Methinks our merriment lies stranded, too.Draw the long table for a game of bowls.You will be captain, Edward,—Gods! he yawns.[ToWalter.Your thunder, Jove, has soured these cream-pots all.
Methinks our merriment lies stranded, too.Draw the long table for a game of bowls.You will be captain, Edward,—Gods! he yawns.[ToWalter.Your thunder, Jove, has soured these cream-pots all.
MR. WILMOTT.
To bed! To bed!
To bed! To bed!
A Lawn—Sunset—Walterlying atViolet'sfeet.
VIOLET.
You loved, then, very much, this friend of thine?
You loved, then, very much, this friend of thine?
WALTER.
The sound of his voice did warm my heart like wine.He's long since dead; but if there is a heaven,He's in its heart of bliss.
The sound of his voice did warm my heart like wine.He's long since dead; but if there is a heaven,He's in its heart of bliss.
VIOLET.
How did you live?
How did you live?
WALTER.
We read and wrote together, slept together;We dwelt on slopes against the morning sun,We dwelt in crowded streets, and loved to walkWhile Labour slept; for, in the ghastly dawn,The wildered city seemed a demon's brain,The children of the night its evil thoughts.Sometimes we sat whole afternoons, and watchedThe sunset build a city frail as dream,With bridges, streets of splendour, towers; and sawThe fabrics crumble into rosy ruins,And then grow grey as heath. But our chief joyWas to draw images from everything;And images lay thick upon our talk,As shells on ocean sands.
We read and wrote together, slept together;We dwelt on slopes against the morning sun,We dwelt in crowded streets, and loved to walkWhile Labour slept; for, in the ghastly dawn,The wildered city seemed a demon's brain,The children of the night its evil thoughts.Sometimes we sat whole afternoons, and watchedThe sunset build a city frail as dream,With bridges, streets of splendour, towers; and sawThe fabrics crumble into rosy ruins,And then grow grey as heath. But our chief joyWas to draw images from everything;And images lay thick upon our talk,As shells on ocean sands.
VIOLET.
From everything!Here is the sunset, yonder grows the moon,What image would you draw from these?
From everything!Here is the sunset, yonder grows the moon,What image would you draw from these?
WALTER.
Why, this.The sun is dying like a cloven kingIn his own blood; the while the distant moon,Like a pale prophetess, whom he has wronged,Leans eager forward, with most hungry eyes,Watching him bleed to death, and, as he faints,She brightens and dilates; revenge complete,She walks in lonely triumph through the night.
Why, this.The sun is dying like a cloven kingIn his own blood; the while the distant moon,Like a pale prophetess, whom he has wronged,Leans eager forward, with most hungry eyes,Watching him bleed to death, and, as he faints,She brightens and dilates; revenge complete,She walks in lonely triumph through the night.
VIOLET.
Give not such hateful passion to the orbThat cools the heated lands; that ripes the fields,While sleep the husbandmen, then hastes awayEre the first step of dawn, doing all goodIn secret and the night. 'Tis very wrong.Would I had known your friend!
Give not such hateful passion to the orbThat cools the heated lands; that ripes the fields,While sleep the husbandmen, then hastes awayEre the first step of dawn, doing all goodIn secret and the night. 'Tis very wrong.Would I had known your friend!
WALTER.
Iconoclast!'Tis better as it is.
Iconoclast!'Tis better as it is.
VIOLET.
Why is it so?
Why is it so?
WALTER.
Because you would have loved him, and then IWould have to wander outside of all joy,Like Neptune in the cold.[A pause.
Because you would have loved him, and then IWould have to wander outside of all joy,Like Neptune in the cold.[A pause.
VIOLET.
Do you rememberYou promised yesterday you'd paint for meThree pictures from your life?
Do you rememberYou promised yesterday you'd paint for meThree pictures from your life?
WALTER.
I'll do so now.On this delicious eve, with words like colours,I'll limn them on the canvass of your sense.
I'll do so now.On this delicious eve, with words like colours,I'll limn them on the canvass of your sense.
VIOLET.
Be quick! be quick! for see, the parting sunBut peers above yon range of crimson hills,Taking his last look of this lovely scene.Dusk will be here anon.
Be quick! be quick! for see, the parting sunBut peers above yon range of crimson hills,Taking his last look of this lovely scene.Dusk will be here anon.
WALTER.
And all the stars!
And all the stars!
VIOLET.
Great friends of yours; you love them overmuch.
Great friends of yours; you love them overmuch.
WALTER.
I love the stars too much! The tameless seaSpreads itself out beneath them, smooth as glass.You cannot love them, lady, till you dwellIn mighty towns; immured in their black hearts,The stars are nearer to you than the fields.I'd grow an Atheist in these towns of trade,Were 't not for stars. The smoke puts heaven out;I meet sin-bloated faces in the streets,And shrink as from a blow. I hear wild oaths,And curses spilt from lips that once were sweet,And sealed for Heaven by a mother's kiss.I mix with men whose hearts of human flesh,Beneath the petrifying touch of gold,Have grown as stony as the trodden ways.I see no trace of God, till in the night,While the vast city lies in dreams of gain,He doth reveal himself to me in heaven.My heart swells to Him as the sea to the moon;Therefore it is I love the midnight stars.
