Chapter 4
They know thee beautiful! They know thee bitter! And all their eyes are full, O God! most beautiful! Of tears that glitter. Thou art above their tears; Thou art beyond their years; Thou sittest, God of Hosts, Among thy glorious ghosts, So high and holy; And canst thou know the tears, The strivings and the fears, O God of godly peers! Of such so lowly?
IV.
They who were fondly fain To tell what mother pain Of Nature makes the rain;
They who were glad to know The sorrow of her snow, Of her wild winds the woe;
The magic of her light, The passion of her night, And of her death the might;
They who had tears and sighs For every bud that dies While the dew on it lies;
They who had utterance for Each warm, rose-hearted star That stammers from afar;
The demon of vast seas, The lips of lyric trees, Lays of sonorous bees;
The fragrance-fays that dower Each wildwood bosk and bower With its faint musk of flower;
Of Time the feverish flight; Earth, man, and, last, man's right To thee, O Infinite!
FAIRIES.
On the tremulous coppice, From her plenteous hair, Large golden-rayed poppies Of moon-litten air The Night hath flung there.
In the fern-favored hollow The fire-flies fleet Uncertainly follow Pale phantoms of heat, Druid shadows that meet.
Hidden flowers are fragrant; The night hazes furl O'er the solitudes vagrant In purple and pearl, Sway-swinging and curl.
From moss-cushioned valley Where the red sunlight fails, Rocks where musically The hollow spring wails, And the limber fern trails,
With a ripple and twinkle Of luminous arms, Of voices that tinkle, And feet that are storms Of chaste, naked charms,
Like echoes that revel On hills, where the brier Vaults roofs of dishevel And green, greedy fire, They come as a choir.
At the root of the mountain Where the dim forest lies, By the spar-spouting fountain Where the low lily dies, With their star-stinging eyes.
They gather sweet singing In voices that seem Faint ringing and clinging In dreams that we dream, In visions that gleam.
Sweet lisping of kisses, Dry rustle of hair; A footfall that hisses Like a leaf in the air When the brown boughs are bare.
The music that scatters From love-litten eyes; The music that flatters In words and low sighs, In laughter that dies:
"Come hither, come hither, In the million-eyed night, Ere the moon-flowers wither And the harvester white, Morning reaps them with light.
"Come hither, where singing Is pleasant as tears, Or dead kisses, clinging To the murdering years, In memory's ears.
"Come hither where kisses Are waiting for you, For lips and long tresses, As for wild flowers blue The moon-heated dew.
"Come hither from coppice And violet dale, The mountain whose top is In vapors that sail With pearly hail pale.
"Why tarry? come hither While the molten moon beams, Ere the golden spark wither Of the glow-worm that gleams Like a star in still streams!"
THE TRYST.
Had fallen a fragrant shower; The leaves were dripping yet; Each fern and rain-weighed flower Around were gleaming wet; On ev'ry bosky bower A million gems were set.
The dust's moist odors sifted Cool with the summer rain, Mixed with the musk that drifted From orchard and from plain;-- Her garden's fence white lifted Its length along the lane.
The moon the clouds had shattered In curdled peaks of pearl; The honeysuckle scattered Warm odors from each curl, Where the white moonlight, flattered, Hung molten 'round a girl.
Then grew the night completer With light and cloud and air; Aromas sweet blew sweeter, Sweet flowers fair, more fair; Fleet feet and fast grew fleeter Thro' that fair sorceress there.
AN ANTIQUE.
Mildewed and gray the marble stairs Rise from their balustraded urns To where a chiseled satyr glares From a luxuriant bed of ferns;
A pebbled walk that labyrinths 'Twixt parallels of verdant box To where, broad-based on grotesque plinths, 'Mid cushions of moss-padded rocks,
Rises a ruined pleasure-house, Of shattered column, broken dome, Where, reveling in thick carouse, The buoyant ivy makes its home.
And here from bank, and there from bed, Down the mad rillet's jubilant lymph, The lavish violet's odors shed In breathings of a fountain nymph.
And where, in lichened hoariness, The broken marble dial-plate Basks in the Summer's sultriness, Rich houri roses palpitate.
