Part 2

Fare on to the end, but how should ending be, If Will be in the Universe, and plan? Some higher thing shall be, that which to-day is Man. Undying is each cosmic force: Undying, but transformed, it runs its endless course; It cannot wane, or sink, or be no more. Not even the dust and lime which clothe us round Lose their own substance in the charnel-ground, Or carried far upon the weltering wind; Only with other growths combined, In some new whole they are for ever-- They are, and perish never. The great suns shed themselves in heat and light Upon the unfilled interstellar air, Till all their scattered elements unite And are replenished as before they were. Nothing is lost, nor can be: change alone, Unceasing, never done, Shapes all the forms of things, and keeps them still Obedient to the Unknown Perfect Will. And shall the life that is the highest that we know, Shall this, alone, no more increase, expand and grow?

Nay, somewhere else there is, although we know not where, Nor what new shape God gives our lives to wear. We are content, whatever it shall be; Content, through all eternity, To be whatever the Spirit of the World deem best;-- Content to be at rest; Content to work and fare through endless days; Content to spend ourselves in endless praise: Nay, if it be the Will Divine, Content to be, and through long lives to pine, Far from the light which vivifies, the fire Which breathes upon our being and doth inspire All soaring thoughts and hopes which light our pathway here; Content, though with some natural thrill of fear, To be purged through by age-long pain, Till we resume our upward march again; Content, if need, to take some lower form, Some humbler herb or worm To be awhile, if e'er the eternal plan Go back from higher to lower, from man to less than man. Not so, indeed, we hold, but rather this-- That all Time gone, that all that was or is, The scarpèd cliff, the illimitable Past, This truth alone of all truths else hold fast:-- From lower to higher, from simple to complete, This is the pathway of the Eternal Feet; From earth to lichen, herb to flowering tree, From cell to creeping worm, from man to what shall be. This is the solemn lesson of all time, This is the teaching of the voice sublime: Eternal are the worlds, and all that them do fill; Eternal is the march of the Creative Will; Eternal is the life of man, and sun, and star; Ay, even though they fade a while, they are; And though they pause from shining, speed for ever still.

A GREAT GULF.

If any tender sire Who sits girt round by loving faces And happy childhood's thousand graces, Through sudden crash or fire

Should 'scape from this poor life to some mysterious air, And, dwelling solitary there, Should feel his unfilled yearning father's heart Pierced through by some intolerable smart; And, sickening for the dear lost lives again, Should through his overmastering pain Break through the awful bounds the Eternal sets between That which lives Here, and There, the Seen and the Unseen; And having gained once more The confines of the Earth, the scarce-left place Which greets him with unchanged familiar face-- The well-remembered door, The rose he watered blooming yet, Nought to remember or forget, No change in all the world except in him, Nor there save in some sense, already dim Before the unchanged past, so that he seem A mortal spirit still, and what was since, a dream;

And in the well-known room Should find the blithe remembered faces Grown sad and blurred by recent traces Of a new sorrow and gloom, And when his soul to comfort them is fain Finds his voice mute, his form unknown, unseen, And thinks with irrepressible pain Of all the happy days which late have been, And feels his new life's inmost chambers stirred If only of his own, he might be seen or heard;

Then if, at length, The father's yearning and overburdened soul Burst into shape and voice which scorn control Of its despairing strength,-- Ah Heaven! ah pity for the present dread Which strikes the old affection, dull and dead! Ah, better were it far than this thing to remain, Voiceless, unseen, unloved, for ever and in pain!

So when a finer mind, Knowing its old self swept by some weird change And the old thought deceased, or else grown strange, Turns to those left behind, With passionate stress and mighty yearning stirred,-- It strives to stand revealed in shape and word In vain; or by strong travail visible grown, Finds but a world estranged, and lives and dies alone!

ONE DAY.

One day, one day, our lives shall seem Thin as a brief forgotten dream: One day, our souls by life opprest, Shall ask no other boon than rest.

And shall no hope nor longing come, No memory of our former home, No yearning for the loved, the dear Dead lives that are no longer here?

