Chapter IV: Introduction: A Short Life of Arnold (3)

Ah! he wanders forth again°; °243 We cannot keep him; now, as then, There's a secret in his breast° °245 Which will never let him rest. These musing fits in the green wood They cloud the brain, they dull the blood! --His sword is sharp, his horse is good; Beyond the mountains will he see 250 The famous towns of Italy, And label with the blessed sign° °252 The heathen Saxons on the Rhine. At Arthur's side he fights once more With the Roman Emperor.° °255 There's many a gay knight where he goes Will help him to forget his care; The march, the leaguer,° Heaven's blithe air, °258 The neighing steeds, the ringing blows-- Sick pining comes not where these are. 260 Ah! what boots it,° that the jest °261 Lightens every other brow, What, that every other breast Dances as the trumpets blow, If one's own heart beats not light 265 On the waves of the toss'd fight, If oneself cannot get free From the clog of misery? Thy lovely youthful wife grows pale Watching by the salt sea-tide 270 With her children at her side For the gleam of thy white sail. Home, Tristram, to thy halls again! To our lonely sea complain, To our forests tell thy pain! 275

_Tristram_. All round the forest sweeps off, black in shade, But it is moonlight in the open glade; And in the bottom of the glade shine clear The forest-chapel and the fountain near. --I think, I have a fever in my blood; 280 Come, let me leave the shadow of this wood, Ride down, and bathe my hot brow in the flood. --Mild shines the cold spring in the moon's clear light; God! 'tis _her_ face plays in the waters bright. "Fair love," she says, "canst thou forget so soon, 285 At this soft hour under this sweet moon?"-- Iseult!...

* * * * *

Ah, poor soul! if this be so,
Only death can balm thy woe.
The solitudes of the green wood 290
Had no medicine for thy mood;
The rushing battle clear'd thy blood
As little as did solitude.
--Ah! his eyelids slowly break
Their hot seals, and let him wake; 295
What new change shall we now see?
A happier? Worse it cannot be.

_Tristram_. Is my page here? Come, turn me to the fire! Upon the window-panes the moon shines bright; The wind is down--but she'll not come to-night. 300 Ah no! she is asleep in Cornwall now, Far hence; her dreams are fair--smooth is her brow Of me she recks not,° nor my vain desire. °303

--I have had dreams, I have had dreams, my page, Would take a score years from a strong man's age; 305 And with a blood like mine, will leave, I fear, Scant leisure for a second messenger.

--My princess, art thou there? Sweet, do not wait! To bed, and sleep! my fever is gone by; To-night my page shall keep me company. 310 Where do the children sleep? kiss them for me! Poor child, thou art almost as pale as I; This comes of nursing long and watching late. To bed--good night!° °314

* * * * *

She left the gleam-lit fireplace, 315 She came to the bed-side; She took his hands in hers--her tears Down on his wasted fingers rain'd. She raised her eyes upon his face-- Not with a look of wounded pride, 320 A look as if the heart complained-- Her look was like a sad embrace; The gaze of one who can divine A grief, and sympathise. Sweet flower! thy children's eyes 325 Are not more innocent than thine. But they sleep in shelter'd rest, Like helpless birds in the warm nest, On the castle's southern side; Where feebly comes the mournful roar 330 Of buffeting wind and surging tide Through many a room and corridor. --Full on their window the moon's ray Makes their chamber as bright as day. It shines upon the blank white walls, 335 And on the snowy pillow falls, And on two angel-heads doth play Turn'd to each other--the eyes closed, The lashes on the cheeks reposed. Round each sweet brow the cap close-set 340 Hardly lets peep the golden hair; Through the soft-open'd lips the air Scarcely moves the coverlet. One little wandering arm is thrown At random on the counterpane, 345 And often the fingers close in haste As if their baby-owner chased The butterflies again. This stir they have, and this alone; 350 But else they are so still! --Ah, tired madcaps! you lie still; But were you at the window now, To look forth on the fairy sight Of your illumined haunts by night, 355 To see the park-glades where you play Far lovelier than they are by day, To see the sparkle on the eaves, And upon every giant-bough Of those old oaks, whose wet red leaves 360 Are jewell'd with bright drops of rain-- How would your voices run again! And far beyond the sparkling trees Of the castle-park one sees The bare heaths spreading, clear as day, 365 Moor behind moor, far, far away, Into the heart of Brittany. And here and there, lock'd by the land, Long inlets of smooth glittering sea, And many a stretch of watery sand 370 All shining in the white moon-beams-- But you see fairer in your dreams!

What voices are these on the clear night-air? What lights in the court--what steps on the stair?

II

ISEULT OF IRELAND°

_Tristram_. Raise the light, my page! that I may see her.--
Thou art come at last, then, haughty Queen!
Long I've waited, long I've fought my fever;
Late thou comest, cruel thou hast been.

_Iseult_. Blame me not, poor sufferer! that I tarried; 5
Bound I was, I could not break the band.
Chide not with the past, but feel the present!
I am here--we meet--I hold thy hand.

_Tristram_. Thou art come, indeed--thou hast rejoin'd me;
Thou hast dared it--but too late to save. 10
Fear not now that men should tax thine honour!
I am dying: build--(thou may'st)--my grave!

_Iseult_. Tristram, ah, for love of Heaven, speak kindly!
What, I hear these bitter words from thee?
Sick with grief I am, and faint with travel-- 15
Take my hand--dear Tristram, look on me!

_Tristram_. I forgot, thou comest from thy voyage--
Yes, the spray is on thy cloak and hair.
But thy dark eyes are not dimm'd, proud Iseult!
And thy beauty never was more fair. 20

_Iseult_. Ah, harsh flatterer! let alone my beauty!
I, like thee, have left my youth afar.
Take my hand, and touch these wasted fingers--
See my cheek and lips, how white they are!

_Tristram_. Thou art paler--but thy sweet charm, Iseult! 25
Would not fade with the dull years away.
Ah, how fair thou standest in the moonlight!
I forgive thee, Iseult!--thou wilt stay?

_Iseult_. Fear me not, I will be always with thee;
I will watch thee, tend thee, soothe thy pain; 30
Sing thee tales of true, long-parted lovers,
Join'd at evening of their days again.

