Part 3

Mixed part of reason, part belief, Of pain and pleasure, joy and grief, As changeful as the Spring, and brief;--

A wave, a shadow, a breath, a strife, With change on change for ever rife:-- This is the thing we know as life.

CRADLED IN MUSIC.

A bright young mother, day by day, I meet upon the crowded way, Who turns her dark eyes, deep and mild, Upon her little sleeping child

For on the organ laid asleep, In childish slumbers light, yet deep, Calmly the little infant lies; The long fair lashes veil its eyes.

There, o'er its childish slumbers sweet, The winged hours pass with rapid feet; Far off the music seems to cheer The child's accustomed drowsy ear.

Hymn tune and song tune, grave and gay, Float round him all the joyous day; And, half remembered, faintly seem To mingle with his happy dream.

Poor child, o'er whose head all day long Our dull hours slip by, winged with song; Who sleeps for half the tuneful day, And wakes 'neath loving looks to play;

Whose innocent eyes unconscious see Nothing but mirth in misery. The mother smiles, the sister stands Smiling, the tambour in her hands.

And with the time of hard-earned rest, 'Tis his to press that kindly breast; Nor dream of all the toil, the pain, The weary round begun again,--

The fruitless work, the blow, the curse, The hunger, the contempt, or worse; The laws despite, the vague alarms, Which pass not those protecting arms.

Only, as yet, 'tis his to know The bright young faces all aglow, As down the child-encumbered street The music stirs the lightsome feet

Only to crow and smile, as yet Soon shall come clouds, and cold, and wet; And where the green leaves whisper now, The mad East flinging sleet and snow.

And if to childhood he shall come-- Childhood that knows not hearth or home,-- Coarse words maybe, and looks of guile, Shall chase away that constant smile.

Were it not better, child, than this, The burden of full life to miss; And now, while yet the time is May, Amid the music pass away,

And leave these tuneless strains of wrong For the immortal ceaseless song; And change this vagrant life of earth For the unchanged celestial birth;

And see, within those opened skies, A vision of thy mother's eyes; And hear those old strains, faint and dim, Grown fine, within the eternal hymn?

Nay, whatsoe'er our thought may deem, Not that is better which may seem; 'Twere better that thou camest to be, If Fate so willed, in misery.

What shall be, shall be--that is all; To one great Will we stand and fall. "The Scheme hath need"--we ask not why, And in this faith we live and die.

ODATIS.

AN OLD LOVE-TALE.

Chares of Mytilené, ages gone, When the young Alexander's conquering star Flamed on the wondering world, being indeed The comrade of his arms, from the far East Brought back this story of requited love.

A Prince there was of Media, next of blood To the great King Hystaspes, fair of form As brave of soul, who to his flower of age Was come, but never yet had known the dart Of Cypris, being but a soldier bold, Too much by trenchèd camps and wars' alarms Engrossed, to leave a thought for things of love.

Now, at this selfsame time, by Tanais Omartes ruled, a just and puissant king. No son was his, only one daughter fair, Odatis, of whose beauty and whose worth Fame filled the furthest East. Only as yet, Of all the suitors for her hand, came none Who touched her maiden heart; but, fancy free, She dwelt unwedded, lonely as a star.

Till one fair night in springtide, when the heart Blossoms as does the earth, Cypris, the Queen, Seeing that love is sweet for all to taste, And pitying these loveless parted lives, Deep in the sacred silence of the night, From out the ivory gate sent down on them A happy dream, so that the Prince had sight Of fair Odatis in her diadem And habit as she lived, and saw the charm

And treasure of her eyes, and knew her name And country as it was; while to the maid There came a like fair vision of the Prince Leading to fight the embattled Median hosts, Young, comely, brave, clad in his panoply And pride of war, so strong, so fair, so true, That straight, the virgin coldness of her soul Melted beneath the vision, as the snow In springtime at the kisses of the sun.

