Chapter 26

Your ghost will walk, you lover of trees,(If our loves remain)In an English lane,By a cornfield-side a-flutter with poppies.Hark, those two in the hazel coppice—A boy and a girl, if the good fates please,Making love, say,—The happier they!Draw yourself up from the light of the moon,And let them pass, as they will too soon,With the beanflowers' boon,And the blackbird's tune,And May, and June!What I love best in all the worldIs a castle, precipice-encurled,In a gash of the wind-grieved Apennine,Or look for me, old fellow of mine,(If I get my head from out the mouthO' the grave, and loose my spirit's bands,And come again to the land of lands)—In a sea-side house to the farther South,Where the baked cicala dies of drouth,And one sharp tree—'t is a cypress—stands.By the many hundred years red-rusted,Rough iron-spiked, ripe fruit-o'ercrusted,My sentinel to guard the sandsTo the water's edge. For, what expandsBefore the house, but the great opaqueBlue breadth of sea without a break?While, in the house, forever crumblesSome fragment of the frescoed walls,From blisters where a scorpion sprawls.A girl bare-footed brings, and tumblesDown on the pavement, green-flesh melons,And says there's news to-day—the kingWas shot at, touched in the liver-wing,Goes with his Bourbon arm in a sling:—She hopes they have not caught the felons.Italy, my Italy!Queen Mary's saying serves for me—(When fortune's maliceLost her, Calais)Open my heart and you will seeGraved inside of it, "Italy."Such lovers old are I and she:So it always was, so shall ever be!

Your ghost will walk, you lover of trees,

(If our loves remain)

In an English lane,

By a cornfield-side a-flutter with poppies.

Hark, those two in the hazel coppice—

A boy and a girl, if the good fates please,

Making love, say,—

The happier they!

Draw yourself up from the light of the moon,

And let them pass, as they will too soon,

With the beanflowers' boon,

And the blackbird's tune,

And May, and June!

What I love best in all the worldIs a castle, precipice-encurled,In a gash of the wind-grieved Apennine,Or look for me, old fellow of mine,(If I get my head from out the mouthO' the grave, and loose my spirit's bands,And come again to the land of lands)—In a sea-side house to the farther South,Where the baked cicala dies of drouth,And one sharp tree—'t is a cypress—stands.By the many hundred years red-rusted,Rough iron-spiked, ripe fruit-o'ercrusted,My sentinel to guard the sandsTo the water's edge. For, what expandsBefore the house, but the great opaqueBlue breadth of sea without a break?While, in the house, forever crumblesSome fragment of the frescoed walls,From blisters where a scorpion sprawls.A girl bare-footed brings, and tumblesDown on the pavement, green-flesh melons,And says there's news to-day—the kingWas shot at, touched in the liver-wing,Goes with his Bourbon arm in a sling:—She hopes they have not caught the felons.Italy, my Italy!Queen Mary's saying serves for me—(When fortune's maliceLost her, Calais)Open my heart and you will seeGraved inside of it, "Italy."Such lovers old are I and she:So it always was, so shall ever be!

What I love best in all the world

Is a castle, precipice-encurled,

In a gash of the wind-grieved Apennine,

Or look for me, old fellow of mine,

(If I get my head from out the mouth

O' the grave, and loose my spirit's bands,

And come again to the land of lands)—

In a sea-side house to the farther South,

Where the baked cicala dies of drouth,

And one sharp tree—'t is a cypress—stands.

By the many hundred years red-rusted,

Rough iron-spiked, ripe fruit-o'ercrusted,

My sentinel to guard the sands

To the water's edge. For, what expands

Before the house, but the great opaque

Blue breadth of sea without a break?

While, in the house, forever crumbles

Some fragment of the frescoed walls,

From blisters where a scorpion sprawls.

A girl bare-footed brings, and tumbles

Down on the pavement, green-flesh melons,

And says there's news to-day—the king

Was shot at, touched in the liver-wing,

Goes with his Bourbon arm in a sling:

—She hopes they have not caught the felons.

Italy, my Italy!

Queen Mary's saying serves for me—

(When fortune's malice

Lost her, Calais)

Open my heart and you will see

Graved inside of it, "Italy."

Such lovers old are I and she:

So it always was, so shall ever be!

HOME-THOUGHTS, FROM ABROAD

This and the following poem were first published along withBeer, which bore the nameHere's to Nelson's Memory, under the general headingHome-Thoughts, from Abroad. The final member of the group,Home-Thoughts, from the Sea, was written under the same circumstances as the poem,How They brought the Good News from Ghent to Aix.

Oh, to be in EnglandNow that April's there,And whoever wakes in EnglandSees, some morning, unaware,That the lowest boughs and the brush-wood sheafRound the elm-tree bole are in tiny leaf,While the chaffinch sings on the orchard boughIn England—now!And after April, when May follows,And the whitethroat builds, and all the swallows!Hark, where my blossomed pear-tree in the hedgeLeans to the field and scatters on the cloverBlossoms and dewdrops—at the bent spray's edge—That's the wise thrush; he sings each song twice over,Lest you should think he never could recaptureThe first fine careless rapture!And though the fields look rough with hoary dew,All will be gay when noontide wakes anewThe buttercups, the little children's dower—Far brighter than this gaudy melon-flower!

Oh, to be in England

Now that April's there,

And whoever wakes in England

Sees, some morning, unaware,

That the lowest boughs and the brush-wood sheaf

Round the elm-tree bole are in tiny leaf,

While the chaffinch sings on the orchard bough

In England—now!

And after April, when May follows,And the whitethroat builds, and all the swallows!Hark, where my blossomed pear-tree in the hedgeLeans to the field and scatters on the cloverBlossoms and dewdrops—at the bent spray's edge—That's the wise thrush; he sings each song twice over,Lest you should think he never could recaptureThe first fine careless rapture!And though the fields look rough with hoary dew,All will be gay when noontide wakes anewThe buttercups, the little children's dower—Far brighter than this gaudy melon-flower!

And after April, when May follows,

And the whitethroat builds, and all the swallows!

Hark, where my blossomed pear-tree in the hedge

Leans to the field and scatters on the clover

Blossoms and dewdrops—at the bent spray's edge—

That's the wise thrush; he sings each song twice over,

Lest you should think he never could recapture

The first fine careless rapture!

And though the fields look rough with hoary dew,

All will be gay when noontide wakes anew

The buttercups, the little children's dower

—Far brighter than this gaudy melon-flower!

HOME-THOUGHTS, FROM THE SEA

Nobly, nobly Cape Saint Vincent to the Northwest died away;Sunset ran, one glorious blood-red, reeking into Cadiz Bay;Bluish 'mid the burning water, full in face Trafalgar lay;In the dimmest Northeast distance dawned Gibraltar grand and gray;"Here and here did England help me: how can I help England?"—say,Whoso turns as I, this evening, turn to God to praise and pray,While Jove's planet rises yonder, silent over Africa.

Nobly, nobly Cape Saint Vincent to the Northwest died away;

Sunset ran, one glorious blood-red, reeking into Cadiz Bay;

Bluish 'mid the burning water, full in face Trafalgar lay;

In the dimmest Northeast distance dawned Gibraltar grand and gray;

"Here and here did England help me: how can I help England?"—say,

Whoso turns as I, this evening, turn to God to praise and pray,

While Jove's planet rises yonder, silent over Africa.

SAUL

The first nine sections of this poem were printed under the same title in No. VII. ofBells and Pomegranates, in 1845. The poem as enlarged was published inMen and Womenin 1855.

