Chapter V: Act IV (1)

SCENE: _The Chapel of the Castle--or Chapel of the Magdalen--a
few hours later. It is of stone, low-arched, gloomy, and
adorned with Byzantine mosaics of gaunt saints on backgrounds
of gold. The altar is in the rear, and above it a large
window, through which pours the still moon. In front of it,
to either side, rise two pillars supporting the roof, and
on one of them, halfway up, stands a stone image of the
Magdalen. Forward are two other pillars whose bases form
seats. The right wall has, set midway, a large door hung
with heavy curtains. In the rear are smaller doors leading
to a sacristy. The altar lamp and a few tapers burn._ ALESSA
_enters, rubbing her eyes as if to clear them of vision,
looks around, then calls uncertainly_--

_Alessa._ Good father! Father Moro!... He is not here.

(_Rubs her eyes again._)

The dead are strange! I knew not all their power.
It is as if her spirit still imprisoned
Hovered beneath the pallor of her face
And strove to speak. Good father!

(_Enter_ MORO.)

Ah, you were
There in the sacristy.

_Moro._ Yes. Your desire?

_Alessa._ The acolytes summoned from Famagouste
To aid your rites before her burial
Have come, and wait.

_Moro._ Send hither two.

(_Looks closely at her._)

_Alessa._ At once.

(_Is going. He stops her._)

_Moro._ Woman, this passes silence. There must be
Some question. Do you understand this wedding?
The evil that has risen in this house?
Speak.

_Alessa._ I may not.

_Moro._ As says Yolanda, who
Has been to-day impenetrable in all.
But who, now, in a lofty grief above
The misery that blasted her, seems calm,
And answers only,
"God in His season will,
I trust, unfold it soon; I cannot, now!" ...
And yet I heard
Her darkly bid the Paphian be gone----
From here--without her.

_Alessa._ And he would not?

_Moro._ No.

(_A pause._)

Does she not see lightnings now in Amaury,
Plunging for truth? What is't?

_Alessa._ The acolytes
Are waiting.

_Moro._ Go ... But if this hour bring forth
What you shall rue----

_Alessa._ Father!

(_Goes quickly, troubled._)

_Moro._ In blindness still!
For Vittia Pisani, who alone
Seems with these twain to share this mystery
Is silent to all importunity.
Oh, Berengere Lusignan!
But 'tis mine
To pray and to prepare. (_Listens._) The acolytes.

(_Two enter, sleek, sanctimonious._)

(_To First._) Come here ... You're Serlio,
Of the Ascension. You?

_2nd Acolyte._ Hilarion.
From Santa Maria by the Templars' well,
Which God looks on with gratitude, father.
For though we're poor and are unworthy servants
We've given willingly our widow's mite.
And now we ...

_Moro._ You are summoned to this place
For ministrations other than the tongue's.
Prepare that altar--masses for the dead.

_Hilarion._ Man is as grass that withers!

_Moro._ Kindle all
Its tapers. The departed will be borne
Hither for holy care and sacred rest.
So do--then after
Look to that image of the Magdalen,
Once it has fallen.

_Serlio._ Domine, dirige!

(MORO _goes. They put off cant and
set to work._)

_Hilarion_ (_insolently, lighting a taper_).
We'll have good wine for this!

_Serlio._ The Chian! Hee!
None's like the Chian! and to-morrow, meat!
Last week old Ugo died and we had pheasant.

_Hilarion._ When we are priests we'll give no comforting
To wife or maid--till we have sipped!

_Serlio._ And supped!
Though 'tis a Friday and the Pope is dead!

(_Silence. They work faster._)

_Hilarion._ There, it is done. Now to the image.

_Serlio._ Well,
Olympio, the cock who fetched us, said
That image fell first on the day----

_Hilarion._ Tchuck! tchuck!
Better no breath about that lord of Paphos
Or any here. For till the dead are three
Days gone, you know--! But there's the woman. Feign.

(_As_ ALESSA _re-enters;
hypocritically._)

The blessed dead! in Purgatory may
They briefly bide.

_Serlio._ Aye! aye!

_Alessa_ (_still troubled_). What say you?

_Hilarion._ Ah!
I lay that it is wise never to foul
The dead, even in thinking,
For they may hear us, none can say, and once
My mother saw a dead man who had gone
Unshriven start up white and cry out loud
When he was curst.

_Serlio._ O Lord!

_Alessa_ (_staring_). No!... Well, such things
There are perchance. And now they say that Venus,
The Anadyomene, who once ruled this isle,
Is come again.... But you have finished? Soon
They bring her body here.

_Hilarion._ Now have I, now!
It will not totter again. (_Descends._)

_Alessa_ Would that it might
Upon the head of ---- (_catches herself; calmly_)
You are awaited
There in the sacristy.... The chant begins!

(_The acolytes go. She grows more
disquieted._)

Begins! and lady Yolanda still awaits
Heedless, though Lord Amaury's desperate
As is the Paphian!... They near!... The curtains!

(_Goes to them and draws them
back. As she does so the chant
swells louder. Then the cortège
enters_--MORO, _the acolytes
with tapers_; BERENGERE _on a
litter_, AMAURY, RENIER, VITTIA,
_the women_, HASSAN, _and last_
YOLANDA. _The litter_, AMAURY
_by it, comes to the altar; the
chanting ceases._)

_Moro_ (_as_ AMAURY _bows, shaken_).
No moan or any toil of grief be here
Where we have brought her for sainted appeal.
But in this holy place until the tomb
Let her find rest.

_Amaury._ Set down the bier.

(_It is placed._)

_Moro._ Lone rest!
Then bliss Afar for ever!

_Amaury_ (_rises_). Be it so!

(_Turning; brokenly._)

But unto any, mother, who have brought thee
Low to this couch, be never ease again.
To any who have put thy life out, never!
But in them be the burning that has seemed
To shrivel thee--whether with pain or fear!
And be appeaseless tears,
Salt tears that rust the fountain of the heart.

(_Sinks to a seat. A pause._)

_Moro._ My son, relentless words.

_Amaury_ (_up again_). To the relentless!

_Moro._ God hear you not!

_Amaury._ Then is He not my God.

_Moro._ Enough, enough. (_To the rest._) But go and for her soul
Freight all of you this tide of night with prayer.

_Amaury._ Never!

_Moro._ I bid.

