1.
It was too sweet—such dreams do ever fadeWhen Sorrow shakes the sleeper from his rest—Life still to me hath been a masquerade,Woe in Mirth's wildest, gayest mantle drest,With the heart hidden—but the face display'd.
But now the vizard droppeth, crush'd and torn,And there is nought left but some tinsell'd rags,To mock the wearer in the face of morn,As through the gaping world she feebly dragsHer day-born measure of reproach and scorn.
But thathishand should pluck the dream away—And thus—and thus—O Heaven! it strikes too deep!The knife that wounds me, if not meant to slay,Stumbles upon my heart the while I weep:So be it; no hand of mine its course shall stay.
False? false to him? Release me—let me goBefore Heaven's judgment-seat to make appeal;Unfold the records of this life, and showAll that the secret pages can reveal,That Heaven and Earth the inmost truth may know!
He cannot think it in his heart of hearts;He cannot wear this falsehood in his soul,Or deem me perjur'd; no delusive artsCan make him blot my name from honour's scroll:The sun will shine forth when the cloud departs.
Patience, my heart! Error is quick, but TruthMoves slowly, but moves surely up the earth,Wiping from age the heresies of youth,And kindling warmth on the once blasted hearth:Patience, my heart! and rage will turn to ruth.
There is no blush upon my brow, though tearsAre in mine eyes, and sorrow in my heart;This sobbing breast heaves not with traitor fears:No sighs for sin are these that sadly start,And bear their bitter burden to thine ears.
And though my woman's strength bend like a reedBefore the flowing of Affliction's river,Not, not for shame, nor for one strumpet deedDoth this weak frame bow down, or faintly quiver,As I stand forth alone in deadly need.
No! before thee, Filippo, and the world,Cased in its petty panoply of scorn,With myriad slavish lips in mocking curl'd,Spotless and innocent, though most forlorn,Here stand I, 'gainst the shafts Falsehood hath hurl'd.
2.
Confess'd! Confess'd the guilty act! What act?What act, my Lord, that cometh home to meCloser than each hot word, by torment rack'd,Flies at the bidding of false tyranny,That makes at will the pain-wrung falsehood fact?
There are full many sins confess'd, my Lord,In pain of body and in pain of soul;Some from the heart unearth'd by fire and sword,And stealing forth amid the spirit's dole,With fiery pain-sweat seething every word;
But none, my Lord, that riseth to the sky,Bears guilt of mine upon its blister'd tongue;Though torture's fire is quick to forge a lie,None from these woman's lips could ere be wrung;No! none, though on the rack-bed bound to die.
Poor youth! This poison from his writhing throat,Those hellish instruments have haply drawn,And pain hath conn'd the aspish lies by rote;But to my heart no poison'd tooth hath gnawn,For in its pulses lies Truth's antidote.
These limbs, my Lord, can do their task no more;The rack hath crush'd them in its wild embrace,So that Truth's firm-set attitude is o'er,Else had I met my judges face to face,And challenged justice, as in days of yore.
Yet is the spirit strong within me still,And bears me up though manhood's strength succumb,Unbent by any blighting blast of ill,Through fiery trials, to all false witness dumb;They cannot stain me, though perchance they kill!
I am a woman—weak to combat wrong,But innocent, my Lord, I live or die;And silent, though my God doth tarry long,He sees me throughly with His holy eye,And in my sore, sore need, doth make me strong.
This hapless youth! I do forgive him all;E'en now remorse must rankle in his breast,And no cool comfort cometh at his call,To set the tumult of his soul at rest:God's pity on his human weakness fall!
3.
Nay, falter not, good friend; thy news is sweet;Thanks, thanks! Ay, sweet as is the welcome windThat wafts the calm-lock'd seaman, smooth and fleet,O'er tropic seas unto his sigh'd-for Ind;Ay! Death will bring rest to my weary feet!
'Tis strange—but now the word falls on mine earSoft as the singing of a little child,Heaven's music on light pinions floateth near,Through all the strife of Earth, so harsh and wild;Time's stream is rippling on its marges clear.
The end is nigh—the end of grief and pain,And Life's broad gates are opening to my soul;O'er my weak heart no more shall sorrow reign,Enfranchised soon 'twill spurn the harsh control,And never feel its empiry again.
No more, Filippo, shall my hapless lifeStand betwixt thee and pleasure,—Duty's knotShall soon be sever'd by the headsman's knife;And upon memory one crimson blotShall be the record of a spotless wife.
