No heed of time took we, becauseThose clanging bells had quiteAbsorbed us in delight.A happiness so perfect awesThe failing pulse and breath,Like the mute doom of death:Then, in an instantaneous pauseFlashed on my vacant eyeA swift Eternity;And starting, as if clutched by demon-claws,
Awakened from a dizzy swoon,I felt appalling fearsWith ringings in my ears,And wondered why the glaring moonSwung round the dome of nightWith such stupendous might.Next came, like the sweet air of June,A treacherous calm suspenseThat bred a loathly sense,Some nameless ill would overwhelm us soon.
She passed like summer flowers away.Her aspect and her voiceWill never more rejoice,For she lies hushed in cold decay.Broken the golden bowlWhich held her hallowed soul:It was an idle boast to say“Our souls are as the same,”And stings me now to shame:Her spirit went, and mine did not obey.
The black truth, with a fiery dart,Went hurtling through my thought,When I beheld her broughtWhence she with life did not depart.Her beauty by degreesSank, sharpened from disease:The heavy sinking at her heartSucked hollows in her cheek,And made her eyelids weak,Though oft they opened wide with sudden start.
The Deathly Power in silence drewMy Lady’s life away.I watched, dumb for dismay,The shock of thrills that quivered throughHer wasted frame, and shookThe meaning in her look,As near, more near, the moment grew.O horrible suspense!O giddy impotence!I saw her features lax, and change their hue.
Her gaze, grown large with fate, was castWhere my mute agoniesMade sadder her sad eyes:Her breath caught with short plucks and fast,Then one hot choking strain;She never breathed again.I had the look which was her last:Her love, when breath was gone,One moment lingering shone,Then slowly closed, and hope for ever passed.
A dreadful tremour ran through spaceWhen first the mournful tollRang for My Lady’s soul.The shining world was hell; her graceOnly the flattering gleamAnd mockery of a dream:Oblivion struck me like a mace,And as a tree that’s hewnI dropped, in a dead swoon,And lay a long time cold upon my face.
Earth had one quarter turned beforeMy miserable fatePressed down with its whole weight.My sense came back; and shivering o’erI felt a pain to bearThe sun’s keen cruel glare,Which shone not warm as heretofore;And never more its raysWill satisfy my gaze:No more; no more; O, never any more.
What art thou whispering lowly to thy babe,O wan girl-mother, with Madonna lidsDowncast? Why pressest thou so close his paleGeranium cheek to thy yet whiter breast?Ah, doubtless sweet; to feel him draw the streamThat fills with strength his lily limbs! And laughsThine own heart with his deeply dimpled laughter,Answering straight thy dainty finger’s touch?And understandeth he that murmurous moan,Wherewith thou hushest, patting him to rest?
What visions charm thy gaze, now resting wideIn settled sweet content? Beholdest thouThy babe, now sprung a man, walk sunhazed slopesWith one lovelier than visions; lovely asThe truth, O Love, when thou dost smile on me?Or seest thou him still greater grown in might,And stout of action marching on to reachThat changeful coloured flag, whose waving crestsThe glittering heights of fame, for which men pant;Unmindful there what tempests rage and sweep;Alas; what dream has made that watery veilHide thine eye’s light from mine; even as a mistPassing between me and a harvest moon!And whence this shadowy wall that baulks my gaze?Why fadest thou, thyself, in mist, O Love?Whither hath fled thy babe—and where art thou?—Where am I?—Is it life—a dream—or death?
Ah me; alas, this crushing wretchedness!And I a vainer fool than one who yearnsClutching at rainbows spanned across the sky!Ah, hope diseased! My spirit lured astrayBy siren hope drifts hard by some dark fate:And hope alternating despair has mixedMy life so long with charnelled death, that ICan scarce resolve the present from my past,Nor what might once have been from what is now.
Ah, Dearest! shall I never see thy faceAgain: not ever; never any more?I know that fancy was but naught, and oneBorn of past hope: I know thy earthly formIs mouldering in its tomb; but yet, O Love,Thy spirit must dwell somewhere in this wasteOf worlds, that fill the overwhelming heavensWith light and motion; that could never die;And wilt thou not vouchsafe one beaming lookTo ease a lonely heart that beats in painFor loss of thee, and only thee, O Love?Or hast thou found in that pure life thou livestMy soul was an unworthy choice for thine,And therefore takest no count of its despair?And yet, yea verily, thy love was true;I would not wrong thee with another thought:I would not enter at the gates of heavenBy thinking else than that thy love was true.But I obtain no response to my cries,Making within my soul all void, and cold,And comfortless.Ay, empty, as this grate,Of life, wherefrom the fire has well nigh fled,Leaving but chasmed ugliness and ruin:And weak as faltering of these taper flamesHalf sunken in their sockets, by whose gleamI see, though faintly, where my books stand rangedMost mute; though sometime eloquent to me;And where my pictures hang with other formsInstinct from what I know: where friends portrayedLike ghosts loom on me from another world.Then what remains, but, like a child worn outWith weeping, that I sink me down to rest,To sleep, not dream—and if I could to die?
I had been sitting by her tombIn torpor one dark night;When fitful tremours shook the doomOf cold lethargic settled gloom,That weighed upon my sight:
And while I sat, and sickly heavesDisturbed my spirit’s sloth,A wind came, blown o’er distant sheaves,That hissing, tore and lashed the leavesAnd lashed the undergrowth:
It roared and howled, it raged aboutWith some determined aim;And storming up the night, brought outThe moon, that like a happy shout,Called forth My Lady’s name,
In sudden splendour on the stone.Then, for an instant, ISnatched and heaped up my past, bestrownWith hopes and kisses, struggling moan,And pangs: as suddenly,
Oppressed with overwhelming weight,Down fell the edifice;When touched, as by the hand of Fate,My gloom was gone. I felt my stateSo light, I sobbed for bliss.
The loud winds, spent in seeking rest,Dropped dead. My fevered browDrank coolness from the grass it pressed;And in my desolated breastA change began to grow,
While feeling those tears slowly drainThe load of grief which hadA sluggish curse within me lain,Save when remembrance wrought my brainFor vivid moments mad.
My tears, as treasures of a wreckThat in the ocean slept,Recovered, ran without a check;And earth was my good mother’s neckTo which I clung and wept.
I rose at length, and felt a denseBenumbed dead weight. And nowThe night air hung in deep suspense!A singing hush that pressed my senseAnd stunned me like a blow:
Through my lids clenched the living airIn gold and purple ringsDanced musically round me there,The light it held throbbed with the glareAnd beat of rapid wings.
Mine eyes I dared not try to raise;My Lady’s beamed on meIn fixed serenity of gaze,And were what old sunshiny daysIn childhood used to be.