_Tristram_. No, thou shalt not speak! I should be finding
Something alter'd in thy courtly tone.
Sit--sit by me! I will think, we've lived so 35
In the green wood, all our lives, alone.

_Iseult_. Alter'd, Tristram? Not in courts, believe me,
Love like mine is alter'd in the breast;
Courtly life is light and cannot reach it--
Ah! it lives, because so deep-suppress'd! 40

What, thou think'st men speak in courtly chambers
Words by which the wretched are consoled?
What, thou think'st this aching brow was cooler,
Circled, Tristram, by a band of gold?

Royal state with Marc, my deep-wrong'd husband-- 45
That was bliss to make my sorrows flee!
Silken courtiers whispering honied nothings°--
Those were friends to make me false to thee!

Ah, on which, if both our lots were balanced,
Was indeed the heaviest burden thrown-- 50
Thee, a pining exile in thy forest,
Me, a smiling queen upon my throne?

Vain and strange debate, where both have suffer'd,
Both have pass'd a youth consumed and sad,
Both have brought their anxious day to evening, 55
And have now short space for being glad!

Join'd we are henceforth; nor will thy people,
Nor thy younger Iseult take it ill,
That a former rival shares her office,
When she sees her humbled, pale, and still. 60

I, a faded watcher by thy pillow,
I, a statue on thy chapel-floor,
Pour'd in prayer before the Virgin-Mother,
Rouse no anger, make no rivals more.

She will cry: "Is this the foe I dreaded? 65
This his idol? this that royal bride?
Ah, an hour of health would purge his eyesight!
Stay, pale queen! for ever by my side."

Hush, no words! that smile, I see, forgives me.
I am now thy nurse, I bid thee sleep. 70
Close thine eyes--this flooding moonlight blinds them!--
Nay, all's well again! thou must not weep.

_Tristram_. I am happy! yet I feel, there's something
Swells my heart, and takes my breath away.
Through a mist I see thee; near--come nearer! 75
Bend--bend down!--I yet have much to say.

_Iseult_. Heaven! his head sinks back upon the pillow--
Tristram! Tristram! let thy heart not fail!
Call on God and on the holy angels!
What, love, courage!--Christ! he is so pale. 80

_Tristram_. Hush, 'tis vain, I feel my end approaching!
This is what my mother said should be,
When the fierce pains took her in the forest,
The deep draughts of death, in bearing me.

"Son," she said, "thy name shall be of sorrow; 85
Tristram art thou call'd for my death's sake."
So she said, and died in the drear forest.
Grief since then his home with me doth make.° °88

I am dying.--Start not, nor look wildly!
Me, thy living friend, thou canst not save. 90
But, since living we were ununited,
Go not far, O Iseult! from my grave.

Close mine eyes, then seek the princess Iseult;
Speak her fair, she is of royal blood!
Say, I will'd so, that thou stay beside me-- 95
She will grant it; she is kind and good.

Now to sail the seas of death I leave thee--
One last kiss upon the living shore!

_Iseult_. Tristram!--Tristram!--stay--receive me with thee!
Iseult leaves thee, Tristram! never more.° °100

* * * * *

You see them clear--the moon shines bright. Slow, slow and softly, where she stood, She sinks upon the ground;--her hood Has fallen back; her arms outspread Still hold her lover's hand; her head 105 Is bow'd, half-buried, on the bed. O'er the blanch'd sheet her raven hair Lies in disorder'd streams; and there, Strung like white stars, the pearls still are, And the golden bracelets, heavy and rare, 110 Flash on her white arms still. The very same which yesternight Flash'd in the silver sconces'° light, °113 When the feast was gay and the laughter loud In Tyntagel's palace proud. 115 But then they deck'd a restless ghost With hot-flush'd cheeks and brilliant eyes, And quivering lips on which the tide Of courtly speech abruptly died, And a glance which over the crowded floor, 120 The dancers, and the festive host, Flew ever to the door.° °122 That the knights eyed her in surprise, And the dames whispered scoffingly: "Her moods, good lack, they pass like showers! 125 But yesternight and she would be As pale and still as wither'd flowers, And now to-night she laughs and speaks And has a colour in her cheeks; Christ keep us from such fantasy!"-- 130 Yes, now the longing is o'erpast, Which, dogg'd° by fear and fought by shame, °132 Shook her weak bosom day and night, Consumed her beauty like a flame, And dimm'd it like the desert-blast. 135 And though the bed-clothes hide her face, Yet were it lifted to the light, The sweet expression of her brow Would charm the gazer, till his thought Erased the ravages of time, 140 Fill'd up the hollow cheek, and brought A freshness back as of her prime-- So healing is her quiet now. So perfectly the lines express A tranquil, settled loveliness, 145 Her younger rival's purest grace.

The air of the December-night Steals coldly around the chamber bright, Where those lifeless lovers be; Swinging with it, in the light 150 Flaps the ghostlike tapestry. And on the arras wrought you see A stately Huntsman, clad in green, And round him a fresh forest-scene. On that clear forest-knoll he stays, 155 With his pack round him, and delays. He stares and stares, with troubled face, At this huge, gleam-lit fireplace, At that bright, iron-figured door, And those blown rushes on the floor. 160 He gazes down into the room With heated cheeks and flurried air, And to himself he seems to say: _"What place is this, and who are they? Who is that kneeling Lady fair? 165 And on his pillows that pale Knight Who seems of marble on a tomb? How comes it here, this chamber bright, Through whose mullion'd windows clear The castle-court all wet with rain, 170 The drawbridge and the moat appear, And then the beach, and, mark'd with spray, The sunken reefs, and far away The unquiet bright Atlantic plain? --What, has some glamour made me sleep, 175 And sent me with my dogs to sweep, By night, with boisterous bugle-peal, Through some old, sea-side, knightly hall, Not in the free green wood at all? That Knight's asleep, and at her prayer 180 That Lady by the bed doth kneel-- Then hush, thou boisterous bugle-peal!"_ --The wild boar rustles in his lair; The fierce hounds snuff the tainted air; But lord and hounds keep rooted there. 185

Cheer, cheer thy dogs into the brake, O Hunter! and without a fear Thy golden-tassell'd bugle blow, And through the glades thy pastime take-- For thou wilt rouse no sleepers here! 190 For these thou seest are unmoved; Cold, cold as those who lived and loved A thousand years ago.° °193

III

ISEULT OF BRITTANY°

A year had flown, and o'er the sea away, In Cornwall, Tristram and Queen Iseult lay; In King Marc's chapel, in Tyntagel old-- There in a ship they bore those lovers cold.

