deep;

I think they must have had

Always a something sad,

Unless they were asleep.

While I stared, my Lady took

My hand in her spare hand

Jewelled and soft and grand,

And looked with a long long look

Of hunger in my face;

As if she tried to trace

Features she ought to know,

And half hoped, half feared, to find.

Whatever was in her mind

She heaved a sigh at last,

And began to talk to me.

'Your nurse was my dear nurse,

And her nursling's dear,' said she:

'I never knew that she was worse

Till her poor life was past'

(Here my Lady's tears dropped fast):

'I might have been with her,

But she had no comforter.

She might have told me much

Which now I shall never know,

Never never shall know.'

She sat by me sobbing so,

And seemed so woe-begone,

That I laid one hand upon

Hers with a timid touch,

Scarce thinking what I did,

Not knowing what to say:

That moment her face was hid

In the pillow close by mine,

Her arm was flung over me,

She hugged me, sobbing so

As if her heart would break,

And kissed me where I lay.

After this she often came

To bring me fruit or wine,

Or sometimes hothouse flowers.

And at nights I lay awake

Often and often thinking

What to do for her sake.

Wet or dry it was the same:

She would come in at all hours,

Set me eating and drinking

And say I must grow strong;

At last the day seemed long

And home seemed scarcely home

If she did not come.

Well, I grew strong again:

In time of primroses,

I went to pluck them in the lane;

In time of nestling birds,

I heard them chirping round the house;

And all the herds

Were out at grass when I grew strong,

And days were waxen long,

And there was work for bees

Among the May-bush boughs,

And I had shot up tall,

And life felt after all

Pleasant, and not so long

When I grew strong.

I was going to the Hall

To be my Lady's maid:

'Her little friend,' she said to me,

'Almost her child,'

She said and smiled

Sighing painfully;

Blushing, with a second flush

As if she blushed to blush.

Friend, servant, child: just this

My standing at the Hall;

The other servants call me 'Miss,'

My Lady calls me 'Margaret,'

With her clear voice musical.

She never chides when I forget

This or that; she never chides.

Except when people come to stay,

(And that's not often) at the Hall,

I sit with her all day

And ride out when she rides.

She sings to me and makes me sing;

Sometimes I read to her,

Sometimes we merely sit and talk.

She noticed once my ring

And made me tell its history:

That evening in our garden walk

She said she should infer

The ring had been my father's first,

Then my mother's, given for me

To the nurse who nursed

My mother in her misery,

That so quite certainly

Some one might know me, who . . .

Then she was silent, and I too.

I hate when people come:

The women speak and stare

And mean to be so civil.

This one will stroke my hair,

That one will pat my cheek

And praise my Lady's kindness,

Expecting me to speak;

I like the proud ones best

Who sit as struck with blindness,

As if I wasn't there.

But if any gentleman

Is staying at the Hall

(Though few come prying here),

My Lady seems to fear

Some downright dreadful evil,

And makes me keep my room

As closely as she can:

So I hate when people come,

It is so troublesome.

In spite of all her care,

Sometimes to keep alive

I sometimes do contrive

To get out in the grounds

For a whiff of wholesome air,

Under the rose you know:

It's charming to break bounds,

Stolen waters are sweet,

And what's the good of feet

If for days they mustn't go?

Give me a longer tether,

Or I may break from it.

Now I have eyes and ears

And just some little wit:

'Almost my lady's child;'

I recollect she smiled,

Sighed and blushed together;

Then her story of the ring

Sounds not improbable,

She told it me so well

It seemed the actual thing:—

Oh, keep your counsel close,

But I guess under the rose,

In long past summer weather

When the world was blossoming,

And the rose upon its thorn:

I guess not who he was

Flawed honour like a glass,

And made my life forlorn,

But my Mother, Mother, Mother,

Oh, I know her from all other.

My Lady, you might trust

Your daughter with your fame.

Trust me, I would not shame

Our honourable name,

For I have noble blood

Though I was bred in dust

And brought up in the mud.

I will not press my claim,

Just leave me where you will:

But you might trust your daughter,

For blood is thicker than water

And you're my mother still.

So my Lady holds her own

With condescending grace,

And fills her lofty place

With an untroubled face

As a queen may fill a throne.

While I could hint a tale—

(But then I am her child)—

Would make her quail;

Would set her in the dust,

Lorn with no comforter,

Her glorious hair defiled

And ashes on her cheek:

The decent world would thrust

Its finger out at her,

Not much displeased I think

To make a nine days' stir;

The decent world would sink

Its voice to speak of her.

Now this is what I mean

To do, no more, no less:

Never to speak, or show

Bare sign of what I know.

Let the blot pass unseen;

Yea, let her never guess

I hold the tangled clue

She huddles out of view.

Friend, servant, almost child,

So be it and nothing more

On this side of the grave.

Mother, in Paradise,

You'll see with clearer eyes;

Perhaps in this world even

When you are like to die

And face to face with Heaven

You'll drop for once the lie:

But you must drop the mask, not I.

My Lady promises

Two hundred pounds with me

Whenever I may wed

A man she can approve:

And since besides her bounty

I'm fairest in the county

(For so I've heard it said,

Though I don't vouch for this),

Her promised pounds may move

Some honest man to see

My virtues and my beauties;

Perhaps the rising grazier,

Or temperance publican,

May claim my wifely duties.

Meanwhile I wait their leisure

And grace-bestowing pleasure,

I wait the happy man;

But if I hold my head

And pitch my expectations

Just higher than their level,

They must fall back on patience:

I may not mean to wed,

Yet I'll be civil.

Now sometimes in a dream

My heart goes out of me

To build and scheme,

Till I sob after things that seem

So pleasant in a dream:

A home such as I see

My blessed neighbours live in

With father and with mother,

All proud of one another,

Named by one common name

From baby in the bud

To full-blown workman father;

It's little short of Heaven.

I'd give my gentle blood

To wash my special shame

And drown my private grudge;

I'd toil and moil much rather

The dingiest cottage drudge

Whose mother need not blush,

Than live here like a lady

And see my Mother flush

And hear her voice unsteady

Sometimes, yet never dare

Ask to share her care.

Of course the servants sneer

Behind my back at me;

Of course the village girls,

Who envy me my curls

And gowns and idleness,

Take comfort in a jeer;

Of course the ladies guess

Just so much of my history

As points the emphatic stress

With which they laud my Lady;

The gentlemen who catch

A casual glimpse of me

And turn again to see,

Their valets on the watch

To speak a word with me,

All know and sting me wild;

Till I am almost ready

To wish that I were dead,

No faces more to see,

No more words to be said,

My Mother safe at last

Disburdened of her child,

And the past past.

'All equal before God'—

Our Rector has it so,

And sundry sleepers nod:

It may be so; I know

All are not equal here,

And when the sleepers wake

They make a difference.

'All equal in the grave'—

That shows an obvious sense:

Yet something which I crave

Not death itself brings near;

Now should death half atone

For all my past; or make

The name I bear my own?

I love my dear old Nurse

Who loved me without gains;

I love my mistress even,

Friend, Mother, what you will:

But I could almost curse

My Father for his pains;

And sometimes at my prayer

Kneeling in sight of Heaven

I almost curse him still:

Why did he set his snare

To catch at unaware

My Mother's foolish youth;

Load me with shame that's hers,

And her with something worse,

A lifelong lie for truth?

I think my mind is fixed

On one point and made up:

To accept my lot unmixed;

Never to drug the cup

But drink it by myself.

I'll not be wooed for pelf;

I'll not blot out my shame

With any man's good name;

But nameless as I stand,

My hand is my own hand,

And nameless as I came

I go to the dark land.

'All equal in the grave'—

I bide my time till then:

'All equal before God'—

Today I feel His rod,

Tomorrow He may save:

Amen.

 

DEVOTIONAL PIECES

DESPISED AND REJECTED

MY sun has set, I dwell

In darkness as a dead man out of sight;

And none remains, not one, that I should tell

To him mine evil plight

This bitter night.

I will make fast my door

That hollow friends may trouble me no more.

'Friend, open to Me.'—Who is this that calls?

Nay, I am deaf as are my walls:

Cease crying, for I will not hear

Thy cry of hope or fear.

Others were dear,

Others forsook me: what art thou indeed

That I should heed

Thy lamentable need?

Hungry should feed,

Or stranger lodge thee here?

