Only you'd have me speak.Whether to speakOr whether to be silent is all one;Whether to sleep and in my dreaming frontHer small scared face forlorn; whether to wakeAnd muse upon her small soft feet that pacedThe hated, hard, inhospitable stone—I say all's one. But you would have me speak,And change one sorrow for the other. Ay,Right reverend father, comfortable father,Old, long in thrall, and wearied of the cell,So will I here—here staring through the grate,Whence, sheer beneath us lying the little town,Her street appears a riband up the rise;Where 't is right steep for carts, behold two rutsWorn in the flat, smooth, stone.That side I stood;My head was down. At first I did but seeHer coming feet; they gleamed through my hot tearsAs she walked barefoot up yon short steep hill.Then I dared all, gazed on her face, the maidMartyr and utterly, utterly broke my heart.
Her face, O! it was wonderful to me,There was not in it what I look'd for—no,I never saw a maid go to her death,How should I dream that face and the dumb soul?
Her arms and head were bare, seemly she walkedAll in her smock so modest as she might;Upon her shoulders hung a painted capeFor horrible adornment, flames of firePortrayed upon it, and mocking demon heads.
Her eyes—she did not see me—opened wide,Blue-black, gazed right before her, yet they markedNothing; and her two hands uplift as praying,She yet prayed not, wept not, sighed not. O father,She was past that, soft, tender, hunted thing;But, as it seemed, confused from time to time,She would half-turn her or to left or rightTo follow other streets, doubting her way.
Then their base pikes they basely thrust at her,And, like one dazed, obedient to her guidesShe came; I knew not if 't was present to herThat death was her near goal; she was so lost,And set apart from any power to think.But her mouth pouted as one brooding, father,Over a lifetime of forlorn fear. No,Scarce was it fear; so looks a timid child(Not more affrighted; ah! but not so pale)That has been scolded or has lost its way.
Mother and father—father and mother kind,She was alone, where were you hidden? Alone,And I that loved her more, or feared death less,Rushed to her side, but quickly was flung back,And cast behind o' the pikemen following herInto a yelling and a cursing crowd.That bristled thick with monks and hooded friars;Moreover, women with their cheeks ablaze,Who swarmèd after up the narrowing street.
Pitiful heaven! I knew she did not hearIn that last hour the cursing, nor the foulWords; she had never heard like words, sweet soul,In her life blameless; even at that pass,That dreadful pass, I felt it had been worse,Though nought I longed for as for death, to knowShe did. She saw not 'neath their hoods those eyesSoft, glittering, with a lust for cruelty;Secret delight, that so great cruelty,All in the sacred name of Holy Church,Their meed to look on it should be anon.Speak! O, I tell you this thing passeth word!From roofs and oriels high, women looked down;Men, maidens, children, and a fierce white sunSmote blinding splinters from all spears aslant.
Lo! next a stand, so please you, certain priests(May God forgive men sinning at their ease),Whose duty 't was to look upon this thing,Being mindful of thick pungent smoke to come,Had caused a stand to rise hard by the stake,Upon its windward side.
My life! my love!She utter'd one sharp cry of mortal dreadWhile they did chain her. This thing passeth words,Albeit told out for ever in my soul.As the torch touched, thick volumes of black reekRolled out and raised the wind, and instantlyLong films of flaxen hair floated aloft,Settled alow, in drifts upon the crowd.The vile were merciful; heaped high, my dear,Thou didst not suffer long. O! it was soon,Soon over, and I knew not any more,Till grovelling on the ground, beating my head,I heard myself, and scarcely knew 't was I,At Holy Church railing with fierce mad words,Crying and craving for a stake, for me.While fast the folk, as ever, such a workBeing over, fled, and shrieked 'A heretic!More heretics; yon ashes smoking still.'
And up and almost over me came onA robed—ecclesiastic—with his train(I choose the words lest that they do some wrong)Call him a robed ecclesiastic proud.And I lying helpless, with my bruised faceBeat on his garnished shoon. But he stepped back,Spurned me full roughly with them, called the pikes,Delivering orders, 'Take the bruised wretch.He raves. Fool! thou'lt hear more of this anon.Bestow him there.' He pointed to a door.With that some threw a cloth upon my faceBecause it bled. I knew they carried meWithin his home, and I was satisfied;Willing my death. Was it an abbey door?Was 't entrance to a palace? or a houseOf priests? I say not, nor if abbot he,Bishop or other dignity; enoughThat he so spake. 'Take in the bruised wretch.'And I was borne far up a turret stairInto a peakèd chamber taking formO' the roof, and on a pallet bed they leftMe miserable. Yet I knew forsooth,Left in my pain, that evil things were saidOf that same tower; men thence had disappeared,Suspect of heresy had disappeared,Deliver'd up, 't was whisper'd, tried and burned.So be it methought, I would not live, not I.But none did question me. A beldame old,Kind, heedless of my sayings, tended me.I raved at Holy Church and she was deaf,And at whose tower detained me, she was dumb.So had I food and water, rest and calm.Then on the third day I rose up and satOn the side of my low bed right melancholy,All that high force of passion overpast,I sick with dolourous thought and weak through tearsSpite of myself came to myself again(For I had slept), and since I could not dieLooked through the window three parts overgrownWith leafage on the loftiest ivy ropes,And saw at foot o' the rise another towerIn roof whereof a grating, dreary bare.Lifetimes gone by, long, slow, dim, desolate,I knew even there had been my lost love's cell.
So musing on the man that with his footSpurned me, the robed ecclesiastic stern,'Would he had haled me straight to prison' methought,'So made an end at once.'
My sufferings roseLike billows closing over, beating down;Made heavier far because of a stray, strange,Sweet hope that mocked me at the last.'T was thus,I came from Oxford secretly, the newsTerrible of her danger smiting me,—She was so young, and ever had been bredWith whom 't was made a peril now to name.There had been worship in the night; some stoleTo a mean chapel deep in woods, and heardPreaching, and prayed. She, my betrothed, was there.Father and mother, mother and father kind,So young, so innocent, had ye no ruth,No fear, that ye did bring her to her doom?I know the chiefest Evil One himselfSanded that floor. Their footsteps marking itBetrayed them. How all came to pass let be.Parted, in hiding some, other in thrall,Father and mother, mother and father kind,It may be yet ye know not this—not all.