The young surviving Iseult, one bright day, 5 Had wander'd forth. Her children were at play In a green circular hollow in the heath Which borders the sea-shore--a country path Creeps over it from the till'd fields behind. The hollow's grassy banks are soft-inclined, 10 And to one standing on them, far and near The lone unbroken view spreads bright and clear Over the waste. This cirque° of open ground °13 Is light and green; the heather, which all round Creeps thickly, grows not here; but the pale grass 15 Is strewn with rocks, and many a shiver'd mass Of vein'd white-gleaming quartz, and here and there Dotted with holly-trees and juniper.° °18 In the smooth centre of the opening stood Three hollies side by side, and made a screen, 20 Warm with the winter-sun, of burnish'd green With scarlet berries gemm'd, the fell-fare's° food. °22 Under the glittering hollies Iseult stands, Watching her children play; their little hands Are busy gathering spars of quartz, and streams 25 Of stagshorn° for their hats; anon, with screams °26 Of mad delight they drop their spoils, and bound Among the holly-clumps and broken ground, Racing full speed, and startling in their rush The fell-fares and the speckled missel-thrush 30 Out of their glossy coverts;--but when now Their cheeks were flush'd, and over each hot brow, Under the feather'd hats of the sweet pair, In blinding masses shower'd the golden hair-- Then Iseult call'd them to her, and the three 35 Cluster'd under the holly-screen, and she Told them an old-world Breton history.° °37

Warm in their mantles wrapt the three stood there, Under the hollies, in the clear still air-- Mantles with those rich furs deep glistering 40 Which Venice ships do from swart Egypt bring. Long they stay'd still--then, pacing at their ease, Moved up and down under the glossy trees. But still, as they pursued their warm dry road, From Iseult's lips the unbroken story flow'd, 45 And still the children listen'd, their blue eyes Fix'd on their mother's face in wide surprise; Nor did their looks stray once to the sea-side, Nor to the brown heaths round them, bright and wide, Nor to the snow, which, though 'twas all away 50 From the open heath, still by the hedgerows lay, Nor to the shining sea-fowl, that with screams Bore up from where the bright Atlantic gleams, Swooping to landward; nor to where, quite clear, The fell-fares settled on the thickets near. 55 And they would still have listen'd, till dark night Came keen and chill down on the heather bright; But, when the red glow on the sea grew cold, And the grey turrets of the castle old Look'd sternly through the frosty evening-air, 60 Then Iseult took by the hand those children fair, And brought her tale to an end, and found the path, And led them home over the darkening heath.

And is she happy? Does she see unmoved The days in which she might have lived and loved 65 Slip without bringing bliss slowly away, One after one, to-morrow like to-day? Joy has not found her yet, nor ever will-- Is it this thought which, makes her mien so still, Her features so fatigued, her eyes, though sweet, 70 So sunk, so rarely lifted save to meet Her children's? She moves slow; her voice alone Hath yet an infantine and silver tone, But even that comes languidly; in truth, She seems one dying in a mask of youth. 75 And now she will go home, and softly lay Her laughing children in their beds, and play Awhile with them before they sleep; and then She'll light her silver lamp, which fishermen Dragging their nets through the rough waves, afar, 80 Along this iron coast,° know like a star,° °81 And take her broidery-frame, and there she'll sit Hour after hour, her gold curls sweeping it; Lifting her soft-bent head only to mind Her children, or to listen to the wind. 85 And when the clock peals midnight, she will move Her work away, and let her fingers rove Across the shaggy brows of Tristram's hound Who lies, guarding her feet, along the ground; Or else she will fall musing, her blue eyes 90 Fixt, her slight hands clasp'd on her lap; then rise, And at her prie-dieu° kneel, until she have told °92 Her rosary-beads of ebony tipp'd with gold, Then to her soft sleep--and to-morrow'll be To-day's exact repeated effigy. 95

Yes, it is lonely for her in her hall. The children, and the grey-hair'd seneschal,° °97 Her women, and Sir Tristram's aged hound, Are there the sole companions to be found. But these she loves; and noiser life than this 100 She would find ill to bear, weak as she is. She has her children, too, and night and day Is with them; and the wide heaths where they play, The hollies, and the cliff, and the sea-shore, The sand, the sea-birds, and the distant sails, 105 These are to her dear as to them; the tales With which this day the children she beguiled She gleaned from Breton grandames, when a child, In every hut along this sea-coast wild. She herself loves them still, and, when they are told, 110 Can forget all to hear them, as of old.

Dear saints, it is not sorrow, as I hear, Not suffering, which shuts up eye and ear To all that has delighted them before, And lets us be what we were once no more. 115 No, we may suffer deeply, yet retain Power to be moved and soothed, for all our pain, By what of old pleased us, and will again. No, 'tis the gradual furnace of the world, In whose hot air our spirits are upcurl'd 120 Until they crumble, or else grow like steel-- Which kills in us the bloom, the youth, the spring-- Which leaves the fierce necessity to feel, But takes away the power--this can avail, By drying up our joy in everything, 125 To make our former pleasures all seem stale. This, or some tyrannous single thought, some fit Of passion, which subdues our souls to it, Till for its sake alone we live and move-- Call it ambition, or remorse, or love-- 130 This too can change us wholly, and make seem All which we did before, shadow and dream.

