MISCELLANEOUS POEMS.

MISCELLANEOUS POEMS.MISCELLANEOUS POEMS.

Great Arês, whose tempestuous godhood foundDelight in those thick-tangled solitudesOf Hebrus, watered tracts of rugged Thrace,—Great Arês, scouring the Odrysian wilds,There met Alectryôn, a Thracian boy,Stalwart beyond his years, and swift of footTo hunt from morn till eve the white-toothed boar.“What hero,” said the war-God, “joined his bloodWith that of Hæmian nymph, to make thy formSo fair, thy soul so daring, and thy thewsSo lusty for the contest on the plainsWherein the fleet Odrysæ tame their steeds?”From that time forth the twain together chasedThe boar, or made their coursers cleave the breadthOf yellow Hebrus, and, through vales beyond,Drove the hot leopard foaming to his lair.And day by day Alectryôn dearer grewTo the God’s restless spirit, till from ThraceHe bore him, even to Olympos; thereBefore him set immortal food and wine,That fairer youth and lustier strength might serveHis henchman; bade him bear his arms, and cleanseThe crimsoned burnish of his brazen car:So dwelt the Thracian youth among the Gods.There came a day when Arês left at restHis spear, and smoothed his harmful, unhelmed brow,Calling Alectryôn to his side, and said:“The shadow of Olympos longer fallsThrough misty valleys of the lower world;The Earth shall be at peace a summer’s night;Men shall have calm, and the unconquered hostPeopling the walls of Troas, and the tribesOf Greece, shall sleep sweet sleep upon their arms;For Aphroditê, queen of light and love,Awaits me, blooming in the House of Fire,Girt with the cestus, infinite in grace,Dearer than battle and the joy of war:She, for whose charms I would renounce the swordForever, even godhood, would she wreatheMy brows with myrtle, dwelling far from Heaven.Hêphæstos, the lame cuckold, unto whoseMisshapen squalor Zeus hath given my queen,To-night seeks Lemnos, and his sooty vaultRoofed by the roaring surge; wherein, betimes,He and his Cyclops pound the ringing iron,Forging great bolts for Zeus, and welding mail,White-hot, in shapes for Heroes and the Gods.Do thou, Alectryôn, faithful to my trust,Hie with me to the mystic House of Fire.Therein, with wine and fruitage of her isle,Sweet odors, and all rarest sights and sounds,My Paphian mistress shall regale us twain.But when the feast is over, and thou seestArês and Aphroditê pass beyondThe portals of that chamber whence all windsOf love flow ever toward the fourfold Earth,Watch by the entrance, sleepless, while we sleep;And warn us ere the glimpses of the Dawn;Lest Hêlios, the spy, may peer withinOur windows, and to Lemnos speed apace,In envy clamoring to the hobbling smith,Hêphæstos, of the wrong I do his bed.”Thus Arês; and the Thracian boy, well pleased,Swore to be faithful to his trust, and liegeTo her, the perfect queen of light and love.So saying, they reached the fiery, brazen gates,Encolumned high by Heaven’s artisan,Hêphæstos, rough, begrimed, and halt of foot,—Yet unto whom was Aphroditê givenBy Zeus, because from his misshapen handsAll shapely things found being; but the giftBrought him no joyance, nor made pure his fame,Like those devices which he wrought himself,Grim, patient, unbeloved.There passed they inAt portals of the high, celestial House,And on beyond the starry-golden court,Through amorous hidden ways, and winding pathsSet round with splendors, to the spangled hallOf secret audience for noble guests.Here Charis labored, so Hêphæstos bade,Moulding the room’s adornments; here she builtLow couches, framed in ivory, overlainWith skins of pard and panther, and the fleeceOf sheep which graze the low Hesperian isles;And in the midst a cedarn table spread,Whereon the loves of all the elder GodsWere wrought in gold and silver; and the lightOf quenchless rubies sparkled over all.Thus far came Arês and Alectryôn,First leaving shield and falchion at the door,That naught of violence should haunt that airSerene, but laughter-loving peace, and joysThe meed of Gods, once given men to know.Then, from her daïs in the utmost hall,Shone toward them Aphroditê, not by firm,Imperial footfalls, but in measurelessProcession, even as, wafted by her doves,She kissed the faces of the yearning wavesFrom Cyprus to the high Thessalian mount,Claiming her throne in Heaven; so light she stept,Untended by her Graces; only he,Erôs, th’ eternal child, with welcomingsSprang forward to Arês, like a beam of lightFlashed from a coming brightness, ere it comes;And the ambrosial mother to his gleeJoined her own joy, coy as she glided nearArês, till Arês closed her in his armsAn instant, with the perfect love of Gods.And the wide chamber gleamed with their delight,And infinite tinkling laughters rippled throughFar halls, wherefrom no boding echoes came.But when the passion of their meeting fellTo dalliance, the mighty lovers, sunkWithin those ivory couches golden-fleeced,Made wassail at the wondrous board, and heldSweet stolen converse till the middle night.And soulless servitors came gliding in,Handmaidens, wrought of gold, the marvellous workOf lame Hêphæstos; having neither will,Nor voice, yet bearing on their golden traysLush fruits and Cyprian wine, and, intermixt,Olympian food and nectar, earth with heaven.These Erôs and Alectryôn took therefrom,And placed before the lovers; and, meanwhile,Melodious breathings from unfingered lutes,Warblings from unseen nightingales, and songsFrom lips uncrimsoned, scattered music round.So fled the light-shod moments, hour by hour,While the grim husband clanged upon his forgeIn lurid caverns of the distant isle,Unboding, and unheeded in his home,Save with a scornful jest. Till now the crownOf Artemis shone at her topmost height:Then rose the impassioned lovers, with rapt eyesFixed each on each, and passed beyond the hall,Through curtains of that chamber whence all windsOf love flow ever toward the fourfold Earth;At whose dim vestibule AlectryônDisposed him, mindful of his master’s word;But Erôs, heavy-eyed, long since had slept,Deep-muffled in the softness of his plumes.And all was silence in the House of Fire.Only Alectryôn, through brazen bars,Watched the blue East for Eôs, she whose torchShould warn him of the coming of the Sun.Even thus he kept his vigils; but, ere halfHer silvery downward path the Huntress knew,His senses by that rich immortal foodGrew numbed with languor. Then the shadowy hall’sDeep columns glimmered, interblent with dreams,—Thick forests, running waters, darkling cavesOf Thrace; and half in thought he grasped the bow;Hunted once more within his native wilds,Cheering the hounds; until before his eyesThe drapery of all nearer pictures fell,And his limbs drooped. Whereat the imp of Sleep,Hypnos, who hid him at the outer gate,Slid in with silken-sandalled feet, and laidA subtle finger on his lids. And so,Crouched at the warder-post, Alectryôn slept.Meanwhile the God and Goddess, recking noughtOf evil, trusting to the faithful boy,Sank satiate in the calm of trancéd rest.And past the sleeping warder, deep withinThe portals of that chamber whence all windsOf love flow ever toward the fourfold Earth,Hypnos kept on, walking, yet half afloatIn the sweet air; and fluttering with cool wingsAbove their couch fanned the reposeful pairTo slumber. Thus, a careless twilight hour,Unknowing Eôs and her torch, they slept.Ill-fated rest! Awake, ye fleet-winged Loves,Your mistress! Eôs, rouse the sleeping God,And warn him of the coming of the Day!Alectryôn, wake! In vain: Eôs swept by,Radiant, a blushing finger on her lips.In vain! Close on her flight, from furthest East,The peering Hêlios drove his lambent car,Casting the tell-tale beams on earth and sky,Until Olympos laughed within his light,And all the House of Fire grew roofed with gold;And through its brazen windows Hêlios gazedUpon the sleeping lovers: thence awayTo Lemnos flashed, across the rearward sea,A messenger, from whom the vengeful smith,Hêphæstos, learned the story of his wrongs;Whence afterward rude scandal spread through Heaven.But they, the lovers, startled from sweet sleepBy garish Day, stood timorous and mute,Even as a regal pair, the hart and hind,When first the keynote of the clarion hornPierces their covert, and the deep-mouthed houndBays, following on the trail; then, with small pauseFor amorous partings, sped in diverse ways.She, Aphroditê, clothed in pearly cloud,Dropt from Olympos to the eastern shore;Thence floated, half in shame, half laughter-pleased,Southward across the blue Ægæan sea,That had a thousand little dimpling smilesAt her discomfort, and a thousand eyesTo shoot irreverent glances. But her conchPassed the Eubœan coasts, and softly onBy rugged Dêlos, and the gentler slopeOf Naxos, to Icarian waves serene;Thence sailed betwixt fair Rhodos, on the left,And windy Carpathos, until it touchedCyprus; and soon the conscious Goddess foundHer bower in the hollow of the isle;And wondering nymphs in their white arms receivedTheir white-armed mistress, bathing her fair limbsIn fragrant dews, twining her lucent hairWith roses, and with kisses soothing her;Till, glowing in fresh loveliness, she sankTo stillness, tended in the sacred isle,And hid herself awhile from all her peers.But angry Arês faced the treacherous Morn,Spurning the palace tower; nor looked behind,Disdainful of himself and secret joysThat stript him to the laughter of the Gods.Toward the East he made, and overhungThe broad Thermaic gulf; then, shunning wellThe crags of Lemnos, by Mount Athôs stayedA moment, mute; thence hurtled sheer away,Across the murmuring Northern sea, whose wavesAre swollen in billows ruffled with the cuffsOf endless winds; so reached the shores of Thrace,And spleen pursued him in the tangled wilds.Hither at eventide remorseful cameAlectryôn; but the indignant God,With harsh revilings, changed him to the Cock,That evermore, remembering his fault,Heralds with warning voice the coming Day.

