Chapter I: Part 1

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POEMS

by

ALEXANDER SMITH.

Third Edition.

London: David Bogue, Fleet Street. MDCCCLIV.

LONDON: Printed by G. Barclay, Castle St. Leicester Sq.

CONTENTS.

Page

A LIFE-DRAMA 9

AN EVENING AT HOME 213

LADY BARBARA 229

TO ---- 236

SONNETS 239

A LIFE-DRAMA.

SCENE I.--_An Antique Room: Midnight._

WALTER, _Reading from a paper on which he has been writing_.

As a wild maiden, with love-drinking eyes,
Sees in sweet dreams a beaming Youth of Glory,
And wakes to weep, and ever after, sighs
For that bright vision till her hair is hoary;
Ev'n so, alas! is my life's-passion story.
For Poesy my heart and pulses beat,
For Poesy my blood runs red and fleet,
As Aaron's serpent the Egyptians' swallow'd,
One passion eats the rest. My soul is follow'd
By strong ambition to out-roll a lay,
Whose melody will haunt the world for aye,
Charming it onward on its golden way.
[_Tears the paper and paces the room with disordered steps._
Oh, that my heart were quiet as a grave
Asleep in moonlight!
For, as a torrid sunset boils with gold
Up to the zenith, fierce within my soul
A passion burns from basement to the cope.
Poesy! Poesy! I'd give to thee,
As passionately, my rich-laden years,
My bubble pleasures, and my awful joys,
As Hero gave her trembling sighs to find
Delicious death on wet Leander's lip.
Bare, bald, and tawdry, as a fingered moth,
Is my poor life, but with one smile thou canst
Clothe me with kingdoms. Wilt thou smile on me?
Wilt bid me die for thee? O fair and cold!
As well may some wild maiden waste her love
Upon the calm front of a marble Jove.
I cannot draw regard of thy great eyes.
I love thee, Poesy! Thou art a rock,
I, a weak wave, would break on thee and die.
There is a deadlier pang than that which beads
With chilly death-drops the o'er-tortured brow,
When one has a big heart and feeble hands,--
A heart to hew his name out upon time
As on a rock, then in immortalness
To stand on time as on a pedestal;
When hearts beat to this tune, and hands are weak,
We find our aspirations quenched in tears,
The tears of impotence, and self-contempt
That loathsome weed, up-springing in the heart,
Like nightshade 'mong the ruins of a shrine;
I am so cursed, and wear within my soul
A pang as fierce as Dives' drowsed with wine,
Lipping his leman in luxurious dreams;
Waked by a fiend in hell!----
'T is not for me, ye Heavens! 't is not for me
To fling a Poem, like a comet, out,
Far-splendouring the sleepy realms of night.
I cannot give men glimpses so divine,
As when, upon a racking night, the wind
Draws the pale curtains of the vapoury clouds,
And shows those wonderful, mysterious voids,
Throbbing with stars like pulses.--Naught for me
But to creep quietly into my grave;
Or calm and tame the swelling of my heart
With this foul lie, painted as sweet as truth.
That "great and small, weakness and strength, are naught,
That each thing being equal in its sphere,
The May-night glow-worm with its emerald lamp,
Is worthy as the mighty moon that drowns
Continents in her white and silent light."
This--this were easy to believe, were I
The planet that doth nightly wash the earth's
Fair sides with moonlight; not the shining worm.
But as I am--beaten, and foiled, and shamed,
The arrow of my soul which I have shot
To bring down Fame, dissolved like shaft of mist--
This painted falsehood, this most damned lie,
Freezes me like a fiendish human face,
With all its features gathered in a sneer.
Oh, let me rend this breathing tent of flesh;
Uncoop the soul--fool, fool, 't were still the same,
'T is the deep soul that's touch'd, _it_ bears the wound;
And memory doth stick in 't like a knife,
Keeping it wide for ever. [_A long pause._
I am fain
To feed upon the beauty of the moon!
[_Opens the casement._
Sorrowful moon! seeming so drowned in woe,
A queen, whom some grand battle-day has left
Unkingdomed and a widow, while the stars,
Thy handmaidens, are standing back in awe,
Gazing in silence on thy mighty grief!
All men have loved thee for thy beauty, moon!
Adam has turned from Eve's fair face to thine,
And drunk thy beauty with his serene eyes.
Anthony once, when seated with his queen,
Worth all the East, a moment gazed at thee:
She struck him on the cheek with jealous hand,
And chiding said,--"Now, by my Egypt's gods,
That pale and squeamish beauty of the night
Has had thine eyes too long; thine eyes are mine!
Alack! there's sorrow in my Anthony's face!
Dost think of Rome? I'll make thee, with a kiss,
Richer than Cæsar! Come, I'll crown thy lips."
[_Another pause._
How tenderly the moon doth fill the night!
Not like the passion that doth fill my soul;
It burns within me like an Indian sun.
A star is trembling on the horizon's verge,
That star shall grow and broaden on the night,
Until it hangs divine and beautiful
In the proud zenith--
Might I so broaden on the skies of fame!
O Fame! Fame! Fame! next grandest word to God!
I seek the look of Fame! Poor fool--so tries
Some lonely wanderer 'mong the desert sands
By shouts to gain the notice of the Sphynx,
Staring right on with calm eternal eyes.

SCENE II.

_A Forest._ WALTER _sleeping beneath a tree._

_Enter_ LADY _with a fawn._

LADY.

