Part 1

SWEET HOURS

BY CARMEN SYLVA

LONDON R. A. EVERETT & CO., LTD. 42 ESSEX STREET, W.C.

1904

[_All rights reserved_]

CONTENTS

PAGE TO THE MEMORY OF QUEEN VICTORIA 1

A FRIEND 4

OUT OF THE DEEP 7

A CORONATION 10

DOWN THE STREAM 13

IN THE RUSHING WIND 16

UNDER THE SNOW 19

SOLITUDE 21

THE GNAT 24

REST 27

THE SHADOW 32

THE GLOWWORM 35

A DREAM 37

IN THE DARK 40

THE SENTINEL 43

LETHE 47

A DEBTOR 51

"VENGEANCE IS MINE," SAITH THE LORD 54

NIGHT 58

ROUSED 62

SADNESS 66

WHEN JOY IS DEAD 68

A ROOM 71

UNREST 74

TO THE MEMORY OF QUEEN VICTORIA

These ever wakeful eyes are closed. They saw Such grief, that they could see no more. The heart-- That quick'ning pulse of nations--could not bear Another throb of pain, and could not hear Another cry of tortur'd motherhood. Those uncomplaining lips, they sob no more The soundless sobs of dark and burning tears, That none have seen; they smile no more, to breathe A mother's comfort into aching hearts. The patriarchal Queen, the monument Of touching widowhood, of endless love, And childlike purity--she sleeps. This night Is watchful not. The restless hand, that slave To duty, to a mastermind, to wisdom That fathom'd history and saw beyond The times, lies still in marble whiteness. Love So great, so faithful, unforgetting and Unselfish--must it sleep? Or will that veil, That widow's veil unfold, and spread into The dovelike wings, that long were wont to hover In anxious care about her world-wide nest, And now will soar and sing, as harpchords sing, Whilst in their upward flight they breast the wind Of Destiny. No rest for her, no tomb, Nor ashes! Light eternal! Hymns of joy! No silence now for her, who, ever silent, Above misfortunes' storms and thund'ring billows, Would stand with clear and fearless brow, so calm, That men drew strength from out those dauntless eyes, And quiet from that hotly beating heart, Kept still by stern command and unbent will Beneath those tight shut lips. Not ashes, where A beacon e'er will burn, a fire, like The Altar's Soma, for the strong, the weak, The true, the brave, and for the quailing. No, Not ashes, but a light, that o'er the times Will shed a gentle ray, and show the haven, When all the world, stormshaken, rudderless, will pray: If but her century would shine again! Oh, Lord! Why hast thou ta'en thy peaceful Queen?

A FRIEND

Old age is gentle as an autumn morn; The harvest over, you will put the plough Into another, stronger hand, and watch The sowing you were wont to do. Old age Is like an alabaster room, with soft White curtains. All is light, but light so mild, So quiet, that it cannot hurt. The pangs Are hushed, for life is wild no more with strife, Nor breathless uphill work, nor heavy with The brewing tempests, which have torn away So much, that nothing more remains to fear. What once was hope, is gone. You know. You saw The worst, and not a sigh is left of all The heavy sighs that tore your heart, and not A tear of all those tears that burnt your cheeks, And ploughed the furrows into them. You see How others work again and weep again, And hope and fear. Thy alabaster room With marble floor and dainty hangings has A look so still, that others wonder why They feel it churchlike. All thy life is here; Thy life hath built the vault and paved it, and Thy hands have woven yonder curtains that Surround thy seat, a shady sunshine. Age Is feeble not to thee, as all thy wishes Are silent and demand no effort. Age Is kind to thee, allows thee all the rest That never came, when life was hard and toilsome. Receive it with a smile and clothe thyself In white, in Nature's silver crown, and sing A lullaby of promise and of comfort. Tell them that life is precious, after work, And after grief and after all the deaths, And not a loathsome burden of a life. Old age is like a room of alabaster, The curtains silken; thou art priest and Druid! No mystery for thee, but Light from heaven!

OUT OF THE DEEP

Thy soul grows silent, when its accents are Disturbed, and low thy heart, when dark a burden Has deeply covered it. Thy soul is proud. When thou hast made it free of wants and wishes, Then art thou rich. Our life is seldom open, For love and fear have shut it. When we lay It open, there is nought to show in it, But wounds and burning pain. Mysterious is Thy power, great as it may be, a trial Of thine own will and of the curb upon Thyself; mysterious to thyself, the more, The greater it has grown, surrounded as We are by fear and pain. And when the soul Lifts up her voice and speaks, then must she go Against the will of people, not her own, The will that is herself, the soul's own might. When heaven asks, we work with joy, a dear Beloved business put into our hands. We dream at first to make it daintily, Like Nature's work, so careful and so rich, And then the dream becomes a wish, then changes To action, to be called by us our own Free will. And when we feel alleviated Of suffering, we call it hope. In each Hard battle of our life, free will is quite The same, unbending and undone, and gave Us never yet a ray of satisfaction, Nor of real joy, the bleeding conqueror. And hope is e'er the same. It dwelleth not In hearts that are too great for hope, too great For wishes, and that fearless never ask Why will is but obedience, power worthless, The greatest strength a reed, and thought an echo. Great hearts are free of either want or wish; They may be proud and richly clothe themselves In lofty, burdenless, mysterious Silence.