I in the daytime lying perdue looked upAt the castle keep impregnable,—no footHow rash so e'er might hope to scale it. NightDescending, come I near, perplexedness,Contempt of danger, to the door o' the keepDrawing me. There a short stone bench I found,And bitterly weeping sat and leaned my headAgainst the hopeless hated massivenessOf that detested hold. A lifting moonHad made encroachment on the dark, but deepWas shadow where I leaned. Within a whileI was aware, but saw no shape, of oneWho stood beside me, a dark shadow tall.I cared not, disavowal mattered noughtOf grief to one so out of love with life.But after pause I felt a hand let downThat rested kindly, firmly, a man's hand,Upon my shoulder; there was cheer in it.And presently a voice clear, whispering, low,With pitifulness that faltered, spoke to me.Was I, it asked, true son of Mother Church?Coldly I answer'd 'Ay;' then blessed wordsThat danced into mine ears more excellentMusic than wedding bells had been were said,With certitude that I might see my maid,My dear one. He would give a paper, heThe man beside me. 'Do thy best endeavour,Dear youth. Thy maiden being a right sweet childSurely will hearken to thee; an she do,And will recant, fair faultless heretic,Whose knowledge is but scant of matters highWhich hard men spake on with her, hard men forcedFrom her mouth innocent, then shall she comeBefore me; have good cheer, all may be well.But an she will not she must burn, no power—Not Solomon the Great on 's ivory throneWith all his wisdom could find out a way,Nor I nor any to save her, she must burn.Now hast thou till day dawn. The Mother of GodSpeed thee.' A twisted scroll he gave; himselfKnocked at the door behind, and he was gone,A darker pillar of darkness in the dark.Straightway one opened and I gave the scroll.He read, then thrust it in his lanthorn flameTill it was ashes; 'Follow' and no moreWhisper'd, went up the giddy spiring way,I after, till we reached the topmost door.Then took a key, opened, and crying 'Delia,Delia my sweetheart, I am come, I am come,'I darted forward and he locked us in.Two figures; one rose up and ran to meAlong the ladder of moonlight on the floor,Fell on my neck. Long time we kissed and wept.
But for that other, while she stood appeasedFor cruel parting past, locked in mine arms,I had been glad, expecting a good end.The cramped pale fellow prisoner; 'Courage' cried.Then Delia lifting her fair face, the moonDid show me its incomparable calms.Her effluent thought needed no word of mine,It whelmed my soul as in a sea of tears.The warm enchantment leaning on my breastBreathed as in air remote, and I was leftTo infinite detachment, even with hersTo take cold kisses from the lips of doom,Look in those eyes and disinherit hopeFrom that high place late won.Then murmuring lowThat other spake of Him on the cross, and softAs broken-hearted mourning of the dove,She 'One deep calleth to another' sighed.'The heart of Christ mourns to my heart, "Endure.There was a day when to the wildernessMy great forerunner from his thrall sent forthSad messengers, demandingArt thou He?Think'st thou I knew no pang in that strange hour?How could I hold the power, and want the willOr want the love? That pang was his—and mine.He said not, Save me an thou be the Son,But onlyArt thou He? In my great wayIt was not writ,—legions of Angels mine,There was one Angel, one ordain'd to unlockAt my behest the doomed deadly door.I could not tell him, tell not thee, why." Lord,We know not why, but would not have Thee grieve,Think not so deeply on 't; make us endureFor thy blest sake, hearing thy sweet voice mourn"I will go forth, thy desolations meet,And with my desolations solace them.I will not break thy bonds but I am bound,With thee."'
I feared. That speech deep furrows cutIn my afflicted soul. I whisper'd low,'Thou wilt not heed her words, my golden girl.'But Delia said not ought; only her handLaid on my cheek and on the other leanedHer own. O there was comfort, father,In love and nearness, e'en at the crack of doom.
Then spake I, and that other said no more,For I appealed to God and to his Christ.Unto the strait-barred window led my dear;No table, bed, nor plenishing; no placeThey had for rest: maugre two narrow chairsBy day, by night they sat thereon upright.One drew I to the opening; on it setMy Delia, kneeled; upon its arm laid mine,And prayed to God and prayed of her.Father,If you should ask e'en now, 'And art thou gladOf what befell?' I could not say it, father,I should be glad; therefore God make me glad,Since we shall die to-morrow!Think not sin,O holy, harmless reverend man, to fear.'T will be soon over. Now I know thou fear'stAlso for me, lest I be lost; but ayeStrong comfortable hope doth wrap me round,A token of acceptance. I am castFrom Holy Church, and not received of thine;But the great Advocate who knoweth all,He whispers with me.O my Delia weptWhen I did plead; 'I have much feared to die,'Answering. (The moonlight on her blue-black eyesFell; shining tears upon their lashes hung;Fair showed the dimple that I loved; so young,So very young.) 'But they did question meStraitly, and make me many times to swear,To swear of all alas, that I believed.Truly, unless my soul I would have boundWith false oaths—difficult, innumerous, strong,Way was not left me to get free.
But now,'Said she, I am happy; I have seen the placeWhere I am going.
I will tell it you,Love, Hubert. Do not weep; they said to meThat you would come, and it would not be long.Thus was it, being sad and full of fear,I was crying in the night; and prayed to GodAnd said, "I have not learned high things;" and saidTo the Saviour, "Do not be displeased with me,I am not crying to get back and dwellWith my good mother and my father fond,Nor even with my love, Hubert—my love,Hubert; but I am crying because I fearMine answers were not rightly given—so hardThose questions. If I did not understand,Wilt thou forgive me?" And the moon went downWhile I did pray, and looking on the floor,Behold a little diamond lying there,So small it might have dropped from out a ring.I could but look! The diamond waxed—it grew—It was a diamond yet, and shot out rays,And in the midst of it a rose-red point;It waxed till I might see the rose-red pointWas a little Angel 'mid those oval rays,With a face sweet as the first kiss, O love,You gave me, and it meant that self-same thing.
