Chapter 12

Chapter 1213,340 wordsPublic domain

He did not come in the dawning; he did not come at noon; And out o' the tawny sunset, before the rise o' the moon, When the road was a gipsy's ribbon, looping the purple moor, A red-coat troop came marching-- Marching--marching-- King George's men came marching, up to the old inn-door.

They said no word to the landlord, they drank his ale instead, But they gagged his daughter and bound her to the foot of her narrow bed; Two of them knelt at her casement, with muskets at their side! There was death at every window; And hell at one dark window; For Bess could see, through her casement, the road that _he_ would ride.

III

They had tied her up to attention, with many a sniggering jest; They had bound a musket beside her, with the barrel beneath her breast! "Now keep good watch!" and they kissed her. She heard the dead man say-- _Look for me by moonlight; Watch for me by moonlight; I'll come to thee by moonlight, though hell should bar the way!_

She twisted her hands behind her; but all the knots held good! She writhed her hands till her fingers were wet with sweat or blood! They stretched and strained in the darkness, and the hours crawled by like years, Till, now, on the stroke of midnight, Cold, on the stroke of midnight, The tip of one finger touched it! The trigger at least was hers!

The tip of one finger touched it; she strove no more for the rest! Up, she stood up to attention, with the barrel beneath her breast, She would not risk their hearing; she would not strive again; For the road lay bare in the moonlight; Blank and bare in the moonlight; And the blood of her veins in the moonlight throbbed to her love's refrain.

_Tlot-tlot; tlot-tlot!_ Had they heard it? The horse-hoofs ringing clear; _Tlot-tlot, tlot-tlot_, in the distance? Were they deaf that they did not hear? Down the ribbon of moonlight, over the brow of the hill, The highwayman came riding, Riding, riding! The red-coats looked to their priming! She stood up, straight and still!

VII

_Tlot-tlot_, in the frosty silence! _Tlot-tlot_, in the echoing night! Nearer he came and nearer! Her face was like a light! Her eyes grew wide for a moment; she drew one last deep breath, Then her finger moved in the moonlight, Her musket shattered the moonlight, Shattered her breast in the moonlight and warned him--with her death.

VIII

He turned; he spurred to the West; he did not know who stood Bowed, with her head o'er the musket, drenched with her own red blood! Not till the dawn he heard it, his face grew grey to hear How Bess, the landlord's daughter, The landlord's black-eyed daughter, Had watched for her love in the moonlight, and died in the darkness there.

Back, he spurred like a madman, shrieking a curse to the sky, With the white road smoking behind him and his rapier brandished high! Blood-red were his spurs i' the golden noon; wine-red was his velvet coat, When they shot him down on the highway, Down like a dog on the highway, And he lay in his blood on the highway, with the bunch of lace at his throat.

* * * *

_And still of a winter's night, they say, when the wind is in the trees, When the moon is a ghostly galleon tossed upon cloudy seas, When the road is a ribbon of moonlight over the purple moor, A highwayman comes riding-- Riding--riding-- A highwayman comes riding, up to the old inn-door._

_Over the cobbles he clatters and clangs in the dark inn-yard; He taps with his whip on the shutters, but all is locked and barred; He whistles a tune to the window, and who should be waiting there But the landlord's black-eyed daughter, Bess, the landlord's daughter, Plaiting a dark red love-knot into her long black hair._

THE HAUNTED PALACE

Come to the haunted palace of my dreams, My crumbling palace by the eternal sea, Which, like a childless mother, still must croon Her ancient sorrows to the cold white moon, Or, ebbing tremulously, With one pale arm, where the long foam-fringe gleams, Will gather her rustling garments, for a space Of muffled weeping, round her dim white face.

A princess dwelt here once: long, long ago This tower rose in the sunset like a prayer; And, through the witchery of that casement, rolled In one soft cataract of faëry gold Her wonder-woven hair; Her face leaned out and took the sacred glow Of evening, like the star that listened, high Above the gold clouds of the western sky.

Was there no prince behind her in the gloom, No crimson shadow of his rich array? Her face leaned down to me: I saw the tears Bleed through her eyes with the slow pain of years, And her mouth yearned to say-- "Friend, is there any message, from the tomb Where love lies buried?" But she only said-- "Oh, friend, canst thou not save me from my dead?

"Canst thou not minister to a soul in pain? Or hast thou then no comfortable word? Is there no faith in thee wherewith to atone For his unfaith who left me here alone, Heart-sick with hope deferred; Oh, since my love will never come again, Bring'st thou no respite through the desolate years, Respite from these most unavailing tears?"

Then saw I, and mine own tears made response, Her woman's heart come breaking through her eyes; And, as I stood beneath the tower's grey wall, She let the soft waves of her deep hair fall Like flowers from Paradise Over my fevered face: then all at once Pity was passion; and like a sea of bliss Those waves rolled o'er me drowning for her kiss.

* * * *

Seven years we dwelt together in that tower, Seven years in that old palace by the sea, And sitting at that casement, side by side, She told me all her pain: how love had died Now for all else but me; Yet how she had loved that other: like a flower Her red lips parted and with low sweet moan She pressed their tender suffering on mine own.

And always with vague eyes she gazed afar, Out through the casement o'er the changing tide; And slowly was my heart's hope brought to nought That some day I should win each wandering thought And make her my soul's bride: Still, still she gazed across the cold sea-bar; Ay; with her hand in mine, still, still and pale, Waited and watched for the unreturning sail.

And I, too, watched and waited as the years Rolled on; and slowly was I brought to feel How on my lips she met her lover's kiss, How my heart's pulse begat an alien bliss; And cold and hard as steel For me those eyes were, though their tender tears Were salt upon my cheek; and then one night I saw a sail come through the pale moonlight.

And like an alien ghost I stole away, And like a breathing lover he returned; And in the woods I dwelt, or sometimes crept Out in the grey dawn while the lovers slept And the great sea-tides yearned Against the iron shores; and faint and grey The tower and the shut casement rose above: And on the earth I sobbed out all my love.

At last, one royal rose-hung night in June, When the warm air like purple Hippocrene Brimmed the dim valley and sparkled into stars, I saw them cross the foam-lit sandy bars And dark pools, glimmering green, To bathe beneath the honey-coloured moon: I saw them swim out from that summer shore, Kissed by the sea, but they returned no more.

* * * *

And into the dark palace, like a dream Remembered after long oblivious years, Through the strange open doors I crept and saw As some poor pagan might, with reverent awe, And deep adoring tears, The moonlight through that painted window stream Over the soft wave of their vacant bed; There sank I on my knees and bowed my head,

For as a father by a cradle bows, Remembering two dead children of his own, I knelt; and by the cry of the great deep Their love seemed like a murmuring in their sleep, A little fevered moan, A little tossing of childish arms that shows How dreams go by! "If I were God," I wept, "I would have pity on children while they slept."

* * * *

The days, the months, the years drift over me; This is my habitation till I die: Nothing is changed; they left that open book Beside the window. Did he sit and look Up at her face as I Looked while she read it, and the enchanted sea With rich eternities of love unknown Fulfilled the low sweet music of her tone?

So did he listen, looking in her face? And did she ever pause, remembering so The heart that bore the whole weight of her pain Until her own heart's love returned again? In the still evening glow I sit and listen in this quiet place, And only hear--like notes of phantom birds-- Their perished kisses and little broken words.

_Come to the haunted palace of my dreams, My crumbling palace by the eternal sea, Which, like a childless mother, still must croon Her ancient sorrows to the cold white moon, Or, ebbing tremulously, With one pale arm, where the long foam-fringe gleams, Will gather her rustling garments, for a space Of muffled weeping, round her dim white face._

THE SCULPTOR

This is my statue: cold and white It stands and takes the morning light! The world may flout my hopes and fears, Yet was my life's work washed with tears Of blood when this poor hand last night Finished the pain of years.

Speak for me, patient lips of stone, Blind eyes my lips have rested on So often when the o'er-weary brain Would grope to human love again, And found this grave cold mask alone And the tears fell like rain.

Ay; is this all? Is this the brow I fondled, never wondering how It lived--the face of pain and bliss That through the marble met my kiss? Oh, though the whole world praise it now, Let no man dream it is!

