Dust are our frames; and gilded dust, our prideLooks only for a moment whole and sound;Like that long-buried body of the king,Found lying with his urns and ornaments,Which at a touch of light, an air of heaven,Slipt into ashes and was found no more.Here is a story which in rougher shapeCame from a grizzled cripple, whom I sawSunning himself in a waste field alone—Old, and a mine of memories—who had served,Long since, a bygone Rector of the place,And been himself a part of what he told.Sir Aylmer Aylmer that almighty man,The county God—in whose capacious hall,Hung with a hundred shields, the family treeSprang from the midriff of a prostrate king—Whose blazing wyvern weathercock'd the spire,Stood from his walls and wing'd his entry-gatesAnd swang besides on many a windy sign—Whose eyes from under a pyramidal headSaw from his windows nothing save his own—What lovelier of his own had he than her,His only child, his Edith, whom he lovedAs heiress and not heir regretfully?But 'he that marries her marries her name'This fiat somewhat soothed himself and wife,His wife a faded beauty of the Baths,Insipid as the Queen upon a card;Her all of thought and bearing hardly moreThan his own shadow in a sickly sun.A land of hops and poppy-mingled corn,Little about it stirring save a brook!A sleepy land where under the same wheelThe same old rut would deepen year by year;Where almost all the village had one name;Where Aylmer follow'd Aylmer at the HallAnd Averill Averill at the RectoryThrice over; so that Rectory and Hall,Bound in an immemorial intimacy,Were open to each other; tho' to dreamThat Love could bind them closer well had madeThe hoar hair of the Baronet bristle upWith horror, worse than had he heard his priestPreach an inverted scripture, sons of menDaughters of God; so sleepy was the land.And might not Averill, had he will'd it so,Somewhere beneath his own low range of roofs,Have also set his many-shielded tree?There was an Aylmer-Averill marriage once,When the red rose was redder than itself,And York's white rose as red as Lancaster's,With wounded peace which each had prick'd to death.'Not proven' Averill said, or laughingly'Some other race of Averills'—prov'n or no,What cared he? what, if other or the same?He lean'd not on his fathers but himself.But Leolin, his brother, living oftWith Averill, and a year or two beforeCall'd to the bar, but ever call'd awayBy one low voice to one dear neighborhood,Would often, in his walks with Edith, claimA distant kinship to the gracious bloodThat shook the heart of Edith hearing him.Sanguine he was: a but less vivid hueThan of that islet in the chestnut-bloomFlamed his cheek; and eager eyes, that stillTook joyful note of all things joyful, beam'd,Beneath a manelike mass of rolling gold,Their best and brightest, when they dwelt on hers.Edith, whose pensive beauty, perfect else,But subject to the season or the mood,Shone like a mystic star between the lessAnd greater glory varying to and fro,We know not wherefore; bounteously made,And yet so finely, that a troublous touchThinn'd, or would seem to thin her in a day,A joyous to dilate, as toward the light.And these had been together from the first.Leolin's first nurse was, five years after, hers:So much the boy foreran; but when his dateDoubled her own, for want of playmates, he(Since Averill was a decad and a halfHis elder, and their parents underground)Had tost his ball and flown his kite, and roll'dHis hoop to pleasure Edith, with her diptAgainst the rush of the air in the prone swing,Made blossom-ball or daisy-chain, arrangedHer garden, sow'd her name and kept it greenIn living letters, told her fairy-tales,Show'd here the fairy footings on the grass,The little dells of cowslip, fairy palms,The petty marestail forest, fairy pines,Or from the tiny pitted target blewWhat look'd a flight of fairy arrows aim'dAll at one mark, all hitting: make-believesFor Edith and himself: or else he forged,But that was later, boyish historiesOf battle, bold adventure, dungeon, wreck,Flights, terrors, sudden rescues, and true loveCrown'd after trial; sketches rude and faint,But where a passion yet unborn perhapsLay hidden as the music of the moonSleeps in the plain eggs of the nightingale.And thus together, save for college-timesOr Temple-eaten terms, a couple, fairAs ever painter painted, poet sang,Or Heav'n in lavish bounty moulded, grew.And more and more, the maiden woman-grown,He wasted hours with Averill; there, when firstThe tented winter-field was broken upInto that phalanx of the summer spearsThat soon should wear the garland; there againWhen burr and bine were gather'd; lastly thereAt Christmas; ever welcome at the Hall,On whose dull sameness his full tide of youthBroke with a phosphorescence cheering evenMy lady; and the Baronet yet had laidNo bar between them: dull and self-involved,Tall and erect, but bending from his heightWith half-allowing smiles for all the world,And mighty courteous in the main—his prideLay deeper than to wear it as his ring—He, like an Aylmer in his Aylmerism,Would care no more for Leolin's walking with herThan for his old Newfoundland's, when they ranTo loose him at the stables, for he roseTwofooted at the limit of his chain,Roaring to make a third: and how should Love,Whom the cross-lightnings of four chance-met eyesFlash into fiery life from nothing, followSuch dear familiarities of dawn?Seldom, but when he does, Master of all.So these young hearts not knowing that they loved,Not she at least, nor conscious of a barBetween them, nor by plight or broken ringBound, but an immemorial intimacy,Wander'd at will, but oft accompaniedBy Averill: his, a brother's love, that hungWith wings of brooding shelter o'er her peace,Might have been other, save for Leolin's—Who knows? but so they wander'd, hour by hourGather'd the blossom that rebloom'd, and drankThe magic cup that fill'd itself anew.A whisper half reveal'd her to herself.For out beyond her lodges, where the brookVocal, with here and there a silence, ranBy sallowy rims, arose the laborers' homes,A frequent haunt of Edith, on low knollsThat