Part 5

Closer I dare not come, nor see The Face of Him, Who died for me. Child! thou shalt dwell apart: But in My Sacred Heart.

1893.

TO LEO XIII.

Leo! Vicar of Christ, His voice, His love, His sword: Leo! Vicar of Christ, Earth's Angel of the Lord:

Leo! Father of all, Whose are all hearts to keep: Leo! Father of all, Chief Shepherd of the sheep:

Leo! Lover of men, Through all the labouring lands: Leo! Lover of men, Blest by thine holy hands:

Leo! Ruler of Rome, Heir of its royal race: Leo! Ruler of Rome, King of the Holy Place:

Leo! Leo the Great! Glory, and love, and fear, Leo! Leo the Great! We give thee, great and dear:

Leo! God grant this thing: Might some, so proud to be Children of England, bring Thine England back to thee!

1892.

AT THE BURIAL OF CARDINAL MANNING.

_To James Britten._

Victor in Roman purple, saint and knight, In peace he passes to eternal peace: Triumph so proud, knew not Rome's ancient might; She knew not to make poor men's sorrow cease: For thousands, ere he won the holiest home, Earth was made homelier by this Prince of Rome.

1892.

VIGILS.

_To C. K. P._

Song and silence ever be All the grace, life bring to me: Song well winged with sunrise fire; Silence holy and entire: Silence of a marble sea, Song of an immortal lyre.

Take my thanks, who profferest Wistful song and musical: Melodies memorial, Melancholy, augural: Meaning, that Old World is best: Ours, a witless palimpsest.

Not cool glades of Fontainebleau Hold the secret; not French plains, Crowned with monumental fanes; Not the Flemish waters' flow: Light the fair days come, light go: But the mystery remains.

Here, beneath the carven spires, We have dreams, revolts, desires: Here each ancient, haunted Hall Holds its Brocken carnival; Where Philosophy attires All her forms, to suit us all.

In a ring her witches crowd: Faces passionate and proud, Luring eyes and voices loud: _Death ends life: And life is death: Man is dust: The soul a breath: Who knows aught?_ Each fair Lie saith.

Master of the revel rout, Flaunts him Mephistopheles: Leading up, to where he sees Faith, alone and ill at ease, Many a winning, light-foot Doubt: _Knows each other: dance it out!_

Ah, the whirling, bacchant dance! Then no more Faith's crystal glance Pierces the benighted skies: Then, for her inheritance, Hath she but each dream, that lies Dying in her wildered eyes.

Breaking hearts! For you the lark Cries at morn: for you the deep Silence deepens in the dark, When invisible angels mark Your tired eyes, that burn and weep, Hardly wearied into sleep.

Fearful hearts! For you all song Sighs, and laughs, and soars: for you Low-preluding winds prolong Meditative music through Twilight: till for you there throng Calm stars, unprofaned and true.

Song and silence ever be All the grace, life bring to me: Song of Mary, mighty Mother; Song of whom she bare, my Brother: Silence of an ecstasy, When I find Him, and none other.

Song thou sendest, singing fair: But what music past compare That must be when, gathered home, Poor strayed children kneel in prayer: Confessors of Christendom Unto thee, O royal Rome!

Silence all is mine alone Now, before the altar throne Darkling, waiting, happier thus, Till the night watches be gone. Holy Aloysius! Holy Mother! pray for us.

1887.

THE CHURCH OF A DREAM.

_To Bernhard Berenson._

Sadly the dead leaves rustle in the whistling wind, Around the weather-worn, gray church, low down the vale: The Saints in golden vesture shake before the gale; The glorious windows shake, where still they dwell enshrined; Old Saints, by long dead, shrivelled hands, long since designed: There still, although the world autumnal be, and pale, Still in their golden vesture the old saints prevail; Alone with Christ, desolate else, left by mankind.

Only one ancient Priest offers the Sacrifice, Murmuring holy Latin immemorial: Swaying with tremulous hands the old censer full of spice, In gray, sweet incense clouds; blue, sweet clouds mystical: To him, in place of men, for he is old, suffice Melancholy remembrances and vesperal.

1890.

THE AGE OF A DREAM.

_To Christopher Whall._

Imageries of dreams reveal a gracious age: Black armour, falling lace, and altar lights at morn. The courtesy of Saints, their gentleness and scorn, Lights on an earth more fair, than shone from Plato's page: The courtesy of knights, fair calm and sacred rage: The courtesy of love, sorrow for love's sake borne. Vanished, those high conceits! Desolate and forlorn, We hunger against hope for that lost heritage.

