IThe clearest eyes in all the world they readWith sense more keen and spirit of sight more trueThan burns and thrills in sunrise, when the dewFlames, and absorbs the glory round it shed,As they the light of ages quick and dead,Closed now, forsake us: yet the shaft that slewCan slay not one of all the works we knew,Nor death discrown that many-laurelled head.The works of words whose life seems lightning wrought,And moulded of unconquerable thought,And quickened with imperishable flame,Stand fast and shine and smile, assured that noughtMay fade of all their myriad-moulded fame,Nor England's memory clasp not Browning's name.December 13, 1889.IIDeath, what hast thou to do with one for whomTime is not lord, but servant? What least partOf all the fire that fed his living heart,Of all the light more keen than sundawn's bloomThat lit and led his spirit, strong as doomAnd bright as hope, can aught thy breath may dartQuench? Nay, thou knowest he knew thee what thou art,A shadow born of terror's barren womb,That brings not forth save shadows. What art thou,To dream, albeit thou breathe upon his brow,That power on him is given thee,—that thy breathCan make him less than love acclaims him now,And hears all time sound back the word it saith?What part hast thou then in his glory, Death?IIIA graceless doom it seems that bids us grieve:Venice and winter, hand in deadly hand,Have slain the lover of her sunbright strandAnd singer of a stormbright Christmas Eve.A graceless guerdon we that loved receiveFor all our love, from that the dearest landLove worshipped ever. Blithe and soft and bland,Too fair for storm to scathe or fire to cleave,Shone on our dreams and memories evermoreThe domes, the towers, the mountains and the shoreThat gird or guard thee, Venice: cold and blackSeems now the face we loved as he of yore.We have given thee love—no stint, no stay, no lack:What gift, what gift is this thou hast given us back?IVBut he—to him, who knows what gift is thine,Death? Hardly may we think or hope, when wePass likewise thither where to-night is he,Beyond the irremeable outer seas that shineAnd darken round such dreams as half divineSome sunlit harbour in that starless seaWhere gleams no ship to windward or to lee,To read with him the secret of thy shrine.There too, as here, may song, delight, and love,The nightingale, the sea-bird, and the dove,Fulfil with joy the splendour of the skyTill all beneath wax bright as all above:But none of all that search the heavens, and tryThe sun, may match the sovereign eagle's eye.December 14.VAmong the wondrous ways of men and timeHe went as one that ever found and soughtAnd bore in hand the lamplike spirit of thoughtTo illume with instance of its fire sublimeThe dusk of many a cloudlike age and clime.No spirit in shape of light and darkness wrought,No faith, no fear, no dream, no rapture, noughtThat blooms in wisdom, nought that burns in crime,No virtue girt and armed and helmed with light,No love more lovely than the snows are white,No serpent sleeping in some dead soul's tomb,No song-bird singing from some live soul's height,But he might hear, interpret, or illumeWith sense invasive as the dawn of doom.VIWhat secret thing of splendour or of shadeSurmised in all those wandering ways whereinMan, led of love and life and death and sin,Strays, climbs, or cowers, allured, absorbed, afraid,Might not the strong and sunlike sense invadeOf that full soul that had for aim to winLight, silent over time's dark toil and din,Life, at whose touch death fades as dead things fade?O spirit of man, what mystery moves in theeThat he might know not of in spirit, and seeThe heart within the heart that seems to strive,The life within the life that seems to be,And hear, through all thy storms that whirl and drive,The living sound of all men's souls alive?VIIHe held no dream worth waking: so he said,He who stands now on death's triumphal steep,Awakened out of life wherein we sleepAnd dream of what he knows and sees, being dead.But never death for him was dark or dread:"Look forth" he bade the soul, and fear not. Weep,All ye that trust not in his truth, and keepVain memory's vision of a vanished headAs all that lives of all that once was heSave that which lightens from his word: but we,Who, seeing the sunset-coloured waters roll,Yet know the sun subdued not of the sea,Nor weep nor doubt that still the spirit is whole,And life and death but shadows of the soul.December 15.
I
The clearest eyes in all the world they readWith sense more keen and spirit of sight more trueThan burns and thrills in sunrise, when the dewFlames, and absorbs the glory round it shed,As they the light of ages quick and dead,Closed now, forsake us: yet the shaft that slewCan slay not one of all the works we knew,Nor death discrown that many-laurelled head.
The works of words whose life seems lightning wrought,And moulded of unconquerable thought,And quickened with imperishable flame,Stand fast and shine and smile, assured that noughtMay fade of all their myriad-moulded fame,Nor England's memory clasp not Browning's name.
December 13, 1889.
II
Death, what hast thou to do with one for whomTime is not lord, but servant? What least partOf all the fire that fed his living heart,Of all the light more keen than sundawn's bloomThat lit and led his spirit, strong as doomAnd bright as hope, can aught thy breath may dartQuench? Nay, thou knowest he knew thee what thou art,A shadow born of terror's barren womb,That brings not forth save shadows. What art thou,To dream, albeit thou breathe upon his brow,That power on him is given thee,—that thy breathCan make him less than love acclaims him now,And hears all time sound back the word it saith?What part hast thou then in his glory, Death?
III
A graceless doom it seems that bids us grieve:Venice and winter, hand in deadly hand,Have slain the lover of her sunbright strandAnd singer of a stormbright Christmas Eve.A graceless guerdon we that loved receiveFor all our love, from that the dearest landLove worshipped ever. Blithe and soft and bland,Too fair for storm to scathe or fire to cleave,Shone on our dreams and memories evermoreThe domes, the towers, the mountains and the shoreThat gird or guard thee, Venice: cold and blackSeems now the face we loved as he of yore.We have given thee love—no stint, no stay, no lack:What gift, what gift is this thou hast given us back?
IV
But he—to him, who knows what gift is thine,Death? Hardly may we think or hope, when wePass likewise thither where to-night is he,Beyond the irremeable outer seas that shineAnd darken round such dreams as half divineSome sunlit harbour in that starless seaWhere gleams no ship to windward or to lee,To read with him the secret of thy shrine.
