Part 5

The sound is in my ears of mountain streams! I cannot close my lids but some grey rent Of wildered rock, some water’s clear descent In shattering crystal, pine-trees soft as dreams Waving perpetually, the sudden gleams Of remote sea, a dear surprise of flowers, Some grace or wonder of to-day’s long hours Straightway possesses the moved sense, which teems With fantasy unbid. O fair, large day! The unpractised sense brings heavings from a sea Of life too broad, and yet the billows range, The elusive footing glides. Come, Sleep, allay The trouble with thy heaviest balms, and change These pulsing visions to still Memory.

V. ON THE SEA-CLIFF

(_In Ireland_)

Ruins of a church with its miraculous well, O’er which the Christ, a squat-limbed dwarf of stone, Great-eyed, and huddled on his cross, has known The sea-mists and the sunshine, stars that fell And stars that rose, fierce winter’s chronicle, And centuries of dead summers. From his throne Fronting the dawn the elf has ruled alone, And saved this region fair from pagan hell. Turn! June’s great joy abroad; each bird, flower, stream Loves life, loves love; wide ocean amorously Spreads to the sun’s embrace; the dulse-weeds sway, The glad gulls are afloat. Grey Christ to-day Our ban on thee! Rise, let the white breasts gleam, Unvanquished Venus of the northern sea!

VI. ASCETIC NATURE

(_In Ireland_)

Passion and song, and the adornèd hours Of floral loveliness, hopes grown most sweet, And generous patience in the ripening heat, A mother’s bosom, a bride’s face of flowers --Knows Nature aught so fair? Witness ye Powers Which rule the virgin heart of this retreat To rarer issues, ye who render meet Earth, purged and pure, for gracious heavenly dowers! The luminous pale lake, the pearl-grey sky, The wave that gravely murmurs meek desires, The abashed yet lit expectance of the whole, --These and their beauty speak of earthly fires Long quenched, clear aims, deliberate sanctity,-- O’er the white forehead lo! the aureole.

VII. RELICS

(_In Switzerland_)

What relic of the dear, dead yesterday Shall my heart keep? The visionary light Of dawn? Alas! it is a thing too bright, God does not give such memories away. Nor choose I one fair flower of those that sway To the chill breathing of the waterfall In rocky angles black with scattering spray, Fair though no sunbeam lays its coronal Of light on their pale brows; nor glacier-gleam I choose, nor eve’s red glamour; ’twas at noon Resting I found this speedwell, while a stream, That knew the immemorial inland croon, Sang in my ears, and lulled me to a dream Of English meadows, and one perfect June.

VIII. ON THE PIER OF BOULOGNE

(_A Reminiscence of 1870_)

A venal singer to a thrumming note Chanted the civic war-song, that red flower Of melody seized in a sudden hour By frenzied winds of change, and borne afloat A live light in the storm; and now by rote To a cold crowd, while vague and sad the tide Loomed after sunset and the grey gulls cried, The verses quavered from a hireling throat. Wherefore should English eyes their right forbear, Or droop for smitten France? let the tossed sou, Before they turn, be quittance for the stare. O Lady, who, clear-voiced, with impulse true To lift that cry “_To Arms!_” alone would dare, My heart received a golden alms from you!

IX. DOVER

(_In a Field_)

A joy has met me on this English ground I looked not for. O gladness, fields still green! Listen,--the going of a murmurous sound Along the corn; there is not to be seen In all the land a single pilèd sheaf Or line of grain new-fallen, and not a tree Has felt as yet within its lightest leaf The year’s despair; nay, Summer saves for me Her bright, late flowers. O my Summer-time Named low as lost, I turn, and find you here-- Where else but in our blessed English clime That lingers o’er the sweet days of the year, Days of long dreaming under spacious skies Ere melancholy winds of Autumn rise.

AN AUTUMN SONG

Long Autumn rain; White mists which choke the vale, and blot the sides Of the bewildered hills; in all the plain No field agleam where the gold pageant was, And silent o’er a tangle of drenched grass The blackbird glides.

In the heart,--fire, Fire and clear air and cries of water-springs, And large, pure winds; all April’s quick desire, All June’s possession; a most fearless Earth Drinking great ardours; and the rapturous birth Of wingèd things.