Halt! Flora, halt! This race
Has danced my ringlets all about my brows,
And brought my cheeks to bloom. Here will I rest
And weave a garland for thy dappled neck.
[_Weaves flowers._
I look, sweet Flora, in thine innocent eyes,
And see in them a meaning and a glee
Fitting this universal summer joy:
Each leaf upon the trees doth shake with joy,
With joy the white clouds navigate the blue,
And, on his painted wings, the butterfly,
Most splendid masker in this carnival,
Floats through the air in joy! Better for man,
Were he and Nature more familiar friends!
His part is worst that touches this base world.
Although the ocean's inmost heart be pure,
Yet the salt fringe that daily licks the shore
Is gross with sand. On, my sweet Flora, on!
[_Rises and approaches_ WALTER.
Ha! what is this? A bright and wander'd youth,
Thick in the light of his own beauty, sleeps
Like young Apollo, in his golden curls!
At the oak-roots I've seen full many a flower,
But never one so fair. A lovely youth,
With dainty cheeks and ringlets like a girl,
And slumber-parted lips 'twere sweet to kiss!
Ye envious lids! I fain would see his eyes!
Jewels so richly cased as those of his
Must be a sight. So, here's a well-worn book,
From which he drinks such joy as doth a pale
And dim-eyed worker who escapes, in Spring,
The thousand-streeted and smoke-smothered town,
And treads awhile the breezy hills of health.
[LADY _opens the book, a slip of paper falls out;
she reads._

The fierce exulting worlds, the motes in rays,
The churlish thistles, scented briers,
The wind-swept blue-bells on the sunny braes,
Down to the central fires,

Exist alike in Love. Love is a sea,
Filling all the abysses dim
Of lornest space, in whose deeps regally
Suns and their bright broods swim.

This mighty sea of Love with wondrous tides,
Is sternly just to sun and grain;
'Tis laving at this moment Saturn's sides,--
'Tis in my blood and brain.

All things have something more than barren use;
There is a scent upon the brier,
A tremulous splendour in the autumn dews,
Cold morns are fringed with fire;

The clodded earth goes up in sweet-breathed flowers;
In music dies poor human speech,
And into beauty blow those hearts of ours,
When Love is born in each.

Life is transfigured in the soft and tender
Light of Love, as a volume dun
Of rolling smoke becomes a wreathèd splendour
In the declining sun.

Driven from cities by his restless moods,
In incense-glooms and secret nooks,
A miser o'er his gold--the lover broods
O'er vague words, earnest looks.

Oft is he startled on the sweetest lip;
Across his midnight sea of mind
A Thought comes streaming, like a blazing ship
Upon a mighty wind,

A Terror and a Glory! Shocked with light,
His boundless being glares aghast;
Then slowly settles down the wonted night,
All desolate and vast.

Daisies are white upon the churchyard sod,
Sweet tears, the clouds lean down and give.
This world is very lovely. O my God,
I thank Thee that I live!

Ringed with his flaming guards of many kinds,
The proud Sun stoops his golden head,
Grey Eve sobs crazed with grief; to her the winds
Shriek out, "The Day is dead."

I gave this beggar Day no alms, this Night
Has seen nor work accomplished, planned,
Yet this poor Day shall soon in memory's light
A summer rainbow stand!

There is no evil in this present strife;
From th' shivering Seal's low moans,
Up through the shining tiers and ranks of life,
To stars upon their thrones,

The seeming ills are Loves in dim disguise;
Dark moral knots, that pose the seer,
If _we_ are lovers, in our wider eyes
Shall hang, like dew-drops, clear.

Ye are my menials, ye thick-crowding years!
Ha! yet with a triumphant shout
My spirit shall take captive all the spheres,
And wring their riches out.

God! what a glorious future gleams on me;
With nobler senses, nobler peers,
I'll wing me through Creation like a bee,
And taste the gleaming spheres!

While some are trembling o'er the poison-cup,
While some grow lean with care, some weep,
In this luxurious faith I'll wrap me up,
As in a robe, and sleep.

Oh, 'tis a sleeping Poet! and his verse
Sings like the syren-isles. An opulent Soul
Dropt in my path like a great cup of gold,
All rich and rough with stories of the gods!
Methinks all poets should be gentle, fair,
And ever young, and ever beautiful:
I'd have all Poets to be like to this,--
Gold-haired and rosy-lipped, to sing of Love.
Love! Love! Old song that Poet ever chanteth,
Of which the listening world is never weary.
Soul is a moon, Love is its loveliest phase.
Alas! to me this Love will never come
Till summer days shall visit dark December.
Woe's me! 'tis very sad, but 'tis my doom
To hide a ghastly grief within my heart,
And then to coin my lying cheek to smiles,
Sure, smiles become a victim garlanded!
Hist! he awakes----

WALTER (_awakening_).

Fair lady, in my dream
Methought I was a weak and lonely bird,
In search of summer, wander'd on the sea,
Toiling through mists, drenched by the arrowy rain,
Struck by the heartless winds: at last, methought
I came upon an isle in whose sweet air
I dried my feathers, smoothed my ruffled breast,
And skimmed delight from off the waving woods.
Thy coming, lady, reads this dream of mine:
I am the swallow, thou the summer land.

LADY.

Sweet, sweet is flattery to mortal ears,
And, if I drink thy praise too greedily,
My fault I'll match with grosser instances.
Do not the royal souls that van the world
Hunger for praises? Does not the hero burn
To blow his triumphs in the trumpet's mouth?
And do not poets' brows throb feverous
Till they are cooled with laurels? Therefore, sir,
If such dote more on praise than all the wealth
Of precious-wombèd earth and pearlèd mains,
Blame not the cheeks of simple maidenhood.
Fair sir, I am the empress of this wood!
The courtier oaks bow in proud homages,
And shake down o'er my path their golden leaves.
Queen am I of this green and summer realm.
This wood I've entered oft when all in sheen
The princely Morning walks o'er diamond dews,
And still have lingered, till the vain young Night
Trembles o'er her own beauty in the sea.

WALTER.

And as thou passest some mid-forest glade,
The simple woodman stands amazed, as if
An angel flashed by on his gorgeous wings.

LADY.

I am thine empress. Who and what art thou?
Art thou Sir Bookworm? Haunter of old tomes,
Sitting the silent term of stars to watch
Your own thought passing into beauty, like
An earnest mother watching the first smile
Dawning upon her sleeping infant's face,
Until she cannot see it for her tears?
And when the lark, the laureate of the sun,
Doth climb the east, eager to celebrate
His monarch's crowning, goeth pale to bed,--
Art thou such denizen of book-world, pray?

