Chapter IV: Part II (1)

1.

_Lord of the world's undying youth,
What joys are in thy might!
What beauties of the inner truth,
And of the outer sight!
And when the heart is dim and sad,
Too weak for wisdom's beam,
Thou sometimes makest it right glad
With but a childish dream_.

* * * * *

Lo! I will dream this windy day;
No sunny spot is bare;
Dull vapours, in uncomely play,
Are weltering through the air.
If I throw wide my windowed breast
To all the blasts that blow,
My soul will rival in unrest
Those tree-tops--how they go!

But I will dream like any child;
For, lo! a mighty swan,
With radiant plumage undented,
And folded airy van,
With serpent neck all proudly bent,
And stroke of swarthy oar,
Dreams on to me, by sea-maids sent
Over the billows hoar.

For in a wave-worn rock I lie;
Outside, the waters foam;
And echoes of old storms go by
Within my sea-built dome.
The waters, half the gloomy way,
Beneath its arches come;
Throbbing to unseen billows' play,
The green gulfs waver dumb.

A dawning twilight through the cave
In moony gleams doth go,
Half from the swan above the wave,
Half from the swan below.
Close to my feet she gently drifts,
Among the glistening things;
She stoops her crowny head, and lifts
White shoulders of her wings.

Oh! earth is rich with many a nest,
Deep, soft, and ever new,
Pure, delicate, and full of rest;
But dearest there are two.
I would not tell them but to minds
That are as white as they;
If others hear, of other kinds,
I wish them far away.

Upon the neck, between the wings,
Of a white, sailing swan,
A flaky bed of shelterings--
There you will find the one.
The other--well, it will not out,
Nor need I tell it you;
I've told you one, and need you doubt,
When there are only two?

Fulfil old dreams, O splendid bird,
Me o'er the waters bear;
Sure never ocean's face was stirred
By any ship so fair!
Sure never whiteness found a dress,
Upon the earth to go,
So true, profound, and rich, unless
It was the falling snow.

With quick short flutter of each wing
Half-spread, and stooping crown,
She calls me; and with one glad spring
I nestle in the down.
Plunges the bark, then bounds aloft,
With lessening dip and rise.
Round curves her neck with motion soft--
Sure those are woman's eyes.

One stroke unseen, with oary feet, One stroke--away she sweeps; Over the waters pale we fleet, Suspended in the deeps. And round the sheltering rock, and lo! The tumbling, weltering sea! On to the west, away we go, Over the waters free!

Her motions moulded to the wave,
Her billowy neck thrown back,
With slow strong pulse, stately and grave,
She cleaves a rippling track.
And up the mounting wave we glide,
With climbing sweeping blow;
And down the steep, far-sloping side,
To flowing vales below.

I hear the murmur of the deep
In countless ripples pass,
Like talking children in their sleep,
Like winds in reedy grass.
And through some ruffled feathers, I
The glassy rolling mark,
With which the waves eternally
Roll on from dawn to dark.

The night is blue, the stars aglow;
In solemn peace o'erhead
The archless depth of heaven; below,
The murmuring, heaving bed.
A thickened night, it heaveth on,
A fallen earthly sky;
The shadows of its stars alone
Are left to know it by.

What faints across the lifted loop Of cloud-veil upward cast? With sea-veiled limbs, a sleeping group Of Nereids dreaming past. Swim on, my boat; who knows but I, Ere night sinks to her grave, May see in splendour pale float by The Venus of the wave?

2.

In the night, round a lady dreaming--
A queen among the dreams--
Came the silent sunset streaming,
Mixed with the voice of streams.
A silver fountain springing
Blossoms in molten gold;
And the airs of the birds float ringing
Through harmonies manifold.

She lies in a watered valley;
Her garden melts away
Through foot-path and curving alley
Into the wild wood grey.
And the green of the vale goes creeping
To the feet of the rugged hills,
Where the moveless rocks are keeping
The homes of the wandering rills.

And the hues of the flowers grow deeper,
Till they dye her very brain;
And their scents, like the soul of a sleeper,
Wander and waver and rain.
For dreams have a wealth of glory
That daylight cannot give:
Ah God! make the hope a story--
Bid the dreams arise and live.

She lay and gazed at the flowers,
Till her soul's own garden smiled
With blossom-o'ershaded bowers,
Great colours and splendours wild.
And her heart filled up with gladness,
Till it could only ache;
And it turned aside to sadness,
As if for pity's sake.

And a fog came o'er the meadows,
And the rich hues fainting lay;
Came from the woods the shadows,
Came from the rocks the grey.
And the sunset thither had vanished,
Where the sunsets always go;
And the sounds of the stream were banished,
As if slain by frost and snow.

And the flowers paled fast and faster,
And they crumbled fold on fold,
Till they looked like the stained plaster
Of a cornice in ruin old.
And they blackened and shrunk together,
As if scorched by the breath of flame,
With a sad perplexity whether
They were or were not the same.

And she saw herself still lying,
And smiling on, the while;
And the smile, instead of dying,
Was fixed in an idiot smile.
And the lady arose in sorrow
Out of her sleep's dark stream;
But her dream made dark the morrow,
And she told me the haunting dream.

Alas! dear lady, I know it,
The dream that all is a dream;
The joy with the doubt below it
That the bright things only seem.
One moment of sad commotion,
And one of doubt's withering rule--
And the great wave-pulsing ocean
Is only a gathered pool.

And the flowers are spots of painting,
Of lifeless staring hue;
Though your heart is sick to fainting,
They say not a word to you.
And the birds know nought of gladness,
They are only song-machines;
And a man is a skilful madness,
And the women pictured queens.

And fiercely we dig the fountain,
To know the water true;
And we climb the crest of the mountain,
To part it from the blue.
But we look too far before us
For that which is more than nigh;
Though the sky is lofty o'er us,
We are always in the sky.

