There are ghosts in the room.As I sit here alone, from the dark corners thereThey come out of the gloom,And they stand at my side and they lean on my chair.
There’s the ghost of a HopeThat lighted my days with a fanciful glow.In her hand is the ropeThat strangled her life out. Hope was slain long ago.
But her ghost comes to-night,With its skeleton face and expressionless eyes,And it stands in the light,And mocks me, and jeers me with sobs and with sighs.
There’s the ghost of a Joy,A frail, fragile thing, and I prized it too much,And the hands that destroyClasped it close, and it died at the withering touch.
There’s the ghost of a Love,Born with joy, reared with hope, died in pain and unrest,But he towers aboveAll the others—this ghost: yet a ghost at the best.
I am weary, and fainWould forget all these dead: but the gibbering hostMake my struggle in vain,In each shadowy corner there lurketh a ghost.
My thoughts soar not as they ought to soar,Higher and higher on soul-lent wings;But ever and often, and more and moreThey are dragged down earthward by little things,By little troubles and little needs,As a lark might be tangled among the weeds.
My purpose is not what it ought to be,Steady and fixed, like a star on high,But more like a fisherman’s light at sea;Hither and thither it seems to fly—Sometimes feeble, and sometimes bright,Then suddenly lost in the gloom of night.
My life is far from my dream of life—Calmly contented, serenely glad;But, vexed and worried by daily strife,It is always troubled, and ofttimes sad—And the heights I had thought I should reach one dayGrow dimmer and dimmer, and farther away.
My heart finds never the longed-for rest;Its worldly striving, its greed for gold,Chilled and frightened the calm-eyed guest,Who sometimes sought me in days of old;And ever fleeing away from meIs the higher self that I long to be.
“He is mad as a hare, poor fellow,And should be in chains,” you say.I haven’t a doubt of your statement,But who isn’t mad, I pray?Why, the world is a great asylum,And people are all insane,Gone daft with pleasure or folly,Or crazed with passion and pain.
The infant who shrieks at a shadow,The child with his Santa Claus faith,The woman who worships Dame Fashion,Each man with his notions of death,The miser who hoards up his earnings,The spendthrift who wastes them too soon,The scholar grown blind in his delving,The lover who stares at the moon.
The poet who thinks life a pæan,The cynic who thinks it a fraud,The youth who goes seeking for pleasure,The preacher who dares talk of God,All priests with their creeds and their croaking,All doubters who dare to deny,The gay who find aught to wake laughter,The sad who find aught worth a sigh,Whoever is downcast or solemn,Whoever is gleeful and glad,Are only the dupes of delusions—We are all of us—all of us mad.
We know not what lies in us, till we seek;Men dive for pearls—they are not found on shore,The hillsides most unpromising and bleakDo sometimes hide the ore.
Go, dive in the vast ocean of thy mind,O man! far down below the noisy waves,Down in the depths and silence thou mayst findRare pearls and coral caves.
Sink thou a shaft into the mine of thought;Be patient, like the seekers after gold;Under the rocks and rubbish lieth whatMay bring thee wealth untold.
Reflected from the vastly Infinite,However dulled by earth, each human mindHolds somewhere gems of beauty and of lightWhich, seeking, thou shalt find.
“By-and-bye,” the maiden sighed—“by-and-byeHe will claim me for his bride,Hope is strong and time is fleet;Youth is fair, and love is sweet,Clouds will pass that fleck my sky,He will come back by-and-bye—by-and-bye.”
“By-and-bye,” the soldier said—“by-and-bye,After I have fought and bled,I shall go home from the wars,Crowned with glory, seamed with scars.Joy will flash from some one’s eyeWhen she greets me by-and-bye—by-and-bye.”
“By-and-bye,” the mother cried—“by-and-bye,Strong and sturdy at my side,Like a staff supporting me,Will my bonnie baby be.Break my rest, then, wail and cry—Thou’lt repay me by-and-bye—by-and-bye.”
Fleeting years of time have sped—hurried by—Still the maiden is unwed:All unknown the soldier lies,Buried under alien skies;And the son, with blood-shot eye,Saw his mother starve and die.God in Heaven! dost Thou on high,Keep the promised “by-and-bye”—by-and-bye?
