Part Iv

In the stormy east-wind straining, The pale yellow woods were waning, The broad stream in his banks complaining, Heavily the low sky raining Over tower'd Camelot;

Down she came and found a boat Beneath a willow left afloat, And round about the prow she wrote The Lady of Shalott.

And down the river's dim expanse-- Like some bold seer in a trance, Seeing all his own mischance-- With a glassy countenance Did she look to Camelot. And at the closing of the day She loosed the chain, and down she lay; The broad stream bore her far away, The Lady of Shalott.

Lying, robed in snowy white That loosely flew to left and right-- The leaves upon her falling light-- Thro' the noises of the night She floated down to Camelot: And as the boat-head wound along The willowy hills and fields among, They heard her singing her last song, The Lady of Shalott.

Heard a carol, mournful, holy, Chanted loudly, chanted lowly, Till her blood was frozen slowly, And her eyes were darken'd wholly, Turn'd to tower'd Camelot; For ere she reach'd upon the tide The first house by the water-side, Singing in her song she died, The Lady of Shalott.

Under tower and balcony, By garden-wall and gallery, A gleaming shape she floated by, Dead-pale between the houses high, Silent into Camelot. Out upon the wharfs they came, Knight and burgher, lord and dame, And round the prow they read her name, The Lady of Shalott.

Who is this? and what is here? And in the lighted palace near Died the sound of royal cheer; And they cross'd themselves for fear, All the knights at Camelot: But Lancelot mused a little space; He said, 'She has a lovely face; God in His mercy lend her grace, The Lady of Shalott.'

Alfred Tennyson, Lord Tennyson. 1809-1892

701. The Miller's Daughter

IT is the miller's daughter, And she is grown so dear, so dear, That I would be the jewel That trembles in her ear: For hid in ringlets day and night, I'd touch her neck so warm and white.

And I would be the girdle About her dainty dainty waist, And her heart would beat against me, In sorrow and in rest: And I should know if it beat right, I'd clasp it round so close and tight.

And I would be the necklace, And all day long to fall and rise Upon her balmy bosom, With her laughter or her sighs: And I would lie so light, so light, I scarce should be unclasp'd at night.

Alfred Tennyson, Lord Tennyson. 1809-1892

702. Song of the Lotos-Eaters

THERE is sweet music here that softer falls Than petals from blown roses on the grass, Or night-dews on still waters between walls Of shadowy granite, in a gleaming pass; Music that gentlier on the spirit lies, Than tired eyelids upon tired eyes; Music that brings sweet sleep down from the blissful skies. Here are cool mosses deep, And thro' the moss the ivies creep, And in the stream the long-leaved flowers weep, And from the craggy ledge the poppy hangs in sleep.

Why are we weigh'd upon with heaviness, And utterly consumed with sharp distress, While all things else have rest from weariness? All things have rest: why should we toil alone, We only toil, who are the first of things, And make perpetual moan, Still from one sorrow to another thrown: Nor ever fold our wings, And cease from wanderings, Nor steep our brows in slumber's holy balm; Nor harken what the inner spirit sings, 'There is no joy but calm!'-- Why should we only toil, the roof and crown of things?

Lo! in the middle of the wood, The folded leaf is woo'd from out the bud With winds upon the branch, and there Grows green and broad, and takes no care, Sun-steep'd at noon, and in the moon Nightly dew-fed; and turning yellow Falls, and floats adown the air. Lo! sweeten'd with the summer light, The full-juiced apple, waxing over-mellow, Drops in a silent autumn night. All its allotted length of days, The flower ripens in its place, Ripens and fades, and falls, and hath no toil, Fast-rooted in the fruitful soil.

Hateful is the dark-blue sky, Vaulted o'er the dark-blue sea. Death is the end of life; ah, why Should life all labour be? Let us alone. Time driveth onward fast, And in a little while our lips are dumb. Let us alone. What is it that will last? All things are taken from us, and become Portions and parcels of the dreadful Past. Let us alone. What pleasure can we have To war with evil? Is there any peace In ever climbing up the climbing wave? All things have rest, and ripen toward the grave In silence; ripen, fall and cease: Give us long rest or death, dark death, or dreamful ease.

How sweet it were, hearing the downward stream, With half-shut eyes ever to seem Falling asleep in a half-dream! To dream and dream, like yonder amber light, Which will not leave the myrrh-bush on the height; To hear each other's whisper'd speech; Eating the Lotos day by day, To watch the crisping ripples on the beach, And tender curving lines of creamy spray; To lend our hearts and spirits wholly To the influence of mild-minded melancholy; To muse and brood and live again in memory, With those old faces of our infancy Heap'd over with a mound of grass, Two handfuls of white dust, shut in an urn of brass!

Dear is the memory of our wedded lives, And dear the last embraces of our wives And their warm tears: but all hath suffer'd change; For surely now our household hearts are cold: Our sons inherit us: our looks are strange: And we should come like ghosts to trouble joy. Or else the island princes over-bold Have eat our substance, and the minstrel sings Before them of the ten years' war in Troy, And our great deeds, as half-forgotten things. Is there confusion in the little isle? Let what is broken so remain. The Gods are hard to reconcile: 'Tis hard to settle order once again. There is confusion worse than death, Trouble on trouble, pain on pain, Long labour unto aged breath, Sore task to hearts worn out with many wars And eyes grown dim with gazing on the pilot-stars.

But, propt on beds of amaranth and moly, How sweet (while warm airs lull us, blowing lowly) With half-dropt eyelids still, Beneath a heaven dark and holy, To watch the long bright river drawing slowly His waters from the purple hill-- To hear the dewy echoes calling From cave to cave thro' the thick-twined vine-- To watch the emerald-colour'd water falling Thro' many a wov'n acanthus-wreath divine! Only to hear and see the far-off sparkling brine, Only to hear were sweet, stretch'd out beneath the pine.

The Lotos blooms below the barren peak: The Lotos blows by every winding creek: All day the wind breathes low with mellower tone: Thro' every hollow cave and alley lone Round and round the spicy downs the yellow Lotos-dust is blown. We have had enough of action, and of motion we, Roll'd to starboard, roll'd to larboard, when the surge was seething free, Where the wallowing monster spouted his foam-fountains in the sea. Let us swear an oath, and keep it with an equal mind, In the hollow Lotos-land to live and lie relined On the hills like Gods together, careless of mankind. For they lie beside their nectar, and the bolts are hurl'd Far below them in the valleys, and the clouds are lightly curl'd Round their golden houses, girdled with the gleaming world: Where the smile in secret, looking over wasted lands, Blight and famine, plague and earthquake, roaring deeps and fiery sands, Clanging fights, and flaming towns, and sinking ships, and praying hands. But they smile, they find a music centred in a doleful song Steaming up, a lamentation and an ancient tale of wrong, Like a tale of little meaning tho' the words are strong; Chanted from an ill-used race of men that cleave the soil, Sow the seed, and reap the harvest with enduring toil, Storing yearly little dues of wheat, and wine and oil; Till they perish and they suffer--some, 'tis whisper'd--down in hell Suffer endless anguish, others in Elysian valleys dwell, Resting weary limbs at last on beds of asphodel. Surely, surely, slumber is more sweet than toil, the shore Than labour in the deep mid-ocean, wind and wave and oar; O rest ye, brother mariners, we will not wander more.

Alfred Tennyson, Lord Tennyson. 1809-1892

703. St. Agnes' Eve

DEEP on the convent-roof the snows Are sparkling to the moon: My breath to heaven like vapour goes: May my soul follow soon! The shadows of the convent-towers Slant down the snowy sward, Still creeping with the creeping hours That lead me to my Lord: Make Thou my spirit pure and clear As are the frosty skies, Or this first snowdrop of the year That in my bosom lies.

As these white robes are soil'd and dark, To yonder shining ground; As this pale taper's earthly spark, To yonder argent round; So shows my soul before the Lamb, My spirit before Thee; So in mine earthly house I am, To that I hope to be. Break up the heavens, O Lord! and far, Thro' all yon starlight keen, Draw me, thy bride, a glittering star, In raiment white and clean.

He lifts me to the golden doors; The flashes come and go; All heaven bursts her starry floors, And strows her lights below, And deepens on and up! the gates Roll back, and far within For me the Heavenly Bridegroom waits, To make me pure of sin. The sabbaths of Eternity, One sabbath deep and wide-- A light upon the shining sea-- The Bridegroom with his bride!

Alfred Tennyson, Lord Tennyson. 1809-1892

704. Blow, Bugle, blow

THE splendour falls on castle walls And snowy summits old in story: The long light shakes across the lakes, And the wild cataract leaps in glory. Blow, bugle, blow, set the wild echoes flying, Blow, bugle; answer, echoes, dying, dying, dying.

O hark, O hear! how thin and clear, And thinner, clearer, farther going! O sweet and far from cliff and scar The horns of Elfland faintly blowing! Blow, let us hear the purple glens replying: Blow, bugle; answer, echoes, dying, dying, dying.

O love, they die in yon rich sky, They faint on hill or field or river: Our echoes roll from soul to soul, And grow for ever and for ever. Blow, bugle, blow, set the wild echoes flying, And answer, echoes, answer, dying, dying, dying.

Alfred Tennyson, Lord Tennyson. 1809-1892

705. Summer Night

NOW sleeps the crimson petal, now the white; Nor waves the cypress in the palace walk; Nor winks the gold fin in the porphyry font: The firefly wakens: waken thou with me.

Now droops the milk-white peacock like a ghost, And like a ghost she glimmers on to me.

Now lies the Earth all Danae to the stars, And all thy heart lies open unto me.

Now slides the silent meteor on, and leaves A shining furrow, as thy thoughts in me.

Now folds the lily all her sweetness up, And slips into the bosom of the lake: So fold thyself, my dearest, thou, and slip Into my bosom and be lost in me.

Alfred Tennyson, Lord Tennyson. 1809-1892

706. Come down, O Maid

COME down, O maid, from yonder mountain height: What pleasure lives in height (the shepherd sang), In height and cold, the splendour of the hills? But cease to move so near the Heavens, and cease To glide a sunbeam by the blasted Pine, To sit a star upon the sparkling spire; And come, for Love is of the valley, come, For Love is of the valley, come thou down And find him; by the happy threshold, he, Or hand in hand with Plenty in the maize, Or red with spirted purple of the vats, Or foxlike in the vine; nor cares to walk With Death and Morning on the silver horns, Nor wilt thou snare him in the white ravine, Nor find him dropt upon the firths of ice, That huddling slant in furrow-cloven falls To roll the torrent out of dusky doors: But follow; let the torrent dance thee down To find him in the valley; let the wild Lean-headed Eagles yelp alone, and leave The monstrous ledges there to slope, and spill Their thousand wreaths of dangling water-smoke, That like a broken purpose waste in air: So waste not thou; but come; for all the vales Await thee; azure pillars of the hearth Arise to thee; the children call, and I Thy shepherd pipe, and sweet is every sound, Sweeter thy voice, but every sound is sweet; Myriads of rivulets hurrying thro' the lawn, The moan of doves in immemorial elms, And murmuring of innumerable bees.

Alfred Tennyson, Lord Tennyson. 1809-1892

707. From 'In Memoriam' (ARTHUR HENRY HALLAM, MDCCCXXXIII)

FAIR ship, that from the Italian shore Sailest the placid ocean-plains With my lost Arthur's loved remains, Spread thy full wings, and waft him o'er.

So draw him home to those that mourn In vain; a favourable speed Ruffle thy mirror'd mast, and lead Thro' prosperous floods his holy urn.

All night no ruder air perplex Thy sliding keel, till Phosphor, bright As our pure love, thro' early light Shall glimmer on the dewy decks.

Sphere all your lights around, above; Sleep, gentle heavens, before the prow; Sleep, gentle winds, as he sleeps now, My friend, the brother of my love;

My Arthur, whom I shall not see Till all my widow'd race be run; Dear as the mother to the son, More than my brothers are to me.

I hear the noise about thy keel; I hear the bell struck in the night; I see the cabin-window bright; I see the sailor at the wheel.

Thou bring'st the sailor to his wife, And travell'd men from foreign lands; And letters unto trembling hands; And, thy dark freight, a vanish'd life.

So bring him: we have idle dreams: This look of quiet flatters thus Our home-bred fancies: O to us, The fools of habit, sweeter seems

To rest beneath the clover sod, That takes the sunshine and the rains, Or where the kneeling hamlet drains The chalice of the grapes of God;

Than if with thee the roaring wells Should gulf him fathom-deep in brine; And hands so often clasp'd in mine, Should toss with tangle and with shells.

Calm is the morn without a sound, Calm as to suit a calmer grief, And only thro' the faded leaf The chestnut pattering to the ground:

Calm and deep peace on this high wold, And on these dews that drench the furze, And all the silvery gossamers That twinkle into green and gold:

Calm and still light on yon great plain That sweeps with all its autumn bowers, And crowded farms and lessening towers, To mingle with the bounding main:

Calm and deep peace in this wide air, These leaves that redden to the fall; And in my heart, if calm at all, If any calm, a calm despair:

Calm on the seas, and silver sleep, And waves that sway themselves in rest, And dead calm in that noble breast Which heaves but with the heaving deep.

To-night the winds begin to rise And roar from yonder dropping day: The last red leaf is whirl'd away, The rooks are blown about the skies;

The forest crack'd, the waters curl'd, The cattle huddled on the lea; And wildly dash'd on tower and tree The sunbeam strikes along the world:

And but for fancies, which aver That all thy motions gently pass Athwart a plane of molten glass, I scarce could brook the strain and stir

That makes the barren branches loud; And but for fear it is not so, The wild unrest that lives in woe Would dote and pore on yonder cloud

That rises upward always higher, And onward drags a labouring breast, And topples round the dreary west, A looming bastion fringed with fire.

Thou comest, much wept for: such a breeze Compell'd thy canvas, and my prayer Was as the whisper of an air To breathe thee over lonely seas.

For I in spirit saw thee move Thro' circles of the bounding sky, Week after week: the days go by: Come quick, thou bringest all I love.

Henceforth, wherever thou mayst roam My blessing, like a line of light, Is on the waters day and night, And like a beacon guards thee home.

So may whatever tempest mars Mid-ocean, spare thee, sacred bark; And balmy drops in summer dark Slide from the bosom of the stars.

So kind an office hath been done, Such precious relics brought by thee; The dust of him I shall not see Till all my widow'd race be run.

Now, sometimes in my sorrow shut, Or breaking into song by fits, Alone, alone, to where he sits, The Shadow cloak'd from head to foot,

Who keeps the keys of all the creeds, I wander, often falling lame, And looking back to whence I came, Or on to where the pathway leads;

And crying, How changed from where it ran Thro' lands where not a leaf was dumb; But all the lavish hills would hum The murmur of a happy Pan:

When each by turns was guide to each, And Fancy light from Fancy caught, And Thought leapt out to wed with Thought Ere Thought could wed itself with Speech;

And all we met was fair and good, And all was good that Time could bring, And all the secret of the Spring Moved in the chambers of the blood;

And many an old philosophy On Argive heights divinely sang, And round us all the thicket rang To many a flute of Arcady.

How fares it with the happy dead? For here the man is more and more; But he forgets the days before God shut the doorways of his head.

The days have vanish'd, tone and tint, And yet perhaps the hoarding sense Gives out at times (he knows not whence) A little flash, a mystic hint;

And in the long harmonious years (If Death so taste Lethean springs) May some dim touch of earthly things Surprise thee ranging with thy peers.

If such a dreamy touch should fall, O turn thee round, resolve the doubt; My guardian angel will speak out In that high place, and tell thee all.

The wish, that of the living whole No life may fail beyond the grave, Derives it not from what we have The likest God within the soul?

Are God and Nature then at strife, That Nature lends such evil dreams? So careful of the type she seems, So careless of the single life;

That I, considering everywhere Her secret meaning in her deeds, And finding that of fifty seeds She often brings but one to bear,

I falter where I firmly trod, And falling with my weight of cares Upon the great world's altar-stairs That slope thro' darkness up to God,

I stretch lame hands of faith, and grope, And gather dust and chaff, and call To what I feel is Lord of all, And faintly trust the larger hope.

'So careful of the type?' but no. From scarped cliff and quarried stone She cries, 'A thousand types are gone: I care for nothing, all shall go.

Thou makest thine appeal to me: I bring to life, I bring to death: The spirit does but mean the breath: I know no more.' And he, shall he,

Man, her last work, who seem'd so fair, Such splendid purpose in his eyes, Who roll'd the psalm to wintry skies, Who built him fanes of fruitless prayer,

Who trusted God was love indeed And love Creation's final law-- Tho' Nature, red in tooth and claw With ravine, shriek'd against his creed--

Who loved, who suffer'd countless ills, Who battled for the True, the Just, Be blown about the desert dust, Or seal'd within the iron hills?

No more? A monster then, a dream, A discord. Dragons of the prime, That tare each other in their slime, Were mellow music match'd with him.

O life as futile, then, as frail! O for thy voice to soothe and bless! What hope of answer, or redress? Behind the veil, behind the veil.

Unwatch'd, the garden bough shall sway, The tender blossom flutter down; Unloved, that beech will gather brown, This maple burn itself away;

Unloved, the sunflower, shining fair, Ray round with flames her disk of seed, And many a rose-carnation feed With summer spice the humming air;

Unloved, by many a sandy bar, The brook shall babble down the plain, At noon or when the lesser wain Is twisting round the polar star;

Uncared for, gird the windy grove, And flood the haunts of hern and crake; Or into silver arrows break The sailing moon in creek and cove;

Till from the garden and the wild A fresh association blow, And year by year the landscape grow Familiar to the stranger's child;

As year by year the labourer tills His wonted glebe, or lops the glades; And year by year our memory fades From all the circle of the hills.

Now fades the last long streak of snow, Now burgeons every maze of quick About the flowering squares, and thick By ashen roots the violets blow.

Now rings the woodland loud and long, The distance takes a lovelier hue, And drown'd in yonder living blue The lark becomes a sightless song.

Now dance the lights on lawn and lea, The flocks are whiter down the vale, And milkier every milky sail On winding stream or distant sea;

Where now the seamew pipes, or dives In yonder greening gleam, and fly The happy birds, that change their sky To build and brood; that live their lives

From land to land; and in my breast Spring wakens too; and my regret Becomes an April violet, And buds and blossoms like the rest.

Love is and was my Lord and King, And in his presence I attend To hear the tidings of my friend, Which every hour his couriers bring.

Love is and was my King and Lord, And will be, tho' as yet I keep Within his court on earth, and sleep Encompass'd by his faithful guard,

And hear at times a sentinel Who moves about from place to place, And whispers to the worlds of space, In the deep night, that all is well.

Alfred Tennyson, Lord Tennyson. 1809-1892

708. Maud

COME into the garden, Maud, For the black bat, Night, has flown, Come into the garden, Maud, I am here at the gate alone; And the woodbine spices are wafted abroad, And the musk of the roses blown.

For a breeze of morning moves, And the planet of Love is on high, Beginning to faint in the light that she loves On a bed of daffodil sky, To faint in the light of the sun she loves, To faint in his light, and to die.

All night have the roses heard The flute, violin, bassoon; All night has the casement jessamine stirr'd To the dancers dancing in tune; Till a silence fell with the waking bird, And a hush with the setting moon.

I said to the lily, 'There is but one With whom she has heart to be gay. When will the dancers leave her alone? She is weary of dance and play.' Now half to the setting moon are gone, And half to the rising day; Low on the sand and loud on the stone The last wheel echoes away.

I said to the rose, 'The brief night goes In babble and revel and wine. O young lord-lover, what sighs are those For one that will never be thine? But mine, but mine,' so I sware to the rose, 'For ever and ever, mine.'

And the soul of the rose went into my blood, As the music clash'd in the hall; And long by the garden lake I stood, For I heard your rivulet fall From the lake to the meadow and on to the wood, Our wood, that is dearer than all;

From the meadow your walks have left so sweet That whenever a March-wind sighs He sets the jewel-print of your feet In violets blue as your eyes, To the woody hollows in which we meet And the valleys of Paradise.

The slender acacia would not shake One long milk-bloom on the tree; The white lake-blossom fell into the lake, As the pimpernel dozed on the lea; But the rose was awake all night for your sake, Knowing your promise to me; The lilies and roses were all awake, They sigh'd for the dawn and thee.

Queen rose of the rosebud garden of girls, Come hither, the dances are done, In gloss of satin and glimmer of pearls, Queen lily and rose in one; Shine out, little head, sunning over with curls. To the flowers, and be their sun.

There has fallen a splendid tear From the passion-flower at the gate. She is coming, my dove, my dear; She is coming, my life, my fate; The red rose cries, 'She is near, she is near;' And the white rose weeps, 'She is late;' The larkspur listens, 'I hear, I hear;' And the lily whispers, 'I wait.'

She is coming, my own, my sweet; Were it ever so airy a tread, My heart would hear her and beat, Were it earth in an earthy bed; My dust would hear her and beat, Had I lain for a century dead; Would start and tremble under her feet, And blossom in purple and red.

Alfred Tennyson, Lord Tennyson. 1809-1892

709. O that 'twere possible

O THAT 'twere possible After long grief and pain To find the arms of my true love Round me once again!...

A shadow flits before me, Not thou, but like to thee: Ah, Christ! that it were possible For one short hour to see The souls we loved, that they might tell us What and where they be!

Richard Monckton Milnes, Lord Houghton. 1809-1885

710. Shadows

THEY seem'd, to those who saw them meet, The casual friends of every day; Her smile was undisturb'd and sweet, His courtesy was free and gay.

But yet if one the other's name In some unguarded moment heard, The heart you thought so calm and tame Would struggle like a captured bird:

And letters of mere formal phrase Were blister'd with repeated tears,-- And this was not the work of days, But had gone on for years and years!

Alas, that love was not too strong For maiden shame and manly pride! Alas, that they delay'd so long The goal of mutual bliss beside!

Yet what no chance could then reveal, And neither would be first to own, Let fate and courage now conceal, When truth could bring remorse alone.

Henry Alford. 1810-1871

711. The Bride

'RISE,' said the Master, 'come unto the feast.' She heard the call and rose with willing feet; But thinking it not otherwise than meet For such a bidding to put on her best, She is gone from us for a few short hours Into her bridal closet, there to wait For the unfolding of the palace gate That gives her entrance to the blissful bowers. We have not seen her yet, though we have been Full often to her chamber door, and oft Have listen'd underneath the postern green, And laid fresh flowers, and whisper'd short and soft. But she hath made no answer, and the day From the clear west is fading fast away.

Sir Samuel Ferguson. 1810-1886

712. Cean Dubh Deelish

PUT your head, darling, darling, darling, Your darling black head my heart above; O mouth of honey, with thyme for fragrance, Who, with heart in breast, could deny you love?

O many and many a young girl for me is pining, Letting her locks of gold to the cold wind free, For me, the foremost of our gay young fellows; But I'd leave a hundred, pure love, for thee!

Then put your head, darling, darling, darling, Your darling black head my heart above; O mouth of honey, with thyme for fragrance, Who, with heart in breast, could deny you love?

Cean dubh deelish] darling black head.

Sir Samuel Ferguson. 1810-1886

713. Cashel of Munster FROM THE IRISH

I'D wed you without herds, without money or rich array, And I'd wed you on a dewy morn at day-dawn gray; My bitter woe it is, love, that we are not far away In Cashel town, tho' the bare deal board were our marriage-bed this day!

O fair maid, remember the green hill-side, Remember how I hunted about the valleys wide; Time now has worn me; my locks are turn'd to gray; The year is scarce and I am poor--but send me not, love, away!

O deem not my blood is of base strain, my girl; O think not my birth was as the birth of a churl; Marry me and prove me, and say soon you will That noble blood is written on my right side still.

My purse holds no red gold, no coin of the silver white; No herds are mine to drive through the long twilight; But the pretty girl that would take me, all bare tho' I be and lone, O, I'd take her with me kindly to the county Tyrone!

O my girl, I can see 'tis in trouble you are; And O my girl, I see 'tis your people's reproach you bear! --I am a girl in trouble for his sake with whom I fly, And, O, may no other maiden know such reproach as I!

Sir Samuel Ferguson. 1810-1886

714. The Fair Hills of Ireland FROM THE IRISH

A PLENTEOUS place is Ireland for hospitable cheer, Uileacan dubh O! Where the wholesome fruit is bursting from the yellow barley ear; Uileacan dubh O! There is honey in the trees where her misty vales expand, And her forest paths in summer are by falling waters fann'd, There is dew at high noontide there, and springs i' the yellow sand, On the fair hills of holy Ireland.

Curl'd he is and ringleted, and plaited to the knee-- Uileacan dubh O! Each captain who comes sailing across the Irish Sea; Uileacan dubh O! And I will make my journey, if life and health but stand, Unto that pleasant country, that fresh and fragrant strand, And leave your boasted braveries, your wealth and high command, For the fair hills of holy Ireland.

Large and profitable are the stacks upon the ground, Uileacan dubh O! The butter and the cream do wondrously abound; Uileacan dubh O! The cresses on the water and the sorrels are at hand, And the cuckoo 's calling daily his note of music bland, And the bold thrush sings so bravely his song i' the forests grand, On the fair hills of holy Ireland.

Robert Browning. 1812-1889

715. Song from 'Paracelsus'

HEAP cassia, sandal-buds and stripes Of labdanum, and aloe-balls, Smear'd with dull nard an Indian wipes From out her hair: such balsam falls Down sea-side mountain pedestals, From tree-tops where tired winds are fain, Spent with the vast and howling main, To treasure half their island-gain.

And strew faint sweetness from some old Egyptian's fine worm-eaten shroud Which breaks to dust when once unroll'd; Or shredded perfume, like a cloud From closet long to quiet vow'd, With moth'd and dropping arras hung, Mouldering her lute and books among, As when a queen, long dead, was young.

Robert Browning. 1812-1889

716. The Wanderers

OVER the sea our galleys went, With cleaving prows in order brave To a speeding wind and a bounding wave-- A gallant armament: Each bark built out of a forest-tree Left leafy and rough as first it grew, And nail'd all over the gaping sides, Within and without, with black bull-hides, Seethed in fat and suppled in flame, To bear the playful billows' game; So, each good ship was rude to see, Rude and bare to the outward view. But each upbore a stately tent Where cedar pales in scented row Kept out the flakes of the dancing brine, And an awning droop'd the mast below, In fold on fold of the purple fine, That neither noontide nor star-shine Nor moonlight cold which maketh mad, Might pierce the regal tenement. When the sun dawn'd, O, gay and glad We set the sail and plied the oar; But when the night-wind blew like breath, For joy of one day's voyage more, We sang together on the wide sea, Like men at peace on a peaceful shore; Each sail was loosed to the wind so free, Each helm made sure by the twilight star, And in a sleep as calm as death, We, the voyagers from afar, Lay stretch'd along, each weary crew In a circle round its wondrous tent Whence gleam'd soft light and curl'd rich scent, And with light and perfume, music too: So the stars wheel'd round, and the darkness past, And at morn we started beside the mast, And still each ship was sailing fast!

Now, one morn, land appear'd--a speck Dim trembling betwixt sea and sky-- 'Avoid it,' cried our pilot, 'check The shout, restrain the eager eye!' But the heaving sea was black behind For many a night and many a day, And land, though but a rock, drew nigh; So we broke the cedar pales away, Let the purple awning flap in the wind, And a statue bright was on every deck! We shouted, every man of us, And steer'd right into the harbour thus, With pomp and paean glorious.

