The garrulous sea is talking to the shore,Let us go down and hear the greybeard's speech.[They walk along the sands.I shall go down to Bedfordshire to-morrow.Will you go with me?
The garrulous sea is talking to the shore,Let us go down and hear the greybeard's speech.[They walk along the sands.I shall go down to Bedfordshire to-morrow.Will you go with me?
WALTER.
Whom shall we see there?
Whom shall we see there?
EDWARD.
Why, various specimens of that biped, Man.I'll show you one who might have been an abbotIn the old time; a large and portly man,With merry eyes, and crown that shines like glass.No thin-smiled April he, bedript with tears,But appled-Autumn, golden-cheeked and tan;A jest in his mouth feels sweet as crusted wine.As if all eager for a merry thought,The pits of laughter dimple in his cheeks.His speech is flavorous, evermore he talksIn a warm, brown, autumnal sort of style.A worthy man, Sir! who shall stand at comptWith conscience white, save some few stains of wine.
Why, various specimens of that biped, Man.I'll show you one who might have been an abbotIn the old time; a large and portly man,With merry eyes, and crown that shines like glass.No thin-smiled April he, bedript with tears,But appled-Autumn, golden-cheeked and tan;A jest in his mouth feels sweet as crusted wine.As if all eager for a merry thought,The pits of laughter dimple in his cheeks.His speech is flavorous, evermore he talksIn a warm, brown, autumnal sort of style.A worthy man, Sir! who shall stand at comptWith conscience white, save some few stains of wine.
WALTER.
Commend me to him! He is half right. The PastIs but an emptied flask, and the rich FutureA bottle yet uncorked. Who is the next?
Commend me to him! He is half right. The PastIs but an emptied flask, and the rich FutureA bottle yet uncorked. Who is the next?
EDWARD.
Old Mr. Wilmott; nothing in himself,But rich as ocean. He has in his handSea-marge and moor, and miles of stream and grove,Dull flats, scream-startled, as the exulting trainStreams like a meteor through the frighted night,Wind-billowed plains of wheat, and marshy fens,Unto whose reeds on midnights blue and cold,Long strings of geese come clanging from the stars.Yet wealthier in one child than in all these!Oh! she is fair as Heaven! and she wearsThe sweetest name that woman ever wore.And eyes to match her name—'Tis Violet.
Old Mr. Wilmott; nothing in himself,But rich as ocean. He has in his handSea-marge and moor, and miles of stream and grove,Dull flats, scream-startled, as the exulting trainStreams like a meteor through the frighted night,Wind-billowed plains of wheat, and marshy fens,Unto whose reeds on midnights blue and cold,Long strings of geese come clanging from the stars.Yet wealthier in one child than in all these!Oh! she is fair as Heaven! and she wearsThe sweetest name that woman ever wore.And eyes to match her name—'Tis Violet.
WALTER.
If like her name, she must be beautiful.
If like her name, she must be beautiful.
EDWARD.
And so she is; she has dark violet eyes,A voice as soft as moonlight. On her cheekThe blushing blood miraculous doth rangeFrom tender dawn to sunset. When she speaksHer soul is shining through her earnest face,As shines a moon through its up-swathing cloud—My tongue's a very beggar in her praise,It cannot gild her gold with all its words.
And so she is; she has dark violet eyes,A voice as soft as moonlight. On her cheekThe blushing blood miraculous doth rangeFrom tender dawn to sunset. When she speaksHer soul is shining through her earnest face,As shines a moon through its up-swathing cloud—My tongue's a very beggar in her praise,It cannot gild her gold with all its words.
WALTER.
Hath unbreeched Cupid struck your heart of ice?You speak of her as if you were her lover.Couldyounot find a home within her heart?No, no! you are too cold, you never loved.
Hath unbreeched Cupid struck your heart of ice?You speak of her as if you were her lover.Couldyounot find a home within her heart?No, no! you are too cold, you never loved.
EDWARD.
There's nothing colder than a desolate hearth.
There's nothing colder than a desolate hearth.
WALTER.
A desolate hearth! Did fire leap on it once?
A desolate hearth! Did fire leap on it once?
EDWARD.
My hand is o'er my heart—and shall remain.—Let the swift minutes run, red sink the sun,To-morrow will be rich with Violet.
My hand is o'er my heart—and shall remain.—Let the swift minutes run, red sink the sun,To-morrow will be rich with Violet.
WALTER.
So be it, large he sinks! Repentant DayFrees with his dying hand the pallid starsHe held imprisoned since his young hot dawn.Now watch with what a silent step of fearThey'll steal out one by one, and overspreadThe cool delicious meadows of the night.
So be it, large he sinks! Repentant DayFrees with his dying hand the pallid starsHe held imprisoned since his young hot dawn.Now watch with what a silent step of fearThey'll steal out one by one, and overspreadThe cool delicious meadows of the night.
EDWARD.
And lo, the first one flutters in the blueWith a quick sense of liberty and joy!
And lo, the first one flutters in the blueWith a quick sense of liberty and joy!
(Two hours afterwards), WALTER.
The rosy glow has faded from the sky,The rosy glow has faded from the sea.A tender sadness drops upon my soul,Like the soft twilight dropping on the world.
The rosy glow has faded from the sky,The rosy glow has faded from the sea.A tender sadness drops upon my soul,Like the soft twilight dropping on the world.