_Amaury._ And I forbid those who
Have prized her not!
For though nought's in the world but prayer may move,
Still but the lips that loved her
Should for her any sin beseeching lift.

(_Looking at_ YOLANDA.)

They and no other!

_Yolanda._ And, you mean----?

_Amaury._ Not one.

_Yolanda._ Then, mother----

(_Goes to bier._)

_Amaury._ That name again?

_Yolanda._ While I have breath.
(_Nobly._) Yes, though you hold me purgeless of that sin
Only the pale arch-angels may endure
Trembling to muse on!
Or though yon image of the Magdalen,
Whose alabaster broke amid her tears
And her torn hair, forbade me with a voice.
And you, whose heart is shaken
As in a tomb a taper's flame, would know
I speak with love.

_Camarin._ Unswerving love.

_Amaury._ Then, by
Christ, and the world that craves His blood, I think
She, if she would, or you, could point to me,
Or you, Vittia Pisani,
The reason of this sudden piteous death
Hard on the haunted flight before my father,
Whose lips refuse.

_Camarin._ She knows no shred of it.

_Amaury._ You lie to say it.

_Camarin._ Then will, still--if there
Is need.

_Amaury._ Because you love her?

_Yolanda._ Peace, peace, peace.

_Amaury._ A hollow word for what had never being.

_Yolanda._ Look on her face and see.

_Amaury_ (_at bier_). Upon her face!
Where not oblivion the void of death
Has hid away, or can, the agony
Of her last terror--but it trembles still.
I tell you, no. Grief was enough, but now
Through it has risen mystery that chokes
As a miasma from Iscariot's tomb.
And till this pall of doubt be rent away
No earth shall fall and quicken with her dust!
But I will search her face ... till it reveals.

_Camarin._ He raves.

_Amaury._ Iscariot! yes!

_Yolanda._ Again, peace, peace!

_Amaury._ That you may palter!

_Yolanda_ (_gently_). That she may not grieve.

(_Goes again to bier._)

For--if 'tis near--her soul with this is wrung.
Near! would it were to hear me and impart
Its yearning and regret to us who live,
Its dim unhappiness and hollow want.
Yes, mother, were you now about us, vain,
Invisible and without any voice
To tell us of you!
Were you and now could hear through what of cold
Or silence wrap you, oh, so humanly
And seeming but a veil--
Then would you hear me say--(_suddenly aghast_)
Ah, God!

_Amaury._ Yolanda!

(_She starts back from the bier._)

Yolanda!

_Renier._ Girl, what rends you?

_Yolanda._ Saw you not?

(_Rushes to bier and shakes it._)

Mother! you hear me? mother!

_Renier._ Girl!

_Yolanda._ She breathes!

(_Consternation. Some fall to their
knees._)

_Vittia._ What? What?

_Yolanda._ Mother! Her breast! Mother! She moves!

_Amaury._ God! God!

_Yolanda._ Stand off from her ... Mother!

_Camarin._ Her eyes!...
They open! open!

_Yolanda._ Mother!...

_Amaury._ See; her lips!
They strive to speak! O faintly, O so faint!
Can you not hear?

_Berengere._ Yolanda!

_Yolanda._ Mother!

_Berengere._ Renier!

_Renier._ Yes, yes?

_Berengere._ Yolanda--

_Renier._ Speak!

_Berengere._ Christ, save me ... Christ!
Yolanda's innocent, and I ... 'twas I.

_Amaury._ What? what is it she says?

_Berengere._ Camarin! Ah!

(_She shudders and dies, amid
low-uttered awe._ RENIER _bends,
lays his hand a moment on her
breast, then, with a cry of rage,
springs from her and draws, and
rushes on_ CAMARIN, _who awaits
him, desperate._)

_Amaury_ (_confused, as they engage_).
Yolanda; what is this?

_Yolanda._ Amaury, in!
Compel Lord Renier back! he cannot live,
You only could against Camarin now!
Wait not to question, but obey me! if
You ever--! (_As he rushes in_) Holy Magdalen, defend him!

(RENIER _falls back._)

Now, now defend him, if to chastity
Thou'rt vowed in heaven.

_Vittia._ Fool!--Camarin, strike!

_Yolanda._ He's wounded!

_Camarin._ Oh!... Berengere!... treachery!

(_He staggers and sinks back
heavily toward the pillar. There
is breathless, strained suspense.
Then he strikes the sacred column,
and as he does so the image above
sways, totters and crushes upon
him. A cry, "The Magdalen!" goes up
around._)

_Hassan_ (_hurrying to him; after awe and silence_).
He's dead.

_Alessa._ The Magdalen!

_Hassan._ No breath in him.

(_A pause._)

_Renier_ (_low, harshly_).
Bear him without then ever from this place,
That never more shall know a holy rite--
And from these gates, I care not to what tomb.

(_To_ AMAURY.)

Then shall you hear this mystery's content,
That still as a madness measures to your sight.
Bear him without.

(_The limp body is borne away.
All follow but_ AMAURY, YOLANDA,
RENIER.)

Now you shall hear, with shame,
But with exalted pride and happy tears;
Then come obliteration!
Speak, girl ... Nobility
Had never better title to its truth.

(_Kisses her hand and goes._)

_Amaury._ Yolanda!... he!... this reverence as to
An angel? Speak!

_Yolanda._ Amaury----

_Amaury._ O pause not!

_Yolanda._ Then--to save her who's dead--from death and shame,
I took her place within the Paphian's arms.

_Amaury._ O!... and by me, driven by me, bore this!
(_Overcome_) Pure as the rills of Paradise, endured?

_Yolanda._ For you!--and her who sleeps forgiven there,

(_With deep abandon._)

Now while her spirit weightless overwingeth
Night, to that Throne whose seeing heals all shame!
For her I did! but oh, for you, whose least
Murmur to me is infinite with Spring,
Whose smile is light, filling the air with dawn,
Whose touch, wafture of immortality
Unto my weariness; and whose eyes, now,
Are as the beams God lifted first, they tell us,
Over the uncreated,
In the far singing mother-dawn of the world!--
Come with me then, but tearless, to her side.

(_They go to the bier and stand as
in a dream. A pause; then her lips
move, last, as if inspired._)

While there is sin to sway the soul and sink it
Pity should be as strong as love or death!

