Chapter V: Front Matter (5)

'And why am I here?' 'But what did you mutter?' 'O pardon, sweet. Why came I here and--my mother?' In truth then I cannot tell.' 'Yet you drew my ring from your finger--see--I kneel at your feet.' 'Put it on. 'T was for no fault of mine.' 'Love! I knew that full well.'

XII.

'And yet there be faults that long repented, are aye to deplore, Wear my ring, Laura, at least till I choose some words I can say, If indeed any word need be said.' 'No! wait, Ronald, no more; What! is there respite? Give me a moment to think "nay" or "ay."

XIII.

I know not, but feel there is. O pardon me, pardon me,--peace. For nought is to say, and the dawn of hope is a solemn thing, Let us have silence. Take me back, Ronald, full sweet is release.' 'Laura! but give me my troth kiss again.' 'And give me my ring.'

THE WHITE MOON WASTETH.

The white moon wasteth, And cold morn hasteth Athwart the snow, The red east burneth And the tide turneth, And thou must go.

Think not, sad rover, Their story all over Who come from far-- Once, in the ages Won goodly wages Led by a star.

Once, for all duly Guidance doth truly Shine as of old, Opens for me and thee Once, opportunity Her gates of gold.

Enter, thy star is out, Traverse nor faint nor doubt Earth's antres wild, Thou shalt find good and rest As found the Magi blest That divine Child.

AN ARROW-SLIT.

I clomb full high the belfry tower
Up to yon arrow-slit, up and away,
I said 'let me look on my heart's fair flower
In the wallèd garden where she doth play.'

My care she knoweth not, no nor the cause,
White rose, red rose about her hung,
And I aloft with the doves and the daws.
They coo and call to their callow young.

Sing, 'O an she were a white rosebud fair
Dropt, and in danger from passing feet,
'T is I would render her service tender,
Upraised on my bosom with reverence meet.'

Playing at the ball, my dearest of all,
When she grows older how will it be,
I dwell far away from her thoughts to-day
That heed not, need not, or mine or me.

Sing, 'O an my love were a fledgeling dove
That flutters forlorn o' her shallow nest,
'T is I would render her service tender,
And carry her, carry her on my breast.'

WENDOVER.

Uplifted and lone, set apart with our love
On the crest of a soft swelling down
Cloud shadows that meet on the grass at our feet
Sail on above Wendover town.

Wendover town takes the smile of the sun
As if yearning and strife were no more,
From her red roofs float high neither plaint neither sigh,
All the weight of the world is our own.

Would that life were more kind and that souls might have peace
As the wide mead from storm and from bale,
We bring up our own care, but how sweet over there
And how strange is their calm in the vale.

As if trouble at noon had achieved a deep sleep,
Lapped and lulled from the weariful fret,
Or shot down out of day, had a hint dropt away
As if grief might attain to forget.

Not if we two indeed had gone over the bourne
And were safe on the hills of the blest,
Not more strange they might show to us drawn from below,
Come up from long dolour to rest.

But the peace of that vale would be thine love and mine,
And sweeter the air than of yore,
And this life we have led as a dream that is fled
Might appear to our thought evermore.

'Was it life, was it life?' we might say ''twas scarce life,'
'Was it love? 'twas scarce love,' looking down,
'Yet we mind a sweet ray of the red sun one day
Low lying on Wendover town.

THE LOVER PLEADS.

I.

When I had guineas many a one Nought else I lackèd 'neath the sun, I had two eyes the bluest seen, A perfect shape, a gracious mien, I had a voice might charm the bale From a two days widowed nightingale, And if you ask how this I know I had a love who told me so. The lover pleads, the maid hearkeneth, Her foot turns, his day darkeneth. Love unkind, O can it be 'T was your foot false did turn from me.

II.

The gear is gone, the red gold spent, Favour and beauty with them went, Eyes take the veil, their shining done, Not fair to him is fair to none, Sweet as a bee's bag 'twas to taste His praise. O honey run to waste, He loved not! spoiled is all my way In the spoiling of that yesterday.

The shadows wax, the low light alters, Gold west fades, and false heart falters. The pity of it!--Love's a rover, The last word said, and all over.

SONG IN THREE PARTS.

I.

The white broom flatt'ring her flowers in calm June weather,
'O most sweet wear;
Forty-eight weeks of my life do none desire me,
Four am I fair,'

Quoth the brown bee
'In thy white wear
Four thou art fair.
A mystery
Of honeyed snow
In scented air
The bee lines flow
Straight unto thee.
Great boon and bliss
All pure I wis,
And sweet to grow
Ay, so to give
That many live.
Now as for me,
I,' quoth the bee,
'Have not to give,
Through long hours sunny
Gathering I live:
Aye debonair
Sailing sweet air
After my fare,
Bee-bread and honey.
In thy deep coombe,
O thou white broom,
Where no leaves shake,
Brake,
Bent nor clover,
I a glad rover,
Thy calms partake,
While winds of might
From height to height
Go bodily over.
Till slanteth light,
And up the rise
Thy shadow lies,
A shadow of white,
A beauty-lender
Pathetic, tender.

Short is thy day?
Answer with 'Nay,'
Longer the hours
That wear thy flowers
Than all dull, cold
Years manifold
That gift withhold.
A long liver,
O honey-giver,
Thou by all showing
Art made, bestowing,
I envy not
Thy greater lot,
Nor thy white wear.
But, as for me,
I,' quoth the bee,
'Never am fair.'