dimpling died into each other, hutsAt random scatter'd, each a nest in bloom.Her art, her hand, her counsel all had wroughtAbout them: here was one that, summer-blanch'd,Was parcel-bearded with the traveller's-joyIn Autumn, parcel ivy-clad; and hereThe warm-blue breathings of a hidden hearthBroke from a bower of vine and honeysuckle:One look'd all rosetree, and another woreA close-set robe of jasmine sown with stars:This had a rosy sea of gillyflowersAbout it; this, a milky-way on earth,Like visions in the Northern dreamer's heavens,A lily-avenue climbing to the doors;One, almost to the martin-haunted eavesA summer burial deep in hollyhocks;Each, its own charm; and Edith's everywhere;And Edith ever visitant with him,He but less loved than Edith, of her poor:For she—so lowly-lovely and so loving,Queenly responsive when the loyal handRose from the clay it work'd in as she past,Not sowing hedgerow texts and passing by,Nor dealing goodly counsel from a heightThat makes the lowest hate it, but a voiceOf comfort and an open hand of help,A splendid presence flattering the poor roofsRevered as theirs, but kindlier than themselvesTo ailing wife or wailing infancyOr old bedridden palsy,—was adored;He, loved for her and for himself. A graspHaving the warmth and muscle of the heart,A childly way with children, and a laughRinging like proved golden coinage true,Were no false passport to that easy realm,Where once with Leolin at her side the girl,Nursing a child, and turning to the warmthThe tender pink five-beaded baby-soles,Heard the good mother softly whisper 'Bless,God bless 'em; marriages are made in Heaven.'A flash of semi-jealousy clear'd it to her.My Lady's Indian kinsman unannouncedWith half a score of swarthy faces came.His own, tho' keen and bold and soldierly,Sear'd by the close ecliptic, was not fair;Fairer his talk, a tongue that ruled the hour,Tho' seeming boastful: so when first he dash'dInto the chronicle of a deedful day,Sir Aylmer half forgot his lazy smileOf patron 'Good! my lady's kinsman! good!'My lady with her fingers interlock'd,And rotatory thumbs on silken knees,Call'd all her vital spirits into each earTo listen: unawares they flitted off,Busying themselves about the flowerageThat stood from our a stiff brocade in which,The meteor of a splendid season, she,Once with this kinsman, ah so long ago,Stept thro' the stately minuet of those days:But Edith's eager fancy hurried with himSnatch'd thro' the perilous passes of his life:Till Leolin ever watchful of her eyeHated him with a momentary hate.Wife-hunting, as the rumor ran, was he:I know not, for he spoke not, only shower'dHis oriental gifts on everyoneAnd most on Edith: like a storm he came,And shook the house, and like a storm he went.Among the gifts he left her (possiblyHe flow'd and ebb'd uncertain, to returnWhen others had been tested) there was one,A dagger, in rich sheath with jewels on itSprinkled about in gold that branch'd itselfFine as ice-ferns on January panesMade by a breath. I know not whence at first,Nor of what race, the work; but as he toldThe story, storming a hill-fort of thievesHe got it; for their captain after fight,His comrades having fought their last below,Was climbing up the valley; at whom he shot:Down from the beetling crag to which he clungTumbled the tawny rascal at his feet,This dagger with him, which when now admiredBy Edith whom his pleasure was to please,At once the costly Sahib yielded it to her.And Leolin, coming after he was gone,Tost over all her presents petulantly:And when she show'd the wealthy scabbard, saying'Look what a lovely piece of workmanship!'Slight was his answer 'Well—I care not for it:'Then playing with the blade he prick'd his hand,'A gracious gift to give a lady, this!''But would it be more gracious' ask'd the girl'Were I to give this gift of his to oneThat is no lady?' 'Gracious? No' said he.'Me?—but I cared not for it. O pardon me,I seem to be ungraciousness itself.''Take it' she added sweetly 'tho' his gift;For I am more ungracious ev'n than you,I care not for it either;' and he said'Why then I love it:' but Sir Aylmer past,And neither loved nor liked the thing he heard.The next day came a neighbor. Blues and redsThey talk'd of: blues were sure of it, he thought:Then of the latest fox—where started—kill'dIn such a bottom: 'Peter had the brush,My Peter, first:' and did Sir Aylmer knowThat great pock-pitten fellow had been caught?Then made his pleasure echo, hand to hand,And rolling as it were the substance of itBetween his palms a moment up and down—'The birds were warm, the birds were warm upon him;We have him now:' and had Sir Aylmer heard—Nay, but he must—the land was ringing of it—This blacksmith-border marriage—one they knew—Raw from the nursery—who could trust a child?That cursed France with her egalities!And did Sir Aylmer (deferentiallyWith nearing chair and lower'd accent) think—For people talk'd—that it was wholly wiseTo let that handsome fellow Averill walkSo freely with his daughter? people talk'd—The boy might get a notion into him;The girl might be entangled ere she knew.Sir Aylmer Aylmer slowly stiffening spoke:'The girl and boy, Sir, know their differences!''Good' said his friend 'but watch!' and he 'enough,More than enough, Sir! I can guard my own.'They parted, and Sir Aylmer Aylmer watch'd.Pale, for on her the thunders of the houseHad fallen first, was Edith that same night;Pale as the Jeptha's daughter, a rough pieceOf early rigid color, under whichWithdrawing by the counter door to thatWhich Leolin open'd, she cast back upon himA piteous glance, and vanish'd. He, as oneCaught in a burst of unexpected storm,And pelted with outrageous epithets,Turning beheld the Powers of the HouseOn either side the hearth, indignant; her,Cooling her false cheek with a featherfan,Him glaring, by his own stale devil spurr'd,And, like a beast hard-ridden, breathing hard.'Ungenerous, dishonorable, base,Presumptuous! trusted as he was with her,The sole succeeder to their wealth, their lands,The last remaining pillar of their house,The one transmitter of their ancient name,Their child.' 