Chapter IV: Front Matter (4)

Twenty years I have lived on earth and two beside thee,
Thirty years thou didst live on earth, and two on the throne:
Let it suffice there be none of thy rights denied thee,
Though I dare thy presence--I--come for my ring alone.'

She risen shuddereth, peering, afraid to linger
Behold her ring, it shineth! 'Now yield to me, thou dead,
For this do I dare the touch of thy stark stiff finger.'
The queen hath drawn her ring from his hand, the queen hath fled.

'O woman fearing sore, to whom my man's heart cleavèd,
The faith enwrought with love and life hath mocks for its meed'--
The dead king lying in state, of his past bereavèd,
Twice dead. Ay, this is death. Now dieth the king indeed.

XVI.

'Wake, the seely gnomes do fly, Drenched across yon rainy sky, With the vex'd moon-mother'd elves, And the clouds do weep themselves Into morning.

All night long Hath thy weird thee sore opprest; Wake, I have found within my breast Counsel.' Ah, the weird was strong, But the time is told. Release Openeth on him when his eyes Lift them in dull desolate wise, And behold he is at peace.

Ay, but silent. Of all done And all suffer'd in the night, Of all ills that do him spite She shall never know that one. Then he heareth accents bland, Seeth the queen's ring on his hand, And he riseth calmed withal.

XVII.

Rain and wind on the palace wall Beat and bluster, sob and moan, When at noon he musing lone, Comes the queen anigh his seat, And she kneeleth at his feet.

XVIII.

Quoth the queen, 'My love, my lord, Take thy wife and take thy sword, We must forth in the stormy weather, Thou and I to the witch together. Thus I rede thee counsel deep, Thou didst ill to sell thy sleep, Turning so man's wholesome life From its meaning. Thine intent None shall hold for innocent. Thou dost take thy good things first, Then thou art cast into the worst; First the glory, then the strife. Nay, but first thy trouble dree, So thy peace shall sweeter be. First to work and then to rest, Is the way for our humanity, Ay, she sayeth that loves thee best, We must forth and from this strife Buy the best part of man's life; Best and worst thou holdest still Subject to a witch's will. Thus I rede thee counsel deep, Thou didst ill to sell thy sleep; Take the crown from off thy head, Give it the white-witch instead, If in that she say thee nay, Get the night,--and give the day.'

XIX.

Then the king (amazèd, mild, As one reasoning with a child All his speech): 'My wife! my fair! And his hand on her brown hair Trembles; 'Lady, dost indeed Weigh the meaning of thy rede? Would'st thou dare the dropping away Of allegiance, should our sway And sweet splendour and renown All be risked? (methinks a crown Doth become thee marvellous well). We ourself are, truth to tell, Kingly both of wont and kind, Suits not such the craven mind.' 'Yet this weird thou can'st not dree.' Quoth the queen, 'And live;' then he, 'I must die and leave the fair Unborn, long-desired heir To his rightful heritage.'

XX.

But this queen arisen doth high Her two hands uplifting, sigh 'God forbid.' And he to assuage Her keen sorrow, for his part Searcheth, nor can find in his heart Words. And weeping she will rest Her sweet cheek upon his breast, Whispering, 'Dost thou verily Know thou art to blame? Ah me, Come,' and yet beseecheth she, 'Ah me, come.'

For good for ill, Whom man loveth hath her will. Court and castle left behind, Stolen forth in the rain and wind, Soon they are deep in the forest, fain The white-witch to raise again; Down and deep where flat o'erhead Layer on layer do cedars spread, Down where lordly maples strain, Wrestling with the storm amain.

XXI.

Wide-wing'd eagles struck on high Headlong fall'n break through, and lie With their prey in piteous wise, And no film on their dead eyes. Matted branches grind and crash, Into darkness dives the flash, Stabs, a dread gold dirk of fire, Loads the lift with splinters dire. Then a pause i' the deadly feud-- And a sick cowed quietude.

XXII.

Soh! A pillar misty and grey, 'T is the white-witch in the way. Shall man deal with her and gain? I trow not. Albeit the twain Costly gear and gems and gold Freely offer, she will hold Sleep and token for the pay She did get for greatening day.

XXIII.

'Or the night shall rest my fee Or the day shall nought of me,' Quoth the witch. 'An't thee beseem, Sell thy kingdom for a dream.'

XXIV.

'Now what will be let it be!' Quoth the queen; 'but choose the right.' And the white-witch scorns at her, Stately standing in their sight. Then without or sound or stir She is not. For offering meet Lieth the token at their feet, Which they, weary and sore bestead In the storm, lift up, full fain Ere the waning light hath fled Those high towers they left to gain.

XXV.

Deep among tree roots astray Here a torrent tears its way, There a cedar split aloft Lies head downward. Now the oft Muttering thunder, now the wind Wakens. How the path to find? How the turning? Deep ay deep, Far ay far. She needs must weep, This fair woman, lost, astray In the forest; nought to say. Yet the sick thoughts come and go, 'I, 't was I would have it so.'

XXVI.

Shelter at the last, a roof Wrought of ling (in their behoof, Foresters, that drive the deer). What, and must they couch them here? Ay, and ere the twilight fall Gather forest berries small And nuts down beaten for a meal.

XXVII.

Now the shy wood-wonners steal Nearer, bright-eyed furry things, Winking owls on silent wings Glance, and float away. The light In the wake o' the storm takes flight, Day departeth: night--'t is night.