A gasping lapse; and I was whirledRound the faint void of space;In dizzy circles hugely hurled,I saw the constellated worldWith every orb embrace,
To one stupendous vortex-light,Spinning a fiery ram,Then fail, struck out by sudden night;When swung adown in headlong might,Earth’s touch shook through my brain.
The dumb sound in mine ears was burstBy her portentous voice;As sweet as death to one accursed,As unto one near blind for thirstA running water’s noise.
Her voice in some translucent star,Remote, beyond my sight,Was singing marvellously far;And yet so strangely near to jar,As jars too strong a light.
She sang a song. She warbled low,She did not sing in words;I felt it in my spirit glow,And knew it, as with joy I knowThe morning shouts of birds.
But hard the task I undertake,With mortal tongue to reachThe utterance of my Love, and makeHer high immortal meaning breakTo clearness through my speech!
I can no more, with glimmering tropeThat into darkness runs,Reveal its depth, than they could hope,Who on in lifelong blindness grope,To sing of rising suns.
“Or e’er that life my King had lentWas lifted into rest,His message through my lips He sent,And on thy path His glory wentTo guide thee to the blessed.
“But thou didst turn thy face, and scornHis grace divine as nought;And set thy gaze to earth forlorn,And rage at fate, till gaunt and worn,Death mouldered in thy thought.
“Thou, blindly gross, didst toy with clay,And in the ghastly gleamOf charnel gloom didst kiss decay;And many full moons waned away,And left thee in thy dream.
“For with thy Lily’s worldly dressThou didst thine eyesight fill;And scorn to know its lovelinessWere but an empty boast unlessMade living by His will.
“Thou mourn’dst not most the vanished soulWhich was my Lord’s through thine;But more the broken pleasure-bowl,Whose golden richness shed, when whole,Its splendour in thy wine.
“And therefore living wert thou madeTo taste the cup of death;And therefore did the glory fade,From guidance into deadly shadeThat iced thy shuddering breath.
“Permitted, now I come to thee:I warn thee of thy sin;I urge thee cleanse thine eyesight free,That purified thy soul may seeThe way his love to win.
“His love incomprehensibleDid never turn awayFrom penitent whom harm befell;But springeth like a desert wellFor thirsting poor estray.
“Let him who scorneth mercy shown,Unhappy one, beware!For whoso lives in pride alone,His pride shall harden to a stoneToo great for him to bear.
“And whoso, having warnèd been,Refuseth still to turn,Behind his shadow, shrunken mean,A poring spectre shall be seenWith livid stare and girn.
“Thou troubled one, who unto meArt next my Lord’s own grace,O turn to Him, and He will beA refuge from thy misery,A smile upon thy face!
“A righteous strength will nerve thine arm,And courage fill thy breast:And having bravely warred on harm,The cries of victory shall charmThy dying eyes to rest.
“And succoured ones shall praise his nameWho, toiling for them, died.And, nobly sung, his honest fameShall beat in hearts unborn, and claimTheir love and grateful pride.
“And Love will lead her sacrificeTo where a shining rowStand beckoning to the heights of bliss;And she will clasp his hands and kissWelcome upon his brow.”
I knew not when the singing ceasedTo trance my brightened soul,Then from that long eclipse released.But looking hopeful towards the East,I saw flush pole to pole
The dawn, that had begun to show,And through dank vapour burned,As in a sick face lying lowThe rich incarnadine would glow,When healthy life returned.
Small drowsy chirping met the light,And dim in lowlands farLone marsh-birds winged their misty flight;What time Her aspect on my sightBeamed from the morning star.
It waned into the warbling day;That, rising fierce and strong,Now looked the Western gloom away,And kindled such a roundelay,The world awoke with song,
And fresh delicious breezes cameWith scents of paradiseSo tingling through my knitted frame,That never since I lisped a nameKnew I such joy arise.
Pure was the azure over head;Bright was the earth around;While I on resolution fed,And moved, as one called from the dead,In silence on the ground.
Toward my home I walked, elateWith hope and settled plan:And reverent to the will of Fate,In every step I trod my weight,A sober-minded man.
Our world has spun ten circles round the lightSince here she vanished. In my helpless gaze,To mark the spot, was fixed this carven stone,Raw, garish, stolidly obtrusive then,Now harmonising kindly with the rest.A spray of centipedal ivy creepsFrom death to birth, and reaches to her name;With kisslike touch its tender leaflets feelThe letter’s edge,—I scarce can think it chance.
Now scene by scene that strange old long-ago,Crowding my opened memory, presentsTumultuous, as in dreams, some dreadful stateWherein I knew not falsehood from the truth;Where hope ascending struck the star of Love,Then fell down headlong grovelling in despair;But rose at length and walked the beaten way.So dim and far these things; so worn and changed,I scarcely feel that I am he who soughtAnd won her love. And is it true indeed,That I absorbed in tenderest intercourseOf trustful glance, and trustful clasping hands,With her went wandering by the river side;While over head melodious branches sang,Scattering the gold of sunset-dazzled flowersBreathing their perfumed sweetness from our path,That flickering went to where in purple woodsThe rugged church tower burned a wall of fire!
Did I, when silence awed the winter woods,And giant shadows trenched the frosty groundFrom bole and limb whose vault held in the night,Love to behold the full-grown magic moonCast splendour glittering on the silver rime?Yes; mid the notes and emerald flush of spring,With swollen brooks exulting through the fields,And rainy wind that in an ocean-roarBore down the forest tops the livelong day,Through straggling gleams, through random wafts of shade,Rejoicingly I trod the glistening paths.Yes, I it was, in dreamy golden haze,Beheld poor men hard toiling all the hours,And thought them happier than the birds that sang,That sang and trilled in gurgles of delight.
Dallying I loitered in the golden timeLong after the loved nightingale had ceasedTo pour his passionate impulse over plainsOf shivering corn, now ripened into wealth;When sunset-coloured fruit in orchard croftsHung slowly mellowing under azure noons;And, hushed in darkened leaves, the dreaming airSwelled gently to a whispering sound, and died.With joy I wandered on from knoll to knollAnd lost in marvel, drank the lisping winds,The fairy winds that lisped me all was good.Nor marked I when the clogged horizon flewIn dusky vapour crowding up the skies;But woke anon when deathlike pallor thrownFrom wrathful drift laid the whole land in gloom;When war, enormous war, broke through the heavens,In sheets and streaking fire and thunderous clap,With shock on shock, that crushed the ripened corn,And swept the piled up midsummer to ruin.That wrenched great timbers of a thousand years,Shaking the strong foundations of the land.And when at last the terrible tempest fell,Wide heaven was emptied of the sun and stars,And void of more than all their light to me.
