Just when the red June Roses blowShe gave me one,—a year ago.A Rose whose crimson breath revealedThe secret that its heart concealed,And whose half shy, half tender graceBlushed back upon the giver’s face.A year ago—a year ago—To hope was not to know.
Just when the red June Roses blowI plucked her one,—a month ago:Its half-blown crimson to eclipse,I laid it on her smiling lips;The balmy fragrance of the southDrew sweetness from her sweeter mouth.Swiftly do golden hours creep,—To hold is not to keep.
The red June Roses now are past,This very day I broke the last—And now its perfumed breath is hid,With her, beneath a coffin-lid;There will its petals fall apart,And wither on her icy heart:-At three red Roses’ costMy world was gained and lost.
I.
You write and think of me, my friend, with pity;While you are basking in the light of Rome,Shut up within the heart of this great city,Too busy and too poor to leave my home.
II.
You think my life debarred all rest or pleasure,Chained all day to my ledger and my pen;Too sickly even to use my little leisureTo bear me from the strife and din of men.
III.
Well, it is true; yet, now the days are longer,At sunset I can lay my writing down,And slowly crawl (summer has made me stronger)Just to the nearest outskirt of the town.
IV.
There a wide Common, blackened though and drearyWith factory smoke, spreads outward to the West;I lie down on the parched-up grass, if weary,Or lean against a broken wall to rest.
V.
So might a King, turning to Art’s rich treasure,At evening, when the cares of state were done,Enter his royal gallery, drinking pleasureSlowly from each great picture, one by one.
VI.
Towards the West I turn my weary spirit,And watch my pictures: one each night is mine.Earth and my soul, sick of day’s toil, inheritA portion of that luminous peace divine.
VII.
There I have seen a sunset’s crimson glory,Burn as if earth were one great Altar’s blaze;Or, like the closing of a piteous story,Light up the misty world with dying rays.
VIII.
There I have seen the Clouds, in pomp and splendour,Their gold and purple banners all unfurl;There I have watched colours, more faint and tenderThan pure and delicate tints upon a pearl.
IX.
Skies strewn with roses fading, fading slowly,While one star trembling watched the daylight die;Or deep in gloom a sunset, hidden wholly,Save through gold rents torn in a violet sky.
X.
Or parted clouds, as if asunder rivenBy some great angel—and beyond a spaceOf far-off tranquil light; the gates of HeavenWill lead us grandly to as calm a place.
XI.
Or stern dark walls of cloudy mountain rangesHid all the wonders that we knew must be;While, far on high, some little white clouds changes’Revealed the glory they alone could see.
XII.
Or in wild wrath the affrighted clouds lay shattered,Like treasures of the lost Hesperides,All in a wealth of ruined splendour scattered,Save one strange light on distant silver seas.
XIII.
What land or time can claim the Master Painter,Whose art could teach him half such gorgeous dyes?Or skill so rare, but purer hues and fainterMelt every evening in my western skies.
XIV.
So there I wait, until the shade has lengthened,And night’s blue misty curtain floated down;Then, with my heart calmed, and my spirit strengthened,I crawl once more back to the sultry town.
XV.
What Monarch, then, has nobler recreationsThan mine? Or where the great and classic LandWhose wealth of Art delights the gathered nationsThat owns a Picture Gallery half as grand?
I had a Message to send her,To her whom my soul loved best;But I had my task to finish.And she was gone home to rest.
To rest in the far bright heaven:Oh, so far away from here,It was vain to speak to my darling,For I knew she could not hear!
I had a message to send her.So tender, and true, and sweet,I longed for an Angel to bear it,And lay it down at her feet.
I placed it, one summer evening,On a Cloudlet’s fleecy breast;But it faded in golden splendour,And died in the crimson west.
I gave it the Lark next morning,And I watched it soar and soar;But its pinions grew faint and weary,And it fluttered to earth once more.
To the heart of a Rose I told it;And the perfume, sweet and rare,Growing faint on the blue bright ether,Was lost in the balmy air.
I laid it upon a Censer,And I saw the incense rise;But its clouds of rolling silverCould not reach the far blue skies.
I cried, in my passionate longing:-“Has the earth no Angel-friendWho will carry my love the messageThat my heart desires to send?”
Then I heard a strain of music,So mighty, so pure, so clear,That my very sorrow was silent,And my heart stood still to hear.
And I felt, in my soul’s deep yearning,At last the sure answer stir:-“The music will go up to Heaven,And carry my thought to her.”
It rose in harmonious rushingOf mingled voices and strings.And I tenderly laid my messageOn the Music’s outspread wings.
I heard it float farther and farther,In sound more perfect than speech;Farther than sight can follow.Farther than soul can reach.
And I know that at last my messageHas passed through the golden gate:So my heart is no longer restless,And I am content to wait.
“Never again!” vow hearts when reunited,“Never again shall Love be cast aside;For ever now the shadow has departed;Nor bitter sorrow, veiled in scornful pride,Shall feign indifference, or affect disdain,—Never, oh Love, again, never again!”
“Never again!” so sobs, in broken accents,A soul laid prostrate at a holy shrine,—“Once more, once more forgive, oh Lord, and pardon,My wayward life shall bend to love divine;And never more shall sin its whiteness stain,—Never, oh God, again, never again!”
“Never again!” so speaketh one forsaken,In the blank desolate passion of despair,—“Never again shall the bright dream I cherishedDelude my heart, for bitter truth is there,—The angel, Hope, shall still thy cruel painNever again, my heart, never again!”
“Never again!” so speaks the sudden silence,When round the hearth gathers each well-known face,—But one is missing, and no future presence,However dear, can fill that vacant place;For ever shall the burning thought remain,—“Never, beloved, again! never again!”