Gone now, the carven work! Ruined, the golden shrine! No more the glorious organs pour their voice divine; No more rich frankincense drifts through the Holy Place: Now from the broken tower, what solemn bell still tolls, Mourning what piteous death? Answer, O saddened souls! Who mourn the death of beauty and the death of grace.

1890.

OXFORD NIGHTS.

_To Victor Plarr._

About the august and ancient _Square_, Cries the wild wind; and through the air, The blue night air, blows keen and chill: Else, all the night sleeps, all is still. Now, the lone _Square_ is blind with gloom: Now, on that clustering chestnut bloom, A cloudy moonlight plays, and falls In glory upon _Bodley's_ walls: Now, wildlier yet, while moonlight pales, Storm the tumultuary gales. O rare divinity of Night! Season of undisturbed delight: Glad interspace of day and day! Without, an world of winds at play: Within, I hear what dead friends say. Blow, winds! and round that perfect _Dome_, Wail as you will, and sweep, and roam: Above _Saint Mary's_ carven home, Struggle, and smite to your desire The sainted watchers on her spire: Or in the distance vex your power Upon mine own _New College_ tower: You hurt not these! On me and mine, Clear candlelights in quiet shine: My fire lives yet! nor have I done With _Smollett_, nor with _Richardson_: With, gentlest of the martyrs! _Lamb_, Whose lover I, long lover, am: With _Gray_, whose gracious spirit knew The sorrows of art's lonely few: With _Fielding_, great, and strong, and tall; _Sterne_, exquisite, equivocal; _Goldsmith_, the dearest of them all: While _Addison's_ demure delights Turn _Oxford_, into _Attic_, nights. Still _Trim_ and _Parson Adams_ keep Me better company, than sleep: Dark sleep, who loves not me; nor I Love well her nightly death to die, And in her haunted chapels lie. Sleep wins me not: but from his shelf Brings me each wit his very self: Beside my chair the great ghosts throng, Each tells his story, sings his song: And in the ruddy fire I trace The curves of each _Augustan_ face. I sit at _Doctor Primrose'_ board: I hear _Beau Tibbs_ discuss a lord. Mine, _Matthew Bramble's_ pleasant wrath; Mine, all the humours of the _Bath_. _Sir Roger_ and the _Man in Black_ Bring me the _Golden Ages_ back. Now white _Clarissa_ meets her fate, With virgin will inviolate: Now _Lovelace_ wins me with a smile, _Lovelace_, adorable and vile. I taste, in slow alternate way, Letters of _Lamb_, letters of _Gray_: Nor lives there, beneath _Oxford_ towers, More joy, than in my silent hours. Dream, who love dreams! forget all grief: Find, in sleep's nothingness, relief: Better my dreams! Dear, human books, With kindly voices, winning looks! Enchaunt me with your spells of art, And draw me homeward to your heart: Till weariness and things unkind Seem but a vain and passing wind: Till the gray morning slowly creep Upward, and rouse the birds from sleep: Till _Oxford_ bells the silence break, And find me happier, for your sake. Then, with the dawn of common day, Rest you! But I, upon my way, What the fates bring, will cheerlier do, In days not yours, through thoughts of you!

1890.

TO A SPANISH FRIEND.

Exiled in America From thine old Castilia, Son of holy Avila! Leave thine endless tangled lore, As in childhood to implore Her, whose pleading evermore Pleads for her own Avila.

Seraph Saint, Teresa burns Before God, and burning turns To the Furnace, whence she learns How the Sun of Love is lit: She the Sunflower following it. O fair ardour infinite: Fire, for which the cold soul yearns!

Clad in everlasting fire, Flame of one long, lone desire, Surely thou too shalt aspire Up by Carmel's bitter road: Love thy goal and love thy goad, Love thy lightness and thy load, Love thy rose and love thy briar.

Leave the false light, leave the vain: Lose thyself in Night again, Night divine of perfect pain. Lose thyself, and find thy God, Through a prostrate period: Bruise thee with an iron rod; Suffer, till thyself be slain.

Fly thou from the dazzling day, For it lights the downward way: In the sacred Darkness pray, Till prayer cease, or seem to thee Agony of ecstasy: Dead to all men, dear to me, Live as saints, and die as they.

