Part 2

No wind, no rain, no thunder! The waters had trickled not slowly, The thunder was not spent Nor the wind near finishing; Who would have said that the storm was diminishing? No wind, no rain, no thunder! Their noises dropped asunder From the earth and the firmament, From the towers and the lattices, Abrupt and echoless As ripe fruits on the ground unshaken wholly As life in death. And sudden and solemn the silence fell, Startling the heart of Isobel As the tempest could not: Against the door went panting the breath Of the lady's hound whose cry was still, And she, constrained howe'er she would not, Lifted her eyes and saw the moon Looking out of heaven alone Upon the poplared hill,-- A calm of God, made visible That men might bless it at their will.

XXIV.

The moonshine on the baby's face Falleth clear and cold: The mother's looks have fallen back To the same place: Because no moon with silver rack, Nor broad sunrise in jasper skies Has power to hold Our loving eyes, Which still revert, as ever must Wonder and Hope, to gaze on the dust.

XXV.

The moonshine on the baby's face Cold and clear remaineth; The mother's looks do shrink away,-- The mother's looks return to stay, As charmed by what paineth: Is any glamour in the case? Is it dream, or is it sight? Hath the change upon the wild Elements that sign the night, Passed upon the child? It is not dream, but sight.

XXVI.

The babe has awakened from sleep And unto the gaze of its mother, Bent over it, lifted another-- Not the baby-looks that go Unaimingly to and fro, But an earnest gazing deep Such as soul gives soul at length When by work and wail of years It winneth a solemn strength And mourneth as it wears. A strong man could not brook, With pulse unhurried by fears, To meet that baby's look O'erglazed by manhood's tears, The tears of a man full grown, With a power to wring our own, In the eyes all undefiled Of a little three-months' child-- To see that babe-brow wrought By the witnessing of thought To judgment's prodigy, And the small soft mouth unweaned, By mother's kiss o'erleaned, (Putting the sound of loving Where no sound else was moving Except the speechless cry) Quickened to mind's expression, Shaped to articulation, Yea, uttering words, yea, naming woe, In tones that with it strangely went Because so baby-innocent, As the child spake out to the mother, so:--

XXVII.

"O mother, mother, loose thy prayer! Christ's name hath made it strong. It bindeth me, it holdeth me With its most loving cruelty, From floating my new soul along The happy heavenly air. It bindeth me, it holdeth me In all this dark, upon this dull Low earth, by only weepers trod. It bindeth me, it holdeth me! Mine angel looketh sorrowful Upon the face of God.[1]

XXVIII.

"Mother, mother, can I dream Beneath your earthly trees? I had a vision and a gleam, I heard a sound more sweet than these When rippled by the wind: Did you see the Dove with wings Bathed in golden glisterings From a sunless light behind, Dropping on me from the sky, Soft as mother's kiss, until I seemed to leap and yet was still? Saw you how His love-large eye Looked upon me mystic calms, Till the power of His divine Vision was indrawn to mine?

XXIX.

"Oh, the dream within the dream! I saw celestial places even. Oh, the vistas of high palms Making finites of delight Through the heavenly infinite, Lifting up their green still tops To the heaven of heaven! Oh, the sweet life-tree that drops Shade like light across the river Glorified in its for-ever Flowing from the Throne! Oh, the shining holinesses Of the thousand, thousand faces God-sunned by the throned ONE, And made intense with such a love That, though I saw them turned above, Each loving seemed for also me! And, oh, the Unspeakable, the HE, The manifest in secrecies Yet of mine own heart partaker With the overcoming look Of One who hath been once forsook And blesseth the forsaker! Mother, mother, let me go Toward the Face that looketh so! Through the mystic winged Four Whose are inward, outward eyes Dark with light of mysteries And the restless evermore 'Holy, holy, holy,'--through The sevenfold Lamps that burn in view Of cherubim and seraphim,-- Through the four-and-twenty crowned Stately elders white around, Suffer me to go to Him!

XXX.