Great Arês, whose tempestuous godhood found

Delight in those thick-tangled solitudes

Of Hebrus, watered tracts of rugged Thrace,—

Great Arês, scouring the Odrysian wilds,

There met Alectryôn, a Thracian boy,

Stalwart beyond his years, and swift of foot

To hunt from morn till eve the white-toothed boar.

“What hero,” said the war-God, “joined his blood

With that of Hæmian nymph, to make thy form

So fair, thy soul so daring, and thy thews

So lusty for the contest on the plains

Wherein the fleet Odrysæ tame their steeds?”

From that time forth the twain together chasedThe boar, or made their coursers cleave the breadthOf yellow Hebrus, and, through vales beyond,Drove the hot leopard foaming to his lair.And day by day Alectryôn dearer grewTo the God’s restless spirit, till from ThraceHe bore him, even to Olympos; thereBefore him set immortal food and wine,That fairer youth and lustier strength might serveHis henchman; bade him bear his arms, and cleanseThe crimsoned burnish of his brazen car:So dwelt the Thracian youth among the Gods.

From that time forth the twain together chased

The boar, or made their coursers cleave the breadth

Of yellow Hebrus, and, through vales beyond,

Drove the hot leopard foaming to his lair.

And day by day Alectryôn dearer grew

To the God’s restless spirit, till from Thrace

He bore him, even to Olympos; there

Before him set immortal food and wine,

That fairer youth and lustier strength might serve

His henchman; bade him bear his arms, and cleanse

The crimsoned burnish of his brazen car:

So dwelt the Thracian youth among the Gods.

There came a day when Arês left at restHis spear, and smoothed his harmful, unhelmed brow,Calling Alectryôn to his side, and said:“The shadow of Olympos longer fallsThrough misty valleys of the lower world;The Earth shall be at peace a summer’s night;Men shall have calm, and the unconquered hostPeopling the walls of Troas, and the tribesOf Greece, shall sleep sweet sleep upon their arms;For Aphroditê, queen of light and love,Awaits me, blooming in the House of Fire,Girt with the cestus, infinite in grace,Dearer than battle and the joy of war:She, for whose charms I would renounce the swordForever, even godhood, would she wreatheMy brows with myrtle, dwelling far from Heaven.Hêphæstos, the lame cuckold, unto whoseMisshapen squalor Zeus hath given my queen,To-night seeks Lemnos, and his sooty vaultRoofed by the roaring surge; wherein, betimes,He and his Cyclops pound the ringing iron,Forging great bolts for Zeus, and welding mail,White-hot, in shapes for Heroes and the Gods.Do thou, Alectryôn, faithful to my trust,Hie with me to the mystic House of Fire.Therein, with wine and fruitage of her isle,Sweet odors, and all rarest sights and sounds,My Paphian mistress shall regale us twain.But when the feast is over, and thou seestArês and Aphroditê pass beyondThe portals of that chamber whence all windsOf love flow ever toward the fourfold Earth,Watch by the entrance, sleepless, while we sleep;And warn us ere the glimpses of the Dawn;Lest Hêlios, the spy, may peer withinOur windows, and to Lemnos speed apace,In envy clamoring to the hobbling smith,Hêphæstos, of the wrong I do his bed.”

There came a day when Arês left at rest

His spear, and smoothed his harmful, unhelmed brow,

Calling Alectryôn to his side, and said:

“The shadow of Olympos longer falls

Through misty valleys of the lower world;

The Earth shall be at peace a summer’s night;

Men shall have calm, and the unconquered host

Peopling the walls of Troas, and the tribes

Of Greece, shall sleep sweet sleep upon their arms;

For Aphroditê, queen of light and love,

Awaits me, blooming in the House of Fire,

Girt with the cestus, infinite in grace,

Dearer than battle and the joy of war:

She, for whose charms I would renounce the sword

Forever, even godhood, would she wreathe

My brows with myrtle, dwelling far from Heaven.

Hêphæstos, the lame cuckold, unto whose

Misshapen squalor Zeus hath given my queen,

To-night seeks Lemnos, and his sooty vault

Roofed by the roaring surge; wherein, betimes,

He and his Cyclops pound the ringing iron,

Forging great bolts for Zeus, and welding mail,

White-hot, in shapes for Heroes and the Gods.

Do thou, Alectryôn, faithful to my trust,

Hie with me to the mystic House of Fire.

Therein, with wine and fruitage of her isle,

Sweet odors, and all rarest sights and sounds,

My Paphian mistress shall regale us twain.

But when the feast is over, and thou seest

Arês and Aphroditê pass beyond

The portals of that chamber whence all winds

Of love flow ever toward the fourfold Earth,

Watch by the entrance, sleepless, while we sleep;

And warn us ere the glimpses of the Dawn;

Lest Hêlios, the spy, may peer within

Our windows, and to Lemnos speed apace,

In envy clamoring to the hobbling smith,

Hêphæstos, of the wrong I do his bed.”

Thus Arês; and the Thracian boy, well pleased,Swore to be faithful to his trust, and liegeTo her, the perfect queen of light and love.So saying, they reached the fiery, brazen gates,Encolumned high by Heaven’s artisan,Hêphæstos, rough, begrimed, and halt of foot,—Yet unto whom was Aphroditê givenBy Zeus, because from his misshapen handsAll shapely things found being; but the giftBrought him no joyance, nor made pure his fame,Like those devices which he wrought himself,Grim, patient, unbeloved.

Thus Arês; and the Thracian boy, well pleased,

Swore to be faithful to his trust, and liege

To her, the perfect queen of light and love.

So saying, they reached the fiery, brazen gates,

Encolumned high by Heaven’s artisan,

Hêphæstos, rough, begrimed, and halt of foot,—

Yet unto whom was Aphroditê given

By Zeus, because from his misshapen hands

All shapely things found being; but the gift

Brought him no joyance, nor made pure his fame,

Like those devices which he wrought himself,

Grim, patient, unbeloved.

There passed they inAt portals of the high, celestial House,And on beyond the starry-golden court,Through amorous hidden ways, and winding pathsSet round with splendors, to the spangled hallOf secret audience for noble guests.Here Charis labored, so Hêphæstos bade,Moulding the room’s adornments; here she builtLow couches, framed in ivory, overlainWith skins of pard and panther, and the fleeceOf sheep which graze the low Hesperian isles;And in the midst a cedarn table spread,Whereon the loves of all the elder GodsWere wrought in gold and silver; and the lightOf quenchless rubies sparkled over all.Thus far came Arês and Alectryôn,First leaving shield and falchion at the door,That naught of violence should haunt that airSerene, but laughter-loving peace, and joysThe meed of Gods, once given men to know.

There passed they in

At portals of the high, celestial House,

And on beyond the starry-golden court,

Through amorous hidden ways, and winding paths

Set round with splendors, to the spangled hall

Of secret audience for noble guests.

Here Charis labored, so Hêphæstos bade,

Moulding the room’s adornments; here she built

Low couches, framed in ivory, overlain

With skins of pard and panther, and the fleece

Of sheep which graze the low Hesperian isles;

And in the midst a cedarn table spread,

Whereon the loves of all the elder Gods

Were wrought in gold and silver; and the light

Of quenchless rubies sparkled over all.

Thus far came Arês and Alectryôn,

First leaving shield and falchion at the door,

That naught of violence should haunt that air

Serene, but laughter-loving peace, and joys

The meed of Gods, once given men to know.