(_With a cry of joy he enfolds her,
and they kneel, wrapped about with
the clear moon._)

THE END.

LYRICS

JAEL

Jehovah! Jehovah! art Thou not stronger than gods of the heathen?
I slew him, that Sisera, prince of the host Thou dost hate.
But fear of his blood is upon me, about me is breathen
His spirit--by night and by day come voices that wait.

Athirst and affrightened he fled from the star-wrought waters of
Kishon.
His face was as wool when he swooned at the door of my tent.
The Lord hath given him into the hand of perdition,
I smiled--but he saw not the face of my cunning intent.

He thirsted for water: I fed him the curdless milk of the cattle.
He lay in the tent under purple and crimson of Tyre.
He slept and he dreamt of the surge and storming of battle.
Ah ha! but he woke not to waken Jehovah's ire.

He slept as he were a chosen of Israel's God Almighty.
A dog out of Canaan!--thought he I was woman alone?
I slipt like an asp to his ear and laughed for the sight he
Would give when the carrion kites should tear to his bone.

I smote thro' his temple the nail, to the dust a worm did I bind him.
My heart was a-leap with rage and a-quiver with scorn.
And I danced with a holy delight before and behind him--
I that am called blessed o'er all who're of Judah born.

"Aye, come, I will show thee, O Barak, a woman is more than a warrior,"
I cried as I lifted the door wherein Sisera lay.
"To me did he fly and I shall be called his destroyer--
I, Jael, who am subtle to find for the Lord a way!"

"Above all the daughters of men be blest--of Gilead or Asshur,"
Sang Deborah, prophetess, under her waving palm.
"Behold her, ye people, behold her the heathen's abasher;
Behold her the Lord hath uplifted--behold and be calm.

"The mother of him at the window looks out thro' the lattice to
listen--
Why roll not the wheels of his chariot? why does he stay?
Shall he not return with the booty of battle, and glisten
In songs of his triumph--ye women, why do ye not say?"

And I was as she who danced when the Seas were rendered asunder
And stood, until Egypt pressed in to be drowned unto death.
My breasts were as fire with the glory, the rocks that were under
My feet grew quick with the gloating that beat in my breath.

At night I stole out where they cast him, a sop to the jackal and
raven.
But his bones stood up in the moon and I shook with affright.
The strength shrank out of my limbs and I fell a craven
Before him--the nail in his temple gleamed bloodily bright.

Jehovah! Jehovah! art Thou not stronger than gods of the heathen?
I slew him, that Sisera, prince of the host Thou dost hate.
But fear of his blood is upon me, about me is breathen
His spirit--by day and by night come voices that wait.

I fly to the desert, I fly to the mountain--but they will not hide me.
His gods haunt the winds and the caves with vengeance that cries
For judgment upon me; the stars in their courses deride me--
The stars Thou hast hung with a breath in the wandering skies.

Jehovah! Jehovah! I slew him the scourge and sting of Thy Nation.
Take from me his spirit, take from me the voice of his blood.
With madness I rave--by day and by night, defamation!
Jehovah, release me! Jehovah! if still Thou art God!

MARY AT NAZARETH

I know, Lord, Thou hast sent Him--
Thou art so good to me!--
But Thou hast only lent Him,
His heart's for Thee!

I dared--Thy poor hand-maiden--
Not ask a prophet-child:
Only a boy-babe laden
For earth--and mild.

But this one Thou hast given
Seems not for earth--or me!
His lips flame truth from heaven,
And vanity

Seem all my thoughts and prayers
When He but speaks Thy Law;
Out of my heart the tares
Are torn by awe!

I cannot look upon Him
So strangely burn His eyes--
Hath not some grieving drawn Him
From Paradise?

For Thee, for Thee I'd live, Lord!
Yet oft I almost fall
Before Him--Oh, forgive, Lord,
My sinful thrall!

But e'en when He was nursing,
A baby at my breast,
It seemed He was dispersing
The world's unrest.

Thou bad'st me call Him "Jesus"
And from our heavy sin
I know He shall release us,
From Sheol win.

But, Lord, forgive! the yearning
That He may sometimes be
Like other children, learning
Beside my knee,

Or playing, prattling, seeking
For help,--comes to my heart....
Ah sinful, Lord, I'm speaking--
How good Thou art!

OUTCAST

I did not fear,
But crept close up to Christ and said,
"Is He not here?"

They drew me back--
The seraphs who had never bled
Of weary lack--

But still I cried,
With torn robe, clutching at His feet,
"Dear Christ! He died

So long ago!
Is He not here? Three days, unfleet
As mortal flow

Of time I've sought--
Till Heaven's amaranthine ways
Seem as sere nought!"

A grieving stole
Up from His heart and waned the gaze
Of His clear soul

Into my eyes.
"He is not here," troubled He sighed.
"For none who dies

Beliefless may
Bend lips to this sin-healing Tide,
And live alway."

Then darkness rose
Within me, and drear bitterness.
Out of its throes

I moaned, at last,
"Let me go hence! Take off the dress,
The charms Thou hast

Around me strown!
Beliefless too am I without
His love--and lone!"

Unto the Gate
They led me, tho' with pitying doubt.
I did not wait

But stepped across
Its portal, turned not once to heed
Or know my loss.

Then my dream broke,
And with it every loveless creed--
Beneath love's stroke.

ADELIL

Proud Adelil! Proud Adelil!
Why does she lie so cold?
(I made her shrink, I made her reel,
I made her white lids fold.)

We sat at banquet, many maids,
She like a Valkyr free.
(I hated the glitter of her braids,
I hated her blue eye's glee!)

In emerald cups was poured the mead;
Icily blew the night.
(But tears unshed and woes that bleed
Brew bitterness and spite.)

"A goblet to my love!" she cried,
"Prince where the sea-winds fly!"
(Her love!--it was for that he died,
And for it she should die.)

She lifted the cup and drank--she saw
A heart within its lees.
(I laughed like the dead who feel the thaw
Of summer in the breeze.)

They looked upon her stricken still,
And sudden they grew appalled.
("It is thy lover's heart!" I shrill
As the sea-crow to her called.)

Palely she took it--did it give
Ease there against her breast?
(Dead--dead she swooned, but I cannot live,
And dead I shall not rest.)

THE DYING POET

Swing in thy splendour, O silent sun,
Drawing my heart with thee over the west!
Done is its day as thy day is done,
Fallen its quest!

