Chapter II: Part 2

Oh! those waving Woods of Wytham-- Ceased she thus to hover near Radiant from her happy sphere, Like sunshine to glorify them, Never would I wander nigh them-- Madly weeping should I fly them, Till their memory e'en grew sere.

But ah! no, in endless slimmer, Roams my heart through Wytham Woods, Meeting in their solitudes Evermore that angel comer, Sweeter than the light of summer Making golden Wytham Woods, Now so far, so far from me In the world of Memory.

THE STAR IN THE EAST.

O'er the wide world I wander evermore, Through wind and weather heedless and alone, Alike through summer, and through winter hoar, On cloud-capt mountain, by the sea-wash'd shore, Seeking the star that riseth in the East.

O'er the wide world--the world that knows not why, And stares with stupid scorn to see me go; Whilst I with solemn secret face pass by, To laugh in desert spots where none are nigh, Laugh loud and shrill unto the winds, Ho! Ho! For that which none but I and _it_ do know.

To think how when I find this lucky star,
And stand beneath it, like the Wise of old,
I shall mount upward on a golden car,
Girt round with glory unto worlds afar,
While Earth amazed the wonder shall behold,
That bears me unto happiness untold!

Hush! I'll not whisper it, lest some should hear, And hurry on before me to the spot, Leaving me bound for ever to this sphere, Parted for ever from my child--I here, She in the realm that I could enter not.

Hush! I must hurry on--for many nights Have I sought for the star about the sky, And found it not amid the myriad lights, Greater and lesser with their satellites, Flashing confusedly upon mine eye.

I must unravel every golden hair Upon the brow of Night for what I seek, Lift every straggler from its moony lair, Lest too _the_ star should haply linger there, Unnoted by mine eyes so faint and weak.

For as the Wise Men did in old time trace The Holy Child by this same guiding star, So I know well that by the Virgin's grace, I too by it shall come unto the place Where my sweet babe and its nurse-angels are.

Wearisome are the days, they mock me so, Pouring down light that seems to bid me see, Yet hides the starry pilot by its glow, Whose light I thirst for, whilst light-fountains, flow Around me like the swelling of the sea.

Wearisome are they, till the sun-god pales Beneath the surges of the western wave, And the last fold of his golden mantle trails O'er the horizon where Earth's vision fails, And space becomes a darkness and a grave.

I ofttimes think to curse the Day, that tries To keep my babe hid in its envious breast, Smit with its hair of gold, and large blue eyes, Close hid within its mantle, careless of my sighs, That night and day must wake it from its rest.

But Patience! when the sun is in the deep, The Star will beam upon me suddenly, And ere the sun-god waketh from his sleep, The dear one shall be mine for whom I weep, Mine, mine alone for all eternity.

They call me crazed--Ha! ha!--They little know Who are the crazed of Earth, or they, or I-- They, by their greed of gold urged to and fro, For petty pleasures bending God's soul low-- I, seeking for my star about the sky.

When it is found,--when it is found, how great Will be the wonder of these blind and mad! How great will be the wonder and the hate, Waking to see the glorious truth too late Will _he_, too, see his error, and be sad?

The wind sweeps weirdly o'er the heaven to-night, Weirdly and black, as though from guilty deeds,-- From some sad shipwreck, it has taken flight, Leaving the drowning in their direful plight-- Leaving the drown'd low waving in the weeds.

No stars, no stars again! Oh woe! again Night drowns me in its darkness and its gloom, And I must crouch amidst the wind and rain, Without one hope-gleam lightening my pain; All things are leagued to darken down my doom.

Perchance it is that I am growing weak, And faint with wandering afar, afar, And my dim eyes see not the thing I seek; And yet I must not ask, I must not speak, Nor tell--the secret of the Saviour star.

No! dumb,--dumb,--I shall set me down to scan Each twinkling orb that rolleth up through space, Hesper, heaven's loveliest, leading up the van-- To-morrow--yes! to-morrow I shall watch, and man Shall see this wonder when I reach the place.

Will the babe know me--ope its sweet blue eyes--
And stretch its little arms to clasp me round?
Ah! yes, God will send knowledge from the skies,
In pity for my prayers, and tears, and sighs,
Angels will sing for joy that I have found
My treasure, and _he_--he will hear the sound!

Cold--cold it is--the wind is bitter chill-- And the rain falls like curses on my head-- No! no! not curses, for the drops say still That there's an end to sorrow, and all ill Flows from us like the water down a hill; The star shall shine, and all the clouds be sped....

* * * * *

The sought-for Star uprose upon the dead.

UNDER THE SEA.

Deep in the bosom of the ocean,
Where sunshine fades to twilight gloom,
The pure pearls lie, and the coral bloom
Rests unsway'd by the upper motion--
Calm and still the hours pass by
The lovely things that sleeping lie,
Deep in the bosom of the ocean.

The thunder rolls from cloud to cloud,
And the bitter blast sweeps o'er the sea,
Shaking the waters mightily;
But ne'er the tempest's voice so loud,
Sinketh down to the things that lie--
The lovely things that sleeping lie,
Deep in the bosom of the ocean.

The icebergs crack with a sullen boom,
Riven by the hands of the angry North;
And, like the Angel of Wrath sent forth,
The whirlwind stalks with the breath of doom,
Crushing, like dust 'neath its heavy tread,
The last frail spar o'er the seaman's head;
But nought can reach the things that lie--
The lovely things that sleeping lie,
Deep in the bosom of the ocean.

Deep in the bosom of God's-acre,
Beyond the reach of grief or care,
As sweetly rest the good and fair,
Where Life's rude foes can ne'er o'ertake her;
Calmly and sweetly the hours pass by
The blessèd ones who sleeping lie,
Deep in the bosom of God's-acre.

