Chapter IV: Part THE THIRD: I. Years After

Our world has spun ten circles round the light Since here she vanished. In my helpless gaze, To mark the spot, was fixed this carven stone, Raw, garish, stolidly obtrusive then, Now harmonising kindly with the rest. A spray of centipedal ivy creeps From death to birth, and reaches to her name; With kisslike touch its tender leaflets feel The letter's edge,--I scarce can think it chance.

Now scene by scene that strange old long-ago, Crowding my opened memory, presents Tumultuous, as in dreams, some dreadful state Wherein I knew not falsehood from the truth; Where hope ascending struck the star of Love, Then fell down headlong grovelling in despair; But rose at length and walked the beaten way. So dim and far these things; so worn and changed, I scarcely feel that I am he who sought And won her love. And is it true indeed, That I absorbed in tenderest intercourse Of trustful glance, and trustful clasping hands, With her went wandering by the river side; While over head melodious branches sang, Scattering the gold of sunset-dazzled flowers Breathing their perfumed sweetness from our path, That flickering went to where in purple woods The rugged church tower burned a wall of fire!

Did I, when silence awed the winter woods, And giant shadows trenched the frosty ground From bole and limb whose vault held in the night, Love to behold the full-grown magic moon Cast splendour glittering on the silver rime? Yes; mid the notes and emerald flush of spring, With swollen brooks exulting through the fields, And rainy wind that in an ocean-roar Bore down the forest tops the livelong day, Through straggling gleams, through random wafts of shade, Rejoicingly I trod the glistening paths. Yes, I it was, in dreamy golden haze, Beheld poor men hard toiling all the hours, And thought them happier than the birds that sang, That sang and trilled in gurgles of delight.

Dallying I loitered in the golden time Long after the loved nightingale had ceased To pour his passionate impulse over plains Of shivering corn, now ripened into wealth; When sunset-coloured fruit in orchard crofts Hung slowly mellowing under azure noons; And, hushed in darkened leaves, the dreaming air Swelled gently to a whispering sound, and died. With joy I wandered on from knoll to knoll And lost in marvel, drank the lisping winds, The fairy winds that lisped me all was good. Nor marked I when the clogged horizon flew In dusky vapour crowding up the skies; But woke anon when deathlike pallor thrown From wrathful drift laid the whole land in gloom; When war, enormous war, broke through the heavens, In sheets and streaking fire and thunderous clap, With shock on shock, that crushed the ripened corn, And swept the piled up midsummer to ruin. That wrenched great timbers of a thousand years, Shaking the strong foundations of the land. And when at last the terrible tempest fell, Wide heaven was emptied of the sun and stars, And void of more than all their light to me.

Like fretted me to hollow weariness When my sweet Dove of Paradise went off, Ascending, glory-guarded, into heaven. Then feeding on the past, and fondling death, I grew in livid horror: soon had grown, By foul self cankered, to a charnel ghoule, Had not Almighty God, gracious in love, Permitted her own presence once again, Mysterious as a vision, yet once more To come a shining warning and reveal Athwart my path unfathomable gulfs, And kindle hope wherewith I still might gain The hills that shine for ever to the blessed.

Much striving has been mine since those events Ruled the pulsation of my daily life: And now they are a vulgar chronicle, And gossiped over by the rudest tongues. A haunting song of old felicities Lured me, scarce consciously, down here to muse Upon my shattered dreams; safe from the roar Of interests in our grim metropolis, The beating heart of England and the world. Not seen by me, since on that wondrous night Her consolation came into my soul; Yet here again I stand beside her tomb-- And here I muse, more wise and not so sad.

Hers was a gracious and a gentle house! Rich in obliging nice observances And famed ancestral hospitality. A cool repose lay grateful through the place; And pleasant duties promptly, truly done, And every service moved by hidden springs Sped with intelligence, went smoothly round.

The steward to that stately country home Looked native there as lichen to the oak. He first held station, chief in care and trust, That day which gave his baby mistress birth; And her he loved as father loves his own, Bearing her too that reverence which we feel Toward those who, born to loftier state than ours, Sit their high fortune with becoming grace. His love she ever sumptuously returned In bounteous thankfulness for service done: How brightly twinkled then his shrewd grey eyes, And shone the roundness where his honest cheeks Played to the rippling gladness of his mouth! In childhood rambles, it was mostly he She chose for partner, spite of blandishment; And to her winsome ways he would forego His pompous surveillance of wine and plate, To guard her, lilting, where the summer lay On honeyed murmuring limes, and under elms, August with knotted centuries of strength And rooks sonorous in their shadowy heights. By thymy slopes, foot-deep in sward they roved, Both lightly garrulous, and she, sweet child, Fusing her whole attention into joy, Until they stood before the lake, that gleamed With water-lilies, sun, and moving cloud. Then straight the flanking sedge, and reeds remote, Gave clattering ducks and wild outlandish fowl, That tore in stormy scampering and splash To snap with clamour at the crumbled bread, He had provided slyly, bent on fun: The swans meanwhile, majestic, puffed, and slow, Came proudly into action; but alas, To small result; for by mischance the spoil Through dexterous skirmish fell to meaner bills. "Our bread is all cast on the waters now, And well I'd like to know how many days It must bide there before 'tis found again!"-- Some fool's dull joke repeated: good man, he, Unversed in deep text comment, never dreamed What time its Abyssinian mountain roots Swollen by fresh torrents mixed in Nubian lands, And thundered down from rocky ledge to ledge; How sacred Nilus flooding bank and plain Transformed old Egypt to a shining sea: And slaves in swarthy crowds, despised as dirt, Paddled upon the water scattering corn, While swam to their sad eyes a raking glance Of temple sphinxes, palms, and pyramids, Faint sacrificial fire with dismal cries; And small hard masters, armed with blooded thongs, Jocose and fierce, scourged out their utmost toil. Long ages ere man heard this promised hope, THE FIRST SHALL BE THE LAST, THE LAST THE FIRST. But the dear child his vacant prattle heard In wonder, and believed it lore profound: And ever after, when in solemn church, (The very church I have before me now!) Or household prayer, these words were touched upon, Pert visions would intrude of gabbling fowls Mid splashing water, sedge, and lily stars.