And the fog, o'er the roses that creepeth,
Steams from the unknown sea,
In the dark of the soul that sleepeth,
And sigheth constantly,
Because o'er the face of its waters
The breathing hath not gone;
And instead of glad sons and daughters,
Wild things are moaning on.

When the heart knows well the Father,
The eyes will be always day;
But now they grow dim the rather
That the light is more than they.
Believe, amidst thy sorrows,
That the blight that swathes the earth
Is only a shade that borrows
Life from thy spirit's dearth.

God's heart is the fount of beauty;
Thy heart is its visible well;
If it vanish, do thou thy duty,
That necromantic spell;
And thy heart to the Father crying
Will fill with waters deep;
Thine eyes may say, _Beauty is dying;_
But thy spirit, _She goes to sleep._

And I fear not, thy fair soul ever
Will smile as thy image smiled;
It had fled with a sudden shiver,
And thy body lay beguiled.
Let the flowers and thy beauty perish;
Let them go to the ancient dust.
But the hopes that the children cherish,
They are the Father's trust.

3.

A great church in an empty square,
A place of echoing tones;
Feet pass not oft enough to wear
The grass between the stones.

The jarring sounds that haunt its gates,
Like distant thunders boom;
The boding heart half-listening waits,
As for a coming doom.

The door stands wide, the church is bare,
Oh, horror, ghastly, sore!
A gulf of death, with hideous stare,
Yawns in the earthen floor;

As if the ground had sunk away
Into a void below:
Its shapeless sides of dark-hued clay
Hang ready aye to go.

I am myself a horrid grave,
My very heart turns grey;
This charnel-hole,--will no one save
And force my feet away?

The changing dead are there, I know,
In terror ever new;
Yet down the frightful slope I go,
That downward goeth too.

Beneath the caverned floor I hie,
And seem, with anguish dull,
To enter by the empty eye
Into a monstrous skull.

Stumbling on what I dare not guess,
And wading through the gloom,
Less deep the shades my eyes oppress,
I see the awful tomb.

My steps have led me to a door,
With iron clenched and barred;
Grim Death hides there a ghastlier store,
Great spider in his ward.

The portals shake, the bars are bowed,
As if an earthy wind
That never bore a leaf or cloud
Were pressing hard behind.

They shake, they groan, they outward strain.
What sight, of dire dismay
Will freeze its form upon my brain,
And turn it into clay?

They shake, they groan, they bend, they crack;
The bars, the doors divide:
A flood of glory at their back
Hath burst the portals wide.

Flows in the light of vanished days,
The joy of long-set moons;
The flood of radiance billowy plays,
In sweet-conflicting tunes.

The gulf is filled with flashing tides,
An awful gulf no more;
A maze of ferns clothes all its sides,
Of mosses all its floor.

And, floating through the streams, appear
Such forms of beauty rare,
As every aim at beauty here
Had found its _would be_ there.

I said: 'Tis well no hand came nigh,
To turn my steps astray;
'Tis good we cannot choose but die,
That life may have its way.

4.

Before I sleep, some dreams draw nigh,
Which are not fancy mere;
For sudden lights an inward eye,
And wondrous things appear.

Thus, unawares, with vision wide,
A steep hill once I saw,
In faint dream lights, which ever hide
Their fountain and their law.

And up and down the hill reclined
A host of statues old;
Such wondrous forms as you might find
Deep under ancient mould.

They lay, wild scattered, all along,
And maimed as if in fight;
But every one of all the throng
Was precious to the sight.

Betwixt the night and hill they ranged,
In dead composure cast.
As suddenly the dream was changed,
And all the wonder past.

The hill remained; but what it bore
Was broken reedy stalks,
Bent hither, thither, drooping o'er,
Like flowers o'er weedy walks.

For each dim form of marble rare, Bent a wind-broken reed; So hangs on autumn-field, long-bare, Some tall and straggling weed.

The autumn night hung like a pall,
Hung mournfully and dead;
And if a wind had waked at all,
It had but moaned and fled.

5.

I lay and dreamed. Of thought and sleep
Was born a heavenly joy:
I dreamed of two who always keep
Me happy as a boy.

I was with them. My heart-bells rung
With joy my heart above;
Their present heaven my earth o'erhung,
And earth was glad with love.

The dream grew troubled. Crowds went on,
And sought their varied ends;
Till stream on stream, the crowds had gone,
And swept away my friends.

I was alone. A miry road
I followed, all in vain;
No well-known hill the landscape showed,
It was a wretched plain;

Where mounds of rubbish, ugly pits,
And brick-fields scarred the globe;
Those wastes where desolation sits
Without her ancient robe.

A drizzling rain proclaimed the skies
As wretched as the earth;
I wandered on, and weary sighs
Were all my lot was worth.

When sudden, as I turned my way,
Burst in the ocean-waves:
And lo! a blue wild-dancing bay
Fantastic rocks and caves!

I wept with joy. Ah! sometimes so,
In common daylight grief,
A beauty to the heart will go,
And bring the heart relief.

And, wandering, reft of hope or friend,
If such a thing should be,
One day we take the downward bend,
And lo, Eternity!

I wept with joy, delicious tears,
Which dreams alone bestow;
Until, mayhap, from out the years
We sleep, and further go.

6.

Now I will mould a dream, awake,
Which I, asleep, would dream;
From all the forms of fancy take
One that shall also seem;
Seem in my verse (if not my brain),
Which sometimes may rejoice
In airy forms of Fancy's train,
Though nobler are my choice.

Some truth o'er all the land may lie
In children's dreams at night;
_They_ do not build the charmed sky
That domes them with delight.
And o'er the years that follow soon,
So all unlike the dreams,
Wander their odours, gleams their moon,
And flow their winds and streams.