II.

The nightingale lorn of his note in darkness brooding
Deeply and long,
'Two sweet months spake the heart to the heart. Alas! all's over,
O lost my song.'

One in the tree,
'Hush now! Let be:
The song at ending
Left my long tending
Over alsò.
Let be, let us go
Across the wan sea.

The little ones care not,
And I fare not
Amiss with thee.

Thou hast sung all,
This hast thou had.
Love, be not sad;
It shall befall
Assuredly,
When the bush buddeth
And the bank studdeth--
Where grass is sweet
And damps do fleet,
Her delicate beds
With daisy heads
That the Stars Seven
Leaned down from heaven
Shall sparkling mark
In the warm dark
Thy most dear strain
Which ringeth aye true--
Piercing vale, croft
Lifted aloft
Dropt even as dew
With a sweet quest
To her on the nest
When damps we love
Fall from above.

"Art thou asleep?
Answer me, answer me,
Night is so deep
Thy right fair form
I cannot see;
Answer me, answer me,
Are the eggs warm?
Is't well with thee?"

Ay, this shall be
Assuredly.
Ay, thou full fain
In the soft rain
Shalt sing again.'

III.

A fair wife making her moan, despised, forsaken,
Her good days o'er;
'Seven sweet years of my life did I live belovèd,
Seven--no more.'

Then Echo woke--and spoke
'No more--no more,'
And a wave broke
On the sad shore
When Echo said
'No more,'

Nought else made reply,
Nor land, nor loch, nor sky
Did any comfort try,
But the wave spread
Echo's faint tone
Alone,
All down the desolate shore,
'No more--no more.'

'IF I FORGET THEE, O JERUSALEM.'

Out of the melancholy that is made Of ebbing sorrow that too slowly ebbs, Comes back a sighing whisper of the reed, A note in new love-pipings on the bough, Grieving with grief till all the full-fed air And shaken milky corn doth wot of it, The pity of it trembling in the talk Of the beforetime merrymaking brook-- Out of that melancholy will the soul, In proof that life is not forsaken quite Of the old trick and glamour which made glad; Be cheated some good day and not perceive How sorrow ebbing out is gone from view, How tired trouble fall'n for once on sleep, How keen self-mockery that youth's eager dream Interpreted to mean so much is found To mean and give so little--frets no more, Floating apart as on a cloud--O then Not e'en so much as murmuring 'Let this end,' She will, no longer weighted, find escape, Lift up herself as if on wings and flit Back to the morning time. 'O once with me It was all one, such joy I had at heart, As I heard sing the morning star, or God Did hold me with an Everlasting Hand, And dip me in the day. O once with me,' Reflecting ''twas enough to live, to look Wonder and love. Now let that come again. Rise!' And ariseth first a tanglement Of flowering bushes, peonies pale that drop Upon a mossy lawn, rich iris spikes, Bee-borage, mealy-stemmed auricula, Brown wallflower, and the sweetbriar ever sweet, Her pink buds pouting from their green. To these Add thick espaliers where the bullfinch came To strew much budding wealth, and was not chid. Then add wide pear trees on the warmèd wall, The old red wall one cannot see beyond. That is the garden. In the wall a door Green, blistered with the sun. You open it, And lo! a sunny waste of tumbled hills And a glad silence, and an open calm. Infinite leisure, and a slope where rills Dance down delightedly, in every crease, And lambs stoop drinking and the finches dip, Then shining waves upon a lonely beach. That is the world.

An all-sufficient world, And as it seems an undiscovered world, So very few the folk that come to look. Yet one has heard of towns; but they are far The world is undiscovered, and the child Is undiscovered that with stealthy joy Goes gathering like a bee who in dark cells Hideth sweet food to live on in the cold. What matters to the child, it matters not More than it mattered to the moons of Mars, That they for ages undiscovered went Marked not of man, attendant on their king.

A shallow line of sand curved to the cliff, There dwelt the fisherfolk, and there inland Some scattered cottagers in thrift and calm, Their talk full oft was of old days,--for here Was once a fosse, and by this rock-hewn path Our wild fore-elders as 't is said would come To gather jetsam from some Viking wreck, Like a sea-beast wide breasted (her snake head Reared up as staring while she rocked ashore) That split, and all her ribs were on their fires The red whereof at their wives' throats made bright Gold gauds which from the weed they picked ere yet The tide had turned.

'Many,' methought, 'and rich They must have been, so long their chronicle. Perhaps the world was fuller then of folk, For ships at sea are few that near us now.'

Yet sometimes when the clouds were torn to rags, Flying black before a gale, we saw one rock In the offing, and the mariner folk would cry, 'Look how she labours; those aboard may hear Her timbers creak e'en as she'd break her heart.'

'Twas then the grey gulls blown ashore would light In flocks, and pace the lawn with flat cold feet.

And so the world was sweet, and it was strange, Sweet as a bee-kiss to the crocus flower, Surprising, fresh, direct, but ever one. The laughter of glad music did not yet In its echo yearn, as hinting ought beyond, Nor pathos tremble at the edge of bliss Like a moon halo in a watery sky, Nor the sweet pain alike of love and fear In a world not comprehended touch the heart-- The poetry of life was not yet born. 'T was a thing hidden yet that there be days When some are known to feel 'God is about,' As if that morn more than another morn Virtue flowed forth from Him, the rolling world Swam in a soothèd calm made resonant And vital, swam as in the lap of God Come down; until she slept and had a dream (Because it was too much to bear awake), That all the air shook with the might of Him And whispered how she was the favourite world That day, and bade her drink His essence in.