“Never again!” so—but beyond our hearing—Ring out far voices fading up the sky;Never again shall earthly care and sorrowWeigh down the wings that bear those souls on high;Listen, oh earth, and hear that glorious strain,—“Never, never again! never again!”
Blue against the bluer HeavensStood the mountain, calm and still,Two white Angels, bending earthward,Leant upon the hill.
Listening leant those silent Angels,And I also longed to hearWhat sweet strain of earthly musicThus could charm their ear.
I heard the sound of many trumpetsIn a warlike march draw nigh;Solemnly a mighty armyPassed in order by.
But the clang had ceased; the echoesSoon had faded from the hill;While the Angels, calm and earnest,Leant and listened still.
Then I heard a fainter clamour,Forge and wheel were clashing nearAnd the Reapers in the meadowSinging loud and clear.
When the sunset came in glory,And the toil of day was o’er,Still the Angels leant in silence,Listening as before.
Then, as daylight slowly vanished,And the evening mists grew dim,Solemnly from distant voicesRose a vesper hymn.
When the chant was done, and lingeringDied upon the evening air,From the hill the radiant AngelsStill were listening there.
Silent came the gathering darkness,Bringing with it sleep and rest;Save a little bird was singingNear her leafy nest.
Through the sounds of war and labourShe had warbled all day long,While the Angels leant and listenedOnly to her song.
But the starry night was coming;When she ceased her little layFrom the mountain top the AngelsSlowly passed away.
Golden days—where are they?Pilgrims east and westCry; if we could find themWe would pause and rest:We would pause and rest a littleFrom our long and weary ways:-Where are they, then, where are they—Golden days?
Golden days—where are they?Ask of childhood’s years,Still untouched by sorrow,Still undimmed by tears:Ah, they seek a phantom Future,Crowned with brighter, starry rays;—Where are they, then, where are they—Golden days?
Golden days—where are they?Has Love learnt the spellThat will charm them hither,Near our hearth to dwell?Insecure are all her treasures,Restless is her anxious gaze:-Where are they, then, where are they—Golden days?
Golden days—where are they?Farther up the hillI can hear the echoFaintly calling still:Faintly calling, faintly dying,In a far-off misty haze:-Where are they, then, where are they—Golden days?
Lingering fade the rays of daylight, and the listening air is chilly;Voice of bird and forest murmur, insect hum and quivering sprayStir not in that quiet hour: through the valley, calm and stilly,All in hushed and loving silence watch the slow departing Day.
Till the last faint western cloudlet, faint and rosy, ceases blushing,And the blue grows deep and deeper where one trembling planet shines,And the day has gone for ever—then, like some great ocean rushing,The sad night wind wails lamenting, sobbing through the moaning pines.
Such, of all day’s changing hours, is the fittest and the meetestFor a farewell hour—and parting looks less bitter and more blest;Earth seems like a shrine for sorrow, Nature’s mother voice is sweetest,And her hand seems laid in chiding on the unquiet throbbing breast.
Words are lower, for the twilight seems rebuking sad repining,And wild murmur and rebellion, as all childish and in vain;Breaking through dark future hours clustering starry hopes seem shining,Then the calm and tender midnight folds her shadow round the pain.
So they paced the shady lime-walk in that twilight dim and holy,Still the last farewell deferring, she could hear or he should say;Every word, weighed down by sorrow, fell more tenderly and slowly—This, which now beheld their parting, should have been their wedding-day.
Should have been: her dreams of childhood, never straying, never faltering,Still had needed Philip’s image to make future life complete;Philip’s young hopes of ambition, ever changing, ever altering,Needed Mildred’s gentle presence even to make successes sweet.
This day should have seen their marriage; the calm crowning and assuranceOf two hearts, fulfilling rather, and not changing, either life:Now they must be rent asunder, and her heart must learn endurance,For he leaves their home, and enters on a world of work and strife.
But her gentle spirit long had learnt, unquestioning, submitting,To revere his youthful longings, and to marvel at the fateThat gave such a humble office, all unworthy and unfitting,To the genius of the village, who was born for something great.
When the learnèd Traveller came there who had gained renown at college,Whose abstruse research had won him even European fame,Questioned Philip, praised his genius, marvelled at his self-taught knowledge,Could she murmur if he called him up to London and to fame?
Could she waver when he bade her take the burden of decision,Since his troth to her was plighted, and his life was now her own?Could she doom him to inaction? could she, when a newborn visionRose in glory for his future, check it for her sake alone?
So her little trembling fingers, that had toiled with such fond pleasure,Paused, and laid aside, and folded the unfinished wedding gown;Faltering earnestly assurance, that she too could, in her measure,Prize for him the present honour, and the future’s sure renown.
Now they pace the shady lime-walk, now the last words must be spoken,Words of trust, for neither dreaded more than waiting and delay;Was not love still called eternal—could a plighted vow be broken?—See the crimson light of sunset fades in purple mist away.
“Yes, my Mildred,” Philip told her, “one calm thought of joy and blessing,Like a guardian spirit by me, through the world’s tumultuous stir,Still will spread its wings above me, and now urging, now repressing,With my Mildred’s voice will murmur thoughts of home, and love, and her.
“It will charm my peaceful leisure, sanctify my daily toiling,With a right none else possesses, touching my heart’s inmost string;And to keep its pure wings spotless I shall fly the world’s touch, soilingEven in thought this Angel Guardian of my Mildred’s Wedding Ring.
“Take it, dear; this little circlet is the first link, strong and holy,Of a life-long chain, and holds me from all other love apart;Till the day when you may wear it as my wife—my own—mine wholly—Let me know it rests for ever near the beating of your heart.”
