Ever along the way he goes,With eyes cast down as in despair,And shoulders stooped with weight of woesAnd lips from which unceasing flowsAn agonizèd prayer.
His form is bent; his step is slow;His hands with fasting long are thin;And wheresoe'er his footsteps go,Men hear his muttered prayer and knowHe weeps for deadly sin.
This monk was once the knightliestOf knights who ever sat in hall:With wondrous might and beauty blest;And whoso met him lance-in-restHad need on Christ to call.
Men say this monk with hair so hoar,And eye where grief hath quenched the flame,Once loved a maiden fair and pure,And for she would not wed him sworeHe 'd bring her down to Shame.
They say he wooed her long and well;And splendid spoils both eve and mornOf song and tourney won, they tell,He gave her till at last she fell,Then drave her forth with scorn.
The world was cold; her father's doorWas barred—they thus the tale repeat—Her name was heard in jousts no more;And so, one day the river boreAnd laid her at his feet.
Her brow was calm, the sunny hairLay tangled in the snowy breast,And from the face all trace of careAnd sin was cleansed away, and thereShone only utter rest.
The old men say that when the waveThat burden brought, then backward fled,He stooped, no sign nor groan he gave,As mourners by an open grave;But fell as one struck dead.
He seemed, when from that swound he woke,A man already touched by Death,As when the stalwart forest oak,Blasted beneath the lightning's strokeLives on, yet languisheth.
And ever since he tells his beads,And sackcloth lieth next his skin,And nightly his frail body bleedsWith knotted cord that intercedesWith Christ for deadly sin.
For his own soul he hath no care,By penance purged as if by flame:Men know that agonized prayerHe prays is for the maiden fairWhom he brought down to Shame.
And still along the way he goes,With eyes cast down as in despair,And shoulders stooped with weight of woes,And lips from which forever flowsAn agonizèd prayer.
An ancient tome came to my hands:A tale of love in other lands:Writ by a Master so divine,The Love seems ever mine and thine.The volume opened at the placeThat sings of sweet Francesca's grace:How reading of Fair GuinevereAnd Launcelot that long gone year,Her eyes into her lover's fellAnd—there was nothing more to tell.That day they op'ed that book no more:Thenceforth they read a deeper lore.
Beneath the passage so divine,Some woman's hand had traced a line,And reverently upon the spotHad laid a blue forget-me-not:A message sent across the years,Of Lovers' sighs and Lovers' tears:A messenger left there to tellThey too had loved each other well.The centuries had glided bySince Love had heaved that tender sigh;The tiny spray that spoke her trust,Had like herself long turned to dust.
I felt a sudden sorrow stirMy heart across the years for her,Who, reading how Francesca loved,Had found her heart so deeply moved:Who, hearing poor Francesca's moan,Had felt her sorrow as her own.I hope where e 'er her grave may be,Forget-me-nots bloom constantly:That somewhere in yon distant skiesHe who is Love hath heard her sighs:And her hath granted of His Grace,Ever to see her Lover's face.
They bade me come to the House of Prayer,They said I should find my Saviour there:I was wicked enough, God wot, at best,And weary enough to covet rest.
I paused at th' door with a timid knock:The People within were a silken flock—By their scowls of pride it was plain to seeSalvation was not for the likes of me.
The Bishop was there in his lace and lawn,And the cassocked priest,—I saw him yawn,—The rich and great and virtuous too,Stood smug and contented each in his pew.
The music was grand,—the service fine,The sermon was eloquent,—nigh divine.The subject was, Pride and the Pharisee,And the Publican, who was just like me.
I smote my breast in an empty pew,But an usher came and looked me throughAnd bade me stand beside the doorIn the space reserved for the mean and poor.
I left the church in my rags and shame:In the dark without, One called my name."They have turned me out as well," quoth He,"Take thou my hand and come fare with me.
"We may find the light by a narrow gate,The way is steep and rough and strait;But none will look if your clothes be poor,When you come at last to my Father's door."
I struggled on where 'er He led:The blood ran down from His hand so red!The blood ran down from His forehead torn."'Tis naught," quoth He, "but the prick of a thorn!"
"You bleed," I cried, for my heart 'gan quail."'Tis naught, 'tis naught but the print of a nail.""You limp in pain and your feet are sore.""Yea, yea," quoth He, "for the nails they were four."
"You are weary and faint and bent," I cried."'Twas a load I bore up a mountain side.""The way is steep, and I faint." But He:"It was steeper far upon Calvary."
By this we had come to a narrow door,I had spied afar. It was locked before;But now in the presence of my Guide,The fast-closed postern opened wide.