All through the night time, and all through the day time,Dreading the morning and dreading the night,Nearer and nearer we drift to the May timeSeason of beauty and season of blight,Leaves on the linden, and sun on the meadow,Green in the garden, and bloom everywhere,Gloom in my heart, and a terrible shadow,Walks by me, sits by me, stands by my chair.
Oh, but the birds by the brooklet are cheery,Oh, but the woods show such delicate greens,Strange how you droop and how soon you are weary—Too well I know what that weariness means.But how could I know in the crisp winter weather(Though sometimes I noticed a catch in your breath),Riding and singing and dancing together,How could I know you were racing with death?
How could I know when we danced until morning,And you were the gayest of all the gay crowd—With only that shortness of breath for a warning,How could I know that you danced for a shroud?Whirling and whirling through moonlight and starlight.Rocking as lightly as boats on the wave,Down in your eyes shone a deep light—a far light,How could I know ’twas the light to your grave?
Day by day, day by day, nearing and nearing,Hid under greenness, and beauty and bloom,Cometh the shape and the shadow I’m fearing,“Over the May hill” is waiting your tomb.The season of mirth and of music is over—I have danced my last dance, I have sung my last song,Under the violets, under the clover,My heart and my love will be lying ere long
Thank Fate for foes! I hold mine dearAs valued friends. He cannot knowThe zest of life who runneth hereHis earthly race without a foe.
I saw a prize. “Run,” cried my friend;“’Tis thine to claim without a doubt.”But ere I half-way reached the end,I felt my strength was giving out.
My foe looked on the while I ran;A scornful triumph lit his eyes.With that perverseness born in man,I nerved myself, and won the prize.
All blinded by the crimson glowOf sin’s disguise, I tempted Fate.“I knew thy weakness!” sneered my foe,I saved myself, and balked his hate.
For half my blessings, half my gain,I needs must thank my trusty foe;Despite his envy and disdain,He serves me well where’er I go.
So may I keep him to the end,Nor may his enmity abate:More faithful than the fondest friend,He guards me ever with his hate.
Dear friend, I pray thee, if thou wouldst be provingThy strong regard for me,Make me no vows. Lip-service is not loving;Let thy faith speak for thee.
Swear not to me that nothing can divide us—So little such oaths mean.But when distrust and envy creep beside usLet them not come between.
Say not to me the depths of thy devotionAre deeper than the sea;But watch, lest doubt or some unkind emotionEmbitter them for me.
Vow not to love me ever and for ever,Words are such idle things;But when we differ in opinions, neverHurt me by little stings.
I’m sick of words: they are so lightly spoken,And spoken, are but air.I’d rather feel thy trust in me unbrokenThan list thy words so fair.
If all the little proofs of trust are heeded,If thou art always kind,No sacrifice, no promise will be neededTo satisfy my mind.
Two sat down in the morning time,One to sing and one to spin.All men listened the song sublime—But no one listened the dull wheel’s din.
The singer sat in a pleasant nook,And sang of a life that was fair and sweet,While the spinner sat with a steadfast look,Busily plying her hands and feet.
The singer sang on with a rose in her hair,And all men listened her dulcet tone;And the spinner spun on with a dull despairDown in her heart as she sat alone.
But lo! on the morrow no one saidAught of the singer or what she sang.Men were saying: “Behold this thread,”And loud the praise of the spinner rang.
The world has forgotten the singer’s name—Her rose is faded, her songs are old;But far o’er the ocean the spinner’s fameYet is blazoned in lines of gold.
Come to me, Love! Come on the wings of the wind!Fly as the ring-dove would fly to his mate!Leave all your cares and your sorrows behind!Leave all the fears of your future to Fate!Come! and our skies shall be glad with the goldThat paled into gray when you parted from me.Come! but remember that, just as of old,You must be bound, Love, and I must be free.
Life has lost savour since you and I parted;I have been lonely, and you have been sad.Youth is too brief to be sorrowful-hearted—Come! and again let us laugh and be glad.Lips should not sigh that are fashioned to kiss—Breasts should not ache that joy’s secrets have found.Come! but remember, in spite of all this,I must be free, Love, while you must be bound.
You must be bound to be true while you live,And I keep my freedom for ever, as now.You must ask only for that which I give—Kisses and love-words, but never a vow.Come! I am lonely, and long for your smile,Bring back the lost lovely Summer to me!Come! but remember, remember the while,That you must be bound, Love, and I must be free.
