Part 14

But Love’s clear eyes are quick to see; And one fair spring, Hermione. Sitting beneath her mulberry-tree With her young children at her knee, Saw Valdemar from day to day, As one whose thoughts were far away, With folded arms and drooping head Pace the green aisles with silent tread; Saw him stand moodily apart With idle hands and brooding heart, Or gaze at his still forms of clay, Himself as motionless as they! “O Valdemar!” she cried, “you bear Some burden that I do not share! I am your wife, your own true wife; Shut me not out from heart and life! Why brood you thus in silent pain?” As shifts the changing weather-vane, So came the old smile to his face, Saluting her with courtly grace. “Nay, nay, Hermione, not so! No secret, bitter grief I know; But, haunting all my dreams by night And thoughts by day, one vision bright, One nameless wonder, near me stands, Claiming its birthright at my hands. It hath your eyes, Hermione, Your tender lips that smile for me; It hath your perfect, stately grace, The matchless beauty of your face. But it hath more! for never yet On brow of earthly mould was set Such splendor and such light as streams From this rare phantom of my dreams!”

Lightly she turned, and led him through Under the jasmines wet with dew, Into a wide, cool room, shut in From the great city’s whirl and din— Then, smiling, touched a heap of clay. “Dear idler, do thy work, I pray! Thy radiant phantom lieth hid The mould of centuries amid, Waiting till thou shalt bid it rise And live beneath the wondering skies!”

Then rose a hot flush to his cheek; His stammering lips were slow to speak. “Hermione,” he said at length, As one who gathers up his strength, “Hermione, my wife, I go Far from thee on a journey slow And long and perilous; for I know Somewhere upon the earth there is A finer, purer clay than this, From which I’ll mould a shape more fair Than ever breathed in earthly air! I go to seek it!”

“Ah!” she said, With smiling lips, but tearful eyes, Half lifted in a grieved surprise, “How shall I then be comforted? Not always do we find afar The good we seek, my Valdemar! This common, way-side clay thy hand Hath been most potent to command. Yet I—I will not bid thee stay. Go, if thou must, and find thy clay!”

Then his long journeyings began, And still his hope his steps outran. O’er desert sands he came and went; He crossed a mighty continent; Plunged into forests dark and lone; In jungles heard the panther’s moan; Climbed the far mountains’ lofty heights; Watched alien stars through weary nights; While more than once, on trackless seas, His white sails caught the eddying breeze. Yet all his labor was for nought, And never found he what he sought, Or far or near. The finer clay But mocked his eager search alway.

Ofttimes he came, with weary feet, Back to the home so still and sweet Where his fair wife, Hermione, Dwelt with her children at her knee; But never once his eager hand Thrilled the mute clay with high command. One day she spoke: “O Valdemar, Cease from your wanderings wide and far! Life is not long. Why waste it, then, Chasing false fires through marsh and fen? Mould your fair statue while you may; High purpose sanctifies the clay.”

He answered her, “My dream must wait, Fortune will aid me, soon or late! Perhaps the clay I may not find— But a strange tale is in the wind Of an old man whose life has been Shut up wild solitudes within On Alpine mountains. He has found What I have sought the world around. A learnèd, godly man, he knows How the full tide of being flows; And he, in some mysterious way, Makes, if he cannot find, the clay. He will his secret share with me— I go to him, Hermione!”

“But, Valdemar,” she cried, “time flies, And while you dream, the vision dies! And look! Our children suffer lack; There is no coat for Claudio’s back; Theresa’s little feet, unshod, Are torn by shards on which they trod; And Marcius cried but yesterday When the lads mocked him at their play. The very house is crumbling down; The broken hearth-stone needs repair; The roof is open to the air— It wakes the laughter of the town! O Valdemar! if you must go Up to those trackless fields of snow, Mould first from yonder common clay Something to keep the wolf away— A Virgin for some humble shrine, A soldier clad in armor fine, Or even such toys as Andrefels To laughing, wondering children sells.”

