I dwell within an empty room,And through the day and through the nightI sit before an ancient loom.And like the Lady of ShalottI look into a mirror wide,Where shadows come, and shadows go,And ply my shuttle as they glide.Not as she wove the yellow wool,Ulysses' wife, Penelope;By day a queen among her maids,But in the night a woman, she,Who, creeping from her lonely couch,Unraveled all the slender woof;Or, with a torch, she climbed the towers,To fire the fagots on the roof!But weaving with a steady handThe shadows, whether false or true,I put aside a doubt which asks"Among these phantoms what are you?"For not with altar, tomb, or urn,Or long-haired Greek with hollow shield,Or dark-prowed ship with banks of oars,Or banquet in the tented field;Or Norman knight in armor clad,Waiting a foe where four roads meet;Or hawk and hound in bosky dell,Where dame and page in secret greet;Or rose and lily, bud and flower,My web is broidered. Nothing brightIs woven here: the shadows growStill darker in the mirror's light!And as my web grows darker too,Accursed seems this empty room;For still I must forever weaveThese phantoms by this ancient loom."THE SHADOWS ON THE WATER REACH."The shadows on the water reachMy shadow on the beach;I see the dark trees on the shore,The fisher's oar.I met her by the sea last night,A little maid in white;I shall never meet her moreOn the shore.Ho! fisher, hoist your idle sail,And whistle for a gale;My ship is waiting in the bay,Row away!A SUMMER NIGHT.I feel the breath of the summer night,Aromatic fire:The trees, the vines, the flowers are astirWith tender desire.The white moths flutter about the lamp,Enamoured with light;And a thousand creatures softly singA song to the night!But I am alone, and how can I singPraises to thee?Come, Night! unveil the beautiful soulThat waiteth for me."FAN ME WITH THESE LILIES FAIR."Fan me with these lilies fair,Twine their stems around your arm:Put your feet upon these roses,Then you'll please me to a charm.Charm me with your violet eyes,Kneel, and with your sweet lips meetThe flaming buds of mine, athirstIn the roses at your feet!"Leave the lilies on the lake,Do not break its pale repose:Tear your heart with cruel thorns,Such as grow beneath the rose."So you love me? You are mine?Break from yon dead tree a bough,Lay it down among these roses—Ah! I do not charm you now!""OH, THE WILD, WILD DAYS OF YOUTH!"Oh, the wild, wild days of youth!My royal youth;My blood was then my king:Maybe a little mad,But full of truth!Oh, my lips were like a rose!And my heart, too;It was torn out leaf by leaf:Ah! there be none that knowHow the leaves flew!Oh, they dropped in the wine!The royal wine;There were showers for the girls,Crowns for their white brows,And for mine!"ON MY BED OF A WINTER NIGHT."On my bed of a winter night,Deep in a sleep and deep in a dream,What care I for the wild wind's scream,What to me is its crooked flight?On the sea of a summer day,Wrapped in the folds of a snowy sail,What care I for the fitful gale,Now in earnest, now in play?What care I for the fitful wind,That groans in a gorge, or sighs in a tree?Groaning and sighing are nothing to me,For I am a man of steadfast mind."HALLO! MY FANCY, WHITHER WILT THOU GO?"Swift as the tide in the riverThe blood flows through my heart,At the curious little fancyThat to-morrow we must part.It seems to me all over,The last words have been said;And I have the curious fancyTo-morrow will find me dead!YOU LEFT ME.You left me, and the anguish passed,And passed the day, and passed the night—A blank in which my senses failed;Then slowly came an inward light.So plain it reproduced the hoursWe lived as one,—the books we read,Our quiet walks and pleasant talks—Love, by your spirit was I led?Oh, love, the vision grows too dear,I live in visions—I pursueThem only; come, your rival meet,My future bring, it will be—you!"O FRIEND, BEGIN A LOFTIER SONG."O friend, begin a loftier song.Confusion falls upon your mind;A sense of evil makes you blind;"What use," you say, "is it to be?I know not GOD, GOD knows not me!"O friend, begin a loftier