Stones and thorns shall tear and sting, Each stern step its passion bring, On the Way of Perfecting, On the Fourfold Way of Prayer: Heed not, though joy fill the air; Heed not, though it breathe despair: In the City thou shalt sing.

Without hope and without fear, Keep thyself from thyself clear: In the secret seventh sphere Of thy soul's hid Castle, thou At the King's white throne shalt bow: Light of Light shall kiss thy brow, And all darkness disappear.

1894.

TO MY PATRONS.

The spear rent Christ, when dead for me He lay: My sin rends Christ, though never one save He Perfectly loves me, comforts me. Then pray, Longinus Saint! the Crucified, for me.

Hard is the holy-war, and hard the way: At rest with ancient victors would I be. O faith's first glory from our England! pray, Saint Alban! to the Lord of Hosts, for me.

Fain would I watch with thee, till morning gray, Beneath the stars austere: so might I see Sunrise, and light, and joy, at last. Then pray, John Baptist Saint! unto the Christ, for me.

Remembering God's coronation day; Thorns, for His crown; His throne, a Cross: to thee Heaven's kingdom dearer was than earth's. Then pray Saint Louis! to the King of kings, for me.

Thy love loved all things: thy love knew no stay, But drew the very wild beasts round thy knee. O lover of the least and lowest! pray, Saint Francis! to the Son of Man, for me.

Bishop of souls in servitude astray, Who didst for holy service set them free: Use still thy discipline of love, and pray, Saint Charles! unto the world's High Priest, for me.

1893.

BRONTË.

_To Hubert Crackanthorpe._

Upon the moorland winds blown forth, Your mighty music storms our heart: Immortal sisters of the North! Daughters of nature: Queens of art.

Becomingly you bore that name, Your Celtic name, that sounds of Greece: Children of thunder and of flame; Passion, that clears the air for peace.

Stoic, thy chosen title: thou, Whose soul conversed with vehement nights, Till love, with lightnings on his brow, Met anguish, upon _Wuthering Heights_.

Thou, Stoic! Though the heart in thee Never knew fear, yet always pain: Not Stoic, thou! whose eyes could see Passion's immeasurable gain:

Not standing from the war apart, Not cancelling the lust of life; But loving with triumphant heart The impassioned glory of the strife.

Oh, welcome death! But first, to know The trials and the agonies: Oh, perfect rest! But ere life go, To leave eternal memories.

Then down the lone moors let each wind Cry round the silent house of sleep: And there let breaths of heather find Entrance, and there the fresh rains weep.

Rest! rest! The storm hath surged away: The calm, the hush, the dews descend. Rest now, ah, rest thee! night and day: The circling moorlands guard their friend.

Thou too, before whose steadfast eyes Thy conquering sister greatly died: By grace of art, that never dies. She lives: thou also dost abide.

For men and women, safe from death, Creatures of thine, our perfect friends: Filled with imperishable breath, Give thee back life, that never ends.

Oh! hearts may break, and hearts forget, Life grow a gloomy tale to tell: Still through the streets of bright _Villette_, Still flashes _Paul Emanuel_!

Still, when your Shirley laughs and sings, Suns break the clouds to welcome her: Still winds, with music on their wings, Drive the wild soul of _Rochester_.

Children of fire! The Muses filled Hellas, with shrines of gleaming stone: Your wasted hands had strength to build Gray sanctuaries, hard-hewn, wind-blown.

Over their heights, all blaunched in storm, What purple fields of tempest hang! In splendour stands their mountain form, That from the sombre quarry sprang.

Now the high gates lift up their head: Now stormier music, than the blast, Swells over the immortal dead: Silent and sleeping, free at last.

But from the tempest, and the gloom, The stars, the fires of God, steal forth: Dews fall upon your heather bloom, O royal sisters of the North!

1890.

COMFORT.

_To Claud Schuster._

Winter is at the door, Winter! Winter! Winter is at the door: For all along the worn oak floor Waver the carpets; and before The once warm southern orchard wall, The last October peaches fall; In vain behind their fellows all Belated.

Winter is come apace, Winter! Winter! Winter is come apace. The fireside is the cheeriest place, To wear unfeigned a merry face: While music tells, though now 'tis chill, How merle, and maid, and mavis, will, When spring comes dancing down the hill, Be mated.

1887.

MOEL FAMMAU.

_To Arthur Clutton-Brock._

In purple heather is my sleep On Moel Fammau: far below, The springing rivulets leap, The firs wave to and fro.

