Chapter 3

Naked I wait Thy love’s uplifted stroke! My harness piece by piece Thou hast hewn from me, And smitten me to my knee; I am defenceless utterly, I slept, methinks, and woke, And, slowly gazing, find me stripped in sleep. In the rash lustihead of my young powers, I shook the pillaring hours And pulled my life upon me; grimed with smears, I stand amid the dust o’ the mounded years— My mangled youth lies dead beneath the heap. My days have crackled and gone up in smoke, Have puffed and burst as sun-starts on a stream. Yea, faileth now even dream The dreamer, and the lute the lutanist; Even the linked fantasies, in whose blossomy twist I swung the earth a trinket at my wrist, Are yielding; cords of all too weak account For earth with heavy griefs so overplussed. Ah! is Thy love indeed A weed, albeit an amaranthine weed, Suffering no flowers except its own to mount? Ah! must— Designer infinite!— Ah! must Thou char the wood ere Thou canst limn with it? My freshness spent its wavering shower i’ the dust; And now my heart is as a broken fount, Wherein tear-drippings stagnate, spilt down ever From the dank thoughts that shiver Upon the sighful branches of my mind. Such is; what is to be? The pulp so bitter, how shall taste the rind? I dimly guess what Time in mists confounds; Yet ever and anon a trumpet sounds From the hid battlements of Eternity, Those shaken mists a space unsettle, then Round the half-glimpsèd turrets slowly wash again; But not ere him who summoneth I first have seen, enwound With grooming robes purpureal, cypress-crowned; His name I know, and what his trumpet saith. Whether man’s heart or life it be which yields Thee harvest, must Thy harvest fields Be dunged with rotten death? Now of that long pursuit Comes on at hand the bruit; That Voice is round me like a bursting sea: “And is thy earth so marred, Shattered in shard on shard? Lo, all things fly thee, for thou fliest Me!

“Strange, piteous, futile thing! Wherefore should any set thee love apart? Seeing none but I makes much of naught” (He said), “And human love needs human meriting: How hast thou merited— Of all man’s clotted clay the dingiest clot? Alack, thou knowest not How little worthy of any love thou art! Whom wilt thou find to love ignoble thee, Save Me, save only Me? All which I took from thee I did but take, Not for thy harms, But just that thou might’st seek it in My arms. All which thy child’s mistake Fancies as lost, I have stored for thee at home: Rise, clasp My hand, and come.”

Halts by me that footfall: Is my gloom, after all, Shade of His hand, outstretched caressingly? “Ah, fondest, blindest, weakest, I am He Whom thou seekest! Thou dravest love from thee, who dravest Me.”

A JUDGMENT IN HEAVEN. {55}

ATHWART the sod which is treading for God * the poet paced with his splendid eyes; Paradise-verdure he stately passes * to win to the Father of Paradise, Through the conscious and palpitant grasses * of inter-tangled relucent dyes.

The angels a-play on its fields of Summer * (their wild wings rustled his guides’ cymars) Looked up from disport at the passing comer, * as they pelted each other with handfuls of stars; And the warden-spirits with startled feet rose, * hand on sword, by their tethered cars.

With plumes night-tinctured englobed and cinctured, * of Saints, his guided steps held on To where on the far crystálline pale * of that transtellar Heaven there shone The immutable crocean dawn * effusing from the Father’s Throne.

Through the reverberant Eden-ways * the bruit of his great advent driven, Back from the fulgent justle and press * with mighty echoing so was given, As when the surly thunder smites * upon the clangèd gates of Heaven.

Over the bickering gonfalons, * far-ranged as for Tartarean wars, Went a waver of ribbèd fire *—as night-seas on phosphoric bars Like a flame-plumed fan shake slowly out * their ridgy reach of crumbling stars.

At length to where on His fretted Throne * sat in the heart of His aged dominions The great Triune, and Mary nigh, * lit round with spears of their hauberked minions, The poet drew, in the thunderous blue * involvèd dread of those mounted pinions.

