Chapter XLVII

‘Thou art not all alone, my child;
Thy griefs that righteous lady hears:
She loves a spirit undefiled;
Her heart is open to thy tears.
Thy father’s work at last is done,
And thou shalt never be alone.’

THE LOVER’S DAY

I

Gorse-plains that flower their gold into the streams
Beneath the opal blossoms of the sky;
Sea-floods that weave their blue and purple seams;
White sails that lift the billows as they fly:
Not these in their abounding rapture vie
With love’s diviner dreams.

II

Those lovers tire not when the sun is pale;
No statelier awning than a bristled tree
With branches cedared by the salten gale,
Stretched back, as if with wings that cannot flee:
They linger, and the sun departs by sea;
He spreads his crimson sail.

III

They watch him as he piles his busy deck
With golden treasure; as his sail expands;
They see him sink; they gaze upon the wreck
Through the still twilight of the silvery sands.
One cloud is left to the deserted lands:
The blue-set moon’s cold fleck.

IV

They linger though the pageant hath gone by,
The opal cloud is lit o’er sea and plain;
The moon is full of one day’s memory,
And tells the tale of Nature o’er again,
Its glory mingled in the soul’s refrain
Under that lover’s sky.

THE DEADLY NIGHTSHADE

I

There was a haunt, it does not change,
Not while the fiend its path invades;
But he who did its alleys range
Has willed his penance to its shades.
There still the nightshade breathes its pest
On fallen spirits not at rest.

II

It is the haunt it was of yore,
A den where thieves and harlots creep,
Where Nature’s voice is heard no more,
Where guilt-stained men night-vigil keep,
And crimes like months afresh appear,—
Ere one runs out, another near.

III

A haunt where all in common share
The sleepless hour, the murderous toil;
Where Death on all has set his stare,
To drag them forth, to grasp their spoil:
Between their gallows and their den,
A hardening sight for other men.

IV

This is the charnel that doth hide
A frantic woman who at play
Has lost her wealth of virgin pride,
And reckless games her soul away;
Whose scarlet rags, deep-dyed, replace
The blushes of her maiden face.

V

A mother’s bitter hour sets in;
Wrecked on her breast the infant lies,
As if to perish for its sin,
There set adrift from human ties
Till its ear-piercing scream prevail
And sullen pity hush the wail.

VI

Where only shadows rise and set,
And love at morn awaketh not,
This child of woe his being met,
To share a loveless parent’s lot,
And at his birth his sentence meet
Before a mother’s judgment-seat.

VII

The mother moaning in the gloom
Laughed when a peaceful breath he drew,
Too conscious of his early doom.
On wounded wings the tidings flew,
On bosoms pitiless they fell:
‘A child of heaven was born in hell!’

VIII

His place of birth the skies deplored,
No trees, no brooks, no meadows seen;
And still his heart those skies adored
Before he saw the fields were green.
Born amid broils, in squalor bred,
His soul knew not to where it sped.

IX

The child is taught through many a blow
To shed with sobs the beggar’s tear,
Reared as a prodigy of woe
That gentle women pay to hear.
And many listened and bestowed;
For younger tears had never flowed.

X

Held at his mother’s hand, he hung
A broken spray with misery’s drip;
And often to the ground he clung,
His passion bursting at his lip.
And still she dragged him o’er the stones,
Though tender was he to the bones.

XI

Her eyes of prey like fangs were laid
On all who gave a hurried look.
And while she whined for kindly aid,
She hid away the coin she took,
When suddenly she begged no more
And rushed within a slamming door.

XII

With nostrils spread, and eyes aflame,
Before the shrine of death she stands,
The infant by her, sick and lame,
The lava trembling in her hands.
She drinks it with a vengeful frown;
She feels the fiend of sorrow drown.

XIII

Now in a prison left to rage,
She thirsts, she burns with vain desire
Her deadly sickness to assuage,
To quench its fiery pang in fire.
With what a mother sent to dwell,
This child of heaven reared up in hell!