"Is your wisdom very wise, Mother, on the narrow earth, Very happy, very worth That I should stay to learn? Are these air-corrupting sighs Fashioned by unlearned breath? Do the students' lamps that burn All night, illumine death? Mother, albeit this be so, Loose thy prayer and let me go Where that bright chief angel stands Apart from all his brother bands, Too glad for smiling, having bent In angelic wilderment O'er the depths of God, and brought Reeling thence one only thought To fill his own eternity. He the teacher is for me-- He can teach what I would know-- Mother, mother, let me go!

XXXI.

"Can your poet make an Eden No winter will undo, And light a starry fire while heeding His hearth's is burning too? Drown in music the earth's din, And keep his own wild soul within The law of his own harmony? Mother, albeit this be so, Let me to my heaven go! A little harp me waits thereby, A harp whose strings are golden all And tuned to music spherical, Hanging on the green life-tree Where no willows ever be. Shall I miss that harp of mine? Mother, no!--the Eye divine Turned upon it, makes it shine; And when I touch it, poems sweet Like separate souls shall fly from it, Each to the immortal fytte. We shall all be poets there, Gazing on the chiefest Fair.

XXXII.

"Love! earth's love! and _can_ we love Fixedly where all things move? Can the sinning love each other? Mother, mother, I tremble in thy close embrace, I feel thy tears adown my face, Thy prayers do keep me out of bliss-- O dreary earthly love! Loose thy prayer and let me go To the place which loving is Yet not sad; and when is given Escape to _thee_ from this below, Thou shalt behold me that I wait For thee beside the happy Gate, And silence shall be up in heaven To hear our greeting kiss."

XXXIII.

The nurse awakes in the morning sun, And starts to see beside her bed The lady with a grandeur spread Like pathos o'er her face, as one God-satisfied and earth-undone; The babe upon her arm was dead: And the nurse could utter forth no cry,-- She was awed by the calm in the mother's eye.

XXXIV.

"Wake, nurse!" the lady said; "_We_ are waking--he and I-- I, on earth, and he, in sky: And thou must help me to o'erlay With garment white this little clay Which needs no more our lullaby.

XXXV.

"I changed the cruel prayer I made, And bowed my meekened face, and prayed That God would do His will; and thus He did it, nurse! He parted us: And His sun shows victorious The dead calm face,--and _I_ am calm, And Heaven is hearkening a new psalm.

XXXVI.

"This earthly noise is too anear, Too loud, and will not let me hear The little harp. My death will soon Make silence."

And a sense of tune, A satisfied love meanwhile Which nothing earthly could despoil, Sang on within her soul.

XXXVII.

Oh you, Earth's tender and impassioned few, Take courage to entrust your love To Him so named who guards above Its ends and shall fulfil! Breaking the narrow prayers that may Befit your narrow hearts, away In His broad, loving will.

FOOTNOTES:

[1] For I say unto you that in Heaven their angels do always behold the face of my Father which is in Heaven--_Matt._ xviii, 10.

_THE ROMAUNT OF THE PAGE._

I.

A knight of gallant deeds And a young page at his side, From the holy war in Palestine Did slow and thoughtful ride, As each were a palmer and told for beads The dews of the eventide.

II.

"O young page," said the knight, "A noble page art thou! Thou fearest not to steep in blood The curls upon thy brow; And once in the tent, and twice in the fight, Didst ward me a mortal blow."

III.

"O brave knight," said the page, "Or ere we hither came, We talked in tent, we talked in field, Of the bloody battle-game; But here, below this greenwood bough, I cannot speak the same.

IV.

"Our troop is far behind, The woodland calm is new; Our steeds, with slow grass-muffled hoofs, Tread deep the shadows through; And, in my mind, some blessing kind Is dropping with the dew.

V.

"The woodland calm is pure-- I cannot choose but have A thought from these, o' the beechen-trees, Which in our England wave, And of the little finches fine Which sang there while in Palestine The warrior-hilt we drave.