EDWARD.
Behold yon shining symbol overhead,Clear Venus hanging in the mellow west,Jupiter large and sovereign in the east,With the red Mars between.
Behold yon shining symbol overhead,Clear Venus hanging in the mellow west,Jupiter large and sovereign in the east,With the red Mars between.
WALTER.
See yon poor starThat shudders o'er the mournful hill of pines!'Twould almost make you weep, it seems so sad.'Tis like an orphan trembling with the coldOver his mother's grave among the pines.Like a wild lover who has found his loveWorthless and foul, our friend, the sea, has leftHis paramour the shore; naked she lies,Ugly and black and bare. Hark how he moans!The pain is in his heart. Inconstant fool!He will be up upon her breast to-morrow,As eager as to-day.
See yon poor starThat shudders o'er the mournful hill of pines!'Twould almost make you weep, it seems so sad.'Tis like an orphan trembling with the coldOver his mother's grave among the pines.Like a wild lover who has found his loveWorthless and foul, our friend, the sea, has leftHis paramour the shore; naked she lies,Ugly and black and bare. Hark how he moans!The pain is in his heart. Inconstant fool!He will be up upon her breast to-morrow,As eager as to-day.
EDWARD.
Like man in that.We cannot see the lighthouse in the gloom,We cannot see the rock; but look! now, now,It opes its ruddy eye, the night recoils,A crimson line of light runs out to sea,A guiding torch to the benighted ships.[After a long pause.O God! 'mid our despairs and throbs and pains,What a calm joy doth fill great Nature's heart!
Like man in that.We cannot see the lighthouse in the gloom,We cannot see the rock; but look! now, now,It opes its ruddy eye, the night recoils,A crimson line of light runs out to sea,A guiding torch to the benighted ships.[After a long pause.O God! 'mid our despairs and throbs and pains,What a calm joy doth fill great Nature's heart!
WALTER.
Thou look'st up to the night as to the faceOf one thou lov'st; I know her beauty isDeep-mirrored in thy soul as in a sea.What are thy thinkings of the earth and stars?A theatre magnificently litFor sorry acting, undeserved applause?Dost think there's any music in the spheres?Or doth the whole creation, in thine ear,Moan like a stricken creature to its God,Fettered eternal in a lair of pain?
Thou look'st up to the night as to the faceOf one thou lov'st; I know her beauty isDeep-mirrored in thy soul as in a sea.What are thy thinkings of the earth and stars?A theatre magnificently litFor sorry acting, undeserved applause?Dost think there's any music in the spheres?Or doth the whole creation, in thine ear,Moan like a stricken creature to its God,Fettered eternal in a lair of pain?
EDWARD.
I think—we are two fools: let us to bed.What care the stars for us?
I think—we are two fools: let us to bed.What care the stars for us?
Evening—A Room in a Manor—Mr.Wilmott,Arthur,Edward—Walterseated a little apart.
WALTER.
She grows on me like moonrise on the night—My life is shaped in spite of me, the sameAs ocean by his shores. Why am I here?The weary sun was lolling in the west,Edward and I were sauntering on the shoreYawning with idleness; and so we cameTo kill the tedium of slow-creeping days.On such slight hinges an existence turns!How frequent in the very thick of lifeWe rub clothes with a fate that hurries past!A tiresome friend detains us in the street,We part, and turning, meet fate in the teeth.A moment more or less had 'voided it.Yet through the subtle texture of our souls,From circumstance each draws a different hue.The sunlight falls upon a bed of flowers,From the same sunlight one draws crimson deep,Another azure pale. Edward and ISee Violet each day, her silks brush both,She smiles on both alike—My heart! she comes.[Violetenters and crosses the room.O God! I'd be the very floor that bearsSuch a majestic thing! Now feed, my eyes,On beauteous poison, Nightshade, honey sweet.[A silence.
She grows on me like moonrise on the night—My life is shaped in spite of me, the sameAs ocean by his shores. Why am I here?The weary sun was lolling in the west,Edward and I were sauntering on the shoreYawning with idleness; and so we cameTo kill the tedium of slow-creeping days.On such slight hinges an existence turns!How frequent in the very thick of lifeWe rub clothes with a fate that hurries past!A tiresome friend detains us in the street,We part, and turning, meet fate in the teeth.A moment more or less had 'voided it.Yet through the subtle texture of our souls,From circumstance each draws a different hue.The sunlight falls upon a bed of flowers,From the same sunlight one draws crimson deep,Another azure pale. Edward and ISee Violet each day, her silks brush both,She smiles on both alike—My heart! she comes.[Violetenters and crosses the room.O God! I'd be the very floor that bearsSuch a majestic thing! Now feed, my eyes,On beauteous poison, Nightshade, honey sweet.[A silence.
VIOLET.
There is a ghastly chasm in the talk,As if a fate hung in the midst of us,Its shadow on each heart. Why, this should beA dark and lustrous night of wit and wine,Rich with quick bouts of merry argument,And witty sallies quenched in laughter sweet,Yet my voice trembles in a solitude,Like a lone man in a great wilderness.
There is a ghastly chasm in the talk,As if a fate hung in the midst of us,Its shadow on each heart. Why, this should beA dark and lustrous night of wit and wine,Rich with quick bouts of merry argument,And witty sallies quenched in laughter sweet,Yet my voice trembles in a solitude,Like a lone man in a great wilderness.