ISaid Abner, "At last thou art come! Ere I tell, ere thou speak,Kiss my cheek, wish me well!" Then I wished it, and did kiss his cheek.And he: "Since the King, O my friend, for thy countenance sent,Neither drunken nor eaten have we; nor until from his tentThou return with the joyful assurance the King liveth yet,Shall our lip with the honey be bright, with the water be wet.For out of the black mid-tent's silence, a space of three days,Not a sound hath escaped to thy servants, of prayer nor of praise,To betoken that Saul and the Spirit have ended their strife,And that, faint in his triumph, the monarch sinks back upon life.II"Yet now my heart leaps, O beloved! God's child with his dewOn thy gracious gold hair, and those lilies still living and blueJust broken to twine round thy harp-strings, as if no wild heatWere now raging to torture the desert!"IIIThen I, as was meet,Knelt down to the God of my fathers, and rose on my feet,And ran o'er the sand burnt to powder. The tent was unlooped;I pulled up the spear that obstructed, and under I stooped;Hands and knees on the slippery grass-patch, all withered and gone,That extends to the second enclosure, I groped my way onTill I felt where the foldskirts fly open. Then once more I prayed,And opened the foldskirts and entered, and was not afraidBut spoke, "Here is David, thy servant!" And no voice replied.At the first I saw naught but the blackness: but soon I descriedA something more black than the blackness—the vast, the uprightMain prop which sustains the pavilion: and slow into sightGrew a figure against it, gigantic and blackest of all.Then a sunbeam, that burst through the tent-roof, showed Saul.IVHe stood as erect as that tent-prop, both arms stretched out wideOn the great cross-support in the centre, that goes to each side;He relaxed not a muscle, but hung there as, caught in his pangsAnd waiting his change, the king-serpent all heavily hangs,Far away from his kind, in the pine, till deliverance comeWith the spring-time,—so agonized Saul, drear and stark, blind and dumb.VThen I tuned my harp,—took off the lilies we twine round its chordsLest they snap 'neath the stress of the noontide—those sunbeams like swords!And I first played the tune all our sheep know, as, one after one,So docile they come to the pen-door till folding be done.They are white and untorn by the bushes, for lo, they have fedWhere the long grasses stifle the water within the stream's bed;And now one after one seeks its lodging, as star follows starInto eve and the blue far above us,—so blue and so far!VI—Then the tune for which quails on the corn-land will each leave his mateTo fly after the player; then, what makes the crickets elateTill for boldness they fight one another; and then, what has weightTo set the quick jerboa a-musing outside his sand house—There are none such as he for a wonder, half bird and half mouse!God made all the creatures and gave them our love and our fear,To give sign, we and they are his children, one family here.VIIThen I played the help-tune of our reapers, their wine-song, when handGrasps at hand, eye lights eye in good friendship, and great hearts expandAnd grow one in the sense of this world's life.—And then, the last songWhen the dead man is praised on his journey—"Bear, bear him along,With his few faults shut up like dead flowerets! Are balm seeds not hereTo console us? The land has none left such as he on the bier.Oh, would we might keep thee, my brother!"—And then, the glad chauntOf the marriage,—first go the young maidens, next, she whom we vauntAs the beauty, the pride of our dwelling.—And then, the great marchWherein man runs to man to assist him and buttress an archNaught can break; who shall harm them, our friends? Then, the chorus intonedAs the Levites go up to the altar in glory enthroned.But I stopped here: for here in the darkness Saul groaned.VIIIAnd I paused, held my breath in such silence, and listened apart;And the tent shook, for mighty Saul shuddered: and sparkles 'gan dartFrom the jewels that woke in his turban, at once with a start,All its lordly male-sapphires, and rubies courageous at heart.So the head: but the body still moved not, still hung there erect.And I bent once again to my playing, pursued it unchecked,As I sang:—IX"Oh, our manhood's prime vigor! No spirit feels waste,Not a muscle is stopped in its playing nor sinew unbraced.Oh, the wild joys of living! the leaping from rock up to rock,The strong rending of boughs from the fir-tree, the cool silver shockOf the plunge in a pool's living water, the hunt of the bear,And the sultriness showing the lion is couched in his lair.And the meal, the rich dates yellowed over with gold dust divine,And the locust-flesh steeped in the pitcher, the full draught of wine,And the sleep in the dried river-channel where bulrushes tellThat the water was wont to go warbling so softly and well.How good is man's life, the mere living! how fit to employAll the heart and the soul and the senses forever in joy!Hast thou loved the white locks of thy father, whose sword thou didst guardWhen he trusted thee forth with the armies, for glorious reward?Didst thou see the thin hands of thy mother, held up as men sungThe low song of the nearly-departed, and hear her faint tongueJoining in while it could to the witness, 'Let one more attest,I have lived, seen God's hand through a lifetime, and all was for best'?Then they sung through their tears in strong triumph, not much, but the rest.And thy brothers, the help and the contest, the working whence grewSuch result as, from seething grape-bundles, the spirit strained true:And the friends of thy boyhood—that boyhood of wonder and hope,Present promise and wealth of the future beyond the eye's scope,—Till lo, thou art grown to a monarch; a people is thine;And all gifts, which the world offers singly, on one head combine!On one head, all the beauty and strength, love and rage (like the throeThat, a-work in the rock, helps its labor and lets the gold go)High ambition and deeds which surpass it, fame crowning them,—allBrought to blaze on the head of one creature—King Saul!"XAnd lo, with that leap of my spirit,—heart, hand, harp and voice,Each lifting Saul's name out of sorrow, each bidding rejoiceSaul's fame in the light it was made for—as when, dare I say,The Lord's army, in rapture of service, strains through its array,And upsoareth the cherubim-chariot—"Saul!" cried I, and stopped,And waited the thing that should follow. Then Saul, who hung proppedBy the tent's cross-support in the centre, was struck by his name.Have ye seen when Spring's arrowy summons goes right to the aim,And some mountain, the last to withstand her, that held (he alone,While the vale laughed in freedom and flowers) on a broad bust of stoneA year's snow bound about for a breastplate,—leaves grasp of the sheet?Fold on fold all at once it crowds thunderously down to his feet,And there fronts you, stark, black, but alive yet, your mountain of old,With his rents, the successive bequeathings of ages untold—Yea, each harm got in fighting your battles, each furrow and scarOf his head thrust 'twixt you and the tempest—all hail, there they are!—Now again to be softened with verdure, again hold the nestOf the dove, tempt the goat and its young to the green on his crestFor their food in the ardors of summer. One long shudder thrilledAll the tent till the very air tingled, then sank and was stilledAt the King's self left standing before me, released and aware.What was gone, what remained? All to traverse 'twixt hope and despair,Death was past, life not come: so he waited. Awhile his right handHeld the brow, helped the eyes left too vacant forthwith to remandTo their place what new objects should enter: 'twas Saul as before.I looked up and dared gaze at those eyes, nor was hurt any moreThan by slow pallid sunsets in autumn, ye watch from the shore,At their sad level gaze o'er the ocean—a sun's slow declineOver hills which, resolved in stern silence, o'erlap and entwineBase with base to knit strength more intensely: so, arm folded armO'er the chest whose slow heavings subsided.XIWhat spell or what charm,(For awhile there was trouble within me,) what next should I urgeTo sustain him where song had restored him?—Song filled to the vergeHis cup with the wine of this life, pressing all that it yieldsOf mere fruitage, the strength and the beauty: beyond, on what fields,Glean a vintage more potent and perfect to brighten the eyeAnd bring blood to the lip, and commend them the cup they put by?He saith, "It is good;" still he drinks not: he lets me praise life,Gives assent, yet would die for his own part.XIIThen fancies grew rifeWhich had come long ago on the pasture, when round me the sheepFed in silence—above, the one eagle wheeled slow as in sleep;And I lay in my hollow and mused on the world that might lie'Neath his ken, though I saw but the strip 'twixt the hill and the sky:And I laughed—"Since my days are ordained to be passed with my flocks,Let me people at least, with my fancies, the plains and the rocks,Dream the life I am never to mix with, and image the showOf mankind as they live in those fashions I hardly shall know!Schemes of life, its best rules and right uses, the courage that gains,And the prudence that keeps what men strive for." And now these old trainsOf vague thought came again; I grew surer; so, once more the stringOf my harp made response to my spirit, as thus—XIII"Yea, my King,"I began—"thou dost well in rejecting mere comforts that springFrom the mere mortal life held in common by man and by brute:In our flesh grows the branch of this life, in our soul it bears fruit.Thou hast marked the slow rise of the tree,—how its stem trembled firstTill it passed the kid's lip, the stag's antler; then safely outburstThe fan-branches all round; and thou mindest when these too, in turn,Broke a-bloom and the palm-tree seemed perfect: yet more was to learn,E'en the good that comes in with the palm-fruit. Our dates shall we slight,When their juice brings a cure for all sorrow? or care for the plightOf the palm's self whose slow growth produced them? Not so! stem and branchShall decay, nor be known in their place, while the palm-wine shall stanchEvery wound of man's spirit in winter. I pour thee such wine.Leave the flesh to the fate it was fit for! the spirit be thine!By the spirit, when age shall o'ercome thee, thou still shalt enjoyMore indeed, than at first when inconscious, the life of a boy.Crush that life, and behold its wine running! Each deed thou hast doneDies, revives, goes to work in the world; until e'en as the sunLooking down on the earth, though clouds spoil him, though tempests efface,Can find nothing his own deed produced not, must everywhere traceThe results of his past summer-prime,—so, each ray of thy will,Every flash of thy passion and prowess, long over, shall thrillThy whole people, the countless, with ardor, till they too give forthA like cheer to their sons, who in turn, fill the South and the NorthWith the radiance thy deed was the germ of. Carouse in the past!But the license of age has its limit; thou diest at last:As the lion when age dims his eyeball, the rose at her height,So with man—so his power and his beauty forever take flight.No! Again a long draught of my soul-wine! Look forth o'er the years!Thou hast done now with eyes for the actual; begin with the seer's!Is Saul dead? In the depth of the vale make his tomb—bid ariseA gray mountain of marble heaped four-square, till, built to the skies,Let it mark where the great First King slumbers: whose fame would ye know?Up above see the rock's naked face, where the record shall goIn great characters cut by the scribe,—Such was Saul, so he did;With the sages directing the work, by the populace chid,—For not half, they 'll affirm, is comprised there! Which fault to amend,In the grove with his kind grows the cedar, whereon they shall spend(See, in tablets 't is level before them) their praise, and recordWith the gold of the graver, Saul's story,—the statesman's great wordSide by side with the poet's sweet comment. The river 's a-waveWith smooth paper-reeds grazing each other when prophet-winds rave:So the pen gives unborn generations their due and their partIn thy being! Then, first of the mighty, thank God that thou art!"XIVAnd behold while I sang ... but O Thou who didst grant me that day,And before it not seldom hast granted thy help to essay,Carry on and complete an adventure,—my shield and my swordIn that act where my soul was thy servant, thy word was my word,—Still be with me, who then at the summit of human endeavorAnd scaling the highest, man's thought could, gazed hopeless as everOn the new stretch of heaven above me—till, mighty to save,Just one lift of thy hand cleared that distance—God's throne from man's grave!Let me tell out my tale to its ending—my voice to my heartWhich can scarce dare believe in what marvels last night I took part,As this morning I gather the fragments, alone with my sheep,And still fear lest the terrible glory evanish like sleep!For I wake in the gray dewy covert, while Hebron upheavesThe dawn struggling with night on his shoulder, and Kidron retrievesSlow the damage of yesterday's sunshine.XVI say then,—my songWhile I sang thus, assuring the monarch, and ever more strongMade a proffer of good to console him—he slowly resumedHis old motions and habitudes kingly. The right hand replumedHis black locks to their wonted composure, adjusted he swathesOf his turban, and see—the huge sweat that his countenance bathes,He wipes off with the robe; and he girds now his loins as of yore,And feels slow for the armlets of price, with the clasp set before.He is Saul, ye remember in glory,—ere error had bentThe broad brow from the daily communion; and still, though much spentBe the life and the bearing that front you, the same, God did choose,To receive what a man may waste, desecrate, never quite lose.So sank he along by the tent-prop till, stayed by the pileOf his armor and war-cloak and garments, he leaned there awhile,And sat out my singing,—one arm round the tent-prop, to raiseHis bent head, and the other hung slack—till I touched on the praiseI foresaw from all men in all time, to the man patient there;And thus ended, the harp falling forward. Then first I was 'wareThat he sat, as I say, with my head just above his vast kneesWhich were thrust out on each side around me, like oak roots which pleaseTo encircle a lamb when it slumbers. I looked up to knowIf the best I could do had brought solace: he spoke not, but slowLifted up the hand slack at his side, till he laid it with careSoft and grave, but in mild settled will, on my brow: through my hairThe large fingers were pushed, and he bent back my head, with kind power—All my face back, intent to peruse it, as men do a flower.Thus held he me there with his great eyes that scrutinized mine—And oh, all my heart how it loved him! but where was the sign?I yearned—"Could I help thee, my father, inventing a bliss,I would add, to that life of the past, both the future and this;I would give thee new life altogether, as good, ages hence,As this moment,—had love but the warrant, love's heart to dispense!"XVIThen the truth came upon me. No harp more—no song more! outbroke—XVII"I have gone the whole round of creation: I saw and I spoke:I, a work of God's hand for that purpose, received in my brainAnd pronounced on the rest of his handwork—returned him againHis creation's approval or censure: I spoke as I saw:I report, as a man may of God's work—all's love, yet all's law.Now I lay down the judgeship he lent me. Each faculty taskedTo perceive him, has gained an abyss, where a dewdrop was asked.Have I knowledge? confounded it shrivels at Wisdom laid bare.Have I forethought? how purblind, how blank, to the Infinite Care!Do I task any faculty highest, to image success?I but open my eyes,—and perfection, no more and no less,In the kind I imagined, full-fronts me, and God is seen GodIn the star, in the stone, in the flesh, in the soul and the clod.And thus looking within and around me, I ever renew(With that stoop of the soul which in bending upraises it too)The submission of man's nothing-perfect to God's all-complete,As by each new obeisance in spirit, I climb to his feet.Yet with all this abounding experience, this deity known,I shall dare to discover some province, some gift of my own.There's a faculty pleasant to exercise, hard to hoodwink,I am fain to keep still in abeyance, (I laugh as I think)Lest, insisting to claim and parade in it, wot ye, I worstE'en the Giver in one gift.—Behold, I could love if I durst!But I sink the pretension as fearing a man may o'ertakeGod's own speed in the one way of love: I abstain for love's sake.—What, my soul? see thus far and no farther? when doors great and small,Nine-and-ninety flew ope at our touch, should the hundredth appall?In the least things have faith, yet distrust in the greatest of all?Do I find love so full in my nature, God's ultimate gift,That I doubt his own love can compete with it? Here, the parts shift?Here, the creature surpass the Creator,—the end, what Began?Would I fain in my impotent yearning do all for this man,And dare doubt he alone shall not help him, who yet alone can?Would it ever have entered my mind, the bare will, much less power,To bestow on this Saul what I sang of, the marvellous dowerOf the life he was gifted and filled with? to make such a soul,Such a body, and then such an earth for insphering the whole?And doth it not enter my mind (as my warm tears attest)These good things being given, to go on, and give one more, the best?Ay, to save and redeem and restore him, maintain at the heightThis perfection,—succeed with life's dayspring, death's minute of night?Interpose at the difficult minute, snatch Saul the mistake,Saul the failure, the ruin he seems now,—and bid him awakeFrom the dream, the probation, the prelude, to find himself setClear and safe in new light and new life,—a new harmony yetTo be run, and continued, and ended—who knows?—or endure!The man taught enough by life's dream, of the rest to make sure;By the pain-throb, triumphantly winning intensified bliss,And the next world's reward and repose, by the struggles in this."XVIII"I believe it! 'Tis thou, God, that givest, 'tis I who receive:In the first is the last, in thy will is my power to believe.All's one gift: thou canst grant it moreover, as prompt to my prayerAs I breathe out this breath, as I open these arms to the air.From thy will stream the worlds, life and nature, thy dread Sabaoth:Iwill?—the mere atoms despise me! Why am I not lothTo look that, even that in the face too? Why is it I dareThink but lightly of such impuissance? What stops my despair?This;—'tis not what man Does which exalts him, but what man Would do!See the King—I would help him but cannot, the wishes fall through.Could I wrestle to raise him from sorrow grow poor to enrich,To fill up his life, starve my own out, I would—knowing which,I know that my service is perfect. Oh, speak through me now!Would I suffer for him that I love? So wouldst thou—so wilt thou!So shall crown thee the topmost, ineffablest, uttermost crown—And thy love fill infinitude wholly, nor leave up nor downOne spot for the creature to stand in! It is by no breath,Turn of eye, wave of hand, that salvation joins issue with death!As thy Love is discovered almighty, almighty be provedThy power, that exists with and for it, of being Beloved!He who did most, shall bear most; the strongest shall stand the most weak.'Tis the weakness in strength, that I cry for! my flesh, that I seekIn the Godhead! I seek and I find it. O Saul, it shall beA Face like my face that receives thee; a Man like to me,Thou shalt love and be loved by, forever: a Hand like this handShall throw open the gates of new life to thee! See the Christ stand!"XIXI know not too well how I found my way home in the night.There were witnesses, cohorts about me, to left and to right,Angels, powers, the unuttered, unseen, the alive, the aware:I repressed, I got through them as hardly, as strugglingly there,As a runner beset by the populace famished for news—Life or death. The whole earth was awakened, hell loosed with her crews;And the stars of night beat with emotion, and tingled and shotOut in fire the strong pain of pent knowledge: but I fainted not,For the Hand still impelled me at once and supported, suppressedAll the tumult, and quenched it with quiet, and holy behest,Till the rapture was shut in itself, and the earth sank to rest.Anon at the dawn, all that trouble had withered from earth—Not so much, but I saw it die out in the day's tender birth;In the gathered intensity brought to the gray of the hills;In the shuddering forests' held breath; in the sudden wind-thrills;In the startled wild beasts that bore off, each with eye sidling stillThough averted with wonder and dread; in the birds stiff and chillThat rose heavily, as I approached them, made stupid with awe:E'en the serpent that slid away silent,—he felt the new law.The same stared in the white humid faces upturned by the flowers;The same worked in the heart of the cedar and moved the vine-bowers:And the little brooks witnessing murmured, persistent and low,With their obstinate, all but hushed voices—"E'en so, it is so!"