And forth there streamed a radianceMore bright than is the noon-sun's glance;And harps and voices greeted Him—The music of the Seraphim.
I knew His face where the light did fall:I had spat in it, in Herod's Hall,I knew those nail-prints now, ah, me!—I had helped to nail Him to a tree.
I fainting fell before His face,Imploring pardon of His grace.He stooped and silencing my moan,He bore me near to His Father's throne.
He wrapt me close and hid my shame,And touched my heart with a cleansing flame."Rest here," said He, "while I go and tryTo widen a little a Needle's Eye."
Lord, is it Thou who knockest at my door?I made it fast and 't will not open more;Barred it so tight I scarce can hear Thy knock,And am too feeble now to turn the lock,Clogged with my folly and my grievous sin:Put forth Thy might, O Lord, and burst it in.
At the Judgment-bar stood spirits three:A thief, a fool and a man of degree,To whom spake the Judge in his Majesty.
To the shivering thief: "Thy sins are forgiven,For that to repent thou hast sometime striven;There be other penitent thieves in Heaven."
To the fool: "Poor fool, thou art free from sin;To My light thou, too, mayest enter in,Where Life and Thought shall for thee begin."
To the mirror of others, smug and neat,With the thoughts and sayings of others replete,This Judgment rolled from the Judgment-seat:
"Remain thou thyself, a worm to crawl.Thou, doubly damned, canst not lower fallThan ne'er to have thought for thyself at all."
He flaunted recklessly along,With hollow laugh and mocking song;
In tawdry garb and painted mirth,The sorrowfulest thing on earth.
Time runs apace: the fleeting yearsLeft but her misery and her tears.
The very brothel-door was barredAgainst a wretch so crook'd and marred.
She knocked at every gate in vain,The cast-out harlot black with stain—
At all save one,—when this she tried,—'T was His, the High Priest crucified.
He heard her tears, flung wide His doorAnd said, "Come in, and sin no more."
To the Steward of his vineyard spake the Lord,When he handed him over His Keys and Sword:"See that you harken unto my word:
"There be three chief things that I love," quoth He,"That bear a sweet savor up to me:They be Justice, Mercy and Purity."
Justice was sold at a thief's behest;Purity went for a harlot's jest,And Mercy was slain with a sword in her breast.
A sparrow sang on a weed,Sprung from an upturned sod,And no one gave him heedOr heard the song, save God.
A bishop preached Sunday on Dives forsaken:How he was cast out and Lazarus taken;The very next day he rejoiced he was ableTo dine that evening at Dives' table.While wretched Lazarus, sick and poor,Was called an impostor and turned from the door.
Why may I not step from this empty room,Where heavy round me hangs the curtained gloom,And passing through a little darkness there,Even as one climbs to bed an unlit stair,Find that I know is but one step above,And that I hunger for: my Life: my Love?
'T is but a curtain doth our souls divide,A veil my eager hand might tear aside—One step to take, one thrill, one throb, one bound,And I have gained my Heaven, the Lost have found—Have solved the riddle rare, the secret dread:The vast, unfathomable secret of the Dead.
It seems but now that as I yearning stand,I might put forth my hand and touch her hand;That I might lift my longing eyes and traceBut for the darkness there the gracious face;That could I hush the grosser sounds, my earThe charmèd music of her voice might hear.
She may not come to me, Alas! I know,Else had she surely come, long, long ago.The Conqueror Death, who save One conquers all,Had never power to hold that soul in thrall;No narrowest prison-house; no piled up stoneHad held her heart a captive from my own.
No, 't is not these: Hell's might nor Heaven's charms,Had never power to hold her from my arms;—'T is that by some inscrutable, fixed Law,Vaster than mortal vision ever saw,Whose sweep is worlds; whose track Eternity,Somewhere her soul angelic waits for me:—
Waits patiently His Wisdom, whose decreeIs Wisdom's self veiled in Infinity:Who gives us Life divine with mortal breath,Yet in its pathway, lo! hath planted Death;Who grants us Love our dull souls to upliftNearer to Him; yet tears away His Gift;
Crowns us with Reason in His image made,Yet blinds our eyes with never lifting shade.Who may the mystery solve? 'T is His decree!Can Mortal understand Infinity?Prostrate thyself before His feet, dull clod,Who saith, "Be still, and know that I am God."
Ah! did we surely know the joys that waitBeyond the portal of the silent gate,Who would a moment longer here abide,The spectre, Sorrow, stalking at his side?Who would not daring take the leap and beUnbound, unfettered clean, a slave set free!
