Part 5

The place again-- The wooded heights--the widening plain-- The whispering pines--the dry-leaved oaks, too young To cast their dead dreams ere the new be sprung!

What profits it Alone on this prone slope to sit Where thou didst press the heath,--and see how dun The landscape seems, lit only by the sun?

Yet, ah! not vain To visit thy fair haunts again-- To trace thy footsteps by the upturned stone, And conjure back thy looks, thy words, thy tone!

Like music fine That simple seeming speech of thine Hath in it soft harmonics, only heard When from the memory fades the uttered word.

And to mine eyes Undazzled by thyself, doth rise An image lovelier and more like to thee Than even thy bodily self which sight can see.

Ah! The wind shakes The withered leaves, and Love awakes, And to the vacant landscape cries in vain: “Ah, heaven! to have her at my side again!”

LOVE LIES BLEEDING.

THE OUTCAST.

Thou wilt come back again, but not for me, Fair little face! Thou wilt come back, but, ah! I may not see That day of grace.

No sword is at the Eden’s gate I leave; But viewless hands Have thrust me into endless night, to grieve In loveless lands.

Thou wilt come back: thy footsteps make the spring, And birds sing round; But I, in wilderness wandering, Shall hear no sound;

Save as far off the traveller athirst In desert lands, Hears waters that he may not reach, accursed In endless sands.

LOVE LIES BLEEDING.

AUF WIEDERSEHEN!

SUMMER.

The little gate was reached at last, Half hid in lilacs down the lane; She pushed it wide, and, as she past, A wistful look she backward cast, And said,--“_Auf wiedersehen!_”

With hand on latch, a vision white Lingered reluctant, and again Half doubting if she did aright, Soft as the dews that fell that night, She said,--“_Auf wiedersehen!_”

The lamp’s clear gleam flits up the stair; I linger in delicious pain; Ah, in that chamber, whose rich air To breathe in thought I scarcely dare, Thinks she,--“_Auf wiedersehen!_”

’Tis thirteen years; once more I press The turf that silences the lane; I hear the rustle of her dress, I smell the lilacs, and--ah, yes, I hear “_Auf wiedersehen!_”

Sweet piece of bashful maiden art! The English words had seemed too fain, But these--they drew us heart to heart, Yet held us tenderly apart; She said,--“_Auf wiedersehen!_”

PALINODE.

AUTUMN.

Still thirteen years: ’tis autumn now On field and hill, in heart and brain; The naked trees at evening sough; The leaf to the forsaken bough Sighs not,--“We meet again!”

Two watched yon oriole’s pendent dome, That now is void, and dank with rain, And one,--O, hope more frail than foam! The bird to his deserted home Sings not,--“We meet again!”

The loath gate swings with rusty creak; Once, parting there, we played at pain; There came a parting, when the weak And fading lips essayed to speak Vainly,--“We meet again!”

Somewhere is comfort, somewhere faith, Though thou in outer dark remain; One sweet sad voice ennobles death, And still for eighteen centuries saith Softly,--“Ye meet again!”

If earth another grave must bear, Yet heaven hath won a sweeter strain, And something whispers my despair, That, from an orient chamber there, Floats down, “We meet again!”

JAMES RUSSELL LOWELL.

SEQUEL TO “MY QUEEN.”

Yes, but the years run circling fleeter, Ever they pass me--I watch, I wait-- Ever I dream, and awake to meet her; She cometh never, or comes too late.

Should I press on? for the day grows shorter-- Ought I to linger? the far end nears; Ever ahead have I looked, and sought her On the bright sky-line of the gathering years.

Now that the shadows are eastward sloping, As I screen mine eyes from the slanting sun, Cometh a thought--It is past all hoping, Look not ahead, she is missed and gone.

Here on the ridge of my upward travel Ere the life-line dips to the darkening vales, Sadly I turn, and would fain unravel The entangled maze of a search that fails.

When and where have I seen and passed her? What are the words I forgot to say? Should we have met had a boat rowed faster? Should we have loved had I stayed that day?

Was it her face that I saw, and started, Gliding away in a train that crossed? Was it a form that I once, faint-hearted, Followed awhile in a crowd, and lost?