Then, from her daïs in the utmost hall,Shone toward them Aphroditê, not by firm,Imperial footfalls, but in measurelessProcession, even as, wafted by her doves,She kissed the faces of the yearning wavesFrom Cyprus to the high Thessalian mount,Claiming her throne in Heaven; so light she stept,Untended by her Graces; only he,Erôs, th’ eternal child, with welcomingsSprang forward to Arês, like a beam of lightFlashed from a coming brightness, ere it comes;And the ambrosial mother to his gleeJoined her own joy, coy as she glided nearArês, till Arês closed her in his armsAn instant, with the perfect love of Gods.And the wide chamber gleamed with their delight,And infinite tinkling laughters rippled throughFar halls, wherefrom no boding echoes came.

Then, from her daïs in the utmost hall,

Shone toward them Aphroditê, not by firm,

Imperial footfalls, but in measureless

Procession, even as, wafted by her doves,

She kissed the faces of the yearning waves

From Cyprus to the high Thessalian mount,

Claiming her throne in Heaven; so light she stept,

Untended by her Graces; only he,

Erôs, th’ eternal child, with welcomings

Sprang forward to Arês, like a beam of light

Flashed from a coming brightness, ere it comes;

And the ambrosial mother to his glee

Joined her own joy, coy as she glided near

Arês, till Arês closed her in his arms

An instant, with the perfect love of Gods.

And the wide chamber gleamed with their delight,

And infinite tinkling laughters rippled through

Far halls, wherefrom no boding echoes came.

But when the passion of their meeting fellTo dalliance, the mighty lovers, sunkWithin those ivory couches golden-fleeced,Made wassail at the wondrous board, and heldSweet stolen converse till the middle night.And soulless servitors came gliding in,Handmaidens, wrought of gold, the marvellous workOf lame Hêphæstos; having neither will,Nor voice, yet bearing on their golden traysLush fruits and Cyprian wine, and, intermixt,Olympian food and nectar, earth with heaven.These Erôs and Alectryôn took therefrom,And placed before the lovers; and, meanwhile,Melodious breathings from unfingered lutes,Warblings from unseen nightingales, and songsFrom lips uncrimsoned, scattered music round.So fled the light-shod moments, hour by hour,While the grim husband clanged upon his forgeIn lurid caverns of the distant isle,Unboding, and unheeded in his home,Save with a scornful jest. Till now the crownOf Artemis shone at her topmost height:Then rose the impassioned lovers, with rapt eyesFixed each on each, and passed beyond the hall,Through curtains of that chamber whence all windsOf love flow ever toward the fourfold Earth;At whose dim vestibule AlectryônDisposed him, mindful of his master’s word;But Erôs, heavy-eyed, long since had slept,Deep-muffled in the softness of his plumes.And all was silence in the House of Fire.

But when the passion of their meeting fell

To dalliance, the mighty lovers, sunk

Within those ivory couches golden-fleeced,

Made wassail at the wondrous board, and held

Sweet stolen converse till the middle night.

And soulless servitors came gliding in,

Handmaidens, wrought of gold, the marvellous work

Of lame Hêphæstos; having neither will,

Nor voice, yet bearing on their golden trays

Lush fruits and Cyprian wine, and, intermixt,

Olympian food and nectar, earth with heaven.

These Erôs and Alectryôn took therefrom,

And placed before the lovers; and, meanwhile,

Melodious breathings from unfingered lutes,

Warblings from unseen nightingales, and songs

From lips uncrimsoned, scattered music round.

So fled the light-shod moments, hour by hour,

While the grim husband clanged upon his forge

In lurid caverns of the distant isle,

Unboding, and unheeded in his home,

Save with a scornful jest. Till now the crown

Of Artemis shone at her topmost height:

Then rose the impassioned lovers, with rapt eyes

Fixed each on each, and passed beyond the hall,

Through curtains of that chamber whence all winds

Of love flow ever toward the fourfold Earth;

At whose dim vestibule Alectryôn

Disposed him, mindful of his master’s word;

But Erôs, heavy-eyed, long since had slept,

Deep-muffled in the softness of his plumes.

And all was silence in the House of Fire.

Only Alectryôn, through brazen bars,Watched the blue East for Eôs, she whose torchShould warn him of the coming of the Sun.Even thus he kept his vigils; but, ere halfHer silvery downward path the Huntress knew,His senses by that rich immortal foodGrew numbed with languor. Then the shadowy hall’sDeep columns glimmered, interblent with dreams,—Thick forests, running waters, darkling cavesOf Thrace; and half in thought he grasped the bow;Hunted once more within his native wilds,Cheering the hounds; until before his eyesThe drapery of all nearer pictures fell,And his limbs drooped. Whereat the imp of Sleep,Hypnos, who hid him at the outer gate,Slid in with silken-sandalled feet, and laidA subtle finger on his lids. And so,Crouched at the warder-post, Alectryôn slept.

Only Alectryôn, through brazen bars,

Watched the blue East for Eôs, she whose torch

Should warn him of the coming of the Sun.

Even thus he kept his vigils; but, ere half

Her silvery downward path the Huntress knew,

His senses by that rich immortal food

Grew numbed with languor. Then the shadowy hall’s

Deep columns glimmered, interblent with dreams,—

Thick forests, running waters, darkling caves

Of Thrace; and half in thought he grasped the bow;

Hunted once more within his native wilds,

Cheering the hounds; until before his eyes

The drapery of all nearer pictures fell,

And his limbs drooped. Whereat the imp of Sleep,

Hypnos, who hid him at the outer gate,

Slid in with silken-sandalled feet, and laid

A subtle finger on his lids. And so,

Crouched at the warder-post, Alectryôn slept.

Meanwhile the God and Goddess, recking noughtOf evil, trusting to the faithful boy,Sank satiate in the calm of trancéd rest.And past the sleeping warder, deep withinThe portals of that chamber whence all windsOf love flow ever toward the fourfold Earth,Hypnos kept on, walking, yet half afloatIn the sweet air; and fluttering with cool wingsAbove their couch fanned the reposeful pairTo slumber. Thus, a careless twilight hour,Unknowing Eôs and her torch, they slept.

Meanwhile the God and Goddess, recking nought

Of evil, trusting to the faithful boy,

Sank satiate in the calm of trancéd rest.

And past the sleeping warder, deep within

The portals of that chamber whence all winds

Of love flow ever toward the fourfold Earth,

Hypnos kept on, walking, yet half afloat

In the sweet air; and fluttering with cool wings

Above their couch fanned the reposeful pair

To slumber. Thus, a careless twilight hour,

Unknowing Eôs and her torch, they slept.

Ill-fated rest! Awake, ye fleet-winged Loves,Your mistress! Eôs, rouse the sleeping God,And warn him of the coming of the Day!Alectryôn, wake! In vain: Eôs swept by,Radiant, a blushing finger on her lips.In vain! Close on her flight, from furthest East,The peering Hêlios drove his lambent car,Casting the tell-tale beams on earth and sky,Until Olympos laughed within his light,And all the House of Fire grew roofed with gold;And through its brazen windows Hêlios gazedUpon the sleeping lovers: thence awayTo Lemnos flashed, across the rearward sea,A messenger, from whom the vengeful smith,Hêphæstos, learned the story of his wrongs;Whence afterward rude scandal spread through Heaven.

Ill-fated rest! Awake, ye fleet-winged Loves,

Your mistress! Eôs, rouse the sleeping God,

And warn him of the coming of the Day!

Alectryôn, wake! In vain: Eôs swept by,

Radiant, a blushing finger on her lips.

In vain! Close on her flight, from furthest East,

The peering Hêlios drove his lambent car,

Casting the tell-tale beams on earth and sky,

Until Olympos laughed within his light,

And all the House of Fire grew roofed with gold;

And through its brazen windows Hêlios gazed

Upon the sleeping lovers: thence away

To Lemnos flashed, across the rearward sea,

A messenger, from whom the vengeful smith,

Hêphæstos, learned the story of his wrongs;

Whence afterward rude scandal spread through Heaven.

But they, the lovers, startled from sweet sleepBy garish Day, stood timorous and mute,Even as a regal pair, the hart and hind,When first the keynote of the clarion hornPierces their covert, and the deep-mouthed houndBays, following on the trail; then, with small pauseFor amorous partings, sped in diverse ways.She, Aphroditê, clothed in pearly cloud,Dropt from Olympos to the eastern shore;Thence floated, half in shame, half laughter-pleased,Southward across the blue Ægæan sea,That had a thousand little dimpling smilesAt her discomfort, and a thousand eyesTo shoot irreverent glances. But her conchPassed the Eubœan coasts, and softly onBy rugged Dêlos, and the gentler slopeOf Naxos, to Icarian waves serene;Thence sailed betwixt fair Rhodos, on the left,And windy Carpathos, until it touchedCyprus; and soon the conscious Goddess foundHer bower in the hollow of the isle;And wondering nymphs in their white arms receivedTheir white-armed mistress, bathing her fair limbsIn fragrant dews, twining her lucent hairWith roses, and with kisses soothing her;Till, glowing in fresh loveliness, she sankTo stillness, tended in the sacred isle,And hid herself awhile from all her peers.