And when they twain awoke to common day From that blest dream, still on their trancèd eyes The selfsame vision lingered. He a form Lovelier than all his life had known, more pure And precious than all words; she a strong soul Yet tender, comely with the fire, the force Of youthful manhood; saw both night and day

Nor ever from their mutual hearts the form Of that celestial vision waned nor grew Faint with the daily stress of common life, As do our mortal phantasies, but still He, while the fiery legions clashed and broke, Saw one sweet face above the flash of spears; She in high palace pomps, or household tasks, Or 'mid the glittering courtier-crowded halls Saw one brave ardent gaze, one manly form.

Now while in dreams of love these lovers lived Who never met in waking hours, who knew not Whether with unrequited love they burned, or whether In mutual yearnings blest; the King Omartes, Grown anxious for his only girl, and knowing How blest it is to love, would bid her choose Whom she would wed, and summoning the maid, With fatherly counsels pressed on her; but she:

"Father, I am but young; I pray you, ask not That I should wed; nay, rather let me live My life within your house. I cannot wed. I can love only one, who is the Prince Of Media, but I know not if indeed His love is his to give, or if he know My love for him; only a heavenly vision, Sent in the sacred silence of the night, Revealed him to me as I know he is. Wherefore, my father, though thy will be law, Have pity on me; let me love my love, If not with recompense of love, alone; For I can love none else."

Then the King said: "Daughter, to me thy happiness is life, And more; but now, I pray thee, let my words Sink deep within thy mind. Thou canst not know If this strange vision through the gate of truth Came or the gate of error. Oftentimes The gods send strong delusions to ensnare Too credulous hearts. Thou canst not know, in sooth, If 'twas the Prince thou saw'st, or, were it he, If love be his to give; and if it were, I could not bear to lose thee, for indeed I have no son to take my place, or pour Libations on my tomb, and shouldst thou wed A stranger, and be exiled from thy home, What were my life to me? Nay, daughter, dream No more, but with some chieftain of my realm Prepare thyself to wed. With the new moon A solemn banquet will I make, and bid Whatever of high descent and generous youth Our country holds. There shalt thou make thy choice Of whom thou wilt, nor will I seek to bind Thy unfettered will; only I fain would see thee In happy wedlock bound, and feel the touch Of childish hands again, and soothe my age With sight of thy fair offspring round my knees."

Then she, because she loved her sire and fain Would do his will, left him without a word, Obedient to his hest; but day and night The one unfading image of her dream Filled all her longing sight, and day and night The image of her Prince in all the pride And bravery of battle shone on her. Nor was there any strength in her to heal The wound which love had made, by reasonings cold, Or musing on the phantasies of love; But still the fierce dart of the goddess burned Within her soul, as when a stricken deer O'er hill and dale escaping bears with her The barb within her side; and oft alone Within her secret chamber she would name The name of him she loved, and oft by night, When sleep had bound her fast, her pale lips formed The syllables of his name. Through the long hours, Waking or sleeping, were her thoughts on him; So that the unfilled yearning long deferred Made her heart sick, and like her heart, her form Wasted, her fair cheek paled, and from her eyes Looked out the silent suffering of her soul

Now, when the day drew near which brought the feast, One of her slaves, who loved her, chanced to hear Her sweet voice wandering in dreams, and caught The Prince's name; and, being full of grief And pity for her pain, and fain to aid The gentle girl she loved, made haste to send A messenger to seek the Prince and tell him How he was loved, and when the feast should be, And how the King would have his daughter wed. But to the Princess would she breathe no word Of what was done, till, almost on the eve Of the great feast, seeing her wan and pale And all unhappy, falling at her knees, She, with a prayer for pardon, told her all.

But when the Princess heard her, virgin shame-- Love drawing her and Pride of Maidenhood In opposite ways till all distraught was she-- Flushed her pale cheek, and fired her tearful eyes. Yet since she knew that loving thought alone Prompted the deed, being soft and pitiful, She bade her have no fear, and though at first Unwilling, by degrees a newborn hope Chased all her shame away, and once again A long unwonted rose upon her cheek Bloomed, and a light long vanished fired her eyes.

