Chapter III

Dear Pilgrim, art thou for the East indeed? Go!—saying ever as thou dost proceed, That I, French Rudel, choose for my device A sunflower outspread like a sacrifice Before its idol. See! These inexpert And hurried fingers could not fail to hurt The woven picture; ’tis a woman’s skill Indeed; but nothing baffled me, so, ill Or well, the work is finished. Say, men feed On songs I sing, and therefore bask the bees On my flower’s breast as on a platform broad: But, as the flower’s concern is not for these But solely for the sun, so men applaud In vain this Rudel, he not looking here But to the East—the East! Go, say this, Pilgrim dear!

This poem was first published in “Bells and Pomegranates” under the head of “Queen Worship.” How exquisite the plea of the unnoticed Flower, with no pretence to vie with the Mountain in its claim upon the Sun’s attention, except this, that the great unchanging Mountain is “vainly favoured,” while the Flower yields itself up in ceaseless and self-forgetting devotion to an imitation, however feeble and foolish, of the great Sun Life.

The second stanza is very rich. There is no mention in it of Sun or Mountain or Flower; but as the Flower looks up to the Sun from its nook at the Mountain’s base, so Rudel yearns for “one gold look” from his Sun, the “Angel of the East.”

The meaning of the third stanza will be apparent when it is remembered that “French Rudel” was a troubadour of the 12th century—the days of the Crusades, and of the romance of chivalry. In those days the best way to communicate with the East would be through some pilgrim passing thither: and nothing would be more natural than such a reference to the “device” which he had patiently, and in spite of difficulty, worked so as to wear it as her “favour:” and once more, it is eminently natural to represent the troubadour, not as sending a written message, but as finding a sympathetic pilgrim to burden his memory with it—charging him to keep it fresh by repetition till it had been duly delivered.

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NEVER THE TIME AND THE PLACE.

Never the time and the place
And the loved one all together!
This path—how soft to pace!
This May—what magic weather!
Where is the loved one’s face?
In a dream that loved one’s face meets mine,
But the house is narrow, the place is bleak
Where, outside, rain and wind combine
With a furtive ear, if I strive to speak
With a hostile eye at my flushing cheek,
With a malice that marks each word, each sign!
O enemy sly and serpentine
Uncoil thee from the waking man!
Do I hold the Past
Thus firm and fast
Yet doubt if the Future hold I can?
This path so soft to pace shall lead
Through the magic of May to herself indeed!
Or narrow if needs the house must be,
Outside are the storms and strangers: we—
Oh, close, safe, warm sleep I and she,
—I and she!

This poem, published in “Jocoseria” in 1883, has no connection with “Rudel,” published in “Bells and Pomegranates” in 1842; but it will naturally follow it as “another of the same,” only with a happier ending; for though we learn from history that poor Rudel did one day reach Tripoli, it was only to die there,—let us hope still looking “to the East—the East!”

We get a glimpse here of the shifting moods of a lover’s soul. First, there are the thoughts connected with the present experience—time and place all that could be desired, but the loved one, absent, (lines 1-5); next, thoughts arising from a dark dream or foreboding of the future when he and his loved one shall meet, but under circumstances cruelly unpropitious, the house narrow, the weather stormy, unsympathetic strangers by with furtive ears and hostile eyes, and even malice in their hearts (6-11); and last, the man within him rises to shake off the horrid serpent-like dream, and look forward with a healthy hope that time and place and all will be well; or, if the house must be narrow, (compare the Latin, “res angusta domi”) it will be a Home, storms and strangers without, peace and rest within!

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WANTING IS—WHAT?

Wanting is—what? Summer redundant, Blueness abundant, —Where is the spot? Beamy the world, yet a blank all the same, —Framework which waits for a picture to frame: What of the leafage, what of the flower? Roses embowering with nought they embower! Come then, complete incompletion, O comer, Pant through the blueness, perfect the Summer! Breathe but one breath Rose-beauty above, And all that was death Grows life, grows love, Grows love!

This is still the love of earth; but dealt with so grandly, that it is no wonder that some have understood it of the higher love, and to the question of the first line would give the answer, “God.” Nor can it be said that the thought is alien—rather is it close akin; for is not the earthly love, when pure and true, an image of the heavenly? It would be well, indeed, if love songs were oftener written in such a way as to suggest thoughts of the love of Heaven. The Bible is especially fearless in its use of the one to illustrate the other. With the higher thought in view, we are reminded of the closing lines of “The Rhyme of the Duchess May,” by Mrs. Browning—

“And I smiled to think God’s greatness flowed around our
incompleteness—
Round our restlessness, His rest.”

Compare “By the Fireside,” especially stanza 39.

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EVELYN HOPE.

I.

Beautiful Evelyn Hope is dead!
Sit and watch by her side an hour.
That is her book-shelf, this her bed;
She plucked that piece of geranium-flower,
Beginning to die too, in the glass;
Little has yet been changed, I think:
The shutters are shut, no light may pass
Save two long rays through the hinge’s chink.

II.

Sixteen years old when she died!
Perhaps she had scarcely heard my name;
It was not her time to love; beside,
Her life had many a hope and aim,
Duties enough and little cares,
And now was quiet, now astir,
Till God’s hand beckoned unawares,—
And the sweet white brow is all of her.

III.

Is it too late then, Evelyn Hope?
What, your soul was pure and true,
The good stars met in your horoscope,
Made you of spirit, fire and dew—
And, just because I was thrice as old,
And our paths in the world diverged so wide.
Each was nought to each, must I be told?
We were fellow mortals, nought beside?

IV.

No, indeed! for God above
Is great to grant, as mighty to make,
And creates the love to reward the love:
I claim you still, for my own love’s sake!
Delayed it may be for more lives yet,
Through worlds I shall traverse, not a few:
Much is to learn, much to forget
Ere the time be come for taking you.

V.

But the time will come, at last it will,
When, Evelyn Hope, what meant (I shall say)
In the lower earth, in the years long still,
That body and soul so pure and gay?
Why your hair was amber, I shall divine,
And your mouth of your own geranium’s red—
And what you would do with me, in fine,
In the new life come in the old one’s stead.

VI.

I have lived (I shall say) so much since then,
Given up myself so many times,
Gained me the gains of various men,
Ransacked the ages, spoiled the climes;
Yet one thing, one, in my soul’s full scope,
Either I missed or itself missed me:
And I want and find you, Evelyn Hope!
What is the issue? let us see!