If this be age, and age no more Recall the hopes, the fears of yore, The dear dead mother's accents mild, The lisping of the little child,

Come, Death, and slay us ere the blood Run slow, and turn our lives from good For only in such memories we Consent to linger and to be.

SEASONS.

The cold winds rave on the icy river, The leafless branches complain and shiver, The snow clouds sweep on, to a dreary tune,-- Can these be the earth and the heavens of June?--

When the blossoming trees gleam in virginal white, And heaven's gate opens wide in the lucid night, And there comes no sound on the perfumed air But the passionate brown bird, carolling fair,

And the lush grass in upland and lowland stands deep, And the loud landrail lulls the children to sleep, And the white still road and the thick-leaved wood Are haunted by fanciful solitude;

And by garden and lane men and maidens walk, Busied with trivial, loverlike talk; And the white and the red rose, newly blown, Open each, with a perfume and grace of its own.

The cold wind sweeps o'er the desolate hill, The stream is bound fast and the wolds are chill; And by the dead flats, where the cold blasts moan, A bent body wearily plods alone.

THE PATHOS OF ART.

Oft seeing the old painters' art, We find the tear unbidden start, And feel our full hearts closer grow To the far days of long ago.

Not burning faith, or godlike pain, Can thus our careless thought enchain; The heavenward gaze of souls sublime, At once transcends, and conquers time.

Nor pictured form of seer or saint, Which hands inspired delight to paint; Art's highest aims of hand or tongue, Age not, but are for ever young.

But some imperfect trivial scene, Of homely life which once has been, Of youth, so soon to pass away, Of happy childhood's briefer day;

Or humble daily tasks portrayed-- The thrifty mistress with her maid; The flowers, upon the casement set, Which in our Aprils blossom yet;

The long processions, never done; The time-worn palace, scarce begun; The gondolier, who plies his oar For stately sirs or dames of yore;

The girl with fair hair morning-stirred, Who swings the casement for her bird; The hunt; the feast; the simple mirth Which marks the marriage or the birth;

The burly forms, from side to side Swift rolling on the frozen tide; The long-haired knights; the ladies prim The chanted madrigal or hymn;

The opera, with its stately throng; The twilight church aisles stretching long The spires upon the wooded wold; The dead pathetic life of old;--

These all the musing mind can fill-- So dead, so past, so living still: Oh dear dead lives, oh hands long gone, Whose life, whose Art still lingers on!

IN THE STRAND.

In the midst of the busy and roaring Strand, Dividing life's current on either hand, A time-worn city church, sombre and grey, Waits, while the multitude passes away.

Beside it, a strait plot of churchyard ground Is fenced by a time-worn railing around; And within, like a pavement, the ground is spread With the smooth worn stones of the nameless dead.

But here and there, in the spaces between, When the slow Spring bursts, and the fields grow green, Every year that comes, 'mid the graves of the dead Some large-leaved flower-stem lifts up its head.

In the Spring, though as yet the sharp East be here, This green stem burgeons forth year by year: Through twenty swift summers and more, have I seen This tender shoot rise from its sheath of green.

New busy crowds pass on with hurrying feet, The young lives grow old and the old pass away; But unchanged, 'mid the graves, at the fated day, The green sheath bursts upwards and grows complete.

From the grave it bursts forth, 'mid the graves it shall die, It shall die as we die, as it lives we shall live; And this poor flower has stronger assurance to give, Than volumes of learning, which blunder or lie.

For out of the dust and decay of the tomb, It springs, the sun calling, to beauty and bloom; And amid the sad city, 'mid death and 'mid strife, It preaches its mystical promise of life.

COELUM NON ANIMUM.

Oh fair to be, oh sweet to be In fancy's shallop faring free, With silken sail and fairy mast To float till all the world be past.

Oh happy fortune, on and on To wander far till care be gone, Round beetling capes, to unknown seas, Seeking the fair Hesperides!

But is there any land or sea Where toil and trouble cease to be-- Some dim, unfound, diviner shore, Where men may sin and mourn no more?