BURDENS

Are sorrows hard to bear,--the ruin Of flowers, the rotting of red fruit, A love’s decease, a life’s undoing, And summer slain, and song-birds mute, And skies of snow and bitter air? These things, you deem, are hard to bear.

But ah, the burden, the delight Of dreadful joys! Noon opening wide, Golden and great; the gulfs of night, Fair deaths, and rent veils cast aside, Strong soul to strong soul rendered up, And silence filling like a cup.

SONG

(From “’Tis Pity she’s a Queen.”--A.D. 1610.)

ACT IV. SCENE 2.

_The_ LADY MARGARET, _with_ SUSAN _and_ LUCY; LADY M. _at her embroidery frame, singing_.

Girls, when I am gone away, On this bosom strew Only flowers meek and pale, And the yew.

Lay these hands down by my side, Let my face be bare; Bind a kerchief round the face, Smooth my hair.

Let my bier be borne at dawn, Summer grows so sweet, Deep into the forest green Where boughs meet.

Then pass away, and let me lie One long, warm, sweet day There alone with face upturn’d, One sweet day.

While the morning light grows broad, While noon sleepeth sound, While the evening falls and faints, While the world goes round.

_Susan._ Whence had you this song, lady?

_L. Mar._ Out of the air; From no one an it be not from the wind That goes at noonday in the sycamore trees. --When said the tardy page he would return?

_Susan._ By twelve, upon this very hour.

_L. Mar._ Look now, The sand falls down the glass with even pace, The shadows lie like yesterday’s. Nothing Is wrong with the world. You are a part of it,-- I stand within a magic circle charm’d From reach of anything, shut in from you, Leagues from my needle, and this frame I touch, Waiting till doomsday come-- [_Knocking heard_] The messenger! Quick, I will wait you here, and hold my heart Ready for death, or too much ravishment.

[_Exeunt both Girls._]

How the little sand-hill slides and slides; how many Red grains would drop while a man’s keen knife drawn Across one’s heart let the red life out?

_Susan._ [_returning_] Lady!

_L. Mar._ I know it by your eyes. O do not fear To tell all punctually: I am carved of stone.

BY THE WINDOW

Still deep into the West I gazed; the light Clear, spiritual, tranquil as a bird Wide-winged that soars on the smooth gale and sleeps, Was it from sun far-set or moon unrisen? Whether from moon, or sun, or angel’s face It held my heart from motion, stayed my blood, Betrayed each rising thought to quiet death Along the blind charm’d way to nothingness, Lull’d the last nerve that ached. It was a sky Made for a man to waste his will upon, To be received as wiser than all toil, And much more fair. And what was strife of men? And what was time?

Then came a certain thing. Are intimations for the elected soul Dubious, obscure, of unauthentic power Since ghostly to the intellectual eye, Shapeless to thinking? Nay, but are not we Servile to words and an usurping brain, Infidels of our own high mysteries, Until the senses thicken and lose the world, Until the imprisoned soul forgets to see, And spreads blind fingers forth to reach the day, Which once drank light, and fed on angels’ food?

It happened swiftly, came and straight was gone. One standing on some aery balcony And looking down upon a swarming crowd Sees one man beckon to him with finger-tip While eyes meet eyes; he turns and looks again-- The man is lost, and the crowd sways and swarms. Shall such an one say “Thus ’tis proved a dream, And no hand beckoned, no eyes met my own?” Neither can I say this. There was a hint, A thrill, a summons faint yet absolute, Which ran across the West; the sky was touch’d, And failed not to respond. Does a hand pass Lightly across your hair? you feel it pass Not half so heavy as a cobweb’s weight, Although you never stir; so felt the sky Not unaware of the Presence, so my soul Scarce less aware. And if I cannot say The meaning and monition, words are weak Which will not paint the small wing of a moth, Nor bear a subtile odour to the brain, And much less serve the soul in her large needs. I cannot tell the meaning, but a change Was wrought in me; it was not the one man Who come to the luminous window to gaze forth, And who moved back into the darkened room With awe upon his heart and tender hope; From some deep well of life tears rose; the throng Of dusty cares, hopes, pleasures, prides fell off, And from a sacred solitude I gazed Deep, deep into the liquid eyes of Life.

