Chapter VII: How sir Galahad hid the Grail (1)

Very still was earth and sky
When he passing lay;
Oft he said he should not die,
Would but go away.

When he passed, they reverent sought,
Where his hand lay prest,
For the cup he bare, they thought,
Hidden in his breast.

Hope and haste and eager thrill
Turned to sorrowing wail:
Hid he held it deeper still,
Took with him the Grail.

_THE FAILING TRACK_.

Where went the feet that hitherto have come?
Here yawns no gulf to quench the flowing past!
With lengthening pauses broke, the path grows dumb;
The grass floats in; the gazer stands aghast.

Tremble not, maiden, though the footprints die;
By no air-path ascend the lark's clear notes;
The mighty-throated when he mounts the sky
Over some lowly landmark sings and floats.

Be of good cheer. Paths vanish from the wave;
There all the ships tear each its track of gray;
Undaunted they the wandering desert brave:
In each a magic finger points the way.

No finger finely touched, no eye of lark
Hast thou to guide thy steps where footprints fail?
Ah, then, 'twere well to turn before the dark,
Nor dream to find thy dreams in yonder vale!

The backward way one hour is plain to thee,
Hard hap were hers who saw no trace behind!
Back to confession at thy mother's knee,
Back to the question and the childlike mind!

Then start afresh, but toward unending end,
The goal o'er which hangs thy own star all night;
So shalt thou need no footprints to befriend,
Child-heart and shining star will guide thee right.

_TELL ME._

"Traveller, what lies over the hill?
Traveller, tell to me:
Tip-toe-high on the window-sill
Over I cannot see."

"My child, a valley green lies there,
Lovely with trees, and shy;
And a tiny brook that says, 'Take care,
Or I'll drown you by and by!'"

"And what comes next?"--"A little town,
And a towering hill again;
More hills and valleys up and down,
And a river now and then."

"And what comes next?"--"A lonely moor
Without one beaten way,
And slow clouds drifting dull before
A wind that will not stay."

"And then?"--"Dark rocks and yellow sand,
Blue sea and a moaning tide."
"And then?"--"More sea, and then more land,
With rivers deep and wide."

"And then?"--"Oh, rock and mountain and vale,
Ocean and shores and men,
Over and over, a weary tale,
And round to your home again!"

"And is that all? From day to day,
Like one with a long chain bound,
Should I walk and walk and not get away,
But go always round and round?"

"No, no; I have not told you the best,
I have not told you the end:
If you want to escape, away in the west
You will see a stair ascend,

"Built of all colours of lovely stones,
A stair up into the sky
Where no one is weary, and no one moans,
Or wishes to be laid by."

"Is it far away?"--"I do not know:
You must fix your eyes thereon,
And travel, travel through thunder and snow,
Till the weary way is gone.

"All day, though you never see it shine,
You must travel nor turn aside,
All night you must keep as straight a line
Through moonbeams or darkness wide."

"When I am older!"--"Nay, not so!"
"I have hardly opened my eyes!"
"He who to the old sunset would go,
Starts best with the young sunrise."

"Is the stair right up? is it very steep?"
"Too steep for you to climb;
You must lie at the foot of the glorious heap
And patient wait your time."

"How long?"--"Nay, that I cannot tell."
"In wind, and rain, and frost?"
"It may be so; and it is well
That you should count the cost.

"Pilgrims from near and from distant lands
Will step on you lying there;
But a wayfaring man with wounded hands
Will carry you up the stair."

_BROTHER ARTIST!_

Brother artist, help me; come!
Artists are a maimed band:
I have words but not a hand;
Thou hast hands though thou art dumb.

Had I thine, when words did fail--
Vassal-words their hasting chief,
On the white awaiting leaf
Shapes of power should tell the tale.

Had I hers of music-might,
I would shake the air with storm
Till the red clouds trailed enorm
Boreal dances through the night.

Had I his whose foresight rare
Piles the stones with lordliest art,
From the quarry of my heart
Love should climb a heavenly stair!

Had I his whose wooing slow
Wins the marble's hidden child,
Out in passion undefiled
Stood my Psyche, white as snow!

Maimed, a little help I pray;
Words suffice not for my end;
Let thy hand obey thy friend,
Say for me what I would say.

Draw me, on an arid plain
With hoar-headed mountains nigh,
Under a clear morning sky
Telling of a night of rain,

Huge and half-shaped, like a block
Chosen for sarcophagus
By a Pharaoh glorious,
One rude solitary rock.

Cleave it down along the ridge
With a fissure yawning deep
To the heart of the hard heap,
Like the rent of riving wedge.

Through the cleft let hands appear,
Upward pointed with pressed palms
As if raised in silent psalms
For salvation come anear.

Turn thee now--'tis almost done!--
To the near horizon's verge:
Make the smallest arc emerge
Of the forehead of the sun.

One thing more--I ask too much!--
From a brow which hope makes brave
Sweep the shadow of the grave
With a single golden touch.

Thanks, dear painter; that is all.
If thy picture one day should
Need some words to make it good,
I am ready to thy call.

_AFTER AN OLD LEGEND._

The monk was praying in his cell,
With bowed head praying sore;
He had been praying on his knees
For two long hours and more.

As of themselves, all suddenly,
His eyelids opened wide;
Before him on the ground he saw
A man's feet close beside;

And almost to the feet came down
A garment wove throughout;
Such garment he had never seen
In countries round about!

His eyes he lifted tremblingly
Until a hand they spied:
A chisel-scar on it he saw,
And a deep, torn scar beside.

His eyes they leaped up to the face,
His heart gave one wild bound,
Then stood as if its work were done--
The Master he had found!

