Part 2

There is a place hung o'er with summer boughs And drowsy skies wherein the gray hawk sleeps; Where waters flow, within whose lazy deeps, Like silvery prisms that the winds arouse, The minnows twinkle; where the bells of cows Tinkle the stillness, and the bob-white keeps Calling from meadows where the reaper reaps, And children's laughter haunts an old-time house; A place where life wears ever an honest smell Of hay and honey, sun and elder-bloom-- Like some dear, modest girl--within her hair: Where, with our love for comrade, we may dwell Far from the city's strife whose cares consume-- Oh, take my hand and let me lead you there.

_Can I Forget?_

Can I forget how LOVE once led the ways Of our two lives together, joining them; How every hour was his anadem, And every day a tablet in his praise! Can I forget how, in his garden place, Among the purple roses, stem to stem, We heard the rumour of his robe's bright hem, And saw the aureate radiance of his face!-- Though I behold my soul's high dreams down-hurled, And FALSEHOOD sit where Truth once towered white, And in LOVE'S place, usurping lust and shame.... Though flowers be dead within the winter world, Are flowers not there? and starless though the night, Are stars not there, eternal and the same?

THE HOUSE OF FEAR.

Vast are its halls, as vast the halls and lone Where DEATH stalks listening to the wind and rain; And dark that house, where I shall meet again My long-dead Sin in some dread way unknown; For I have dreamed of stairs of haunted stone, And spectre footsteps I have fled in vain; And windows glaring with a blood-red stain, And horrible eyes, that burn me to the bone, Within a face that looks as that black night It looked when deep I dug for it a grave,-- The dagger wound above the brow, the thin Blood trickling down slantwise the ghastly white;-- And I have dreamed not even GOD can save Me and my soul from that risen Sin.

AT DAWN.

Far off I heard dark waters rush; The sky was cold; the dawn broke green; And wrapped in twilight and strange hush The gray wind moaned between.

A voice rang through the House of Sleep, And through its halls there went a tread; Mysterious raiment seemed to sweep Around the pallid dead.

And then I knew that I had died, I, who had suffered so and sinned-- And 't was myself I stood beside In the wild dawn and wind.

STORM.

I looked into the night and saw GOD writing with tumultuous flame Upon the thunder's front of awe,-- As on sonorous brass,--the Law, Terrific, of HIS judgement name.

Weary of all life's best and worst, With hands of hate, I--who had pled, I, who had prayed for death at first And had not died--now stood and cursed GOD, yet he would not strike me dead.

MEMORIES.

Here where LOVE lies perished, Look not in upon the dead; Lest the shadowy curtains, shaken In my Heart's dark chamber, waken Ghosts, beneath whose garb of sorrow Whilom gladness bows his head: When you come at morn to-morrow, Look not in upon the dead, Here where LOVE lies perished.

Here where LOVE lies cold interred, Let no syllable be heard; Lest the hollow echoes, housing In my Soul's deep tomb, arousing Wake a voice of woe, once laughter Claimed and clothed in joy's own word: When you come at dusk or after, Let no syllable be heard, Here where LOVE lies cold interred.

WHICH?

The wind was on the forest, And silence on the wold; And darkness on the waters, And heaven was starry cold; When Sleep, with mystic magic, Bade me this thing behold:

This side, an iron woodland; That side, an iron waste; And heaven, a tower of iron, Wherein the wan moon paced, Still as a phantom woman, Ice-eyed and icy-faced.

And through the haunted tower Of silence and of night, My Soul and I went only, My Soul, whose face was white, Whose one hand signed me listen, One bore a taper-light.

For, lo! a voice behind me Kept sighing in my ear The dreams my flesh accepted, My mind refused to hear-- Of one I loved and loved not, Whose spirit now spake near.

And, lo! a voice before me Kept calling constantly The hopes my mind accepted, My flesh refused to see-- Of one I loved and loved not, Whose spirit spake to me.

This way the one would bid me; This way the other saith:-- Sweet is the voice behind me Of LIFE that followeth; And sweet the voice before me Of LIFE whose name is DEATH.

