The wind went forth o’er land and seaLoud and free;Foaming waves leapt up to meet it,Stately pines bowed down to greet it;While the wailing seaAnd the forest’s murmured sighJoined the cryOf the wind that swept o’er land and sea.
The wind that blew upon the seaFierce and free,Cast the bark upon the shore,Whence it sailed the night beforeFull of hope and glee;And the cry of pain and deathWas but a breath,Through the wind that roared upon the sea.
The wind was whispering on the leaTenderly;But the white rose felt it pass,And the fragile stalks of grassShook with fear to seeAll her trembling petals shed,As it fled,So gently by,—the wind upon the lea.
Blow, thou wind, upon the seaFierce and free,And a gentler message send,Where frail flowers and grasses bend,On the sunny lea;For thy bidding still is one,Be it doneIn tenderness or wrath, on land or sea!
The King’s three daughters stood on the terrace,The hanging terrace, so broad and green,Which keeps the sea from the marble Palace,There was Princess May, and Princess Alice,And the youngest Princess, Gwendoline.
Sighed Princess May, “Will it last much longer,Time throbs so slow and my Heart so quick;And oh, how long is the day in dying;Weary am I of waiting and sighing,For Hope deferred makes the spirit sick.”
But Princess Gwendoline smiled and kissed her:-“Am I not sadder than you, my Sister?Expecting joy is a happy pain.The Future’s fathomless mine of treasures,All countless hordes of possible pleasures,Might bring their store to my feet in vain.”
Sighed Princess Alice as night grew nearer:-“So soon, so soon, is the daylight fled!And oh, how fast comes the dark to-morrow,Who hides, perhaps in her veil of sorrow,The terrible hour I wait and dread!”
But Princess Gwendoline kissed her, sighing,—“It is only Life that can fear dying;Possible loss means possible gain.Those who still dread, are not quite forsaken;But not to fear, because all is taken,Is the loneliest depth of human pain.”
While the grey mists of early dawnWere lingering round the hill,And the dew was still upon the flowers,And the earth lay calm and still,A wingèd Spirit came to meNoble, and radiant, and free.
Folding his blue and shining wings,He laid his hand on mine.I know not if I felt, or heardThe mystic word divine,Which woke the trembling air to sighs,And shone from out his starry eyes.
The word he spoke, within my heartStirred life unknown before,And cast a spell upon my soulTo chain it evermore;Making the cold dull earth look bright,And skies flame out in sapphire light.
When noon ruled from the heavens, and manThrough busy day toiled on,My Spirit drooped his shining wings;His radiant smile was gone;His voice had ceased, his grace had flown,His hand grew cold within my own.
Bitter, oh bitter tears, I wept,Yet still I held his hand,Hoping with vague unreasoning hope:I would not understandThat this pale Spirit never moreCould be what he had been before.
Could it be so? My heart stood still.Yet he was by my side.I strove; but my despair was vain;Vain, too, was love and pride.Could he have changed to me so soon?My day was only at its noon.
Now stars are rising one by one,Through the dim evening air;Near me a household Spirit waits,With tender loving care;He speaks and smiles, but never sings,Long since he lost his shining wings.
With thankful, true content, I knowThis is the better way;Is not a faithful spirit mine—Mine still—at close of day? . . .Yet will my foolish heart repineFor that bright morning dream of mine.
Nothing is our own: we hold our pleasuresJust a little while, ere they are fled:One by one life robs us of our treasures;Nothing is our own except our Dead.
They are ours, and hold in faithful keepingSafe for ever, all they took away.Cruel life can never stir that sleeping,Cruel time can never seize that prey.
Justice pales; truth fades; stars fall from Heaven;Human are the great whom we revere:No true crown of honour can be given,Till we place it on a funeral bier.
How the Children leave us: and no tracesLinger of that smiling angel band;Gone, for ever gone; and in their places,Weary men and anxious women stand.
