Part 4

Wise in his day that heathen emperor, To whom, each morrow, came a slave, and cried— “Philip, remember thou must die;” no more. To me such daily voice were misapplied— Disease guests with me; and each cough, or cramp, Or aching, like the Macedonian slave, Is my _memento mori_. ’Tis the stamp Of God’s true life to be in dying brave. “I fear not death, but dying”[C]—not the long Hereafter, sweetened by immortal love; But the quick, terrible last breath—the strong Convulsion. Oh, my Lord of breath above! Grant me a quiet end, in easeful rest— A sweet removal, on my mother’s breast.

[C] This is a saying of Socrates.

XIX.

October’s gold is dim—the forests rot, The weary rain falls ceaseless, while the day Is wrapp’d in damp. In mire of village way The hedge-row leaves are stamp’d, and, all forgot, The broodless nest sits visible in the thorn. Autumn, among her drooping marigolds, Weeps all her garnered sheaves, and empty folds, And dripping orchards—plundered and forlorn. The season is a dead one, and I die! No more, no more for me the spring shall make A resurrection in the earth and take The death from out her heart—O God, I die! The cold throat-mist creeps nearer, till I breathe Corruption. Drop, stark night, upon my death!

XX.

Die down, O dismal day! and let me live. And come, blue deeps! magnificently strewn With coloured clouds—large, light, and fugitive— By upper winds through pompous motions blown. Now it is death in life—a vapour dense Creeps round my window till I cannot see The far snow-shining mountains, and the glens Shagging the mountain-tops. O God! make free This barren, shackled earth, so deadly cold— Breathe gently forth Thy spring, till winter flies In rude amazement, fearful and yet bold, While she performs her custom’d charities. I weigh the loaded hours till life is bare— O God! for one clear day, a snowdrop, and sweet air!

XXI.

Sometimes, when sunshine and blue sky prevail— When spent winds sleep, and, from the budding larch, Small birds, with incomplete, vague sweetness, hail The unconfirmed, yet quickening life of March,— Then say I to myself, half-eased of care, Toying with hope as with a maiden’s token— “This glorious, invisible fresh air Will clear my blood till the disease be broken.” But slowly, from the wild and infinite west, Up-sails a cloud, full-charged with bitter sleet. The omen gives my spirit deep unrest; I fling aside the hope, as indiscreet— A false enchantment, treacherous and fair— And sink into my habit of despair.

XXII.

O Winter! wilt thou never, never go? O Summer! but I weary for thy coming; Longing once more to hear the Luggie flow, And frugal bees laboriously humming. Now, the east wind diseases the infirm, And I must crouch in corners from rough weather. Sometimes a winter sunset is a charm— When the fired clouds, compacted, blaze together, And the large sun dips, red, behind the hills. I, from my window, can behold this pleasure; And the eternal moon, what time she fills Her orb with argent, treading a soft measure, With queenly motion of a bridal mood, Through the white spaces of infinitude.

XXIII.

Oh, beautiful moon! Oh, beautiful moon! again Thou persecutest me until I bend My brow, and soothe the aching of my brain. I cannot see what handmaidens attend Thy silver passage as the heaven clears; For, like a slender mist, a sweet vexation Works in my heart, till the impulsive tears Confess the bitter pain of adoration. Oh, too, too beautiful moon! lift the white shell Of thy soft splendour through the shining air! I own the magic power, the witching spell, And, blinded by thy beauty, call thee fair! Alas! not often now thy silver horn Shall me delight with dreams and mystic love forlorn!

XXIV.

’Tis April, yet the wind retains its tooth. I cannot venture in the biting air, But sit and feign wild trash, and dreams uncouth, “Stretched on the rack of a too easy chair.” And when the day has howled itself to sleep, The lamp is lighted in my little room; And lowly, as the tender lapwings creep, Comes my own mother, with her love’s perfume. O living sons with living mothers! learn Their worth, and use them gently, with no chiding For youth, I know, is quick; of temper stern Sometimes; and apt to blunder without guiding. So was I long, but now I see her move, Transfigured in the radiant mist of love.