As in a secret and tenebrous cloud * the watcher from the disquiet earth At momentary intervals * beholds from its raggèd rifts break forth The flash of a golden perturbation, * the travelling threat of a witchèd birth;

Till heavily parts a sinister chasm, * a grisly jaw, whose verges soon, Slowly and ominously filled * by the on-coming plenilune, Supportlessly congest with fire, * and suddenly spit forth the moon:—

With beauty, not terror, through tangled error * of night-dipt plumes so burned their charge; Swayed and parted the globing clusters * so,—disclosed from their kindling marge, Roseal-chapleted, splendent-vestured, * the singer there where God’s light lay large.

Hu, hu! a wonder! a wonder! see, * clasping the singer’s glories clings A dingy creature, even to laughter * cloaked and clad in patchwork things, Shrinking close from the unused glows * of the seraphs’ versicoloured wings.

A rhymer, rhyming a futile rhyme, * he had crept for convoy through Eden-ways Into the shade of the poet’s glory, * darkened under his prevalent rays, Fearfully hoping a distant welcome * as a poor kinsman of his lays.

The angels laughed with a lovely scorning: *—“Who has done this sorry deed in The garden of our Father, God? * ’mid his blossoms to sow this weed in? Never our fingers knew this stuff: * not so fashion the looms of Eden!”

The singer bowed his brow majestic, * searching that patchwork through and through, Feeling God’s lucent gazes traverse * his singing-stoling and spirit too: The hallowed harpers were fain to frown * on the strange thing come ’mid their sacred crew, Only the singer that was earth * his fellow-earth and his own self knew.

But the poet rent off robe and wreath, * so as a sloughing serpent doth, Laid them at the rhymer’s feet, * shed down wreath and raiment both, Stood in a dim and shamèd stole, * like the tattered wing of a musty moth.

“Thou gav’st the weed and wreath of song, * the weed and wreath are solely Thine, And this dishonest vesture * is the only vesture that is mine; The life _I_ textured, Thou the song *—_my_ handicraft is not divine!”

He wrested o’er the rhymer’s head * that garmenting which wrought him wrong; A flickering tissue argentine * down dripped its shivering silvers long:— “Better thou wov’st thy woof of life * than thou didst weave thy woof of song!”

Never a chief in Saintdom was, * but turned him from the Poet then; Never an eye looked mild on him * ’mid all the angel myriads ten, Save sinless Mary, and sinful Mary *—the Mary titled Magdalen.

“Turn yon robe,” spake Magdalen, * “of torn bright song, and see and feel.” They turned the raiment, saw and felt * what their turning did reveal— All the inner surface piled * with bloodied hairs, like hairs of steel.

“Take, I pray, yon chaplet up, * thrown down ruddied from his head.” They took the roseal chaplet up, * and they stood astonishèd: Every leaf between their fingers, * as they bruised it, burst and bled.

“See his torn flesh through those rents; * see the punctures round his hair, As if the chaplet-flowers had driven * deep roots in to nourish there— Lord, who gav’st him robe and wreath, * _what_ was this Thou gav’st for wear?”

“Fetch forth the Paradisal garb!” * spake the Father, sweet and low; Drew them both by the frightened hand * where Mary’s throne made irised bow— “Take, Princess Mary, of thy good grace, * two spirits greater than they know.”

* * * * *

EPILOGUE.

VIRTUE may unlock hell, or even A sin turn in the wards of Heaven, (As ethics of the text-book go), So little men their own deeds know, Or through the intricate _mêlée_ Guess whitherward draws the battle-sway; So little, if they know the deed, Discern what therefrom shall succeed. To wisest moralists ’tis but given To work rough border-law of Heaven, Within this narrow life of ours, These marches ’twixt delimitless Powers. Is it, if Heaven the future showed, Is it the all-severest mode To see ourselves with the eyes of God? God rather grant, at His assize, He see us not with our own eyes!