Was it there she lived, when the train went sweeping Under the moon through the landscape hushed? Somebody called me, I woke from sleeping, Saw but a hamlet--and on we rushed.

Listen and linger--She yet may find me In the last faint flush of the waning light-- Never a step on the path behind me; I must journey alone, to the lonely night.

But is there somewhere on earth, I wonder, A fading figure, with eyes that wait, Who says, as she stands in the distance yonder, “He cometh never, or comes too late”?

SIR ALFRED LYALL.

IF ...?

So you but love me, be it your own way, In your own time, no sooner than you will, No warmer than you would from day to day, But love me still!

Each day that still you love me seems to me A little fairer than the day before; For, daily given, love’s least must daily be A little more.

And be my most gain’d your least given, if such Your sweet will be! I reckon not the cost, Nor count the gain, by little or by much, Or least or most.

Little or much, to me the gift I crave Is all in all. There is not any measure Of more or less can gauge the need I have Of that dear treasure.

So you but love me, tho’ your love be cold, Mine it can chill not. Tho’ your love come late, Mine for its coming, by sweet dreams foretold, Will dreaming wait.

Yet ah, if some fair chance, before I die, One hour of waking life might let me live, Rich with the dream’d-of dear reality ’Tis yours to give!

Your whole sweet self, with your sweet self’s whole love! Those eyes of fire and dew, those lips wish-haunted, Those feet whose steps like elfin music move Thro’ worlds enchanted!

Your whole sweet self! The unutter’d thoughts that stir Your lonest musings with light wings unheard, And feelings that find no interpreter In deed or word!

Your whole sweet self, that till by love reveal’d Even to yourself still half unknown must be! For of the wealth in souls like yours conceal’d Love keeps the key.

Ah, if your whole sweet self, by all the power Of your sweet self’s whole love in some divine Far distant hour made wholly yours, that hour Made wholly mine,

And if in that blest hour all dreams came true, All doubts dissolved, all fears were whirl’d away In one wild storm of tendernesses new As time’s first day,

What should we both be? Hush! I do not dare Even to hear my own heart’s whisper utter’d. Be its sole answerer the silent air This sigh has flutter’d!

ROBERT, LORD LYTTON.

OMENS AND ORACLES.

All the phantoms of the future, all the spectres of the past, In the wakeful night came round me, sighing, crying, “Fool, beware! Check the feeling o’er thee stealing! Let thy first love be thy last! Or, if love again thou must, at least this fatal love forbear!” _Marah Amara!_

Now the dark breaks. Now the lark wakes. Now their voices fleet away. And the breeze about the blossom, and the ripple in the reed, And the beams and buds and birds begin to whisper, sing, or say, “Love her, love her, for she loves thee!” And I know not which to heed. _Cara Amara!_

ROBERT, LORD LYTTON.

THE GARDEN OF MEMORY.

There is a certain garden where I know That flowers flourish in a poet’s spring, Where aye young birds their amorous matins sing, And never ill wind comes, nor any snow.

But if you wonder where so fair a show, Where such eternal pleasure may be seen, I say, my memory keeps that garden green, Wherein I loved my first love long ago.

JUSTIN HUNTLY MCCARTHY.

IF I WERE A MONK, AND THOU WERT A NUN.

If I were a monk, and thou wert a nun, Pacing it wearily, wearily, From chapel to cell till day were done Wearily, wearily, Oh! how would it be with these hearts of ours, That need the sunshine and smiles and flowers?

To prayer, to prayer, at the matins’ call, Morning foul or fair; Such prayer as from lifeless lips may fall-- Words, but hardly prayer; Vainly trying the thoughts to raise Which in the sunshine would burst in praise.

Thou, in the glory of cloudless noon, The God revealing, Turning thy face from the boundless boon, Painfully kneeling; Or in thy chamber’s still solitude, Bending thy head o’er the legend rude.

I, in a cool and lonely nook, Gloomily, gloomily, Poring over some musty book Thoughtfully, thoughtfully; Or on the parchment margin unrolled, Painting quaint pictures in purple and gold.