Now was it tall as I, among the raysStanding; I touched not. Through the window drawn,This barred and narrow window,—but I knowNothing of how, we passed, and seemed to walkUpon the air, till on the roof we sat.
It spoke. The sweet mouth did not move, but allThe Angel spoke in strange words full and old,It was my Angel sent to comfort meWith a message, and the message, "I might come,And myself see if He forgave me." ThenDeliver'd he admonition, "AfterwardsI must return and die." But I being dazed,Confused with love and joy that He so farDid condescend, "Ay, Eminence," replied,"Is the way great?" I knew not what I said.The Angel then, "I know not far nor near,But all the stars of God this side it shine."And I forgetful wholly for this thingMy soul did pant in—a rapture and a pain,So great as they would melt it quite awayTo a vanishing like mist when sultry raysShot from the daystar reckon with it—ISaid in my simpleness, "But is there time?For in three days I am to burn, and OI would fain see that he forgiveth first.Pray you make haste." "I know not haste," he said;"I was not fashioned to be thrall of time.What is it?" And I marvelled, saw outlying,Shaped like a shield and of dimensions likeAn oval in the sky beyond all stars,And trembled with foreknowledge. We were boundTo that same golden holy hollow. IMisdoubted how to go, but we were gone.I set off wingless, walking empty airBeside him. In a moment we were caughtAmong thick swarms of lost ones, evil, fellOf might, only a little less than gods,And strong enough to tear the earth to shreds,Set shoulders to the sun and rend it outO' its place. Their wings did brush across my face,Yet felt I nought; the place was vaster farThan all this wholesome pastoral windy world.Through it we spinning, pierced to its far brink,Saw menacing frowns and we were forth again.Time has no instant for the reckoning oughtSo sudden; 't was as if a lightning flashThrew us within it, and a swifter flash,We riding harmless down its swordlike edge,Shot us fast forth to empty nothingness.
All my soul trembled, and my body it seemedPleaded than such a sight rather to faintTo the last silence, and the eery graveInhabit, and the slow solemnitiesOf dying faced, content me with my shroud.
And yet was lying athwart the morning starThat shone in front, that holy hollow; yetIt loomed, as hung atilt towards the world,That in her time of sleep appeared to lookUp to it, into it.We, though I wept,Fearing and longing, knowing not how to go,My heart gone first, both mine eyes dedicateTo its all-hallowed sweet desirèd gold,We on the empty limitless abyssWalked slowly. It was far;And I feared much,For lo! when I looked down deep under meThe little earth was such a little thing,How in the vasty dark find her again?The crescent moon a moorèd boat hard by,Did wait on her and touch her ragged rimsWith a small gift of silver.Love! my life!Hubert, while I yet wept, O we were there.A menai of Angels first, a swarm of starsTook us among them (all alive with starsShining and shouting each to each that place),The feathered multitude did lie so thickWe walked upon them, walked on outspread wings,And the great gates were standing open.Love!The country is not what you think; but oh!When you have seen it nothing else contents.The voice, the vision was not what you think—But oh! it was all. It was the meaning of life,Excellent consummation of desiresFor ever, let into the heart with painMost sweet. That smile did take the feeding soulDeeper and deeper into heaven. The sward(For I had bowed my face on it) I foundGrew in my spirit's longed for native land—At last I was at home.'And here she paused:I must needs weep. I have not been in heaven,Therefore she could not tell me what she heard,Therefore she might not tell me what she saw,Only I understood that One drew nearWho said to her she should e'en come, 'Because,'Said He, 'My Father loves Me. I will askHe send, a guiding Angel for My sake,Since the dark way is long, and rough, and hard,So that I shall not lose whom I love—thee.'
Other words wonderful of things not known,When she had uttered, I gave hope away,Cried out, and took her in despairing arms,Asking no more. Then while the comfortlessDawn till night fainted grew, alas! a keyThat with abhorrèd jarring probed the door.We kissed, we looked, unlocked our arms. She sighed'Remember,' 'Ay, I will remember. What?''To come to me.' Then I, thrust roughly forth—I, bereft, dumb, forlorn, unremediedMy hurt for ever, stumbled blindly down,And the great door was shut behind and chained.
The weird pathetic scarlet of day dawning,More kin to death of night than birth of morn,Peered o'er yon hill bristling with spires of pine.I heard the crying of the men condemned,Men racked, that should be martyr'd presently,And my great grief met theirs with might; I heldAll our poor earth's despairs in my poor breast,The choking reek, the faggots were all mine.Ay, and the partings they were all mine—mine.Father, it will be very good methinksTo die so, to die soon. It doth appeaseThe soul in misery for its fellows, whenThere is no help, to suffer even as they.
Father, when I had lost her, when I satAfter my sickness on the pallet bed,My forehead dropp'd into my hand, beholdSome one beside me. A man's hand let downWith that same action kind, compassionate,Upon my shoulder. And I took the handBetween mine own, laying my face thereon.I knew this man for him who spoke with me,Letting me see my Delia. I looked up.Lo! lo! the robed ecclesiastic proud,He and this other one. Tell you his name?Am I a fiend? No, he was good to me,Almost he placed his life in my hand.Father,He with good pitying words long talked to me,'Did I not strive to save her?' 'Ay,' quoth I.'But sith it would not be, I also claimDeath, burning; let me therefore die—let me.I am wicked, would be heretic, but, faith,I know not how, and Holy Church I hate.She is no mother of mine, she slew my love.'What answer? 'Peace, peace, thou art hard on me.Favour I forfeit with the Mother of God,Lose rank among the saints, foresee my soulDrenched in the unmitigated flame, and takeMy payment in the lives snatched at all riskFrom battling in it here. O, an thou turnAnd tear from me, lost to that other worldMy heart's reward in this, I am twice lost;Now have I doubly failed.'Father, I knowThe Church would rail, hound forth, disgrace, try, burn,Make his proud name, discover'd, infamy,Tread underfoot his ashes, curse his soul.But God is greater than the Church. I hopeHe shall not, for that he loved men, lose God.I hope to hear it said 'Thy sins are allForgiven; come in, thou hast done well.'For meMy chronicle comes down to its last page.'Is not life sweet?' quoth he, and comfortedMy sick heart with good words, 'duty' and 'home.'Then took me at moonsetting down the stairTo the dark deserted midway of the street,Gave me a purse of money, and his handLaid on my shoulder, holding me with wordsA father might have said, bad me God speed,So pushed me from him, turned, and he was gone.