'Tis well! I would not wander through a haunted mind,Ghost-like and fearful in the evening hours;Would God that I could leave my peace behind,To bless thee when the night of sorrow lours,And thou art rifted by Affliction's wind!
Shouldst thou awake when I have pass'd away,Shouldst thou see clear the error and the wrong,And Truth break on thee with its dazzling ray,As sure it will, for Innocence is strong,Then may my prayers thine every pang allay!
For thee, poor youth,—go not unto the graveWith a red lie upon thy trembling tongue—Not for myself, but for thy soul I crave,—Death's champions should have sinews tightly strung,And thou wilt falter where I shall be brave.
In that dim world there flows no cooling stream,No Lethe for the guilty and the fever'd,There is no answer to their parching scream,From hope and mercy they are ever sever'd,There is no waking from their spectral dream.
Then pause or e'er thou stampest on thy soulEternally such misery as thine,And writest on God's conscience-blasting scroll,A wife's dishonour, and a tarnish'd line,To weigh for thee thine everlasting dole…
Friend, let thine arm be strong, good sooth there's need,Thou cuttest through a weary depth of woe!—Well! that will pass, and soon rest come indeed,—Ay, ay! the robe's white now … will't long be so?…Yet better far the crimson tide should flow,Than the heart inly with its anguish bleed.
The day is fading from the sky,And softly shines the Star of Even,As watching with a lover's eyeThe rest of Earth the peace of Heaven;The dew is rising cool and sweet,And, zephyr-rock'd, the flowers are closing,The Night steals on with noiseless feet,Oh! gentle be my love's reposing.
The streamlet, as it flows along,Sounds like a voice 'mid childhood's slumbers;And from the brake the Queen of SongPours forth her softest, clearest numbers;And ever through the stirless leavesThe summer moon is brightly streaming,Light fancies on the sward it weaves,—As radiant be my lady's dreaming.
The silent hours move swiftly on,With many a blessed vision laden,That all the night has softly shoneUpon the hearts of youth and maiden;And now, in golden splendors drest,The new-born day is gladly breaking,Oh! blissful be my lady's rest,And sweet as Morn be her awaking.
The winds sweep by him on his mountain throne,Hurling the clouds together at his feet,Till Earth is hidden, lost, and swallow'd upAs in the flood of waters,—and he sitsEyeing the boundless firmament above,Proud and unruffled, till his heart exclaims,—"I am a god, Heaven is my home,—the EarthServeth me but for footstool."
The strong windsSweep on, and wide his pinions spreadeth he,—"Bear me afar!" and on the mighty stormHe rides triumphant, spurning the dim Earth—Whither, O whither goest thou? What starShall raise its mountains for thee? What far orbEcho the fierceness of thy battle-cry?
What dost thou when the thunder is unloosed?"I sit amongst the crags, and feel the EarthTremble beneath me, whilst my heart is firm.I gaze upon the lightning, and my lidQuivers not. Is their aught 'neath which my gazeQuaileth, or waxeth faint—I read the sunUndazzled where the stars grow dim and pale.
"Men gather them to battle—host meets host—And I am borne aloft to marshal them,—I, the great King of Battles, that go forthConquering and to conquer. So do menWorship me. Oh! the mighty crash ascends,—The shoutings, and the glory, and the woe,One great full chaunt of homage to mine ears,—And there I wait the while the sacrificeIs slain before me; then down with a swoopI get me from my skyey throne, and dyeDeep in the ruddy stream my talons grey—Hurrah! hurrah! blood red's the flag for me!"
The time will come, proud one, when thou shalt die!"Die! Death I cast from me as these loose plumesThat moult out from my pinions—let them goTo Earth, and Death go with them, both I leaveTo mortals. What have I to do with Time?Let him pat forth his speed—these wings of mineShall match him stroke for stroke, until we reachThe limits of his empire, and I shake him offLike dust upon the threshold of the world."
Whither away, youth, whither away,With lightsome step, and with joyous heart,And eyes that Hope's gay glances dart?Whither away—whither away?
Into the world, the glorious world,To gain the prize, of the brave and bold,To snatch the crown from the age of gold—Into the world—into the world!
Whither away, girl, whither away?Thy soft blue eyes are suffused with love,And thy smile is as bright as the sunshine above,—Whither away, whither away?
Into the world, the beautiful world,To meet the heart that must mate with mine,And make the measure of life divine,—Into the world, into the world.
Whither away, old man, whither away,With locks of white, and form bent low,And trembling hands, and steps so slow?Whither away,—whither away?
