Poems. Volume 1
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MARIAN
IShe can be as wise as we, And wiser when she wishes;She can knit with cunning wit, And dress the homely dishes.She can flourish staff or pen, And deal a wound that lingers;She can talk the talk of men, And touch with thrilling fingers.IIMatch her ye across the sea, Natures fond and fiery;Ye who zest the turtle’s nest With the eagle’s eyrie.Soft and loving is her soul, Swift and lofty soaring;Mixing with its dove-like dole Passionate adoring.IIISuch a she who’ll match with me? In flying or pursuing,Subtle wiles are in her smiles To set the world a-wooing.She is steadfast as a star, And yet the maddest maiden:She can wage a gallant war, And give the peace of Eden.BY MORNING TWILIGHT
Night, like a dying mother, Eyes her young offspring, Day. The birds are dreamily piping. And O, my love, my darling! The night is life ebb’d away: Away beyond our reach!A sea that has cast us pale on the beach; Weeds with the weeds and the pebblesThat hear the lone tamarisk rooted in sand Sway With the song of the sea to the land.UNKNOWN FAIR FACES
Though I am faithful to my loves lived through,And place them among Memory’s great stars,Where burns a face like Hesper: one like Mars:Of visages I get a moment’s view,Sweet eyes that in the heaven of me, too,Ascend, tho’ virgin to my life they passed.Lo, these within my destiny seem glassedAt times so bright, I wish that Hope were new.A gracious freckled lady, tall and grave,Went, in a shawl voluminous and white,Last sunset by; and going sow’d a glance.Earth is too poor to hold a second chance;I will not ask for more than Fortune gave:My heart she goes from—never from my sight!SHEMSELNIHAR
O my lover! the night like a broad smooth wave Bears us onward, and morn, a black rock, shines wet.How I shuddered—I knew not that I was a slave, Till I looked on thy face:—then I writhed in the net.Then I felt like a thing caught by fire, that her starGlowed dark on the bosom of Shemselnihar.And he came, whose I am: O my lover! he came: And his slave, still so envied of women, was I:And I turned as a hissing leaf spits from the flame, Yes, I shrivelled to dust from him, haggard and dry.O forgive her:—she was but as dead lilies are:The life of her heart fled from Shemselnihar.Yet with thee like a full throbbing rose how I bloom! Like a rose by the fountain whose showering we hear,As we lie, O my lover! in this rich gloom, Smelling faint the cool breath of the lemon-groves near.As we lie gazing out on that glowing great star—Ah! dark on the bosom of Shemselnihar.Yet with thee am I not as an arm of the vine, Firm to bind thee, to cherish thee, feed thee sweet?Swear an oath on my lip to let none disentwine The life that here fawns to give warmth to thy feet.I on thine, thus! no more shall that jewelled Head jarThe music thou breathest on Shemselnihar.Far away, far away, where the wandering scents Of all flowers are sweetest, white mountains among,There my kindred abide in their green and blue tents: Bear me to them, my lover! they lost me so young.Let us slip down the stream and leap steed till afarNone question thy claim upon Shemselnihar.O that long note the bulbul gave out—meaning love! O my lover, hark to him and think it my voice!The blue night like a great bell-flower from above Drooping low and gold-eyed: O, but hear him rejoice!Can it be? ’twas a flash! that accurst scimitàrIn thought even cuts thee from Shemselnihar.Yes, I would that, less generous, he would oppress, He would chain me, upbraid me, burn deep brands for hate,Than with this mask of freedom and gorgeousness Bespangle my slavery, mock my strange fate.Would, would, would, O my lover, he knew—dared debarThy coming, and earn curse of Shemselnihar!A ROAR THROUGH THE TALL TWIN ELM-TREES
A roar thro’ the tall twin elm-trees The mustering storm betrayed:The South-wind seized the willow That over the water swayed.Then fell the steady deluge In which I strove to doze,Hearing all night at my window The knock of the winter rose.The rainy rose of winter! An outcast it must pine.And from thy bosom outcast Am I, dear lady mine.WHEN I WOULD IMAGE
When I would image her features, Comes up a shrouded head:I touch the outlines, shrinking; She seems of the wandering dead.But when love asks for nothing, And lies on his bed of snow,The face slips under my eyelids, All in its living glow.Like a dark cathedral city, Whose spires, and domes, and towersQuiver in violet lightnings, My soul basks on for hours.THE SPIRIT OF SHAKESPEARE