I love the stars too much! The tameless seaSpreads itself out beneath them, smooth as glass.You cannot love them, lady, till you dwellIn mighty towns; immured in their black hearts,The stars are nearer to you than the fields.I'd grow an Atheist in these towns of trade,Were 't not for stars. The smoke puts heaven out;I meet sin-bloated faces in the streets,And shrink as from a blow. I hear wild oaths,And curses spilt from lips that once were sweet,And sealed for Heaven by a mother's kiss.I mix with men whose hearts of human flesh,Beneath the petrifying touch of gold,Have grown as stony as the trodden ways.I see no trace of God, till in the night,While the vast city lies in dreams of gain,He doth reveal himself to me in heaven.My heart swells to Him as the sea to the moon;Therefore it is I love the midnight stars.
VIOLET.
I would I had a lover who could giveSuch ample reasons for his loving me,As you for loving stars! But to your task.
I would I had a lover who could giveSuch ample reasons for his loving me,As you for loving stars! But to your task.
WALTER.
Wilt listen to the pictures of my life?
Wilt listen to the pictures of my life?
VIOLET.
Patient as evening to the nightingale!
Patient as evening to the nightingale!
WALTER.
'Mong the green lanes of Kent—green sunny lanes—Where troops of children shout, and laugh, and play,And gather daisies, stood an antique home,Within its orchard, rich with ruddy fruits,For the full year was laughing in his prime.Wealth of all flowers grew in that garden green,And the old porch with its great oaken doorWas smothered in rose-blooms, while o'er the wallsThe honeysuckle clung deliriously.Before the door there lay a plot of grass,Snowed o'er with daisies,—flower by all beloved,And famousest in song—and in the midst,A carvèd fountain stood, dried up and broken,On which a peacock perched and sunned itself;Beneath, two petted rabbits, snowy white,Squatted upon the sward.A row of poplars darkly rose behind,Around whose tops, and the old-fashioned vanes,White pigeons fluttered, and o'er all was bentThe mighty sky, with sailing sunny clouds.One casement was thrown open, and within,A boy hung o'er a book of poesy,Silent as planet hanging o'er the sea.In at the casement open to the noonCame sweetest garden-odours, and the hum—The drowsy hum—of the rejoicing bees,Heavened in blooms that overclad the walls;And the cool wind waved in upon his brow,And stirred his curls. Soft fell the summer night.Then he arose, and with inspired lips said,—"Stars! ye are golden-voicèd clarionsTo high-aspiring and heroic dooms.To-night, as I look up unto ye, Stars!I feel my soul rise to its destiny,Like a strong eagle to its eyrie soaring.Who thinks of weakness underneath ye, Stars?A hum shall be on earth, a name be heard,An epitaph shall look up proud to God.Stars! read and listen, it may not be long."
'Mong the green lanes of Kent—green sunny lanes—Where troops of children shout, and laugh, and play,And gather daisies, stood an antique home,Within its orchard, rich with ruddy fruits,For the full year was laughing in his prime.Wealth of all flowers grew in that garden green,And the old porch with its great oaken doorWas smothered in rose-blooms, while o'er the wallsThe honeysuckle clung deliriously.Before the door there lay a plot of grass,Snowed o'er with daisies,—flower by all beloved,And famousest in song—and in the midst,A carvèd fountain stood, dried up and broken,On which a peacock perched and sunned itself;Beneath, two petted rabbits, snowy white,Squatted upon the sward.A row of poplars darkly rose behind,Around whose tops, and the old-fashioned vanes,White pigeons fluttered, and o'er all was bentThe mighty sky, with sailing sunny clouds.One casement was thrown open, and within,A boy hung o'er a book of poesy,Silent as planet hanging o'er the sea.In at the casement open to the noonCame sweetest garden-odours, and the hum—The drowsy hum—of the rejoicing bees,Heavened in blooms that overclad the walls;And the cool wind waved in upon his brow,And stirred his curls. Soft fell the summer night.Then he arose, and with inspired lips said,—"Stars! ye are golden-voicèd clarionsTo high-aspiring and heroic dooms.To-night, as I look up unto ye, Stars!I feel my soul rise to its destiny,Like a strong eagle to its eyrie soaring.Who thinks of weakness underneath ye, Stars?A hum shall be on earth, a name be heard,An epitaph shall look up proud to God.Stars! read and listen, it may not be long."
VIOLET (leaning over him).
I'll see that grand desire within your eyes—Oh, I only see myself!
I'll see that grand desire within your eyes—Oh, I only see myself!
WALTER.
Violet!Could you look through my heart as through mine eyes,You'd find yourself there, too.
Violet!Could you look through my heart as through mine eyes,You'd find yourself there, too.
VIOLET.
Hush, flatterer!Yet go on with your tale.
Hush, flatterer!Yet go on with your tale.
WALTER.
