THE EVERNEW

O perishthe day I was born, and the night when my mother conceived;Let that day be darkness, let God regard it no more from on high;Let fear fright it back to the gloom, and let it no more be reprievedFrom the shadowy challenge of death and clouds that about it lie.O let it no more rejoice with the light-footed days of the year,Let the pale moon know it no more, let it not be reckoned as one;O curse it all ye that curse the day! let that night be dearTo them that pray to the Dragon that preys on the light of the Sun.Let the stars of the twilight thereof be dark: let it long for the day,And know it not, nor behold the fragrant eyelids of morn,Since it shut not the doors of the womb when my mother in travail lay,Nor hid mine eyes from the dawning light of sorrow and scorn.Why died I not from the womb, nor gave life back to the deep?O why was I nursed on the knee, and suckled so well at the breast?For now should I long have lain in quiet and folded in sleep,And gathered of old to the great assembly of them that rest:With judges and kings of earth in their pyramid-sepulchres lone,With mighty princes that stuffed their tombs with treasures of worth;So had I not been; so had I sweet peace and nothingness known,As infants that never saw light, as a hidden untimely birth.Ah! there do the wicked cease from troubling, the weary rest;The prisoners rest together, they hear not the tyrant’s word.Both small and great are there, the oppressor with the opprest;But the small man hath not fear, the servant is free from his lord.O wherefore is sweet life given to a soul in bitterness clad?And wherefore light unto him whom sorrow and darkness hold?Who waiteth for death all day, and seeing the grave is glad;But finds it not though he dig for it more than treasures of gold.O wherefore light unto him whose way is circled with gloom,Whom God hath girt with a hedge, that he cannot or see or think?O wherefore light unto me, or meat for my life, to whomSighing comes sooner than bread and weeping quicker than drink?For even all things that I feared have alighted on me from the air;I have nought of rest, or peace or quiet, but trouble is there.

O let it no more rejoice with the light-footed days of the year,Let the pale moon know it no more, let it not be reckoned as one;O curse it all ye that curse the day! let that night be dearTo them that pray to the Dragon that preys on the light of the Sun.

Let the stars of the twilight thereof be dark: let it long for the day,And know it not, nor behold the fragrant eyelids of morn,Since it shut not the doors of the womb when my mother in travail lay,Nor hid mine eyes from the dawning light of sorrow and scorn.

Why died I not from the womb, nor gave life back to the deep?O why was I nursed on the knee, and suckled so well at the breast?For now should I long have lain in quiet and folded in sleep,And gathered of old to the great assembly of them that rest:

With judges and kings of earth in their pyramid-sepulchres lone,With mighty princes that stuffed their tombs with treasures of worth;So had I not been; so had I sweet peace and nothingness known,As infants that never saw light, as a hidden untimely birth.

Ah! there do the wicked cease from troubling, the weary rest;The prisoners rest together, they hear not the tyrant’s word.Both small and great are there, the oppressor with the opprest;But the small man hath not fear, the servant is free from his lord.

O wherefore is sweet life given to a soul in bitterness clad?And wherefore light unto him whom sorrow and darkness hold?Who waiteth for death all day, and seeing the grave is glad;But finds it not though he dig for it more than treasures of gold.

O wherefore light unto him whose way is circled with gloom,Whom God hath girt with a hedge, that he cannot or see or think?O wherefore light unto me, or meat for my life, to whomSighing comes sooner than bread and weeping quicker than drink?

For even all things that I feared have alighted on me from the air;I have nought of rest, or peace or quiet, but trouble is there.

June, 1870.