Perchance in slow procession to meet, Wearily, wearily; In an antique, narrow, high-gabled street, Wearily, wearily; Thy dark eyes lifted to mine, and then Heavily sinking to earth again.

Sunshine and air! warmness and spring! Merrily, merrily! Back to its cell each weary thing, Wearily, wearily! And the heart so withered and dry and old, Most at home in the cloister cold.

Thou on thy knees at the vespers’ call, Wearily, wearily; I looking up on the darkening wall, Wearily, wearily; The chime so sweet to the boat at sea, Listless and dead to thee and me!

Then to the lone couch at death of day, Wearily, wearily; Rising at midnight again to pray Wearily, wearily; And if through the dark those eyes looked in, Sending them far as a thought of sin.

And then when thy spirit was passing away, Dreamily, dreamily; The earth-born dwelling returning to clay, Sleepily, sleepily; Over thee held the crucified Best, But no warm face to thy cold cheek pressed.

And when my spirit was passing away, Dreamily, dreamily; The gray head lying ’mong ashes gray Sleepily, sleepily; No hovering angel-woman above Waiting to clasp me in deathless love.

But now, beloved, thy hand in mine, Peacefully, peacefully; My arm around thee, my lips on thine, Lovingly, lovingly,-- Oh! is not a better thing to us given Than wearily going alone to heaven?

GEORGE MACDONALD.

A BALLADE OF COLOURS.

She went with morning down the wood Between the green and blue; The sunlight on the grass was good, And all the year was new.

There Love came o’er the flowers to her, A goodly sight to see From crownèd hair to wing-feather; “Arise and come with me.”

She walked with him in Paradise Between the white and red, With Love’s own kiss between her eyes, Love’s crown upon her head.

Why two in heaven should not be thus For ever, who may know? Love spread his wings most glorious; “Arise,” he said, “I go.”

She came and sate down silently Between the gray and gray; The wet wind beat the leafless tree, And Love was gone away.

The woodland breaks to flower anew, The days bring back the year; But how am I to comfort you, My dear, my dear, my dear?

J. W. MACKAIL.

MY AMAZON.

I.

My Love is a lady fair and free, A lady fair from over the sea, And she hath eyes that pierce my breast And rob my spirit of peace and rest.

II.

A youthful warrior, warm and young, She takes me prisoner with her tongue; Aye! and she keeps me--on parole-- Till paid the ransom of my soul.

III.

I swear the foeman, arm’d for war From _cap-à-pie_, with many a scar, More mercy finds for prostrate foe Than she who deals me never a blow.

IV.

And so ’twill be, this many a day; She comes to wound, if not to slay. But in my dreams--in honeyed sleep-- ’Tis I to smile, and she to weep!

ERIC MACKAY.

CHANGED LOVE.

When did the change come, dearest Heart of mine, Whom Love loves so? When did Love’s moon less brightly seem to shine, While to and fro, And soft and slow, Chill winds began to move in its decline?

When did the change come, thou who wast mine own? When heard the rose First far-off winds begin to moan, At sunset’s close, When sad Love goes About the autumn woods to brood alone?

When did the change come in thy heart, sweetheart,-- Thy heart so dear to me? In what thing did I fail to bear my part,-- My part to thee, Whose deity My soul confesses, and how fair thou art?

Alas for poor changed Love! We cannot say What changes Love. My love would not suffice to make your day Now gladly move, Though kisses strove With answering kisses, in Love’s sweetest way.

But though I know you changed, right well I know That should we meet, Deep in your heart some love for me would glow; Though not that heat Which made it beat So fast with joy two years--_one_ year ago.

PHILIP BOURKE MARSTON.

SUMMER’S RETURN.

Once more I walk mid summer days, as one Returning to the place where first he met The face that he till death may not forget; I know the scent of roses just begun, And how at evening and at morn the sun Falls on the places that remember yet What feet last year within their bounds were set, And what sweet things were said and dreamt and done. The sultry silence of the summer night Recalls to me the loved voice far away; Oh, surely I shall see some early day, In places that last year with love were bright, The face of her I love, and hear the low, Sweet troubled music of the voice I know.