Said Abner, "At last thou art come! Ere I tell, ere thou speak,Kiss my cheek, wish me well!" Then I wished it, and did kiss his cheek.And he: "Since the King, O my friend, for thy countenance sent,Neither drunken nor eaten have we; nor until from his tentThou return with the joyful assurance the King liveth yet,Shall our lip with the honey be bright, with the water be wet.For out of the black mid-tent's silence, a space of three days,Not a sound hath escaped to thy servants, of prayer nor of praise,To betoken that Saul and the Spirit have ended their strife,And that, faint in his triumph, the monarch sinks back upon life.

Said Abner, "At last thou art come! Ere I tell, ere thou speak,

Kiss my cheek, wish me well!" Then I wished it, and did kiss his cheek.

And he: "Since the King, O my friend, for thy countenance sent,

Neither drunken nor eaten have we; nor until from his tent

Thou return with the joyful assurance the King liveth yet,

Shall our lip with the honey be bright, with the water be wet.

For out of the black mid-tent's silence, a space of three days,

Not a sound hath escaped to thy servants, of prayer nor of praise,

To betoken that Saul and the Spirit have ended their strife,

And that, faint in his triumph, the monarch sinks back upon life.

"Yet now my heart leaps, O beloved! God's child with his dewOn thy gracious gold hair, and those lilies still living and blueJust broken to twine round thy harp-strings, as if no wild heatWere now raging to torture the desert!"

"Yet now my heart leaps, O beloved! God's child with his dew

On thy gracious gold hair, and those lilies still living and blue

Just broken to twine round thy harp-strings, as if no wild heat

Were now raging to torture the desert!"

III

Then I, as was meet,Knelt down to the God of my fathers, and rose on my feet,And ran o'er the sand burnt to powder. The tent was unlooped;I pulled up the spear that obstructed, and under I stooped;Hands and knees on the slippery grass-patch, all withered and gone,That extends to the second enclosure, I groped my way onTill I felt where the foldskirts fly open. Then once more I prayed,And opened the foldskirts and entered, and was not afraidBut spoke, "Here is David, thy servant!" And no voice replied.At the first I saw naught but the blackness: but soon I descriedA something more black than the blackness—the vast, the uprightMain prop which sustains the pavilion: and slow into sightGrew a figure against it, gigantic and blackest of all.Then a sunbeam, that burst through the tent-roof, showed Saul.

Then I, as was meet,

Knelt down to the God of my fathers, and rose on my feet,

And ran o'er the sand burnt to powder. The tent was unlooped;

I pulled up the spear that obstructed, and under I stooped;

Hands and knees on the slippery grass-patch, all withered and gone,

That extends to the second enclosure, I groped my way on

Till I felt where the foldskirts fly open. Then once more I prayed,

And opened the foldskirts and entered, and was not afraid

But spoke, "Here is David, thy servant!" And no voice replied.

At the first I saw naught but the blackness: but soon I descried

A something more black than the blackness—the vast, the upright

Main prop which sustains the pavilion: and slow into sight

Grew a figure against it, gigantic and blackest of all.

Then a sunbeam, that burst through the tent-roof, showed Saul.

He stood as erect as that tent-prop, both arms stretched out wideOn the great cross-support in the centre, that goes to each side;He relaxed not a muscle, but hung there as, caught in his pangsAnd waiting his change, the king-serpent all heavily hangs,Far away from his kind, in the pine, till deliverance comeWith the spring-time,—so agonized Saul, drear and stark, blind and dumb.

He stood as erect as that tent-prop, both arms stretched out wide

On the great cross-support in the centre, that goes to each side;

He relaxed not a muscle, but hung there as, caught in his pangs

And waiting his change, the king-serpent all heavily hangs,

Far away from his kind, in the pine, till deliverance come

With the spring-time,—so agonized Saul, drear and stark, blind and dumb.

Then I tuned my harp,—took off the lilies we twine round its chordsLest they snap 'neath the stress of the noontide—those sunbeams like swords!And I first played the tune all our sheep know, as, one after one,So docile they come to the pen-door till folding be done.They are white and untorn by the bushes, for lo, they have fedWhere the long grasses stifle the water within the stream's bed;And now one after one seeks its lodging, as star follows starInto eve and the blue far above us,—so blue and so far!

Then I tuned my harp,—took off the lilies we twine round its chords

Lest they snap 'neath the stress of the noontide—those sunbeams like swords!

And I first played the tune all our sheep know, as, one after one,

So docile they come to the pen-door till folding be done.

They are white and untorn by the bushes, for lo, they have fed

Where the long grasses stifle the water within the stream's bed;

And now one after one seeks its lodging, as star follows star

Into eve and the blue far above us,—so blue and so far!

—Then the tune for which quails on the corn-land will each leave his mateTo fly after the player; then, what makes the crickets elateTill for boldness they fight one another; and then, what has weightTo set the quick jerboa a-musing outside his sand house—There are none such as he for a wonder, half bird and half mouse!God made all the creatures and gave them our love and our fear,To give sign, we and they are his children, one family here.

—Then the tune for which quails on the corn-land will each leave his mate

To fly after the player; then, what makes the crickets elate

Till for boldness they fight one another; and then, what has weight

To set the quick jerboa a-musing outside his sand house—

There are none such as he for a wonder, half bird and half mouse!

God made all the creatures and gave them our love and our fear,

To give sign, we and they are his children, one family here.

VII

Then I played the help-tune of our reapers, their wine-song, when handGrasps at hand, eye lights eye in good friendship, and great hearts expandAnd grow one in the sense of this world's life.—And then, the last songWhen the dead man is praised on his journey—"Bear, bear him along,With his few faults shut up like dead flowerets! Are balm seeds not hereTo console us? The land has none left such as he on the bier.Oh, would we might keep thee, my brother!"—And then, the glad chauntOf the marriage,—first go the young maidens, next, she whom we vauntAs the beauty, the pride of our dwelling.—And then, the great marchWherein man runs to man to assist him and buttress an archNaught can break; who shall harm them, our friends? Then, the chorus intonedAs the Levites go up to the altar in glory enthroned.But I stopped here: for here in the darkness Saul groaned.

Then I played the help-tune of our reapers, their wine-song, when hand

Grasps at hand, eye lights eye in good friendship, and great hearts expand

And grow one in the sense of this world's life.—And then, the last song

When the dead man is praised on his journey—"Bear, bear him along,

With his few faults shut up like dead flowerets! Are balm seeds not here

To console us? The land has none left such as he on the bier.

Oh, would we might keep thee, my brother!"—And then, the glad chaunt

Of the marriage,—first go the young maidens, next, she whom we vaunt

As the beauty, the pride of our dwelling.—And then, the great march

Wherein man runs to man to assist him and buttress an arch

Naught can break; who shall harm them, our friends? Then, the chorus intoned

As the Levites go up to the altar in glory enthroned.

But I stopped here: for here in the darkness Saul groaned.

VIII

And I paused, held my breath in such silence, and listened apart;And the tent shook, for mighty Saul shuddered: and sparkles 'gan dartFrom the jewels that woke in his turban, at once with a start,All its lordly male-sapphires, and rubies courageous at heart.So the head: but the body still moved not, still hung there erect.And I bent once again to my playing, pursued it unchecked,As I sang:—

And I paused, held my breath in such silence, and listened apart;

And the tent shook, for mighty Saul shuddered: and sparkles 'gan dart

From the jewels that woke in his turban, at once with a start,

All its lordly male-sapphires, and rubies courageous at heart.

So the head: but the body still moved not, still hung there erect.

And I bent once again to my playing, pursued it unchecked,

As I sang:—

"Oh, our manhood's prime vigor! No spirit feels waste,Not a muscle is stopped in its playing nor sinew unbraced.Oh, the wild joys of living! the leaping from rock up to rock,The strong rending of boughs from the fir-tree, the cool silver shockOf the plunge in a pool's living water, the hunt of the bear,And the sultriness showing the lion is couched in his lair.And the meal, the rich dates yellowed over with gold dust divine,And the locust-flesh steeped in the pitcher, the full draught of wine,And the sleep in the dried river-channel where bulrushes tellThat the water was wont to go warbling so softly and well.How good is man's life, the mere living! how fit to employAll the heart and the soul and the senses forever in joy!Hast thou loved the white locks of thy father, whose sword thou didst guardWhen he trusted thee forth with the armies, for glorious reward?Didst thou see the thin hands of thy mother, held up as men sungThe low song of the nearly-departed, and hear her faint tongueJoining in while it could to the witness, 'Let one more attest,I have lived, seen God's hand through a lifetime, and all was for best'?Then they sung through their tears in strong triumph, not much, but the rest.And thy brothers, the help and the contest, the working whence grewSuch result as, from seething grape-bundles, the spirit strained true:And the friends of thy boyhood—that boyhood of wonder and hope,Present promise and wealth of the future beyond the eye's scope,—Till lo, thou art grown to a monarch; a people is thine;And all gifts, which the world offers singly, on one head combine!On one head, all the beauty and strength, love and rage (like the throeThat, a-work in the rock, helps its labor and lets the gold go)High ambition and deeds which surpass it, fame crowning them,—allBrought to blaze on the head of one creature—King Saul!"

