Yet it was plain she struggled, and that saltOf righteous feeling made her pitiful.Poor twisting worm, so queenly beautiful!Where came the cleft between us? whose the fault?My tears are on thee, that have rarely droppedAs balm for any bitter wound of mine:My breast will open for thee at a sign!But, no: we are two reed-pipes, coarsely stopped:The God once filled them with his mellow breath;And they were music till he flung them down,Used! used! Hear now the discord-loving clownPuff his gross spirit in them, worse than death!I do not know myself without thee more:In this unholy battle I grow base:If the same soul be under the same face,Speak, and a taste of that old time restore!
He felt the wild beast in him betweenwhilesSo masterfully rude, that he would grieveTo see the helpless delicate thing receiveHis guardianship through certain dark defiles.Had he not teeth to rend, and hunger too?But still he spared her. Once: 'Have you no fear?'He said: 'twas dusk; she in his grasp; none near.She laughed: 'No, surely; am I not with you?'And uttering that soft starry 'you,' she leanedHer gentle body near him, looking up;And from her eyes, as from a poison-cup,He drank until the flittering eyelids screened.Devilish malignant witch! and oh, young beamOf heaven's circle-glory! Here thy shapeTo squeeze like an intoxicating grape -I might, and yet thou goest safe, supreme.
But where began the change; and what's my crime?The wretch condemned, who has not been arraigned,Chafes at his sentence. Shall I, unsustained,Drag on Love's nerveless body thro' all time?I must have slept, since now I wake. Prepare,You lovers, to know Love a thing of moods:Not, like hard life, of laws. In Love's deep woods,I dreamt of loyal Life:- the offence is there!Love's jealous woods about the sun are curled;At least, the sun far brighter there did beam. -My crime is, that the puppet of a dream,I plotted to be worthy of the world.Oh, had I with my darling helped to minceThe facts of life, you still had seen me goWith hindward feather and with forward toe,Her much-adored delightful Fairy Prince!
Out in the yellow meadows, where the beeHums by us with the honey of the Spring,And showers of sweet notes from the larks on wingAre dropping like a noon-dew, wander we.Or is it now? or was it then? for now,As then, the larks from running rings pour showers:The golden foot of May is on the flowers,And friendly shadows dance upon her brow.What's this, when Nature swears there is no changeTo challenge eyesight? Now, as then, the graceOf heaven seems holding earth in its embrace.Nor eyes, nor heart, has she to feel it strange?Look, woman, in the West. There wilt thou seeAn amber cradle near the sun's decline:Within it, featured even in death divine,Is lying a dead infant, slain by thee.
Not solely that the Future she destroys,And the fair life which in the distance liesFor all men, beckoning out from dim rich skies:Nor that the passing hour's supporting joysHave lost the keen-edged flavour, which begatDistinction in old times, and still should breedSweet Memory, and Hope,—earth's modest seed,And heaven's high-prompting: not that the world is flatSince that soft-luring creature I embracedAmong the children of Illusion went:Methinks with all this loss I were content,If the mad Past, on which my foot is based,Were firm, or might be blotted: but the wholeOf life is mixed: the mocking Past will stay:And if I drink oblivion of a day,So shorten I the stature of my soul.
'I play for Seasons; not Eternities!'Says Nature, laughing on her way. 'So mustAll those whose stake is nothing more than dust!'And lo, she wins, and of her harmoniesShe is full sure! Upon her dying roseShe drops a look of fondness, and goes by,Scarce any retrospection in her eye;For she the laws of growth most deeply knows,Whose hands bear, here, a seed-bag—there, an urn.Pledged she herself to aught, 'twould mark her end!This lesson of our only visible friendCan we not teach our foolish hearts to learn?Yes! yes!—but, oh, our human rose is fairSurpassingly! Lose calmly Love's great bliss,When the renewed for ever of a kissWhirls life within the shower of loosened hair!
What soul would bargain for a cure that bringsContempt the nobler agony to kill?Rather let me bear on the bitter ill,And strike this rusty bosom with new stings!It seems there is another veering fit,Since on a gold-haired lady's eyeballs pureI looked with little prospect of a cure,The while her mouth's red bow loosed shafts of wit.Just heaven! can it be true that jealousyHas decked the woman thus? and does her headSwim somewhat for possessions forfeited?Madam, you teach me many things that be.I open an old book, and there I findThat 'Women still may love whom they deceive.'Such love I prize not, madam: by your leave,The game you play at is not to my mind.
I think she sleeps: it must be sleep, when lowHangs that abandoned arm toward the floor;The face turned with it. Now make fast the door.Sleep on: it is your husband, not your foe.The Poet's black stage-lion of wronged loveFrights not our modern dames:- well if he did!Now will I pour new light upon that lid,Full-sloping like the breasts beneath. 'Sweet dove,Your sleep is pure. Nay, pardon: I disturb.I do not? good!' Her waking infant-stareGrows woman to the burden my hands bear:Her own handwriting to me when no curbWas left on Passion's tongue. She trembles through;A woman's tremble—the whole instrument:-I show another letter lately sent.The words are very like: the name is new.