VI.

"Methinks, a moment gone, I heard my mother pray! I heard, sir knight, the prayer for me Wherein she passed away; And I know the heavens are leaning down To hear what I shall say."

VII.

The page spake calm and high, As of no mean degree; Perhaps he felt in nature's broad Full heart, his own was free: And the knight looked up to his lifted eye, Then answered smilingly--

VIII.

"Sir page, I pray your grace! Certes, I meant not so To cross your pastoral mood, sir page, With the crook of the battle-bow; But a knight may speak of a lady's face, I ween, in any mood or place, If the grasses die or grow.

IX.

"And this I meant to say-- My lady's face shall shine As ladies' faces use, to greet My page from Palestine; Or, speak she fair or prank she gay, She is no lady of mine.

X.

"And this I meant to fear-- Her bower may suit thee ill; For, sooth, in that same field and tent, Thy _talk_ was somewhat still: And fitter thy hand for my knightly spear Than thy tongue for my lady's will!"

XI.

Slowly and thankfully The young page bowed his head; His large eyes seemed to muse a smile, Until he blushed instead, And no lady in her bower, pardie, Could blush more sudden red: "Sir Knight,--thy lady's bower to me Is suited well," he said.

XII.

_Beati, beati, mortui!_ From the convent on the sea, One mile off, or scarce so nigh, Swells the dirge as clear and high As if that, over brake and lea, Bodily the wind did carry The great altar of Saint Mary, And the fifty tapers burning o'er it, And the lady Abbess dead before it, And the chanting nuns whom yesterweek Her voice did charge and bless,-- Chanting steady, chanting meek, Chanting with a solemn breath, Because that they are thinking less Upon the dead than upon death. _Beati, beati, mortui!_ Now the vision in the sound Wheeleth on the wind around; Now it sweepeth back, away-- The uplands will not let it stay To dark the western sun: _Mortui!_--away at last,-- Or ere the page's blush is past! And the knight heard all, and the page heard none.

XIII.

"A boon, thou noble knight, If ever I served thee! Though thou art a knight and I am a page, Now grant a boon to me; And tell me sooth, if dark or bright, If little loved or loved aright Be the face of thy ladye."

XIV.

Gloomily looked the knight-- "As a son thou hast served me, And would to none I had granted boon Except to only thee! For haply then I should love aright, For then I should know if dark or bright Were the face of my ladye.

XV.

"Yet it ill suits my knightly tongue To grudge that granted boon, That heavy price from heart and life I paid in silence down; The hand that claimed it, cleared in fine My father's fame: I swear by mine, That price was nobly won!

XVI.

"Earl Walter was a brave old earl, He was my father's friend, And while I rode the lists at court And little guessed the end, My noble father in his shroud Against a slanderer lying loud, He rose up to defend.

XVII.

"Oh, calm below the marble grey My father's dust was strown! Oh, meek above the marble grey His image prayed alone! The slanderer lied: the wretch was brave-- For, looking up the minster-nave, He saw my father's knightly glaive Was changed from steel to stone.

XVIII.

"Earl Walter's glaive was steel, With a brave old hand to wear it, And dashed the lie back in the mouth Which lied against the godly truth And against the knightly merit The slanderer, 'neath the avenger's heel, Struck up the dagger in appeal From stealthy lie to brutal force-- And out upon the traitor's corse Was yielded the true spirit.

XIX.

"I would mine hand had fought that fight And justified my father! I would mine heart had caught that wound And slept beside him rather! I think it were a better thing Than murdered friend and marriage-ring Forced on my life together.

XX.

"Wail shook Earl Walter's house; His true wife shed no tear; She lay upon her bed as mute As the earl did on his bier: Till--'Ride, ride fast,' she said at last, 'And bring the avenged's son anear! Ride fast, ride free, as a dart can flee, For white of blee with waiting for me Is the corse in the next chambere.'

XXI.