There too, as here, may song, delight, and love,The nightingale, the sea-bird, and the dove,Fulfil with joy the splendour of the skyTill all beneath wax bright as all above:But none of all that search the heavens, and tryThe sun, may match the sovereign eagle's eye.
December 14.
V
Among the wondrous ways of men and timeHe went as one that ever found and soughtAnd bore in hand the lamplike spirit of thoughtTo illume with instance of its fire sublimeThe dusk of many a cloudlike age and clime.No spirit in shape of light and darkness wrought,No faith, no fear, no dream, no rapture, noughtThat blooms in wisdom, nought that burns in crime,No virtue girt and armed and helmed with light,No love more lovely than the snows are white,No serpent sleeping in some dead soul's tomb,No song-bird singing from some live soul's height,But he might hear, interpret, or illumeWith sense invasive as the dawn of doom.
VI
What secret thing of splendour or of shadeSurmised in all those wandering ways whereinMan, led of love and life and death and sin,Strays, climbs, or cowers, allured, absorbed, afraid,Might not the strong and sunlike sense invadeOf that full soul that had for aim to winLight, silent over time's dark toil and din,Life, at whose touch death fades as dead things fade?O spirit of man, what mystery moves in theeThat he might know not of in spirit, and seeThe heart within the heart that seems to strive,The life within the life that seems to be,And hear, through all thy storms that whirl and drive,The living sound of all men's souls alive?
VII
He held no dream worth waking: so he said,He who stands now on death's triumphal steep,Awakened out of life wherein we sleepAnd dream of what he knows and sees, being dead.But never death for him was dark or dread:"Look forth" he bade the soul, and fear not. Weep,All ye that trust not in his truth, and keepVain memory's vision of a vanished headAs all that lives of all that once was heSave that which lightens from his word: but we,Who, seeing the sunset-coloured waters roll,Yet know the sun subdued not of the sea,Nor weep nor doubt that still the spirit is whole,And life and death but shadows of the soul.
December 15.
All the west, whereon the sunset sealed the dead year's glorious graveFast with seals of light and fire and cloud that light and fire illume,Glows at heart and kindles earth and heaven with joyous blush and bloom,Warm and wide as life, and glad of death that only slays to save.As a tide-reconquered sea-rock lies aflush with the influent waveLies the light aflush with darkness, lapped about by lustrous gloom,Even as life with death, and fame with time, and memory with the tombWhere a dead man hath for vassals Fame the serf and Time the slave.Far from earth as heaven, the steadfast light withdrawn, superb, suspense,Burns in dumb divine expansion of illimitable flower:Moonrise whets the shadow's edges keen as noontide: hence and thenceGlows the presence from us passing, shines and passes not the power.Souls arise whose word remembered is as spirit within the sense:All the hours are theirs of all the seasons: death has but his hour.
All the west, whereon the sunset sealed the dead year's glorious graveFast with seals of light and fire and cloud that light and fire illume,Glows at heart and kindles earth and heaven with joyous blush and bloom,Warm and wide as life, and glad of death that only slays to save.As a tide-reconquered sea-rock lies aflush with the influent waveLies the light aflush with darkness, lapped about by lustrous gloom,Even as life with death, and fame with time, and memory with the tombWhere a dead man hath for vassals Fame the serf and Time the slave.
Far from earth as heaven, the steadfast light withdrawn, superb, suspense,Burns in dumb divine expansion of illimitable flower:Moonrise whets the shadow's edges keen as noontide: hence and thenceGlows the presence from us passing, shines and passes not the power.Souls arise whose word remembered is as spirit within the sense:All the hours are theirs of all the seasons: death has but his hour.
ILove and praise, and a length of days whose shadow cast upon time is light,Days whose sound was a spell shed round from wheeling wings as of doves in flight,Meet in one, that the mounting sun to-day may triumph, and cast out night.Two years more than the full fourscore lay hallowing hands on a sacred head—Scarce one score of the perfect four uncrowned of fame as they smiled and fled:Still and soft and alive aloft their sunlight stays though the suns be dead.Ere we were or were thought on, ere the love that gave us to life began,Fame grew strong with his crescent song, to greet the goal of the race they ran,Song with fame, and the lustrous name with years whose changes acclaimed the man.IISoon, ere time in the rounding rhyme of choral seasons had hailed us men,We too heard and acclaimed the word whose breath was life upon England then—Life more bright than the breathless light of soundless noon in a songless glen.Ah, the joy of the heartstruck boy whose ear was opened of love to hear!Ah, the bliss of the burning kiss of song and spirit, the mounting cheerLit with fire of divine desire and love that knew not if love were fear!Fear and love as of heaven above and earth enkindled of heaven were one;One white flame, that around his name grew keen and strong as the worldwide sun;Awe made bright with implied delight, as weft with weft of the rainbow spun.IIIHe that fears not the voice he hears and loves shall never have heart to sing:All the grace of the sun-god's face that bids the soul as a fountain springBids the brow that receives it bow, and hail his likeness on earth as king.We that knew when the sun's shaft flew beheld and worshipped, adored and heard:Light rang round it of shining sound, whence all men's hearts were subdued and stirred:Joy, love, sorrow, the day, the morrow, took life upon them in one man's word.Not for him can the years wax dim, nor downward swerve on a darkening way:Upward wind they, and leave behind such light as lightens the front of May:Fair as youth and sublime as truth we find the fame that we hail to-day.
I
Love and praise, and a length of days whose shadow cast upon time is light,Days whose sound was a spell shed round from wheeling wings as of doves in flight,Meet in one, that the mounting sun to-day may triumph, and cast out night.
Two years more than the full fourscore lay hallowing hands on a sacred head—Scarce one score of the perfect four uncrowned of fame as they smiled and fled:Still and soft and alive aloft their sunlight stays though the suns be dead.