In our old shipwrecked days there was an hour,When in the firelight steadily aglow,Joined slackly, we beheld the red chasm growAmong the clicking coals. Our library-bowerThat eve was left to us: and hushed we satAs lovers to whom Time is whispering.From sudden-opened doors we heard them sing:The nodding elders mixed good wine with chat.Well knew we that Life's greatest treasure layWith us, and of it was our talk. 'Ah, yes!Love dies!' I said: I never thought it less.She yearned to me that sentence to unsay.Then when the fire domed blackening, I foundHer cheek was salt against my kiss, and swiftUp the sharp scale of sobs her breast did lift:-Now am I haunted by that taste! that sound!
At dinner, she is hostess, I am host.Went the feast ever cheerfuller? She keepsThe Topic over intellectual deepsIn buoyancy afloat. They see no ghost.With sparkling surface-eyes we ply the ball:It is in truth a most contagious game:HIDING THE SKELETON, shall be its name.Such play as this the devils might appal!But here's the greater wonder; in that we,Enamoured of an acting nought can tire,Each other, like true hypocrites, admire;Warm-lighted looks, Love's ephemerioe,Shoot gaily o'er the dishes and the wine.We waken envy of our happy lot.Fast, sweet, and golden, shows the marriage-knot.Dear guests, you now have seen Love's corpse-light shine.
Here Jack and Tom are paired with Moll and Meg.Curved open to the river-reach is seenA country merry-making on the green.Fair space for signal shakings of the leg.That little screwy fiddler from his booth,Whence flows one nut-brown stream, commands the jointsOf all who caper here at various points.I have known rustic revels in my youth:The May-fly pleasures of a mind at ease.An early goddess was a country lass:A charmed Amphion-oak she tripped the grass.What life was that I lived? The life of these?Heaven keep them happy! Nature they seem near.They must, I think, be wiser than I am;They have the secret of the bull and lamb.'Tis true that when we trace its source, 'tis beer.
No state is enviable. To the luck aloneOf some few favoured men I would put claim.I bleed, but her who wounds I will not blame.Have I not felt her heart as 'twere my ownBeat thro' me? could I hurt her? heaven and hell!But I could hurt her cruelly! Can I letMy Love's old time-piece to another set,Swear it can't stop, and must for ever swell?Sure, that's one way Love drifts into the martWhere goat-legged buyers throng. I see not plain:-My meaning is, it must not be again.Great God! the maddest gambler throws his heart.If any state be enviable on earth,'Tis yon born idiot's, who, as days go by,Still rubs his hands before him, like a fly,In a queer sort of meditative mirth.
I am not of those miserable malesWho sniff at vice and, daring not to snap,Do therefore hope for heaven. I take the hapOf all my deeds. The wind that fills my sailsPropels; but I am helmsman. Am I wrecked,I know the devil has sufficient weightTo bear: I lay it not on him, or fate.Besides, he's damned. That man I do suspectA coward, who would burden the poor deuceWith what ensues from his own slipperiness.I have just found a wanton-scented tressIn an old desk, dusty for lack of use.Of days and nights it is demonstrative,That, like some aged star, gleam luridly.If for those times I must ask charity,Have I not any charity to give?
We three are on the cedar-shadowed lawn;My friend being third. He who at love once laughedIs in the weak rib by a fatal shaftStruck through, and tells his passion's bashful dawnAnd radiant culmination, glorious crown,When 'this' she said: went 'thus': most wondrous she.Our eyes grow white, encountering: that we are three,Forgetful; then together we look down.But he demands our blessing; is convincedThat words of wedded lovers must bring good.We question; if we dare! or if we should!And pat him, with light laugh. We have not winced.Next, she has fallen. Fainting points the signTo happy things in wedlock. When she wakes,She looks the star that thro' the cedar shakes:Her lost moist hand clings mortally to mine.
What may the woman labour to confess?There is about her mouth a nervous twitch.'Tis something to be told, or hidden:- which?I get a glimpse of hell in this mild guess.She has desires of touch, as if to feelThat all the household things are things she knew.She stops before the glass. What sight in view?A face that seems the latest to reveal!For she turns from it hastily, and tossedIrresolute steals shadow-like to whereI stand; and wavering pale before me there,Her tears fall still as oak-leaves after frost.She will not speak. I will not ask. We areLeague-sundered by the silent gulf between.You burly lovers on the village green,Yours is a lower, and a happier star!
'Tis Christmas weather, and a country houseReceives us: rooms are full: we can but getAn attic-crib. Such lovers will not fretAt that, it is half-said. The great carouseKnocks hard upon the midnight's hollow door,But when I knock at hers, I see the pit.Why did I come here in that dullard fit?I enter, and lie couched upon the floor.Passing, I caught the coverlet's quick beat:-Come, Shame, burn to my soul! and Pride, and Pain -Foul demons that have tortured me, enchain!Out in the freezing darkness the lambs bleat.The small bird stiffens in the low starlight.I know not how, but shuddering as I slept,I dreamed a banished angel to me crept:My feet were nourished on her breasts all night.