We bury our dead,We lay them to sleepWith the earth for their bed,With stones at their head:We leave them and weepWhen we bury our dead.
We bury our dead,We lay them to sleep,—On our Mother's calm breastWe leave them to rest—To rest while we weep.
We bury our dead,We lay them to sleep—They reck not our tears,Though the sad years creep—Through our tears, through the yearsThey tranquilly sleep.
We bury our dead,We lay them to sleep;We bury the bloomOf our life,—all our bloomIn the coffin we fold:We enfold in the tomb:We reënter the roomWe left young,—we are old.
We bury our dead,We lay them to sleep;The cold Time-tides flowWith winter and spring,With birds on the wing,With roses and snow,With friends who beguileOur sorrow with pity—With pity awhile.Then weary and smile,Then chide us, say, "Lo!How the sun shines,—'t is May."But we know 't is not so—That the sun died that dayWhen we laid them away,With the earth for a bed—When we buried our dead.
We bury our dead,We lay them to sleep;We turn back to the world;We are caught,—we are whirledIn the rush of the current—The rush and the sweepOf the tide, without rest.But they sleep—they the blest—The Blessed dead sleep:They tranquilly restOn our Mother's calm breast.
I knew her in her prime,Before the seal of TimeWas graven on her brow,As Age hath graved it now:When radiant Youth was just subduedTo yield to gracious womanhood.And as an inland lakeLies tranquil mid the hills,Unruffled by the storms that breakBeyond, and mirrors Heaven;So, to her spirit, freed from ills,A blessed calm was given.Encircled by War's strifePeace ruled her life.Christ's teachings were her constant guide,And naught beside,Christ's Death and Passion were her plea—None needed she;For that amid earth's fiercest strifeHer life was patterned on His life.Now when her eyes grow dimShe lives so close to Him,The radiance of His smileEnvelops her the while.As when the Prophet's figure shoneWith light reflected from the Throne,So, ever in her faceShines Heaven's divinest grace.Her soul is fresh and mildAs is a little child.And as the fleshly tenementWith age grows worn and bent,Her Spirit's unabated youthIs aye to meThe mind-compelling truthOf Immortality.Her voice is, as it were,A silver dulcimer,Tuned like the seraph's laysEternally to praise.The blessings of Christ's chosen friendsAre doubly hers, whose mind,To charity inclined,No selfish endsHave ever for an instant moved:Who served like MarthaAnd like Mary loved.
The tender Earth that smiles when kissed by Spring;The flowers; the budding woods; the birds that singThe Summer's song her spirit to me bring.
The meadows cool that breathe their fragrant myrrh;Deep, placid pools that little breezes blur;Soft-tinkling springs speak to my heart of her.
Heaven's purple towers upon the horizon's rim;The dove that mourns upon his lonely limb,Fill my soul's cup with memories to its brim.
In evening's calm when in the quiet skies,The lustrous, silent, tender stars uprise,I feel the holy influence of her eyes.
That deeper hour when Night with Dawn is blent,And Silence stirs, its languors well-nigh spent,I hear her gently sigh with sweet content.
I hear young children laughing in the street:Catch rays of sunshine from them as we meet,And smile content to know what makes them sweet.
Yea, everywhere, in every righteous strife,I find her spirit's fragrant influence rife,Like Mary's precious spikenard sweetening Life.
He challenged all that came within his ken,And Error held with steadfast mind aloof.E'en Truth itself he put upon the proof:Holding that Light was God's first gift to men.
Straying one day amid the leafy bowers,A Presence passed, masked in a sunny ray,Tossing behind him carelessly the hours,As one shakes blossoms from a ravished spray,—Strewing them far and wide.Nor glanced to either side.
A-sudden as he strolled he chanced uponA flower which full within his pathway blew,White as a lily, modest as a nun,Sweeter than Lilith's rose in Eden grew—Her beauty he espied,Approached and softly sighed.
His breath the blossom stirred and all the airGrew fragrant with a subtle, rich perfume;The spicèd alleys glowed, the while a rareAnd crystal radiance did illumeAll the adjacent spaceAs 't were an angel's face.
Kneeling, he gently laid his glowing lips,Like softest music on her lips, when cameA thrill that trembled to her petal-tips,And on the instant, with a sudden flame,Leaped forth the shining sun,And Earth and Heaven were one.
"Who art thou?" queried she, "Tell me thy name,To whom Godlike this Godlike power is given,That thus for me, without or fear or shame,But by thy lips' soft touch Greatest Heaven?"Whilst to his heart she clove,He whispered, "I am Love."
Astray within a garden brightI found a tiny wingèd sprite:
He scarce was bigger than a sparrowAnd bore a little bow and arrow.