And yet, I swear, it angers me to see How this fool passion gulls° men potently; °134 Being, in truth, but a diseased unrest, 135 And an unnatural overheat at best. How they are full of languor and distress Not having it; which when they do possess, They straightway are burnt up with fume and care, And spend their lives in posting here and there° °140 Where this plague drives them; and have little ease, Are furious with themselves, and hard to please. Like that bold Cæsar,° the famed Roman wight, °143 Who wept at reading of a Grecian knight Who made a name at younger years than he; 145 Or that renown'd mirror of chivalry, Prince Alexander,° Philip's peerless son, °147 Who carried the great war from Macedon Into the Soudan's° realm, and thundered on °149 To die at thirty-five in Babylon. 150

What tale did Iseult to the children say, Under the hollies, that bright-winter's day? She told them of the fairy-haunted land Away the other side of Brittany, Beyond the heaths, edged by the lonely sea; 155 Of the deep forest-glades of Broce-liande,° °156 Through whose green boughs the golden sunshine creeps Where Merlin by the enchanted thorn-tree sleeps. For here he came with the fay° Vivian, °158 One April, when the warm days first began. He was on foot, and that false fay, his friend, 160 On her white palfrey; here he met his end, In these lone sylvan glades, that April-day. This tale of Merlin and the lovely fay° °163 Was the one Iseult chose, and she brought clear Before the children's fancy him and her. 165

Blowing between the stems, the forest-air Had loosen'd the brown locks of Vivian's hair, Which play'd on her flush'd cheek, and her blue eyes Sparkled with mocking glee and exercise. Her palfrey's flanks were mired and bathed in sweat, 170 For they had travell'd far and not stopp'd yet. A brier in that tangled wilderness Had scored her white right hand, which she allows To rest ungloved on her green riding-dress; The other warded off the drooping boughs. 175 But still she chatted on, with her blue eyes Fix'd full on Merlin's face, her stately prize. Her 'haviour had the morning's fresh clear grace, The spirit of the woods was in her face. She look'd so witching fair, that learned wight 180 Forgot his craft, and his best wits took flight; And he grew fond, and eager to obey His mistress, use her empire° as she may. °184 They came to where the brushwood ceased, and day 185 Peer'd 'twixt the stems; and the ground broke away, In a sloped sward down to a brawling brook; And up as high as where they stood to look On the brook's farther side was clear, but then The underwood and trees began again. 190 This open glen was studded thick with thorns Then white with blossom; and you saw the horns, Through last year's fern, of the shy fallow-deer Who come at noon down to the water here. You saw the bright-eyed squirrels dart along 195 Under the thorns on the green sward; and strong The blackbird whistled from the dingles near, And the weird chipping of the woodpecker Rang lonelily and sharp; the sky was fair, And a fresh breath of spring stirr'd everywhere. 200 Merlin and Vivian stopp'd on the slope's brow, To gaze on the light sea of leaf and bough Which glistering plays all round them, lone and mild. As if to itself the quiet forest smiled. Upon the brow-top grew a thorn, and here 205 The grass was dry and moss'd, and you saw clear Across the hollow; white anemones Starr'd the cool turf, and clumps of primroses Ran out from the dark underwood behind. No fairer resting-place a man could find. 210 "Here let us halt," said Merlin then; and she Nodded, and tied her palfrey to a tree.

They sate them down together, and a sleep Fell upon Merlin, more like death, so deep. Her finger on her lips, then Vivian rose 215 And from her brown-lock'd head the wimple throws, And takes it in her hand, and waves it over The blossom'd thorn-tree and her sleeping lover. Nine times she waved the fluttering wimple° round, °219 And made a little plot of magic ground. 220 And in that daised circle, as men say, Is Merlin prisoner° till the judgment-day; °222 But she herself whither she will can rove-- For she was passing weary of his love.° °224

LYRICAL POEMS

THE CHURCH OF BROU°

I

THE CASTLE

Down the Savoy° valleys sounding, °1
Echoing round this castle old,
'Mid the distant mountain-chalets° °3
Hark! what bell for church is toll'd?

In the bright October morning 5
Savoy's Duke had left his bride.
From the castle, past the drawbridge,
Flow'd the hunters' merry tide.

Steeds are neighing, gallants glittering;
Gay, her smiling lord to greet, 10
From her mullion'd chamber-casement
Smiles the Duchess Marguerite.

From Vienna, by the Danube,
Here she came, a bride, in spring.
Now the autumn crisps the forest; 15
Hunters gather, bugles ring.

Hounds are pulling, prickers° swearing, °17
Horses fret, and boar-spears glance.
Off!--They sweep the marshy forests.
Westward, on the side of France. 20

Hark! the game's on foot; they scatter!--
Down the forest-ridings lone,
Furious, single horsemen gallop----
Hark! a shout--a crash--a groan!

Pale and breathless, came the hunters; 25
On the turf dead lies the boar--
God! the Duke lies stretch'd beside him,
Senseless, weltering in his gore.

* * * * *

In the dull October evening,
Down the leaf-strewn forest-road, 30
To the castle, past the drawbridge,
Came the hunters with their load.

In the hall, with sconces blazing,
Ladies waiting round her seat,
Clothed in smiles, beneath the dais° °35
Sate the Duchess Marguerite.

Hark! below the gates unbarring!
Tramp of men and quick commands!
"--'Tis my lord come back from hunting--"
And the Duchess claps her hands. 40

Slow and tired, came the hunters--
Stopp'd in darkness in the court.
"--Ho, this way, ye laggard hunters!
To the hall! What sport? What sport?"--

Slow they enter'd with their master; 45
In the hall they laid him down.
On his coat were leaves and blood-stains,
On his brow an angry frown.

Dead her princely youthful husband
Lay before his youthful wife, 50
Bloody, 'neath the flaring sconces--
And the sight froze all her life.

* * * * *

In Vienna, by the Danube,
Kings hold revel, gallants meet.
Gay of old amid the gayest 55
Was the Duchess Marguerite.

In Vienna, by the Danube,
Feast and dance her youth beguiled.
Till that hour she never sorrow'd;
But from then she never smiled. 60

'Mid the Savoy mountain valleys
Far from town or haunt of man,
Stands a lonely church, unfinish'd,
Which the Duchess Maud began;

Old, that Duchess stern began it, 65
In grey age, with palsied hands;
But she died while it was building,
And the Church unfinish'd stands--

Stands as erst° the builders left it, °69
When she sank into her grave; 70
Mountain greensward paves the chancel,° °71
Harebells flower in the nave.° °72

"--In my castle all is sorrow,"
Said the Duchess Marguerite then;
"Guide me, some one, to the mountain! 75
We will build the Church again."--

Sandall'd palmers,° faring homeward, °78
Austrian knights from Syria came.
"--Austrian wanderers bring, O warders!
Homage to your Austrian dame."-- 80

From the gate the warders answer'd:
"--Gone, O knights, is she you knew!
Dead our Duke, and gone his Duchess;
Seek her at the Church of Brou!"--

Austrian knights and march-worn palmers 85
Climb the winding mountain-way.--
Reach the valley, where the Fabric
Rises higher day by day.