Ah, not the feeling, but the sky We change, however far we fly; How swift soe'er our bark may speed, Faster the blessed isles recede.

Nay, let us seek at home to find Fit harvest for the brooding mind, And find, since thus the world grows fair, Duty and pleasure everywhere.

Oh well-worn road, oh homely way, Where pace our footsteps, day by day, The homestead and the church which bound The tranquil seasons' circling round!

Ye hold experiences which reach Depths which no change of skies can teach, The saintly thought, the secret strife Which guide, which do perturb our life.

NIOBE.

ON SIPYLUS.

Ah me, ah me! on this high mountain peak, Which far above the seething Lydian plains Takes the first dawn-shaft, and the sunset keeps When all the fields grow dark--I, Niobe, A mother's heart, hid in a form of stone, Stand all day in the vengeful sun-god's eye, Stand all night in the cold gaze of the moon, Who both long ages since conspiring, slew My children,--I a childless mother now Who was most blest, a living woman still, Bereft of all, and yet who cannot die.

Ah day, ill-fated day, which wrecked my life! I was the happy mother of strong sons, Brave, beautiful, all in their bloom of age: From him my first-born, now a bearded man, Through the fair promise of imperfect youth, To the slim stripling who had scarcely left The women's chambers, on whose lip scant shade Of budding manhood showed, I loved them all; All with their father's eyes, and that strange charm Of rhythmic grace, and musical utterance As when, in far-off Thebes, the enchanted wall Rose perfect, to the music of his lyre.

Ah me, the fatal day! For at high noon I sate within my Theban palace fair-- Deep summer-time it was--and marked the crowd From the thronged city street, to the smooth plain, Stream joyously: the brave youths, full of life, Stripped for the mimic fray, the leap, the race, The wrestling; and the princes, my strong sons, The fair limbs I had borne beneath my zone Grown to full stature, such as maidens love,-- The sinewy arms, the broad chests, and strong loins Of manhood; the imperfect flower-like forms, Eager with youth's first fires; my youngest born, My darling, doffing his ephebic robe Which late he donned with pride, a child in heart, In budding limbs a youth;--I see them go Their fair young bodies glistening in the sun, Which kissed the shining olive. As they went, The joyous concourse winding towards the plain, My happy eyes o'erflowed, and as I turned And saw my daughters round me, fair grown lives And virgin, sitting spinning the white flax, Each with her distaff, beautiful and fit To wed with any stately king of men And reign a queen in Hellas, my glad heart Broke forth in pride, and as I looked I thought, "Oh happy, happy mother of such sons! Oh happy, happy mother of such girls! For whom full soon the joyous nuptial rites Shall bring the expectant bridegroom and the bride, And soon once more the little childish hands Which shall renew my early wedded years, When the king loved me first. Thrice blest indeed. There is no queen in Hellas such as I, Dowered with such fair-grown offspring; not a queen Nor mother o'er all earth's plain, around which flows The wide salt stream of the surrounding sea, As blest as I am. Nay, in Olympus' self What offspring were they to all-ruling Zeus That Leto bore? Phoebus and Artemis, A goodly pair indeed, but two alone.

Poor mother, that to such a lord as Zeus Bare only those, no fairer than my own. Nay, I am happier than a goddess' self; I would not give this goodly train of mine For that scant birth. I ask no boon of Zeus, Nor of the Olympian Gods; for I am glad No fruitful mother in a peasant's hut, Scorning the childless great, thinks scorn of me, Being such as I. Nay, let Queen Leto's self Know, that a mortal queen has chanced to bear As fair as she, and more."

Even as I spoke, While the unholy pride flashed through my soul, There pierced through the closed lattice one keen shaft Of blinding sun, which on the opposite wall Traced some mysterious sign, and on my mind Such vague remorse and consciousness of ill, That straightway all my pride was sunk and lost In a great dread, nor could I longer bear To look upon the fairness of my girls, Who, seeing the vague trouble in my eyes, Grew pale, and shuddered for no cause, and gazed Chilled 'midst the blaze of sunlight.