[On the election of the Roman Emperor Maximus, by the Senate,A.D.238, a powerful army, headed by the Thracian giant Maximus, laid siege to Aquileia. Though poorly prepared for war, the constancy of her citizens rendered her impregnable. The women of Aquileia cut off their hair to make ropes for the military engines. The small body of troops was directed by Chrispinus, a Lieutenant of the Senate. Apollo was the deity supposed to protect them.—Gibbon’s Roman History.]
“The ropes, the ropes! Apollo send us ropes,”Chrispinus cried, “or death attends our hopes.”Then panic reigned, and many a mournful soundHurt the cleft air; for where could ropes be found?
Up rose a Roman mother; tall was sheAs her own son, a youth of noble height.A little child was clinging to her knee—She loosed his twining arms and put him down,And her dark eyes flashed with a sudden light.
How like a queen she stood! her royal crown,The rich dark masses of her splendid hair.Just flecked with spots of sunshine here and there,Twined round her brow; ’twas like a coronet,Where gems of gold lie bedded deep in jet.
She loosed the comb that held the shining strands,And threaded out the meshes with her hands.The purple mass fell to her garment’s hem.A queen new clothed without her diademShe stood before her subjects.
“Now,” she cried,“Give me thy sword, Julianus!” And her sonUnsheathed the blade (that had not left his sideSave when it sought a foeman’s blood to shed),Awed by her regal bearing, and obeyed.
With the white beauty of her firm fair handShe clasped the hilt; then severed, one by one,Her gold-flecked purple tresses. Strand on strand,Free e’en as foes had fallen by that blade,Robbed of its massive wealth of curl and coil,Yet like some antique model, rose her headIn all its classic beauty.
“See!” she said,And pointed to the shining mound of hair;“Apollo makes swift answer to thy prayer,Chrispinus. Quick! now, soldiers, to thy toil!”Forth from a thousand throats what seemed one voiceRose shrilly, filling all the air with cheer.“Lo!” quoth the foe, “our enemies rejoice!”Well might the Thracian giant quake with fear!For while skilled hands caught up the gleaming threadsAnd bound them into cords, a hundred headsYielded their beauteous tresses to the sword,And cast them down to swell the precious hoard.
Nor was the noble sacrifice in vainAnother day beheld the giant slain.
What would I ask the kindly fates to giveTo crown her life, if I could have my way?My strongest wishes would be negative,If they would but obey.
Give her not greatness. For great souls must standAlone and lonely in this little world:Cleft rocks that show the great Creator’s hand,Thither by earthquakes hurled.
Give her not genius. Spare her the cruel painOf finding her whole life a prey for daws;Of hearing with quickened sense and burning brainThe world’s sneer-tinged applause.
Give her not perfect beauty’s gifts. For thenHer truthful mirror would infuse her mindWith love for self, and for the praise of men,That lowers woman-kind.
But make her fair and comely to the sight,Give her more heart than brain, more love than pride.Let her be tender-thoughted, cheerful, bright,Some strong man’s star and guide.
Not vainly questioning why she was sentInto this restless world of toil and strife,Let her go bravely on her way, contentTo make the best of life.
Nay, Romney, nay—I will not hear you sayThose words again: “I love you, love you sweet!”You are profane—blasphemous. I repeat,You are no actor for so grand a play.
You love with all your heart? Well, that may be;Some cups are fashioned shallow. Should I tryTo quench my thirst from one of those, when dry—I who have had a full bowl proffered me—
A new bowl brimming with a draught divine,One single taste thrilled to the finger-tips?Think you I even care to bathe my lipsWith this poor sweetened water you call wine?
And though I spilled the nectar ere ’twas quaffed,And broke the bowl in wanton folly, yetI would die of my thirst ere I would wetMy burning lips with any meaner draught.
So leave me, Romney. One who has seen a playEnacted by a star cannot endureTo see it rendered by an amateur.You know not what Love is—now go away!
This is the place that I love the best,A little brown house like a ground-bird’s nest,Hid among grasses, and vines, and trees,Summer retreat of the birds and bees.
The tenderest light that ever was seenSifts through the vine-made window screen—Sifts and quivers, and flits and fallsOn home-made carpets and gray-hung walls.
All through June, the west wind freeThe breath of the clover brings to me.All through the languid July dayI catch the scent of the new-mown hay.