Ere we were or were thought on, ere the love that gave us to life began,Fame grew strong with his crescent song, to greet the goal of the race they ran,Song with fame, and the lustrous name with years whose changes acclaimed the man.
II
Soon, ere time in the rounding rhyme of choral seasons had hailed us men,We too heard and acclaimed the word whose breath was life upon England then—Life more bright than the breathless light of soundless noon in a songless glen.
Ah, the joy of the heartstruck boy whose ear was opened of love to hear!Ah, the bliss of the burning kiss of song and spirit, the mounting cheerLit with fire of divine desire and love that knew not if love were fear!
Fear and love as of heaven above and earth enkindled of heaven were one;One white flame, that around his name grew keen and strong as the worldwide sun;Awe made bright with implied delight, as weft with weft of the rainbow spun.
III
He that fears not the voice he hears and loves shall never have heart to sing:All the grace of the sun-god's face that bids the soul as a fountain springBids the brow that receives it bow, and hail his likeness on earth as king.
We that knew when the sun's shaft flew beheld and worshipped, adored and heard:Light rang round it of shining sound, whence all men's hearts were subdued and stirred:Joy, love, sorrow, the day, the morrow, took life upon them in one man's word.
Not for him can the years wax dim, nor downward swerve on a darkening way:Upward wind they, and leave behind such light as lightens the front of May:Fair as youth and sublime as truth we find the fame that we hail to-day.
ILife, sublime and serene when time had power upon it and ruled its breath,Changed it, bade it be glad or sad, and hear what change in the world's ear saith,Shines more fair in the starrier air whose glory lightens the dusk of death.Suns that sink on the wan sea's brink, and moons that kindle and flame and fade,Leave more clear for the darkness here the stars that set not and see not shadeRise and rise on the lowlier skies by rule of sunlight and moonlight swayed.So, when night for his eyes grew bright, his proud head pillowed on Shakespeare's breast,Hand in hand with him, soon to stand where shine the glories that death loves best,Passed the light of his face from sight, and sank sublimely to radiant rest.IIFar above us and all our love, beyond all reach of its voiceless praise,Shines for ever the name that never shall feel the shade of the changeful daysFall and chill the delight that still sees winter's light on it shine like May's.Strong as death is the dark day's breath whose blast has withered the life we seeHere where light is the child of night, and less than visions or dreams are we:Strong as death; but a word, a breath, a dream is stronger than death can be.Strong as truth and superb in youth eternal, fair as the sundawn's flameSeen when May on her first-born day bids earth exult in her radiant name,Lives, clothed round with its praise and crowned with love that dies not, his love-lit fame.IIIFairer far than the morning star, and sweet for us as the songs that rangLoud through heaven from the choral Seven when all the stars of the morning sang,Shines the song that we loved so long—since first such love in us flamed and sprang.England glows as a sunlit rose from mead to mountain, from sea to sea,Bright with love and with pride above all taint of sorrow that needs must be,Needs must live for an hour, and give its rainbow's glory to lawn and lea.Not through tears shall the new-born years behold him, crowned with applause of men,Pass at last from a lustrous past to life that lightens beyond their ken,Glad and dead, and from earthward led to sunward, guided of Imogen.
I
Life, sublime and serene when time had power upon it and ruled its breath,Changed it, bade it be glad or sad, and hear what change in the world's ear saith,Shines more fair in the starrier air whose glory lightens the dusk of death.
Suns that sink on the wan sea's brink, and moons that kindle and flame and fade,Leave more clear for the darkness here the stars that set not and see not shadeRise and rise on the lowlier skies by rule of sunlight and moonlight swayed.
So, when night for his eyes grew bright, his proud head pillowed on Shakespeare's breast,Hand in hand with him, soon to stand where shine the glories that death loves best,Passed the light of his face from sight, and sank sublimely to radiant rest.
II
Far above us and all our love, beyond all reach of its voiceless praise,Shines for ever the name that never shall feel the shade of the changeful daysFall and chill the delight that still sees winter's light on it shine like May's.
Strong as death is the dark day's breath whose blast has withered the life we seeHere where light is the child of night, and less than visions or dreams are we:Strong as death; but a word, a breath, a dream is stronger than death can be.
Strong as truth and superb in youth eternal, fair as the sundawn's flameSeen when May on her first-born day bids earth exult in her radiant name,Lives, clothed round with its praise and crowned with love that dies not, his love-lit fame.
III
Fairer far than the morning star, and sweet for us as the songs that rangLoud through heaven from the choral Seven when all the stars of the morning sang,Shines the song that we loved so long—since first such love in us flamed and sprang.
England glows as a sunlit rose from mead to mountain, from sea to sea,Bright with love and with pride above all taint of sorrow that needs must be,Needs must live for an hour, and give its rainbow's glory to lawn and lea.
Not through tears shall the new-born years behold him, crowned with applause of men,Pass at last from a lustrous past to life that lightens beyond their ken,Glad and dead, and from earthward led to sunward, guided of Imogen.
Death, a light outshining life, bids heaven resumeStar by star the souls whose light made earth divine.Death, a night outshining day, sees burn and bloomFlower by flower, and sun by sun, the fames that shineDeathless, higher than life beheld their sovereign sign.Dead Simonides of Ceos, late restored,Given again of God, again by man deplored,Shone but yestereve, a glory frail as breath.Frail? But fame's breath quickens, kindles, keeps in ward,Life so sweet as this that dies and casts off death.Mother's love, and rapture of the sea, whose wombBreeds eternal life of joy that stings like brine,Pride of song, and joy to dare the singer's doom,Sorrow soft as sleep and laughter bright as wine,Flushed and filled with fragrant fire his lyric line.As the sea-shell utters, like a stricken chord,Music uttering all the sea's within it stored,Poet well-beloved, whose praise our sorrow saith,So thy songs retain thy soul, and so recordLife so sweet as this that dies and casts off death.Side by side we mourned at Gautier's golden tomb:Here in spirit now I stand and mourn at thine.Yet no breath of death strikes thence, no shadow of gloom,Only light more bright than gold of the inmost mine,Only steam of incense warm from love's own shrine.Not the darkling stream, the sundering Stygian ford,Not the hour that smites and severs as a sword,Not the night subduing light that perisheth,Smite, subdue, divide from us by doom abhorred,Life so sweet as this that dies and casts off death.Prince of song more sweet than honey, lyric lord,Not thy France here only mourns a light adored,One whose love-lit fame the world inheriteth.Strangers too, now brethren, hail with heart's accordLife so sweet as this that dies and casts off death.