MR. WILMOTT.
Arthur, you once could sing a roaring song,That to the chorus drew our voices out;'Twere no bad plan to sing us one to-night.Come, wash the roughness from your throat with wine.
Arthur, you once could sing a roaring song,That to the chorus drew our voices out;'Twere no bad plan to sing us one to-night.Come, wash the roughness from your throat with wine.
ARTHUR.
What sort of song, Sirs, shall I sing to you—Dame Venus panting on her bed of flowers,Or Bacchus purple-mouthed astride his tun?Now for a headlong song of blooded youth,Give 't such a welcome as shall lift the roof off—Sweet friends, be ready with a hip hurrah!
What sort of song, Sirs, shall I sing to you—Dame Venus panting on her bed of flowers,Or Bacchus purple-mouthed astride his tun?Now for a headlong song of blooded youth,Give 't such a welcome as shall lift the roof off—Sweet friends, be ready with a hip hurrah!
Arthursings.
A fig for a draught from your crystalline fountains,Your cold sunken wells,In mid forest dells,Ha! bring me the fiery bright dew of the mountains,When yellowed with peat-reek, and mellowed with age,O, richest joy-giver!Rare warmer of liver!Diviner than kisses, thou droll and thou sage!Fine soul of a land struck with brightest sun-tints,Of dark purple moors,Of sleek ocean-floors,Of hills stained with heather like bloody footprints;In sunshine, in rain, a flask shall be nigh me,Warm heart, blood and brain, Fine Sprite deify me!I've drunk 'mong slain deer in a lone mountain shieling,I've drunk till delirious,While rain beat imperious,And rang roof and rafter with bagpipes and reeling.I've drunk in Red Rannoch, amid its grey boulders:Where, fain to be kist,Through his thin scarf of mist,Ben-More to the sun heaves his wet shining shoulders!I've tumbled in hay with the fresh ruddy lasses,I've drunk with the reapers,I've roared with the keepers,And scared night away with the ring of our glasses!In sunshine, in rain, a flask shall be nigh me,Warm heart, blood, and brain, Fine Sprite deify me!Come, string bright songs upon a thread of wine,And let the coming midnight pass through us,Like a dusk prince crusted with gold and gems!Our studious Edward from his Lincoln fens,And home quaint-gabled hid in rooky trees,Seen distant is the sun in the arch of noon,Seen close at hand, the same sun large and red,His day's work done, within the lazy westSitting right portly, staring at the worldWith a round, rubicund, wine-bibbing face—Ha! like a dove, I see a merry songPluming itself for flight upon his lips.
A fig for a draught from your crystalline fountains,Your cold sunken wells,In mid forest dells,Ha! bring me the fiery bright dew of the mountains,When yellowed with peat-reek, and mellowed with age,O, richest joy-giver!Rare warmer of liver!Diviner than kisses, thou droll and thou sage!Fine soul of a land struck with brightest sun-tints,Of dark purple moors,Of sleek ocean-floors,Of hills stained with heather like bloody footprints;In sunshine, in rain, a flask shall be nigh me,Warm heart, blood and brain, Fine Sprite deify me!
I've drunk 'mong slain deer in a lone mountain shieling,I've drunk till delirious,While rain beat imperious,And rang roof and rafter with bagpipes and reeling.I've drunk in Red Rannoch, amid its grey boulders:Where, fain to be kist,Through his thin scarf of mist,Ben-More to the sun heaves his wet shining shoulders!I've tumbled in hay with the fresh ruddy lasses,I've drunk with the reapers,I've roared with the keepers,And scared night away with the ring of our glasses!In sunshine, in rain, a flask shall be nigh me,Warm heart, blood, and brain, Fine Sprite deify me!
Come, string bright songs upon a thread of wine,And let the coming midnight pass through us,Like a dusk prince crusted with gold and gems!Our studious Edward from his Lincoln fens,And home quaint-gabled hid in rooky trees,Seen distant is the sun in the arch of noon,Seen close at hand, the same sun large and red,His day's work done, within the lazy westSitting right portly, staring at the worldWith a round, rubicund, wine-bibbing face—Ha! like a dove, I see a merry songPluming itself for flight upon his lips.
Edwardsings.
My heart is beating with all things that are,My blood is wild unrest;With what a passion pants yon eager starUpon the water's breast!Clasped in the air's soft arms the world doth sleep,Asleep its moving seas, its humming lands;With what an hungry lip the ocean deepLappeth for ever the white-breasted sands;What love is in the moon's eternal eyes,Leaning unto the earth from out the midnight skies!Thy large dark eyes are wide upon my brow,Filled with as tender lightAs yon low moon doth fill the heavens now,This mellow autumn night!On the late flowers I linger at thy feet,I tremble when I touch thy garment's rim,I clasp thy waist, I feel thy bosom's beat—O kiss me into faintness sweet and dim!Thou leanest to me as a swelling peach,Full-juiced and mellow, leaneth to the taker's reach.Thy hair is loosened by that kiss you gave,It floods my shoulders o'er;Another yet! Oh, as a weary waveSubsides upon the shore,My hungry being with its hopes, its fears,My heart like moon-charmed waters, all unrest,Yet strong as is despair, as weak as tears,Doth faint upon thy breast!I feel thy clasping arms, my cheek is wetWith thy rich tears. One kiss! Sweet, sweet, another yet!I sang this song some twenty years ago,(Hot to the ear-tips, with great thumps of heart),On the gold lawn, while, Cæsar-like, the sunGathered his robes around him as he fell.
