Poems. Volume 1
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XXXVI
My Lady unto Madam makes her bow.The charm of women is, that even whileYou’re probed by them for tears, you yet may smile,Nay, laugh outright, as I have done just now.The interview was gracious: they anoint(To me aside) each other with fine praise:Discriminating compliments they raise,That hit with wondrous aim on the weak point:My Lady’s nose of Nature might complain.It is not fashioned aptly to expressHer character of large-browed steadfastness.But Madam says: Thereof she may be vain!Now, Madam’s faulty feature is a glazedAnd inaccessible eye, that has soft fires,Wide gates, at love-time, only. This admiresMy Lady. At the two I stand amazed.XXXVII
Along the garden terrace, under whichA purple valley (lighted at its edgeBy smoky torch-flame on the long cloud-ledgeWhereunder dropped the chariot) glimmers rich,A quiet company we pace, and waitThe dinner-bell in prae-digestive calm.So sweet up violet banks the Southern balmBreathes round, we care not if the bell be late:Though here and there grey seniors question TimeIn irritable coughings. With slow footThe low rosed moon, the face of Music mute,Begins among her silent bars to climb.As in and out, in silvery dusk, we thread,I hear the laugh of Madam, and discernMy Lady’s heel before me at each turn.Our tragedy, is it alive or dead?XXXVIII
Give to imagination some pure lightIn human form to fix it, or you shameThe devils with that hideous human game:—Imagination urging appetite!Thus fallen have earth’s greatest Gogmagogs,Who dazzle us, whom we can not revere:Imagination is the charioteerThat, in default of better, drives the hogs.So, therefore, my dear Lady, let me love!My soul is arrowy to the light in you.You know me that I never can renewThe bond that woman broke: what would you have?’Tis Love, or Vileness! not a choice between,Save petrifaction! What does Pity here?She killed a thing, and now it’s dead, ’tis dear.Oh, when you counsel me, think what you mean!XXXIX
She yields: my Lady in her noblest moodHas yielded: she, my golden-crownëd rose!The bride of every sense! more sweet than thoseWho breathe the violet breath of maidenhood.O visage of still music in the sky!Soft moon! I feel thy song, my fairest friend!True harmony within can apprehendDumb harmony without. And hark! ’tis nigh!Belief has struck the note of sound: a gleamOf living silver shows me where she shookHer long white fingers down the shadowy brook,That sings her song, half waking, half in dream.What two come here to mar this heavenly tune?A man is one: the woman bears my name,And honour. Their hands touch! Am I still tame?God, what a dancing spectre seems the moon!XL
I bade my Lady think what she might mean.Know I my meaning, I? Can I love one,And yet be jealous of another? NoneCommits such folly. Terrible Love, I ween,Has might, even dead, half sighing to upheaveThe lightless seas of selfishness amain:Seas that in a man’s heart have no rainTo fall and still them. Peace can I achieve,By turning to this fountain-source of woe,This woman, who’s to Love as fire to wood?She breathed the violet breath of maidenhoodAgainst my kisses once! but I say, No!The thing is mocked at! Helplessly afloat,I know not what I do, whereto I strive.The dread that my old love may be aliveHas seized my nursling new love by the throat.XLI
How many a thing which we cast to the ground,When others pick it up becomes a gem!We grasp at all the wealth it is to them;And by reflected light its worth is found.Yet for us still ’tis nothing! and that zealOf false appreciation quickly fades.This truth is little known to human shades,How rare from their own instinct ’tis to feel!They waste the soul with spurious desire,That is not the ripe flame upon the bough.We two have taken up a lifeless vowTo rob a living passion: dust for fire!Madam is grave, and eyes the clock that tellsApproaching midnight. We have struck despairInto two hearts. O, look we like a pairWho for fresh nuptials joyfully yield all else?XLII
I am to follow her. There is much graceIn woman when thus bent on martyrdom.They think that dignity of soul may come,Perchance, with dignity of body. Base!But I was taken by that air of coldAnd statuesque sedateness, when she said‘I’m going’; lit a taper, bowed her head,And went, as with the stride of Pallas bold.Fleshly indifference horrible! The handsOf Time now signal: O, she’s safe from me!Within those secret walls what do I see?Where first she set the taper down she stands:Not Pallas: Hebe shamed! Thoughts black as deathLike a stirred pool in sunshine break. Her wristsI catch: she faltering, as she half resists,‘You love . . .? love . . .? love . . .?’ all on an indrawn breath.XLIII