The crown'd king musing at morn by a clear sweet river.
Palms on the slope o' the valley, and no winds blow;
Birds blameless, dove-eyed, mystical talk deliver,
Oracles haply. The language he doth not know.

Bare, blue, are yon peakèd hills for a rampart lying,
As dusty gold is the light in the palms o'erhead,
'What is the name o' the land? and this calm sweet sighing,
If it be echo, where first was it caught and spread?

I might--I might be at rest in some field Elysian,
If this be asphodel set in the herbage fair,
I know not how I should wonder, so sweet the vision,
So clear and silent the water, the field, the air.

Love, are you by me! Malva, what think you this meaneth?
Love, do you see the fine folk as they move over there?
Are they immortals? Look you a wingèd one leaneth
Down from yon pine to the river of us unaware.

All unaware; and the country is full of voices,
Mild strangers passing: they reck not of me nor of thee.
List! about and around us wondrous sweet noises,
Laughter of little children and maids that dreaming be.

Love, I can see their dreams.' A dim smile flitteth
Over her lips, and they move as in peace supreme,
And a small thing, silky haired, beside her sitteth,
'O this is thy dream atween us--this is thy dream.'

Was it then truly his dream with her dream that blended?
'Speak, dear child dear,' quoth the queen, 'and mine own little son.'
'Father,' the small thing murmurs; then all is ended,
He starts from that passion of peace--ay, the dream is done.

XXVIII.

'I have been in a good land,' Quoth the king: 'O sweet sleep bland, Blessed! I am grown to more, Now the doing of right hath moved Me to love of right, and proved If one doth it, he shall be Twice the man he was before. Verily and verily, Thou fair woman, thou didst well; I look back and scarce may tell Those false days of tinsel sheen, Flattery, feasting, that have been. Shows of life that were but shows, How they held me; being I ween Like sand-pictures thin, that rose Quivering, when our thirsty bands Marched i' the hot Egyptian lands; Shade of palms on a thick green plot, Pools of water that was not, Mocking us and melting away.

XXIX.

I have been a witch's prey, Art mine enemy now by day, Thou fell Fear? There comes an end To the day; thou canst not wend After me where I shall fare, My foredoomèd peace to share. And awake with a better heart, I shall meet thee and take my part O' the dull world's dull spite; with thine Hard will I strive for me and mine.'

XXX.

A page and a palfrey pacing nigh, Malva the queen awakes. A sigh-- One amazèd moment--'Ay, We remember yesterday, Let us to the palace straight: What! do all my ladies wait-- Is no zeal to find me? What! No knights forth to meet the king; Due observance, is it forgot?'

XXXI.

'Lady,' quoth the page, 'I bring Evil news. Sir king, I say, My good lord of yesterday, Evil news,' This king saith low, 'Yesterday, and yesterday, The queen's yesterday we know, Tell us thine.' 'Sir king,' saith he, Hear. Thy castle in the night Was surprised, and men thy flight Learned but then; thine enemy Of old days, our new king, reigns; And sith thou wert not at pains To forbid it, hear also, Marvelling whereto this should grow How thy knights at break of morn Have a new allegiance sworn, And the men-at-arms rejoice, And the people give their voice For the conqueror. I, Sir king, Rest thine only friend. I bring Means of flight; now therefore fly, A great price is on thy head. Cast her jewel'd mantle by, Mount thy queen i' the selle and hie (Sith disguise ye need, and bread) Down yon pleachèd track, down, down, Till a tower shall on thee frown; Him that holds it show this ring: So farewell, my lord the king.'

XXXII.

Had one marked that palfrey led To the tower, he sooth had said, These are royal folk and rare-- Jewels in her plaited hair Shine not clearer than her eyes, And her lord in goodly wise With his plumèd cap in 's hand Moves in the measure of command.

XXXIII.

Had one marked where stole forth two From the friendly tower anew, 'Common folk' he sooth had said, Making for the mountain track. Common, common, man and maid, Clad in russet, and of kind Meet for russet. On his back A wallet bears the stalwart hind; She, all shy, in rustic grace Steps beside her man apace, And wild roses match her face.

XXXIV.

Whither speed they? Where are toss'd Like sea foam the dwarfed pines At the jagged sharp inclines; To the country of the frost Up the mountains to be lost, Lost. No better now may be, Lost where mighty hollows thrust 'Twixt the fierce teeth of the world, Fill themselves with crimson dust When the tumbling sun down hurl'd Stares among them drearily, As a' wondering at the lone Gulfs that weird gaunt company Fenceth in. Lost there unknown, Lineage, nation, name, and throne.

XXXV.

Lo, in a crevice choked with ling And fir, this man, not now the king, This Sigismund, hath made a fire, And by his wife in the dark night He leans at watch, her guard and squire. His wide eyes stare out for the light Weary. He needs must chide on fate, And she is asleep. 'Poor brooding mate, What! wilt thou on the mountain crest Slippery and cold scoop thy first nest? Or must I clear some uncouth cave That laired the mother wolf, and save-- Spearing her cubs--the grey pelt fine To be a bed for thee and thine? It is my doing. Ay,' quoth he, 'Mine; but who dares to pity thee Shall pity, not for loss of all, But that thou wert my wife perdie, E'en wife unto a witch's thrall,-- A man beholden to the cold Cloud for a covering, he being sold And hunted for reward of gold.

XXXVI.

But who shall chronicle the ways Of common folk--the nights and days Spent with rough goatherds on their snows, Of travellers come whence no man knows, Then gone aloft on some sharp height In the dumb peace and the great light Amid brown eagles and wild roes?

