Part 18
Yet, led by some strange chance or fate To-day by ruined altars, Where, strained through clustering ivy leaves, The pitying sunshine falters;
To-morrow where your blue lakes shine, And bloom your English daisies; Or on Helvellyn’s lofty crest The sunset splendor blazes;
Or where deep organ-thunders roll Through grand cathedral arches, And stately Durham’s triple towers Look toward the Scottish marches;
Thus, here and there, we met, nor knew Each other’s name nor mission, The while a subtile kinship grew To silent recognition.
At length where stretched a princely street In long, receding splendor, Down which the golden sunshine threw A radiance warm and tender;
While far above us, frowning, hung A castle old and hoary, Stern on its battlemented heights Renowned in song and story;
And near us, throned in marble state, O’er time and death victorious, _He_ sat, the magic of whose pen Made king and castle glorious—
There, face to face, once more we met, Like leaves in autumn weather, That blown afar by varying winds, Yet drift again together.
A look, a smile, and “Is it thou?” A little low, sweet laughter, Just one close clasp of meeting hands, And then, a moment after,
Between us swept the surging crowd And we were borne asunder. O, friend unknown, in what far land Will we next meet, I wonder?
THE BLIND BIRD’S NEST
“The nest of the blind bird is built by God.”—TURKISH PROVERB.
Thou who dost build the blind bird’s nest, Am I not blind? Each bird that flyeth east or west The track can find.
Each bird that flies from north to south Knows the far way; From mountain’s crest to river’s mouth It does not stray.
Not one in all the lengthening land, In all the sky, Or by the ocean’s silver strand, Is blind as I!
And dost Thou build the blind bird’s nest? Build Thou for me Some shelter where my soul may rest Secure in Thee.
Close clinging to the bending bough, Bind it so fast It shall not loose if high or low Blows the loud blast.
If fierce storms break, and the wild rain Comes pelting in, Cover the shrinking nest, restrain The furious din.
At sultry noontide, when the air Trembles with heat, Draw close the leafy covert where Cool shadows meet.
And when night falleth, dark and chill, Let one fair star, Love’s star all luminous and still, Shine from afar.
Thou who dost build the blind bird’s nest Build Thou for me; So shall my being find its rest Forevermore in Thee.
TWO PATHS
A Path across a meadow fair and sweet, Where clover-blooms the lithesome grasses greet, A path worn smooth by his impetuous feet.
A straight, swift path—and at its end, a star Gleaming behind the lilac’s fragrant bar, And her soft eyes, more luminous by far!
* * * * *
A path across the meadow fair and sweet, Still sweet and fair where blooms and grasses meet— A path worn smooth by his reluctant feet.
A long, straight path—and, at its end, a gate Behind whose bars she doth in silence wait To keep the tryst, if he comes soon or late!
ST. JOHN’S EVE
The veil is thin between The seen and the unseen— Thinner to-night than the transparent air; All heaven and earth are still, Save when from some far hill Floateth the nightbird’s unavailing prayer; Up from the mountain bars Climb the slow, patient stars, Only to faint in moonlight white and rare!
Ere earth had grown too wise To commerce with the skies, On this midsummer night the men of old Believed the dead drew near, Believed that they could hear Voices long silent speaking from the mould, Believed whoever slept Unearthly vigil kept Where his own death-knell should at last be tolled.
In solemn midnight marches Beneath dark forest arches They fancied that their hungry souls found God; His angels clad in light Stole softly through the night, Leaving no impress on the yielding sod, And bore to mortal ears Tidings from other spheres, The undiscovered way no man hath trod.
Ah! what if it were true? Then would I call ye who Have one by one beyond my vision flown; I would set wide the door Ye enter now no more Crying, “Come in from out the void unknown! Come as ye came of old Laden with love untold”— Hark! was that nothing but the night wind’s moan?
A LITTLE SONG
Little song I fain would sing, Why dost thou elude me so? Like a bird upon the wing, Sailing high, sailing low, Yet forever out of reach, Thou dost vex me beyond measure, Unallured by prayer or speech, Waiting thine own time and pleasure!
Well I know thee, tricksy sprite— I could call thee by thy name; I have wooed thee day and night, Yet thou wilt not own my claim. Hark! thou’rt hovering even now In the soft still air above me— Fantasy or dream art thou, That my heart’s cry cannot move thee?
Little song I never sang, Thou art sweeter than the strain That through starry mazes rang, First-born child of joy and pain. I shall sing thee not; but surely From some all-compelling voice Swelling high, serenely, purely, I shall hear thee and rejoice!
