Chapter 11

I smiled, half bitter, half in jest: 'The wisest man of all the wise Left for his summary of life "Vanity of vanities."

'Beneath the sun there's nothing new: Men flow, men ebb, mankind flows on: If I am wearied of my life, Why so was Solomon. 180

'Vanity of vanities he preached Of all he found, of all he sought: Vanity of vanities, the gist Of all the words he taught.

'This in the wisdom of the world, In Homer's page, in all, we find: As the sea is not filled, so yearns Man's universal mind.

'This Homer felt, who gave his men With glory but a transient state: 190 His very Jove could not reverse Irrevocable fate.

'Uncertain all their lot save this-- Who wins must lose, who lives must die: All trodden out into the dark Alike, all vanity.'

She scarcely answered when I paused, But rather to herself said: 'One Is here,' low-voiced and loving, 'Yea, Greater than Solomon.' 200

So both were silent, she and I: She laid her work aside, and went Into the garden-walks, like spring, All gracious with content,

A little graver than her wont, Because her words had fretted me; Not warbling quite her merriest tune Bird-like from tree to tree.

I chose a book to read and dream: Yet half the while with furtive eyes 210 Marked how she made her choice of flowers Intuitively wise,

And ranged them with instinctive taste Which all my books had failed to teach; Fresh rose herself, and daintier Than blossom of the peach.

By birthright higher than myself, Tho' nestling of the self-same nest: No fault of hers, no fault of mine, But stubborn to digest. 220

I watched her, till my book unmarked Slid noiseless to the velvet floor; Till all the opulent summer-world Looked poorer than before.

Just then her busy fingers ceased, Her fluttered colour went and came; I knew whose step was on the walk, Whose voice would name her name.

* * * * * * *

Well, twenty years have passed since then: My sister now, a stately wife 230 Still fair, looks back in peace and sees The longer half of life--

The longer half of prosperous life, With little grief, or fear, or fret: She loved, and, loving long ago, Is loved and loving yet.

A husband honourable, brave, Is her main wealth in all the world: And next to him one like herself, One daughter golden-curled; 240

Fair image of her own fair youth, As beautiful and as serene, With almost such another love As her own love has been.

Yet, tho' of world-wide charity, And in her home most tender dove, Her treasure and her heart are stored In the home-land of love:

She thrives, God's blessed husbandry; She like a vine is full of fruit; 250 Her passion-flower climbs up toward heaven Tho' earth still binds its root.

I sit and watch my sister's face: How little altered since the hours When she, a kind, light-hearted girl, Gathered her garden flowers;

Her song just mellowed by regret For having teased me with her talk; Then all-forgetful as she heard One step upon the walk. 260

While I? I sat alone and watched My lot in life, to live alone, In mine own world of interests, Much felt but little shown.

Not to be first: how hard to learn That lifelong lesson of the past; Line graven on line and stroke on stroke; But, thank God, learned at last.

So now in patience I possess My soul year after tedious year, 270 Content to take the lowest place, The place assigned me here.

Yet sometimes, when I feel my strength Most weak, and life most burdensome, I lift mine eyes up to the hills From whence my help shall come:

Yea, sometimes still I lift my heart To the Archangelic trumpet-burst, When all deep secrets shall be shown, And many last be first. 280

MY FRIEND

(_Macmillan's Magazine_, Dec. 1864.)

Two days ago with dancing glancing hair, With living lips and eyes: Now pale, dumb, blind, she lies; So pale, yet still so fair.

We have not left her yet, not yet alone; But soon must leave her where She will not miss our care, Bone of our bone.

Weep not; O friends, we should not weep: Our friend of friends lies full of rest; 10 No sorrow rankles in her breast, Fallen fast asleep.

She sleeps below, She wakes and laughs above: To-day, as she walked, let us walk in love; To-morrow follow so.

LAST NIGHT

(_Macmillan's Magazine_, May 1865.)