'Friend, My Feet bleed.

Open thy door to Me and comfort Me.'

I will not open, trouble me no more.

Go on thy way footsore,

I will not rise and open unto thee.

'Then is it nothing to thee? Open, see

Who stands to plead with thee.

Open, lest I should pass thee by, and thou

One day entreat My Face

And howl for grace,

And I be deaf as thou art now.

Open to Me.'

Then I cried out upon him: Cease,

Leave me in peace:

Fear not that I should crave

Aught thou mayst have.

Leave me in peace, yea trouble me no more,

Lest I arise and chase thee from my door.

What, shall I not be let

Alone, that thou dost vex me yet?

But all night long that voice spake urgently:

'Open to Me.'

Still harping in mine ears:

'Rise, let Me in.'

Pleading with tears:

'Open to Me that I may come to thee.'

While the dew dropped, while the dark hours were cold:

'My Feet bleed, see My Face,

See My Hands bleed that bring thee grace,

My Heart doth bleed for thee,

Open to Me.'

So till the break of day:

Then died away

That voice, in silence as of sorrow;

Then footsteps echoing like a sigh

Passed me by,

Lingering footsteps slow to pass.

On the morrow

I saw upon the grass

Each footprint marked in blood, and on my door

The mark of blood for evermore.

 

LONG BARREN

THOU who didst hang upon a barren tree,

My God, for me;

Though I till now be barren, now at length,

Lord, give me strength

To bring forth fruit to Thee.

Thou who didst bear for me the crown of thorn,

Spitting and scorn;

Though I till now have put forth thorns, yet now

Strengthen me Thou

That better fruit be borne.

Thou Rose of Sharon, Cedar of broad roots,

Vine of sweet fruits,

Thou Lily of the vale with fadeless leaf,

Of thousands Chief,

Feed Thou my feeble shoots.

 

IF ONLY

IF I might only love my God and die!

But now He bids me love Him and live on,

Now when the bloom of all my life is gone,

The pleasant half of life has quite gone by.

My tree of hope is lopped that spread so high;

And I forget how summer glowed and shone,

While autumn grips me with its fingers wan,

And frets me with its fitful windy sigh.

When autumn passes then must winter numb,

And winter may not pass a weary while,

But when it passes spring shall flower again:

And in that spring who weepeth now shall smile,

Yea, they shall wax who now are on the wane,

Yea, they shall sing for love when Christ shall come.

 

DOST THOU NOT CARE?

I LOVE and love not: Lord, it breaks my heart

To love and not to love.

Thou veiled within Thy glory, gone apart

Into Thy shrine, which is above,

Dost thou not love me, Lord, or care

For this mine ill?—

I love thee here or there,

I will accept thy broken heart, lie still.

Lord, it was well with me in time gone by

That cometh not again,

When I was fresh and cheerful, who but I?

I fresh, I cheerful: worn with pain

Now, out of sight and out of heart;

O Lord, how long?—

I watch thee as thou art,

I will accept thy fainting heart, be strong.

'Lie still,' 'be strong,' today; but, Lord, tomorrow,

What of tomorrow, Lord?

Shall there be rest from toil, be truce from sorrow,

Be living green upon the sward

Now but a barren grave to me,

Be joy for sorrow?—

Did I not die for thee?

Do I not live for thee? leave Me tomorrow.

 

WEARY IN WELL-DOING

I WOULD have gone; God bade me stay:

I would have worked; God bade me rest.

He broke my will from day to day,

He read my yearnings unexpressed

And said them nay.

Now I would stay; God bids me go:

Now I would rest; God bids me work.

He breaks my heart tossed to and fro,

My soul is wrung with doubts that lurk

And vex it so.

I go, Lord, where Thou sendest me;

Day after day I plod and moil:

But, Christ my God, when will it be

That I may let alone my toil

And rest with Thee?

 

MARTYRS' SONG

WE meet in joy, though we part in sorrow;

We part tonight, but we meet tomorrow.

Be it flood or blood the path that's trod,

All the same it leads home to God:

Be it furnace-fire voluminous,

One like God's Son will walk with us.

What are these that glow from afar,

These that lean over the golden bar,

Strong as the lion, pure as the dove,

With open arms and hearts of love?

They the blessed ones gone before,

They the blessed for evermore.

Out of great tribulation they went

Home to their home of Heaven-content;

Through flood, or blood, or furnace-fire,

To the rest that fulfils desire.

What are these that fly as a cloud,

With flashing heads and faces bowed,

In their mouths a victorious psalm,

In their hands a robe and a palm?

Welcoming angels these that shine,

Your own angel, and yours, and mine;

Who have hedged us both day and night

On the left hand and on the right,

Who have watched us both night and day

Because the devil keeps watch to slay.

Light above light, and Bliss beyond bliss,

Whom words cannot utter, lo, Who is This?

As a King with many crowns He stands,

And our names are graven upon His hands;

As a Priest, with God-uplifted eyes,

He offers for us His Sacrifice;

As the Lamb of God for sinners slain,

That we too may live He lives again;

As our Champion behold Him stand,

Strong to save us, at God's Right Hand.

God the Father give us grace

To walk in the light of Jesus' Face.

God the Son give us a part

In the hiding-place of Jesus' Heart:

God the Spirit so hold us up,

That we may drink of Jesus' cup.

Death is short and life is long;

Satan is strong, but Christ more strong.

At His Word, Who hath led us hither,

The Red Sea must part hither and thither.

At His Word, Who goes before us too,

Jordan must cleave to let us through.

Yet one pang searching and sore,

And then Heaven for evermore;

Yet one moment awful and dark,

Then safety within the Veil and the Ark;

Yet one effort by Christ His grace,

Then Christ forever face to face.

God the Father we will adore,

In Jesus' Name, now and evermore:

God the Son we will love and thank

In this flood and on the further bank:

God the Holy Ghost we will praise,

In Jesus' Name, through endless days:

God Almighty, God Three in One,

God Almighty, God alone.

 

AFTER THIS THE JUDGEMENT

As eager homebound traveller to the goal,

Or steadfast seeker on an unsearched main,

Or martyr panting for an aureole,

My fellow-pilgrims pass me, and attain

That hidden mansion of perpetual peace

Where keen desire and hope dwell free from pain:

That gate stands open of perennial ease;

I view the glory till I partly long,

Yet lack the fire of love which quickens these.

O passing Angel, speed me with a song,

A melody of heaven to reach my heart

And rouse me to the race and make me strong;

Till in such music I take up my part

Swelling those Hallelujahs full of rest,

One, tenfold, hundredfold, with heavenly art,

Fulfilling north and south and east and west,

Thousand, ten thousandfold, innumerable,

All blent in one yet each one manifest;

Each one distinguished and beloved as well

As if no second voice in earth or heaven

Were lifted up the Love of God to tell.

Ah, Love of God, which Thine own Self hast given

To me most poor, and made me rich in love,

Love that dost pass the tenfold seven times seven,

Draw Thou mine eyes, draw Thou my heart above,

My treasure and my heart store Thou in Thee,

Brood over me with yearnings of a dove;

Be Husband, Brother, closest Friend to me;

Love me as very mother loves her son,

Her sucking firstborn fondled on her knee:

Yea, more than mother loves her little one;

For, earthly, even a mother may forget

And feel no pity for its piteous moan;

But thou, O Love of God, remember yet,

Through the dry desert, through the waterflood

(Life, death), until the Great White Throne is set.

If now I am sick in chewing the bitter cud

Of sweet past sin, though solaced by Thy grace

And ofttimes strengthened by Thy Flesh and Blood,

How shall I then stand up before Thy face

When from Thine eyes repentance shall be hid

And utmost Justice stand in Mercy's place:

When every sin I thought or spoke or did

Shall meet me at the inexorable bar,

And there be no man standing in the mid

To plead for me; while star fallen after star

With heaven and earth are like a ripened shock,

And all time's mighty works and wonders are

Consumed as in a moment; when no rock

Remains to fall on me, no tree to hide,

But I stand all creation's gazing-stock

Exposed and comfortless on every side,

Placed trembling in the final balances

Whose poise this hour, this moment, must be tried?—

Ah Love of God, if greater love than this

Hath no man, that a man die for his friend,

And if such love of love Thine Own Love is,

Plead with Thyself, with me, before the end;

Redeem me from the irrevocable past;

Pitch Thou Thy Presence round me to defend;

Yea seek with piercèd feet, yea hold me fast

With piercèd hands whose wounds were made by love;

Not what I am, remember what Thou wast

When darkness hid from Thee Thy heavens above,

And sin Thy Father's Face, while thou didst drink

The bitter cup of death, didst taste thereof

For every man; while Thou wast nigh to sink

Beneath the intense intolerable rod,

Grown sick of love; not what I am, but think

Thy Life then ransomed mine, my God, my God.