PHILIP BOURKE MARSTON.

MINE.

In that tranced hush when sound sank awed to rest, Ere from her spirit’s rose-red, rose-sweet gate Came forth to me her royal word of fate, Did she sigh “Yes,” and droop upon my breast, While round our rapture, dumb, fixed, unexpressed By the seized senses, there did fluctuate The plaintive surges of our mortal state, Tempering the poignant ecstasy too blest.

Do I wake into a dream, or have we twain, Lured by soft wiles to some unconscious crime, Dared joys forbid to man? Oh, Light supreme, Upon our brows transfiguring glory rain, Nor let the sword of thy just angel gleam On two who entered heaven before their time!

WESTLAND MARSTON.

AUBADE.

When fair Hyperion dons his night attire, Purple and silver, and his eyes with sleep Go trembling, and the lids a-kissing keep, And up he wings the plains of heaven the higher The starry meadows all uncurl and creep With twinkling shoots that tremble out and leap From buds into a blossoming of fire.

When Spring, with primrose fillet round her brows, Drifts on the dawn into the hyacinth west, And flings fresh handfuls hoarded in her nest Of tasty flowers, to Flora making vows, The snow leaps down the mountain-side, and, press’d With weight of leaves, the earth at happiest, Rills into rivers thick from blossom-boughs.

When Liris comes sometime at break of day To take the vervain garlands from the door, I’ve hung there fresh with dew an hour before, And chances with soft eyes to look my way, My heart brims out with love, and crowding o’er, The passion-songs and rhythms spring and pour, As storms in June, or blossom-boughs in May.

THEO. MARZIALS.

THE PHIAL AND THE PHILTRE.

My lady has a casket cut In scarlet coral, crimson-red; Like Cupid’s bow, to keep it shut, Two pouting locks are tightenèd, In cunning curvings chisellèd.

Some mighty wizard it did make, So strong that nothing can undo; And if you thence would treasure take, You press your lips the clasping to; The magic word’s “_I love but you!_”

You’ll find a row of pearls within, As pure as scarce come from the sea, And set the rose and crimson in, Twinkling with sweetest symmetry,-- I trow most beautiful to see!

And eke the clasp ’s so cunning wrought, That as it opens, treble clear, There comes a music, glib befraught, Like silver lutes, that to the ear As sweet love-ditties do appear.

And there within, as peach and rose, And pine and plum, most savoury choice, Elixirs sweet my Lady stows, To make the saddest heart rejoice, Or passionate the poet’s voice.

A rich soul-philtre, that to sip I swear must be to drain it dry, And never take away your lip Till time has toll’d your time to die, Yet dying, love eternally.

THEO. MARZIALS.

NOT I, SWEET SOUL, NOT I.

All glorious as the Rainbow’s birth, She came in Springtide’s golden hours; When Heaven went hand-in-hand with Earth, And May was crowned with buds and flowers. The mounting devil at my heart Clomb faintlier, as my life did win The charmèd heaven she wrought apart, To wake its better Angel in. With radiant mien she trode serene, And passed me smiling by! Oh! who that looked could help but love? Not I, sweet soul, not I.

The dewy eyelids of the Dawn Ne’er oped such heaven as hers did show: It seemed her dear eyes might have shone As jewels in some starry brow. Her face flashed glory like a shrine Of lily-bell with sunburst bright, Where came and went love-thoughts divine, As low winds walk the leaves in light: She wore her beauty with the grace Of Summer’s star-clad sky; Oh! who that looked could help but love? Not I, sweet soul, not I.

Her budding breasts like fragrant fruit Of love were ripening to be pressed: Her voice, that shook my heart’s red root, Might not have broken a Babe’s rest,-- More liquid than the running brooks, More vernal than the voice of Spring, When Nightingales are in their nooks, And all the leafy thickets ring. The love she coyly hid at heart Was shyly conscious in her eye; Oh! who that looked could help but love? Not I, sweet soul, not I.

GERALD MASSEY.

AT DINNER SHE IS HOSTESS.