But they, the lovers, startled from sweet sleep

By garish Day, stood timorous and mute,

Even as a regal pair, the hart and hind,

When first the keynote of the clarion horn

Pierces their covert, and the deep-mouthed hound

Bays, following on the trail; then, with small pause

For amorous partings, sped in diverse ways.

She, Aphroditê, clothed in pearly cloud,

Dropt from Olympos to the eastern shore;

Thence floated, half in shame, half laughter-pleased,

Southward across the blue Ægæan sea,

That had a thousand little dimpling smiles

At her discomfort, and a thousand eyes

To shoot irreverent glances. But her conch

Passed the Eubœan coasts, and softly on

By rugged Dêlos, and the gentler slope

Of Naxos, to Icarian waves serene;

Thence sailed betwixt fair Rhodos, on the left,

And windy Carpathos, until it touched

Cyprus; and soon the conscious Goddess found

Her bower in the hollow of the isle;

And wondering nymphs in their white arms received

Their white-armed mistress, bathing her fair limbs

In fragrant dews, twining her lucent hair

With roses, and with kisses soothing her;

Till, glowing in fresh loveliness, she sank

To stillness, tended in the sacred isle,

And hid herself awhile from all her peers.

But angry Arês faced the treacherous Morn,Spurning the palace tower; nor looked behind,Disdainful of himself and secret joysThat stript him to the laughter of the Gods.Toward the East he made, and overhungThe broad Thermaic gulf; then, shunning wellThe crags of Lemnos, by Mount Athôs stayedA moment, mute; thence hurtled sheer away,Across the murmuring Northern sea, whose wavesAre swollen in billows ruffled with the cuffsOf endless winds; so reached the shores of Thrace,And spleen pursued him in the tangled wilds.

But angry Arês faced the treacherous Morn,

Spurning the palace tower; nor looked behind,

Disdainful of himself and secret joys

That stript him to the laughter of the Gods.

Toward the East he made, and overhung

The broad Thermaic gulf; then, shunning well

The crags of Lemnos, by Mount Athôs stayed

A moment, mute; thence hurtled sheer away,

Across the murmuring Northern sea, whose waves

Are swollen in billows ruffled with the cuffs

Of endless winds; so reached the shores of Thrace,

And spleen pursued him in the tangled wilds.

Hither at eventide remorseful cameAlectryôn; but the indignant God,With harsh revilings, changed him to the Cock,That evermore, remembering his fault,Heralds with warning voice the coming Day.

Hither at eventide remorseful came

Alectryôn; but the indignant God,

With harsh revilings, changed him to the Cock,

That evermore, remembering his fault,

Heralds with warning voice the coming Day.

Seven women loved him. When the wrinkled pallEnwrapt him from their unfulfilled desire(Death, pale, triumphant rival, conquering all,)They came, for that last look, around his pyre.One strewed white roses, on whose leaves were hungHer tears, like dew; and in discreet attireWarbled her tuneful sorrow. Next amongThe group, a fair-haired virgin moved serenely,Whose saintly heart no vain repinings wrung,Reached the calm dust, and there, composed and queenly,Gazed, but the missal trembled in her hand:“That’s with the past,” she said, “nor may I meanlyGive way to tears!” and passed into the land.The third hung feebly on the portals, moaning,With whitened lips, and feet that stood in sand,So weak they seemed,—and all her passion owning.The fourth, a ripe, luxurious maiden, came,Half for such homage to the dead atoningBy smiles on one who fanned a later flameIn her slight soul, her fickle steps attended.The fifth and sixth were sisters; at the sameWild moment both above the image bended,And with immortal hatred each on eachGlared, and therewith her exultation blended,To know the dead had ’scaped the other’s reach!Meanwhile, through all the words of anguish spoken,One lowly form had given no sound of speech,Through all the signs of woe, no sign nor token;But when they came to bear him to his rest,They found her beauty paled,—her heart was broken:And in the Silent Land his shade confestThat she, of all the seven, loved him best.

Seven women loved him. When the wrinkled pallEnwrapt him from their unfulfilled desire(Death, pale, triumphant rival, conquering all,)

Seven women loved him. When the wrinkled pall

Enwrapt him from their unfulfilled desire

(Death, pale, triumphant rival, conquering all,)

They came, for that last look, around his pyre.One strewed white roses, on whose leaves were hungHer tears, like dew; and in discreet attire

They came, for that last look, around his pyre.

One strewed white roses, on whose leaves were hung

Her tears, like dew; and in discreet attire

Warbled her tuneful sorrow. Next amongThe group, a fair-haired virgin moved serenely,Whose saintly heart no vain repinings wrung,

Warbled her tuneful sorrow. Next among

The group, a fair-haired virgin moved serenely,

Whose saintly heart no vain repinings wrung,

Reached the calm dust, and there, composed and queenly,Gazed, but the missal trembled in her hand:“That’s with the past,” she said, “nor may I meanly

Reached the calm dust, and there, composed and queenly,

Gazed, but the missal trembled in her hand:

“That’s with the past,” she said, “nor may I meanly

Give way to tears!” and passed into the land.The third hung feebly on the portals, moaning,With whitened lips, and feet that stood in sand,

Give way to tears!” and passed into the land.

The third hung feebly on the portals, moaning,

With whitened lips, and feet that stood in sand,

So weak they seemed,—and all her passion owning.The fourth, a ripe, luxurious maiden, came,Half for such homage to the dead atoning

So weak they seemed,—and all her passion owning.

The fourth, a ripe, luxurious maiden, came,

Half for such homage to the dead atoning

By smiles on one who fanned a later flameIn her slight soul, her fickle steps attended.The fifth and sixth were sisters; at the same

By smiles on one who fanned a later flame

In her slight soul, her fickle steps attended.

The fifth and sixth were sisters; at the same

Wild moment both above the image bended,And with immortal hatred each on eachGlared, and therewith her exultation blended,

Wild moment both above the image bended,

And with immortal hatred each on each

Glared, and therewith her exultation blended,

To know the dead had ’scaped the other’s reach!Meanwhile, through all the words of anguish spoken,One lowly form had given no sound of speech,

To know the dead had ’scaped the other’s reach!

Meanwhile, through all the words of anguish spoken,

One lowly form had given no sound of speech,

Through all the signs of woe, no sign nor token;But when they came to bear him to his rest,They found her beauty paled,—her heart was broken:

Through all the signs of woe, no sign nor token;

But when they came to bear him to his rest,

They found her beauty paled,—her heart was broken:

And in the Silent Land his shade confestThat she, of all the seven, loved him best.

And in the Silent Land his shade confest

That she, of all the seven, loved him best.

Once more on the fallow hillside, as of old, I lie at restFor an hour, while the sunshine trembles through the walnut-tree to the west,—Shakes on the rocks and fragrant ferns, and the berry-bushes around;And I watch, as of old, the cattle graze in the lower pasture-ground.Of the Saxon months of blossom, when the merle and mavis sing,And a dust of gold falls everywhere from the soft mid-summer’s wing,I only know from my poets, or from pictures that hither come,Sweet with the smile of the hawthorn-hedge and the scent of the harvest-home.But July in our own New England—I bask myself in its prime,As one in the light of a face he loves, and has not seen for a time!Again the perfect blue of the sky; the fresh green woods; the callOf the crested jay; the tangled vines that cover the frost-thrown wall:Sounds and shadows remembered well! the ground-bee’s droning hum;The distant musical tree-tops; the locust beating his drum;And the ripened July warmth, that seems akin to a fire which stole,Long summers since, through the thews of youth, to soften and harden my soul.Here it was that I loved her—as only a stripling can,Who doats on a girl that others know no mate for the future man;It was well, perhaps, that at last my pride and honor outgrew her art,That there came an hour, when from broken chains I fled—with a broken heart.’Twas well: but the fire would still flash up in sharp, heat-lightning gleams,And ever at night the false, fair face shone into passionate dreams;The false, fair form, through many a year, was somewhere close at my side,And crept, as by right, to my very arms and the place of my patient bride.Bride and vision have passed away, and I am again alone;Changed by years; not wiser, I think, but only different grown:Not so much nearer wisdom is a man than a boy, forsooth,Though, in scorn of what has come and gone, he hates the ways of his youth.In seven years, I have heard it said, a soul shall change its frame;Atom for atom, the man shall be the same, yet not the same;The last of the ancient ichor shall pass away from his veins,And a new-born light shall fill the eyes whose earlier lustre wanes.In seven years, it is written, a man shall shift his mood;Good shall seem what was evil, and evil the thing that was good:Ye that welcome the coming and speed the parting guest,Tell me, O winds of summer! am I not half-confest?For along the tide of this mellow month new fancies guide my helm,Another form has entered my heart as rightful queen of the realm;From under their long black lashes new eyes—half-blue, half-gray—Pierce through my soul, to drive the ghost of the old love quite away.Shadow of years! at last it sinks in the sepulchre of the past,—A gentle image and fair to see; but was my passion so vast?“For you,” I said, “be you false or true, are ever life of my life!”Was it myself or another who spoke, and asked her to be his wife?For here, on the dear old hillside, I lie at rest again,And think with a quiet self-content of all the passion and pain,Of the strong resolve and the after-strife; but the vistas round me seemSo little changed that I hardly know if the past is not a dream.Can I have sailed, for seven years, far out in the open world;Have tacked and drifted here and there, by eddying currents whirled;Have gained and lost, and found again; and now, for a respite, comeOnce more to the happy scenes of old, and the haven I voyaged from?Blended, infinite murmurs of True Love’s earliest song,Where are you slumbering out of the heart that gave you echoes so long?But chords that have ceased to vibrate the swell of an ancient strainMay thrill with a soulful music when rightly touched again.Rock and forest and meadow,—landscape perfect and true!O, if ourselves were tender and all unchangeful as you,I should not now be dreaming of seven years that have been,Nor bidding old love good by forever, and letting the new love in!