With sudden clang the convent bell
Told him the poor did wait
His hand to give the daily bread
Doled at the convent-gate.

Then Love rose in him passionate,
And with Duty wrestled strong;
And the bell kept calling all the time
With merciless iron tongue.

The Master stood and looked at him
He rose up with a sigh:
"He will be gone when I come back
I go to him by and by!"

He chid his heart, he fed the poor
All at the convent-gate;
Then with slow-dragging feet went back
To his cell so desolate:

His heart bereaved by duty done,
He had sore need of prayer!
Oh, sad he lifted the latch!--and, lo,
The Master standing there!

He said, "My poor had not to stand
Wearily at thy gate:
For him who feeds the shepherd's sheep
The shepherd will stand and wait."

_Yet, Lord--for thou would'st have us judge,
And I will humbly dare--
If he had staid, I do not think
Thou wouldst have left him there.

Thy voice in far-off time I hear,
With sweet defending, say:
"The poor ye always have with you,
Me ye have not alway!"

Thou wouldst have said: "Go feed my poor,
The deed thou shalt not rue;
Wherever ye do my father's will
I always am with you."_

_A MEDITATION OF ST. ELIGIUS_.

_Queen Mary one day Jesus sent
To fetch some water, legends tell;
The little boy, obedient,
Drew a full pitcher from the well;

But as he raised it to his head,
The water lipping with the rim,
The handle broke, and all was shed
Upon the stones about the brim.

His cloak upon the ground he laid
And in it gathered up the pool; [Proverbs xxx. 4.]
Obedient there the water staid,
And home he bore it plentiful._

Eligius said, "Tis fabled ill:
The hands that all the world control,
Had here been room for miracle,
Had made his mother's pitcher whole!

"Still, some few drops for thirsty need
A poor invention even, when told
In love of thee the Truth indeed,
Like broken pitcher yet may hold:

"Thy truth, alas, Lord, once I spilt:
I thought to bear the pitcher high;
Upon the shining stones of guilt
I slipped, and there the potsherds lie!

_"Master,_ I cried, _no man will drink,
No human thirst will e'er be stilled
Through me, who sit upon the brink,
My pitcher broke, thy water spilled!

"What will they do I waiting left?
They looked to me to bring thy law!
The well is deep, and, sin-bereft,
I nothing have wherewith to draw!"_

"But as I sat in evil plight,
With dry parched heart and sickened brain,
Uprose in me the water bright,
Thou gavest me thyself again!"

_THE EARLY BIRD._

A little bird sat on the edge of her nest; Her yellow-beaks slept as sound as tops; Day-long she had worked almost without rest, And had filled every one of their gibbous crops; Her own she had filled just over-full, And she felt like a dead bird stuffed with wool.

"Oh dear!" she sighed, as she sat with her head Sunk in her chest, and no neck at all, Looking like an apple on a feather-bed Poked and rounded and fluffed to a ball, "What's to be done if things don't reform? I cannot tell where there is one more worm!

"I've had fifteen to-day, and the children five each, Besides a few flies, and some very fat spiders: Who will dare say I don't do as I preach? I set an example to all providers! But what's the use? We want a storm: I don't know where there's a single worm!"

"There's five in my crop," chirped a wee, wee bird Who woke at the voice of his mother's pain; "I know where there's five!" And with the word He tucked in his head and went off again. "The folly of childhood," sighed his mother, "Has always been my especial bother!"

Careless the yellow-beaks slept on, They never had heard of the bogy, Tomorrow; The mother sat outside making her moan-- "I shall soon have to beg, or steal, or borrow! I have always to say, the night before, Where shall I find one red worm more!"

Her case was this, she had gobbled too many, And sleepless, had an attack she called foresight: A barn of crumbs, if she knew but of any! Could she but get of the great worm-store sight! The eastern sky was growing red Ere she laid her wise beak in its feather-bed.

Just then, the fellow who knew of five, Nor troubled his sleep with anxious tricks, Woke, and stirred, and felt alive: "To-day," he said, "I am up to six! But my mother feels in her lot the crook-- What if I tried my own little hook!"

When his mother awoke, she winked her eyes As if she had dreamed that she was a mole: Could she believe them? "What a huge prize That child is dragging out of its hole!" The fledgeling indeed had just caught his third! _And here is a fable to catch the bird!_

_SIR LARK AND KING SUN._

"Good morrow, my lord!" in the sky alone Sang the lark as the sun ascended his throne. "Shine on me, my lord: I only am come, Of all your servants, to welcome you home! I have shot straight up, a whole hour, I swear, To catch the first gleam of your golden hair."

"Must I thank you then," said the king, "sir Lark, For flying so high and hating the dark? You ask a full cup for half a thirst: Half was love of me, half love to be first. Some of my subjects serve better my taste: Their watching and waiting means more than your haste."

King Sun wrapt his head in a turban of cloud; Sir Lark stopped singing, quite vexed and cowed; But higher he flew, for he thought, "Anon The wrath of the king will be over and gone; And, scattering his head-gear manifold, He will change my brown feathers to a glory of gold!"

He flew, with the strength of a lark he flew, But as he rose the cloud rose too; And not one gleam of the flashing hair Brought signal of favour across the air; And his wings felt withered and worn and old, For their feathers had had no chrism of gold.

Outwearied at length, and throbbing sore, The strong sun-seeker could do no more; He faltered and sank, then dropped like a stone Beside his nest, where, patient, alone, Sat his little wife on her little eggs, Keeping them warm with wings and legs.

Did I say alone? Ah, no such thing! There was the cloudless, the ray-crowned king! "Welcome, sir Lark!--You look tired!" said he; "_Up_ is not always the best way to me: While you have been racing my turban gray, I have been shining where you would not stay!"

