Part 2
From her fleshless lips I have felt her kiss (The room is small, but the world is wide). What matter the honours that I shall miss, When I find her lying against my side? From the reefs of Fate God has spared me this-- The love that is long and the breast of a bride. (_For bone of my bone I have chosen Death!_ _“Nay, nay--ah, love, I am Life,” she saith._)
TO MY DOG
O tried and true! together we have passed Life’s whirlpool, and have felt Fate’s heaviest blow-- Shall I, then, stand the traitor at the last? Or prize a heaven that you could never know?
ENGLAND’S GREATNESS
AT THE GRAVE OF CHARLES DARWIN, 1896
England’s greatness! not the sword avenging, Not the nations bowed beneath her heel; Not the cross of blood that to her kingdoms Sets its seal.
These are ghosts of old barbaric splendours, Rotting where Imperial Rome lies low; Things that thrill the heart like tales of slaughter Long ago.
Far beyond them is her glory shining, Brighter than the sword within the sun; It shall last when her superb oppressions All are done.
Other armies has she as victorious, Slayers these whose hands are clean of blood, Soldiers whose sublime and steadfast phalanx Wrong withstood.
England’s greatness! this abides unchanging, Won by arms that sound no loud refrains: When all wars and warriors shall have perished, Truth remains.
MARY
Daughter of dreams and visions, Flushed by the world’s desire, Empress of priests’ decisions, Priestess of altar fire-- Treading a march immortal, As the Cross to the sunrise swings, Passing the inmost portal, Over the crowns of kings-- _By the worship with which we woo thee,_ _By the hymns that our hearts repeat,_ _By the flames that have burned unto thee,_ _By the prayers that have warmed thy feet,_ _By the moons that have risen below thee,_ _By the stars that have set on thy brow,_ _By the saints that have suffered to know thee,_ _We hail thee “Blessed,” now._
Mother of all the Sorrows, Pierced by the world’s despair, Wearing a veil that borrows Gloom from our earthly air; Broken by ceaseless sighing, Ravaged by endless tears, Bearing thy pangs undying Into the dying years-- _By the sweat on thy brow that paleth,_ _By the Cross where thy heart has lain,_ _By memory’s pang that naileth_ _Thy heart to the wood again,_ _By the passions that rise below thee,_ _By the sorrows enthroned on thy brow,_ _By the hearts that have broken to know thee,_ _We hail thee “Blessed,” now._
THE HUNTER
I sit within the sodden gloom, Amid the dead that wall the room; Through galleries damp that reek decay, My stumbling feet have groped the way. Mine eyes that shudder at the light Have read the secrets of the night-- From skeletons with toothless jaws I wring the utterance of the laws.
Where foul the spider makes his lair, I con the lesson of his care. In threads too fine for mortal eyes I read Eternal Mysteries. In graves of mouldered love and lust, I search for secrets of the dust; Through palls with time and ashes spread, I plunge my hands among the dead.
Then forth into the light of day, I fare again upon my way. A grain of sand, a blade of grass, Smite me to silence as I pass. In living men and worms I trace Old allegories of the race; In weeds put forth from out the sod I read the Scriptures of my God.
Unto the hills I mount and see The vultures of the mountains flee; My failing eyes I backward cast To glean the harvest of the past. My tottering feet have paused alone Before the barriers of the known-- For onward still, through wrong and ruth, I fare--a hunter of the Truth.