SUNSETS

Did your eyes watch the mystic sunset splendours Through evenings of old summers, slow of parting,-- Wistful while loveliest gains and fair surrenders Hallow’d the West,--till tremulous tears came starting?

Did your soul wing her way on noiseless pinion Through lucid fields of air, and penetrated With light and silence roam the wide dominion Where Day and Dusk embrace,--serene, unmated?

And they are past the shining hours and tender, And snows are fallen between, and winds are driven? Nay, for I find across your face the splendour, And in your wings the central winds of heaven.

They reach me, those lost sunsets. Undivining Your own high mysteries you pause and ponder; See, in my eyes the vanished light is shining, Feel, through what spaces of clear heaven I wander!

OASIS

Let them go by--the heats, the doubts, the strife; I can sit here and care not for them now, Dreaming beside the glimmering wave of life Once more,--I know not how.

There is a murmur in my heart, I hear Faint, O so faint, some air I used to sing; It stirs my sense; and odours dim and dear The meadow-breezes bring.

Just this way did the quiet twilights fade Over the fields and happy homes of men, While one bird sang as now, piercing the shade, Long since,--I know not when.

FOREIGN SPEECH

Ah, do not tell me what they mean, The tremulous brook, the scarcely stirred June leaves, the hum of things unseen, This sovran bird.

Do they say things so deep, and rare, And perfect? I can only tell That they are happy, and can bear Such ignorance well;

Feeding on all things said and sung From hour to hour in this high wood Articulate in a strange, sweet tongue Not understood.

IN THE TWILIGHT

A noise of swarming thoughts, A muster of dim cares, a foil’d intent, With plots and plans, and counterplans and plots; And thus along the city’s edges grey Unmindful of the darkening autumn day With a droop’d head I went.

My face rose,--through what spell?-- Not hoping anything from twilight dumb: One star possessed her heaven. Oh! all grew well Because of thee, and thy serene estate: Silence ... I let thy beauty make me great; What though the black night come.

THE INNER LIFE

I. A DISCIPLE

Master, they argued fast concerning Thee, Proved what Thou art, denied what Thou art not, Till brows were on the fret, and eyes grew hot, And lip and chin were thrust out eagerly; Then through the temple-door I slipped to free My soul from secret ache in solitude, And sought this brook, and by the brookside stood The world’s Light, and the Light and Life of me. It is enough, O Master, speak no word! The stream speaks, and the endurance of the sky Outpasses speech: I seek not to discern Even what smiles for me Thy lips have stirred; Only in Thy hand still let my hand lie, And let the musing soul within me burn.

II. THEISTS

Who needs God most? That man whose pulses play With fullest life-blood; he whose foot dare climb To Joy’s high limit, solitude sublime Under a sky whose splendour sure must slay If Godless; he who owns the sovereign sway Of that small inner voice and still, what time His whole life urges toward one blissful crime, And Hell confuses Heaven, and night, the day. It is he whose faithfulness of love puts by Time’s anodyne, and that gross palliative, A Stoic pride, and bears all humanly; He whose soul grows one long desire to give Measureless gifts; ah! let _him_ quickly die Unless he lift frail hands to God and live.

III. SEEKING GOD

I said “I will find God,” and forth I went To seek Him in the clearness of the sky, But over me stood unendurably Only a pitiless, sapphire firmament Ringing the world,--blank splendour; yet intent Still to find God, “I will go and seek,” said I, “His way upon the waters,” and drew nigh An ocean marge weed-strewn and foam-besprent; And the waves dashed on idle sand and stone, And very vacant was the long, blue sea; But in the evening as I sat alone, My window open to the vanishing day, Dear God! I could not choose but kneel and pray And it sufficed that I was found of Thee.