Where were you last night? I watched at the gate; I went down early, I stayed down late. Were you snug at home, I should like to know, Or were you in the coppice wheedling Kate?

She's a fine girl, with a fine clear skin; Easy to woo, perhaps not hard to win. Speak up like a man and tell me the truth: I'm not one to grow downhearted and thin.

If you love her best speak up like a man; It's not I will stand in the light of your plan: 10 Some girls might cry and scold you a bit, And say they couldn't bear it; but I can.

Love was pleasant enough, and the days went fast; Pleasant while it lasted, but it needn't last; Awhile on the wax and awhile on the wane, Now dropped away into the past.

Was it pleasant to you? To me it was; Now clean gone as an image from glass, As a goodly rainbow that fades away, As dew that steams upward from the grass, 20

As the first spring day, or the last summer day, As the sunset flush that leaves heaven grey, As a flame burnt out for lack of oil, Which no pains relight or ever may.

Good luck to Kate and good luck to you: I guess she'll be kind when you come to woo. I wish her a pretty face that will last, I wish her a husband steady and true.

Hate you? not I, my very good friend; All things begin and all have an end. 30 But let broken be broken; I put no faith In quacks who set up to patch and mend.

Just my love and one word to Kate: Not to let time slip if she means to mate;-- For even such a thing has been known As to miss the chance while we weigh and wait.

CONSIDER

(_Macmillan's Magazine_, Jan. 1866.)

Consider The lilies of the field whose bloom is brief:-- We are as they; Like them we fade away, As doth a leaf.

Consider The sparrows of the air of small account: Our God doth view Whether they fall or mount,-- He guards us too. 10

Consider The lilies that do neither spin nor toil, Yet are most fair:-- What profits all this care And all this coil?

Consider The birds that have no barn nor harvest-weeks; God gives them food:-- Much more our Father seeks To do us good. 20

HELEN GREY

(_Macmillan's Magazine_, March 1866.)

Because one loves you, Helen Grey, Is that a reason you should pout, And like a March wind veer about, And frown, and say your shrewish say? Don't strain the cord until it snaps, Don't split the sound heart with your wedge, Don't cut your fingers with the edge Of your keen wit; you may, perhaps.

Because you're handsome, Helen Grey, Is that a reason to be proud? 10 Your eyes are bold, your laugh is loud, Your steps go mincing on their way; But so you miss that modest charm Which is the surest charm of all: Take heed, you yet may trip and fall, And no man care to stretch his arm.

Stoop from your cold height, Helen Grey, Come down, and take a lowlier place; Come down, to fill it now with grace; Come down you must perforce some day: 20 For years cannot be kept at bay, And fading years will make you old; Then in their turn will men seem cold, When you yourself are nipped and grey.

BY THE WATERS OF BABYLON

B.C. 570

(_Macmillan's Magazine_, October 1866.)