Voluptuous, languid with perfumes, As were the beauties that of old, In damask satins, jeweled plumes, With powdered gallants here that strolled.
When slender rapiers, proud with gems, Sneered at the sun their haughty hues, And Touchstone wit and apothegms Laughed down the long, cool avenues.
Two pleated bowers of woodbine pave, 'Neath all their heaviness of musk, Two fountains of pellucid wave, With sunlight-tessellated dusk.
Beholding these, I seem to feel An exodus of earthly sight, An influx of ecstatic weal Poured thro' my eyes in jets of light.
And so I see the fountains twain Of hate and love in Arden there; The time of regal Charlemagne, Of Roland and of Oliver.
Rinaldo of Montalban's towers Sleeps by the spring of hate; above Bows, spilling all his face with flowers, Angelica, who quaffed of love.
A GUINEVERE.
Sullen gold down all the sky, In the roses sultry musk; Nightingales hid in the dusk Yonder sob and sigh.
You are here; and I could weep, Weep for joy and suffering. "Where is he?" He'd have me sing;-- There he sits asleep.
Think not of him! he is dead For the moment to us twain; He were dead but for this pain Drumming in my head.
"Am I happy?" Ask the fire When it bursts its bounds and thrills Some mad hours as it wills If those hours tire.
He had gold. As for the rest-- Well you know how they were set, Saying that I must forget, And 'twas for the best.
I forget! but let it go!-- Kiss me as you did of old. There! your kisses are not cold! Can you love me so,
Knowing what I am to him Sitting in his gouty chair On the breezy terrace where Amber fire-flies swim?
"Yes?"--Your cheek a tear-drop wets, But your kisses on my lip Fall as warm as bees that sip Sweets from violets.
See! the moon has risen white As this bursten lily here Rocking on the dusky mere Like a silent light.
Let us walk. We soon must part-- All too soon! but he may miss! Give me but another kiss; It will heat my heart
And the bitter winter there. So; we part, my Launcelot, My true knight! and am I not Your true Guinevere?
Oft they parted thus they tell In that mystical romance. Were they placed, think you, perchance, For such love in hell?
No! it can not, can not be! Love is God and God is love, And they live and love above, Guinevere and he!
I must go now. See! there fell, Molten into purple light, One wild star. Kiss me good-night; And, once more, farewell!
CLOUDS.
All through the tepid Summer night The starless sky had poured a cool Monotony of pleasant rain In music beautiful.
And for an hour I'd sat to watch Clouds moving on majestic feet, Had heard down avenues of night Their hearts of thunder beat;
Saw ponderous limbs far-veined with gold Pulse fiery life o'er wood and plain, While scattered, fell from monstrous palms The largess of the rain;
Beholding at each lightning's flash The generous silver on the sod, In meek devotion bowed, I thanked These almoners of God.
NO MORE.
I.
The slanted storm tossed at their feet The frost-nipped Autumn leaves; The park's high pines were caked with sleet And ice-spears armed the eaves. They strolled adown the pillared pines To part where wet and twisted vines About the gate-posts flapped and beat. She watched him dimming in the rain Along the river's misty shore, And laughed with lips that sneered disdain "To meet no more!"
II.
'Mong heavy roses weighed with dew The chirping crickets hid; Down the honeysuckle avenue Creaked the green katydid. The scattered stars smiled thro' the pines; Thro' stately windows draped with vines The rising moonlight's silver blew. He stared at lips proud, white, and dead, A chiseled calm that wore; Despair moaned on the lips that said "To meet no more."
DESERTED.
A broken rainbow on the skies of May Touching the sodden roses and low clouds, And in wet clouds like scattered jewels lost: Upon the heaven of a soul the ghost Of a great love, perfect in its pure ray, Touching the roses moist of memory To die within the Present's grief of clouds-- A broken rainbow on the skies of May.
A flashing humming-bird amid strange flowers, Or red or white; its darting length of tongue Sucking and drinking all the cell-stored sweet, And now the surfeit and the hurried fleet: A love that put into expanding bowers Of one's large heart a tongue's persuasive powers To cream with joy, and riffled, so was gone-- A flashing humming-bird amid strange flowers.