He had set a coronet round the nest; Its radiance foamed on the wife's little breast; And so glorious was she in russet gold That sir Lark for wonder and awe grew cold; He popped his head under her wing, and lay As still as a stone till king Sun went away.

_THE OWL AND THE BELL._

_Bing, Bim, Bang, Bome!_ Sang the Bell to himself in his house at home, High in the church-tower, lone and unseen, In a twilight of ivy, cool and green; With his _Bing, Bing, Bim, Bing, Bang, Bome!_ Singing bass to himself in his house at home.

Said the Owl, on a shadowy ledge below, Like a glimmering ball of forgotten snow, "Pest on that fellow sitting up there, Always calling the people to prayer! He shatters my nerves with his _Bing, Bang, Bome!_--- Far too big in his house at home!

"I think I will move.--But it suits me well, And one may get used to it, who can tell!" So he slept again with all his might, Then woke and snooved out in the hush of night When the Bell was asleep in his house at home, Dreaming over his _Bing, Bang, Bome!_

For the Owl was born so poor and genteel What could he do but pick and steal? He scorned to work for honest bread-- "Better have never been hatched!" he said. So his day was the night, for he dared not roam Till sleep had silenced the _Bing, Bang, Bome!_

When five greedy Owlets chipped the egg He wanted two beaks and another leg, And they ate the more that they did not sleep well: "It's their gizzards," said Owless; said Owl, "It's that Bell!" For they quivered like leaves of a wind-blown tome When the Bell bellowed out his _Bing, Bang, Bome!_

But the Bell began to throb with the fear Of bringing his house about his one ear; And his people came round it, quite a throng, To buttress the walls and make them strong: A full month he sat, and felt like a mome Not daring to shout his _Bing, Bang, Bome!_

Said the Owl to himself, and hissed as he said, "I trust in my heart the old fool is dead! No more will he scare church-mice with his bounce, And make them so thin they're scarce worth a pounce! Once I will see him ere he's laid in the loam, And shout in his ear _Bing, Bim, Bang, Bome!_"

"Hoo! hoo!" he cried, as he entered the steeple, "They've hanged him at last, the righteous people! His swollen tongue lolls out of his head! Hoo! hoo! at last the old brute is dead! There let him hang, the shapeless gnome, Choked with a throatful of _Bing, Bang, Bome!_"

He fluttered about him, singing _Too-whoo!_ He flapped the poor Bell, and said, "Is that you? You that never would matters mince, Banging poor owls and making them wince? A fig for you now, in your great hall-dome! _Too-whit_ is better than _Bing, Bang, Bome!_"

Still braver he grew, the downy, the dapper; He flew in and perched on the knob of the clapper, And shouted _Too-whoo!_ An echo awoke Like a far-off ghostly _Bing-Bang_ stroke: "Just so!" he cried; "I am quite at home! I will take his place with my _Bing, Bang, Bome!_"

He hissed with the scorn of his grand self-wonder, And thought the Bell's tremble his own great thunder: He sat the Jove of creation's fowl.-- _Bang!_ went the Bell--through the rope-hole the owl, A fluffy avalanche, light as foam, Loosed by the boom of the _Bing, Bang, Bome!_

He sat where he fell, as if he had meant it, Ready for any remark anent it. Said the eldest Owlet, "Pa, you were wrong; He's at it again with his vulgar song!" "Child," said the Owl, "of the mark you are wide: I brought him to life by perching inside."

"Why did you, my dear?" said his startled wife; "He has always been the plague of your life!" "I have given him a lesson of good for evil: Perhaps the old ruffian will now be civil!" The Owl sat righteous, he raised his comb. The Bell bawled on, _Bing, Bim, Bang, Bome!_

A MAMMON-MARRIAGE.

The croak of a raven hoar! A dog's howl, kennel-tied! Loud shuts the carriage-door: The two are away on their ghastly ride To Death's salt shore!

Where are the love and the grace? The bridegroom is thirsty and cold! The bride's skull sharpens her face! But the coachman is driving, jubilant, bold, The devil's pace.

The horses shivered and shook Waiting gaunt and haggard With sorry and evil look; But swift as a drunken wind they staggered 'Longst Lethe brook.

Long since, they ran no more; Heavily pulling they died On the sand of the hopeless shore Where never swelled or sank a tide, And the salt burns sore.

Flat their skeletons lie, White shadows on shining sand; The crusted reins go high To the crumbling coachman's bony hand On his knees awry.

Side by side, jarring no more, Day and night side by side, Each by a doorless door, Motionless sit the bridegroom and bride On the Dead-Sea-shore.

_A SONG IN THE NIGHT._

A brown bird sang on a blossomy tree, Sang in the moonshine, merrily, Three little songs, one, two, and three, A song for his wife, for himself, and me.

He sang for his wife, sang low, sang high, Filling the moonlight that filled the sky; "Thee, thee, I love thee, heart alive! Thee, thee, thee, and thy round eggs five!"

He sang to himself, "What shall I do With this life that thrills me through and through! Glad is so glad that it turns to ache! Out with it, song, or my heart will break!"

He sang to me, "Man, do not fear Though the moon goes down and the dark is near; Listen my song and rest thine eyes; Let the moon go down that the sun may rise!"

I folded me up in the heart of his tune, And fell asleep with the sinking moon; I woke with the day's first golden gleam, And, lo, I had dreamed a precious dream!

_LOVE'S HISTORY_.

Love, the baby,
Crept abroad to pluck a flower:
One said, Yes, sir; one said, Maybe;
One said, Wait the hour.

Love, the boy,
Joined the youngsters at their play:
But they gave him little joy,
And he went away.