I lifted him up in my arm,Without a thought of guile or harm;
But merely as it were in play,With threats to carry him away.
The sport he took in such ill part,He stuck an arrow in my heart.
And ever since, I have such pain,—I cannot draw it out again.
And yet, the strangest part is this:I love the pain as though 't were bliss.
It seems to me as I think of her,That my youth has come again:I hear the breath of summer stirThe leaves in the old refrain:"Oh! my Lady-love! Oh! my Lady-love!Oh! where can my Lady be?I will seek my Love, with the wings of a dove,And pray her to love but me."
The flower-kissed meadows all once moreAre green with grass and plume;The apple-trees again are hoarWith fragrant snow of bloom.Oh! my Lady-love! Oh! my Lady-love!Oh! where can my Lady be? etc.
The meadow-brook slips tinkling byWith silvery, rippling flow,And blue-birds sing on fences nigh,To dandelions below.Oh! my Lady-love, Oh, my Lady-love!Oh! where can my Lady be? etc.
I hear again the drowsy croonOf honey-laden bees,And catch the poppy-mellowed runeThey hum to locust trees.Oh! my Lady-love! Oh! my Lady-love!Oh! where can my Lady-love be? etc.
Far off the home-returning cowsLow that the Eve is late,And call their calves neath apple-boughsTo meet them at the gate.Oh! my Lady-love! Oh! my Lady-love!Oh! where can my Lady be? etc.
Once more the Knights and ladies passIn visions Fancy-wove:I lie full length in summer grass,To choose my own True-Love.Oh! my Lady-love! Oh! my Lady-love!Oh! where can my Lady be? etc.
I know not how,—I know not where,—I dream a fairy-spell:I know she is surpassing fair,—I know I love her well.Oh! my Lady-love! Oh! my Lady-love!Oh! where can my Lady be? etc.
I know she is as pure as snow:—As true as God's own Truth:—I know,—I know I love her so,She must love me, in sooth!Oh! my Lady-love! Oh! my Lady-love!Oh! where can my Lady be? etc.
I know the stars dim to her eyes;The flowers blow in her face:I know the angels in the skiesHave given her of their grace.Oh! my Lady-love! Oh! my Lady-love!Oh! where can my Lady be? etc.
And none but I her heart can move,Though seraphs may have striven;And when I find my own True-love,I know I shall find Heaven.Oh! my Lady-love! Oh! my Lady-love!Oh! where can my Lady be!I will seek my Love with the wings of a doveAnd pray her to love but me.
It is not, Claudia, that thine eyesAre sweeter far to me,Than is the light of Summer skiesTo captives just set free.
It is not that the setting sunIs tangled in thy hair,And recks not of the course to run,In such a silken snare.
Nor for the music of thy words,Fair Claudia, love I thee,Though sweeter than the songs of birdsThat melody to me.
It is not that rich roses rareWithin thy garden grow,Nor that the fairest lilies areLess snowy than thy brow.
Nay, Claudia, 't is that every graceIn thy dear self I find;That Heaven itself is in thy face,And also in thy mind.
Ah! long ago it seems to me,Those sweet old days of summer,When I was young and fair was she,And sorrow only rumor.
And all the world was less than naughtTo me who had her favor;For Time and Care had not then taughtHow Life of Death hath savor.
And all the day the roving beesClung to the swinging clover,And robins in the apple-treesAnswered the faint-voiced plover.
And all the sounds were low and sweet;The zephyrs left off roamingIn curving gambols o'er the wheat,To kiss her in the gloaming.
The apple-blossoms kissed her hair,The daisies prayed her wreathe them;Ah, me! the blossoms still are there,But she lies deep beneath them.
I now have turned my thoughts to God,Earth from my heart I sever;With fast and prayer I onward plod—With prayer and fast forever.
Yet, when the white-robed priest speaks lowAnd bids me think of Heaven,I always hear the breezes blowThe apple-trees at even.
My True-love hath no wealth they say;But when they do, I tell them nay,—For she hath wealth of golden hair,Shot through with shafts from Delos' bow,That shines about her shoulders rare,Like sunlight on new driven snow.
My True-love hath no wealth they say;But when they do, I tell them nay,—For she hath eyes so soft and bright,So deep the light that in them lies,That stars in heaven would lose their lightAshine beside my True-love's eyes.
My True-love hath no wealth they say;But when they do, I tell them nay,—For oh! she hath such dainty hands,So snowy white, so fine and small,That had I wealth of Ophir's lands,For one of them I 'd give it all.