Three blue days passed,Full of the sun, loud with a thousand larks;An evening like a grey child walked 'tween each.'Twas in the quiet of the fourth day's noon,The boy I speak of slumbered in the wood.Like a dropt rose at an oak-root he lay,A lady bent above him. He awoke;She blushed like sunset, 'mid embarrassed speech;A shock of laughter made them friends at once,And laughter fluttered through their after-talk,As darts a bright bird in and out the leaves.All day he drank her splendid light of eyes;Nor did they part until the deepening eastGan to be sprinkled with the lights of eve.
Three blue days passed,Full of the sun, loud with a thousand larks;An evening like a grey child walked 'tween each.'Twas in the quiet of the fourth day's noon,The boy I speak of slumbered in the wood.Like a dropt rose at an oak-root he lay,A lady bent above him. He awoke;She blushed like sunset, 'mid embarrassed speech;A shock of laughter made them friends at once,And laughter fluttered through their after-talk,As darts a bright bird in and out the leaves.All day he drank her splendid light of eyes;Nor did they part until the deepening eastGan to be sprinkled with the lights of eve.
VIOLET.
Go on! go on!
Go on! go on!
WALTER.
June sang herself to death.They parted in the wood, she very pale,And he walked home the weariest thing on earth.That night he sat in his unlighted room,Pale, sad, and solitary, sick at heart,For he had parted with his dearest friends,High aspirations, bright dreams golden-winged,Troops of fine fancies that like lambs did playAmid the sunshine and the virgin dews,Thick-lying in the green fields of his heart.Calm thoughts that dwelt like hermits in his soul,Fair shapes that slept in fancifullest bowers,Hopes and delights,—He parted with them all.Linked hand in hand they went, tears in their eyes,As faint and beautiful as eyes of flowers,And now he sat alone with empty soul.Last night his soul was like a forest, hauntedWith pagan shapes; when one nymph slumbering lay,A sweet dream 'neath her eyelids, her white limbsSinking full softly in the violets dim;When timbrelled troops rushed past with branches green.One in each fountain, riched with golden sands,With her delicious face a moment seen,And limbs faint-gleaming through their watery veil.To-night his soul was like that forest old,When these were reft away, and the wild windRunning like one distract 'mong their old haunts,Gold-sanded fountains, and the bladed flags.[A pause.It is enough to shake one into tears.A palace full of music was his heart,An earthquake rent it open to the rain;The lovely music died—the bright throngs fled—Despair came like a foul and grizzly beast,And littered in its consecrated rooms.Nature was leaping like a BacchanalOn the next morn, beneath its sky-wide sheenThe boy stood pallid in the rosy porch.The mad larks bathing in the golden light,The flowers close-fondled by the impassioned winds,The smells that came and went upon the sense,Like faint waves on a shore, he heeded not;He could not look the morning in the eyes.That singing morn he went forth like a ship;Long years have passed, and he has not returned,Beggared or laden, home.
June sang herself to death.They parted in the wood, she very pale,And he walked home the weariest thing on earth.That night he sat in his unlighted room,Pale, sad, and solitary, sick at heart,For he had parted with his dearest friends,High aspirations, bright dreams golden-winged,Troops of fine fancies that like lambs did playAmid the sunshine and the virgin dews,Thick-lying in the green fields of his heart.Calm thoughts that dwelt like hermits in his soul,Fair shapes that slept in fancifullest bowers,Hopes and delights,—He parted with them all.Linked hand in hand they went, tears in their eyes,As faint and beautiful as eyes of flowers,And now he sat alone with empty soul.Last night his soul was like a forest, hauntedWith pagan shapes; when one nymph slumbering lay,A sweet dream 'neath her eyelids, her white limbsSinking full softly in the violets dim;When timbrelled troops rushed past with branches green.One in each fountain, riched with golden sands,With her delicious face a moment seen,And limbs faint-gleaming through their watery veil.To-night his soul was like that forest old,When these were reft away, and the wild windRunning like one distract 'mong their old haunts,Gold-sanded fountains, and the bladed flags.[A pause.It is enough to shake one into tears.A palace full of music was his heart,An earthquake rent it open to the rain;The lovely music died—the bright throngs fled—Despair came like a foul and grizzly beast,And littered in its consecrated rooms.
Nature was leaping like a BacchanalOn the next morn, beneath its sky-wide sheenThe boy stood pallid in the rosy porch.The mad larks bathing in the golden light,The flowers close-fondled by the impassioned winds,The smells that came and went upon the sense,Like faint waves on a shore, he heeded not;He could not look the morning in the eyes.That singing morn he went forth like a ship;Long years have passed, and he has not returned,Beggared or laden, home.
VIOLET.
Ah, me, 'tis sad!And sorrow's hand as well as mine has beenAmong these golden curls. 'Tis past, 'tis past;It has dissolved, as did the bank of cloudThat lay in the west last night.
Ah, me, 'tis sad!And sorrow's hand as well as mine has beenAmong these golden curls. 'Tis past, 'tis past;It has dissolved, as did the bank of cloudThat lay in the west last night.
WALTER.
I yearned for love,As earnestly as sun-cracked summer earthYearns to the heavens for rain—none ever came.