Once more on the fallow hillside, as of old, I lie at rest

For an hour, while the sunshine trembles through the walnut-tree to the west,—

Shakes on the rocks and fragrant ferns, and the berry-bushes around;

And I watch, as of old, the cattle graze in the lower pasture-ground.

Of the Saxon months of blossom, when the merle and mavis sing,And a dust of gold falls everywhere from the soft mid-summer’s wing,I only know from my poets, or from pictures that hither come,Sweet with the smile of the hawthorn-hedge and the scent of the harvest-home.

Of the Saxon months of blossom, when the merle and mavis sing,

And a dust of gold falls everywhere from the soft mid-summer’s wing,

I only know from my poets, or from pictures that hither come,

Sweet with the smile of the hawthorn-hedge and the scent of the harvest-home.

But July in our own New England—I bask myself in its prime,As one in the light of a face he loves, and has not seen for a time!Again the perfect blue of the sky; the fresh green woods; the callOf the crested jay; the tangled vines that cover the frost-thrown wall:

But July in our own New England—I bask myself in its prime,

As one in the light of a face he loves, and has not seen for a time!

Again the perfect blue of the sky; the fresh green woods; the call

Of the crested jay; the tangled vines that cover the frost-thrown wall:

Sounds and shadows remembered well! the ground-bee’s droning hum;The distant musical tree-tops; the locust beating his drum;And the ripened July warmth, that seems akin to a fire which stole,Long summers since, through the thews of youth, to soften and harden my soul.

Sounds and shadows remembered well! the ground-bee’s droning hum;

The distant musical tree-tops; the locust beating his drum;

And the ripened July warmth, that seems akin to a fire which stole,

Long summers since, through the thews of youth, to soften and harden my soul.

Here it was that I loved her—as only a stripling can,Who doats on a girl that others know no mate for the future man;It was well, perhaps, that at last my pride and honor outgrew her art,That there came an hour, when from broken chains I fled—with a broken heart.

Here it was that I loved her—as only a stripling can,

Who doats on a girl that others know no mate for the future man;

It was well, perhaps, that at last my pride and honor outgrew her art,

That there came an hour, when from broken chains I fled—with a broken heart.

’Twas well: but the fire would still flash up in sharp, heat-lightning gleams,And ever at night the false, fair face shone into passionate dreams;The false, fair form, through many a year, was somewhere close at my side,And crept, as by right, to my very arms and the place of my patient bride.

’Twas well: but the fire would still flash up in sharp, heat-lightning gleams,

And ever at night the false, fair face shone into passionate dreams;

The false, fair form, through many a year, was somewhere close at my side,

And crept, as by right, to my very arms and the place of my patient bride.

Bride and vision have passed away, and I am again alone;Changed by years; not wiser, I think, but only different grown:Not so much nearer wisdom is a man than a boy, forsooth,Though, in scorn of what has come and gone, he hates the ways of his youth.

Bride and vision have passed away, and I am again alone;

Changed by years; not wiser, I think, but only different grown:

Not so much nearer wisdom is a man than a boy, forsooth,

Though, in scorn of what has come and gone, he hates the ways of his youth.

In seven years, I have heard it said, a soul shall change its frame;Atom for atom, the man shall be the same, yet not the same;The last of the ancient ichor shall pass away from his veins,And a new-born light shall fill the eyes whose earlier lustre wanes.

In seven years, I have heard it said, a soul shall change its frame;

Atom for atom, the man shall be the same, yet not the same;

The last of the ancient ichor shall pass away from his veins,

And a new-born light shall fill the eyes whose earlier lustre wanes.

In seven years, it is written, a man shall shift his mood;Good shall seem what was evil, and evil the thing that was good:Ye that welcome the coming and speed the parting guest,Tell me, O winds of summer! am I not half-confest?

In seven years, it is written, a man shall shift his mood;

Good shall seem what was evil, and evil the thing that was good:

Ye that welcome the coming and speed the parting guest,

Tell me, O winds of summer! am I not half-confest?

For along the tide of this mellow month new fancies guide my helm,Another form has entered my heart as rightful queen of the realm;From under their long black lashes new eyes—half-blue, half-gray—Pierce through my soul, to drive the ghost of the old love quite away.

For along the tide of this mellow month new fancies guide my helm,

Another form has entered my heart as rightful queen of the realm;

From under their long black lashes new eyes—half-blue, half-gray—

Pierce through my soul, to drive the ghost of the old love quite away.

Shadow of years! at last it sinks in the sepulchre of the past,—A gentle image and fair to see; but was my passion so vast?“For you,” I said, “be you false or true, are ever life of my life!”Was it myself or another who spoke, and asked her to be his wife?

Shadow of years! at last it sinks in the sepulchre of the past,—

A gentle image and fair to see; but was my passion so vast?

“For you,” I said, “be you false or true, are ever life of my life!”

Was it myself or another who spoke, and asked her to be his wife?

For here, on the dear old hillside, I lie at rest again,And think with a quiet self-content of all the passion and pain,Of the strong resolve and the after-strife; but the vistas round me seemSo little changed that I hardly know if the past is not a dream.

For here, on the dear old hillside, I lie at rest again,

And think with a quiet self-content of all the passion and pain,

Of the strong resolve and the after-strife; but the vistas round me seem

So little changed that I hardly know if the past is not a dream.

Can I have sailed, for seven years, far out in the open world;Have tacked and drifted here and there, by eddying currents whirled;Have gained and lost, and found again; and now, for a respite, comeOnce more to the happy scenes of old, and the haven I voyaged from?

Can I have sailed, for seven years, far out in the open world;

Have tacked and drifted here and there, by eddying currents whirled;

Have gained and lost, and found again; and now, for a respite, come

Once more to the happy scenes of old, and the haven I voyaged from?

Blended, infinite murmurs of True Love’s earliest song,Where are you slumbering out of the heart that gave you echoes so long?But chords that have ceased to vibrate the swell of an ancient strainMay thrill with a soulful music when rightly touched again.

Blended, infinite murmurs of True Love’s earliest song,

Where are you slumbering out of the heart that gave you echoes so long?

But chords that have ceased to vibrate the swell of an ancient strain

May thrill with a soulful music when rightly touched again.

Rock and forest and meadow,—landscape perfect and true!O, if ourselves were tender and all unchangeful as you,I should not now be dreaming of seven years that have been,Nor bidding old love good by forever, and letting the new love in!

Rock and forest and meadow,—landscape perfect and true!

O, if ourselves were tender and all unchangeful as you,

I should not now be dreaming of seven years that have been,

Nor bidding old love good by forever, and letting the new love in!

“How came he mad?”—Hamlet.