WALTER.

Books written when the soul is at spring-tide,
When it is laden like a groaning sky
Before a thunder-storm, are power and gladness,
And majesty and beauty. They seize the reader
As tempests seize a ship, and bear him on
With a wild joy. Some books are drenchèd sands,
On which a great soul's wealth lies all in heaps,
Like a wrecked argosy. What power in books!
They mingle gloom and splendour, as I've oft,
In thund'rous sunsets, seen the thunder-piles
Seamed with dull fire and fiercest glory-rents.
They awe me to my knees, as if I stood
In presence of a king. They give me tears;
Such glorious tears as Eve's fair daughters shed,
When first they clasped a Son of God, all bright
With burning plumes and splendours of the sky,
In zoning heaven of their milky arms.
How few read books aright! Most souls are shut
By sense from grandeur, as a man who snores,
Night-capped and wrapt in blankets to the nose,
Is shut in from the night, which, like a sea,
Breaketh for ever on a strand of stars.
Lady, in book-world have I ever dwelt,
This book has domed my being like a sky.

LADY.

And who was its creator?

WALTER.

He was one
Who could not help it, for it was his nature
To blossom into song, as 'tis a tree's
To leaf itself in April.

LADY.

Did he love?

WALTER.

Ay; and he suffered.--His was not that love
That comes on men with their beards. His soul was rich;
And this his book unveils it, as the night
Her panting wealth of stars. The world was cold,
And he went down like a lone ship at sea;
And now the fame that scorned him while he lived
Waits on him like a menial.----
When the dark dumb Earth
Lay on her back and watched the shining stars,
A Soul from its warm body shuddered out
To the dim air and trembled with the cold;
Through the waste air it passed as swift and still,
As a dream passes through the lands of sleep,
Till at the very gates of spirit-world
'Twas asked by a most worn and earnest shape
That seemed to tremble on the coming word,
About an orphan Poem, and if yet
A Name was heard on earth.

LADY.

'Tis very sad,
And doth remind me of an old, low strain,
I used to sing in lap of summers dead,
When I was but a child, and when we played
Like April sunbeams 'mong the meadow-flowers;
Or romped i' the dews with weak complaining lambs;
Or sat in circles on the primrose knolls,
Striving with eager and palm-shaded eyes,
'Mid shouts and silver laughs, who first should catch
The lark, a singing speck, go up the blue.
I'll sing it to thee; 'tis a song of One--
(An image slept within his soul's caress,
Like a sweet thought within a Poet's heart
Ere it is born in joy and golden words)--
Of One whose naked soul stood clad in love,
Like a pale martyr in his shirt of fire.
I'll sing it to thee. [LADY _sings._

In winter when the dismal rain
Came down in slanting lines,
And Wind, that grand old harper, smote
His thunder-harp of pines,

A Poet sat in his antique room,
His lamp the valley kinged,
'Neath dry crusts of dead tongues he found
Truth, fresh and golden-winged.

When violets came and woods were green,
And larks did skyward dart,
A Love alit and white did sit,
Like an angel on his heart.

From his heart he unclasped his love
Amid the trembling trees,
And sent it to the Lady Blanche
On wingèd poesies.

The Lady Blanche was saintly fair,
Nor proud, but meek her look;
In her hazel eyes her thoughts lay clear
As pebbles in a brook.

Her father's veins ran noble blood,
His hall rose 'mid the trees;
Like a sunbeam she came and went
'Mong the white cottages.

The peasants thanked her with their tears,
When food and clothes were given,--
"This is a joy," the Lady said,
"Saints cannot taste in Heaven!"

They met--the Poet told his love,
His hopes, despairs, his pains,--
The Lady with her calm eyes mocked
The tumult in his veins.

He passed away--a fierce song leapt
From cloud of his despair,
As lightning, like a bright, wild beast,
Leaps from its thunder-lair.

He poured his frenzy forth in song,--
Bright heir of tears and praises!
Now resteth that unquiet heart
Beneath the quiet daisies.

The world is old,--Oh! very old,--
The wild winds weep and rave;
The world is old, and grey, and cold,
Let it drop into its grave!

Our ears, Sir Bookworm, hunger for _thy_ song.

WALTER.