They blame; they cannot blame aright Who never knew what infinite Deep loss must shame me most of all! They praise; like earth their praises fall Into a tomb. The hour of light Is flown beyond recall.

Yet have I seen, yet have I known, And oh, not tombed in cold white stone The dream I lose on earth below; And I shall come with face aglow And find and claim it for my own Before God's throne, I know.

SUMMER

(AN ODE)

Now like a pageant of the Golden Year In rich memorial pomp the hours go by, With rose-embroidered flags unfurled And tasselled bugles calling through the world Wake, for your hope draws near! Wake, for in each soft porch of azure sky, Seen through each arch of pale green leaves, the Gate Of Eden swings apart for Summer's royal state.

Ah, when the Spirit of the moving scene Has entered in, the splendour will be spent! The flutes will cease, the gates will close; Only the scattered crimson of the rose, The wild wood's hapless queen, Dis-kingdomed, will declare the way he went; And, in a little while, her court will go, Pass like a cloud and leave no trace on earth below.

Tell us no more of Autumn, the slow gold Of fruitage ripening in a world's decay, The falling leaves, the moist rich breath Of woods that swoon and crumble into death Over the gorgeous mould: Give us the flash and scent of keen-edged May Where wastes that bear no harvest yield their bloom, Rude crofts of flowering nettle, bents of yellow broom.

The very reeds and sedges of the fen Open their hearts and blossom to the sky; The wild thyme on the mountain's knees Unrolls its purple market to the bees; Unharvested of men The Traveller's Joy can only smile and die. Joy, joy alone the throbbing whitethroats bring, Joy to themselves and heaven! They were but born to sing!

And see, between the northern-scented pines, The whole sweet summer sharpens to a glow! See, as the well-spring plashes cool Over a shadowy green fern-fretted pool The mystic sunbeam shines For one mad moment on a breast of snow A warm white shoulder and a glowing arm Up-flung, where some swift Undine sinks in shy alarm.

And if she were not all a dream, and lent Life for a little to your own desire, Oh, lover in the hawthorn lane, Dream not you hold her, or you dream in vain! The violet, spray-besprent When from that plunge the rainbows flashed like fire, Will scarce more swiftly lose its happy dew Than eyes which Undine haunts will cease to shine on you.

What though the throstle pour his heart away, A happy spendthrift of uncounted gold, Swinging upon a blossomed briar With soft throat lifted in a wild desire To make the world his may. Ever the pageant through the gates is rolled Further away; in vain the rich notes throng Flooding the mellow noon with wave on wave of song.

The feathery meadows like a lilac sea, Knee-deep, with honeyed clover, red and white, Roll billowing: the crisp clouds pass Trailing their soft blue shadows o'er the grass; The skylark, mad with glee, Quivers, up, up, to lose himself in light; And, through the forest, like a fairy dream Through some dark mind, the ferns in branching beauty stream.

Enough of joy! A little respite lend, Summer, fair god that hast so little heed Of these that serve thee but to die, Mere trappings of thy tragic pageantry! Show us the end, the end! We too, with human hearts that break and bleed, March to the night that rounds their fleeting hour, And feel we, too, perchance but serve some loftier Power.

O that our hearts might pass away with thee, Burning and pierced and full of thy sweet pain, Burst through the gates with thy swift soul, Hunt thy most white perfection to the goal, Nor wait, once more to see Thy chaliced lilies rotting in the rain, Thy ragged yellowing banners idly hung In woods that have forgotten all the songs we sung!

_Peace! Like a pageant of the Golden Year In rich memorial pomp the hours go by, With rose-embroidered flags unfurled And tasselled bugles calling through the world Wake, for your hope draws near! Wake, for in each soft porch of azure sky, Seen through each arch of pale green leaves, the Gate Of Eden swings apart for Summer's royal state._

Not wait! Forgive, forgive that feeble cry Of blinded passion all unworthy thee! For here the spirit of man may claim A loftier vision and a nobler aim Than e'er was born to die: Man only, of earth, throned on Eternity, From his own sure abiding-place can mark How earth's great golden dreams go past into the dark.

AT DAWN

O Hesper-Phosphor, far away Shining, the first, the last white star, Hear'st thou the strange, the ghostly cry, That moan of an ancient agony From purple forest to golden sky Shivering over the breathless bay? It is not the wind that wakes with the day; For see, the gulls that wheel and call, Beyond the tumbling white-topped bar, Catching the sun-dawn on their wings, Like snow-flakes or like rose-leaves fall, Flutter and fall in airy rings; And drift, like lilies ruffling into blossom Upon some golden lake's unwrinkled bosom.

Are not the forest's deep-lashed fringes wet With tears? Is not the voice of all regret Breaking out of the dark earth's heart? She too, she too, has loved and lost; and we-- We that remember our lost Aready, Have we not known, we too, The primal greenwood's arch of blue, The radiant clouds at sun-rise curled Around the brows of the golden world; The marble temples, washed with dew, To which with rosy limbs aflame The violet-eyed Thalassian came, Came, pitiless, only to display How soon the youthful splendour dies away; Came, only to depart Laughing across the grey-grown bitter sea; For each man's life is earth's epitome, And though the years bring more than aught they take, Yet might his heart and hers well break Remembering how one prayer must still be vain. How one fair hope is dead, One passion quenched, one glory fled With those first loves that never come again.

How many years, how many generations, Have heard that sigh in the dawn, When the dark earth yearns to the unforgotten nations And the old loves withdrawn, Old loves, old lovers, wonderful and unnumbered As waves on the wine-dark sea, 'Neath the tall white towers of Troy and the temples that slumbered In Thessaly?

From the beautiful palaces, from the miraculous portals, The swift white feet are flown! They were taintless of dust, the proud, the peerless Immortals As they sped to their loftier throne! Perchance they are there, earth dreams, on the shores of Hesper, Her rosy-bosomed Hours, Listening the wild fresh forest's enchanted whisper, Crowned with its new strange flowers; Listening the great new ocean's triumphant thunder On the stainless unknown shore, While that perilous queen of the world's delight and wonder Comes white from the foam once more.

When the mists divide with the dawn o'er those glittering waters, Do they gaze over unoared seas-- Naiad and nymph and the woodland's rose-crowned daughters And the Oceanides? Do they sing together, perchance, in that diamond splendour, That world of dawn and dew, With eyelids twitching to tears and with eyes grown tender The sweet old songs they knew, The songs of Greece? Ah, with harp-strings mute do they falter As the earth like a small star pales? When the heroes launch their ship by the smoking altar Does a memory lure their sails? Far, far away, do their hearts resume the story That never on earth was told, When all those urgent oars on the waste of glory Cast up its gold?

_Are not the forest fringes wet With tears? Is not the voice of all regret Breaking out of the dark earth's heart? She too, she too, has loved and lost; and though She turned last night in disdain Away from the sunset-embers, From her soul she can never depart; She can never depart from her pain. Vainly she strives to forget; Beautiful in her woe, She awakes in the dawn and remembers._

THE SWIMMER'S RACE

Between the clover and the trembling sea They stand upon the golden-shadowed shore In naked boyish beauty, a strenuous three, Hearing the breakers' deep Olympic roar; Three young athletes poised on a forward limb, Mirrored like marble in the smooth wet sand, Three statues moulded by Praxiteles: The blue horizon rim Recedes, recedes upon a lovelier land, And England melts into the skies of Greece.

The dome of heaven is like one drop of dew, Quivering and clear and cloudless but for one Crisp bouldered Alpine range that blinds the blue With snowy gorges glittering to the sun: Forward the runners lean, with outstretched hand Waiting the word--ah, how the light relieves The silken rippling muscles as they start Spurning the yellow sand, Then skimming lightlier till the goal receives The winner, head thrown back and lips apart.

III

Now at the sea-marge on the sand they lie At rest for a moment, panting as they breathe, And gazing upward at the unbounded sky While the sand nestles round them from beneath; And in their hands they gather up the gold And through their fingers let it lazily stream Over them, dusking all their limbs' fair white, Blotting their shape and mould, Till, mixed into the distant gazer's dream Of earth and heaven, they seem to sink from sight.

But one, in seeming petulance, oppressed With heat has cast his brown young body free: With arms behind his head and heaving breast He lies and gazes at the cool bright sea; So young Leander might when in the noon He panted for the starry eyes of eve And whispered o'er the waste of wandering waves, "Hero, bid night come soon!" Nor knew the nymphs were waiting to receive And kiss his pale limbs in their cold sea-caves.