A hundred shapes of lucid stone! All day we built its shrine for each, A shrine of rock for ever one, Nor paused till in the westering sun We sat together on the beach To sing because our task was done; When lo! what shouts and merry songs! What laughter all the distance stirs! A loaded raft with happy throngs Of gentle islanders! 'Our isles are just at hand,' they cried, 'Like cloudlets faint in even sleeping; Our temple-gates are open'd wide, Our olive-groves thick shade are keeping For these majestic forms'--they cried. O, then we awoke with sudden start From our deep dream, and knew, too late, How bare the rock, how desolate, Which had received our precious freight: Yet we call'd out--'Depart! Our gifts, once given, must here abide: Our work is done; we have no heart To mar our work,'--we cried.

Robert Browning. 1812-1889

717. Thus the Mayne glideth

THUS the Mayne glideth Where my Love abideth; Sleep 's no softer: it proceeds On through lawns, on through meads, On and on, whate'er befall, Meandering and musical, Though the niggard pasturage Bears not on its shaven ledge Aught but weeds and waving grasses To view the river as it passes, Save here and there a scanty patch Of primroses too faint to catch A weary bee.... And scarce it pushes Its gentle way through strangling rushes Where the glossy kingfisher Flutters when noon-heats are near, Glad the shelving banks to shun, Red and steaming in the sun, Where the shrew-mouse with pale throat Burrows, and the speckled stoat; Where the quick sandpipers flit In and out the marl and grit That seems to breed them, brown as they: Naught disturbs its quiet way, Save some lazy stork that springs, Trailing it with legs and wings, Whom the shy fox from the hill Rouses, creep he ne'er so still.

Robert Browning. 1812-1889

718. Pippa's Song

THE year 's at the spring, And day 's at the morn; Morning 's at seven; The hill-side 's dew-pearl'd; The lark 's on the wing; The snail 's on the thorn; God 's in His heaven-- All 's right with the world!

Robert Browning. 1812-1889

719. You'll love Me yet

YOU'LL love me yet!--and I can tarry Your love's protracted growing: June rear'd that bunch of flowers you carry, From seeds of April's sowing.

I plant a heartful now: some seed At least is sure to strike, And yield--what you'll not pluck indeed, Not love, but, may be, like.

You'll look at least on love's remains, A grave 's one violet: Your look?--that pays a thousand pains. What 's death? You'll love me yet!

Robert Browning. 1812-1889

720. Porphyria's Lover

THE rain set early in to-night, The sullen wind was soon awake, It tore the elm-tops down for spite, And did its worst to vex the lake: I listen'd with heart fit to break. When glided in Porphyria; straight She shut the cold out and the storm, And kneel'd and made the cheerless grate Blaze up, and all the cottage warm; Which done, she rose, and from her form Withdrew the dripping cloak and shawl, And laid her soil'd gloves by, untied Her hat and let the damp hair fall, And, last, she sat down by my side And call'd me. When no voice replied, She put my arm about her waist, And made her smooth white shoulder bare, And all her yellow hair displaced, And, stooping, made my cheek lie there, And spread, o'er all, her yellow hair, Murmuring how she loved me--she Too weak, for all her heart's endeavour, To set its struggling passion free From pride, and vainer ties dissever, And give herself to me for ever. But passion sometimes would prevail, Nor could to-night's gay feast restrain A sudden thought of one so pale For love of her, and all in vain: So, she was come through wind and rain. Be sure I look'd up at her eyes Happy and proud; at last I knew Porphyria worshipp'd me; surprise Made my heart swell, and still it grew While I debated what to do. That moment she was mine, mine, fair, Perfectly pure and good: I found A thing to do, and all her hair In one long yellow string I wound Three times her little throat around, And strangled her. No pain felt she; I am quite sure she felt no pain. As a shut bud that holds a bee, I warily oped her lids: again Laugh'd the blue eyes without a stain. And I untighten'd next the tress About her neck; her cheek once more Blush'd bright beneath my burning kiss: I propp'd her head up as before, Only, this time my shoulder bore Her head, which droops upon it still: The smiling rosy little head, So glad it has its utmost will, That all it scorn'd at once is fled, And I, its love, am gain'd instead! Porphyria's love: she guess'd not how Her darling one wish would be heard. And thus we sit together now, And all night long we have not stirr'd, And yet God has not said a word!

Robert Browning. 1812-1889

721. Song

NAY but you, who do not love her, Is she not pure gold, my mistress? Holds earth aught--speak truth--above her? Aught like this tress, see, and this tress, And this last fairest tress of all, So fair, see, ere I let it fall? Because, you spend your lives in praising; To praise, you search the wide world over: Then why not witness, calmly gazing, If earth holds aught--speak truth--above her? Above this tress, and this, I touch But cannot praise, I love so much!

Robert Browning. 1812-1889

722. Earl Mertoun's Song

THERE 's a woman like a dewdrop, she 's so purer than the purest; And her noble heart 's the noblest, yes, and her sure faith's the surest: And her eyes are dark and humid, like the depth on depth of lustre Hid i' the harebell, while her tresses, sunnier than the wild-grape cluster, Gush in golden-tinted plenty down her neck's rose-misted marble: Then her voice's music ... call it the well's bubbling, the bird's warble!

And this woman says, 'My days were sunless and my nights were moonless, Parch'd the pleasant April herbage, and the lark's heart's outbreak tuneless, If you loved me not!' And I who (ah, for words of flame!) adore her, Who am mad to lay my spirit prostrate palpably before her-- I may enter at her portal soon, as now her lattice takes me, And by noontide as by midnight make her mine, as hers she makes me!

Robert Browning. 1812-1889

723. In a Gondola

THE moth's kiss, first! Kiss me as if you made me believe You were not sure, this eve, How my face, your flower, had pursed Its petals up; so, here and there You brush it, till I grow aware Who wants me, and wide ope I burst.

The bee's kiss, now! Kiss me as if you enter'd gay My heart at some noonday, A bud that dares not disallow The claim, so all is render'd up, And passively its shatter'd cup Over your head to sleep I bow.

Robert Browning. 1812-1889

724. Meeting at Night

THE gray sea and the long black land; And the yellow half-moon large and low; And the startled little waves that leap In fiery ringlets from their sleep, As I gain the cove with pushing prow, And quench its speed i' the slushy sand.

Then a mile of warm sea-scented beach; Three fields to cross till a farm appears; A tap at the pane, the quick sharp scratch And blue spurt of a lighted match, And a voice less loud, thro' its joys and fears, Than the two hearts beating each to each!

Robert Browning. 1812-1889

725. Parting at Morning

ROUND the cape of a sudden came the sea, And the sun look'd over the mountain's rim: And straight was a path of gold for him, And the need of a world of men for me.

Robert Browning. 1812-1889

726. The Lost Mistress

ALL 's over, then: does truth sound bitter As one at first believes? Hark, 'tis the sparrows' good-night twitter About your cottage eaves!

And the leaf-buds on the vine are woolly, I noticed that, to-day; One day more bursts them open fully --You know the red turns gray.

To-morrow we meet the same then, dearest? May I take your hand in mine? Mere friends are we,--well, friends the merest Keep much that I resign:

For each glance of the eye so bright and black, Though I keep with heart's endeavour,-- Your voice, when you wish the snowdrops back, Though it stay in my soul for ever!--

Yet I will but say what mere friends say, Or only a thought stronger; I will hold your hand but as long as all may, Or so very little longer!

Robert Browning. 1812-1889

727. The Last Ride together

I SAID--Then, dearest, since 'tis so, Since now at length my fate I know, Since nothing all my love avails, Since all, my life seem'd meant for, fails, Since this was written and needs must be-- My whole heart rises up to bless Your name in pride and thankfulness! Take back the hope you gave,--I claim Only a memory of the same, --And this beside, if you will not blame; Your leave for one more last ride with me.

My mistress bent that brow of hers, Those deep dark eyes where pride demurs When pity would be softening through, Fix'd me a breathing-while or two With life or death in the balance: right! The blood replenish'd me again; My last thought was at least not vain: I and my mistress, side by side Shall be together, breathe and ride, So, one day more am I deified. Who knows but the world may end to-night?

Hush! if you saw some western cloud All billowy-bosom'd, over-bow'd By many benedictions--sun's And moon's and evening-star's at once-- And so, you, looking and loving best, Conscious grew, your passion drew Cloud, sunset, moonrise, star-shine too, Down on you, near and yet more near, Till flesh must fade for heaven was here!-- Thus leant she and linger'd--joy and fear! Thus lay she a moment on my breast.

Then we began to ride. My soul Smooth'd itself out, a long-cramp'd scroll Freshening and fluttering in the wind. Past hopes already lay behind. What need to strive with a life awry? Had I said that, had I done this, So might I gain, so might I miss. Might she have loved me? just as well She might have hated, who can tell! Where had I been now if the worst befell? And here we are riding, she and I.

Fail I alone, in words and deeds? Why, all men strive and who succeeds? We rode; it seem'd my spirit flew, Saw other regions, cities new, As the world rush'd by on either side. I thought,--All labour, yet no less Bear up beneath their unsuccess. Look at the end of work, contrast The petty done, the undone vast, This present of theirs with the hopeful past! I hoped she would love me; here we ride.

What hand and brain went ever pair'd? What heart alike conceived and dared? What act proved all its thought had been? What will but felt the fleshly screen? We ride and I see her bosom heave. There 's many a crown for who can reach. Ten lines, a statesman's life in each! The flag stuck on a heap of bones, A soldier's doing! what atones? They scratch his name on the Abbey-stones. My riding is better, by their leave.

What does it all mean, poet? Well, Your brains beat into rhythm, you tell What we felt only; you express'd You hold things beautiful the best, And pace them in rhyme so, side by side. 'Tis something, nay 'tis much: but then, Have you yourself what 's best for men? Are you--poor, sick, old ere your time-- Nearer one whit your own sublime Than we who never have turn'd a rhyme? Sing, riding 's a joy! For me, I ride.

And you, great sculptor--so, you gave A score of years to Art, her slave, And that 's your Venus, whence we turn To yonder girl that fords the burn! You acquiesce, and shall I repine? What, man of music, you grown gray With notes and nothing else to say, Is this your sole praise from a friend, 'Greatly his opera's strains intend, But in music we know how fashions end!' I gave my youth: but we ride, in fine.

Who knows what 's fit for us? Had fate Proposed bliss here should sublimate My being--had I sign'd the bond-- Still one must lead some life beyond, Have a bliss to die with, dim-descried. This foot once planted on the goal, This glory-garland round my soul, Could I descry such? Try and test! I sink back shuddering from the quest. Earth being so good, would heaven seem best? Now, heaven and she are beyond this ride.

And yet--she has not spoke so long! What if heaven be that, fair and strong At life's best, with our eyes upturn'd Whither life's flower is first discern'd, We, fix'd so, ever should so abide? What if we still ride on, we two With life for ever old yet new, Changed not in kind but in degree, The instant made eternity,-- And heaven just prove that I and she Ride, ride together, for ever ride?

Robert Browning. 1812-1889

728. Misconceptions

THIS is a spray the Bird clung to, Making it blossom with pleasure, Ere the high tree-top she sprung to, Fit for her nest and her treasure. O, what a hope beyond measure Was the poor spray's, which the flying feet hung to,-- So to be singled out, built in, and sung to!

This is a heart the Queen leant on, Thrill'd in a minute erratic, Ere the true bosom she bent on, Meet for love's regal dalmatic. O, what a fancy ecstatic Was the poor heart's, ere the wanderer went on-- Love to be saved for it, proffer'd to, spent on!

Robert Browning. 1812-1889

729. Home-thoughts, from Abroad

O, TO be in England Now that April 's there, And whoever wakes in England Sees, some morning, unaware, That the lowest boughs and the brushwood sheaf Round the elm-tree bole are in tiny leaf, While the chaffinch sings on the orchard bough In England--now!

And after April, when May follows, And the whitethroat builds, and all the swallows! Hark, where my blossom'd pear-tree in the hedge Leans to the field and scatters on the clover Blossoms and dewdrops--at the bent spray's edge-- That 's the wise thrush; he sings each song twice over, Lest you should think he never could recapture The first fine careless rapture! And though the fields look rough with hoary dew, All will be gay when noontide wakes anew The buttercups, the little children's dower --Far brighter than this gaudy melon-flower!

Robert Browning. 1812-1889

730. Home-thoughts, from the Sea

NOBLY, nobly Cape Saint Vincent to the North-west died away; Sunset ran, one glorious blood-red, reeking into Cadiz Bay; Bluish 'mid the burning water, full in face Trafalgar lay; In the dimmest North-east distance dawn'd Gibraltar grand and gray; 'Here and here did England help me: how can I help England?'--say, Whoso turns as I, this evening, turn to God to praise and pray, While Jove's planet rises yonder, silent over Africa.

William Bell Scott. 1812-1890

731. The Which's Ballad

O, I hae come from far away, From a warm land far away, A southern land across the sea, With sailor-lads about the mast, Merry and canny, and kind to me.

And I hae been to yon town To try my luck in yon town; Nort, and Mysie, Elspie too. Right braw we were to pass the gate, Wi' gowden clasps on girdles blue.

Mysie smiled wi' miminy mouth, Innocent mouth, miminy mouth; Elspie wore a scarlet gown, Nort's grey eyes were unco' gleg. My Castile comb was like a crown.

We walk'd abreast all up the street, Into the market up the street; Our hair with marigolds was wound, Our bodices with love-knots laced, Our merchandise with tansy bound.

Nort had chickens, I had cocks, Gamesome cocks, loud-crowing cocks; Mysie ducks, and Elspie drakes,-- For a wee groat or a pound; We lost nae time wi' gives and takes.

--Lost nae time, for well we knew, In our sleeves full well we knew, When the gloaming came that night, Duck nor drake, nor hen nor cock Would be found by candle-light.

And when our chaffering all was done, All was paid for, sold and done, We drew a glove on ilka hand, We sweetly curtsied, each to each, And deftly danced a saraband.

The market-lassies look'd and laugh'd, Left their gear, and look'd and laugh'd; They made as they would join the game, But soon their mithers, wild and wud, With whack and screech they stopp'd the same.

Sae loud the tongues o' randies grew, The flytin' and the skirlin' grew, At all the windows in the place, Wi' spoons or knives, wi' needle or awl, Was thrust out every hand and face.

And down each stair they throng'd anon, Gentle, semple, throng'd anon: Souter and tailor, frowsy Nan, The ancient widow young again, Simpering behind her fan.

Without a choice, against their will, Doited, dazed, against their will, The market lassie and her mither, The farmer and his husbandman, Hand in hand dance a' thegither.

Slow at first, but faster soon, Still increasing, wild and fast, Hoods and mantles, hats and hose, Blindly doff'd and cast away, Left them naked, heads and toes.

They would have torn us limb from limb, Dainty limb from dainty limb; But never one of them could win Across the line that I had drawn With bleeding thumb a-widdershin.

But there was Jeff the provost's son, Jeff the provost's only son; There was Father Auld himsel', The Lombard frae the hostelry, And the lawyer Peter Fell.

All goodly men we singled out, Waled them well, and singled out, And drew them by the left hand in; Mysie the priest, and Elspie won The Lombard, Nort the lawyer carle, I mysel' the provost's son.

Then, with cantrip kisses seven, Three times round with kisses seven, Warp'd and woven there spun we Arms and legs and flaming hair, Like a whirlwind on the sea.

Like a wind that sucks the sea, Over and in and on the sea, Good sooth it was a mad delight; And every man of all the four Shut his eyes and laugh'd outright.

Laugh'd as long as they had breath, Laugh'd while they had sense or breath; And close about us coil'd a mist Of gnats and midges, wasps and flies, Like the whirlwind shaft it rist.

Drawn up I was right off my feet, Into the mist and off my feet; And, dancing on each chimney-top, I saw a thousand darling imps Keeping time with skip and hop.

And on the provost's brave ridge-tile, On the provost's grand ridge-tile, The Blackamoor first to master me I saw, I saw that winsome smile, The mouth that did my heart beguile, And spoke the great Word over me, In the land beyond the sea.

I call'd his name, I call'd aloud, Alas! I call'd on him aloud; And then he fill'd his hand with stour, And threw it towards me in the air; My mouse flew out, I lost my pow'r!

My lusty strength, my power were gone; Power was gone, and all was gone. He will not let me love him more! Of bell and whip and horse's tail He cares not if I find a store.

But I am proud if he is fierce! I am as proud as he is fierce; I'll turn about and backward go, If I meet again that Blackamoor, And he'll help us then, for he shall know I seek another paramour.

And we'll gang once more to yon town, Wi' better luck to yon town; We'll walk in silk and cramoisie, And I shall wed the provost's son My lady of the town I'll be!

For I was born a crown'd king's child, Born and nursed a king's child, King o' a land ayont the sea, Where the Blackamoor kiss'd me first, And taught me art and glamourie.

Each one in her wame shall hide Her hairy mouse, her wary mouse, Fed on madwort and agramie,-- Wear amber beads between her breasts, And blind-worm's skin about her knee.

The Lombard shall be Elspie's man, Elspie's gowden husband-man; Nort shall take the lawyer's hand; The priest shall swear another vow: We'll dance again the saraband!

miminy] prim, demure. gleg] bright, sharp. wud] mad. randies] viragoes. flytin'] scolding. skirlin'] shrieking. souter] cobbler. doited] mazed. a-widdershin] the wrong way of the sun: or E. to W. through N. waled] chose. cantrip] magic. stour] dust. cramoisie] crimson. ayont] beyond. glamourie] wizardry.

Aubrey De Vere. 1814-1902

732. Serenade

SOFTLY, O midnight Hours! Move softly o'er the bowers Where lies in happy sleep a girl so fair! For ye have power, men say, Our hearts in sleep to sway, And cage cold fancies in a moonlight snare. Round ivory neck and arm Enclasp a separate charm; Hang o'er her poised, but breathe nor sigh nor prayer: Silently ye may smile, But hold your breath the while, And let the wind sweep back your cloudy hair!

Bend down your glittering urns, Ere yet the dawn returns, And star with dew the lawn her feet shall tread; Upon the air rain balm, Bid all the woods be calm, Ambrosial dreams with healthful slumbers wed; That so the Maiden may With smiles your care repay, When from her couch she lifts her golden head; Waking with earliest birds, Ere yet the misty herds Leave warm 'mid the gray grass their dusky bed.

Aubrey De Vere. 1814-1902

733. Sorrow

COUNT each affliction, whether light or grave, God's messenger sent down to thee; do thou With courtesy receive him; rise and bow; And, ere his shadow pass thy threshold, crave Permission first his heavenly feet to lave; Then lay before him all thou hast; allow No cloud of passion to usurp thy brow, Or mar thy hospitality; no wave Of mortal tumult to obliterate The soul's marmoreal calmness: Grief should be, Like joy, majestic, equable, sedate; Confirming, cleansing, raising, making free; Strong to consume small troubles; to commend Great thoughts, grave thoughts, thoughts lasting to the end.

George Fox. 1815-?

734. The County of Mayo FROM THE IRISH OF THOMAS LAVELLE

ON the deck of Patrick Lynch's boat I sat in woful plight, Through my sighing all the weary day and weeping all the night; Were it not that full of sorrow from my people forth I go, By the blessed sun! 'tis royally I'd sing thy praise, Mayo!

When I dwelt at home in plenty, and my gold did much abound, In the company of fair young maids the Spanish ale went round-- 'Tis a bitter change from those gay days that now I'm forced to go And must leave my bones in Santa Cruz, far from my own Mayo.

They are alter'd girls in Irrul now; 'tis proud they're grown and high, With their hair-bags and their top-knots, for I pass their buckles by-- But it 's little now I heed their airs, for God will have it so, That I must depart for foreign lands and leave my sweet Mayo.

'Tis my grief that Patrick Loughlin is not Earl of Irrul still, And that Brian Duff no longer rules as Lord upon the hill: And that Colonel Hugh McGrady should be lying dead and low, And I sailing, sailing swiftly from the county of Mayo.

Emily Bronte. 1818-1848

735. My Lady's Grave

THE linnet in the rocky dells, The moor-lark in the air, The bee among the heather bells That hide my lady fair:

The wild deer browse above her breast; The wild birds raise their brood; And they, her smiles of love caress'd, Have left her solitude!

I ween that when the grave's dark wall Did first her form retain, They thought their hearts could ne'er recall The light of joy again.

They thought the tide of grief would flow Uncheck'd through future years; But where is all their anguish now, And where are all their tears?

Well, let them fight for honour's breath, Or pleasure's shade pursue-- The dweller in the land of death Is changed and careless too.

And if their eyes should watch and weep Till sorrow's source were dry, She would not, in her tranquil sleep, Return a single sigh!

Blow, west wind, by the lonely mound: And murmur, summer streams! There is no need of other sound To soothe my lady's dreams.

Emily Bronte. 1818-1848

736. Remembrance

COLD in the earth--and the deep snow piled above thee, Far, far removed, cold in the dreary grave! Have I forgot, my only Love, to love thee, Sever'd at last by Time's all-severing wave?

Now, when alone, do my thoughts no longer hover Over the mountains, on that northern shore, Resting their wings where heath and fern-leaves cover Thy noble heart for ever, ever more?

Cold in the earth--and fifteen wild Decembers From those brown hills have melted into spring: Faithful, indeed, is the spirit that remembers After such years of change and suffering!

Sweet Love of youth, forgive, if I forget thee, While the world's tide is bearing me along; Other desires and other hopes beset me, Hopes which obscure, but cannot do thee wrong!

No later light has lighten'd up my heaven, No second morn has ever shone for me; All my life's bliss from thy dear life was given, All my life's bliss is in the grave with thee.

But when the days of golden dreams had perish'd, And even Despair was powerless to destroy; Then did I learn how existence could be cherish'd, Strengthen'd and fed without the aid of joy.

Then did I check the tears of useless passion-- Wean'd my young soul from yearning after thine; Sternly denied its burning wish to hasten Down to that tomb already more than mine.

And, even yet, I dare not let it languish, Dare not indulge in memory's rapturous pain; Once drinking deep of that divinest anguish, How could I seek the empty world again?

Emily Bronte. 1818-1848

737. The Prisoner

STILL let my tyrants know, I am not doom'd to wear Year after year in gloom and desolate despair; A messenger of Hope comes every night to me, And offers for short life, eternal liberty.

He comes with Western winds, with evening's wandering airs, With that clear dusk of heaven that brings the thickest stars: Winds take a pensive tone, and stars a tender fire, And visions rise, and change, that kill me with desire.

Desire for nothing known in my maturer years, When Joy grew mad with awe, at counting future tears: When, if my spirit's sky was full of flashes warm, I knew not whence they came, from sun or thunder-storm.

But first, a hush of peace--a soundless calm descends; The struggle of distress and fierce impatience ends. Mute music soothes my breast--unutter'd harmony That I could never dream, till Earth was lost to me.

Then dawns the Invisible; the Unseen its truth reveals; My outward sense is gone, my inward essence feels; Its wings are almost free--its home, its harbour found, Measuring the gulf, it stoops, and dares the final bound.

O dreadful is the check--intense the agony-- When the ear begins to hear, and the eye begins to see; When the pulse begins to throb--the brain to think again-- The soul to feel the flesh, and the flesh to feel the chain.

Yet I would lose no sting, would wish no torture less; The more that anguish racks, the earlier it will bless; And robed in fires of hell, or bright with heavenly shine, If it but herald Death, the vision is divine.

Emily Bronte. 1818-1848

738. Last Lines

NO coward soul is mine, No trembler in the world's storm-troubled sphere: I see Heaven's glories shine, And faith shines equal, arming me from fear.

O God within my breast, Almighty, ever-present Deity! Life--that in me has rest, As I--undying Life--have power in Thee!

Vain are the thousand creeds That move men's hearts: unutterably vain; Worthless as wither'd weeds, Or idlest froth amid the boundless main,

To waken doubt in one Holding so fast by Thine infinity; So surely anchor'd on The steadfast rock of immortality.

With wide-embracing love Thy Spirit animates eternal years, Pervades and broods above, Changes, sustains, dissolves, creates, and rears.

Though earth and man were gone, And suns and universes cease to be, And Thou were left alone, Every existence would exist in Thee.

There is not room for Death, Nor atom that his might could render void: Thou--Thou art Being and Breath, And what Thou art may never be destroyed.

Charles Kingsley. 1819-1875

739. Airly Beacon

AIRLY Beacon, Airly Beacon; O the pleasant sight to see Shires and towns from Airly Beacon, While my love climb'd up to me!

Airly Beacon, Airly Beacon; O the happy hours we lay Deep in fern on Airly Beacon, Courting through the summer's day!

Airly Beacon, Airly Beacon; O the weary haunt for me, All alone on Airly Beacon, With his baby on my knee!

Charles Kingsley. 1819-1875

740. The Sands of Dee

'O MARY, go and call the cattle home, And call the cattle home, And call the cattle home, Across the sands of Dee.' The western wind was wild and dark with foam, And all alone went she.

The western tide crept up along the sand, And o'er and o'er the sand, And round and round the sand, As far as eye could see. The rolling mist came down and hid the land: And never home came she.

'O is it weed, or fish, or floating hair-- A tress of golden hair, A drowned maiden's hair, Above the nets at sea?' Was never salmon yet that shone so fair Among the stakes of Dee.

They row'd her in across the rolling foam, The cruel crawling foam, The cruel hungry foam, To her grave beside the sea. But still the boatmen hear her call the cattle home, Across the sands of Dee.

Arthur Hugh Clough. 1819-1861

741. Say not the Struggle Naught availeth

SAY not the struggle naught availeth, The labour and the wounds are vain, The enemy faints not, nor faileth, And as things have been they remain.

If hopes were dupes, fears may be liars; It may be, in yon smoke conceal'd, Your comrades chase e'en now the fliers, And, but for you, possess the field.

For while the tired waves, vainly breaking, Seem here no painful inch to gain, Far back, through creeks and inlets making, Comes silent, flooding in, the main.

And not by eastern windows only, When daylight comes, comes in the light; In front the sun climbs slow, how slowly! But westward, look, the land is bright!

Walt Whitman. 1819-1892

742. The Imprisoned Soul

AT the last, tenderly, From the walls of the powerful, fortress'd house, From the clasp of the knitted locks--from the keep of the well-closed doors, Let me be wafted.

Let me glide noiselessly forth; With the key of softness unlock the locks--with a whisper Set ope the doors, O soul!

Tenderly! be not impatient! (Strong is your hold, O mortal flesh! Strong is your hold, O love!)

Walt Whitman. 1819-1892

743. O Captain! My Captain!

O CAPTAIN! my Captain! our fearful trip is done, The ship has weather'd every rack, the prize we sought is won, The port is near, the bells I hear, the people all exulting, While follow eyes the steady keel, the vessel grim and daring; But O heart! heart! heart! O the bleeding drops of red! Where on the deck my Captain lies, Fallen cold and dead.

O Captain! my Captain! rise up and hear the bells; Rise up--for you the flag is flung--for you the bugle trills, For you bouquets and ribbon'd wreaths--for you the shores crowding, For you they call, the swaying mass, their eager faces turning; Here, Captain! dear father! This arm beneath your head! It is some dream that on the deck You've fallen cold and dead.

My Captain does not answer, his lips are pale and still, My father does not feel my arm, he has no pulse nor will; The ship is anchor'd safe and sound, its voyage closed and done, From fearful trip the victor ship comes in with object won; Exult, O shores! and ring, O bells! But I, with mournful tread, Walk the deck my Captain lies, Fallen cold and dead.