Out of the world, Oh! the weary world,With its empty pleasures, and poison'd joys,Whose draught first gladdens, and then destroys—Out of the world, out of the world,With shatter'd hopes, and with feeble frame,From Life's sharp struggle, and unsped aim,—Out of the world, Oh! the weary world.
Whither away, poor one, whither away?Hurrying swiftly, with weeping eyes,And hectic cheeks, and smother'd sighs,Whither away—whither away?
Out of the world, oh! the cold, cold world!Oh! Father, my heart … but there is restFor the sinking soul, and the bruisèd breast,Out of the world—out of the world!
Night's heavy hand is lifted up at last,And my freed heart beats evenly again,Unpress'd by that dull heavy weight of painCast backward from the unforgotten Past;Darkness no longer muffles Time's slow tread,Till my own pulse-beat mark the moment fled.
Over the speeding shadows, calm and clear,Rises the Star of Morn upon the Earth,Eternal Prophet of the Sun-god's birth,Shining serenely from its silver sphereMute mystic meanings on the strengthen'd soul,Till all its night-bred vapours backward roll.
Oh, bright-eyed Angel of the undimm'd Light,Standing upon Heaven's pinnacle, thy glancePierces like two-edged sword through many a trance,Dividing Truth from Dreaming in its might,Scourging Doubt's myriads from Day's temple-gate,Leaving Life's worship pure, its heart elate.
No herald thou of Night, like Hesper fair,Pale with the dreaded Future's shapeless gloom,Leading the spirit to an unknown doom,Through clouds and darkness heavy fraught with care,Hesper the beautiful alone our guide,Beset by blinding fears on every side.
Groping through Night's dim chambers wearily,Longing to leave its cold sepulchral aisles,Comest thou with thy calm assuring smiles,Like Nemesis to lead us tenderlyThrough all the dangers of the murky way,Unto the golden portals of the Day.
Yea! Night and Death shall pass away, and we,By resurrection sweet, arise new-bornLike thee in glory, bright one, Sons of Morn,Without a shade on our felicity,Eyeing the fleeting vapours of the Past,As thou dost now Night's mists dissolving fast.
How light and pleasant is the wayAcross this quiet valley, whose soft meadSprings lightly as the air that angels tread,Beneath our footsteps weariless all day!This crystal river flowing by our side,One stream of sunshine, still has seem'd a guideFrom Heaven in pure angelical array.
These purple mountains now are nigh,That all the valley through have fill'd our eyesWith day-dreams of the distant Paradise,Their sun-surrounded summits can descry—We mount them now upon Hope's bounding wing,That makes each short swift footstep long to springSuddenly upward to the shadeless sky.
The air methinks is lighter here—And the breast heaves with full untrammell'd ease,Drinking the life-draught of the fragrant breeze,That wafts its soul-sighs to another sphere.Earth groweth little in our eyes, but fair,Fair as though sin had never enter'd there—Earth groweth little as Heaven draweth near.
This rock—and then at last we standUpon the silent summit—scarce I dareGaze outward, through the clear and azure air,Towards the radiance of the Promised Land:I am so weak and fallen, friend, I fearMine eyes will dazzle, and the light appearDarkness, so that I shall not see the Promised Land.
Look thou afar, and tell me trueWhat thou discernest!—Oh! my eyes grow dim,And floods of golden glories seem to swim,Wave upon wave, through all the cloudless blue,Blinding me with their sunny splendors quite,So that, amid the pure excess of light,But vaguest visions faintly glimmer through.
Yet now, methinks, I seem to seeOne spot of burning brightness, beaming clearThrough all the floating glory, like a sphereQuenching light with its own intensity.Yes! yes! it is the Holy City I behold,With God's sun, from its towers of burnish'd gold,Reflected broadly through immensity!
I must gaze out, although I die:Ah! yes, I see it through my longing tears—A great clear glow of glory there appears,Like a light-fountain in the eastern sky,That as I gaze pours forth its living light,Flooding Creation, till the dazzled sightSees Heaven in all things that around it lie.
So shall it ever henceforth be—Who, that discerneth once God's dwelling-place,Can blot from vision the refulgent trace!Ay! henceforth all things shall be Heaven to me—And as I journey on shall brightly riseDivinest semblances of Paradise—Heaven mine in Time and in Eternity.
Across the mountains and the hills,Across the valleys and the swelling seas,By lakes and rivers whose deep murmur fillsEarth's dreams with sweet prophetic melodies,Together have we come unto this place,And here we say farewell a little space:
You, backward turning through the land,To tarry 'mid its beauty yet awhile—I, o'er the River, to another strandWith cheerful heart, so part we with a smile.Shall space have any power o'er god-like souls?Love shall bridge o'er the stream that 'twixt us rolls!