Death, a light outshining life, bids heaven resumeStar by star the souls whose light made earth divine.Death, a night outshining day, sees burn and bloomFlower by flower, and sun by sun, the fames that shineDeathless, higher than life beheld their sovereign sign.Dead Simonides of Ceos, late restored,Given again of God, again by man deplored,Shone but yestereve, a glory frail as breath.Frail? But fame's breath quickens, kindles, keeps in ward,Life so sweet as this that dies and casts off death.
Mother's love, and rapture of the sea, whose wombBreeds eternal life of joy that stings like brine,Pride of song, and joy to dare the singer's doom,Sorrow soft as sleep and laughter bright as wine,Flushed and filled with fragrant fire his lyric line.As the sea-shell utters, like a stricken chord,Music uttering all the sea's within it stored,Poet well-beloved, whose praise our sorrow saith,So thy songs retain thy soul, and so recordLife so sweet as this that dies and casts off death.
Side by side we mourned at Gautier's golden tomb:Here in spirit now I stand and mourn at thine.Yet no breath of death strikes thence, no shadow of gloom,Only light more bright than gold of the inmost mine,Only steam of incense warm from love's own shrine.Not the darkling stream, the sundering Stygian ford,Not the hour that smites and severs as a sword,Not the night subduing light that perisheth,Smite, subdue, divide from us by doom abhorred,Life so sweet as this that dies and casts off death.
Prince of song more sweet than honey, lyric lord,Not thy France here only mourns a light adored,One whose love-lit fame the world inheriteth.Strangers too, now brethren, hail with heart's accordLife so sweet as this that dies and casts off death.
La plus douce des voix qui vibraient sous le cielSe tait: les rossignols ailés pleurent le frèreQui s'envole au-dessus de l'âpre et sombre terre,Ne lui laissant plus voir que l'être essentiel,Esprit qui chante et rit, fleur d'une âme sans fiel.L'ombre élyséenne, où la nuit n'est que lumière,Revoit, tout revêtu de splendeur douce et fière,Mélicerte, poète à la bouche de miel.Dieux exilés, passants célestes de ce monde,Dont on entend parfois dans notre nuit profondeVibrer la voix, frémir les ailes, vous savezS'il vous aima, s'il vous pleura, lui dont la vieEt le chant rappelaient les vôtres. RecevezL'âme de Mélicerte affranchie et ravie.
La plus douce des voix qui vibraient sous le cielSe tait: les rossignols ailés pleurent le frèreQui s'envole au-dessus de l'âpre et sombre terre,Ne lui laissant plus voir que l'être essentiel,
Esprit qui chante et rit, fleur d'une âme sans fiel.L'ombre élyséenne, où la nuit n'est que lumière,Revoit, tout revêtu de splendeur douce et fière,Mélicerte, poète à la bouche de miel.
Dieux exilés, passants célestes de ce monde,Dont on entend parfois dans notre nuit profondeVibrer la voix, frémir les ailes, vous savezS'il vous aima, s'il vous pleura, lui dont la vieEt le chant rappelaient les vôtres. RecevezL'âme de Mélicerte affranchie et ravie.
Love will not weep because the seal is brokenThat sealed upon a life beloved and briefDarkness, and let but song break through for tokenHow deep, too far for even thy song's relief,Slept in thy soul the secret springs of grief.Thy song may soothe full many a soul hereafter,As tears, if tears will come, dissolve despair;As here but late, with smile more bright than laughter,Thy sweet strange yearning eyes would seem to bearWitness that joy might cleave the clouds of care.Two days agone, and love was one with pityWhen love gave thought wings toward the glimmering goalWhere, as a shrine lit in some darkling city,Shone soft the shrouded image of thy soul:And now thou art healed of life; thou art healed, and whole.Yea, two days since, all we that loved thee pitied:And now with wondering love, with shame of face,We think how foolish now, how far unfitted,Should be from us, toward thee who hast run thy race,Pity—toward thee, who hast won the painless place;The painless world of death, yet unbeholdenOf eyes that dream what light now lightens thineAnd will not weep. Thought, yearning toward those oldenDear hours that sorrow sees and sees not shine,Bows tearless down before a flameless shrine:A flameless altar here of life and sorrowQuenched and consumed together. These were one,One thing for thee, as night was one with morrowAnd utter darkness with the sovereign sun:And now thou seest life, sorrow, and darkness done.And yet love yearns again to win thee hither;Blind love, and loveless, and unworthy thee:Here where I watch the hours of darkness wither,Here where mine eyes were glad and sad to seeThine that could see not mine, though turned on me.But now, if aught beyond sweet sleep lie hidden,And sleep be sealed not fast on dead men's sightFor ever, thine hath grace for ours forbidden,And sees us compassed round with change and night:Yet light like thine is ours, if love be light.
Love will not weep because the seal is brokenThat sealed upon a life beloved and briefDarkness, and let but song break through for tokenHow deep, too far for even thy song's relief,Slept in thy soul the secret springs of grief.
Thy song may soothe full many a soul hereafter,As tears, if tears will come, dissolve despair;As here but late, with smile more bright than laughter,Thy sweet strange yearning eyes would seem to bearWitness that joy might cleave the clouds of care.
Two days agone, and love was one with pityWhen love gave thought wings toward the glimmering goalWhere, as a shrine lit in some darkling city,Shone soft the shrouded image of thy soul:And now thou art healed of life; thou art healed, and whole.
