Still flowed the music, flowed the wine.The youth in silence went;Through naked streets, in cold moonshine,His homeward way he bent,Where, on the city's seaward line,His lattice seaward leant.
He knew not why he left the throng,But that he could not rest;That something pained him in the song,And mocked him in the jest;And a cold moon-glitter lay alongOne lovely lady's breast.
He sat him down with solemn bookHis sadness to beguile;A skull from off its bracket-nookThrew him a lipless smile;But its awful, laughter-mocking look,Was a passing moonbeam's wile.
An hour he sat, and read in vain,Nought but mirrors were his eyes;For to and fro through his helpless brain,Went the dance's mysteries;Till a gust of wind against the pane,Mixed with a sea-bird's cries,And the sudden spatter of drifting rainBade him mark the altered skies.
The moon was gone, intombed in cloud;The wind began to rave;The ocean heaved within its shroud,For the dark had built its grave;But like ghosts brake forth, and cried aloud,The white crests of the wave.
Big rain. The wind howled out, awareOf the tread of the watery west;The windows shivered, back waved his hair,The fireside seemed the best;But lo! a lady sat in his chair,With the moonlight across her breast.
The moonbeam passed. The lady sat on.Her beauty was sad and white.All but her hair with whiteness shone,And her hair was black as night;And her eyes, where darkness was never gone,Although they were full of light.
But her hair was wet, and wept like weedsOn her pearly shoulders bare;And the clear pale drops ran down like beads,Down her arms, to her fingers fair;And her limbs shine through, like thin-filmed seeds,Her dank white robe's despair.
She moved not, but looked in his wondering face,Till his blushes began to rise;But she gazed, like one on the veiling lace,To something within his eyes;A gaze that had not to do with place,But thought and spirit tries.
Then the voice came forth, all sweet and clear,Though jarred by inward pain;She spoke like one that speaks in fearOf the judgment she will gain,When the soul is full as a mountain-mere,And the speech, but a flowing vein.
"Thine eyes are like mine, and thou art bold;Nay, heap not the dying fire;It warms not me, I am too cold,Cold as the churchyard spire;If thou cover me up with fold on fold,Thou kill'st not the coldness dire."
Her voice and her beauty, like molten gold,Thrilled through him in burning rain.He was on fire, and she was cold,Cold as the waveless main;But his heart-well filled with woe, till it rolledA torrent that calmed him again.
"Save me, Oh, save me!" she cried; and flungHer splendour before his feet;—"I am weary of wandering storms among,And I hate the mouldy sheet;I can dare the dark, wind-vexed and wrung,Not the dark where the dead things meet.
"Ah! though a ghost, I'm a lady still—"The youth recoiled aghast.With a passion of sorrow her great eyes fill;Not a word her white lips passed.He caught her hand; 'twas a cold to kill,But he held it warm and fast.
"What can I do to save thee, dear?"At the word she sprang upright.To her ice-lips she drew his burning ear,And whispered—he shivered—she whispered light.She withdrew; she gazed with an asking fear;He stood with a face ghost-white.
"I wait—ah, would I might wait!" she said;"But the moon sinks in the tide;Thou seest it not; I see it fade,Like one that may not bide.Alas! I go out in the moonless shade;Ah, kind! let me stay and hide."
He shivered, he shook, he felt like clay;And the fear went through his blood;His face was an awful ashy grey,And his veins were channels of mud.The lady stood in a white dismay,Like a half-blown frozen bud.
"Ah, speak! am I so frightful then?I live; though they call it death;I am only cold—saydearagain"—But scarce could he heave a breath;The air felt dank, like a frozen fen,And he a half-conscious wraith.
"Ah, save me!" once more, with a hopeless cry,That entered his heart, and lay;But sunshine and warmth and rosiness vieWith coldness and moonlight and grey.He spoke not. She moved not; yet to his eye,She stood three paces away.
She spoke no more. Grief on her faceBeauty had almost slain.With a feverous vision's unseen paceShe had flitted away again;And stood, with a last dumb prayer for grace,By the window that clanged with rain.
He stood; he stared. She had vanished quite.The loud wind sank to a sigh;Grey faces without paled the face of night,As they swept the window by;And each, as it passed, pressed a cheek of frightTo the glass, with a staring eye.
And over, afar from over the deep,Came a long and cadenced wail;It rose, and it sank, and it rose on the steepOf the billows that build the gale.It ceased; but on in his bosom creepLow echoes that tell the tale.
He opened his lattice, and saw afar,Over the western sea,Across the spears of a sparkling star,A moony vapour flee;And he thought, with a pang that he could not bar,The lady it might be.
He turned and looked into the room;And lo! it was cheerless and bare;Empty and drear as a hopeless tomb,—And the lady was not there;Yet the fire and the lamp drove out the gloom,As he had driven the fair.
And up in the manhood of his breast,Sprang a storm of passion and shame;It tore the pride of his fancied bestIn a thousand shreds of blame;It threw to the ground his ancient crest,And puffed at his ancient name.