Mark where the pressing wind shoots javelin-likeIts skeleton shadow on the broad-backed wave!Here is a fitting spot to dig Love’s grave;Here where the ponderous breakers plunge and strike,And dart their hissing tongues high up the sand:In hearing of the ocean, and in sightOf those ribbed wind-streaks running into white.If I the death of Love had deeply planned,I never could have made it half so sure,As by the unblest kisses which upbraidThe full-waked sense; or failing that, degrade!’Tis morning: but no morning can restoreWhat we have forfeited. I see no sin:The wrong is mixed. In tragic life, God wot,No villain need be! Passions spin the plot:We are betrayed by what is false within.XLIV
They say, that Pity in Love’s service dwells,A porter at the rosy temple’s gate.I missed him going: but it is my fateTo come upon him now beside his wells;Whereby I know that I Love’s temple leave,And that the purple doors have closed behind.Poor soul! if, in those early days unkind,Thy power to sting had been but power to grieve,We now might with an equal spirit meet,And not be matched like innocence and vice.She for the Temple’s worship has paid price,And takes the coin of Pity as a cheat.She sees through simulation to the bone:What’s best in her impels her to the worst:Never, she cries, shall Pity soothe Love’s thirst,Or foul hypocrisy for truth atone!XLV
It is the season of the sweet wild rose,My Lady’s emblem in the heart of me!So golden-crownëd shines she gloriously,And with that softest dream of blood she glows;Mild as an evening heaven round Hesper bright!I pluck the flower, and smell it, and reviveThe time when in her eyes I stood alive.I seem to look upon it out of Night.Here’s Madam, stepping hastily. Her whimsBid her demand the flower, which I let drop.As I proceed, I feel her sharply stop,And crush it under heel with trembling limbs.She joins me in a cat-like way, and talksOf company, and even condescendsTo utter laughing scandal of old friends.These are the summer days, and these our walks.XLVI
At last we parley: we so strangely dumbIn such a close communion! It befellAbout the sounding of the Matin-bell,And lo! her place was vacant, and the humOf loneliness was round me. Then I rose,And my disordered brain did guide my footTo that old wood where our first love-saluteWas interchanged: the source of many throes!There did I see her, not alone. I movedToward her, and made proffer of my arm.She took it simply, with no rude alarm;And that disturbing shadow passed reproved.I felt the pained speech coming, and declaredMy firm belief in her, ere she could speak.A ghastly morning came into her cheek,While with a widening soul on me she stared.XLVII
We saw the swallows gathering in the sky,And in the osier-isle we heard them noise.We had not to look back on summer joys,Or forward to a summer of bright dye:But in the largeness of the evening earthOur spirits grew as we went side by side.The hour became her husband and my bride.Love, that had robbed us so, thus blessed our dearth!The pilgrims of the year waxed very loudIn multitudinous chatterings, as the floodFull brown came from the West, and like pale bloodExpanded to the upper crimson cloud.Love, that had robbed us of immortal things,This little moment mercifully gave,Where I have seen across the twilight waveThe swan sail with her young beneath her wings.XLVIII
Their sense is with their senses all mixed in,Destroyed by subtleties these women are!More brain, O Lord, more brain! or we shall marUtterly this fair garden we might win.Behold! I looked for peace, and thought it near.Our inmost hearts had opened, each to each.We drank the pure daylight of honest speech.Alas! that was the fatal draught, I fear.For when of my lost Lady came the word,This woman, O this agony of flesh!Jealous devotion bade her break the mesh,That I might seek that other like a bird.I do adore the nobleness! despiseThe act! She has gone forth, I know not where.Will the hard world my sentience of her shareI feel the truth; so let the world surmise.XLIX
He found her by the ocean’s moaning verge,Nor any wicked change in her discerned;And she believed his old love had returned,Which was her exultation, and her scourge.She took his hand, and walked with him, and seemedThe wife he sought, though shadow-like and dry.She had one terror, lest her heart should sigh,And tell her loudly she no longer dreamed.She dared not say, ‘This is my breast: look in.’But there’s a strength to help the desperate weak.That night he learned how silence best can speakThe awful things when Pity pleads for Sin.About the middle of the night her callWas heard, and he came wondering to the bed.‘Now kiss me, dear! it may be, now!’ she said.Lethe had passed those lips, and he knew all.L