Yea, two days since, all we that loved thee pitied:And now with wondering love, with shame of face,We think how foolish now, how far unfitted,Should be from us, toward thee who hast run thy race,Pity—toward thee, who hast won the painless place;
The painless world of death, yet unbeholdenOf eyes that dream what light now lightens thineAnd will not weep. Thought, yearning toward those oldenDear hours that sorrow sees and sees not shine,Bows tearless down before a flameless shrine:
A flameless altar here of life and sorrowQuenched and consumed together. These were one,One thing for thee, as night was one with morrowAnd utter darkness with the sovereign sun:And now thou seest life, sorrow, and darkness done.
And yet love yearns again to win thee hither;Blind love, and loveless, and unworthy thee:Here where I watch the hours of darkness wither,Here where mine eyes were glad and sad to seeThine that could see not mine, though turned on me.
But now, if aught beyond sweet sleep lie hidden,And sleep be sealed not fast on dead men's sightFor ever, thine hath grace for ours forbidden,And sees us compassed round with change and night:Yet light like thine is ours, if love be light.
Watching here alone by the fire whereat last yearSat with me the friend that a week since yet was near,That a week has borne so far and hid so deep,Woe am I that I may not weep,May not yearn to behold him here.Shame were mine, and little the love I bore him were,Now to mourn that better he fares than love may fareWhich desires, and would not have indeed, its will,Would not love him so worse than ill,Would not clothe him again with care.Yet can love not choose but remember, hearts but ache,Eyes but darken, only for one vain thought's poor sake,For the thought that by this hearth's now lonely sideTwo fast friends, on the day he died,Looked once more for his hand to take.Let thy soul forgive them, and pardon heal the sin,Though their hearts be heavy to think what then had been,The delight that never while they live may be—Love's communion of speech with thee,Soul and speech with the soul therein.O my friend, O brother, a glory veiled and marred!Never love made moan for a life more evil-starred.Was it envy, chance, or chance-compelling fate,Whence thy spirit was bruised so late,Bowed so heavily, bound so hard?Now released, it may be,—if only love might know—Filled and fired with sight, it beholds us blind and lowWith a pity keener yet, if that may be,Even than ever was this that weFelt, when love of thee wrought us woe.None may tell the depths and the heights of life and death.What we may we give thee: a word that sorrow saith,And that none will heed save sorrow: scarce a song.All we may, who have loved thee long,Take: the best we can give is breath.
Watching here alone by the fire whereat last yearSat with me the friend that a week since yet was near,That a week has borne so far and hid so deep,Woe am I that I may not weep,May not yearn to behold him here.
Shame were mine, and little the love I bore him were,Now to mourn that better he fares than love may fareWhich desires, and would not have indeed, its will,Would not love him so worse than ill,Would not clothe him again with care.
Yet can love not choose but remember, hearts but ache,Eyes but darken, only for one vain thought's poor sake,For the thought that by this hearth's now lonely sideTwo fast friends, on the day he died,Looked once more for his hand to take.
Let thy soul forgive them, and pardon heal the sin,Though their hearts be heavy to think what then had been,The delight that never while they live may be—Love's communion of speech with thee,Soul and speech with the soul therein.
O my friend, O brother, a glory veiled and marred!Never love made moan for a life more evil-starred.Was it envy, chance, or chance-compelling fate,Whence thy spirit was bruised so late,Bowed so heavily, bound so hard?
Now released, it may be,—if only love might know—Filled and fired with sight, it beholds us blind and lowWith a pity keener yet, if that may be,Even than ever was this that weFelt, when love of thee wrought us woe.
None may tell the depths and the heights of life and death.What we may we give thee: a word that sorrow saith,And that none will heed save sorrow: scarce a song.All we may, who have loved thee long,Take: the best we can give is breath.
A bell tolls on in my heartAs though in my ears a knellHad ceased for awhile to swell,But the sense of it would not partFrom the spirit that bears its partIn the chime of the soundless bell.Ah dear dead singer of sorrow,The burden is now not thineThat grief bade sound for a signThrough the songs of the night whose morrowHas risen, and I may not borrowA beam from its radiant shrine.The burden has dropped from theeThat grief on thy life bound fast;The winter is over and pastWhose end thou wast fain to see.Shall sorrow not comfort meThat is thine no longer—at last?Good day, good night, and good morrow,Men living and mourning say.For thee we could only prayThat night of the day might borrowSuch comfort as dreams lend sorrow:Death gives thee at last good day.
A bell tolls on in my heartAs though in my ears a knellHad ceased for awhile to swell,But the sense of it would not partFrom the spirit that bears its partIn the chime of the soundless bell.
Ah dear dead singer of sorrow,The burden is now not thineThat grief bade sound for a signThrough the songs of the night whose morrowHas risen, and I may not borrowA beam from its radiant shrine.
The burden has dropped from theeThat grief on thy life bound fast;The winter is over and pastWhose end thou wast fain to see.Shall sorrow not comfort meThat is thine no longer—at last?
Good day, good night, and good morrow,Men living and mourning say.For thee we could only prayThat night of the day might borrowSuch comfort as dreams lend sorrow:Death gives thee at last good day.
The rose to the wind has yielded: all its leavesLie strewn on the graveyard grass, and all their lightAnd colour and fragrance leave our sense and sightBereft as a man whom bitter time bereavesOf blossom at once and hope of garnered sheaves,Of April at once and August. Day to nightCalls wailing, and life to death, and depth to height,And soul upon soul of man that hears and grieves.Who knows, though he see the snow-cold blossom shed,If haply the heart that burned within the rose,The spirit in sense, the life of life be dead?If haply the wind that slays with storming snowsBe one with the wind that quickens? Bow thine head,O Sorrow, and commune with thine heart: who knows?