He had turned a lady, and lightly clad,Out in the stormy cold.Was she a ghost?—Divinely sadAre the guests of Hades old.A wandering ghost? Oh! terror bad,That refused an earthly fold!
And sorrow for her his shame's regretInto humility wept;He knelt and he kissed the footprints wet,And the track by her thin robe swept;He sat in her chair, all ice-cold yet,And moaned until he slept.
He woke at dawn. The flaming sunLaughed at the bye-gone dark."I am glad," he said, "that the night is done,And the dream slain by the lark."And the eye was all, until the gunThat boomed at the sun-set—hark!
And then, with a sudden invading blast,He knew that it was no dream.And all the night belief held fast,Till thinned by the morning beam.Thus radiant mornings and pale nights passedOn the backward-flowing stream.
He loved a lady with heaving breath,Red lips, and a smile alway;And her sighs an odour inhabiteth,All of the rose-hued may;But the warm bright lady was false as death,And the ghost is true as day.
And the spirit-face, with its woe divine,Came back in the hour of sighs;As to men who have lost their aim, and pine,Old faces of childhood rise:He wept for her pleading voice, and the shineOf her solitary eyes.
And now he believed in the ghost all night,And believed in the day as well;And he vowed, with a sorrowing tearful might,All she asked, whate'er befel,If she came to his room, in her garment white,Once more at the midnight knell.
She came not. He sought her in churchyards oldThat lay along the sea;And in many a church, when the midnight tolled,And the moon shone wondrously;And down to the crypts he crept, grown bold;But he waited in vain: ah me!
And he pined and sighed for love so sore,That he looked as he were lost;And he prayed her pardon more and more,As one who had sinned the most;Till, fading at length, away he wore,And he was himself a ghost.
But if he found the lady then,The lady sadly lost,Or she had found 'mongst living menA love that was a host,I know not, till I drop my pen,And am myself a ghost.
"It is only justTo laud good wine:If I sit in the dust,So sits the vine."
Abu Midjan sang, as he sat in chains,For the blood of the grape was the juice of his veins.The prophet had said, "O Faithful, drink not"—Abu Midjan drank till his heart was hot;Yea, he sang a song in praise of wine,And called it good names, a joy divine.And Saad assailed him with words of blame,And left him in irons, a fettered flame;But he sang of the wine as he sat in chains,For the blood of the grape ran fast in his veins.
"I will not thinkThat the Prophet said,Ye shall not drinkOf the flowing red.
"But some weakling head,In its after pain,Moaning said,Drink not again.
"But I will dare,With a goodly drought,To drink and not spare,Till my thirst be out.
"For as I quaffThe liquor cool,I do not laugh,Like a Christian fool;
"But my bosom fills,And my faith is high;Through the emerald hillsGoes my lightning eye.
"I seethemhearken,I see them wait;Their light eyes darkenThe diamond gate.
"I hear the floatOf their chant divine;Each heavenly noteMingles with mine.
"Can an evil thingMake beauty more?Or a sinner bringTo the heavenly door?
"'Tis the sun-rays fineThat sink in the earth,And are drunk by the vine,For its daughters' birth.
"And the liquid light,I drink again;And it flows in mightThrough the shining brain,
"Making it knowThe things that areIn the earth below,Or the farthest star.
"I will not thinkThat the Prophet said,Ye shall not drinkOf the flowing Red.
"For his promise, lo!Shows more divine,When the channels o'erflowWith the singing wine.
"But if he did, 'tis a small annoyTo sit in chains for a heavenly joy."
Away went the song on the light wind borne.His head sank down, and a ripple of scorn,At the irons that fettered his brown limbs' strength.Waved on his lip the dark hair's length.But sudden he lifted his head to the north—Like a mountain-beacon his eye blazed forth:'Twas a cloud in the distance that caught his eye,Whence a faint clang shot on the light breeze by;A noise and a smoke on the plain afar—'Tis the cloud and the clang of the Moslem war.And the light that flashed from his black eyes, lo!Was a light that paled the red wine's glow;And he shook his fetters in bootless ire,And called on the Prophet, and named his sire.But the lady of Saad heard the clang,And she knew the far sabres his fetters rang.Oh! she had the heart where a man might rest,For she knew the tempest in his breast.She rose. Ere she reached him, he called her name,But he called not twice ere the lady came;And he sprang to his feet, and the irons cursed,And wild from his lips the Tecbir burst:"Let me go," he said, "and, by Allah's fear,At sundown I sit in my fetters here,Or lie 'neath a heaven of starry eyes,Kissed by moon-maidens of Paradise."
The lady unlocked his fetters stout,Brought her husband's horse and his armour out,Clothed the warrior, and bid him goAn angel of vengeance upon the foe;Then turned her in, and from the roof,Beheld the battle, far aloof.
Straight as an arrow she saw him go,Abu Midjan, the singer, upon the foe.Like home-sped lightning he pierced the cloud,And the thunder of battle burst more loud;And like lightning along a thunderous steep,She saw the sickle-shaped sabres sweep,Keen as the sunlight they dashed awayWhen it broke against them in flashing spray;Till the battle ebbed o'er the plain afar,Borne on the flow of the holy war.As sank from the edge the sun's last flame,Back to his bonds Abu Midjan came.