Dawn of day saw Philip speeding on his road to the Great City,Thinking how the stars gazed downward just with Mildred’s patient eyes;Dreams of work, and fame, and honour struggling with a tender pity,Till the loving Past receding saw the conquering Future rise.
Daybreak still found Mildred watching, with the wonder of first sorrow,How the outward world unaltered shone the same this very day;How unpitying and relentless busy life met this new morrow,Earth, and sky, and man unheeding that her joy had passed away.
Then the round of weary duties, cold and formal, came to meet her,With the life within departed that had given them each a soul;And her sick heart even slighted gentle words that came to greet her;For Grief spread its shadowy pinions, like a blight, upon the whole.
Jar one chord, the harp is silent; move one stone, the arch is shattered;One small clarion-cry of sorrow bids an armèd host awake;One dark cloud can hide the sunlight; loose one string, the pearls are scattered;Think one thought, a soul may perish; say one word, a heart may break!
Life went on, the two lives running side by side; the outward seeming,And the truer and diviner hidden in the heart and brain;Dreams grow holy, put in action; work grows fair through starry dreaming;But where each flows on unmingling, both are fruitless and in vain.
Such was Mildred’s life; her dreaming lay in some far-distant region,All the fairer, all the brighter, that its glories were but guessed;And the daily round of duties seemed an unreal, airy legion—Nothing true save Philip’s letters and the ring upon her breast.
Letters telling how he struggled, for some plan or vision aiming,And at last how he just grasped it as a fresh one spread its wings;How the honour or the learning, once the climax, now were claiming,Only more and more, becoming merely steps to higher things.
Telling her of foreign countries: little store had she of learning,So her earnest, simple spirit answered as he touched the string;Day by day, to these bright fancies all her silent thoughts were turning,Seeing every radiant picture framed within her golden Ring.
Oh, poor heart—love, if thou willest; but, thine own soul still possessing,Live thy life: not a reflection or a shadow of his own:Lean as fondly, as completely, as thou willest—but confessingThat thy strength is God’s, and therefore can, if need be, stand alone.
Little means were there around her to make farther, wider ranges,Where her loving gentle spirit could try any stronger flight;And she turned aside, half fearing that fresh thoughts were fickle changes—That shemuststay as he left her on that farewell summer night.
Love should still be guide and leader, like a herald should have risen,Lighting up the long dark vistas, conquering all opposing fates;But new claims, new thoughts, new duties found her heart a silent prison,And found Love, with folded pinions, like a jailer by the gates.
Yet why blame her? it had needed greater strength than she was givenTo have gone against the current that so calmly flowed along;Nothing fresh came near the village save the rain and dew of heaven,And her nature was too passive, and her love perhaps too strong.
The great world of thought, that rushes down the years, and onward sweepingBears upon its mighty billows in its progress each and all,Flowed so far away, its murmur did not rouse them from their sleeping;Life and Time and Truth were speaking, but they did not hear their call.
Years flowed on; and every morning heard her prayer grow lower, deeper,As she called all blessings on him, and bade every ill depart,And each night when the cold moonlight shone upon that quiet sleeper,It would show her ring that glittered with each throbbing of her heart.
Years passed on. Fame came for Philip in a full, o’erflowing measure;He was spoken of and honoured through the breadth of many lands,And he wrote it all to Mildred, as if praise were only pleasure,As if fame were only honour, when he laid them in her hands.
Mildred heard it without wonder, as a sure result expected,For how could it fail, since merit and renown go side by side:And the neighbours who first fancied genius ought to be suspected,Might at last give up their caution, and could own him now with pride.
Years flowed on. These empty honours led to others they called better,He had saved some slender fortune, and might claim his bride at last:Mildred, grown so used to waiting, felt half startled by the letterThat now made her future certain, and would consecrate her past.
And he came: grown sterner, older—changed indeed: a grave relianceHad replaced his eager manner, and the quick short speech of old:He had gone forth with a spirit half of hope and half defiance;He returned with proud assurance half disdainful and half cold.
Yet his old self seemed returning while he stood sometimes, and listenedTo her calm soft voice, relating all the thoughts of these long years;And if Mildred’s heart was heavy, and at times her blue eyes glistened,Still in thought she would not whisper aught of sorrow or of fears.
Autumn with its golden corn-fields, autumn with its storms and showers,Had been there to greet his coming with its forests gold and brown;And the last leaves still were falling, fading still the year’s last flowers,When he left the quiet village, and took back his bride to town.
Home—the home that she had pictured many a time in twilight, dwellingOn that tender gentle fancy, folded round with loving care;Here was home—the end, the haven; and what spirit voice seemed telling,That she only held the casket, with the gem no longer there?
Sad it may be to be longing, with a patience faint and weary,For a hope deferred—and sadder still to see it fade and fall;Yet to grasp the thing we long for, and, with sorrow sick and dreary,Thento find how it can fail us, is the saddest pain of all.
What was wanting? He was gentle, kind, and generous still, deferringTo her wishes always; nothing seemed to mar their tranquil life:There are skies so calm and leaden that we long for storm-winds stirring,There is peace so cold and bitter, that we almost welcome strife.
Darker grew the clouds above her, and the slow conviction clearer,That he gave her home and pity, but that heart, and soul, and mindWere beyond her now; he loved her, and in youth he had been near her,But he now had gone far onward, and had left her there behind.
Yes, beyond her: yes, quick-hearted, her Love helped her in revealingIt was worthless, while so mighty; was too weak, although so strong;There were courts she could not enter; depths she could not sound; yet feelingIt was vain to strive or struggle, vainer still to mourn or long.