Now to their feet they leap and, with a shout, Plunge through the glittering breakers without fear, Breast the green-arching billows, and still out, As if each dreamed the arms of Hero near; Now like three sunbeams on an emerald crest, Now like three foam-flakes melting out of sight, They are blent with all the glory of all the sea; One with the golden West; Merged in a myriad waves of mystic light As life is lost in immortality.

THE VENUS OF MILO

Backward she leans, as when the rose unblown Slides white from its warm sheath some morn in May! Under the sloping waist, aslant, her zone Clings as it slips in tender disarray; One knee, out-thrust a little, keeps it so Lingering ere it fall; her lovely face Gazes as o'er her own Eternity! Those armless radiant shoulders, long ago Perchance held arms out wide with yearning grace For Adon by the blue Sicilian sea.

No; thou eternal fount of these poor gleams, Bright axle-star of the wheeling temporal skies, Daughter of blood and foam and deathless dreams, Mother of flying Love that never dies, To thee, the topmost and consummate flower, The last harmonic height, our dull desires And our tired souls in dreary discord climb; The flesh forgets its pale and wandering fires; We gaze through heaven as from an ivory tower Shining upon the last dark shores of Time.

III

White culmination of the dreams of earth, Thy splendour beacons to a loftier goal, Where, slipping earthward from the great new birth, The shadowy senses leave the essential soul! Oh, naked loveliness, not yet revealed, A moment hence that falling robe will show No prophecy like this, this great new dawn, The bare bright breasts, each like a soft white shield, And the firm body like a slope of snow Out of the slipping dream-stuff half withdrawn.

THE NET OF VULCAN

From peaks that clove the heavens asunder The hunchback god with sooty claws Loomed o'er the night, a cloud of thunder, And hurled the net of mortal laws; It flew, and all the world grew dimmer; Its blackness blotted out the stars, Then fell across the rosy glimmer That told where Venus couched with Mars.

And, when the steeds that draw the morning Spurned from their Orient hooves the spray, All vainly soared the lavrock, warning Those tangled lovers of the day: Still with those twin white waves in blossom, Against the warrior's rock-broad breast, The netted light of the foam-born bosom Breathed like a sea at rest.

And light was all that followed after, Light the derision of the sky, Light the divine Olympian laughter Of kindlier gods in days gone by: Low to her lover whispered Venus, "The shameless net be praised for this-- When night herself no more could screen us It snared us one more hour of bliss."

NIOBE

How like the sky she bends above her child, One with the great horizon of her pain! No sob from our low seas where woe runs wild, No weeping cloud, no momentary rain, Can mar the heaven-high visage of her grief, That frozen anguish, proud, majestic, dumb. She stoops in pity above the labouring earth, Knowing how fond, how brief Is all its hope, past, present, and to come, She stoops in pity, and yearns to assuage its dearth.

Through that fair face the whole dark universe Speaks, as a thorn-tree speaks thro' one white flower; And all those wrenched Promethean souls that curse The gods, but cannot die before their hour, Find utterance in her beauty. That fair head Bows over all earth's graves. It was her cry Men heard in Rama when the twisted ways With children's blood ran red! Her silence utters all the sea would sigh; And, in her face, the whole earth's anguish prays.

It is the pity, the pity of human love That strains her face, upturned to meet the doom, And her deep bosom, like a snow-white dove Frozen upon its nest, ne'er to resume Its happy breathing o'er the golden brace Whose fostering was her death. Death, death alone Can break the anguished horror of that spell! The sorrow on her face Is sealed: the living flesh is turned to stone; She knows all, all, that Life and Time can tell.

Ah, yet, her woman's love, so vast, so tender; Her woman's body, hurt by every dart; Braving the thunder, still, still hide the slender Soft frightened child beneath her mighty heart. She is all one mute immortal cry, one brief Infinite pang of such victorious pain That she transcends the heavens and bows them down! The majesty of grief Is hers, and her dominion must remain Eternal. God nor man usurps that crown.

ORPHEUS AND EURYDICE

Height over height, the purple pine-woods clung to the rich Arcadian mountains, Holy-sweet as a sea of incense, under the low dark crimson skies: Glad were the glens where Eurydice bathed, in the beauty of dawn, at the haunted fountains Deep in the blue hyacinthine hollows, whence all the rivers of Arcady rise.

Long ago, ah, white as the Huntress, cold and sweet as the petals that crowned her, Fair and fleet as the fawn that shakes the dew from the fern at break of day, Wreathed with the clouds of her dusky hair that swept in a sun-bright glory around her, Down to the valley her light feet stole, ah, soft as the budding of flowers in May.

Down to the valley she came, for far and far below in the dreaming meadows Pleaded ever the Voice of voices, calling his love by her golden name; So she arose from her home in the hills, and down through the blossoms that danced with their shadows, Out of the blue of the dreaming distance, down to the heart of her lover she came.

* * * *

Red were the lips that hovered above her lips in the flowery haze of the June-day: Red as a rose through the perfumed mist of passion that reeled before her eyes; Strong the smooth young sunburnt arms that folded her heart to his heart in the noon-day, Strong and supple with throbbing sunshine under the blinding southern skies.

Ah, the kisses, the little murmurs, mad with pain for their phantom fleetness, Mad with pain for the passing of love that lives, they dreamed--as we dream--for an hour! Ah, the sudden tempest of passion, mad with pain, for its over-sweetness, As petal by petal and pang by pang their love broke out into perfect flower.

Ah, the wonder as once he wakened, out of a dream of remembered blisses, Couched in the meadows of dreaming blossom to feel, like the touch of a flower on his eyes, Cool and fresh with the fragment dews of dawn the touch of her light swift kisses, Shed from the shadowy rose of her face between his face and the warm blue skies.

Lost in his new desire He dreamed away the hours; His lyre Lay buried in the flowers:

To whom the King of Heaven, Apollo, lord of light, Had given Beauty and love and might:

Might, if he would, to slay All evil dreams and pierce The grey Veil of the Universe;

With Love that holds in one Sacred and ancient bond The sun And all the vast beyond,

And Beauty to enthrall The soul of man to heaven: Yea, all These gifts to him were given.

_Yet in his dream's desire He drowsed away the hours: His lyre Lay buried in the flowers._

Then in his wrath arose Apollo, lord of light, That shows The wrong deed from the right;

And by what radiant laws O'erruling human needs, The cause To consequence proceeds;

How balanced is the sway He gives each mortal doom: How day Demands the atoning gloom:

How all good things await The soul that pays the price To Fate By equal sacrifice;

And how on him that sleeps For less than labour's sake There creeps Uncharmed, the Pythian snake.

III

Lulled by the wash of the feathery grasses, a sea with many a sun-swept billow, Heart to heart in the heart of the summer, lover by lover asleep they lay, Hearing only the whirring cicala that chirruped awhile at their poppied pillow Faint and sweet as the murmur of men that laboured in villages far away.

Was not the menace indeed more silent? Ah, what care for labour and sorrow? Gods in the meadows of moly and amaranth surely might envy their deep sweet bed Here where the butterflies troubled the lilies of peace, and took no thought for the morrow, And golden-girdled bees made feast as over the lotus the soft sun spread.

Nearer, nearer the menace glided, out of the gorgeous gloom around them, Out of the poppy-haunted shadows deep in the heart of the purple brake; Till through the hush and the heat as they lay, and their own sweet listless dreams enwound them,-- Mailed and mottled with hues of the grape-bloom suddenly, quietly, glided the snake.

Subtle as jealousy, supple as falsehood, diamond-headed and cruel as pleasure, Coil by coil he lengthened and glided, straight to the fragrant curve of her throat: There in the print of the last of the kisses that still glowed red from the sweet long pressure, Fierce as famine and swift as lightning over the glittering lyre he smote.

And over the cold white body of love and delight Orpheus arose in the terrible storm of his grief, With quivering up-clutched hands, deadly and white, And his whole soul wavered and shook like a wind-swept leaf:

As a leaf that beats on a mountain, his spirit in vain Assaulted his doom and beat on the Gates of Death: Then prone with his arms o'er the lyre he sobbed out his pain, And the tense chords faintly gave voice to the pulse of his breath.