Together wend we to the tide,And as the first wave wets my foot, we part;—E'en now methinks I see the other side;And, though the stream be swift, a steady heartAnd stalwart arm shall quell its cold dark waves.Faith falters not e'en when the tempest raves.
Dark stream flowing so blackly on,Thy turbid billows roll o'er golden sands;Beneath the surface all thy fear is gone,And precious gems fill full the diver's hands.Yet how the heart lists breathless for the roarOf billows plashing on the other shore!
The other shore!—Oh thou dim Land!Hid by faint mists from the spent swimmer's eyes,Until upon the sloping bank he stand,Mute in the light of Eden-mysteries;Thou golden Ophir of Youth's spirit-dream,Shall I then reach thee through this turbid stream?
Friend! quail not! This same gloomy tideRolling its fearful breakers to the shore,Shall be transform'd, upon the other side,Into the crystal Life-stream, shaded o'erBy Paradisal groves, whose mellow fruitShall heal the sorrows of the destitute.
These ghostly vapours, brooding low,Shall melt to sunny glories o'er my head,And through them shall the golden city glow,Whither I hasten singing, angel-led;Friend! there is but a cloud-veil 'twixt us and the light,One step beyond, and Heaven is in our sight.
Now the stream laps my vesture hem;Back thou from my sad bosom to the world,Leaving me here this current cold to stem;Soon from thy sight shall I be swiftly whirl'dInto the mystic darkness—never fear!God's hand shall guide me unto vision clear.
Already thou art growing dim,And distant on the fast receding shore;The tide is strong, but still I trust in Him,And know that I shall safely struggle o'er,For now the plash on yonder shore I hear,Amid sweet angel voices calm and clear.
'Mid the waving Woods of Wytham,Now so far, so far from me,Where the grand old beeches be,And the deer-herds feeding by them:'Mid the mossy Woods of Wytham,Oft I roam in memory;
Down the grand wide-arching alleys,Marged by plumy ferns and flowers,Whence all through the noontide hoursMany a fearless leveret sallies;For amid those grassy alleysNever hound nor huntsman scours.
Still I see, through leafy casements,Wytham Hall so quaint and old,Remnant of the age of gold,Gabled o'er from roof to basementIn most fanciful enlacement,Looking far o'er wood and wold;
With the mere outspread before it;Whitest swans upon its tide,That in mystic beauty glide;And the wild fowl flapping o'er it,To the reeds that broadly shore it,Spear-like, on the sunny side.
Through the waving Woods of Wytham,Now so far, so far from me,Where I roam in memory;'Mid the leaves, or flashing by them,Like sunshine to glorify them,On my sunless heart gleams she.
Falling like the dreams of summer,Making holy all the place,Visions of that sweet pale face,Sweeter than all dreams of summer,Dearer than all dreams of summer,Still in bower and glade I trace!
Still her eyes come deeply glowingThrough the leafy lattices;And the rustle of the trees,'Neath the west wind softly blowing,Only emulates the flowingOf her love-toned melodies.
Oh! those waving Woods of Wytham—Ceased she thus to hover nearRadiant from her happy sphere,Like sunshine to glorify them,Never would I wander nigh them—Madly weeping should I fly them,Till their memory e'en grew sere.
But ah! no, in endless slimmer,Roams my heart through Wytham Woods,Meeting in their solitudesEvermore that angel comer,Sweeter than the light of summerMaking golden Wytham Woods,Now so far, so far from meIn the world of Memory.
O'er the wide world I wander evermore,Through wind and weather heedless and alone,Alike through summer, and through winter hoar,On cloud-capt mountain, by the sea-wash'd shore,Seeking the star that riseth in the East.
O'er the wide world—the world that knows not why,And stares with stupid scorn to see me go;Whilst I with solemn secret face pass by,To laugh in desert spots where none are nigh,Laugh loud and shrill unto the winds, Ho! Ho!For that which none but I anditdo know.
To think how when I find this lucky star,And stand beneath it, like the Wise of old,I shall mount upward on a golden car,Girt round with glory unto worlds afar,While Earth amazed the wonder shall behold,That bears me unto happiness untold!
Hush! I'll not whisper it, lest some should hear,And hurry on before me to the spot,Leaving me bound for ever to this sphere,Parted for ever from my child—I here,She in the realm that I could enter not.