Patience! thou poor one, faint and weary,
For thou shalt come unto this rest,
And leaning on a mother's breast,
Forget the world to thee so dreary:
Calmly and sweetly the hours pass by
The happy ones who hoping lie
Deep in the bosom of God's-acre.

WIND.

Oh! weird West Wind, that comest from the sea, Sad with the murmur of the weary waves, Wand'ring for ever through old ocean caves, Why troublest thou the hearts that list to thee, With echoes of forgotten misery?

The night is black with clouds that thou art bringing From the far waters of the stormy main, Welling their woes forth wearily in rain, Betwixt us and the light their dark course winging, And dreary shadows o'er the spirit flinging.

Whence is thy power to smite the silent heart, Till as of old the unseal'd waters run? Whence is thy magic, Oh! thou unseen one, To make still sorrows from their slumbers start, And play again, unsought, their bitter part?

We are all one with Nature--every breeze Stealeth about the chambers of the soul, Haunting their rest with sounds of joy or dole; And every cloud that creepeth from the seas, Traileth its shade o'er human sympathies.

Blow! blow, thou weird wind, till the clouds be rent, And starlight glimmer through the riven seams, Scatter their darkness like the mist of dreams, Till all the fleeting, spectre-gloom be spent, And the bright Future gem the firmament.

Blow! blow! Night's "Mene Tekel" even now Glows on her palace-walls, and she shall pass Like the dim vapour from a burnish'd glass; And no chill shadows o'er the soul shall go, Borne by each weeping West Wind to and fro.

A CHALLENGE.

What art thou--friend or foe? Stand! stand! My heart is true as steel, Steady still in woe and weal, Strong to bear, though quick to feel-- Take my hand!

What art thou--friend or foe? Stand! stand! Only my own ease seek I, I am deaf to Pity's cry, If men hunger, let them die-- Traitor! stand!

What art thou--friend or foe? Stand! stand! I've a kiss for maiden fair, I've a blow for who may dare, I've a song to banish care-- Take my hand!

What art thou--friend or foe? Stand! stand! I'm your servant whilst you're great, As you sink, my cares abate, When you're poor you have my hate,-- Traitor! stand!

What art thou--friend or foe? Stand! stand! If you trust me, I'll be true, If you slight me, I'll slight you, If you wrong me, you shall rue-- Take my hand!

What art thou--friend or foe? Stand! stand! I can work with any tools-- Clothe myself by stripping fools-- Bend the knee whoever rules-- Traitor! stand!

What art thou--friend or foe? Stand! stand! I've a heart that hates all wrong, Aids the weak against the strong, Loves the Truth, and seeks it long-- Take my hand!

What art thou--friend or foe? Stand! stand! I forgive no woman's sin, Hunt her with self-righteous mien, Never take her, mourning, in From the desert of her sin-- Traitor! stand!

What art thou--friend or foe! Stand! stand! I've a heart that melts at sorrow, I've a store the poor may borrow I'm the same to-day, to-morrow-- Take my hand!

AT PARTING.

Peace! Let me go, or ere it be too late;
Dip not your arrows in the honey-mead;
Paint not the wound through which my heart doth bleed;
Leave me unmock'd, unpitied to my fate--
Peace! Let me go.

Think you that words can smooth my rugged track?
Words heal the stab your soft white hands have made,
Or stir the burthen on my bosom laid?
Winds shook not Earth from Atlas' bended back--
Peace! Let me go.

What though it be the last time we shall meet--
Raise your white brow, and wreathe your raven hair,
And fill with music sweet the summer air;
Not this again shall draw me to your feet--
Peace! Let me go.

No laurels from my vanquish'd heart shall wave
Round your triumphant beauty as you go,
Not thus adorn'd work out some other's woe--
Yet, if you will, pluck daisies from my grave!
Peace! Let me go.

A WITHERED ROSE-BUD.

Time sets his footprints on our little Earth,
And, walk he ne'er so softly, some sweet thing
Falls 'neath each foot-fall, crush'd amid its mirth,
Tracking the course of Life's short wandering,
With fallen remnants of its mortal part,
Freeing the soul, but weighing down the heart.

Thou flower of Love! thou little treasury
Of gentleness, and purity, and grace!
What hidden virtue hath Death reft from thee--
What unseen essence melted into space?
For now thou liest like a sinless child,
Whom God hath homeward to his bosom smiled.

The dew-shower fell on thee, the sunbeam play'd,
As Life is ever made of smiles and tears;
And ofttimes has the breeze of summer sway'd,
And with its mellow music mock'd thy fears;
But now, O wonder, thou art pale and wan,
And there's a beauty and a fragrance gone!

Thus fade we--thus our hopes and joys, rose-bright, Yield up their sweetness ere they reach their prime, And their poor fabrics lie within our sight, Stript of their radiance e'en in summer-time-- Their spirit hath gone from them, and they wither, But wherefore hath the spirit gone, and whither?

Our knowledge is like dreams amid a sleep-- Faint-pinion'd thoughts that beat the vault of Night, And flutter earthward--so we smile or weep At what we know not, cannot see aright; Life is death, and death is life, perchance, In the dim twilight of our waking trance.

Thou art a leaf from the great Book of God, Whose lightest word is wiser than the wise; And, meekly resting there upon the sod, Thou breathest upward holy mysteries, In simple tones that steal upon the sense, Like Childhood's prattling truth and innocence.

Then, O sweet flower, that in thy low estate Hast in thee emblems of the life of Man, Read to our beings whispers of the fate That waits us at the end of Time's short span; How short we know not--e'en the bud may be Gather'd in harvest to eternity.

DE PROFUNDIS.

Turn thine eyes from me, Angel of Heaven--
Read not my soul, Angel of Heaven--
Sorrow is steeping my pale cheeks with weeping,
Evermore keeping her wand on my heart,
On my cold stony heart, while the tear-fountains start
To purge it from leaven too sinful for Heaven--
Read not my soul, yet, Angel of Heaven!