Of all the beautiful demons who fasten on human heartsTo fetter the bodies and souls of men with exquisite, mocking arts,The cruellest, and subtlest, and fairest to mortal sight,Is surely a woman called Estelle, who tortures me day and night.The first time that I saw her she passed with sweet lips mute,As if in scorn of the vacant praise of those who made her suit;A hundred lustres flashed and shone as she rustled through the crowd,And a passion seized me for her there,—so passionless and proud.The second time that I saw her she met me face to face;Her bending beauty answered my bow in a tremulous moment’s space;With an upward glance that instantly fell she read me through and through,And found in me something worth her while to idle with and subdue;Something, I know not what: perhaps the spirit of eager youth,That named her a queen of queens at once, and loved her in very truth;That threw its pearl of pearls at her feet, and offered her, in a breath,The costliest gift a man can give from his cradle to his death.The third time that I saw her—this woman called Estelle—She passed her milk-white arm through mine and dazzled me with her spell;A blissful fever thrilled my veins, and there, in the moon-beams white,I yielded my soul to the fierce control of that maddening delight!And at many a trysting afterwards she wove my heart-strings roundHer delicate fingers, twisting them, and chanting low as she wound;The rune she sang rang sweet and clear like the chime of a witch’s bell;Its echo haunts me even now, with the word, Estelle! Estelle!Ah, then, as a dozen before me had, I lay at last at her feet,And she turned me off with a calm surprise when her triumph was all complete:It made me wild, the stroke which smiled so pitiless out of her eyes,Like lightning fallen, in clear noonday, from cloudless and bluest skies!The whirlwind followed upon my brain and beat my thoughts to rack:Who knows the many a month I lay ere memory floated back?Even now, I tell you, I wonder whether this woman called EstelleIs flesh and blood, or a beautiful lie, sent up from the depths of hell.For at night she stands where the pallid moon streams into this grated cell,And only gives me that mocking glance when I speak her name—Estelle!With the old resistless longing often I strive to clasp her there,But she vanishes from my open arms and hides I know not where.And I hold that if she were human she could not fly like the wind,But her heart would flutter against my own, in spite of her scornful mind:Yet, oh! she is not a phantom, since devils are not so badAs to haunt and torture a man long after their tricks have made him mad!

Of all the beautiful demons who fasten on human hearts

To fetter the bodies and souls of men with exquisite, mocking arts,

The cruellest, and subtlest, and fairest to mortal sight,

Is surely a woman called Estelle, who tortures me day and night.

The first time that I saw her she passed with sweet lips mute,As if in scorn of the vacant praise of those who made her suit;A hundred lustres flashed and shone as she rustled through the crowd,And a passion seized me for her there,—so passionless and proud.

The first time that I saw her she passed with sweet lips mute,

As if in scorn of the vacant praise of those who made her suit;

A hundred lustres flashed and shone as she rustled through the crowd,

And a passion seized me for her there,—so passionless and proud.

The second time that I saw her she met me face to face;Her bending beauty answered my bow in a tremulous moment’s space;With an upward glance that instantly fell she read me through and through,And found in me something worth her while to idle with and subdue;

The second time that I saw her she met me face to face;

Her bending beauty answered my bow in a tremulous moment’s space;

With an upward glance that instantly fell she read me through and through,

And found in me something worth her while to idle with and subdue;

Something, I know not what: perhaps the spirit of eager youth,That named her a queen of queens at once, and loved her in very truth;That threw its pearl of pearls at her feet, and offered her, in a breath,The costliest gift a man can give from his cradle to his death.

Something, I know not what: perhaps the spirit of eager youth,

That named her a queen of queens at once, and loved her in very truth;

That threw its pearl of pearls at her feet, and offered her, in a breath,

The costliest gift a man can give from his cradle to his death.

The third time that I saw her—this woman called Estelle—She passed her milk-white arm through mine and dazzled me with her spell;A blissful fever thrilled my veins, and there, in the moon-beams white,I yielded my soul to the fierce control of that maddening delight!

The third time that I saw her—this woman called Estelle—

She passed her milk-white arm through mine and dazzled me with her spell;

A blissful fever thrilled my veins, and there, in the moon-beams white,

I yielded my soul to the fierce control of that maddening delight!

And at many a trysting afterwards she wove my heart-strings roundHer delicate fingers, twisting them, and chanting low as she wound;The rune she sang rang sweet and clear like the chime of a witch’s bell;Its echo haunts me even now, with the word, Estelle! Estelle!

And at many a trysting afterwards she wove my heart-strings round

Her delicate fingers, twisting them, and chanting low as she wound;

The rune she sang rang sweet and clear like the chime of a witch’s bell;

Its echo haunts me even now, with the word, Estelle! Estelle!

Ah, then, as a dozen before me had, I lay at last at her feet,And she turned me off with a calm surprise when her triumph was all complete:It made me wild, the stroke which smiled so pitiless out of her eyes,Like lightning fallen, in clear noonday, from cloudless and bluest skies!

Ah, then, as a dozen before me had, I lay at last at her feet,

And she turned me off with a calm surprise when her triumph was all complete:

It made me wild, the stroke which smiled so pitiless out of her eyes,

Like lightning fallen, in clear noonday, from cloudless and bluest skies!

The whirlwind followed upon my brain and beat my thoughts to rack:Who knows the many a month I lay ere memory floated back?Even now, I tell you, I wonder whether this woman called EstelleIs flesh and blood, or a beautiful lie, sent up from the depths of hell.

The whirlwind followed upon my brain and beat my thoughts to rack:

Who knows the many a month I lay ere memory floated back?

Even now, I tell you, I wonder whether this woman called Estelle

Is flesh and blood, or a beautiful lie, sent up from the depths of hell.

For at night she stands where the pallid moon streams into this grated cell,And only gives me that mocking glance when I speak her name—Estelle!With the old resistless longing often I strive to clasp her there,But she vanishes from my open arms and hides I know not where.

For at night she stands where the pallid moon streams into this grated cell,

And only gives me that mocking glance when I speak her name—Estelle!

With the old resistless longing often I strive to clasp her there,

But she vanishes from my open arms and hides I know not where.

And I hold that if she were human she could not fly like the wind,But her heart would flutter against my own, in spite of her scornful mind:Yet, oh! she is not a phantom, since devils are not so badAs to haunt and torture a man long after their tricks have made him mad!

And I hold that if she were human she could not fly like the wind,

But her heart would flutter against my own, in spite of her scornful mind:

Yet, oh! she is not a phantom, since devils are not so bad

As to haunt and torture a man long after their tricks have made him mad!

Well, Helen, quite two years have flownSince that enchanted, dreamy night,When you and I were left alone,And wondered whether they were rightWho said that each the other loved;And thus debating, yes and no,And half in earnest, as it proved,We bargained to pretend ’twas so.Two sceptic children of the world,Each with a heart engraven o’erWith broken love-knots, quaintly curled,Of hot flirtations held before;Yet, somehow, either seemed to find,This time, a something more akinTo that young, natural love,—the kindWhich comes but once, and breaks us in.What sweetly stolen hours we knew,And frolics perilous as gay!Though lit in sport, Love’s taper grewMore bright and burning day by day.We knew each heart was only lent,The other’s ancient scars to heal:The very thought a pathos blentWith all the mirth we tried to feel.How bravely, when the time to partCame with the wanton season’s close,Though nature with our mutual artHad mingled more than either chose,We smothered Love, upon the vergeOf folly, in one last embrace,And buried him without a dirge,And turned, and left his resting-place.Yet often (tell me what it means!)His spirit steals upon me here,Far, far away from all the scenesHis little lifetime held so dear;He comes: I hear a mystic strainIn which some tender memory lies;I dally with your hair again;I catch the gleam of violet eyes.Ah, Helen! how have matters beenSince those rude obsequies, with you?Say, is my partner in the sinA sharer of the penance too?Again the vision’s at my side:I drop my head upon my breast,And wonder if he really died,And why his spirit will not rest.

Well, Helen, quite two years have flown

Since that enchanted, dreamy night,

When you and I were left alone,

And wondered whether they were right

Who said that each the other loved;

And thus debating, yes and no,

And half in earnest, as it proved,

We bargained to pretend ’twas so.

Two sceptic children of the world,Each with a heart engraven o’erWith broken love-knots, quaintly curled,Of hot flirtations held before;Yet, somehow, either seemed to find,This time, a something more akinTo that young, natural love,—the kindWhich comes but once, and breaks us in.

Two sceptic children of the world,

Each with a heart engraven o’er

With broken love-knots, quaintly curled,

Of hot flirtations held before;

Yet, somehow, either seemed to find,

This time, a something more akin

To that young, natural love,—the kind

Which comes but once, and breaks us in.

What sweetly stolen hours we knew,And frolics perilous as gay!Though lit in sport, Love’s taper grewMore bright and burning day by day.We knew each heart was only lent,The other’s ancient scars to heal:The very thought a pathos blentWith all the mirth we tried to feel.

What sweetly stolen hours we knew,

And frolics perilous as gay!