Like fretted me to hollow wearinessWhen my sweet Dove of Paradise went off,Ascending, glory-guarded, into heaven.Then feeding on the past, and fondling death,I grew in livid horror: soon had grown,By foul self cankered, to a charnel ghoule,Had not Almighty God, gracious in love,Permitted her own presence once again,Mysterious as a vision, yet once moreTo come a shining warning and revealAthwart my path unfathomable gulfs,And kindle hope wherewith I still might gainThe hills that shine for ever to the blessed.
Much striving has been mine since those eventsRuled the pulsation of my daily life:And now they are a vulgar chronicle,And gossiped over by the rudest tongues.A haunting song of old felicitiesLured me, scarce consciously, down here to museUpon my shattered dreams; safe from the roarOf interests in our grim metropolis,The beating heart of England and the world.Not seen by me, since on that wondrous nightHer consolation came into my soul;Yet here again I stand beside her tomb—And here I muse, more wise and not so sad.
Hers was a gracious and a gentle house!Rich in obliging nice observancesAnd famed ancestral hospitality.A cool repose lay grateful through the place;And pleasant duties promptly, truly done,And every service moved by hidden springsSped with intelligence, went smoothly round.
The steward to that stately country homeLooked native there as lichen to the oak.He first held station, chief in care and trust,That day which gave his baby mistress birth;And her he loved as father loves his own,Bearing her too that reverence which we feelToward those who, born to loftier state than ours,Sit their high fortune with becoming grace.His love she ever sumptuously returnedIn bounteous thankfulness for service done:How brightly twinkled then his shrewd grey eyes,And shone the roundness where his honest cheeksPlayed to the rippling gladness of his mouth!In childhood rambles, it was mostly heShe chose for partner, spite of blandishment;And to her winsome ways he would foregoHis pompous surveillance of wine and plate,To guard her, lilting, where the summer layOn honeyed murmuring limes, and under elms,August with knotted centuries of strengthAnd rooks sonorous in their shadowy heights.By thymy slopes, foot-deep in sward they roved,Both lightly garrulous, and she, sweet child,Fusing her whole attention into joy,Until they stood before the lake, that gleamedWith water-lilies, sun, and moving cloud.Then straight the flanking sedge, and reeds remote,Gave clattering ducks and wild outlandish fowl,That tore in stormy scampering and splashTo snap with clamour at the crumbled bread,He had provided slyly, bent on fun:The swans meanwhile, majestic, puffed, and slow,Came proudly into action; but alas,To small result; for by mischance the spoilThrough dexterous skirmish fell to meaner bills.“Our bread is all cast on the waters now,And well I’d like to know how many daysIt must bide there before ’tis found again!”—Some fool’s dull joke repeated: good man, he,Unversed in deep text comment, never dreamedWhat time its Abyssinian mountain rootsSwollen by fresh torrents mixed in Nubian lands,And thundered down from rocky ledge to ledge;How sacred Nilus flooding bank and plainTransformed old Egypt to a shining sea:And slaves in swarthy crowds, despised as dirt,Paddled upon the water scattering corn,While swam to their sad eyes a raking glanceOf temple sphinxes, palms, and pyramids,Faint sacrificial fire with dismal cries;And small hard masters, armed with blooded thongs,Jocose and fierce, scourged out their utmost toil.Long ages ere man heard this promised hope,The first shall be the last, the last the first.But the dear child his vacant prattle heardIn wonder, and believed it lore profound:And ever after, when in solemn church,(The very church I have before me now!)Or household prayer, these words were touched upon,Pert visions would intrude of gabbling fowlsMid splashing water, sedge, and lily stars.
In wending home, he filled her lap with flowers;And she, ere yet the house was reached, unloosedHis guarding hand, ran forward, glinted throughThe porch, and with a joyous outcry litThe room, where sat in converse or at booksHer parents: then, as she an hour beforeHad seen those mirrored marvels of the lakeAll trembling merge to one confused turmoilOf beauty broken into shattered light,When o’er its surface swept the hungry fowls,So blurred with shifting catches, so involvedThrough eagerness, her babbled narrativeTo the kind mother, who, embracing her,Felt satisfied her child had been well pleased.Then the great father, he would lightly liftTo knee his darling girl; with fingers cupThe tiny chin, and kiss the rosebud mouth;And gently his large tawny hand would strokeThat woven sunshine glowing down her back,Which changed to deepest auburn glossed with gold,Calling her tricksy names. But, when at lengthAppeared the calm inevitable nurse,He laughed; and she in screaming laughter flewBy stalwart arm thrust high above his headImmeshed in wild flowers emptied from her lap,Which shaking off, he brought the screamer down,And gaily swung her into willing arms.She talked these childhood memories while we strolledAmong the scenes which bred them; for she lovedTo dwell on things which some regard as slight:But in her presence, told by her own self,With clear apt words and satisfying voice;The violet poise of her most graceful headFlung forth in lighted gesture to revealThe very fact; her hovering white handAlmost in music warbling with her words,And bounding all the tenderest care to please;—Now, one by one, these aits of memory glowIn hallowed splendour, and have made less darkA life I feel not altogether vain.
So common was her mother’s lot, that whoCan say “Like is not mine” is blessed indeed:For they are countless that on shades have thrownTheir passion had been chilled for evermore!Scarce at her bloom, and years before she metThe destined man her husband, girl-like sheAdored a youth with sparkling genius graced,Who bound on great adventure spread all sail;But needed ballast, working common sense,And meeting storms, he foundered and was lost.For long his fate dragged at her heart; it drainedHer strength; it left her vague and desolate:Her life became as chill uneasy dreamsWherefrom we cannot break. Yet be it said,Lowly and truly gentle were her ways;She was a tender and obedient wife,And in a sweet and plaintive graciousnessHer every act performed. I trust her mind,Subdued by constant sadness unavowed,Grew clear of shadows, and at last could dwellUpon the future, that in one straight pathReached Justice throned in everlasting light,And learned to feel that chastisement is love.Somewhat through lethargy; and partly senseOf duty in forgetfulness of grief;With pleadings due to her own kindliness,She came to take another as her lord;Then came to yield herself in all and wedHer husband’s own indomitable will:He having gained her, cherished her, and lovedHer mild compliance with the strength of life.
