Chapter III: Boot and Saddle

I

Boot, saddle, to horse, and away! Rescue my castle before the hot day Brightens to blue from its silvery gray,

CHO.--Boot, saddle, to horse, and away!

II

Ride past the suburbs, asleep as you'd say; Many's the friend there, will listen and pray "God's luck to gallants that strike up the lay--

CHO.--Boot, saddle, to horse, and away!"

III

Forty miles off, like a roebuck at bay, Flouts castle Brancepeth the Roundheads' array: 10 Who laughs, "Good fellows ere this, by my fay,

CHO.--Boot, saddle, to horse, and away!"

IV

Who? My wife Gertrude; that, honest and gay, Laughs when you talk of surrendering, "Nay! I've better counsellors; what counsel they?

CHO.-- Boot, saddle, to horse, and away!"

* * * * *

HOME-THOUGHTS, FROM THE SEA

Nobly, nobly, Cape Saint Vincent to the Northwest died away; Sunset ran, one glorious blood-red, reeking into Cadiz Bay; Bluish 'mid the burning water, full in face Trafalgar° lay; °3

In the dimmest Northeast distance dawned Gibraltar° grand and gray; °4 "Here and here did England help me: how can I help England?"--say, Whoso turns as I, this evening, turn to God and pray, While Jove's planet rises yonder, silent over Africa.

* * * * *

SUMMUM BONUM

All the breath and the bloom of the year in the bag of one bee: All the wonder and wealth of the mine in the heart of one gem: In the core of one pearl all the shade and the shine of the sea: Breath and bloom, shade and shine,--wonder, wealth, and--how far above them-- Truth, that's brighter than gem, Trust, that's purer than pearl,-- Brightest truth, purest trust in the universe,--all were for me In the kiss of one girl.

* * * * *

A FACE

If one could have that little head of hers Painted upon a background of pure gold, Such as the Tuscan's early art prefers! No shade encroaching on the matchless mould Of those two lips, which should be opening soft In the pure profile; not as when she laughs, For that spoils all: but rather as if aloft Yon hyacinth, she loves so, leaned its staff's Burden of honey-colored buds to kiss And capture 'twixt the lips apart for this. Then her little neck, three fingers might surround, How it should waver on the pale gold ground Up to the fruit-shaped, perfect chin it lifts! I know, Correggio loves to mass, in rifts Of heaven, his angel faces, orb on orb Breaking its outline, burning shades absorb: But these are only massed there, I should think, Waiting to see some wonder momently Grow out, stand full, fade slow against the sky (That's the pale ground you'd see this sweet face by), All heaven, meanwhile, condensed into one eye Which fears to lose the wonder, should it wink.

* * * * *

SONGS FROM PIPPA PASSES

Day! Faster and more fast, O'er night's brim, day boils at last: Boils, pure gold, o'er the cloud-cup's brim. Where spurting and suppressed it lay, For not a froth-flake touched the rim Of yonder gap in the solid gray Of the eastern cloud, an hour away; But forth one wavelet, then another, curled, Till the whole sunrise, not to be suppressed, 10 Rose, reddened, and its seething breast Flickered in bounds, grew gold, then overflowed the world.

All service ranks the same with God:
If now, as formerly He trod
Paradise, His presence fills
Our earth, each only as God wills
Can work--God's puppets, best and worst,
Are we: there is no last nor first.

The year's at the spring
And day's at the morn: 20
Morning's at seven;
The hillside's dew-pearled;
The lark's on the wing;
The snail's on the thorn:
God's in His heaven--
All's right with the world!

Give her but a least excuse to love me! When--where-- How--can this arm establish her above me, If fortune fixed her as my lady there, 30 There already, to eternally reprove me? ("Hist!"--said Kate the queen; But "Oh," cried the maiden, binding her tresses, "'Tis only a page that carols unseen, Crumbling your hounds their messes!")

Is she wronged?--To the rescue of her honour, My heart! Is she poor?--What costs it to be styled a donor? Merely an earth to cleave, a sea to part. But that fortune should have thrust all this upon her! ("Nay, list!"--bade Kate the queen; 41 And still cried the maiden, binding her tresses, "'Tis only a page that carols unseen, Fitting your hawks their jesses!")

* * * * *

THE LOST LEADER

Just for a handful of silver he left us,
Just for a riband to stick in his coat--
Found the one gift of which fortune bereft us,
Lost all the others she lets us devote;
They, with the gold to give, doled him out silver,
So much was theirs who so little allowed;
How all our copper had gone for his service!
Rags--were they purple, his heart had been proud!
We that had loved him so, followed him, honoured him,
Lived in his mild and magnificent eye, 10
Learned his great language, caught his clear accents,
Made him our pattern to live and to die!
Shakespeare° was of us, Milton° was for us, °13
Burns,° Shelley,° were with us,--they watch from their graves! °14
He alone breaks from the van and the freemen,
He alone sinks to the rear and the slaves!