Meanwhile upon the plains in glorious war The brave Prince led his conquering hosts; but still, Amid the shock of battle and the crash Of hostile spears, one vision filled his soul Amid the changes of the hard-fought day, Throughout the weary watches of the night, The dream, the happy dream, returned again. Always the selfsame vision of a maid Fairer than earthly, filled his eyes and took The savour from the triumph, ay, and touched The warrior's heart with an unwonted ruth, So that he shrank as never yet before From every day's monotony of blood, And saw with unaccustomed pain the sum Of death and pain, and hopeless shattered lives, Because a softer influence touched his soul.

Till one night, on the day before the feast Which King Omartes destined for his peers, While now his legions swept their conquering way A hundred leagues or more from Tanais, There came the message from the slave, and he Within his tent, after the well-fought day, Resting with that fair image in his eyes, Woke suddenly to know that he was loved.

Then, in a moment, putting from him sleep And well-earned rest, he bade his charioteer Yoke to his chariot three unbroken colts Which lately o'er the endless Scythian plain Careered, untamed; and, through the sleeping camp, Beneath the lucid aspect of the night, He sped as speeds the wind. The great stars hung Like lamps above the plain; the great stars sank And faded in the dawn; the hot red sun Leapt from the plain; noon faded into eve; Again the same stars lit the lucid night; And still, with scarce a pause, those fierce hoofs dashed Across the curved plain onward, till he saw Far off the well-lit palace casements gleam Wherein his love was set.

Then instantly He checked his panting team, the rapid wheels Ceased, and his mail and royal garb he hid Beneath a white robe such as nobles use By Tanais; and to the lighted hall He passed alone, afoot, giving command To him who drove, to await him at the gate.

Now, when the Prince drew near the vestibule, The feast long time had sped, and all the guests Had eaten and drunk their fill; and he unseen, Through the close throng of serving men and maids Around the door, like some belated guest To some obscurer station slipped, and took The wine-cup with the rest, who marvelled not To see him come, nor knew him; only she Who sent the message whispered him a word: "Have courage; she is there, and cometh soon. Be brave; she loves thee only; watch and wait."

Even then the King Omartes, where he sate On high among his nobles, gave command To summon from her maiden chamber forth The Princess. And obedient to the call, Robed in pure white, clothed round with maiden shame, Full of vague hope and tender yearning love, To the high royal throne Odatis came.

And when the Prince beheld the maid, and saw The wonder which so long had filled his soul-- His vision of the still night clothed with life And breathing earthly air--and marked the heave Of her white breast, and saw the tell-tale flush Crimson her cheek with maiden modesty, Scarce could his longing eager arms forbear To clasp the virgin round, so fair she seemed. But, being set far down from where the King Sat high upon the daïs 'midst the crowd Of eager emulous faces looking love, None marked his passionate gaze, or stretched-forth hands; Till came a pause, which hushed the deep-drawn sigh Of admiration, as the jovial King, Full tender of his girl, but flushed with wine, Spake thus to her:

"Daughter, to this high feast Are bidden all the nobles of our land. Now, therefore, since to wed is good, and life To the unwedded woman seems a load Which few may bear, and none desire, I prithee, This jewelled chalice taking, mingle wine As well thou knowest, and the honeyed draught Give to some noble youth of those thou seest Along the well-ranged tables, knowing well That him to whom thou givest, thou shalt wed. I fetter not thy choice, girl. I grow old; I have no son to share the weight of rule, And fain would see thy children ere I die."