Here where I dwell I waste to skin and bone; The curse is come upon me, and I waste In penal torment powerless to atone. The curse is come on me, which makes no haste And doth not tarry, crushing both the proud Hard man and him the sinner double-faced. Look not upon me, for my soul is bowed Within me, as my body in this mire; My soul crawls dumb-struck, sore-bested and cowed. As Sodom and Gomorrah scourged by fire, 10 As Jericho before God's trumpet-peal, So we the elect ones perish in His ire. Vainly we gird on sackcloth, vainly kneel With famished faces toward Jerusalem: His heart is shut against us not to feel, His ears against our cry He shutteth them, His hand He shorteneth that He will not save, His law is loud against us to condemn: And we, as unclean bodies in the grave Inheriting corruption and the dark, 20 Are outcast from His presence which we crave. Our Mercy hath departed from His Ark, Our Glory hath departed from His rest, Our Shield hath left us naked as a mark Unto all pitiless eyes made manifest. Our very Father hath forsaken us, Our God hath cast us from Him: we oppressed Unto our foes are even marvellous, A hissing and a butt for pointing hands, Whilst God Almighty hunts and grinds us thus; 30 For He hath scattered us in alien lands, Our priests, our princes, our anointed king, And bound us hand and foot with brazen bands. Here while I sit my painful heart takes wing Home to the home-land I must see no more, Where milk and honey flow, where waters spring And fail not, where I dwelt in days of yore Under my fig-tree and my fruitful vine, There where my parents dwelt at ease before: Now strangers press the olives that are mine, 40 Reap all the corners of my harvest-field, And make their fat hearts wanton with my wine; To them my trees, to them my garden yield Their sweets and spices and their tender green, O'er them in noontide heat outspread their shield. Yet these are they whose fathers had not been Housed with my dogs, whom hip and thigh we smote And with their blood washed their pollutions clean, Purging the land which spewed them from its throat; Their daughters took we for a pleasant prey, 50 Choice tender ones on whom the fathers doat. Now they in turn have led our own away; Our daughters and our sisters and our wives Sore weeping as they weep who curse the day, To live, remote from help, dishonoured lives, Soothing their drunken masters with a song, Or dancing in their golden tinkling gyves: Accurst if they remember through the long Estrangement of their exile, twice accursed If they forget and join the accursèd throng. 60 How doth my heart that is so wrung not burst When I remember that my way was plain, And that God's candle lit me at the first, Whilst now I grope in darkness, grope in vain, Desiring but to find Him Who is lost, To find Him once again, but once again. His wrath came on us to the uttermost, His covenanted and most righteous wrath: Yet this is He of Whom we made our boast, Who lit the Fiery Pillar in our path, 70 Who swept the Red Sea dry before our feet, Who in His jealousy smote kings, and hath Sworn once to David: One shall fill thy seat Born of thy body, as the sun and moon 'Stablished for aye in sovereignty complete. O Lord, remember David, and that soon. The Glory hath departed, Ichabod! Yet now, before our sun grow dark at noon, Before we come to nought beneath Thy rod, Before we go down quick into the pit, 80 Remember us for good, O God, our God:-- Thy Name will I remember, praising it, Though Thou forget me, though Thou hide Thy face, And blot me from the Book which Thou hast writ; Thy Name will I remember in my praise And call to mind Thy faithfulness of old, Though as a weaver Thou cut off my days, And end me as a tale ends that is told.

SEASONS

(_Macmillan's Magazine_, Dec. 1866.)

Oh the cheerful Budding-time! When thorn-hedges turn to green, When new leaves of elm and lime Cleave and shed their winter screen; Tender lambs are born and 'baa,' North wind finds no snow to bring, Vigorous Nature laughs 'Ha, ha,' In the miracle of spring.

Oh the gorgeous Blossom-days! When broad flag-flowers drink and blow, 10 In and out in summer-blaze Dragon-flies flash to and fro; Ashen branches hang out keys, Oaks put forth the rosy shoot, Wandering herds wax sleek at ease, Lovely blossoms end in fruit.

Oh the shouting Harvest-weeks! Mother earth grown fat with sheaves Thrifty gleaner finds who seeks; Russet-golden pomp of leaves 20 Crowns the woods, to fall at length; Bracing winds are felt to stir, Ocean gathers up her strength, Beasts renew their dwindled fur.

Oh the starving Winter-lapse! Ice-bound, hunger-pinched and dim; Dormant roots recall their saps, Empty nests show black and grim, Short-lived sunshine gives no heat, Undue buds are nipped by frost, 30 Snow sets forth a winding-sheet, And all hope of life seems lost.

MOTHER COUNTRY

(_Macmillan's Magazine_, March 1868.)

Oh what is that country And where can it be, Not mine own country, But dearer far to me? Yet mine own country, If I one day may see Its spices and cedars, Its gold and ivory.

As I lie dreaming It rises, that land: 10 There rises before me Its green golden strand, With its bowing cedars And its shining sand; It sparkles and flashes Like a shaken brand.