I walkas one who, walking through the nightFrom village unto village far withdrawn,Sees here and there a light and men who wakeWith confused murmur growing unto dawn.And suddenly the birds start into song,And cart-wheels creak along the flinty ways,And men are in the field, and lights are out,While the first sunbeam fills the air with praise.So louder, as I wander through the world,Sounds that glad anthem of the glimmering day,And lamps of men that grope within the darkFlash quick and quicker through the morning grey,Ere they grow dim. O glance a thousandwiseThrough cold airs wreathing round my brow,Ye heralds of a sun, before whose face,The whiles ye fade, men hasten forth to bow.* * *

I walkas one who, walking through the nightFrom village unto village far withdrawn,Sees here and there a light and men who wakeWith confused murmur growing unto dawn.

And suddenly the birds start into song,And cart-wheels creak along the flinty ways,And men are in the field, and lights are out,While the first sunbeam fills the air with praise.

So louder, as I wander through the world,Sounds that glad anthem of the glimmering day,And lamps of men that grope within the darkFlash quick and quicker through the morning grey,

Ere they grow dim. O glance a thousandwiseThrough cold airs wreathing round my brow,Ye heralds of a sun, before whose face,The whiles ye fade, men hasten forth to bow.* * *

Still, still they crucify thee, O great Christ.They took thee from thy cross on Calvary,And nailed thee in a splendid place unpricedOf malachite and gold and porphyry.They counted all the wounds thy body bore,They measured all the hours of misery,On spear and reed and sponge they set great store:Still, still they crucify thee, gentle Christ.They used thy name, because thou wast so meek,To be the watchword of all godless pride;Because thou wast so gracious to the weak,They held thy flaming cross up far and wide,A curse and terror in the common streetTo poor and ignorant and world-untried,And then they came and crouched and kissed thy feet,With folded hands and lips slavish and sleek.Still, still they crucify thee, who didst saySuffer the little ones to come to me,Whose heart with love beguiled the beaten way,And made all men behold thee joyfully;For now they wave away the vulgar crowd,No simple child of man may come nigh thee:With obscure rites and incantations loudThey crucify thy love fresh every day.Once, where the churches offer stones for bread,And in their Holy Place call darkness light,Thy sun-like truth-revealing presence shedShame on each false and Pharisaic rite:Till, as thy lustre more intensely shone,They took thee from thy chosen lowly site,And set thee for their own especial sun,And called thee by the name of Church’s Head.And now, when in an aisle loud trumpets bray,And facing thee the priests go to and fro,And, distanced off, the kneeling people prayAnd breathe thy name in trembling accents low:High o’er the incense and the altar cloud,Afar, and folded in thine own great woe,Alone, thy head in deep dejection bowed,Great Christ, they crucify thee every day.Thy face is turned aside from all that scene,Thine eyes are weary of their age-long gaze,Thy frame is worn, thy shrunken limbs grow lean,Thou seem’st to tremble at the song of praise;For here, and in thy name, the evil word,The ban, the curse, and damning pious phrase,Century after century were heard,Christ, as if thou their Counsellor hadst been.So long? These twice ten hundred years, O Christ?Hath no one yet come near to lift thee down?Hath no one yet thy holy spirit pricedAbove the three nails and the thorny crown?Thy seamless robe the Roman soldiers took,But these have woven thee another gownOf all thy bitter shame and sharp rebukeWherein to crucify thee still, great Christ.Slowly the days run on, the time is long,The kneeling generations come and go,Thy word is to them as an empty gong,They look upon thee, but they do not know.Thine arms, wide-spread for all the world’s embrace,Are empty evermore of friend or foe,Still, still set stiff and rigid in their place,And straightened back from love with rivets strong.Ah, surely in the seeming endless yearsSome momentary glance hath gladdened thee,Some smile of recognition reached through tearsHath shed light on thy later Calvary.Yet is thy love more like a thing untold,To stay and suffer still so patiently,By suffering to overcome the coldHeart of estrangement of thy loved compeers.And now, the end, what is it? For each dayThe magic ceremonious circle, drawnBetwixt thee and the people, doth betrayLess room for love and more for serge and lawn;The world grows weary seeking thee in vain,And leaves thee to the priests, who self-withdrawnIn secret pride find popular disdainAnd pitiful desertion and dismay.The Papal pride has triumphed: it has setItself for thee. The world has turned away.The Papal pride has fallen. Wilt thou yetRemain to lead us in this later day?Or will thy name, as something that is not,Pass from the ears of men unlearned to pray,Thy centuries of suffering forgot,Thy love to men for evermore unmet?Ah! greater is thy love than this, great Christ.Thou givest, but thou askest not again:And though our wayward worship be enticedTo other shrines, thy spirit shall remain,Unknown, to breathe upon us purer life,Refine us with the flame of earthly pain,Until, our hearts with thine no more at strife,We learn how not to crucify thee, Christ.