My heart is beating with all things that are,My blood is wild unrest;With what a passion pants yon eager starUpon the water's breast!Clasped in the air's soft arms the world doth sleep,Asleep its moving seas, its humming lands;With what an hungry lip the ocean deepLappeth for ever the white-breasted sands;What love is in the moon's eternal eyes,Leaning unto the earth from out the midnight skies!
Thy large dark eyes are wide upon my brow,Filled with as tender lightAs yon low moon doth fill the heavens now,This mellow autumn night!On the late flowers I linger at thy feet,I tremble when I touch thy garment's rim,I clasp thy waist, I feel thy bosom's beat—O kiss me into faintness sweet and dim!Thou leanest to me as a swelling peach,Full-juiced and mellow, leaneth to the taker's reach.
Thy hair is loosened by that kiss you gave,It floods my shoulders o'er;Another yet! Oh, as a weary waveSubsides upon the shore,My hungry being with its hopes, its fears,My heart like moon-charmed waters, all unrest,Yet strong as is despair, as weak as tears,Doth faint upon thy breast!I feel thy clasping arms, my cheek is wetWith thy rich tears. One kiss! Sweet, sweet, another yet!
I sang this song some twenty years ago,(Hot to the ear-tips, with great thumps of heart),On the gold lawn, while, Cæsar-like, the sunGathered his robes around him as he fell.
ARTHUR.
Struck by some country cousin, a rosy beautyOf the Dutch-cheese order, riched with great black eyes,Which, when you planned a theft upon her lips,Looked your heart quite away!Oh, Love! oh, Wine! thou sun and moon o' our lives,What oysters were we without love and wine!Our host, I doubt not, vaults a mighty tun,Wide-wombed and old, cobwebbed and dusted o'er.Broach! and within its gloomy sides you'll findA beating heart of wine. The world's a tun,A gloomy tun, but he who taps the worldWill find much sweetness in 't. Walter, my boy,Against this sun of wine's most purple lightBurst into song.
Struck by some country cousin, a rosy beautyOf the Dutch-cheese order, riched with great black eyes,Which, when you planned a theft upon her lips,Looked your heart quite away!Oh, Love! oh, Wine! thou sun and moon o' our lives,What oysters were we without love and wine!Our host, I doubt not, vaults a mighty tun,Wide-wombed and old, cobwebbed and dusted o'er.Broach! and within its gloomy sides you'll findA beating heart of wine. The world's a tun,A gloomy tun, but he who taps the worldWill find much sweetness in 't. Walter, my boy,Against this sun of wine's most purple lightBurst into song.
WALTER.
I fear, Sir, I have none.
I fear, Sir, I have none.
ARTHUR.
Hang nuts in autumn woods? Then 't is your trade,Spin us a new one. Come! some youth love-mad,Reading the thoughts within his lady's eyes,Earnest as One that looks into the Book,Seeking the road to bliss—Clothe me this bare bough with your sunny flowers.
Hang nuts in autumn woods? Then 't is your trade,Spin us a new one. Come! some youth love-mad,Reading the thoughts within his lady's eyes,Earnest as One that looks into the Book,Seeking the road to bliss—Clothe me this bare bough with your sunny flowers.
WALTER.
The evening heaven is not always dressedWith frail cloud-empires of the setting sun,Nor are we always in our singing-robes.I have no song, nor can I make you one;But, with permission, I will tell a tale.
The evening heaven is not always dressedWith frail cloud-empires of the setting sun,Nor are we always in our singing-robes.I have no song, nor can I make you one;But, with permission, I will tell a tale.
ARTHUR.
If short and merry, Heaven speed your tongue;If long and sad, the Lord have mercy on us!
If short and merry, Heaven speed your tongue;If long and sad, the Lord have mercy on us!
WALTER.