Swoon into purple and rose--then sink,
Tho' to arise again out of the dawn.
Sink while I praise thee, ere thro' the dark link
Of death I am drawn!

Sunk? art thou sunken? how great was life!
I like a child could cry for it again--
Cry for its beauty, pang, fleeting and strife,
Its women, its men!

For, how I drained it with love and delight!
Opened its heart with the magic of grief!
Reaped every season--its day and its night!
Loved every sheaf!

Aye, not a meadow my step has trod,
Never a flower swung sweet to my face,
Never a heart that was touched of God,
But taught me its grace.

Off, from my lids then a moment yet,
Fingering Death, for again I must see
Miraged by memory all that I met
Under Time's lee.

There!... I'm a child again--fair, so fair!
Under the eyes does a marvel not burn?
Speak they not vision, song, frenzy to dare,
That still in me yearn?...

Youth! my wild youth!--O, blood of my heart,
Still you can answer with whirling the thought!
Still like the mountain-born rapid can dart,
Joyous, distraught!...

Love, and her face again! there by the wood!--
Come thou invisible Dark with thy mask!
Shall I not learn if she lives? and could
I more of thee ask?...

Turn me away from the ashen west,
Where love's sad planet unveils to the dusk.
Something is stealing like light from my breast--
Soul from its husk ...

Soft!... Where the dead feel the buried dead,
Where the high hermit-bell hourly tolls,
Bury me, near to the haunting tread
Of life that o'errolls.

ON THE MOOR

1

I met a child upon the moor
A-wading down the heather;
She put her hand into my own,
We crossed the fields together.

I led her to her father's door--
A cottage mid the clover.
I left her--and the world grew poor
To me, a childless rover.

2

I met a maid upon the moor,
The morrow was her wedding.
Love lit her eyes with lovelier hues
Than the eve-star was shedding.

She looked a sweet goodbye to me,
And o'er the stile went singing.
Down all the lonely night I heard
But bridal bells a-ringing.

3

I met a mother on the moor,
By a new grave a-praying.
The happy swallows in the blue
Upon the winds were playing.

"Would I were in his grave," I said,
"And he beside her standing!"
There was no heart to break if death
For me had made demanding.

HUMAN LOVE

We spoke of God and Fate,
And of that Life--which some await--
Beyond the grave.
"It will be fair," she said,
"But love is here!
I only crave thy breast
Not God's when I am dead.
For He nor wants nor needs
My little love.
But it may be, if I love thee
And those whose sorrow daily bleeds,
He knows--and somehow heeds!"

OH, GO NOT OUT

Oh, go not out upon the storm,
Go not, my sweet, to Swalchie pool!
A witch tho' she be dead may charm
Thee and befool.

A wild night 'tis! her lover's moan,
Down under ooze and salty weed,
She'll make thee hear--and then her own!
Till thou shall heed.

And it will suck upon thy heart--
The sorcery within her cry--
Till madness out of thee upstart,
And rage to die.

For him she loved, she laughed to death!
And as afloat his chill hand lay,
"Ha, ha! to hell I sent his wraith!"
Did she not say?

And from his finger strive to draw
The ring that bound him to her spell?--
But on her closed his hand--she saw ...
Oh, who can tell?

For tho' she strove--tho' she did wail,
The dead hand held her cold and fast:
The tide crawled in o'er rock and swale,
To her at last!

Down in the pool where she was swept
He holds her--Oh, go not a-near!
For none has heard her cry but wept
And died that year.

CALL TO YOUR MATE, BOB-WHITE

O call to your mate, bob-white, bob-white,
And I will call to mine.
Call to her by the meadow-gate,
And I will call by the pine.

Tell her the sun is hid, bob-white,
The windy wheat sways west.
Whistle again, call clear and run
To lure her out of her nest.

For when to the copse she comes, shy bird,
With Mary down the lane
I'll walk, in the dusk of locust tops,
And be her lover again.

Ay, we will forget our hearts are old,
And that our hair is gray.
We'll kiss as we kissed at pale sunset
One summer's halcyon day.

That day, can it fade?... ah, bob, bob-white,
Still calling--calling still?
We're coming--a-coming, bent and weighed,
But glad with the old love's thrill!

TRANSCENDED

I who was learned in death's lore
Oft held her to my heart
And spoke of days when we should love no more--
In the long dust, apart.

"Immortal?" No--it could not be,
Spirit with flesh must die.
Tho' heart should pray and hope make endless plea,
Reason would still outcry.

She died. They wrapped her in the dust--
I heard the dull clod's dole,
And then I knew she lived--that death's dark lust
Could never touch her soul!

THE CRY OF EVE

Down the palm-way from Eden in the moist
Midnight lay Eve by her outdriven mate,
Pillowed on lilies that still told the sweet
Of birth within the Garden's ecstasy.
Pitiful round her face that could not lose
Its memory of God's perfecting was strewn
Her troubled hair, and sigh grieved after sigh
Along her loveliness in the white moon.
Sudden her dream, too cruelly impent
With pain, broke and a cry fled shuddering
Into the wounded stillness from her lips.
Then, cold, she fearfully felt for his hand,
While tears, that had before ne'er visited
Her lids with anguish, stinging traced her cheeks.

"Oh, Adam!" then as a wild shadow burst
Her moan on the pale air, "What have I dreamed?
Now do I understand His words, so dim
To creatures that had quivered but with bliss!
Since at the dusk thy kiss to me, and I
Wept at caresses that were once all joy,
I have slept, seeing through Futurity
The uncreated ages visibly!
Foresuffering phantoms crowded in the womb
Of Time, and all with lamentable mien
Accusing thee and me!
And some were far
From birth, without a name, but others near--
Sodom and dark Gomorrah ... from whose flames
Fleeing one turned ... how like her look to mine
When the tree's horror trembled on my taste!
And Nineveh, a city sinking slow
Under a shroud of sandy centuries
That hid me not from the buried cursing eyes
Of women who gave birth! And Babylon,
Upbuilded on our sin but for a day!