XXXVII.

'Tis the whole world whereon they lie, The rocky pastures hung on high Shelve off upon an empty sky. But they creep near the edge, look down-- Great heaven! another world afloat, Moored as in seas of air; remote As their own childhood; swooning away Into a tenderer sweeter day, Innocent, sunny. 'O for wings! There lie the lands of other kings-- I Sigismund, my sometime crown Forfeit; forgotten of renown My wars, my rule; I fain would go Down to yon peace obscure.'

Even so; Down to the country of the thyme, Where young kids dance, and a soft chime Of sheepbells tinkles; then at last Down to a country of hollows, cast Up at the mountains full of trees, Down to fruit orchards and wide leas.

XXXVIII.

With name unsaid and fame unsunned He walks that was King Sigismund. With palmers holy and pilgrims brown, New from the East, with friar and clown, He mingles in a wallèd town, And in the mart where men him scan He passes for a merchant man. For from his vest, where by good hap He thrust it, he his plumèd cap Hath drawn and plucked the gems away, And up and down he makes essay To sell them; they are all his wares And wealth. He is a man of cares, A man of toil; no roof hath he To shelter her full soon to be The mother of his dispossessed Desirèd heir.

XXXIX.

Few words are best. He, once King Sigismund, saith few, But makes good diligence and true. Soon with the gold he gather'd so, A little homestead lone and low He buyeth: a field, a copse, with these A melon patch and mulberry trees. And is the man content? Nay, morn Is toilsome, oft is noon forlorn, Though right be done and life be won, Yet hot is weeding in the sun, Yea scythe to wield and axe to swing, Are hard on sinews of a king.

XL.

And Malva, must she toil? E'en so. Full patiently she takes her part, All, all so new. But her deep heart Forebodes more change than shall be shown Betwixt a settle and a throne. And lost in musing she will go About the winding of her silk, About the skimming her goat's milk, About the kneading of her bread, And water drawn from her well-head.

XLI.

Then come the long nights dark and still, Then come the leaves and cover the sill, Then come the swift flocks of the stare, Then comes the snow--then comes the heir.

XLII.

If he be glad, if he be sad, How should one question when the hand Is full, the heart. That life he had, While leisure was aside may stand, Till he shall overtake the task Of every day, then let him ask (If he remember--if he will), 'When I could sit me down and muse, And match my good against mine ill, And weigh advantage dulled by use At nothing, was it better with me?' But Sigismund! It cannot be But that he toil, nor pause, nor sigh, A dreamer on a day gone by The king is come.

XLIII.

His vassals two Serve with all homage deep and due. He is contented, he doth find Belike the kingdom much to his mind. And when the long months of his long Reign are two years, and like a song From some far sweeter world, a call From the king's mouth for fealty, Buds soon to blossom in language fall, They listen and find not any plea Left, for fine chiding at destiny.

XLIV.

Sigismund hath ricked the hay, He sitteth at close o' a sultry day Under his mulberry boughs at ease. 'Hey for the world, and the world is wide, The world is mine, and the world is--these Beautiful Malva leans at his side, And the small babbler talks at his knees.

XLV.

Riseth a waft as of summer air, Floating upon it what moveth there? Faint as the light of stars and wan As snow at night when the moon is gone, It is the white-witch risen once more.

XLVI.

The white-witch that tempted of yore So utterly doth substance lack, You may breathe her nearer and breathe her back. Soft her eyes, her speech full clear: 'Hail, thou Sigismund my fere, Bargain with me yea or nay. NAY, I go to my true place, And no more thou seest my face. YEA, the good be all thine own, For now will I advance thy day, And yet will leave the night alone.

XLVII.

Sigismund makes answer 'NAY. Though the Highest heaped on me Trouble, yet the same should be Welcomer than weal from thee. Nay;--for ever and ever Nay.' O, the white-witch floats away. Look you, look! A still pure smile Blossoms on her mouth the while, White wings peakèd high behind, Bear her;--no, the wafting wind, For they move not,--floats her back, Floats her up. They scarce may track Her swift rising, shot on high Like a ray from the western sky, Or a lark from some grey wold Utterly whelm'd in sunset gold.

XLVIII.

Then these two long silence hold, And the lisping babe doth say 'White white bird, it flew away.' And they marvel at these things, For her ghostly visitings Turn to them another face. Haply she was sent, a friend Trying them, and to good end For their better weal and grace; One more wonder let to be In the might and mystery Of the world, where verily And good sooth a man may wend All his life, and no more view Than the one right next to do.

XLIX.

So, the welcome dusk is here, Sweet is even, rest is dear; Mountain heads have lost the light, Soon they couch them. Night--'t is night.

Sigismund dreaming delightsomely after his haying.
('Sleep of the labouring man,' quoth King David, 'is sweet.')
'Sigismund, Sigismund'--'Who is this calling and saying
"Sigismund, Sigismund," O blessed night do not fleet.

Is it not dark--ay, methinks it is dark, I would slumber,
O I would rest till the swallow shall chirp 'neath mine eaves.'
'Sigismund, Sigismund,' multitudes now without number
Calling, the noise is as dropping of rain upon leaves.

'Ay,' quoth he dreaming, 'say on, for I, Sigismund, hear ye.'
'Sigismund, Sigismund, all the knights weary full sore.
Come back, King Sigismund, come, they shall love thee and fear thee,
The people cry out O come back to us, reign evermore.