Thus piteously Love closed what he begat:The union of this ever-diverse pair!These two were rapid falcons in a snare,Condemned to do the flitting of the bat.Lovers beneath the singing sky of May,They wandered once; clear as the dew on flowers:But they fed not on the advancing hours:Their hearts held cravings for the buried day.Then each applied to each that fatal knife,Deep questioning, which probes to endless dole.Ah, what a dusty answer gets the soulWhen hot for certainties in this our life!—In tragic hints here see what evermoreMoves dark as yonder midnight ocean’s force,Thundering like ramping hosts of warrior horse,To throw that faint thin fine upon the shore!THE PATRIOT ENGINEER
‘Sirs! may I shake your hands? My countrymen, I see! I’ve lived in foreign lands Till England’s Heaven to me.A hearty shake will do me good,And freshen up my sluggish blood.’Into his hard right hand we struck,Gave the shake, and wish’d him luck. ‘—From Austria I come, An English wife to win, And find an English home, And live and die therein.Great Lord! how many a year I’ve pinedTo drink old ale and speak my mind!’Loud rang our laughter, and the shoutHills round the Meuse-boat echoed about. ‘—Ay, no offence: laugh on, Young gentlemen: I’ll join. Had you to exile gone, Where free speech is base coin,You’d sigh to see the jolly noseWhere Freedom’s native liquor flows!’He this time the laughter led,Dabbling his oily bullet head. ‘—Give me, to suit my moods, An ale-house on a heath, I’ll hand the crags and woods To B’elzebub beneath.A fig for scenery! what sceneCan beat a Jackass on a green?’Gravely he seem’d, with gaze intense,Putting the question to common sense. ‘—Why, there’s the ale-house bench: The furze-flower shining round: And there’s my waiting-wench, As lissome as a hound.With “hail Britannia!” ere I drink,I’ll kiss her with an artful wink.’Fair flash’d the foreign landscape whileWe breath’d again our native Isle. ‘—The geese may swim hard-by; They gabble, and you talk: You’re sure there’s not a spy To mark your name with chalk.My heart’s an oak, and it won’t growIn flower-pots, foreigners must know.’Pensive he stood: then shook his headSadly; held out his fist, and said: ‘—You’ve heard that Hungary’s floor’d? They’ve got her on the ground. A traitor broke her sword: Two despots held her bound.I’ve seen her gasping her last hope:I’ve seen her sons strung up b’ the rope. ‘Nine gallant gentlemen In Arad they strung up! I work’d in peace till then:— That poison’d all my cup.A smell of corpses haunted me:My nostril sniff’d like life for sea. ‘Take money for my hire From butchers?—not the man! I’ve got some natural fire, And don’t flash in the pan;—A few ideas I reveal’d:—’Twas well old England stood my shield! ‘Said I, “The Lord of Hosts Have mercy on your land! I see those dangling ghosts,— And you may keep command,And hang, and shoot, and have your day:They hold your bill, and you must pay. ‘“You’ve sent them where they’re strong, You carrion Double-Head! I hear them sound a gong In Heaven above!”—I said.“My God, what feathers won’t you moultFor this!” says I: and then I bolt. ‘The Bird’s a beastly Bird, And what is more, a fool. I shake hands with the herd That flock beneath his rule.They’re kindly; and their land is fine.I thought it rarer once than mine. ‘And rare would be its lot, But that he baulks its powers: It’s just an earthen pot For hearts of oak like ours.Think! Think!—four days from those frontiers,And I’m a-head full fifty years. ‘It tingles to your scalps, To think of it, my boys! Confusion on their Alps, And all their baby toys!The mountains Britain boasts are men:And scale you them, my brethren!’Cluck, went his tongue; his fingers, snap.Britons were proved all heights to cap. And we who worshipp’d crags, Where purple splendours burn’d, Our idol saw in rags, And right about were turn’d.Horizons rich with trembling spiresOn violet twilights lost their fires. And heights where morning wakes With one cheek over snow;— And iron-wallèd lakes Where sits the white moon low;—For us on youthful travel bent,The robing picturesque was rent. Wherever Beauty show’d The wonders of her face, This man his Jackass rode, High despot of the place.Fair dreams of our enchanted lifeFled fast from his shrill island fife. And yet we liked him well; We laugh’d with honest hearts:— He shock’d some inner spell, And rous’d discordant parts.We echoed what we half abjured:And hating, smilingly endured. Moreover, could we be To our dear land disloyal? And were not also we Of History’s blood-Royal?We glow’d to think how donkeys grazeIn England, thrilling at their brays. For there a man may view An aspect more sublime Than Alps against the blue:— The morning eyes of Time!The very Ass participatesThe glory Freedom radiates!CASSANDRA