Hush! I must hurry on—for many nightsHave I sought for the star about the sky,And found it not amid the myriad lights,Greater and lesser with their satellites,Flashing confusedly upon mine eye.
I must unravel every golden hairUpon the brow of Night for what I seek,Lift every straggler from its moony lair,Lest toothestar should haply linger there,Unnoted by mine eyes so faint and weak.
For as the Wise Men did in old time traceThe Holy Child by this same guiding star,So I know well that by the Virgin's grace,I too by it shall come unto the placeWhere my sweet babe and its nurse-angels are.
Wearisome are the days, they mock me so,Pouring down light that seems to bid me see,Yet hides the starry pilot by its glow,Whose light I thirst for, whilst light-fountains, flowAround me like the swelling of the sea.
Wearisome are they, till the sun-god palesBeneath the surges of the western wave,And the last fold of his golden mantle trailsO'er the horizon where Earth's vision fails,And space becomes a darkness and a grave.
I ofttimes think to curse the Day, that triesTo keep my babe hid in its envious breast,Smit with its hair of gold, and large blue eyes,Close hid within its mantle, careless of my sighs,That night and day must wake it from its rest.
But Patience! when the sun is in the deep,The Star will beam upon me suddenly,And ere the sun-god waketh from his sleep,The dear one shall be mine for whom I weep,Mine, mine alone for all eternity.
They call me crazed—Ha! ha!—They little knowWho are the crazed of Earth, or they, or I—They, by their greed of gold urged to and fro,For petty pleasures bending God's soul low—I, seeking for my star about the sky.
When it is found,—when it is found, how greatWill be the wonder of these blind and mad!How great will be the wonder and the hate,Waking to see the glorious truth too lateWillhe, too, see his error, and be sad?
The wind sweeps weirdly o'er the heaven to-night,Weirdly and black, as though from guilty deeds,—From some sad shipwreck, it has taken flight,Leaving the drowning in their direful plight—Leaving the drown'd low waving in the weeds.
No stars, no stars again! Oh woe! againNight drowns me in its darkness and its gloom,And I must crouch amidst the wind and rain,Without one hope-gleam lightening my pain;All things are leagued to darken down my doom.
Perchance it is that I am growing weak,And faint with wandering afar, afar,And my dim eyes see not the thing I seek;And yet I must not ask, I must not speak,Nor tell—the secret of the Saviour star.
No! dumb,—dumb,—I shall set me down to scanEach twinkling orb that rolleth up through space,Hesper, heaven's loveliest, leading up the van—To-morrow—yes! to-morrow I shall watch, and manShall see this wonder when I reach the place.
Will the babe know me—ope its sweet blue eyes—And stretch its little arms to clasp me round?Ah! yes, God will send knowledge from the skies,In pity for my prayers, and tears, and sighs,Angels will sing for joy that I have foundMy treasure, andhe—he will hear the sound!
Cold—cold it is—the wind is bitter chill—And the rain falls like curses on my head—No! no! not curses, for the drops say stillThat there's an end to sorrow, and all illFlows from us like the water down a hill;The star shall shine, and all the clouds be sped….
* * * * *
The sought-for Star uprose upon the dead.
Deep in the bosom of the ocean,Where sunshine fades to twilight gloom,The pure pearls lie, and the coral bloomRests unsway'd by the upper motion—Calm and still the hours pass byThe lovely things that sleeping lie,Deep in the bosom of the ocean.
The thunder rolls from cloud to cloud,And the bitter blast sweeps o'er the sea,Shaking the waters mightily;But ne'er the tempest's voice so loud,Sinketh down to the things that lie—The lovely things that sleeping lie,Deep in the bosom of the ocean.
The icebergs crack with a sullen boom,Riven by the hands of the angry North;And, like the Angel of Wrath sent forth,The whirlwind stalks with the breath of doom,Crushing, like dust 'neath its heavy tread,The last frail spar o'er the seaman's head;But nought can reach the things that lie—The lovely things that sleeping lie,Deep in the bosom of the ocean.
Deep in the bosom of God's-acre,Beyond the reach of grief or care,As sweetly rest the good and fair,Where Life's rude foes can ne'er o'ertake her;Calmly and sweetly the hours pass byThe blessèd ones who sleeping lie,Deep in the bosom of God's-acre.
Patience! thou poor one, faint and weary,For thou shalt come unto this rest,And leaning on a mother's breast,Forget the world to thee so dreary:Calmly and sweetly the hours pass byThe happy ones who hoping lieDeep in the bosom of God's-acre.