The new king is dead, and we will not his son, no nor brother,
Come with thy queen, is she busy yet, kneading of cakes?
Sigismund, show us the boy, is he safe, and his mother,
Sigismund?'--dreaming he falls into laughter and wakes.

L.

And men say this dream came true, For he walking in the dew Turned aside while yet was red On the highest mountain head, Looking how the wheat he set Flourished. And the knights him met And him prayed 'Come again, Sigismund our king, and reign.' But at first--at first they tell How it liked not Malva well; She must leave her belted bees And the kids that she did rear. When she thought on it full dear Seemed her home. It did not please Sigismund that he must go From the wheat that he did sow; When he thought on it his mind Was not that should any bind Into sheaves that wheat but he, Only he; and yet they went, And it may be were content. And they won a nation's heart; Very well they played their part. They ruled with sceptre and diadem, And their children after them.

THE MAID-MARTYR.

Only you'd have me speak. Whether to speak Or whether to be silent is all one; Whether to sleep and in my dreaming front Her small scared face forlorn; whether to wake And muse upon her small soft feet that paced The hated, hard, inhospitable stone-- I say all's one. But you would have me speak, And change one sorrow for the other. Ay, Right reverend father, comfortable father, Old, long in thrall, and wearied of the cell, So will I here--here staring through the grate, Whence, sheer beneath us lying the little town, Her street appears a riband up the rise; Where 't is right steep for carts, behold two ruts Worn in the flat, smooth, stone. That side I stood; My head was down. At first I did but see Her coming feet; they gleamed through my hot tears As she walked barefoot up yon short steep hill. Then I dared all, gazed on her face, the maid Martyr and utterly, utterly broke my heart.

Her face, O! it was wonderful to me, There was not in it what I look'd for--no, I never saw a maid go to her death, How should I dream that face and the dumb soul?

Her arms and head were bare, seemly she walked All in her smock so modest as she might; Upon her shoulders hung a painted cape For horrible adornment, flames of fire Portrayed upon it, and mocking demon heads.

Her eyes--she did not see me--opened wide, Blue-black, gazed right before her, yet they marked Nothing; and her two hands uplift as praying, She yet prayed not, wept not, sighed not. O father, She was past that, soft, tender, hunted thing; But, as it seemed, confused from time to time, She would half-turn her or to left or right To follow other streets, doubting her way.

Then their base pikes they basely thrust at her, And, like one dazed, obedient to her guides She came; I knew not if 't was present to her That death was her near goal; she was so lost, And set apart from any power to think. But her mouth pouted as one brooding, father, Over a lifetime of forlorn fear. No, Scarce was it fear; so looks a timid child (Not more affrighted; ah! but not so pale) That has been scolded or has lost its way.

Mother and father--father and mother kind, She was alone, where were you hidden? Alone, And I that loved her more, or feared death less, Rushed to her side, but quickly was flung back, And cast behind o' the pikemen following her Into a yelling and a cursing crowd. That bristled thick with monks and hooded friars; Moreover, women with their cheeks ablaze, Who swarmèd after up the narrowing street.

Pitiful heaven! I knew she did not hear In that last hour the cursing, nor the foul Words; she had never heard like words, sweet soul, In her life blameless; even at that pass, That dreadful pass, I felt it had been worse, Though nought I longed for as for death, to know She did. She saw not 'neath their hoods those eyes Soft, glittering, with a lust for cruelty; Secret delight, that so great cruelty, All in the sacred name of Holy Church, Their meed to look on it should be anon. Speak! O, I tell you this thing passeth word! From roofs and oriels high, women looked down; Men, maidens, children, and a fierce white sun Smote blinding splinters from all spears aslant.

Lo! next a stand, so please you, certain priests (May God forgive men sinning at their ease), Whose duty 't was to look upon this thing, Being mindful of thick pungent smoke to come, Had caused a stand to rise hard by the stake, Upon its windward side.

My life! my love! She utter'd one sharp cry of mortal dread While they did chain her. This thing passeth words, Albeit told out for ever in my soul. As the torch touched, thick volumes of black reek Rolled out and raised the wind, and instantly Long films of flaxen hair floated aloft, Settled alow, in drifts upon the crowd. The vile were merciful; heaped high, my dear, Thou didst not suffer long. O! it was soon, Soon over, and I knew not any more, Till grovelling on the ground, beating my head, I heard myself, and scarcely knew 't was I, At Holy Church railing with fierce mad words, Crying and craving for a stake, for me. While fast the folk, as ever, such a work Being over, fled, and shrieked 'A heretic! More heretics; yon ashes smoking still.'

And up and almost over me came on A robed--ecclesiastic--with his train (I choose the words lest that they do some wrong) Call him a robed ecclesiastic proud. And I lying helpless, with my bruised face Beat on his garnished shoon. But he stepped back, Spurned me full roughly with them, called the pikes, Delivering orders, 'Take the bruised wretch. He raves. Fool! thou'lt hear more of this anon. Bestow him there.' He pointed to a door. With that some threw a cloth upon my face Because it bled. I knew they carried me Within his home, and I was satisfied; Willing my death. Was it an abbey door? Was 't entrance to a palace? or a house Of priests? I say not, nor if abbot he, Bishop or other dignity; enough That he so spake. 'Take in the bruised wretch.' And I was borne far up a turret stair Into a peakèd chamber taking form O' the roof, and on a pallet bed they left Me miserable. Yet I knew forsooth, Left in my pain, that evil things were said Of that same tower; men thence had disappeared, Suspect of heresy had disappeared, Deliver'd up, 't was whisper'd, tried and burned. So be it methought, I would not live, not I. But none did question me. A beldame old, Kind, heedless of my sayings, tended me. I raved at Holy Church and she was deaf, And at whose tower detained me, she was dumb. So had I food and water, rest and calm. Then on the third day I rose up and sat On the side of my low bed right melancholy, All that high force of passion overpast, I sick with dolourous thought and weak through tears Spite of myself came to myself again (For I had slept), and since I could not die Looked through the window three parts overgrown With leafage on the loftiest ivy ropes, And saw at foot o' the rise another tower In roof whereof a grating, dreary bare. Lifetimes gone by, long, slow, dim, desolate, I knew even there had been my lost love's cell.

