She gave me courage when I weakly said,“O see how drifting, derelict, am I!The tide runs counter, and the wind is high;I see no channel through the rocks ahead.My arm is impotent; what worth to trimThe bending sails! Look, I shall quaff a cupTo Fate, while the wild ocean swallows upThe shipwrecked youth, the man who lives in him.”She said: “But thou hast valour, dear, too muchFor such as this; thou hast grave embassy,Given with thy birth; would’st thou thine honour smutchWith coward failing? Dear son, breast the sea.”Firm-purposed from that hour, through wind and wave,I brought my message till thou shelter gave.
When first I saw thee, lady, straightway cameThe thought that somehow, somewhere, destiny,Through blinding paths of happiness or blame,Would bend my way of life, my soul to thee.But then I put it from me: was not IA wanderer? To-morrow I should beIn other lands-beside another sea;Nay, you were but a star-gleam in my sky.And so I came not in your sight awhile,You gave no thought, and I passed not away;But like some traveller in a deep defileI walked in darkness even through the day:Until at last the hands of CircumstancePointed the hour that waked me from my trance.
I did not will this thing. I set my faceTowards duty and my art; I was alone.How knew I thou shouldst roll away the stoneFrom hopes long buried, by thy tender grace?What does it matter that we make resolve?The Fates laugh at us as they sit and spin;We cannot tell what Good is, or what Sin,Or why old faiths in mist of pain dissolve.We only can stand watchful in the way,Waiting with patient hands on shield and sword,Ready to meet disaster in the fray,Till Time has struck the letters of one word—Word of such high-born worth: triumphant Love,Give me thy canopy where’er I rove.
As one who waiteth for the signet ringOf his dear sovereign, that his embassyMay have clear passport over land and sea,And make the subject sacred as his king;As waits the warrior for a pontiff’s palm,Upraised in blessing o’er his high emprise;And bows his mailed forehead prayerful-wise,Sinking his turbulency in deep calm:So waited I for one seal to be setUpon my full commission, for a signThat should make impotent man’s “I forget,”And make God’s “I remember” more divine:Which should command at need the homage ofThe armed squadrons of all loyal love.
But yestermorn my marshalled hopes were heldUpon the verge of august pilgrimage;To-day I am as birds that leave the cageTo seek green fastnesses they knew of eld;To-day I am as one who hides his faceWithin his golden beaver, and whose handClenches with pride his tried and conquering brand,Ay, as a hunter mounted for the chase.For, see: upon my lips I carry nowA touch that speaks reveille to my soul;I have a dispensation large enowTo enfold the world and circumscribe each pole.Slow let me speak it: From her lips and browI took the gifts she only could endow.
O gifts divine as any ever knewThe noble spirits of an antique time;As any poets fashion in their rhyme,Or angels whisper down the shadeless blue!The priceless gifts of holy confidence,That speak through quivering lips from heart to heart;That unto life new energies impart,And open up the gates of prescience.O dear my love, I unto thee have givenPledge that I am thy vassal evermore;I stand within the zenith of my Heaven,On either hand a starred eternal shoreI have come nearer to thy greater worth,For thou hast raised me from the common earth.
I can say now, “There was the confluenceOf all Love’s tributaries; there the seaOf Love spread out towards eternity;And there my coarser touched her finer sense.Poor though I am in my own sight, I knowThat thou hast winnowed, sweet, what best I am;Upon my restlessness thy ample calmHath fallen as on frost-bound earth the snow.It hideth the harsh furrows that the wheelsOf heavy trials made in Life’s champaign;Upon its pure unfolding sunshine steals,And there is promise of the spring again.Here make I proclamation of my faith,And poise my fealty o’er the head of Death.”
If Death should come to me to-night, and say:“I weigh thy destiny; behold, I giveOne little day with this thy love to live,Then, my embrace; or, leave her for alway,And thou shalt walk a full array of years;Upon thee shall the world’s large honours fall,And praises clamorous shall make for allThy strivings rich amends.” If in my earsThou saidst, “I love thee!” I would straightway cry,“A thousand years upon this barren earthIs death without her: for that day I die,And count my life for it of poorest worth.”Love’s reckoning is too noble to be toldBy Time’s slow fingers on its sands of gold.