'Our child!' 'Our heiress!' 'Ours!' forstill,Like echoes from beyond a hollow, cameHer sicklier iteration. Last he said'Boy, mark me! for your fortunes are to make.I swear you shall not make them out of mine.Now inasmuch as you have practised on her,Perplext her, made her half forget herself,Swerve from her duty to herself and us—Things in an Aylmer deem'd impossible,Far as we track ourselves—I say that this,—Else I withdraw favor and countenanceFrom you and yours for ever—shall you do.Sir, when you see her—but you shall not see her—No, you shall write, and not to her, but me:And you shall say that having spoken with me,And after look'd into yourself, you findThat you meant nothing—as indeed you knowThat you meant nothing. Such as match as this!Impossible, prodigious!' These were words,As meted by his measure of himself,Arguing boundless forbearance: after which,And Leolin's horror-stricken answer, 'ISo foul a traitor to myself and her,Never oh never,' for about as longAs the wind-hover hangs in the balance, pausedSir Aylmer reddening from the storm within,Then broke all bonds of courtesy, and crying'Boy, should I find you by my doors again,My men shall lash you from the like a dog;Hence!' with a sudden execration droveThe footstool from before him, and arose;So, stammering 'scoundrel' out of teeth that groundAs in a dreadful dream, while Leolin stillRetreated half-aghast, the fierce old manFollow'd, and under his own lintel stoodStorming with lifted hands, a hoary faceMeet for the reverence of the hearth, but now,Beneath a pale and unimpassion'd moon,Vext with unworthy madness, and deform'd.Slowly and conscious of the rageful eyeThat watch'd him, till he heard the ponderous doorClose, crashing with long echoes thro' the land,Went Leolin; then, his passions all in floodAnd masters of his motion, furiouslyDown thro' the bright lawns to his brother's ran,And foam'd away his heart at Averill's ear:Whom Averill solaced as he might, amazed:The man was his, had been his father's, friend:He must have seen, himself had seen it long;He must have known, himself had known: besides,He never yet had set his daughter forthHere in the woman-markets of the west,Where our Caucasians let themselves be sold.Some one, he thought, had slander'd Leolin to him.'Brother, for I have loved you more as a sonThan brother, let me tell you: I myself—What is their pretty saying? jilted is it?Jilted I was: I say it for your peace.Pain'd, and, as bearing in myself the shameThe woman should have borne, humiliated,I lived for years a stunted sunless life;Till after our good parents past awayWatching your growth, I seem'd again to grow.Leolin, I almost sin in envying you:The very whitest lamb in all my foldLoves you: I know her: the worst thought she hasIs whiter even than her pretty hand:She must prove true: for, brother, where two fightThe strongest wins, and truth and love are strength,And you are happy: let her parents be.'But Leolin cried out the more upon them—Insolent, brainless, heartless! heiress, wealth,Their wealth, their heiress! wealth enough was theirsFor twenty matches. Were he lord of this,Why, twenty boys and girls should marry on it,And forty blest ones bless him, and himselfBe wealthy still, ay wealthier. He believedThis filthy marriage-hindering Mammon madeThe harlot of the cities: nature crostWas mother of the foul adulteriesThat saturate soul with body. Name, too! name,Their ancient name! they MIGHT be proud; its worthWas being Edith's. Ah, how pale she had look'dDarling, to-night! they must have rated herBeyond all tolerance. These old pheasant-lords,These partridge-breeders of a thousand years,Who had mildew'd in their thousands, doing nothingSince Egbert—why, the greater their disgrace!Fall back upon a name! rest, rot in that!Not KEEP it noble, make it nobler? fools,With such a vantage-ground for nobleness!He had known a man, a quintessence of man,The life of all—who madly loved—and he,Thwarted by one of these old father-fools,Had rioted his life out, and made an end.He would not do it! her sweet face and faithHeld him from that: but he had powers, he knew it:Back would he to his studies, make a name,Name, fortune too: the world should ring of himTo shame these mouldy Aylmers in their graves:Chancellor, or what is greatest would he be—'O brother, I am grieved to learn your grief—Give me my fling, and let me say my say.'At which, like one that sees his own excess,And easily forgives it as his own,He laugh'd; and then was mute; but presentlyWept like a storm: and honest Averill seeingHow low his brother's mood had fallen, fetch'dHis richest beeswing from a binn reservedFor banquets, praised the waning red, and toldThe vintage—when THIS Aylmer came of age—Then drank and past it; till at length the two,Tho' Leolin flamed and fell again, agreedThat much allowance must be made for men.After an angry dream this kindlier glowFaded with morning, but his purpose held.Yet once by night again the lovers met,A perilous meeting under the tall pinesThat darken'd all the northward of her Hall.Him, to her meek and modest bosom prestIn agony, she promised that no force,Persuasion, no, nor death could alter her:He, passionately hopefuller, would go,Labor for his own Edith, and returnIn such a sunlight of prosperityHe should not be rejected. 