They used thy name, because thou wast so meek,To be the watchword of all godless pride;Because thou wast so gracious to the weak,They held thy flaming cross up far and wide,A curse and terror in the common streetTo poor and ignorant and world-untried,And then they came and crouched and kissed thy feet,With folded hands and lips slavish and sleek.

Still, still they crucify thee, who didst saySuffer the little ones to come to me,Whose heart with love beguiled the beaten way,And made all men behold thee joyfully;For now they wave away the vulgar crowd,No simple child of man may come nigh thee:With obscure rites and incantations loudThey crucify thy love fresh every day.

Once, where the churches offer stones for bread,And in their Holy Place call darkness light,Thy sun-like truth-revealing presence shedShame on each false and Pharisaic rite:Till, as thy lustre more intensely shone,They took thee from thy chosen lowly site,And set thee for their own especial sun,And called thee by the name of Church’s Head.

And now, when in an aisle loud trumpets bray,And facing thee the priests go to and fro,And, distanced off, the kneeling people prayAnd breathe thy name in trembling accents low:High o’er the incense and the altar cloud,Afar, and folded in thine own great woe,Alone, thy head in deep dejection bowed,Great Christ, they crucify thee every day.

Thy face is turned aside from all that scene,Thine eyes are weary of their age-long gaze,Thy frame is worn, thy shrunken limbs grow lean,Thou seem’st to tremble at the song of praise;For here, and in thy name, the evil word,The ban, the curse, and damning pious phrase,Century after century were heard,Christ, as if thou their Counsellor hadst been.

So long? These twice ten hundred years, O Christ?Hath no one yet come near to lift thee down?Hath no one yet thy holy spirit pricedAbove the three nails and the thorny crown?Thy seamless robe the Roman soldiers took,But these have woven thee another gownOf all thy bitter shame and sharp rebukeWherein to crucify thee still, great Christ.

Slowly the days run on, the time is long,The kneeling generations come and go,Thy word is to them as an empty gong,They look upon thee, but they do not know.Thine arms, wide-spread for all the world’s embrace,Are empty evermore of friend or foe,Still, still set stiff and rigid in their place,And straightened back from love with rivets strong.

Ah, surely in the seeming endless yearsSome momentary glance hath gladdened thee,Some smile of recognition reached through tearsHath shed light on thy later Calvary.Yet is thy love more like a thing untold,To stay and suffer still so patiently,By suffering to overcome the coldHeart of estrangement of thy loved compeers.

And now, the end, what is it? For each dayThe magic ceremonious circle, drawnBetwixt thee and the people, doth betrayLess room for love and more for serge and lawn;The world grows weary seeking thee in vain,And leaves thee to the priests, who self-withdrawnIn secret pride find popular disdainAnd pitiful desertion and dismay.

The Papal pride has triumphed: it has setItself for thee. The world has turned away.The Papal pride has fallen. Wilt thou yetRemain to lead us in this later day?Or will thy name, as something that is not,Pass from the ears of men unlearned to pray,Thy centuries of suffering forgot,Thy love to men for evermore unmet?

Ah! greater is thy love than this, great Christ.Thou givest, but thou askest not again:And though our wayward worship be enticedTo other shrines, thy spirit shall remain,Unknown, to breathe upon us purer life,Refine us with the flame of earthly pain,Until, our hearts with thine no more at strife,We learn how not to crucify thee, Christ.