Yet we have some little ones, still ours;They have kept the baby smile we know,Which we kissed one day and hid with flowers,On their dead white faces, long ago.
When our Joy is lost—and life will take it—Then no memory of the past remains;Save with some strange, cruel sting, to make itBitterness beyond all present pains.
Death, more tender-hearted, leaves to sorrowStill the radiant shadow, fond regret:We shall find, in some far, bright to-morrow,Joy that he has taken, living yet.
Is Love ours, and do we dream we know it,Bound with all our heart-strings, all our own?Any cold and cruel dawn may show it,Shattered, desecrated, overthrown.
Only the dead Hearts forsake us never;Death’s last kiss has been the mystic signConsecrating Love our own for ever,Crowning it eternal and divine.
So when Fate would fain besiege our city,Dim our gold, or make our flowers fall,Death the Angel, comes in love and pity,And to save our treasures, claims them all.
I will not let you say a Woman’s partMust be to give exclusive love alone;Dearest, although I love you so, my heartAnswers a thousand claims beside your own.
I love—what do I not love? earth and airFind space within my heart, and myriad thingsYou would not deign to heed, are cherished there,And vibrate on its very inmost strings.
I love the summer with her ebb and flowOf light, and warmth, and music that have nurstHer tender buds to blossoms . . . and you knowIt was in summer that I saw you first.
I love the winter dearly too, . . . but thenI owe it so much; on a winter’s day,Bleak, cold, and stormy, you returned again,When you had been those weary months away.
I love the Stars like friends; so many nightsI gazed at them, when you were far from me,Till I grew blind with tears . . . those far-off lightsCould watch you, whom I longed in vain to see.
I love the Flowers; happy hours lieShut up within their petals close and fast:You have forgotten, dear: but they and IKeep every fragment of the golden Past.
I love, too, to be loved; all loving praiseSeems like a crown upon my Life,—to makeIt better worth the giving, and to raiseStill nearer to your own the heart you take.
I love all good and noble souls;—I heardOne speak of you but lately, and for daysOnly to think of it, my soul was stirredIn tender memory of such generous praise.
I love all those who love you; all who oweComfort to you: and I can find regretEven for those poorer hearts who once could know,And once could love you, and can now forget.
Well, is my heart so narrow—I, who spareLove for all these? Do I not even holdMy favourite books in special tender care,And prize them as a miser does his gold?
The Poets that you used to read to meWhile summer twilights faded in the sky;But most of all I think Aurora Leigh,Because—because—do you remember why?
Will you be jealous? Did you guess beforeI loved so many things?—Still you the best:-Dearest, remember that I love you more,Oh, more a thousand times than all the rest!
FOUNDED ON AN OLD FRENCH LEGEND
The fettered Spirits lingerIn purgatorial pain,With penal fires effacingTheir last faint earthly stain,Which Life’s imperfect sorrowHad tried to cleanse in vain.
Yet on each feast of MaryTheir sorrow finds release,For the Great Archangel MichaelComes down and bids it cease;And the name of these brief respitesIs called “Our Lady’s Peace.”
Yet once—so runs the Legend—When the Archangel cameAnd all these holy spiritsRejoiced at Mary’s name;One voice alone was wailing,Still wailing on the same.
And though a great Te DeumThe happy echoes woke,This one discordant wailingThrough the sweet voices broke;So when St. Michael questioned,Thus the poor spirit spoke:-
“I am not cold or thankless,Although I still complain;I prize our Lady’s blessingAlthough it comes in vainTo still my bitter anguish,Or quench my ceaseless pain.
“On earth a heart that loved me,Still lives and mourns me there,And the shadow of his anguishIs more than I can bear;All the torment that I sufferIs the thought of his despair.
“The evening of my bridalDeath took my Life away;Not all Love’s passionate pleadingCould gain an hour’s delay.And he I left has sufferedA whole year since that day.