The misery is greater, as I live!To know her flesh so pure, so keen her sense,That she does penance now for no offence,Save against Love. The less can I forgive!The less can I forgive, though I adoreThat cruel lovely pallor which surroundsHer footsteps; and the low vibrating soundsThat come on me, as from a magic shore.Low are they, but most subtle to find outThe shrinking soul. Madam, 'tis understoodWhen women play upon their womanhood,It means, a Season gone. And yet I doubtBut I am duped. That nun-like look waylaysMy fancy. Oh! I do but wait a sign!Pluck out the eyes of pride! thy mouth to mine!Never! though I die thirsting. Go thy ways!
You like not that French novel? Tell me why.You think it quite unnatural. Let us see.The actors are, it seems, the usual three:Husband, and wife, and lover. She—but fie!In England we'll not hear of it. Edmond,The lover, her devout chagrin doth share;Blanc-mange and absinthe are his penitent fare,Till his pale aspect makes her over-fond:So, to preclude fresh sin, he tries rosbif.Meantime the husband is no more abused:Auguste forgives her ere the tear is used.Then hangeth all on one tremendous IF:-IF she will choose between them. She does choose;And takes her husband, like a proper wife.Unnatural? My dear, these things are life:And life, some think, is worthy of the Muse.
Love ere he bleeds, an eagle in high skies,Has earth beneath his wings: from reddened eveHe views the rosy dawn. In vain they weaveThe fatal web below while far he flies.But when the arrow strikes him, there's a change.He moves but in the track of his spent pain,Whose red drops are the links of a harsh chain,Binding him to the ground, with narrow range.A subtle serpent then has Love become.I had the eagle in my bosom erst:Henceforward with the serpent I am cursed.I can interpret where the mouth is dumb.Speak, and I see the side-lie of a truth.Perchance my heart may pardon you this deed:But be no coward:- you that made Love bleed,You must bear all the venom of his tooth!
Distraction is the panacea, Sir!I hear my oracle of Medicine say.Doctor! that same specific yesterdayI tried, and the result will not deterA second trial. Is the devil's lineOf golden hair, or raven black, composed?And does a cheek, like any sea-shell rosed,Or clear as widowed sky, seem most divine?No matter, so I taste forgetfulness.And if the devil snare me, body and mind,Here gratefully I score:- he seemed kind,When not a soul would comfort my distress!O sweet new world, in which I rise new made!O Lady, once I gave love: now I take!Lady, I must be flattered. Shouldst thou wakeThe passion of a demon, be not afraid.
I must be flattered. The imperiousDesire speaks out. Lady, I am contentTo play with you the game of Sentiment,And with you enter on paths perilous;But if across your beauty I throw light,To make it threefold, it must be all mine.First secret; then avowed. For I must shineEnvied,—I, lessened in my proper sight!Be watchful of your beauty, Lady dear!How much hangs on that lamp you cannot tell.Most earnestly I pray you, tend it well:And men shall see me as a burning sphere;And men shall mark you eyeing me, and groanTo be the God of such a grand sunflower!I feel the promptings of Satanic power,While you do homage unto me alone.
Am I failing? For no longer can I castA glory round about this head of gold.Glory she wears, but springing from the mould;Not like the consecration of the Past!Is my soul beggared? Something more than earthI cry for still: I cannot be at peaceIn having Love upon a mortal lease.I cannot take the woman at her worth!Where is the ancient wealth wherewith I clothedOur human nakedness, and could endowWith spiritual splendour a white browThat else had grinned at me the fact I loathed?A kiss is but a kiss now! and no waveOf a great flood that whirls me to the sea.But, as you will! we'll sit contentedly,And eat our pot of honey on the grave.
What are we first? First, animals; and nextIntelligences at a leap; on whomPale lies the distant shadow of the tomb,And all that draweth on the tomb for text.Into which state comes Love, the crowning sun:Beneath whose light the shadow loses form.We are the lords of life, and life is warm.Intelligence and instinct now are one.But nature says: 'My children most they seemWhen they least know me: therefore I decreeThat they shall suffer.' Swift doth young Love flee,And we stand wakened, shivering from our dream.Then if we study Nature we are wise.Thus do the few who live but with the day:The scientific animals are they. -Lady, this is my sonnet to your eyes.
This golden head has wit in it. I liveAgain, and a far higher life, near her.Some women like a young philosopher;Perchance because he is diminutive.For woman's manly god must not exceedProportions of the natural nursing size.Great poets and great sages draw no prizeWith women: but the little lap-dog breed,Who can be hugged, or on a mantel-piecePerched up for adoration, these obtainHer homage. And of this we men are vain?Of this! 'Tis ordered for the world's increase!Small flattery! Yet she has that rare giftTo beauty, Common Sense. I am approved.It is not half so nice as being loved,And yet I do prefer it. What's my drift?
Full faith I have she holds that rarest giftTo beauty, Common Sense. To see her lieWith her fair visage an inverted skyBloom-covered, while the underlids uplift,Would almost wreck the faith; but when her mouth(Can it kiss sweetly? sweetly!) would addressThe inner me that thirsts for her no less,And has so long been languishing in drouth,I feel that I am matched; that I am man!One restless corner of my heart or head,That holds a dying something never dead,Still frets, though Nature giveth all she can.It means, that woman is not, I opine,Her sex's antidote. Who seeks the aspFor serpent's bites? 'Twould calm me could I claspShrieking Bacchantes with their souls of wine!