'Write to me!They loved me, and because I love their childThey hate me: there is war between us, dear,Which breaks all bonds but ours; we must remainSacred to one another.' So they talk'd,Poor children, for their comfort: the wind blew;The rain of heaven, and their own bitter tears,Tears, and the careless rain of heaven, mixtUpon their faces, as they kiss'd each otherIn darkness, and above them roar'd the pine.So Leolin went; and as we task ourselvesTo learn a language known but smatteringlyIn phrases here and there at random, toil'dMastering the lawless science of our law,That codeless myriad of precedent,That wilderness of single instances,Thro' which a few, by wit or fortune led,May beat a pathway out to wealth and fame.The jests, that flash'd about the pleader's room,Lightning of the hour, the pun, the scurrilous tale,—Old scandals buried now seven decads deepIn other scandals that have lived and died,And left the living scandal that shall die—Were dead to him already; bent as he wasTo make disproof of scorn, and strong in hopes,And prodigal of all brain-labor he,Charier of sleep, and wine and exercise,Except when for a breathing-while at eve,Some niggard fraction of an hour, he ranBeside the river-bank: and then indeedHarder the times were, and the hands of powerWere bloodier, and the according hearts of menSeem'd harder too; but the soft river-breeze,Which fann'd the gardens of that rival roseYet fragrant in a heart rememberingHis former talks with Edith, on him breathedFar purelier in his rushings to and fro,After his books, to flush his blood with air,Then to his books again. My lady's cousin,Half-sickening of his pension'd afternoon,Drove in upon the student once or twice,Ran a Malayan muck against the times,Had golden hopes for France and all mankind,Answer'd all queries touching those at homeWith a heaved shoulder and a saucy smile,And fain had haled him out into the world,And air'd him there: his nearer friend would say'Screw not the chord too sharply lest it snap.'Then left alone he pluck'd her dagger forthFrom where his worldless heart had kept it warm,Kissing his vows upon it like a knight.And wrinkled benchers often talk'd of himApprovingly, and prophesied his rise:For heart, I think, help'd head: her letters too,Tho' far between, and coming fitfullyLike broken music, written as she foundOr made occasion, being strictly watch'd,Charm'd him thro' every labyrinth till he sawAn end, a hope, a light breaking upon him.But they that cast her spirit into flesh,Her worldy-wise begetters, plagued themselvesTo sell her, those good parents, for her good.Whatever eldest-born of rank or wealthMight lie within their compass, him they luredInto their net made pleasant by the baitsOf gold and beauty, wooing him to woo.So month by month the noise about their doors,And distant blaze of those dull banquets, madeThe nightly wirer of their innocent hareFalter before he took it. All in vain.Sullen, defiant, pitying, wroth, return'dLeolin's rejected rivals from their suitSo often, that the folly taking wingsSlipt o'er those lazy limits down the windWith rumor, and became in other fieldsA mockery to the yeomen over ale,And laughter to their lords: but those at home,As hunters round a hunted creature drawThe cordon close and closer toward the death,Narrow'd her goings out and comings in;Forbad her first the house of Averill,Then closed her access to the wealthiest farms,Last from her own home-circle of the poorThey barr'd her: yet she bore it: yet her cheekKept color: wondrous! but, O mystery!What amulet drew her down to that old oak,So old, that twenty years before, a partFalling had let appear the brand of John—Once grovelike, each huge arm a tree, but nowThe broken base of a black tower, a caveOf touchwood, with a single flourishing spray.There the manorial lord too curiouslyRaking in that millenial touchwood-dustFound for himself a bitter treasure-trove;Burst his own wyvern on the seal, and readWrithing a letter from his child, for whichCame at the moment Leolin's emissary,A crippled lad, and coming turn'd to fly,But scared with threats of jail and halter gaveTo him that fluster'd his poor parish witsThe letter which he brought, and swore besidesTo play their go-between as heretoforeNor let them know themselves betray'd, and then,Soul-stricken at their kindness to him, wentHating his own lean heart and miserable.Thenceforward oft from out a despot dreamPanting he woke, and oft as early as dawnAroused the black republic on his elms,Sweeping the frothfly from the fescue, brush'dThro' the dim meadow toward his treasure-trove,Seized it, took home, and to my lady, who madeA downward crescent of her minion mouth,Listless in all despondence, read; and tore,As if the living passion symbol'd thereWere living nerves to feel the rent; and burnt,Now chafing at his own great self defied,Now striking on huge stumbling-blocks of scornIn babyisms, and dear diminutivesScatter'd all over the vocabularyOf such a love as like a chidden babe,After much wailing, hush'd itself at lastHopeless of answer: then tho' Averill wroteAnd bad him with good heart sustain himself—All would be well—the lover heeded not,But passionately restless came and went,And rustling once at night about the place,There by a keeper shot at, slightly hurt,Raging return'd: nor was it well for herKept to the garden now, and grove of pines,Watch'd even there; and one was set to watchThe watcher, and Sir Aylmer watch'd them all,Yet bitterer from his readings: once indeed,Warm'd with his wines, or taking pride in her,She look'd so sweet, he kiss'd her tenderlyNot knowing what possess'd him: that one kissWas Leolin's one strong rival upon earth;Seconded, for my lady follow'd suit,Seem'd hope's returning rose: and then ensuedA Martin's summer of his faded love,Or ordeal by kindness; after thisHe seldom crost his child without a sneer;The mother flow'd in shallower acrimonies:Never one kindly smile, one kindly word:So that the gentle creature shut from allHer charitable use, and face to faceWith twenty months of silence, slowly lostNor greatly cared to lose, her hold on life.Last, some low fever ranging round to spyThe weakness of a people or a house,Like flies that haunt a wound, or deer, or men,Or almost all that is, hurting the hurt—Save Christ as we believe him—found the girlAnd flung her down upon a couch of fire,Where careless of the household faces near,And crying upon the name of Leolin,She, and with her the race of Aylmer, past.Star to star vibrates light: may soul to soulStrike thro' a finer element of her own?So,—from afar,—touch as at once? or whyThat night, that moment, when she named his name,Did the keen shriek 'yes love, yes Edith, yes,'Shrill, till the comrade of his chambers woke,And came upon him half-arisen from sleep,With a weird bright eye, sweating and trembling,His