Love, the youth,
Roamed the country, quiver-laden;
From him fled away in sooth
Many a man and maiden!

Love, the man,
Sought a service all about;
But they called him feeble, one
They could do without.

Love, the aged,
Walking, bowed, the shadeless miles,
Read a volume many-paged,
Full of tears and smiles.

Love, the weary,
Tottered down the shelving road:
At its foot, lo, Night, the starry,
Meeting him from God!

"Love, the holy,"
Sang a music in her dome,
Sang it softly, sang it slowly,
"Love is coming home!"

THE LARK AND THE WIND.

In the air why such a ringing?
On the earth why such a droning?

In the air the lark is singing;
On the earth the wind is moaning.

"I am blest, in sunlight swinging!"
"Sad am I: the world lies groaning!"

In the sky the lark kept singing;
On the earth the wind kept moaning.

A DEAD HOUSE.

When the clock hath ceased to tick
Soul-like in the gloomy hall;
When the latch no more doth click
Tongue-like in the red peach-wall;
When no more come sounds of play,
Mice nor children romping roam,
Then looks down the eye of day
On a dead house, not a home!

But when, like an old sun's ghost,
Haunts her vault the spectral moon;
When earth's margins all are lost,
Melting shapes nigh merged in swoon,
Then a sound--hark! there again!--
No, 'tis not a nibbling mouse!
'Tis a ghost, unseen of men,
Walking through the bare-floored house!

And with lightning on the stair
To that silent upper room,
With the thunder-shaken air
Sudden gleaming into gloom,
With a frost-wind whistling round,
From the raging northern coasts,
Then, mid sieging light and sound,
All the house is live with ghosts!

Brother, is thy soul a cell
Empty save of glittering motes,
Where no live loves live and dwell,
Only notions, things, and thoughts?
Then thou wilt, when comes a Breath
Tempest-shaking ridge and post,
Find thyself alone with Death
In a house where walks no ghost.

'BELL UPON ORGAN.

It's all very well, Said the Bell, To be the big Organ below! But the folk come and go, Said the Bell, And you never can tell What sort of person the Organ will blow! And, besides, it is much at the mercy of the weather For 'tis all made in pieces and glued together!

But up in my cell Next door to the sky, Said the Bell, I dwell Very high; And with glorious go I swing to and fro; I swing swift or slow, I swing as I please, With summons or knell; I swing at my ease, Said the Bell: Not the tallest of men Can reach up to touch me, To smirch me or smutch me, Or make me do what I would not be at! And, then, The weather can't cause me to shrink or increase: I chose to be made in one perfect piece!

MASTER AND BOY.

"WHO is this little one lying,"
Said Time, "at my garden-gate,
Moaning and sobbing and crying,
Out in the cold so late?"

"They lurked until we came near,
Master and I," the child said,
"Then caught me, with 'Welcome, New-year!
Happy Year! Golden-head!'

"See Christmas-day, my Master,
On the meadow a mile away!
Father Time, make me run faster!
I'm the Shadow of Christmas-day!"

"Run, my child; still he's in sight!
Only look well to his track;
Little Shadow, run like the light,
He misses you at his back!"

Old Time sat down in the sun
On a grave-stone--his legs were numb:
"When the boy to his master has run,"
He said, "Heaven's New Year is come!"

_THE CLOCK OF THE UNIVERSE_.

A clock aeonian, steady and tall, With its back to creation's flaming wall, Stands at the foot of a dim, wide stair. Swing, swang, its pendulum goes, Swing--swang--here--there! Its tick and its tack like the sledge-hammer blows Of Tubal Cain, the mighty man! But they strike on the anvil of never an ear, On the heart of man and woman they fall, With an echo of blessing, an echo of ban; For each tick is a hope, each tack is a fear, Each tick is a _Where_, each tack a _Not here_, Each tick is a kiss, each tack is a blow, Each tick says _Why_, each tack _I don't know_. Swing, swang, the pendulum! Tick and tack, and _go_ and _come_, With a haunting, far-off, dreamy hum, With a tick, tack, loud and dumb, Swings the pendulum.

Two hands, together joined in prayer, With a roll and a volley of spheric thunder; Two hands, in hope spread half asunder, An empty gulf of longing embrace; Two hands, wide apart as they can fare In a fear still coasting not touching Despair, But turning again, ever round to prayer: Two hands, human hands, pass with awful motion From isle to isle of the sapphire ocean.

The silent, surfaceless ocean-face Is filled with a brooding, hearkening grace; The stars dream in, and sink fainting out, And the sun and the moon go walking about, Walking about in it, solemn and slow, Solemn and slow, at a thinking pace, Walking about in it to and fro, Walking, walking about.

With open beak and half-open wing Ever with eagerness quivering, On the peak of the clock Stands a cock: Tip-toe stands the cock to crow-- Golden cock with silver call Clear as trumpet tearing the sky! No one yet has heard him cry, Nor ever will till the hour supreme When Self on itself shall turn with a scream, What time the hands are joined on high In a hoping, despairing, speechless sigh, The perfect groan-prayer of the universe When the darkness clings and will not disperse Though the time is come, told ages ago, For the great white rose of the world to blow: --Tick, tack, to the waiting cock, Tick, tack, goes the aeon-clock!

A polar bear, golden and gray, Crawls and crawls around the top. Black and black as an Ethiop The great sea-serpent lies coiled beneath, Living, living, but does not breathe. For the crawling bear is so far away That he cannot hear, by night or day, The bourdon big of his deep bear-bass Roaring atop of the silent face, Else would he move, and none knows then What would befall the sons of men!