Stones are sawing, hammers ringing;
On the work the bright sun shines, 90
In the Savoy mountain-meadows,
By the stream, below the pines.

On her palfry white the Duchess
Sate and watch'd her working train--
Flemish carvers, Lombard gilders, 95
German masons, smiths from Spain.

Clad in black, on her white palfrey,
Her old architect beside--
There they found her in the mountains,
Morn and noon and eventide. 100

There she sate, and watch'd the builders,
Till the Church was roof'd and done.
Last of all, the builders rear'd her
In the nave a tomb of stone.

On the tomb two forms they sculptured, 105
Lifelike in the marble pale--
One, the Duke in helm and armour;
One, the Duchess in her veil.

Round the tomb the carved stone fretwork° °109
Was at Easter-tide put on. 110
Then the Duchess closed her labours;
And she died at the St. John.

II

THE CHURCH

Upon the glistening leaden roof Of the new Pile, the sunlight shines; The stream goes leaping by. The hills are clothed with pines sun-proof; 'Mid bright green fields, below the pines, 5 Stands the Church on high. What Church is this, from men aloof?-- 'Tis the Church of Brou.

At sunrise, from their dewy lair Crossing the stream, the kine are seen 10 Round the wall to stray-- The churchyard wall that clips the square Of open hill-sward fresh and green Where last year they lay. But all things now are order'd fair 15 Round the Church of Brou.

On Sundays, at the matin-chime,° °17 The Alpine peasants, two and three, Climb up here to pray; Burghers and dames, at summer's prime, 20 Ride out to church from Chambery,° °21 Dight° with mantles gay. °22 But else it is a lonely time Round the Church of Brou.

On Sundays, too, a priest doth come 25 From the wall'd town beyond the pass, Down the mountain-way; And then you hear the organ's hum, You hear the white-robed priest say mass, And the people pray. 30 But else the woods and fields are dumb Round the Church of Brou.

And after church, when mass is done, The people to the nave repair Round the tomb to stray; 35 And marvel at the Forms of stone, And praise the chisell'd broideries° rare-- °37 Then they drop away. The princely Pair are left alone In the Church of Brou. 40

III

THE TOMB

So rest, for ever rest, O princely Pair! In your high church, 'mid the still mountain-air, Where horn, and hound, and vassals never come. Only the blessed Saints are smiling dumb, From the rich painted windows of the nave, 5 On aisle, and transept,° and your marble grave; °6 Where thou, young Prince! shalt never more arise From the fringed mattress where thy Duchess lies, On autumn-mornings, when the bugle sounds, And ride across the drawbridge with thy hounds 10 To hunt the boar in the crisp woods till eve; And thou, O Princess! shalt no more receive, Thou and thy ladies, in the hall of state, The jaded hunters with their bloody freight, Coming benighted to the castle-gate. 15

So sleep, for ever sleep, O marble Pair! Or, if ye wake, let it be then, when fair On the carved western front a flood of light Streams from the setting sun, and colours bright Prophets, transfigured Saints, and Martyrs brave, 20 In the vast western window of the nave, And on the pavement round the Tomb there glints A chequer-work of glowing sapphire-tints, And amethyst, and ruby--then unclose Your eyelids on the stone where ye repose, 25 And from your broider'd pillows lift your heads, And rise upon your cold white marble beds; And, looking down on the warm rosy tints, Which chequer, at your feet, the illumined flints, Say: _What is this? we are in bliss--forgiven--_ 30 _Behold the pavement of the courts of Heaven!_ Or let it be on autumn nights, when rain Doth rustlingly above your heads complain On the smooth leaden roof, and on the walls Shedding her pensive light at intervals 35 The moon through the clere-story windows shines, And the wind washes through the mountain-pines. Then, gazing up 'mid the dim pillars high, The foliaged marble forest° where ye lie, °39 _Hush_, ye will say, _it is eternity!_ 40 _This is the glimmering verge of Heaven, and these The columns of the heavenly palaces!_ And, in the sweeping of the wind, your ear The passage of the Angels' wings will hear, And on the lichen-crusted leads° above °45 The rustle of the eternal rain of love.

REQUIESCAT°

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

Her mirth the world required; 5
She bathed it in smiles of glee.
But her heart was tired, tired,
And now they let her be.

Her life was turning, turning,
In mazes of heat and sound. 10
But for peace her soul was yearning,
And now peace laps her round.

Her cabin'd,° ample spirit, °13
It flutter'd and fail'd for breath
To-night it doth inherit 15
The vasty° hall of death. °16

CONSOLATION

Mist clogs the sunshine. Smoky dwarf houses Hem me round everywhere; A vague dejection Weighs down my soul. 5

Yet, while I languish, Everywhere countless Prospects unroll themselves, And countless beings Pass countless moods. 10

Far hence, in Asia, On the smooth convent-roofs, On the gilt terraces, Of holy Lassa,° °14 Bright shines the sun. 15

Grey time-worn marbles Hold the pure Muses°; °17 In their cool gallery,° °18 By yellow Tiber,° °19 They still look fair. 20

Strange unloved uproar° °21 Shrills round their portal; Yet not on Helicon° °23 Kept they more cloudless Their noble calm. 25

Through sun-proof alleys In a lone, sand-hemm'd City of Africa, A blind, led beggar, Age-bow'd, asks alms. 30

No bolder robber Erst° abode ambush'd °32 Deep in the sandy waste; No clearer eyesight Spied prey afar. 35

Saharan sand-winds Sear'd his keen eyeballs; Spent is the spoil he won. For him the present Holds only pain. 40

Two young, fair lovers, Where the warm June-wind, Fresh from the summer fields Plays fondly round them, Stand, tranced in joy. 45