We shall march prospering--not through his presence;
Songs may inspirit us,--not from his lyre:
Deeds will be done,--while he boasts his quiescence,
Still bidding crouch whom the rest bade aspire: 20
Blot out his name, then, record one lost soul more,
One task more declined, one more footpath untrod,
One more devil's-triumph and sorrow for angels,
One wrong more to man, one more insult to God!
Life's night begins: let him never come back to us!
There would be doubt, hesitation, and pain,
Forced praise on our part--the glimmer of twilight,
Never glad confident morning again!
Best fight on well, for we taught him--strike gallantly,
Menace our heart ere we master his own; 30
Then let him receive the new knowledge and wait us,
Pardoned in heaven, the first by the throne!

* * * * *

APPARENT FAILURE

"We shall soon lose a celebrated building."
--_Paris Newspaper_.

No, for I'll save it! Seven years since
I passed through Paris, stopped a day
To see the baptism of your Prince,° °3
Saw, made my bow, and went my way:
Walking the heat and headache off,
I took the Seine-side, you surmise,
Thought of the Congress,° Gortschakoff,° °7
Cavour's° appeal and Buol's° replies, °8
So sauntered till--what met my eyes?

Only the Doric little Morgue! 10
The dead-house where you show your drowned:
Petrarch's Vaucluse° makes proud the Sorgue,° °12
Your Morgue has made the Seine renowned.
One pays one's debt° in such a case; °14
I plucked up heart and entered,--stalked,
Keeping a tolerable face
Compared with some whose cheeks were chalked:
Let them! No Briton's to be balked!

First came the silent gazers; next,
A screen of glass, we're thankful for; 20
Last, the sight's self, the sermon's text,
The three men who did most abhor
Their life in Paris yesterday,
So killed themselves: and now, enthroned
Each on his copper couch, they lay
Fronting me, waiting to be owned.
I thought, and think, their sin's atoned.

Poor men, God made, and all for that!
The reverence struck me; o'er each head
Religiously was hung its hat, 30
Each coat dripped by the owner's bed,
Sacred from touch: each had his berth,
His bounds, his proper place of rest,
Who last night tenanted on earth
Some arch, where twelve such slept abreast,--
Unless the plain asphalt seemed best.

How did it happen, my poor boy? You wanted to be Buonaparte And have the Tuileries° for toy, °39 And could not, so it broke your heart? 40 You, old one by his side, I judge, Were, red as blood, a socialist, A leveller! Does the Empire grudge You've gained what no Republic missed? Be quiet, and unclench your fist!

And this--why, he was red in vain,
Or black,--poor fellow that is blue°! °47
What fancy was it, turned your brain?
Oh, women were the prize for you!
Money gets women, cards and dice 50
Get money, and ill-luck gets just
The copper couch and one clear nice
Cool squirt of water o'er your bust,
The right thing to extinguish lust!

It's wiser being good than bad;
It's safer being meek than fierce:
It's fitter being sane than mad.
My own hope is, a sun will pierce
The thickest cloud earth ever stretched;
That, after Last, returns the First, 60
Tho' a wide compass round be fetched;
That what began best, can't end worst,
Nor what God blessed once, prove accurst.

* * * * *

FEARS AND SCRUPLES

Here's my case. Of old I used to love him.
This same unseen friend, before I knew:
Dream there was none like him, none above him,--
Wake to hope and trust my dream was true.

Loved I not his letters° full of beauty? °5
Not his actions famous far and wide?
Absent, he would know I vowed him duty,
Present, he would find me at his side.

Pleasant fancy! for I had but letters,
Only knew of actions by hearsay: 10
He himself was busied with my betters;
What of that? My turn must come some day.

"Some day" proving--no day! Here's the puzzle.
Passed and passed my turn is. Why complain?
He's so busied! If I could but muzzle
People's foolish mouths that give me pain!

"Letters?" (hear them!) "You a judge of writing?
Ask the experts!--How they shake the head
O'er these characters, your friend's inditing--
Call them forgery from A to Z°! °20

"Actions? Where's your certain proof" (they bother)
"He, of all you find so great and good,
He, he only, claims this, that, the other
Action--claimed by men, a multitude?"