XIV

Not far away from infancy—
Through weary time a single stage,
The livelong years had hustled by
But left him still of tender age,
When from his mother’s reach he fled,
Outside the doors to make his bed.

XV

Where odours wander, dank and foul,
Through crowded streets and alleys lone,
By day and night his footsteps prowl;
His wants, not many, asked by none:
The roads were new he hourly crossed,
Yet was his way not wholly lost.

XVI

When hunger like a conscience cries,
He asks the needy to bestow,
Afraid to raise his drooping eyes
Except to those who famine know;
Such he believes their crust will break,
And share with him for pity’s sake.

XVII

Hopeful, he glides into a den
Up whose dusk path a shudder flew,
And asks of sick, half-famished men
Whose strength no plenty could renew.
Yet with what startling oaths they rave
And bid him run his neck to save!

XVIII

Still to the poor is his appeal,
And they his mild entreaty spurn:
Some whisper, Be a man and steal;
Some bid him to the gallows turn.
Child-like he credits all he hears,
And rests his troubled heart in tears.

XIX

He rests,—but oft starts up in fear;
His mother’s driving shadow breaks
Upon his slumber unaware,
And sleep’s too light repast awakes
Where dreams the festive board have spread
And turned his sorrow into bread.

XX

Hope, ’mid those shapes of famine sent,
Smiles on him;—she is Childhood’s bride!
The mother’s image, o’er him bent,
Cannot the angel wholly hide,—
Not when her halo o’er him plays,
And all but hunger’s pang allays.

XXI

How did he long for once to taste
Of the forbidden food whose smell
From cellar gratings ran to waste!
Gusts that the passing crowd repel.
As when a rose some maid regales,
The grateful vapour he inhales.

XXII

Less favoured than the dog outside,
He lingers by some savoury mass;
He watches mouths that open wide,
And sees them eating through the glass.
Oft his own lips he opes and shuts,
And sympathy his fancy gluts.

XXIII

So, oft a-hungered has he stood,
And yarn of fasting fancy spun,
As wistfully he watched the food,
With one foot out prepared to run,
In vague misgiving of his right
To revel in the dainty sight.

XXIV

Harmless, yet to the base akin,
He feels a blot no eye could see,
And drags his rags about his skin
To hide from view his pedigree.
He deems himself a thief by birth,
An alien on the teeming earth.

XXV

He begs not, but as in a trance
Admires the gay and wealthy throng;
But if the curious on him glance,
He is abashed and slinks along;
He cares no more, the spell once broke,
Scenes of false plenty to invoke.

XXVI

The man of charity beholds
His vagrant looks with pent-up grief;
He stops, reproves; he gently scolds,
But fails to give the child relief;
‘So sad,’ he says, ‘to see them thrive
Who on another’s earnings live.’

XXVII

Then comes the child, this ill-sown seed,
To sweep the purlieus and the wynds,
But few bethink them of his need,
And scanty is the help he finds.
At times he walks upon his head:
A form of prayer for daily bread.

XXVIII

Now seem his days for sorrow made!
He hears that men on Sunday pray;
A world’s proud secret on parade
To him appears the Sabbath-day.
All have asked heaven to take their cares,
But hunger says for him his prayers.

XXIX

Some words have reached him such as jar
On sinners’ ears and seem devout;
They are but as a light from far,
They come from heaven and soon die out,
Too weak as yet to turn a spell
Wove in the alphabet of hell.

FLOWERS ON THE BANK

I

Flowers on the bank,—we pass and call them gay:
The primroses throw pictures to the mind,
The buttercups lag dazzlingly behind,
And daisy-friends we spy but do not say
A word of joy;—thoughts of them follow not,
And soon are they forgot.

II

What care we for wildflowers except their name?
Bright maidens at the sight in rapture start,
Which, as our smiles say, comes not from the heart:
Flowers dance not, sing not, all their ways are tame;
They love not, neither love in us inspire;
Nor blush when we admire.

III

Yet stay, the fingers of that panting child
Have culled for us the choice ones,—many a gem,—
Have set their lovely colours stem to stem
In her fond hands they are not tame or wild,
Nestled in fringy fern so changed appears
The little gift she bears!