Heaven, which man’s generations draws Nor deviates into replicas, Must of as deep diversity In judgment as creation be. There is no expeditious road To pack and label men for God, And save them by the barrel-load. Some may perchance, with strange surprise, Have blundered into Paradise. In vasty dusk of life abroad, They fondly thought to err from God, Nor knew the circle that they trod; And wandering all the night about, Found them at morn where they set out. Death dawned; Heaven lay in prospect wide:— Lo! they were standing by His side!

The rhymer a life uncomplex, With just such cares as mortals vex, So simply felt as all men feel, Lived purely out to his soul’s weal. A double life the Poet lived, And with a double burthen grieved; The life of flesh and life of song, The pangs to both lives that belong; Immortal knew and mortal pain, Who in two worlds could lose and gain. And found immortal fruits must be Mortal through his mortality. The life of flesh and life of song! If one life worked the other wrong, What expiating agony May for him damned to poesy Shut in that little sentence be— What deep austerities of strife— “He lived his life.” He lived _his_ life!

Poems on Children.

DAISY.

WHERE the thistle lifts a purple crown Six foot out of the turf, And the harebell shakes on the windy hill— O the breath of the distant surf!—

The hills look over on the South, And southward dreams the sea; And, with the sea-breeze hand in hand, Came innocence and she.

Where ’mid the gorse the raspberry Red for the gatherer springs, Two children did we stray and talk Wise, idle, childish things.

She listened with big-lipped surprise, Breast-deep mid flower and spine: Her skin was like a grape, whose veins Run snow instead of wine.

She knew not those sweet words she spake, Nor knew her own sweet way; But there’s never a bird, so sweet a song Thronged in whose throat that day!

Oh, there were flowers in Storrington On the turf and on the spray; But the sweetest flower on Sussex hills Was the Daisy-flower that day!

Her beauty smoothed earth’s furrowed face! She gave me tokens three:— A look, a word of her winsome mouth, And a wild raspberry.

A berry red, a guileless look, A still word,—strings of sand! And yet they made my wild, wild heart Fly down to her little hand.

For standing artless as the air, And candid as the skies, She took the berries with her hand, And the love with her sweet eyes.

The fairest things have fleetest end: Their scent survives their close, But the rose’s scent is bitterness To him that loved the rose!

She looked a little wistfully, Then went her sunshine way:— The sea’s eye had a mist on it, And the leaves fell from the day.

She went her unremembering way, She went and left in me The pang of all the partings gone, And partings yet to be.

She left me marvelling why my soul Was sad that she was glad; At all the sadness in the sweet, The sweetness in the sad.

Still, still I seemed to see her, still Look up with soft replies, And take the berries with her hand, And the love with her lovely eyes.

Nothing begins, and nothing ends, That is not paid with moan; For we are born in other’s pain, And perish in our own.

THE MAKING OF VIOLA.

I.

_The Father of Heaven_.

Spin, daughter Mary, spin, Twirl your wheel with silver din; Spin, daughter Mary, spin, Spin a tress for Viola.

_Angels_.

Spin, Queen Mary, a Brown tress for Viola!

II.

_The Father of Heaven_.

Weave, hands angelical, Weave a woof of flesh to pall— Weave, hands angelical— Flesh to pall our Viola.

_Angels_.

Weave, singing brothers, a Velvet flesh for Viola!

III.

_The Father of Heaven_.

Scoop, young Jesus, for her eyes, Wood-browned pools of Paradise— Young Jesus, for the eyes, For the eyes of Viola.

_Angels_.

Tint, Prince Jesus, a Duskèd eye for Viola!

IV.

_The Father of Heaven_.

Cast a star therein to drown, Like a torch in cavern brown, Sink a burning star to drown Whelmed in eyes of Viola.

_Angels_.

Lave, Prince Jesus, a Star in eyes of Viola!

V.

_The Father of Heaven_.

Breathe, Lord Paraclete, To a bubbled crystal meet— Breathe, Lord Paraclete— Crystal soul for Viola.