A foamy moon which thro' a night of fleece Moves amber girt into a bulk of dark, And, lost to eye, rims all the black with froth: A love of smiles, that, tinctured like a moth, Moved thro' a soul's night-dun and made a peace-- More bland than Melancholy's white--to cease In blanks of Time zoned with pale Memory's spark-- A foamy moon that brinks a storm with fleece.
A blaze of living thunder--not a leap-- Momental spouting balds the piléd storm, The ghastly mountains and the livid ocean, The pine-roared crag, then blots the sight's commotion: A love that swiftly pouring bared the deep, Which cleaves white Life from Death, Death from white Sleep, And, ceasing, gave a brain one blur of storm-- Blank blast of midnight, love for Death and Sleep.
THE DREAM OF CHRIST.
I saw her twins of eyelids listless swoon Mesmeric eyes, Like the mild lapsing of a lulling tune On wide surprise, While slow the graceful presence of a moon Mellowed the purple skies.
And had she dreamed or had in fancy gone As one who sought To hail the influx of a godly dawn Of heavenly thought, Trod trembling o'er old sainted hill and lawn With intense angels fraught?
Sailed thro' majestic domes of the deep night By isles of stars, Wand'ring like some pure blessing warm with light From worldly jars To the high halls of morning, pearly white, And heaped with golden bars.
Past temples vast, deluged with sandy seas, Whose ruins stand Like bleaching bones of dead monstrosities Crashed to the land, Stupendous homes of cursed idolatries Fallen to dust and sand.
Ugly and bestial gods caked thick with gold-- Their hideousness Blaspheming Christ--'mid shattered altars rolled To rottenness, Their slaves abolished and their priests of old Trodden to nothingness.
Thro' Syrian plains curtained with curling mist The grass she trailed, Where the shy floweret; by the dew-drop kissed, Sweet blushing quailed; And drowned in purple vales of amethyst The moon-mad bulbuls wailed.
On glimmering wolds had seemed to hear the bleat Of folded flocks; Seen broad-browed sages pass with sandaled feet And hoary locks, While swimming in a bath of molten heat A great star glorious rocks.
In fancy o'er a beaming baby bent-- Cradled amiss In a rude manger--on its brow to print One holy kiss, While down the slant winds faint aromas went And anthems deep of bliss....
And then she woke. The winter moon above Burst on her sight; And with strange sweetness all her dream was wove In its far flight, For jubilant bells rocked booming "peace and love" Down all the aisles of night.
TO AUTUMN.
I oft have net thee, Autumn, wandering Beside a misty stream, thy locks flung wild; Thy cheeks a hectic flush more fair than Spring, As if on thee the scarlet copse had smiled. Or thee I've seen a twisted oak beneath, Thy gentle eyes with foolish weeping dim, Beneath a faded oak from whose tinged leaves Thou woundedst drowsy wreaths, while the soft breath Of Morn did kiss thy locks and make them swim Far out behind, brown as the rustling sheaves.
Oft have I thee upon a hillock seen, Dream-visaged, all agaze at glimpses faint Of glimmering woods that glanced the hills between With Indian faces from thy airy paint. Or I have met thee 'twixt two dappled hills Within a dingled valley nigh a fall, Clasped in thy tinted hand a ruddy flower, And lowly stooping where the leaf-dammed rills Went babbling low thro' wildwood's arrased hall, Where burned the beech and maples glared their power.
Oft have I seen thee in a ruined mill, Where basked the crimson creeper serpentine; Where fallen leaves did stir and rustle chill, And saw thee rest beneath a wild grape-vine. While Echo, sad amid his deep-voiced mountains-- More sad than erst--did raise a dreamy speech And call thee to his youthful, amorous arms, Where splashed the murmuring forest's limpid fountains; And tho' his words thy pink-shell ears did reach, Thou wouldst not heed or guile him with thy charms.