SUNSET IN _Autumn_.

Blood-coloured oaks, that stand against a sky of gold and brass; Gaunt slopes, on which the bleak leaves glow of brier and sassafras, And broom-sedge strips of smoky pink and pearl-gray clumps of grass, In which, beneath the ragged sky, the rain-pools gleam like glass.

From West to East, from wood to wood, along the forest-side, The winds,--the sowers of the LORD,--with thunderous footsteps stride; Their stormy hands rain acorns down; and mad leaves, wildly dyed, Like tatters of their rushing cloaks, stream round them far and wide.

The frail leaf-cricket in the weeds rings a faint fairy bell; And like a torch of phantom ray the milkweed's windy shell Glimmers; while wrapped in withered dreams, the wet autumnal smell Of loam and leaf, like some sad ghost, steals over field and dell.

The oaks against a copper sky--o'er which, like some black lake Of DIS, dark clouds, like surges fringed with sullen fire, break-- Loom sombre as Doom's citadel above the vales, that make A pathway to a land of mist the moon's pale feet shall take.

Now, dyed with burning carbuncle, a Limbo-litten pane, Within its wall of storm, the West opens to hill and plain, On which the wild geese ink themselves, a far triangled train; And then the shuttering clouds close down--and night is here again.

THE LEGEND OF THE STONE.

The year was dying, and the day Was almost dead; The West, beneath a sombre gray, Was sombre red. The gravestones in the ghostly light, 'Mid trees half bare, Seemed phantoms, clothed in glimmering white, That haunted there.

I stood beside the grave of one, Who, here in life, Had wronged my home; who had undone My child and wife. I stood beside his grave until The moon came up-- As if the dark, unhallowed hill Lifted a cup.

No stone was there to mark his grave, No flower to grace-- 'T was meet that weeds alone should wave In such a place. I stood beside his grave until The stars swam high, And all the night was iron still From sky to sky.

What cared I if strange eyes seemed bright Within the gloom! If, evil blue, a wandering light Burnt by each tomb! Or that each crooked thorn-tree seemed A witch-hag cloaked! Or that the owl above me screamed, The raven croaked!

For I had cursed him when the day Was sullen red; Had cursed him when the West was gray, And day was dead; And now when night made dark the pole, Both soon and late I cursed his body, yea, and soul, With the hate of hate.

Once in my soul I seemed to hear A low voice say,-- _'T were better to forgive,--and fear Thy God,--and pray._ I laughed; and from pale lips of stone On sculptured tombs A mocking laugh replied alone Deep in the glooms.

And then I felt, I felt--as if Some force should seize The body; and its limbs stretch stiff, And, fastening, freeze Down, downward deeper than the knees Into the earth-- While still among the twisted trees That voice made mirth.

And in my Soul was fear, despair,-- Like lost ones feel, When knotted in their pitch-stiff hair, They feel the steel Of devils' forks lift up, through sleet Of hell's slant fire, Then plunge,--as white from head to feet I grew entire.

A voice without me, yet within, As still as frost, Intoned: _Thy sin is thrice a sin, Thrice art thou lost. Behold, how God would punish thee! For this thy crime-- Thy crime of hate and blasphemy-- Through endless time!_

_O'er him, whom thou wouldst not forgive, Record what good He did on earth! and let him live Loved, understood! Be memory thine of all the worst He did thine own!_ There at the head of him I cursed I stood--a stone.

TIME AND DEATH AND LOVE.

Last night I watched for Death-- So sick of life was I!-- When in the street beneath I heard his watchman cry The hour, while passing by.

I called. And in the night I heard him stop below, His owlish lanthorn's light Blurring the windy snow-- How long the time and slow!

I said, _Why dost thou cower There at my door and knock? Come in! It is the hour! Cease fumbling at the lock! Naught's well! 'Tis no o'clock!_

Black through the door with him Swept in the _Winter's_ breath; His cloak was great and grim-- But he, who smiled beneath, Had the face of Love not Death.

PASSION.