 

GOOD FRIDAY

AM I a stone and not a sheep

That I can stand, O Christ, beneath Thy Cross,

To number drop by drop Thy Blood's slow loss,

And yet not weep?

Not so those women loved

Who with exceeding grief lamented Thee;

Not so fallen Peter weeping bitterly;

Not so the thief was moved;

Not so the Sun and Moon

Which hid their faces in a starless sky,

A horror of great darkness at broad noon—

I, only I.

Yet give not o'er,

But seek Thy sheep, true Shepherd of the flock;

Greater than Moses, turn and look once more

And smite a rock.

 

THE LOWEST PLACE

GIVE me the lowest place: not that I dare

Ask for that lowest place, but Thou hast died

That I might live and share

Thy glory by Thy side.

Give me the lowest place: or if for me

That lowest place too high, make one more low

Where I may sit and see

My God and love Thee so.

 

MISCELLANEOUS POEMS, 1848–69

DEATH'S CHILL BETWEEN

(Athenaeum, October 14, 1848)

CHIDE not; let me breathe a little,

For I shall not mourn him long;

Though the life-cord was so brittle,

The love-cord was very strong.

I would wake a little space

Till I find a sleeping-place.

You can go,—I shall not weep;

You can go unto your rest.

My heart-ache is all too deep,

And too sore my throbbing breast.

Can sobs be, or angry tears,

Where are neither hopes nor fears?

Though with you I am alone

And must be so everywhere,

I will make no useless moan,—

None shall say 'She could not bear:'

While life lasts I will be strong,—

But I shall not struggle long.

Listen, listen! Everywhere

A low voice is calling me,

And a step is on the stair,

And one comes ye do not see.

Listen, listen! Evermore

A dim hand knocks at the door.

Hear me; he is come again,—

My own dearest is come back.

Bring him in from the cold rain;

Bring wine, and let nothing lack.

Thou and I will rest together,

Love, until the sunny weather.

I will shelter thee from harm,—

Hide thee from all heaviness.

Come to me, and keep thee warm

By my side in quietness.

I will lull thee to thy sleep

With sweet songs:—we will not weep.

Who hath talked of weeping?—Yet

There is something at my heart,

Gnawing, I would fain forget,

And an aching and a smart.

—Ah! my mother, 'tis in vain,

For he is not come again.

 

HEART'S CHILL BETWEEN

(Athenaeum, October 21, 1848)

I DID not chide him, though I knew

That he was false to me.

Chide the exhaling of the dew,

The ebbing of the sea,

The fading of a rosy hue,—

But not inconstancy.

Why strive for love when love is o'er?

Why bind a restive heart?—

He never knew the pain I bore

In saying: 'We must part;

Let us be friends and nothing more.'

—Oh, woman's shallow art!

But it is over, it is done,—

I hardly heed it now;

So many weary years have run

Since then, I think not how

Things might have been,—but greet each one

With an unruffled brow.

What time I am where others be,

My heart seems very calm—

Stone calm; but if all go from me,

There comes a vague alarm,

A shrinking in the memory

From some forgotten harm.

And often through the long, long night,

Waking when none are near,

I feel my heart beat fast with fright,

Yet know not what I fear.

Oh how I long to see the light,

And the sweet birds to hear!

To have the sun upon my face,

To look up through the trees,

To walk forth in the open space

And listen to the breeze,—

And not to dream the burial-place

Is clogging my weak knees.

Sometimes I can nor weep nor pray,

But am half stupefied:

And then all those who see me say

Mine eyes are opened wide

And that my wits seem gone away—

Ah, would that I had died!

Would I could die and be at peace,

Or living could forget!

My grief nor grows nor doth decrease,

But ever is:—and yet

Methinks, now, that all this shall cease

Before the sun shall set.

 

REPINING

(Art and Poetry [The Germ, No. 3], March 1850)

SHE sat alway thro' the long day

Spinning the weary thread away;

And ever said in undertone:

'Come, that I be no more alone.'

From early dawn to set of sun

Working, her task was still undone;

And the long thread seemed to increase

Even while she spun and did not cease.

She heard the gentle turtle-dove

Tell to its mate a tale of love;

She saw the glancing swallows fly,

Ever a social company;

She knew each bird upon its nest

Had cheering songs to bring it rest;

None lived alone save only she;—

The wheel went round more wearily;

She wept and said in undertone:

'Come, that I be no more alone.'

Day followed day, and still she sighed

For love, and was not satisfied;

Until one night, when the moonlight

Turned all the trees to silver white,

She heard, what ne'er she heard before,

A steady hand undo the door.

The nightingale since set of sun

Her throbbing music had not done,

And she had listened silently;

But now the wind had changed, and she

Heard the sweet song no more, but heard

Beside her bed a whispered word:

'Damsel, rise up; be not afraid;

For I am come at last,' it said.

She trembled, tho' the voice was mild;

She trembled like a frightened child;—

Till she looked up, and then she saw

The unknown speaker without awe.

He seemed a fair young man, his eyes

Beaming with serious charities;

His cheek was white but hardly pale;

And a dim glory like a veil

Hovered about his head, and shone

Thro' the whole room till night was gone.

So her fear fled; and then she said,

Leaning upon her quiet bed:

'Now thou art come, I prithee stay,

That I may see thee in the day,

And learn to know thy voice, and hear

It evermore calling me near.'

He answered: 'Rise, and follow me.'

But she looked upwards wonderingly:

'And whither would'st thou go, friend? stay

Until the dawning of the day.'

But he said: 'The wind ceaseth, Maid;

Of chill nor damp be thou afraid.'

She bound her hair up from the floor,

And passed in silence from the door.

So they went forth together, he

Helping her forward tenderly.

The hedges bowed beneath his hand;

Forth from the streams came the dry land

As they passed over; evermore

The pallid moonbeams shone before;

And the wind hushed, and nothing stirred;

Not even a solitary bird,

Scared by their footsteps, fluttered by

Where aspen-trees stood steadily.

As they went on, at length a sound

Came trembling on the air around;

The undistinguishable hum

Of life, voices that go and come

Of busy men, and the child's sweet

High laugh, and noise of trampling feet.

Then he said: 'Wilt thou go and see?’

And she made answer joyfully:

'The noise of life, of human life,

Of dear communion without strife,

Of converse held 'twixt friend and friend;

Is it not here our path shall end?'

He led her on a little way

Until they reached a hillock: 'Stay.'

It was a village in a plain.

High mountains screened it from the rain

And stormy wind; and nigh at hand

A bubbling streamlet flowed, o'er sand

Pebbly and fine, and sent life up

Green succous stalk and flower-cup.

Gradually, day's harbinger,

A chilly wind began to stir.

It seemed a gentle powerless breeze

That scarcely rustled thro' the trees;

And yet it touched the mountain's head

And the paths man might never tread.

But hearken: in the quiet weather

Do all the streams flow down together?—

No, 'tis a sound more terrible

Than tho' a thousand rivers fell.

The everlasting ice and snow

Were loosened then, but not to flow;—

With a loud crash like solid thunder

The avalanche came, burying under

The village; turning life and breath

And rest and joy and plans to death.

'Oh! let us fly, for pity fly;

Let us go hence, friend, thou and I.

There must be many regions yet

Where these things make not desolate.'

He looked upon her seriously;

Then said: 'Arise and follow me.'

The path that lay before them was

Nigh covered over with long grass;

And many slimy things and slow

Trailed on between the roots below.

The moon looked dimmer than before;

And shadowy cloudlets floating o'er

Its face sometimes quite hid its light,

And filled the skies with deeper night.

At last, as they went on, the noise

Was heard of the sea's mighty voice;

And soon the ocean could be seen

In its long restlessness serene.

Upon its breast a vessel rode

That drowsily appeared to nod

As the great billows rose and fell,

And swelled to sink, and sank to swell.

Meanwhile the strong wind had come forth

From the chill regions of the North,

The mighty wind invisible.