Rome, 1873.

Walk up! walk up! This way to see the world!Scant time allowed, must make the best of it:Seventy years or so: your hair’ll be curledBefore that, though, with two or three sights fitTo set your eyes wide open—if you’ve wit,That is to say, to win in the great strifeFor bare existence ’gainst each brother chit—To keep one eye upon the slide of life,As ’twere an instant, ere death hood you with his coif.

Walk up! walk up! Well, you’re a stranger now;But that won’t last. It’s excellent rare funUp here; but as we’ve much to see, allowMe to begin at once. Now, there’s the Sun.Where you come from I doubt that there was oneOr aught to match it; ’tis too far to touch,But has its use, natheless, which is to runFrom end to end of heaven, and give rays suchAs may suffice to warm and light our earthly hutch.

It shines by day and is obscured at night—A capital arrangement, such as IShould have suggested if the InfiniteHad asked my counsel. If you ask me why,’Tis clear ’twould not have suited men to lieAbed with sun full-orbed at midnight blazeAnd work their days by gaslight. We descryThroughout these things the providential ways,And are prepared in all to render them due praise.

Walk up! walk up! There’s plenty more to seeBy this said sun’s rays—simple and sublime.The world’s a show which is, you’ll all agree,The greatest ever advertised in rhyme,—We’ve had the management of it some timeAnd can explain it fully;—and to-day’Tis not too much to say ’tis in its prime;Admission free—that is, if you obeyOur fatherly direction, there is nought to pay.

Move with the rest, and do not stop to gazeToo long or closely. All is very good:So the Creator said—in some amazeAt his own skill. Besides, in any mood,Doubting or not, ’tis deemed a little rudeTo look a gift-horse in the mouth. Move on:And thank your planets—as indeed you should—That you have got such good advice to con,For which the world were worthy visiting, alone.

Your eyes are caught at first by empty shows—Bright colours, smiling faces, forms of grace.To chase gold butterflies by green hedgerows,To play regardless both of time and spaceIn unrestricted freedom, and to racePropriety and prudence out of breath,Seem pleasant and surprisingly in placeIn this fair world where, as the preacher saith,What profits he that works in that he laboureth?

But look around you, and you’ll soon perceiveYour judgment is at fault, and, once for all,’Tis best surrender freedom and not grieve,But bend your neck demurely to the thrall—Remembering the weakmusttake the wall.And get by rote, if not by heart, the themesWhich age and ancient custom learning call,And leave enthusiastic youthful dreams,To labour for what is and not for that which seems.

Such labour profits. Since it pleased the LordTo shut us out of Paradise, the sweatOf each man’s brow alone secures reward(His or another’s); and we need not fret.The bargain’s just, for if we do not getInterest, we get profits, which are more.Life’s interest is Nature’s secret, setIn untrod plains, and if all pleasant loreIs there, Knowledge and Life,—an Eden-land whereo’er.

The sun of freedom shines—still, here is gold,Which, after all, surpasses any sun:For without light were nothing to behold,But without this is nothing to be done.Therefore seek first for gold, and therefore shunUnthrifty habits or excessive vice:Honesty’s best policy in the long run,Dishonour ruins credit in a trice,And virtue, being its own reward, thus pays you twice.

Yet all with moderation. We, who cameInto the world and learned our lesson flushEre you were thought of, have the prior claimIn law as well as profits. Do not push!As if gold were the very flaming bush.Order! If there’s not room, why, some must wait;First comers first: ’tis just. And I’ll not blushTo say I’ve tarried yearlong for a greatOpening which now the due rotation brings—though late.

Nay, do not push. Ah! Vengeance on you all!’Tis lost. What greediness!—a vulgar crowdPressing and trampling forward—I shall fall.Help! hear me! Here is hard cash: I’m not proud.In vain. All lost. Before my eyes a cloudHides the great show, the scene becomes obscure.I could have wished that chance had been allowed;But no, the risk of limb outweighed the lure,—And, taking all in all, the show’s a little poor.