IV. DARWINISM IN MORALS

High instincts, dim previsions, sacred fears, --Whence issuing? Are they but the brain’s amassed Tradition, shapings of a barbarous past, Remoulded ever by the younger years, Mixed with fresh clay, and kneaded with new tears? No more? The dead chief’s ghost a shadow cast Across the roving clan, and thence at last Comes God, who in the soul His law uprears? Is this the whole? Has not the Future powers To match the Past,--attractions, pulsings, tides, And voices for purged ears? Is all our light The glow of ancient sunsets and lost hours? Advance no banners up heaven’s eastern sides? Trembles the margin with no portent bright?

V. AWAKENING

With brain o’erworn, with heart a summer clod, With eye so practised in each form around,-- And all forms mean,--to glance above the ground Irks it, each day of many days we plod, Tongue-tied and deaf, along life’s common road. But suddenly, we know not how, a sound Of living streams, an odour, a flower crowned With dew, a lark upspringing from the sod, And we awake. O joy and deep amaze! Beneath the everlasting hills we stand, We hear the voices of the morning seas, And earnest prophesyings in the land, While from the open heaven leans forth at gaze The encompassing great cloud of witnesses.

VI. FISHERS

We by no shining Galilean lake Have toiled, but long and little fruitfully In waves of a more old and bitter sea Our nets we cast; large winds, that sleep and wake Around the feet of Dawn and Sunset, make Our spiritual inhuman company, And formless shadows of water rise and flee All night around us till the morning break. Thus our lives wear--shall it be ever thus? Some idle day, when least we look for grace, Shall we see stand upon the shore indeed The visible Master, and the Lord of us, And leave our nets, nor question of His creed, Following the Christ within a young man’s face?

VII. COMMUNION

Lord, I have knelt and tried to pray to-night, But Thy love came upon me like a sleep, And all desire died out; upon the deep Of Thy mere love I lay, each thought in light Dissolving like the sunset clouds, at rest Each tremulous wish, and my strength weakness, sweet As a sick boy with soon o’erwearied feet Finds, yielding him unto his mother’s breast To weep for weakness there. I could not pray, But with closed eyes I felt Thy bosom’s love Beating toward mine, and then I would not move Till of itself the joy should pass away; At last my heart found voice,--“Take me, O Lord, And do with me according to Thy word.”

VIII. A SONNET FOR THE TIMES

What! weeping? Had ye your Christ yesterday, Close wound in linen, made your own by tears, Kisses, and pounds of myrrh, the sepulchre’s Mere stone most venerable? And now ye say “No man hath seen Him, He is borne away We wot not where.” And so, with many a sigh, Watching the linen clothes and napkin lie, Ye choose about the grave’s sad mouth to stay. Blind hearts! Why seek the living amongst the dead? Better than carols for the babe new-born The shining young men’s speech “He is not here;” Why question where the feet lay, where the head? Come forth; bright o’er the world breaks Easter morn, He is arisen, Victor o’er grief and fear.

IX. EMMAUSWARD

Lord Christ, if Thou art with us and these eyes Are holden, while we go sadly and say “We hoped it had been He, and now to-day Is the third day, and hope within us dies,” Bear with us, O our Master, Thou art wise And knowest our foolishness; we do not pray “Declare Thyself, since weary grows the way And faith’s new burden hard upon us lies.” Nay, choose Thy time; but ah! whoe’er Thou art Leave us not; where have we heard any voice Like Thine? Our hearts burn in us as we go; Stay with us; break our bread; so, for our part Ere darkness falls haply we may rejoice, Haply when day has been far spent may know.

X. A FAREWELL

Thou movest from us; we shall see Thy face No more. Ah, look below these troubled eyes, This woman’s heart in us that faints and dies, Trust not our faltering lips, our sad amaze; Glance some time downward from Thy golden place, And know how we rejoice. It is meet, is wise; High tasks are Thine, surrenders, victories, Communings pure, mysterious works and ways. Leave us: how should we keep Thee in these blown Grey fields, or soil with earth a Master’s feet? Nor deem us comfortless: have we not known Thee once, for ever. Friend, the pain is sweet Seeing Thy completeness to have grown complete, Thy gift it is that we can walk alone.