He was a man of thews and goodly frameMade swart in battle. Under Indian sunsOur foes had often there been taught to knowThat weight of arm, resistless when he closedCharging upon them with his sword and eye.But when his father died, he left the EastFor England; here to rule his own estate,And reign among the county gentlemen,Who duly came with pride to own him chief.He had the kingly look of born command,An eagle set of eye and curve of neck;A cutting insight backed by solid sense;Vast knowledge, and the facile use of it,To break obstruction, or direct the forceOf will resolved to compass every end.Withal a broad and generous natured manWho ever kindly turned the doubtful scaleAgainst himself: no tenant ever mournedThe day when the new master came to rule;Nor were old village gossips heard lamentThe good times fled with their departed lord.Culture went hand in hand with strength in him:Broad-versed was he in science; rock and soil,Plant, shell, bird, beast, to complex form of man,With something of the stars. Historic worksHe mostly read; and ofttimes dug for traceOf steps long past in archæology.He loved the singers of our native landWho take our souls up to the worth of life;And those deep thinkers whose conclusions showThe secret principles that work the world.He prized laborious Hallam; but declaredCarlyle half mad; “A coil of restive thoughts,That touch on nothing sound or practical,Told in outrageous jargon, cumbersomeAs any Laplander’s costume!” Which IIn ruffled pride would always straight oppose,“Sound or unsound, his word is daylight truth,That breeding heroes once was England’s boast,And now we brag of making millionaires.Your ‘practical’ means shortest cut to wealth:But far too frequently purse robs the heart;One growing heavy drains the other dry.His style, poetically pregnant, oftBy note of admiration merely, hintsMore than crammed Pro Con of your favourite’s page.”At this he shouts a scornful roaring laugh,The table shaking, and the vessels chinkedAs fell his weighty arm: with massive gazeIn hurly-burly sort he bantered me:“Young bubble-dreamer, plotting stanza rhymes,What can you know of laws: what know of plansWhich bound these varied interests of ours,Through crossing currents, fixed for certain ends,To frame this state we call society,The full outcome of immemorial time?Know, here on earth wealth must not be despised,For we are as we are. While men subsistBy interchanging goods and service, goldWill be the grease that smooths the whole machine.I grant a few, the greatest, live contentTo give forth what has ripened in their minds;But greed alone brings each result to growAnd spread its uses through the mass. BesideWhere honour, reason, or instinctive life,Quite fails, there gold will prick the sluggard loon.It wakes the drowsy lounger of the East,Who lolls in sunshine idle as a gourd,To toil like Irish hodmen. Roused, he hearsCoin ringing lively music; falls to work,And digs, and hews, and grinds: he sees, not far,Himself, a chief of horsemen richly clad,Armed with long spears and silver-halted blades,Seizing pachalic power by a swift blow.But labour, having brought him gold, brings fears.The weight of wealth has made his footfall staid;He longs for order, settled government,And stands, a stern upholder, by the law.
“I know you flout this ‘gold materialism,’For what you call the ‘gold of evening skies:’But let me tell you, boy, for you ’tis wellMy lands are broad and bankers true, or elseYour maiden, she, poor girl, I often think,Would want a crust to eat and shoes to wear.”Thus he, in what I call his ‘copper-gilt,’For which I paid him tinsel; “She want shoes!Her feet will press the flowers of paradise,And, being angel, she will need no food.”“Eugh! Get your tackle, let us catch some trout.”She never stayed a long while from her home,But lived a quiet life; contentedlyTaking the continent and many thingsOn trust; feeling our landscapes satisfiedHer love for scenes. When from a visit sheReturned, no lovelier picture ever blessedMy sight than when she swam into his arms,And stood in beauty, frail, against his strengthSupporting her, and kissed his lips and cheeksAnd brow. He then, as if his daughter yetWere but a child, would press the upturned headBetween his hands, where peered the innocent faceRosy with smile and blush, like a sweet flowerBursting its tawny sheath: whereon he gazedA father’s gaze immeasurably kind;And long, in tenderness akin to pity,There held her, who was beautiful and good.One eve full late in balmy summer timeWe feared the wind breathing of night had chilledHer tranquil mother, as we paced a walkLeading espalier-trellised to the house;She ever heedful parted silently,And flushed with sunset vanished from our gaze;But we beheld her soon dawn from the porchIn haste bringing her mother’s mantle. When,As comes the tide-wave up an easy beach,Played with a billowy sound and look of foamThe thousand folds round her advancing feet,Her shape divine looking as great as ocean’sLight beyond: yet no sea bird that gleamsFrom the blue-arched illimitable heavenCould glide with lightness airier than sheTo hang the garment round her mother’s neck;And then strike, womanlike, the folds in place;Kissing the thankful lips, and deftly fixThe fastening at her throat. While pondering thusAnd patching these rich fragments, strange it seemsWhat little things obtrude on my regard!I now remember every sculptured group,And painted scene, and portrait, figured vase,Each print unique, and gem, we once beheldWhen visiting a mansion near, enrichedBy generations of collected Art:The masters, by whose hands the works were wrought,Long mouldered into dust. Ah, well I knowWhy some have burned their symbols in my brainAnd rise before me now!Stone-bound, NarcissusDroops melting in himself; and Echo by,In shrunk despair, hangs envying what he wastes.Through smouldering morning mists a glorious sunThe mountain-shoulder burns; above, transmutesThe zenith cloudlets into airy gold;And deep down, seen through pure crystalline blue,Glimmer the village, lake, and mountain range.Superb at ease a Lady stands and smilesSweet welcome to the world: though centuriesHave lapsed since she approved her painter’s work,Her smile has such sincerity, all feelThey must have known her some time in their lives.Here bossed on silver vase, a marriage trainMoves round to music: lookers-on cast flowersBefore the timid bending bride: meanwhile,Stalwart and proud, her bridegroom smiles abroadAs at a dazzling sun: the pipers blow,The harpers twang, the cymbals clash, youths sing;Six maidens walk behind to hold her veil,One pair are sad, the next look vain, and twoPrettily whisper secrets to themselves.Here from old paper stands, and looks of menThe manliest, and king of English kings,The lion Cromwell, in his dress of war:Beneath him coils a monster welling blood,Whose severed heads stretch round in scattered gleamOf mitre jewelled, coronet and crown.Sharp cut on gem, set in a thick gold ring,The size and roundness of a lady’s nail,Love bleeding on the dart himself doth point;Who thus had died, had not with tenderest touchImmortal Psyche held the anguished heartFast to her own, and purified the pain,And fanned him with her wings.And now, as then,Along those hushed rich corridors we moved,Poring each masterpiece we favoured most,And would no longer stay, but felt some chanceMust serve us for the rest: musing, I passFrom scene to scene of My Dear Lady’s life,And leave my other memories undisturbed.
Beneath this airy sapphire’s brooding rest,Its shadows overcast me with a chillLike coming storm, that black calamityWhich struck and took our Darling from their chargeAnd mine. Grief stupefied us all. At onceThe childless mother lost her wavering strength,And lay prostrated; never tasting lifeOn earth again! Beside her husband satAnd watched her fading; saw the last poor smileWane from her features; till the closing eyesLit into tearful rapture; when he knewLove’s immortality to her revealed.With both her own she mutely clasped his hand,And held it in most gentle pressures fixed:But when the tender grasp relaxed and fell,The world closed round him to a stony blank.