“If I could only see him,—If I could only goAnd speak one word of comfortAnd solace,—then, I knowHe would endure with patience,And strive against his woe.”
Thus the Archangel answered:-“Your time of pain is brief,And soon the peace of HeavenWill give you full relief;Yet if his earthly comfortSo much outweighs your grief,
“Then, through a special mercyI offer you this grace,—You may seek him who mourns youAnd look upon his face,And speak to him of comfortFor one short minute’s space.
“But when that time is ended,Return here, and remainA thousand years in torment,A thousand years in pain:Thus dearly must you purchaseThe comfort he will gain.”
* * *
The Lime-trees’ shade at eveningIs spreading broad and wide;Beneath their fragrant arches,Pace slowly, side by side,In low and tender converse,A Bridegroom and his Bride.
The night is calm and stilly,No other sound is thereExcept their happy voices:What is that cold bleak airThat passes through the Lime-treesAnd stirs the Bridegroom’s hair?
While one low cry of anguish,Like the last dying wailOf some dumb, hunted creature,Is borne upon the gale:-Why does the Bridegroom shudderAnd turn so deathly pale?
* * *
Near Purgatory’s entranceThe radiant Angels wait;It was the great St. MichaelWho closed that gloomy gate,When the poor wandering spiritCame back to meet her fate.
* * *
“Pass on,” thus spoke the Angel:”Heaven’s joy is deep and vast;Pass on, pass on, poor Spirit,For Heaven is yours at last;In that one minute’s anguishYour thousand years have passed.”
Can you open that ebony Casket?Look, this is the key: but stay,Those are only a few old lettersWhich I keep,—to burn some day.
Yes, that Locket is quaint and ancient;But leave it, dear, with the ring,And give me the little PortraitWhich hangs by a crimson string.
I have never opened that CasketSince, many long years ago,It was sent me back in angerBy one whom I used to know.
But I want you to see the Portrait:I wonder if you can traceA look of that smiling creatureLeft now in my faded face.
It was like me once; but rememberThe weary relentless years,And Life, with its fierce, brief Tempests,And its long, long rain of tears.
Is it strange to call it my Portrait?Nay, smile, dear, for well you may,To think of that radiant VisionAnd of what I am to-day.
With restless, yet confident longingHow those blue eyes seem to gazeInto deep and exhaustless Treasures,All hid in the coming days.
With that trust which leans on the Future,And counts on her promised store,Until she has taught us to trembleAnd hope,—but to trust no more.
How that young, light heart would have pitiedMe now—if her dreams had shownA quiet and weary womanWith all her illusions flown.
Yet I—who shall soon be resting,And have passed the hardest part,Can look back with a deeper pityOn that young unconscious heart.
It is strange; but Life’s currents drift usSo surely and swiftly on,That we scarcely notice the changes,And how many things are gone:
And forget, while to-day absorbs us,How old mysteries are unsealed;How the old, old ties are loosened,And the old, old wounds are healed.
And we say that our Life is fleetingLike a story that Time has told;But we fancy that we—we onlyAre just what we were of old.
So now and then it is wisdomTo gaze, as I do to-day,At a half-forgotten relicOf a Time that is passed away.
The very look of that Portrait,The Perfume that seems to clingTo those fragile and faded letters,And the Locket, and the Ring,
If they only stirred in my spiritForgotten pleasure and pain,—Why, memory is often bitter,And almost always in vain;
But the contrast of bygone hoursComes to rend a veil away,—And I marvel to see the strangerWho is living in me to-day.
The stars are gleaming;The maiden sleeps—What is she dreaming?For see—she weeps.By her side is an AngelWith folded wings;While the Maiden slumbersThe Angel sings:He sings of a Bridal,Of Love, of Pain,Of a heart to be given,—And all in vain;(See, her cheek is flushing,As if with pain;)He telleth of sorrow,Regrets and fears,And the few vain pleasuresWe buy with tears;And the bitter lessonWe learn from years.
