Chapter XIII: Letter XII: Victory (1)

I.

Now have I reach'd the goal of my desire,
For thou hast sworn--as sweetly as a bell
Makes out its chime--the oath I love to tell,
The fealty-oath of which I never tire.
The lordly forest seems a giant's lyre,
And sings, and rings, the thoughts that o'er it swell.

II.

The air is fill'd with voices. I have found
Comfort at last, enthralment, and a joy
Past all belief; a peace without alloy.
There is a splendour all about the ground
As if from Eden, when the world was drown'd,
Something had come which death could not destroy.

III.

It seems, indeed, as if to me were sent
A smile from Heaven--as if to-day the clods
Were lined with silk--the trees divining rods,
And roses gems for some high tournament.
I should not be so proud, or so content,
If I could sup, to-night, with all the gods.

IV.

A shrined saint would change his place with me
If he but knew the worth of what I feel.
He is enrobed indeed, and for his weal
Hath much concern; but how forlorn is he!
How pale his pomp! He cannot sue to thee,
But I am sainted every time I kneel.

V.

I walk'd abroad, to-day, ere yet the dark
Had left the hills, and down the beaten road
I saunter'd forth a mile from mine abode.
I heard, afar, the watchdog's sudden bark,
And, near at hand, the tuning of a lark,
Safe in its nest, but weighted with an ode.

VI.

The moon was pacing up the sky serene,
Pallid and pure, as if she late had shown
Her outmost side, and fear'd to make it known;
And, like a nun, she gazed upon the scene
From bars of cloud that seemed to stand between,
And pray'd and smiled, and smiled and pray'd alone.

VII.

The stars had fled. Not one remain'd behind
To warn or comfort; or to make amends
For hope delay'd,--for ecstasy that ends
At dawn's approach. The firmament was blind
Of all its eyes; and, wanton up the wind,
There came the shuddering that the twilight sends.

VIII.

The hills exulted at the Morning's birth,--
And clouds assembled, quick, as heralds run
Before a king to say the fight is won.
The rich, warm daylight fell upon the earth
Like wine outpour'd in madness, or in mirth,
To celebrate the rising of the sun.

IX.

And when the soaring lark had done its prayer,
The holy thing, self-poised amid the blue
Of that great sky, did seem, a space or two,
To pause and think, and then did clip the air
And dropped to earth to claim his guerdon there.
"Thank God!" I cried, "My dearest dream is true!"

X.

I was too happy, then, to leap and dance;
But I could ponder; I could gaze and gaze
From earth to sky and back to woodland ways.
The bird had thrill'd my heart, and cheer'd my glance,
For he had found to-day his nest-romance,
And lov'd a mate, and crown'd her with his praise.

XI.

O Love! my Love! I would not for a throne,
I would not for the thrones of all the kings
Who yet have liv'd, or for a seraph's wings,
Or for the nod of Jove when night hath flown,
Consent to rule an empire all alone.
No! I must have the grace of our two rings.

XII.

I must possess thee from the crowning curl
Down to the feet, and from the beaming eye
Down to the bosom where my treasures lie.
From blush to blush, and from the rows of pearl
That light thy smile, I must possess thee, girl,
And be thy lord and master till I die.

XIII.

This, and no less: the keeper of thy fame,
The proud controller of each silken tress,
And each dear item of thy loveliness,
And every oath, and every dainty name
Known to a bride: a picture in a frame
Of golden hair, to turn to and caress.

XIV.

And though I know thee prone, in vacant hours,
To laugh and talk with those who circumvent
And make mad speeches; though I know the bent
Of some such men, and though in ladies' bowers
They brag of swords--I know my proven powers;
I know myself and thee, and am content.

XV.

I know myself; and why should I demur?
The lily, bowing to the breeze's play,
Is not forgetful of the sun in May.
She is his nymph, and with a servitor
She doth but jest. The sun looks down at her,
And knows her true, and loves her day by day.

XVI.

E'en so I thee, O Lady of my Heart!
O Lady white as lilies on the lea,
And fair as foam upon the ocean free
Whereon the sun hath sent a shining dart!
E'en so I love thee, blameless as thou art,
And with my soul's desire I compass thee.

XVII.

For thou art Woman in the sweetest sense
Of true endowment, and a bride indeed
Fit for Apollo. This is Woman's need:
To be a beacon when the air is dense,
A bower of peace, a life-long recompense--
This is the sum of Woman's worldly creed.

XVIII.

And what is Man the while? And what his will?
And what the furtherance of his earthly hope?
To turn to Faith, to turn, as to a rope
A drowning sailor; all his blood to spill
For One he loves, to keep her out of ill--
This is the will of Man, and this his scope.

XIX.

'Tis like the tranquil sea, that knows anon
It can be wild, and keep away from home
A thousand ships--and lash itself to foam--
And beat the shore, and all that lies thereon--
And catch the thunder ere the flash has gone
Forth from the cloud that spans it like a dome.

XX.

This is the will of Man, and this is mine.
But lo! I love thee more than wealth or fame,
More than myself, and more than those who came
With Christ's commission from the goal divine.
Soul of my soul, and mine as I am thine,
I cling to thee, my Life! as fire to flame.

Miscellaneous Poems.

ANTEROS.

I.

This is the feast-day of my soul and me,
For I am half a god and half a man.
These are the hours in which are heard by sea,
By land and wave, and in the realms of space,
The lute-like sounds which sanctify my span,
And give me power to sway the human race.

II.

I am the king whom men call Lucifer,
I am the genius of the nether spheres.
Give me my Christian name, and I demur.
Call me a Greek, and straightway I rejoice.
Yea, I am Anteros, and with my tears
I salt the earth that gladdens at my voice.

III.