Adieu. See how they fight! So has it beenSince the beginning, as if unawareThe panorama’s but a shifting scene,And all its wonders only empty air.Hear me, my friends. Believe me that I bearNo grudge against you, but would have you know,For your own good, the lust of gold’s a snare.The world’s no shop, but only a peepshow:What’s seen or handled you surrender when you go.

Carry him out! more room! come up behind!One peephole vacant! now the show’s at height.Strange, that our predecessors—though not blind—Ne’er fully saw or understood the sight,Withal so anxious to display their lightFor our illumination! But away:Our time for all such questioning is quiteToo limited. Enough, while yet ’tis day,To use the precious hours. Let night come when it may.

Florence, 1873.

Asone who, late at eve returning homeUnder the stars, hears on the common roadA fellow-footstep fall, and sees one comeDimly, he knows not whom, nor can forebode;But cries to him ‘God speed thee,’ and is gladHearing his restful answer through the night,And dreams of love, and though his heart be sadFeels darkly some strange instinct of delight;So I to thee. If on this earthly wayOur paths had lain together, I perchanceIn the sweet sunlight had beheld thy dayAnd known thee as thou art—as in a trance,—And loved thee, and thou me. But seeing nowSad night compels us, and our way is wonThrough ignorance and blindness to the browOf that fair mountain of the morning SunWhence Truth is manifest, let us remainIn word and action strangers, yet in heartOne and well-known by every joy and painThat makes divine our little human part.

Asone who, late at eve returning homeUnder the stars, hears on the common roadA fellow-footstep fall, and sees one comeDimly, he knows not whom, nor can forebode;

But cries to him ‘God speed thee,’ and is gladHearing his restful answer through the night,And dreams of love, and though his heart be sadFeels darkly some strange instinct of delight;

So I to thee. If on this earthly wayOur paths had lain together, I perchanceIn the sweet sunlight had beheld thy dayAnd known thee as thou art—as in a trance,—

And loved thee, and thou me. But seeing nowSad night compels us, and our way is wonThrough ignorance and blindness to the browOf that fair mountain of the morning SunWhence Truth is manifest, let us remainIn word and action strangers, yet in heartOne and well-known by every joy and painThat makes divine our little human part.

1872.

O wearychild of man, O mortal friend,Afar, unseen, by road or river-bend,By mountain, plain, or city, still the same,Human, unfriended, with the piercing flameOf endless sorrow in thine aching heart:Hear me, for unto thee my spirit yearns;Touch me, behold me, where the twilight turns,Uplifting white arms to the tireless morn:Hear me, for in thy torment I am torn;Hear me, for in thy passion I have part.O child, O child, how sadly sang the worldIts old old song of keen cold carelessness,How blindly blew the wind of lonelinessAbout thy soul in frozen garments furled;How with pale speechless lips and wan didst paceCrushing beneath thy days that deadly feud;How to the bitter wall didst turn thy face,Glad from the glances of the multitude.Ah! here or there; the same sad song of woe,More desolate than world-despair or death,The cry of souls the cruel sun severeth,The moan of love to madness smitten low.Ah, here or there; the same sad end of things,The same fond fruitless ineffectual life,High-feathered hope and passionate pulse of wings,Chill sorrow, failure, and despairing strife.Behold, beyond the mountains of the West,Where sparkle white domes of the purple hills,The light of evening Earth’s broad bosom fillsAnd like a golden dove broods o’er her breast,And fades, afar—for you and me, afar,—Shared token of our common deep desire,Which fadeth not, but like a beacon-starDevours the darkness of our hearts with fire.

O child, O child, how sadly sang the worldIts old old song of keen cold carelessness,How blindly blew the wind of lonelinessAbout thy soul in frozen garments furled;How with pale speechless lips and wan didst paceCrushing beneath thy days that deadly feud;How to the bitter wall didst turn thy face,Glad from the glances of the multitude.