My True-love hath no wealth they say;But when they do, I tell them nay,—For oh! she hath a face so fair,Such winsome light about it plays,For worldly wealth I nothing care,So I can look upon her face.
My True-love hath no wealth they say;But when they do, I tell them nay,—For endless wealth of mind hath she,Her heart so stored with precious lore—Her riches they as countless beAs shells upon the ocean's shore.
My True-love hath no wealth they say;But when they do, I tell them nay,—The wild-brier bough hath less of graceAnd on wild violets when she treadsThey turn to look into her faceAnd scarcely bow their azure heads.
My True-love hath no wealth they say;But when they do, I tell them nay,—For oh! she hath herself, in fee,And this is more than worlds to me.
My patron saint, St. Valentine,Why dost thou leave me to repine,Still supplicating at her shrine?
But bid her eyes to me incline,I 'll ask no other sun to shine,More rich than is Golconda's mine.
Range all that Woman, Song, or WineCan give; Wealth, Power, and Fame combine;For her I 'd gladly all resign.
Take all the pearls are in the brine,Sift heaven for stars, earth's flowers entwine,But be her heart my Valentine.
A mouth red-ripened like a warm, sweet rose,Wherein are gleaming pearls all pure and brightAs dewdrops nestled where the zephyr blowsWith pinion soft across the humid night;A cheek not ruddy, but soft-tinged and fair,Where whiles the rich patrician blood is seen,As though it knew itself a thing too rareFor common gaze, yet did its high demean;A brow serene and pure as her white soul,By which the sifted snow would blackened seemThat sleeps untrodden where the Northern poleRests calm, unscanned save by the Moon's chaste beam;Eyes gray as Summer twilight skies are gray,And deep with light as deep, still waters are,—Tender as evening's smile when kissing day,Yet bright and true as is her lustrous star.These all unite and with accordant graceMake heaven mirrored ever in her face.
You are very fair, Félice, wondrous fair,And the light deep in your eyesIs more soft than summer skies,And rare roses in your cheekPlay with lilies hide-and-seek,—Play as Pleasure plays with Care.
And your throat is white, Félice, wondrous white,White as sifted snow, I wis,Ere the sun hath stol'n a kiss,High up starry mountain-heights,Or as in rich moonful nightsParian baths in Cynthia's light.
And, Félice, your rippling waves of soft hair,In their mystic depths aye holdShade and shimmer of red gold,Like a halo round your face,Lending you another graceFrom the sunbeams shining there.
And your voice is sweet, Félice, wondrous sweet,As the murmur of the sea,After long captivity,To a sailor far inland,—Or as summer flowers fannedBy soft zephyrs blown o'er wheat.
But so stony, fair Félice, is your heart,That I wonder oft, I own,If you 're not mere carven stone—While my soul your charms enthrall—Just some chiseled Goddess tall:Merely Beauty, Stone, and Art.
Love 's, for Youth, and not for Age,E'en though Age should wear a crown;For the Poet, not the Sage;Not the Monarch, but the Clown.
Love 's for Peace, and not for War,E'en though War bring all renown;For the Violet, not the Star;For the Meadow, not the Town.
Love 's for lads and Love 's for maids,Courts a smile and flees a frown;Love 's for Love, and saucy jadesLove Love most when Love has flown.
Love a cruel tyrant is:Slays his victims with a glance,Straight recovers with a kiss,But to slay again, perchance.
Wouldst thou know where Love doth bide?Whence his sharpest arrows fly?In a dimple Love may hide,Or the ambush of an eye.
Wert thou clad in triple mail,In some desert far apart,Not a whit would this avail:Love would find and pierce thy heart.
Oh, the Harbour-light and the Harbour-light!And how shall we come to the Harbour-light?'Tis black to-night and the foam is white,And would we might win to the Harbour-light!
Oh, the Harbour-bar and the Harbour-bar!And how shall we pass o'er the Harbour-bar?The sea is tost and the ship is lost,And deep is the sleep 'neath the Harbour-bar.
Faded spray of mignonette,Can you ever more forgetHow you lay that summer night,In the new moon's silvery light,Dreaming sweet in tranquil restOn my true-love's snowy breast?
Since her rosy finger-tipsBore you to her fragrant lips,Blessed you with a shadowy kiss,Nestled you again in bliss,(Envied of the Gods above)All is faded save my love.
I stood beside the laughing, shining river,And shook the roses down upon its breast,—I watched them whirl away with gleam and quiver,As 't were a merry jest.
I stood beside the silent, sombre river,As creepingly the tide came from the sea,I watched for my fair roses, but ah! neverDid they come back to me.