I am old Anteros; a young, old god;
A sage who smiles and limps upon a crutch.
But I can turn my crutch into a rod,
And change my rod into a crown of wood.
Yea, I am he who conquers with a touch,
And plays with poisons till he makes them good.

IV.

The sun, uprising with his golden hair,
Is mine apostle; and he serves me well.
Thoughts and desires of mine, beyond compare,
Thrill at his touch. The moon, so lost in thought,
Has pined for love; and wanderers out of hell,
And saints from heaven, have known what I have taught.

V.

Great are my griefs; my joys are multiplex;
And beasts and birds and men my subjects are;
Yea, all created things that have a sex,
And flies and flowers and monsters of the mere;
All these, and more, proclaim me from afar,
And sing my marriage songs from year to year.

VI.

There are no bridals but the ones I make;
For men are quicken'd when they turn to me.
The soul obeys me for its body's sake,
And each is form'd for each, as day for night.
'Tis but the soul can pay the body's fee
To win the wisdom of a fool's delight.

VII.

Yea, this is so. My clerks have set it down,
And birds have blabbed it to the winds of heaven.
The flowers have guessed it, and, in bower and town,
Lovers have sung the songs that I have made.
Give me your lives, O mortals, and, for leaven,
Ye shall receive the fires that cannot fade.

VIII.

O men! O maidens! O ye listless ones!
Ye who desert my temples in the East,
Ye who reject the rays of summer suns,
And cling to shadows in the wilderness;
Why are ye sad? Why frown ye at the feast,
Ye who have eyes to see and lips to press?

IX.

Why, for a wisdom that ye will not prove,
A joy that crushes and a love that stings,
A freak, a frenzy in a fated groove,
A thing of nothing born of less than nought--
Why in your hearts do ye desire these things,
Ye who abhor the joys that ye have sought?

X.

See, see! I weep, but I can jest at times;
Yea, I can dance and toss my tears away.
The sighs I breathe are fragrant as the rhymes
Of men and maids whose hearts are overthrown.
I am the God for whom all maidens pray,
But none shall have me for herself alone.

XI.

No; I have love enough, here where I stand,
To marry fifty maids in their degree;
Aye, fifty times five thousand in a band,
And every bride the proxy of a score.
Want ye a mate for millions? I am he.
Glory is mine, and glee-time evermore.

XII.

O men! O masters! O ye kings of grief!
Ye who control the world but not the grave,
What have ye done to make delight so brief,
Ye who have spurn'd the minstrel and the lyre?
I will not say: "Be patient." Ye are brave;
And ye shall guess the pangs of my desire.

XIII.

There shall be traitors in the court of love,
And tears and torture and the bliss of pain.
The maids of men shall seek the gods above,
And drink the nectar of the golden lake.
Blessed are they for whom the gods are fain;
They shall be glad for love's and pity's sake.

XIV.

They shall be taught the songs the syrens know,
The wave's lament, the west wind's psalmistry,
The secrets of the south and of the snow,
The wherewithal of day, and death, and night.
O men! O maidens! pray no prayer for me,
But sing to me the songs of my delight.

XV.

Aye, sing to me the songs I love to hear,
And let the sound thereof ascend to heaven.
And let the singers, with a voice of cheer,
Announce my name to all the ends of earth;
And let my servants, seventy times and seven,
Re-shout the raptures of my Samian mirth!

XVI.

Let joy prevail, and Frenzy, like a flame,
Seize all the souls of men for sake of me.
For I will have Contention put to shame,
And all the hearts of all things comforted.
There are no laws but mine on land and sea,
And men shall crown me when their kings are dead.

THE WAKING OF THE LARK.

I.

O bonnie bird, that in the brake, exultant, dost prepare thee--
As poets do whose thoughts are true, for wings that will upbear thee--
Oh! tell me, tell me, bonnie bird,
Canst thou not pipe of hope deferred?
Or canst thou sing of naught but Spring among the golden meadows?

II.

Methinks a bard (and thou art one) should suit his song to sorrow,
And tell of pain, as well as gain, that waits us on the morrow;
But thou art not a prophet, thou,
If naught but joy can touch thee now;
If, in thy heart, thou hast no vow that speaks of Nature's anguish.

III.

Oh! I have held my sorrows dear, and felt, tho' poor and slighted,
The songs we love are those we hear when love is unrequited.
But thou art still the slave of dawn,
And canst not sing till night be gone,
Till o'er the pathway of the fawn the sunbeams shine and quiver.

IV.

Thou art the minion of the sun that rises in his splendour,
And canst not spare for Dian fair the songs that should attend her.
The moon, so sad and silver-pale,
Is mistress of the nightingale;
And thou wilt sing on hill and dale no ditties in the darkness.

V.

For Queen and King thou wilt not spare one note of thine outpouring;
Thou art as free as breezes be on Nature's velvet flooring.
The daisy, with its hood undone,
The grass, the sunlight, and the sun--
These are the joys, thou holy one, that pay thee for thy singing.

VI.

Oh, hush! Oh, hush! how wild a gush of rapture in the distance,--
A roll of rhymes, a toll of chimes, a cry for love's assistance;
A sound that wells from happy throats,
A flood of song where beauty floats,
And where our thoughts, like golden boats, do seem to cross a river.

VII.

This is the advent of the lark--the priest in gray apparel--
Who doth prepare to trill in air his sinless Summer carol;
This is the prelude to the lay
The birds did sing in Caesar's day,
And will again, for aye and aye, in praise of God's creation.

VIII.

O dainty thing, on wonder's wing, by life and love elated,
Oh! sing aloud from cloud to cloud, till day be consecrated;
Till from the gateways of the morn,
The sun, with all his light unshorn,
His robes of darkness round him torn, doth scale the lofty heavens!

A BALLAD OF KISSES.