And he heard it and rose, once again, with the lyre in his hand, And smote out the cry that his white-lipped sorrow denied: And the grief's mad ecstasy swept o'er the summer-sweet land, And gathered the tears of all Time in the rush of its tide.

There was never a love forsaken or faith forsworn, There was never a cry for the living or moan for the slain, But was voiced in that great consummation of song; ay, and borne To storm on the Gates of the land whence none cometh again.

Transcending the barriers of earth, comprehending them all He followed the soul of his loss with the night in his eyes; And the portals lay bare to him there; and he heard the faint call Of his love o'er the rabble that wails by the river of sighs.

Yea, there in the mountains before him, he knew it of old, That portal enormous of gloom, he had seen it in dreams, When the secrets of Time and of Fate through his harmonies rolled; And behind it he heard the dead moan by their desolate streams.

And he passed through the Gates with the light and the cloud of his song, Dry-shod over Lethe he passed to the chasms of hell; And the hosts of the dead made mock at him, crying, _How long Have we dwelt in the darkness, oh fool, and shall evermore dwell?_

_Did our lovers not love us?_ the grey skulls hissed in his face; _Were our lips not red? Were these cavernous eyes not bright? Yet us, whom the soft flesh clothed with such roseate grace, Our lovers would loathe if we ever returned to their sight!_

Oh then, through the soul of the Singer, a pity so vast Mixed with his anguish that, smiting anew on his lyre, He caught up the sorrows of hell in his utterance at last, Comprehending the need of them all in his own great desire.

And they that were dead, in his radiant music, remembered the dawn with its low deep crimson, Heard the murmur of doves in the pine-wood, heard the moan of the roaming sea, Heard and remembered the little kisses, in woods where the last of the moon yet swims on Fragrant, flower-strewn April nights of young-eyed lovers in Arcady;

Saw the soft blue veils of shadow floating over the billowy grasses Under the crisp white curling clouds that sailed and trailed through the melting blue; Heard once more the quarrel of lovers above them pass, as a lark-song passes, Light and bright, till it vanished away in an eye-bright heaven of silvery dew.

Out of the dark, ah, white as the Huntress, cold and sweet as the petals that crowned her, Fair and fleet as a fawn that shakes the dew from the fern at break of day; Wreathed with the clouds of her dusky hair that swept in a sun-bright glory around her, On through the deserts of hell she came, and the brown air bloomed with the light of May.

On through the deserts of hell she came; for over the fierce and frozen meadows Pleaded ever the Voice of voices, calling his love by her golden name; So she arose from her grave in the darkness, and up through the wailing fires and shadows, On by chasm and cliff and cavern, out of the horrors of death she came.

Then had she followed him, then had he won her, striking a chord that should echo for ever, Had he been steadfast only a little, nor paused in the great transcendent song; But ere they had won to the glory of day, he came to the brink of the flaming river And ceased, to look on his love a moment, a little moment, and overlong.

O'er Phlegethon he stood: Below him roared and flamed The flood For utmost anguish named.

And lo, across the night, The shining form he knew With light Swift footsteps upward drew.

Up through the desolate lands She stole, a ghostly star, With hands Outstretched to him afar.

With arms outstretched, she came In yearning majesty, The same Royal Eurydice.

Up through the ghastly dead She came, with shining eyes And red Sweet lips of child-surprise.

Up through the wizened crowds She stole, as steals the moon Through clouds Of flowery mist in June.

He gazed: he ceased to smite The golden-chorded lyre: Delight Consumed his heart with fire.

Though in that deadly land His task was but half-done, His hand Drooped, and the fight half-won.

He saw the breasts that glowed, The fragrant clouds of hair: They flowed Around him like a snare.

_O'er Phlegethon he stood, For utmost anguish named: The flood Below him roared and flamed._

Out of his hand the lyre Suddenly slipped and fell, The fire Acclaimed it into hell.

The night grew dark again: There came a bitter cry Of pain, _Oh Love, once more I die!_

And lo, the earth-dawn broke, And like a wraith she fled: He woke Alone: his love was dead.

He woke on earth: the day Shone coldly: at his side There lay The body of his bride.

VII

Only now when the purple vintage bubbles and winks in the autumn glory, Only now when the great white oxen drag the weight of the harvest home, Sunburnt labourers, under the star of the sunset, sing as an old-world story How two pale and thwarted lovers ever through Arcady still must roam.

Faint as the silvery mists of morning over the peaks that the noonday parches, On through the haunts of the gloaming musk-rose, down to the rivers that glisten below, Ever they wander from meadow to pinewood, under the whispering woodbine arches, Faint as the mists of the dews of the dusk when violets dream and the moon-winds blow.

Though the golden lute of Orpheus gathered the splendours of earth and heaven, All the golden greenwood notes and all the chimes of the changing sea, Old men over the fires of winter murmur again that he was not given The steadfast heart divine to rule that infinite freedom of harmony.

Therefore he failed, say they; but we, that have no wisdom, can only remember How through the purple perfumed pinewoods white Eurydice roamed and sung: How through the whispering gold of the wheat, where the poppy burned like a crimson ember, Down to the valley in beauty she came, and under her feet the flowers upsprung.

_Down to the valley she came, for far and far below in the dreaming meadows Pleaded ever the Voice of voices, calling his love by her golden name; So she arose from her home in the hills, and down through the blossoms that danced with their shadows, Out of the blue of the dreaming distance, down to the heart of her lover she came._

FROM THE SHORE

Love, so strangely lost and found, Love, beyond the seas of death, Love, immortally re-crowned, Love, who swayest this mortal breath, Sweetlier to thy lover's ear Steals the tale that ne'er was told; Bright-eyes, ah, thine arms are near, Nearer now than e'er of old.

When on earth thy hands were mine, Mine to hold for evermore, Oft we watched the sunset shine Lonely from this wave-beat shore; Pent in prison-cells of clay, Time had power on thee and me: Thou and heaven are one to-day, One with earth and sky and sea;

Indivisible and one! Beauty hath unlocked the Gate, Oped the portals of the sun, Burst the bars of Time and Fate! Violets in the dawn of Spring Hold the secret of thine eyes: Lilies bare their breasts and fling Scents of thee from Paradise.

Brooklets have thy talk by rote; Thy farewells array the West; Fur that clasped thee round the throat Leaps--a squirrel--to its nest! Backward from a sparkling eye Half-forgotten jests return Where the rabbit lollops by Hurry-scurry through the fern!

Roses where I lonely pass Brush my brow and breathe thy kiss: Zephyrs, whispering through the grass, Lure me on from bliss to bliss: Here thy robe is rustling close, There thy fluttering lace is blown,-- All the tide of beauty flows Tributary to thine own.

Birds that sleek their shining throats Capture every curve from thee: All their golden warbled notes, Fragments of thy melody, Crowding, clustering, one by one, Build it upward, spray by spray, Till the lavrock in the sun Pours thy rapture down the day.

Silver birch and purple pine, Crumpled fern and crimson rose, Flash to feel their beauty thine, Clasp and fold thee, warm and close: Every beat and gleam of wings Holds thee in its bosom furled; All that chatters, laughs, and sings, Darts thy sparkle round the world.

_Love, so strangely lost and found, Love, beyond the seas of death, Love, immortally re-crowned, Love, who swayest this mortal breath, Sweetlier to thy lover's ear Steals the tale that ne'er was told; Bright eyes, ah, thine arms are near, Nearer now than e'er of old._

THE RETURN

O, hedges white with laughing may, O, meadows where we met, This heart of mine will break to-day Unless ye, too, forget.

Breathe not so sweet, breathe not so sweet, But swiftly let me pass Across the fields that felt her feet In the old time that was.

A year ago, but one brief year, O, happy flowering land, We wandered here and whispered there, And hand was warm in hand.

O, crisp white clouds beyond the hill, O, lavrock in the skies, Why do ye all remember still Her bright uplifted eyes.

Red heather on the windy moor, Wild thyme beside the way, White jasmine by the cottage door, Harden your hearts to-day.

Smile not so kind, smile not so kind, Thou happy haunted place, Or thou wilt strike these poor eyes blind With her remembered face.