XI. DELIVERANCE

I prayed to be delivered, O true God, Not from the foes that compass us about,-- Them I might combat; not from any doubt That wrings the soul; not from Thy bitter rod Smiting the conscience; not from plagues abroad, Nor my strong inward lusts; nor from the rout Of worldly men, the scourge, the spit, the flout, And the whole dolorous way the Master trod. All these would rouse the life that lurks within, Would save or slay; these things might be defied Or strenuously endured; yea, pressed by sin The soul is stung with sudden, visiting gleams; Leave these, if Thou but scatter, Lord, I cried, The counterfeiting shadows and vain dreams.

XII. PARADISE LOST

O would you read that Hebrew legend true Look deep into the little children’s eyes, Who walk with naked souls in Paradise, And know not shame; who, with miraculous dew To keep the garden ever fair and new, Want not our sobbing rains in their blue skies. Among the trees God moves, and o’er them rise All night in deeper heavens great stars to view. Ah, how we wept when through the gate we came! What boots it to look back? The world is ours, Come, we will fare, my brothers, boldly forth; Let that dread Angel wave the sword of flame Forever idly round relinquished bowers-- Leave Eden there; we will subdue the earth.

THE RESTING PLACE

How all things transitory, all things vain Desert me! Whither am I sinking slow On the prone wing, to what predestined home, What peace beyond all peace, what ultimate joy? Nay, cease from questioning, care not to know, Let bliss dissolve each thought, all function cease, Fold close the wing, let the soft-flowing light Permeate, and merely once uplift drooped lids To mark the world remote, the abandoned shore, Fretted with much vain pleasure, futile pain, Far, far.

The deepening peace! a dawn of essences Awful and incommunicably dear! Grace opening into grace, joy quenching joy! Thy waves and billows have gone over me Blissful and calm, and still the dreams drop off, And true things grow more true, and larger orbs The strong salvation which has seized my soul.

The stream of the attraction draws me on Toward some centre; all will quickly end, All be attained. The sweetness of repose And this swift motion slay the consciousness Of being, and bind up the will in sleep. Silence and light accept my soul--I touch.... Is it death’s centre or the breast of God?

NEW HYMNS FOR SOLITUDE

I

I come to Thee not asking aught; I crave No gift of Thine, no grace; Yet where the suppliants enter let me have Within Thy courts a place.

My hands, my heart contain no offering; Thy name I would not bless With lips untouched by altar-fire; I bring Only my weariness.

These are the children, frequent in Thy home; Grant, Lord, to each his share; Then turn, and merely gaze on me, who come To lay my spirit bare.

II

Yet one more step--no flight The weary soul can bear-- Into a whiter light, Into a hush more rare.

Take me, I am all Thine, Thine now, not seeking Thee,-- Hid in the secret shrine, Lost in the shoreless sea.

Grant to the prostrate soul Prostration new and sweet, Make weak the weak, control Thy creature at Thy feet.

Passive I lie: shine down, Pierce through the will with straight Swift beams, one after one, Divide, disintegrate,

Free me from self,--resume My place, and be Thou there; Yet also keep me. Come Thou Saviour and Thou Slayer!

III

Nothing remains to say to Thee, O Lord, I am confessed, All my lips’ empty crying Thou hast heard, My unrest, my rest. Why wait I any longer? Thou dost stay, And therefore, Lord, I would not go away.

Let me be at Thy feet a little space, Forget me here; I will not touch Thy hand, nor seek Thy face, Only be near, And this hour let Thy nearness feed the heart, And when Thou goest I also will depart.

Then when Thou seekest Thy way, and I, mine Let the World be Not wide and cold after this cherishing shrine Illum’d by Thee, Nay, but worth worship, fair, a radiant star, Tender and strong as Thy chief angels are.

Yet bid me not go forth: I cannot now Take hold on joy, Nor sing the swift, glad song, nor bind my brow; Her wise employ Be mine, the silent woman at Thy knee In the low room in little Bethany.

IV

Ah, that sharp thrill through all my frame! And yet once more! Withstand I can no longer; in Thy name I yield me to Thy hand.

Such pangs were in the soul unborn, The fear, the joy were such, When first it felt in that keen morn A dread, creating touch.

Maker of man, Thy pressure sure This grosser stuff must quell; The spirit faints, yet will endure, Subdue, control, compel.