The rose to the wind has yielded: all its leavesLie strewn on the graveyard grass, and all their lightAnd colour and fragrance leave our sense and sightBereft as a man whom bitter time bereavesOf blossom at once and hope of garnered sheaves,Of April at once and August. Day to nightCalls wailing, and life to death, and depth to height,And soul upon soul of man that hears and grieves.
Who knows, though he see the snow-cold blossom shed,If haply the heart that burned within the rose,The spirit in sense, the life of life be dead?If haply the wind that slays with storming snowsBe one with the wind that quickens? Bow thine head,O Sorrow, and commune with thine heart: who knows?
The days of a man are threescore years and ten.The days of his life were half a man's, whom weLament, and would yet not bid him back, to bePartaker of all the woes and ways of men.Life sent him enough of sorrow: not againWould anguish of love, beholding him set free,Bring back the beloved to suffer life and seeNo light but the fire of grief that scathed him then.We know not at all: we hope, and do not fear.We shall not again behold him, late so near,Who now from afar above, with eyes alightAnd spirit enkindled, haply toward us hereLooks down unforgetful yet of days like nightAnd love that has yet his sightless face in sight.February 15, 1887.ITRANSFIGURATIONBut half a man's days—and his days were nights.What hearts were ours who loved him, should we prayThat night would yield him back to darkling day,Sweet death that soothes, to life that spoils and smites?For now, perchance, life lovelier than the light'sThat shed no comfort on his weary wayShows him what none may dream to see or sayEre yet the soul may scale those topless heightsWhere death lies dead, and triumph. Haply thereAlready may his kindling eyesight findFaces of friends—no face than his more fair—And first among them found of all his kindMilton, with crowns from Eden on his hair,And eyes that meet a brother's now not blind.IIDELIVERANCEO Death, fair Death, sole comforter and sweet,Nor Love nor Hope can give such gifts as thine.Sleep hardly shows us round thy shadowy shrineWhat roses hang, what music floats, what feetPass and what wings of angels. We repeatWild words or mild, disastrous or divine,Blind prayer, blind imprecation, seeing no signNor hearing aught of thee not faint and fleetAs words of men or snowflakes on the wind.But if we chide thee, saying "Thou hast sinned, thou hast sinned,Dark Death, to take so sweet a light awayAs shone but late, though shadowed, in our skies,"We hear thine answer—"Night has given what dayDenied him: darkness hath unsealed his eyes."IIITHANKSGIVINGCould love give strength to thank thee! Love can giveStrong sorrow heart to suffer: what we bearWe would not put away, albeit this wereA burden love might cast aside and live.Love chooses rather pain than palliative,Sharp thought than soft oblivion. May we dareSo trample down our passion and our prayerThat fain would cling round feet now fugitiveAnd stay them—so remember, so forget,What joy we had who had his presence yet,What griefs were his while joy in him was oursAnd grief made weary music of his breath,As even to hail his best and last of hoursWith love grown strong enough to thank thee, Death?IVLIBITINA VERTICORDIASister of sleep, healer of life, divineAs rest and strong as very love may be,To set the soul that love could set not free,To bid the skies that day could bid not shine,To give the gift that life withheld was thine.With all my heart I loved one borne from me:And all my heart bows down and praises thee,Death, that hast now made grief not his but mine.O Changer of men's hearts, we would not bid theeTurn back our hearts from sorrow: this aloneWe bid, we pray thee, from thy sovereign throneAnd sanctuary sublime where heaven has hid thee,Give: grace to know of those for whom we weepThat if they wake their life is sweet as sleep.VTHE ORDER OF RELEASEThou canst not give it. Grace enough is oursTo know that pain for him has fallen on rest.The worst we know was his on earth: the best,We fain would think,—a thought no fear deflowers—Is his, released from bonds of rayless hours.Ah, turn our hearts from longing; bid our questCease, as content with failure. This thy guestSleeps, vexed no more of time's imperious powers,The spirit of hope, the spirit of change and loss,The spirit of love bowed down beneath his cross,Nor now needs comfort from the strength of song.Love, should he wake, bears now no cross for him:Dead hope, whose living eyes like his were dim,Has brought forth better comfort, strength more strong.VIPSYCHAGOGOSAs Greece of old acclaimed thee God and man,So, Death, our tongue acclaims thee: yet wast thouHailed of old Rome as Romans hail thee now,Goddess and woman. Since the sands first ranThat told when first man's life and death began,The shadows round thy blind ambiguous browHave mocked the votive plea, the pleading vowThat sought thee sorrowing, fain to bless or ban.But stronger than a father's love is thine,And gentler than a mother's. Lord and God,Thy staff is surer than the wizard rodThat Hermes bare as priest before thy shrineAnd herald of thy mercies. We could giveNought, when we would have given: thou bidst him live.VIITHE LAST WORDSo many a dream and hope that went and came,So many and sweet, that love thought like to be,Of hours as bright and soft as those for meThat made our hearts for song's sweet love the same,Lie now struck dead, that hope seems one with shame.O Death, thy name is Love: we know it, and seeThe witness: yet for very love's sake weCan hardly bear to mix with thine his name.Philip, how hard it is to bid thee partThou knowest, if aught thou knowest where now thou artOf us that loved and love thee. None may tellWhat none but knows—how hard it is to sayThe word that seals up sorrow, darkens day,And bids fare forth the soul it bids farewell.
The days of a man are threescore years and ten.The days of his life were half a man's, whom weLament, and would yet not bid him back, to bePartaker of all the woes and ways of men.Life sent him enough of sorrow: not againWould anguish of love, beholding him set free,Bring back the beloved to suffer life and seeNo light but the fire of grief that scathed him then.
We know not at all: we hope, and do not fear.We shall not again behold him, late so near,Who now from afar above, with eyes alightAnd spirit enkindled, haply toward us hereLooks down unforgetful yet of days like nightAnd love that has yet his sightless face in sight.
February 15, 1887.