He would give her words of kindness, he would talk of home, but seemingWith an absent look, forgetting if he held or dropped her hand;And then turn with eager pleasure to his writing, reading, dreaming,Or to speak of things with others that she could not understand.
He had paid, and paid most nobly, all he owed; no need of blaming;It had cost him something, may be, that no future could restore:In her heart of hearts she knew it; Love and Sorrow, not complaining,Only suffered all the deeper, only loved him all the more.
Sometimes then a stronger anguish, and more cruel, weighed upon her,That through all those years of waiting, he had slowly learnt the truth;He had known himself mistaken, but that, bound to her in honour,He renounced his life, to pay her for the patience of her youth.
But a star was slowly rising from that mist of grief, and brighterGrew her eyes, for each slow hour surer comfort seemed to bring;And she watched with strange sad smiling, how her trembling hands grew slighter,And how thin her slender finger, and how large her wedding-ring.
And the tears dropped slowly on it, as she kissed that golden tokenWith a deeper love, it may be, than was in the far-off past;And remembering Philip’s fancy, that so long ago was spoken,Thought her Ring’s bright angel guardian had stayed near her to the last.
Grieving sorely, grieving truly, with a tender care and sorrow,Philip watched the slow, sure fading of his gentle, patient wife;Could he guess with what a yearning she was longing for the morrow,Could he guess the bitter knowledge that had wearied her of life?
Now with violets strewn upon her, Mildred lies in peaceful sleeping;All unbound her long, bright tresses, and her throbbing heart at rest,And the cold, blue rays of moonlight, through the open casement creeping,Show the ring upon her finger, and her hands crossed on her breast.
Peace at last. Of peace eternal is her calm sweet smile a token.Has some angel lingering near her let a radiant promise fall?Has he told her Heaven unites again the links that Earth has broken?For on Earth so much is needed, but in Heaven Love is all!
I. FROM “LAVATER.”
Trust him little who doth raiseTo one height both great and small,And sets the sacred crown of praise,Smiling, on the head of all.
Trust him less who looks aroundTo censure all with scornful eyes,And in everything has foundSomething that he dare despise.
But for one who stands apart,Stirred by nought that can befall,With a cold indifferent heart,—Trust him least and last of all.
II. FROM “PHANTASTES.”
I have a bitter Thought, a SnakeThat used to sting my life to pain.I strove to cast it far away,But every night and every dayIt crawled back to my heart again.
It was in vain to live or strive,To think or sleep, to work or pray;At last I bade this thine accursedGnaw at my heart, and do its worst,And so I let it have its way.
Thus said I, “I shall never fallInto a false and dreaming peace,And then awake, with sudden start,To feel it biting at my heart,For now the pain can never cease.”
But I gained more; for I have foundThat such a snake’s envenomed charmMust always, always find a part,Deep in the centre of my heart,Which it can never wound or harm.
It is coiled round my heart to-day.It sleeps at times, this cruel snake,And while it sleeps it never stings:-Hush! let us talk of other things,Lest it should hear me and awake.
III. FROM “LOST ALICE.”
Yes, dear, our Love is slain;In the cold grave for evermore it lies,Never to wake again,Or light our sorrow with its starry eyes;And so—regret is vain.
One hour of pain and dread,We killed our Love, we took its life awayWith the false words we said;And so we watch it, since that cruel day,Silent, and cold, and dead.
We should have seen it shineLong years beside us. Time and Death might tryTo touch that life divine,Whose strength could every other stroke defySave only thine and mine.
No longing can restoreOur dead again. Vain are the tears we weep,And vainly we deploreOur buried Love: its grave lies dark and deepBetween us evermore.
IV. FROM * * *
Within the kingdom of my SoulI bid you enter, Love, to-day;Submit my life to your control,And give my Heart up to your sway.
My Past, whose light and life is flown,Shall live through memory for you still;Take all my Present for your own,And mould my Future to your will.
One only thought remains apart,And will for ever so remain;There is one Chamber in my heartWhere even you might knock in vain.
A haunted Chamber:- long agoI closed it, and I cast the keyWhere deep and bitter waters flow,Into a vast and silent sea.
Dear, it is haunted. All the restIs yours; but I have shut that doorFor ever now. ’Tis even bestThat I should enter it no more.
No more. It is not well to stayWith ghosts; their very look would scareYour joyous, loving smile away—So never try to enter there.
Check, if you love me, all regretThat this one thought remains apart:-Now let us smile, dear, and forgetThe haunted Chamber in my Heart.
Thou hast done well to kneel and say,“Since He who gave can take away,And bid me suffer, I obey.”
And also well to tell thy heartThat good lies in the bitterest part,And thou wilt profit by her smart.
But bitter hours come to all:When even truths like these will pall,Sick hearts for humbler comfort call.
Then I would have thee strive to seeThat good and evil come to thee,As one of a great family.
And as material life is planned,That even the loneliest one must standDependent on his brother’s hand;
So links more subtle and more fineBind every other soul to thineIn one great brotherhood divine.
Nor with thy share of work be vexed;Though incomplete, and even perplex,It fits exactly to the next.
What seems so dark to thy dim sightMay be a shadow, seen aright,Making some brightness doubly bright.
The flash that struck thy tree,—no moreTo shelter thee,—lets Heaven’s blue floorShine where it never shone before.
Thy life that has been dropped asideInto Time’s stream, may stir the tide,In rippled circles spreading wide.
The cry wrung from thy spirit’s painMay echo on some far-off plain,And guide a wanderer home again.
Fail—yet rejoice; because no lessThe failure that makes thy distressMay teach another full success.