Now I would dream that I awake
In scent of cool night air,
Above me star-clouds close and break;
Beneath--where am I, where?
A strange delight pervades my breast,
Of ancient pictures dim,
Where fair forms on the waters rest,
Or in the breezes swim.

I rest on arms as soft as strong,
Great arms of woman-mould;
My head is pillowed whence a song,
In many a rippling fold,
O'erfloods me from its bubbling spring:
A Titan goddess bears
Me, floating on her unseen wing,
Through gracious midnight airs.

And I am borne o'er sleeping seas,
O'er murmuring ears of corn,
Over the billowy tops of trees,
O'er roses pale till morn.
Over the lake--ah! nearer float,
Down on the water's breast;
Let me look deep, and gazing doat
On that white lily's nest.

The harebell's bed, as o'er we pass,
Swings all its bells about;
From waving blades of polished grass,
Flash moony splendours out.
Old homes we brush in wooded glades;
No eyes at windows shine;
For all true men and noble maids
Are out in dreams like mine.

And foam-bell-kisses drift and break
From wind-waves of the South
Against my brow and eyes awake,
And yet I see no mouth.
Light laughter ripples down the air,
Light sighs float up below;
And o'er me ever, radiant pair,
The Queen's great star-eyes go.

And motion like a dreaming wave
Wafts me in gladness dim
Through air just cool enough to lave
With sense each conscious limb.
But ah! the dream eludes the rhyme,
As dreams break free from sleep;
The dream will keep its own free time,
In mazy float or sweep.

And thought too keen for joy awakes,
As on the horizon far,
A dead pale light the circle breaks,
But not a dawning star.
No, there I cannot, dare not go;
Pale women wander there;
With cold fire murderous eyeballs glow;
And children see despair.

The joy has lost its dreamy zest;
I feel a pang of loss;
My wandering hand o'er mounds of rest
Finds only mounds of moss.
Beneath the bare night-stars I lie;
Cold winds are moaning past:
Alas! the earth with grief will die,
The great earth is aghast.

I look above--there dawns no face;
Around--no footsteps come;
No voice inhabits this great space;
God knows, but keepeth dumb.
I wake, and know that God is by,
And more than dreams will give;
And that the hearts that moan and die,
Shall yet awake and live.

TO AURELIO SAFFI.

_To God and man be simply true: Do as thou hast been wont to do:_ Or, _Of the old more in the new:_ Mean all the same when said to you.

I love thee. Thou art calm and strong; Firm in the right, mild to the wrong; Thy heart, in every raging throng, A chamber shut for prayer and song.

Defeat thou know'st not, canst not know; Only thy aims so lofty go, They need as long to root and grow As any mountain swathed in snow.

Go on and prosper, holy friend. I, weak and ignorant, would lend A voice, thee, strong and wise, to send Prospering onward, without end.

SONNET.

To A.M.D.

Methinks I see thee, lying calm and low,
Silent and dark within thy earthy bed;
Thy mighty hands, in which I trusted, dead,
Resting, with thy long arms, from work or blow;
And the night-robe, around thy tall form, flow
Down from the kingly face, and from the head,
Save by its thick dark curls, uncovered--
My brother, dear from childhood, lying so!
Not often since thou went'st, I think of thee,
(With inward cares and questionings oppressed);
And yet, ere long, I seek thee in thy rest,
And bring thee home my heart, as full, as free,
As sure that thou wilt take me tenderly,
As then when youth and nature made us blest.

A MEMORIAL OF AFRICA.

I.

Upon a rock, high on a mountain side, Thousands of feet above the lake-sea's lip, A rock in which old waters' rise and dip, Plunge and recoil, and backward eddying tide Had, age-long, worn, while races lived and died, Involved channels, where the sea-weed's drip Followed the ebb; and now earth-grasses sip Fresh dews from heaven, whereby on earth they bide-- I sat and gazed southwards. A dry flow Of withering wind blew on my drooping strength From o'er the awful desert's burning length. Behind me piled, away and upward go Great sweeps of savage mountains--up, away, Where panthers roam, and snow gleams all the day.

II.

Ah, God! the world needs many hours to make; Nor hast thou ceased the making of it yet, But wilt be working on when Death hath set A new mound in some churchyard for my sake. On flow the centuries without a break. Uprise the mountains, ages without let. The mosses suck the rock's breast, rarely wet. Years more than past, the young earth yet will take. But in the dumbness of the rolling time, No veil of silence will encompass me-- Thou wilt not once forget, and let me be: I easier think that thou, as I my rhyme, Wouldst rise, and with a tenderness sublime Unfold a world, that I, thy child, might see.

A GIFT.

My gift would find thee fast asleep,
And arise a dream in thee;
A violet sky o'er the roll and sweep
Of a purple and pallid sea;
And a crescent moon from my sky should creep
In the golden dream to thee.

Thou shouldst lay thee down, and sadly list
To the wail of our cold birth-time;
And build thee a temple, glory-kissed,
In the heart of the sunny clime;
Its columns should rise in a music-mist,
And its roofs in a spirit-rhyme.

Its pillars the solemn hills should bind
'Neath arches of starry deeps;
Its floor the earth all veined and lined;
Its organ the ocean-sweeps;
And, swung in the hands of the grey-robed wind,
Its censers the blossom-heaps.

And 'tis almost done; for in this my rhyme,
Thanks to thy mirror-soul,
Thou wilt see the mountains, and hear the chime
Of the waters after the roll;
And the stars of my sky thy sky will climb,
And with heaven roof in the whole.

THE MAN OF SONGS.

"Thou wanderest in the land of dreams,
O man of many songs;
To thee the actual only seems--
No realm to thee belongs."

"Seest thou those mountains in the east,
O man of ready aim?"
"'T is only vapours that thou seest,
In mountain form and name."

"Nay, nay, I know them all too well,
Each ridge, and peak, and dome;
In that cloud-land, in one high dell,
Nesteth my little home."