Thy greatest knew thee, Mother Earth; unsouredHe knew thy sons. He probed from hell to hellOf human passions, but of love defloweredHis wisdom was not, for he knew thee well.Thence came the honeyed corner at his lips,The conquering smile wherein his spirit sailsCalm as the God who the white sea-wave whips,Yet full of speech and intershifting tales,Close mirrors of us: thence had he the laughWe feel is thine: broad as ten thousand beevesAt pasture! thence thy songs, that winnow chaffFrom grain, bid sick Philosophy’s last leavesWhirl, if they have no response—they enforcedTo fatten Earth when from her soul divorced.CONTINUED
How smiles he at a generation rankedIn gloomy noddings over life! They pass.Not he to feed upon a breast unthanked,Or eye a beauteous face in a cracked glass.But he can spy that little twist of brainWhich moved some weighty leader of the blind,Unwitting ’twas the goad of personal pain,To view in curst eclipse our Mother’s mind,And show us of some rigid harridanThe wretched bondmen till the end of time.O lived the Master now to paint us Man,That little twist of brain would ring a chimeOf whence it came and what it caused, to startThunders of laughter, clearing air and heart.ODE TO THE SPIRIT OF EARTH IN AUTUMN
Fair Mother Earth lay on her back last night,To gaze her fill on Autumn’s sunset skies,When at a waving of the fallen lightSprang realms of rosy fruitage o’er her eyes.A lustrous heavenly orchard hung the West,Wherein the blood of Eden bloomed again:Red were the myriad cherub-mouths that pressed,Among the clusters, rich with song, full fain,But dumb, because that overmastering spellOf rapture held them dumb: then, here and there,A golden harp lost strings; a crimson shellBurnt grey; and sheaves of lustre fell to air.The illimitable eagerness of hueBronzed, and the beamy winged bloom that flew’Mid those bunched fruits and thronging figures failed.A green-edged lake of saffron touched the blue,With isles of fireless purple lying through:And Fancy on that lake to seek lost treasures sailed. Not long the silence followed: The voice that issues from thy breast, O glorious South-west, Along the gloom-horizon holloa’d;Warning the valleys with a mellow roarThrough flapping wings; then sharp the woodland bore A shudder and a noise of hands: A thousand horns from some far vale In ambush sounding on the gale. Forth from the cloven sky came bandsOf revel-gathering spirits; trooping down,Some rode the tree-tops; some on torn cloud-strips Burst screaming thro’ the lighted town:And scudding seaward, some fell on big ships: Or mounting the sea-horses blew Bright foam-flakes on the black review Of heaving hulls and burying beaks.Still on the farthest line, with outpuffed cheeks,’Twixt dark and utter dark, the great wind drewFrom heaven that disenchanted harmonyTo join earth’s laughter in the midnight blind:Booming a distant chorus to the shrieks Preluding him: then he,His mantle streaming thunderingly behind,Across the yellow realm of stiffened Day,Shot thro’ the woodland alleys signals three; And with the pressure of a seaPlunged broad upon the vale that under lay. Night on the rolling foliage fell: But I, who love old hymning night, And know the Dryad voices well, Discerned them as their leaves took flight, Like souls to wander after death: Great armies in imperial dyes, And mad to tread the air and rise, The savage freedom of the skies To taste before they rot. And here, Like frail white-bodied girls in fear, The birches swung from shrieks to sighs; The aspens, laughers at a breath, In showering spray-falls mixed their cries, Or raked a savage ocean-strand With one incessant drowning screech. Here stood a solitary beech, That gave its gold with open hand, And all its branches, toning chill, Did seem to shut their teeth right fast, To shriek more mercilessly shrill, And match the fierceness of the blast. But heard I a low swell that noised Of far-off ocean, I was ’ware Of pines upon their wide roots poised, Whom never madness in the air Can draw to more than loftier stress Of mournfulness, not mournfulness For melancholy, but Joy’s excess,That singing on the lap of sorrow faints: And Peace, as in the hearts of saints Who chant