Oh! weird West Wind, that comest from the sea,Sad with the murmur of the weary waves,Wand'ring for ever through old ocean caves,Why troublest thou the hearts that list to thee,With echoes of forgotten misery?
The night is black with clouds that thou art bringingFrom the far waters of the stormy main,Welling their woes forth wearily in rain,Betwixt us and the light their dark course winging,And dreary shadows o'er the spirit flinging.
Whence is thy power to smite the silent heart,Till as of old the unseal'd waters run?Whence is thy magic, Oh! thou unseen one,To make still sorrows from their slumbers start,And play again, unsought, their bitter part?
We are all one with Nature—every breezeStealeth about the chambers of the soul,Haunting their rest with sounds of joy or dole;And every cloud that creepeth from the seas,Traileth its shade o'er human sympathies.
Blow! blow, thou weird wind, till the clouds be rent,And starlight glimmer through the riven seams,Scatter their darkness like the mist of dreams,Till all the fleeting, spectre-gloom be spent,And the bright Future gem the firmament.
Blow! blow! Night's "Mene Tekel" even nowGlows on her palace-walls, and she shall passLike the dim vapour from a burnish'd glass;And no chill shadows o'er the soul shall go,Borne by each weeping West Wind to and fro.
What art thou—friend or foe?Stand! stand!My heart is true as steel,Steady still in woe and weal,Strong to bear, though quick to feel—Take my hand!
What art thou—friend or foe?Stand! stand!Only my own ease seek I,I am deaf to Pity's cry,If men hunger, let them die—Traitor! stand!
What art thou—friend or foe?Stand! stand!I've a kiss for maiden fair,I've a blow for who may dare,I've a song to banish care—Take my hand!
What art thou—friend or foe?Stand! stand!I'm your servant whilst you're great,As you sink, my cares abate,When you're poor you have my hate,—Traitor! stand!
What art thou—friend or foe?Stand! stand!If you trust me, I'll be true,If you slight me, I'll slight you,If you wrong me, you shall rue—Take my hand!
What art thou—friend or foe?Stand! stand!I can work with any tools—Clothe myself by stripping fools—Bend the knee whoever rules—Traitor! stand!
What art thou—friend or foe?Stand! stand!I've a heart that hates all wrong,Aids the weak against the strong,Loves the Truth, and seeks it long—Take my hand!
What art thou—friend or foe?Stand! stand!I forgive no woman's sin,Hunt her with self-righteous mien,Never take her, mourning, inFrom the desert of her sin—Traitor! stand!
What art thou—friend or foe!Stand! stand!I've a heart that melts at sorrow,I've a store the poor may borrowI'm the same to-day, to-morrow—Take my hand!
Peace! Let me go, or ere it be too late;Dip not your arrows in the honey-mead;Paint not the wound through which my heart doth bleed;Leave me unmock'd, unpitied to my fate—Peace! Let me go.
Think you that words can smooth my rugged track?Words heal the stab your soft white hands have made,Or stir the burthen on my bosom laid?Winds shook not Earth from Atlas' bended back—Peace! Let me go.
What though it be the last time we shall meet—Raise your white brow, and wreathe your raven hair,And fill with music sweet the summer air;Not this again shall draw me to your feet—Peace! Let me go.
No laurels from my vanquish'd heart shall waveRound your triumphant beauty as you go,Not thus adorn'd work out some other's woe—Yet, if you will, pluck daisies from my grave!Peace! Let me go.
Time sets his footprints on our little Earth,And, walk he ne'er so softly, some sweet thingFalls 'neath each foot-fall, crush'd amid its mirth,Tracking the course of Life's short wandering,With fallen remnants of its mortal part,Freeing the soul, but weighing down the heart.
Thou flower of Love! thou little treasuryOf gentleness, and purity, and grace!What hidden virtue hath Death reft from thee—What unseen essence melted into space?For now thou liest like a sinless child,Whom God hath homeward to his bosom smiled.
The dew-shower fell on thee, the sunbeam play'd,As Life is ever made of smiles and tears;And ofttimes has the breeze of summer sway'd,And with its mellow music mock'd thy fears;But now, O wonder, thou art pale and wan,And there's a beauty and a fragrance gone!
Thus fade we—thus our hopes and joys, rose-bright,Yield up their sweetness ere they reach their prime,And their poor fabrics lie within our sight,Stript of their radiance e'en in summer-time—Their spirit hath gone from them, and they wither,But wherefore hath the spirit gone, and whither?