Ah, to be mother of all misery!
To be first-called out of the earth and fail
For a whole world! To shame maternity
For women evermore--women whose tears
Flooding the night, no hope can wipe away!
To see the wings of Death, as, Adam, thou
Hast not, endlessly beating, and to hear
The swooning ages suffer up to God!
And O that birth-cry of a guiltless child!
In it are sounding of our sin and woe,
With prophesy of ill beyond all years!
Yearning for beauty never to be seen--
Beatitude redeemless evermore!
And I whose dream mourned with all motherhood
Must hear it soon! Already do soft skill,
Low-babbled lulls, enticings and quick tones
Of tenderness--that will like light awake
The folded memory children shall bring
Out of the dark--move in me longingly.
Yet thou, Adam, dear fallen thought of God,
Thou, when thou too shall hear humanity
Cry in thy child, wilt groaning wish the world
Back in unsummoned Void! and, woe! wilt fill
God's ear with troubled wonder and unrest!"

Softly he soothed her straying hair, and kissed
The fever from her lips. Over the palms
The sad moon poured her peace into their eyes,
Till Sleep, the angel of forgetfulness,
Folded again her wings above their rest.

THE CHILD GOD GAVE

"Give me a little child
To draw this dreary want out of my breast,"
I cried to God.
"Give, for my days beat wild
With loneliness that will not rest
But under the still sod!"

It came--with groping lips
And little fingers stealing aimlessly
About my heart.
I was like one who slips
A-sudden into Ecstasy
And thinks ne'er to depart.

"Soon he will smile," I said,
"And babble baby love into my ears--
How it will thrill!"
I waited--Oh, the dread,
The clutching agony, the fears!--
He was so strange and still.

Did I curse God and rave
When they came shrinkingly to tell me 'twas
A witless child?
No ... I ... I only gave
One cry ... just one ... I think ... because ...
You know ... he never smiled.

MOTHER-LOVE

The seraphs would sing to her
And from the River
Dip her cool grails of radiant Life.
The angels would bring to her,
Sadly a-quiver,
Laurels she never had won in earth-strife.

And often they'd fly with her
O'er the star-spaces--
Silent by worlds where mortals are pent.
Yea, even would sigh with her,
Sigh with wan faces!
When she sat weeping of strange discontent.

But one said, "Why weepest thou
Here in God's heaven--
Is it not fairer than soul can see?"
"'Tis fair, ah!--- but keepest thou
Not me depriven
Of some one--somewhere--who needeth most me?

For tho' the day never fades
Over these meadows,
Tho' He has robed me and crowned--yet, yet!
Some love-fear for ever shades
All with sere shadows--
Had I no child _there_--whom I forget?"

ASHORE

What are the heaths and hills to me?
I'm a-longing for the sea!
What are the flowers that dapple the dell,
And the ripple of swallow-wings over the dusk;
What are the church and the folk who tell
Their hearts to God?--my heart is a husk!
(I'm a-longing for the sea!)

Aye! for there is no peace to me--
But on the peaceless sea!
Never a child was glad at my knee,
And the soul of a woman has never been mine.
What can a woman's kisses be?--
I fear to think how her arms would twine,
(I'm a-longing for the sea!)

So, not a home and ease for me--
But still the homeless sea!
Where I may swing my sorrow to sleep
In a hammock hung o'er the voice of the waves,
Where I may wake when the tempests heap
And hurl their hate--and a brave ship saves.
(I'm a-longing for the sea!)

Then when I die, a grave for me--
But in the graveless sea!
Where is no stone for an eye to spell
Thro' the lichen a name, a date and a verse.
Let me be laid in the deeps that swell
And sigh and wander--an ocean hearse!
(I'm a-longing for the sea!)

LOVE'S WAY TO CHILDHOOD

We are not lovers, you and I,
Upon this sunny lane,
But children who have never known
Love's joy or pain.

The flowers we pass, the summer brook,
The bird that o'er us darts--
We do not know 'tis they that thrill
Our childish hearts.

The earth-things have no name for us,
The ploughing means no more
Than that they like to walk the fields
Who plough them o'er.

The road, the wood, the heaven, the hills
Are not a World to-day--
But just a place God's made for us
In which to play.

LISSETTE

Oh ... there was love in her heart--no doubt of it--
Under the anger.
But see what came out of it!

Not a knave, he!--A Romeo rhyme-smatterer,
Cloaking in languor
And heartache to flatter her.

And just as a woman will--even the best of them--
She yielded--brittle.
God spare me the rest of them!

Aye! though 'twas but kisses--she swore!--he had of her.
For, was it little?
She thought 'twas not bad of her,

Said I would lavish a burning hour full
On any grissette.
A parry!--and powerful!

But--"You are mine, and blood is inflammable,
Flaunty Lissette!"
My rage was undammable....

Could a stilletto's one prick be prettier?
Look at the gaping.
No?--then you're her pitier!

Pah! she's the better, and I ... I'm your prisoner.
Loose me the strapping--
I'll lay one more kiss on her.

TEARLESS

Do women weep when men have died?
It cannot be!
For I have sat here by his side,
Breathing dear names against his face,
That he must list to were his place
Over God's throne--
Yet have I wept no tear and made no moan.

No! but to lids, that gaze stone-wide,
Grief seems in vain.
Do women weep?--I was his bride--
They brought him to me cold and pale--
Upon his lids I saw the trail
Of deathly pain.
They said, "Her tears will fall like Autumn rain."

I cannot weep! Not if hot tears,
Dropped on his lips,
Might burn him back to life and years
Of yearning love, would any rise
To flood the anguish from my eyes--
And I'm his bride!
Ah me, do women weep when men have died?

THE LIGHTHOUSEMAN

When at evening smothered lightnings
Burn the clouds with opal fires;
When the stars forget to glisten,
And the winds refuse to listen
To the song of my desires,
Oh, my love, unto thee!

When the livid breakers angered
Churn against my stormy tower;
When the petrel flying faster
Brings an omen to the master
Of his vessel's fated hour--
Oh, the reefs! ah, the sea!

Then I climb the climbing stairway,
Turn the light across the storm;
You are watching, fisher-maiden,
For the token flashes laden
With a love death could not harm--
Lo, they come, swift and free!

_One_--that means, "I think of thee!"
_Two_--"I swear me thine!"
_Three_--Ah, hear me tho' you sleep!--
Is, "Love, I know thee mine!"
Thro' the darkness, One, Two, Three,
All the night they sweep:
Thro' raging darkness o'er the deep,
One--and Two--and Three.