I can simply wish I might refute you,
Wish my friend would,--by a word, a wink,--
Bid me stop that foolish mouth,--you brute you!
He keeps absent,--why, I cannot think.

Never mind! Tho' foolishness may flout me.
One thing's sure enough; 'tis neither frost, 30
No, nor fire, shall freeze or burn from out me
Thanks for truth--tho' falsehood, gained--tho' lost.

All my days, I'll go the softlier, sadlier,
For that dream's sake! How forget the thrill
Thro' and thro' me as I thought, "The gladlier
Lives my friend because I love him still!"

Ah, but there's a menace some one utters!
"What and if your friend at home play tricks?
Peep at hide-and-seek behind the shutters?
Mean your eyes should pierce thro' solid bricks? 40

'What and if he, frowning, wake you, dreamy?
Lay on you the blame that bricks--conceal?
Say '_At least I saw who did not see me,
Does see now, and presently shall feel_'?"

"Why, that makes your friend a monster!" say you;
"Had his house no window? At first nod,
Would you not have hailed him?" Hush, I pray you!
What if this friend happen to be--God?

* * * * *

INSTANS TYRANNUS

Of the million or two, more or less, I rule and possess, One man, for some cause undefined, Was least to my mind.

I struck him, he grovelled of course-- For, what was his force? I pinned him to earth with my weight And persistence of hate; And he lay, would not moan, would not curse, As his lot might be worse. 10

"Were the object less mean? would he stand At the swing of my hand! For obscurity helps him, and blots The hole where he squats." So, I set my five wits on the stretch. To inveigle the wretch. All in vain! Gold and jewels I threw, Still he couched there perdue; I tempted his blood and his flesh, Hid in roses my mesh, 20 Choicest cates and the flagon's best spilth: Still he kept to his filth.

Had he kith now or kin, were access To his heart, did I press: Just a son or a mother to seize! No such booty as these. Were it simply a friend to pursue 'Mid my million or two, Who could pay me, in person or pelf, What he owes me himself! 30 No: I could not but smile thro' my chafe: For the fellow lay safe As his mates do, the midge and the nit, --Thro' minuteness, to wit.

Then a humour more great took its place At the thought of his face: The droop, the low cares of the mouth, The trouble uncouth 'Twixt the brows, all that air one is fain To put out of its pain, 40 And, "no!" I admonished myself, "Is one mocked by an elf. Is one baffled by toad or by rat? The gravamen's° in that! °44 How the lion, who crouches to suit His back to my foot, Would admire that I stand in debate! But the small turns the great If it vexes you,--that is the thing! Toad or rat vex the king? 50 Tho' I waste half my realm to unearth Toad or rat, 'tis well worth!"

So, I soberly laid my last plan To extinguish the man. Round his creep-hole, with never a break Ran my fires for his sake; Overhead, did my thunder combine With my under-ground mine: Till I looked from my labour content To enjoy the event. 60

When sudden ... how think ye, the end? Did I say "without friend?" Say rather, from marge to blue marge The whole sky grew his targe With the sun's self for visible boss, While an Arm ran across Which the earth heaved beneath like a breast! Where the wretch was safe prest! Do you see! Just my vengeance complete, °69 The man sprang to his feet, 70 Stood erect, caught at God's skirts, and prayed! --So, _I_ was afraid!

* * * * *

THE PATRIOT

AN OLD STORY

It was roses, roses, all the way, With myrtle mixed in my path like mad; The house-roofs seemed to heave and sway, The church-spires flamed, such flags they had, A year ago on this very day.

The air broke into a mist with bells, The old walls rocked with the crowd and cries. Had I said, "Good folk, mere noise repels-- But give me your sun from yonder skies!" They had answered "And afterward, what else?" 10

Alack, it was I who leaped at the sun To give it my loving friends to keep! Naught man could do, have I left undone: And you see my harvest, what I reap This very day, now a year is run.

There's nobody on the house-tops now-- Just a palsied few at the windows set; For the best of the sight is, all allow, At the Shambles' Gate--or, better yet, By the very scaffold's foot, I trow. 20

I go in the rain, and, more than needs, A rope cuts both my wrists behind; And I think, by the feel, my forehead bleeds, For they fling, whoever has a mind, Stones at me for my year's misdeeds.

Thus I entered, and thus I go! In triumphs, people have dropped down dead, "Paid by the world, what dost thou owe Me? "--God might question; now instead, 'Tis God shall repay: I am safer so. 30

* * * * *

THE BOY AND THE ANGEL

Morning, evening, noon, and night, "Praise God!" sang Theocrite.

Then to his poor trade he turned, Whereby the daily meal was earned.