unto the Lord their God;Deep Peace below upon the muffled sod,The stillness of the sea’s unswaying floor, Could I be sole there not to see The life within the life awake; The spirit bursting from the tree, And rising from the troubled lake? Pour, let the wines of Heaven pour! The Golden Harp is struck once more, And all its music is for me! Pour, let the wines of Heaven pour! And, ho, for a night of Pagan glee! There is a curtain o’er us. For once, good souls, we’ll not pretend To be aught better than her who bore us, And is our only visible friend. Hark to her laughter! who laughs like this, Can she be dead, or rooted in pain? She has been slain by the narrow brain, But for us who love her she lives again. Can she die? O, take her kiss!The crimson-footed nymph is panting up the glade,With the wine-jar at her arm-pit, and the drunken ivy-braidRound her forehead, breasts, and thighs: starts a Satyr, and they speed:Hear the crushing of the leaves: hear the cracking of the bough!And the whistling of the bramble, the piping of the weed! But the bull-voiced oak is battling now: The storm has seized him half-asleep, And round him the wild woodland throngs To hear the fury of his songs, The uproar of an outraged deep. He wakes to find a wrestling giant Trunk to trunk and limb to limb, And on his rooted force reliant He laughs and grasps the broadened giant, And twist and roll the Anakim;And multitudes, acclaiming to the cloud, Cry which is breaking, which is bowed. Away, for the cymbals clash aloft In the circles of pine, on the moss-floor soft. The nymphs of the woodland are gathering there. They huddle the leaves, and trample, and toss; They swing in the branches, they roll in the moss, They blow the seed on the air. Back to back they stand and blow The winged seed on the cradling air, A fountain of leaves over bosom and back.The pipe of the Faun comes on their trackAnd the weltering alleys overflowWith musical shrieks and wind-wedded hair.The riotous companies melt to a pair. Bless them, mother of kindness! A star has nodded through The depths of the flying blue. Time only to plant the light Of a memory in the blindness. But time to show me the sight Of my life thro’ the curtain of night; Shining a moment, and mixed With the onward-hurrying stream, Whose pressure is darkness to me; Behind the curtain, fixed, Beams with endless beam That star on the changing sea.Great Mother Nature! teach me, like thee,To kiss the season and shun regrets.And am I more than the mother who bore,Mock me not with thy harmony! Teach me to blot regrets, Great Mother! me inspire With faith that forward sets But feeds the living fire, Faith that never frets For vagueness in the form. In life, O keep me warm! For, what is human grief? And what do men desire?Teach me to feel myself the tree, And not the withered leaf.Fixed am I and await the dark to-be And O, green bounteous Earth!Bacchante Mother! stern to thoseWho live not in thy heart of mirth;Death shall I shrink from, loving thee?Into the breast that gives the rose, Shall I with shuddering fall? Earth, the mother of all, Moves on her stedfast way, Gathering, flinging, sowing. Mortals, we live in her day, She in her children is growing.She can lead us, only she,Unto God’s footstool, whither she reaches:Loved, enjoyed, her gifts must be,Reverenced the truths she teaches,Ere a man may hope that heEver can attain the gleeOf things without a destiny! She knows not loss: She feels but her need, Who the winged seed With the leaf doth toss.And may not men to this attain?That the joy of motion, the rapture of being,Shall throw strong light when our season is fleeing,Nor quicken aged blood in vain,At the gates of the vault, on the verge of the plain?Life thoroughly lived is a fact in the brain, While eyes are left for seeing.Behold, in yon stripped Autumn, shivering grey, Earth knows no desolation. She smells regeneration In the moist breath of decay.Prophetic of the coming joy and strife, Like the wild western war-chief sinking Calm to the end he eyes unblinking,Her voice is jubilant in ebbing life. He for his happy hunting-fields Forgets the droning chant, and yields His numbered breaths to exultation In the proud anticipation: Shouting the glories of his nation, Shouting the grandeur of his race, Shouting his own great deeds of daring: And when at last death grasps his face, And stiffened on the ground in peaceHe lies with all his painted terrors glaring;Hushed are the tribe to hear a threading cry: Not from the dead man; Not from the standers-by: The spirit of the red manIs welcomed by his fathers up on high.MARTIN’S PUZZLE