Then I sought To laugh my fears away, as one who feels Some great transgression weigh on him, some load Which will not be removed, but bears him down, Though none else knows it, pressing on his heart.

But when the half unuttered thought grew dim And my fear with it, suddenly a cry Rose from the city street, and then the sound Of measured hurrying feet, and looking forth To where the youth had passed so late, in joy, Came two who carried tenderly, with tears, A boy's slight form. I had no need to look, For all the mother rising in me knew That 'twas my youngest born they bore; I knew What fate befell him--'twas the vengeful sun, And I alone was guilty, I, his mother, Who being filled with impious pride, had brought Death to my innocent child. I hurried down The marble stair and met them as they came, And laid him down, and kissed his lips and called His name, yet knew that he was dead; and all His brothers stood regarding us with tears, And would have soothed me with their loving words, Me guilty, who were guiltless, oh, my sons! Till as I looked up from the corpse,--a cry Of agony,--and then another fell Struggling for life upon the earth, and then Another, and another, till the last Of all my stalwart boys, my life, my pride, Lay dead upon the field, and the fierce sun Frenzied my brain, and all distraught with woe I to the palace tottered, while they bore Slowly the comely corpses of my sons.

That day I dare not think of where they lay, White shrouded, in the darkened palace rooms, Like sculptured statues on a marble hearse. How calm they looked and happy, my dear sons! There was no look of pain within their eyes, The dear dead eyes which I their mother closed; Me miserable! I saw the priests approach, And ministers of death; I saw my girls Flung weeping on the brothers whom they loved. I saw it all as in a dream. I know not How often the dead night woke into day, How often the hot day-time turned to night. I did not shudder even to see the Sun Which slew my sons; but in the still, dead night, When in that chill and lifeless place of death, The cold, clear, cruel moonlight seemed to play Upon the rangéd corpses, and to mock My mother's heart, and throw on each a hue Of swift corruption ere its time, I knew Some secret terror lest the jealous gods Might find some further dreadful vengeance still, Taking what yet was left.

At set of sun The sad procession to the place of graves Went with the rites of royal sepulchre, The high priest at its head, the nobles round The fair white shrouded corpses, last of all I went, the guilty one, my fair sweet girls Clinging to me in tears; but I, I shed not A single tear--grief dried the fount of tears, I had shed all mine.

Only overmastering fear Held me of what might come. When they were laid, Oh, wretched me, my dear, my well-loved sons! Within the royal sepulchre, the sun Had set, and in his stead the rising moon, Behind some lofty mountain-peak concealed, Filled all with ghastly twilight. As we knelt, The people all withdrawn a little space, I and my daughters in that place of death, I lifted up my suppliant voice, and they With sweet girl voices pure, and soaring hymn, To the great Powers above. But when at last I heard my hollow voice pleading alone And all the others silent, then I looked, And on the tomb the cold malignant moon, Bursting with pale chill beams of light, revealed My fair girls kneeling mute and motionless, Their dead eyes turned to the unpitying orb, Their white lips which should offer prayer no more.

Such vengeance wreaked Phoebus and Artemis Upon a too proud mother. But on me Who only sinned no other punishment They took, only the innocent lives I loved-- If any punishment, indeed, were more Than this to one who had welcomed death. I think My children happier far in death than I Who live to muse on these things. When my girls Were buried, I, my lonely palace gate Leaving without a tear, sped hither in haste To this high rock of Sipylus where erst My father held his court; and here, long years, Summer and winter, stay I, day and night Gazing towards the far-off plain of Thebes, Wherein I was so happy of old time, Wherein I sinned and suffered. Turned to stone They thought me, and 'tis true the mother's heart Which knows such grief as I knew, turns to stone, And all her life; and pitying Zeus, indeed, Seeing my repentance, listened to my prayer And left me seeming stone, but still the heart Of the mother grows not hard, and year by year When comes the summer with its cloudless skies, And the high sun lights hill and plain by day, And the moon, shining, silvers them by night, My old grief, rising dew-like to my eyes, Quickens my life with not unhappy tears, And through my penitent and yearning heart I feel once more the pulse of love and grief: Love triumphing at last o'er Fate and Death, Grief all divine and vindicating Love.