Do angels lean nearer While I lie and long? I see their soft plumage And catch their windy song, 20 Like the rise of a high tide Sweeping full and strong; I mark the outskirts Of their reverend throng.

Oh what is a king here, Or what is a boor? Here all starve together, All dwarfed and poor; Here Death's hand knocketh At door after door, 30 He thins the dancers From the festal floor.

Oh what is a handmaid, Or what is a queen? All must lie down together Where the turf is green, The foulest face hidden, The fairest not seen; Gone as if never, They had breathed or been. 40

Gone from sweet sunshine Underneath the sod, Turned from warm flesh and blood To senseless clod, Gone as if never They had toiled or trod, Gone out of sight of all Except our God.

Shut into silence From the accustomed song, 50 Shut into solitude From all earth's throng, Run down tho' swift of foot, Thrust down tho' strong; Life made an end of Seemed it short or long.

Life made an end of, Life but just begun, Life finished yesterday, Its last sand run; 60 Life new-born with the morrow, Fresh as the sun: While done is done for ever; Undone, undone.

And if that life is life, This is but a breath, The passage of a dream And the shadow of death; But a vain shadow If one considereth; 70 Vanity of vanities, As the Preacher saith.

A SMILE AND A SIGH

(_Macmillan's Magazine_, May 1868.)

A smile because the nights are short! And every morning brings such pleasure Of sweet love-making, harmless sport: Love, that makes and finds its treasure; Love, treasure without measure.

A sigh because the days are long! Long long these days that pass in sighing, A burden saddens every song: While time lags who should be flying, We live who would be dying.

DEAD HOPE

(_Macmillan's Magazine_, May 1868.)

Hope new born one pleasant morn Died at even; Hope dead lives nevermore. No, not in heaven.

If his shroud were but a cloud To weep itself away; Or were he buried underground To sprout some day! But dead and gone is dead and gone Vainly wept upon. 10

Nought we place above his face To mark the spot, But it shows a barren place In our lot. Hope has birth no more on earth Morn or even; Hope dead lives nevermore, No, not in heaven.

AUTUMN VIOLETS

(_Macmillan's Magazine_, November 1868.)

Keep love for youth, and violets for the spring: Of if these bloom when worn-out autumn grieves, Let them lie hid in double shade of leaves, Their own, and others dropped down withering; For violets suit when home birds build and sing, Not when the outbound bird a passage cleaves; Not with dry stubble of mown harvest sheaves, But when the green world buds to blossoming. Keep violets for the spring, and love for youth, Love that should dwell with beauty, mirth, and hope: Or if a later sadder love be born, Let this not look for grace beyond its scope, But give itself, nor plead for answering truth-- A grateful Ruth tho' gleaning scanty corn.

'THEY DESIRE A BETTER COUNTRY'

(_Macmillan's Magazine_, March 1869.)

I

I would not if I could undo my past, Tho' for its sake my future is a blank; My past, for which I have myself to thank, For all its faults and follies first and last. I would not cast anew the lot once cast, Or launch a second ship for one that sank, Or drug with sweets the bitterness I drank, Or break by feasting my perpetual fast. I would not if I could: for much more dear Is one remembrance than a hundred joys, 10 More than a thousand hopes in jubilee; Dearer the music of one tearful voice That unforgotten calls and calls to me, 'Follow me here, rise up, and follow here.'

II

What seekest thou far in the unknown land? In hope I follow joy gone on before, In hope and fear persistent more and more, As the dry desert lengthens out its sand. Whilst day and night I carry in my hand The golden key to ope the golden door 20 Of golden home; yet mine eye weepeth sore For the long journey that must make no stand. And who is this that veiled doth walk with thee? Lo, this is Love that walketh at my right; One exile holds us both, and we are bound To selfsame home-joys in the land of light. Weeping thou walkest with him; weepeth he?-- Some sobbing weep, some weep and make no sound.