The stars are gleamingUpon her brow:What is she dreamingSo calmly now?By her side is the AngelWith folded wings;She smiles in her slumberThe while he sings.He sings of a Bridal,Of Love divine;Of a heart to be laidOn a sacred shrine;Of a crown of glory,Where seraphs shine;Of the deep, long raptureThe chosen knowWho forsake for HeavenVain joys below,Who desire no pleasure,And fear no woe.
The Bells are ringing,The sun shines clear,The Choir is singing,The guests are here.Before the High AltarBehold the Bride;And a mournful AngelIs by her side.She smiles, all contentWith her chosen lot,—(Is her last night’s dreamingSo soon forgot?)And oh, may the AngelForsake her not!For on her small handThere glitters plainThe first sad linkOf a life-long chain;—And she needs his guidingThrough paths of pain.
Not a sound is heard in the Convent;The Vesper Chant is sung,The sick have all been tended,The poor nun’s toils are endedTill the Matin bell has rung.All is still, save the Clock, that is tickingSo loud in the frosty air,And the soft snow, falling as gentlyAs an answer to a prayer.But an Angel whispers, “Oh, Sister,You must rise from your bed to pray;In the silent, deserted chapel,You must kneel till the dawn of day;For, far on the desolate moorland,So dreary, and bleak, and white,There is one, all alone and helpless,In peril of death to-night.
“No sound on the moorland to guide him,No star in the murky air;And he thinks of his home and his loved onesWith the tenderness of despair;He has wandered for hours in the snow-drift,And he strives to stand in vain,And so lies down to dream of his childrenAnd never to rise again.Then kneel in the silent chapelTill the dawn of to-morrow’s sun,And ask of the Lord you worshipFor the life of that desolate one;And the smiling eyes of his childrenWill gladden his heart again,And the grateful tears of God’s poor onesWill fall on your soul like rain!—
“Yet, leave him alone to perish,And the grace of your God implore,With all the strength of your spirit,For one who needs it more.Far away, in the gleaming city,Amid perfume, and song, and light,A soul that Jesus has ransomedIs in peril of sin to-night.
“The Tempter is close beside him,And his danger is all forgot,And the far-off voices of childhoodCall aloud, but he hears them not;He sayeth no prayer, and his mother—He thinks not of her to-day,And he will not look up to Heaven,And his Angel is turning away.
“Then pray for a soul in peril,A soul for which Jesus died;Ask, by the cross that bore Him,And by her who stood beside;And the Angels of God will thank you,And bend from their thrones of light,To tell you that Heaven rejoicesAt the deed you have done to-night.”
Hark! the Hours are softly calling,Bidding Spring arise,To listen to the raindrops fallingFrom the cloudy skies,To listen to Earth’s weary voices,Louder every day,Bidding her no longer lingerOn her charmèd way;But hasten to her task of beautyScarcely yet begun;By the first bright day of summerIt should all be done.She has yet to loose the fountainFrom its iron chain;And to make the barren mountainGreen and bright again;She must clear the snow that lingersRound the stalks awayAnd let the snowdrop’s trembling whitenessSee the light of day.She must watch, and warm, and cherishEvery blade of green;Till the tender grass appearingFrom the earth is seen;She must bring the golden crocusFrom her hidden store;She must spread broad showers of daisiesEach day more and more.In each hedgerow she must hastenCowslips sweet to set;Primroses in rich profusion,With bright dewdrops wet,And under every leaf, in shadowHide a Violet!Every tree within the forestMust be decked anewAnd the tender buds of promiseShould be peeping through,Folded deep, and almost hidden,Leaf by leaf beside,What will make the Summer’s glory,And the Autumn’s pride.She must weave the loveliest carpets,Chequered sun and shade,Every wood must have such pathwaysLaid in every glade;She must hang laburnum branchesOn each archèd bough;—And the white and purple lilacShould be waving now;She must breathe, and cold winds vanishAt her breath away;And then load the air around herWith the scent of May!Listen then, Oh Spring! nor lingerOn thy charmèd way;Have pity on thy prisoned flowersWearying for the day.Listen to the raindrops fallingFrom the cloudy skies;Listen to the hours callingBidding thee arise.