In wending home, he filled her lap with flowers; And she, ere yet the house was reached, unloosed His guarding hand, ran forward, glinted through The porch, and with a joyous outcry lit The room, where sat in converse or at books Her parents: then, as she an hour before Had seen those mirrored marvels of the lake All trembling merge to one confused turmoil Of beauty broken into shattered light, When o'er its surface swept the hungry fowls, So blurred with shifting catches, so involved Through eagerness, her babbled narrative To the kind mother, who, embracing her, Felt satisfied her child had been well pleased. Then the great father, he would lightly lift To knee his darling girl; with fingers cup The tiny chin, and kiss the rosebud mouth; And gently his large tawny hand would stroke That woven sunshine glowing down her back, Which changed to deepest auburn glossed with gold, Calling her tricksy names. But, when at length Appeared the calm inevitable nurse, He laughed; and she in screaming laughter flew By stalwart arm thrust high above his head Immeshed in wild flowers emptied from her lap, Which shaking off, he brought the screamer down, And gaily swung her into willing arms. She talked these childhood memories while we strolled Among the scenes which bred them; for she loved To dwell on things which some regard as slight: But in her presence, told by her own self, With clear apt words and satisfying voice; The violet poise of her most graceful head Flung forth in lighted gesture to reveal The very fact; her hovering white hand Almost in music warbling with her words, And bounding all the tenderest care to please;-- Now, one by one, these aits of memory glow In hallowed splendour, and have made less dark A life I feel not altogether vain.

So common was her mother's lot, that who Can say "Like is not mine" is blessed indeed: For they are countless that on shades have thrown Their passion had been chilled for evermore! Scarce at her bloom, and years before she met The destined man her husband, girl-like she Adored a youth with sparkling genius graced, Who bound on great adventure spread all sail; But needed ballast, working common sense, And meeting storms, he foundered and was lost. For long his fate dragged at her heart; it drained Her strength; it left her vague and desolate: Her life became as chill uneasy dreams Wherefrom we cannot break. Yet be it said, Lowly and truly gentle were her ways; She was a tender and obedient wife, And in a sweet and plaintive graciousness Her every act performed. I trust her mind, Subdued by constant sadness unavowed, Grew clear of shadows, and at last could dwell Upon the future, that in one straight path Reached Justice throned in everlasting light, And learned to feel that chastisement is love. Somewhat through lethargy; and partly sense Of duty in forgetfulness of grief; With pleadings due to her own kindliness, She came to take another as her lord; Then came to yield herself in all and wed Her husband's own indomitable will: He having gained her, cherished her, and loved Her mild compliance with the strength of life.

He was a man of thews and goodly frame Made swart in battle. Under Indian suns Our foes had often there been taught to know That weight of arm, resistless when he closed Charging upon them with his sword and eye. But when his father died, he left the East For England; here to rule his own estate, And reign among the county gentlemen, Who duly came with pride to own him chief. He had the kingly look of born command, An eagle set of eye and curve of neck; A cutting insight backed by solid sense; Vast knowledge, and the facile use of it, To break obstruction, or direct the force Of will resolved to compass every end. Withal a broad and generous natured man Who ever kindly turned the doubtful scale Against himself: no tenant ever mourned The day when the new master came to rule; Nor were old village gossips heard lament The good times fled with their departed lord. Culture went hand in hand with strength in him: Broad-versed was he in science; rock and soil, Plant, shell, bird, beast, to complex form of man, With something of the stars. Historic works He mostly read; and ofttimes dug for trace Of steps long past in archaeology. He loved the singers of our native land Who take our souls up to the worth of life; And those deep thinkers whose conclusions show The secret principles that work the world. He prized laborious Hallam; but declared Carlyle half mad; "A coil of restive thoughts, That touch on nothing sound or practical, Told in outrageous jargon, cumbersome As any Laplander's costume!" Which I In ruffled pride would always straight oppose, "Sound or unsound, his word is daylight truth, That breeding heroes once was England's boast, And now we brag of making millionaires. Your 'practical' means shortest cut to wealth: But far too frequently purse robs the heart; One growing heavy drains the other dry. His style, poetically pregnant, oft By note of admiration merely, hints More than crammed Pro Con of your favourite's page." At this he shouts a scornful roaring laugh, The table shaking, and the vessels chinked As fell his weighty arm: with massive gaze In hurly-burly sort he bantered me: "Young bubble-dreamer, plotting stanza rhymes, What can you know of laws: what know of plans Which bound these varied interests of ours, Through crossing currents, fixed for certain ends, To frame this state we call society, The full outcome of immemorial time? Know, here on earth wealth must not be despised, For we are as we are. While men subsist By interchanging goods and service, gold Will be the grease that smooths the whole machine. I grant a few, the greatest, live content To give forth what has ripened in their minds; But greed alone brings each result to grow And spread its uses through the mass. Beside Where honour, reason, or instinctive life, Quite fails, there gold will prick the sluggard loon. It wakes the drowsy lounger of the East, Who lolls in sunshine idle as a gourd, To toil like Irish hodmen. Roused, he hears Coin ringing lively music; falls to work, And digs, and hews, and grinds: he sees, not far, Himself, a chief of horsemen richly clad, Armed with long spears and silver-halted blades, Seizing pachalic power by a swift blow. But labour, having brought him gold, brings fears. The weight of wealth has made his footfall staid; He longs for order, settled government, And stands, a stern upholder, by the law.