'Tis on such days that seers prophesy And poets sing, and many who are wise Find out for man's wellbeing hidden things Whereof the hint came in that Presence known Yet unknown. But a seer--what is he? A poet is a name of long ago.

Men love the largeness of the field--the wild Quiet that soothes the moor. In other days They loved the shadow of the city wall, In its stone ramparts read their poetry, Safety and state, gold, and the arts of peace, Law-giving, leisure, knowledge, all were there This to excuse a child's allegiance and A spirit's recurrence to the older way. Orphan'd, with aged guardians kind and true, Things came to pass not told before to me.

Thus, we did journey once when eve was near. Through carriage windows I beheld the moors, Then, churches, hamlets cresting of low hills. The way was long, at last I, fall'n asleep, Awoke to hear a rattling 'neath the wheels And see the lamps alight. This was the town.

Then a wide inn received us, and full soon Came supper, kisses, bed. The lamp without Shone in; the door was shut, and I alone. An ecstasy of exultation took My soul, for there were voices heard and steps, I was among so many,--none of them Knew I was come! I rose, with small bare feet, Across the carpet stole, a white-robed child, And through the window peered. Behold the town.

There had been rain, the pavement glistened yet In a soft lamplight down the narrow street; The church was nigh at hand, a clear-toned clock Chimed slowly, open shops across the way Showed store of fruit, and store of bread,--and one Many caged birds. About were customers, I saw them bargain, and a rich high voice Was heard,--a woman sang, her little babe Slept 'neath her shawl, and by her side a boy Added wild notes and sweet to hers. Some passed Who gave her money. It was far from me To pity her, she was a part of that Admirèd town. E'en so within the shop A rosy girl, it may be ten years old, Quaint, grave. She helped her mother, deftly weighed The purple plums, black mulberries rich and ripe For boyish customers, and counted pence And dropped them in an apron that she wore. Methought a queen had ne'er so grand a lot, She knew it, she looked up at me, and smiled.

But yet the song went on, and in a while The meaning came; the town was not enough To satisfy that singer, for a sigh With her wild music came. What wanted she? Whate'er she wanted wanted all. O how 'T was poignant, her rich voice; not like a bird's. Could she not dwell content and let them be, That they might take their pleasure in the town, For--no, she was not poor, witness the pence. I saw her boy and that small saleswoman; He wary, she with grave persuasive air, Till he came forth with filberts in his cap, And joined his mother, happy, triumphing.

This was the town; and if you ask what else, I say good sooth that it was poetry Because it was the all, and something more,-- It was the life of man, it was the world That made addition to the watching heart, First conscious its own beating, first aware How, beating it kept time with all the race; Nay, 't was a consciousness far down and dim Of a Great Father watching too.

But lo! the rich lamenting voice again; She sang not for herself; it was a song For me, for I had seen the town and knew, Yearning I knew the town was not enough.

What more? To-day looks back on yesterday, Life's yesterday, the waiting time, the dawn, And reads a meaning into it, unknown When it was with us. It is always so. But when as ofttimes I remember me Of the warm wind that moved the beggar's hair, Of the wet pavement, and the lamps alit, I know it was not pity that made yearn My heart for her, and that same dimpled boy How grand methought to be abroad so late. And barefoot dabble in the shining wet; How fine to peer as other urchins did At those pent huddled doves they let not rest; No, it was almost envy. Ay, how sweet The clash of bells; they rang to boast that far That cheerful street was from the cold sea-fog, From dark ploughed field and narrow lonesome lane. How sweet to hear the hum of voices kind, To see the coach come up with din of horn. Quick tramp of horses, mark the passers-by Greet one another, and go on. But now They closed the shops, the wild clear voice was still, The beggars moved away--where was their home. The coach which came from out dull darksome fells Into the light; passed to the dark again Like some old comet which knows well her way, Whirled to the sun that as her fateful loop She turns, forebodes the destined silences. Yes, it was gone; the clattering coach was gone, And those it bore I pitied even to tears, Because they must go forth, nor see the lights, Nor hear the chiming bells. In after days, Remembering of the childish envy and The childish pity, it has cheered my heart To think e'en now pity and envy both It may be are misplaced, or needed not. Heaven may look down in pity on some soul Half envied, or some wholly pitied smile, For that it hath to wait as it were an hour To see the lights that go not out by night, To walk the golden street and hear a song; Other-world poetry that is the all And something more.

NATURE, FOR NATURE'S SAKE.

White as white butterflies that each one dons
Her face their wide white wings to shade withal,
Many moon-daisies throng the water-spring.
While couched in rising barley titlarks call,
And bees alit upon their martagons
Do hang a-murmuring, a-murmuring.

They chide, it may be, alien tribes that flew And rifled their best blossom, counted on And dreamed on in the hive ere dangerous dew That clogs bee-wings had dried; but when outshone Long shafts of gold (made all for them) of power To charm it away, those thieves had sucked the flower.