The wine-loud laughter of indulged Desire Upon his lips, and, in his eyes, the fire Of uncontrol, he takes in reckless hands,-- And interrupts with discords,--the sad lyre Of LOVE'S deep soul, and never understands.

_When the Wine-Cup at the Lip._

When the wine-cup at the lip Slants its sparkling fire, O'er its level, while you sip, Have you marked the finger-tip Of the god DESIRE slip, Of the god DESIRE? Saying--_Lo, the hours run! Live your day before 't is done!_

When the empty goblet lies At the ended revel, In the glass, the wine-stain dyes, Have you marked the hollow eyes Of a mocking Devil rise, Of a mocking Devil? Saying--_Lo, the day is through! Look on joy it gave to you!_

ART.

[_A Phantasy._]

I know not how I found you With your wild hair a-blow, Nor why the world around you Would never let me know: Perhaps 't was Heaven relented, Perhaps 't was Hell resented My dream, and grimly vented Its hate upon me so.

In Shadowland I met you Where all dim shadows meet; Within my heart I set you, A phantom bitter-sweet: No hope for me to win you, Though I with soul and sinew Strive on and on, when in you There is no heart or heat!

Yet ever, aye, and ever, Although I knew you lied, I followed on, but never Would your white form abide: With loving arms stretched meward, As Sirens beckon seaward To some fair vessel leeward, Before me you would glide.

But like an evil fairy, That mocks one with a light, Now near, you led your airy, Now far, your fitful flight: With red-gold tresses blowing, And eyes of sapphire glowing, With limbs like marble showing, You lured me through the night.

To some unearthly revel Of mimes, a motley crew, 'Twixt Angel-land and Devil, You lured me on, I knew, And lure me still! soft whiling The way with hopes beguiling, While dark Despair sits smiling Behind the eyes of you!

A SONG FOR OLD AGE.

Now nights grow cold and colder, And North the wild vane swings, And round each tree and boulder The driving snow-storm sings-- Come, make my old heart older, O memory of lost things!

Of Hope, when promise sung her Brave songs and I was young, That banquets now on hunger Since all youth's songs are sung; Of Love, who walks with younger Sweethearts the flowers among.

Ah, well! while Life holds levee, Death's ceaseless dance goes on. So let the curtains, heavy About my couch, be drawn-- The curtains, sad and heavy, Where all shall sleep anon.

_Tristram And Isolt._

Night and vast caverns of rock and of iron; Voices like water, and voices like wind; Horror and tempests of hail that environ Shapes and the shadows of two who have sinned.

Wan on the whirlwind, in loathing uplifting Faces that loved once, forever they go, TRISTAM and ISOLT, the lovers, go drifting, The sullen laughter of Hell below.

THE BETTER LOT.

Her life was bound to crutches: pale and bent, But smiling ever, she would go and come: For of her soul GOD made an instrument Of strength and comfort to an humble home.

Better a life of toil and slow disease That LOVE companions through the patient years, Than one whose heritage is loveless ease, That never knows the blessedness of tears.

DUSK IN THE WOODS.

Three miles of hill it is; and I Came through the woods that waited, dumb, For the cool _Summer_ dusk to come; And lingered there to watch the sky Up which the gradual sunset clomb.

A tree-toad quavered in a tree; And then a sudden whip-poor-will Called overhead, so wildly shrill, The startled woodland seemed to see How very lone it was and still.

Then through dark boughs its stealthy flight An owl took; and, at sleepy strife, The cricket turned its fairy fife; And through the dead leaves, in the night, Soft rustlings stirred of unseen life.

And in the punk-wood everywhere The inserts ticked, or bored below The rotted bark; and, glow on glow, The gleaming fireflies here and there Lit up their Jack-o'-lantern show.

I heard a vesper-sparrow sing, Withdrawn, it seemed, into the far Slow sunset's tranquil cinnabar; The sunset, softly smouldering Behind gaunt trunks, with its one star.

A dog barked; and down ways, that gleamed, Through dew and clover faint the noise Of cow-bells moved. And then a voice, That sang a-milking, so it seemed, Made glad my heart as some glad boy's.