'In Paris, at the Louvre, there have I seenThe sumptuously-feathered angel pierceProne Lucifer, descending. Looked he fierce,Showing the fight a fair one? Too serene!The young Pharsalians did not disarrayLess willingly their locks of floating silk:That suckling mouth of his upon the milkOf heaven might still be feasting through the fray.Oh, Raphael! when men the Fiend do fight,They conquer not upon such easy terms.Half serpent in the struggle grow these worms.And does he grow half human, all is right.'This to my Lady in a distant spot,Upon the theme: WHILE MIND IS MASTERING CLAY,GROSS CLAY INVADES IT. If the spy you play,My wife, read this! Strange love talk, is it not?
Madam would speak with me. So, now it comes:The Deluge or else Fire! She's well; she thanksMy husbandship. Our chain on silence clanks.Time leers between, above his twiddling thumbs.Am I quite well? Most excellent in health!The journals, too, I diligently peruse.Vesuvius is expected to give news:Niagara is no noisier. By stealthOur eyes dart scrutinizing snakes. She's gladI'm happy, says her quivering under-lip.'And are not you?' 'How can I be?' 'Take ship!For happiness is somewhere to be had.''Nowhere for me!' Her voice is barely heard.I am not melted, and make no pretence.With commonplace I freeze her, tongue and sense.Niagara or Vesuvius is deferred.
It is no vulgar nature I have wived.Secretive, sensitive, she takes a woundDeep to her soul, as if the sense had swooned,And not a thought of vengeance had survived.No confidences has she: but reliefMust come to one whose suffering is acute.O have a care of natures that are mute!They punish you in acts: their steps are brief.What is she doing? What does she demandFrom Providence or me? She is not oneLong to endure this torpidly, and shunThe drugs that crowd about a woman's hand.At Forfeits during snow we played, and IMust kiss her. 'Well performed!' I said: then she:"Tis hardly worth the money, you agree?'Save her? What for? To act this wedded lie!
My Lady unto Madam makes her bow.The charm of women is, that even whileYou're probed by them for tears, you yet may smile,Nay, laugh outright, as I have done just now.The interview was gracious: they anoint(To me aside) each other with fine praise:Discriminating compliments they raise,That hit with wondrous aim on the weak point:My Lady's nose of Nature might complain.It is not fashioned aptly to expressHer character of large-browed steadfastness.But Madam says: Thereof she may be vain!Now, Madam's faulty feature is a glazedAnd inaccessible eye, that has soft fires,Wide gates, at love-time, only. This admiresMy Lady. At the two I stand amazed.
Along the garden terrace, under whichA purple valley (lighted at its edgeBy smoky torch-flame on the long cloud-ledgeWhereunder dropped the chariot) glimmers rich,A quiet company we pace, and waitThe dinner-bell in prae-digestive calm.So sweet up violet banks the Southern balmBreathes round, we care not if the bell be late:Though here and there grey seniors question TimeIn irritable coughings. With slow footThe low rosed moon, the face of Music mute,Begins among her silent bars to climb.As in and out, in silvery dusk, we thread,I hear the laugh of Madam, and discernMy Lady's heel before me at each turn.Our tragedy, is it alive or dead?
Give to imagination some pure lightIn human form to fix it, or you shameThe devils with that hideous human game:-Imagination urging appetite!Thus fallen have earth's greatest Gogmagogs,Who dazzle us, whom we can not revere:Imagination is the charioteerThat, in default of better, drives the hogs.So, therefore, my dear Lady, let me love!My soul is arrowy to the light in you.You know me that I never can renewThe bond that woman broke: what would you have?'Tis Love, or Vileness! not a choice between,Save petrifaction! What does Pity here?She killed a thing, and now it's dead, 'tis dear.Oh, when you counsel me, think what you mean!
She yields: my Lady in her noblest moodHas yielded: she, my golden-crowned rose!The bride of every sense! more sweet than thoseWho breathe the violet breath of maidenhood.O visage of still music in the sky!Soft moon! I feel thy song, my fairest friend!True harmony within can apprehendDumb harmony without. And hark! 'tis nigh!Belief has struck the note of sound: a gleamOf living silver shows me where she shookHer long white fingers down the shadowy brook,That sings her song, half waking, half in dream.What two come here to mar this heavenly tune?A man is one: the woman bears my name,And honour. Their hands touch! Am I still tame?God, what a dancing spectre seems the moon!
I bade my Lady think what she might mean.Know I my meaning, I? Can I love one,And yet be jealous of another? NoneCommits such folly. Terrible Love, I ween,Has might, even dead, half sighing to upheaveThe lightless seas of selfishness amain:Seas that in a man's heart have no rainTo fall and still them. Peace can I achieve,By turning to this fountain-source of woe,This woman, who's to Love as fire to wood?She breathed the violet breath of maidenhoodAgainst my kisses once! but I say, No!The thing is mocked at! Helplessly afloat,I know not what I do, whereto I strive.The dread that my old love may be aliveHas seized my nursling new love by the throat.