"I know you flout this 'gold materialism,' For what you call the 'gold of evening skies:' But let me tell you, boy, for you 'tis well My lands are broad and bankers true, or else Your maiden, she, poor girl, I often think, Would want a crust to eat and shoes to wear." Thus he, in what I call his 'copper-gilt,' For which I paid him tinsel; "She want shoes! Her feet will press the flowers of paradise, And, being angel, she will need no food." "Eugh! Get your tackle, let us catch some trout." She never stayed a long while from her home, But lived a quiet life; contentedly Taking the continent and many things On trust; feeling our landscapes satisfied Her love for scenes. When from a visit she Returned, no lovelier picture ever blessed My sight than when she swam into his arms, And stood in beauty, frail, against his strength Supporting her, and kissed his lips and cheeks And brow. He then, as if his daughter yet Were but a child, would press the upturned head Between his hands, where peered the innocent face Rosy with smile and blush, like a sweet flower Bursting its tawny sheath: whereon he gazed A father's gaze immeasurably kind; And long, in tenderness akin to pity, There held her, who was beautiful and good. One eve full late in balmy summer time We feared the wind breathing of night had chilled Her tranquil mother, as we paced a walk Leading espalier-trellised to the house; She ever heedful parted silently, And flushed with sunset vanished from our gaze; But we beheld her soon dawn from the porch In haste bringing her mother's mantle. When, As comes the tide-wave up an easy beach, Played with a billowy sound and look of foam The thousand folds round her advancing feet, Her shape divine looking as great as ocean's Light beyond: yet no sea bird that gleams From the blue-arched illimitable heaven Could glide with lightness airier than she To hang the garment round her mother's neck; And then strike, womanlike, the folds in place; Kissing the thankful lips, and deftly fix The fastening at her throat. While pondering thus And patching these rich fragments, strange it seems What little things obtrude on my regard! I now remember every sculptured group, And painted scene, and portrait, figured vase, Each print unique, and gem, we once beheld When visiting a mansion near, enriched By generations of collected Art: The masters, by whose hands the works were wrought, Long mouldered into dust. Ah, well I know Why some have burned their symbols in my brain And rise before me now! Stone-bound, Narcissus Droops melting in himself; and Echo by, In shrunk despair, hangs envying what he wastes. Through smouldering morning mists a glorious sun The mountain-shoulder burns; above, transmutes The zenith cloudlets into airy gold; And deep down, seen through pure crystalline blue, Glimmer the village, lake, and mountain range. Superb at ease a Lady stands and smiles Sweet welcome to the world: though centuries Have lapsed since she approved her painter's work, Her smile has such sincerity, all feel They must have known her some time in their lives. Here bossed on silver vase, a marriage train Moves round to music: lookers-on cast flowers Before the timid bending bride: meanwhile, Stalwart and proud, her bridegroom smiles abroad As at a dazzling sun: the pipers blow, The harpers twang, the cymbals clash, youths sing; Six maidens walk behind to hold her veil, One pair are sad, the next look vain, and two Prettily whisper secrets to themselves. Here from old paper stands, and looks of men The manliest, and king of English kings, The lion Cromwell, in his dress of war: Beneath him coils a monster welling blood, Whose severed heads stretch round in scattered gleam Of mitre jewelled, coronet and crown. Sharp cut on gem, set in a thick gold ring, The size and roundness of a lady's nail, Love bleeding on the dart himself doth point; Who thus had died, had not with tenderest touch Immortal Psyche held the anguished heart Fast to her own, and purified the pain, And fanned him with her wings. And now, as then, Along those hushed rich corridors we moved, Poring each masterpiece we favoured most, And would no longer stay, but felt some chance Must serve us for the rest: musing, I pass From scene to scene of My Dear Lady's life, And leave my other memories undisturbed.

Beneath this airy sapphire's brooding rest, Its shadows overcast me with a chill Like coming storm, that black calamity Which struck and took our Darling from their charge And mine. Grief stupefied us all. At once The childless mother lost her wavering strength, And lay prostrated; never tasting life On earth again! Beside her husband sat And watched her fading; saw the last poor smile Wane from her features; till the closing eyes Lit into tearful rapture; when he knew Love's immortality to her revealed. With both her own she mutely clasped his hand, And held it in most gentle pressures fixed: But when the tender grasp relaxed and fell, The world closed round him to a stony blank.