Why hast thou ta'en her, Angel of Heaven?
Ta'en her so soon, Angel of Heaven?
Yearning to gain her, hast thou thus slain her
Ere sin could stain her--borne her away,
Borne her far, far away, into eternal day,
Left me alone to stay--left me to weep and pray?
Why hast thou ta'en her, Angel of Heaven?
Ta'en her so soon, Angel of Heaven?

Shines the place brighter, Angel of Heaven?
Brighter for her, Angel of Heaven?
Comes there not streaming into my dreaming,
At morning's beaming, rays more divine,
Rays from her soul divine, rays giving strength to mine?
Shines she not radiantly over the skies,
Over the morning skies, ere the Earth-vapours rise,
'Twixt me and Paradise, Angel of Heaven?
_Her_ blessed Paradise, Angel of Heaven?

Turn thine eyes to me, Angel of Heaven--
Search through and through me, Angel of Heaven;
Read my soul's yearning, wild, endlessly burning,
Tumultuously spurning Fate's bitter decree,
Fate's tyrannic decree, that tore her from me,
Bore her from me to Eternity.
Merciless Reaper, no more shalt thou keep her
From fond eyes that weep her for ever and ever,
Vain thine endeavour our spirits to sever,
Take my soul with thee, Angel of Heaven,
Bear me unto her, Angel of Heaven.

THE MOTHER.

There is a land whereon the sun's warm gaze, God-like, all-seeing, falls right down through space, And the weak Earth, quite smitten by its rays, Lies scorch'd and powerless with mute silent face, Like a tranced body, where no changing glow Tells that the life-streams through its channels flow.

Peopled it is by nations scant and few, Set far apart among the trackless sands, Unlearn'd, uncultured, wild and swart of hue, Roaming the deserts in divided bands, Where the green pastures call them, and the deer Troop yet within the range of bow and spear.

Unhappy Afric! can thy boundless plains, Where the royal lion snuffs the free pure air, And every breeze laughs at the tyrant's chains, Be but the nest of slavery and despair, Rearing a brood whose craven souls can be Robb'd of the very dream of Liberty?

But, as the shore of this vast sea of sand, Stretches afar a country rich and green, With waving foliage shading all the land, And flowing waters bright with sunny sheen; And here browse countless herds of dappled deer, Blesboks and antelopes, remote from fear.

Amid it mighty mountains proudly rise, Great monarchs of a boundless continent, Rearing their hoary summits to the skies, As claiming empire of the firmament; Gaunt silent majesties of sea and earth, Stern-featured children of Titanic birth.

Within their shadows many peoples dwell; Divided kingdoms gather'd round some chief, With lodges cluster'd by some stream or well, To yield their cattle ever cool relief From the fierce scorching of the burning sun, And slake their hot thirst when the toil is done.

It chanced that war, which still doth enter in Where men are most or fewest, small or great, Here of a sudden raised its hellish din, And woke to fury, lust, and bloody hate; So that with battles, forays, murders, thefts, Rang oft the echoes of the mountain clefts.

There was one tribe that in unconscious ease Slumber'd and thought of danger but in dreams, Heard not the tramp of men upon the breeze, While the stars, watching with faint trembling beams, Saw noiseless spectres round the village creep, Like apparitions of unquiet sleep.

Then, silence-murder'd, what a yell arose! And the scared sleepers, rushing forth in fear, Met death without the portals from dim foes, Or e'er the warrior could grasp his spear, Or fit the arrow to his unstrung bow, Or ward the fatal stroke that laid him low.

So, with the plunder, and a captured band Of hapless women, ere the morning light Flitted the victors swiftly through the land, Red with the trophies of their deadly fight, Leaving the lion and his hungry crew To clear the morning of this bloody dew.

To meet them joyous forth their women came, And led them back in triumph to the fold; Taunting their foes with many a bitter shame, Though now they lay in Death's aims stark and cold: Whilst the poor captives, rack'd with fear and woe, Cower'd close together from Fate's hapless blow.

Soon there came traders from the coast, and then The weeping captives all were marshall'd out, And barter'd singly with the heartless men, Each bosom trembling still with fear and doubt; But when the truth burst on them, a hoarse cry Of wild despair ascended to the sky.

There was one there who from the Tree of Life Pluck'd yet the blossoms with the fruit of years; Scarce yet a woman, though a meek-soul'd wife, And with a babe to claim her prayers and tears, A tender bud of early summer time Ere breezy woods are in their verdant prime.

Her 'mongst the rest they barter'd, and the child, Too young to sever from its mother's breast, Left they unnoticed, whilst she, poor one, wild 'Twixt hope and fear, still held it closely prest Unto her heart, whose throbbings, loud and deep, Beat an alarum through the infant's sleep.

But soon her master, as he hasten'd off With his new purchases, the infant caught, And bid the mother, with a heartless scoff, Fling it away: said he, "'Tis good for nought; None of this lumber can we have, the road Is long enough to tread without a load."

The mother clasp'd her babe with bitter cry, But a rude hand enforced it from her arms, And the rough steward held it up on high, Laughing aloud the while at her alarms; Said he unto his master; "This shall be A bait to draw her on with willingly."

He bound around the infant's waist a line, That fasten'd to his crupper, and then gave The babe back to her, laughing,--"That end's thine-- The other stays with me;" "A witty slave!" The master chuckled, and they moved away, She following with anguish and dismay.

They journey'd o'er the desert, 'neath a sky Scorch'd by the fiery footsteps of the sun, Without a shade to bless the wistful eye; And soon her fellow slaves droop'd, one by one, Callous to blows that harshly drove them on, Strength, hope, and love of life all seeming gone.

But she went onward with no word or plaint, Clasping the child unto her bosom still, Unflagging when all else began to faint, Intent to save her little one from ill; And they look'd on her as she sped along, Wond'ring what made so frail a creature strong.