Within a city One was born to toil,Whose heart could not mate with the common doomTo fall like a spent arrow in the grave.'Mid the eternal hum, the boy clomb upInto a shy and solitary youth,With strange joys and strange sorrows, oft to tearsHe was moved, he knew not why, when he has stoodAmong the lengthening shadows of the eve,Such feeling overflowed him from the sky.'Mong crowds he dwelt, as lonely as a starUnsphered and exiled, yet he knew no scorn.Once did he say, "For me, I'd rather liveWith this weak human heart and yearning blood,Lonely as God, than mate with barren souls;More brave, more beautiful, than myself must beThe man whom truly I can call my Friend;He must be an Inspirer, who can drawTo higher heights of Being, and aye standO'er me in unreached beauty, like the moon;Soon as he fail in this, the crest and crownOf noble friendship, he is nought to me.What so unguessed as Death? Yet to the deadIt lies as plain as yesterday to us.Let me go forward to my grave alone,What need have I to linger by dry wells?"Books were his chiefest friends. In them he readOf those great spirits who went down like suns,And left upon the mountain-tops of DeathA light that made them lovely. His own heartMade him a Poet. Yesterday to himWas richer far than fifty years to come.Alchymist Memory turned his past to gold.When morn awakes against the dark wet earth,Back to the morn she laughs with dewy sides,Up goes her voice of larks! With like effectImagination opened on his life,Itlay all lovely in that rarer light.He was with Nature on the sabbath-days;Far from the dressed throngs and the city bellsHe gave his hot brows to the kissing wind,While restless thoughts were stirring in his heart."These worldly men will kill me with their scorns,But Nature never mocks or jeers at me;Her dewy soothings of the earth and airDo wean me from the thoughts that mad my brain.Our interviews are stolen, I can look,Nature! in thy serene and griefless eyesBut at long intervals; yet, Nature! yet,Thy silence and the fairness of thy faceAre present with me in the booming streets.Yon quarry shattered by the bursting fire,And disembowelled by the biting pick,Kind Nature! thou hast taken to thyself;Thy weeping Aprils and soft-blowing Mays,Thy blossom-buried Junes, have smoothed its scars,And hid its wounds and trenches deep in flowers.So take my worn and passion-wasted heart,Maternal Nature! Take it to thyself,Efface the scars of scorn, the rents of hate,The wounds of alien eyes, visit my brainWith thy deep peace, fill with thy calm my heart,And the quick courses of my human blood."Thus would he muse and wander, till the sunReached the red west, where all the waiting clouds,Attired before in homely dun and grey,Like Parasites that dress themselves in smilesTo feed a great man's eye, in haste put onTheir purple mantles rimmed with ragged gold,And congregating in a shining crowd,Flattered the sinking orb with faces bright.As slow he journeyed home, the wanderer sawThe labouring fires come out against the dark,For with the night the country seemed on flame:Innumerable furnaces and pits,And gloomy holds, in which that bright slave, Fire,Doth pant and toil all day and night for man,Threw large and angry lustres on the sky,And shifting lights across the long black roads.Dungeoned in poverty, he saw afarThe shining peaks of fame that wore the sun,Most heavenly bright, they mocked him through his bars,A lost man wildered on the dreary sea,When loneliness hath somewhat touched his brain,Doth shrink and shrink beneath the watching sky,Which hour by hour more plainly doth expressThe features of a deadly enemy,Drinking his woes with a most hungry eye.Ev'n so, by constant staring on his ills,They grew worse-featured; till, in his great rage,His spirit, like a roused sea, white with wrath,Struck at the stars. "Hold fast! Hold fast! my brain!Had I a curse to kill with, by yon Heaven!I'd feast the worms to-night." Dreadfuller words,Whose very terror blanched his conscious lips,He uttered in his hour of agony.With quick and subtle poison in his veins,With madness burning in his heart and brain,With words, like lightnings, round his pallid lips,He rushed to die in the very eyes of God.'Twas late, for as he reached the open roads,Where night was reddened by the drudging fires,The drowsy steeples tolled the hour of One.The city now was left long miles behind,A large black hill was looming 'gainst the stars,He reached its summit. Far above his head,Up there upon the still and mighty night,God's name was writ in worlds. Awhile he stood,Silent and throbbing like a midnight star,He raised his hands, alas! 'twas not in prayer—He long had ceased to pray. "Father," he said,"I wished to loose some music o'er Thy world,To strike from its firm seat some hoary wrong,And then to die in autumn with the flowers,And leaves, and sunshine I have loved so well.Thou might'st have smoothed my way to some great end—But wherefore speak? Thou art the mighty God.This gleaming wilderness of suns and worldsIs an eternal and triumphant hymn,Chanted by Thee unto Thine own great self!Wrapt in Thy skies, what were my prayers to Thee?My pangs? My tears of blood? They could not moveThee from the depths of Thine immortal dream.Thou hast forgotten me, God! Here, therefore, here,To-night upon this bleak and cold hill-side,Like a forsaken watch-fire will I die,And as my pale corse fronts the glittering night,It shall reproach Thee before all Thy worlds."His death did not disturb that ancient Night.Scornfullest Night! Over the dead there hungGreats gulfs of silence, blue, and strewn with stars—No sound—no motion—in the eternal depths.
Within a city One was born to toil,Whose heart could not mate with the common doomTo fall like a spent arrow in the grave.'Mid the eternal hum, the boy clomb upInto a shy and solitary youth,With strange joys and strange sorrows, oft to tearsHe was moved, he knew not why, when he has stoodAmong the lengthening shadows of the eve,Such feeling overflowed him from the sky.'Mong crowds he dwelt, as lonely as a starUnsphered and exiled, yet he knew no scorn.Once did he say, "For me, I'd rather liveWith this weak human heart and yearning blood,Lonely as God, than mate with barren souls;More brave, more beautiful, than myself must beThe man whom truly I can call my Friend;He must be an Inspirer, who can drawTo higher heights of Being, and aye standO'er me in unreached beauty, like the moon;Soon as he fail in this, the crest and crownOf noble friendship, he is nought to me.What so unguessed as Death? Yet to the deadIt lies as plain as yesterday to us.Let me go forward to my grave alone,What need have I to linger by dry wells?"Books were his chiefest friends. In them he readOf those great spirits who went down like suns,And left upon the mountain-tops of DeathA light that made them lovely. His own heartMade him a Poet. Yesterday to himWas richer far than fifty years to come.Alchymist Memory turned his past to gold.When morn awakes against the dark wet earth,Back to the morn she laughs with dewy sides,Up goes her voice of larks! With like effectImagination opened on his life,Itlay all lovely in that rarer light.