It may be that in some great needThy life’s poor fragments are decreedTo help build up a lofty deed.
Thy heart should throb in vast content,Thus knowing that it was but meantAs chord in one great instrument;
That even the discord in thy soulMay make completer music rollFrom out the great harmonious whole.
It may be, that when all is light,Deep set within that deep delightWill be to knowwhyall was right;
To hear life’s perfect music rise,And while it floods the happy skies,Thy feeble voice to recognise.
Then strive more gladly to fulfilThy little part. This darkness stillIs light to every loving will.
And trust,—as if already plain,How just thy share of loss and painIs for another fuller gain.
I dare not limit time or placeTouched by thy life: nor dare I traceIts far vibrations into space.
Oneonly knows. Yet if the fretOf thy weak heart, in weak regretNeeds a more tender comfort yet:
Then thou mayst take thy loneliest fears,The bitterest drops of all thy tears,The dreariest hours of all thy years;
And through thy anguish there outspread,May ask that God’s great love would shedBlessings on one belovèd head.
And thus thy soul shall learn to drawSweetness from out that loving lawThat sees no failure and no flaw,
Where all is good. And life is good,Were the one lesson understoodOf its most sacred brotherhood.
A little changeling spiritCrept to my arms one day:I had no heart or courageTo drive the child away.
So all day long I soothed her,And hushed her on my breast;And all night long her wailingWould never let me rest.
I dug a grave to hold her,A grave both dark and deep;I covered her with violets,And laid her there to sleep.
I used to go and watch there,Both night and morning too:-It was my tears, I fancy,That kept the violets blue.
I took her up: and once moreI felt the clinging hold,And heard the ceaseless wailingThat wearied me of old.
I wandered, and I wandered,With my burden on my breast,Till I saw a church-door open,And entered in to rest.
In the dim, dying daylight,Set in a flowery shrine,I saw the Virgin MotherHolding her Child divine.
I knelt down there in silence,And on the Altar-stoneI laid my wailing burden,And came away—alone.
And now that little spirit,That sobbed so all day long,Is grown a shining Angel,With wines both wide and strong.
She watches me from Heaven,With loving, tender care,And one day she has promisedThat I shall find her there.
Where the little babbling streamletFirst springs forth to light,Trickling through soft velvet mosses,Almost hid from sight;Vowed I with delight,—“River, I will follow thee,Through thy wanderings to the Sea!”
Gleaming ’mid the purple heather,Downward then it sped,Glancing through the mountain gorges,Like a silver thread,As it quicker fled,Louder music in its flow,Dashing to the Vale below.
Then its voice grew lower, gentler,And its pace less fleet,Just as though it loved to lingerRound the rushes’ feet,As they stooped to meetTheir clear images below,Broken by the ripples’ flow.
Purple Willow-herb bent overTo her shadow fair;Meadow-sweet, in feathery clusters,Perfumed all the air;Silver-weed was there,And in one calm, grassy spot,Starry, blue Forget-me-not.
Tangled weeds, below the waters,Still seemed drawn away;Yet the current, floating onward,Was less strong than they;—Sunbeams watched their play,With a flickering light and shade,Through the screen the Alders made.
Broader grew the flowing River;To its grassy brinkSlowly, in the slanting sun-rays,Cattle trooped to drink:The blue sky, I think,Was no bluer than that stream,Slipping onward, like a dream.
Quicker, deeper then it hurried,Rushing fierce and free;But I said, “It should grow calmerEre it meets the Sea,The wide purple Sea,Which I weary for in vain,Wasting all my toil and pain.”
But it rushed still quicker, fiercer,In its rocky bed,Hard and stony was the pathwayTo my tired tread;“I despair,” I said,“Of that wide and glorious SeaThat was promised unto me.”
So I turned aside, and wanderedThrough green meadows near,Far away, among the daisies,Far away, for fearLest I still should hearThe loud murmur of its song,As the River flowed along.
Now I hear it not:- I loiterGaily as before;Yet I sometimes think,—and thinkingMakes my heart so sore,—Just a few steps more,And there might have shone for me,Blue and infinite, the Sea.
I think if thou couldst know,Oh soul that will complain,What lies concealed belowOur burden and our pain;How just our anguish bringsNearer those longed-for thingsWe seek for now in vain,—I think thou wouldst rejoice, and not complain.
I think if thou couldst see,With thy dim mortal sight,How meanings, dark to thee,Are shadows hiding light;Truth’s efforts crossed and vexed,Life’s purpose all perplexed,—If thou couldst see them right,I think that they would seem all clear, and wise, and bright.
And yet thou canst not know,And yet thou canst not see;Wisdom and sight are slowIn poor humanity.If thou couldsttrust, poor soul,In Him who rules the whole,Thou wouldst find peace and rest:Wisdom and sight are well, but Trust is best.
If in the fight my arm was strong,And forced my foes to yield,If conquering and unhurt I cameBack from the battle-field—It is because thy prayers have beenMy safeguard and my shield.
My comrades smile to see my armSpare or protect a foe,They think thy gentle pleading voiceWas silenced long ago;But pity and compassion, love,Were taught me first by woe.
Thy heart, my own, still beats in HeavenWith the same love divineThat made thee stoop to such a soul,So hard, so stern, as mine—My eyes have learnt to weep, beloved,Since last they looked on thine.
I hear thee murmur words of peaceThrough the dim midnight air,And a calm falls from the angel starsAnd soothes my great despair—The Heavens themselves look brighter, love,Since thy sweet soul is there.
And if my heart is once more calm,My step is once more free,It is because each hour I feelThou prayest still for me;Because no fate or change can comeBetween my soul and thee.