The shadows of the evening hoursFall from the darkening sky;Upon the fragrance of the flowersThe dews of evening lie:Before Thy throne, O Lord of Heaven,We kneel at close of day;Look on Thy children from on high,And hear us while we pray.
The sorrows of Thy Servants, Lord,Oh, do not Thou despise;But let the incense of our prayersBefore Thy mercy rise;The brightness of the coming nightUpon the darkness rolls:With hopes of future glory chaseThe shadows on our souls.
Slowly the rays of daylight fade;So fade within our heart,The hopes in earthly love and joy,That one by one depart:Slowly the bright stars, one by one,Within the Heavens shine;—Give us, Oh, Lord, fresh hopes in Heaven,And trust in things divine.
Let peace, Oh Lord, Thy peace, Oh God,Upon our souls descend;From midnight fears and perils, ThouOur trembling hearts defend;Give us a respite from our toil,Calm and subdue our woes;Through the long day we suffer, Lord,Oh, give us now repose!
In the outer Court I was singing,Was singing the whole day long;From the inner chamber were ringingEchoes repeating my song.
And I sang till it grew immortal;For that very song of mine,When re-echoed behind the Portal,Was filled with a life divine.
Was the Chamber a silver roundOf arches, whose magical artDrew in coils of musical sound,And cast them back on my heart?
Was there hidden within a lyreWhich, as air breathed over its strings,Filled my song with a soul of fire,And sent back my words with wings?
Was some seraph imprisoned there,Whose voice made my song complete,And whose lingering, soft despair,Made the echo so faint and sweet?
Long I trembled and paused—then partedThe curtains with heavy fringe;And, half fearing, yet eager-heartedTurned the door on its golden hinge.
Now I sing in the court once more,I sing and I weep all day,As I kneel by the close-shut door,For I know what the echoes say.
Yet I sing not the song of old,Ere I knew whence the echo came,Ere I opened the door of gold;But the music sounds just the same.
Then take warning, and turn awayDo not ask of that hidden thing,Do not guess what the echoes say,Or the meaning of what I sing.
I.
A trinket made like a Heart, dear,Of red gold, bright and fine,Was given to me for a keepsake,Given to me for mine.
And another heart, warm and tender,As true as a heart could be;And every throb that stirred itWas always and all for me.
Sailing over the waters,Watching the far blue land,I dropped my golden heart, dear,Dropped it out of my hand!
It lies in the cold blue waters,Fathoms and fathoms deep,The golden heart which I promised,Promised to prize and keep.
Gazing at Life’s bright visions,So false, and fair, and new,I forgot the other heart, dear,Forgot it and lost it too!
I might seek that heart for ever,I might seek and seek in vain;—And for one short, careless hour,I pay with a life of pain.
II.
The Heart?—Yes I wore itAs sign and as tokenOf a love that once gave it,A vow that was spoken;But a love, and a vow, and a heartCan be broken.
The Love?—Life and DeathAre crushed into a day,So what wonder that LoveShould as soon pass away—What wonder I saw itFade, fail, and decay.
The Vow?—why what was it,It snapped like a thread:Who cares for the corpseWhen the spirit is fled?Then I said, “Let the Dead riseAnd bury its dead,
“While the true, living futureGrows pure, wise, and strong”So I cast the gold heart,I had worn for so long,In the Lake, and bound on itA Stone—and a Wrong!
III.
Look, this little golden HeartWas a true-love shrineFor a tress of hair; I held them,Heart and tress, as mine,Like the Love which gave the tokenSee to-day the Heart is broken!