BETTER THINGS.

Better to smell a violet, Than sip the careless wine; Better to list one music tone, Than watch the jewels' shine.

Better to have the love of one, Than smiles like morning dew; Better to have a living seed Than flowers of every hue.

Better to feel a love within, Than be lovely to the sight; Better a homely tenderness Than beauty's wild delight.

Better to love than be beloved. Though lonely all the day; Better the fountain in the heart, Than the fountain by the way.

Better a feeble love to God, Than for woman's love to pine; Better to have the making God Than the woman made divine.

Better be fed by mother's hand, Than eat alone at will; Better to trust in God, than say: My goods my storehouse fill.

Better to be a little wise Than learned overmuch; Better than high are lowly thoughts, For truthful thoughts are such.

Better than thrill a listening crowd, Sit at a wise man's feet; But better teach a child, than toil To make thyself complete.

Better to walk the realm unseen, Than watch the hour's event; Better the smile of God alway, Than the voice of men's consent.

Better to have a quiet grief Than a tumultuous joy; Better than manhood, age's face, If the heart be of a boy.

Better the thanks of one dear heart, Than a nation's voice of praise; Better the twilight ere the dawn, Than yesterday's mid-blaze.

Better a death when work is done, Than earth's most favoured birth; Better a child in God's great house Than the king of all the earth.

THE JOURNEY.

Hark, the rain is on my roof! Every sound drops through the dark On my soul with dull reproof, Like a half-extinguished spark. I! alas, how am I here, In the midnight and alone? Caught within a net of fear! All my dreams of beauty gone!

I will rise: I must go forth. Better face the hideous night, Better dare the unseen north, Than be still without the light! Black wind rushing round my brow, Sown with stinging points of rain! Place or time I know not now-- I am here, and so is pain!

I will leave the sleeping street, Hie me forth on darker roads. Ah! I cannot stay my feet, Onward, onward, something goads. I will take the mountain path, Beard the storm within its den, Know the worst of this dim wrath, Vexing thus the souls of men.

Chasm 'neath chasm! rock piled on rock: Roots, and crumbling earth, and stones! Hark, the torrent's thundering shock! Hark, the swaying pine tree's groans! Ah, I faint, I fall, I die! Sink to nothingness away!-- Lo, a streak upon the sky! Lo, the opening eye of day!

II.

Mountain heights that lift their snows O'er a valley green and low; And a winding path, that goes Guided by the river's flow; And a music rising ever, As of peace and low content, From the pebble-paven river As an odour upward sent.

And a sighing of the storm Far away amid the hills, Like the humming of a swarm That the summer forest fills; And a frequent fall of rain From a cloud with ragged weft; And a burst of wind amain From the mountain's sudden cleft.

Then a night that hath a moon, Staining all the cloudy white; Sinking with a soundless tune Deep into the spirit's night. Then a morning clear and soft, Amber on the purple hills; Warm high day of summer, oft Cooled by wandering windy rills.

Joy to travel thus along, With the universe around! I the centre of the throng; Every sight and every sound Speeding with its burden laden, Speeding homewards to my soul! Mine the eye the stars are made in! I the heart of all this whole!

III.

Hills retreat on either hand, Sinking down into the plain; Slowly through the level land Glides the river to the main. What is that before me, white, Gleaming through the dusky air? Dimmer in the gathering night; Still beheld, I know not where?

Is it but a chalky ridge, Bared by many a trodden mark? Or a river-spanning bridge, Miles away into the dark? Or the foremost leaping waves Of the everlasting sea, Where the Undivided laves Time with its eternity?

No, tis but an eye-made sight, In my brain a fancied gleam; Or a thousand things as white, Set in darkness, well might seem. There it wavers, shines, is gone; What it is I cannot tell; When the morning star hath shone, I shall see and know it well.

Onward, onward through the night! Matters it I cannot see? I am moving in a might, Dwelling in the dark and me. Up or down, or here or there, I can never be alone; My own being tells me where God is as the Father known.

IV.

Joy! O joy! the Eastern sea Answers to the Eastern sky; Wide and featured gloriously With swift billows bursting high. Nearer, nearer, oh! the sheen On a thousand waves at once! Oh! the changing crowding green! Oh my beating heart's response!

Down rejoicing to the strand, Where the sea-waves shore-ward lean, Curve their graceful heads, and stand Gleaming with ethereal green, Then in foam fall heavily-- This is what I saw at night! Lo, a boat! I'll forth on thee, Dancing-floor for my delight.

From the bay, wind-winged, we glance; Sea-winds seize me by the hair! What a terrible expanse! How the ocean tumbles there! I am helpless here afloat, For the wild waves know not me; Gladly would I change my boat For the snow wings of the sea!

Look below. Each watery whirl Cast in beauty's living mould! Look above! Each feathery curl Faintly tinged with morning gold!-- Oh, I tremble with the gush Of an everlasting youth! Love and fear together rush: I am free in God, the Truth!

PRAYER.

We doubt the word that tells us: Ask,
And ye shall have your prayer;
We turn our thoughts as to a task,
With will constrained and rare.

And yet we have; these scanty prayers
Yield gold without alloy:
O God! but he that trusts and dares
Must have a boundless joy.

REST.

When round the earth the Father's hands
Have gently drawn the dark;
Sent off the sun to fresher lands,
And curtained in the lark;
'Tis sweet, all tired with glowing day,
To fade with faded light;
To lie once more, the old weary way,
Upfolded in the night.

A mother o'er the couch may bend,
And rose-leaf kisses heap:
In soothing dreams with sleep they blend,
Till even in dreams we sleep.
And, if we wake while night is dumb,
'Tis sweet to turn and say,
It is an hour ere dawning come,
And I will sleep till day.

II.