With sweet, join'd voices, And with eyes brimming: "Ah," they cry, "Destiny,° °48 Prolong the present! Time, stand still here!" 50

The prompt stern Goddess Shakes her head, frowning; Time gives his hour-glass Its due reversal; Their hour is gone. 55

With weak indulgence Did the just Goddess Lengthen their happiness, She lengthen'd also Distress elsewhere. 60

The hour, whose happy Unalloy'd moments I would eternalise, Ten thousand mourners Well pleased see end. 65

The bleak, stern hour, Whose severe moments I would annihilate, Is pass'd by others In warmth, light, joy. 70

Time, so complain'd of, Who to no one man Shows partiality, Brings round to all men Some undimm'd hours. 75

A DREAM

Was it a dream? We sail'd, I thought we sail'd, Martin and I, down the green Alpine stream, Border'd, each bank, with pines; the morning sun, On the wet umbrage of their glossy tops, On the red pinings of their forest-floor, 5 Drew a warm scent abroad; behind the pines The mountain-skirts, with all their sylvan change Of bright-leaf'd chestnuts and moss'd walnut-trees And the frail scarlet-berried ash, began. Swiss chalets glitter'd on the dewy slopes, 10 And from some swarded shelf, high up, there came Notes of wild pastoral music--over all Ranged, diamond-bright, the eternal wall of snow. Upon the mossy rocks at the stream's edge, Back'd by the pines, a plank-built cottage stood, 15 Bright in the sun; the climbing gourd-plant's leaves Muffled its walls, and on the stone-strewn roof Lay the warm golden gourds; golden, within, Under the eaves, peer'd rows of Indian corn. We shot beneath the cottage with the stream. 20 On the brown, rude-carved balcony, two forms Came forth--Olivia's, Marguerite! and thine. Clad were they both in white, flowers in their breast; Straw hats bedeck'd their heads, with ribbons blue, Which danced, and on their shoulders, fluttering, play'd. 25 They saw us, they conferred; their bosoms heaved, And more than mortal impulse fill'd their eyes. Their lips moved; their white arms, waved eagerly, Flash'd once, like falling streams; we rose, we gazed. One moment, on the rapid's top, our boat 30 Hung poised--and then the darting river of Life (Such now, methought, it was), the river of Life, Loud thundering, bore us by; swift, swift it foam'd, Black under cliffs it raced, round headlands shone. Soon the plank'd cottage by the sun-warm'd pines 35 Faded--the moss--the rocks; us burning plains, Bristled with cities, us the sea received.

LINES°

WRITTEN IN KENSINGTON GARDENS

In this lone, open glade I lie, Screen'd by deep boughs on either hand; And at its end, to stay the eye, Those black-crown'd, red-boled pine-trees° stand! °4

Birds here make song, each bird has his, 5 Across the girdling city's hum. How green under the boughs it is! How thick the tremulous sheep-cries come!

Sometimes a child will cross the glade To take his nurse his broken toy; 10 Sometimes a thrush flit overhead Deep in her unknown day's employ.

Here at my feet what wonders pass, What endless, active life is here°! °14 What blowing daisies, fragrant grass! 15 An air-stirr'd forest, fresh and clear.

Scarce fresher is the mountain-sod Where the tired angler lies, stretch'd out, And, eased of basket and of rod, Counts his day's spoil, the spotted trout. 20

In the huge world,° which roars hard by, °21 Be others happy if they can! But in my helpless cradle I Was breathed on by the rural Pan.° °24

I, on men's impious uproar hurl'd, 25 Think often, as I hear them rave, That peace has left the upper world And now keeps only in the grave.

Yet here is peace for ever new! When I who watch them am away, 30 Still all things in this glade go through The changes of their quiet day.

Then to their happy rest they pass! The flowers upclose, the birds are fed, The night comes down upon the grass, 35 The child sleeps warmly in his bed.

Calm soul of all things! make it mine To feel, amid the city's jar, That there abides a peace of thine, Man did not make, and cannot mar. 40

The will to neither strive nor cry, The power to feel with others give°! Calm, calm me more! nor let me die Before I have begun to live.

THE STRAYED REVELLER°

_The Portico of Circe's Palace. Evening._

A YOUTH. CIRCE.°

_The Youth_. Faster, faster, O Circe, Goddess, Let the wild, thronging train, The bright procession Of eddying forms, 5 Sweep through my soul!

Thou standest, smiling Down on me! thy right arm, Lean'd up against the column there, Props thy soft cheek; 10 Thy left holds, hanging loosely, The deep cup, ivy-cinctured,° °12 I held but now.

Is it, then, evening So soon? I see, the night-dews, 15 Cluster'd in thick beads, dim The agate brooch-stones On thy white shoulder; The cool night-wind, too, Blows through the portico, 20 Stirs thy hair, Goddess, Waves thy white robe!

_Circe_. Whence art thou, sleeper?

_The Youth_. When the white dawn first Through the rough fir-planks 25 Of my hut, by the chestnuts, Up at the valley-head, Came breaking, Goddess! I sprang up, I threw round me My dappled fawn-skin; 30 Passing out, from the wet turf, Where they lay, by the hut door, I snatch'd up my vine-crown, my fir-staff, All drench'd in dew-- Came swift down to join 35 The rout° early gather'd °36 In the town, round the temple, Iacchus'° white fane° °38 On yonder hill.

Quick I pass'd, following 40 The wood-cutters' cart-track Down the dark valley;--I saw On my left, through, the beeches, Thy palace, Goddess, Smokeless, empty! 45 Trembling, I enter'd; beheld The court all silent, The lions sleeping,° °47 On the altar this bowl. I drank, Goddess! 50 And sank down here, sleeping, On the steps of thy portico.

_Circe_. Foolish boy! Why tremblest thou? Thou lovest it, then, my wine? Wouldst more of it? See, how glows, 55 Through the delicate, flush'd marble, The red, creaming liquor, Strown with dark seeds! Drink, then! I chide thee not, Deny thee not my bowl. 60 Come, stretch forth thy hand, then--so! Drink--drink again!

_The Youth_. Thanks, gracious one! Ah, the sweet fumes again! More soft, ah me, 65 More subtle-winding Than Pan's flute-music!° °67 Faint--faint! Ah me, Again the sweet sleep!