As in a foreign land one threads his way‘Mid alien scenes, knowing no face he meets;And, hearing his name spoken, turns and greetsWith wondering joy a friend of other days;As in the pause that comes between the soundAnd recognition, all the finer senseIs swathed in a melodious eloquence,Which makes his name seem in its sweetness drownedSo stood I, by an atmosphere beguiledOf glad surprise, when first thy lips let fallThe name I lightly carried when a child,That I shall rise to at the judgment call.The music of thy nature folded roundIts barrenness a majesty of sound.
Since I rose out of child-oblivionI have walked in a world of many dreams,And noble souls beside the shining streamsOf fancy have with beckonings led me on.Their faces oft, mayhap, I could not see,Only their waving hands and noble forms.Sometimes there sprang between quick-gathered storms,But always they came back again to me.Women with smiling eyes and star-spun hairSpake gentle things, bade me look back to viewThe deeds of the great souls who climbed the stairImmortal, and for whom God’s manna grew:Dante, Anacreon, Euripides,And all who set rich wine upon the lees.
Men of brave stature came and placed their handsUpon my head, and, lifting shining swords,Drew through the air signs mightier than words,And vanished in the sun upon the sands.Glimpses I caught of faces that have comeThrough crowding ages; whisperings of songs;And prayers for the redress of human wrongsFrom voices that upon the earth are dumb.They were but shadows, but they lent me joy;They gave me reverence for all who paceThe world with hands raised, evil to destroy,Who live but for the honour of their race.They taught me to strike at no idol raised,Worshipped a space, then left to be dispraised.
Stedfastness, shall we find it, then, at all?Is it that as the winds blow north and south,So must be praises from the loud world’s mouth,Which on its heroes in their glory fall?Because the voice grows stiller, or the armNo longer can beat evils back; becauseThe shoulders sink beneath new-rising cause,And the fine thought has lost its moving charm;Because of these shall puny sages shakeTheir heads, and haste to mock the failing one,Who in his strength could make the nations quake;Prophet like Daniel, King like Solomon!In this full time we have seen mockers runAbout the throne of such as Tennyson.
Who saith thy hand is weak, King Tennyson?Who crieth, See, the monarch is grown old,His sceptre falls? Oh, carpers rude and bold,You who have fed upon the gracious benisonScattered unstinted by him, do you nowDispraise the sweet-strung harp, grown tremulous‘Neath fingers overworn for all of us?You cannot tear the laurels from his brow.He lives above your idle vaunts and fears,Enthroned where all master souls stand upIn their high place, and fill the golden cup,God-blest for kings, with wine of endless years,And greet him one with them. O brotherhoodOf envious dullards, ye are wroth with good.
Why, let them rail! God’s full anointed onesHave heard the world exclaim, “We know you not.”They who by their souls’ travailing have broughtUs nearer to the wonder of the suns.Yet, who can stay the passage of the stars?Who can prevail against the thunder-sound?The wire that flashes lightning to the groundDiverts, but not its potency debars.So, men may strike quick stabs at Caesar’s worth,—They only make his life an endless force,‘Scaped from its penthouse, flashing through the earth,And ‘whelming those who railed about his Gorse.Men’s moods disturb not those born truly great:They know their end; they can afford to wait.
And so life passed. I lived from year to yearWith shadows, the strong warders of desire;I learned through them to seek the golden fireThat hides itself in Song’s bright hemisphere.Through them I grew full of imaginings,I made strange pictures, conjured imagesFrom my deep longings; wrote the passagesOf life inwrought with half-glad wonderings.For who can know a majesty of peace,That wanders, ever waiting for a voiceTo say to him, “Behold, at last surceaseOf thy unrest has come, therefore, rejoice”?Here set I down some dreams that come again,Almost forgotten in my higher gain.
A ship at sea; a port to anchor in;Not far a starry light upon the shore.The sheeted lightning, like a golden door,Swings to and fro to let earth-angels in.Most bravely has she sailed o’er every sea,Withstood the storm-rack, spurned the sullen reef;Cherished her strength; and held her guerdon fiefTo him who saith, “My ship comes back to me!Behold, I sent her forth a stately thing,To be my messenger to farthest lands,To Fortunate Isles, and where the silver sandsGirdle a summer sea; that she might bringMy bride, who wist not that I loved her so—This is no bitter day for me, I trow!”