And the low waves began to swell;

And the sky darkened overhead;

And the moon once looked forth, then fled

Behind dark clouds; while here and there

The lightning shone out in the air;

And the approaching thunder rolled

With angry pealings manifold.

How many vows were made, and prayers

That in safe times were cold and scarce.

Still all availed not; and at length

The waves arose in all their strength,

And fought against the ship, and filled

The ship. Then were the clouds unsealed,

And the rain hurried forth, and beat

On every side and over it.

Some clung together, and some kept

A long stern silence, and some wept.

Many half-crazed looked on in wonder

As the strong timbers rent asunder;

Friends forgot friends, foes fled to foes;—

And still the water rose and rose.

'Ah woe is me! Whom I have seen

Are now as tho' they had not been.

In the earth there is room for birth,

And there are graves enough in earth;

Why should the cold sea, tempest-torn,

Bury those whom it hath not borne?'

He answered not, and they went on.

The glory of the heavens was gone;

The moon gleamed not nor any star;

Cold winds were rustling near and far,

And from the trees the dry leaves fell

With a sad sound unspeakable.

The air was cold; till from the South

A gust blew hot, like sudden drouth,

Into their faces; and a light

Glowing and red, shone thro' the night.

A mighty city full of flame

And death and sounds without a name.

Amid the black and blinding smoke,

The people, as one man, awoke.

Oh! happy they who yesterday

On the long journey went away;

Whose pallid lips, smiling and chill,

While the flames scorch them smile on still;

Who murmur not; who tremble not

When the bier crackles fiery hot;

Who, dying, said in love's increase:

'Lord, let thy servant part in peace.'

Those in the town could see and hear

A shaded river flowing near;

The broad deep bed could hardly hold

Its plenteous waters calm and cold.

Was flame-wrapped all the city wall,

The city gates were flame-wrapped all.

What was man's strength, what puissance then?

Women were mighty as strong men.

Some knelt in prayer, believing still,

Resigned unto a righteous will,

Bowing beneath the chastening rod,

Lost to the world, but found of God.

Some prayed for friend, for child, for wife;

Some prayed for faith; some prayed for life;

While some, proud even in death, hope gone,

Steadfast and still, stood looking on.

'Death—death—oh! let us fly from death;

Where'er we go it followeth;

All these are dead; and we alone

Remain to weep for what is gone.

What is this thing? thus hurriedly

To pass into eternity;

To leave the earth so full of mirth;

To lose the profit of our birth;

To die and be no more; to cease,

Having numbness that is not peace.

Let us go hence; and, even if thus

Death everywhere must go with us,

Let us not see the change, but see

Those who have been or still shall be.'

He sighed and they went on together;

Beneath their feet did the grass wither;

Across the heaven high overhead

Dark misty clouds floated and fled;

And in their bosom was the thunder,

And angry lightnings flashed out under,

Forked and red and menacing;

Far off the wind was muttering;

It seemed to tell, not understood,

Strange secrets to the listening wood.

Upon its wings it bore the scent

Of blood of a great armament:

Then saw they how on either side

Fields were down-trodden far and wide.

That morning at the break of day

Two nations had gone forth to slay.

As a man soweth so he reaps.

The field was full of bleeding heaps;

Ghastly corpses of men and horses

That met death at a thousand sources;

Cold limbs and putrefying flesh;

Long love-locks clotted to a mesh

That stifled; stiffened mouths beneath

Staring eyes that had looked on death.

But these were dead: these felt no more

The anguish of the wounds they bore.

Behold, they shall not sigh again,

Nor justly fear, nor hope in vain.

What if none wept above them?—is

The sleeper less at rest for this?

Is not the young child's slumber sweet

When no man watcheth over it?

These had deep calm; but all around

There was a deadly smothered sound,

The choking cry of agony

From wounded men who could not die;

Who watched the black wing of the raven

Rise like a cloud 'twixt them and heaven,

And in the distance flying fast

Beheld the eagle come at last.

She knelt down in her agony:

'O Lord, it is enough,' said she:

'My heart's prayer putteth me to shame;

Let me return to whence I came.

Thou who for love's sake didst reprove,

Forgive me for the sake of love.'

 

SIT DOWN IN THE LOWEST ROOM

(Macmillan's Magazine, March 1864.)

LIKE flowers sequestered from the sun

And wind of summer, day by day

I dwindled paler, whilst my hair

Showed the first tinge of grey.

'Oh what is life, that we should live?

Or what is death, that we must die?

A bursting bubble is our life:

I also, what am I?'

'What is your grief? now tell me, sweet,

That I may grieve,' my sister said;

And stayed a white embroidering hand

And raised a golden head:

Her tresses showed a richer mass,

Her eyes looked softer than my own,

Her figure had a statelier height,

Her voice a tenderer tone.

'Some must be second and not first;

All cannot be the first of all:

Is not this, too, but vanity?

I stumble like to fall.

'So yesterday I read the acts

Of Hector and each clangorous king

With wrathful great Æacides:—

Old Homer leaves a sting.'

The comely face looked up again,

The deft hand lingered on the thread:

'Sweet, tell me what is Homer's sting,

Old Homer's sting?' she said.

'He stirs my sluggish pulse like wine,

He melts me like the wind of spice,

Strong as strong Ajax' red right hand,

And grand like Juno's eyes.

'I cannot melt the sons of men,

I cannot fire and tempest-toss:—

Besides, those days were golden days,

Whilst these are days of dross.'

She laughed a feminine low laugh,

Yet did not stay her dexterous hand:

'Now tell me of those days,' she said,

'When time ran golden sand.'

'Then men were men of might and right,

Sheer might, at least, and weighty swords;

Then men in open blood and fire,

Bore witness to their words,

'Crest-rearing kings with whistling spears;

But if these shivered in the shock

They wrenched up hundred-rooted trees,

Or hurled the effacing rock.

'Then hand to hand, then foot to foot,

Stern to the death-grip grappling then,

Who ever thought of gunpowder

Amongst these men of men?

'They knew whose hand struck home the death,

They knew who broke but would not bend,

Could venerate an equal foe

And scorn a laggard friend.

'Calm in the utmost stress of doom,

Devout toward adverse powers above,

They hated with intenser hate

And loved with fuller love.

'Then heavenly beauty could allay

As heavenly beauty stirred the strife:

By them a slave was worshipped more

Than is by us a wife.'

She laughed again, my sister laughed,

Made answer o'er the laboured cloth:

'I rather would be one of us

Than wife, or slave, or both.'

'Oh better then be slave or wife

Than fritter now blank life away:

Then night had holiness of night,

And day was sacred day.

'The princess laboured at her loom,

Mistress and handmaiden alike;

Beneath their needles grew the field

With warriors armed to strike;

'Or, look again, dim Dian's face

Gleamed perfect through the attendant night;

Were such not better than those holes

Amid that waste of white?

'A shame it is, our aimless life:

I rather from my heart would feed

From silver dish in gilded stall

With wheat and wine the steed—

'The faithful steed that bore my lord

In safety through the hostile land,

The faithful steed that arched his neck

To fondle with my hand.'

Her needle erred; a moment's pause,

A moment's patience, all was well.

Then she: 'But just suppose the horse,

Suppose the rider fell?

'Then captive in an alien house,

Hungering on exile's bitter bread,—

They happy, they who won the lot

Of sacrifice,' she said.

Speaking she faltered, while her look

Showed forth her passion like a glass:

With hand suspended, kindling eye,

Flushed cheek, how fair she was!

'Ah well, be those the days of dross;

This, if you will, the age of gold:

Yet had those days a spark of warmth,

While these are somewhat cold—

'Are somewhat mean and cold and slow,

Are stunted from heroic growth:

We gain but little when we prove

The worthlessness of both.'

'But life is in our hands,' she said:

'In our own hands for gain or loss:

Shall not the Sevenfold Sacred Fire

Suffice to purge our dross?

'Too short a century of dreams,

One day of work sufficient length:

Why should not you, why should not I

Attain heroic strength?

'Our life is given us as a blank;

Ourselves must make it blest or curst:

Who dooms me I shall only be

The second, not the first?

'Learn from old Homer, if you will,

Such wisdom as his Books have said:

In one the acts of Ajax shine,

In one of Diomed.

'Honoured all heroes whose high deeds

Thro' life till death enlarge their span:

Only Achilles in his rage

And sloth is less than man.'