REMEMBRANCE

O, unforgotten lips, grey haunting eyes, Soft curving cheeks and heart-remembered brow, It is all true, the old love never dies; And, parted, we must meet for ever now.

We did not think it true! We did not think Love meant this universal cry of pain, This crown of thorn, this vinegar to drink, This lonely crucifixion o'er again.

Yet through the darkness of the sleepless night Your tortured face comes meekly answering mine; Dumb, but I know why those mute lips are white; Dark, but I know why those dark lashes shine.

O, love, love, love, what death can set us free From this implacable ghost of memory?

A PRAYER

Only a little, O Father, only to rest Or ever the night comes and the eternal sleep, Only to rest a little, a little to weep In the dead love's pitiful arms, on the dead love's breast,

A little to loosen the frozen fountains, to free Rivers of blood and tears that should slacken the pulse Of this pitiless heart, and appease these pangs that convulse Body and soul; oh, out of Eternity,

A moment to whisper, only a moment to tell My dead, my dead, what words are so helpless to say-- The dreams unuttered, the prayers no passion could pray, And then--the eternal sleep or the pains of hell,

I could welcome them, Father, gladly as ever a child Laying his head on the pillow might turn to his rest And remember in dreams, as the hand of the mother is prest On his hair, how the Pitiful blessed him of old and smiled.

LOVE'S GHOST

Thy house is dark and still: I stand once more Beside the marble door. It opens as of old: thy pale, pale face Peers thro' the narrow space: Thy hands are mine, thy hands are mine to hold, Just as of old.

"Hush! hush! or God will hear us! Ah, speak low As Love spake long ago." "Sweet, sweet, are these thine arms, thy breast, thy hair Assuaging my despair, Assuaging the long thirst, quenching the tears Of all these years?

III

"Thy house is deep and still: God cannot hear; Sweet, have no fear! Are not thy cold lips crushed against my kiss? Love gives us this, Not God;" but "Ah," she moans, "God hears us; speak, Speak low, hide cheek on cheek."

Oh then what eager whisperings, hoarded long, Sweeter than any song, What treasured news to tell, what hopes, what fears, Gleaned from the barren years, What raptures wrung from out the heart of pain, What wild farewells again!

Whose pity is this? Ah, quick, one kiss! Once more Closes the marble door! I grope here in the darkness all alone. Across the cold white stone, Over thy tomb, a sudden starlight gleams: Death gave me this--in dreams.

ON A RAILWAY PLATFORM

A drizzle of drifting rain And a blurred white lamp o'erhead, That shines as my love will shine again In the world of the dead.

Round me the wet black night, And, afar in the limitless gloom, Crimson and green, two blossoms of light, Two stars of doom.

But the night of death is aflare With a torch of back-blown fire, And the coal-black deeps of the quivering air Rend for my soul's desire.

Leap, heart, for the pulse and the roar And the lights of the streaming train That leaps with the heart of thy love once more Out of the mist and the rain.

Out of the desolate years The thundering pageant flows; But I see no more than a window of tears Which her face has turned to a rose.

OXFORD REVISITED

Changed and estranged, like a ghost, I pass the familiar portals, Echoing now like a tomb, they accept me no more as of old; Yet I go wistfully onward, a shade thro' a kingdom of mortals Wanting a face to greet me, a hand to grasp and to hold.

Hardly I know as I go if the beautiful City is only Mocking me under the moon, with its streams and its willows agleam, Whether the City or friends or I that am friendless and lonely, Whether the boys that go by or the time-worn towers be the dream;

Whether the walls that I know, or the unknown fugitive faces, Faces like those that I loved, faces that haunt and waylay, Faces so like and unlike, in the dim unforgettable places, Startling the heart into sickness that aches with the sweet of the May,--

Whether all these or the world with its wars be the wandering shadows! Ah, sweet over green-gloomed waters the may hangs, crimson and white; And quiet canoes creep down by the warm gold dusk of the meadows, Lapping with little splashes and ripples of silvery light.

Others as I have returned: I shall see the old faces to-morrow, Down by the gay-coloured barges, alert for the throb of the oars, Wanting to row once again, or tenderly jesting with sorrow Up the old stairways and noting the strange new names on the doors.

Is it a dream? And I know not nor care if there be an awaking Ever at all any more, for the years that have torn us apart, Few, so few as they are, will ever be rending and breaking: Sooner by far than I knew have they wrought this change for my heart!

Well; I grow used to it now! Could the dream but remain and for ever, With the flowers round the grey quadrangle laughing as time grows old! For the waters go down to the sea, but the sky still gleams on the river! We plucked them--but there shall be lilies, ivory lilies and gold.

And still, in the beautiful City, the river of life is no duller, Only a little strange as the eighth hour dreamily chimes, In the City of friends and echoes, ribbons and music and colour, Lilac and blossoming chestnut, willows and whispering limes.

Over the Radcliffe Dome the moon as the ghost of a flower Weary and white awakes in the phantom fields of the sky: The trustful shepherded clouds are asleep over steeple and tower, Dark under Magdalen walls the Cher like a dream goes by.

Back, we come wandering back, poor ghosts, to the home that one misses Out in the shelterless world, the world that was heaven to us then, Back from the coil and the vastness, the stars and the boundless abysses, Like monks from a pilgrimage stealing in bliss to their cloisters again.

City of dreams that we lost, accept now the gift we inherit-- Love, such a love as we knew not of old in the blaze of our noon, We that have found thee at last, half City, half heavenly Spirit, While over a mist of spires the sunset mellows the moon.

THE THREE SHIPS

(_To an old Tune_)

As I went up the mountain-side, The sea below me glittered wide, And, Eastward, far away, I spied On Christmas Day, on Christmas Day, The three great ships that take the tide On Christmas Day in the morning.

Ye have heard the song, how these must ply From the harbours of home to the ports o' the sky! Do ye dream none knoweth the whither and why On Christmas Day, on Christmas Day, The three great ships go sailing by On Christmas Day in the morning?

III

Yet, as I live, I never knew That ever a song could ring so true, Till I saw them break thro' a haze of blue On Christmas Day, on Christmas Day; And the marvellous ancient flags they flew On Christmas Day in the morning!

From the heights above the belfried town I saw that the sails were patched and brown, But the flags were a-flame with a great renown On Christmas Day, on Christmas Day, And on every mast was a golden crown On Christmas Day in the morning.

Most marvellous ancient ships were these! Were their prows a-plunge to the Chersonese? For the pomp of Rome or the glory of Greece, On Christmas Day, on Christmas Day, Were they out on a quest for the Golden Fleece On Christmas Day in the morning?

And the sun and the wind they told me there How goodly a load the three ships bear, For the first is gold and the second is myrrh On Christmas Day, on Christmas Day; And the third is frankincense most rare On Christmas Day in the morning.

VII

They have mixed their shrouds with the golden sky, They have faded away where the last dreams die ... Ah yet, will ye watch, when the mist lifts high On Christmas Day, on Christmas Day? Will ye see three ships come sailing by On Christmas Day in the morning?

SLUMBER-SONGS OF THE MADONNA

PRELUDE

Dante saw the great white Rose Half unclose; Dante saw the golden bees Gathering from its heart of gold Sweets untold, Love's most honeyed harmonies.

Dante saw the threefold bow Strangely glow, Saw the Rainbow Vision rise, And the Flame that wore the crown Bending down O'er the flowers of Paradise.

Something yet remained, it seems; In his dreams Dante missed--as angels may In their white and burning bliss-- Some small kiss Mortals meet with every day.

Italy in splendour faints 'Neath her saints! O, her great Madonnas, too, Faces calm as any moon Glows in June, Hooded with the night's deep blue!

What remains? I pass and hear Everywhere, Ay, or see in silent eyes Just the song she still would sing Thus--a-swing O'er the cradle where He lies.

Sleep, little baby, I love thee. Sleep, little king, I am bending above thee. How should I know what to sing Here in my arms as I swing thee to sleep? Hushaby low, Rockaby so, Kings may have wonderful jewels to bring, Mother has only a kiss for her king! Why should my singing so make me to weep? Only I know that I love thee, I love thee, Love thee, my little one, sleep.

Is it a dream? Ah yet, it seems Not the same as other dreams! I can but think that angels sang, When thou wast born, in the starry sky, And that their golden harps out-rang While the silver clouds went by!