And now was stricken down the mighty man; As the ripe harvest levelled by a storm At morningtide; which, ere sun warmth anew Can flatter into strength, a second storm O'erwhelms and scattereth to waste at even.

When that torpidity which follows pain Through strangeness passed to natural regard For daily wants; his vacant home he loathed: His spacious garden grounds; his lake; his woods; The breezy air; the overhanging heaven, He loathed: he loathed them all. When spring aroused The amorous songsters of the copse and field To seasonable joy, their music mocked His sadness with its echoes, babbling tales Of what had been: and he, in bitterness, Resolved to quit a place where every turn Stood like a foe, whose settled leering eye In silence gloared with hope to mark his fall; He left our country. Far, in Eastern climes, His nation serving well, he fought and died: And never had a nobler man upheld The majesty of England's worth and name.

Long toil-devoted years have gloomed and shone Since these events closed up my doors of life. Partly from choice, and part necessity, With constancy have I sustained and urged The work it was my duty to advance. For, when my vision cleared again, I looked And saw how mean a thing was man, who used The produce of his fellows' energies And gave back nothing.

Then my spirit saw This Island race two thousand years ago In simple savagery, controlled by priests More fell and bloody than the wolves that howled At midnight round their monstrous altar-stones, Scenting the sacrificial human blood. Saw girt with legions lynx-eyed Caesar come To taste of Briton's valour. When appeared Legions succeeding legions, and the swarms Marshalled by skilful discipline had fallen To tributaries of all-conquering Rome. Saw when Rome's grip, through fierce luxurious guilt, Could hold no longer; and with tattered plume Her eagles left her slaves to stem or tide The hungry Pict incursions as they could. Next when a burly genial race here raised The White Horse Standard: men who wrought the soil Till yellow corn, responsive, sunned the plains. When, lured by booty, Ravens from the North Bent hitherward: stiffly the contest tugged Long years; till both the wearied champions joined Their hands, as common home to share the Isle. With peace the land grew fat; and wholesome bonds Of nobles to their kings, and serfs to them, Fell slackened or distorted to misrule; When Norman William, hard as rocks and fierce As fire, with charge of mailed horse and showers Of steel, won England. Her rough sons he drilled Grimly: by stern command and strength of sword He forced obedience where he fixed a law. For ages long against men's stubborn minds, With give and take, the bold Plantagenets Kept up the drill. At length the race, now grown By constant wrestle into thews of power, Moved calm with strength beneath the Tudor's sway. And then a Northern Stuart wore their crown, Whose son, unmindful he was over men Truth-lovers, lied to them and lost his head; For Puritans held no respect for lies. Next flared Charles Satyr's saturnalia Of Lely Nymphs, who panting sang "More gold; We yield our beauties freely; gold, more gold." Hapless explosions, folly, frenzied plots; Till well coerced by Lowland William's craft. Then plans that led to nought, or worse, enforced By Marlborough's cannon thundering over-seas. Then through the Guelphic line; our race now grows To that great power which is to sway the world.

Down from those human shambles, wolf-belapt, To when, in pardonably grand excess Of pity, through our people's will was bought Free indolence for Isles of Western slaves: And now, when thousands blandly would deny The proven murderer his rope, the thief Due chastisement; and when a General May blunder troops to death, yea, and receive His Senate's vote of thanks and all made smooth; And when, as much from universal trust In other states' goodwill as from the pinch Of blinking parsimony, we our fleets Let rot, and regiments shrink to skeletons.-- From those fell rights to such urbanity The march indeed is long; tho' kindly freaks May sometimes clamour Justice from her throne; Yet gentleness is still a noble gain, And we will trust such freaks are nobly meant.

To touch the power we hold, what work has been Of vigorous brawn, and keen contriving brains! Stout men with mighty battle in their limbs; Thinkers, whose cunning struck beyond the strength Of hosts; priests sworn to God, whose daily lives Preached gospel purity and kindliness; Wise chroniclers, whose patience garnered facts For present want and food for coming time; And dames who made their homes a paradise, And kept their husbands great;--have greatly given The light and choicest substance of their lives For generations mingling each with each, Wave multitudinously urging wave, Toward the one great broadening flow of things, Then passed into the gloom that swallows all.

Could I dwell here in our proud Island Home, Preserved by countless victories; made strong By kings and kingly councillors; enriched By artisans, whose skill surpassed all men's; And by such wondrous song immortalised It glorifies mankind: could I dwell here; Here feed on this accumulated wealth, Like senseless swine on acorns of the wood, And own no wish to render thanks in kind? Surely there could be found some waste wild flower To yield one honey-drop that I might drain To swell the general hive!

At last resolved Out to its utmost spray my force should strive, And bring to fruit its yet unopened buds, I, craving gracious aid of Heaven, straightway Began the work which shall be mine till death. If it be granted me that I disroot Some evil weeds; or plant a seed, which time Shall nourish to a tree of pleasant shade, To wearied limbs a boon, and fair to view; I then shall know the Hand that struck me down Has been my guide into the paths of truth.

And She, my lost adored One, where is She? Where has She been throughout these dragging years Of labour?