"Oh, our manhood's prime vigor! No spirit feels waste,

Not a muscle is stopped in its playing nor sinew unbraced.

Oh, the wild joys of living! the leaping from rock up to rock,

The strong rending of boughs from the fir-tree, the cool silver shock

Of the plunge in a pool's living water, the hunt of the bear,

And the sultriness showing the lion is couched in his lair.

And the meal, the rich dates yellowed over with gold dust divine,

And the locust-flesh steeped in the pitcher, the full draught of wine,

And the sleep in the dried river-channel where bulrushes tell

That the water was wont to go warbling so softly and well.

How good is man's life, the mere living! how fit to employ

All the heart and the soul and the senses forever in joy!

Hast thou loved the white locks of thy father, whose sword thou didst guard

When he trusted thee forth with the armies, for glorious reward?

Didst thou see the thin hands of thy mother, held up as men sung

The low song of the nearly-departed, and hear her faint tongue

Joining in while it could to the witness, 'Let one more attest,

I have lived, seen God's hand through a lifetime, and all was for best'?

Then they sung through their tears in strong triumph, not much, but the rest.

And thy brothers, the help and the contest, the working whence grew

Such result as, from seething grape-bundles, the spirit strained true:

And the friends of thy boyhood—that boyhood of wonder and hope,

Present promise and wealth of the future beyond the eye's scope,—

Till lo, thou art grown to a monarch; a people is thine;

And all gifts, which the world offers singly, on one head combine!

On one head, all the beauty and strength, love and rage (like the throe

That, a-work in the rock, helps its labor and lets the gold go)

High ambition and deeds which surpass it, fame crowning them,—all

Brought to blaze on the head of one creature—King Saul!"

And lo, with that leap of my spirit,—heart, hand, harp and voice,Each lifting Saul's name out of sorrow, each bidding rejoiceSaul's fame in the light it was made for—as when, dare I say,The Lord's army, in rapture of service, strains through its array,And upsoareth the cherubim-chariot—"Saul!" cried I, and stopped,And waited the thing that should follow. Then Saul, who hung proppedBy the tent's cross-support in the centre, was struck by his name.Have ye seen when Spring's arrowy summons goes right to the aim,And some mountain, the last to withstand her, that held (he alone,While the vale laughed in freedom and flowers) on a broad bust of stoneA year's snow bound about for a breastplate,—leaves grasp of the sheet?Fold on fold all at once it crowds thunderously down to his feet,And there fronts you, stark, black, but alive yet, your mountain of old,With his rents, the successive bequeathings of ages untold—Yea, each harm got in fighting your battles, each furrow and scarOf his head thrust 'twixt you and the tempest—all hail, there they are!—Now again to be softened with verdure, again hold the nestOf the dove, tempt the goat and its young to the green on his crestFor their food in the ardors of summer. One long shudder thrilledAll the tent till the very air tingled, then sank and was stilledAt the King's self left standing before me, released and aware.What was gone, what remained? All to traverse 'twixt hope and despair,Death was past, life not come: so he waited. Awhile his right handHeld the brow, helped the eyes left too vacant forthwith to remandTo their place what new objects should enter: 'twas Saul as before.I looked up and dared gaze at those eyes, nor was hurt any moreThan by slow pallid sunsets in autumn, ye watch from the shore,At their sad level gaze o'er the ocean—a sun's slow declineOver hills which, resolved in stern silence, o'erlap and entwineBase with base to knit strength more intensely: so, arm folded armO'er the chest whose slow heavings subsided.

And lo, with that leap of my spirit,—heart, hand, harp and voice,

Each lifting Saul's name out of sorrow, each bidding rejoice

Saul's fame in the light it was made for—as when, dare I say,

The Lord's army, in rapture of service, strains through its array,

And upsoareth the cherubim-chariot—"Saul!" cried I, and stopped,

And waited the thing that should follow. Then Saul, who hung propped

By the tent's cross-support in the centre, was struck by his name.

Have ye seen when Spring's arrowy summons goes right to the aim,

And some mountain, the last to withstand her, that held (he alone,

While the vale laughed in freedom and flowers) on a broad bust of stone

A year's snow bound about for a breastplate,—leaves grasp of the sheet?

Fold on fold all at once it crowds thunderously down to his feet,

And there fronts you, stark, black, but alive yet, your mountain of old,

With his rents, the successive bequeathings of ages untold—

Yea, each harm got in fighting your battles, each furrow and scar

Of his head thrust 'twixt you and the tempest—all hail, there they are!

—Now again to be softened with verdure, again hold the nest

Of the dove, tempt the goat and its young to the green on his crest

For their food in the ardors of summer. One long shudder thrilled

All the tent till the very air tingled, then sank and was stilled

At the King's self left standing before me, released and aware.

What was gone, what remained? All to traverse 'twixt hope and despair,

Death was past, life not come: so he waited. Awhile his right hand

Held the brow, helped the eyes left too vacant forthwith to remand

To their place what new objects should enter: 'twas Saul as before.

I looked up and dared gaze at those eyes, nor was hurt any more

Than by slow pallid sunsets in autumn, ye watch from the shore,

At their sad level gaze o'er the ocean—a sun's slow decline

Over hills which, resolved in stern silence, o'erlap and entwine

Base with base to knit strength more intensely: so, arm folded arm

O'er the chest whose slow heavings subsided.

What spell or what charm,(For awhile there was trouble within me,) what next should I urgeTo sustain him where song had restored him?—Song filled to the vergeHis cup with the wine of this life, pressing all that it yieldsOf mere fruitage, the strength and the beauty: beyond, on what fields,Glean a vintage more potent and perfect to brighten the eyeAnd bring blood to the lip, and commend them the cup they put by?He saith, "It is good;" still he drinks not: he lets me praise life,Gives assent, yet would die for his own part.

What spell or what charm,

(For awhile there was trouble within me,) what next should I urge

To sustain him where song had restored him?—Song filled to the verge

His cup with the wine of this life, pressing all that it yields

Of mere fruitage, the strength and the beauty: beyond, on what fields,

Glean a vintage more potent and perfect to brighten the eye

And bring blood to the lip, and commend them the cup they put by?

He saith, "It is good;" still he drinks not: he lets me praise life,

Gives assent, yet would die for his own part.

XII

Then fancies grew rifeWhich had come long ago on the pasture, when round me the sheepFed in silence—above, the one eagle wheeled slow as in sleep;And I lay in my hollow and mused on the world that might lie'Neath his ken, though I saw but the strip 'twixt the hill and the sky:And I laughed—"Since my days are ordained to be passed with my flocks,Let me people at least, with my fancies, the plains and the rocks,Dream the life I am never to mix with, and image the showOf mankind as they live in those fashions I hardly shall know!Schemes of life, its best rules and right uses, the courage that gains,And the prudence that keeps what men strive for." And now these old trainsOf vague thought came again; I grew surer; so, once more the stringOf my harp made response to my spirit, as thus—

Then fancies grew rife

Which had come long ago on the pasture, when round me the sheep

Fed in silence—above, the one eagle wheeled slow as in sleep;

And I lay in my hollow and mused on the world that might lie

'Neath his ken, though I saw but the strip 'twixt the hill and the sky:

And I laughed—"Since my days are ordained to be passed with my flocks,

Let me people at least, with my fancies, the plains and the rocks,

Dream the life I am never to mix with, and image the show

Of mankind as they live in those fashions I hardly shall know!

Schemes of life, its best rules and right uses, the courage that gains,

And the prudence that keeps what men strive for." And now these old trains

Of vague thought came again; I grew surer; so, once more the string

Of my harp made response to my spirit, as thus—

XIII

"Yea, my King,"I began—"thou dost well in rejecting mere comforts that springFrom the mere mortal life held in common by man and by brute:In our flesh grows the branch of this life, in our soul it bears fruit.Thou hast marked the slow rise of the tree,—how its stem trembled firstTill it passed the kid's lip, the stag's antler; then safely outburstThe fan-branches all round; and thou mindest when these too, in turn,Broke a-bloom and the palm-tree seemed perfect: yet more was to learn,E'en the good that comes in with the palm-fruit. Our dates shall we slight,When their juice brings a cure for all sorrow? or care for the plightOf the palm's self whose slow growth produced them? Not so! stem and branchShall decay, nor be known in their place, while the palm-wine shall stanchEvery wound of man's spirit in winter. I pour thee such wine.Leave the flesh to the fate it was fit for! the spirit be thine!By the spirit, when age shall o'ercome thee, thou still shalt enjoyMore indeed, than at first when inconscious, the life of a boy.Crush that life, and behold its wine running! Each deed thou hast doneDies, revives, goes to work in the world; until e'en as the sunLooking down on the earth, though clouds spoil him, though tempests efface,Can find nothing his own deed produced not, must everywhere traceThe results of his past summer-prime,—so, each ray of thy will,Every flash of thy passion and prowess, long over, shall thrillThy whole people, the countless, with ardor, till they too give forthA like cheer to their sons, who in turn, fill the South and the NorthWith the radiance thy deed was the germ of. Carouse in the past!But the license of age has its limit; thou diest at last:As the lion when age dims his eyeball, the rose at her height,So with man—so his power and his beauty forever take flight.No! Again a long draught of my soul-wine! Look forth o'er the years!Thou hast done now with eyes for the actual; begin with the seer's!Is Saul dead? In the depth of the vale make his tomb—bid ariseA gray mountain of marble heaped four-square, till, built to the skies,Let it mark where the great First King slumbers: whose fame would ye know?Up above see the rock's naked face, where the record shall goIn great characters cut by the scribe,—Such was Saul, so he did;With the sages directing the work, by the populace chid,—For not half, they 'll affirm, is comprised there! Which fault to amend,In the grove with his kind grows the cedar, whereon they shall spend(See, in tablets 't is level before them) their praise, and recordWith the gold of the graver, Saul's story,—the statesman's great wordSide by side with the poet's sweet comment. The river 's a-waveWith smooth paper-reeds grazing each other when prophet-winds rave:So the pen gives unborn generations their due and their partIn thy being! Then, first of the mighty, thank God that thou art!"

"Yea, my King,"

I began—"thou dost well in rejecting mere comforts that spring

From the mere mortal life held in common by man and by brute:

In our flesh grows the branch of this life, in our soul it bears fruit.

Thou hast marked the slow rise of the tree,—how its stem trembled first

Till it passed the kid's lip, the stag's antler; then safely outburst

The fan-branches all round; and thou mindest when these too, in turn,

Broke a-bloom and the palm-tree seemed perfect: yet more was to learn,

E'en the good that comes in with the palm-fruit. Our dates shall we slight,

When their juice brings a cure for all sorrow? or care for the plight

Of the palm's self whose slow growth produced them? Not so! stem and branch

Shall decay, nor be known in their place, while the palm-wine shall stanch

Every wound of man's spirit in winter. I pour thee such wine.

Leave the flesh to the fate it was fit for! the spirit be thine!

By the spirit, when age shall o'ercome thee, thou still shalt enjoy

More indeed, than at first when inconscious, the life of a boy.

Crush that life, and behold its wine running! Each deed thou hast done

Dies, revives, goes to work in the world; until e'en as the sun

Looking down on the earth, though clouds spoil him, though tempests efface,

Can find nothing his own deed produced not, must everywhere trace

The results of his past summer-prime,—so, each ray of thy will,

Every flash of thy passion and prowess, long over, shall thrill

Thy whole people, the countless, with ardor, till they too give forth

A like cheer to their sons, who in turn, fill the South and the North

With the radiance thy deed was the germ of. Carouse in the past!