_Circe_. Hist! Thou--within there! 70 Come forth, Ulysses°! °71 Art° tired with hunting? °72 While we range° the woodland, °73 See what the day brings.° °74

_Ulysses_. Ever new magic! 75 Hast thou then lured hither, Wonderful Goddess, by thy art, The young, languid-eyed Ampelus, Iacchus' darling-- Or some youth beloved of Pan, 80 Of Pan and the Nymphs°? °81 That he sits, bending downward His white, delicate neck To the ivy-wreathed marge Of thy cup; the bright, glancing vine-leaves 85 That crown his hair, Falling forward, mingling With the dark ivy-plants-- His fawn-skin, half untied, Smear'd with red wine-stains? Who is he, 90 That he sits, overweigh'd By fumes of wine and sleep, So late, in thy portico? What youth, Goddess,--what guest Of Gods or mortals? 95

_Circe_. Hist! he wakes! I lured him not hither, Ulysses. Nay, ask him!

_The Youth_. Who speaks? Ah, who comes forth To thy side, Goddess, from within? 100 How shall I name him? This spare, dark-featured, Quick-eyed stranger? Ah, and I see too His sailor's bonnet, 105 His short coat, travel-tarnish'd, With one arm bare°!-- °107 Art thou not he, whom fame This long time rumours The favour'd guest of Circe,° brought by the waves? °110 Art thou he, stranger? The wise Ulysses, Laertes' son?

_Ulysses_. I am Ulysses. And thou, too, sleeper? 115 Thy voice is sweet. It may be thou hast follow'd Through the islands some divine bard, By age taught many things, Age and the Muses°; °120 And heard him delighting The chiefs and people In the banquet, and learn'd his songs, Of Gods and Heroes, Of war and arts, 125 And peopled cities, Inland, or built By the grey sea.--If so, then hail! I honour and welcome thee.

_The Youth_. The Gods are happy. 130 They turn on all sides Their shining eyes, And see below them The earth and men.° °134

They see Tiresias° °135 Sitting, staff in hand, On the warm, grassy Asopus° bank, °138 His robe drawn over His old, sightless head, 140 Revolving inly The doom of Thebes.° °142

They see the Centaurs° °143 In the upper glens Of Pelion,° in the streams, °145 Where red-berried ashes fringe The clear-brown shallow pools, With streaming flanks, and heads Rear'd proudly, snuffing The mountain wind. 150

They see the Indian Drifting, knife in hand, His frail boat moor'd to A floating isle thick-matted With large-leaved, low-creeping melon-plants, 155 And the dark cucumber. He reaps, and stows them, Drifting--drifting;--round him, Round his green harvest-plot, Flow the cool lake-waves, 160 The mountains ring them.°

They see the Scythian On the wide stepp, unharnessing His wheel'd house at noon. He tethers his beast down, and makes his meal-- 165 Mares' milk, and bread Baked on the embers°;--all around °167 The boundless, waving grass-plains stretch, thick-starr'd With saffron and the yellow hollyhock And flag-leaved iris-flowers. 170 Sitting in his cart, He makes his meal; before him, for long miles, Alive with bright green lizards, And the springing bustard-fowl, The track, a straight black line, 175 Furrows the rich soil; here and there Clusters of lonely mounds Topp'd with rough-hewn, Grey, rain-blear'd statues, overpeer The sunny waste.° °180

They see the ferry On the broad, clay-laden. Lone Chorasmian stream°;--thereon, °183 With snort and strain, Two horses, strongly swimming, tow 185 The ferry-boat, with woven ropes To either bow Firm harness'd by the mane; a chief, With shout and shaken spear, Stands at the prow, and guides them; but astern 190 The cowering merchants, in long robes, Sit pale beside their wealth Of silk-bales and of balsam-drops, Of gold and ivory, Of turquoise-earth and amethyst, 195 Jasper and chalcedony, And milk-barr'd onyx-stones.° °197 The loaded boat swings groaning In the yellow eddies; The Gods behold them. 200 They see the Heroes Sitting in the dark ship On the foamless, long-heaving Violet sea, At sunset nearing 205 The Happy Islands.° °206

These things, Ulysses, The wise bards also Behold and sing. But oh, what labour! 210 O prince, what pain!

They too can see Tiresias;--but the Gods, Who give them vision, Added this law: 215 That they should bear too His groping blindness, His dark foreboding, His scorn'd white hairs; Bear Hera's anger° °220 Through a life lengthen'd To seven ages.

They see the Centaurs On Pelion;--then they feel, They too, the maddening wine 225 Swell their large veins to bursting; in wild pain They feel the biting spears Of the grim Lapithæ,° and Theseus,° drive, °228 Drive crashing through their bones°; they feel °229 High on a jutting rock in the red stream 230 Alcmena's dreadful son° °231 Ply his bow;--such a price The Gods exact for song: To become what we sing.

They see the Indian 235 On his mountain lake; but squalls Make their skiff reel, and worms In the unkind spring have gnawn Their melon-harvest to the heart.--They see The Scythian; but long frosts 240 Parch them in winter-time on the bare stepp, Till they too fade like grass; they crawl Like shadows forth in spring.

They see the merchants On the Oxus stream°;--but care °245 Must visit first them too, and make them pale. Whether, through whirling sand, A cloud of desert robber-horse have burst Upon their caravan; or greedy kings, In the wall'd cities the way passes through, 250 Crush'd them with tolls; or fever-airs, On some great river's marge, Mown them down, far from home.

They see the Heroes° °254 Near harbour;--but they share 255 Their lives, and former violent toil in Thebes, Seven-gated Thebes, or Troy°; °257 Or where the echoing oars Of Argo first Startled the unknown sea.° °260

The old Silenus° °261 Came, lolling in the sunshine, From the dewy forest-coverts, This way, at noon. Sitting by me, while his Fauns 265 Down at the water-side Sprinkled and smoothed His drooping garland, He told me these things.

But I, Ulysses, 270 Sitting on the warm steps, Looking over the valley, All day long, have seen, Without pain, without labour, Sometimes a wild-hair'd Mænad°-- °275 Sometimes a Faun with torches°-- °276 And sometimes, for a moment, Passing through the dark stems Flowing-robed, the beloved, The desired, the divine, 280 Beloved Iacchus.