At eve she bent above her sleeping treasure, With eyes that wept for pity and for love, Filling its cup of life in richer measure, With the blest care that watches us above; And in the morn they bound the babe again, And so drew on the mother in their train.

Her tender feet soon wounded were, and sore
With the rough travel, and the weary way,
And her slight limbs, o'ertask'd and loaded, bore
Less lightly up their burden day by day;
But, nature failing, Love imparted power
To bear her steps up to the resting hour.

Alas! the mother gazed with aching eyes
Upon the life-spring in her little child,
As one laid by a fountain while it dries;
Daily she watch'd it ebb, till she grew wild
With anguish at the Angel drawing near,
And bared her own breast for his fatal spear.

She lost all sense of weariness and pain, And with hot tearless eyes still hurried on, Bearing the child girt by its cruel chain, All thought save of her cherish'd burden gone, Fearful alone lest other eyes should guess The feeble thing her longing arms did press.

At last they saw the babe was weaker growing, That soon the little spark of life must fade, So, spite of all her prayers, and wild tears flowing, Beside a spring the sleeping child they laid, And bid her onward, heedless of her woe But on the earth she fell, and would not go.

They raised her up, and bound her on a steed, And so march'd onward on their weary way-- For there was none to help her in her need, And thus they travell'd eastward all the day, But when they rested, and on each bow'd head Sleep heavy lay, the mother rose and fled.

And speeding swiftly with a lapwing's flight, Backward she hurried to the little spring, Led by a power that knoweth not the night, But flies through darkness with unerring wing; And so e'er morning shimmer'd in the East, She clasp'd her dead babe to her panting breast.

At morn they miss'd her, and the women said, "She seeks her babe beside the distant well, There wilt thou find her, if she be not dead, For O! the love of mother who can tell." And so the steward gallop'd back in haste, To seek the lost one in the desert waste.

At last the spring rose in the distant sand, With its close verdure pleasant to the eye, And there, as, nearing it, the place he scann'd, He saw the mother with her infant lie, Quiet and stilly on each other's breast, Folded together in unbroken rest;

Her arms around it thrown, that e'en in sleep Still press'd the infant to her stricken heart, No rest so perfect, no repose so deep, From her sweet babe the mother's love to part. Before him loud and bitter curses sped-- Who heard him?--for the mother too lay dead.

SONNET.

DATUR HORA QUIETI.

The sun is slowly sinking in the West; The plough lies idle, and the weary team, Cool'd with the freshness of the shallow stream, Over the meadows hasten to their rest; The breeze is hush'd, and no more turns the mill, With its light sails upon yon rising crest; Its busy music now awhile is still, And not a sound heaves up from Nature's breast; The barks upon the river smoothly ride, With sails all furl'd, and flags that listless fall, Unrock'd, unshaken by the flowing tide; The cattle lazy lie within the stall; And thus the Time-stream on doth sweetly glide, Bearing repose and slumber unto all.

SEA MARGINS.

Ever restless, ever toiling,
Fretting fiercely on its narrow bounds,
Still filling heaven and earth with mournful sounds,
Old ocean, sullen from its rocks recoiling,
Rearing wild waves foam-crested to the sky,
Lashes again the beaches angrily:

Slowly victor-like advancing,
Marching roughly o'er the conquer'd land,
Clean sweeping olden limits from the strand,
In proud derision o'er the spoil'd Earth glancing,
Where 'neath its ruthless tide on hill or plain,
No flower or shady leaf shall bud again.

Slowly thus the ocean creeping,
Creeping coldly o'er the world of old,
Stole many an Eden from the Age of Gold,
And gazing now we see blank billows sweeping,
Long cheerless wavings of the sullen seas,
Were once the sun shone bright on flowery leas.

Over Earth, and over Being,
Over many glories of the Past,
Remorseless floods are flowing fierce and fast,
Snatching sun-lighted Tempes from our seeing,
Rolling their dreary surges o'er the shore,
Where Love had hoped to dwell for evermore.

Sadly on Time's heaving ocean,
Waving darkly o'er Youth's Paradise,
Back gaze we ever with dim tearful eyes,
Seeking old joys beyond its rude commotion,
Seeking the old world glories pass'd away,
Seeking the golden shores of Life's Cathay.

SONG.

Love took me softly by the hand,
Love led me all the country o'er,
And show'd me beauty in the land,
That I had never dreamt before,
Never before, Oh! Love! sweet Love!

There was a glory in the morn,
There was a calmness in the night,
A mildness by the south wind borne,
That I had never felt aright,
Never aright, Oh! Love! sweet Love!

But now it cannot pass away,
I see it wheresoe'er I go,
And in my heart by night and day,
Its gladness waveth to and fro,
By night and day, Oh! Love! sweet Love!

THE BELL.

Through the calm and silent air
Floats the tolling funeral bell,
Swooning over hill and dell,
Heavy laden with despair;
Mute between each muffled stroke,
Sad as though a dead voice spoke,
Out of the dim Past time spoke,
Stands my heart all mute with care.

The Bell is tolling on, and deep,
Deep and drear into my heart
All its bitter accents dart.
Peace! sad chime, I will not weep--
What is there within thy tone,
That should wring my heart alone,
Rive it with this endless moan?
Peace! and let past sorrows sleep!

Fling your music on the breeze,
Mock the sighing of the willows,
Mock the lapping of the billows,
Mock not human sympathies;
Slow chime, sad chime, mock me not,
With that loved voice ne'er forgot,
Flooding me with tears blood-hot;
Mock not soul-deep memories!

Come not from the unseen Past,
Flying up the silent gale,
With that deep and muffled wail,
Slaying me with lying tale,
Base chime, false chime from the Past!
Not in sighs of mortal pain,
Pain and anguish rise again,
Voices from the far Death-plain--
Not thus speaks she from the Past.