He was with Nature on the sabbath-days;Far from the dressed throngs and the city bellsHe gave his hot brows to the kissing wind,While restless thoughts were stirring in his heart."These worldly men will kill me with their scorns,But Nature never mocks or jeers at me;Her dewy soothings of the earth and airDo wean me from the thoughts that mad my brain.Our interviews are stolen, I can look,Nature! in thy serene and griefless eyesBut at long intervals; yet, Nature! yet,Thy silence and the fairness of thy faceAre present with me in the booming streets.Yon quarry shattered by the bursting fire,And disembowelled by the biting pick,Kind Nature! thou hast taken to thyself;Thy weeping Aprils and soft-blowing Mays,Thy blossom-buried Junes, have smoothed its scars,And hid its wounds and trenches deep in flowers.So take my worn and passion-wasted heart,Maternal Nature! Take it to thyself,Efface the scars of scorn, the rents of hate,The wounds of alien eyes, visit my brainWith thy deep peace, fill with thy calm my heart,And the quick courses of my human blood."Thus would he muse and wander, till the sunReached the red west, where all the waiting clouds,Attired before in homely dun and grey,Like Parasites that dress themselves in smilesTo feed a great man's eye, in haste put onTheir purple mantles rimmed with ragged gold,And congregating in a shining crowd,Flattered the sinking orb with faces bright.As slow he journeyed home, the wanderer sawThe labouring fires come out against the dark,For with the night the country seemed on flame:Innumerable furnaces and pits,And gloomy holds, in which that bright slave, Fire,Doth pant and toil all day and night for man,Threw large and angry lustres on the sky,And shifting lights across the long black roads.
Dungeoned in poverty, he saw afarThe shining peaks of fame that wore the sun,Most heavenly bright, they mocked him through his bars,A lost man wildered on the dreary sea,When loneliness hath somewhat touched his brain,Doth shrink and shrink beneath the watching sky,Which hour by hour more plainly doth expressThe features of a deadly enemy,Drinking his woes with a most hungry eye.Ev'n so, by constant staring on his ills,They grew worse-featured; till, in his great rage,His spirit, like a roused sea, white with wrath,Struck at the stars. "Hold fast! Hold fast! my brain!Had I a curse to kill with, by yon Heaven!I'd feast the worms to-night." Dreadfuller words,Whose very terror blanched his conscious lips,He uttered in his hour of agony.With quick and subtle poison in his veins,With madness burning in his heart and brain,With words, like lightnings, round his pallid lips,He rushed to die in the very eyes of God.'Twas late, for as he reached the open roads,Where night was reddened by the drudging fires,The drowsy steeples tolled the hour of One.The city now was left long miles behind,A large black hill was looming 'gainst the stars,He reached its summit. Far above his head,Up there upon the still and mighty night,God's name was writ in worlds. Awhile he stood,Silent and throbbing like a midnight star,He raised his hands, alas! 'twas not in prayer—He long had ceased to pray. "Father," he said,"I wished to loose some music o'er Thy world,To strike from its firm seat some hoary wrong,And then to die in autumn with the flowers,And leaves, and sunshine I have loved so well.Thou might'st have smoothed my way to some great end—But wherefore speak? Thou art the mighty God.This gleaming wilderness of suns and worldsIs an eternal and triumphant hymn,Chanted by Thee unto Thine own great self!Wrapt in Thy skies, what were my prayers to Thee?My pangs? My tears of blood? They could not moveThee from the depths of Thine immortal dream.Thou hast forgotten me, God! Here, therefore, here,To-night upon this bleak and cold hill-side,Like a forsaken watch-fire will I die,And as my pale corse fronts the glittering night,It shall reproach Thee before all Thy worlds."His death did not disturb that ancient Night.Scornfullest Night! Over the dead there hungGreats gulfs of silence, blue, and strewn with stars—No sound—no motion—in the eternal depths.
EDWARD.
Now, what a sullen-blooded fool was this,At sulks with earth and Heaven! Could he notOut-weep his passion like a blustering day,And be clear-skied thereafter? He, poor wretch,Must needs be famous! Lord! how Poets geckAt Fame, their idol. Call 't a worthless thing,Colder than lunar rainbows, changefullerThan sleeked purples on a pigeon's neck,More transitory than a woman's loves,The bubbles of her heart—and yet each mockerWould gladly sell his soul for one sweet crumbTo roll beneath his tongue.
Now, what a sullen-blooded fool was this,At sulks with earth and Heaven! Could he notOut-weep his passion like a blustering day,And be clear-skied thereafter? He, poor wretch,Must needs be famous! Lord! how Poets geckAt Fame, their idol. Call 't a worthless thing,Colder than lunar rainbows, changefullerThan sleeked purples on a pigeon's neck,More transitory than a woman's loves,The bubbles of her heart—and yet each mockerWould gladly sell his soul for one sweet crumbTo roll beneath his tongue.
WALTER.
Alas! the youthEarnest as flame, could not so tame his heartAs to live quiet days. When the heart-sick EarthTurns her broad back upon the gaudy sun,And stoops her weary forehead to the night,To struggle with her sorrow all alone,The moon, that patient sufferer, pale with pain,Presses her cold lips on her sister's brow,Till she is calm. But inhissorrow's nightHe found no comforter. A man can bearA world's contempt when he has that withinWhich says he's worthy—when he contemns himself,There burns the hell. So this wild youth was foiledIn a great purpose—in an agony,In which he learned to hate and scorn himself,He foamed at God, and died.