XXV.

Lying awake at holy eventide, While in clear mournfulness the throstle’s hymn Hushes the night, and the great west, grown dim, Laments the sunset’s evanescent pride: Lo! behold an orb of silver brightly Grow from the fringe of sunset, like a dream From Thought’s severe infinitude, and nightly Show forth God’s glory in its sacred gleam. Ah, Hesper! maidenliest star that ere Twinkled in firmament! cool gloaming’s prime Cheerer, whose fairness maketh wondrous fair Old pastorals, and the Spenserian rhyme:— Thy soft seduction doth my soul enthral Like music, with a dying, dying fall!

XXVI.

There are three bonnie Scottish melodies, So native to the music of my soul, That of its humours they seem prophecies. The ravishment of Chaucer was less whole, Less perfect, when the April nightingale Let itself in upon him. Surely, Lord! Before whom psaltery and clarichord, Concentual with saintly song, prevail, There lurks some subtle sorcery, to Thee And heaven akin, in each woe-burning air! _Land of the Leal_, and _Bonnie Bessie Lee_, And _Home, sweet Home_, the lilt of love’s despair. Now, in remembrance even, the feelings speak, For lo! a shower of grace is on my cheek.

XXVII.

“Thou art wearin’ awa’, Jean, Like snaw when it’s thaw, Jean; Thou art wearin’ awa’ To the land o’ the leal.”

O the impassable sorrow, mother mine! Of the sweet, mournful air which, clear and well, For me thou singest! Never the divine Mahomedan harper, famous Israfel, Such rich enchanting luxury of woe Elicited from all his golden strings! Therefore, dear singer sad! chant clear, and low, And lovingly, the bard’s imaginings, O poet unknown! conning thy verses o’er In lone, dim places, sorrowfully sweet; And O musician! touching the quick core Of pity, when thy skilful closes meet— My tears confess your witchery as they flow, Since I, too, _wear_ away like the enduring snow.

XXVIII.

Uplift in unparticipated night Oh indefinable Being! far retired From mortal ken in uncreated light: While demonstrating glories unacquired When shall the wavering sciences evolve The infinite secret, Thee? What mind shall scan The tenour of Thy workmanship, or solve The dark, perplexing destiny of man? Oh! in the hereafter border-land of wonder, Shall the proud world’s inveterate tale be told, The curtain of all mysteries torn asunder, The cerements from the living soul unrolled? Impatient questioner, soon, soon shall death Reveal to thee these dim phantasmata of faith.

XXIX.

And thus proceeds the mode of human life From mystery to mystery again; From God to God, thro’ grandeur, grief, and strife, A hurried plunge into the dark inane Whence we had lately sprung. And is’t for ever? Ah! sense is blind beyond the gaping clay, And all the eyes of faith can see it never. We know the bright-haired sun will bring the day, Like glorious book of silent prophecy; Majestic night assume her starry throne; The wondrous seasons come and go: but we Die, unto mortal ken for ever gone. Who shall pry further? who shall kindle light In the dread bosom of the infinite?

XXX.

O thou of purer eyes than to behold Uncleanness! sift my soul, removing all Strange thoughts, imaginings fantastical, Iniquitous allurements manifold. Make it into a spiritual ark; abode Severely sacred, perfumed, sanctified, Wherein the Prince of Purities may abide— The holy and eternal Spirit of God. The gross, adhesive loathsomeness of sin, Give me to see. Yet, O far more, far more, That beautiful purity which the saints adore In a consummate Paradise within The Veil,—O Lord, upon my soul bestow, An earnest of that purity here below.

Miscellaneous Poems.

A Winter Ramble.

John Frost, old Nature’s jeweller, had beautified the leas, And the lustre of his fretwork was twinkling on the trees, As we ramble o’er the meadows in a meditative ease.

We had left the town behind us for a roaming holiday, Beneath an arc of gloom, all dark and indistinct it lay, And the fog was wreathed about it like a robe of iron-gray.