I
TRANSFIGURATION
But half a man's days—and his days were nights.What hearts were ours who loved him, should we prayThat night would yield him back to darkling day,Sweet death that soothes, to life that spoils and smites?For now, perchance, life lovelier than the light'sThat shed no comfort on his weary wayShows him what none may dream to see or sayEre yet the soul may scale those topless heightsWhere death lies dead, and triumph. Haply thereAlready may his kindling eyesight findFaces of friends—no face than his more fair—And first among them found of all his kindMilton, with crowns from Eden on his hair,And eyes that meet a brother's now not blind.
II
DELIVERANCE
O Death, fair Death, sole comforter and sweet,Nor Love nor Hope can give such gifts as thine.Sleep hardly shows us round thy shadowy shrineWhat roses hang, what music floats, what feetPass and what wings of angels. We repeatWild words or mild, disastrous or divine,Blind prayer, blind imprecation, seeing no signNor hearing aught of thee not faint and fleetAs words of men or snowflakes on the wind.But if we chide thee, saying "Thou hast sinned, thou hast sinned,Dark Death, to take so sweet a light awayAs shone but late, though shadowed, in our skies,"We hear thine answer—"Night has given what dayDenied him: darkness hath unsealed his eyes."
III
THANKSGIVING
Could love give strength to thank thee! Love can giveStrong sorrow heart to suffer: what we bearWe would not put away, albeit this wereA burden love might cast aside and live.Love chooses rather pain than palliative,Sharp thought than soft oblivion. May we dareSo trample down our passion and our prayerThat fain would cling round feet now fugitiveAnd stay them—so remember, so forget,What joy we had who had his presence yet,What griefs were his while joy in him was oursAnd grief made weary music of his breath,As even to hail his best and last of hoursWith love grown strong enough to thank thee, Death?
IV
LIBITINA VERTICORDIA
Sister of sleep, healer of life, divineAs rest and strong as very love may be,To set the soul that love could set not free,To bid the skies that day could bid not shine,To give the gift that life withheld was thine.With all my heart I loved one borne from me:And all my heart bows down and praises thee,Death, that hast now made grief not his but mine.
O Changer of men's hearts, we would not bid theeTurn back our hearts from sorrow: this aloneWe bid, we pray thee, from thy sovereign throneAnd sanctuary sublime where heaven has hid thee,Give: grace to know of those for whom we weepThat if they wake their life is sweet as sleep.
V
THE ORDER OF RELEASE
Thou canst not give it. Grace enough is oursTo know that pain for him has fallen on rest.The worst we know was his on earth: the best,We fain would think,—a thought no fear deflowers—Is his, released from bonds of rayless hours.Ah, turn our hearts from longing; bid our questCease, as content with failure. This thy guestSleeps, vexed no more of time's imperious powers,The spirit of hope, the spirit of change and loss,The spirit of love bowed down beneath his cross,Nor now needs comfort from the strength of song.Love, should he wake, bears now no cross for him:Dead hope, whose living eyes like his were dim,Has brought forth better comfort, strength more strong.
VI
PSYCHAGOGOS
As Greece of old acclaimed thee God and man,So, Death, our tongue acclaims thee: yet wast thouHailed of old Rome as Romans hail thee now,Goddess and woman. Since the sands first ranThat told when first man's life and death began,The shadows round thy blind ambiguous browHave mocked the votive plea, the pleading vowThat sought thee sorrowing, fain to bless or ban.
But stronger than a father's love is thine,And gentler than a mother's. Lord and God,Thy staff is surer than the wizard rodThat Hermes bare as priest before thy shrineAnd herald of thy mercies. We could giveNought, when we would have given: thou bidst him live.
VII
THE LAST WORD
So many a dream and hope that went and came,So many and sweet, that love thought like to be,Of hours as bright and soft as those for meThat made our hearts for song's sweet love the same,Lie now struck dead, that hope seems one with shame.O Death, thy name is Love: we know it, and seeThe witness: yet for very love's sake weCan hardly bear to mix with thine his name.
Philip, how hard it is to bid thee partThou knowest, if aught thou knowest where now thou artOf us that loved and love thee. None may tellWhat none but knows—how hard it is to sayThe word that seals up sorrow, darkens day,And bids fare forth the soul it bids farewell.
The wider world of men that is not oursReceives a soul whose life on earth was light.Though darkness close the date of human hours,Love holds the spirit and sense of life in sight,That may not, even though death bid fly, take flight.Faith, love, and hope fulfilled with memory, seeAs clear and dear as life could bid it beThe present soul that is and is not he.He, who held up the shield and sword of RomeAgainst the ravening brood of recreant France,Beside the man of men whom heaven took homeWhen earth beheld the spring's first eyebeams glanceAnd life and winter seemed alike a tranceEighteen years since, in sight of heaven and springThat saw the soul above all souls take wing,He too now hears the heaven we hear not sing.He too now dwells where death is dead, and standsWhere souls like stars exult in life to be:Whence all who linked heroic hearts and handsShine on our sight, and give it strength to seeWhat hope makes fair for all whom faith makes free:Free with such freedom as we find in sleep,The light sweet shadow of death, when dreams are deepAnd high as heaven whence light and lightning leap.And scarce a month yet gone, his living handWrit loving words that sealed me friend of his.Are heaven and earth as near as sea to strand?May life and death as bride and bridegroom kiss?His last month's written word abides, and is;Clear as the sun that lit through storm and strifeAnd darkling days when hope took fear to wifeThe faith whose fire was light of all his life.A life so fair, so pure of earthlier leaven,That none hath won through higher and harder waysThe deathless life of death which earth calls heaven;Heaven, and the light of love on earth, and praiseOf silent memory through subsiding daysWherein the light subsides not whence the pastFeeds full with life the future. Time holds fastTheir names whom faith forgets not, first and last.Forget? The dark forgets not dawn, nor weThe suns that sink to rise again, and shineLords of live years and ages. Earth and seaForget not heaven that makes them seem divine,Though night put out their fires and bid their shrineBe dark and pale as storm and twilight. Day,Not night, is everlasting: life's