A CORONATION

When in Bohemia there were kings and queens, The crown was laid upon the head that had To bear and to exalt it--on the King's, And then upon the shoulder of the Queen. The shoulder bears the weight, the head the burden; The shoulder lifts, the head must carry. Great For both the heaviness, the endless pain, For both the thorns, for both hard labour, thankless Unending work, the sorrow of their people, The care of each and all, the scorching tears Of all, that make their path a desert, and Their robe so heavy, as if dew had changed Into the icy hangings of the frost. The shoulder oftentimes is wounded by The crown, the head bowed low, the heart so heavy, Much heavier than all that heavy weight, And yet doth woman's frail and bending shoulder Resist the load, and still her smiling eyes And gentle lips make all the world believe Her shoulder bleedeth not, her toil is easy, The load they put upon her without asking How great her strength, is like a toy. Oh, smile! Ye heavy-laden Queens! Let not a sigh Escape your loving hearts, and no complaint Break from the lips God made to heal and bless! Oh, smile! The world doth not forgive its slaves For looking overworked. If thou canst bear No more, then change the shoulder, tired Queen!

DOWN THE STREAM

From whence the brook? From where the waters gather In mountains' deep recesses, stone-black lakes And dripping crevices. It ripples forth Into the shining day with scarce a voice, And with no strength at all, till mountain showers And winter's snow and spring storms pour their flood Into the dancing brook, that foams and starts And rushes headlong down the steeps and throws Into the Unknown all its youth and strength, And thunders into hell, to rise again In sheets of whiteness into dreamy veils, To kiss the flowers' feet and overflow The meadows; thence, o'erbridged and caught and fastened To wheels, to grind and grind with irksome noise, To lose all liberty, all winsome frolic, And work till doomsday. On and on the stream Goes widening into calm and mighty strength, A hero of a stream, that bears the ships Like toys, and carries legions. Wider still He grows, and stronger, as he drags the waters Of hundred rivers with him to the sea. At last his course is sluggish, tired, slow, A living death, till, blended with the sea, A rising tide will carry him away Into oblivion. Such is life! A stream From unknown heights through storm and dangerous fall, Through unknown land and never-ending work Unto Eternity's great, unknown sea. You cannot rise above the height you come from, You only widen and expand--but downwards,-- Your strength is gone, your impetus is quenched. And then the world will call you great and grand, And make a fortune out of all those waters: Your tears, your blood, your work, and what you spent; The strength of all your aims and all your falls!

IN THE RUSHING WIND

The wind hath whirled the leaves from off the tree. The leaves were yellow, they had lived their time, And lie a golden heap or fly away, As if the butterflies had left their wings Behind, when love's short summertime had gone, And killed them. Lightly doth the leaves' great shower Whirl on and skim the ground, where ancient leaves Lie rotten, trampled on, so featureless, That you can hardly tell what formed that mould, That never-ending burial-place of leaves. And then the wind will shake and bend the tree, And twist its branches off, burst it asunder, Uproot the giant and bring low his head, Upheave the granite block round which the roots Had taken hold for countless centuries. On goes the wind! The corn is green and soft-- Earth's wavy fur. It does but ripple lightly In childish laughter at the harmless fun That was a death-blow. But the sea awakes And frowns and foams and rises into anger So wild with wrath, and yet so powerless, As if a thousand chains had chained it down, To howl, to suffer, to rebel against The heartless merriment of stronger powers. On goes the wind, to shake the rock, to blow Into a flame, the wild incendiary, And never doth he look behind, to see, To feel, to understand the horror he Hath worked. The breath--the robe of Destiny-- Sweeps on, sweeps past, and never lists that hell And heaven have awaked, in shrieking anguish, But blows the clouds away, laughs at the sun, And falls into unconscious, dreamless sleep.

UNDER THE SNOW

If green the corn and burning the volcano, Though snowclad, buried under rocks of ice, Why shall the heart not love and burn in waving Expectant green, or rising flames of hot Enthusiasm, or burst into a torrent Of wrath, though snow the summit long hath crowned? Behold! The field is green, the seed has risen That thou hast thrown into these aching furrows, Once ploughed by Destiny, and sown with sorrow And watered with the wells of tears, that dropped Upon each grain and flowed through all the furrows. They see the snow upon thine head, but not The corn and not the threat'ning furnace of Thy soul. They think it is extinct, they hope Thou hast forgotten, that the gentle warmth They feel is sunshine, not the stormy fire, That cannot cease to burn: for it remembers.