"I came, I knelt beside her bed; Her calm was worse than strife: 'My husband, for thy father dear, Gave freely when thou wast not here His own and eke my life. A boon! Of that sweet child we make An orphan for thy father's sake, Make thou, for ours, a wife.'

XXII.

"I said, 'My steed neighs in the court, My bark rocks on the brine, And the warrior's vow I am under now To free the pilgrim's shrine; But fetch the ring and fetch the priest And call that daughter of thine, And rule she wide from my castle on Nyde While I am in Palestine.'

XXIII.

"In the dark chambere, if the bride was fair, Ye wis, I could not see, But the steed thrice neighed, and the priest fast prayed, And wedded fast were we. Her mother smiled upon her bed As at its side we knelt to wed, And the bride rose from her knee And kissed the smile of her mother dead, Or ever she kissed me.

XXIV.

"My page, my page, what grieves thee so, That the tears run down thy face?"-- "Alas, alas! mine own sister Was in thy lady's case: But _she_ laid down the silks she wore And followed him she wed before, Disguised as his true servitor, To the very battle-place."

XXV.

And wept the page, but laughed the knight, A careless laugh laughed he: "Well done it were for thy sister, But not for my ladye! My love, so please you, shall requite No woman, whether dark or bright, Unwomaned if she be."

XXVI.

The page stopped weeping and smiled cold-- "Your wisdom may declare That womanhood is proved the best By golden brooch and glossy vest The mincing ladies wear; Yet is it proved, and was of old, Anear as well, I dare to hold, By truth, or by despair."

XXVII.

He smiled no more, he wept no more, But passionate he spake-- "Oh, womanly she prayed in tent, When none beside did wake! Oh, womanly she paled in fight, For one beloved's sake!-- And her little hand, defiled with blood, Her tender tears of womanhood Most woman-pure did make!"

XXVIII.

--"Well done it were for thy sister, Thou tellest well her tale! But for my lady, she shall pray I' the kirk of Nydesdale. Not dread for me but love for me Shall make my lady pale; No casque shall hide her woman's tear-- It shall have room to trickle clear Behind her woman's veil."

XXIX.

--"But what if she mistook thy mind And followed thee to strife, Then kneeling did entreat thy love As Paynims ask for life?" --"I would forgive, and evermore Would love her as my servitor, But little as my wife.

XXX.

"Look up--there is a small bright cloud Alone amid the skies! So high, so pure, and so apart, A woman's honour lies." The page looked up--the cloud was sheen-- A sadder cloud did rush, I ween, Betwixt it and his eyes.

XXXI.

Then dimly dropped his eyes away From welkin unto hill-- Ha! who rides there?--the page is 'ware, Though the cry at his heart is still: And the page seeth all and the knight seeth none, Though banner and spear do fleck the sun, And the Saracens ride at will.

XXXII.

He speaketh calm, he speaketh low,-- "Ride fast, my master, ride, Or ere within the broadening dark The narrow shadows hide." "Yea, fast, my page, I will do so, And keep thou at my side."

XXXIII.

"Now nay, now nay, ride on thy way, Thy faithful page precede. For I must loose on saddle-bow My battle-casque that galls, I trow, The shoulder of my steed; And I must pray, as I did vow, For one in bitter need.

XXXIV.

"Ere night I shall be near to thee,-- Now ride, my master, ride! Ere night, as parted spirits cleave To mortals too beloved to leave, I shall be at thy side." The knight smiled free at the fantasy, And adown the dell did ride.

XXXV.

Had the knight looked up to the page's face, No smile the word had won; Had the knight looked up to the page's face, I ween he had never gone: Had the knight looked back to the page's geste, I ween he had turned anon, For dread was the woe in the face so young, And wild was the silent geste that flung Casque, sword to earth, as the boy down-sprung And stood--alone, alone.

XXXVI.

He clenched his hands as if to hold His soul's great agony-- "Have I renounced my womanhood, For wifehood unto _thee_, And is this the last, last look of thine That ever I shall see?

XXXVII.