BY THE INDUS

Thou art late, O Moon,
Late,
I have waited thee long.
The nightingale's flown to her nest,
Sated with song.
The champak hath no odour more
To pour on the wind as he passeth o'er--
But my heart it will not rest.

Thou art late, O Love,
Late,
For the moon is a-wane.
The kusa-grass sighs with my sighs,
Burns with my pain.
The lotus leans her head on the stream--
Shall I not lean to thy breast and dream,
Dream ere the night-cool dies?

Thou art late, O Death,
Late,
For he did not come!
A pariah is my heart,
Cast from him--dumb!
I cannot cry in the jungle's deep--
Is it not time for Nirvana's sleep?
O Death, strike with thy dart!

FROM ONE BLIND

I cannot say thy cheek is like the rose,
Thy hair ripple of sunbeams, and thine eyes
Violets, April-rich and sprung of God.
My barren gaze can never know what throes
Such boons of beauty waken, tho' I rise
Each day a-tremble with the ruthless hope
That light will pierce my useless lids--then grope
Till night, blind as the worm within his clod.

Yet unto me thou are not less divine,
I touch thy cheek--and know the mystery hid
Within the twilight breeze; I smoothe thy hair
And understand how slipping hours may twine
Themselves into eternity: yea, rid
Of all but love, I kiss thine eyes and seem
To see all beauty God Himself may dream.
Why then should I o'ermuch for earth-sight care?

AT THE FALL OF ROME

A.D. 455

Drink to Death, drink!
He's god o' the world.
Up with the cup--
Let no man shiver!
Up with the cup--
Let no man shrink!
Drink to death,
He's lord o' the breath
Of mortals hurled from the world
Into Oblivion's river!

Drink to Death, aye!
And then--to the dust!
Fill with a will--
And quaff like a lover!
Fill with a will--
Who dares a Nay!
Drink to Death!...
He lies who saith
That life is just--'tis a crust
Tossed to a slave in his hover!

Drink to Death!--So!
Who recks for the rest?
Love is above--
Or Hate, what matter?
Love is above--
Or Hell below.
Drink to Death,
For vile is the peth
Of Rome, and Shame is her name!
Then drink, and the goblet shatter!

PEACELESS LOVE

I say unto all hearts that cannot rest
For want of love, for beating loud and lonely,
Pray the great Mercy-God to give you only
Love that is passionless within the breast.

Pray that it may not be a haunting fire,
A vision that shall steal insatiably
All beauteous content, all sweet desire,
From faith and dream, star, flower, and song, and sea.

But seek that soul and soul may meet together,
Knowing they have for ever been but one--
Meet and be surest when ill's chartless weather
Drives blinding gales of doubt across their sun.
Pray--pray! lest love uptorn shall seem as nether
Hell-hate and rage beyond oblivion.

SUNDERED

God who can bind the stars eternally
With but a breath of spirit speech, a thought;
Who can within earth's arms lay the mad sea
Unserverably, and count it as sheer nought--
With His All-might can bind not you and me.

For though he pressed us heart to burning heart,
Knowing this fatal spell that so enthralls,
Still would our souls, unhelpably apart,
Stand aliens--beating fierce against the walls
Of dark unsympathies that 'tween us start.
Stands aliens, aye, and would! tho' we should meet
Beyond the oblivion of unnumbered births--
Upon some world where Time cannot repeat
The feeblest syllable that once was earth's.

WITH OMAR

I sat with Omar by the Tavern door
Musing the mystery of mortals o'er,
And soon with answers alternate we strove
Whether, beyond death, Life hath any shore.

"_Come, fill the cup_," said he. "_In the fire of Spring
Your Winter-garment of Repentance fling.
The Bird of Time has but a little way
To flutter--and the Bird is on the Wing._"

"The Bird of Time?" I answered. "Then have I
No heart for Wine. Must we not cross the Sky
Unto Eternity upon his wings--
Or, failing, fall into the Gulf and die?"

"_So some for the Glories of this World; and some
Sigh for the Prophet's Paradise to come;
But you, Friend, take the Cash--the Credit leave,
Nor heed the rumble of a distant Drum!_"

"What, take the Cash and let the Credit go?
Spend all upon the Wine the while I know
A possible To-morrow may bring thirst
For Drink but Credit then shall cause to flow?"

"_Yea, make the most of what you yet may spend,
Before we too into the Dust descend;
Dust unto Dust, and under Dust, to lie,
Sans Wine, sans Song, sans Singer, and--sans End!_"

"Into the Dust we shall descend--we must.
But can the soul not break the crumbling Crust
In which he is encaged? To hope or to
Despair he will--which is more wise or just?"

"_The worldly hope men set their hearts upon
Turns Ashes--or it prospers: and anon,
Like Snow upon the Desert's dusty Face,
Lighting a little hour or two--is gone._"

"Like Snow it comes--to cool one burning Day;
And like it goes--for all our plea or sway.
But flooding tears nor Wine can ever purge
The Vision it has brought to us away."

"_But to this world we come and Why not knowing
Nor Whence, like water willy-nilly flowing;
And out of it, as Wind along the waste,
We know not Whither, willy-nilly blowing._"

"True, little do we know of _Why_ or _Whence_.
But is forsooth our Darkness evidence
There is no Light?--the worm may see no star
Tho' heaven with myriad multitudes be dense."

"_But, all unasked, we're hither hurried Whence?
And, all unasked, we're Whither hurried hence?
O, many a cup of this forbidden Wine
Must drown the memory of that insolence._"

"Yet can not--ever! For it is forbid
Still by that quenchless soul within us hid,
Which cries, 'Feed--feed me not on Wine alone,
For to Immortal Banquets I am bid.'"

"_Well oft I think that never blows so red
The Rose as where some buried Caesar bled:
That every Hyacinth the Garden wears
Dropt in her lap from some once lovely Head._"

"Then if, from the dull Clay thro' with Life's throes,
More beautiful spring Hyacinth and Rose,
Will the great Gard'ner for the uprooted soul
Find Use no sweeter than--useless Repose?"

"_We cannot know--so fill the cup that clears
To-day of past regret and future fears:
To-morrow!--Why, To-morrow we may be
Ourselves with yesterday's sev'n thousand Years._"

"No Cup there is to bring oblivion
More during than Regret and Fear--no, none!
For Wine that's Wine to-day may change and be
Marah before to-morrow's Sands have run."