John Ruskin. 1819-1900

744. Trust Thou Thy Love

TRUST thou thy Love: if she be proud, is she not sweet? Trust thou thy Love: if she be mute, is she not pure? Lay thou thy soul full in her hands, low at her feet; Fail, Sun and Breath!--yet, for thy peace, She shall endure.

Ebenezer Jones. 1820-1860

745. When the World is burning

WHEN the world is burning, Fired within, yet turning Round with face unscathed; Ere fierce flames, uprushing, O'er all lands leap, crushing, Till earth fall, fire-swathed; Up amidst the meadows, Gently through the shadows, Gentle flames will glide, Small, and blue, and golden. Though by bard beholden, When in calm dreams folden,-- Calm his dreams will bide.

Where the dance is sweeping, Through the greensward peeping, Shall the soft lights start; Laughing maids, unstaying, Deeming it trick-playing, High their robes upswaying, O'er the lights shall dart; And the woodland haunter Shall not cease to saunter When, far down some glade, Of the great world's burning, One soft flame upturning Seems, to his discerning, Crocus in the shade.

Frederick Locker-Lampson. 1821-1895

746. At Her Window

BEATING Heart! we come again Where my Love reposes; This is Mabel's window-pane; These are Mabel's roses.

Is she nested? Does she kneel In the twilight stilly, Lily clad from throat to heel, She, my virgin Lily?

Soon the wan, the wistful stars, Fading, will forsake her; Elves of light, on beamy bars, Whisper then, and wake her.

Let this friendly pebble plead At her flowery grating; If she hear me will she heed? Mabel, I am waiting.

Mabel will be deck'd anon, Zoned in bride's apparel; Happy zone! O hark to yon Passion-shaken carol!

Sing thy song, thou tranced thrush, Pipe thy best, thy clearest;-- Hush, her lattice moves, O hush-- Dearest Mabel!--dearest...

Matthew Arnold. 1822-1888

747. The Forsaken Merman

COME, dear children, let us away; Down and away below. Now my brothers call from the bay; Now the great winds shoreward blow; Now the salt tides seaward flow; Now the wild white horses play, Champ and chafe and toss in the spray. Children dear, let us away. This way, this way!

Call her once before you go. Call once yet. In a voice that she will know: 'Margaret! Margaret!' Children's voices should be dear (Call once more) to a mother's ear; Children's voices, wild with pain. Surely she will come again. Call her once and come away. This way, this way! 'Mother dear, we cannot stay.' The wild white horses foam and fret. Margaret! Margaret!

Come, dear children, come away down. Call no more. One last look at the white-wall'd town, And the little grey church on the windy shore. Then come down. She will not come though you call all day. Come away, come away. Children dear, was it yesterday We heard the sweet bells over the bay? In the caverns where we lay, Through the surf and through the swell, The far-off sound of a silver bell? Sand-strewn caverns, cool and deep, Where the winds are all asleep; Where the spent lights quiver and gleam; Where the salt weed sways in the stream; Where the sea-beasts, ranged all round, Feed in the ooze of their pasture-ground; Where the sea-snakes coil and twine, Dry their mail, and bask in the brine; Where great whales come sailing by, Sail and sail, with unshut eye, Round the world for ever and aye? When did music come this way? Children dear, was it yesterday?

Children dear, was it yesterday (Call yet once) that she went away? Once she sate with you and me, On a red gold throne in the heart of the sea, And the youngest sate on her knee. She comb'd its bright hair, and she tended it well, When down swung the sound of the far-off bell. She sigh'd, she look'd up through the clear green sea. She said, 'I must go, for my kinsfolk pray In the little grey church on the shore to-day. 'Twill be Easter-time in the world--ah me! And I lose my poor soul, Merman, here with thee.' I said, 'Go up, dear heart, through the waves. Say thy prayer, and come back to the kind sea-caves.' She smiled, she went up through the surf in the bay. Children dear, was it yesterday?

Children dear, were we long alone? 'The sea grows stormy, the little ones moan. Long prayers,' I said, 'in the world they say. Come,' I said, and we rose through the surf in the bay. We went up the beach, by the sandy down Where the sea-stocks bloom, to the white-wall'd town. Through the narrow paved streets, where all was still, To the little grey church on the windy hill. From the church came a murmur of folk at their prayers, But we stood without in the cold-blowing airs. We climb'd on the graves, on the stones worn with rains, And we gazed up the aisle through the small leaded panes. She sate by the pillar; we saw her dear: 'Margaret, hist! come quick, we are here. Dear heart,' I said, 'we are long alone. The sea grows stormy, the little ones moan.' But, ah! she gave me never a look, For her eyes were seal'd to the holy book. Loud prays the priest; shut stands the door. Came away, children, call no more. Come away, come down, call no more.

Down, down, down; Down to the depths of the sea. She sits at her wheel in the humming town, Singing most joyfully. Hark what she sings: 'O joy, O joy, For the humming street, and the child with its toy. For the priest, and the bell, and the holy well. For the wheel where I spun, And the blessed light of the sun.' And so she sings her fill, Singing most joyfully, Till the shuttle falls from her hand, And the whizzing wheel stands still. She steals to the window, and looks at the sand; And over the sand at the sea; And her eyes are set in a stare; And anon there breaks a sigh, And anon there drops a tear, From a sorrow-clouded eye, And a heart sorrow-laden, A long, long sigh For the cold strange eyes of a little Mermaiden, And the gleam of her golden hair.

Come away, away, children. Come children, come down. The hoarse wind blows colder; Lights shine in the town. She will start from her slumber When gusts shake the door; She will hear the winds howling, Will hear the waves roar. We shall see, while above us The waves roar and whirl, A ceiling of amber, A pavement of pearl. Singing, 'Here came a mortal, But faithless was she: And alone dwell for ever The kings of the sea.'

But, children, at midnight, When soft the winds blow; When clear falls the moonlight; When spring-tides are low: When sweet airs come seaward From heaths starr'd with broom; And high rocks throw mildly On the blanch'd sands a gloom: Up the still, glistening beaches, Up the creeks we will hie; Over banks of bright seaweed The ebb-tide leaves dry. We will gaze, from the sand-hills, At the white, sleeping town; At the church on the hill-side-- And then come back down. Singing, 'There dwells a loved one, But cruel is she. She left lonely for ever The kings of the sea.'

Matthew Arnold. 1822-1888

748. The Song of Callicles

THROUGH the black, rushing smoke-bursts, Thick breaks the red flame. All Etna heaves fiercely Her forest-clothed frame.

Not here, O Apollo! Are haunts meet for thee. But, where Helicon breaks down In cliff to the sea.

Where the moon-silver'd inlets Send far their light voice Up the still vale of Thisbe, O speed, and rejoice!

On the sward at the cliff-top, Lie strewn the white flocks; On the cliff-side, the pigeons Roost deep in the rocks.

In the moonlight the shepherds, Soft lull'd by the rills, Lie wrapt in their blankets, Asleep on the hills.

--What forms are these coming So white through the gloom? What garments out-glistening The gold-flower'd broom?

What sweet-breathing Presence Out-perfumes the thyme? What voices enrapture The night's balmy prime?--

'Tis Apollo comes leading His choir, The Nine. --The Leader is fairest, But all are divine.

They are lost in the hollows. They stream up again. What seeks on this mountain The glorified train?--

They bathe on this mountain, In the spring by their road. Then on to Olympus, Their endless abode.

--Whose praise do they mention: Of what is it told?-- What will be for ever. What was from of old.

First hymn they the Father Of all things: and then, The rest of Immortals, The action of men.

The Day in his hotness, The strife with the palm; The Night in her silence, The Stars in their calm.

Matthew Arnold. 1822-1888

749. To Marguerite

YES: in the sea of life enisled, With echoing straits between us thrown. Dotting the shoreless watery wild, We mortal millions live alone. The islands feel the enclasping flow, And then their endless bounds they know.

But when the moon their hollows lights, And they are swept by balms of spring, And in their glens, on starry nights, The nightingales divinely sing; And lovely notes, from shore to shore, Across the sounds and channels pour;

O then a longing like despair Is to their farthest caverns sent! For surely once, they feel, we were Parts of a single continent. Now round us spreads the watery plain-- O might our marges meet again!

Who order'd that their longing's fire Should be, as soon as kindled, cool'd? Who renders vain their deep desire?-- A God, a God their severance ruled; And bade betwixt their shores to be The unplumb'd, salt, estranging sea.

Matthew Arnold. 1822-1888

750. Requiescat

STREW on her roses, roses, And never a spray of yew. In quiet she reposes: Ah! would that I did too.

Her mirth the world required: She bathed it in smiles of glee. But her heart was tired, tired, And now they let her be.

Her life was turning, turning, In mazes of heat and sound. But for peace her soul was yearning, And now peace laps her round.

Her cabin'd, ample Spirit, It flutter'd and fail'd for breath. To-night it doth inherit The vasty hall of Death.

Matthew Arnold. 1822-1888

751. The Scholar-Gipsy

GO, for they call you, Shepherd, from the hill; Go, Shepherd, and untie the wattled cotes: No longer leave thy wistful flock unfed, Nor let thy bawling fellows rack their throats, Nor the cropp'd grasses shoot another head. But when the fields are still, And the tired men and dogs all gone to rest, And only the white sheep are sometimes seen Cross and recross the strips of moon-blanch'd green; Come Shepherd, and again begin the quest.

Here, where the reaper was at work of late, In this high field's dark corner, where he leaves His coat, his basket, and his earthen cruise, And in the sun all morning binds the sheaves, Then here, at noon, comes back his stores to use; Here will I sit and wait, While to my ear from uplands far away The bleating of the folded flocks is borne, With distant cries of reapers in the corn-- All the live murmur of a summer's day.

Screen'd is this nook o'er the high, half-reap'd field, And here till sundown, Shepherd, will I be. Through the thick corn the scarlet poppies peep, And round green roots and yellowing stalks I see Pale blue convolvulus in tendrils creep: And air-swept lindens yield Their scent, and rustle down their perfumed showers Of bloom on the bent grass where I am laid, And bower me from the August sun with shade; And the eye travels down to Oxford's towers:

And near me on the grass lies Glanvil's book-- Come, let me read the oft-read tale again: The story of that Oxford scholar poor, Of pregnant parts and quick inventive brain, Who, tired of knocking at Preferment's door, One summer morn forsook His friends, and went to learn the Gipsy lore, And roam'd the world with that wild brotherhood, And came, as most men deem'd, to little good, But came to Oxford and his friends no more.

But once, years after, in the country lanes, Two scholars, whom at college erst he knew, Met him, and of his way of life inquired. Whereat he answer'd that the Gipsy crew, His mates, had arts to rule as they desired The workings of men's brains; And they can bind them to what thoughts they will: 'And I,' he said, 'the secret of their art, When fully learn'd, will to the world impart: But it needs Heaven-sent moments for this skill!'

This said, he left them, and return'd no more, But rumours hung about the country-side, That the lost Scholar long was seen to stray, Seen by rare glimpses, pensive and tongue-tied, In hat of antique shape, and cloak of grey, The same the Gipsies wore. Shepherds had met him on the Hurst in spring; At some lone alehouse in the Berkshire moors, On the warm ingle-bench, the smock-frock'd boors Had found him seated at their entering,

But 'mid their drink and clatter, he would fly: And I myself seem half to know thy looks, And put the shepherds, Wanderer, on thy trace; And boys who in lone wheatfields scare the rooks I ask if thou hast pass'd their quiet place; Or in my boat I lie Moor'd to the cool bank in the summer heats, 'Mid wide grass meadows which the sunshine fills, And watch the warm green-muffled Cumnor hills, And wonder if thou haunt'st their shy retreats.

For most, I know, thou lov'st retired ground. Thee, at the ferry, Oxford riders blithe, Returning home on summer nights, have met Crossing the stripling Thames at Bablock-hithe, Trailing in the cool stream thy fingers wet, As the slow punt swings round: And leaning backwards in a pensive dream, And fostering in thy lap a heap of flowers Pluck'd in shy fields and distant Wychwood bowers, And thine eyes resting on the moonlit stream:

And then they land, and thou art seen no more. Maidens who from the distant hamlets come To dance around the Fyfield elm in May, Oft through the darkening fields have seen thee roam, Or cross a stile into the public way. Oft thou hast given them store Of flowers--the frail-leaf'd, white anemone-- Dark bluebells drench'd with dews of summer eves, And purple orchises with spotted leaves-- But none has words she can report of thee.

And, above Godstow Bridge, when hay-time 's here In June, and many a scythe in sunshine flames, Men who through those wide fields of breezy grass Where black-wing'd swallows haunt the glittering Thames, To bathe in the abandon'd lasher pass, Have often pass'd thee near Sitting upon the river bank o'ergrown: Mark'd thine outlandish garb, thy figure spare, Thy dark vague eyes, and soft abstracted air; But, when they came from bathing, thou wert gone.

At some lone homestead in the Cumnor hills, Where at her open door the housewife darns, Thou hast been seen, or hanging on a gate To watch the threshers in the mossy barns. Children, who early range these slopes and late For cresses from the rills, Have known thee watching, all an April day, The springing pastures and the feeding kine; And mark'd thee, when the stars come out and shine, Through the long dewy grass move slow away.

In autumn, on the skirts of Bagley Wood, Where most the Gipsies by the turf-edged way Pitch their smoked tents, and every bush you see With scarlet patches tagg'd and shreds of gray, Above the forest-ground call'd Thessaly-- The blackbird picking food Sees thee, nor stops his meal, nor fears at all; So often has he known thee past him stray Rapt, twirling in thy hand a wither'd spray, And waiting for the spark from Heaven to fall.

And once, in winter, on the causeway chill Where home through flooded fields foot-travellers go, Have I not pass'd thee on the wooden bridge Wrapt in thy cloak and battling with the snow, Thy face towards Hinksey and its wintry ridge? And thou hast climb'd the hill And gain'd the white brow of the Cumnor range; Turn'd once to watch, while thick the snowflakes fall, The line of festal light in Christ Church hall-- Then sought thy straw in some sequester'd grange.

But what--I dream! Two hundred years are flown Since first thy story ran through Oxford halls, And the grave Glanvil did the tale inscribe That thou wert wander'd from the studious walls To learn strange arts, and join a Gipsy tribe: And thou from earth art gone Long since and in some quiet churchyard laid; Some country nook, where o'er thy unknown grave Tall grasses and white flowering nettles wave-- Under a dark red-fruited yew-tree's shade.

--No, no, thou hast not felt the lapse of hours. For what wears out the life of mortal men? 'Tis that from change to change their being rolls: 'Tis that repeated shocks, again, again, Exhaust the energy of strongest souls, And numb the elastic powers. Till having used our nerves with bliss and teen, And tired upon a thousand schemes our wit, To the just-pausing Genius we remit Our worn-out life, and are--what we have been.

Thou hast not lived, why shouldst thou perish, so? Thou hadst one aim, one business, one desire: Else wert thou long since number'd with the dead-- Else hadst thou spent, like other men, thy fire. The generations of thy peers are fled, And we ourselves shall go; But thou possessest an immortal lot, And we imagine thee exempt from age And living as thou liv'st on Glanvil's page, Because thou hadst--what we, alas, have not!

For early didst thou leave the world, with powers Fresh, undiverted to the world without, Firm to their mark, not spent on other things; Free from the sick fatigue, the languid doubt, Which much to have tried, in much been baffled, brings. O Life unlike to ours! Who fluctuate idly without term or scope, Of whom each strives, nor knows for what he strives, And each half lives a hundred different lives; Who wait like thee, but not, like thee, in hope.

Thou waitest for the spark from Heaven: and we, Vague half-believers of our casual creeds, Who never deeply felt, nor clearly will'd, Whose insight never has borne fruit in deeds, Whose weak resolves never have been fulfill'd; For whom each year we see Breeds new beginnings, disappointments new; Who hesitate and falter life away, And lose to-morrow the ground won to-day-- Ah, do not we, Wanderer, await it too?

Yes, we await it, but it still delays, And then we suffer; and amongst us One, Who most has suffer'd, takes dejectedly His seat upon the intellectual throne; And all his store of sad experience he Lays bare of wretched days; Tells us his misery's birth and growth and signs, And how the dying spark of hope was fed, And how the breast was soothed, and how the head, And all his hourly varied anodynes.

This for our wisest: and we others pine, And wish the long unhappy dream would end, And waive all claim to bliss, and try to bear, With close-lipp'd Patience for our only friend, Sad Patience, too near neighbour to Despair: But none has hope like thine. Thou through the fields and through the woods dost stray, Roaming the country-side, a truant boy, Nursing thy project in unclouded joy, And every doubt long blown by time away.

O born in days when wits were fresh and clear, And life ran gaily as the sparkling Thames; Before this strange disease of modern life, With its sick hurry, its divided aims, Its heads o'ertax'd, its palsied hearts, was rife-- Fly hence, our contact fear! Still fly, plunge deeper in the bowering wood! Averse, as Dido did with gesture stern From her false friend's approach in Hades turn, Wave us away, and keep thy solitude.

Still nursing the unconquerable hope, Still clutching the inviolable shade, With a free onward impulse brushing through, By night, the silver'd branches of the glade-- Far on the forest-skirts, where none pursue, On some mild pastoral slope Emerge, and resting on the moonlit pales, Freshen they flowers, as in former years, With dew, or listen with enchanted ears, From the dark dingles, to the nightingales.

But fly our paths, our feverish contact fly! For strong the infection of our mental strife, Which, though it gives no bliss, yet spoils for rest; And we should win thee from they own fair life, Like us distracted, and like us unblest. Soon, soon thy cheer would die, Thy hopes grow timorous, and unfix'd they powers, And they clear aims be cross and shifting made: And then thy glad perennial youth would fade, Fade, and grow old at last, and die like ours.

Then fly our greetings, fly our speech and smiles! --As some grave Tyrian trader, from the sea, Descried at sunrise an emerging prow Lifting the cool-hair'd creepers stealthily, The fringes of a southward-facing brow Among the Aegean isles; And saw the merry Grecian coaster come, Freighted with amber grapes, and Chian wine, Green bursting figs, and tunnies steep'd in brine; And knew the intruders on his ancient home,

The young light-hearted Masters of the waves; And snatch'd his rudder, and shook out more sail, And day and night held on indignantly O'er the blue Midland waters with the gale, Betwixt the Syrtes and soft Sicily, To where the Atlantic raves Outside the Western Straits, and unbent sails There, where down cloudy cliffs, through sheets of foam, Shy traffickers, the dark Iberians come; And on the beach undid his corded bales.

Matthew Arnold. 1822-1888

752. Philomela

HARK! ah, the Nightingale! The tawny-throated! Hark! from that moonlit cedar what a burst! What triumph! hark--what pain!

O Wanderer from a Grecian shore, Still, after many years, in distant lands, Still nourishing in thy bewilder'd brain That wild, unquench'd, deep-sunken, old-world pain-- Say, will it never heal? And can this fragrant lawn With its cool trees, and night, And the sweet, tranquil Thames, And moonshine, and the dew, To thy rack'd heart and brain Afford no balm?

Dost thou to-night behold Here, through the moonlight on this English grass, The unfriendly palace in the Thracian wild? Dost thou again peruse With hot cheeks and sear'd eyes The too clear web, and thy dumb Sister's shame? Dost thou once more assay Thy flight, and feel come over thee, Poor Fugitive, the feathery change Once more, and once more seem to make resound With love and hate, triumph and agony, Lone Daulis, and the high Cephissian vale? Listen, Eugenia-- How thick the bursts come crowding through the leaves! Again--thou hearest! Eternal Passion! Eternal Pain!

Matthew Arnold. 1822-1888

753. Shakespeare

OTHERS abide our question. Thou art free. We ask and ask: Thou smilest and art still, Out-topping knowledge. For the loftiest hill That to the stars uncrowns his majesty, Planting his steadfast footsteps in the sea, Making the heaven of heavens his dwelling-place, Spares but the cloudy border of his base To the foil'd searching of mortality; And thou, who didst the stars and sunbeams know, Self-school'd, self-scann'd, self-honour'd, self-secure, Didst walk on earth unguess'd at. Better so! All pains the immortal spirit must endure, All weakness that impairs, all griefs that bow, Find their sole voice in that victorious brow.

Matthew Arnold. 1822-1888

754. From the Hymn of Empedocles

IS it so small a thing To have enjoy'd the sun, To have lived light in the spring, To have loved, to have thought, to have done; To have advanced true friends, and beat down baffling foes;

That we must feign a bliss Of doubtful future date, And while we dream on this Lose all our present state, And relegate to worlds yet distant our repose?

Not much, I know, you prize What pleasures may be had, Who look on life with eyes Estranged, like mine, and sad: And yet the village churl feels the truth more than you;

Who 's loth to leave this life Which to him little yields: His hard-task'd sunburnt wife, His often-labour'd fields; The boors with whom he talk'd, the country spots he knew.

But thou, because thou hear'st Men scoff at Heaven and Fate; Because the gods thou fear'st Fail to make blest thy state, Tremblest, and wilt not dare to trust the joys there are.

I say, Fear not! life still Leaves human effort scope. But, since life teems with ill, Nurse no extravagant hope. Because thou must not dream, thou need'st not then despair.

William Brighty Rands. 1823-1880

755. The Flowers

WHEN Love arose in heart and deed To wake the world to greater joy, 'What can she give me now?' said Greed, Who thought to win some costly toy.

He rose, he ran, he stoop'd, he clutch'd; And soon the Flowers, that Love let fall, In Greed's hot grasp were fray'd and smutch'd, And Greed said, 'Flowers! Can this be all?'

He flung them down and went his way, He cared no jot for thyme or rose; But boys and girls came out to play, And some took these and some took those--

Red, blue, and white, and green and gold; And at their touch the dew return'd, And all the bloom a thousandfold-- So red, so ripe, the roses burn'd!

William Brighty Rands. 1823-1880

756. The Thought

INTO the skies, one summer's day, I sent a little Thought away; Up to where, in the blue round, The sun sat shining without sound.

Then my Thought came back to me.-- Little Thought, what did you see In the regions whence you come? And when I spoke, my Thought was dumb.

But she breathed of what was there, In the pure bright upper air; And, because my Thought so shone, I knew she had been shone upon.

Next, by night a Thought I sent Up into the firmament; When the eager stars were out, And the still moon shone about.

And my Thought went past the moon In between the stars, but soon Held her breath and durst not stir, For the fear that covered her; Then she thought, in this demur:

'Dare I look beneath the shade, Into where the worlds are made; Where the suns and stars are wrought? Shall I meet another Thought?

'Will that other Thought have wings? Shall I meet strange, heavenly things? Thought of Thoughts, and Light of Lights, Breath of Breaths, and Night of Nights?'

Then my Thought began to hark In the illuminated dark, Till the silence, over, under, Made her heart beat more than thunder.

And my Thought, came trembling back, But with something on her track, And with something at her side; Nor till she has lived and died, Lived and died, and lived again, Will that awful thing seem plain.

William Philpot. 1823-1889

757. Maritae Suae

OF all the flowers rising now, Thou only saw'st the head Of that unopen'd drop of snow I placed beside thy bed.

In all the blooms that blow so fast, Thou hast no further part, Save those the hour I saw thee last, I laid above thy heart.

Two snowdrops for our boy and girl, A primrose blown for me, Wreathed with one often-play'd-with curl From each bright head for thee.

And so I graced thee for thy grave, And made these tokens fast With that old silver heart I gave, My first gift--and my last.

I dream'd, her babe upon her breast, Here she might lie and calmly rest Her happy eyes on that far hill That backs the landscape fresh and still.

I hoped her thoughts would thrid the boughs Where careless birds on love carouse, And gaze those apple-blossoms through To revel in the boundless blue.

But now her faculty of sight Is elder sister to the light, And travels free and unconfined Through dense and rare, through form and mind.

Or else her life to be complete Hath found new channels full and meet-- Then, O, what eyes are leaning o'er, If fairer than they were before!

William (Johnson) Cory. 1823-1892

758. Mimnermus in Church

YOU promise heavens free from strife, Pure truth, and perfect change of will; But sweet, sweet is this human life, So sweet, I fain would breathe it still; Your chilly stars I can forgo, This warm kind world is all I know.

You say there is no substance here, One great reality above: Back from that void I shrink in fear, And child-like hide myself in love: Show me what angels feel. Till then I cling, a mere weak man, to men.

You bid me lift my mean desires From faltering lips and fitful veins To sexless souls, ideal quires, Unwearied voices, wordless strains: My mind with fonder welcome owns One dear dead friend's remember'd tones.

Forsooth the present we must give To that which cannot pass away; All beauteous things for which we live By laws of time and space decay. But O, the very reason why I clasp them, is because they die.

William (Johnson) Cory. 1823-1892

759. Heraclitus

THEY told me, Heraclitus, they told me you were dead, They brought me bitter news to hear and bitter tears to shed. I wept as I remember'd how often you and I Had tired the sun with talking and sent him down the sky.

And now that thou art lying, my dear old Carian guest, A handful of grey ashes, long, long ago at rest, Still are thy pleasant voices, thy nightingales, awake; For Death, he taketh all away, but them he cannot take.

Coventry Patmore. 1823-1896

760. The Married Lover

WHY, having won her, do I woo? Because her spirit's vestal grace Provokes me always to pursue, But, spirit-like, eludes embrace; Because her womanhood is such That, as on court-days subjects kiss The Queen's hand, yet so near a touch Affirms no mean familiarness; Nay, rather marks more fair the height Which can with safety so neglect To dread, as lower ladies might, That grace could meet with disrespect; Thus she with happy favour feeds Allegiance from a love so high That thence no false conceit proceeds Of difference bridged, or state put by; Because although in act and word As lowly as a wife can be, Her manners, when they call me lord, Remind me 'tis by courtesy; Not with her least consent of will, Which would my proud affection hurt, But by the noble style that still Imputes an unattain'd desert; Because her gay and lofty brows, When all is won which hope can ask, Reflect a light of hopeless snows That bright in virgin ether bask; Because, though free of the outer court I am, this Temple keeps its shrine Sacred to Heaven; because, in short, She 's not and never can be mine.

Coventry Patmore. 1823-1896

761. 'If I were dead'

'IF I were dead, you'd sometimes say, Poor Child!' The dear lips quiver'd as they spake, And the tears brake From eyes which, not to grieve me, brightly smiled. Poor Child, poor Child! I seem to hear your laugh, your talk, your song. It is not true that Love will do no wrong. Poor Child! And did you think, when you so cried and smiled, How I, in lonely nights, should lie awake, And of those words your full avengers make? Poor Child, poor Child! And now, unless it be That sweet amends thrice told are come to thee, O God, have Thou no mercy upon me! Poor Child!

Coventry Patmore. 1823-1896

762. Departure

IT was not like your great and gracious ways! Do you, that have naught other to lament, Never, my Love, repent Of how, that July afternoon, You went, With sudden, unintelligible phrase, And frighten'd eye, Upon your journey of so many days Without a single kiss, or a good-bye? I knew, indeed, that you were parting soon; And so we sate, within the low sun's rays, You whispering to me, for your voice was weak, Your harrowing praise. Well, it was well To hear you such things speak, And I could tell What made your eyes a growing gloom of love, As a warm South-wind sombres a March grove. And it was like your great and gracious ways To turn your talk on daily things, my Dear, Lifting the luminous, pathetic lash To let the laughter flash, Whilst I drew near, Because you spoke so low that I could scarcely hear. But all at once to leave me at the last, More at the wonder than the loss aghast, With huddled, unintelligible phrase, And frighten'd eye, And go your journey of all days With not one kiss, or a good-bye, And the only loveless look the look with which you pass'd: 'Twas all unlike your great and gracious ways.