I yearned for love,As earnestly as sun-cracked summer earthYearns to the heavens for rain—none ever came.
VIOLET.
Oh, say not so! I love thee very much;Let me but grow up like a sweet-breathed flowerWithin this ghastly fissure of thy heart!Do you not love me, Walter?
Oh, say not so! I love thee very much;Let me but grow up like a sweet-breathed flowerWithin this ghastly fissure of thy heart!Do you not love me, Walter?
WALTER.
By thy tearsI love thee as my own immortal soul.Weep, weep, my Beautiful! Upon thy faceThere is no cloud of sorrow or distress.It is as moonlight, pale, serene, and clear.Thy tears are spilt of joy, they fall like rainFrom heaven's stainless blue.Bend over me, my Beautiful, my Own.Oh, I could lie with face upturned for ever,And on thy beauty feed as on a star![Another pause.Thy face doth come between me and the heaven—Start not, my dearest! for I would not giveThee in thy tears for all yon sky lit upFor a god's feast to-night. And I am loved!Why did you love me, Violet?
By thy tearsI love thee as my own immortal soul.Weep, weep, my Beautiful! Upon thy faceThere is no cloud of sorrow or distress.It is as moonlight, pale, serene, and clear.Thy tears are spilt of joy, they fall like rainFrom heaven's stainless blue.Bend over me, my Beautiful, my Own.Oh, I could lie with face upturned for ever,And on thy beauty feed as on a star![Another pause.Thy face doth come between me and the heaven—Start not, my dearest! for I would not giveThee in thy tears for all yon sky lit upFor a god's feast to-night. And I am loved!Why did you love me, Violet?
VIOLET.
The sunSmiles on the earth, and the exuberant earthReturns the smile in flowers—'twas so with me.I love thee as a fountain leaps to light—I can do nothing else.
The sunSmiles on the earth, and the exuberant earthReturns the smile in flowers—'twas so with me.I love thee as a fountain leaps to light—I can do nothing else.
WALTER.
Say these words again,And yet again; never fell on my earSuch drops of music.
Say these words again,And yet again; never fell on my earSuch drops of music.
VIOLET.
Alas! poor words are weak,So are the daily ills of common life,To draw the ingots and the hoarded pearlsFrom out the treasure-caverns of my heart.Suffering, despair, and death alone can do it:Poor Walter![Kisses him.
Alas! poor words are weak,So are the daily ills of common life,To draw the ingots and the hoarded pearlsFrom out the treasure-caverns of my heart.Suffering, despair, and death alone can do it:Poor Walter![Kisses him.
WALTER.
Gods! I could out-AnthonyAnthony! This moment I could scatterKingdoms life halfpence. I am drunk with joy.This is a royal hour—the top of life.Henceforth my path slopes downward to the grave—All's dross but love. That largest Son of Time,Who wandered singing through the listening world,Will be as much forgot as the canoeThat crossed the bosom of a lonely lakeA thousand years ago. My Beautiful!I would not give thy cheek for all his songs—Thy kiss for all his fame. Why do you weep?
Gods! I could out-AnthonyAnthony! This moment I could scatterKingdoms life halfpence. I am drunk with joy.This is a royal hour—the top of life.Henceforth my path slopes downward to the grave—All's dross but love. That largest Son of Time,Who wandered singing through the listening world,Will be as much forgot as the canoeThat crossed the bosom of a lonely lakeA thousand years ago. My Beautiful!I would not give thy cheek for all his songs—Thy kiss for all his fame. Why do you weep?
VIOLET.
To think that we, so happy now, must die.
To think that we, so happy now, must die.
WALTER.
That thought hangs like a cold and slimy snailOn the rich rose of love—shake it away—Give me another kiss, and I will takeDeath at a flying leap. The night is fair,But thou art fairer, Violet! UnlooseThe midnight of thy tresses, let them floatAround us both. How the freed ringlets reelDown to the dewy grass! Here lean thy head,Now you will feel my heart leap 'gainst thy cheek;Imprison me with those white arms of thine.So, so. O sweet upturnèd face! (Kisses her.) If GodTold you to-night He'd grant your dearest wish,What would it be?
That thought hangs like a cold and slimy snailOn the rich rose of love—shake it away—Give me another kiss, and I will takeDeath at a flying leap. The night is fair,But thou art fairer, Violet! UnlooseThe midnight of thy tresses, let them floatAround us both. How the freed ringlets reelDown to the dewy grass! Here lean thy head,Now you will feel my heart leap 'gainst thy cheek;Imprison me with those white arms of thine.So, so. O sweet upturnèd face! (Kisses her.) If GodTold you to-night He'd grant your dearest wish,What would it be?
VIOLET.
That He would let you growTo your ambition's height. What would be yours?
That He would let you growTo your ambition's height. What would be yours?
WALTER.
A greater boon than Satan's forfeit throne!That He would keep us beautiful and youngFor ever, as to-night. Oh, I could liveUnwearied on thy beauty, till the sunGrows dim and wrinkled as an old man's face.Our cheeks are close, our breaths mix like our souls.We have been starved hereto; Love's banquet's spread,Now let us feast our fills.