“Now murmur not, Hermione, But be thou patient,” answered he. “Why mind the laughter of the town? It cannot shake my fair renown! A touch of hardship, now and then, Will never harm our little men; And as for this old, crumbling roof, Let rude winds put it to the proof, And fierce heats gnaw the hearth-stone! I Surely the Land of Promise spy, Where the fair vision of my dreams, Clothed in transcendent beauty, gleams! In its white hand it holdeth up For us, my love, a brimming cup Where wealth and fame and joy divine Mingle in life’s most sparkling wine. Bid me God-speed, Hermione, And kiss me, ere I go from thee!”

So on he sped, from day to day— Past wheat-fields yellowing in the sun, Where scarlet-coated poppies run, Gay soldiers ready for the fray— Past vineyards purpling on the hills, Past sleeping lakes and dancing rills, And homes like dovecotes nestling high Midway between the earth and sky! Then on he passed through valleys dim Crowded with shadows gaunt and grim, Up towering heights whence glaciers launch Their swift-winged ships for seaward flight, Or where, dread messenger of fright, Sweeps down the awful avalanche! And still upon the mountain side To every man he met he cried, “Where shall I find, oh! tell me where, The hermit of this upper air, Who Nature’s inmost secret knows?” And, pointing to the eternal snows, Each man replied, with wagging head, “Up yonder, somewhere, it is said.”

At length one day, as sank the sun, He reached a low hut, dark and dun, And, entering unbidden, found An old man stretched upon the ground: A white-haired, venerable man, Whose eyes had hardly light to scan The face that, blanched with awful fear, Bent down, his failing breath to hear. “_Pax vobiscum_” he murmured low, “Shrive me, O brother, ere I go!”

“No priest am I,” cried Valdemar. “Alas! alas! I came from far To learn thy secret of the clay— Speak to me, sire, while yet you may!” But while he wet the parchèd lips, The dull eyes closed in death’s eclipse; And the old seer in silence lay, Himself a thing of pallid clay, With all his secrets closely hid As Ramses’ in the pyramid.

Long time within that lonely place Valdemar lived, but found no trace In learnèd book or parchment scroll (The ink scarce dry upon the roll) Of aught the stars had taught to him. Within the wide horizon’s rim, Nor earth, nor sky, nor winds at play, Knew the lost secret of the clay.

Then sought he, after journeyings hard, The holy monks of St. Bernard. But they—ah, yes!—they knew him well, A man not ruled by book and bell. Godly, perhaps—but much inclined Some newer road to heaven to find. And was he dead? God rest his soul, After this life of toil and dole!

And that was all! O Valdemar! Fly to thy desolate home afar, Where wasted, worn, Hermione, With her pale children at her knee, Beside the broken hearth-stone weeps!

He finds her, smiling as she sleeps, For night more tender is than day, And softly wipes our tears away. “Oh, wake, Hermione!” he cries, As one whose spirit inly dies; “Hear me confess that I have been False to thee in my pride and sin! God give me grace from this blest day To do His work in common clay! ”

Next morn, in humble, sweet content, Into his studio he went, Eager to test his willing hand, And rule the clay with wise command. But no fair wonder first he wrought, No marvel of creative thought, Not even a Virgin for a shrine, Or soldier clad in armor fine— Only such toys as Andrefels To laughing, wondering children sells!

One day he knelt him gravely down Beside the hearth-stone, rent and brown. “And now, my patient wife,” said he, “What can be done with this, we’ll see.” With straining arm and crimsoned face He pried the mortar from its place, Lifted the heavy stone aside, And left a cavern yawning wide. Oh, wondrous tale! At set of sun The guerdon of his search was won; And where his broken hearth-stone lay He found at last the perfect clay!

JUBILATE!

Jubilate! Jubilate! Christ the Lord is risen to-day! Hear the mighty chorus swelling Over land and over sea! River calls aloud to river, Mountain peak to mountain peak— Jubilate! Jubilate! Christ the Lord is risen to-day!