THE PRINCES’ CHAMBER
I stood upon Tower Hill, Bright were the skies and gay, Yet a cloud and a sudden chill Passed over the summer day— A thrill, and a nameless dread, As of one who waits alone Where gather the silent dead Under the charnel stone.
For before my shrinking eyes They glided, one by one, The great, the good, the wise, Who here to death were done; Sinners and saints they came With blood-stained garments on, Reckless of praise or blame, Or battles lost or won.
Then over the moat I passed And paused at the Traitors’ Gate; Did I hear a trumpet’s blast, Forerunner of deadly fate? Lo! up the stairs from the river, Where the sombre shadows crept, With none to help or deliver, Kings, queens, and princes swept!
O, some of those royal dames Drooped, with dishevelled hair, And mien of one who claims Close kindred with despair! And some were proud and cold, With eyes that blazed like stars, As under that archway old They passed to their prison-bars.
To prison-bars or death! Fair, hapless Anne Boleyn; That haughty maid, Elizabeth; Northumberland’s pale queen; Margaret Plantagenet, Her gray locks floating wild— How the line lengthens yet, Knight, prelate, statesman, child!
Fiercely the black portcullis Frowned as I onward went; The Bloody Tower is this— Strong tower of dread portent! “Show me the Princes’ Chamber,” To the Yeoman Guard I said; O, the stairs were steep to clamber, And the rough vault dark o’erhead!
No sigh in the sunny room, No moan from the groined roof, No wail of expectant doom Echoed alow, aloof! But instead a mother sang To a child upon her knee, Whose peals of laughter rang Like sweet bells mad with glee.
Sunshine for murky air, Smiles for the sob of pain, Joy for dark despair, Hope where sweet hope was slain! “Art thou happy here,” I cried, “Where once was lonely woe, And the royal children died,— Murdered so long ago?”
She smiled. “O, lady, yes! Earth hath forgotten them; See how my roses press, Blooming on each fair stem! The princes, they sleep sound, But love nor joy are dead; I fear no haunted ground, I have my child,” she said.
WONDERLAND
Wonderland is here and there; Wonderland is everywhere; Fly not then to east or west On some far, uncertain quest.
Seek not India nor Japan, Nor the city Ispahan, Where to-day the shadows brood Over lonely Zendarood.
Somewhere smileth far Cathay Through the long resplendent day; Somewhere, moored in purple seas, Sleep the fair Hesperides.
Somewhere, in vague realms remote Over which strange banners float, Lies, all bathed in silver gleams, The dear Wonderland of dreams.
Yet no need to sail in ships Where the blue sea dips and dips, Nor on wings of cloud to fly Where the haunts of faery lie.
For by miracle of morn Each successive day is born; And wherever shines the sun, There enchanted rivers run!
Would you go to Wonderland? Lo! it lieth close at hand; Wonderland is wheresoe’er Eyes can see and ears can hear!
IN A GALLERY (ANTWERP, 1891)
The Virgin floating on the silver moon; Madonna Mary with her holy child; Pale Christs on shuddering crosses lifted high; Sweet angel faces, bending from the blue; Saints rapt from earth in ecstasy divine, And martyrs all unmindful of their pain; Bold, mail-clad knights; fair ladyes whom they loved; Brown fisher-boys and maidens; harvest-fields, Where patient women toiled; with here and there The glint of summer skies and summer seas, And the red glow of humble, household fires!
Breathless I stood and silent, even as one Who, seeing all, sees nothing. Then a face Down the long gallery drew me as a star; A winsome, beckoning face, with bearded lips Just touched with dawning laughter, and clear eyes That kept their own dear secret, smiling still With a soft challenge. Dark robes lost in shade, Laces at throat and wrist, an ancient chair, And a long, slender hand whose fingers held Loosely a parchment scroll—and that was all. Yet from those high, imperial presences, Those lofty ones uplifted from dear earth With all its loves and longings, back I turned Again and yet again, lured by the smile That called me like a voice, “Come hither, friend!”
“Simon de Vos,” thus saith the catalogue, And “Painted by himself.” Three hundred years Thou hast been dust and ashes. I who write And they who read, we know another world From that thine eyes looked out on. Wouldst thou smile, Even as here thou smilest, if to-day Thou wert still of us? O, thou joyous one, Whose light, half-mocking laughter hath outlived So much earth held more precious, let thy lips Open and answer me! Whence was it born, The radiance of thy tender, sparkling face? What manner of man wert thou? For the books Of the long generations do not tell! Art thou a name, a smile, and nothing more? What dreams and visions hadst thou? Other men Would pose as heroes; would go grandly down To coming ages in the martyr’s _rôle_; Or, if perchance they’re poets, set their woes To wailing music, that the world may count Their heart-throbs in the chanting of a song. Immortal thou, by virtue of one smile!