Now must they go; a-murmuring they go, And little thrushes twitter in the nest; The world is made for them, and even so The clouds are; they have seen no stars, the breast Of their soft mother hid them all the night, Till her mate came to her in red dawn-light.

Eggs scribbled over with strange writing, signs, Prophecies, and their meaning (for you see The yolk within) is life, 'neath yonder bines Lie among sedges; on a hawthorn tree The slender-lord and master perched hard by, Scolds at all comers if they step too nigh.

And our small river makes encompassment Of half the mead and holm: yon lime-trees grow All heeling over to it, diligent To cast green doubles of themselves below, But shafts of sunshine reach its shallow floor And warm the yellow sand it ripples o'er.

Ripples and ripples to a pool it made Turning. The cows are there, one creamy white-- She should be painted with no touch of shade If any list to limn her--she the light Above, about her, treads out circles wide, And sparkling water flashes from her side.

The clouds have all retired to so great height As earth could have no dealing with them more, As they were lost, for all her drawing and might, And must be left behind; but down the shore Lie lovelier clouds in ranks of lace-work frail, Wild parsley with a myriad florets pale,

Another milky-way, more intricate And multitudinous, with every star Perfect. Long changeful sunbeams undulate Amid the stems where sparklike creatures are That hover and hum for gladness, then the last Tree rears her graceful head, the shade is passed.

And idle fish in warm wellbeing lie Each with his shadow under, while at ease As clouds that keep their shape the darting fry Turn and are gone in company; o'er these Strangers to them, strangers to us, from holes Scooped in the bank peer out shy water-voles.

Here, take for life and fly with innocent feet The brown-eyed fawns, from moving shadows clear; There, down the lane with multitudinous bleat Plaining on shepherd lads a flock draws near; A mild lamenting fills the morning air, 'Why to yon upland fold must we needs fare?'

These might be fabulous creatures every one, And this their world might be some other sphere We had but heard of, for all said or done To know of them,--of what this many a year They may have thought of man, or of his sway, Or even if they have a God and pray,

The sweetest river bank can never more Home to its source tempt back the lapsed stream, Nor memory reach the ante-natal shore, Nor one awake behold a sleeper's dream, Not easier 't were that unbridged chasm to walk, And share the strange lore of their wordless talk.

Like to a poet voice, remote from ken, That unregarded sings and undesired, Like to a star unnamed by lips of men, That faints at dawn in saffron light retired, Like to an echo in some desert deep From age to age unwakened from its sleep--

So falls unmarked that other world's great song, And lapsing wastes without interpreter. Slave world! not man's to raise, yet man's to wrong, He cannot to a loftier place prefer, But he can,--all its earlier rights forgot, Reign reckless if its nations rue their lot.

If they can sin or feel life's wear and fret, An men had loved them better, it may be We had discovered. But who e'er did yet, After the sage saints in their clemency, Ponder in hope they had a heaven to win, Or make a prayer with a dove's name therein.

As grave Augustine pleading in his day, 'Have pity, Lord, upon the unfledged bird, Lest such as pass do trample it in the way, Not marking, or not minding; give the word, O bid an angel in the nest again To place it, lest the mother's love be vain.

And let it live, Lord God, till it can fly.' This man dwelt yearning, fain to guess, to spell The parable; all work of God Most High Took to his man's heart. Surely this was well; To love is more than to be loved, by leave Of Heaven, to give is more than to receive.

He made it so that said it. As for us Strange is their case toward us, for they give And we receive. Made martyrs ever thus In deed but not in will, for us they live, For us they die, we quench their little day, Remaining blameless, and they pass away.

The world is better served than it is ruled, And not alone of them, for ever Ruleth the man, the woman serveth fooled Full oft of love, not knowing his yoke is sore. Life's greatest Son nought from life's measure swerved, He was among us 'as a man that served.'

Have they another life, and was it won In the sore travail of another death, Which loosed the manacles from our race undone And plucked the pang from dying? If this breath Be not their all, reproach no more debarred, 'O unkind lords, you made our bondage hard'

May be their plaint when we shall meet again And make our peace with them; the sea of life Find flowing, full, nor ought or lost or vain. Shall the vague hint whereof all thought is rife, The sweet pathetic guess indeed come true, And things restored reach that great residue?

Shall we behold fair flights of phantom doves, Shall furred creatures couch in moly flowers, Swan souls the rivers oar with their world-loves, In difference welcome as these souls of ours? Yet soul of man from soul of man far more May differ, even as thought did heretofore

That ranged and varied on th' undying gleam: From a pure breath of God aspiring, high, Serving and reigning, to the tender dream, The winged Psyche and her butterfly-- From thrones and powers, to--fresh from death alarms Child spirits entering in an angel's arms.

Why must we think, begun in paradise, That their long line, cut off with severance fell, Shall end in nothingness--the sacrifice Of their long service in a passing knell? Could man be wholly blest if not to say 'Forgive'--nor make amends for ever and aye?

Waste, waste on earth, and waste of God afar. Celestial flotsam, blazing spars on high, Drifts in the meteor month from some wrecked star, Strew oft th' unwrinkled ocean of the sky, And pass no more accounted of than be Long dulses limp that stripe a mundane sea.

The sun his kingdom fills with light, but all Save where it strikes some planet and her moons Across cold chartless gulfs ordained to fall, Void antres, reckoneth no man's nights or noons, But feeling forth as for some outmost shore, Faints in the blank of doom, and is no more.