"_Myself when young did eagerly frequent
Doctor and Saint, and heard great argument
About it and about: but evermore
Came out by the same door wherein I went._"

"The doors of Argument may lead Nowhither,
Reason become a Prison where may wither
From sunless eyes the Infinite, from hearts
All Hope, when their sojourn too long is thither."

"_Up from Earth's Centre thro' the Seventh Gate
I rose, and on the throne of Saturn sate,
And many a Knot unravelled by the Road--
But not the Master-knot of Human fate._"

"The Master-knot knows but the Master-hand
That scattered Saturn and his countless Band
Like seeds upon the unplanted heaven's Air:
The Truth we reap from them is Chaff thrice fanned."

"_Yet if the Soul can fling the Dust aside
And naked on the air of Heaven ride,
Wer't not a shame--wer't not a shame for him
In this clay carcass crippled to abide?_"

"No, for a day bound in this Dust may teach
More of the Saki's Mind than we can reach
Through aeons mounting still from Sky to Sky--
May open through all Mystery a breach."

"_You speak as if Existence closing your
Account and mine should know the like no more;
The Eternal Saki from that Bowl has poured
Millions of bubbles like us, and will pour._"

"Bubbles we are, pricked by the point of Death.
But, in each bubble, hope there dwells a Breath
That lifts it and at last to Freedom flies,
And o'er all heights of Heaven wandereth."

"_A moment's halt--a momentary taste
Of Being from the Well amid the Waste--
And Lo!--the phantom Caravan has reached
The Nothing it set out from--Oh, make haste!_"

"And yet it should be--it should be that we
Who drink shall drink of Immortality.
The Master of the Well has much to spare:
Will He say, 'Taste'--then shall we no more be?"

"_The Moving Finger writes; and having writ,
Moves on; nor all your Piety nor Wit
Shall lure it back to cancel half a line,
Nor all your tears wash out a word of it._"

"And--were it otherwise?... We might erase
The Letter of some Sorrow in whose place
No other sounding, we should fail to spell
The Heart which yearns behind the mock-world's face."

"_Well, this I know; whether the one True Light
Kindle to Love, or Wrath--consume me quite,
One flash of it within the Tavern caught
Better than in the Temple lost outright._"

"In Temple or in Tavern 't may be lost.
And everywhere that Love hath any Cost
It may be found; the Wrath it seems is but
A Cloud whose Dew should make its power most."

"_But see His Presence thro' Creation's veins,
Running Quicksilver-like eludes your pains;
Taking all shapes from Mah to Mahi; and
They change and perish all--but He remains._"

"All--it may be. Yet lie to sleep, and lo,
The soul seems quenched in Darkness--is it so?
Rather believe what seemeth not than seems
Of Death--until we know--_until we know_."

"_So wastes the Hour--gone in the vain pursuit
Of This and That we strive o'er and dispute.
Better be jocund with the fruitful Grape
Than sadden after none, or bitter Fruit._"

"Better--unless we hope the Shadow 's thrown
Across our Path by glories of the Unknown
Lest we may think we have no more to live
And bide content with dim-lit Earth alone."

"_Then, strange, is't not? that of the myriads who
Before us passed the door of Darkness through
Not one returns to tell us of the Road,
Which to discover we must travel too?_"

"Such is the ban! but even though we heard
Love in Life's All we still should crave the word
Of one returned. Yet none is _sure_, we know,
Though they lie deep, they are by Death deterred."

"_Send then thy Soul through the Invisible
Some letter of the After-life to spell:
And by and by thy Soul returned to thee
But answers, 'I myself am Heaven and Hell._'"

"From the Invisible, he does. But sent
Through Earth where living Goodness though 'tis blent
With Evil dures, may he not read the Voice,
'To make thee but for Death were toil ill-spent'?"

"_Well, when the Angel of the darker drink
At last shall find us by the river-brink,
And offering his Cup invite our souls
Forth to our lips to quaff, we shall not shrink._"

"No. But if in the sable Cup we knew
Death without waking were the fateful brew,
Nobler it were to curse as Coward Him
Who roused us into light--then light withdrew."

"_Then thou who didst with pitfall and with gin
Beset the Road I was to wander in,
Thou wilt not with Predestined Evil round
Enmesh, and then impute my fall to sin._"

"He will not. If one evil we endure
To ultimate Debasing, oh, be sure
'Tis not of Him predestined, and the sin
Not His nor ours--but fate's He could not cure."

"_Yet, ah, that Spring should vanish with the Rose!
That Youth's sweet-scented Manuscript should close!
The Nightingale that on the branches sang--
Ah, whence, and whither flown again, who knows?_"

"So does it seem--no other joys like these!
Yet Summer comes, and Autumn's honoured ease;
And wintry Age, is't ever whisperless
Of that Last Spring, whose Verdure may not cease?"

"_Still, would some winged Angel ere too late
Arrest the yet unfolded roll of Fate,
And make the stern Recorder otherwise
Enregister or quite obliterate!_"

"To otherwise enregister believe
He toils eternally, nor asks Reprieve.
And could Creation perfect from his hands
Have come at Dawn, none overmuch should grieve."

So till the wan and early scene of day
We strove, and silent turned at last away,
Thinking how men in ages yet unborn
Would ask and answer--trust and doubt and pray.

A JAPANESE MOTHER

(IN TIME OF WAR)

The young stork sleeps in the pine-tree tops,
Down on the brink of the river.
My baby sleeps by the bamboo copse--
The bamboo copse where the rice field stops:
The bamboos sigh and shiver.

The white fox creeps from his hole in the hill;
I must pray to Inari.
I hear her calling me low and chill--
Low and chill when the wind is still
At night and the skies are starry.

And ever she says, "He's dead! he's dead!
Your lord who went to battle.
How shall your baby now be fed,
Ukibo fed, with rice and bread--
What if I hush his prattle?"

The red moon rises as I slip back,
And the bamboo stems are swaying.
Inari was deaf--and yet the lack,
The fear and lack, are gone, and the rack,
I know not why--with praying.

For though Inari cared not at all,
Some other god was kinder.
I wonder why he has heard my call,
My giftless call--and what shall befall?...
Hope has but left me blinder!