Peace! yet--for though she speaks not
From her Paradise in thee,
Whispers nevermore to me
In my lonely misery,
Oh! that loved voice ne'er forgot,
Thou dost wake my brooding soul,
Smit'st it till the bitter dole
Breaks aloud beyond controul,
While the briny tear-drops roll,
Drowning, cries which she hears not.

Cruel Bell! harsh Bell! ring on,
I shall turn my heart to stone,
Flinging back thy mocking tone,
Callous of thy deepest moan
Lying Bell! thy power is gone!
Spake she from her golden cloud,
Spake she to my heart aloud,
Every murmur of her voice,
Would bid my lone heart rejoice;
Every murmur of her voice,
Ah! would make my heart rejoice,
Lying Bell! thy power is gone.

LLEWELLYN.

I.--_In the Porch._

MORGAN _and a_ MONK.

MORGAN.

The tale is pitiful. 'Twas on this wise-- Llewellyn went at morn among the hills, To hunt, as is his use. My lady, too, With all her maidens, early sallied forth, A pilgrimage among the neighbouring vales, Culling of simples, nor yet comes she home; And so the child lay sleeping in his crib, With Gelert--you remember the old hound? He pull'd the stag of ten down by the Holy Well-- With Gelert set to watch him like a nurse.

MONK.

The dog alone? nay! friend, but that is strange!

MORGAN.

Strange! Not a whit, for fifty times before The hound hath kept him like his own bred whelp, And ne'er a one could touch him; but the child Play'd with his shaggy ears and great rough coat, As no grown man had dared.

MONK.

I know there is A strange nobility in dogs, to bear The utmost sport of children, that would seize Man by the throat e'en for a finger touch-- But to your tale--

MORGAN.

Well! suddenly at noon, Llewellyn, baffled of his game, hied back, Striding right grimly in his discontent, And whistling, oft his spear upon the ground, Slaying the visions of his fretful dreams; And presently he thought him of his child: So with its winsome ways to wile the time, He went unto the chamber where it lay, Watch'd o'er by Gelert, as his custom was: But there, alack! or that the child had crost The savage humour of the beast, or that Some sudden madness had embolden'd it, He saw the child lie bloody mid the sheets, Slain by the hound, as it would seem, for there Lay Gelert lapping from his chaps the blood, That hung in gouts from every grisly curl.

MONK.

O Heaven! the woful deed! What did your lord?

MORGAN.

You know the hasty humour of the man, That brooks no let betwixt him and his mood-- He slew the old hound with his heavy spear, That almost licking of his feet fell dead; For Gelert loved him well, and, crouching, took Without a cry the blow that struck his heart.

MONK.

This is a sorry day for all the house; they say Llewellyn had his soul set on the child.

MORGAN.

His soul! Ay, marry! many a time and oft I've seen the man's great heart stare from his eyes, Just like a girl's, out at the crowing boy: And yesterday it was he perch'd him fair Upon his broad rough shoulder, like a lamb Laid on the topmost reaches of a hill, And so he bore him, all his face a-glow, When heralds came with war-notes from the king; At which he turn'd him soft--the startled babe Still set astride, and looking fondly up, Said he, "See! here's the only lord that sets His foot upon my shoulder." The man's heart Scarce beats, I warrant, now the child is dead.

MONK.

And hath he master'd aught his sorrow now, Or still rides passion curbless through his soul?

MORGAN.

Ah! there, good Father, lies the chiefest woe, For in the slaying of the hound his rage Quite spent its force, and now I fear me much His mind bath lost its olden empery.

MONK.

Nay! Death smites passion still upon the mouth, And its grim shade is silence--'Tis no sign.

MORGAN.

But in this one act all his fury pass'd; And turning softly from the dead child there, Suffering none to touch it where it lay, He sat him down in awful calmness nigh, And gazed forth blankly like a sculptured face; And when we fain would pass to take the child, A strange wild voice still warns us back again, "Hush! for the boy is sleeping." It would seem He will not think that Death hath struck the babe, But blinds his willing soul, and deems it sleep.

MONK.

A longer sleep, whose waking is not here! Poor soul! that, catching at the skirts of Truth. Muffleth his eyes that he may see her not.

MORGAN.

Good Father! go thou to him, for this doubt That lays its stony spell upon his heart, Is sadder far than tears--

MONK.

It is mine office Still to bear balm unto the bleeding heart; Then lead on, friend, and let us trust in Heaven.

[_They pass in_.

II.--_In the Chamber._

LLEWELLYN _and_ MONK.

MONK.

Benedicite! my son;

LLEWELLYN.

Hush! speak low,
The child is sleeping.

MONK.

Ay! we should speak low Where Death is, though no sound can ever wake Those whom he cradles in his bony arms.

LLEWELLYN.

Who speaks of Death in presence of a child!

MONK.

Alas! my son, the bud though ne'er so close It fold the fragrant treasure of its youth, Is by the nip of Winter shorn betimes.

LLEWELLYN.

Though Death should grimly stalk into the house, And stand beside the slumber of a child, Think you that gazing on its mimic self, Sleep, beautiful and wondrous, in the crib, His owlish thoughts would not wing suddenly, Through cycles of decay, back to the time When he was one with Sleep, and passing fair; Think you he would not sigh, "Sleep, on! sleep on! Thou copy and thou counterfeit of me, And teach the world that I was beautiful." The child is sleeping.

MONK.

O my son! my son! These are delusions that but wrong the soul, And keep the aching thoughts from peace and Heaven.

LLEWELLYN.