Waken, roses, from your slumbers! Lilies, wake—for he is near! Happy bells in wild-wood arches, Ring and swing in sweet accord! Lift your voices, O ye maples, Sing aloud, ye stately pines, Jubilate! Jubilate! Christ the Lord is risen to-day!

O thou goddess of the springtime, Fair Ostera, thou art dead! Never more shall priests and vestals Weave fresh garlands for thy shrine; But the happy voices ringing Over land and over sea, Swell the mighty jubilate— “Christ the Lord is risen to-day!”

EASTER LILIES

O ye dear and blessed ones who are done with sighing, Do the Easter Lilies blow for you to-day? Do the shining angels, through Heaven’s arches flying, Bear the snow-white blossoms on your breasts to lay?

For we cannot reach you, O our well belovèd— Nothing can we do for you save to hold you dear; From our close embraces ye are far removèd, And our empty yearnings cannot bring you near.

Once on Easter mornings glad we gave you greeting— Gave you fair flowers, singing, “Christ is risen to-day!” Hands were clasped together, hearts and lips were meeting— Earth and we together sang a roundelay!

Now—yet why repine we?—ye are done with sorrow; Life and Lent are over, with their prayers and tears; After night of watching came the glad to-morrow, Came the blessed sunshine of the eternal years.

Surely in Jerusalem, where the Lord Christ reigneth, Ye with saints and martyrs keep this festal day— And the holy angels, ere its glory waneth, Heaven’s own Easter Lilies on your breasts shall lay!

“O WIND THAT BLOWS OUT OF THE WEST”

O wind that blows out of the West, Thou hast swept over mountain and sea, Dost thou bear on thy swift, glad wings The breath of my love to me? Hast thou kissed her warm, sweet lips? Or tangled her soft brown hair? Or fluttered the fragrant heart Of the rose she loves to wear?

O sun that goes down in the West, Hast thou seen my love to-day, As she sits in her beautiful prime Under skies so far away? Hast thou gilded a path for her feet, Or deepened the glow on her cheeks, Or bent from the skies to hear The low, sweet words she speaks?

O stars that are bright in the West When the hush of the night is deep, Do ye see my love as she lies Like a chaste, white flower asleep? Does she smile as she walks with me In the light of a happy dream, While the night winds rustle the leaves, And the light waves ripple and gleam?

O birds that fly out of the West, Do ye bring me a message from her, As sweet as your love-notes are, When the warm spring breezes stir? Did she whisper a word of me As your tremulous wings swept by, Or utter my name, mayhap, In a single passionate cry?

O voices out of the West, Ye are silent every one, And never an answer comes From wind, or stars, or sun! And the blithe birds come and go Through the boundless fields of space, As reckless of human prayers As if earth were a desert place!

A SUMMER SONG

Roly-poly honey-bee, Humming in the clover, Under you the tossing leaves, And the blue sky over, Why are you so busy, pray? Never still a minute, Hovering now above a flower, Now half-buried in it!

Jaunty robin-redbreast, Singing loud and cheerly, From the pink-white apple tree In the morning early, Tell me, is your merry song Just for your own pleasure, Poured from such a tiny throat, Without stint or measure?

Little yellow buttercup, By the way-side smiling, Lifting up your happy face, With such sweet beguiling, Why are you so gayly clad— Cloth of gold your raiment? Do the sunshine and the dew Look to you for payment?

Roses in the garden beds, Lilies, cool and saintly, Darling blue-eyed violets, Pansies, hooded quaintly, Sweet-peas that, like butterflies, Dance the bright skies under, Bloom ye for your own delight, Or for ours, I wonder!

THE URN

Across the blue Atlantic waves She sent a little gift to me: A golden urn—a graceful toy As one need care to see.

Smiling, I held it in my hand, Thinking her message o’er and o’er, Nor dreamed her swift feet pressed so near The undiscovered shore.

Oh! had it been a funeral urn— The gift my darling sent to me With loving thoughts and tender words Across the heaving sea—

A funeral urn which might have held Her sacred ashes, sealed in rest Utter as that which holds in thrall Some pulseless marble breast!