full swayBids death bow down as dead, and pass away.What part has death in souls that past all fearWin heavenward their supernal way, and smiteWith scorn sublime as heaven such dreams as herePlague and perplex with cloud and fire the lightThat leads men's waking souls from glimmering nightTo the awless heights of day, whereon man's awe,Transfigured, dies in rapture, seeing the lawSealed of the sun that earth arising saw?Faith, justice, mercy, love, and heaven-born hateThat sets them all on fire and bids them beMore than soft words and dreams that wake too late,Shone living through the lordly life that weBeheld, revered, and loved on earth, while heDwelt here, and bade our eyes take light thereof;Light as from heaven that flamed or smiled aboveIn light or fire whose very hate was love.No hate of man, but hate of hate whose foamSheds poison forth from tongues of snakes and priests,And stains the sickening air with steams whence RomeNow feeds not full the God that slays and feasts;For now the fangs of all the ravenous beastsThat ramped about him, fain of prayer and prey,Fulfil their lust no more: the tide of daySwells, and compels him down the deathward way.Night sucks the Church its creature down, and hellYawns, heaves, and yearns to clasp its loathliest childClose to the breasts that bore it. All the spellWhence darkness saw the dawn in heaven defiledIs dumb as death: the lips that lied and smiledWax white for fear as ashes. She that boreThe banner up of darkness now no moreSheds night and fear and shame from shore to shore.When they that cast her kingdom down were born,North cried on south and east made moan to westFor hopes that love had hardly heart to mourn,For Italy that was not. Kings on quest,By priests whose blessings burn as curses blest,Made spoil of souls and bodies bowed and bound,Hunted and harried, leashed as horse or hound,And hopeless of the hope that died unfound.And now that faith has brought forth fruit to time,How should not memory praise their names, and holdTheir record even as Dante's life sublime,Who bade his dream, found fair and false of old,Live? Not till earth and heaven be dead and coldMay man forget whose work and will made oneItaly, fair as heaven or freedom won,And left their fame to shine beside her sun.April 1890.
The wider world of men that is not oursReceives a soul whose life on earth was light.Though darkness close the date of human hours,Love holds the spirit and sense of life in sight,That may not, even though death bid fly, take flight.Faith, love, and hope fulfilled with memory, seeAs clear and dear as life could bid it beThe present soul that is and is not he.
He, who held up the shield and sword of RomeAgainst the ravening brood of recreant France,Beside the man of men whom heaven took homeWhen earth beheld the spring's first eyebeams glanceAnd life and winter seemed alike a tranceEighteen years since, in sight of heaven and springThat saw the soul above all souls take wing,He too now hears the heaven we hear not sing.
He too now dwells where death is dead, and standsWhere souls like stars exult in life to be:Whence all who linked heroic hearts and handsShine on our sight, and give it strength to seeWhat hope makes fair for all whom faith makes free:Free with such freedom as we find in sleep,The light sweet shadow of death, when dreams are deepAnd high as heaven whence light and lightning leap.
And scarce a month yet gone, his living handWrit loving words that sealed me friend of his.Are heaven and earth as near as sea to strand?May life and death as bride and bridegroom kiss?His last month's written word abides, and is;Clear as the sun that lit through storm and strifeAnd darkling days when hope took fear to wifeThe faith whose fire was light of all his life.
A life so fair, so pure of earthlier leaven,That none hath won through higher and harder waysThe deathless life of death which earth calls heaven;Heaven, and the light of love on earth, and praiseOf silent memory through subsiding daysWherein the light subsides not whence the pastFeeds full with life the future. Time holds fastTheir names whom faith forgets not, first and last.
Forget? The dark forgets not dawn, nor weThe suns that sink to rise again, and shineLords of live years and ages. Earth and seaForget not heaven that makes them seem divine,Though night put out their fires and bid their shrineBe dark and pale as storm and twilight. Day,Not night, is everlasting: life's full swayBids death bow down as dead, and pass away.
What part has death in souls that past all fearWin heavenward their supernal way, and smiteWith scorn sublime as heaven such dreams as herePlague and perplex with cloud and fire the lightThat leads men's waking souls from glimmering nightTo the awless heights of day, whereon man's awe,Transfigured, dies in rapture, seeing the lawSealed of the sun that earth arising saw?
Faith, justice, mercy, love, and heaven-born hateThat sets them all on fire and bids them beMore than soft words and dreams that wake too late,Shone living through the lordly life that weBeheld, revered, and loved on earth, while heDwelt here, and bade our eyes take light thereof;Light as from heaven that flamed or smiled aboveIn light or fire whose very hate was love.
No hate of man, but hate of hate whose foamSheds poison forth from tongues of snakes and priests,And stains the sickening air with steams whence RomeNow feeds not full the God that slays and feasts;For now the fangs of all the ravenous beastsThat ramped about him, fain of prayer and prey,Fulfil their lust no more: the tide of daySwells, and compels him down the deathward way.
Night sucks the Church its creature down, and hellYawns, heaves, and yearns to clasp its loathliest childClose to the breasts that bore it. All the spellWhence darkness saw the dawn in heaven defiledIs dumb as death: the lips that lied and smiledWax white for fear as ashes. She that boreThe banner up of darkness now no moreSheds night and fear and shame from shore to shore.
When they that cast her kingdom down were born,North cried on south and east made moan to westFor hopes that love had hardly heart to mourn,For Italy that was not. Kings on quest,By priests whose blessings burn as curses blest,Made spoil of souls and bodies bowed and bound,Hunted and harried, leashed as horse or hound,And hopeless of the hope that died unfound.
And now that faith has brought forth fruit to time,How should not memory praise their names, and holdTheir record even as Dante's life sublime,Who bade his dream, found fair and false of old,Live? Not till earth and heaven be dead and coldMay man forget whose work and will made oneItaly, fair as heaven or freedom won,And left their fame to shine beside her sun.
April 1890.