song.In other minds you place no trust:You tread your laurels in the dust:You see no Future, Hope has fled,Youth had its dreams, but Youth is dead.O friend, begin a loftier song."The sweet ideal of past yearsSpeaks in my songs, they are my tears:I'll weep no more, I'll sing no laysTo bury Youth for idle praise!"O friend, begin a loftier song.Come through the gateway of the Past,Dear friend. The world will hear at lastThe little songs the poets sing:Do thou with anthems make it ring!"NOW THAT THE PAIN IS GONE, I TOO CAN SMILE."Now that the pain is gone, I too can smileAt such a foolish picture; you and meTogether in that moonlit summer night,Within the shadow of an aspen-tree.My hand was on your shoulder: I grew wild:The blood seethed furiously through my heart!But you—Oh, you were saintly calm, and cold;You moved my hand, and said, "'T is best we part!"My face fell on the bands of your fair hair,A moonbeam struck across my hungry eye,And struck across your balmy crimson mouth:I longed to kiss you, and I longed to die!Die in the shadow of the trembling tree,Trembling my soul away upon your breast.You smiled, and drifted both your snowy handsAgainst my forehead, and your fingers pressedFaintly and slow adown my burning face;A keen sense of the woman touched you then,The nice dramatic sense you women have,Playing upon the feelings of us men!Long years have passed since that midsummer night,But still I feel the creeping of your handAlong my face. If I return once more,And in the shadow of that tree should standWith you there—Answer! Would you kiss me back?Would you reject me if I sued again?—How strange this is! I think my madness lasts,Although I'm sure I have forgot the pain!THE COLONEL'S SHIELD.Your picture, slung about my neckThe day we went afield,Swung out before the trench;It caught the eye of rank and file,Who knew "The Colonel's Shield."I thrust it back, and with my men(Our General rode ahead)We stormed the great redoubt,As if it were an easy thing,But rows of us fell dead!Your picture hanging on my neck,Up with my men I rushed;We made an awful charge:And then my horse, "The Lady Bess,"Dropped, and—my leg was crushed!The blood of battle in my veins(A blue-coat dragged me out),—But I remembered you;I kissed your picture—did you know?And yelled, "For the redoubt!"The Twenty-fourth, my scarred old dogs,Growled back, "He'll put us through;We'll take him in our arms:Our picture there—the girl he loves,Shall see what we can do."The foe was silenced—so were we.I lay upon the field,Among the Twenty-fourth;Your picture, shattered on my breast,Had proved "The Colonel's Shield."A FEW IDLE WORDS.So, I must believe that I loved you once!These letters say so;And here is your picture—how you have changed!It was long ago.The gloss is worn from this lock of black hair—You can have them all,And with these treasures a few idle words,That I will not recall.What a child I was when you met me first!Was I handsome then?I think you remember the very night,It was half-past ten,When you came upstairs, so tired of the men,And tired of the wine;You said you loved lilies (my dress was white),And hated to dine.The dowagers nodded behind their fans;I played an old song;You told an old tale, I thought it so new,And I thought so long.True, I had read the "Arabian Nights,"And "Amadis de Gaul;"But I never had found a modern knightIn our books at the Hall.You tore your hand with the thorns of the roseThat looped up my sleeve,And a drop of red blood fell on my arm—You asked, "Do you grieve?"That drop of your blood made mine flow fast;But you sipped your teaWith a nonchalant air, and balanced the spoon,And balanced poor me,In the scale with my stocks, and farms, and mines.Did it tremble at all?When my cousin, the heir, turned up one day,We both had a fall!Well, we meet again, and I look at youWith a quiet surprise;I think your ennui possesses me now,And am quite as wise.To me it was only a dream of love,A defeat to you:It was not your first, may be not your last—Here, take them—Adieu!VERS DE SOCIÉTÉ.This chain of white arms round the room—The