"O lady!" he said, "'tis a mighty horse;The Prophet himself might have rode a worse.I felt beneath me his muscles' play,As he tore to the battle, like fiend, away.I forgot him, and swept at the traitor weeds,And they fell before me like broken reeds;Dropt their heads, as a boy doth mowThe poppies' heads with his unstrung bow.They fled. The faithful follow at will.I turned. And lo! he was under me still.Give him water, lady, and barley to eat;Then come and help me to fetter my feet."
He went to the terrace, she went to the stall,And tended the horse like a guest in the hall;Then to the singer in haste returned.The fire of the fight in his eyes yet burned;But he said no more, as if in shameOf the words that had burst from his lips in flame.She left him there, as at first she found,Seated in fetters upon the ground.
But the sealed fountain, in pulses strong,O'erflowed his silence, and burst in song.
"Oh! the wineOf the vineIs a feeble thing;In the rattleOf battleThe true grapes spring.
"When on forceOf the horse,The arm flung abroadIs sweeping,And reapingThe harvest of God.
"When the fearOf the spearMakes way for its blow;And the faithlessLie breathlessThe horse-hoofs below.
"The wave-crest,Round the breast,Tosses sabres all red;But under,Its thunderIs dumb to the dead.
"They dropFrom the topTo the sear heap below;And deeper,Down steeper,The infidels go.
"But brightIs the lightOn the true-hearted breaking;Rapturous faces,Bent for embraces,Wait on his waking.
"And he hearsIn his earsThe voice of the river,Like a maiden,Love-laden,Go wandering ever.
"Oh! the wineOf the vineMay lead to the gates;But the rattleOf battleWakes the angel who waits.
"To the lordOf the swordOpen it must;The drinker,The thinker,Sits in the dust.
"He dreamsOf the gleamsOf their garments of white:He missesTheir kisses,The maidens of light.
"They longFor the strong,Who has burst through alarms,Up, by the labourOf stirrup and sabre,Up to their arms.
"Oh! the wine of the grape is a feeble ghost;But the wine of the fight is the joy of a host."
When Saad came home from the far pursuit,He sat him down, and an hour was mute.But at length he said: "Ah! wife, the fightHad been lost full sure, but an arm of mightSudden rose up on the crest of the war,With its sabre that circled in rainbows afar,Took up the battle, and drove it on—Enoch sure, or the good St. John.Wherever he leaped, like a lion he,The fight was thickest, or soon to be;Wherever he sprang, with his lion cry,The thick of the battle soon went by.With a headlong fear, the sinners fled;We followed—and passed them—for they were dead.But him who had saved us, we saw no more;He had gone, as he came, by a secret door;And strange to tell, in his holy force,He wore my armour, he rode my horse."
The lady arose, with her noble pride,And she walked with Saad, side by side;As she led him, a moon that would not wane,Where Midjan counted the links of his chain!
"I gave him thy horse, and thy armour to wear;If I did a wrong, I am here to bear."
"Abu Midjan, the singer of love and of wine!The arm of the battle—it also was thine?Rise up, shake the fetters from off thy feet;For the lord of the battle, are fetters meet?Drink as thou wilt—till thou be hoar—Let Allah judge thee—I judge no more."
Abu Midjan arose and flung asideThe clanging fetters, and thus he cried:"If thou give me to God and his decrees,Nor purge my sin by the shame of these;I dare not do as I did before—In the name of Allah, I drink no more."
They were parted at last, althoughEach was tenderly dear;As asunder their eyes did go,When first alone and near.
'Tis an old story this—A trembling and a sigh,A gaze in the eyes, a kiss—Why will itnotgo by?
1.
I lay and dreamed. The master cameIn his old woven dress;I stood in joy, and yet in shame,Oppressed with earthliness.
He stretched his arms, and gently soughtTo clasp me to his soul;I shrunk away, because I thoughtHe did not know the whole.
I did not love him as I would,Embraces were not meet;I sank before him where he stood,And held and kissed his feet.
Ten years have passed away since then,Oft hast thou come to me;The question scarce will rise again,Whether I care for thee.
To every doubt, in thee my heartAn answer hopes to find;In every gladness, Lord, thou art,The deeper joy behind.
And yet in other realms of life,Unknown temptations rise,Unknown perplexities and strife,New questions and replies.
And every lesson learnt, anew,The vain assurance lendsThat now I know, and now can do,And now should see thy ends.
So I forget I am a child,And act as if a man;Who through the dark and tempest wildWill go, because he can.
And so, O Lord, not yet I dareTo clasp thee to my breast;Though well I know that only thereIs hid the secret rest.
And yet I shrink not, as at first:Be thou the judge of guilt;Thou knowest all my best and worst,Do with me as thou wilt.