A ship in port; well-crossed the harbour-bar;The hawser swung, the grinding helm at rest;Hands clasping hands, and eyes with eager zestSeeking the loved, returning from afar.And he, the master, holding little reckOf all, save but the idol of his soul,Seeks not his loving ardour to control.Mark how he proudly treads the whitened deck!“My bride, my bride, my lone soul’s best beloved,Come forth, come forth! Where art thou, Isobel?—Pallid, and wan! Lord, hath it thus befellThis is but dust; where has the spirit roved?O death-cold bride! for this, then, have I strove?O phantom ship, O loveless wraith of Love!”
A day of sunshine in a land of snow,And a soft-curtained room, where ruddy flakesOf fame fall free, in liquid light that slakesThe soft desire of one cold, paleface: lo,Close-pressed sweet lips, and eyes of violet,That are filled up as with a sudden fear—A storm’s prelude upon the expectant mere.Yet deep behind what never they forget,Who ever see in life’s chance or mischance.And he who saw, what could he do but say,“Fold up the tents; the camp is struck; away!Vain victor who rides not in rest his lance!”Beside the hearthstone where the flame-flakes fell,There lay the cold keys of the citadel.
A night wind-swept and bound about with gleeOf Erebus; all light and cheer within;White restless hands that falter, then beginTo weave a music-voiced fantasy.And life, and death, and love, and weariness,And unrequital, thrid the maze of sound;And one voice saith, “Behold, the lost is found!”And saith not any more for joyfulness.Out of the night there comes a wanderer,Who waits upon the threshold, and is still;And listens, and bows down his head, untilHis grief-drawn breath startles the heart of her.The victor vanquished, at her feet he fell,A prisoner in his conquered citadel.
Two of one name; they standing where the sunMakes shadows in the orchard-bloom of spring;She holding in her palm a jewelled ring,He speaking on what evil it had done.“Raise thy pale face and wondrous eyes to mine;Let not thy poor lips quiver in such pain;Too young and blindly thou hast drunk the wineCrushed from the lees of love. Be strong again.Trail back thy golden hair from thy broad brow,And raise thy lily neck like some tall tower,That recks not any strife nor any hour,So it but holds its height, heeding not how.The noblest find their way o’er paths of ireTo the clear summit of God’s full desire.”
I think in that far time when Gabriel cameAnd gave short speech to Mary sweet and wise,That when the faint fear faded from her eyes,And they were filled up with a sudden flameOf joy bewildering and wonderment;With reverence the angel in her palmLaid one white lily, dewy with the balmOf the Lord’s garden; saying: “This is sentFor thine espousal, thou the undefiled;And it shall bloom till all be consummate.”Lo, then he passed. She, musing where she sate,Felt all her being moved in manner wondrous mild;Then, laying ‘gainst her bosom the white flower,She bowed her head, and said, “It is God’s dower.”
Dreams, only dreams. They sprang from lonelinessOf outer life; from innermost desireTo reach the soul that now in golden fireOf cherished song I pray for and caress.I wandered through the world with longing gaze,To find her who was my hope’s parallel,That to her I might all my gospel tellOf changeless love, and bid her make appraise.I knew that some day I should look withinThe ever-deepening distance of her eyes;For, in my dreams, from veiled SeraphimCame one, as if in answer to my cries:And passing near me, pointed down the roadThat led me at the last to thy abode.
Into thy land of sunlight I have come,And live within thy presence, as a rayOf light lives in the brightness of the day;And find in thee my heaven and my home.Yet what am I that thou shouldst ope the gateOf thy most sweet completeness; and should spendRich values of thy life on me thy friend,For which I have no worthy duplicate!Nay, lady, I no riches have to give;I have no name of honour, or the prideOf place, to priv’lege me to sit besideThee in thy kingdom, where thy graces live.Wilt thou not one day whisper, “You have climbedBeyond your merits; pray you, fall behind”?
Wish thy friend joy of his journey, but pray in secretthat he have no joy, for then may he return quickly to thee.—Egyptian Proverb.