So musing on the man that with his foot Spurned me, the robed ecclesiastic stern, 'Would he had haled me straight to prison' methought, 'So made an end at once.'

My sufferings rose Like billows closing over, beating down; Made heavier far because of a stray, strange, Sweet hope that mocked me at the last. 'T was thus, I came from Oxford secretly, the news Terrible of her danger smiting me,-- She was so young, and ever had been bred With whom 't was made a peril now to name. There had been worship in the night; some stole To a mean chapel deep in woods, and heard Preaching, and prayed. She, my betrothed, was there. Father and mother, mother and father kind, So young, so innocent, had ye no ruth, No fear, that ye did bring her to her doom? I know the chiefest Evil One himself Sanded that floor. Their footsteps marking it Betrayed them. How all came to pass let be. Parted, in hiding some, other in thrall, Father and mother, mother and father kind, It may be yet ye know not this--not all.

I in the daytime lying perdue looked up At the castle keep impregnable,--no foot How rash so e'er might hope to scale it. Night Descending, come I near, perplexedness, Contempt of danger, to the door o' the keep Drawing me. There a short stone bench I found, And bitterly weeping sat and leaned my head Against the hopeless hated massiveness Of that detested hold. A lifting moon Had made encroachment on the dark, but deep Was shadow where I leaned. Within a while I was aware, but saw no shape, of one Who stood beside me, a dark shadow tall. I cared not, disavowal mattered nought Of grief to one so out of love with life. But after pause I felt a hand let down That rested kindly, firmly, a man's hand, Upon my shoulder; there was cheer in it. And presently a voice clear, whispering, low, With pitifulness that faltered, spoke to me. Was I, it asked, true son of Mother Church? Coldly I answer'd 'Ay;' then blessed words That danced into mine ears more excellent Music than wedding bells had been were said, With certitude that I might see my maid, My dear one. He would give a paper, he The man beside me. 'Do thy best endeavour, Dear youth. Thy maiden being a right sweet child Surely will hearken to thee; an she do, And will recant, fair faultless heretic, Whose knowledge is but scant of matters high Which hard men spake on with her, hard men forced From her mouth innocent, then shall she come Before me; have good cheer, all may be well. But an she will not she must burn, no power-- Not Solomon the Great on 's ivory throne With all his wisdom could find out a way, Nor I nor any to save her, she must burn. Now hast thou till day dawn. The Mother of God Speed thee.' A twisted scroll he gave; himself Knocked at the door behind, and he was gone, A darker pillar of darkness in the dark. Straightway one opened and I gave the scroll. He read, then thrust it in his lanthorn flame Till it was ashes; 'Follow' and no more Whisper'd, went up the giddy spiring way, I after, till we reached the topmost door. Then took a key, opened, and crying 'Delia, Delia my sweetheart, I am come, I am come,' I darted forward and he locked us in. Two figures; one rose up and ran to me Along the ladder of moonlight on the floor, Fell on my neck. Long time we kissed and wept.

But for that other, while she stood appeased For cruel parting past, locked in mine arms, I had been glad, expecting a good end. The cramped pale fellow prisoner; 'Courage' cried. Then Delia lifting her fair face, the moon Did show me its incomparable calms. Her effluent thought needed no word of mine, It whelmed my soul as in a sea of tears. The warm enchantment leaning on my breast Breathed as in air remote, and I was left To infinite detachment, even with hers To take cold kisses from the lips of doom, Look in those eyes and disinherit hope From that high place late won. Then murmuring low That other spake of Him on the cross, and soft As broken-hearted mourning of the dove, She 'One deep calleth to another' sighed. 'The heart of Christ mourns to my heart, "Endure. There was a day when to the wilderness My great forerunner from his thrall sent forth Sad messengers, demanding _Art thou He_? Think'st thou I knew no pang in that strange hour? How could I hold the power, and want the will Or want the love? That pang was his--and mine. He said not, Save me an thou be the Son, But only _Art thou He_? In my great way It was not writ,--legions of Angels mine, There was one Angel, one ordain'd to unlock At my behest the doomed deadly door. I could not tell him, tell not thee, why." Lord, We know not why, but would not have Thee grieve, Think not so deeply on 't; make us endure For thy blest sake, hearing thy sweet voice mourn "I will go forth, thy desolations meet, And with my desolations solace them. I will not break thy bonds but I am bound, With thee."'

I feared. That speech deep furrows cut In my afflicted soul. I whisper'd low, 'Thou wilt not heed her words, my golden girl.' But Delia said not ought; only her hand Laid on my cheek and on the other leaned Her own. O there was comfort, father, In love and nearness, e'en at the crack of doom.