Spread thou once more thine arms abroad,Lay bare thy bosom's beat;Thou shalt embrace me, O my God,And I will kiss thy feet.
2.
I stood before my childhood's home,Outside the belt of trees;All round, my dreaming glances roamOn well-known hills and leas.
When sudden, from the westward, rushedA wide array of waves;Over the subject fields they gushedFrom far-off, unknown caves.
And up the hill they clomb and came,On flowing like a sea:I saw, and watched them like a game;No terror woke in me.
For just the belting trees within,I saw my father wait;And should the waves the summit win,I would go through the gate.
For by his side all doubt was dumb,And terror ceased to foam;No great sea-billows dared to come,And tread the holy home.
Two days passed by. With restless toss,The red flood brake its doors;Prostrate I lay, and looked acrossTo the eternal shores.
The world was fair, and hope was nigh,Some men and women true;And I was strong, and Death and IWould have a hard ado.
And so I shrank. But sweet and goodThe dream came to my aid;Within the trees my father stood,I must not be dismayed.
My grief was his, not mine alone;The waves that burst in fears,He heard not only with his own,But heard them with my ears.
My life and death belong to thee,For I am thine, O God;Thy hands have made and fashioned me,'Tis thine to bear the load.
And thou shalt bear it. I will tryTo be a peaceful child,Whom in thy arms right tenderlyThou carriest through the wild.
3.
The rich man mourns his little loss,And knits the brow of care;The poor man tries to bear the cross,And seeks relief in prayer.
Some gold had vanished from my purse,Which I had watched but ill;I feared a lack, but feared yet worseRegret returning still.
And so I knelt and prayed my prayerTo Him who maketh strong,That no returning thoughts of careShould do my spirit wrong.
I rose in peace, in comfort went,And laid me down to rest;But straight my soul grew confidentWith gladness of the blest.
For ere the sleep that care redeems,My soul such visions had,That never child in childhood's dreamsWas more exulting glad.
No white-robed angels floated byOn slow, reposing wings;I only saw, with inward eye,Some very common things.
First rose the scarlet pimpernel,With burning purple heart;I saw it, and I knew right wellThe lesson of its art.
Then came the primrose, childlike flower;It looked me in the face;It bore a message full of power,And confidence, and grace.
And winds arose on uplands wild,And bathed me like a stream;And sheep-bells babbled round the childWho loved them in a dream.
Henceforth my mind was never crossedBy thought of vanished gold,But with it came the guardian hostOf flowers both meek and bold.
The loss is riches while I live,A joy I would not lose:Choose ever, God, what Thou wilt give,Not leaving me to choose.
"What said the flowers in whisper low,To soothe me into rest?"I scarce have words—they seemed to growRight out of God's own breast.
They said, God meant the flowers He made,As children see the same;They said the words the lilies saidWhen Jesus looked at them.
And if you want to hear the flowersSpeak ancient words, all new,They may, if you, in darksome hours,Ask God to comfort you.
4.
Our souls, in daylight hours, awake,With visions sometimes teem,Which to the slumbering brain would takeThe form of wondrous dream.
Thus, once, I saw a level space,With circling mountains nigh;And round it grouped all forms of grace,A goodly company.
And at one end, with gentle rise,Stood something like a throne;And thither all the radiant eyes,As to a centre, shone.
And on the seat the noblest formOf glory, dim-descried;His glance would quell all passion-storm,All doubt, and fear, and pride.
But lo! his eyes far-fixed burnAdown the widening vale;The looks of all obedient turn,And soon those looks are pale.
For, through the shining multitude,With feeble step and slow,A weary man, in garments rude,All falteringly did go.
His face was white, and still-composed,Like one that had been dead;The eyes, from eyelids half unclosed,A faint, wan splendour shed.
And to his brow a strange wreath clung,And drops of crimson hue;And his rough hands, oh, sadly wrung!Were pierced through and through.
And not a look he turned aside;His eyes were forward bent;And slow the eyelids opened wide,As towards the throne he went.
At length he reached the mighty throne,And sank upon his knees;And clasped his hands with stifled groan,And spake in words like these:—
"Father, I am come back—Thy willIs sometimes hard to do."From all the multitude so still,A sound of weeping grew.
And mournful-glad came down the One,And kneeled, and clasped His child;Sank on His breast the outworn man,And wept until he smiled.
And when their tears had stilled their sighs,And joy their tears had dried,The people saw, with lifted eyes,Them seated side by side.
5.
I lay and dreamed. Three crosses stoodAmid the gloomy air.Two bore two men—one was the Good;The third rose waiting, bare.
A Roman soldier, coming by,Mistook me for the third;I lifted up my asking eyeFor Jesus' sign or word.
I thought He signed that I should yield,And give the error way.I held my peace; no word revealed,No gesture utterednay.
Against the cross a scaffold stood,Whence easy hands could nailThe doomed upon that altar-wood,Whose fire burns slow and pale.
Upon this ledge he lifted me.I stood all thoughtful there,Waiting until the deadly treeMy form for fruit should bear.