A greater boon than Satan's forfeit throne!That He would keep us beautiful and youngFor ever, as to-night. Oh, I could liveUnwearied on thy beauty, till the sunGrows dim and wrinkled as an old man's face.Our cheeks are close, our breaths mix like our souls.We have been starved hereto; Love's banquet's spread,Now let us feast our fills.
VIOLET.
Walter!
Walter!
A Bridge in a City—Midnight—Walteralone.
WALTER.
Adam lost Paradise—eternal taleRepeated in the lives of all his sons.I had a shining orb of happiness,God gave it me; but sin passed over itAs small-pox passes o'er a lovely face,Leaving it hideous. I have lost for everThe Paradise of young and happy thoughts,And now stand in the middle of my lifeLooking back through my tears—ne'er to return.I've a stern tryst with Death, and must go on,Though with slow steps and oft-reverted eyes.'Tis a thick, rich-hazed, sumptuous autumn night;The moon grows like a white flower in the sky;The stars are dim. The tired year rests contentAmong her sheaves, as a fond mother restsAmong her children; all her work is done.There is a weight of peace upon the world;It sleeps: God's blessing on it. Not onme!Oh, as a lewd dream stains the holy sleep,I stain the holy night, yet dare not die!I knew this river's childhood, from the lakeThat gave it birth, till, as if spilt from heaven,It floated o'er the face of jet-black rocks,Graceful and gauzy as a snowy veil.Then we were pure as the blue sky above us,Now we are black alike. This stream has turnedThe wheels of commerce, and come forth distained;And now trails slowly through a city's heart,Drawing its filth as doth an evil soulAttract all evil things; putrid and blackIt mingles with the clear and stainless sea.So into pure eternity my soulWill disembogue itself.Good men have saidThat sometimes God leaves sinners to their sin,—He has left me to mine, and I am changed;My worst part is insurgent, and my willIs weak and powerless as a trembling kingWhen millions rise up hungry. Woe is me!My soul breeds sins as a dead body worms!They swarm and feed upon me. Hear me, God!Sin met me and embraced me on my way;Methought her cheeks were red, her lips had bloom;I kissed her bold lips, dallied with her hair:She sang me into slumber. I awoke—It was a putrid corse that clung to me,Thatclingsto me like memory to the damned,That rots into my being. Father! God!I cannot shake it off, it clings, it clings;—I soon will grow as corrupt as itself.[A pause.God sends me back my prayers, as a fatherReturns unoped the letters of a sonWho has dishonoured him.Have mercy, Fiend!Thou Devil, thou wilt drag me down to hell.Oh, if she had proclivity to sinWho did appear so beauteous and so pure,Nature may leer behind a gracious mask.And God himself may be——I'm giddy, blind,The world reels from beneath me.[Catches hold of the parapet.(An outcast approaches.) Wilt pray for me?
Adam lost Paradise—eternal taleRepeated in the lives of all his sons.I had a shining orb of happiness,God gave it me; but sin passed over itAs small-pox passes o'er a lovely face,Leaving it hideous. I have lost for everThe Paradise of young and happy thoughts,And now stand in the middle of my lifeLooking back through my tears—ne'er to return.I've a stern tryst with Death, and must go on,Though with slow steps and oft-reverted eyes.
'Tis a thick, rich-hazed, sumptuous autumn night;The moon grows like a white flower in the sky;The stars are dim. The tired year rests contentAmong her sheaves, as a fond mother restsAmong her children; all her work is done.There is a weight of peace upon the world;It sleeps: God's blessing on it. Not onme!Oh, as a lewd dream stains the holy sleep,I stain the holy night, yet dare not die!I knew this river's childhood, from the lakeThat gave it birth, till, as if spilt from heaven,It floated o'er the face of jet-black rocks,Graceful and gauzy as a snowy veil.Then we were pure as the blue sky above us,Now we are black alike. This stream has turnedThe wheels of commerce, and come forth distained;And now trails slowly through a city's heart,Drawing its filth as doth an evil soulAttract all evil things; putrid and blackIt mingles with the clear and stainless sea.So into pure eternity my soulWill disembogue itself.Good men have saidThat sometimes God leaves sinners to their sin,—He has left me to mine, and I am changed;My worst part is insurgent, and my willIs weak and powerless as a trembling kingWhen millions rise up hungry. Woe is me!My soul breeds sins as a dead body worms!They swarm and feed upon me. Hear me, God!Sin met me and embraced me on my way;Methought her cheeks were red, her lips had bloom;I kissed her bold lips, dallied with her hair:She sang me into slumber. I awoke—It was a putrid corse that clung to me,Thatclingsto me like memory to the damned,That rots into my being. Father! God!I cannot shake it off, it clings, it clings;—I soon will grow as corrupt as itself.[A pause.God sends me back my prayers, as a fatherReturns unoped the letters of a sonWho has dishonoured him.Have mercy, Fiend!Thou Devil, thou wilt drag me down to hell.Oh, if she had proclivity to sinWho did appear so beauteous and so pure,Nature may leer behind a gracious mask.And God himself may be——I'm giddy, blind,The world reels from beneath me.[Catches hold of the parapet.(An outcast approaches.) Wilt pray for me?