But a carpeting of leaflets, and a canopy of blue, And the mystery of ether as the warming sunshine grew, Sent a mellow thrill of happiness our eager spirits through.

And over lanes, where Winter bluff had shook his hoary beard, Where in the naked hedgerows the broodless nests appear’d, And the brown leaves of the beech-tree were with silver gloss veneer’d.

We wandered and we pondered till half the morn was spent, And the red orb through the tangled boughs his cunning vigour sent, And the valley mists all melted at his glance omnipotent.

Dim on a sloping hill-side, clothed in a misty pall, Stands a turret grey and hoary, where the ancient ivies crawl, Their Arab arms round casement, sill, and door, and mould’ring wall.

And there we halted half-an-hour within a roofless hall, ’Neath a bower of wildest ivy hanging downwards from the wall, Bearing in its grand luxuriance a flower funereal.

There we talked of the gay plumes erst bent to pass the lintel old, The maidens that were moved to smile at gallant wooers bold, The jovial nights of brave carouse, the wine-cups manifold.

And all the faded glories of the mediæval time, When the age was in its manhood, and the land was in its prime, And manly deeds were chanted in a bold heroic rhyme.

Then, plucking each a sprig, bedecked with simple yellow flower, We scrambled sadly downwards from our old enchanted bower, And the glory of the sunshine fell upon us like a shower.

Once more beneath the concave of a clear effulgent sky, Where flocks of cawing rooks to the mansion wavered by— A mansion standing coldly ’mid a windy rookery.

And over breezy mountains, where the poacher, with his gun, Stood lonely as a boulder-stone ’tween earth and shining sun, We wandered and we pondered till the winter day was done.

The Home-Comer.

Oh, many a leaf will fall to-night, As she wanders through the wood! And many an angry gust will break The dreary solitude. I wonder if she’s past the bridge, Where Luggie moans beneath; While rain-drops clash in slanted lines On rivulet and heath. Disease hath laid his palsied palm Upon my aching brow; The headlong blood of twenty-one Is thin and sluggish now. ’Tis nearly ten! A fearful night, Without a single star To light the shadow on her soul With sparkle from afar: The moon is canopied with clouds, And her burden it is sore;— What would wee Jackie do, if he Should never see her more? Aye, light the lamp, and hang it up At the window fair and free; ’Twill be a beacon on the hill To let your mother see. And trim it well, my little Ann, For the night is wet and cold, And you know the weary, winding way Across the miry wold. All drenched will be her simple gown, And the wet will reach her skin: I wish that I could wander down, And the red quarry win— To take the burden from her back, And place it upon mine; With words of kind condolence, To bid her not repine. You have a kindly mother, dears, As ever bore a child, And heaven knows I love her well In passion undefiled. Ah me! I never thought that she Would brave a night like this, While I sat weaving by the fire A web of phantasies. How the winds beat this home of ours With arrow-falls of rain; This lonely home upon the hill They beat with might and main. And ’mid the tempest one lone heart Anticipates the glow, Whence, all her weary journey done, Shall happy welcome flow. ’Tis after ten! Oh, were she here, Young man altho’ I be, I could fall down upon her neck, And weep right gushingly! I have not loved her half enough, The dear old toiling one, The silent watcher by my bed, In shadow or in sun.

My Brown Little Brother of Three.

“Happy child! Thou art so exquisitely wild, I think of thee with many tears, For what may be thy lot in future years.”

WORDSWORTH.

The goldening peach on the orchard wall, Soft feeding in the sun, Hath never so downy and rosy a cheek As this laughing little one. The brook that murmurs and dimples alone Through glen, and grove, and lea, Hath never a life so merry and true As my brown little brother of three. From flower to flower, and from bower to bower, In my mother’s garden green, A-peering at this, and a-cheering at that, The funniest ever was seen;— Now throwing himself in his mother’s lap, With his cheek upon her breast, He tells his wonderful travels, forsooth! And chatters himself to rest. And what may become of that brother of mine, Asleep in his mother’s bosom? Will the wee rosy bud of his being, at last Into a wild flower blossom? Will the hopes that are deepening as silent and fair As the azure about his eye, Be told in glory and motherly pride, Or answered with a sigh? Let the curtain rest: for, alas! ’tis told That Mercy’s hand benign Hath woven and spun the gossamer thread That forms the fabric fine. Then dream, dearest Jackie! thy sinless dream, And waken as blythe and as free; There’s many a change in twenty long years, My brown little brother of three.