This morn, the sun on Bala Lake Broke out behind me: morrow morn Near Rhual I shall wake, Before the sun is born;

High burning over Clywyd Vale, And reddening the mountain dew: While the moon lingers frail, High up in skies of blue.

Lovely and loved, O passionate land! Dear Celtic land, unconquered still! Thy mountain strength prevails: Thy winds have all their will.

They have no care for meaner things; They have no scorn for brooding dreams: A spirit in them sings, A light about them beams.

1887.

SORTES VIRGILIANAE.

_To John Barlas._

Lord of the Golden Branch, Virgil! and Caesar's friend: Leader of pilgrim Dante! Yes: _things have their tears_: So sighed thy song, when down sad winds pierced to thine ears Wandering and immemorial sorrows without end. _And things of death touch hearts, that die_: Yes: but joys blend, And glories, with our little life of human fears: Rome reigns, and Caesar triumphs! Ah, the Golden Years, The Golden Years return: this also the Gods send.

_O men, who have endured an heavier burden yet!_ Hear you not happy airs, and voices augural? For you, in these last days by sure foreknowledge set, Looms no Italian shore, bright and imperial? Wounded and worn! What Virgil sang, doth God forget? Virgil, the melancholy, the majestical.

1891.

CONSOLATION.

Sighing and grief are all my portion now, Sighing and grief: But thou art somewhere smiling: thou, Like a frail leaf,

By winter's mercy spared a little yet, Canst put aside The coming shadow: happy to forget, How thy companion died.

1883.

ORACLES.

I.

Let not any withering Fate, With her all too sombre thread, Flying from the Ivory Gate, Make thy soul discomforted: From the nobler Gate of Horn, Take the blessing of the morn.

Eyes bent full upon the goal, Whatso be the prize of it: Tireless feet, and crystal soul, With good heart, the salt of wit: These shall set thee in the clear Spirits' home and singing sphere.

Hush thy melancholy breath, Wailing after fair days gone: Make thee friends with kindly Death, That his long dominion, With a not too bitter thrall, Hold thee at the end of all.

Sorrow, angel of the night, Sorrow haughtily disdains Invocation by our light Agonies, and passing pains: Sorrow is but under pure Cloven hearts their balm and cure.

1886.

II.

And yet, what of the sorrowing years, Their clouds and difficult event? Here is a kindlier way than tears, A fairer way than discontent: The passionate remembrances, That wake at bidding of the air: Fancies, and dreams, and fragrances, That charmed us, when they were.

So breathed the hay, so the rose bloomed, Ah! what a thousand years ago! So long imprisoned and entombed, Out of our hearts the old joys flow: Peace! present sorrows: lie you still! You shall not grow to memories: The ancient hours live yet, to kill The sorry hour, that is.

1887.

THE DESTROYER OF A SOUL.

_To ----._

I hate you with a necessary hate. First, I sought patience: passionate was she: My patience turned in very scorn of me, That I should dare forgive a sin so great, As this, through which I sit disconsolate; Mourning for that live soul, I used to see; Soul of a saint, whose friend I used to be: Till you came by! a cold, corrupting, fate.

Why come you now? You, whom I cannot cease With pure and perfect hate to hate? Go, ring The death-bell with a deep, triumphant toll! Say you, my friend sits by me still? Ah, peace! Call you this thing my friend? this nameless thing? This living body, hiding its dead soul?

1892.

OUR LADY OF THE SNOWS.