I.

There are three kisses that I call to mind,
And I will sing their secrets as I go.
The first, a kiss too courteous to be kind,
Was such a kiss as monks and maidens know;
As sharp as frost, as blameless as the snow.

II.

The second kiss, ah God! I feel it yet,
And evermore my soul will loathe the same.
The toys and joys of fate I may forget,
But not the touch of that divided shame:
It clove my lips; it burnt me like a flame.

III.

The third, the final kiss, is one I use
Morning and noon and night; and not amiss.
Sorrow be mine if such I do refuse!
And when I die, be love, enrapt in bliss,
Re-sanctified in Heaven by such a kiss.

MARY ARDEN.

I.

O thou to whom, athwart the perish'd days
And parted nights long sped, we lift our gaze,
Behold! I greet thee with a modern rhyme,
Love-lit and reverent as befits the time,
To solemnize the feast-day of thy son.

II.

And who was he who flourish'd in the smiles
Of thy fair face? 'Twas Shakespeare of the Isles,
Shakespeare of England, whom the world has known
As thine, and ours, and Glory's, in the zone
Of all the seas and all the lands of earth.

III.

He was un-famous when he came to thee,
But sound, and sweet, and good for eyes to see,
And born at Stratford, on St. George's Day,
A week before the wondrous month of May;
And God therein was gracious to us all.

IV.

He lov'd thee, Lady! and he lov'd the world;
And, like a flag, his fealty was unfurl'd;
And Kings who flourished ere thy son was born
Shall live through him, from morn to furthest morn,
In all the far-off cycles yet to come.

V.

He gave us Falstaff, and a hundred quips,
A hundred mottoes from immortal lips;
And, year by year, we smile to keep away
The generous tears that mind us of the sway
Of his great singing, and the pomp thereof.

VI.

His was the nectar of the gods of Greece,
The lute of Orpheus, and the Golden Fleece
Of grand endeavour; and the thunder-roll
Of words majestic, which, from pole to pole,
Have borne the tidings of our English tongue.

VII.

He gave us Hamlet; and he taught us more
Than schools have taught us; and his fairy-lore
Was fraught with science; and he called from death
Verona's Lovers, with the burning breath
Of their great passion that has filled the spheres.

VIII.

He made us know Cordelia, and the man
Who murder'd sleep, and baleful Caliban;
And, one by one, athwart the gloom appear'd
Maidens and men and myths who were revered
In olden days, before the earth was sad.

IX.

Aye! this is true. It was ordained so;
He was thine own, three hundred years ago;
But ours to-day; and ours till earth be red
With doom-day splendour for the quick and dead,
And days and nights are scattered like the leaves.

X.

It was for this he lived, for this he died;
To raise to Heaven the face that never lied,
To lean to earth the lips that should become
Fraught with conviction when the mouth was dumb,
And all the firm, fine body turn'd to clay.

XI.

He lived to seal, and sanctify the lives
Of perish'd maids, and uncreated wives,
And gave them each a space wherein to dwell;
And for his mother's sake he loved them well,
And made them types, undying, of all truth.

XII.

O fair and fond young mother of the boy
Who wrought all this--O Mary!--in thy joy
Did'st thou perceive, when, fitful from his rest,
He turn'd to thee, that his would be the best
Of all men's chanting since the world began?

XIII.

Did'st thou, O Mary! with the eye of trust
Perceive, prophetic, through the dark and dust
Of things terrene, the glory of thy son,
And all the pride therein that should be won
By toilsome men, content to be his slaves?

XIV.

Did'st thou, good mother! in the tender ways
That women find to fill the fleeting days,
Behold afar the Giant who should rise
With foot on earth, and forehead in the skies,
To write his name, and thine, among the stars?

XV.

I love to think it; and, in dreams at night
I see thee stand, erect, and all in white,
With hands out-yearning to that mighty form,
As if to draw him back from out the storm,--
A child again, and thine to nurse withal.

XVI.

I see thee, pale and pure, with flowing hair,
And big, bright eyes, far-searching in the air
For thy sweet babe, and, in a trice of time,
I see the child advance to thee, and climb,
And call thee "Mother!" in ecstatic tones.

XVII.

Yet, if my thought be vain--if, by a touch
Of this weak hand, I vex thee overmuch--
Forbear the blame, sweet Spirit! and endow
My heart with fervour while to thee I bow
Athwart the threshold of my fading dream.

XVIII.

For, though so seeming-bold in this my song,
I turn to thee with reverence, in the throng
Of words and thoughts, as shepherds scann'd, afar,
The famed effulgence of that eastern star
Which usher'd in the Crown'd One of the heavens.

XIX.

In dreams of rapture I have seen thee pass
Along the banks of Avon, by the grass,
As fair as that fair Juliet whom thy son
Endow'd with life, but with the look of one
Who knows the nearest way to some new grave.

XX.

And often, too, I've seen thee in the flush
Of thy full beauty, while the mother's "Hush!"
Hung on thy lip, and all thy tangled hair
Re-clothed a bosom that in part was bare
Because a tiny hand had toy'd therewith!

XXI.

Oh! by the June-tide splendour of thy face
When, eight weeks old, the child in thine embrace
Did leap and laugh, O Mary! by the same,
I bow to thee, subservient to thy fame,
And call thee England's Pride for evermore!

SACHAL.

A WAIF OF BATTLE.

I.

Lo! at my feet,
A something pale of hue;
A something sad to view;
Dead or alive I dare not call it sweet.

II.

Not white as snow;
Not transient as a tear!
A warrior left it here,
It was his passport ere he met the foe.

III.

Here is a name,
A word upon the book;
If ye but kneel to look,
Ye'll find the letters "Sachal" on the same.

IV.