There was a Pleiad lost; where is she now?None knoweth,—O she reigns, it is my creed,Otherwhere dedicate to making day.The God of Gods, He doubtless looked to thatWho wasteth never ought He fashionèd.I have no vision, but where vision failsFaith cheers, and truly, truly there is need,The god of this world being so unkind.O love! My girl for ever to the worldWanting. Lost, not that any one should find,But wasted for the sake of waste, and lostFor love of man's undoing, of man's tears,By envy of the evil one; I mournFor thee, my golden girl, I mourn, I mourn.
He set me free. And it befell anonThat I must imitate him. Then 't befellThat on the holy Book I read, and all,The mediating Mother and her Babe,God and the Church, and man and life and death,And the dark gulfs of bitter purging flame,Did take on alteration. Like a shipCast from her moorings, drifting from her port,Not bound to any land, not sure of land,My dull'd soul lost her reckoning on that seaShe sailed, and yet the voyage was nigh done.
This God was not the God I had known; this ChristWas other. O, a gentler God, a Christ—By a mother and a Father infinite—In distance each from each made kin to me.Blest Sufferer on the rood; but yet, I sayOther. Far gentler, and I cannot tell,Father, if you, or she, my golden girl,Or I, or any aright those mysteries read.
I cannot fathom them. There is not time,So quickly men condemned me to this cell.I quarrell'd not so much with Holy ChurchFor that she taught, as that my love she burned.I die because I hid her enemies,And read the Book.But O, forgiving God,I do elect to trust thee. I have thought,What! are there set between us and the sunMillions of miles, and did He like a tentRear up yon vasty sky? Is heaven less wide?And dwells He there, but for His wingèd host,Almost alone? Truly I think not so;He has had trouble enough with this poor worldTo make Him as an earthly father would,Love it and value it more.He did not giveSo much to have us with Him, and yet fail.And now He knows I would believe e'en soAs pleaseth Him, an there was time to learnOr certitude of heart; but time fails, time.He knoweth also 't were a piteous thingNot to be sure of my love's welfare—notTo see her happy and good in that new home.Most piteous. I could all forego but this.O let me see her, Lord.What, also I!White ashes and a waft of vapour—ITo flutter on before the winds. No, no.And yet for ever ay—my flesh shall hissAnd I shall hear 't. Dreadful, unbearable!Is it to-morrow?Ay, indeed, indeed,To-morrow. But my moods are as great wavesThat rise and break and thunder down on me,And then fall'n back sink low.I have waked longAnd cannot hold my thoughts upon th' event;They slip, they wander forth.How the dusk grows.This is the last moonrising we shall see.Methought till morn to pray, and cannot pray.Where is mine Advocate? let Him say allAnd more was in my mind to say this night,Because to-morrow—Ah! no more of that,The tale is told. Father, I fain would sleep.
Truly my soul is silent unto God.
Laura, my Laura! 'Yes, mother!' 'I want you, Laura; come down.''What is it, mother—what, dearest? O your loved face how it pales!You tremble, alas and alas—you heard bad news from the town?''Only one short half hour to tell it. My poor courage fails—
Laura.' 'Where's Ronald?—O anything else but Ronald!' 'No, no,Not Ronald, if all beside, my Laura, disaster and tears;But you, it is yours to send them away, for you they will go,One short half hour, and must it decide, it must for the years.
Laura, you think of your father sometimes?' 'Sometimes!' 'Ah, but how?''I think—that we need not think, sweet mother—the time is not yet,He is as the wraith of a wraith, and a far off shadow now——But if you have heard he is dead?' 'Not that?' 'Then let me forget.'
'The sun is off the south window, draw back the curtain, my child.''But tell it, mother.' 'Answer you first what it is that you see.''The lambs on the mountain slope, and the crevice with blue ice piled.''Nearer.'—'But, mother!' 'Nearer!' 'My heifer she's lowing to me.'
'Nearer.' 'Nothing, sweet mother, O yes, for one sits in the bower.Black the clusters hang out from the vine about his snow-white head,And the scarlet leaves, where my Ronald leaned.' 'Only one half hour—Laura'—'O mother, my mother dear, all known though nothing said.
O it breaks my heart, the face dejected that looks not on us,A beautiful face—I remember now, though long I forgot.''Ay and I loved it. I love him to-day, and to see him thus!Saying "I go if she bids it, for work her woe—I will not."
There! weep not, wring not your hands, but think, think with your heartand soul.''Was he innocent, mother? If he was, I, sure had been told,'He said so.' 'Ah, but they do.' 'And I hope—and long was his dole,And all for the signing a name (if indeed he signed) for gold.'
'To find us again, in the far far West, where hid, we were free—But if he was innocent—O my heart, it is riven in two,If he goes how hard upon him—or stays—how harder on me,For O my Ronald, my Ronald, my dear,—my best what of you!'
'Peace; think, my Laura—I say he will go there, weep not so sore.And the time is come, Ronald knows nothing, your father will go,As the shadow fades from its place will he, and be seen no more.''There 'll be time to think to-morrow, and after, but to-day, no.