Why, Father, if Death woke him as he lay, The lad would look up at him with a smile, And twist his little limbs in childish sport, Until the angel, surfeited with fear, Would love and spare the thing that fear'd him not. No man could see his pretty ways and frown,-- And he was full of little childish tricks, That won the very heart out of a man In spite of him. There's Beowolf the Curst, With ne'er a gentle word for man or child, But cold and crusty as a northern hill-- Why this day sen'night did my master there, Crawl up his knees without a Yea or Nay, And toy'd him with his sword-hilt merrily, Till the rough man, caught with his gamesome arts, Swore that he had the making of a man; And, for the maids, there's none but has a word, Or kiss to bandy with the gainsome lad; Ay! when he wakes you'll see how he will crow, And fill the place with laughter--he's no girl, Puking and mewling evermore--not he.

MONK.

Good lack! my son, your heart is too much set Upon the child, to bow before Heav'n's will, That turns your soul back to itself with stripes; Oh! know you not, Sir, that the child is dead?

LLEWELLYN.

You all have conn'd the same wise tale by rote-- The child is sleeping; hush! and wake him not.

MONK.

Nay! doth your mind not stumble on the truth, Here by this old hound lying at your feet, With all his clotted blood in crimson pools Curdling among the rushes on the floor?

LLEWELLYN.

The hound?--the hound--Poor Gelert! well-a-day! It was ill-done of me--a wicked stroke, A wicked stroke--and the boy, too, asleep. And now I mind me how he loved the dog; How many an hour he sported in the sun, Twining his grisly neck with summer buds; And how the dog was patient with the boy, Yielding him gently to his little arms-- There was a lion's heart in the old hound! The deed's accursed--accursed--the child will wake, And call for Gelert with his merry voice; And when the dog no more comes stalking nigh, With great mild head to meet the outstretch'd hands, The child will sob his heart out for his friend; For, Sir, his nature is right full of love, And generous affections, never slack To let his soul have space and mastery-- A wicked stroke!

MONK.

Ah! would his voice could sound Ever again among your silent halls; But the sweet treble never more shall ring Across the chambers to your wistful ear; Then hear it now come floating down from heav'n, Calling your lone and bleeding heart to God.

LLEWELLYN.

His voice was very sweet, a silvery stream Of music, rippling softly through my life-- And ne'er to hear his little prattling tongue, Stumbling upon the threshold steps of speech, Catching quaint sounds and fragments of discourse, And setting them to childish uses straight-- I've sat and heard him by the hour--you'd wonder To hear his little saws and sentences, And now to think I'll hear him never more-- Alack! alack!--but no, it is not true-- The child is sleeping--Ay! it must be so. What know you, Father, of an infant's sleep? You, in your stony cell 'mid shaven friars, All crowding down the nether side of life, Hearing no sweeter voice than matin-bells, No speech, but grace in cold refectories; Ay! thence it is--Oh fool! that I should doubt! 'Tis so--'tis so--I knew that I should pluck The cowl from your delusion--Is't not so?

MONK.

Oh son, your woful faith moves all my heart. 'Tis pitiful! but see you not the blood That hotly streaks your sleeping lily there? See how it laces all his garments o'er, And signs the grievous sentence of your joy.

LLEWELLYN.

Blood?--blood?--nay, how is this?--I--very like The sun shines redly on him--I have seen The sky look ruddy, as with all the blood Of battle-fields, where no man cried for grace. Blood? look, Sir; look again--I--something clouds Mine eyes to-day--I see more thick than wont.

MONK.

Nay! lean on me--Come! look upon your child, And Heav'n in ruth will smite your drouthy heart, And send the balm of tears about your soul.

III.--_In the heart of the Child._

There is a little dove that sits
Between the arches all alone,
Cut and carved in old grey stone,
And a spider o'er it flits:

Round and round his web is spun,
With the still bird looking through,
From among the beads of dew,
Set in glories of the sun.

So the bird looks out at morn
At the larks that mount the sky,
And it gazes, still and shy,
At the new moon's scanty horn.

And the owls, that fly by night,
Mock it from the ivied tower,
Hooting at the midnight hour
Down upon it from the height.

But the little dove sits on,
Calm between the arches there,
In the holy morning air,
When the owls with night are gone.

Then the bells for matins ring,
And the grey friars past it go,
Into church in double row,
And it hears the chaunts they sing.

And the incense stealing out
Through the chinks, and through the seams,
Floats among the dusty beams,
And wreathes all the bird about.

All the children as they pass
Turn to see the bird of stone,
'Twixt the arches all alone,
Wading to it through the grass.

Is the spider's pretty net,
Hung across the arches there,
But a frail and foolish snare
For the little stone bird set?

If the place should e'er decay,
And the tower be crumbled down,
And the arches overthrown,
Would the dove then fly away?

So that, seeking it around,
All some golden summer day,
'Mid the ruins as they lay,
It should never more be found?

IV.--_In the Chamber._

LLEWELLYN _and_ MONK.

LLEWELLYN.

My little one! my joy! my hope! dead--dead-- I did not think to see this sorry sight.

MONK.

Holy St. David! is this death, or sleep?

LLEWELLYN.

Nay! Father, that is past--I am a man Once more, and look at Sorrow in the eyes; Let Truth e'en smite me with her two-edged blade, But smite me, like a warrior, face to face.

MONK.

I stand all in amaze! or do I dream, Or see I now the motion of a breath, Ruffling the pouting lips that stand ajar?

LLEWELLYN.

Oh! Father, mock me not--I know that Death Sits lightly on him as a dreamless sleep; So dear a bud can never lose its sweets; Oh! foolish heart! I thought to see him grow In strength and beauty, like a sapling oak, Spreading his stalwart shoots about the sky, Till, when old age set burdens on my back, In every bough my trembling hands should find A staff to prop me onward to the grave; And now--my heart is shaken somewhat sorely.

MONK.

Sir! This is wondrous--let me take the child, For sure mine eyes do cheat me, or he lives.

LLEWELLYN.