The morning sun shuts out the stars, Which are much loftier than the sun; But, could we burst our prison-bars And find the Light whence light begun, The dreams that heralded thy birth Were truer than the truths of earth; And, by that far immortal Gleam, Soul of my soul, I still would dream!

A ring of light was round thy head, The great-eyed oxen nigh thy bed Their cold and innocent noses bowed! Their sweet breath rose like an incense cloud In the blurred and mystic lanthorn light.

About the middle of the night The black door blazed like some great star With a glory from afar, Or like some mighty chrysolite Wherein an angel stood with white Blinding arrowy bladed wings Before the throne of the King of kings; And, through it, I could dimly see A great steed tethered to a tree.

Then, with crimson gems aflame Through the door the three kings came, And the black Ethiop unrolled The richly broidered cloth of gold, And pourèd forth before thee there Gold and frankincense and myrrh!

III

See, what a wonderful smile! Does it mean That my little one knows of my love? Was it meant for an angel that passed unseen, And smiled at us both from above? Does it mean that he knows of the birds and the flowers That are waiting to sweeten his childhood's hours, And the tales I shall tell and the games he will play, And the songs we shall sing and the prayers we shall pray In his boyhood's May, He and I, one day?

For in the warm blue summer weather We shall laugh and love together: I shall watch my baby growing, I shall guide his feet, When the orange trees are blowing And the winds are heavy and sweet!

When the orange orchards whiten I shall see his great eyes brighten To watch the long-legged camels going Up the twisted street, When the orange trees are blowing And the winds are sweet.

_What does it mean? Indeed, it seems A dream! Yet not like other dreams!_

We shall walk in pleasant vales, Listening to the shepherd's song I shall tell him lovely tales All day long: He shall laugh while mother sings Tales of fishermen and kings.

He shall see them come and go O'er the wistful sea, Where rosy oleanders blow Round blue Lake Galilee, Kings with fishers' ragged coats And silver nets across their boats, Dipping through the starry glow, With crowns for him and me! Ah, no; Crowns for him, not me!

_Rockaby so! Indeed, it seems A dream! Yet not like other dreams!_

Ah, see what a wonderful smile again! Shall I hide it away in my heart, To remember one day in a world of pain When the years have torn us apart, Little babe, When the years have torn us apart?

Sleep, my little one, sleep, Child with the wonderful eyes, Wild miraculous eyes, Deep as the skies are deep! What star-bright glory of tears Waits in you now for the years That shall bid you waken and weep? Ah, in that day, could I kiss you to sleep Then, little lips, little eyes, Little lips that are lovely and wise, Little lips that are dreadful and wise!

Clenched little hands like crumpled roses Dimpled and dear, Feet like flowers that the dawn uncloses, What do I fear? Little hands, will you ever be clenched in anguish? White little limbs, will you droop and languish? Nay, what do I hear? I hear a shouting, far away, You shall ride on a kingly palm-strewn way Some day!

But when you are crowned with a golden crown And throned on a golden throne, You'll forget the manger of Bethlehem town And your mother that sits alone

Wondering whether the mighty king Remembers a song she used to sing, Long ago, "_Rockaby so, Kings may have wonderful jewels to bring, Mother has only a kiss for her king_!"...

Ah, see what a wonderful smile, once more! He opens his great dark eyes! Little child, little king, nay, hush, it is o'er My fear of those deep twin skies,-- Little child, You are all too dreadful and wise!

VII

But now you are mine, all mine, And your feet can lie in my hand so small, And your tiny hands in my heart can twine, And you cannot walk, so you never shall fall, Or be pierced by the thorns beside the door, Or the nails that lie upon Joseph's floor; Through sun and rain, through shadow and shine, You are mine, all mine!

ENCELADUS

_In the Black Country, from a little window, Before I slept, across the haggard wastes Of dust and ashes, I saw Titanic shafts Like shadowy columns of wan-hope arise To waste, on the blear sky, their slow sad wreaths Of smoke, their infinitely sad slow prayers. Then, as night deepened, the blast-furnaces, Red smears upon the sulphurous blackness, turned All that sad region to a City of Dis, Where naked, sweating giants all night long Bowed their strong necks, melted flesh, blood and bone, To brim the dry ducts of the gods of gloom With terrible rivers, branches of living gold._

_O, like some tragic gesture of great souls In agony, those awful columns towered Against the clouds, that city of ash and slag Assumed the grandeur of some direr Thebes Arising to the death-chant of those gods, A dreadful Order climbing from the dark Of Chaos and Corruption, threatening to take Heaven with its vast slow storm. I slept, and dreamed. And like the slow beats of some Titan heart Buried beneath immeasurable woes, The forging-hammers thudded through the dream:_

Huge on a fallen tree, Lost in the darkness of primeval woods, Enceladus, earth-born Enceladus, The naked giant, brooded all alone. Born of the lower earth, he knew not how, Born of the mire and clay, he knew not when, Brought forth in darkness, and he knew not why!

Thus, like a wind, went by a thousand years.

Anhungered, yet no comrade of the wolf, And cold, but with no power upon the sun, A master of this world that mastered him!

Thus, like a cloud, went by a thousand years.

_Who_ chained this other giant in his heart That heaved and burned like Etna? Heavily He bent his brows and wondered and was dumb.

And, like one wave, a thousand years went by.

He raised his matted head and scanned the stars. He stood erect! He lifted his uncouth arms! With inarticulate sounds his uncouth lips Wrestled and strove--_I am full-fed, and yet I hunger! Who set this fiercer famine in my maw?_

_Can I eat moons, gorge on the Milky Way, Swill sunsets down, or sup the wash of the dawn Out of the rolling swine-troughs of the sea? Can I drink oceans, lie beneath the mountains, And nuzzle their heavy boulders like a cub Sucking the dark teats of the tigress? Who, Who set this deeper hunger in my heart?_ And the dark forest echoed--_Who? Ah, who?_

"_I hunger!_" And the night-wind answered him, "Hunt, then, for food."

"_I hunger!_" And the sleek gorged lioness Drew nigh him, dripping freshly from the kill, Redder her lolling tongue, whiter her fangs, And gazed with ignorant eyes of golden flame.

"_I hunger!_" Like a breaking sea his cry Swept through the night. Against his swarthy knees She rubbed the red wet velvet of her ears With mellow thunders of unweeting bliss, Purring--_Ah, seek, and you shall find. Ah, seek, and you shall slaughter, gorge, ah seek, Seek, seek, you shall feed full, ah seek, ah seek._

Enceladus, earth-born Enceladus, Bewildered like a desert-pilgrim, saw A rosy City, opening in the clouds, The hunger-born mirage of his own heart, Far, far above the world, a home of gods, Where One, a goddess, veiled in the sleek waves Of her deep hair, yet glimmering golden through, Lifted, with radiant arms, ambrosial food For hunger such as this! Up the dark hills, He rushed, a thunder-cloud, Urged by the famine of his heart. He stood High on the topmost crags, he hailed the gods In thunder, and the clouds re-echoed it!

He hailed the gods! And like a sea of thunder round their thrones Washing, a midnight sea, his earth-born voice Besieged the halls of heaven! He hailed the gods! They laughed, he heard them laugh! With echo and re-echo, far and wide, A golden sea of mockery, they laughed!

Enceladus, earth-born Enceladus, Laid hold upon the rosy Gates of Heaven, And shook them with gigantic sooty hands, Asking he knew not what, but not for alms; And the Gates, opened as in jest; And, like a sooty jest, he stumbled in.

Round him the gods, the young and scornful gods, Clustered and laughed to mark the ravaged face, The brutal brows, the deep and dog-like eyes, The blunt black nails, and back with burdens bowed. And, when they laughed, he snarled with uncouth lips And made them laugh again. "_Whence comest thou?_" He could not speak! How should he speak whose heart within him heaved And burned like Etna? Through his mouth there came A sound of ice-bergs in a frozen sea Of tears, a sullen region of black ice Rending and breaking, very far away. They laughed! He stared at them, bewildered, and they laughed Again, "_Whence comest thou?_"

He could not speak! But through his mouth a moan of midnight woods, Where wild beasts lay in wait to slaughter and gorge, A moan of forest-caverns where the wolf Brought forth her litter, a moan of the wild earth In travail with strange shapes of mire and clay, Creatures of clay, clay images of the gods, That hungered like the gods, the most high gods, But found no food, and perished like the beasts.