It is because my heart is stilled.Not broken by despair,Because I see the grave is bright,And death itself is fair—I dread no more the wrath of Heaven—I have an angel there!
Dear, I tried to write you such a letterAs would tell you all my heart to-day.Written Love is poor; one word were better;Easier, too, a thousand times, to say.
I can tell you all: fears, doubts unheeding,While I can be near you, hold your hand,Looking right into your eyes, and readingReassurance that you understand.
Yet I wrote it through, then lingered, thinkingOf its reaching you,—what hour, what day;Till I felt my heart and courage sinkingWith a strange, new, wondering dismay.
“Will my letter fall,” I wondered sadly,“On her mood like some discordant tone,Or be welcomed tenderly and gladly?Will she be with others, or alone?
“It may find her too absorbed to read it,Save with hurried glance and careless air:Sad and weary, she may scarcely heed it;Gay and happy, she may hardly care.
“Shall I—dare I—risk the chances?” slowlySomething,—was it shyness, love, or pride?—Chilled my heart, and checked my courage wholly;So I laid it wistfully aside.
Then I leant against the casement, turningTearful eyes towards the far-off west,Where the golden evening light was burning,Till my heart throbbed back again to rest.
And I thought: “Love’s soul is not in fetters,Neither space nor time keep souls apart;Since I cannot—dare not—send my letters,Through the silence I will send my heart.
“If, perhaps now, while my tears are falling,She is dreaming quietly alone,She will hear my Love’s far echo calling,Feel my spirit drawing near her own.
“She will hear, while twilight shades enfold her,All the gathered Love she knows so well—Deepest Love my words have ever told her,Deeper still—all I could never tell.
“Wondering at the strange mysterious powerThat has touched her heart, then she will say:-‘Some one whom I love, this very hour,Thinks of me, and loves me, far away.’
“If, as well may be, to-night has found herFull of other thoughts, with others by,Through the words and claims that gather round herShe will hear just one, half-smothered sigh;
“Or will marvel why, without her seeking,Suddenly the thought of me recurs;Or, while listening to another speaking,Fancy that my hand is holding hers.”
So I dreamed, and watched the stars’ far splendourGlimmering on the azure darkness, start,—While the star of trust rose bright and tender,Through the twilight shadows of my heart.
I.
Will she come to me, little Effie,Will she come in my arms to rest,And nestle her head on my shoulder,While the sun goes down in the west?
II.
“I and Effie will sit together,All alone, in this great arm-chair:-Is it silly to mind it, darling,When Life is so hard to bear?
III.
“No one comforts me like my Effie,Just I think that she does not try,—Only looks with a wistful wonderWhy grown people should ever cry;
IV.
“While her little soft arms close tighterRound my neck in their clinging hold:-Well, I must not cry on your hair, dear,For my tears might tarnish the gold.
V.
“I am tired of trying to read, dear;It is worse to talk and seem gay:There are some kinds of sorrow, Effie,It is useless to thrust away.
VI.
“Ah, advice may be wise, my darling,But one always knows it before;And the reasoning down one’s sorrowSeems to make one suffer the more.
VII.
“But my Effie won’t reason, will she?Or endeavour to understand;Only holds up her mouth to kiss me,As she strokes my face with her hand.
VIII.
“If you break your plaything yourself, dear,Don’t you cry for it all the same?I don’t think it is such a comfort,One has only oneself to blame.
IX.
“People say things cannot be helped, dear,But then that is the reason why;For if things could be helped or altered,One would never sit down to cry:
X.
“They say, too, that tears are quite uselessTo undo, amend, or restore,—When I thinkhowuseless, my Effie,Then my tears only fall the more.
XI.
“All to-day I struggled against it;But that does not make sorrow cease;And now, dear, it is such a comfortTo be able to cry in peace.
XII.
“Though wise people would call that folly,And remonstrate with grave surprise;We won’t mind what they say, my Effie;—We never professed to be wise.
“But my comforter knows a lessonWiser, truer than all the rest:-That to help and to heal a sorrow,Love and silence are always best.
XIV.
“Well, who is my comforter—tell me?Effie smiles, but she will not speak;Or look up through the long curled lashesThat are shading her rosy cheek.
XV.
“Is she thinking of talking fishes,The blue bird, or magical tree?Perhaps I am thinking, my darling,Of something that never can be.
XVI.
“You long—don’t you, dear?—for the Genii,Who were slaves of lamps and of rings;And I—I am sometimes afraid, dear,—I want as impossible things.
XVII.
“But hark! there is Nurse calling Effie!It is bedtime, so run away;And I must go back, or the othersWill be wondering why I stay.
XVIII.
“So good-night to my darling Effie;Keep happy, sweetheart, and grow wise:-There’s one kiss for her golden tresses,And two for her sleepy eyes.”
There are more things in Heaven and Earth, than weCan dream of, or than nature understands;We learn not through our poor philosophyWhat hidden chords are touched by unseen hands.
The present hour repeats upon its stringsEchoes of some vague dream we have forgot;Dim voices whisper half-remembered things,And when we pause to listen,—answer not.
Forebodings come: we know not how, or whence,Shadowing a nameless fear upon the soul,And stir within our hearts a subtler sense,Than light may read, or wisdom may control.
And who can tell what secret links of thoughtBind heart to heart? Unspoken things are heard,As if within our deepest selves was broughtThe soul, perhaps, of some unuttered word.
But, though a veil of shadow hangs betweenThat hidden life, and what we see and hear,Let us revere the power of the Unseen,And know a world of mystery is near.