God scattereth His abundance as forgot,
And what then doth he gather? If we know,
'Tis that One told us it was life. 'For not
A sparrow,' quoth he, uttering long ago
The strangest words that e'er took earthly sound,
'Without your Father falleth to the ground.'

PERDITA.

_I go beyond the commandment_.' So be it. Then mine be the blame, The loss, the lack, the yearning, till life's last sand be run,-- I go beyond the commandment, yet honour stands fast with her claim, And what I have rued I shall rue; for what I have done--I have done.

Hush, hush! for what of the future; you cannot the base exalt, There is no bridging a chasm over, that yawns with so sheer incline; I will not any sweet daughter's cheek should pale for this mother's fault, Nor son take leave to lower his life a-thinking on mine.

'_ Will I tell you all?_' So! this, e'en this, will I do for your great love's sake; Think what it costs. '_Then let there be silence--silence you'll count consent._' No, and no, and for ever no: rather to cross and to break, And to lower your passion I speak--that other it was I meant.

That other I meant (but I know not how) to speak of, nor April days, Nor a man's sweet voice that pleaded--O (but I promised this)-- He never talked of marriage, never; I grant him that praise; And he bent his stately head, and I lost, and he won with a kiss.

He led me away--O, how poignant sweet the nightingale's note that noon-- I beheld, and each crisped spire of grass to him for my sake was fair, And warm winds flattered my soul blowing straight from the soul of June, And a lovely lie was spread on the fields, but the blue was bare.

When I looked up, he said: 'Love, fair love! O rather look in these eyes With thine far sweeter than eyes of Eve when she stepped the valley unshod'-- For ONE might be looking through it, he thought, and he would not in any wise I should mark it open, limitless, empty, bare 'neath the gaze of God.

Ah me! I was happy--yes, I was; 't is fit you should know it all, While love was warm and tender and yearning, the rough winds troubled me not; I heard them moan without in the forest; heard the chill rains fall-- But I thought my place was sheltered with him--I forgot, I forgot.

After came news of a wife; I think he was glad I should know. To stay my pleading, 'take me to church and give me my ring'; 'You should have spoken before,' he had sighed, when I prayed him so, For his heart was sick for himself and me, and this bitter thing.

But my dream was over me still,--I was half beguiled, And he in his kindness left me seldom, O seldom, alone, And yet love waxed cold, and I saw the face of my little child, And then at the last I knew what I was, and what I had done.

'YOU _will give me the name of wife_. YOU _will give me a ring_.'--O peace! You are not let to ruin your life because I ruined mine; You will go to your people at home. There will be rest and release; The bitter now will be sweet full soon--ay, and denial divine.

But spare me the ending. I did not wait to be quite cast away; I left him asleep, and the bare sun rising shone red on my gown. There was dust in the lane, I remember; prints of feet in it lay, And honeysuckle trailed in the path that led on to the down.

I was going nowhere--I wandered up, then turned and dared to look back, Where low in the valley he careless and quiet--quiet and careless slept. '_Did I love him yet?_' I loved him. Ay, my heart on the upland track Cried to him, sighed to him out by the wheat, as I walked, and I wept.

I knew of another alas, one that had been in my place, Her little ones, she forsaken, were almost in need; I went to her, and carried my babe, then all in my satins and lace I sank at the step of her desolate door, a mourner indeed.

I cried, ''T is the way of the world, would I had never been born!' 'Ay, 't is the way of the world, but have you no sense to see For all the way of the world,' she answers and laughs me to scorn, 'The world is made the world that it is by fools like you, like me.'

Right hard upon me, hard on herself, and cold as the cold stone, But she took me in; and while I lay sick I knew I was lost, Lost with the man I loved, or lost without him, making my moan Blighted and rent of the bitter frost, wrecked, tempest tossed, lost, lost!

How am I fallen:--we that might make of the world what we would, Some of us sink in deep waters. Ah! '_you would raise me again?'_ No true heart,--you cannot, you cannot, and all in my soul that is good Cries out against such a wrong. Let be, your quest is for ever in vain.

For I feel with another heart, I think with another mind, I have worsened life, I have wronged the world, I have lowered the light; But as for him, his words and his ways were after his kind, He did but spoil where he could, and waste where he might.

For he was let to do it; I let him and left his soul To walk mid the ruins he made of home in remembrance of love's despairs, Despairs that harden the hearts of men and shadow their heads with dole, And woman's fault, though never on earth, may be healed,--but what of theirs.

'T was fit you should hear it all--What, tears? they comfort me; now you will go, Nor wrong your life for the nought you call 'a pair of beautiful eyes,' _'I will not say I love you.'_ Truly I will not, no. _'Will, I pity you?'_ Ay, but the pang will be short, you shall wake and be wise.

_'Shall we meet?_ We shall meet on the other side, but not before. I shall be pure and fair, I shall hear the sound of THE NAME, And see the form of His face. You too will walk on that shore, In the garden of the Lord God, where neither is sorrow nor shame.

Farewell, I shall bide alone, for God took my one white lamb, I work for such as she was, and I will the while I last, But there's no beginning again, ever I am what I am, And nothing, nothing, nothing, can do away with the past.

SERIOUS POEMS,

AND

SONGS AND POEMS

OF

LOVE AND CHILDHOOD.