But the license of age has its limit; thou diest at last:

As the lion when age dims his eyeball, the rose at her height,

So with man—so his power and his beauty forever take flight.

No! Again a long draught of my soul-wine! Look forth o'er the years!

Thou hast done now with eyes for the actual; begin with the seer's!

Is Saul dead? In the depth of the vale make his tomb—bid arise

A gray mountain of marble heaped four-square, till, built to the skies,

Let it mark where the great First King slumbers: whose fame would ye know?

Up above see the rock's naked face, where the record shall go

In great characters cut by the scribe,—Such was Saul, so he did;

With the sages directing the work, by the populace chid,—

For not half, they 'll affirm, is comprised there! Which fault to amend,

In the grove with his kind grows the cedar, whereon they shall spend

(See, in tablets 't is level before them) their praise, and record

With the gold of the graver, Saul's story,—the statesman's great word

Side by side with the poet's sweet comment. The river 's a-wave

With smooth paper-reeds grazing each other when prophet-winds rave:

So the pen gives unborn generations their due and their part

In thy being! Then, first of the mighty, thank God that thou art!"

XIV

And behold while I sang ... but O Thou who didst grant me that day,And before it not seldom hast granted thy help to essay,Carry on and complete an adventure,—my shield and my swordIn that act where my soul was thy servant, thy word was my word,—Still be with me, who then at the summit of human endeavorAnd scaling the highest, man's thought could, gazed hopeless as everOn the new stretch of heaven above me—till, mighty to save,Just one lift of thy hand cleared that distance—God's throne from man's grave!Let me tell out my tale to its ending—my voice to my heartWhich can scarce dare believe in what marvels last night I took part,As this morning I gather the fragments, alone with my sheep,And still fear lest the terrible glory evanish like sleep!For I wake in the gray dewy covert, while Hebron upheavesThe dawn struggling with night on his shoulder, and Kidron retrievesSlow the damage of yesterday's sunshine.

And behold while I sang ... but O Thou who didst grant me that day,

And before it not seldom hast granted thy help to essay,

Carry on and complete an adventure,—my shield and my sword

In that act where my soul was thy servant, thy word was my word,—

Still be with me, who then at the summit of human endeavor

And scaling the highest, man's thought could, gazed hopeless as ever

On the new stretch of heaven above me—till, mighty to save,

Just one lift of thy hand cleared that distance—God's throne from man's grave!

Let me tell out my tale to its ending—my voice to my heart

Which can scarce dare believe in what marvels last night I took part,

As this morning I gather the fragments, alone with my sheep,

And still fear lest the terrible glory evanish like sleep!

For I wake in the gray dewy covert, while Hebron upheaves

The dawn struggling with night on his shoulder, and Kidron retrieves

Slow the damage of yesterday's sunshine.

I say then,—my songWhile I sang thus, assuring the monarch, and ever more strongMade a proffer of good to console him—he slowly resumedHis old motions and habitudes kingly. The right hand replumedHis black locks to their wonted composure, adjusted he swathesOf his turban, and see—the huge sweat that his countenance bathes,He wipes off with the robe; and he girds now his loins as of yore,And feels slow for the armlets of price, with the clasp set before.He is Saul, ye remember in glory,—ere error had bentThe broad brow from the daily communion; and still, though much spentBe the life and the bearing that front you, the same, God did choose,To receive what a man may waste, desecrate, never quite lose.So sank he along by the tent-prop till, stayed by the pileOf his armor and war-cloak and garments, he leaned there awhile,And sat out my singing,—one arm round the tent-prop, to raiseHis bent head, and the other hung slack—till I touched on the praiseI foresaw from all men in all time, to the man patient there;And thus ended, the harp falling forward. Then first I was 'wareThat he sat, as I say, with my head just above his vast kneesWhich were thrust out on each side around me, like oak roots which pleaseTo encircle a lamb when it slumbers. I looked up to knowIf the best I could do had brought solace: he spoke not, but slowLifted up the hand slack at his side, till he laid it with careSoft and grave, but in mild settled will, on my brow: through my hairThe large fingers were pushed, and he bent back my head, with kind power—All my face back, intent to peruse it, as men do a flower.Thus held he me there with his great eyes that scrutinized mine—And oh, all my heart how it loved him! but where was the sign?I yearned—"Could I help thee, my father, inventing a bliss,I would add, to that life of the past, both the future and this;I would give thee new life altogether, as good, ages hence,As this moment,—had love but the warrant, love's heart to dispense!"

I say then,—my song

While I sang thus, assuring the monarch, and ever more strong

Made a proffer of good to console him—he slowly resumed

His old motions and habitudes kingly. The right hand replumed

His black locks to their wonted composure, adjusted he swathes

Of his turban, and see—the huge sweat that his countenance bathes,

He wipes off with the robe; and he girds now his loins as of yore,

And feels slow for the armlets of price, with the clasp set before.

He is Saul, ye remember in glory,—ere error had bent

The broad brow from the daily communion; and still, though much spent

Be the life and the bearing that front you, the same, God did choose,

To receive what a man may waste, desecrate, never quite lose.

So sank he along by the tent-prop till, stayed by the pile

Of his armor and war-cloak and garments, he leaned there awhile,

And sat out my singing,—one arm round the tent-prop, to raise

His bent head, and the other hung slack—till I touched on the praise

I foresaw from all men in all time, to the man patient there;

And thus ended, the harp falling forward. Then first I was 'ware

That he sat, as I say, with my head just above his vast knees

Which were thrust out on each side around me, like oak roots which please

To encircle a lamb when it slumbers. I looked up to know

If the best I could do had brought solace: he spoke not, but slow

Lifted up the hand slack at his side, till he laid it with care

Soft and grave, but in mild settled will, on my brow: through my hair

The large fingers were pushed, and he bent back my head, with kind power—

All my face back, intent to peruse it, as men do a flower.

Thus held he me there with his great eyes that scrutinized mine—

And oh, all my heart how it loved him! but where was the sign?

I yearned—"Could I help thee, my father, inventing a bliss,

I would add, to that life of the past, both the future and this;

I would give thee new life altogether, as good, ages hence,

As this moment,—had love but the warrant, love's heart to dispense!"

XVI

Then the truth came upon me. No harp more—no song more! outbroke—

XVII

"I have gone the whole round of creation: I saw and I spoke:I, a work of God's hand for that purpose, received in my brainAnd pronounced on the rest of his handwork—returned him againHis creation's approval or censure: I spoke as I saw:I report, as a man may of God's work—all's love, yet all's law.Now I lay down the judgeship he lent me. Each faculty taskedTo perceive him, has gained an abyss, where a dewdrop was asked.Have I knowledge? confounded it shrivels at Wisdom laid bare.Have I forethought? how purblind, how blank, to the Infinite Care!Do I task any faculty highest, to image success?I but open my eyes,—and perfection, no more and no less,In the kind I imagined, full-fronts me, and God is seen GodIn the star, in the stone, in the flesh, in the soul and the clod.And thus looking within and around me, I ever renew(With that stoop of the soul which in bending upraises it too)The submission of man's nothing-perfect to God's all-complete,As by each new obeisance in spirit, I climb to his feet.Yet with all this abounding experience, this deity known,I shall dare to discover some province, some gift of my own.There's a faculty pleasant to exercise, hard to hoodwink,I am fain to keep still in abeyance, (I laugh as I think)Lest, insisting to claim and parade in it, wot ye, I worstE'en the Giver in one gift.—Behold, I could love if I durst!But I sink the pretension as fearing a man may o'ertakeGod's own speed in the one way of love: I abstain for love's sake.—What, my soul? see thus far and no farther? when doors great and small,Nine-and-ninety flew ope at our touch, should the hundredth appall?In the least things have faith, yet distrust in the greatest of all?Do I find love so full in my nature, God's ultimate gift,That I doubt his own love can compete with it? Here, the parts shift?Here, the creature surpass the Creator,—the end, what Began?Would I fain in my impotent yearning do all for this man,And dare doubt he alone shall not help him, who yet alone can?Would it ever have entered my mind, the bare will, much less power,To bestow on this Saul what I sang of, the marvellous dowerOf the life he was gifted and filled with? to make such a soul,Such a body, and then such an earth for insphering the whole?And doth it not enter my mind (as my warm tears attest)These good things being given, to go on, and give one more, the best?Ay, to save and redeem and restore him, maintain at the heightThis perfection,—succeed with life's dayspring, death's minute of night?Interpose at the difficult minute, snatch Saul the mistake,Saul the failure, the ruin he seems now,—and bid him awakeFrom the dream, the probation, the prelude, to find himself setClear and safe in new light and new life,—a new harmony yetTo be run, and continued, and ended—who knows?—or endure!The man taught enough by life's dream, of the rest to make sure;By the pain-throb, triumphantly winning intensified bliss,And the next world's reward and repose, by the struggles in this."

"I have gone the whole round of creation: I saw and I spoke:

I, a work of God's hand for that purpose, received in my brain

And pronounced on the rest of his handwork—returned him again

His creation's approval or censure: I spoke as I saw:

I report, as a man may of God's work—all's love, yet all's law.

Now I lay down the judgeship he lent me. Each faculty tasked

To perceive him, has gained an abyss, where a dewdrop was asked.

Have I knowledge? confounded it shrivels at Wisdom laid bare.

Have I forethought? how purblind, how blank, to the Infinite Care!

Do I task any faculty highest, to image success?

I but open my eyes,—and perfection, no more and no less,

In the kind I imagined, full-fronts me, and God is seen God

In the star, in the stone, in the flesh, in the soul and the clod.

And thus looking within and around me, I ever renew

(With that stoop of the soul which in bending upraises it too)

The submission of man's nothing-perfect to God's all-complete,

As by each new obeisance in spirit, I climb to his feet.

Yet with all this abounding experience, this deity known,

I shall dare to discover some province, some gift of my own.

There's a faculty pleasant to exercise, hard to hoodwink,

I am fain to keep still in abeyance, (I laugh as I think)

Lest, insisting to claim and parade in it, wot ye, I worst

E'en the Giver in one gift.—Behold, I could love if I durst!

But I sink the pretension as fearing a man may o'ertake

God's own speed in the one way of love: I abstain for love's sake.

—What, my soul? see thus far and no farther? when doors great and small,

Nine-and-ninety flew ope at our touch, should the hundredth appall?

In the least things have faith, yet distrust in the greatest of all?

Do I find love so full in my nature, God's ultimate gift,

That I doubt his own love can compete with it? Here, the parts shift?

Here, the creature surpass the Creator,—the end, what Began?

Would I fain in my impotent yearning do all for this man,

And dare doubt he alone shall not help him, who yet alone can?

Would it ever have entered my mind, the bare will, much less power,

To bestow on this Saul what I sang of, the marvellous dower

Of the life he was gifted and filled with? to make such a soul,

Such a body, and then such an earth for insphering the whole?

And doth it not enter my mind (as my warm tears attest)

These good things being given, to go on, and give one more, the best?

Ay, to save and redeem and restore him, maintain at the height

This perfection,—succeed with life's dayspring, death's minute of night?

Interpose at the difficult minute, snatch Saul the mistake,

Saul the failure, the ruin he seems now,—and bid him awake

From the dream, the probation, the prelude, to find himself set

Clear and safe in new light and new life,—a new harmony yet

To be run, and continued, and ended—who knows?—or endure!

The man taught enough by life's dream, of the rest to make sure;

By the pain-throb, triumphantly winning intensified bliss,

And the next world's reward and repose, by the struggles in this."