Coventry Patmore. 1823-1896

763. The Toys

MY little Son, who look'd from thoughtful eyes And moved and spoke in quiet grown-up wise, Having my law the seventh time disobey'd, I struck him, and dismiss'd With hard words and unkiss'd, --His Mother, who was patient, being dead. Then, fearing lest his grief should hinder sleep, I visited his bed, But found him slumbering deep, With darken'd eyelids, and their lashes yet From his late sobbing wet. And I, with moan, Kissing away his tears, left others of my own; For, on a table drawn beside his head, He had put, within his reach, A box of counters and a red-vein'd stone, A piece of glass abraded by the beach, And six or seven shells, A bottle with bluebells, And two French copper coins, ranged there with careful art, To comfort his sad heart. So when that night I pray'd To God, I wept, and said: Ah, when at last we lie with tranced breath, Not vexing Thee in death, And Thou rememberest of what toys We made our joys, How weakly understood Thy great commanded good, Then, fatherly not less Than I whom Thou hast moulded from the clay, Thou'lt leave Thy wrath, and say, 'I will be sorry for their childishness.'

Coventry Patmore. 1823-1896

764. A Farewell

WITH all my will, but much against my heart, We two now part. My Very Dear, Our solace is, the sad road lies so clear. It needs no art, With faint, averted feet And many a tear, In our opposed paths to persevere. Go thou to East, I West. We will not say There 's any hope, it is so far away. But, O, my Best, When the one darling of our widowhead, The nursling Grief, Is dead, And no dews blur our eyes To see the peach-bloom come in evening skies, Perchance we may, Where now this night is day, And even through faith of still averted feet, Making full circle of our banishment, Amazed meet; The bitter journey to the bourne so sweet Seasoning the termless feast of our content With tears of recognition never dry.

Sydney Dobell. 1824-1874

765. The Ballad of Keith of Ravelston

THE murmur of the mourning ghost That keeps the shadowy kine, 'O Keith of Ravelston, The sorrows of thy line!'

Ravelston, Ravelston, The merry path that leads Down the golden morning hill, And thro' the silver meads;

Ravelston, Ravelston, The stile beneath the tree, The maid that kept her mother's kine, The song that sang she!

She sang her song, she kept her kine, She sat beneath the thorn, When Andrew Keith of Ravelston Rode thro' the Monday morn.

His henchman sing, his hawk-bells ring, His belted jewels shine; O Keith of Ravelston, The sorrows of thy line!

Year after year, where Andrew came, Comes evening down the glade, And still there sits a moonshine ghost Where sat the sunshine maid.

Her misty hair is faint and fair, She keeps the shadowy kine; O Keith of Ravelston, The sorrows of thy line!

I lay my hand upon the stile, The stile is lone and cold, The burnie that goes babbling by Says naught that can be told.

Yet, stranger! here, from year to year, She keeps her shadowy kine; O Keith of Ravelston, The sorrows of thy line!

Step out three steps, where Andrew stood-- Why blanch thy cheeks for fear? The ancient stile is not alone, 'Tis not the burn I hear!

She makes her immemorial moan, She keeps her shadowy kine; O Keith of Ravelston, The sorrows of thy line!

Sydney Dobell. 1824-1874

766. Return!

RETURN, return! all night my lamp is burning, All night, like it, my wide eyes watch and burn; Like it, I fade and pale, when day returning Bears witness that the absent can return, Return, return.

Like it, I lessen with a lengthening sadness, Like it, I burn to waste and waste to burn, Like it, I spend the golden oil of gladness To feed the sorrowy signal for return, Return, return.

Like it, like it, whene'er the east wind sings, I bend and shake; like it, I quake and yearn, When Hope's late butterflies, with whispering wings, Fly in out of the dark, to fall and burn-- Burn in the watchfire of return, Return, return.

Like it, the very flame whereby I pine Consumes me to its nature. While I mourn My soul becomes a better soul than mine, And from its brightening beacon I discern My starry love go forth from me, and shine Across the seas a path for thy return, Return, return.

Return, return! all night I see it burn, All night it prays like me, and lifts a twin Of palmed praying hands that meet and yearn-- Yearn to the impleaded skies for thy return. Day, like a golden fetter, locks them in, And wans the light that withers, tho' it burn As warmly still for thy return; Still thro' the splendid load uplifts the thin Pale, paler, palest patience that can learn Naught but that votive sign for thy return-- That single suppliant sign for thy return, Return, return.

Return, return! lest haply, love, or e'er Thou touch the lamp the light have ceased to burn, And thou, who thro' the window didst discern The wonted flame, shalt reach the topmost stair To find no wide eyes watching there, No wither'd welcome waiting thy return! A passing ghost, a smoke-wreath in the air, The flameless ashes, and the soulless urn, Warm with the famish'd fire that lived to burn-- Burn out its lingering life for thy return, Its last of lingering life for thy return, Its last of lingering life to light thy late return, Return, return.

Sydney Dobell. 1824-1874

767. A Chanted Calendar

FIRST came the primrose, On the bank high, Like a maiden looking forth From the window of a tower When the battle rolls below, So look'd she, And saw the storms go by.

Then came the wind-flower In the valley left behind, As a wounded maiden, pale With purple streaks of woe, When the battle has roll'd by Wanders to and fro, So totter'd she, Dishevell'd in the wind.

Then came the daisies, On the first of May, Like a banner'd show's advance While the crowd runs by the way, With ten thousand flowers about them they came trooping through the fields. As a happy people come, So came they, As a happy people come When the war has roll'd away, With dance and tabor, pipe and drum, And all make holiday.

Then came the cowslip, Like a dancer in the fair, She spread her little mat of green, And on it danced she. With a fillet bound about her brow, A fillet round her happy brow, A golden fillet round her brow, And rubies in her hair.

Sydney Dobell. 1824-1874

768. Laus Deo

IN the hall the coffin waits, and the idle armourer stands. At his belt the coffin nails, and the hammer in his hands. The bed of state is hung with crape--the grand old bed where she was wed-- And like an upright corpse she sitteth gazing dumbly at the bed. Hour by hour her serving-men enter by the curtain'd door, And with steps of muffled woe pass breathless o'er the silent floor, And marshal mutely round, and look from each to each with eyelids red;

'Touch him not,' she shriek'd and cried, 'he is but newly dead!' 'O my own dear mistress,' the ancient Nurse did say, 'Seven long days and seven long nights you have watch'd him where he lay.' 'Seven long days and seven long nights,' the hoary Steward said; 'Seven long days and seven long nights,' groan'd the Warrener gray; 'Seven,' said the old Henchman, and bow'd his aged head; 'On your lives!' she shriek'd and cried, 'he is but newly dead!' Then a father Priest they sought, The Priest that taught her all she knew, And they told him of her loss. 'For she is mild and sweet of will, She loved him, and his words are peace, And he shall heal her ill.' But her watch she did not cease. He bless'd her where she sat distraught, And show'd her holy cross,-- The cross she kiss'd from year to year-- But she neither saw nor heard; And said he in her deaf ear All he had been wont to teach, All she had been fond to hear, Missall'd prayer, and solemn speech, But she answer'd not a word. Only when he turn'd to speak with those who wept about the bed, 'On your lives!' she shriek'd and cried, 'he is but newly dead!' Then how sadly he turn'd from her, it were wonderful to tell, And he stood beside the death-bed as by one who slumbers well, And he lean'd o'er him who lay there, and in cautious whisper low, 'He is not dead, but sleepeth,' said the Priest, and smooth'd his brow. 'Sleepeth?' said she, looking up, and the sun rose in her face! 'He must be better than I thought, for the sleep is very sound.' 'He is better,' said the Priest, and call'd her maidens round. With them came that ancient dame who nursed her when a child; O Nurse!' she sigh'd, 'O Nurse!' she cried 'O Nurse!' and then she smiled, And then she wept; with that they drew About her, as of old; Her dying eyes were sweet and blue, Her trembling touch was cold; But she said, 'My maidens true, No more weeping and well-away; Let them kill the feast. I would be happy in my soul. "He is better," saith the Priest; He did but sleep the weary day, And will waken whole. Carry me to his dear side, And let the halls be trim; Whistly, whistly,' said she, 'I am wan with watching and wail, He must not wake to see me pale, Let me sleep with him. See you keep the tryst for me, I would rest till he awake And rise up like a bride. But whistly, whistly!' said she. 'Yet rejoice your Lord doth live; And for His dear sake Say Laus, Domine.' Silent they cast down their eyes, And every breast a sob did rive, She lifted her in wild surprise And they dared not disobey. 'Laus Deo,' said the Steward, hoary when her days were new; 'Laus Deo,' said the Warrener, whiter than the warren snows; 'Laus Deo,' the bald Henchman, who had nursed her on his knee. The old Nurse moved her lips in vain, And she stood among the train Like a dead tree shaking dew. Then the Priest he softly stept Midway in the little band, And he took the Lady's hand. 'Laus Deo,' he said aloud, 'Laus Deo,' they said again, Yet again, and yet again, Humbly cross'd and lowly bow'd, Till in wont and fear it rose To the Sabbath strain. But she neither turn'd her head Nor 'Whistly, whistly,' said she. Her hands were folded as in grace, We laid her with her ancient race And all the village wept.

William Allingham. 1824-1889

769. The Fairies

UP the airy mountain, Down the rushy glen, We daren't go a-hunting For fear of little men; Wee folk, good folk, Trooping all together; Green jacket, red cap, And white owl's feather!

Down along the rocky shore Some make their home, They live on crispy pancakes Of yellow tide-foam; Some in the reeds Of the black mountain lake, With frogs for their watch-dogs, All night awake.

High on the hill-top The old King sits; He is now so old and gray He 's nigh lost his wits. With a bridge of white mist Columbkill he crosses, On his stately journeys From Slieveleague to Rosses; Or going up with music On cold starry nights To sup with the Queen Of the gay Northern Lights.

They stole little Bridget For seven years long; When she came down again Her friends were all gone. They took her lightly back, Between the night and morrow, They thought that she was fast asleep, But she was dead with sorrow. They have kept her ever since Deep within the lake, On a bed of flag-leaves, Watching till she wake.

By the craggy hill-side, Through the mosses bare, They have planted thorn-trees For pleasure here and there. If any man so daring As dig them up in spite, He shall find their sharpest thorns In his bed at night.

Up the airy mountain, Down the rushy glen, We daren't go a-hunting For fear of little men; Wee folk, good folk, Trooping all together; Green jacket, red cap, And white owl's feather!

George MacDonald. 1824-1905

770. That Holy Thing

THEY all were looking for a king To slay their foes and lift them high: Thou cam'st, a little baby thing That made a woman cry.

O Son of Man, to right my lot Naught but Thy presence can avail; Yet on the road Thy wheels are not, Nor on the sea Thy sail!

My how or when Thou wilt not heed, But come down Thine own secret stair, That Thou mayst answer all my need-- Yea, every bygone prayer.

Dante Gabriel Rossetti. 1828-1882

771. The Blessed Damozel

THE blessed Damozel lean'd out From the gold bar of Heaven: Her blue grave eyes were deeper much Than a deep water, even. She had three lilies in her hand, And the stars in her hair were seven.

Her robe, ungirt from clasp to hem, No wrought flowers did adorn, But a white rose of Mary's gift On the neck meetly worn; And her hair, lying down her back, Was yellow like ripe corn.

Herseem'd she scarce had been a day One of God's choristers; The wonder was not yet quite gone From that still look of hers; Albeit, to them she left, her day Had counted as ten years.

(To one it is ten years of years: ...Yet now, here in this place, Surely she lean'd o'er me,--her hair Fell all about my face.... Nothing: the Autumn-fall of leaves. The whole year sets apace.)

It was the terrace of God's house That she was standing on,-- By God built over the sheer depth In which Space is begun; So high, that looking downward thence, She scarce could see the sun.

It lies from Heaven across the flood Of ether, as a bridge. Beneath, the tides of day and night With flame and darkness ridge The void, as low as where this earth Spins like a fretful midge.

But in those tracts, with her, it was The peace of utter light And silence. For no breeze may stir Along the steady flight Of seraphim; no echo there, Beyond all depth or height.

Heard hardly, some of her new friends, Playing at holy games, Spake gentle-mouth'd, among themselves, Their virginal chaste names; And the souls, mounting up to God, Went by her like thin flames.

And still she bow'd herself, and stoop'd Into the vast waste calm; Till her bosom's pressure must have made The bar she lean'd on warm, And the lilies lay as if asleep Along her bended arm.

From the fixt lull of Heaven, she saw Time, like a pulse, shake fierce Through all the worlds. Her gaze still strove, In that steep gulf, to pierce The swarm; and then she spoke, as when The stars sang in their spheres.

'I wish that he were come to me, For he will come,' she said. 'Have I not pray'd in solemn Heaven? On earth, has he not pray'd? Are not two prayers a perfect strength? And shall I feel afraid?

'When round his head the aureole clings, And he is clothed in white, I'll take his hand, and go with him To the deep wells of light, And we will step down as to a stream And bathe there in God's sight.

'We two will stand beside that shrine, Occult, withheld, untrod, Whose lamps tremble continually With prayer sent up to God; And where each need, reveal'd, expects Its patient period.

'We two will lie i' the shadow of That living mystic tree Within whose secret growth the Dove Sometimes is felt to be, While every leaf that His plumes touch Saith His name audibly.

'And I myself will teach to him,-- I myself, lying so,-- The songs I sing here; which his mouth Shall pause in, hush'd and slow, Finding some knowledge at each pause, And some new thing to know.'

(Alas! to her wise simple mind These things were all but known Before: they trembled on her sense,-- Her voice had caught their tone. Alas for lonely Heaven! Alas For life wrung out alone!

Alas, and though the end were reach'd?... Was thy part understood Or borne in trust? And for her sake Shall this too be found good?-- May the close lips that knew not prayer Praise ever, though they would?)

'We two,' she said, 'will seek the groves Where the lady Mary is, With her five handmaidens, whose names Are five sweet symphonies:-- Cecily, Gertrude, Magdalen, Margaret and Rosalys.

'Circle-wise sit they, with bound locks And bosoms covered; Into the fine cloth, white like flame, Weaving the golden thread, To fashion the birth-robes for them Who are just born, being dead.

'He shall fear, haply, and be dumb. Then I will lay my cheek To his, and tell about our love, Not once abash'd or weak: And the dear Mother will approve My pride, and let me speak.

'Herself shall bring us, hand in hand, To Him round whom all souls Kneel--the unnumber'd solemn heads Bow'd with their aureoles: And Angels, meeting us, shall sing To their citherns and citoles.

'There will I ask of Christ the Lord Thus much for him and me:-- To have more blessing than on earth In nowise; but to be As then we were,--being as then At peace. Yea, verily.

'Yea, verily; when he is come We will do thus and thus: Till this my vigil seem quite strange And almost fabulous; We two will live at once, one life; And peace shall be with us.'

She gazed, and listen'd, and then said, Less sad of speech than mild,-- 'All this is when he comes.' She ceased: The light thrill'd past her, fill'd With Angels, in strong level lapse. Her eyes pray'd, and she smiled.

(I saw her smile.) But soon their flight Was vague 'mid the poised spheres. And then she cast her arms along The golden barriers, And laid her face between her hands, And wept. (I heard her tears.)

George Meredith. 1828-1909

772. Love in the Valley

UNDER yonder beech-tree single on the green-sward, Couch'd with her arms behind her golden head, Knees and tresses folded to slip and ripple idly, Lies my young love sleeping in the shade. Had I the heart to slide an arm beneath her, Press her parting lips as her waist I gather slow, Waking in amazement she could not but embrace me: Then would she hold me and never let me go? . . . Shy as the squirrel and wayward as the swallow, Swift as the swallow along the river's light Circleting the surface to meet his mirror'd winglets, Fleeter she seems in her stay than in her flight. Shy as the squirrel that leaps among the pine-tops, Wayward as the swallow overhead at set of sun, She whom I love is hard to catch and conquer, Hard, but O the glory of the winning were she won! . . . When her mother tends her before the laughing mirror, Tying up her laces, looping up her hair, Often she thinks, were this wild thing wedded, More love should I have, and much less care. When her mother tends her before the lighted mirror, Loosening her laces, combing down her curls, Often she thinks, were this wild thing wedded, I should miss but one for many boys and girls. . . . Heartless she is as the shadow in the meadows Flying to the hills on a blue and breezy noon. No, she is athirst and drinking up her wonder: Earth to her is young as the slip of the new moon. Deals she an unkindness, 'tis but her rapid measure, Even as in a dance; and her smile can heal no less: Like the swinging May-cloud that pelts the flowers with hailstones Off a sunny border, she was made to bruise and bless. . . . Lovely are the curves of the white owl sweeping Wavy in the dusk lit by one large star. Lone on the fir-branch, his rattle-note unvaried, Brooding o'er the gloom, spins the brown evejar. Darker grows the valley, more and more forgetting: So were it with me if forgetting could be will'd. Tell the grassy hollow that holds the bubbling well-spring, Tell it to forget the source that keeps it fill'd. . . . Stepping down the hill with her fair companions, Arm in arm, all against the raying West, Boldly she sings, to the merry tune she marches, Brave is her shape, and sweeter unpossess'd. Sweeter, for she is what my heart first awaking Whisper'd the world was; morning light is she. Love that so desires would fain keep her changeless; Fain would fling the net, and fain have her free. . . . Happy happy time, when the white star hovers Low over dim fields fresh with bloomy dew, Near the face of dawn, that draws athwart the darkness, Threading it with colour, like yewberries the yew. Thicker crowd the shades as the grave East deepens Glowing, and with crimson a long cloud swells. Maiden still the morn is; and strange she is, and secret; Strange her eyes; her cheeks are cold as cold sea-shells. . . . Sunrays, leaning on our southern hills and lighting Wild cloud-mountains that drag the hills along, Oft ends the day of your shifting brilliant laughter Chill as a dull face frowning on a song. Ay, but shows the South-west a ripple-feather'd bosom Blown to silver while the clouds are shaken and ascend Scaling the mid-heavens as they stream, there comes a sunset Rich, deep like love in beauty without end. . . . When at dawn she sighs, and like an infant to the window Turns grave eyes craving light, released from dreams, Beautiful she looks, like a white water-lily Bursting out of bud in havens of the streams. When from bed she rises clothed from neck to ankle In her long nightgown sweet as boughs of May, Beautiful she looks, like a tall garden-lily Pure from the night, and splendid for the day. . . . Mother of the dews, dark eye-lash'd twilight, Low-lidded twilight, o'er the valley's brim, Rounding on thy breast sings the dew-delighted skylark, Clear as though the dewdrops had their voice in him. Hidden where the rose-flush drinks the rayless planet, Fountain-full he pours the spraying fountain-showers. Let me hear her laughter, I would have her ever Cool as dew in twilight, the lark above the flowers. . . . All the girls are out with their baskets for the primrose; Up lanes, woods through, they troop in joyful bands. My sweet leads: she knows not why, but now she loiters, Eyes the bent anemones, and hangs her hands. Such a look will tell that the violets are peeping, Coming the rose: and unaware a cry Springs in her bosom for odours and for colour, Covert and the nightingale; she knows not why. . . . Kerchief'd head and chin she darts between her tulips, Streaming like a willow gray in arrowy rain: Some bend beaten cheek to gravel, and their angel She will be; she lifts them, and on she speeds again. Black the driving raincloud breasts the iron gateway: She is forth to cheer a neighbour lacking mirth. So when sky and grass met rolling dumb for thunder Saw I once a white dove, sole light of earth.

Prim little scholars are the flowers of her garden, Train'd to stand in rows, and asking if they please. I might love them well but for loving more the wild ones: O my wild ones! they tell me more than these. You, my wild one, you tell of honied field-rose, Violet, blushing eglantine in life; and even as they, They by the wayside are earnest of your goodness, You are of life's, on the banks that line the way. . . . Peering at her chamber the white crowns the red rose, Jasmine winds the porch with stars two and three. Parted is the window; she sleeps; the starry jasmine Breathes a falling breath that carries thoughts of me. Sweeter unpossess'd, have I said of her my sweetest? Not while she sleeps: while she sleeps the jasmine breathes, Luring her to love; she sleeps; the starry jasmine Bears me to her pillow under white rose-wreaths. . . . Yellow with birdfoot-trefoil are the grass-glades; Yellow with cinquefoil of the dew-gray leaf; Yellow with stonecrop; the moss-mounds are yellow; Blue-neck'd the wheat sways, yellowing to the sheaf. Green-yellow, bursts from the copse the laughing yaffle; Sharp as a sickle is the edge of shade and shine: Earth in her heart laughs looking at the heavens, Thinking of the harvest: I look and think of mine. . . . This I may know: her dressing and undressing Such a change of light shows as when the skies in sport Shift from cloud to moonlight; or edging over thunder Slips a ray of sun; or sweeping into port White sails furl; or on the ocean borders White sails lean along the waves leaping green. Visions of her shower before me, but from eyesight Guarded she would be like the sun were she seen. . . . Front door and back of the moss'd old farmhouse Open with the morn, and in a breezy link Freshly sparkles garden to stripe-shadow'd orchard, Green across a rill where on sand the minnows wink. Busy in the grass the early sun of summer Swarms, and the blackbird's mellow fluting notes Call my darling up with round and roguish challenge: Quaintest, richest carol of all the singing throats! . . . Cool was the woodside; cool as her white diary Keeping sweet the cream-pan; and there the boys from school, Cricketing below, rush'd brown and red with sunshine; O the dark translucence of the deep-eyed cool! Spying from the farm, herself she fetch'd a pitcher Full of milk, and tilted for each in turn the beak. Then a little fellow, mouth up and on tiptoe, Said, 'I will kiss you': she laugh'd and lean'd her cheek. . . . Doves of the fir-wood walling high our red roof Through the long noon coo, crooning through the coo. Loose droop the leaves, and down the sleepy roadway Sometimes pipes a chaffinch; loose droops the blue. Cows flap a show tail knee-deep in the river, Breathless, given up to sun and gnat and fly. Nowhere is she seen; and if I see her nowhere, Lighting may come, straight rains and tiger sky. . . . O the golden sheaf, the rustling treasure-armful! O the nutbrown tresses nodding interlaced! O the treasure-tresses one another over Nodding! O the girdle slack about the waist! Slain are the poppies that shot their random scarlet Quick amid the wheat-ears: wound about the waist, Gather'd, see these brides of Earth one blush of ripeness! O the nutbrown tresses nodding interlaced! . . . Large and smoky red the sun's cold disk drops, Clipp'd by naked hills, on violet shaded snow: Eastward large and still lights up a bower of moonrise, Whence at her leisure steps the moon aglow. Nightlong on black print-branches our beech-tree Gazes in this whiteness: nightlong could I. Here may life on death or death on life be painted. Let me clasp her soul to know she cannot die! . . . Gossips count her faults; they scour a narrow chamber Where there is no window, read not heaven or her. 'When she was a tiny,' one aged woman quavers, Plucks at my heart and leads me by the ear. Faults she had once as she learn'd to run and tumbled: Faults of feature some see, beauty not complete. Yet, good gossips, beauty that makes holy Earth and air, may have faults from head to feet. . . . Hither she comes; she comes to me; she lingers, Deepens her brown eyebrows, while in new surprise High rise the lashes in wonder of a stranger; Yet am I the light and living of her eyes. Something friends have told her fills her heart to brimming, Nets her in her blushes, and wounds her, and tames.-- Sure of her haven, O like a dove alighting, Arms up, she dropp'd: our souls were in our names. . . . Soon will she lie like a white frost sunrise. Yellow oats and brown wheat, barley pale as rye, Long since your sheaves have yielded to the thresher, Felt the girdle loosen'd, seen the tresses fly. Soon will she lie like a blood-red sunset. Swift with the to-morrow, green-wing'd Spring! Sing from the South-west, bring her back the truants, Nightingale and swallow, song and dipping wing. . . . Soft new beech-leaves, up to beamy April Spreading bough on bough a primrose mountain, you Lucid in the moon, raise lilies to the skyfields, Youngest green transfused in silver shining through: Fairer than the lily, than the wild white cherry: Fair as in image my seraph love appears Borne to me by dreams when dawn is at my eyelids: Fair as in the flesh she swims to me on tears. . . . Could I find a place to be alone with heaven, I would speak my heart out: heaven is my need. Every woodland tree is flushing like the dogwood, Flashing like the whitebeam, swaying like the reed. Flushing like the dogwood crimson in October; Streaming like the flag-reed South-west blown; Flashing as in gusts the sudden-lighted whitebeam: All seem to know what is for heaven alone.

George Meredith. 1828-1909

773. Phoebus with Admetus

WHEN by Zeus relenting the mandate was revoked, Sentencing to exile the bright Sun-God, Mindful were the ploughmen of who the steer had yoked, Who: and what a track show'd the upturn'd sod! Mindful were the shepherds, as now the noon severe Bent a burning eyebrow to brown evetide, How the rustic flute drew the silver to the sphere, Sister of his own, till her rays fell wide. God! of whom music And song and blood are pure, The day is never darken'd That had thee here obscure. Chirping none, the scarlet cicalas crouch'd in ranks: Slack the thistle-head piled its down-silk gray: Scarce the stony lizard suck'd hollows in his flanks: Thick on spots of umbrage our drowsed flocks lay. Sudden bow'd the chestnuts beneath a wind unheard, Lengthen'd ran the grasses, the sky grew slate: Then amid a swift flight of wing'd seed white as curd, Clear of limb a Youth smote the master's gate. God! of whom music And song and blood are pure, The day is never darken'd That had thee here obscure.

Water, first of singers, o'er rocky mount and mead, First of earthly singers, the sun-loved rill, Sang of him, and flooded the ripples on the reed, Seeking whom to waken and what ear fill. Water, sweetest soother to kiss a wound and cool, Sweetest and divinest, the sky-born brook, Chuckled, with a whimper, and made a mirror-pool Round the guest we welcomed, the strange hand shook. God! of whom music And song and blood are pure, The day is never darken'd That had thee here obscure.

Many swarms of wild bees descended on our fields: Stately stood the wheatstalk with head bent high: Big of heart we labour'd at storing mighty yields, Wool and corn, and clusters to make men cry! Hand-like rush'd the vintage; we strung the bellied skins Plump, and at the sealing the Youth's voice rose: Maidens clung in circle, on little fists their chins; Gentle beasties through push'd a cold long nose. God! of whom music And song and blood are pure, The day is never darken'd That had thee here obscure.

Foot to fire in snowtime we trimm'd the slender shaft: Often down the pit spied the lean wolf's teeth Grin against his will, trapp'd by masterstrokes of craft; Helpless in his froth-wrath as green logs seethe! Safe the tender lambs tugg'd the teats, and winter sped Whirl'd before the crocus, the year's new gold. Hung the hooky beak up aloft, the arrowhead Redden'd through his feathers for our dear fold. God! of whom music And song and blood are pure, The day is never darken'd That had thee here obscure.

Tales we drank of giants at war with gods above: Rocks were they to look on, and earth climb'd air! Tales of search for simples, and those who sought of love Ease because the creature was all too fair. Pleasant ran our thinking that while our work was good. Sure as fruits for sweat would the praise come fast. He that wrestled stoutest and tamed the billow-brood Danced in rings with girls, like a sail-flapp'd mast. God! of whom music And song and blood are pure, The day is never darken'd That had thee here obscure.