She has been my light of life! The lustrous dawn and radiance of the day At noon: and She has burned the colours in To richer depth across the sun at setting: And my tired lids She closes: then, in dreams, Descends a shaft of glory barred with stairs And leads my spirit up where I behold My dear ones lost. And thus through sleep, not death, Remote from earthly cares and vexing jars, I taste the stillness of the life to come.

What time his scythe in misty summer morns With cheery ring the mower whets; and kine Move slowly, breathing sweetness, toward the pail Their milking-maid is jingling, as she calls "Hi Strawberry and Blossom, hither Cows;" While slung against the upland with his team The ploughman dimly like a phantom glides: What time that noisy spot of life, the lark, Climbs, shrill with ecstasy, the trembling air; And "Cuckoo, Cuckoo," baffling whence it comes, Shouts the blithe egotist who cries himself; And every hedge and coppice sings: What time The lover, restless, through his waking dream, Nigh wins the hoped-for great unknown delight, Which never comes to flower, maybe; elsewhere, The worshipped Maid, a folded rose o'er-rosed By rosy dawn, asleep lies breathing smiles: Then ofttime through the emptied London streets, When every house is closed and spectral still, And, save the sparrow chirping from the tower Where tolls the passing time, all sounds are hushed; Then walk I pondering on the ways of fate, And file the past before me in review, Counting my losses and my treasured gains, And feel I lost a glory such as man Can never know but once: but how there sprung From out the chastening wear of grief, a scope Of sobered interest bent on vaster ends Than hitherto were mine; and sympathy For struggling souls, that each held dear within A sacred meaning, known or unrevealed:-- And these, in their complexities and far Relations with the sum of general power Which is the living world, now are my gain; And grant my spirit from this widened truth A glimpse of that high duty claimed of all. How wildly flares the West about the sun, Now fallen low! And as one, nameless, sails, Lost deep in witching reverie, along A silent river; passing villages Busy with toil; flowered banks and shadowy coves, And cattle browsing peaceful in the meads; Who only wakes to consciousness, when full A burst of sunshine from the sinking orb Smiting the flood first strikes his dazzled sight;-- So to the present hour am I recalled By yon red sun-light flaming up the spire, And vane that sparkles in the warm blue heaven And that too-well-remembered tolling bell.

Now on the broad mysterious ocean leans The sailor o'er his vessel's side, and feels The buzzing joys of home; wondering if fate Will bear him on to end his being there. Now pleased the housewife down the path descries Her husband's footsteps hitherward; his meal Prepared, the children each made tidy; she With smiling comfort means to soothe her man, By labour wearied, through the evening hours. They whirl their life web, humming like a wheel, These airy insects. Birds have ceased to sing, But twitter faintly, settling to their rest; And not a rook's caw rends the placid air. I must begone; but ere I go, will kneel To kiss this ivy--modest earthly type, That would with constant verdure grace her name, As I enshroud her memory with my love! For She has been the blessing that has nerved My strength in failing hours of blackest night, When doubts oppress and fears distract; and when Gigantic Evil's hoofs are crushing good, And pity burns in terror; while, appalled, Blanched Justice shrinks aloof; and not a voice, The smallest, dares uplift itself against The dripping blood-red horror which pollutes With death and danger, heaven and earth and sea; When men's belief grows wild, seeing alone The dreadful black abominable sin, Forgetful that the light still shines beyond; And doubting last the very truth of God, They hate their fellow creatures and themselves; Groaning beneath a Despot, who thinks less Of precious human blood, than shipwrights count Of water in the dock, so many feet Will bear so many tons, if it but aid One little step his brutalising aims, Who as an armed thief sacks his people's wealth. Then shines my Love's star-brightness thro' the gloom; And comes, as comes a glorious Conqueror Returning from that Despot's overthrow, His brow yet flashed and pale with victory: Whose prowess long withstood the charging shocks Of hosts that swarmed; who, baffling with his skill Their cunning combinations, in good time Closed his own force and wrought them utmost woe; Smashed the huge liners of the hostile fleet, Their swiftest frigates sank to watery hell: Others he scared like fowls; and trailed the rest In foamed victorious wake, a captured prize, Where thronged his people stand in proud acclaim Of "Welcome, Welcome, Welcome! To our hearts O Saviour of thy country! to our hearts O Father of thy people! welcome back!" And shout in exultation his dear name; Who moves through storms of music, and beholds Gay seas of faces tossed with happiness, And lit through rapture into wondering awe. And as that grateful multitude forgets Whatever wrong he may have done, do I My scathing sorrow, and embrace the good.

And when, in after years, that honoured One Returns at last unto his native land, From having wrought his last great victory, A solemn corpse; in state his people close, Solemnly to do honour to the dead, And stand in silence, mid the mournful sway Of martial music wailing he is gone Who saved them from the shackles they abhorred; And in all reverence, with tenderest hands, And tearful eyes, and hearts that burn and throb, They lower their consecrated Hero down, Down sinking slowly to his lasting rest: Whose glory rises to a settled star Lighting the land he loved for evermore. So comes my love to me: its glorious light Yet hovers sacredly, and guides me on To grander prospects, and more noble use Of powers entrusted me. Henceforth my soul Will never lack a spot whither to flee, When crowding evils war to shake my faith In righteousness: for thinking of Her life Made up of gracious act and sweet regard, Compassionately tender; and enshrined In such a form, that oft to my fond eyes She seemed divine, I scarcely can withhold My wonder Heaven could spare Her to a world So stained as ours. And now, whatever come Of wrong and bitterness to break my strength; Whatever darkness may be mine to know; A ray has pierced me from the highest heaven-- I have believed in worth; and do believe.