Ah! here or there; the same sad song of woe,More desolate than world-despair or death,The cry of souls the cruel sun severeth,The moan of love to madness smitten low.Ah, here or there; the same sad end of things,The same fond fruitless ineffectual life,High-feathered hope and passionate pulse of wings,Chill sorrow, failure, and despairing strife.

Behold, beyond the mountains of the West,Where sparkle white domes of the purple hills,The light of evening Earth’s broad bosom fillsAnd like a golden dove broods o’er her breast,And fades, afar—for you and me, afar,—Shared token of our common deep desire,Which fadeth not, but like a beacon-starDevours the darkness of our hearts with fire.

1872.

I callthee in all hours of life and death:Friend, whom the days hide and the months and yearsDarken before my face: I call and cryStill, as of old time, ere the morning starMounts in the moonlit heavens; and still, ere dawnVisits the vale of sleep, I call to thee.Friend, like a stranger loved and known before,Or brother long forgot, with intricateWorld-written countenance, obscure to read,Yet flashing ancient meanings: thou, for whom,Morning and night, with ever-new desire,I, waiting, watch without the gates of Time,If haply at length thy vagrant feet effaceThe way of our estrangement; yea, O thou,Who in that way’s delay decipherestThese words of my great need, I call to Thee.O wilt thou hear me: know that night by nightI dwell beside thee, and before the dawnTouch thy loved forehead with my lips, and fillWith joy each hour of waking. EvernearI gaze upon thee as thou goest forthTo each day’s due encounter; step by step,And hour by hour each stroke of all thy workWears out the world to more transparencyBetween us. Even now the flinty way,Flaming beneath thy feet, is grown like glass;My glance is on thee from the well-turned field,The mill, the net, the loom, and woven stuff,From desk and counter and rock-quarried gold,Waste seas and stormbeat headlands, and from allThe faces of thine enemies in the fight—Strike home: the stroke is fair for me and thee.Nay, from these words I spring to meet thy soul,Which else were lonely in the world of men;O take them as the token of a loveWithin, without thee, Lord and minister,Unknown, of all thy actions, until deathReveal it, visual, thine, the perfect life.Yea, now I call to Love that is in thee,And cry, as one that sees her shadow passAnd the lamp flash, waiting without the houseFor his fair one at the window: O come forth,That I may see thee as thou art, and hearThy hidden thought, and hold thy very selfIn presence undisturbed. Thou are descried:Thy light is beauty and cannot be hid;But, through the tangle of frail purposesThat fringe the lattice windows of thy life,Shines to perpetual promise. Fear thou not.Ay, though I come clad grimly as for war,In brazen heat or scaly northern cold,By rock or river, famine, hatred, fire;Though I assail thee at the cannon’s mouth,Or drag thee down to listless years of pain,Arise thou, and with forehead unabashedCome forth, and so confront me. In that day,Thine eyes, beholding mine, within their depthsShall see, resurgent from the past, all formsOf long-lost joy and lovely memory,All faces and fair smiles of time, set forthAnd forward in the future; all else fled.O stand and conquer so: for see, I touchThee through this outer world, in the hot SunI slay thee with my lips, all day to theeI whisper in the Light, and to myselfDesirous draw thee in the Lightning flashArrayed in death. Arise and vanquish me:Grasp firm my tangled hair, brandish thy sword,Breathe heavily thy hot breath in my ears,And I will yield; and thou shalt know that LoveStands ever by thy side through Life and Death,Signing allegiance of a thousand heartsThat still are One.O hear my voice once more.I am with thee. Rise up, thy duty calls;Pass down into the world; I am with thee.