_Angels_.

Breathe, Regal Spirit, a Flashing soul for Viola!

VI.

_The Father of Heaven_.

Child-angels, from your wings Fall the roseal hoverings, Child-angels, from your wings, On the cheeks of Viola.

_Angels_.

Linger, rosy reflex, a Quenchless stain, on Viola!

_All things being accomplished_, _saith the Father of Heaven_.

Bear her down, and bearing, sing, Bear her down on spyless wing, Bear her down, and bearing, sing, With a sound of viola.

_Angels_.

Music as her name is, a Sweet sound of Viola!

VIII.

Wheeling angels, past espial, Danced her down with sound of viol; Wheeling angels, past espial, Descanting on “Viola.”

Angels.

Sing, in our footing, a Lovely lilt of “Viola!”

IX.

Baby smiled, mother wailed, Earthward while the sweetling sailed; Mother smiled, baby wailed, When to earth came Viola.

And her elders shall say:—

So soon have we taught you a Way to weep, poor Viola!

X.

Smile, sweet baby, smile, For you will have weeping-while; Native in your Heaven is smile,— But your weeping, Viola?

Whence your smiles we know, but ah? Whence your weeping, Viola?— Our first gift to you is a Gift of tears, my Viola!

TO MY GODCHILD FRANCIS M. W. M.

THIS labouring, vast, Tellurian galleon, Riding at anchor off the orient sun, Had broken its cable, and stood out to space Down some frore Arctic of the aërial ways: And now, back warping from the inclement main, Its vaporous shroudage drenched with icy rain, It swung into its azure roads again; When, floated on the prosperous sun-gale, you Lit, a white halcyon auspice, ’mid our frozen crew.

To the Sun, stranger, surely you belong, Giver of golden days and golden song; Nor is it by an all-unhappy plan You bear the name of me, his constant Magian. Yet ah! from any other that it came, Lest fated to my fate you be, as to my name. When at the first those tidings did they bring, My heart turned troubled at the ominous thing: Though well may such a title him endower, For whom a poet’s prayer implores a poet’s power. The Assisian, who kept plighted faith to three, To Song, to Sanctitude, and Poverty, (In two alone of whom most singers prove A fatal faithfulness of during love!); He the sweet Sales, of whom we scarcely ken How God he could love more, he so loved men; The crown and crowned of Laura and Italy; And Fletcher’s fellow—from these, and not from me, Take you your name, and take your legacy!

Or, if a right successive you declare When worms, for ivies, intertwine my hair, Take but this Poesy that now followeth My clayey hest with sullen servile breath, Made then your happy freedman by testating death. My song I do but hold for you in trust, I ask you but to blossom from my dust. When you have compassed all weak I began, Diviner poet, and ah! diviner man; The man at feud with the perduring child In you before song’s altar nobly reconciled; From the wise heavens I half shall smile to see How little a world, which owned you, needed me. If, while you keep the vigils of the night, For your wild tears make darkness all too bright, Some lone orb through your lonely window peeps, As it played lover over your sweet sleeps; Think it a golden crevice in the sky, Which I have pierced but to behold you by!

And when, immortal mortal, droops your head, And you, the child of deathless song, are dead; Then, as you search with unaccustomed glance The ranks of Paradise for my countenance, Turn not your tread along the Uranian sod Among the bearded counsellors of God; For if in Eden as on earth are we, I sure shall keep a younger company: Pass where beneath their rangèd gonfalons The starry cohorts shake their shielded suns, The dreadful mass of their enridgèd spears; Pass where majestical the eternal peers, The stately choice of the great Saintdom, meet— A silvern segregation, globed complete In sandalled shadow of the Triune feet; Pass by where wait, young poet-wayfarer, Your cousined clusters, emulous to share With you the roseal lightnings burning ’mid their hair; Pass the crystalline sea, the Lampads seven:— Look for me in the nurseries of Heaven.

THE POPPY. TO MONICA.