And the gods laughed,-- _Art thou, then, such a god?_ And, like a leaf Unfolding in dark woods, in his deep brain A sudden memory woke; and like an ape He nodded, and all heaven with laughter rocked, While Artemis cried out with scornful lips,-- _Perchance He is the Maker of you all!_

Then, piteously outstretching calloused hands, He sank upon his knees, his huge gnarled knees, And echoed, falteringly, with slow harsh tongue,-- _Perchance, perchance, the Maker of you all._

They wept with laughter! And Aphrodite, she, With keener mockery than white Artemis Who smiled aloof, drew nigh him unabashed In all her blinding beauty. Carelessly, As o'er the brute brows of a stallèd ox Across that sooty muzzle and brawny breast, Contemptuously, she swept her golden hair In one deep wave, a many-millioned scourge Intolerable and beautiful as fire; Then turned and left him, reeling, gasping, dumb, While heaven re-echoed and re-echoed, _See, Perchance, perchance, the Maker of us all!_

Enceladus, earth-born Enceladus, Rose to his feet, and with one terrible cry "_I hunger_," rushed upon the scornful gods And strove to seize and hold them with his hands, And still the laughter deepened as they rolled Their clouds around them, baffling him. But once, Once with a shout, in his gigantic arms He crushed a slippery splendour on his breast And felt on his harsh skin the cool smooth peaks Of Aphrodite's bosom. One black hand Slid down the naked snow of her long side And bruised it where he held her. Then, like snow Vanishing in a furnace, out of his arms The splendour suddenly melted, and a roll Of thunder split the dream, and headlong down He fell, from heaven to earth; while, overhead The young and scornful gods--he heard them laugh!-- Toppled the crags down after him. He lay Supine. They plucked up Etna by the roots And buried him beneath it. His broad breast Heaved, like that other giant in his heart, And through the crater burst his fiery breath, But could not burst his bonds. And so he lay Breathing in agony thrice a thousand years.

Then came a Voice, he knew not whence, "Arise, Enceladus!" And from his heart a crag Fell, and one arm was free, and one thought free, And suddenly he awoke, and stood upright, Shaking the mountains from him like a dream; And the tremendous light and awful truth Smote, like the dawn, upon his blinded eyes, That out of his first wonder at the world, Out of his own heart's deep humility, And simple worship, he had fashioned gods Of cloud, and heaven out of a hollow shell. And groping now no more in the empty space Outward, but inward in his own deep heart, He suddenly felt the secret gates of heaven Open, and from the infinite heavens of hope Inward, a voice, from the innermost courts of Love, Rang--_Thou shall have none other gods but Me._

Enceladus, the foul Enceladus, When the clear light out of that inward heaven Whose gates are only inward in the soul, Showed him that one true Kingdom, said, "I will stretch My hands out once again. And, as the God That made me is the Heart within my heart, So shall my heart be to this dust and earth A god and a creator. I will strive With mountains, fires and seas, wrestle and strive, Fashion and make, and that which I have made In anguish I shall love as God loves me."

_In the Black Country, from a little window, Waking at dawn, I saw those giant Shafts --O great dark word out of our elder speech, Long since the poor man's kingly heritage-- The Shapings, the dim Sceptres of Creation, The Shafts like columns of wan-hope arise To waste, on the blear sky, their slow sad wreaths Of smoke, their infinitely sad slow prayers. Then, as the dawn crimsoned, the sordid clouds, The puddling furnaces, the mounds of slag, The cinders, and the sand-beds and the rows Of wretched roofs, assumed a majesty Beyond all majesties of earth or air; Beauty beyond all beauty, as of a child In rags, upraised thro' the still gold of heaven, With wasted arms and hungering eyes, to bring The armoured seraphim down upon their knees And teach eternal God humility; The solemn beauty of the unfulfilled Moving towards fulfilment on a height Beyond all heights; the dreadful beauty of hope; The naked wrestler struggling from the rock Under the sculptor's chisel; the rough mass Of clay more glorious for the poor blind face And bosom that half emerge into the light, More glorious and august, even in defeat, Than that too cold dominion God foreswore To bear this passionate universal load, This Calvary of Creation, with mankind._

IN THE COOL OF THE EVENING

In the cool of the evening, when the low sweet whispers waken, When the labourers turn them homeward, and the weary have their will, When the censers of the roses o'er the forest-aisles are shaken, Is it but the wind that cometh o'er the far green hill?

For they say 'tis but the sunset winds that wander through the heather, Rustle all the meadow-grass and bend the dewy fern; They say 'tis but the winds that bow the reeds in prayer together, And fill the shaken pools with fire along the shadowy burn.

III

In the beauty of the twilight, in the Garden that He loveth, They have veiled His lovely vesture with the darkness of a name! Thro' His Garden, thro' His Garden it is but the wind that moveth, No more; but O, the miracle, the miracle is the same!

In the cool of the evening, when the sky is an old story Slowly dying, but remembered, ay, and loved with passion still, Hush!... the fringes of His garment, in the fading golden glory, Softly rustling as He cometh o'er the far green hill.

A ROUNDHEAD'S RALLYING SONG

How beautiful is the battle, How splendid are the spears, When our banner is the sky And our watchword _Liberty_, And our kingdom lifted high above the years.

How purple shall our blood be, How glorious our scars, When we lie there in the night With our faces full of light And the death upon them smiling at the stars.

III

How golden is our hauberk, And steel, and steel our sword, And our shield without a stain As we take the field again, We whose armour is the armour of the Lord!

VICISTI, GALILÆE

"The shrines are dust, the gods are dead," They cried in ancient Rome! "Ah yet, the Idalian rose is red, And bright the Paphian foam: For all your Galilæan tears We turn to her," men say ... But we, we hasten thro' the years To our own yesterday.

Thro' all the thousand years ye need To make the lost so fair, Before ye can award His meed Of perfect praise and prayer! Ye liberated souls, the crown Is yours; and yet, some few Can hail, as this great Cross goes down Its distant triumph, too.

Poor scornful Lilliputian souls, And are ye still too proud To risk your little aureoles By kneeling with the crowd? Do ye still dream ye "stand alone" So fearless and so strong? To-day we claim the rebels' throne And leave you with the throng.

Yes, He has conquered! You at least The "van-guard" leaves behind To croon old tales of king and priest In the ingles of mankind: The breast of Aphrodite glows, Apollo's face is fair; But O, the world's wide anguish knows No Apollonian prayer.

Not ours to scorn the first white gleam Of beauty on this earth, The clouds of dawn, the nectarous dream, The gods of simpler birth; But, as ye praise them, your own cry Is fraught with deeper pain, And the Compassionate ye deny Returns, returns again.

O, worshippers of the beautiful, Is this the end then, this,-- That ye can only see the skull Beneath the face of bliss? No monk in the dark years ye scorn So barren a pathway trod As ye who, ceasing not to mourn, Deny the mourner's God.

And, while ye scoff, on every side Great hints of Him go by,-- Souls that are hourly crucified On some new Calvary! O, tortured faces, white and meek, Half seen amidst the crowd, Grey suffering lips that never speak, The Glory in the Cloud!

_In flower and dust, in chaff and grain, He binds Himself and dies! We live by His eternal pain, His hourly sacrifice; The limits of our mortal life Are His._ The whisper thrills Under the sea's perpetual strife, And through the sunburnt hills.

Darkly, as in a glass, our sight Still gropes thro' Time and Space: We cannot see the Light of Light With angels, face to face: Only the tale His martyrs tell Around the dark earth rings He died and He went down to hell And lives--the King of Kings!

And, while ye scoff, from shore to shore, From sea to moaning sea, _Eloi_, _Eloi_, goes up once more _Lama sabacthani!_ The heavens are like a scroll unfurled, The writing flames above-- This is the King of all the world Upon His Cross of Love.

DRAKE

_DEDICATED TO RUDOLPH CHAMBERS LEHMANN_

PROLOGUE TO AMERICAN EDITION

England, my mother, Lift to my western sweetheart One full cup of English mead, breathing of the may! Pledge the may-flower in her face that you and ah, none other, Sent her from the mother-land Across the dashing spray.