IN MARBLE PRAYER (CANTERBURY, 1891)
So still, so still they lie As centuries pass by, Their pale hands folded in imploring prayer; They never lift their eyes In sudden, sweet surprise; The wandering winds stir not their heavy hair Forth from their close-sealed lips Nor moan, nor laughter, slips, Nor lightest sigh to wake the entrancèd air!
Yet evermore they pray! We creatures of a day Live, love, and vanish from the gaze of men; Nations arise and fall; Oblivion’s heavy pall Hides kings and princes from all human ken, While these in marble state, From age to age await The rolling thunder of the last amen!
Not in dim crypts alone, Or aisles of fretted stone, Where high cathedral altars gleam afar; And the red light streams down On mitre and on crown, Till each proud jewel blazes like a star; But where the tall grass waves O’er long-forgotten graves, Their silent worship no rude sounds can mar!
Dost Thou not hear and heed? O, in Earth’s utmost need Wilt Thou not hearken, Thou who didst create? Not for themselves they pray Whose woes have passed for aye; For us, for us, before Thy throne they wait! Thou Sovereign Lord of All, On whom they mutely call, Hear Thou and answer from thine high estate!
NOCTURNE
O bird beneath the midnight sky! As on my lonely couch I lie, I hear thee singing in the dark— Why sing not I?
No star-gleams meet thy wakeful eye; No fond mate answers to thy cry; No other voice, through all the dark, Makes sweet reply.
Yet never skylark soaring high Where sunlit clouds rejoicing lie, Sang as thou singest in the dark, Not mute as I!
O lone, sweet spirit! tell me why So far thy ringing love-notes fly, While other birds, hushed by the dark, Are mute as I?
No prophecy of morn is nigh; Yet as the sombre hours glide by, Bravely thou singest in the dark— Why sing not I?
COME WHAT MAY
Come what may— Though what remaineth I may not know, Nor how many times the rose may blow For my delight, or whether the years Shall be set to the chime of falling tears, Or go on their way rejoicing— Yet, come what may, I have had my day!
Come what may— The lurid storm or the sunset peace, The lingering pain or the swift release, Lonely vigils and watchings long, Passionate prayer or soaring song, Or silence deep and golden— Still, come what may, I have had my day!
Come what may, I have known the fiery heart of youth, Its rapturous joy, its bitter ruth; I have felt the thrill of the eager doer, The quick heart-throb of the swift pursuer, The flush of glad possession— And, come what may, I have had my day!
Come what may, I have learned that out of the night is born The mystic flower of the early morn; I have learned that after the frost of pain The lily of peace will bloom again, And the rose of consolation. Then, come what may, I have had my day!
NUREMBERG
Over the wide, tumultuous sea In trancèd hours I dream of thee, Ancient city of song and myth, Whose name is a name to conjure with, And make the heart throb, Nuremberg!
I see thee fair in the white moonlight; The stars are asleep at noon of night, Save one that between St. Lawrence’ spires Kindles aloft its silver fires— A flaming cresset, Nuremberg!
Leaning over thy river’s brim Crowd the red roofs and oriels dim, While under its bridges glide and gleam The rippling waves of a silent stream, Sparkling and darkling, Nuremberg!
Oh, the charm of each haunted street, Ways where Beauty and Duty meet; Sculptured miracles soaring free In temple and mart for all to see, Wherever the light falls, Nuremberg!
Even thy beggars lift their eyes, Finding ever some new surprise; Even thy children pause from play, To hear what thy graven marbles say, Thy myriad voices, Nuremberg!
Other cities for crown and king Wide their glorious banners fling, Lifting high on the azure field Blazoned trophies of sword and shield, That pierce the far skies, Nuremberg!
But thou, O city of old renown, Thou dost painter and sculptor crown; Thou dost give to the poet bays, Immortelles for the deathless lays Chanted for thee, fair Nuremberg!
They are thy Lords of High Degree, Marvels of art who wrought for thee, Toiling on with tireless will Till the wondrous hands in death were still. Being dead, they yet speak, Nuremberg!
They were dust and ashes long ago; Over their graves the sweet winds blow; Yet they are alive whom men call dead— This is thy spell, when all is said; This is thy glory, Nuremberg!
A MATER DOLOROSA