Lo, the herb of healing, when once the herb is known, Shines in shady woods bright as new-sprung flame. Ere the string was tighten'd we heard the mellow tone, After he had taught how the sweet sounds came. Stretch'd about his feet, labour done, 'twas as you see Red pomegranates tumble and burst hard rind. So began contention to give delight and be Excellent in things aim'd to make life kind. God! of whom music And song and blood are pure, The day is never darken'd That had thee here obscure.

You with shelly horns, rams! and, promontory goats, You whose browsing beards dip in coldest dew! Bulls, that walk the pastures in kingly-flashing coats! Laurel, ivy, vine, wreathed for feasts not few! You that build the shade-roof, and you that court the rays, You that leap besprinkling the rock stream-rent: He has been our fellow, the morning of our days; Us he chose for housemates, and this way went. God! of whom music And song and blood are pure, The day is never darken'd That had thee here obscure.

George Meredith. 1828-1909

774. Tardy Spring

NOW the North wind ceases, The warm South-west awakes; Swift fly the fleeces, Thick the blossom-flakes.

Now hill to hill has made the stride, And distance waves the without-end: Now in the breast a door flings wide; Our farthest smiles, our next is friend. And song of England's rush of flowers Is this full breeze with mellow stops, That spins the lark for shine, for showers; He drinks his hurried flight, and drops. The stir in memory seem these things, Which out of moisten'd turf and clay, Astrain for light push patient rings, Or leap to find the waterway. 'Tis equal to a wonder done, Whatever simple lives renew Their tricks beneath the father sun, As though they caught a broken clue: So hard was earth an eyewink back; But now the common life has come, The blotting cloud a dappled pack, The grasses one vast underhum. A City clothed in snow and soot, With lamps for day in ghostly rows, Breaks to the scene of hosts afoot, The river that reflective flows: And there did fog down crypts of street Play spectre upon eye and mouth:-- Their faces are a glass to greet This magic of the whirl for South. A burly joy each creature swells With sound of its own hungry quest; Earth has to fill her empty wells, And speed the service of the nest; The phantom of the snow-wreath melt, That haunts the farmer's look abroad, Who sees what tomb a white night built, Where flocks now bleat and sprouts the clod. For iron Winter held her firm; Across her sky he laid his hand; And bird he starved, he stiffen'd worm; A sightless heaven, a shaven land. Her shivering Spring feign'd fast asleep, The bitten buds dared not unfold: We raced on roads and ice to keep Thought of the girl we love from cold.

But now the North wind ceases, The warm South-west awakes, The heavens are out in fleeces, And earth's green banner shakes.

George Meredith. 1828-1909

775. Love's Grave

MARK where the pressing wind shoots javelin-like, Its skeleton shadow on the broad-back'd 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 ribb'd wind-streaks running into white. If I the death of Love had deeply plann'd, 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 mix'd. In tragic life, God wot, No villain need be! Passions spin the plot: We are betray'd by what is false within.

George Meredith. 1828-1909

776. Lucifer in Starlight

ON a starr'd night Prince Lucifer uprose. Tired of his dark dominion swung the fiend Above the rolling ball in cloud part screen'd, Where sinners hugg'd their spectre of repose. Poor prey to his hot fit of pride were those. And now upon his western wing he lean'd, Now his huge bulk o'er Afric's sands careen'd, Now the black planet shadow'd Arctic snows. Soaring through wider zones that prick'd his scars With memory of the old revolt from Awe, He reach'd a middle height, and at the stars, Which are the brain of heaven, he look'd, and sank. Around the ancient track march'd, rank on rank, The army of unalterable law.

Alexander Smith. 1829-1867

777. Love

THE fierce exulting worlds, the motes in rays, The churlish thistles, scented briers, The wind-swept bluebells on the sunny braes, Down to the central fires,

Exist alike in Love. Love is a sea Filling all the abysses dim Of lornest space, in whose deeps regally Suns and their bright broods swim.

This mighty sea of Love, with wondrous tides, Is sternly just to sun and grain; 'Tis laving at this moment Saturn's sides, 'Tis in my blood and brain.

All things have something more than barren use; There is a scent upon the brier, A tremulous splendour in the autumn dews, Cold morns are fringed with fire.

The clodded earth goes up in sweet-breath'd flowers; In music dies poor human speech, And into beauty blow those hearts of ours When Love is born in each.

Daisies are white upon the churchyard sod, Sweet tears the clouds lean down and give. The world is very lovely. O my God, I thank Thee that I live!

Alexander Smith. 1829-1867

778. Barbara

ON the Sabbath-day, Through the churchyard old and gray, Over the crisp and yellow leaves I held my rustling way; And amid the words of mercy, falling on my soul like balms, 'Mid the gorgeous storms of music--in the mellow organ-calms, 'Mid the upward-streaming prayers, and the rich and solemn psalms, I stood careless, Barbara.

My heart was otherwhere, While the organ shook the air, And the priest, with outspread hands, bless'd the people with a prayer; But when rising to go homeward, with a mild and saintlike shine Gleam'd a face of airy beauty with its heavenly eyes on mine-- Gleam'd and vanish'd in a moment--O that face was surely thine Out of heaven, Barbara!

O pallid, pallid face! O earnest eyes of grace! When last I saw thee, dearest, it was in another place. You came running forth to meet me with my love-gift on your wrist: The flutter of a long white dress, then all was lost in mist-- A purple stain of agony was on the mouth I kiss'd, That wild morning, Barbara.

I search'd, in my despair, Sunny noon and midnight air; I could not drive away the thought that you were lingering there. O many and many a winter night I sat when you were gone, My worn face buried in my hands, beside the fire alone-- Within the dripping churchyard, the rain plashing on your stone, You were sleeping, Barbara.

'Mong angels, do you think Of the precious golden link I clasp'd around your happy arm while sitting by yon brink? Or when that night of gliding dance, of laughter and guitars, Was emptied of its music, and we watch'd, through lattice-bars, The silent midnight heaven creeping o'er us with its stars, Till the day broke, Barbara?

In the years I've changed; Wild and far my heart has ranged, And many sins and errors now have been on me avenged; But to you I have been faithful whatsoever good I lack'd: I loved you, and above my life still hangs that love intact-- Your love the trembling rainbow, I the reckless cataract. Still I love you. Barbara.

Yet, Love, I am unblest; With many doubts opprest, I wander like the desert wind without a place of rest. Could I but win you for an hour from off that starry shore, The hunger of my soul were still'd; for Death hath told you more Than the melancholy world doth know--things deeper than all lore You could teach me, Barbara.

In vain, in vain, in vain! You will never come again. There droops upon the dreary hills a mournful fringe of rain; The gloaming closes slowly round, loud winds are in the tree, Round selfish shores for ever moans the hurt and wounded sea; There is no rest upon the earth, peace is with Death and thee-- Barbara!

Christina Georgina Rossetti. 1830-1894

779. Bride Song FROM 'THE PRINCE'S PROGRESS'

TOO late for love, too late for joy, Too late, too late! You loiter'd on the road too long, You trifled at the gate: The enchanted dove upon her branch Died without a mate; The enchanted princess in her tower Slept, died, behind the grate; Her heart was starving all this while You made it wait.

Ten years ago, five years ago, One year ago, Even then you had arrived in time, Though somewhat slow; Then you had known her living face Which now you cannot know: The frozen fountain would have leap'd, The buds gone on to blow, The warm south wind would have awaked To melt the snow.

Is she fair now as she lies? Once she was fair; Meet queen for any kingly king, With gold-dust on her hair. Now there are poppies in her locks, White poppies she must wear; Must wear a veil to shroud her face And the want graven there: Or is the hunger fed at length, Cast off the care?

We never saw her with a smile Or with a frown; Her bed seem'd never soft to her, Though toss'd of down; She little heeded what she wore, Kirtle, or wreath, or gown; We think her white brows often ached Beneath her crown, Till silvery hairs show'd in her locks That used to be so brown.

We never heard her speak in haste: Her tones were sweet, And modulated just so much As it was meet: Her heart sat silent through the noise And concourse of the street. There was no hurry in her hands, No hurry in her feet; There was no bliss drew nigh to her, That she might run to greet.

You should have wept her yesterday, Wasting upon her bed: But wherefore should you weep to-day That she is dead? Lo, we who love weep not to-day, But crown her royal head. Let be these poppies that we strew, Your roses are too red: Let be these poppies, not for you Cut down and spread.

Christina Georgina Rossetti. 1830-1894

780. A Birthday

MY heart is like a singing bird Whose nest is in a water'd shoot; My heart is like an apple-tree Whose boughs are bent with thick-set fruit; My heart is like a rainbow shell That paddles in a halcyon sea; My heart is gladder than all these, Because my love is come to me.

Raise me a daïs of silk and down; Hang it with vair and purple dyes; Carve it in doves and pomegranates, And peacocks with a hundred eyes; Work it in gold and silver grapes, In leaves and silver fleurs-de-lys; Because the birthday of my life Is come, my love is come to me.

Christina Georgina Rossetti. 1830-1894

781. Song

WHEN I am dead, my dearest, Sing no sad songs for me; Plant thou no roses at my head, Nor shady cypress tree: Be the green grass above me With showers and dewdrops wet; And if thou wilt, remember, And if thou wilt, forget.

I shall not see the shadows, I shall not feel the rain; I shall not hear the nightingale Sing on, as if in pain; And dreaming through the twilight That doth not rise nor set, Haply I may remember, And haply may forget.

Christina Georgina Rossetti. 1830-1894

782. Twice

I TOOK my heart in my hand (O my love, O my love), I said: Let me fall or stand, Let me live or die, But this once hear me speak (O my love, O my love)-- Yet a woman's words are weak; You should speak, not I.

You took my heart in your hand With a friendly smile, With a critical eye you scann'd, Then set it down, And said, 'It is still unripe, Better wait awhile; Wait while the skylarks pipe, Till the corn grows brown.' As you set it down it broke-- Broke, but I did not wince; I smiled at the speech you spoke, At your judgement I heard: But I have not often smiled Since then, nor question'd since, Nor cared for cornflowers wild, Nor sung with the singing bird.

I take my heart in my hand, O my God, O my God, My broken heart in my hand: Thou hast seen, judge Thou. My hope was written on sand, O my God, O my God: Now let thy judgement stand-- Yea, judge me now.

This contemn'd of a man, This marr'd one heedless day, This heart take thou to scan Both within and without: Refine with fire its gold, Purge Thou its dross away-- Yea, hold it in Thy hold, Whence none can pluck it out.

I take my heart in my hand-- I shall not die, but live-- Before Thy face I stand; I, for Thou callest such: All that I have I bring, All that I am I give, Smile Thou and I shall sing, But shall not question much.

Christina Georgina Rossetti. 1830-1894

783. Uphill

DOES the road wind uphill all the way? Yes, to the very end. Will the day's journey take the whole long day? From morn to night, my friend.

But is there for the night a resting-place? A roof for when the slow, dark hours begin. May not the darkness hide it from my face? You cannot miss that inn.

Shall I meet other wayfarers at night? Those who have gone before. Then must I knock, or call when just in sight? They will not keep you waiting at that door.

Shall I find comfort, travel-sore and weak? Of labour you shall find the sum. Will there be beds for me and all who seek? Yea, beds for all who come.

Christina Georgina Rossetti. 1830-1894

784. Passing Away

PASSING away, saith the World, passing away: Chances, beauty and youth sapp'd day by day: Thy life never continueth in one stay. Is the eye waxen dim, is the dark hair changing to gray That hath won neither laurel nor bay? I shall clothe myself in Spring and bud in May: Thou, root-stricken, shalt not rebuild thy decay On my bosom for aye. Then I answer'd: Yea.

Passing away, saith my Soul, passing away: With its burden of fear and hope, of labour and play, Hearken what the past doth witness and say: Rust in thy gold, a moth is in thine array, A canker is in thy bud, thy leaf must decay. At midnight, at cockcrow, at morning, one certain day, Lo, the Bridegroom shall come and shall not delay: Watch thou and pray. Then I answer'd: Yea.

Passing away, saith my God, passing away: Winter passeth after the long delay: New grapes on the vine, new figs on the tender spray, Turtle calleth turtle in Heaven's May. Though I tarry, wait for me, trust me, watch and pray. Arise, come away; night is past, and lo, it is day; My love, my sister, my spouse, thou shalt hear me say-- Then I answer'd: Yea.

Christina Georgina Rossetti. 1830-1894

785. Marvel of Marvels

MARVEL of marvels, if I myself shall behold With mine own eyes my King in His city of gold; Where the least of lambs is spotless white in the fold, Where the least and last of saints in spotless white is stoled, Where the dimmest head beyond a moon is aureoled. O saints, my beloved, now mouldering to mould in the mould, Shall I see you lift your heads, see your cerements unroll'd, See with these very eyes? who now in darkness and cold Tremble for the midnight cry, the rapture, the tale untold,-- The Bridegroom cometh, cometh, His Bride to enfold!

Cold it is, my beloved, since your funeral bell was toll'd: Cold it is, O my King, how cold alone on the wold!

Christina Georgina Rossetti. 1830-1894

786. Is it Well with the Child?

SAFE where I cannot die yet, Safe where I hope to lie too, Safe from the fume and the fret; You, and you, Whom I never forget. Safe from the frost and the snow, Safe from the storm and the sun, Safe where the seeds wait to grow One by one, And to come back in blow.

Christina Georgina Rossetti. 1830-1894

787. Remember

REMEMBER me when I am gone away, Gone far away into the silent land; When you can no more hold me by the hand, Nor I half turn to go, yet turning stay. Remember me when no more day by day You tell me of our future that you plann'd: Only remember me; you understand It will be late to counsel then or pray. Yet if you should forget me for a while And afterwards remember, do not grieve: For if the darkness and corruption leave A vestige of the thoughts that once I had, Better by far you should forget and smile Than that you should remember and be sad.

Christina Georgina Rossetti. 1830-1894

788. Aloof

THE irresponsive silence of the land, The irresponsive sounding of the sea, Speak both one message of one sense to me:-- Aloof, aloof, we stand aloof, so stand Thou too aloof, bound with the flawless band Of inner solitude; we bind not thee; But who from thy self-chain shall set thee free? What heart shall touch thy heart? What hand thy hand? And I am sometimes proud and sometimes meek, And sometimes I remember days of old When fellowship seem'd not so far to seek, And all the world and I seem'd much less cold, And at the rainbow's foot lay surely gold, And hope felt strong, and life itself not weak.

Christina Georgina Rossetti. 1830-1894

789. Rest

O EARTH, lie heavily upon her eyes; Seal her sweet eyes weary of watching, Earth; Lie close around her; leave no room for mirth With its harsh laughter, nor for sound of sighs. She hath no questions, she hath no replies, Hush'd in and curtain'd with a blessed dearth Of all that irk'd her from the hour of birth; With stillness that is almost Paradise. Darkness more clear than noonday holdeth her, Silence more musical than any song; Even her very heart has ceased to stir: Until the morning of Eternity Her rest shall not begin nor end, but be; And when she wakes she will not think it long.

Thomas Edward Brown. 1830-1897

790. Dora

SHE knelt upon her brother's grave, My little girl of six years old-- He used to be so good and brave, The sweetest lamb of all our fold; He used to shout, he used to sing, Of all our tribe the little king-- And so unto the turf her ear she laid, To hark if still in that dark place he play'd. No sound! no sound! Death's silence was profound; And horror crept Into her aching heart, and Dora wept. If this is as it ought to be, My God, I leave it unto Thee.

Thomas Edward Brown. 1830-1897

791. Jessie

WHEN Jessie comes with her soft breast, And yields the golden keys, Then is it as if God caress'd Twin babes upon His knees-- Twin babes that, each to other press'd, Just feel the Father's arms, wherewith they both are bless'd.

But when I think if we must part, And all this personal dream be fled-- O then my heart! O then my useless heart! Would God that thou wert dead-- A clod insensible to joys and ills-- A stone remote in some bleak gully of the hills!

Thomas Edward Brown. 1830-1897

792. Salve!

TO live within a cave--it is most good; But, if God make a day, And some one come, and say, 'Lo! I have gather'd faggots in the wood!' E'en let him stay, And light a fire, and fan a temporal mood!

So sit till morning! when the light is grown That he the path can read, Then bid the man God-speed! His morning is not thine: yet must thou own They have a cheerful warmth--those ashes on the stone.

Thomas Edward Brown. 1830-1897

793. My Garden

A GARDEN is a lovesome thing, God wot! Rose plot, Fringed pool, Fern'd grot-- The veriest school Of peace; and yet the fool Contends that God is not-- Not God! in gardens! when the eve is cool? Nay, but I have a sign; 'Tis very sure God walks in mine.

Edward Robert Bulwer Lytton, Earl of Lytton. 1831-1892

794. A Night in Italy

SWEET are the rosy memories of the lips That first kiss'd ours, albeit they kiss no more: Sweet is the sight of sunset-sailing ships, Altho' they leave us on a lonely shore: Sweet are familiar songs, tho' Music dips Her hollow shell in Thought's forlornest wells: And sweet, tho' sad, the sound of midnight bells When the oped casement with the night-rain drips.

There is a pleasure which is born of pain: The grave of all things hath its violet. Else why, thro' days which never come again, Roams Hope with that strange longing, like Regret? Why put the posy in the cold dead hand? Why plant the rose above the lonely grave? Why bring the corpse across the salt sea-wave? Why deem the dead more near in native land?

Thy name hath been a silence in my life So long, it falters upon language now, O more to me than sister or than wife Once ... and now--nothing! It is hard to know That such things have been, and are not; and yet Life loiters, keeps a pulse at even measure, And goes upon its business and its pleasure, And knows not all the depths of its regret....

Ah, could the memory cast her spots, as do The snake's brood theirs in spring! and be once more Wholly renew'd, to dwell i' the time that 's new, With no reiterance of those pangs of yore. Peace, peace! My wild song will go wandering Too wantonly, down paths a private pain Hath trodden bare. What was it jarr'd the strain? Some crush'd illusion, left with crumpled wing

Tangled in Music's web of twined strings-- That started that false note, and crack'd the tune In its beginning. Ah, forgotten things Stumble back strangely! and the ghost of June Stands by December's fire, cold, cold! and puts The last spark out.--How could I sing aright With those old airs haunting me all the night And those old steps that sound when daylight shuts?

For back she comes, and moves reproachfully, The mistress of my moods, and looks bereft (Cruel to the last!) as tho' 'twere I, not she, That did the wrong, and broke the spell, and left Memory comfortless.--Away! away! Phantoms, about whose brows the bindweed clings, Hopeless regret! In thinking of these things Some men have lost their minds, and others may.

Yet, O for one deep draught in this dull hour! One deep, deep draught of the departed time! O for one brief strong pulse of ancient power, To beat and breathe thro' all the valves of rhyme! Thou, Memory, with thy downward eyes, that art The cup-bearer of gods, pour deep and long, Brim all the vacant chalices of song With health! Droop down thine urn. I hold my heart

One draught of what I shall not taste again Save when my brain with thy dark wine is brimm'd,-- One draught! and then straight onward, spite of pain, And spite of all things changed, with gaze undimm'd, Love's footsteps thro' the waning Past to explore Undaunted; and to carve in the wan light Of Hope's last outposts, on Song's utmost height, The sad resemblance of an hour or more.

Midnight, and love, and youth, and Italy! Love in the land where love most lovely seems! Land of my love, tho' I be far from thee, Lend, for love's sake, the light of thy moonbeams, The spirit of thy cypress-groves and all Thy dark-eyed beauty for a little while To my desire. Yet once more let her smile Fall o'er me: o'er me let her long hair fall....

Under the blessed darkness unreproved We were alone, in that best hour of time Which first reveal'd to us how much we loved, 'Neath the thick starlight. The young night sublime Hung trembling o'er us. At her feet I knelt, And gazed up from her feet into her eyes. Her face was bow'd: we breathed each other's sighs: We did not speak: not move: we look'd: we felt.

The night said not a word. The breeze was dead. The leaf lay without whispering on the tree, As I lay at her feet. Droop'd was her head: One hand in mine: and one still pensively Went wandering through my hair. We were together. How? Where? What matter? Somewhere in a dream, Drifting, slow drifting down a wizard stream: Whither? Together: then what matter whither?

It was enough for me to clasp her hand: To blend with her love-looks my own: no more. Enough (with thoughts like ships that cannot land, Blown by faint winds about a magic shore) To realize, in each mysterious feeling, The droop of the warm cheek so near my own: The cool white arm about my shoulder thrown: Those exquisite fair feet where I was kneeling.

How little know they life's divinest bliss, That know not to possess and yet refrain! Let the young Psyche roam, a fleeting kiss: Grasp it--a few poor grains of dust remain. See how those floating flowers, the butterflies, Hover the garden thro', and take no root! Desire for ever hath a flying foot: Free pleasure comes and goes beneath the skies.

Close not thy hand upon the innocent joy That trusts itself within thy reach. It may, Or may not, linger. Thou canst but destroy The winged wanderer. Let it go or stay. Love thou the rose, yet leave it on its stem. Think! Midas starved by turning all to gold. Blessed are those that spare, and that withhold; Because the whole world shall be trusted them.

The foolish Faun pursues the unwilling Nymph That culls her flowers beside the precipice Or dips her shining ankles in the lymph: But, just when she must perish or be his, Heaven puts an arm out. She is safe. The shore Gains some new fountain; or the lilied lawn A rarer sort of rose: but ah, poor Faun! To thee she shall be changed for evermore.

Chase not too close the fading rapture. Leave To Love his long auroras, slowly seen. Be ready to release as to receive. Deem those the nearest, soul to soul, between Whose lips yet lingers reverence on a sigh. Judge what thy sense can reach not, most thine own, If once thy soul hath seized it. The unknown Is life to love, religion, poetry.

The moon had set. There was not any light, Save of the lonely legion'd watch-stars pale In outer air, and what by fits made bright Hot oleanders in a rosy vale Search'd by the lamping fly, whose little spark Went in and out, like passion's bashful hope. Meanwhile the sleepy globe began to slope A ponderous shoulder sunward thro' the dark.

And the night pass'd in beauty like a dream. Aloof in those dark heavens paused Destiny, With her last star descending in the gleam Of the cold morrow, from the emptied sky. The hour, the distance from her old self, all The novelty and loneness of the place Had left a lovely awe on that fair face, And all the land grew strange and magical.

As droops some billowy cloud to the crouch'd hill, Heavy with all heaven's tears, for all earth's care, She droop'd unto me, without force or will, And sank upon my bosom, murmuring there A woman's inarticulate passionate words. O moment of all moments upon earth! O life's supreme! How worth, how wildly worth, Whole worlds of flame, to know this world affords.

What even Eternity can not restore! When all the ends of life take hands and meet Round centres of sweet fire. Ah, never more, Ah never, shall the bitter with the sweet Be mingled so in the pale after-years! One hour of life immortal spirits possess. This drains the world, and leaves but weariness, And parching passion, and perplexing tears.

Sad is it, that we cannot even keep That hour to sweeten life's last toil: but Youth Grasps all, and leaves us: and when we would weep, We dare not let our tears fall, lest, in truth, They fall upon our work which must be done. And so we bind up our torn hearts from breaking: Our eyes from weeping, and our brows from aching: And follow the long pathway all alone.

Edward Robert Bulwer Lytton, Earl of Lytton. 1831-1892

795. The Last Wish

SINCE all that I can ever do for thee Is to do nothing, this my prayer must be: That thou mayst never guess nor ever see The all-endured this nothing-done costs me.

James Thomson. 1834-1882

796. In the Train

AS we rush, as we rush in the Train, The trees and the houses go wheeling back, But the starry heavens above the plain Come flying on our track.

All the beautiful stars of the sky, The silver doves of the forest of Night, Over the dull earth swarm and fly, Companions of our flight.

We will rush ever on without fear; Let the goal be far, the flight be fleet! For we carry the Heavens with us, dear, While the Earth slips from our feet!

James Thomson. 1834-1882

797. Sunday up the River

MY love o'er the water bends dreaming; It glideth and glideth away: She sees there her own beauty, gleaming Through shadow and ripple and spray.

O tell her, thou murmuring river, As past her your light wavelets roll, How steadfast that image for ever Shines pure in pure depths of my soul.

James Thomson. 1834-1882

798. Gifts

GIVE a man a horse he can ride, Give a man a boat he can sail; And his rank and wealth, his strength and health, On sea nor shore shall fail.

Give a man a pipe he can smoke, Give a man a book he can read: And his home is bright with a calm delight, Though the room be poor indeed.

Give a man a girl he can love, As I, O my love, love thee; And his heart is great with the pulse of Fate, At home, on land, on sea.

James Thomson. 1834-1882

799. The Vine

THE wine of Love is music, And the feast of Love is song: And when Love sits down to the banquet, Love sits long:

Sits long and arises drunken, But not with the feast and the wine; He reeleth with his own heart, That great, rich Vine.

William Morris. 1834-1896

800. Summer Dawn

PRAY but one prayer for me 'twixt thy closed lips, Think but one thought of me up in the stars. The summer night waneth, the morning light slips Faint and gray 'twixt the leaves of the aspen, betwixt the cloud-bars, That are patiently waiting there for the dawn: Patient and colourless, though Heaven's gold Waits to float through them along with the sun. Far out in the meadows, above the young corn, The heavy elms wait, and restless and cold The uneasy wind rises; the roses are dun; Through the long twilight they pray for the dawn Round the lone house in the midst of the corn. Speak but one word to me over the corn, Over the tender, bow'd locks of the corn.

William Morris. 1834-1896

801. Love is enough

LOVE is enough: though the World be a-waning, And the woods have no voice but the voice of complaining, Though the sky be too dark for dim eyes to discover The gold-cups and daisies fair blooming thereunder, Though the hills be held shadows, and the sea a dark wonder, And this day draw a veil over all deeds pass'd over, Yet their hands shall not tremble, their feet shall not falter; The void shall not weary, the fear shall not alter These lips and these eyes of the loved and the lover.

William Morris. 1834-1896

802. The Nymph's Song to Hylas

I KNOW a little garden-close Set thick with lily and red rose, Where I would wander if I might From dewy dawn to dewy night, And have one with me wandering.

And though within it no birds sing, And though no pillar'd house is there, And though the apple boughs are bare Of fruit and blossom, would to God, Her feet upon the green grass trod, And I beheld them as before!

There comes a murmur from the shore, And in the place two fair streams are, Drawn from the purple hills afar, Drawn down unto the restless sea; The hills whose flowers ne'er fed the bee, The shore no ship has ever seen, Still beaten by the billows green, Whose murmur comes unceasingly Unto the place for which I cry.

For which I cry both day and night, For which I let slip all delight, That maketh me both deaf and blind, Careless to win, unskill'd to find, And quick to lose what all men seek.

Yet tottering as I am, and weak, Still have I left a little breath To seek within the jaws of death An entrance to that happy place; To seek the unforgotten face Once seen, once kiss'd, once reft from me Anigh the murmuring of the sea.

Roden Berkeley Wriothesley Noel. 1834-1894

803. The Water-Nymph and the Boy

I FLUNG me round him, I drew him under; I clung, I drown'd him, My own white wonder!...

Father and mother, Weeping and wild, Came to the forest, Calling the child, Came from the palace, Down to the pool, Calling my darling, My beautiful! Under the water, Cold and so pale! Could it be love made Beauty to fail?