Alas! the youthEarnest as flame, could not so tame his heartAs to live quiet days. When the heart-sick EarthTurns her broad back upon the gaudy sun,And stoops her weary forehead to the night,To struggle with her sorrow all alone,The moon, that patient sufferer, pale with pain,Presses her cold lips on her sister's brow,Till she is calm. But inhissorrow's nightHe found no comforter. A man can bearA world's contempt when he has that withinWhich says he's worthy—when he contemns himself,There burns the hell. So this wild youth was foiledIn a great purpose—in an agony,In which he learned to hate and scorn himself,He foamed at God, and died.
MR. WILMOTT.
Rain similes upon his corse like tears—The youth you spoke of was a glowing moth,Born in the eve and crushed before the dawn.
Rain similes upon his corse like tears—The youth you spoke of was a glowing moth,Born in the eve and crushed before the dawn.
VIOLET.
He was, methinks, like that frail flower that comesAmid the nips and gusts of churlish March,Drinking pale beauty from sweet April's tears,Dead on the hem of May.
He was, methinks, like that frail flower that comesAmid the nips and gusts of churlish March,Drinking pale beauty from sweet April's tears,Dead on the hem of May.
EDWARD.
A Lapland fool,Who, staring upward as the Northern lightsBanner the skies with glory, breaks his heart,Because his smoky hut and greasy fursAre not so rich as they.
A Lapland fool,Who, staring upward as the Northern lightsBanner the skies with glory, breaks his heart,Because his smoky hut and greasy fursAre not so rich as they.
ARTHUR.
Mine is pathetic—A ginger-beer bottle burst.
Mine is pathetic—A ginger-beer bottle burst.
WALTER (aside).
And mine would beThe pale child, Eve, leading her mother, Night.[Mr. Wilmott, Arthur,andEdward,converse—VioletapproachesWalter.
And mine would beThe pale child, Eve, leading her mother, Night.[Mr. Wilmott, Arthur,andEdward,converse—VioletapproachesWalter.
VIOLET.
Did you know well that youth of whom you spake?
Did you know well that youth of whom you spake?
WALTER.
Know him! Oh, yes, I knew him as myself—Two passions dwelt at once within his soul,Like eve and sunset dwelling in one sky.And as the sunset dies along the west,Eve higher lifts her front of trembling stars,Till she is seated in the middle sky,So gradual, one passion slowly died,And from its death the other drew fresh life,Until 't was seated in his soul alone—The dead was Love—the living, Poetry.
Know him! Oh, yes, I knew him as myself—Two passions dwelt at once within his soul,Like eve and sunset dwelling in one sky.And as the sunset dies along the west,Eve higher lifts her front of trembling stars,Till she is seated in the middle sky,So gradual, one passion slowly died,And from its death the other drew fresh life,Until 't was seated in his soul alone—The dead was Love—the living, Poetry.
VIOLET.
Alas! if Love rose never from the dead.
Alas! if Love rose never from the dead.
WALTER.
Between him and the Lady of his LoveThere stood a wrinkled worldling ripe for hell.When with his golden hand he plucked that flower,And would have smelt it, lo! it paled and shrank,And withered in his grasp. And when she died,The rivers of his heart ran all to waste;They found no ocean, dry sands sucked them up.Lady! he was a fool—a pitiful fool.She said she loved him, would be dead in spring—She asked him but to stand beside her grave—She said she would be daisies—and she thought'Twould give her joy to feel that he was near.She died like music; and, would you believe 't?He kept her foolish words within his heartAs ceremonious as a chapel keepsA relic of a saint. And in the springThe doting idiot went!
Between him and the Lady of his LoveThere stood a wrinkled worldling ripe for hell.When with his golden hand he plucked that flower,And would have smelt it, lo! it paled and shrank,And withered in his grasp. And when she died,The rivers of his heart ran all to waste;They found no ocean, dry sands sucked them up.
Lady! he was a fool—a pitiful fool.She said she loved him, would be dead in spring—She asked him but to stand beside her grave—She said she would be daisies—and she thought'Twould give her joy to feel that he was near.She died like music; and, would you believe 't?He kept her foolish words within his heartAs ceremonious as a chapel keepsA relic of a saint. And in the springThe doting idiot went!
VIOLET.
What found he there?
What found he there?
WALTER.
Laugh till your sides ache! Oh, he went, poor fool!But he found nothing save red-trampled clay,And a dull sobbing rain. Do you not laugh?Amid the comfortless rain he stood and wept,Bare-headed, in the mocking, pelting rain.He might have known 'twas ever so on earth.
Laugh till your sides ache! Oh, he went, poor fool!But he found nothing save red-trampled clay,And a dull sobbing rain. Do you not laugh?Amid the comfortless rain he stood and wept,Bare-headed, in the mocking, pelting rain.He might have known 'twas ever so on earth.
VIOLET.
You cannot laugh yourself, Sir, nor can I.Her unpolluted corse doth sleep in earth,Like a pure thought within a sinful soul.Dearer is earth to God for her sweet sake.
You cannot laugh yourself, Sir, nor can I.Her unpolluted corse doth sleep in earth,Like a pure thought within a sinful soul.Dearer is earth to God for her sweet sake.