Once saw thee in a hollow girt with trees, A-dream amid the harvest's tawny grain; Thy plushy cheek faint flushing in the breeze, In thy deep eyes a drowsy sky's blue stain. And where within the woodland's twilight path The cloud-winged skies did peep all speechless down, And stirred the gaudy leaves with fragrant breath, I've seen thee walk, nor fear the Winter's wrath; There drop asleep clad in thy gipsy gown, While Echo bending o'er dropp'd tears upon thy wreath.
AN ADDRESS TO NIGHT.
Like some sad spirit from an unknown shore Thou comest with two children in thine arms: Flushed, poppied Sleep, whom mortals aye adore, Her flowing raiment sculptured to her charms. Soft on thy bosom in pure baby rest Clasped as a fair white rose in musky nest; But on thy other, like a thought of woe, Her brother, lean, cold Death doth thin recline, To thee as dear as she, thy maid divine, Whose frowsy hair his hectic breathings blow In poppied ringlets billowing all her marble brow.
Oft have I taken Sleep from thy vague arms And fondled her faint head, with poppies wreath'd, Within my bosom's depths, until its storms With her were hushed and I but mildly breath'd. And then this child, O Night! with frolic art Arose from rest, and on my panting heart Blew bubbles of dreams where elfin worlds were lost, Until my airy soul smiled light on me From some far land too dim for day to see, And wandered in a shape of limpid frost Within a dusky dale where soundless streams did flee.
Welcome to Earth, O Night the saintly garbed! Slip meek as love into the Day's flushed heart! Drop in a dream from where the meteors orbed Wander past systems scorning map or chart; Or sit aloft, thy hands brimmed full of stars, Or come in garb of storms 'mid thunder jars, When lightning-frilled gleams wide thy cloud-frounced dress, Then art thou grand! but, oh, when thy pure feet Along the star-strewn floors of Heaven beat, And thy cool breath the heated world doth bless, Thou art God's angel of true love and gentleness!
THE HERON.
EVENING.
As slaughter red the long creek crawls From solitary forest walls, Out where the eve's wild glory falls. One wiry leg drowned in his breast, Neck-shrunk, flame-gilded with the West, Stark-stately he the evening wears.
NIGHT.
The whimp'ring creek breaks on the stone; The new moon came, but now is gone; White, tingling stars wink out alone. Lank specter of wet, windy lands, The melancholy heron stands; Then, clamoring, dives into the stars.
A DIRGE.
I.
Life has fled; she is dead, Sleeping in the flow'ry vale Where the fleeting shades are shed Ghost-like o'er her features pale. Lay her 'neath the violets wild, Lay her like a dreaming child 'Neath the waving grass Where the shadows pass.
II.
Gone she has to happy rest With white flowers for her pillow; Moons look sadly on her breast Thro' an ever-weeping willow. Fold her hands, frail flakes of snow, Waxen as white roses blow Like herself so fair, Free from world and care.
III.
Twine this wreath of lilies wan 'Round her sculptured brow so white; Let her rest here, white as dawn, Like a lily quenched in night. Wreath this rosebud wild and pale, Wreath it 'mid her fingers frail; On her dreamless breast Let it dreaming rest.
IV.
Gently, gently lay her down, Gently lay her form to sleep; Gently let her soul be blown Far away, while low we weep. Hush! the earth no more can harm her Now that choirs of angels charm her! Dreams of life are brief; Naught amendeth grief.
V.
Speed away! speed away! Angels called her here to sleep; Let us leave her here to stay: Speed away! and, speeding, weep. Where the roses blow and die, 'Neath them she a rose doth lie Wilted in the grass Where the shadows pass.
THE HAUNTED HOUSE.
I.
The shadows sit and stand within its door Like uninvited guests and poor, And all the long, hot summer day A dry green locust whirs its roundelay, And the shadows halt at the door. The sheeted iron upon the roof Stretches its weary hide and cracks; The spider weaves his windy woof In dingy closet cracks, And all a something lacks. The freckled snake crawls o'er the floor, Tongues at the shadows in the door, And where the musty mosses run Basks in the sun.
II.