"Yet God thee save, and mayst thou have A lady to thy mind, More woman-proud and half as true As one thou leav'st behind! And God me take with HIM to dwell-- For HIM I cannot love too well, As I have loved my kind."

XXXVIII.

She looketh up, in earth's despair, The hopeful heavens to seek; That little cloud still floateth there, Whereof her loved did speak: How bright the little cloud appears! Her eyelids fall upon the tears, And the tears down either cheek.

XXXIX.

The tramp of hoof, the flash of steel-- The Paynims round her coming! The sound and sight have made her calm,-- False page, but truthful woman; She stands amid them all unmoved: A heart once broken by the loved Is strong to meet the foeman.

XL.

"Ho, Christian page! art keeping sheep, From pouring wine-cups resting?"-- "I keep my master's noble name, For warring, not for feasting; And if that here Sir Hubert were, My master brave, my master dear, Ye would not stay the questing."

XLI.

"Where is thy master, scornful page, That we may slay or bind him?"-- "Now search the lea and search the wood, And see if ye can find him! Nathless, as hath been often tried, Your Paynim heroes faster ride Before him than behind him."

XLII.

"Give smoother answers, lying page, Or perish in the lying!"-- "I trow that if the warrior brand Beside my foot, were in my hand, 'T were better at replying!" They cursed her deep, they smote her low, They cleft her golden ringlets through; The Loving is the Dying.

XLIII.

She felt the scimitar gleam down, And met it from beneath With smile more bright in victory Than any sword from sheath,-- Which flashed across her lip serene, Most like the spirit-light between The darks of life and death.

XLIV.

_Ingemisco, ingemisco!_ From the convent on the sea, Now it sweepeth solemnly, As over wood and over lea Bodily the wind did carry The great altar of St. Mary, And the fifty tapers paling o'er it, And the Lady Abbess stark before it, And the weary nuns with hearts that faintly Beat along their voices saintly-- _Ingemisco, ingemisco!_ Dirge for abbess laid in shroud Sweepeth o'er the shroudless dead, Page or lady, as we said, With the dews upon her head, All as sad if not as loud. _Ingemisco, ingemisco!_ Is ever a lament begun By any mourner under sun, Which, ere it endeth, suits but _one_?

_THE LAY OF THE BROWN ROSARY._

FIRST PART.

I.

"Onora, Onora,"--her mother is calling, She sits at the lattice and hears the dew falling Drop after drop from the sycamores laden With dew as with blossom, and calls home the maiden, "Night cometh, Onora."

II.

She looks down the garden-walk caverned with trees, To the limes at the end where the green arbour is-- "Some sweet thought or other may keep where it found her, While, forgot or unseen in the dreamlight around her, Night cometh--Onora!"

III.

She looks up the forest whose alleys shoot on Like the mute minster-aisles when the anthem is done And the choristers sitting with faces aslant Feel the silence to consecrate more than the chant-- "Onora, Onora!"

IV.

And forward she looketh across the brown heath-- "Onora, art coming?"--what is it she seeth? Nought, nought but the grey border-stone that is wist To dilate and assume a wild shape in the mist-- "My daughter!" Then over

V.

The casement she leaneth, and as she doth so She is 'ware of her little son playing below: "Now where is Onora?" He hung down his head And spake not, then answering blushed scarlet-red,-- "At the tryst with her lover."

VI.

But his mother was wroth: in a sternness quoth she, "As thou play'st at the ball art thou playing with me? When we know that her lover to battle is gone, And the saints know above that she loveth but one And will ne'er wed another?"

VII.

Then the boy wept aloud; 't was a fair sight yet sad To see the tears run down the sweet blooms he had: He stamped with his foot, said--"The saints know I lied Because truth that is wicked is fittest to hide: Must I utter it, mother?"

VIII.

In his vehement childhood he hurried within And knelt at her feet as in prayer against sin, But a child at a prayer never sobbeth as he-- "Oh! she sits with the nun of the brown rosary, At nights in the ruin--

IX.