Divided by no act of thine or mine,Forever parted by a fatal deed,A fatal feud. Alas! when fathers bleed,The children shall fulfil the wild design.A Montague hath killed a Capulet,A Capulet hath slain a Montague,—Twin graves, twin sorrows, and oh, mad to-doOf vengeance! oh, dread entail of regret!There lie they in their dark, self-chosen graves,And from them cries Hate’s everlasting ghost,—“Blood hath been shed, and Love and ye are slaves,Time wrecks, and freedom drifts upon life’s coast.”Yet not for us the relish of that doomWhich found a throne upon a Juliet’s tomb.
We must live on; a deeper tragedy:To see, to touch, to know, and to desire;To feel in every vein the glorious fireOf Eden, and to cry, “Oh, to be free!”To cry, “Oh, wipe the gloomy stain away,Thou who first raised the sword, Who gave the hiltInto the hand of man. This blood they spilt—Our fathers—oh, blot out the bitter day!Erase the hour from out Thy calendar,Turn back the hands upon the clock of Time,Oh, Artificer of destroying War—Their righteous hate who bore us in our crime!”“Upon the children!”—‘Tis the cold replyOf Him who makes to those who must not die.
Yet life is sweet. Thy soul hath breathed along,Thine eyes have cast their glory on the earth,Thy foot hath touched it, and thine hour of birthDidst give a new pulse to the veins of song.Better to stand amid the toppling towersOf every valiant hope; a Samson’s dream,Than the deep indolence of Lethe’s stream,The loneliness of slow submerging hours.Better, oh, better thus to see the wreck,And to have rocked to motion of the spheres;Better, oh, better to have trod the deckOf hope, and sailed the unmanageable years—Ay, better to have paid the price, and known,Than never felt this tyrannous Alone!
Upon the disc of Love’s bright planet fellA darkness yestereve, and from your lipsI heard cold words; then came a swift eclipseOf joy at meeting on hope’s it-is-well.And if I spoke with sadness and with fear;If from your gentle coldness I drew back,And felt that I had lost the flowery trackThat led to peace in Love’s sweet atmosphere:It was because a woful dread possessed.My aching heart—the dread some evil starHad crossed the warm affection in your breast,Had bade me stand apart from where you are.The world seemed breaking on my life; I heardThe crash of sorrows in that chiding word.
It is not so, and so for evermore,That thou and I must live our lives apart;I with a patient smother at my heart,And thy hand resting on a closed door?What couldst thou ever ask me that I shouldNot bend me to achieve thy high behest?What cannot men achieve with lance in restWho carry noble valour in their blood?And some nobility of high emprise,Lady, couldst thou make possible in me;If living ‘neath the pureness of thy eyes,I found the key to inner majesty;And reaching outward, heart-strong, from thy hand,Set here and there a beacon in the land.
Not by my power alone, but thou and ITogether thinking, working, loving onAchievement-wards, as all brave souls have gone,Perchance should find new star-drifts in the skyThat curves above humanity, and setSome new interpretation on life’s page;Should serve the strivings of a widening age,And fashion wisdom from the social fret.Deep did Time’s lances go; thou pluck’st them forth,And on my sullen woundings laid the balmOf thy life’s sweetness. Oh, let my love be worthThe keeping. My head beneath thy palm,Once more I lift Love’s chalice to thine eyes:Not till thou blessest me will I arise.
Here, making count, at every step I seeSomething in her, like to a hidden thoughtWithin my life, that long time I had sought,But never found till her soul spoke to me.And if she said a thousand times, “I didNot call thee, thou cam’st seeking; not my voiceWas it thou heard’st; thy love was not my choice!”I should straightway reply, “That of thee hid,Even from thyself, lest it should startle thee,Hath called me, made me slave and king in one;And when the mists of Time shall rise, and weStand forth, it shall be said, Since Time begunYe two were called as one from that high hill,Where the creating Master hath His will.”
I have beheld a multitude stand stillIn such deep silence that a sudden painStruck through the heart in sharing the tense strain,And all the world seemed bounded by one will.But when precipitated on the seaOf human feeling was the incidentThat caught their wonder; then the skies were rentWith quivering sound, with passion’s liberty.So have I stood before this parting day,With chilly fingers pressed upon my breast,That my heart burst not fleshen bands away,And my sharp cry break through my lady’s rest.I have shut burning eyelids on the sightOf this dread time that scorches my sad night.