ICaptive on a foreign shore,Far from Ilion’s hoary wave,Agamemnon’s bridal slaveSpeaks Futurity no more:Death is busy with her grave.IIThick as water, bursts remoteRound her ears the alien din,While her little sullen chinFills the hollows of her throat:Silent lie her slaughter’d kin.IIIOnce to many a pealing shriek,Lo, from Ilion’s topmost tower,Ilion’s fierce prophetic flowerCried the coming of the Greek!Black in Hades sits the hour.IVEyeing phantoms of the Past,Folded like a prophet’s scroll,In the deep’s long shoreward rollHere she sees the anchor cast:Backward moves her sunless soul.VChieftains, brethren of her joy,Shades, the white light in their eyesSlanting to her lips, arise,Crowding quick the plains of Troy:Now they tell her not she lies.VIO the bliss upon the plains,Where the joining heroes clashedShield and spear, and, unabashed,Challenged with hot chariot-reinsGods!—they glimmer ocean-washed.VIIAlien voices round the ships,Thick as water, shouting Home.Argives, pale as midnight foam,Wax before her awful lips:White as stars that front the gloom.VIIILike a torch-flame that by dayUp the daylight twists, and, pale,Catches air in leaps that fail,Crushed by the inveterate ray,Through her shines the Ten-Years’ Tale.IXOnce to many a pealing shriek,Lo, from Ilion’s topmost tower,Ilion’s fierce prophetic flowerCried the coming of the Greek!Black in Hades sits the hour.XStill upon her sunless soulGleams the narrow hidden spaceForward, where her fiery raceFalters on its ashen goal:Still the Future strikes her face.XISee toward the conqueror’s carStep the purple Queen whose hateWraps red-armed her royal mateWith his Asian tempest-star:Now Cassandra views her Fate.XIIKing of men! the blinded hostShout:—she lifts her brooding chin:Glad along the joyous dinSmiles the grand majestic ghost:Clytemnestra leads him in.XIIILo, their smoky limbs aloof,Shadowing heaven and the seas,Fates and Furies, tangling Threes,Tear and mix above the roof:Fates and fierce Eumenides.XIVIs the prophetess with rodsBeaten, that she writhes in air?With the Gods who never spare,Wrestling with the unsparing Gods,Lone, her body struggles there.XVLike the snaky torch-flame white,Levelled as aloft it twists,She, her soaring arms, and wristsDrooping, struggles with the light,Helios, bright above all mists!XVIIn his orb she sees the tower,Dusk against its flaming rims,Where of old her wretched limbsTwisted with the stolen power:Ilium all the lustre dims!XVIIO the bliss upon the plains,Where the joining heroes clashedShield and spear, and, unabashed,Challenged with hot chariot-reinsGods!—they glimmer ocean-washed.XVIIIThrice the Sun-god’s name she calls;Shrieks the deed that shames the sky;Like a fountain leaping high,Falling as a fountain falls:Lo, the blazing wheels go by!XIXCaptive on a foreign shore,Far from Ilion’s hoary wave,Agamemnon’s bridal slaveSpeaks Futurity no more:Death is busy with her grave.THE YOUNG USURPER
On my darling’s bosomHas dropped a living rosy bud, Fair as brilliant Hesper Against the brimming flood. She handles him, She dandles him, She fondles him and eyes him:And if upon a tear he wakes, With many a kiss she dries him:She covets every move he makes, And never enough can prize him. Ah, the young Usurper! I yield my golden throne: Such angel bands attend his hands To claim it for his own.MARGARET’S BRIDAL EVE
I
The old grey mother she thrummed on her knee: There is a rose that’s ready;And which of the handsome young men shall it be? There’s a rose that’s ready for clipping.My daughter, come hither, come hither to me: There is a rose that’s ready;Come, point me your finger on him that you see: There’s a rose that’s ready for clipping.O mother, my mother, it never can be: There is a rose that’s ready;For I shall bring shame on the man marries me: There’s a rose that’s ready for clipping.Now let your tongue be deep as the sea: There is a rose that’s ready;And the man’ll jump for you, right briskly will he: There’s a rose that’s ready for clipping.Tall Margaret wept bitterly: There is a rose that’s ready;And as her parent bade did she: There’s a rose that’s ready for clipping.O the handsome young man dropped down on his knee: There is a rose that’s ready;Pale Margaret gave him her hand, woe’s me! There’s a rose that’s ready for clipping.II
O mother, my mother, this thing I must say: There is a rose in the garden;Ere he lies on the breast where that other lay: And the bird sings over the roses.Now, folly, my daughter, for men are men: There is a rose in the garden;You marry them blindfold, I tell you again: And the bird sings over the roses.O mother, but when he kisses me! There is a rose in the garden;My child, ’tis which shall sweetest be! And the bird sings over the roses.O mother, but when I awake in the morn! There is a rose in the garden;My child, you are his, and the ring is worn: And the bird sings over the roses.Tall Margaret sighed and loosened a tress: There is a rose in the garden;Poor comfort she had of her comeliness And the bird sings over the roses.My mother will sink if this thing be said: There is a rose in the garden;That my first betrothed came thrice to my bed; And the bird sings over the roses.He died on my shoulder the third cold night: There is a rose in the garden;I dragged his body all through the moonlight: And the bird sings over the roses.But when I came by my father’s door: There is a rose in the garden;I fell in a lump on the stiff dead floor: And the bird sings over the roses.O neither to heaven, nor yet to hell: There is a rose in the garden;Could I follow the lover I loved so well! And the bird sings over the roses.III