Eat up old Time, O raging Bear; Take Bald-head, and the children spare! Lie still, O Serpent, nor let one breath Stir thy pool and stay Time's death! Steady, Hands! for the noon is nigh: See the silvery ghost of the Dawning shy Low on the floor of the level sky! Warn for the strike, O blessed Clock; Gather thy clarion breath, gold Cock; Push on the month-figures, pale, weary-faced Moon; Tick, awful Pendulum, tick amain; And soon, oh, soon, Lord of life, and Father of boon, Give us our own in our arms again!

Then the great old clock to pieces will fall Sans groaning of axle or whirring of wheel. And away like a mist of the morning steal, To stand no more in creation's hall; Its mighty weights will fall down plumb Into the regions where all is dumb; No more will its hands, in horror or prayer, Be lifted or spread at the foot of the stair That springs aloft to the Father's room; Its tick and its tack, _When?--Not now_, Will cease, and its muffled groan below; Its sapphire face will dissolve away In the dawn of the perfect, love-potent day; The serpent and bear will be seen no more, Growling atop, or prone on the floor; And up the stair will run as they please The children to clasp the Father's knees.

O God, our father, Allhearts' All, Open the doors of thy clockless hall!

_THE THORN IN THE FLESH._

Within my heart a worm had long been hid. I knew it not when I went down and chid Because some servants of my inner house Had not, I found, of late been doing well, But then I spied the horror hideous Dwelling defiant in the inmost cell-- No, not the inmost, for there God did dwell! But the small monster, softly burrowing, Near by God's chamber had made itself a den, And lay in it and grew, the noisome thing! Aghast I prayed--'twas time I did pray then! But as I prayed it seemed the loathsome shape Grew livelier, and did so gnaw and scrape That I grew faint. Whereon to me he said-- Some one, that is, who held my swimming head, "Lo, I am with thee: let him do his worst; The creature is, but not his work, accurst; Thou hating him, he is as a thing dead." Then I lay still, nor thought, only endured. At last I said, "Lo, now I am inured A burgess of Pain's town!" The pain grew worse. Then I cried out as if my heart would break. But he, whom, in the fretting, sickening ache, I had forgotten, spoke: "The law of the universe Is this," he said: "Weakness shall be the nurse Of strength. The help I had will serve thee too." So I took courage and did bear anew. At last, through bones and flesh and shrinking skin, Lo, the thing ate his way, and light came in, And the thing died. I knew then what it meant, And, turning, saw the Lord on whom I leant.

_LYCABAS:_

A name of the Year. Some say the word means _a march of wolves_, which wolves, running in single file, are the Months of the Year. Others say the word means _the path of the light_.

O ye months of the year, Are ye a march of wolves? Lycabas! Lycabas! twelve to growl and slay? Men hearken at night, and lie in fear, Some men hearken all day!

Lycabas, verily thou art a gallop of wolves, Gaunt gray wolves, gray months of the year, hunting in twelves, Running and howling, head to tail, In a single file, over the snow, A long low gliding of silent horror and fear! On and on, ghastly and drear, Not a head turning, not a foot swerving, ye go, Twelve making only a one-wolf track! Onward ye howl, and behind we wail; Wail behind your narrow and slack Wallowing line, and moan and weep, As ye draw it on, straight and deep, Thorough the night so swart! Behind you a desert, and eyes a-weary, A long, bare highway, stony and dreary, A hungry soul, and a wolf-cub wrapt, A live wolf-cub, sharp-toothed, steel-chapt, In the garment next the heart!

Lycabas! One of them hurt me sore! Two of them hurt and tore! Three of them made me bleed! The fourth did a terrible deed, Rent me the worst of the four! Rent me, and shook me, and tore, And ran away with a growl! Lycabas, if I feared you a jot, You, and your devils running in twelves, Black-mouthed, hell-throated, straight-going wolves, I would run like a wolf, I too, and howl! I live, and I fear you not.

But shall I not hate you, low-galloping wolves Hunting in ceaseless twelves? Ye have hunted away my lambs! Ye ran at them open-mouthed, And your mouths were gleamy-toothed, And their whiteness with red foam frothed, And your throats were a purple-black gulf: My lambs they fled, and they came not back! Lovely white lambs they were, alack! They fled afar and they left a track Which at night, when the lone sky clears, Glistens with Nature's tears! Many a shepherd scarce thinks of a lamb But he hears behind it the growl of a wolf, And behind that the wail of its dam!

They ran, nor cried, but fled From day's sweet pasture, from night's soft bed: Ah me, the look in their eyes! For behind them rushed the swallowing gulf, The maw of the growl-throated wolf, And they fled as the thing that speeds or dies: They looked not behind, But fled as over the grass the wind.

Oh my lambs, I would drop away Into a night that never saw day That so in your dear hearts you might say, "_All is well for ever and aye!_" Yet it was well to hurry away, To hurry from me, your shepherd gray: I had no sword to bite and slay, And the wolfy Months were on your track! It was well to start from work and play, It was well to hurry from me away-- But why not once look back?

The wolves came panting down the lea-- What was left you but somewhere flee! Ye saw the Shepherd that never grows old, Ye saw the great Shepherd, and him ye knew, And the wolves never once came near to you; For he saw you coming, threw down his crook, Ran, and his arms about you threw; He gathered you into his garment's fold, He kneeled, he gathered, he lifted you, And his bosom and arms were full of you. He has taken you home to his stronghold: Out of the castle of Love ye look; The castle of Love is now your home, From the garden of Love you will never roam, And the wolves no more shall flutter you.