hair as it were crackling into flames,His body half flung forward in pursuit,And his long arms stretch'd as to grasp a flyer:Nor knew he wherefore he had made the cry;And being much befool'd and idiotedBy the rough amity of the other, sankAs into sleep again. The second day,My lady's Indian kinsman rushing in,A breaker of the bitter news from home,Found a dead man, a letter edged with deathBeside him, and the dagger which himselfGave Edith, reddn'd with no bandit's blood:'From Edith' was engraven on the blade.Then Averill went and gazed upon his death.And when he came again, his flock believed—Beholding how the years which are not Time'sHad blasted him—that many thousand daysWere clipt by horror from his term of life.Yet the sad mother, for the second deathScarce touch'd her thro' that nearness of the first,And being used to find her pastor texts,Sent to the harrow'd brother, praying himTo speak before the people of her child,And fixt the Sabbath. Darkly that day rose:Autumn's mock sunshine of the faded woodsWas all the life of it; for hard on these,A breathless burthen of low-folded heavensStifled and chill'd at once: but every roofSent out a listener: many too had knownEdith among the hamlets round, and sinceThe parents' harshness and the hapless lovesAnd double death were widely murmur'd, leftTheir own gray tower, or plain-faced tabernacle,To hear him; all in mourning these, and thoseWith blots of it about them, ribbon, gloveOr kerchief; while the church,—one night, exceptFor greenish glimmerings thro' the lancets,—madeStill paler the pale head of him, who tower'dAbove them, with his hopes in either grave.Long o'er his bent brows linger'd Averill,His face magnetic to the hand from whichLivid he pluck'd it forth, and labor'd thro'His brief prayer-prelude, gave the verse 'Behold,Your house is left unto you desolate!'But lapsed into so long a pause againAs half amazed half frighted all his flock:Then from his height and loneliness of griefBore down in flood, and dash'd his angry heartAgainst the desolations of the world.Never since our bad earth became one sea,Which rolling o'er the palaces of the proud,And all but those who knew the living God—Eight that were left to make a purer world—When since had flood, fire, earthquake, thunder wroughtSuch waste and havoc as the idolatries,Which from the low light of mortalityShot up their shadows to the Heaven of Heavens,And worshipt their own darkness as the Highest?'Gash thyself, priest, and honor thy brute Baal,And to thy worst self sacrifice thyself,For with thy worst self hast thou clothed thy God.'Then came a Lord in no wise like to Baal.The babe shall lead the lion. Surely nowThe wilderness shall blossom as the rose.Crown thyself, worm, and worship thine own lusts!—No coarse and blockish God of acreageStands at thy gate for thee to grovel to—Thy God is far diffused in noble grovesAnd princely halls, and farms, and flowing lawns,And heaps of living gold that daily grow,And title-scrolls and gorgeous heraldries.In such a shape dost thou behold thy God.Thou wilt not gash thy flesh for HIM; for thineFares richly, in fine linen, not a hairRuffled upon the scarfskin, even whileThe deathless ruler of thy dying houseIs wounded to the death that cannot die;And tho' thou numberest with the followersOf One who cried 'leave all and follow me.'Thee therefore with His light about thy feet,Thee with His message ringing in thine ears,Thee shall thy brother man, the Lord from Heaven,Born of a village girl, carpenter's son,Wonderful, Prince of peace, the Mighty God,Count the more base idolater of the two;Crueller: as not passing thro' the fireBodies, but souls—thy children's—thro' the smoke,The blight of low desires—darkening thine ownTo thine own likeness; or if one of these,Thy better born unhappily from thee,Should, as by miracle, grow straight and fair—Friends, I was bid to speak of such a oneBy those who most have cause to sorrow for her—Fairer than Rachel by the palmy well,Fairer than Ruth among the fields of corn,Fair as the Angel that said 'hail' she seem'd,Who entering fill'd the house with sudden light.For so mine own was brighten'd: where indeedThe roof so lowly but that beam of HeavenDawn'd sometime thro' the doorway? whose the babeToo ragged to be fondled on her lap,Warm'd at her bosom? The poor child of shame,The common care whom no one cared for, leaptTo greet her, wasting his forgotten heart,As with the mother he had never known,In gambols; for her fresh and innocent eyesHad such a star of morning in their blue,That all neglected places of the fieldBroke into nature's music when they saw her.Low was her voice, but won mysterious wayThro' the seal'd ear to which a louder oneWas all but silence—free of alms her hand—The hand that robed your cottage-walls with flowersHas often toil'd to clothe your little ones;How often placed upon the sick man's browCool'd it, or laid his feverous pillow smooth!Had you one sorrow and she shared it not?One burthen and she would not lighten it?One spiritual doubt she did not soothe?Or when some heat of difference sparkled out,How sweetly would she glide between your wraths,And steal you from each other! for she walk'dWearing the light yoke of that Lord of love,Who still'd the rolling wave of Galilee!And one—of him I was not bid to speak—Was always with her, whom you also knew.Him too you loved, for he was worthy love.And these had been together from the first;They might have been together till the last.Friends, this frail bark of ours, when sorely tried,May wreck itself without the pilot's guilt,Without the captain's knowledge: hope with me.Whose shame is that, if he went hence with shame?Nor mine the fault, if losing both of theseI cry to vacant chairs and widow'd walls,"My house is left unto me desolate."While thus he spoke, his hearers wept; but some,Sons of the glebe, with other frowns than thoseThat knit themselves for summer shadow, scowl'dAt their great lord. He, when it seem'd he sawNo pale sheet-lightnings from afar, but fork'dOf the near storm, and aiming at his head,Sat anger-charm'd from