And then the lane; and full in view A farmhouse with a rose-grown gate, And honeysuckle paths, await For night's white moon and love and you-- These are the things that made me late.

AT THE FERRY.

Oh, dim and wan came in the dawn, And gloomy closed the day; The killdee whistled among the weeds, The heron flapped in the river reeds, And the snipe piped far away.

At dawn she stood--her dark gray hood Flung back--in the ferry-boat; Sad were the eyes that watched him ride, Her raider love, from the riverside, His kiss on her mouth and throat.

Like some wild spell the twilight fell, And black the tempest came; The heavens seemed filled with the warring dead, Whose batteries opened overhead With thunder and with flame.

At night again in the wind and rain, She toiled at the ferry oar; For she heard a voice in the night and storm, And it seemed that her lover's shadowy form Beckoned her to the shore.

And swift to save she braved the wave, And reached the shore and found His riderless horse, with head hung low, A blur of blood on the saddle-bow, And the empty night around.

HER VIOLIN.

I

Her violin!--Again begin The dream-notes of her violin; And dim and fair, with gold-brown hair, I seem to see her standing there, Soft-eyed and sweetly slender: The room again, with strain on strain, Vibrates to LOVE's melodious pain, As, sloping slow, is poised her bow, While round her form the golden glow Of sunset spills its splendour.

II

Her violin!--now deep, now thin, Again I hear her violin; And, dream by dream, again I seem To see the love-light's tender gleam Beneath her eyes' long lashes: While to my heart she seems a part Of her pure song's inspired art; And, as she plays, the rosy grays Of twilight halo hair and face, While sunset burns to ashes.

III

O violin!--Cease, cease within My soul, O haunting violin! In vain, in vain, you bring again Back from the past the blissful pain Of all the love then spoken; When on my breast, at happy rest, A sunny while her head was pressed-- Peace, peace to these wild memories! For, like my heart naught remedies, Her violin lies broken.

HER VESPER SONG.

The _Summer_ lightning comes and goes In one pale cloud above the hill, As if within its soft repose A burning heart were never still-- As in my bosom pulses beat Before the coming of his feet.

All drugged with odorous sleep, the rose Breathes dewy balm about the place, As if the dreams the garden knows Took immaterial form and face-- As in my heart sweet thoughts arise Beneath the ardour of his eyes.

The moon above the darkness shows An orb of silvery snow and fire, As if the night would now disclose To heav'n her one divine desire-- As in the rapture of his kiss All of my soul is drawn to his.

The cloud, it knows not that it glows; The rose knows nothing of its scent; Nor knows the moon that it bestows Light on our earth and firmament-- So is the soul unconscious of The beauties it reveals through LOVE.

AT PARTING.

What is there left for us to say, Now it has come to say good-by? And all our dreams of yesterday Have vanished in the sunset sky-- What is there left for us to say, Now different ways before us lie?

A word of hope, a word of cheer, A word of love, that still shall last, When we are far to bring us near Through memories of the happy past; A word of hope, a word of cheer, To keep our sad hearts true and fast.

What is there left for us to do, Now it has come to say farewell? And care, that bade us once adieu, Returns again with us to dwell-- What is there left for us to do, Now different ways our fates compel?

Clasp hands and sigh, touch lips and smile, And look the love that shall remain-- When severed so by many a mile-- The sweetest balm for bitterest pain; Clasp hands and sigh, touch lips and smile, And trust in GOD to meet again.

CARISSIMA MEA.