Lycabas! Lycabas! For all your hunting and howling and cries, Your yelling of _woe_! and _alas_! For all your thin tongues and your fiery eyes, Your questing thorough the windy grass, Your gurgling gnar, and your horrent hair, And your white teeth that will not spare-- Wolves, I fear you never a jot, Though you come at me with your mouths red-hot, Eyes of fury, and teeth that foam: Ye can do nothing but drive me home! Wolves, wolves, you will lie one day-- Ye are lying even now, this very day, Wolves in twelves, gaunt and gray, At the feet of the Shepherd that leads the dams, At the feet of the Shepherd that carries the lambs!

And now that I see you with my mind's eye, What are you indeed? my mind revolves. Are you, are you verily wolves? I saw you only through twilight dark, Through rain and wind, and ill could mark! Now I come near--are you verily wolves? Ye have torn, but I never saw you slay! Me ye have torn, but I live to-day, Live, and hope to live ever and aye! Closer still let me look at you!-- Black are your mouths, but your eyes are true!-- Now, now I know you!--the Shepherd's sheep-dogs! Friends of us sheep on the moors and bogs, Lost so often in swamps and fogs! Dear creatures, forgive me; I did you wrong; You to the castle of Love belong: Forgive the sore heart that made sharp the tongue! Your swift-flying feet the Shepherd sends To gather the lambs, his little friends, And draw the sheep after for rich amends! Sharp are your teeth, my wolves divine, But loves and no hates in your deep eyes shine! No more will I call you evil names, No more assail you with untrue blames! Wake me with howling, check me with biting, Rouse up my strength for the holy fighting: Hunt me still back, nor let me stray Out of the infinite narrow way, The radiant march of the Lord of Light Home to the Father of Love and Might, Where each puts Thou in the place of I, And Love is the Law of Liberty.

BALLADS

_THE UNSEEN MODEL_.

Forth to his study the sculptor goes
In a mood of lofty mirth:
"Now shall the tongues of my carping foes
Confess what my art is worth!
In my brain last night the vision arose,
To-morrow shall see its birth!"

He stood like a god; with creating hand
He struck the formless clay:
"Psyche, arise," he said, "and stand;
In beauty confront the day.
I have sought nor found thee in any land;
I call thee: arise; obey!"

The sun was low in the eastern skies
When spoke the confident youth;
Sweet Psyche, all day, his hands and eyes
Wiled from the clay uncouth,
Nor ceased when the shadows came up like spies
That dog the steps of Truth.

He said, "I will do my will in spite
Of the rising dark; for, see,
She grows to my hand! The mar-work night
Shall hurry and hide and flee
From the glow of my lamp and the making might
That passeth out of me!"

In the flickering lamplight the figure swayed,
In the shadows did melt and swim:
With tool and thumb he modelled and made,
Nor knew that feature and limb
Half-obeying, half-disobeyed,
And mocking eluded him.

At the dawning Psyche of his brain
Joyous he wrought all night:
The oil went low, and he trimmed in vain,
The lamp would not burn bright;
But he still wrought on: through the high roof-pane
He saw the first faint light!

The dark retreated; the morning spread;
His creatures their shapes resume;
The plaster stares dumb-white and dead;
A faint blue liquid bloom
Lies on each marble bosom and head;
To his Psyche clings the gloom.

Backward he stept to see the clay:
His visage grew white and sear;
No beauty ideal confronted the day,
No Psyche from upper sphere,
But a once loved shape that in darkness lay,
Buried a lonesome year!

From maidenhood's wilderness fair and wild
A girl to his charm had hied:
He had blown out the lamp of the trusting child,
And in the darkness she died;
Now from the clay she sadly smiled,
And the sculptor stood staring-eyed.

He had summoned Psyche--and Psyche crept
From a half-forgotten tomb;
She brought her sad smile, that still she kept,
Her eyes she left in the gloom!
High grace had found him, for now he wept,
And love was his endless doom!

Night-long he pined, all day did rue;
He haunted her form with sighs:
As oft as his clay to a lady grew
The carvers, with dim surmise,
Would whisper, "The same shape come to woo,
With its blindly beseeching eyes!"

_THE HOMELESS GHOST_.

Through still, bare streets, and cold moonshine His homeward way he bent; The clocks gave out the midnight sign As lost in thought he went Along the rampart's ocean-line, Where, high above the tossing brine, Seaward his lattice leant.

He knew not why he left the throng, Why there he could not rest, What something pained him in the song And mocked him in the jest, Or why, the flitting crowd among, A moveless moonbeam lay so long Athwart one lady's breast!

He watched, but saw her speak to none, Saw no one speak to her; Like one decried, she stood alone, From the window did not stir; Her hair by a haunting gust was blown, Her eyes in the shadow strangely shown, She looked a wanderer.

He reached his room, he sought a book His brooding to beguile; But ever he saw her pallid look, Her face too still to smile. An hour he sat in his fireside nook, The time flowed past like a silent brook, Not a word he read the while.

Vague thoughts absorbed his passive brain Of love that bleeding lies, Of hoping ever and hoping in vain, Of a sorrow that never dies-- When a sudden spatter of angry rain Smote against every window-pane, And he heard far sea-birds' cries.

He looked from the lattice: the misty moon Hardly a glimmer gave; The wind was like one that hums a tune, The first low gathering stave; The ocean lay in a sullen swoon, With a moveless, monotonous, murmured croon Like the moaning of a slave.

Sudden, with masterful, angry blare It howled from the watery west: The storm was up, he had left his lair! The night would be no jest! He turned: a lady sat in his chair! Through her loose dim robe her arm came bare, And it lay across her breast.

She sat a white queen on a ruined throne, A lily bowed with blight; In her eyes the darkness about was blown By flashes of liquid light; Her skin with very whiteness shone; Back from her forehead loosely thrown Her hair was dusk as night.