Though lit in sport, Love’s taper grew

More bright and burning day by day.

We knew each heart was only lent,

The other’s ancient scars to heal:

The very thought a pathos blent

With all the mirth we tried to feel.

How bravely, when the time to partCame with the wanton season’s close,Though nature with our mutual artHad mingled more than either chose,We smothered Love, upon the vergeOf folly, in one last embrace,And buried him without a dirge,And turned, and left his resting-place.

How bravely, when the time to part

Came with the wanton season’s close,

Though nature with our mutual art

Had mingled more than either chose,

We smothered Love, upon the verge

Of folly, in one last embrace,

And buried him without a dirge,

And turned, and left his resting-place.

Yet often (tell me what it means!)His spirit steals upon me here,Far, far away from all the scenesHis little lifetime held so dear;He comes: I hear a mystic strainIn which some tender memory lies;I dally with your hair again;I catch the gleam of violet eyes.

Yet often (tell me what it means!)

His spirit steals upon me here,

Far, far away from all the scenes

His little lifetime held so dear;

He comes: I hear a mystic strain

In which some tender memory lies;

I dally with your hair again;

I catch the gleam of violet eyes.

Ah, Helen! how have matters beenSince those rude obsequies, with you?Say, is my partner in the sinA sharer of the penance too?Again the vision’s at my side:I drop my head upon my breast,And wonder if he really died,And why his spirit will not rest.

Ah, Helen! how have matters been

Since those rude obsequies, with you?

Say, is my partner in the sin

A sharer of the penance too?

Again the vision’s at my side:

I drop my head upon my breast,

And wonder if he really died,

And why his spirit will not rest.

Had I, my love declared, the tireless wingThat wafts the swallow to her northern skies,I would not, sheer within the rich surpriseOf full-blown Summer, like the swallow, flingMy coyer being; but would follow Spring,Melodious consort, as she daily flies,Apace with suns, that o’er new woodlands riseEach morn—with rains her gentler stages bring.My pinions should beat music with her own;Her smiles and odors should delight me ever,Gliding, with measured progress, from the zoneWhere golden seas receive the mighty river,Unto yon lichened cliffs, whose ridges severOur Norseland from the arctic surge’s moan.

Had I, my love declared, the tireless wing

That wafts the swallow to her northern skies,

I would not, sheer within the rich surprise

Of full-blown Summer, like the swallow, fling

My coyer being; but would follow Spring,

Melodious consort, as she daily flies,

Apace with suns, that o’er new woodlands rise

Each morn—with rains her gentler stages bring.

My pinions should beat music with her own;

Her smiles and odors should delight me ever,

Gliding, with measured progress, from the zone

Where golden seas receive the mighty river,

Unto yon lichened cliffs, whose ridges sever

Our Norseland from the arctic surge’s moan.

When the rude world’s relentless war has pressedFiercely upon them, and the hot campaignCloses with battles lost, some yield their lives,Or linger in the ruins of the fight—Unwise, and comprehending not their fate,Nor gathering that affluent recompenseWhich the all-pitying Earth has yet in store.Surely such men have never known the loveOf Nature; nor had recourse to her fountOf calm delights, whose influences healThe wounded spirits of her vanquished sons;Nor ever—in those fruitful earlier days,Wherein her manifest forms do most enrichOur senses void of subtler cognizance—Wandered in summer fields, climbed the free hills,Pursued the murmuring music of her streams,And found the borders of her sounding sea.But thou—when, in the multitudinous listsOf traffic, all thine own is forfeitedAt some wild hazard, or by weakening drainsPoured from thee; or when, striving for the meedOf place, thou failest, and the lesser manBy each ignoble method wins thy due;When the injustice of the social worldEnvirons thee; when ruthless public scorn,Black slander, and the meannesses of friendsHave made the bustling practice of the worldTo thee a discord and a mockery;Or even if that last extremest pangBe thine, and, added to such other woes,The loss of that forever faithful loveWhich else had balanced all: the putting out,Untimely, of the light in dearest eyes;—At such a time thou well may’st count the daysEvil, and for a season quit the field;Yet not surrendering all human hopes,Nor the rich physical life which still remainsGod’s boon and thy sustainer. It were baseTo join alliance with the hosts of FateAgainst thyself, crowning their victoryBy loose despair, or seeking rest in death.More wise, betake thee to those sylvan hauntsThou knewest when young, and, once again a child,Let their perennial loveliness renewThy natural faith and childhood’s heart serene.Forgetting all the toilsome pilgrimage,Awake from strife and shame, as from a dreamDreamed by a boy, when under waving treesHe sleeps and dreams a languid afternoon.Once more from these harmonious beauties gainRepose and ransom, and a power to feelThe immortal gladness of inanimate things.There is the mighty Mother, ever youngAnd garlanded, and welcoming her sons.There are her thousand charms to soothe thy pain,And merge thy little, individual woeIn the broad health and happy fruitfulnessOf all that smiles around thee. For thy sakeThe woven arches of her forests breathePerpetual anthems, and the blue skies smileBetween, to heal thee with their infinite hope.There are her crystal waters: lave thy brows,Hot with long turmoil, in their purity;Wash off the battle-dust from those poor limbsBlood-stained and weary. Holy sleep shall comeUpon thee; waking, thou shalt find in bloomThe lilies, fresh as in the olden days;And once again, when Night unveils her stars,Thou shalt have sight of their high radiance,And feel the old, mysterious awe subdueThe phantoms of thy pain.And from that heightA voice shall whisper of the faith, through whichA man may act his part until the end.Anon thy ancient yearning for the fightMay come once more, tempered by poise of chance,And guided well with all experience.Invisible hands may gird thy armor on,And Nature put new weapons in thy hands,Sending thee out to try the world again,—Perchance to conquer, being cased in mailOf double memories; knowing smaller griefsCan add no sorrow to the woful past;And that, howbeit thou mayest stand or fall,Earth proffers men her refuge everywhere,And Heaven’s promise is for aye the same.

When the rude world’s relentless war has pressed

Fiercely upon them, and the hot campaign

Closes with battles lost, some yield their lives,

Or linger in the ruins of the fight—

Unwise, and comprehending not their fate,

Nor gathering that affluent recompense

Which the all-pitying Earth has yet in store.

Surely such men have never known the love

Of Nature; nor had recourse to her fount

Of calm delights, whose influences heal

The wounded spirits of her vanquished sons;

Nor ever—in those fruitful earlier days,

Wherein her manifest forms do most enrich

Our senses void of subtler cognizance—

Wandered in summer fields, climbed the free hills,

Pursued the murmuring music of her streams,

And found the borders of her sounding sea.

But thou—when, in the multitudinous listsOf traffic, all thine own is forfeitedAt some wild hazard, or by weakening drainsPoured from thee; or when, striving for the meedOf place, thou failest, and the lesser manBy each ignoble method wins thy due;When the injustice of the social worldEnvirons thee; when ruthless public scorn,Black slander, and the meannesses of friendsHave made the bustling practice of the worldTo thee a discord and a mockery;Or even if that last extremest pangBe thine, and, added to such other woes,The loss of that forever faithful loveWhich else had balanced all: the putting out,Untimely, of the light in dearest eyes;—At such a time thou well may’st count the daysEvil, and for a season quit the field;Yet not surrendering all human hopes,Nor the rich physical life which still remainsGod’s boon and thy sustainer. It were baseTo join alliance with the hosts of FateAgainst thyself, crowning their victoryBy loose despair, or seeking rest in death.

But thou—when, in the multitudinous lists

Of traffic, all thine own is forfeited

At some wild hazard, or by weakening drains

Poured from thee; or when, striving for the meed

Of place, thou failest, and the lesser man

By each ignoble method wins thy due;

When the injustice of the social world

Environs thee; when ruthless public scorn,

Black slander, and the meannesses of friends

Have made the bustling practice of the world

To thee a discord and a mockery;

Or even if that last extremest pang

Be thine, and, added to such other woes,

The loss of that forever faithful love

Which else had balanced all: the putting out,

Untimely, of the light in dearest eyes;—

At such a time thou well may’st count the days

Evil, and for a season quit the field;

Yet not surrendering all human hopes,

Nor the rich physical life which still remains

God’s boon and thy sustainer. It were base

To join alliance with the hosts of Fate

Against thyself, crowning their victory

By loose despair, or seeking rest in death.

More wise, betake thee to those sylvan hauntsThou knewest when young, and, once again a child,Let their perennial loveliness renewThy natural faith and childhood’s heart serene.Forgetting all the toilsome pilgrimage,Awake from strife and shame, as from a dreamDreamed by a boy, when under waving treesHe sleeps and dreams a languid afternoon.Once more from these harmonious beauties gainRepose and ransom, and a power to feelThe immortal gladness of inanimate things.