Ah me for mortals! In a few moons, If I had left him, After some Junes He would have faded, Faded away, He, the young monarch, whom All would obey, Fairer than day; Alien to springtime, Joyless and gray, He would have faded, Faded away, Moving a mockery, Scorn'd of the day! Now I have taken him All in his prime, Saved from slow poisoning Pitiless Time, Fill'd with his happiness, One with the prime, Saved from the cruel Dishonour of Time. Laid him, my beautiful, Laid him to rest, Loving, adorable, Softly to rest, Here in my crystalline, Here in my breast!

Roden Berkeley Wriothesley Noel. 1834-1894

804. The Old

THEY are waiting on the shore For the bark to take them home: They will toil and grieve no more; The hour for release hath come.

All their long life lies behind Like a dimly blending dream: There is nothing left to bind To the realms that only seem.

They are waiting for the boat; There is nothing left to do: What was near them grows remote, Happy silence falls like dew; Now the shadowy bark is come, And the weary may go home.

By still water they would rest In the shadow of the tree: After battle sleep is best, After noise, tranquillity.

Thomas Ashe. 1836-1889

805. Meet We no Angels, Pansie?

CAME, on a Sabbath noon, my sweet, In white, to find her lover; The grass grew proud beneath her feet, The green elm-leaves above her:-- Meet we no angels, Pansie?

She said, 'We meet no angels now'; And soft lights stream'd upon her; And with white hand she touch'd a bough; She did it that great honour:-- What! meet no angels, Pansie?

O sweet brown hat, brown hair, brown eyes, Down-dropp'd brown eyes, so tender! Then what said I? Gallant replies Seem flattery, and offend her:-- But--meet no angels, Pansie?

Thomas Ashe. 1836-1889

806. To Two Bereaved

YOU must be sad; for though it is to Heaven, 'Tis hard to yield a little girl of seven. Alas, for me 'tis hard my grief to rule, Who only met her as she went to school; Who never heard the little lips so sweet Say even 'Good-morning,' though our eyes would meet As whose would fain be friends! How must you sigh, Sick for your loss, when even so sad am I, Who never clasp'd the small hands any day! Fair flowers thrive round the little grave, I pray.

Theodore Watts-Dunton. 1836-1914

807. Wassail Chorus at the Mermaid Tavern

CHRISTMAS knows a merry, merry place, Where he goes with fondest face, Brightest eye, brightest hair: Tell the Mermaid where is that one place, Where?

Raleigh. 'Tis by Devon's glorious halls, Whence, dear Ben, I come again: Bright of golden roofs and walls-- El Dorado's rare domain--

Seem those halls when sunlight launches Shafts of gold thro' leafless branches, Where the winter's feathery mantle blanches Field and farm and lane.

CHORUS. Christmas knows a merry, merry place, &c.

Drayton. 'Tis where Avon's wood-sprites weave Through the boughs a lace of rime, While the bells of Christmas Eve Fling for Will the Stratford-chime O'er the river-flags emboss'd Rich with flowery runes of frost-- O'er the meads where snowy tufts are toss'd-- Strains of olden time.

CHORUS. Christmas knows a merry, merry place, &c.

Shakespeare's Friend. 'Tis, methinks, on any ground Where our Shakespeare's feet are set. There smiles Christmas, holly-crown'd With his blithest coronet: Friendship's face he loveth well: 'Tis a countenance whose spell Sheds a balm o'er every mead and dell Where we used to fret.

CHORUS. Christmas knows a merry, merry place, &c.

Heywood. More than all the pictures, Ben, Winter weaves by wood or stream, Christmas loves our London, when Rise thy clouds of wassail-steam-- Clouds like these, that, curling, take Forms of faces gone, and wake Many a lay from lips we loved, and make London like a dream.

CHORUS. Christmas knows a merry, merry place, &c.

Ben Jonson. Love's old songs shall never die, Yet the new shall suffer proof: Love's old drink of Yule brew I Wassail for new love's behoof. Drink the drink I brew, and sing Till the berried branches swing, Till our song make all the Mermaid ring-- Yea, from rush to roof.

FINALE. Christmas loves this merry, merry place; Christmas saith with fondest face, Brightest eye, brightest hair: 'Ben, the drink tastes rare of sack and mace: Rare!'

Algernon Charles Swinburne. 1837-1909

808. Chorus from 'Atalanta'

WHEN the hounds of spring are on winter's traces, The mother of months in meadow or plain Fills the shadows and windy places With lisp of leaves and ripple of rain; And the brown bright nightingale amorous Is half assuaged for Itylus, For the Thracian ships and the foreign faces. The tongueless vigil, and all the pain.

Come with bows bent and with emptying of quivers, Maiden most perfect, lady of light, With a noise of winds and many rivers, With a clamour of waters, and with might; Bind on thy sandals, O thou most fleet, Over the splendour and speed of thy feet; For the faint east quickens, the wan west shivers, Round the feet of the day and the feet of the night.

Where shall we find her, how shall we sing to her, Fold our hands round her knees, and cling? O that man's heart were as fire and could spring to her, Fire, or the strength of the streams that spring! For the stars and the winds are unto her As raiment, as songs of the harp-player; For the risen stars and the fallen cling to her, And the southwest-wind and the west-wind sing.

For winter's rains and ruins are over, And all the season of snows and sins; The days dividing lover and lover, The light that loses, the night that wins; And time remember'd is grief forgotten, And frosts are slain and flowers begotten, And in green underwood and cover Blossom by blossom the spring begins.

The full streams feed on flower of rushes, Ripe grasses trammel a travelling foot, The faint fresh flame of the young year flushes From leaf to flower and flower to fruit; And fruit and leaf are as gold and fire, And the oat is heard above the lyre, And the hoofed heel of a satyr crushes The chestnut-husk at the chestnut-root.

And Pan by noon and Bacchus by night, Fleeter of foot than the fleet-foot kid, Follows with dancing and fills with delight The Maenad and the Bassarid; And soft as lips that laugh and hide The laughing leaves of the trees divide, And screen from seeing and leave in sight The god pursuing, the maiden hid.

The ivy falls with the Bacchanal's hair Over her eyebrows hiding her eyes; The wild vine slipping down leaves bare Her bright breast shortening into sighs; The wild vine slips with the weight of its leaves, But the berried ivy catches and cleaves To the limbs that glitter, the feet that scare The wolf that follows, the fawn that flies.

Algernon Charles Swinburne. 1837-1909

809. Hertha

I AM that which began; Out of me the years roll; Out of me God and man; I am equal and whole; God changes, and man, and the form of them bodily; I am the soul.

Before ever land was, Before ever the sea, Or soft hair of the grass, Or fair limbs of the tree, Or the flesh-colour'd fruit of my branches, I was, and thy soul was in me.

First life on my sources First drifted and swam; Out of me are the forces That save it or damn; Out of me man and woman, and wild-beast and bird: before God was, I am.

Beside or above me Naught is there to go; Love or unlove me, Unknow me or know, I am that which unloves me and loves; I am stricken, and I am the blow.

I the mark that is miss'd And the arrows that miss, I the mouth that is kiss'd And the breath in the kiss, The search, and the sought, and the seeker, the soul and the body that is.

I am that thing which blesses My spirit elate; That which caresses With hands uncreate My limbs unbegotten that measure the length of the measure of fate.

But what thing dost thou now, Looking Godward, to cry, 'I am I, thou art thou, I am low, thou art high'? I am thou, whom thou seekest to find him; find thou but thyself, thou art I.

I the grain and the furrow, The plough-cloven clod And the ploughshare drawn thorough, The germ and the sod, The deed and the doer, the seed and the sower, the dust which is God.

Hast thou known how I fashion'd thee, Child, underground? Fire that impassion'd thee, Iron that bound, Dim changes of water, what thing of all these hast thou known of or found?

Canst thou say in thine heart Thou hast seen with thine eyes With what cunning of art Thou wast wrought in what wise, By what force of what stuff thou wast shapen, and shown on my breast to the skies?

Who hath given, who hath sold it thee, Knowledge of me? Has the wilderness told it thee? Hast thou learnt of the sea? Hast thou communed in spirit with night? have the winds taken counsel with thee?

Have I set such a star To show light on thy brow That thou sawest from afar What I show to thee now? Have ye spoken as brethren together, the sun and the mountains and thou?

What is here, dost thou know it? What was, hast thou known? Prophet nor poet Nor tripod nor throne Nor spirit nor flesh can make answer, but only thy mother alone.

Mother, not maker, Born, and not made; Though her children forsake her, Allured or afraid, Praying prayers to the God of their fashion, she stirs not for all that have pray'd.

A creed is a rod, And a crown is of night; But this thing is God, To be man with thy might, To grow straight in the strength of thy spirit, and live out thy life as the light.

I am in thee to save thee, As my soul in thee saith; Give thou as I gave thee, Thy life-blood and breath, Green leaves of thy labour, white flowers of thy thought, and red fruit of thy death.

Be the ways of thy giving As mine were to thee; The free life of thy living, Be the gift of it free; Not as servant to lord, nor as master to slave, shalt thou give thee to me.

O children of banishment, Souls overcast, Were the lights ye see vanish meant Alway to last, Ye would know not the sun overshining the shadows and stars overpast.

I that saw where ye trod The dim paths of the night Set the shadow call'd God In your skies to give light; But the morning of manhood is risen, and the shadowless soul is in sight.

The tree many-rooted That swells to the sky With frondage red-fruited, The life-tree am I; In the buds of your lives is the sap of my leaves: ye shall live and not die.

But the Gods of your fashion That take and that give, In their pity and passion That scourge and forgive, They are worms that are bred in the bark that falls off; they shall die and not live.

My own blood is what stanches The wounds in my bark; Stars caught in my branches Make day of the dark, And are worshipp'd as suns till the sunrise shall tread out their fires as a spark.

Where dead ages hide under The live roots of the tree, In my darkness the thunder Makes utterance of me; In the clash of my boughs with each other ye hear the waves sound of the sea.

That noise is of Time, As his feathers are spread And his feet set to climb Through the boughs overhead, And my foliage rings round him and rustles, and branches are bent with his tread.

The storm-winds of ages Blow through me and cease, The war-wind that rages, The spring-wind of peace, Ere the breath of them roughen my tresses, ere one of my blossoms increase.

All sounds of all changes, All shadows and lights On the world's mountain-ranges And stream-riven heights, Whose tongue is the wind's tongue and language of storm-clouds on earth-shaking nights;

All forms of all faces, All works of all hands In unsearchable places Of time-stricken lands, All death and all life, and all reigns and all ruins, drop through me as sands.

Though sore be my burden And more than ye know, And my growth have no guerdon But only to grow, Yet I fail not of growing for lightnings above me or deathworms below.

These too have their part in me, As I too in these; Such fire is at heart in me, Such sap is this tree's, Which hath in it all sounds and all secrets of infinite lands and of seas.

In the spring-colour'd hours When my mind was as May's There brake forth of me flowers By centuries of days, Strong blossoms with perfume of manhood, shot out from my spirit as rays.

And the sound of them springing And smell of their shoots Were as warmth and sweet singing And strength to my roots; And the lives of my children made perfect with freedom of soul were my fruits.

I bid you but be; I have need not of prayer; I have need of you free As your mouths of mine air; That my heart may be greater within me, beholding the fruits of me fair.

More fair than strange fruit is Of faiths ye espouse; In me only the root is That blooms in your boughs; Behold now your God that ye made you, to feed him with faith of your vows.

In the darkening and whitening Abysses adored, With dayspring and lightning For lamp and for sword, God thunders in heaven, and his angels are red with the wrath of the Lord.

O my sons, O too dutiful Toward Gods not of me, Was not I enough beautiful? Was it hard to be free? For behold, I am with you, am in you and of you; look forth now and see.

Lo, wing'd with world's wonders, With miracles shod, With the fires of his thunders For raiment and rod, God trembles in heaven, and his angels are white with the terror of God.

For his twilight is come on him, His anguish is here; And his spirits gaze dumb on him, Grown gray from his fear; And his hour taketh hold on him stricken, the last of his infinite year.

Thought made him and breaks him, Truth slays and forgives; But to you, as time takes him, This new thing it gives, Even love, the beloved Republic, that feeds upon freedom and lives.

For truth only is living, Truth only is whole, And the love of his giving Man's polestar and pole; Man, pulse of my centre, and fruit of my body, and seed of my soul.

One birth of my bosom; One beam of mine eye; One topmost blossom That scales the sky; Man, equal and one with me, man that is made of me, man that is I.

Algernon Charles Swinburne. 1837-1909

810. Ave atque Vale (IN MEMORY OF CHARLES BAUDELAIRE)

SHALL I strew on thee rose or rue or laurel, Brother, on this that was the veil of thee? Or quiet sea-flower moulded by the sea, Or simplest growth of meadow-sweet or sorrel, Such as the summer-sleepy Dryads weave, Waked up by snow-soft sudden rains at eve? Or wilt thou rather, as on earth before, Half-faded fiery blossoms, pale with heat And full of bitter summer, but more sweet To thee than gleanings of a northern shore Trod by no tropic feet?

For always thee the fervid languid glories Allured of heavier suns in mightier skies; Thine ears knew all the wandering watery sighs Where the sea sobs round Lesbian promontories, The barren kiss of piteous wave to wave That knows not where is that Leucadian grave Which hides too deep the supreme head of song. Ah, salt and sterile as her kisses were, The wild sea winds her and the green gulfs bear Hither and thither, and vex and work her wrong, Blind gods that cannot spare.

Thou sawest, in thine old singing season, brother, Secrets and sorrows unbeheld of us: Fierce loves, and lovely leaf-buds poisonous, Bare to thy subtler eye, but for none other Blowing by night in some unbreathed-in clime; The hidden harvest of luxurious time, Sin without shape, and pleasure without speech; And where strange dreams in a tumultuous sleep Make the shut eyes of stricken spirits weep; And with each face thou sawest the shadow on each, Seeing as men sow men reap.

O sleepless heart and sombre soul unsleeping, That were athirst for sleep and no more life And no more love, for peace and no more strife! Now the dim gods of death have in their keeping Spirit and body and all the springs of song, Is it well now where love can do no wrong, Where stingless pleasure has no foam or fang Behind the unopening closure of her lips? Is it not well where soul from body slips And flesh from bone divides without a pang As dew from flower-bell drips?

It is enough; the end and the beginning Are one thing to thee, who art past the end. O hand unclasp'd of unbeholden friend, For thee no fruits to pluck, no palms for winning, No triumph and no labour and no lust, Only dead yew-leaves and a little dust. O quiet eyes wherein the light saith naught, Whereto the day is dumb, nor any night With obscure finger silences your sight, Nor in your speech the sudden soul speaks thought, Sleep, and have sleep for light.

Now all strange hours and all strange loves are over, Dreams and desires and sombre songs and sweet, Hast thou found place at the great knees and feet Of some pale Titan-woman like a lover, Such as thy vision here solicited, Under the shadow of her fair vast head, The deep division of prodigious breasts, The solemn slope of mighty limbs asleep, The weight of awful tresses that still keep The savour and shade of old-world pine-forests Where the wet hill-winds weep?

Hast thou found any likeness for thy vision? O gardener of strange flowers, what bud, what bloom, Hast thou found sown, what gather'd in the gloom? What of despair, of rapture, of derision, What of life is there, what of ill or good? Are the fruits gray like dust or bright like blood? Does the dim ground grow any seed of ours, The faint fields quicken any terrene root, In low lands where the sun and moon are mute And all the stars keep silence? Are there flowers At all, or any fruit?

Alas, but though my flying song flies after, O sweet strange elder singer, thy more fleet Singing, and footprints of thy fleeter feet, Some dim derision of mysterious laughter From the blind tongueless warders of the dead, Some gainless glimpse of Proserpine's veil'd head, Some little sound of unregarded tears Wept by effaced unprofitable eyes, And from pale mouths some cadence of dead sighs-- These only, these the hearkening spirit hears, Sees only such things rise.

Thou art far too far for wings of words to follow, Far too far off for thought or any prayer. What ails us with thee, who art wind and air? What ails us gazing where all seen is hollow? Yet with some fancy, yet with some desire, Dreams pursue death as winds a flying fire, Our dreams pursue our dead and do not find. Still, and more swift than they, the thin flame flies, The low light fails us in elusive skies, Still the foil'd earnest ear is deaf, and blind Are still the eluded eyes.

Not thee, O never thee, in all time's changes, Not thee, but this the sound of thy sad soul, The shadow of thy swift spirit, this shut scroll I lay my hand on, and not death estranges My spirit from communion of thy song-- These memories and these melodies that throng Veil'd porches of a Muse funereal-- These I salute, these touch, these clasp and fold As though a hand were in my hand to hold, Or through mine ears a mourning musical Of many mourners roll'd.

I among these, I also, in such station As when the pyre was charr'd, and piled the sods. And offering to the dead made, and their gods, The old mourners had, standing to make libation, I stand, and to the Gods and to the dead Do reverence without prayer or praise, and shed Offering to these unknown, the gods of gloom, And what of honey and spice my seed-lands bear, And what I may of fruits in this chill'd air, And lay, Orestes-like, across the tomb A curl of sever'd hair.

But by no hand nor any treason stricken, Not like the low-lying head of Him, the King, The flame that made of Troy a ruinous thing, Thou liest and on this dust no tears could quicken. There fall no tears like theirs that all men hear Fall tear by sweet imperishable tear Down the opening leaves of holy poets' pages. Thee not Orestes, not Electra mourns; But bending us-ward with memorial urns The most high Muses that fulfil all ages Weep, and our God's heart yearns.

For, sparing of his sacred strength, not often Among us darkling here the lord of light Makes manifest his music and his might In hearts that open and in lips that soften With the soft flame and heat of songs that shine. Thy lips indeed he touch'd with bitter wine, And nourish'd them indeed with bitter bread; Yet surely from his hand thy soul's food came, The fire that scarr'd thy spirit at his flame Was lighted, and thine hungering heart he fed Who feeds our hearts with fame.

Therefore he too now at thy soul's sunsetting, God of all suns and songs, he too bends down To mix his laurel with thy cypress crown, And save thy dust from blame and from forgetting. Therefore he too, seeing all thou wert and art, Compassionate, with sad and sacred heart, Mourns thee of many his children the last dead, And hollows with strange tears and alien sighs Thine unmelodious mouth and sunless eyes, And over thine irrevocable head Sheds light from the under skies.

And one weeps with him in the ways Lethean, And stains with tears her changing bosom chill; That obscure Venus of the hollow hill, That thing transform'd which was the Cytherean, With lips that lost their Grecian laugh divine Long since, and face no more call'd Erycine-- A ghost, a bitter and luxurious god. Thee also with fair flesh and singing spell Did she, a sad and second prey, compel Into the footless places once more trod, And shadows hot from hell.

And now no sacred staff shall break in blossom, No choral salutation lure to light A spirit sick with perfume and sweet night And love's tired eyes and hands and barren bosom. There is no help for these things; none to mend, And none to mar; not all our songs, O friend, Will make death clear or make life durable. Howbeit with rose and ivy and wild vine And with wild notes about this dust of thine At least I fill the place where white dreams dwell And wreathe an unseen shrine.

Sleep; and if life was bitter to thee, pardon, If sweet, give thanks; thou hast no more to live; And to give thanks is good, and to forgive. Out of the mystic and the mournful garden Where all day through thine hands in barren braid Wove the sick flowers of secrecy and shade, Green buds of sorrow and sin, and remnants gray, Sweet-smelling, pale with poison, sanguine-hearted, Passions that sprang from sleep and thoughts that started, Shall death not bring us all as thee one day Among the days departed?

For thee, O now a silent soul, my brother, Take at my hands this garland, and farewell. Thin is the leaf, and chill the wintry smell, And chill the solemn earth, a fatal mother, With sadder than the Niobean womb, And in the hollow of her breasts a tomb. Content thee, howsoe'er, whose days are done; There lies not any troublous thing before, Nor sight nor sound to war against thee more, For whom all winds are quiet as the sun, All waters as the shore.

Algernon Charles Swinburne. 1837-1909

811. Itylus

SWALLOW, my sister, O sister swallow, How can thine heart be full of the spring? A thousand summers are over and dead. What hast thou found in the spring to follow? What hast thou found in thine heart to sing? What wilt thou do when the summer is shed?

O swallow, sister, O fair swift swallow, Why wilt thou fly after spring to the south, The soft south whither thine heart is set? Shall not the grief of the old time follow? Shall not the song thereof cleave to thy mouth? Hast thou forgotten ere I forget?

Sister, my sister, O fleet sweet swallow, Thy way is long to the sun and the south; But I, fulfill'd of my heart's desire, Shedding my song upon height, upon hollow, From tawny body and sweet small mouth Feed the heart of the night with fire.

I the nightingale all spring through, O swallow, sister, O changing swallow, All spring through till the spring be done, Clothed with the light of the night on the dew, Sing, while the hours and the wild birds follow, Take fight and follow and find the sun.

Sister, my sister, O soft light swallow, Though all things feast in the spring's guest-chamber, How hast thou heart to be glad thereof yet? For where thou fliest I shall not follow, Till life forget and death remember, Till thou remember and I forget.

Swallow, my sister, O singing swallow, I know not how thou hast heart to sing. Hast thou the heart? is it all past over? Thy lord the summer is good to follow, And fair the feet of thy lover the spring: But what wilt thou say to the spring thy lover?

O swallow, sister, O fleeting swallow, My heart in me is a molten ember And over my head the waves have met. But thou wouldst tarry or I would follow Could I forget or thou remember, Couldst thou remember and I forget.

O sweet stray sister, O shifting swallow, The heart's division divideth us. Thy heart is light as a leaf of a tree; But mine goes forth among sea-gulfs hollow To the place of the slaying of Itylus, The feast of Daulis, the Thracian sea.

O swallow, sister, O rapid swallow, I pray thee sing not a little space. Are not the roofs and the lintels wet? The woven web that was plain to follow, The small slain body, the flower-like face, Can I remember if thou forget?

O sister, sister, thy first-begotten! The hands that cling and the feet that follow, The voice of the child's blood crying yet, Who hath remember'd me? who hath forgotten? Thou hast forgotten, O summer swallow, But the world shall end when I forget.

William Dean Howells. b. 1837

812. Earliest Spring

TOSSING his mane of snows in wildest eddies and tangles, Lion-like March cometh in, hoarse, with tempestuous breath, Through all the moaning chimneys, and 'thwart all the hollows and angles Round the shuddering house, threating of winter and death.

But in my heart I feel the life of the wood and the meadow Thrilling the pulses that own kindred with fibres that lift Bud and blade to the sunward, within the inscrutable shadow, Deep in the oak's chill core, under the gathering drift.

Nay, to earth's life in mine some prescience, or dream, or desire (How shall I name it aright?) comes for a moment and goes-- Rapture of life ineffable, perfect--as if in the brier, Leafless there by my door, trembled a sense of the rose.

Bret Harte. 1839-1902

813. What the Bullet sang

O JOY of creation, To be! O rapture, to fly And be free! Be the battle lost or won, Though its smoke shall hide the sun, I shall find my love--the one Born for me!

I shall know him where he stands All alone, With the power in his hands Not o'erthrown; I shall know him by his face, By his godlike front and grace; I shall hold him for a space All my own!

It is he--O my love! So bold! It is I--all thy love Foretold! It is I--O love, what bliss! Dost thou answer to my kiss? O sweetheart! what is this Lieth there so cold?

John Todhunter. 1839-1916

814. Maureen

O, YOU plant the pain in my heart with your wistful eyes, Girl of my choice, Maureen! Will you drive me mad for the kisses your shy, sweet mouth denies, Maureen?

Like a walking ghost I am, and no words to woo, White rose of the West, Maureen: For it 's pale you are, and the fear that 's on you is over me too, Maureen!

Sure it 's one complaint that 's on us, asthore, this day, Bride of my dreams, Maureen: The smart of the bee that stung us his honey must cure, they say, Maureen!

I'll coax the light to your eyes, and the rose to your face, Mavourneen, my own Maureen! When I feel the warmth of your breast, and your nest is my arm's embrace, Maureen!

O where was the King o' the World that day--only me? My one true love, Maureen! And you the Queen with me there, and your throne in my heart, machree, Maureen!

John Todhunter. 1839-1916

815. Aghadoe

THERE 's a glade in Aghadoe, Aghadoe, Aghadoe, There 's a green and silent glade in Aghadoe, Where we met, my love and I, Love's fair planet in the sky, O'er that sweet and silent glade in Aghadoe.

There 's a glen in Aghadoe, Aghadoe, Aghadoe, There 's a deep and secret glen in Aghadoe, Where I hid from the eyes of the red-coats and their spies, That year the trouble came to Aghadoe.

O, my curse on one black heart in Aghadoe, Aghadoe, On Shaun Dhu, my mother's son in Aghadoe! When your throat fries in hell's drouth, salt the flame be in your mouth, For the treachery you did in Aghadoe!

For they track'd me to that glen in Aghadoe, Aghadoe, When the price was on his head in Aghadoe: O'er the mountain, through the wood, as I stole to him with food, Where in hiding lone he lay in Aghadoe.

But they never took him living in Aghadoe, Aghadoe; With the bullets in his heart in Aghadoe, There he lay, the head, my breast keeps the warmth of where 'twould rest, Gone, to win the traitor's gold, from Aghadoe!

I walk'd to Mallow town from Aghadoe, Aghadoe, Brought his head from the gaol's gate to Aghadoe; Then I cover'd him with fern, and I piled on him the cairn, Like an Irish King he sleeps in Aghadoe.

O, to creep into that cairn in Aghadoe, Aghadoe! There to rest upon his breast in Aghadoe! Sure your dog for you could die with no truer heart than I, Your own love, cold on your cairn in Aghadoe.

Wilfrid Scawen Blunt. b. 1840

816. Song

O FLY not, Pleasure, pleasant-hearted Pleasure; Fold me thy wings, I prithee, yet and stay: For my heart no measure Knows, nor other treasure To buy a garland for my love to-day.

And thou, too, Sorrow, tender-hearted Sorrow, Thou gray-eyed mourner, fly not yet away: For I fain would borrow Thy sad weeds to-morrow, To make a mourning for love's yesterday.

The voice of Pity, Time's divine dear Pity, Moved me to tears: I dared not say them nay, But passed forth from the city, Making thus my ditty Of fair love lost for ever and a day.

Wilfrid Scawen Blunt. b. 1840

817. The Desolate City

DARK to me is the earth. Dark to me are the heavens. Where is she that I loved, the woman with eyes like stars? Desolate are the streets. Desolate is the city. A city taken by storm, where none are left but the slain.

Sadly I rose at dawn, undid the latch of my shutters, Thinking to let in light, but I only let in love. Birds in the boughs were awake; I listen'd to their chaunting; Each one sang to his love; only I was alone.

This, I said in my heart, is the hour of life and of pleasure. Now each creature on earth has his joy, and lives in the sun, Each in another's eyes finds light, the light of compassion, This is the moment of pity, this is the moment of love.

Speak, O desolate city! Speak, O silence in sadness! Where is she that I loved in my strength, that spoke to my soul? Where are those passionate eyes that appeal'd to my eyes in passion? Where is the mouth that kiss'd me, the breast I laid to my own?

Speak, thou soul of my soul, for rage in my heart is kindled. Tell me, where didst thou flee in the day of destruction and fear? See, my arms still enfold thee, enfolding thus all heaven, See, my desire is fulfill'd in thee, for it fills the earth.