Then, with a kiss upon her blushing cheek, He gave the maid the cup. The cressets' light Fell on the jewelled chalice, which gave back A thousand answering rays. Silent she stood A moment, half in doubt, then down the file Of close-ranked eager faces flushed with hope, And eyes her beauty kindled more than wine, Passed slow, a breathing statue. Her white robe Among the purple and barbaric gold Showed like the snowy plumage of a dove, As down the hall, the cup within her hands, She, now this way regarding and now that, Passed, with a burning blush upon her cheek; And on each youthful noble her large eyes Rested a moment only, icy cold, Though many indeed were there, brave, fair to see, Fit for a maiden's love; but never at all The one overmastering vision of her dream Rose on her longing eyes, till hope itself Grew faint, and, ere she gained the end, she turned Sickening to where, along the opposite wall, Sate other nobles young and brave as those, But not the fated vision of her dream.

Meanwhile the Prince, who 'mid the close-set throng Of humbler guests was hidden, saw her come And turn ere she had marked him, and again Down the long line of princely revellers Pass slow as in a dream; and all his soul Grew sick with dread lest haply, seeing not The one expected face, and being meek And dutiful, and reverencing her sire, She in despair might make some sudden choice And leave him without love. And as she went He could not choose but gaze, as oft in sleep Some dreadful vision chains us that we fail To speak or move, though to be still is death. And once he feared that she had looked on him And passed, and once he thought he saw her pause By some tall comely youth; and then she reached The opposite end, and as she turned her face And came toward him again and where the jars Of sweet wine stood for mingling, with a bound His heart went out to her; for now her cheek Pale as the white moon sailing through the sky, And the dead hope within her eyes, and pain And hardly conquered tears, made sure his soul, Knowing that she was his.

But she, dear heart, Being sick indeed with love, and in despair, Yet reverencing her duty to her sire, Turned half-distraught to fill the fated cup And with it mar her life.

But as she stood Alone within the vestibule and poured The sweet wine forth, slow, trembling, blind with tears, A voice beside her whispered, "Love, I am here!" And looking round her, at her side she saw A youthful mailed form--the festal robe Flung backward, and the face, the mouth, the eyes Whereof the vision filled her night and day.

Then straight, without a word, with one deep sigh, She held the wine-cup forth. He poured forth first Libation to the goddess, and the rest Drained at a draught, and cast his arms round her, And down the long-drawn sounding colonnade Snatched her to where without, beneath the dawn, The brave steeds waited and the charioteer. His robe he round her threw; they saw the flare Of torches at the gate; they heard the shouts Of hot pursuit grow fainter; till at last, In solitude, across the rounding plain They flew through waking day, until they came To Media, and were wed. And soon her sire, Knowing their love, consented, and they lived Long happy lives; such is the might of Love.

That is the tale the soldier from the East, Chares of Mytilené, ages gone, Told oftentimes at many a joyous feast In Hellas; and he said that all the folk In Media loved it, and their painters limned The story in the temples of their gods, And in the stately palaces of kings, Because they reverenced the might of Love.

IN WILD WALES.

I.

AT THE EISTEDDFOD.

The close-ranked faces rise, With their watching, eager eyes, And the banners and the mottoes blaze above; And without, on either hand, The eternal mountains stand, And the salt sea river ebbs and flows again, And through the thin-drawn bridge the wandering winds complain.

Here is the Congress met, The bardic senate set, And young hearts flutter at the voice of fate; All the fair August day Song echoes, harpers play. And on the unaccustomed ear the strange Penillion rise and fall through change and counter-change.

Oh Mona, land of song! Oh mother of Wales! how long From thy dear shores an exile have I been! Still from thy lonely plains, Ascend the old sweet strains, And at the mine, or plough, or humble home, The dreaming peasant hears diviner music come.

This innocent, peaceful strife, This struggle to fuller life, Is still the one delight of Cymric souls-- Swell, blended rhythms! still The gay pavilions fill. Soar, oh young voices, resonant and fair; Still let the sheathed sword gleam above the bardic chair.