There is a dearer, warmer bed,
Where one all day may lie,
Earth's bosom pillowing the head,
And let the world go by.
Instead of mother's love-lit eyes,
The church's storied pane,
All blank beneath cold starry skies,
Or sounding in the rain.

The great world, shouting, forward fares:
This chamber, hid from none,
Hides safe from all, for no one cares
For those whose work is done.
Cheer thee, my heart, though tired and slow
An unknown grassy place
Somewhere on earth is waiting now
To rest thee from thy race.

III.

There is a calmer than all calms,
A quiet more deep than death:
A folding in the Father's palms,
A breathing in his breath;
A rest made deeper by alarms
And stormy sounds combined:
The child within its mother's arms
Sleeps sounder for the wind.

There needs no curtained bed to hide
The world with all its wars,
Nor grassy cover to divide
From sun and moon and stars
A window open to the skies,
A sense of changeless life,
With oft returning still surprise
Repels the sounds of strife.

IV.

As one bestrides a wild scared horse
Beneath a stormy moon,
And still his heart, with quiet force,
Beats on its own calm tune;
So if my heart with trouble now
Be throbbing in my breast,
Thou art my deeper heart, and Thou,
O God, dost ever rest.

When mighty sea-winds madly blow,
And tear the scattered waves;
As still as summer woods, below
Lie darkling ocean caves:
The wind of words may toss my heart,
But what is that to me!
'Tis but a surface storm--Thou art
My deep, still, resting sea.

TO A.J. SCOTT.

WITH THE FOLLOWING POEM.

I walked all night: the darkness did not yield. Around me fell a mist, a weary rain, Enduring long; till a faint dawn revealed

A temple's front, cloud-curtained on the plain. Closed were the lofty doors that led within; But by a wicket one might entrance gain.

O light, and awe, and silence! Entering in, The blackness and chaotic rain were lost In hopeful spaces. Then I heard a thin

Sweet sound of voices low, together tossed, As if they sought a harmony to find Which they knew once; but none of all that host

Could call the far-fled music back to mind. Loud voices, distance-low, wandered along The pillared paths, and up the arches twined

With sister-arches, rising, throng on throng, Up to the roof's dim distance. If sometimes Self-gathered voices made a burst of song,

Straightway I heard again but as the chimes Of many bells through Sabbath morning sent, Each its own tale to tell of heavenly climes.

Yet such the hope, one might be well content Here to be low, and lowly keep a door; For like Truth's herald, solemnly that went,

I heard thy voice, and humbly loved it more, Walking the word-sea to this ear of mine, Than any voice of power I heard before.

Yet as the harp may, tremulous, combine Low ghostlike sounds with organ's loudest tone, Let not my music fear to come to thine:

Thy heart, with organ-tempests of its own, Will hear Aeolian sighs from thin chords blown.

LIGHT.

First-born of the creating Voice! Minister of God's spirit, who wast sent To wait upon Him first, what time He went Moving about 'mid the tumultuous noise Of each unpiloted element Upon the face of the void formless deep! Thou who didst come unbodied and alone, Ere yet the sun was set his rule to keep, Or ever the moon shone, Or e'er the wandering star-flocks forth were driven! Thou garment of the Invisible, whose skirt Falleth on all things from the lofty heaven! Thou Comforter, be with me as thou wert When first I longed for words, to be A radiant garment for my thought, like thee.

We lay us down in sorrow, Wrapt in the old mantle of our mother Night; In vexing dreams we 'strive until the morrow; Grief lifts our eyelids up--and lo, the light! The sunlight on the wall! And visions rise Of shining leaves that make sweet melodies; Of wind-borne waves with thee upon their crests; Of rippled sands on which thou rainest down; Of quiet lakes that smooth for thee their breasts; Of clouds that show thy glory as their own. O joy! O joy! the visions are gone by, Light, gladness, motion, are Reality!

Thou art the god of earth. The skylark springs Far up to catch thy glory on his wings; And thou dost bless him first that highest soars. The bee comes forth to see thee; and the flowers Worship thee all day long, and through the skies Follow thy journey with their earnest eyes. River of life, thou pourest on the woods; And on thy waves float forth the wakening buds; The trees lean towards thee, and, in loving pain, Keep turning still to see thee yet again. And nothing in thine eyes is mean or low: Where'er thou art, on every side, All things are glorified; And where thou canst not come, there thou dost throw Beautiful shadows, made out of the Dark, That else were shapeless. Loving thou dost mark The sadness on men's faces, and dost seek To make all things around of hope and gladness speak.

And men have worshipped thee. The Persian, on his mountain-top, Kneeling doth wait until thy sun go up, God-like in his serenity. All-giving, and none-gifted, he draws near; And the wide earth waits till his face appear-- Longs patient. And the herald glory leaps Along the ridges of the outlying clouds, Climbing the heights of all their towering steeps; And a quiet multitudinous laughter crowds The universal face, as, silently, Up cometh he, the never-closing eye. Symbol of Deity! men could not be Farthest from truth when they were kneeling unto thee.

Thou plaything of the child, When from the water's surface thou dost fall In mazy dance, ethereal motion wild, Like his own thoughts, upon the chamber wall; Or through the dust darting in long thin streams! How I have played with thee, and longed to climb On sloping ladders of thy moted beams! And how I loved thee falling from the moon! And most about the mellow harvest-time, When night had softly settled down, And thou from her didst flow, a sea of love. And then the stars, ah me! that flashed above And the ghost-stars that shimmered in the tide! While here and there mysterious earthly shining Came forth of windows from the hill and glen; Each ray of thine so wondrously entwining With household love and rest of weary men. And still I am a child, thank God! To see Thee streaming from a bit of broken glass, That else on the brown earth lay undescried, Is a high joy, a glorious thing to me, A spark that lights the light of joy within, A thought of Hope to Prophecy akin, That from my spirit fruitless will not pass.