Wet, wet it hung, and wept like weeds Down her pearly shoulders bare; The pale drops glistened like diamond beads Caught in a silken snare; As the silver-filmy husk to its seeds Her dank robe clings, and but half recedes Her form so shadowy fair.

Doubting she gazed in his wondering face, Wonder his utterance ties; She searches, like one in forgetful case, For something within his eyes, For something that love holds ever in chase, For something that is, and has no place, But away in the thinking lies.

Speechless he ran, brought a wrap of wool, And a fur that with down might vie; Listless, into the gathering pool She dropped them, and let them lie. He piled the hearth with fagots so full That the flames, as if from the log of Yule, Up the chimney went roaring high.

Then she spoke, and lovely to heart and ear Was her voice, though broke by pain; Afar it sounded, though sweet and clear, As if from out of the rain; As if from out of the night-wind drear It came like the voice of one in fear Lest she should no welcome gain.

"I am too far off to feel the cold, Too cold to feel the fire; It cannot get through the heap of mould That soaks in the drip from the spire: Cerement of wax 'neath cloth of gold, 'Neath fur and wool in fold on fold, Freezes in frost so dire."

Her voice and her eyes and her cheek so white Thrilled him through heart and brain; Wonder and pity and love unite In a passion of bodiless pain; Her beauty possessed him with strange delight: He was out with her in the live wan night, With her in the blowing rain!

Sudden she rose, she kneeled, she flung Her loveliness at his feet: "I am tired of being blown and swung In the rain and the snow and the sleet! But better no rest than stillness among Things whose names would defile my tongue! How I hate the mouldy sheet!

"Ah, though a ghost, I'm a lady still!" The youth recoiled aghast. Her eyes grew wide and pale and chill With a terror that surpassed. He caught her hand: a freezing thrill Stung to his wrist, but with steadfast will He held it warm and fast.

"What can I do to save thee, dear?" At the word she sprang upright; On tiptoe she stood, he bent his ear, She whispered, whispered light. She withdrew; she gazed with an asking fear: Like one that looks on his lady's bier He stood, with a face ghost-white.

"Six times--in vain, oh hapless maid!-- I have humbled myself to sue! This is the last: as the sunset decayed, Out with the twilight I grew, And about the city flitted and strayed, A wandering, lonely, forsaken shade: No one saw me but you."

He shivered, he shook, he had turned to clay, Vile fear had gone into his blood; His face was a dismal ashy gray, Through his heart crept slime and mud; The lady stood in a still dismay, She drooped, she shrank, she withered away Like a half-blown frozen bud.

"Speak once more. Am I frightful then? I live, though they call it death; I am only cold! Say _dear_ again." But scarce could he heave a breath; Over a dank and steaming fen He floated astray from the world of men, A lost, half-conscious wraith.

"Ah, 'tis the last time! Save me!" Her cry Entered his heart, and lay. But he loved the sunshine, the golden sky, And the ghosts' moonlight is gray!-- As feverous visions flit and fly And without a motion elude the eye, She stood three steps away.

But oh, her eyes!--refusal base Those live-soul-stars had slain! Frozen eyes in an icy face They had grown. Like a ghost of the brain, Beside the lattice, thought-moved in space, She stood with a doleful despairing grace: The fire burned! clanged the rain!

Faded or fled, she had vanished quite! The loud wind sank to a sigh; Pale faces without paled the face of night, Sweeping the window by; Some to the glass pressed a cheek of fright, Some shot a gleam of decaying light From a flickering, uncertain eye.

Whence did it come, from the sky or the deep, That faint, long-cadenced wail? From the closing door of the down-way steep, His own bosom, or out of the gale? From the land where dead dreams, or dead maidens sleep? Out of every night to come will creep That cry his heart to quail!

The clouds had broken, the wind was at rest, The sea would be still ere morn, The moon had gone down behind its breast Save the tip of one blunt horn: Was that the ghost-angel without a nest-- Across the moonset far in the west That thin white vapour borne?

He turned from the lattice: the fire-lit room With its ghost-forsaken chair Was cold and drear as a rifled tomb, Shameful and dreamless and bare! Filled it was with his own soul's gloom, With the sense of a traitor's merited doom, With a lovely ghost's despair!

He had driven a lady, and lightly clad, Out in the stormy cold! Was she a ghost?--Divinely sad Are the people of Hades old! A wandering ghost? Oh, self-care bad, Caitiff and craven and cowering, which had Refused her an earthly fold!

Ill had she fared, his lovely guest!-- A passion of wild self-blame Tore the heart that failed in the test With a thousand hooks of shame, Bent his proud head on his heaving breast, Shore the plume from his ancient crest, Puffed at his ancient name.

He sickened with scorn of a fallen will, With love and remorse he wept; He sank and kissed her footprints chill And the track by her garment swept; He kneeled by her chair, all ice-cold still, Dropped his head in it, moaned until For weariness he slept.

He slept until the flaming sun Laughed at the by-gone dark: "A frightful dream!--but the night is done," He said, "and I hear the lark!" All day he held out; with the evening gun A booming terror his brain did stun, And Doubt, the jackal, gan bark.

Followed the lion, Conviction, fast, And the truth no dream he knew! Night after night raved the conscience-blast, But stilled as the morning grew. When seven slow moons had come and passed His self-reproach aside he cast, And the truth appeared untrue.

A lady fair--old story vile!-- Would make his heart her boast: In the growing glamour of her smile He forgot the lovely ghost: Forgot her for bitterness wrapt in wile, For the lady was false as a crocodile, And her heart was a cave of frost.

Then the cold white face, with its woe divine, Came back in the hour of sighs: Not always with comfort to those that pine The dear true faces arise! He yearned for her, dreamed of her, prayed for a sign; He wept for her pleading voice, and the shine Of her solitary eyes.