Rose up the waves of fear and doubt,Rose up from heart to brain;They shut the world of vision out,And thus they cried amain:
"Ah me! my hands—the hammer's knock—The nails—the tearing strength!"My soul replied: "'Tis but a shock,That grows to pain at length."
"Ah me! the awful fight with death;The hours to hang and die;The thirsting gasp for common breath,That passes heedless by!"
My soul replied: "A faintness soonWill shroud thee in its fold;The hours will go,—the fearful noonRise, pass—and thou art cold.
"And for thy suffering, what to theeIs that? or care of thine?Thou living branch upon the treeWhose root is the Divine!
"'Tis His to care that thou endure;That pain shall grow or fade;With bleeding hands hang on thy cure,He knows what He hath made."
And still, for all the inward wail,My foot was firmly pressed;For still the fear lest I should failWas stronger than the rest.
And thus I stood, until the strifeThe bonds of slumber brake;I felt as I had ruined life,Had fled, and come awake.
Yet I was glad, my heart confessed,The trial went not on;Glad likewise I had stood the test,As far as it had gone.
And yet I fear some recreant thought,Which now I all forget,That painful feeling in me wroughtOf failure, lingering yet.
And if the dream had had its scope,I might have fled the field;But yet I thank Thee for the hope,And think I dared not yield.
6.
Methinks I hear, as I lie slowly dying,Indulgent friends say, weeping, "He was good."I fail to speak, a faint denial trying,—They answer, "His humility withstood."
I, knowing better, part with love unspoken;And find the unknown world not all unknown.The bonds that held me from my centre broken,I seek my home, the Saviour's homely throne.
How He will greet me, I walk on and wonder;And think I know what I will say to Him.I fear no sapphire floor of cloudy thunder,I fear no passing vision great and dim.
But He knows all my unknown weary story:How will He judge me, pure, and good, and fair?I come to Him in all His conquered glory,Won from such life as I went dreaming there!
I come; I fall before Him, faintly saying:"Ah, Lord, shall I thy loving favour win?Earth's beauties tempted me; my walk was straying—I have no honour—but may I come in?"
"I know thee well. Strong prayer did keep me stable;To me the earth is very lovely too.Thou shouldst have come to me to make thee ableTo love it greatly—but thou hast got through."
1.
Lord of the world's undying youth,What joys are in thy might!What beauties of the inner truth,And of the outer sight!And when the heart is dim and sad,Too weak for wisdom's beam,Thou sometimes makest it right gladWith but a childish dream.
* * * * *
Lo! I will dream this windy day;No sunny spot is bare;Dull vapours, in uncomely play,Are weltering through the air.If I throw wide my windowed breastTo all the blasts that blow,My soul will rival in unrestThose tree-tops—how they go!
But I will dream like any child;For, lo! a mighty swan,With radiant plumage undented,And folded airy van,With serpent neck all proudly bent,And stroke of swarthy oar,Dreams on to me, by sea-maids sentOver the billows hoar.
For in a wave-worn rock I lie;Outside, the waters foam;And echoes of old storms go byWithin my sea-built dome.The waters, half the gloomy way,Beneath its arches come;Throbbing to unseen billows' play,The green gulfs waver dumb.
A dawning twilight through the caveIn moony gleams doth go,Half from the swan above the wave,Half from the swan below.Close to my feet she gently drifts,Among the glistening things;She stoops her crowny head, and liftsWhite shoulders of her wings.
Oh! earth is rich with many a nest,Deep, soft, and ever new,Pure, delicate, and full of rest;But dearest there are two.I would not tell them but to mindsThat are as white as they;If others hear, of other kinds,I wish them far away.
Upon the neck, between the wings,Of a white, sailing swan,A flaky bed of shelterings—There you will find the one.The other—well, it will not out,Nor need I tell it you;I've told you one, and need you doubt,When there are only two?
Fulfil old dreams, O splendid bird,Me o'er the waters bear;Sure never ocean's face was stirredBy any ship so fair!Sure never whiteness found a dress,Upon the earth to go,So true, profound, and rich, unlessIt was the falling snow.
With quick short flutter of each wingHalf-spread, and stooping crown,She calls me; and with one glad springI nestle in the down.Plunges the bark, then bounds aloft,With lessening dip and rise.Round curves her neck with motion soft—Sure those are woman's eyes.
One stroke unseen, with oary feet,One stroke—away she sweeps;Over the waters pale we fleet,Suspended in the deeps.And round the sheltering rock, and lo!The tumbling, weltering sea!On to the west, away we go,Over the waters free!
Her motions moulded to the wave,Her billowy neck thrown back,With slow strong pulse, stately and grave,She cleaves a rippling track.And up the mounting wave we glide,With climbing sweeping blow;And down the steep, far-sloping side,To flowing vales below.
I hear the murmur of the deepIn countless ripples pass,Like talking children in their sleep,Like winds in reedy grass.And through some ruffled feathers, IThe glassy rolling mark,With which the waves eternallyRoll on from dawn to dark.