IThere she goes up the street with her book in her hand, And her Good morning, Martin! Ay, lass, how d’ye do?Very well, thank you, Martin!—I can’t understand! I might just as well never have cobbled a shoe!I can’t understand it. She talks like a song; Her voice takes your ear like the ring of a glass;She seems to give gladness while limping along, Yet sinner ne’er suffer’d like that little lass.IIFirst, a fool of a boy ran her down with a cart. Then, her fool of a father—a blacksmith by trade—Why the deuce does he tell us it half broke his heart? His heart!—where’s the leg of the poor little maid!Well, that’s not enough; they must push her downstairs, To make her go crooked: but why count the list?If it’s right to suppose that our human affairs Are all order’d by heaven—there, bang goes my fist!IIIFor if angels can look on such sights—never mind! When you’re next to blaspheming, it’s best to be mum.The parson declares that her woes weren’t designed; But, then, with the parson it’s all kingdom-come.Lose a leg, save a soul—a convenient text; I call it Tea doctrine, not savouring of God.When poor little Molly wants ‘chastening,’ why, next The Archangel Michael might taste of the rod.IVBut, to see the poor darling go limping for miles To read books to sick people!—and just of an ageWhen girls learn the meaning of ribands and smiles! Makes me feel like a squirrel that turns in a cage.The more I push thinking the more I revolve: I never get farther:—and as to her face,It starts up when near on my puzzle I solve, And says, ‘This crush’d body seems such a sad case.’VNot that she’s for complaining: she reads to earn pence; And from those who can’t pay, simple thanks are enough.Does she leave lamentation for chaps without sense? Howsoever, she’s made up of wonderful stuff.Ay, the soul in her body must be a stout cord; She sings little hymns at the close of the day,Though she has but three fingers to lift to the Lord, And only one leg to kneel down with to pray.VIWhat I ask is, Why persecute such a poor dear, If there’s Law above all? Answer that if you can!Irreligious I’m not; but I look on this sphere As a place where a man should just think like a man.It isn’t fair dealing! But, contrariwise, Do bullets in battle the wicked select?Why, then it’s all chance-work! And yet, in her eyes, She holds a fixed something by which I am checked.VIIYonder riband of sunshine aslope on the wall, If you eye it a minute ’ll have the same look:So kind! and so merciful! God of us all! It’s the very same lesson we get from the Book.Then, is Life but a trial? Is that what is meant? Some must toil, and some perish, for others below:The injustice to each spreads a common content; Ay! I’ve lost it again, for it can’t be quite so.VIIIShe’s the victim of fools: that seems nearer the mark. On earth there are engines and numerous fools.Why the Lord can permit them, we’re still in the dark; He does, and in some sort of way they’re His tools.It’s a roundabout way, with respect let me add, If Molly goes crippled that we may be taught:But, perhaps, it’s the only way, though it’s so bad; In that case we’ll bow down our heads,—as we ought.IXBut the worst of me is, that when I bow my head, I perceive a thought wriggling away in the dust,And I follow its tracks, quite forgetful, instead Of humble acceptance: for, question I must!Here’s a creature made carefully—carefully made! Put together with craft, and then stamped on, and why?The answer seems nowhere: it’s discord that’s played. The sky’s a blue dish!—an implacable sky!XStop a moment. I seize an idea from the pit. They tell us that discord, though discord, alone,Can be harmony when the notes properly fit: Am I judging all things from a single false tone?Is the Universe one immense Organ, that rolls From devils to angels? I’m blind with the sight.It pours such a splendour on heaps of poor souls! I might try at kneeling with Molly to-night.1
First contributed to a MS. magazine, ‘The Monthly Observer,’ in the year 1849; first printed in Chambers’ Edinburgh Journal, July 7, 1849.
2
Originally printed in ‘Poems,’ 1851.
3
‘The Leader,’ December 20, 1851.