Where drifts she now? On what far seas Floateth to-day her golden hair? What stars behold her pale hands, clasped In ecstasy of prayer?

Forever in this thought of mine, Like the fair Lady of Shalott, She drifteth, drifteth with the tide, But never comes to Camelot!

THE PARSON’S DAUGHTER

“What, ho!” he cried, as up and down He rode through the streets of Windham town— “What, ho! for the day of peace is done, And the day of wrath too well begun! Bring forth the grain from your barns and mills; Drive down the cattle from off your hills; For Boston lieth in sore distress, Pallid with hunger and long duress: Her children starve, while she hears the beat And the tramp of the red-coats in every street!”

“What, ho! What, ho!” Like a storm unspent, Over the hill-sides he came and went; And Parson White, from his open door Leaning bareheaded that August day, While the sun beat down on his temples gray, Watched him until he could see no more. Then straight he strode to the church, and flung His whole soul into the peal he rung; Pulling the bell-rope till the tower Seemed to rock in the sudden shower—

The shower of sound the farmers heard, Rending the air like a living word! Then swift they gathered with right good-will From field and anvil and shop and mill, To hear what the parson had to say That would not keep till the Sabbath-day. For only the women and children knew The tale of the horsemen galloping through— The message he bore as up and down He rode through the streets of Windham town.

That night, as the parson sat at ease In the porch, with his Bible on his knees, (Thanking God that at break of day Frederic Manning would take his way, With cattle and sheep from off the hills, And a load of grain from the barns and mills, To the starving city where General Gage Waited unholy war to wage), His little daughter beside him stood, Hiding her face in her muslin hood.

In her arms her own pet lamb she bore, As it struggled down to the oaken floor: “It must go; I must give my lamb,” she said, “To the children that cry for meat and bread,” Then lifted to his her holy eyes, Wet with the tears of sacrifice. “Nay, nay,” he answered. “There is no need That the hearts of babes should ache and bleed. Run away to your bed, and to-morrow play, You and your pet, through the livelong day.”

He laid his hand on her shining hair, And smiled as he blessed her, standing there, With kerchief folded across her breast, And her small brown hands together pressed, A quaint little maiden, shy and sweet, With her lambkin crouched at her dainty feet. Away to its place the lamb she led, Then climbed the stairs to her own white bed, While the moon rose up and the stars looked down On the silent streets of Windham town.

But when the heralds of morning came, Flushing the east with rosy flame, With low of cattle and scurry of feet, Driving his herd down the village street, Young Manning heard from a low stone wall A child’s voice clearly yet softly call; And saw in the gray dusk standing there A little maiden with shining hair, While crowding close to her tender side Was a snow-white lamb to her apron tied.

“Oh, wait!” she cried, “for my lamb must go To the children crying in want and woe. It is all I have.” And her tears fell fast As she gave it one eager kiss—the last. “The road will be long to its feet. I pray Let your arms be its bed a part of the way; And give it cool water and tender grass Whenever a way-side brook you pass.” Then away she flew like a startled deer, Nor waited the bleat of her lamb to hear.

Young Manning lifted his steel-blue eyes One moment up to the morning skies; Then, raising the lamb to his breast, he strode Sturdily down the lengthening road. “Now God be my helper,” he cried, “and lead Me safe with my charge to the souls in need! Through fire and flood, through dearth and dole, Though foes assail me and war-clouds roll, To the city in want and woe that lies I will bear this lamb as a sacrifice.”

MARCH FOURTH 1881-1882

One year ago the plaudits of the crowd, The drum’s long thunder and the bugle’s blare, The bell’s gay clamor, pealing clear and loud, And rapturous music filling all the air;

One year ago, on roofs and domes and spires, Ten thousand banners bursting into bloom As the proud day advanced its golden fires, And all the crowding centuries gave it room;

One year ago the laurel and the palm, The upward path, the height undimmed and far, And in the clear, strong light, serene and calm, One high, pure spirit, shining like a star!