The children of the fathers sleep Beneath the melancholy pines; Earth-worms within grim skulls forever creep And the glow-worm shines; The orchards in the meadow deep Lift up their stained, gnarled arms, Mossed, lichened where limp lizards peep. No youth swells up to make them leap And cry against the storms; No blossom lulls their age asleep, Each wind brings sad alarms. Big-bellied apples gold or bell-round pears No maiden gathers now; The moistures drip great reeking tears From each old, crippled bough.
III.
The orchards are yellow and solitary, The winds beat down their hands; The sunlight is sad and the moonlight is dreary, The hum of the country is lonesome and weary, And the bees go by in bands To other happier lands. The grasses are rotting in walk and in bower; The orchards smell dank and rank As a chamber where lay for a lonely hour A corpse unclad in the taper's glower, Chill, white, and lank. So the bees go by in murmurous bands, Drowsily wand'ring to happier lands Where the lilies draggle the bank.
IV.
In the desolate halls are lying, Gold, blood-red, and browned, Shriveled leaves of Autumn dying, And the shadows o'er them flying Turn them 'round and 'round, Make a dreary sound Thro' the echoing chambers crying In the haunted house.
V.
Gazing down in her white shroud From the edging cloud Comes at night the dimpled moon, Comes, and like a ghost is gone 'Neath the flying cloud O'er the haunted house.
PERLE DES JARDINS.
What am I, and what is he Who can cull and tear a heart, As one might a rose for sport In its royalty?
What am I, that he has made All this love a bitter foam, Blown about a life of loam That must break and fade?
He who of my heart could make Hollow crystal where his face Like a passion had its place Holy and then break!
Shatter with insensate jeers!-- But these weary eyes are dry, Tearless clear, and if I die They shall know no tears.
Yet my heart weeps;--let it weep! Let it weep in sullen pain, And this anguish in my brain Cry itself to sleep.
Ah! the afternoon is warm, And yon fields are glad and fair; Many happy creatures there Thro' the woodland swarm.
All the summer land is still, And the woodland stream is dark Where the lily rocks its barque Just below the mill.
If they found me icy there 'Mid the lilies and pale whorls Of the cresses in my curls Wet of raven hair--
Fool and coward! are you such? Would you have him thus to know That you died for utter woe And despair o'ermuch?
No! my face a marble bust! As the Sphynx, impassioned, stern!-- Passions hid, as in an urn, Burnt to bitter dust!
And I'll write him as he wrote, Making, with his worded scorn, Tyrant,--crowned with stinging thorn,-- His cold, cruel note.
"You'll forget," he says, "and I Feel 'tis better for us twain: It may give you some small pain, But, 'twill soon be by.
"You are dark, and Maud is light; I am dark; and it is said Opposites are better wed;-- So I think I'm right."
"You are dark and Maud is fair!" I could laugh at this excuse If this aching, mad abuse Were not more than hair!
But I'll write him as a-glad Some few happy words and light, Touching on some past delight, That last year we had.
Not one line of broken vows, Sighs or hurtful tears unshed, Faithless lips far better dead, Nor a withered rose.
But a rose, this _Perle_ to wear,-- _Perle des Jardins_ delicate With faint fragrant life elate,-- When he weds her there.
So; 'tis finished! It is well! Go, thou rose! I have no tear, Kiss, or word for thee to bear, And no woe to tell.
Only be thus full of life, Cold and calm, impassionate, Filled with neither love nor hate, When he calls her wife!
OSSIAN'S POEMS.
Here I have heard on hills the battle clash Roar to the windy sea that roared again: When, drunk with wrath, upon the clanking plain Barbaric kings did meet in war and dash Their mailéd thousands down, heard onset crash Like crags contending 'gainst the battering main. Torrents of helms, beaming like streams of rain, Blue-billowing 'neath the pale moon's fitful flash; Saw the scared moon hang over the black wood Like a pale wreath of foam; shields, spears, and swords Shoot green as meteors thro' the steely flood, Or shine like ripples 'round their heathen lords Standing like stubborn rocks, whence the wild wave Of war circled in steel and foamed out brave on brave.
II.--IN MYTHIC SEAS.
IN MYTHIC SEAS.