IV

She gives herself, and she can dance and sing,
And she can love inspire and blush at praise;
The flowers are part of her, have caught her ways;
She gives herself who gives so sweet a thing.
And she is gone, with other thoughts than ours
Gathering fresh love and flowers.

THE BLIND BOY

I

In dark ascent the pine-clad hills
Repose on heaven their rocky crest.
Lit by the flash of falling rills
That in the valley-shadow rest,
Chafing in rainbow-spray that finds
Its sunshine in the gusty winds.

II

Clouds folded round the topmost peaks
Shut out the gorges from the sun:
’Tis mid-day ere the early streaks
Of sunshine down the valley run;
But where the opening cliffs expand,
The early sea-light breaks on land.

III

Before the sun, like golden shields,
The clouds a lustre shed around;
Wild shadows gambol o’er the fields;
Tame shadows stretch upon the ground.
Towards noon the great rock-shadow moves,
And takes slow leave of all it loves.

IV

The beam-shot clouds dissolve apace;
Stray shades that linger like a scroll,
Draw nearer to their craggy base,
And in clefts and caverns roll;
The light falls down the rocky piles;
The vale a lake of glory smiles.

V

There dwell two orphans: Heaven ordains
The sister’s eyes shall live in light:
Her brother in the shade remains
When morning bursts upon her sight.
Sister and brother, far and wide
As one they wander side by side.

VI

When to the shore through woods and fields
The brother has a wish to stray,
The sister takes the hand he yields;
She by fond habit leads the way.
Skipping along, oft face to face,
Her hand directs his timid pace.

VII

The plains that strike the grey-white line
Where earth’s dim curve in distance fades;
The streams that near the dwelling shine;
The quiet meads; the rustling glades;
The sand-dunes waiting on the shore,
The sister’s eyes for him explore.

VIII

’Tis all his own, but her loved hand,
Her gentle voice, her sayings dear,
Are choicer gifts than all the land
That he inherits far and near,
For all his light is in her mind,—
The path he loses she can find.

IX

At early morn, embraced by her,
He sits within the shadow’s dip
To list to his sweet minister,
And paint his visions from her lip.
He sees the waters, earth, and skies
Only through her enchanted eyes.

X

Her eyes are bright, his now are blind;
All he once saw has passed away,
But her fond visions fill his mind,
And there disclose the dawn of day.
Her morning breaks upon his night,
Enlivened by her spirit’s light.

XI

She tells him how the mountains swell,
How rocks and forests touch the skies;
He tells her how the shadows dwell
In purple dimness on his eyes,
Whose tremulous orbs the while he lifts,
As round his smile their spirit drifts.

XII

More close around his heart to wind,
She shuts her eyes in childish glee,
‘To share,’ she says, ‘his peace of mind;
To sit beneath his shadow-tree.’
So, half in play, the sister tries
To find his soul within her eyes.

XIII

His hand in hers, she walks along
And leads him by the river’s brink;
She stays to catch the water’s song,
Closing her eyes with him to think.
His ear, more watchful than her own,
Had caught the ocean’s distant moan.

XIV

‘The river’s flow is bright and clear,’
The blind boy said, ‘and were it dark
We should no less its music hear:
Sings not at eventide the lark?
Still when the ripples pause, they fade
Upon my spirit like a shade.’

XV

‘Yet, brother, when the river stops
And in the quiet bay is hushed,
E’en though its gentle murmur drops,
’Tis bright as when by us it rushed;
Not like a shade, when heard no more,
Except beneath the wooded shore.’

XVI

Now the resounding beach, wave-swept,
Greets them; now silence softly bears
The likeness of the wave that leapt
Unseen, and broke upon their ears.
‘Dear sister, tell me once again
The wonders of the sea’s domain!’

XVII

Down the moist sands she guides his way,
And gazes on the lonesome shores,
Where desultory waves at play,
Enthral her looks ere she explores
The far-off deep; ere those quick eyes
Rove o’er the waters, cliffs, and skies.