II. WORK.

Sweet is the moisture of the trellis-rose Dripping in music down through glistening leaves; And sweeter still its fragrance that we breathe On throwing wide our lattice to the morn. Sweet to see thrushes bright-eyed speckle-bosomed, Search dew-grey lawns with keen inspective glance; And rabbits nimbly nibble tender grasses, Or pause when startled at each other's shade. And when the orchard boughs bend low with fruit, With joy we watch the mounded harvest wains Glide amid singing hedgerows smoothly by. 'Tis fair to watch hung pale in milky azure Mist slowly closing into wandering cloud Driven by the clean and light elastic wind; And through that lone harmonious sunshine hum Of unseen life mark how the floating seeds Pass like flown fancies out beyond regard.

But sweeter than all roses, sights of birds, Richer than fruit, more than whole lands of corn, Fairer than glories of the brightest day, Dearer than any old familiar sound Of childhood hours, than every glittering joy Thrown from the teeming fountain of the earth, Is our impulsive answer to the call Of Duty.

They who would be something more Than they who feast, and laugh and die, will hear The voice of Duty, as the note of war, Nerving their spirits to great enterprise, And knitting every sinew for the charge. It makes them quit a happy silvan life For contest in the roaring capital. And in its ever-widening roar stand firm And fixed amid the thunder, foot to foot With opposition, smiting for the truth. To such the rage of battle charms beyond The heaviest ocean-plunges dashed on cliffs, The tempest's fury on the grinding woods, Or elemental crashing in the heavens: Beyond a lover's gladness when he feels His maiden's bosom throbbing tremulously, Beyond a father's when he feels in hand The rounded warmth of little firstborn's limb, Or in beholding him grown tall and strong: And their delight will never wane, but wax In greatness with the roll of time, and burn More brightly fed with noble deeds. For souls Obedient to divine impulse, who urge Their force in steadfastness until the rocks Be hewn of their obstruction, till the swamp's Insatiability be choked and bound A hardened road for traffic and disport, Tall giant arches stride across the flood, Till tortured earth release its mysteries Which straight become slaves pliant unto man, Till labours at the desk at length result In law: who pondering on the stars proclaim Their size and distance and pursue their course; Who work whatever will give greater power Or profit man with leisure to observe The wondrous heavens and loveliness of earth; Who will instruct him in the truth whereby He learns to reverence more his fellow man; Who point his spirit to the worshipping Imperishable things, from which he comes To scorn the fluttering vanities of wealth As poisoned sweets and baubles should they dim His eyes one instant to that awful light Wherein he moves; who do and who have done All that has ever aided man to free Himself, imperfectly, from grosser self And made his seeing pure:--such souls sublime Will never want for blessed joy in work, Working for Duty which can never die.

Men may seem playthings of ironic fate: One stoutly shod paces a velvet sward; And one is forced with naked feet to climb Sharp slaty ways alive with scorpions, While wolfish hunger strains to catch his throat; One lingers o'er his purple draught and laughs, One shuddering tastes his bitter cup and groans; But there is hope for all. Though not for all To sail through sunny ripples to the end, Chatting of shipwrecks as pathetic tales; All are not born to nurse the dainty pangs That herald love's completion, and behold Their darlings flourish in the tempered air Of comfort till themselves become the springs Of a yet milder race: all are not born To touch majestic eminence and shine Directing spirits in their nations' sight And radiate unformed posterity: But through transcendent mercy all are born To enter on a nobler heritage Than these, if each but wills to choose aright In serving Duty, man's prerogative: Which is far pleasanter than paths of flowers, Than warmest clustering of household joys, And prouder than the proudest shouts of fame That follow action not in conscience wrought.

Fair Duty, most unlike the blight of death, Whose dismal presence levels men to ruin, Lifts up his nature into rarer life. Hers is a broad estate open to poor And rich alike: here rudest peasant may Move as their equal with baronial lords, And those who serve be great as those who rule: Here a smirched artisan who merely bolts The plates of iron fortress, breathes the pride Of that trained chieftain who commands its guns; And one that points or fires a single piece Claims honour with the mind who planned the war.

Fair Duty, hard and perilous to serve, Exacts devotion that is absolute, Ere she reveal the heaven of her smile; And gnaws with misery the traitor slave Who having known her countenance and moved At her behest relapses into sloth, Or drudges serf to his own base desires:-- Sworn knight, and armed with mail and sword of proof, But coaxing brutish ignorance with praise, And with the wasted hearts of honest men Gorging the monster he went forth to slay. But whoso faithfully reveres her law As primal, and of every want supreme, Making edged danger discipline his strength, That changes hindrance into past delight, Fair Duty dowers with her celestial love, From which the mystic blessing glory grows: And glory born of Duty is a crown Of light.

And all thus crowned illume their work In splendour that no earthly eye may pierce, And know that every seed they set, and stone They fix, and truth they reach, unite to found A well-planned city in a governed land That rising babes high a Temple built Firm in its centre to the praise of God. And each beholds his labours glorified, Alike the toiler at the desk, a king Upon his throne, or builder of the bridge: The desk in lustre shines a kingly throne, The throne diffuses radiance like a sun, The bridge spans death--a pathway to the stars.