sorrow, soldierlike,Erect: but when the preacher's cadence flow'dSoftening thro' all the gentle attributesOf his lost child, the wife, who watch'd his face,Paled at a sudden twitch of his iron mouth;And 'O pray God that he hold up' she thought'Or surely I shall shame myself and him.''Nor yours the blame—for who beside your hearthsCan take her place—if echoing me you cry"Our house is left unto us desolate?"But thou, O thou that killest, hadst thou known,O thou that stonest, hadst thou understoodThe things belonging to thy peace and ours!Is there no prophet but the voice that callsDoom upon kings, or in the waste 'Repent'?Is not our own child on the narrow way,Who down to those that saunter in the broadCries 'come up hither,' as a prophet to us?Is there no stoning save with flint and rock?Yes, as the dead we weep for testify—No desolation but by sword and fire?Yes, as your moanings witness, and myselfAm lonelier, darker, earthlier for my loss.Give me your prayers, for he is past your prayers,Not past the living fount of pity in Heaven.But I that thought myself long-suffering, meek,Exceeding "poor in spirit"—how the wordsHave twisted back upon themselves, and meanVileness, we are grown so proud—I wish'd my voiceA rushing tempest of the wrath of GodTo blow these sacrifices thro' the world—Sent like the twelve-divided concubineTo inflame the tribes: but there—out yonder—earthLightens from her own central Hell—O thereThe red fruit of an old idolatry—The heads of chiefs and princes fall so fast,They cling together in the ghastly sack—The land all shambles—naked marriagesFlash from the bridge, and ever-murder'd France,By shores that darken with the gathering wolf,Runs in a river of blood to the sick sea.Is this a time to madden madness then?Was this a time for these to flaunt their pride?May Pharaoh's darkness, folds as dense as thoseWhich hid the Holiest from the people's eyesEre the great death, shroud this great sin from all:Doubtless our narrow world must canvass it:O rather pray for those and pity them,Who thro' their own desire accomplish'd bringTheir own gray hairs with sorrow to the grave—Who broke the bond which they desired to break,Which else had link'd their race with times to come—Who wove coarse webs to snare her purity,Grossly contriving their dear daughter's good—Poor souls, and knew not what they did, but satIgnorant, devising their own daughter's death!May not that earthly chastisement suffice?Have not our love and reverence left them bare?Will not another take their heritage?Will there be children's laughter in their hallFor ever and for ever, or one stoneLeft on another, or is it a light thingThat I their guest, their host, their ancient friend,I made by these the last of all my raceMust cry to these the last of theirs, as criedChrist ere His agony to those that sworeNot by the temple but the gold, and madeTheir own traditions God, and slew the Lord,And left their memories a world's curse—"Behold,Your house is left unto you desolate?"'Ended he had not, but she brook'd no more:Long since her heart had beat remorselessly,Her crampt-up sorrow pain'd her, and a senseOf meanness in her unresisting life.Then their eyes vext her; for on enteringHe had cast the curtains of their seat aside—Black velvet of the costliest—she herselfHad seen to that: fain had she closed them now,Yet dared not stir to do it, only near'dHer husband inch by inch, but when she laid,Wifelike, her hand in one of his, he veil'dHis face with the other, and at once, as fallsA creeper when the prop is broken, fellThe woman shrieking at his feet, and swoon'd.Then her own people bore along the naveHer pendent hands, and narrow meagre faceSeam'd with the shallow cares of fifty years:And here the Lord of all the landscape roundEv'n to its last horizon, and of allWho peer'd at him so keenly, follow'd outTall and erect, but in the middle aisleReel'd, as a footsore ox in crowded waysStumbling across the market to his death,Unpitied; for he groped as blind, and seem'dAlways about to fall, grasping the pewsAnd oaken finials till he touch'd the door;Yet to the lychgate, where his chariot stood,Strode from the porch, tall and erect again.But nevermore did either pass the gateSave under pall with bearers. In one month,Thro' weary and yet wearier hours,The childless mother went to seek her child;And when he felt the silence of his houseAbout him, and the change and not the change,And those fixt eyes of painted ancestorsStaring for ever from their gilded wallsOn him their last descendant, his own headBegan to droop, to fall; the man becameImbecile; his one word was 'desolate';Dead for two years before his death was he;But when the second Christmas came, escapedHis keepers, and the silence which he felt,To find a deeper in the narrow gloomBy wife and child; nor wanted at his endThe dark retinue reverencing deathAt golden thresholds; nor from tender hearts,And those who sorrow'd o'er a vanish'd race,Pity, the violet on the tyrant's grave.Then the great Hall was wholly broken down,And the broad woodland parcell'd into farms;And where the two contrived their daughter's good,Lies the hawk's cast, the mole has made his run,The hedgehog underneath the plaintain bores,The rabbit fondles his own harmless face,The slow-worm creeps, and the thin weasel thereFollows the mouse, and all is open field.