'Achilles only less than man?

He less than man who, half a god,

Discomfited all Greece with rest,

Cowed Ilion with a nod?

'He offered vengeance, lifelong grief

To one dear ghost, uncounted price:

Beasts, Trojans, adverse gods, himself,

Heaped up the sacrifice.

'Self-immolated to his friend,

Shrined in world's wonder, Homer's page,

Is this the man, the less than men,

Of this degenerate age?'

'Gross from his acorns, tusky boar

Does memorable acts like his;

So for her snared offended young

Bleeds the swart lioness.'

But here she paused; our eyes had met,

And I was whitening with the jeer;

She rose: 'I went too far,' she said;

Spoke low: 'Forgive me, dear.

'To me our days seem pleasant days,

Our home a haven of pure content;

Forgive me if I said too much,

So much more than I meant.

'Homer, tho' greater than his gods,

With rough-hewn virtues was sufficed

And rough-hewn men: but what are such

To us who learn of Christ?'

The much-moved pathos of her voice,

Her almost tearful eyes, her cheek

Grown pale, confessed the strength of love

Which only made her speak:

For mild she was, of few soft words,

Most gentle, easy to be led,

Content to listen when I spoke

And reverence what I said;

I elder sister by six years;

Not half so glad, or wise, or good:

Her words rebuked my secret self

And shamed me where I stood.

She never guessed her words reproved

A silent envy nursed within,

A selfish, souring discontent

Pride-born, the devil's sin.

I smiled, half bitter, half in jest:

'The wisest man of all the wise

Left for his summary of life

"Vanity of vanities."

'Beneath the sun there's nothing new:

Men flow, men ebb, mankind flows on:

If I am wearied of my life,

Why so was Solomon.

'Vanity of vanities he preached

Of all he found, of all he sought:

Vanity of vanities, the gist

Of all the words he taught.

'This in the wisdom of the world,

In Homer's page, in all, we find:

As the sea is not filled, so yearns

Man's universal mind.

'This Homer felt, who gave his men

With glory but a transient state:

His very Jove could not reverse

Irrevocable fate.

'Uncertain all their lot save this—

Who wins must lose, who lives must die:

All trodden out into the dark

Alike, all vanity.'

She scarcely answered when I paused,

But rather to herself said: 'One

Is here,' low-voiced and loving, 'Yea,

Greater than Solomon.'

So both were silent, she and I:

She laid her work aside, and went

Into the garden-walks, like spring,

All gracious with content,

A little graver than her wont,

Because her words had fretted me;

Not warbling quite her merriest tune

Bird-like from tree to tree.

I chose a book to read and dream:

Yet all the while with furtive eyes

Marked how she made her choice of flowers

Intuitively wise,

And ranged them with instinctive taste

Which all my books had failed to teach;

Fresh rose herself, and daintier

Than blossom of the peach.

By birthright higher than myself,

Tho' nestling of the self-same nest:

No fault of hers, no fault of mine,

But stubborn to digest.

I watched her, till my book unmarked

Slid noiseless to the velvet floor;

Till all the opulent summer-world

Looked poorer than before.

Just then her busy fingers ceased,

Her fluttered colour went and came;

I knew whose step was on the walk,

Whose voice would name her name.

Well, twenty years have passed since then:

My sister now, a stately wife

Still fair, looks back in peace and sees

The longer half of life—

The longer half of prosperous life,

With little grief, or fear, or fret:

She loved, and, loving long ago,

Is loved and loving yet.

A husband honourable, brave,

Is her main wealth in all the world:

And next to him one like herself,

One daughter golden-curled;

Fair image of her own fair youth,

As beautiful and as serene,

With almost such another love

As her own love has been.

Yet, tho' of world-wide charity,

And in her home most tender dove,

Her treasure and her heart are stored

In the home-land of love:

She thrives, God's blessed husbandry;

She like a vine is full of fruit;

Her passion-flower climbs up toward heaven

Tho' earth still binds its root.

I sit and watch my sister's face:

How little altered since the hours

When she, a kind, light-hearted girl,

Gathered her garden flowers;

Her song just mellowed by regret

For having teased me with her talk;

Then all-forgetful as she heard

One step upon the walk.

While I? I sat alone and watched

My lot in life, to live alone,

In mine own world of interests,

Much felt but little shown.

Not to be first: how hard to learn

That lifelong lesson of the past;

Line graven on line and stroke on stroke;

But, thank God, learned at last.

So now in patience I possess

My soul year after tedious year,

Content to take the lowest place,

The place assigned me here.

Yet sometimes, when I feel my strength

Most weak, and life most burdensome,

I lift mine eyes up to the hills

From whence my help shall come:

Yea, sometimes still I lift my heart

To the Archangelic trumpet-burst,

When all deep secrets shall be shown,

And many last be first.

 

MY FRIEND

(Macmillan's Magazine, Dec. 1864.)

TWO days ago with dancing glancing hair,

With living lips and eyes:

Now pale, dumb, blind, she lies;

So pale, yet still so fair.

We have not left her yet, not yet alone;

But soon must leave her where

She will not miss our care,

Bone of our bone.

Weep not; O friends, we should not weep:

Our friend of friends lies full of rest;

No sorrow rankles in her breast,

Fallen fast asleep.

She sleeps below,

She wakes and laughs above:

Today, as she walked, let us walk in love;

Tomorrow follow so.

 

LAST NIGHT

(Macmillan's Magazine, May 1865.)

WHERE were you last night? I watched at the gate;

I went down early, I stayed down late.

Were you snug at home, I should like to know,

Or were you in the coppice wheedling Kate?

She's a fine girl, with a fine clear skin;

Easy to woo, perhaps not hard to win.

Speak up like a man and tell me the truth:

I'm not one to grow downhearted and thin.

If you love her best speak up like a man;

It's not I will stand in the light of your plan:

Some girls might cry and scold you a bit,

And say they couldn't bear it; but I can.

Love was pleasant enough, and the days went fast

Pleasant while it lasted, but it needn't last;

Awhile on the wax, and awhile on the wane,

Now dropped away into the past.

Was it pleasant to you? To me it was:

Now clean gone as an image from glass,

As a goodly rainbow that fades away,

As dew that steams upward from the grass,

As the first spring day, or the last summer day,

As the sunset flush that leaves heaven grey,

As a flame burnt out for lack of oil,

Which no pains relight or ever may.

Good luck to Kate and good luck to you:

I guess she'll be kind when you come to woo.

I wish her a pretty face that will last,

I wish her a husband steady and true.

Hate you? not I, my very good friend;

All things begin and all have an end.

But let broken be broken; I put no faith

In quacks who set up to patch and mend.

Just my love and one word to Kate:

Not to let time slip if she means to mate;—

For even such a thing has been known

As to miss the chance while we weigh and wait.

 

CONSIDER

(Macmillan's Magazine, Jan. 1866.)

CONSIDER

The lilies of the field whose bloom is brief:—

We are as they;

Like them we fade away,

As doth a leaf.

Consider

The sparrows of the air of small account:

Our God doth view

Whether they fall or mount,—

He guards us too.

Consider

The lilies that do neither spin nor toil,

Yet are most fair:—

What profits all this care

And all this coil?

Consider

The birds that have no barn nor harvest-weeks;

God gives them food:—

Much more our Father seeks

To do us good.

 

HELEN GREY

(Macmillan's Magazine, March 1866.)

BECAUSE one loves you, Helen Grey,

Is that a reason you should pout,

And like a March wind veer about,

And frown, and say your shrewish say?

Don't strain the cord until it snaps,

Don't split the sound heart with your wedge,

Don't cut your fingers with the edge

Of your keen wit; you may, perhaps.

Because you're handsome, Helen Grey,

Is that a reason to be proud?

Your eyes are bold, your laugh is loud,

Your steps go mincing on their way;

But so you miss that modest charm

Which is the surest charm of all:

Take heed, you yet may trip and fall,

And no man care to stretch his arm.

Stoop from your cold height, Helen Grey,

Come down, and take a lowlier place,

Come down, to fill it now with grace;

Come down you must perforce some day:

For years cannot be kept at bay,

And fading years will make you old;

Then in their turn will men seem cold,

When you yourself are nipped and grey.

 

BY THE WATERS OF BABYLON

B. C. 570

(Macmillan's Magazine, October 1866.)