To-day—for loud acclaims the long lament; For shouts of triumph, tears that fall like rain; A world remembering, with anguish rent, Thy long, unmurmuring martyrdom of pain!

The year moves on; the seasons come and go; Day follows day, and pale stars rise and set; Oh! in yon radiant heaven dost thou know The land that loved thee never can forget?

It doth not swerve—it keeps its onward way, Unfaltering still, from farthest sea to sea; Yet, while it owns another’s rightful sway, It patient grows and strong, remembering thee!

ROY

Our Prince has gone to his inheritance! Think it not strange. What if, with slight half-smile, Some crownèd king to leave his throne should chance, And try the rough ways of the world awhile?

Ere he had wearied of its storm and stress, Would he not hasten to his own again? Why should he bear its labor and duress, And all the untold burden of its pain?

Or what if from the golden palace gate The king’s fair son on some bright morn should stray? Would he not send his lords of high estate To lead him back ere fell the close of day?

Even so our King from Heaven’s high portals saw The fair young Prince where earth’s dull shades advance, And sent his messengers of love and law To bear him home to his inheritance!

THE PAINTER’S PRAYER “NEC ME PRÆTERMITTAS, DOMINE!”

(An incident in the painting of Holman Hunt’s “Light of the World.”)

“Nay,” he said, “it is not done! At to-morrow’s set of sun Come again, if you would see What the finished thought may be.” Straight they went. The heavy door On its hinges swung once more, As within the studio dim Eye and heart took heed of Him!

How the Presence filled the room, Brightening all its dusky gloom! Saints and martyrs turned their eyes From the hills of Paradise; Rapt in holy ecstasy, Mary smiled her Son to see, Letting all her lilies fall At His feet—the Lord of all!

But the painter bowed his head, Lost in wonder and in dread, And as at a holy shrine Knelt before the form divine. All had passed—the pride, the power, Of the soul’s creative hour— Exaltation’s soaring flight To the spirit’s loftiest height.

Had he dared to paint the Lord? Dared to paint the Christ, the Word? Ah, the folly! Ah, the sin! Ah, the shame his soul within! Saints might turn on him their eyes From the hills of Paradise, But the painter could not brook On that pictured face to look.

Yet the form was grand and fair, Fit to move a world to prayer; God like in its strength and stress, Human in its tenderness. From it streamed the Light divine, O’er it drooped the heavenly vine, And beneath the bending spray Stood the Life, the Truth, the Way!

Suddenly with eager hold, Back he swept the curtain’s fold, Letting all the sunset glow O’er the living canvas flow. Surely then the wondrous eyes Met his own in tenderest wise, And the Lord Christ, half revealed, Smiled upon him as he kneeled!

Trembling, throbbing, quick as thought, Up he brush and palette caught, And where deepest shade was thrown Set one sign for God alone! Years have passed—but, even yet, Where the massive frame is set You may find these words: “_Nec me Prætermittas, Domine!_”

“Neither pass me by, O Lord!” Christ, the Life, the Light, the Word, Low we bow before thy feet, Thy remembrance to entreat! In our soul’s most secret place, For no eye but thine to trace, Lo! this prayer we write: “_Nec me Prætermittas, Domine!_”

FROM EXILE PARIS, SEPTEMBER 3, 1879

(_A Mother speaks_)

Ah, dear God, when will it be day? I cannot sleep, I cannot pray. Tossing, I watch the silent stars Mount up from the horizon bars: Orion with his flaming sword, Proud chieftain of the glorious horde; Auriga up the lofty arch Pursuing still his stately march— So patient and so calm are they. Ah, dear God! when will it be day?

O Mary, Mother! Hark! I hear A cock crow through the silence clear! The dawn’s faint crimson streaks the east, And, afar off, I catch the least Low murmur of the city’s stir As she shakes off the dreams of her! List! there’s a sound of hurrying feet Far down below me in the street. Thank God! the weary night is past, The morning comes—’tis day at last.