demon waltz—bewilders me:Or am I drunk with this good wine?Vive la compagnie!"My friend, young Highboys, have you met?""O yes: how do? good brandy here!"The wretch's mother, in her youth,Was famous for her beer!Before his patent scraper soldOld Highboys used to beat them all!See what Society has done—He's holding her cashmere shawl!How is it, Madam, that I knowThe guests at once? Wipe off the paint—Convention daubs us all alike,Sinner as well as Saint!I see you in the crimson chair,Behind your jewelled Spanish fan,Slipping your bracelets up and down,Flashing your eyes on the manWho plays the harp; he twangs an airYou understand—you've met before;How many lessons did you take?Madam, you need no more.Tiger of fifty! So you've boughtThis pretty girl in the Honiton lace.Now she's abroad, she quite forgetsShe shudders in your embrace.Dowagers, stiff in black brocades,Worry the waiters—sweep their trays:How they scowl at the foolish menBasking in Beauty's blaze!Saunters a poet, munching cake:"Very distinguished." "Did you buyYour lace at Beck's?" "Why, how he laughs!""But his verses make one cry!"Idle poet, a word with you:You sing too much of love's sweet wrong,Of rosy cheeks, and purple wine:Give us a loftier song.The coachmen stamp upon the steps;Our hostess looks towards the door;Our host twists round his limp cravat,Pronouncing the thing a bore!Our skeletons will be stirring soon;Something already touches me:Off, till I drain one bottle more!Vive la compagnie!THE RACE.The guests were gathered in the ancient parkOf my Lord Wynne, and he was now their markFor wit and gossip—quite the usual way,Where one bestows, and no one need repay."A stumbling-block his pride; his heart's in strifeBetween two women, which to choose for wife.He's always hovering round that lovely girl,His lawyer's daughter, who will never furlHerflag of pride: she rivals Gilbert there.Now watch their meeting; none more bravely wearTheir beauty, recognize a woman's own,Than Clara Mercome. Gilbert Wynne has sownHis wild oats for her sake; yet he delays,And with my Lady Bond divides his days.Who bets on beauty, hedges in on age;Which tries the flight to perch in Lord Wynne's cage?Will Lady Bond or Clara be the queen?For Lady Bond is certain of her lien."He heard this talk while standing by a beech—Hugh Wynne—and planned how he might overreachGilbert and Clara, break the pride of both,Part them for good, or make them plight their troth."Now for a race," he cried, "to Martin's Mill;The boats are here; behold, the lake is still.Here, Gilbert, take your oar; I'll follow soon,Though sunset's nigh—to-night is harvest-moon.Let go the rope, the knot's inside; take these,Arrange a seat, adjust it at your ease.She's here. Miss Mercome, you will help him winThe race, and will not count my wager sin."And he was gone; the pair were face to face."I'll take the oars," he gasped; "we'll win this race."He never felt his heart so in his breast."I hope you will forgive my cousin's jest?"A haughty murmur was her sole reply.No rowers followed. Never did swallows flySo swift, or dip the lake like Gilbert's oars.He was watchful, careless she. "There soarsA heron, quite a feature of your state:Are gems and peacocks, tell me, still in date?How deep the woods upon the water steal,One to the other making soft appeal!""Not being human, wood and water meetIn their own speech, and soulless things are sweetTogether. So they are to me. I likeTo watch the herons by the sedgy dike;They keep me tranquil; and I love to feedThe pike in yon old pool; they help to lead—Why, here is Martin's Bridge, and yet no boats!Shall we return?" Said Clara then, "There floatsA lily bed beyond; let's shoot beneathThe bridge, and lilies pull; I want a wreath."He knew the channel narrow; it was dark;But his heart leaped at this relenting mark.He drew his oars up, pointed in the helm,And shot in the cool gloom. He thought no realmOn which the sun had shone was half so bright.And somehow Clara thought it nice as light.The waters swirled so swift that in the noiseClara grew dizzy; Gilbert lost his poise,And