WALTER.
'Tis said our nature is corrupt; but sheO'erlaid hers with all graces, ev'n as NightWears such a crowd of jewels on her face,You cannot see 'tis black.
'Tis said our nature is corrupt; but sheO'erlaid hers with all graces, ev'n as NightWears such a crowd of jewels on her face,You cannot see 'tis black.
VIOLET.
How looked this youth?Did he in voice or mien resemble you?Was he about your age? Wore he such curls?Such eyes of dark sea-blue?
How looked this youth?Did he in voice or mien resemble you?Was he about your age? Wore he such curls?Such eyes of dark sea-blue?
WALTER.
Why do you ask?
Why do you ask?
VIOLET.
I thought just now you might resemble him.Were you not brothers?—twins? Or was the oneA shadow of the other?
I thought just now you might resemble him.Were you not brothers?—twins? Or was the oneA shadow of the other?
WALTER.
What mean you?
What mean you?
VIOLET.
That like the moon you need not wrap yourselfIn any cloud; you shine through each disguise;You are a masker in a mask of glass.You've such transparent sides, each casual eyeMay see the heaving heart.
That like the moon you need not wrap yourselfIn any cloud; you shine through each disguise;You are a masker in a mask of glass.You've such transparent sides, each casual eyeMay see the heaving heart.
WALTER.
Oh, misery!Is 't visible to thee?
Oh, misery!Is 't visible to thee?
VIOLET.
'Tis clear as dew!Mine eyes have been upon it all the night,Unknown to you.
'Tis clear as dew!Mine eyes have been upon it all the night,Unknown to you.
WALTER.
The sorrowful aloneCan know the sorrowful. What woe is thine,That thou canst read me thus?
The sorrowful aloneCan know the sorrowful. What woe is thine,That thou canst read me thus?
VIOLET.
A new-born power,Whose unformed features cannot clearly showWhether 'tis Joy or Sorrow. But the yearsMay nurture it to either.
A new-born power,Whose unformed features cannot clearly showWhether 'tis Joy or Sorrow. But the yearsMay nurture it to either.
WALTER.
To thee I'm bare.My heart lies open to you, as the earthTo the omniscient sun. I have a work—The finger of my soul doth point it out;I trust God's finger points it also out.I must attempt it; if my sinews fail,On my unsheltered head men's scorns will fall,Like a slow shower of fire. Yet if one tearWere mingled with them, it were less to bear.
To thee I'm bare.My heart lies open to you, as the earthTo the omniscient sun. I have a work—The finger of my soul doth point it out;I trust God's finger points it also out.I must attempt it; if my sinews fail,On my unsheltered head men's scorns will fall,Like a slow shower of fire. Yet if one tearWere mingled with them, it were less to bear.
VIOLET.
I'll give thee tears.—
I'll give thee tears.—
WALTER.
That were as queenly NightWould loosen all the jewels from her hair,And hail them on this sordid thing, the earth.Thy tears keep for a worthier head than mine.
That were as queenly NightWould loosen all the jewels from her hair,And hail them on this sordid thing, the earth.Thy tears keep for a worthier head than mine.
VIOLET.
I will not cope with you in compliment.I'll give you tears, and pity, and true thoughts;If you are desolate, my heart is open;I know 'tis little worth, but any hut,However poor, unto a homeless man,Is welcomer than mists or nipping winds.But if you conquer Fame——
I will not cope with you in compliment.I'll give you tears, and pity, and true thoughts;If you are desolate, my heart is open;I know 'tis little worth, but any hut,However poor, unto a homeless man,Is welcomer than mists or nipping winds.But if you conquer Fame——
WALTER.
With eager handsI'll bend the awful thing into a crown,And you shall wear it.
With eager handsI'll bend the awful thing into a crown,And you shall wear it.
VIOLET.
Oh, no, no!Lay it uponhergrave.[Another silence.
Oh, no, no!Lay it uponhergrave.[Another silence.
ARTHUR.
Run out again!We should he jovial as the feasting gods,We're silent as a synod of the stars!The night is out at elbows. Laughter's dead.To the rescue, Violet! A song! a song!
Run out again!We should he jovial as the feasting gods,We're silent as a synod of the stars!The night is out at elbows. Laughter's dead.To the rescue, Violet! A song! a song!
VIOLETsings.
Upon my knee a modern minstrel's tales,Full as a choir with music, lies unread;My impatient shallop flaps its silken sailsTo rouse me, but I cannot lift my head.I see a wretched isle, that ghost-like stands,Wrapt in its mist-shroud in the wint'ry main;And now a cheerless gleam of red-ploughed lands,O'er which a crow flies heavy in the rain.I've neither heart nor voice![Rises and draws the curtain.You've sat the night out, Masters! See, the moonLies stranded on the pallid coast of morn.
Upon my knee a modern minstrel's tales,Full as a choir with music, lies unread;My impatient shallop flaps its silken sailsTo rouse me, but I cannot lift my head.I see a wretched isle, that ghost-like stands,Wrapt in its mist-shroud in the wint'ry main;And now a cheerless gleam of red-ploughed lands,O'er which a crow flies heavy in the rain.
I've neither heart nor voice![Rises and draws the curtain.You've sat the night out, Masters! See, the moonLies stranded on the pallid coast of morn.
ARTHUR.