LETTERS ON LIFE AND THE MORNING.

_(First of a Series.)_

A PARSON'S LETTER TO A YOUNG POET.

They said "Too late, too late, the work is done; Great Homer sang of glory and strong men And that fair Greek whose fault all these long years Wins no forgetfulness nor ever can; For yet cold eyes upon her frailty bend, For yet the world waits in the victor's tent Daily, and sees an old man honourable, His white head bowed, surprise to passionate tears Awestruck Achilles; sighing, 'I have endured, The like whereof no soul hath yet endured, To kiss the hand of him that slew my son.'"

They said: "We, rich by him, are rich by more; One Aeschylus found watchfires on a hill That lit Old Night's three daughters to their work; When the forlorn Fate leaned to their red light And sat a-spinning, to her feet he came And marked her till she span off all her thread.

"O, it is late, good sooth, to cry for more: The work once done, well done," they said, "forbear! A Tuscan afterward discovered steps Over the line of life in its mid-way; He climbed the wall of Heaven, beheld his love Safe at her singing, and he left his foes In a vale of shadow weltering, unassoiled Immortal sufferers henceforth in both worlds.

"Who may inherit next or who shall match The Swan of Avon and go float with him Down the long river of life aneath a sun Not veiled, and high at noon?--the river of life That as it ran reflected all its lapse And rippling on the plumage of his breast?

"Thou hast them, heed them, for thy poets now, Albeit of tongue full sweet and majesty Like even to theirs, are fallen on evil days, Are wronged by thee of life, wronged of the world. Look back they must and show thee thy fair past, Or, choosing thy to-day, they may but chant As they behold.

"The mother-glowworm broods Upon her young, fast-folded in the egg And long before they come to life they shine-- The mother-age broods on her shining thought That liveth, but whose life is hid. He comes Her poet son, and lo you, he can see The shining, and he takes it to his breast And fashions for it wings that it may fly And show its sweet light in the dusky world.

"Mother, O Mother of our dusk to-day, What hast thou lived for bards to sing of thee? Lapsed water cannot flow above its source; '_The kid must browse_,'" they said, "'_where she is tied_.'"

Son of to-day, rise up, and answer them. What! wilt thou let thy mother sit ashamed And crownless?--Set the crown on her fair head: She waited for thy birth, she cries to thee "Thou art the man." He that hath ears to hear, To him the mother cries "Thou art the man."

She murmurs, for thy mother's voice is low-- "Methought the men of war were even as gods The old men of the ages. Now mine eyes Retrieve the truth from ruined city walls That buried it; from carved and curious homes Full of rich garments and all goodly spoil, Where having burned, battered, and wasted them, They flung it. Give us, give us better gods Than these that drink with blood upon their hands, For I repent me that I worshipped them. O that there might be yet a going up! O to forget--and to begin again!"

Is not thy mother's rede at one with theirs Who cry "The work is done"? What though to thee, Thee only, should the utterance shape itself "O to forget, and to begin again," Only of thee be heard as that keen cry Rending its way from some distracted heart That yields it and so breaks? Yet list the cry Begin for her again, and learn to sing; But first, in all thy learning learn to be. Is life a field? then plough it up--re-sow With worthier seed--Is life a ship? O heed The southing of thy stars--Is life a breath? Breathe deeper, draw life up from hour to hour, Aye, from the deepest deep in thy deep soul.

It may be God's first work is but to breathe And fill the abysm with drifts of shining air That slowly, slowly curdle into worlds. A little space is measured out to us Of His long leisure; breathe and grow therein, For life, alas! is short, and "_When we die_ _It is not for a little while_."

They said, "The work is done," and is it therefore done? Speak rather to thy mother thus: "All-fair, Lady of ages, beautiful To-day And sorrowful To-day, thy children set The crown of sorrow on their heads, their loss Is like to be the loss of all: we hear Lamenting, as of some that mourn in vain Loss of high leadership, but where is he That shall be great enough to lead thee now? Where is thy Poet? thou hast wanted him. Where? Thou hast wakened as a child in the night And found thyself alone. The stars have set, There is great darkness, and the dark is void Of music. Who shall set thy life afresh And sing thee thy new songs? Whom wilt thou love And lean on to break silence worthily-- Discern the beauty in thy goings--feel The glory of thy yearning,--thy self-scorn Matter to dim oblivion with a smile-- Own thy great want, that knew not its great name? O who shall make to thee mighty amends For thy lost childhood, joining two in one, Thyself and Him? Behold Him, He is near: God is thy Poet now.

"A King sang once Long years ago 'My soul is athirst for God, Yea for the living God'--thy thirst and his Are one. It is thy Poet whom thy hands Grope for, not knowing. Life is not enough, Nor love, nor learning,--Death is not enough Even to them, happy, who forecast new life; But give us now and satisfy us now, Give us now, now, to live in the life of God, Give us now, now, to be at one with Him."

Would I had words--I have not words for her, Only for thee; and thus I tell them out: For every man the world is made afresh; To God both it and he are young. There are Who call upon Him night, and morn, and night "Where is the kingdom? Give it us to-day. We would be here with God, not there with God. Make Thine abode with us, great Wayfarer, And let our souls sink deeper into Thee"-- There are who send but yearnings forth, in quest They know not why, of good they know not what.