Nothing stirs the sunny silence,—Save the drowsy humming of the beesRound the rich, ripe peaches on the wall,And the south wind sighing in the trees,And the dead leaves rustling as they fall:While the swallows, one by one, are gathering,All impatient to be on the wing,And to wander from us, seekingTheir belovèd Spring!
Cloudless rise the azure heavens!Only vaporous wreaths of snowy whiteNestle in the grey hill’s rugged side;And the golden woods are bathed in light,Dying, if they must, with kingly pride:While the swallows in the blue air wheeling,Circle now an eager fluttering band,Ready to depart and leave usFor a brighter land!
But a voice is sounding sadly,Telling of a glory that has been;Of a day that faded all too fast—See afar through the blue air serene,Where the swallows wing their way at last,And our hearts perchance, as sadly wandering,Vainly seeking for a long-lost day,While we watch the far-off swallows,Flee with them away!
I.
Yes, it looked dark and dreary,That long and narrow street:Only the sound of the rain,And the tramp of passing feet,The duller glow of the fire,And gathering mists of nightTo mark how slow and wearyThe long day’s cheerless flight!
II.
Watching the sullen fire,Hearing the dismal rain,Drop after drop, run downOn the darkening window-pane:Chill was the heart of Alice,Chill as that winter day,—For the star of her life had risenOnly to fade away.
III.
The voice that had been so strongTo bid the snare depart,The true and earnest will,The calm and steadfast heart,Were now weighed down by sorrow,Were quivering now with pain;The clear path now seemed clouded,And all her grief in vain.
IV.
Duty, Right, Truth, who promisedTo help and save their own,Seemed spreading wide their pinionsTo leave her there alone.So, turning from the PresentTo well-known days of yore,She called on them to strengthenAnd guard her soul once more.
V.
She thought how in her girlhoodHer life was given away,The solemn promise spokenShe kept so well to-day;How to her brother HerbertShe had been help and guide,And how his artist natureOn her calm strength relied.
VI.
How through life’s fret and turmoilThe passion and fire of artIn him was soothed and quickenedBy her true sister heart;How future hopes had alwaysBeen for his sake alone;And now,—what strange new feelingPossessed her as its own?
VII.
Her home—each flower that breathed there,The wind’s sigh, soft and low,Each trembling spray of ivy,The river’s murmuring flow,The shadow of the forest,Sunset, or twilight dim—Dear as they were, were dearerBy leaving them for him.
VIII.
And each year as it found herIn the dull, feverish town,Saw self still more forgotten,And selfish care kept downBy the calm joy of eveningThat brought him to her side,To warn him with wise counsel,Or praise with tender pride.
IX.
Her heart, her life, her future,Her genius, only meantAnother thing to give him,And be therewith content.To-day, what words had stirred her,Her soul could not forget?What dream had filled her spiritWith strange and wild regret?
X.
To leave him for another,—Could it indeed be so?Could it have cost such anguishTo bid this vision go?Was this her faith? Was HerbertThe second in her heart?Did it need all this struggleTo bid a dream depart?
XI.
And yet, within her spiritA far-off land was seen,A home, which might have held her,A love, which might have been.And Life—not the mere beingOf daily ebb and flow,But Life itself had claimed her,And she had let it go!
XII.
Within her heart there echoedAgain the well-known toneThat promised this bright future,And asked her for her own:Then words of sorrow, brokenBy half-reproachful pain;And then a farewell spokenIn words of cold disdain.
XIII.
Where now was the stern purposeThat nerved her soul so long?Whence came the words she uttered,So hard, so cold, so strong?What right had she to banishA hope that God had given?Why must she choose earth’s portion,And turn aside from Heaven?
XIV.
To-day! Was it this morning?If this long, fearful strifeWas but the work of hours,What would be years of life?Why did a cruel HeavenFor such great suffering call?And why—Oh, still more cruel!—Must her own words do all?
XV.
Did she repent? Oh Sorrow!Why do we linger stillTo take thy loving message,And do thy gentle will?See, her tears fall more slowly,The passionate murmurs cease,And back upon her spiritFlow strength, and love, and peace.
XVI.
The fire burns more brightly,The rain has passed away,Herbert will see no shadowUpon his home to-day;Only that Alice greets himWith doubly tender care,Kissing a fonder blessingDown on his golden hair.
II.
I.
The studio is deserted,Palette and brush laid by,The sketch rests on the easel,The paint is scarcely dry;And Silence—who seems alwaysWithin her depths to bearThe next sound that will utter—Now holds a dumb despair.
II.
So Alice feels it: listeningWith breathless, stony fear,Waiting the dreadful summonsEach minute brings more near:When the young life, now ebbing,Shall fail, and pass awayInto that mighty shadowWho shrouds the house to-day.
III.
But why—when the sick chamberIs on the upper floor—Why dares not Alice enterWithin the close—shut door?If he—her all—her Brother,Lies dying in that gloom,What strange mysterious powerHas sent her from the room?
IV.
It is not one week’s anguishThat can have changed her so;Joy has not died here lately,Struck down by one quick blow;But cruel months have neededTheir long relentless chain,To teach that shrinking mannerOf helpless, hopeless pain.
V.
The struggle was scarce overLast Christmas Eve had brought:The fibres still were quiveringOf the one wounded thought,When Herbert—who, unconscious,Had guessed no inward strife—Bade her, in pride and pleasure,Welcome his fair young wife.
VI.
Bade her rejoice, and smiling,Although his eyes were dim,Thanked God he thus could pay herThe care she gave to him.This fresh bright life would bring herA new and joyous fate—Oh, Alice, check the murmurThat cries, “Too late! too late!”
VII.
Too late! Could she have known itA few short weeks before,That his life was completed,And needing hers no more,She might—Oh sad repining!What “might have been,” forget;“It was not,” should suffice usTo stifle vain regret.