Thou art the joy of Age: The sun is dear even when long shadows fall. Forth to the sunlight the old man doth crawl, Enlivened like the bird in his poor cage. Close by the door, no further, in his chair The old man sits; and sitteth there His soul within him, like a child that lies Half dreaming, with his half-shut eyes, At close of a long afternoon in summer; High ruins round him, ancient ruins, where The raven is almost the only comer; And there he broods in wonderment On the celestial glory sent Through the rough loopholes, on the golden bloom That waves above the cornice on the wall, Where lately dwelt the echoes of the room; And drinking in the yellow lights that lie Upon the ivy tapestry. So dreams the old man's soul, that is not old, But sleepy 'mid the ruins that infold.

What meanings various thou callest forth Upon the face of the still passive earth! Even like a lord of music bent Over his instrument; Whether, at hour of sovereign noon, Infinite cataracts sheet silent down; Or a strange yellow radiance slanting pass Betwixt long shadows o'er the meadow grass, When from the lower edge of a dark cloud The sun at eve his blessing head hath bowed; Whether the moon lift up her shining shield, High on the peak of a cloud-hill revealed; Or crescent, low, wandering sun-dazed away, Unconscious of her own star-mingled ray, Her still face seeming more to think than see, She makes the pale world lie in dreams of thee. Each hour of day, each hour of thoughtful night, Hath a new poem in the changing light.

Of highest unity the sole emblem! In whom all colours that our eyes can see In rainbow, moonbow, or in opal gem, Unite in living oneness, purity, And operative power! whose every part Is beauty to the eyes, and truth unto the heart! Outspread in yellow sands, blue sea and air, Green growing corn, and scarlet poppies there;-- Regent of colours, thou, the undefiled! Whether in dark eyes of the laughing child, Or in the vast white cloud that floats away, Bearing upon its breast a brown moon-ray; The universal painter, who dost fling Thy overflowing skill on everything! The thousand hues and shades upon the flowers, Are all the pastime of thy leisure hours; And all the gems and ores that hidden be, Are dead till they are looked upon by thee.

Everywhere, Thou art shining through the air; Every atom from another Takes thee, gives thee to his brother; Continually, Thou art falling on the sea, Bathing the deep woods down below, Making the sea-flowers bud and blow; Silently, Thou art working ardently, Bringing from the night of nought Into being and to thought; Influences Every beam of thine dispenses, Powerful, varied, reaching far, Differing in every star. Not an iron rod can lie In circle of thy beamy eye, But thy look doth change it so That it cannot choose but show Thou, the worker, hast been there; Yea, sometimes, on substance rare, Thou dost leave thy ghostly mark In what men do call the dark. Doer, shower, mighty teacher! Truth-in-beauty's silent preacher! Universal something sent To shadow forth the Excellent!

When the firstborn affections, Those winged seekers of the world within, That search about in all directions, Some bright thing for themselves to win, Through unmarked forest-paths, and gathering fogs, And stony plains, and treacherous bogs, Long, long, have followed faces fair, Fair faces without souls, that vanished into air; And darkness is around them and above, Desolate, with nought to love; And through the gloom on every side, Strange dismal forms are dim descried; And the air is as the breath From the lips of void-eyed Death; And the knees are bowed in prayer To the Stronger than Despair; Then the ever-lifted cry, _Give us light, or we shall die,_ Cometh to the Father's ears, And He listens, and He hears: And when men lift up their eyes, Lo, Truth slow dawning in the skies! 'Tis as if the sun gleamed forth Through the storm-clouds of the north. And when men would name this Truth, Giver of gladness and of youth, They can call it nought but Light-- 'Tis the morning, 'twas the night. Yea, every thought of hope outspread On the mountain's misty head, Is a fresh aurora, sent Through the spirit's firmament, Telling, through the vapours dun, Of the coming, coming sun.

All things most excellent Are likened unto thee, excellent thing! Yea, He who from the Father forth was sent, Came the true Light, light to our hearts to bring; The Word of God, the telling of His thought; The Light of God, the making-visible; The far-transcending glory brought In human form with man to dwell; The dazzling gone; the power not less To show, irradiate, and bless; The gathering of the primal rays divine, Informing chaos, to a pure sunshine!

Death, darkness, nothingness! Life, light, and blessedness!

* * * * *

Dull horrid pools no motion making; No bubble on the surface breaking; Through the dead heavy air, no sound; Asleep and moveless on the marshy ground.

* * * * *

Rushing winds and snow-like drift, Forceful, formless, fierce, and swift; Hair-like vapours madly riven; Waters smitten into dust; Lightning through the turmoil driven, Aimless, useless, yet it must.

* * * * *

Gentle winds through forests calling; Big waves on the sea-shore falling; Bright birds through the thick leaves glancing; Light boats on the big waves dancing; Children in the clear pool laving; Mountain streams glad music giving; Yellow corn and green grass waving; Long-haired, bright-eyed maidens living; Light on all things, even as now-- God, our Father, it is Thou! Light, O Radiant! thou didst come abroad, To mediate 'twixt our ignorance and God; Forming ever without form; Showing, but thyself unseen; Pouring stillness on the storm; Making life where death had been! If thou, Light, didst cease to be, Death and Chaos soon were out, Weltering o'er the slimy sea, Riding on the whirlwind's rout; And if God did cease to be, O Beloved! where were we?

Father of Lights, pure and unspeakable, On whom no changing shadow ever fell! Thy light we know not, are content to see; And shall we doubt because we know not Thee? Or, when thy wisdom cannot be expressed, Fear lest dark vapours dwell within thy breast? Nay, nay, ye shadows on our souls descending! Ye bear good witness to the light on high, Sad shades of something 'twixt us and the sky! And this word, known and unknown radiant blending, Shall make us rest, like children in the night,-- Word infinite in meaning: _God is Light._ We walk in mystery all the shining day Of light unfathomed that bestows our seeing, Unknown its source, unknown its ebb and flow: Thy living light's eternal fountain-play In ceaseless rainbow pulse bestows our being-- Its motions, whence or whither, who shall know? O Light, if I had said all I could say Of thy essential glory and thy might, Something within my heart unsaid yet lay, And there for lack of words unsaid must stay: For _God is Light._

TO A.J. SCOTT.