His Land to cherish,
He died at twenty-seven.
There are no wars in Heaven,
But when he fought he gain'd the right to perish.

V.

Where was he born?
In France, at Puy le Dome.
A wanderer from his home,
He found a Fatherland beyond the morn.

VI.

'Twas France's plan;
The cause he did not ask.
His life was but a mask,
And he upraised it, martyr'd at Sedan.

VII.

And prone in death,
Beyond the name of France,
Beyond his hero-glance,--
He thought, belike, of her who gave him breath.

VIII.

O thou dead son!
O Sachal! far away,
But not forgot to-day,
I had a mother, too, but now have none.

IX.

Our hopes are brave.
Our faiths are braver still.
The soul shall no man kill;
For God will find us, each one in his grave.

X.

A land more vast
Than Europe's kingdoms are,--
A brighter, nobler star
Than victory's fearful light,--is thine at last.

XI.

And should'st thou meet
Yon Germans up on high,--
Thy foes when death was nigh,--
Nor thou nor they will sound the soul's retreat.

XII.

For all are just,
Yea, all are patriots there,
And thou, O Fils de Pierre!
Hast found thy marshal's baton in the dust.

XIII.

Oh, farewell, friend;
My friend, albeit unknown,
Save in thy death alone,
Oh, fare thee well till sin and sorrow end.

XIV.

In realms of joy
We'll meet; aye, every one:
Mother and sire and son,--
And my poor mother, too, will claim her boy.

XV.

Death leads to God.
Death is the Sword of Fate,
Death is the Golden Gate
That opens up to glory, through the sod.

XVI.

And thou that road,
O Sachal! thou hast found;
A king is not so crown'd
As thou art, soldier! in thy blest abode.

XVII.

Deathless in death,
Exalted, not destroy'd,
Thou art in Heaven employ'd
To swell the songs of angels with thy breath.

THE LADY OF THE MAY.

I.

O stars that fade in amber skies
Because ye dread the light of day,
O moon so lonely and so wise,
Look down, and love my Love alway;
Salute the Lady of the May.

II.

O lark that soarest in the light
To hail thy lord in his array,
Look down; be just; and sing aright.
A lover claims thy song to-day
To greet his Lady of the May.

III.

"O lady! lady!" sings the lark,
"Thy lover's hest I do obey;
For thou art splendid after dark,
And where thou smilest, there is day;
And thou'rt the Lady of the May.

IV.

"The nightingale's a friend of mine,
And yesternight she flew my way.
'Awake,' she cried, 'at morning shine
And sing for me thy blythest lay
To greet the Lady of the May.'

V.

"'And tell her, tell her, gentle one,
While thou attun'st thy morning lay,
That I will sing at set of sun
Another song for thy sweet fay,
Because she's Lady of the May.'

VI.

"And lo I come," the lark in air,
Self-pois'd and free, did seem to say,
"I come to greet thy lady's hair
And call its beams the light of day
Which decks thy Lady of the May."

VII.

Oh, thank thee, bird that singest well!
For all thou say'st and still would'st say
And for the thoughts which Philomel
Intends to trill, in roundelay,
To greet my Lady of the May.

VIII.

We two (my Love and I) are one,
And so shall be, for aye and aye.
Go, take my homage to the sun,
And bid him shine his best to-day,
To crown my Lady of the May!

AN ODE TO ENGLISHMEN.

I.

I who have sung of love and lady bright
And mirth and music and the world's delight,
Behold! to-day, I sound a sterner note
To move the minds of foemen when they fight.

II.

Have I not said: There is no sweeter thing,
And none diviner than the wedding-ring?
And, all intent to make my meaning plain,
Have I not kiss'd the lips of Love, the King?

III.

Yea, this is so. But lo! to-day there comes
The far-off sound of trumpets and of drums;
And I must parley with the men of toil
Who rise in ranks exultant from the slums.

IV.

I must arraign each man; yea, all the host;
And each true soul shall learn the least and most
Of all his wrongs,--if wrongs indeed they be;
And he shall face the flag that guards the coast.

V.

He shall salute it! He shall find therein
Salve for his wounds and solace for his sin.
Brother and guide is he who loves his Land;
But he is kinless who denies his kin.

VI.

Has he a heart to feel, a knee to bend,
And will not trust his country to the end?
If this be so, God help him to a tear!
He shall be foiled, as foeman and as friend.

VII.

Bears he a sword? I care not. He is base;
Unfit to wield it, and of meaner place
Than tongue can tell of, in the Senate House;
And he shall find no balm for his disgrace.

VIII.

O men! I charge ye, in the name of Him
Who rules the world, and guards the cherubim,
I charge ye, pause, ere from the lighted track
Ye turn, distraught, to pathways that are dim.

IX.

Who gave your fathers, and your fathers' sons
The rights ye claim, amid the roar of guns,
And 'mid the flash thereof from sea to sea?
Your country! through her lov'd, her chosen ones.

X.

Oh, ye are dastards if ye lift a hand,
Dastards and fools, if, loveless in a band,
Ye touch in wrath the bulwark of the realm.
Ye shall be baulk'd, and Chivalry shall stand.

XI.

I have a sword, I also, and I swear
By my heart's faith, and by my Lady's hair,
That I will strike the first of ye that moves,
If by a sign ye wrong the flag ye bear.

XII.

In Freedom's name, in her's to whom we bow,
In her great name, I charge ye, palter now
With no traducer of your country's cause.
Accurst of God is he who breaks his vow!

ZULALIE.

I.

I am the sprite
That reigns at night,
My body is fair for man's delight.
I leap and laugh
As the wine I quaff,
And I am the queen of Astrofelle.

II.

I curse and swear
In my demon-lair;
I shake wild sunbeams out of my hair.
I madden the old,
I gladden the bold,
And I am the queen of Astrofelle.