Have I then found thee but to lose thee, friend?But touched thee ere thou vanished from my gaze?And when my soul is struggling from the mazeOf many conflicts, must our converse end?Across the empty space that now shall spreadBetween us, shall I never go to thee?Or thou, beloved, never come to me,Save but to whisper prayers above the dead?Ah, cruel thought! Shall not Hope’s convoy bearTo thee the reinforcements of my love?Shall I not on thy white hand drop a tearOf crowned joy, one day, where thou dost moveIn thy place regally; even as nowI place my farewell token on thy brow?
And now when from the shore goes out the shipWherein is set the treasure that I holdCloser than miser all his hidden gold,Dearer than wine Zeus carried to his lip;My aching heart cries from its pent-up pain,—“O Love, O Life, O more than life to me,How can I live without the suretyOf thy sweet presence till we meet again!”So like a wounded deer I came to thee,The arrow of mischance piercing my side;And through thy sorrow-healing ministryI rose with strength, like giants in their pride.But now—but now—how shall I stand alone,Knowing the light, the hope of me is gone?
O brow, so fronted with a stately calm,O full completeness of true womanhood,O counsel, pleader for all highest good,Thou hast upon my sorrow poured thy balm!Poor soldier he who did not raise his sword,And, touching with his lips the hilt-cross, swearIn war or peace the livery to wearOf one that blessed him with her queenly word.Most base crusader, who at night and mornCrying Dahin, thought not of her againFrom whose sweet power was his knighthood born,For whom he quells the valiant Saracen.Shall I not, then, in the tumultuous placeOf my life’s warfare ever seek thy face?
Here count I over all the gentle deedsWhich thou hast done; here summon I thy words,Sweeter to me than sweetest song of birds;That came like grace immortal to my needs.Love’s usury has reckoned such a sumOf my indebtedness, that I can makeNo lien large enough to overtakeIts value—and before it I am dumb!Yet, O my gracious, most kind creditor,I would not owe to thee one item lessWe cannot give the sun requital forIts liberal light; our office is to bless.If blessings could be compassed by my prayer,High heaven should set star-gems in thy hair.
Last night I saw the warm white Southern moonSail upward through a smoky amber sea;Orion stood in silver majestyWhere the gold-girdled sun takes rest at noon.I slept; I dreamed. Against a sunset skyI saw thee stand all garmented in white;With hand stretched to me, and there in thy sightI went to meet thee; but I heard thee cry:“We stand apart as sun from shining sun;Thou hast thy place; there rolleth far and nearA sea between; until life’s all be doneThou canst not come, nor I go to thee, dear.”Methought I bowed my head to thy decree,And donned the mantle of my misery.
‘Tis morning now, and dreams and fears are gone,And sleep has calmed the fever in my veins,And I am strong to drink the cup that drainsThe last drop through my lips, and make no moan.Strength I have borrowed from the outward showOf spiritual puissance thou dost wear.Shall I not thy high domination shareOver the shock of feeling? Shall I growMore fearful than the soldier, when betweenThe smoke of hostile cannon lies his way;To carry far the colours of his queen,While her bright eyes behold him in the fray?Here do I smile between the warring hostsOf sad farewells; and reek not what it costs.
And O most noble, and yet once againMost noble spirit, if I ever didAught that thy goodness frowns on, be it hidForever, and deep-buried. Let the rainOf coming springs fall on the quiet grave.Perchance some violets will grow to tellThat I, when uttering this last farewell,Built up a sacrificial architrave;That I, who worship thee, have love so great,To live in the horizon thou may’st set;To stand but in the shadow of the gate,Faithful, when coward promptings cry, “Forget.”Ah, lady, when I gave my heart to thee,It passed into thy lifelong regency.
Shine on, O sun! Sing on, O birds of song!And in her light my heart fashions a tuneNot wholly sad, most like a tender runeSung by some knight in days gone overlong,When he with minstrel eyes in Syrian groveLooked out towards his England, and then drewFrom a sweet instrument a sound that grewFrom twilight unto morning of his love.Go, then, beloved, bearing as you goThese songs that have more sunlight far than cloud;More summer flowers than dead leaves ‘neath the snow;That tell of hopes from which you raised the shroud.My lady, bright benignant star, shine on—I lift to thee my low Trisagion!