MARCH, 1865.

NELLY DALE.

Ah, Nelly Dale, nigh fifty years Since you and I set out together, Joyful both, as the summer weather, That swarmed our pathway to the meres So rich with blossom, and opulent Successive honeysuckle scent, It smiled a golden garden, gay With flutter of insects all the way!

The kine were white and smooth as silk At Flowerdew's, where we went for milk With jug and can. The can you bore Jingled and tumbled when you tore Your new frock striped with lilac, while Crossing that high-built awkward stile.

Leaving our cottage gates at noon, Adown the dusty hill we soon Turned in a water-alley, dry As our discourse; for we were shy, Speaking not till the double ranks Of willows on their shadowed banks Had closed us from the road, and we Were all we saw and cared to see.

As if let out from school we ran, Until we settled stride for stride To even walking, side by side; And tho' to keep apart we tried, The jug kept clinking against the can! Once pausing in an upper path That hemmed great pasture ribbed with math, We saw the prospect openly Melt in remote transparent sky; Some fancy kindled, and I began To whistle "Tom the Piper's Son," Wondering whether, when grown a man, I should remain to plod, or plan, As others about had always done, Or to some wondrous country stray, Over the hills and far away! But turning to your comely face, The opened flower of native grace That casts a charm on homely ways, Your mother's boast, her constant praise; Contented here, I hoped I might Be never from my darling's sight.

Ah, me, our young delight to roam Along that lane so far from home! Laughter, and chatter of this or that; Ripening strawberries, mice and cat; The birthday near; the birthday treat, With something extra good to eat, And currant, cowslip, elder wine, As real lords and ladies dine!

Equal delight our silence next; Making-believe that you are vext, When swooping round to kiss you I Tumble your bonnet all awry, And promptly you the strings untie To set it duly straight again; How smartly twinkle ribands twain To bows, turned sidewise in disdain, Till by your nimble fingers fixed They settle amicably mixed! Moments of mutual mute surprise Made converse of our glancing eyes, As we went onward, all things seeming Strange, and rich, and fair, while dreaming Transient glimpses of what alone Is ever by great-winged angels known.

We knew not whether you or I First saw the splendid butterfly Trembling about us as we turned To watch how blue and crimson burned In flashes 'twixt those blushing wings! Nelly, I see you watch the lark That fluttering high, aspiring sings; We both watch till our sight grows dark, And wonder whither he is fled In sapphire ether overhead. Tho' vanished, still his rapture rings And thrills our bosoms, marching slow Our winding way; when brilliant, lo From somewhere starting, re-appears Our friendly butterfly, and nears A spider-web, in holly spun With rainbow hues that net the sun, Making coy circles ere he alight Entangled in the toil of death! Forward I spring, without my breath, To see the fiend, high-elbowed, whirl Around those limbs and wings, and twirl His thread to thwart the chance of flight. Fate on a single instant hangs, And ready the demon's eager fangs To penetrate that sylphic breast! Nipping the wing-tips gently I Flirt him from danger suddenly; Strike with my cap a rapid blow, Dashing the enemy down below Thro' grass crushed safely into dust. There shivering on my stretched forefinger A little while his terrors linger, Doubting if yet his wings to trust, Ere, with a bolder flap or two, He flutters into airy blue.

Could any mortal boy resist, When heavenward, in a rosy pout Your lips you offered to be kissed; Fresh as carnations breaking out Of dewy sheaths, on summer dawns Yet pale upon the misty lawns! We pass from shadowy splendour soon To face the blazoned afternoon, Where wide around the basking sun Lies on the meadow fast asleep. Near random bushes, one by one, Nestled around a pond, the sheep Are scattered and doze in graceful shade; And hazed cornfields beyond the glade, Undulating and dazzling sight, Seem quivering for predestined flight To worlds of unrevealed delight. In lustrous sheen, their stately looks Sedate as parsons reading books, Flock grey-billed, see-saw-gaited rooks Strutting; or when they wings assume Pluck the warm air with fingered plume, Labouring, anxious if weight and size Make flight most hazardous or wise! Nelly we sauntered on and on By hedgerows, brightly overhung And sprinkled thick with snowy showers Of woodbine stars; where bindweed flowers Ample and moon-white nobly shone, And over green abysses slung, Mid honey-haunted sound of bees, Swayed lightly to the scented breeze.

In passing starwort's silvery gems, By maple's warm fawn-tinted stems, Caprices that gnarled the oak and thorn, A sudden scream of rageful scorn Startles us from the hedgerow nigh; Whence two disturbed fierce blackbirds fly Uttering threats of vengeance dire! While we, who lit this angry fire, Are wondering such discordant throats Can tune those soft melodious notes The fondest lover's listening ear, At even, turns entranced to hear!

But if I sang of every sight That afternoon which gave delight, Those treasures would my numbers throng Beyond the compass of my song; Therefore, Nelly, to be precise, We bought the milk, and paid the price Charged in that rural paradise. The rolls of butter, the jars of cream, Churn, and cleanly pans, now seem, Thro' fifty years of vanished time, The memories of a nursery rhyme; Or story, like The "Babes in the Wood," Written for children to make them good.