And now was stricken down the mighty man;As the ripe harvest levelled by a stormAt morningtide; which, ere sun warmth anewCan flatter into strength, a second stormO’erwhelms and scattereth to waste at even.
When that torpidity which follows painThrough strangeness passed to natural regardFor daily wants; his vacant home he loathed:His spacious garden grounds; his lake; his woods;The breezy air; the overhanging heaven,He loathed: he loathed them all. When spring arousedThe amorous songsters of the copse and fieldTo seasonable joy, their music mockedHis sadness with its echoes, babbling talesOf what had been: and he, in bitterness,Resolved to quit a place where every turnStood like a foe, whose settled leering eyeIn silence gloared with hope to mark his fall;He left our country. Far, in Eastern climes,His nation serving well, he fought and died:And never had a nobler man upheldThe majesty of England’s worth and name.
Long toil-devoted years have gloomed and shoneSince these events closed up my doors of life.Partly from choice, and part necessity,With constancy have I sustained and urgedThe work it was my duty to advance.For, when my vision cleared again, I lookedAnd saw how mean a thing was man, who usedThe produce of his fellows’ energiesAnd gave back nothing.
Then my spirit sawThis Island race two thousand years agoIn simple savagery, controlled by priestsMore fell and bloody than the wolves that howledAt midnight round their monstrous altar-stones,Scenting the sacrificial human blood.Saw girt with legions lynx-eyed Cæsar comeTo taste of Briton’s valour. When appearedLegions succeeding legions, and the swarmsMarshalled by skilful discipline had fallenTo tributaries of all-conquering Rome.Saw when Rome’s grip, through fierce luxurious guilt,Could hold no longer; and with tattered plumeHer eagles left her slaves to stem or tideThe hungry Pict incursions as they could.Next when a burly genial race here raisedThe White Horse Standard: men who wrought the soilTill yellow corn, responsive, sunned the plains.When, lured by booty, Ravens from the NorthBent hitherward: stiffly the contest tuggedLong years; till both the wearied champions joinedTheir hands, as common home to share the Isle.With peace the land grew fat; and wholesome bondsOf nobles to their kings, and serfs to them,Fell slackened or distorted to misrule;When Norman William, hard as rocks and fierceAs fire, with charge of mailèd horse and showersOf steel, won England. Her rough sons he drilledGrimly: by stern command and strength of swordHe forced obedience where he fixed a law.For ages long against men’s stubborn minds,With give and take, the bold PlantagenetsKept up the drill. At length the race, now grownBy constant wrestle into thews of power,Moved calm with strength beneath the Tudor’s sway.And then a Northern Stuart wore their crown,Whose son, unmindful he was over menTruth-lovers, lied to them and lost his head;For Puritans held no respect for lies.Next flared Charles Satyr’s saturnaliaOf Lely Nymphs, who panting sang “More gold;We yield our beauties freely; gold, more gold.”Hapless explosions, folly, frenzied plots;Till well coerced by Lowland William’s craft.Then plans that led to nought, or worse, enforcedBy Marlborough’s cannon thundering over-seas.Then through the Guelphic line; our race now growsTo that great power which is to sway the world.
Down from those human shambles, wolf-belapt,To when, in pardonably grand excessOf pity, through our people’s will was boughtFree indolence for Isles of Western slaves:And now, when thousands blandly would denyThe proven murderer his rope, the thiefDue chastisement; and when a GeneralMay blunder troops to death, yea, and receiveHis Senate’s vote of thanks and all made smooth;And when, as much from universal trustIn other states’ goodwill as from the pinchOf blinking parsimony, we our fleetsLet rot, and regiments shrink to skeletons.—From those fell rights to such urbanityThe march indeed is long; tho’ kindly freaksMay sometimes clamour Justice from her throne;Yet gentleness is still a noble gain,And we will trust such freaks are nobly meant.
To touch the power we hold, what work has beenOf vigorous brawn, and keen contriving brains!Stout men with mighty battle in their limbs;Thinkers, whose cunning struck beyond the strengthOf hosts; priests sworn to God, whose daily livesPreached gospel purity and kindliness;Wise chroniclers, whose patience garnered factsFor present want and food for coming time;And dames who made their homes a paradise,And kept their husbands great;—have greatly givenThe light and choicest substance of their livesFor generations mingling each with each,Wave multitudinously urging wave,Toward the one great broadening flow of things,Then passed into the gloom that swallows all.
Could I dwell here in our proud Island Home,Preserved by countless victories; made strongBy kings and kingly councillors; enrichedBy artisans, whose skill surpassed all men’s;And by such wondrous song immortalisedIt glorifies mankind: could I dwell here;Here feed on this accumulated wealth,Like senseless swine on acorns of the wood,And own no wish to render thanks in kind?Surely there could be found some waste wild flowerTo yield one honey-drop that I might drainTo swell the general hive!
At last resolvedOut to its utmost spray my force should strive,And bring to fruit its yet unopened buds,I, craving gracious aid of Heaven, straightwayBegan the work which shall be mine till death.If it be granted me that I disrootSome evil weeds; or plant a seed, which timeShall nourish to a tree of pleasant shade,To wearied limbs a boon, and fair to view;I then shall know the Hand that struck me downHas been my guide into the paths of truth.
And She, my lost adored One, where is She?Where has She been throughout these dragging yearsOf labour?
She has been my light of life!The lustrous dawn and radiance of the dayAt noon: and She has burned the colours inTo richer depth across the sun at setting:And my tired lids She closes: then, in dreams,Descends a shaft of glory barred with stairsAnd leads my spirit up where I beholdMy dear ones lost. And thus through sleep, not death,Remote from earthly cares and vexing jars,I taste the stillness of the life to come.