The unknown life, and strange its stirring is. The babe knows nought of life, yet clothed in it And yearning only for its mother's breast Feeds thus the unheeded thing--and as for thee, That life thou hast is hidden from thine eyes, And when it yearns, thou, knowing not for what, Wouldst fain appease it with one grand, deep joy, One draught of passionate peace--but wilt thou know The other name of joy, the better name Of peace? It is thy Father's name. Thy life Yearns to its Source. The spirit thirsts for God, Even the living God.

But "No," thou sayest, "My heart is all in ruins with pain, my feet Tread a dry desert where there is no way Nor water. I look back, and deep through time The old words come but faintly up the track Trod by the sons of men. The man He sent, The Prince of life, methinks I could have loved If I had looked once in His deep man's eyes. But long ago He died, and long ago Is gone."

He is not dead, He cannot go. Men's faith at first was like a mastering stream, Like Jordan "the descender" leaping down Pure from his snow; and warmed of tropic heat Hiding himself in verdure: then at last In a Dead Sea absorbed, as faith of doubt. But yet the snow lies thick on Hermon's breast And daily at his source the stream is born. Go up--go mark the whiteness of the snow--Thy faith is not thy Saviour, not thy God, Though faith waste fruitless down a desert old. The living God is new, and He is near.

What need to look behind thee and to sigh? When God left speaking He went on before To draw men after, following up and on; And thy heart fails because thy feet are slow; Thou think'st of Him as one that will not wait, A Father and not wait!--He waited long For us, and yet perchance He thinks not long And will not count the time. There are no dates In His fine leisure.

Speak then as a son: "Father, I come to satisfy Thy love With mine, for I had held Thee as remote, The background of the stars--Time's yesterday-- Illimitable Absence. Now my heart Communes, methinks, with somewhat teaching me Thou art the Great To-day. God, is it so? Then for all love that WAS, I thank Thee, God, It is and yet shall hide. And I have part In all, for in Thine image I was made, To Thee my spirit yearns, as Thou to mine. If aught be stamped of Thy Divine on me, And man be God-like, God is like to man.

"Dear and dread Lord, I have not found it hard To fear Thee, though Thy love in visible form Bled 'neath a thorny crown--but since indeed, For kindred's sake and likeness, Thou dost thirst To draw men nigh, and make them one with Thee, My soul shall answer 'Thou art what I want: I am athirst for God, the living God.'"

Then straightway flashes up athwart the words: "And if I be a son I am very far From my great Father's house; I am not clean. I have not always willed it should be so, And the gold of life is rusted with my tears."

It is enough. He never said to men, "Seek ye My face in vain." And have they sought-- Beautiful children, well-beloved sons, Opening wide eyes to ache among the moons All night, and sighing because star multitudes Fainted away as to a glittering haze, And sparkled here and there like silver wings, Confounding them with nameless, numberless, Unbearable, fine flocks? It is not well For them, for thee. Hast thou gone forth so far To the unimaginable steeps on high Trembling and seeking God? Yet now come home, Cry, cry to Him: "I cannot search Thee out, But Thou and I must meet. O come, come down, Come." And that cry shall have the mastery. Ay, He shall come in truth to visit thee, And thou shalt mourn to Him, "Unclean, unclean," But never more "I will to have it so." From henceforth thou shalt learn that there is love To long for, pureness to desire, a mount Of consecration it were good to scale.

Look you, it is to-day as at the first. When Adam first was 'ware his new-made eyes And opened them, behold the light! And breath Of God was misting yet about his mouth, Whereof they had made his soul. Then he looked forth And was a part of light; also he saw Beautiful life, and it could move. But Eve--Eve was the child of midnight and of sleep. Lo, in the dark God led her to his side; It may be in the dark she heard him breathe Before God woke him. And she knew not light, Nor life but as a voice that left his lips, A warmth that clasped her; but the stars were out, And she with wide child-eyes gazed up at them.

Haply she thought that always it was night; Haply he, whispering to her in that reach Of beauteous darkness, gave her unworn heart A rumour of the dawn, and wakened it To a trembling, and a wonder, and a want Kin to his own; and as he longed to gaze On his new fate, the gracious mystery His wife, she may have longed, and felt not why, After the light that never she had known.

So doth each age walk in the light beheld, Nor think on light, if it be light or no; Then comes the night to it, and in the night Eve.

The God-given, the most beautiful Eve. And she is not seen for darkness' sake; Yet, when she makes her gracious presence felt, The age perceives how dark it is, and fain, Fain would have daylight, fain would see her well, A beauty half revealed, a helpmeet sent To draw the soul away from valley clods; Made from itself, yet now a better self-- Soul in the soulless, arrow tipped with fire Let down into a careless breast; a pang Sweeter than healing that cries out with it For light all light, and is beheld at length-- The morning dawns.

Were not we born to light? Ay, and we saw the men and women as saints Walk in a garden. All our thoughts were fair; Our simple hearts, as dovecotes full of doves, Made home and nest for them. They fluttered forth. And flocks of them flew white about the world. And dreams were like to ships that floated us Far out on silent floods, apart from earth, From life--so far that we could see their lights In heaven--and hear the everlasting tide, All dappled with that fair reflected gold, Wash up against the city wall, and sob At the dark bows of vessels that drew on Heavily freighted with departed souls To whom did spirits sing; but on that song Might none, albeit the meaning was right plain, Impose the harsh captivity of words.