Father, this is not well to mock me so; My heart is sated with the draught of Hope, And, loathing, turns from the delusive cup; Nay! touch him not--'tis well that he should lie, Calm and unquestion'd, on the breast of Heav'n; Yet once again my lips must flutter his, He may not be so distant, but that Love May send its greeting flying on his track-- The lips are warm--my God! he lives! he lives!

[_Takes the child, who awakes in his arms._]

MONK.

Faith! This is stranger than a gossip's tale! My son! the wonderment o'ermasters you-- Nay! look not thus--let Nature have her way-- Give words to joy, and be your thanks first paid To Heav'n, that sends you thus your child again.

LLEWELLYN.

The joy was almost more than man might bear! And still my thoughts are lost in wild amaze-- The child unhurt--this blood--the hound--in troth, The riddle passes my poor wits.

MONK.

Let's search
The chamber well--Heav'n shield us! what is this?

LLEWELLYN.

A wolf! and dead!--Ah! now I see it clear-- The hound kept worthy watch, and in my haste I slew the saviour of my house and joy. Poor Gelert! thou shalt have such recompense As man may pay unto the dead--Thy name Henceforth shall stand for Faithfulness, and men For evermore shall speak thine epitaph.

A SHELL.

From what rock-hollow'd cavern deep in ocean,
Where jagged columns break the billow's beat,
Whirl'd upward by some wild mid-world commotion,
Has this rose-tinted shell steer'd to my feet?

Perchance the wave that bore it has rejoiced
Above Man's founder'd hopes, and shatter'd pride,
Whilst fierce Euroclydon swept, trumpet-voiced,
Through the frail spars, and hurl'd them in the tide,
And the lost seamen floated at its side!

Ah! thus too oft do Woe and Beauty meet,
Swept onward by the self-same tide of fate,
The bitter following swift upon the sweet,
Close, close together, yet how separate!

Frail waif from the sublime storm-shaken sea,
Thou seem'st the childhood toy of some old king,
Who 'mid the shock of nations lights on thee,
And instant backward do his thoughts take wing
To the unclouded days of infancy;
Then, sighing, thus away the foolish joy doth fling.

Forth from thine inner chambers come there out
Low murmurs of sweet mystic melodies,
Old Neptune's couch winding lone caves about,
In tones that faintly through the waves arise,
And steal to mortal ears in softest sighs.

The poet dreams of olden ages flowing
Through the time-ocean to the listening soul,
Ages when from each fountain clear and glowing,
Unto the spirit Naiad voices stole.

And still, from earth and sea, there ever pealeth
A voice far softer than leal lover's lay,
Bearing the heart, o'er which its true sense stealeth,
Far to diviner dreams of joy away,
And to the wisdom of a riper day.

THE RAVEN.

There sat a raven 'mid the pines so dark,
The pines so silent and so dark at morn
A ragged bird with feathers rough and torn,
Whetting his grimy beak upon the bark,
And croaking hoarsely to the woods forlorn.

Blood red the sky and misty in the east--
Low vapours creeping bleakly o'er the hills--
The rain will soon come plashing on the rills--
No sound in all the place of bird or beast,
Save that hoarse croak that all the woodland fills.

A slimy pool all rank with rotting weeds,
Close by the pines there at the highway side;
No ripple on its green and stagnant tide,
Where only cold and still the horse-leech breeds--
Ugh! might not here some bloody murder hide!

Pshaw! ... Cold the air slow stealing through the trees,
Scarce rustling the moist leaves beneath its tread--
A fearful breast thus holds its breath for dread!
There is no healthful music in this breeze,
It sounds ... ha! ha! ... like sighs above the dead!

What frights yon raven 'mid the pines so dark,
The pines so silent and so dark around,
With ne'er accomplish'd circlings to the ground
Ruffling his wings so ragged and so stark?
Some half-dead victim haply hath he found.

Ho! raven, now with thee I'll share the spoil!
This way, methinks, the dying game hath trod--
Ay! broken twigs, and blood upon the sod--
These thorns are sharp! well! soon will end the toil--
This bough aside, and then the prize ... My God!...

SONNETS

ON THE DEATH OF THE DUKE OF WELLINGTON.

1.

The Land stood still to listen all that day, And 'mid the hush of many a wrangling tongue, Forth from the cannon's mouth the signal rung, That from the earth a man had pass'd away-- A mighty Man, that over many a field Roll'd back the tide of Battle on the foe,-- Thus far, no further, shall thy billows go. Who Freedom's falchion did right nobly wield, Like potter's vessel smiting Tyrants down, And from Earth's strongest snatching Victory's crown; Upon the anvil of each Battle-plain, Still beating swords to ploughshares. All is past,-- The glory, and the labour, and the pain-- The Conqueror is conquer'd here at last.

2.

Yet other men have wrought, and fought, and won, Cutting with crimson sword Fame's Gordian knot, And, dying, nations wonder'd--and forgot,-- But this Man's name shall circle with the sun; And when our children's children feel the glow, That ripens them unconsciously to men, Asking, with upturn'd face, "What did he then?" One answer from each quicken'd heart shall flow-- "This Man submerg'd the Doer in the Deed, Toil'd on for Duty, nor of Fame took heed; Hew'd out his name upon the great world's sides. In sure-aim'd strokes of nobleness and worth, And never more Time's devastating tides Shall wear the steadfast record from the Earth."

3.

This Duty, known and done, which all men praise, Is it a thing for heroes utterly? Or claims it aught, O Man! from thee and me, Amid the sweat and grime of working days? Stand forth, thou Conqueror, before God's throne, Thou ruler, thou Earth-leader, great and strong, Behold thy work, thy doing, labour'd long, Before that mighty Presence little grown. Stand forth, thou Man, low toiling 'mid the lees, That measurest Duty out in poor degrees; Are not all deeds, beside the deeds of Heaven, But as the sands upon the ocean shore, Which, softly breath'd on by God's winds, are driven Into dim deserts, thenceforth seen no more!