VIII.
He needed her no longer,Each day it grew more plain;First with a startled wonder,Then with a wondering pain.Love: why, his wife best gave it;Comfort: durst Alice speak,Or counsel, when resentmentFlushed on the young wife’s cheek?
IX.
No more long talks by firelightOf childish times long past,And dreams of future greatnessWhich he must reach at last;Dreams, where her purer instinctWith truth unerring told,Where was the worthless gilding,And where refinèd gold.
X.
Slowly, but surely ever,Dora’s poor jealous pride,Which she called love for Herbert,Drove Alice from his side;And, spite of nervous effortTo share their altered life,She felt a check to Herbert,A burden to his wife.
XI.
This was the least; for AliceFeared, dreaded,knewat lengthHow much his nature owed herOf truth, and power, and strength;And watched the daily failingOf all his nobler part:Low aims, weak purpose, tellingIn lower, weaker art.
XII.
And now, when he is dying,The last words she could hearMust not be hers, but givenThe bride of one short year.The last care is another’s;The last prayer must not beThe one they learnt togetherBeside their mother’s knee.
XIII.
Summoned at last: she kissesThe clay-cold stiffening hand;And, reading pleading effortsTo make her understand,Answers, with solemn promise,In clear but trembling tone,To Dora’s life henceforwardShe will devote her own.
XIV.
Now all is over. AliceDares not remain to weep,But soothes the frightened DoraInto a sobbing sleep.The poor weak child will need her: . . .Oh, who can dare complain,When God sends a new DutyTo comfort each new Pain!
III.
I.
The House is all deserted,In the dim evening gloom,Only one figure passesSlowly from room to room;And, pausing at each doorway,Seems gathering up againWithin her heart the relicsOf bygone joy and pain.
II.
There is an earnest longingIn those who onward gaze,Looking with weary patienceTowards the coming days.There is a deeper longing,More sad, more strong, more keen:Those know it who look backward,And yearn for what has been.
III.
At every hearth she pauses,Touches each well-known chair;Gazes from every window,Lingers on every stair.What have these months brought AliceNow one more year is past?This Christmas Eve shall tell us,The third one and the last.
IV.
The wilful, wayward Dora,In those first weeks of grief,Could seek and find in AliceStrength, soothing, and relief;And Alice—last sad comfortTrue woman-heart can take—Had something still to sufferAnd bear for Herbert’s sake.
V.
Spring, with her western breezes,From Indian islands boreTo Alice news that LeonardWould seek his home once more.What was it—joy, or sorrow?What were they—hopes, or fears?That flushed her cheeks with crimson,And filled her eyes with tears?
VI.
He came. And who so kindlyCould ask and hear her tellHerbert’s last hours; for LeonardHad known and loved him well.Daily he came; and Alice,Poor weary heart, at length,Weighed down by others’ weakness,Could lean upon his strength.
VII.
Yet not the voice of LeonardCould her true care beguile,That turned to watch, rejoicingDora’s reviving smile.So, from that little householdThe worst gloom passed away,The one bright hour of eveningLit up the livelong day.
VIII.
Days passed. The golden summerIn sudden heat bore downIts blue, bright, glowing sweetnessUpon the scorching town.And sighs and sounds of countryCame in the warm soft tuneSung by the honeyed breezesBorne on the wings of June.
IX.
One twilight hour, but earlierThan usual, Alice thoughtShe knew the fresh sweet fragranceOf flowers that Leonard brought;Through opened doors and windowsIt stole up through the gloom,And with appealing sweetnessDrew Alice from her room.
X.
Yes, he was there; and pausingJust near the opened door,To check her heart’s quick beating,She heard—and paused still more—His low voice—Dora’s answers—His pleading—Yes, she knewThe tone—the words—the accents:She once had heard them too.
XI.
“Would Alice blame her?” Leonard’sLow, tender answer came;—“Alice was far too nobleTo think or dream of blame.”“And was he sure he loved her?”“Yes, with the one love givenOnce in a lifetime only,With one soul and one heaven!”
XII.
Then came a plaintive murmur,—“Dora had once been toldThat he and Alice”—“Dearest,Alice is far too coldTo love; and I, my Dora,If once I fancied so,It was a brief delusion,And over,—long ago.”
XIII.
Between the Past and Present,On that bleak moment’s height,She stood. As some lost travellerBy a quick flash of lightSeeing a gulf before him,With dizzy, sick despair,Reels backward, but to find itA deeper chasm there.
XIV.
The twilight grew still darker,The fragrant flowers more sweet,The stars shone out in heaven,The lamps gleamed down the street;And hours passed in dreamingOver their new-found fate,Ere they could think of wonderingWhy Alice was so late.
XV.
She came, and calmly listened;In vain they strove to traceIf Herbert’s memory shadowedIn grief upon her face.No blame, no wonder showed there,No feeling could be told;Her voice was not less steady,Her manner not more cold.
XVI.
They could not hear the anguishThat broke in words of painThrough the calm summer midnight,—“My Herbert—mine again!”Yes, they have once been parted,But this day shall restoreThe long lost one: she claims him:“My Herbert—mine once more!”
XVII.
Now Christmas Eve returning,Saw Alice stand besideThe altar, greeting Dora,Again a smiling bride;And now the gloomy eveningSees Alice pale and worn,Leaving the house for ever,To wander out forlorn.
XVIII.
Forlorn—nay, not so. AnguishShall do its work at length;Her soul, passed through the fire,Shall gain still purer strength.Somewhere there waits for AliceAn earnest noble part;And, meanwhile God is with her,—God, and her own true heart!