The night is blue, the stars aglow;In solemn peace o'erheadThe archless depth of heaven; below,The murmuring, heaving bed.A thickened night, it heaveth on,A fallen earthly sky;The shadows of its stars aloneAre left to know it by.
What faints across the lifted loopOf cloud-veil upward cast?With sea-veiled limbs, a sleeping groupOf Nereids dreaming past.Swim on, my boat; who knows but I,Ere night sinks to her grave,May see in splendour pale float byThe Venus of the wave?
2.
In the night, round a lady dreaming—A queen among the dreams—Came the silent sunset streaming,Mixed with the voice of streams.A silver fountain springingBlossoms in molten gold;And the airs of the birds float ringingThrough harmonies manifold.
She lies in a watered valley;Her garden melts awayThrough foot-path and curving alleyInto the wild wood grey.And the green of the vale goes creepingTo the feet of the rugged hills,Where the moveless rocks are keepingThe homes of the wandering rills.
And the hues of the flowers grow deeper,Till they dye her very brain;And their scents, like the soul of a sleeper,Wander and waver and rain.For dreams have a wealth of gloryThat daylight cannot give:Ah God! make the hope a story—Bid the dreams arise and live.
She lay and gazed at the flowers,Till her soul's own garden smiledWith blossom-o'ershaded bowers,Great colours and splendours wild.And her heart filled up with gladness,Till it could only ache;And it turned aside to sadness,As if for pity's sake.
And a fog came o'er the meadows,And the rich hues fainting lay;Came from the woods the shadows,Came from the rocks the grey.And the sunset thither had vanished,Where the sunsets always go;And the sounds of the stream were banished,As if slain by frost and snow.
And the flowers paled fast and faster,And they crumbled fold on fold,Till they looked like the stained plasterOf a cornice in ruin old.And they blackened and shrunk together,As if scorched by the breath of flame,With a sad perplexity whetherThey were or were not the same.
And she saw herself still lying,And smiling on, the while;And the smile, instead of dying,Was fixed in an idiot smile.And the lady arose in sorrowOut of her sleep's dark stream;But her dream made dark the morrow,And she told me the haunting dream.
Alas! dear lady, I know it,The dream that all is a dream;The joy with the doubt below itThat the bright things only seem.One moment of sad commotion,And one of doubt's withering rule—And the great wave-pulsing oceanIs only a gathered pool.
And the flowers are spots of painting,Of lifeless staring hue;Though your heart is sick to fainting,They say not a word to you.And the birds know nought of gladness,They are only song-machines;And a man is a skilful madness,And the women pictured queens.
And fiercely we dig the fountain,To know the water true;And we climb the crest of the mountain,To part it from the blue.But we look too far before usFor that which is more than nigh;Though the sky is lofty o'er us,We are always in the sky.
And the fog, o'er the roses that creepeth,Steams from the unknown sea,In the dark of the soul that sleepeth,And sigheth constantly,Because o'er the face of its watersThe breathing hath not gone;And instead of glad sons and daughters,Wild things are moaning on.
When the heart knows well the Father,The eyes will be always day;But now they grow dim the ratherThat the light is more than they.Believe, amidst thy sorrows,That the blight that swathes the earthIs only a shade that borrowsLife from thy spirit's dearth.
God's heart is the fount of beauty;Thy heart is its visible well;If it vanish, do thou thy duty,That necromantic spell;And thy heart to the Father cryingWill fill with waters deep;Thine eyes may say,Beauty is dying;But thy spirit,She goes to sleep.
And I fear not, thy fair soul everWill smile as thy image smiled;It had fled with a sudden shiver,And thy body lay beguiled.Let the flowers and thy beauty perish;Let them go to the ancient dust.But the hopes that the children cherish,They are the Father's trust.
3.
A great church in an empty square,A place of echoing tones;Feet pass not oft enough to wearThe grass between the stones.
The jarring sounds that haunt its gates,Like distant thunders boom;The boding heart half-listening waits,As for a coming doom.
The door stands wide, the church is bare,Oh, horror, ghastly, sore!A gulf of death, with hideous stare,Yawns in the earthen floor;
As if the ground had sunk awayInto a void below:Its shapeless sides of dark-hued clayHang ready aye to go.
I am myself a horrid grave,My very heart turns grey;This charnel-hole,—will no one saveAnd force my feet away?
The changing dead are there, I know,In terror ever new;Yet down the frightful slope I go,That downward goeth too.
Beneath the caverned floor I hie,And seem, with anguish dull,To enter by the empty eyeInto a monstrous skull.
Stumbling on what I dare not guess,And wading through the gloom,Less deep the shades my eyes oppress,I see the awful tomb.
My steps have led me to a door,With iron clenched and barred;Grim Death hides there a ghastlier store,Great spider in his ward.
The portals shake, the bars are bowed,As if an earthy windThat never bore a leaf or cloudWere pressing hard behind.
They shake, they groan, they outward strain.What sight, of dire dismayWill freeze its form upon my brain,And turn it into clay?