HERE where I dwell I waste to skin and bone;

The curse is come upon me, and I waste

In penal torment powerless to atone.

The curse is come on me, which makes no haste

And doth not tarry, crushing both the proud

Hard man and him the sinner double-faced.

Look not upon me, for my soul is bowed

Within me, as my body in this mire;

My soul crawls dumb-struck, sore-bested and cowed.

As Sodom and Gomorrah scourged by fire,

As Jericho before God's trumpet-peal,

So we the elect ones perish in His ire.

Vainly we gird on sackcloth, vainly kneel

With famished faces toward Jerusalem:

His heart is shut against us not to feel,

His ears against our cry He shutteth them,

His hand He shorteneth that He will not save,

His law is loud against us to condemn:

And we, as unclean bodies in the grave

Inheriting corruption and the dark,

Are outcast from His presence which we crave.

Our Mercy hath departed from His Ark,

Our Glory hath departed from His rest,

Our Shield hath left us naked as a mark

Unto all pitiless eyes made manifest.

Our very Father hath forsaken us,

Our God hath cast us from Him: we oppress'd

Unto our foes are even marvellous,

A hissing and a butt for pointing hands,

Whilst God Almighty hunts and grinds us thus;

For He hath scattered us in alien lands,

Our priests, our princes, our anointed king,

And bound us hand and foot with brazen bands.

Here while I sit my painful heart takes wing

Home to the home-land I must see no more,

Where milk and honey flow, where waters spring

And fail not, where I dwelt in days of yore

Under my fig-tree and my fruitful vine,

There where my parents dwelt at ease before:

Now strangers press the olives that are mine,

Reap all the corners of my harvest-field,

And make their fat hearts wanton with my wine;

To them my trees, to them my gardens yield

Their sweets and spices and their tender green,

O'er them in noontide heat outspread their shield.

Yet these are they whose fathers had not been

Housed with my dogs, whom hip and thigh we smote

And with their blood washed their pollutions clean,

Purging the land which spewed them from its throat;

Their daughters took we for a pleasant prey,

Choice tender ones on whom the fathers doat.

Now they in turn have led our own away;

Our daughters and our sisters and our wives

Sore weeping as they weep who curse the day,

To live, remote from help, dishonoured lives,

Soothing their drunken masters with a song,

Or dancing in their golden tinkling gyves:

Accurst if they remember through the long

Estrangement of their exile, twice accursed

If they forget and join the accursèd throng.

How doth my heart that is so wrung not burst

When I remember that my way was plain,

And that God's candle lit me at the first,

Whilst now I grope in darkness, grope in vain,

Desiring but to find Him Who is lost,

To find Him once again, but once again.

His wrath came on us to the uttermost,

His covenanted and most righteous wrath:

Yet this is He of Whom we made our boast,

Who lit the Fiery Pillar in our path,

Who swept the Red Sea dry before our feet,

Who in His jealousy smote kings, and hath

Sworn once to David: One shall fill thy seat

Born of thy body, as the sun and moon

'Stablished for aye in sovereignty complete.

O Lord, remember David, and that soon.

The Glory hath departed, Ichabod!

Yet now, before our sun grow dark at noon,

Before we come to nought beneath Thy rod,

Before we go down quick into the pit,

Remember us for good, O God, our God:—

Thy Name will I remember, praising it,

Though Thou forget me, though Thou hide Thy face,

And blot me from the Book which Thou hast writ;

Thy Name will I remember in my praise

And call to mind Thy faithfulness of old,

Though as a weaver Thou cut off my days,

And end me as a tale ends that is told.

 

SEASONS

(Macmillan's Magazine, Dec. 1866.)

OH the cheerful Budding-time!

When thorn-hedges turn to green,

When new leaves of elm and lime

Cleave and shed their winter screen;

Tender lambs are born and 'baa',

North wind finds no snow to bring,

Vigorous Nature laughs 'Ha, ha',

In the miracle of spring.

Oh the gorgeous Blossom-days!

When broad flag-flowers drink and blow,

In and out in summer-blaze

Dragon-flies flash to and fro;

Ashen branches hang out keys,

Oaks put forth the rosy shoot,

Wandering herds wax sleek at ease,

Lovely blossoms end in fruit.

Oh the shouting Harvest-weeks!

Mother earth grown fat with sheaves

Thrifty gleaner finds who seeks;

Russet-golden pomp of leaves

Crowns the woods, to fall at length;

Bracing winds are felt to stir,

Ocean gathers up her strength,

Beasts renew their dwindled fur.

Oh the starving Winter-lapse!

Ice-bound, hunger-pinched and dim;

Dormant roots recall their saps,

Empty nests show black and grim,

Short-lived sunshine gives no heat,

Undue buds are nipped by frost,

Snow sets forth a winding-sheet,

And all hope of life seems lost.

 

MOTHER COUNTRY

(Macmillan's Magazine, March 1868.)

OH what is that country

And where can it be,

Not mine own country,

But dearer far to me?

Yet mine own country,

If I one day may see

Its spices and cedars,

Its gold and ivory.

As I lie dreaming

It rises, that land:

There rises before me

Its green golden strand,

With its bowing cedars

And its shining sand;

It sparkles and flashes

Like a shaken brand.

Do angels lean nearer

While I lie and long?

I see their soft plumage

And catch their windy song,

Like the rise of a high tide

Sweeping full and strong;

I mark the outskirts

Of their reverend throng.

Oh what is a king here,

Or what is a boor?

Here all starve together,

All dwarfed and poor;

Here Death's hand knocketh

At door after door,

He thins the dancers

From the festal floor.

Oh what is a handmaid,

Or what is a queen?

All must lie down together

Where the turf is green,

The foulest face hidden,

The fairest not seen;

Gone as if never,

They had breathed or been.

Gone from sweet sunshine

Underneath the sod,

Turned from warm flesh and blood

To senseless clod,

Gone as if never

They had toiled or trod,

Gone out of sight of all

Except our God.

Shut into silence

From the accustomed song,

Shut into solitude

From all earth's throng,

Run down tho' swift of foot,

Thrust down tho' strong;

Life made an end of

Seemed it short or long.

Life made an end of,

Life but just begun,

Life finished yesterday,

Its last sand run;

Life new-born with the morrow,

Fresh as the sun:

While done is done forever;

Undone, undone.

And if that life is life,

This is but a breath,

The passage of a dream

And the shadow of death;

But a vain shadow

If one considereth;

Vanity of vanities,

As the Preacher saith.

 

A SMILE AND A SIGH

(Macmillan's Magazine, May 1868.)

A SMILE because the nights are short!

And every morning brings such pleasure

Of sweet love-making, harmless sport:

Love, that makes and finds its treasure;

Love, treasure without measure.

A sigh because the days are long!

Long long these days that pass in sighing,

A burden saddens every song:

While time lags who should be flying,

We live who would be dying.

 

DEAD HOPE

(Macmillan's Magazine, May 1868.)

HOPE new born one pleasant morn

Died at even;

Hope dead lives nevermore.

No, not in heaven.

If his shroud were but a cloud

To weep itself away;

Or were he buried underground

To sprout some day!

But dead and gone is dead and gone

Vainly wept upon.

Nought we place above his face

To mark the spot,

But it shows a barren place

In our lot.

Hope has birth no more on earth

Morn or even;

Hope dead lives nevermore,

No, not in heaven.

 

AUTUMN VIOLETS

(Macmillan's Magazine, November 1868.)

KEEP love for youth, and violets for the spring:

Or if these bloom when worn-out autumn grieves,

Let them lie hid in double shade of leaves,

Their own, and others dropped down withering;

For violets suit when home birds build and sing,

Not when the outbound bird a passage cleaves;

Not with the stubble of mown harvest sheaves,

But when the green world buds to blossoming.

Keep violets for the spring, and love for youth,

Love that should dwell with beauty, mirth, and hope:

Or if a later sadder love be born,

Let this not look for grace beyond its scope,

But give itself, nor plead for answering truth—

A grateful Ruth tho' gleaning scanty corn.

 

'THEY DESIRE A BETTER COUNTRY'

(Macmillan's Magazine, March 1869.)

I

I WOULD not if I could undo my past,

Tho' for its sake my future is a blank;

My past, for which I have myself to thank

For all its faults and follies first and last.

I would not cast anew the lot once cast,

Or launch a second ship for one that sank,

Or drug with sweets the bitterness I drank,

Or break by feasting my perpetual fast.