The morning glories and scarlet vineOver the doorway twist and twine;And every day, when the house is still,The humming-bird comes to the window-sill.
In the cunningest chamber under the sunI sink to sleep when the day is done;And am waked at morn, in my snow-white bed,By a singing-bird on the roof o’erhead.
Better than treasures brought from RomeAre the living pictures I see at home—My aged father, with frosted hair,And mother’s face like a painting rareFar from the city’s dust and heat,I get but sounds and odours sweet.Who can wonder I love to stay,Week after week, here hidden away,In this sly nook that I love the best—The little brown house, like a ground-bird’s nest?
Mother says, “Be in no hurry,Marriage oft means care and worry.”
Auntie says, with manner grave,“Wife is synonym for slave.”
Father asks, in tones commanding,“How does Bradstreet rate his standing?”
Sister crooning to her twins,Sighs, “With marriage care begins.”
Grandma, near life’s closing days,Murmurs, “Sweet are girlhood’s ways.”
Maud, twice widowed (“sod and grass”)Looks at me and moans “Alas!”
They are six, and I am one,Life for me has just begun.
They are older, calmer, wiser:Age should aye be youth’s adviser.
They must know—and yet, dear me,When in Harry’s eyes I see
All the world of love there burning—On my six advisers turning,
I make answer, “Oh, but HarryIs not like most men who marry.
“Fate has offered me a prize,Life with love means Paradise.
“Life without it is not worthAll the foolish joys of earth.”
So, in spite of all they say,I shall name the wedding day.
I am stirred by the dream of an afternoonOf a perfect day—though it was not June;The lilt of winds, and the droning tuneThat a busy city was humming.
And a bronze-brown head, and lips like wineLeaning out through the window-vineA-list for steps that were maybe mine—Eager steps that were coming.
I can see it all, as a dreamer may—The tender smile on your lips that day,And the glow on your cheek as we rode awayInto the golden weather.
And a love-light shone in your eyes of brown—I swear there did!—as we drove downThe crowded avenue out of the town,Through shadowy lanes, together:
Drove out into the sunset-skiesThat glowed with wonderful crimson dyes;And with soul and spirit, and heart and eyes,We silently drank their splendour.
But the golden glory that lit the placeWas not alone from the sunset’s grace—For I saw in your fair, uplifted faceA light that was wondrously tender.
I say I saw it. And yet to-dayI ask myself, in a cynical way,Was it only a part you had learned to play,To see me act the lover?
And I curse myself for a fool. And yetI would willingly die without one regretCould I bring back the day whose sun has set—And you—and live it over.
We stood by the river that sweptIn its glory and grandeur away;But never a pulse o’ me leapt,And you wondered at me that day.
We stood by the lake as it layWith its dimpled face turned to the light;Was it strange I had nothing to sayTo so fair and enchanting a sight?
I look on your tresses of gold—You are fair and a thing to be loved—Do you think I am heartless and coldThat I look and am wholly unmoved?
One answer, dear friend, I will makeTo the questions your eyes ask of me:“Talk not of the river or lakeTo those who have looked on the sea”
When thy hand touches mine, through all the meshOf intricate and interlacèd veinsShoot swift delights that border on keen pains:Flesh thrills to thrilling flesh.
When in thine eager eyes I look to findA comrade to my thought, thy ready brainDelves down and makes its inmost meaning plain:Mind answers unto mind.
When hands and eyes are hid by seas that rollWide wastes between us, still so near thou artI count the very pulses of thy heart:Soul speaketh unto soul.
So every law, or human or divine,In heart and brain and spirit makes thee mine.
That which we had we still possess,Though leaves may drop and stars may fall;No circumstance can make it less,Or take it from us, all in all.
That which is lost we did not own;We only held it for a day—A leaf by careless breezes blown;No fate could take our own away.
I hold it as a changeless lawFrom which no soul can sway or swerve,We have that in us which will drawWhate’er we need or most deserve.
Even as the magnet to the steelOur souls are to our best desires;The Fates have hearts and they can feel—They know what each true life requires.
We think we lose when we most gain;We call joys ended ere begun;When stars fade out do skies complain,Or glory in the rising sun?
No fate could rob us of our own—No circumstance can make it less;What time removes was but a loan,For what was ours we still possess.
Printed by Hazell,Watson & Viney,Ld.,London and Aylesbury.