How many a thing which we cast to the ground,When others pick it up becomes a gem!We grasp at all the wealth it is to them;And by reflected light its worth is found.Yet for us still 'tis nothing! and that zealOf false appreciation quickly fades.This truth is little known to human shades,How rare from their own instinct 'tis to feel!They waste the soul with spurious desire,That is not the ripe flame upon the bough.We two have taken up a lifeless vowTo rob a living passion: dust for fire!Madam is grave, and eyes the clock that tellsApproaching midnight. We have struck despairInto two hearts. O, look we like a pairWho for fresh nuptials joyfully yield all else?
I am to follow her. There is much graceIn woman when thus bent on martyrdom.They think that dignity of soul may come,Perchance, with dignity of body. Base!But I was taken by that air of coldAnd statuesque sedateness, when she said'I'm going'; lit a taper, bowed her head,And went, as with the stride of Pallas bold.Fleshly indifference horrible! The handsOf Time now signal: O, she's safe from me!Within those secret walls what do I see?Where first she set the taper down she stands:Not Pallas: Hebe shamed! Thoughts black as deathLike a stirred pool in sunshine break. Her wristsI catch: she faltering, as she half resists,'You love . . .? love . . .? love . . .?' all on an indrawn breath.
Mark where the pressing wind shoots javelin-likeIts skeleton shadow on the broad-backed wave!Here is a fitting spot to dig Love's grave;Here where the ponderous breakers plunge and strike,And dart their hissing tongues high up the sand:In hearing of the ocean, and in sightOf those ribbed wind-streaks running into white.If I the death of Love had deeply planned,I never could have made it half so sure,As by the unblest kisses which upbraidThe full-waked sense; or failing that, degrade!'Tis morning: but no morning can restoreWhat we have forfeited. I see no sin:The wrong is mixed. In tragic life, God wot,No villain need be! Passions spin the plot:We are betrayed by what is false within.
They say, that Pity in Love's service dwells,A porter at the rosy temple's gate.I missed him going: but it is my fateTo come upon him now beside his wells;Whereby I know that I Love's temple leave,And that the purple doors have closed behind.Poor soul! if, in those early days unkind,Thy power to sting had been but power to grieve,We now might with an equal spirit meet,And not be matched like innocence and vice.She for the Temple's worship has paid price,And takes the coin of Pity as a cheat.She sees through simulation to the bone:What's best in her impels her to the worst:Never, she cries, shall Pity soothe Love's thirst,Or foul hypocrisy for truth atone!
It is the season of the sweet wild rose,My Lady's emblem in the heart of me!So golden-crowned shines she gloriously,And with that softest dream of blood she glows;Mild as an evening heaven round Hesper bright!I pluck the flower, and smell it, and reviveThe time when in her eyes I stood alive.I seem to look upon it out of Night.Here's Madam, stepping hastily. Her whimsBid her demand the flower, which I let drop.As I proceed, I feel her sharply stop,And crush it under heel with trembling limbs.She joins me in a cat-like way, and talksOf company, and even condescendsTo utter laughing scandal of old friends.These are the summer days, and these our walks.
At last we parley: we so strangely dumbIn such a close communion! It befellAbout the sounding of the Matin-bell,And lo! her place was vacant, and the humOf loneliness was round me. Then I rose,And my disordered brain did guide my footTo that old wood where our first love-saluteWas interchanged: the source of many throes!There did I see her, not alone. I movedToward her, and made proffer of my arm.She took it simply, with no rude alarm;And that disturbing shadow passed reproved.I felt the pained speech coming, and declaredMy firm belief in her, ere she could speak.A ghastly morning came into her cheek,While with a widening soul on me she stared.
We saw the swallows gathering in the sky,And in the osier-isle we heard them noise.We had not to look back on summer joys,Or forward to a summer of bright dye:But in the largeness of the evening earthOur spirits grew as we went side by side.The hour became her husband and my bride.Love, that had robbed us so, thus blessed our dearth!The pilgrims of the year waxed very loudIn multitudinous chatterings, as the floodFull brown came from the West, and like pale bloodExpanded to the upper crimson cloud.Love, that had robbed us of immortal things,This little moment mercifully gave,Where I have seen across the twilight waveThe swan sail with her young beneath her wings.
Their sense is with their senses all mixed in,Destroyed by subtleties these women are!More brain, O Lord, more brain! or we shall marUtterly this fair garden we might win.Behold! I looked for peace, and thought it near.Our inmost hearts had opened, each to each.We drank the pure daylight of honest speech.Alas! that was the fatal draught, I fear.For when of my lost Lady came the word,This woman, O this agony of flesh!Jealous devotion bade her break the mesh,That I might seek that other like a bird.I do adore the nobleness! despiseThe act! She has gone forth, I know not where.Will the hard world my sentience of her shareI feel the truth; so let the world surmise.