III.

Of churchyard stone
I have made my throne;
My locks are looped with a dead man's bone.
Mine eyes are red
With the tears I shed,
And I am the queen of Astrofelle.

IV.

In cities and camps
I have lighted my lamps,
My kisses are caught by kings and tramps.
With rant and revel
My hair I dishevel,
And I am the queen of Astrofelle.

V.

My kisses are stains,
Mine arms are chains,
My forehead is fair and false like Cain's.
My gain is loss,
Mine honour is dross,--
And I am the queen of Astrofelle!

BEETHOVEN AT THE PIANO.

I.

See where Beethoven sits alone--a dream of days elysian,
A crownless king upon a throne, reflected in a vision--
The man who strikes the potent chords which make the world, in wonder,
Acknowledge him, though poor and dim, the mouthpiece of the thunder.

II.

He feels the music of the skies the while his heart is breaking;
He sings the songs of Paradise, where love has no forsaking.
And, though so deaf he cannot hear the tempest as a token,
He makes the music of his mind the grandest ever spoken.

III.

He doth not hear the whispered word of love in his seclusion,
Or voice of friend, or song of bird, in Nature's sad confusion;
But he hath made, for Love's sweet sake, so wild a declamation
That all true lovers of the earth have claim'd him of their nation.

IV.

He had a Juliet in his youth, as Romeo had before him,
And, Romeo-like, he sought to die that she might then adore him;
But she was weak, as women are whose faith has not been proven,
And would not change her name for his--Guiciardi for Beethoven.

V.

O minstrel, whom a maiden spurned, but whom a world has treasured!
O sovereign of a greater realm than man has ever measured!
Thou hast not lost the lips of love, but thou hast gain'd, in glory,
The love of all who know the thrall of thine immortal story.

VI.

Thou art the bard whom none discard, but whom all men discover
To be a god, as Orpheus was, albeit a lonely lover;
A king to call the stones to life beside the roaring ocean,
And bid the stars discourse to trees in words of man's emotion.

VII.

A king of joys, a prince of tears, an emperor of the seasons,
Whose songs are like the sway of years in Love's immortal reasons;
A bard who knows no life but this: to love and be rejected,
And reproduce in earthly strains the prayers of the elected.

VIII.

O poet heart! O seraph soul! by men and maids adored!
O Titan with the lion's mane, and with the splendid forehead!
We men who bow to thee in grief must tremble in our gladness,
To know what tears were turned to pearls to crown thee in thy sadness.

IX.

An Angel by direct descent, a German by alliance,
Thou didst intone the wonder-chords which made Despair a science.
Yea, thou didst strike so grand a note that, in its large vibration,
It seemed the roaring of the sea in nature's jubilation.

X.

O Sire of Song! Sonata-King! Sublime and loving master;
The sweetest soul that ever struck an octave in disaster;
In thee were found the fires of thought--the splendours of endeavour,--
And thou shalt sway the minds of men for ever and for ever!

A RHAPSODY OF DEATH.

I.

That phantoms fair, with radiant hair,
May seek at midnight hour
The sons of men, belov'd again,
And give them holy power;
That souls survive the mortal hive, and sinless come and go,
Is true as death, the prophet saith; and God will have it so.

II.

For who be ye who doubt and prate?
O sages! make it clear
If ye be more than men of fate,
Or less than men of cheer;
If ye be less than bird or beast? O brothers! make it plain
If ye be bankrupts at a feast, or sharers in a gain.

III.

You say there is no future state;
The clue ye fail to find.
The flesh is here, and bones appear
When graves are undermined.
But of the soul, in time of dole, what answer can ye frame--
Ye who have heard no spirit-word to guide ye to the same.

IV.

Ah! facts are good, and reason's good,
But fancy's stronger far;
In weal or woe we only know
We know not what we are.
The sunset seems a raging fire, the clouds roll back, afraid;
The rainbow seems a broken lyre on which the storm has play'd.

V.

But these, ye urge, are outward signs.
Such signs are not for you.
The sight's deceiv'd and truth bereav'd
By diamonds of the dew.
The sage's mind is more refined, his rapture more complete;
He almost knows the little rose that blossoms at his feet!

VI.

The sage can kill a thousand things,
And tell the names of all;
And wrench away the wearied wings
Of eagles when they fall;
And calmly trace the lily's grace, or fell the strongest tree,
And almost feel, if not reveal, the secrets of the sea.

VII.

But can he set, by day or night,
The clock-work of the skies?
Or bring the dead man back to sight
With soul-invested eyes?
Can he describe the ways of life, the wondrous ways of death,
And whence it came, and what the flame that feeds the vital breath?

VIII.

If he could do such deeds as these,
He might, though poor and low,
Explain the cause of Nature's laws,
Which none shall ever know;
He might recall the vanish'd years by lifting of his hand,
And bid the wind go north or south to prove what he has plann'd.

IX.

But God is just. He burdens not
The shoulders of the sage;
He pities him whose sight is dim;
He turns no second page.
There are two pages to the book. We men have read the one;
The other needs a spirit-look, in lands beyond the sun.

X.

The other needs a poet's eye,
Like that of Milton blind;
The light of Faith which cannot die,
Though doubts perplex the mind;
The eyesight of a little child; a martyr's eye in dole,
Which sees afar the golden star that shines upon the soul!

A PRAYER FOR LIGHT.

I.

Oh, give me light, to-day, or let me die,--
The light of love, the love-light of the sky,--
That I, at length, may see my darling's face
One minute's space.

II.

Have I not wept to know myself so weak
That I can feel, not see, the dimpled cheek,
The lips, the eyes, the sunbeams that enfold
Her locks of gold?

III.