What time his scythe in misty summer mornsWith cheery ring the mower whets; and kineMove slowly, breathing sweetness, toward the pailTheir milking-maid is jingling, as she calls“Hi Strawberry and Blossom, hither Cows;”While slung against the upland with his teamThe ploughman dimly like a phantom glides:What time that noisy spot of life, the lark,Climbs, shrill with ecstasy, the trembling air;And “Cuckoo, Cuckoo,” baffling whence it comes,Shouts the blithe egotist who cries himself;And every hedge and coppice sings: What timeThe lover, restless, through his waking dream,Nigh wins the hoped-for great unknown delight,Which never comes to flower, maybe; elsewhere,The worshipped Maid, a folded rose o’er-rosedBy rosy dawn, asleep lies breathing smiles:Then ofttime through the emptied London streets,When every house is closed and spectral still,And, save the sparrow chirping from the towerWhere tolls the passing time, all sounds are hushed;Then walk I pondering on the ways of fate,And file the past before me in review,Counting my losses and my treasured gains,And feel I lost a glory such as manCan never know but once: but how there sprungFrom out the chastening wear of grief, a scopeOf sobered interest bent on vaster endsThan hitherto were mine; and sympathyFor struggling souls, that each held dear withinA sacred meaning, known or unrevealed:—And these, in their complexities and farRelations with the sum of general powerWhich is the living world, now are my gain;And grant my spirit from this widened truthA glimpse of that high duty claimed of all.How wildly flares the West about the sun,Now fallen low! And as one, nameless, sails,Lost deep in witching reverie, alongA silent river; passing villagesBusy with toil; flowered banks and shadowy coves,And cattle browsing peaceful in the meads;Who only wakes to consciousness, when fullA burst of sunshine from the sinking orbSmiting the flood first strikes his dazzled sight;—So to the present hour am I recalledBy yon red sun-light flaming up the spire,And vane that sparkles in the warm blue heavenAnd that too-well-remembered tolling bell.
Now on the broad mysterious ocean leansThe sailor o’er his vessel’s side, and feelsThe buzzing joys of home; wondering if fateWill bear him on to end his being there.Now pleased the housewife down the path descriesHer husband’s footsteps hitherward; his mealPrepared, the children each made tidy; sheWith smiling comfort means to soothe her man,By labour wearied, through the evening hours.They whirl their life web, humming like a wheel,These airy insects. Birds have ceased to sing,But twitter faintly, settling to their rest;And not a rook’s caw rends the placid air.I must begone; but ere I go, will kneelTo kiss this ivy—modest earthly type,That would with constant verdure grace her name,As I enshroud her memory with my love!For She has been the blessing that has nervedMy strength in failing hours of blackest night,When doubts oppress and fears distract; and whenGigantic Evil’s hoofs are crushing good,And pity burns in terror; while, appalled,Blanched Justice shrinks aloof; and not a voice,The smallest, dares uplift itself againstThe dripping blood-red horror which pollutesWith death and danger, heaven and earth and sea;When men’s belief grows wild, seeing aloneThe dreadful black abominable sin,Forgetful that the light still shines beyond;And doubting last the very truth of God,They hate their fellow creatures and themselves;Groaning beneath a Despot, who thinks lessOf precious human blood, than shipwrights countOf water in the dock, so many feetWill bear so many tons, if it but aidOne little step his brutalising aims,Who as an armed thief sacks his people’s wealth.Then shines my Love’s star-brightness thro’ the gloom;And comes, as comes a glorious ConquerorReturning from that Despot’s overthrow,His brow yet flashed and pale with victory:Whose prowess long withstood the charging shocksOf hosts that swarmed; who, baffling with his skillTheir cunning combinations, in good timeClosed his own force and wrought them utmost woe;Smashed the huge liners of the hostile fleet,Their swiftest frigates sank to watery hell:Others he scared like fowls; and trailed the restIn foamed victorious wake, a captured prize,Where thronged his people stand in proud acclaimOf “Welcome, Welcome, Welcome! To our heartsO Saviour of thy country! to our heartsO Father of thy people! welcome back!”And shout in exultation his dear name;Who moves through storms of music, and beholdsGay seas of faces tossed with happiness,And lit through rapture into wondering awe.And as that grateful multitude forgetsWhatever wrong he may have done, do IMy scathing sorrow, and embrace the good.
And when, in after years, that honoured OneReturns at last unto his native land,From having wrought his last great victory,A solemn corpse; in state his people close,Solemnly to do honour to the dead,And stand in silence, mid the mournful swayOf martial music wailing he is goneWho saved them from the shackles they abhorred;And in all reverence, with tenderest hands,And tearful eyes, and hearts that burn and throb,They lower their consecrated Hero down,Down sinking slowly to his lasting rest:Whose glory rises to a settled starLighting the land he loved for evermore.So comes my love to me: its glorious lightYet hovers sacredly, and guides me onTo grander prospects, and more noble useOf powers entrusted me. Henceforth my soulWill never lack a spot whither to flee,When crowding evils war to shake my faithIn righteousness: for thinking of Her lifeMade up of gracious act and sweet regard,Compassionately tender; and enshrinedIn such a form, that oft to my fond eyesShe seemed divine, I scarcely can withholdMy wonder Heaven could spare Her to a worldSo stained as ours. And now, whatever comeOf wrong and bitterness to break my strength;Whatever darkness may be mine to know;A ray has pierced me from the highest heaven—I have believed in worth; and do believe.
Sweet is the moisture of the trellis-roseDripping in music down through glistening leaves;And sweeter still its fragrance that we breatheOn throwing wide our lattice to the morn.Sweet to see thrushes bright-eyed speckle-bosomed,Search dew-grey lawns with keen inspective glance;And rabbits nimbly nibble tender grasses,Or pause when startled at each other’s shade.And when the orchard boughs bend low with fruit,With joy we watch the mounded harvest wainsGlide amid singing hedgerows smoothly by.’Tis fair to watch hung pale in milky azureMist slowly closing into wandering cloudDriven by the clean and light elastic wind;And through that lone harmonious sunshine humOf unseen life mark how the floating seedsPass like flown fancies out beyond regard.
But sweeter than all roses, sights of birds,Richer than fruit, more than whole lands of corn,Fairer than glories of the brightest day,Dearer than any old familiar soundOf childhood hours, than every glittering joyThrown from the teeming fountain of the earth,Is our impulsive answer to the callOf Duty.
They who would be something moreThan they who feast, and laugh and die, will hearThe voice of Duty, as the note of war,Nerving their spirits to great enterprise,And knitting every sinew for the charge.It makes them quit a happy silvan lifeFor contest in the roaring capital.And in its ever-widening roar stand firmAnd fixed amid the thunder, foot to footWith opposition, smiting for the truth.To such the rage of battle charms beyondThe heaviest ocean-plunges dashed on cliffs,The tempest’s fury on the grinding woods,Or elemental crashing in the heavens:Beyond a lover’s gladness when he feelsHis maiden’s bosom throbbing tremulously,Beyond a father’s when he feels in handThe rounded warmth of little firstborn’s limb,Or in beholding him grown tall and strong:And their delight will never wane, but waxIn greatness with the roll of time, and burnMore brightly fed with noble deeds. For soulsObedient to divine impulse, who urgeTheir force in steadfastness until the rocksBe hewn of their obstruction, till the swamp’sInsatiability be choked and boundA hardened road for traffic and disport,Tall giant arches stride across the flood,Till tortured earth release its mysteriesWhich straight become slaves pliant unto man,Till labours at the desk at length resultIn law: who pondering on the stars proclaimTheir size and distance and pursue their course;Who work whatever will give greater powerOr profit man with leisure to observeThe wondrous heavens and loveliness of earth;Who will instruct him in the truth wherebyHe learns to reverence more his fellow man;Who point his spirit to the worshippingImperishable things, from which he comesTo scorn the fluttering vanities of wealthAs poisoned sweets and baubles should they dimHis eyes one instant to that awful lightWherein he moves; who do and who have doneAll that has ever aided man to freeHimself, imperfectly, from grosser selfAnd made his seeing pure:—such souls sublimeWill never want for blessed joy in work,Working for Duty which can never die.