I have a strain of a departed bard;
One who was born too late into this world.
A mighty day was past, and he saw nought
But ebbing sunset and the rising stars,--
Still o'er him rose those melancholy stars!
Unknown his childhood, save that he was born
'Mong woodland waters full of silver breaks;
That he grew up 'mong primroses moon-pale
In the hearts of purple hills; that he o'er ran
Green meadows golden in the level sun,
A bright-haired child; and that, when these he left
To dwell within a monstrous city's heart,
The trees were gazing up into the sky,
Their bare arms stretched in prayer for the snows.
When first we met, his book was six months old,
And eagerly his name was buzzed abroad;
Praises fell thick on him. Men said, "This Dawn
Will widen to a clear and boundless Day;
And when it ripens to a sumptuous west
With a great sunset 'twill be closed and crowned."
Lady! he was as far 'bove common men
As a sun-steed, wild-eyed and meteor-maned,
Neighing the reeling stars, is 'bove a hack
With sluggish veins of mud. More tremulous
Than the soft star that in the azure east
Trembles with pity o'er bright bleeding day,
Was his frail soul; I dwelt with him for years;
I was to him but Labrador to Ind;
His pearls were plentier than my pebble-stones.
He was the sun, I was that squab--the earth,
And basked me in his light until he drew
Flowers from my barren sides. Oh! he was rich,
And I rejoiced upon his shore of pearls,
A weak enamoured sea. Once did he say,
"My Friend! a Poet must ere long arise,
And with a regal song sun-crown this age,
As a saint's head is with a halo crown'd;--
One, who shall hallow Poetry to God
And to its own high use, for Poetry is
The grandest chariot wherein king-thoughts ride;--
One, who shall fervent grasp the sword of song
As a stern swordsman grasps his keenest blade,
To find the quickest passage to the heart.
A mighty Poet whom this age shall choose
To be its spokesman to all coming times.
In the ripe full-blown season of his soul,
He shall go forward in his spirit's strength,
And grapple with the questions of all time,
And wring from them their meanings. As King Saul
Called up the buried prophet from his grave
To speak his doom, so shall this Poet-king
Call up the dead Past from its awful grave
To tell him of our future. As the air
Doth sphere the world, so shall his heart of love--
Loving mankind, not peoples. As the lake
Reflects the flower, tree, rook, and bending heaven,
Shall he reflect our great humanity;
And as the young Spring breathes with living breath
On a dead branch, till it sprouts fragrantly
Green leaves and sunny flowers, shall he breathe life
Through every theme he touch, making all Beauty
And Poetry for ever like the stars."
His words set me on fire; I cried aloud,
"Gods! what a portion to forerun this Soul!"
He grasped my hand,--I looked upon his face,--
A thought struck all the blood into his cheeks,
Like a strong buffet. His great flashing eyes
Burned on mine own. He said, "A grim old king,
Whose blood leapt madly when the trumpets brayed
To joyous battle 'mid a storm of steeds,
Won a rich kingdom on a battle-day;
But in the sunset he was ebbing fast,
Ringed by his weeping lords. His left hand held
His white steed, to the belly splashed with blood,
That seemed to mourn him with its drooping head;
His right, his broken brand; and in his ear
His old victorious banners flap the winds.
He called his faithful herald to his side,--
'Go! tell the dead I come!' With a proud smile,
The warrior with a stab let out his soul,
Which fled and shrieked through all the other world,
'Ye dead! My master comes!' And there was pause
Till the great shade should enter. Like that herald,
Walter, I'd rush across this waiting world
And cry, '_He_ comes!'" Lady, wilt hear the song?
[_Sings._

In the street, the tide of being, how it surges, how it rolls!
God! what base ignoble faces, God! what bodies wanting souls,
'Mid this stream of human being, banked by houses tall and grim,
Pale I stand this shining morrow with a pant for woodlands dim,
To hear the soft and whispering rain, feel the dewy cool of leaves,
Watch the lightnings dart like swallows round the brooding thunder-eaves,
To lose the sense of whirling streets, 'mong breezy crests of hills,
Skies of larks, and hazy landscapes, with fine threads of silver rills,--
Stand with forehead bathed in sunset on a mountain's summer crown,
And look up and watch the shadow of the great night coming down,
One great life in my myriad veins, in leaves, in flowers, in cloudy cars,
Blowing, underfoot, in clover; beating, overhead, in stars!
Once I saw a blissful harvest-moon, but not through forest-leaves;
'Twas not whitening o'er a country, costly with the pilèd sheaves;
Rose not o'er the am'rous ocean, trembling round his happy isles;
It came circling large and queenly o'er yon roof of smoky tiles,
And I saw it with such feeling, joy in blood, in heart, in brain,
I would give to call the affluence of that moment back again,
Europe, with her cities, rivers, hills of prey, sheep-sprinkled downs,--
Ay, a hundred sheaves of sceptres! Ay, a planet's gathered crowns!
For with that resplendent harvest-moon, my inmost thoughts were shared
By a bright and shining maiden, hazel-eyed and golden-haired;
One blest hour we sat together in a lone and silent place,
O'er us, starry tears were trembling on the mighty midnight's face.
Gradual crept my arm around her, 'gainst my shoulder came her head,
And I could but draw her closer, whilst I tremulously said,--
"Passion as it runs grows purer, loses every tinge of clay,
As from Dawn all red and turbid flows the white transparent Day,
And in mingled lives of lovers, the array of human ills
Breaks their gentle course to music, as the stones break summer rills."
"You should give the world," she murmured, "such delicious thoughts as
these."
"They are fit to line portmanteaus;" "Nay," she whispered, "Memories."
And thereat she looked upon me with a smile so full of grace,
All my blood was in a moment glowing in my ardent face!
Half-blind, I looked up to the host of palpitating stars,
'Gainst my sides my heart was leaping, like a lion 'gainst his bars,
For a thought was born within me, and I said within my mind,
"I will risk all in this moment, I will either lose or find."
"Dost thou love me?" then I whispered; for a minute after this,
I sat and trembled in great blackness--On my lips I felt a kiss;--
Than a roseleaf's touch 'twas lighter,--on her face her hands she prest,
And a heaven of tears and blushes was deep buried in my breast.
I could make _her_ faith, _my_ passion, a wide mark for scorn and sneers,
I could laugh a hollow laughter but for these hot bursting tears;
In the strong hand of my frenzy, laws and statutes snapt like reeds,
And furious as a wounded bull I tore at all the creeds;
I rushed into the desert, where I stood with hopeless eyes,
Glaring on vast desolations, barren sands, and empty skies!
Soon a trembling naked figure, to the earth my face was bowed,
For the curse of God gloomed o'er me like a bursting thunder-cloud.
Rolled away that fearful darkness, pass'd my weakness, pass'd my grief,
Washed with bitter tears I sat full in the sunshine of belief.
Weary eyes are looking eastward, whence the golden sun upsprings,
Cry the young and fervid spirits, clad with ardour as with wings,
"Life and Soul make wretched jangling, they should mingle to one Sire
As the lovely voices mingle in a holy temple choir.
O! those souls of ours, my brothers! prisoned now in mortal bars,
Have been riched by growth and travel, by the round of all the stars.
Soul, alas! is unregarded; Brothers! it is closely shut:
All unknown as royal Alfred in the Saxon neatherd's hut,
In the Dark house of the Body, cooking victuals, lighting fires,
Swelters on the starry stranger, to our nature's base desires.
From its lips is 't any marvel that no revelations come?
We have wronged it; we do wrong it--'tis majestically dumb!
God! our souls are aproned waiters! God! our souls are hired slaves:
Let us hide from Life, my Brothers! let us hide us in our graves.
O! why stain our holy childhoods? Why sell all for drinks and meats?
Why degrade, like those old mansions, standing in our pauper streets,
Lodgings _once_ of kings and nobles, silken stirs and trumpet's din,
_Now_, where crouch 'mong rags and fever, shapes of squalor and of sin?"
Like a mist this wail surrounds me; Brothers, hush; the Lord Christ's
hands
Ev'n now are stretched in blessing o'er the sea and o'er the lands.
Sit not like a mourner, Brother! by the grave of that dear Past,
Throw the Present! 'tis thy servant only when 'tis overcast,--
Give battle to the leaguèd world, if thou'rt worthy, truly brave,
Thou shalt make the hardest circumstance a helper or a slave,
As when thunder wraps the setting sun, he struggles, glows with ire,
Rifts the gloom with golden furrows, with a hundred bursts of fire,
Melts the black and thund'rous masses to a sphere of rosy light,
Then on edge of glowing heaven smiles in triumph on the night.
Lo! the song of Earth--a maniac's on a black and dreary road--
Rises up, and swells, and grandeurs, to the loud triumphal ode--
Earth casts off a slough of darkness, an eclipse of hell and sin,
In each cycle of her being, as an adder casts her skin;
Lo! I see long blissful ages, when these mammon days are done,
Stretching like a golden ev'ning forward to the setting sun.