GIRL (shuddering).
'Tis a dreadful thing to pray.
'Tis a dreadful thing to pray.
WALTER.
Why is it so?Hast thou, like me, a spot upon thy soulThat neither tears can cleanse nor fires eterne?
Why is it so?Hast thou, like me, a spot upon thy soulThat neither tears can cleanse nor fires eterne?
GIRL.
But few requestmyprayers.
But few requestmyprayers.
WALTER.
I request them.For ne'er did a dishevelled woman clingSo earnest-pale to a stern conqueror's knees,Pleading for a dear life, as did my prayerCling to the knees of God. He shook it off,And went upon His way. Wilt pray for me?
I request them.For ne'er did a dishevelled woman clingSo earnest-pale to a stern conqueror's knees,Pleading for a dear life, as did my prayerCling to the knees of God. He shook it off,And went upon His way. Wilt pray for me?
GIRL.
Sin crusts me o'er as limpets crust the rocks.I would be thrust from ev'ry human door;I dare not knock at heaven's.
Sin crusts me o'er as limpets crust the rocks.I would be thrust from ev'ry human door;I dare not knock at heaven's.
WALTER.
Poor homeless one!There is a door stands wide for thee and me—The door of hell. Methinks we are well met.I saw a little girl three years ago,With eyes of azure and with cheeks of red,A crowd of sunbeams hanging down her face;Sweet laughter round her; dancing like a breeze.I'd rather lair me with a fiend in fireThan look on such a face as hers to-night.But I can look on thee, and such as thee;I'll call thee "Sister;" do thou call me "Brother."A thousand years hence, when we both are damned,We'll sit like ghosts upon the wailing shore,And read our lives by the red light of hell.Shall we not, Sister?
Poor homeless one!There is a door stands wide for thee and me—The door of hell. Methinks we are well met.I saw a little girl three years ago,With eyes of azure and with cheeks of red,A crowd of sunbeams hanging down her face;Sweet laughter round her; dancing like a breeze.I'd rather lair me with a fiend in fireThan look on such a face as hers to-night.But I can look on thee, and such as thee;I'll call thee "Sister;" do thou call me "Brother."A thousand years hence, when we both are damned,We'll sit like ghosts upon the wailing shore,And read our lives by the red light of hell.Shall we not, Sister?
GIRL.
O thou strange, wild man!Let me alone: what would you seek with me?
O thou strange, wild man!Let me alone: what would you seek with me?
WALTER.
Your ear, my Sister. I have that withinWhich urges me to utterance. I could accostA pensive angel, singing to himselfUpon a hill in heaven, and leave his mindAs dark and turbid as a trampled pool,To purify at leisure.—I have noneTo listen to me, save a sinful womanUpon a midnight bridge.—She was so fair,God's eye could rest with pleasure on her face.Oh, God, she was so happy! Her short life,As full of music as the crowded JuneOf an unfallen orb. What is it now?She gave me her young heart, full, full of love:My return—was to break it. Worse, far worse;I crept into the chambers of her soul,Like a foul toad, polluting as I went.
Your ear, my Sister. I have that withinWhich urges me to utterance. I could accostA pensive angel, singing to himselfUpon a hill in heaven, and leave his mindAs dark and turbid as a trampled pool,To purify at leisure.—I have noneTo listen to me, save a sinful womanUpon a midnight bridge.—She was so fair,God's eye could rest with pleasure on her face.Oh, God, she was so happy! Her short life,As full of music as the crowded JuneOf an unfallen orb. What is it now?She gave me her young heart, full, full of love:My return—was to break it. Worse, far worse;I crept into the chambers of her soul,Like a foul toad, polluting as I went.
GIRL.
I pity her—not you. Man trusts in God;He is eternal. Woman trusts in man,And he is shifting sand.
I pity her—not you. Man trusts in God;He is eternal. Woman trusts in man,And he is shifting sand.
WALTER.
Poor child, poor child!We sat in dreadful silence with our sin,Looking each other wildly in the eyes:Methought I heard the gates of heaven close,She flung herself against me, burst in tears,As a wave bursts in spray. She covered meWith her wild sorrow, as an April cloudWith dim dishevelled tresses hides the hillOn which its heart is breaking. She clung to meWith piteous arms, and shook me with her sobs,For she had lost her world, her heaven, her God,And now had nought but me and her great wrong.She did not kill me with a single word,But once she lifted her tear-dabbled face—Had hell gaped at my feet I would have leaptInto its burning throat, from that pale look.Still it pursues me like a haunting fiend:It drives me out to the black moors at night,Where I am smitten by the hissing rain,And ruffian winds, dislodging from their troops,Hustle me shrieking, then with sudden turnGo laughing to their fellows. Merciful God!It comes—that face again, that white, white face,Set in a night of hair; reproachful eyes,That make me mad. Oh, save me from those eyes!They will torment me even in the grave,And burn on me in Tophet.