Men may seem playthings of ironic fate:One stoutly shod paces a velvet sward;And one is forced with naked feet to climbSharp slaty ways alive with scorpions,While wolfish hunger strains to catch his throat;One lingers o’er his purple draught and laughs,One shuddering tastes his bitter cup and groans;But there is hope for all. Though not for allTo sail through sunny ripples to the end,Chatting of shipwrecks as pathetic tales;All are not born to nurse the dainty pangsThat herald love’s completion, and beholdTheir darlings flourish in the tempered airOf comfort till themselves become the springsOf a yet milder race: all are not bornTo touch majestic eminence and shineDirecting spirits in their nations’ sightAnd radiate unformed posterity:But through transcendent mercy all are bornTo enter on a nobler heritageThan these, if each but wills to choose arightIn serving Duty, man’s prerogative:Which is far pleasanter than paths of flowers,Than warmest clustering of household joys,And prouder than the proudest shouts of fameThat follow action not in conscience wrought.
Fair Duty, most unlike the blight of death,Whose dismal presence levels men to ruin,Lifts up his nature into rarer life.Hers is a broad estate open to poorAnd rich alike: here rudest peasant mayMove as their equal with baronial lords,And those who serve be great as those who rule:Here a smirched artisan who merely boltsThe plates of iron fortress, breathes the prideOf that trained chieftain who commands its guns;And one that points or fires a single pieceClaims honour with the mind who planned the war.
Fair Duty, hard and perilous to serve,Exacts devotion that is absolute,Ere she reveal the heaven of her smile;And gnaws with misery the traitor slaveWho having known her countenance and movedAt her behest relapses into sloth,Or drudges serf to his own base desires:—Sworn knight, and armed with mail and sword of proof,But coaxing brutish ignorance with praise,And with the wasted hearts of honest menGorging the monster he went forth to slay.But whoso faithfully reveres her lawAs primal, and of every want supreme,Making edged danger discipline his strength,That changes hindrance into past delight,Fair Duty dowers with her celestial love,From which the mystic blessing glory grows:And glory born of Duty is a crownOf light.
And all thus crowned illume their workIn splendour that no earthly eye may pierce,And know that every seed they set, and stoneThey fix, and truth they reach, unite to foundA well-planned city in a governed landThat rising babes high a Temple builtFirm in its centre to the praise of God.And each beholds his labours glorified,Alike the toiler at the desk, a kingUpon his throne, or builder of the bridge:The desk in lustre shines a kingly throne,The throne diffuses radiance like a sun,The bridge spans death—a pathway to the stars.
March,1865.
Ah, Nelly Dale, nigh fifty yearsSince you and I set out together,Joyful both, as the summer weather,That swarmed our pathway to the meresSo rich with blossom, and opulentSuccessive honeysuckle scent,It smiled a golden garden, gayWith flutter of insects all the way!
The kine were white and smooth as silkAt Flowerdew’s, where we went for milkWith jug and can. The can you boreJingled and tumbled when you toreYour new frock striped with lilac, whileCrossing that high-built awkward stile.
Leaving our cottage gates at noon,Adown the dusty hill we soonTurned in a water-alley, dryAs our discourse; for we were shy,Speaking not till the double ranksOf willows on their shadowed banksHad closed us from the road, and weWere all we saw and cared to see.
As if let out from school we ran,Until we settled stride for strideTo even walking, side by side;And tho’ to keep apart we tried,The jug kept clinking against the can!Once pausing in an upper pathThat hemmed great pasture ribbed with math,We saw the prospect openlyMelt in remote transparent sky;Some fancy kindled, and I beganTo whistle “Tom the Piper’s Son,”Wondering whether, when grown a man,I should remain to plod, or plan,As others about had always done,Or to some wondrous country stray,Over the hills and far away!But turning to your comely face,The opened flower of native graceThat casts a charm on homely ways,Your mother’s boast, her constant praise;Contented here, I hoped I mightBe never from my darling’s sight.
Ah, me, our young delight to roamAlong that lane so far from home!Laughter, and chatter of this or that;Ripening strawberries, mice and cat;The birthday near; the birthday treat,With something extra good to eat,And currant, cowslip, elder wine,As real lords and ladies dine!
Equal delight our silence next;Making-believe that you are vext,When swooping round to kiss you ITumble your bonnet all awry,And promptly you the strings untieTo set it duly straight again;How smartly twinkle ribands twainTo bows, turned sidewise in disdain,Till by your nimble fingers fixedThey settle amicably mixed!Moments of mutual mute surpriseMade converse of our glancing eyes,As we went onward, all things seemingStrange, and rich, and fair, while dreamingTransient glimpses of what aloneIs ever by great-winged angels known.
We knew not whether you or IFirst saw the splendid butterflyTrembling about us as we turnedTo watch how blue and crimson burnedIn flashes ’twixt those blushing wings!Nelly, I see you watch the larkThat fluttering high, aspiring sings;We both watch till our sight grows dark,And wonder whither he is fledIn sapphire ether overhead.Tho’ vanished, still his rapture ringsAnd thrills our bosoms, marching slowOur winding way; when brilliant, loFrom somewhere starting, re-appearsOur friendly butterfly, and nearsA spider-web, in holly spunWith rainbow hues that net the sun,Making coy circles ere he alightEntangled in the toil of death!Forward I spring, without my breath,To see the fiend, high-elbowed, whirlAround those limbs and wings, and twirlHis thread to thwart the chance of flight.Fate on a single instant hangs,And ready the demon’s eager fangsTo penetrate that sylphic breast!Nipping the wing-tips gently IFlirt him from danger suddenly;Strike with my cap a rapid blow,Dashing the enemy down belowThro’ grass crushed safely into dust.There shivering on my stretched forefingerA little while his terrors linger,Doubting if yet his wings to trust,Ere, with a bolder flap or two,He flutters into airy blue.