XVIII

"I believe it! 'Tis thou, God, that givest, 'tis I who receive:In the first is the last, in thy will is my power to believe.All's one gift: thou canst grant it moreover, as prompt to my prayerAs I breathe out this breath, as I open these arms to the air.From thy will stream the worlds, life and nature, thy dread Sabaoth:Iwill?—the mere atoms despise me! Why am I not lothTo look that, even that in the face too? Why is it I dareThink but lightly of such impuissance? What stops my despair?This;—'tis not what man Does which exalts him, but what man Would do!See the King—I would help him but cannot, the wishes fall through.Could I wrestle to raise him from sorrow grow poor to enrich,To fill up his life, starve my own out, I would—knowing which,I know that my service is perfect. Oh, speak through me now!Would I suffer for him that I love? So wouldst thou—so wilt thou!So shall crown thee the topmost, ineffablest, uttermost crown—And thy love fill infinitude wholly, nor leave up nor downOne spot for the creature to stand in! It is by no breath,Turn of eye, wave of hand, that salvation joins issue with death!As thy Love is discovered almighty, almighty be provedThy power, that exists with and for it, of being Beloved!He who did most, shall bear most; the strongest shall stand the most weak.'Tis the weakness in strength, that I cry for! my flesh, that I seekIn the Godhead! I seek and I find it. O Saul, it shall beA Face like my face that receives thee; a Man like to me,Thou shalt love and be loved by, forever: a Hand like this handShall throw open the gates of new life to thee! See the Christ stand!"

"I believe it! 'Tis thou, God, that givest, 'tis I who receive:

In the first is the last, in thy will is my power to believe.

All's one gift: thou canst grant it moreover, as prompt to my prayer

As I breathe out this breath, as I open these arms to the air.

From thy will stream the worlds, life and nature, thy dread Sabaoth:

Iwill?—the mere atoms despise me! Why am I not loth

To look that, even that in the face too? Why is it I dare

Think but lightly of such impuissance? What stops my despair?

This;—'tis not what man Does which exalts him, but what man Would do!

See the King—I would help him but cannot, the wishes fall through.

Could I wrestle to raise him from sorrow grow poor to enrich,

To fill up his life, starve my own out, I would—knowing which,

I know that my service is perfect. Oh, speak through me now!

Would I suffer for him that I love? So wouldst thou—so wilt thou!

So shall crown thee the topmost, ineffablest, uttermost crown—

And thy love fill infinitude wholly, nor leave up nor down

One spot for the creature to stand in! It is by no breath,

Turn of eye, wave of hand, that salvation joins issue with death!

As thy Love is discovered almighty, almighty be proved

Thy power, that exists with and for it, of being Beloved!

He who did most, shall bear most; the strongest shall stand the most weak.

'Tis the weakness in strength, that I cry for! my flesh, that I seek

In the Godhead! I seek and I find it. O Saul, it shall be

A Face like my face that receives thee; a Man like to me,

Thou shalt love and be loved by, forever: a Hand like this hand

Shall throw open the gates of new life to thee! See the Christ stand!"

XIX

I know not too well how I found my way home in the night.There were witnesses, cohorts about me, to left and to right,Angels, powers, the unuttered, unseen, the alive, the aware:I repressed, I got through them as hardly, as strugglingly there,As a runner beset by the populace famished for news—Life or death. The whole earth was awakened, hell loosed with her crews;And the stars of night beat with emotion, and tingled and shotOut in fire the strong pain of pent knowledge: but I fainted not,For the Hand still impelled me at once and supported, suppressedAll the tumult, and quenched it with quiet, and holy behest,Till the rapture was shut in itself, and the earth sank to rest.Anon at the dawn, all that trouble had withered from earth—Not so much, but I saw it die out in the day's tender birth;In the gathered intensity brought to the gray of the hills;In the shuddering forests' held breath; in the sudden wind-thrills;In the startled wild beasts that bore off, each with eye sidling stillThough averted with wonder and dread; in the birds stiff and chillThat rose heavily, as I approached them, made stupid with awe:E'en the serpent that slid away silent,—he felt the new law.The same stared in the white humid faces upturned by the flowers;The same worked in the heart of the cedar and moved the vine-bowers:And the little brooks witnessing murmured, persistent and low,With their obstinate, all but hushed voices—"E'en so, it is so!"

I know not too well how I found my way home in the night.

There were witnesses, cohorts about me, to left and to right,

Angels, powers, the unuttered, unseen, the alive, the aware:

I repressed, I got through them as hardly, as strugglingly there,

As a runner beset by the populace famished for news—

Life or death. The whole earth was awakened, hell loosed with her crews;

And the stars of night beat with emotion, and tingled and shot

Out in fire the strong pain of pent knowledge: but I fainted not,

For the Hand still impelled me at once and supported, suppressed

All the tumult, and quenched it with quiet, and holy behest,

Till the rapture was shut in itself, and the earth sank to rest.

Anon at the dawn, all that trouble had withered from earth—

Not so much, but I saw it die out in the day's tender birth;

In the gathered intensity brought to the gray of the hills;

In the shuddering forests' held breath; in the sudden wind-thrills;

In the startled wild beasts that bore off, each with eye sidling still

Though averted with wonder and dread; in the birds stiff and chill

That rose heavily, as I approached them, made stupid with awe:

E'en the serpent that slid away silent,—he felt the new law.

The same stared in the white humid faces upturned by the flowers;

The same worked in the heart of the cedar and moved the vine-bowers:

And the little brooks witnessing murmured, persistent and low,

With their obstinate, all but hushed voices—"E'en so, it is so!"

This poem has been held to refer pointedly to Mrs. Browning. An inference to this end may be drawn from the fact that it stands first in a volume ofSelections from the Poetical Works of Robert Browning, published in 1872 and dedicated to Alfred Tennyson. "In Poetry—Illustrious and consummate: In Friendship—Noble and sincere." The selection was made under Browning's supervision and contains the following preface:—"In the present selection from my poetry, there is an attempt to escape from the embarrassment of appearing to pronounce upon what myself may consider the best of it. I adopt another principle; and by simply stringing together certain pieces on the thread of an imagined personality, I present them in succession, rather as the natural development of a particularexperience than because I account them the most noteworthy portion of my work. Such an attempt was made in the volume of selections from the poetry of Elizabeth Barrett Browning: to which—in outward uniformity, at least—my own would venture to become a companion."A few years ago, had such an opportunity presented itself, I might have been tempted to say a word in reply to the objections my poetry was used to encounter. Time has kindly coöperated with my disinclination to write the poetry and the criticism besides. The readers I am at last privileged to expect, meet me fully halfway; and if, from the fitting stand-point, they must still 'censure me in their wisdom,' they have previously 'awakened their senses that they may the better judge.' Nor do I apprehend any more charges of being willfully obscure, unconscientiously careless, or perversely harsh. Having hitherto done my utmost in the art to which my life is a devotion,Icannot engage to increase the effort; but I conceive that there may be helpful light, as well as reassuring warmth, in the attention and sympathy I gratefully acknowledge. R. B."London,May14, 1872.

"In the present selection from my poetry, there is an attempt to escape from the embarrassment of appearing to pronounce upon what myself may consider the best of it. I adopt another principle; and by simply stringing together certain pieces on the thread of an imagined personality, I present them in succession, rather as the natural development of a particularexperience than because I account them the most noteworthy portion of my work. Such an attempt was made in the volume of selections from the poetry of Elizabeth Barrett Browning: to which—in outward uniformity, at least—my own would venture to become a companion.

"A few years ago, had such an opportunity presented itself, I might have been tempted to say a word in reply to the objections my poetry was used to encounter. Time has kindly coöperated with my disinclination to write the poetry and the criticism besides. The readers I am at last privileged to expect, meet me fully halfway; and if, from the fitting stand-point, they must still 'censure me in their wisdom,' they have previously 'awakened their senses that they may the better judge.' Nor do I apprehend any more charges of being willfully obscure, unconscientiously careless, or perversely harsh. Having hitherto done my utmost in the art to which my life is a devotion,Icannot engage to increase the effort; but I conceive that there may be helpful light, as well as reassuring warmth, in the attention and sympathy I gratefully acknowledge. R. B."

London,May14, 1872.

All that I knowOf a certain starIs, it can throw(Like the angled spar)Now a dart of red,Now a dart of blue;Till my friends have saidThey would fain see, too,My star that dartles the red and the blue!Then it stops like a bird; like a flower, hangs furled:They must solace themselves with the Saturn above it.What matter to me if their star is a world?Mine has opened its soul to me; therefore I love it.

All that I know

Of a certain star

Is, it can throw

(Like the angled spar)

Now a dart of red,

Now a dart of blue;

Till my friends have said

They would fain see, too,

My star that dartles the red and the blue!

Then it stops like a bird; like a flower, hangs furled:

They must solace themselves with the Saturn above it.

What matter to me if their star is a world?

Mine has opened its soul to me; therefore I love it.

BY THE FIRESIDE

The scene of the declaration in this poem is laid in a little mountain gorge adjacent to the Baths of Lucca, where the Brownings spent the summer of 1853.