4.

Then make thou Life heroic, O! thou Man, Though not in Earth's eyes, still in Heaven's, which see Each task accomplish'd not in poor degree, But as fain workings out of Duty's plan,-- The hewers and the drawers of the land, No whit behind the mighty and the great, Bearing unmoved the burden of the State,-- Alike each duty challenged at man's hand. Life is built up of smallest atomics, Pile upon pile the ramparts still increase, And as those, Roman walls, o'er which in scorn The scoffer leapt, soon held the world at bay, So shall thy deeds of duty, lowly born, Be thy strong tower and glory ere the set of day.

THE PASSAGE-BIRDS.

Far, far away, over land and sea, When Winter comes with his cold, cold breath, And chills the flowers to the sleep of death, Far, far away over land and sea, Like a band of spirits the Passage-birds flee.

Round the old grey spire in the evening calm, No more they circle in sportive glee, Hearing the hum of the vesper psalm, And the swell of the organ so far below; But far, far away, over land and sea, In the still mid-air the swift Passage-birds go.

Over the earth that is scarcely seen
Through the curtain of vapour that waves between,
O'er city and hamlet, o'er hill and plain,
O'er forest green, and o'er mountain hoar,
They flit like shadows, and pass the shore,
And wing their way o'er the pathless main.

There is no rest for the weary wing,
No quivering bough where the feet can cling;
To the North, to the South, to the East, to the West,
The ocean lies with its heaving breast,
Within it, without it there is no rest.

The tempest gathers beneath them far,
The Wind-god rides on his battle-car,
And the roar of the thunder, the lightning-flash,
Break on the waves with a sullen crash;
But Silence reigns where the Passage-birds fly,
And o'er them stretches the clear blue sky.

The day wears out, and the starry night
Hushes the world to sleep, to sleep;
The dew-shower falls in the still moonlight,
And none wake now, save those who weep;
But rustling on through the starry night,
Like a band of spirits the Passage-birds flee,
Cleaving the darkness above the sea,
Swift and straight as an arrow's flight.
Is the wind their guide through the trackless sky?
For here there's no landmark to travel by.

The first faint streak of the morning glows,
Like the feeble blush on the budding rose;
And in long grey lines the clouds divide,
And march away with retreating Night,
Whilst the bright gleams of victorious Light,
Follow them goldenly far and wide:
And when the mists have all pass'd away,
And left the heavens serene and clear,
As an eye that has never shed a tear
And the universe basks in the smile of Day,
Dreamy and still, and the sleepy breeze,
Lazily moves o'er the glassy seas,
The Passage-birds flit o'er the disc of noon,
Like shadows across a mirror's face,
For now their journey wanes apace,
And the realms of Summer they'll enter soon.

The land looms far through the waters blue, The Land of Promise, the Land of Rest; Through cloud and storm they have travell'd true, And joy thrills now in each throbbing breast Down they sink, with a wheeling flight, Whilst the song of birds comes floating high, And they pass the lark in the sunny sky; But down, without pausing, down they fly; Their travel is over, their Summer shines bright.

MEMNON.

Hot blows the wild simoom across the waste,
The desert waste, amid the dreary sand,
With fiery breath swift burning up the land,
O'er the scared pilgrim, speeding on in haste,
Hurling fierce death-drifts with broad-scorching hand.

O weary Wilderness! No shady tree
To spread its arms around the fainting soul;
No spring to sparkle in the parchèd bowl;
No refuge in the drear immensity,
Where lies the Past, wreck'd 'neath a sandy sea,
Where o'er its glories blighting billows roll.

Ho! Sea, yield up thy buried dead again;
Heave back thy waves, and let the Past arise;
Restore Time's relics to the startled skies,
Till giant shadows tremble on the plain,
And awe the heart with old-world mysteries!

Old Menmon! Once again thy Poet-voice
May sing sweet paeans to the golden Morn,
Again may hail the saviour Light sun-born,
And bid the wild and desert waste rejoice,--
Again with sighs the looming darkness mourn.

Thou Watchman, waiting weary for the dawn,
Breathing low longings for its golden light,
Through the dim silence of the drowsy night,
What wistful sighs with thine are softly drawn,
Till day-beams on the darken'd spirit smite!

The dawning light of Knowledge smites thee now,
And forth from the dim Past come voices clear,
Falling in solemn music on the ear,
Which, as the haloes brighten on thy brow,
Shall still in richer harmonies draw near.

The Past comes back in music soft and sweet,
And lo! the Present like a strung harp stands
Waiting the sweeping of prophetic hands,
To send its living music, loud and fleet,
Careering calmly through unnumber'd lands.

Then swift uprise, thou Sun, thou Music-Maker!
Smiting the chords of Life with gladsome rays,
Till from each Memnon burst the song of praise,
From lips which thou hast freed, O silence-breaker!
That over Earth the sound may swell always.

* * * * *

NOTE--It will of course be remembered that the celebrated statue of Memnon was believed to utter lugubrious and mournful sounds at sunset, and during the hours of darkness, which changed to sounds of joy as the first rays of morning fell upon it.

A CONCEIT.

The Grey-beard Winter sat alone and still,
Locking his treasures in the flinty earth;
And like a miser comfortless and chill,
Frown'd upon pleasure and rejected mirth;

But Spring came, gentle Spring, the young, the fair,
And with her smiles subdued his frosty heart,
So that for very joy to see her there,
His soul, relenting, play'd the lover's part;

And nought could bring too lovely or too sweet,
To lavish on the bright Evangel's head;
No flowers too radiant for her tender feet;
No joys too blissful o'er her life to shed.

And thus the land became a Paradise,
A new-made Eden, redolent of joy,
Where beauty blossom'd under sunny skies,
And peaceful pleasure reign'd without alloy.

THE LAND'S END.