lost an oar; with a confusing shockThe boat was grinding—stopped against a rock."Gilbert, my dear, are we not going down?""Dearest, my love, we were not born to drown.Oh, kiss me; we are safe; and grant me nowYourself. I'll gather lilies for your brow;And Hugh will know that I have won the race,And Clara, my dear wife, her rightful place."THE WOLF-TAMER.Through the gorge of snow we go,Tracking, tramping soft and slow,With our paws and sheathèd claws,So we swing along the snow,Crowding, crouching to your pipes—Shining serpents! Well you know,When your lips shall cease to blowAirs that lure us through the snow,We shall fall upon your raceWho do wear a different face.Who were spared in yonder vale?Not a man to tell the tale!Blow, blow, serpent pipes,Slow we follow:—all our troop—Every wolf of wooded France,Down from all the Pyrenees—Shall they follow, follow you,In your dreadful music-trance?Mark it by our tramping paws,Hidden fangs, and sheathèd claws?You have seen the robber bandsTear men's tongues and cut their hands,For ransom—we ask none—begone,For the tramping of our paws,Marking all your music's laws,Numbs the lust of ear and eye;Or—let us go beneath the snow,And silent die—as wolves should die!THE ABBOT OF UNREASON.I looked over the balustrade—The twilight had come—And saw the pretty waiting-maidKiss Roland, the page.My lady heard the wolf-dog's chainClank on the floor;Sly Roland caught it up again,And whistled a song.Oh! they think that my heart is cold,Under my gown;Not till I blacken into mouldWill it cease to burn.Burn, burn for such sweet red lips!I am almost mad,Even to touch her finger tips,When we meet alone.Roland, the page, goes here and there,Loving, and loved,Women like his devil-may-care,Till they are forgot!Whether I am in castle or inn,With sinner or saint,Never can I a woman win,—I am but a priest!EL MANOLO.In the still, dark shade of the palace wall,Where the peacocks strut,Where the queen may have heard my madrigal,Together we sat.My sombrero hid the fire in my eyes,And shaded her own:This serge cloak stifled her sweet little cries,When I kissed her mouth!The pale olive trees on the distant plain,The jagged blue rocks,The vaporous sea-like mountain chain,Dropped into the night.We saw the lights in the palace flare;The musicians played:The red guards slashed and sabred the stair,And cursed the old king.In the long black shade of the palace wall,We sat the night through;Under my cloak—but I cannot tell all—The queen may have seen!MERCEDES.Under a sultry, yellow sky,On the yellow sand I lie;The crinkled vapors smite my brain,I smoulder in a fiery pain.Above the crags the condor flies;He knows where the red gold lies,He knows where the diamonds shine;—If I knew, would she be mine?Mercedes in her hammock swings;In her court a palm-tree flingsIts slender shadow on the ground,The fountain falls with silver sound.Her lips are like this cactus cup;With my hand I crush it up;I tear its flaming leaves apart;—Would that I could tear her heart!Last night a man was at her gate;In the hedge I lay in wait;I saw Mercedes meet him there,By the fireflies in her hair.I waited till the break of day,Then I rose and stole away;But left my dagger in the gate;—Now she knows her lover's fate!THE BULL-FIGHT.Eleven o'clock:Here are our cups of chocolate.Montez will fight the bulls to-day—All Madrid knows that:Queen Christina is going in state:Dolores will go with her little fan!Lace up my shoe;Put on my Basquina;Can you see my black eyes?I am Manuel's duchess.In front of the box of the Queen and the DukeDolores sits, flirting her fan;The church of St. Agnes stands on the right,And its shadow falls on the picadors;On their lean steeds they prance in the ring,Hidalgo-fashion, their hands on their hips."Ha! Toro! Toro!"Hoh! the horses are gored;Now for the men."Ha! Toro! Toro!"Every man over the barrier!Not so; for there the bull-fighter stands;Some little applause from the royal box,And "Montez! Montez!" from a thousand throats!The bull bows fine, though snorting with rage,His fore-leg makes little holes in the ground;But