Could any mortal boy resist,When heavenward, in a rosy poutYour lips you offered to be kissed;Fresh as carnations breaking outOf dewy sheaths, on summer dawnsYet pale upon the misty lawns!We pass from shadowy splendour soonTo face the blazoned afternoon,Where wide around the basking sunLies on the meadow fast asleep.Near random bushes, one by one,Nestled around a pond, the sheepAre scattered and doze in graceful shade;And hazed cornfields beyond the glade,Undulating and dazzling sight,Seem quivering for predestined flightTo worlds of unrevealed delight.In lustrous sheen, their stately looksSedate as parsons reading books,Flock grey-billed, see-saw-gaited rooksStrutting; or when they wings assumePluck the warm air with fingered plume,Labouring, anxious if weight and sizeMake flight most hazardous or wise!Nelly we sauntered on and onBy hedgerows, brightly overhungAnd sprinkled thick with snowy showersOf woodbine stars; where bindweed flowersAmple and moon-white nobly shone,And over green abysses slung,Mid honey-haunted sound of bees,Swayed lightly to the scented breeze.
In passing starwort’s silvery gems,By maple’s warm fawn-tinted stems,Caprices that gnarled the oak and thorn,A sudden scream of rageful scornStartles us from the hedgerow nigh;Whence two disturbed fierce blackbirds flyUttering threats of vengeance dire!While we, who lit this angry fire,Are wondering such discordant throatsCan tune those soft melodious notesThe fondest lover’s listening ear,At even, turns entranced to hear!
But if I sang of every sightThat afternoon which gave delight,Those treasures would my numbers throngBeyond the compass of my song;Therefore, Nelly, to be precise,We bought the milk, and paid the priceCharged in that rural paradise.The rolls of butter, the jars of cream,Churn, and cleanly pans, now seem,Thro’ fifty years of vanished time,The memories of a nursery rhyme;Or story, like The “Babes in the Wood,”Written for children to make them good.
Homeward we went in soberer mood;Haply the weight we had to carry,By stile and gate oft made us tarryTo change our hands, and ease the weightBy making both co-operate.At length we knew the hour grew late,Because we saw our shadows rise,Mocking our motions, thrice our size;And keeping faithful phantom pace,Tempting us to an elfin raceFor fairy treasure; all in play!For which, whatever they might say,We knew our lives would have to pay!Both breaking into prattle showedHow pleased we trod the dusty roadOnce more; and rested where the rillSings issuing, halfway up the hill;Where maids and wives their pitchers bringTo fill, and gossip at the spring.To gossip ourselves we durst not stop,As we had yet to reach the topWhere, starting from before the moon,Our church spire quickened, rose, and dancedHigher and higher as we advanced,And on a sudden ceased, as soonAs we were on the level; then,There your mother stood at the gateImpatient we were out so late;Inquiring how, and why, and when;She thought we had been drowned, and lost,And by some savage mad bull tossed;So long had she been looking out!Whatever had we been about?Altho’ we saw so much that day,But little then had we to say,And told her a bewildered taleOf garment torn by splintered rail;Of spiders, blackbirds, butterflies;Of rooks so near that looked so wise!Of ghostly shadows, some of the way,That had been tempting us to play,Tho’ sure they must have known we shouldBe making all the haste we could!The gentle scolding given and past,We bade each other good-night at lastWhen floating in the stillness byCame sounds like “late,” and “supper,” and “bed;”And brighter through a deepening skyA million stars shone o’er my head,And bats flew fast and silently.
When memory wings her way to you,I nurse my faith to think it trueFor one day, Nelly, you were mine!Ah, Dearest, had that day divineMade us two one for good and all!The nursery words I now recall,Of Tom the Piper’s Son’s one tune,Mused over in that day of June,Have proved the prelude to my fate!We were not fashioned to translateEach other’s will as man and wife:And tho’ I was not broken-hearted,As Burns when from his Mary parted,And fled the fragrance of his life;Yet are you near and dear to me!For on the bridge below the hillI see you smile as sweetly still;And in your clear wide-opened eyesThe spacious wonder of the skies.While every thoughtful dainty graceRests well contented in your face,All fascinations of the rose,Uniting in your presence close.Indeed, from glowing hair to feet,So lightly poised, shaped so completeYou seem a being ’twixt a flower,The glory of a shining hour,And one ordained to satisfyThe claims of immortality.
Your beauty, like a queen’s or king’sGood word, gives price to common things:That can your ruddy fingers holdHangs lovelier there than purest gold;And, as the poor, grown rich by chance,Run raptured in extravagance,My fancy riots in the fields’Increasing wealth its charter yields:And at your lintel, by the bowerOf vine leaves screening noonday heat;The grapes, that hang there small and sour,Are soft in bloom and more than sweet!
Beholding kittens as they play,Black, tortoise, white, or silver grey;Or ducklings on the water glide,Yellow and soft, and artless eyed:Or neatly-shapen chicks astray,Pecking incessantly on their way;Each such a trim completed creature,In perfect movement, hue, and feature:A foolish sadness makes me sighThey lack immutability.But you, my Nelly, are ever young.Fresh and happy you dwell amongThe brightest flowers, and flourish whereMeadows are ever fresh and fair.As you were then I see you now,Standing beneath an apple bough;Your face amid its blossoms, brightWith rosy laughter and delight,You seem a blossom the partial sunHas chosen to make a larger one.
What may your pilgrimage have been,Since both of us lost our Eden days,I never rashly tried to glean;And know not if your childhood waysWere trodden by your maiden feetWhen, flushed and shy with hope and fear,You went your loitering swain to meetAnd listen to sounds you loved to hear!But if sometimes your heart was fainAlong our honeysuckle laneAgain to roam, in gracious flightYour memory would have found delightIn wandering there a child again!And if a matron you became,With a matron’s worries and daily strife;The pain and sorrow, the hurt and blameMixed with pleasure, of being a wife,I know not. But of this am sure,That if with daughters you were blessed,They found your bright example lure,Thro’ ways by wisdom proven best,And sympathetic, generous trustTo kindly conduct more than just.If old experience yet holds true,And by a generation’s lapseYour daughter’s child resembles you,Then by that happy law perhapsAnother Nelly may be seenTo grace some other village green;As native there as morning dew;Or larks aloft, when lost to viewThey lift us thro’ the trembling blueTo soar with them in ecstasy;Or primroses, whose welcome facesFrom sunny banks and shady places,Tenderly glimmer in pallid goldCaught as early morning broke,When, dreaming daylight they awokeEnamoured from the moistened mold.And if a Nelly, tho’ changed in name,Her fair endowments will the samePoint every grace that charmed beforeThro’ unrenowned ancestresses,Then still there beams a joy that blessesThe traveller by your cottage door;Who, pleased in after years to traceRemembrance of your playful face,May linger on your presence whileBefore him still you turn to smile.