They shake, they groan, they bend, they crack;The bars, the doors divide:A flood of glory at their backHath burst the portals wide.
Flows in the light of vanished days,The joy of long-set moons;The flood of radiance billowy plays,In sweet-conflicting tunes.
The gulf is filled with flashing tides,An awful gulf no more;A maze of ferns clothes all its sides,Of mosses all its floor.
And, floating through the streams, appearSuch forms of beauty rare,As every aim at beauty hereHad found itswould bethere.
I said: 'Tis well no hand came nigh,To turn my steps astray;'Tis good we cannot choose but die,That life may have its way.
4.
Before I sleep, some dreams draw nigh,Which are not fancy mere;For sudden lights an inward eye,And wondrous things appear.
Thus, unawares, with vision wide,A steep hill once I saw,In faint dream lights, which ever hideTheir fountain and their law.
And up and down the hill reclinedA host of statues old;Such wondrous forms as you might findDeep under ancient mould.
They lay, wild scattered, all along,And maimed as if in fight;But every one of all the throngWas precious to the sight.
Betwixt the night and hill they ranged,In dead composure cast.As suddenly the dream was changed,And all the wonder past.
The hill remained; but what it boreWas broken reedy stalks,Bent hither, thither, drooping o'er,Like flowers o'er weedy walks.
For each dim form of marble rare,Bent a wind-broken reed;So hangs on autumn-field, long-bare,Some tall and straggling weed.
The autumn night hung like a pall,Hung mournfully and dead;And if a wind had waked at all,It had but moaned and fled.
5.
I lay and dreamed. Of thought and sleepWas born a heavenly joy:I dreamed of two who always keepMe happy as a boy.
I was with them. My heart-bells rungWith joy my heart above;Their present heaven my earth o'erhung,And earth was glad with love.
The dream grew troubled. Crowds went on,And sought their varied ends;Till stream on stream, the crowds had gone,And swept away my friends.
I was alone. A miry roadI followed, all in vain;No well-known hill the landscape showed,It was a wretched plain;
Where mounds of rubbish, ugly pits,And brick-fields scarred the globe;Those wastes where desolation sitsWithout her ancient robe.
A drizzling rain proclaimed the skiesAs wretched as the earth;I wandered on, and weary sighsWere all my lot was worth.
When sudden, as I turned my way,Burst in the ocean-waves:And lo! a blue wild-dancing bayFantastic rocks and caves!
I wept with joy. Ah! sometimes so,In common daylight grief,A beauty to the heart will go,And bring the heart relief.
And, wandering, reft of hope or friend,If such a thing should be,One day we take the downward bend,And lo, Eternity!
I wept with joy, delicious tears,Which dreams alone bestow;Until, mayhap, from out the yearsWe sleep, and further go.
6.
Now I will mould a dream, awake,Which I, asleep, would dream;From all the forms of fancy takeOne that shall also seem;Seem in my verse (if not my brain),Which sometimes may rejoiceIn airy forms of Fancy's train,Though nobler are my choice.
Some truth o'er all the land may lieIn children's dreams at night;Theydo not build the charmed skyThat domes them with delight.And o'er the years that follow soon,So all unlike the dreams,Wander their odours, gleams their moon,And flow their winds and streams.
Now I would dream that I awakeIn scent of cool night air,Above me star-clouds close and break;Beneath—where am I, where?A strange delight pervades my breast,Of ancient pictures dim,Where fair forms on the waters rest,Or in the breezes swim.
I rest on arms as soft as strong,Great arms of woman-mould;My head is pillowed whence a song,In many a rippling fold,O'erfloods me from its bubbling spring:A Titan goddess bearsMe, floating on her unseen wing,Through gracious midnight airs.
And I am borne o'er sleeping seas,O'er murmuring ears of corn,Over the billowy tops of trees,O'er roses pale till morn.Over the lake—ah! nearer float,Down on the water's breast;Let me look deep, and gazing doatOn that white lily's nest.
The harebell's bed, as o'er we pass,Swings all its bells about;From waving blades of polished grass,Flash moony splendours out.Old homes we brush in wooded glades;No eyes at windows shine;For all true men and noble maidsAre out in dreams like mine.
And foam-bell-kisses drift and breakFrom wind-waves of the SouthAgainst my brow and eyes awake,And yet I see no mouth.Light laughter ripples down the air,Light sighs float up below;And o'er me ever, radiant pair,The Queen's great star-eyes go.
And motion like a dreaming waveWafts me in gladness dimThrough air just cool enough to laveWith sense each conscious limb.But ah! the dream eludes the rhyme,As dreams break free from sleep;The dream will keep its own free time,In mazy float or sweep.
And thought too keen for joy awakes,As on the horizon far,A dead pale light the circle breaks,But not a dawning star.No, there I cannot, dare not go;Pale women wander there;With cold fire murderous eyeballs glow;And children see despair.
The joy has lost its dreamy zest;I feel a pang of loss;My wandering hand o'er mounds of restFinds only mounds of moss.Beneath the bare night-stars I lie;Cold winds are moaning past:Alas! the earth with grief will die,The great earth is aghast.