Thus in my grief I lamented. Then turn'd I from the window, Turn'd to the stair, and the open door, and the empty street, Crying aloud in my grief, for there was none to chide me, None to mock my weakness, none to behold my tears.

Groping I went, as blind. I sought her house, my beloved's. There I stopp'd at the silent door, and listen'd and tried the latch. Love, I cried, dost thou slumber? This is no hour for slumber, This is the hour of love, and love I bring in my hand.

I knew the house, with its windows barr'd, and its leafless fig-tree, Climbing round by the doorstep, the only one in the street; I knew where my hope had climb'd to its goal and there encircled All that those desolate walls once held, my beloved's heart.

There in my grief she consoled me. She loved me when I loved not. She put her hand in my hand, and set her lips to my lips. She told me all her pain and show'd me all her trouble. I, like a fool, scarce heard, hardly return'd her kiss.

Love, thy eyes were like torches. They changed as I beheld them. Love, thy lips were like gems, the seal thou settest on my life. Love, if I loved not then, behold this hour thy vengeance; This is the fruit of thy love and thee, the unwise grown wise.

Weeping strangled my voice. I call'd out, but none answer'd; Blindly the windows gazed back at me, dumbly the door; See whom I love, who loved me, look'd not on my yearning, Gave me no more her hands to kiss, show'd me no more her soul.

Therefore the earth is dark to me, the sunlight blackness, Therefore I go in tears and alone, by night and day; Therefore I find no love in heaven, no light, no beauty, A heaven taken by storm, where none are left but the slain!

Wilfrid Scawen Blunt. b. 1840

818. With Esther

HE who has once been happy is for aye Out of destruction's reach. His fortune then Holds nothing secret; and Eternity, Which is a mystery to other men, Has like a woman given him its joy. Time is his conquest. Life, if it should fret. Has paid him tribute. He can bear to die, He who has once been happy! When I set The world before me and survey its range, Its mean ambitions, its scant fantasies, The shreds of pleasure which for lack of change Men wrap around them and call happiness, The poor delights which are the tale and sum Of the world's courage in its martyrdom;

When I hear laughter from a tavern door, When I see crowds agape and in the rain Watching on tiptoe and with stifled roar To see a rocket fired or a bull slain, When misers handle gold, when orators Touch strong men's hearts with glory till they weep, When cities deck their streets for barren wars Which have laid waste their youth, and when I keep Calmly the count of my own life and see On what poor stuff my manhood's dreams were fed Till I too learn'd what dole of vanity Will serve a human soul for daily bread, --Then I remember that I once was young And lived with Esther the world's gods among.

Wilfrid Scawen Blunt. b. 1840

819. To Manon, on his Fortune in loving Her

I DID not choose thee, dearest. It was Love That made the choice, not I. Mine eyes were blind As a rude shepherd's who to some lone grove His offering brings and cares not at what shrine He bends his knee. The gifts alone were mine; The rest was Love's. He took me by the hand, And fired the sacrifice, and poured the wine, And spoke the words I might not understand. I was unwise in all but the dear chance Which was my fortune, and the blind desire Which led my foolish steps to Love's abode, And youth's sublime unreason'd prescience Which raised an altar and inscribed in fire Its dedication To the Unknown God.

Wilfrid Scawen Blunt. b. 1840

820. St. Valentine's Day

TO-DAY, all day, I rode upon the down, With hounds and horsemen, a brave company On this side in its glory lay the sea, On that the Sussex weald, a sea of brown. The wind was light, and brightly the sun shone, And still we gallop'd on from gorse to gorse: And once, when check'd, a thrush sang, and my horse Prick'd his quick ears as to a sound unknown. I knew the Spring was come. I knew it even Better than all by this, that through my chase In bush and stone and hill and sea and heaven I seem'd to see and follow still your face. Your face my quarry was. For it I rode, My horse a thing of wings, myself a god.

Wilfrid Scawen Blunt. b. 1840

821. Gibraltar

SEVEN weeks of sea, and twice seven days of storm Upon the huge Atlantic, and once more We ride into still water and the calm Of a sweet evening, screen'd by either shore Of Spain and Barbary. Our toils are o'er, Our exile is accomplish'd. Once again We look on Europe, mistress as of yore Of the fair earth and of the hearts of men. Ay, this is the famed rock which Hercules And Goth and Moor bequeath'd us. At this door England stands sentry. God! to hear the shrill Sweet treble of her fifes upon the breeze, And at the summons of the rock gun's roar To see her red coats marching from the hill!

Wilfrid Scawen Blunt. b. 1840

822. Written at Florence

O WORLD, in very truth thou art too young; When wilt thou learn to wear the garb of age? World, with thy covering of yellow flowers, Hast thou forgot what generations sprung Out of thy loins and loved thee and are gone? Hast thou no place in all their heritage Where thou dost only weep, that I may come Nor fear the mockery of thy yellow flowers? O world, in very truth thou art too young. The heroic wealth of passionate emprize Built thee fair cities for thy naked plains: How hast thou set thy summer growth among The broken stones which were their palaces! Hast thou forgot the darkness where he lies Who made thee beautiful, or have thy bees Found out his grave to build their honeycombs?

O world, in very truth thou art too young: They gave thee love who measured out thy skies, And, when they found for thee another star, Who made a festival and straightway hung The jewel on thy neck. O merry world, Hast thou forgot the glory of those eyes Which first look'd love in thine? Thou hast not furl'd One banner of thy bridal car for them. O world, in very truth thou art too young. There was a voice which sang about thy spring, Till winter froze the sweetness of his lips, And lo, the worms had hardly left his tongue Before thy nightingales were come again. O world, what courage hast thou thus to sing? Say, has thy merriment no secret pain, No sudden weariness that thou art young?

Wilfrid Scawen Blunt. b. 1840

823. The Two Highwaymen

I LONG have had a quarrel set with Time Because he robb'd me. Every day of life Was wrested from me after bitter strife: I never yet could see the sun go down But I was angry in my heart, nor hear The leaves fall in the wind without a tear Over the dying summer. I have known No truce with Time nor Time's accomplice, Death. The fair world is the witness of a crime Repeated every hour. For life and breath Are sweet to all who live; and bitterly The voices of these robbers of the heath Sound in each ear and chill the passer-by. --What have we done to thee, thou monstrous Time? What have we done to Death that we must die?

Henry Austin Dobson. b. 1840

824. A Garden Song

HERE in this sequester'd close Bloom the hyacinth and rose, Here beside the modest stock Flaunts the flaring hollyhock; Here, without a pang, one sees Ranks, conditions, and degrees.

All the seasons run their race In this quiet resting-place; Peach and apricot and fig Here will ripen and grow big; Here is store and overplus,-- More had not Alcinoüs!

Here, in alleys cool and green, Far ahead the thrush is seen; Here along the southern wall Keeps the bee his festival; All is quiet else--afar Sounds of toil and turmoil are.

Here be shadows large and long; Here be spaces meet for song; Grant, O garden-god, that I, Now that none profane is nigh,-- Now that mood and moment please,-- Find the fair Pierides!

Henry Austin Dobson. b. 1840

825. Urceus Exit Triolet

I INTENDED an Ode, And it turn'd to a Sonnet It began a la mode, I intended an Ode; But Rose cross'd the road In her latest new bonnet; I intended an Ode; And it turn'd to a Sonnet.

Henry Austin Dobson. b. 1840

826. In After Days Rondeau

IN after days when grasses high O'er-top the stone where I shall lie, Though ill or well the world adjust My slender claim to honour'd dust, I shall not question nor reply.

I shall not see the morning sky; I shall not hear the night-wind sigh; I shall be mute, as all men must In after days!

But yet, now living, fain would I That some one then should testify, Saying--'He held his pen in trust To Art, not serving shame or lust.' Will none?--Then let my memory die In after days!

Henry Clarence Kendall. 1841-1882

827. Mooni

HE that is by Mooni now Sees the water-sapphires gleaming Where the River Spirit, dreaming, Sleeps by fall and fountain streaming Under lute of leaf and bough!-- Hears what stamp of Storm with stress is, Psalms from unseen wildernesses Deep amongst far hill-recesses-- He that is by Mooni now.

Yea, for him by Mooni's marge Sings the yellow-hair'd September, With the face the gods remember, When the ridge is burnt to ember, And the dumb sea chains the barge! Where the mount like molten brass is, Down beneath fern-feather'd passes Noonday dew in cool green grasses Gleams on him by Mooni's marge.

Who that dwells by Mooni yet, Feels in flowerful forest arches Smiting wings and breath that parches Where strong Summer's path of march is, And the suns in thunder set! Housed beneath the gracious kirtle Of the shadowy water-myrtle-- Winds may kiss with heat and hurtle, He is safe by Mooni yet!

Days there were when he who sings (Dumb so long through passion's losses) Stood where Mooni's water crosses Shining tracks of green-hair'd mosses, Like a soul with radiant wings: Then the psalm the wind rehearses-- Then the song the stream disperses-- Lent a beauty to his verses, Who to-night of Mooni sings.

Ah, the theme--the sad, gray theme! Certain days are not above me, Certain hearts have ceased to love me, Certain fancies fail to move me, Like the effluent morning dream. Head whereon the white is stealing, Heart whose hurts are past all healing, Where is now the first, pure feeling? Ah, the theme--the sad, gray theme! . . . Still to be by Mooni cool-- Where the water-blossoms glister, And by gleaming vale and vista Sits the English April's sister, Soft and sweet and wonderful! Just to rest beneath the burning Outer world--its sneers and spurning-- Ah, my heart--my heart is yearning Still to be by Mooni cool!

Arthur William Edgar O'Shaughnessy. 1844-1881

828. Ode

WE are the music-makers, And we are the dreamers of dreams, Wandering by lone sea-breakers, And sitting by desolate streams; World-losers and world-forsakers, On whom the pale moon gleams: Yet we are the movers and shakers Of the world for ever, it seems.

With wonderful deathless ditties We build up the world's great cities, And out of a fabulous story We fashion an empire's glory: One man with a dream, at pleasure, Shall go forth and conquer a crown; And three with a new song's measure Can trample an empire down.

We, in the ages lying In the buried past of the earth, Built Nineveh with our sighing, And Babel itself with our mirth; And o'erthrew them with prophesying To the old of the new world's worth; For each age is a dream that is dying, Or one that is coming to birth.

Arthur William Edgar O'Shaughnessy. 1844-1881

829. Song

I MADE another garden, yea, For my new Love: I left the dead rose where it lay And set the new above. Why did my Summer not begin? Why did my heart not haste? My old Love came and walk'd therein, And laid the garden waste.

She enter'd with her weary smile, Just as of old; She look'd around a little while And shiver'd with the cold: Her passing touch was death to all, Her passing look a blight; She made the white rose-petals fall, And turn'd the red rose white.

Her pale robe clinging to the grass Seem'd like a snake That bit the grass and ground, alas! And a sad trail did make. She went up slowly to the gate, And then, just as of yore, She turn'd back at the last to wait And say farewell once more.

Arthur William Edgar O'Shaughnessy. 1844-1881

830. The Fountain of Tears

IF you go over desert and mountain, Far into the country of Sorrow, To-day and to-night and to-morrow, And maybe for months and for years; You shall come with a heart that is bursting For trouble and toiling and thirsting, You shall certainly come to the fountain At length,--to the Fountain of Tears.

Very peaceful the place is, and solely For piteous lamenting and sighing, And those who come living or dying Alike from their hopes and their fears; Full of cypress-like shadows the place is, And statues that cover their faces: But out of the gloom springs the holy And beautiful Fountain of Tears.

And it flows and it flows with a motion So gentle and lovely and listless, And murmurs a tune so resistless To him who hath suffer'd and hears-- You shall surely--without a word spoken, Kneel down there and know your heart broken, And yield to the long-curb'd emotion That day by the Fountain of Tears.

For it grows and it grows, as though leaping Up higher the more one is thinking; And ever its tunes go on sinking More poignantly into the ears: Yea, so blessed and good seems that fountain, Reach'd after dry desert and mountain, You shall fall down at length in your weeping And bathe your sad face in the tears.

Then alas! while you lie there a season And sob between living and dying, And give up the land you were trying To find 'mid your hopes and your fears; --O the world shall come up and pass o'er you, Strong men shall not stay to care for you, Nor wonder indeed for what reason Your way should seem harder than theirs.

But perhaps, while you lie, never lifting Your cheek from the wet leaves it presses, Nor caring to raise your wet tresses And look how the cold world appears-- O perhaps the mere silences round you-- All things in that place Grief hath found you-- Yea, e'en to the clouds o'er you drifting, May soothe you somewhat through your tears.

You may feel, when a falling leaf brushes Your face, as though some one had kiss'd you, Or think at least some one who miss'd you Had sent you a thought,--if that cheers; Or a bird's little song, faint and broken, May pass for a tender word spoken: --Enough, while around you there rushes That life-drowning torrent of tears.

And the tears shall flow faster and faster, Brim over and baffle resistance, And roll down blear'd roads to each distance Of past desolation and years; Till they cover the place of each sorrow, And leave you no past and no morrow: For what man is able to master And stem the great Fountain of Tears?

But the floods and the tears meet and gather; The sound of them all grows like thunder: --O into what bosom, I wonder, Is pour'd the whole sorrow of years? For Eternity only seems keeping Account of the great human weeping: May God, then, the Maker and Father-- May He find a place for the tears!

John Boyle O'Reilly. 1844-1890

831. A White Rose

THE red rose whispers of passion, And the white rose breathes of love; O the red rose is a falcon, And the white rose is a dove.

But I send you a cream-white rosebud With a flush on its petal tips; For the love that is purest and sweetest Has a kiss of desire on the lips.

Robert Bridges. b. 1844

832. My Delight and Thy Delight

MY delight and thy delight Walking, like two angels white, In the gardens of the night:

My desire and thy desire Twining to a tongue of fire, Leaping live, and laughing higher:

Thro' the everlasting strife In the mystery of life.

Love, from whom the world begun, Hath the secret of the sun.

Love can tell, and love alone, Whence the million stars were strewn, Why each atom knows its own, How, in spite of woe and death, Gay is life, and sweet is breath:

This he taught us, this we knew, Happy in his science true, Hand in hand as we stood 'Neath the shadows of the wood, Heart to heart as we lay In the dawning of the day.

Robert Bridges. b. 1844

833. Spirits

ANGEL spirits of sleep, White-robed, with silver hair, In your meadows fair, Where the willows weep, And the sad moonbeam On the gliding stream Writes her scatter'd dream:

Angel spirits of sleep, Dancing to the weir In the hollow roar Of its waters deep; Know ye how men say That ye haunt no more Isle and grassy shore With your moonlit play; That ye dance not here, White-robed spirits of sleep, All the summer night Threading dances light?

Robert Bridges. b. 1844

834. Nightingales

BEAUTIFUL must be the mountains whence ye come, And bright in the fruitful valleys the streams, wherefrom Ye learn your song: Where are those starry woods? O might I wander there, Among the flowers, which in that heavenly air Bloom the year long!

Nay, barren are those mountains and spent the streams: Our song is the voice of desire, that haunts our dreams, A throe of the heart, Whose pining visions dim, forbidden hopes profound, No dying cadence nor long sigh can sound, For all our art.

Alone, aloud in the raptured ear of men We pour our dark nocturnal secret; and then, As night is withdrawn From these sweet-springing meads and bursting boughs of May, Dream, while the innumerable choir of day Welcome the dawn.

Robert Bridges. b. 1844

835. A Passer-by

WHITHER, O splendid ship, thy white sails crowding, Leaning across the bosom of the urgent West, That fearest nor sea rising, nor sky clouding, Whither away, fair rover, and what thy quest? Ah! soon, when Winter has all our vales opprest, When skies are cold and misty, and hail is hurling, Wilt thou glìde on the blue Pacific, or rest In a summer haven asleep, thy white sails furling.

I there before thee, in the country that well thou knowest, Already arrived am inhaling the odorous air: I watch thee enter unerringly where thou goest, And anchor queen of the strange shipping there, Thy sails for awnings spread, thy masts bare: Nor is aught from the foaming reef to the snow-capp'd grandest Peak, that is over the feathery palms, more fair Than thou, so upright, so stately and still thou standest.

And yet, O splendid ship, unhail'd and nameless, I know not if, aiming a fancy, I rightly divine That thou hast a purpose joyful, a courage blameless, Thy port assured in a happier land than mine. But for all I have given thee, beauty enough is thine, As thou, aslant with trim tackle and shrouding, From the proud nostril curve of a prow's line In the offing scatterest foam, thy white sails crowding.

Robert Bridges. b. 1844

836. Absence

WHEN my love was away, Full three days were not sped, I caught my fancy astray Thinking if she were dead,

And I alone, alone: It seem'd in my misery In all the world was none Ever so lone as I.

I wept; but it did not shame Nor comfort my heart: away I rode as I might, and came To my love at close of day.

The sight of her still'd my fears, My fairest-hearted love: And yet in her eyes were tears: Which when I question'd of,

'O now thou art come,' she cried, ''Tis fled: but I thought to-day I never could here abide, If thou wert longer away.'

Robert Bridges. b. 1844

837. On a Dead Child

PERFECT little body, without fault or stain on thee, With promise of strength and manhood full and fair! Though cold and stark and bare, The bloom and the charm of life doth awhile remain on thee.

Thy mother's treasure wert thou;--alas! no longer To visit her heart with wondrous joy; to be Thy father's pride:--ah, he Must gather his faith together, and his strength make stronger.

To me, as I move thee now in the last duty, Dost thou with a turn or gesture anon respond; Startling my fancy fond With a chance attitude of the head, a freak of beauty.

Thy hand clasps, as 'twas wont, my finger, and holds it: But the grasp is the clasp of Death, heartbreaking and stiff; Yet feels to my hand as if 'Twas still thy will, thy pleasure and trust that enfolds it.

So I lay thee there, thy sunken eyelids closing,-- Go lie thou there in thy coffin, thy last little bed!-- Propping thy wise, sad head, Thy firm, pale hands across thy chest disposing.

So quiet! doth the change content thee?--Death, whither hath he taken thee? To a world, do I think, that rights the disaster of this? The vision of which I miss, Who weep for the body, and wish but to warm thee and awaken thee?

Ah! little at best can all our hopes avail us To lift this sorrow, or cheer us, when in the dark, Unwilling, alone we embark, And the things we have seen and have known and have heard of, fail us.

Robert Bridges. b. 1844

838. Pater Filio

SENSE with keenest edge unused, Yet unsteel'd by scathing fire; Lovely feet as yet unbruised On the ways of dark desire; Sweetest hope that lookest smiling O'er the wilderness defiling!

Why such beauty, to be blighted By the swarm of foul destruction? Why such innocence delighted, When sin stalks to thy seduction? All the litanies e'er chaunted Shall not keep thy faith undaunted.

I have pray'd the sainted Morning To unclasp her hands to hold thee; From resignful Eve's adorning Stol'n a robe of peace to enfold thee; With all charms of man's contriving Arm'd thee for thy lonely striving.

Me too once unthinking Nature, --Whence Love's timeless mockery took me,-- Fashion'd so divine a creature, Yea, and like a beast forsook me. I forgave, but tell the measure Of her crime in thee, my treasure.

Robert Bridges. b. 1844

839. Winter Nightfall

THE day begins to droop,-- Its course is done: But nothing tells the place Of the setting sun.

The hazy darkness deepens, And up the lane You may hear, but cannot see, The homing wain.

An engine pants and hums In the farm hard by: Its lowering smoke is lost In the lowering sky.

The soaking branches drip, And all night through The dropping will not cease In the avenue.

A tall man there in the house Must keep his chair: He knows he will never again Breathe the spring air:

His heart is worn with work; He is giddy and sick If he rise to go as far As the nearest rick:

He thinks of his morn of life, His hale, strong years; And braves as he may the night Of darkness and tears.

Robert Bridges. b. 1844

840. When Death to Either shall come

WHEN Death to either shall come,-- I pray it be first to me,-- Be happy as ever at home, If so, as I wish, it be.

Possess thy heart, my own; And sing to the child on thy knee, Or read to thyself alone The songs that I made for thee.

Andrew Lang. 1844-1912

841. The Odyssey

AS one that for a weary space has lain Lull'd by the song of Circe and her wine In gardens near the pale of Proserpine, Where that Aeaean isle forgets the main, And only the low lutes of love complain, And only shadows of wan lovers pine-- As such an one were glad to know the brine Salt on his lips, and the large air again-- So gladly from the songs of modern speech Men turn, and see the stars, and feel the free Shrill wind beyond the close of heavy flowers, And through the music of the languid hours They hear like Ocean on a western beach The surge and thunder of the Odyssey.

William Ernest Henley. 1849-1903

842. Invictus

OUT of the night that covers me, Black as the pit from pole to pole, I thank whatever gods may be For my unconquerable soul.

In the fell clutch of circumstance I have not winced nor cried aloud. Under the bludgeonings of chance My head is bloody, but unbow'd.

Beyond this place of wrath and tears Looms but the Horror of the shade, And yet the menace of the years Finds and shall find me unafraid.

It matters not how strait the gate, How charged with punishments the scroll, I am the master of my fate: I am the captain of my soul.

William Ernest Henley. 1849-1903

843. Margaritae Sorori

A LATE lark twitters from the quiet skies: And from the west, Where the sun, his day's work ended, Lingers as in content, There falls on the old, gray city An influence luminous and serene, A shining peace.

The smoke ascends In a rosy-and-golden haze. The spires Shine and are changed. In the valley Shadows rise. The lark sings on. The sun, Closing his benediction, Sinks, and the darkening air Thrills with a sense of the triumphing night-- Night with her train of stars And her great gift of sleep.

So be my passing! My task accomplish'd and the long day done, My wages taken, and in my heart Some late lark singing, Let me be gather'd to the quiet west, The sundown splendid and serene, Death.

William Ernest Henley. 1849-1903

844. England, My England

WHAT have I done for you, England, my England? What is there I would not do, England, my own? With your glorious eyes austere, As the Lord were walking near, Whispering terrible things and dear As the Song on your bugles blown, England-- Round the world on your bugles blown!

Where shall the watchful sun, England, my England, Match the master-work you've done, England, my own? When shall he rejoice agen Such a breed of mighty men As come forward, one to ten, To the Song on your bugles blown, England-- Down the years on your bugles blown?

Ever the faith endures, England, my England:-- 'Take and break us: we are yours, England, my own! Life is good, and joy runs high Between English earth and sky: Death is death; but we shall die To the Song on your bugles blown, England-- To the stars on your bugles blown!'

They call you proud and hard, England, my England: You with worlds to watch and ward, England, my own! You whose mail'd hand keeps the keys Of such teeming destinies, You could know nor dread nor ease Were the Song on your bugles blown, England, Round the Pit on your bugles blown!

Mother of Ships whose might, England, my England, Is the fierce old Sea's delight, England, my own, Chosen daughter of the Lord, Spouse-in-Chief of the ancient Sword, There 's the menace of the Word In the Song on your bugles blown, England-- Out of heaven on your bugles blown!

Edmund Gosse. b. 1849

845. Revelation

INTO the silver night She brought with her pale hand The topaz lanthorn-light, And darted splendour o'er the land; Around her in a band, Ringstraked and pied, the great soft moths came flying, And flapping with their mad wings, fann'd The flickering flame, ascending, falling, dying.

Behind the thorny pink Close wall of blossom'd may, I gazed thro' one green chink And saw no more than thousands may,-- Saw sweetness, tender and gay,-- Saw full rose lips as rounded as the cherry, Saw braided locks more dark than bay, And flashing eyes decorous, pure, and merry.

With food for furry friends She pass'd, her lamp and she, Till eaves and gable-ends Hid all that saffron sheen from me: Around my rosy tree Once more the silver-starry night was shining, With depths of heaven, dewy and free, And crystals of a carven moon declining.

Alas! for him who dwells In frigid air of thought, When warmer light dispels The frozen calm his spirit sought; By life too lately taught He sees the ecstatic Human from him stealing; Reels from the joy experience brought, And dares not clutch what Love was half revealing.

Robert Louis Stevenson. 1850-1894

846. Romance

I WILL make you brooches and toys for your delight Of bird-song at morning and star-shine at night. I will make a palace fit for you and me, Of green days in forests and blue days at sea.

I will make my kitchen, and you shall keep your room, Where white flows the river and bright blows the broom, And you shall wash your linen and keep your body white In rainfall at morning and dewfall at night.

And this shall be for music when no one else is near, The fine song for singing, the rare song to hear! That only I remember, that only you admire, Of the broad road that stretches and the roadside fire.

Robert Louis Stevenson. 1850-1894

847. In the Highlands

IN the highlands, in the country places, Where the old plain men have rosy faces, And the young fair maidens Quiet eyes; Where essential silence cheers and blesses, And for ever in the hill-recesses Her more lovely music Broods and dies--

O to mount again where erst I haunted; Where the old red hills are bird-enchanted, And the low green meadows Bright with sward; And when even dies, the million-tinted, And the night has come, and planets glinted, Lo, the valley hollow Lamp-bestarr'd!

O to dream, O to awake and wander There, and with delight to take and render, Through the trance of silence, Quiet breath! Lo! for there, among the flowers and grasses, Only the mightier movement sounds and passes; Only winds and rivers, Life and death.

Robert Louis Stevenson. 1850-1894

848. Requiem

UNDER the wide and starry sky Dig the grave and let me lie: Glad did I live and gladly die, And I laid me down with a will.

This be the verse you grave for me: Here he lies where he long'd to be; Home is the sailor, home from sea, And the hunter home from the hill.

T. W. Rolleston. b. 1857

849. The Dead at Clonmacnois FROM THE IRISH OF ANGUS O'GILLAN

IN a quiet water'd land, a land of roses, Stands Saint Kieran's city fair; And the warriors of Erin in their famous generations Slumber there.

There beneath the dewy hillside sleep the noblest Of the clan of Conn, Each below his stone with name in branching Ogham And the sacred knot thereon.

There they laid to rest the seven Kings of Tara, There the sons of Cairbre sleep-- Battle-banners of the Gael that in Kieran's plain of crosses Now their final hosting keep.

And in Clonmacnois they laid the men of Teffia, And right many a lord of Breagh; Deep the sod above Clan Creide and Clan Conaill, Kind in hall and fierce in fray.

Many and many a son of Conn the Hundred-Fighter In the red earth lies at rest; Many a blue eye of Clan Colman the turf covers, Many a swan-white breast.

John Davidson. 1857-1909

850. Song

THE boat is chafing at our long delay, And we must leave too soon The spicy sea-pinks and the inborne spray, The tawny sands, the moon.

Keep us, O Thetis, in our western flight! Watch from thy pearly throne Our vessel, plunging deeper into night To reach a land unknown.

John Davidson. 1857-1909

851. The Last Rose

'O WHICH is the last rose?' A blossom of no name. At midnight the snow came; At daybreak a vast rose, In darkness unfurl'd, O'er-petall'd the world.

Its odourless pallor Blossom'd forlorn, Till radiant valour Establish'd the morn-- Till the night Was undone In her fight With the sun.

The brave orb in state rose, And crimson he shone first; While from the high vine Of heaven the dawn burst, Staining the great rose From sky-line to sky-line.

The red rose of morn A white rose at noon turn'd; But at sunset reborn All red again soon burn'd. Then the pale rose of noonday Rebloom'd in the night, And spectrally white In the light Of the moon lay.

But the vast rose Was scentless, And this is the reason: When the blast rose Relentless, And brought in due season The snow rose, the last rose Congeal'd in its breath, Then came with it treason; The traitor was Death.