* * * * * *

The Menai ebbs and flows, And the song-tide wanes and goes, And the singers and the harp-players are dumb; The eternal mountains rise Like a cloud upon the skies, And my heart is full of joy for the songs that are still, The deep sea and the soaring hills, and the steadfast Omnipotent Will.

II.

AT THE MEETING FIELD.

Here is the complement of what I saw When late I sojourned in the halls of song, The greater stronger Force, the higher Law, Of those which carry Cymric souls along.

No dim Cathedral's fretted aisles were there, No gay pavilion fair, with banners hung: The eloquent pleading voice, the deep hymns sung, The bright sun, and the clear unfettered air,

These were the only ritual, this the fane, A poor fane doubtless and a feeble rite For those who find religion in dim light, Strange vestments, incensed air, and blazoned pane.

But the rapt crowd, the reverent mute throng, When the vast listening semi-circle round, Rang to the old man's voice serenely strong, Or swept along in stormy bursts of sound.

Where found we these in temples made with hands? Where the low moan which marks the awakened soul? Where, this rude eloquence whose strong waves roll Deep waters, swift to bear their Lord's commands?

Where found we these? 'neath what high fretted dome? I know not. I have knelt 'neath many, yet Have heard few words so rapt and burning come, Nor marked so many eyes divinely wet,

As here I knew--"What will you do, oh friends, When life ebbs fast and the dim light is low, When sunk in gloom the day of pleasure ends, And the night cometh, and your being runs slow,

And nought is left you of your revelries, Your drunken days, your wantonness, your ill-- And lo! the last dawn rises cold and chill, And lo! the lightning of All-seeing eyes,

What will you do?" And when the low voice ceased, And from the gathered thousands surged the hymn, Some strong power choked my voice, my eyes grew dim, I knew that old man eloquent, a priest.

There is a consecration not of man, Nor given by laid-on hands nor acted rite, A priesthood fixed since the firm earth began, A dedication to the eye of Light,

And this is of them. What the form of creed I care not, hardly the fair tongue I know, But this I know that when the concourse freed From that strong influence, went sedate and slow,

I thought when on the Galilean shore By the Great Priest the multitudes were led, The bread of life, miraculously more, Sufficed for all who came, and they were fed.

SUFFRAGES.

"Surely," said a voice, "O Lord, Thy judgments Are dreadful and hard to understand. Thy laws which Thou madest, they withstand Thee, They stand against Thee and Thy command: Thy poor, they are with us evermore; They suffer terrible things and sore; They are starved, they are sick, they die, And there is none to help or heed; They come with a great and bitter cry They hardly dare to whisper, as they plead; And there is none to hear them, God or man; And it is little indeed that all our pity can."

What, and shall I be moved to tears, As I sit in this still chamber here alone, By the pity of it,--the childish lives that groan, The miseries and the sorrows, the hopes and the fears Of this wonderful legend of life, that is one and the same Though it differ in weal and in happiness, honour and fame,-- Shall I turn, who am no more than a worm, to Thee, From the pity of it--the want, the misery, And with strong yearnings beat, and rebellions wild, Seeing death written, and pain, in the face of a child;-- And yet art Thou unmoved! Ah, Lord, if Thou sawest surely!--and yet Thou dost see; And if Thou knewest indeed!--and yet all things are clear to Thee.

For, Lord, of a truth Thy great ones, Who have not their wealth of their own desert, Live ever equal lives and sure, And are never vexed nor suffer hurt, But through long untroubled years endure Until they join Thee, and are in bliss; Or, maybe, are carried away from Thee, and miss Thy Face, which is too pure for them to see, And are thenceforth in misery: But, nevertheless, upon the earth They come to neither sorrow nor dearth. They are great, and they live out their lives, and Thou lettest them be; Thou dost not punish them here, if they despise Thy poor and pass them by with averted eyes. They are strong and mighty, and never in danger to fall; But Thou, Lord, art mighty and canst, and yet carest not at all.