He found her by the ocean's moaning verge,Nor any wicked change in her discerned;And she believed his old love had returned,Which was her exultation, and her scourge.She took his hand, and walked with him, and seemedThe wife he sought, though shadow-like and dry.She had one terror, lest her heart should sigh,And tell her loudly she no longer dreamed.She dared not say, 'This is my breast: look in.'But there's a strength to help the desperate weak.That night he learned how silence best can speakThe awful things when Pity pleads for Sin.About the middle of the night her callWas heard, and he came wondering to the bed.'Now kiss me, dear! it may be, now!' she said.Lethe had passed those lips, and he knew all.
Thus piteously Love closed what he begat:The union of this ever-diverse pair!These two were rapid falcons in a snare,Condemned to do the flitting of the bat.Lovers beneath the singing sky of May,They wandered once; clear as the dew on flowers:But they fed not on the advancing hours:Their hearts held cravings for the buried day.Then each applied to each that fatal knife,Deep questioning, which probes to endless dole.Ah, what a dusty answer gets the soulWhen hot for certainties in this our life! -In tragic hints here see what evermoreMoves dark as yonder midnight ocean's force,Thundering like ramping hosts of warrior horse,To throw that faint thin fine upon the shore!
'Sirs! may I shake your hands?My countrymen, I see!I've lived in foreign landsTill England's Heaven to me.A hearty shake will do me good,And freshen up my sluggish blood.'
Into his hard right hand we struck,Gave the shake, and wish'd him luck.
'—From Austria I come,An English wife to win,And find an English home,And live and die therein.Great Lord! how many a year I've pinedTo drink old ale and speak my mind!'
Loud rang our laughter, and the shoutHills round the Meuse-boat echoed about.
'—Ay, no offence: laugh on,Young gentlemen: I'll join.Had you to exile gone,Where free speech is base coin,You'd sigh to see the jolly noseWhere Freedom's native liquor flows!'
He this time the laughter led,Dabbling his oily bullet head.
'—Give me, to suit my moods,An ale-house on a heath,I'll hand the crags and woodsTo B'elzebub beneath.A fig for scenery! what sceneCan beat a Jackass on a green?'
Gravely he seem'd, with gaze intense,Putting the question to common sense.
'—Why, there's the ale-house bench:The furze-flower shining round:And there's my waiting-wench,As lissome as a hound.With "hail Britannia!" ere I drink,I'll kiss her with an artful wink.'
Fair flash'd the foreign landscape whileWe breath'd again our native Isle.
'—The geese may swim hard-by;They gabble, and you talk:You're sure there's not a spyTo mark your name with chalk.My heart's an oak, and it won't growIn flower-pots, foreigners must know.'
Pensive he stood: then shook his headSadly; held out his fist, and said:
'—You've heard that Hungary's floor'd?They've got her on the ground.A traitor broke her sword:Two despots held her bound.I've seen her gasping her last hope:I've seen her sons strung up b' the rope.
'Nine gallant gentlemenIn Arad they strung up!I work'd in peace till then:-That poison'd all my cup.A smell of corpses haunted me:My nostril sniff'd like life for sea.
'Take money for my hireFrom butchers?—not the man!I've got some natural fire,And don't flash in the pan; -A few ideas I reveal'd:-'Twas well old England stood my shield!
'Said I, "The Lord of HostsHave mercy on your land!I see those dangling ghosts, -And you may keep command,And hang, and shoot, and have your day:They hold your bill, and you must pay.
'"You've sent them where they're strong,You carrion Double-Head!I hear them sound a gongIn Heaven above!"—I said."My God, what feathers won't you moultFor this!" says I: and then I bolt.
'The Bird's a beastly Bird,And what is more, a fool.I shake hands with the herdThat flock beneath his rule.They're kindly; and their land is fine.I thought it rarer once than mine.
'And rare would be its lot,But that he baulks its powers:It's just an earthen potFor hearts of oak like ours.Think! Think!—four days from those frontiers,And I'm a-head full fifty years.
'It tingles to your scalps,To think of it, my boys!Confusion on their Alps,And all their baby toys!The mountains Britain boasts are men:And scale you them, my brethren!'
Cluck, went his tongue; his fingers, snap.Britons were proved all heights to cap.
And we who worshipp'd crags,Where purple splendours burn'd,Our idol saw in rags,And right about were turn'd.Horizons rich with trembling spiresOn violet twilights lost their fires.
And heights where morning wakesWith one cheek over snow; -And iron-walled lakesWhere sits the white moon low; -For us on youthful travel bent,The robing picturesque was rent.
Wherever Beauty show'dThe wonders of her face,This man his Jackass rode,High despot of the place.
Fair dreams of our enchanted lifeFled fast from his shrill island fife.
And yet we liked him well;We laugh'd with honest hearts:-He shock'd some inner spell,And rous'd discordant parts.We echoed what we half abjured:And hating, smilingly endured.
Moreover, could we beTo our dear land disloyal?And were not also weOf History's blood-Royal?We glow'd to think how donkeys grazeIn England, thrilling at their brays.
For there a man may viewAn aspect more sublimeThan Alps against the blue:-The morning eyes of Time!The very Ass participatesThe glory Freedom radiates!