_Upon reading the poem of that name in the Underwoods of Mr. Stevenson._

Far from the world, far from delight, Distinguishing not day from night; Vowed to one sacrifice of all The happy things, that men befall; Pleading one sacrifice, before Whom sun and sea and wind adore; Far from earth's comfort, far away, We cry to God, we cry and pray For men, who have the common day. Dance, merry world! and sing: but we, Hearing, remember Calvary: Get gold, and thrive you! but the sun Once paled; and the centurion Said: _This dead man was God's own Son_. Think you, we shrink from common toil, Works of the mart, works of the soil; That, prisoners of strong despair, We breathe this melancholy air; Forgetting the dear calls of race, And bonds of house, and ties of place; That, cowards, from the field we turn, And heavenward, in our weakness, yearn? Unjust! unkind! while you despise Our lonely years, our mournful cries: You are the happier for our prayer; The guerdon of our souls, you share. Not in such feebleness of heart, We play our solitary part; Not fugitives of battle, we Hide from the world, and let things be: But rather, looking over earth, Between the bounds of death and birth; And sad at heart, for sorrow and sin, We wondered, where might help begin. And on our wonder came God's choice, A sudden light, a clarion voice, Clearing the dark, and sounding clear: And we obeyed: behold us, here! In prison bound, but with your chains: Sufferers, but of alien pains. Merry the world, and thrives apace, Each in his customary place: Sailors upon the carrying sea, Shepherds upon the pasture lea, And merchants of the town; and they, Who march to death, the fighting way; And there are lovers in the spring, With those, who dance, and those, who sing: The commonwealth of every day. Eastward and westward, far away. Once the sun paled; once cried aloud The Roman, from beneath the cloud: _This day the Son of God is dead!_ Yet heed men, what the Roman said? They heed not: we then heed for them, The mindless of Jerusalem; Careless, they live and die: but we Care, in their stead, for Calvary. O joyous men and women! strong, To urge the wheel of life along, With strenuous arm, and cheerful strain, And wisdom of laborious brain: We give our life, our heart, our breath, That you may live to conquer death; That, past your tomb, with souls in health, Joy may be yours, and blessed wealth; Through vigils of the painful night, Our spirits with your tempters fight: For you, for you, we live alone, Where no joy comes, where cold winds moan: Nor friends have we, nor have we foes; Our Queen is of the lonely Snows. Ah! and sometimes, our prayers between, Come sudden thoughts of what hath been: Dreams! And from dreams, once more we fall To prayer: _God save, Christ keep, them all._ And thou, who knowest not these things, Hearken, what news our message brings! Our toils, thy joy of life forgot: Our lives of prayer forget thee not.

1887.

ASH WEDNESDAY.

_To the Rev. Father Strappini, S.J._

Ashen cross traced on brow! Iron cross hid in breast! Have power, bring patience, now: Bid passion be at rest.

O sad, dear, days of Lent! Now lengthen your gray hours: If so we may repent, Before the time of flowers.

Majestical, austere, The sanctuaries look stern: All silent! all severe! Save where the lone lamps burn.

Imprisoned there above The world's indifferency: Still waits Eternal Love, With wounds from Calvary.

Come! mourning companies; Come! to sad Christ draw near: Come! sin's confederacies; Lay down your malice here.

Here is the healing place, And here the place of peace: Sorrow is sweet with grace Here, and here sin hath cease.

1893.

DESIDERIA.

_To Mrs. Hinkson._

The angels of the sunlight clothe In England the corn's golden ears, Round me: yet would that I to-day Saw sunlight on the Hill of Howth, And sunlight on the Golden Spears, And sunlight upon Dublin Bay.

In hunger of the heart I loathe These happy fields: I turn with tears Of love and longing, far away: To where the heathered Hill of Howth Stands guardian, with the Golden Spears, Above the blue of Dublin Bay.

1894.

ARMA VIRUMQUE.

_To Edmund Phipps._

Ah! the keen, blue-bladed sword, In the strong hands of thy lord Living, vibrating, inspired! Thou hast drunk the draught desired, Blood of battle: now, restored To the shrouding sheath, thou hatest, For the trump of war thou waitest.

But thy bright steel grows not dim, While thou hangest yet by him, In whose hands thou hast thy life. Fear not! Thou shalt swell more strife, Ere death come: last foe most grim! And shalt lie, that onset over, Close beside thy lord and lover.

1889.

THE DAY OF COMING DAYS.

_To J. P. Quinn._

Bright seas cast far upon her shore White flowers of flying spray: The blossoms of her fields are more, Than blossomed yesterday: The music of her winds and birds Alone can tell the triumph words, Her children cannot say.

The stars from solemn deeps look down In favour and delight: The glories of her day, they crown With splendours of her night: The queen of the adoring Gael, Their radiant mother, Inisfail, Reigns, by divinest right.

1894.

RENEGADE.

_To Arthur Chamberlain._

But all that now is over. Dreamers of dreams shall not in me discover Fallen remembrances of Holy Land; Looks in mine eyes, that seem to understand A banished secret; in my common mien, A charmed communion with high things unseen

For all that now is over. Mere merchant of earth's market-place, no lover, I keep the dusty, trodden road of all. Though broken echoes fill the mart, and call Back to my silent memories: down chill air They die away, and leave me to my care.