The bridesmaids slept in their chambers apart: There is a rose that’s ready;Tall Margaret walked with her thumping heart: There’s a rose that’s ready for clipping.The frill of her nightgown below the left breast: There is a rose that’s ready;Had fall’n like a cloud of the moonlighted West: There’s a rose that’s ready for clipping.But where the West-cloud breaks to a star: There is a rose that’s ready;Pale Margaret’s breast showed a winding scar: There’s a rose that’s ready for clipping.O few are the brides with such a sign! There is a rose that’s ready;Though I went mad the fault was mine: There’s a rose that’s ready for clipping.I must speak to him under this roof to-night: There is a rose that’s ready;I shall burn to death if I speak in the light: There’s a rose that’s ready for clipping.O my breast! I must strike you a bloodier wound: There is a rose that’s ready;Than when I scored you red and swooned: There’s a rose that’s ready for clipping.I will stab my honour under his eye: There is a rose that’s ready;Though I bleed to the death, I shall let out the lie: There’s a rose that’s ready for clipping.O happy my bridesmaids! white sleep is with you! There is a rose that’s ready;Had he chosen among you he might sleep too! There’s a rose that’s ready for clipping.O happy my bridesmaids! your breasts are clean: There is a rose that’s ready;You carry no mark of what has been! There’s a rose that’s ready for clipping.IV
An hour before the chilly beam: Red rose and white in the garden;The bridegroom started out of a dream: And the bird sings over the roses.He went to the door, and there espied: Red rose and white in the garden;The figure of his silent bride: And the bird sings over the roses.He went to the door, and let her in: Red rose and white in the garden;Whiter looked she than a child of sin: And the bird sings over the roses.She looked so white, she looked so sweet: Red rose and white in the garden;She looked so pure he fell at her feet: And the bird sings over the roses.He fell at her feet with love and awe: Red rose and white in the garden;A stainless body of light he saw: And the bird sings over the roses.O Margaret, say you are not of the dead! Red rose and white in the garden;My bride! by the angels at night are you led? And the bird sings over the roses.I am not led by the angels about: Red rose and white in the garden;But I have a devil within to let out: And the bird sings over the roses.O Margaret! my bride and saint! Red rose and white in the garden;There is on you no earthly taint: And the bird sings over the roses.I am no saint, and no bride can I be: Red rose and while in the garden;Until I have opened my bosom to thee: And the bird sings over the roses.To catch at her heart she laid one hand: Red rose and white in the garden;She told the tale where she did stand: And the bird sings over the roses.She stood before him pale and tall: Red rose and white in the garden;Her eyes between his, she told him all: And the bird sings over the roses.She saw how her body grow freckled and foul: Red rose and white in the garden;She heard from the woods the hooting owl: And the bird sings over the roses.With never a quiver her mouth did speak: Red rose and white in the garden;O when she had done she stood so meek! And the bird sings over the roses.The bridegroom stamped and called her vile: Red rose and white in the garden;He did but waken a little smile: And the bird sings over the roses.The bridegroom raged and called her foul: Red rose and white in the garden;She heard from the woods the hooting owl: And the bird sings over the roses.He muttered a name full bitter and sore: Red rose and white in the garden;She fell in a lump on the still dead floor: And the bird sings over the roses.O great was the wonder, and loud the wail: Red rose and white in the garden;When through the household flew the tale: And the bird sings over the roses.The old grey mother she dressed the bier: Red rose and white in the garden;With a shivering chin and never a tear: And the bird sings over the roses.O had you but done as I bade you, my child! Red rose and white in the garden;You would not have died and been reviled: And the bird sings over the roses.The bridegroom he hung at midnight by the bier: Red rose and white in the garden;He eyed the white girl thro’ a dazzling tear: And the bird sings over the roses.O had you been false as the women who stray: Red rose and white in the garden;You would not be now with the Angels of Day! And the bird sings over the roses.