Then spake I, and that other said no more, For I appealed to God and to his Christ. Unto the strait-barred window led my dear; No table, bed, nor plenishing; no place They had for rest: maugre two narrow chairs By day, by night they sat thereon upright. One drew I to the opening; on it set My Delia, kneeled; upon its arm laid mine, And prayed to God and prayed of her. Father, If you should ask e'en now, 'And art thou glad Of what befell?' I could not say it, father, I should be glad; therefore God make me glad, Since we shall die to-morrow! Think not sin, O holy, harmless reverend man, to fear. 'T will be soon over. Now I know thou fear'st Also for me, lest I be lost; but aye Strong comfortable hope doth wrap me round, A token of acceptance. I am cast From Holy Church, and not received of thine; But the great Advocate who knoweth all, He whispers with me. O my Delia wept When I did plead; 'I have much feared to die,' Answering. (The moonlight on her blue-black eyes Fell; shining tears upon their lashes hung; Fair showed the dimple that I loved; so young, So very young.) 'But they did question me Straitly, and make me many times to swear, To swear of all alas, that I believed. Truly, unless my soul I would have bound With false oaths--difficult, innumerous, strong, Way was not left me to get free.

But now,' Said she, I am happy; I have seen the place Where I am going.

I will tell it you, Love, Hubert. Do not weep; they said to me That you would come, and it would not be long. Thus was it, being sad and full of fear, I was crying in the night; and prayed to God And said, "I have not learned high things;" and said To the Saviour, "Do not be displeased with me, I am not crying to get back and dwell With my good mother and my father fond, Nor even with my love, Hubert--my love, Hubert; but I am crying because I fear Mine answers were not rightly given--so hard Those questions. If I did not understand, Wilt thou forgive me?" And the moon went down While I did pray, and looking on the floor, Behold a little diamond lying there, So small it might have dropped from out a ring. I could but look! The diamond waxed--it grew-- It was a diamond yet, and shot out rays, And in the midst of it a rose-red point; It waxed till I might see the rose-red point Was a little Angel 'mid those oval rays, With a face sweet as the first kiss, O love, You gave me, and it meant that self-same thing.

Now was it tall as I, among the rays Standing; I touched not. Through the window drawn, This barred and narrow window,--but I know Nothing of how, we passed, and seemed to walk Upon the air, till on the roof we sat.

It spoke. The sweet mouth did not move, but all The Angel spoke in strange words full and old, It was my Angel sent to comfort me With a message, and the message, "I might come, And myself see if He forgave me." Then Deliver'd he admonition, "Afterwards I must return and die." But I being dazed, Confused with love and joy that He so far Did condescend, "Ay, Eminence," replied, "Is the way great?" I knew not what I said. The Angel then, "I know not far nor near, But all the stars of God this side it shine." And I forgetful wholly for this thing My soul did pant in--a rapture and a pain, So great as they would melt it quite away To a vanishing like mist when sultry rays Shot from the daystar reckon with it--I Said in my simpleness, "But is there time? For in three days I am to burn, and O I would fain see that he forgiveth first. Pray you make haste." "I know not haste," he said; "I was not fashioned to be thrall of time. What is it?" And I marvelled, saw outlying, Shaped like a shield and of dimensions like An oval in the sky beyond all stars, And trembled with foreknowledge. We were bound To that same golden holy hollow. I Misdoubted how to go, but we were gone. I set off wingless, walking empty air Beside him. In a moment we were caught Among thick swarms of lost ones, evil, fell Of might, only a little less than gods, And strong enough to tear the earth to shreds, Set shoulders to the sun and rend it out O' its place. Their wings did brush across my face, Yet felt I nought; the place was vaster far Than all this wholesome pastoral windy world. Through it we spinning, pierced to its far brink, Saw menacing frowns and we were forth again. Time has no instant for the reckoning ought So sudden; 't was as if a lightning flash Threw us within it, and a swifter flash, We riding harmless down its swordlike edge, Shot us fast forth to empty nothingness.

All my soul trembled, and my body it seemed Pleaded than such a sight rather to faint To the last silence, and the eery grave Inhabit, and the slow solemnities Of dying faced, content me with my shroud.

And yet was lying athwart the morning star That shone in front, that holy hollow; yet It loomed, as hung atilt towards the world, That in her time of sleep appeared to look Up to it, into it. We, though I wept, Fearing and longing, knowing not how to go, My heart gone first, both mine eyes dedicate To its all-hallowed sweet desirèd gold, We on the empty limitless abyss Walked slowly. It was far; And I feared much, For lo! when I looked down deep under me The little earth was such a little thing, How in the vasty dark find her again? The crescent moon a moorèd boat hard by, Did wait on her and touch her ragged rims With a small gift of silver. Love! my life! Hubert, while I yet wept, O we were there. A menai of Angels first, a swarm of stars Took us among them (all alive with stars Shining and shouting each to each that place), The feathered multitude did lie so thick We walked upon them, walked on outspread wings, And the great gates were standing open. Love! The country is not what you think; but oh! When you have seen it nothing else contents. The voice, the vision was not what you think-- But oh! it was all. It was the meaning of life, Excellent consummation of desires For ever, let into the heart with pain Most sweet. That smile did take the feeding soul Deeper and deeper into heaven. The sward (For I had bowed my face on it) I found Grew in my spirit's longed for native land-- At last I was at home.' And here she paused: I must needs weep. I have not been in heaven, Therefore she could not tell me what she heard, Therefore she might not tell me what she saw, Only I understood that One drew near Who said to her she should e'en come, 'Because,' Said He, 'My Father loves Me. I will ask He send, a guiding Angel for My sake, Since the dark way is long, and rough, and hard, So that I shall not lose whom I love--thee.'