He sat one winter 'neath a linden tree
In my bare orchard: "See, my friend," he said,
"The stars among the branches hang like fruit,
So, hopes were thick within me. When I'm gone
The world will like a valuator sit
Upon my soul, and say, 'I was a cloud
That caught its glory from a sunken sun,
And gradual burn'd into its native grey.'"
On an October eve, 'twas his last wish
To see again the mists and golden woods;
Upon his death-bed he was lifted up,
The slumb'rous sun within the lazy west
With their last gladness filled his dying eyes.
No sooner was he hence than critic-worms
Were swarming on the body of his fame,
And thus they judged the dead: "This Poet was
An April tree whose vermeil-loaded boughs
Promised to Autumn apples juiced and red,
But never came to fruit." "He is to us
But a rich odour,--a faint music-swell."
"Poet he was not in the larger sense;
He could write pearls, but he could never write
A Poem round and perfect as a star."
"Politic i' faith. His most judicious act
Was dying when he did; the next five years
Had fingered all the fine dust from his wings,
And left him poor as we. He died--'twas shrewd!
And came with all his youth and unblown hopes
On the world's heart, and touched it into tears."

LADY.

Would'st thou, too, be a poet?

WALTER.

Lady! ay!
A passion has grown up to be a King,
Ruling my being with as fierce a sway
As the mad sun the prostrate desert sands,
And it is _that_.

LADY.

Hast some great cherished theme?

WALTER.

Lovely in God's eyes, where, in barren space,
Like a rich jewel hangs His universe,
Unwrinkled as a dew-drop, and as fair,
In my poor eyes, my loved and chosen theme
Is lovely as the universe in His.

LADY.

Wilt write of some young wanton of an isle
Whose beauty so enamoured hath the sea,
It clasps it ever in its summer arms
And wastes itself away on it in kisses?
Or the hot Indes, on whose teeming plains
The seasons four knit in one flowery band
Are dancing ever? Or some older realm?

WALTER.

I will begin in the oldest; far in God.
When all the ages, and all suns, and worlds,
And souls of men and angels, lay in Him
Like unborn forests in an acorn cup.

LADY.

And how wilt thou begin it?

WALTER.

With old words!
With the soliloquy with which God broke
The silence of the dead eternities.
At which most ancient words, O beautiful!
With showery tresses like a child from sleep,
Uprose the splendid-mooned and jewelled night,--
The loveliest born of God.

LADY.

Then your first chorus
Must be the shoutings of the morning stars!
What martial music is to marching men
Should Song be to Humanity. In song
The infant ages born and swathèd are.
A beauteous menial to our wants divine,
A shape celestial tending the dark earth
With light and silver service like the moon,
Is Poesy; ever remember this--
How wilt thou end it?

WALTER.

With God and Silence!
When the great universe subsides in God,
Ev'n as a moment's foam subsides again
Upon the wave that bears it.

LADY.

Why, thy plan
Is wide and daring as a comet's path!
And doubtless 'twill contain the tale of earth
By way of episode or anecdote.
This precious world which one pale marrèd face
Dropt tears upon. This base and beggar world
To your rich soul! O! Marc Anthony,
With a fine scorn did toss your world away
For Cleopatra's lips!--so rich, so poor.

SCENE III.

_Antique Room._ WALTER _pacing up and down._

WALTER.

Thou day beyond to-morrow! though my life
Should cease in thee, I'd dash aside the hours
That intervene to bring thee quicklier here.
Again to meet her in the windy woods!
When last we met she was as marble, calm:
I, with thick-beating heart and sight grown dim,
And leaping pulses and loud-ringing ears,
And tell-tale blood that rushed into my face,
And blabbed the love secreted in my heart.
She must have understood that crimson speech,
And yet she frowned not. No, she never frowned
I think that I am worthy to be loved.
Oh, could I lift my heart into her sight,
As an old mountain lifts its martyr's cairn
Into the pure sight of the holy heavens!
Would she but love me, I would live for her!
Were she plain Night, I'd clothe her with my stars.
My spirit, Poesy, would be her slave,
'Twould rifle for her ocean's secret hoards,
And make her rough with pearls. If Death's pale realms
Contained a gem out-lust'ring all the world,
I would adventure there, and bring it her.

My inmost being dwells upon her words,
"Wilt trim a verse for me by this night week?
Make it as jubilant as marriage bells;
Or, if it please you, make it doleful sad
As bells that knoll a maiden to her grave,
When the spring earth is sweet in violets,
And it will fit _one_ heart, yea, as the cry
Of the lone plover fits a dismal heath."
I'll write a tale through which my passion runs,
Like honeysuckle through a hedge of June.