PICTURES--II.

A lurid sunset, red as blood, Firing a sombre, haunted wood; And from the shadows, dark and fell, One hurrying with the face of Hell.

Two at a banquet board alone, In dalliance, the feast being done. And one behind the arras stands, Grasping an axe with quivering hands.

A high cliff-meadow lush with Spring; Gay butterflies upon the wing; Beneath, beyond, unbounded, free, The foam-flecked, blue, pervading sea.

A clustering hill-town, climbing white From the grey olives up the height, And on the inland summits high Thin waters spilt as from the sky.

A rain-swept moor at shut of day, And by the dead unhappy way A lonely child untended lies: Against the West a wretch who flies.

Cold dawn, which flouts the abandoned hall And one worn face, which loathes it all; In his ringed hand a vial, while The grey lips wear a ghastly smile.

Corinthian pillars fine, which stand In moonlight on a desert sand; Others o'erthrown, in whose dark shade Some fire-eyed brute its lair has made.

Mountainous clouds embattled high Around a dark blue lake of sky; And from its clear depths, shining far, The calm eye of the evening star.

A moonlight chequered avenue; Above, a starlit glimpse of blue: Amid the shadows spread between, The grey ghost of a woman seen.

A NIGHT IN NAPLES.

This is the one night in all the year When the faithful of Naples who love their priest May find their faith and their wealth increased; For just as the stroke of midnight is here,

Those who with faithful undoubting mind Their "Aves" mutter, their rosaries tell, They without doubt shall a recompence find; Yea, their faith indeed shall profit them well.

Therefore, to-night, in the hot thronged street By San Gennaro's, the people devout, With banner, and relic, and thurible meet, With some sacred image to marshal them out.

For a few days hence, the great lottery Of the sinful city declared will be, And it may be that Aves and Paters said Will bring some aid from the realms of the dead.

And so to the terrible place of the tomb They go forth, a pitiful crowd, through the gloom, To where all the dead of the city decay, Waiting the trump of the judgment day.

For every day of the circling year Brings its own sum of corruption here; Every day has its great pit, fed With the dreadful heap of the shroudless dead

And behind a grated rust-eaten door, Marked each with their fated month and day, The young and the old, who in life were poor, Fester together and rot away.

Silence is there, the silence of death, And in silence those poor pilgrims wearily pace, And the wretched throng, pitiful, holding its breath, Comes with shuffling steps to the dreadful place.

Till before these dark portals, the silent crowd Breaks at length into passionate suffrages loud, Waiting the flickering vapour thin, Bred of the dreadful corruption within.

And here is a mother who kneels, not in woe, By the vault where her child was flung months ago; And there is a strong man who peers with dry eyes At the mouth of the gulph where his dead wife lies.

Till at last, to reward them, a faint blue fire, Like the ghost of a soul, flickers here or there At the gate of a vault, on the noisome air, And the wretched throng has its low desire;

And with many a praise of the favouring saint, And curses if any refuses to heed, Full of low hopes and of sordid greed, To the town they file backward, weary and faint.

And a few days hence, the great lottery Of the sinful city declared will be, And a number thus shewn to those sordid eyes, May, the saints being willing, attain the prize.

Wherefore to Saint and Madonna be said, All praise and laud, and the faithful dead.

* * * * *

It was long, long ago, in far-off Judæa, That they slew Him of old, whom these slay to-day; They slew Him of old, in far-off Judæa,-- It is long, long ago; it was far, far away!

LIFE.

Like to a star, or to a fire, Which ever brighter grown, or higher, Doth shine forth fixed, or doth aspire;

Or to a glance, or to a sigh; Or to a low wind whispering by, Which scarce has risen ere it die;

Or to a bird, whose rapid flight Eludes the dazed observer's sight, Or a stray shaft of glancing light,

That breaks upon the gathered gloom Which veils some monumental tomb; Or some sweet Spring flowers' fleeting bloom;--