I'm going down the garden, mother.' 'Laura!' 'I've dried my tears.''O how will this end!' 'I know not the end, I can but begin.''But what will you say?' 'Not "welcome, father," though long were thoseyears,But I'll say to him, "O my poor father, we wait you, come in."
'And you brought him home.' 'I did, ay Ronald, it rested with me.''Love!' 'Yes.' 'I would fain you were not so calm.' 'I cannot weep. No.''What is he like, your poor father?' 'He is—like—this fallen treeProne at our feet, by the still lake taking on rose from the glow,
Now scarlet, O look! overcoming the blue both lake and sky,While the waterfalls waver like smoke, then leap in and are not.And shining snow-points of high sierras cast down, there they lie.''O Laura—I cannot bear it. Laura! as if I forgot.'
'No, you remember, and I remember that evening—like thisWhen we come forth from the gloomy Canyon, lo, a sinking sun.And, Ronald, you gave to me your troth ring, I gave my troth kiss.''Give me another, I say that this makes no difference, none.
It hurts me keenly. It hurts to the soul that you thought it could.''I never thought so, my Ronald, my love, never thought you base.'No, but I look for a nobler nobleness, loss understood,Accepted, and not that common truth which can hold through disgrace.
O! we remember, and how ere that noon through deeps of the lakeWe floating looked down and the boat's shadow followed on rocks below,So clear the water. O all pathetic as if for love's sakeOur life that is but a fleeting shadow 't would under us show.
O we remember forget-me-not pale, and white columbineYou wreathed for my hair; because we remember this cannot be.Ah! here is your ring—see, I draw it off—it must not be mine,Put it on, love, if but for the moment and listen to me.
I look for the best, I look for the most, I look for the allFrom you, it consoles this misery of mine, there is you to trust.O if you can weep, let us weep together, tears may well fallFor that lost sunsetting and what it promised,—they may, they must.
Do you say nothing, mine own belovèd, you know what I mean,And whom.—To her pride and her love from YOU shall such blow be dealt……Silence uprisen, is like a presence, it comes us between…As once there was darkness, now is there silence that may be felt.
Ronald, your mother, so gentle, so pure, and you are her best,'T is she whom I think of, her quiet sweetness, her gracious way.'How could she bear it?'—'Laura!' 'Yes, Ronald.' 'Let that matter rest.You might give your name to my father's child?' 'My father's name. Ay,
Who died before it was soiled.' 'You mutter.' 'Why, love, are you here?''Because my mother fled forth to the West, her trouble to hide,And I was so small, the lone pine forest, and tier upon tier,Far off Mexican snowy sierras pushed England aside.'
'And why am I here?' 'But what did you mutter?' 'O pardon, sweet.Why came I here and—my mother?' In truth then I cannot tell.''Yet you drew my ring from your finger—see—I kneel at your feet.''Put it on. 'T was for no fault of mine.' 'Love! I knew that full well.'
'And yet there be faults that long repented, are aye to deplore,Wear my ring, Laura, at least till I choose some words I can say,If indeed any word need be said.' 'No! wait, Ronald, no more;What! is there respite? Give me a moment to think "nay" or "ay."
I know not, but feel there is. O pardon me, pardon me,—peace.For nought is to say, and the dawn of hope is a solemn thing,Let us have silence. Take me back, Ronald, full sweet is release.''Laura! but give me my troth kiss again.' 'And give me my ring.'
The white moon wasteth,And cold morn hastethAthwart the snow,The red east burnethAnd the tide turneth,And thou must go.
Think not, sad rover,Their story all overWho come from far—Once, in the agesWon goodly wagesLed by a star.
Once, for all dulyGuidance doth trulyShine as of old,Opens for me and theeOnce, opportunityHer gates of gold.
Enter, thy star is out,Traverse nor faint nor doubtEarth's antres wild,Thou shalt find good and restAs found the Magi blestThat divine Child.
I clomb full high the belfry towerUp to yon arrow-slit, up and away,I said 'let me look on my heart's fair flowerIn the wallèd garden where she doth play.'
My care she knoweth not, no nor the cause,White rose, red rose about her hung,And I aloft with the doves and the daws.They coo and call to their callow young.
Sing, 'O an she were a white rosebud fairDropt, and in danger from passing feet,'T is I would render her service tender,Upraised on my bosom with reverence meet.'
Playing at the ball, my dearest of all,When she grows older how will it be,I dwell far away from her thoughts to-dayThat heed not, need not, or mine or me.
Sing, 'O an my love were a fledgeling doveThat flutters forlorn o' her shallow nest,'T is I would render her service tender,And carry her, carry her on my breast.'
Uplifted and lone, set apart with our loveOn the crest of a soft swelling downCloud shadows that meet on the grass at our feetSail on above Wendover town.
Wendover town takes the smile of the sunAs if yearning and strife were no more,From her red roofs float high neither plaint neither sigh,All the weight of the world is our own.
Would that life were more kind and that souls might have peaceAs the wide mead from storm and from bale,We bring up our own care, but how sweet over thereAnd how strange is their calm in the vale.
As if trouble at noon had achieved a deep sleep,Lapped and lulled from the weariful fret,Or shot down out of day, had a hint dropt awayAs if grief might attain to forget.
Not if we two indeed had gone over the bourneAnd were safe on the hills of the blest,Not more strange they might show to us drawn from below,Come up from long dolour to rest.
But the peace of that vale would be thine love and mine,And sweeter the air than of yore,And this life we have led as a dream that is fledMight appear to our thought evermore.
'Was it life, was it life?' we might say ''twas scarce life,''Was it love? 'twas scarce love,' looking down,'Yet we mind a sweet ray of the red sun one dayLow lying on Wendover town.
When I had guineas many a oneNought else I lackèd 'neath the sun,I had two eyes the bluest seen,A perfect shape, a gracious mien,I had a voice might charm the baleFrom a two days widowed nightingale,And if you ask how this I knowI had a love who told me so.The lover pleads, the maid hearkeneth,Her foot turns, his day darkeneth.Love unkind, O can it be'T was your foot false did turn from me.