Montez stands still; his ribbons don't flutter!Saints, what a leap!His rosette is on the bull's black horn;Montez is pale; but his great eye shinesWhen Dolores cries—"Kisses for Montez!"Fie! Manuel's duchess!A minute longer the fight is done,The mule-bells tinkle, the bull rides off;Montez twirls a new diamond ring,And Dolores goes home for chocolate.ON THE CAMPAGNA.Stop on the Appian Way,In the Roman Campagna;Stop at my tomb,The tomb of Cecilia Metella.To-day as you see it,Alaric saw it, ages ago,When he, with his pale-visaged Goths,Sat at the gates of Rome,Reading his Runic shield.Odin, thy curse remains!Beneath these battlementsMy bones were stirred with Roman pride,Though centuries before my Romans diedNow my bones are dust; the Goths are dust.The river-bed is dry where sleeps the king,My tomb remains!When Rome commanded the earthGreat were the Metelli:I was Metella's wife;I loved him—and I died.Then with slow patience built he this memorial:Each century marks his love.Pass by on the Appian WayThe tomb of Cecilia Metella;Wild shepherds alone seek its shelter,Wild buffaloes tramp at its base.Deep is its desolation,Deep as the shadow of Rome!THE QUEEN DEPOSED.I was the queen of Karl, a northern king:Amazon Olga, and I rode his Ban,A stallion in the royal ringWho would not bear a man.And in Ban's saddle did I feel the painsFor my first-born, the king's sole hope, his heir;My Karl himself would loose the reins,Would take me up the stair.Low was the murmur of the royal troopsBelow, I saw the tapers' twinkling light;I heard a cry—"My queen, she droops!"Then fell eternal night.No more was Olga queen for any king;The pathway round a throne she could not tread,Nor triumph in the royal ring—The boy she bore was dead!The cloister hers; she chose the cloak and hood,And beads of olive-wood, a pouch for alms;So begged she, Christ, for thy dear rood,Laus Deosang thy psalms!Why am I here? This country is my king's;The lovely river, wooded hills above;Old St. Sebastian's church-bell rings—There flies the silver doveThat flitted by the day we came to praiseOur gracious Mary for a granted prayer;Heralds, trumps, the same gay mazeOf troops—King Karl is there!Laus Deowith a child, and with his mate—She wins the throne by bringing him a son:Babes make or mar our queenly fate—My woman's life is done.A UNIT.When I was camping on the Volga's banks,The trader Zanthon with a leash of maresWent by my tent. I knew the wily Jew,And he knew me. He muttered as he passed,"The last Bathony, and his tusks are grown.A broken 'scutcheon is a 'scutcheon still,And Amine's token in my caftan lies,—Amine, who weeps and wails for his return."He caught my eye, and slipped inside the tent."Haw, Zanthon, up from Poland, at your tricks!How veer the boars on old Bathony's towers?True to the winds that blow on Poland's plains?""They bite the dust, my lord, as beast to beast.When Poles conspire, conspiracy aloneSurvives to hover in the murky air.My lord, Bathony's gates are left ajarFor you to enter, or—remain outside;The forest holds the secret you surprised,And men are there, to dare as they have dared.""Haw, Zanthon, tell me of the palatine.The air of Russia makes a man forgetHe was a man elsewhere: the trumpets' squealI follow, and the thud of drums. You spokeAs if I were of princely birth: hark ye,Battalionis the call I listen to.""My lord, the cranes that plunder in your fens,The doves that nest within your woods I sawFly round the gaping walls, and plume their wingsUpon your father's grave. Do you know this?""A token, Zanthon? so—a withered flower!You think I wore one in my sword-hilt once?Methinks there is no perfume in this flower.Watch, while I fling it on the Volga's tide.The chief, my father, sent me with a curseTo travel in the steppes, and so I do.The air of Russia makes a man forgetHe was a man elsewhere, for love or hope,And as he marches, he becomes but this.Haw, Zanthon, would you learn the reason why?Search on the Caucasus, the northern seas,Look in the sky or over earth, then ask,The answer everywhere will be,The Tzar."ZANTHON—MY FRIEND.