O wilt thou hear me: know that night by nightI dwell beside thee, and before the dawnTouch thy loved forehead with my lips, and fillWith joy each hour of waking. EvernearI gaze upon thee as thou goest forthTo each day’s due encounter; step by step,And hour by hour each stroke of all thy workWears out the world to more transparencyBetween us. Even now the flinty way,Flaming beneath thy feet, is grown like glass;My glance is on thee from the well-turned field,The mill, the net, the loom, and woven stuff,From desk and counter and rock-quarried gold,Waste seas and stormbeat headlands, and from allThe faces of thine enemies in the fight—Strike home: the stroke is fair for me and thee.Nay, from these words I spring to meet thy soul,Which else were lonely in the world of men;O take them as the token of a loveWithin, without thee, Lord and minister,Unknown, of all thy actions, until deathReveal it, visual, thine, the perfect life.

Yea, now I call to Love that is in thee,And cry, as one that sees her shadow passAnd the lamp flash, waiting without the houseFor his fair one at the window: O come forth,That I may see thee as thou art, and hearThy hidden thought, and hold thy very selfIn presence undisturbed. Thou are descried:Thy light is beauty and cannot be hid;But, through the tangle of frail purposesThat fringe the lattice windows of thy life,Shines to perpetual promise. Fear thou not.Ay, though I come clad grimly as for war,In brazen heat or scaly northern cold,By rock or river, famine, hatred, fire;Though I assail thee at the cannon’s mouth,Or drag thee down to listless years of pain,Arise thou, and with forehead unabashedCome forth, and so confront me. In that day,Thine eyes, beholding mine, within their depthsShall see, resurgent from the past, all formsOf long-lost joy and lovely memory,All faces and fair smiles of time, set forthAnd forward in the future; all else fled.O stand and conquer so: for see, I touchThee through this outer world, in the hot SunI slay thee with my lips, all day to theeI whisper in the Light, and to myselfDesirous draw thee in the Lightning flashArrayed in death. Arise and vanquish me:Grasp firm my tangled hair, brandish thy sword,Breathe heavily thy hot breath in my ears,And I will yield; and thou shalt know that LoveStands ever by thy side through Life and Death,Signing allegiance of a thousand heartsThat still are One.O hear my voice once more.I am with thee. Rise up, thy duty calls;Pass down into the world; I am with thee.

Florence, 1873.

WhereGenoa spreads white arms crescent-wise,Her feet o’er well-packed bale and polished sparStep on the quay with men of every star.Her heart stays with her people; but her eyesFrom those high garden-terraces deviseNew realms of peaceful conquest, where afarOcean’s white horses at the harbour-barWait ever for their rider to arise.Here boy Columbus stood, and o’er the blueImmeasurable fields imagined new.Here young Mazzini, while for men he yearned,Another world within their eyes discerned—The one Republic without place or date.So both for men lived,—and died execrate.

Here boy Columbus stood, and o’er the blueImmeasurable fields imagined new.Here young Mazzini, while for men he yearned,Another world within their eyes discerned—The one Republic without place or date.So both for men lived,—and died execrate.

January, 1873.

Betwixtthe actual and unseen, alone,Companionless, deaf, in dread solitudeOf soul amid the faithless multitude,He lived, and fought with life, and held his own;Knew poverty, and shame which is not shown,Pride, doubt, and secret heart-despair of good,—Insolent praise of men and petty feud:Yet fell not from his purpose, framed and known.For, as a lonely watcher of the night,When all men sleep, sees the tumultuous starsMove forward from the deep in squadrons bright,And notes them, he through this life’s prison barsHeard all night long the spheric music clearBeat on his heart,—and lived that men might hear.

For, as a lonely watcher of the night,When all men sleep, sees the tumultuous starsMove forward from the deep in squadrons bright,And notes them, he through this life’s prison barsHeard all night long the spheric music clearBeat on his heart,—and lived that men might hear.

January, 1873.