Other words wonderful of things not known, When she had uttered, I gave hope away, Cried out, and took her in despairing arms, Asking no more. Then while the comfortless Dawn till night fainted grew, alas! a key That with abhorrèd jarring probed the door. We kissed, we looked, unlocked our arms. She sighed 'Remember,' 'Ay, I will remember. What?' 'To come to me.' Then I, thrust roughly forth-- I, bereft, dumb, forlorn, unremedied My hurt for ever, stumbled blindly down, And the great door was shut behind and chained.

The weird pathetic scarlet of day dawning, More kin to death of night than birth of morn, Peered o'er yon hill bristling with spires of pine. I heard the crying of the men condemned, Men racked, that should be martyr'd presently, And my great grief met theirs with might; I held All our poor earth's despairs in my poor breast, The choking reek, the faggots were all mine. Ay, and the partings they were all mine--mine. Father, it will be very good methinks To die so, to die soon. It doth appease The soul in misery for its fellows, when There is no help, to suffer even as they.

Father, when I had lost her, when I sat After my sickness on the pallet bed, My forehead dropp'd into my hand, behold Some one beside me. A man's hand let down With that same action kind, compassionate, Upon my shoulder. And I took the hand Between mine own, laying my face thereon. I knew this man for him who spoke with me, Letting me see my Delia. I looked up. Lo! lo! the robed ecclesiastic proud, He and this other one. Tell you his name? Am I a fiend? No, he was good to me, Almost he placed his life in my hand. Father, He with good pitying words long talked to me, 'Did I not strive to save her?' 'Ay,' quoth I. 'But sith it would not be, I also claim Death, burning; let me therefore die--let me. I am wicked, would be heretic, but, faith, I know not how, and Holy Church I hate. She is no mother of mine, she slew my love.' What answer? 'Peace, peace, thou art hard on me. Favour I forfeit with the Mother of God, Lose rank among the saints, foresee my soul Drenched in the unmitigated flame, and take My payment in the lives snatched at all risk From battling in it here. O, an thou turn And tear from me, lost to that other world My heart's reward in this, I am twice lost; Now have I doubly failed.' Father, I know The Church would rail, hound forth, disgrace, try, burn, Make his proud name, discover'd, infamy, Tread underfoot his ashes, curse his soul. But God is greater than the Church. I hope He shall not, for that he loved men, lose God. I hope to hear it said 'Thy sins are all Forgiven; come in, thou hast done well.' For me My chronicle comes down to its last page. 'Is not life sweet?' quoth he, and comforted My sick heart with good words, 'duty' and 'home.' Then took me at moonsetting down the stair To the dark deserted midway of the street, Gave me a purse of money, and his hand Laid on my shoulder, holding me with words A father might have said, bad me God speed, So pushed me from him, turned, and he was gone.

There was a Pleiad lost; where is she now? None knoweth,--O she reigns, it is my creed, Otherwhere dedicate to making day. The God of Gods, He doubtless looked to that Who wasteth never ought He fashionèd. I have no vision, but where vision fails Faith cheers, and truly, truly there is need, The god of this world being so unkind. O love! My girl for ever to the world Wanting. Lost, not that any one should find, But wasted for the sake of waste, and lost For love of man's undoing, of man's tears, By envy of the evil one; I mourn For thee, my golden girl, I mourn, I mourn.

He set me free. And it befell anon That I must imitate him. Then 't befell That on the holy Book I read, and all, The mediating Mother and her Babe, God and the Church, and man and life and death, And the dark gulfs of bitter purging flame, Did take on alteration. Like a ship Cast from her moorings, drifting from her port, Not bound to any land, not sure of land, My dull'd soul lost her reckoning on that sea She sailed, and yet the voyage was nigh done.

This God was not the God I had known; this Christ Was other. O, a gentler God, a Christ-- By a mother and a Father infinite-- In distance each from each made kin to me. Blest Sufferer on the rood; but yet, I say Other. Far gentler, and I cannot tell, Father, if you, or she, my golden girl, Or I, or any aright those mysteries read.

I cannot fathom them. There is not time, So quickly men condemned me to this cell. I quarrell'd not so much with Holy Church For that she taught, as that my love she burned. I die because I hid her enemies, And read the Book. But O, forgiving God, I do elect to trust thee. I have thought, What! are there set between us and the sun Millions of miles, and did He like a tent Rear up yon vasty sky? Is heaven less wide? And dwells He there, but for His wingèd host, Almost alone? Truly I think not so; He has had trouble enough with this poor world To make Him as an earthly father would, Love it and value it more. He did not give So much to have us with Him, and yet fail. And now He knows I would believe e'en so As pleaseth Him, an there was time to learn Or certitude of heart; but time fails, time. He knoweth also 't were a piteous thing Not to be sure of my love's welfare--not To see her happy and good in that new home. Most piteous. I could all forego but this. O let me see her, Lord. What, also I! White ashes and a waft of vapour--I To flutter on before the winds. No, no. And yet for ever ay--my flesh shall hiss And I shall hear 't. Dreadful, unbearable! Is it to-morrow? Ay, indeed, indeed, To-morrow. But my moods are as great waves That rise and break and thunder down on me, And then fall'n back sink low. I have waked long And cannot hold my thoughts upon th' event; They slip, they wander forth. How the dusk grows. This is the last moonrising we shall see. Methought till morn to pray, and cannot pray. Where is mine Advocate? let Him say all And more was in my mind to say this night, Because to-morrow--Ah! no more of that, The tale is told. Father, I fain would sleep.