Homeward we went in soberer mood; Haply the weight we had to carry, By stile and gate oft made us tarry To change our hands, and ease the weight By making both co-operate. At length we knew the hour grew late, Because we saw our shadows rise, Mocking our motions, thrice our size; And keeping faithful phantom pace, Tempting us to an elfin race For fairy treasure; all in play! For which, whatever they might say, We knew our lives would have to pay! Both breaking into prattle showed How pleased we trod the dusty road Once more; and rested where the rill Sings issuing, halfway up the hill; Where maids and wives their pitchers bring To fill, and gossip at the spring. To gossip ourselves we durst not stop, As we had yet to reach the top Where, starting from before the moon, Our church spire quickened, rose, and danced Higher and higher as we advanced, And on a sudden ceased, as soon As we were on the level; then, There your mother stood at the gate Impatient we were out so late; Inquiring how, and why, and when; She thought we had been drowned, and lost, And by some savage mad bull tossed; So long had she been looking out! Whatever had we been about? Altho' we saw so much that day, But little then had we to say, And told her a bewildered tale Of garment torn by splintered rail; Of spiders, blackbirds, butterflies; Of rooks so near that looked so wise! Of ghostly shadows, some of the way, That had been tempting us to play, Tho' sure they must have known we should Be making all the haste we could! The gentle scolding given and past, We bade each other good-night at last When floating in the stillness by Came sounds like "late," and "supper," and "bed;" And brighter through a deepening sky A million stars shone o'er my head, And bats flew fast and silently.

When memory wings her way to you, I nurse my faith to think it true For one day, Nelly, you were mine! Ah, Dearest, had that day divine Made us two one for good and all! The nursery words I now recall, Of Tom the Piper's Son's one tune, Mused over in that day of June, Have proved the prelude to my fate! We were not fashioned to translate Each other's will as man and wife: And tho' I was not broken-hearted, As Burns when from his Mary parted, And fled the fragrance of his life; Yet are you near and dear to me! For on the bridge below the hill I see you smile as sweetly still; And in your clear wide-opened eyes The spacious wonder of the skies. While every thoughtful dainty grace Rests well contented in your face, All fascinations of the rose, Uniting in your presence close. Indeed, from glowing hair to feet, So lightly poised, shaped so complete You seem a being 'twixt a flower, The glory of a shining hour, And one ordained to satisfy The claims of immortality.

Your beauty, like a queen's or king's Good word, gives price to common things: That can your ruddy fingers hold Hangs lovelier there than purest gold; And, as the poor, grown rich by chance, Run raptured in extravagance, My fancy riots in the fields' Increasing wealth its charter yields: And at your lintel, by the bower Of vine leaves screening noonday heat; The grapes, that hang there small and sour, Are soft in bloom and more than sweet!

Beholding kittens as they play, Black, tortoise, white, or silver grey; Or ducklings on the water glide, Yellow and soft, and artless eyed: Or neatly-shapen chicks astray, Pecking incessantly on their way; Each such a trim completed creature, In perfect movement, hue, and feature: A foolish sadness makes me sigh They lack immutability. But you, my Nelly, are ever young. Fresh and happy you dwell among The brightest flowers, and flourish where Meadows are ever fresh and fair. As you were then I see you now, Standing beneath an apple bough; Your face amid its blossoms, bright With rosy laughter and delight, You seem a blossom the partial sun Has chosen to make a larger one.

What may your pilgrimage have been, Since both of us lost our Eden days, I never rashly tried to glean; And know not if your childhood ways Were trodden by your maiden feet When, flushed and shy with hope and fear, You went your loitering swain to meet And listen to sounds you loved to hear! But if sometimes your heart was fain Along our honeysuckle lane Again to roam, in gracious flight Your memory would have found delight In wandering there a child again! And if a matron you became, With a matron's worries and daily strife; The pain and sorrow, the hurt and blame Mixed with pleasure, of being a wife, I know not. But of this am sure, That if with daughters you were blessed, They found your bright example lure, Thro' ways by wisdom proven best, And sympathetic, generous trust To kindly conduct more than just. If old experience yet holds true, And by a generation's lapse Your daughter's child resembles you, Then by that happy law perhaps Another Nelly may be seen To grace some other village green; As native there as morning dew; Or larks aloft, when lost to view They lift us thro' the trembling blue To soar with them in ecstasy; Or primroses, whose welcome faces From sunny banks and shady places, Tenderly glimmer in pallid gold Caught as early morning broke, When, dreaming daylight they awoke Enamoured from the moistened mold. And if a Nelly, tho' changed in name, Her fair endowments will the same Point every grace that charmed before Thro' unrenowned ancestresses, Then still there beams a joy that blesses The traveller by your cottage door; Who, pleased in after years to trace Remembrance of your playful face, May linger on your presence while Before him still you turn to smile.

NOTE.

The two portions of "My Beautiful Lady," entitled "My Beautiful Lady," and "My Lady in Death," were written in 1849, and published on the 1st of January, 1850, in "The Germ," a magazine which ran to only four numbers. "Dawn," and "My Lady's Glory," were written about the same time; but all the other poems were written between 1857 and 1861. The first complete edition appeared in 1863; the second in 1864; and the third in 1866.

"Nelly Dale" was written in 1886.

T. W.