Captive on a foreign shore,Far from Ilion's hoary wave,Agamemnon's bridal slaveSpeaks Futurity no more:Death is busy with her grave.
Thick as water, bursts remoteRound her ears the alien din,While her little sullen chinFills the hollows of her throat:Silent lie her slaughter'd kin.
Once to many a pealing shriek,Lo, from Ilion's topmost tower,Ilion's fierce prophetic flowerCried the coming of the Greek!Black in Hades sits the hour.
Eyeing phantoms of the Past,Folded like a prophet's scroll,In the deep's long shoreward rollHere she sees the anchor cast:Backward moves her sunless soul.
Chieftains, brethren of her joy,Shades, the white light in their eyesSlanting to her lips, arise,Crowding quick the plains of Troy:Now they tell her not she lies.
O the bliss upon the plains,Where the joining heroes clashedShield and spear, and, unabashed,Challenged with hot chariot-reinsGods!—they glimmer ocean-washed.
Alien voices round the ships,Thick as water, shouting Home.Argives, pale as midnight foam,Wax before her awful lips:White as stars that front the gloom.
Like a torch-flame that by dayUp the daylight twists, and, pale,Catches air in leaps that fail,Crushed by the inveterate ray,Through her shines the Ten-Years' Tale.
Once to many a pealing shriek,Lo, from Ilion's topmost tower,Ilion's fierce prophetic flowerCried the coming of the Greek!Black in Hades sits the hour.
Still upon her sunless soulGleams the narrow hidden spaceForward, where her fiery raceFalters on its ashen goal:Still the Future strikes her face.
See toward the conqueror's carStep the purple Queen whose hateWraps red-armed her royal mateWith his Asian tempest-star:Now Cassandra views her Fate.
King of men! the blinded hostShout:- she lifts her brooding chin:Glad along the joyous dinSmiles the grand majestic ghost:Clytemnestra leads him in.
Lo, their smoky limbs aloof,Shadowing heaven and the seas,Fates and Furies, tangling Threes,Tear and mix above the roof:Fates and fierce Eumenides.
Is the prophetess with rodsBeaten, that she writhes in air?With the Gods who never spare,Wrestling with the unsparing Gods,Lone, her body struggles there.
Like the snaky torch-flame white,Levelled as aloft it twists,She, her soaring arms, and wristsDrooping, struggles with the light,Helios, bright above all mists!
In his orb she sees the tower,Dusk against its flaming rims,Where of old her wretched limbsTwisted with the stolen power:Ilium all the lustre dims!
O the bliss upon the plains,Where the joining heroes clashedShield and spear, and, unabashed,Challenged with hot chariot-reinsGods!—they glimmer ocean-washed.
Thrice the Sun-god's name she calls;Shrieks the deed that shames the sky;Like a fountain leaping high,Falling as a fountain falls:Lo, the blazing wheels go by!
Captive on a foreign shore,Far from Ilion's hoary wave,Agamemnon's bridal slaveSpeaks Futurity no more:Death is busy with her grave.
On my darling's bosomHas dropped a living rosy bud,Fair as brilliant HesperAgainst the brimming flood.She handles him,She dandles him,She fondles him and eyes him:And if upon a tear he wakes,With many a kiss she dries him:She covets every move he makes,And never enough can prize him.Ah, the young Usurper!I yield my golden throne:Such angel bands attend his handsTo claim it for his own.
The old grey mother she thrummed on her knee:There is a rose that's ready;And which of the handsome young men shall it be?There's a rose that's ready for clipping.
My daughter, come hither, come hither to me:There is a rose that's ready;Come, point me your finger on him that you see:There's a rose that's ready for clipping.
O mother, my mother, it never can be:There is a rose that's ready;For I shall bring shame on the man marries me:There's a rose that's ready for clipping.
Now let your tongue be deep as the sea:There is a rose that's ready;And the man'll jump for you, right briskly will he:There's a rose that's ready for clipping.
Tall Margaret wept bitterly:There is a rose that's ready;And as her parent bade did she:There's a rose that's ready for clipping.
O the handsome young man dropped down on his knee:There is a rose that's ready;Pale Margaret gave him her hand, woe's me!There's a rose that's ready for clipping.
O mother, my mother, this thing I must say:There is a rose in the garden;Ere he lies on the breast where that other lay:And the bird sings over the roses.
Now, folly, my daughter, for men are men:There is a rose in the garden;You marry them blindfold, I tell you again:And the bird sings over the roses.
O mother, but when he kisses me!There is a rose in the garden;My child, 'tis which shall sweetest be!And the bird sings over the roses.
O mother, but when I awake in the morn!There is a rose in the garden;My child, you are his, and the ring is worn:And the bird sings over the roses.
Tall Margaret sighed and loosened a tress:There is a rose in the garden;Poor comfort she had of her comelinessAnd the bird sings over the roses.
My mother will sink if this thing be said:There is a rose in the garden;That my first betrothed came thrice to my bed;And the bird sings over the roses.
He died on my shoulder the third cold night:There is a rose in the garden;I dragged his body all through the moonlight:And the bird sings over the roses.