Thus, once, long since, the daring of my youth Drew nigh thy greatness with a little thing; And thou didst take me in: thy home of truth

Has domed me since, a heaven of sheltering, Uplighted by the tenderness and grace Which round thy absolute friendship ever fling

A radiant atmosphere. Turn not thy face From that small part of earnest thanks, I pray, Which, spoken, leaves much more in speechless case.

I saw thee as a strong man on his way! Up the great peaks: I know thee stronger still; Thy intellect unrivalled in its sway,

Upheld and ordered by a regnant will; While Wisdom, seer and priest of holy Fate, Searches all truths, its prophecy to fill:

Yet, O my friend, throned in thy heart so great, High Love is queen, and hath no equal mate.

May, 1857.

WERE I A SKILFUL PAINTER.

Were I a skilful painter, My pencil, not my pen, Should try to teach thee hope and fear; And who should blame me then? Fear of the tide-like darkness That followeth close behind, And hope to make thee journey on In the journey of the mind.

Were I a skilful painter, What should my painting be? A tiny spring-bud peeping forth From a withered wintry tree. The warm blue sky of summer Above the mountain snow, Whence water in an infant stream, Is trying how to flow.

The dim light of a beacon Upon a stormy sea, Where wild waves, ruled by wilder winds, Yet call themselves the free. One sunbeam faintly gleaming Athwart a sullen cloud, Like dawning peace upon a brow In angry weeping bowed.

Morn climbing o'er the mountain, While the vale is full of night, And a wanderer, looking for the east, Rejoicing in the sight. A taper burning dimly Amid the dawning grey, And a maiden lifting up her head, And lo, the coming day!

And thus, were I a painter, My pencil, not my pen, Should try to teach thee hope and fear; And who should blame me then? Fear of the tide-like darkness That followeth close behind, And hope to make thee journey on In the journey of the mind.

IF I WERE A MONK, AND THOU WERT A NUN.

If I were a monk, and thou wert a nun, Pacing it wearily, wearily, From chapel to cell till day were done, Wearily, wearily, Oh! how would it be with these hearts of ours, That need the sunshine, and smiles, and flowers?

To prayer, to prayer, at the matins' call, Morning foul or fair; Such prayer as from lifeless lips may fall-- Words, but hardly prayer; Vainly trying the thoughts to raise, Which, in the sunshine, would burst in praise.

Thou, in the glory of cloudless noon, The God revealing, Turning thy face from the boundless boon, Painfully kneeling; Or in thy chamber's still solitude, Bending thy head o'er the legend rude.

I, in a cool and lonely nook, Gloomily, gloomily, Poring over some musty book, Thoughtfully, thoughtfully; Or on the parchment margin unrolled, Painting quaint pictures in purple and gold.

Perchance in slow procession to meet, Wearily, wearily, In an antique, narrow, high-gabled street, Wearily, wearily; Thy dark eyes lifted to mine, and then Heavily sinking to earth again.

Sunshine and air! warmness and spring! Merrily, merrily! Back to its cell each weary thing, Wearily, wearily! And the heart so withered, and dry, and old, Most at home in the cloister cold.

Thou on thy knees at the vespers' call, Wearily, wearily; I looking up on the darkening wall, Wearily, wearily; The chime so sweet to the boat at sea, Listless and dead to thee and me!

Then to the lone couch at death of day, Wearily, wearily; Rising at midnight again to pray, Wearily, wearily; And if through the dark those eyes looked in, Sending them far as a thought of sin.

And then, when thy spirit was passing away, Dreamily, dreamily; The earth-born dwelling returning to clay, Sleepily, sleepily; Over thee held the crucified Best, But no warm face to thy cold cheek pressed.

And when my spirit was passing away, Dreamily, dreamily; The grey head lying 'mong ashes grey, Sleepily, sleepily; No hovering angel-woman above, Waiting to clasp me in deathless love.

But now, beloved, thy hand in mine, Peacefully, peacefully; My arm around thee, my lips on thine, Lovingly, lovingly,-- Oh! is not a better thing to us given Than wearily going alone to heaven?

BLESSED ARE THE MEEK, FOR THEY SHALL INHERIT THE EARTH.

A quiet heart, submissive, meek,
Father do thou bestow;
Which more than granted will not seek
To have, or give, or know.

Each green hill then will hold its gift
Forth to my joying eyes;
The mountains blue will then uplift
My spirit to the skies.

The falling water then will sound
As if for me alone;
Nay, will not blessing more abound
That many hear its tone?

The trees their murmuring forth will send,
The birds send forth their song;
The waving grass its tribute lend,
Sweet music to prolong.

The water-lily's shining cup,
The trumpet of the bee,
The thousand odours floating up,
The many-shaded sea;

The rising sun's imprinted tread
Upon the eastward waves;
The gold and blue clouds over head;
The weed from far sea-caves;

All lovely things from south to north,
All harmonies that be,
Each will its soul of joy send forth
To enter into me.

And thus the wide earth I shall hold,
A perfect gift of thine;
Richer by these, a thousandfold,
Than if broad lands were mine.

THE HILLS.

Behind my father's house there lies
A little grassy brae,
Whose face my childhood's busy feet
Ran often up in play,
Whence on the chimneys I looked down
In wonderment alway.

Around the house, where'er I turned,
Great hills closed up the view;
The town 'midst their converging roots
Was clasped by rivers two;
From one hill to another sprang
The sky's great arch of blue.