"With thy face so still, which I made so sad-- Ah me! which I might have wooed-- Thou holdest my heart in a love not glad, Sorrowful, shame-subdued! Come to me, lady, in pardon clad; Come to my dreams, white Aidead, For on thee all day I brood!"

She came not. He sought her in churchyards old, In churchyards by the sea; And in many a church, when the midnight tolled And the moon shone eerily, Down to the crypt he crept, grown bold, Sat all night in the dead men's cold, And called to her: never came she.

Praying forgiveness more and more, And her love at any cost, Pining and sighing and longing sore He grew like a creature lost; Thin and spectral his body wore, He faded out at the ghostly door, And was himself a ghost.

But if he found the lady then, So sorrowfully lost For lack of the love 'mong earthly men That was ready to brave love's cost, I know not till I drop my pen, Wander away from earthly ken, And am myself a ghost.

_ABU MIDJAN_.

"If I sit in the dust
For lauding good wine,
Ha, ha! it is just:
So sits the vine!"

Abu Midjan sang as he sat in chains, For the blood of the grape ran the juice of his veins. The Prophet had said, "O Faithful, drink not!" Abu Midjan drank till his heart was hot; Yea, he sang a song in praise of wine, He called it good names--a joy divine, The giver of might, the opener of eyes, Love's handmaid, the water of Paradise! Therefore Saad his chief spake words of blame, And set him in irons--a fettered flame; But he sings of the wine as he sits in his chains, For the blood of the grape runs the juice of his veins:

"I will not think
That the Prophet said
_Ye shall not drink
Of the flowing red!_"

"'Tis a drenched brain
Whose after-sting
Cries out, _Refrain:
'Tis an evil thing!_

"But I will dare,
With a goodly drought,
To drink, nor spare
Till my thirst be out.

"_I_ do not laugh
Like a Christian fool
But in silence quaff
The liquor cool

"At door of tent
'Neath evening star,
With daylight spent,
And Uriel afar!

"Then, through the sky,
Lo, the emerald hills!
My faith swells high,
My bosom thrills:

"I see them hearken,
The Houris that wait!
Their dark eyes darken
The diamond gate!

"I hear the float
Of their chant divine,
And my heart like a boat
Sails thither on wine!

"Can an evil thing
Make beauty more?
Or a sinner bring
To the heavenly door?

"The sun-rain fine
Would sink and escape,
But is drunk by the vine,
Is stored in the grape:

"And the prisoned light
I free again:
It flows in might
Through my shining brain

"I love and I know;
The truth is mine;
I walk in the glow
Of the sun-bred wine.

"_I_ will not think
That the Prophet said
_Ye shall not drink
Of the flowing red!_

"For his promises, lo,
Sevenfold they shine
When the channels o'erflow
With the singing wine!

"But I care not, I!--'tis a small annoy To sit in chains for a heavenly joy!"

Away went the song on the light wind borne; His head sank down, and a ripple of scorn Shook the hair that flowed from his curling lip As he eyed his brown limbs in the iron's grip.

Sudden his forehead he lifted high: A faint sound strayed like a moth-wing by! Like beacons his eyes burst blazing forth: A dust-cloud he spied in the distant north! A noise and a smoke on the plain afar? 'Tis the cloud and the clang of the Moslem war! He leapt aloft like a tiger snared; The wine in his veins through his visage flared; He tore at his fetters in bootless ire, He called the Prophet, he named his sire; From his lips, with wild shout, the Techir burst; He danced in his irons; the Giaours he cursed; And his eyes they flamed like a beacon dun, Or like wine in the crystal twixt eye and sun.

The lady of Saad heard him shout, Heard his fetters ring on the stones about The heart of a warrior she understood, And the rage of the thwarted battle-mood: Her name, with the cry of an angry prayer, He called but once, and the lady was there.

"The Giaour!" he panted, "the Godless brute! And me like a camel tied foot to foot! Let me go, and I swear by Allah's fear At sunset I don again this gear, Or lie in a heaven of starry eyes, Kissed by moon-maidens of Paradise! O lady, grant me the death of the just! Hark to the hurtle! see the dust!"

With ready fingers the noble dame Unlocked her husband's iron blame; Brought his second horse, his Abdon, out, And his second hauberk, light and stout; Harnessed the warrior, and hight him go An angel of vengeance upon the foe.

With clank of steel and thud of hoof
Away he galloped; she climbed the roof.

She sees the cloud and the flashes that leap From the scythe-shaped swords inside it that sweep Down with back-stroke the disordered swath: Thither he speeds, a bolt of wrath! Straight as an arrow she sees him go, Abu Midjan, the singer, upon the foe! Like an eagle he vanishes in the cloud, And the thunder of battle bursts more loud, Mingled of crashes and blows and falls, Of the whish that severs the throat that calls, Of neighing and shouting and groaning grim: Abu Midjan, she sees no more of him! Northward the battle drifts afar On the flowing tide of the holy war.

Lonely across the desert sand, From his wrist by its thong hung his clotted brand, Red in the sunset's level flame Back to his bonds Abu Midjan came.

"Lady, I swear your Saad's horse-- The Prophet himself might have rode a worse! Like the knots of a serpent the play of his flesh As he tore to the quarry in Allah's mesh! I forgot him, and mowed at the traitor weeds, Which fell before me like rushes and reeds, Or like the tall poppies that sudden drop low Their heads to an urchin's unstrung bow! Fled the Giaour; the faithful flew after to kill; I turned to surrender: beneath me still Was Abdon unjaded, fresh in force, Faithful and fearless--a heavenly horse! Give him water, lady, and barley to eat; Then haste thee and fetter the wine-bibber's feet."