Soday by day my life, thus nearer drawnDown the dark avenues unto the dawn,Cries to Thee: O Lord, Lord of life and death,Whom from our gaze the sad night sundereth,Reveal Thyself; be unto us no moreA darkly-felt thick darkness by the shore;But like the wind, that wingeth cold and clearBefore the dawn by meadow-land and mere,Blow on us; scatter from our sickly brainsThe feverish fancies that ill conscience feigns;Raise us to stand like men to meet the strife,Fearless and grand, because within thy lifeOur lives are hidden,—as is his to-day,Thy servant who from sight hath passed away.

April, 1872.

Suchcourage in so sensitive a frameHad given the world rebuke, but that it cameIn such light exquisite companionshipOf gentle glance and laughter-loving lipThat few, beholding, could forebode the forceWherewith that inward current kept its courseIn wave-like large emotion, calm and free,Towards Truth, the high compelling deity.So when, obedient to the heavenly guide,Night-long the sea with stedfast-flowing tideRises along the land and searches o’erEach bay and inlet of its bounding shore,The moving goddess doth her empire traceIn lines of silver laughter on its face.* * *

So when, obedient to the heavenly guide,Night-long the sea with stedfast-flowing tideRises along the land and searches o’erEach bay and inlet of its bounding shore,The moving goddess doth her empire traceIn lines of silver laughter on its face.* * *

O childof light and shadow: though I pass,The mountains and the plains where we two playedOur part of earthly pleasance still are laidOut in the open world of sun and grass,—For thy fruition. Not in stone or brassSeek any sign of me. Let no tear braidThy light-fringed lids because my path is madeBeyond the bounds thy sight cannot surpass.Turn thee again unto the sunlit plain,Let all pure influences of the airAnd sweet sad fellowship of mortal painWreathe round thy head immortal fancies fair.Where’er suns rise on men or late moons wane,I leave thee at this stone to meet thee there.

Rome, 1873.

Since, small or great, and every man on earth,Must know thee at the last, thy lonely gloomIs bright with something of diviner birth—The lamp of human love, that o’er our doomSheds undivided radiance. For in thisOur modern world of finely graded life,The soul is nursed knowing nothing of the blissOf sorrow borne, since human. In this strifeOf complex individual interestsPoor man and princely, side by side, share notOne pain or passion of a common lot,Till death, more liberal than life, investsAll men alike in his wide winding-sheet,And in that suit of sorrow makes them meet.* * *

Since, in thine hour of sorrow, unto theeCame sweet remembrance of the summer seaAnd one who sat beside it—in his eyesThe far-off thought of sea and summer skies:Since in thine heart the visionary gleamOf one half-wasted life, more like a dream,Pale in its pleading, stood to be the signOf Love, as Love is, passionate, divine:Ah! since in all this world no fuller soundThan my faint spirit’s utterance was foundBidding thee cherish hope: so let it be.Behold, beyond the summer and the seaI utter not myself, but am His voiceWho bids all Nature live, and thee rejoice.* * *

Mylife thy life unto itself doth foldCloser than death. My soul clasps all of thine,As in the bud rose-petals intertwineBefore the light divides them. I beholdDeep in the mystic shadow-caverns shineThine image on the fire-fed sources coldWhereby my spirit dwells; and with the oldForeboding unforgotten, dream divine,Thou dost disturb me. Yet the dim-lit dayDawns down between us, staring face to face,Strange as the stormy Atlantic; with swift paceWe tread the track which sets our steps astray;Thy lips are mute; mine move not; evermoreI wait and wearily knock at Death’s dark door.

1872.

Itshall be. Although far away the soundDies in the infinite silence of the sky,Although obscure, and hid in the profound,Our days stream outwards, onwards, and pass by.It shall be. Behold a new world is madeOut of the old, and the old dieth not;For though the mountain-forms and flowers fade,Ageless remains the far-informing Thought.Ah! when this troublous dream and mortal sleepFades from our eyelids, and the end is near,Down through the spaceless void and starry steepInstinct with Love the dreaming soul shall hearOne whispered word; and all the past shall beUp-gathered into Love’s eternity.* * *

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