Afterward waking, sweet was early air, Full excellent was morning: whether deep The snow lay keenly white, and shrouds of hail Blurred the grey breaker on a long foreshore, And swarming plover ran, and wild white mews And sea-pies printed with a thousand feet The fallen whiteness, making shrill the storm; Or whether, soothed of sunshine, throbbed and hummed The mill atween its bowering maple trees, And churned the leaping beck that reared, and urged A diamond-dripping wheel.

The happy find Equality of beauty everywhere To feed on. All of shade and sheen is theirs, All the strange fashions and the fair wise ways Of lives beneath man's own. He breathes delight Whose soul is fresh, whose feet are wet with dew And the melted mist of morning, when at watch Sunk deep in fern he marks the stealthy roe, Silent as sleep or shadow, cross the glade, Or dart athwart his view as August stars Shoot and are out--while gracefully pace on The wild-eyed harts to their traditional tree To clear the velvet from their budded horns. There is no want, both God and life are kind; It is enough to hear, it is enough To see; the pale wide barley-field they love, And its weird beauty, and the pale wide moon That lowering seems to lurk between the sheaves. So in the rustic hamlet at high noon The white owl sailing drowsed and deaf with sleep To hide her head in turrets browned of moss That is the rust of time. Ay so the pinks And mountain grass marked on a sharp sea-cliff While far below the northern diver feeds; She having ended settling while she sits, As vessels water-logged that sink at sea And quietly into the deep go down.

It is enough to wake, it is enough To sleep:--With God and time he leaves the rest. But on a day death on the doorstep sits Waiting, or like a veilèd woman walks Dogging his footsteps, or athwart his path The splendid passion-flower love unfolds Buds full of sorrow, not ordained to know Appeasement through the answer of a sigh, The kiss of pity with denial given, The crown and blossom of accomplishment. Or haply comes the snake with subtlety, And tempts him with an apple to know all.

So,--Shut the gate; the story tells itself Over and over; Eden must be lost If after it be won. He stands at fault, Not knowing at all how this should be--he feels The great bare barrenness o' the outside world. He thinks on Time and what it has to say; He thinks on God, but God has changed His hand, Sitting afar. And as the moon draws on To cover the day-king in his eclipse, And thin the last fine sickle of light, till all Be gone, so fares it with his darkened soul.

The dark, but not Orion sparkling there With his best stars; the dark, but not yet Eve. And now the wellsprings of sweet natural joy Lie, as the Genie sealed of Solomon, Fast prisoned in his heart; he hath not learned The spell whereby to loose and set them forth, And all the glad delights that boyhood loved Smell at Oblivion's poppy, and lie still.

Ah! they must sleep--"The mill can grind no more With water that hath passed." Let it run on. For he hath caught a whisper in the night; This old inheritance in darkness given, The world, is widened, warmed, it is alive, Comes to his beating heart and bids it wake, Opens the door to youth, and bids it forth, Exultant for expansion and release, And bent to satisfy the mighty wish, Comfort and satisfy the mighty wish, Life of his life, the soul's immortal child That is to him as Eve.

He cannot win, Nor earn, nor see, nor hear, nor comprehend, With all the watch, tender, impetuous, That wastes him, this, whereof no less he feels Infinite things; but yet the night is full Of air-beats and of heart-beats for her sake. Eve the aspirer, give her what she wants, Or wherefore was he born?

O he was born To wish--then turn away:--to wish again And half forget his wish for earthlier joy; He draws the net to land that brings red gold; His dreams among the meshes tangled lie, And learning hath him at her feet;--and love, The sea-born creature fresh from her sea foam, Touches the ruddiest veins in his young heart, Makes it to sob in him and sigh in him, Restless, repelled, dying, alive and keen, Fainting away for the remorseless ALL Gone by, gone up, or sweetly gone before, But never in his arms. Then pity comes, Knocks at his breast, it may be, and comes in, Makes a wide wound that haply will not heal, But bleeds for poverty, and crime, and pain, Till for the dear kin's sake he grandly dares Or wastes him, with a wise improvidence; But who can stir the weighty world; or who Can drink a sea of tears?

O love, and life, O world, and can it be that this is all? Leave him to tread expectance underfoot; Let him alone to tame down his great hope Before it breaks his heart: "Give me my share That I foresaw, my place, my draught of life. This that I bear, what is it?--me no less It binds, I cannot disenslave my soul."

There is but halting for the wearied foot. The better way is hidden; faith hath failed-- One stronger far than reason mastered her. It is not reason makes faith hard, but life. The husks of his dead creed, downtrod and dry, Are powerless now as some dishonoured spell, Some aged Pythia in her priestly clothes, Some widow'd witch divining by the dead. Or if he keep one shrine undesecrate And go to it from time to time with tears, What lies there? A dead Christ enswathed and cold, A Christ that did not rise. The linen cloth Is wrapped about His head, He lies embalmed With myrrh and spices in His sepulchre, The love of God that daily dies;--to them That trust it the One Life, the all that lives.

O mother Eve, who wert beguiled of old, Thy blood is in thy children, thou art yet Their fate and copy; with thy milk they drew The immortal want of morning; but thy day Dawned and was over, and thy children know Contentment never, nor continuance long. For even thus it is with them: the day Waxeth, to wane anon, and a long night Leaves the dark heart unsatisfied with stars.