SOLITUDE

The greatest friend, the friend that dwells with thee, When the wild turmoil of the world is thrust Aside, when e'en thy smile may rest, that shield, That weapon, armour, gauntlet, laid aside, Will leave thy soul to sculpt thy features with Her own deep chisel; when before thyself Thou standest, as before thy judge and master, An outcry goeth forth from thee towards Thyself, then will great solitude enfold Thee, and her wings will hush the tempest. Fear not that angel's gravity, the look His searching eye will plunge into thy heart. Fear not the whisp'ring of his lips: Remember! For ev'ry word of thine, each working of Thy soul is booked, indelible the writing, It is encircled in the movement of The worlds and has its history. Thy soul, Itself a world, belongs to Solitude. It is So lonely that no crowd of friends, nor e'en One friend can take its loneliness away. There is but Solitude that can surround Thy soul with beings and thy heart with sight. It opens wide the floodgates of thy thought, And what the world repressed, hemmed in and stifled, Will rush like living waters through thy brain And sweep away the nothingness of things. Great Solitude will let thee listen. Hark! The voices of the Infinite are singing, The thoughts of thousands who have thought before thee Come crowding round thy brain and fill the air, And seek a new expression on thy lips. Thou art in such ennobling company, That Solitude becomes the gorgeous feast, For which thy soul is clothed in white and purple, Thy feet unshod tread on the holy ground Where God has spoken. Hark! Great Solitude Hath thousand voices and a flood of light, Be not afraid, enter the Sanctuary, Thou wilt be taken by the hand and led To Life's own fountain, never-ending Thought!

THE GNAT

A long-legged gnat with airy wings, a dart Sharp as a needle and a searching tusk, Was flutt'ring round my lamp, clung to my book-shelf, And wandered over papers. Then I blew On it, to chase it far away. But no, Beneath the tempest of my breath it clung Still faster to the paper's slender shelter And moved not, till I thought my breath had killed it. We watched each other; then it flew away. I thought how Fate and we thus ofttimes watch Each other, till Fate blow us into atoms, And we remain in some weak place, in Death's Suspense, not knowing if again the storm Will blow. But Fate is careless and will let Us go, if but the wings that are to take Us hence are still untorn, unsinged, uncrushed; Or else we creep along and die unseen, A wingless worm, not understanding what Those papers and those shelves contain that are No revelation, nought but a grave, whilst others Suck life and food, from where the storm of Fate Hath torn us, unresisting, meaningless, And watching with an instant's careless glance, If we are really dead, or still may fly. Cheat cruel Fate, keep still like death, move not, Flutter not; then unfold thy wings, and go Thy way, the coming morn is full of life, Bury thy head in flowers, in the dew, The sun is rising and thou art alive!

REST

And did they say that rest was not so sweet, Old age a sadness, no repose at all? Then have they quite forgotten. They remember No more the heartbreak of their early youth, The battle fought for life, the angry clouds That hid the sun, till he would shine no more, The anguish of their nights, that made their bed A furnace and a rack. They say: 'Twas but A nightmare! And they smile, and yet that smile Is sadder than a frown, much sadder than A tear, as it is hopeless. For a tear Has a bright spot, wherein the sun may sparkle. That smile is sunless, be it e'er so sweet. And know ye not how wildly ye have called On Death, and tried to catch him by the wing, Or let yourself be trodden under foot By him? And wrung your hands in agony, When he had passed you by. Ye dare not tell Your heart what it has suffered, dare not look Into the past again, for fear of turning To stone, for whitelipp'd fear of waking from Its sleep that heart to make it throb again, Like millstones. You remember! Ah! You see! You even try to do away with pity, For fear of being tortured yet again, And shaken yet again, and no more able To quiet that unruly heart, that learnt To fear. Oh! Have ye never known what fear Can make of you? The wandering of your clock, That hammers nails into your brain and hands, The coming of the dawn, that cruel dawn, With icy, deathlike eyes and hollow voice, Announcing mercilessly that the day Hath come? And were you not afraid, when night Set in again, with redhot eyeballs, with The lonely wringing of your soul between Her hands, like linen, that she washed in tears, In blood, in rivers of despair? Oh, see! Here comes with gentle wing and loving eye Sweet Rest, and lays her mantle round your shoulders, And bids you fear no more, but listen to The birds' first Alleluia to the morn, That dances o'er the dew, up to the dawn, And be it e'er so cold, so lifeless, like The last of all the dawn they sang to. Fear Is banished, anguish quenched in all the waters That grief has steeped you in. You know that ne'er Another day can be so dark again, As Rest forbids the cruel dawn to break With threat'ning eyes, as Rest shuts out the night, And leaves thee lonely not, but fills thy sight With loving faces at the gates of heaven. Sweet Rest is round thee, like an autumn sun, And sheds thy rays upon the striving young ones. Ye long for bed again, like little children; No longer doth the pillow seem on fire, Your couch a bed of coals. The weary head Is cool, the limbs lie still, and thought comes gently Like a nurse's well-known ditty, that will lull To sleep thee with its sameness. Rest hath come At last, and looks into thy room, into Thy heart, and sends forgetfulness, like balm, Like a flower's perfume through thy silent chamber. The clock is peaceful with its quiet beat, And night and morn are one; they bring no struggle. Sweet Rest hath come, great, wingèd, heaven-born, To lead thee to thy home with angels' hands.