SHINTO

(MIYAJIMA, JAPAN, 1905)

Lowly temple and torii,
Shrine where the spirits of wind and wave
Find the worship and glory we
Give to the one God great and grave--

Lowly temple and torii,
Shrine of the dead, I hang my prayer
Here on your gates--the story see
And answer out of the earth and air.

For I am Nature's child, and you
Were by the children of Nature built.
Ages have on you smiled--and dew
On you for ages has been spilt--

Till you are beautiful as Time
Mossy and mellowing ever makes:
Wrapped as you are in lull--or rhyme
Of sounding drum that sudden breaks.

This is my prayer then, this, that I
Too may reverence all of life,
Beauty, and power and miss no high
Awe of a world with wonder rife.

That I may build in spirit fair
Temples and torii on each place
That I have loved--O hear it, Air,
Ocean and Earth, and grant your grace!

EVOCATION

(NIKKO, JAPAN, 1905)

Weird thro' the mist and cryptomeria
Booms the temple bell,
Down from the tomb of Iëyasu
Yearning, as a knell.

Down from the tomb where many an aeon
Silently has knelt,
Many a pilgrimage of millions--
Still about it felt.

Still, for see them gather ghostly
Now, as the numb sound
Floats as unearthly necromancy
From the past's dead ground.

See the invisible vast millions,
Hear their soundless feet
Climbing the shrine-ways to the gilded
Carven temple's seat.

And, one among them--pale among them--
Passes waning by.
What is it tells me mystically
That strange one was I?...

Weird thro' the mist and cryptomeria
Dies the bell--'tis dumb.
After how many lives returning
Shall I hither come?

Hither again! and climb the votive
Ever mossy ways?
Who shall the gods be then, the millions,
Meek, entreat or praise?

THE ATONER

Winter has come in sackcloth and ashes
(Penance for Summer's enverdured sheaves).
Bitterly, cruelly, bleakly he lashes
His limbs that are naked of grass and leaves.

He moans in the forest for sins unforgiven
(Sins of the revelrous days of June)--
Moans while the sun drifts dull from the heaven,
Giftless of heat's beshriving boon.

Long must he mourn, and long be his scourging,
(Long will the day-god aloof frown cold),
Long will earth listen the rue of his dirging--
Till the dark beads of his days are told.

INTIMATION

All night I smiled as I slept,
For I heard the March-wind feel
Blindly about in the trees without
For buds to heal.

All night in dreams, for I smelt,
In the rain-wet woods and fields,
The coming flowers and the glad green hours
That summer yields.

And when at dawn I awoke,
At the blue-bird's wooing cheep,
Winter with all its chill and pall
Seemed but a sleep.

IN JULY

This path will tell me where dark daisies dance
To the white sycamores that dell them in;
Where crow and flicker cry melodious din,
And blackberries in ebon ripeness glance
Luscious enticings under briery green.
It will slip under coppice limbs that lean
Brushingly as the slow-belled heifer pants
Toward weedy water-plants
That shade the pool-sunk creek's reluctant trance.

I shall find bell-flower spires beside the gap
And lady phlox within the hollow's cool;
Cedar with sudden memories of Yule
Above the tangle tipped with blue skullcap.
The high hot mullein fond of the full sun
Will watch and tell the low mint when I've won
The hither wheat where idle breezes nap,
And fluffy quails entrap
Me from their brood that crouch to escape mishap.

Then I shall reach the mossy water-way
That gullies the dense hill up to its peak,
There dally listening to the eerie eke
Of drops into cool chalices of clay.
Then on, for elders odorously will steal
My senses till I climb up where they heal
The livid heat of its malingering ray,
And wooingly betray
To memory many a long-forgotten day.

There I shall rest within the woody peace
Of afternoon. The bending azure frothed
With silveryness, the sunny pastures swathed,
Fragrant with morn-mown clover and seed-fleece;
The hills where hung mists muse, and Silence calls
To Solitude thro' aged forest halls,
Will waft into me their mysterious ease,
And in the wind's soft cease
I shall hear hintings of eternities.

FROM ABOVE

What do I care if the trees are bare
And the hills are dark
And the skies are gray.

What do I care for chill in the air,
For crows that cark
At the rough wind's way.

What do I care for the dead leaves there--
Or the sullen road
By the sullen wood.

There's heart in my heart
To bear my load!
So enough, the day is good!

SONGS TO A. H. R.

I.

THE WORLD'S, AND MINE

The world may hear
The wind at his trees,
The lark in her skies,
The sea on his leas;
May hear the song rise
From the breast of a woman
And think it as dear
As heaven tho' human.
But I have a music they can never know--
The touch of you, soul of you, heart of you. Oh!
All else that is said or sung 's but a part of you--
Ever to me 'tis so!

II.

LOVE-CALL IN SPRING

Not only the lark but the robin too
(Oh, heart o' my heart, come into the wood!)
Is singing the air to gladness new
As the breaking bud
And the freshet's flood!

Not only the peeping grass and the scent--
(Oh, love o' my life, fly unto me here!)
Of violets coming ere April's spent--
But the frog's shrill cheer
And the crow's wild jeer!

Not only the blue, not only the breeze,
(Oh, soul o' my heart, why tarry so long!)
But sun that is sweeter upon the trees
Than rills that throng
To the brooklet's song!

Oh, heart o' my heart, oh, heart o' my love,
(Oh soul o' my soul, haste unto me, haste!)
For spring is below and God is above--
But all is a waste
Without thee--Haste!

III.

MATING

The bliss of the wind in the redbud ringing!
What shall we do with the April days!
Kingcups soon will be up and swinging--
What shall we do with May's!

The cardinal flings, "They are made for mating!"
Out on the bough he flutters, a flame.
Thrush-flutes echo "For mating's elating!
Love is its other name!"

They know! know it! but better, oh, better,
Dearest, than ever a bird in Spring,
Know we to make each moment a debtor
Unto love's burgeoning!

IV.

UNTOLD

Could I, a poet,
Implant the truth of you,
Seize it and sow it
As Spring on the world.
There were no need
To fling (forsooth) of you
Fancies that only lovers heed!
No, but unfurled,
The bloom, the sweet of you,
(As unto me they are opened oft)
Would with their beauty's breath repeat of you
All that my heart breathes loud or soft!

V.

LOVE-WATCH

My love's a guardian-angel
Who camps about thy heart,
Never to flee thine enemy,
Nor from thee turn apart.