Ah, cool night-wind, tremulous stars! Ah, glimmering water, Fitful earth-murmur, Dreaming woods! 285 Ah, golden-hair'd, strangely smiling Goddess, And thou, proved, much enduring, Wave-toss'd Wanderer! Who can stand still? Ye fade, ye swim, ye waver before me-- 290 The cup again!

Faster, faster, O Circe, Goddess, Let the wild, thronging train, The bright procession 295 Of eddying forms, Sweep through my soul!

MORALITY

We cannot kindle when we will The fire which in the heart resides, The spirit bloweth and is still, In mystery our soul abides. But tasks in hours of insight will'd 5 Can be through hours of gloom fulfill'd.

With aching hands and bleeding feet We dig and heap, lay stone on stone; We bear the burden and the heat Of the long day, and wish 'twere done. 10 Not till the hours of light return, All we have built do we discern.

Then, when the clouds are off the soul, When thou dost bask in Nature's eye, Ask, how _she_ view'd thy self-control, 15 Thy struggling, task'd morality-- Nature, whose free, light, cheerful air. Oft made thee, in thy gloom, despair.

And she, whose censure thou dost dread, Whose eye thou wast afraid to seek, 20 See, on her face a glow is spread, A strong emotion on her cheek! "Ah, child!" she cries, "that strife divine, Whence was it, for it is not mine?

"There is no effort on _my_ brow-- 25 I do not strive, I do not weep; I rush with the swift spheres and glow In joy, and when I will, I sleep. Yet that severe, that earnest air, I saw, I felt it once--but where? 30

"I knew not yet the gauge of time, Nor wore the manacles of space; I felt it in some other clime, I saw it in some other place. 'Twas when the heavenly house I trod, 35 And lay upon the breast of God."

DOVER BEACH

The sea is calm to-night. The tide is full, the moon lies fair Upon the straits;--on the French coast the light Gleams and is gone; the cliffs of England stand, Glimmering and vast, out in the tranquil bay. 5 Come to the window, sweet is the night-air! Only, from the long line of spray Where the sea meets the moon-blanch'd land, Listen! you hear the grating roar Of pebbles which the waves draw back, and fling, 10 At their return, up the high strand, Begin, and cease, and then again begin, With tremulous cadence slow, and bring The eternal note of sadness in.

Sophocles° long ago °15 Heard it on the Ægæan,° and it brought °16 Into his mind the turbid ebb and flow Of human misery; we Find also in the sound a thought, Hearing it by this distant northern sea. 20

The Sea of Faith Was once, too, at the full, and round earth's shore Lay like the folds of a bright girdle furl'd. But now I only hear Its melancholy, long, withdrawing roar, 25 Retreating, to the breath Of the night-wind, down the vast edges drear And naked shingles of the world. Ah, love, let us be true To one another! for the world, which seems 30 To lie before us like a land of dreams, So various, so beautiful, so new, Hath really neither joy, nor love, nor light, Nor certitude, nor peace, nor help for pain; And we are here as on a darkling plain 35 Swept with confused alarms of struggle and flight, Where ignorant armies clash by night.

PHILOMELA°

Hark! ah, the nightingale-- The tawny-throated! Hark, from that moonlit cedar what a burst! What triumph! hark!--what pain°! °4

O wanderer from a Grecian shore,° °5 Still, after many years, in distant lands, Still nourishing in thy bewilder'd brain That wild, unquench'd, deep-sunken, old-world pain°-- °8 Say, will it never heal? And can this fragrant lawn 10 With its cool trees, and night, And the sweet, tranquil Thames, And moonshine, and the dew, To thy rack'd heart and brain Afford no balm? 15

Dost thou to-night behold, Here, through the moonlight on this English grass, The unfriendly palace in the Thracian wild°? °18 Dost thou again peruse With hot cheeks and sear'd eyes 20 The too clear web, and thy dumb sister's shame°? °21 Dost thou once more assay Thy flight, and feel come over thee, Poor fugitive, the feathery change Once more, and once more seem to make resound 25 With love and hate, triumph and agony, Lone Daulis,° and the high Cephissian vale°? °27 Listen, Eugenia-- How thick the bursts come crowding through the leaves°! °29 Again--thou hearest? 30 Eternal passion! Eternal pain°! °32

HUMAN LIFE

What mortal, when he saw, Life's voyage done, his heavenly Friend, Could ever yet dare tell him fearlessly: "I have kept uninfringed my nature's law°; °4 The inly-written chart° thou gavest me, 5 To guide me, I have steer'd by to the end"?

Ah! let us make no claim, On life's incognisable° sea, °8 To too exact a steering of our way; Let us not fret and fear to miss our aim, 10 If some fair coast have lured us to make stay, Or some friend hail'd us to keep company.

Ay! we would each fain drive At random, and not steer by rule. Weakness! and worse, weakness bestow'd in vain 15 Winds from our side the unsuiting consort rive, We rush by coasts where we had lief remain; Man cannot, though he would, live chance's fool.

No! as the foaming swath Of torn-up water, on the main, 20 Falls heavily away with long-drawn roar On either side the black deep-furrow'd path Cut by an onward-labouring vessel's prore,° °23 And never touches the ship-side again;

Even so we leave behind, 25 As, charter'd by some unknown Powers We stem° across the sea of life by night °27 The joys which were not for our use design'd;-- The friends to whom we had no natural right, The homes that were not destined to be ours. 30

ISOLATION

TO MARGUERITE

Yes°! in the sea of life enisled, °1 With echoing straits between us thrown, Dotting the shoreless watery wild, We mortal millions live _alone_. The islands feel the enclasping flow, 5 And then their endless bounds they know.

But when the moon° their hollows lights, °7 And they are swept by balms of spring, And in their glens, on starry nights, The nightingales divinely sing; 10 And lovely notes, from shore to shore, Across the sounds and channels pour--

Oh! then a longing like despair Is to their farthest caverns sent; For surely once, they feel, we were 15 Parts of a single continent! Now round us spreads the watery plain-- Oh might our marges meet again!