I would not if I could: for much more dear

Is one remembrance than a hundred joys,

More than a thousand hopes in jubilee;

Dearer the music of one tearful voice

That unforgotten calls and calls to me,

'Follow me here, rise up, and follow here.'

II

What seekest thou far in the unknown land?

In hope I follow joy gone on before,

In hope and fear persistent more and more,

As the dry desert lengthens out its sand.

Whilst day and night I carry in my hand

The golden key to ope the golden door

Of golden home; yet mine eye weepeth sore

For the long journey that must make no stand.

And who is this that veiled doth walk with thee?

Lo, this is Love that walketh at my right;

One exile holds us both, and we are bound

To selfsame home-joys in the land of light.

Weeping thou walkest with him; weepeth he?—

Some sobbing weep, some weep and make no sound.

III

A dimness of a glory glimmers here

Thro' veils and distance from the space remote,

A faintest far vibration of a note

Reaches to us and seems to bring us near,

Causing our face to glow with braver cheer,

Making the serried mist to stand afloat,

Subduing languor with an antidote,

And strengthening love almost to cast out fear,

Till for one moment golden city walls

Rise looming on us, golden walls of home,

Light of our eyes until the darkness falls;

Then thro' the outer darkness burdensome

I hear again the tender voice that calls,

'Follow me hither, follow, rise, and come.'

 

THE OFFERING OF THE NEW LAW, THE ONE OBLATION ONCE OFFERED

(Lyra Eucharistica, 1863.)

ONCE I thought to sit so high

In the Palace of the sky;

Now, I thank God for His Grace,

If I may fill the lowest place.

Once I thought to scale so soon

Heights above the changing moon;

Now, I thank God for delay—

Today, it yet is called today.

While I stumble, halt and blind,

Lo! He waiteth to be kind;

Bless me soon, or bless me slow,

Except He bless, I let not go.

Once for earth I laid my plan,

Once I leaned on strength of man,

When my hope was swept aside,

I stayed my broken heart on pride:

Broken reed hath pierced my hand;

Fell my house I built on sand;

Roofless, wounded, maimed by sin,

Fightings without and fears within:

Yet, a tree, He feeds my root;

Yet, a branch, He prunes for fruit;

Yet, a sheep, these eves and morns,

He seeks for me among the thorns.

With Thine Image stamped of old,

Find Thy coin more choice than gold;

Known to Thee by name, recall

To Thee Thy home-sick prodigal.

Sacrifice and Offering

None there is that I can bring,

None, save what is Thine alone:

I bring Thee, Lord, but of Thine Own—

Broken Body, Blood Outpoured,

These I bring, my God, my Lord;

Wine of Life, and Living Bread,

With these for me Thy Board is spread.

 

CONFERENCE BETWEEN CHRIST, THE SAINTS, AND THE SOUL

(Lyra Eucharistica, 1863.)

I AM pale with sick desire,

For my heart is far away

From this world's fitful fire

And this world's waning day;

In a dream it overleaps

A world of tedious ills

To where the sunshine sleeps

On th' everlasting hills.

Say the Saints—There Angels ease us

Glorified and white.

They say—We rest in Jesus,

Where is not day nor night.

My Soul saith—I have sought

For a home that is not gained,

I have spent yet nothing bought,

Have laboured but not attained;

My pride strove to rise and grow,

And hath but dwindled down;

My love sought love, and lo!

Hath not attained its crown.

Say the Saints—Fresh Souls increase us,

None languish nor recede.

They say—We love our Jesus,

And He loves us indeed.

I cannot rise above,

I cannot rest beneath,

I cannot find out Love,

Nor escape from Death;

Dear hopes and joys gone by

Still mock me with a name;

My best belovèd die

And I cannot die with them.

Say the Saints—No deaths decrease us,

Where our rest is glorious.

They say—We live in Jesus,

Who once dièd for us.

Oh, my Soul, she beats her wings

And pants to fly away

Up to immortal Things

In the Heavenly day:

Yet she flags and almost faints;

Can such be meant for me?

Come and see—say the Saints.

Saith Jesus—Come and see.

Say the Saints—His Pleasures please us

Before God and the Lamb.

Come and taste My Sweets—saith Jesus—

Be with Me where I am.

 

COME UNTO ME

(Lyra Eucharistica, second edition, 1864.)

OH, for the time gone by, when thought of Christ

Made His Yoke easy and His Burden light;

When my heart stirred within me at the sight

Of Altar spread for awful Eucharist;

When all my hopes His Promises sufficed,

When my Soul watched for Him by day, by night,

When my lamp lightened and my robe was white,

And all seemed loss, except the Pearl unpriced.

Yet, since He calls me still with tender Call,

Since He remembers Whom I half forgot,

I even will run my race and bear my lot:

For Faith the walls of Jericho cast down,

And Hope to whoso runs holds forth a Crown,

And Love is Christ, and Christ is All in all.

 

JESUS, DO I LOVE THEE?

(Lyra Eucharistica, second edition, 1864.)

JESUS, do I love Thee?

Thou art far above me,

Seated out of sight

Hid in Heavenly Light

Of most highest height.

Martyred hosts implore Thee,

Seraphs fall before Thee,

Angels and Archangels,

Cherub throngs adore Thee;

Blessed She that bore Thee!

All the Saints approve Thee,

All the Virgins love Thee.

I show as a blot

Blood hath cleansed not,

As a barren spot

In Thy fruitful lot.

I, fig-tree fruit-unbearing;

Thou, righteous Judge unsparing:

What canst Thou do more to me

That shall not more undo me?

Thy Justice hath a sound—

Why cumbereth it the ground?

Thy Love with stirrings stronger

Pleads—Give it one year longer.

Thou giv'st me time: but who

Save Thou shall give me dew;

Shall feed my root with Blood,

And stir my sap for good?

Oh, by Thy Gifts that shame me,

Give more lest they condemn me:

Good Lord, I ask much of Thee,

But most I ask to love Thee;

Kind Lord, be mindful of me,

Love me, and make me love Thee.

 

I KNOW YOU NOT

(Lyra Messianica, 1864.)

O CHRIST, the Vine with living Fruit,

The twelvefold-fruited Tree of Life,

The Balm in Gilead after strife,

The valley Lily and the Rose;

Stronger than Lebanon, Thou Root;

Sweeter than clustered grapes, Thou Vine;

O Best, Thou Vineyard of red wine,

Keeping thy best wine till the close.

Pearl of great price Thyself alone,

And ruddier than the ruby Thou;

Most precious lightning Jasper stone,

Head of the corner spurned before:

Fair Gate of pearl, Thyself the Door;

Clear golden Street, Thyself the Way;

By Thee we journey toward Thee now,

Through Thee shall enter Heaven one day.

I thirst for Thee, full fount and flood;

My heart calls Thine, as deep to deep:

Dost Thou forget Thy sweat and pain,

Thy provocation on the Cross?

Heart-pierced for me, vouchsafe to keep

The purchase of Thy lavished Blood:

The gain is Thine, Lord, if I gain;

Or if I lose, Thine own the loss.

At midnight (saith the Parable)

A cry was made, the Bridegroom came;

Those who were ready entered in:

The rest, shut out in death and shame,

Strove all too late that Feast to win,

Their die was cast, and fixed their lot;

A gulf divided Heaven from Hell;

The Bridegroom said—I know you not.

But Who is this that shuts the door,

And saith—I know you not—to them?

I see the wounded hands and side,

The brow thorn-tortured long ago:

Yea; This Who grieved and bled and died,

This same is He Who must condemn;

He called, but they refused to know;

So now He hears their cry no more.

 

'BEFORE THE PALING OF THE STARS'

(Lyra Messianica, 1864.)

BEFORE the paling of the stars,

Before the winter morn,

Before the earliest cockcrow,

Jesus Christ was born:

Born in a stable,

Cradled in a manger,

In the world His hands had made

Born a stranger.

Priest and king lay fast asleep

In Jerusalem,

Young and old lay fast asleep

In crowded Bethlehem:

Saint and Angel, ox and ass,

Kept a watch together

Before the Christmas daybreak

In the winter weather.

Jesus on His Mother's breast

In the stable cold,

Spotless Lamb of God was He,

Shepherd of the fold:

Let us kneel with Mary maid,

With Joseph bent and hoary,

With Saint and Angel, ox and ass,

To hail the King of Glory.