Have I not sworn that I will not be wed,
But mate my soul with hers on my death-bed?
The soul can see,--for souls are seraphim,--
When eyes are dim.

IV.

Oh, hush! she comes. I know her. She is nigh.
She brings me death, true heart, and I will die.
She brings me love, for love and life are one
Beyond the sun.

V.

This is the measure, this, of all my joys:
Life is a curse and Death's a counterpoise.
Give me thy hand, O sweet one, let me know
Which path I go.

VI.

I cannot die if thou be not a-near,
To lead me on to Life's appointed sphere.
O spirit-face, O angel, with thy breath
Kiss me to death!

MIRAGE.

I.

'Tis a legend of a lover,
'Tis a ballad to be sung,
In the gloaming,--under cover,--
By a minstrel who is young;
By a singer who has passion, and who sways us with his tongue.

II.

I, who know it, think upon it,
Not unhappy, tho' in tears,
And I gather in a sonnet
All the glory of the years;
And I kiss and clasp a shadow when the substance disappears.

III.

Ah! I see her as she faced me,
In the sinless summer days,
When her little hands embraced me,
And I saddened at her gaze,
Thinking, Sweet One! will she love me when we walk in other ways?

IV.

Will she cling to me as kindly
When the childish faith is lost?
Will she pray for me as blindly,
Or but weigh the wish and cost,
Looking back on our lost Eden from the girlhood she has cross'd?

V.

Oh! I swear by all I honour,
By the graves that I endow,
By the grace I set upon her,
That I meant the early vow,--
Meant it much as men and women mean the same thing spoken now.

VI.

But her maiden troth is broken,
And her mind is ill at ease,
And she sends me back no token
From her home beyond the seas;
And I know, though nought is spoken, that she thanks me on her knees.

VII.

Yes, for pardon freely granted;
For she wrong'd me, understand.
And my life is disenchanted,
As I wander through the land
With the sorrows of dark morrows that await me in a band.

VIII.

Hers was sweetest of sweet faces,
Hers the tenderest eyes of all!
In her hair she had the traces
Of a heavenly coronal,
Bringing sunshine to sad places where the sunlight could not fall.

IX.

She was fairer than a vision;
Like a vision, too, has flown.
I who flushed at her decision,
Lo! I languish here alone;
And I tremble when I tell you that my anger was mine own.

X.

Not for her, sweet sainted creature!
Could I curse her to her face?
Could I look on form and feature,
And deny the inner grace?
Like a little wax Madonna she was holy in the place.

XI.

And I told her, in mad fashion,
That I loved her,--would incline
All my life to this one passion,
And would kneel as at a shrine;
And would love her late and early, and would teach her to be mine.

XII.

Now in dreams alone I meet her
With my lowly human praise;
She is sweeter and completer,
And she smiles on me always;
But I dare not rise and greet her as I did in early days.

A MOTHER'S NAME.

I.

I love the sound! The sweetest under Heaven,
That name of mother,--and the proudest, too.
As babes we breathe it, and with seven times seven
Of youthful prayers, and blessings that accrue,
We still repeat the word, with tender steven.
Dearest of friends! dear mother! what we do
This side the grave, in purity of aim,
Is glorified at last by thy good name.

II.

But how forlorn the word, how full of woe,
When she who bears it lies beneath the clod.
In vain the orphan child would call her so,--
She comes not back: her place is up with God.
The wintry winds are wailing o'er the snow;
The flowers are dead that once did grace the sod.
Ah, lose not heart! Some flowers may fade in gloom,
But Hope's a plant grows brightest on the tomb!

A SONG OF SERVITUDE.

I.

This is a song of serfs that I have made,
A song of sympathy for grief and joy:--
The old, the young, the lov'd and the betrayed,
All, all must serve, for all must be obeyed.

II.

There are no tyrants but the serving ones,
There are no servants but the ruling men.
The Captain conquers with his army's guns,
But he himself is conquered by his sons.

III.

What is a parent but a daughter's slave,
A son's retainer when the lad is ill?
The great Creator loves the good and brave,
And makes a flower the spokesman of a grave.

IV.

The son is servant in his father's halls,
The daughter is her mother's maid-of-work.
The welkin wonders when the ocean calls,
And earth accepts the raindrop when it falls.

V.

There are no "ups" in life, there are no "downs,"
For "high" and "low" are words of like degree;
He who is light of heart when Fortune frowns,
He is a king though nameless in the towns.

VI.

None is so lofty as the sage who prays,
None so unhigh as he who will not kneel.
The breeze is servant to the summer days,
And he is bowed-to most who most obeys.

VII.

These are the maxims that I take to heart,
Do thou accept them, reader, for thine own;
Love well thy work; be truthful in the mart,
And foes will praise thee when thy friends depart.

VIII.

None shall upbraid thee then for thine estate,
Or show thee meaner than thou art in truth.
Make friends with death; and God who is so great,
He will assist thee to a nobler fate.

IX.

None are unfit to serve upon their knees
The saints of prayer, unseen but quick to hear.
The flowers are servants to the pilgrim bees,
And wintry winds are tyrants of the trees.

X.

All things are good; all things incur a debt,
And all must pay the same, or soon or late
The sun will rise betimes, but he must set;
And Man must seek the laws he would forget.

XI.

There are no mockeries in the universe,
No false accounts, no errors that will thrive.
The work we do, the good things we rehearse,
Are boons of Nature basely named a curse.

XII.

"Give us our daily bread!" the children pray,
And mothers plead for them while thus they speak.
But "Give us work, O God!" we men should say,
That we may gain our bread from day to day.

XIII.

'Tis not alone the crown that makes the king;
'Tis service done, 'tis duty to his kind.
The lark that soars so high is quick to sing,
And proud to yield allegiance to the spring.

XIV.