A silent isle on which the love-sick sea
Dies with faint kisses and a murmured joy,
In the clear blue the lark hangs like a speck,
And empties his full heart of music-rain
O'er sunny slopes, where tender lambkins bleat,
And new-born rills go laughing to the sea,
O'er woods that smooth down to the southern shore,
Waving in green, as the young breezes blow
O'er the sea sphere all sweet and summer smells.
Not of these years, but by-gone minstrel times,
Of shepherd-days in the young world's sunrise,
Was this warm clime, this quiet land of health,
By gentle pagans filled, whose red blood ran
Healthy and cool as milk,--pure, simple men:
Ah, how unlike the swelterers in towns!
Who ne'er can glad their eyes upon the green
Sunshine-swathed earth; nor hear the singing rills,
Nor feel the breezes in their lifted hair.

A lovely youth, in manhood's very edge,
Lived 'mong these shepherds and their quiet downs;
Tall and blue-eyed, and bright in golden hair,
With half-shut dreamy eyes, sweet earnest eyes,
That seemed unoccupied with outward things,
Feeding on something richer! Strangely, oft,
A wildered smile lay on his noble lips.
The sunburnt shepherds stared with awful eyes
As he went past; and timid girls upstole,
With wond'ring looks, to gaze upon his face,
And on his cataract of golden curls,
Then lonely grew, and went into the woods
To think sweet thoughts, and marvel why they shook
With heart-beat and with tremor when he came,
And in the night he filled their dreams with joy.
But there was one among that soft-voiced band
Who pined away for love of his sweet eyes,
And died among the roses of the spring.
When Eve sat in the dew with closèd lids,
Came gentle maidens bearing forest flowers
To strew upon her green and quiet grave.
They soothed the dead with love-songs low and sweet;
Songs sung of old beneath the purple night,
Songs heard on earth with heart-beat and a blush,
Songs heard in heaven by the breathless stars.

Thought-wrapt, he wandered in the breezy woods
In which the Summer, like a hermit, dwelt.
He laid him down by the old haunted springs,
Up-bubbling 'mid a world of greenery,
Shut-eyed, and dreaming of the fairest shapes
That roam the woods; and when the autumn nights
Were dark and moonless, to the level sands
He would betake him, there to hear, o'er-awed,
The old Sea moaning like a monster pained.

One day he lay within the pleasant woods
On bed of flowers edging a fountain's brim,
And gazed into its heart as if to count
The veined and lucid pebbles one by one,
Up-shining richly through the crystal clear.
Thus lay he many hours, when, lo! he heard
A maiden singing in the woods alone
A sad and tender island melody,
Which made a golden conquest of his soul,
Bringing a sadness sweeter than delight.
As nightingale, embowered in vernal leaves,
Pants out her gladness the luxurious night,
The moon and stars all hanging on her song,
She poured her soul in music. When she ceased,
The charmèd woods and breezes silent stood,
As if all ear to catch her voice again.
Uprose the dreamer from his couch of flowers,
With awful expectation in his look,
And happy tears upon his pallid face,
With eager steps, as if toward a heaven,
He onward went, and, lo! he saw her stand,
Fairer than Dian, in the forest glade.
His footsteps startled her, and quick she turned
Her face,--looks met like swords. He clasped his hands,
And fell upon his knees; the while there broke
A sudden splendour o'er his yearning face;
'Twas a pale prayer in its very self.
"I know thee, lovely maiden!" then he cried;
"I know thee, and of thee I have been told:
Been told by all the roses of the vale,
By hermit streams, by pale sea-setting stars,
And by the roaring of the storm-tost pines;
And I have sought for thee upon the hills,
In dim sweet dreams, on the complacent sea,
When breathless midnight, with her thousand hearts,
Beats to the same love-tune as my own heart.
I've waited for thee many seasons through,
Seen many autumns shed their yellow leaves
O'er the oak-roots, heard many winters moan
Through the leafless forests drearily.
Now am I joyful, as storm-battered dove
That finds a perch in the Hesperides,
For thou art found. Thou, whom I long have sought,
My other self! Our blood, our hearts, our souls,
Shall henceforth mingle in one being, like
The married colours in the bow of heaven.
My soul is like a wide and empty fane,
Sit thou in 't like a god, O maid divine!
With worship and religion 'twill be filled.
My soul is empty, lorn, and hungry space;
Leap thou into it like a new-born star,
And 'twill o'erflow with splendour and with bliss.
More music! music! music! maid divine!
My hungry senses, like a finch's brood,
Are all a-gape. O feed them, maid divine!
Feed, feed my hungry soul with melodies!"
Thus, like a worshipper before a shrine,
He earnest syllabled, and, rising up,
He led that lovely stranger tenderly
Through the green forest toward the burning west.
He never, by the maidens of the isle
Nor by the shepherds, was thereafter seen
'Mong sunrise splendours on the misty hills,
Or stretched at noon by the old haunted wells,
Or by the level sands on autumn nights.

I've heard that maidens have been won by song.
O Poesy, fine sprite! I'd bless thee more
If thou would'st bring that lady's love to me,
Than immortality in twenty worlds.
I'd rather win her than God's youngest star,
With singing continents and seas of bliss.----
Thou day beyond to-morrow, haste thee on!

SCENE IV.

_The Banks of a River._--WALTER _and the_ LADY.

LADY.

The stream of sunsets?

WALTER.