 

EASTER EVEN

(Lyra Messianica, 1864.)

THERE is nothing more that they can do

For all their rage and boast;

Caiaphas with his blaspheming crew,

Herod with his host,

Pontius Pilate in his Judgement-hall

Judging their Judge and his,

Or he who led them all and passed them all,

Arch-Judas with his kiss.

The sepulchre made sure with ponderous Stone,

Seal that same stone, O Priest;

It may be thou shalt block the holy One

From rising in the east:

Set a watch about the sepulchre

To watch on pain of death;

They must hold fast the stone if One should stir

And shake it from beneath.

God Almighty, He can break a seal

And roll away a Stone,

Can grind the proud in dust who would not kneel,

And crush the mighty one.

There is nothing more that they can do

For all their passionate care,

Those who sit in dust, the blessed few,

And weep and rend their hair:

Peter, Thomas, Mary Magdalene,

The Virgin unreproved,

Joseph, with Nicodemus, foremost men,

And John the Well-beloved,

Bring your finest linen and your spice,

Swathe the sacred Dead,

Bind with careful hands and piteous eyes

The napkin round His head;

Lay Him in the garden-rock to rest;

Rest you the Sabbath length:

The Sun that went down crimson in the west

Shall rise renewed in strength.

God Almighty shall give joy for pain,

Shall comfort him who grieves:

Lo! He with joy shall doubtless come again,

And with Him bring His sheaves.

 

PARADISE: IN A DREAM

(Lyra Messianica, second edition, 1865.)

ONCE in a dream I saw the flowers

That bud and bloom in Paradise;

More fair they are than waking eyes

Have seen in all this world of ours.

And faint the perfume-bearing rose,

And faint the lily on its stem,

And faint the perfect violet

Compared with them.

I heard the songs of Paradise:

Each bird sat singing in his place;

A tender song so full of grace

It soared like incense to the skies.

Each bird sat singing to his mate

Soft cooing notes among the trees:

The nightingale herself were cold

To such as these.

I saw the fourfold River flow,

And deep it was, with golden sand;

It flowed between a mossy land

Which murmured music grave and low.

It hath refreshment for all thirst,

For fainting spirits strength and rest:

Earth holds not such a draught as this

From east to west.

The Tree of Life stood budding there,

Abundant with its twelvefold fruits;

Eternal sap sustains its roots,

Its shadowing branches fill the air.

Its leaves are healing for the world,

Its fruit the hungry world can feed.

Sweeter than honey to the taste

And balm indeed.

I saw the gate called Beautiful;

And looked, but scarce could look, within;

I saw the golden streets begin,

And outskirts of the glassy pool.

Oh harps, oh crowns of plenteous stars,

Oh green palm-branches many-leaved—

Eye hath not seen, nor ear hath heard,

Nor heart conceived.

I hope to see these things again,

But not as once in dreams by night;

To see them with my very sight,

And touch, and handle, and attain:

To have all Heaven beneath my feet

For narrow way that once they trod;

To have my part with all the Saints,

And with my God.

 

WITHIN THE VEIL

(Lyra Messianica, second edition, 1865.)

SHE holds a lily in her hand,

Where long ranks of Angels stand,

A silver lily for her wand.

All her hair falls sweeping down;

Her hair that is a golden brown,

A crown beneath her golden crown.

Blooms a rose-bush at her knee,

Good to smell and good to see:

It bears a rose for her, for me;

Her rose a blossom richly grown,

My rose a bud not fully blown,

But sure one day to be mine own.

 

PARADISE: IN A SYMBOL

(Lyra Messianica, second edition, 1865.)

GOLDEN-WINGED, silver-winged,

Winged with flashing flame,

Such a flight of birds I saw,

Birds without a name:

Singing songs in their own tongue

(Song of songs) they came.

One to another calling,

Each answering each,

One to another calling

In their proper speech:

High above my head they wheeled,

Far out of reach.

On wings of flame they went and came

With a cadenced clang,

Their silver wings tinkled,

Their golden wings rang,

The wind it whistled through their wings

Where in Heaven they sang.

They flashed and they darted

Awhile before mine eyes,

Mounting, mounting, mounting still

In haste to scale the skies—

Birds without a nest on earth,

Birds of Paradise.

Where the moon riseth not,

Nor sun seeks the west,

There to sing their glory

Which they sing at rest,

There to sing their love-song

When they sing their best:

Not in any garden

That mortal foot hath trod,

Not in any flowering tree

That springs from earthly sod,

But in the garden where they dwell,

The Paradise of God.

 

AMOR MUNDI

(The Shilling Magazine, 1865.)

'OH, where are you going with your love-locks flowing

On the west wind blowing along this valley track?'

'The downhill path is easy, come with me an' it please ye,

We shall escape the uphill by never turning back.'

So they two went together in glowing August weather,

The honey-breathing heather lay to their left and right;

And dear she was to doat on, her swift feet seemed to float on

The air like soft twin pigeons too sportive to alight.

'Oh, what is that in heaven where grey cloud-flakes are seven,

Where blackest clouds hang riven just at the rainy skirt?'

'Oh, that's a meteor sent us, a message dumb, portentous,—

An undecipher'd solemn signal of help or hurt.'

'Oh, what is that glides quickly where velvet flowers grow thickly,

Their scent comes rich and sickly?'—'A scaled and hooded worm.'

'Oh, what's that in the hollow, so pale I quake to follow?'

'Oh, that's a thin dead body which waits th' eternal term.'

'Turn again, O my sweetest,—turn again, false and fleetest:

This way whereof thou weetest I fear is hell's own track.'

'Nay, too steep for hill-mounting,—nay, too late for cost-counting:

This downhill path is easy, but there's no turning back.'

 

WHO SHALL DELIVER ME?

(The Argosy, Feb. 1866.)

GOD strengthen me to bear myself;

That heaviest weight of all to bear,

Inalienable weight of care.

All others are outside myself;

I lock my door and bar them out,

The turmoil, tedium, gad-about.

I lock my door upon myself,

And bar them out; but who shall wall

Self from myself, most loathed of all?

If I could once lay down myself,

And start self-purged upon the race

That all must run! Death runs apace.

If I could set aside myself,

And start with lightened heart upon

The road by all men overgone!

God harden me against myself,

This coward with pathetic voice

Who craves for ease, and rest, and joys:

Myself, arch-traitor to myself;

My hollowest friend, my deadliest foe,

My clog whatever road I go.

Yet One there is can curb myself,

Can roll the strangling load from me,

Break off the yoke and set me free.

 

IF

(The Argosy, March 1866.)

IF he would come today, today, today,

O, what a day today would be!

But now he's away, miles and miles away

From me across the sea.

O little bird, flying, flying, flying

To your nest in the warm west,

Tell him as you pass that I am dying,

As you pass home to your nest.

I have a sister, I have a brother,

A faithful hound, a tame white dove;

But I had another, once I had another,

And I miss him, my love, my love!

In this weary world it is so cold, so cold,

While I sit here all alone;

I would not like to wait and to grow old,

But just to be dead and gone.

Make me fair when I lie dead on my bed,

Fair where I am lying:

Perhaps he may come and look upon me dead—

He for whom I am dying.

Dig my grave for two, with a stone to show it,

And on the stone write my name:

If he never comes, I shall never know it,

But sleep on all the same.

 

TWILIGHT NIGHT

(The Argosy, Jan. 1868.)

I

WE met, hand to hand,

We clasped hands close and fast,

As close as oak and ivy stand;

But it is past:

Come day, come night, day comes at last.

We loosed hand from hand,

We parted face from face;

Each went his way to his own land

At his own pace,

Each went to fill his separate place.

If we should meet one day,

If both should not forget,

We shall clasp hands the accustomed way,

As when we met

So long ago, as I remember yet.

II

Where my heart is (wherever that may be)

Might I but follow!

If you fly thither over heath and lea,

O honey-seeking bee,

O careless swallow,

Bid some for whom I watch keep watch for me.

Alas! that we must dwell, my heart and I,

So far asunder.

Hours wax to days, and days and days creep by;

I watch with wistful eye,

I wait and wonder:

When will that day draw nigh—that hour draw nigh?

Not yesterday, and not, I think, today;

Perhaps tomorrow.

Day after day 'tomorrow' thus I say:

I watched so yesterday

In hope and sorrow,

Again today I watch the accustomed way.

.