At dinner she is hostess, I am host. Went the feast ever cheerfuller? She keeps The topic over intellectual deeps In buoyancy afloat. They see no ghost. With sparkling surface-eyes we ply the ball. It is in truth a most contagious game: HIDING THE SKELETON shall be its name. Such play as this the devils might appall! But here’s the greater wonder; in that we, Enamoured of our acting and our wits, Admire each other like true hypocrites. Warm lighted glances, Love’s Ephemeræ, Shoot gaily o’er the dishes and the wine. We waken envy of our happy lot. Fast, sweet, and golden, shows our marriage-knot. Dear guests, you now have seen Love’s corpse-light shine!

GEORGE MEREDITH.

LOVE WITHIN THE LOVER’S BREAST.

Love within the lover’s breast Burns like Hesper in the West, O’er the ashes of the sun, Till the day and night are done; Then, when dawn drives up his car-- Lo! it is the morning star.

Love! thy love pours down on mine, As the sunlight on the vine, As the snow rill on the vale, As the salt breeze on the sail; As the song unto the bird On my lips thy name is heard.

As a dewdrop on the rose In thy heart my passion glows; As a skylark to the sky, Up into thy breast I fly; As a sea-shell of the sea Ever shall I sing of thee.

GEORGE MEREDITH.

A DEAD MARCH.

Play me a march low-toned and slow,--a march for a silent tread, Fit for the wandering feet of one who dreams of the silent dead, Lonely, between the bones below and the souls that are overhead.

Here for a while they smiled and sang, alive in the interspace, Here with the grass beneath the foot, and the stars above the face, Now are their feet beneath the grass, and whither has flown their grace?

Who shall assure us whence they come or tell us the way they go? Verily, life with them was joy, and now they have left us, woe. Once they were not, and now they are not, and this is the sum we know.

Orderly range the seasons due, and orderly roll the stars. How shall we deem the soldier brave who frets of his wounds and scars? Are we as senseless brutes that we should dash at the well-seen bars?

No, we are here with feet unfixed, but ever as if with lead Drawn from the orbs which shine above to the orb on which we tread, Down to the dust from which we came and with which we shall mingle dead.

No, we are here to wait and work, and strain our banished eyes, Weary and sick of soil and toil, and hungry and fain for skies Far from the reach of wingless men and not to be scaled with cries.

Why do we mourn the days that go,--for the same sun shines each day, Ever a spring her primrose hath, and ever a May her may,-- Sweet as the rose that died last year, is the rose that is born to-day.

Do we not too return, we men, as ever the round earth whirls? Never a head is dimmed with gray but another is sunned with curls. She was a girl and he was a boy, but yet there are boys and girls.

Ah, but alas for the smile of smiles that never but one face wore! Ah, for the voice that has flown away like a bird to an unseen shore! Ah, for the face--the flower of flowers--that blossoms on earth no more!

COSMO MONKHOUSE.

FAIR STAR THAT ON THE SHOULDER OF YON HILL.

Fair star that on the shoulder of yon hill Peepest, a little eye of tranquil night, Come forth. Nor sun nor moon there is to kill Thy ray with broader light. Shine, star of eve that art so bright and clear; Shine, little star, and bring my lover here.

My lover! oh, fair word for maid to hear! My lover who was yesterday my friend! Oh, strange we did not know before how near Our stream of life smoothed to its fated end! Shine, star of eve, as Love’s self bright and clear; Shine, little star, and bring my lover here.

He comes! I hear the echo of his feet. He comes! I fear to stay, I cannot go. O Love, that thou art shame-fast, bitter-sweet; Mingled with pain, and conversant with woe! Shine, star of eve, more bright as night draws near; Shine, little star, and bring my lover here.

LEWIS MORRIS.

THY SHADOW, O TARDY NIGHT.

Thy shadow, O tardy night, Creeps onward by valley and hill, And scarce to my streaming sight Show the white road-reaches still. O night, stay now a little, little space, And let me see the light of my beloved’s face!

My love is late, O night, And what has kept him away? For I know that he takes not delight In the garish joys of day. Haste, night, dear night, that bring’st my love to me! What if his footsteps halt and tarry but for thee!