Broken is the golden heart,Lost the tress of hair;Ah, the shrine is empty, vacant,Desolate, and bare!So the token should depart,When Love dies within the heart.
Fast and deep the river floweth,Floweth to the west;I will cast the golden trinketIn its cold dark breast,—Flow, oh river, deep and fast,Over all the buried past!
Deep within my heart of hearts, dear,Bound with all its strings,Two Loves are together reigningBoth are crowned like Kings;While my life, still uncomplaining,Rests beneath their wings.
So they both will rule my heart, dear,Till it cease to beat;No sway can be deeper, stronger,Truer, more complete;Growing, as it lasts the longer,Sweeter, and more sweet.
One all life and time transfigures,Piercing through and throughMeaner things with magic splendour,Old, yet ever new:This,—so strong and yet so tender,—Is . . . my Love for you.
Should it fail,—forgive my doubtingIn this world of pain,—Yet my other Love would everSteadfastly remain;And I know that I could neverTurn to that in vain.
Though its radiance may be fainter,Yet its task is wide;For it lives to comfort sorrows,Strengthen, calm, and guide,And from Trust and Honour borrowsAll its peace and pride.
Will you blame my dreaming evenIf the first were flown?Ah, I would not live without it,It is all your own:And the other—can you doubt it?—Yours, and yours alone.
Well—the links are broken,All is past;This farewell, when spoken,Is the last.I have tried and strivenAll in vain;Such bonds must be riven,Spite of pain,And never, never, neverKnit again.
So I tell you plainly,It must be:I shall try, not vainly,To be free;Truer, happier chancesWait me yet,While you, through fresh fancies,Can forget;—And life has nobler usesThan Regret.
All past words retracing,One by one,Does not help effacingWhat is done.Let it be. Oh, strongerLinks can break!Had we dreamed still longerWe could wake,—Yet let us part in kindnessFor Love’s sake.
Bitterness and sorrowWill at last,In some bright to-morrow,Heal their past;But future hearts will neverBe as trueAs mine was—is ever,Dear, for you . . .. . . Then must we part, when lovingAs we do?
“Linger,” I cried, “oh radiant Time! thy powerHas nothing more to give; life is complete:Let but the perfect Present, hour by hour,Itself remember and itself repeat.
“And Love,—the future can but mar its splendour,Change can but dim the glory of its youth;Time has no star more faithful or more tender,To crown its constancy or light its truth.”
But Time passed on in spite of prayer or pleading,Through storm and peril; but that life might gainA Peace through strife all other peace exceeding,Fresh joy from sorrow, and new hope from pain.
And since Love lived when all save Love was dying,And, passed through fire, grew stronger than before:-Dear, you know why, in double faith relying,I prize the Past much, but the Present more.
I wonder did you ever countThe value of one human fate;Or sum the infinite amountOf one heart’s treasures, and the weightOf Life’s one venture, and the whole concentrate purpose of a soul.
And if you ever paused to thinkThat all this in your hands I laidWithout a fear:- did you not shrinkFrom such a burthen? half afraid,Half wishing that you could divide the risk, or cast it all aside.
While Love has daily perils, suchAs none foresee and none control;And hearts are strung so that one touch,Careless or rough, may jar the whole,You well might feel afraid to reign with absolute power of joy and pain.
You well might fear—if Love’s sole claimWere to be happy: but true LoveTakes joy as solace, not as aim,And looks beyond, and looks above;And sometimes through the bitterest strife first learns to live her highest life.
Earth forges joy into a chainTill fettered Love forgets its strength,Its purpose, and its end;—but PainRestores its heritage at length,And bids Love rise again and be eternal, mighty, pure, and free.
If then your future life should needA strength my Love can only gainThrough suffering, or my heart be freedOnly by sorrow, from some stain—Then you shall give, and I will take, this Crown of fire for Love’s dear sake.
Sept. 8th, 1860.