But when I came by my father's door:There is a rose in the garden;I fell in a lump on the stiff dead floor:And the bird sings over the roses.
O neither to heaven, nor yet to hell:There is a rose in the garden;Could I follow the lover I loved so well!And the bird sings over the roses.
The bridesmaids slept in their chambers apart:There is a rose that's ready;Tall Margaret walked with her thumping heart:There's a rose that's ready for clipping.
The frill of her nightgown below the left breast:There is a rose that's ready;Had fall'n like a cloud of the moonlighted West:There's a rose that's ready for clipping.
But where the West-cloud breaks to a star:There is a rose that's ready;Pale Margaret's breast showed a winding scar:There's a rose that's ready for clipping.
O few are the brides with such a sign!There is a rose that's ready;Though I went mad the fault was mine:There's a rose that's ready for clipping.
I must speak to him under this roof to-night:There is a rose that's ready;I shall burn to death if I speak in the light:There's a rose that's ready for clipping.
O my breast! I must strike you a bloodier wound:There is a rose that's ready;Than when I scored you red and swooned:There's a rose that's ready for clipping.
I will stab my honour under his eye:There is a rose that's ready;Though I bleed to the death, I shall let out the lie:There's a rose that's ready for clipping.
O happy my bridesmaids! white sleep is with you!There is a rose that's ready;Had he chosen among you he might sleep too!There's a rose that's ready for clipping.
O happy my bridesmaids! your breasts are clean:There is a rose that's ready;You carry no mark of what has been!There's a rose that's ready for clipping.
An hour before the chilly beam:Red rose and white in the garden;The bridegroom started out of a dream:And the bird sings over the roses.
He went to the door, and there espied:Red rose and white in the garden;The figure of his silent bride:And the bird sings over the roses.
He went to the door, and let her in:Red rose and white in the garden;Whiter looked she than a child of sin:And the bird sings over the roses.
She looked so white, she looked so sweet:Red rose and white in the garden;She looked so pure he fell at her feet:And the bird sings over the roses.
He fell at her feet with love and awe:Red rose and white in the garden;A stainless body of light he saw:And the bird sings over the roses.
O Margaret, say you are not of the dead!Red rose and white in the garden;My bride! by the angels at night are you led?And the bird sings over the roses.
I am not led by the angels about:Red rose and white in the garden;But I have a devil within to let out:And the bird sings over the roses.
O Margaret! my bride and saint!Red rose and white in the garden;There is on you no earthly taint:And the bird sings over the roses.
I am no saint, and no bride can I be:Red rose and while in the garden;Until I have opened my bosom to thee:And the bird sings over the roses.
To catch at her heart she laid one hand:Red rose and white in the garden;She told the tale where she did stand:And the bird sings over the roses.
She stood before him pale and tall:Red rose and white in the garden;Her eyes between his, she told him all:And the bird sings over the roses.
She saw how her body grow freckled and foul:Red rose and white in the garden;She heard from the woods the hooting owl:And the bird sings over the roses.
With never a quiver her mouth did speak:Red rose and white in the garden;O when she had done she stood so meek!And the bird sings over the roses.
The bridegroom stamped and called her vile:Red rose and white in the garden;He did but waken a little smile:And the bird sings over the roses.
The bridegroom raged and called her foul:Red rose and white in the garden;She heard from the woods the hooting owl:And the bird sings over the roses.
He muttered a name full bitter and sore:Red rose and white in the garden;She fell in a lump on the still dead floor:And the bird sings over the roses.
O great was the wonder, and loud the wail:Red rose and white in the garden;When through the household flew the tale:And the bird sings over the roses.
The old grey mother she dressed the bier:Red rose and white in the garden;With a shivering chin and never a tear:And the bird sings over the roses.
O had you but done as I bade you, my child!Red rose and white in the garden;You would not have died and been reviled:And the bird sings over the roses.
The bridegroom he hung at midnight by the bier:Red rose and white in the garden;He eyed the white girl thro' a dazzling tear:And the bird sings over the roses.
O had you been false as the women who stray:Red rose and white in the garden;You would not be now with the Angels of Day!And the bird sings over the roses.
She can be as wise as we,And wiser when she wishes;She can knit with cunning wit,And dress the homely dishes.She can flourish staff or pen,And deal a wound that lingers;She can talk the talk of men,And touch with thrilling fingers.
Match her ye across the sea,Natures fond and fiery;Ye who zest the turtle's nestWith the eagle's eyrie.Soft and loving is her soul,Swift and lofty soaring;Mixing with its dove-like dolePassionate adoring.
Such a she who'll match with me?In flying or pursuing,Subtle wiles are in her smilesTo set the world a-wooing.She is steadfast as a star,And yet the maddest maiden:She can wage a gallant war,And give the peace of Eden.
Night, like a dying mother,Eyes her young offspring, Day.The birds are dreamily piping.And O, my love, my darling!The night is life ebb'd away:Away beyond our reach!A sea that has cast us pale on the beach;Weeds with the weeds and the pebblesThat hear the lone tamarisk rooted in sandSwayWith the song of the sea to the land.