III

A dimness of a glory glimmers here Thro' veils and distance from the space remote, 30 A faintest far vibration of a note Reaches to us and seems to bring us near, Causing our face to glow with braver cheer, Making the serried mist to stand afloat, Subduing langour with an antidote, And strengthening love almost to cast out fear, Till for one moment golden city walls Rise looming on us, golden walls of home, Light of our eyes until the darkness falls; Then thro' the outer darkness burdensome 40 I hear again the tender voice that calls, 'Follow me hither, follow, rise, and come.'

THE OFFERING OF THE NEW LAW, THE ONE OBLATION ONCE OFFERED

(_Lyra Eucharistica_, 1863.)

Once I thought to sit so high In the Palace of the sky; Now, I thank God for His Grace, If I may fill the lowest place.

Once I thought to scale so soon Heights above the changing moon; Now, I thank God for delay-- To-day, it yet is called to-day.

While I stumble, halt and blind, Lo! He waiteth to be kind; 10 Bless me soon, or bless me slow, Except He bless, I let not go.

Once for earth I laid my plan, Once I leaned on strength of man, When my hope was swept aside, I stayed my broken heart on pride:

Broken reed hath pierced my hand; Fell my house I built on sand; Roofless, wounded, maimed by sin, Fightings without and fears within: 20

Yet, a tree, He feeds my root; Yet, a branch, He prunes for fruit; Yet, a sheep, these eves and morns, He seeks for me among the thorns.

With Thine Image stamped of old, Find Thy coin more choice than gold; Known to Thee by name, recall To Thee Thy home-sick prodigal.

Sacrifice and Offering None there is that I can bring, 30 None, save what is Thine alone: I bring Thee, Lord, but of Thine Own--

Broken Body, Blood Outpoured, These I bring, my God, my Lord; Wine of Life, and Living Bread, With these for me Thy Board is spread.

CONFERENCE BETWEEN CHRIST, THE SAINTS, AND THE SOUL

(_Lyra Eucharistica_, 1863.)

I am pale with sick desire, For my heart is far away From this world's fitful fire And this world's waning day; In a dream it overleaps A world of tedious ills To where the sunshine sleeps On th' everlasting hills. Say the Saints--There Angels ease us Glorified and white. 10 They say--We rest in Jesus, Where is not day nor night.

My Soul saith--I have sought For a home that is not gained, I have spent yet nothing bought, Have laboured but not attained; My pride strove to rise and grow, And hath but dwindled down; My love sought love, and lo! Hath not attained its crown. 20 Say the Saints--Fresh Souls increase us, None languish nor recede. They say--We love our Jesus, And He loves us indeed.

I cannot rise above, I cannot rest beneath, I cannot find out Love, Nor escape from Death; Dear hopes and joys gone by Still mock me with a name; 30 My best belovèd die And I cannot die with them. Say the Saints--No deaths decrease us, Where our rest is glorious. They say--We live in Jesus, Who once dièd for us.

Oh, my Soul, she beats her wings And pants to fly away Up to immortal Things In the Heavenly day: 40 Yet she flags and almost faints; Can such be meant for me? Come and see--say the Saints. Saith Jesus--Come and see. Say the Saints--His Pleasures please us Before God and the Lamb. Come and taste My Sweets--saith Jesus-- Be with Me where I am.

COME UNTO ME

(_Lyra Eucharistica_, second edition, 1864.)

Oh, for the time gone by, when thought of Christ Made His Yoke easy and His Burden light; When my heart stirred within me at the sight Of Altar spread for awful Eucharist; When all my hopes His promises sufficed, When my Soul watched for Him by day, by night, When my lamp lightened and my robe was white, And all seemed loss, except the Pearl unpriced. Yet, since He calls me still with tender Call, Since He remembers Whom I half forgot, I even will run my race and bear my lot: For Faith the walls of Jericho cast down, And Hope to whoso runs holds forth a Crown, And Love is Christ, and Christ is All in all.

JESUS, DO I LOVE THEE?

(_Lyra Eucharistica_, second edition, 1864.)