And we who serve ourselves, whate'er befall
Athwart the dangers of the day's behests,
Oh, let's not shirk, at joy or sorrow's call,
The service due to God who serves us all!

SYLVIA IN THE WEST.

I.

What shall be done? I cannot pray;
And none shall know the pangs I feel.
If prayers could alter night to day,--
Or black to white,--I might appeal;
I might attempt to sway thy heart,
And prove it mine, or claim a part.

II.

I might attempt to urge on thee
At least the chance of some redress:--
An hour's revoke,--a moment's plea,--
A smile to make my sorrows less.
I might indeed be taught in time
To blush for hope, as for a crime!

III.

But thou art stone, though soft and fleet,--
A statue, not a maiden, thou!
A man may hear thy bosom beat
When thou hast sworn some idle vow.
But not for love, no! not for this;
For thou wilt sell thy bridal kiss.

IV.

I mean, thy friends will sell thy love,
As loves are sold in England, here.
A man will buy my golden dove,--
I doubt he'll find his bargain dear!
He'll lose the wine; he'll buy the bowl,
The life, the limbs, but not the soul.

V.

So, take thy mate and all his wealth,
And all the joys that wait on fame.
Thou'lt weep,--poor martyr'd one!--by stealth,
And think of me, and shriek my name;
Yes, in his arms! And wake, too late,
To coax and kiss the man you hate.

VI.

By slow degrees, from year to year,
From week to week, from night to night,
He will be taught how dark and drear
Is barter'd love,--how sad to sight
A perjured face! He will be driven
To compass Hell,--and dream of Heaven.

VII.

But stand at God's high altar there,
With saints around thee tall and sweet,
I'll match thy pride with my despair,
And drag thee down from glory's seat.
Yea, thou shalt kneel! Thy head shall bow
As mine is bent in anguish now.

VIII.

What! for thy sake have I forsworn
My just ambition,--all my joy,
And all my hope from morn to morn,
That seem'd a prize without alloy?
Have I done this? I have; and see!
I weep wild tears for thine and thee.

IX.

But I can school my soul to strength,
And weep and wail as children do;
Be hard as stone, yet melt at length,
And curb my pride as thou can'st, too!
But I have faith, and thou hast none;
And I have joy, but thine is done.

X.

No marriage-bells? No songs, you say?
No flowers to grace our bridal morn?
No wine? No kiss? No wedding-day?
I care not! Oaths are all forsworn;
And, when I clasp'd thy hand so white,
I meant to curse thee, girl, to-night.

XI.

And so I shall,--Oh! doubt not that.
At stroke of twelve I'll curse thee twice.
When screams the owl, when swoops the bat,
When ghosts are out I'll curse thee thrice.
And thou shalt hear!--Aye, by my troth,
One song will suit the souls of both.

XII.

I curse thy face; I curse thy hair;
I curse thy lips that smile so well,
Thy life, thy love, and my despair,
My loveless couch, thy wedding-bell;
My soul and thine!--Ah, see! though black,
I take one half my curses back.

XIII.

For thou and I were form'd for hate,
For love, for scorn; no matter what.
I am thy Fere and thou my Fate,
And fire and flood shall harm us not.
Thou shalt be kill'd and hid from ken,
And fiends will sing thy requiem then.

XIV.

Yet think not Death will serve thy stead;
I'll find thy grave, though wall'd in stone.
I'll move thy mould to make my bed,
And lie with thee long hours alone:--
Long, lifeless hours! Ah God, how free,
How pale, how cold, thy lips will be!

XV.

But graves are cells of truth and love,
And men may talk no treason there.
A corpse will wear no wedding-glove,
A ghost will make no sign in air.
But ghosts can pray? Well, let them kneel;
They, too, must loathe the love they feel.

* * * * *

XVI.

Ah me! to sleep and yet to wake,
To live so long, and yet to die;
To sing sad songs for Sylvia's sake,
And yet no peace to gain thereby!
What have I done? What left unsaid?
Nay, I will count my tears instead.

XVII.

Here is a word of wild design.
Here is a threat; 'twas meant to warn.
Here is a fierce and freezing line,
As hot as hate, as cold as scorn.
Ah, friend! forgive; forbear my rhymes,
But pray for me, sweet soul! sometimes.

XVIII.

Had I a curse to spare to-day,
(Which I have not) I'd use it now.
I'd curse my hair to turn it gray,
I'd teach my back to bend and bow;
I'd make myself so old and thin
That I should seem too sad to sin.

XIX.

And then we'd meet, we two, at night;
And I should know what saints have known.
Thou would'st not tremble, dear, for fright,
Or shriek to meet me there alone.
I should not then be spurned for this,
Or want a smile, or need a kiss.

XX.

I should not then be fierce as fire,
Or mad as sin, or sharp as knife;
My heart would throb with no desire,
For care would cool the flush of life;
And I should love thee, spotless one,
As pilgrims love some holy nun.

XXI.

Ah, queen-like creature! smile on me;
Be kind, be good; I lov'd thee much.
I thank thee, see! on bended knee.
I seek salvation in thy touch.
And when I sleep I watch thee come,
And both are wild, and one is dumb.

XXII.

I draw thee, ghost-like, to my heart;
I kiss thy lips and call thee mine.
Of thy sweet soul I form a part,
And my poor soul is part of thine.
Ah, kill me, kiss me, curse me, Thou!
But let me be thy servant now.

XXIII.

What! did I curse thy golden hair?
Well, then, the sun will set at noon;
The face that keeps the world so fair
Is thine, not his; he darkens soon.
Thy smile awakes the bird of dawn,
And day departs when thou art gone.

XXIV.

Oh! had I groves in some sweet star
That shines in Heaven the whole night through,--
A steed with wings,--a golden car,--
A something wild and strange and true:--
A fairy's wand,--an angel's crown,--
I'd merge them all in thy renown.