I look upon my lady's face, And, in the world about me, see No face like hers in any place: _Therefore it is I sing her praise._

It is not made, as others sing Of their dear loves, like ivory, But like a wild rose in the spring: _Therefore it is I sing her praise._

Her brow is low and very fair, And o'er it, smooth and shadowy, Lies deep the darkness of her hair: _Therefore it is I sing her praise._

Beneath her brows her eyes are gray, And gaze out glad and fearlessly, Their wonder haunts me night and day: _Therefore it is I sing her praise._

Her eyebrows, arched and delicate, Twin curves of pencilled ebony, Within their spans contain my fate: _Therefore it is I sing her praise._

Her mouth, that was for kisses curved, So small and sweet, it well may be That it for me is yet reserved: _Therefore it is I sing her praise._

Between her hair and rounded chin, Calm with her soul's calm purity, There lies no shadow of a sin: _Therefore it is I sing her praise._

Of perfect form, she is not tall, Just higher than the heart of me, Where'er I place her, all in all: _Therefore it is I sing her praise._

She is not shaped, as some have sung Of their dear loves, like some slim tree, But like the moon when it is young: _Therefore it is I sing her praise._

Her hands, that smell of violet, So white and fashioned gracefully, Have woven round my heart a net: _Therefore it is I sing her praise._

Yea, I have loved her many a day; And though for me she may not be, Still at her feet my love I lay: _Therefore it is I sing her praise._

Albeit she be not for me, GOD send her grace and grant that she Know nought of sorrow all her days: _Therefore it is I sing her praise._

_Margery._

I

When _Spring_ is here and MARGERY Goes walking in the woods with me, She is so white, she is so shy, The little leaves clap hands and cry-- _Perdie! So white is she, so sky is she, Ah me! The maiden May hath just passed by!_

II

When _Summer's_ here and MARGERY Goes walking in the fields with me, She is so pure, she is so fair, The wildflowers eye her and declare-- _Perdie! So pure is she, so fair is she, Just see, Where our sweet cousin takes the air!_

III

Why is it that my MARGERY Hears nothing that these say to me? She is so good, she is so true, My heart it maketh such ado; _Perdie! So good is she, so true is she, You see, She can not hear the other two._

_Constance._

Beyond the orchard, in the lane, The crested red-bird sings again-- O bird, whose song says, _Have no care._ Should I not care when CONSTANCE there,-- My CONSTANCE, with the bashful gaze, Pink-gowned like some sweet hollyhock,-- If I declare my love, just says Some careless thing as if in mock? Like--_Past the orchard, in the lane, How sweet the red-bird sings again_!

There, while the red-bird sings his best, His listening mate sits on the nest-- O bird, whose patience says, _All's well_, How can it be with me, now tell? When CONSTANCE, with averted eyes,-- Soft-bonneted as some sweet-pea,-- If I speak marriage, just replies With some such quaint irrelevancy, As, _While the red-bird sings his best, His loving mate sits on the nest_.

What shall I say? what can I do? Would such replies mean aught to you, O birds, whose gladness says, _Be glad_? Have I not reason to be sad When CONSTANCE, with demurest glance, Her face a-poppy with distress, If I reproach her, pouts, perchance, And answers so in waywardness?-- _What shall I say? what can I do? My meaning should be plain to you!_

_Gertrude._

When first I gazed on GERTRUDE'S face, Beheld her loveliness and grace; Her brave gray eyes, her raven hair, Her ways, more winsome than the kiss _Spring_ gives the flowers; her smile, that is Brighter than all the summer air Made sweet with birds:--I did declare,-- And still declare!--there is no one, No girl beneath the moon or sun, So beautiful to look upon! And to my thoughts, that on her dwell, Nothing seems more desirable-- Not OPHIR gold nor ORIENT pearls-- Than seems this jewel-girl of girls.

_Lydia._

When Autumn's here and days are short, Let LYDIA laugh and, hey! Straightway 't is _May-day_ in my heart, And blossoms strew the way.

When _Summer's_ here and days are long, Let LYDIA sigh and, ho! _December's_ fields I walk among, And shiver in the snow.

No matter what the Seasons are, My LYDIA is so dear, My soul admits no Calendar Of earth when she is near.

A SOUTHERN GIRL.

Serious but smiling, stately and serene, And dreamier than a flower; A girl in whom all sympathies convene As perfumes in a bower; Through whom one feels what soul and heart may mean, And their resistless power.

Eyes, that commune with the frank skies of truth, Where thought like starlight curls; Lips of immortal rose, where love and youth Nestle like two sweet pearls; Hair, that suggests the Bible braids of RUTH, Deeper than any girl's.