The gear is gone, the red gold spent,Favour and beauty with them went,Eyes take the veil, their shining done,Not fair to him is fair to none,Sweet as a bee's bag 'twas to tasteHis praise. O honey run to waste,He loved not! spoiled is all my wayIn the spoiling of that yesterday.
The shadows wax, the low light alters,Gold west fades, and false heart falters.The pity of it!—Love's a rover,The last word said, and all over.
The white broom flatt'ring her flowers in calm June weather,'O most sweet wear;Forty-eight weeks of my life do none desire me,Four am I fair,'
Quoth the brown bee'In thy white wearFour thou art fair.A mysteryOf honeyed snowIn scented airThe bee lines flowStraight unto thee.Great boon and blissAll pure I wis,And sweet to growAy, so to giveThat many live.Now as for me,I,' quoth the bee,'Have not to give,Through long hours sunnyGathering I live:Aye debonairSailing sweet airAfter my fare,Bee-bread and honey.In thy deep coombe,O thou white broom,Where no leaves shake,Brake,Bent nor clover,I a glad rover,Thy calms partake,While winds of mightFrom height to heightGo bodily over.Till slanteth light,And up the riseThy shadow lies,A shadow of white,A beauty-lenderPathetic, tender.
Short is thy day?Answer with 'Nay,'Longer the hoursThat wear thy flowersThan all dull, coldYears manifoldThat gift withhold.A long liver,O honey-giver,Thou by all showingArt made, bestowing,I envy notThy greater lot,Nor thy white wear.But, as for me,I,' quoth the bee,'Never am fair.'
The nightingale lorn of his note in darkness broodingDeeply and long,'Two sweet months spake the heart to the heart. Alas! all's over,O lost my song.'
One in the tree,'Hush now! Let be:The song at endingLeft my long tendingOver alsò.Let be, let us goAcross the wan sea.
The little ones care not,And I fare notAmiss with thee.
Thou hast sung all,This hast thou had.Love, be not sad;It shall befallAssuredly,When the bush buddethAnd the bank studdeth—Where grass is sweetAnd damps do fleet,Her delicate bedsWith daisy headsThat the Stars SevenLeaned down from heavenShall sparkling markIn the warm darkThy most dear strainWhich ringeth aye true—Piercing vale, croftLifted aloftDropt even as dewWith a sweet questTo her on the nestWhen damps we loveFall from above.
"Art thou asleep?Answer me, answer me,Night is so deepThy right fair formI cannot see;Answer me, answer me,Are the eggs warm?Is't well with thee?"
Ay, this shall beAssuredly.Ay, thou full fainIn the soft rainShalt sing again.'
A fair wife making her moan, despised, forsaken,Her good days o'er;'Seven sweet years of my life did I live belovèd,Seven—no more.'
Then Echo woke—and spoke'No more—no more,'And a wave brokeOn the sad shoreWhen Echo said'No more,'
Nought else made reply,Nor land, nor loch, nor skyDid any comfort try,But the wave spreadEcho's faint toneAlone,All down the desolate shore,'No more—no more.'
Out of the melancholy that is madeOf ebbing sorrow that too slowly ebbs,Comes back a sighing whisper of the reed,A note in new love-pipings on the bough,Grieving with grief till all the full-fed airAnd shaken milky corn doth wot of it,The pity of it trembling in the talkOf the beforetime merrymaking brook—Out of that melancholy will the soul,In proof that life is not forsaken quiteOf the old trick and glamour which made glad;Be cheated some good day and not perceiveHow sorrow ebbing out is gone from view,How tired trouble fall'n for once on sleep,How keen self-mockery that youth's eager dreamInterpreted to mean so much is foundTo mean and give so little—frets no more,Floating apart as on a cloud—O thenNot e'en so much as murmuring 'Let this end,'She will, no longer weighted, find escape,Lift up herself as if on wings and flitBack to the morning time.'O once with meIt was all one, such joy I had at heart,As I heard sing the morning star, or GodDid hold me with an Everlasting Hand,And dip me in the day.O once with me,'Reflecting ''twas enough to live, to lookWonder and love. Now let that come again.Rise!' And ariseth first a tanglementOf flowering bushes, peonies pale that dropUpon a mossy lawn, rich iris spikes,Bee-borage, mealy-stemmed auricula,Brown wallflower, and the sweetbriar ever sweet,Her pink buds pouting from their green.To theseAdd thick espaliers where the bullfinch cameTo strew much budding wealth, and was not chid.Then add wide pear trees on the warmèd wall,The old red wall one cannot see beyond.That is the garden.In the wall a doorGreen, blistered with the sun. You open it,And lo! a sunny waste of tumbled hillsAnd a glad silence, and an open calm.Infinite leisure, and a slope where rillsDance down delightedly, in every crease,And lambs stoop drinking and the finches dip,Then shining waves upon a lonely beach.That is the world.
An all-sufficient world,And as it seems an undiscovered world,So very few the folk that come to look.Yet one has heard of towns; but they are farThe world is undiscovered, and the childIs undiscovered that with stealthy joyGoes gathering like a bee who in dark cellsHideth sweet food to live on in the cold.What matters to the child, it matters notMore than it mattered to the moons of Mars,That they for ages undiscovered wentMarked not of man, attendant on their king.
A shallow line of sand curved to the cliff,There dwelt the fisherfolk, and there inlandSome scattered cottagers in thrift and calm,Their talk full oft was of old days,—for hereWas once a fosse, and by this rock-hewn pathOur wild fore-elders as 't is said would comeTo gather jetsam from some Viking wreck,Like a sea-beast wide breasted (her snake headReared up as staring while she rocked ashore)That split, and all her ribs were on their firesThe red whereof at their wives' throats made brightGold gauds which from the weed they picked ere yetThe tide had turned.
'Many,' methought, 'and richThey must have been, so long their chronicle.Perhaps the world was fuller then of folk,For ships at sea are few that near us now.'