Our knowledge is like dreams amid a sleep—Faint-pinion'd thoughts that beat the vault of Night,And flutter earthward—so we smile or weepAt what we know not, cannot see aright;Life is death, and death is life, perchance,In the dim twilight of our waking trance.
Thou art a leaf from the great Book of God,Whose lightest word is wiser than the wise;And, meekly resting there upon the sod,Thou breathest upward holy mysteries,In simple tones that steal upon the sense,Like Childhood's prattling truth and innocence.
Then, O sweet flower, that in thy low estateHast in thee emblems of the life of Man,Read to our beings whispers of the fateThat waits us at the end of Time's short span;How short we know not—e'en the bud may beGather'd in harvest to eternity.
Turn thine eyes from me, Angel of Heaven—Read not my soul, Angel of Heaven—Sorrow is steeping my pale cheeks with weeping,Evermore keeping her wand on my heart,On my cold stony heart, while the tear-fountains startTo purge it from leaven too sinful for Heaven—Read not my soul, yet, Angel of Heaven!
Why hast thou ta'en her, Angel of Heaven?Ta'en her so soon, Angel of Heaven?Yearning to gain her, hast thou thus slain herEre sin could stain her—borne her away,Borne her far, far away, into eternal day,Left me alone to stay—left me to weep and pray?Why hast thou ta'en her, Angel of Heaven?Ta'en her so soon, Angel of Heaven?
Shines the place brighter, Angel of Heaven?Brighter for her, Angel of Heaven?Comes there not streaming into my dreaming,At morning's beaming, rays more divine,Rays from her soul divine, rays giving strength to mine?Shines she not radiantly over the skies,Over the morning skies, ere the Earth-vapours rise,'Twixt me and Paradise, Angel of Heaven?Herblessed Paradise, Angel of Heaven?
Turn thine eyes to me, Angel of Heaven—Search through and through me, Angel of Heaven;Read my soul's yearning, wild, endlessly burning,Tumultuously spurning Fate's bitter decree,Fate's tyrannic decree, that tore her from me,Bore her from me to Eternity.Merciless Reaper, no more shalt thou keep herFrom fond eyes that weep her for ever and ever,Vain thine endeavour our spirits to sever,Take my soul with thee, Angel of Heaven,Bear me unto her, Angel of Heaven.
There is a land whereon the sun's warm gaze,God-like, all-seeing, falls right down through space,And the weak Earth, quite smitten by its rays,Lies scorch'd and powerless with mute silent face,Like a tranced body, where no changing glowTells that the life-streams through its channels flow.
Peopled it is by nations scant and few,Set far apart among the trackless sands,Unlearn'd, uncultured, wild and swart of hue,Roaming the deserts in divided bands,Where the green pastures call them, and the deerTroop yet within the range of bow and spear.
Unhappy Afric! can thy boundless plains,Where the royal lion snuffs the free pure air,And every breeze laughs at the tyrant's chains,Be but the nest of slavery and despair,Rearing a brood whose craven souls can beRobb'd of the very dream of Liberty?
But, as the shore of this vast sea of sand,Stretches afar a country rich and green,With waving foliage shading all the land,And flowing waters bright with sunny sheen;And here browse countless herds of dappled deer,Blesboks and antelopes, remote from fear.
Amid it mighty mountains proudly rise,Great monarchs of a boundless continent,Rearing their hoary summits to the skies,As claiming empire of the firmament;Gaunt silent majesties of sea and earth,Stern-featured children of Titanic birth.
Within their shadows many peoples dwell;Divided kingdoms gather'd round some chief,With lodges cluster'd by some stream or well,To yield their cattle ever cool reliefFrom the fierce scorching of the burning sun,And slake their hot thirst when the toil is done.
It chanced that war, which still doth enter inWhere men are most or fewest, small or great,Here of a sudden raised its hellish din,And woke to fury, lust, and bloody hate;So that with battles, forays, murders, thefts,Rang oft the echoes of the mountain clefts.
There was one tribe that in unconscious easeSlumber'd and thought of danger but in dreams,Heard not the tramp of men upon the breeze,While the stars, watching with faint trembling beams,Saw noiseless spectres round the village creep,Like apparitions of unquiet sleep.
Then, silence-murder'd, what a yell arose!And the scared sleepers, rushing forth in fear,Met death without the portals from dim foes,Or e'er the warrior could grasp his spear,Or fit the arrow to his unstrung bow,Or ward the fatal stroke that laid him low.
So, with the plunder, and a captured bandOf hapless women, ere the morning lightFlitted the victors swiftly through the land,Red with the trophies of their deadly fight,Leaving the lion and his hungry crewTo clear the morning of this bloody dew.