Hers and yours the story: Think of it, oh, think of it-- That immortal dream when El Dorado flushed the skies! Fill the beaker full and drink to Drake's undying glory, Yours and hers (Oh, drink of it!) The dream that never dies.

III

Yours and hers the free-men Who scanned the stars and westward sung When a king commanded and the Atlantic thundered "Nay!" Hers as yours the pride is, for Drake our first of seamen First upon his bow-sprit hung That bunch of English may.

Pledge her deep, my mother; Through her veins thy life-stream runs! Spare a thought, too, sweetheart, for my mother o'er the sea! Younger eyes are yours; but ah, those old eyes and none other Once bedewed the may-flower; once, As yours, were clear and free.

Once! Nay, now as ever Beats within her ancient heart All the faith that took you forth to seek your heaven alone: Shadows come and go; but let no shade of doubt dissever, Cloak, or cloud, or keep apart Two souls whose prayer is one.

Sweetheart, ah, be tender-- Tender with her prayer to-night! Such a goal might yet be ours!--the battle-flags be furled, All the wars of earth be crushed, if only now your slender Hand should grasp her gnarled old hand And federate the world.

VII

Foolish it may seem, sweet! Still the battle thunder lours: Darker look the Dreadnoughts as old Europe goes her way! Yet your hand, your hand, has power to crush that evil dream, sweet; You, with younger eyes than ours And brows of English may.

VIII

If a singer cherishes Idle dreams or idle words, You shall judge--and you'll forgive: for, far away or nigh, Still abides that Vision without which a people perishes: Love will strike the atoning chords! Hark--there comes a cry!

Over all this earth, sweet, The poor and weak look up to you-- Lift their burdened shoulders, stretch their fettered hands in prayer: You, with gentle hands, can bring the world-wide dream to birth, sweet, While I lift this cup to you And wonder--will she care?

Kindle, eyes, and beat, heart! Hold the brimming breaker up! All the may is burgeoning from East to golden West! England, my mother, greet America, my sweetheart: --Ah, but ere I drained the cup I found her on your breast.

EXORDIUM

When on the highest ridge of that strange land, Under the cloudless blinding tropic blue, Drake and his band of swarthy seamen stood With dazed eyes gazing round them, emerald fans Of palm that fell like fountains over cliffs Of gorgeous red anana bloom obscured Their sight on every side. Illustrious gleams Of rose and green and gold streamed from the plumes That flashed like living rainbows through the glades. Piratic glints of musketoon and sword, The scarlet scarves around the tawny throats, The bright gold ear-rings in the sun-black ears, And the calm faces of the negro guides Opposed their barbarous bravery to the noon; Yet a deep silence dreadfully besieged Even those mighty hearts upon the verge Of the undiscovered world. Behind them lay The old earth they knew. In front they could not see What lay beyond the ridge. Only they heard Cries of the painted birds troubling the heat And shivering through the woods; till Francis Drake Plunged through the hush, took hold upon a tree, The tallest near them, and clomb upward, branch By branch. And there, as he swung clear above The steep-down forest, on his wondering eyes, Mile upon mile of rugged shimmering gold, Burst the unknown immeasurable sea. Then he descended; and with a new voice Vowed that, God helping, he would one day plough Those virgin waters with an English keel.

So here before the unattempted task, Above the Golden Ocean of my dream I clomb and saw in splendid pageant pass The wild adventures and heroic deeds Of England's epic age, a vision lit With mighty prophecies, fraught with a doom Worthy the great Homeric roll of song, Yet all unsung and unrecorded quite By those who might have touched with Raphael's hand The large imperial legend of our race, Ere it brought forth the braggarts of an hour, Self-worshippers who love their imaged strength, And as a symbol for their own proud selves Misuse the sacred name of this dear land, While England to the Empire of her soul Like some great Prophet passes through the crowd That cannot understand; for he must climb Up to that sovran thunder-smitten peak Where he shall grave and trench on adamant The Law that God shall utter by the still Small voice, not by the whirlwind or the fire. There labouring for the Highest in himself He shall achieve the good of all mankind; And from that lonely Sinai shall return Triumphant o'er the little gods of gold That rule their little hour upon the plain.

Oh, thou blind master of these opened eyes Be near me, therefore, now; for not in pride I lift lame hands to this imperious theme; But yearning to a power above mine own Even as a man might lift his hands in prayer. Or as a child, perchance, in those dark days When London lay beleaguered and the axe Flashed out for a bigot empire; and the blood Of martyrs made a purple path for Spain Up to the throne of Mary; as a child Gathering with friends upon a winter's morn For some mock fight between the hateful prince Philip and Thomas Wyatt, all at once Might see in gorgeous ruffs embastioned Popinjay plumes and slouching hats of Spain, Gay shimmering silks and rich encrusted gems, Gold collars, rare brocades, and sleek trunk-hose The Ambassador and peacock courtiers come Strutting along the white snow-strangled street, A walking plot of scarlet Spanish flowers, And with one cry a hundred boyish hands Put them to flight with snowballs, while the wind All round their Spanish ears hissed like a flight Of white-winged geese; so may I wage perchance A mimic war with all my heart in it, Munitioned with mere perishable snow Which mightier hands one day will urge with steel. Yet may they still remember me as I Remember, with one little laugh of love, That child's game, this were wealth enough for me.

Mother and love, fair England, hear my prayer; Help me that I may tell the enduring tale Of that great seaman, good at need, who first Sailed round this globe and made one little isle, One little isle against that huge Empire Of Spain whose might was paramount on earth, O'ertopping Babylon, Nineveh, Greece, and Rome, Carthage and all huge Empires of the past, He made this little isle, against the world, Queen of the earth and sea. Nor this alone The theme; for, in a mightier strife engaged Even than he knew, he fought for the new faiths, Championing our manhood as it rose And cast its feudal chains before the seat Of kings; nay, in a mightier battle yet He fought for the soul's freedom, fought the fight Which, though it still rings in our wondering ears, Was won then and for ever--that great war, That last Crusade of Christ against His priests, Wherein Spain fell behind a thunderous roar Of ocean triumph over burning ships And shattered fleets, while England, England rose, Her white cliffs laughing out across the waves, Victorious over all her enemies.

And while he won the world for her domain, Her loins brought forth, her fostering bosom fed Souls that have swept the spiritual seas From heaven to hell, and justified her crown. For round the throne of great Elizabeth Spenser and Burleigh, Sidney and Verulam, Clustered like stars, rare Jonson like the crown Of Cassiopeia, Marlowe ruddy as Mars, And over all those mighty hearts arose The soul of Shakespeare brooding far and wide Beyond our small horizons, like a light Thrown from a vaster sun that still illumes Tracts which the arc of our increasing day Must still leave undiscovered, unexplored.

Mother and love, fair England, hear my prayer, As thou didst touch the heart and light the flame Of wonder in those eyes which first awoke To beauty and the sea's adventurous dream Three hundred years ago, three hundred years, And five long decades, in the leafy lanes Of Devon, where the tallest trees that bore The raven's matted nest had yielded up Their booty, while the perilous branches swayed Beneath the boyish privateer, the king Of many young companions, Francis Drake; So hear me, and so help, for more than his My need is, even than when he first set sail Upon that wild adventure with three ships And three-score men from grey old Plymouth Sound, Not knowing if he went to life or death, Not caring greatly, so that he were true To his own sleepless and unfaltering soul Which could not choose but hear the ringing call Across the splendours of the Spanish Main From ever fading, ever new horizons, And shores beyond the sunset and the sea.

Mother and sweetheart, England; from whose breast, With all the world before them, they went forth, Thy seamen, o'er the wide uncharted waste, Wider than that Ulysses roamed of old, Even as the wine-dark Mediterranean Is wider than some wave-relinquished pool Among its rocks, yet none the less explored To greater ends than all the pride of Greece And pomp of Rome achieved; if my poor song Now spread too wide a sail, forgive thy son And lover, for thy love was ever wont To lift men up in pride above themselves To do great deeds which of themselves alone They could not; thou hast led the unfaltering feet Of even thy meanest heroes down to death, Lifted poor knights to many a great emprise, Taught them high thoughts, and though they kept their souls Lowly as little children, bidden them lift Eyes unappalled by all the myriad stars That wheel around the great white throne of God.