'Tis that loveliest stream.
I've learned by heart its sweet and devious course
By frequent tracing, as a lover learns
The features of his best-beloved's face.
In memory it runs, a shining thread,
With sunsets strung upon it thick, like pearls.
From yonder trees I've seen the western sky
All washed with fire, while, in the midst, the sun
Beat like a pulse, welling at ev'ry beat
A spreading wave of light. Where yonder church
Stands up to heaven, as if to intercede
For sinful hamlets scattered at its feet,
I saw the dreariest sight. The sun was down,
And all the west was paved with sullen fire.
I cried, "Behold! the barren beach of hell
At ebb of tide." The ghost of one bright hour
Comes from its grave and stands before me now.
'Twas at the close of a long summer day,
As we were sitting on yon grassy slope,
The sunset hung before us like a dream
That shakes a demon in his fiery lair;
The clouds were standing round the setting sun
Like gaping caves, fantastic pinnacles,
Citadels throbbing in their own fierce light,
Tall spires that came and went like spires of flame,
Cliffs quivering with fire-snow, and peaks
Of pilèd gorgeousness, and rocks of fire
A-tilt and poised, bare beaches, crimson seas,
All these were huddled in that dreadful west,
All shook and trembled in unsteadfast light,
And from the centre blazed the angry sun,
Stern as the unlashed eye of God a-glare
O'er evening city with its boom of sin.
I do remember, as we journeyed home,
(That dreadful sunset burnt into our brains),
With what a soothing came the naked moon.
She, like a swimmer who has found his ground,
Came rippling up a silver strand of cloud,
And plunged from the other side into the night.
I and that friend, the feeder of my soul,
Did wander up and down these banks for years,
Talking of blessed hopes and holy faiths,
How sin and weeping all should pass away
In the calm sunshine of the earth's old age.
Breezes are blowing in old Chaucer's verse,
'Twas here we drank them. Here for hours we hung
O'er the fine pants and trembles of a line.
Oft, standing on a hill's green head, we felt
Breezes of love, and joy, and melody,
Blow through us, as the winds blow through the sky.
Oft with our souls in our eyes all day we fed
On summer landscapes, silver-veined with streams,
O'er which the air hung silent in its joy--
With a great city lying in its smoke,
A monster sleeping in its own thick breath;
And surgy plains of wheat, and ancient woods,
In the calm evenings cawed by clouds of rooks,
Acres of moss, and long black strips of firs,
And sweet cots dropt in green, where children played
To us unheard, till, gradual, all was lost
In distance-haze to a blue rim of hills,
Upon whose heads came down the closing sky.
Beneath the crescent moon on autumn nights
We paced its banks with overflowing hearts,
Discoursing long of great thought-wealthy souls,
And with what spendthrift hands they scatter wide
Their spirit-wealth, making mankind their debtors:
Affluent spirits, dropt from the teeming stars,
Who come before their time, are starved, and die,
Like swallows that arrive before the summer.
Or haply talked of dearer personal themes,
Blind guesses at each other's after fate;
Feeling our leaping hearts, we marvelled oft
How they should be unleashed, and have free course
To stretch and strain far down the coming time--
But in our guesses never was the _grave_.

LADY.

The tale! the tale! the tale! As empty halls
Gape for a coming pageant, my fond ears
To take its music are all eager-wide.

WALTER.

Within yon grove of beeches is a well,
I've made a vow to read it only there.

LADY.

As I suppose, by way of recompense,
For quenching thirst on some hot summer day.

WALTER.

Memories grow around it thick as flow
That well is loved and haunted by a star.
The live-long day her clear and patient eye
Is open on the soft and bending blue,
Just where she lost her lover in the morn.
But with the night the star creeps o'er the trees
And smiles upon her, and some happy hours
She holds his image in her crystal heart.
Beside that well I read the mighty Bard
Who clad himself with beauty, genius, wealth,
Then flung himself on his own passion-pyre
And was consumed. Beside that lucid well
The whitest lilies grow for many miles.
'Tis said that, 'mong the flowers of perished years,
A prince woo'd here a lady of the land,
And when with faltering lips he told his love,
Into her proud face leapt her prouder blood;
She struck him blind with scorn, then with an air
As if she wore the crowns of all the world,
She swept right on and left him in the dew.
Again he sat at even with his love,
He sent a song into her haughty ears
To plead for him;--she listened, still he sang.
Tears, drawn by music, were upon her face,
Till on its trembling close, to which she clung
Like dying wretch to life, with a low cry
She flung her arms around him, told her love,
And how she long had loved him, but had kept
It in her heart, like one who has a gem
And hoards it up in some most secret place,
While he who owns it seeks it and with tears.
Won by the sweet omnipotence of song!
He gave her lands! she paid him with herself.
Brow-bound with gold she sat, the fairest thing
Within his sea-washed shores.

LADY.

Most fit reward!
A poet's love should ever thus be paid.

WALTER.

Ha! Dost thou think so?

LADY.

Yes. The tale! the tale!

WALTER.

On balcony, all summer roofed with vines,
A lady half-reclined amid the light,
Golden and green, soft-showering through the leaves,
Silent she sat one-half the silent noon;
At last she sank luxurious in her couch,
Purple and golden-fringèd, like the sun's,
And stretched her white arms on the warmèd air,
As if to take some object wherewithal
To ease the empty aching of her heart.
"Oh, what a weariness of life is mine!"
The lady said, "soothing myself to sleep
With my own lute, floating about the lake
To feed my swans; with nought to stir my blood,
Unless I scold my women thrice a-day.
Unwrought yet in the tapestry of my life
Are princely suitors kneeling evermore.
I, in my beauty, standing in the midst,
Touching them, careless, with most stately eyes.
Oh, I could love, methinks, with all my soul!
But I see nought to love; nought save some score
Of lisping, curl'd gallants, with words i' their mouths
Soft as their mothers' milk. Oh, empty heart!
Oh, palace, rich and purple-chambered!
When will thy lord come home?