The “Auld Aisle”—a Burying-Ground.

This is my last and farewell place on earth, In this unlevel square of soft green-sward. I love it well. Beneath no trailing vine, No prairie grass, no moaning yew tree’s shade, Within no hollow hard sarcophagus, No barrëd tomb, I hope _I_ e’er shall lie; But, happed with daisy-mingled grass, where oft, On Sabbath eve, when everything is still, And every little glen within itself Is heard to chaunt its masses o’er the sun, Already shrouded with his blood-stained robes, Some mindful ones will drop a ready tear To nurture a white daisy, and will breathe A gushing prayer of sighs to him below. _I_ shall not feel their footsteps over _me_; _I_ shall not hear their long-known voices speak; For I’ll be dead. Oh! dead! and yet why weep? Oh! earthly hearts are weak to think of death! And ’tis a cutting thought to see our hopes All shivered like a bunch of autumn leaves, And sunset games, and love—delightful love— All buried in a grave. Yet it _must_ come.

The wreck of centuries is buried here; The very monuments are hoar with age; The empty tower that sentinels them all Wails when the gusts wild wander o’er the earth, And creaks the rusty gate with careless Time. Methinks I see the silent funeral Wend slowly up this hill with soulless load. Backward swings sullen the disusëd gate, And quiet, with measured steps, they enter here, And cross the moundy sward, amongst the stones, To where the red clay gapes. How mournfully Are the last rites paid to a fleshly frame! Behold the old man with the sunken eyes And broken heart. This was his eldest-born. A black-eyed boy he was, and in his youth He was his joy and hope. And oft he gazed Into his laughing face, and dreamed of times When in _his_ youthful strength he would _him_ shield, And help him to the stone before the door In summer time, when streamlets murmured clear. So he grew up, but scorned the homely ways Of the grey place of his nativity. He saw the sun rise from behind the hills, His well-thumbed book firm clasped in his young hand. He saw it sink within the breezy glen, And all the birds shrink from its burning face To shade in nests, his book firm clasped in hand. But most he pondered over nature’s book— The bubbled rill and the green-bladed corn, The lowly wild-flowers and the leafy trees Alive with music. His father wondered strange, And prouder grew of his bold quiet son, Who spoke without restraint or lowly eye Unto God’s minister. And he would tell At other fire-sides of his wondrous ways, The oft-trimmed lamp when others were indrawn; Nor did he check the working of the mind And wearing of the flesh. _He_ knew no harm. So time grew older still, and he went off, With paler face and heavier looks, to where The sons of learning prosecute their toils.

But here he pined like a transplanted flower Borne from its native soil. No grass was here, Where he might lie, and watch the mighty clouds All floating in the blue. No lark was here, In love with angels, but the place was lone And dark and cold. No milkmaid’s song was here, Hushed when he passed upon the mountain side, And anxious eye that gazed till he was gone. And ’mid the throng of battling human kind, No simple eye nor horny hand sought his, Or voice, with homely accents, spoke relief. All was unknown, unheeded, but his books, Which were his very self, his only friend.

And rich he was in lore, and strong in hope, But heaven was panting for an inmate more: In heaven his place was vacant; as at home. And time grew older still, and he came home To see his father, but he ne’er went back. His body could not hold his restless soul, That longed, with eagle strength, to pierce the clouds, And so it burst this yielding bond on earth, Already, by a lengthened struggle, weak. His father saw him die. He never left His bedside; but with eyes that seemed as glazed, For ever staring at the sharpened face, He stood and stood and wept not. In that time His son saw heaven and chided all delay. His father knew not of the words of blame That blest his dying breath. He seized the clay, And clutched it desperately unto his breast. The arms fell down, nor gave returning press. And that crush broke the doting father’s heart. This is the grave beside that white gravestone: Hold back the nettles while I read its lay:—

Epitaph.