A city clerk, but gently born and bred;His wife, an unknown artist's orphan child—One babe was theirs, a Margaret, three years old:They, thinking that her clear germander eyeDroopt in the giant-factoried city-gloom,Came, with a month's leave given them, to the sea:For which his gains were dock'd, however small:Small were his gains, and hard his work; besides,Their slender household fortunes (for the manHad risk'd his little) like the little thrift,Trembled in perilous places o'er a deep:And oft, when sitting all alone, his faceWould darken, as he cursed his credulousness,And that one unctuous mount which lured him, rogue,To buy strange shares in some Peruvian mine.Now seaward-bound for health they gain'd a coast,All sand and cliff and deep-inrunning cave,At close of day; slept, woke, and went the next,The Sabbath, pious variers from the church,To chapel; where a heated pulpiteer,Not preaching simple Christ to simple men,Announced the coming doom, and fulminatedAgainst the scarlet woman and her creed:For sideways up he swung his arms, and shriek'd'Thus, thus with violence,' ev'n as if he heldThe Apocalyptic millstone, and himselfWere that great Angel; 'Thus with violenceShall Babylon be cast into the sea;Then comes the close.' The gentle-hearted wifeSat shuddering at the ruin of a world;He at his own: but when the wordy stormHad ended, forth they came and paced the shore,Ran in and out the long sea-framing caves,Drank the large air, and saw, but scarce believed(The sootflake of so many a summer stillClung to their fancies) that they saw, the sea.So now on sand they walk'd, and now on cliff,Lingering about the thymy promontories,Till all the sails were darken'd in the west,And rosed in the east: then homeward and to bed:Where she, who kept a tender Christian hopeHaunting a holy text, and still to thatReturning, as the bird returns, at night,'Let not the sun go down upon your wrath,'Said, 'Love, forgive him:' but he did not speak;And silenced by that silence lay the wife,Remembering her dear Lord who died for all,And musing on the little lives of men,And how they mar this little by their feuds.But while the two were sleeping, a full tideRose with ground-swell, which, on the foremost rocksTouching, upjetted in spirts of wild sea-smoke,And scaled in sheets of wasteful foam, and fellIn vast sea-cataracts—ever and anonDead claps of thunder from within the cliffsHeard thro' the living roar. At this the babe,Their Margaret cradled near them, wail'd and wokeThe mother, and the father suddenly cried,'A wreck, a wreck!' then turn'd, and groaning said,'Forgive! How many will say, "forgive," and findA sort of absolution in the soundTo hate a little longer! No; the sinThat neither God nor man can well forgive,Hypocrisy, I saw it in him at once.Is it so true that second thoughts are best?Not first, and third, which are a riper first?Too ripe, too late! they come too late for use.Ah love, there surely lives in man and beastSomething divine to warn them of their foes:And such a sense, when first I fronted him,Said, "trust him not;" but after, when I cameTo know him more, I lost it, knew him less;Fought with what seem'd my own uncharity;Sat at his table; drank his costly wines;Made more and more allowance for his talk;Went further, fool! and trusted him with all,All my poor scrapings from a dozen yearsOf dust and deskwork: there is no such mine,None; but a gulf of ruin, swallowing gold,Not making. Ruin'd! ruin'd! the sea roarsRuin: a fearful night!''Not fearful; fair,'Said the good wife, 'if every star in heavenCan make it fair: you do but bear the tide.Had you ill dreams?''O yes,' he said, 'I dream'dOf such a tide swelling toward the land,And I from out the boundless outer deepSwept with it to the shore, and enter'd oneOf those dark caves that run beneath the cliffs.I thought the motion of the boundless deepBore through the cave, and I was heaved upon itIn darkness: then I saw one lovely starLarger and larger. "What a world," I thought,"To live in!" but in moving I foundOnly the landward exit of the cave,Bright with the sun upon the stream beyond:And near the light a giant woman sat,All over earthy, like a piece of earth,A pickaxe in her hand: then out I sliptInto a land all of sun and blossom, treesAs high as heaven, and every bird that sings:And here the night-light flickering in my eyesAwoke me.''That was then your dream,' she said,'Not sad, but sweet.''So sweet, I lay,' said he,'And mused upon it, drifting up the streamIn fancy, till I slept again, and piecedThe broken vision; for I dream'd that stillThe motion of the great deep bore me on,And that the woman walk'd upon the brink:I wonder'd at her strength, and ask'd her of it:"It came," she said, "by working in the mines:"O then to ask her of my shares, I thought;And ask'd; but not a word; she shook her head.And then the motion of the current ceased,And there was rolling thunder; and we reach'dA mountain, like a wall of burs and thorns;But she with her strong feet up the steep hillTrod out a path: I follow'd; and at topShe pointed seaward: there a fleet of glass,That seem'd a fleet of jewels under me,Sailing along before a gloomy cloudThat not one moment ceased to thunder, pastIn sunshine: right across its track there lay,Down in the water, a long reef of gold,Or what seem'd gold: and I was glad at firstTo think that in our often-ransack'd worldStill so much gold was left; and then I fear'dLest the gay navy there should splinter on it,And fearing waved my arm to warn them off;An idle signal, for the brittle fleet(I thought I could have died to save it) near'd,Touch'd, clink'd, and clash'd, and vanish'd, and I woke,I heard the clash so clearly. Now I seeMy dream was Life; the woman honest Work;And my poor venture but a fleet of glassWreck'd on a reef of visionary gold.''Nay,' said the kindly wife to comfort him,'You raised your arm, you tumbled down and brokeThe glass with little Margaret's medicine it it;And, breaking that, you made and broke your dream:A trifle makes a dream, a trifle breaks.''No trifle,' groan'd the husband; 'yesterdayI met him suddenly in the street, and ask'dThat which I ask'd the woman in my dream.Like her, he shook his head. "Show me the books!"He dodged me with a long and loose account."The books, the books!" but he, he could not wait,Bound on a matter he of life and death:When the great Books (see Daniel seven and ten)Were open'd, I should find he meant me well;And then began to bloat himself, and oozeAll over with the fat affectionate smileThat makes the widow lean. "My dearest friend,Have faith, have faith! We live by faith," said he;"And all things work together for the goodOf those"—it makes me sick to quote him—lastGript my hand hard, and with God-bless-you went.I stood like one that had received a blow:I found a hard friend in his loose accounts,A