I look above—there dawns no face;Around—no footsteps come;No voice inhabits this great space;God knows, but keepeth dumb.I wake, and know that God is by,And more than dreams will give;And that the hearts that moan and die,Shall yet awake and live.
To God and man be simply true:Do as thou hast been wont to do:Or,Of the old more in the new:Mean all the same when said to you.
I love thee. Thou art calm and strong;Firm in the right, mild to the wrong;Thy heart, in every raging throng,A chamber shut for prayer and song.
Defeat thou know'st not, canst not know;Only thy aims so lofty go,They need as long to root and growAs any mountain swathed in snow.
Go on and prosper, holy friend.I, weak and ignorant, would lendA voice, thee, strong and wise, to sendProspering onward, without end.
To A.M.D.
Methinks I see thee, lying calm and low,Silent and dark within thy earthy bed;Thy mighty hands, in which I trusted, dead,Resting, with thy long arms, from work or blow;And the night-robe, around thy tall form, flowDown from the kingly face, and from the head,Save by its thick dark curls, uncovered—My brother, dear from childhood, lying so!Not often since thou went'st, I think of thee,(With inward cares and questionings oppressed);And yet, ere long, I seek thee in thy rest,And bring thee home my heart, as full, as free,As sure that thou wilt take me tenderly,As then when youth and nature made us blest.
Upon a rock, high on a mountain side,Thousands of feet above the lake-sea's lip,A rock in which old waters' rise and dip,Plunge and recoil, and backward eddying tideHad, age-long, worn, while races lived and died,Involved channels, where the sea-weed's dripFollowed the ebb; and now earth-grasses sipFresh dews from heaven, whereby on earth they bide—I sat and gazed southwards. A dry flowOf withering wind blew on my drooping strengthFrom o'er the awful desert's burning length.Behind me piled, away and upward goGreat sweeps of savage mountains—up, away,Where panthers roam, and snow gleams all the day.
Ah, God! the world needs many hours to make;Nor hast thou ceased the making of it yet,But wilt be working on when Death hath setA new mound in some churchyard for my sake.On flow the centuries without a break.Uprise the mountains, ages without let.The mosses suck the rock's breast, rarely wet.Years more than past, the young earth yet will take.But in the dumbness of the rolling time,No veil of silence will encompass me—Thou wilt not once forget, and let me be:I easier think that thou, as I my rhyme,Wouldst rise, and with a tenderness sublimeUnfold a world, that I, thy child, might see.
My gift would find thee fast asleep,And arise a dream in thee;A violet sky o'er the roll and sweepOf a purple and pallid sea;And a crescent moon from my sky should creepIn the golden dream to thee.
Thou shouldst lay thee down, and sadly listTo the wail of our cold birth-time;And build thee a temple, glory-kissed,In the heart of the sunny clime;Its columns should rise in a music-mist,And its roofs in a spirit-rhyme.
Its pillars the solemn hills should bind'Neath arches of starry deeps;Its floor the earth all veined and lined;Its organ the ocean-sweeps;And, swung in the hands of the grey-robed wind,Its censers the blossom-heaps.
And 'tis almost done; for in this my rhyme,Thanks to thy mirror-soul,Thou wilt see the mountains, and hear the chimeOf the waters after the roll;And the stars of my sky thy sky will climb,And with heaven roof in the whole.
"Thou wanderest in the land of dreams,O man of many songs;To thee the actual only seems—No realm to thee belongs."
"Seest thou those mountains in the east,O man of ready aim?""'T is only vapours that thou seest,In mountain form and name."
"Nay, nay, I know them all too well,Each ridge, and peak, and dome;In that cloud-land, in one high dell,Nesteth my little home."
Better to smell a violet,Than sip the careless wine;Better to list one music tone,Than watch the jewels' shine.
Better to have the love of one,Than smiles like morning dew;Better to have a living seedThan flowers of every hue.
Better to feel a love within,Than be lovely to the sight;Better a homely tendernessThan beauty's wild delight.
Better to love than be beloved.Though lonely all the day;Better the fountain in the heart,Than the fountain by the way.
Better a feeble love to God,Than for woman's love to pine;Better to have the making GodThan the woman made divine.
Better be fed by mother's hand,Than eat alone at will;Better to trust in God, than say:My goods my storehouse fill.
Better to be a little wiseThan learned overmuch;Better than high are lowly thoughts,For truthful thoughts are such.
Better than thrill a listening crowd,Sit at a wise man's feet;But better teach a child, than toilTo make thyself complete.
Better to walk the realm unseen,Than watch the hour's event;Better the smile of God alway,Than the voice of men's consent.
Better to have a quiet griefThan a tumultuous joy;Better than manhood, age's face,If the heart be of a boy.
Better the thanks of one dear heart,Than a nation's voice of praise;Better the twilight ere the dawn,Than yesterday's mid-blaze.
Better a death when work is done,Than earth's most favoured birth;Better a child in God's great houseThan the king of all the earth.