THE SHADOW

The shadow of your threshold is so full Of meaning, that the stranger knows what home Is yours, if peace dwell here, or strife, or restless Unsatisfied ambition. As the tree's Deep shadow meaneth rest and comfort, or Is poison, sleep eternal, such the house That is a home's sweet shadow or a dark Abode of sin, of lurking lie and danger. The shadow of your life, that is so small In bright midday and summer's burning sun, Begins to lengthen when your evening comes, And shows the beauty of the tree in outline, Its graceful forms, its harmony and power; And never did its beauty strike before, As now, when lost in thought, you contemplate The shadow on the lawn. The golden rays That flood it, make it higher, nobler, and Its shadow ever greater, till the night Calls forth the moon, to make it deep and weird As if unspoken pain had darkened it, As if the silvery paleness of the moon Sharpened its features into hardness almost. Behold the shadow of thy life! Look well if It be a threshold that reveals the strong Unbending will, the height of all your aims, Your passions' darkness, and the harmony Of all the branches that were put into Your care! Look at the shadow when your day Is done, and winter's moon will draw its line In naked truth, without the flattering leaves Upon your windingsheet's unruffled snow.

THE GLOWWORM

The mountains lost in clouds, the giant firs Standing out 'gainst the never-ceasing lightning, Shaken by thunderpeals, in threefold strength, As all the valleys echoed through the night. The mighty heads stormbent, the branches tossed Into the sheets of water, sky and earth In lurid light, a never-ceasing flame. There in the grass, beneath a tiny leaf A firefly put forth its wondrous ray, As if no storm, no rain, no hail were nigh, A peaceful little flame, and yet so strong, That it outshone the lightning. It would say: I am the same as lightning! Storm thy life And threat'ning thunder, but thy flame O minstrel, Thy heart's own fire, is as strong, as true, As elementary as Fate's wild raving, And though it throws its light but on a leaf, That leaf may be eternal by the light Thy soul hath shed on it. That steady flame Burns on, when all the clouds have spent their fire, And when the bowels of the earth have ceased To growl in answer. Undisturbed, thy flame Will live, defying Fate's alarm, a fearless, Undying mighty word, as strong as lightning And love's own sheen, thy soul's unwavering beacon.

A DREAM

Methought that unto God I prayed: Oh, Lord! If thou wouldst deign to let poor me behold Thy greatness, so that with my human brain I understood it! Thus I spoke, and Lo! I stood alone upon a mountain rock, In utter darkness, towering rocks beyond The dread abyss, that at my feet lay black And fathomless, yielding no answer to The searching eye. And, measureless, the sky Above was dark'ning into endless night. Then, from the deep did vapours seem to rise In white procession, denser, and yet denser, Until into a rising column they Began to form--a column like a mountain, That rose and rose and rose up to the vaults Of darkness which it seemed to carry, all One mass of light. And when I looked again, That column built itself of millions and Millions of milk-white stars that moved and shone And seemed to lift the skies unto a height That human sight and human word could not Attain. And whilst I looked and wondered at The seething worlds, the column changed and formed Itself into the statue Buonarroti Has made of Moses, only reaching from The deep into the heavens, white and bright, As if three suns, themselves invisible, Had shed their light upon the statue, or As if an inner light shone out from it. The socle, not on earth, but far beyond, Was standing on the Parthenon, that shone As bright again with endless rows of columns. Here was the answer: Millions and yet millions Of rising worlds, and every people's art, And all religions may but serve to form My human likeness, so that men behold Me great as mortal eye and brain encompass. For days I walked on clouds, I lived my dream. I heard not, saw not, thought not, but beheld The world's Creator in the silent night, And felt the blessing so unspeakable Of God's own answer to my childish prayer.

IN THE DARK