More wise, betake thee to those sylvan haunts

Thou knewest when young, and, once again a child,

Let their perennial loveliness renew

Thy natural faith and childhood’s heart serene.

Forgetting all the toilsome pilgrimage,

Awake from strife and shame, as from a dream

Dreamed by a boy, when under waving trees

He sleeps and dreams a languid afternoon.

Once more from these harmonious beauties gain

Repose and ransom, and a power to feel

The immortal gladness of inanimate things.

There is the mighty Mother, ever youngAnd garlanded, and welcoming her sons.There are her thousand charms to soothe thy pain,And merge thy little, individual woeIn the broad health and happy fruitfulnessOf all that smiles around thee. For thy sakeThe woven arches of her forests breathePerpetual anthems, and the blue skies smileBetween, to heal thee with their infinite hope.There are her crystal waters: lave thy brows,Hot with long turmoil, in their purity;Wash off the battle-dust from those poor limbsBlood-stained and weary. Holy sleep shall comeUpon thee; waking, thou shalt find in bloomThe lilies, fresh as in the olden days;And once again, when Night unveils her stars,Thou shalt have sight of their high radiance,And feel the old, mysterious awe subdueThe phantoms of thy pain.

There is the mighty Mother, ever young

And garlanded, and welcoming her sons.

There are her thousand charms to soothe thy pain,

And merge thy little, individual woe

In the broad health and happy fruitfulness

Of all that smiles around thee. For thy sake

The woven arches of her forests breathe

Perpetual anthems, and the blue skies smile

Between, to heal thee with their infinite hope.

There are her crystal waters: lave thy brows,

Hot with long turmoil, in their purity;

Wash off the battle-dust from those poor limbs

Blood-stained and weary. Holy sleep shall come

Upon thee; waking, thou shalt find in bloom

The lilies, fresh as in the olden days;

And once again, when Night unveils her stars,

Thou shalt have sight of their high radiance,

And feel the old, mysterious awe subdue

The phantoms of thy pain.

And from that heightA voice shall whisper of the faith, through whichA man may act his part until the end.Anon thy ancient yearning for the fightMay come once more, tempered by poise of chance,And guided well with all experience.Invisible hands may gird thy armor on,And Nature put new weapons in thy hands,Sending thee out to try the world again,—Perchance to conquer, being cased in mailOf double memories; knowing smaller griefsCan add no sorrow to the woful past;And that, howbeit thou mayest stand or fall,Earth proffers men her refuge everywhere,And Heaven’s promise is for aye the same.

And from that height

A voice shall whisper of the faith, through which

A man may act his part until the end.

Anon thy ancient yearning for the fight

May come once more, tempered by poise of chance,

And guided well with all experience.

Invisible hands may gird thy armor on,

And Nature put new weapons in thy hands,

Sending thee out to try the world again,—

Perchance to conquer, being cased in mail

Of double memories; knowing smaller griefs

Can add no sorrow to the woful past;

And that, howbeit thou mayest stand or fall,

Earth proffers men her refuge everywhere,

And Heaven’s promise is for aye the same.

Queen Katherine of ArragonIn gray Kimbolton dwelt,A joyous bride, ere bluff King HalTo Anne’s beauty knelt.Still in her haughty Spanish eyesTheir childhood’s lustre shone,That lit with love two royal hearts,And won the English throne.From gray Kimbolton’s castle-gateShe rode, each summer’s day,And blithely led the greenwood chaseWith hawk and hound away.And ever handsome Montagu,Her Master of the Horse,To guard his mistress kept her paceO’er heather, turf, and gorse.O, who so brave as MontaguTo leap the hedges clear!And who so fleet as he to findThe coverts of the deer!And who so wild as Montagu,To seek his sovereign’s love!More hopeless than a child, who cravesThe brightest star above.Day after day her presence fedThe fever at his heart;Yet loyally the young knight scornedTo play a traitor’s part.Only, when at her palfrey’s sideHe bowed him by command,Lightening her footfall to the earth,He pressed her dainty hand;A tender touch, as light as love,Soft as his heart’s desire;But aye, in Katherine’s artless blood,It woke no answering fire.King Hal to gray Kimbolton cameErelong, and true love’s sign,Unused in colder Arragon,She prayed him to divine:“Canst tell me, Sire,” she said, “what meanThe gentry of your land,When softly, thus, and thus, they takeAnd press a lady’s hand?”“Ha! ha!” laughed Hal, “but tell me, Chick,Each answering in course,Do any press your hand?” “O yes,My Master of the Horse.”Off to the wars her gallant went,And pushed the foremost dikes,And gashed his fair young form againstA score of Flemish pikes.Heart’s blood ebbed fast; but Montagu,Dipping a finger, woveThese red words in his shield: “Dear Queen,I perish of your love!”Kimbolton, after many a year,Again met Katherine’s view:The banished wife, with half a sigh,Remembered Montagu.

Queen Katherine of ArragonIn gray Kimbolton dwelt,A joyous bride, ere bluff King HalTo Anne’s beauty knelt.

Queen Katherine of Arragon

In gray Kimbolton dwelt,

A joyous bride, ere bluff King Hal

To Anne’s beauty knelt.

Still in her haughty Spanish eyesTheir childhood’s lustre shone,That lit with love two royal hearts,And won the English throne.

Still in her haughty Spanish eyes

Their childhood’s lustre shone,

That lit with love two royal hearts,

And won the English throne.

From gray Kimbolton’s castle-gateShe rode, each summer’s day,And blithely led the greenwood chaseWith hawk and hound away.

From gray Kimbolton’s castle-gate

She rode, each summer’s day,

And blithely led the greenwood chase

With hawk and hound away.

And ever handsome Montagu,Her Master of the Horse,To guard his mistress kept her paceO’er heather, turf, and gorse.

And ever handsome Montagu,

Her Master of the Horse,

To guard his mistress kept her pace

O’er heather, turf, and gorse.

O, who so brave as MontaguTo leap the hedges clear!And who so fleet as he to findThe coverts of the deer!

O, who so brave as Montagu

To leap the hedges clear!

And who so fleet as he to find

The coverts of the deer!

And who so wild as Montagu,To seek his sovereign’s love!More hopeless than a child, who cravesThe brightest star above.

And who so wild as Montagu,

To seek his sovereign’s love!

More hopeless than a child, who craves

The brightest star above.

Day after day her presence fedThe fever at his heart;Yet loyally the young knight scornedTo play a traitor’s part.

Day after day her presence fed

The fever at his heart;

Yet loyally the young knight scorned

To play a traitor’s part.

Only, when at her palfrey’s sideHe bowed him by command,Lightening her footfall to the earth,He pressed her dainty hand;

Only, when at her palfrey’s side

He bowed him by command,

Lightening her footfall to the earth,

He pressed her dainty hand;

A tender touch, as light as love,Soft as his heart’s desire;But aye, in Katherine’s artless blood,It woke no answering fire.

A tender touch, as light as love,

Soft as his heart’s desire;

But aye, in Katherine’s artless blood,

It woke no answering fire.

King Hal to gray Kimbolton cameErelong, and true love’s sign,Unused in colder Arragon,She prayed him to divine:

King Hal to gray Kimbolton came

Erelong, and true love’s sign,

Unused in colder Arragon,

She prayed him to divine:

“Canst tell me, Sire,” she said, “what meanThe gentry of your land,When softly, thus, and thus, they takeAnd press a lady’s hand?”

“Canst tell me, Sire,” she said, “what mean

The gentry of your land,

When softly, thus, and thus, they take

And press a lady’s hand?”

“Ha! ha!” laughed Hal, “but tell me, Chick,Each answering in course,Do any press your hand?” “O yes,My Master of the Horse.”

“Ha! ha!” laughed Hal, “but tell me, Chick,

Each answering in course,

Do any press your hand?” “O yes,

My Master of the Horse.”

Off to the wars her gallant went,And pushed the foremost dikes,And gashed his fair young form againstA score of Flemish pikes.

Off to the wars her gallant went,

And pushed the foremost dikes,

And gashed his fair young form against

A score of Flemish pikes.

Heart’s blood ebbed fast; but Montagu,Dipping a finger, woveThese red words in his shield: “Dear Queen,I perish of your love!”

Heart’s blood ebbed fast; but Montagu,

Dipping a finger, wove

These red words in his shield: “Dear Queen,

I perish of your love!”

Kimbolton, after many a year,Again met Katherine’s view:The banished wife, with half a sigh,Remembered Montagu.

Kimbolton, after many a year,

Again met Katherine’s view:

The banished wife, with half a sigh,

Remembered Montagu.

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