Yet sometimes when the clouds were torn to rags,Flying black before a gale, we saw one rockIn the offing, and the mariner folk would cry,'Look how she labours; those aboard may hearHer timbers creak e'en as she'd break her heart.'
'Twas then the grey gulls blown ashore would lightIn flocks, and pace the lawn with flat cold feet.
And so the world was sweet, and it was strange,Sweet as a bee-kiss to the crocus flower,Surprising, fresh, direct, but ever one.The laughter of glad music did not yetIn its echo yearn, as hinting ought beyond,Nor pathos tremble at the edge of blissLike a moon halo in a watery sky,Nor the sweet pain alike of love and fearIn a world not comprehended touch the heart—The poetry of life was not yet born.'T was a thing hidden yet that there be daysWhen some are known to feel 'God is about,'As if that morn more than another mornVirtue flowed forth from Him, the rolling worldSwam in a soothèd calm made resonantAnd vital, swam as in the lap of GodCome down; until she slept and had a dream(Because it was too much to bear awake),That all the air shook with the might of HimAnd whispered how she was the favourite worldThat day, and bade her drink His essence in.
'Tis on such days that seers prophesyAnd poets sing, and many who are wiseFind out for man's wellbeing hidden thingsWhereof the hint came in that Presence knownYet unknown. But a seer—what is he?A poet is a name of long ago.
Men love the largeness of the field—the wildQuiet that soothes the moor. In other daysThey loved the shadow of the city wall,In its stone ramparts read their poetry,Safety and state, gold, and the arts of peace,Law-giving, leisure, knowledge, all were thereThis to excuse a child's allegiance andA spirit's recurrence to the older way.Orphan'd, with aged guardians kind and true,Things came to pass not told before to me.
Thus, we did journey once when eve was near.Through carriage windows I beheld the moors,Then, churches, hamlets cresting of low hills.The way was long, at last I, fall'n asleep,Awoke to hear a rattling 'neath the wheelsAnd see the lamps alight. This was the town.
Then a wide inn received us, and full soonCame supper, kisses, bed.The lamp withoutShone in; the door was shut, and I alone.An ecstasy of exultation tookMy soul, for there were voices heard and steps,I was among so many,—none of themKnew I was come!I rose, with small bare feet,Across the carpet stole, a white-robed child,And through the window peered. Behold the town.
There had been rain, the pavement glistened yetIn a soft lamplight down the narrow street;The church was nigh at hand, a clear-toned clockChimed slowly, open shops across the wayShowed store of fruit, and store of bread,—and oneMany caged birds. About were customers,I saw them bargain, and a rich high voiceWas heard,—a woman sang, her little babeSlept 'neath her shawl, and by her side a boyAdded wild notes and sweet to hers.Some passedWho gave her money. It was far from meTo pity her, she was a part of thatAdmirèd town. E'en so within the shopA rosy girl, it may be ten years old,Quaint, grave. She helped her mother, deftly weighedThe purple plums, black mulberries rich and ripeFor boyish customers, and counted penceAnd dropped them in an apron that she wore.Methought a queen had ne'er so grand a lot,She knew it, she looked up at me, and smiled.
But yet the song went on, and in a whileThe meaning came; the town was not enoughTo satisfy that singer, for a sighWith her wild music came. What wanted she?Whate'er she wanted wanted all. O how'T was poignant, her rich voice; not like a bird's.Could she not dwell content and let them be,That they might take their pleasure in the town,For—no, she was not poor, witness the pence.I saw her boy and that small saleswoman;He wary, she with grave persuasive air,Till he came forth with filberts in his cap,And joined his mother, happy, triumphing.
This was the town; and if you ask what else,I say good sooth that it was poetryBecause it was the all, and something more,—It was the life of man, it was the worldThat made addition to the watching heart,First conscious its own beating, first awareHow, beating it kept time with all the race;Nay, 't was a consciousness far down and dimOf a Great Father watching too.
But lo! the rich lamenting voice again;She sang not for herself; it was a songFor me, for I had seen the town and knew,Yearning I knew the town was not enough.
What more? To-day looks back on yesterday,Life's yesterday, the waiting time, the dawn,And reads a meaning into it, unknownWhen it was with us.It is always so.But when as ofttimes I remember meOf the warm wind that moved the beggar's hair,Of the wet pavement, and the lamps alit,I know it was not pity that made yearnMy heart for her, and that same dimpled boyHow grand methought to be abroad so late.And barefoot dabble in the shining wet;How fine to peer as other urchins didAt those pent huddled doves they let not rest;No, it was almost envy. Ay, how sweetThe clash of bells; they rang to boast that farThat cheerful street was from the cold sea-fog,From dark ploughed field and narrow lonesome lane.How sweet to hear the hum of voices kind,To see the coach come up with din of horn.Quick tramp of horses, mark the passers-byGreet one another, and go on.But nowThey closed the shops, the wild clear voice was still,The beggars moved away—where was their home.The coach which came from out dull darksome fellsInto the light; passed to the dark againLike some old comet which knows well her way,Whirled to the sun that as her fateful loopShe turns, forebodes the destined silences.Yes, it was gone; the clattering coach was gone,And those it bore I pitied even to tears,Because they must go forth, nor see the lights,Nor hear the chiming bells.In after days,Remembering of the childish envy andThe childish pity, it has cheered my heartTo think e'en now pity and envy bothIt may be are misplaced, or needed not.Heaven may look down in pity on some soulHalf envied, or some wholly pitied smile,For that it hath to wait as it were an hourTo see the lights that go not out by night,To walk the golden street and hear a song;Other-world poetry that is the allAnd something more.
White as white butterflies that each one donsHer face their wide white wings to shade withal,Many moon-daisies throng the water-spring.While couched in rising barley titlarks call,And bees alit upon their martagonsDo hang a-murmuring, a-murmuring.