Hard he laboured, long and well; O'er his work the boy's curls fell.

But ever, at each period, He stopped and sang, "Praise God!"

Then back again his curls he threw, And cheerful turned to work anew. 10

Said Blaise, the listening monk, "Well done; I doubt not thou art heard, my son:

"As well as if thy voice to-day Were praising God, the Pope's great way.

"This Easter Day, the Pope at Rome Praises God from Peter's dome."

Said Theocrite, "Would God that I Might praise Him that great way, and die!"

Night passed, day shone, And Theocrite was gone. 20

With God a day endures alway, A thousand years are but a day.

God said in heaven, "Nor day nor night Now brings the voice of my delight."° °24

Then Gabriel, like a rainbow's birth, Spread his wings and sank to earth;

Entered, in flesh, the empty cell, Lived there, and played the craftsman well;

And morning, evening, noon, and night, Praised God in place of Theocrite. 30

And from a boy, to youth he grew: The man put off the stripling's hue:

The man matured and fell away Into the season of decay:

And ever o'er the trade he bent, And ever lived on earth content.

(He did God's will; to him, all one If on the earth or in the sun.)

God said, "A praise is in mine ear; There is no doubt in it, no fear: 40

"So sing old worlds, and so New worlds that from my footstool go.

"Clearer loves sound other ways: I miss my little human praise."

Then forth sprang Gabriel's wings, off fell The flesh disguise, remained the cell.

'Twas Easter day: he flew to Rome, And paused above Saint Peter's dome.

In the tiring-room close by The great outer gallery, 50

With his holy vestments dight, Stood the new Pope, Theocrite:

And all his past career Came back upon him clear,

Since when, a boy, he plied his trade, Till on his life the sickness weighed;

And in his cell, when death drew near, An angel in a dream brought cheer:

And rising from the sickness drear, He grew a priest, and now stood here. 60

To the East with praise he turned, And on his sight the angel burned.

"I bore thee from thy craftsman's cell, And set thee here; I did not well.

"Vainly I left my angel-sphere, Vain was thy dream of many a year,

"Thy voice's praise seemed weak; it dropped-- Creation's chorus stopped!

"Go back and praise again The early way, while I remain. 70

"With that weak voice of our disdain, Take up creation's pausing strain.

"Back to the cell and poor employ: Resume the craftsman and the boy!"

Theocrite grew old at home; A new Pope dwelt in Peter's dome.

One vanished as the other died: They sought God side by side.

* * * * *

MEMORABILIA

Ah, did you once see Shelley plain,
And did he stop and speak to you,
And did you speak to him again?
How strange it seems and new!

But you were living before that,
And also you are living after;
And the memory I started at--
My starting moves your laughter!

I crossed a moor with a name of its own
And a certain use in the world, no doubt, 10
Yet a hand's-breadth of it shines alone
'Mid the blank miles round about.

For there I picked upon the heather
And there I put inside my breast
A moulted feather, an eagle-feather!
Well, I forget the rest.

* * * * *

WHY I AM A LIBERAL

"Why?" Because all I haply can and do,
All that I am now, all I hope to be,--
Whence comes it save from fortune setting free
Body and soul the purpose to pursue,
God traced for both? If fetters, not a few,
Of prejudice, convention, fall from me,
These shall I bid men--each in his degree
Also God-guided--bear, and gayly too?
But little do or can the best of us:
That little is achieved thro' Liberty. 10
Who then dares hold, emancipated thus,
His fellow shall continue bound? not I,
Who live, love, labour freely, nor discuss
A brother's right to freedom. That is "Why."

* * * * *

PROSPICE

Fear death? to feel the fog in my throat,
The mist in my face,
When the snows begin, and the blasts denote
I am nearing the place,
The power of the night, the press of the storm,
The post of the foe;
Where he stands, the Arch Fear in a visible form,
Yet the strong man must go:
For the journey is done and the summit attained,
And the barriers fall, 10
Though a battle's to fight ere the guerdon be gained,
The reward of it all.
I was ever a fighter, so--one fight more,
The best and the last!

I would hate that death bandaged my eyes, and forbore,
And bade me creep past,
No! let me taste the whole of it, fare like my peers
The heroes of old,
Bear the brunt, in a minute pay glad life's arrears
Of pain, darkness, and cold. 20
For sudden the worst turns the best to the brave,
The black minute's at end,
And the elements' rage, the fiend-voices that rave,
Shall dwindle, shall blend,
Shall change, shall become first a peace out of pain,
Then a light, then thy breast,
O thou soul of my soul! I shall clasp thee again,
And with God be the rest!

* * * * *