XXV.

I'd give thee queens to wait on thee,
And kings to kneel to thee in prayer,
And seraph-boys by land and sea
To do thy bidding,--earth and air
To pay thee homage,--all the flowers,--
And all the nymphs in all the bowers.

XXVI.

And this our love should last for aye,
And we should live these thousand years.
We'd meet in Mars on Christmas Day,
And make the tour of all the spheres.
We'd do strange things! Sweet stars would shine,
And Death would spare my love and thine.

XXVII.

But these are dreams; and dreams are vain;
Mine most of all,--so heed them not.
Brave thoughts will die, though men complain,
And mine was bold! 'Tis now forgot.
Well; let me bless thee, ere I sleep,
And give thee all my joys to keep.

XXVIII.

I bless the house where thou wast born,
I bless the hours of every night,
And every hour from flush of morn
Till death of day, for thy delight;
I bless the sunbeams as they shine,--
So like those golden locks of thine.

XXIX.

I bless thy lips, thy lustrous eyes,
Thy face, thy feet, thy forehead fair,
The light that shines in summer skies,--
In garden walks when thou art there,--
And all the grass beneath thy feet,
And all the songs thou singest, Sweet!

XXX.

But blessing thus,--ah, woe's the day!--
I know what tears I shall not shed,
What flowers will bloom, and, bright as they,
What bells will ring when I am dead.
Ah, kill me, kiss me, curse me, Thou!
But let me be thy minstrel now.

ELEANORE.

I.

The forest flowers are faded all,
The winds complain, the snow-flakes fall,
Eleanore!
I turn to thee, as to a bower:--
Thou breathest beauty like a flower,
Thou smilest like a happy hour,
Eleanore!

II.

I turn to thee. I bless afar
Thy name, which is my guiding-star,
Eleanore!
And yet, ah God! when thou art here
I faint, I hold my breath for fear.
Art thou some phantom wandering near,
Eleanore?

III.

Oh, take me to thy bosom fair;
Oh, cover me with thy golden hair,
Eleanore!
There let me lie when I am dead,
Those morning beams about me spread,
The glory of thy face o'erhead,
Eleanore!

THE STATUE.

I.

See where my lady stands,
Lifting her lustrous hands,--
Here let me bow.
Image of truth and grace!
Maid with the angel-face!
Earth was no dwelling-place
For such as thou.

II.

Ah, thou unhappy stone,
Make now thy sorrows known;
Make known thy longing.
Thou art the form of one
Whom I, with hopes undone,
Buried at set of sun,--
All the friends thronging.

III.

Thou art some Vision bright
Lost out of Heaven at night,
Far from thy race.
Oft when the others dance,
Come I, with wistful glance,
Fearful lest thou, perchance,
Leave the dark place.

IV.

No! thou wilt never flee,
Earth has a charm for thee;--
Why should we sever?
Years have I seen thee so,
Making pretence to go,
Lifting thine arms of snow,--
Voiceless for ever!

V.

Here bring I all my cares,
Here dream and say my prayers
While the bells toll.
O thou beloved saint!
Let not my courage faint,
Let not a shame, or taint,
Injure my soul!

PABLO DE SARASATE.

I.

Who comes, to-day, with sunlight on his face,
And eyes of fire, that have a sorrow's trace,
But are not sad with sadness of the years,
Or hints of tears?

II.

He is a king, or I mistake the sign,
A king of song,--a comrade of the Nine,--
The Muses' brother, and their youngest one,
This side the sun.

III.

See how he bends to greet his soul's desire,
His violin, which trembles like a lyre,
And seems to trust him, and to know his touch,
Belov'd so much!

IV.

He stands full height; he draws it to his breast,
Like one, in joy, who takes a wonder-guest,--
A weird, wild thing, bewitched from end to end,--
To be his friend.

V.

And who can doubt the right it has to lie
So near his heart, and there to sob and sigh,
And there to shake its octaves into notes
With bird-like throats.

VI.

Ah! see how deftly, with his lifted bow,
He strikes the chords of ecstasy and woe,
And wakes the wailing of the sprite within
That knows not sin.

VII.

A thousand heads are turn'd to where he stands,
A thousand hopes are moulded to his hands,
And, like a storm-wind hurrying from the north,
A shout breaks forth.

VIII.

It is the welcome that of old was given
To Paganini ere he join'd in Heaven
The angel-choirs of those who serve aright
The God of Light.

IX.

It is the large, loud utterance of a throng
That loves a faith-employ'd, impassion'd song;
A song that soothes the heart, and makes it sad,--
Yet keeps us glad.

X.

For look! how bearded men and women fair
Shed tears and smile, and half repeat a prayer
And half are shamed in their so mean estate,
And he so great!

XI.

This is the young Endymion out of Spain
Who, laurel-crown'd, has come to us again
To re-intone the songs of other times
In far-off climes.

XII.

To prove again that Music, by the plea
Of all men's love, has link'd from sea to sea
All shores of earth in one serene and grand
Symphonic land.

XIII.

Oh! hush the while! Oh! hush! A bird has sung
A Mayday bird has trill'd without a tongue,
And now, 'twould seem, has wandered out of sight
For sheer delight.

XIV.

A phantom bird! 'Tis gone where all things go--
The wind, the rain, the sunshine, and the snow,
The hopes we nurs'd, the dead things lately pass'd--
All dreams at last.

XV.

The towers of light, the castles in the air,
The queenly things with diamonds in their hair,
The toys of sound, the flowers of magic art--
All these depart.

XVI.

They seem'd to live; and lo! beyond recall,
They take the sweet sad Silence for a pall,
And, wrapt therein, consent to be dismiss'd,
Though glory-kiss'd.