_Beneath me lies the rotting faded mask_ _Of a young mind that studied heaven well;_ _Ne’er in the sun of pleasure did he bask,_ _But loved hope’s shadow and fair virtue’s dell._ _He died while on the road to yonder sky,_ _And every one that wanders careless here,_ _Tread soft, and hark! Is not time hurrying by?_ _Begone and pray; the Day of Judgment’s near!_

I have seen children playing in this place, Have heard the voice of psalms sound plaintive here, And sighs commingle with these strains of love, For memory is dewy with salt tears.

Yet some lie here unknown to all. They came Parentless, and they died and buried were By careless hands, that threw the wormy clods All hastily upon the coffin lid And then went home. Perhaps some empty chair, Like to a last year’s nest, still waits for them. Perhaps a nightly prayer still ascends Among the breathings of a family home, To hasten their return. Let us away And gather stones and place them at their heads.

Could all the tales that wait around the graves, Like volumes of wet sighs, be garnered up: How hollow would each swelling heap resound.

Here one who died in mirth, and while the laugh, The merry laugh of joy did paint his face, Death frowned, and smote the smiling victim dead.

Here one who wept to see the flushing sun Glide reddening from his window bars, and set To rise again, and dry the silent dew From his damp grave.

Here one who lingered long, And every morn the fields missed knots of flowers Borne to his bedside. And his eyes grew wild When the sun’s withering gaze stared in upon them, And he would press them to his fluttering heart, And face the mighty orb, defiant-like, As if to hurl it from the empty sky, For daring thus to blight his darling flowers. Poor fellow, he was mad.

May God forbid That clownish foot should crush the gentle clay, Or break the daisy stalks or primrose buds, That bloom beside the low white marble stone In yon lone spot.

To Jeanette.

“I did hear you talk Far above singing; after you were gone, I grew acquainted with my heart, and searched What stirred it so! Alas! I found it love.”

I’ve sung of flowers in loving way, And pluck’d them too for half a day, And into posies wrought them, till Orion glared above the hill: But never, never saw I one As fair as thee beneath the sun, And never, never shall I know A lovelier where’er I go. Yet ’tis not for thy beauty, dear Jeanette, nor yet the sunny cheer About thy face, I love thee so! But something of thy soul doth flow Into my heart, and I am wild With tender passion as a child.

I write thy name, and kiss it, dear Jeanette, in most impulsive fear! I whisper it into my heart, And then its music makes me start In sudden gladness. I am fain To let the echo die again! Thy image groweth out of air Until, entranced, I pause and stare Into thy dear ideal eyes— The shadow of God’s paradise.

I am in love with thee, thou dear Jeanette, and keep my spirit clear For thy embrace. It cannot be That thou wilt keep aloof from me Like that immortal Florentine Whom Tasso lov’d. O I would pine Into a pale accusing dream To haunt thy pillow, and would seem So fond and sad, thy heart would fret For its unkindness, good Jeanette!

O many a long glad summer day I laughed at love, and deemed his sway The tinkle of an idle tongue, A fancy only to be sung. But thou all-beautiful! hast more Of this, the thrilling passion—love— In one soft tress of plaited gold, Than blessed Petrarch could unfold. I love thee, dear Jeanette! I love Thee, O how dearly! Far above All singing is my love for thee, Thou paradise of ecstasy! Make me immortal with a kiss Of earnest pressure, and all bliss Is mine for ever, ever! Dear Jeanette, beloved, adored in fear!

The Poet and his Friend.

I spent a day—the landmark of a life— With one, a hero in the realms of rhyme: Ardent, yet calm—in human wisdoms rife, And burning to be something in his time. Through autumn foliage by a river side, Through glen of ivied trees and hazel dell, Each heart by its own sunshine glorified, We wandered wildly wise; till it befel, Beneath a faded elm, we came upon a well.