Oh! how I loved to climb their sides,
And in the heather lie;
The bridle on my arm did hold
The pony feeding by;
Beneath, the silvery streams; above,
The white clouds in the sky.

And now, in wandering about,
Whene'er I see a hill,
A childish feeling of delight
Springs in my bosom still;
And longings for the high unknown
Follow and flow and fill.

For I am always climbing hills,
And ever passing on,
Hoping on some high mountain peak
To find my Father's throne;
For hitherto I've only found
His footsteps in the stone.

And in my wanderings I have met
A spirit child like me,
Who laid a trusting hand in mine,
So fearlessly and free,
That so together we have gone,
Climbing continually.

Upfolded in a spirit bud,
The child appeared in space,
Not born amid the silent hills,
But in a busy place;
And yet in every hill we see
A strange, familiar face.

For they are near our common home;
And so in trust we go,
Climbing and climbing on and on,
Whither we do not know;
Not waiting for the mournful dark,
But for the dawning slow.

Clasp my hand closer yet, my child,--
A long way we have come!
Clasp my hand closer yet, my child,--
For we have far to roam,
Climbing and climbing, till we reach
Our Heavenly Father's home.

I KNOW WHAT BEAUTY IS.

I know what beauty is, for Thou
Hast set the world within my heart;
Its glory from me will not part;
I never loved it more than now.

I know the Sabbath afternoon:
The light lies sleeping on the graves;
Against the sky the poplar waves;
The river plays a Sabbath tune.

Ah, know I not the spring's snow-bell?
The summer woods at close of even?
Autumn, when earth dies into heaven,
And winter's storms, I know them well.

I know the rapture music brings,
The power that dwells in ordered tones,
A living voice that loves and moans,
And speaks unutterable things.

Consenting beauties in a whole;
The living eye, the imperial head,
The gait of inward music bred,
The woman form, a radiant soul.

And splendours all unspoken bide
Within the ken of spirit's eye;
And many a glory saileth by,
Borne on the Godhead's living tide.

But I leave all, thou man of woe!
Put off my shoes, and come to Thee;
Thou art most beautiful to me;
More wonderful than all I know.

As child forsakes his favourite toy,
His sisters' sport, his wild bird's nest;
And climbing to his mother's breast,
Enjoys yet more his former joy--

I lose to find. On forehead wide
The jewels tenfold light afford:
So, gathered round thy glory, Lord,
All beauty else is glorified.

I WOULD I WERE A CHILD.

I would I were a child,
That I might look, and laugh, and say, My Father!
And follow Thee with running feet, or rather
Be led thus through the wild.

How I would hold thy hand!
My glad eyes often to thy glory lifting,
Which casts all beauteous shadows, ever shifting,
Over this sea and land.

If a dark thing came near,
I would but creep within thy mantle's folding,
Shut my eyes close, thy hand yet faster holding,
And so forget my fear.

O soul, O soul, rejoice!
Thou art God's child indeed, for all thy sinning;
A trembling child, yet his, and worth the winning
With gentle eyes and voice.

The words like echoes flow.
They are too good; mine I can call them never;
Such water drinking once, I should feel ever
As I had drunk but now.

And yet He said it so;
'Twas He who taught our child-lips to say, Father!
Like the poor youth He told of, that did gather
His goods to him, and go.

Ah! Thou dost lead me, God;
But it is dark; no stars; the way is dreary;
Almost I sleep, I am so very weary
Upon this rough hill-road.

_Almost_! Nay, I _do_ sleep.
There is no darkness save in this my dreaming;
Thy Fatherhood above, around, is beaming;
Thy hand my hand doth keep.

This torpor one sun-gleam
Would break. My soul hath wandered into sleeping;
Dream-shades oppress; I call to Thee with weeping,
Wake me from this my dream.

And as a man doth say,
Lo! I do dream, yet trembleth as he dreameth;
While dim and dream-like his true history seemeth,
Lost in the perished day;

(For heavy, heavy night
Long hours denies the day) so this dull sorrow
Upon my heart, but half believes a morrow
Will ever bring thy light.

God, art Thou in the room?
Come near my bed; oh! draw aside the curtain;
A child's heart would say _Father_, were it certain
That it did not presume.

But if this dreary bond
I may not break, help Thou thy helpless sleeper;
Resting in Thee, my sleep will sink the deeper,
All evil dreams beyond.

_Father!_ I dare at length.
My childhood, thy gift, all my claim in speaking;
Sinful, yet hoping, I to Thee come, seeking
Thy tenderness, my strength.

THE LOST SOUL.

Brothers, look there!

What! see ye nothing yet? Knit your eyebrows close, and stare; Send your souls forth in the gaze, As my finger-point is set, Through the thick of the foggy air. Beyond the air, you see the dark; (For the darkness hedges still our ways;) And beyond the dark, oh, lives away! Dim and far down, surely you mark A huge world-heap of withered years Dropt from the boughs of eternity? See ye not something lying there, Shapeless as a dumb despair, Yet a something that spirits can recognise With the vision dwelling in their eyes? It hath the form of a man! As a huge moss-rock in a valley green, When the light to freeze began, Thickening with crystals of dark between, Might look like a sleeping man. What think ye it, brothers? I know it well. I know by your eyes ye see it--tell.

'Tis a poor lost soul, alack! It was alive some ages back; One that had wings and might have had eyes I think I have heard that he wrote a book; But he gathered his life up into a nook, And perished amid his own mysteries, Which choked him, because he had not faith, But was proud in the midst of sayings dark Which God had charactered on his walls; And the light which burned up at intervals, To be spent in reading what God saith, He lazily trimmed it to a spark, And then it went out, and his soul was dark.

Is there aught between thee and me,
Soul, that art lying there?
Is any life yet left in thee,
So that thou couldst but spare
A word to reveal the mystery
Of the banished from light and air?