XVIII

‘The farthest seas bend as a bow
Into the light, o’er-arching sky;
There, curdled breakers row on row
With scarce a motion, distant lie;
Or if one vanish from the rest,
It shows again its snowy crest.

XIX

‘But nearer, midway toward the sands,
I see long lines of billows creep;
One stops and into froth expands,
Then fades away upon the deep;
Close to the shore the waves contend,
And shouting reach the journey’s end.’

XX

While her bright tones upon him broke
The curtain from his soul was drawn;
His spirit quickened as she spoke,—
Then flashed as at a sudden dawn,
With visions of a world once known,
That for the moment seemed his own.

XXI

‘O tell me of the changing sky,
Sunless once more!’ ‘’Neath lovely blue,’
The sister says, ‘the clouds float by,
Of orange, white, and inky hue.
The shifting waves that cannot rest
Are ’neath the gusty breezes pressed.

XXII

‘A cloud is loosened from the sun;
The sea’s sky-blue now skims the green,
Chasing the billows as they run
And drip their foam in troughs between.
Oh, could you see them as they roar,
Scooping away the glistening shore!’

XXIII

‘The waves,’ he said, ‘before me fall,
And memories of a long-lost light
From far-off mornings on me call,
And what I hear comes into sight.
The beauteous skies flash back again,
But, ah! the light will not remain!’

XXIV

Awhile he pauses; as he stops,
Her little hand the sister moves
And pebbles on the water drops,
As it runs up the sandy grooves,
Or to her ear a shell applies,
With parted lips and dreaming eyes.

XXV

‘That noise!’ said he, with lifted hand.
‘The sea-gull’s scream and flapping wings,
Before the wind it flies to land,
And omens of a tempest brings.’
She tells him how the sea-bird pale
Whirls wildly on the coming gale.

XXVI

‘And is the sea alone? Even now
I hear faint mutterings,—not the waves’;
It seems a murmur sweeping low
And hurrying through the distant caves.
I hear again that smothered tone,
As if the sea were not alone.’

XXVII

‘Heaven slopes o’er us on every side,
And shuts us from the distant land.
The waters only here abide,
And we who sit upon the sand.
A porpoise revels in the spray,
And purple vapours veil the bay.

XXVIII

‘Come, hasten,’ cries she, ‘to the woods
Where twisted boughs are thickly set,
For soon the rain must fall in floods:
Here is no shelter from the wet.
While like a sea the sky upheaves,
We’ll watch beneath the matted leaves.’

XXIX

‘Stay, sister! Listen to that sound;—
It thunders—does the flash appear?’
‘It lightens now, and, whirling round,
The gull dips low, as if in fear.’
The boy now turns his floating eyes,
Though not the way the sea-bird flies.

XXX

‘The wind is balmy on my cheek,
But now I feel the rain-drop plash.
Let us,’ he said, ‘the woodland seek,
And hear it on the foliage dash.
On the ground-ivy we shall tread,
And through the grove its perfume spread.’

XXXI

And so they prattle as they leave
The sandy beach, in pensive mood,
His ear turned to the billow’s heave,
Her vision leaning on the wood,
While, as the honeysuckle clings,
About his neck her arm she flings.

XXXII

Better than she the blind boy hears
The whispers of the patient shore,
While yet the wave its crest uprears
To break once more,—and evermore.
Better than she the blind boy feels
The simple pictures she reveals.

XXXIII

Clapping her hands, she spies above
Rich elms, the turrets grey and old,—
But love of home was only love
When to her darling brother told.
Thus ever to his soul replies
The infant passion of her eyes.

XXXIV

While they return, the dwelling near,
One word must yet the sister say.
She lifts her voice: ‘O brother dear,
If good my eyes have been to-day,
Kiss them for every new delight
That kindles in your spirit’s sight!’

XXXV

Deep in his eyes the love-lights strove;
He clasped her in a close embrace:—
With lips that shook with grateful love
He kissed her eyes—he kissed her face—
He wept upon that tender brow;
‘Dearest, the darkness leaves me now!