They chide, it may be, alien tribes that flewAnd rifled their best blossom, counted onAnd dreamed on in the hive ere dangerous dewThat clogs bee-wings had dried; but when outshoneLong shafts of gold (made all for them) of powerTo charm it away, those thieves had sucked the flower.
Now must they go; a-murmuring they go,And little thrushes twitter in the nest;The world is made for them, and even soThe clouds are; they have seen no stars, the breastOf their soft mother hid them all the night,Till her mate came to her in red dawn-light.
Eggs scribbled over with strange writing, signs,Prophecies, and their meaning (for you seeThe yolk within) is life, 'neath yonder binesLie among sedges; on a hawthorn treeThe slender-lord and master perched hard by,Scolds at all comers if they step too nigh.
And our small river makes encompassmentOf half the mead and holm: yon lime-trees growAll heeling over to it, diligentTo cast green doubles of themselves below,But shafts of sunshine reach its shallow floorAnd warm the yellow sand it ripples o'er.
Ripples and ripples to a pool it madeTurning. The cows are there, one creamy white—She should be painted with no touch of shadeIf any list to limn her—she the lightAbove, about her, treads out circles wide,And sparkling water flashes from her side.
The clouds have all retired to so great heightAs earth could have no dealing with them more,As they were lost, for all her drawing and might,And must be left behind; but down the shoreLie lovelier clouds in ranks of lace-work frail,Wild parsley with a myriad florets pale,
Another milky-way, more intricateAnd multitudinous, with every starPerfect. Long changeful sunbeams undulateAmid the stems where sparklike creatures areThat hover and hum for gladness, then the lastTree rears her graceful head, the shade is passed.
And idle fish in warm wellbeing lieEach with his shadow under, while at easeAs clouds that keep their shape the darting fryTurn and are gone in company; o'er theseStrangers to them, strangers to us, from holesScooped in the bank peer out shy water-voles.
Here, take for life and fly with innocent feetThe brown-eyed fawns, from moving shadows clear;There, down the lane with multitudinous bleatPlaining on shepherd lads a flock draws near;A mild lamenting fills the morning air,'Why to yon upland fold must we needs fare?'
These might be fabulous creatures every one,And this their world might be some other sphereWe had but heard of, for all said or doneTo know of them,—of what this many a yearThey may have thought of man, or of his sway,Or even if they have a God and pray,
The sweetest river bank can never moreHome to its source tempt back the lapsed stream,Nor memory reach the ante-natal shore,Nor one awake behold a sleeper's dream,Not easier 't were that unbridged chasm to walk,And share the strange lore of their wordless talk.
Like to a poet voice, remote from ken,That unregarded sings and undesired,Like to a star unnamed by lips of men,That faints at dawn in saffron light retired,Like to an echo in some desert deepFrom age to age unwakened from its sleep—
So falls unmarked that other world's great song,And lapsing wastes without interpreter.Slave world! not man's to raise, yet man's to wrong,He cannot to a loftier place prefer,But he can,—all its earlier rights forgot,Reign reckless if its nations rue their lot.
If they can sin or feel life's wear and fret,An men had loved them better, it may beWe had discovered. But who e'er did yet,After the sage saints in their clemency,Ponder in hope they had a heaven to win,Or make a prayer with a dove's name therein.
As grave Augustine pleading in his day,'Have pity, Lord, upon the unfledged bird,Lest such as pass do trample it in the way,Not marking, or not minding; give the word,O bid an angel in the nest againTo place it, lest the mother's love be vain.
And let it live, Lord God, till it can fly.'This man dwelt yearning, fain to guess, to spellThe parable; all work of God Most HighTook to his man's heart. Surely this was well;To love is more than to be loved, by leaveOf Heaven, to give is more than to receive.
He made it so that said it. As for usStrange is their case toward us, for they giveAnd we receive. Made martyrs ever thusIn deed but not in will, for us they live,For us they die, we quench their little day,Remaining blameless, and they pass away.
The world is better served than it is ruled,And not alone of them, for everRuleth the man, the woman serveth fooledFull oft of love, not knowing his yoke is sore.Life's greatest Son nought from life's measure swerved,He was among us 'as a man that served.'
Have they another life, and was it wonIn the sore travail of another death,Which loosed the manacles from our race undoneAnd plucked the pang from dying? If this breathBe not their all, reproach no more debarred,'O unkind lords, you made our bondage hard'
May be their plaint when we shall meet againAnd make our peace with them; the sea of lifeFind flowing, full, nor ought or lost or vain.Shall the vague hint whereof all thought is rife,The sweet pathetic guess indeed come true,And things restored reach that great residue?
Shall we behold fair flights of phantom doves,Shall furred creatures couch in moly flowers,Swan souls the rivers oar with their world-loves,In difference welcome as these souls of ours?Yet soul of man from soul of man far moreMay differ, even as thought did heretofore
That ranged and varied on th' undying gleam:From a pure breath of God aspiring, high,Serving and reigning, to the tender dream,The winged Psyche and her butterfly—From thrones and powers, to—fresh from death alarmsChild spirits entering in an angel's arms.
Why must we think, begun in paradise,That their long line, cut off with severance fell,Shall end in nothingness—the sacrificeOf their long service in a passing knell?Could man be wholly blest if not to say'Forgive'—nor make amends for ever and aye?
Waste, waste on earth, and waste of God afar.Celestial flotsam, blazing spars on high,Drifts in the meteor month from some wrecked star,Strew oft th' unwrinkled ocean of the sky,And pass no more accounted of than beLong dulses limp that stripe a mundane sea.
The sun his kingdom fills with light, but allSave where it strikes some planet and her moonsAcross cold chartless gulfs ordained to fall,Void antres, reckoneth no man's nights or noons,But feeling forth as for some outmost shore,Faints in the blank of doom, and is no more.
God scattereth His abundance as forgot,And what then doth he gather? If we know,'Tis that One told us it was life. 'For notA sparrow,' quoth he, uttering long agoThe strangest words that e'er took earthly sound,'Without your Father falleth to the ground.'