In lee-valleys crowded, The sheep and the birds Were frozen and shrouded In flights and in herds. In highways And byways The young and the old Were tortured and madden'd And kill'd by the cold. But many were gladden'd By the beautiful last rose, The blossom of no name That came when the snow came, In darkness unfurl'd-- The wonderful vast rose That fill'd all the world.

William Watson. b. 1858

852. Song

APRIL, April, Laugh thy girlish laughter; Then, the moment after, Weep thy girlish tears! April, that mine ears Like a lover greetest, If I tell thee, sweetest, All my hopes and fears, April, April, Laugh thy golden laughter, But, the moment after, Weep thy golden tears!

William Watson. b. 1858

853. Ode in May

LET me go forth, and share The overflowing Sun With one wise friend, or one Better than wise, being fair, Where the pewit wheels and dips On heights of bracken and ling, And Earth, unto her leaflet tips, Tingles with the Spring.

What is so sweet and dear As a prosperous morn in May, The confident prime of the day, And the dauntless youth of the year, When nothing that asks for bliss, Asking aright, is denied, And half of the world a bridegroom is, And half of the world a bride?

The Song of Mingling flows, Grave, ceremonial, pure, As once, from lips that endure, The cosmic descant rose, When the temporal lord of life, Going his golden way, Had taken a wondrous maid to wife That long had said him nay.

For of old the Sun, our sire, Came wooing the mother of men, Earth, that was virginal then, Vestal fire to his fire. Silent her bosom and coy, But the strong god sued and press'd; And born of their starry nuptial joy Are all that drink of her breast.

And the triumph of him that begot, And the travail of her that bore, Behold they are evermore As warp and weft in our lot. We are children of splendour and flame, Of shuddering, also, and tears. Magnificent out of the dust we came, And abject from the Spheres.

O bright irresistible lord! We are fruit of Earth's womb, each one, And fruit of thy loins, O Sun, Whence first was the seed outpour'd. To thee as our Father we bow, Forbidden thy Father to see, Who is older and greater than thou, as thou Art greater and older than we.

Thou art but as a word of his speech; Thou art but as a wave of his hand; Thou art brief as a glitter of sand 'Twixt tide and tide on his beach; Thou art less than a spark of his fire, Or a moment's mood of his soul: Thou art lost in the notes on the lips of his choir That chant the chant of the Whole.

William Watson. b. 1858

854. The Great Misgiving

'NOT ours,' say some, 'the thought of death to dread; Asking no heaven, we fear no fabled hell: Life is a feast, and we have banqueted-- Shall not the worms as well?

'The after-silence, when the feast is o'er, And void the places where the minstrels stood, Differs in nought from what hath been before, And is nor ill nor good.'

Ah, but the Apparition--the dumb sign-- The beckoning finger bidding me forgo The fellowship, the converse, and the wine, The songs, the festal glow!

And ah, to know not, while with friends I sit, And while the purple joy is pass'd about, Whether 'tis ampler day divinelier lit Or homeless night without;

And whether, stepping forth, my soul shall see New prospects, or fall sheer--a blinded thing! There is, O grave, thy hourly victory, And there, O death, thy sting.

Henry Charles Beeching. 1859-1919

855. Prayers

GOD who created me Nimble and light of limb, In three elements free, To run, to ride, to swim: Not when the sense is dim, But now from the heart of joy, I would remember Him: Take the thanks of a boy.

Jesu, King and Lord, Whose are my foes to fight, Gird me with Thy sword Swift and sharp and bright. Thee would I serve if I might; And conquer if I can, From day-dawn till night, Take the strength of a man.

Spirit of Love and Truth, Breathing in grosser clay, The light and flame of youth, Delight of men in the fray, Wisdom in strength's decay; From pain, strife, wrong to be free, This best gift I pray, Take my spirit to Thee.

Henry Charles Beeching. 1859-1919

856. Going down Hill on a Bicycle A BOY'S SONG

WITH lifted feet, hands still, I am poised, and down the hill Dart, with heedful mind; The air goes by in a wind.

Swifter and yet more swift, Till the heart with a mighty lift Makes the lungs laugh, the throat cry:-- 'O bird, see; see, bird, I fly.

'Is this, is this your joy? O bird, then I, though a boy For a golden moment share Your feathery life in air!'

Say, heart, is there aught like this In a world that is full of bliss? 'Tis more than skating, bound Steel-shod to the level ground.

Speed slackens now, I float Awhile in my airy boat; Till, when the wheels scarce crawl, My feet to the treadles fall.

Alas, that the longest hill Must end in a vale; but still, Who climbs with toil, wheresoe'er, Shall find wings waiting there.

Bliss Carman. b. 1861

857. Why

FOR a name unknown, Whose fame unblown Sleeps in the hills For ever and aye;

For her who hears The stir of the years Go by on the wind By night and day;

And heeds no thing Of the needs of spring, Of autumn's wonder Or winter's chill;

For one who sees The great sun freeze, As he wanders a-cold From hill to hill;

And all her heart Is a woven part Of the flurry and drift Of whirling snow;

For the sake of two Sad eyes and true, And the old, old love So long ago.

Douglas Hyde. b. 1861

858. My Grief on the Sea FROM THE IRISH

MY grief on the sea, How the waves of it roll! For they heave between me And the love of my soul!

Abandon'd, forsaken, To grief and to care, Will the sea ever waken Relief from despair?

My grief and my trouble! Would he and I were, In the province of Leinster, Or County of Clare!

Were I and my darling-- O heart-bitter wound!-- On board of the ship For America bound.

On a green bed of rushes All last night I lay, And I flung it abroad With the heat of the day.

And my Love came behind me, He came from the South; His breast to my bosom, His mouth to my mouth.

Arthur Christopher Benson. b. 1862

859. The Phoenix

BY feathers green, across Casbeen The pilgrims track the Phoenix flown, By gems he strew'd in waste and wood, And jewell'd plumes at random thrown.

Till wandering far, by moon and star, They stand beside the fruitful pyre, Where breaking bright with sanguine light The impulsive bird forgets his sire.

Those ashes shine like ruby wine, Like bag of Tyrian murex spilt, The claw, the jowl of the flying fowl Are with the glorious anguish gilt.

So rare the light, so rich the sight, Those pilgrim men, on profit bent, Drop hands and eyes and merchandise, And are with gazing most content.

Henry Newbolt. b. 1862

860. He fell among Thieves

'YE have robb'd,' said he, 'ye have slaughter'd and made an end, Take your ill-got plunder, and bury the dead: What will ye more of your guest and sometime friend?' 'Blood for our blood,' they said.

He laugh'd: 'If one may settle the score for five, I am ready; but let the reckoning stand till day: I have loved the sunlight as dearly as any alive.' 'You shall die at dawn,' said they.

He flung his empty revolver down the slope, He climb'd alone to the Eastward edge of the trees; All night long in a dream untroubled of hope He brooded, clasping his knees.

He did not hear the monotonous roar that fills The ravine where the Yassîn river sullenly flows; He did not see the starlight on the Laspur hills, Or the far Afghan snows.

He saw the April noon on his books aglow, The wistaria trailing in at the window wide; He heard his father's voice from the terrace below Calling him down to ride.

He saw the gray little church across the park, The mounds that hid the loved and honour'd dead; The Norman arch, the chancel softly dark, The brasses black and red.

He saw the School Close, sunny and green, The runner beside him, the stand by the parapet wall, The distant tape, and the crowd roaring between, His own name over all.

He saw the dark wainscot and timber'd roof, The long tables, and the faces merry and keen; The College Eight and their trainer dining aloof, The Dons on the daïs serene.

He watch'd the liner's stem ploughing the foam, He felt her trembling speed and the thrash of her screw; He heard the passengers' voices talking of home, He saw the flag she flew.

And now it was dawn. He rose strong on his feet, And strode to his ruin'd camp below the wood; He drank the breath of the morning cool and sweet: His murderers round him stood.

Light on the Laspur hills was broadening fast, The blood-red snow-peaks chill'd to a dazzling white; He turn'd, and saw the golden circle at last, Cut by the Eastern height.

'O glorious Life, Who dwellest in earth and sun, I have lived, I praise and adore Thee.' A sword swept. Over the pass the voices one by one Faded, and the hill slept.

Gilbert Parker. b. 1862

861. Reunited

WHEN you and I have play'd the little hour, Have seen the tall subaltern Life to Death Yield up his sword; and, smiling, draw the breath, The first long breath of freedom; when the flower Of Recompense hath flutter'd to our feet, As to an actor's; and, the curtain down, We turn to face each other all alone-- Alone, we two, who never yet did meet, Alone, and absolute, and free: O then, O then, most dear, how shall be told the tale? Clasp'd hands, press'd lips, and so clasp'd hands again; No words. But as the proud wind fills the sail, My love to yours shall reach, then one deep moan Of joy, and then our infinite Alone.

William Butler Yeats. b. 1865

862. Where My Books go

ALL the words that I utter, And all the words that I write, Must spread out their wings untiring, And never rest in their flight, Till they come where your sad, sad heart is, And sing to you in the night, Beyond where the waters are moving, Storm-darken'd or starry bright.

William Butler Yeats. b. 1865

863. When You are Old

WHEN you are old and gray and full of sleep And nodding by the fire, take down this book, And slowly read, and dream of the soft look Your eyes had once, and of their shadows deep;

How many loved your moments of glad grace, And loved your beauty with love false or true; But one man loved the pilgrim soul in you, And loved the sorrows of your changing face.

And bending down beside the glowing bars, Murmur, a little sadly, how love fled And paced upon the mountains overhead, And hid his face amid a crowd of stars.

William Butler Yeats. b. 1865

864. The Lake Isle of Innisfree

I WILL arise and go now, and go to Innisfree, And a small cabin build there, of clay and wattles made; Nine bean rows will I have there, a hive for the honey bee, And live alone in the bee-loud glade.

And I shall have some peace there, for peace comes dropping slow, Dropping from the veils of the morning to where the cricket sings; There midnight 's all a-glimmer, and noon a purple glow, And evening full of the linnet's wings.

I will arise and go now, for always night and day I hear lake water lapping with low sounds by the shore; While I stand on the roadway, or on the pavements gray, I hear it in the deep heart's core.

Rudyard Kipling. b. 1865

865. A Dedication

MY new-cut ashlar takes the light Where crimson-blank the windows flare; By my own work, before the night, Great Overseer, I make my prayer.

If there be good in that I wrought, Thy hand compell'd it, Master, Thine; Where I have fail'd to meet Thy thought I know, through Thee, the blame if mine.

One instant's toil to Thee denied Stands all Eternity's offence; Of that I did with Thee to guide To Thee, through Thee, be excellence.

Who, lest all thought of Eden fade, Bring'st Eden to the craftsman's brain, Godlike to muse o'er his own trade And manlike stand with God again.

The depth and dream of my desire, The bitter paths wherein I stray, Thou knowest Who hast made the Fire, Thou knowest Who hast made the Clay.

One stone the more swings to her place In that dread Temple of Thy worth-- It is enough that through Thy grace I saw naught common on Thy earth.

Take not that vision from my ken; O, whatsoe'er may spoil or speed, Help me to need no aid from men, That I may help such men as need!

Rudyard Kipling. b. 1865

866. L'Envoi

THERE 's a whisper down the field where the year has shot her yield And the ricks stand gray to the sun, Singing:--'Over then, come over, for the bee has quit the clover And your English summer 's done.' You have heard the beat of the off-shore wind And the thresh of the deep-sea rain; You have heard the song--how long! how long! Pull out on the trail again!

Ha' done with the Tents of Shem, dear lass, We've seen the seasons through, And it 's time to turn on the old trail, our own trail, the out trail,

Pull out, pull out, on the Long Trail--the trail that is always new.

It 's North you may run to the rime-ring'd sun, Or South to the blind Horn's hate; Or East all the way into Mississippi Bay, Or West to the Golden Gate; Where the blindest bluffs hold good, dear lass, And the wildest tales are true, And the men bulk big on the old trail, our own trail, the out trail, And life runs large on the Long Trail--the trail that is always new.

The days are sick and cold, and the skies are gray and old, And the twice-breathed airs blow damp; And I'd sell my tired soul for the bucking beam-sea roll Of a black Bilbao tramp; With her load-line over her hatch, dear lass, And a drunken Dago crew, And her nose held down on the old trail, our own trail, the out trail,

From Cadiz Bar on the Long Trail--the trail that is always new.

There be triple ways to take, of the eagle or the snake, Or the way of a man with a maid; But the sweetest way to me is a ship's upon the sea In the heel of the North-East Trade. Can you hear the crash on her bows, dear lass, And the drum of the racing screw, As she ships it green on the old trail, our own trail, the out trail, As she lifts and 'scends on the Long Trail--the trail that is always new?

See the shaking funnels roar, with the Peter at the fore, And the fenders grind and heave, And the derricks clack and grate, as the tackle hooks the crate, And the fall-rope whines through the sheave; It 's 'Gang-plank up and in,' dear lass, It 's 'Hawsers warp her through!' And it 's 'All clear aft' on the old trail, our own trail, the out trail, We're backing down on the Long Trail--the trail that is always new.

O the mutter overside, when the port-fog holds us tied, And the sirens hoot their dread! When foot by foot we creep o'er the hueless viewless deep To the sob of the questing lead! It 's down by the Lower Hope, dear lass, With the Gunfleet Sands in view, Till the Mouse swings green on the old trail, our own trail, the out trail, And the Gull Light lifts on the Long Trail--the trail that is always new.

O the blazing tropic night, when the wake 's a welt of light That holds the hot sky tame, And the steady fore-foot snores through the planet-powder'd floors Where the scared whale flukes in flame! Her plates are scarr'd by the sun, dear lass, And her ropes are taut with the dew, For we're booming down on the old trail, our own trail, the out trail,

We're sagging south on the Long Trail--the trail that is always new.

Then home, get her home, where the drunken rollers comb, And the shouting seas drive by, And the engines stamp and ring, and the wet bows reel and swing, And the Southern Cross rides high! Yes, the old lost stars wheel back, dear lass, That blaze in the velvet blue. They're all old friends on the old trail, our own trail, the out trail, They're God's own guides on the Long Trail--the trail that is always new.

Fly forward, O my heart, from the Foreland to the Start-- We're steaming all too slow, And it 's twenty thousand mile to our little lazy isle Where the trumpet-orchids blow! You have heard the call of the off-shore wind And the voice of the deep-sea rain; You have heard the song--how long! how long! Pull out on the trail again!

The Lord knows what we may find, dear lass, And the deuce knows what we may do-- But we're back once more on the old trail, our own trail, the out trail, We're down, hull down on the Long Trail--the trail that is always new.

Rudyard Kipling. b. 1865

867. Recessional June 22, 1897

GOD of our fathers, known of old-- Lord of our far-flung battle-line-- Beneath whose awful Hand we hold Dominion over palm and pine-- Lord God of Hosts, be with us yet, Lest we forget, lest we forget!

The tumult and the shouting dies-- The captains and the kings depart-- Still stands Thine ancient sacrifice, An humble and a contrite heart. Lord God of Hosts, be with us yet, Lest we forget, lest we forget!

Far-call'd our navies melt away-- On dune and headland sinks the fire-- Lo, all our pomp of yesterday Is one with Nineveh and Tyre! Judge of the Nations, spare us yet, Lest we forget, lest we forget!

If, drunk with sight of power, we loose Wild tongues that have not Thee in awe-- Such boasting as the Gentiles use Or lesser breeds without the Law-- Lord God of Hosts, be with us yet, Lest we forget, lest we forget!

For heathen heart that puts her trust In reeking tube and iron shard-- All valiant dust that builds on dust, And guarding calls not Thee to guard-- For frantic boast and foolish word, Thy Mercy on Thy People, Lord!

Richard Le Gallienne. b. 1866

868. Song

SHE 's somewhere in the sunlight strong, Her tears are in the falling rain, She calls me in the wind's soft song, And with the flowers she comes again.

Yon bird is but her messenger, The moon is but her silver car; Yea! sun and moon are sent by her, And every wistful waiting star.

Richard Le Gallienne. b. 1866

869. The Second Crucifixion

LOUD mockers in the roaring street Say Christ is crucified again: Twice pierced His gospel-bearing feet, Twice broken His great heart in vain.

I hear, and to myself I smile, For Christ talks with me all the while.

No angel now to roll the stone From off His unawaking sleep, In vain shall Mary watch alone, In vain the soldiers vigil keep.

Yet while they deem my Lord is dead My eyes are on His shining head.

Ah! never more shall Mary hear That voice exceeding sweet and low Within the garden calling clear: Her Lord is gone, and she must go.

Yet all the while my Lord I meet In every London lane and street.

Poor Lazarus shall wait in vain, And Bartimaeus still go blind; The healing hem shall ne'er again Be touch'd by suffering humankind.

Yet all the while I see them rest, The poor and outcast, on His breast.

No more unto the stubborn heart With gentle knocking shall He plead, No more the mystic pity start, For Christ twice dead is dead indeed.

So in the street I hear men say, Yet Christ is with me all the day.

Laurence Binyon. b. 1869

870. Invocation to Youth

COME then, as ever, like the wind at morning! Joyous, O Youth, in the aged world renew Freshness to feel the eternities around it, Rain, stars and clouds, light and the sacred dew. The strong sun shines above thee: That strength, that radiance bring! If Winter come to Winter, When shall men hope for Spring?

Laurence Binyon. b. 1869

871. O World, be Nobler

O WORLD, be nobler, for her sake! If she but knew thee what thou art, What wrongs are borne, what deeds are done In thee, beneath thy daily sun, Know'st thou not that her tender heart For pain and very shame would break? O World, be nobler, for her sake!

George William Russell ('A. E.'). b. 1853

872. By the Margin of the Great Deep

WHEN the breath of twilight blows to flame the misty skies, All its vaporous sapphire, violet glow and silver gleam, With their magic flood me through the gateway of the eyes; I am one with the twilight's dream.

When the trees and skies and fields are one in dusky mood, Every heart of man is rapt within the mother's breast: Full of peace and sleep and dreams in the vasty quietude, I am one with their hearts at rest.

From our immemorial joys of hearth and home and love Stray'd away along the margin of the unknown tide, All its reach of soundless calm can thrill me far above Word or touch from the lips beside.

Aye, and deep and deep and deeper let me drink and draw From the olden fountain more than light or peace or dream, Such primaeval being as o'erfills the heart with awe, Growing one with its silent stream.

George William Russell ('A. E.'). b. 1853

873. The Great Breath

ITS edges foam'd with amethyst and rose, Withers once more the old blue flower of day: There where the ether like a diamond glows, Its petals fade away.

A shadowy tumult stirs the dusky air; Sparkle the delicate dews, the distant snows; The great deep thrills--for through it everywhere The breath of Beauty blows.

I saw how all the trembling ages past, Moulded to her by deep and deeper breath, Near'd to the hour when Beauty breathes her last And knows herself in death.

T. Sturge Moore. b. 1870

874. A Duet

'FLOWERS nodding gaily, scent in air, Flowers posied, flowers for the hair, Sleepy flowers, flowers bold to stare----' 'O pick me some!'

'Shells with lip, or tooth, or bleeding gum, Tell-tale shells, and shells that whisper Come, Shells that stammer, blush, and yet are dumb----' 'O let me hear.'

'Eyes so black they draw one trembling near, Brown eyes, caverns flooded with a tear, Cloudless eyes, blue eyes so windy clear----' 'O look at me!'

'Kisses sadly blown across the sea, Darkling kisses, kisses fair and free, Bob-a-cherry kisses 'neath a tree----' 'O give me one!'

Thus sand a king and queen in Babylon.

Francis Thompson. 1859-1907

875. The Poppy

SUMMER set lip to earth's bosom bare, And left the flush'd print in a poppy there; Like a yawn of fire from the grass it came, And the fanning wind puff'd it to flapping flame.

With burnt mouth red like a lion's it drank The blood of the sun as he slaughter'd sank, And dipp'd its cup in the purpurate shine When the eastern conduits ran with wine.

Till it grew lethargied with fierce bliss, And hot as a swinked gipsy is, And drowsed in sleepy savageries, With mouth wide a-pout for a sultry kiss.

A child and man paced side by side, Treading the skirts of eventide; But between the clasp of his hand and hers Lay, felt not, twenty wither'd years.

She turn'd, with the rout of her dusk South hair, And saw the sleeping gipsy there; And snatch'd and snapp'd it in swift child's whim, With--'Keep it, long as you live!'--to him.

And his smile, as nymphs from their laving meres, Trembled up from a bath of tears; And joy, like a mew sea-rock'd apart, Toss'd on the wave of his troubled heart.

For he saw what she did not see, That--as kindled by its own fervency-- The verge shrivell'd inward smoulderingly:

And suddenly 'twixt his hand and hers He knew the twenty wither'd years-- No flower, but twenty shrivell'd years.

'Was never such thing until this hour,' Low to his heart he said; 'the flower Of sleep brings wakening to me, And of oblivion memory.'

'Was never this thing to me,' he said, 'Though with bruised poppies my feet are red!' And again to his own heart very low: 'O child! I love, for I love and know;

'But you, who love nor know at all The diverse chambers in Love's guest-hall, Where some rise early, few sit long: In how differing accents hear the throng His great Pentecostal tongue;

'Who know not love from amity, Nor my reported self from me; A fair fit gift is this, meseems, You give--this withering flower of dreams.

'O frankly fickle, and fickly true, Do you know what the days will do to you? To your Love and you what the days will do, O frankly fickle, and fickly true?

'You have loved me, Fair, three lives--or days: 'Twill pass with the passing of my face. But where I go, your face goes too, To watch lest I play false to you.

'I am but, my sweet, your foster-lover, Knowing well when certain years are over You vanish from me to another; Yet I know, and love, like the foster-mother.

'So frankly fickle, and fickly true! For my brief life-while I take from you This token, fair and fit, meseems, For me--this withering flower of dreams.' . . . The sleep-flower sways in the wheat its head, Heavy with dreams, as that with bread: The goodly grain and the sun-flush'd sleeper The reaper reaps, and Time the reaper.

I hang 'mid men my needless head, And my fruit is dreams, as theirs is bread: The goodly men and the sun-hazed sleeper Time shall reap, but after the reaper The world shall glean of me, me the sleeper!

Love! love! your flower of wither'd dream In leaved rhyme lies safe, I deem, Shelter'd and shut in a nook of rhyme, From the reaper man, and his reaper Time.

Love! I fall into the claws of Time: But lasts within a leaved rhyme All that the world of me esteems-- My wither'd dreams, my wither'd dreams.

Henry Cust. 1861-1917

876. Non Nobis

NOT unto us, O Lord, Not unto us the rapture of the day, The peace of night, or love's divine surprise, High heart, high speech, high deeds 'mid honouring eyes; For at Thy word All these are taken away.

Not unto us, O Lord: To us thou givest the scorn, the scourge, the scar, The ache of life, the loneliness of death, The insufferable sufficiency of breath; And with Thy sword Thou piercest very far.

Not unto us, O Lord: Nay, Lord, but unto her be all things given-- My light and life and earth and sky be blasted-- But let not all that wealth of loss be wasted: Let Hell afford The pavement of her Heaven!

Katharine Tynan Hinkson. b. 1861

877. Sheep and Lambs

ALL in the April morning, April airs were abroad; The sheep with their little lambs Pass'd me by on the road.

The sheep with their little lambs Pass'd me by on the road; All in an April evening I thought on the Lamb of God.

The lambs were weary, and crying With a weak human cry, I thought on the Lamb of God Going meekly to die.

Up in the blue, blue mountains Dewy pastures are sweet: Rest for the little bodies, Rest for the little feet.

Rest for the Lamb of God Up on the hill-top green, Only a cross of shame Two stark crosses between.

All in the April evening, April airs were abroad; I saw the sheep with their lambs, And thought on the Lamb of God.

Frances Bannerman.

878. An Upper Chamber

I CAME into the City and none knew me; None came forth, none shouted 'He is here! Not a hand with laurel would bestrew me, All the way by which I drew anear-- Night my banner, and my herald Fear.

But I knew where one so long had waited In the low room at the stairway's height, Trembling lest my foot should be belated, Singing, sighing for the long hours' flight Towards the moment of our dear delight.

I came into the City when you hail'd me Saviour, and again your chosen Lord:-- Not one guessing what it was that fail'd me, While along the way as they adored Thousands, thousands, shouted in accord.

But through all the joy I knew--I only-- How the hostel of my heart lay bare and cold, Silent of its music, and how lonely! Never, though you crown me with your gold, Shall I find that little chamber as of old!

Alice Meynell. b. 1850

879. Renouncement

I MUST not think of thee; and, tired yet strong, I shun the love that lurks in all delight-- The love of thee--and in the blue heaven's height, And in the dearest passage of a song. Oh, just beyond the sweetest thoughts that throng This breast, the thought of thee waits hidden yet bright; But it must never, never come in sight; I must stop short of thee the whole day long. But when sleep comes to close each difficult day, When night gives pause to the long watch I keep, And all my bonds I needs must loose apart, Must doff my will as raiment laid away,-- With the first dream that comes with the first sleep I run, I run, I am gather'd to thy heart.

Alice Meynell. b. 1850

880. The Lady of the Lambs

SHE walks--the lady of my delight-- A shepherdess of sheep. Her flocks are thoughts. She keeps them white; She guards them from the steep. She feeds them on the fragrant height, And folds them in for sleep.

She roams maternal hills and bright, Dark valleys safe and deep. Her dreams are innocent at night; The chastest stars may peep. She walks--the lady of my delight-- A shepherdess of sheep.

She holds her little thoughts in sight, Though gay they run and leap. She is so circumspect and right; She has her soul to keep. She walks--the lady of my delight-- A shepherdess of sheep.

Dora Sigerson. d. 1918

881. Ireland

'TWAS the dream of a God, And the mould of His hand, That you shook 'neath His stroke, That you trembled and broke To this beautiful land.

Here He loosed from His hold A brown tumult of wings, Till the wind on the sea Bore the strange melody Of an island that sings.

He made you all fair, You in purple and gold, You in silver and green, Till no eye that has seen Without love can behold.

I have left you behind In the path of the past, With the white breath of flowers, With the best of God's hours, I have left you at last.

Margaret L. Woods. b. 1856

882. Genius Loci

PEACE, Shepherd, peace! What boots it singing on? Since long ago grace-giving Phoebus died, And all the train that loved the stream-bright side Of the poetic mount with him are gone Beyond the shores of Styx and Acheron, In unexplored realms of night to hide. The clouds that strew their shadows far and wide Are all of Heaven that visits Helicon. Yet here, where never muse or god did haunt, Still may some nameless power of Nature stray, Pleased with the reedy stream's continual chant And purple pomp of these broad fields in May. The shepherds meet him where he herds the kine, And careless pass him by whose is the gift divine.

Anonymous. c. 19th Cent.

883. Dominus Illuminatio Mea

IN the hour of death, after this life's whim, When the heart beats low, and the eyes grow dim, And pain has exhausted every limb-- The lover of the Lord shall trust in Him.

When the will has forgotten the lifelong aim, And the mind can only disgrace its fame, And a man is uncertain of his own name-- The power of the Lord shall fill this frame.

When the last sigh is heaved, and the last tear shed, And the coffin is waiting beside the bed, And the widow and child forsake the dead-- The angel of the Lord shall lift this head.

For even the purest delight may pall, And power must fail, and the pride must fall, And the love of the dearest friends grow small-- But the glory of the Lord is all in all.