"When the grey morn was groping 'bout the east
The Earl went trooping forth to chase the stag;
I trust he hath not, to the sport he loves
Better than ale-bouts, ta'en my cub of Ind.
My sweetest plaything. He is bright and wild
As is a gleaming panther of the hills,--
Lovely as lightning, beautiful as wild!
His sports and laughters are with fierceness edged;
There's something in his beauty all untamed,
As I were toying with a naked sword,
Which starts within my veins the blood of earls.
I fain would have the service of his voice
To kill with music this most languid noon."
She rang a silver bell: with downcast eyes
The tawny nursling of the Indian sun
Stood at her feet. "I pr'ythee, Leopard, sing;
Give me some stormy song of sword and lance,
Which, rushing upward from a hero's heart,
Straight rose upon a hundred leaguered hills,
Ragged and wild as pyramid of flame.
Or, better, sing some hungry lay of love
Like that you sang me on the eve you told
How poor our English to your Indian darks;
Shaken from od'rous hills, what tender smells
Pass like fine pulses through the mellow nights;
The purple ether that embathes the moon,--
Your large round moon, more beautiful than ours;
Your showers of stars, each hanging luminous,
Like golden dewdrops in the Indian air."
"I know a song, born in the heart of love,
Its sweetest sweet, steeped ere the close in tears.
'Twas sung into the cold ears of the stars
Beside the murmured margent of the sea.
'Tis of two lovers, matched like cymbals fine,
Who, in a moment of luxurious blood,
Their pale lips trembling in the kiss of gods,
Made their lives wine-cups, and then drank them off,
And died with beings full-blown like a rose;
A mighty heart-pant bore them like a wave,
And flung them, flowers, upon the next world's strand.

Night the solemn, night the starry,
'Mong the oak-trees old and gnarry;
By the sea-shore and the ships,
'Neath the stars I sat with Clari;
Her silken bodice was unlaced,
My arm was trembling round her waist,
I plucked the joys upon her lips;
Joys that plucked still grow again!
Canst thou say the same, old Night?
Ha! thy life is vain.

Oh, that death would let me tarry
Like a dewdrop on a flower,
Ever on those lips of Clari!
Our beings mellow, then they fall,
Like o'er-ripe peaches from the wall;
We ripen, drop, and all is o'er;
On the cold grave weeps the rain;
I weep it should be so, old Night.
Ah! my tears are vain.

Night the solemn, night the starry,
Say, alas! that years should harry
Gloss from life and joy from lips,
Love-lustre from the eyes of Clari!
Moon! that walkest the blue deep,
Like naked maiden in her sleep;
Star! whose pallid splendour dips
In the ghost-waves of the main.
Oh, ye hear me not! old Night,
My tears and cries are vain."

He ceased to sing; queenly the lady lay,
One white hand hidden in a golden shoal
Of ringlets, reeling down upon her couch,
And heaving on the heavings of her breast,
The while the thoughts rose in her eyes like stars,
Rising and setting in the blue of night.
"I had a cousin once," the lady said,
"Who brooding sat, a melancholy owl,
Among the twilight-branches of his thoughts.
He was a rhymer, and great knights he spoiled,
And damsels saved, and giants slew--in verse.
He died in youth; his heart held a dead hope,
As holds the wretched west the sunset's corpse:
He went to his grave, nor told what man he was.
He was unlanguaged, like the earnest sea,
Which strives to gain an utterance on the shore,
But ne'er can shape unto the listening hills
The lore it gathered in its awful age;
The crime for which 'tis lashed by cruel winds;
The thought, pain, grief, within its labouring breast.
To fledge with music, wings of heavy noon,
I'll sing some verses that he sent to me:--

Where the west has sunset-bloomed,
Where a hero's heart is tombed,
Where a thunder-cloud has gloomed,

Seen, becomes a part of me.
Flowers and rills live sunnily
In gardens of my memory.

Through its walks and leafy lanes,
Float fair shapes 'mong sunlight rains;
Blood is running in their veins.

One, a queenly maiden fair,
Sweepeth past me with an air,
Kings might kneel beneath her stare.

Round her heart, a rosebud free,
Reeled I, like a drunken bee;
Alas! it would not ope to me.

One comes shining like a saint,
But her face I cannot paint,
For mine eyes and blood grow faint.

Eyes are dimmed as by a tear,
Sounds are ringing in mine ear,
I feel only, she is here,

That she laugheth where she stands,
That she mocketh with her hands;
I am bound in tighter bands.

Laid 'mong faintest blooms is one,
Singing in the setting sun,
And her song is never done.

She was born 'mong water-mills;
She grew up 'mong flowers and rills,
In the hearts of distant hills.

There, into her being stole
Nature, and embued the whole,
And illumed her face and soul.

She grew fairer than her peers;
Still her gentle forehead wears
Holy lights of infant years.

Her blue eyes, so mild and meek,
She uplifteth, when I speak,
Lo! the blushes mount her cheek.

Weary I of pride and jest,
In this rich heart I would rest,
Purple and love-linèd nest.

"My dazzling panther of the smoking hills,
When the hot sun hath touched their loads of dew,
What strange eyes had my cousin, who could thus
(For you must know I am the first o' the three
That pace the gardens of his memory)
Prefer before the daughter of great earls,
This giglot, shining in her golden hair,
Haunting him like a gleam or happy thought;
Or her, the last, up whose cheeks blushes went
As thick and frequent as the streamers pass
Up cold December nights. True, she might be
A dainty partner in the game of lips,
Sweet'ning the honeymoon; but what, alas!
When redhot youth cools down to iron man?
Could her white fingers close a helmet up,
And send her lord unkissed away to field,
Her heart striking with his arm in every blow?
Would joy rush through her spirit like a stream,
When to her lips he came with victory back:
Acclaims and blessings on his head like crowns,
His mouthèd wounds brave trumpets in his praise,
Drawing huge shoals of people, like the moon,
Whose beauty draws the solemn-noisèd seas?
Or would his bright and lovely sanguine-stains
Scare all the coward blood into her heart,
Leaving her cheeks as pale as lily leaves?
And at his great step would she quail and faint,
And pay his seeking arms with bloodless swoon?
My heart would leap to greet such coming lord,
Eager to meet him, tiptoe on my lips."

"This cousin loved the Lady Constance; did
The Lady Constance love her cousin, too?"