loose one in the hard grip of his hand,A curse in his God-bless-you: then my eyesPursued him down the street, and far away,Among the honest shoulders of the crowd,Read rascal in the motions of his back,And scoundrel in the supple-sliding knee.''Was he so bound, poor soul?' said the good wife;'So are we all: but do not call him, love,Before you prove him, rogue, and proved, forgive.His gain is loss; for he that wrongs his friendWrongs himself more, and ever bears aboutA silent court of justice in his breast,Himself the judge and jury, and himselfThe prisoner at the bar, ever condemn'd:And that drags down his life: then comes what comesHereafter: and he meant, he said he meant,Perhaps he meant, or partly meant, you well.''"With all his conscience and one eye askew"—Love, let me quote these lines, that you may learnA man is likewise counsel for himself,Too often, in that silent court of yours—"With all his conscience and one eye askew,So false, he partly took himself for true;Whose pious talk, when most his heart was dry,Made wet the crafty crowsfoot round his eye;Who, never naming God except for gain,So never took that useful name in vain;Made Him his catspaw and the Cross his tool,And Christ the bait to trap his dupe and fool;Nor deeds of gift, but gifts of grace he forged,And snakelike slimed his victim ere he gorged;And oft at Bible meetings, o'er the restArising, did his holy oily best,Dropping the too rough H in Hell and Heaven,To spread the Word by which himself had thriven."How like you this old satire?''Nay,' she said'I loathe it: he had never kindly heart,Nor ever cared to better his own kind,Who first wrote satire, with no pity in it.But will you hear MY dream, for I had oneThat altogether went to music? StillIt awed me.'Then she told it, having dream'dOf that same coast.—But round the North, a light,A belt, it seem'd, of luminous vapor, lay,And ever in it a low musical noteSwell'd up and died; and, as it swell'd, a ridgeOf breaker issued from the belt, and stillGrew with the growing note, and when the noteHad reach'd a thunderous fullness, on those cliffsBroke, mixt with awful light (the same as thatLiving within the belt) whereby she sawThat all those lines of cliffs were cliffs no more,But huge cathedral fronts of every age,Grave, florid, stern, as far as eye could see.One after one: and then the great ridge drew,Lessening to the lessening music, back,And past into the belt and swell'd againSlowly to music: ever when it brokeThe statues, king or saint, or founder fell;Then from the gaps and chasms of ruin leftCame men and women in dark clusters round,Some crying, "Set them up! they shall not fall!"And others "Let them lie, for they have fall'n."And still they strove and wrangled: and she grievedIn her strange dream, she knew not why, to findTheir wildest wailings never out of tuneWith that sweet note; and ever as their shrieksRan highest up the gamut, that great waveReturning, while none mark'd it, on the crowdBroke, mixt with awful light, and show'd their eyesGlaring, and passionate looks, and swept awayThe men of flesh and blood, and men of stone,To the waste deeps together.'Then I fixtMy wistful eyes on two fair images,Both crown'd with stars and high among the stars,—The Virgin Mother standing with her childHigh up on one of those dark minster-fronts—Till she began to totter, and the childClung to the mother, and sent out a cryWhich mixt with little Margaret's, and I woke,And my dream awed me:—well—but what are dreams?Yours came but from the breaking of a glass,And mine but from the crying of a child.''Child? No!' said he, 'but this tide's roar, and his,Our Boanerges with his threats of doom,And loud-lung'd Antibabylonianisms(Altho' I grant but little music there)Went both to make your dream: but if there wereA music harmonizing our wild cries,Sphere-music such as that you dream'd about,Why, that would make our passions far too likeThe discords dear to the musician. No—One shriek of hate would jar all the hymns of heaven:True Devils with no ear, they howl in tuneWith nothing but the Devil!''"True" indeed!One of our town, but later by an hourHere than ourselves, spoke with me on the shore;While you were running down the sands, and madeThe dimpled flounce of the sea-furbelow flap,Good man, to please the child. She brought strange news.Why were you silent when I spoke to-night?I had set my heart on your forgiving himBefore you knew. We MUST forgive the dead.''Dead! who is dead?''The man your eye pursued.A little after you had parted with him,He suddenly dropt dead of heart-disease.''Dead? he? of heart-disease? what heart had heTo die of? dead!''Ah, dearest, if there beA devil in man, there is an angel too,And if he did that wrong you charge him with,His angel broke his heart. But your rough voice(You spoke so loud) has roused the child again.Sleep, little birdie, sleep! will she not sleepWithout her "little birdie?" well then, sleep,And I will sing you "birdie."'Saying this,The woman half turn'd round from him she loved,Left him one hand, and reaching thro' the nightHer other, found (for it was close beside)And half embraced the basket cradle-headWith one soft arm, which, like the pliant boughThat moving moves the nest and nestling, sway'dThe cradle, while she sang this baby song.What does the little birdie sayIn her nest at peep of day?Let me fly, says little birdie,Mother, let me fly away.Birdie, rest a little longer,Till the little wings are stronger.So she rests a little longer,Then she flies away.What does little baby say,In her bed at peep of day?Baby says, like little birdie,Let me rise and fly away.Baby, sleep a little longer,Till the little limbs are stronger.If she sleeps a little longer,Baby too shall fly away.'She sleeps: let us too, let all evil, sleep.He also sleeps—another sleep than ours.He can do no more wrong: forgive him, dear,And I shall sleep the sounder!'Then the man,'His deeds yet live, the worst is yet to come.Yet let your sleep for this one night be sound:I do forgive him!''Thanks, my love,' she said,'Your own will be the sweeter,' and they slept.