To meet them joyous forth their women came,And led them back in triumph to the fold;Taunting their foes with many a bitter shame,Though now they lay in Death's aims stark and cold:Whilst the poor captives, rack'd with fear and woe,Cower'd close together from Fate's hapless blow.
Soon there came traders from the coast, and thenThe weeping captives all were marshall'd out,And barter'd singly with the heartless men,Each bosom trembling still with fear and doubt;But when the truth burst on them, a hoarse cryOf wild despair ascended to the sky.
There was one there who from the Tree of LifePluck'd yet the blossoms with the fruit of years;Scarce yet a woman, though a meek-soul'd wife,And with a babe to claim her prayers and tears,A tender bud of early summer timeEre breezy woods are in their verdant prime.
Her 'mongst the rest they barter'd, and the child,Too young to sever from its mother's breast,Left they unnoticed, whilst she, poor one, wild'Twixt hope and fear, still held it closely prestUnto her heart, whose throbbings, loud and deep,Beat an alarum through the infant's sleep.
But soon her master, as he hasten'd offWith his new purchases, the infant caught,And bid the mother, with a heartless scoff,Fling it away: said he, "'Tis good for nought;None of this lumber can we have, the roadIs long enough to tread without a load."
The mother clasp'd her babe with bitter cry,But a rude hand enforced it from her arms,And the rough steward held it up on high,Laughing aloud the while at her alarms;Said he unto his master; "This shall beA bait to draw her on with willingly."
He bound around the infant's waist a line,That fasten'd to his crupper, and then gaveThe babe back to her, laughing,—"That end's thine—The other stays with me;" "A witty slave!"The master chuckled, and they moved away,She following with anguish and dismay.
They journey'd o'er the desert, 'neath a skyScorch'd by the fiery footsteps of the sun,Without a shade to bless the wistful eye;And soon her fellow slaves droop'd, one by one,Callous to blows that harshly drove them on,Strength, hope, and love of life all seeming gone.
But she went onward with no word or plaint,Clasping the child unto her bosom still,Unflagging when all else began to faint,Intent to save her little one from ill;And they look'd on her as she sped along,Wond'ring what made so frail a creature strong.
At eve she bent above her sleeping treasure,With eyes that wept for pity and for love,Filling its cup of life in richer measure,With the blest care that watches us above;And in the morn they bound the babe again,And so drew on the mother in their train.
Her tender feet soon wounded were, and soreWith the rough travel, and the weary way,And her slight limbs, o'ertask'd and loaded, boreLess lightly up their burden day by day;But, nature failing, Love imparted powerTo bear her steps up to the resting hour.
Alas! the mother gazed with aching eyesUpon the life-spring in her little child,As one laid by a fountain while it dries;Daily she watch'd it ebb, till she grew wildWith anguish at the Angel drawing near,And bared her own breast for his fatal spear.
She lost all sense of weariness and pain,And with hot tearless eyes still hurried on,Bearing the child girt by its cruel chain,All thought save of her cherish'd burden gone,Fearful alone lest other eyes should guessThe feeble thing her longing arms did press.
At last they saw the babe was weaker growing,That soon the little spark of life must fade,So, spite of all her prayers, and wild tears flowing,Beside a spring the sleeping child they laid,And bid her onward, heedless of her woeBut on the earth she fell, and would not go.
They raised her up, and bound her on a steed,And so march'd onward on their weary way—For there was none to help her in her need,And thus they travell'd eastward all the day,But when they rested, and on each bow'd headSleep heavy lay, the mother rose and fled.
And speeding swiftly with a lapwing's flight,Backward she hurried to the little spring,Led by a power that knoweth not the night,But flies through darkness with unerring wing;And so e'er morning shimmer'd in the East,She clasp'd her dead babe to her panting breast.
At morn they miss'd her, and the women said,"She seeks her babe beside the distant well,There wilt thou find her, if she be not dead,For O! the love of mother who can tell."And so the steward gallop'd back in haste,To seek the lost one in the desert waste.
At last the spring rose in the distant sand,With its close verdure pleasant to the eye,And there, as, nearing it, the place he scann'd,He saw the mother with her infant lie,Quiet and stilly on each other's breast,Folded together in unbroken rest;
Her arms around it thrown, that e'en in sleepStill press'd the infant to her stricken heart,No rest so perfect, no repose so deep,From her sweet babe the mother's love to part.Before him loud and bitter curses sped—Who heard him?—for the mother too lay dead.