How well I know what I mean to doWhen the long dark autumn evenings come;And where, my soul, is thy pleasant hue?With the music of all thy voices, dumbIn life's November too!I shall be found by the fire, suppose,O'er a great wise book as beseemeth age,While the shutters flap as the cross-wind blows,And I turn the page, and I turn the page,Not verse now, only prose!Till the young ones whisper, finger on lip,"There he is at it, deep in Greek:Now then, or never, out we slipTo cut from the hazels by the creekA mainmast for our ship!"I shall be at it indeed, my friends!Greek puts already on either sideSuch a branch-work forth as soon extendsTo a vista opening far and wide,And I pass out where it ends.The outside-frame, like your hazel-trees—But the inside-archway widens fast,And a rarer sort succeeds to these,And we slope to Italy at lastAnd youth, by green degrees.I follow wherever I am led,Knowing so well the leader's hand:Oh woman-country, wooed not wed,Loved all the more by earth's male-lands,Laid to their hearts instead!Look at the ruined chapel againHalf-way up in the Alpine gorge!Is that a tower, I point you plain,Or is it a mill, or an iron forgeBreaks solitude in vain?A turn, and we stand in the heart of things;The woods are round us, heaped and dim;From slab to slab how it slips and springs,The thread of water single and slim,Through the ravage some torrent brings!Does it feed the little lake below?That speck of white just on its margeIs Pella; see, in the evening-glow,How sharp the silver spear-heads chargeWhen Alp meets heaven in snow!On our other side is the straight-up rock;And a path is kept 'twixt the gorge and itBy boulder-stones where lichens mockThe marks on a moth, and small ferns fitTheir teeth to the polished block.Oh the sense of the yellow mountain-flowers,And thorny halls, each three in one,The chestnuts throw on our path in showers!For the drop of the woodland fruit's begun,These early November hours,That crimson the creeper's leaf acrossLike a splash of blood, intense, abrupt,O'er a shield else gold from rim to boss,And lay it for show on the fairy-cuppedElf-needled mat of moss,By the rose-flesh mushrooms, undivulgedLast evening—nay, in to-day's first dewYon sudden coral nipple bulged,Where a freaked fawn-colored flaky crewOf toad-stools peep indulged.And yonder, at foot of the fronting ridgeThat takes the turn to a range beyond,Is the chapel reached by the one-arched bridgeWhere the water is stopped in a stagnant pondDanced over by the midge.The chapel and bridge are of stone alike,Blackish-gray and mostly wet;Cut hemp-stalks steep in the narrow dyke.See here again, how the lichens fretAnd the roots of the ivy strike!Poor little place, where its one priest comesOn a festa-day, if he comes at all,To the dozen folk from their scattered homes,Gathered within that precinct smallBy the dozen ways one roams—To drop from the charcoal-burners' huts,Or climb from the hemp-dressers' low shed,Leave the grange where the woodman stores his nuts,Or the wattled cote where the fowlers spreadTheir gear on the rock's bare juts.It has some pretension too, this front,With its bit of fresco half-moon-wiseSet over the porch, Art's early wont:'T is John in the Desert, I surmise,But has borne the weather's brunt—Not from the fault of the builder, though,For a pent-house properly projectsWhere three carved beams make a certain show,Dating—good thought of our architect's—'Five, six, nine, he lets you know.And all day long a bird sings there,And a stray sheep drinks at the pond at times;The place is silent and aware;It has had its scenes, its joys and crimes,But that is its own affair.My perfect wife, my Leonor,Oh heart, my own, oh eyes, mine too,Whom else could I dare look backward for,With whom beside should I dare pursueThe path gray heads abhor?For it leads to a crag's sheer edge with them;Youth, flowery all the way, there stops—Not they; age threatens and they contemn,Till they reach the gulf wherein youth drops,One inch from life's safe hem!With me, youth led ... I will speak now,No longer watch you as you sitReading by fire-light, that great browAnd the spirit-small hand propping it,Mutely, my heart knows how—When, if I think but deep enough,You are wont to answer, prompt as rhyme;And you, too, find without rebuffResponse your soul seeks many a timePiercing its fine flesh-stuff.My own, confirm me! If I treadThis path back, is it not in prideTo think how little I dreamed it ledTo an age so blest that, by its side,Youth seems the waste instead?My own, see where the years conduct!At first, 't was something our two soulsShould mix as mists do; each is suckedIn each now: on, the new stream rolls,Whatever rocks obstruct.Think, when our one soul understandsThe great Word which makes all things new.When earth breaks up and heaven expands,How will the change strike me and youIn the house not made with hands?Oh, I must feel your brain prompt mine,Your heart anticipate my heart,You must be just before, in fine,See and make me see, for your part,New depths of the divine!But who could have expected thisWhen we two drew together firstJust for the obvious human bliss,To satisfy life's daily thirstWith a thing men seldom miss?Come back with me to the first of all,Let us lean and love it over again,Let us now forget and now recall,Break the rosary in a pearly rainAnd gather what we let fall!What did I say?—that a small bird singsAll day long, save when a brown pairOf hawks from the wood float with wide wingsStrained to a bell: 'gainst noonday glareYou count the streaks and rings.But at afternoon or almost eve'T is better; then the silence growsTo that degree, you half believeIt must get rid of what it knows,Its bosom does so heave.Hither we walked then, side by side,Arm in arm and cheek to cheek,And still I questioned or replied,While my heart, convulsed to really speak,Lay choking in its pride.Silent the crumbling bridge we cross,And pity and praise the chapel sweet,And care about the fresco's loss,And wish for our souls a like retreat,And wonder at the moss.Stoop and kneel on the settle under,Look through the window's grated square:Nothing to see! For fear of plunder,The cross is down and the altar bare,As if thieves don't fear thunder.We stoop and look in through the grate,See the little porch and rustic door,Read duly the dead builder's date;Then cross the bridge that we crossed before,Take the path again—but wait!Oh moment, one and infinite!The water slips o'er stock and stone;The West is tender, hardly bright:How gray at once is the evening grown—One star, its chrysolite!We two stood there with never a third,But each by each, as each knew well:The sights we saw and the sounds we heard,The lights and the shades made up a spellTill the trouble grew and stirred.Oh, the little more, and how much it is!And the little less, and what worlds away!How a sound shall quicken content to bliss,Or a breath suspend the blood's best play,And life be a proof of this!Had she willed it, still had stood the screenSo slight, so sure, 'twixt my love and her:I could fix her face with a guard between,And find her soul as when friends confer,Friends—lovers that might have been.For my heart had a touch of the woodland-time,Wanting to sleep now over its best.Shake the whole tree in the summer-prime,But bring to the last leaf no such test!"Hold the last fast!" runs the rhyme.For a chance to make your little much,To gain a lover and lose a friend,Venture the tree and a myriad such,When nothing you mar but the year can mend:But a last leaf—fear to touch!Yet should it unfasten itself and fallEddying down till it find your faceAt some slight wind—best chance of all!Be your heart henceforth its dwelling-placeYou trembled to forestall!Worth how well, those dark gray eyes,That hair so dark and dear, how worthThat a man should strive and agonize,And taste a veriest hell on earthFor the hope of such a prize!You might have turned and tried a man,Set him a space to weary and wear,And prove which suited more your plan,His best of hope or his worst despair,Yet end as he began.But you spared me this, like the heart you are,And filled my empty heart at a word.If two lives join, there is oft a scar,They are one and one, with a shadowy third;One near one is too far.A moment after, and hands unseenWere hanging the night around us fast;But we knew that a bar was broken betweenLife and life: we were mixed at lastIn spite of the mortal screen.The forests had done it; there they stood;We caught for a moment the powers at play;They had mingled us so, for once and good,Their work was done—we might go or stay,They relapsed to their ancient mood.How the world is made for each of us!How all we perceive and know in itTends to some moment's product thus,When a soul declares itself—to wit,By its fruit, the thing it does!Be hate that fruit or love that fruit,It forwards the general deed of man,And each of the Many helps to recruitThe life of the race by a general plan;Each living his own, to boot.I am named and known by that moment's feat;There took my station and degree;So grew my own small life complete,As nature obtained her best of me—One born to love you, sweet!And to watch you sink by the fireside nowBack again, as you mutely sitMusing by fire-light, that great browAnd the spirit-small hand propping it,Yonder, my heart knows how!So, earth has gained by one man the more,And the gain of earth must be heaven's gain too;And the whole is well worth thinking o'erWhen autumn comes: which I mean to doOne day, as I said before.

How well I know what I mean to doWhen the long dark autumn evenings come;And where, my soul, is thy pleasant hue?With the music of all thy voices, dumbIn life's November too!

How well I know what I mean to do

When the long dark autumn evenings come;

And where, my soul, is thy pleasant hue?

With the music of all thy voices, dumb

In life's November too!

I shall be found by the fire, suppose,O'er a great wise book as beseemeth age,While the shutters flap as the cross-wind blows,And I turn the page, and I turn the page,Not verse now, only prose!

I shall be found by the fire, suppose,

O'er a great wise book as beseemeth age,

While the shutters flap as the cross-wind blows,

And I turn the page, and I turn the page,

Not verse now, only prose!

Till the young ones whisper, finger on lip,"There he is at it, deep in Greek:Now then, or never, out we slipTo cut from the hazels by the creekA mainmast for our ship!"

Till the young ones whisper, finger on lip,

"There he is at it, deep in Greek:

Now then, or never, out we slip

To cut from the hazels by the creek

A mainmast for our ship!"

I shall be at it indeed, my friends!Greek puts already on either sideSuch a branch-work forth as soon extendsTo a vista opening far and wide,And I pass out where it ends.

I shall be at it indeed, my friends!

Greek puts already on either side

Such a branch-work forth as soon extends

To a vista opening far and wide,

And I pass out where it ends.

The outside-frame, like your hazel-trees—But the inside-archway widens fast,And a rarer sort succeeds to these,And we slope to Italy at lastAnd youth, by green degrees.

The outside-frame, like your hazel-trees—

But the inside-archway widens fast,

And a rarer sort succeeds to these,

And we slope to Italy at last

And youth, by green degrees.

I follow wherever I am led,Knowing so well the leader's hand:Oh woman-country, wooed not wed,Loved all the more by earth's male-lands,Laid to their hearts instead!

I follow wherever I am led,

Knowing so well the leader's hand:

Oh woman-country, wooed not wed,

Loved all the more by earth's male-lands,

Laid to their hearts instead!

Look at the ruined chapel againHalf-way up in the Alpine gorge!Is that a tower, I point you plain,Or is it a mill, or an iron forgeBreaks solitude in vain?

Look at the ruined chapel again

Half-way up in the Alpine gorge!

Is that a tower, I point you plain,

Or is it a mill, or an iron forge

Breaks solitude in vain?

A turn, and we stand in the heart of things;The woods are round us, heaped and dim;From slab to slab how it slips and springs,The thread of water single and slim,Through the ravage some torrent brings!

A turn, and we stand in the heart of things;

The woods are round us, heaped and dim;

From slab to slab how it slips and springs,

The thread of water single and slim,

Through the ravage some torrent brings!

Does it feed the little lake below?That speck of white just on its margeIs Pella; see, in the evening-glow,How sharp the silver spear-heads chargeWhen Alp meets heaven in snow!

Does it feed the little lake below?

That speck of white just on its marge

Is Pella; see, in the evening-glow,

How sharp the silver spear-heads charge

When Alp meets heaven in snow!

On our other side is the straight-up rock;And a path is kept 'twixt the gorge and itBy boulder-stones where lichens mockThe marks on a moth, and small ferns fitTheir teeth to the polished block.

On our other side is the straight-up rock;

And a path is kept 'twixt the gorge and it

By boulder-stones where lichens mock

The marks on a moth, and small ferns fit

Their teeth to the polished block.

Oh the sense of the yellow mountain-flowers,And thorny halls, each three in one,The chestnuts throw on our path in showers!For the drop of the woodland fruit's begun,These early November hours,

Oh the sense of the yellow mountain-flowers,

And thorny halls, each three in one,

The chestnuts throw on our path in showers!

For the drop of the woodland fruit's begun,

These early November hours,

That crimson the creeper's leaf acrossLike a splash of blood, intense, abrupt,O'er a shield else gold from rim to boss,And lay it for show on the fairy-cuppedElf-needled mat of moss,

That crimson the creeper's leaf across

Like a splash of blood, intense, abrupt,

O'er a shield else gold from rim to boss,

And lay it for show on the fairy-cupped

Elf-needled mat of moss,

By the rose-flesh mushrooms, undivulgedLast evening—nay, in to-day's first dewYon sudden coral nipple bulged,Where a freaked fawn-colored flaky crewOf toad-stools peep indulged.

By the rose-flesh mushrooms, undivulged

Last evening—nay, in to-day's first dew

Yon sudden coral nipple bulged,

Where a freaked fawn-colored flaky crew

Of toad-stools peep indulged.

And yonder, at foot of the fronting ridgeThat takes the turn to a range beyond,Is the chapel reached by the one-arched bridgeWhere the water is stopped in a stagnant pondDanced over by the midge.

And yonder, at foot of the fronting ridge

That takes the turn to a range beyond,

Is the chapel reached by the one-arched bridge

Where the water is stopped in a stagnant pond

Danced over by the midge.

The chapel and bridge are of stone alike,Blackish-gray and mostly wet;Cut hemp-stalks steep in the narrow dyke.See here again, how the lichens fretAnd the roots of the ivy strike!

The chapel and bridge are of stone alike,

Blackish-gray and mostly wet;

Cut hemp-stalks steep in the narrow dyke.

See here again, how the lichens fret

And the roots of the ivy strike!

Poor little place, where its one priest comesOn a festa-day, if he comes at all,To the dozen folk from their scattered homes,Gathered within that precinct smallBy the dozen ways one roams—

Poor little place, where its one priest comes

On a festa-day, if he comes at all,

To the dozen folk from their scattered homes,

Gathered within that precinct small

By the dozen ways one roams—

To drop from the charcoal-burners' huts,Or climb from the hemp-dressers' low shed,Leave the grange where the woodman stores his nuts,Or the wattled cote where the fowlers spreadTheir gear on the rock's bare juts.