Poor child, poor child!We sat in dreadful silence with our sin,Looking each other wildly in the eyes:Methought I heard the gates of heaven close,She flung herself against me, burst in tears,As a wave bursts in spray. She covered meWith her wild sorrow, as an April cloudWith dim dishevelled tresses hides the hillOn which its heart is breaking. She clung to meWith piteous arms, and shook me with her sobs,For she had lost her world, her heaven, her God,And now had nought but me and her great wrong.She did not kill me with a single word,But once she lifted her tear-dabbled face—Had hell gaped at my feet I would have leaptInto its burning throat, from that pale look.Still it pursues me like a haunting fiend:It drives me out to the black moors at night,Where I am smitten by the hissing rain,And ruffian winds, dislodging from their troops,Hustle me shrieking, then with sudden turnGo laughing to their fellows. Merciful God!It comes—that face again, that white, white face,Set in a night of hair; reproachful eyes,That make me mad. Oh, save me from those eyes!They will torment me even in the grave,And burn on me in Tophet.
GIRL.
Where are you going?
Where are you going?
WALTER.
My heart's on fire by hell, and on I driveTo outer blackness, like a blazing ship.[He rushes away.
My heart's on fire by hell, and on I driveTo outer blackness, like a blazing ship.[He rushes away.
Night.—Walter,standing alone in his garden.
WALTER.
Summer hath murmured with her leafy lipsAround my home, and I have heard her not;I've missed the process of three several years,From shaking wind-flowers to the tarnished goldThat rustles sere on Autumn's aged boughs.I went three years ago, and now return,As stag sore-hunted a long summer dayCreeps in the eve to its deep forest-home.[A pause.This is my home again! Once more I hailThe dear old gables and the creaking vanes.It stands all flecked with shadows in the moon,Patient, and white, and woeful. 'Tis so still,It seems to brood upon its youthful years,When children sported on its ringing floors,And music trembled through its happy rooms.'Twas here I spent my youth, as far removedFrom the great heavings, hopes, and fears of man,As unknown isle asleep in unknown seas.Gone my pure heart, and with it happy days;No manna falls around me from on high,Barely from off the desert of my lifeI gather patience and severe content.God is a worker. He has thickly strewnInfinity with grandeur. God is Love;He yet will wipe away Creation's tears,And all the worlds shall summer in His smile.Why work I not? The veriest mote that sportsIts one-day life within the sunny beamHas its stern duties. Wherefore have I none?I will throw off this dead and useless past,As a strong runner, straining for his life,Unclasps a mantle to the hungry winds.A mighty purpose rises large and slowFrom out the fluctuations of my soul,As, ghost-like, from the dim and tumbling seaStarts the completed moon.[Another pause.I have a heart to dare,And spirit-thews to work my daring out;I'll cleave the world as a swimmer cleaves the sea,Breaking the sleek green billows into froth,With tilting full-blown chest, and scatteringWith scornful breath the kissing, flattering foam,That leaps and dallies with his dipping lip.Thou'rt distant, now, O World! I hear thee not;No pallid fringes of thy fires to-nightDroop round the large horizon. Yet, O World!I have thee in my power, and as a manBy some mysterious influence can swayAnother's mind, making him laugh and weep,Shudder or thrill, such power have I on thee.Much have I suffered, both from thee and thine;Thou shalt not 'scape me, World! I'll make thee weep;I'll make my lone thought cross thee like a spirit,And blanch thy braggart cheeks, lift up thy hair,And make thy great knees tremble; I will sendAcross thy soul dark herds of demon dreams,And make thee toss and moan in troubled sleep;And, waking, I will fill thy forlorn heartWith pure and happy thoughts, as summer woodsAre full of singing-birds. I come from far,I'll rest myself, O World! awhile on thee,And half in earnest, half in jest, I'll cutMy name upon thee, pass the arch of Death,Then on a stair of stars go up to God.
Summer hath murmured with her leafy lipsAround my home, and I have heard her not;I've missed the process of three several years,From shaking wind-flowers to the tarnished goldThat rustles sere on Autumn's aged boughs.I went three years ago, and now return,As stag sore-hunted a long summer dayCreeps in the eve to its deep forest-home.[A pause.This is my home again! Once more I hailThe dear old gables and the creaking vanes.It stands all flecked with shadows in the moon,Patient, and white, and woeful. 'Tis so still,It seems to brood upon its youthful years,When children sported on its ringing floors,And music trembled through its happy rooms.'Twas here I spent my youth, as far removedFrom the great heavings, hopes, and fears of man,As unknown isle asleep in unknown seas.Gone my pure heart, and with it happy days;No manna falls around me from on high,Barely from off the desert of my lifeI gather patience and severe content.God is a worker. He has thickly strewnInfinity with grandeur. God is Love;He yet will wipe away Creation's tears,And all the worlds shall summer in His smile.Why work I not? The veriest mote that sportsIts one-day life within the sunny beamHas its stern duties. Wherefore have I none?I will throw off this dead and useless past,As a strong runner, straining for his life,Unclasps a mantle to the hungry winds.A mighty purpose rises large and slowFrom out the fluctuations of my soul,As, ghost-like, from the dim and tumbling seaStarts the completed moon.[Another pause.I have a heart to dare,And spirit-thews to work my daring out;I'll cleave the world as a swimmer cleaves the sea,Breaking the sleek green billows into froth,With tilting full-blown chest, and scatteringWith scornful breath the kissing, flattering foam,That leaps and dallies with his dipping lip.Thou'rt distant, now, O World! I hear thee not;No pallid fringes of thy fires to-nightDroop round the large horizon. Yet, O World!I have thee in my power, and as a manBy some mysterious influence can swayAnother's mind, making him laugh and weep,Shudder or thrill, such power have I on thee.Much have I suffered, both from thee and thine;Thou shalt not 'scape me, World! I'll make thee weep;I'll make my lone thought cross thee like a spirit,And blanch thy braggart cheeks, lift up thy hair,And make thy great knees tremble; I will sendAcross thy soul dark herds of demon dreams,And make thee toss and moan in troubled sleep;And, waking, I will fill thy forlorn heartWith pure and happy thoughts, as summer woodsAre full of singing-birds. I come from far,I'll rest myself, O World! awhile on thee,And half in earnest, half in jest, I'll cutMy name upon thee, pass the arch of Death,Then on a stair of stars go up to God.