Truly my soul is silent unto God.

A VINE-ARBOUR IN THE FAR WEST.

I.

Laura, my Laura! 'Yes, mother!' 'I want you, Laura; come down.' 'What is it, mother--what, dearest? O your loved face how it pales! You tremble, alas and alas--you heard bad news from the town?' 'Only one short half hour to tell it. My poor courage fails--

II.

Laura.' 'Where's Ronald?--O anything else but Ronald!' 'No, no, Not Ronald, if all beside, my Laura, disaster and tears; But you, it is yours to send them away, for you they will go, One short half hour, and must it decide, it must for the years.

III.

Laura, you think of your father sometimes?' 'Sometimes!' 'Ah, but how?' 'I think--that we need not think, sweet mother--the time is not yet, He is as the wraith of a wraith, and a far off shadow now-- --But if you have heard he is dead?' 'Not that?' 'Then let me forget.'

IV.

'The sun is off the south window, draw back the curtain, my child.' 'But tell it, mother.' 'Answer you first what it is that you see.' 'The lambs on the mountain slope, and the crevice with blue ice piled.' 'Nearer.'--'But, mother!' 'Nearer!' 'My heifer she's lowing to me.'

V.

'Nearer.' 'Nothing, sweet mother, O yes, for one sits in the bower. Black the clusters hang out from the vine about his snow-white head, And the scarlet leaves, where my Ronald leaned.' 'Only one half hour-- Laura'--'O mother, my mother dear, all known though nothing said.

VI.

O it breaks my heart, the face dejected that looks not on us, A beautiful face--I remember now, though long I forgot.' 'Ay and I loved it. I love him to-day, and to see him thus! Saying "I go if she bids it, for work her woe--I will not."

VII.

There! weep not, wring not your hands, but think, think with your heart and soul.' 'Was he innocent, mother? If he was, I, sure had been told, 'He said so.' 'Ah, but they do.' 'And I hope--and long was his dole, And all for the signing a name (if indeed he signed) for gold.'

VIII.

'To find us again, in the far far West, where hid, we were free-- But if he was innocent--O my heart, it is riven in two, If he goes how hard upon him--or stays--how harder on me, For O my Ronald, my Ronald, my dear,--my best what of you!'

IX.

'Peace; think, my Laura--I say he will go there, weep not so sore. And the time is come, Ronald knows nothing, your father will go, As the shadow fades from its place will he, and be seen no more.' 'There 'll be time to think to-morrow, and after, but to-day, no.

X.

I'm going down the garden, mother.' 'Laura!' 'I've dried my tears.' 'O how will this end!' 'I know not the end, I can but begin.' 'But what will you say?' 'Not "welcome, father," though long were those years, But I'll say to him, "O my poor father, we wait you, come in."

LOVERS AT THE LAKE SIDE.

I.

'And you brought him home.' 'I did, ay Ronald, it rested with me.' 'Love!' 'Yes.' 'I would fain you were not so calm.' 'I cannot weep. No.' 'What is he like, your poor father?' 'He is--like--this fallen tree Prone at our feet, by the still lake taking on rose from the glow,

II.

Now scarlet, O look! overcoming the blue both lake and sky, While the waterfalls waver like smoke, then leap in and are not. And shining snow-points of high sierras cast down, there they lie.' 'O Laura--I cannot bear it. Laura! as if I forgot.'

III.

'No, you remember, and I remember that evening--like this When we come forth from the gloomy Canyon, lo, a sinking sun. And, Ronald, you gave to me your troth ring, I gave my troth kiss.' 'Give me another, I say that this makes no difference, none.

IV.

It hurts me keenly. It hurts to the soul that you thought it could.' 'I never thought so, my Ronald, my love, never thought you base.' No, but I look for a nobler nobleness, loss understood, Accepted, and not that common truth which can hold through disgrace.

V.

O! we remember, and how ere that noon through deeps of the lake We floating looked down and the boat's shadow followed on rocks below, So clear the water. O all pathetic as if for love's sake Our life that is but a fleeting shadow 't would under us show.

VI.

O we remember forget-me-not pale, and white columbine You wreathed for my hair; because we remember this cannot be. Ah! here is your ring--see, I draw it off--it must not be mine, Put it on, love, if but for the moment and listen to me.

VII.

I look for the best, I look for the most, I look for the all From you, it consoles this misery of mine, there is you to trust. O if you can weep, let us weep together, tears may well fall For that lost sunsetting and what it promised,--they may, they must.

VIII.

Do you say nothing, mine own belovèd, you know what I mean, And whom.--To her pride and her love from YOU shall such blow be dealt... ...Silence uprisen, is like a presence, it comes us between... As once there was darkness, now is there silence that may be felt.

IX.

Ronald, your mother, so gentle, so pure, and you are her best, 'T is she whom I think of, her quiet sweetness, her gracious way. 'How could she bear it?'--'Laura!' 'Yes, Ronald.' 'Let that matter rest. You might give your name to my father's child?' 'My father's name. Ay,

X.

Who died before it was soiled.' 'You mutter.' 'Why, love, are you here?' 'Because my mother fled forth to the West, her trouble to hide, And I was so small, the lone pine forest, and tier upon tier, Far off Mexican snowy sierras pushed England aside.'

XI.