To drop from the charcoal-burners' huts,

Or climb from the hemp-dressers' low shed,

Leave the grange where the woodman stores his nuts,

Or the wattled cote where the fowlers spread

Their gear on the rock's bare juts.

It has some pretension too, this front,With its bit of fresco half-moon-wiseSet over the porch, Art's early wont:'T is John in the Desert, I surmise,But has borne the weather's brunt—

It has some pretension too, this front,

With its bit of fresco half-moon-wise

Set over the porch, Art's early wont:

'T is John in the Desert, I surmise,

But has borne the weather's brunt—

Not from the fault of the builder, though,For a pent-house properly projectsWhere three carved beams make a certain show,Dating—good thought of our architect's—'Five, six, nine, he lets you know.

Not from the fault of the builder, though,

For a pent-house properly projects

Where three carved beams make a certain show,

Dating—good thought of our architect's—

'Five, six, nine, he lets you know.

And all day long a bird sings there,And a stray sheep drinks at the pond at times;The place is silent and aware;It has had its scenes, its joys and crimes,But that is its own affair.

And all day long a bird sings there,

And a stray sheep drinks at the pond at times;

The place is silent and aware;

It has had its scenes, its joys and crimes,

But that is its own affair.

My perfect wife, my Leonor,Oh heart, my own, oh eyes, mine too,Whom else could I dare look backward for,With whom beside should I dare pursueThe path gray heads abhor?

My perfect wife, my Leonor,

Oh heart, my own, oh eyes, mine too,

Whom else could I dare look backward for,

With whom beside should I dare pursue

The path gray heads abhor?

For it leads to a crag's sheer edge with them;Youth, flowery all the way, there stops—Not they; age threatens and they contemn,Till they reach the gulf wherein youth drops,One inch from life's safe hem!

For it leads to a crag's sheer edge with them;

Youth, flowery all the way, there stops—

Not they; age threatens and they contemn,

Till they reach the gulf wherein youth drops,

One inch from life's safe hem!

With me, youth led ... I will speak now,No longer watch you as you sitReading by fire-light, that great browAnd the spirit-small hand propping it,Mutely, my heart knows how—

With me, youth led ... I will speak now,

No longer watch you as you sit

Reading by fire-light, that great brow

And the spirit-small hand propping it,

Mutely, my heart knows how—

When, if I think but deep enough,You are wont to answer, prompt as rhyme;And you, too, find without rebuffResponse your soul seeks many a timePiercing its fine flesh-stuff.

When, if I think but deep enough,

You are wont to answer, prompt as rhyme;

And you, too, find without rebuff

Response your soul seeks many a time

Piercing its fine flesh-stuff.

My own, confirm me! If I treadThis path back, is it not in prideTo think how little I dreamed it ledTo an age so blest that, by its side,Youth seems the waste instead?

My own, confirm me! If I tread

This path back, is it not in pride

To think how little I dreamed it led

To an age so blest that, by its side,

Youth seems the waste instead?

My own, see where the years conduct!At first, 't was something our two soulsShould mix as mists do; each is suckedIn each now: on, the new stream rolls,Whatever rocks obstruct.

My own, see where the years conduct!

At first, 't was something our two souls

Should mix as mists do; each is sucked

In each now: on, the new stream rolls,

Whatever rocks obstruct.

Think, when our one soul understandsThe great Word which makes all things new.When earth breaks up and heaven expands,How will the change strike me and youIn the house not made with hands?

Think, when our one soul understands

The great Word which makes all things new.

When earth breaks up and heaven expands,

How will the change strike me and you

In the house not made with hands?

Oh, I must feel your brain prompt mine,Your heart anticipate my heart,You must be just before, in fine,See and make me see, for your part,New depths of the divine!

Oh, I must feel your brain prompt mine,

Your heart anticipate my heart,

You must be just before, in fine,

See and make me see, for your part,

New depths of the divine!

But who could have expected thisWhen we two drew together firstJust for the obvious human bliss,To satisfy life's daily thirstWith a thing men seldom miss?

But who could have expected this

When we two drew together first

Just for the obvious human bliss,

To satisfy life's daily thirst

With a thing men seldom miss?

Come back with me to the first of all,Let us lean and love it over again,Let us now forget and now recall,Break the rosary in a pearly rainAnd gather what we let fall!

Come back with me to the first of all,

Let us lean and love it over again,

Let us now forget and now recall,

Break the rosary in a pearly rain

And gather what we let fall!

What did I say?—that a small bird singsAll day long, save when a brown pairOf hawks from the wood float with wide wingsStrained to a bell: 'gainst noonday glareYou count the streaks and rings.

What did I say?—that a small bird sings

All day long, save when a brown pair

Of hawks from the wood float with wide wings

Strained to a bell: 'gainst noonday glare

You count the streaks and rings.

But at afternoon or almost eve'T is better; then the silence growsTo that degree, you half believeIt must get rid of what it knows,Its bosom does so heave.

But at afternoon or almost eve

'T is better; then the silence grows

To that degree, you half believe

It must get rid of what it knows,

Its bosom does so heave.

Hither we walked then, side by side,Arm in arm and cheek to cheek,And still I questioned or replied,While my heart, convulsed to really speak,Lay choking in its pride.

Hither we walked then, side by side,

Arm in arm and cheek to cheek,

And still I questioned or replied,

While my heart, convulsed to really speak,

Lay choking in its pride.

Silent the crumbling bridge we cross,And pity and praise the chapel sweet,And care about the fresco's loss,And wish for our souls a like retreat,And wonder at the moss.

Silent the crumbling bridge we cross,

And pity and praise the chapel sweet,

And care about the fresco's loss,

And wish for our souls a like retreat,

And wonder at the moss.

Stoop and kneel on the settle under,Look through the window's grated square:Nothing to see! For fear of plunder,The cross is down and the altar bare,As if thieves don't fear thunder.

Stoop and kneel on the settle under,

Look through the window's grated square:

Nothing to see! For fear of plunder,

The cross is down and the altar bare,

As if thieves don't fear thunder.

We stoop and look in through the grate,See the little porch and rustic door,Read duly the dead builder's date;Then cross the bridge that we crossed before,Take the path again—but wait!

We stoop and look in through the grate,

See the little porch and rustic door,

Read duly the dead builder's date;

Then cross the bridge that we crossed before,

Take the path again—but wait!

Oh moment, one and infinite!The water slips o'er stock and stone;The West is tender, hardly bright:How gray at once is the evening grown—One star, its chrysolite!

Oh moment, one and infinite!

The water slips o'er stock and stone;

The West is tender, hardly bright:

How gray at once is the evening grown—

One star, its chrysolite!

We two stood there with never a third,But each by each, as each knew well:The sights we saw and the sounds we heard,The lights and the shades made up a spellTill the trouble grew and stirred.

We two stood there with never a third,

But each by each, as each knew well:

The sights we saw and the sounds we heard,

The lights and the shades made up a spell

Till the trouble grew and stirred.

Oh, the little more, and how much it is!And the little less, and what worlds away!How a sound shall quicken content to bliss,Or a breath suspend the blood's best play,And life be a proof of this!

Oh, the little more, and how much it is!

And the little less, and what worlds away!

How a sound shall quicken content to bliss,

Or a breath suspend the blood's best play,

And life be a proof of this!

Had she willed it, still had stood the screenSo slight, so sure, 'twixt my love and her:I could fix her face with a guard between,And find her soul as when friends confer,Friends—lovers that might have been.

Had she willed it, still had stood the screen

So slight, so sure, 'twixt my love and her:

I could fix her face with a guard between,

And find her soul as when friends confer,

Friends—lovers that might have been.

For my heart had a touch of the woodland-time,Wanting to sleep now over its best.Shake the whole tree in the summer-prime,But bring to the last leaf no such test!"Hold the last fast!" runs the rhyme.

For my heart had a touch of the woodland-time,

Wanting to sleep now over its best.

Shake the whole tree in the summer-prime,

But bring to the last leaf no such test!

"Hold the last fast!" runs the rhyme.

For a chance to make your little much,To gain a lover and lose a friend,Venture the tree and a myriad such,When nothing you mar but the year can mend:But a last leaf—fear to touch!

For a chance to make your little much,

To gain a lover and lose a friend,

Venture the tree and a myriad such,

When nothing you mar but the year can mend:

But a last leaf—fear to touch!

Yet should it unfasten itself and fallEddying down till it find your faceAt some slight wind—best chance of all!Be your heart henceforth its dwelling-placeYou trembled to forestall!

Yet should it unfasten itself and fall

Eddying down till it find your face

At some slight wind—best chance of all!

Be your heart henceforth its dwelling-place

You trembled to forestall!

Worth how well, those dark gray eyes,That hair so dark and dear, how worthThat a man should strive and agonize,And taste a veriest hell on earthFor the hope of such a prize!

Worth how well, those dark gray eyes,

That hair so dark and dear, how worth

That a man should strive and agonize,

And taste a veriest hell on earth

For the hope of such a prize!

You might have turned and tried a man,Set him a space to weary and wear,And prove which suited more your plan,His best of hope or his worst despair,Yet end as he began.

You might have turned and tried a man,

Set him a space to weary and wear,

And prove which suited more your plan,

His best of hope or his worst despair,

Yet end as he began.

But you spared me this, like the heart you are,And filled my empty heart at a word.If two lives join, there is oft a scar,They are one and one, with a shadowy third;One near one is too far.

But you spared me this, like the heart you are,

And filled my empty heart at a word.

If two lives join, there is oft a scar,

They are one and one, with a shadowy third;

One near one is too far.

A moment after, and hands unseenWere hanging the night around us fast;But we knew that a bar was broken betweenLife and life: we were mixed at lastIn spite of the mortal screen.

A moment after, and hands unseen

Were hanging the night around us fast;

But we knew that a bar was broken between

Life and life: we were mixed at last

In spite of the mortal screen.

The forests had done it; there they stood;We caught for a moment the powers at play;They had mingled us so, for once and good,Their work was done—we might go or stay,They relapsed to their ancient mood.

The forests had done it; there they stood;

We caught for a moment the powers at play;

They had mingled us so, for once and good,

Their work was done—we might go or stay,

They relapsed to their ancient mood.

How the world is made for each of us!How all we perceive and know in itTends to some moment's product thus,When a soul declares itself—to wit,By its fruit, the thing it does!

How the world is made for each of us!

How all we perceive and know in it

Tends to some moment's product thus,

When a soul declares itself—to wit,

By its fruit, the thing it does!

Be hate that fruit or love that fruit,It forwards the general deed of man,And each of the Many helps to recruitThe life of the race by a general plan;Each living his own, to boot.

Be hate that fruit or love that fruit,

It forwards the general deed of man,

And each of the Many helps to recruit

The life of the race by a general plan;

Each living his own, to boot.

I am named and known by that moment's feat;There took my station and degree;So grew my own small life complete,As nature obtained her best of me—One born to love you, sweet!

I am named and known by that moment's feat;

There took my station and degree;

So grew my own small life complete,

As nature obtained her best of me—

One born to love you, sweet!

And to watch you sink by the fireside nowBack again, as you mutely sitMusing by fire-light, that great browAnd the spirit-small hand propping it,Yonder, my heart knows how!

And to watch you sink by the fireside now

Back again, as you mutely sit

Musing by fire-light, that great brow

And the spirit-small hand propping it,

Yonder, my heart knows how!

So, earth has gained by one man the more,And the gain of earth must be heaven's gain too;And the whole is well worth thinking o'erWhen autumn comes: which I mean to doOne day, as I said before.

So, earth has gained by one man the more,

And the gain of earth must be heaven's gain too;

And the whole is well worth thinking o'er

When autumn comes: which I mean to do

One day, as I said before.

ANY WIFE TO ANY HUSBAND

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