An Apartment—CharlesandEdwardseated.
EDWARD.
Have you seen Walter lately?
Have you seen Walter lately?
CHARLES.
Very much;I wintered with him.
Very much;I wintered with him.
EDWARD.
What was he about?
What was he about?
CHARLES.
He wrote his Poem then.
He wrote his Poem then.
EDWARD.
That was a hit!The world is murmuring like a hive of bees:He is its theme—to-morrow it may change.Was it done at a dash?
That was a hit!The world is murmuring like a hive of bees:He is its theme—to-morrow it may change.Was it done at a dash?
CHARLES.
It was; each word sincere,As blood-drops from the heart. The full-faced moon,Set round with stars, in at his casement looked,And saw him write and write: and when the moonWas waning dim upon the edge of morn,Still sat he writing, thoughtful-eyed and pale;And, as of yore, round his white temples reeledHis golden hair, in ringlets beautiful.Great joy he had, for thought came glad and thickAs leaves upon a tree in primrose-time;And as he wrote, his task the lovelier grew,Like April unto May, or as a child,A-smile in the lap of life, by fine degreesOrbs to a maiden, walking with meek eyesIn atmosphere of beauty round her breathed.He wrote all winter in an olden room,Hallowed with glooms and books. Priests who have wedTheir makers unto Fame, Moons that have shedEternal halos around England's head;Books dusky and thumbed without,within, a sphereSmelling of Spring, as genial, fresh, and clear,And beautiful, as is the rainbowed airAfter May showers. Within this pleasant lairHe passed in writing all the winter moons;But when May came, with train of sunny noons,He chose a leafy summer-house withinThe greenest nook in all his garden green;Oft a fine thought would flush his face divine,As he had quaffed a cup of olden wine,Which deifies the drinker: oft his faceGleamed like a spirit's in that shady place,While he saw, smiling upward from the scroll,The image of the thought within his soul;There, 'mid the waving shadows of the trees,'Mong garden-odours and the hum of bees,He wrote the last and closing passages.He is not happy.
It was; each word sincere,As blood-drops from the heart. The full-faced moon,Set round with stars, in at his casement looked,And saw him write and write: and when the moonWas waning dim upon the edge of morn,Still sat he writing, thoughtful-eyed and pale;And, as of yore, round his white temples reeledHis golden hair, in ringlets beautiful.Great joy he had, for thought came glad and thickAs leaves upon a tree in primrose-time;And as he wrote, his task the lovelier grew,Like April unto May, or as a child,A-smile in the lap of life, by fine degreesOrbs to a maiden, walking with meek eyesIn atmosphere of beauty round her breathed.He wrote all winter in an olden room,Hallowed with glooms and books. Priests who have wedTheir makers unto Fame, Moons that have shedEternal halos around England's head;Books dusky and thumbed without,within, a sphereSmelling of Spring, as genial, fresh, and clear,And beautiful, as is the rainbowed airAfter May showers. Within this pleasant lairHe passed in writing all the winter moons;But when May came, with train of sunny noons,He chose a leafy summer-house withinThe greenest nook in all his garden green;Oft a fine thought would flush his face divine,As he had quaffed a cup of olden wine,Which deifies the drinker: oft his faceGleamed like a spirit's in that shady place,While he saw, smiling upward from the scroll,The image of the thought within his soul;There, 'mid the waving shadows of the trees,'Mong garden-odours and the hum of bees,He wrote the last and closing passages.He is not happy.
EDWARD.
Has he told you so?
Has he told you so?
CHARLES.
Not in plain terms. Oft an unhappy thought,Telling all is not well, falls from his soulLike a diseasèd feather from the wingOf a sick eagle; a scorched meteor-stoneDropt from the ruined moon.
Not in plain terms. Oft an unhappy thought,Telling all is not well, falls from his soulLike a diseasèd feather from the wingOf a sick eagle; a scorched meteor-stoneDropt from the ruined moon.
EDWARD.