SUMMER set lip to earth’s bosom bare. And left the flushed print in a poppy there: Like a yawn of fire from the grass it came, And the fanning wind puffed it to flapping flame.

With burnt mouth red like a lion’s it drank The blood of the sun as he slaughtered sank, And dipped its cup in the purpurate shine When the eastern conduits ran with wine.

Till it grew lethargied with fierce bliss, And hot as a swinked gipsy is, And drowsed in sleepy savageries, With mouth wide a-pout for a sultry kiss.

A child and man paced side by side, Treading the skirts of eventide; But between the clasp of his hand and hers Lay, felt not, twenty withered years.

She turned, with the rout of her dusk South hair, And saw the sleeping gipsy there; And snatched and snapped it in swift child’s whim, With—“Keep it, long as you live!”—to him.

And his smile, as nymphs from their laving meres, Trembled up from a bath of tears; And joy, like a mew sea-rocked apart, Tossed on the wave of his troubled heart.

For _he_ saw what she did not see, That—as kindled by its own fervency— The verge shrivelled inward smoulderingly:

And suddenly ’twixt his hand and hers He knew the twenty withered years— No flower, but twenty shrivelled years.

“Was never such thing until this hour,” Low to his heart he said; “the flower Of sleep brings wakening to me, And of oblivion memory.”

“Was never this thing to me,” he said, “Though with bruisèd poppies my feet are red!” And again to his own heart very low: “O child! I love, for I love and know;

“But you, who love nor know at all The diverse chambers in Love’s guest-hall, Where some rise early, few sit long: In how differing accents hear the throng His great Pentecostal tongue;

“Who know not love from amity, Nor my reported self from me; A fair fit gift is this, meseems, You give—this withering flower of dreams.

“O frankly fickle, and fickly true, Do you know what the days will do to you? To your Love and you what the days will do, O frankly fickle, and fickly true?

“You have loved me, Fair, three lives—or days: ’Twill pass with the passing of my face. But where _I_ go, your face goes too, To watch lest I play false to you.

“I am but, my sweet, your foster-lover, Knowing well when certain years are over You vanish from me to another; Yet I know, and love, like the foster-mother.

“So, frankly fickle, and fickly true! For my brief life—while I take from you This token, fair and fit, meseems, For me—this withering flower of dreams.”

* * * * * * *

The sleep-flower sways in the wheat its head, Heavy with dreams, as that with bread: The goodly grain and the sun-flushed sleeper The reaper reaps, and Time the reaper.

I hang ’mid men my needless head, And my fruit is dreams, as theirs is bread: The goodly men and the sun-hazed sleeper Time shall reap, but after the reaper The world shall glean of me, me the sleeper!

Love! love! your flower of withered dream In leavèd rhyme lies safe, I deem, Sheltered and shut in a nook of rhyme, From the reaper man, and his reaper Time.

Love! _I_ fall into the claws of Time: But lasts within a leavèd rhyme All that the world of me esteems— My withered dreams, my withered dreams.

TO MONICA THOUGHT DYING.

YOU, O the piteous you! Who all the long night through Anticipatedly Disclose yourself to me Already in the ways Beyond our human comfortable days; How can you deem what Death Impitiably saith To me, who listening wake For your poor sake? When a grown woman dies You know we think unceasingly What things she said, how sweet, how wise; And these do make our misery. But you were (you to me The dead anticipatedly!) You—eleven years, was’t not, or so?— Were just a child, you know; And so you never said Things sweet immeditatably and wise To interdict from closure my wet eyes: But foolish things, my dead, my dead! Little and laughable, Your age that fitted well. And was it such things all unmemorable, Was it such things could make Me sob all night for your implacable sake?

Yet, as you said to me, In pretty make-believe of revelry, So the night long said Death With his magniloquent breath; (And that remembered laughter Which in our daily uses followed after, Was all untuned to pity and to awe): “_A cup of chocolate_, _One farthing is the rate_, _You drink it through a straw_.”